After a while he lighted one gas jet--after an instant's hesitation
another--
* * * * *
In the middle of the night, Lindsay suddenly found himself sitting
upright. His mouth was wide open, parched; his eyes were wide open,
staring.... A chilly prickling tingled along his scalp.... But the
strangest phenomenon was his heart, which, though swelled to an
incredible bulk, nimbly leaped, heavily pounded....
Lindsay recognized the motion which inundated him to be fear;
overpowering, shameless, abject fear. But of what? In the instant in
which he gave way to self-analysis, memory supplied him with a vague
impression. _Something_ had come to his bed and, leaning over, had
stared into his face--
That _something_ was not human.
Lindsay fought for control. By an initial feat of courage, his fumbling
fingers lighted a candle which stood on the tiny Sheraton table at his
bedside. On a second impulse, but only after an interval in which
consciously but desperately he grasped at his vanishing manhood, he
leaped out of bed; lighted the gas. Then carrying the lighted candle, he
went from one to another of the four rooms of the apartment. In each
room he lighted every gas jet until the place blazed. He searched it
thoroughly: dark corners and darker closets; jetty strata of shadow
under couches.
He was alone.
After a while he went back to bed. But his courage was not equal to
darkness again. Though ultimately he fell asleep, the gas blazed all
night.
* * * * *
Lindsay awoke rather jaded the next morning. He wandered from room to
room submitting to one slash of his razor at this mirror and to another
at that.
At one period of this process, "Rum nightmare I had last night!" he
remarked casually to the unresponsive air.
He cooked his own breakfast; piled up the dishes and settled himself to
his correspondence again. "This letter is getting to be a book, Spink,"
he began. "But I feel every moment as though I wanted to add more. I
slept on your proposition last night, but I don't feel any nearer a
decision. Quinanog and Lutetia tempt me; but then so does New York. By
the way, have you any pictures of Lutetia? I had one in my rooms at
Holworthy. Must be kicking around among my things. I cut it out of the
annual catalogue of your book-house. Photograph as I remember. She was
some pip. I'd like--"
He started suddenly, turned his head toward the doorway leading to the
back rooms. The doorway was empty. Lindsay arose from his chair,
sauntered in a leisurely manner through the rooms. He investigated
closets again. "Damn it all!" he muttered.
He resumed his letter. "You're right about writing my experiences now. I
had a long footless talk with some boobs last night, and it was curious
how things came back under their questions. I had quite forgotten them
temporarily, and of course I shall forget them for keeps if I don't
begin to put them down. I have a few scattered notes here and there. I
meant, of course, to keep a diary, but believe me, a man engaged in a
war is too busy for the pursuit of letters. But just as soon as I make
up my mind--"
Another interval. Absently Lindsay addressed an envelope. Spinney K.
Sparrel, Esq., Park Street, Boston; attacked the list of other
long-neglected correspondents. Suddenly his head jerked upward; pivoted
again. After an instant's observation of the empty doorway, he pulled
his face forward; resumed his work. Page after page slid onto the roller
of his machine, submitted to the tattoo of its little lettered teeth,
emerged neatly inscribed. Suddenly he leaped to his feet; swung about.
The doorway was empty.
"Who are you?" he interrogated the empty air, "and what do you want? If
you can tell me, speak--and I'll do anything in my power to help you.
But if you can't tell me, for God's sake go away!"
* * * * *
That night--it happened again. There came the same sudden start,
stricken, panting, perspiring, out of deep sleep; the same frantic
search of the apartment with all the lights burning; the same late,
broken drowse; the same jaded awakening.
As before, he set himself doggedly to work. And, as before, somewhere in
the middle of the morning, he wheeled about swiftly in his chair to
glare through the open doorway. "I wonder if I'm going nutty!" he
exclaimed aloud.
* * * * *
Three days went by. Lindsay's nights were so broken that he took long
naps in the afternoon. His days had turned into periods of idle revery.
The letter to Spink Sparrel was still unfinished. He worked
spasmodically at his typewriter: but he completed nothing. The third
night he started toward the Rochambeau with the intention of getting a
room. But halfway across the Park, he stopped and retraced his steps. "I
can't let you beat me!" he muttered audibly, after he arrived in the
empty apartment.
It did not beat him that night; for he stayed in the apartment until
dawn broke. But from midnight on, he lay with every light in the place
going. At sunrise, he dressed and went out for a walk. And the moment
the sounds of everyday life began to humanize the neighborhood, he
returned; sat down to his machine.
"Spink, old dear, my mind is made up. I accept! I'll do Lutetia for you;
and, by God, I'll do her well! I'm starting for Boston tomorrow night on
the midnight. I'll call at the office about noon and we'll go to
luncheon together. I'll dig out my thesis and books from storage, and if
you'll get all your dope and data together, I can go right to it. I'm
going to Quinanog tomorrow afternoon. I need a change. Everybody here
makes me tired. The pacifists make me wild and the militarists make me
wilder. Civilians is nuts when it comes to a war. The only person I can
talk about it with is somebody who's been there. And anybody who's been
there has the good sense not to want to talk about it. I don't ever want
to hear of that war again. Personally, I, David Lindsay, meaning me,
want to swing in a hammock on a pleasant, cool, vine-hung piazza; read
Lutetia at intervals and write some little pieces subsequent. Yours,
David."