Chapter 14

AT ARM'S LENGTH.

For three or four weeks Walter Tyrrel remained in town, awaiting the
result of the Wharfedale Viaduct competition. With some difficulty he
raised and paid over meanwhile to Erasmus Walker the ten thousand
pounds of blackmail--for it was little else--agreed upon between them.
The great engineer accepted the money with as little compunction as
men who earn large incomes always display in taking payment for doing
nothing. It is an enviable state of mind, unattainable by most of us
who work hard for our living. He pocketed his check with a smile, as
if it were quite in the nature of things that ten thousand pounds
should drop upon him from the clouds without rhyme or reason. To
Tyrrel, on the other hand, with his sensitive conscience, the man's
greed and callousness seemed simply incomprehensible. He stood aghast
at such sharp practice. But for Cleer's sake, and to ease his own
soul, he paid it all over without a single murmur.

And then the question came up in his mind, "Would it be effectual
after all? Would Walker play him false? Would he throw the weight of
his influence into somebody else's scale? Would the directors submit
as tamely as he thought to his direction or dictation?" It would be
hard on Tyrrel if, after his spending ten thousand pounds without
security of any sort, Eustace were to miss the chance, and Cleer to go
unmarried.

At the end of a month, however, as Tyrrel sat one morning in his own
room at the Metropole, which he mostly frequented, Eustace Le Neve
rushed in, full of intense excitement. Tyrrel's heart rose in his
mouth. He grew pale with agitation. The question had been decided one
way or the other he saw.

"Well; which is it?" he gasped out. "Hit or miss? Have you got it?"

"Yes; I've got it!" Eustace answered, half beside himself with
delight. "I've got it! I've got it! The chairman and Walker have just
been round to call on me, and congratulate me on my success. Walker
says my fortune's made. It's a magnificent design. And in any case
it'll mean work for me for the next four years; after which I'll not
want for occupation elsewhere. So now, of course, I can marry almost
immediately."

"Thank God!" Tyrrel murmured, falling back into his chair as he spoke,
and turning deadly white.

He was glad of it, oh, so glad; and yet, in his own heart, it would
cost him many pangs to see Cleer really married in good earnest to
Eustace.

He had worked for it with all his might to be sure; he had worked for
it and paid for it! and now he saw his wishes on the very eve of
fulfillment, the natural man within him rose up in revolt against the
complete success of his own