For the Term of His Natural Life. Marcus Andrew Hislop Clarke
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Название: For the Term of His Natural Life
Автор: Marcus Andrew Hislop Clarke
Издательство: Bookwire
Жанр: Сделай Сам
isbn: 4057664624024
isbn:
“Good-night, Miss Sylvia. Will you give me a kiss?”
“No!”
“Sylvia, don't be rude!”
“I'm not rude,” cries Sylvia, indignant at the way in which her literary confidence had been received. “He's rude! I won't kiss you. Kiss you indeed! My goodness gracious!”
“Won't you, you little beauty?” cried Frere, suddenly leaning forward, and putting his arm round the child. “Then I must kiss you!”
To his astonishment, Sylvia, finding herself thus seized and kissed despite herself, flushed scarlet, and, lifting up her tiny fist, struck him on the cheek with all her force.
The blow was so sudden, and the momentary pain so sharp, that Maurice nearly slipped into his native coarseness, and rapped out an oath.
“My dear Sylvia!” cried Vickers, in tones of grave reproof.
But Frere laughed, caught both the child's hands in one of his own, and kissed her again and again, despite her struggles. “There!” he said, with a sort of triumph in his tone. “You got nothing by that, you see.”
Vickers rose, with annoyance visible on his face, to draw the child away; and as he did so, she, gasping for breath, and sobbing with rage, wrenched her wrist free, and in a storm of childish passion struck her tormentor again and again. “Man!” she cried, with flaming eyes, “Let me go! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”
“I am very sorry for this, Frere,” said Vickers, when the door was closed again. “I hope she did not hurt you.”
“Not she! I like her spirit. Ha, ha! That's the way with women all the world over. Nothing like showing them that they've got a master.”
Vickers hastened to turn the conversation, and, amid recollections of old days, and speculations as to future prospects, the little incident was forgotten. But when, an hour later, Mr. Frere traversed the passage that led to his bedroom, he found himself confronted by a little figure wrapped in a shawl. It was his childish enemy.
“I've waited for you, Mr. Frere,” said she, “to beg pardon. I ought not to have struck you; I am a wicked girl. Don't say no, because I am; and if I don't grow better I shall never go to Heaven.”
Thus addressing him, the child produced a piece of paper, folded like a letter, from beneath the shawl, and handed it to him.
“What's this?” he asked. “Go back to bed, my dear; you'll catch cold.”
“It's a written apology; and I sha'n't catch cold, because I've got my stockings on. If you don't accept it,” she added, with an arching of the brows, “it is not my fault. I have struck you, but I apologize. Being a woman, I can't offer you satisfaction in the usual way.”
Mr. Frere stifled the impulse to laugh, and made his courteous adversary a low bow.
“I accept your apology, Miss Sylvia,” said he.
“Then,” returned Miss Sylvia, in a lofty manner, “there is nothing more to be said, and I have the honour to bid you good-night, sir.”
The little maiden drew her shawl close around her with immense dignity, and marched down the passage as calmly as though she had been Amadis of Gaul himself.
Frere, gaining his room choking with laughter, opened the folded paper by the light of the tallow candle, and read, in a quaint, childish hand:—
SIR—I have struck you. I apologize in writing. Your humble servant to command, SYLVIA VICKERS.
“I wonder what book she took that out of?” he said. “'Pon my word she must be a little cracked. 'Gad, it's a queer life for a child in this place, and no mistake.”
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