The gas-jet went out, a burned coal gave way, and the fire settled down with a tiny crash to the bottom of the grate. Charlie ceased speaking, and I said no word.
“By Jove!” he said, at last, shaking his head. “I've been staring at the fire till I'm dizzy. What was I going to say?”
“I remember now. It's 25 per cent. of the profits, isn't it?”
“It's anything you like when I've done the tale.”
“I wanted to be sure of that. I must go now. I've, I've an appointment.” And he left me.
Had my eyes not been held I might have known that that broken muttering over the fire was the swan-song of Charlie Mears. But I thought it the prelude to fuller revelation. At last and at last I should cheat the Lords of Life and Death!
When next Charlie came to me I received him with rapture. He was nervous and embarrassed, but his eyes were very full of light, and his lips a little parted.
“I've done a poem,” he said; and then quickly: “it's the best I've ever done. Read it.” He thrust it into my hand and retreated to the window.
I groaned inwardly. It would be the work of half an hour to criticise--that is to say praise--the poem sufficiently to please Charlie. Then I had good reason to groan, for Charlie, discarding his favorite centipede metres, had launched into shorter and choppier verse, and verse with a motive at the back of it. This is what I read:
“The day is most fair, the cheery wind Halloos behind the hill, Where bends the wood as seemeth good,
And the sapling to his will! Riot O wind; there is that in my blood That would not have thee still!
“She gave me herself, O Earth, O Sky: Grey sea, she is mine alone--I Let the sullen boulders hear my cry, And rejoice tho' they be but stone!
'Mine! I have won her O good brown earth, Make merry! 'Tis bard on Spring; Make merry; my love is doubly worth All worship your fields can bring! Let the hind that tills you feel my mirth At the early harrowing.”
“Yes, it's the early harrowing, past a doubt,” I said, with a dread at my heart. Charlie smiled, but did not answer.
“Red cloud of the sunset, tell it abroad; I am victor. Greet me O Sun, Dominant master and absolute lord Over the soul of one!”
“Well?” said Charlie, looking over my shoulder.
I thought it far from well, and very evil indeed, when he silently laid a photograph on the paper--the photograph of a girl with a curly head, and a foolish slack mouth.