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Fob fifteen years Heyst had wandered, invariably courteous and unapproachable, and in return was generally considered a "queer chap." He had started off on these travels of his after the death of his father, an expatriated Swede who died in London, dissatisfied with his country and angry with all the world, which had instinctively rejected his wisdom.
Thinker, stylist, and man of the world in his time, the elder Heyst had begun by coveting all the joys, those of the great and those of the humble, those of the fools and those of the sages. For more than sixty years he had dragged on this painful earth of ours the most weary, the most uneasy soul that civilisation had ever fashioned to its ends of disillusion and regret. One could not refuse him a measure of greatness, for he was unhappy in a way unknown to mediocre souls. His mother Heyst had never known, but he kept his father's pale, distinguished face in affectionate memory. He remembered him mainly in an ample blue dressing-gown in a large house of a quiet London suburb. For three years, after leaving school at the age of eighteen, he had lived with the elder Heyst, who was then -writing his last book. In this work, at the end of his life, he claimed for mankind that right to absolute moral and intellectual liberty of which he no longer believed them worthy.
Three years of such companionship at that plastic and impressionable age were bound to leave in the boy a profound mistrust of life. The young man learned to reflect, which is a destructive process, a reckoning of the cost. It is not the clear-sighted who lead the world. Great achievements are accomplished in a blessed, warm mental fog, which the pitiless cold blasts of the father's analysis had blown away from the son.
"I'll drift," Heyst had said to himself deliberately.
He did not mean intellectually or sentimentally or morally. He meant to drift altogether and literally, body and soul, like a detached leaf drifting in the wind-currents under the immovable trees of a forest glade; to drift without ever catching on to anything.
"This shall be my defence against life," he had said to himself with a sort of inward consciousness that for the son of his father there was no other worthy alternative.
He became a waif and stray, austerely, from conviction, as others do through drink, from vice, from some weakness of character—with deliberation, as others do in despair. This, stripped of its facts, had been Heyst's life up to that disturbing night. Next day, when he saw the girl called Alma, she managed to give him a glance of frank tenderness, quick as lightning, and leaving a profound impression, a secret touch on the heart. It was in the grounds of the hotel, about tiffin time, while the ladies of the orchestra were strolling back to their Pavilion after rehearsal, or practice, or whatever they called their morning musical exercises in the hall. Heyst, returning from the town, where he had discovered that there would be difficulties in the way of getting away at once, was crossing the compound, disappointed and worried. He had walked almost unwittingly into the straggling group of Zangiacomo's performers. It was a shock to him, on coming out of his brown study, to find the girl so near him, as if one waking suddenly should see the figure of his dream turned into flesh and blood. She did not raise her shapely head, but her glance was no dream thing. It was real, the most real impression of his detached existence—so far.
Heyst had not acknowledged it in any way, though it gd to him impossible that its effect on him should not sible to any one who happened to be looking on. And were several men on the verandah, steady customers homberg's table d'h6te, gazing in his direction—at the ; of the orchestra, in fact. Heyst's dread arose, not out mie or timidity, but from his fastidiousness. On getmongst them, however, he noticed no signs of interest onishment on their faces, any more than if they had blind men. Even Schomberg himself, who had to make or him at the top of the stairs, was completely unbed, and continued the conversation he was carrying 'h a client.
omberg, indeed, had observed "that Swede" talking he girl in the intervals. A crony of his had nudged ind he had thought that it was so much the better; Uy fellow would keep everybody else off. He was pleased than otherwise and watched them out of the of his eye with a malicious enjoyment of the situasort of Satanic glee. For he had little doubt of his al fascination, and still less of his power to get hold girl, who seemed too ignorant to know how to help , and who was worse than friendless, since she had le reason incurred the animosity of Mrs. Zangiacomo, an with no conscience. The aversion she showed him is she dared (for it is not always safe for the helpless Jay the delicacy of their sentiments), Schomberg ed on the score of feminine conventional silliness. He Id Alma, as an argument, that she was a clever girl to see that she could do no better than to put st in a man of substance, in the prime of life, who is way about. But for the excited trembling of his md the extraordinary way in which his eyes seemed arting out of his crimson, hirsute countenance, such is had every character of calm, unselfish advice— after the manner of lovers, passed easily into sanlans for the future.
U soon get rid of the old woman," he whispered to riedly, with panting ferocity. "Hang herl I've never >r her. The climate don't suit her; I shall tell her to ;r people in Europe. She will have to go, too! I will see to it. Eins, ztvei, march! And then we shall sell this hotel and start another somewhere else."
He assured her that he didn't care what he did for her sake; and it was true. Forty-five is the age of recklessness for many men, as if in defiance of the decay and death waiting with open arms in the sinister valley at the bottom of the inevitable hill. Her shrinking form, her downcast eyes, when she had to listen to him, cornered at the end of an empty corridor, he regarded as signs of submission to the overpowering force of his will, the recognition of his personal fascinations. For every age is fed on illusions, lest men should renounce life early and the human race come to an end.
It's easy to imagine Schomberg's humiliation, his shocked fury, when he discovered that the girl who had for weeks resisted his attacks, his prayers, and his fiercest protestations, had been snatched from under his nose by "that Swede," apparently without any trouble worth speaking of. He refused to believe the fact. He would have it, at first, that the Zangiacomos, for some unfathomable reason, had played him a scurvy trick; but when no further doubt was possible, he changed his view of Heyst. The despised Swede became for Schomberg the deepest, the most dangerous, the most hateful of scoundrels. He could not believe that the creature he had coveted with so much force and with so little effect, was in reality tender, docile to her impulses, and had almost offered herself to Heyst without a sense of guilt, in a desire of safety, and from a profound need of placing her trust where her woman's instinct guided her ignorance. Nothing would serve Schomberg but that she must have been circumvented by some occult exercise of force or craft, by the laying of some subtle trap. His wounded vanity wondered ceaselessly at the means "that Swede" had employed to seduce her away from a man like him—Schomberg—as though those means were bound to have been extraordinary, unheard of, inconceivable. He slapped his forehead openly before his customers; he would sit brooding in silence or else would burst out unexpectedly declaiming against Heyst without measure, discretion or prudence, with swollen features and an affectation of outraged virtue ich could not have deceived the most childlike of morts for a moment—and greatly amused his audience. t became a recognised entertainment to go and hear his ise of Heyst, while sipping iced drinks on the verandah he hotel. It was, in a manner, a more successful draw i the Zangiacomo concerts had ever been—intervals and There was never any difficulty in starting the performer Anybody could do it, by almost any distant allusion. ikely as not he would start his endless denunciations in very billiard-room where Mrs. Schomberg sat enthroned sual, swallowing her sobs, concealing her tortures of abhumiliation and terror under her stupid, set, everlasting , which, having been provided for her by nature, was xcellent mask, inasmuch as nothing—not even death itperhaps—could tear it away.
it nothing lasts in this world, at least without changing ihysiognomy. So, after a few weeks, Schomberg re;d his outward calm, as if his indignation had dried up in him. And it was time. He was becoming a bore with lability to talk of anything else but Heyst's unfitness
at large, Heyst's wickedness, his wiles, his astuteness, lis criminality. Schomberg no longer pretended to dehim. He could not have done it. After what had hapi he could not pretend, even to himself. But his ?d-up indignation was fermenting venomously. At the of his immoderate loquacity one of his customers, an y man, had remarked one evening: that ass keeps on like this, he will end by going crazy." i this belief was less than half wrong. Schomberg had
on the brain. Even the unsatisfactory state of his afwhich had never been so unpromising since he came last directly after the Franco-Prussian War, he re
to some subtly noxious influence of Heyst. It seemed I that he could never be himself again till he had got vith that artful Swede. He was ready to swear that
had ruined his life. The girl so unfairly, craftily,
decoyed away would have inspired him to success ew start. Obviously Mrs. Schomberg, whom he teray savagely silent moods combined with underhand, ed glances, could give him no inspiration. He had