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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/17144-8.txt b/17144-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8ee1bce --- /dev/null +++ b/17144-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3940 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The House of the Vampire, by George Sylvester +Viereck + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The House of the Vampire + + +Author: George Sylvester Viereck + + + +Release Date: November 23, 2005 [eBook #17144] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE VAMPIRE*** + + +E-text prepared by Suzanne Lybarger, Janet Blenkinship, Brian Janes, and +the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team +(https://www.pgdp.net/) + + + +THE HOUSE OF THE VAMPIRE + +by + + +GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK + +Author of +Nineveh and Other Poems + + + + + + + +New York +Moffat, Yard & Company +1912 +Copyright, 1907, by +Moffat, Yard & Company +New York +Published September, 1907 +Reprinted October, 1907 +The Premier Press +New York + + + + +_To My Mother_ + + + + +THE HOUSE + +OF THE + +VAMPIRE + + + + +I + + +The freakish little leader of the orchestra, newly imported from Sicily +to New York, tossed his conductor's wand excitedly through the air, +drowning with musical thunders the hum of conversation and the clatter +of plates. + +Yet neither his apish demeanour nor the deafening noises that responded +to every movement of his agile body detracted attention from the figure +of Reginald Clarke and the young man at his side as they smilingly wound +their way to the exit. + +The boy's expression was pleasant, with an inkling of wistfulness, while +the soft glimmer of his lucid eyes betrayed the poet and the dreamer. +The smile of Reginald Clarke was the smile of a conqueror. A suspicion +of silver in his crown of dark hair only added dignity to his bearing, +while the infinitely ramified lines above the heavy-set mouth spoke at +once of subtlety and of strength. Without stretch of the imagination one +might have likened him to a Roman cardinal of the days of the Borgias, +who had miraculously stepped forth from the time-stained canvas and +slipped into twentieth century evening-clothes. + +With the affability of complete self-possession he nodded in response to +greetings from all sides, inclining his head with special politeness to +a young woman whose sea-blue eyes were riveted upon his features with a +look of mingled hate and admiration. + +The woman, disregarding his silent salutation, continued to stare at him +wild-eyed, as a damned soul in purgatory might look at Satan passing in +regal splendour through the seventy times sevenfold circles of hell. + +Reginald Clarke walked on unconcernedly through the rows of gay diners, +still smiling, affable, calm. But his companion bethought himself of +certain rumours he had heard concerning Ethel Brandenbourg's mad love +for the man from whose features she could not even now turn her eyes. +Evidently her passion was unreciprocated. It had not always been so. +There was a time in her career, some years ago in Paris, when it was +whispered that she had secretly married him and, not much later, +obtained a divorce. The matter was never cleared up, as both preserved +an uncompromising silence upon the subject of their matrimonial +experience. Certain it was that, for a space, the genius of Reginald +Clarke had completely dominated her brush, and that, ever since he had +thrown her aside, her pictures were but plagiarisms of her former +artistic self. + +The cause of the rupture between them was a matter only of surmise; but +the effect it had on the woman testified clearly to the remarkable power +of Reginald Clarke. He had entered her life and, behold! the world was +transfixed on her canvases in myriad hues of transcending radiance; he +had passed from it, and with him vanished the brilliancy of her +colouring, as at sunset the borrowed amber and gold fade from the face +of the clouds. + +The glamour of Clarke's name may have partly explained the secret of his +charm, but, even in circles where literary fame is no passport, he +could, if he chose, exercise an almost terrible fascination. Subtle and +profound, he had ransacked the coffers of mediæval dialecticians and +plundered the arsenals of the Sophists. Many years later, when the +vultures of misfortune had swooped down upon him, and his name was no +longer mentioned without a sneer, he was still remembered in New York +drawing-rooms as the man who had brought to perfection the art of +talking. Even to dine with him was a liberal education. + +Clarke's marvellous conversational power was equalled only by his +marvellous style. Ernest Fielding's heart leaped in him at the thought +that henceforth he would be privileged to live under one roof with the +only writer of his generation who could lend to the English language the +rich strength and rugged music of the Elizabethans. + +Reginald Clarke was a master of many instruments. Milton's mighty organ +was no less obedient to his touch than the little lute of the +troubadour. He was never the same; that was his strength. Clarke's +style possessed at once the chiselled chasteness of a Greek marble +column and the elaborate deviltry of the late Renaissance. At times his +winged words seemed to flutter down the page frantically like Baroque +angels; at other times nothing could have more adequately described his +manner than the timeless calm of the gaunt pyramids. + +The two men had reached the street. Reginald wrapped his long spring +coat round him. + +"I shall expect you to-morrow at four," he said. + +The tone of his voice was deep and melodious, suggesting hidden depths +and cadences. + +"I shall be punctual." + +The younger man's voice trembled as he spoke. + +"I look forward to your coming with much pleasure. I am interested in +you." + +The glad blood mounted to Ernest's cheeks at praise from the austere +lips of this arbiter of literary elegance. + +An almost imperceptible smile crept over the other man's features. + +"I am proud that my work interests you," was all the boy could say. + +"I think it is quite amazing, but at present," here Clarke drew out a +watch set with jewels, "I am afraid I must bid you good-bye." + +He held Ernest's hand for a moment in a firm genial grasp, then turned +away briskly, while the boy remained standing open-mouthed. The crowd +jostling against him carried him almost off his feet, but his eyes +followed far into the night the masterful figure of Reginald Clarke, +toward whom he felt himself drawn with every fiber of his body and the +warm enthusiasm of his generous youth. + + + + +II + + +With elastic step, inhaling the night-air with voluptuous delight, +Reginald Clarke made his way down Broadway, lying stretched out before +him, bathed in light and pulsating with life. + +His world-embracing intellect was powerfully attracted by the Giant +City's motley activities. On the street, as in the salon, his magnetic +power compelled recognition, and he stepped through the midst of the +crowd as a Circassian blade cleaves water. + +After walking a block or two, he suddenly halted before a jeweller's +shop. Arrayed in the window were priceless gems that shone in the glare +of electricity, like mystical serpent-eyes--green, pomegranate and +water-blue. And as he stood there the dazzling radiance before him was +transformed in the prism of his mind into something great and very +wonderful that might, some day, be a poem. + +Then his attention was diverted by a small group of tiny girls dancing +on the sidewalk to the husky strains of an old hurdy-gurdy. He joined +the circle of amused spectators, to watch those pink-ribboned bits of +femininity swaying airily to and fro in unison with the tune. One +especially attracted his notice--a slim olive-coloured girl from a land +where it is always spring. Her whole being translated into music, with +hair dishevelled and feet hardly touching the ground, the girl suggested +an orange-leaf dancing on a sunbeam. The rasping street-organ, +perchance, brought to her melodious reminiscences of some flute-playing +Savoyard boy, brown-limbed and dark of hair. + +For several minutes Reginald Clarke followed with keen delight each +delicate curve her graceful limbs described. Then--was it that she grew +tired, or that the stranger's persistent scrutiny embarrassed her?--the +music oozed out of her movements. They grew slower, angular, almost +clumsy. The look of interest in Clarke's eyes died, but his whole form +quivered, as if the rhythm of the music and the dance had mysteriously +entered into his blood. + +He continued his stroll, seemingly without aim; in reality he followed, +with nervous intensity, the multiform undulations of the populace, +swarming through Broadway in either direction. Like the giant whose +strength was rekindled every time he touched his mother, the earth, +Reginald Clarke seemed to draw fresh vitality from every contact with +life. + +He turned east along Fourteenth street, where cheap vaudevilles are +strung together as glass-pearls on the throat of a wanton. Gaudy +bill-boards, drenched in clamorous red, proclaimed the tawdry +attractions within. Much to the surprise of the doorkeeper at a +particularly evil-looking music hall, Reginald Clarke lingered in the +lobby, and finally even bought a ticket that entitled him to enter this +sordid wilderness of décolleté art. Street-snipes, a few workingmen, +dilapidated sportsmen, and women whose ruined youth thick layers of +powder and paint, even in this artificial light, could not restore, +constituted the bulk of the audience. Reginald Clarke, apparently +unconscious of the curiosity, surprise and envy that his appearance +excited, seated himself at a table near the stage, ordering from the +solicitous waiter only a cocktail and a programme. The drink he left +untouched, while his eyes greedily ran down the lines of the +announcement. When he had found what he sought, he lit a cigar, paying +no attention to the boards, but studying the audience with cursory +interest until the appearance of Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl. + +When she began to sing, his mind still wandered. The words of her song +were crude, but not without a certain lilt that delighted the uncultured +ear, while the girl's voice was thin to the point of being unpleasant. +When, however, she came to the burden of the song, Clarke's manner +changed suddenly. Laying down his cigar, he listened with rapt +attention, eagerly gazing at her. For, as she sang the last line and +tore the hyacinth-blossoms from her hair, there crept into her voice a +strangely poignant, pathetic little thrill, that redeemed the execrable +faultiness of her singing, and brought the rude audience under her +spell. + +Clarke, too, was captivated by that tremour, the infinite sadness of +which suggested the plaint of souls moaning low at night, when lust +preys on creatures marked for its spoil. + +The singer paused. Still those luminous eyes were upon her. She grew +nervous. It was only with tremendous difficulty that she reached the +refrain. As she sang the opening lines of the last stanza, an +inscrutable smile curled on Clarke's lips. She noticed the man's +relentless gaze and faltered. When the burden came, her singing was hard +and cracked: the tremour had gone from her voice. + + + + +III + + +Long before the appointed time Ernest walked up and down in front of the +abode of Reginald Clarke, a stately apartment-house overlooking +Riverside Drive. + +Misshapen automobiles were chasing by, carrying to the cool river's +marge the restlessness and the fever of American life. But the bustle +and the noise seemed to the boy only auspicious omens of the future. + +Jack, his room-mate and dearest friend, had left him a month ago, and, +for a space, he had felt very lonely. His young and delicate soul found +it difficult to grapple with the vague fears that his nervous brain +engendered, when whispered sounds seemed to float from hidden corners, +and the stairs creaked under mysterious feet. + +He needed the voice of loving kindness to call him back from the valley +of haunting shadows, where his poet's soul was wont to linger overlong; +in his hours of weakness the light caress of a comrade renewed his +strength and rekindled in his hand the flaming sword of song. + +And at nightfall he would bring the day's harvest to Clarke, as a +worshipper scattering precious stones, incense and tapestries at the +feet of a god. + +Surely he would be very happy. And as the heart, at times, leads the +feet to the goal of its desire, while multicoloured dreams, like +dancing-girls, lull the will to sleep, he suddenly found himself +stepping from the elevator-car to Reginald Clarke's apartment. + +Already was he raising his hand to strike the electric bell when a sound +from within made him pause half-way. + +"No, there's no help!" he heard Clarke say. His voice had a hard, +metallic clangour. + +A boyish voice answered plaintively. What the words were Ernest could +not distinctly hear, but the suppressed sob in them almost brought the +tears to his eyes. He instinctively knew that this was the finale of +some tragedy. + +He withdrew hastily, so as not to be a witness of an interview that was +not meant for his ears. + +Reginald Clarke probably had good reason for parting with his young +friend, whom Ernest surmised to be Abel Felton, a talented boy, whom the +master had taken under his wings. + +In the apartment a momentary silence had ensued. + +This was interrupted by Clarke: "It will come again, in a month, in a +year, in two years." + +"No, no! It is all gone!" sobbed the boy. + +"Nonsense. You are merely nervous. But that is just why we must part. +There is no room in one house for two nervous people." + +"I was not such a nervous wreck before I met you." + +"Am I to blame for it--for your morbid fancies, your extravagance, the +slow tread of a nervous disease, perhaps?" + +"Who can tell? But I am all confused. I don't know what I am saying. +Everything is so puzzling--life, friendship, you. I fancied you cared +for my career, and now you end our friendship without a thought!" + +"We must all follow the law of our being." + +"The laws are within us and in our control." + +"They are within us and beyond us. It is the physiological structure of +our brains, our nerve-cells, that makes and mars our lives. + +"Our mental companionship was so beautiful. It was meant to last." + +"That is the dream of youth. Nothing lasts. Everything flows--panta rei. +We are all but sojourners in an inn. Friendship, as love, is an +illusion. Life has nothing to take from a man who has no illusions." + +"It has nothing to give him." + +They said good-bye. + +At the door Ernest met Abel. + +"Where are you going?" he asked. + +"For a little pleasure trip." + +Ernest knew that the boy lied. + +He remembered that Abel Felton was at work upon some book, a play or a +novel. It occurred to him to inquire how far he had progressed with it. + +Abel smiled sadly. "I am not writing it." + +"Not writing it?" + +"Reginald is." + +"I am afraid I don't understand." + +"Never mind. Some day you will." + + + + +IV + + +"I am so happy you came," Reginald Clarke said, as he conducted Ernest +into his studio. It was a large, luxuriously furnished room overlooking +the Hudson and Riverside Drive. + +Dazzled and bewildered, the boy's eyes wandered from object to object, +from picture to statue. Despite seemingly incongruous details, the whole +arrangement possessed style and distinction. + +A satyr on the mantelpiece whispered obscene secrets into the ears of +Saint Cecilia. The argent limbs of Antinous brushed against the garments +of Mona Lisa. And from a corner a little rococo lady peered coquettishly +at the gray image of an Egyptian sphinx. There was a picture of Napoleon +facing the image of the Crucified. Above all, in the semi-darkness, +artificially produced by heavy draperies, towered two busts. + +"Shakespeare and Balzac!" Ernest exclaimed with some surprise. + +"Yes," explained Reginald, "they are my gods." + +His gods! Surely there was a key to Clarke's character. Our gods are +ourselves raised to the highest power. + +Clarke and Shakespeare! + +Even to Ernest's admiring mind it seemed almost blasphemous to name a +contemporary, however esteemed, in one breath with the mighty master of +song, whose great gaunt shadow, thrown against the background of the +years has assumed immense, unproportionate, monstrous dimensions. + +Yet something might be said for the comparison. Clarke undoubtedly was +universally broad, and undoubtedly concealed, with no less exquisite +taste than the Elizabethan, his own personality under the splendid +raiment of his art. They certainly were affinities. It would not have +been surprising to him to see the clear calm head of Shakespeare rise +from behind his host. + +Perhaps--who knows?--the very presence of the bust in his room had, to +some extent, subtly and secretly moulded Reginald Clarke's life. A man's +soul, like the chameleon, takes colour from its environment. Even +comparative trifles, the number of the house in which we live, or the +colour of the wallpaper of a room, may determine a destiny. + +The boy's eyes were again surveying the fantastic surroundings in which +he found himself; while, from a corner, Clarke's eyes were watching his +every movement, as if to follow his thoughts into the innermost +labyrinth of the mind. It seemed to Ernest, under the spell of this +passing fancy, as though each vase, each picture, each curio in the +room, was reflected in Clarke's work. In a long-queued, porcelain +Chinese mandarin he distinctly recognised a quaint quatrain in one of +Clarke's most marvellous poems. And he could have sworn that the grin of +the Hindu monkey-god on the writing-table reappeared in the weird rhythm +of two stanzas whose grotesque cadence had haunted him for years. + +At last Clarke broke the silence. "You like my studio?" he asked. + +The simple question brought Ernest back to reality. + +"Like it? Why, it's stunning. It set up in me the queerest train of +thought." + +"I, too, have been in a whimsical mood to-night. Fancy, unlike genius, +is an infectious disease." + +"What is the peculiar form it assumed in your case?" + +"I have been wondering whether all the things that environ us day by day +are, in a measure, fashioning our thought-life. I sometimes think that +even my little mandarin and this monkey-idol which, by the way, I +brought from India, are exerting a mysterious but none the less real +influence upon my work." + +"Great God!" Ernest replied, "I have had the identical thought!" + +"How very strange!" Clarke exclaimed, with seeming surprise. + +"It is said tritely but truly, that great minds travel the same roads," +Ernest observed, inwardly pleased. + +"No," the older man subtly remarked, "but they reach the same +conclusion by a different route." + +"And you attach serious importance to our fancy?" + +"Why not?" + +Clarke was gazing abstractedly at the bust of Balzac. + +"A man's genius is commensurate with his ability of absorbing from life +the elements essential to his artistic completion. Balzac possessed this +power in a remarkable degree. But, strange to say, it was evil that +attracted him most. He absorbed it as a sponge absorbs water; perhaps +because there was so little of it in his own make-up. He must have +purified the atmosphere around him for miles, by bringing all the evil +that was floating in the air or slumbering in men's souls to the point +of his pen. + +"And he"--his eyes were resting on Shakespeare's features as a man might +look upon the face of a brother--"he, too, was such a nature. In fact, +he was the most perfect type of the artist. Nothing escaped his mind. +From life and from books he drew his material, each time reshaping it +with a master-hand. Creation is a divine prerogative. Re-creation, +infinitely more wonderful than mere calling into existence, is the +prerogative of the poet. Shakespeare took his colours from many +palettes. That is why he is so great, and why his work is incredibly +greater than he. It alone explains his unique achievement. Who was he? +What education did he have, what opportunities? None. And yet we find in +his work the wisdom of Bacon, Sir Walter Raleigh's fancies and +discoveries, Marlowe's verbal thunders and the mysterious loveliness of +Mr. W.H." + +Ernest listened, entranced by the sound of Clarke's mellifluous voice. +He was, indeed, a master of the spoken word, and possessed a miraculous +power of giving to the wildest fancies an air of vraisemblance. + + + + +V + + +"Yes," said Walkham, the sculptor, "it's a most curious thing." + +"What is?" asked Ernest, who had been dreaming over the Sphinx that was +looking at him from its corner with the sarcastic smile of five thousand +years. + +"How our dreams of yesterday stare at us like strangers to-day." + +"On the contrary," remarked Reginald, "it would be strange if they were +still to know us. In fact, it would be unnatural. The skies above us and +the earth underfoot are in perpetual motion. Each atom of our physical +nature is vibrating with unimaginable rapidity. Change is identical with +life." + +"It sometimes seems," said the sculptor, "as if thoughts evaporated like +water." + +"Why not, under favorable conditions?" + +"But where do they go? Surely they cannot perish utterly?" + +"Yes, that is the question. Or, rather, it is not a question. Nothing +is ever lost in the spiritual universe." + +"But what," inquired Ernest, "is the particular reason for your +reflection?" + +"It is this," the sculptor replied; "I had a striking motive and lost +it." + +"Do you remember," he continued, speaking to Reginald, "the Narcissus I +was working on the last time when you called at my studio?" + +"Yes; it was a striking thing and impressed me very much, though I +cannot recall it at the moment." + +"Well, it was a commission. An eccentric young millionaire had offered +me eight thousand dollars for it. I had an absolutely original +conception. But I cannot execute it. It's as if a breeze had carried it +away." + +"That is very regrettable." + +"Well, I should say so," replied the sculptor. + +Ernest smiled. For everybody knew of Walkham's domestic troubles. Having +twice figured in the divorce court, he was at present defraying the +expenses of three households. + +The sculptor had meanwhile seated himself at Reginald's writing-table, +unintentionally scanning a typewritten page that was lying before him. +Like all artists, something of a madman and something of a child, he at +first glanced over its contents distractedly, then with an interest so +intense that he was no longer aware of the impropriety of his action. + +"By Jove!" he cried. "What is this?" + +"It's an epic of the French Revolution," Reginald replied, not without +surprise. + +"But, man, do you know that I have discovered my motive in it?" + +"What do you mean?" asked Ernest, looking first at Reginald and then at +Walkham, whose sanity he began to doubt. + +"Listen!" + +And the sculptor read, trembling with emotion, a long passage whose +measured cadence delighted Ernest's ear, without, however, enlightening +his mind as to the purport of Walkham's cryptic remark. + +Reginald said nothing, but the gleam in his eye showed that this time, +at least, his interest was alert. + +Walkham saw the hopelessness of making clear his meaning without an +explanation. + +"I forget you haven't a sculptor's mind. I am so constituted that, with +me, all impressions are immediately translated into the sense of form. I +do not hear music; I see it rise with domes and spires, with painted +windows and Arabesques. The scent of the rose is to me tangible. I can +almost feel it with my hand. So your prose suggested to me, by its +rhythmic flow, something which, at first indefinite, crystallised +finally into my lost conception of Narcissus." + +"It is extraordinary," murmured Reginald. "I had not dreamed of it." + +"So you do not think it rather fantastic?" remarked Ernest, +circumscribing his true meaning. + +"No, it is quite possible. Perhaps his Narcissus was engaging the +sub-conscious strata of my mind while I was writing this passage. And +surely it would be strange if the undercurrents of our mind were not +reflected in our style." + +"Do you mean, then, that a subtle psychologist ought to be able to read +beneath and between our lines, not only what we express, but also what +we leave unexpressed?" + +"Undoubtedly." + +"Even if, while we are writing, we are unconscious of our state of mind? +That would open a new field to psychology." + +"Only to those that have the key, that can read the hidden symbols. It +is to me a matter-of-course that every mind-movement below or above the +threshold of consciousness must, of a necessity, leave its imprint +faintly or clearly, as the case may be, upon our activities." + +"This may explain why books that seem intolerably dull to the majority, +delight the hearts of the few," Ernest interjected. + +"Yes, to the few that possess the key. I distinctly remember how an +uncle of mine once laid down a discussion on higher mathematics and +blushed fearfully when his innocent wife looked over his shoulder. The +man who had written it was a roué." + +"Then the seemingly most harmless books may secretly possess the power +of scattering in young minds the seed of corruption," Walkham remarked. + +"If they happen to understand," Clarke observed thoughtfully. "I can +very well conceive of a lecherous text-book of the calculus, or of a +reporter's story of a picnic in which burnt, under the surface, +undiscoverable, save to the initiate, the tragic passion of Tristram and +Iseult." + + + + +VI + + +Several weeks had elapsed since the conversation in Reginald Clarke's +studio. The spring was now well advanced and had sprinkled the meadows +with flowers, and the bookshelves of the reviewers with fiction. The +latter Ernest turned to good account, but from the flowers no poem +blossomed forth. In writing about other men's books, he almost forgot +that the springtide had brought to him no bouquet of song. Only now and +then, like a rippling of water, disquietude troubled his soul. + +The strange personality of the master of the house had enveloped the +lad's thoughts with an impenetrable maze. The day before Jack had come +on a flying visit from Harvard, but even he was unable to free Ernest's +soul from the obsession of Reginald Clarke. + +Ernest was lazily stretching himself on a couch, waving the smoke of +his cigarette to Reginald, who was writing at his desk. + +"Your friend Jack is delightful," Reginald remarked, looking up from his +papers. "And his ebon-coloured hair contrasts prettily with the gold in +yours. I should imagine that you are temperamental antipodes." + +"So we are; but friendship bridges the chasm between." + +"How long have you known him?" + +"We have been chums ever since our sophomore year." + +"What attracted you in him?" + +"It is no simple matter to define exactly one's likes and dislikes. Even +a tiny protoplasmic animal appears to be highly complex under the +microscope. How can we hope to analyse, with any degree of certitude, +our souls, especially when, under the influence of feeling, we see as +through a glass darkly." + +"It is true that personal feeling colours our spectacles and distorts +the perspective. Still, we should not shrink from self-analysis. We must +learn to see clearly into our own hearts if we would give vitality to +our work. Indiscretion is the better part of literature, and it +behooves us to hound down each delicate elusive shadow of emotion, and +convert it into copy." + +"It is because I am so self-analytical that I realise the complexity of +my nature, and am at a loss to define my emotions. Conflicting forces +sway us hither and thither without neutralising each other. Physicology +isn't physics. There were many things to attract me to Jack. He was +subtler, more sympathetic, more feminine, perhaps, than the rest of my +college-mates." + +"That I have noticed. In fact, his lashes are those of a girl. You still +care for him very much?" + +"It isn't a matter of caring. We are two beings that live one life." + +"A sort of psychic Siamese twins?" + +"Almost. Why, the matter is very simple. Our hearts root in the same +soil; the same books have nourished us, the same great winds have shaken +our being, and the same sunshine called forth the beautiful blossom of +friendship." + +"He struck me, if you will pardon my saying so, as a rather commonplace +companion." + +"There is in him a hidden sweetness, and a depth of feeling which only +intimate contact reveals. He is now taking his post-graduate course at +Harvard, and for well-nigh two months we have not met; yet so many +invisible threads of common experience unite us that we could meet after +years and still be near each other." + +"You are very young," Reginald replied. + +"What do you mean?" + +"Ah--never mind." + +"So you do not believe that two hearts may ever beat as one?" + +"No, that is an auditory delusion. Not even two clocks beat in unison. +There is always a discrepancy, infinitesimal, perhaps, but a discrepancy +nevertheless." + +A sharp ring of the bell interrupted the conversation. A moment later a +curly head peeped through the door. + +"Hello, Ernest! How are you, old man?" the intruder cried, with a laugh +in his voice. Then, noticing Clarke, he shook hands with the great man +unceremoniously, with the nonchalance of the healthy young animal bred +in the atmosphere of an American college. + +His touch seemed to thrill Clarke, who breathed heavily and then stepped +to the window, as if to conceal the flush of vitality on his cheek. + +It was a breath of springtide that Jack had brought with him. Youth is a +Prince Charming. To shrivelled veins the pressure of his hand imparts a +spark of animation, and middle age unfolds its petals in his presence, +as a sunflower gazing at late noon once more upon its lord. + +"I have come to take Ernest away from you," said Jack. "He looks a +trifle paler than usual, and a day's outing will stir the red corpuscles +in his blood." + +"I have no doubt that you will take very good care of him," Reginald +replied. + +"Where shall we go?" Ernest asked, absent-mindedly. + +But he did not hear the answer, for Reginald's scepticisms had more +deeply impressed him than he cared to confess to himself. + + + + +VII + + +The two boys had bathed their souls in the sea-breeze, and their eyes in +light. + +The tide of pleasure-loving humanity jostling against them had carried +their feet to the "Lion Palace." From there, seated at table and +quenching their thirst with high-balls, they watched the feverish +palpitations of the city's life-blood pulsating in the veins of Coney +Island, to which they had drifted from Brighton Beach. + +Ernest blew thoughtful rings of smoke into the air. + +"Do you notice the ferocious look in the mien of the average frequenter +of this island resort?" he said to Jack, whose eyes, following the +impulse of his more robust youth, were examining specimens of feminine +flotsam on the waves of the crowd. + +"It is," he continued, speaking to himself for want of an audience, +"the American who is in for having a 'good time.' And he is going to get +it. Like a huntsman, he follows the scent of happiness; but I warrant +that always it eludes him. Perhaps his mad race is only the epitome of +humanity's vain pursuit of pleasure, the eternal cry that is never +answered." + +But Jack was not listening. There are times in the life of every man +when a petticoat is more attractive to him than all the philosophy of +the world. + +Ernest was a little hurt, and it was not without some silent +remonstrance that he acquiesced when Jack invited to their table two +creatures that once were women. + +"Why?" + +"But they are interesting." + +"I cannot find so." + +They both had seen better times--of course. Then money losses came, with +work in shop or factory, and the voice of the tempter in the commercial +wilderness. + +One, a frail nervous little creature, who had instinctively chosen a +seat at Ernest's side, kept prattling in his ear, ready to tell the +story of her life to any one who was willing to treat her to a drink. +Something in her demeanour interested him. + +"And then I had a stroke of luck. The manager of a vaudeville was my +friend and decided to give me a trial. He thought I had a voice. They +called me Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl. At first it seemed as if people +liked to hear me. But I suppose that was because I was new. After a +month or two they discharged me." + +"And why?" + +"I suppose I was just used up, that's all." + +"Frightful!" + +"I never had much of a voice--and the tobacco smoke--and the wine--I +love wine." + +She gulped down her glass. + +"And do you like your present occupation?" + +"Why not? Am I not young? Am I not pretty?" + +This she said not parrotwise, but with a simple coquettishness that was +all her own. + +On the way to the steamer a few moments later, Ernest asked, +half-reproachfully: "Jack--and you really enjoyed this conversation?" + +"Didn't you?" + +"Do you mean this?" + +"Why, yes; she was--very agreeable." + +Ernest frowned. + +"We're twenty, Ernest. And then, you see, it's like a course in +sociology. Susie--" + +"Susie, was that her name?" + +"Yes." + +"So she had a name?" + +"Of course." + +"She shouldn't. It should be a number." + +"They may not be pillars of society; still, they're human." + +"Yes," said Ernest, "that is the most horrible part of it." + + + + +VIII + + +The moon was shining brightly. + +Swift and sure the prow of the night-boat parted the silvery foam. + +The smell of young flesh. Peals of laughter. A breathless pianola. The +tripping of dancing-feet. Voices husked with drink and voices soft with +love. The shrill accents of vulgarity. Hustling waiters. Shop-girls. +Bourgeois couples. Tired families of four and upward. Sleeping children. +A boy selling candy. The crying of babies. + +The two friends were sitting on the upper deck, muffled in their long +rain-coats. + +In the distance the Empire City rose radiant from the mist. + +"Say, Ernest, you should spout some poetry as of old. Are your lips +stricken mute, or are you still thinking of Coney Island?" + +"Oh, no, the swift wind has taken it away. I am clean, I am pure. Life +has passed me. It has kissed me, but it has left no trace." + +He looked upon the face of his friend. Their hands met. They felt, with +keen enjoyment, the beauty of the night, of their friendship, and of the +city beyond. + +Then Ernest's lips moved softly, musically, twitching with a strange +ascetic passion that trembled in his voice as he began: + + _"Huge steel-ribbed monsters rise into the air + Her Babylonian towers, while on high, + Like gilt-scaled serpents, glide the swift trains by, + Or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair. + A thousand lights are jewels in her hair, + The sea her girdle, and her crown the sky; + Her life-blood throbs, the fevered pulses fly. + Immense, defiant, breathless she stands there. + + "And ever listens in the ceaseless din, + Waiting for him, her lover, who shall come, + Whose singing lips shall boldly claim their own, + And render sonant what in her was dumb, + The splendour, and the madness, and the sin, + Her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone."_ + +He paused. The boat glided on. For a long time neither spoke a word. + +After a while Jack broke the silence: "And are you dreaming of becoming +the lyric mouth of the city, of giving utterance to all its yearnings, +its 'dreams in iron and its thoughts of stone'?" + +"No," replied Ernest, simply, "not yet. It is strange to what +impressions the brain will respond. In Clarke's house, in the midst of +inspiring things, inspiration failed me. But while I was with that girl +an idea came to me--an idea, big, real." + +"Will it deal with her?" + +Ernest smiled: "Oh, no. She personally has nothing to do with it. At +least not directly. It was the commotion of blood and--brain. The +air--the change. I don't know what." + +"What will it be?" asked Jack, with interest all alert. + +"A play, a wonderful play. And its heroine will be a princess, a little +princess, with a yellow veil." + +"What of the plot?" + +"That I shall not tell you to-day. In fact, I shall not breathe a word +to any one. It will take you all by surprise--and the public by storm." + +"So it will be playable?" + +"If I am not very much mistaken, you will see it on Broadway within a +year. And," he added graciously, "I will let you have two box-seats for +the first night." + +They both chuckled at the thought, and their hearts leaped within them. + +"I hope you will finish it soon," Jack observed after a while. "You +haven't done much of late." + +"A similar reflection was on my mind when you came yesterday. That +accounts for the low spirits in which you found me." + +"Ah, indeed," Jack replied, measuring Ernest with a look of wonder. "But +now your face is aglow. It seems that the blood rushes to your head +swifter at the call of an idea than at the kiss of a girl." + +"Thank God!" Ernest remarked with a sigh of relief. "Mighty forces +within me are fashioning the limpid thought. Passion may grip us by the +throat momentarily; upon our backs we may feel the lashes of desire and +bathe our souls in flames of many hues; but the joy of activity is the +ultimate passion." + + + + +IX + + +It seemed, indeed, as if work was to Ernest what the sting of pleasure +is to the average human animal. The inter-play of his mental forces gave +him the sensuous satisfaction of a woman's embrace. His eyes sparkled. +His muscle tightened. The joy of creation was upon him. + +Often very material reasons, like stone weights tied to the wings of a +bird, stayed the flight of his imagination. Magazines were waiting for +his copy, and he was not in the position to let them wait. They supplied +his bread and butter. + +Between the bread and butter, however, the play was growing scene by +scene. In the lone hours of the night he spun upon the loom of his fancy +a brilliant weft of swift desire--heavy, perfumed, Oriental--interwoven +with bits of gruesome tenderness. The thread of his own life intertwined +with the thread of the story. All genuine art is autobiography. It is +not, however, necessarily a revelation of the artist's actual self, but +of a myriad of potential selves. Ah, our own potential selves! They are +sometimes beautiful, often horrible, and always fascinating. They loom +to heavens none too high for our reach; they stray to yawning hells +beneath our very feet. + +The man who encompasses heaven and hell is a perfect man. But there are +many heavens and more hells. The artist snatches fire from both. Surely +the assassin feels no more intensely the lust of murder than the poet +who depicts it in glowing words. The things he writes are as real to him +as the things that he lives. But in his realm the poet is supreme. His +hands may be red with blood or white with leprosy: he still remains +king. Woe to him, however, if he transcends the limits of his kingdom +and translates into action the secret of his dreams. The throng that +before applauded him will stone his quivering body or nail to the cross +his delicate hands and feet. + +Sometimes days passed before Ernest could concentrate his mind upon his +play. Then the fever seized him again, and he strung pearl on pearl, +line on line, without entrusting a word to paper. Even to discuss his +work before it had received the final brush-strokes would have seemed +indecent to him. + +Reginald, too, seemed to be in a turmoil of work. Ernest had little +chance to speak to him. And to drop even a hint of his plans between the +courses at breakfast would have been desecration. + +Sunset followed sunset, night followed night. The stripling April had +made room for the lady May. The play was almost completed in Ernest's +mind, and he thought, with a little shudder, of the physical travail of +the actual writing. He felt that the transcript from brain to paper +would demand all his powers. For, of late, his thoughts seemed strangely +evanescent; they seemed to run away from him whenever he attempted to +seize them. + +The day was glad with sunshine, and he decided to take a long walk in +the solitude of the Palisades, to steady hand and nerve for the final +task. + +He told Reginald of his intention, but met with little response. +Reginald's face was wan and bore the peculiar pallor of one who had +worked late at night. + +"You must be frightfully busy?" Ernest asked, with genuine concern. + +"So I am," Reginald replied. "I always work in a white heat. I am +restless, nervous, feverish, and can find no peace until I have given +utterance to all that clamours after birth." + +"What is it that is so engaging your mind, the epic of the French +Revolution?" + +"Oh, no. I should never have undertaken that. I haven't done a stroke of +work on it for several weeks. In fact, ever since Walkham called, I +simply couldn't. It seemed as if a rough hand had in some way destroyed +the web of my thought. Poetry in the writing is like red hot glass +before the master-blower has fashioned it into birds and trees and +strange fantastic shapes. A draught, caused by the opening of a door may +distort it. But at present I am engaged upon more important work. I am +modelling a vessel not of fine-spun glass, but of molten gold." + +"You make me exceedingly anxious to know what you have in store for us. +It seems to me you have reached a point where even you can no longer +surpass yourself." + +Reginald smiled. "Your praise is too generous, yet it warms like +sunshine. I will confess that my conception is unique. It combines with +the ripeness of my technique the freshness of a second spring." + +Ernest was bubbling with anticipated delights. His soul responded to +Reginald's touch as a harp to the winds. "When," he cried, "shall we be +privileged to see it?" + +Reginald's eyes were already straying back to his writing table. "If the +gods are propitious," he remarked, "I shall complete it to-night. +To-morrow is my reception, and I have half promised to read it then." + +"Perhaps I shall be in the position soon to let you see my play." + +"Let us hope so," Reginald replied absent-mindedly. The egotism of the +artist had once more chained him to his work. + + + + +X + + +That night a brilliant crowd had gathered in Reginald Clarke's house. +From the studio and the adjoining salon arose a continual murmur of +well-tuned voices. On bare white throats jewels shone as if in each a +soul were imprisoned, and voluptuously rustled the silk that clung to +the fair slim forms of its bearers in an undulating caress. Subtle +perfumes emanated from the hair and the hands of syren women, +commingling with the soft plump scent of their flesh. Fragrant tapers, +burning in precious crystal globules stained with exquisite colours, +sprinkled their shimmering light over the fashionable assemblage and +lent a false radiance to the faces of the men, while in the hair and the +jewels of the women each ray seemed to dance like an imp with its mate. + +A seat like a throne, covered with furs of tropic beasts of prey, stood +in one corner of the room in the full glare of the light, waiting for +the monarch to come. Above were arranged with artistic _raffinement_ +weird oriental draperies, resembling a crimson canopy in the total +effect. Chattering visitors were standing in groups, or had seated +themselves on the divans and curiously-fashioned chairs that were +scattered in seeming disorder throughout the salon. There were critics +and writers and men of the world. Everybody who was anybody and a little +bigger than somebody else was holding court in his own small circle of +enthusiastic admirers. The Bohemian element was subdued, but not +entirely lacking. The magic of Reginald Clarke's name made stately dames +blind to the presence of some individuals whom they would have passed on +the street without recognition. + +Ernest surveyed this gorgeous assembly with the absent look of a +sleep-walker. Not that his sensuous soul was unsusceptible to the +atmosphere of culture and corruption that permeated the whole, nor to +the dazzling colour effects that tantalised while they delighted the +eye. But to-night they shrivelled into insignificance before the +splendour of his inner vision. A radiant dreamland palace, his play, had +risen from the night of inchoate thought. It was wonderful, it was real, +and needed for its completion only the detail of actual construction. +And now the characters were hovering in the recesses of his brain, were +yearning to leave that many-winded labyrinth to become real beings of +paper and ink. He would probably have tarried overlong in this fanciful +mansion, had not the reappearance of an unexpected guest broken his +reverie. + +"Jack!" he exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you a hundred miles away +from here." + +"That shows that you no longer care for me," Jack playfully answered. +"When our friendship was young, you always had a presentiment of my +presence." + +"Ah, perhaps I had. But tell me, where do you hail from?" + +"Clarke called me up on the telephone--long-distance, you know. I +suppose it was meant as a surprise for you. And you certainly looked +surprised--not even pleasantly. I am really head-over-heels at work. +But you know how it is. Sometimes a little imp whispers into my ears +daring me to do a thing which I know is foolish. But what of it? My legs +are strong enough not to permit my follies to overtake me." + +"It was certainly good of you to come. In fact, you make me very glad. I +feel that I need you to-night--I don't know why. The feeling came +suddenly--suddenly as you. I only know I need you. How long can you +stay?" + +"I must leave you to-morrow morning. I have to hustle somewhat. You know +my examinations are taking place in a day or two and I've got to cram up +a lot of things." + +"Still," remarked Ernest, "your visit will repay you for the loss of +time. Clarke will read to us to-night his masterpiece." + +"What is it?" + +"I don't know. I only know it's the real thing. It's worth all the +wisdom bald-headed professors may administer to you in concentrated +doses at five thousand a year." + +"Come now," Jack could not help saying, "is your memory giving way? +Don't you remember your own days in college--especially the mathematical +examinations? You know that your marks came always pretty near the +absolute zero." + +"Jack," cried Ernest in honest indignation, "not the last time. The last +time I didn't flunk." + +"No, because your sonnet on Cartesian geometry roused even the +math-fiend to compassion. And don't you remember Professor Squeeler, +whose heart seemed to leap with delight whenever he could tell you that, +in spite of incessant toil on your part, he had again flunked you in +physics with fifty-nine and a half per cent.?" + +"And he wouldn't raise the mark to sixty! God forgive him,--I cannot." + +Here their exchange of reminiscences was interrupted. There was a stir. +The little potentates of conversation hastened to their seats, before +their minions had wholly deserted them. + +The king was moving to his throne! + +Assuredly Reginald Clarke had the bearing of a king. Leisurely he took +his seat under the canopy. + +A hush fell on the audience; not a fan stirred as he slowly unfolded his +manuscript. + + + + +XI + + +The music of Reginald Clarke's intonation captivated every ear. +Voluptuously, in measured cadence, it rose and fell; now full and strong +like the sound of an organ, now soft and clear like the tinkling of +bells. His voice detracted by its very tunefulness from what he said. +The powerful spell charmed even Ernest's accustomed ear. The first page +gracefully glided from Reginald's hand to the carpet before the boy +dimly realised that he was intimately familiar with every word that fell +from Reginald's lips. When the second page slipped with seeming +carelessness from the reader's hand, a sudden shudder ran through the +boy's frame. It was as if an icy hand had gripped his heart. There could +be no doubt of it. This was more than mere coincidence. It was +plagiarism. He wanted to cry out. But the room swam before his eyes. +Surely he must be dreaming. It was a dream. The faces of the audience, +the lights, Reginald, Jack--all phantasmagoria of a dream. + +Perhaps he had been ill for a long time. Perhaps Clarke was reading the +play for him. He did not remember having written it. But he probably had +fallen sick after its completion. What strange pranks our memories will +play us! But no! He was not dreaming, and he had not been ill. + +He could endure the horrible uncertainty no longer. His overstrung +nerves must find relaxation in some way or break with a twang. He turned +to his friend who was listening with rapt attention. + +"Jack, Jack!" he whispered. + +"What is it?" + +"That is my play!" + +"You mean that you inspired it?" + +"No, I have written it, or rather, was going to write it." + +"Wake up, Ernest! You are mad!" + +"No, in all seriousness. It is mine. I told you--don't you +remember--when we returned from Coney Island--that I was writing a +play." + +"Ah, but not this play." + +"Yes, this play. I conceived it, I practically wrote it." + +"The more's the pity that Clarke had preconceived it." + +"But it is mine!" + +"Did you tell him a word about it?" + +"No, to be sure." + +"Did you leave the manuscript in your room?" + +"I had, in fact, not written a line of it. No, I had not begun the +actual writing." + +"Why should a man of Clarke's reputation plagiarise your plays, written +or unwritten?" + +"I can see no reason. But--" + +"Tut, tut." + +For already this whispered conversation had elicited a look like a stab +from a lady before them. + +Ernest held fast to the edge of a chair. He must cling to some reality, +or else drift rudderless in a dim sea of vague apprehensions. + +Or was Jack right? + +Was his mind giving way? No! No! No! There must be a monstrous secret +somewhere, but what matter? Did anything matter? He had called on his +mate like a ship lost in the fog. For the first time he had not +responded. He had not understood. The bitterness of tears rose to the +boy's eyes. + +Above it all, melodiously, ebbed and flowed the rich accents of Reginald +Clarke. + +Ernest listened to the words of his own play coming from the older man's +mouth. The horrible fascination of the scene held him entranced. He saw +the creations of his mind pass in review before him, as a man might look +upon the face of his double grinning at him from behind a door in the +hideous hours of night. + +They were all there! The mad king. The subtle-witted courtiers. The +sombre-hearted Prince. The Queen-Mother who had loved a jester better +than her royal mate, and the fruit of their shameful alliance, the +Princess Marigold, a creature woven of sunshine and sin. + +Swiftly the action progressed. Shadows of impending death darkened the +house of the King. In the horrible agony of the rack the old jester +confessed. Stripped of his cap and bells, crowned with a wreath of +blood, he looked so pathetically funny that the Princess Marigold could +not help laughing between her tears. + +The Queen stood there all trembling and pale. Without a complaint she +saw her lover die. The executioner's sword smote the old man's head +straight from the trunk. It rolled at the feet of the King, who tossed +it to Marigold. The little Princess kissed it and covered the grinning +horror with her yellow veil. + +The last words died away. + +There was no applause. Only silence. All were stricken with the dread +that men feel in the house of God or His awful presence in genius. + +But the boy lay back in his chair. The cold sweat had gathered on his +brow and his temples throbbed. Nature had mercifully clogged his head +with blood. The rush of it drowned the crying voice of the nerves, +deadening for a while both consciousness and pain. + + + + +XII + + +Somehow the night had passed--somehow in bitterness, in anguish. But it +had passed. + +Ernest's lips were parched and sleeplessness had left its trace in the +black rings under the eyes, when the next morning he confronted Reginald +in the studio. + +Reginald was sitting at the writing-table in his most characteristic +pose, supporting his head with his hand and looking with clear piercing +eyes searchingly at the boy. + +"Yes," he observed, "it's a most curious psychical phenomenon." + +"You cannot imagine how real it all seemed to me." + +The boy spoke painfully, dazed, as if struck by a blow. + +"Even now it is as if something has gone from me, some struggling +thought that I cannot--cannot remember." + +Reginald regarded him as a physical experimenter might look upon the +subject of a particularly baffling mental disease. + +"You must not think, my boy, that I bear you any malice for your +extraordinary delusion. Before Jack went away he gave me an exact +account of all that has happened. Divers incidents recurred to him from +which it appears that, at various times in the past, you have been on +the verge of a nervous collapse." + +A nervous collapse! What was the use of this term but a euphemism for +insanity? + +"Do not despair, dear child," Reginald caressingly remarked. "Your +disorder is not hopeless, not incurable. Such crises come to every man +who writes. It is the tribute we pay to the Lords of Song. The +minnesinger of the past wrote with his heart's blood; but we moderns dip +our pen into the sap of our nerves. We analyse life, love art--and the +dissecting knife that we use on other men's souls finally turns against +ourselves. + +"But what shall a man do? Shall he sacrifice art to hygiene and +surrender the one attribute that makes him chiefest of created things? +Animals, too, think. Some walk on two legs. But introspection +differentiates man from the rest. Shall we yield up the sweet +consciousness of self that we derive from the analysis of our emotion, +for the contentment of the bull that ruminates in the shade of a tree or +the healthful stupidity of a mule?" + +"Assuredly not." + +"But what shall a man do?" + +"Ah, that I cannot tell. Mathematics offers definite problems that admit +of a definite solution. Life states its problems with less exactness and +offers for each a different solution. One and one are two to-day and +to-morrow. Psychical values, on each manipulation, will yield a +different result. Still, your case is quite clear. You have overworked +yourself in the past, mentally and emotionally. You have sown unrest, +and must not be surprised if neurasthenia is the harvest thereof." + +"Do you think--that I should go to some sanitarium?" the boy falteringly +asked. + +"God forbid! Go to the seashore, somewhere where you can sleep and play. +Take your body along, but leave your brain behind--at least do not +take more of it with you than is necessary. The summer season in +Atlantic City has just begun. There, as everywhere in American society, +you will be much more welcome if you come without brains." + +Reginald's half-bantering tone reassured Ernest a little. Timidly he +dared approach once more the strange event that had wrought such havoc +with his nervous equilibrium. + +"How do you account for my strange obsession--one might almost call it a +mania?" + +"If it could be accounted for it would not be strange." + +"Can you suggest no possible explanation?" + +"Perhaps a stray leaf on my desk a few indications of the plot, a +remark--who knows? Perhaps thought-matter is floating in the air. +Perhaps--but we had better not talk of it now. It would needlessly +excite you." + +"You are right," answered Ernest gloomily, "let us not talk of it. But +whatever may be said, it is a marvellous play." + +"You flatter me. There is nothing in it that you may not be able to do +equally well--some day." + +"Ah, no," the boy replied, looking up to Reginald with admiration. "You +are the master." + + + + +XIII + + +Lazily Ernest stretched his limbs on the beach of Atlantic City. The +sea, that purger of sick souls, had washed away the fever and the fret +of the last few days. The wind was in his hair and the spray was in his +breath, while the rays of the sun kissed his bare arms and legs. He +rolled over in the glittering sand in the sheer joy of living. + +Now and then a wavelet stole far into the beach, as if to caress him, +but pined away ere it could reach its goal. It was as if the enamoured +sea was stretching out its arms to him. Who knows, perhaps through the +clear water some green-eyed nymph, or a young sea-god with the tang of +the sea in his hair, was peering amorously at the boy's red mouth. The +people of the deep love the red warm blood of human kind. It is always +the young that they lure to their watery haunts, never the shrivelled +limbs that totter shivering to the grave. + +Such fancies came to Ernest as he lay on the shore in his bathing +attire, happy, thoughtless,--animal. + +The sun and the sea seemed to him two lovers vying for his favor. The +sudden change of environment had brought complete relaxation and had +quieted his rebellious, assertive soul. He was no longer a solitary unit +but one with wind and water, herb and beach and shell. Almost +voluptuously his hand toyed with the hot sand that glided caressingly +through his fingers and buried his breast and shoulder under its +glittering burden. + +A summer girl who passed lowered her eyes coquettishly. He watched her +without stirring. Even to open his mouth or to smile would have seemed +too much exertion. + +Thus he lay for hours. When at length noon drew nigh, it cost him a +great effort of will to shake off his drowsy mood and exchange his airy +costume for the conventional habilaments of the dining-room. + +He had taken lodgings in a fashionable hotel. An unusual stroke of good +luck, hack-work that paid outrageously well, had made it possible for +him to idle for a time without a thought of the unpleasant necessity of +making money. + +One single article to which he signed his name only with reluctance had +brought to him more gear than a series of golden sonnets. + +"Surely," he thought, "the social revolution ought to begin from above. +What right has the bricklayer to grumble when he receives for a week's +work almost more than I for a song?" + +Thus soliloquising, he reached the dining-room. The scene that unfolded +itself before him was typical--the table over-loaded, the women +over-dressed. + +The luncheon was already in full course when he came. He mumbled an +apology and seated himself on the only remaining chair next to a youth +who reminded him of a well-dressed dummy. With slight weariness his eyes +wandered in all directions for more congenial faces when they were +arrested by a lady on the opposite side of the table. She was clad in a +silk robe with curiously embroidered net-work that revealed a nervous +and delicate throat. The rich effect of the net-work was relieved by the +studied simplicity with which her heavy chestnut-colored hair was +gathered in a single knot. Her face was turned away from him, but there +was something in the carriage of her head that struck him as familiar. +When at last she looked him in the face, the glass almost fell from his +hand: it was Ethel Brandenbourg. She seemed to notice his embarrassment +and smiled. When she opened her lips to speak, he knew by the haunting +sweetness of the voice that he was not mistaken. + +"Tell me," she said wistfully, "you have forgotten me? They all have." + +He hastened to assure her that he had not forgotten her. He recollected +now that he had first been introduced to her in Walkham's house some +years ago, when a mere college boy, he had been privileged to attend one +of that master's famous receptions. She had looked quite resolute and +very happy then, not at all like the woman who had stared so strangely +at Reginald in the Broadway restaurant. + +He regarded this encounter as very fortunate. He knew so much of her +personal history that it almost seemed to him as if they had been +intimate for years. She, too, felt on familiar ground with him. Neither +as much as whispered the name of Reginald Clarke. Yet it was he, and the +knowledge of what he was to them, that linked their souls with a common +bond. + + + + +XIV + + +It was the third day after their meeting. Hour by hour their intimacy +had increased. Ethel was sitting in a large wicker-chair. She restlessly +fingered her parasol, mechanically describing magic circles in the sand. +Ernest lay at her feet. With his knees clasped between his hands, he +gazed into her eyes. + +"Why are you trying so hard to make love to me?" the woman asked, with +the half-amused smile with which the Eve near thirty receives the homage +of a boy. There is an element of insincerity in that smile, but it is a +weapon of defence against love's artillery. + +Sometimes, indeed, the pleading in the boy's eyes and the cry of the +blood pierces the woman's smiling superiority. She listens, loves and +loses. + +Ethel Brandenbourg was listening, but the idea of love had not yet +entered into her mind. Her interest in Ernest was due in part to his +youth and the trembling in his voice when he spoke of love. But what +probably attracted her most powerfully was the fact that he intimately +knew the man who still held her woman's heart in the hollow of his hand. +It was half in play, therefore, that she had asked him that question. + +Why did he make love to her? He did not know. Perhaps it was the +irresistible desire to be petted which young poets share with +domesticated cats. But what should he tell her? Polite platitudes were +out of place between them. + +Besides he knew the penalty of all tender entanglements. Women treat +love as if it were an extremely tenuous wire that can be drawn out +indefinitely. This is a very expensive process. It costs us the most +precious, the only irretrievable thing in the universe--time. And to him +time was song; for money he did not care. The Lord had hallowed his lips +with rhythmic speech; only in the intervals of his singing might he +listen to the voice of his heart--strangest of all watches, that tells +the time not by minutes and hours, but by the coming and going of love. + +The woman beside him seemed to read his thoughts. + +"Child, child," she said, "why will you toy with love? Like Jehovah, he +is a jealous god, and nothing but the whole heart can placate him. Woe +to the woman who takes a poet for a lover. I admit it is fascinating, +but it is playing _va banque_. In fact, it is fatal. Art or love will +come to harm. No man can minister equally to both. A genuine poet is +incapable of loving a woman." + +"Pshaw! You exaggerate. Of course, there is a measure of truth in what +you say, but it is only one side of the truth, and the truth, you know, +is always Janus-faced. In fact, it often has more than two faces. I can +assure you that I have cared deeply for the women to whom my love-poetry +was written. And you will not deny that it is genuine." + +"God forbid! Only you have been using the wrong preposition. You should +have said that it was written at them." + +Ernest stared at her in child-like wonder. + +"By Jove! you are too devilishly clever!" he exclaimed. + +After a little silence he said not without hesitation: "And do you apply +your theory to all artists, or only to us makers of rhyme?" + +"To all," she replied. + +He looked at her questioningly. + +"Yes," she said, with a new sadness in her voice, "I, too, have paid the +price." + +"You mean?" + +"I loved." + +"And art?" + +"That was the sacrifice." + +"Perhaps you have chosen the better part," Ernest said without +conviction. + +"No," she replied, "my tribute was brought in vain." + +This she said calmly, but Ernest knew that her words were of tragic +import. + +"You love him still?" he observed simply. + +Ethel made no reply. Sadness clouded her face like a veil or like a grey +mist over the face of the waters. Her eyes went out to the sea, +following the sombre flight of the sea-mews. + +In that moment he could have taken her in his arms and kissed her with +infinite tenderness. + +But tenderness between man and woman is like a match in a +powder-magazine. The least provocation, and an amorous explosion will +ensue, tumbling down the card-houses of platonic affection. If he +yielded to the impulse of the moment, the wine of the springtide would +set their blood afire, and from the flames within us there is no escape. + +"Come, come," she said, "you do not love me." + +He protested. + +"Ah!" she cried triumphantly, "how many sonnets would you give for me? +If you were a usurer in gold instead of in rhyme, I would ask how many +dollars. But it is unjust to pay in a coin that we value little. To a +man starving in gold mines, a piece of bread weighs more than all the +treasures of the earth. To you, I warrant your poems are the standard of +appreciation. How many would you give for me? One, two, three?" + +"More." + +"Because you think love would repay you with compound interest," she +observed merrily. + +He laughed. + +And when love turns to laughter the danger is passed for the moment. + + + + +XV + + +Thus three weeks passed without apparent change in their relations. +Ernest possessed a personal magnetism that, always emanating from him, +was felt most deeply when withdrawn. He was at all times involuntarily +exerting his power, which she ever resisted, always on the alert, always +warding off. + +When at last pressure of work made his immediate departure for New York +imperative, he had not apparently gained the least ground. But Ethel +knew in her heart that she was fascinated, if not in love. The personal +fascination was supplemented by a motherly feeling toward Ernest that, +sensuous in essence, was in itself not far removed from love. She +struggled bravely and with external success against her emotions, never +losing sight of the fact that twenty and thirty are fifty. + +Increasingly aware of her own weakness, she constantly attempted to +lead the conversation into impersonal channels, speaking preferably of +his work. + +"Tell me," she said, negligently fanning herself, "what new inspiration +have you drawn from your stay at the seaside?" + +"Why," he exclaimed enthusiastically, "volumes and volumes of it. I +shall write the great novel of my life after I am once more quietly +installed at Riverside Drive." + +"The great American novel?" she rejoined. + +"Perhaps." + +"Who will be your hero--Clarke?" + +There was a slight touch of malice in her words, or rather in the pause +between the penultimate word and the last. Ernest detected its presence, +and knew that her love for Reginald was dead. Stiff and cold it lay in +her heart's chamber--beside how many others?--all emboxed in the coffin +of memory. + +"No," he replied after a while, a little piqued by her suggestion, +"Clarke is not the hero. What makes you think that he casts a spell on +everything I do?" + +"Dear child," she replied, "I know him. He cannot fail to impress his +powerful personality upon all with whom he comes in contact, to the +injury of their intellectual independence. Moreover, he is so brilliant +and says everything so much better than anybody else, that by his very +splendor he discourages effort in others. At best his influence will +shape your development according to the tenets of his mind--curious, +subtle and corrupted. You will become mentally distorted, like one of +those hunchback Japanese trees, infinitely wrinkled and infinitely +grotesque, whose laws of growth are not determined by nature, but by the +diseased imagination of the East." + +"I am no weakling," Ernest asserted, "and your picture of Clarke is +altogether out of perspective. His splendid successes are to me a source +of constant inspiration. We have some things in common, but I realise +that it is along entirely different lines that success will come to me. +He has never sought to influence me, in fact, I never received the +smallest suggestion from him." Here the Princess Marigold seemed to peer +at him through the veil of the past, but he waved her aside. "As for my +story," he continued, "you need not go so far out of your way to find +the leading character?" + +"Who can it be?" Ethel remarked, with a merry twinkle, "You?" + +"Ethel," he said sulkingly, "be serious. You know that it is you." + +"I am immensely flattered," she replied. "Really, nothing pleases me +better than to be immortalised in print, since I have little hope +nowadays of perpetuating my name by virtue of pencil or brush. I have +been put into novels before and am consumed with curiosity to hear the +plot of yours." + +"If you don't mind, I had rather not tell you just yet," Ernest said. +"It's going to be called Leontina--that's you. But all depends on the +treatment. You know it doesn't matter much what you say so long as you +say it well. That's what counts. At any rate, any indication of the plot +at this stage would be decidedly inadequate." + +"I think you are right," she ventured. "By all means choose your own +time to tell me. Let's talk of something else. Have you written +anything since your delightful book of verse last spring? Surely now is +your singing season. By the time we are thirty the springs of pure lyric +passion are usually exhausted." + +Ethel's inquiry somehow startled him. In truth, he could find no +satisfactory answer. A remark relative to his play--Clarke's play--rose +to the threshold of his lips, but he almost bit his tongue as soon as he +realised that the strange delusion which had possessed him that night +still dominated the undercurrents of his cerebration. No, he had +accomplished but little during the last few months--at least, by way of +creative literature. So he replied that he had made money. "That is +something," he said. "Besides, who can turn out a masterpiece every +week? An artist's brain is not a machine, and in the respite from +creative work I have gathered strength for the future. But," he added, +slightly annoyed, "you are not listening." + +His exclamation brought her back from the train of thoughts that his +words had suggested. For in his reasoning she had recognised the same +arguments that she had hourly repeated to herself in defence of her +inactivity when she was living under the baneful influence of Reginald +Clarke. Yes, baneful; for the first time she dared to confess it to +herself. In a flash the truth dawned upon her that it was not her love +alone, but something else, something irresistable and very mysterious, +that had dried up the well of creation in her. Could it be that the same +power was now exerting its influence upon the struggling soul of this +talented boy? Rack her brains as she might, she could not definitely +formulate her apprehensions and a troubled look came into her eyes. + +"Ethel," the boy repeated, impatiently, "why are you not listening? Do +you realise that I must leave you in half an hour?" + +She looked at him with deep tenderness. Something like a tear lent a +soft radiance to her large child-like eyes. + +Ernest saw it and was profoundly moved. In that moment he loved her +passionately. + +"Foolish boy," she said softly; then, lowering her voice to a whisper: +"You may kiss me before you go." + +His lips gently touched hers, but she took his head between her hands +and pressed her mouth upon his in a long kiss. + +Ernest drew back a little awkwardly. He had not been kissed like this +before. + +"Poet though you are," Ethel whispered, "you have not yet learned to +kiss." + +She was deeply agitated when she noticed that his hand was fumbling for +the watch in his vest-pocket. She suddenly released him, and said, a +little hurt: "No, you must not miss your train. Go by all means." + +Vainly Ernest remonstrated with her. + +"Go to him," she said, and again, "go to him." + +With a heavy heart the boy obeyed. He waved his hat to her once more +from below, and then rapidly disappeared in the crowd. For a moment +strange misgivings cramped her heart, and something within her called +out to him: "Do not go! Do not return to that house." But no sound +issued from her lips. Worldly wisdom had sealed them, had stifled the +inner voice. And soon the boy's golden head was swallowed up in the +distance. + + + + +XVI + + +While the train sped to New York, Ethel Brandenbourg was the one object +engaging Ernest's mind. He still felt the pressure of her lips upon his, +and his nostrils dilated at the thought of the fragrance of her hair +brushing against his forehead. + +But the moment his foot touched the ferry-boat that was to take him to +Manhattan, the past three weeks were, for the time being at least, +completely obliterated from his memory. All his other interests that he +had suppressed in her company because she had no part in them, came +rushing back to him. He anticipated with delight his meeting with +Reginald Clarke. The personal attractiveness of the man had never seemed +so powerful to Ernest as when he had not heard from him for some time. +Reginald's letters were always brief. "Professional writers," he was +wont to say, "cannot afford to put fine feeling into their private +correspondence. They must turn it into copy." He longed to sit with the +master in the studio when the last rays of the daylight were tremulously +falling through the stained window, and to discuss far into the +darkening night philosophies young and old. He longed for Reginald's +voice, his little mannerisms, the very perfume of his rooms. + +There also was a deluge of letters likely to await him in his apartment. +For in his hurried departure he had purposely left his friends in the +dark as to his whereabouts. Only to Jack he had dropped a little note +the day after his meeting with Ethel. + +He earnestly hoped to find Reginald at home, though it was well nigh ten +o'clock in the evening, and he cursed the "rapid transit" for its +inability to annihilate space and time. It is indeed disconcerting to +think how many months, if not years, of our earthly sojourn the dwellers +in cities spend in transportation conveyances that must be set down as a +dead loss in the ledger of life. A nervous impatience against things +material overcame Ernest in the subway. It is ever the mere stupid +obstacle of matter that weights down the wings of the soul and prevents +it from soaring upward to the sun. + +When at last he had reached the house, he learned from the hall-boy that +Clarke had gone out. Ruffled in temper he entered his rooms and went +over his mail. There were letters from editors with commissions that he +could not afford to reject. Everywhere newspapers and magazines opened +their yawning mouths to swallow up what time he had. He realised at once +that he would have to postpone the writing of his novel for several +weeks, if not longer. + +Among the letters was one from Jack. It bore the postmark of a little +place in the Adirondacks where he was staying with his parents. Ernest +opened the missive not without hesitation. On reading and rereading it +the fine lines on his forehead, that would some day deepen into +wrinkles, became quite pronounced and a look of displeasure darkened his +face. Something was wrong with Jack, a slight change that defied +analysis. Their souls were out of tune. It might only be a passing +disturbance; perhaps it was his own fault. It pained him, nevertheless. +Somehow it seemed of late that Jack was no longer able to follow the +vagaries of his mind. Only one person in the world possessed a similar +mental vision, only one seemed to understand what he said and what he +left unsaid. Reginald Clarke, being a man and poet, read in his soul as +in an open book. Ethel might have understood, had not love, like a +cloud, laid itself between her eyes and the page. + +It was with exultation that Ernest heard near midnight the click of +Reginald's key in the door. He found him unchanged, completely, +radiantly himself. Reginald possessed the psychic power of undressing +the soul, of seeing it before him in primal nakedness. Although no word +was said of Ethel Brandenbourg except the mere mention of her presence +in Atlantic City, Ernest intuitively knew that Reginald was aware of the +transformation that absence had wrought in him. In the presence of this +man he could be absolutely himself, without shame or fear of +mis-understanding; and by a strange metamorphosis, all his affection +for Ethel and Jack went out for the time being to Reginald Clarke. + + + + +XVII + + +The next day Ernest wrote a letter of more or less superficial +tenderness to Ethel. She had wounded his pride by proving victorious in +the end over his passion and hers; besides, he was in the throes of +work. When after the third day no answer came, he was inclined to feel +aggrieved. It was plain now that she had not cared for him in the least, +but had simply played with him for lack of another toy. A flush of shame +rose to his cheeks at the thought. He began to analyse his own emotions, +and stunned, if not stabbed, his passion step by step. Work was calling +to him. It was that which gave life its meaning, not the love of a +season. How far away, how unreal, she now seemed to him. Yes, she was +right, he had not cared deeply; and his novel, too, would be written +only _at_ her. It was the heroine of his story that absorbed his +interest, not the living prototype. + +Once in a conversation with Reginald he touched upon the subject. +Reginald held that modern taste no longer permitted even the +photographer to portray life as it is, but insisted upon an individual +visualisation. "No man," he remarked, "was ever translated bodily into +fiction. In contradiction to life, art is a process of artificial +selection." + +Bearing in mind this motive, Ernest went to work to mould from the +material in hand a new Ethel, more real than life. Unfortunately he +found little time to devote to his novel. It was only when, after a good +day's work, a pile of copy for a magazine lay on his desk, that he could +think of concentrating his mind upon "Leontina." The result was that +when he went to bed his imagination was busy with the plan of his book, +and the creatures of his own brain laid their fingers on his eyelid so +that he could not sleep. + +When at last sheer weariness overcame him, his mind was still at work, +not in orderly sequence but along trails monstrous and grotesque. +Hobgoblins seemed to steal through the hall, and leering incubi +oppressed his soul with terrible burdens. In the morning he awoke +unrested. The tan vanished from his face and little lines appeared in +the corners of his mouth. It was as if his nervous vitality were sapped +from him in some unaccountable way. He became excited, hysterical. Often +at night when he wrote his pot-boilers for the magazines, fear stood +behind his seat, and only the buzzing of the elevator outside brought +him back to himself. + +In one of his morbid moods he wrote a sonnet which he showed to Reginald +after the latter's return from a short trip out of town. Reginald read +it, looking at the boy with a curious, lurking expression. + + _O gentle Sleep, turn not thy face away, + But place thy finger on my brow, and take + All burthens from me and all dreams that ache; + Upon mine eyes a cooling balsam lay, + Seeing I am aweary of the day. + But, lo! thy lips are ashen and they quake. + What spectral vision sees thou that can shake + Thy sweet composure, and thy heart dismay? + Perhaps some murderer's cruel eye agleam + Is fixed upon me, or some monstrous dream + Might bring such fearful guilt upon the head + Of my unvigilant soul as would arouse + The Borgian snake from her envenomed bed, + Or startle Nero in his golden house._ + +"Good stuff," Reginald remarked, laying down the manuscript; "when did +you write it?" + +"The night when you were out of town," Ernest rejoined. + +"I see," Reginald replied. + +There was something startling in his intonation that at once aroused +Ernest's attention. + +"What do you see?" he asked quickly. + +"Nothing," Reginald replied, with immovable calm, "only that your state +of nerves is still far from satisfactory." + + + + +XVIII + + +After Ernest's departure Ethel Brandenbourg's heart was swaying hither +and thither in a hurricane of conflicting feelings. Before she had time +to gain an emotional equilibrium, his letter had hurled her back into +chaos. A false ring somewhere in Ernest's words, reechoing with an +ever-increasing volume of sound, stifled the voice of love. His jewelled +sentences glittered, but left her cold. They lacked that spontaneity +which renders even simple and hackeneyed phrases wonderful and unique. +Ethel clearly realised that her hold upon the boy's imagination had been +a fleeting midsummer night's charm, and that a word from Reginald's lips +had broken the potency of her spell. She almost saw the shadow of +Reginald's visage hovering over Ernest's letter and leering at her from +between the lines in sinister triumph. Finally reason came and +whispered to her that it was extremely unwise to give her heart into the +keeping of a boy. His love, she knew, would have been exacting, +irritating at times. He would have asked her to sympathise with every +phase of his life, and would have expected active interest on her part +in much that she had done with long ago. Thus, untruth would have stolen +into her life and embittered it. When mates are unequal, Love must paint +its cheeks and, in certain moods at least, hide its face under a mask. +Its lips may be honeyed, but it brings fret and sorrow in its train. + +These things she told herself over and over again while she penned a +cool and calculating answer to Ernest's letter. She rewrote it many +times, and every time it became more difficult to reply. At last she put +her letter aside for a few days, and when it fell again into her hand it +seemed so unnatural and strained that she destroyed it. + +Thus several weeks had passed, and Ernest no longer exclusively occupied +her mind when, one day early in September, while glancing over a +magazine, she came upon his name in the table of contents. Once more +she saw the boy's wistful face before her, and a trembling something +stirred in her heart. Her hand shook as she cut the pages, and a mist of +tears clouded her vision as she attempted to read his poem. It was a +piece of sombre brilliance. Like black-draped monks half crazed with +mystic devotion, the poet's thoughts flitted across the page. It was the +wail of a soul that feels reason slipping from it and beholds madness +rise over its life like a great pale moon. A strange unrest emanated +from it and took possession of her. And again, with an insight that was +prophetic, she distinctly recognised behind the vague fear that had +haunted the poet the figure of Reginald Clarke. + +A half-forgotten dream, struggling to consciousness, staggered her by +its vividness. She saw Clarke as she had seen him in days gone by, +grotesquely transformed into a slimy sea-thing, whose hungry mouths shut +sucking upon her and whose thousand tentacles encircled her form. She +closed her eyes in horror at the reminiscence. And in that moment it +became clear to her that she must take into her hands the salvation of +Ernest Fielding from the clutches of the malign power that had +mysteriously enveloped his life. + + + + +XIX + + +The summer was brief, and already by the middle of September many had +returned to the pleasures of urban life. Ethel was among the +first-comers; for, after her resolve to enter the life of the young poet +once more, it would have been impossible for her to stay away from the +city much longer. Her plan was all ready. Before attempting to see +Ernest she would go to meet Reginald and implore him to free the boy +from his hideous spell. An element of curiosity unconsciously entered +her determination. When, years ago, she and Clarke had parted, the man +had seemed, for once, greatly disturbed and had promised, in his +agitation, that some day he would communicate to her what would +exonerate him in her eyes. She had answered that all words between them +were purposeless, and that she hoped never to see his face again. The +experience that the years had brought to her, instead of elucidating +the mystery of Reginald's personality, had, on the contrary, made his +behaviour appear more and more unaccountable. She had more than once +caught herself wishing to meet him again and to analyse dispassionately +the puzzling influences he had exerted upon her. And she could at last +view him dispassionately; there was triumph in that. She was dimly aware +that something had passed from her, something by which he had held her, +and without which his magnetism was unable to play upon her. + +So when Walkham sent her an invitation to one of his artistic "at homes" +she accepted, in the hope of meeting Reginald. It was his frequentation +of Walkham's house that had for several years effectively barred her +foot from crossing the threshold. It was with a very strange feeling she +greeted the many familiar faces at Walkham's now; and when, toward ten +o'clock, Reginald entered, politely bowing in answer to the welcome from +all sides, her heart beat in her like a drum. But she calmed herself, +and, catching his eye, so arranged it that early in the evening they +met in an alcove of the drawing-room. + +"It was inevitable," Reginald said. "I expected it." + +"Yes," she replied, "we were bound to meet." + +Like a great rush of water, memory came back to her. He was still +horribly fascinating as of old--only she was no longer susceptible to +his fascination. He had changed somewhat in those years. The lines about +his mouth had grown harder and a steel-like look had come into his eyes. +Only for a moment, as he looked at her, a flash of tenderness seemed to +come back to them. Then he said, with a touch of sadness: "Why should +the first word between us be a lie?" + +Ethel made no answer. + +Reginald looked at her half in wonder and said: "And is your love for +the boy so great that it overcame your hate of me?" + +Ah, he knew! She winced. + +"He has told you?" + +"Not a word." + +There was something superhuman in his power of penetration. Why should +she wear a mask before him, when his eyes, like the eyes of God, pierced +to the core of her being? + +"No," she replied, "it is not love, but compassion for him." + +"Compassion?" + +"Yes, compassion for your victim." + +"You mean?" + +"Reginald!" + +"I am all ear." + +"I implore you." + +"Speak." + +"You have ruined one life." + +He raised his eyebrows derogatively. + +"Yes," she continued fiercely, "ruined it! Is not that enough?" + +"I have never wilfully ruined any one's life." + +"You have ruined mine." + +"Wilfully?" + +"How else shall I explain your conduct?" + +"I warned you." + +"Warning, indeed! The warning that the snake gives to the sparrow +helpless under its gaze." + +"Ah, but who tells you that the snake is to blame? Is it not rather the +occult power that prescribes with blood on brazen scroll the law of our +being?" + +"This is no solace to the sparrow. But whatever may be said, let us drop +the past. Let us consider the present. I beg of you, leave this boy--let +him develop without your attempting to stifle the life in him or +impressing upon it the stamp of your alien mind." + +"Ethel," he protested, "you are unjust. If you knew--" Then an idea +seemed to take hold of him. He looked at her curiously. + +"What if I knew?" she asked. + +"You shall know," he said, simply. "Are you strong?" + +"Strong to withstand anything at your hand. There is nothing that you +can give me, nothing that you can take away." + +"No," he remarked, "nothing. Yes, you have changed. Still, when I look +upon you, the ghosts of the past seem to rise like live things." + +"We both have changed. We meet now upon equal grounds. You are no +longer the idol I made of you." + +"Don't you think that to the idol this might be a relief, not a +humiliation? It is a terrible torture to sit in state with lips +eternally shut. Sometimes there comes over the most reticent of us a +desire to break through the eternal loneliness that surrounds the soul. +It is this feeling that prompts madmen to tear off their clothes and +exhibit their nakedness in the market-place. It's madness on my part, or +a whim, or I don't know what; but it pleases me that you should know the +truth." + +"You promised me long ago that I should." + +"To-day I will redeem my promise, and I will tell you another thing that +you will find hard to believe." + +"And that is?" + +"That I loved you." + +Ethel smiled a little sceptically. "You have loved often." + +"No," he replied. "Loved, seriously loved, I have, only once." + + + + +XX + + +They were sitting in a little Italian restaurant where they had often, +in the old days, lingered late into the night over a glass of Lacrimæ +Christi. But no pale ghost of the past rose from the wine. Only a +wriggling something, with serpent eyes, that sent cold shivers down her +spine and held her speechless and entranced. + +When their order had been filled and the waiter had posted himself at a +respectful distance, Reginald began--at first leisurely, a man of the +world. But as he proceeded a strange exultation seemed to possess him +and from his eyes leaped the flame of the mystic. + +"You must pardon me," he commenced, "if I monopolise the conversation, +but the revelations I have to make are of such a nature that I may well +claim your attention. I will start with my earliest childhood. You +remember the picture of me that was taken when I was five?" + +She remembered, indeed. Each detail of his life was deeply engraven on +her mind. + +"At that time," he continued, "I was not held to be particularly bright. +The reason was that my mind, being pre-eminently and extraordinarily +receptive, needed a stimulus from without. The moment I was sent to +school, however, a curious metamorphosis took place in me. I may say +that I became at once the most brilliant boy in my class. You know that +to this day I have always been the most striking figure in any circle in +which I have ever moved." + +Ethel nodded assent. Silently watching the speaker, she saw a gleam of +the truth from afar, but still very distant and very dim. + +Reginald lifted the glass against the light and gulped its contents. +Then in a lower voice he recommenced: "Like the chameleon, I have the +power of absorbing the colour of my environment." + +"Do you mean that you have the power of absorbing the special virtues +of other people?" she interjected. + +"That is exactly what I mean." + +"Oh!" she cried, for in a heart-beat many things had become clear to +her. For the first time she realised, still vaguely but with increasing +vividness, the hidden causes of her ruin and, still more plainly, the +horrible danger of Ernest Fielding. + +He noticed her agitation, and a look of psychological curiosity came +into his eyes. + +"Ah, but that is not all," he observed, smilingly. "That is nothing. We +all possess that faculty in a degree. The secret of my strength is my +ability to reject every element that is harmful or inessential to the +completion of my self. This did not come to me easily, nor without a +struggle. But now, looking back upon my life, many things become +transparent that were obscure even to me at the time. I can now follow +the fine-spun threads in the intricate web of my fate, and discover in +the wilderness of meshes a design, awful and grandly planned." + +His voice shook with conviction, as he uttered these words. There was +something strangely gruesome in this man. It was thus that she had +pictured to herself the high-priest of some terrible and mysterious +religion, demanding a human sacrifice to appease the hunger of his god. +She was fascinated by the spell of his personality, and listened with a +feeling not far removed from awe. But Reginald suddenly changed his tone +and proceeded in a more conversational manner. + +"The first friend I ever cared for was a boy marvellously endowed for +the study of mathematics. At the time of our first meeting at school, I +was unable to solve even the simplest algebraical problem. But we had +been together only for half a month, when we exchanged parts. It was I +who was the mathematical genius now, whereas he became hopelessly dull +and stuttered through his recitations only with a struggle that brought +the tears to his eyes. Then I discarded him. Heartless, you say? I have +come to know better. Have you ever tasted a bottle of wine that had been +uncorked for a long time? If you have, you have probably found it +flat--the essence was gone, evaporated. Thus it is when we care for +people. Probably--no, assuredly--there is some principle prisoned in +their souls, or in the windings of their brains, which, when escaped, +leaves them insipid, unprofitable and devoid of interest to us. +Sometimes this essence--not necessarily the finest element in a man's or +a woman's nature, but soul-stuff that we lack--disappears. In fact, it +invariably disappears. It may be that it has been transformed in the +processes of their growth; it may also be that it has utterly vanished +by some inadvertence, or that we ourselves have absorbed it." + +"Then we throw them away?" Ethel asked, pale, but dry-eyed. A shudder +passed through her body and she clinched her glass nervously. At that +moment Reginald resembled a veritable Prince of Darkness, sinister and +beautiful, painted by the hand of a modern master. Then, for a space, he +again became the man of the world. Smiling and self-possessed, he filled +the glasses, took a long sip of the wine and resumed his narrative. + +"That boy was followed by others. I absorbed many useless things and +some that were evil. I realised that I must direct my absorptive +propensities. This I did. I selected, selected well. And all the time +the terrible power of which I was only half conscious grew within me." + +"It is indeed a terrible power," she cried; "all the more terrible for +its subtlety. Had I not myself been its victim, I should not now find it +possible to believe in it." + +"The invisible hand that smites in the dark is certainly more fearful +than a visible foe. It is also more merciful. Think how much you would +have suffered had you been conscious of your loss." + +"Still it seems even now to me that it cannot have been an utter, +irreparable loss. There is no action without reaction. Even I--even +we--must have received from you some compensation for what you have +taken away." + +"In the ordinary processes of life the law of action and reaction is +indeed potent. But no law is without exception. Think of radium, for +instance, with its constant and seemingly inexhaustible outflow of +energy. It is a difficult thing to imagine, but our scientific men have +accepted it as a fact. Why should we find it more difficult to conceive +of a tremendous and infinite absorptive element? I feel sure that it +must somewhere exist. But every phenomenon in the physical world finds +its counterpart in the psychical universe. There are radium-souls that +radiate without loss of energy, but also without increase. And there are +souls, the reverse of radium, with unlimited absorptive capacities." + +"Vampire-souls," she observed, with a shudder, and her face blanched. + +"No," he said, "don't say that." And then he suddenly seemed to grow in +stature. His face was ablaze, like the face of a god. + +"In every age," he replied, with solemnity, "there are giants who attain +to a greatness which by natural growth no men could ever have reached. +But in their youth a vision came to them, which they set out to seek. +They take the stones of fancy to build them a palace in the kingdom of +truth, projecting into reality dreams, monstrous and impossible. Often +they fail and, tumbling from their airy heights, end a quixotic career. +Some succeed. They are the chosen. Carpenter's sons they are, who have +laid down the Law of a World for milleniums to come; or simple +Corsicans, before whose eagle eye have quaked the kingdoms of the earth. +But to accomplish their mission they need a will of iron and the wit of +a hundred men. And from the iron they take the strength, and from a +hundred men's brains they absorb their wisdom. Divine missionaries, they +appear in all departments of life. In their hand is gathered to-day the +gold of the world. Mighty potentates of peace and war, they unlock new +seas and from distant continents lift the bars. Single-handed, they +accomplish what nations dared not hope; with Titan strides they scale +the stars and succeed where millions fail. In art they live, the makers +of new periods, the dreamers of new styles. They make themselves the +vocal sun-glasses of God. Homer and Shakespeare, Hugo and Balzac--they +concentrate the dispersed rays of a thousand lesser luminaries in one +singing flame that, like a giant torch, lights up humanity's path." + +She gazed at him, open-mouthed. The light had gone from his visage. He +paused, exhausted, but even then he looked the incarnation of a force no +less terrible, no less grand. She grasped the immensity of his +conception, but her woman's soul rebelled at the horrible injustice to +those whose light is extinguished, as hers had been, to feed an alien +flame. And then, for a moment, she saw the pale face of Ernest staring +at her out of the wine. + +"Cruel," she sobbed, "how cruel!" + +"What matter?" he asked. "Their strength is taken from them, but the +spirit of humanity, as embodied in us, triumphantly marches on." + + + + +XXI + + +Reginald's revelations were followed by a long silence, interrupted only +by the officiousness of the waiter. The spell once broken, they +exchanged a number of more or less irrelevant observations. Ethel's mind +returned, again and again, to the word he had not spoken. He had said +nothing of the immediate bearing of his monstrous power upon her own +life and that of Ernest Fielding. + +At last, somewhat timidly, she approached the subject. + +"You said you loved me," she remarked. + +"I did." + +"But why, then--" + +"I could not help it." + +"Did you ever make the slightest attempt?" + +"In the horrible night hours I struggled against it. I even implored you +to leave me." + +"Ah, but I loved you!" + +"You would not be warned, you would not listen. You stayed with me, and +slowly, surely, the creative urge went out of your life." + +"But what on earth could you find in my poor art to attract you? What +were my pictures to you?" + +"I needed them, I needed you. It was a certain something, a rich colour +effect, perhaps. And then, under your very eyes, the colour that +vanished from your canvases reappeared in my prose. My style became more +luxurious than it had been, while you tortured your soul in the vain +attempt of calling back to your brush what was irretrievably lost." + +"Why did you not tell me?" + +"You would have laughed in my face, and I could not have endured your +laugh. Besides, I always hoped, until it was too late, that I might yet +check the mysterious power within me. Soon, however, I became aware that +it was beyond my control. The unknown god, whose instrument I am, had +wisely made it stronger than me." + +"But why," retorted Ethel, "was it necessary to discard me, like a +cast-off garment, like a wanton who has lost the power to please?" + +Her frame shook with the remembered emotion of that moment, when years +ago he had politely told her that she was nothing to him. + +"The law of being," Reginald replied, almost sadly, "the law of my +being. I should have pitied you, but the eternal reproach of your +suffering only provoked my anger. I cared less for you every day, and +when I had absorbed all of you that my growth required, you were to me +as one dead, as a stranger you were. There was between us no further +community of interest; henceforth, I knew, our lives must move in +totally different spheres. You remember that day when we said good-bye?" + +"You mean that day when I lay before you on my knees," she corrected +him. + +"That day I buried my last dream of personal happiness. I would have +gladly raised you from the floor, but love was utterly gone. If I am +tenderer to-day than I am wont to be, it is because you mean so much to +me as the symbol of my renunciation. When I realised that I could not +even save the thing I loved from myself, I became hardened and cruel to +others. Not that I know no kindly feeling, but no qualms of conscience +lay their prostrate forms across my path. There is nothing in life for +me but my mission." + +His face was bathed in ecstasy. The pupils were luminous, large and +threatening. He had the look of a madman or a prophet. + +After a while Ethel remarked: "But you have grown into one of the +master-figures of the age. Why not be content with that? Is there no +limit to your ambition?" + +Reginald smiled: "Ambition! Shakespeare stopped when he had reached his +full growth, when he had exhausted the capacity of his contemporaries. I +am not yet ready to lay down my pen and rest." + +"And will you always continue in this criminal course, a murderer of +other lives?" + +He looked her calmly in the face. "I do not know." + +"Are you the slave of your unknown god?" + +"We are all slaves, wire-pulled marionettes: You, Ernest, I. There is +no freedom on the face of the earth nor above. The tiger that tears a +lamb is not free, I am not free, you are not free. All that happens must +happen; no word that is said is said in vain, in vain is raised no +hand." + +"Then," Ethel retorted, eagerly, "if I attempted to wrest your victim +from you, I should also be the tool of your god?" + +"Assuredly. But I am his chosen." + +"Can you--can you not set him free?" + +"I need him--a little longer. Then he is yours." + +"But can you not, if I beg you again on my knees, at least loosen his +chains before he is utterly ruined?" + +"It is beyond my power. If I could not rescue you, whom I loved, what in +heaven or on earth can save him from his fate? Besides, he will not be +utterly ruined. It is only a part of him that I absorb. In his soul are +chords that I have not touched. They may vibrate one day, when he has +gathered new strength. You, too, would have spared yourself much pain +had you striven to attain success in different fields--not where I had +garnered the harvest of a lifetime. It is only a portion of his talent +that I take from him. The rest I cannot harm. Why should he bury that +remainder?" + +His eyes strayed through the window to the firmament, as if to say that +words could no more bend his indomitable will than alter the changeless +course of the stars. + +Ethel had half-forgotten the wrong she herself had suffered at his +hands. He could not be measured by ordinary standards, this dazzling +madman, whose diseased will-power had assumed such uncanny proportions. +But here a young life was at stake. In her mind's eye she saw Reginald +crush between his relentless hands the delicate soul of Ernest Fielding, +as a magnificent carnivorous flower might close its glorious petals upon +a fly. + +Love, all conquering love, welled up in her. She would fight for Ernest +as a tiger cat fights for its young. She would place herself in the way +of the awful force that had shattered her own aspirations, and save, at +any cost, the brilliant boy who did not love her. + + + + +XXII + + +The last rays of the late afternoon sun fell slanting through Ernest's +window. He was lying on his couch, in a leaden, death-like slumber that, +for the moment at least, was not even perturbed by the presence of +Reginald Clarke. + +The latter was standing at the boy's bedside, calm, unmoved as ever. The +excitement of his conversation with Ethel had left no trace on the +chiselled contour of his forehead. Smilingly fastening an orchid of an +indefinable purple tint in his evening coat, radiant, buoyant with life, +he looked down upon the sleeper. Then he passed his hand over Ernest's +forehead, as if to wipe off beads of sweat. At the touch of his hand the +boy stirred uneasily. When it was not withdrawn his countenance twitched +in pain. He moaned as men moan under the influence of some anæsthetic, +without possessing the power to break through the narrow partition that +separates them from death on the one side and from consciousness on the +other. At last a sigh struggled to his seemingly paralysed lips, then +another. Finally the babbling became articulate. + +"For God's sake," he cried, in his sleep, "take that hand away!" + +And all at once the benignant smile on Reginald's features was changed +to a look of savage fierceness. He no longer resembled the man of +culture, but a disappointed, snarling beast of prey. He took his hand +from Ernest's forehead and retired cautiously through the half-open +door. + +Hardly had he disappeared when Ernest awoke. For a moment he looked +around, like a hunted animal, then sighed with relief and buried his +head in his hand. At that moment a knock at the door was heard, and +Reginald re-entered, calm as before. + +"I declare," he exclaimed, "you have certainly been sleeping the sleep +of the just." + +"It isn't laziness," Ernest replied, looking up rather pleased at the +interruption. "But I've a splitting headache." + +"Perhaps those naps are not good for your health." + +"Probably. But of late I have frequently found it necessary to exact +from the day-hours the sleep which the night refuses me. I suppose it is +all due to indigestion, as you have suggested. The stomach is the source +of all evil." + +"It is also the source of all good. The Greeks made it the seat of the +soul. I have always claimed that the most important item in a great +poet's biography is an exact reproduction of his menu." + +"True, a man who eats a heavy beefsteak for breakfast in the morning is +incapable of writing a sonnet in the afternoon." + +"Yes," Reginald added, "we are what we eat and what our forefathers have +eaten before us. I ascribe the staleness of American poetry to the +griddle-cakes of our Puritan ancestors. I am sorry we cannot go deeper +into the subject at present. But I have an invitation to dinner where I +shall study, experimentally, the influence of French sauces on my +versification." + +"Good-bye." + +"Au revoir." And, with a wave of the hand, Reginald left the room. + +When the door had closed behind him, Ernest's thoughts took a more +serious turn. The tone of light bantering in which the preceding +conversation had taken place had been assumed on his part. For the last +few weeks evil dreams had tortured his sleep and cast their shadow upon +his waking hours. They had ever increased in reality, in intensity and +in hideousness. Even now he could see the long, tapering fingers that +every night were groping in the windings of his brain. It was a +well-formed, manicured hand that seemed to reach under his skull, +carefully feeling its way through the myriad convolutions where thought +resides. + +And, oh, the agony of it all! A human mind is not a thing of stone, but +alive, horribly alive to pain. What was it those fingers sought, what +mysterious treasures, what jewels hidden in the under-layer of his +consciousness? His brain was like a human gold-mine, quaking under the +blow of the pick and the tread of the miner. The miner! Ah, the miner! +Ceaselessly, thoroughly, relentlessly, he opened vein after vein and +wrested untold riches from the quivering ground; but each vein was a +live vein and each nugget of gold a thought! + +No wonder the boy was a nervous wreck. Whenever a tremulous nascent idea +was formulating itself, the dream-hand clutched it and took it away, +brutally severing the fine threads that bind thought to thought. And +when the morning came, how his head ached! It was not an acute pain, but +dull, heavy, incessant. + +These sensations, Ernest frequently told himself, were morbid fancies. +But then, the monomaniac who imagines that his arms have been mangled or +cut from his body, might as well be without arms. Mind can annihilate +obstacles. It can also create them. Psychology was no unfamiliar ground +to Ernest, and it was not difficult for him to seek in some casual +suggestion an explanation for his delusion, the fixed notion that +haunted him day and night. But he also realized that to explain a +phenomenon is not to explain it away. The man who analyses his emotions +cannot wholly escape them, and the shadow of fear--primal, inexplicable +fear--may darken at moments of weakness the life of the subtlest +psychologist and the clearest thinker. + +He had never spoken to Reginald of his terrible nightmares. Coming on +the heel of the fancy that he, Ernest, had written "The Princess With +the Yellow Veil," a fancy that, by the way, had again possessed him of +late, this new delusion would certainly arouse suspicion as to his +sanity in Reginald's mind. He would probably send him to a sanitarium; +he certainly would not keep him in the house. Beneficence itself in all +other things, his host was not to be trifled with in any matter that +interfered with his work. He would act swiftly and without mercy. + +For the first time in many days Ernest thought of Abel Felton. Poor boy! +What had become of him after he had been turned from the house? He would +not wait for any one to tell him to pack his bundle. But then, that was +impossible; Reginald was fond of him. + +Suddenly Ernest's meditations were interrupted by a noise at the outer +door. A key was turned in the lock. It must be he--but why so soon? What +could have brought him back at this hour? He opened the door and went +out into the hall to see what had happened. The figure that he beheld +was certainly not the person expected, but a woman, from whose shoulders +a theatre-cloak fell in graceful folds,--probably a visitor for +Reginald. Ernest was about to withdraw discreetly, when the electric +light that was burning in the hallway fell upon her face and illumined +it. + +Then indeed surprise overcame him. "Ethel," he cried, "is it you?" + + + + +XXIII + + +Ernest conducted Ethel Brandenbourg to his room and helped her to remove +her cloak. + +While he was placing the garment upon the back of a chair, she slipped a +little key into her hand-bag. He looked at her with a question in his +eyes. + +"Yes," she replied, "I kept the key; but I had not dreamed that I would +ever again cross this threshold." + +Meanwhile it had grown quite dark. The reflection of the street lanterns +without dimly lit the room, and through the twilight fantastic shadows +seemed to dance. + +The perfume of her hair pervaded the room and filled the boy's heart +with romance. Tenderness long suppressed called with a thousand voices. +The hour, the strangeness and unexpectedness of her visit, perhaps even +a boy's pardonable vanity, roused passion from its slumbers and once +again wrought in Ernest's soul the miracle of love. His arm encircled +her neck and his lips stammered blind, sweet, crazy and caressing +things. + +"Turn on the light," she pleaded. + +"You were not always so cruel." + +"No matter, I have not come to speak of love." + +"Why, then, have you come?" + +Ernest felt a little awkward, disappointed, as he uttered these words. + +What could have induced her to come to his rooms? He loosened his hold +on her and did as she asked. + +How pale she looked in the light, how beautiful! Surely, she had +sorrowed for him; but why had she not answered his letter? Yes, why? + +"Your letter?" She smiled a little sadly. "Surely you did not expect me +to answer that?" + +"Why not?" He had again approached her and his lips were close to hers. +"Why not? I have yearned for you. I love you." + +His breath intoxicated her; it was like a subtle perfume. Still she did +not yield. + +"You love me now--you did not love me then. The music of your words was +cold--machine-made, strained and superficial. I shall not answer, I told +myself: in his heart he has forgotten you. I did not then realise that a +dangerous force had possessed your life and crushed in your mind every +image but its own." + +"I don't understand." + +"Do you think I would have come here if it were a light matter? No, I +tell you, it is a matter of life and death to you, at least as an +artist." + +"What do you mean by that?" + +"Have you done a stroke of work since I last saw you?" + +"Yes, let me see, surely, magazine articles and a poem." + +"That is not what I want to know. Have you accomplished anything big? +Have you grown since this summer? How about your novel?" + +"I--I have almost finished it in my mind, but I have found no chance to +begin with the actual writing. I was sick of late, very sick." + +No doubt of it! His face was pinched and pale, and the lines about the +mouth were curiously contorted, like those of a man suffering from a +painful internal disease. + +"Tell me," she ventured, "do you ever miss anything?" + +"Do you mean--are there thieves?" + +"Thieves! Against thieves one can protect oneself." + +He stared at her wildly, half-frightened, in anticipation of some +dreadful revelation. His dream! His dream! That hand! Could it be more +than a dream? God! His lips quivered. + +Ethel observed his agitation and continued more quietly, but with the +same insistence: "Have you ever had ideas, plans that you began without +having strength to complete them? Have you had glimpses of vocal visions +that seemed to vanish no sooner than seen? Did it ever seem to you as if +some mysterious and superior will brutally interfered with the workings +of your brain?" + +Did it seem so to him! He himself could not have stated more plainly +the experience of the last few months. Each word fell from her lips like +the blow of a hammer. Shivering, he put his arm around her, seeking +solace, not love. This time she did not repulse him and, trustingly, as +a child confides to his mother, he depicted to her the suffering that +harrowed his life and made it a hell. + +As she listened, indignation clouded her forehead, while rising tears of +anger and of love weighed down her lashes. She could bear the pitiful +sight no longer. + +"Child," she cried, "do you know who your tormentor is?" + +And like a flash the truth passed from her to him. A sudden intimation +told him what her words had still concealed. + +"Don't! For Christ's sake, do not pronounce his name!" he sobbed. "Do +not breathe it. I could not endure it. I should go mad." + + + + +XXIV + + +Very quietly, with difficulty restraining her own emotion so as not to +excite him further, Ethel had related to Ernest the story of her +remarkable interview with Reginald Clarke. In the long silence that +ensued, the wings of his soul brushed against hers for the first time, +and Love by a thousand tender chains of common suffering welded their +beings into one. + +Caressingly the ivory of her fingers passed through the gold of his hair +and over his brow, as if to banish the demon-eyes that stared at him +across the hideous spaces of the past. In a rush a thousand incidents +came back to him, mute witnesses of a damning truth. His play, the +dreams that tormented him, his own inability to concentrate his mind +upon his novel which hitherto he had ascribed to nervous disease--all, +piling fact on fact, became one monstrous monument of Reginald Clarke's +crime. At last Ernest understood the parting words of Abel Felton and +the look in Ethel's eye on the night when he had first linked his fate +with the other man's. Walkham's experience, too, and Reginald's remarks +on the busts of Shakespeare and Balzac unmistakably pointed toward the +new and horrible spectre that Ethel's revelation had raised in place of +his host. + +And then, again, the other Reginald appeared, crowned with the lyric +wreath. From his lips golden cadences fell, sweeter than the smell of +many flowers or the sound of a silver bell. He was once more the divine +master, whose godlike features bore no trace of malice and who had +raised him to a place very near his heart. + +"No," he cried, "it is impossible. It's all a dream, a horrible +nightmare." + +"But he has himself confessed it," she interjected. + +"Perhaps he has spoken in symbols. We all absorb to some extent other +men's ideas, without robbing them and wrecking their thought-life. +Reginald may be unscrupulous in the use of his power of impressing upon +others the stamp of his master-mind. So was Shakespeare. No, no, no! +You are mistaken; we were both deluded for the moment by his picturesque +account of a common, not even a discreditable, fact. He may himself have +played with the idea, but surely he cannot have been serious." + +"And your own experience, and Abel Felton's and mine--can they, too, be +dismissed with a shrug of the shoulder?" + +"But, come to think of it, the whole theory seems absurd. It is +unscientific. It is not even a case of mesmerism. If he had said that he +hypnotised his victims, the matter would assume a totally different +aspect. I admit that something is wrong somewhere, and that the home of +Reginald Clarke is no healthful abode for me. But you must also remember +that probably we are both unstrung to the point of hysteria." + +But to Ethel his words carried no conviction. + +"You are still under his spell," she cried, anxiously. + +A little shaken in his confidence, Ernest resumed: "Reginald is utterly +incapable of such an action, even granting that he possessed the +terrible power of which you speak. A man of his splendid resources, a +literary Midas at whose very touch every word turns into gold, is under +no necessity to prey on the thoughts of others. Circumstances, I admit, +are suspicious. But in the light of common day this fanciful theory +shrivels into nothing. Any court of law would reject our evidence as +madness. It is too utterly fantastic, utterly alien to any human +experience." + +"Is it though?" Ethel replied with peculiar intonation. + +"Why, what do you mean?" + +"Surely," she answered, "you must know that in the legends of every +nation we read of men and women who were called vampires. They are +beings, not always wholly evil, whom every night some mysterious impulse +leads to steal into unguarded bedchambers, to suck the blood of the +sleepers and then, having waxed strong on the life of their victims, +cautiously to retreat. Thence comes it that their lips are very red. It +is even said that they can find no rest in the grave, but return to +their former haunts long after they are believed to be dead. Those whom +they visit, however, pine away for no apparent reason. The physicians +shake their wise heads and speak of consumption. But sometimes, ancient +chronicles assure us, the people's suspicions were aroused, and under +the leadership of a good priest they went in solemn procession to the +graves of the persons suspected. And on opening the tombs it was found +that their coffins had rotted away and the flowers in their hair were +black. But their bodies were white and whole; through no empty sockets +crept the vermin, and their sucking lips were still moist with a little +blood." + +Ernest was carried away in spite of himself by her account, which +vividly resembled his own experience. Still he would not give in. + +"All this is impressive. I admit it is very impressive. But you yourself +speak of such stories as legends. They are unfounded upon any tangible +fact, and you cannot expect a man schooled in modern sciences to admit, +as having any possible bearing upon his life, the crude belief of the +Middle Ages!" + +"Why not?" she responded. "Our scientists have proved true the wildest +theories of mediæval scholars. The transmutation of metals seems to-day +no longer an idle speculation, and radium has transformed into potential +reality the dream of perpetual motion. The fundamental notions of +mathematics are being undermined. One school of philosophers claims that +the number of angles in a triangle is equal to more than two right +angles; another propounds that it is less. Even great scientists who +have studied the soul of nature are turning to spiritism. The world is +overcoming the shallow scepticism of the nineteenth century. Life has +become once more wonderful and very mysterious. But it also seems that, +with the miracles of the old days, their terrors, their nightmares and +their monsters have come back in a modern guise." + +Ernest became even more thoughtful. "Yes," he observed, "there is +something in what you say." Then, pacing the room nervously, he +exclaimed: "And still I find it impossible to believe your explanation. +Reginald a vampire! It seems so ludicrous. If you had told me that such +creatures exist somewhere, far away, I might have discussed the matter; +but in this great city, in the shadow of the Flatiron Building--no!" + +She replied with warmth: "Yet they exist--always have existed. Not only +in the Middle Ages, but at all times and in all regions. There is no +nation but has some record of them, in one form or another. And don't +you think if we find a thought, no matter how absurd it may seem to us, +that has ever occupied the minds of men--if we find, I say, such a +perennially recurrent thought, are we not justified in assuming that it +must have some basis in the actual experience of mankind?" + +Ernest's brow became very clouded, and infinite numbers of hidden +premature wrinkles began to show. How wan he looked and how frail! He +was as one lost in a labyrinth in which he saw no light, convinced +against his will, or rather, against his scientific conviction, that she +was not wholly mistaken. + +"Still," he observed triumphantly, "your vampires suck blood; but +Reginald, if vampire he be, preys upon the soul. How can a man suck +from another man's brain a thing as intangible, as quintessential as +thought?" + +"Ah," she replied, "you forget, thought is more real than blood!" + + + + +XXV + + +Only three hours had passed since Ethel had startled Ernest from his +sombre reveries, but within this brief space their love had matured as +if each hour had been a year. The pallor had vanished from his cheeks +and the restiveness from his eyes. The intoxication of her presence had +rekindled the light of his countenance and given him strength to combat +the mighty forces embodied in Reginald Clarke. The child in him had made +room for the man. He would not hear of surrendering without a struggle, +and Ethel felt sure she might leave his fate in his own hand. Love had +lent him a coat of mail. He was warned, and would not succumb. Still she +made one more attempt to persuade him to leave the house at once with +her. + +"I must go now," she said. "Will you not come with me, after all? I am +so afraid to think of you still here." + +"No, dear," he replied. "I shall not desert my post. I must solve the +riddle of this man's life; and if, indeed, he is the thing he seems to +be, I shall attempt to wrest from him what he has stolen from me. I +speak of my unwritten novel." + +"Do not attempt to oppose him openly. You cannot resist him." + +"Be assured that I shall be on my guard. I have in the last few hours +lived through so much that makes life worth living, that I would not +wantonly expose myself to any danger. Still, I cannot go without +certainty--cannot, if there is some truth in our fears, leave the best +of me behind." + +"What are you planning to do?" + +"My play--I am sure now that it is mine--I cannot take from him; that is +irretrievably lost. He has read it to his circle and prepared for its +publication. And, no matter how firmly convinced you or I may be of his +strange power, no one would believe our testimony. They would pronounce +us mad. Perhaps we _are_ mad!" + +"No; we are not mad; but it is mad for you to stay here," she asserted. + +"I shall not stay here one minute longer than is absolutely essential. +Within a week I shall have conclusive proof of his guilt or innocence." + +"How will you go about it?" + +"His writing table--" + +"Ah!" + +"Yes, perhaps I can discover some note, some indication, some proof--" + +"It's a dangerous game." + +"I have everything to gain." + +"I wish I could stay here with you," she said. "Have you no friend, no +one whom you could trust in this delicate matter?" + +"Why, yes--Jack." + +A shadow passed over her face. + +"Do you know," she said, "I have a feeling that you care more for him +than for me?" + +"Nonsense," he said, "he is my friend, you, you--immeasurably more." + +"Are you still as intimate with him as when I first met you?" + +"Not quite; of late a troubling something, like a thin veil, seems to +have passed between us. But he will come when I call him. He will not +fail me in my hour of need." + +"When can he be here?" + +"In two or three days." + +"Meanwhile be very careful. Above all, lock your door at night." + +"I will not only lock, but barricade it. I shall try with all my power +to elucidate this mystery without, however, exposing myself to needless +risks." + +"I will go, then. Kiss me good-bye." + +"May I not take you to the car?" + +"You had better not." + +At the door she turned back once more. "Write me every day, or call me +up on the telephone." + +He straightened himself, as if to convince her of his strength. Yet when +at last the door had closed behind her, his courage forsook him for a +moment. And, if he had not been ashamed to appear a weakling before the +woman he loved, who knows if any power on earth could have kept him in +that house where from every corner a secret seemed to lurk! + +There was a misgiving, too, in the woman's heart as she left the boy +behind,--a prey to the occult power that, seeking expression in multiple +activities, has made and unmade emperors, prophets and poets. + +As she stepped into a street car she saw from afar, as in a vision, the +face of Reginald Clarke. It seemed very white and hungry. There was no +human kindness in it--only a threat and a sneer. + + + + +XXVI + + +For over an hour Ernest paced up and down his room, wildly excited by +Ethel's revelations. It required an immense amount of self-control for +him to pen the following lines to Jack: "I need you. Come." + +After he had entrusted the letter to the hall-boy, a reaction set in and +he was able to consider the matter, if not with equanimity, at least +with a degree of calmness. The strangest thing to him was that he could +not bring himself to hate Reginald, of whose evil influence upon his +life he was now firmly convinced. Here was another shattered idol; but +one--like the fragment of a great god-face in the desert--intensely +fascinating, even in its ruin. Then yielding to a natural impulse, +Ernest looked over his photographs and at once laid hold upon the +austere image of his master and friend. No--it was preposterous; there +was no evil in this man. There was no trace of malice in this face, the +face of a prophet or an inspired madman, a poet. And yet, as he +scrutinised the picture closely a curious transformation seemed to take +place in the features; a sly little line appeared insinuatingly about +Reginald's well-formed mouth, and the serene calm of his Jupiter-head +seemed to turn into the sneak smile of a thief. Nevertheless, Ernest was +not afraid. His anxieties had at last assumed definite shape; it was +possible now to be on his guard. It is only invisible, incomprehensible +fear, crouching upon us from the night, that drives sensitive natures to +the verge of madness and transforms stern warriors into cowards. + +Ernest realised the necessity of postponing the proposed investigation +of Reginald's papers until the morning, as it was now near eleven, and +he expected to hear at any moment the sound of his feet at the door. +Before retiring he took a number of precautions. Carefully he locked the +door to his bedroom and placed a chair in front of it. To make doubly +sure, he fastened the handle to an exquisite Chinese vase, a gift of +Reginald's, that at the least attempt to force an entrance from without +would come down with a crash. + +Then, although sleep seemed out of the question, he went to bed. He had +hardly touched the pillow when a leaden weight seemed to fall upon his +eyes. The day's commotion had been too much for his delicate frame. By +force of habit he pulled the cover over his ear and fell asleep. + +All night he slept heavily, and the morning was far advanced when a +knock at the door that, at first, seemed to come across an immeasurable +distance, brought him back to himself. It was Reginald's manservant +announcing that breakfast was waiting. + +Ernest got up and rubbed his eyes. The barricade at the door at once +brought back to his mind with startling clearness the events of the +previous evening. + +Everything was as he had left it. Evidently no one had attempted to +enter the room while he slept. He could not help smiling at the +arrangement which reminded him of his childhood, when he had sought by +similar means security from burglars and bogeys. And in the broad +daylight Ethel's tales of vampires seemed once more impossible and +absurd. Still, he had abundant evidence of Reginald's strange influence, +and was determined to know the truth before nightfall. Her words, that +thought is more real than blood, kept ringing in his ears. If such was +the case, he would find evidence of Reginald's intellectual burglaries, +and possibly be able to regain a part of his lost self that had been +snatched from him by the relentless dream-hand. + +But under no circumstances could he face Reginald in his present state +of mind. He was convinced that if in the fleeting vision of a moment the +other man's true nature should reveal itself to him, he would be so +terribly afraid as to shriek like a maniac. So he dressed particularly +slowly in the hope of avoiding an encounter with his host. But fate +thwarted this hope. Reginald, too, lingered that morning unusually long +over his coffee. He was just taking his last sip when Ernest entered the +room. His behaviour was of an almost bourgeois kindness. Benevolence +fairly beamed from his face. But to the boy's eyes it had assumed a new +and sinister expression. + +"You are late this morning, Ernest," he remarked in his mildest manner. +"Have you been about town, or writing poetry? Both occupations are +equally unhealthy." As he said this he watched the young man with the +inscrutable smile that at moments was wont to curl upon his lips. Ernest +had once likened it to the smile of Mona Lisa, but now he detected in it +the suavity of the hypocrite and the leer of the criminal. + +He could not endure it; he could not look upon that face any longer. His +feet almost gave way under him, cold sweat gathered on his brow, and he +sank on a chair trembling and studiously avoiding the other man's gaze. + +At last Reginald rose to go. It seemed impossible to accuse this +splendid impersonation of vigorous manhood of cunning and underhand +methods, of plagiarisms and of theft. As he stood there he resembled +more than anything a beautiful tiger-cat, a wonderful thing of strength +and will-power, indomitable and insatiate. Yet who could tell whether +this strength was not, after all, parasitic. If Ethel's suspicions were +justified, then, indeed, more had been taken from him than he could ever +realise. For in that case it was his life-blood that circled in those +veins and the fire of his intellect that set those lips aflame! + + + + +XXVII + + +Reginald Clarke had hardly left the room when Ernest hastily rose from +his seat. While it was likely that he would remain in undisturbed +possession of the apartment the whole morning, the stake at hand was too +great to permit of delay. + +Palpitating and a little uncertain, he entered the studio where, +scarcely a year ago, Reginald Clarke had bidden him welcome. Nothing had +changed there since then; only in Ernest's mind the room had assumed an +aspect of evil. The Antinous was there and the Faun and the Christ-head. +But their juxtaposition to-day partook of the nature of the blasphemous. +The statues of Shakespeare and Balzac seemed to frown from their +pedestals as his fingers were running through Reginald's papers. He +brushed against a semblance of Napoleon that was standing on the +writing-table, so that it toppled over and made a noise that weirdly +re-echoed in the silence of the room. At that moment a curious family +resemblance between Shakespeare, Balzac, Napoleon--and Reginald, +forcibly impressed itself upon his mind. It was the indisputable +something that marks those who are chosen to give ultimate expression to +some gigantic world-purpose. In Balzac's face it was diffused with +kindliness, in that of Napoleon sheer brutality predominated. The image +of one who was said to be the richest man of the world also rose before +his eyes. Perhaps it was only the play of his fevered imagination, but +he could have sworn that this man's features, too, bore the mark of +those unoriginal, great absorptive minds who, for better or for worse, +are born to rob and rule. They seemed to him monsters that know neither +justice nor pity, only the law of their being, the law of growth. + +Common weapons would not avail against such forces. Being one, they were +stronger than armies; nor could they be overcome in single combat. +Stealth, trickery, the outfit of the knave, were legitimate weapons in +such a fight. In this case the end justified the means, even if the +latter included burglary. + +After a brief and fruitless search of the desk, he attempted to force +open a secret drawer, the presence of which he had one day accidentally +discovered. He tried a number of keys to no account, and was thinking of +giving up his researches for the day until he had procured a skeleton +key, when at last the lock gave way. + +The drawer disclosed a large file of manuscript. Ernest paused for a +moment to draw breath. The paper rustled under his nervous fingers. And +there--at last--his eyes lit upon a bulky bundle that bore this legend: +"_Leontina_, A Novel." + +It was true, then--all, his dream, Reginald's confession. And the house +that had opened its doors so kindly to him was the house of a Vampire! + +Finally curiosity overcame his burning indignation. He attempted to +read. The letters seemed to dance before his eyes--his hands trembled. + +At last he succeeded. The words that had first rolled over like drunken +soldiers now marched before his vision in orderly sequence. He was +delighted, then stunned. This was indeed authentic literature, there +could be no doubt about it. And it was his. He was still a poet, a great +poet. He drew a deep breath. Sudden joy trembled in his heart. This +story set down by a foreign hand had grown chapter by chapter in his +brain. + +There were some slight changes--slight deviations from the original +plan. A defter hand than his had retouched it here and there, but for +all that it remained his very own. It did not belong to that thief. The +blood welled to his cheek as he uttered this word that, applied to +Reginald, seemed almost sacrilegious. + +He had nearly reached the last chapter when he heard steps in the +hallway. Hurriedly he restored the manuscript to its place, closed the +drawer and left the room on tiptoe. + +It was Reginald. But he did not come alone. Someone was speaking to him. +The voice seemed familiar. Ernest could not make out what it said. He +listened intently and--was it possible? Jack? Surely he could not yet +have come in response to his note! What mysterious power, what dim +presentiment of his friend's plight had led him hither? But why did he +linger so long in Reginald's room, instead of hastening to greet him? +Cautiously he drew nearer. This time he caught Jack's words: + +"It would be very convenient and pleasant. Still, some way, I feel that +it is not right for me, of all men, to take his place here." + +"That need not concern you," Reginald deliberately replied; "the dear +boy expressed the desire to leave me within a fortnight. I think he will +go to some private sanitarium. His nerves are frightfully overstrained." + +"This seems hardly surprising after the terrible attack he had when you +read your play." + +"That idea has since then developed into a monomania." + +"I am awfully sorry for him. I cared for him much, perhaps too much. But +I always feared that he would come to such an end. Of late his letters +have been strangely unbalanced." + +"You will find him very much changed. In fact, he is no longer the +same." + +"No," said Jack, "he is no longer the friend I loved." + +Ernest clutched for the wall. His face was contorted with intense agony. +Each word was like a nail driven into his flesh. Crucified upon the +cross of his own affection by the hand he loved, all white and trembling +he stood there. Tears rushed to his eyes, but he could not weep. +Dry-eyed he reached his room and threw himself upon his bed. Thus he +lay--uncomforted and alone. + + + + +XXVIII + + +Terrible as was his loneliness, a meeting with Jack would have been more +terrible. And, after all, it was true, a gulf had opened between them. + +Ethel alone could bring solace to his soul. There was a great void in +his heart which only she could fill. He hungered for the touch of her +hand. He longed for her presence strongly, as a wanton lusts for +pleasure and as sad men crave death. + +Noiselessly he stole to the door so as not to arouse the attention of +the other two men, whose every whisper pierced his heart like a dagger. +When he came to Ethel's home, he found that she had gone out for a +breath of air. The servant ushered him into the parlor, and there he +waited, waited, waited for her. + +Greatly calmed by his walk, he turned the details of Clarke's +conversation over in his mind, and the conviction grew upon him that +the friend of his boyhood was not to blame for his course of action. +Reginald probably had encircled Jack's soul with his demoniacal +influence and singled him out for another victim. That must never be. It +was his turn to save now. He would warn his friend of the danger that +threatened him, even if his words should be spoken into the wind. For +Reginald, with an ingenuity almost satanic, had already suggested that +the delusion of former days had developed into a monomania, and any +attempt on his part to warn Jack would only seem to confirm this theory. +In that case only one way was left open. He must plead with Reginald +himself, confront at all risks that snatcher of souls. To-night he would +not fall asleep. He would keep his vigil. And if Reginald should +approach his room, if in some way he felt the direful presence, he must +speak out, threaten if need be, to save his friend from ruin. He had +fully determined upon this course when a cry of joy from Ethel, who had +just returned from her walk, interrupted his reverie. But her gladness +changed to anxiety when she saw how pale he was. Ernest recounted to +her the happenings of the day, from the discovery of his novel in +Reginald's desk to the conversation which he had accidentally overheard. +He noticed that her features brightened as he drew near the end of his +tale. + +"Was your novel finished?" she suddenly asked. + +"I think so." + +"Then you are out of danger. He will want nothing else of you. But you +should have taken it with you." + +"I had only sufficient presence of mind to slip it back into the drawer. +To-morrow I shall simply demand it." + +"You will do nothing of the kind. It is in his handwriting, and you have +no legal proof that it is yours. You must take it away secretly. And he +will not dare to reclaim it." + +"And Jack?" + +She had quite forgotten Jack. Women are invariably selfish for those +they love. + +"You must warn him," she replied. + +"He would laugh at me. However, I must speak to Reginald." + +"It is of no avail to speak to him. At least, you must not do so before +you have obtained the manuscript. It would unnecessarily jeopardise our +plans." + +"And after?" + +"After, perhaps. But you must not expose yourself to any danger." + +"No, dear," he said, and kissed her; "what danger is there, provided I +keep my wits about me? He steals upon men only in their sleep and in the +dark." + +"Be careful, nevertheless." + +"I shall. In fact, I think he is not at home at this moment. If I go now +I may be able to get hold of the manuscript and hide it before he +returns." + +"I cannot but tremble to think of you in that house." + +"You shall have no more reason to tremble in a day or two." + +"Shall I see you to-morrow?" + +"I don't think so. I must go over my papers and things so as to be ready +at any moment to leave the house." + +"And then?" + +"Then--" + +He took her in his arms and looked long and deeply into her eyes. + +"Yes," she replied--"at least, perhaps." + +Then he turned to go, resolute and happy. How strangely he had matured +since the summer! Her heart swelled with the consciousness that it was +her love that had effected this transformation. + +"As I cannot expect you to-morrow, I shall probably go to the opera, but +I shall be at home before midnight. Will you call me up then? A word +from you will put me at ease for the night, even if it comes over the +telephone." + +"I will call you up. We moderns have an advantage over the ancients in +this respect: the twentieth-century Pyramus can speak to Thisbe even if +innumerable walls sever his body from hers." + +"A quaint conceit! But let us hope that our love-story will end less +tragically," she said, tenderly caressing his hair. "Oh, we shall be +happy, you and I," she added, after a while. "The iron finger of fate +that lay so heavily on our lives is now withdrawn. Almost withdrawn. +Yes, almost. Only almost." + +And then a sudden fear overcame her. + +"No," she cried, "do not go, do not go! Stay with me; stay here. I feel +so frightened. I don't know what comes over me. I am afraid--afraid for +you." + +"No, dear," he rejoined, "you need not be afraid. In your heart you +don't want me to desert a friend, and, besides, leave the best part of +my artistic life in Reginald's clutch." + +"Why should you expose yourself to God knows what danger for a friend +who is ready to betray you?" + +"You forget friendship is a gift. If it exacts payment in any form, it +is no longer either friendship or a gift. And you yourself have assured +me that I have nothing to fear from Reginald. I have nothing to give to +him." + +She rallied under his words and had regained her self-possession when +the door closed behind him. He walked a few blocks very briskly. Then +his pace slackened. Her words had unsettled him a little, and when he +reached home he did not at once resume his exploration of Reginald's +papers. He had hardly lit a cigarette when, at an unusually early hour, +he heard Reginald's key in the lock. + +Quickly he turned the light out and in the semi-darkness, lit up by an +electric lantern below, barricaded the door as on the previous night. +Then he went to bed without finding sleep. + +Supreme silence reigned over the house. Even the elevator had ceased to +run. Ernest's brain was all ear. He heard Reginald walking up and down +in the studio. Not the smallest movement escaped his attention. Thus +hours passed. When the clock struck twelve, he was still walking up and +down, down and up, up and down. + +One o'clock. + +Still the measured beat of his footfall had not ceased. There was +something hypnotic in the regular tread. Nature at last exacted its toll +from the boy. He fell asleep. + +Hardly had he closed his eyes when again that horrible nightmare--no +longer a nightmare--tormented him. Again he felt the pointed delicate +fingers carefully feeling their way along the innumerable tangled +threads of nerve-matter that lead to the innermost recesses of self.... + +A subconscious something strove to arouse him, and he felt the fingers +softly withdrawn. + +He could have sworn that he heard the scurrying of feet in the room. +Bathed in perspiration he made a leap for the electric light. + +But there was no sign of any human presence. The barricade at the door +was undisturbed. But fear like a great wind filled the wings of his +soul. + +Yet there was nothing, nothing to warrant his conviction that Reginald +Clarke had been with him only a few moments ago, plying his horrible +trade. The large mirror above the fireplace only showed him his own +face, white, excited,--the face of a madman. + + + + +XXIX + + +The next morning's mail brought a letter from Ethel, a few lines of +encouragement and affection. Yes, she was right; it would not do for him +to stay under one roof with Reginald any longer. He must only obtain the +manuscript and, if possible, surprise him in the attempt to exercise his +mysterious and criminal power. Then he would be in the position to +dictate terms and to demand Jack's safety as the price of his silence. + +Reginald, however, had closeted himself that day in his studio busily +writing. Only the clatter of his typewriter announced his presence in +the house. There was no chance for conversation or for obtaining the +precious manuscript of "Leontina." + +Meanwhile Ernest was looking over his papers and preparing everything +for a quick departure. Glancing over old letters and notes, he became +readily interested and hardly noticed the passage of the hours. + +When the night came he only partly undressed and threw himself upon the +bed. It was now ten. At twelve he had promised Ethel to speak to her +over the telephone. He was determined not to sleep at all that night. At +last he would discover whether or not on the previous and other nights +Reginald had secretly entered his room. + +When one hour had passed without incident, his attention relaxed a +little. His eyes were gradually closing when suddenly something seemed +to stir at the door. The Chinese vase came rattling to the floor. + +At once Ernest sprang up. His face had blanched with terror. It was +whiter than the linen in which they wrap the dead. But his soul was +resolute. + +He touched a button and the electric light illuminated the whole +chamber. There was no nook for even a shadow to hide. Yet there was no +one to be seen. From without the door came no sound. Suddenly something +soft touched his foot. He gathered all his will power so as not to +break out into a frenzied shriek. Then he laughed, not a hearty laugh, +to be sure. A tiny nose and a tail gracefully curled were brushing +against him. The source of the disturbance was a little Maltese cat, his +favourite, that by some chance had remained in his room. After its essay +at midnight gymnastics the animal quieted down and lay purring at the +foot of his bed. + +The presence of a living thing was a certain comfort, and the reservoir +of his strength was well nigh exhausted. + +He dimly remembered his promise to Ethel, but his lids drooped with +sheer weariness. Perhaps an hour passed in this way, when suddenly his +blood congealed with dread. + +He felt the presence of the hand of Reginald +Clarke--unmistakably--groping in his brain as if searching for something +that had still escaped him. + +He tried to move, to cry out, but his limbs were paralysed. When, by a +superhuman effort, he at last succeeded in shaking off the numbness that +held him enchained, he awoke just in time to see a figure, that of a +man, disappearing in the wall that separated Reginald's apartments from +his room.... + +This time it was no delusion of the senses. He heard something like a +secret door softly closing behind retreating steps. A sudden fierce +anger seized him. He was oblivious of the danger of the terrible power +of the older man, oblivious of the love he had once borne him, oblivious +of everything save the sense of outraged humanity and outraged right. + +The law permits us to shoot a burglar who goes through our pockets at +night. Must he tolerate the ravages of this a thousand times more +dastardly and dangerous spiritual thief? Was Reginald to enjoy the fruit +of other men's labour unpunished? Was he to continue growing into the +mightiest literary factor of the century by preying upon his betters? +Abel, Walkham, Ethel, he, Jack, were they all to be victims of this +insatiable monster? + +Was this force resistless as it was relentless? + +No, a thousand times, no! + +He dashed himself against the wall at the place where the shadow of +Reginald Clarke had disappeared. In doing so he touched upon a secret +spring. The wall gave way noiselessly. Speechless with rage he crossed +the next room and the one adjoining it, and stood in Reginald's studio. +The room was brilliantly lighted, and Reginald, still dressed, was +seated at his writing-table scribbling notes upon little scraps of paper +in his accustomed manner. + +At Ernest's approach he looked up without evincing the least sign of +terror or surprise. Calmly, almost majestically, he folded his arms over +his breast, but there was a menacing glitter in his eyes as he +confronted his victim. + + + + +XXX + + +Silently the two men faced each other. Then Ernest hissed: + +"Thief!" + +Reginald shrugged his shoulders. + +"Vampire!" + +"So Ethel has infected you with her absurd fancies! Poor boy! I am +afraid.... I have been wanting to tell you for some time.... But I +think... We have reached the parting of our road!" + +"And that you dare to tell me!" + +The more he raged, the calmer Reginald seemed to become. + +"Really," he said, "I fail to understand.... I must ask you to leave my +room!" + +"You fail to understand? You cad!" Ernest cried. He stepped to the +writing-table and opened the secret drawer with a blow. A bundle of +manuscripts fell on the floor with a strange rustling noise. Then, +seizing his own story, he hurled it upon the table. And behold--the last +pages bore corrections in ink that could have been made only a few +minutes ago! + +Reginald smiled. "Have you come to play havoc with my manuscripts?" he +remarked. + +"Your manuscripts? Reginald Clarke, you are an impudent impostor! You +have written no word that is your own. You are an embezzler of the mind, +strutting through life in borrowed and stolen plumes!" + +And at once the mask fell from Reginald's face. + +"Why stolen?" he coolly said, with a slight touch of irritation. "I +absorb. I appropriate. That is the most any artist can say for himself. +God creates; man moulds. He gives us the colours; we mix them." + +"That is not the question. I charge you with having wilfully and +criminally interfered in my life; I charge you with having robbed me of +what was mine; I charge you with being utterly vile and rapacious, a +hypocrite and a parasite!" + +"Foolish boy," Reginald rejoined austerely. "It is through me that the +best in you shall survive, even as the obscure Elizabethans live in him +of Avon. Shakespeare absorbed what was great in little men--a greatness +that otherwise would have perished--and gave it a setting, a life." + +"A thief may plead the same. I understand you better. It is your +inordinate vanity that prompts you to abuse your monstrous power." + +"You err. Self-love has never entered into my actions. I am careless of +personal fame. Look at me, boy! As I stand before you I am Homer, I am +Shakespeare ... I am every cosmic manifestation in art. Men have doubted +in each incarnation my individual existence. Historians have more to +tell of the meanest Athenian scribbler or Elizabethan poetaster than of +me. The radiance of my work obscured my very self. I care not. I have a +mission. I am a servant of the Lord. I am the vessel that bears the +Host!" + +He stood up at full length, the personification of grandeur and power. A +tremendous force trembled in his very finger tips. He was like a +gigantic dynamo, charged with the might of ten thousand magnetic storms +that shake the earth in its orbit and lash myriads of planets through +infinities of space.... + +Under ordinary circumstances Ernest or any other man would have quailed +before him. But the boy in that epic moment had grown out of his +stature. He felt the sword of vengeance in his hands; to him was +intrusted the cause of Abel and of Walkham, of Ethel and of Jack. His +was the struggle of the individual soul against the same blind and cruel +fate that in the past had fashioned the ichthyosaurus and the mastodon. + +"By what right," he cried, "do you assume that you are the literary +Messiah? Who appointed you? What divine power has made you the steward +of my mite and of theirs whom you have robbed?" + +"I am a light-bearer. I tread the high hills of mankind.... I point the +way to the future. I light up the abysses of the past. Were not my +stature gigantic, how could I hold the torch in all men's sight? The +very souls that I tread underfoot realise, as their dying gaze follows +me, the possibilities with which the future is big.... Eternally secure, +I carry the essence of what is cosmic ... of what is divine.... I am +Homer ... Goethe ... Shakespeare.... I am an embodiment of the same +force of which Alexander, Cæsar, Confucius and the Christos were also +embodiments.... None so strong as to resist me." + +A sudden madness overcame Ernest at this boast. He must strike now or +never. He must rid humanity of this dangerous maniac--this demon of +strength. With a power ten times intensified, he raised a heavy chair so +as to hurl it at Reginald's head and crush it. + +Reginald stood there calmly, a smile upon his lips.... Primal cruelties +rose from the depth of his nature.... Still he smiled, turning his +luminous gaze upon the boy ... and, behold ... Ernest's hand began to +shake ... the chair fell from his grasp.... He tried to call for help, +but no sound issued from his lips.... Utterly paralysed he +confronted ... the Force.... + +Minutes--eternities passed. + +And still those eyes were fixed upon him. + +But this was no longer Reginald! + +It was all brain ... only brain ... a tremendous brain-machine ... +infinitely complex ... infinitely strong. Not more than a mile away +Ethel endeavoured to call to him through the night. The telephone rang, +once, twice, thrice, insistingly. But Ernest heard it not. Something +dragged him ... dragged the nerves from his body dragged, dragged, +dragged.... It was an irresistible suction ... pitiless ... passionless +... immense. + +Sparks, blue, crimson and violet, seemed to play around the living +battery. It reached the finest fibres of his mind.... Slowly ... every +trace of mentality disappeared.... First the will ... then feeling ... +judgment ... memory ... fear even.... All that was stored in his +brain-cells came forth to be absorbed by that mighty engine.... + +The Princess With the Yellow Veil appeared ... flitted across the room +and melted away. She was followed by childhood memories ... girls' +heads, boys' faces.... He saw his dead mother waving her arms to him.... +An expression of death-agony distorted the placid features.... Then, +throwing a kiss to him, she, too, disappeared. Picture on picture +followed.... Words of love that he had spoken ... sins, virtues, +magnanimities, meannesses, terrors ... mathematical formulas even, and +snatches of songs. Leontina came and was swallowed up.... No, it was +Ethel who was trying to speak to him ... trying to warn.... She waved +her hands in frantic despair.... She was gone.... A pale face ... dark, +dishevelled hair.... Jack.... How he had changed! He was in the circle +of the vampire's transforming might. "Jack," he cried. Surely Jack had +something to explain ... something to tell him ... some word that if +spoken would bring rest to his soul. He saw the words rise to the boy's +lips, but before he had time to utter them his image also had vanished. +And Reginald ... Reginald, too, was gone.... There was only the mighty +brain ... panting ... whirling.... Then there was nothing.... The +annihilation of Ernest Fielding was complete. + +Vacantly he stared at the walls, at the room and at his master. The +latter was wiping the sweat from his forehead. He breathed deeply.... +The flush of youth spread over his features.... His eyes sparkled with a +new and dangerous brilliancy.... He took the thing that had once been +Ernest Fielding by the hand and led it to its room. + + + + +XXXI + + +With the first flush of the morning Ethel appeared at the door of the +house on Riverside Drive. She had not heard from Ernest, and had been +unable to obtain connection with him at the telephone. Anxiety had +hastened her steps. She brushed against Jack, who was also directing his +steps to the abode of Reginald Clarke. + +At the same time something that resembled Ernest Fielding passed from +the house of the Vampire. It was a dull and brutish thing, hideously +transformed, without a vestige of mind. + +"Mr. Fielding," cried Ethel, beside herself with fear as she saw him +descending. + +"Ernest!" Jack gasped, no less startled at the change in his friend's +appearance. + +Ernest's head followed the source of the sound, but no spark of +recognition illumined the deadness of his eyes. Without a present and +without a past ... blindly ... a gibbering idiot ... he stumbled down +the stairs. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE VAMPIRE*** + + +******* This file should be named 17144-8.txt or 17144-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/1/4/17144 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<p>Title: The House of the Vampire</p> +<p>Author: George Sylvester Viereck</p> +<p>Release Date: November 23, 2005 [eBook #17144]</p> +<p>Language: English</p> +<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE VAMPIRE***</p> +<p> </p> +<h4>E-text prepared by Suzanne Lybarger, Janet Blenkinship, Brian Janes,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (https://www.pgdp.net/)</h4> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<h1>THE HOUSE<br /> +OF THE<br /> +VAMPIRE</h1> + +<h4>BY</h4> + +<h3>George Sylvester Viereck</h3> +<p class='center'><i>Author of</i></p> +<h4>Nineveh and Other Poems</h4> + +<p class='center'>New York<br /> +MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY<br /> +1912</p> + + + +<p class='center'>Copyright, 1907, by<br /> +MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY<br /> +NEW YORK</p> + + + +<p class='center'><i>Published September, 1907<br /> +Reprinted October, 1907</i></p> + +<p class='center'>THE PREMIER PRESS<br /> +NEW YORK</p> + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<p><br /><br /></p> +<h3><i>To My Mother</i></h3> + +<p><br /><br /></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> + +<h3>CONTENTS</h3> + + +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" width="65%" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of Contents"> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#I">CHAPTER I</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#II">CHAPTER II</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#III">CHAPTER III</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#IV">CHAPTER IV</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#V">CHAPTER V</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#VI">CHAPTER VI</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#VII">CHAPTER VII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#IX">CHAPTER IX</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#X">CHAPTER X</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XI">CHAPTER XI</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XII">CHAPTER XII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XIII">CHAPTER XIII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XIV">CHAPTER XIV</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XV">CHAPTER XV</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XVI">CHAPTER XVI</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XVII">CHAPTER XVII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XIX">CHAPTER XIX</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XX">CHAPTER XX</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XXI">CHAPTER XXI</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XXII">CHAPTER XXII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XXV">CHAPTER XXV</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XXX">CHAPTER XXX</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align='center'><a href="#XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI</a></td></tr> +</table> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1"></a>[Pg 1]</span></p> +<h3><a name="I" id="I"></a>I</h3> + + +<p>The freakish little leader of the orchestra, newly imported from Sicily +to New York, tossed his conductor's wand excitedly through the air, +drowning with musical thunders the hum of conversation and the clatter +of plates.</p> + +<p>Yet neither his apish demeanour nor the deafening noises that responded +to every movement of his agile body detracted attention from the figure +of Reginald Clarke and the young man at his side as they smilingly wound +their way to the exit.</p> + +<p>The boy's expression was pleasant, with an inkling of wistfulness, while +the soft glimmer of his lucid eyes betrayed the poet and the dreamer. +The smile of Reginald Clarke was the smile of a conqueror. A suspicion +of silver in his crown of dark hair only added dignity to his bearing, +while the infinitely ramified lines above the heavy-set mouth spoke at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2"></a>[Pg 2]</span> +once of subtlety and of strength. Without stretch of the imagination one +might have likened him to a Roman cardinal of the days of the Borgias, +who had miraculously stepped forth from the time-stained canvas and +slipped into twentieth century evening-clothes.</p> + +<p>With the affability of complete self-possession he nodded in response to +greetings from all sides, inclining his head with special politeness to +a young woman whose sea-blue eyes were riveted upon his features with a +look of mingled hate and admiration.</p> + +<p>The woman, disregarding his silent salutation, continued to stare at him +wild-eyed, as a damned soul in purgatory might look at Satan passing in +regal splendour through the seventy times sevenfold circles of hell.</p> + +<p>Reginald Clarke walked on unconcernedly through the rows of gay diners, +still smiling, affable, calm. But his companion bethought himself of +certain rumours he had heard concerning Ethel Brandenbourg's mad love +for the man from whose features she could not even now turn her eyes. +Evidently her passion was unreciprocated. It had not always been so.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></a>[Pg 3]</span> +There was a time in her career, some years ago in Paris, when it was +whispered that she had secretly married him and, not much later, +obtained a divorce. The matter was never cleared up, as both preserved +an uncompromising silence upon the subject of their matrimonial +experience. Certain it was that, for a space, the genius of Reginald +Clarke had completely dominated her brush, and that, ever since he had +thrown her aside, her pictures were but plagiarisms of her former +artistic self.</p> + +<p>The cause of the rupture between them was a matter only of surmise; but +the effect it had on the woman testified clearly to the remarkable power +of Reginald Clarke. He had entered her life and, behold! the world was +transfixed on her canvases in myriad hues of transcending radiance; he +had passed from it, and with him vanished the brilliancy of her +colouring, as at sunset the borrowed amber and gold fade from the face +of the clouds.</p> + +<p>The glamour of Clarke's name may have partly explained the secret of his +charm, but, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a>[Pg 4]</span>even in circles where literary fame is no passport, he +could, if he chose, exercise an almost terrible fascination. Subtle and +profound, he had ransacked the coffers of mediæval dialecticians and +plundered the arsenals of the Sophists. Many years later, when the +vultures of misfortune had swooped down upon him, and his name was no +longer mentioned without a sneer, he was still remembered in New York +drawing-rooms as the man who had brought to perfection the art of +talking. Even to dine with him was a liberal education.</p> + +<p>Clarke's marvellous conversational power was equalled only by his +marvellous style. Ernest Fielding's heart leaped in him at the thought +that henceforth he would be privileged to live under one roof with the +only writer of his generation who could lend to the English language the +rich strength and rugged music of the Elizabethans.</p> + +<p>Reginald Clarke was a master of many instruments. Milton's mighty organ +was no less obedient to his touch than the little lute of the +troubadour. He was never the same; <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a>[Pg 5]</span>that was his strength. Clarke's +style possessed at once the chiselled chasteness of a Greek marble +column and the elaborate deviltry of the late Renaissance. At times his +winged words seemed to flutter down the page frantically like Baroque +angels; at other times nothing could have more adequately described his +manner than the timeless calm of the gaunt pyramids.</p> + +<p>The two men had reached the street. Reginald wrapped his long spring +coat round him.</p> + +<p>"I shall expect you to-morrow at four," he said.</p> + +<p>The tone of his voice was deep and melodious, suggesting hidden depths +and cadences.</p> + +<p>"I shall be punctual."</p> + +<p>The younger man's voice trembled as he spoke.</p> + +<p>"I look forward to your coming with much pleasure. I am interested in +you."</p> + +<p>The glad blood mounted to Ernest's cheeks at praise from the austere +lips of this arbiter of literary elegance.</p> + +<p>An almost imperceptible smile crept over the other man's features.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a>[Pg 6]</span>"I am proud that my work interests you," was all the boy could say.</p> + +<p>"I think it is quite amazing, but at present," here Clarke drew out a +watch set with jewels, "I am afraid I must bid you good-bye."</p> + +<p>He held Ernest's hand for a moment in a firm genial grasp, then turned +away briskly, while the boy remained standing open-mouthed. The crowd +jostling against him carried him almost off his feet, but his eyes +followed far into the night the masterful figure of Reginald Clarke, +toward whom he felt himself drawn with every fiber of his body and the +warm enthusiasm of his generous youth.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7"></a>[Pg 7]</span></p> +<h3><a name="II" id="II"></a>II</h3> + + +<p>With elastic step, inhaling the night-air with voluptuous delight, +Reginald Clarke made his way down Broadway, lying stretched out before +him, bathed in light and pulsating with life.</p> + +<p>His world-embracing intellect was powerfully attracted by the Giant +City's motley activities. On the street, as in the salon, his magnetic +power compelled recognition, and he stepped through the midst of the +crowd as a Circassian blade cleaves water.</p> + +<p>After walking a block or two, he suddenly halted before a jeweller's +shop. Arrayed in the window were priceless gems that shone in the glare +of electricity, like mystical serpent-eyes—green, pomegranate and +water-blue. And as he stood there the dazzling radiance before him was +transformed in the prism of his mind into something great and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a>[Pg 8]</span>very +wonderful that might, some day, be a poem.</p> + +<p>Then his attention was diverted by a small group of tiny girls dancing +on the sidewalk to the husky strains of an old hurdy-gurdy. He joined +the circle of amused spectators, to watch those pink-ribboned bits of +femininity swaying airily to and fro in unison with the tune. One +especially attracted his notice—a slim olive-coloured girl from a land +where it is always spring. Her whole being translated into music, with +hair dishevelled and feet hardly touching the ground, the girl suggested +an orange-leaf dancing on a sunbeam. The rasping street-organ, +perchance, brought to her melodious reminiscences of some flute-playing +Savoyard boy, brown-limbed and dark of hair.</p> + +<p>For several minutes Reginald Clarke followed with keen delight each +delicate curve her graceful limbs described. Then—was it that she grew +tired, or that the stranger's persistent scrutiny embarrassed her?—the +music oozed out of her movements. They grew slower, angular, almost +clumsy. The look of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a>[Pg 9]</span>interest in Clarke's eyes died, but his whole form +quivered, as if the rhythm of the music and the dance had mysteriously +entered into his blood.</p> + +<p>He continued his stroll, seemingly without aim; in reality he followed, +with nervous intensity, the multiform undulations of the populace, +swarming through Broadway in either direction. Like the giant whose +strength was rekindled every time he touched his mother, the earth, +Reginald Clarke seemed to draw fresh vitality from every contact with +life.</p> + +<p>He turned east along Fourteenth street, where cheap vaudevilles are +strung together as glass-pearls on the throat of a wanton. Gaudy +bill-boards, drenched in clamorous red, proclaimed the tawdry +attractions within. Much to the surprise of the doorkeeper at a +particularly evil-looking music hall, Reginald Clarke lingered in the +lobby, and finally even bought a ticket that entitled him to enter this +sordid wilderness of décolleté art. Street-snipes, a few workingmen, +dilapidated sportsmen, and women whose ruined youth thick lay<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></a>[Pg 10]</span>ers of +powder and paint, even in this artificial light, could not restore, +constituted the bulk of the audience. Reginald Clarke, apparently +unconscious of the curiosity, surprise and envy that his appearance +excited, seated himself at a table near the stage, ordering from the +solicitous waiter only a cocktail and a programme. The drink he left +untouched, while his eyes greedily ran down the lines of the +announcement. When he had found what he sought, he lit a cigar, paying +no attention to the boards, but studying the audience with cursory +interest until the appearance of Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl.</p> + +<p>When she began to sing, his mind still wandered. The words of her song +were crude, but not without a certain lilt that delighted the uncultured +ear, while the girl's voice was thin to the point of being unpleasant. +When, however, she came to the burden of the song, Clarke's manner +changed suddenly. Laying down his cigar, he listened with rapt +attention, eagerly gazing at her. For, as she sang the last line and +tore the hyacinth-blossoms from her hair, there crept into her voice a +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11"></a>[Pg 11]</span>strangely poignant, pathetic little thrill, that redeemed the execrable +faultiness of her singing, and brought the rude audience under her +spell.</p> + +<p>Clarke, too, was captivated by that tremour, the infinite sadness of +which suggested the plaint of souls moaning low at night, when lust +preys on creatures marked for its spoil.</p> + +<p>The singer paused. Still those luminous eyes were upon her. She grew +nervous. It was only with tremendous difficulty that she reached the +refrain. As she sang the opening lines of the last stanza, an +inscrutable smile curled on Clarke's lips. She noticed the man's +relentless gaze and faltered. When the burden came, her singing was hard +and cracked: the tremour had gone from her voice.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></a>[Pg 12]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></a>[Pg 13]</span></p> +<h3><a name="III" id="III"></a>III</h3> + + +<p>Long before the appointed time Ernest walked up and down in front of the +abode of Reginald Clarke, a stately apartment-house overlooking +Riverside Drive.</p> + +<p>Misshapen automobiles were chasing by, carrying to the cool river's +marge the restlessness and the fever of American life. But the bustle +and the noise seemed to the boy only auspicious omens of the future.</p> + +<p>Jack, his room-mate and dearest friend, had left him a month ago, and, +for a space, he had felt very lonely. His young and delicate soul found +it difficult to grapple with the vague fears that his nervous brain +engendered, when whispered sounds seemed to float from hidden corners, +and the stairs creaked under mysterious feet.</p> + +<p>He needed the voice of loving kindness to call him back from the valley +of haunting shadows, where his poet's soul was wont to <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14"></a>[Pg 14]</span>linger overlong; +in his hours of weakness the light caress of a comrade renewed his +strength and rekindled in his hand the flaming sword of song.</p> + +<p>And at nightfall he would bring the day's harvest to Clarke, as a +worshipper scattering precious stones, incense and tapestries at the +feet of a god.</p> + +<p>Surely he would be very happy. And as the heart, at times, leads the +feet to the goal of its desire, while multicoloured dreams, like +dancing-girls, lull the will to sleep, he suddenly found himself +stepping from the elevator-car to Reginald Clarke's apartment.</p> + +<p>Already was he raising his hand to strike the electric bell when a sound +from within made him pause half-way.</p> + +<p>"No, there's no help!" he heard Clarke say. His voice had a hard, +metallic clangour.</p> + +<p>A boyish voice answered plaintively. What the words were Ernest could +not distinctly hear, but the suppressed sob in them almost brought the +tears to his eyes. He instinctively knew that this was the finale of +some tragedy.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a>[Pg 15]</span>He withdrew hastily, so as not to be a witness of an interview that was +not meant for his ears.</p> + +<p>Reginald Clarke probably had good reason for parting with his young +friend, whom Ernest surmised to be Abel Felton, a talented boy, whom the +master had taken under his wings.</p> + +<p>In the apartment a momentary silence had ensued.</p> + +<p>This was interrupted by Clarke: "It will come again, in a month, in a +year, in two years."</p> + +<p>"No, no! It is all gone!" sobbed the boy.</p> + +<p>"Nonsense. You are merely nervous. But that is just why we must part. +There is no room in one house for two nervous people."</p> + +<p>"I was not such a nervous wreck before I met you."</p> + +<p>"Am I to blame for it—for your morbid fancies, your extravagance, the +slow tread of a nervous disease, perhaps?"</p> + +<p>"Who can tell? But I am all confused. I don't know what I am saying. +Everything is so puzzling—life, friendship, you. I fancied <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"></a>[Pg 16]</span>you cared +for my career, and now you end our friendship without a thought!"</p> + +<p>"We must all follow the law of our being."</p> + +<p>"The laws are within us and in our control."</p> + +<p>"They are within us and beyond us. It is the physiological structure of +our brains, our nerve-cells, that makes and mars our lives.</p> + +<p>"Our mental companionship was so beautiful. It was meant to last."</p> + +<p>"That is the dream of youth. Nothing lasts. Everything flows—panta rei. +We are all but sojourners in an inn. Friendship, as love, is an +illusion. Life has nothing to take from a man who has no illusions."</p> + +<p>"It has nothing to give him."</p> + +<p>They said good-bye.</p> + +<p>At the door Ernest met Abel.</p> + +<p>"Where are you going?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"For a little pleasure trip."</p> + +<p>Ernest knew that the boy lied.</p> + +<p>He remembered that Abel Felton was at work upon some book, a play or a +novel. It occurred to him to inquire how far he had progressed with it.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a>[Pg 17]</span>Abel smiled sadly. "I am not writing it."</p> + +<p>"Not writing it?"</p> + +<p>"Reginald is."</p> + +<p>"I am afraid I don't understand."</p> + +<p>"Never mind. Some day you will."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a>[Pg 18]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a>[Pg 19]</span></p> +<h3><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV</h3> + + +<p>"I am so happy you came," Reginald Clarke said, as he conducted Ernest +into his studio. It was a large, luxuriously furnished room overlooking +the Hudson and Riverside Drive.</p> + +<p>Dazzled and bewildered, the boy's eyes wandered from object to object, +from picture to statue. Despite seemingly incongruous details, the whole +arrangement possessed style and distinction.</p> + +<p>A satyr on the mantelpiece whispered obscene secrets into the ears of +Saint Cecilia. The argent limbs of Antinous brushed against the garments +of Mona Lisa. And from a corner a little rococo lady peered coquettishly +at the gray image of an Egyptian sphinx. There was a picture of Napoleon +facing the image of the Crucified. Above all, in the semi-darkness, +artificially produced by heavy draperies, towered two busts.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a>[Pg 20]</span>"Shakespeare and Balzac!" Ernest exclaimed with some surprise.</p> + +<p>"Yes," explained Reginald, "they are my gods."</p> + +<p>His gods! Surely there was a key to Clarke's character. Our gods are +ourselves raised to the highest power.</p> + +<p>Clarke and Shakespeare!</p> + +<p>Even to Ernest's admiring mind it seemed almost blasphemous to name a +contemporary, however esteemed, in one breath with the mighty master of +song, whose great gaunt shadow, thrown against the background of the +years has assumed immense, unproportionate, monstrous dimensions.</p> + +<p>Yet something might be said for the comparison. Clarke undoubtedly was +universally broad, and undoubtedly concealed, with no less exquisite +taste than the Elizabethan, his own personality under the splendid +raiment of his art. They certainly were affinities. It would not have +been surprising to him to see the clear calm head of Shakespeare rise +from behind his host.</p> + +<p>Perhaps—who knows?—the very presence <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a>[Pg 21]</span>of the bust in his room had, to +some extent, subtly and secretly moulded Reginald Clarke's life. A man's +soul, like the chameleon, takes colour from its environment. Even +comparative trifles, the number of the house in which we live, or the +colour of the wallpaper of a room, may determine a destiny.</p> + +<p>The boy's eyes were again surveying the fantastic surroundings in which +he found himself; while, from a corner, Clarke's eyes were watching his +every movement, as if to follow his thoughts into the innermost +labyrinth of the mind. It seemed to Ernest, under the spell of this +passing fancy, as though each vase, each picture, each curio in the +room, was reflected in Clarke's work. In a long-queued, porcelain +Chinese mandarin he distinctly recognised a quaint quatrain in one of +Clarke's most marvellous poems. And he could have sworn that the grin of +the Hindu monkey-god on the writing-table reappeared in the weird rhythm +of two stanzas whose grotesque cadence had haunted him for years.</p> + +<p>At last Clarke broke the silence. "You like my studio?" he asked.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a>[Pg 22]</span>The simple question brought Ernest back to reality.</p> + +<p>"Like it? Why, it's stunning. It set up in me the queerest train of +thought."</p> + +<p>"I, too, have been in a whimsical mood to-night. Fancy, unlike genius, +is an infectious disease."</p> + +<p>"What is the peculiar form it assumed in your case?"</p> + +<p>"I have been wondering whether all the things that environ us day by day +are, in a measure, fashioning our thought-life. I sometimes think that +even my little mandarin and this monkey-idol which, by the way, I +brought from India, are exerting a mysterious but none the less real +influence upon my work."</p> + +<p>"Great God!" Ernest replied, "I have had the identical thought!"</p> + +<p>"How very strange!" Clarke exclaimed, with seeming surprise.</p> + +<p>"It is said tritely but truly, that great minds travel the same roads," +Ernest observed, inwardly pleased.</p> + +<p>"No," the older man subtly remarked,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a>[Pg 23]</span> "but they reach the same +conclusion by a different route."</p> + +<p>"And you attach serious importance to our fancy?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?"</p> + +<p>Clarke was gazing abstractedly at the bust of Balzac.</p> + +<p>"A man's genius is commensurate with his ability of absorbing from life +the elements essential to his artistic completion. Balzac possessed this +power in a remarkable degree. But, strange to say, it was evil that +attracted him most. He absorbed it as a sponge absorbs water; perhaps +because there was so little of it in his own make-up. He must have +purified the atmosphere around him for miles, by bringing all the evil +that was floating in the air or slumbering in men's souls to the point +of his pen.</p> + +<p>"And he"—his eyes were resting on Shakespeare's features as a man might +look upon the face of a brother—"he, too, was such a nature. In fact, +he was the most perfect type of the artist. Nothing escaped his mind. +From life and from books he drew his material, each <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></a>[Pg 24]</span>time reshaping it +with a master-hand. Creation is a divine prerogative. Re-creation, +infinitely more wonderful than mere calling into existence, is the +prerogative of the poet. Shakespeare took his colours from many +palettes. That is why he is so great, and why his work is incredibly +greater than he. It alone explains his unique achievement. Who was he? +What education did he have, what opportunities? None. And yet we find in +his work the wisdom of Bacon, Sir Walter Raleigh's fancies and +discoveries, Marlowe's verbal thunders and the mysterious loveliness of +Mr. W.H."</p> + +<p>Ernest listened, entranced by the sound of Clarke's mellifluous voice. +He was, indeed, a master of the spoken word, and possessed a miraculous +power of giving to the wildest fancies an air of vraisemblance.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a>[Pg 25]</span></p> +<h3><a name="V" id="V"></a>V</h3> + + +<p>"Yes," said Walkham, the sculptor, "it's a most curious thing."</p> + +<p>"What is?" asked Ernest, who had been dreaming over the Sphinx that was +looking at him from its corner with the sarcastic smile of five thousand +years.</p> + +<p>"How our dreams of yesterday stare at us like strangers to-day."</p> + +<p>"On the contrary," remarked Reginald, "it would be strange if they were +still to know us. In fact, it would be unnatural. The skies above us and +the earth underfoot are in perpetual motion. Each atom of our physical +nature is vibrating with unimaginable rapidity. Change is identical with +life."</p> + +<p>"It sometimes seems," said the sculptor, "as if thoughts evaporated like +water."</p> + +<p>"Why not, under favorable conditions?"</p> + +<p>"But where do they go? Surely they cannot perish utterly?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a>[Pg 26]</span>"Yes, that is the question. Or, rather, it is not a question. Nothing +is ever lost in the spiritual universe."</p> + +<p>"But what," inquired Ernest, "is the particular reason for your +reflection?"</p> + +<p>"It is this," the sculptor replied; "I had a striking motive and lost +it."</p> + +<p>"Do you remember," he continued, speaking to Reginald, "the Narcissus I +was working on the last time when you called at my studio?"</p> + +<p>"Yes; it was a striking thing and impressed me very much, though I +cannot recall it at the moment."</p> + +<p>"Well, it was a commission. An eccentric young millionaire had offered +me eight thousand dollars for it. I had an absolutely original +conception. But I cannot execute it. It's as if a breeze had carried it +away."</p> + +<p>"That is very regrettable."</p> + +<p>"Well, I should say so," replied the sculptor.</p> + +<p>Ernest smiled. For everybody knew of Walkham's domestic troubles. Having +twice figured in the divorce court, he was at pres<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a>[Pg 27]</span>ent defraying the +expenses of three households.</p> + +<p>The sculptor had meanwhile seated himself at Reginald's writing-table, +unintentionally scanning a typewritten page that was lying before him. +Like all artists, something of a madman and something of a child, he at +first glanced over its contents distractedly, then with an interest so +intense that he was no longer aware of the impropriety of his action.</p> + +<p>"By Jove!" he cried. "What is this?"</p> + +<p>"It's an epic of the French Revolution," Reginald replied, not without +surprise.</p> + +<p>"But, man, do you know that I have discovered my motive in it?"</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?" asked Ernest, looking first at Reginald and then at +Walkham, whose sanity he began to doubt.</p> + +<p>"Listen!"</p> + +<p>And the sculptor read, trembling with emotion, a long passage whose +measured cadence delighted Ernest's ear, without, however, enlightening +his mind as to the purport of Walkham's cryptic remark.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></a>[Pg 28]</span>Reginald said nothing, but the gleam in his eye showed that this time, +at least, his interest was alert.</p> + +<p>Walkham saw the hopelessness of making clear his meaning without an +explanation.</p> + +<p>"I forget you haven't a sculptor's mind. I am so constituted that, with +me, all impressions are immediately translated into the sense of form. I +do not hear music; I see it rise with domes and spires, with painted +windows and Arabesques. The scent of the rose is to me tangible. I can +almost feel it with my hand. So your prose suggested to me, by its +rhythmic flow, something which, at first indefinite, crystallised +finally into my lost conception of Narcissus."</p> + +<p>"It is extraordinary," murmured Reginald. "I had not dreamed of it."</p> + +<p>"So you do not think it rather fantastic?" remarked Ernest, +circumscribing his true meaning.</p> + +<p>"No, it is quite possible. Perhaps his Narcissus was engaging the +sub-conscious strata of my mind while I was writing this passage. And +surely it would be strange if the under<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a>[Pg 29]</span>currents of our mind were not +reflected in our style."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean, then, that a subtle psychologist ought to be able to read +beneath and between our lines, not only what we express, but also what +we leave unexpressed?"</p> + +<p>"Undoubtedly."</p> + +<p>"Even if, while we are writing, we are unconscious of our state of mind? +That would open a new field to psychology."</p> + +<p>"Only to those that have the key, that can read the hidden symbols. It +is to me a matter-of-course that every mind-movement below or above the +threshold of consciousness must, of a necessity, leave its imprint +faintly or clearly, as the case may be, upon our activities."</p> + +<p>"This may explain why books that seem intolerably dull to the majority, +delight the hearts of the few," Ernest interjected.</p> + +<p>"Yes, to the few that possess the key. I distinctly remember how an +uncle of mine once laid down a discussion on higher mathematics and +blushed fearfully when his inno<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a>[Pg 30]</span>cent wife looked over his shoulder. The +man who had written it was a roué."</p> + +<p>"Then the seemingly most harmless books may secretly possess the power +of scattering in young minds the seed of corruption," Walkham remarked.</p> + +<p>"If they happen to understand," Clarke observed thoughtfully. "I can +very well conceive of a lecherous text-book of the calculus, or of a +reporter's story of a picnic in which burnt, under the surface, +undiscoverable, save to the initiate, the tragic passion of Tristram and +Iseult."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a>[Pg 31]</span></p> +<h3><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI</h3> + + +<p>Several weeks had elapsed since the conversation in Reginald Clarke's +studio. The spring was now well advanced and had sprinkled the meadows +with flowers, and the bookshelves of the reviewers with fiction. The +latter Ernest turned to good account, but from the flowers no poem +blossomed forth. In writing about other men's books, he almost forgot +that the springtide had brought to him no bouquet of song. Only now and +then, like a rippling of water, disquietude troubled his soul.</p> + +<p>The strange personality of the master of the house had enveloped the +lad's thoughts with an impenetrable maze. The day before Jack had come +on a flying visit from Harvard, but even he was unable to free Ernest's +soul from the obsession of Reginald Clarke.</p> + +<p>Ernest was lazily stretching himself on a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></a>[Pg 32]</span>couch, waving the smoke of +his cigarette to Reginald, who was writing at his desk.</p> + +<p>"Your friend Jack is delightful," Reginald remarked, looking up from his +papers. "And his ebon-coloured hair contrasts prettily with the gold in +yours. I should imagine that you are temperamental antipodes."</p> + +<p>"So we are; but friendship bridges the chasm between."</p> + +<p>"How long have you known him?"</p> + +<p>"We have been chums ever since our sophomore year."</p> + +<p>"What attracted you in him?"</p> + +<p>"It is no simple matter to define exactly one's likes and dislikes. Even +a tiny protoplasmic animal appears to be highly complex under the +microscope. How can we hope to analyse, with any degree of certitude, +our souls, especially when, under the influence of feeling, we see as +through a glass darkly."</p> + +<p>"It is true that personal feeling colours our spectacles and distorts +the perspective. Still, we should not shrink from self-analysis. We must +learn to see clearly into our own hearts if we would give vitality to +our work. Indis<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a>[Pg 33]</span>cretion is the better part of literature, and it +behooves us to hound down each delicate elusive shadow of emotion, and +convert it into copy."</p> + +<p>"It is because I am so self-analytical that I realise the complexity of +my nature, and am at a loss to define my emotions. Conflicting forces +sway us hither and thither without neutralising each other. Physicology +isn't physics. There were many things to attract me to Jack. He was +subtler, more sympathetic, more feminine, perhaps, than the rest of my +college-mates."</p> + +<p>"That I have noticed. In fact, his lashes are those of a girl. You still +care for him very much?"</p> + +<p>"It isn't a matter of caring. We are two beings that live one life."</p> + +<p>"A sort of psychic Siamese twins?"</p> + +<p>"Almost. Why, the matter is very simple. Our hearts root in the same +soil; the same books have nourished us, the same great winds have shaken +our being, and the same sunshine called forth the beautiful blossom of +friendship."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a>[Pg 34]</span>"He struck me, if you will pardon my saying so, as a rather commonplace +companion."</p> + +<p>"There is in him a hidden sweetness, and a depth of feeling which only +intimate contact reveals. He is now taking his post-graduate course at +Harvard, and for well-nigh two months we have not met; yet so many +invisible threads of common experience unite us that we could meet after +years and still be near each other."</p> + +<p>"You are very young," Reginald replied.</p> + +<p>"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Ah—never mind."</p> + +<p>"So you do not believe that two hearts may ever beat as one?"</p> + +<p>"No, that is an auditory delusion. Not even two clocks beat in unison. +There is always a discrepancy, infinitesimal, perhaps, but a discrepancy +nevertheless."</p> + +<p>A sharp ring of the bell interrupted the conversation. A moment later a +curly head peeped through the door.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Ernest! How are you, old man?" the intruder cried, with a laugh +in his voice. Then, noticing Clarke, he shook hands with <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a>[Pg 35]</span>the great man +unceremoniously, with the nonchalance of the healthy young animal bred +in the atmosphere of an American college.</p> + +<p>His touch seemed to thrill Clarke, who breathed heavily and then stepped +to the window, as if to conceal the flush of vitality on his cheek.</p> + +<p>It was a breath of springtide that Jack had brought with him. Youth is a +Prince Charming. To shrivelled veins the pressure of his hand imparts a +spark of animation, and middle age unfolds its petals in his presence, +as a sunflower gazing at late noon once more upon its lord.</p> + +<p>"I have come to take Ernest away from you," said Jack. "He looks a +trifle paler than usual, and a day's outing will stir the red corpuscles +in his blood."</p> + +<p>"I have no doubt that you will take very good care of him," Reginald +replied.</p> + +<p>"Where shall we go?" Ernest asked, absent-mindedly.</p> + +<p>But he did not hear the answer, for Reginald's scepticisms had more +deeply impressed him than he cared to confess to himself.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a>[Pg 36]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a>[Pg 37]</span></p> +<h3><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII</h3> + + +<p>The two boys had bathed their souls in the sea-breeze, and their eyes in +light.</p> + +<p>The tide of pleasure-loving humanity jostling against them had carried +their feet to the "Lion Palace." From there, seated at table and +quenching their thirst with high-balls, they watched the feverish +palpitations of the city's life-blood pulsating in the veins of Coney +Island, to which they had drifted from Brighton Beach.</p> + +<p>Ernest blew thoughtful rings of smoke into the air.</p> + +<p>"Do you notice the ferocious look in the mien of the average frequenter +of this island resort?" he said to Jack, whose eyes, following the +impulse of his more robust youth, were examining specimens of feminine +flotsam on the waves of the crowd.</p> + +<p>"It is," he continued, speaking to himself <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a>[Pg 38]</span>for want of an audience, +"the American who is in for having a 'good time.' And he is going to get +it. Like a huntsman, he follows the scent of happiness; but I warrant +that always it eludes him. Perhaps his mad race is only the epitome of +humanity's vain pursuit of pleasure, the eternal cry that is never +answered."</p> + +<p>But Jack was not listening. There are times in the life of every man +when a petticoat is more attractive to him than all the philosophy of +the world.</p> + +<p>Ernest was a little hurt, and it was not without some silent +remonstrance that he acquiesced when Jack invited to their table two +creatures that once were women.</p> + +<p>"Why?"</p> + +<p>"But they are interesting."</p> + +<p>"I cannot find so."</p> + +<p>They both had seen better times—of course. Then money losses came, with +work in shop or factory, and the voice of the tempter in the commercial +wilderness.</p> + +<p>One, a frail nervous little creature, who had instinctively chosen a +seat at Ernest's side, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a>[Pg 39]</span>kept prattling in his ear, ready to tell the +story of her life to any one who was willing to treat her to a drink. +Something in her demeanour interested him.</p> + +<p>"And then I had a stroke of luck. The manager of a vaudeville was my +friend and decided to give me a trial. He thought I had a voice. They +called me Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl. At first it seemed as if people +liked to hear me. But I suppose that was because I was new. After a +month or two they discharged me."</p> + +<p>"And why?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose I was just used up, that's all."</p> + +<p>"Frightful!"</p> + +<p>"I never had much of a voice—and the tobacco smoke—and the wine—I +love wine."</p> + +<p>She gulped down her glass.</p> + +<p>"And do you like your present occupation?"</p> + +<p>"Why not? Am I not young? Am I not pretty?"</p> + +<p>This she said not parrotwise, but with a simple coquettishness that was +all her own.</p> + +<p>On the way to the steamer a few moments <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a>[Pg 40]</span>later, Ernest asked, +half-reproachfully: "Jack—and you really enjoyed this conversation?"</p> + +<p>"Didn't you?"</p> + +<p>"Do you mean this?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes; she was—very agreeable."</p> + +<p>Ernest frowned.</p> + +<p>"We're twenty, Ernest. And then, you see, it's like a course in +sociology. Susie—"</p> + +<p>"Susie, was that her name?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"So she had a name?"</p> + +<p>"Of course."</p> + +<p>"She shouldn't. It should be a number."</p> + +<p>"They may not be pillars of society; still, they're human."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Ernest, "that is the most horrible part of it."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a>[Pg 41]</span></p> +<h3><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII</h3> + + +<p>The moon was shining brightly.</p> + +<p>Swift and sure the prow of the night-boat parted the silvery foam.</p> + +<p>The smell of young flesh. Peals of laughter. A breathless pianola. The +tripping of dancing-feet. Voices husked with drink and voices soft with +love. The shrill accents of vulgarity. Hustling waiters. Shop-girls. +Bourgeois couples. Tired families of four and upward. Sleeping children. +A boy selling candy. The crying of babies.</p> + +<p>The two friends were sitting on the upper deck, muffled in their long +rain-coats.</p> + +<p>In the distance the Empire City rose radiant from the mist.</p> + +<p>"Say, Ernest, you should spout some poetry as of old. Are your lips +stricken mute, or are you still thinking of Coney Island?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, the swift wind has taken it away.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a>[Pg 42]</span> I am clean, I am pure. Life +has passed me. It has kissed me, but it has left no trace."</p> + +<p>He looked upon the face of his friend. Their hands met. They felt, with +keen enjoyment, the beauty of the night, of their friendship, and of the +city beyond.</p> + +<p>Then Ernest's lips moved softly, musically, twitching with a strange +ascetic passion that trembled in his voice as he began:</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"<i>Huge steel-ribbed monsters rise into the air</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Her Babylonian towers, while on high</i>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Like gilt-scaled serpents, glide the swift trains by</i>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair</i>.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>A thousand lights are jewels in her hair,</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The sea her girdle, and her crown the sky</i>;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Her life-blood throbs, the fevered pulses fly</i>.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Immense, defiant, breathless she stands there</i>.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;">"<i>And ever listens in the ceaseless din</i>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Waiting for him, her lover, who shall come</i>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Whose singing lips shall boldly claim their own</i>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>And render sonant what in her was dumb</i>,</span><br /><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a>[Pg 43]</span> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>The splendour, and the madness, and the sin</i>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone</i>."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>He paused. The boat glided on. For a long time neither spoke a word.</p> + +<p>After a while Jack broke the silence: "And are you dreaming of becoming +the lyric mouth of the city, of giving utterance to all its yearnings, +its 'dreams in iron and its thoughts of stone'?"</p> + +<p>"No," replied Ernest, simply, "not yet. It is strange to what +impressions the brain will respond. In Clarke's house, in the midst of +inspiring things, inspiration failed me. But while I was with that girl +an idea came to me—an idea, big, real."</p> + +<p>"Will it deal with her?"</p> + +<p>Ernest smiled: "Oh, no. She personally has nothing to do with it. At +least not directly. It was the commotion of blood and—brain. The +air—the change. I don't know what."</p> + +<p>"What will it be?" asked Jack, with interest all alert.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a>[Pg 44]</span>"A play, a wonderful play. And its heroine will be a princess, a little +princess, with a yellow veil."</p> + +<p>"What of the plot?"</p> + +<p>"That I shall not tell you to-day. In fact, I shall not breathe a word +to any one. It will take you all by surprise—and the public by storm."</p> + +<p>"So it will be playable?"</p> + +<p>"If I am not very much mistaken, you will see it on Broadway within a +year. And," he added graciously, "I will let you have two box-seats for +the first night."</p> + +<p>They both chuckled at the thought, and their hearts leaped within them.</p> + +<p>"I hope you will finish it soon," Jack observed after a while. "You +haven't done much of late."</p> + +<p>"A similar reflection was on my mind when you came yesterday. That +accounts for the low spirits in which you found me."</p> + +<p>"Ah, indeed," Jack replied, measuring Ernest with a look of wonder. "But +now your face is aglow. It seems that the blood rushes <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a>[Pg 45]</span>to your head +swifter at the call of an idea than at the kiss of a girl."</p> + +<p>"Thank God!" Ernest remarked with a sigh of relief. "Mighty forces +within me are fashioning the limpid thought. Passion may grip us by the +throat momentarily; upon our backs we may feel the lashes of desire and +bathe our souls in flames of many hues; but the joy of activity is the +ultimate passion."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a>[Pg 46]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></a>[Pg 47]</span></p> +<h3><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX</h3> + + +<p>It seemed, indeed, as if work was to Ernest what the sting of pleasure +is to the average human animal. The inter-play of his mental forces gave +him the sensuous satisfaction of a woman's embrace. His eyes sparkled. +His muscle tightened. The joy of creation was upon him.</p> + +<p>Often very material reasons, like stone weights tied to the wings of a +bird, stayed the flight of his imagination. Magazines were waiting for +his copy, and he was not in the position to let them wait. They supplied +his bread and butter.</p> + +<p>Between the bread and butter, however, the play was growing scene by +scene. In the lone hours of the night he spun upon the loom of his fancy +a brilliant weft of swift desire—heavy, perfumed, Oriental—interwoven +with bits of gruesome tenderness. The thread of his own life intertwined +with the thread of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a>[Pg 48]</span>the story. All genuine art is autobiography. It is +not, however, necessarily a revelation of the artist's actual self, but +of a myriad of potential selves. Ah, our own potential selves! They are +sometimes beautiful, often horrible, and always fascinating. They loom +to heavens none too high for our reach; they stray to yawning hells +beneath our very feet.</p> + +<p>The man who encompasses heaven and hell is a perfect man. But there are +many heavens and more hells. The artist snatches fire from both. Surely +the assassin feels no more intensely the lust of murder than the poet +who depicts it in glowing words. The things he writes are as real to him +as the things that he lives. But in his realm the poet is supreme. His +hands may be red with blood or white with leprosy: he still remains +king. Woe to him, however, if he transcends the limits of his kingdom +and translates into action the secret of his dreams. The throng that +before applauded him will stone his quivering body or nail to the cross +his delicate hands and feet.</p> + +<p>Sometimes days passed before Ernest could concentrate his mind upon his +play. Then the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a>[Pg 49]</span>fever seized him again, and he strung pearl on pearl, +line on line, without entrusting a word to paper. Even to discuss his +work before it had received the final brush-strokes would have seemed +indecent to him.</p> + +<p>Reginald, too, seemed to be in a turmoil of work. Ernest had little +chance to speak to him. And to drop even a hint of his plans between the +courses at breakfast would have been desecration.</p> + +<p>Sunset followed sunset, night followed night. The stripling April had +made room for the lady May. The play was almost completed in Ernest's +mind, and he thought, with a little shudder, of the physical travail of +the actual writing. He felt that the transcript from brain to paper +would demand all his powers. For, of late, his thoughts seemed strangely +evanescent; they seemed to run away from him whenever he attempted to +seize them.</p> + +<p>The day was glad with sunshine, and he decided to take a long walk in +the solitude of the Palisades, to steady hand and nerve for the final +task.</p> + +<p>He told Reginald of his intention, but met <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a>[Pg 50]</span>with little response. +Reginald's face was wan and bore the peculiar pallor of one who had +worked late at night.</p> + +<p>"You must be frightfully busy?" Ernest asked, with genuine concern.</p> + +<p>"So I am," Reginald replied. "I always work in a white heat. I am +restless, nervous, feverish, and can find no peace until I have given +utterance to all that clamours after birth."</p> + +<p>"What is it that is so engaging your mind, the epic of the French +Revolution?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no. I should never have undertaken that. I haven't done a stroke of +work on it for several weeks. In fact, ever since Walkham called, I +simply couldn't. It seemed as if a rough hand had in some way destroyed +the web of my thought. Poetry in the writing is like red hot glass +before the master-blower has fashioned it into birds and trees and +strange fantastic shapes. A draught, caused by the opening of a door may +distort it. But at present I am engaged upon more important work. I am +modelling a vessel not of fine-spun glass, but of molten gold."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></a>[Pg 51]</span>"You make me exceedingly anxious to know what you have in store for us. +It seems to me you have reached a point where even you can no longer +surpass yourself."</p> + +<p>Reginald smiled. "Your praise is too generous, yet it warms like +sunshine. I will confess that my conception is unique. It combines with +the ripeness of my technique the freshness of a second spring."</p> + +<p>Ernest was bubbling with anticipated delights. His soul responded to +Reginald's touch as a harp to the winds. "When," he cried, "shall we be +privileged to see it?"</p> + +<p>Reginald's eyes were already straying back to his writing table. "If the +gods are propitious," he remarked, "I shall complete it to-night. +To-morrow is my reception, and I have half promised to read it then."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I shall be in the position soon to let you see my play."</p> + +<p>"Let us hope so," Reginald replied absent-mindedly. The egotism of the +artist had once more chained him to his work.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></a>[Pg 52]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a>[Pg 53]</span></p> +<h3><a name="X" id="X"></a>X</h3> + + +<p>That night a brilliant crowd had gathered in Reginald Clarke's house. +From the studio and the adjoining salon arose a continual murmur of +well-tuned voices. On bare white throats jewels shone as if in each a +soul were imprisoned, and voluptuously rustled the silk that clung to +the fair slim forms of its bearers in an undulating caress. Subtle +perfumes emanated from the hair and the hands of syren women, +commingling with the soft plump scent of their flesh. Fragrant tapers, +burning in precious crystal globules stained with exquisite colours, +sprinkled their shimmering light over the fashionable assemblage and +lent a false radiance to the faces of the men, while in the hair and the +jewels of the women each ray seemed to dance like an imp with its mate.</p> + +<p>A seat like a throne, covered with furs of tropic beasts of prey, stood +in one corner of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a>[Pg 54]</span>the room in the full glare of the light, waiting for +the monarch to come. Above were arranged with artistic <i>raffinement</i> +weird oriental draperies, resembling a crimson canopy in the total +effect. Chattering visitors were standing in groups, or had seated +themselves on the divans and curiously-fashioned chairs that were +scattered in seeming disorder throughout the salon. There were critics +and writers and men of the world. Everybody who was anybody and a little +bigger than somebody else was holding court in his own small circle of +enthusiastic admirers. The Bohemian element was subdued, but not +entirely lacking. The magic of Reginald Clarke's name made stately dames +blind to the presence of some individuals whom they would have passed on +the street without recognition.</p> + +<p>Ernest surveyed this gorgeous assembly with the absent look of a +sleep-walker. Not that his sensuous soul was unsusceptible to the +atmosphere of culture and corruption that permeated the whole, nor to +the dazzling colour effects that tantalised while they delighted the +eye. But to-night they shrivelled into insig<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></a>[Pg 55]</span>nificance before the +splendour of his inner vision. A radiant dreamland palace, his play, had +risen from the night of inchoate thought. It was wonderful, it was real, +and needed for its completion only the detail of actual construction. +And now the characters were hovering in the recesses of his brain, were +yearning to leave that many-winded labyrinth to become real beings of +paper and ink. He would probably have tarried overlong in this fanciful +mansion, had not the reappearance of an unexpected guest broken his +reverie.</p> + +<p>"Jack!" he exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you a hundred miles away +from here."</p> + +<p>"That shows that you no longer care for me," Jack playfully answered. +"When our friendship was young, you always had a presentiment of my +presence."</p> + +<p>"Ah, perhaps I had. But tell me, where do you hail from?"</p> + +<p>"Clarke called me up on the telephone—long-distance, you know. I +suppose it was meant as a surprise for you. And you certainly looked +surprised—not even pleasantly.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a>[Pg 56]</span> I am really head-over-heels at work. +But you know how it is. Sometimes a little imp whispers into my ears +daring me to do a thing which I know is foolish. But what of it? My legs +are strong enough not to permit my follies to overtake me."</p> + +<p>"It was certainly good of you to come. In fact, you make me very glad. I +feel that I need you to-night—I don't know why. The feeling came +suddenly—suddenly as you. I only know I need you. How long can you +stay?"</p> + +<p>"I must leave you to-morrow morning. I have to hustle somewhat. You know +my examinations are taking place in a day or two and I've got to cram up +a lot of things."</p> + +<p>"Still," remarked Ernest, "your visit will repay you for the loss of +time. Clarke will read to us to-night his masterpiece."</p> + +<p>"What is it?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. I only know it's the real thing. It's worth all the +wisdom bald-headed professors may administer to you in concentrated +doses at five thousand a year."</p> + +<p>"Come now," Jack could not help saying,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a>[Pg 57]</span> "is your memory giving way? +Don't you remember your own days in college—especially the mathematical +examinations? You know that your marks came always pretty near the +absolute zero."</p> + +<p>"Jack," cried Ernest in honest indignation, "not the last time. The last +time I didn't flunk."</p> + +<p>"No, because your sonnet on Cartesian geometry roused even the +math-fiend to compassion. And don't you remember Professor Squeeler, +whose heart seemed to leap with delight whenever he could tell you that, +in spite of incessant toil on your part, he had again flunked you in +physics with fifty-nine and a half per cent.?"</p> + +<p>"And he wouldn't raise the mark to sixty! God forgive him,—I cannot."</p> + +<p>Here their exchange of reminiscences was interrupted. There was a stir. +The little potentates of conversation hastened to their seats, before +their minions had wholly deserted them.</p> + +<p>The king was moving to his throne!</p> + +<p>Assuredly Reginald Clarke had the bear<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></a>[Pg 58]</span>ing of a king. Leisurely he took +his seat under the canopy.</p> + +<p>A hush fell on the audience; not a fan stirred as he slowly unfolded his +manuscript.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></a>[Pg 59]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI</h3> + + +<p>The music of Reginald Clarke's intonation captivated every ear. +Voluptuously, in measured cadence, it rose and fell; now full and strong +like the sound of an organ, now soft and clear like the tinkling of +bells. His voice detracted by its very tunefulness from what he said. +The powerful spell charmed even Ernest's accustomed ear. The first page +gracefully glided from Reginald's hand to the carpet before the boy +dimly realised that he was intimately familiar with every word that fell +from Reginald's lips. When the second page slipped with seeming +carelessness from the reader's hand, a sudden shudder ran through the +boy's frame. It was as if an icy hand had gripped his heart. There could +be no doubt of it. This was more than mere coincidence. It was +plagiarism. He wanted to cry out. But the room swam before his eyes.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a>[Pg 60]</span> +Surely he must be dreaming. It was a dream. The faces of the audience, +the lights, Reginald, Jack—all phantasmagoria of a dream.</p> + +<p>Perhaps he had been ill for a long time. Perhaps Clarke was reading the +play for him. He did not remember having written it. But he probably had +fallen sick after its completion. What strange pranks our memories will +play us! But no! He was not dreaming, and he had not been ill.</p> + +<p>He could endure the horrible uncertainty no longer. His overstrung +nerves must find relaxation in some way or break with a twang. He turned +to his friend who was listening with rapt attention.</p> + +<p>"Jack, Jack!" he whispered.</p> + +<p>"What is it?"</p> + +<p>"That is my play!"</p> + +<p>"You mean that you inspired it?"</p> + +<p>"No, I have written it, or rather, was going to write it."</p> + +<p>"Wake up, Ernest! You are mad!"</p> + +<p>"No, in all seriousness. It is mine. I told you—don't you +remember—when we returned <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a>[Pg 61]</span>from Coney Island—that I was writing a +play."</p> + +<p>"Ah, but not this play."</p> + +<p>"Yes, this play. I conceived it, I practically wrote it."</p> + +<p>"The more's the pity that Clarke had preconceived it."</p> + +<p>"But it is mine!"</p> + +<p>"Did you tell him a word about it?"</p> + +<p>"No, to be sure."</p> + +<p>"Did you leave the manuscript in your room?"</p> + +<p>"I had, in fact, not written a line of it. No, I had not begun the +actual writing."</p> + +<p>"Why should a man of Clarke's reputation plagiarise your plays, written +or unwritten?"</p> + +<p>"I can see no reason. But—"</p> + +<p>"Tut, tut."</p> + +<p>For already this whispered conversation had elicited a look like a stab +from a lady before them.</p> + +<p>Ernest held fast to the edge of a chair. He must cling to some reality, +or else drift rudderless in a dim sea of vague apprehensions.</p> + +<p>Or was Jack right?</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a>[Pg 62]</span>Was his mind giving way? No! No! No! There must be a monstrous secret +somewhere, but what matter? Did anything matter? He had called on his +mate like a ship lost in the fog. For the first time he had not +responded. He had not understood. The bitterness of tears rose to the +boy's eyes.</p> + +<p>Above it all, melodiously, ebbed and flowed the rich accents of Reginald +Clarke.</p> + +<p>Ernest listened to the words of his own play coming from the older man's +mouth. The horrible fascination of the scene held him entranced. He saw +the creations of his mind pass in review before him, as a man might look +upon the face of his double grinning at him from behind a door in the +hideous hours of night.</p> + +<p>They were all there! The mad king. The subtle-witted courtiers. The +sombre-hearted Prince. The Queen-Mother who had loved a jester better +than her royal mate, and the fruit of their shameful alliance, the +Princess Marigold, a creature woven of sunshine and sin.</p> + +<p>Swiftly the action progressed. Shadows of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a>[Pg 63]</span>impending death darkened the +house of the King. In the horrible agony of the rack the old jester +confessed. Stripped of his cap and bells, crowned with a wreath of +blood, he looked so pathetically funny that the Princess Marigold could +not help laughing between her tears.</p> + +<p>The Queen stood there all trembling and pale. Without a complaint she +saw her lover die. The executioner's sword smote the old man's head +straight from the trunk. It rolled at the feet of the King, who tossed +it to Marigold. The little Princess kissed it and covered the grinning +horror with her yellow veil.</p> + +<p>The last words died away.</p> + +<p>There was no applause. Only silence. All were stricken with the dread +that men feel in the house of God or His awful presence in genius.</p> + +<p>But the boy lay back in his chair. The cold sweat had gathered on his +brow and his temples throbbed. Nature had mercifully clogged his head +with blood. The rush of it drowned the crying voice of the nerves, +deadening for a while both consciousness and pain.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a>[Pg 64]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></a>[Pg 65]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII</h3> + + +<p>Somehow the night had passed—somehow in bitterness, in anguish. But it +had passed.</p> + +<p>Ernest's lips were parched and sleeplessness had left its trace in the +black rings under the eyes, when the next morning he confronted Reginald +in the studio.</p> + +<p>Reginald was sitting at the writing-table in his most characteristic +pose, supporting his head with his hand and looking with clear piercing +eyes searchingly at the boy.</p> + +<p>"Yes," he observed, "it's a most curious psychical phenomenon."</p> + +<p>"You cannot imagine how real it all seemed to me."</p> + +<p>The boy spoke painfully, dazed, as if struck by a blow.</p> + +<p>"Even now it is as if something has gone from me, some struggling +thought that I cannot—cannot remember."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a>[Pg 66]</span>Reginald regarded him as a physical experimenter might look upon the +subject of a particularly baffling mental disease.</p> + +<p>"You must not think, my boy, that I bear you any malice for your +extraordinary delusion. Before Jack went away he gave me an exact +account of all that has happened. Divers incidents recurred to him from +which it appears that, at various times in the past, you have been on +the verge of a nervous collapse."</p> + +<p>A nervous collapse! What was the use of this term but a euphemism for +insanity?</p> + +<p>"Do not despair, dear child," Reginald caressingly remarked. "Your +disorder is not hopeless, not incurable. Such crises come to every man +who writes. It is the tribute we pay to the Lords of Song. The +minnesinger of the past wrote with his heart's blood; but we moderns dip +our pen into the sap of our nerves. We analyse life, love art—and the +dissecting knife that we use on other men's souls finally turns against +ourselves.</p> + +<p>"But what shall a man do? Shall he sacrifice art to hygiene and +surrender the one attribute that makes him chiefest of created <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a>[Pg 67]</span>things? +Animals, too, think. Some walk on two legs. But introspection +differentiates man from the rest. Shall we yield up the sweet +consciousness of self that we derive from the analysis of our emotion, +for the contentment of the bull that ruminates in the shade of a tree or +the healthful stupidity of a mule?"</p> + +<p>"Assuredly not."</p> + +<p>"But what shall a man do?"</p> + +<p>"Ah, that I cannot tell. Mathematics offers definite problems that admit +of a definite solution. Life states its problems with less exactness and +offers for each a different solution. One and one are two to-day and +to-morrow. Psychical values, on each manipulation, will yield a +different result. Still, your case is quite clear. You have overworked +yourself in the past, mentally and emotionally. You have sown unrest, +and must not be surprised if neurasthenia is the harvest thereof."</p> + +<p>"Do you think—that I should go to some sanitarium?" the boy falteringly +asked.</p> + +<p>"God forbid! Go to the seashore, somewhere where you can sleep and play. +Take your body along, but leave your brain behind—<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a>[Pg 68]</span>at least do not +take more of it with you than is necessary. The summer season in +Atlantic City has just begun. There, as everywhere in American society, +you will be much more welcome if you come without brains."</p> + +<p>Reginald's half-bantering tone reassured Ernest a little. Timidly he +dared approach once more the strange event that had wrought such havoc +with his nervous equilibrium.</p> + +<p>"How do you account for my strange obsession—one might almost call it a +mania?"</p> + +<p>"If it could be accounted for it would not be strange."</p> + +<p>"Can you suggest no possible explanation?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps a stray leaf on my desk a few indications of the plot, a +remark—who knows? Perhaps thought-matter is floating in the air. +Perhaps—but we had better not talk of it now. It would needlessly +excite you."</p> + +<p>"You are right," answered Ernest gloomily, "let us not talk of it. But +whatever may be said, it is a marvellous play."</p> + +<p>"You flatter me. There is nothing in it that you may not be able to do +equally well—some day."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a>[Pg 69]</span>"Ah, no," the boy replied, looking up to Reginald with admiration. "You +are the master."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a>[Pg 70]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a>[Pg 71]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII</h3> + + +<p>Lazily Ernest stretched his limbs on the beach of Atlantic City. The +sea, that purger of sick souls, had washed away the fever and the fret +of the last few days. The wind was in his hair and the spray was in his +breath, while the rays of the sun kissed his bare arms and legs. He +rolled over in the glittering sand in the sheer joy of living.</p> + +<p>Now and then a wavelet stole far into the beach, as if to caress him, +but pined away ere it could reach its goal. It was as if the enamoured +sea was stretching out its arms to him. Who knows, perhaps through the +clear water some green-eyed nymph, or a young sea-god with the tang of +the sea in his hair, was peering amorously at the boy's red mouth. The +people of the deep love the red warm blood of human kind. It is always +the young that they lure to their watery haunts, never the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a>[Pg 72]</span>shrivelled +limbs that totter shivering to the grave.</p> + +<p>Such fancies came to Ernest as he lay on the shore in his bathing +attire, happy, thoughtless,—animal.</p> + +<p>The sun and the sea seemed to him two lovers vying for his favor. The +sudden change of environment had brought complete relaxation and had +quieted his rebellious, assertive soul. He was no longer a solitary unit +but one with wind and water, herb and beach and shell. Almost +voluptuously his hand toyed with the hot sand that glided caressingly +through his fingers and buried his breast and shoulder under its +glittering burden.</p> + +<p>A summer girl who passed lowered her eyes coquettishly. He watched her +without stirring. Even to open his mouth or to smile would have seemed +too much exertion.</p> + +<p>Thus he lay for hours. When at length noon drew nigh, it cost him a +great effort of will to shake off his drowsy mood and exchange his airy +costume for the conventional habilaments of the dining-room.</p> + +<p>He had taken lodgings in a fashionable <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a>[Pg 73]</span>hotel. An unusual stroke of good +luck, hack-work that paid outrageously well, had made it possible for +him to idle for a time without a thought of the unpleasant necessity of +making money.</p> + +<p>One single article to which he signed his name only with reluctance had +brought to him more gear than a series of golden sonnets.</p> + +<p>"Surely," he thought, "the social revolution ought to begin from above. +What right has the bricklayer to grumble when he receives for a week's +work almost more than I for a song?"</p> + +<p>Thus soliloquising, he reached the dining-room. The scene that unfolded +itself before him was typical—the table over-loaded, the women +over-dressed.</p> + +<p>The luncheon was already in full course when he came. He mumbled an +apology and seated himself on the only remaining chair next to a youth +who reminded him of a well-dressed dummy. With slight weariness his eyes +wandered in all directions for more congenial faces when they were +arrested by a lady on the opposite side of the table. She was <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a>[Pg 74]</span>clad in a +silk robe with curiously embroidered net-work that revealed a nervous +and delicate throat. The rich effect of the net-work was relieved by the +studied simplicity with which her heavy chestnut-colored hair was +gathered in a single knot. Her face was turned away from him, but there +was something in the carriage of her head that struck him as familiar. +When at last she looked him in the face, the glass almost fell from his +hand: it was Ethel Brandenbourg. She seemed to notice his embarrassment +and smiled. When she opened her lips to speak, he knew by the haunting +sweetness of the voice that he was not mistaken.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," she said wistfully, "you have forgotten me? They all have."</p> + +<p>He hastened to assure her that he had not forgotten her. He recollected +now that he had first been introduced to her in Walkham's house some +years ago, when a mere college boy, he had been privileged to attend one +of that master's famous receptions. She had looked quite resolute and +very happy then, not at all like the woman who had stared so <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a>[Pg 75]</span>strangely +at Reginald in the Broadway restaurant.</p> + +<p>He regarded this encounter as very fortunate. He knew so much of her +personal history that it almost seemed to him as if they had been +intimate for years. She, too, felt on familiar ground with him. Neither +as much as whispered the name of Reginald Clarke. Yet it was he, and the +knowledge of what he was to them, that linked their souls with a common +bond.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a>[Pg 76]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a>[Pg 77]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV</h3> + + +<p>It was the third day after their meeting. Hour by hour their intimacy +had increased. Ethel was sitting in a large wicker-chair. She restlessly +fingered her parasol, mechanically describing magic circles in the sand. +Ernest lay at her feet. With his knees clasped between his hands, he +gazed into her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Why are you trying so hard to make love to me?" the woman asked, with +the half-amused smile with which the Eve near thirty receives the homage +of a boy. There is an element of insincerity in that smile, but it is a +weapon of defence against love's artillery.</p> + +<p>Sometimes, indeed, the pleading in the boy's eyes and the cry of the +blood pierces the woman's smiling superiority. She listens, loves and +loses.</p> + +<p>Ethel Brandenbourg was listening, but the idea of love had not yet +entered into her mind.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a>[Pg 78]</span> Her interest in Ernest was due in part to his +youth and the trembling in his voice when he spoke of love. But what +probably attracted her most powerfully was the fact that he intimately +knew the man who still held her woman's heart in the hollow of his hand. +It was half in play, therefore, that she had asked him that question.</p> + +<p>Why did he make love to her? He did not know. Perhaps it was the +irresistible desire to be petted which young poets share with +domesticated cats. But what should he tell her? Polite platitudes were +out of place between them.</p> + +<p>Besides he knew the penalty of all tender entanglements. Women treat +love as if it were an extremely tenuous wire that can be drawn out +indefinitely. This is a very expensive process. It costs us the most +precious, the only irretrievable thing in the universe—time. And to him +time was song; for money he did not care. The Lord had hallowed his lips +with rhythmic speech; only in the intervals of his singing might he +listen to the voice of his heart—strangest of all watches, that tells +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a>[Pg 79]</span>the time not by minutes and hours, but by the coming and going of love.</p> + +<p>The woman beside him seemed to read his thoughts.</p> + +<p>"Child, child," she said, "why will you toy with love? Like Jehovah, he +is a jealous god, and nothing but the whole heart can placate him. Woe +to the woman who takes a poet for a lover. I admit it is fascinating, +but it is playing <i>va banque</i>. In fact, it is fatal. Art or love will +come to harm. No man can minister equally to both. A genuine poet is +incapable of loving a woman."</p> + +<p>"Pshaw! You exaggerate. Of course, there is a measure of truth in what +you say, but it is only one side of the truth, and the truth, you know, +is always Janus-faced. In fact, it often has more than two faces. I can +assure you that I have cared deeply for the women to whom my love-poetry +was written. And you will not deny that it is genuine."</p> + +<p>"God forbid! Only you have been using the wrong preposition. You should +have said that it was written at them."</p> + +<p>Ernest stared at her in child-like wonder.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a>[Pg 80]</span>"By Jove! you are too devilishly clever!" he exclaimed.</p> + +<p>After a little silence he said not without hesitation: "And do you apply +your theory to all artists, or only to us makers of rhyme?"</p> + +<p>"To all," she replied.</p> + +<p>He looked at her questioningly.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she said, with a new sadness in her voice, "I, too, have paid the +price."</p> + +<p>"You mean?"</p> + +<p>"I loved."</p> + +<p>"And art?"</p> + +<p>"That was the sacrifice."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps you have chosen the better part," Ernest said without +conviction.</p> + +<p>"No," she replied, "my tribute was brought in vain."</p> + +<p>This she said calmly, but Ernest knew that her words were of tragic +import.</p> + +<p>"You love him still?" he observed simply.</p> + +<p>Ethel made no reply. Sadness clouded her face like a veil or like a grey +mist over the face of the waters. Her eyes went out to the sea, +following the sombre flight of the sea-mews.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></a>[Pg 81]</span>In that moment he could have taken her in his arms and kissed her with +infinite tenderness.</p> + +<p>But tenderness between man and woman is like a match in a +powder-magazine. The least provocation, and an amorous explosion will +ensue, tumbling down the card-houses of platonic affection. If he +yielded to the impulse of the moment, the wine of the springtide would +set their blood afire, and from the flames within us there is no escape.</p> + +<p>"Come, come," she said, "you do not love me."</p> + +<p>He protested.</p> + +<p>"Ah!" she cried triumphantly, "how many sonnets would you give for me? +If you were a usurer in gold instead of in rhyme, I would ask how many +dollars. But it is unjust to pay in a coin that we value little. To a +man starving in gold mines, a piece of bread weighs more than all the +treasures of the earth. To you, I warrant your poems are the standard of +appreciation. How many would you give for me? One, two, three?"</p> + +<p>"More."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></a>[Pg 82]</span>"Because you think love would repay you with compound interest," she +observed merrily.</p> + +<p>He laughed.</p> + +<p>And when love turns to laughter the danger is passed for the moment.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></a>[Pg 83]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV</h3> + + +<p>Thus three weeks passed without apparent change in their relations. +Ernest possessed a personal magnetism that, always emanating from him, +was felt most deeply when withdrawn. He was at all times involuntarily +exerting his power, which she ever resisted, always on the alert, always +warding off.</p> + +<p>When at last pressure of work made his immediate departure for New York +imperative, he had not apparently gained the least ground. But Ethel +knew in her heart that she was fascinated, if not in love. The personal +fascination was supplemented by a motherly feeling toward Ernest that, +sensuous in essence, was in itself not far removed from love. She +struggled bravely and with external success against her emotions, never +losing sight of the fact that twenty and thirty are fifty.</p> + +<p>Increasingly aware of her own weakness, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></a>[Pg 84]</span>she constantly attempted to +lead the conversation into impersonal channels, speaking preferably of +his work.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," she said, negligently fanning herself, "what new inspiration +have you drawn from your stay at the seaside?"</p> + +<p>"Why," he exclaimed enthusiastically, "volumes and volumes of it. I +shall write the great novel of my life after I am once more quietly +installed at Riverside Drive."</p> + +<p>"The great American novel?" she rejoined.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps."</p> + +<p>"Who will be your hero—Clarke?"</p> + +<p>There was a slight touch of malice in her words, or rather in the pause +between the penultimate word and the last. Ernest detected its presence, +and knew that her love for Reginald was dead. Stiff and cold it lay in +her heart's chamber—beside how many others?—all emboxed in the coffin +of memory.</p> + +<p>"No," he replied after a while, a little piqued by her suggestion, +"Clarke is not the hero. What makes you think that he casts a spell on +everything I do?"</p> + +<p>"Dear child," she replied, "I know him.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></a>[Pg 85]</span> He cannot fail to impress his +powerful personality upon all with whom he comes in contact, to the +injury of their intellectual independence. Moreover, he is so brilliant +and says everything so much better than anybody else, that by his very +splendor he discourages effort in others. At best his influence will +shape your development according to the tenets of his mind—curious, +subtle and corrupted. You will become mentally distorted, like one of +those hunchback Japanese trees, infinitely wrinkled and infinitely +grotesque, whose laws of growth are not determined by nature, but by the +diseased imagination of the East."</p> + +<p>"I am no weakling," Ernest asserted, "and your picture of Clarke is +altogether out of perspective. His splendid successes are to me a source +of constant inspiration. We have some things in common, but I realise +that it is along entirely different lines that success will come to me. +He has never sought to influence me, in fact, I never received the +smallest suggestion from him." Here the Princess Marigold seemed to peer +at him through the veil of the past, but he waved her aside. "As for <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a>[Pg 86]</span>my +story," he continued, "you need not go so far out of your way to find +the leading character?"</p> + +<p>"Who can it be?" Ethel remarked, with a merry twinkle, "You?"</p> + +<p>"Ethel," he said sulkingly, "be serious. You know that it is you."</p> + +<p>"I am immensely flattered," she replied. "Really, nothing pleases me +better than to be immortalised in print, since I have little hope +nowadays of perpetuating my name by virtue of pencil or brush. I have +been put into novels before and am consumed with curiosity to hear the +plot of yours."</p> + +<p>"If you don't mind, I had rather not tell you just yet," Ernest said. +"It's going to be called Leontina—that's you. But all depends on the +treatment. You know it doesn't matter much what you say so long as you +say it well. That's what counts. At any rate, any indication of the plot +at this stage would be decidedly inadequate."</p> + +<p>"I think you are right," she ventured. "By all means choose your own +time to tell me. Let's talk of something else. Have you writ<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87"></a>[Pg 87]</span>ten +anything since your delightful book of verse last spring? Surely now is +your singing season. By the time we are thirty the springs of pure lyric +passion are usually exhausted."</p> + +<p>Ethel's inquiry somehow startled him. In truth, he could find no +satisfactory answer. A remark relative to his play—Clarke's play—rose +to the threshold of his lips, but he almost bit his tongue as soon as he +realised that the strange delusion which had possessed him that night +still dominated the undercurrents of his cerebration. No, he had +accomplished but little during the last few months—at least, by way of +creative literature. So he replied that he had made money. "That is +something," he said. "Besides, who can turn out a masterpiece every +week? An artist's brain is not a machine, and in the respite from +creative work I have gathered strength for the future. But," he added, +slightly annoyed, "you are not listening."</p> + +<p>His exclamation brought her back from the train of thoughts that his +words had suggested. For in his reasoning she had recognised the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></a>[Pg 88]</span>same +arguments that she had hourly repeated to herself in defence of her +inactivity when she was living under the baneful influence of Reginald +Clarke. Yes, baneful; for the first time she dared to confess it to +herself. In a flash the truth dawned upon her that it was not her love +alone, but something else, something irresistable and very mysterious, +that had dried up the well of creation in her. Could it be that the same +power was now exerting its influence upon the struggling soul of this +talented boy? Rack her brains as she might, she could not definitely +formulate her apprehensions and a troubled look came into her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Ethel," the boy repeated, impatiently, "why are you not listening? Do +you realise that I must leave you in half an hour?"</p> + +<p>She looked at him with deep tenderness. Something like a tear lent a +soft radiance to her large child-like eyes.</p> + +<p>Ernest saw it and was profoundly moved. In that moment he loved her +passionately.</p> + +<p>"Foolish boy," she said softly; then, lowering her voice to a whisper: +"You may kiss me before you go."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></a>[Pg 89]</span>His lips gently touched hers, but she took his head between her hands +and pressed her mouth upon his in a long kiss.</p> + +<p>Ernest drew back a little awkwardly. He had not been kissed like this +before.</p> + +<p>"Poet though you are," Ethel whispered, "you have not yet learned to +kiss."</p> + +<p>She was deeply agitated when she noticed that his hand was fumbling for +the watch in his vest-pocket. She suddenly released him, and said, a +little hurt: "No, you must not miss your train. Go by all means."</p> + +<p>Vainly Ernest remonstrated with her.</p> + +<p>"Go to him," she said, and again, "go to him."</p> + +<p>With a heavy heart the boy obeyed. He waved his hat to her once more +from below, and then rapidly disappeared in the crowd. For a moment +strange misgivings cramped her heart, and something within her called +out to him: "Do not go! Do not return to that house." But no sound +issued from her lips. Worldly wisdom had sealed them, had stifled the +inner voice. And soon the boy's golden head was swallowed up in the +distance.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a>[Pg 90]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a>[Pg 91]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a>XVI</h3> + + +<p>While the train sped to New York, Ethel Brandenbourg was the one object +engaging Ernest's mind. He still felt the pressure of her lips upon his, +and his nostrils dilated at the thought of the fragrance of her hair +brushing against his forehead.</p> + +<p>But the moment his foot touched the ferry-boat that was to take him to +Manhattan, the past three weeks were, for the time being at least, +completely obliterated from his memory. All his other interests that he +had suppressed in her company because she had no part in them, came +rushing back to him. He anticipated with delight his meeting with +Reginald Clarke. The personal attractiveness of the man had never seemed +so powerful to Ernest as when he had not heard from him for some time. +Reginald's letters were always brief. "Professional writers," he was +wont to say,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a>[Pg 92]</span> "cannot afford to put fine feeling into their private +correspondence. They must turn it into copy." He longed to sit with the +master in the studio when the last rays of the daylight were tremulously +falling through the stained window, and to discuss far into the +darkening night philosophies young and old. He longed for Reginald's +voice, his little mannerisms, the very perfume of his rooms.</p> + +<p>There also was a deluge of letters likely to await him in his apartment. +For in his hurried departure he had purposely left his friends in the +dark as to his whereabouts. Only to Jack he had dropped a little note +the day after his meeting with Ethel.</p> + +<p>He earnestly hoped to find Reginald at home, though it was well nigh ten +o'clock in the evening, and he cursed the "rapid transit" for its +inability to annihilate space and time. It is indeed disconcerting to +think how many months, if not years, of our earthly sojourn the dwellers +in cities spend in transportation conveyances that must be set down as a +dead loss in the ledger of life. A nervous impatience against things +material overcame Ernest <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a>[Pg 93]</span>in the subway. It is ever the mere stupid +obstacle of matter that weights down the wings of the soul and prevents +it from soaring upward to the sun.</p> + +<p>When at last he had reached the house, he learned from the hall-boy that +Clarke had gone out. Ruffled in temper he entered his rooms and went +over his mail. There were letters from editors with commissions that he +could not afford to reject. Everywhere newspapers and magazines opened +their yawning mouths to swallow up what time he had. He realised at once +that he would have to postpone the writing of his novel for several +weeks, if not longer.</p> + +<p>Among the letters was one from Jack. It bore the postmark of a little +place in the Adirondacks where he was staying with his parents. Ernest +opened the missive not without hesitation. On reading and rereading it +the fine lines on his forehead, that would some day deepen into +wrinkles, became quite pronounced and a look of displeasure darkened his +face. Something was wrong with Jack, a slight change that defied +analysis. Their souls were <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a>[Pg 94]</span>out of tune. It might only be a passing +disturbance; perhaps it was his own fault. It pained him, nevertheless. +Somehow it seemed of late that Jack was no longer able to follow the +vagaries of his mind. Only one person in the world possessed a similar +mental vision, only one seemed to understand what he said and what he +left unsaid. Reginald Clarke, being a man and poet, read in his soul as +in an open book. Ethel might have understood, had not love, like a +cloud, laid itself between her eyes and the page.</p> + +<p>It was with exultation that Ernest heard near midnight the click of +Reginald's key in the door. He found him unchanged, completely, +radiantly himself. Reginald possessed the psychic power of undressing +the soul, of seeing it before him in primal nakedness. Although no word +was said of Ethel Brandenbourg except the mere mention of her presence +in Atlantic City, Ernest intuitively knew that Reginald was aware of the +transformation that absence had wrought in him. In the presence of this +man he could be absolutely himself, without shame or fear of +mis-<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a>[Pg 95]</span>understanding; and by a strange metamorphosis, all his affection +for Ethel and Jack went out for the time being to Reginald Clarke.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a>[Pg 96]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a>[Pg 97]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XVII" id="XVII"></a>XVII</h3> + + +<p>The next day Ernest wrote a letter of more or less superficial +tenderness to Ethel. She had wounded his pride by proving victorious in +the end over his passion and hers; besides, he was in the throes of +work. When after the third day no answer came, he was inclined to feel +aggrieved. It was plain now that she had not cared for him in the least, +but had simply played with him for lack of another toy. A flush of shame +rose to his cheeks at the thought. He began to analyse his own emotions, +and stunned, if not stabbed, his passion step by step. Work was calling +to him. It was that which gave life its meaning, not the love of a +season. How far away, how unreal, she now seemed to him. Yes, she was +right, he had not cared deeply; and his novel, too, would be written +only <i>at</i> her. It was the heroine of his story that absorbed his +interest, not the living prototype.</p> + +<p>Once in a conversation with Reginald he <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a>[Pg 98]</span>touched upon the subject. +Reginald held that modern taste no longer permitted even the +photographer to portray life as it is, but insisted upon an individual +visualisation. "No man," he remarked, "was ever translated bodily into +fiction. In contradiction to life, art is a process of artificial +selection."</p> + +<p>Bearing in mind this motive, Ernest went to work to mould from the +material in hand a new Ethel, more real than life. Unfortunately he +found little time to devote to his novel. It was only when, after a good +day's work, a pile of copy for a magazine lay on his desk, that he could +think of concentrating his mind upon "Leontina." The result was that +when he went to bed his imagination was busy with the plan of his book, +and the creatures of his own brain laid their fingers on his eyelid so +that he could not sleep.</p> + +<p>When at last sheer weariness overcame him, his mind was still at work, +not in orderly sequence but along trails monstrous and grotesque. +Hobgoblins seemed to steal through the hall, and leering incubi +oppressed his soul with terrible burdens. In the morning he <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a>[Pg 99]</span>awoke +unrested. The tan vanished from his face and little lines appeared in +the corners of his mouth. It was as if his nervous vitality were sapped +from him in some unaccountable way. He became excited, hysterical. Often +at night when he wrote his pot-boilers for the magazines, fear stood +behind his seat, and only the buzzing of the elevator outside brought +him back to himself.</p> + +<p>In one of his morbid moods he wrote a sonnet which he showed to Reginald +after the latter's return from a short trip out of town. Reginald read +it, looking at the boy with a curious, lurking expression.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>O gentle Sleep, turn not thy face away</i>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>But place thy finger on my brow, and take</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>All burthens from me and all dreams that ache</i>;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Upon mine eyes a cooling balsam lay</i>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Seeing I am aweary of the day</i>.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>But, lo! thy lips are ashen and they quake</i>.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>What spectral vision sees thou that can shake</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Thy sweet composure, and thy heart dismay</i>?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Perhaps some murderer's cruel eye agleam</i></span><br /><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a>[Pg 100]</span> +<span style="margin-left: 1em;"><i>Is fixed upon me, or some monstrous dream</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>Might bring such fearful guilt upon the head</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Of my unvigilant soul as would arouse</i></span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>The Borgian snake from her envenomed bed</i>,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 3em;"><i>Or startle Nero in his golden house</i>.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>"Good stuff," Reginald remarked, laying down the manuscript; "when did +you write it?"</p> + +<p>"The night when you were out of town," Ernest rejoined.</p> + +<p>"I see," Reginald replied.</p> + +<p>There was something startling in his intonation that at once aroused +Ernest's attention.</p> + +<p>"What do you see?" he asked quickly.</p> + +<p>"Nothing," Reginald replied, with immovable calm, "only that your state +of nerves is still far from satisfactory."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a>[Pg 101]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XVIII" id="XVIII"></a>XVIII</h3> + + +<p>After Ernest's departure Ethel Brandenbourg's heart was swaying hither +and thither in a hurricane of conflicting feelings. Before she had time +to gain an emotional equilibrium, his letter had hurled her back into +chaos. A false ring somewhere in Ernest's words, reechoing with an +ever-increasing volume of sound, stifled the voice of love. His jewelled +sentences glittered, but left her cold. They lacked that spontaneity +which renders even simple and hackeneyed phrases wonderful and unique. +Ethel clearly realised that her hold upon the boy's imagination had been +a fleeting midsummer night's charm, and that a word from Reginald's lips +had broken the potency of her spell. She almost saw the shadow of +Reginald's visage hovering over Ernest's letter and leering at her from +between the lines in sinister triumph. Finally reason came <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a>[Pg 102]</span>and +whispered to her that it was extremely unwise to give her heart into the +keeping of a boy. His love, she knew, would have been exacting, +irritating at times. He would have asked her to sympathise with every +phase of his life, and would have expected active interest on her part +in much that she had done with long ago. Thus, untruth would have stolen +into her life and embittered it. When mates are unequal, Love must paint +its cheeks and, in certain moods at least, hide its face under a mask. +Its lips may be honeyed, but it brings fret and sorrow in its train.</p> + +<p>These things she told herself over and over again while she penned a +cool and calculating answer to Ernest's letter. She rewrote it many +times, and every time it became more difficult to reply. At last she put +her letter aside for a few days, and when it fell again into her hand it +seemed so unnatural and strained that she destroyed it.</p> + +<p>Thus several weeks had passed, and Ernest no longer exclusively occupied +her mind when, one day early in September, while glancing over a +magazine, she came upon his name in <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a>[Pg 103]</span>the table of contents. Once more +she saw the boy's wistful face before her, and a trembling something +stirred in her heart. Her hand shook as she cut the pages, and a mist of +tears clouded her vision as she attempted to read his poem. It was a +piece of sombre brilliance. Like black-draped monks half crazed with +mystic devotion, the poet's thoughts flitted across the page. It was the +wail of a soul that feels reason slipping from it and beholds madness +rise over its life like a great pale moon. A strange unrest emanated +from it and took possession of her. And again, with an insight that was +prophetic, she distinctly recognised behind the vague fear that had +haunted the poet the figure of Reginald Clarke.</p> + +<p>A half-forgotten dream, struggling to consciousness, staggered her by +its vividness. She saw Clarke as she had seen him in days gone by, +grotesquely transformed into a slimy sea-thing, whose hungry mouths shut +sucking upon her and whose thousand tentacles encircled her form. She +closed her eyes in horror at the reminiscence. And in that moment it +became <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></a>[Pg 104]</span>clear to her that she must take into her hands the salvation of +Ernest Fielding from the clutches of the malign power that had +mysteriously enveloped his life.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></a>[Pg 105]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XIX" id="XIX"></a>XIX</h3> + + +<p>The summer was brief, and already by the middle of September many had +returned to the pleasures of urban life. Ethel was among the +first-comers; for, after her resolve to enter the life of the young poet +once more, it would have been impossible for her to stay away from the +city much longer. Her plan was all ready. Before attempting to see +Ernest she would go to meet Reginald and implore him to free the boy +from his hideous spell. An element of curiosity unconsciously entered +her determination. When, years ago, she and Clarke had parted, the man +had seemed, for once, greatly disturbed and had promised, in his +agitation, that some day he would communicate to her what would +exonerate him in her eyes. She had answered that all words between them +were purposeless, and that she hoped never to see his face again. The +experi<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></a>[Pg 106]</span>ence that the years had brought to her, instead of elucidating +the mystery of Reginald's personality, had, on the contrary, made his +behaviour appear more and more unaccountable. She had more than once +caught herself wishing to meet him again and to analyse dispassionately +the puzzling influences he had exerted upon her. And she could at last +view him dispassionately; there was triumph in that. She was dimly aware +that something had passed from her, something by which he had held her, +and without which his magnetism was unable to play upon her.</p> + +<p>So when Walkham sent her an invitation to one of his artistic "at homes" +she accepted, in the hope of meeting Reginald. It was his frequentation +of Walkham's house that had for several years effectively barred her +foot from crossing the threshold. It was with a very strange feeling she +greeted the many familiar faces at Walkham's now; and when, toward ten +o'clock, Reginald entered, politely bowing in answer to the welcome from +all sides, her heart beat in her like a drum. But she calmed herself, +and, catching his eye, so <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a>[Pg 107]</span>arranged it that early in the evening they +met in an alcove of the drawing-room.</p> + +<p>"It was inevitable," Reginald said. "I expected it."</p> + +<p>"Yes," she replied, "we were bound to meet."</p> + +<p>Like a great rush of water, memory came back to her. He was still +horribly fascinating as of old—only she was no longer susceptible to +his fascination. He had changed somewhat in those years. The lines about +his mouth had grown harder and a steel-like look had come into his eyes. +Only for a moment, as he looked at her, a flash of tenderness seemed to +come back to them. Then he said, with a touch of sadness: "Why should +the first word between us be a lie?"</p> + +<p>Ethel made no answer.</p> + +<p>Reginald looked at her half in wonder and said: "And is your love for +the boy so great that it overcame your hate of me?"</p> + +<p>Ah, he knew! She winced.</p> + +<p>"He has told you?"</p> + +<p>"Not a word."</p> + +<p>There was something superhuman in his <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></a>[Pg 108]</span>power of penetration. Why should +she wear a mask before him, when his eyes, like the eyes of God, pierced +to the core of her being?</p> + +<p>"No," she replied, "it is not love, but compassion for him."</p> + +<p>"Compassion?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, compassion for your victim."</p> + +<p>"You mean?"</p> + +<p>"Reginald!"</p> + +<p>"I am all ear."</p> + +<p>"I implore you."</p> + +<p>"Speak."</p> + +<p>"You have ruined one life."</p> + +<p>He raised his eyebrows derogatively.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she continued fiercely, "ruined it! Is not that enough?"</p> + +<p>"I have never wilfully ruined any one's life."</p> + +<p>"You have ruined mine."</p> + +<p>"Wilfully?"</p> + +<p>"How else shall I explain your conduct?"</p> + +<p>"I warned you."</p> + +<p>"Warning, indeed! The warning that the snake gives to the sparrow +helpless under its gaze."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></a>[Pg 109]</span>"Ah, but who tells you that the snake is to blame? Is it not rather the +occult power that prescribes with blood on brazen scroll the law of our +being?"</p> + +<p>"This is no solace to the sparrow. But whatever may be said, let us drop +the past. Let us consider the present. I beg of you, leave this boy—let +him develop without your attempting to stifle the life in him or +impressing upon it the stamp of your alien mind."</p> + +<p>"Ethel," he protested, "you are unjust. If you knew—" Then an idea +seemed to take hold of him. He looked at her curiously.</p> + +<p>"What if I knew?" she asked.</p> + +<p>"You shall know," he said, simply. "Are you strong?"</p> + +<p>"Strong to withstand anything at your hand. There is nothing that you +can give me, nothing that you can take away."</p> + +<p>"No," he remarked, "nothing. Yes, you have changed. Still, when I look +upon you, the ghosts of the past seem to rise like live things."</p> + +<p>"We both have changed. We meet now <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></a>[Pg 110]</span>upon equal grounds. You are no +longer the idol I made of you."</p> + +<p>"Don't you think that to the idol this might be a relief, not a +humiliation? It is a terrible torture to sit in state with lips +eternally shut. Sometimes there comes over the most reticent of us a +desire to break through the eternal loneliness that surrounds the soul. +It is this feeling that prompts madmen to tear off their clothes and +exhibit their nakedness in the market-place. It's madness on my part, or +a whim, or I don't know what; but it pleases me that you should know the +truth."</p> + +<p>"You promised me long ago that I should."</p> + +<p>"To-day I will redeem my promise, and I will tell you another thing that +you will find hard to believe."</p> + +<p>"And that is?"</p> + +<p>"That I loved you."</p> + +<p>Ethel smiled a little sceptically. "You have loved often."</p> + +<p>"No," he replied. "Loved, seriously loved, I have, only once."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></a>[Pg 111]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XX" id="XX"></a>XX</h3> + + +<p>They were sitting in a little Italian restaurant where they had often, +in the old days, lingered late into the night over a glass of Lacrimæ +Christi. But no pale ghost of the past rose from the wine. Only a +wriggling something, with serpent eyes, that sent cold shivers down her +spine and held her speechless and entranced.</p> + +<p>When their order had been filled and the waiter had posted himself at a +respectful distance, Reginald began—at first leisurely, a man of the +world. But as he proceeded a strange exultation seemed to possess him +and from his eyes leaped the flame of the mystic.</p> + +<p>"You must pardon me," he commenced, "if I monopolise the conversation, +but the revelations I have to make are of such a nature that I may well +claim your attention. I will start with my earliest childhood. You +remember <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></a>[Pg 112]</span>the picture of me that was taken when I was five?"</p> + +<p>She remembered, indeed. Each detail of his life was deeply engraven on +her mind.</p> + +<p>"At that time," he continued, "I was not held to be particularly bright. +The reason was that my mind, being pre-eminently and extraordinarily +receptive, needed a stimulus from without. The moment I was sent to +school, however, a curious metamorphosis took place in me. I may say +that I became at once the most brilliant boy in my class. You know that +to this day I have always been the most striking figure in any circle in +which I have ever moved."</p> + +<p>Ethel nodded assent. Silently watching the speaker, she saw a gleam of +the truth from afar, but still very distant and very dim.</p> + +<p>Reginald lifted the glass against the light and gulped its contents. +Then in a lower voice he recommenced: "Like the chameleon, I have the +power of absorbing the colour of my environment."</p> + +<p>"Do you mean that you have the power of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></a>[Pg 113]</span>absorbing the special virtues +of other people?" she interjected.</p> + +<p>"That is exactly what I mean."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" she cried, for in a heart-beat many things had become clear to +her. For the first time she realised, still vaguely but with increasing +vividness, the hidden causes of her ruin and, still more plainly, the +horrible danger of Ernest Fielding.</p> + +<p>He noticed her agitation, and a look of psychological curiosity came +into his eyes.</p> + +<p>"Ah, but that is not all," he observed, smilingly. "That is nothing. We +all possess that faculty in a degree. The secret of my strength is my +ability to reject every element that is harmful or inessential to the +completion of my self. This did not come to me easily, nor without a +struggle. But now, looking back upon my life, many things become +transparent that were obscure even to me at the time. I can now follow +the fine-spun threads in the intricate web of my fate, and discover in +the wilderness of meshes a design, awful and grandly planned."</p> + +<p>His voice shook with conviction, as he ut<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a>[Pg 114]</span>tered these words. There was +something strangely gruesome in this man. It was thus that she had +pictured to herself the high-priest of some terrible and mysterious +religion, demanding a human sacrifice to appease the hunger of his god. +She was fascinated by the spell of his personality, and listened with a +feeling not far removed from awe. But Reginald suddenly changed his tone +and proceeded in a more conversational manner.</p> + +<p>"The first friend I ever cared for was a boy marvellously endowed for +the study of mathematics. At the time of our first meeting at school, I +was unable to solve even the simplest algebraical problem. But we had +been together only for half a month, when we exchanged parts. It was I +who was the mathematical genius now, whereas he became hopelessly dull +and stuttered through his recitations only with a struggle that brought +the tears to his eyes. Then I discarded him. Heartless, you say? I have +come to know better. Have you ever tasted a bottle of wine that had been +uncorked for a long time? If you have, you have probably found it +flat—the essence was <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></a>[Pg 115]</span>gone, evaporated. Thus it is when we care for +people. Probably—no, assuredly—there is some principle prisoned in +their souls, or in the windings of their brains, which, when escaped, +leaves them insipid, unprofitable and devoid of interest to us. +Sometimes this essence—not necessarily the finest element in a man's or +a woman's nature, but soul-stuff that we lack—disappears. In fact, it +invariably disappears. It may be that it has been transformed in the +processes of their growth; it may also be that it has utterly vanished +by some inadvertence, or that we ourselves have absorbed it."</p> + +<p>"Then we throw them away?" Ethel asked, pale, but dry-eyed. A shudder +passed through her body and she clinched her glass nervously. At that +moment Reginald resembled a veritable Prince of Darkness, sinister and +beautiful, painted by the hand of a modern master. Then, for a space, he +again became the man of the world. Smiling and self-possessed, he filled +the glasses, took a long sip of the wine and resumed his narrative.</p> + +<p>"That boy was followed by others. I ab<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></a>[Pg 116]</span>sorbed many useless things and +some that were evil. I realised that I must direct my absorptive +propensities. This I did. I selected, selected well. And all the time +the terrible power of which I was only half conscious grew within me."</p> + +<p>"It is indeed a terrible power," she cried; "all the more terrible for +its subtlety. Had I not myself been its victim, I should not now find it +possible to believe in it."</p> + +<p>"The invisible hand that smites in the dark is certainly more fearful +than a visible foe. It is also more merciful. Think how much you would +have suffered had you been conscious of your loss."</p> + +<p>"Still it seems even now to me that it cannot have been an utter, +irreparable loss. There is no action without reaction. Even I—even +we—must have received from you some compensation for what you have +taken away."</p> + +<p>"In the ordinary processes of life the law of action and reaction is +indeed potent. But no law is without exception. Think of radium, for +instance, with its constant and seemingly inexhaustible outflow of +energy. It is a diffi<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></a>[Pg 117]</span>cult thing to imagine, but our scientific men have +accepted it as a fact. Why should we find it more difficult to conceive +of a tremendous and infinite absorptive element? I feel sure that it +must somewhere exist. But every phenomenon in the physical world finds +its counterpart in the psychical universe. There are radium-souls that +radiate without loss of energy, but also without increase. And there are +souls, the reverse of radium, with unlimited absorptive capacities."</p> + +<p>"Vampire-souls," she observed, with a shudder, and her face blanched.</p> + +<p>"No," he said, "don't say that." And then he suddenly seemed to grow in +stature. His face was ablaze, like the face of a god.</p> + +<p>"In every age," he replied, with solemnity, "there are giants who attain +to a greatness which by natural growth no men could ever have reached. +But in their youth a vision came to them, which they set out to seek. +They take the stones of fancy to build them a palace in the kingdom of +truth, projecting into reality dreams, monstrous and impossible. Often +they fail and, tumbling from their airy <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></a>[Pg 118]</span>heights, end a quixotic career. +Some succeed. They are the chosen. Carpenter's sons they are, who have +laid down the Law of a World for milleniums to come; or simple +Corsicans, before whose eagle eye have quaked the kingdoms of the earth. +But to accomplish their mission they need a will of iron and the wit of +a hundred men. And from the iron they take the strength, and from a +hundred men's brains they absorb their wisdom. Divine missionaries, they +appear in all departments of life. In their hand is gathered to-day the +gold of the world. Mighty potentates of peace and war, they unlock new +seas and from distant continents lift the bars. Single-handed, they +accomplish what nations dared not hope; with Titan strides they scale +the stars and succeed where millions fail. In art they live, the makers +of new periods, the dreamers of new styles. They make themselves the +vocal sun-glasses of God. Homer and Shakespeare, Hugo and Balzac—they +concentrate the dispersed rays of a thousand lesser luminaries in one +singing flame that, like a giant torch, lights up humanity's path."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></a>[Pg 119]</span>She gazed at him, open-mouthed. The light had gone from his visage. He +paused, exhausted, but even then he looked the incarnation of a force no +less terrible, no less grand. She grasped the immensity of his +conception, but her woman's soul rebelled at the horrible injustice to +those whose light is extinguished, as hers had been, to feed an alien +flame. And then, for a moment, she saw the pale face of Ernest staring +at her out of the wine.</p> + +<p>"Cruel," she sobbed, "how cruel!"</p> + +<p>"What matter?" he asked. "Their strength is taken from them, but the +spirit of humanity, as embodied in us, triumphantly marches on."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></a>[Pg 120]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a>[Pg 121]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XXI" id="XXI"></a>XXI</h3> + + +<p>Reginald's revelations were followed by a long silence, interrupted only +by the officiousness of the waiter. The spell once broken, they +exchanged a number of more or less irrelevant observations. Ethel's mind +returned, again and again, to the word he had not spoken. He had said +nothing of the immediate bearing of his monstrous power upon her own +life and that of Ernest Fielding.</p> + +<p>At last, somewhat timidly, she approached the subject.</p> + +<p>"You said you loved me," she remarked.</p> + +<p>"I did."</p> + +<p>"But why, then—"</p> + +<p>"I could not help it."</p> + +<p>"Did you ever make the slightest attempt?"</p> + +<p>"In the horrible night hours I struggled against it. I even implored you +to leave me."</p> + +<p>"Ah, but I loved you!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></a>[Pg 122]</span>"You would not be warned, you would not listen. You stayed with me, and +slowly, surely, the creative urge went out of your life."</p> + +<p>"But what on earth could you find in my poor art to attract you? What +were my pictures to you?"</p> + +<p>"I needed them, I needed you. It was a certain something, a rich colour +effect, perhaps. And then, under your very eyes, the colour that +vanished from your canvases reappeared in my prose. My style became more +luxurious than it had been, while you tortured your soul in the vain +attempt of calling back to your brush what was irretrievably lost."</p> + +<p>"Why did you not tell me?"</p> + +<p>"You would have laughed in my face, and I could not have endured your +laugh. Besides, I always hoped, until it was too late, that I might yet +check the mysterious power within me. Soon, however, I became aware that +it was beyond my control. The unknown god, whose instrument I am, had +wisely made it stronger than me."</p> + +<p>"But why," retorted Ethel, "was it neces<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></a>[Pg 123]</span>sary to discard me, like a +cast-off garment, like a wanton who has lost the power to please?"</p> + +<p>Her frame shook with the remembered emotion of that moment, when years +ago he had politely told her that she was nothing to him.</p> + +<p>"The law of being," Reginald replied, almost sadly, "the law of my +being. I should have pitied you, but the eternal reproach of your +suffering only provoked my anger. I cared less for you every day, and +when I had absorbed all of you that my growth required, you were to me +as one dead, as a stranger you were. There was between us no further +community of interest; henceforth, I knew, our lives must move in +totally different spheres. You remember that day when we said good-bye?"</p> + +<p>"You mean that day when I lay before you on my knees," she corrected +him.</p> + +<p>"That day I buried my last dream of personal happiness. I would have +gladly raised you from the floor, but love was utterly gone. If I am +tenderer to-day than I am wont to be, it is because you mean so much to +me as the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></a>[Pg 124]</span>symbol of my renunciation. When I realised that I could not +even save the thing I loved from myself, I became hardened and cruel to +others. Not that I know no kindly feeling, but no qualms of conscience +lay their prostrate forms across my path. There is nothing in life for +me but my mission."</p> + +<p>His face was bathed in ecstasy. The pupils were luminous, large and +threatening. He had the look of a madman or a prophet.</p> + +<p>After a while Ethel remarked: "But you have grown into one of the +master-figures of the age. Why not be content with that? Is there no +limit to your ambition?"</p> + +<p>Reginald smiled: "Ambition! Shakespeare stopped when he had reached his +full growth, when he had exhausted the capacity of his contemporaries. I +am not yet ready to lay down my pen and rest."</p> + +<p>"And will you always continue in this criminal course, a murderer of +other lives?"</p> + +<p>He looked her calmly in the face. "I do not know."</p> + +<p>"Are you the slave of your unknown god?"</p> + +<p>"We are all slaves, wire-pulled marionettes:<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></a>[Pg 125]</span> You, Ernest, I. There is +no freedom on the face of the earth nor above. The tiger that tears a +lamb is not free, I am not free, you are not free. All that happens must +happen; no word that is said is said in vain, in vain is raised no +hand."</p> + +<p>"Then," Ethel retorted, eagerly, "if I attempted to wrest your victim +from you, I should also be the tool of your god?"</p> + +<p>"Assuredly. But I am his chosen."</p> + +<p>"Can you—can you not set him free?"</p> + +<p>"I need him—a little longer. Then he is yours."</p> + +<p>"But can you not, if I beg you again on my knees, at least loosen his +chains before he is utterly ruined?"</p> + +<p>"It is beyond my power. If I could not rescue you, whom I loved, what in +heaven or on earth can save him from his fate? Besides, he will not be +utterly ruined. It is only a part of him that I absorb. In his soul are +chords that I have not touched. They may vibrate one day, when he has +gathered new strength. You, too, would have spared yourself much pain +had you striven to attain success in different <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></a>[Pg 126]</span>fields—not where I had +garnered the harvest of a lifetime. It is only a portion of his talent +that I take from him. The rest I cannot harm. Why should he bury that +remainder?"</p> + +<p>His eyes strayed through the window to the firmament, as if to say that +words could no more bend his indomitable will than alter the changeless +course of the stars.</p> + +<p>Ethel had half-forgotten the wrong she herself had suffered at his +hands. He could not be measured by ordinary standards, this dazzling +madman, whose diseased will-power had assumed such uncanny proportions. +But here a young life was at stake. In her mind's eye she saw Reginald +crush between his relentless hands the delicate soul of Ernest Fielding, +as a magnificent carnivorous flower might close its glorious petals upon +a fly.</p> + +<p>Love, all conquering love, welled up in her. She would fight for Ernest +as a tiger cat fights for its young. She would place herself in the way +of the awful force that had shattered her own aspirations, and save, at +any cost, the brilliant boy who did not love her.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></a>[Pg 127]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XXII" id="XXII"></a>XXII</h3> + + +<p>The last rays of the late afternoon sun fell slanting through Ernest's +window. He was lying on his couch, in a leaden, death-like slumber that, +for the moment at least, was not even perturbed by the presence of +Reginald Clarke.</p> + +<p>The latter was standing at the boy's bedside, calm, unmoved as ever. The +excitement of his conversation with Ethel had left no trace on the +chiselled contour of his forehead. Smilingly fastening an orchid of an +indefinable purple tint in his evening coat, radiant, buoyant with life, +he looked down upon the sleeper. Then he passed his hand over Ernest's +forehead, as if to wipe off beads of sweat. At the touch of his hand the +boy stirred uneasily. When it was not withdrawn his countenance twitched +in pain. He moaned as men moan under the influence of some anæsthetic, +without possessing the power to break through <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></a>[Pg 128]</span>the narrow partition that +separates them from death on the one side and from consciousness on the +other. At last a sigh struggled to his seemingly paralysed lips, then +another. Finally the babbling became articulate.</p> + +<p>"For God's sake," he cried, in his sleep, "take that hand away!"</p> + +<p>And all at once the benignant smile on Reginald's features was changed +to a look of savage fierceness. He no longer resembled the man of +culture, but a disappointed, snarling beast of prey. He took his hand +from Ernest's forehead and retired cautiously through the half-open +door.</p> + +<p>Hardly had he disappeared when Ernest awoke. For a moment he looked +around, like a hunted animal, then sighed with relief and buried his +head in his hand. At that moment a knock at the door was heard, and +Reginald re-entered, calm as before.</p> + +<p>"I declare," he exclaimed, "you have certainly been sleeping the sleep +of the just."</p> + +<p>"It isn't laziness," Ernest replied, looking up rather pleased at the +interruption. "But I've a splitting headache."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></a>[Pg 129]</span>"Perhaps those naps are not good for your health."</p> + +<p>"Probably. But of late I have frequently found it necessary to exact +from the day-hours the sleep which the night refuses me. I suppose it is +all due to indigestion, as you have suggested. The stomach is the source +of all evil."</p> + +<p>"It is also the source of all good. The Greeks made it the seat of the +soul. I have always claimed that the most important item in a great +poet's biography is an exact reproduction of his menu."</p> + +<p>"True, a man who eats a heavy beefsteak for breakfast in the morning is +incapable of writing a sonnet in the afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Yes," Reginald added, "we are what we eat and what our forefathers have +eaten before us. I ascribe the staleness of American poetry to the +griddle-cakes of our Puritan ancestors. I am sorry we cannot go deeper +into the subject at present. But I have an invitation to dinner where I +shall study, experimentally, the influence of French sauces on my +versification."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></a>[Pg 130]</span>"Good-bye."</p> + +<p>"Au revoir." And, with a wave of the hand, Reginald left the room.</p> + +<p>When the door had closed behind him, Ernest's thoughts took a more +serious turn. The tone of light bantering in which the preceding +conversation had taken place had been assumed on his part. For the last +few weeks evil dreams had tortured his sleep and cast their shadow upon +his waking hours. They had ever increased in reality, in intensity and +in hideousness. Even now he could see the long, tapering fingers that +every night were groping in the windings of his brain. It was a +well-formed, manicured hand that seemed to reach under his skull, +carefully feeling its way through the myriad convolutions where thought +resides.</p> + +<p>And, oh, the agony of it all! A human mind is not a thing of stone, but +alive, horribly alive to pain. What was it those fingers sought, what +mysterious treasures, what jewels hidden in the under-layer of his +consciousness? His brain was like a human gold-mine, quaking under the +blow of the pick and the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></a>[Pg 131]</span>tread of the miner. The miner! Ah, the miner! +Ceaselessly, thoroughly, relentlessly, he opened vein after vein and +wrested untold riches from the quivering ground; but each vein was a +live vein and each nugget of gold a thought!</p> + +<p>No wonder the boy was a nervous wreck. Whenever a tremulous nascent idea +was formulating itself, the dream-hand clutched it and took it away, +brutally severing the fine threads that bind thought to thought. And +when the morning came, how his head ached! It was not an acute pain, but +dull, heavy, incessant.</p> + +<p>These sensations, Ernest frequently told himself, were morbid fancies. +But then, the monomaniac who imagines that his arms have been mangled or +cut from his body, might as well be without arms. Mind can annihilate +obstacles. It can also create them. Psychology was no unfamiliar ground +to Ernest, and it was not difficult for him to seek in some casual +suggestion an explanation for his delusion, the fixed notion that +haunted him day and night. But he also realized that to explain a +phenomenon is not to explain it away. The man who <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></a>[Pg 132]</span>analyses his emotions +cannot wholly escape them, and the shadow of fear—primal, inexplicable +fear—may darken at moments of weakness the life of the subtlest +psychologist and the clearest thinker.</p> + +<p>He had never spoken to Reginald of his terrible nightmares. Coming on +the heel of the fancy that he, Ernest, had written "The Princess With +the Yellow Veil," a fancy that, by the way, had again possessed him of +late, this new delusion would certainly arouse suspicion as to his +sanity in Reginald's mind. He would probably send him to a sanitarium; +he certainly would not keep him in the house. Beneficence itself in all +other things, his host was not to be trifled with in any matter that +interfered with his work. He would act swiftly and without mercy.</p> + +<p>For the first time in many days Ernest thought of Abel Felton. Poor boy! +What had become of him after he had been turned from the house? He would +not wait for any one to tell him to pack his bundle. But then, that was +impossible; Reginald was fond of him.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></a>[Pg 133]</span>Suddenly Ernest's meditations were interrupted by a noise at the outer +door. A key was turned in the lock. It must be he—but why so soon? What +could have brought him back at this hour? He opened the door and went +out into the hall to see what had happened. The figure that he beheld +was certainly not the person expected, but a woman, from whose shoulders +a theatre-cloak fell in graceful folds,—probably a visitor for +Reginald. Ernest was about to withdraw discreetly, when the electric +light that was burning in the hallway fell upon her face and illumined +it.</p> + +<p>Then indeed surprise overcame him. "Ethel," he cried, "is it you?"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></a>[Pg 134]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></a>[Pg 135]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XXIII" id="XXIII"></a>XXIII</h3> + + +<p>Ernest conducted Ethel Brandenbourg to his room and helped her to remove +her cloak.</p> + +<p>While he was placing the garment upon the back of a chair, she slipped a +little key into her hand-bag. He looked at her with a question in his +eyes.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she replied, "I kept the key; but I had not dreamed that I would +ever again cross this threshold."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile it had grown quite dark. The reflection of the street lanterns +without dimly lit the room, and through the twilight fantastic shadows +seemed to dance.</p> + +<p>The perfume of her hair pervaded the room and filled the boy's heart +with romance. Tenderness long suppressed called with a thousand voices. +The hour, the strangeness and unexpectedness of her visit, perhaps even +a boy's <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></a>[Pg 136]</span>pardonable vanity, roused passion from its slumbers and once +again wrought in Ernest's soul the miracle of love. His arm encircled +her neck and his lips stammered blind, sweet, crazy and caressing +things.</p> + +<p>"Turn on the light," she pleaded.</p> + +<p>"You were not always so cruel."</p> + +<p>"No matter, I have not come to speak of love."</p> + +<p>"Why, then, have you come?"</p> + +<p>Ernest felt a little awkward, disappointed, as he uttered these words.</p> + +<p>What could have induced her to come to his rooms? He loosened his hold +on her and did as she asked.</p> + +<p>How pale she looked in the light, how beautiful! Surely, she had +sorrowed for him; but why had she not answered his letter? Yes, why?</p> + +<p>"Your letter?" She smiled a little sadly. "Surely you did not expect me +to answer that?"</p> + +<p>"Why not?" He had again approached her and his lips were close to hers. +"Why not? I have yearned for you. I love you."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></a>[Pg 137]</span>His breath intoxicated her; it was like a subtle perfume. Still she did +not yield.</p> + +<p>"You love me now—you did not love me then. The music of your words was +cold—machine-made, strained and superficial. I shall not answer, I told +myself: in his heart he has forgotten you. I did not then realise that a +dangerous force had possessed your life and crushed in your mind every +image but its own."</p> + +<p>"I don't understand."</p> + +<p>"Do you think I would have come here if it were a light matter? No, I +tell you, it is a matter of life and death to you, at least as an +artist."</p> + +<p>"What do you mean by that?"</p> + +<p>"Have you done a stroke of work since I last saw you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, let me see, surely, magazine articles and a poem."</p> + +<p>"That is not what I want to know. Have you accomplished anything big? +Have you grown since this summer? How about your novel?"</p> + +<p>"I—I have almost finished it in my mind, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></a>[Pg 138]</span>but I have found no chance to +begin with the actual writing. I was sick of late, very sick."</p> + +<p>No doubt of it! His face was pinched and pale, and the lines about the +mouth were curiously contorted, like those of a man suffering from a +painful internal disease.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," she ventured, "do you ever miss anything?"</p> + +<p>"Do you mean—are there thieves?"</p> + +<p>"Thieves! Against thieves one can protect oneself."</p> + +<p>He stared at her wildly, half-frightened, in anticipation of some +dreadful revelation. His dream! His dream! That hand! Could it be more +than a dream? God! His lips quivered.</p> + +<p>Ethel observed his agitation and continued more quietly, but with the +same insistence: "Have you ever had ideas, plans that you began without +having strength to complete them? Have you had glimpses of vocal visions +that seemed to vanish no sooner than seen? Did it ever seem to you as if +some mysterious and superior will brutally interfered with the workings +of your brain?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></a>[Pg 139]</span>Did it seem so to him! He himself could not have stated more plainly +the experience of the last few months. Each word fell from her lips like +the blow of a hammer. Shivering, he put his arm around her, seeking +solace, not love. This time she did not repulse him and, trustingly, as +a child confides to his mother, he depicted to her the suffering that +harrowed his life and made it a hell.</p> + +<p>As she listened, indignation clouded her forehead, while rising tears of +anger and of love weighed down her lashes. She could bear the pitiful +sight no longer.</p> + +<p>"Child," she cried, "do you know who your tormentor is?"</p> + +<p>And like a flash the truth passed from her to him. A sudden intimation +told him what her words had still concealed.</p> + +<p>"Don't! For Christ's sake, do not pronounce his name!" he sobbed. "Do +not breathe it. I could not endure it. I should go mad."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></a>[Pg 140]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141"></a>[Pg 141]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XXIV" id="XXIV"></a>XXIV</h3> + + +<p>Very quietly, with difficulty restraining her own emotion so as not to +excite him further, Ethel had related to Ernest the story of her +remarkable interview with Reginald Clarke. In the long silence that +ensued, the wings of his soul brushed against hers for the first time, +and Love by a thousand tender chains of common suffering welded their +beings into one.</p> + +<p>Caressingly the ivory of her fingers passed through the gold of his hair +and over his brow, as if to banish the demon-eyes that stared at him +across the hideous spaces of the past. In a rush a thousand incidents +came back to him, mute witnesses of a damning truth. His play, the +dreams that tormented him, his own inability to concentrate his mind +upon his novel which hitherto he had ascribed to nervous disease—all, +piling fact on fact, became one monstrous monument of Reginald Clarke's +crime. At last Ernest understood the parting <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142"></a>[Pg 142]</span>words of Abel Felton and +the look in Ethel's eye on the night when he had first linked his fate +with the other man's. Walkham's experience, too, and Reginald's remarks +on the busts of Shakespeare and Balzac unmistakably pointed toward the +new and horrible spectre that Ethel's revelation had raised in place of +his host.</p> + +<p>And then, again, the other Reginald appeared, crowned with the lyric +wreath. From his lips golden cadences fell, sweeter than the smell of +many flowers or the sound of a silver bell. He was once more the divine +master, whose godlike features bore no trace of malice and who had +raised him to a place very near his heart.</p> + +<p>"No," he cried, "it is impossible. It's all a dream, a horrible +nightmare."</p> + +<p>"But he has himself confessed it," she interjected.</p> + +<p>"Perhaps he has spoken in symbols. We all absorb to some extent other +men's ideas, without robbing them and wrecking their thought-life. +Reginald may be unscrupulous in the use of his power of impressing upon +others the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></a>[Pg 143]</span>stamp of his master-mind. So was Shakespeare. No, no, no! +You are mistaken; we were both deluded for the moment by his picturesque +account of a common, not even a discreditable, fact. He may himself have +played with the idea, but surely he cannot have been serious."</p> + +<p>"And your own experience, and Abel Felton's and mine—can they, too, be +dismissed with a shrug of the shoulder?"</p> + +<p>"But, come to think of it, the whole theory seems absurd. It is +unscientific. It is not even a case of mesmerism. If he had said that he +hypnotised his victims, the matter would assume a totally different +aspect. I admit that something is wrong somewhere, and that the home of +Reginald Clarke is no healthful abode for me. But you must also remember +that probably we are both unstrung to the point of hysteria."</p> + +<p>But to Ethel his words carried no conviction.</p> + +<p>"You are still under his spell," she cried, anxiously.</p> + +<p>A little shaken in his confidence, Ernest re<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144"></a>[Pg 144]</span>sumed: "Reginald is utterly +incapable of such an action, even granting that he possessed the +terrible power of which you speak. A man of his splendid resources, a +literary Midas at whose very touch every word turns into gold, is under +no necessity to prey on the thoughts of others. Circumstances, I admit, +are suspicious. But in the light of common day this fanciful theory +shrivels into nothing. Any court of law would reject our evidence as +madness. It is too utterly fantastic, utterly alien to any human +experience."</p> + +<p>"Is it though?" Ethel replied with peculiar intonation.</p> + +<p>"Why, what do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Surely," she answered, "you must know that in the legends of every +nation we read of men and women who were called vampires. They are +beings, not always wholly evil, whom every night some mysterious impulse +leads to steal into unguarded bedchambers, to suck the blood of the +sleepers and then, having waxed strong on the life of their victims, +cautiously to retreat. Thence comes it that their lips are very red. It +is even said that they can <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></a>[Pg 145]</span>find no rest in the grave, but return to +their former haunts long after they are believed to be dead. Those whom +they visit, however, pine away for no apparent reason. The physicians +shake their wise heads and speak of consumption. But sometimes, ancient +chronicles assure us, the people's suspicions were aroused, and under +the leadership of a good priest they went in solemn procession to the +graves of the persons suspected. And on opening the tombs it was found +that their coffins had rotted away and the flowers in their hair were +black. But their bodies were white and whole; through no empty sockets +crept the vermin, and their sucking lips were still moist with a little +blood."</p> + +<p>Ernest was carried away in spite of himself by her account, which +vividly resembled his own experience. Still he would not give in.</p> + +<p>"All this is impressive. I admit it is very impressive. But you yourself +speak of such stories as legends. They are unfounded upon any tangible +fact, and you cannot expect a man schooled in modern sciences to admit, +as having any possible bearing upon his life, the crude belief of the +Middle Ages!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></a>[Pg 146]</span>"Why not?" she responded. "Our scientists have proved true the wildest +theories of mediæval scholars. The transmutation of metals seems to-day +no longer an idle speculation, and radium has transformed into potential +reality the dream of perpetual motion. The fundamental notions of +mathematics are being undermined. One school of philosophers claims that +the number of angles in a triangle is equal to more than two right +angles; another propounds that it is less. Even great scientists who +have studied the soul of nature are turning to spiritism. The world is +overcoming the shallow scepticism of the nineteenth century. Life has +become once more wonderful and very mysterious. But it also seems that, +with the miracles of the old days, their terrors, their nightmares and +their monsters have come back in a modern guise."</p> + +<p>Ernest became even more thoughtful. "Yes," he observed, "there is +something in what you say." Then, pacing the room nervously, he +exclaimed: "And still I find it impossible to believe your explanation. +Reginald a vampire! It seems so ludicrous. If <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></a>[Pg 147]</span>you had told me that such +creatures exist somewhere, far away, I might have discussed the matter; +but in this great city, in the shadow of the Flatiron Building—no!"</p> + +<p>She replied with warmth: "Yet they exist—always have existed. Not only +in the Middle Ages, but at all times and in all regions. There is no +nation but has some record of them, in one form or another. And don't +you think if we find a thought, no matter how absurd it may seem to us, +that has ever occupied the minds of men—if we find, I say, such a +perennially recurrent thought, are we not justified in assuming that it +must have some basis in the actual experience of mankind?"</p> + +<p>Ernest's brow became very clouded, and infinite numbers of hidden +premature wrinkles began to show. How wan he looked and how frail! He +was as one lost in a labyrinth in which he saw no light, convinced +against his will, or rather, against his scientific conviction, that she +was not wholly mistaken.</p> + +<p>"Still," he observed triumphantly, "your vampires suck blood; but +Reginald, if vampire he be, preys upon the soul. How can a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></a>[Pg 148]</span>man suck +from another man's brain a thing as intangible, as quintessential as +thought?"</p> + +<p>"Ah," she replied, "you forget, thought is more real than blood!"</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></a>[Pg 149]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XXV" id="XXV"></a>XXV</h3> + + +<p>Only three hours had passed since Ethel had startled Ernest from his +sombre reveries, but within this brief space their love had matured as +if each hour had been a year. The pallor had vanished from his cheeks +and the restiveness from his eyes. The intoxication of her presence had +rekindled the light of his countenance and given him strength to combat +the mighty forces embodied in Reginald Clarke. The child in him had made +room for the man. He would not hear of surrendering without a struggle, +and Ethel felt sure she might leave his fate in his own hand. Love had +lent him a coat of mail. He was warned, and would not succumb. Still she +made one more attempt to persuade him to leave the house at once with +her.</p> + +<p>"I must go now," she said. "Will you not come with me, after all? I am +so afraid to think of you still here."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></a>[Pg 150]</span>"No, dear," he replied. "I shall not desert my post. I must solve the +riddle of this man's life; and if, indeed, he is the thing he seems to +be, I shall attempt to wrest from him what he has stolen from me. I +speak of my unwritten novel."</p> + +<p>"Do not attempt to oppose him openly. You cannot resist him."</p> + +<p>"Be assured that I shall be on my guard. I have in the last few hours +lived through so much that makes life worth living, that I would not +wantonly expose myself to any danger. Still, I cannot go without +certainty—cannot, if there is some truth in our fears, leave the best +of me behind."</p> + +<p>"What are you planning to do?"</p> + +<p>"My play—I am sure now that it is mine—I cannot take from him; that is +irretrievably lost. He has read it to his circle and prepared for its +publication. And, no matter how firmly convinced you or I may be of his +strange power, no one would believe our testimony. They would pronounce +us mad. Perhaps we <i>are</i> mad!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a>[Pg 151]</span>"No; we are not mad; but it is mad for you to stay here," she asserted.</p> + +<p>"I shall not stay here one minute longer than is absolutely essential. +Within a week I shall have conclusive proof of his guilt or innocence."</p> + +<p>"How will you go about it?"</p> + +<p>"His writing table—"</p> + +<p>"Ah!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, perhaps I can discover some note, some indication, some proof—"</p> + +<p>"It's a dangerous game."</p> + +<p>"I have everything to gain."</p> + +<p>"I wish I could stay here with you," she said. "Have you no friend, no +one whom you could trust in this delicate matter?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes—Jack."</p> + +<p>A shadow passed over her face.</p> + +<p>"Do you know," she said, "I have a feeling that you care more for him +than for me?"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense," he said, "he is my friend, you, you—immeasurably more."</p> + +<p>"Are you still as intimate with him as when I first met you?"</p> + +<p>"Not quite; of late a troubling something, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></a>[Pg 152]</span>like a thin veil, seems to +have passed between us. But he will come when I call him. He will not +fail me in my hour of need."</p> + +<p>"When can he be here?"</p> + +<p>"In two or three days."</p> + +<p>"Meanwhile be very careful. Above all, lock your door at night."</p> + +<p>"I will not only lock, but barricade it. I shall try with all my power +to elucidate this mystery without, however, exposing myself to needless +risks."</p> + +<p>"I will go, then. Kiss me good-bye."</p> + +<p>"May I not take you to the car?"</p> + +<p>"You had better not."</p> + +<p>At the door she turned back once more. "Write me every day, or call me +up on the telephone."</p> + +<p>He straightened himself, as if to convince her of his strength. Yet when +at last the door had closed behind her, his courage forsook him for a +moment. And, if he had not been ashamed to appear a weakling before the +woman he loved, who knows if any power on earth could have kept him in +that house where from every corner a secret seemed to lurk!</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></a>[Pg 153]</span>There was a misgiving, too, in the woman's heart as she left the boy +behind,—a prey to the occult power that, seeking expression in multiple +activities, has made and unmade emperors, prophets and poets.</p> + +<p>As she stepped into a street car she saw from afar, as in a vision, the +face of Reginald Clarke. It seemed very white and hungry. There was no +human kindness in it—only a threat and a sneer.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></a>[Pg 154]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></a>[Pg 155]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XXVI" id="XXVI"></a>XXVI</h3> + + +<p>For over an hour Ernest paced up and down his room, wildly excited by +Ethel's revelations. It required an immense amount of self-control for +him to pen the following lines to Jack: "I need you. Come."</p> + +<p>After he had entrusted the letter to the hall-boy, a reaction set in and +he was able to consider the matter, if not with equanimity, at least +with a degree of calmness. The strangest thing to him was that he could +not bring himself to hate Reginald, of whose evil influence upon his +life he was now firmly convinced. Here was another shattered idol; but +one—like the fragment of a great god-face in the desert—intensely +fascinating, even in its ruin. Then yielding to a natural impulse, +Ernest looked over his photographs and at once laid hold upon the +austere image of his master and friend. No—it was preposter<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a>[Pg 156]</span>ous; there +was no evil in this man. There was no trace of malice in this face, the +face of a prophet or an inspired madman, a poet. And yet, as he +scrutinised the picture closely a curious transformation seemed to take +place in the features; a sly little line appeared insinuatingly about +Reginald's well-formed mouth, and the serene calm of his Jupiter-head +seemed to turn into the sneak smile of a thief. Nevertheless, Ernest was +not afraid. His anxieties had at last assumed definite shape; it was +possible now to be on his guard. It is only invisible, incomprehensible +fear, crouching upon us from the night, that drives sensitive natures to +the verge of madness and transforms stern warriors into cowards.</p> + +<p>Ernest realised the necessity of postponing the proposed investigation +of Reginald's papers until the morning, as it was now near eleven, and +he expected to hear at any moment the sound of his feet at the door. +Before retiring he took a number of precautions. Carefully he locked the +door to his bedroom and placed a chair in front of it. To make doubly +sure, he fastened the handle to an exquisite<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></a>[Pg 157]</span> Chinese vase, a gift of +Reginald's, that at the least attempt to force an entrance from without +would come down with a crash.</p> + +<p>Then, although sleep seemed out of the question, he went to bed. He had +hardly touched the pillow when a leaden weight seemed to fall upon his +eyes. The day's commotion had been too much for his delicate frame. By +force of habit he pulled the cover over his ear and fell asleep.</p> + +<p>All night he slept heavily, and the morning was far advanced when a +knock at the door that, at first, seemed to come across an immeasurable +distance, brought him back to himself. It was Reginald's manservant +announcing that breakfast was waiting.</p> + +<p>Ernest got up and rubbed his eyes. The barricade at the door at once +brought back to his mind with startling clearness the events of the +previous evening.</p> + +<p>Everything was as he had left it. Evidently no one had attempted to +enter the room while he slept. He could not help smiling at the +arrangement which reminded him of his childhood, when he had sought by +similar <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></a>[Pg 158]</span>means security from burglars and bogeys. And in the broad +daylight Ethel's tales of vampires seemed once more impossible and +absurd. Still, he had abundant evidence of Reginald's strange influence, +and was determined to know the truth before nightfall. Her words, that +thought is more real than blood, kept ringing in his ears. If such was +the case, he would find evidence of Reginald's intellectual burglaries, +and possibly be able to regain a part of his lost self that had been +snatched from him by the relentless dream-hand.</p> + +<p>But under no circumstances could he face Reginald in his present state +of mind. He was convinced that if in the fleeting vision of a moment the +other man's true nature should reveal itself to him, he would be so +terribly afraid as to shriek like a maniac. So he dressed particularly +slowly in the hope of avoiding an encounter with his host. But fate +thwarted this hope. Reginald, too, lingered that morning unusually long +over his coffee. He was just taking his last sip when Ernest entered the +room. His behaviour was of an almost bourgeois kindness. Benevolence +fair<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></a>[Pg 159]</span>ly beamed from his face. But to the boy's eyes it had assumed a new +and sinister expression.</p> + +<p>"You are late this morning, Ernest," he remarked in his mildest manner. +"Have you been about town, or writing poetry? Both occupations are +equally unhealthy." As he said this he watched the young man with the +inscrutable smile that at moments was wont to curl upon his lips. Ernest +had once likened it to the smile of Mona Lisa, but now he detected in it +the suavity of the hypocrite and the leer of the criminal.</p> + +<p>He could not endure it; he could not look upon that face any longer. His +feet almost gave way under him, cold sweat gathered on his brow, and he +sank on a chair trembling and studiously avoiding the other man's gaze.</p> + +<p>At last Reginald rose to go. It seemed impossible to accuse this +splendid impersonation of vigorous manhood of cunning and underhand +methods, of plagiarisms and of theft. As he stood there he resembled +more than anything a beautiful tiger-cat, a wonderful thing of strength +and will-power, indomitable and insatiate. Yet who could tell whether +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></a>[Pg 160]</span>this strength was not, after all, parasitic. If Ethel's suspicions were +justified, then, indeed, more had been taken from him than he could ever +realise. For in that case it was his life-blood that circled in those +veins and the fire of his intellect that set those lips aflame!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></a>[Pg 161]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XXVII" id="XXVII"></a>XXVII</h3> + + +<p>Reginald Clarke had hardly left the room when Ernest hastily rose from +his seat. While it was likely that he would remain in undisturbed +possession of the apartment the whole morning, the stake at hand was too +great to permit of delay.</p> + +<p>Palpitating and a little uncertain, he entered the studio where, +scarcely a year ago, Reginald Clarke had bidden him welcome. Nothing had +changed there since then; only in Ernest's mind the room had assumed an +aspect of evil. The Antinous was there and the Faun and the Christ-head. +But their juxtaposition to-day partook of the nature of the blasphemous. +The statues of Shakespeare and Balzac seemed to frown from their +pedestals as his fingers were running through Reginald's papers. He +brushed against a semblance of Napoleon that was standing on the +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></a>[Pg 162]</span>writing-table, so that it toppled over and made a noise that weirdly +re-echoed in the silence of the room. At that moment a curious family +resemblance between Shakespeare, Balzac, Napoleon—and Reginald, +forcibly impressed itself upon his mind. It was the indisputable +something that marks those who are chosen to give ultimate expression to +some gigantic world-purpose. In Balzac's face it was diffused with +kindliness, in that of Napoleon sheer brutality predominated. The image +of one who was said to be the richest man of the world also rose before +his eyes. Perhaps it was only the play of his fevered imagination, but +he could have sworn that this man's features, too, bore the mark of +those unoriginal, great absorptive minds who, for better or for worse, +are born to rob and rule. They seemed to him monsters that know neither +justice nor pity, only the law of their being, the law of growth.</p> + +<p>Common weapons would not avail against such forces. Being one, they were +stronger than armies; nor could they be overcome in single combat. +Stealth, trickery, the outfit of <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></a>[Pg 163]</span>the knave, were legitimate weapons in +such a fight. In this case the end justified the means, even if the +latter included burglary.</p> + +<p>After a brief and fruitless search of the desk, he attempted to force +open a secret drawer, the presence of which he had one day accidentally +discovered. He tried a number of keys to no account, and was thinking of +giving up his researches for the day until he had procured a skeleton +key, when at last the lock gave way.</p> + +<p>The drawer disclosed a large file of manuscript. Ernest paused for a +moment to draw breath. The paper rustled under his nervous fingers. And +there—at last—his eyes lit upon a bulky bundle that bore this legend: +"<i>Leontina</i>, A Novel."</p> + +<p>It was true, then—all, his dream, Reginald's confession. And the house +that had opened its doors so kindly to him was the house of a Vampire!</p> + +<p>Finally curiosity overcame his burning indignation. He attempted to +read. The letters seemed to dance before his eyes—his hands trembled.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></a>[Pg 164]</span>At last he succeeded. The words that had first rolled over like drunken +soldiers now marched before his vision in orderly sequence. He was +delighted, then stunned. This was indeed authentic literature, there +could be no doubt about it. And it was his. He was still a poet, a great +poet. He drew a deep breath. Sudden joy trembled in his heart. This +story set down by a foreign hand had grown chapter by chapter in his +brain.</p> + +<p>There were some slight changes—slight deviations from the original +plan. A defter hand than his had retouched it here and there, but for +all that it remained his very own. It did not belong to that thief. The +blood welled to his cheek as he uttered this word that, applied to +Reginald, seemed almost sacrilegious.</p> + +<p>He had nearly reached the last chapter when he heard steps in the +hallway. Hurriedly he restored the manuscript to its place, closed the +drawer and left the room on tiptoe.</p> + +<p>It was Reginald. But he did not come alone. Someone was speaking to him. +The voice seemed familiar. Ernest could not make <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></a>[Pg 165]</span>out what it said. He +listened intently and—was it possible? Jack? Surely he could not yet +have come in response to his note! What mysterious power, what dim +presentiment of his friend's plight had led him hither? But why did he +linger so long in Reginald's room, instead of hastening to greet him? +Cautiously he drew nearer. This time he caught Jack's words:</p> + +<p>"It would be very convenient and pleasant. Still, some way, I feel that +it is not right for me, of all men, to take his place here."</p> + +<p>"That need not concern you," Reginald deliberately replied; "the dear +boy expressed the desire to leave me within a fortnight. I think he will +go to some private sanitarium. His nerves are frightfully overstrained."</p> + +<p>"This seems hardly surprising after the terrible attack he had when you +read your play."</p> + +<p>"That idea has since then developed into a monomania."</p> + +<p>"I am awfully sorry for him. I cared for him much, perhaps too much. But +I always feared that he would come to such an end.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a>[Pg 166]</span> Of late his letters +have been strangely unbalanced."</p> + +<p>"You will find him very much changed. In fact, he is no longer the +same."</p> + +<p>"No," said Jack, "he is no longer the friend I loved."</p> + +<p>Ernest clutched for the wall. His face was contorted with intense agony. +Each word was like a nail driven into his flesh. Crucified upon the +cross of his own affection by the hand he loved, all white and trembling +he stood there. Tears rushed to his eyes, but he could not weep. +Dry-eyed he reached his room and threw himself upon his bed. Thus he +lay—uncomforted and alone.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></a>[Pg 167]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XXVIII" id="XXVIII"></a>XXVIII</h3> + + +<p>Terrible as was his loneliness, a meeting with Jack would have been more +terrible. And, after all, it was true, a gulf had opened between them.</p> + +<p>Ethel alone could bring solace to his soul. There was a great void in +his heart which only she could fill. He hungered for the touch of her +hand. He longed for her presence strongly, as a wanton lusts for +pleasure and as sad men crave death.</p> + +<p>Noiselessly he stole to the door so as not to arouse the attention of +the other two men, whose every whisper pierced his heart like a dagger. +When he came to Ethel's home, he found that she had gone out for a +breath of air. The servant ushered him into the parlor, and there he +waited, waited, waited for her.</p> + +<p>Greatly calmed by his walk, he turned the details of Clarke's +conversation over in his mind, and the conviction grew upon him that +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></a>[Pg 168]</span>the friend of his boyhood was not to blame for his course of action. +Reginald probably had encircled Jack's soul with his demoniacal +influence and singled him out for another victim. That must never be. It +was his turn to save now. He would warn his friend of the danger that +threatened him, even if his words should be spoken into the wind. For +Reginald, with an ingenuity almost satanic, had already suggested that +the delusion of former days had developed into a monomania, and any +attempt on his part to warn Jack would only seem to confirm this theory. +In that case only one way was left open. He must plead with Reginald +himself, confront at all risks that snatcher of souls. To-night he would +not fall asleep. He would keep his vigil. And if Reginald should +approach his room, if in some way he felt the direful presence, he must +speak out, threaten if need be, to save his friend from ruin. He had +fully determined upon this course when a cry of joy from Ethel, who had +just returned from her walk, interrupted his reverie. But her gladness +changed to anxiety when she saw how pale he was. Ernest <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></a>[Pg 169]</span>recounted to +her the happenings of the day, from the discovery of his novel in +Reginald's desk to the conversation which he had accidentally overheard. +He noticed that her features brightened as he drew near the end of his +tale.</p> + +<p>"Was your novel finished?" she suddenly asked.</p> + +<p>"I think so."</p> + +<p>"Then you are out of danger. He will want nothing else of you. But you +should have taken it with you."</p> + +<p>"I had only sufficient presence of mind to slip it back into the drawer. +To-morrow I shall simply demand it."</p> + +<p>"You will do nothing of the kind. It is in his handwriting, and you have +no legal proof that it is yours. You must take it away secretly. And he +will not dare to reclaim it."</p> + +<p>"And Jack?"</p> + +<p>She had quite forgotten Jack. Women are invariably selfish for those +they love.</p> + +<p>"You must warn him," she replied.</p> + +<p>"He would laugh at me. However, I must speak to Reginald."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></a>[Pg 170]</span>"It is of no avail to speak to him. At least, you must not do so before +you have obtained the manuscript. It would unnecessarily jeopardise our +plans."</p> + +<p>"And after?"</p> + +<p>"After, perhaps. But you must not expose yourself to any danger."</p> + +<p>"No, dear," he said, and kissed her; "what danger is there, provided I +keep my wits about me? He steals upon men only in their sleep and in the +dark."</p> + +<p>"Be careful, nevertheless."</p> + +<p>"I shall. In fact, I think he is not at home at this moment. If I go now +I may be able to get hold of the manuscript and hide it before he +returns."</p> + +<p>"I cannot but tremble to think of you in that house."</p> + +<p>"You shall have no more reason to tremble in a day or two."</p> + +<p>"Shall I see you to-morrow?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think so. I must go over my papers and things so as to be ready +at any moment to leave the house."</p> + +<p>"And then?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></a>[Pg 171]</span>"Then—"</p> + +<p>He took her in his arms and looked long and deeply into her eyes.</p> + +<p>"Yes," she replied—"at least, perhaps."</p> + +<p>Then he turned to go, resolute and happy. How strangely he had matured +since the summer! Her heart swelled with the consciousness that it was +her love that had effected this transformation.</p> + +<p>"As I cannot expect you to-morrow, I shall probably go to the opera, but +I shall be at home before midnight. Will you call me up then? A word +from you will put me at ease for the night, even if it comes over the +telephone."</p> + +<p>"I will call you up. We moderns have an advantage over the ancients in +this respect: the twentieth-century Pyramus can speak to Thisbe even if +innumerable walls sever his body from hers."</p> + +<p>"A quaint conceit! But let us hope that our love-story will end less +tragically," she said, tenderly caressing his hair. "Oh, we shall be +happy, you and I," she added, after a while. "The iron finger of fate +that lay so heavily <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></a>[Pg 172]</span>on our lives is now withdrawn. Almost withdrawn. +Yes, almost. Only almost."</p> + +<p>And then a sudden fear overcame her.</p> + +<p>"No," she cried, "do not go, do not go! Stay with me; stay here. I feel +so frightened. I don't know what comes over me. I am afraid—afraid for +you."</p> + +<p>"No, dear," he rejoined, "you need not be afraid. In your heart you +don't want me to desert a friend, and, besides, leave the best part of +my artistic life in Reginald's clutch."</p> + +<p>"Why should you expose yourself to God knows what danger for a friend +who is ready to betray you?"</p> + +<p>"You forget friendship is a gift. If it exacts payment in any form, it +is no longer either friendship or a gift. And you yourself have assured +me that I have nothing to fear from Reginald. I have nothing to give to +him."</p> + +<p>She rallied under his words and had regained her self-possession when +the door closed behind him. He walked a few blocks very briskly. Then +his pace slackened. Her words had unsettled him a little, and when he +reached home he did not at once resume his <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a>[Pg 173]</span>exploration of Reginald's +papers. He had hardly lit a cigarette when, at an unusually early hour, +he heard Reginald's key in the lock.</p> + +<p>Quickly he turned the light out and in the semi-darkness, lit up by an +electric lantern below, barricaded the door as on the previous night. +Then he went to bed without finding sleep.</p> + +<p>Supreme silence reigned over the house. Even the elevator had ceased to +run. Ernest's brain was all ear. He heard Reginald walking up and down +in the studio. Not the smallest movement escaped his attention. Thus +hours passed. When the clock struck twelve, he was still walking up and +down, down and up, up and down.</p> + +<p>One o'clock.</p> + +<p>Still the measured beat of his footfall had not ceased. There was +something hypnotic in the regular tread. Nature at last exacted its toll +from the boy. He fell asleep.</p> + +<p>Hardly had he closed his eyes when again that horrible nightmare—no +longer a nightmare—tormented him. Again he felt the <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></a>[Pg 174]</span>pointed delicate +fingers carefully feeling their way along the innumerable tangled +threads of nerve-matter that lead to the innermost recesses of self....</p> + +<p>A subconscious something strove to arouse him, and he felt the fingers +softly withdrawn.</p> + +<p>He could have sworn that he heard the scurrying of feet in the room. +Bathed in perspiration he made a leap for the electric light.</p> + +<p>But there was no sign of any human presence. The barricade at the door +was undisturbed. But fear like a great wind filled the wings of his +soul.</p> + +<p>Yet there was nothing, nothing to warrant his conviction that Reginald +Clarke had been with him only a few moments ago, plying his horrible +trade. The large mirror above the fireplace only showed him his own +face, white, excited,—the face of a madman.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a>[Pg 175]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XXIX" id="XXIX"></a>XXIX</h3> + + +<p>The next morning's mail brought a letter from Ethel, a few lines of +encouragement and affection. Yes, she was right; it would not do for him +to stay under one roof with Reginald any longer. He must only obtain the +manuscript and, if possible, surprise him in the attempt to exercise his +mysterious and criminal power. Then he would be in the position to +dictate terms and to demand Jack's safety as the price of his silence.</p> + +<p>Reginald, however, had closeted himself that day in his studio busily +writing. Only the clatter of his typewriter announced his presence in +the house. There was no chance for conversation or for obtaining the +precious manuscript of "Leontina."</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Ernest was looking over his papers and preparing everything +for a quick departure. Glancing over old letters and notes, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></a>[Pg 176]</span>he became +readily interested and hardly noticed the passage of the hours.</p> + +<p>When the night came he only partly undressed and threw himself upon the +bed. It was now ten. At twelve he had promised Ethel to speak to her +over the telephone. He was determined not to sleep at all that night. At +last he would discover whether or not on the previous and other nights +Reginald had secretly entered his room.</p> + +<p>When one hour had passed without incident, his attention relaxed a +little. His eyes were gradually closing when suddenly something seemed +to stir at the door. The Chinese vase came rattling to the floor.</p> + +<p>At once Ernest sprang up. His face had blanched with terror. It was +whiter than the linen in which they wrap the dead. But his soul was +resolute.</p> + +<p>He touched a button and the electric light illuminated the whole +chamber. There was no nook for even a shadow to hide. Yet there was no +one to be seen. From without the door came no sound. Suddenly something +soft touched his foot. He gathered all his will <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></a>[Pg 177]</span>power so as not to +break out into a frenzied shriek. Then he laughed, not a hearty laugh, +to be sure. A tiny nose and a tail gracefully curled were brushing +against him. The source of the disturbance was a little Maltese cat, his +favourite, that by some chance had remained in his room. After its essay +at midnight gymnastics the animal quieted down and lay purring at the +foot of his bed.</p> + +<p>The presence of a living thing was a certain comfort, and the reservoir +of his strength was well nigh exhausted.</p> + +<p>He dimly remembered his promise to Ethel, but his lids drooped with +sheer weariness. Perhaps an hour passed in this way, when suddenly his +blood congealed with dread.</p> + +<p>He felt the presence of the hand of Reginald +Clarke—unmistakably—groping in his brain as if searching for something +that had still escaped him.</p> + +<p>He tried to move, to cry out, but his limbs were paralysed. When, by a +superhuman effort, he at last succeeded in shaking off the numbness that +held him enchained, he awoke just in time to see a figure, that of a +man, dis<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></a>[Pg 178]</span>appearing in the wall that separated Reginald's apartments from +his room....</p> + +<p>This time it was no delusion of the senses. He heard something like a +secret door softly closing behind retreating steps. A sudden fierce +anger seized him. He was oblivious of the danger of the terrible power +of the older man, oblivious of the love he had once borne him, oblivious +of everything save the sense of outraged humanity and outraged right.</p> + +<p>The law permits us to shoot a burglar who goes through our pockets at +night. Must he tolerate the ravages of this a thousand times more +dastardly and dangerous spiritual thief? Was Reginald to enjoy the fruit +of other men's labour unpunished? Was he to continue growing into the +mightiest literary factor of the century by preying upon his betters? +Abel, Walkham, Ethel, he, Jack, were they all to be victims of this +insatiable monster?</p> + +<p>Was this force resistless as it was relentless?</p> + +<p>No, a thousand times, no!</p> + +<p>He dashed himself against the wall at the place where the shadow of +Reginald Clarke <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></a>[Pg 179]</span>had disappeared. In doing so he touched upon a secret +spring. The wall gave way noiselessly. Speechless with rage he crossed +the next room and the one adjoining it, and stood in Reginald's studio. +The room was brilliantly lighted, and Reginald, still dressed, was +seated at his writing-table scribbling notes upon little scraps of paper +in his accustomed manner.</p> + +<p>At Ernest's approach he looked up without evincing the least sign of +terror or surprise. Calmly, almost majestically, he folded his arms over +his breast, but there was a menacing glitter in his eyes as he +confronted his victim.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></a>[Pg 180]</span></p><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></a>[Pg 181]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XXX" id="XXX"></a>XXX</h3> + + +<p>Silently the two men faced each other. Then Ernest hissed:</p> + +<p>"Thief!"</p> + +<p>Reginald shrugged his shoulders.</p> + +<p>"Vampire!"</p> + +<p>"So Ethel has infected you with her absurd fancies! Poor boy! I am +afraid.... I have been wanting to tell you for some time.... But I +think.... We have reached the parting of our road!"</p> + +<p>"And that you dare to tell me!"</p> + +<p>The more he raged, the calmer Reginald seemed to become.</p> + +<p>"Really," he said, "I fail to understand.... I must ask you to leave my +room!"</p> + +<p>"You fail to understand? You cad!" Ernest cried. He stepped to the +writing-table and opened the secret drawer with a blow. A bundle of +manuscripts fell on the floor with a <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></a>[Pg 182]</span>strange rustling noise. Then, +seizing his own story, he hurled it upon the table. And behold—the last +pages bore corrections in ink that could have been made only a few +minutes ago!</p> + +<p>Reginald smiled. "Have you come to play havoc with my manuscripts?" he +remarked.</p> + +<p>"Your manuscripts? Reginald Clarke, you are an impudent impostor! You +have written no word that is your own. You are an embezzler of the mind, +strutting through life in borrowed and stolen plumes!"</p> + +<p>And at once the mask fell from Reginald's face.</p> + +<p>"Why stolen?" he coolly said, with a slight touch of irritation. "I +absorb. I appropriate. That is the most any artist can say for himself. +God creates; man moulds. He gives us the colours; we mix them."</p> + +<p>"That is not the question. I charge you with having wilfully and +criminally interfered in my life; I charge you with having robbed me of +what was mine; I charge you with being utterly vile and rapacious, a +hypocrite and a parasite!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183"></a>[Pg 183]</span>"Foolish boy," Reginald rejoined austerely. "It is through me that the +best in you shall survive, even as the obscure Elizabethans live in him +of Avon. Shakespeare absorbed what was great in little men—a greatness +that otherwise would have perished—and gave it a setting, a life."</p> + +<p>"A thief may plead the same. I understand you better. It is your +inordinate vanity that prompts you to abuse your monstrous power."</p> + +<p>"You err. Self-love has never entered into my actions. I am careless of +personal fame. Look at me, boy! As I stand before you I am Homer, I am +Shakespeare ... I am every cosmic manifestation in art. Men have doubted +in each incarnation my individual existence. Historians have more to +tell of the meanest Athenian scribbler or Elizabethan poetaster than of +me. The radiance of my work obscured my very self. I care not. I have a +mission. I am a servant of the Lord. I am the vessel that bears the +Host!"</p> + +<p>He stood up at full length, the personification of grandeur and power. A +tremendous force trembled in his very finger tips. He was <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></a>[Pg 184]</span>like a +gigantic dynamo, charged with the might of ten thousand magnetic storms +that shake the earth in its orbit and lash myriads of planets through +infinities of space....</p> + +<p>Under ordinary circumstances Ernest or any other man would have quailed +before him. But the boy in that epic moment had grown out of his +stature. He felt the sword of vengeance in his hands; to him was +intrusted the cause of Abel and of Walkham, of Ethel and of Jack. His +was the struggle of the individual soul against the same blind and cruel +fate that in the past had fashioned the ichthyosaurus and the mastodon.</p> + +<p>"By what right," he cried, "do you assume that you are the literary +Messiah? Who appointed you? What divine power has made you the steward +of my mite and of theirs whom you have robbed?"</p> + +<p>"I am a light-bearer. I tread the high hills of mankind ... I point the +way to the future. I light up the abysses of the past. Were not my +stature gigantic, how could I hold the torch in all men's sight? The +very souls that I tread underfoot realise, as their <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></a>[Pg 185]</span>dying gaze follows +me, the possibilities with which the future is big.... Eternally secure, +I carry the essence of what is cosmic ... of what is divine.... I am +Homer ... Goethe ... Shakespeare.... I am an embodiment of the same +force of which Alexander, Cæsar, Confucius and the Christos were also +embodiments.... None so strong as to resist me."</p> + +<p>A sudden madness overcame Ernest at this boast. He must strike now or +never. He must rid humanity of this dangerous maniac—this demon of +strength. With a power ten times intensified, he raised a heavy chair so +as to hurl it at Reginald's head and crush it.</p> + +<p>Reginald stood there calmly, a smile upon his lips.... Primal cruelties +rose from the depth of his nature.... Still he smiled, turning his +luminous gaze upon the boy ... and, behold ... Ernest's hand began to +shake ... the chair fell from his grasp.... He tried to call for help, +but no sound issued from his lips.... Utterly paralysed he +confronted ... the Force....</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186"></a>[Pg 186]</span></p> + +<p>Minutes—eternities passed.</p> + +<p>And still those eyes were fixed upon him.</p> + +<p>But this was no longer Reginald!</p> + +<p>It was all brain ... only brain ... a tremendous brain-machine ... +infinitely complex ... infinitely strong. Not more than a mile away +Ethel endeavoured to call to him through the night. The telephone rang, +once, twice, thrice, insistingly. But Ernest heard it not. Something +dragged him ... dragged the nerves from his body dragged, dragged, +dragged.... It was an irresistible suction ... pitiless ... passionless +... immense.</p> + +<p>Sparks, blue, crimson and violet, seemed to play around the living +battery. It reached the finest fibres of his mind.... Slowly ... every +trace of mentality disappeared.... First the will ... then feeling ... +judgment ... memory ... fear even.... All that was stored in his +brain-cells came forth to be absorbed by that mighty engine....</p> + +<p>The Princess With the Yellow Veil appeared ... flitted across the room +and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187"></a>[Pg 187]</span>melted away. She was followed by childhood memories ... girls' +heads, boys' faces.... He saw his dead mother waving her arms to him.... +An expression of death-agony distorted the placid features.... Then, +throwing a kiss to him, she, too, disappeared. Picture on picture +followed.... Words of love that he had spoken ... sins, virtues, +magnanimities, meannesses, terrors ... mathematical formulas even, and +snatches of songs. Leontina came and was swallowed up.... No, it was +Ethel who was trying to speak to him ... trying to warn.... She waved +her hands in frantic despair.... She was gone.... A pale face ... dark, +dishevelled hair.... Jack.... How he had changed! He was in the circle +of the vampire's transforming might. "Jack," he cried. Surely Jack had +something to explain ... something to tell him ... some word that if +spoken would bring rest to his soul. He saw the words rise to the boy's +lips, but before he had time to utter them his image also had vanished. +And Reginald ... Reginald, too, <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188"></a>[Pg 188]</span>was gone.... There was only the mighty +brain ... panting ... whirling.... Then there was nothing.... The +annihilation of Ernest Fielding was complete.</p> + +<p>Vacantly he stared at the walls, at the room and at his master. The +latter was wiping the sweat from his forehead. He breathed deeply.... +The flush of youth spread over his features.... His eyes sparkled with a +new and dangerous brilliancy.... He took the thing that had once been +Ernest Fielding by the hand and led it to its room.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189"></a>[Pg 189]</span></p> +<h3><a name="XXXI" id="XXXI"></a>XXXI</h3> + + +<p>With the first flush of the morning Ethel appeared at the door of the +house on Riverside Drive. She had not heard from Ernest, and had been +unable to obtain connection with him at the telephone. Anxiety had +hastened her steps. She brushed against Jack, who was also directing his +steps to the abode of Reginald Clarke.</p> + +<p>At the same time something that resembled Ernest Fielding passed from +the house of the Vampire. It was a dull and brutish thing, hideously +transformed, without a vestige of mind.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Fielding," cried Ethel, beside herself with fear as she saw him +descending.</p> + +<p>"Ernest!" Jack gasped, no less startled at the change in his friend's +appearance.</p> + +<p>Ernest's head followed the source of the sound, but no spark of +recognition illumined <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190"></a>[Pg 190]</span>the deadness of his eyes. Without a present and +without a past ... blindly ... a gibbering idiot ... he stumbled down +the stairs.</p> + +<p> </p> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE VAMPIRE***</p> +<p>******* This file should be named 17144-h.txt or 17144-h.zip *******</p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/1/4/17144">https://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/1/4/17144</a></p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.</p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The House of the Vampire + + +Author: George Sylvester Viereck + + + +Release Date: November 23, 2005 [eBook #17144] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE VAMPIRE*** + + +E-text prepared by Suzanne Lybarger, Janet Blenkinship, Brian Janes, and +the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team +(https://www.pgdp.net/) + + + +THE HOUSE OF THE VAMPIRE + +by + + +GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK + +Author of +Nineveh and Other Poems + + + + + + + +New York +Moffat, Yard & Company +1912 +Copyright, 1907, by +Moffat, Yard & Company +New York +Published September, 1907 +Reprinted October, 1907 +The Premier Press +New York + + + + +_To My Mother_ + + + + +THE HOUSE + +OF THE + +VAMPIRE + + + + +I + + +The freakish little leader of the orchestra, newly imported from Sicily +to New York, tossed his conductor's wand excitedly through the air, +drowning with musical thunders the hum of conversation and the clatter +of plates. + +Yet neither his apish demeanour nor the deafening noises that responded +to every movement of his agile body detracted attention from the figure +of Reginald Clarke and the young man at his side as they smilingly wound +their way to the exit. + +The boy's expression was pleasant, with an inkling of wistfulness, while +the soft glimmer of his lucid eyes betrayed the poet and the dreamer. +The smile of Reginald Clarke was the smile of a conqueror. A suspicion +of silver in his crown of dark hair only added dignity to his bearing, +while the infinitely ramified lines above the heavy-set mouth spoke at +once of subtlety and of strength. Without stretch of the imagination one +might have likened him to a Roman cardinal of the days of the Borgias, +who had miraculously stepped forth from the time-stained canvas and +slipped into twentieth century evening-clothes. + +With the affability of complete self-possession he nodded in response to +greetings from all sides, inclining his head with special politeness to +a young woman whose sea-blue eyes were riveted upon his features with a +look of mingled hate and admiration. + +The woman, disregarding his silent salutation, continued to stare at him +wild-eyed, as a damned soul in purgatory might look at Satan passing in +regal splendour through the seventy times sevenfold circles of hell. + +Reginald Clarke walked on unconcernedly through the rows of gay diners, +still smiling, affable, calm. But his companion bethought himself of +certain rumours he had heard concerning Ethel Brandenbourg's mad love +for the man from whose features she could not even now turn her eyes. +Evidently her passion was unreciprocated. It had not always been so. +There was a time in her career, some years ago in Paris, when it was +whispered that she had secretly married him and, not much later, +obtained a divorce. The matter was never cleared up, as both preserved +an uncompromising silence upon the subject of their matrimonial +experience. Certain it was that, for a space, the genius of Reginald +Clarke had completely dominated her brush, and that, ever since he had +thrown her aside, her pictures were but plagiarisms of her former +artistic self. + +The cause of the rupture between them was a matter only of surmise; but +the effect it had on the woman testified clearly to the remarkable power +of Reginald Clarke. He had entered her life and, behold! the world was +transfixed on her canvases in myriad hues of transcending radiance; he +had passed from it, and with him vanished the brilliancy of her +colouring, as at sunset the borrowed amber and gold fade from the face +of the clouds. + +The glamour of Clarke's name may have partly explained the secret of his +charm, but, even in circles where literary fame is no passport, he +could, if he chose, exercise an almost terrible fascination. Subtle and +profound, he had ransacked the coffers of mediaeval dialecticians and +plundered the arsenals of the Sophists. Many years later, when the +vultures of misfortune had swooped down upon him, and his name was no +longer mentioned without a sneer, he was still remembered in New York +drawing-rooms as the man who had brought to perfection the art of +talking. Even to dine with him was a liberal education. + +Clarke's marvellous conversational power was equalled only by his +marvellous style. Ernest Fielding's heart leaped in him at the thought +that henceforth he would be privileged to live under one roof with the +only writer of his generation who could lend to the English language the +rich strength and rugged music of the Elizabethans. + +Reginald Clarke was a master of many instruments. Milton's mighty organ +was no less obedient to his touch than the little lute of the +troubadour. He was never the same; that was his strength. Clarke's +style possessed at once the chiselled chasteness of a Greek marble +column and the elaborate deviltry of the late Renaissance. At times his +winged words seemed to flutter down the page frantically like Baroque +angels; at other times nothing could have more adequately described his +manner than the timeless calm of the gaunt pyramids. + +The two men had reached the street. Reginald wrapped his long spring +coat round him. + +"I shall expect you to-morrow at four," he said. + +The tone of his voice was deep and melodious, suggesting hidden depths +and cadences. + +"I shall be punctual." + +The younger man's voice trembled as he spoke. + +"I look forward to your coming with much pleasure. I am interested in +you." + +The glad blood mounted to Ernest's cheeks at praise from the austere +lips of this arbiter of literary elegance. + +An almost imperceptible smile crept over the other man's features. + +"I am proud that my work interests you," was all the boy could say. + +"I think it is quite amazing, but at present," here Clarke drew out a +watch set with jewels, "I am afraid I must bid you good-bye." + +He held Ernest's hand for a moment in a firm genial grasp, then turned +away briskly, while the boy remained standing open-mouthed. The crowd +jostling against him carried him almost off his feet, but his eyes +followed far into the night the masterful figure of Reginald Clarke, +toward whom he felt himself drawn with every fiber of his body and the +warm enthusiasm of his generous youth. + + + + +II + + +With elastic step, inhaling the night-air with voluptuous delight, +Reginald Clarke made his way down Broadway, lying stretched out before +him, bathed in light and pulsating with life. + +His world-embracing intellect was powerfully attracted by the Giant +City's motley activities. On the street, as in the salon, his magnetic +power compelled recognition, and he stepped through the midst of the +crowd as a Circassian blade cleaves water. + +After walking a block or two, he suddenly halted before a jeweller's +shop. Arrayed in the window were priceless gems that shone in the glare +of electricity, like mystical serpent-eyes--green, pomegranate and +water-blue. And as he stood there the dazzling radiance before him was +transformed in the prism of his mind into something great and very +wonderful that might, some day, be a poem. + +Then his attention was diverted by a small group of tiny girls dancing +on the sidewalk to the husky strains of an old hurdy-gurdy. He joined +the circle of amused spectators, to watch those pink-ribboned bits of +femininity swaying airily to and fro in unison with the tune. One +especially attracted his notice--a slim olive-coloured girl from a land +where it is always spring. Her whole being translated into music, with +hair dishevelled and feet hardly touching the ground, the girl suggested +an orange-leaf dancing on a sunbeam. The rasping street-organ, +perchance, brought to her melodious reminiscences of some flute-playing +Savoyard boy, brown-limbed and dark of hair. + +For several minutes Reginald Clarke followed with keen delight each +delicate curve her graceful limbs described. Then--was it that she grew +tired, or that the stranger's persistent scrutiny embarrassed her?--the +music oozed out of her movements. They grew slower, angular, almost +clumsy. The look of interest in Clarke's eyes died, but his whole form +quivered, as if the rhythm of the music and the dance had mysteriously +entered into his blood. + +He continued his stroll, seemingly without aim; in reality he followed, +with nervous intensity, the multiform undulations of the populace, +swarming through Broadway in either direction. Like the giant whose +strength was rekindled every time he touched his mother, the earth, +Reginald Clarke seemed to draw fresh vitality from every contact with +life. + +He turned east along Fourteenth street, where cheap vaudevilles are +strung together as glass-pearls on the throat of a wanton. Gaudy +bill-boards, drenched in clamorous red, proclaimed the tawdry +attractions within. Much to the surprise of the doorkeeper at a +particularly evil-looking music hall, Reginald Clarke lingered in the +lobby, and finally even bought a ticket that entitled him to enter this +sordid wilderness of decollete art. Street-snipes, a few workingmen, +dilapidated sportsmen, and women whose ruined youth thick layers of +powder and paint, even in this artificial light, could not restore, +constituted the bulk of the audience. Reginald Clarke, apparently +unconscious of the curiosity, surprise and envy that his appearance +excited, seated himself at a table near the stage, ordering from the +solicitous waiter only a cocktail and a programme. The drink he left +untouched, while his eyes greedily ran down the lines of the +announcement. When he had found what he sought, he lit a cigar, paying +no attention to the boards, but studying the audience with cursory +interest until the appearance of Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl. + +When she began to sing, his mind still wandered. The words of her song +were crude, but not without a certain lilt that delighted the uncultured +ear, while the girl's voice was thin to the point of being unpleasant. +When, however, she came to the burden of the song, Clarke's manner +changed suddenly. Laying down his cigar, he listened with rapt +attention, eagerly gazing at her. For, as she sang the last line and +tore the hyacinth-blossoms from her hair, there crept into her voice a +strangely poignant, pathetic little thrill, that redeemed the execrable +faultiness of her singing, and brought the rude audience under her +spell. + +Clarke, too, was captivated by that tremour, the infinite sadness of +which suggested the plaint of souls moaning low at night, when lust +preys on creatures marked for its spoil. + +The singer paused. Still those luminous eyes were upon her. She grew +nervous. It was only with tremendous difficulty that she reached the +refrain. As she sang the opening lines of the last stanza, an +inscrutable smile curled on Clarke's lips. She noticed the man's +relentless gaze and faltered. When the burden came, her singing was hard +and cracked: the tremour had gone from her voice. + + + + +III + + +Long before the appointed time Ernest walked up and down in front of the +abode of Reginald Clarke, a stately apartment-house overlooking +Riverside Drive. + +Misshapen automobiles were chasing by, carrying to the cool river's +marge the restlessness and the fever of American life. But the bustle +and the noise seemed to the boy only auspicious omens of the future. + +Jack, his room-mate and dearest friend, had left him a month ago, and, +for a space, he had felt very lonely. His young and delicate soul found +it difficult to grapple with the vague fears that his nervous brain +engendered, when whispered sounds seemed to float from hidden corners, +and the stairs creaked under mysterious feet. + +He needed the voice of loving kindness to call him back from the valley +of haunting shadows, where his poet's soul was wont to linger overlong; +in his hours of weakness the light caress of a comrade renewed his +strength and rekindled in his hand the flaming sword of song. + +And at nightfall he would bring the day's harvest to Clarke, as a +worshipper scattering precious stones, incense and tapestries at the +feet of a god. + +Surely he would be very happy. And as the heart, at times, leads the +feet to the goal of its desire, while multicoloured dreams, like +dancing-girls, lull the will to sleep, he suddenly found himself +stepping from the elevator-car to Reginald Clarke's apartment. + +Already was he raising his hand to strike the electric bell when a sound +from within made him pause half-way. + +"No, there's no help!" he heard Clarke say. His voice had a hard, +metallic clangour. + +A boyish voice answered plaintively. What the words were Ernest could +not distinctly hear, but the suppressed sob in them almost brought the +tears to his eyes. He instinctively knew that this was the finale of +some tragedy. + +He withdrew hastily, so as not to be a witness of an interview that was +not meant for his ears. + +Reginald Clarke probably had good reason for parting with his young +friend, whom Ernest surmised to be Abel Felton, a talented boy, whom the +master had taken under his wings. + +In the apartment a momentary silence had ensued. + +This was interrupted by Clarke: "It will come again, in a month, in a +year, in two years." + +"No, no! It is all gone!" sobbed the boy. + +"Nonsense. You are merely nervous. But that is just why we must part. +There is no room in one house for two nervous people." + +"I was not such a nervous wreck before I met you." + +"Am I to blame for it--for your morbid fancies, your extravagance, the +slow tread of a nervous disease, perhaps?" + +"Who can tell? But I am all confused. I don't know what I am saying. +Everything is so puzzling--life, friendship, you. I fancied you cared +for my career, and now you end our friendship without a thought!" + +"We must all follow the law of our being." + +"The laws are within us and in our control." + +"They are within us and beyond us. It is the physiological structure of +our brains, our nerve-cells, that makes and mars our lives. + +"Our mental companionship was so beautiful. It was meant to last." + +"That is the dream of youth. Nothing lasts. Everything flows--panta rei. +We are all but sojourners in an inn. Friendship, as love, is an +illusion. Life has nothing to take from a man who has no illusions." + +"It has nothing to give him." + +They said good-bye. + +At the door Ernest met Abel. + +"Where are you going?" he asked. + +"For a little pleasure trip." + +Ernest knew that the boy lied. + +He remembered that Abel Felton was at work upon some book, a play or a +novel. It occurred to him to inquire how far he had progressed with it. + +Abel smiled sadly. "I am not writing it." + +"Not writing it?" + +"Reginald is." + +"I am afraid I don't understand." + +"Never mind. Some day you will." + + + + +IV + + +"I am so happy you came," Reginald Clarke said, as he conducted Ernest +into his studio. It was a large, luxuriously furnished room overlooking +the Hudson and Riverside Drive. + +Dazzled and bewildered, the boy's eyes wandered from object to object, +from picture to statue. Despite seemingly incongruous details, the whole +arrangement possessed style and distinction. + +A satyr on the mantelpiece whispered obscene secrets into the ears of +Saint Cecilia. The argent limbs of Antinous brushed against the garments +of Mona Lisa. And from a corner a little rococo lady peered coquettishly +at the gray image of an Egyptian sphinx. There was a picture of Napoleon +facing the image of the Crucified. Above all, in the semi-darkness, +artificially produced by heavy draperies, towered two busts. + +"Shakespeare and Balzac!" Ernest exclaimed with some surprise. + +"Yes," explained Reginald, "they are my gods." + +His gods! Surely there was a key to Clarke's character. Our gods are +ourselves raised to the highest power. + +Clarke and Shakespeare! + +Even to Ernest's admiring mind it seemed almost blasphemous to name a +contemporary, however esteemed, in one breath with the mighty master of +song, whose great gaunt shadow, thrown against the background of the +years has assumed immense, unproportionate, monstrous dimensions. + +Yet something might be said for the comparison. Clarke undoubtedly was +universally broad, and undoubtedly concealed, with no less exquisite +taste than the Elizabethan, his own personality under the splendid +raiment of his art. They certainly were affinities. It would not have +been surprising to him to see the clear calm head of Shakespeare rise +from behind his host. + +Perhaps--who knows?--the very presence of the bust in his room had, to +some extent, subtly and secretly moulded Reginald Clarke's life. A man's +soul, like the chameleon, takes colour from its environment. Even +comparative trifles, the number of the house in which we live, or the +colour of the wallpaper of a room, may determine a destiny. + +The boy's eyes were again surveying the fantastic surroundings in which +he found himself; while, from a corner, Clarke's eyes were watching his +every movement, as if to follow his thoughts into the innermost +labyrinth of the mind. It seemed to Ernest, under the spell of this +passing fancy, as though each vase, each picture, each curio in the +room, was reflected in Clarke's work. In a long-queued, porcelain +Chinese mandarin he distinctly recognised a quaint quatrain in one of +Clarke's most marvellous poems. And he could have sworn that the grin of +the Hindu monkey-god on the writing-table reappeared in the weird rhythm +of two stanzas whose grotesque cadence had haunted him for years. + +At last Clarke broke the silence. "You like my studio?" he asked. + +The simple question brought Ernest back to reality. + +"Like it? Why, it's stunning. It set up in me the queerest train of +thought." + +"I, too, have been in a whimsical mood to-night. Fancy, unlike genius, +is an infectious disease." + +"What is the peculiar form it assumed in your case?" + +"I have been wondering whether all the things that environ us day by day +are, in a measure, fashioning our thought-life. I sometimes think that +even my little mandarin and this monkey-idol which, by the way, I +brought from India, are exerting a mysterious but none the less real +influence upon my work." + +"Great God!" Ernest replied, "I have had the identical thought!" + +"How very strange!" Clarke exclaimed, with seeming surprise. + +"It is said tritely but truly, that great minds travel the same roads," +Ernest observed, inwardly pleased. + +"No," the older man subtly remarked, "but they reach the same +conclusion by a different route." + +"And you attach serious importance to our fancy?" + +"Why not?" + +Clarke was gazing abstractedly at the bust of Balzac. + +"A man's genius is commensurate with his ability of absorbing from life +the elements essential to his artistic completion. Balzac possessed this +power in a remarkable degree. But, strange to say, it was evil that +attracted him most. He absorbed it as a sponge absorbs water; perhaps +because there was so little of it in his own make-up. He must have +purified the atmosphere around him for miles, by bringing all the evil +that was floating in the air or slumbering in men's souls to the point +of his pen. + +"And he"--his eyes were resting on Shakespeare's features as a man might +look upon the face of a brother--"he, too, was such a nature. In fact, +he was the most perfect type of the artist. Nothing escaped his mind. +From life and from books he drew his material, each time reshaping it +with a master-hand. Creation is a divine prerogative. Re-creation, +infinitely more wonderful than mere calling into existence, is the +prerogative of the poet. Shakespeare took his colours from many +palettes. That is why he is so great, and why his work is incredibly +greater than he. It alone explains his unique achievement. Who was he? +What education did he have, what opportunities? None. And yet we find in +his work the wisdom of Bacon, Sir Walter Raleigh's fancies and +discoveries, Marlowe's verbal thunders and the mysterious loveliness of +Mr. W.H." + +Ernest listened, entranced by the sound of Clarke's mellifluous voice. +He was, indeed, a master of the spoken word, and possessed a miraculous +power of giving to the wildest fancies an air of vraisemblance. + + + + +V + + +"Yes," said Walkham, the sculptor, "it's a most curious thing." + +"What is?" asked Ernest, who had been dreaming over the Sphinx that was +looking at him from its corner with the sarcastic smile of five thousand +years. + +"How our dreams of yesterday stare at us like strangers to-day." + +"On the contrary," remarked Reginald, "it would be strange if they were +still to know us. In fact, it would be unnatural. The skies above us and +the earth underfoot are in perpetual motion. Each atom of our physical +nature is vibrating with unimaginable rapidity. Change is identical with +life." + +"It sometimes seems," said the sculptor, "as if thoughts evaporated like +water." + +"Why not, under favorable conditions?" + +"But where do they go? Surely they cannot perish utterly?" + +"Yes, that is the question. Or, rather, it is not a question. Nothing +is ever lost in the spiritual universe." + +"But what," inquired Ernest, "is the particular reason for your +reflection?" + +"It is this," the sculptor replied; "I had a striking motive and lost +it." + +"Do you remember," he continued, speaking to Reginald, "the Narcissus I +was working on the last time when you called at my studio?" + +"Yes; it was a striking thing and impressed me very much, though I +cannot recall it at the moment." + +"Well, it was a commission. An eccentric young millionaire had offered +me eight thousand dollars for it. I had an absolutely original +conception. But I cannot execute it. It's as if a breeze had carried it +away." + +"That is very regrettable." + +"Well, I should say so," replied the sculptor. + +Ernest smiled. For everybody knew of Walkham's domestic troubles. Having +twice figured in the divorce court, he was at present defraying the +expenses of three households. + +The sculptor had meanwhile seated himself at Reginald's writing-table, +unintentionally scanning a typewritten page that was lying before him. +Like all artists, something of a madman and something of a child, he at +first glanced over its contents distractedly, then with an interest so +intense that he was no longer aware of the impropriety of his action. + +"By Jove!" he cried. "What is this?" + +"It's an epic of the French Revolution," Reginald replied, not without +surprise. + +"But, man, do you know that I have discovered my motive in it?" + +"What do you mean?" asked Ernest, looking first at Reginald and then at +Walkham, whose sanity he began to doubt. + +"Listen!" + +And the sculptor read, trembling with emotion, a long passage whose +measured cadence delighted Ernest's ear, without, however, enlightening +his mind as to the purport of Walkham's cryptic remark. + +Reginald said nothing, but the gleam in his eye showed that this time, +at least, his interest was alert. + +Walkham saw the hopelessness of making clear his meaning without an +explanation. + +"I forget you haven't a sculptor's mind. I am so constituted that, with +me, all impressions are immediately translated into the sense of form. I +do not hear music; I see it rise with domes and spires, with painted +windows and Arabesques. The scent of the rose is to me tangible. I can +almost feel it with my hand. So your prose suggested to me, by its +rhythmic flow, something which, at first indefinite, crystallised +finally into my lost conception of Narcissus." + +"It is extraordinary," murmured Reginald. "I had not dreamed of it." + +"So you do not think it rather fantastic?" remarked Ernest, +circumscribing his true meaning. + +"No, it is quite possible. Perhaps his Narcissus was engaging the +sub-conscious strata of my mind while I was writing this passage. And +surely it would be strange if the undercurrents of our mind were not +reflected in our style." + +"Do you mean, then, that a subtle psychologist ought to be able to read +beneath and between our lines, not only what we express, but also what +we leave unexpressed?" + +"Undoubtedly." + +"Even if, while we are writing, we are unconscious of our state of mind? +That would open a new field to psychology." + +"Only to those that have the key, that can read the hidden symbols. It +is to me a matter-of-course that every mind-movement below or above the +threshold of consciousness must, of a necessity, leave its imprint +faintly or clearly, as the case may be, upon our activities." + +"This may explain why books that seem intolerably dull to the majority, +delight the hearts of the few," Ernest interjected. + +"Yes, to the few that possess the key. I distinctly remember how an +uncle of mine once laid down a discussion on higher mathematics and +blushed fearfully when his innocent wife looked over his shoulder. The +man who had written it was a roue." + +"Then the seemingly most harmless books may secretly possess the power +of scattering in young minds the seed of corruption," Walkham remarked. + +"If they happen to understand," Clarke observed thoughtfully. "I can +very well conceive of a lecherous text-book of the calculus, or of a +reporter's story of a picnic in which burnt, under the surface, +undiscoverable, save to the initiate, the tragic passion of Tristram and +Iseult." + + + + +VI + + +Several weeks had elapsed since the conversation in Reginald Clarke's +studio. The spring was now well advanced and had sprinkled the meadows +with flowers, and the bookshelves of the reviewers with fiction. The +latter Ernest turned to good account, but from the flowers no poem +blossomed forth. In writing about other men's books, he almost forgot +that the springtide had brought to him no bouquet of song. Only now and +then, like a rippling of water, disquietude troubled his soul. + +The strange personality of the master of the house had enveloped the +lad's thoughts with an impenetrable maze. The day before Jack had come +on a flying visit from Harvard, but even he was unable to free Ernest's +soul from the obsession of Reginald Clarke. + +Ernest was lazily stretching himself on a couch, waving the smoke of +his cigarette to Reginald, who was writing at his desk. + +"Your friend Jack is delightful," Reginald remarked, looking up from his +papers. "And his ebon-coloured hair contrasts prettily with the gold in +yours. I should imagine that you are temperamental antipodes." + +"So we are; but friendship bridges the chasm between." + +"How long have you known him?" + +"We have been chums ever since our sophomore year." + +"What attracted you in him?" + +"It is no simple matter to define exactly one's likes and dislikes. Even +a tiny protoplasmic animal appears to be highly complex under the +microscope. How can we hope to analyse, with any degree of certitude, +our souls, especially when, under the influence of feeling, we see as +through a glass darkly." + +"It is true that personal feeling colours our spectacles and distorts +the perspective. Still, we should not shrink from self-analysis. We must +learn to see clearly into our own hearts if we would give vitality to +our work. Indiscretion is the better part of literature, and it +behooves us to hound down each delicate elusive shadow of emotion, and +convert it into copy." + +"It is because I am so self-analytical that I realise the complexity of +my nature, and am at a loss to define my emotions. Conflicting forces +sway us hither and thither without neutralising each other. Physicology +isn't physics. There were many things to attract me to Jack. He was +subtler, more sympathetic, more feminine, perhaps, than the rest of my +college-mates." + +"That I have noticed. In fact, his lashes are those of a girl. You still +care for him very much?" + +"It isn't a matter of caring. We are two beings that live one life." + +"A sort of psychic Siamese twins?" + +"Almost. Why, the matter is very simple. Our hearts root in the same +soil; the same books have nourished us, the same great winds have shaken +our being, and the same sunshine called forth the beautiful blossom of +friendship." + +"He struck me, if you will pardon my saying so, as a rather commonplace +companion." + +"There is in him a hidden sweetness, and a depth of feeling which only +intimate contact reveals. He is now taking his post-graduate course at +Harvard, and for well-nigh two months we have not met; yet so many +invisible threads of common experience unite us that we could meet after +years and still be near each other." + +"You are very young," Reginald replied. + +"What do you mean?" + +"Ah--never mind." + +"So you do not believe that two hearts may ever beat as one?" + +"No, that is an auditory delusion. Not even two clocks beat in unison. +There is always a discrepancy, infinitesimal, perhaps, but a discrepancy +nevertheless." + +A sharp ring of the bell interrupted the conversation. A moment later a +curly head peeped through the door. + +"Hello, Ernest! How are you, old man?" the intruder cried, with a laugh +in his voice. Then, noticing Clarke, he shook hands with the great man +unceremoniously, with the nonchalance of the healthy young animal bred +in the atmosphere of an American college. + +His touch seemed to thrill Clarke, who breathed heavily and then stepped +to the window, as if to conceal the flush of vitality on his cheek. + +It was a breath of springtide that Jack had brought with him. Youth is a +Prince Charming. To shrivelled veins the pressure of his hand imparts a +spark of animation, and middle age unfolds its petals in his presence, +as a sunflower gazing at late noon once more upon its lord. + +"I have come to take Ernest away from you," said Jack. "He looks a +trifle paler than usual, and a day's outing will stir the red corpuscles +in his blood." + +"I have no doubt that you will take very good care of him," Reginald +replied. + +"Where shall we go?" Ernest asked, absent-mindedly. + +But he did not hear the answer, for Reginald's scepticisms had more +deeply impressed him than he cared to confess to himself. + + + + +VII + + +The two boys had bathed their souls in the sea-breeze, and their eyes in +light. + +The tide of pleasure-loving humanity jostling against them had carried +their feet to the "Lion Palace." From there, seated at table and +quenching their thirst with high-balls, they watched the feverish +palpitations of the city's life-blood pulsating in the veins of Coney +Island, to which they had drifted from Brighton Beach. + +Ernest blew thoughtful rings of smoke into the air. + +"Do you notice the ferocious look in the mien of the average frequenter +of this island resort?" he said to Jack, whose eyes, following the +impulse of his more robust youth, were examining specimens of feminine +flotsam on the waves of the crowd. + +"It is," he continued, speaking to himself for want of an audience, +"the American who is in for having a 'good time.' And he is going to get +it. Like a huntsman, he follows the scent of happiness; but I warrant +that always it eludes him. Perhaps his mad race is only the epitome of +humanity's vain pursuit of pleasure, the eternal cry that is never +answered." + +But Jack was not listening. There are times in the life of every man +when a petticoat is more attractive to him than all the philosophy of +the world. + +Ernest was a little hurt, and it was not without some silent +remonstrance that he acquiesced when Jack invited to their table two +creatures that once were women. + +"Why?" + +"But they are interesting." + +"I cannot find so." + +They both had seen better times--of course. Then money losses came, with +work in shop or factory, and the voice of the tempter in the commercial +wilderness. + +One, a frail nervous little creature, who had instinctively chosen a +seat at Ernest's side, kept prattling in his ear, ready to tell the +story of her life to any one who was willing to treat her to a drink. +Something in her demeanour interested him. + +"And then I had a stroke of luck. The manager of a vaudeville was my +friend and decided to give me a trial. He thought I had a voice. They +called me Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl. At first it seemed as if people +liked to hear me. But I suppose that was because I was new. After a +month or two they discharged me." + +"And why?" + +"I suppose I was just used up, that's all." + +"Frightful!" + +"I never had much of a voice--and the tobacco smoke--and the wine--I +love wine." + +She gulped down her glass. + +"And do you like your present occupation?" + +"Why not? Am I not young? Am I not pretty?" + +This she said not parrotwise, but with a simple coquettishness that was +all her own. + +On the way to the steamer a few moments later, Ernest asked, +half-reproachfully: "Jack--and you really enjoyed this conversation?" + +"Didn't you?" + +"Do you mean this?" + +"Why, yes; she was--very agreeable." + +Ernest frowned. + +"We're twenty, Ernest. And then, you see, it's like a course in +sociology. Susie--" + +"Susie, was that her name?" + +"Yes." + +"So she had a name?" + +"Of course." + +"She shouldn't. It should be a number." + +"They may not be pillars of society; still, they're human." + +"Yes," said Ernest, "that is the most horrible part of it." + + + + +VIII + + +The moon was shining brightly. + +Swift and sure the prow of the night-boat parted the silvery foam. + +The smell of young flesh. Peals of laughter. A breathless pianola. The +tripping of dancing-feet. Voices husked with drink and voices soft with +love. The shrill accents of vulgarity. Hustling waiters. Shop-girls. +Bourgeois couples. Tired families of four and upward. Sleeping children. +A boy selling candy. The crying of babies. + +The two friends were sitting on the upper deck, muffled in their long +rain-coats. + +In the distance the Empire City rose radiant from the mist. + +"Say, Ernest, you should spout some poetry as of old. Are your lips +stricken mute, or are you still thinking of Coney Island?" + +"Oh, no, the swift wind has taken it away. I am clean, I am pure. Life +has passed me. It has kissed me, but it has left no trace." + +He looked upon the face of his friend. Their hands met. They felt, with +keen enjoyment, the beauty of the night, of their friendship, and of the +city beyond. + +Then Ernest's lips moved softly, musically, twitching with a strange +ascetic passion that trembled in his voice as he began: + + _"Huge steel-ribbed monsters rise into the air + Her Babylonian towers, while on high, + Like gilt-scaled serpents, glide the swift trains by, + Or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair. + A thousand lights are jewels in her hair, + The sea her girdle, and her crown the sky; + Her life-blood throbs, the fevered pulses fly. + Immense, defiant, breathless she stands there. + + "And ever listens in the ceaseless din, + Waiting for him, her lover, who shall come, + Whose singing lips shall boldly claim their own, + And render sonant what in her was dumb, + The splendour, and the madness, and the sin, + Her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone."_ + +He paused. The boat glided on. For a long time neither spoke a word. + +After a while Jack broke the silence: "And are you dreaming of becoming +the lyric mouth of the city, of giving utterance to all its yearnings, +its 'dreams in iron and its thoughts of stone'?" + +"No," replied Ernest, simply, "not yet. It is strange to what +impressions the brain will respond. In Clarke's house, in the midst of +inspiring things, inspiration failed me. But while I was with that girl +an idea came to me--an idea, big, real." + +"Will it deal with her?" + +Ernest smiled: "Oh, no. She personally has nothing to do with it. At +least not directly. It was the commotion of blood and--brain. The +air--the change. I don't know what." + +"What will it be?" asked Jack, with interest all alert. + +"A play, a wonderful play. And its heroine will be a princess, a little +princess, with a yellow veil." + +"What of the plot?" + +"That I shall not tell you to-day. In fact, I shall not breathe a word +to any one. It will take you all by surprise--and the public by storm." + +"So it will be playable?" + +"If I am not very much mistaken, you will see it on Broadway within a +year. And," he added graciously, "I will let you have two box-seats for +the first night." + +They both chuckled at the thought, and their hearts leaped within them. + +"I hope you will finish it soon," Jack observed after a while. "You +haven't done much of late." + +"A similar reflection was on my mind when you came yesterday. That +accounts for the low spirits in which you found me." + +"Ah, indeed," Jack replied, measuring Ernest with a look of wonder. "But +now your face is aglow. It seems that the blood rushes to your head +swifter at the call of an idea than at the kiss of a girl." + +"Thank God!" Ernest remarked with a sigh of relief. "Mighty forces +within me are fashioning the limpid thought. Passion may grip us by the +throat momentarily; upon our backs we may feel the lashes of desire and +bathe our souls in flames of many hues; but the joy of activity is the +ultimate passion." + + + + +IX + + +It seemed, indeed, as if work was to Ernest what the sting of pleasure +is to the average human animal. The inter-play of his mental forces gave +him the sensuous satisfaction of a woman's embrace. His eyes sparkled. +His muscle tightened. The joy of creation was upon him. + +Often very material reasons, like stone weights tied to the wings of a +bird, stayed the flight of his imagination. Magazines were waiting for +his copy, and he was not in the position to let them wait. They supplied +his bread and butter. + +Between the bread and butter, however, the play was growing scene by +scene. In the lone hours of the night he spun upon the loom of his fancy +a brilliant weft of swift desire--heavy, perfumed, Oriental--interwoven +with bits of gruesome tenderness. The thread of his own life intertwined +with the thread of the story. All genuine art is autobiography. It is +not, however, necessarily a revelation of the artist's actual self, but +of a myriad of potential selves. Ah, our own potential selves! They are +sometimes beautiful, often horrible, and always fascinating. They loom +to heavens none too high for our reach; they stray to yawning hells +beneath our very feet. + +The man who encompasses heaven and hell is a perfect man. But there are +many heavens and more hells. The artist snatches fire from both. Surely +the assassin feels no more intensely the lust of murder than the poet +who depicts it in glowing words. The things he writes are as real to him +as the things that he lives. But in his realm the poet is supreme. His +hands may be red with blood or white with leprosy: he still remains +king. Woe to him, however, if he transcends the limits of his kingdom +and translates into action the secret of his dreams. The throng that +before applauded him will stone his quivering body or nail to the cross +his delicate hands and feet. + +Sometimes days passed before Ernest could concentrate his mind upon his +play. Then the fever seized him again, and he strung pearl on pearl, +line on line, without entrusting a word to paper. Even to discuss his +work before it had received the final brush-strokes would have seemed +indecent to him. + +Reginald, too, seemed to be in a turmoil of work. Ernest had little +chance to speak to him. And to drop even a hint of his plans between the +courses at breakfast would have been desecration. + +Sunset followed sunset, night followed night. The stripling April had +made room for the lady May. The play was almost completed in Ernest's +mind, and he thought, with a little shudder, of the physical travail of +the actual writing. He felt that the transcript from brain to paper +would demand all his powers. For, of late, his thoughts seemed strangely +evanescent; they seemed to run away from him whenever he attempted to +seize them. + +The day was glad with sunshine, and he decided to take a long walk in +the solitude of the Palisades, to steady hand and nerve for the final +task. + +He told Reginald of his intention, but met with little response. +Reginald's face was wan and bore the peculiar pallor of one who had +worked late at night. + +"You must be frightfully busy?" Ernest asked, with genuine concern. + +"So I am," Reginald replied. "I always work in a white heat. I am +restless, nervous, feverish, and can find no peace until I have given +utterance to all that clamours after birth." + +"What is it that is so engaging your mind, the epic of the French +Revolution?" + +"Oh, no. I should never have undertaken that. I haven't done a stroke of +work on it for several weeks. In fact, ever since Walkham called, I +simply couldn't. It seemed as if a rough hand had in some way destroyed +the web of my thought. Poetry in the writing is like red hot glass +before the master-blower has fashioned it into birds and trees and +strange fantastic shapes. A draught, caused by the opening of a door may +distort it. But at present I am engaged upon more important work. I am +modelling a vessel not of fine-spun glass, but of molten gold." + +"You make me exceedingly anxious to know what you have in store for us. +It seems to me you have reached a point where even you can no longer +surpass yourself." + +Reginald smiled. "Your praise is too generous, yet it warms like +sunshine. I will confess that my conception is unique. It combines with +the ripeness of my technique the freshness of a second spring." + +Ernest was bubbling with anticipated delights. His soul responded to +Reginald's touch as a harp to the winds. "When," he cried, "shall we be +privileged to see it?" + +Reginald's eyes were already straying back to his writing table. "If the +gods are propitious," he remarked, "I shall complete it to-night. +To-morrow is my reception, and I have half promised to read it then." + +"Perhaps I shall be in the position soon to let you see my play." + +"Let us hope so," Reginald replied absent-mindedly. The egotism of the +artist had once more chained him to his work. + + + + +X + + +That night a brilliant crowd had gathered in Reginald Clarke's house. +From the studio and the adjoining salon arose a continual murmur of +well-tuned voices. On bare white throats jewels shone as if in each a +soul were imprisoned, and voluptuously rustled the silk that clung to +the fair slim forms of its bearers in an undulating caress. Subtle +perfumes emanated from the hair and the hands of syren women, +commingling with the soft plump scent of their flesh. Fragrant tapers, +burning in precious crystal globules stained with exquisite colours, +sprinkled their shimmering light over the fashionable assemblage and +lent a false radiance to the faces of the men, while in the hair and the +jewels of the women each ray seemed to dance like an imp with its mate. + +A seat like a throne, covered with furs of tropic beasts of prey, stood +in one corner of the room in the full glare of the light, waiting for +the monarch to come. Above were arranged with artistic _raffinement_ +weird oriental draperies, resembling a crimson canopy in the total +effect. Chattering visitors were standing in groups, or had seated +themselves on the divans and curiously-fashioned chairs that were +scattered in seeming disorder throughout the salon. There were critics +and writers and men of the world. Everybody who was anybody and a little +bigger than somebody else was holding court in his own small circle of +enthusiastic admirers. The Bohemian element was subdued, but not +entirely lacking. The magic of Reginald Clarke's name made stately dames +blind to the presence of some individuals whom they would have passed on +the street without recognition. + +Ernest surveyed this gorgeous assembly with the absent look of a +sleep-walker. Not that his sensuous soul was unsusceptible to the +atmosphere of culture and corruption that permeated the whole, nor to +the dazzling colour effects that tantalised while they delighted the +eye. But to-night they shrivelled into insignificance before the +splendour of his inner vision. A radiant dreamland palace, his play, had +risen from the night of inchoate thought. It was wonderful, it was real, +and needed for its completion only the detail of actual construction. +And now the characters were hovering in the recesses of his brain, were +yearning to leave that many-winded labyrinth to become real beings of +paper and ink. He would probably have tarried overlong in this fanciful +mansion, had not the reappearance of an unexpected guest broken his +reverie. + +"Jack!" he exclaimed in surprise, "I thought you a hundred miles away +from here." + +"That shows that you no longer care for me," Jack playfully answered. +"When our friendship was young, you always had a presentiment of my +presence." + +"Ah, perhaps I had. But tell me, where do you hail from?" + +"Clarke called me up on the telephone--long-distance, you know. I +suppose it was meant as a surprise for you. And you certainly looked +surprised--not even pleasantly. I am really head-over-heels at work. +But you know how it is. Sometimes a little imp whispers into my ears +daring me to do a thing which I know is foolish. But what of it? My legs +are strong enough not to permit my follies to overtake me." + +"It was certainly good of you to come. In fact, you make me very glad. I +feel that I need you to-night--I don't know why. The feeling came +suddenly--suddenly as you. I only know I need you. How long can you +stay?" + +"I must leave you to-morrow morning. I have to hustle somewhat. You know +my examinations are taking place in a day or two and I've got to cram up +a lot of things." + +"Still," remarked Ernest, "your visit will repay you for the loss of +time. Clarke will read to us to-night his masterpiece." + +"What is it?" + +"I don't know. I only know it's the real thing. It's worth all the +wisdom bald-headed professors may administer to you in concentrated +doses at five thousand a year." + +"Come now," Jack could not help saying, "is your memory giving way? +Don't you remember your own days in college--especially the mathematical +examinations? You know that your marks came always pretty near the +absolute zero." + +"Jack," cried Ernest in honest indignation, "not the last time. The last +time I didn't flunk." + +"No, because your sonnet on Cartesian geometry roused even the +math-fiend to compassion. And don't you remember Professor Squeeler, +whose heart seemed to leap with delight whenever he could tell you that, +in spite of incessant toil on your part, he had again flunked you in +physics with fifty-nine and a half per cent.?" + +"And he wouldn't raise the mark to sixty! God forgive him,--I cannot." + +Here their exchange of reminiscences was interrupted. There was a stir. +The little potentates of conversation hastened to their seats, before +their minions had wholly deserted them. + +The king was moving to his throne! + +Assuredly Reginald Clarke had the bearing of a king. Leisurely he took +his seat under the canopy. + +A hush fell on the audience; not a fan stirred as he slowly unfolded his +manuscript. + + + + +XI + + +The music of Reginald Clarke's intonation captivated every ear. +Voluptuously, in measured cadence, it rose and fell; now full and strong +like the sound of an organ, now soft and clear like the tinkling of +bells. His voice detracted by its very tunefulness from what he said. +The powerful spell charmed even Ernest's accustomed ear. The first page +gracefully glided from Reginald's hand to the carpet before the boy +dimly realised that he was intimately familiar with every word that fell +from Reginald's lips. When the second page slipped with seeming +carelessness from the reader's hand, a sudden shudder ran through the +boy's frame. It was as if an icy hand had gripped his heart. There could +be no doubt of it. This was more than mere coincidence. It was +plagiarism. He wanted to cry out. But the room swam before his eyes. +Surely he must be dreaming. It was a dream. The faces of the audience, +the lights, Reginald, Jack--all phantasmagoria of a dream. + +Perhaps he had been ill for a long time. Perhaps Clarke was reading the +play for him. He did not remember having written it. But he probably had +fallen sick after its completion. What strange pranks our memories will +play us! But no! He was not dreaming, and he had not been ill. + +He could endure the horrible uncertainty no longer. His overstrung +nerves must find relaxation in some way or break with a twang. He turned +to his friend who was listening with rapt attention. + +"Jack, Jack!" he whispered. + +"What is it?" + +"That is my play!" + +"You mean that you inspired it?" + +"No, I have written it, or rather, was going to write it." + +"Wake up, Ernest! You are mad!" + +"No, in all seriousness. It is mine. I told you--don't you +remember--when we returned from Coney Island--that I was writing a +play." + +"Ah, but not this play." + +"Yes, this play. I conceived it, I practically wrote it." + +"The more's the pity that Clarke had preconceived it." + +"But it is mine!" + +"Did you tell him a word about it?" + +"No, to be sure." + +"Did you leave the manuscript in your room?" + +"I had, in fact, not written a line of it. No, I had not begun the +actual writing." + +"Why should a man of Clarke's reputation plagiarise your plays, written +or unwritten?" + +"I can see no reason. But--" + +"Tut, tut." + +For already this whispered conversation had elicited a look like a stab +from a lady before them. + +Ernest held fast to the edge of a chair. He must cling to some reality, +or else drift rudderless in a dim sea of vague apprehensions. + +Or was Jack right? + +Was his mind giving way? No! No! No! There must be a monstrous secret +somewhere, but what matter? Did anything matter? He had called on his +mate like a ship lost in the fog. For the first time he had not +responded. He had not understood. The bitterness of tears rose to the +boy's eyes. + +Above it all, melodiously, ebbed and flowed the rich accents of Reginald +Clarke. + +Ernest listened to the words of his own play coming from the older man's +mouth. The horrible fascination of the scene held him entranced. He saw +the creations of his mind pass in review before him, as a man might look +upon the face of his double grinning at him from behind a door in the +hideous hours of night. + +They were all there! The mad king. The subtle-witted courtiers. The +sombre-hearted Prince. The Queen-Mother who had loved a jester better +than her royal mate, and the fruit of their shameful alliance, the +Princess Marigold, a creature woven of sunshine and sin. + +Swiftly the action progressed. Shadows of impending death darkened the +house of the King. In the horrible agony of the rack the old jester +confessed. Stripped of his cap and bells, crowned with a wreath of +blood, he looked so pathetically funny that the Princess Marigold could +not help laughing between her tears. + +The Queen stood there all trembling and pale. Without a complaint she +saw her lover die. The executioner's sword smote the old man's head +straight from the trunk. It rolled at the feet of the King, who tossed +it to Marigold. The little Princess kissed it and covered the grinning +horror with her yellow veil. + +The last words died away. + +There was no applause. Only silence. All were stricken with the dread +that men feel in the house of God or His awful presence in genius. + +But the boy lay back in his chair. The cold sweat had gathered on his +brow and his temples throbbed. Nature had mercifully clogged his head +with blood. The rush of it drowned the crying voice of the nerves, +deadening for a while both consciousness and pain. + + + + +XII + + +Somehow the night had passed--somehow in bitterness, in anguish. But it +had passed. + +Ernest's lips were parched and sleeplessness had left its trace in the +black rings under the eyes, when the next morning he confronted Reginald +in the studio. + +Reginald was sitting at the writing-table in his most characteristic +pose, supporting his head with his hand and looking with clear piercing +eyes searchingly at the boy. + +"Yes," he observed, "it's a most curious psychical phenomenon." + +"You cannot imagine how real it all seemed to me." + +The boy spoke painfully, dazed, as if struck by a blow. + +"Even now it is as if something has gone from me, some struggling +thought that I cannot--cannot remember." + +Reginald regarded him as a physical experimenter might look upon the +subject of a particularly baffling mental disease. + +"You must not think, my boy, that I bear you any malice for your +extraordinary delusion. Before Jack went away he gave me an exact +account of all that has happened. Divers incidents recurred to him from +which it appears that, at various times in the past, you have been on +the verge of a nervous collapse." + +A nervous collapse! What was the use of this term but a euphemism for +insanity? + +"Do not despair, dear child," Reginald caressingly remarked. "Your +disorder is not hopeless, not incurable. Such crises come to every man +who writes. It is the tribute we pay to the Lords of Song. The +minnesinger of the past wrote with his heart's blood; but we moderns dip +our pen into the sap of our nerves. We analyse life, love art--and the +dissecting knife that we use on other men's souls finally turns against +ourselves. + +"But what shall a man do? Shall he sacrifice art to hygiene and +surrender the one attribute that makes him chiefest of created things? +Animals, too, think. Some walk on two legs. But introspection +differentiates man from the rest. Shall we yield up the sweet +consciousness of self that we derive from the analysis of our emotion, +for the contentment of the bull that ruminates in the shade of a tree or +the healthful stupidity of a mule?" + +"Assuredly not." + +"But what shall a man do?" + +"Ah, that I cannot tell. Mathematics offers definite problems that admit +of a definite solution. Life states its problems with less exactness and +offers for each a different solution. One and one are two to-day and +to-morrow. Psychical values, on each manipulation, will yield a +different result. Still, your case is quite clear. You have overworked +yourself in the past, mentally and emotionally. You have sown unrest, +and must not be surprised if neurasthenia is the harvest thereof." + +"Do you think--that I should go to some sanitarium?" the boy falteringly +asked. + +"God forbid! Go to the seashore, somewhere where you can sleep and play. +Take your body along, but leave your brain behind--at least do not +take more of it with you than is necessary. The summer season in +Atlantic City has just begun. There, as everywhere in American society, +you will be much more welcome if you come without brains." + +Reginald's half-bantering tone reassured Ernest a little. Timidly he +dared approach once more the strange event that had wrought such havoc +with his nervous equilibrium. + +"How do you account for my strange obsession--one might almost call it a +mania?" + +"If it could be accounted for it would not be strange." + +"Can you suggest no possible explanation?" + +"Perhaps a stray leaf on my desk a few indications of the plot, a +remark--who knows? Perhaps thought-matter is floating in the air. +Perhaps--but we had better not talk of it now. It would needlessly +excite you." + +"You are right," answered Ernest gloomily, "let us not talk of it. But +whatever may be said, it is a marvellous play." + +"You flatter me. There is nothing in it that you may not be able to do +equally well--some day." + +"Ah, no," the boy replied, looking up to Reginald with admiration. "You +are the master." + + + + +XIII + + +Lazily Ernest stretched his limbs on the beach of Atlantic City. The +sea, that purger of sick souls, had washed away the fever and the fret +of the last few days. The wind was in his hair and the spray was in his +breath, while the rays of the sun kissed his bare arms and legs. He +rolled over in the glittering sand in the sheer joy of living. + +Now and then a wavelet stole far into the beach, as if to caress him, +but pined away ere it could reach its goal. It was as if the enamoured +sea was stretching out its arms to him. Who knows, perhaps through the +clear water some green-eyed nymph, or a young sea-god with the tang of +the sea in his hair, was peering amorously at the boy's red mouth. The +people of the deep love the red warm blood of human kind. It is always +the young that they lure to their watery haunts, never the shrivelled +limbs that totter shivering to the grave. + +Such fancies came to Ernest as he lay on the shore in his bathing +attire, happy, thoughtless,--animal. + +The sun and the sea seemed to him two lovers vying for his favor. The +sudden change of environment had brought complete relaxation and had +quieted his rebellious, assertive soul. He was no longer a solitary unit +but one with wind and water, herb and beach and shell. Almost +voluptuously his hand toyed with the hot sand that glided caressingly +through his fingers and buried his breast and shoulder under its +glittering burden. + +A summer girl who passed lowered her eyes coquettishly. He watched her +without stirring. Even to open his mouth or to smile would have seemed +too much exertion. + +Thus he lay for hours. When at length noon drew nigh, it cost him a +great effort of will to shake off his drowsy mood and exchange his airy +costume for the conventional habilaments of the dining-room. + +He had taken lodgings in a fashionable hotel. An unusual stroke of good +luck, hack-work that paid outrageously well, had made it possible for +him to idle for a time without a thought of the unpleasant necessity of +making money. + +One single article to which he signed his name only with reluctance had +brought to him more gear than a series of golden sonnets. + +"Surely," he thought, "the social revolution ought to begin from above. +What right has the bricklayer to grumble when he receives for a week's +work almost more than I for a song?" + +Thus soliloquising, he reached the dining-room. The scene that unfolded +itself before him was typical--the table over-loaded, the women +over-dressed. + +The luncheon was already in full course when he came. He mumbled an +apology and seated himself on the only remaining chair next to a youth +who reminded him of a well-dressed dummy. With slight weariness his eyes +wandered in all directions for more congenial faces when they were +arrested by a lady on the opposite side of the table. She was clad in a +silk robe with curiously embroidered net-work that revealed a nervous +and delicate throat. The rich effect of the net-work was relieved by the +studied simplicity with which her heavy chestnut-colored hair was +gathered in a single knot. Her face was turned away from him, but there +was something in the carriage of her head that struck him as familiar. +When at last she looked him in the face, the glass almost fell from his +hand: it was Ethel Brandenbourg. She seemed to notice his embarrassment +and smiled. When she opened her lips to speak, he knew by the haunting +sweetness of the voice that he was not mistaken. + +"Tell me," she said wistfully, "you have forgotten me? They all have." + +He hastened to assure her that he had not forgotten her. He recollected +now that he had first been introduced to her in Walkham's house some +years ago, when a mere college boy, he had been privileged to attend one +of that master's famous receptions. She had looked quite resolute and +very happy then, not at all like the woman who had stared so strangely +at Reginald in the Broadway restaurant. + +He regarded this encounter as very fortunate. He knew so much of her +personal history that it almost seemed to him as if they had been +intimate for years. She, too, felt on familiar ground with him. Neither +as much as whispered the name of Reginald Clarke. Yet it was he, and the +knowledge of what he was to them, that linked their souls with a common +bond. + + + + +XIV + + +It was the third day after their meeting. Hour by hour their intimacy +had increased. Ethel was sitting in a large wicker-chair. She restlessly +fingered her parasol, mechanically describing magic circles in the sand. +Ernest lay at her feet. With his knees clasped between his hands, he +gazed into her eyes. + +"Why are you trying so hard to make love to me?" the woman asked, with +the half-amused smile with which the Eve near thirty receives the homage +of a boy. There is an element of insincerity in that smile, but it is a +weapon of defence against love's artillery. + +Sometimes, indeed, the pleading in the boy's eyes and the cry of the +blood pierces the woman's smiling superiority. She listens, loves and +loses. + +Ethel Brandenbourg was listening, but the idea of love had not yet +entered into her mind. Her interest in Ernest was due in part to his +youth and the trembling in his voice when he spoke of love. But what +probably attracted her most powerfully was the fact that he intimately +knew the man who still held her woman's heart in the hollow of his hand. +It was half in play, therefore, that she had asked him that question. + +Why did he make love to her? He did not know. Perhaps it was the +irresistible desire to be petted which young poets share with +domesticated cats. But what should he tell her? Polite platitudes were +out of place between them. + +Besides he knew the penalty of all tender entanglements. Women treat +love as if it were an extremely tenuous wire that can be drawn out +indefinitely. This is a very expensive process. It costs us the most +precious, the only irretrievable thing in the universe--time. And to him +time was song; for money he did not care. The Lord had hallowed his lips +with rhythmic speech; only in the intervals of his singing might he +listen to the voice of his heart--strangest of all watches, that tells +the time not by minutes and hours, but by the coming and going of love. + +The woman beside him seemed to read his thoughts. + +"Child, child," she said, "why will you toy with love? Like Jehovah, he +is a jealous god, and nothing but the whole heart can placate him. Woe +to the woman who takes a poet for a lover. I admit it is fascinating, +but it is playing _va banque_. In fact, it is fatal. Art or love will +come to harm. No man can minister equally to both. A genuine poet is +incapable of loving a woman." + +"Pshaw! You exaggerate. Of course, there is a measure of truth in what +you say, but it is only one side of the truth, and the truth, you know, +is always Janus-faced. In fact, it often has more than two faces. I can +assure you that I have cared deeply for the women to whom my love-poetry +was written. And you will not deny that it is genuine." + +"God forbid! Only you have been using the wrong preposition. You should +have said that it was written at them." + +Ernest stared at her in child-like wonder. + +"By Jove! you are too devilishly clever!" he exclaimed. + +After a little silence he said not without hesitation: "And do you apply +your theory to all artists, or only to us makers of rhyme?" + +"To all," she replied. + +He looked at her questioningly. + +"Yes," she said, with a new sadness in her voice, "I, too, have paid the +price." + +"You mean?" + +"I loved." + +"And art?" + +"That was the sacrifice." + +"Perhaps you have chosen the better part," Ernest said without +conviction. + +"No," she replied, "my tribute was brought in vain." + +This she said calmly, but Ernest knew that her words were of tragic +import. + +"You love him still?" he observed simply. + +Ethel made no reply. Sadness clouded her face like a veil or like a grey +mist over the face of the waters. Her eyes went out to the sea, +following the sombre flight of the sea-mews. + +In that moment he could have taken her in his arms and kissed her with +infinite tenderness. + +But tenderness between man and woman is like a match in a +powder-magazine. The least provocation, and an amorous explosion will +ensue, tumbling down the card-houses of platonic affection. If he +yielded to the impulse of the moment, the wine of the springtide would +set their blood afire, and from the flames within us there is no escape. + +"Come, come," she said, "you do not love me." + +He protested. + +"Ah!" she cried triumphantly, "how many sonnets would you give for me? +If you were a usurer in gold instead of in rhyme, I would ask how many +dollars. But it is unjust to pay in a coin that we value little. To a +man starving in gold mines, a piece of bread weighs more than all the +treasures of the earth. To you, I warrant your poems are the standard of +appreciation. How many would you give for me? One, two, three?" + +"More." + +"Because you think love would repay you with compound interest," she +observed merrily. + +He laughed. + +And when love turns to laughter the danger is passed for the moment. + + + + +XV + + +Thus three weeks passed without apparent change in their relations. +Ernest possessed a personal magnetism that, always emanating from him, +was felt most deeply when withdrawn. He was at all times involuntarily +exerting his power, which she ever resisted, always on the alert, always +warding off. + +When at last pressure of work made his immediate departure for New York +imperative, he had not apparently gained the least ground. But Ethel +knew in her heart that she was fascinated, if not in love. The personal +fascination was supplemented by a motherly feeling toward Ernest that, +sensuous in essence, was in itself not far removed from love. She +struggled bravely and with external success against her emotions, never +losing sight of the fact that twenty and thirty are fifty. + +Increasingly aware of her own weakness, she constantly attempted to +lead the conversation into impersonal channels, speaking preferably of +his work. + +"Tell me," she said, negligently fanning herself, "what new inspiration +have you drawn from your stay at the seaside?" + +"Why," he exclaimed enthusiastically, "volumes and volumes of it. I +shall write the great novel of my life after I am once more quietly +installed at Riverside Drive." + +"The great American novel?" she rejoined. + +"Perhaps." + +"Who will be your hero--Clarke?" + +There was a slight touch of malice in her words, or rather in the pause +between the penultimate word and the last. Ernest detected its presence, +and knew that her love for Reginald was dead. Stiff and cold it lay in +her heart's chamber--beside how many others?--all emboxed in the coffin +of memory. + +"No," he replied after a while, a little piqued by her suggestion, +"Clarke is not the hero. What makes you think that he casts a spell on +everything I do?" + +"Dear child," she replied, "I know him. He cannot fail to impress his +powerful personality upon all with whom he comes in contact, to the +injury of their intellectual independence. Moreover, he is so brilliant +and says everything so much better than anybody else, that by his very +splendor he discourages effort in others. At best his influence will +shape your development according to the tenets of his mind--curious, +subtle and corrupted. You will become mentally distorted, like one of +those hunchback Japanese trees, infinitely wrinkled and infinitely +grotesque, whose laws of growth are not determined by nature, but by the +diseased imagination of the East." + +"I am no weakling," Ernest asserted, "and your picture of Clarke is +altogether out of perspective. His splendid successes are to me a source +of constant inspiration. We have some things in common, but I realise +that it is along entirely different lines that success will come to me. +He has never sought to influence me, in fact, I never received the +smallest suggestion from him." Here the Princess Marigold seemed to peer +at him through the veil of the past, but he waved her aside. "As for my +story," he continued, "you need not go so far out of your way to find +the leading character?" + +"Who can it be?" Ethel remarked, with a merry twinkle, "You?" + +"Ethel," he said sulkingly, "be serious. You know that it is you." + +"I am immensely flattered," she replied. "Really, nothing pleases me +better than to be immortalised in print, since I have little hope +nowadays of perpetuating my name by virtue of pencil or brush. I have +been put into novels before and am consumed with curiosity to hear the +plot of yours." + +"If you don't mind, I had rather not tell you just yet," Ernest said. +"It's going to be called Leontina--that's you. But all depends on the +treatment. You know it doesn't matter much what you say so long as you +say it well. That's what counts. At any rate, any indication of the plot +at this stage would be decidedly inadequate." + +"I think you are right," she ventured. "By all means choose your own +time to tell me. Let's talk of something else. Have you written +anything since your delightful book of verse last spring? Surely now is +your singing season. By the time we are thirty the springs of pure lyric +passion are usually exhausted." + +Ethel's inquiry somehow startled him. In truth, he could find no +satisfactory answer. A remark relative to his play--Clarke's play--rose +to the threshold of his lips, but he almost bit his tongue as soon as he +realised that the strange delusion which had possessed him that night +still dominated the undercurrents of his cerebration. No, he had +accomplished but little during the last few months--at least, by way of +creative literature. So he replied that he had made money. "That is +something," he said. "Besides, who can turn out a masterpiece every +week? An artist's brain is not a machine, and in the respite from +creative work I have gathered strength for the future. But," he added, +slightly annoyed, "you are not listening." + +His exclamation brought her back from the train of thoughts that his +words had suggested. For in his reasoning she had recognised the same +arguments that she had hourly repeated to herself in defence of her +inactivity when she was living under the baneful influence of Reginald +Clarke. Yes, baneful; for the first time she dared to confess it to +herself. In a flash the truth dawned upon her that it was not her love +alone, but something else, something irresistable and very mysterious, +that had dried up the well of creation in her. Could it be that the same +power was now exerting its influence upon the struggling soul of this +talented boy? Rack her brains as she might, she could not definitely +formulate her apprehensions and a troubled look came into her eyes. + +"Ethel," the boy repeated, impatiently, "why are you not listening? Do +you realise that I must leave you in half an hour?" + +She looked at him with deep tenderness. Something like a tear lent a +soft radiance to her large child-like eyes. + +Ernest saw it and was profoundly moved. In that moment he loved her +passionately. + +"Foolish boy," she said softly; then, lowering her voice to a whisper: +"You may kiss me before you go." + +His lips gently touched hers, but she took his head between her hands +and pressed her mouth upon his in a long kiss. + +Ernest drew back a little awkwardly. He had not been kissed like this +before. + +"Poet though you are," Ethel whispered, "you have not yet learned to +kiss." + +She was deeply agitated when she noticed that his hand was fumbling for +the watch in his vest-pocket. She suddenly released him, and said, a +little hurt: "No, you must not miss your train. Go by all means." + +Vainly Ernest remonstrated with her. + +"Go to him," she said, and again, "go to him." + +With a heavy heart the boy obeyed. He waved his hat to her once more +from below, and then rapidly disappeared in the crowd. For a moment +strange misgivings cramped her heart, and something within her called +out to him: "Do not go! Do not return to that house." But no sound +issued from her lips. Worldly wisdom had sealed them, had stifled the +inner voice. And soon the boy's golden head was swallowed up in the +distance. + + + + +XVI + + +While the train sped to New York, Ethel Brandenbourg was the one object +engaging Ernest's mind. He still felt the pressure of her lips upon his, +and his nostrils dilated at the thought of the fragrance of her hair +brushing against his forehead. + +But the moment his foot touched the ferry-boat that was to take him to +Manhattan, the past three weeks were, for the time being at least, +completely obliterated from his memory. All his other interests that he +had suppressed in her company because she had no part in them, came +rushing back to him. He anticipated with delight his meeting with +Reginald Clarke. The personal attractiveness of the man had never seemed +so powerful to Ernest as when he had not heard from him for some time. +Reginald's letters were always brief. "Professional writers," he was +wont to say, "cannot afford to put fine feeling into their private +correspondence. They must turn it into copy." He longed to sit with the +master in the studio when the last rays of the daylight were tremulously +falling through the stained window, and to discuss far into the +darkening night philosophies young and old. He longed for Reginald's +voice, his little mannerisms, the very perfume of his rooms. + +There also was a deluge of letters likely to await him in his apartment. +For in his hurried departure he had purposely left his friends in the +dark as to his whereabouts. Only to Jack he had dropped a little note +the day after his meeting with Ethel. + +He earnestly hoped to find Reginald at home, though it was well nigh ten +o'clock in the evening, and he cursed the "rapid transit" for its +inability to annihilate space and time. It is indeed disconcerting to +think how many months, if not years, of our earthly sojourn the dwellers +in cities spend in transportation conveyances that must be set down as a +dead loss in the ledger of life. A nervous impatience against things +material overcame Ernest in the subway. It is ever the mere stupid +obstacle of matter that weights down the wings of the soul and prevents +it from soaring upward to the sun. + +When at last he had reached the house, he learned from the hall-boy that +Clarke had gone out. Ruffled in temper he entered his rooms and went +over his mail. There were letters from editors with commissions that he +could not afford to reject. Everywhere newspapers and magazines opened +their yawning mouths to swallow up what time he had. He realised at once +that he would have to postpone the writing of his novel for several +weeks, if not longer. + +Among the letters was one from Jack. It bore the postmark of a little +place in the Adirondacks where he was staying with his parents. Ernest +opened the missive not without hesitation. On reading and rereading it +the fine lines on his forehead, that would some day deepen into +wrinkles, became quite pronounced and a look of displeasure darkened his +face. Something was wrong with Jack, a slight change that defied +analysis. Their souls were out of tune. It might only be a passing +disturbance; perhaps it was his own fault. It pained him, nevertheless. +Somehow it seemed of late that Jack was no longer able to follow the +vagaries of his mind. Only one person in the world possessed a similar +mental vision, only one seemed to understand what he said and what he +left unsaid. Reginald Clarke, being a man and poet, read in his soul as +in an open book. Ethel might have understood, had not love, like a +cloud, laid itself between her eyes and the page. + +It was with exultation that Ernest heard near midnight the click of +Reginald's key in the door. He found him unchanged, completely, +radiantly himself. Reginald possessed the psychic power of undressing +the soul, of seeing it before him in primal nakedness. Although no word +was said of Ethel Brandenbourg except the mere mention of her presence +in Atlantic City, Ernest intuitively knew that Reginald was aware of the +transformation that absence had wrought in him. In the presence of this +man he could be absolutely himself, without shame or fear of +mis-understanding; and by a strange metamorphosis, all his affection +for Ethel and Jack went out for the time being to Reginald Clarke. + + + + +XVII + + +The next day Ernest wrote a letter of more or less superficial +tenderness to Ethel. She had wounded his pride by proving victorious in +the end over his passion and hers; besides, he was in the throes of +work. When after the third day no answer came, he was inclined to feel +aggrieved. It was plain now that she had not cared for him in the least, +but had simply played with him for lack of another toy. A flush of shame +rose to his cheeks at the thought. He began to analyse his own emotions, +and stunned, if not stabbed, his passion step by step. Work was calling +to him. It was that which gave life its meaning, not the love of a +season. How far away, how unreal, she now seemed to him. Yes, she was +right, he had not cared deeply; and his novel, too, would be written +only _at_ her. It was the heroine of his story that absorbed his +interest, not the living prototype. + +Once in a conversation with Reginald he touched upon the subject. +Reginald held that modern taste no longer permitted even the +photographer to portray life as it is, but insisted upon an individual +visualisation. "No man," he remarked, "was ever translated bodily into +fiction. In contradiction to life, art is a process of artificial +selection." + +Bearing in mind this motive, Ernest went to work to mould from the +material in hand a new Ethel, more real than life. Unfortunately he +found little time to devote to his novel. It was only when, after a good +day's work, a pile of copy for a magazine lay on his desk, that he could +think of concentrating his mind upon "Leontina." The result was that +when he went to bed his imagination was busy with the plan of his book, +and the creatures of his own brain laid their fingers on his eyelid so +that he could not sleep. + +When at last sheer weariness overcame him, his mind was still at work, +not in orderly sequence but along trails monstrous and grotesque. +Hobgoblins seemed to steal through the hall, and leering incubi +oppressed his soul with terrible burdens. In the morning he awoke +unrested. The tan vanished from his face and little lines appeared in +the corners of his mouth. It was as if his nervous vitality were sapped +from him in some unaccountable way. He became excited, hysterical. Often +at night when he wrote his pot-boilers for the magazines, fear stood +behind his seat, and only the buzzing of the elevator outside brought +him back to himself. + +In one of his morbid moods he wrote a sonnet which he showed to Reginald +after the latter's return from a short trip out of town. Reginald read +it, looking at the boy with a curious, lurking expression. + + _O gentle Sleep, turn not thy face away, + But place thy finger on my brow, and take + All burthens from me and all dreams that ache; + Upon mine eyes a cooling balsam lay, + Seeing I am aweary of the day. + But, lo! thy lips are ashen and they quake. + What spectral vision sees thou that can shake + Thy sweet composure, and thy heart dismay? + Perhaps some murderer's cruel eye agleam + Is fixed upon me, or some monstrous dream + Might bring such fearful guilt upon the head + Of my unvigilant soul as would arouse + The Borgian snake from her envenomed bed, + Or startle Nero in his golden house._ + +"Good stuff," Reginald remarked, laying down the manuscript; "when did +you write it?" + +"The night when you were out of town," Ernest rejoined. + +"I see," Reginald replied. + +There was something startling in his intonation that at once aroused +Ernest's attention. + +"What do you see?" he asked quickly. + +"Nothing," Reginald replied, with immovable calm, "only that your state +of nerves is still far from satisfactory." + + + + +XVIII + + +After Ernest's departure Ethel Brandenbourg's heart was swaying hither +and thither in a hurricane of conflicting feelings. Before she had time +to gain an emotional equilibrium, his letter had hurled her back into +chaos. A false ring somewhere in Ernest's words, reechoing with an +ever-increasing volume of sound, stifled the voice of love. His jewelled +sentences glittered, but left her cold. They lacked that spontaneity +which renders even simple and hackeneyed phrases wonderful and unique. +Ethel clearly realised that her hold upon the boy's imagination had been +a fleeting midsummer night's charm, and that a word from Reginald's lips +had broken the potency of her spell. She almost saw the shadow of +Reginald's visage hovering over Ernest's letter and leering at her from +between the lines in sinister triumph. Finally reason came and +whispered to her that it was extremely unwise to give her heart into the +keeping of a boy. His love, she knew, would have been exacting, +irritating at times. He would have asked her to sympathise with every +phase of his life, and would have expected active interest on her part +in much that she had done with long ago. Thus, untruth would have stolen +into her life and embittered it. When mates are unequal, Love must paint +its cheeks and, in certain moods at least, hide its face under a mask. +Its lips may be honeyed, but it brings fret and sorrow in its train. + +These things she told herself over and over again while she penned a +cool and calculating answer to Ernest's letter. She rewrote it many +times, and every time it became more difficult to reply. At last she put +her letter aside for a few days, and when it fell again into her hand it +seemed so unnatural and strained that she destroyed it. + +Thus several weeks had passed, and Ernest no longer exclusively occupied +her mind when, one day early in September, while glancing over a +magazine, she came upon his name in the table of contents. Once more +she saw the boy's wistful face before her, and a trembling something +stirred in her heart. Her hand shook as she cut the pages, and a mist of +tears clouded her vision as she attempted to read his poem. It was a +piece of sombre brilliance. Like black-draped monks half crazed with +mystic devotion, the poet's thoughts flitted across the page. It was the +wail of a soul that feels reason slipping from it and beholds madness +rise over its life like a great pale moon. A strange unrest emanated +from it and took possession of her. And again, with an insight that was +prophetic, she distinctly recognised behind the vague fear that had +haunted the poet the figure of Reginald Clarke. + +A half-forgotten dream, struggling to consciousness, staggered her by +its vividness. She saw Clarke as she had seen him in days gone by, +grotesquely transformed into a slimy sea-thing, whose hungry mouths shut +sucking upon her and whose thousand tentacles encircled her form. She +closed her eyes in horror at the reminiscence. And in that moment it +became clear to her that she must take into her hands the salvation of +Ernest Fielding from the clutches of the malign power that had +mysteriously enveloped his life. + + + + +XIX + + +The summer was brief, and already by the middle of September many had +returned to the pleasures of urban life. Ethel was among the +first-comers; for, after her resolve to enter the life of the young poet +once more, it would have been impossible for her to stay away from the +city much longer. Her plan was all ready. Before attempting to see +Ernest she would go to meet Reginald and implore him to free the boy +from his hideous spell. An element of curiosity unconsciously entered +her determination. When, years ago, she and Clarke had parted, the man +had seemed, for once, greatly disturbed and had promised, in his +agitation, that some day he would communicate to her what would +exonerate him in her eyes. She had answered that all words between them +were purposeless, and that she hoped never to see his face again. The +experience that the years had brought to her, instead of elucidating +the mystery of Reginald's personality, had, on the contrary, made his +behaviour appear more and more unaccountable. She had more than once +caught herself wishing to meet him again and to analyse dispassionately +the puzzling influences he had exerted upon her. And she could at last +view him dispassionately; there was triumph in that. She was dimly aware +that something had passed from her, something by which he had held her, +and without which his magnetism was unable to play upon her. + +So when Walkham sent her an invitation to one of his artistic "at homes" +she accepted, in the hope of meeting Reginald. It was his frequentation +of Walkham's house that had for several years effectively barred her +foot from crossing the threshold. It was with a very strange feeling she +greeted the many familiar faces at Walkham's now; and when, toward ten +o'clock, Reginald entered, politely bowing in answer to the welcome from +all sides, her heart beat in her like a drum. But she calmed herself, +and, catching his eye, so arranged it that early in the evening they +met in an alcove of the drawing-room. + +"It was inevitable," Reginald said. "I expected it." + +"Yes," she replied, "we were bound to meet." + +Like a great rush of water, memory came back to her. He was still +horribly fascinating as of old--only she was no longer susceptible to +his fascination. He had changed somewhat in those years. The lines about +his mouth had grown harder and a steel-like look had come into his eyes. +Only for a moment, as he looked at her, a flash of tenderness seemed to +come back to them. Then he said, with a touch of sadness: "Why should +the first word between us be a lie?" + +Ethel made no answer. + +Reginald looked at her half in wonder and said: "And is your love for +the boy so great that it overcame your hate of me?" + +Ah, he knew! She winced. + +"He has told you?" + +"Not a word." + +There was something superhuman in his power of penetration. Why should +she wear a mask before him, when his eyes, like the eyes of God, pierced +to the core of her being? + +"No," she replied, "it is not love, but compassion for him." + +"Compassion?" + +"Yes, compassion for your victim." + +"You mean?" + +"Reginald!" + +"I am all ear." + +"I implore you." + +"Speak." + +"You have ruined one life." + +He raised his eyebrows derogatively. + +"Yes," she continued fiercely, "ruined it! Is not that enough?" + +"I have never wilfully ruined any one's life." + +"You have ruined mine." + +"Wilfully?" + +"How else shall I explain your conduct?" + +"I warned you." + +"Warning, indeed! The warning that the snake gives to the sparrow +helpless under its gaze." + +"Ah, but who tells you that the snake is to blame? Is it not rather the +occult power that prescribes with blood on brazen scroll the law of our +being?" + +"This is no solace to the sparrow. But whatever may be said, let us drop +the past. Let us consider the present. I beg of you, leave this boy--let +him develop without your attempting to stifle the life in him or +impressing upon it the stamp of your alien mind." + +"Ethel," he protested, "you are unjust. If you knew--" Then an idea +seemed to take hold of him. He looked at her curiously. + +"What if I knew?" she asked. + +"You shall know," he said, simply. "Are you strong?" + +"Strong to withstand anything at your hand. There is nothing that you +can give me, nothing that you can take away." + +"No," he remarked, "nothing. Yes, you have changed. Still, when I look +upon you, the ghosts of the past seem to rise like live things." + +"We both have changed. We meet now upon equal grounds. You are no +longer the idol I made of you." + +"Don't you think that to the idol this might be a relief, not a +humiliation? It is a terrible torture to sit in state with lips +eternally shut. Sometimes there comes over the most reticent of us a +desire to break through the eternal loneliness that surrounds the soul. +It is this feeling that prompts madmen to tear off their clothes and +exhibit their nakedness in the market-place. It's madness on my part, or +a whim, or I don't know what; but it pleases me that you should know the +truth." + +"You promised me long ago that I should." + +"To-day I will redeem my promise, and I will tell you another thing that +you will find hard to believe." + +"And that is?" + +"That I loved you." + +Ethel smiled a little sceptically. "You have loved often." + +"No," he replied. "Loved, seriously loved, I have, only once." + + + + +XX + + +They were sitting in a little Italian restaurant where they had often, +in the old days, lingered late into the night over a glass of Lacrimae +Christi. But no pale ghost of the past rose from the wine. Only a +wriggling something, with serpent eyes, that sent cold shivers down her +spine and held her speechless and entranced. + +When their order had been filled and the waiter had posted himself at a +respectful distance, Reginald began--at first leisurely, a man of the +world. But as he proceeded a strange exultation seemed to possess him +and from his eyes leaped the flame of the mystic. + +"You must pardon me," he commenced, "if I monopolise the conversation, +but the revelations I have to make are of such a nature that I may well +claim your attention. I will start with my earliest childhood. You +remember the picture of me that was taken when I was five?" + +She remembered, indeed. Each detail of his life was deeply engraven on +her mind. + +"At that time," he continued, "I was not held to be particularly bright. +The reason was that my mind, being pre-eminently and extraordinarily +receptive, needed a stimulus from without. The moment I was sent to +school, however, a curious metamorphosis took place in me. I may say +that I became at once the most brilliant boy in my class. You know that +to this day I have always been the most striking figure in any circle in +which I have ever moved." + +Ethel nodded assent. Silently watching the speaker, she saw a gleam of +the truth from afar, but still very distant and very dim. + +Reginald lifted the glass against the light and gulped its contents. +Then in a lower voice he recommenced: "Like the chameleon, I have the +power of absorbing the colour of my environment." + +"Do you mean that you have the power of absorbing the special virtues +of other people?" she interjected. + +"That is exactly what I mean." + +"Oh!" she cried, for in a heart-beat many things had become clear to +her. For the first time she realised, still vaguely but with increasing +vividness, the hidden causes of her ruin and, still more plainly, the +horrible danger of Ernest Fielding. + +He noticed her agitation, and a look of psychological curiosity came +into his eyes. + +"Ah, but that is not all," he observed, smilingly. "That is nothing. We +all possess that faculty in a degree. The secret of my strength is my +ability to reject every element that is harmful or inessential to the +completion of my self. This did not come to me easily, nor without a +struggle. But now, looking back upon my life, many things become +transparent that were obscure even to me at the time. I can now follow +the fine-spun threads in the intricate web of my fate, and discover in +the wilderness of meshes a design, awful and grandly planned." + +His voice shook with conviction, as he uttered these words. There was +something strangely gruesome in this man. It was thus that she had +pictured to herself the high-priest of some terrible and mysterious +religion, demanding a human sacrifice to appease the hunger of his god. +She was fascinated by the spell of his personality, and listened with a +feeling not far removed from awe. But Reginald suddenly changed his tone +and proceeded in a more conversational manner. + +"The first friend I ever cared for was a boy marvellously endowed for +the study of mathematics. At the time of our first meeting at school, I +was unable to solve even the simplest algebraical problem. But we had +been together only for half a month, when we exchanged parts. It was I +who was the mathematical genius now, whereas he became hopelessly dull +and stuttered through his recitations only with a struggle that brought +the tears to his eyes. Then I discarded him. Heartless, you say? I have +come to know better. Have you ever tasted a bottle of wine that had been +uncorked for a long time? If you have, you have probably found it +flat--the essence was gone, evaporated. Thus it is when we care for +people. Probably--no, assuredly--there is some principle prisoned in +their souls, or in the windings of their brains, which, when escaped, +leaves them insipid, unprofitable and devoid of interest to us. +Sometimes this essence--not necessarily the finest element in a man's or +a woman's nature, but soul-stuff that we lack--disappears. In fact, it +invariably disappears. It may be that it has been transformed in the +processes of their growth; it may also be that it has utterly vanished +by some inadvertence, or that we ourselves have absorbed it." + +"Then we throw them away?" Ethel asked, pale, but dry-eyed. A shudder +passed through her body and she clinched her glass nervously. At that +moment Reginald resembled a veritable Prince of Darkness, sinister and +beautiful, painted by the hand of a modern master. Then, for a space, he +again became the man of the world. Smiling and self-possessed, he filled +the glasses, took a long sip of the wine and resumed his narrative. + +"That boy was followed by others. I absorbed many useless things and +some that were evil. I realised that I must direct my absorptive +propensities. This I did. I selected, selected well. And all the time +the terrible power of which I was only half conscious grew within me." + +"It is indeed a terrible power," she cried; "all the more terrible for +its subtlety. Had I not myself been its victim, I should not now find it +possible to believe in it." + +"The invisible hand that smites in the dark is certainly more fearful +than a visible foe. It is also more merciful. Think how much you would +have suffered had you been conscious of your loss." + +"Still it seems even now to me that it cannot have been an utter, +irreparable loss. There is no action without reaction. Even I--even +we--must have received from you some compensation for what you have +taken away." + +"In the ordinary processes of life the law of action and reaction is +indeed potent. But no law is without exception. Think of radium, for +instance, with its constant and seemingly inexhaustible outflow of +energy. It is a difficult thing to imagine, but our scientific men have +accepted it as a fact. Why should we find it more difficult to conceive +of a tremendous and infinite absorptive element? I feel sure that it +must somewhere exist. But every phenomenon in the physical world finds +its counterpart in the psychical universe. There are radium-souls that +radiate without loss of energy, but also without increase. And there are +souls, the reverse of radium, with unlimited absorptive capacities." + +"Vampire-souls," she observed, with a shudder, and her face blanched. + +"No," he said, "don't say that." And then he suddenly seemed to grow in +stature. His face was ablaze, like the face of a god. + +"In every age," he replied, with solemnity, "there are giants who attain +to a greatness which by natural growth no men could ever have reached. +But in their youth a vision came to them, which they set out to seek. +They take the stones of fancy to build them a palace in the kingdom of +truth, projecting into reality dreams, monstrous and impossible. Often +they fail and, tumbling from their airy heights, end a quixotic career. +Some succeed. They are the chosen. Carpenter's sons they are, who have +laid down the Law of a World for milleniums to come; or simple +Corsicans, before whose eagle eye have quaked the kingdoms of the earth. +But to accomplish their mission they need a will of iron and the wit of +a hundred men. And from the iron they take the strength, and from a +hundred men's brains they absorb their wisdom. Divine missionaries, they +appear in all departments of life. In their hand is gathered to-day the +gold of the world. Mighty potentates of peace and war, they unlock new +seas and from distant continents lift the bars. Single-handed, they +accomplish what nations dared not hope; with Titan strides they scale +the stars and succeed where millions fail. In art they live, the makers +of new periods, the dreamers of new styles. They make themselves the +vocal sun-glasses of God. Homer and Shakespeare, Hugo and Balzac--they +concentrate the dispersed rays of a thousand lesser luminaries in one +singing flame that, like a giant torch, lights up humanity's path." + +She gazed at him, open-mouthed. The light had gone from his visage. He +paused, exhausted, but even then he looked the incarnation of a force no +less terrible, no less grand. She grasped the immensity of his +conception, but her woman's soul rebelled at the horrible injustice to +those whose light is extinguished, as hers had been, to feed an alien +flame. And then, for a moment, she saw the pale face of Ernest staring +at her out of the wine. + +"Cruel," she sobbed, "how cruel!" + +"What matter?" he asked. "Their strength is taken from them, but the +spirit of humanity, as embodied in us, triumphantly marches on." + + + + +XXI + + +Reginald's revelations were followed by a long silence, interrupted only +by the officiousness of the waiter. The spell once broken, they +exchanged a number of more or less irrelevant observations. Ethel's mind +returned, again and again, to the word he had not spoken. He had said +nothing of the immediate bearing of his monstrous power upon her own +life and that of Ernest Fielding. + +At last, somewhat timidly, she approached the subject. + +"You said you loved me," she remarked. + +"I did." + +"But why, then--" + +"I could not help it." + +"Did you ever make the slightest attempt?" + +"In the horrible night hours I struggled against it. I even implored you +to leave me." + +"Ah, but I loved you!" + +"You would not be warned, you would not listen. You stayed with me, and +slowly, surely, the creative urge went out of your life." + +"But what on earth could you find in my poor art to attract you? What +were my pictures to you?" + +"I needed them, I needed you. It was a certain something, a rich colour +effect, perhaps. And then, under your very eyes, the colour that +vanished from your canvases reappeared in my prose. My style became more +luxurious than it had been, while you tortured your soul in the vain +attempt of calling back to your brush what was irretrievably lost." + +"Why did you not tell me?" + +"You would have laughed in my face, and I could not have endured your +laugh. Besides, I always hoped, until it was too late, that I might yet +check the mysterious power within me. Soon, however, I became aware that +it was beyond my control. The unknown god, whose instrument I am, had +wisely made it stronger than me." + +"But why," retorted Ethel, "was it necessary to discard me, like a +cast-off garment, like a wanton who has lost the power to please?" + +Her frame shook with the remembered emotion of that moment, when years +ago he had politely told her that she was nothing to him. + +"The law of being," Reginald replied, almost sadly, "the law of my +being. I should have pitied you, but the eternal reproach of your +suffering only provoked my anger. I cared less for you every day, and +when I had absorbed all of you that my growth required, you were to me +as one dead, as a stranger you were. There was between us no further +community of interest; henceforth, I knew, our lives must move in +totally different spheres. You remember that day when we said good-bye?" + +"You mean that day when I lay before you on my knees," she corrected +him. + +"That day I buried my last dream of personal happiness. I would have +gladly raised you from the floor, but love was utterly gone. If I am +tenderer to-day than I am wont to be, it is because you mean so much to +me as the symbol of my renunciation. When I realised that I could not +even save the thing I loved from myself, I became hardened and cruel to +others. Not that I know no kindly feeling, but no qualms of conscience +lay their prostrate forms across my path. There is nothing in life for +me but my mission." + +His face was bathed in ecstasy. The pupils were luminous, large and +threatening. He had the look of a madman or a prophet. + +After a while Ethel remarked: "But you have grown into one of the +master-figures of the age. Why not be content with that? Is there no +limit to your ambition?" + +Reginald smiled: "Ambition! Shakespeare stopped when he had reached his +full growth, when he had exhausted the capacity of his contemporaries. I +am not yet ready to lay down my pen and rest." + +"And will you always continue in this criminal course, a murderer of +other lives?" + +He looked her calmly in the face. "I do not know." + +"Are you the slave of your unknown god?" + +"We are all slaves, wire-pulled marionettes: You, Ernest, I. There is +no freedom on the face of the earth nor above. The tiger that tears a +lamb is not free, I am not free, you are not free. All that happens must +happen; no word that is said is said in vain, in vain is raised no +hand." + +"Then," Ethel retorted, eagerly, "if I attempted to wrest your victim +from you, I should also be the tool of your god?" + +"Assuredly. But I am his chosen." + +"Can you--can you not set him free?" + +"I need him--a little longer. Then he is yours." + +"But can you not, if I beg you again on my knees, at least loosen his +chains before he is utterly ruined?" + +"It is beyond my power. If I could not rescue you, whom I loved, what in +heaven or on earth can save him from his fate? Besides, he will not be +utterly ruined. It is only a part of him that I absorb. In his soul are +chords that I have not touched. They may vibrate one day, when he has +gathered new strength. You, too, would have spared yourself much pain +had you striven to attain success in different fields--not where I had +garnered the harvest of a lifetime. It is only a portion of his talent +that I take from him. The rest I cannot harm. Why should he bury that +remainder?" + +His eyes strayed through the window to the firmament, as if to say that +words could no more bend his indomitable will than alter the changeless +course of the stars. + +Ethel had half-forgotten the wrong she herself had suffered at his +hands. He could not be measured by ordinary standards, this dazzling +madman, whose diseased will-power had assumed such uncanny proportions. +But here a young life was at stake. In her mind's eye she saw Reginald +crush between his relentless hands the delicate soul of Ernest Fielding, +as a magnificent carnivorous flower might close its glorious petals upon +a fly. + +Love, all conquering love, welled up in her. She would fight for Ernest +as a tiger cat fights for its young. She would place herself in the way +of the awful force that had shattered her own aspirations, and save, at +any cost, the brilliant boy who did not love her. + + + + +XXII + + +The last rays of the late afternoon sun fell slanting through Ernest's +window. He was lying on his couch, in a leaden, death-like slumber that, +for the moment at least, was not even perturbed by the presence of +Reginald Clarke. + +The latter was standing at the boy's bedside, calm, unmoved as ever. The +excitement of his conversation with Ethel had left no trace on the +chiselled contour of his forehead. Smilingly fastening an orchid of an +indefinable purple tint in his evening coat, radiant, buoyant with life, +he looked down upon the sleeper. Then he passed his hand over Ernest's +forehead, as if to wipe off beads of sweat. At the touch of his hand the +boy stirred uneasily. When it was not withdrawn his countenance twitched +in pain. He moaned as men moan under the influence of some anaesthetic, +without possessing the power to break through the narrow partition that +separates them from death on the one side and from consciousness on the +other. At last a sigh struggled to his seemingly paralysed lips, then +another. Finally the babbling became articulate. + +"For God's sake," he cried, in his sleep, "take that hand away!" + +And all at once the benignant smile on Reginald's features was changed +to a look of savage fierceness. He no longer resembled the man of +culture, but a disappointed, snarling beast of prey. He took his hand +from Ernest's forehead and retired cautiously through the half-open +door. + +Hardly had he disappeared when Ernest awoke. For a moment he looked +around, like a hunted animal, then sighed with relief and buried his +head in his hand. At that moment a knock at the door was heard, and +Reginald re-entered, calm as before. + +"I declare," he exclaimed, "you have certainly been sleeping the sleep +of the just." + +"It isn't laziness," Ernest replied, looking up rather pleased at the +interruption. "But I've a splitting headache." + +"Perhaps those naps are not good for your health." + +"Probably. But of late I have frequently found it necessary to exact +from the day-hours the sleep which the night refuses me. I suppose it is +all due to indigestion, as you have suggested. The stomach is the source +of all evil." + +"It is also the source of all good. The Greeks made it the seat of the +soul. I have always claimed that the most important item in a great +poet's biography is an exact reproduction of his menu." + +"True, a man who eats a heavy beefsteak for breakfast in the morning is +incapable of writing a sonnet in the afternoon." + +"Yes," Reginald added, "we are what we eat and what our forefathers have +eaten before us. I ascribe the staleness of American poetry to the +griddle-cakes of our Puritan ancestors. I am sorry we cannot go deeper +into the subject at present. But I have an invitation to dinner where I +shall study, experimentally, the influence of French sauces on my +versification." + +"Good-bye." + +"Au revoir." And, with a wave of the hand, Reginald left the room. + +When the door had closed behind him, Ernest's thoughts took a more +serious turn. The tone of light bantering in which the preceding +conversation had taken place had been assumed on his part. For the last +few weeks evil dreams had tortured his sleep and cast their shadow upon +his waking hours. They had ever increased in reality, in intensity and +in hideousness. Even now he could see the long, tapering fingers that +every night were groping in the windings of his brain. It was a +well-formed, manicured hand that seemed to reach under his skull, +carefully feeling its way through the myriad convolutions where thought +resides. + +And, oh, the agony of it all! A human mind is not a thing of stone, but +alive, horribly alive to pain. What was it those fingers sought, what +mysterious treasures, what jewels hidden in the under-layer of his +consciousness? His brain was like a human gold-mine, quaking under the +blow of the pick and the tread of the miner. The miner! Ah, the miner! +Ceaselessly, thoroughly, relentlessly, he opened vein after vein and +wrested untold riches from the quivering ground; but each vein was a +live vein and each nugget of gold a thought! + +No wonder the boy was a nervous wreck. Whenever a tremulous nascent idea +was formulating itself, the dream-hand clutched it and took it away, +brutally severing the fine threads that bind thought to thought. And +when the morning came, how his head ached! It was not an acute pain, but +dull, heavy, incessant. + +These sensations, Ernest frequently told himself, were morbid fancies. +But then, the monomaniac who imagines that his arms have been mangled or +cut from his body, might as well be without arms. Mind can annihilate +obstacles. It can also create them. Psychology was no unfamiliar ground +to Ernest, and it was not difficult for him to seek in some casual +suggestion an explanation for his delusion, the fixed notion that +haunted him day and night. But he also realized that to explain a +phenomenon is not to explain it away. The man who analyses his emotions +cannot wholly escape them, and the shadow of fear--primal, inexplicable +fear--may darken at moments of weakness the life of the subtlest +psychologist and the clearest thinker. + +He had never spoken to Reginald of his terrible nightmares. Coming on +the heel of the fancy that he, Ernest, had written "The Princess With +the Yellow Veil," a fancy that, by the way, had again possessed him of +late, this new delusion would certainly arouse suspicion as to his +sanity in Reginald's mind. He would probably send him to a sanitarium; +he certainly would not keep him in the house. Beneficence itself in all +other things, his host was not to be trifled with in any matter that +interfered with his work. He would act swiftly and without mercy. + +For the first time in many days Ernest thought of Abel Felton. Poor boy! +What had become of him after he had been turned from the house? He would +not wait for any one to tell him to pack his bundle. But then, that was +impossible; Reginald was fond of him. + +Suddenly Ernest's meditations were interrupted by a noise at the outer +door. A key was turned in the lock. It must be he--but why so soon? What +could have brought him back at this hour? He opened the door and went +out into the hall to see what had happened. The figure that he beheld +was certainly not the person expected, but a woman, from whose shoulders +a theatre-cloak fell in graceful folds,--probably a visitor for +Reginald. Ernest was about to withdraw discreetly, when the electric +light that was burning in the hallway fell upon her face and illumined +it. + +Then indeed surprise overcame him. "Ethel," he cried, "is it you?" + + + + +XXIII + + +Ernest conducted Ethel Brandenbourg to his room and helped her to remove +her cloak. + +While he was placing the garment upon the back of a chair, she slipped a +little key into her hand-bag. He looked at her with a question in his +eyes. + +"Yes," she replied, "I kept the key; but I had not dreamed that I would +ever again cross this threshold." + +Meanwhile it had grown quite dark. The reflection of the street lanterns +without dimly lit the room, and through the twilight fantastic shadows +seemed to dance. + +The perfume of her hair pervaded the room and filled the boy's heart +with romance. Tenderness long suppressed called with a thousand voices. +The hour, the strangeness and unexpectedness of her visit, perhaps even +a boy's pardonable vanity, roused passion from its slumbers and once +again wrought in Ernest's soul the miracle of love. His arm encircled +her neck and his lips stammered blind, sweet, crazy and caressing +things. + +"Turn on the light," she pleaded. + +"You were not always so cruel." + +"No matter, I have not come to speak of love." + +"Why, then, have you come?" + +Ernest felt a little awkward, disappointed, as he uttered these words. + +What could have induced her to come to his rooms? He loosened his hold +on her and did as she asked. + +How pale she looked in the light, how beautiful! Surely, she had +sorrowed for him; but why had she not answered his letter? Yes, why? + +"Your letter?" She smiled a little sadly. "Surely you did not expect me +to answer that?" + +"Why not?" He had again approached her and his lips were close to hers. +"Why not? I have yearned for you. I love you." + +His breath intoxicated her; it was like a subtle perfume. Still she did +not yield. + +"You love me now--you did not love me then. The music of your words was +cold--machine-made, strained and superficial. I shall not answer, I told +myself: in his heart he has forgotten you. I did not then realise that a +dangerous force had possessed your life and crushed in your mind every +image but its own." + +"I don't understand." + +"Do you think I would have come here if it were a light matter? No, I +tell you, it is a matter of life and death to you, at least as an +artist." + +"What do you mean by that?" + +"Have you done a stroke of work since I last saw you?" + +"Yes, let me see, surely, magazine articles and a poem." + +"That is not what I want to know. Have you accomplished anything big? +Have you grown since this summer? How about your novel?" + +"I--I have almost finished it in my mind, but I have found no chance to +begin with the actual writing. I was sick of late, very sick." + +No doubt of it! His face was pinched and pale, and the lines about the +mouth were curiously contorted, like those of a man suffering from a +painful internal disease. + +"Tell me," she ventured, "do you ever miss anything?" + +"Do you mean--are there thieves?" + +"Thieves! Against thieves one can protect oneself." + +He stared at her wildly, half-frightened, in anticipation of some +dreadful revelation. His dream! His dream! That hand! Could it be more +than a dream? God! His lips quivered. + +Ethel observed his agitation and continued more quietly, but with the +same insistence: "Have you ever had ideas, plans that you began without +having strength to complete them? Have you had glimpses of vocal visions +that seemed to vanish no sooner than seen? Did it ever seem to you as if +some mysterious and superior will brutally interfered with the workings +of your brain?" + +Did it seem so to him! He himself could not have stated more plainly +the experience of the last few months. Each word fell from her lips like +the blow of a hammer. Shivering, he put his arm around her, seeking +solace, not love. This time she did not repulse him and, trustingly, as +a child confides to his mother, he depicted to her the suffering that +harrowed his life and made it a hell. + +As she listened, indignation clouded her forehead, while rising tears of +anger and of love weighed down her lashes. She could bear the pitiful +sight no longer. + +"Child," she cried, "do you know who your tormentor is?" + +And like a flash the truth passed from her to him. A sudden intimation +told him what her words had still concealed. + +"Don't! For Christ's sake, do not pronounce his name!" he sobbed. "Do +not breathe it. I could not endure it. I should go mad." + + + + +XXIV + + +Very quietly, with difficulty restraining her own emotion so as not to +excite him further, Ethel had related to Ernest the story of her +remarkable interview with Reginald Clarke. In the long silence that +ensued, the wings of his soul brushed against hers for the first time, +and Love by a thousand tender chains of common suffering welded their +beings into one. + +Caressingly the ivory of her fingers passed through the gold of his hair +and over his brow, as if to banish the demon-eyes that stared at him +across the hideous spaces of the past. In a rush a thousand incidents +came back to him, mute witnesses of a damning truth. His play, the +dreams that tormented him, his own inability to concentrate his mind +upon his novel which hitherto he had ascribed to nervous disease--all, +piling fact on fact, became one monstrous monument of Reginald Clarke's +crime. At last Ernest understood the parting words of Abel Felton and +the look in Ethel's eye on the night when he had first linked his fate +with the other man's. Walkham's experience, too, and Reginald's remarks +on the busts of Shakespeare and Balzac unmistakably pointed toward the +new and horrible spectre that Ethel's revelation had raised in place of +his host. + +And then, again, the other Reginald appeared, crowned with the lyric +wreath. From his lips golden cadences fell, sweeter than the smell of +many flowers or the sound of a silver bell. He was once more the divine +master, whose godlike features bore no trace of malice and who had +raised him to a place very near his heart. + +"No," he cried, "it is impossible. It's all a dream, a horrible +nightmare." + +"But he has himself confessed it," she interjected. + +"Perhaps he has spoken in symbols. We all absorb to some extent other +men's ideas, without robbing them and wrecking their thought-life. +Reginald may be unscrupulous in the use of his power of impressing upon +others the stamp of his master-mind. So was Shakespeare. No, no, no! +You are mistaken; we were both deluded for the moment by his picturesque +account of a common, not even a discreditable, fact. He may himself have +played with the idea, but surely he cannot have been serious." + +"And your own experience, and Abel Felton's and mine--can they, too, be +dismissed with a shrug of the shoulder?" + +"But, come to think of it, the whole theory seems absurd. It is +unscientific. It is not even a case of mesmerism. If he had said that he +hypnotised his victims, the matter would assume a totally different +aspect. I admit that something is wrong somewhere, and that the home of +Reginald Clarke is no healthful abode for me. But you must also remember +that probably we are both unstrung to the point of hysteria." + +But to Ethel his words carried no conviction. + +"You are still under his spell," she cried, anxiously. + +A little shaken in his confidence, Ernest resumed: "Reginald is utterly +incapable of such an action, even granting that he possessed the +terrible power of which you speak. A man of his splendid resources, a +literary Midas at whose very touch every word turns into gold, is under +no necessity to prey on the thoughts of others. Circumstances, I admit, +are suspicious. But in the light of common day this fanciful theory +shrivels into nothing. Any court of law would reject our evidence as +madness. It is too utterly fantastic, utterly alien to any human +experience." + +"Is it though?" Ethel replied with peculiar intonation. + +"Why, what do you mean?" + +"Surely," she answered, "you must know that in the legends of every +nation we read of men and women who were called vampires. They are +beings, not always wholly evil, whom every night some mysterious impulse +leads to steal into unguarded bedchambers, to suck the blood of the +sleepers and then, having waxed strong on the life of their victims, +cautiously to retreat. Thence comes it that their lips are very red. It +is even said that they can find no rest in the grave, but return to +their former haunts long after they are believed to be dead. Those whom +they visit, however, pine away for no apparent reason. The physicians +shake their wise heads and speak of consumption. But sometimes, ancient +chronicles assure us, the people's suspicions were aroused, and under +the leadership of a good priest they went in solemn procession to the +graves of the persons suspected. And on opening the tombs it was found +that their coffins had rotted away and the flowers in their hair were +black. But their bodies were white and whole; through no empty sockets +crept the vermin, and their sucking lips were still moist with a little +blood." + +Ernest was carried away in spite of himself by her account, which +vividly resembled his own experience. Still he would not give in. + +"All this is impressive. I admit it is very impressive. But you yourself +speak of such stories as legends. They are unfounded upon any tangible +fact, and you cannot expect a man schooled in modern sciences to admit, +as having any possible bearing upon his life, the crude belief of the +Middle Ages!" + +"Why not?" she responded. "Our scientists have proved true the wildest +theories of mediaeval scholars. The transmutation of metals seems to-day +no longer an idle speculation, and radium has transformed into potential +reality the dream of perpetual motion. The fundamental notions of +mathematics are being undermined. One school of philosophers claims that +the number of angles in a triangle is equal to more than two right +angles; another propounds that it is less. Even great scientists who +have studied the soul of nature are turning to spiritism. The world is +overcoming the shallow scepticism of the nineteenth century. Life has +become once more wonderful and very mysterious. But it also seems that, +with the miracles of the old days, their terrors, their nightmares and +their monsters have come back in a modern guise." + +Ernest became even more thoughtful. "Yes," he observed, "there is +something in what you say." Then, pacing the room nervously, he +exclaimed: "And still I find it impossible to believe your explanation. +Reginald a vampire! It seems so ludicrous. If you had told me that such +creatures exist somewhere, far away, I might have discussed the matter; +but in this great city, in the shadow of the Flatiron Building--no!" + +She replied with warmth: "Yet they exist--always have existed. Not only +in the Middle Ages, but at all times and in all regions. There is no +nation but has some record of them, in one form or another. And don't +you think if we find a thought, no matter how absurd it may seem to us, +that has ever occupied the minds of men--if we find, I say, such a +perennially recurrent thought, are we not justified in assuming that it +must have some basis in the actual experience of mankind?" + +Ernest's brow became very clouded, and infinite numbers of hidden +premature wrinkles began to show. How wan he looked and how frail! He +was as one lost in a labyrinth in which he saw no light, convinced +against his will, or rather, against his scientific conviction, that she +was not wholly mistaken. + +"Still," he observed triumphantly, "your vampires suck blood; but +Reginald, if vampire he be, preys upon the soul. How can a man suck +from another man's brain a thing as intangible, as quintessential as +thought?" + +"Ah," she replied, "you forget, thought is more real than blood!" + + + + +XXV + + +Only three hours had passed since Ethel had startled Ernest from his +sombre reveries, but within this brief space their love had matured as +if each hour had been a year. The pallor had vanished from his cheeks +and the restiveness from his eyes. The intoxication of her presence had +rekindled the light of his countenance and given him strength to combat +the mighty forces embodied in Reginald Clarke. The child in him had made +room for the man. He would not hear of surrendering without a struggle, +and Ethel felt sure she might leave his fate in his own hand. Love had +lent him a coat of mail. He was warned, and would not succumb. Still she +made one more attempt to persuade him to leave the house at once with +her. + +"I must go now," she said. "Will you not come with me, after all? I am +so afraid to think of you still here." + +"No, dear," he replied. "I shall not desert my post. I must solve the +riddle of this man's life; and if, indeed, he is the thing he seems to +be, I shall attempt to wrest from him what he has stolen from me. I +speak of my unwritten novel." + +"Do not attempt to oppose him openly. You cannot resist him." + +"Be assured that I shall be on my guard. I have in the last few hours +lived through so much that makes life worth living, that I would not +wantonly expose myself to any danger. Still, I cannot go without +certainty--cannot, if there is some truth in our fears, leave the best +of me behind." + +"What are you planning to do?" + +"My play--I am sure now that it is mine--I cannot take from him; that is +irretrievably lost. He has read it to his circle and prepared for its +publication. And, no matter how firmly convinced you or I may be of his +strange power, no one would believe our testimony. They would pronounce +us mad. Perhaps we _are_ mad!" + +"No; we are not mad; but it is mad for you to stay here," she asserted. + +"I shall not stay here one minute longer than is absolutely essential. +Within a week I shall have conclusive proof of his guilt or innocence." + +"How will you go about it?" + +"His writing table--" + +"Ah!" + +"Yes, perhaps I can discover some note, some indication, some proof--" + +"It's a dangerous game." + +"I have everything to gain." + +"I wish I could stay here with you," she said. "Have you no friend, no +one whom you could trust in this delicate matter?" + +"Why, yes--Jack." + +A shadow passed over her face. + +"Do you know," she said, "I have a feeling that you care more for him +than for me?" + +"Nonsense," he said, "he is my friend, you, you--immeasurably more." + +"Are you still as intimate with him as when I first met you?" + +"Not quite; of late a troubling something, like a thin veil, seems to +have passed between us. But he will come when I call him. He will not +fail me in my hour of need." + +"When can he be here?" + +"In two or three days." + +"Meanwhile be very careful. Above all, lock your door at night." + +"I will not only lock, but barricade it. I shall try with all my power +to elucidate this mystery without, however, exposing myself to needless +risks." + +"I will go, then. Kiss me good-bye." + +"May I not take you to the car?" + +"You had better not." + +At the door she turned back once more. "Write me every day, or call me +up on the telephone." + +He straightened himself, as if to convince her of his strength. Yet when +at last the door had closed behind her, his courage forsook him for a +moment. And, if he had not been ashamed to appear a weakling before the +woman he loved, who knows if any power on earth could have kept him in +that house where from every corner a secret seemed to lurk! + +There was a misgiving, too, in the woman's heart as she left the boy +behind,--a prey to the occult power that, seeking expression in multiple +activities, has made and unmade emperors, prophets and poets. + +As she stepped into a street car she saw from afar, as in a vision, the +face of Reginald Clarke. It seemed very white and hungry. There was no +human kindness in it--only a threat and a sneer. + + + + +XXVI + + +For over an hour Ernest paced up and down his room, wildly excited by +Ethel's revelations. It required an immense amount of self-control for +him to pen the following lines to Jack: "I need you. Come." + +After he had entrusted the letter to the hall-boy, a reaction set in and +he was able to consider the matter, if not with equanimity, at least +with a degree of calmness. The strangest thing to him was that he could +not bring himself to hate Reginald, of whose evil influence upon his +life he was now firmly convinced. Here was another shattered idol; but +one--like the fragment of a great god-face in the desert--intensely +fascinating, even in its ruin. Then yielding to a natural impulse, +Ernest looked over his photographs and at once laid hold upon the +austere image of his master and friend. No--it was preposterous; there +was no evil in this man. There was no trace of malice in this face, the +face of a prophet or an inspired madman, a poet. And yet, as he +scrutinised the picture closely a curious transformation seemed to take +place in the features; a sly little line appeared insinuatingly about +Reginald's well-formed mouth, and the serene calm of his Jupiter-head +seemed to turn into the sneak smile of a thief. Nevertheless, Ernest was +not afraid. His anxieties had at last assumed definite shape; it was +possible now to be on his guard. It is only invisible, incomprehensible +fear, crouching upon us from the night, that drives sensitive natures to +the verge of madness and transforms stern warriors into cowards. + +Ernest realised the necessity of postponing the proposed investigation +of Reginald's papers until the morning, as it was now near eleven, and +he expected to hear at any moment the sound of his feet at the door. +Before retiring he took a number of precautions. Carefully he locked the +door to his bedroom and placed a chair in front of it. To make doubly +sure, he fastened the handle to an exquisite Chinese vase, a gift of +Reginald's, that at the least attempt to force an entrance from without +would come down with a crash. + +Then, although sleep seemed out of the question, he went to bed. He had +hardly touched the pillow when a leaden weight seemed to fall upon his +eyes. The day's commotion had been too much for his delicate frame. By +force of habit he pulled the cover over his ear and fell asleep. + +All night he slept heavily, and the morning was far advanced when a +knock at the door that, at first, seemed to come across an immeasurable +distance, brought him back to himself. It was Reginald's manservant +announcing that breakfast was waiting. + +Ernest got up and rubbed his eyes. The barricade at the door at once +brought back to his mind with startling clearness the events of the +previous evening. + +Everything was as he had left it. Evidently no one had attempted to +enter the room while he slept. He could not help smiling at the +arrangement which reminded him of his childhood, when he had sought by +similar means security from burglars and bogeys. And in the broad +daylight Ethel's tales of vampires seemed once more impossible and +absurd. Still, he had abundant evidence of Reginald's strange influence, +and was determined to know the truth before nightfall. Her words, that +thought is more real than blood, kept ringing in his ears. If such was +the case, he would find evidence of Reginald's intellectual burglaries, +and possibly be able to regain a part of his lost self that had been +snatched from him by the relentless dream-hand. + +But under no circumstances could he face Reginald in his present state +of mind. He was convinced that if in the fleeting vision of a moment the +other man's true nature should reveal itself to him, he would be so +terribly afraid as to shriek like a maniac. So he dressed particularly +slowly in the hope of avoiding an encounter with his host. But fate +thwarted this hope. Reginald, too, lingered that morning unusually long +over his coffee. He was just taking his last sip when Ernest entered the +room. His behaviour was of an almost bourgeois kindness. Benevolence +fairly beamed from his face. But to the boy's eyes it had assumed a new +and sinister expression. + +"You are late this morning, Ernest," he remarked in his mildest manner. +"Have you been about town, or writing poetry? Both occupations are +equally unhealthy." As he said this he watched the young man with the +inscrutable smile that at moments was wont to curl upon his lips. Ernest +had once likened it to the smile of Mona Lisa, but now he detected in it +the suavity of the hypocrite and the leer of the criminal. + +He could not endure it; he could not look upon that face any longer. His +feet almost gave way under him, cold sweat gathered on his brow, and he +sank on a chair trembling and studiously avoiding the other man's gaze. + +At last Reginald rose to go. It seemed impossible to accuse this +splendid impersonation of vigorous manhood of cunning and underhand +methods, of plagiarisms and of theft. As he stood there he resembled +more than anything a beautiful tiger-cat, a wonderful thing of strength +and will-power, indomitable and insatiate. Yet who could tell whether +this strength was not, after all, parasitic. If Ethel's suspicions were +justified, then, indeed, more had been taken from him than he could ever +realise. For in that case it was his life-blood that circled in those +veins and the fire of his intellect that set those lips aflame! + + + + +XXVII + + +Reginald Clarke had hardly left the room when Ernest hastily rose from +his seat. While it was likely that he would remain in undisturbed +possession of the apartment the whole morning, the stake at hand was too +great to permit of delay. + +Palpitating and a little uncertain, he entered the studio where, +scarcely a year ago, Reginald Clarke had bidden him welcome. Nothing had +changed there since then; only in Ernest's mind the room had assumed an +aspect of evil. The Antinous was there and the Faun and the Christ-head. +But their juxtaposition to-day partook of the nature of the blasphemous. +The statues of Shakespeare and Balzac seemed to frown from their +pedestals as his fingers were running through Reginald's papers. He +brushed against a semblance of Napoleon that was standing on the +writing-table, so that it toppled over and made a noise that weirdly +re-echoed in the silence of the room. At that moment a curious family +resemblance between Shakespeare, Balzac, Napoleon--and Reginald, +forcibly impressed itself upon his mind. It was the indisputable +something that marks those who are chosen to give ultimate expression to +some gigantic world-purpose. In Balzac's face it was diffused with +kindliness, in that of Napoleon sheer brutality predominated. The image +of one who was said to be the richest man of the world also rose before +his eyes. Perhaps it was only the play of his fevered imagination, but +he could have sworn that this man's features, too, bore the mark of +those unoriginal, great absorptive minds who, for better or for worse, +are born to rob and rule. They seemed to him monsters that know neither +justice nor pity, only the law of their being, the law of growth. + +Common weapons would not avail against such forces. Being one, they were +stronger than armies; nor could they be overcome in single combat. +Stealth, trickery, the outfit of the knave, were legitimate weapons in +such a fight. In this case the end justified the means, even if the +latter included burglary. + +After a brief and fruitless search of the desk, he attempted to force +open a secret drawer, the presence of which he had one day accidentally +discovered. He tried a number of keys to no account, and was thinking of +giving up his researches for the day until he had procured a skeleton +key, when at last the lock gave way. + +The drawer disclosed a large file of manuscript. Ernest paused for a +moment to draw breath. The paper rustled under his nervous fingers. And +there--at last--his eyes lit upon a bulky bundle that bore this legend: +"_Leontina_, A Novel." + +It was true, then--all, his dream, Reginald's confession. And the house +that had opened its doors so kindly to him was the house of a Vampire! + +Finally curiosity overcame his burning indignation. He attempted to +read. The letters seemed to dance before his eyes--his hands trembled. + +At last he succeeded. The words that had first rolled over like drunken +soldiers now marched before his vision in orderly sequence. He was +delighted, then stunned. This was indeed authentic literature, there +could be no doubt about it. And it was his. He was still a poet, a great +poet. He drew a deep breath. Sudden joy trembled in his heart. This +story set down by a foreign hand had grown chapter by chapter in his +brain. + +There were some slight changes--slight deviations from the original +plan. A defter hand than his had retouched it here and there, but for +all that it remained his very own. It did not belong to that thief. The +blood welled to his cheek as he uttered this word that, applied to +Reginald, seemed almost sacrilegious. + +He had nearly reached the last chapter when he heard steps in the +hallway. Hurriedly he restored the manuscript to its place, closed the +drawer and left the room on tiptoe. + +It was Reginald. But he did not come alone. Someone was speaking to him. +The voice seemed familiar. Ernest could not make out what it said. He +listened intently and--was it possible? Jack? Surely he could not yet +have come in response to his note! What mysterious power, what dim +presentiment of his friend's plight had led him hither? But why did he +linger so long in Reginald's room, instead of hastening to greet him? +Cautiously he drew nearer. This time he caught Jack's words: + +"It would be very convenient and pleasant. Still, some way, I feel that +it is not right for me, of all men, to take his place here." + +"That need not concern you," Reginald deliberately replied; "the dear +boy expressed the desire to leave me within a fortnight. I think he will +go to some private sanitarium. His nerves are frightfully overstrained." + +"This seems hardly surprising after the terrible attack he had when you +read your play." + +"That idea has since then developed into a monomania." + +"I am awfully sorry for him. I cared for him much, perhaps too much. But +I always feared that he would come to such an end. Of late his letters +have been strangely unbalanced." + +"You will find him very much changed. In fact, he is no longer the +same." + +"No," said Jack, "he is no longer the friend I loved." + +Ernest clutched for the wall. His face was contorted with intense agony. +Each word was like a nail driven into his flesh. Crucified upon the +cross of his own affection by the hand he loved, all white and trembling +he stood there. Tears rushed to his eyes, but he could not weep. +Dry-eyed he reached his room and threw himself upon his bed. Thus he +lay--uncomforted and alone. + + + + +XXVIII + + +Terrible as was his loneliness, a meeting with Jack would have been more +terrible. And, after all, it was true, a gulf had opened between them. + +Ethel alone could bring solace to his soul. There was a great void in +his heart which only she could fill. He hungered for the touch of her +hand. He longed for her presence strongly, as a wanton lusts for +pleasure and as sad men crave death. + +Noiselessly he stole to the door so as not to arouse the attention of +the other two men, whose every whisper pierced his heart like a dagger. +When he came to Ethel's home, he found that she had gone out for a +breath of air. The servant ushered him into the parlor, and there he +waited, waited, waited for her. + +Greatly calmed by his walk, he turned the details of Clarke's +conversation over in his mind, and the conviction grew upon him that +the friend of his boyhood was not to blame for his course of action. +Reginald probably had encircled Jack's soul with his demoniacal +influence and singled him out for another victim. That must never be. It +was his turn to save now. He would warn his friend of the danger that +threatened him, even if his words should be spoken into the wind. For +Reginald, with an ingenuity almost satanic, had already suggested that +the delusion of former days had developed into a monomania, and any +attempt on his part to warn Jack would only seem to confirm this theory. +In that case only one way was left open. He must plead with Reginald +himself, confront at all risks that snatcher of souls. To-night he would +not fall asleep. He would keep his vigil. And if Reginald should +approach his room, if in some way he felt the direful presence, he must +speak out, threaten if need be, to save his friend from ruin. He had +fully determined upon this course when a cry of joy from Ethel, who had +just returned from her walk, interrupted his reverie. But her gladness +changed to anxiety when she saw how pale he was. Ernest recounted to +her the happenings of the day, from the discovery of his novel in +Reginald's desk to the conversation which he had accidentally overheard. +He noticed that her features brightened as he drew near the end of his +tale. + +"Was your novel finished?" she suddenly asked. + +"I think so." + +"Then you are out of danger. He will want nothing else of you. But you +should have taken it with you." + +"I had only sufficient presence of mind to slip it back into the drawer. +To-morrow I shall simply demand it." + +"You will do nothing of the kind. It is in his handwriting, and you have +no legal proof that it is yours. You must take it away secretly. And he +will not dare to reclaim it." + +"And Jack?" + +She had quite forgotten Jack. Women are invariably selfish for those +they love. + +"You must warn him," she replied. + +"He would laugh at me. However, I must speak to Reginald." + +"It is of no avail to speak to him. At least, you must not do so before +you have obtained the manuscript. It would unnecessarily jeopardise our +plans." + +"And after?" + +"After, perhaps. But you must not expose yourself to any danger." + +"No, dear," he said, and kissed her; "what danger is there, provided I +keep my wits about me? He steals upon men only in their sleep and in the +dark." + +"Be careful, nevertheless." + +"I shall. In fact, I think he is not at home at this moment. If I go now +I may be able to get hold of the manuscript and hide it before he +returns." + +"I cannot but tremble to think of you in that house." + +"You shall have no more reason to tremble in a day or two." + +"Shall I see you to-morrow?" + +"I don't think so. I must go over my papers and things so as to be ready +at any moment to leave the house." + +"And then?" + +"Then--" + +He took her in his arms and looked long and deeply into her eyes. + +"Yes," she replied--"at least, perhaps." + +Then he turned to go, resolute and happy. How strangely he had matured +since the summer! Her heart swelled with the consciousness that it was +her love that had effected this transformation. + +"As I cannot expect you to-morrow, I shall probably go to the opera, but +I shall be at home before midnight. Will you call me up then? A word +from you will put me at ease for the night, even if it comes over the +telephone." + +"I will call you up. We moderns have an advantage over the ancients in +this respect: the twentieth-century Pyramus can speak to Thisbe even if +innumerable walls sever his body from hers." + +"A quaint conceit! But let us hope that our love-story will end less +tragically," she said, tenderly caressing his hair. "Oh, we shall be +happy, you and I," she added, after a while. "The iron finger of fate +that lay so heavily on our lives is now withdrawn. Almost withdrawn. +Yes, almost. Only almost." + +And then a sudden fear overcame her. + +"No," she cried, "do not go, do not go! Stay with me; stay here. I feel +so frightened. I don't know what comes over me. I am afraid--afraid for +you." + +"No, dear," he rejoined, "you need not be afraid. In your heart you +don't want me to desert a friend, and, besides, leave the best part of +my artistic life in Reginald's clutch." + +"Why should you expose yourself to God knows what danger for a friend +who is ready to betray you?" + +"You forget friendship is a gift. If it exacts payment in any form, it +is no longer either friendship or a gift. And you yourself have assured +me that I have nothing to fear from Reginald. I have nothing to give to +him." + +She rallied under his words and had regained her self-possession when +the door closed behind him. He walked a few blocks very briskly. Then +his pace slackened. Her words had unsettled him a little, and when he +reached home he did not at once resume his exploration of Reginald's +papers. He had hardly lit a cigarette when, at an unusually early hour, +he heard Reginald's key in the lock. + +Quickly he turned the light out and in the semi-darkness, lit up by an +electric lantern below, barricaded the door as on the previous night. +Then he went to bed without finding sleep. + +Supreme silence reigned over the house. Even the elevator had ceased to +run. Ernest's brain was all ear. He heard Reginald walking up and down +in the studio. Not the smallest movement escaped his attention. Thus +hours passed. When the clock struck twelve, he was still walking up and +down, down and up, up and down. + +One o'clock. + +Still the measured beat of his footfall had not ceased. There was +something hypnotic in the regular tread. Nature at last exacted its toll +from the boy. He fell asleep. + +Hardly had he closed his eyes when again that horrible nightmare--no +longer a nightmare--tormented him. Again he felt the pointed delicate +fingers carefully feeling their way along the innumerable tangled +threads of nerve-matter that lead to the innermost recesses of self.... + +A subconscious something strove to arouse him, and he felt the fingers +softly withdrawn. + +He could have sworn that he heard the scurrying of feet in the room. +Bathed in perspiration he made a leap for the electric light. + +But there was no sign of any human presence. The barricade at the door +was undisturbed. But fear like a great wind filled the wings of his +soul. + +Yet there was nothing, nothing to warrant his conviction that Reginald +Clarke had been with him only a few moments ago, plying his horrible +trade. The large mirror above the fireplace only showed him his own +face, white, excited,--the face of a madman. + + + + +XXIX + + +The next morning's mail brought a letter from Ethel, a few lines of +encouragement and affection. Yes, she was right; it would not do for him +to stay under one roof with Reginald any longer. He must only obtain the +manuscript and, if possible, surprise him in the attempt to exercise his +mysterious and criminal power. Then he would be in the position to +dictate terms and to demand Jack's safety as the price of his silence. + +Reginald, however, had closeted himself that day in his studio busily +writing. Only the clatter of his typewriter announced his presence in +the house. There was no chance for conversation or for obtaining the +precious manuscript of "Leontina." + +Meanwhile Ernest was looking over his papers and preparing everything +for a quick departure. Glancing over old letters and notes, he became +readily interested and hardly noticed the passage of the hours. + +When the night came he only partly undressed and threw himself upon the +bed. It was now ten. At twelve he had promised Ethel to speak to her +over the telephone. He was determined not to sleep at all that night. At +last he would discover whether or not on the previous and other nights +Reginald had secretly entered his room. + +When one hour had passed without incident, his attention relaxed a +little. His eyes were gradually closing when suddenly something seemed +to stir at the door. The Chinese vase came rattling to the floor. + +At once Ernest sprang up. His face had blanched with terror. It was +whiter than the linen in which they wrap the dead. But his soul was +resolute. + +He touched a button and the electric light illuminated the whole +chamber. There was no nook for even a shadow to hide. Yet there was no +one to be seen. From without the door came no sound. Suddenly something +soft touched his foot. He gathered all his will power so as not to +break out into a frenzied shriek. Then he laughed, not a hearty laugh, +to be sure. A tiny nose and a tail gracefully curled were brushing +against him. The source of the disturbance was a little Maltese cat, his +favourite, that by some chance had remained in his room. After its essay +at midnight gymnastics the animal quieted down and lay purring at the +foot of his bed. + +The presence of a living thing was a certain comfort, and the reservoir +of his strength was well nigh exhausted. + +He dimly remembered his promise to Ethel, but his lids drooped with +sheer weariness. Perhaps an hour passed in this way, when suddenly his +blood congealed with dread. + +He felt the presence of the hand of Reginald +Clarke--unmistakably--groping in his brain as if searching for something +that had still escaped him. + +He tried to move, to cry out, but his limbs were paralysed. When, by a +superhuman effort, he at last succeeded in shaking off the numbness that +held him enchained, he awoke just in time to see a figure, that of a +man, disappearing in the wall that separated Reginald's apartments from +his room.... + +This time it was no delusion of the senses. He heard something like a +secret door softly closing behind retreating steps. A sudden fierce +anger seized him. He was oblivious of the danger of the terrible power +of the older man, oblivious of the love he had once borne him, oblivious +of everything save the sense of outraged humanity and outraged right. + +The law permits us to shoot a burglar who goes through our pockets at +night. Must he tolerate the ravages of this a thousand times more +dastardly and dangerous spiritual thief? Was Reginald to enjoy the fruit +of other men's labour unpunished? Was he to continue growing into the +mightiest literary factor of the century by preying upon his betters? +Abel, Walkham, Ethel, he, Jack, were they all to be victims of this +insatiable monster? + +Was this force resistless as it was relentless? + +No, a thousand times, no! + +He dashed himself against the wall at the place where the shadow of +Reginald Clarke had disappeared. In doing so he touched upon a secret +spring. The wall gave way noiselessly. Speechless with rage he crossed +the next room and the one adjoining it, and stood in Reginald's studio. +The room was brilliantly lighted, and Reginald, still dressed, was +seated at his writing-table scribbling notes upon little scraps of paper +in his accustomed manner. + +At Ernest's approach he looked up without evincing the least sign of +terror or surprise. Calmly, almost majestically, he folded his arms over +his breast, but there was a menacing glitter in his eyes as he +confronted his victim. + + + + +XXX + + +Silently the two men faced each other. Then Ernest hissed: + +"Thief!" + +Reginald shrugged his shoulders. + +"Vampire!" + +"So Ethel has infected you with her absurd fancies! Poor boy! I am +afraid.... I have been wanting to tell you for some time.... But I +think... We have reached the parting of our road!" + +"And that you dare to tell me!" + +The more he raged, the calmer Reginald seemed to become. + +"Really," he said, "I fail to understand.... I must ask you to leave my +room!" + +"You fail to understand? You cad!" Ernest cried. He stepped to the +writing-table and opened the secret drawer with a blow. A bundle of +manuscripts fell on the floor with a strange rustling noise. Then, +seizing his own story, he hurled it upon the table. And behold--the last +pages bore corrections in ink that could have been made only a few +minutes ago! + +Reginald smiled. "Have you come to play havoc with my manuscripts?" he +remarked. + +"Your manuscripts? Reginald Clarke, you are an impudent impostor! You +have written no word that is your own. You are an embezzler of the mind, +strutting through life in borrowed and stolen plumes!" + +And at once the mask fell from Reginald's face. + +"Why stolen?" he coolly said, with a slight touch of irritation. "I +absorb. I appropriate. That is the most any artist can say for himself. +God creates; man moulds. He gives us the colours; we mix them." + +"That is not the question. I charge you with having wilfully and +criminally interfered in my life; I charge you with having robbed me of +what was mine; I charge you with being utterly vile and rapacious, a +hypocrite and a parasite!" + +"Foolish boy," Reginald rejoined austerely. "It is through me that the +best in you shall survive, even as the obscure Elizabethans live in him +of Avon. Shakespeare absorbed what was great in little men--a greatness +that otherwise would have perished--and gave it a setting, a life." + +"A thief may plead the same. I understand you better. It is your +inordinate vanity that prompts you to abuse your monstrous power." + +"You err. Self-love has never entered into my actions. I am careless of +personal fame. Look at me, boy! As I stand before you I am Homer, I am +Shakespeare ... I am every cosmic manifestation in art. Men have doubted +in each incarnation my individual existence. Historians have more to +tell of the meanest Athenian scribbler or Elizabethan poetaster than of +me. The radiance of my work obscured my very self. I care not. I have a +mission. I am a servant of the Lord. I am the vessel that bears the +Host!" + +He stood up at full length, the personification of grandeur and power. A +tremendous force trembled in his very finger tips. He was like a +gigantic dynamo, charged with the might of ten thousand magnetic storms +that shake the earth in its orbit and lash myriads of planets through +infinities of space.... + +Under ordinary circumstances Ernest or any other man would have quailed +before him. But the boy in that epic moment had grown out of his +stature. He felt the sword of vengeance in his hands; to him was +intrusted the cause of Abel and of Walkham, of Ethel and of Jack. His +was the struggle of the individual soul against the same blind and cruel +fate that in the past had fashioned the ichthyosaurus and the mastodon. + +"By what right," he cried, "do you assume that you are the literary +Messiah? Who appointed you? What divine power has made you the steward +of my mite and of theirs whom you have robbed?" + +"I am a light-bearer. I tread the high hills of mankind.... I point the +way to the future. I light up the abysses of the past. Were not my +stature gigantic, how could I hold the torch in all men's sight? The +very souls that I tread underfoot realise, as their dying gaze follows +me, the possibilities with which the future is big.... Eternally secure, +I carry the essence of what is cosmic ... of what is divine.... I am +Homer ... Goethe ... Shakespeare.... I am an embodiment of the same +force of which Alexander, Caesar, Confucius and the Christos were also +embodiments.... None so strong as to resist me." + +A sudden madness overcame Ernest at this boast. He must strike now or +never. He must rid humanity of this dangerous maniac--this demon of +strength. With a power ten times intensified, he raised a heavy chair so +as to hurl it at Reginald's head and crush it. + +Reginald stood there calmly, a smile upon his lips.... Primal cruelties +rose from the depth of his nature.... Still he smiled, turning his +luminous gaze upon the boy ... and, behold ... Ernest's hand began to +shake ... the chair fell from his grasp.... He tried to call for help, +but no sound issued from his lips.... Utterly paralysed he +confronted ... the Force.... + +Minutes--eternities passed. + +And still those eyes were fixed upon him. + +But this was no longer Reginald! + +It was all brain ... only brain ... a tremendous brain-machine ... +infinitely complex ... infinitely strong. Not more than a mile away +Ethel endeavoured to call to him through the night. The telephone rang, +once, twice, thrice, insistingly. But Ernest heard it not. Something +dragged him ... dragged the nerves from his body dragged, dragged, +dragged.... It was an irresistible suction ... pitiless ... passionless +... immense. + +Sparks, blue, crimson and violet, seemed to play around the living +battery. It reached the finest fibres of his mind.... Slowly ... every +trace of mentality disappeared.... First the will ... then feeling ... +judgment ... memory ... fear even.... All that was stored in his +brain-cells came forth to be absorbed by that mighty engine.... + +The Princess With the Yellow Veil appeared ... flitted across the room +and melted away. She was followed by childhood memories ... girls' +heads, boys' faces.... He saw his dead mother waving her arms to him.... +An expression of death-agony distorted the placid features.... Then, +throwing a kiss to him, she, too, disappeared. Picture on picture +followed.... Words of love that he had spoken ... sins, virtues, +magnanimities, meannesses, terrors ... mathematical formulas even, and +snatches of songs. Leontina came and was swallowed up.... No, it was +Ethel who was trying to speak to him ... trying to warn.... She waved +her hands in frantic despair.... She was gone.... A pale face ... dark, +dishevelled hair.... Jack.... How he had changed! He was in the circle +of the vampire's transforming might. "Jack," he cried. Surely Jack had +something to explain ... something to tell him ... some word that if +spoken would bring rest to his soul. He saw the words rise to the boy's +lips, but before he had time to utter them his image also had vanished. +And Reginald ... Reginald, too, was gone.... There was only the mighty +brain ... panting ... whirling.... Then there was nothing.... The +annihilation of Ernest Fielding was complete. + +Vacantly he stared at the walls, at the room and at his master. The +latter was wiping the sweat from his forehead. He breathed deeply.... +The flush of youth spread over his features.... His eyes sparkled with a +new and dangerous brilliancy.... He took the thing that had once been +Ernest Fielding by the hand and led it to its room. + + + + +XXXI + + +With the first flush of the morning Ethel appeared at the door of the +house on Riverside Drive. She had not heard from Ernest, and had been +unable to obtain connection with him at the telephone. Anxiety had +hastened her steps. She brushed against Jack, who was also directing his +steps to the abode of Reginald Clarke. + +At the same time something that resembled Ernest Fielding passed from +the house of the Vampire. It was a dull and brutish thing, hideously +transformed, without a vestige of mind. + +"Mr. Fielding," cried Ethel, beside herself with fear as she saw him +descending. + +"Ernest!" Jack gasped, no less startled at the change in his friend's +appearance. + +Ernest's head followed the source of the sound, but no spark of +recognition illumined the deadness of his eyes. Without a present and +without a past ... blindly ... a gibbering idiot ... he stumbled down +the stairs. + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HOUSE OF THE VAMPIRE*** + + +******* This file should be named 17144.txt or 17144.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/1/4/17144 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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