Between Friends

“Before I say that I do—care for you—” she began, tremulously—“tell me that I have nothing to fear—”

Neither spoke. Over her shoulder Drene stared at the distant man who stared back at him.

Presently his eyes reverted to hers, absently studying the childlike beauty of her.

“I’m going to tell you something,” he said. “Love is no more wonderful than hate, no more perfect, no more eternal. And it is less fierce, and not as strong.”

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

“And I want to tell you another thing. I am alone in the world. What I have, I have devised to you—in case I step out—suddenly—”

He paused, hesitated, then:

“Also I desire you to hear something else,” he went on. “This is the proper time for you to hear it, I think—now—to-night—”

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

“There was a woman,” he said—“She happened to be my wife. Also there was my closest friend: and myself. The comedy was cast. Afterward she died—abroad. I believe he was there at the time—Kept up a semblance—But he never married her.... And I do not intend to marry—you.”

After a moment: “And that,” she whispered, “is why you once said to me that I should have let you alone.”

“Did I say that to you?”

“Yes.” She looked up at him, straight into his eyes: “But if you care for me—I do not regret that I did not let you alone.”

“I shall not marry you.”

Her lip trembled but she smiled.

“That is nothing new to me,” she said. “Only one man has offered that.”

“Why didn’t you take him?” he asked, with an ugly laugh.

“I couldn’t. I cared for you.”

“And now,” he said, “are you afraid of me?”

“Yes—a little.”

He leaned forward suddenly, “You’d better steer clear of me!” Her startled eyes beheld in him a change as swift as his words.

“Fair warning!” he added: “look out for yourself.” Everything that was brutal in him; everything ruthless and violent had marred his features so that all in a moment the mouth had grown ugly and a hard, bruised look stamped the pallid muscles of his features and twitched at them.

“You’re taking chances from now on,” he said. “I told you once to let me alone. You’d better do it now. And—” he stared at the distant man—“I told you that hate is more vital than love. It is. I’ve waited a long time to strike. Even now it isn’t in me to do it as I have meant to do it. And so I tell you to keep away from me; and I’ll strike in the old-fashioned way, and end it—to-night.”

Stunned by his sudden and dreadful metamorphosis, her ears ringing with his disjointed incoherencies, she rose, scarcely knowing what she was doing, scarcely conscious that he was beside her, moving lightly and in silence out into the brilliant darkness of the streets.

It was only at her own door that he spoke again: standing there on the shabby steps of her boarding-house, the light from the transom yellowing his ghastly face.

“Something snapped”—he passed an unsteady hand across his eyes;—“I care very deeply for you. I—they’ll make over to you—what I have. You can study on it—live on it, modestly—”

“W-what is the matter? Are you ill?” she stammered, white and frightened.

But he only muttered that she had her warning and that she should keep away from him, and that it would not be long before she should have an opportunity in life. And he went his way not looking back.

When he reached his studio the hall was dark. As he turned the key he thought he heard something stirring in the shadows, but went in—leaving the door into the hallway open—and straight on across the room to his desk.

He was putting something into his coat pocket, and his back was still turned to the open door when Graylock stepped quietly across the threshold; and Drene heard him, but closed his desk, leisurely, and then, as leisurely, turned, knowing who had entered.

And so they stood alone together after many years.

V

Graylock looked at Drene’s heavily sagging pocket and knew what was in it. A sudden sweat chilled his temples, but he said steadily enough:

“I’d like to say a word or two—if you’ll give me time.” And, as Drene made no reply;—“You’re quite right: This business of ours should be finished one way or another. I can’t stand it any longer.”

“In that case,” remarked Drene with an evil stare at him, “I may postpone it—to find out how much you can stand.” He dropped his right hand into the sagging pocket, looking intently at Graylock all the while:

“What do you want here anyway?”

“I fancy that you have already guessed.”

“Maybe. All the same, what do you want?”—fumbling with his bulging pocket for a moment and then remaining motionless.

Graylock’s worn eyes rested on the outline of the shrouded weapon: he stood eyeing it absently for a moment, then seated himself on the sofa, his heavy eyes shifting from one object to another.

But there were few objects to be seen in that silent place;—a star overhead glimmering through the high expanse of glass above;—otherwise gray monotony of wall, a clay shape or two swathed in wet clothes, a narrow ring of lamp light, and formless shadow.

“It’s a long time, Drene.”

Drene mused in silence, now and then watching the other obliquely.

Presently he withdrew his right hand from his coat pocket, pulled an armchair toward him and seated himself.

“It’s many years,” repeated Graylock. “I expected you to do something before this.”

“Were you uneasy?” sneered Drene. Then he shrugged, knowing that Graylock was no coward, sorry he had intimated as much, like a man who deals a premature and useless blow.

He sat brooding for a while, his lean dangerous head lowered sideways as though listening; his oblique glance always covering Graylock.

“I suppose you’ll be surprised when I tell you one reason that I came here,” said Graylock.

“Do you suppose you can still surprise me by anything you may say or do?”

The man remained silent, sitting with his hands tightly clasped on his knees.

“Drene,” he said, in a low voice, “don’t strike at me through this young girl.”