“What?”
“Yes, indeed. It is the sublimate of love. And love is the source of human activity. It has no other. Without it civilization would retrograde and society return to the woods. Love is the basis of tragedy, the woof of romance, the incentive of commerce, of crime too, of heroism as well.”
“My!” said Marie, whom the brief deluge of words amazed. “My!”
“I must get that off,” Annandale muttered. In the sotto voce of thought he added, “to Sylvia.” Obviously, he had had his fill. He stood up, making an excuse, imperceptibility lurching as he did so.
It was after ten. Long since coffee had been served. Orr, too, got up. He thanked his hostess. The other men imitated him. Loftus and Marie were alone.
Loftus went to a window. Then he turned. “Put on your hat, little girl, and we will go out; though, after all, I do not see that you need bother with a hat, unless you prefer.”
“I will do as you wish, dear.”
Presently they were in Lexington Avenue, a moment more, in Gramercy Park. Loftus, after fumbling for his key, opened one of the little gates. Within was silence. Occasionally, from the pavement without came the sound of footsteps.
Loftus and Marie seated themselves on a bench near the gate through which they had entered. Loftus was smoking. A boy passed; stopped, and sticking his nose through the railings, called: “Hi, mister, will you give me a light?”
Loftus made no answer. The boy called again. “Will you? And a cigar with it?”
Then he laughed and passed on. The silence increased. In the air was a fragrance, the clinging odor of the honeysuckle, the clean smell of fresh turf. Beyond, the great dim houses that front the park gave the place and the hour an accent of their own.
“I like it here,” said Marie, “it is so elegant.”
“Never let me hear you use that word again. It is provincial, suburban and, worse, it is shopgirl.”
“Yes, dear.”
“This evening I saw you eat an ice with a spoon. Never do that. Use a fork.”
“Yes, dear.”
Appeased by this docility, Loftus condescended to agree in turn with her. He, too, liked the park. At night, when the weather was decent, always he sat there a bit quite by himself. He had done so for years. He told her this, adding confidentially, “It is a habit.”
To Marie the habit seemed most poetic. She said so, explaining that she was very fond of poetry.
Loftus looked up at the stars. “The only real poetry is there. By the way, do you believe in God?”
Marie, uncertain of her lover’s creeds, hesitatingly glanced at him. “Yes—in a way. But I won’t, if you object.”
This self-abnegation pleased Loftus. He twisted his mustache and smiled. “But no, you little goose, I don’t object in the least. On the contrary. It is right and proper that you should.”
Gratified at this encouraging indulgence the girl’s hand stole into his. Then for awhile they sat and talked about nothing whatever, which, of all subjects, is, perhaps, the least disagreeable. Wearying at last even of that, they got up to go.
At the gate Marie drew back. A man was passing, swaying uncertainly, arguing with himself.
“Why! it is Mr. Annandale,” the girl in a frightened whisper murmured.
“I wonder where he got all that liquor?” Loftus queried. “Not at Sylvia Waldron’s, I’ll wager.”
“Sylvia Waldron! What a sweet name,” said Marie. “Who is she?”
“The girl he is engaged to.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Oh, tall and dark, don’t you know. Not at all my style.”
But now night had swallowed Annandale. Loftus and Marie passed on.
VI
The Yellow Fay
At noon the next day Annandale was not awake nor was he asleep. Through spaces in which memories met, entangled and sank, he was groping in search of himself. In these spaces there were things, some formless, others half-formed, that got between consciousness and interfered with the search.
These things pulled at him, tripped him, shoved him down to the memories that were sinking below. The spaces themselves were very dark. But, in the deeper depths, where memories swooned, the darkness was punctuated by slender flames the size of pins. They burned him.
Up and away he tried to rise. When he nearly succeeded, the things above, the things half-formed and formless that were waiting there, pushed him back. Again he tried. But the darkness was thick, the depths were thunderous, the things above pounded on his head, the thin flames lapped at him.
A force took and lifted him high, very high, and suddenly dropped him. In the abrupt descent he clutched at the things, but he was whirled through them to receding plains and up again, higher, still higher. There a ray filtered, in the light of which a memory staggered. He saw himself drinking in the rooms of that girl of Loftus. From there he passed into blankness at the end of which stood Sylvia, her face white and drawn. The vision vanished. Then it seemed to him that he was drinking with a fat man who had prominent teeth which he took from his mouth and changed into dice. But where? In hell, perhaps. Annandale was uncertain. He knew merely that he had been beastly drunk and that his head was simply splitting.
It continued to split. Hours later, sedatives and his servant aiding, the splitting ceased. But the blanks did not fill and though behind them he could not look, yet the subconscious self that registers and retains everything we do and hear and say prompted him dumbly that behind the blanks there lurked the dismal and, perhaps, the dire.
This foreboding he attributed to his nerves. As a matter of fact they were rather shaky. But inaction was intolerable. He tried to write a note to Sylvia, but his hand was insufficiently steady. Failing in that he told Harris to get some flowers, take them to Miss Waldron, and say that he would call that evening. When later the man returned he brought no answer to the
