The Way of Ambition. Robert HichensЧитать онлайн книгу.
"But I thought you had refused."
"I did. But she has been again to-day. She says your daughter is going."
"Charmian has been asked."
"Mrs. Shiffney said she had accepted the invitation."
"Yes."
"And now I'm to give my answer on Sunday."
"You seem quite upset about it," she said, without sarcasm.
"Of course it seems a small matter. People would laugh at me, I know, for worrying. But what I feel is that if I go with Mrs. Shiffney, or go to Max Elliot's parties, I shall very soon be drawn into a life quite different from the one I have always led. And I do think it matters very much to—to some people just how they live, whom they know well, and so on. Men say, of course, that a man ought to face the rough and tumble of life. And some women say a man ought to welcome every experience. I wonder what the truth is?"
Still with her eyes on him, Mrs. Mansfield said:
"Follow your instinct."
"Can't one have conflicting instincts?"
"Oh, no!"
"Then one's instinct may not be strong enough to make itself known."
"I doubt that."
"But I am a man, you a woman. Women are said to have stronger instincts than men."
"Aren't you playing with your own convictions?"
"Am I?"
He stared at her, but for a moment his eyes looked unconscious of her.
"Mrs. Shiffney said something to me that struck me," he said presently. "She implied that experiences of all kinds are the necessary food for anyone who wishes to be at all a big artist. She evidently thinks that England has failed to produce great musicians because the English are hampered by tradition."
"She thinks uncleanliness necessary to the producing of beauty perhaps!"
"Ah, I believe you have put into words what I have been thinking!"
"Is it wisdom to grope for stars in the mud?"
"No, no! It can't be!"
He was silent. Then he said:
"St. Augustine, and many others, went through mud to the stars though."
"St. Francis didn't—if we are to talk of the saints."
"I believe you could guide me."
Mrs. Mansfield looked deeply touched. For an instant tears glistened in her eyes. Nevertheless, her next remark was almost sternly uncompromising.
"Even if I could, don't let me."
"Why?"
"I want the composer of the music I heard at the little house to be very strong in every way. No, no; I am not going to try to guide you, my friend!"
There was a sound in her voice as if she were speaking to herself.
"I never met anyone so capable of comradeship—no woman, I mean—as you."
"That's a compliment I like!"
At this moment the door opened and Charmian came in, wrapped in furs, her face covered by a veil. When she saw Heath with her mother she pushed the veil up rather languidly.
"Oh, Mr. Heath! We haven't seen you for ages. What have you been about?"
"Nothing in particular."
"Haven't you?"
"Take off that thick coat, Charmian, and come and talk to us."
"Shall I?"
She unbuttoned the fur slowly. Claude helped her to take it off. As she emerged he thought, "How slim she is!" He had often before looked at girls and wondered at their slimness, and thought that it seemed part of their mystery. It both attracted and repelled him.
"Are you talking of very interesting things?" she asked, coming toward the fire.
"I hear you are going for a cruise with Mrs. Shiffney," said Claude, uneasily.
"I believe I am. It would be rather nice to get out of this weather. But you don't mind it."
"How can you know that?"
"It's very simple, almost as simple as some of Sherlock Holmes's deductions. You have refused the cruise which I have accepted. I expect you were right. No doubt one might get terribly bored on a yacht, unable to get away from people. I almost wonder that I dared to say 'Yes!'"
"Where are you going to sit, Charmian?" said Mrs. Mansfield.
"Dearest mother, I'm afraid I must go upstairs. I've got to try on coats and skirts."
She turned toward Heath.
"The voyage, you know. I wish you could have come!"
She held out her thin hand, smiling. She was looking very serene, very sure of herself.
"I'm to answer Mrs. Shiffney on Sunday," said Heath abruptly.
Something in Charmian's voice and manner had made him feel defiant.
"Oh, I thought you had answered! Is Sunday your day for making up your mind?"
Before he could reply she went out of the room slowly, smiling.
CHAPTER VII
On the following Sunday night at ten o'clock Max Elliot gave one of his musical parties.
Delia had long since emerged from her rest cure, but was still suffering severely from its after-effects. It had completely broken her down, poor thing. The large quantities of "Marella" which she had imbibed had poisoned the system. The Swedish massage had made her bulky. And the prohibition as to letters had so severely shaken her nerve ganglions that she had been forced to seek the strengthening air of an expensive Swiss altitude, from which she had only just returned by way of Paris, where she had been nearly finished off by the dressmakers. However, being a woman of courage, she was down in peach color, with a pale turquoise-blue waist-belt, to receive her guests and to help to make things cheery. And she devoured condolences with an excellent appetite.
"Whatever you do, never touch 'Marella'!" she was saying in her quick, light voice as Mrs. Mansfield and Charmian came into the music-room. "It's poison. It turns everything to I forget what, but something that develops the microbes instead of destroying them. I nearly died of it. Ah, Violet! Don't let Charmian be massaged by a Swede. It will ruin her figure. I've had to starve in Switzerland, or I couldn't have got into any of my new gowns. There's nothing so fatal as a rest cure. It sets every nerve on edge. The terrible monotony, and not knowing whether those one loves are alive or dead, whether the Government's gone out, or if there's a new King, or anything. Quite unnatural! It unfits one to face life and cope with one's friends. But Max would make me. Dear old Max! He's such a faddist. Men are the real faddists. I'll tell you about a marvellous new Arab remedy presently. I heard about it in Paris. We are going to have a lot of music in a minute. Yes, yes!"
She spoke rapidly, looking about the room and seldom hearing what was said to her. Perpetual society had destroyed in her all continuity of mind. Ever since she could remember she had forgotten how to listen. She wanted to see, hear, know everybody, everything. Her mind hovered on the horizon, her restless and pale-blue eyes sought the farthest corners of the chamber to see what was happening in them, while she spoke to those within a foot or two of her. She laughed at jokes she did not catch or want to catch. She replied to questions she had divined by the expression on a face while she was glancing over the head it belonged to. She asked for information and travelled away ere it was given. Yet many people liked her. She was