Man and Maid. Glyn Elinor

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      "How many?"

      "Two—."

      The tone said, "I consider your questions impertinent—."

      I went on—

      "Brothers?"

      "One brother."

      "And a sister?"

      "Yes."

      "How old?"

      "Eleven and thirteen."

      "That is quite a gap between your ages then?"

      She did not think it necessary to reply to this—there was the faintest impatience in the way she moved the manuscript.

      I was so afraid to annoy her further in case she should give me notice to go, that I let her have her way, and returned to work.

      But I was conscious of her presence—thrillingly conscious of her presence all the morning. I never once was able to take the work naturally, it was will alone which made me grind out the words.

      There was no sign of nervousness in Miss Sharp's manner—I simply did not exist for her—I was a bore, a selfish useless bore of an employer, who was paying her twice as much as anyone else would, and she must in return give the most perfect service. As a man I had no meaning. As a wounded human being she had no pity for me—but I did not want her pity—what did I want?—I cannot write it—I cannot face it—. Am I to have a new torment in my life?—Desiring the unattainable?—Eating my heart out; not that woman can never really love me again, but that, well or ill, the consideration of one woman is beyond my reach—.

      Miss Sharp is not influenced because I am or am not a cripple—If I were as I was when I first put on my grenadier's uniform, I should still not exist for her probably—she can see the worthless creature that I am—Need I always be so?—I wish to God I knew.

      Night.

      She worked with her usual diligence the entire day almost, not taking the least notice of me, until at five o'clock when my tea came I rang for her—Perhaps it was the irritation reacting upon my sensitive wrenched nerves, but I felt pretty rotten, my hands were damp—another beastly unattractive thing, which as a rule does not happen to me—I asked her to pour out the tea.

      "If you will be so kind," I said—"I have let Burton go out"—Mercifully this was true—she came in as a person would who knew you had a right to command—you could not have said if she minded or no.

      When she was near me I felt happier for some reason.

      She asked me how I took my tea—and I told her—.

      "Are you not going to have some with me?" I pleaded.

      "Mine is already on my table in the next room—thank you"—and she rose.

      In desperation I blurted out—.

      "Please—do not go!—I don't know why, but I feel most awfully rotten to-day."

      She sat down again and poured out her cup.

      "If you are suffering shall I read to you?" she said—"It might send you to sleep—" and somehow I fancied that while her firm mouth never softened, perhaps the eyes behind the horn spectacles might not be so stony. And yet with it all something in me resented her pity, if she felt any. Physical suffering produces some weaknesses which respond to sympathy, and the spirit rages at the knowledge that one has given way. I never felt so mad in all my year of hell that I cannot be a man and fight—as I did at that moment.

      A French friend of mine said—In English books people were always having tea—handing cups of tea! Tea, tea—every chapter and every scene—tea! There is a great deal of truth in it—tea seems to bring the characters together—at tea time people talk, it is the excuse to call at that hour of leisure. We are too active as a nation to meet at any other time in the day, except for sport—So tea is our link and we shall go down through the ages as tea fiends—because our novelists who portray life accurately, chronicle that most of the thrilling scenes of our lives pass among tea cups!—I ventured to say all this to Miss Sharp by way of drawing her into conversation.

      "What could one describe as the French doing most often?"—I asked her—.

      She thought a moment.

      "They do not make excuses for anything they do, they have not to have a pretext for action as we have—They are much less hypocritical and self-conscious."

      I wanted to make her talk—.

      "Why are we such hypocrites?"

      "Because we have set up an impossible standard for ourselves, and hate to show each other that we cannot act up to it."

      "Yes, we conceal every feeling—We show indifference when we feel interest—We pretend we have come on business when we have come simply to see someone we are attracted by—."

      She let the conversation drop. This provoked me, as her last remark showed how far from stupid she is.

      That nervous feeling overcame me again—Confound the woman!

      "Please read," I said at last in desperation, and I closed my one eye.

      She picked up a book—it happened to be a volume of de Musset—and she read at random—her French is as perfect as her English—The last thing I remember was "Mimi Pinson"—and when I awoke it was past six o'clock and she had gone home.

      I wonder how many of us, since the war, know the desolation of waking—alone and in pain—and helpless—Of course there must be hundreds. If I am a rotter and a coward about suffering, at all events it does not come out in words—and perhaps it is because I am such a mixture that I am able to write it in this journal—If I were purely English I should not be able to let myself go even here—.

      Suzette came to dinner—I thought how vulgar she looked—and that if her hands were white they were podgy and the nails short. The three black hairs irritated my cheek when she kissed me—I was brutal and moved my head in irritation—.

      "Tiens?! Mon Ami!"—she said and pouted.

      "Amuse me!" I commanded—.

      "So! it is not love then, Nicholas, thou desirest—Bear!"

      "Not in the least—I shall never want love again probably. Divert me!—tell me—tell me of your scheming little mouse's brain, and your kind little heart—How is it 'dans le metier'?"

      Suzette settled herself on the sofa, curled up among the pillows like a plump little tabby cat. She lit a cigarette—.

      "Very middling," she whiffed—"Cases of love where all my good counsel remains untaken—a madness for drugs—very foolish—A drug—yes to try—but to continue!—Mon Dieu! they will no longer make fortunes 'dans le metier'—"

      "When you have made your fortune, Suzette, what will you do with it?"

      "I СКАЧАТЬ