University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.
CHURM BEFORE DREEME'S PICTURE.

Full of hope for my friend, I left the three
artists below, and darted up to his studio.

I knocked lightly, thinking a quick ear listened,
and a quick voice would respond.

No answer.

I knocked again, distinctly and deliberately,
and listened with some faint beginning of anxiety.
Yesterday I had not seen him. Was he
ill again?

Still no answer.

All the remembrance of the night when Locksley
and I first made entrance there rushed back
upon me.

I knocked once more, and spoke my name.

Again no answer.

I thundered at the door, striking it hard enough
to hurt the dull wood that was baffling me.

Profound silence within.

“Is it possible that he has ventured out into
daylight? It would be an unlucky moment for
his first absence, now when good-fortune waits to

befall him. His Fame is here, holding her breath
to trumpet him, and he is away.”

At the same time I doubted much if he could
have gone. His terror of exposing himself was
still great, and would be more extravagant after
his panic-struck flight from Densdeth.

An indefinable dread seized upon me. I resisted,
and dashed down stairs to the janitor's
room.

I knocked peremptorily.

Locksley peered out, holding the door ajar.

“Dreeme!” whispered I, panting, “do you
know anything of Dreeme?”

“It 's you, sir,” says Locksley. “Come in. It
was only strangers I was keeping out.”

“Don't let any one enter,” said a voice within,
— a miserable voice, between a whimper and a
moan.

“He won't hurt you, Towner,” said Locksley.
“This is Mr. Byng, a friend of Mr. Churm's.”

The janitor looked worn and worried. By the
stove, in a rocking-chair, sat, slinking, a miserable
figure of a man. There sat Towner, a bloodless,
unwholesome being, sick of himself, — that
most tenacious and incurable of all diseases.
There he sat, sick with that chronic malady,
himself, — a self all vice, all remorse, and all despair.
Himself, — his cowering look said that he
knew the fatal evil that was devouring his life,

and that he longed to free himself from its bane
by one bold act of surgery, such as his evasive
eyes would never venture to face, such as his
nerveless fingers dared not execute.

My glance identified the man, but I did not
pause to study him. I had my own troubles to
consider.

“Locksley,” I said, seizing him by the arm,
“where is Cecil Dreeme?”

My perturbation communicated itself to the
janitor.

“Yes,” said he, “I had n't given my mind to it;
but he did not answer when Dora went up with
his breakfast. Then Towner was brought in,
and we 've been so busy with him that I forgot
to send her up again.”

“He is not there. He does not answer my
knock.”

“Going out in the daytime is as unlikely for
him as the sun's showing at midnight. I mistrust
something 's happened.”

“Do not say so, Locksley. Disaster to him is
misery to me. Yes, double misery to-day!”

“Did you have your walk together last night?”

“No. I was at the opera until late.”

“We must try his door again.”

“I can't be left here alone,” feebly protested
Towner.

“Dora will take care of you.”

“But Densdeth might come,” shuddered the
invalid.

“He never comes here. He 'd better not,” said
Locksley, bristling.

“Who keeps the key of his dark room?”

“His servant, I suppose. Come, Mr. Byng.”
Locksley led the way up stairs. “Towner is n't
long for this world, you see,” said he. “We
thought he 'd better die among friends. Mr.
Churm will be back this morning to talk to him,
and get his facts.”

It was afternoon, and the boys of Chrysalis,
the College, were skylarking in the main corridor.
Their rumor died away as we climbed the
stairs. It was as quiet at Cecil Dreeme's door
as on the night when we first forced entrance, —
as quiet without, and, when we knocked, as silent
within.

Locksley tried the door. It was unlocked.
He opened. We entered, in a tremor of apprehension.

My friend of friends was gone! Gone! and
another, some unfriendly and insolent intruder,
had been there desecrating the place. The
picture of Lear was flung from the easel and
lying on the floor. The portfolio was open, and
its drawings scattered. Upon one — a sketch
of two sisters tending a mild and venerable
father — a careless heel had trodden. Even the

bedroom the same rude visitor had violated,
and articles of the young painter's limited wardrobe
lay about. How different from the order
that usually lent elegance to his bare walls and
scanty furniture!

Locksley and I looked at each other in indignant
consternation.

“My old scare has got hold, and is shaking
me hard,” said the janitor. “Some of them
he was hiding from must have found him out,
and been here rummaging, to pry into what
he 's been at all this time. When did you
see him, Mr. Byng?”

“Not yesterday. Night before last, — can it
be only night before last that we met Densdeth?”

“Densdeth!” said Locksley, bristling more
than ever with alarm. “Is he in this business?”

“I dread to think so,” said I, unnerved, and
sinking into Dreeme's arm-chair. And then
across my mind flitted my friend's warnings
against Densdeth, the meeting at Mrs. Bilkes's
steps, the covert inspection, Densdeth's triumphant,
cruel look, the panic, the flight, the conversation,
— all the mystery of Dreeme.

“What are we going to do?” said Locksley,
staring at me, in a maze. “Henry Clay's ghost
could n't persuade me that Mr. Dreeme had
got himself into a scrape. Something 's happened

to the lad. His enemies have taken hold
of him. Why did you leave him, Mr. Byng?”

“Why did I leave him? Why? To be taught
the bitterest lesson a soul can learn,” said I;
and again I seemed to hear that mocking sound
of Densdeth's laugh, echoed from the lips of
Emma Denman, in the corridor of the Opera-House;
again I seemed to see that hateful look
of hers. The blight fell upon me more cruelly.
I could not act.

“If Mr. Churm were only here!” said Locksley,
forlornly, seeing my prostration.

With the word, there came through the open
door the sound of a heavy trunk bumping up
the staircase, now dinting the wall, and now
cracking the banisters, and presently we heard
Churm's hearty voice hail from below: “Hillo,
porter! that 's the wrong way.”

“There comes help,” cried Locksley.

“Call him up,” said I, and the janitor hurried
after him.

In came Churm, sturdy, benevolent, wise. His
moral force reinvigorated me at a glance. His
keen, brave face solved difficulty, and cleared
doubt.

“What is it, Byng?” said he. “What has
come to this young painter?”

Before I could answer, his eye caught Dreeme's
picture of Lear, resting against the easel, where

I had replaced it. His calm manner was gone.
He sprang forward, kneeled before the easel,
stared intently. Then he looked eagerly at me.

“What does this mean?” he exclaimed.

“Mean!” repeated I, astonished at his manner.

“Yes. Who painted this?” He spoke almost
frantically.

“Cecil Dreeme,” I replied.

“Cecil Dreeme! Cecil Dreeme! Who is Cecil
Dreeme?”

“The young painter who lives here.”

“Where is he? Where?”

“Gone, spirited away, I fear.”

“What are you doing here,” said he, almost
fiercely.

“Mr. Churm,” said I, “I do not understand
your tone nor your manner. What do
you know of this recluse?”

I seemed faintly to remember how Dreeme
had shown a slight repugnance, more than once,
when I named Churm as a trusty friend.

“You, — what do you know,” he rejoined,
staring again at the picture. “Tell me, sir;
what do you know?”

“In a word, this,” replied I, resolved not
to take offence at his roughness. “The evening
I moved into Chrysalis, Locksley called me
to go up with him to this chamber. He feared
the tenant was dying alone.”

“Poor child! poor child!” interjected Churm.

“We broke in, and found him in a death-trance.
Locksley's thoughtfulness saved him.
We soon warmed, fed, and cheered him back
to life.”

“God bless you both!” said Churm, fervently.

“Churm,” I asked, “what does this mean?
Do you know my friend?”

“Go on! Tell your story!”

“Little to tell of fact, much of feeling. There
was a mystery about Mr. Dreeme. I took him,
mystery and all, unquestioned, to my heart of
hearts. He was utterly alone, and I befriended
him. I befriended unawares an angel. He has
been blue sky to me.”

“I am sure of it,” said Churm; “but the
facts, Byng! the facts of his disappearance!”

“He kept himself absolutely secluded. He
never saw out-of-doors by daylight. We walked
together constantly in the evening. I made it
my duty to force him to a constitutional every
day. We were walking as usual night before
last, when we met Densdeth.”

“No!” exclaimed Churm, vehemently. “Densdeth!
I have been waiting for that name. Has
he put his cloven hoof on this trail?”

“Densdeth observed us. I noticed ugly triumph
in his face. Dreeme was struck with a
panic at this meeting. I thought it instinct. It

may have been knowledge. Densdeth, we suspected,
followed us. Dreeme dragged me away
in flight. But it would be easy for Densdeth, if
he pleased, to watch Chrysalis, see me enter, and
identify my companion. I am all in the dark,
Churm. Can you help me to any light?”

“Let us hope so! Locksley, is Towner here?”

“Yes sir; and ready to make a clean breast
of it.”

“Bring him up to Mr. Byng's quarters. I have
no fire, and the poor creature must be coddled.
I may take this liberty, Byng? You are interested.
It may touch the question of Dreeme.
It does so, I believe.”

“Certainly; my room is yours. Pensal was
there, drawing Sion; but he will be done by this
time. But, my dear friend, do you penetrate
this mystery of Cecil Dreeme's? Tell me at
once. He is dearer to me than a brother.”

“Robert,” said Churm, with grave tenderness
of manner, “look at that picture, — that tragic
protest against a parental infamy. Have you
ever seen those faces?”

“Dreeme womanized himself for his Cordelia.
I have sometimes had a flitting fancy that I had
seen people like his Lear and Goneril. They are
types so vigorous that they seem real.”

“They are real.”

“Who? Churm, if you know anything of my
friend, do not agonize me by concealment.”

“Be blind until your eyes open!”

We were at my door as he spoke.

Artist, sitter, and critic were moving to depart.
I made the apology of “business” for quitting
them.

“Keep at such business,” said Pensal, with a
keen glance at me, “and you will knock off the
other seventy-five years of your new century.”

“Yes,” said Towers (artist's insight again),
“Byng has taken a dip into counter-irritation
and mended his paralysis of this morning.”

“A fair stab,” says Sion, “has made him forget
the foul one.”

So they took their leave.

“Do you remember,” Churm said, as he seated
himself in a great arm-chair of black carved oak,
“my fancy, when we first talked here, that this
would be a fit chamber for a Vehmgericht?”

“It was prophetic. We are to try the very
culprit you hinted then, — Densdeth.”

“Not in person, unless he may be lurking there
in his dark room, to listen.”

“Do not speak of it! Now that I begin to
know more of Densdeth, the thought of that
place sickens me.”

“He has harmed you, then, in my absence.”

“I fear a bitter treachery,” said I; and my
cheeks burned as I spoke.

“Is it so?” said Churm, sadly. “I dreaded

it, and warned you as clearly as I dared. But
we will save Cecil Dreeme. Yes, the ruin is
terrible, — but this last must be saved.”

Here Locksley entered, with Towner following,
wrapped in a great dressing-gown. It was plain,
as Locksley had said, that the invalid was not
long for this world. But yet there seemed to
glimmer through the man's weakness a little
remnant of force, well-nigh quenched. It might
still burn hot for an instant, if a blast touched
it; but such a flash would search out all the fuel,
and leave only ashes when it expired.