Composition had been determined upon, and the sketch completed by the
middle of August; Cecile had sat for him every day from nine until five;
every evening they had dined together at the seashore or other suburban
and cool resorts. Together they had seen every summer entertainment in
town, had spent the cooler, starlit evenings together in his studio,
chatting, reading loud sometimes, sometimes discussing he work in hand
or other subjects of he moment, even topics covering a wider and more
varied range than he had ever before discussed with any woman.
He seemed to have become utterly changed; the dark preoccupation had
been absent from his face--the gauntness, the grayness, seemed to have
become subdued; the deep lines of pain, imperceptible at times, smoothed
out and shadowed in an almost gay resurgence of youth.
If, during the first week or two of her companionship, his gaiety had
been not entirely spontaneous, his smile shadowed with something duller,
his laughter a trifle forced, she had not perceived it in her surprised
and shyly troubled preoccupation with this amazing and delightful
transfiguration.
At first she scarcely knew what to look for, what to expect from him,
from herself, when she came into the studio after many weeks of absence;
and she always halted in the doorway, trembling a little, as always,
when in contact with him.
But he was very delightful, smiling, easy, and deferential enough to
reassure her with a greeting that became him, as he saluted her pretty
hand, held it a moment in possession, laughingly, and released it.
From the moment of their reunion he had never touched her, save for
a quick, firm, smiling hand-clasp in the morning and another at the
night’s parting.
Now, little by little, she was finding herself delightfully at ease with
him, emerging by degrees from her charming bewilderment out of isolation
to a happy companionship never before shared with any man.
Nor even vaguely had she dreamed that Drene could be such a man, such
a friend, never had she imagined there was in him such kindness, such
patience, such gentleness, such comprehension, such virile sense and
sympathy.
And never, now, was her troubled consciousness aware of anything
disquieting in his attitude, of anything to perturb her.
He seemed to enjoy himself like a boy, with her companionship, wholly,
heartily, without any motive other than the pleasure of the moment;
and so, little by little, she gave herself up to it too, in the same
fashion, unguardedly, frankly, innocently revealing herself to him by
degrees as their comradeship became deliciously unembarrassed.
He was making a full length study in clay now. All day long she sat
there enthroned, her eyes partly closed, the head lifted a trifle and
fallen back, and her lovely hands resting on her heart--and sometimes
she strove to imagine something of the divine moment which she was
embodying; pondering, dreaming, wondering; and sometimes, in the
stillness, through her trance crept a thrill, subtle, exquisite, as
though in faint perception of the heavenly moment. And once, into her
half-dreaming senses came the soft stirring of wings, and she opened her
eyes and looked up, startled and thrilled.
But it was only a pigeon which had come through the great window from
the cote on the adjacent roof and which circled above her on whimpering
wings for a moment and then sheered out into the sunlight.
They dined together at a roof garden that evening, the music was
particularly and surprisingly good, and what surprised him even more was
that she knew it and spoke of it. And continued speaking of music, he
not interrupting.
Reticent hitherto concerning her antecedents he learned now something
of them--and inferred more; nothing unusual--a musical career determined
upon, death intervening dragging over her isolation the steel meshes of
destitution--the necessity for self-support, a friend who knew a painter
who employed models--not anything unusual, not even dramatic.
He nodded as she ended:
“Have you saved anything?”
“A hundred dollars.”
“That’s fine.”
She smiled, then sighed unconsciously.
“You are thinking,” he said, “that youth is flying.”
She smiled wistfully.
“Youth is the time to study. You were thinking that, too.”
She nodded.
“You could have married.”
“Why?” she asked, troubled.
“To obtain the means for a musical education.”
She gazed at him in amazement, then: “I could go out on the street, too,
as far as that is concerned. It would be no more disgraceful.”
“Folk-ways sanction self-sale, when guaranteed by the clergy,” he said.
She turned her head and he saw the pure, cold profile against the golden
table-lamp, and he saw something else under the palms beyond--Graylock’s
light eyes riveted upon them both.
“You know,” he said, under his breath, “that I shall not marry you.
But--would you care to begin your studies again?”
There was a long silence: She remained with face partly averted until
the orchestra ceased. Then she turned and looked at him, and he saw her
lip tremble.
“I had not thought you meant to ask me--that. I do not quite understand
what you mean.”
“I care enough for you to wish to help you. May I?”
“I was not sure you cared--enough--”
“Do you--for me?”
“Before I say that I do--care for you--” she began, tremulously--“tell
me that I have nothing to fear--”
Neither spoke. Over her shoulder Drene stared at the distant man who
stared back at him.
Presently his eyes reverted to hers, absently studying the childlike
beauty of her.
“I’m going to tell you something,” he said. “Love is no more wonderful
than hate, no more perfect, no more eternal. And it is less fierce, and
not as strong.”
“What!” she whispered, bewildered at the sinister change in him.
“And I want to tell you another thing. I am alone in the world. What I
have, I have devised to you--in case I step out--suddenly--”
He paused, hesitated, then:
“Also I desire you to hear something else,” he went on. “This is the
proper time for you to hear it, I think--now--to-night--”
He lifted his blazing eyes and looked at the other man.
“There was a woman,” he said--“She happened to be my wife. Also there
was my closest friend: and myself. The comedy was cast. Afterward
she died--abroad. I believe he was there at the time--Kept up a
semblance--But he never married her.... And I do not intend to
marry--you.”
After a moment: “And that,” she whispered, “is why you once said to me
that I should have let you alone.”
“Did I say that to you?”
“Yes.” She looked up at him, straight into his eyes: “But if you care
for me--I do not regret that I did not let you alone.”
“I shall not marry you.”
Her lip trembled but she smiled.
“That is nothing new to me,” she said. “Only one man has offered that.”
“Why didn’t you take him?” he asked, with an ugly laugh.
“I couldn’t. I cared for you.”
“And now,” he said, “are you afraid of me?”
“Yes--a little.”
He leaned forward suddenly, “You’d better steer clear of me!” Her
startled eyes beheld in him a change as swift as his words.
“Fair warning!” he added: “look out for yourself.” Everything that was
brutal in him; everything ruthless and violent had marred his features
so that all in a moment the mouth had grown ugly and a hard, bruised
look stamped the pallid muscles of his features and twitched at them.
“You’re taking chances from now on,” he said. “I told you once to let me
alone. You’d better do it now. And--” he stared at the distant man--“I
told you that hate is more vital than love. It is. I’ve waited a long
time to strike. Even now it isn’t in me to do it as I have meant to
do it. And so I tell you to keep away from me; and I’ll strike in the
old-fashioned way, and end it--to-night.”
Stunned by his sudden and dreadful metamorphosis, her ears ringing with
his disjointed incoherencies, she rose, scarcely knowing what she was
doing, scarcely conscious that he was beside her, moving lightly and in
silence out into the brilliant darkness of the streets.
It was only at her own door that he spoke again: standing there on the
shabby steps of her boarding-house, the light from the transom yellowing
his ghastly face.
“Something snapped”--he passed an unsteady hand across his eyes;--“I
care very deeply for you. I--they’ll make over to you--what I have. You
can study on it--live on it, modestly--”
“W-what is the matter? Are you ill?” she stammered, white and
frightened.
But he only muttered that she had her warning and that she should keep
away from him, and that it would not be long before she should have an
opportunity in life. And he went his way not looking back.
When he reached his studio the hall was dark. As he turned the key he
thought he heard something stirring in the shadows, but went in--leaving
the door into the hallway open--and straight on across the room to his
desk.
He was putting something into his coat pocket, and his back was still
turned to the open door when Graylock stepped quietly across the
threshold; and Drene heard him, but closed his desk, leisurely, and
then, as leisurely, turned, knowing who had entered.
And so they stood alone together after many years.
V
Graylock looked at Drene’s heavily sagging pocket and knew what was in
it. A sudden sweat chilled his temples, but he said steadily enough:
“I’d like to say a word or two--if you’ll give me time.” And, as Drene
made no reply;--“You’re quite right: This business of ours should be
finished one way or another. I can’t stand it any longer.”
“In that case,” remarked Drene with an evil stare at him, “I may
postpone it--to find out how much you can stand.” He dropped his right
hand into the sagging pocket, looking intently at Graylock all the
while:
“What do you want here anyway?”
“I fancy that you have already guessed.”
“Maybe. All the same, what do you want?”--fumbling with his bulging
pocket for a moment and then remaining motionless.
Graylock’s worn eyes rested on the outline of the shrouded weapon: he
stood eyeing it absently for a moment, then seated himself on the sofa,
his heavy eyes shifting from one object to another.
But there were few objects to be seen in that silent place;--a star
overhead glimmering through the high expanse of glass above;--otherwise
gray monotony of wall, a clay shape or two swathed in wet clothes, a
narrow ring of lamp light, and formless shadow.
“It’s a long time, Drene.”
Drene mused in silence, now and then watching the other obliquely.
Presently he withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket, pulled an
armchair toward him and seated himself.
“It’s many years,” repeated Graylock. “I expected you to do something
before this.”
“Were you uneasy?” sneered Drene. Then he shrugged, knowing that
Graylock was no coward, sorry he had intimated as much, like a man who
deals a premature and useless blow.
He sat brooding for a while, his lean dangerous head lowered sideways as
though listening; his oblique glance always covering Graylock.
“I suppose you’ll be surprised when I tell you one reason that I came
here,” said Graylock.
“Do you suppose you can still surprise me by anything you may say or
do?”
The man remained silent, sitting with his hands tightly clasped on his
knees.
“Drene,” he said, in a low voice, “don’t strike at me through this young
girl.”
Drene began to laugh, unpleasantly.
“Are you in love with her?”
“Yes.... You know it.”
Drene said, still laughing: “It’s the common rumor. You may imagine it
amuses your friends--if you have any left.”
Graylock spoke in a voice that had a ghostly sound in the great room:
“Don’t harm her, Drene. It is not necessary. I shall never see her
again--if that will content you.”
Drene laughed: “I never saw my wife again. Did that help me? I never saw
her again, but as long as she lived I knew what she was ... My wife. And
when she died, still my wife. There was no relief--no relief.”
Graylock, deathly white, framed his haggard face between his hands and
stared at nothing:
“I know,” he said. “I understand now. I am here to-night to pay the
reckoning.”
“You can’t pay it.”
“No, not the whole score. There’s another bill, I suppose, waiting for
me--somewhere. But I can settle my indebtedness to you--”
“How?”
“That’s up to you, Drene.”
“How?” repeated Drene, violently.
Graylock made a slight gesture with his head toward Drene’s sagging
pocket: “That way if you like. Or,” he added, “There is a harder
punishment.”
“What is it?”
“To give her up.”
“Yes,” said Drene, “that is harder. But I can make it even harder than
that. I can make it as hard for you as you made it for me. I can let you
live through it.”
He laughed, fisted in his pocket, drew out the lumpy automatic and
leisurely pushed the lever to “safe.”
He said: “To kill you would be like opening the cell door for a lifer.
You know what you are while you’re alive; maybe you’d forget if you were
dead. I--”
He ceased, fiddling absently with the dull-colored weapon on his knee;
and for a while they remained silent, not looking at each other. And
when Drene spoke again he was still intent upon the automatic.
“If I knew what happens after a man dies I could act intelligently.” He
shot an ugly look at Graylock: “I don’t know about you, either. You’re a
rat. But you might fool me at that. You might be repentant. And in that
case you’d get away--if it’s true that the eleventh hour is not too
late.... If it’s true that Christ is merciful.... So I’ll take no
chances of a getaway. You might fool me--one way or another--if you were
dead.”
Graylock lifted his head from his hands: “I don’t know how much of the
other debt I’ve already paid, Drene. But I’ve paid heavily since I knew
her--if that is any satisfaction to you. And since I knew she cared for
you, and when I realized that you meant to strike me through her--I have
paid, heavily.... Yet, if you were honestly in love with her--”
“Is that any of your damned business?”
“She’s only a child--”
“You rat! That’s what’s coming to you!”
“If you say so. But what is coming to her, Drene?”
“Continue to guess. But I know you. It’s yourself you’re sorry for and
what you’ll have to endure--live through. That’s what you can’t stand,
and remain the sleek, self-satisfied rat you are. No, it will make earth
a living hell for you; never a second, day or night, will you be able
to forget--if you really do love her.... And I believe you do--I don’t
understand how a thing like you can love--but it seems it can.”
After a silence Graylock said: “You don’t care if you damn yourself?”
“It’s worth it to me.”
“Are you willing that I should know you are as great a blackguard as I
am?” Drene’s gaunt features reddened and he set his jaws in silence.
“Don’t you care what you do to her?” asked Graylock, unsteadily. “It’s a
viler business than that for which you are punishing me.”
For a long time Drene sat there looking down at the weapon on his knees.
And after a while, the other man spoke huskily: “It’s bad enough either
way for me, Drene. I’ll do what you wish in the matter. I’ll leave
the country; I’ll stay; whichever you say. Or,” he said with a ghastly
smile, “I’ll clean out that automatic for you to-night--if you’ll marry
her.”
Drene looked up, slowly:
“What did you say?”
“I said that I’d clean out your automatic for you--to-night--if you
wish.... It can be an accident or not, just as you say.”
“Where?”
“In my own rooms--if it is to be an accident.”
“Do you offer--”
“Yes; if you’ll marry her afterwards. If you say you will I’ll take your
word.”
“And then you’ll be out of your misery, you damned coward!”
“God knows.... But I think not,” said Graylock, under his breath.
Drene twisted the automatic, rose and continued to twirl it,
considering. Presently he began to pace the floor, no longer noticing
the other man. Once his promenade brought him up facing the wall where a
calendar hung.
He stood for a while looking at it absently. After a few moments he
stepped nearer, detached the sheet for the present month, then one by
one tore off the remaining sheets until he came to the month marked
December, Graylock watching him all the while.
“I think it happened on Christmas,” remarked Drene turning toward the
other and laying a finger on the number 25 printed in red.
Graylock’s head bent slightly.
“Very well. Suppose about eleven o’clock on Christmas night you give
your automatic a thorough cleaning.
“If you say so.”
“You have one?”
“I shall buy one.”
“Didn’t you come here armed?”
“No.”
Drene looked at him very intently. But Graylock had never been a liar.
After a few moments he went over to his desk, replaced the weapon under
the papers, and, still busy, said over his shoulder:
“All right. You can go.”