Gilbert was sitting up in bed. Upon his raised knees a pad of white paper was resting. In his hand was a stylographic pen of red vulcanite, and a third of the page was covered with small delicate writing.
His face was flushed but quite motionless. His whole body in its white pyjama suit was perfectly still. The only movement was that of the hand travelling over the page, the only sound that of the dull grinding of the stylus, as it went this way and that.
There was something sinister about this automaton in the bed with its moving hand. And in our day there is always something a little fantastic and unreal about candlelight... .
How absolutely still the night was! Not a breath of air stirred.
The movements, the stir and tumult of the mind of the person so rigid in the bed were not heard.
_What_ was it, _who_ was it, that was writing in the bed?
Who can say?
Was it Gilbert Lothian, the young and kindly-natured man who reverenced all things that were pure, beautiful and of good report?
Or was it that dreadful other self, the Being created out of poison, that was laying sure and stealthy fingers upon the Soul, that "glorious Devil large of heart and brain"?
Who can tell?
The subtle knowledge of the great doctor could not have said, the holy love of the young matron could not have divined.
These things are hidden yet, and still will be.
The hump of the bed-clothes sank. The pad fell flat. The figure stretched out towards the table, there was the stealthy trickle of liquid, the gurgle of a body, drinking.
Then the bed-clothes rose once more, the pad went to its place, the figure stiffened; and the red pen moved obedient to that which controlled it, setting down the jewelled words upon the page.
--The first of the long series of letters that the Girl of the Library was destined to receive! Not the most beautiful perhaps, not the most wonderful. Pa.s.sion was not born yet, and if love was, there was no concrete word of it here. No one but Gilbert Lothian ever knew what was born on that fated midnight, when he wrote this first subtle letter, deadly for this girl to receive, perhaps, from such a man, at such a time in her life.
A love letter without a word of love.
These are pa.s.sages from the letter:--
... "So, Rita, I am going to write a great poem for you. Will you take it from your friend? I think you will, for it will be made for you in the first place and wrought with all my skill.
"I am going to call it "A Lady in a Library." No one will know the innermost inwardness of it but just you and me. Will not that be delightful, Rita mia amica? When you answer this letter, say that it will be delightful, please!
""A Lady in a Library!" Are not the words wonderful--say it quietly to yourself--"A Lady in a Library!""
This was the poem which appeared two months afterwards in the _English Review_ and definitely established Gilbert Lothian"s claim to stand in the very forefront of the poets of his decade. It is certain to live long. More than one critic of the highest standing has printed his belief that it will be immortal, and many lovers of the poet"s work think so too.
... "The Lady and the Poet meet in a Library upon a golden afternoon. She is the very Spirit and Genius of the place. She has drawn beauty from many brave books. They have told her their secrets as she moves among them, and lavished all their store upon her. Some of the beauty which they hold has pa.s.sed into her face, and the rosy tints of youth become more glorious.
"Oh, they have been very generous!
"The thin volume of Keats gave her eyes their colour, but an old and sober-backed edition of Coleridge opened its dun boards and robbed the magic stanzas of "Kubla Khan" to give them their mystery and wonder.
"Milton bestowed the music of her voice, but it came from the second volume in which Comus lies hid. Her smile was half Herrick and half Heine, and her hair was spun in a "Wood near Athens" by the fairies--Tom III, _Opera Glmi Shakespeare, Editio e Libris Podley!_--upon a night in Midsummer."
"Random thoughts, Cupid! random thoughts! They come to me like moths through the still night, and I put them down for you. A grey-fawn _Papillon de nuit_ is fluttering round my candles now and sometimes he falls flapping and whirring on my paper like a tiny clock-work toy. But I will not kill him. I am happy in writing to my friend, distilling my friendship for you in the lonely laboratory of self, so he shall go unharmed. His ancestors may have feasted upon royal tapestries and laid their eggs in the purple robes of kings!
"What are the moths like in Kensington this night, Cupid?--But of course you are asleep now. I make a picture for myself of you sleeping.
"The whole village is asleep now, save only me, and I am trying to reconstruct our afternoon and evening together, five days ago or was it six? It is more than ever possible to do that at midnight and alone, though every detail is etched upon my memory and I am only adding colour.
"How happy we were! It is so strange to me to think how instantly we became friends--as we are agreed we are always to be, you and I.
And think of all we still have to find out about each other! There are golden days coming in our friendship, all sorts of revelations and surprises. There are so many enchanted places in the Kingdom of Thought to which I have the key, so many doors I shall open for you.
"Ours shall be a perfect friendship--of your bounty I crave again what you have already given!--and I will build it up as an artificer in rare woods or stained marbles, a carver of moon-stones, a builder of temples in honey-coloured Travertine, makes beautiful states in which the soul can dwell, out of beautiful perishable things.
"How often do two people meet as you and I have met? Most rarely.
Men and women fall in love, sometimes too early, sometimes too late. There is a brief summer, and then a long winter of calm grey days which numb the soul into acquiescence, or stab the dull tranquillity with the lightnings of tragedy and woe.
"We have the better part! We are to be friends, Rita, you and I--that is the rivulet of repeated melody which runs through my first letter to you. Some sad dawn will rise for me, when you tell of something nearer and more poignant than anything I can offer you. It will be a dawn in which, for you the trumpets, the sackbuts and the psalteries of Heaven will sound. And your friend will bless you; and retire to the back of the scene with a most graceful bow!
"In the last act of the play, when all the players appear as Nymphs and Graces, and Seasons, your friend will be found wearing the rich yet sober liveries of Autumn, saluting Spring and her Partner with a courtly song, and a dance which expresses his sentiments according to the best ch.o.r.eographic traditions.
"But, as he retires among the last red leaves of the year, and walks jauntily down the forest rides as the setting sun shows the trees already bare, he will know one thing, even if Spring does not know it then--when she turns to her Partner.
"He will know that in her future life, his voice, his face, can never be quite forgotten. Sometimes, at the feast, "surgit amari aliquid" that he is not present there with the wistful glance, the hands that were ever reverent, the old familiar keys!
"For a brief instant of recollection, he will have for you "_L"effet d"un clair-de-lune par une nuit d"ete"_. And you will say to yourself, "_Ami du temps pa.s.ses, vos paroles me reviennent comme un echo lointain, comme le son d"un cloche apporte par le vent; et il me semble que vous etes la quand je lis des pa.s.sages d"amour dans vos livres_"."
A click of gla.s.s against gla.s.s, the low sound of drinking, a black shadow parodied and repeated upon the ceiling in the candle-glow.
The letter is nearly finished now--the bottle is nearly empty.
""Tiens!" I hear you say--by the way, Rita, where did you learn to speak such perfect French? They tell me in Paris and, Mon Dieu! in Tours even! that I speak well. Mais, toi! ...
"Well "How stupid!" I hear you say. "Why does Gilbert strike this note of the "cello and the big sobbing flutes at the very beginning of things?"
"Why, indeed? I hardly know myself. But it is very late now. The curtains of the dark are already shaken by the birth-pangs of the morning. Soon the jocund noises of dawn will begin.
"Let it be so for you and me. There are long and happy days coming in our friendship. The end is not yet! Soon, quite soon, I will return to London with a pocket-full of plans for pleasure, and the magician"s wand polished like the poker in the best parlour of an evangelical household, and charged with the most superior magic!
"Meanwhile I shall write you my thoughts as you must send me yours.
"I kiss your hand,
"GILBERT LOTHIAN."
The figure rose from the bed, gathering the papers together, putting them into a drawer of the dressing-table.
It staggered a little.
"I"m drunk," came in a tired voice, from lips that were parched and dry.