# Ainslee's Magazine/Winged Victory/Chapter 3

pp. 12–16.

### CHAPTER III.

It was very quiet in the great, pompous room when Fenton Villiers entered it. The electric lamp had been overturned and had gone out. Only the red reflections from the dying fire danced noiselessly backward and forward amid the shadows. Fenton stood still a moment, listening.
“Go back!” he said quietly to the woman who stood trembling at his side. “And tell Oscar to come up. Please do as I ask at once, Eileen.”
She obeyed without protest. After one glance at his stern face, a sudden weakness, as before something unknown, forced obedience from her. She crept away, and Fenton crossed to the prostrate figure lying in the glow of the firelight and knelt down beside it. Sir Richard was breathing quietly, like a man who has passed from stupor into a peaceful sleep. As Fenton raised him, his eyes opened and rested on his son-in-law's face blankly without recognition.
“Sir Richard, what happened? Are you better?”
There was no answer for a moment; only a low, quivering burst of laughter. Then the gray head lolled back against Fenton's shoulders.
“Mine—closed down—papers——”
The spasmodic grasp on the disordered bundle relaxed. The documents scattered on the hearthrug—a yellow-faced telegram uppermost—and by the light of the fire half a dozen words stood out with passionless distinctness. Sir Richard pointed with a shaking finger. “” “That—that's it—— He brought it me—— Everything—all Fenton—persuaded me—gone—— His invention——”
The hoarse voice died into silence. Involuntarily, Fenton looked up and saw Oscar standing upright and motionless in the shadow. For an instant the eyes of the two men met.
“Sir Richard has had some sort of shock,” Villiers said quietly. “I'll get him to his room. The doctor has already been sent for. Will you wait here, old man?”
“Very well.”
Between them they lifted the baronet to his feet. He seemed partly to have recovered, for he walked steadily enough, but he offered neither man any sign of recognition. Delisle accompanied him to the door, then came back to the fireside. For a full minute he stood motionless, staring sightlessly into the red glow, his hand instinctively raised to his mouth as if guarding its expression from an unseen observer. It was a minute of apparent hesitancy. Then he bent down and gathered up the papers at his feet. Each one was examined in turn with close deliberation and added to the neatly ordered pile. He did not see that the curtains dividing the library from an inner room had shifted, and it was only when the telegram was in his hands that he looked up with a start of consciousness,
Eileen!”
“IT had to come!” she breathed. “I have been so frightened—— Oscar, what has happened?”
She held out her hands toward him with an instinctive movement of appeal, but he did not move. He held himself stiffly erect, his arms rigid at his sides. Still she came on—a radiant, lovely figure, the more brilliant for the somber background of catastrophe, her face white as the lace about her shoulders, her eyes wide like those of a frightened child.
“Oscar!” she repeated. “Tell me—what has happened?”
He steadied himself with his clenched fist on the table.
“Your father fainted,” he said briefly. “He is better now.”
“What made him faint? I have never known him to faint. It must have been something serious.”
“That is not for me to say.”
“For whom, then?”
“For your husband.”
He eyed her fixedly, almost defiantly, as if for that moment at least she represented something antagonistic, something against which he was battling. But she did not look at him. She had seen the papers, and now she came and took them from him.
“What are these?” He made no answer, and suddenly she threw back her head, facing him with the passion of a thwarted child. “Oscar, aren't you my friend any more?”
“Heaven knows—I'm trying to be!”
“Then tell me what you know. Or must I find it out for myself?”
“No—I'll tell you. I didn't want to—it isn't my business. Surely it's for Fenton——”
“I can't ask Fenton. He's so stern—so reticent. I believe he thinks of nothing but the one thing. I'm only just a plaything to be pushed aside when it's inconvenient. But you—you're different. Don't leave me in suspense, Oscar.”
“It's money!” he said slowly. “I don't know the details, but it seems Sir Richard has been speculating—heavily. A mine in which he was interested has closed down. I suppose it means a good deal to him.”
“Father never bothered about money. He just left it in his bank. I don't understand. Some one must have persuaded him——”
“Yes.”
“Who was it?” Delisle did not answer. His face in the half light looked gray and drawn. “You know,” she said sharply.
“I know nothing.”
“You suspect——”
He drew himself up. He had made an instinctive movement with his hands as if to ward off her question, and he was breathing quickly, brokenly.
“If I suspected—I couldn't tell you——”
She stared at him with an intentness that lent her whole expression a new character.
“Then I know!” she said quietly. “It was Fenton! Fenton ruined us!”
“You can't know it——”
“But you know it!”
For an instant he was silent. Then irresolution seemed to pass, leaving him with a white-lipped determination.
“I tell you I know very little. What makes you think such a thing?”
“I know Fenton. He is my husband. I know how ambitious and ruthless he can be. There were money troubles—he wouldn't tell me about them, but now I understand. It's the wretched aëroplane—everything has been sacrificed for that.” There were tears in her eyes and in her voice. She turned away, fighting for self-control. “And I have been sacrificed with the rest!” she finished bitterly.
“Eileen!” he said under his breath. Then with what seemed a last effort: “We mustn't judge,” he said jerkily. “We don't know anything yet. He may have done it for the best. Just because we know—and love Fenton, we must wait and hear his side. And even then—we've got to stand by him—loyally.” He groped forward like a blind man, and, taking her hand, crushed it roughly between his own. “I'm going, Eileen. I'm no good here. Fenton doesn't owe me an explanation.”
“And I shall not ask him for one!” she interrupted coldly.
“Trust him, then! You've been drifting apart—you two. You've got to come together again. When we're away—out of all this—you'll understand each other——”
“There'll be no going now!” she exclaimed, with a quaver in her voice.
“There must be!” And suddenly he lifted her hand and kissed it. “Leave it to me, Eileen—trust me, at least.”
“I do trust you, Oscar. Are you going?”
“I think it better.”
He did not say good night to her or even look at her again. He turned sharply on his heel, and a minute later the door closed. For a moment she stood gazing after him; then, with a low, smothered sob, she sank down by the table, her face buried in her hands.
It was thus that Fenton found her ten minutes later. He crossed quietly to her side and laid his hand on her shoulder.
“The doctor has just been,” he said in his matter-of-fact way. “There's no immediate danger—indeed, no danger at all as far as life is concerned. But your father has had a bad shock, Eileen, and it may be some time before his mind recovers its balance.” She shrank from him, but he did not seem to notice the movement. He began to gather the papers together with a steady hand. “I suppose you have some idea as to what has happened?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said tonelessly.
“Your father made an unfortunate investment,” he went on. “I'm afraid that he is heavily involved. It's too late to-night to go into things, Eileen, and I don't want to worry you more than is necessary, but you'll see for yourself that's going to make a great difference to us. We're up to our neck in debt, dear, and if the aëroplane doesn't come off, I shall just have to throw up my career and start—something that pays.”
She heard the jar in his voice, but she did not interpret it or try to. She was thinking of all the things that were lost—the pleasures, the dresses, her position as Sir Richard Sinclair's daughter and the wife of a “coming man.” And now—nothing!
“It's awful!” she said under her breath. “Awful!”
He nodded.
“It's pretty bad. But there's no use in whining. I shall have to make the best of it. I—I might get something out in the colonies—if the aëroplane fails.”
“If!” she echoed with a little quivering gust of laughter. “If!”
He was silent. He had turned and was looking at her intently. His own expression had changed—had softened. He had hitherto spoken to her as a comrade; she was now first and foremost the being he must protect at all costs.
“Everything isn't lost,” he said. “We have youth—and each other. I've just been thinking—what has happened may be, after all, a lesson, a sort of blessing. We've been very happy together, Eileen. We've danced through life together as we've danced together in the ballroom—always in step. But it's been a sort of masquerade, hasn't it? We've neither of us shown ourselves as we really are—we've never got below the surface to the real man and woman—or perhaps the real love. I have the feeling that now we shall.” He came to her and lifted her gently to her feet, holding her a little from him as if to read her face. She made no resistance, but her eyes were cast down. “It's been a sort of revelation to me,” he went on in a strangely softened voice. “I didn't know how little all this mattered—how much you were to me. I'm almost glad!” Still she did not speak. He bent down and kissed her hands. “Eileen!” he said huskily.
In the moment that followed, her persistent silence weighed heavily. He drew himself up and looked at her. He saw then that though her hands still rested in his, she was not looking at him or thinking of him. Her eyes traveled around the great room, lingering for a moment on every detail, and a tear splashed down the white cheek.
“Eileen!” he repeated dully.
“All gone!” she said with a smothered sob. “All gone—everything—and I loved it all so!”
He drew back, relinquishing her hands. His shoulders drooped as if he had been overcome by a sudden apathy.
“I didn't know it was everything!” he said as he turned away. “But I understand now—and, as you say, it's all gone!”