The Way of Ambition. Robert Hichens

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СКАЧАТЬ on pleasure. It's—it's like a sort of minotaur, and it gives me horrors. And yet I might go to it."

      Mrs. Mansfield said nothing for a moment. She had finished her cup of tea, and now, with a little gesture, refused to have another.

      "It's quite true. There is the creature with teeth and claws, and it is, perhaps, horrible. But it's so sad that I scarcely see anything but its sadness."

      "You are kinder than I."

      He leaned forward.

      "D'you know, I think you're the kindest human being I ever met, except one, that priest up there on the mantelpiece."

      "Forgive me," she said, making allowance for herself to-day because of Heath's evident desire to talk intimately, a desire which she believed she ought to help, "but are you a Roman Catholic?"

      "Oh, no! I wish I was!"

      "But I suppose you can't be?"

      "Oh, no! I suppose I'm one of those unsatisfactory people whose soul and whose brain are not in accord. That doesn't make for inward calm or satisfaction. But I can only hope for better days."

      There was something uneasy in his speech. She felt the strong reserve in him always fighting against the almost fierce wish to be unreserved with her.

      "They will come, surely!" she said. "If you are quite sincere, sincere with yourself always and sincere with others as often as is possible."

      "You're right about its not being possible to be always sincere with others."

      She smiled.

      "They simply wouldn't let you!"

      "No," he said. "I feel as if I could be rather sincere with you sometimes."

      "Specially to-day, perhaps."

      "Yes, I think so. We do get on, don't we?"

      "Yes, we do."

      "I often wonder why. But we do. I'll move the table if you've really finished."

      He put the table away and sat down on the settle beside her, at the far end. And he turned, leaning his back against the upright end, and stretching one arm along the wooden top, on which his long fingers restlessly closed.

      "I was sorry I went to Max Elliot's till you came into the room," he said. "And ever since then I've been partly very glad."

      "But only partly?"

      "Yes, because I've always had an instinctive dread of getting drawn in."

      "To the current of our modern art life. I'm sure you mean that."

      "I do. And of course Elliot is in the thick of it. Mrs. Shiffney's in it, and all her lot, which I don't know. And that fellow Lane is in it too."

      "And I suppose I am in it with Charmian."

      Heath looked at the floor. Ignoring Mrs. Mansfield's remark, he continued:

      "I have some talent. It isn't the sort of talent to win popularity. Fortunately, I don't desire—in fact, I'm very much afraid of popularity. But as I believe my talent is—is rather peculiar, individual, it might easily become—well, I suppose I may say the rage in a certain set. They might drop me very soon. Probably they would—I don't know. But I have a strong feeling that they'd take me up violently if I gave them a chance. That's what Max Elliot can't help wanting. He's such a good fellow, but he's a born exploiter. Not in any nasty way, of course!" Heath concluded hastily.

      "I quite understand."

      "And, I don't want to seem conceited, but I see there's something about me that set would probably like. Mrs. Shiffney's showed me that. I have never called upon her. She has sent me several invitations. And to-day she called. She wants me to go with her on The Wanderer for a cruise."

      "To Wonderland?"

      Heath shrugged his shoulders.

      "In the Mediterranean, I believe."

      "Doesn't that tempt you?"

      "Yes, terribly. But I flatly refused to go. But she knew I was tempted. It's only curiosity on her part," he added, with a sort of hot, angry boyishness. "She can't make me out, and I didn't call. That's why she asked me."

      Mrs. Mansfield mentally added a "partly" to the last sentence.

      "You're very much afraid of exposing yourself—or is it your talent?—to the influence of what we may as well call the world," she said.

      "I suppose one's talent is oneself, one's best self."

      "Perhaps so. I have none. You know best about that. I expect you are right in being afraid."

      "You don't think I'm merely a rather absurd coward and egoist?"

      "Oh, no! But some people—many, I think—would say a talent is meant to be used, to be given to the light."

      "I know. But I don't think the modern world wants mine. I"—he reddened—"I always set words from the Bible nearly or from the Prayer-Book."

      Smiling a little, as if saving something by humor, he added:

      "Not the Song of Solomon."

      "But don't the English—"

      He stopped her.

      "Good heavens! I know you are thinking of the Handel Festival and Elijah in the provinces!" he exclaimed. "I know you are!"

      She laughed.

      "I should like to play you one or two of my things," he said impulsively. "Then you'll see at once."

      He went toward the piano. She sat still. She was with the striking unreserve of the reserved man when he has cast his protector or his demon away. With his back to her Heath turned over some music, moved a pile of sheets, set them down on the floor under the piano, searched.

      "Oh, here it is!"

      

"'THIS IS THE LAST THING I'VE DONE'"—Page 41

      He grasped some manuscript, put it on the music-stand, and sat down.

      "This is the last thing I've done. The words are taken from the sixteenth chapter of Revelation—'And I heard a great voice out of the temple saying to the seven angels, "Go your ways, and pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth."' And so on."

      With a sort of anger his hands descended and struck the keys. Speaking through his music he gave Mrs. Mansfield indications of what it was expressing.

      "This is the sea. 'The second angel poured out his vial upon the sea, and it became as the blood of a dead СКАЧАТЬ