"Yes, the serious symptoms. Of course he wasn't in very good health to start with."
"No?"
"He'd been having dyspepsia. Caught a chill one evening bathing in the Nile—somewhere off Kous, I believe it was. That rendered him more susceptible than usual."
"Naturally. So that he was already unwell before he did that foolish thing at Thebes?"
"He was seedy, but not really ill."
"What a long talk you're having!" said a voice.
Both men started, and into Doctor Baring Hartley's face there came a look of painful self-consciousness, as of one unexpectedly detected in an unpardonable action. He sprang up.
Mrs. Armine was standing near the top of the companion.
She came towards them.
"You've made friends without any introduction?"
She had on a hat and veil, and carried a fan in her hand.
"How can you be awake and up? But it's impossible, after the veronal I gave you. And such a night as you had! You mustn't—"
Doctor Hartley, still looking dreadfully guilty, was beside her. His solicitude was feverish.
"Really, I can't permit—" he almost stammered.
She looked at him.
"Your voices woke me!"
He was silent. He stood like a man who had been struck.
"How d'you do, Doctor Isaacson? Please forgive me for saying it, but, considering you are two doctors discussing the case of a patient sleeping immediately beneath you, you are not too careful to moderate your voices. Another minute and my husband would have been awake. He was moving and murmuring as it was. As for me—well, you just simply woke me right up, so I thought I would come and join you, and see whether I could keep you quiet."
Her face looked ghastly beneath the veil. Her voice, though she kept it very low, sounded bitter and harsh with irony, and there was something almost venomous in her manner.
"The question is," she added, standing midway between Hartley and Isaacson, "whether my unfortunate husband is to have a little rest or not. When we tied up here we really thought we should be at peace, but it seems we were mistaken. At any rate, I hope the consultation is nearly done, for my head is simply splitting."
Doctor Hartley was scarlet. He shot a vicious glance at Isaacson.
"There has been no consultation, Mrs. Armine," he said.
His eyes implored her forgiveness. His whole body looked pathetic, begging, almost like a chastised dog's.
"No consultation? Then what's the good of all this talky-talky? Have you waked me up by discussing the weather and the temples? That's really too bad of you!"
Her face worked for a second or two. It was easy to see that she was scarcely mistress of herself.
"I think I shall pack you both off to see Edfou," she continued, violently beginning to use her fan. "You can chatter away there and make friends to your hearts' content, and there'll be only the guardian to hear you. Then poor Nigel can have his sleep out whatever happens to me."
Suddenly she gaped, and put up her fan to her mouth.
"Ah!" she said.
The exclamation was like something between a sigh and a sob. Immediately after she had uttered it she cleared her throat.
"I told Doctor Isaacson his coming here to-day was absolutely useless," began Doctor Hartley. "I told him no consultation was required. I begged him to leave the case in my hands. Over and over again I—"
"Oh, you don't know Doctor Isaacson if you think that a courteous request will have any effect upon him. If he wants to be in a thing, he will be in it, and nothing in heaven or earth will stop him. You forget his nationality."
She yawned again, and moved her shoulders.
"You are wronging me grossly, and you know it!" Isaacson said, in a very low voice.
He had laid his hat down on a little straw table. Now he took it up. What was the good of staying? How could a decent man stay? And yet the struggle within him was bitter. If he could only have been certain of this man Hartley, perhaps there would have been no struggle. He might have gone with an almost quiet heart. Or if he had been certain of something else, absolutely certain, he might have remained and acted, completely careless in his defiance of the woman who hated him. But though his instinct was alive, telling him things, whispering, whispering all the time; even though his observation had on the previous night begun to back up his instinct, saying, "Yes, you must be right! You are right!" yet he actually knew nothing. He knew nothing except that this young man, between whose hands lay Nigel's life, was under the spell of Mrs. Armine.
He took up his hat and held it tightly, crushing the soft brim between his fingers. Doctor Hartley was looking at him with the undisguised enmity of the egoist tricked. He had had time to find out that Isaacson had begun subtly to induce him to do what he had refused to do. If Mrs. Armine had not appeared unexpectedly, Nigel Armine's case would have been, perhaps, pretty thoroughly discussed by the two doctors.
"Pushing trickster!"
His round eyes said that with all the vindictiveness of injured conceit.
"You are wronging me!" repeated Isaacson—"wronging me shamefully!"
Was he going? Yes, he supposed so. Yet he did not go.
"It's not a question of wronging any one," she said. "Facts are facts."
Her face was ravaged with physical misery. There was a battle going on between the sleeping draught she had taken and her will to be sleepless. She moved her shoulders again, with a sort of shudder, sideways.
"Nigel doesn't want you," she said.
"How can you say that? It's not true."
"It is true. Isn't it, Doctor Hartley? Didn't my husband—"
She yawned again, and put down her hand on the back of a chair to which she held tightly. "Didn't he ask you to remain on board and look after the case?"
"Certainly!" cried the young man, eagerly drinking in her returning favour. "Certainly!"
"Didn't he ask you to 'save him,' as he called it, poor, dear fellow?"
"That was the very word!"
"And last night?" said Isaacson, fixing his eyes upon her.
"Last night you startled him to death, rushing in upon him without warning or preparation. Wasn't it a cruel, dangerous thing to do in his condition, Doctor Hartley?"
"Most cruel! Unpardonably so! If anything had occurred you ought to have been held responsible, Doctor Isaacson."
"And then whatever it was you gave him, you forced it on him. And he had a perfectly terrible night in consequence."
"Not in consequence of what I gave him!" Isaacson said.
"It must have been."
"It was certainly not."
"He never had such a night before—never, till you interfered with him, and interrupted Doctor Hartley's treatment."
"Disgraceful!" exclaimed the young doctor. "I never have heard of such conduct. If it were ever to be made public, your medical reputation would be ruined."
"And I shouldn't mind if it was, over that!" said Isaacson.
His fingers no longer crushed the brim of his hat, but held it gently.
"I shouldn't mind if it was. But I think if very great care is not taken with this case, it will not be my medical reputation that will be ruined over it."
As if mechanically Mrs. Armine pulled at the chair which she was holding. She drew it nearer her, and twisted it a little round.
"What do you mean?" said Doctor Hartley.
"Mr. Armine is a well-known man. Almost all the English travellers on the Nile, and most people of any importance in Cairo, know of his illness—have heard about his supposed sunstroke."
"Supposed!" interrupted the young doctor, indignantly. "Supposed!"
"All these people will know the name of the medical man in charge of the case—the medical man who declined a consultation."
"Will know?" said Hartley.
Under the attack of Isaacson's new manner his self-possession seemed slightly less assured.
"I shall be in Assouan and Cairo presently," said Isaacson.
Mrs. Armine yawned and pulled at the chair. Her face twitched under her veil. She looked almost terribly alive, as if indeed her mind were in a state of ferment. Yet there was in her aspect also a sort of half-submerged sluggishness. Despite her vindictive agitation, her purposeful venom, she seemed already partially bound by a cloud of sleep. That she had cast away her power to charm as useless was the greatest tribute that Isaacson had ever had paid to his seeing eyes.
"Really! What has that to do with me? Do you suppose I am attending this case surreptitiously?" said Hartley.
He forced a laugh.
"No; but I think it very possible that you may regret ever having had anything to do with it."
In spite of himself, the young doctor was impressed by this new manner of the older man. For a moment he was partially emancipated from Mrs. Armine. For a moment he was rather the rising, not yet risen, medical man than the fully risen young man in love with a fascinating woman. When he chose, Isaacson could hold almost anybody. That was part of the secret of his success as a doctor. He could make himself "believed in."
"Some mistakes ring through the world," Isaacson added quietly. "I should not care to be the doctor who made one of them."
Mrs. Armine, with a sharp movement, twisted the chair quite round, pulled at one side of her dress, and sat down.
"But surely—" Doctor Hartley began.
"This really is the most endless consultation over a case that ever was!" said Mrs. Armine.
She leaned her arms on the arms of the chair and let her hands hang down.
"Do, Doctor Hartley, make my husband over to Doctor Isaacson, if you have lost confidence in yourself. It will be much better. And then, perhaps, we shall have a little peace."
Doctor Hartley turned towards her as if pulled by a cord.
"Oh, but indeed I have not lost confidence. There is, as I have repeatedly said, nothing complicated—"
"You are really sure?" said Isaacson.
He fixed his dark eyes on the young man. Doctor Hartley's uneasiness was becoming evident.
"Certainly I am sure—for the present." The last words seemed to present themselves to him as a sort of life-buoy. He grasped them, clung to them. "For the present—yes. No doctor, of course, not the cleverest, can possibly say that no complications ever will arise in regard to a case. But for the present I am satisfied all is going quite as it should go."
But he turned up the tail of his last sentence. By his intonation it became a question, and showed clearly the state of his mind.
Isaacson had one great quality, the lack of which in many men leads them to distresses, sometimes to disasters. He knew when ice would bear, and directly it would bear, he was content to trust himself on it, but he did not stamp upon it unnecessarily, to prove it beyond its strength.
Suddenly he was ready to go, to leave this boat for a time. He had done as much as he could do for the moment, without making an actual scene. He had even perhaps done enough. That turned-up tail of a sentence nearly convinced him that he had done enough.
"That's well," he said.
His voice was inexpressive, but his face, turned full to the young doctor, told a powerful story of terribly serious doubt, the doubt of a big medical man directed towards a little one.
"That's well," he quietly repeated.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Armine," he said.
She was sunk in her chair. Her arms were still lying along its arms, with her hands hanging. As Isaacson spoke, from one of these hands her fan dropped down to the rug. She did not feel after it.
"Are you really going?" she said.
A faint smile twisted her mouth.
"Yes."
"Good-bye, then!"
He turned away from her slowly.
"Well, good-bye, Doctor Hartley," he said.
All this conversation, since the arrival on deck of Mrs. Armine, had been carried on with lowered voices. But now Isaacson spoke more softly, and his eyes for an instant went from Doctor Hartley to the tall figure sitting low in the chair, and back again to Hartley.
He did not hold out his hand. His voice was polite, but almost totally inexpressive.
Doctor Hartley looked quickly towards the chair too.
"Good-bye," he said, hesitatingly.
His youth was very apparent at this moment, pushing up into view through his indecision. Every scrap of Isaacson's anger against him had now entirely vanished.
"Good-bye!"
Mrs. Armine moved her head slightly, settling it against a large cushion. She sighed.
Isaacson walked slowly towards the companion. As theLouliawas a very large dahabeeyah, the upper deck was long. It was furnished like a drawing-room, with chairs, tables, and sofas. Isaacson threaded his way among these cautiously as if mindful of the sick man below. At length he reached the companion and began to descend. Just as he got to the bottom a whispering voice behind him said:
"Doctor Isaacson!"
He turned. Doctor Hartley was at the top of the steps.
"One minute! I'll come down!" he said, still whispering.
He turned back and glanced over his shoulder. Then, putting his two hands upon the two rails on either side of the steps, he was swiftly and rather boyishly down, and standing by Isaacson.
"I—we—I think we may as well have a word together before you go."
His self-possession was distinctly affected. Anxiety showed itself nakedly in his yellow-brown eyes, and there were wrinkles in his low forehead just below the crimpy hair.
"She's fallen asleep," he added, looking hard at Isaacson.
"Just as you like," Isaacson said indifferently.
"I think, after what has passed, it will be better."
Isaacson glanced round on the stretched-out Nubians, on Ibrahim and Hassan in a corner, standing respectfully but looking intensely inquisitive.
"We'd—we can go in here," said Doctor Hartley.
He led the way softly down the steps under the Arabic inscription, and into the first saloon of theLoulia. As Isaacson came into it, instinctively he looked towards the shut door behind which—somewhere—Nigel was lying, asleep or not asleep.
"He'll sleep for some hours yet," said Doctor Hartley, seeing the glance. "Let's sit down here."
He sat down quickly on the nearest divan, and pulled his fingers restlessly.
"I didn't quite understand—that is—I don't know whether I quite gathered your meaning just now," he began, looking at Isaacson, then looking down between his feet.
"My meaning?"
"Yes, about this case."
"I thought you considered a consultation unnecessary."
"A formal consultation—yes. Still, you mustn't think I don't value a good medical opinion. And of course I know yours is a good one."
Isaacson said nothing. Not a muscle of his face stirred.
"The fact is—the fact is that, somehow, you have thoroughly put Mrs. Armine's back up. She thinks you altogether undervalue her devoted service."
"I shouldn't wish to do that."
"No, I knew! Still—"
He took out a handkerchief and touched his lips and his forehead with it.
"She has been really so wonderful!" he said—"waiting on him hand and foot, and giving herself no rest night or day."
"Well, but her maid? Wasn't she able to be of service?"
"Her maid? What maid?"
"Her French maid."
A smile of pity moved the corners of the young man's mouth.
"She hasn't got one. She sent her away long ago. Merely to please him. Oh, I assure you it isn't all milk and honey with Mr. Armine."
Isaacson motioned towards the inner part of the vessel.
"And she's not come back? The maid's never come back?"
"Of course not. You do so misunderstand her—Mrs. Armine."
Isaacson said nothing. He felt that a stroke of insincerity was wanted here, but something that seemed outside of his will forbade him to give it.
"That is what has caused all this," continued Hartley. "I shouldn't really have objected to a consultation so much, if it had come about naturally. But no medical man—you spoke very seriously of the case just now."
"I think very seriously of it."
"So do I, of course."
Doctor Hartley pursed his lips.
"Of course. I saw from the first it was no trifle."
Isaacson said nothing.
"I say, I saw that from the first."
"I'm not surprised."
There was a pause in which the elder doctor felt as if he saw the younger's uneasiness growing.
"You'll forgive me for saying it, Doctor Isaacson, but—but you don't understand women," said Hartley, at last. "You don't know how to take them."
"Perhaps not," Isaacson said, with an apparent simplicity that sounded like humility.
Doctor Hartley looked more at his ease. Some of his cool self-importance returned.
"No," he said. "Really! And I must say that—you'll forgive me?"
"Certainly."
"—that it has always seemed to me as if, in our walk of life, that was half the battle."
"Knowing how to take women?"
"Exactly."
"Perhaps you're right." He looked at the young man as if with admiration. "Yes, I dare say you are right."
Doctor Hartley brightened.
"I'm glad you think so. Now, a woman like Mrs. Armine—"
The mention of the name recalled him to anxiety. "One moment!" he almost whispered. He went lightly away and in a moment as lightly returned.
"It's all right! She'll sleep for some hours, probably. Now, a woman like Mrs. Armine, a beautiful, celebrated woman, wants a certain amount of humouring. And you don't humour her. See?"
"I expect you know."
Isaacson did not tell of that sheet of glass through which Mrs. Armine and he saw each other too plainly.
"She's a woman with any amount of heart, any amount. I've proved that." He paused, looked sentimental, and continued, "Proved it up to the hilt. But she's a little bit capricious. She wants to be taken the right way. I can do anything with her."
He touched his rose-coloured tie, and pulled up one of his rose-coloured socks.
"And the husband?" Isaacson asked, with a detached manner. "D'you find him difficult?"
"Between ourselves, very!"
"That's bad."
"He tries her very much, I'm afraid, though he pretends, of course, to be devoted to her. And she's simply an angel to him."
"Hard on her!"
"I sympathize with her very much. Of course, she's told me nothing. She's too loyal. But I can read between the lines. Tell me, though. Do you think him very bad?"
"Very."
Isaacson spoke without emotion, as if out of a solely medical mind.
"You don't—ah—you don't surely think him in any danger?"
Isaacson slightly shrugged his shoulders.
"But—h'm—but about the sunstroke! If it isn't sunstroke—?"
Hartley waited for an interruption. None came.
"If it isn't sunstroke entirely, the question is, what is it?"
Isaacson looked at him in silence.
"Have you formed any definite opinion?" said Hartley, at last bringing himself to the point.
"I should have to watch the case, if only for a day or two before giving any definite opinion."
"Well, but—informally, what do you think about it? What did you mean upstairs about unless very great care was taken a—a—medical reputation might be—er—ruined over it. 'Ruined' is a very strong word, you know."
The egoist was evidently very much alarmed.
"And then you said that very possibly I might regret ever having had anything to do with it. That was another thing."
Isaacson looked down meditatively.
"I didn't, and I don't, understand what your meaning could have been."
"Doctor Hartley, I can't say very much. A doctor of any reputation who is at all known in the great world has to be guarded. This is not my case. If it were, things would be different. I may have formed an opinion or not. In any event, I cannot give it at present. But I am an older man than you. I have had great experience, and I should be sorry to see a rising young physician, with probably a big future before him, get into deep waters."
"Deep waters?"
Isaacson nodded gravely.
"Mrs. Armine may think this illness is owing to a sunstroke. But she may be wrong. It may be owing to something quite different. I believe it is."
"But what? What?"
"That has to be found out. You are here to find it out."
"I—I really believe a consultation—"
He hesitated.
"But there's her great dislike of you!" he concluded, naïvely.
Isaacson got up.
"If Mr. Armine gets rapidly worse—"
"Oh, but—"
"If he dies and it's discovered afterwards that the cause of his illness had never been found out by his doctor, and that a consultation with a man—forgive me—as widely known as myself was refused, well, it wouldn't do you any good, I'm afraid."
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed the young man, getting up in a flurry. "But—but—look here, have you any idea what's the matter?"
"Unless there's a formal consultation, I must decline to say anything on that point."
Doctor Hartley dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.
"I—I do wish you were on better terms with Mrs. Armine," he said. "I should be delighted to meet you in consultation. It would really be better, much better."
"I think it would. It often requires two brains working in accord to unravel a difficult case."
"Of course it does! Of course it does!"
"Well, I'm just down the river. And I may pole up little higher."
"Of course, if I demand another opinion—"
"Ah, that's your right."
"I shall exercise it."
"Women, even the best of women don't always understand as we do, the gravity of a situation."
"Just what I think!"
"And if—he should get worse—" said Isaacson, gravely, almost solemnly, and at this moment giving some rein to his real, desperately sincere feeling.
"Oh, but—do you think it's likely?"
Isaacson looked steadily at Hartley.
"I do—very likely."
"Whatever she wishes or says, I shall summon you at once. She will be thankful, perhaps afterwards."
"Women admire the man who takes a strong line."
"They do!"
"And I think that you may be very thankful—afterwards."
"I'll tell you what, I'm going to call you in, in consultation to-night. Directly the patient wakes and I've seen him, I shall insist on calling you in. I won't bear the whole responsibility alone. It isn't fair. And, as you say, she'll be glad afterwards and admire the strong line I—one takes."
They parted very differently from the way in which they had met.
Did the fate of Nigel depend upon whether the sensual or the ambitious part of the young American came out "top dog" in the worry that was impending? Isaacson called it to himself a worry, not a fight. The word seemed to suit best the nature in which the contest would take place.
Mrs. Armine's ravaged face would count for something in the struggle. Isaacson's cleverness was trusting a little to that, with a pitiless intuition that was almost feminine.
His eyes had pierced the veil, and had seen that the Indian summer had suddenly faded.
Returned to theFatma, Isaacson felt within him a sort of little collapse, that was like the crumbling of something small. For the moment he was below his usual standard of power. He was depressed, slightly overstrung. He was conscious of the acute inner restlessness that comes from the need to rest, of the painful wakefulness that is the child of a lack of proper sleep. As soon as he had arrived, he asked for tea.
"You can bring it," he said to Hassan.
When Hassan came up with the tea Isaacson gave him a cigarette, and, instead of getting rid of him, began to talk, or rather to set Hassan talking.
"What's the name of the tall boy who met us on theLoulia?"
"Ibrahim, my gentleman."
Ibrahim—the name that was mentioned in Nigel's letter as that of the Egyptian who had arranged for the hire by Nigel of theLoulia. Isaacson encouraged Hassan to talk about Ibrahim, while he kept still and sipped his tea and lemon.
It seemed that Ibrahim was a great friend of Hassan's; in fact, Hassan's greatest friend. He and Hassan were like brothers. Also, Hassan loved Ibrahim as he loved his father, and Ibrahim thought of Hassan with as much respect and admiration as he dedicated to his own mother.
Isaacson was impressed. His temples felt as if they were being pinched, as if somebody was trying gently to squeeze them together. Yet he was able to listen and to encourage, and to know why he was doing both.
Hassan flowed on with a native volubility, revealing his own and Ibrahim's affairs, and presently it appeared that at this moment Ibrahim was not at all pleased, not at all happy, on board theLoulia. Why was this? Isaacson asked. The reason was that he had been supplanted—he who had been efficient, devoted, inspired, and capable beyond what could be looked for from any other Egyptian, or indeed from any other sentient being. Hassan's hands became tragic and violent as he talked. He showed his teeth and seemed burning with fury. And who has done this monstrous thing? Isaacson dropped out the enquiry. Hamza—him who prayed. That was the answer. And it was through Ibrahim that Hamza had entered the service of my Lord Arminigel; it was Ibrahim's unexampled generosity and nobility that had brought Hamza to the chance of this treachery.
Then Ibrahim had been first in the service of the Armines?
Very soon Isaacson knew that Mohammed, "the best donkey-boy of Luxor," had been driven out to make room for Hamza, while "my Lord Arminigel" had been away in the Fayyūm, and that now Hamza had been permitted to take Ibrahim's place as the personal attendant on my lord.
"Hamza him wait on my lord, give him his drink, give him his meat, give him his sick-food"—i.e., medicine—'give him everythin'."
And meanwhile Ibrahim, though always well paid and well treated, had sunk out of importance, and was become, in the eyes of men, "like one dog what eat where him can and sleepin' nowheres."
Who had driven out Mohammed? Isaacson was interested to know that. He was informed, with the usual variations of the East, that Mrs. Armine had wanted Hamza. "She likin' him because him always prayin'." The last sentence seemed to throw doubt upon all that had gone before. But as Isaacson lay back, having dismissed Hassan, and strove to rest, he continually saw the beautiful Hamza before him, beautiful because wonderfully typical, shrouded and drenched in the spirit of the East, a still fanatic with fatal eyes.
And Hamza always gave Nigel his "sick-food."
When Isaacson had spoken to Mrs. Armine of Hamza praying, a strange look had gone over her face. It was like a look of horror. Isaacson remembered it very well. Why should she shrink in horror from Hamza's prayers?
Isaacson needed repose. But he could not rest yet. To sleep one must cease from thinking, and one must cease from waiting.
He considered Doctor Hartley.
He was accustomed in his consulting-room to read character, temperament, shrewdly, to probe for more than mere bodily symptoms. Would Doctor Hartley act out of his fear or out of his subjection to women? In leaving theLouliaIsaacson had really trusted him to act out of his fear. But suppose Isaacson had misjudged him! Suppose Mrs. Armine again used her influence, and Hartley succumbed and obeyed!
In that case, Isaacson resolved that he must act up to his intuition. If it were wrong, the consequences to himself would be very disagreeable—might almost be disastrous. If he were wrong, Mrs. Armine would certainly take care that he was thoroughly punished. There was in her an inflexible want of heart and of common humanity that made her really a dangerous woman, or a potentially dangerous woman. But he must take the risk. Although a man who went cautiously where his own interests were concerned, Isaacson was ready to take the risk. He had not taken it yet, for caution had been at his elbow, telling him to exhaust all possible means of obtaining what he wanted, and what he meant to have in a reasonable way and without any scandal. He had borne with a calculated misunderstanding, with cool impertinence, even with insult. But one thing he would not bear. He would not bear to be a second time worsted by Mrs. Armine. He would not bear to be driven away.
If Hartley was governed by fear, well and good. If not, Isaacson would stand a scene, provoke a scandal, even defy Nigel for his own sake. Would that be necessary?
Well, he would soon know. He would know that night. Hartley had promised to summon him in consultation that night.
"Meanwhile I simply must rest."
He spoke to himself as a doctor. And at last he went below, lay down in his cabin with the wooden shutters drawn over the windows, and closed his eyes. He had little hope of sleep. But sleep presently came. When he woke, he heard voices quite near him. They seemed to come from the water. He lay still and listened. They were natives' voices talking violently. He began to get up. As he put his feet to the floor, he heard a knock.
"Come in!" he called.
Hassan put in his head.
"The gentleman him here!"
"What gentleman? Not Doctor Hartley?"
"The sick gentleman."
Nigel! Was it possible? Isaacson sprang up and hurried on deck. There was a boat from theLouliaalongside, and on the upper deck was Doctor Hartley walking restlessly about. He heard Isaacson and turned sharply.
"You've come to fetch me?" said Isaacson.
As he came up, he had noticed that already the sun had set. He had slept for a long time.
"There's been a—a most unpleasant—a most distressing scene!" Hartley said.
"Why, with whom?"
"With her—Mrs. Armine. What on earth have you done to set her against you? She—she—really, it amounts to absolute hatred. Have you ever done her any serious wrong?"
"Never!"
"I—I really think she must be hysterical. There's—there's the greatest change in her."
He paused. Then, very abruptly, he said:
"Have you any idea how old she is?"
"I only know that she isn't thirty-eight," said Isaacson.
"Isn't thirty-eight!"
"She is older than that. She once told me so—in an indirect way."
Hartley looked at him with sudden suspicion.
"Then you've—you and she have known each other very well?"
"Never!"
"Till now I imagined her about thirty, thirty-two perhaps, something like that."
"Till now?"
"Yes. She—to-day she looks suddenly almost like a—well—a middle-aged woman. I never saw such a change."
It seemed that the young man was seriously perturbed by the announced transformation.
"Sit down, won't you?" said Isaacson.
"No, thanks. I—"
He went to the rail. Isaacson followed him.
"Our talk quite decided me," Hartley said, "to call you in to-night. I felt it was necessary. I felt I owed it to myself as a—if I may say so—a rising medical man."
"I think you did."
"When she woke I told her so. But I'm sorry to say she didn't take my view. We had a long talk. It really was most trying, most disagreeable. But she was not herself. She knew it. She said it was my fault—that I ought not to have given her that veronal. Certainly she did look awful. D'you know"—he turned round to Isaacson, and there was in his face an expression almost of awe—"it was really like seeing a woman become suddenly old before one's very eyes. And—and I had thought she was quite—comparatively—young!"
"And the result of your conversation?"
"At first things were not so bad. I agreed—I thought it was only reasonable—to wait till Mr. Armine woke up and to see how he was then. He slept for some time longer, and we sat there waiting. She—I must say—she has charm."
Even in the midst of his anxiety, of his nervous tension, Isaacson could scarcely help smiling. He could almost see Bella Donna fighting the young man's dawning resolution with every weapon she had.
"Indeed she has!" he assented, without a touch of irony.
"Ah! Any man must feel it. At the same time, really she is a wreck now."
Isaacson's almost feminine intuition had evidently not betrayed him. That altered face had had a great deal to do with Doctor Hartley's definite resolve to have a consultation.
"Poor woman!" he added. "Upon my soul, I can't help pitying her. She knows it, too. But I expect they always do."
"Probably. But you've come then to take me to theLoulia?"
"I told her I really must insist."
"How did you find the patient when he woke?"
"Well, I must say I didn't like the look of him at all.'"
"No? Did he seem worse?"
"I really—I really hardly know. But I told her he was much worse."
"Why?"
"Why? Because I was determined not to go on with the case alone, for fear something should happen. She denied it. She declared he was much better—stronger. He agreed with her, I must confess; said he felt more himself, and all that. But—but she seemed rather putting the words into his mouth, I fancied. I may have been wrong, but still—the fact is I'm positively upset by all that's happened."
He grasped the rail with both hands. Evidently he had only held his own against Bella Donna at the expense of his nervous system.
"When we left him, I told her I must get you in. She was furious, said she wouldn't have you, that you had always been against her, that you had nearly prevented her marriage with Mr. Armine, that you had maligned her all over London."
"Did she say any of this before her husband?"
"Not all that. No. We were in the first saloon. But I thought the men would have heard her. She really lost her head. She was distinctly hysterical. It was a most awkward position for me. But—but I was resolved to dominate her."
"And you did?"
"Well—I—I stuck to my point. I said I must and would have another opinion."
"Another?"
"Yours, of course. There's nobody else to be got at immediately. And after what you—what we both said and thought this afternoon, I won't wait till another doctor can be fetched from a distance."
"Well start at once," said Isaacson, in a practical voice.
"Yes."
But the assent was very hesitating, and Hartley made no movement. Isaacson looked at him with sharply questioning eyes.
"I—I wish I was out of the case altogether," said the young man, weakly. "After this afternoon's row I seem to have lost all heart. I never have had such an unpleasant scene with any woman before. It makes the position extremely difficult. I don't know how she will receive us; I really don't. She never agreed to my proposition, and I left her looking dreadful."
"Mrs. Armine hates me. It's a pity. But I've got to think of the sick man. And so have you. Look here, Doctor Hartley, you and I have got over our little disagreement of this morning, and I hope we can be colleagues."
"I wish nothing better indeed," said the young man, earnestly.
"We'll go back to theLoulia. We'll see the patient. We'll have our consultation. And then if you still wish to get out of the case—"
"Really, I think I'd much rather. I've got friends waiting for me at Assouan."
"And I've got nobody waiting for me. Suppose the patient agrees, and you continue in the same mind, I'm willing to relieve you of all responsibility and take the whole thing into my own hands. And if at any time you come to London—"
"I may be coming this summer."
"Then I think I can be of use to you there. Shall we go?"
This time Doctor Hartley did move. A weight seemed lifted from his shoulders, and he went, almost with alacrity, towards the boat.
"After all, you are much my senior," he said, as they were getting in, "besides being an intimate friend of the patient. I don't think it would seem unnatural to any one."
"The most natural thing in the world!" said Isaacson, calmly. "Yes, Hassan, you can come with us. Come in the other boat. I may want you to do something for me later on."
The two doctors did not talk much as they were rowed towards theLoulia. Both were preoccupied. As they drew near to her, however, Doctor Hartley began to fidget. His bodily restlessness betrayed his mental uneasiness.
"I do hope she'll be reasonable," he said at length.
"I think she will."
"What makes you?"
"She's a decidedly clever woman."
"Clever—oh, yes, she is. She was very well known, wasn't she, once—in a certain way?"
"As a beauty—yes."
Isaacson's tone of voice was scarcely encouraging, and the other relapsed into silence and continued to fidget. But when they were close to theLoulia, almost under the blue light that shone at her mast-head, he said, in a low and secretive voice:
"I think you had better take the lead, as you are my senior. It will appear more natural."
"Very well. But I don't want to seem to—"
"No, no! Don't mind about me! I shall perfectly understand. I have chosen to call you in. That shows I am not satisfied with the way the case is going."
The felucca touched the side of theLoulia. Ibrahim appeared. He smiled when he saw them, smiled still more when he perceived beyond them the second boat with Hassan. Isaacson stepped on board first. Hartley followed him without much alacrity.
"I want to see Mrs. Armine," Isaacson said to Ibrahim. Ibrahim went towards the steps.
"Do you happen to know what that Arabic writing means?" Isaacson asked of Hartley, as they were about to pass under the motto of theLoulia.
"That—yes; I asked. It's from the Koran."
"Yes?"
"It means—the fate of every man have we bound about his neck."
"Ah! Rather fatalistic! Does it appeal to you?"
"I don't know. I haven't thought about it. I wonder how she'll receive us!"
"It will be all right," Isaacson said with cheerful confidence.
But he was wondering too.
The first saloon was empty. Ibrahim left them in it, and went through the doorway beyond to the after part of the vessel. Isaacson sat down on the divan, but Hartley moved about. His present anxiety was in proportion to his past admiration of Mrs. Armine. He had adored her enough once to be very much afraid of her now.
"I do—I must say I hope she won't make a scene," he said.
"Oh, no."
"Yes, but you didn't see her this afternoon."
"She was upset. Some people can't endure daytime sleep. She's had time now to recover."
But Hartley did not seem to be reassured. He kept looking furtively towards the door by which Ibrahim had vanished. In about five minutes it was opened again by Ibrahim. He stood aside, slightly bending and looking on the floor, and Mrs. Armine came in, dressed in a sort of elaborate tea-gown, grey in colour, with silver embroideries. She was carefully made up, but not made up pale. Her cheeks were delicately flushed with colour. Her lips were red. Her shining hair was arranged to show the beautiful shape of her head as clearly as possible and to leave her lovely neck quite bare. Everything that could be done to render her attractive had been very deftly done. Nevertheless, even Isaacson, who had seen the change in her that afternoon, and had been prepared for further change in her by Hartley, was surprised by the alteration a few hours had made in her appearance.
Middle-age, with its subtle indications of what old age will be, had laid its hands upon her, had suddenly and firmly grasped her. As before, since she had been in Egypt, she had appeared to most people very much younger than she really was, so now she appeared older, decisively older, than she actually was. When Isaacson had looked at her in his consulting-room he had thought her not young, nor old, nor definitely middle-aged. Now he realized exactly what she would be some day as a painted and powdered old woman, striving by means of clever corsets, a perfect wig, and an ingenious complexion to simulate that least artificial of all things, youth. The outlines of the face were sharper, cruder than before; the nose and chin looked more pointed, the cheek-bones much more salient. The mouth seemed to have suddenly "given in" to the thing it had hitherto successfully striven against. And the eyes burnt with a fire that called the attention to the dark night slowly but certainly coming to close about this woman, and to withdraw her beauty into its blackness.
Isaacson's thought was: "What must be the state of the mind which has thus suddenly triumphed over a hitherto triumphant body?" And he felt like a man who looks down into a gulf, and who sees nothing, but hears movements and murmurs of horror and despair.
Mrs. Armine came straight to Isaacson. Her eyes, fastened upon him, seemed to defy him to see the change in her. She smiled and said:
"So you've come again! It's very good of you. Nigel is awake now."
She looked towards Doctor Hartley.
"I hope Doctor Isaacson will be able to reassure you," she said. "You frightened me this afternoon. I don't think you quite realized what it is to a woman to have sprung upon her so abruptly such an alarming view of an invalid's condition."
"But I didn't at all mean—" began the young doctor in agitation.
"I don't know what you meant," she interrupted, "but you alarmed me dreadfully. Well, are you going to see my husband together?"
"Yes, we must do that," said Isaacson.
He was slightly surprised by her total lack of all further opposition to the consultation, although he had almost prophesied it to Hartley. Perhaps he had prophesied to reassure himself, for now he was conscious of a certain rather vague sense of doubt and of uneasiness, such as comes upon a man who, without actually suspecting an ambush, wonders whether, perhaps, he is near one.
"I dare say you would rather I was not present at your consultation?" said Mrs. Armine.
"It isn't usual for any one to be present except the doctors taking part in it," said Isaacson.
"The consultation comes after the visit to the patient," she said; "and of course I'll leave you alone for that. I should prefer to leave you alone while you are examining my husband, too, but I'm sorry to say he insists on my being there."
Isaacson was no longer in doubt about an ambush. She had prepared one while she had been left alone with the sick man. Hartley having unexpectedly escaped from the magic circle of her influence, she had devoted herself to making it invulnerable about her husband.
Nevertheless, he meant to break in at whatever cost.
"We don't want to oppose or irritate the patient, I'm sure," he said.
He looked towards Doctor Hartley.
"No, no, certainly not!" the young man assented, hastily.
"Very well, then!" said Mrs. Armine.
Her brows went down and her mouth contracted for an instant. Then she moistened her painted lips with the tip of her tongue and turned towards the door.
"I'll go first to tell him you are coming," she said.
She went out into the passage.
Isaacson glanced at Doctor Hartley before he followed her.
"I—doesn't she look strange? Did you ever see such an alteration?" almost whispered the young man.
Isaacson did not answer, but stepped into the passage.
Mrs. Armine was a little way down it, walking on rather quickly. Suddenly she looked round. Light shone upon her from above, and showed her tense and worn face, her features oddly sharpened and pointed, wrinkles clustering about the corners of her eyes. She seemed, under the low roof, unnaturally tall in her flowing grey robe, and this evening in her height there seemed to Isaacson to be something forbidding and almost dreadful. She held up one hand, as if warning the two men to pause for a moment. Then she went on, and disappeared through the doorway that faced them beyond the two rows of bedrooms.
"We are to wait, it seems," Isaacson said, stopping in the passage. "The patient is up then?"
"He wasn't when I left," murmured Hartley.
"Did you say whether he was to be kept in bed?"
"Oh, no. I don't know that there was any reason against his getting up, except his weakness. He has never taken to his bed."
"No?"
Mrs. Armine reappeared, and beckoned to them to come on. They obeyed her, and came into the farther saloon. As soon as Isaacson passed through the doorway, he saw Nigel sitting up on the divan, with cushions behind him, near the left-hand doorway which gave on to the balcony. He had a hat on, as if he had just been out there, and a newspaper on his knees. The saloon was not well lit. Only one electric burner covered with a shade was turned on. With the aid of the cushions he was sitting up very straight, as if he had just made a strong effort and succeeded in bracing up his body. Mrs. Armine stood close to him. His eyes were turned towards the two doctors, and as Isaacson came up to him, he said in a colourless voice, which yet held a faintly querulous sound:
"So you've come up again, Isaacson!"
"Yes."
"Very good of you. But I don't know why there should be all this fuss made about me. It's rather trying, you know. I believe it keeps me back."
Already Isaacson knew just what he had to face, what he had to contend with.
"I hate a fuss made about me," Nigel continued, "simply hate it. You must know that."
Isaacson, who had come up to him, extended his hand in greeting. But Nigel, whether he felt too weak to stretch out his hand, or for some other reason, did not appear to see it, and Isaacson at once dropped his hand, while he said:
"I don't think there is any reason to make a fuss. But, being so near, I just rowed up to see how you were getting on after your sleep."
"I didn't sleep at night," Nigel said quickly. "What you gave me did me no good at all."
"I'm sorry for that."
Nigel still sat up against the cushions, but his body now inclined slightly to the left side, where Mrs. Armine was standing, looking down on him with quiet solicitude.
"I had a very bad night—very bad."
"Then I'm afraid—"
"Doctor Hartley rowed down to fetch you here, I understood," Nigel interrupted.
There was suspicion in his voice.
"Yes," said Hartley, speaking for the first time, nervously. "I—I thought to myself, 'Two heads are better than one.'"
He forced a sort of laugh. Nigel twitched on the divan like a man supremely irritated, then looked from one doctor to the other with eyes that included them both in his irritation.
"Two heads—what for?" he said. "What d'you mean?"
He sighed heavily as he finished the question. Then, without waiting for an answer, he said to his wife:
"If only I could have a little peace!"
There was a frightful weariness in his voice, a sound that made Isaacson think of a cruelly treated child's voice. Mrs. Armine bent down and touched his hand as it lay on the newspaper which was still across his knees. She smiled at him.
"A little patience!" she murmured.
She raised her eyebrows.
"Yes, it's all very well, Ruby, but—" He looked again at Isaacson, with a distinct though not forcible hostility. "I know you want to doctor me, Isaacson," he said. "And she asked me to-night to see you. Last night it was different, but to-night I don't want doctoring. Frankly"—he sighed again heavily—"I only see any one to-night to please her. All I want is quiet. We came here for quiet. But we don't seem to get it."
He turned again to his wife.
"Even you are getting worn out. I can see that," he said.
Mrs. Armine's forehead sharply contracted. "Oh, I'm all right, Nigel," she said, quickly. She laughed. "I'm not going to let them begin doctoring me," she said.
"She's nursed me like a slave," Nigel continued, looking at the two men, and speaking as if for a defence. "There has never been such devotion. And I wish every one could know it." Tears suddenly started into his eyes. "But the best things and the best people in the world are not believed in, are never believed in," he murmured.
"Never mind, Nigel dear," she said, soothingly. "It's all right."
Isaacson, who with Hartley had been standing all this time because Mrs. Armine was standing, now sat down beside the sick man.
"I think true devotion will always find its reward," he said, quietly, steadily. "We only want to do you good, to get you quickly into your old splendid health."
"That's very good of you, of course. But you didn't do me good last night. It was the worst night I ever had."
Isaacson remembered the sound he had heard when the Nubians lay on their oars on the dark river.
"Let us try to do you good to-night. Won't you?" he said.
"All I want is rest. I've told her so. And I tell you so."
"Shall I stay on board to-night and see you to-morrow morning when you have had a night's rest?"
Nigel looked up at his wife.
"Aren't you quite near?" he asked Isaacson, in a moment.
"I'm not very far away, but—"
"Then I don't think we need bother you to stay. We've got Doctor Hartley."
"I—I'm afraid I shall have to leave you to-morrow," said the young man, who had several times looked, almost with a sort of horror, at Mrs. Armine's ravaged face. "You see I'm with people at Assouan. I really came out to Egypt in a sort of way in attendance upon Mrs. Craven Bagley, who is in delicate health. And though she's much stronger—"
"Yes, yes!" Nigel interrupted. "Of course, go—go! I want peace, I want rest."
He drooped towards his wife. Suddenly she sat down beside him, holding his hand.
"Would you rather not be examined to-night?" she asked him.
"Examined!" he said, in a startled voice.
"Well, dearest, these doctors—"
Nigel, with a great effort, sat up as before.
"I won't be bothered to-night," he said, with the weak anger of an utterly worn-out man. "I—I can't stand anything more. I—can't—stand—" His voice died away.
"We'd better go," whispered Hartley. "To-morrow morning."
He looked at Mrs. Armine, and moved towards the door. Isaacson got up.
"We will leave the patient to-night," he said to Mrs. Armine, in an expressionless voice.
"Yes?"
"But may I have a word with you, please, in the other room?"
Then he followed Hartley.
He caught him up in the passage.
"It's absolutely no use to-night," said Hartley. "Any examination would only make matters worse. He's not in a fit state mentally to go through it so late."