Man and Maid. Glyn Elinor

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СКАЧАТЬ brilliantly clever set of disharmonies,' you could not have expressed your opinion of me more plainly."

      She remained silent—I could have boxed her ears.

      I leaned back in my chair, perhaps I gave a short harsh sigh—if a sigh can be harsh—I was conscious that I had made some explosive sound.

      She turned back to the piano again and began "Waterlily" and then "1812"—and the same strange quivering came over me that I experienced when I heard the cooing of the child.—My nerves must be in an awful rotten state—Then a longing to start up and break something shook me, break the windows, smash the lamp—yell aloud—I started to my one leg—and the frightful pain of my sudden movement did me good and steadied me.

      Miss Sharp had left the piano and came over to me—.

      "I am afraid you did not like that," she said—"I am so sorry"—her voice was not so cold as usual.

      "Yes I did—" I answered—"forgive me for being an awful ass—I—I—love music tremendously, you see—"

      She stood still for a moment—I was balancing myself by the table, my crutch had fallen. Then she put out her hand.

      "Can I help you to sit down again?"—she suggested.

      And I let her—I wanted to feel her touch—I have never even shaken hands with her before. But when I felt her guiding me to the chair, the maddest desire to seize her came over me—to seize her in my arms to tear off those glasses, to kiss those beautiful blue eyes they hid—to hold her fragile scrap of a body tight against my breast, to tell her that I loved her—and wanted to hold her there, mine and no one else's in all the world——My God! what am I writing—I must crush this nonsense—I must be sane—. But—what an emotion! The strongest I have ever felt about a woman in my life—.

      When I was settled in the chair again—things seemed to become blank for a minute and then I heard Miss Sharp's voice with a tone—could it be of anxiety? in it? saying "Drink this brandy, please." She must have gone to the dining-room and fetched the decanter and glass from the case, and poured it out while I was not noticing events.

      I took it.

      Again I said—"I am awfully sorry I am such an ass."

      "If you are all right now—I ought to go back to my work," she remarked—.

      I nodded—and she went softly from the room. When I was alone, I used every bit of my will to calm myself—I analysed the situation. Miss Sharp loathes me—I cannot hold her by any means if she decides to go—. The only way I can keep her near me is by continuing to be the cool employer—And to do this I must see her as little as possible—because the profound disturbance she is able to cause in me, reacts upon my raw nerves—and with all the desire in the world to behave like a decent, indifferent man, the physical weakness won't let me do so, and I am so bound to make a consummate fool of myself.

      When I was in the trenches and the shells were coming, and it was beastly wet and verminy and uncomfortable, I never felt this feeble, horrible quivering—I know just what funk is—I felt it the day I did the thing they gave me the V.C. for. This is not exactly funk—I wish I knew what it was and could crush it out of myself—.

      Oh! if I could only fight again!—that was the best sensation in life—the zest—the zest!—What is it which prompts us to do decent actions? I cannot remember that I felt any exaltation specially—it just seemed part of the day's work—but how one slept! How one enjoyed any old thing—!

      Would it be better to end it all and go out quite? But where should I go?—the me would not be dead.—I am beginning to believe in reincarnation. Such queer things happened among the fellows—I suppose I'd be born again as ugly of soul as I am now—I must send for some books upon the subject and read it up—perhaps that might give me serenity.

      The Duchesse returned yesterday. I shall go and see her this afternoon I think—perhaps she could suggest some definite useful work I could do—It is so abominably difficult, not being able to get about. What did she say?—She said I could pray—I remember—she had not time, she said—but the Bon Dieu understood—I wonder if He understands me—? or am I too utterly rotten for Him to bother about?

      The Duchesse was so pleased to see me—she kissed me on both cheeks—.

      "Nicholas! thou art better!" she said—"As I told you—the war is going to end well—!"

      "And how is the book?" she asked presently—"It should be finished—I am told that your work is intermittent—."

      My mind jumped to Maurice as the connecting link—the Duchesse of course must have seen him—but I myself have seen very little of Maurice lately—how did he know my work was intermittent—?

      "Maurice told you?" I said.

      "Maurice?"—her once lovely eyes opened wide—she has a habit of screwing them up sometimes when she takes off her glasses.—"Do you suppose I have been on a partie de plaisir, my son—that I should have encountered Maurice—!"

      I dared not ask who was her informant—.

      "Yes, I work for several days in succession, and then I have no ideas. It is a pretty poor performance anyway—and is not likely to find a publisher."

      "You are content with your Secretary?"

      This was said with an air of complete indifference. There was no meaning in it of the kind Madame de Clerté would have instilled into the tone.

      "Yes—she is wonderfully diligent—it is impossible to dislodge her for a moment from her work. She thinks me a poor creature I expect."

      The Duchesse's eyes, half closed now, were watching me keenly—.

      "Why should she think that, Nicholas—you can't after all fight."

      "No——but—."

      "Get well, my boy—and these silly introspective fancies will leave you—Self analysis all the time for those who sit still—they imagine that they matter to the Bon Dieu as much as a Corps d'Armée—!"

      "You are right, Duchesse, that is why I said Miss Sharp—my typist—probably thinks me a poor creature—she gets at my thoughts when I dictate."

      "You must master your thoughts——"

      And then with a total change of subject she remarked.

      "Thou art not in love, Nicholas?"

      I felt a hot flush rise to my face—What an idiotic thing to do—more silly than a girl—Again how I resent physical weakness reacting on my nerves.

      "In love!"—I laughed a little angrily—"With whom could I possibly be in love, chère amie?! You would not suggest that Odette or Coralie or Alice could cause such an emotion!"

      "Oh! for them perhaps no—they are for the senses of men—they are the exotic flowers of this forcing time—they have their uses—although I myself abhor them as types—but—is there no one else?"

      "Solonge de Clerté?—Daisy Ryven?—both СКАЧАТЬ