Man and Maid. Glyn Elinor

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СКАЧАТЬ have been in hell——I came in from my drive very quietly, it was early, a quarter to six, Miss Sharp goes at six—It was a horribly chilly evening and Burton had lit a bright wood fire—and I suppose its crackling prevented my hearing the sounds which were coming from the next room for a minute. I sat down in my chair—.

      What was that?—the roucoulements of a dove?—No, a woman's voice cooing foolish love words in French and English—and a child's treble gurgling fondness back to her. It seemed as if my heart stopped beating—as if every nerve in my spine quivered—a tremendous emotion of I know not what convulsed me.—I lay and listened and suddenly I felt my cheek wet with tears—then some shame, some anger shook me, and I started to my feet, and hobbled to the door which was ajar—I opened it wide—there was Miss Sharp with the concierge's daughter's baby on her lap fondling it—the creature may be six months old. Her horn spectacles lay on the table. She looked up at me, the slightest flash of timidity showing—but her eyes—Oh! God! the eyes of the Madonna—heavenly blue, tender as an angel's—soft as a doe's—. I could have cried aloud with some pain in the soul—and so that brute part of me spoke—.

      "How dare you make this noise"?—I said rudely—"do you not know that I have given orders for complete quiet"—.

      She rose, holding the child with the greatest dignity—The picture she made could be in the Sistine Chapel.

      "I beg your pardon" she said in a voice which was not quite steady—"I did not know you had returned, and Madame Bizot asked me to hold little Augustine while she went to the next floor—it shall not occur again!"

      I longed to stay and gaze at them both—I would have liked to have touched the baby's queer little fat fingers—I would have liked—Oh—I know not what—And all the time Miss Sharp held the child protectively, as though something evil would come from me and harm it.—Then she turned and carried it out of the room—and I went back into my sitting-room and flung myself down in my chair—.

      What had I done—Beast—brute—What had I done?

      And will she never come back again?—and will life be emptier than ever—?

      I could kill myself—.

      It shall not be only Suzette but six others for supper to-night—.

      Five a.m.—The dawn is here and it is not the rare sound of an August pigeon that I am listening to, but the tender cooing of a woman and a child—God, how can I get it out of my ears.

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      This morning I feel as if I could hardly bear it until Miss Sharp arrives—I dressed early, ready to begin a new chapter although I have not an idea in my head, and, as the time grows nearer, it is difficult for me to remain still here in my chair.

      Have I been too impossible?—Will she not turn up?—and if she does not, what steps can I take to find her?—Maurice is at Deauville with the rest, and I do not know Miss Sharp's home address—nor if she has a telephone—probably not. My heart beats—I have every feeling of excitement as stupid as a woman! I analyse it all now, how mental emotion reacts on the physical—even the empty socket of my eye aches—I could hardly control my voice when Burton began a conversation about my orders for the day just now.

      "You would not be wishin' for the company of your Aunt Emmeline, Sir Nicholas"?—he asked me—.

      "Of course not, Burton, you old fool—"

      "You seem so much more restless, sir—lately—"

      "I am restless—please leave me alone."

      He coughed and retired.

      Now I am listening again—it wants two minutes to the hour—she is never late.

      One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten—. It feels as if the blood would burst the veins—I cannot write.

      She came after all, only ten minutes beyond her usual time, but they seemed an eternity when I heard the ring and Burton's slow step. I could have bounded from my chair to open the door myself.—It was a telegram! How this always happens when one is expecting anyone with desperate anxiety—A telegram from Suzette.

      "I shall return to-night, Mon Chou."

      Her cabbage!—Bah! I never want to see her again—.

      Miss Sharp must have entered when the door was opened for the telegram, for I had begun to feel pretty low again when I heard her knock at the door of the sitting-room.

      She came in and up to my chair as usual—but she did not say her accustomary cold good morning. I looked up—the horn spectacles were over her eyes again, and the rest of her face was very pale—while there was something haughty in the carriage of her small head, it seemed to me. Her eternal pad and pencil were in her little thin, red hands.

      "Good morning"—I said tentatively, she made a slight inclination as much as to say—"I recognize you have spoken," then she waited for me to continue.

      I felt an egregious ass, I knew I was nervous as a bird, I could not think of anything to say—I, Nicholas Thormonde, accustomed to any old thing! nervous of a little secretary!

      "Er—would you read me aloud the last chapter we finished"—I barked at last lamely.

      She turned to fetch the script from the other room—.

      I must apologize to her, I knew.

      She came back and sat down stiffly, prepared to begin.

      "I am sorry I was such an uncouth brute yesterday," I said—"It was good of you to come back—. Will you forgive me?"

      She bowed again. I almost hated her at that moment, she was making me feel so much—A foolish arrogance rose in me—

      "We had better get to work I suppose," I went on pettishly.

      She began to read—how soft her voice is, and how perfectly cultivated.—Her family must be very refined gentlefolk—ordinary English typists have not that indescribable distinction of tone.

      What voices mean to one!—The delight of that exquisite sound of refinement in the pronunciation. Miss Sharp never misplaces an inflection or slurs a word, she never uses slang, and yet there is nothing pedantic in her selection of language—it is just as if her habitual associates were all of the same class as herself, and that she never heard coarse speech.—Who can she be—?

      The music of her reading calmed me—how I wish we could be friends—!

      "How old is Madame Bizot's grandchild?" I asked abruptly, interrupting.

      "Six months," answered Miss Sharp without looking up.

      "You like children?"

      "Yes—."

      "Perhaps you have brothers and sisters?"

      "Yes—."

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