Man and Maid Read online

  V

  This morning I feel as if I could hardly bear it until Miss Sharparrives--I dressed early, ready to begin a new chapter although I havenot an idea in my head, and, as the time grows nearer, it is difficultfor 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 therest, and I do not know Miss Sharp's home address--nor if she has atelephone--probably not. My heart beats--I have every feeling ofexcitement as stupid as a woman! I analyse it all now, how mentalemotion reacts on the physical--even the empty socket of my eye aches--Icould hardly control my voice when Burton began a conversation about myorders for the day just now.

  "You would not be wishin' for the company of your Aunt Emmeline, SirNicholas"?--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 neverlate.

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

  She came after all, only ten minutes beyond her usual time, but theyseemed an eternity when I heard the ring and Burton's slow step. I couldhave bounded from my chair to open the door myself.--It was a telegram!How this always happens when one is expecting anyone with desperateanxiety--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 thedoor of the sitting-room.

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

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

  I felt an egregious ass, I knew I was nervous as a bird, I could notthink of anything to say--I, Nicholas Thormonde, accustomed to any oldthing! nervous of a little secretary!

  "Er--would you read me aloud the last chapter we finished"--I barked atlast 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 goodof you to come back--. Will you forgive me?"

  She bowed again. I almost hated her at that moment, she was making mefeel 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 perfectlycultivated.--Her family must be very refined gentlefolk--ordinaryEnglish typists have not that indescribable distinction of tone.

  What voices mean to one!--The delight of that exquisite sound ofrefinement in the pronunciation. Miss Sharp never misplaces aninflection or slurs a word, she never uses slang, and yet there isnothing pedantic in her selection of language--it is just as if herhabitual associates were all of the same class as herself, and that shenever 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--."

  I knew that I was looking at her hungrily--and that she was purposelykeeping her lids lowered--.

  "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 faintestimpatience in the way she moved the manuscript.

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

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

  There was no sign of nervousness in Miss Sharp's manner--I simply didnot 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 inreturn give the most perfect service. As a man I had no meaning. As awounded human being she had no pity for me--but I did not want herpity--what did I want?--I cannot write it--I cannot face it--. Am I tohave a new torment in my life?--Desiring the unattainable?--Eating myheart out; not that woman can never really love me again, but that, wellor 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 wereas I was when I first put on my grenadier's uniform, I should still notexist for her probably--she can see the worthless creature that Iam--Need I always be so?--I wish to God I knew.

  * * * * *

  _Night._

  She worked with her usual diligence the entire day almost, not takingthe least notice of me, until at five o'clock when my tea came I rangfor her--Perhaps it was the irritation reacting upon my sensitivewrenched nerves, but I felt pretty rotten, my hands were damp--anotherbeastly unattractive thing, which as a rule does not happen to me--Iasked her to pour out the tea.

  "If you will be so kind," I said--"I have let Burton go out"--Mercifullythis was true--she came in as a person would who knew you had a right tocommand--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 rottento-day."

  She sat down again and poured out her cup.

  "If you are suffering shall I read to you?" she said--"It might send youto sleep--" and somehow I fancied that while her firm mouth neversoftened, perhaps the eyes behind the horn spectacles might not be sostony. And yet with it all something in me resented her pity, if shefelt any. Physical suffering produces some weaknesses which respond tosympathy, 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 andfight--as I did at that moment.

  A French friend of mine said--In English books people were alwayshaving tea--handing cups of tea! Tea, tea--every chapter and everyscene--tea! There is a great deal of truth in it--tea seems to bring thecharacters together--at tea time people talk, it is the excuse to callat that hour of leisure. We are too active as a nation to meet at anyother time in the day, except for sport--So tea is our link and we shallgo down through the ages as tea fiends--because our novelists whoportray life accurately, chronicle that most of the thrilling scenes ofour lives pass among tea cups!--I ventured to say all this to Miss Sharpby way of drawing her into conversation.

  "What could one describe as the French doing most often?"--I askedher--.

  She thought a moment.

  "They do not make excuses for any
thing they do, they have not to have apretext for action as we have--They are much less hypocritical andself-conscious."

  I wanted to make her talk--.

  "Why are we such hypocrites?"

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

  "Yes, we conceal every feeling--We show indifference when we feelinterest--We pretend we have come on business when we have come simplyto see someone we are attracted by--."

  She let the conversation drop. This provoked me, as her last remarkshowed 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 sheread at random--her French is as perfect as her English--The last thingI remember was "_Mimi Pinson_"--and when I awoke it was past six o'clockand she had gone home.

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

  Suzette came to dinner--I thought how vulgar she looked--and that if herhands were white they were podgy and the nails short. The three blackhairs irritated my cheek when she kissed me--I was brutal and moved myhead 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. Divertme!--tell me--tell me of your scheming little mouse's brain, and yourkind little heart--How is it '_dans le metier_'?"

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

  "Very middling," she whiffed--"Cases of love where all my good counselremains untaken--a madness for drugs--very foolish--A drug--yes totry--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 shall buy that farm for my mother--I shall put Georgine into aconvent for the nobility, and arrange a large dot for her--and forme?--I shall gamble in a controlled way at Monte Carlo--."

  "You won't marry then, Suzette?"

  "Marry!" she laughed a shrill laugh--"For why, Nicholas?--A tie-up toone man, _hein_?--to what good?--and yet who can say--to be an honoredwife is the one experience I do not know yet!"--she laughed again--.

  "And who is Georgine--you have not spoken of her before, Suzette?"

  She reddened a little under her new terra cotta rouge.

  "No?--Oh! Georgine is my little first mistake--but I have herbeautifully brought up, Nicholas--with the Holy Mother at St. Brieux. Iam then her Aunt--so to speak--the wife of a small shop keeper inParis, you must know--She adores me--and I give all I can to _St.Georges-des-Pres_--. Georgine will be a lady and marry the Mayor'sson--one day--."

  Something touched me infinitely. This queer little _demi-mondaine_mother--her thoughts set on her child's purity, and the conventionalmarriage for her--in the future. Her plebeian, insolent little roundface so kindly in repose.

  I respect Suzette far more than my friends of the world--.

  When she left--it was perhaps in bad taste, but I gave her a quite heavyfour figure cheque.

  "For the education of Georgine--Suzette."

  She flung her arms round my neck and kissed me frankly on both cheeks,and tears were brimming over in her merry black eyes.

  "Thou hast after all a heart, and art after all a gentleman,Nicholas--_Va!_--"--and she ran from the room.