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.