Out & Proud: Gay Classics Collection. Radclyffe Hall
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you may thank, if life is a boon to you.”
“I thank both devoutly. Life is precious, while its work remains undone.”
Here he closed his eyes, as if facing labor and duty again was too much for his feebleness. When he glanced up at me anew, I fancied I saw an evanescent look of recognition drift across his face.
This set me a second time turning over the filmy leaves of the book of portraits in my brain. Was his semblance among those legions of faces packed close and set away in order there? No. I could not identify him. The likeness drifted away from me, and vanished, like a perplexing strain of music, once just trembling at the lips, but now gone with the breath, refusing to be sung.
I thought it not best to worry him with inquiries; so I waited quietly, and in a moment he began.
“Will you tell me what has happened? How came I under your kind care? Yours is a new face in Chrysalis.”
“I must give the face a name,” said I. “Let me present myself. Mr. Robert Byng.”
“In return, know me as Mr. Cecil Dreeme. Will you shake hands with your grateful patient, Mr. Byng.”
He weakly lifted an attenuated hand. Poor fellow! I could hardly keep my vigorous fist from crushing up that meagre, chilly handful, so elated was I at his recovery and his gratitude.
“I owe you an explanation, of course,” said I. “I am a new-comer, arrived from Europe only last night. Mr. Stillfleet, an old comrade, ceded his chambers below to me this afternoon. Locksley came to my door at twelve o’clock, looking for my friend Mr. Churm, who had been sitting with me. Churm had gone. Locksley was in great alarm. I volunteered my advice. He took me into his confidence, so far as this: he said that you were a young painter, living in the closest retirement, for reasons satisfactory to yourself, and that he feared you were dying from overwork, confinement, solitude, and perhaps mental trouble. I said you must be helped at once. We came up, and banged at your door heartily. No answer. We took the liberty to pick your lock and break into your castle. Then we took the greater liberty to put life into you, in the form of air, warmth, and alcohol.”
“Pardonable liberties, surely.”
“Yes; since it seems you did not mean to die.”
“Suicide!” said Dreeme, reproachfully. “No, thank God! You did not accuse me of that, Mr. Byng!”
“When we were knocking at your door, and hearing only a deathly silence, I dreaded that you had let toil and trouble drive you to despair.”
“Overwork and anxiety were killing me, without my knowledge.”
“And solitude?” said I.
“And that solitude of the heart which is the brother of death. Yes, Mr. Byng, I have been extravagant of my life. But innocently. Believe it!”
There was such eager protest in his look and tone, that I hastened to reassure him.
“When I saw your face, Mr. Dreeme, I read there too much mental life and too much moral life for suicide. I see brave patience in your countenance. Besides, you have too much sense to rush out and tap Death on the cold shoulder, and beg to be let out of life into Paradise before you have earned your entrance fee. You know, as well as I do, that Death keeps suicides shivering in Chaos, without even a stick and a knife to notch off the measureless days, until the allotted dying hour they vainly tried to anticipate comes round.”
Dreeme’s attention refused to be averted from his own case by such speculations.
“I have been struggling with dark waters, — dark waters, Mr. Byng,” said he.
“Churm’s very phrase to describe his sorrow,” I thought. “Who knows but Dreeme’s grief is the same?”
“Struggling like a raw swimmer,” he continued. “And when I was drowning, I find you sent to give me a friendly hand. It is written that I shall not die with all my work undone. No, no. I shall live to finish.”
He spoke with strange energy, and turned toward his easel as he closed.
“You refer to your picture,” said I, pleased to see his artist enthusiasm kindle so soon.
“My picture!” he rejoined, a little carelessly, as if it were of graver work he had thought. “How does it promise? I have put my whole heart into it. But hand cannot always speak loud enough or clear enough to interpret heart.”
“Hand has not stammered or mumbled here,” I replied. “My first glance showed me that. But I must have daylight to study it as it deserves. Am I right in recognizing you as the Cordelia of the piece?”
“For lack of a better model, I remodelled myself, and intruded there in womanly guise. My work is unfinished, as you see; but if you had not interposed to-night, I should have painted no more.” He shuddered, and seemed to grow faint again at the thought of that desolate death he had hardly escaped.
“Let me cheer you with a fresh dose of vitality,” said I. “A little more Lusitanian sun in crystal of Venice.”
This time he was strong enough himself to raise the cup to his lips. He sipped, and smiled gratefully; — and really a patient owes some thanks to a doctor who restores him with nectar smooth and fragrant, instead of rasping his throat and flaying his whole interior with the bitters sucked by sour-tempered roots from vixenish soils.
“It was a happy fate, a kind Providence,” said Dreeme, “that sent to me in my extremity a gentleman whose touch to mind and body is fine and gentle as a woman’s.”
“Thank you,” rejoined I. “But remember that I am only acting as Mr. Churm’s substitute. I hope you will let me bring him to you in the morning.”
“No,” said he, almost with rude emphasis.
I looked at him in some surprise. “You seem to have a prejudice against the name,” I remarked.
“Why should I? I merely do not wish to add to my list of friends.”
“But Mr. Churm is the very ideal friend, — stanch as oak, true as steel, warm and cheery as sunshine, eager as fresh air, tender as midsummer rain. Do let me interest him in you. He is just the man to befriend a lonely fellow.”
Dreeme shook his head, resolutely and sadly.
“You seem to mistrust my enthusiasm,” I said.
“It is tragic to me,” he returned, “to hear a generous nature talk so ardently of its friendships. Have you had no disappointments? Has no one you loved changed and become abased?”
“One would almost say you were trying to shake my faith in my friend.”
“Why should I? I speak generally.”
Here the partition-door of the lobby without opened, and we heard footsteps.
“Friend Locksley, with some supper for you,” said I, half annoyed at the interruption of our tête-à-tête.
“How kind! how thoughtful of you both!” and tears started in Dreeme’s eyes as he spoke.
A Mild Orgie
Locksley came boldly in, breathlessly.
“All right, I see, Mr. Dreeme,” he panted.
“All right, Locksley! thanks to you and Mr. Byng.”
“I’ve been gone,” says the janitor, “long enough to make all the shifts of a permutation lock.”
He deposited a huge basket on the table.
“Bagpypes’s was shut,” he continued. “So was De Grope’s. I had to go up to Selleridge’s. He’s an open-all-night-er. Selleridge’s