That moment during which Delisle had hesitated outside his wife's door had been one of violent crisis. He had been drinking heavily, yet for that instant the fumes were dispersed and his mind became clear, acutely, almost unnaturally alert. He had heard Rogers' voice and the succeeding silence, and the seething jealousy at his heart had turned from its old course and burst into a double channel.
He laughed to himself. Now he understood Rogers' solicitude for his dead friend and his dead friend's son. Behind his back, under cover of a seeming indifference, this outcast had made his way into Eileen's confidence and won her gratitude—perhaps more. With women pity and gratitude are stepping-stones to a higher feeling. Delisle knew that. By such means he almost won—and by the merest had chance lost.
Had he quite lost? The fit of sardonic amusement passed. He ground his teeth together, and, lamp in hand, dragged himself heavily up the broad stairs. An idea that had hidden in the dark places of his mind took definite shape. Rochefort and Rochefort's secret no longer represented something terrible and disastrous. Here was a way out—a way back. Fenton's invention a failure! Given every chance that money and skill could devise—given a fair and public trial—and yet a failure! With one blow his own past judgment would be justified, her conscience freed, and Rogers' championship made ludicrous.
And after that? Then would come the time for patience and persistent, unslacking effort. Perhaps chance, which had played into his hands to-night, would give him an opportunity to prove himself. His overheated brain conjured up a dozen fancies. He pictured his generous devotion to Fenton's son, his patient devotion to her, his absolute self-effacement until such time as she should turn to him of herself. He saw himself saving her child from deadly peril and the remorseful tears that she would weep over his shattered frame. There were tears in his own eyes. When the cause for his envious hatred was gone, he would be himself again. He would be once more Fenton's friend—and hers. The past could be atoned for—perhaps slowly, perhaps in an instant. And the way of atonement should be through the child he had hated.
Slowly, without definite plan, yet involuntarily following his new course, he made his way to the upper nursery where little Fenton slept. Here the steps were narrower. In his bitter jealousy he had seen to it that the child's rooms were situated in the most distant corner of the house. Now all that would be changed. He opened the door softly. A night light burned on the mantelshelf, and by its uncertain light the baby face shone out like some softly illuminated picture.
Delisle drew nearer. He held his lamp higher, driving back the shadows into the distant corners, and, as he did so, the boy stirred and moaned. The sound arrested him. It seemed to his troubled fancy that the wind outside had caught up that note of pain and shrieked it around the housetops. His raised hand shook. Something in that unconscious face filled him with a foreboding that rose swiftly to a definite fear. He tried to steady himself. In self-defense he bent over the cot and laid a burning hand on the folded baby hand.
Instantly the closed eyes opened, and in their transforming look of terror and distrust the man recognized another face. This was not Eileen's son—this was Fenton—Fenton, his friend, staring at him with blank horror; Fenton, grown grotesquely young—or his son grown grotesquely old.
Delisle staggered back, his temporary clearness of vision swamped in a delirious panic. Stumbling blindly, he made his way to the curtained doorway. A gust of wind from the open window blew the hangings into his face. It was as if a hand had touched. him. He cried out and half fell. There was a crash and a moment's absolute darkness—and then a lurid blaze of light, like some mad thing, raced over the floor, up along the walls to the low ceiling, playing with the wind that had risen to a fresh fury.
Delisle reeled back from the blood-red claws of fire that seemed to grasp at him. He was not conscious of any thought, but as a sudden draft forced a passage in the blaze, he broke through, flying like a madman down the narrow wooden stairs, shouting he knew not what. Thought came to him only as he reached the darkness of safety. He saw Eileen come toward him like a white spirit out of the gloom with Rogers behind her—Rogers grown suddenly tall and upright. He heard running footsteps—servants calling to one another—a peremptory word of command.
“Oscar, what is it? What has happened?”
“Fire!” he gasped back. “My lamp broke in the nursery”
“And the child?”