The Odds by Ethel May Dell (book series for 10 year olds TXT) 📕

was rich and low. He stood outside the half-open door to listen.
He did not know that he was visible to any one inside the room, but a man sitting near the door became suddenly aware of his presence and got up before the song was ended. Wentworth in the act of stepping back to let him pass stopped short abruptly. It was Percival Field.
They faced each other for a second or two in silence. Then Field's hand came quietly forth and grasped the other man's shoulder, turning him about.
"I should like a word with you," he said.
They descended the stairs together, Burleigh Wentworth leading the way.
Down in the vestibule they faced each other again. There was antagonism in the atmosphere though it was not visible upon either man's countenance, and each ignored it as it were instinctively.
"Hullo!" said Wentworth, and offered his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you here."
Field took the hand after a scarcely perceptible pause. His smile was openly cynical.
"Very kind of you," he said. "I am somewhat out of my element, I admit. We are celebrating our engagement."
He looked full at Wentworth as he said it with that direct, unflickering gaze of his.
Wentworth did not meet the look quite so fully, but he faced the situation without a sign of discomfiture.
"You are engaged to Lady Violet?" he said. "I saw the announcement. I congratulate you."
"Thanks," said Field.
"Rather sudden, isn't it?" said Wentworth, with a curious glance.
Field's smile still lingered.
"Oh, not really. We have kept it to ourselves, that's all. The wedding is fixed for the week after next--for the convenience of Lady Culverleigh, who wants to get out of town."
"By Jove! It is quick work!" said Wentworth.
There were beads of perspiration on his forehead, but the night was warm. He held himself erect as one defying Fate. So had he held himself throughout his trial; Field recognised the attitude.
The song upstairs had ended. They heard the buzz of appreciation that succeeded it. Field turned with the air of a man who had said his say.
"I don't believe in long engagements myself," he said. "They must be a weariness to the flesh."
He began to mount the stairs again, and Wentworth followed him in silence.
At the drawing-room door Field paused and they entered together. It was almost Wentworth's first appearance since his trial. There was a moment or two of dead silence as he sauntered forward with Field. Then, with a little laugh to cover an instant's embarrassment, Lady Culverleigh came forward. She shook hands with Wentworth and asked where he had been in retreat.
Violet came forward from the piano very pale but quite composed, and shook hands also. Several people present followed suit, and soon there was a little crowd gathered round him, and Burleigh Wentworth was again the popular centre of attraction.
Percival Field kept in the background; it was not his way to assert himself in society. But he remained until Wentworth and the last guest had departed. And then very quietly but with indisputable insistence he drew Lady Violet away into the conservatory.
She was looking white and tired, but she held herself with a proud aloofness in his presence. While admitting his claim upon her, she yet did not voluntarily yield him an inch.
"Did you wish to speak to me?" she asked.
He stood a moment or two in silence before replying; then:
"Only to give you this," he said, and held out to her a small packet wrapped in tissue paper on the palm of his hand.
She took it unwillingly.
"The badge of servitude?" she said.
"I should like to know if it fits," said Field quietly, as if she had not spoken.
She opened the packet and disclosed not the orthodox diamond ring she had expected, but a ring containing a single sapphire very deep in hue, exquisitely cut. She looked at him over it, her look a question.
"Will you put it on?" he said.
She hesitated an instant, then with a tightening of the lips she slipped it on to her left hand.
"Is it too easy?" he said.
She looked at him again.
"No; it is not easy at all."
He took her hand and looked at it. His touch was cool and strong. He slipped the ring up and down upon her finger, testing it. It was as if he waited for something.
She endured his action for a few seconds, then with a deliberate movement she took her hand away.
"Thank you very much," she said conventionally. "I wonder what made you think of a sapphire."
"You like sapphires?" he questioned.
"Of course," she returned. Her tone was resolutely indifferent, yet something in his look made her avert her eyes abruptly. She turned them upon the ring. "Why did you choose a sapphire?" she said.
If she expected some compliment in reply she was disappointed. He stood in silence.
Half-startled she glanced at him. In the same moment he held out his hand to her with a formal gesture of leave-taking.
"I will tell you another time," he said. "Good night!"
She gave him her hand, but he scarcely held it. The next instant, with a brief bow, he had turned and left her.


CHAPTER IV

Burleigh Wentworth looked around him with a frown of discontent.
He ought to have been in good spirits. Life on the moors suited him. The shooting was excellent, the hospitality beyond reproach. But yet he was not satisfied. People had wholly ceased to eye him askance. He had come himself to look back upon his trial as a mere escapade. It had been an unpleasant experience. He had been a fool to run such a risk. But it was over, and he had come out with flying colours, thanks to Percival Field's genius. A baffling, unapproachable sort of man--Field! The affair of his marriage was still a marvel to Wentworth. He had a strong suspicion that there was more in the conquest than met the eye, but he knew he would never find out from Field.
Violet was getting enigmatical too, but he couldn't stand that. He would put a stop to it. She might be a married woman, but she needn't imagine she was going to keep him at a distance.
She and her husband had joined the house-party of which he was a member the day before. It was the end of their honeymoon, and they were returning to town after their sojourn on the moors. He grimaced to himself at the thought. How would Violet like town in September? He had asked her that question the previous night, but she had not deigned to hear. Decidedly, Violet was becoming interesting. He would have to penetrate that reserve of hers.
He wondered why she was not carrying a gun. She had always been such an ardent sportswoman. He would ask her that also presently. In fact, he felt inclined to go back and ask her now. He was not greatly enjoying himself. It was growing late, and it had begun to drizzle.
His inclination became the more insistent, the more he thought of it. Yes, he would go. He was intimate enough with his host to do as he liked without explanation. And he and Violet had always been such pals. Besides, the thought of sitting with her in the firelight while her husband squelched about in the rain was one that appealed to him. He had no liking for Field, however deeply he might be in his debt. That latent antagonism between them was perpetually making itself felt. He hated the man for the very ability by which he himself had been saved. He hated his calm superiority. Above all, he hated him for marrying Violet. It seemed that he had only to stretch out his hand for whatever he wanted. Still, he hadn't got everything now, Wentworth said to himself, as he strode impatiently back over the moor. Possibly, as time went on, he might even come to realise that what he had was not worth very much.
He reached and entered the old grey house well ahead of any of the other sportsmen. He was determined to find Violet somehow, and he made instant enquiry for her of one of the servants.
The reply served in some measure to soothe his chafing mood. Her ladyship had gone up into the turret some little time back, and was believed to be on the roof.
Without delay he followed her. The air blew chill down the stone staircase as he mounted it. He would have preferred sitting downstairs with her over the fire. But at least interruptions were less probable in this quarter.
There was a battlemented walk at the top of the tower, and here he found her, with a wrap thrown over her head, gazing out through one of the deep embrasures over the misty country to a line of hills in the far distance. The view was magnificent, lighted here and there by sunshine striking through scudding cloud-drifts. And a splendid rainbow spanned it like a multi-coloured frame.
She did not hear him approaching. He wondered why, till he was so close that he could see her face, and then very swiftly she turned upon him and he saw that she was crying.
"My dear girl!" he exclaimed.
She drew back sharply. It was impossible to conceal her distress all in a moment. She moved aside, battling with herself.
He came close to her. "Violet!" he said.
"Don't!" she said, in a choked whisper.
He slipped an arm about her, gently overcoming her resistance. "I say--what's the matter? What's troubling you?"
He had never held her so before. Always till that moment she had maintained a delicate reserve in his presence, a barrier which he had never managed to overcome. He had even wondered sometimes if she were afraid of him. But now in her hour of weakness she suffered him, albeit under protest.
"Oh, go away!" she whispered. "Please--you must!"
But Wentworth had no thought of yielding his advantage. He pressed her to him.
"Violet, I say! You're miserable! I knew you were the first moment I saw you. And I can't stand it. You must let me help. Don't anyhow try to keep me outside!"
"You can't help," she murmured, with her face averted. "At least--only by going away."
But he held her still. "That's rot, you know. I'm not going. What is it? Tell me! Is he a brute to you?"
She made a more determined effort to disengage herself. "Whatever he is, I've got to put up with him. So it's no good talking about it."
"Oh, but look here!" protested Wentworth. "You and I are such old friends. I used to think you cared for me a little. Violet, I say, what induced you to marry that outsider?"
She was silent, not looking at him.
"You were always so proud," he went on. "I never thought in the old days that you would capitulate to a bounder like that. Why, you might have had that Bohemian prince if you'd wanted him."
"I didn't want him!" She spoke with sudden vehemence, as if stung into speech. "I'm not the sort of snob-woman who barters herself for a title!"
"No?" said Wentworth, looking at her curiously. "But what did you barter yourself for, I wonder?"
She flinched, and dropped back into silence.
"Won't you tell me?" he said.
"No." She spoke almost under her breath. He relinquished the matter with the air of a man who has gained his point. "Do you know," he said, in a different tone, "if it hadn't been for that fiendish trial, I'd have been in the same race with Field, and I believe I'd have made better running, too?"
"Ah!" she said.
It was almost a gasp of pain.