Alec

by William di Canzio

Alec jerked away from Maurice and muttered, “That’s all right … I won’t trouble you now.” “Where are you going with your serious charge?” said Maurice, suddenly formidable. “Couldn’t say.” He looked back at Maurice, whose coloring stood out against the stone heroes, perfect but bloodless, who had never known such bewilderment or infamy as Alec did now. He realized what a fool he’d been to imagine this splendid man could care for him, and more of a fool to plot to force him to do so. “Don’t you worry—I’ll never harm you now, you’ve too much pluck.” “Pluck be damned,” said Maurice, with a plunge into anger. “It’ll all go no further—” He slapped his own mouth, as Maurice had done in the rain at the Russet Room window. “I don’t know what came over me, Mr. Hall. I don’t want to harm you. I never did.” “You blackmailed me.” “No sir, no…” “You did.” “Maurice, listen, I only—” “Maurice, am I?” “You called me Alec … I’m as good as you.” “I don’t find you are!” There was a pause before the storm; then he burst out: “By God, if you’d split on me to Mr. Ducie, I’d have broken you. It might have cost me hundreds, but I’ve got them, and the police always back my sort against yours. You don’t know. We’d have got you into quod, for blackmail, after which—I’d have blown out my brains.” “Killed yourself? Death?” “I should have known by that time that I loved you.” With these words, the rows of old statues seemed to totter before their eyes. Maurice added quietly, “Too late … everything’s al...