A PLAIN QUESTION AND A WARNING
Douglas Jesson had his opportunity, accepted it and became one of the
elect. He passed on to the staff of the Courier, where his work was
spasmodic and of a leisurely character, but always valuable and
appreciated. His salary, which was liberal, seemed to him magnificent.
Besides, he had the opportunity of doing other work. All the magazines
were open to him, although he was tied down to write for no other
newspaper. The passionate effort of one night of misery had brought him
out for ever from amongst the purgatory of the unrecognised. For his
work was full of grit, often brilliant, never dull. Even Drexley, who
hated him, admitted it. Emily de Reuss was charmed.
Douglas's first visit was to Rice, whom he dragged out with him to
lunch, ordering such luxuries as were seldom asked for at Spargetti's.
They lingered over their cigarettes and talked much. Yet about Rice
there was a certain restraint, the more noticeable because of his host's
gaiety. Douglas, well-dressed, debonair, with a flower in his
buttonhole, and never a wrinkle upon his handsome face, was in no humour
for reservations. He filled his companion's glass brimful of wine, and
attacked him boldly.
"I want to know," he said, "what ails my philosophic friend. Out with
it, man. Has Drexley been more of a bear than usual, or has Spargetti
ceased his credit?"
"Neither," Rice answered, smiling. "Drexley is always a bear, and
Spargetti's credit is a thing which not one of the chosen has ever seen
the bottom of."
"Then what in the name of all that is unholy," Douglas asked, "ails
you?"
Rice lighted a cigarette, glanced around, and leaned over the table.
"You, my friend and host. You are upon my mind. I will confess."
Douglas nodded and waited. Rice seemed to find it not altogether easy
to continue. He dropped his voice. The question he asked was almost a
whisper.
"Is your name really Douglas Jesson--or is it Douglas Guest?"
Douglas gasped and clutched for a moment at the tablecloth. The room
was suddenly spinning round and round, the faces of the people were
shrouded in mist, his newly-acquired strength was all engrossed in a
desperate struggle against that sickening sensation of fainting. Rice's
voice seemed to come to him from a long way off.
"Drink your wine, man--quick."
Mechanically he obeyed. He set the glass down empty. Once more the
faces in the restaurant were clear, the mists had passed away. But the
keen joy of living no longer throbbed in his pulses.
"How did you know?" he asked, hoarsely.
"From the story you sent us," Rice answered. "At first you wrote on the
title-page Douglas Guest as the author. Then apparently you changed
your mind, crossed it out, and substituted Douglas Jesson, which we took
to be a nom-de-plume, especially as you gave us for your address
initials to a post-office."
"Did any one else see it?"
"Not unless Drexley did. He has never spoken to me about it."
Douglas drank more wine. He was unused to it, and the colour mounted to
his pale cheeks.
"You have asked me a question," he said, "and it is answered. What
else?"
"Nothing," Rice said slowly. "It is no concern of mine.
"You are not anxious, then," Douglas said, "to earn a hundred pounds
reward?"
"I think if I were you," Rice said, "I would get the Courier to send you
abroad. They would do it in a minute."
"Abroad?" Douglas looked across the table questioningly. It was a new
idea to him. "Yes. You could visit odd places and write impressions of
them. Yours is just the style for that sort of thing--quick and
nervous, you know, and lots of colour. People are rabid for anything of
that sort just now. Take my tip. Suggest it to Rawlinson."
"I think I will," Douglas said. "Yes, it is a good idea. I wonder--"
Rice leaned once more across the table.
"You wonder what the Countess de Reuss will say. Is that it?"
Douglas nodded.
"I should consult her, of course."
A rare seriousness fell upon Rice. The nonchalance, which was the most
pronounced of his mannerisms, had fallen away. It was a new man
speaking. One saw, as it were for the first time, that his hair was
grey, and that the lines on his face were deeply engraven.
"My young friend," he said, "I want you to listen to me. I am twice
your age. I have seen very much more of the world than you. Years ago
I had a friend--Silverton. He was about your age--clever, ambitious,
good-looking. He scored a small success--a poem, I think it was--and
some one took him one day to call on Emily de Reuss. I do not know
where he is now, but two months ago I met him in rags, far advanced in
consumption, an utter wreck bodily and mentally. Yet when I spoke one
word of her he struck me across the lips. To-day I suppose he is
dead--pauper's funeral and all that sort of thing, without a doubt. I
have taken his case first because he reminded me of you. He had come
from the north somewhere, and he was about your age. But he is only one
of a score. There is Drexley, a broken man. Once he wrote prose, which
of its sort was the best thing going. To-day he is absolutely
nerveless. He cannot write a line, and he is drinking heavily. That he
has not gone under altogether is simply because as yet he has not
received his final dismissal. He still has his uses, so he is allowed
to hang on a little longer. Now, Douglas Jesson, listen to one who
knows. What you are and who you are--well, no matter. I liked you when
we met here, and you have a splendid opportunity before you. Listen.
Emily de Reuss will care nothing for your safety. She will oppose your
going abroad. You are her latest plaything. She is not weary of you
yet, so she will not let you go. Be a man, and do the sensible thing.
Too many have been her victims. It may make your heart ache a little;
you may fancy yourself a little ungracious. Never mind. You will save
your life and your soul. Go abroad as soon as Rawlinson will send you."
Rice's words were too impressive to be disregarded altogether. They
stirred up in Douglas's mind a vague uneasiness, but his sense of
loyalty to the woman who had befriended him was unshaken. Rice was led
away by his feelings for his friend.
"Rice," he said, "I know you're speaking what you believe. I can't
quite accept it all. Never mind. I'll remember everything you've said.
I'm not quite a boy, you know, and I don't wear my heart upon my
sleeve."
"Hard to convince, as they all are," Rice said, with a wintry smile.
"Never mind. I'll do my best to save you. Listen to this. Do you know
why Drexley behaved so disgracefully to you about your story?"
Douglas looked up eagerly. The thing had always puzzled him.
"No. Why?"
"Because he had orders from Emily de Reuss to do so. She had given you
her address and bidden you go and see her. You never went. So she
wrote Drexley to give you no encouragement. It was your punishment.
You were to go to her."
"I don't believe it," Douglas declared hotly.
"Then you don't believe me," Rice said quietly, "for on my honour I tell
you that I have seen the letter."
Douglas leaned his head upon his hand.
"I'm sorry," he said, wearily. "I believe absolutely in you, but I
believe also in her. There must be some misunderstanding."
Rice rose up. Douglas had paid the bill long ago. A waiter, overcome
with the munificence of his tip, brought them their hats and preceded
them, smiling, to the door. They passed out into the street, and the
fresh air was grateful to them both. Rice passed his arm through his
companion's.
"I want you to give me just an hour," he said--"no more."
Douglas nodded, and they made their way through a maze of squares and
streets southwards. At last Rice stopped before a house in a terrace of
smoke-begrimed tenements, and led the way inside. They mounted flight
after flight of stairs, pausing at last before a door on the topmost
floor. Rice threw it open, and motioned his companion to follow him in.
It was a small chamber, bare and gaunt, without ornament or luxury,
without even comfort. The furniture was the poorest of its sort, the
scrap of carpet was eked out with linoleum from which the pattern had
long been worn. There was only one thing which could be said in its
favour--the room was clean. Rice leaned against the mantelpiece,
watching his companion's face.
"My friend," he said, "I have brought you here because I wanted you to
see my home. Shall I tell you why? Because it is exactly typical of my
life. Bare and empty, comfortless, with never a bright spot nor a ray
of hope. There is nothing here to dazzle you, is there? All that you
can remark in its favour is that it is tolerably clean--all in my life
that I can lay claim to is that I have managed to preserve a moderate
amount of self-respect. This is my life, my present and my future. I
wanted you to see it."
Douglas was puzzled. He scarcely knew what to say, but instinctively he
felt that Rice's purpose in bringing him here had not yet been
explained. So he waited.
"I have told you," Rice continued, "of Drexley and of poor young
Silverton. I have told you that there have been many others. I have
told you that she even tried to do you ill that you might be numbered
amongst her victims. Now I tell you what as yet I have told no man. I,
too, was once the most pitiful of her slaves."
"You?"
A sharp, staccato cry broke from Douglas's lips. He had not expected
this. Rice was suddenly an older man. The careless front he showed to
the world was gone. He was haggard, weary, elderly. It was a rare
moment with him.
"I made a brave start," he continued--"like you. Some one took me to
her house. I made an epigram that pleased her; I passed at once into
the circle of her intimates. She flattered me, dazzled me, fed my
ambition and my passion. I told her of the girl whom I loved, whom I
was engaged to marry. She was on the surface sympathetic; in reality
she never afterwards let pass an opportunity of making some scathing
remark as to the folly of a young man sacrificing a possibly brilliant
future for the commonplace joys of domesticity. I became even as the
rest. My head was turned; my letters to Alice became less frequent;
every penny of the money I was earning went to pay my tailor's bills,
and to keep pace with the life which, as her constant companion, I was
forced to live. All the while the girl who trusted me never complained,
but was breaking her heart. They sent for me--she was unwell. I had
promised to take Emily upon the river, and she declined to let me off.
I think that evening some premonition of the truth came to me. We saw a
child drowned--I watched Emily's face. She looked at the corpse without
a shudder, with frank and brutal curiosity. She had never seen anything
really dead,--it was quite interesting. Well, I hurried back to my
rooms, meaning to catch a night train into Devonshire. On the
mantelpiece was a telegram which had come early in the morning. Alice
was worse--their only hope was in my speedy coming. I dashed into a
hansom, but on the step another telegram was handed to me. Alice was
dead. I had not seen her for ten months, and she was dead."
There was an odd, strained silence. Douglas walked away to the window
and gazed with misty eyes over a wilderness of housetops. Rice's head
had fallen forward upon his arms. It was long before he spoke again.
When he did his tone was changed.
"For days I was stupefied. Then habit conquered. I went to her. I
hoped for sympathy--she laughed at me. It was for the best. Then I
told her truths, and she flung them back at me. I knew then what manner
of woman she was--without heart, vain, callous, soulless. It is the
sport of her life to play with, and cast aside when she is weary of
them, the men whom she thinks it worth while to make her slaves. A
murderess is a queen amongst the angels to her; it is the souls of men
she destroys, and laughs when she sees them sink down into hell. My
eyes were opened, but it was too late. I had lost the girl who loved
me, and whom I loved. I was head over ears in debt, my work had
suffered from constant attendance upon her, I lost my position, and
every chance I ever had in life went with it. I have become an ill-paid
hack, and even to-day I am not free from debt after years of struggling.
Douglas Jesson, I have never spoken of these things to any breathing
man, but every word is the gospel truth."
Then again there was a silence, for dismay had stolen into the heart of
the man who listened. For Douglas knew that the bonds were upon him
too, though they had lain upon his shoulders like silken threads. Rice
came over to him and laid his hand almost affectionately upon his arm.
"Douglas," he said, "you are man enough to strike a blow for your life.
You know that I have spoken truth to you."
"I know it."
"You will be your own man."
Douglas turned upon him with blazing eyes.
"Rice," he cried, "you are a brick. I'll do it. I'll go to her now."
He went out with a brief farewell. Rice sat down upon his one cane
chair, and folded his arms. The room seemed very empty.