It was early in the evening, not yet eight o'clock, when Pat saw the
car of Nicholas Devine draw up before the house. She had already been
watching half an hour, sitting cross-legged in the deep window seat,
like her jade Buddha. That equivocal poem of his had disturbed her,
lent an added strength to the moods and doubts already implanted by
Magda's mystical tale, and it was with a feeling of trepidation that
she watched him emerge wearily from his vehicle and stare in indecision
first at her window and then at the Horker residence. The waning
daylight was still sufficient to delineate his worn features; she
could see them, pale, harried, but indubitably the mild features of her
own Nick.
While he hesitated, she darted to the door and out upon the porch. He
gave her a wan smile of greeting, advanced to the foot of the steps,
and halted there.
"The Doctor's not home yet," she called to him. He stood motionless
below her.
"Come up on the porch," she invited, as he made no move. She uttered
the words with a curious feeling of apprehension; for even as she ached
for his presence, the uncertain state of affairs was frightening. She
thought fearfully that what had happened before might happen again.
Still, there on the open porch, in practically full daylight, and for
so brief a time--Dr. Carl would be coming very shortly, she reasoned.
"I can't," said Nick, staring wistfully at her. "You know I can't."
"Why not?"
"I promised. You remember--I promised Dr. Horker I'd not see you except
in his presence."
"So you did," said Pat doubtfully. The promise offered escape from
a distressing situation, she thought, and yet--somehow, seeing Nick
standing pathetically there, she couldn't imagine anything harmful
emanating from him. There had been many and many evenings in his
company that had passed delightfully, enjoyably, safely. She felt a
wave of pity for him; after all, the affliction was his, most of the
suffering was his.
"We needn't take it so literally," she said almost reluctantly. "He'll
be home very soon now."
"I know," said Nick soberly, "but it was a promise, and besides, I'm
afraid."
"Never mind, Honey," she said, after a momentary hesitation. "Come up
and sit here on the steps, then--here beside me. We can talk just as
well as there on the settee."
He climbed the steps and seated himself, watching Pat with longing
eyes. He made no move to touch her, nor did she suggest a kiss.
"I read your poem, Honey," she said finally. "It worried me."
"I'm sorry, Pat. I couldn't sleep. I kept wandering around the house,
and at last I wrote it and took it out and mailed it. It was a vent, a
relief from the things I'd been thinking."
"What things, Honey?"
"A way, mostly," he answered gloomily, "of removing myself from your
life. A permanent way."
"Nick!"
"I didn't, as you see, Pat. I was too cowardly, I suppose. Or perhaps
it was because of this forlorn hope of ours. There's always hope, Pat;
even the condemned man with his foot on the step to the gallows feels
it."
"Nick dear!" she cried, her voice quavering in pity. "Nick, you mustn't
think of those things! It might weaken you--make it easier for _him_!"
"It can't. If it frightens _him_, I'm glad."
"Honey," she said soothingly, "we'll give Dr. Carl a chance. Promise me
you'll let him try, won't you?"
"Of course I will. Is there anything I'd refuse to promise you, Pat?
Even," he added bitterly, "when reason tells me it's a futile promise."
"Don't say it!" she urged fiercely. "We've got to help him. We've got
to believe--There he comes!" she finished with sudden relief.
The Doctor's car turned up the driveway beyond his residence. Pat saw
his face regarding them as he disappeared behind the building.
"Come on, Honey," she said. "Let's get at the business."
They moved slowly over to the Doctor's door, waiting there until his
ponderous footsteps sounded. A light flashed in the hall, and his broad
shadow filled the door for a moment before it opened.
"Come in," he rumbled jovially. "Fine evening we're spoiling, isn't it?"
"It could be," said Pat as they followed him into the library, "only
it'll probably rain some more."
"Hah!" snorted the Doctor, frowning at the mention of rain. "The course
was soft. Couldn't get any distance, and it added six strokes to my
score. At least six!"
Pat chuckled commiseratingly. "You ought to lay out a course in
Greenland," she suggested. "They say anyone can drive a ball a quarter
of a mile on smooth ice."
"Humph!" The Doctor waved toward a great, low chair. "Suppose you sit
over there, young man, and we'll get about our business. And don't look
so woe-begone about it."
Nick settled himself nervously in the designated chair; the Doctor
seated himself at a little distance to the side, and Pat sat tensely in
her usual place beside the hearth. She waited in strained impatience
for the black magic of psychoanalysis to commence.
"Now," said Horker, "I want you to keep quiet, Pat--if possible. And
you, young man, are to relax, compose yourself, get yourself into as
passive a state as possible. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," The youth leaned back in the great chair, closing his eyes.
"So! Now, think back to your childhood, your earliest memories. Let
your thoughts wander at random, and speak whatever comes to your mind."
Nick sat a moment in silence. "That's hard to do, sir," he said finally.
"Yes. It will take practice, weeks of it, perhaps. You'll have to
acquire the knack of it, but to do that, we'll have to start."
"Yes, sir." He sat with closed eyes. "My mother," he murmured, "was
kind. I remember her a little, just a little. She was very gentle, not
apt to blame me. She could understand. Made excuses to my father. He
was hard, not cruel--strict. Couldn't understand. Blamed me when I
wasn't to blame. Other did it. I wasn't mischievous, but got the blame.
Couldn't explain, he wouldn't believe me." He paused uncertainly.
"Go on," said Horker quietly, while Pat strained her ears to listen.
"Mrs. Stevens," he continued. "Governess after Mother died. Strict like
Father, got punished when I wasn't to blame. Just as bad after Father
died. Always blamed. Couldn't explain, nobody believed me. Other threw
cat in window, I had to go to bed. Put salt in bird seed, broke leg of
chair to make it fall. Punished--I couldn't explain." His voice droned
into silence; he opened his eyes. "That all," he said nervously.
"Good enough for the first time," said the Doctor briskly. "Wait a few
weeks; we'll have your life's history out of you. It takes practice."
"Is that all?" queried Pat in astonishment.
"All for the first time. Later we'll let him talk half an hour at a
stretch, but it takes practice, as I've mentioned. You run along home
now," he said to Nick.
"But it's early!" objected Pat.
"Early or not," said the Doctor, "I'm tired, and you two aren't to see
each other except here. You remember that."
Nick rose from his seat in the depths of the great chair. "Thank you,
sir," he said. "I don't know why, but I feel easier in your presence.
The--the struggle disappears while I'm here."
"Well," said Horker with a smile, "I like patients with confidence in
me. Good night."
At the door Nick paused, turning wistful eyes on Pat. "Good night," he
said, leaning to give her a light kiss. A rush of some emotion twisted
his features; he stared strangely at the girl. "I'd better go," he said
abruptly, and vanished through the door.
"Well?" said Pat questioningly, turning to the Doctor. "Did you learn
anything from that?"
"Not much," the other admitted, yawning. "However, the results bear out
my theory."
"How?"
"Did you notice how he harped on the undeserved punishment theme? He
was punished for another's mischief?"
"Yes. What of that?"
"Well, picture him as a timid, sensitive child, rather afraid of being
punished. Afraid, say, of being locked up in a dark closet. Now, when
he inadvertently commits a mischief, as all children do, he tries
desperately to divert the blame from himself. But there's no one else
to blame! So what does he do?"
"What?"
"He invents this _other_, the mischievous one, and blames him. And
now the other has grown to the proportions of a delusion, haunting
him, driving him to commit acts apart from his normal inclinations.
Understand? Because I'm off to bed whether you do or not."
"I understand all right," murmured Pat uncertainly as she moved to the
door. "But somehow, it doesn't sound reasonable."
"It will," said the Doctor. "Good night."
Pat wandered slowly down the steps and through the break in the hedge,
musing over Doctor Horker's expression of opinion. Then, according
to him, the devil was nothing more than an invention of Nick's mind,
the trick of a cowardly child to evade just punishment. She shook her
head; it didn't sound like Nick at all. For all his gentleness and
sensitivity, he wasn't the one to hide behind a fabrication. He wasn't
a coward; she was certain of that. And she was as sure as she could
ever be that he hated, feared, loathed this personality that afflicted
him; he _couldn't_ have created it.
She sighed, mounted the steps, and fumbled for her key. The sound
of a movement behind her brought a faint gasp of astonishment. She
turned to see a figure materializing from the shadows of the porch.
The light from the hall fell across its features, and she drew back as
she recognized Nicholas Devine--not the being she had just kissed good
night, but in the guise of her tormentor, the red-eyed demon!
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