Chapter II: Part II: Rivals in Love

“Stand aside,” said Westwood, in a voice which he vainly strove to steady.

“Not yet,” was the savage answer; “you’ve got to listen!”

The two men faced each other in the calm starlight of the April evening. The Embankment was almost deserted save for the huddled, heedless outcasts on the benches. A few hansoms rattled westward; a few small vessels, with sails spread, moved ghostly and silent on the swirling river. Nature’s placidity was in strange contrast with the fiery passion that flamed in the eyes of Marcus White and found expression in his threatening gestures. Both men were pale; their facial muscles tense. But the pallor of the one was begotten of anger and hatred. With Westwood it was the outcome of nervous apprehension, if not of actual fear.

“This is folly,” he said, with a better effort at self-command. “So far as I am concerned you have nothing to complain of----”

“Nothing to complain of,” exclaimed White. “What! You steal the girl who was mine. Yes, mine,--until you sneaked in between us----”

“That is not true, White.”

“I say you stole her--she was beguiled away from me. I was poor, and likely to be poorer. You had your profession, your respectability, and your prospects. Curse you! You’re not fit to touch her hand. Nor am I. I know that well enough; but I love her, and always shall. She was everything to me--my strength, my hope--till you stepped in; and to-night I’d think no more of taking you by the throat and ending your mean life than I would of crushing a beetle or any other filthy thing beneath my heel.

“I’m sorry if you think----” began Westwood. Then he paused, half ashamed of his own propitiatory tone, but debating how he could appease the fury of his enemy and escape from a situation which had become so threatening.

“And not content with taking her from me,” the other went on, drawing a step nearer and speaking with increased intensity, “you stood up in Court to prosecute my father. You and the others have helped to send him into slavery for life. The prosecution was a lie, I say, and you lied as much as any of the witnesses. Not on oath; that wasn’t wanted. You saw your chances, and you laid hold of them. You got the advertisement you wanted. There was deviltry in your pretended moderation. But you know the tricks of your trade--your looks and gestures to the jury said what you dared not put in words. He was in the dock and you were at the bar, with all its privileges and all its honourable traditions! Faugh! You sickened me. Yours was the face I watched; not the judge’s; not the foreman’s when he stood up and gave the verdict----”

“Let me pass, man; you’re acting like a madman,” said the barrister.

“Ah! You’re afraid of me. Coward! coward! You daren’t deny it.”

Westwood glanced round. He had been kept late at his chambers in Paper Buildings, and near the corner of Temple Avenue had come suddenly upon this enemy whom, of all men, he least desired to meet. The stream of wheeled traffic came steadily across Blackfriars Bridge and branched off right and left, but on the footway of the Embankment still scarcely a creature was to be seen. Westwood spoke again.

“I only did my duty. The brief came to me because of the illness of another man, and I was bound to take it. You ought to understand that legal etiquette----”

“Legal etiquette!” exclaimed White scornfully, “etiquette that allows you lawyers to libel other men and twist and turn the truth to suit your case. Etiquette that justifies your taking fees you don’t earn, and neglecting cases when it suits you. For you and your brood there is no sort of penalty. You pose as good citizens. You talk yourselves into Parliament, and fawn on the Government when there are places to be given away. You sit on the Bench and draw a year’s salary for little more than half a year’s work, and send to penal servitude men in whose presence you ought to stand bare-headed.”

“I can’t stay here and listen to your raving,” said Westwood angrily.

“You’ve got the best of it at present. You’ve had us every way,” persisted White. “There’s nothing left for me in England. That suits your purpose, too. But, mark my words, Westwood, I haven’t done with you. Sooner or later the tables shall be turned. I swear by heaven they shall! Some day you’ll hear of me again!”

Ending, he spat on him. Then, with a contemptuous gesture, turned away. Westwood, with a movement of disgust and anger, took two steps as if to follow him; then hesitated, stopped.

Marcus White did not even condescend to turn his head, but, striding eastward, passed into the shadows of the London night.

END OF PROLOGUE