For a full minute after John Rogers had left them, husband and wife confronted each other in silence. Very slowly Delisle had replaced the empty tumbler on the table. He did not seek to replenish it, and the red flush died from his sunken cheeks, leaving him white and curiously old looking.
“I don't think I heard aright,” he said. “You care—with all your heart. Is that true, Eileen?”
She nodded.
“I care—now.”
“Eileen—if that were true—it isn't too late. I've been a mad fool. But I'd turn back—I'd make good. If you'd only understand I'd sell my soul for you.”
She shrank from the flickering passion in his eyes.
“It's you who don't understand, Oscar. When I first realized what you and I had done—how we had failed Fenton—I thought there was no atonement possible. Now I see some light in it all. He wanted his idea put into the service of his country. That will be done.”
He began to laugh, a high, wavering laugh of cynical anger.
“So you were thinking of Fenton? It's always Fenton, isn't it? Fenton, whom you almost hated—Fenton, who cheated your' father of wealth—and you of happiness. And now you love him! You've forgiven the dead—you wouldn't forgive the living. What have I done compared to Fenton?”
“You were his friend,” she interrupted. “Remember that—and that he died bravely.”
Again the unsteady, jarring laugh from his lips.
“That's what you think. Well, I could tell a tale I won't, though. Oh, no, I'll leave you your illusions. Cherish them by all means—but I'm going my own way. The monoplane's mine. I'm going to keep it. He shan't take everything from me—curse him!”
He refilled his glass unsteadily, and suddenly she came and laid her hand on his arm, her face lifted to his in eager pleading.
“Oscar—don't! For his sake and mine—don't! You were his friend; you were mine. Turn back now! Do what is honorable and just, and let us start again. Surely it's not too late.”
“No, it's not too late. Forget him!”
“I can't. I have tried. But the barrier is there—and it's strange—but the thought of him is with me always. It's as if he were present—as if any moment I might see him and hear his voice. Oscar, sometimes I think it is remorse in both of us. If we tried to atone—perhaps then there would be a chance of happiness. Give Fenton's name the glory of the work—give it to our son!”
“Forget him!” he repeated doggedly.
Her hand dropped to her side.
“I can't.”
“Then there's nothing more to be said.” He drained his glass to the dregs. “I shall go my way. Why should I consider a man who stands between my wife and me? Yes, I can read in your eyes what you are thinking. My way leads to the devil, I dare say. But who cares for that? I've played to win you—and if I've lost—well, I'll take what's left—fame and wealth—and anything else. It'll help me to forget.”
He lurched heavily toward the door, and then paused an instant and looked back at her. Behind the somber, morose passion that dulled his eyes there glowed a momentary hope, but she did not move, and he went out, closing the door roughly behind him.
It was already dusk as he crossed over to the shed. A storm was blowing up from the east, and against the darkness the lights from the high, irregularly built windows flashed with an ominous brightness. But the clang of the hammers had long since hushed to silence and, as Delisle entered, no one greeted him. He stood for an instant on the threshold, arrested even in the midst of his inflamed musings by the scene before him. The great monoplane lay under a single electric globe like some immense bird waiting the signal for flight, the wings spread, the strangely graceful head raised as if in tense expectation. But as yet the space for the engine was empty. John Rogers stood by the double seat, his hand resting on the wires, his head bent. He did not move as Delisle entered; only when the latter broke the silence with a curt laugh did he start and look up.
“Dreaming?”
“Perhaps—a little.”
“I didn't know men like you had dreams. Might one ask their subject?”
“I was thinking of the man who made this thing.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
The silence grew intense. Delisle steadied himself, his hand on one of the great levers.
“You'd better say what you mean, Rogers,” he said thickly.
“I was thinking that the man who invented this would be very proud to-night, and I was wondering if it is not possible that, unseen of us, he is standing here looking at his work and thanking God that, after all, it has been done.”
“Are you mad, Rogers? Of whom are you talking?”
“Of Fenton Villiers.”