Between Friends

Alone in his studio at night, motionless in his chair, Drene was

becoming aware of this devil. Reading by lamplight he grew conscious

of it; recognized it as a companion of many years, now understanding

that although pain had ended, hatred had remained, hiding, biding,

and very, very quiet.

And suddenly this hatred had flamed like hell-fire, amazing even

himself--that day when, lifted out of his indifference for an

instant by a young girl's gaiety--and with a smile, half-responsive,

on his own unaccustomed lips, he had learned from her in the same

instant, that the man he had almost ceased to remember was honestly

in love with her.

And suddenly he knew that he hated and that he should strike, and

that there could be no comparison in perfection between hatred and

what perhaps was love.

Sometimes, at night, lying on the studio couch, he found himself

still hesitating. Could Graylock be reached after death? Was it

possible? If he broke his word after Graylock was dead could he

still strike and reach him through the woman for whose sake he,

Graylock, was going to step out of things?

That occupied his mind continually, now. Was there anybody who

could tell him about such matters? Did clergymen really know whether

the soul survived? And if it did, and if truly there were a hell,

could a living man add anything to its torments for his enemy's

benefit?

One day the janitor, lingering, ventured to ask Drene whether he was

feeling quite well.

"Yes" said Drene, "I am well."

The janitor spoke of his not eating. And, as Drene said nothing, he

mentioned the fact that Drene had not set foot outside his own

quarters in many weeks.

Drene nodded: "I expect to go for a walk this evening."

But he did not. He lay on his couch, eyes open in the darkness,

wondering what Graylock was doing, how he lived, what occupied his

days.

What were the nights of a condemned man like? Did Graylock sleep?

Did he suffer? Was the suspense a living death to him? Had he ever

suspected him, Drene, of treachery after he, Graylock, had fulfilled

his final part of the bargain.

For a long time, now, a fierce curiosity concerning what Graylock

was thinking and doing had possessed Drene. What does a man, who is

in good physical health, do, when he is at liberty to compute to the

very second how many seconds of life remain for him?

Drene's sick brain ached with the problem day and night.

In November the snow fell. Drene had not been out except in

imagination.