CHAPTER IV
THE SECOND SITTING
On the following night Valentine sat waiting for Julian's arrival in his drawing-room, which looked out upon Victoria Street, whereas the only window of the tentroom opened upon some waste ground where once a panorama of Jerusalem, or some notorious city, stood, and where building operations were now being generally carried on. Valentine very seldom used his drawing-room. Sometimes pretty women came to tea with him, and he did them honour there. Sometimes musicians came. Then there was always a silent group gathered round the Steinway grand piano. For Valentine was inordinately fond of music, and played so admirably that even professionals never hurled at him a jeering "amateur!" But when Valentine was alone, or when he expected one or two men to smoke, he invariably sat in the tentroom, where the long lounges and the shaded electric light were suggestive of desultory conversation, and seemed tacitly to forbid all things that savour of a hind-leg attitude. To-night, however, some whim, no doubt, had prompted him to forsake his usual haunt. Perhaps he had been seized with a dislike for complete silence, such as comes upon men in recurring hours of depression, when the mind is submerged by a thin tide of unreasoning melancholy, and sound of one kind or another is as ardently sought as at other times it is avoided. In this room Valentine could hear the vague traffic of the dim street outside, the dull tumult of an omnibus, the furtive, flashing clamour of a hansom, the cry of an occasional newsboy, explanatory of the crimes and tragedies of the passing hour. Or perhaps the eyes of Valentine were, for the moment, weary of the monotonous green walls of his sanctum, leaning tent-wise towards the peaked apex of the ceiling, and longed to rest on the many beautiful pictures that hung in one line around his drawing-room. It seemed so, for now, as he sat in a chair before the fire, holding Rip upon his knee, his blue eyes were fixed meditatively upon a picture called "The Merciful Knight," which faced him over the mantelpiece. This was the only picture containing a figure of the Christ which Valentine possessed. He had no holy children, no Madonnas. But he loved this Christ, this exquisitely imagined dead, drooping figure, which, roused into life by an act of noble renunciation, bent down and kissed the armed hero who had been great enough to forgive his enemy. He loved those weary, tender lips, those faded limbs, the sacred tenuity of the ascetic figure, the wonderful posture of benign familiarity that was more majestic than any reserve. Yes, Valentine loved this Christ, and Julian knew it well. Often, late at night, Julian had leaned back lazily listening while Valentine played, improvising in a light so dim as to be near to darkness. And Julian had noticed that the player's eyes perpetually sought this picture, and rested on it, while his soul, through the touch of the fingers, called to the soul of music that slept in the piano, stirred it from sleep, carried it through strange and flashing scenes, taught it to strive and to agonize, then hushed it again to sleep and peace. And as Julian looked from the picture to the player, who seemed drawing inspiration from it, he often mutely compared the imagined beauty of the soul of the Christ with the known beauty of the soul of his friend. And the two lovelinesses seemed to meet, and to mingle as easily as two streams one with the other. Yet the beauty of the Christ soul sprang from a strange parentage, was a sublime inheritance, had been tried in the fiercest fires of pity and of pain. The beauty of Valentine's soul seemed curiously innate, and mingled with a dazzling snow of almost inhuman purity. His was not a great soul that had striven successfully, and must always strive. His was a soul that easily triumphed, that was almost coldly perfect without effort, that had surely never longed even for a moment to fall, had never desired and refused the shadowy pleasures of passion. The wonderful purity of his friend's face continually struck Julian anew. It suggested to him the ivory peak of an Alp, the luminous pallor of a pearl. What other young man in London looked like that? Valentine was indeed an unique figure in the modern London world. Had he strayed into it from the fragrant pages of a missal, or condescended to it from the beatific vistas of some far-off Paradise? Julian had often wondered, as he looked into the clear, calm eyes of the friend who had been for so long the vigilant, yet unconscious guardian of his soul.
To-night, as Valentine sat looking at the Christ, a curious wonder at himself came into his mind. He was musing on the confession of Julian, so long withheld, so shyly made at last. This confession caused him, for the first time, to look self-consciously upon himself, to stand away from his nature, as the artist stands away from the picture he is painting, and to examine it with a sideways head, with a peering, contracted gaze. This thing that protected a soul from sin—what was it like? What was it? He could not easily surmise. He had a clear vision of the Christ soul, of the exquisite essence of a divine individuality that prompted life to spring out of death for one perfect moment that it might miraculously reward a great human act of humanity. Yes, that soul floated before him almost visibly. He could call it up before his mind as a man can call up the vision of a supremely beautiful rose he has admired. And there was a scent from the Christ soul as ineffably delicious as the scent of the rose. But when Valentine tried to see his own soul, he could not see it. He could not comprehend how its aspect affected others, even quite how it affected Julian. Only he could comprehend, as he looked at the Christ, its imperfection, and a longing, not felt before, came to him to be better than he was. This new aspiration was given to him by Julian's confession. He knew that well. He protected his friend now without effort. Could he not protect him more certainly with effort? Can a soul be beautiful that never strives consciously after beauty? A child's nature is beautiful in its innocence because it has never striven to be innocent. But is not an innocent woman more wonderful, more beautiful, than an innocent child? Valentine felt within him that night a distinct aspiration, and he vaguely connected it with the drooping Christ, who touched with wan, rewarding lips the ardent face of the merciful knight. And he no longer had the desire to know desire of sin. He no longer sought to understand the power of temptation or the joy of yielding to that power. A subtle change swept over him. Whether it was permanent, or only passing, he could not tell.
A tingling cry from the electric bell in the passage told of Julian's arrival, and in a moment he entered. He looked gay, almost rowdy, and clapped Valentine on the shoulder rather boisterously.
"Why on earth are you in here?" he exclaimed. "Have you been playing?"
"No."
"Are you in an exalted state of mind, that demands the best parlour for its environment?"
"Hardly."
"But why then have you let out the fire in the den and enthroned yourself here?"
"A whim, Julian. I felt a strong inclination to sit in this room to-night. It seems to me a less nervous room than the other, and I want to be as cold-blooded as possible."
"O, I see! But, my dear fellow, what is there nervous about the tent?
Do you imagine ghosts lurking in the hangings, or phantoms of dead Arabs
clinging, like bats, round that rosette in the roof? You got it up the
Nile, didn't you?"
"Yes. Where have you been?"
"Dining out. And, oddly enough, I met Marr again, the man I told you about. It seems he is in universal request just now."
"On account of his mystery-mongering, I suppose."
"Probably."
"Did you tell him anything about our sitting?"
"Only that we had sat, and that nothing had happened."
"What did he say?"
"He said, 'Pooh, pooh! these processes are, and always must be, gradual.
Another time there may be some manifestation.'"
"Manifestation! Did you ask him of what nature the manifestation was likely to be? These people are so vague in the terms they employ."
"Yes, I asked him; but I couldn't get much out of him. I must tell you, Val, that he seemed curiously doubtful about my statement that nothing had happened. I can't think why. He said, 'Are you quite sure?'"
"Of course you answered Yes?"
"Of course."
Valentine looked at him for a moment and then said:
"You didn't mention the—the curtain by any chance?"
"No. You thought you had left it only partially drawn, didn't you?"
Valentine made no reply. His face was rather grave. Julian did not repeat the question. He felt instinctively that Valentine did not wish to be obliged to answer it. Oddly enough, during the short silence which followed, he was conscious of a slight constraint such as he had certainly never felt with Valentine before. His gaiety seemed dropping from him in this quiet room to which he was so often a visitor. The rowdy expression faded out of his face and he found himself glancing half furtively at his friend.
"Valentine," he presently said, "shall we really sit to-night?"
"Yes, surely. You meant to when you came here, didn't you?"
"I don't believe there is anything in it."
"We will find out. Remember that I want to get hold of your soul."
Julian laughed.
"If you ever do it will prove an old man of the sea to you," he said.
"I will risk that," Valentine answered.
And then he added:
"But, come, don't let us waste time. I will go and send away Wade.
Clear that little table by the piano."
Julian began removing the photographs and books which stood on it, while Valentine went out of the room and told his man to go.
As soon as they heard the front door close upon him they sat down opposite to each other as on the previous night.
They kept silence and sat for what seemed a very long time. At last
Julian said:
"Val!"
"Well?"
"Let us go back into the tentroom."
"Why?"
"Nothing will ever happen here."
"Why should anything happen there?"
"I don't know. Let us go. The fire is burning too brightly here. We ought to have complete darkness."
"Very well, though I can't believe it will make the slightest difference."
They got up and went into the tentroom, which looked rather cheerless with its fireless grate.
"I know this will be better," Julian said. "We'll have the same table as last night."
Valentine carefully drew the green curtain quite over the door and called Julian's attention to the fact that he had done so. Then they sat down again. Rip lay on the divan in his basket with a rug over him, so that he might not disturb them by any movement in search of warmth and of companionship.
The arrangements seemed careful and complete. They were absolutely isolated from the rest of the world. They were in darkness and the silence might almost be felt. As Julian said, they were safe from trickery, and, as Valentine rejoined in his calm voix d'or, they were therefore probably also safe from what Marr had mysteriously called "manifestations."
Dead, dumb silence. Their four hands, not touching, lay loosely on the oval table. Rip slept unutterably, shrouded head and body in his cosy rug. So—till the last gleam of the fire faded. So—till another twenty minutes had passed. The friends had not exchanged a word, had scarcely made the slightest movement. Could a stranger have been suddenly introduced into the black room, and have remained listening attentively, he might easily have been deceived into the belief that, but for himself, it was deserted. To both Valentine and Julian the silence seemed progressive. With each gliding moment they could have declared that it grew deeper, more dense, more prominent, even more grotesque and living. There seemed to be a sort of pressure in it which handled them more and more definitely. The sensation was interesting and acute. Each gave himself to it, and each had a, perhaps deceptive, consciousness of yielding up something, something impalpable, evanescent, fluent. Valentine, more especially, felt as if he were pouring away from himself, by this act of sitting, a vital liquid, and he thought with a mental smile:
"Am I letting my soul out of its cage, here and now?"
"No doubt," his common sense replied; "no doubt this sensation is the merest fancy."
He played with it in the darkness, and had no feeling of weariness.
Nearly an hour had passed in this morose way, when, with, it seemed, appalling abruptness, Rip barked.
Although the bark was half stifled in rug, both Valentine and Julian started perceptibly.
"'Sh!" Valentine hissed to the little dog. "'Sh! Rip! Quiet!"
The response of Rip was, with a violent scramble, to disentangle himself from his covering, emerging from which he again barked with shrill and piercing vehemence, at the same time leaping to the floor. By the sound, which he could locate, Valentine felt certain that the dog had gone over to the door.
"What on earth is he barking at?" Julian said in the darkness.
"I can't imagine. Hush, Rip! S-sh!"
"Val, turn on the light, quick! You're nearest to it."
Valentine stretched out his hand hastily, and in a flash the room sprang into view. He was right. Rip was crouched—his front legs extended along the floor, his hind legs standing almost straight—close to the door, and facing it full. His head was down, and moving, darting this way and that, as if he were worrying the feet of some person who was trying to advance from the door into the centre of the room. All his teeth showed, and his yellow eyes were glaring fiercely.
Julian, who had thrown a hasty and searching glance round the room when the light was turned on, sprang forward and bent down to him.
"Rip! Rip!" he said. "Silly! What's the matter? Silly dog!" and he began to stroke him.
Either this action of his, or something else not known by the young men, had an effect on the terrier, for he suddenly ceased barking, and began to snuffle eagerly, excitedly, at the bottom of the door.
"It's as if he were mad," said Julian, turning round. "Hulloh, Val! What the devil's come to you?"
For he found Valentine standing up by the table with an expression of deep astonishment on his face.
He pointed in silence to the door.
"By Jove! that curtain again!" said Julian, with an accent of amazement.
"I'm damned!"
The curtain was, in fact, drawn back from the door. Valentine struck a match and put it to a candle. Then he opened the door. Rip immediately darted out of the room and pattered excitedly down the passage, as if searching for something, his sharp nose investigating the ground with a vehement attention. The young men followed him. He ran to the front door, then back into Valentine's bedroom; then, by turns, into the four other apartments—bedroom, drawing-room, bathroom and kitchen—that formed the suite. The doors of the two latter were opened by Valentine. Having completed this useless progress, Rip once more resorted to the passage and the front door, by which he paused, whimpering, in an uncertain, almost a wistful attitude.
"Open it!" said Julian.
Valentine did so.
They looked out upon the broad and dreary stone steps, and waited, listening. There was no sound. Rip still whimpered, rather feebly. His excitement was evidently dying away. At last Valentine shut the door, and they went back again to the tentroom, accompanied closely by the dog, who gradually regained his calmness, and who presently jumped of his own accord into his basket, and, after turning quickly round some half-dozen times, composed himself once more to sleep.
"I wish, after all, we had stayed in the other room by the fire," Julian said. "Give me some brandy."
Valentine poured some into a glass and Julian swallowed it at a gulp.
"We mustn't have Rip in the room another time," he added. "He spoilt the whole thing."
"What whole thing?" Valentine asked, sinking down in a chair.
"Well, the sitting. Perhaps—perhaps one of Marr's mysterious manifestations might have come off to-night."
Valentine did not reply at first. When he did, he startled Julian by saying:
"Perhaps one of them did come off."
"Did?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"What was Rip barking at?"
"There's no accounting for what dogs will do. They often bark at shadows."
"At shadows—yes, exactly. But what cast a shadow to-night?"
Julian laughed with some apparent uneasiness.
"Perhaps a coming event," he exclaimed.
Valentine looked at him rather gravely.
"That is exactly what I felt," he said.
"Explain. For I was only joking."
"I felt, perhaps it was only a fancy, that this second sitting of ours brought some event a stage nearer, a stage nearer on its journey."
"To what?"
"I felt—to us."
"Fancy."
"Probably. You didn't feel it?"
"I? Oh, I scarcely know what I felt. I must say, though, that squatting in the dark, and saying nothing for such an age, and—and all the rest of it, doesn't exactly toughen one's nerves. That little demon of a Rip quite gave me the horrors when he started barking. What fools we are! I should think nothing of mounting a dangerous horse, or sailing a boat in rough weather, or risking my life as we all do half our time in one way or another. Yet a dog and a dark room give me the shudders. Funny, Val, isn't it?"
Valentine answered, "If it is a dog and a dark room."
"What else can it possibly be?" Julian said with an accent of rather unreasonable annoyance.
"I don't know. But I did draw the curtain completely over the door to-night. Julian, I am getting interested in this. Perhaps—who knows?—in the end I shall have your soul, you mine."
He laughed as he spoke; then added:
"No, no; I don't believe in such an exchange; and, Julian, I scarcely desire it. But let us go on. This gives a slight new excitement to life."
"Yes. But it is selfish of you to wish to keep your soul to yourself.
I want it. Well, au revoir, Val; to-morrow night."
"Au revoir."
After Julian had gone Valentine went back into the drawing-room and stood for a long while before the "Merciful Knight." He had a strange fancy that the picture of the bending Christ protected the room from the intrusion of—what?
He could not tell yet. Perhaps he could never tell.