Dear Friend:
You are to consider that all which has taken place since Sunday is as if it had never happened.
Come to me to-morrow, at ten.
Jenny.
Enclosing the note in an envelope addressed to Blake, she gave it to a servant for immediate delivery. As soon as the man left the room, she went to the telephone and arranged for a private consultation with one of the most eminent physicians in the city.
Blake was humped over his desk, his fingers deep in his hair, and his forehead furrowed with the knotted wrinkles of utter weariness and perplexity, as his eyes pored over the complex diagrams and figures jotted down on the plan before him.
Griffith came shuffling into the room in his old carpet slippers. He looked anxiously at the bent form across the desk from him, and said: "See here, Tommy, what's the use of wasting electricity?"
Blake stared up at him, blear-eyed with overstudy and loss of sleep.
"Told you 'm going to keep going long as the wheels go 'round," he mumbled.
"They'd keep going a heap longer if you laid off Sundays," advised Griffith. "I'm no fanatic; but no man can keep at it day and night, this way, without breaking."
"Sooner the better!" growled Blake. "You go tuck yourself into your cradle."
Griffith shook his head dubiously and was shuffling out when he heard a knock at the hall door of the living-room. He hastened to respond, and soon returned with a dainty envelope. Blake was again poring over his plans and figures. The older man tossed the missive upon the desk.
"Hey, wake up," he cackled. "Letter from one of your High Society lady friends. Flunkey in livery for messenger."
"Livery?" echoed Blake. "Brown and yellow, eh?—as if his clothes had malaria."
"No. Dark green and black."
Blake started to his feet, his face contorted with the conflict of his emotions. "Don't joke!—for God's sake! That's hers!"
Griffith ripped the note from its envelope and held it out. Blake clutched it from him, and opened up the sheet with trembling fingers, to find the signature. For a moment he stood staring at it as if unable to believe his own eyes. Then he turned to the heading of the note and began to read.
"Well?" queried Griffith, as the other reached the end and again stood staring at the signature.
Instead of replying, Blake dropped into his chair and buried his face in his arms. Griffith hovered over him, gazing worriedly at the big heaving shoulders.
"Must say you're mighty talkative," he at last remarked, and he started toward the door. "Good-night."
"Wait!" panted Blake. "Read it!"
Griffith took the note, which was thrust out to him, and read it through twice.
"Huh," he commented. "She wasn't so awfully sudden over it. 'Bout time,I'd say."
"Shut up!" cried Blake, flinging himself erect in the chair, to beam upon his friend. "You've no license to kick, you old grouch. I'm coming to bed. But wait till to-morrow afternoon. Maybe the fur won't fly on old Zariba!"
"Come on, then. I'll get your sulphonal."
"You will—not! No more dope in mine, Grif. I've got something a thousand per cent better."
"She ought to've come through with it at the start-off," grumbledGriffith. But he gladly accompanied his friend to the bedroom.
In the morning Blake awoke from a profound natural sleep, clear-eyed and clear-brained. His first act was to telephone to a florist's to send their largest crimson amaryllis to Miss Genevieve Leslie.
Though he forced himself to walk, he reached the Leslie mansion a full half-hour before ten. To kill time, he swung on out the Drive into Lincoln Park. He went a good mile, yet was back again five minutes before the hour. Unable to wait a moment longer, he hastened up into the stately portico and rang.
As on the previous day, he was at once bowed in and ushered to the beautiful room of gold and ivory enamel. He entered eagerly, and was not a little dashed to find himself alone. His spirits rebounded at the remembrance that he was early. He stopped in the centre of the room and stood waiting, tense with expectancy.
Very soon Genevieve came in at one of the side doorways. He started toward her the instant he heard her light step. But her look and bearing checked his eager advance. She was very pale, and her eyelids were swollen from hours of weeping.
"Jenny!" he stammered. "What is it? Your note—I thought that—that—"
"You poor boy! you poor boy!" she murmured, her eyes brimming over with tears of compassion.
"What is it?" he muttered, and he drew nearer to her.
She put out her hands and grasped his coat, and looked up at him, her forehead creased with deep lines of grief, and the corners of her sweet mouth drooping piteously.
"Oh, Tom! Tom!" she sobbed, "I know the worst now! I know how greatly I wronged you by forcing you into temptation. I have been to one who knows—one of the great physicians."
"About me?" asked Blake, greatly surprised.
"I used no names. He does not know who I am. But I told him the facts, as you have told them to me, dear. He said—Oh, I cannot—I cannot repeat it!"
She bent forward and pressed her face against his breast, sobbing with an uncontrollable outburst of grief. He raised his arms to draw her to him, but dropped them heavily.
"Well?" he asked in a harsh voice. "What of it?"
She drew herself away from him, still quivering, but striving hard to control her emotion.
"I—I must tell you!" she forced herself to answer. "I have no right to keep it from you. He said that it is a—a disease; that it is a matter of pathology, not of moral courage."
"Disease?" repeated Blake. "Well, what if it is? I don't see what difference that makes. If I fight it down—all well and good. If I lose out, I lose out—that's all."
"But don't you see the difference it makes to me?" she insisted. "I blamed you—when it wasn't your fault at all. But I did not realize, dear. I've been under a frightful strain ever since we reached home. Just because I do not weep and cry out, every one imagines I'm cold and unfeeling. I've been reproached for treating you cruelly. But you see now—"
"Of course!" he declared. "Don't you suppose I know? It's your grit. Needn't tell me how you've felt. You're the truest, kindest little woman that ever was!"
"Oh, Tom! that's so like you!—and after Ihavetreated you so cruelly!"
"You? What on earth put that into your head? Maybe you mean, because you didn't give me the second chance at once when I owned up to failing. But it was no more than right for you to send me off. Didn't I deserve it? I had given you cause enough to despise me—to send me off for good."
"No, no, not despise you, Tom! You know that never could be, when there in that terrible wilderness you proved yourself so true and kind—such a man! And not that alone! I know all now—how you, to save me—" She paused and looked away, her face scarlet. Yet she went on bravely: "how, in order that I might be compelled to make certain, you endured the frightful heat and smother of that foul forecastle, all those days to Aden!"
"That wasn't anything," disclaimed Blake. "I slept on deck every night. Just a picnic. I knew you were safe—no more danger of that damnable fever—and with Jimmy to entertain you."
"While you had to hide from me all day! James said that it was frightful in the forecastle."
"Much he knows about such places! It wasn't anything to a glass-factory or steelworks. If it had been the stokehole, instead—I did try stoking, one day, just to pass the time. Stood it two hours. Those Lascars are born under the equator. I don't see how any white man can stoke in the tropics."
"You did that?—to pass the time! While we were aft, under double awnings, up where we could catch every breath of air! Had I known that you did not land at Port Mozambique, I should have—should have—"
"Course you would have!" he replied. "But now you see how well it was you didn't know."
"Perhaps—Yet I'm not so sure—I—I—"
She clasped her hands over her eyes, as all her grief and anguish came back upon her in full flood.
"Oh, Tom! what shall we do? My dear, my poor dear! That doctor, with his cold, hard science! I have learned the meaning of that fearful verse of the Bible: 'Unto the third and fourth generation.' You may succeed; you may win your great fight for self-mastery. But your children—the curse would hang over them. One and all, they too might suffer. Though you should hold to your self-mastery, there would still be a chance,—epilepsy, insanity, your own form of the curse! And should you again fall back into the pit—"
She stopped, overcome.
He drew back a little way, and stood regarding her with a look of utter despair.
"So that is why you sent for me," he said. "I came here thinking you might be going to give me another chance. Now you tell me it's a lot worse than even I thought."
"No, no!" she protested. "I learned what I've told you afterward—afterI had sent you the note. You must not think—"
He broke in upon her explanation with a laugh as mirthless as were his hard-set face and despairing eyes. She shrank back from him.
"Stop it!—stop it!" she cried. "I can't bear it!"
He fell silent, and began aimlessly fumbling through his pockets. His gaze was fixed on the wall above and beyond her in a vacant stare.
"Tom!" she whispered, alarmed at his abstraction.
He looked down at her as if mildly surprised that she was still in the room.
"Excuse me," he muttered. "I was just wondering what it all amounts to, anyway. A fellow squirms and flounders, or else drifts with the current. Maybe he helps others to keep afloat, and maybe he doesn't. Maybe some one else helps him hold up. But, sooner or later, he goes down for good. It will all be the same a hundred years from now."
"No!" she denied. "You know that's not true. You don't believe it."
He straightened, and raised his half-clenched fist.
"You're right, Jenny. It's the facts, but not the truth. It's up to a man to pound away for all he's worth; not whine around about what's going to happen to him to-morrow or next year or when he dies. Only time I ever was a floater was when I was a kid and didn't know the real meaning of work. Since then I've lived. I can at least say I haven't been a parasite. And I've had the fun of the fight."
He flung out his hand, and his dulled eyes flashed with the fire of battle.
"Lord!—what if Ihavelost you! That's no reason for me to quit. You did love me there—and I'll love you always, little woman! You've given me a thousand times more than I deserve. I've got that to remember, to keep me up to the fighting pitch. I'm going to keep on fighting this curse, anyway. Idea of a man lying down, long as he can stagger! Even if the curse downs me in the end, there're lots of things I can do before I go under. There're lots of things to be done in the world—big things! Pound away! What if a manisto be laid on the shelf to-morrow? Pound away! Keep doing—that's life! Do your best—that's living!"
"I know ofonewho has lived!" whispered Genevieve. "Jenny! Then it's not true? You'll give me another chance? You still love me?"
"Wait! No, you must not!" she replied, shrinking back again. "I cannot—I will not give way! I must think of the future—not mine, buttheirs!I must do what is right. I tell you, there is one supreme duty in a woman's lot—she should choose rightly the man who is to be the father of her children! It is a crime to bring into the world children who are cursed!"
A flame of color leaped into her face, but she stood with upraised head, regarding him with clear and candid eyes that glowed with the ecstasy of self-sacrifice.
Before her look, his gaze softened to deepest tenderness and reverence.When he spoke, his voice was hushed, almost awed.
"Now I understand, Jenny. It's—it's a holy thing you've done—telling me! I'll never forget it, night or day, so long as I live. Good-bye!"
He turned to go; but in an instant she was before him with hands outflung to stop him.
"Wait! You do not understand. Listen! I did not mean what you think—only—only if you fail! Can you imagine I could be so unjust? If you do not fail—if you win—Oh, can't you see?"
He stared at her, dazed by the sudden glimmering of hope through the blackness of his despair.
"But you said that, even if I should win—" he muttered.
"Yes, yes; he told me there would still be a risk. But I cannot believe it. At least it would not be so grave a risk. Oh, if you can but win, Tom!"
"I'll try," he answered soberly.
"You will win—you shall win! I will help you."
"You?"
"Yes. Don't you understand? That is why I sent for you—to tell you that."
"But you said—"
"I don't care what I said. It's all different now. I see what I should do. I have failed far worse than you. There on that savage coast you required me to do my share; but always you stood ready to advise and help me. Yet after all that—How ungrateful you must think me!"
"No, never!" he cried. "You sha'n't say that. I can't stand it. You're the truest, kindest—"
"It's like you to say it!" she broke in. "But look at the facts. Did you ever set me a task that called for the very utmost of my strength—perhaps more; and then turn coldly away, with the cruel word that I must win alone or perish?"
"It's not the same case at all," he remonstrated. "You're not fair to yourself. I'm a man."
"And I've called myself a woman," she replied. "After those weeks with you I thought myself no longer a shallow, unthinking girl. A woman! Now I see, Tom—I know! I have failed in the woman's part. But now I shall stand by you in your fight. I shall do my part, and you will win!"
Blake's eyes shone soft and blue, and he again held out his arms to her. But in the same moment the glow faded and his arms fell to his side.
"I almost forgot," he murmured. "You said that I must win by my own strength—that you must be sure of my strength."
"That was before I learned the truth," she replied. "I no longer ask so much. I shall—I must help you, as you helped me. I owe you life and more than life. You know that. You cannot think me so ungrateful as not to do all I can."
"No," he replied, with sudden resolve. "You are to do as you first said—as we agreed."
"You mean, not help you? But I must, Tom, now that I realize."
"All I want is another chance," he said. "It's more than I deserve. I can't accept still more."
"You'll not let me help you? Yet what the doctor said makes it all so different."
"Not to me," replied Blake, setting his jaw. "I've started in on this fight, and I'm going through with it the way I began. It'll be a big help to know how you feel now; but, just the same, I'm going to fight it out alone. The doctors may say what they please,—if I haven't will power enough to win, without being propped up, I'm not fit to marry any woman, much less you!"
"Tom!" she cried. "Youarethe man I thought you. Youwillwin!"
She held out her hands to him. He took them in his big palms, and bent over to kiss her on the forehead.
"There!" he said, stepping away. "That's a lot more than I'm entitled to now, Jenny. It's time I left, to go and try to earn it."
"You won't allow me to help?" she begged.
"No," he answered, with a quiet firmness that she knew could not be shaken.
"At least you cannot keep me from praying for you," she said.
"That's true; and it will be a help to know how you feel about it now," he admitted.
"You will come again—soon?"
"No, not until I begin to see my way out on the Zariba Dam."
"Oh, that will be soon, I'm sure."
"I hope so. Good-bye!"
He turned and hurried from the room with an abruptness that in other circumstances she might have thought rude. But she understood. He was so determined in his purpose that he would not take the slightest risk that might be incurred by lingering.
She went to a front window, and watched him down the Drive. His step was quick but firm, and his head and shoulders were bent slightly forward, as if to meet and push through all obstacles.
For a few days Lord James was able to bring Genevieve encouraging reports of a vast improvement in Blake's spirits. But still the engineer-inventor failed to make the headway he had expected toward the solution of the complex and intricate problem of the dam. In consequence, he re-doubled his efforts and worked overtime, permitting himself less than four hours of sleep a night. His meals he either went without or took at his desk.
All the urgings of Griffith and Lord James could not induce him to cease driving himself to the very limit of endurance. Day by day he fell off, growing steadily thinner and more haggard and more feverish; yet still he toiled on, figuring and planning, planning and figuring.
But on the morning of the day set for Genevieve's ball, the weary, haggard worker tossed his pencil into the air, and uttered a shout that brought his two friends on a run from Griffith's office.
"I've got it! I've got it!" he flung at them, as they rushed in. He thrust a tablet across the table. "There's the proof. Check those totals, Grif."
Lord James leaned over the table to grasp Blake's hand.
"Gad, old man!" he said. "Just in time for you to go to the ball."
Griffith paused in his swift checking of Blake's final computations."Ball? Not on your sweet life! He's going to bed."
"You promised to go, Tom," said Lord James.
"Did I?" replied Blake. "Well, then, of course I'm going."
"Of course!" jeered Griffith. "It's no use arguing against a mule.Can't help but wish you hadn't reminded him, Mr. Scarbridge."
"The change will do him good," argued Lord James.
"I'm in for it, anyway," said Blake. "Only thing, I wish I could get some sleep, in between. Well, here's for a good hot bath and a square meal. That'll set me up."
Griffith shook his head. "I'm not so sure. What you need is twelve hours on your back."
That he was right the Englishman had to admit himself with no little contrition before the ball was half over.
Blake presented a good figure, and though he talked little and danced less, yet on the whole he produced a very good impression. As Lord James had once observed, with regard to his visit at Ruthby Castle, Blake's bigness of mind seemed to be instinctively sensed by nearly all those with whom he came in contact on favorable terms.
But, from the first, he avoided Genevieve with a persistence so marked as almost to disarm Mrs. Gantry.
Most of his few dances were with Dolores, who discovered that, notwithstanding his evident weariness, he was astonishingly light on his feet and by no means a poor waltzer. But after midnight she found it increasingly difficult to lure him out on the floor whenever she was seized with the whim to favor him by scratching the name—and feelings—of some other partner.
More than once Lord James urged him to go home and turn in. Blake's reply was that he knew he ought not to have come to the ball, but since he had come, he proposed to stick it out,—he would not be a quitter. So he stayed on, hour after hour, weary-eyed and taciturn, but by no means ill-humored. Many of the wall-flowers and elderly guests poured their chatter into his unhearing ear, and thought him a most sympathetic listener.
Genevieve, however, with each glimpse that she caught of him, perceived how his fatigue was constantly verging toward exhaustion. At last, between three and four in the morning, she cut short a dance with young Ashton and asked Lord James to take her into the library for a few minutes' rest. He was with Dolores, but immediately relinquished her to Ashton, and went off with Genevieve.
They soon passed out of the chatter and whirl of the crowd into the seclusion of the library. Genevieve led the way to her father's favorite table, but avoided the big high-backed armchair. Lord James placed a smaller chair for her at the other side of the table, facing the door of the cardroom, and as she sank into it he took the chair at the corner.
"Ah!" sighed Genevieve. "It's so restful to get away from them all for a few moments."
"I wonder you're not still more fatigued. Awful crush," replied Lord James. "I daresay you haven't had any chance all evening for a nibble of anything. Directed that something be brought to us here."
"That was very thoughtful of you. I do need something. I'm depressed—It's about Tom. I brought you in here to ask your opinion. He has looked so haggard and worn to-night."
"Overwork," explained Lord James. "He's been hard at it, day and night, in that stuffy office. He could stand any amount of work out in the open. But this being cooped up indoors and grinding all the time at those bally figures!"
"If only it's nothing worse! I'm so afraid!"
"No. It hasn't come on again; though that may happen any time when he's so nearly pegged. Must confess, I blame myself for urging him to come to-night. But he said he had solved the big problem, and I thought the change would do him good—relax his mind, you know. Egregious mistake, I fear. I've urged him to go; but he insists upon sticking it out."
"But you're certain that he—has—done nothing as yet?"
"No, indeed, I assure you! This over-fatigue—I'm not even certain whether the craving is on him or not…. You'll pardon me, Miss Genevieve—but do you realize how hard you have made it for him, cutting him off from all help in his desperate struggle?"
"Then heisfighting all alone?" she exclaimed.
"Yes. He won't allow even me to jolly him up now. He's given me the cold shoulder. Said the inference to be drawn from your conditions was that he should have no help whatever."
"Isn't that brave!—isn't that just like him!" cried the girl, her eyes sparkling and cheeks aglow. "Hewillwin! I feel sure he'll win!"
Lord James looked down at the table, and asked in rather an odd and hesitating tone: "We must hope it. But—if he does win—what then?"
Blake came slowly into the room through the doorway behind them, his head downbent as if he were pondering a problem.
Unaware of the newcomer, Genevieve looked regretfully into the troubled face of her companion, and answered him with absolute candor. "Dear friend, need I repeat? I am very fond of you, and I esteem you very highly. Yet if he succeeds, I must say 'no' to you."
As the young Englishman bent over, without replying, Blake roused from his abstraction and perceived that he was not alone in the room.
"Hello—'scuse me!" he mumbled. Half startled, they turned to look at him. He met them with a rare smile. "So it's you, Jeems—and Miss Jenny. Didn't mean to cut in on your 'tates-an'-tay, as the Irishman put it."
He started to turn back. Genevieve sought to stop him. "Won't you join us, Tom?"
"Thanks, no. It's Jimmy's sit-out. I just stepped in here to see if I could find a book on the differential calculus. Been figuring a problem in my head all evening, and there's a formula I need to get my final solution. I know that formula well as I know you, but somehow my memory seems to've stopped working."
"Those bally figures! Can't you ever chop off?" remonstrated Lord James. "You're pegged. Come and join us. Miss Genevieve will be interested to hear about the dam."
"I'm interested, indeed I am, Tom. Papa says you are working out a piece of wonderful engineering."
Blake stared. "What doesheknow about it?"
"I suppose his consulting engineer told him—your friend Mr. Griffith."
"Grif's not working for him now."
"Indeed? Then I misunderstood. Anyway, you must come and explain all about the dam."
"Well, if you insist," said Blake. He went around to the big armchair, across from Genevieve, and sat down wearily while explaining: "But the dam is a long way from being built. It's all on paper yet, and I've had to rely on the reports sent in by the field engineers."
A footman came in and set food and wine before Genevieve and Lord James. Blake went on, with quick-mounting enthusiasm, heedless of the coming and going of the soft-footed, unobtrusive servant.
"That's the only thing I'm afraid of. Would have liked to've gone over the ground myself first. But they had two surveys, and the field notes check fairly well. Barring mistakes in them, I've got the proposition worked out to a T. It's all done except some figuring of details that any good engineer could do. Just as well, for I'm about all in. Stiffest proposition I ever went up against."
He sank back into the depths of the big chair, with a sudden giving way of enthusiasm to fatigue. Lord James reached out his plate to him.
"Youarepegged, old man," he said. "Have a sandwich."
"No," replied Blake. "I'm too played out to eat. Just want to rest."
Genevieve had been scrutinizing his face, and her deepening concern lent a note of sharpness to her reproach: "You're exhausted! You should not have come to-night!"
"Couldn't pass up a dance at your house, could I?" he smilingly rejoined. "Don't you worry about me. It's all right, long's I've got that whole damn irrigation system worked out."
"Ha! ha! old man!" chuckled Lord James. "That expresses it to a T, as you put it. But wouldn't it be better form to say, 'the whole irrigation dam system'?"
Blake smiled shamefacedly. "Did I make a break like—such as that?'Scuse me, Miss Jenny. I'm sort of—I'm rather muddled to-night."
"No wonder, after all you've done," said Genevieve. She added, with a radiant smile, "But isn't it glorious that you've finished such a great work! Papa says that you've actually invented a new kind of dam."
The silent footman had reappeared with another plate and glass of wine. He glided around behind Blake, who had leaned forward again with the right arm upon the edge of the table. Unconscious of the servant, who placed the plate and wine glass near him on his left and quietly glided from the room, the engineer responded to Genevieve's remark with an animation that might have been likened to the last flare of a dying candle.
"No," he said, "it's not exactly a new kind of dam—not an invention. I did work out once a modification of bridge trusses which some might call an invention,—new principle in the application of trusses to bridge structure. Allows for a longer suspension span on cantilever bridges."
"But this Zariba Dam," remarked Lord James; "I've yet to learn, myself, just how you worked it out."
"Well, it wasn't any invention; just a sort of discovery how to combine a lot of well-known principles of construction to fit the particular case. You see, it's this way. There was only one available site for the dam, and the mid-section of that was bottomless bog; yet provision had to be made for a sixty-five foot head of water."
"You take him, Miss Genevieve," said Lord James. "They have no solid ground to build on, and the water above the dam is to be sixty-five feet deep."
"I should think the dam would sink into the bog," remarked Genevieve.
"That was one factor in the problem," said Blake. "Solved it by putting the steel reinforcement of the concrete in the form of my bridge-truss span. The whole central section could hang in midair and not buckle or drop. That was simple enough, long's I had my truss already invented. The main difficulty was that deep bog. If you studied hydrostatics, you'd soon learn that a sixty-five foot head of water puts an enormous pressure on the bed of a reservoir."
Absorbed in his explanation, Blake unconsciously grasped the wine glass in his left hand, as he went on:
"That pressure would be enough to make the water boil down through the bog and clear out under the deepest foundation any of the other engineers had been able to figure out. Well, I figured and figured, but somehow I couldn't make anything in the books go. At last, when I had almost given up—"
"No! you couldn't do that," put in Lord James.
Blake smiled at him, and paused to grasp again his broken thread of thought. In the fatal moment when his wakeful consciousness was diverted, and before Lord James could interpose to avert the act, his subconsciousness automatically caused his left hand to raise the glass which it held to his lips.
Before he was aware of what he was doing, he had taken a sip of the wine. An instant afterward the glass shattered on the floor beside his chair, and he clutched at the edge of the table, his face convulsed and his eyes glaring with the horror of what he had done.
"Hell!" he gasped.
Genevieve rose and started back from the table, shocked and frightened by what she mistook for an outburst of rage or madness. Lord James rose almost as quickly, no less shocked and quite as uncertain as to what his friend would do.
[Illustration: His jaw closed fast,—and in the same instant his outstretched hand smashed down upon the wine glass]
"Tom!" he called warningly, and he laid his hand on Blake's shoulder.
Almost beside himself in the paroxysm of fear and craving that had stricken his face white and half choked him with seeming rage, Blake shook off the restraining hand, and gasped hoarsely at Genevieve: "Wine!—here—in your house! God! Shoved into my hand! Smell wasn't enough—must taste it! God! Tough deal!"
"Lord Avondale!" cried Genevieve, and she turned to leave the room, furiously indignant.
"Gad! old man!" murmured Lord James, staring uncertainly from Blake to the angry girl, for once in his life utterly disconcerted and bewildered. He was unable to think, and the impulse of his breeding urged him to accompany Genevieve. After a moment's vacillation, he sprang about and hastened with her from the room.
Blake sat writhing in dumb anguish, his distended eyes fixed upon the doorway for many moments after they had gone. Then slowly yet as though drawn by an irresistible force, his gaze sank until it rested upon the half-filled wine glass left by Lord James. He glared at it in fearful fascination. Suddenly his hand shot out to clutch at it,—and as suddenly was drawn back.
There followed a grim and silent struggle, which ended in a second clutch at the glass. This time the shaking fingers closed on the slender stem. The wine was almost wetting his lips when, with a convulsive jerk, he flung it out upon the rug beside his chair.
Shuddering and quivering, Blake sank back in the chair, with his left arm upraised across his face as if he were expectant of a crushing blow or sought to shut out some horrible sight. His right arm slipped limply down outside the chair-arm, and the empty glass dropped to the floor out of his relaxing fingers.
Yet the lull in the contest was only momentary. As his protecting arm sank down again, his bloodshot eyes caught sight of the wine in Genevieve's glass. Instantly he started up rigid in his chair and clutched the edge of the table, as if to spring up and escape. But he could not tear his gaze away from the crimson wine.
Again there came the grim and silent struggle, and again the fierce craving for drink compelled his hand to go out to grasp the glass. But his will was not yet totally benumbed. As his fingers crooked to clutch the glass-stem, he made a last desperate effort to withstand the all but irresistible impulse that was forcing him over the brink of the pit. Beads of cold sweat started out on his forehead. His face creased with furrows of unbearable agony. His mouth gaped. The serpent had him by the throat.
The struggling man realized that he was on the verge of defeat. He was almost overcome. In a flash he perceived the one way to escape. For a single instant his slack jaw closed fast,—and in the same instant his outstretched hand clenched together and upraised and smashed down upon the wine glass.
Utterly exhausted, the victor collapsed forward, with head and arms upon the table, in a half swoon that quickly passed into the sleep-stupor of outspent strength.
Thus it was Lord James found his friend when he came hurrying back into the library. He did not rouse Blake to ask questions. One glance at the shattered glass and Blake's bleeding hand was enough to tell him what had happened. There could be no doubt that Blake had won. It was no less certain, however, that the struggle had cost him the last ounce of his strength. What he now needed was absolute rest.
With utmost gentleness, Lord James examined the cut hand for fragments of glass and bound it up with his own handkerchief. As quietly, he gathered up the broken glass and the dishes, and wiped the blood and wine from the table. Another hour would see the end of the ball. Many of the guests already had gone, and it was not probable that any of those who remained would leave the ballroom or the cardroom to wander into the secluded library. Yet he thought it as well to remove the traces of Blake's struggle. He placed the bandaged hand of his unconscious friend down on the chair-arm, in the shadow of the edge of the table, and went out with the plates and glass, closing the door behind him.
He had been gone only a few minutes when the door of the cardroom swung open before a sharp thrust, and Mr. Leslie stepped into the library, followed by Mrs. Gantry. Mr. Leslie closed the door, and each took advantage of the seclusion to blink and yawn and stretch luxuriously. They had just risen from the card table, and were both cramped and sleepy. Also neither perceived Blake, who was hidden from them by the back of the big chair.
"Ho-ho-hum!" yawned Mr. Leslie, in a last relaxing stretch. "That ends it for this time." He wagged his head at his sister-in-law, and rubbed his hands together exultantly. "For once you'll have to admit Icanplay bridge."
"For once," she conceded, as she moved toward the table. "You're still nothing more than a whist-player, yet had it not been for the honor score, you'd have beaten us disgracefully. One is fortunate when one has the honor score in one's favor."
"H'm! h'm!" he rallied. "I'll admit you women canscorehonor, but the question is, do you know what honor is?"
"Most certainly—when the score is in our favor. One would fancy you'd been reading Ibsen. Of all thebadtaste—" Mrs. Gantry stopped short, to raise her lorgnette and stare at the flaccid form of Blake. "Hoity-toity! What have we here?"
"Hey?" queried Mr. Leslie, peering around her shoulder. "Asleep? Who is he?"
Mrs. Gantry turned to him and answered in a lowered voice: "It's that fellow, Blake. I do believe he's intoxicated."
"Intoxicated?" exclaimed Mr. Leslie. He went quickly around and bent over Blake. He came back to her on tiptoe and led her away from the table.
"You're mistaken," he whispered. "I'm certain he hasn't touched a drop."
"Certain?"
"Yes. Some one has spilled wine on the table; but his breath proves that he hasn't had any. It's merely that he's worn out—fallen asleep. Poor boy!"
"'Poor boy'?" repeated Mrs. Gantry, quizzing her brother-in-law through her lorgnette.
"H'm. Why not?" he demanded. "I was most unjust to him. I've been compelled to reverse my judgment of him on every point that was against him. As you know, he refused everything I offered in the way of money or position. He has proved that his intentions are absolutely honorable,—and now he has proved himself a great engineer. By his solution of the Zariba Dam problem, he has virtually put half a million, dollars into my pocket."
"I understood that you turned that project over to some company."
"The Coville Company—of which I own over ninety-five per cent of the stock. He would quit if he knew it, and I can't afford to lose him. The solution of the dam is a wonderful feat of engineering. That's what's the matter with him now. He worked at it to the point of exhaustion—and then for him to come here, already worn out!"
"I'm sure he was quite welcome to stay away," put in the lady.
Mr. Leslie frowned, and went on: "Griffith tells me that he can standany amount of outdoor work, but that office work runs him down fast.But I'll soon fix that. We arranged to put him in charge of theMichamac Bridge."
"In charge? How will you get rid of Lafayette? You've grumbled so often about his having a contract to remain there as chief builder, because he drew the bridge plans."
"Copied them, you should say."
"Ah, is that the term?"
"For what he did, yes—unless one uses the stronger term."
"I quite fail to take you."
"You'll understand—later on. Griffith and I are figuring that Tom will take the bridge and keep it."
"He has my heartfelt wish that he will take it soon, and remain in personal possession for all time!"
"H'm. I presume Genevieve could come down to visit us occasionally."
"Herbert! You surely cannot mean—?"
"Griffith has told me something in connection with this bridge that proves Thomas Blake to be one of the greatest engineers, if not the greatest, in America. I'd be proud to have him for a son-in-law."
"Impossible!impossible!It can't be you'll withdraw your opposition!"
"Not only that; I'll back him to win. I like your earl. He's a fine young fellow. But, after all, Blake is anAmerican."
"He's a brute! Herbert, it is impossible!"
"They said that dam was impossible. He has mastered it. He's big; he's got brains. He'll be a gentleman within six months. He's a genius!"
"Poof!He's a degenerate!"
"You'll see," rejoined Mr. Leslie. He went back to the table and tapped the sleeper sharply on the shoulder.
Blake stirred, and mumbled drowsily: "Huh! what—whatcha want?"
"Wake up," answered Mr. Leslie. "I wish to congratulate you."
Blake slowly heaved himself up and blinked at his disturber with haggard, bloodshot eyes. He was still very weary and only half roused from his stupor.
"Huh!" he muttered. "Must 'uv dropped 'sleep—Dog tired." His bleared gaze swung around and took in Mrs. Gantry. He started and tried to sit more erect. "Excuse me! Didn't know there was a lady here."
"Don't apologize. That's for me to do," interposed Mr. Leslie, offering his hand. "My—that is, the Coville Company officers tell me you've worked out a wonderful piece of engineering for them."
Blake stared hard at the bookcase behind Mrs. Gantry and answered curtly, oblivious of the older man's hand. "That remains to be seen. It's only on paper, so far."
"But I—h'm—it seems they are sufficiently satisfied to wish to put you in charge of the Michamac Bridge."
"In charge?"
"Yes."
"How about Ashton—their contract with him?"
"That's to be settled later. I wish—h'm—I understand that you are to be sent nominally as Assistant Engineer."
"I am, eh? Excuseme!"
"At double the salary of Ashton, and—"
"Not at ten times the salary ashisassistant!"
"But you must know that Griffith's doctor has ordered him to Florida, and with the work rushing on the bridge—He tells me it has reached the most critical stage of construction—that suspension span—"
"You seem mighty interested in a project you got rid of," remarkedBlake, vaguely conscious of the other's repressed eagerness.
"Yes. I was the first to consider the possibility of bridging the strait."
"Your idea, was it?" said Blake, with reluctant admiration. "It was a big one, all right."
"Nothing as compared to the invention of that bridge," returned Mr.Leslie.
"Your young friend Ashton sure is a great one," countered Blake.
"The man who planned that bridge is a genius," stated Mr. Leslie with enthusiasm. "That's one fact. Another is that Laffie Ashton is unfit to supervise the construction of the suspension span. I'll see to it myself that the matter is so arranged that you—"
"Thanks, no. You'll do nothing of the kind," broke in Blake. He spoke without brusqueness yet with stubborn determination. "I don't want any favors from you, and you know why. I can appreciate your congratulations, long as you seem to want to be friendly. But you needn't say anything to the company."
"Very well, very well, sir!" snapped Mr. Leslie, irritated at the rebuff. He jerked himself about to Mrs. Gantry. "There's time yet. What do you say to another rubber?"
"You should have spoken before we rose," replied the lady. "There'll be others who wish to go. You'll be able to take over some one's hand. I prefer to remain in here for atete-a tetewith Mr. Blake."
Blake and Mr. Leslie stared at her, alike surprised. The younger man muttered in far other than a cordial tone: "Thanks. But I'm not fit company. Ought to've been abed and asleep hours ago."
"Yet if you'll pardon me for insisting, I wish to have a little chat with you," replied Mrs. Gantry.
At her expectant glance, Mr. Leslie started for the door of the cardroom. As he went out and closed the door, Mrs. Gantry took the chair on the other side of the table from Blake, and explained in a confidential tone: "It is about this unfortunate situation."
Blake stared at her, with a puzzled frown. "Unfortunate what?"
"Unfortunate situation," she replied, making an effort to moderate her superciliousness to mere condescension. "I assure you, I too have learned that first impressions may err. I cannot now believe that you are torturing my niece purposely."
Blake roused up on the instant, for the first time wide awake.
"What!" he demanded. "I—torturing—her?"
"Most unfortunately, that is, at least, the effect of the situation."
"But I—I don't understand! What is it, anyhow? I'd do anything to save her the slightest suffering!"
"Ah!" said Mrs. Gantry, and she averted her gaze.
"Don't you believe me?" he demanded.
"To be sure—to be sure!" she hastened to respond. "Had I not thought you capable of that, I should not have troubled to speak to you."
"But what is it? What do you mean?" he asked, with swift-growing uneasiness.
"I do not say that I blame you for failing to see and understand," she evaded. "No doubt you, too, have suffered."
"Yes, I've—But that's nothing. It's Jenny!" he exclaimed, fast on the barbed hook. "Good God! if it's true I've made her suffer—But how? Why? I don't understand."
Mrs. Gantry studied him with a gravity that seemed to include a trace of sympathy. There was an almost imperceptible tremor in her voice.
"Need I tell you, Mr. Blake, how a girl of her high ideals, her high conception of noblesse oblige, of duty (you saved her life as heroically as—er—as a fireman)—need I point out how grateful she must always feel toward you, and how easily she might mistake her gratitude for something else?"
"You mean that she—that she—" He could not complete the sentence.
Mrs. Gantry went on almost blandly. "A girl of her fine and generous nature is apt to mistake so strong a feeling of gratitude for what you no doubt thought it was."
"Yet that morning—on the cliffs—when the steamer came—"
"Even then. Can you believe that if she really loved you then, she could doubt it now?"
"You say she—does—doubt it? I thought that—maybe—" The heavy words dragged until they failed to pass Blake's tense lips.
"Doubt it!" repeated Mrs. Gantry. "Has she accepted you?"
"No. I—"
"Has she promised you anything?"
"No. She said that, unless she was sure—"
"What more do you need to realize that she isnotsure? Can you fancy for a moment that she would hesitate if she really loved you—if she did not intuitively realize that her feeling is no more than gratitude? That is why she is suffering so. She realizes the truth, yet will not admit it even to herself."
Blake forced himself to face the worst. "Then what—what do you—?"
"Ah! so you really are generous!" exclaimed Mrs. Gantry, beaming upon him, with unfeigned suavity. "Need I tell you that she is extremely fond of Lord Avondale? With him there could be no doubts, no uncertainties."
"Jimmy is all right," loyally assented Blake. "Yes, he's all right.Just the same, unless she—" He stopped, unable to speak the word.
"In accepting him she would attain to—" The tactful dame paused, considered, and altered her remark. "With him she would be happy."
"I'm not saying 'no' to that," admitted Blake. "That is, provided—"
"Ah! And you say you love her!" broke in Mrs. Gantry. "What love is it that would stand between her and happiness—that would compel her to sacrifice her life, out of gratitude to you?"
Blake bent over and asked in a dull murmur: "You are sure it's that?"
"Indeed, yes! How can it be otherwise?—a girl of her breeding; and you—what you are!"
Blake bent over still lower, and all his fortitude could not repress the groan that rose to his lips. Mrs. Gantry watched him closely, her face set in its suave smile, but her eyes hard and cold. She went on, without a sign of compunction: "But I now believe you are possessed of sterling qualities, else I should not have troubled to speak the truth to you."
She paused to emphasize what was to follow. "There is only one way for you to save her. She is too generous to save herself. I believe that you really love her. You can prove it by—" again she paused—"going away."
Blake bent over on the table and buried his face in his arms. His smothered groan would have won him the compassion of a savage. It was the cry of a strong man crushed under an unbearable burden. Mrs. Gantry was not a savage. Her eyes sparkled coldly.
"You will go away. You will prove your love for her," she said.
Certain that she had accomplished what she had set out to do, she returned to the cardroom, and left her victim to his misery and despair.
Already exhausted by the stress of the fierce fight that he had so hardly won, Blake could no longer sustain such acute grief. Nature mercifully dulled his consciousness. He sank into a stupor that outwardly was not unlike heavy slumber.
Mrs. Gantry had been gone several minutes when the other door swung open. Dolores skipped in, closely followed by Lafayette Ashton. The young man's face was flushed, and there was a slight uncertainty in his step; but as he closed the door and followed the girl across the room, he spoke with rather more distinctness than usual.
"Here we are,ma cher. I knew we'd find a place where you could show me how kind you feel toward your fond Fayette."
"So that's the way you cross the line?" criticised Dolores. "What a get-away for a fast pacer who has gone the pace!"
"Now, Dodie, don't hang back. You know as well as I do—"
"Hush! Don't whisper it aloud!" cautioned the girl, pointing dramatically to Blake. "Betray no secrets. We are not alone!"
Ashton muttered a French curse, and went over to the table.
"It's that fellow, Blake," he whispered, over his shoulder.
"Mr. Blake?" exclaimed Dolores, tiptoeing to the table. "He's gone to sleep. Poor man! I know he must be awfully tired, else he would have waltzed with me again the last time I scratched your name."
"What you and Genevieve can see in him gets me!" muttered Ashton, with a shrug. "Look at him now. Needn't tell me he's asleep. He's intoxicated. That's what's the matter with him."
Dolores leaned far over the table toward Blake, sniffed, and drew back, with a judicial shake of her head. "Can't detect it. But, then, I couldn't expect to, with you in the room."
"Now, Dodie!"
She again leaned over the table. "See," she whispered. "His hand is tied up. It's hurt."
"Told you he's intoxicated," insisted Ashton.
The girl moved toward a davenport in the corner farthest from Blake.
"Come over here," she ordered. "It's a nuisance to sit it out with you, when it's one of the last waltzes. At least I won't let you disturb Mr. Blake."
"Mr. T. Blake, our heroic cave-man!" replied Ashton, as he followed her across the room.
"How you love him!" she rallied. "What's the cause of your jealousy?"
"Who says I'm jealous?"
"Of course there's no reason for you to be. He's not interested in me, and you're not in Genevieve—just now."
"My dear Dodie! You know you've always been the only one."
"Since the last!" she added. "But if it's not jealousy, what is it?—professional envy? You've been knocking him all the evening. You began it the day he came. What have you against him, anyway? He has never wronged you."
Ashton's eyes narrowed, and one corner of his mouth drew up.
"Hasn't he, though!" he retorted. "The big brute! I can't imagine how your mother can allow you and Genevieve to speak to him, when she knows what he is. And your uncle—the low fellow tried to blackmail him—accused him of stealing his bridge plans. First thing I know, he'll be sayingIdid it!"
"Did you?" teased the girl, as she seated herself on the heap of pillows at the head of the davenport.
Ashton's flushed face turned a sickly yellow. He fell, rather than seated himself, in the centre of the davenport.
"What—what—" he babbled; "you don't mean—No! I didn't!—I tell you,I didn't! They're my plans; I drew them all myself!"
"Why, Laffie! what is the matter with you?" she demanded, half startled out of her mockery. "Can it be you've mixed them too freely? Or is it the lobster? You've a regular heavy-seas-the-first-day-out look."
He managed to pull himself together and mutter in assent: "Yes, it must be the lobster. But the sight of that brute is enough to—to—"
"Then perhaps you had better leave the room," sweetly advised Dolores."Mr. Blake happens to be one of my friends."
"No, he isn't," corrected Ashton.
"Really!"
"No. I won't have it. You needn't expect me to have anything to do with you unless you cut him."
"Oh, Laffie! how could you be so cruel?" she mocked.
He was so far intoxicated that he mistook her sarcasm for entreaty. He responded with maudlin fervor. "Don't weep, Dodiekins! I'll be as easy on you as I can. You see, I must inform you on such things, if you're to be myfiancee."
She was quick to note his mistake, and sobbed realistically: "Fi-fiancee!Oh! Oh, Laffie! Bu-but you haven't asked me yet!"
He moved along the davenport nearer to her, and attempted to clasp her hand.
"You're a coy one, Dodiekins!" he replied. "Of course I'm asking you, you know that. You can't think I don't mean it. You know I mean it."
"Really?"
"Of course! Haven't I been trying to get a chance to tell you, all the evening? Of course I mean it! You're the fair maiden of my choice, Dodiekins, even if you aren't so rich as some."
"Fair?—but I'm a brunette," she corrected. "It's Genevieve you're thinking of. Confess now, it is, isn't it?"
"No, indeed, no!" he protested. "I prefer brunettes—always have! You're a perfect brunette, Dodiekins. I've always liked you more than Genevieve. You're the perfect brunette type, and you have all thatverve—you're sospirituelle. Just say 'yes' now, and let's have it over with. To-morrow I'll buy you the biggest solitaire in town."
"Oh, Laffie!—the biggest? You're too kind! I couldn't think of it!" she mocked.
"But I mean it, Dodie, every word, indeed I do!" he insisted, ardently thrusting out an arm to embrace her.
She slipped clear, and sprang up, to stand just beyond his reach.
"So great an honor!" she murmured. "How can I deprive all the other girls of the greatest catch in town?"
"They've tried hard enough to catch me," he replied. "But I'd rather have you than all the blondes put together. I mean it, every word. I don't mind at all that you're not so rich as Genevieve. I'll have enough for two, as soon as the old man shuffles off this mortal coil. You'll bring him dead to rights on the will question. He likes you almost as well as he likes Genevieve. You're second choice with him."
"Second!—not the third?—nor the fourth? You're sure?"
"No, second; and you can count on it, he'll do the handsome thing by Mrs. Lafayette, even if he keeps me on an allowance. So now, say the word, and come and cuddle up."
"Oh, Laffie!—in here? We might disturb Mr. Blake."
"Blake!" he muttered, and he looked angrily at the big inert form half prostrate on the table. "He's intoxicated, I tell you—or if he's not, he ought to be. The insolence of him, hanging around Genevieve! I hope heisdrunk! That would settle it all. We'd be rid of him then."
"'We'?" queried Dolores.
He caught her curious glance, and hastened to disclaim: "No, not we—Genevieve—I meant Genevieve, of course!"
Dolores affected a coquettish air. "Oh, Mr. Brice-Ashton! I do believe you want to get him out of the way."
"I? No, no!" he protested, with an uneasy, furtive glance at Blake.
"Don't try to fool me," she insisted. "I know your scheme. But it's of no use. If she doesn't take the hero, she'll accept the earl. Ah, me! To think you're still scheming to get Vievie, when all the evening you've pretended it was I!"
In the reaction from his fright, he sprang up and advanced on her ardently. "Itisyou, Dodie! you know it is. Own up, now—we're just suited to each other. It's a case of soul-mates!"
"Oh, is it, really?" she gushed. He sought to kiss her, but she eluded him coquettishly. "Wait, please. We must first settle the question. If it's a case of soul-mates, who's to be the captain?"
"See here, Dodie," he admonished; "we've fooled long enough. I'm in earnest. You don't seem to realize this is a serious proposal."
"Really?" she mocked. "A formal declaration of your most honorable intentions to make me Mrs. L. Brice-Ashton?"
"Of course! You don't take it for a joke, do you?"
She smiled upon him with tantalizing sweetness. "Isn't it? Well,itmay not be. But how about yourself?"
"Dolores," he warned, "unless you wish me to withdraw my—"
"Your solemn suit!" she cut in. "With that and the case you mentioned, the matter is complete. A suit and a case make a suitcase. You have my permission to pack."
"Dodie! You can't mean it!"
"Can't I? You may pack yourself off and get a tailor to press your suit. He can do it better. Run along now. I'm going to make up to Mr. Blake for that waltz of yours that he wouldn't let me give to him."
"You flirt!" cried Ashton, flushing crimson. "I believe your heart is made of petrified wood."
"Then don't ask me to throw it at you. It might hurt your soft head."
"Dolores!" he warned her.
"Yes," she went on, pretending to misunderstand him. "Wouldn't it be awful?—a chunk of petrified wood plunking into a can of woodpulp!"
"I wish you to remember, Miss Gantry—" he began,
"Don't fret," she impatiently interrupted. "I'll not forget 'Miss Gantry,' and I wish you wouldn't so often. 'Dodie,' 'Dodie,' 'Dodie,' all the evening. It's monotonous."
"Indeed. Am I to infer, Miss Gantry, that you are foolish enough to play fast and loose with me?"
"You're so fast, how could I loose you?" she punned.
He muttered a French oath.
"Naughty! Naughty!" she mocked. "Swearing in French, when you know I don't speak it! Why not say, 'damn it' right out? That would sound better."
"See here, Dodie," he warned. "I've stood enough of this. You know you're just dying to say 'yes.' But let me tell you, if you permit this chance to slip by—"
"Oh, run along, do!" she exclaimed. "I want to think, and it's impossible with you around."
"Think?" he retorted. "I know better. What you want is a chance to coquet with him."
He looked about at Blake, with a wry twist in his lower lip.
"One enjoys conversing with a man once in a while," she replied, and she turned from him a glance of supreme contempt and loathing that pierced the thickness of his conceit. Disconcerted and confused, he beat a flurried retreat, jerking shut the door with a violent slam.