The Call of the Blood - Page 25/317

"And he's good, too."

"Why not? He does not look evil. I thought of him as a Mercury."

"The messenger of the gods--yes, he is like that."

She laid her hand on his arm, as if her happiness and longing for

sympathy in it impelled her to draw very near to a human being.

"A bearer of good tidings--that is what he has been to me. I want you to

like and understand him so much, Emile; you more, far more, than any one

else."

The cab was now in a steep and narrow street leading down from the Strand

to the Thames Embankment--a street that was obscure and that looked sad

and evil by night. Artois glanced out at it, and Hermione, seeing that he

did so, followed his eyes. They saw a man and a woman quarrelling under a

gas-lamp. The woman was cursing and crying. The man put out his hand and

pushed her roughly. She fell up against some railings, caught hold of

them, turned her head and shrieked at the man, opening her mouth wide.

"Poor things!" Hermione said. "Poor things! If we could only all be good

to each other! It seems as if it ought to be so simple."

"It's too difficult for us, nevertheless."

"Not for some of us, thank God. Many people have been good to me--you for

one, you most of all my friends. Ah, how blessed it is to be out here!"

She leaned over the wooden apron of the cab, stretching out her hands

instinctively as if to grasp the space, the airy darkness of the

spreading night.

"Space seems to liberate the soul," she said. "It's wrong to live in

cities, but we shall have to a good deal, I suppose. Maurice needn't

work, but I'm glad to say he does."

"What does he do?"

"I don't know exactly, but he's in his father's shipping business. I'm an

awful idiot at understanding anything of that sort, but I understand

Maurice, and that's the important matter."

They were now on the Thames Embankment, driving slowly along the broad

and almost deserted road. Far off lights, green, red, and yellow, shone

faintly upon the drifting and uneasy waters of the river on the one side;

on the other gleamed the lights from the houses and hotels, in which

people were supping after the theatres. Artois, who, like most fine

artists, was extremely susceptible to the influence of place and of the

hour, with its gift of light or darkness, began to lose in this larger

atmosphere of mystery and vaguely visible movement the hitherto

dominating sense of himself, to regain the more valuable and more

mystical sense of life and its strange and pathetic relation with nature

and the spirit behind nature, which often floated upon him like a tide

when he was creating, but which he was accustomed to hold sternly in

leash. Now he was not in the mood to rein it in. Maurice Delarey and his

business, Hermione, her understanding of him and happiness in him, Artois

himself in his sharply realized solitude of the third person, melted into

the crowd of beings who made up life, whose background was the vast and

infinitely various panorama of nature, and Hermione's last words, "the

important matter," seemed for the moment false to him. What was, what

could be, important in the immensity and the baffling complexity of

existence?