Reginald's half-bantering tone reassured Ernest a little. Timidly hedared approach once more the strange event that had wrought such havocwith his nervous equilibrium.
"How do you account for my strange obsession--one might almost call it amania?"
"If it could be accounted for it would not be strange."
"Can you suggest no possible explanation?"
"Perhaps a stray leaf on my desk a few indications of the plot, aremark--who knows? Perhaps thought-matter is floating in the air.Perhaps--but we had better not talk of it now. It would needlesslyexcite you."
"You are right," answered Ernest gloomily, "let us not talk of it. Butwhatever may be said, it is a marvellous play."
"You flatter me. There is nothing in it that you may not be able to doequally well--some day."
"Ah, no," the boy replied, looking up to Reginald with admiration. "Youare the master."
XIII
Lazily Ernest stretched his limbs on the beach of Atlantic City. Thesea, that purger of sick souls, had washed away the fever and the fretof the last few days. The wind was in his hair and the spray was in hisbreath, while the rays of the sun kissed his bare arms and legs. Herolled over in the glittering sand in the sheer joy of living.
Now and then a wavelet stole far into the beach, as if to caress him,but pined away ere it could reach its goal. It was as if the enamouredsea was stretching out its arms to him. Who knows, perhaps through theclear water some green-eyed nymph, or a young sea-god with the tang ofthe sea in his hair, was peering amorously at the boy's red mouth. Thepeople of the deep love the red warm blood of human kind. It is alwaysthe young that they lure to their watery haunts, never the shrivelledlimbs that totter shivering to the grave.
Such fancies came to Ernest as he lay on the shore in his bathingattire, happy, thoughtless,--animal.
The sun and the sea seemed to him two lovers vying for his favor. Thesudden change of environment had brought complete relaxation and hadquieted his rebellious, assertive soul. He was no longer a solitary unitbut one with wind and water, herb and beach and shell. Almostvoluptuously his hand toyed with the hot sand that glided caressinglythrough his fingers and buried his breast and shoulder under itsglittering burden.
A summer girl who passed lowered her eyes coquettishly. He watched herwithout stirring. Even to open his mouth or to smile would have seemedtoo much exertion.
Thus he lay for hours. When at length noon drew nigh, it cost him agreat effort of will to shake off his drowsy mood and exchange his airycostume for the conventional habilaments of the dining-room.
He had taken lodgings in a fashionable hotel. An unusual stroke of goodluck, hack-work that paid outrageously well, had made it possible forhim to idle for a time without a thought of the unpleasant necessity ofmaking money.
One single article to which he signed his name only with reluctance hadbrought to him more gear than a series of golden sonnets.
"Surely," he thought, "the social revolution ought to begin from above.What right has the bricklayer to grumble when he receives for a week'swork almost more than I for a song?"
Thus soliloquising, he reached the dining-room. The scene that unfoldeditself before him was typical--the table over-loaded, the womenover-dressed.
The luncheon was already in full course when he came. He mumbled anapology and seated himself on the only remaining chair next to a youthwho reminded him of a well-dressed dummy. With slight weariness his eyeswandered in all directions for more congenial faces when they werearrested by a lady on the opposite side of the table. She was clad in asilk robe with curiously embroidered net-work that revealed a nervousand delicate throat. The rich effect of the net-work was relieved by thestudied simplicity with which her heavy chestnut-colored hair wasgathered in a single knot. Her face was turned away from him, but therewas something in the carriage of her head that struck him as familiar.When at last she looked him in the face, the glass almost fell from hishand: it was Ethel Brandenbourg. She seemed to notice his embarrassmentand smiled. When she opened her lips to speak, he knew by the hauntingsweetness of the voice that he was not mistaken.
"Tell me," she said wistfully, "you have forgotten me? They all have."
He hastened to assure her that he had not forgotten her. He recollectednow that he had first been introduced to her in Walkham's house someyears ago, when a mere college boy, he had been privileged to attend oneof that master's famous receptions. She had looked quite resolute andvery happy then, not at all like the woman who had stared so strangelyat Reginald in the Broadway restaurant.
He regarded this encounter as very fortunate. He knew so much of herpersonal history that it almost seemed to him as if they had beenintimate for years. She, too, felt on familiar ground with him. Neitheras much as whispered the name of Reginald Clarke. Yet it was he, and theknowledge of what he was to them, that linked their souls with a commonbond.
XIV
It was the third day after their meeting. Hour by hour their intimacyhad increased. Ethel was sitting in a large wicker-chair. She restlesslyfingered her parasol, mechanically describing magic circles in the sand.Ernest lay at her feet. With his knees clasped between his hands, hegazed into her eyes.
"Why are you trying so hard to make love to me?" the woman asked, withthe half-amused smile with which the Eve near thirty receives the homageof a boy. There is an element of insincerity in that smile, but it is aweapon of defence against love's artillery.
Sometimes, indeed, the pleading in the boy's eyes and the cry of theblood pierces the woman's smiling superiority. She listens, loves andloses.
Ethel Brandenbourg was listening, but the idea of love had not yetentered into her mind. Her interest in Ernest was due in part to hisyouth and the trembling in his voice when he spoke of love. But whatprobably attracted her most powerfully was the fact that he intimatelyknew the man who still held her woman's heart in the hollow of his hand.It was half in play, therefore, that she had asked him that question.
Why did he make love to her? He did not know. Perhaps it was theirresistible desire to be petted which young poets share withdomesticated cats. But what should he tell her? Polite platitudes wereout of place between them.
Besides he knew the penalty of all tender entanglements. Women treatlove as if it were an extremely tenuous wire that can be drawn outindefinitely. This is a very expensive process. It costs us the mostprecious, the only irretrievable thing in the universe--time. And to himtime was song; for money he did not care. The Lord had hallowed his lipswith rhythmic speech; only in the intervals of his singing might helisten to the voice of his heart--strangest of all watches, that tellsthe time not by minutes and hours, but by the coming and going of love.
The woman beside him seemed to read his thoughts.
"Child, child," she said, "why will you toy with love? Like Jehovah, heis a jealous god, and nothing but the whole heart can placate him. Woeto the woman who takes a poet for a lover. I admit it is fascinating,but it is playing _va banque_. In fact, it is fatal. Art or love willcome to harm. No man can minister equally to both. A genuine poet isincapable of loving a woman."
"Pshaw! You exaggerate. Of course, there is a measure of truth in whatyou say, but it is only one side of the truth, and the truth, you know,is always Janus-faced. In fact, it often has more than two faces. I canassure you that I have cared deeply for the women to whom my love-poetrywas written. And you will not deny that it is genuine."
"God forbid! Only you have been using the wrong preposition. You shouldhave said that it was written at them."
Ernest stared at her in child-like wonder.
"By Jove! you are too devilishly clever!" he exclaimed.
After a little silence he said not without hesitation: "And do you applyyour theory to all artists, or only to us makers of rhyme?"
"To all," she replied.
He looked at her questioningly.
"Yes," she said, with a new sadness in her voice, "I, too, have paid theprice."
"You mean?"
"I lov
ed."
"And art?"
"That was the sacrifice."
"Perhaps you have chosen the better part," Ernest said withoutconviction.
"No," she replied, "my tribute was brought in vain."
This she said calmly, but Ernest knew that her words were of tragicimport.
"You love him still?" he observed simply.
Ethel made no reply. Sadness clouded her face like a veil or like a greymist over the face of the waters. Her eyes went out to the sea,following the sombre flight of the sea-mews.
In that moment he could have taken her in his arms and kissed her withinfinite tenderness.
But tenderness between man and woman is like a match in apowder-magazine. The least provocation, and an amorous explosion willensue, tumbling down the card-houses of platonic affection. If heyielded to the impulse of the moment, the wine of the springtide wouldset their blood afire, and from the flames within us there is no escape.
"Come, come," she said, "you do not love me."
He protested.
"Ah!" she cried triumphantly, "how many sonnets would you give for me?If you were a usurer in gold instead of in rhyme, I would ask how manydollars. But it is unjust to pay in a coin that we value little. To aman starving in gold mines, a piece of bread weighs more than all thetreasures of the earth. To you, I warrant your poems are the standard ofappreciation. How many would you give for me? One, two, three?"
"More."
"Because you think love would repay you with compound interest," sheobserved merrily.
He laughed.
And when love turns to laughter the danger is passed for the moment.
XV
Thus three weeks passed without apparent change in their relations.Ernest possessed a personal magnetism that, always emanating from him,was felt most deeply when withdrawn. He was at all times involuntarilyexerting his power, which she ever resisted, always on the alert, alwayswarding off.
When at last pressure of work made his immediate departure for New Yorkimperative, he had not apparently gained the least ground. But Ethelknew in her heart that she was fascinated, if not in love. The personalfascination was supplemented by a motherly feeling toward Ernest that,sensuous in essence, was in itself not far removed from love. Shestruggled bravely and with external success against her emotions, neverlosing sight of the fact that twenty and thirty are fifty.
Increasingly aware of her own weakness, she constantly attempted tolead the conversation into impersonal channels, speaking preferably ofhis work.
"Tell me," she said, negligently fanning herself, "what new inspirationhave you drawn from your stay at the seaside?"
"Why," he exclaimed enthusiastically, "volumes and volumes of it. Ishall write the great novel of my life after I am once more quietlyinstalled at Riverside Drive."
"The great American novel?" she rejoined.
"Perhaps."
"Who will be your hero--Clarke?"
There was a slight touch of malice in her words, or rather in the pausebetween the penultimate word and the last. Ernest detected its presence,and knew that her love for Reginald was dead. Stiff and cold it lay inher heart's chamber--beside how many others?--all emboxed in the coffinof memory.
"No," he replied after a while, a little piqued by her suggestion,"Clarke is not the hero. What makes you think that he casts a spell oneverything I do?"
"Dear child," she replied, "I know him. He cannot fail to impress hispowerful personality upon all with whom he comes in contact, to theinjury of their intellectual independence. Moreover, he is so brilliantand says everything so much better than anybody else, that by his verysplendor he discourages effort in others. At best his influence willshape your development according to the tenets of his mind--curious,subtle and corrupted. You will become mentally distorted, like one ofthose hunchback Japanese trees, infinitely wrinkled and infinitelygrotesque, whose laws of growth are not determined by nature, but by thediseased imagination of the East."
"I am no weakling," Ernest asserted, "and your picture of Clarke isaltogether out of perspective. His splendid successes are to me a sourceof constant inspiration. We have some things in common, but I realisethat it is along entirely different lines that success will come to me.He has never sought to influence me, in fact, I never received thesmallest suggestion from him." Here the Princess Marigold seemed to peerat him through the veil of the past, but he waved her aside. "As for mystory," he continued, "you need not go so far out of your way to findthe leading character?"
"Who can it be?" Ethel remarked, with a merry twinkle, "You?"
"Ethel," he said sulkingly, "be serious. You know that it is you."
"I am immensely flattered," she replied. "Really, nothing pleases mebetter than to be immortalised in print, since I have little hopenowadays of perpetuating my name by virtue of pencil or brush. I havebeen put into novels before and am consumed with curiosity to hear theplot of yours."
"If you don't mind, I had rather not tell you just yet," Ernest said."It's going to be called Leontina--that's you. But all depends on thetreatment. You know it doesn't matter much what you say so long as yousay it well. That's what counts. At any rate, any indication of the plotat this stage would be decidedly inadequate."
"I think you are right," she ventured. "By all means choose your owntime to tell me. Let's talk of something else. Have you writtenanything since your delightful book of verse last spring? Surely now isyour singing season. By the time we are thirty the springs of pure lyricpassion are usually exhausted."
Ethel's inquiry somehow startled him. In truth, he could find nosatisfactory answer. A remark relative to his play--Clarke's play--roseto the threshold of his lips, but he almost bit his tongue as soon as herealised that the strange delusion which had possessed him that nightstill dominated the undercurrents of his cerebration. No, he hadaccomplished but little during the last few months--at least, by way ofcreative literature. So he replied that he had made money. "That issomething," he said. "Besides, who can turn out a masterpiece everyweek? An artist's brain is not a machine, and in the respite fromcreative work I have gathered strength for the future. But," he added,slightly annoyed, "you are not listening."
His exclamation brought her back from the train of thoughts that hiswords had suggested. For in his reasoning she had recognised the samearguments that she had hourly repeated to herself in defence of herinactivity when she was living under the baneful influence of ReginaldClarke. Yes, baneful; for the first time she dared to confess it toherself. In a flash the truth dawned upon her that it was not her lovealone, but something else, something irresistable and very mysterious,that had dried up the well of creation in her. Could it be that the samepower was now exerting its influence upon the struggling soul of thistalented boy? Rack her brains as she might, she could not definitelyformulate her apprehensions and a troubled look came into her eyes.
"Ethel," the boy repeated, impatiently, "why are you not listening? Doyou realise that I must leave you in half an hour?"
She looked at him with deep tenderness. Something like a tear lent asoft radiance to her large child-like eyes.
Ernest saw it and was profoundly moved. In that moment he loved herpassionately.
"Foolish boy," she said softly; then, lowering her voice to a whisper:"You may kiss me before you go."
His lips gently touched hers, but she took his head between her handsand pressed her mouth upon his in a long kiss.
Ernest drew back a little awkwardly. He had not been kissed like thisbefore.
"Poet though you are," Ethel whispered, "you have not yet learned tokiss."
She was deeply agitated when she noticed that his hand was fumbling forthe watch in his vest-pocket. She suddenly released him, and said, alittle hurt: "No, you must not miss your train. Go by all means."
Vainly Ernest remonstrated with her.
"Go to him," she said, and again, "go to him."
With a heavy heart the boy obeyed. He waved his hat to her once morefrom below, and then ra
pidly disappeared in the crowd. For a momentstrange misgivings cramped her heart, and something within her calledout to him: "Do not go! Do not return to that house." But no soundissued from her lips. Worldly wisdom had sealed them, had stifled theinner voice. And soon the boy's golden head was swallowed up in thedistance.
XVI
While the train sped to New York, Ethel Brandenbourg was the one objectengaging Ernest's mind. He still felt the pressure of her lips upon his,and his nostrils dilated at the thought of the fragrance of her hairbrushing against his forehead.
But the moment his foot touched the ferry-boat that was to take him toManhattan, the past three weeks were, for the time being at least,completely obliterated from his memory. All his other interests that hehad suppressed in her company because she had no part in them, camerushing back to him. He anticipated with delight his meeting withReginald Clarke. The personal attractiveness of the man had never seemedso powerful to Ernest as when he had not heard from him for some time.Reginald's letters were always brief. "Professional writers," he waswont to say, "cannot afford to put fine feeling into their privatecorrespondence. They must turn it into copy." He longed to sit with themaster in the studio when the last rays of the daylight were tremulouslyfalling through the stained window, and to discuss far into thedarkening night philosophies young and old. He longed for Reginald'svoice, his little mannerisms, the very perfume of his rooms.
There also was a deluge of letters likely to await him in his apartment.For in his hurried departure he had purposely left his friends in thedark as to his whereabouts. Only to Jack he had dropped a little notethe day after his meeting with Ethel.
The House of the Vampire Page 4
