Sketches in Lavender, Blue and Green. Jerome Klapka Jerome

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СКАЧАТЬ for an hour or two. I think it would please the master; he is worrying himself because he thinks it is his fault that you do not; and just now” – the woman hesitated for a moment – “just now I want to keep him very quiet.”

      “Is he weaker, nurse?”

      “Well, he is not stronger, ma’am, and I think – I think we must humour him.”

      The Honourable Mrs. Drayton rose, and, crossing to the window, stood for a while looking out.

      “But where am I to go, nurse?” she said at length, turning with a smile. “I’ve no invitations anywhere.”

      “Can’t you make believe to have one?” said the nurse. “It is only seven o’clock. Say you are going to a dinner-party; you can come home early then. Go and dress yourself, and come down and say good-bye to him, and then come in again about eleven, as though you had just returned.”

      “You think I must, nurse?”

      “I think it would be better, ma’am. I wish you would try it.”

      The Honourable Mrs. Drayton went to the door, then paused.

      “He has such sharp ears, nurse; he will listen for the opening of the door and the sound of the carriage.”

      “I will see to that,” said the nurse. “I will tell them to have the carriage here at ten minutes to eight. Then you can drive to the end of the street, slip out, and walk back. I will let you in myself.”

      “And about coming home?” asked the other woman.

      “You must slip out for a few minutes before eleven, and the carriage must be waiting for you at the corner again. Leave all that to me.”

      In half an hour the Honourable Mrs. Drayton entered the sick-room, radiant in evening dress and jewels. Fortunately the lights were low, or “Blasé-Billy” might have been doubtful as to the effect his wife was likely to produce. For her face was not the face that one takes to dinner-parties.

      “Nurse tells me you are going to the Grevilles this evening. I am so glad. I’ve been worrying myself about you, moped up here right through the season.”

      He took her hands in his and held her out at arm’s length from him.

      “How handsome you look, dear!” he said. “How they must have all been cursing me for keeping you shut up here, like a princess in an ogre’s castle! I shall never dare to face them again.”

      She laughed, well pleased at his words.

      “I shall not be late,” she said. “I shall be so anxious to get back and see how my boy has behaved. If you have not been good I shan’t go again.”

      They kissed and parted, and at eleven she returned to the room. She told him what a delightful evening it had been, and bragged a little of her own success.

      The nurse told her that he had been more cheerful that evening than for many nights.

      So every day the farce was played for him. One day it was to a luncheon that she went, in a costume by Redfern; the next night to a ball, in a frock direct from Paris; again to an “At Home,” or concert, or dinner-party. Loafers and passers-by would stop to stare at a haggard, red-eyed woman, dressed as for a drawing-room, slipping thief-like in and out of her own door.

      I heard them talking of her one afternoon, at a house where I called, and I joined the group to listen.

      “I always thought her heartless, but I gave her credit for sense,” a woman was saying. “One doesn’t expect a woman to be fond of her husband, but she needn’t make a parade of ignoring him when he is dying.”

      I pleaded absence from town to inquire what was meant, and from all lips I heard the same account. One had noticed her carriage at the door two or three evenings in succession. Another had seen her returning home. A third had seen her coming out, and so on.

      I could not fit the fact in with my knowledge of her, so the next evening I called. The door was opened instantly by herself.

      “I saw you from the window,” she said. “Come in here; don’t speak.”

      I followed her, and she closed the door behind her. She was dressed in a magnificent costume, her hair sparkling with diamonds, and I looked my questions.

      She laughed bitterly.

      “I am supposed to be at the opera to-night,” she explained. “Sit down, if you have a few minutes to spare.”

      I said it was for a talk that I had come; and there, in the dark room, lighted only by the street lamp without, she told me all. And at the end she dropped her head on her bare arms; and I turned away and looked out of the window for a while.

      “I feel so ridiculous,” she said, rising and coming towards me. “I sit here all the evening dressed like this. I’m afraid I don’t act my part very well; but, fortunately, dear Billy never was much of a judge of art, and it is good enough for him. I tell him the most awful lies about what everybody has said to me, and what I’ve said to everybody, and how my gowns were admired. What do you think of this one?”

      For answer I took the privilege of a friend.

      “I’m glad you think well of me,” she said. “Billy has such a high opinion of you. You will hear some funny tales. I’m glad you know.”

      I had to leave London again, and Billy died before I returned. I heard that she had to be fetched from a ball, and was only just in time to touch his lips before they were cold. But her friends excused her by saying that the end had come very suddenly.

      I called on her a little later, and before I left I hinted to her what people were saying, and asked her if I had not better tell them the truth.

      “I would rather you didn’t,” she answered. “It seems like making public the secret side of one’s life.”

      “But,” I urged, “they will think – ”

      She interrupted me.

      “Does it matter very much what they think?”

      Which struck me as a very remarkable sentiment, coming from the Hon. Mrs. Drayton, née the elder Miss Lovell.

      THE CHOICE OF CYRIL HARJOHN

      Between a junior resident master of twenty-one, and a backward lad of fifteen, there yawns an impassable gulf. Between a struggling journalist of one-and-thirty, and an M.D. of twenty-five, with a brilliant record behind him, and a career of exceptional promise before him, a close friendship is however permissible.

      My introduction to Cyril Harjohn was through the Rev. Charles Fauerberg.

      “Our young friend,” said the Rev. Mr. Fauerberg, standing in the most approved tutorial attitude, with his hand upon his pupil’s shoulder, “our young friend has been somewhat neglected, but I see in him possibilities warranting hope – warranting, I may say, very great hope. For the present he will be under my especial care, and you will not therefore concern yourself with his studies. He will sleep with Milling and the others in dormitory number two.”

      The lad formed a liking for me, and I think, and hope, I rendered his sojourn at “Alpha House” less irksome СКАЧАТЬ