The Greatest Short Stories of H. G. Wells: 70+ Titles in One Edition. Герберт Уэллс

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      And she sighed.

      That next Sunday as I drank my tea I interrogated my wife. “How is this Sunday different from all other Sundays, little woman? What has happened? Have you altered the curtains, or re-arranged the furniture, or where is the indefinable difference of it? Are you wearing your hair in a new way without warning me? I perceive a change clearly, and I cannot for the life of me say what it is.”

      Then my wife answered in her most tragic voice, “George,” she said, “that William has not come near the place to-day! And Jane is crying her heart out upstairs.”

      There followed a period of silence. Jane, as I have said, stopped singing about the house, and began to care for our brittle possessions, which struck my wife as being a very sad sign indeed. The next Sunday, and the next, Jane asked to go out, “to walk with William,” and my wife, who never attempts to extort confidences, gave her permission, and asked no questions. On each occasion Jane came back looking flushed and very determined. At last one day she became communicative.

      “William is being led away,” she remarked abruptly, with a catching of the breath, apropos of tablecloths. “Yes, m’m. She is a milliner, and she can play on the piano.”

      “I thought,” said my wife, “that you went out with him on Sunday.”

      “Not out with him, m’m—after him. I walked along by the side of them, and told her he was engaged to me.”

      “Dear me, Jane, did you? What did they do?”

      “Took no more notice of me than if I was dirt. So I told her she should suffer for it.”

      “It could not have been a very agreeable walk, Jane.”

      “Not for no parties, ma’am.”

      “I wish,” said Jane, “I could play the piano, ma’am. But anyhow, I don’t mean to let her get him away from me. She’s older than him, and her hair ain’t gold to the roots, ma’am.”

      It was on the August Bank Holiday that the crisis came. We do not clearly know the details of the fray, but only such fragments as poor Jane let fall. She came home dusty, excited, and with her heart hot within her.

      The milliner’s mother, the milliner, and William had made a party to the Art Museum at South Kensington, I think. Anyhow, Jane had calmly but firmly accosted them somewhere in the streets, and asserted her right to what, in spite of the consensus of literature, she held to be her inalienable property. She did, I think, go so far as to lay hands on him. They dealt with her in a crushingly superior way. They “called a cab.” There was a “scene,” William being pulled away into the four-wheeler by his future wife and mother-in-law from the reluctant hands of our discarded Jane. There were threats of giving her “in charge.”

      “My poor Jane!” said my wife, mincing veal as though she was mincing William. “It’s a shame of them. I would think no more of him. He is not worthy of you.”

      “No, m’m,” said Jane. “He is weak.

      “But it’s that woman has done it,” said Jane. She was never known to bring herself to pronounce “that woman’s” name or to admit her girlishness. “I can’t think what minds some women must have—to try and get a girl’s young man away from her. But there, it only hurts to talk about it,” said Jane.

      Thereafter our house rested from William. But there was something in the manner of Jane’s scrubbing the front doorstep or sweeping out the rooms, a certain viciousness, that persuaded me that the story had not yet ended.

      “Please, m’m, may I go and see a wedding tomorrow?” said Jane one day.

      My wife knew by instinct whose wedding. “Do you think it is wise, Jane?” she said.

      “I would like to see the last of him,” said Jane.

      “My dear,” said my wife, fluttering into my room about twenty minutes after Jane had started, “Jane has been to the boot-hole and taken all the left-off boots and shoes, and gone off to the wedding with them in a bag. Surely she cannot mean—”

      “Jane,” I said, “is developing character. Let us hope for the best.”

      Jane came back with a pale, hard face. All the boots seemed to be still in her bag, at which my wife heaved a premature sigh of relief. We heard her go upstairs and replace the boots with considerable emphasis.

      “Quite a crowd at the wedding, ma’am,” she said presently, in a purely conversational style, sitting in our little kitchen, and scrubbing the potatoes; “and such a lovely day for them.” She proceeded to numerous other details, clearly avoiding some cardinal incident.

      “It was all extremely respectable and nice, ma’am; but her father didn’t wear a black coat, and looked quite out of place, ma’am. Mr. Piddingquirk—”

      “Who?”

      “Mr. Piddingquirk—William that was, ma’am—had white gloves, and a coat like a clergyman, and a lovely chrysanthemum. He looked so nice, ma’am. And there was red carpet down, just like for gentlefolks. And they say he gave the clerk four shillings, ma’am. It was a real kerridge they had —not a fly. When they came out of church there was rice-throwing, and her two little sisters dropping dead flowers. And someone threw a slipper, and then I threw a boot—”

      “Threw a boot, Jane!”

      “Yes, ma’am. Aimed at her. But it hit him. Yes, ma’am, hard. Gev him a black eye, I should think. I only threw that one. I hadn’t the heart to try again. All the little boys cheered when it hit him.”

      After an interval—“I am sorry the boot hit him.”

      Another pause. The potatoes were being scrubbed violently. “He always was a bit above me, you know, ma’am. And he was led away.”

      The potatoes were more than finished. Jane rose sharply with a sigh, and rapped the basin down on the table.

      “I don’t care,” she said. “I don’t care a rap. He will find out his mistake yet. It serves me right. I was stuck up about him. I ought not to have looked so high. And I am glad things are as things are.”

      My wife was in the kitchen, seeing to the higher cookery. After the confession of the boot-throwing, she must have watched poor Jane fuming with a certain dismay in those brown eyes of hers. But I imagine they softened again very quickly, and then Jane’s must have met them.

      “Oh, ma’am,” said Jane, with an astonishing change of note, “think of all that might have been! Oh, ma’am, I could have been so happy! I ought to have known, but I didn’t know… You’re very kind to let me talk to you, ma’am… for it’s hard on me, ma’am… it’s har-r-r-r-d—”

      And I gather that Euphemia so far forgot herself as to let Jane sob out some of the fullness of her heart on a sympathetic shoulder. My Euphemia, thank Heaven, has never properly grasped the importance of “keeping up her position.” And since that fit of weeping, much of the accent of bitterness has gone out of Jane’s scrubbing and brush work.

      Indeed, something passed the other day with the butcher-boy—but that scarcely belongs СКАЧАТЬ