Often
at night when he wrote his pot-boilers for the magazines, fear stood
behind his seat, and only the buzzing of the elevator outside brought
him back to himself. In one of his morbid moods he wrote a sonnet which he showed to Reginald
after the latter's return from a short trip out of town. Reginald read
it, looking at the boy with a curious, lurking expression. _O gentle Sleep, turn not thy face away,
      But place thy finger on my brow, and take
      All burthens from me and all dreams that ache;
   Upon mine eyes a cooling balsam lay,
   Seeing I am aweary of the day. But, lo! thy lips are ashen and they quake. What spectral vision sees thou that can shake
   Thy sweet composure, and thy heart dismay? Perhaps some murderer's cruel eye agleam
   Is fixed upon me, or some monstrous dream
     Might bring such fearful guilt upon the head
       Of my unvigilant soul as would arouse
     The Borgian snake from her envenomed bed,
       Or startle Nero in his golden house._

"Good stuff," Reginald remarked, laying down the manuscript; "when did
you write it?" "The night when you were out of town," Ernest rejoined. "I see," Reginald replied. There was something startling in his intonation that at once aroused
Ernest's attention. "What do you see?" he asked quickly. "Nothing," Reginald replied, with immovable calm, "only that your state
of nerves is still far from satisfactory." XVIII


After Ernest's departure Ethel Brandenbourg's heart was swaying hither
and thither in a hurricane of conflicting feelings. Before she had time
to gain an emotional equilibrium, his letter had hurled her back into
chaos. A false ring somewhere in Ernest's words, reechoing with an
ever-increasing volume of sound, stifled the voice of love. His jewelled
sentences glittered, but left her cold. They lacked that spontaneity
which renders even simple and hackeneyed phrases wonderful and unique. Ethel clearly realised that her hold upon the boy's imagination had been
a fleeting midsummer night's charm, and that a word from Reginald's lips
had broken the potency of her spell. She almost saw the shadow of
Reginald's visage hovering over Ernest's letter and leering at her from
between the lines in sinister triumph. Finally reason came and
whispered to her that it was extremely unwise to give her heart into the
keeping of a boy. His love, she knew, would have been exacting,
irritating at times. He would have asked her to sympathise with every
phase of his life, and would have expected active interest on her part
in much that she had done with long ago. Thus, untruth would have stolen
into her life and embittered it. When mates are unequal, Love must paint
its cheeks and, in certain moods at least, hide its face under a mask. Its lips may be honeyed, but it brings fret and sorrow in its train. These things she told herself over and over again while she penned a
cool and calculating answer to Ernest's letter. She rewrote it many
times, and every time it became more difficult to reply. At last she put
her letter aside for a few days, and when it fell again into her hand it
seemed so unnatural and strained that she destroyed it. Thus several weeks had passed, and Ernest no longer exclusively occupied
her mind when, one day early in September, while glancing over a
magazine, she came upon his name in the table of contents. Once more
she saw the boy's wistful face before her, and a trembling something
stirred in her heart. Her hand shook as she cut the pages, and a mist of
tears clouded her vision as she attempted to read his poem. It was a
piece of sombre brilliance. Like black-draped monks half crazed with
mystic devotion, the poet's thoughts flitted across the page. It was the
wail of a soul that feels reason slipping from it and beholds madness
rise over its life like a great pale moon. A strange unrest emanated
from it and took possession of her. And again, with an insight that was
prophetic, she distinctly recognised behind the vague fear that had
haunted the poet the figure of Reginald Clarke. A half-forgotten dream, struggling to consciousness, staggered her by
its vividness. She saw Clarke as she had seen him in days gone by,
grotesquely transformed into a slimy sea-thing, whose hungry mouths shut
sucking upon her and whose thousand tentacles encircled her form. She
closed her eyes in horror at the reminiscence. And in that moment it
became clear to her that she must take into her hands the salvation of
Ernest Fielding from the clutches of the malign power that had
mysteriously enveloped his life. XIX


The summer was brief, and already by the middle of September many had
returned to the pleasures of urban life. Ethel was among the
first-comers; for, after her resolve to enter the life of the young poet
once more, it would have been impossible for her to stay away from the
city much longer. Her plan was all ready. Before attempting to see
Ernest she would go to meet Reginald and implore him to free the boy
from his hideous spell. An element of curiosity unconsciously entered
her determination. When, years ago, she and Clarke had parted, the man
had seemed, for once, greatly disturbed and had promised, in his
agitation, that some day he would communicate to her what would
exonerate him in her eyes. She had answered that all words between them
were purposeless, and that she hoped never to see his face again. The
experience that the years had brought to her, instead of elucidating
the mystery of Reginald's personality, had, on the contrary, made his
behaviour appear more and more unaccountable. She had more than once
caught herself wishing to meet him again and to analyse dispassionately
the puzzling influences he had exerted upon her. And she could at last
view him dispassionately; there was triumph in that. She was dimly aware
that something had passed from her, something by which he had held her,
and without which his magnetism was unable to play upon her. So when Walkham sent her an invitation to one of his artistic "at homes"
she accepted, in the hope of meeting Reginald. It was his frequentation
of Walkham's house that had for several years effectively barred her
foot from crossing the threshold. It was with a very strange feeling she
greeted the many familiar faces at Walkham's now; and when, toward ten
o'clock, Reginald entered, politely bowing in answer to the welcome from
all sides, her heart beat in her like a drum. But she calmed herself,
and, catching his eye, so arranged it that early in the evening they
met in an alcove of the drawing-room. "It was inevitable," Reginald said. "I expected it." "Yes," she replied, "we were bound to meet." Like a great rush of water, memory came back to her. He was still
horribly fascinating as of old--only she was no longer susceptible to
his fascination. He had changed somewhat in those years. The lines about
his mouth had grown harder and a steel-like look had come into his eyes.