leaned far out of the window. A wave of heat came up to him from the
earth. His eyes stared intently at the window opposite.
The door behind him was thrown open. He turned to see Ellen's tall, not
ungraceful, figure standing in the doorway. Her two hands grasped the
bowl of a lighted lamp.
"I don't need that."
Jasper Wald told it to her impatiently.
She came a step into the room.
"It's dark in here, Jasper."
"But I don't need any more light, Ellen. I don't need it, I tell you!"
"It's dark in here, Jasper."
"All right, then; put the thing down. I can't take up my time arguing
with you. How can a man write in a place like this, anyway? Have you no
consideration? Must I always be disturbed? Have you no respect for
genius?"
She came a step further toward the center of the room.
"Genius,--Jasper?"
"My genius, Ellen. Mine."
He watched her cross the room with that odd, sinuous moving of hers and
place the lamp in the center of his desk. And then he saw her go to a
chair within its light and, sitting down, pick up some sewing which she
had left there.
He went back and sat at his desk.
He had made up his mind that this new book of his would be something
big; something bigger than he had ever done before. He wanted to write a
stupendous thing.
He caught up his pen and dipped it in the ink.
She startled him with a quick cough.
"Can't you be still?" He turned toward her. "You know I can't write if
I'm bothered. You don't have to sit in here if you're going to cough
your head off. There're plenty of other rooms in the house."
She half rose from her chair.
"D'you want me to go?"
"Oh, sit there," he muttered irritably. "Only, for heaven's sake be
still!"
"Yes, Jasper."
All of his books had brought him fame; but this one; this one would
bring him fame with something else. This book would be the great work
that would show to people the staggering power of one man's mind; his
mind.
His eyes that stared at the window of the house opposite came back to be
pile of blank paper which made a white patch on the dark wood before
him.
Without any definite idea he began to write. A word. A sentence. A
paragraph.
He tore the thing up without stopping to read it.
Ellen's dull-toned voice came to him through the stillness of the room.
"Anything wrong, Jasper?"
"Wrong? What should be wrong?"
"I don't know."
He began to write again.
He looked out of his window at the window of the house opposite.
He went on with his writing till he had covered the whole page. Again he
tore the paper up and threw it from him.
"I'm going, Jasper."
He turned to see her standing in the center of the room, her heavily
lidded eyes fixed on the floor.
"I told you you could stay here!"
"I'd best be going, Jasper."
"Sit down, over there; and do be still."
"I seem to bother you. You haven't started to write. Is it because I'm
here, Jasper?"
"You!" He snorted contemptuously. "What've you got to do with it?"
"I don't know," she said quietly, and she went back to her chair.
Again his eyes were fixed on that one window. He leaned forward quickly.
His hands gripped the chair's arms on either side of him. His brows drew
down together above the bulging blue eyes.
Thrown on the clear blank of the window blind, moving to and fro across
it, went the shadow.
With a sharp sigh of relief Jasper Wald began to write.
It was not until he had gotten far down the page that he became suddenly
conscious of Ellen standing directly behind him.
He looked over at the window. The shadow was still there.
"What is it? What d'you want?"
The lamplight brought out her features, good and very regular and still
somewhat nondescript. The lamplight showed her strange green eyes and
beneath the heavy lids the lamplight brought out in a glinting streak
the expression of the eyes themselves.
"What made you do that, Jasper?"
"I'm trying to write. You keep interrupting me. What are you talking
about? Made me do what?"
"Made you write, Jasper."
"Don't I always write?"
"Yes, Jasper. Always. All of a sudden--; like that."
"Well, what of it?"
"What makes you do it, Jasper?"
"Oh, Lord, can't you leave me alone?"
"D'you know what makes you do it, Jasper?"
"Of course I know."
"Well, what?"
"My--it's my inspiration!"
"That comes"; she spoke slowly. "Every night when you look out of the
window. That's how it comes, Jasper."
"Look out of the window? Why shouldn't I look out of the window?"
"What is it you see? Over there; in that house; in that one window?"
He looked across the way at the shadow moving to and fro against the
window blind.
He started to his feet so suddenly that his chair crashed to the floor
behind him. He faced her angrily.
"What under the sun's the matter with you?"
"Nothing."
"Then why can't you leave me alone?"
"I want to know, Jasper."
"You don't know what you want."
"Yes, Jasper; I--want--to--know--"
"Leave the room," he said furiously. "Leave the room! I've got to
write!"
She started for the door.
"You've got to write?" Her words came back to him across the length of
the room with a curious insistence. "_You've_--got--to--write, Jasper?"
He waited until the door closed behind her and then he went back to his
desk.
What had she meant by that last question of hers? Didn't she know that
he had to write? Didn't she realize that he had to write?
And this book of his; this book that was to be the biggest thing that he
had yet done.
"Ellen," he called. "Ellen!"
He heard her feet coming toward him along the passageway.
She came back into the room as though nothing had happened.
"Yes, Jasper?"
"What--what did you mean by that, Ellen? By what you just said?"
She faced him in the center of the room.
"I've been wanting to tell you, Jasper."
"Well?"
Her hands hung quite quietly at her sides.
"I've put up with you for a long time, Jasper. I haven't said very much,
you know."
"What?" He stuttered.
"Oh, yes," she went on evenly. "If it weren't for your vanity you'd have
realized long ago what a contemptible little man you really are."
He interrupted her.
"Ellen!"
His tone was astonished.
"You're so full of yourself that you can't see anything else. You're so
full of that genius--; of--yours--"
"You don't have to speak of that--; you can leave that out of it--;
you've nothing to do with it--; with my genius."
"Your genius." She laughed then. "It's your genius, Jasper, that has
nothing to do with you!"
"Nothing--to--do--with--me?"
"No, Jasper. I haven't been blind."
"Blind?"
"I've seen, Jasper; sitting here night after night in this room with
you; I've seen."
"What?"
"Over there--; in the house opposite."
"You mean--"
"And you can't write without it, Jasper! You couldn't write before and
you can't write now without it. It isn't you. It isn't you who writes.
It's something--something working through you. And you call it your own.
Jasper, you're a fool!"
"Ellen, how dare you!"
"Dare!"
She spoke the word disdainfully. He had never in his whole life seen her
this way; he had never thought to see her like this; but then, he had
never given Ellen much thought of any kind.
"It's you who're the fool." He was furious. "It's I who've always been
the brains; if you could you'd have hampered me with your stupidity. But
you couldn't. I shut you quite outside. I nurtured my own genius. If I'd
have left things to you, I'd have been down and out by now; and that's
all there is to it."
"No!" Her voice rang through the room. "I won't let you say that,
Jasper. I'll tell you the truth now. And take it or leave it as you
will. You won't be able to get away from it. Not if I tell you the
truth, Jasper. There'll be no getting away from it!"
"Truth--; about what?"
"You and your genius. I wouldn't have told you but it's no good going
on like this. I thought there was some hope for you; I couldn't think
any human being would be as self-satisfied, as disgustingly material as
you are. Why, if you have a soul, but you haven't, and I thought--God,
how I hoped!"
He started to speak. He could not find his voice.
She went on presently in that quiet, monotonous voice which had been
hers for so many years.
"You left me alone; I wouldn't have complained; I wouldn't complain now
if you had some excuse for it. It all made me different. There's no use
in telling you how; you couldn't understand. But I got to feeling things
I'd never felt before; and then I saw things. And after a while I found
I could bring those things to me. And that night, the first night we
moved in here--"
He interrupted her in spite of himself.
"What of that night? What?"
"That night when you were standing there at the window I got down on my
knees and prayed. I brought something to you that night. And you called
the genius yours." She broke off and was silent for a second. "I brought
it to you because I wanted you to be great. I thought with all that
energy of yours for writing that if it could work through you, you'd be
big. But you were too small for it! You tried to make it a thing of your
own. And I've held on to it. For six years I've kept it here with you;
and now it's going. I'm letting it go back again. You're too small; you
can't ever be anything but just--you!"
He walked over to his desk, and sank down into the arm chair.
"I don't--know--what--you're--talking--about."
"You do! And if you don't, why do you look out of the window there every
night? Why d'you wait for it to come, before you start to write?"
His exclamation was involuntary.
"The shadow!"
"Yes. Its shadow--; from this room where I kept
it--casting--over--there--its--shadow."
So that was what she meant. The superstition-fostered thing that
epitomized his genius to himself. The shadow that he had come to look
upon as a sign of luck. But it was nonsense. It wasn't possible; not
such rot as that. It was his mind; the big creative mind of him that
wrote.
"Have you said all you're going to say?"
For a second her gaze met his and then the heavy lids came down again
over those strange green eyes, hiding all expression.
"Yes, Jasper."
He looked out of the window. His eyes stared through the night beyond
the two shadowy, drooping willow trees on either side of the wicker gate
and over at the house opposite. He caught his breath. The yellow light
from the lamp on his desk played across the clear blank of the window
blind across the way. The shadow had gone.
"Ellen--" His voice was hoarse. "Ellen!"
"What is it?"
"It's not there, Ellen--; six years; now--; why, Ellen--"
She went and sat down in the chair beside the desk.
"Yes."
"It isn't there! I tell you--"
"I thought it could make no difference to you!"
"It was--lucky--Ellen."
"Oh, lucky, Jasper?"
He made an effort to pull himself together.
"It won't make any difference to me--not to my writing; not to my
genius."
After the silence of a moment her voice came to him in its low even
measure.
"Then--; write!"
"Of course." His tone was high pitched, hysterical. "Naturally I'll
write."
"Write, Jasper."
He caught up his pen and dipped it in the ink. He drew the white pile of
paper nearer to him.
"Jasper--"
"How can I work if you don't stop talking? How can I do anything? How
can I write?"
"Are--you--writing--Jasper? Are--you--?"
He did not answer her.
"Because;" she went on very quietly. "It's gone back, Jasper.
It's--gone--now--"
His pen went to and fro; to and fro across the page. His figure was bent
well over the desk. Every now and again, without moving, his bulging
blue eyes would lift themselves to the clear blank blind of the window
opposite and then they would come back and fix themselves intently upon
the white page of paper which he was so busily covering with stupid,
meaningless little drawings.
THE EFFIGY
"Mr. Evans is upstairs in the library, ma'am."
Genevieve Evans hurried through the hall and up the steps. She pulled
off her gloves as she went. She rolled them into a hard, small ball and
tucked them automatically in her muff.
She had hoped that she would get there before him. She had been thinking
of that all during the quick rush home. She would have liked to have had
a moment to pull herself together. After what she had been through she
wondered if she could keep from going all to pieces. It could not be
helped. She did not even know if she cared a lot about it. She was quite
numbed. He was there ahead of her; there in the library. Of all the
rooms in the house that he should have chosen the one so rarely used.
The room she hated.
At the door of the library she paused breathless.
For a second she thought the long dark room empty.
Then she saw Ernest.
He was standing in one of the deep windows. A short squat figure black
against the dim yellow of the velvet curtains. One hand held his
cigarette; the fingers of the other hand tapped unevenly on the window
glass.
She knew then that he must have seen her come into the house.
"Ernest."
He turned.
"I've been waiting for you," he told her with studied indifference.
"Where've you been, Jenny?"
She took a step into the room.
"I'm sorry, Ernest. I didn't know you'd be home so early."
"It's late. Where've you been?"
She wondered why she should bother avoiding answering his question.
"Oh--out."
Her tone was vague.
"No," he scoffed. "I wouldn't have guessed it. Really, I wouldn't!"
She loosened the fur from her neck and tossed it onto the center table.
"Don't, Ernest."
"Don't what, Jenny?"
She sank down into the depths of the nearest chair.
"Oh--nothing." Her hands clinched themselves. "Nothing."
He came and stood quite close to her. He glanced quickly at her, puffing
the while at his cigarette. She thought he looked wicked and pagan;
hideous and yellow behind the rising smoke. His narrow eyes peered at
her.
"Well, Jenny--out with it, my girl. Where've you been?"
She looked away from him. Her face was pale. In the twilight shadowed
room he had seen how wide and strange her eyes were.
She made up her mind then that it was not worth bothering about. She
would tell him the truth. She did not care how he took it.
"I've been to see--; to--see--father--"
She whispered the words. Her eyes wavered back to his face.
"Good heavens!" He laughed harshly. "After all you said?"
"Yes."
"Rather a joke, that."
"No. There wasn't anything funny about it."
"Well. Was the old man surprised?"
"No. He told me he knew I'd come--some time."
"Wise old beggar, Daniel Drare!"
Her breath came quickly; unevenly.
"He's a devil, Ernest! That's what he is--; he's--"
He interrupted her.
"Not so fast, Jenny. You went there to see him, you know."
"But, Ernest, I couldn't stand it any longer. I--simply--couldn't--"
He walked deliberately over to the screened fireplace and tossed his
cigarette into it.
"Why d'you go to him?"
"You know why I went."
"Why!"
She had felt right along that he must be made to understand it. She
could not see why he had not known before.
"Oh, don't pretend any more. I'm sick of it. You know I'm sick of it."
His brows drew together in an angry frown.
"Sick of what? Eh, Jenny?"
Her eyes crept away from his and went miserably about the room. They
took no note of the rare old furniture; of the dark paneled walls; of
the color mellowed tapestries. She sat looking at it all blindly. Then
her eyes raised themselves a bit. She found herself staring at the
picture hung just above the wood carved mantel. The famous picture. The
work of the great artist. The picture before which she had stood and
hated; and hated. The picture which was the pride and portrait of her
father, Daniel Drare.
She got to her feet.
"I'm sick of you--;" she said it quite calmly. "And--I'm sick--of--him."
She nodded her head in the direction of the portrait. "I'd do anything
to get away from both of you--anything!"
He smiled.
"You'll not get away from me," he told her.
"You--!" The one word was contemptuous. "You don't really count."
"What d'you mean?"
He still smiled.
"I mean what I say." Her voice was tired. "You're nothing--; nothing
but--oh, a kind of a henchman to him. That's all you are. Not that he
needs you. He doesn't need any one. He's too unscrupulously powerful for
that. He's never needed any one. Not you. Nor--me. He didn't even need
my mother. He broke her heart and let her die because he didn't need
her. I think you know he's like that. You're no different where he's
concerned than the others."
"After all--I'm your husband!"
"That's the ghastly part of it. You--my--husband. You're only my husband
because of him. You knew that when I married you, didn't you? You knew
the lies he told me when he wanted me to marry you. You never
contradicted them. And I was too silly, too young to know. I wanted to
get away from it all; and from him. I couldn't guess that you--d'you
think, Ernest, if it hadn't been for those lies I'd have married you? Do
you?"
"Oh, I don't know. I usually get what I want, Jenny."
"And why do you get it? Why?"
"Perhaps because I want it."
She laughed harshly.
"Because Daniel Drare gets it for you. Because he's had everything all
his life. Because he's behind you for the time being. That's why!"
"And what if it is?"
"My God!" She muttered. "I can't make you understand. I can't even talk
to either of you."
"You went to see him!"
"I went to him to tell him I couldn't stand it any longer. I begged him
to help me; just--this--once--I told him I couldn't go on this way. I
told him I couldn't bear any more. I told him the truth; that I'd--I'd
go mad."
"What did he say? Eh, Jenny?"
For a second her eyes closed.
"He laughed. Laughed--"
"Of course!"
"There's no 'of course' about it. I'm serious. Deadly serious."
"Don't be a fool, Jenny. If you ask me I'd say you were mighty well off.
Your father gives you everything you want. Your husband gives you
everything you want. There isn't a man in the whole city who has more
power than Daniel Drare. Or more money for that matter. You ought to be
jolly well satisfied."
She waited a full moment before speaking.
"Maybe I'm a fool, Ernest. Maybe I am. A weak, helpless kind of a fool.
But I'm not happy, Ernest. I can't go this kind of a life any more. It's
gotten unreal and horrible. And the kind of things you do to make money;
the kind of things you're proud of. They prey on me, Ernest. There's
nothing about all this that's clean. It's making me ill; the rottenness
of this sort of living. I'm not happy. Doesn't that mean anything to
you?"
"Nonsense. You've no reason for not being happy. The trouble with you,
Jenny, is that you've too lively an imagination."
"Oh, no, Ernest. I've got to get away. Somewhere--anywhere. Just by
myself. I don't love you, Ernest. You don't really love me. It's only
because I'm Daniel Drare's daughter that you married me. It was just his
wealth and his power and--and is unscrupulous self that fascinated you."
"You don't know what you're saying."
"I do, I do, Ernest! You'd like to be like him. But you can't. You are
like him in a lot of ways. The little ways. But you're not big enough to
be really like him. Let me go, Ernest. Before it's too late;--let me
go!"
He came and put a hand on her shoulder.
"I'll never let you go," he said.
"You must!" She whispered. "You've got to let me. Just to get away from
all this. I've never been away in all my life. He'd never let me
go--either."
Unconsciously her eyes went up to the picture.
The full, red face with the hard lines in it. The thick, sensual lips.
The small, cunning eyes that laughed. The ponderous, heavy set of the
figure. The big, powerful hands.
His gaze followed after hers.
And very suddenly he left her side. He walked over to the mantel.
"Funny," he muttered to himself. "Jolly strange--that!"
Her fingers clutched at her breast.
"Ernest--! What're you doing?"
"Can you see anything wrong here, Jenny?"
He was looking up at the portrait.
"Wrong?" She said it beneath her breath. "Wrong--"
He reached up a hand. He drew his fingers across the canvas.
"By Jove!" His voice was excited. "So it is. Thought I wasn't crazy.
When could it have happened, eh? Ever notice this, Jenny?"
She could not take her eyes from his hand that was going over and over
the canvas along the arm of the painted figure.
"Can't you see it, Jenny?"
"I--I can't see anything."
She whispered it.
"Come over here--; where I am."
She hesitated.
"Ernest, what's the sense? How can you see in this light anyway, how--"
He did not let her finish.
"Come here!"
Slowly she went toward him.
"What is it, Ernest? What?"
"A crack?" His hand still worked across it. "In the paint--here along
the arm. Or a cut, or something. How under the sun could it have
happened? We've got to have it fixed somehow. Never heard of such a
thing before. Old Daniel Drare'll be as sore as a crab if ever he gets
wind of this. It'd be like hurting him to touch this portrait. He
certainly does think the world of it! How could it have
happened;--that's what I'd like to know."
"I--I don't know what you're talking about--I--!"
"Here! Can't you see it? It's as plain as the nose on your face. Along
the arm. It's a cut. Right into the canvas. You can run your finger in
it. Give me your hand."
She shrank back from him.
"No--no, Ernest."
He stared at her intently.
"You do look seedy. You'd better go up and lie down. I've got to dress
for dinner, anyway. We'll have to have this fixed."
He started for the door.
She blocked his way.
"Will--you--let--me--go, Ernest?"
"Don't start that again."
"All right. I won't!"
"That's a sensible girl, Jenny. Even your father had to laugh at you
when you told him the way you feel. It isn't natural. It's just nerves,
I guess. You could stick it out with Daniel Drare. You can stick it out
with me. Look here, Daniel Drare's a great old fellow, but I'm not as
crude in some things as he is; am I, Jenny?"
"You would be if you could." Her voice was singsong. "You haven't his
strength; that's all."
"I'm not as crude as he is."
"You haven't his strength," she droned.
"I've enough strength to keep you here; if that's what you mean."
"No, it's not what I mean." A puzzled look crept across her face. Her
eyes were suddenly furtive. "Maybe I don't know what I mean. But I don't
think it's you. I don't think you count. It's him. It's Daniel Drare!
He's behind it all. I don't think I quite know what I'll do about it. I
must do something! I mustn't be angry!"
He stared at her.
"You'd best come along if you're going to dress."
"I'll be up in a moment," she said.
When he was gone she went over to the window.
She stood there gazing out into the darkened quiet side-street. She was
trembling in every limb. Now and again she would half turn. Her eyes
would go slowly, warily toward the portrait hanging there over the
mantel and then they would hurry away again.
She started nervously when the butler knocked at the door.
"What is it, Williams?"
"Mr. Drare's housekeeper, ma'am. She'd like to see you, ma'am. I said
I'd ask."
"Show her in here, Williams."
The man left the room.
She walked over to the farther corner of the room and switched on the
lights.
She heard footsteps in the hall.
She stood quite still; waiting.
Footsteps--Nearer--
A middle-aged woman very plainly dressed was in the doorway.
"Miss Genevieve--"
"Nannie!"
"Miss Genevieve. I wouldn't have come; only I've got to tell you."
"What, Nannie? Come and sit down, Nannie."
The woman came into the room. For a second she paused, and then
hurriedly she closed the door behind her.
"No, Miss Genevieve. I'll not sit down. Thank you. I can't be staying
long. He might want me. I wouldn't like him to know I was here."
The muscles on either side of Genevieve Evans' mouth pulled and
twitched.
"So? You're frightened too, Nannie!"
She said the words to herself.
The woman heard her.
"That I am, Miss. And that I've got good reason to be; the same as you,
my poor Miss Genevieve."
"Yes, yes, Nannie. What was it you wanted?"
The woman stood quite rigid.
"You was there, Miss--this afternoon?"
"Yes--"
"Did you notice anything, Miss?"
She drew a deep breath.
"What d'you mean, Nannie? Nannie, what?"
"It's him, Miss. It was last night--"
The woman broke off.
"Yes, Nannie;" Genevieve Evans urged.
"I don't rightly know how to tell it to you, Miss. It's hard to find the
words to say it in. He'd kill me if he knew I come here and told you.
But you got to know. I can't keep it to myself. He's been fierce of
late. What with making so much more money. And the drinking, Miss. And
the women. The women, they're there all hours, now."
"My mother's house!" Genevieve Evans said it uncertainly.
"Yes, Miss," the woman went on. "And it was almost as bad when she
lived."
"I know, Nannie. I've always known!"
"But last night, Miss; after they'd gone. I was asleep, Miss Genevieve.
It woke me. It was awful. Plain horrid, Miss."
"What--Nannie?"
"The scream, Miss--A shriek of pain."