“I’d be glad to,” Martin answered simply, still wondering at Drew’s eagerness.
A waiter hurried to them as they entered.
“Mr. Noland,” he said, bending his head slightly before Drew. Then, glancing at Martin with mild, respectful curiosity, he led the two men to a small booth in a remote corner of the lounge where he received their order and left quietly.
Martin was attracted by the room—its lighting, the suggestion of avidity. Directly across from them, and near the wall, a fountain sent up a soft golden spray from its center, around which individual columns of multi-colored water rose and fell. A mural, hung just behind the fountain, caught its indiscreet fires. There, the lights blended into a seeming gradation of silver fungus until only the sharp blue antlers of a stag, at the top of the painting, stood out thirstily over the water.
Martin looked away from the fountain. Drew was watching him with a reflective expression, with such a gentleness foreign to men’s eyes that Martin was immediately intent. For there, in Drew, he saw the central, fine equation between his friend and savage, weeping Lesbos. The two united, defying by extreme cunning and deceitful fingers a dogmatic scythe of science which uses the symbol X for one impossible of definition. And what he saw beneath, caused Martin to tremble and lean back in his seat, with his heart beating faster as though the secret had been upon his lips or in his mind. However, that fever which comes upon a man as he sights dimly before him the object of his life’s search—the feeling that it might kill if the secret was discovered, left him suddenly. Vaguely he knew that he had touched the edge of it, and that was all. In one way he was glad that the revelation had not come to blind him. He was not ready. Nor could he, by any trick he knew, even follow. There were years before him, other trails to entice him, so he argued. And as he opened his eyes, rather painfully, Drew, concerned and full of question, brought him round again to sanity, and not a mind deliberately drugged by the spin and shuttle of the fountain’s aimless carrousel.
The waiter came at this moment and set the glasses upon the table. Even the man’s crisp, white hair seemed a part of the scheme of the lounge, Martin thought. Fancies, ridiculous and uncalled-for, occurred to him in succession until he wished that he could stay quiet forever with Drew, whom he trusted most of all in this irrepressible hysteria. However, the waiter withdrew quickly enough, resting his hazel eyes only for a moment upon Martin, who spoke to Drew with a restrained irritation.
“Was this intended?” he asked. “It seems, Drew, to be something planned.” He waved his hand impulsively. “All this,” he continued, “is native to you and unfamiliar to me. It has—it has a quality—” Martin stopped talking.
Drew picked up his drink.
“I suppose it does have what you say, or suggest,” he answered. “I’ve felt it many times. But it was not defined to me before to-night. I came here to rest, because it was restful; but I shall never come here again, because you have given it a suggestion of intimate life which is offensive. It wasn’t planned at all, Martin, and I was never native until you said so.” Drew leaned forward frowning, puzzled. “What kind are you?” he asked. “You, Martin, could vulgarize the very Church.” He sipped his drink, although Martin left his own glass untouched. “Prosaic as it may be,” Drew went on, “it is not myself with whom I’m concerned. It isn’t myself, or Roberts, or even you that I am most deeply worried about. It’s Deane.” He lifted a finger, decisive, commanding. “In her you have found sweetness, tenderness and passion—a physical, well trained animal. Don’t speak!” He held his finger warningly again as Martin’s brooding shoulders straightened. “You’ve talked uncannily enough, Martin, to make even me wonder. I love your thoughts—the upside down philosophy that makes me laugh when I believed I could never laugh again. But Martin, you surely won’t abuse this powerful—yes, this beautiful gift with Deane. Don’t misunderstand me, I beg of you once more. It isn’t evil, Martin, to use a weapon at your command. It isn’t really that you’re a devilish anti-Christ, as I first thought.” Drew lowered his voice, speaking almost frantically. “It may be that you are even Christ himself. You have your Cross and finally you’ll rest there. For you are no more invulnerable than the Man on Calvary, who under pressure—under striated clouds asked for an end of it. Is there anyone you can ask in that intolerable moment?” Drew wiped his forehead, drank deeply and spoke again, although he avoided Martin’s flaming eyes. “I repeat,” he persisted, “‘that intolerable moment!’ And it matters very little whether you consider me a fanatical, abusive priest, or—” and now the spray from the fountain seemed to lean toward Drew. Heavy lines of moisture which he failed to notice, covered his forehead. “Martin,” he said, “I know Deane. I love her ‘in my fashion.’ I—I too, was taken from a medium of ordinary happiness into this rarefied, spiritualistic land you understand so well.” Unable to speak further, Drew brushed his handkerchief across his eyes and placed his hands upon the table. To his astonishment—almost to his grief, he saw them tightly gripped by Martin, who seemed to hover over him, transfigured....