THE LITTLE FIGURE IN BLACK
A season of intense depression, almost of melancholia, came to Douglas.
He grew more reserved than ever with his colleagues on the staff of the
Courier, who regretted his aloofness and would gladly have drawn him
into the ranks of their pleasant comradeship. He avoided the club,
where his absence was commented upon, and where he was in a fair way to
become a popular member. On the threshold of his ambitions, when the
way seemed fair before him, life had suddenly become distasteful. With
a fierce effort of concentration he continued to work at his novel,
which yet progressed but slowly. He spent much time sitting alone,
pondering upon subjects which, from such a standpoint as his present
one, seemed terrible enough. He had seen a good deal of the underneath
life of London, had himself suffered bitterly, and he began to think of
the city which now sheltered him as a city of lost souls drifting
onwards to a mysterious and awful goal. Though he had thrown away in
the moment of his revolt the shackles of his creed, the religious sense
was still strong in him. In those dark days it became almost a torment.
He felt that he too was going under. The springs of his ambition, his
lusty love of living and fighting grew weak, as physically his muscles
grew flaccid. He thought often of Strong--broken on the wheel, a
creature hopelessly lost. Was he drifting towards this? One night a
strange, sickly excitement came over him while he sat with the pen in
his hand. His head swam, and voices which he had almost forgotten rang
in his ears. Little specks of red fire danced before his eyes--he lost
hold upon his consciousness--he was doubtful even of his own identity.
He had become a unit, a lost unit, and for a moment or two he babbled
like a child. He set his teeth, walked swiftly up and down the room,
struggled and recovered himself. Yet he felt as though a dark wave had
broken over his head, and he were still amongst the tumbling waters. He
stood before the window and cried out a passionate prayer--to what God
he scarcely knew--yet it soothed him. He put on his hat hastily and
walked out into the streets.
Afterwards he knew that he had stood that night in deadly danger. A
wild craving to escape from himself and his solitude by some unusual
means, beat against the walls of his heart. So far in life, from early
boyhood to manhood, a vigorous love for things beautiful, an intense
self-respect, an Epicureanism half instinctive, half inculcated by his
country life and innate spirituality, had kept him from even the thought
of things evil. Yet to-night the mainspring of his life was out of
gear. It was distraction, instant and immediate, he craved for--of any
kind, almost at any cost. He walked blindly, and a curious sense of
irresponsibility possessed him. The lights of a little restaurant
flared in his face--he entered, and called for wine. He sat at a small
table with champagne before him, and the men and women who crowded the
place looked at him curiously. Doggedly he filled his glass and drank.
Some one came and spoke to him--from whom at another time he would have
turned away, kindly enough, but as from a leper. He shared his wine,
talked purposelessly, and listened. A luminous moment came, however; he
paid his bill, and walked firmly from the place. In the Strand the
church bells were ringing, for it was Sunday. He turned westwards and
walked rapidly towards Westminster.
Even in the porch he hesitated. Since he had left he had never entered
a church nor chapel. The sound of the organ came pealing out to
him--others were passing in, in a little stream; soon he, too, found
himself in one of the back seats.
* * * * *
Two hours later he walked out into the cool night air a new man, with
head erect, his brain clear, swept clean of many sickly phantoms. His
virility was renewed, he looked out once more upon life with eyes
militant and brave heart. He was full of the sense of having passed
through some purging and beneficent experience. It was not that his
religious belief or disbeliefs had been affected, or even quickened by
anything he had heard--yet, from first to last, those two hours had been
full of delight to him. The vast, dimly-lit building, with its imposing
array of statuary, shadowy figures of great statesmen, soldiers, and
priests seen by him then, as it chanced, for the first time, woke him at
once from his lethargy. Religion seemed brought in a single moment into
touch with the great things of life. There were men there who had been
creedless, but great; genius was honoured side by side with sanctity.
The rolling music, the pure, fresh voices of the boys appealed to his
sense of the beautiful, as those historical associations reawakened his
ambition. The white-robed priest, who stood in the centre of the great
building, yet whose voice without effort seemed able to penetrate to its
furthest corner, seemed both in his personal self and in his scholarly
diction exquisitely in accord with his great surroundings. Without a
manuscript, with scarcely a note, he stood there, calm and imposing, the
prototype of the modern priest, pleading against worldliness for the
sake of beauty and of God. With delicately chosen words and exquisite
imagery, the calm enthusiasm of the orator, always self-controlled and
sweetly convincing, seemed to Douglas like the transmutation of a
beautiful picture into a beautiful poem, instinct with life, vivid and
thrilling. He stayed till the sermon was over and the solemn words of
the benediction pronounced, till the deep, throbbing notes of the organ
rang down the emptying aisles. Then he walked out into the streets a
saner and a better man.
The life tingled in his veins as he walked slowly back into pagan
London. Here the great restaurants, brilliantly lighted, reminded him
that all day he had eaten nothing. He jumped into a hansom and was
driven to his rooms, kept the man while he changed his clothes, and
drove to Piccadilly. Here he entered a famous restaurant, known to him
only by name, found a small table and ordered his dinner with care. He
leaned back and looked out upon the throng with a kindly human interest.
He had the feeling of having returned once more into touch with his
kind. A faint smile was upon his lips, too long suppressed; as he ate
and drank, the heavy barrier which had come between him and the garden
of his imagination seemed to glide apart. He saw away into the future
of the life-story which he was writing. New images sprang up and the
old ones became once more pliant and supple. Difficulties fell away--a
singular clearness of perception seemed to come to him in those few
minutes. The joy of life was in his heart, the zest of it between his
teeth. He felt the unaccustomed colour in his cheeks, and an
acquaintance who paused to shake hands was astonished at his affability.
The gay music sounded strangely to his ears after the great organ notes,
but, in its way, it too was beautiful. Life was meant to be beautiful.
He had never before felt so sure of it.
The men and women who dine in public at the restaurant of the moment are
usually at their best. Douglas was astonished at the beauty of the
women, their dresses and jewellery, and the flowers with which their
tables were smothered. The gaiety of the place was infectious. He too
began to desire a companion. He thought of Emily de Reuss--how well she
would look at his table, with her matchless art of dressing and
wonderful pearls; he fancied, too, without vanity, that she would
approve of his companionship in his present mood. And from Emily de
Reuss his thoughts wandered on to Cicely. They were the only two women
who had ever held any place in his life. He contrasted them, and grew
thoughtful.
Later, he paid his bill, lighted a cigar and strolled homewards.
Already his brain was at work. The scenes of his story lay stretched
invitingly before him--it seemed that he would only have to take up his
pen and write until exhaustion came. He turned off the Strand, humming
softly to himself, so wrapt in his world of teeming fancies that he did
not notice the little figure in sober black, who looked eagerly into his
face as she approached. He would have passed on but for her timid word
of remonstrance.
"Douglas."
Then he stopped short. It was Cicely.