A TRAGIC INTERRUPTION
"So you see, my friend Douglas, we must dine alone. Try to look as
though the calamity were not so great."
The frown did not pass from Douglas's face, although he made the answer
which was expected of him. In a sense he felt that he had been trapped.
Opposite to him was Emily de Reuss in her favourite attitude, leaning a
little forward, her hands clasped around her right knee, rocking herself
backwards and forwards with a slow, rhythmical motion. She wore a gown
of vivid scarlet, soft yet brilliant in its colouring. Her arms and
shoulders were bare, and a string of pearls around the neck was her only
ornament. Dressed exactly as she now was, he had once told her with
honest and boyish frankness that she was the most beautiful woman he had
ever seen. That she, whose wardrobe was a miracle, and jewel-case the
envy of every woman in London, should have chosen to appear to-night in
precisely the same toilette, was at the same time an embarrassment and a
warning to him. The image of Drexley rose up, the sound of his
despairing warning seemed still in his ears. There was a colour in her
cheeks, a light in her eyes--subtle indications that his visit was a
thing looked forward to, no ordinary occasion. They were in one of the
smaller rooms; outside a round table was laid for dinner in the
palm-lined conservatory. Presently they sat there together; through the
glass was a dazzling view of blue sky, starlit and clear; within, a
vista of exotics, whose perfume hung heavy upon the air. Great palms
were above their heads, the silver waters of a fountain rose and fell a
few feet behind. They were served by a single servant in the de Reuss
liveries of grey and silver; everything on the table was daintily
fashioned and perfect of its sort. To Douglas, who at heart was
passionately fond of beautiful things, it seemed after his gloomy garret
a retaste of paradise. Champagne was served to them in a long glass jug
of Venetian workmanship, rendered cloudy by the ice, like frosted ware.
Emily herself filled his glass and pledged him a toast.
"To the novel," she cried. "May it be as successful in literature as
your other work has been in journalism! And Douglas, of course you've
dedicated it to me."
"I haven't imposed a dedication upon any one," he answered. "Aren't
they out of date?"
She shrugged her shoulders. Her elbows were both on the table, and she
leaned across towards him.
"Tell me about your story," she begged. "There is fruit coming, and
coffee. Let me fill your glass and you shall tell me of what things you
have written, evil or good, the things which are, or the things which
should be."
She raised the jug and the wine fell in a Little yellow shower into his
foaming glass. He raised it to his lips thoughtfully.
"It is wonderful," he said, "that you should be so interested."
"In the man or his story?"
"In either," he answered. "As a story-writer I am altogether unproven.
My novel may prove an utter failure."
She shook her head.
"You are not of the race of men who fail, my dear Douglas," she said.
"I think that that is why I like you.',
"I have been as near failure as any man can go," he said.
"It is over," she answered. "Now tell me of your story."
He told her its outline. She listened with slowly nodding head,
grasping every point quickly, electrically, sympathetically. His slight
awkwardness in speaking of his own work passed away. He expatiated, was
coherent and convincing. More than once she interrupted him. Her
insight was almost miraculous. She penetrated with perfect ease beneath
his words, analysed his motives with him, showed him a psychological
weakness in the workings of one of his characters. She was liberal with
her praise, called his characters by their christian names as though
they were old friends, suggested other moves across the chessboard of
his plot, until he felt that he and she, and those dear puppets of his
own creations, were denizens together of some fairy and ethereal world,
wandering through the fascinating maze of imaginative life. It was
almost an intoxication, this wonderfully stimulating contact with a mind
so receptive, so brilliant, so sympathetic. He forgot his garret,
Cicely, the drear past, the passionate warnings of Drexley and Rice. As
a weaver of stories he was in his first youth. He had peopled but few
worlds with those wonderfully precious creations--the children of the
brain. They were as dear to him as the offspring of his own flesh and
blood could ever be. Hitherto they had been the mysterious but
delightful companions of his solitude. There was a peculiar pleasure in
finding that another, too, could realise them. They seemed indeed to
pass, as they two sat there and talked of them, into an actual and
material existence, to have taken to themselves bodily shapes, the dear
servants of his will, delightful puppets of his own creation. The
colour mounted into his cheeks, and the fire of hot life flashed through
his pulses. He drank wine again, conscious only of a subtle and
quickening happiness, a delicious sense of full and musical life.
"You have given me a wonderful idea of your story," she murmured.
"Nothing has charmed me so much for a long while. Now the only thing
which I am curious about is the style."
"The style," he repeated. "I don't think I have ever thought of that."
"And yet," she said, "you must have modified your usual style. Your
journalistic work, I think, is wonderful--strong, full of life and
colour, lurid, biting, rivetting. Yet I doubt whether one could write a
novel like that."
"You can scarcely expect a hack journalist," he said, with a smile, "to
write with the elegance of a Walter Pater. Yet of course I have taken
pains--and there is a good deal of revision to be done."
She shook her head softly.
"Revision" she said, "never affects style. The swing of a good story is
never so good as in the first writing of it. Ah, here is Mr.
Anderson."
An elderly gentleman was ushered in to them. He carried his hat with
him, and had the appearance of a man in a hurry. He greeted Emily with
courtesy, Douglas with interest.
"I've looked in for a moment," he said; "carriage waiting at the
door--got to speak at the Institute of Journalists and catch the
midnight train home. So this is Mr. Jesson, eh?"
Douglas admitted the fact, and the newcomer eyed him keenly.
"Will you write me a London letter of a thousand words three times a
week for ten pounds?" he asked abruptly.
"Certainly, if you think I can send you what you want," Douglas answered
promptly.
"The Countess answers for it that you can. I've seen your work in the
Courier. It's exactly what I wish for--pithy, to the point, crisp and
interesting. Never be beguiled into a long sentence, abjure politics as
much as possible, and read other London letters that you may learn what
to avoid. I can't give you better advice than this."
"I'll try," Douglas declared, laughing.
The elderly gentleman picked up his hat, declined coffee vigorously, and
liqueurs scornfully.
"Ten pounds a week," he said, "three months notice either side, and no
work of the same sort for any other country paper. I'll be frank with
you. I shall sell the letters out, and make a profit on 'em. A dozen
newspapers'll take them. Good-night. Address here."
He laid down a card and disappeared. Douglas looked at his companion
and laughed. They sat upon a lounge placed back between the fountain
and the palms, and drank their coffee. Douglas lit a cigarette.
"Why, I'm a rich man," he exclaimed. "I suppose it's all right."
"Oh, it's quite genuine," she said, "but you ought to have asked more
money. Mr. Anderson is very odd, but he's honest and liberal, and a
great friend of mine.
"Ten pounds seemed such wealth," he said, with a sudden thought that his
days in a garret were over when he chose.
"It is very little," she repeated. "I could have got you more. Still
there are some other things I have in view for you."
A sudden wave of gratitude made him ashamed that he had ever for a
moment listened to Drexley the lunatic, and Rice, miserable croaker. He
held out his hand to her.
"I owe you so much," he said. "I shall never be half grateful enough."
She held his fingers--surely no woman's hand was ever so delicately
shaped, so soft, so electric. His fingers remained, only now they
enclosed hers.
"I do not want any word of thanks from you," she said. "Only I should
like you to remember that I have tried to do what little I could for
you."
Still their hands lingered together, and Douglas was thrilled through
all his senses by the touch of her fingers, and the soft, dark fire of
her eyes. He held his breath for a moment--the splashing of the
fountain alone broke a silence eloquent enough, so fascinating indeed
that he felt his breath tighten in his throat, and a sudden
overmastering desire to seize the embrace which some unspoken instinct
seemed to denote awaited him. Afterwards he always felt that if no
untoward thing had come then the story of his after life would surely
have been painted in other colours. But there came an interruption
altogether unexpected, marvellous, tragical. Their hands were still
joined, he had turned slightly towards her so that his eyes looked into
hers, they were face to face with one of those psychological crises
which, since the days of primitiveness, have made man's destiny and
woman's vocation. Ever afterwards a thought of that moment brought
thrilling recollections--there was the suspense, the footstep outside,
the crashing of a pistol shot through the glass. Douglas leaped to his
feet with a cry of horror. Emily had sunk back upon her seat, a red
spot upon one of her beautiful shoulders, her cheeks slowly paling into
unconsciousness. There was a smell of gunpowder in the air, a little
cloud of smoke hanging around, and he had one single photographic
glimpse of a man's face, haggard, unkempt, maniacal, pressed against the
broken pane of glass whence the shot had come. A moment afterwards,
when the place was full of servants, and one had run for a doctor, he
rushed outside, backwards and forwards like a madman, looking in the
shrubs, the arbour, behind seats, everywhere. But of the man who had
fired that shot there was no trace.