The Way of Ambition. Robert Hichens

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СКАЧАТЬ Since that day Charmian had tried to create something, and had found out. But she had not told Mrs. Mansfield. She was now twenty-one, and had been just eighteen when her mother's advice had driven her into the energy which had proved futile.

      Max Elliot crossed the room and sat down on the sofa by Mrs. Mansfield. He adored her quite openly, as many men did. The fact that she was a widow and would never marry again made adoration of her agreeably uncomplex. Everybody knew that Mrs. Mansfield would never marry again, but nobody perhaps could have given a perfectly clear explanation of how, or why, that knowledge had penetrated him. The truth was that she was a woman with a great heart, and had given that heart to the husband who was dead, and for whom she had never worn "weeds."

      "What are we to do for Charmian, my dear Max?" continued Mrs. Mansfield, throwing a piteous look into her mobile face, a piteous sound into her voice. "What can anyone do for a young woman of twenty-one who, when she is thinking naturally, thinks it impossible for a West of England banker to cause the birth of a son talented in an art?"

      "I always said there was intellectual cruelty in mother," said Charmian, drawing her armchair nearer to the fire.

      "It's bracing, tones up the mind," said Paul Lane. "But what about this new note? All we know is a Cornish extraction, a banker papa and a Te Deum."

      "Oh—a Te Deum!" observed Mrs. Mansfield, looking suddenly sceptical.

      "I know! I know!" said Max Elliot. "I didn't want to hear it till I had heard it. And then I wanted to hear nothing else. The touch of genius startles everything into life."

      "Another genius!" said Paul Lane.

      And thereupon, as if acting on a sudden impulse, he got up, said good-bye, and went away with his curiosity, if he had any, ungratified.

      "He's spoilt by the French blood his mother gave him," said Mrs. Mansfield as the door closed. "If he had been all French, one might have delighted in him, taken him on the intellectual side, known where one was, skipped the coldness and the irony, clung to the wit, vivacity and easy charm. But he's a modern Frenchman, boxing with an Englishman and using his feet half the time. And that's dreadful. In an English drawing-room I don't like the Savate. Now tell us, tell us! I am so thankful he is not a celebrity."

      "Nor ever likely to be unless he marries the wrong woman."

      "What do you mean by that?" asked Charmian with curiosity.

      "A woman who is ambitious for him and pushes him."

      "But if this Claude Heath has so much talent, surely it would be a fine thing to make him give it to the world."

      "That depends on his temperament, I daresay," said Mrs. Mansfield. "I believe there are people who ought to hide their talents in a napkin."

      "Oh, mother! Explain!"

      "Some plants can only grow in darkness."

      "Very nasty ones, I should think! Deadly nightshade! That sort of thing!"

      "Poor dear! I gave her light in a vulgar age. She can't help it," said Mrs. Mansfield to Max Elliot. "We are her refined seniors. But sheer weight of years has little influence. Never mind. Go on. You and I at least can understand."

      As she spoke she laid her hand, on which shone several curious rings, over Charmian's, and she kept it there while Max Elliot gave some account of Claude Heath.

      "He's not particularly handsome in features. He's quite conventional in dress. His instinct would probably be to use the shell as a close hiding-place for anything strange, unusual that it contains. He crops his hair, and, I should think, wets it two or three times a day for fear people should see that it has a natural wave in it. His neckties are the most humdrum that can be discovered in the shops."

      "Does he dislike his appearance?" asked Charmian.

      "I daresay. The worst of it is that he has eyes that give the whole thing away to a Mrs. Mansfield."

      "What, and not to me?" said Charmian, in an injured note.

      "She's fairly sharp, poor dear!" observed Mrs. Mansfield, in a rescuing voice. "You mustn't be too hard on her."

      Max Elliot smiled.

      "And a Charmian Mansfield."

      "What color are his eyes?" inquired Charmian.

      "I really can't tell you for certain, but I should think dark gray."

      "And where does he live?"

      "In a little house not far from St. Petersburg Place on the north side of the Park, Mullion House he calls it. He's got a studio there which opens into a pocket-handkerchief of a garden. He keeps two women servants."

      "Any dogs?" said Charmian.

      "No."

      "Cats?"

      "Not that I know of."

      "I don't feel as if I should like him. Does he compose at the piano?"

      "No, away from it."

      "He's unsympathetic. Cropped hair watered down, humdrum neckties, composing away from the piano, no animals—it's all against me except the little house."

      "Because you take the wholly conventional view of the musician," said her mother. "If I dared to say such a thing to my own child I might add, without telling a dangerous lie, because you are so old-fashioned in your views. You can't forget having read the Vie de Bohême, and having heard, and unfortunately seen, Paderewski when you were a schoolgirl at Brighton."

      "It is my beloved mother's fault that I ever was a schoolgirl at Brighton."

      "Ah, don't press down that burden of crime upon my soul! Lift it, by freeing yourself from the Brighton tradition, which I ought to have kept for ever from you. And now, Max, tell us, whom does Mr. Heath know?"

      "I know very little about his acquaintance. I met him first at Wonderland."

      "What's that?" asked Charmian. "It sounds more promising."

      "It's gone now, but it was a place in Whitechapel, where they had boxing competitions, Conky Joe against the Nutcracker—that kind of thing."

      "I give him up, Te Deum, Conky Joe and all!" she exclaimed in despair.

      "Do you mean me to meet him, Max?" asked Mrs. Mansfield.

      "Yes. I can't keep him to myself any longer. I must share him with someone who understands. Come to-morrow evening, won't you, after dinner? Heath is dining with me."

      "Yes. Is Charmian invited?"

      Max Elliot looked at Charmian, and she steadily returned his gaze.

      "You know," he said after a pause, "that you've got a certain hankering after lions?"

      "Hankering! Don't, don't!"

      "But you really have!"

      "I will not СКАЧАТЬ