Bella Donna. Robert Hichens
Читать онлайн книгу.
and very small. The triumphs of art aroused this world-feeling within him, and in his love of art he believed that he touched his highest point. As Isaacson's mental unconventionality put him en rapport with Nigel, his Jewishness, very differently, put him en rapport with her. There is a communion of repulsion as well as a communion of affection. Isaacson knew that Mrs. Chepstow and he could be linked by their dislike. His instinct was to avoid her, not to let this link be formed. Subsequent circumstances made him ask himself whether men do not often call things towards them with the voices of their fears.
The season was waning fast, was nearly at an end, when one night, very late, Nigel called in Cleveland Square. Isaacson had just come back from dining with the Dean of Waynfleet when the bell rang. He feared a professional summons, and was relieved when a sleepy servant asked if he would see Mr. Armine. They met in a small, upstairs room where Isaacson sat at night, a room lined with books, cosy, but perhaps a little oppressive. As Nigel came in quickly with a light coat over his arm and a crush hat in his hand, a clock on the mantel piece struck one.
"I caught sight of you just now in St. James's Street in your motor, or I wouldn't have come so late," Nigel said. "Were you going straight to bed? Tell me the truth. If you were, I'll be off."
"I don't think I was. I've been dining out, and should have had to read something. That's why you kept your coat?"
"To demonstrate my good intention. Well!"
He put the coat and hat on a chair.
"Will you have anything?"
"No, thanks."
Nigel sat down in an arm-chair.
"I've seen so little of you, Isaacson. And I'm going away to-morrow."
"You've had enough of it?"
"More than enough."
Isaacson was sitting by a table on which lay a number of books. Now and then he touched one with his long and sallow fingers, lifted its cover, then let it drop mechanically.
"You are coming back in the autumn?"
"For some days, in passing through. I'm going to Egypt again."
"I envy you—I envy you."
As he looked at Nigel's Northern fairness, and thought of his own darkness, it seemed to him that he should be going to the sun, Nigel remaining in the lands where the light is pale. Perhaps a somewhat similar thought occurred to Nigel, for he said:
"You ought to go there some day. You'd be in your right place there. Have you ever been?"
"Never. I've often wanted to go."
"Why don't you go?"
Isaacson's mind asked that question, and his Jewishness replied. He made money in London. Every day he spent out of London was a loss of so much money.
"Some day," Nigel continued, "you must take a holiday and see Egypt."
"This winter?" said Isaacson.
He lifted the cover of a book. His dark, shining, almost too intelligent eyes looked at Nigel, and looked away.
"Not this winter," he added, quietly.
"But—why not this winter?"
Nigel spoke with a slight embarrassment.
"I couldn't get away. I have too much work. You'll be in the Fayyūm?"
Nigel was staring at the Oriental carpet. His strong hands lay palm downwards on the arms of his chair, pressing them hard.
"I shall go there," he replied.
"And live under the tent? I met a man last night who knows you, an Egyptian army man on leave, Verreker. He told me you were reclaiming quite a lot of desert."
"I should like to reclaim far more than I ever can. It's a good task."
"Hard work?"
"Deuced hard. That's why I like it."
"I know; man's love of taming the proud spirit."
"Is it that? I don't think I bother much about what prompts me to a thing. But—I say, Isaacson, sometimes it seems to me that you have a devilish long sight into things, an almost uncanny long sight."
He leaned forward.
"But in you I don't mind it."
"I don't say I acknowledge it. But why should you mind it in any one?"
Nigel quoted some words of Mrs. Chepstow, but Isaacson did not know he quoted.
"Hasn't the brain a tendency to overshadow, to brow-beat the heart?" he said. "Isn't it often arrogant in its strength?"
"One must let both have an innings," said Isaacson, smiling at the slang which suited him so little and suited Nigel so well.
"Yes, and I believe you do. That's why—but to go on with what we were saying. You've got a long sight into things. Now, living generally, as you do, here in London, don't you think that men and women living in crowds often get off the line of truth and kindness? Don't you think that being all together, backed up, as it were, by each other—as a soldier is by his regiment when going into battle—they often become hard, brutal, almost get the blood-lust into them at times?"
Isaacson did not reply for a moment.
"Perhaps sometimes they do," he answered at last.
"And don't you think they require sacrifices?"
"Do you mean human sacrifices?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps—sometimes."
"Why have you never been to call on Mrs. Chepstow?"
Again the sallow fingers began to play with the book-covers, passing from one to another, but always slowly and gently.
"I haven't much time for seeing any one, except my patients, and the people I meet in society."
"And of course you never meet Mrs. Chepstow in society."
"Well—no, one doesn't."
"She would have liked a visit from you, and she's very much alone."
"Is she?"
"Are you stopping on much longer in London?"
"Till the twelfth or fifteenth of August."
"She is stopping on, too."
"Mrs. Chepstow! In the dog-days!"
"She doesn't seem to have anywhere special to go to."
"Oh!"
Isaacson opened a book, and laid his hand upon a page. It happened to be a book on poisons and their treatment. He smoothed the page down mechanically and kept his hand there.
"I say, Isaacson, you couldn't have the blood-lust?"
"I hope not. I think not."
"I believe you hate it as I do, hate and loathe it with all your soul. But I've always felt that you think for yourself, and don't care a rap what the world is thinking. I've looked in to-night to say good-bye, and to ask you, if you can get the time, just to give an eye to—to Mrs. Chepstow now and again. I know she would value a visit from you, and she really is infernally lonely. If you go, she won't bore you. She's a clever woman, and cares for things you care for. Will you look in on her now and then?"
Isaacson lifted his hand from the book.
"I will call upon her," he said.
"Good!"
"But are you sure she wishes it?"
"Quite sure—for she told me so."
The simplicity of this answer made Isaacson's mind smile and something else in him sigh.
"I