"You are late this morning, Ernest," he remarked in his mildest manner."Have you been about town, or writing poetry? Both occupations areequally unhealthy." As he said this he watched the young man with theinscrutable smile that at moments was wont to curl upon his lips. Ernesthad once likened it to the smile of Mona Lisa, but now he detected in itthe suavity of the hypocrite and the leer of the criminal.
He could not endure it; he could not look upon that face any longer. Hisfeet almost gave way under him, cold sweat gathered on his brow, and hesank on a chair trembling and studiously avoiding the other man's gaze.
At last Reginald rose to go. It seemed impossible to accuse thissplendid impersonation of vigorous manhood of cunning and underhandmethods, of plagiarisms and of theft. As he stood there he resembledmore than anything a beautiful tiger-cat, a wonderful thing of strengthand will-power, indomitable and insatiate. Yet who could tell whetherthis strength was not, after all, parasitic. If Ethel's suspicions werejustified, then, indeed, more had been taken from him than he could everrealise. For in that case it was his life-blood that circled in thoseveins and the fire of his intellect that set those lips aflame!
XXVII
Reginald Clarke had hardly left the room when Ernest hastily rose fromhis seat. While it was likely that he would remain in undisturbedpossession of the apartment the whole morning, the stake at hand was toogreat to permit of delay.
Palpitating and a little uncertain, he entered the studio where,scarcely a year ago, Reginald Clarke had bidden him welcome. Nothing hadchanged there since then; only in Ernest's mind the room had assumed anaspect of evil. The Antinous was there and the Faun and the Christ-head.But their juxtaposition to-day partook of the nature of the blasphemous.The statues of Shakespeare and Balzac seemed to frown from theirpedestals as his fingers were running through Reginald's papers. Hebrushed against a semblance of Napoleon that was standing on thewriting-table, so that it toppled over and made a noise that weirdlyre-echoed in the silence of the room. At that moment a curious familyresemblance between Shakespeare, Balzac, Napoleon--and Reginald,forcibly impressed itself upon his mind. It was the indisputablesomething that marks those who are chosen to give ultimate expression tosome gigantic world-purpose. In Balzac's face it was diffused withkindliness, in that of Napoleon sheer brutality predominated. The imageof one who was said to be the richest man of the world also rose beforehis eyes. Perhaps it was only the play of his fevered imagination, buthe could have sworn that this man's features, too, bore the mark ofthose unoriginal, great absorptive minds who, for better or for worse,are born to rob and rule. They seemed to him monsters that know neitherjustice nor pity, only the law of their being, the law of growth.
Common weapons would not avail against such forces. Being one, they werestronger than armies; nor could they be overcome in single combat.Stealth, trickery, the outfit of the knave, were legitimate weapons insuch a fight. In this case the end justified the means, even if thelatter included burglary.
After a brief and fruitless search of the desk, he attempted to forceopen a secret drawer, the presence of which he had one day accidentallydiscovered. He tried a number of keys to no account, and was thinking ofgiving up his researches for the day until he had procured a skeletonkey, when at last the lock gave way.
The drawer disclosed a large file of manuscript. Ernest paused for amoment to draw breath. The paper rustled under his nervous fingers. Andthere--at last--his eyes lit upon a bulky bundle that bore this legend:"_Leontina_, A Novel."
It was true, then--all, his dream, Reginald's confession. And the housethat had opened its doors so kindly to him was the house of a Vampire!
Finally curiosity overcame his burning indignation. He attempted toread. The letters seemed to dance before his eyes--his hands trembled.
At last he succeeded. The words that had first rolled over like drunkensoldiers now marched before his vision in orderly sequence. He wasdelighted, then stunned. This was indeed authentic literature, therecould be no doubt about it. And it was his. He was still a poet, a greatpoet. He drew a deep breath. Sudden joy trembled in his heart. Thisstory set down by a foreign hand had grown chapter by chapter in hisbrain.
There were some slight changes--slight deviations from the originalplan. A defter hand than his had retouched it here and there, but forall that it remained his very own. It did not belong to that thief. Theblood welled to his cheek as he uttered this word that, applied toReginald, seemed almost sacrilegious.
He had nearly reached the last chapter when he heard steps in thehallway. Hurriedly he restored the manuscript to its place, closed thedrawer and left the room on tiptoe.
It was Reginald. But he did not come alone. Someone was speaking to him.The voice seemed familiar. Ernest could not make out what it said. Helistened intently and--was it possible? Jack? Surely he could not yethave come in response to his note! What mysterious power, what dimpresentiment of his friend's plight had led him hither? But why did helinger so long in Reginald's room, instead of hastening to greet him?Cautiously he drew nearer. This time he caught Jack's words:
"It would be very convenient and pleasant. Still, some way, I feel thatit is not right for me, of all men, to take his place here."
"That need not concern you," Reginald deliberately replied; "the dearboy expressed the desire to leave me within a fortnight. I think he willgo to some private sanitarium. His nerves are frightfully overstrained."
"This seems hardly surprising after the terrible attack he had when youread your play."
"That idea has since then developed into a monomania."
"I am awfully sorry for him. I cared for him much, perhaps too much. ButI always feared that he would come to such an end. Of late his lettershave been strangely unbalanced."
"You will find him very much changed. In fact, he is no longer thesame."
"No," said Jack, "he is no longer the friend I loved."
Ernest clutched for the wall. His face was contorted with intense agony.Each word was like a nail driven into his flesh. Crucified upon thecross of his own affection by the hand he loved, all white and tremblinghe stood there. Tears rushed to his eyes, but he could not weep.Dry-eyed he reached his room and threw himself upon his bed. Thus helay--uncomforted and alone.
XXVIII
Terrible as was his loneliness, a meeting with Jack would have been moreterrible. And, after all, it was true, a gulf had opened between them.
Ethel alone could bring solace to his soul. There was a great void inhis heart which only she could fill. He hungered for the touch of herhand. He longed for her presence strongly, as a wanton lusts forpleasure and as sad men crave death.
Noiselessly he stole to the door so as not to arouse the attention ofthe other two men, whose every whisper pierced his heart like a dagger.When he came to Ethel's home, he found that she had gone out for abreath of air. The servant ushered him into the parlor, and there hewaited, waited, waited for her.
Greatly calmed by his walk, he turned the details of Clarke'sconversation over in his mind, and the conviction grew upon him thatthe friend of his boyhood was not to blame for his course of action.Reginald probably had encircled Jack's soul with his demoniacalinfluence and singled him out for another victim. That must never be. Itwas his turn to save now. He would warn his friend of the danger thatthreatened him, even if his words should be spoken into the wind. ForReginald, with an ingenuity almost satanic, had already suggested thatthe delusion of former days had developed into a monomania, and anyattempt on his part to warn Jack would only seem to confirm this theory.In that case only one way was left open. He must plead with Reginaldhimself, confront at all risks that snatcher of souls. To-night he wouldnot fall asleep. He would keep his vigil. And if Reginald shouldapproach his room, if in some way he felt the direful presence, he mustspeak out, threaten if need be, to save his friend from ruin. He hadfully determined upon this course when a cry of joy from Ethel, who hadjust returned from her walk, interrupted his reverie. But her gladnesschanged to anxiety when
she saw how pale he was. Ernest recounted toher the happenings of the day, from the discovery of his novel inReginald's desk to the conversation which he had accidentally overheard.He noticed that her features brightened as he drew near the end of histale.
"Was your novel finished?" she suddenly asked.
"I think so."
"Then you are out of danger. He will want nothing else of you. But youshould have taken it with you."
"I had only sufficient presence of mind to slip it back into the drawer.To-morrow I shall simply demand it."
"You will do nothing of the kind. It is in his handwriting, and you haveno legal proof that it is yours. You must take it away secretly. And hewill not dare to reclaim it."
"And Jack?"
She had quite forgotten Jack. Women are invariably selfish for thosethey love.
"You must warn him," she replied.
"He would laugh at me. However, I must speak to Reginald."
"It is of no avail to speak to him. At least, you must not do so beforeyou have obtained the manuscript. It would unnecessarily jeopardise ourplans."
"And after?"
"After, perhaps. But you must not expose yourself to any danger."
"No, dear," he said, and kissed her; "what danger is there, provided Ikeep my wits about me? He steals upon men only in their sleep and in thedark."
"Be careful, nevertheless."
"I shall. In fact, I think he is not at home at this moment. If I go nowI may be able to get hold of the manuscript and hide it before hereturns."
"I cannot but tremble to think of you in that house."
"You shall have no more reason to tremble in a day or two."
"Shall I see you to-morrow?"
"I don't think so. I must go over my papers and things so as to be readyat any moment to leave the house."
"And then?"
"Then--"
He took her in his arms and looked long and deeply into her eyes.
"Yes," she replied--"at least, perhaps."
Then he turned to go, resolute and happy. How strangely he had maturedsince the summer! Her heart swelled with the consciousness that it washer love that had effected this transformation.
"As I cannot expect you to-morrow, I shall probably go to the opera, butI shall be at home before midnight. Will you call me up then? A wordfrom you will put me at ease for the night, even if it comes over thetelephone."
"I will call you up. We moderns have an advantage over the ancients inthis respect: the twentieth-century Pyramus can speak to Thisbe even ifinnumerable walls sever his body from hers."
"A quaint conceit! But let us hope that our love-story will end lesstragically," she said, tenderly caressing his hair. "Oh, we shall behappy, you and I," she added, after a while. "The iron finger of fatethat lay so heavily on our lives is now withdrawn. Almost withdrawn.Yes, almost. Only almost."
And then a sudden fear overcame her.
"No," she cried, "do not go, do not go! Stay with me; stay here. I feelso frightened. I don't know what comes over me. I am afraid--afraid foryou."
"No, dear," he rejoined, "you need not be afraid. In your heart youdon't want me to desert a friend, and, besides, leave the best part ofmy artistic life in Reginald's clutch."
"Why should you expose yourself to God knows what danger for a friendwho is ready to betray you?"
"You forget friendship is a gift. If it exacts payment in any form, itis no longer either friendship or a gift. And you yourself have assuredme that I have nothing to fear from Reginald. I have nothing to give tohim."
She rallied under his words and had regained her self-possession whenthe door closed behind him. He walked a few blocks very briskly. Thenhis pace slackened. Her words had unsettled him a little, and when hereached home he did not at once resume his exploration of Reginald'spapers. He had hardly lit a cigarette when, at an unusually early hour,he heard Reginald's key in the lock.
Quickly he turned the light out and in the semi-darkness, lit up by anelectric lantern below, barricaded the door as on the previous night.Then he went to bed without finding sleep.
Supreme silence reigned over the house. Even the elevator had ceased torun. Ernest's brain was all ear. He heard Reginald walking up and downin the studio. Not the smallest movement escaped his attention. Thushours passed. When the clock struck twelve, he was still walking up anddown, down and up, up and down.
One o'clock.
Still the measured beat of his footfall had not ceased. There wassomething hypnotic in the regular tread. Nature at last exacted its tollfrom the boy. He fell asleep.
Hardly had he closed his eyes when again that horrible nightmare--nolonger a nightmare--tormented him. Again he felt the pointed delicatefingers carefully feeling their way along the innumerable tangledthreads of nerve-matter that lead to the innermost recesses of self....
A subconscious something strove to arouse him, and he felt the fingerssoftly withdrawn.
He could have sworn that he heard the scurrying of feet in the room.Bathed in perspiration he made a leap for the electric light.
But there was no sign of any human presence. The barricade at the doorwas undisturbed. But fear like a great wind filled the wings of hissoul.
Yet there was nothing, nothing to warrant his conviction that ReginaldClarke had been with him only a few moments ago, plying his horribletrade. The large mirror above the fireplace only showed him his ownface, white, excited,--the face of a madman.
XXIX
The next morning's mail brought a letter from Ethel, a few lines ofencouragement and affection. Yes, she was right; it would not do for himto stay under one roof with Reginald any longer. He must only obtain themanuscript and, if possible, surprise him in the attempt to exercise hismysterious and criminal power. Then he would be in the position todictate terms and to demand Jack's safety as the price of his silence.
Reginald, however, had closeted himself that day in his studio busilywriting. Only the clatter of his typewriter announced his presence inthe house. There was no chance for conversation or for obtaining theprecious manuscript of "Leontina."
Meanwhile Ernest was looking over his papers and preparing everythingfor a quick departure. Glancing over old letters and notes, he becamereadily interested and hardly noticed the passage of the hours.
When the night came he only partly undressed and threw himself upon thebed. It was now ten. At twelve he had promised Ethel to speak to herover the telephone. He was determined not to sleep at all that night. Atlast he would discover whether or not on the previous and other nightsReginald had secretly entered his room.
When one hour had passed without incident, his attention relaxed alittle. His eyes were gradually closing when suddenly something seemedto stir at the door. The Chinese vase came rattling to the floor.
At once Ernest sprang up. His face had blanched with terror. It waswhiter than the linen in which they wrap the dead. But his soul wasresolute.
He touched a button and the electric light illuminated the wholechamber. There was no nook for even a shadow to hide. Yet there was noone to be seen. From without the door came no sound. Suddenly somethingsoft touched his foot. He gathered all his will power so as not tobreak out into a frenzied shriek. Then he laughed, not a hearty laugh,to be sure. A tiny nose and a tail gracefully curled were brushingagainst him. The source of the disturbance was a little Maltese cat, hisfavourite, that by some chance had remained in his room. After its essayat midnight gymnastics the animal quieted down and lay purring at thefoot of his bed.
The presence of a living thing was a certain comfort, and the reservoirof his strength was well nigh exhausted.
He dimly remembered his promise to Ethel, but his lids drooped withsheer weariness. Perhaps an hour passed in this way, when suddenly hisblood congealed with dread.
He felt the presence of the hand of ReginaldClarke--unmistakably--groping in his brain as if searching for somethingthat had still escaped him.
He tried to move, to cry out, but his limbs were
paralysed. When, by asuperhuman effort, he at last succeeded in shaking off the numbness thatheld him enchained, he awoke just in time to see a figure, that of aman, disappearing in the wall that separated Reginald's apartments fromhis room....
This time it was no delusion of the senses. He heard something like asecret door softly closing behind retreating steps. A sudden fierceanger seized him. He was oblivious of the danger of the terrible powerof the older man, oblivious of the love he had once borne him, obliviousof everything save the sense of outraged humanity and outraged right.
The law permits us to shoot a burglar who goes through our pockets atnight. Must he tolerate the ravages of this a thousand times moredastardly and dangerous spiritual thief? Was Reginald to enjoy the fruitof other men's labour unpunished? Was he to continue growing into themightiest literary factor of the century by preying upon his betters?Abel, Walkham, Ethel, he, Jack, were they all to be victims of thisinsatiable monster?
Was this force resistless as it was relentless?
No, a thousand times, no!
He dashed himself against the wall at the place where the shadow ofReginald Clarke had disappeared. In doing so he touched upon a secretspring. The wall gave way noiselessly. Speechless with rage he crossedthe next room and the one adjoining it, and stood in Reginald's studio.The room was brilliantly lighted, and Reginald, still dressed, wasseated at his writing-table scribbling notes upon little scraps of paperin his accustomed manner.