Between Friends - Robert W. Chambers

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ambers

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tle: Between Friends

thor: Robert W. Chambers

lease Date: July 30, 2009 [EBook #8441]

nguage: English

* START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETWEEN FRIENDS ***

oduced by Andre Boutin-Maloney, and David Widger

BETWEEN FRIENDS





By Robert W. Chambers

1914

Contents

IV

V

VI



VII



I

ke a man who reenters a closed and darkened house and li

wn; lying there, remains conscious of sunlight outside, of bird-cad the breeze in the trees, so had Drene entered into the obscur

himself.

rough the chambers of his brain the twilit corridors where cring

s bruised and disfigured soul, there nothing stirring except t

tomatic pulses which never cease.

ometimes, when the sky itself crashes earthward and the world li

ruins from horizon to horizon, life goes on.

e things that men live through—and live!

ut no doubt Death was too busy elsewhere to attend to Drene.

e had become very lean by the time it was all over. Gray glinted

s temples; gray softened his sandy mustache: youth was finish

far as he was concerned.

n odd idea persisted in his mind that it had been winter for ma

ars. And the world thawed out very slowly for him.

ut broken trees leaf out, and hewed roots sprout; and what he h

long mistaken for wintry ashes now gleamed warmly like t

ange and gold of early autumn. After a while he began to go abo

ore or less—little excursions from the dim privacy of mind and so

and he found the sun not very gray; and a south wind blowing in t

orld once more.

uair and Guilder were in the studio that day on business; Dre



ntinued to modify his composition in accordance with Guilde

ggestions; Quair, always curious concerning Drene, was becomi

yly impudent.

nd listen to me, Guilder. What the devil's a woman betwe

ends?" argued Quair, with a malicious side glance at Drene. "Y

ke my best girl away from me—"

ut I don't," remarked his partner dryly.

or the sake of argument, you do. What happens? Do I raise he

o. I merely thank you. Why? Because I don't want her if you can g

r away. That," he added, with satisfaction, "is philosophy. Isn't

ene?"

uilder intervened pleasantly:

don't think Drene is particularly interested in philosophy. I'm sure I

t. Shut up, please."

ene, gravely annoyed, continued to pinch bits of modeling wax o

a round tin box, and to stick them all over the sketch he w

odifying.

ow and then he gave a twirl to the top of his working table, wh

volved with a rusty squeak.

you two unusually intelligent gentlemen ask me what good

oman the world—" began Quair.

ut we don't," interrupted Guilder, in the temperate voice peculiar

s negative character.

nyway," insisted Quair, "here's what I think of 'em—"

y model, yonder," said Drene, a slight shrug of contemappens to be feminine, and may also be human. Be decent enou



defer the development of your rather tiresome theory."

e girl on the model-stand laughed outright at the rebuke, stretch

r limbs and body, and relaxed, launching a questioning glance

ene.

ll right; rest a bit," said the sculptor, smearing the bit of wax he w

nching over the sketch before him.

e gave another twirl or two to the table, wiped his bony fingers on

ndful of cotton waste, picked up his empty pipe, and blew into t

em, reflectively.

uair, one of the associated architects of the new opera, who ha

en born a gentleman and looked the perfect bounder, saunter

er to examine the sketch. He was still red from the rebuke he h

vited.

uilder, his senior colleague, got up from the lounge and walked ov

so. Drene fitted the sketch into the roughly designed group, where

longed, and stood aside, sucking meditatively on his empty pipe

ter a silence:

s all right," said Guilder.

uair remarked that the group seemed to lack flamboyancy. It is tru

wever, that, except for Guilder's habitual restraint, the celebrat

m of architects was inclined to express themselves flamboyant

d to interpret Renaissance in terms of Baroque.

he's some girl," added Quair, looking at the lithe, modeled figu

d then half turning to include the model, who had seated herself

e lounge, and was now gazing with interest at the compositi

etched in by Drene for the facade of the new opera.

arpeaux and his eternal group—it's the murderous but inevitab



andard of comparison," mused Drene, with a whimsical glance

e photograph on the wall.

arpeaux has nothing on this young lady," insisted Quair flippant

d he pivoted on his heel and sat down beside the model. Once

ice the two others, consulting before the wax group, heard the gi

ht, untroubled laughter behind their backs gaily responsive uair's wit. Perhaps Quair's inheritance had been humor, but

me it seemed perilously akin to mother-wit.

e pockets of Guilder's loose, ill-fitting clothes bulged with lin

cings and rolls of blue-prints. He and Drene consulted over the

r a while, semi-conscious of Quair's bantering voice and the gi

sily provoked laughter behind them. And, finally:

ll right, Guilder," said Drene briefly. And the firm of celebrate

chitects prepared to evacuate the studio—Quair exhibiti

mptoms of incipient skylarking, in which he was said to be at h

st.

rop in on me at the office some time," he suggested to the youthodel, in a gracious tone born of absolute self-satisfaction.

or luncheon or dinner?" retorted the girl, with smiling audacity.

ou may stay to breakfast also—"

h, come on," drawled Guilder, taking his colleague's elbow.

e sculptor yawned as Quair went out: then he closed the door th

lebrated firm of architects, and wandered back rather aimlessly.

or a while he stood by the great window, watching the pigeons

ighboring roof. Presently he returned to his table, withdrew t

ncing figure with its graceful, wide flung arms, set it upon tueaky revolving table once more, and studied it, yawning



ervals.

e girl got up from the sofa behind him, went to the model-stan

d mounted it. For a few moments she was busy adjusting her fe

the chalk marks and blocks. Finally she took the pose. She alwa

emed inclined to be more or less vocal while Drene worked; h

ice, if untrained, was untroubled. Her singing had never botherene, nor, until the last few days, had he even particularly notic

r blithe trilling—as a man a field, preoccupied, is scarcely aware

e wild birds' gay irrelevancy along the way.

e happened to notice it now, and a thought passed through his mi

at the country must be very lovely in the mild spring sunshine.

s he worked, the brief visualization of young grass and the faint bl

skies, evoked, perhaps, by the girl's careless singing, made for h

ll concentration subtly pleasant environment.

ay I rest?" she asked at length.

ertainly, if it's necessary."

ve brought my lunch. It's twelve," she explained.

e glanced at her absently, rolling a morsel of wax; then, with slig

tation which ended in a shrug, he motioned her to descend.

ter all, girls, like birds, were eternally eating. Except for that, a

cessant preening, existence meant nothing more important to eith

ecies.

e had been busy for a few moments with the group when she sa

mething to him, and he looked around from his abstraction. S

as holding out toward him a chicken sandwich.

hen his mind came back from wool gathering, he curtly declined t

fer, and, as an afterthought, bestowed upon her a who



echanical smile, in recognition of a generosity not welcome.

Why don't you ever eat luncheon?" she asked.

Why should I?" he replied, preoccupied.

s bad for you not to. Besides, you are growing thin."

that your final conclusion concerning me, Cecile?" he aske

sently.

Won't you please take this sandwich?"

er outstretched arm more than what she said arrested his drifti

ention again.

Why the devil do you want me to eat?" he inquired, fishing out h

mpty pipe and filling it.

ou smoke too much. It's bad for you. It will do very queer things

e lining of your stomach if you smoke your luncheon instead

ting it."

e yawned.

that so?" he said.

ertainly it's so. Please take this sandwich."

e stood looking at the outstretched arm, thinking of other things ae girl sprang to her feet, caught his hand, opened the finge

aced the sandwich on the palm, then, with a short laugh as thou

ghtly disconcerted by her own audacity, she snatched the pipe fro

s left hand and tossed it upon the table. When she had reseat

rself on the lounge beside her pasteboard box of luncheon, s

came even more uncertain concerning the result of what she hne, and began to view with rising alarm the steady gray eyes th



ere so silently inspecting her.

ut after a moment Drene walked over to the sofa, seated himse

riously scrutinized the sandwich which lay across the palm of h

nd, then gravely tasted it.

his will doubtless give me indigestion," he remarked. "Why, Ceci

you squander your wages on nourishment for me?"

cost only five cents."

ut why present five cents to me?" "I gave ten to a beggar th

orning."

Why?"

don't know."

Was he grateful?"

e seemed to be."

his sandwich is excellent; but if I feel the worse for it, I'll not be ve

ateful to you." But he continued eating.

The woman tempted me,'" she quoted, glancing at him sideways.

ter a moment's survey of her:

ou're one of those bright, saucy, pretty, inexplicable things throng this town and occasionally flit through this profession—are

u?"

m I?"

es. Nobody looks for anything except mediocrity; you're one of t

rprises. Nobody expects you; nobody can account for you, but ypear now and then, here and there, anywhere, even everywhere



pretty sparkle against the gray monotony of life, a momentary fla

e a golden moat afloat in sunshine—and what then?"

he laughed.

What then? What becomes of you? Where do you go? What do y

rn into?"

don't know."

ou go somewhere, don't you? You change into something, do

u? What happens to you, petite Cigale?"

When?"

When the sunshine is turned off and the snow comes."

don't know, Mr. Drene." She broke her chocolate cake into halv

d laid one on his knee.

hanks for further temptation," he said grimly.

ou are welcome. It's good, isn't it?"

xcellent. Adam liked the apple, too. But it raised hell with him."

he laughed, shot a direct glance at him, and began to nibble h

ke, with her eyes still fixed on him.

nce or twice he encountered her gaze but his own always wandersently elsewhere.

ou think a great deal, don't you?" she remarked.

on't you?"

ry not to—too much."What?" he asked, swallowing the last morsel of cake.



he shrugged her shoulders:

What's the advantage of thinking?"

e considered her reply for a moment, her blue and rather child

es, and the very pure oval of her face. Then his attention flagged

ual—was wandering—when she sighed, very lightly, so that arcely heard it—merely noticed it sufficiently to conclude that,

ual, there was the inevitable hard luck story afloat in her vicini

d that he lacked the interest to listen to it.

hinking," she said, "is a luxury to a tranquil mind and a punishme

a troubled one. So I try not to."

was a moment or two before it occurred to him that the girl h

ered an unconscious epigram.

sounded like somebody—probably Montaigne. Was it?"

quired.

don't know what you mean."

h. Then it wasn't. You're a funny little girl, aren't you?"

es, rather."

n purpose?"

es, sometimes."

e looked into her very clear eyes, now brightly blue with intellige

rception of his not too civil badinage.

nd sometimes," he went on, "you're funny when you don't intend

."

ou are, too, Mr. Drene."



What?"

idn't you know it?"

dull color tinted his cheek bones.

o," he said, "I didn't know it."

ut you are. For instance, you don't walk; you stalk. You do wh

velists make their gloomy heroes do—you stride. It's rather funny

eally. And do you find my movements comic?"

he was a trifle scared, now, but she laughed her breathless, youth

ugh:

ou are really very dramatic—a perfect story-book man. But, y

ow, sometimes they are funny when the author doesn't intend the

be.... Please don't be angry."

hy the impudence of a model should have irritated him he was a

ss to understand—unless there lurked under that impudencece of unflattering truth.

s he sat looking at her, all at once, and in an unexpected flash

lf-illumination, he realized that habit had made of him an actor; th

r a while—a long while—a space of time he could not at t

oment conveniently compute—he had been playing a role mer

cause he had become accustomed to it.

saster had cast him for a part. For a long while he had been th

rt. Now he was still playing it from sheer force of habit. His trage

d really become only the shadow of a memory. Already he ha

merged from that shadow into the everyday outer world. But he h

rgotten that he still wore a somber makeup and costume which

e sunshine might appear grotesque. No wonder the world thoug

m funn .



ancing up from a perplexed and chagrined meditation he caug

r eye—and found it penitent, troubled, and anxious.

ou're quite right," he said, smiling easily and naturally; "I a

intentionally funny. And I really didn't know it—didn't suspect it

til this moment."h," she said quickly. "I didn't mean—I know you are often unhap

"

onsense!"

ou are! Anybody can see—and you really do not seem to be ve

d, either—when you smile—"

m not very old," he said, amused. "I'm not unhappy, either. If I ev

as, the truth is that I've almost forgotten by this time what it was

out—"

woman," she quoted, "between friends"—and checked herse

ghtened that she had dared interpret Quair's malice.

e changed countenance at that; the dull red of anger clouded h

sage.

h," she faltered, "I was not saucy, only sorry.... I have been sorry f

u so long—"

Who intimated to you that a woman ever played any part in m

reer?"

s generally supposed. I don't know anything more than that. But I'

en—sorry. Love is a very dreadful thing," she said under h

eath.

it?" he asked, controlling a sudden desire to laugh.



on't you think so?"

have not thought of it that way, recently.... I haven't thought about

all—for some years.... Have you?" he added, trying to spe

avely.

Oh, yes. I have thought of it," she admitted.nd you conclude it to be a rather dreadful business?"

es, it is."

ow?"

h, I don't know. A girl usually loves the wrong man. To be poor ways bad enough, but to be in love, too, is really very dreadful

ually finishes us—you know."

re you in love?" he inquired, managing to repress his amusemen

could be. I know that much." She went to the sink, turned on t

ater, washed her hands, and stood with dripping fingers lookiout for a towel.

l get you one," he said. When he brought it, she laughed and he

t her hands to be dried.

o you think you are a Sultana?" he inquired, draping the tow

ross her outstretched arms and leaving it there.

hought perhaps you'd dry them," she said sweetly.

ot in the business," he remarked; and lighted his pipe.

er hands were her particular beauty, soft and snowy. She was mu

demand among painters, and had posed many times for pictur

the Virgin, her hands usually resting against her breast.



ow she bestowed great care upon them, thoroughly drying ea

parate, slender finger. Then she pushed back the heavy masses

r hair—"a miracle of silk and sunshine," as Quair had whispered

r. That same hair, also, was very popular among painters.

was her figure that fascinated sculptors.

re you ready?" grunted Drene. Work presently recommenced.

he was entirely accustomed to praise from men, for her gene

ractiveness, for various separate features in what really was

usually lovely ensemble.

he was also accustomed to flattery, to importunity, to the ordina

riety of masculine solicitation; to the revelation of genuine feelin

o, in its various modes of expression—sentimental, explosiv

sinuating—the entire gamut.

he had remained, however, untouched; curious and amuse

rhaps, yet quite satisfied, so far, to be amused; and entire

ntent with her own curiosity.

he coquetted when she thought it safe; learned many things she h

t suspected; was more cautious afterwards, but still, at interva

ntured to use her attractiveness as a natural lure, as an excuse,

reason, as a weapon, when the probable consequenc

eatened no embarrassment or unpleasantness for her.

he was much liked, much admired, much attempted, and entir

tempted.

hen the Make-up Club gave its annual play depicting the foibles

tists and writers in the public eye, Cecile White was always cast

role which included singing and dancing.

n and off for the last year or two she had posed for Drene, h



opped into his studio to lounge about when he had no need of h

ofessionally, and when she had half an hour of idleness confronti

r.

s she stood there now on the model stand, gazing dreamily from h

sy hands to his lean, intent features, it occurred to her that this d

d not been a sample of their usual humdrum relations. From try beginning of their business relations he had remained mere

r employer, self-centered, darkly absorbed in his work, or, wh

t working, bored and often yawning. She had never come to kno

m any better than when she first laid eyes on him.

ways she had been a little interested in him, a little afra

metimes venturing an innocent audacity, out of sheer curiosncerning the effect on him. But never had she succeeded in stirri

m to any expression of personal feeling in regard to herself, o

ay or the other.

obably he had no personal feeling concerning her. It seemed o

her; model and master thrown alone together, day after day, usuacame friends in some degree. But there had been nothing at all

maraderie in their relationship, only a colorless, professional san

ne, the informality of intimacy without the kindly essence

rsonal interest on his part.

e paid her wages promptly; said good morning when she cam

d good night when she went; answered her questions when sked them seriously; relapsed into indifference or into a lazy and n

o civil badinage when she provoked him to it; and that was all.

e never complimented her, never praised her; yet he must ha

ought her a good model, or he would not have continued to send

r.

o you think me pretty?" she had asked one day, saucily invadi



e of his yawning silences.

think you're pretty good," he replied, "as a model. You'd be qu

rfect if you were also deaf and dumb."

at had been nearly a year ago. She thought of it now, a slight he

her cheeks as she remembered the snub, and her almost childi

mazement, and the hurt and offended silence which lasted all th

orning, but which, if he noticed at all, was doubtless entire

atifying to him.

May I rest?"

it's necessary."

he sprang lightly to the floor walked around behind him, and sto

oking at his work.

o you want to know my opinion?" she asked.

es," he said, with unexpected urbanity; "if you are clever enough

ve an opinion. What is it?"

he said, looking at the wax figure of herself and speaking w

liberation:

the last hour you have made out of a rather commonplace study

tirely spontaneous and charming creation."

What!" he exclaimed, his face reddening with pleasure at h

inion, and with surprise at her mode of expressing it.

s quite true. That dancing figure is wholly charming. It is no study

pure creation."

e knew it; was a little thrilled that she, representing to him erage and mediocre public, should recognize it so intelligently.



s though," she continued, "you had laid aside childish things."

What?" he asked, surprised again at the authority of the expressio

cademic precision and the respectable excellencies of-the-usu

you have put away childish things and become a man."

Where did you hear that?" he said bluntly.

heard it when I said it. You know, Mr. Drene, I am not who

educated, although your amiable question insinuates as much."

m not unamiable. Only I didn't suppose—"

h, you never have supposed anything concerning me. So why au surprised when I express myself with fragmentary intelligence?"

m sorry—"

sten to me. I'm not afraid of you any more. I've been afraid for tw

ars. Now, I'm not. Your study is masterly. I know it. You know it. Yo

dn't know I knew it; you didn't know I knew anything. And you didre."

he sat down on the sofa, facing him with a breathless smile.

ou don't care what I think, what I am, what interests I may hav

hat intellect, what of human desire, hope, fear, ambition animat

e; do you? You don't care whether I am ignorant or educated, bgood, ill or well—as long as it does not affect my posing for yo

hether I am happy or unhappy, whether I—"

or Heaven's sake—"

ut you don't care!... Do you?"

e was silent; he stood looking at her in a stupid sort of way.



ter a moment or two she rose, picked up her hat, went to the gla

d pinned it on, then strolled slowly back, drawing on her gloves.

s five o'clock, you know, Drene."

es, certainly."

o you want me to-morrow?"

es. Yes, of course."

ou are not offended?"

e did not answer. She came up to him and repeated the question

childishly anxious voice that was a trifle too humble. And lookiwn into her eyes he saw a gleam of pure mischief in them.

ou little villain!" he said; and caught her wrists. "A lot you ca

hether I am offended!"

he looked away from him, turning her profile. Her expression w

scrutable. After a silence he dropped her wrists with a vague laug

ou should have let me alone," he said.

The woman tempted me,'" she repeated, still looking away fro

m. He said nothing.

ood night," she nodded, and turned toward the door.

e went with her, falling into step beside her. One arm slippe

ound her waist as they entered the hallway. They walked slowly

e door. He unlatched it, hesitated; she moved one foot forward, a

took a step at the same time which brought her across his path

osely that contact was unavoidable. And he kissed her.

h," she said. "So you are human after all! I often wondered."



he looked up, trying to laugh, but could not seem to take it as coo

she might have wished to.

ot that a kiss is very important in these days," she continued, "ye

ght interest you to hear that a friend of yours rather fancies me. H

ouldn't like you to do it. But—" She lifted her blue eyes with fa

alice—"What is a woman between friends?"

Who is he?"

ack Graylock."

ene remained motionless.

haven't encouraged him," she said. "Perhaps that is why."

Why he fancies you?"

Why he asked me to marry him. It was the only thing he had n

ked."

e asked that?"

fter he realized it was the only way, I suppose," she said cool

ene took her into his arms and kissed her deliberately on t

outh. Looking up at him she said: "After all, he is your friend, is

?"

friend of many years. But, as you say, what is a woman betweeends?"

don't know," said the girl. And, still clasped in his arms, she be

r head, thoughtfully, considering the question.

nd as though she had come to some final conclusion, she rais

r head, lifted her eyes slowly, and her lips, to the man whose armfolded her. It was her answer to his question, and her own.



hen she had gone, he went back and stood again by the gre

ndow, watching the cote on a neighboring roof, where the pigeo

ere strutting and coquetting in the last rays of the western sun.



II

hen she came again to the studio, she was different, subdue

ading, avoiding, smiling a little in her flushed diffidence at his gse of manner—or assumption of both ease and gaiety.

e was inclined to rally her, tease her, but her reticence was not

mbarrassment. The lightest contact, the slightest caress from hi

ded a seriousness to her face, making it very lovely under

ightened color, and strangely childlike.

odel and master they would have remained no longer had it be

r him to say, he desiring now to make it a favor and concession

r part to aid him professionally, she gravely insisting

ofessionalism as the basis of whatever entente might devel

tween them, as well as the only avowed excuse for her presen

ere alone with him.lease. It's respectable," she insisted her agreeable, modulat

ice. "I had rather the reason for my coming here be business

hatever else happens."

What has happened," he said, balancing a handful of wet clay in o

nd and looking laughingly up at her, where she stood on the modand, "is that a pretty girl strolled in here one day and held up

rror to a solemn ass who was stalking theatrically through life. Th

lemn ass is very grateful for the glimpse he had of himself. H

haved gratefully, didn't he?"

ery," she said with a forced smile.

o you object to the manner in which he expressed his gratitude?"



he hung her head.

o," she said.

ter a while she raised her eyes, her head still lowered. He w

orking, darkly absorbed as usual in the plastic mass under h

gers.

he watched him curiously, not his hands, now, but his lean, inte

ce, striving to penetrate that masculine mask, trying to understan

arying and odd reflections and emotions possessed her in turn, a

ssed—wonder, bewilderment at herself, at him; a slight sense

ar, then a brief and sudden access of shyness, succeeded by t

glow of an emotion new and strange and deep. And this, in turn, gue bewilderment again, in which there was both a hint of fear, a

inge of something exquisite.

thin herself she was dimly conscious that a certain gaiety,

esponsibility and lightness had died out in her, perha

rmanently, yet leaving no void. What it was that replaced these s

uld not name—she only was conscious that if these had bebdued by a newer knowledge, with a newer seriousness, th

accustomed gravity had left her heart no less tender, and ha

epened her capacity for emotion to depths as profound a

explored as the sudden mystery of their discovery by herself.

ways, now, while she posed, she was looking at him with a sentness, as though he really wore a mask and she, breathles

gilant, watched for the moment when he might forget and lift it.

ut during the weeks that followed, if the mask were indeed only t

eady preoccupation that his visage wore, she seemed to lea

thing more about him when his features lost their dark absorpti

d he caught her eye and smiled. No, the smile revealed nothicept another mask under the more serious cast of concentration



ly another disguise that covered whatever this man might truly

eper down—this masculine and unknown invader of frontie

rrendered ere she had understood they were even besieged.

nd during these weeks in early spring their characteristics, ev

aracters, seemed to have shifted curiously and become reverse

s was now the light, irresponsible, half-mocking badinage—almoyishly boisterous at times, as, for instance, when he stepp

rward after the pose and swung her laughingly from the mod

atform to her corner on the sofa.

ou pretty and clever little thing," he said, "why are you becoming

rious and absent-minded?"

m I becoming so?"

ou are. You oughtn't to: you've made a new and completely differe

an of me."

s though that were an admirable achievement, or even of a

rticular importance. And yet she seemed to think it was both ese when, resting against him, within the circle of his arm, still s

d silent under the breathless poignancy of an emotion which ev

emed to sound within her depths unsuspected.

ut when he said that she had made a new and completely differe

an of him, she remembered his low-voiced when that chan

pended as he held her by her wrists a moment, then droppem. He had said, half to himself: "You should have let me alone!"

ometimes at noon she remembered this when they went out

ncheon realizing they would never have been seated together in

staurant had she not satisfied her curiosity. She should have let h

one; she knew that. She tried to wish that she had—tried to reg

erything, anything; and could not, even when within her the fa

nse of alarm awoke amid the softl unchan eable unrealit



ese last six weeks of spring.

as this then really love?—this drifting through alternating dreams

yness, tenderness, suspense, pierced at moments by tiny flash

fear, as lightning flickers, far buried in softly shrouded depths

oud?

he had long periods of silent and absorbed dreaming, conscio

ly that she dreamed, but not of the dream itself.

he was aware, too, of a curious loneliness within her, and dim

derstood that it was the companion of a lifetime she was missi

her conscience. Where was it? Had it gone? Had it died? We

e little, inexplicable flashes of fear proof of its disintegration? Or mortal vitality?

ead, dormant, departed, she knew not which, she was dully awa

its loss—dimly and childishly troubled that she could rememb

thing to be sorry for. And there was so much.

en in his profession who knew him began to look askance at hd her, amused or otherwise, according to their individu

aracters.

at Cecile White went about more or less with the sculptor Dre

as a nine days' gossip among circles familiar to them both, a

as forgotten—as are all wonders—in nine days.

ome of his acquaintances recalled what had been supposed to

e tragedy of his life, mentioning a woman's name, and a man's

ene's closest friend. But gossip does not last long among the bu

not that the busy are incapable of gossip, but they finish with

ickly, having other matters to think about.

ven Quair, after recovering from his wonder that his owndescending advances had been ignored, bestowed his fatuou



lammable attentions elsewhere.

e had been inclined to complain one day in the studio, when he a

uilder visited Drene professionally; and Guilder looked at h

pper confrere in surprise and slight disgust; and Drene, at fi

red, grew irritable.

What are you talking about?" he said sharply.

m talking about Cecile White," continued Quair, looking rath

dly at the sculptor out of his slightly prominent eyes. "I did

ppose you could be interested in any woman—not that I mind yo

erfering with any little affair between Cecile and me—"

here wasn't any."

beg your pardon, Drene—"

here wasn't any!" repeated Drene, with curt contempt. "Don't ta

out her, anyway."

ou mean I'm not to talk about a common artist's model—"

ot that way."

Oh. Is she yours?"

he isn't anybody's, I fancy. Therefore, let her alone, or I'll throw y

t of doors."

uair said to Guilder after they had departed:

ancy old Drene playing about with that girl on a strictly pious bas

e's doubtless dub enough to waste his time. But what's in it

r?"

erhaps a little unaccustomed masculine decency."



verybody is decent enough to her as far as I know."

cluding yourself?"

ertainly, including myself," retorted Quair, adding naive

esides, I knew any attempt at philandering would be time wasted

et you tried it," mused Guilder, entering his big touring car anpositing a bundle of blue-prints and linen tracing paper at his ow

nderous feet. Quair followed him and spoke briefly to the chauffe

en:

ried nothing," he said. "A little chaff, that's all. When it comes to

an like Jack Graylock going so far as to ask her to marry him, go

ght, nurse! Nothing doing, even for me."

ven for you," repeated Guilder in his moderate and alwa

odulated voice. "Well, if she's escaped you and Graylock, she

yond any danger from Drene, I fancy."

uair smiled appreciatively, as though a delicate compliment h

en offered him. Several times on the way to call on Graylock

sisted on stopping the car at as many celebrated cafes. Guild

tiently awaited him in the car and each time Quair emerged fro

e cafe bar a little more flushed and a trifle jauntier than when he h

tered.

e was a man so perfectly attired and so scrupulously fastidioout his person that Guilder often speculated as to just why Qu

ways seemed to him a trifle soiled.

ow, looking him over as he climbed into the car, unusually red in th

ce, breathing out the aroma of spirits through his little, pinch

strils, a faint sensation of disgust came over the senior member

e firm as though the junior member were physically unclean.



hat's about ten drinks since luncheon," he remarked, as the c

led on down Fifth Avenue.

uair, who usually grew disagreeably familiar when mellow, poke

s gloved thumb:

ou're a merry old cock, aren't you?" he inquired genially, "—like

g's wrist! If I hadn't the drinking of the entire firm to do, who'd ev

k about Guilder and Quair, architects?"

was common rumor that Quair did his brilliant work only wh

oused." And he never appeared to be perfectly sober, even whe

was.

raylock received them in his office—a big, reckless-eye

ndsome man, with Broad Street written all over him and "dange

ched in every deepened line of his face.

Well, how about that business of mine?" he inquired. "It's all right

ep me waiting, of course, while you and Quair here match

ghballs at the Ritz."

had to see Drene—that's why we are late," explained Guilde

We're ready to go ahead and let your contracts for you—"

rene?" interrupted Graylock, looking straight at Guilder with

rious and staring intensity. "Why drag Drene into an excuse?"

ecause we went to his studio," said Guilder. "Now about letting t

ntracts—"

Were you at Drene's studio?"

es. He's doing the groups for the new opera for us."

uair, watching Graylock, was seized with a malicious impulse:



eat little skirt he has up there—that White girl," he remarke

ating himself on Graylock's polished table.

dull flush stained Graylock's cheekbones, and his keen eyes turn

Quair. The latter lighted a cigarette, expelled the smoke in two th

eams from his abnormally narrow nostrils.

ome skirt," he repeated. "And it looks as though old Drene had h

mber—"

uilder's level voice interrupted:

he contracts are ready to be—"

ut Graylock, not heeding, and perhaps not hearing, and looking e time at Quair, said slowly:

rene isn't that kind.... Is he?"

ur kind, you mean?" inquired Quair, with a malice so buried und

ppancy that the deliberate effrontery passed for it with Grayloc

hich amused Quair for a moment, but the satisfaction was nfficient. He desired that Graylock should feel the gaff.

rene," he said, "is one of those fussers who jellify when hurled

eir necks—the kind that ask that kind of girl to marry them af

e's turned down everything else they suggest."

raylock's square jaw tightened and his steady eyes seemed ow even paler; but Quair, as though perfectly unconscious of th

an's record with the wife of his closest friend, and of the rumo

hich connected him so seriously with Cecile White, swung his l

concernedly, where it dangled over the table's edge, and smil

nkly and knowingly upon Graylock:

here's always somebody to marry that sort of girl; all mush isn't

e breakfast table. When ou and I are read to quit, Gra loc



ovidence has created a species of man who settles our bills."

e threw back his head, inhaled the smoke of his cigarette, sent tw

n streams through his nose.

aybe Drene may marry her himself. But—I don't believe he'll ha

... Now, about those contracts—" he affected a yawn, "—go on al him, Guilder," he added, his words distorted by another yawn.

e stepped down to the floor from his perch on the table, stretch

s arms, looking affably all the while at Graylock, who had nev

oved a muscle.

believe you had a run-in with that Cecile girl once, didn't yo

raylock? Like the rest of us, eh? Oh, well—my hat off to old Drene

wins out. I hold no malice. After all, Graylock, what's a wom

tween friends?"

nd he nodded gaily at Graylock and sauntered leisurely to t

ndow.

nd kept his back turned, fearful of exploding with laughter in the ve

ce of the man who had been staring at him out of pale, unchangi

es so steadily and so long.

uilder's patient, bored, but moderate voice was raised once more

regard to the letting of these contracts—"

ut Graylock, staring at Quair's back, neither heeded nor heard hi

r his brain was still ringing with the mockery of Quair's wor

"What is a woman between friends?" And now, for the first time, h

as beginning to understand what the answer might be.





III

he had not posed for Drene during the last two weeks, and he h

gun to miss her, after his own fashion—that is, he thought of hhen not preoccupied and sometimes desired her companionsh

hen unoccupied.

nd one evening he went to his desk, rummaged among note-book

d scribbled sheets of paper, until he found her address, which

uld never remember, wrote it down on another slip of pape

cketed it, and went out to his dinner.

ut as he dined, other matters reoccupied his mind, matte

ofessional, schemes little and great, broad and in detail, wh

adually, though not excluding her entirely, quenched his desire

e her at that particular time.

ometimes it was sheer disinclination to make an effort mmunicate with her, sometimes, and usually, the self-centeri

ncentration which included himself and his career, as well as h

ork, seemed to obliterate even any memory of her existence.

ow and then, when alone in his shabby bedroom, reading a d

ok, or duly preparing to retire, far in the dim recesses of heart aain a faint pain became apparent—if it could still be called pa

s vague ghost of anger stirring in the ashes of dead years—and

ch moments he thought of Graylock, and of another; and the pa

ralyzed emotion, which memory of these two evoked, stirred h

ally to think of Cecile.

was at such times that he always determined to seek her the ney and continue with her what had been begun—an intimacy wh



pended upon his own will; a destiny for her which instin

hispered was within his own control. But the next day found him

ork; models of various types, ages, and degrees of stupidity cam

sed, were paid, and departed; his studies for the groups

llaboration with Guilder and Quair were approaching the intens

eresting period—that stage of completion where composition h

en determined upon and the excitement of developing tnstruction and the technical charm of modeling begins.

nd evening always found him physically tired and mentally satisfi

or perturbed—to the exclusion of such minor interests as life

ade of—dress, amusement, food, women. Between a man and

loved profession in full shock of embrace there is no real room ese or thought of these.

e ate irregularly and worked with the lack of wisdom characteris

creative ability, and he grew thinner and grayer at the temples, a

ayer of flesh, too, so that within a month, between the torrid Ne

ork summer and his own unwisdom, he became again the gau

ent, darkly absorbed recluse, never even stirring abroad for air ume half-deadened pang of hunger, or the heavy warning of

adache, set him in reluctant motion.

e heard of Cecile now and then; Cosby had used her for a figure

fountain destined to embellish the estate of a wealthy young m

mewhere or other; Greer employed her for the central figure

nocence in his lovely and springlike decoration for some Westeblic edifice. Quair had met her several times at Manhattan Bea

th various and assorted wealthy young men.

nd one evening Guilder came alone to his studio and found h

ng on the lounge, his lank, muscular hands, still clay-staine

nging inert to the floor above an evening paper fallen there.ello, Guilder," he said, without rising, as the big architect shambl



osely through the open doorway.

ow are you, Drene?"

ll right. It's hot."

here's not a breath of air. It looks like a thunder-storm in the west

e pulled up a chair and sprawled on it, wiping his grave featur

th a damp handkerchief.

rene," he said, "a philanthropic guy of sorts wants to add a chap

the church at Shallow Brook, Long Island. We've pinched the jo

an you do an altar piece?"

What sort?"

hey want a Virgin. It's to be called the Chapel of the Annunciatio

s for women to repair to—under certain and natural circumstances

ve so much on hand—"

s only a single figure-barring the dove. Why don't you do it?"

here are plenty of other men—"

hey want you. There'll be no difficulty about terms."

ene said with a shrug:

erms are coming to mean less and less to me, Guilder. It costs ve

le for me to live." He turned his gray, tired face. "Look at this ba

a place; and go in there and look at my bedroom. I have no use f

hat are known as necessities."

till, terms are terms—"

h, yes. A truck may run over me. Even at that, I've enough to live l



t as I am living it here—between these empty walls—and th

panse of glass overhead. That's about all life holds for me—

eet of glass and four empty walls—and a fistfull of wet clay."

re you a trifle morbid, Drene?"

m not by any means; I merely prefer to live this way. I have sufficie

eans to live otherwise if I wish. But this is enough of the world to s

e, Guilder—and I can go to a noisy restaurant to eat in when I'm

clined—" He laughed a rather mirthless laugh and glanced u

tching a peculiar expression in Guilder's eyes.

ou're thinking," said Drene coolly, "what a god I once set up on th

ar of domesticity. I used to talk a lot once, didn't I?—a hell ofamor I made in eulogy of the domestic virtues. Well, only idio

tain the same opinions longer than twenty-four hours. Fixity

becility; the inconstant alone progress; dissatisfaction is only

nonym for intelligence; contentment translated means stagnation

ave changed my opinion concerning the virtues of domesticity."

uilder said, in his even, moderate voice:

our logic is weird, Drene: in one breath you say you have chang

ur opinion; in another that you are content; in another th

ntentment is the fixedness of imbecility—"

ene, reddening slightly, half rose on one elbow from his couch:

What I meant was that I change in my convictions from day to da

thout reproaching myself with inconstancy. What I believed with

y heart to be sacred yesterday I find a barrier to-day; and push

ide and go on."

oward what?"

go on, that's all I know—toward sanctuary."



ou mean professionally."

every way—ethically—spiritually. The gods of yesterday, too, we

ry real—yesterday."

rene, a man may change and progress on his way toward wh

ver changes. But standards remained fixed. They were there in tginning; they are immutable. If they shifted, humanity could have

al."

there a goal?"

Where are you going, then?"

ust on."

your profession there is a goal toward which you sculptors

urney."

erfection?"

uilder nodded.

ut," smiled Drene, "no two sculptors ever see it alike."

is still Perfection. It is still the goal to the color-blind and norm

ke, whatever they call it, however, they visualize it. That is its on

portance; it is The Goal..... In things spiritual the same obtains

hether one's vision embraces Nirvana, or the Algonquin Ocean ght, or a pallid Christ half hidden in floating clouds—Drene, it is

e, all one. It is not the Goal that changes; only our intelligen

ncerning its existence and its immortality."

ene lay looking at him:

ou never knew pain—real pain, did you? The world never ended fu, did it?"



one manner or another we all must be reborn before we c

ogress."

hat is a cant phrase."

o; there's truth under the cant. Under all the sleek, smooth, can

rases of ecclesiastic proverb, precept, axiom, and lore, there

th worth the sifting out."

ou are welcome to think so, Guilder."

ou also could come to no other conclusion if you took the trouble

vestigate."

ene smiled:

orals are no more than folk-ways—merely mental conditi

nsequent upon custom. Spiritual beliefs are radically dependa

on folkways and the resultant physical and mental condition of t

man brain which creates everything that has been and that is

."

hysiology has proven that no idea, no thought, ever originat

thin the concrete and physical brain."

ve read of those experiments."

hen you can't ignore a conclusion."

haven't reached a conclusion. Meanwhile, I have my own beliefs."

hat's all that's necessary," said Guilder, gravely, "—to enterta

me belief, temporary or final." He smiled slightly down at Drene

awn, gray visage.

ou and I have been friends of many years, Drene, but we haver before talked this way. I did not feel at liberty to assume a



imacy with you, even when I wanted to, even when—when you we

trouble—" He hesitated.

o on," grunted the other. "I'm out of trouble now."

ust—it's a whimsical notion—no, it's a belief;—I just wanted to t

u one or two things concerning my own beliefs—"

emporary?"

don't know. It doesn't matter; they are beliefs. And this is one:

ysical and mental ills are created only by our own minds—"

hristian Science?" sneered Drene.

all it what you like," said Guilder serenely. "And call this what y

e: All who believe worthily will find that particular belief true in eve

tail after death."

What do you call that?" demanded Drene, amused.

od knows. It seems to be my interpretation of the Goal. I seem journeying toward it without more obstacles and mo

mbarrassments to encounter than confront the wayfarer w

ofesses any other creed."

ter a while Drene sat up on his couch:

ow did all this conversation start?" he asked uneasily.

was about the Virgin for that chapel we are going to do..... Tha

rt of my belief: those who pray for her intercession will find her af

ath, interceding—" he smiled, "—if any intercession be necessa

tween us and Him who made us."

nd those unlisted millions who importune Mohammed auddha?"



hey shall find Mohammed and Buddha, who importune the

orthily."

nd—Christ?"

e bears that name also—He!"

h! And so, spiritually as well as artistically, you believe in thrgin?"

ou also can make a better Virgin if you believe in her otherwi

an esthetically."

ene gazed at him incredulously, then, with a shrug:

When do you want this thing started?"

ow."

can't take it on now."

want a sketch pretty soon—the composition. You can have a mod

the chapel to—morrow. We went on with it as a speculation. No

e've clinched the thing. When shall I send it up from the office?"

look it over, but—"

nd," interrupted Guilder, "you had better get that Miss White for t

rgin—before she goes off somewhere out of reach."

ene looked up somberly:

haven't kept in touch with her. I don't know what her engagemen

ay be."

ne of her engagements just now seems to be to go about w

raylock," said Guilder.



ene flushed, but said nothing.

he marries her," added Guilder, "as it's generally understood he

ing to, the best sculptor's model in town is out of the questio

etter secure her now."

e wants to marry her?" repeated Drene, in a curiously still voice.

e's mad about her. He's abject. It's no secret among his friend

en like that—and of that age—sometimes arrive at such a termin

men with Graylock's record sometimes get theirs. She has giv

m a run, believe me, and he's brought up with a crash against

one wall. He is lying there all doubled up at her feet like a rabbit w

broken back. There was nothing left for him to do but lie there. Heng there still, with one of her little feet on his bull neck. All the tow

ows it."

e wants to marry her," repeated Drene, as though to himself.

he may not take him at that. They're queer—some women

ppose she'd jump at it if she were not straight. But there's anothng—" Guilder looked curiously at Drene. "Some people think she

ther crazy about you."

ene gazed into space.

ut that wouldn't hurt her," added Guilder, in his calm, pleasa

ice. "She's a straight little thing—white and straight. She coume to no harm through a man like you."

ene continued to stare at space.

o," continued the other, confident, "when she recovers from

tural and childlike infatuation for you she'll marry somebody

ossibly even such a man as Graylock might make her happy. Yn't ever tell about such men at the eleventh hour."



ene turned his eyes on him. There was no trace of color in his fac

ren't you pretty damned charitable?"

haritable? Well, I—I'm so inclined, I fancy."

ou'd be content to see that girl marry a dog like that?"

did not say so. I am no judge of men. No man knows enough

ndemn souls."

ene looked at him:

Well, I'll tell you something. I know enough to do it. I had rather dam

y soul—and hers, too—than see her marry the man you hamed. It would be worth it to me."

ter a strained silence, Guilder said:

here is a mode of dealing with those who have injured you, which

dically different—"

deal with such people in my own fashion!"

ut, after all, the infamy is Graylock's. Why oblige him by sharing

th him?"

o you know what he did to me and mine?"

few of us know," said Guilder, gently, "—your old friends."

ere came a pale, infernal flicker into Drene's eyes:

l take your commission for that altar piece," he said.

What is it? An Annunciation?"





IV

omposition had been determined upon, and the sketch complet

the middle of August; Cecile had sat for him every day from nitil five; every evening they had dined together at the seashore

her suburban and cool resorts. Together they had seen eve

mmer entertainment in town, had spent the cooler, starlit evenin

gether in his studio, chatting, reading loud sometimes, sometim

scussing he work in hand or other subjects of he moment, ev

pics covering a wider and more varied range than he had evfore discussed with any woman.

e seemed to have become utterly changed; the dark preoccupati

d been absent from his face—the gauntness, the graynes

emed to have become subdued; the deep lines of pa

perceptible at times, smoothed out and shadowed in an almo

y resurgence of youth.

during the first week or two of her companionship, his gaiety h

en not entirely spontaneous, his smile shadowed with somethi

ller, his laughter a trifle forced, she had not perceived it in h

rprised and shyly troubled preoccupation with this amazing a

lightful transfiguration.

first she scarcely knew what to look for, what to expect from hi

m herself, when she came into the studio after many weeks

sence; and she always halted in the doorway, trembling a little,

ways, when in contact with him.

ut he was very delightful, smiling, easy, and deferential enough

assure her with a greeting that became him, as he saluted hetty hand, held it a moment in possession, laughingly, and release



om the moment of their reunion he had never touched her, save

quick, firm, smiling hand-clasp in the morning and another at t

ght's parting.

ow, little by little, she was finding herself delightfully at ease w

m, emerging by degrees from her charming bewilderment out

olation to a happy companionship never before shared with a

an.

or even vaguely had she dreamed that Drene could be such a ma

ch a friend, never had she imagined there was in him su

ndness, such patience, such gentleness, such comprehensioch virile sense and sympathy.

nd never, now, was her troubled consciousness aware of anythin

squieting in his attitude, of anything to perturb her.

e seemed to enjoy himself like a boy, with her companionsh

holly, heartily, without any motive other than the pleasure of thoment; and so, little by little, she gave herself up to it too, in t

me fashion, unguardedly, frankly, innocently revealing herself

m by degrees as their comradeship became deliciou

embarrassed.

e was making a full length study in clay now. All day long she s

ere enthroned, her eyes partly closed, the head lifted a trifle alen back, and her lovely hands resting on her heart—a

metimes she strove to imagine something of the divine mome

hich she was embodying; pondering, dreaming, wondering; a

metimes, in the stillness, through her trance crept a thrill, subt

quisite, as though in faint perception of the heavenly moment. A

ce, into her half-dreaming senses came the soft stirring of wingd she opened her eyes and looked up, startled and thrilled.



ut it was only a pigeon which had come through the great windo

m the cote on the adjacent roof and which circled above her

himpering wings for a moment and then sheered out into t

nlight.

ey dined together at a roof garden that evening, the music w

rticularly and surprisingly good, and what surprised him even moas that she knew it and spoke of it. And continued speaking

usic, he not interrupting.

eticent hitherto concerning her antecedents he learned no

mething of them—and inferred more; nothing unusual—a music

reer determined upon, death intervening dragging over h

olation the steel meshes of destitution—the necessity for se

pport, a friend who knew a painter who employed models—n

ything unusual, not even dramatic.

e nodded as she ended:

ave you saved anything?"

hundred dollars."

hat's fine."

he smiled, then sighed unconsciously.

ou are thinking," he said, "that youth is flying."he smiled wistfully.

outh is the time to study. You were thinking that, too."

he nodded.

ou could have married."

Wh ?" she asked, troubled.



o obtain the means for a musical education."

he gazed at him in amazement, then: "I could go out on the stre

o, as far as that is concerned. It would be no more disgraceful."

olk-ways sanction self-sale, when guaranteed by the clergy,"

id. She turned her head and he saw the pure, cold profile againe golden table-lamp, and he saw something else under the palm

yond—Graylock's light eyes riveted upon them both.

ou know," he said, under his breath, "that I shall not marry you. B

would you care to begin your studies again?"

ere was a long silence: She remained with face partly averted une orchestra ceased. Then she turned and looked at him, and

w her lip tremble.

had not thought you meant to ask me—that. I do not qu

derstand what you mean."

care enough for you to wish to help you. May I?"

was not sure you cared—enough—"

o you—for me?"

efore I say that I do—care for you—" she began, tremulously—"t

e that I have nothing to fear—"

either spoke. Over her shoulder Drene stared at the distant m

ho stared back at him.

esently his eyes reverted to hers, absently studying the childli

auty of her.

m going to tell you something," he said. "Love is no more wonder

an hate, no more perfect, no more eternal. And it is less fierce, an



t as strong."

What!" she whispered, bewildered at the sinister change in him.

nd I want to tell you another thing. I am alone in the world. Wha

ve, I have devised to you—in case I step out—suddenly—"

e paused, hesitated, then:

lso I desire you to hear something else," he went on. "This is t

oper time for you to hear it, I think—now—to-night—"

e lifted his blazing eyes and looked at the other man.

here was a woman," he said—"She happened to be my wife. Alere was my closest friend: and myself. The comedy was ca

terward she died—abroad. I believe he was there at the time

ept up a semblance—But he never married her.... And I do n

end to marry—you."

ter a moment: "And that," she whispered, "is why you once said

e that I should have let you alone."

id I say that to you?"

es." She looked up at him, straight into his eyes: "But if you care

e—I do not regret that I did not let you alone."

shall not marry you."

er lip trembled but she smiled.

hat is nothing new to me," she said. "Only one man has offer

at."

Why didn't you take him?" he asked, with an ugly laugh.

couldn't. I cared for you."



nd now," he said, "are you afraid of me?"

es—a little."

e leaned forward suddenly, "You'd better steer clear of me!" H

artled eyes beheld in him a change as swift as his words.

air warning!" he added: "look out for yourself." Everything that w

utal in him; everything ruthless and violent had marred his featur

that all in a moment the mouth had grown ugly and a hard, bruis

ok stamped the pallid muscles of his features and twitched at them

ou're taking chances from now on," he said. "I told you once to

e alone. You'd better do it now. And—" he stared at the distant ma"I told you that hate is more vital than love. It is. I've waited a lo

me to strike. Even now it isn't in me to do it as I have meant to do

nd so I tell you to keep away from me; and I'll strike in the o

shioned way, and end it—to-night."

unned by his sudden and dreadful metamorphosis, her ears ringi

th his disjointed incoherencies, she rose, scarcely knowing whe was doing, scarcely conscious that he was beside her, movi

htly and in silence out into the brilliant darkness of the streets.

was only at her own door that he spoke again: standing there on t

abby steps of her boarding-house, the light from the transo

llowing his ghastly face.

omething snapped"—he passed an unsteady hand across h

es;—"I care very deeply for you. I—they'll make over to you—wha

ve. You can study on it—live on it, modestly—"

W-what is the matter? Are you ill?" she stammered, white a

ghtened.

ut he onl muttered that she had her warning and that she shou



ep away from him, and that it would not be long before she shou

ve an opportunity in life. And he went his way not looking back.

hen he reached his studio the hall was dark. As he turned the k

thought he heard something stirring in the shadows, but went in

aving the door into the hallway open—and straight on across t

om to his desk.

e was putting something into his coat pocket, and his back was s

rned to the open door when Graylock stepped quietly across t

reshold; and Drene heard him, but closed his desk, leisurely, a

en, as leisurely, turned, knowing who had entered.

nd so they stood alone together after many years.



V

raylock looked at Drene's heavily sagging pocket and knew wh

as in it. A sudden sweat chilled his temples, but he said steadough:

d like to say a word or two—if you'll give me time." And, as Dre

ade no reply;—"You're quite right: This business of ours should

ished one way or another. I can't stand it any longer."

that case," remarked Drene with an evil stare at him, "I mstpone it—to find out how much you can stand." He dropped h

ht hand into the sagging pocket, looking intently at Graylock all t

hile:

What do you want here anyway?"

fancy that you have already guessed."

aybe. All the same, what do you want?"—fumbling with his bulgi

cket for a moment and then remaining motionless.

raylock's worn eyes rested on the outline of the shrouded weapo

stood eyeing it absently for a moment, then seated himself on t

fa, his heavy eyes shifting from one object to another.

ut there were few objects to be seen in that silent place;—a s

erhead glimmering through the high expanse of glass above;

herwise gray monotony of wall, a clay shape or two swathed in w

othes, a narrow ring of lamp light, and formless shadow.

s a long time, Drene."

ene mused in silence, now and then watching the other obliquel



esently he withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket, pulled

mchair toward him and seated himself.

s many years," repeated Graylock. "I expected you to

mething before this."

Were you uneasy?" sneered Drene. Then he shrugged, knowing thraylock was no coward, sorry he had intimated as much, like a m

ho deals a premature and useless blow.

e sat brooding for a while, his lean dangerous head lower

deways as though listening; his oblique glance always coveri

raylock.

suppose you'll be surprised when I tell you one reason that I cam

re," said Graylock.

o you suppose you can still surprise me by anything you may s

do?"

e man remained silent, sitting with his hands tightly clasped on hees.

rene," he said, in a low voice, "don't strike at me through this you

rl."

ene began to laugh, unpleasantly.

re you in love with her?"

es.... You know it."

ene said, still laughing: "It's the common rumor. You may imagine

muses your friends—if you have any left."

raylock spoke in a voice that had a ghostly sound in the great room



on't harm her, Drene. It is not necessary. I shall never see h

ain—if that will content you."

ene laughed: "I never saw my wife again. Did that help me? I nev

w her again, but as long as she lived I knew what she was ... M

fe. And when she died, still my wife. There was no relief—no relie

raylock, deathly white, framed his haggard face between his han

d stared at nothing:

know," he said. "I understand now. I am here to-night to pay th

ckoning."

ou can't pay it."

o, not the whole score. There's another bill, I suppose, waiting

e—somewhere. But I can settle my indebtedness to you—"

ow?"

hat's up to you, Drene."

ow?" repeated Drene, violently.

raylock made a slight gesture with his head toward Drene

gging pocket: "That way if you like. Or," he added, "There is

rder punishment."

What is it?"

o give her up."

es," said Drene, "that is harder. But I can make it even harder tha

at. I can make it as hard for you as you made it for me. I can let y

e through it."

e laughed, fisted in his pocket, drew out the lumpy automatic asurely pushed the lever to "safe."



e said: "To kill you would be like opening the cell door for a life

ou know what you are while you're alive; maybe you'd forget if y

ere dead. I—"

e ceased, fiddling absently with the dull-colored weapon on h

ee; and for a while they remained silent, not looking at each oth

nd when Drene spoke again he was still intent upon the automatic

I knew what happens after a man dies I could act intelligently." H

ot an ugly look at Graylock: "I don't know about you, either. You're

t. But you might fool me at that. You might be repentant. And in th

se you'd get away—if it's true that the eleventh hour is not t

e.... If it's true that Christ is merciful.... So I'll take no chances otaway. You might fool me—one way or another—if you we

ad."

raylock lifted his head from his hands: "I don't know how much of t

her debt I've already paid, Drene. But I've paid heavily since I kne

r—if that is any satisfaction to you. And since I knew she cared f

u, and when I realized that you meant to strike me through her—ve paid, heavily.... Yet, if you were honestly in love with her—"

that any of your damned business?"

he's only a child—"

ou rat! That's what's coming to you!"

you say so. But what is coming to her, Drene?"

ontinue to guess. But I know you. It's yourself you're sorry for a

hat you'll have to endure—live through. That's what you can't stan

d remain the sleek, self-satisfied rat you are. No, it will make ea

iving hell for you; never a second, day or night, will you be able rget—if you really do love her.... And I believe you do—I do



derstand how a thing like you can love—but it seems it can."

ter a silence Graylock said: "You don't care if you damn yourself?

s worth it to me."

re you willing that I should know you are as great a blackguard a

m?" Drene's gaunt features reddened and he set his jaws ence.

on't you care what you do to her?" asked Graylock, unsteadily. "

viler business than that for which you are punishing me."

or a long time Drene sat there looking down at the weapon on h

ees. And after a while, the other man spoke huskily: "It's bough either way for me, Drene. I'll do what you wish in the matter.

ave the country; I'll stay; whichever you say. Or," he said with

astly smile, "I'll clean out that automatic for you to-night—if yo

arry her."

ene looked up, slowly:

What did you say?"

said that I'd clean out your automatic for you—to-night—if y

sh.... It can be an accident or not, just as you say."

Where?"

my own rooms—if it is to be an accident."

o you offer—"

es; if you'll marry her afterwards. If you say you will I'll take yo

ord."

nd then you'll be out of your misery, you damned coward!"



od knows.... But I think not," said Graylock, under his breath.

ene twisted the automatic, rose and continued to twirl

nsidering. Presently he began to pace the floor, no longer notici

e other man. Once his promenade brought him up facing the w

here a calendar hung.

e stood for a while looking at it absently. After a few moments h

epped nearer, detached the sheet for the present month, then o

one tore off the remaining sheets until he came to the mon

arked December, Graylock watching him all the while.

think it happened on Christmas," remarked Drene turning towa

e other and laying a finger on the number 25 printed in red.

raylock's head bent slightly.

ery well. Suppose about eleven o'clock on Christmas night y

ve your automatic a thorough cleaning.

you say so."

ou have one?"

shall buy one."

idn't you come here armed?"

o."

ene looked at him very intently. But Graylock had never been a lia

ter a few moments he went over to his desk, replaced the weap

der the papers, and, still busy, said over his shoulder:

ll right. You can go."





VI

He wrote to Cecile once:

ereafter keep clear of men like Graylock and like me. We're both

stripe—the same sort under our skins. I've known him all my life

depends upon the opportunity, the circumstances, and the woma

nd, what is a woman between friends—between such friends

raylock and I once were—or between the sort of friends we ha

w become? Keep clear of such men as we are. We were bogether.

or a week or two he kept his door locked and lived on what t

nitor provided for him, never going out of the studio at all.

e did no work, although there were several unexecut

mmissions awaiting his attention and a number of sketches, cludies, and one marble standing around the studio in various stag

progress. The marble was the Annunciation. The head and thro

d slender hands were completed, and one slim naked foot.

ometimes he wandered from one study to the next, vague-eye

anding for a long time before each, staring, lost in thoug

ometimes, in the evening he read, choosing a book at randomong the motley collection in a corner case—a dusty, soil

sortment of books, ephemeral novels of the moment, pondero

lumes which are in everybody's library but which nobody read

ts of histories, memoirs, essays, beautifully bound and once car

r, but now dirty from neglect—jetsam from a wrecked home.

ere had been a time when law, order and neatness formed t



sis of Drene's going forth and coming in. He had been exa

ecise, fastidious; he had been sensitive to environment, a lover

autiful things, a man who deeply appreciated any symbol th

ggested home and hearth and family.

ut when these three were shattered in the twinkling of an ey

mething else broke, too. And he gradually emerged from chaodifferent to all that had formerly been a part of him, a sile

motionless, burnt out thing, callous to all that he had once cared fo

et something of what he had been must have remained latent with

m for with unimpaired precision and logic he constructed his c

d chiseled his marble; and there must have been in him somethi

express, for the beauty of his work, spiritual and material, had sm high among the highest in his profession.

ometimes sorrow changes the dross from the lamp of the spirit

at it burns with a purity almost unearthly; sometimes sorrow sea

ndering the very soul insensible; and sometimes sorrow remai

der the ashes, a living coal steadily consuming all that is nobrdening all that is ignoble; and is extinguished leaving a de

hind it—fully equipped to slay the crippled soul.

one in his studio at night, motionless in his chair, Drene w

coming aware of this devil. Reading by lamplight he gre

nscious of it; recognized it as a companion of many years, no

derstanding that although pain had ended, hatred had remaineding, biding, and very, very quiet.

nd suddenly this hatred had flamed like hell-fire, amazing ev

mself—that day when, lifted out of his indifference for an instant

young girl's gaiety—and with a smile, half-responsive, on his ow

accustomed lips, he had learned from her in the same instant, th

e man he had almost ceased to remember was honestly in loth her.



nd suddenly he knew that he hated and that he should strike, a

at there could be no comparison in perfection between hatred a

hat perhaps was love.

ometimes, at night, lying on the studio couch, he found himself s

sitating. Could Graylock be reached after death? Was it possibl

he broke his word after Graylock was dead could he still strike a

ach him through the woman for whose sake he, Graylock, w

ing to step out of things?

at occupied his mind continually, now. Was there anybody wh

uld tell him about such matters? Did clergymen really know wheth

e soul survived? And if it did, and if truly there were a hell, couldng man add anything to its torments for his enemy's benefit?

ne day the janitor, lingering, ventured to ask Drene whether he w

eling quite well.

es" said Drene, "I am well."

e janitor spoke of his not eating. And, as Drene said nothing,

entioned the fact that Drene had not set foot outside his ow

arters in many weeks.

ene nodded: "I expect to go for a walk this evening."

ut he did not. He lay on his couch, eyes open in the darknes

ondering what Graylock was doing, how he lived, what occupied h

ys.

hat were the nights of a condemned man like? Did Graylo

eep? Did he suffer? Was the suspense a living death to him? H

ever suspected him, Drene, of treachery after he, Graylock, h

filled his final part of the bargain.or a long time, now, a fierce curiosity concerning what Graylock w



nking and doing had possessed Drene. What does a man, who

good physical health, do, when he is at liberty to compute to t

ry second how many seconds of life remain for him?

ene's sick brain ached with the problem day and night.

November the snow fell. Drene had not been out except

agination.

ay after day, in imagination, he had followed Graylock, night aft

ght, slyly, stealthily, shirking after him through busy avenues

dday, lurking by shadowy houses at midnight, burning to see wh

pression this man wore, what was imprinted on his features;

sessed by a desire to learn what he might be thinking—with deaawing nearer.

ut Drene, in the body, had never stirred from his own chilly room—

unt, fierce-eyed thing, unkempt, half-clothed, huddled all day in h

air brooding above his bitten nails, or flung starkly across his cou

night staring at the stars through the dirty crust of glass above.

ne night in December when the stars were all staring steadily ba

him, and his thoughts were out somewhere in the darkne

lowing his enemy, he heard somebody laughing in the room.

or a while he lay very still, listening; but when he realized that t

ughter was his own he sat up, pressing his temples between h

d trembling fingers.

seemed to silence the laughter: terror subsided to a tremulo

prehension—as though he had been on the verge of somethi

rrible sinking into it for a moment—but had escaped.

gain he found himself thinking of Graylock, and presently

ughed; then frightened, checked himself. But his fevered brain hen afire too long; he lay fighting with his thoughts to hold them



ash lest they slip out into the night like blood hounds on the trail

e man they had dogged so long.

embling, terrified, he set his teeth in his bleeding lip, and clench

s gaunt fists: He could not hold his thoughts in leash; could n

ntrol the terrifying laughter; hatred blazed like hell-fire scorching t

ul in him, searing his aching brain with flames which destroy.

the darkness he struggled blindly to his feet; and he saw the sta

rough the glass roof all ablaze in the midnight sky; saw the infern

cker of pale flames in the obscurity around him, heard a voi

lling for help—his own voice—

en something stirred in the darkness; he listened, stared, strivipierce the obscurity with fevered eyes.

ng since the cloths that swathed the clay figures in the studio h

ed out unnoticed by him. He gazed from one to another, holdi

s breath. Then his eyes rested upon the altar piece, fell on t

owy foot, were lifted inch by inch along the marble folds upwa

owly to the slim and child-like hands—

h, God!" he whispered, knowing he had gone mad at last.

or, under the carven fingers, the marble folds of the robe over t

art were faintly glowing from some inward radiance. And, as

eled forward and dropped at the altar foot, lifting his burning eye

saw the child-like head bend toward him from the slender neckw that the eyes were faintly blue—

Mother of God!" he screamed, "my mind is dying—my mind

ing! ... We were boys, he and I.... Let God judge him.... Let him

dged... mercifully.... I am worse than he.... There is no hell. I ha

iven to fashion one—I have desired to send him thither—Mother

od—Cecile—"



nder his fevered eyes he was confusing them, now, and he sa

wn close against the pedestal and laid his f ace against her sm

ld foot.

am sick," he rambled on—"and very tired.... We were bo

gether, Cecile.... When I am in my right mind I would not harm him

e was so handsome and daring. There was nothing he dared n.... So young, and straight, and daring.... I would not harm him.

u, Cecile.... Only I am sick, burning out, with only a crippled mi

t—from being badly hurt—It never got well. ... And now it is dying

hurt—Cecile!—Mother of God!—before it dies I do forgive him

d ask forgiveness—for Christ's sake—"

oward noon the janitor broke in the door.



VII

was late in December before Drene opened his eyes in his rig

nses. He unclosed them languidly, gazed at the footboard of hd, then, around at the four shabby walls of his room.

ecile?" he said, distinctly.

e girl who had been watching him laid aside her sewing, rose, a

nt over him. Suddenly her pale face flushed and one hand flew

r throat.

earest?" he said, inquiringly.

en down on her knees fell the girl, and groped for his wasted ha

d laid her cheek on it, crying silently.

s for Drene, he lay there, his hollow eyes roaming from wall to wa

last he turned his head on the pillow and looked down at her.

e next day when he opened his eyes from a light sleep his s

as moist and cool and he managed to move his hand toward he

she bent over him.

want—Graylock," he whispered. The girl flushed, bent near

zing at him intently.

raylock," he repeated.

ot now," she murmured, "not today. Rest for a while."

lease," he said, looking up at her trustfully—"Graylock. Now."

When you are well—"



am—well. Please, dear."

or a while she continued sitting there on the side of his bed, his lim

nds in hers, her lips pressed against them. But he never took h

es from her, and in them she saw only the same wistful expressio

changing, trustful that she would do his bidding.

o at last she went into the studio and wrote a note to Graylock

as late. She went downstairs to the janitor's quarters where the

as a messenger call. But no messenger came probably Christm

y kept them busy. Perhaps, too, some portion of the holiday w

rmitted them, for it was long after dinner and the full tide of gaiety

wn was doubtless at its flood.

o she waited until it was plain that no messenger was coming; th

e rose from the chair and stood gazing out into the wintry darkne

rough the dirty basement window. Clocks were striking eleven.

s she turned to go her eye fell upon the telephone. She hesitate

ut the memory of Drene's eyes, their wistfulness and trust decid

r.

ter a little waiting she got Graylock's apartment. A servant aske

r to hold the wire.

ter an interval she recognized Graylock's voice at the telephon

easant, courteous, serenely wishing her the happiness of t

ason.

What are you doing this Christmas night?" she asked. "Surely y

e not all alone there at home?"

am rather too old for anything else," he said.

ut what are you doing? Reading?"

s a matter of fact," he said, "I happened to be cleaning



tomatic revolver when you called up."

What a gay employment for Christmas night! Is that your idea

lebrating?"

here happens to be nothing else for me to do tonight."

ut there is. You are requested to make a call."

n whom?" he asked, quietly.

On Mr. Drene."

or a full minute he remained silent, although she spoke to him twic

nking the connection might have been interrupted. Then his voime, curiously altered:

Who asked that of me?"

Mr. Drene."

Mr. Drene is very ill, I hear."

e is convalescent."

id he ask you to call me?"

ertainly."

hen—you are with him?"es."

Where?"

his apartment. I came downstairs to the janitor's rooms. I a

ephoning from there what he wished me to ask you."

ter a pause Graylock said: "Is his mind perfectly clear?"



erfectly, now."

e asked for me?"

es. Will you come?"

e asked for me? Tonight? At eleven o'clock?"

he said: "I don't think he knows even what month it is. He has o

en conscious for a day or two. Had he known it was Christm

ght perhaps he might not have disturbed you. But—will you come?

am afraid it is too late—to-night."

omorrow, then? Shall I tell him?"

ere was a silence. She repeated the question. But Graylock's re

as inaudible and she thought he said good-bye instead of go

ght.

omewhere in the rear of the basement the janitor and his family a

obably all his relatives were celebrating. A fiddle squeaked ere; there was a steady tumult of voices and laughter.

e girl stood a while listening, a slight smile on her lips. Bless

ppiness had come to her in time for Christmas—a strange a

avenly happiness, more wonderful than when a life is spared

e who loves, for it had been more than the mere life of this man s

d asked of God: it had been his mind.

e lay asleep when she entered and stood by the shaded lam

oking down at him.

ter a while she seated herself and took up her sewing. But laid

ide again as there came a low knocking at the door.

ene opened his eyes as Graylock entered all alone and stood s



side the bed looking down at him. In the studio Cecile mov

out singing under her breath. They both heard her.

ene nodded weakly. After a moment he made the effort to speak

am trying to get well—to start again—better—live more—nobly.

ake your chance, too."

you wish, Drene."

es. I was not—very—well. I had been ill—very—a long while ... A

u are not to clean the automatic.... Only your own-soul.... Ask help

ou'll get it..... I did.... And—all that is true—what we believed—

ys.... I know. I've seen. And it's all true—all true—what we believe

as little boys."

e looked up at Graylock, then closed his eyes with the shadow o

mile in them.

ood-bye—Jack," he whispered.

raylock's mouth quivered, his lips moved in speech; and perhaene heard and understood, for he opened his eyes and look

ce more at his boyhood friend.

omewhere—somebody will straighten out—all this," he murmure

osing his eyes again: "We can't; we can only try—to straighten o

ourselves."

raylock looked down at him in silence, then, tall and heavily ere

turned away.

ecile met him from the studio.

ood night," she said, offering her hand.... "And a hap

hristmas.... I hope you will not be lonely."



e took her hand, gravely, thanked her, and went his way forever.

or a few minutes she lingered in the doorway connecting Drene

droom with the studio. She held a sprig of holly.

ter a little while he opened his eyes and looked at her, and, smilin

e came forward to the bedside.

was a terrible dream," he whispered—"all those years. But it was

eam."

ou must dream no more."

o. Come nearer."

he rested on the bed's edge beside him and laid one hand on h

e other held the holly, but he did not notice it until she offered it.

ear," she whispered, "it is Christmas night. And you did not ev

ow it."

uddenly the tears he had not known for years burned in his eyed he closed them, trembling, awed by the mercy of God that h

en vouchsafed to him at the eleventh hour, else he had slain h

ul.

ter a while he felt her lips touching his brow. And now silent in th

ell of the dream that invaded her—the exquisite vision of wifeho

she sat motionless with childlike eyes lost in thought.

nce more he turned his head and looked at her. Then her slend

ck bent, and he saw that her eyes were divinely blue—

ecile!"—he faltered—"Madonna inviolate!... The woman—betwe

friends—"

THE END



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