A Study In Shadows. William John Locke
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Название: A Study In Shadows
Автор: William John Locke
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Языкознание
isbn: 4057664605887
isbn:
“He has never told me,” said the old man, with his most courtly smile.
“You will see, she will try to marry him when he comes,” whispered Frau Schultz to Mme. Boccard.
But Frâulein Klinkhardt laughed at the old man's reply.
“That is a pity, for married men—whom one knows to be married—are always more agreeable.”
“And women, too,” said Mme. Popea with a little grimace of satisfaction.
“A bachelor is generally more chivalrous,” said Miss Bunter, who always took things seriously. “He acts more in accordance with his ideals of women.”
“Is Saul also among the prophets?” asked Katherine with a smile, “Miss Bunter among the cynics?”
“Oh, dear! I hope not,” replied Miss Bunter in alarm; “I did not mean that, but a bachelor always seems more romantic. What do you think, Miss Graves?”
“I don't know,” said Felicia, laughing; “I like all men when they are nice, and it doesn't seem to make any difference whether they are married or not. Perhaps it may with very young men,” she added reflectively. “But then very young men are different. For instance, all the young subs in my uncle's regiment; it would seem as ridiculous to call them bachelors as to call me a spinster.”
“But you are a spinster, Miss Graves,” said Miss Bunter, mildly platitudinous.
“Oh, please!—” laughed Felicia. “A spinster is—” she paused in some confusion, “An old maid,” she was going to add, but she remembered it might be a tender point with Miss Bunter. Frau Schultz, however, struck in with her harsh voice,—
“At what age does a woman begin to be a spinster, Miss Graves?”
Frau Schultz's perverted sense of tact was of the quality of genius. Old Mr. Chetwynd came to the rescue of the maiden ladies.
“In England, when their first banns of marriage are published,” he said.
Mme. Boccard turned to Mme. Popea to have the reply translated into French. Then she explained it volubly to the table.
The question at issue, the relative merits of bachelors and married men, was never beaten out; for at this juncture, the meal being over, old Mr. Chetwynd rose, turned, and hobbled out of the room, taking Felicia with him.
An hour later Katherine was picking her way through the mud up the long unsightly street in the old part of the town that leads to the Hotel de Ville. At the ill-kept gateway of a great decayed house, she stopped, and entering, descended the steps at a side doorway beneath to a room on the basement, whose lunette window was on a level with the roadway. A very old woman opened the door to her knock, and welcomed her with an—
“Ah, Madame! C'est encore vous!” and led her in with many expressions of delight.
It was a poor, squalid enough room, very dark, ill-kept, littered with cooking utensils, cookery, and strange articles of clothing. An old man lay in the great wooden bedstead, his face barely visible in the dim light which was further obscured by the dingy white curtains running on a rope, fixed over the bed.
“Jean-Marie.” cried the old woman, “here is Madame come to read to you. Will Madame give herself the trouble to sit down? My daughter has not come in yet, so the room is still unmade.”
The old man raised himself on his elbow and grinned at Katherine.
“One would say it was an angel when Madame comes.”
The old woman broke out again in welcome. It was so good of Madame to come. Jean-Marie could do nothing but talk of her. Really Jean-Marie was right, and she was an angel.
Katherine took the venerable wooden armchair that was placed for her near the stove, accepted graciously the pillow that the old woman took from the bed to make her more comfortable, and after a few minutes' gossip opened the book she had brought with her and began to read. The old man turned so that he could fix his eyes upon her. His old wife sat on a straight-backed chair at the foot of the bed and listened in deep attention. Katherine read on amid a rapt silence, only broken now and then by an “oh, la! la!” muttered under the breath, at which she could scarcely repress a smile. She was happier now. Her best, kindest, tenderest self only was shown to this poor, broken-down old couple who seemed to worship her.
There was a humour blended with pathos, too, in the situation that appealed to her. For the book in which their whole souls were concentrated was a French translation of “Robinson Crusoe.”
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