A VISITOR FOR DOUGLAS JESSON
There followed for Douglas a period of much anxiety, days of fretful
restlessness, sleepless nights full of vague and shadowy dejection.
Emily de Reuss was ill, too ill to see him or any one. All callers
were denied. Daily he left flowers and messages for her--there was no
response save a repetition to him always of the doctor's peremptory
instructions. The Countess was to see no one, to receive no letters, to
be worried by no messages. Absolute quiet was necessary. Her nerves
had received a severe shock. Neither from the papers, in the
fashionable columns of which he read regretful accounts of her
indisposition, nor from the servants who answered his continual
inquiries, was there ever the slightest reference to the tragical nature
of it. It was obvious that she had recovered consciousness sufficiently
to lay her commands upon those few who must have known, and that they
had been faithful. Her illness was announced as due to a combination of
a fashionable malady and a severe nervous breakdown. Yet the memory of
that other thing was ever before him, the fierce, white face with the
blazing eyes pressed against the glass, the flash, the wreath of smoke,
the faint, exciting smell of gunpowder, and the spot of blood upon that
alabaster shoulder. It had been murder attempted at least. No
occupation could distract his thoughts from that. The horror of it
seemed ever chilling his veins. He longed to share his knowledge with
some one, to talk it over with her. Neither was possible. Solitude had
never oppressed him more. He grew daily more nervous and hysterical.
For he was all the while tormented by fears and suspicions which stalked
ever by his side, grim and ghostly phantoms. Those wan features and
dark, starving eyes had kindled within him from the first, a hideous
sense of familiarity--against which he fought indeed but ever vainly.
Once before he had seen them, and it was at the moment when his own life
had first come into touch with things tragical. Yet if his memory
served him truthfully, he was surely face to face with an insoluble
enigma. What had Emily de Reuss to do with such a man as this?
As the days passed by leaving the situation unchanged, he made a great
effort to put all these harrowing speculations away, to devote himself
once more to his work, which was beginning to weigh heavily upon him.
In a measure he was successful. He was able to perform such tasks as
fell to his lot during office hours with his usual exactitude, though
everything he wrote was marked at this time with a certain nervous
energy, which, without detracting from its literary value, was a sure
indication of his own mental state. But it was after the day's work was
over that his sufferings commenced in earnest. A vigorous distaste for
the society of his fellows asserted itself. Night after night, his
solitary dinner hastily snatched at an obscure restaurant, he spent
alone in his gaunt sitting-room, his work neglected, his face turned
westwards, his luminous eyes ever fascinated by the prospect which
stretched from the dark street beneath to the murky horizon. Night
after night his imagination peopled with shadows and spectres the great
city, whose lights cast a deep glow upon the brooding clouds, and whose
ceaseless roar of life seemed ever in his ears. Before him lay the
unwritten pages of his novel, through the open window came the sobbing
and wailing, the joy and excitement, the ever ringing chorus of life
which, if only he could interpret it, must make him famous for ever.
Night after night he listened, and drank it in greedily, thrilled
through all his senses by this near contact with the great throbbing
heart of the world. Yet his pen was idle. More than ever he realised
that he had a long apprenticeship to serve. There came a time when he
threw down his manuscript and wandered out into the streets. By such
means alone could he gain knowledge and the power of knowledge.
Emily de Reuss was still denied to him, Cicely seemed to have passed of
her own will entirely out of his life. In those days, either might
easily have obtained an empire over him, for he was in a keenly
impressionable stage of living, passing through one of those crises
which, in men of more experience, come earlier in life. He was full of
emotions struggling for expression--it seemed to him, at last, that in
solitude he would never find an outlet for them. If he had known where
to look he would have sought for Cicely at all risks. He even looked
for her nightly at the spot of their first meeting--but always in vain.
It was as though she had vanished into thin air. By chance he heard of
her at last. She had sent some work to Drexley which he had decided to
accept. He spoke warmly of it, but when Douglas asked for her address
he shook his head. It had come to him with the proviso of anonymous
publication, and his own secrecy as to her whereabouts. He was able to
tell Douglas nothing, refused even when he was pressed. Douglas left
him with an angry exclamation upon his lips.
His solitude became intolerable. One night he looked out his dress
clothes and dined at a large cosmopolitan restaurant, where men and
women of all sorts were gathered together. Then for the first time he
realised something of the tawdriness of this life of pleasure, which
seemed ever calling to him through the open windows of his lonely room.
He had a small table to himself, ordered his dinner with care, and drank
champagne to bring his spirits so far as possible into touch with the
general atmosphere. There was music playing all the while, and the
ripple of gay feminine voices fell constantly upon his ears. Women were
all around him, gaily dressed and bejewelled, a soft, voluptuous wave of
enjoyment seemed floating about the place, enfolding them all--save him.
For as he watched and listened his face grew darker and his heart
heavier. He felt himself out of place, outside the orbit of these
people, very little in sympathy with them. He looked at the woman
sitting at the next table, elegantly dressed, laden with jewels, whose
laughter was incessant and speeches pointless--her companion found her
interesting enough, but Douglas was conscious of nothing save her
restless desire to please, her little bursts of frivolous mirth and an
ugly twitch of her lips which every now and then revolted him. It was a
chance, perhaps, or a mood, which made him look out upon a scene,
ordinary enough and inoffensive, through dun-coloured spectacles. He
paid his bill and walked thoughtfully homeward, thankful for the cool
night air which fanned his forehead. He even entered his bare
sitting-room and threw up the window with a positive feeling of relief.
He brought out his work, lighted a cigarette and sat there smoking
thoughtfully. The match which kindled his lamp showed him a large
square envelope on his mantelpiece. He tore it open and drew out a
letter. It was from Emily.
He read it eagerly. Whatever its message, it seemed a relief to him
just then to know that his suspense was to be ended.
"My FRIEND,--I am suffering from a slight accident--you alone know the
nature of it--and from a shock, the nature of which you cannot
understand. I am better, but my doctor is an old woman. He insists
upon sending me away. I am going--never mind where. It may be that we
shall not meet again for some time. I want you to think of me, my dear
Douglas, as kindly as you can. It seems to me that I am a very
unfortunate woman. Those whom I would befriend usually end by regarding
me as their worst enemy. Do not you also lose faith in me. Some day I
shall return, and I hope to find you famous. Work at your novel,
dedicate it, if no one who has more right to such an honour has come
into your life, to me, and, whatever you do, remember that I am always
your friend and that your success will be as dear to me as to yourself.
"EMILY DE REUSS."
Precisely the moment when such a thought came to him, he could not say,
but before he had finished reading his attention was partially
distracted by a curious and instinctive conviction. He felt that he was
not alone--that the solitude of his chamber, high up in the building and
cut off, as it were, from the world, had been broken. He ceased
reading, and although he was no coward he could feel his heart beating.
He felt a strange reluctance to turn round. Then the silence was
broken. Close to his left ear sounded the click of a revolver, and a
man's voice came to him from out of the shadows.