Bruce laughed. “You’re a queer chap! But I can’t let you off, Eustace! — you are more to me than any one else in the world after my own folk and — and Sylvia. Come on — let’s go to your diggings — one can’t talk these sort of things over in a dub. In fact, I’m quite afraid to mention Sylvia’s name in any public place, there’s such a lot of fellows in love with her. And of course they’ll all hate met!”
“Why?” asked Chisholm, abruptly.
“Oh, it’s perfectly natural they should! Every man hates the one who has got the girl he wants!”
They left the smoking-room, took their hats and coats, and walked out together into the dark streets.
It was a still, warm summer’s night, and a few stars had made their dim appearance through the hot, murky mist of the London sky, while now and again a brilliant searchlight played its long, radiating beams upward and downward to all four points of the compass. Chilsholm looked covertly at his companion from time to time, noticing the buoyancy of his steps and the air of confident attainment and delight which marked his whole bearing — and again the wicked, insidious whisper— “Kill! kill!” hissed in his ears. A pained, sick abhorrence of himself moved him.
“What am I?” he thought, desperately. “A reasoning man, or an unreasoning brute? How dare I even hint to my own consciousness the possible death of my friend? — the brave fellow who has been beside me in the thick of the fight and whom I loved better than myself but an hour ago! All for a woman’s sake! — a woman’s eyes and smile! — a woman’s beauty, as perishable as a flower! Sylvia Brooke! Are there no other women?”
And some lines of Swinburne ran catchingly into his memory —
“There are fairer women I hear — that may be
But I, that I love you and find you fair
Who are more than fair in my eyes, if they be,
Do the high gods know, or the great gods care?”
“I say, Eustace!” broke out Bruce at this moment “Wouldn’t it be a sell, if after all I got finished off?”
Chisholm gave a quick, nervous movement. “Finished off? What do you mean?”
“Why, when I go back to the front, a married man — suppose a sniper has me? or a shell? — or even a bit of shrapnel? Nice thing for Sylvia!”
“If you think along those lines you’d better put off the wedding,” said Chisholm, curtly.
“Exactly what I told her, but bless her heart she won’t hear of it. ‘I love you and I’ll be your wife now,’ she said— ‘I’ll have you while I can!’” He laughed joyously, unaware of the deadly pallor of his companion’s face. “And perhaps — after all — it’s best! It’s the old French song over again— ‘a little laughter — a little love — and then — Bon soir !’ A bit hard on lovers — still—”
A sharp pang of compunction and shame ran through the heart of the man beside him. He spoke quickly, though his voice was hoarse and unsteady.
“Don’t look on the dark side, dear boy!” he said. “You’ve everything to hope for — and nothing to regret. You — you deserve to be happy. Here we are!” He stopped at a door in St. James’s Street — it was a house of “Bachelor flats” and the porter was on duty. As they passed him, Chisholm said: -
“Captain Bruce will be coming down again in about half an hour.”
The porter touched his cap. He was a patient man, accustomed to sit up o’ nights uncomplainingly. Meanwhile Chisholm was thinking:
“Will Captain Bruce be coming down? Will he? Shall he?’
His mind was like a dark whirlpool, surging round and round in black eddies, yet there seemed a white spot in the midst of the blackness, a white, soft pulsing thing like a man’s throat, easily gripped so that its pulsation should stop for ever. They went up the stairs together — Chisholm’s flat was on the first floor, and he seldom used the lift. It was a cheerful little set of rooms, and the switching on of the electric light showed a couple of comfortable armchairs, a big sofa, a table laden with books and papers, a smoker’s lamp, and an open box of choice cigars ready for selection, while on a small sideboard there stood the ever-useful soda-water apparatus, with glasses to hand and a decanter of whisky.
“Sit down, old man!” he said, rather huskily. “Have a smoke first and a whisky-soda after? — or the whisky-soda first and the smoke last?”
“Thanks, I won’t drink anything,” Bruce answered — then he suddenly smiled. “Sylvia doesn’t like it.”
“Sylvia doesn’t like — what?” asked Chisholm.
“Drinking. Oh, she’s not a ‘temperance howler’ — but she simply hates whisky! She says we men drink far too much of it.”
“So we do!” agreed Chisholm, brusquely — then he held out the box of cigars, smiling somewhat forcedly. “And I see that though you are not married yet you’re under petticoat government already! You mustn’t do what Miss Brooke doesn’t like! You may smoke, I suppose?”
Bruce laughed.
“Oh, yes, I may smoke!” He chose a cigar, and lighting it, threw himself down full length on the inviting big sofa. “I say, Eustace, you’re jolly comfortable here!”
“So are you, I think!” And Chisholm seated himself in an armchair opposite, looking at him fixedly. “Now — tell me! About — this wedding — you really wish me to be best man?”
“Rather!” Bruce rolled back his curly head against the sofa, and turned his blue eyes round on his friend with an affectionate eagerness. “You see, it’s to come off at the end of next week — and there’s not much time—”
“Not much time, indeed!” murmured Chisholm. Why, he thought, had Bruce’s tie slipped in some way so that his throat was more open than ever? He could almost see its muscular throbbing; his hands clenched unconsciously.
“We thought” — went on Bruce— “or rather, the parents thought — that if we got married on Saturday morning we could motor straight away to some quiet little place where nobody knows us—”
He paused, with a sudden glow on his face and light in his eyes.
“Well!” said Chisholm, and his voice sounded odd even to himself. “And have you decided on the ‘quiet little place’?”
Bruce smiled.
“I think so!” he answered. “It’s a drowsy village by a river where I used to go fishing, and a man I know is lending us his bungalow — a regular little cottage in a wood, covered with roses and honeysuckle, and the garden runs down to the river — I can almost see Sylvia standing among the flowers — it’ll suit her perfectly! But — Eustace! I don’t know how I shall be able to bear it!”
“Bear what? The bungalow?”
“No, you dear old joker! The happiness! — the tremendous happiness of knowing she is my wife!” Lying back on the sofa he closed his eyes in a rapture of imagined ecstasy — and all at once a great thrill of savage fury rushed through every vein in Chisholm’s body as though he had suddenly been filled from head to foot with a consuming fire. Wildly he stared at the indolently reclining form of his friend — the closed eyes — the uncovered throat — and then — then something seemed to sweep at him and cover him in a crimson wave of blood. He made a fierce spring forward with outstretched, cruelly clutching hands, grasping at — what? Blackness — blackness! — impenetrable, impalpable blackness! — and yet — stop! — there was the moon looking at him with a white-hot glare. A thick atmosphere surrounded him heavy with strange odours — he felt himself walking with soft, velvety tread toward That which he sought to kill — it was very dark, he said to himself, but he knew that Other was there! That Other who was about to snatch from him the dearest object of his passion, the goal of his ambition and desire! That other must die!... How the moon glared! — and these thick mosses and leaves over which he moved stealthily — how they crackled in the dryness of the heat!... Ah!... at last!... He saw his rival! — one like himself, yet not offending more than that the same desire impelled them both, and with an ungovernable rage that shook him to the very core of life he bounded toward his prey, ready to kill! — to k
ill! — then paused — amazed. For what was Bruce doing here in this dark place? — the fair, handsome, brave young fellow with the eyes he had always loved because of their frank and steadfast honesty? It was not Bruce whose blood he thirsted for with such an insatiate lust of cruelty? No, no! His own friend? — it could not be! The very thought was hideous and untenable! Possessed by a torture more desperate than any dream of hell, he struggled to cry out, but vainly — a burning hand seemed laid upon his mouth.
“Heaven have mercy on me!” he whispered, thickly. “Am I a man, or a beast of prey? Defend me from myself, O God!”
A great shudder shook him; he felt himself falling — falling — falling into a sea of whirling chaos; he struggled and fought wildly against the overwhelming deluge which threatened to blind and choke him out of existence... then... all suddenly he emerged from that thick and awful darkness to find himself supported in Bruce’s strong arms with Bruce’s kind young eyes bent on him in watchful anxiety.
“That was a nasty swirl, old chap! Remains of the Boche gas, I expect! Better now?”
Chisholm looked up with such relief at his heart as might have been felt had tons of earth been lifted from it. He smiled faintly.
“What have you been doing to me, dear boy,” he asked, “dabbing me with cold water? What’s been the matter?”
“Oh, nothing much!” declared Bruce, in the usual soldier-like way of making light of every difficulty. “You just ‘went off’ suddenly in your chair, and you called out ‘Kill — kill!’ but there aren’t any Boches here to kill so I couldn’t obey orders!” He laughed. “You know we did get a fair amount of that beastly gas, and I shouldn’t wonder if it hangs about us for a longtime. Feeling all right?”
“Nearly!” Chisholm straightened himself and passed his hand across his forehead, which was wet with the cool water his friend had lavishly bestowed on it. “It was a horrible sickly sensation! — curious, too, for I got the idea that I wasn’t here at all—”
“You weren’t!” agreed Bruce. “You were evidently ‘somewhere in France’!”
“No — I was in a forest,” said Chisholm, musingly— “yes, that was it! A forest so dark that I had to crawl through it over moss and leaves — yet the moon was shining — and I felt I was out to kill something—”
“True sporting tendency!” commented Bruce, laughing. “Don’t you talk too much! Take it easy!”
“Oh, I’m all right now” — and Chisholm rose from his chair, stretched himself, and stood erect. “A little unsteady on my feet — but that’s nothing.” Then seeing Bruce’s face, he smiled. “Don’t worry, dear fellow! I’ll see you downstairs by way of exercise, and then get to bed.”
“Hadn’t I better stay with you?” suggested Bruce. “I can sleep quite comfortably on that jolly sofa.”
A tremor ran through Chisholm’s nerves. If the young man stayed might not the wicked, insidious temptation come again — might he not wander in his sleep and see Bruce lying defenceless there with that pulsing throat uncovered — and then — dared he be sure of himself?
“No, no, certainly not!” he said, quickly and almost imperatively. “You get home, Bruce — I know your father is waiting up for you. I’m as well as possible; that stupid faintness was nothing to speak of — just a reminder of the trenches! And we haven’t talked about your wedding or arranged anything; however, you’ll let me know the when and where and how in good time, won’t you? And, Bruce” — here he laid both hands affectionately on his friend’s shoulders— “Let me just say that I wish you joy with all my heart! You deserve your luck! — every bit of it! Sylvia Brooke is a lovely girl, and as sweet and good as she’s lovely, and—” here he paused, and then resumed, speaking with slower and more impressive emphasis— “I want you to feel that there’s nothing gives me greater peace of mind and pleasure than to know you have won all your heart’s desire. Remember that! Whatever happens, whether I come out of the next devilish scuffle or not, remember that! And God bless you!”
Walter Bruce looked full in his friend’s face.
“I’m not likely to forget!” he said. “You are a dear good chap, Eustace! — the kindest and most loyal friend I ever had. I’ll tell Sylvia — but she knows it already.”
“She knows — what?” queried Chisholm, almost timidly.
“Why, what a splendid fellow you are! — as true as steel!” declared Bruce, heartily. “She always says you couldn’t even think a mean thing, still less do it!”
“Come along, let me see you out,” interrupted Chisholm, hastily. “An enthusiastic lover will talk all night, and it’s time you went. Take another cigar.”
Bruce did so — and then they descended the stairs together. “My ‘silly swirl’ spoilt our chat,” said Chisholm. “However, like the serial stories it is ‘to be continued in our next.’ Be sure to let me know when I’m to turn up as ‘best man’ — time, place, etcetera! A khaki wedding, I suppose?”
“Rather!” And Bruce gave a proud little gesture of his handsome head. “There’s no more becoming costume just now!”
They reached the hall door, shook hands warmly, and parted.
Chisholm stood for a moment watching his friend’s swinging stride up the street till he was out of sight — then with a kindly “good-night” to the drowsy porter who was now free to lock up the place and go to bed, he re-ascended the stairs.
Entering his flat he shut and locked the door of the sitting-room and looked about him with a strange sense of something unfamiliar and oppressive. The atmosphere of that dreadful heated darkness into which he had suddenly swooned seemed to cling to the walls. He stood inert, confused, bewildered, trying vainly to disentangle the knot into which his mentality had become mysteriously ravelled. Then all at once clear reason asserted itself, and with it came the full, sweeping conviction of what his thoughts had been — thoughts of bitter envy — thoughts of pitiless revenge — thoughts of positive murder — thoughts which, whether in a nation or an individual, are the active germs of things, and are the cause of all evil or all good. He trembled, growing sick and cold with self-scorn and self-hatred as the horrible truth was forced upon him of what might have happened had his thoughts been allowed to grow into action — had he yielded to the insidious evil of an instinct within him — a subconscious, dreadful instinct for which he felt he was not responsible, but which threatened to overwhelm his very manhood, and make brutish havoc of all honour, all loyalty, all true courage — and, moved by a passionate impulse, he suddenly threw himself on his knees by the sofa where his friend had so lately lain in smiling unconsciousness of a threatening death!
“Thank God!” he whispered, hiding his face humbly against his clasped hands— “Thank God who gave me strength to kill the Beast in me!”
THE STEPPING-STAR
YOU are old-fashioned!” he said.
She smiled.
“Yes. I am.”
He eyed her half admiringly, half quizzically. She was charming to look at; he admitted the fact, albeit grudgingly.
“You still believe in Christmas?”
Her smile deepened, giving wonderful softness to her eyes.
“Still!”
“And in New Year?”
“Surely! It is a fresh lease of a beautiful house.”
“What do you mean by that?” he asked.
“I mean what I say” she answered, gently. “Every new year is a privilege, granting us continued enjoyment of the world. And certainly the world is a beautiful house to live in.”
“You find it so,” he said. “Others may not.”
She was silent.
The two were standing beside a sparkling little river which brawled and bounded and chattered over heaped stones and great moss-covered boulders; it was late October, but the air held the warmth of the past summer in its breath, and the afternoon sun, sinking between wing-shaped stretches of rosy mist, illumined with vivid brilliancy the red and golden foliage of many trees not yet denuded of their clothing by gale or fro
st. The pretty warble of a robin close by sounded distinctly above the purling flow of the bright, hurrying water, and on the other side of the stream a vista of fading green opened like an arch in a wall showing a far glimpse of hills rising one above the other in a dream-like haze of blue.
“You find it so,” he repeated, “and I cannot imagine why you do! You call it a beautiful house to live in — I call it a crazily built house, with rotten foundations, damp walls, a leaky roof, and windows that let in more cold than comfort. Apparently you are blind to its deficiencies. What makes you think it is a beautiful house? You have nothing to live for!”
His tone was harsh and querulous; she turned her eyes upon him with a faint wonder that was half pity.
“No? Have I not?” said she.
Something in her serene look increased his irritation. He was conscious of his own roughness, and yet he had a curious satisfaction in yielding to it.
“No — not that I can perceive,” he answered. “You are no longer a girl — you are not married — you have no lovers — and you have what I call unnatural tastes. So that your existence — in my opinion — is purposeless and absurd — for a woman.”
She laughed — a sweet, low laugh expressive of perfect happiness.
“Your opinion doesn’t matter,” she said, quite gently. “Pardon me — I don’t mean to be rude — but really, do you think it does?”
‘He flushed, and turned slightly away from her, prodding the ground with his walking stick.
“It ought to,” he went on, obstinately. “I’m speaking for your good. Here you are, living all alone in the country with a couple of servants, wasting yourself on ideals and airy propositions of modern science — you are what you consider ‘emancipated,’ or ‘advanced,’ when long ago you should have been a respectable wife and mother bringing up a family—”
She interrupted him, the laughter still lighting up her face.
“You’ve no idea how awful that sounds!” she exclaimed. “A respectable wife and mother bringing up a family! Simply overwhelming! There are so many of them!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Eight Book 22) Page 957