The Street Called Straight Part 38

"I might have said: 'Why don't you give _her_ a chance?' She's half in love with him--as it is."

"That's a lie. That's an infernal lie."

Ashley was on his feet. He pushed the chair from him, though he still grasped it. He seemed to need it for support. Guion showed no resentment, continuing to speak with feverish quiet.

"I think you'll find that the whole thing is predestined, Ashley.

Davenant's coming to my aid is what you might call a miracle. I don't like to use the expression--it sounds idiotic--and canting--and all that--but, as a matter of fact, he came--as an answer to prayer."

Ashley gave a snort of impatience. Guion warmed to his subject, dragging himself farther up on the couch and throwing the coverlet from his knees.

"Yes, of course; you'd feel that way about it--naturally. So should I if anybody else were to tell me. But this is how it happened. One night, not long ago, while you were on the water, I was so hard hit that I--well, I actually--_prayed_. I don't know that I ever did before--that is, not really--_pray_. But I did then; and I didn't beat about the bush, either. I didn't stop at half measures; I asked for a miracle right out and out--and I got it. The next morning Davenant came with his offer of the money. You may make what you like out of that; but I make--"

"I make this, by Jove; that you and he entered into a bargain that he should supply the cash, and you should--"

"Wrong!" With his arm stretched to its full length he pointed his forefinger up into Ashley's face. "Wrong!" he cried, again. "I asked him if she had anything to do with it, and he said she hadn't."

"Pff! Would you expect him to acknowledge it? He might deny it till he d.a.m.ned his soul with lies; but that wouldn't keep you and him from--"

"Before G.o.d, Ashley, I never thought of it till later. I know it looks that way--the way you put it--but I never thought of it till later. I dragged it out of him that he'd once been in love with her and had asked her to marry him. That was a regular knock-down surprise to me. I'd had no idea of anything of the kind. But he said he wasn't in love with her any longer. I dare say he thinks he isn't; but--"

"Suppose he is; that needn't affect _her_--except as an impertinence. A woman can defend herself against that sort of thing, by Jove!"

"It needn't affect her--only--only as a matter of fact--it does. It appeals to her imagination. The big scale of the thing would impress almost any woman. Look here, Ashley," he cried, with a touch of hysteria; "it'll be better for us all in the long run if you'll give him a chance. It'll be better for you than for any one else. You'll be well out of it--any impartial person would tell you that. You must see it yourself. You _do_ see it yourself. We're not your sort--"

But Ashley could stand it no longer. With a smothered, inarticulate oath, he turned abruptly, and marched out of the room.

XIX

Fortunately there was no one in the upper hall, nor on the stairs, nor in the lower hall, nor in the oval room into which Ashley stumbled his way. The house was all suns.h.i.+ne and silence. He dropped into the nearest arm-chair. "It's a lie," he kept repeating to himself. "It's a lie. It's a d.a.m.ned, infernal lie. It's a put-up job between them--between the old scoundrel and that--that oaf."

The reflection brought him comfort. By degrees it brought him a great deal of comfort. That was the explanation, of course! There was no need of his being panic-stricken. To frighten him off was part of their plan.

Had he not challenged her two or three times to say she didn't care for him? If she had any doubt on the subject he had given her ample opportunity to declare it. But she had not done so. On the contrary, she had made him both positive and negative statements of her love. What more could he ask?

He breathed again. The longer he thought of it the better his situation seemed to grow. He had done all that an honorable man could think of. He had been chivalrous to a quixotic degree. If they had not accepted his generous proposals, then so much the worse for them. They--Guion and Davenant--were pursuing obstructionist tactics, so as to put him in a place where he could do nothing but retreat. Very well; he would show them! There were points beyond which even chivalry could not go; and if they found themselves tangled in their own barbed wire they themselves would be to blame.

So, as the minute of foolish, jealous terror pa.s.sed away, he began to enjoy the mellow peace of the old house. It was the first thing he had enjoyed since landing in America. His pleasure was largely in the antic.i.p.ation of soon leaving that country with all the honors and Olivia Guion besides.

It was a gratification to the Ashley spirit, too, to note how promptly the right thing had paid. It was really something to take to heart. The moral to be drawn from his experiences at the heights of Dargal had been ill.u.s.trated over and over again in his career; and this was once more.

If he had funked the sacrifice it would have been on his conscience all the rest of his life. As it was, he had made it, or practically made it, and so could take his reward without scruple.

He put this plainly before Olivia when at last she appeared. She came slowly through the hail from the direction of the dining-room, a blank-book and a pencil in her hand.

"I'm making an inventory," she explained. "You know that everything will have to be sold?"

He ignored this to hurry to his account of the interview with Guion. It had been brief, he said, and in a certain sense unsatisfactory. He laid stress on his regret that her father should have seen fit to decline his offer--that's what it amounted to--but he pointed out to her that that bounder Davenant, who had doubtless counseled this refusal, would now be the victim of his own wiles. He had overreached himself. He had taken one of those desperate risks to which the American speculative spirit is so often tempted--and he had pushed it too far. He would lose everything now, and serve him right!

"I've made my offer," he went on, in an injured tone, "and they've thrown it out. I really can't do more, now, can I?"

"You know already how I feel about that."

They were still standing. He had been too eager to begin his report to offer her a chair or to take one himself.

"They can't expect me to repeat it, now, can they?" he hurried on.

"There are limits, by Jove! I can't go begging to them--"

"I don't think they expect it."

"And yet, if I don't, you know--he's dished. He loses his money--and everything else."

In putting a slight emphasis on the concluding words he watched her closely. She betrayed herself to the extent of throwing back her head with a little tilt to the chin.

"I don't believe he'd consider that being dished. He's the sort of man who loses only when he--flings away."

"He's the sort of man who's a beastly cad."

He regretted these words as soon as they were uttered, but she had stung him to the quick. Her next words did so again.

"Then, if so, I hope you won't find it necessary to repeat the information. I mistook him for something very high--very high and n.o.ble; and, if you don't mind, I'd rather go on doing it."

She swept him with a look such as he knew she must be capable of giving, though he had never before seen it. The next second she had slipped between the portieres into the hail. He heard her pause there.

It was inevitable that Guion's words should return to him: "Half in love with him--as it is."

"That's rot," he a.s.sured himself. He had only to call up the image of Davenant's hulking figure and heavy ways to see what rot it was. He himself was not vain of his appearance; he had too much to his credit to be obliged to descend to that; but he knew he was a distinguished man, and that he looked it. The woman who could choose between him and Davenant would practically have no choice at all. That seemed to him conclusive.

Nevertheless, it was with a view to settling this question beyond resurrection that he followed her into the hall. He found her standing with the note-book still in her hand.

He came softly behind her and looked over her shoulder, his face close to hers. She could feel his breath on her cheek, but she tried to write.

"I'm sorry I said what I did," he whispered.

She stayed her pencil long enough to say: "I hope you're still sorrier for having thought it."

"I'm sorry you _know_ I think it. Since it affects you so deeply--"

"It affects me deeply to see you can be unjust."

"I'm more than unjust. I'm--well you can fancy what I am, when I say that I know some one who thinks you're more than half in love with this fellow--as it is."

"Is that papa?"

"I don't see that it matters who it is. The only thing of importance is whether you are or not."

"If you mean that as a question, I shall have to let you answer it yourself."