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was felt most deeply when withdrawn.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.