He earnestly hoped to find Reginald at home, though it was well nigh teno'clock in the evening, and he cursed the "rapid transit" for itsinability to annihilate space and time. It is indeed disconcerting tothink how many months, if not years, of our earthly sojourn the dwellersin cities spend in transportation conveyances that must be set down as adead loss in the ledger of life. A nervous impatience against thingsmaterial overcame Ernest in the subway. It is ever the mere stupidobstacle of matter that weights down the wings of the soul and preventsit from soaring upward to the sun.
When at last he had reached the house, he learned from the hall-boy thatClarke had gone out. Ruffled in temper he entered his rooms and wentover his mail. There were letters from editors with commissions that hecould not afford to reject. Everywhere newspapers and magazines openedtheir yawning mouths to swallow up what time he had. He realised at oncethat he would have to postpone the writing of his novel for severalweeks, if not longer.
Among the letters was one from Jack. It bore the postmark of a littleplace in the Adirondacks where he was staying with his parents. Ernestopened the missive not without hesitation. On reading and rereading itthe fine lines on his forehead, that would some day deepen intowrinkles, became quite pronounced and a look of displeasure darkened hisface. Something was wrong with Jack, a slight change that defiedanalysis. Their souls were out of tune. It might only be a passingdisturbance; perhaps it was his own fault. It pained him, nevertheless.Somehow it seemed of late that Jack was no longer able to follow thevagaries of his mind. Only one person in the world possessed a similarmental vision, only one seemed to understand what he said and what heleft unsaid. Reginald Clarke, being a man and poet, read in his soul asin an open book. Ethel might have understood, had not love, like acloud, laid itself between her eyes and the page.
It was with exultation that Ernest heard near midnight the click ofReginald's key in the door. He found him unchanged, completely,radiantly himself. Reginald possessed the psychic power of undressingthe soul, of seeing it before him in primal nakedness. Although no wordwas said of Ethel Brandenbourg except the mere mention of her presencein Atlantic City, Ernest intuitively knew that Reginald was aware of thetransformation that absence had wrought in him. In the presence of thisman he could be absolutely himself, without shame or fear ofmis-understanding; and by a strange metamorphosis, all his affectionfor Ethel and Jack went out for the time being to Reginald Clarke.
XVII
The next day Ernest wrote a letter of more or less superficialtenderness to Ethel. She had wounded his pride by proving victorious inthe end over his passion and hers; besides, he was in the throes ofwork. When after the third day no answer came, he was inclined to feelaggrieved. 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 shamerose 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 callingto him. It was that which gave life its meaning, not the love of aseason. How far away, how unreal, she now seemed to him. Yes, she wasright, he had not cared deeply; and his novel, too, would be writtenonly _at_ her. It was the heroine of his story that absorbed hisinterest, not the living prototype.
Once in a conversation with Reginald he touched upon the subject.Reginald held that modern taste no longer permitted even thephotographer to portray life as it is, but insisted upon an individualvisualisation. "No man," he remarked, "was ever translated bodily intofiction. In contradiction to life, art is a process of artificialselection."
Bearing in mind this motive, Ernest went to work to mould from thematerial in hand a new Ethel, more real than life. Unfortunately hefound little time to devote to his novel. It was only when, after a goodday's work, a pile of copy for a magazine lay on his desk, that he couldthink of concentrating his mind upon "Leontina." The result was thatwhen 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 sothat 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 incubioppressed his soul with terrible burdens. In the morning he awokeunrested. The tan vanished from his face and little lines appeared inthe corners of his mouth. It was as if his nervous vitality were sappedfrom him in some unaccountable way. He became excited, hysterical. Oftenat night when he wrote his pot-boilers for the magazines, fear stoodbehind his seat, and only the buzzing of the elevator outside broughthim back to himself.
In one of his morbid moods he wrote a sonnet which he showed to Reginaldafter the latter's return from a short trip out of town. Reginald readit, 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 didyou 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 arousedErnest's attention.
"What do you see?" he asked quickly.
"Nothing," Reginald replied, with immovable calm, "only that your stateof nerves is still far from satisfactory."
XVIII
After Ernest's departure Ethel Brandenbourg's heart was swaying hitherand thither in a hurricane of conflicting feelings. Before she had timeto gain an emotional equilibrium, his letter had hurled her back intochaos. A false ring somewhere in Ernest's words, reechoing with anever-increasing volume of sound, stifled the voice of love. His jewelledsentences glittered, but left her cold. They lacked that spontaneitywhich renders even simple and hackeneyed phrases wonderful and unique.Ethel clearly realised that her hold upon the boy's imagination had beena fleeting midsummer night's charm, and that a word from Reginald's lipshad broken the potency of her spell. She almost saw the shadow ofReginald's visage hovering over Ernest's letter and leering at her frombetween the lines in sinister triumph. Finally reason came andwhispered to her that it was extremely unwise to give her heart into thekeeping of a boy. His love, she knew, would have been exacting,irritating at times. He would have asked her to sympathise with everyphase of his life, and would have expected active interest on her partin much that she had done with long ago. Thus, untruth would have stoleninto her life and embittered it. When mates are unequal, Love must paintits 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 acool and calculating answer to Ernest's letter. She rewrote it manytimes, and every time it became more difficult to reply. At last she puther letter aside for a few days, and when it fell again into her hand itseemed so unnatural and strained that she destroyed it.
Thus several weeks had passed, and Ernest no longer exclusively occupiedher mind when, one day early in September, while glancing over amagazine, she came upon his name in the table of contents. Once moreshe saw the boy's wistful face before her, and a trembling somethingstirred in her heart. Her hand shook as she cut the pages, and a mist oftears clouded her vision as she attempted to read his poem. It was apiece of sombre brilliance. Like black-draped monks half crazed withmystic devotion, the poet's thoughts flitted across the page. It was thewail of a soul that feels reason slipping from it and beholds madnessrise over its li
fe like a great pale moon. A strange unrest emanatedfrom it and took possession of her. And again, with an insight that wasprophetic, she distinctly recognised behind the vague fear that hadhaunted the poet the figure of Reginald Clarke.
A half-forgotten dream, struggling to consciousness, staggered her byits vividness. She saw Clarke as she had seen him in days gone by,grotesquely transformed into a slimy sea-thing, whose hungry mouths shutsucking upon her and whose thousand tentacles encircled her form. Sheclosed her eyes in horror at the reminiscence. And in that moment itbecame clear to her that she must take into her hands the salvation ofErnest Fielding from the clutches of the malign power that hadmysteriously enveloped his life.
XIX
The summer was brief, and already by the middle of September many hadreturned to the pleasures of urban life. Ethel was among thefirst-comers; for, after her resolve to enter the life of the young poetonce more, it would have been impossible for her to stay away from thecity much longer. Her plan was all ready. Before attempting to seeErnest she would go to meet Reginald and implore him to free the boyfrom his hideous spell. An element of curiosity unconsciously enteredher determination. When, years ago, she and Clarke had parted, the manhad seemed, for once, greatly disturbed and had promised, in hisagitation, that some day he would communicate to her what wouldexonerate him in her eyes. She had answered that all words between themwere purposeless, and that she hoped never to see his face again. Theexperience that the years had brought to her, instead of elucidatingthe mystery of Reginald's personality, had, on the contrary, made hisbehaviour appear more and more unaccountable. She had more than oncecaught herself wishing to meet him again and to analyse dispassionatelythe puzzling influences he had exerted upon her. And she could at lastview him dispassionately; there was triumph in that. She was dimly awarethat 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 frequentationof Walkham's house that had for several years effectively barred herfoot from crossing the threshold. It was with a very strange feeling shegreeted the many familiar faces at Walkham's now; and when, toward teno'clock, Reginald entered, politely bowing in answer to the welcome fromall 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 theymet 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 stillhorribly fascinating as of old--only she was no longer susceptible tohis fascination. He had changed somewhat in those years. The lines abouthis 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 tocome back to them. Then he said, with a touch of sadness: "Why shouldthe first word between us be a lie?"
Ethel made no answer.
Reginald looked at her half in wonder and said: "And is your love forthe 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 shouldshe wear a mask before him, when his eyes, like the eyes of God, piercedto 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 sparrowhelpless under its gaze."
"Ah, but who tells you that the snake is to blame? Is it not rather theoccult power that prescribes with blood on brazen scroll the law of ourbeing?"
"This is no solace to the sparrow. But whatever may be said, let us dropthe past. Let us consider the present. I beg of you, leave this boy--lethim develop without your attempting to stifle the life in him orimpressing upon it the stamp of your alien mind."
"Ethel," he protested, "you are unjust. If you knew--" Then an ideaseemed 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 youcan give me, nothing that you can take away."
"No," he remarked, "nothing. Yes, you have changed. Still, when I lookupon you, the ghosts of the past seem to rise like live things."
"We both have changed. We meet now upon equal grounds. You are nolonger the idol I made of you."
"Don't you think that to the idol this might be a relief, not ahumiliation? It is a terrible torture to sit in state with lipseternally shut. Sometimes there comes over the most reticent of us adesire to break through the eternal loneliness that surrounds the soul.It is this feeling that prompts madmen to tear off their clothes andexhibit their nakedness in the market-place. It's madness on my part, ora whim, or I don't know what; but it pleases me that you should know thetruth."
"You promised me long ago that I should."
"To-day I will redeem my promise, and I will tell you another thing thatyou 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 LacrimaeChristi. But no pale ghost of the past rose from the wine. Only awriggling something, with serpent eyes, that sent cold shivers down herspine and held her speechless and entranced.
When their order had been filled and the waiter had posted himself at arespectful distance, Reginald began--at first leisurely, a man of theworld. But as he proceeded a strange exultation seemed to possess himand 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 wellclaim your attention. I will start with my earliest childhood. Youremember the picture of me that was taken when I was five?"
She remembered, indeed. Each detail of his life was deeply engraven onher mind.
"At that time," he continued, "I was not held to be particularly bright.The reason was that my mind, being pre-eminently and extraordinarilyreceptive, needed a stimulus from without. The moment I was sent toschool, however, a curious metamorphosis took place in me. I may saythat I became at once the most brilliant boy in my class. You know thatto this day I have always been the most striking figure in any circle inwhich I have ever moved."
Ethel nodded assent. Silently watching the speaker, she saw a gleam ofthe 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 thepower of absorbing the colour of my environment."
"Do you mean that you have the power of absorbing the special virtuesof other people?" she interjected.
"That is exactly what I mean."
"Oh!" she cried, for in a heart-beat many things had become clear toher. For the first time she realised, still vaguely but with increasingvividness, the hidden causes of her ruin and, still mor
e plainly, thehorrible danger of Ernest Fielding.
He noticed her agitation, and a look of psychological curiosity cameinto his eyes.
"Ah, but that is not all," he observed, smilingly. "That is nothing. Weall possess that faculty in a degree. The secret of my strength is myability to reject every element that is harmful or inessential to thecompletion of my self. This did not come to me easily, nor without astruggle. But now, looking back upon my life, many things becometransparent that were obscure even to me at the time. I can now followthe fine-spun threads in the intricate web of my fate, and discover inthe wilderness of meshes a design, awful and grandly planned."
His voice shook with conviction, as he uttered these words. There wassomething strangely gruesome in this man. It was thus that she hadpictured to herself the high-priest of some terrible and mysteriousreligion, demanding a human sacrifice to appease the hunger of his god.She was fascinated by the spell of his personality, and listened with afeeling not far removed from awe. But Reginald suddenly changed his toneand proceeded in a more conversational manner.
"The first friend I ever cared for was a boy marvellously endowed forthe study of mathematics. At the time of our first meeting at school, Iwas unable to solve even the simplest algebraical problem. But we hadbeen together only for half a month, when we exchanged parts. It was Iwho was the mathematical genius now, whereas he became hopelessly dulland stuttered through his recitations only with a struggle that broughtthe tears to his eyes. Then I discarded him. Heartless, you say? I havecome to know better. Have you ever tasted a bottle of wine that had beenuncorked for a long time? If you have, you have probably found itflat--the essence was gone, evaporated. Thus it is when we care forpeople. Probably--no, assuredly--there is some principle prisoned intheir 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 ora woman's nature, but soul-stuff that we lack--disappears. In fact, itinvariably disappears. It may be that it has been transformed in theprocesses of their growth; it may also be that it has utterly vanishedby some inadvertence, or that we ourselves have absorbed it."
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