"Drink, my dear," he said, nodding to the draped chair with a sorry attempt at joviality. "That's right. Great thing, champagne; sorry I didn't know it before." He leaned across the table and tried to fill the second glass, already full many times over, and gave the sopping cloth, which had been spread regardless of the dust, another libation. "Drink. Drink and be merry, as the old saying is—Epicurus, eh? Wonderful how it warms your heart.... And to think I never knew how champagne could fire one!" He tossed off the contents of his own glass and clacked his tongue.
"But I have been working," he went on with sudden cunning; "working for you, Elinor. This is our homecoming; all my life, my dear, I've pictured you and me sitting here and facing each other, and the niggers waiting on us. Niggers 'fraid to come, damn 'em! But's all yours—within bounds, of course—within bounds. I'm rich, I am—moderately so—perhaps not rich, but enough; with economy, enough for comfort." He waved the glass about at arm's length, noticed that it was empty, and refilled it. "All yours—and mine. And here we are! I forget the past—'s all wiped out—your children shall be my God, and my children your— You know; 's in the Bible. Wherever I goest you goest—"
There was a phonetic allusion in the repeated verb that cast a sudden damper over his exuberant spirits.
"Ghost!" he muttered, bending a dark look upon the lavender skirt, the time-stained cashmere shawl, the yellow bit of lace that adorned the chair facing him. Sitting so, he fell into a long, brooding silence.
The fire slowly sank upon the hearth, and the candles guttered unheeded down on the table. Without, the rain had settled into a steady downpour, its unbroken roar being intensified, in a muffled way, by the vast, empty house; a cold, penetrating wintry rain, such as drives the belated wayfarer to shelter however scant, and early empties the drenched streets of every living thing. And with a frequency growing more insistent as the minutes pass, the chill and the damp strike to Slade's very heart. Often now he fumbles with bottles and fills his glass—never forgetting the one opposite him, though it is never emptied—and at length the black mood is driven forth, only to stand once more at his elbow. Of a sudden he laughs harshly—a laugh that certainly would have startled any occupant of the room, had one been present to hear, for the laugh was both bitter and malignant.
"Come, drink up, m' dear. You're no ghos'—not you! Ha!" The glass rattled upon his teeth. "That damn' Peyton Wes'brook; he's a ghos', hey? Well, he is. Here's to the ghos'. Thought he'd get you, Elinor; but you're no ghos'—'s lie, tha's what 't is—lie. You're mine. All mine—house—money—you—all mine, at las'. We'll show 'em, curse 'em!" His unsteady hand overturned the brimming glass, but he poured on just the same; and when presently he noticed that the bottle was drained, he threw it with a wild laugh to a far dark corner, where it splintered against the panelling with a crash of sound that awed and frightened even him. But the vapors of the wine had too firm a hold on his brain for the feeling to remain. He laughed again, and went on with his mad monologue.
"Happy at las', too, El'nor. Been savin' all for you, m' dear. Ever hear me sing, hey? Remember this? Listen."
And, mirabile dictu, in a voice cracked, quavering, and harsh, William Slade burst into song.
It is needless to linger over this horrid banquet. It ended abruptly, with a jar of breaking glass. In the midst of a wild, discordant song something like intelligence flashed for a moment in the beady eyes; the singer paused, as if his drugged sensibilities had suddenly awakened to a distant call; then came that dreadful laugh again.
"It's a farce!" he muttered, bitterly, his eyes roving wildly about, as if he felt and feared another Presence. "You're dead! dead! and as far from me as everything I ever wanted in my life.... God!"