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 a.s.sured.
"I shall be in a.s.souan 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 surrept.i.tiously?" 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 emanc.i.p.ated 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."