to
olive warnock
{99}
to harry bruton it seemed an eternity before the little steamer, caucase, was berthed, the gangways placed in position, and the passengers allowed to disembark on the quay at le pirée. for nearly half an hour he had been standing on the quay-side shouting inanities to his friend dick cassels who, clad in flannels, a straw hat, and a lemon-coloured tie, stood grinning on the deck and failing to catch a word that was called to him.
“had a good time?” shouted bruton.
cassels, examining his watch and craning his neck forward, yelled back:
“just 8.40.”
“oh—damn! can’t you hear?”
“what do you say?”
“damn!—that’s all.”
this sort of thing could not go on indefinitely, and bruton, shrugging his shoulders, began to laugh. nevertheless, he was terribly anxious for cassels to come on shore. every minute mattered. god alone knew what might be happening at this very second in that big house on the outskirts of athens—that house whose garden even now, in april, was one huge, thick cluster of flowers, crimson, blue and yellow.
bruton had been in greece a couple of years. leaving oxford at the age of twenty-three, he had gone to athens to study and write. cassels was coming to him for a few days on his way to constantinople. friends of many years standing, both had for some weeks been looking forward eagerly to this meeting, and now, though they were within a stone’s throw of each other, they could not clasp hands. at last the gangways were pushed from the boat to the quay, a{100}nd cassels was one of the first to step on shore.
“let’s hurry through the customs as quickly as possible,” said bruton, “i’ve got a car waiting on the road.”
five minutes later they were in the car rushing at top speed in the direction of athens, four miles away.
“and now that those rotten levantine jews have ceased pawing my baggage and me,” said cassels, “how are you?”
“top-hole. and you?”
“never fitter in my life. good lord, it’s fine to see you again, harry. had a ripping time on board. there was a french girl who sang....”
bruton interrupted him by placing a sudden hand on his friend’s arm.
“an awf’ly rotten thing’s happened, dick. i must tell you all about it before we arrive. i’ve got a friend here in athens—a man called gascoyne. yesterday his girl jilted him and ran off god knows where with another fellow. she played up to him—to gascoyne, i mean—to the very last moment: spent the evening with him the day before she skedaddled. well, gascoyne’s done—absolutely broken. all yesterday and last night i was with him, literally keeping him from suicide. i am going to him now: i daren’t leave him alone.”
“good lord!” exclaimed cas{101}sels. “rather a weak sort of devil, isn’t he? and why the dickens should you bother about him, anyway? this is going to knock the bottom out of our holiday.”
“i’m afraid it is. but, you see, he’s all alone and i’m his closest friend. his mother’s dead, his father’s away, and there he is with just one man-servant, a greek, living alone in an enormous, rambling house. i scarcely liked to leave him even while i came to meet you.”
cassels cursed under his breath and lit a cigarette.
“i’m beastly sorry,” said bruton, “but what can i do? if anything should happen to him i should blame myself for ever.”
“oh, you’re doing quite the right thing, old son,” cassels assured him, “but what a damned ass the man is! it makes me sick the way young fools carry on about women.”
“but he’s not a fool. as self-contained and manly a chap as you could wish to meet. now, listen. what i propose to do is this. we’ll go and seek him now, have breakfast together, and persuade him to come back with us to my place. i can easily put him up. wherever we go we’ll take him with us. he wants pulling out of himself, and in a day or two he’ll probably be all right. but just at present he’s dangerous—dangerous to himself, i mean, though i may tell you i’ve got his revolver all right. but here we are.”
the car slowed down and stopped in front of a big white house with green shutters, standing well back from the road. a great wooden gate barred their way. in response to their r{102}ing, an oldish man came hurrying from the house.
“everything all right?” asked bruton.
“yes, sir. mister cyril’s digging in the garden.”
and at the back of the house they found gascoyne, a fair handsome fellow with blue eyes and freckles; he wore no coat, and his open white shirt revealed a magnificent chest.
shaking hands with dick cassels, he invited them indoors.
“coffee and things are waiting for you,” he said.
“good!” exclaimed cassels; “for i’m dreadfully hungry. on the boat we’ve been breakfasting at 10.30. such a rummy breakfast! wine and rolls and hors d'?uvres and cheese.”
they stepped into the house and entered a large cool room with whitewashed walls; the pine-wood floor was bare except for an occasional persian rug whose smooth colours held and gratified the eye.
“do help yourselves,” said gascoyne. “no, don’t. sit in these easy chairs and i’ll wait on you.”
his fresh face was a little haggard and his eyes glittered. he busied himself with cups, plates, and food, and when his friends had begun eating, he eagerly and tremblingly seized a decanter of whisky, filled a champagne-glass to the brim, and drank it off neat in two gulps.
“oh, i say,” ex{103}claimed cassels, “i didn’t know you had any whisky there. do give me some.”
“certainly. i’ll get you some soda.”
when gascoyne had left the room, bruton turned to his friend.
“what on earth are you drinking whisky for at this time of the morning?”
“well, the great thing is not to let your friend think he is doing anything unusual. he knows we are watching him carefully, and a watched man always poses. he is suffering, and perhaps he is a little unhinged—all the more reason why we should not only make no comment on what he does, but should behave ourselves as nearly as possible in the same way that he does.”
“i wonder,” said bruton.
gascoyne entered with three or four bottles of soda-water.
“oh, really, you shouldn’t have troubled,” protested cassels, “for i’d much rather have it neat. i’m sick of red wine, and they hadn’t even a drop of whisky on board.”
and he helped himself to a glassful.
“how shall we spend the morning, cyril?” asked bruton. “shall we drive to the acropolis and sleep for an hour in the shade of the parthenon?”
gascoyne looked at him curiously for a moment, and then laughed.
“what a funny old thing you are!” he said. “no. been to athens b{104}efore?” he asked cassels.
“no—this is my first visit.”
“very well, then. we’ll go to the acropolis to-night. there’s a full moon, and one’s first sight of the acropolis should always be by moonlight. this morning we’ll take the car to eleusis. there are mysteries there,” he added, darkly, “undiscoverable mysteries. the temple of demeter is now a confusion of broken stones. we can bathe there. the sea is blue.”
he drank more whisky and still more, and while his friends ate their breakfast he had continual recourse to the decanter. but he exhibited none of the more obvious signs of intoxication: his voice and gait were steady; only his eyes were wild, and his face strained.
after pacing the room for a short while, he sat down in a deck-chair facing his friends.
“finished?” he asked. “do have some more. those oranges were plucked only this morning. no? well, then, come upstairs with me: i’ve got something rather magnificent i want to show you.”
he rose and led the way from the room. the house was full of greenish light reflected from the half-open shutters. the staircase leading to the upper story was made of white marble flushed gently with pink. gascoyne, opening a door, said:
“this is my bedroom.”
they entered and he pointed to a plaster cast of a woman’s head nailed upon the wall opposite the window. walking to the window, they half-seated themselves upon the dressing-tabl{105}e there and looked at the cast. instinctively, cassels knew it was gascoyne’s love.
“it is very beautiful,” said he softly.
the face had the inscrutable smile of la gioconda; there was mystery in the mouth, imagination in the eyes, and holiness dwelt on her brows.
“who did it?” asked bruton.
“some artist chap,” answered gascoyne; “as a matter of fact,” he continued, carelessly, “the man she’s run away with. he’s very clever, don’t you think?”
he walked up to it, as though scrutinizing it for the first time; then, returning, he put his face close to the face of bruton and said:
“damned little devil, isn’t she?”
but it was cassels who answered him.
“she has the most wonderful face i have ever seen,” he said; “the kindest face. but, then, nearly all faces are masks. that, i suppose, is what they’re for—to deceive, i mean.”
“outside,” said gascoyne, “i have the most gorgeous view.”
they turned and looked. the windows were wide open. beneath them was a thick, undulating carpet of pear-blossom as thick as a heavy fall of snow, and as brilliant as snow in the sun. the orchard was several acres in extent. in the distance were blue mountains; the sky above them had a faint tinge of purple.
“good lord! how wonder{106}ful!” exclaimed cassels. “and is this greece or paradise?”
“it was both—till yesterday,” said gascoyne. “now it’s hell. by the way, cassels, are you a good shot with a revolver?”
“pretty fair. at least, i used to be, but i’ve had no practice for years.”
“i wonder if you can shoot as well as this.”
and on the instant he turned round and, at arm’s length, held out a webley, pointing it straight at the cast on the opposite wall. in rapid succession he fired six rounds, smashing the cast into a hundred pieces. his friends, standing one on either side of him, looked on without a word or movement.
“rather good shooting,” said cassels, at length, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world to pour lead into bedroom walls after breakfast.
bruton, pale and trembling, exclaimed:
“but i thought i’d taken your revolver!”
“have you taken my other revolver?” asked gascoyne, his face working with anger. “what the devil for? where is it? give it me now. get it, i tell you! who in god’s name are you to come here stealing the things i may want at any minute?”
bruton put his hand on gascoyne’s arm.
“don’t be angry with me, cyril,” he said, penitently. “i was a fool to do it, i know. but i was so upset last night—i scarcely knew what i was doing.”
“but why did you take it?”
but again it was cassels {107}who answered him.
“he told me on the way here why he had taken it. he was afraid you would find the—the other man and kill him.”
gascoyne’s face cleared a little.
“in any case, it was a damned silly thing to do,” he said.
“i know it was,” said bruton, “but you’ve forgiven me, haven’t you? it’s up at my place—i’ll get it you this afternoon or some time to-morrow. look here, cyril. why not come and stay with me? i’ve plenty of room. it’ll be a change for you.”
“thanks. but i don’t want a change. as a matter of fact, i’m damned tired. i think i’ll go to sleep.”
he was still holding his revolver, but now he put it down on the dressing-table with a gesture of disgust.
“i’ll not go with you to eleusis,” he added. “use my car, won’t you? you’ll find it round at the hotel garage, and eurinikos will drive you if you want him. i’ll call for you to-night after dinner, and we’ll all go together to the acropolis.”
“right,” said cassels.
“but are you sure you’ll be able to sleep?” asked bruton, involuntarily glancing at the revolver.
“of course i shall be able to sleep,” answered gascoyne, irritably; “why the hell shouldn’t i?” he hesitated a moment. “well, good-bye for the present,” he added, in a matter-of-fact voice.{108}
“see you to-night, then,” said cassels, smiling frankly.
the two friends left gascoyne, bruton closing the door in careful silence. out in the street, he asked:
“what do you think of him?”
“look here, harry,” said cassels, “let’s not talk about it at all. if you think you ought to stay with him we’ll wait downstairs until he wakes up. but if you think he can be safely left, let’s go out for the day together and forget all about him. with a chap like that you don’t know how much is sincere and how much is acting. probably the poor devil doesn’t know himself.”
“but he’s got his revolver with him!”
“yes, he has. what then?”
“he may use it.”
“precisely. for heaven’s sake, harry, do make up your mind what you are going to do. but let me tell you this—your presence irritates him, and it is much better for him to be left alone.”
“well, then, we’ll leave him. we go this way for the garage.”
dinner that night at the minerva hotel was rather a dull affair, for bruton even at the third course began to fidget about gascoyne and to wonder if his friend were lying dead in his bedroom.{109}
“let’s have some wine, harry,” said cassels. “what’s that golden booze the people at the next table are drinking?”
“some native stuff—olympus they call it, i think.”
“well, we’ll have a bottle—two bottles.”
but the more bruton drank the more despondent he became, and over coffee and liqueurs he said:
“it’s quite time he was here. half-past nine.”
“for heaven’s sake, do keep calm. we can do nothing but wait.”
“yes, i know. but i feel we ought not to have left him alone all day. how rotten he would feel when he woke up! and, in his present condition, he may be annoyed that we’ve come here to dine. i do hope my servant has given him my note telling him where to find us.”
he moved restlessly, and then rose to his feet. an idea had struck him. it was possible gascoyne had left a note or a message for him at his flat across the way.
“excuse me a minute, won’t you? i’ve left something at my flat that i want.”
he hurried away. in five minutes he was back again, holding a note in his hand.
“he left this at my flat this afternoon,” said bruton, agitatedly; “what does it mean?”
cassels read the following.
{110}
i’m not coming to-night. i’m staying at home. all the loveliness of the world has become cruel. sympathy is an intrusion and kindness bruises. yet if you and your friend would like to come and get drunk with me to-night, you will be welcome.
“i understand his mood well enough,” said cassels. “we’d better be getting along, hadn’t we? the best thing we can do is to let him drink himself to sleep. to-morrow we’ll put the screw on.”
they hurried down the road and in a quarter of an hour had reached the big white house with the green shutters. in the moonlight it looked insubstantial, ethereal, like some enormous ghostly bird preparing for flight. the door of the main entrance showed there was a light in the hall, and through the half-closed shutters of one of the rooms on the ground-floor more light revealed itself.
they rang, but there was no response. nor did their knocking evoke any movement they could hear. ringing and knocking alternately, they stood for five minutes or so, speaking little, but into the hearts of both of them fear had begun to creep.
“damned funny!” said bruton, at length. “look here, dick, will you stay where you are while i go and investigate? he may be in the garden somewhere, or he might have dropped off to sleep in one of the outhouses.”
cassels, s{111}itting down on the top step, lit his pipe. summing up the situation and attempting to calculate the chances of gascoyne’s having committed suicide, he muttered: “more than likely—more than likely. a chap like that might do it just for the sake of making an effect—just to give the whole affair its proper dramatic close.”
bruton was a long time away. at last he returned, running.
“are you there, dick? no: i’ve found nothing. he’s not there. i’ve tried all the windows i can get at, but they’re all locked. his servant sleeps out, and i don’t know where to get hold of him. we must break one of the windows.”
“yes, i suppose we must, if it’s only to ease our own minds. this damned business is getting on my nerves.”
they selected the smallest window, broke it open, and entered the house.
“you’d better let me go first,” said cassels, “my nerves are a bit steadier than yours.”
they entered the lit-up room—the room in which they had breakfasted. it was untenanted. the decanter which, earlier in the day, had been half full was now empty; by its side was a bottle of brandy holding a third of its original contents. without a word, acting on the same impulse, they left the room, ascended the stairs and entered gascoyne’s bedroom. this also was untenanted. near the door the floor was covered with the debris of the shattered cast. bruton walked to and almost pounced upon the dressing-table, opening one drawer after another.{112}
“his revolver’s gone,” he said, as if the final word had been spoken.
“is there a piano in the house?”
“yes—why?”
“let’s go and play it. it’ll pull us together a bit. after all, what is there more likely than that he’s gone for a long tramp? or he might have changed his mind and gone to your place after all. in any case we can do nothing now but wait.”
a little comforted, bruton led the way to the music-room.
“play something, dick: i’m too shaky,” he said.
so cassels played some of the humane if rather turgid music of schumann in which one may always find balm for the poisoned mind. the brooding sound brought them both consolation for a time, but at length bruton’s mind wandered away from the music, and he began to tease and lacerate his spirit with horrible thoughts.
“supposing he is lying dead in a cupboard somewhere,” something whispered to him, “or in a bath. he might have cut a vein and even at this moment be bleeding to death. or he might have gone on to the roof.” then, rising from his chair, he said, hurriedly:
“dick—we must go and look for him—we must go and find him!”
at the first word cassels’ fingers dropped lifeless on the k{113}eys.
“i was thinking the same thing myself,” he said. “we’ll do the ground-floor first.”
slowly and in silence they went from one room to another, switching on the electric lights and looking in every place—likely and unlikely—which a man might have chosen to hide his own dead body in. the rooms, for the most part, were large and sparsely furnished, and a mere glance was in many cases sufficient to assure them that there, at least, no tragedy had been enacted. but in a narrow, long passage leading to the back premises, and in the back premises themselves, were many cupboards. these they opened one by one and, striking matches, peered inside.
“damn the whole business!” exclaimed bruton; “my legs feel like jelly. each time i look i expect to see—something.”
and cassels found that the hand with which he held the matches on high trembled. his body was cold and he felt sick.
nothing on the ground-floor. in the room upstairs there was much more furniture, and they feverishly opened the lids of boxes and ottomans, looked under beds, pulled open the doors of wardrobes, and searched behind curtains. coming out of the third bedroom they had searched, they both suddenly stood still with a sensation of terrible and grotesque fear: gascoyne was standing at the doorway, leaning drunkenly against the jamb and watching them.{114}
“looking for me?” he asked.
“yes,” said cassels, who was the first to collect himself; “we thought you had fallen asleep in one of the bedrooms. we’ve come to drink with you.”
“drunk enough,” said gascoyne. “been drinking all day. however, you fellows help yourselves: plenty of drink downstairs. staying the night? good. i’m going to bed. choose your own rooms. s’long.”
he groped his way to his bedroom. bruton followed him. cassels, standing in the passage, heard the following conversation.
“are you sure you’re all right, cyril?”
“course i’m all right. why the hell shouldn’t i be all right? what’s the matter with me, eh? that’s what i want to know—what’s the matter with me?”
“oh—nothing. of course there’s nothing. good night, then.”
bruton emerged from the room pale and excited. when they had reached the foot of the stairs, he whispered:
“i’ve got it. i’ve got his revolver. i took it out of his coat-pocket. look! all six chambers are loaded.”
after a drink the two friends, choosing separate rooms, went to bed.
it must have been about three o’clock next morning that cyril gascoyne awoke with an intolerable thirst. for a little while he lay wondering where he was and trying to remember the events of the previous day. like a nightmare they came to him, and with them came a feeling {115}of self-disgust.
sitting up in bed he groped about for his coat and, taking a box of matches from one of his pockets, struck a light. some blind instinct made him feel in the right-hand side-pocket to discover if his revolver was still there. the pocket was empty.
in a flash he jumped out of bed and turned on the light.
“damn him!” he muttered; “he’s got them both now!”
and then his brain, overwrought and dizzied with the fumes of alcohol, began to breed the thoughts and desires of madness.
“so bruton thought i was going to commit suicide, did he? and he’s tried to outwit me! the damned fool! why, blast it, if i’d wanted to shoot myself i would have shot myself. why not? but i’ll show him. he can’t get the better of me—i’m damned if he can.”
he chuckled with insane laughter, and his eyes became deep with cunning. having turned out the electric light, he lit a candle, noiselessly opened the door, and listened. not a sound. yes: breathing—the sound of someone breathing deeply in his sleep. he crept along the passage, stopped and listened again. the sound came from the room on his right, the door of which was open. for a brief second he looked inside: it was bruton, fast asleep.
gascoyne had no doub{116}t at all that his revolver lay under the pillow beneath bruton’s head. he was as confident it was there as if he had seen it. he extinguished the candle, put it on the floor, and crept into the bedroom on his hands and knees, making no sound, and breathing through both mouth and nostrils. his fingers slid along the mattress until they reached the pillows. then for a minute he paused. gently, gently his open hand felt its way inch by inch, pressing itself hard upon the mattress. again he paused. the sleeper did not move. then, once more, his hand began its stealthy work, exploring, sensitive, apprehensive....
in ten minutes he was sitting on the floor holding the revolver, sweat on his forehead, a dreadful dryness in his throat. and now he rose to his feet and walked quickly and agitatedly but very silently to his own room, locking the door behind him.
“i’ll show him!” he muttered. “i’ll teach him to meddle.”
taking a thick eiderdown quilt from a cupboard, he spread it carefully on the bed. then, with the revolver still in his hand, he crept head-first beneath the clothes, dragging them closely around him....
no one heard the shot that was fired....
not until the marvellous april dawn of greece came that morning did bruton wake up and, jumping out of bed, try oh! so quietly to open gascoyne’s door. for, if gascoyne slept, he did not wish to wake him.
