Man and Maid

E >> Elinor Glyn >> Man and Maid

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

It is better for me to have a nonentity--then I can talk aloud my
thoughts without restriction. I am to give her double what she is
getting now--2000 francs a month--war price.

Some colour came into her cheeks when I offered that and she hesitated,

I said "Don't you think it is enough?"

She answered so queerly.

"I think it is too much, and I was wondering if I would be able to
accept it. I want to."

"Then do."

"Very well--I will of course do my very best to earn it"--and with that
she bowed and left me.

Anyhow she won't make a noise.

Nina writes since she has married Jim--which she did just before the
offensive in March--she has been too happy--or too anxious, to remember
her friends--even dear old ones--but now fortunately Jim is wounded in
the ankle bone which will keep him at home for two months so she has a
little leisure.

"You can't think, Nicholas, what a different aspect the whole war took
on when I knew Jim was in the front line--I adore him--and up to now I
have managed to keep him adoring me--but I can see I'll have to be
careful if he is going to be with me long at a time."

So it would seem that Nina had not obtained the rest and security she
hoped for.

I hope my writing a book will rest me. I have arranged all my first
chapter in my head--and to-morrow I begin.

_June 26th_--Miss Sharp came punctually at ten--she had a black and
white cotton frock on--There is nothing of her--she is so slight--(a
mass of bones probably in evening dress--but thank goodness I shall not
see her in evening dress,) she goes at six--She is to have her lunch
here--Burton has arranged it. An hour off for lunch which she can have
on a tray in the small salon, which I have had arranged for her work
room.--Of course it won't take her an hour to eat--but Burton says she
must have that time, it is always done. It is a great nuisance for
perhaps when 12:30 comes I shall just be in the middle of an inspiration
and I suppose off she'll fly like the housemaids used when the servants'
hall bell went at home. But I can't say anything.

I was full of ideas and the beginning of my first chapter spouted out,
and when Miss Sharp had read it over to me I found she had not made any
mistake. That is a mercy.

She went away and typed it, and then had her lunch--and I had mine, but
Maurice dropped in and mine took longer than hers--it was half past two
when I rang my hand bell for her (it is a jolly little silver one I
bought once in Cairo) She answered it promptly--the script in her hand.

"I have had half an hour with nothing to do," she said--"Can you not
give me some other work which I can turn to, if this should happen
again?"

"You can read a book--there are lots in the book case" I told her--"Or I
might leave you some letters to answer."

"Thank you, that would be best"--(She is conscientious evidently).

We began again.

She sits at a table with her notebook, and while I pause she is
absolutely still--that is good. I feel she won't count more than a table
or chair. I am quite pleased with my work. It is awfully hot to-day and
there is some tension in the air--as though something was going to
happen. The news is the same--perhaps slightly better.--I am going to
have a small dinner to-night. The widow and Maurice and Madame de
Clerte--just four and we are going to the play. It is such a business
for me to go I seldom turn out.--Maurice is having a little supper in
his rooms at the Ritz for us. It is my birthday--I am thirty-one years
old.

_Friday_--What an evening that 26th of June! The theatre was hot and the
cramped position worried me so--and the lights made my eye ache--Madame
de Clerte and I left before the end and ambled back to the Ritz in my
one horse Victoria and went and sat in Maurice's room. We talked of the
situation, and the effect of the Americans coming in, bucking everyone
up--we were rather cheerful. Then the sirens began--and the guns
followed just as Maurice and Odette got back--They seemed unusually
loud--and we could hear the bits of shrapnel falling on the terrace
beneath us, Odette was frightened and suggested going into the
cellar--but as Maurice's rooms are only on the second floor, we did not
want to take the trouble.

Fear has a peculiar effect upon some people--Odette's complexion turned
grey and she could hardly keep her voice steady. I wondered how soon she
would let restraint slip from her and fly out of the room to the cellar.
Madame de Clerte was quite unmoved.

Then the dramatic happened--Bang!--the whole house shook and the glass
of the window crashed in fragments--and Maurice turned out the one
light--and lifted a corner of the thick curtain to peep out.

"I believe they got the _Colome Vendome_" he said awed--and as he spoke
another bomb fell on the Ministaire beside us--and some of the splinters
shot into space and buried themselves in our wall.

We were all blown across the room--and Madame de Clerte and I fell in a
heap together by the door, which gave way outwards--Odette's shrieks
made us think that she was hurt, but she was not, and subsided into a
gibbering prayer--Maurice helped Madame de Clerte to rise and I turned
on the torch I keep in my pocket, for a minute. I was not conscious of
any pain. We sat in the dark and listened to the commotion beneath us
for some time, and the crashing bombs but never one so near
again.--Maurice's voice soothing Odette was the only sound in our room.

Then Madame de Clerte laughed softly and lit a cigarette.

"A near thing that, Nicholas!" she said--"Let us go down now and see who
is killed, and where the explosion actually occurred--The sight is quite
interesting you know you can believe me."

"When Bertha hit the ---- two days ago, we rushed for taxis to go down to
see the place--Coralie--has petrol for her motor since two weeks you
know"--and she smiled wickedly--"Monsieur le Ministre must show his
gratitude somehow mustn't he?--Coralie is such a dear--Yes--?--So some
of us packed in with her--we were quite a large party--and when we got
there they were trying to extinguish the fire, and bringing out the
bodies--You ought to come with us sometime when we go on these
trips--anything for a change."

These women would not have looked on at the sufferings of a mouse before
the war--.

The sight in the hall when we did arrive there after the "all clear"
went--was remarkable--the great glass doors of the salon blown in and
all the windows broken--and the _Place Vendome_ a mass of debris--not a
pane whole there I should think.

But nobody seems very much upset--these things are all in the days
work--.

I wonder if in years to come we shall remember the queer recklessness
which has developed in almost everyones mentality, or shall we forget
about the war and go on just as we were before--Who knows?

* * * * *

I said to Miss Sharp this morning--

"What do you do in the evenings when you leave here"?

I had forgotten for a moment that Maurice had told me that she makes
bandages. She looked at me and her manner froze--I can't think why I
_felt_ she thought I had no right to question her--I say "looked at
me"--but I am never quite sure what her eyes are doing, because she
never takes off her yellow glasses--Those appear to be gazing at me at
all events.

"I make bandages."

"Aren't you dead tired after working all day with me?"

"I have not thought about it--the bandages are badly needed."

Her pencil was in her hand, and the block ready--she evidently did not
mean to go on conversing with me. This attitude of continuous diligence
on her part has begun to irritate me. She never fidgets--just works all
the time.

I'll ask Burton what he thinks of her at luncheon to-day--As I said
before, Burton knows the world.

* * * * *

"What do you think of my typist, Burton?"

He was putting a dish of make-believe before me--it is a meatless
day--my one-legged cook is an artist but he thinks me a fool because I
won't let him cheat--our want of legs makes us friendly though.

"And with a brother in the trade I could get Monsieur chickens and what
he would wish!" he expostulates each week.

"A-hem"--Burton croaked.

I repeated the question.

"The young lady works very regular."

"Yes--That is just it--a kind of a machine."

"She earns her money Sir Nicholas."

"Of course she does--I know all that--But what do you think of her?"

"Beg pardon Sir Nicholas--I don't understand?"

I felt irritated.

"Of course you do--What kind of a creature I mean--?"

"The young lady don't chatter Sir--She don't behave like bits of girls."

"You approve of her then Burton?"

"She's been here a fortnight only, Sir Nicholas, you can't tell in the
time"--and that is all I could get out of him--but I felt the verdict
when he did give it would be favourable.

Insignificant little Miss Sharp--!

What shall I do with my day--? that is the question--my rotten useless
idle day?--I have no more inspiration for my book--besides Miss Sharp
has to type the long chapter I gave her yesterday. I wonder if she knows
anything about William and Mary furniture really?--she never launches a
remark.

Her hands are very red these last days--does making bandages redden the
hands?

I wonder what colour her eyes are--one can't tell with that blurred
yellow glass--.

Suzette came in just as I wrote that; she seldom turns up in the
afternoon. She caught sight of Miss Sharp typing through the open door.

"_Tiens!_" she spit at me--"Since when?"

"I am writing a book, Suzette."

"I must see her face," and without waiting for permission, Suzette
flounced into the small salon.

I could hear her shrill little voice asking Miss Sharp to be so good as
to give her an envelope--She must write an address! I watched her--Miss
Sharp handed her one, and went on with her work.

Suzette returned, closing the door, without temper, behind her.

"Wouff!" she announced to me--"No anxiety there--an _Anglaise_--not
appetizing--not a _fausse maigre_ like us, as thin as a hairpin! Nothing
for thou Nicholas--and _Mon Dieu!_--she does the family washing by her
hands--I know! mine look like that when I have taken one of my
fortnights at the sea!"

"You think it is washing?--I was wondering--."

"Does she take off her glasses ever, Nicholas?"

"No perhaps she has weak light eyes. One never can tell!"

Suzette was not yet quite at ease about it all--. I was almost driven to
ask Miss Sharp to remove her glasses to reassure her.

Women are jealous even of one-legged half blind men! I would like to ask
my cook if he has the same trouble--but--Oh! I wish anything mattered!

Suzette showed affection for me after this--and even passion! I would be
quite good-looking she said--when I should be finished. Glass eyes were
so well made now--"and as for legs!--truly my little cabbage, they are
as nimble as a goat's!"

Of course I felt comforted when she had gone.

* * * * *

The hot days pass--Miss Sharp has not asked for a holiday, she plods
along, we do a great deal of work--and she writes all my letters. And
there are days when I know I am going to be busy with my friends, when I
tell her she need not come--there was a whole week at the end of July.
Her manner never alters, but when Burton attempted to pay her she
refused to take the cheque.

"I did not earn that" she said.

I was angry with Burton because he did not insist.

"It was just, Sir Nicholas."

"No, it was not, Burton--If she did not work here, she was out of pocket
not working anywhere else. You will please add the wretched sum to this
week's salary."

Burton nodded stubbornly, so I spoke to Miss Sharp myself.

"It was my business as to whether I worked or did not work for a
week--therefore you are owed payment in any case--that is logic----."

A queer red came into her transparent skin, her mouth shut firmly--I
knew that I had convinced her, and that yet for some reason she hated
having to take the money.

She did not even answer, just bowed with that strange aloofness that is
not insolent. Her manner is never like a person of the lower classes,
trying to show she thinks she is an equal. It has exactly the right
note--perfectly respectful as one who is employed, but with the serene
unselfconsciousness that only breeding gives. Shades of manner are very
interesting to watch. Somehow I _know_ that Miss Sharp, in her washed
cotton, with her red little hands, is a lady.

I have not seen my dear Duchesse lately--she has been down to one of her
country places--where she sends her convalescents, but she is returning
soon. She gives me pleasure--.

* * * * *

_August 30th_--The interest in the book has flagged lately--I could not
think of a thing, so I proposed to Miss Sharp to have a holiday. She
accepted the fortnight without enthusiasm. Now she is back and we have
begun again--Still I have no _flair_--Why do I stick to it?--Just
because I have said to the Duchesse that I _will_ finish it?----I
have an uneasy feeling that I do not want to probe my real reason--I
would like to lie even to this Journal. Lots of fellows have been upon
the five days' leave lately, things are going better--they jolly one,
and I like to see them, but after they go I feel more of a rotten beast
than ever. The only times I forget are when Maurice brings the fluffies
to dine with me--when they rush up to Paris from Deauville. We drink
champagne--(they love to know how much it costs) and I feel gay as a
boy--and then in the night I have once or twice reached out for my
revolver. They have all gone back to Deauville now.

Perhaps it is Miss Sharp who irritates me with her eternal
diligence--What is her life--who are her family? I would like to know
but I will not ask--I sit and think and think what to write about in my
book. I have almost come to the end of grinding out facts about Walnut
and ball fringe--and she sits taking it all down in short-hand, never
raising her head, day after day--.

Her hair is pretty--that silky sort of nut brown with an incipient wave
in it--her head is set on most gracefully, I must admit, and the
complexion is very pale and transparent--But what a firm mouth!--Not
cold though--only firm. I have never seen her smile. The hands are well
shaped really--awfully well shaped, if one watches them--How long would
it take to get them white again I wonder? She has got good feet, too,
thin like the hands--. How worn her clothes look--does she never have a
new dress--?

Yes Burton, I will see Madame de Clerte--.

* * * * *

Solonge de Clerte is a philosopher--she has her own aims--but I do not
know them.

"Writing a book, Nicholas?" There was the devil of a twinkle in her
eye--"There is a poor boy wounded in the leg who would make a perfect
secretary if you are not satisfied."

I grew irritated--.

"I am quite satisfied"--we heard the noise of the typing machine from
beyond--these modern doors allow nothing to be unknown.

"Young, is she?" Madame de Clerte asked turning her glance in that
direction.

"I don't know and don't care--she types well"--.

"_Hein?_"

She saw that I was becoming enraged.--My dinners are good and the war is
not yet over--.

"We shall all be terribly interested--yes--when we read the result--."

"Probably"--.

Then she told me of complications occurring about Coralie's husband.

"Of an insanity to attempt the three at once" she sighed--.

And now I can turn to my journal again--Good God--the last pages have
all been about Miss Sharp--ridiculous, exasperating Miss Sharp! did I
write ridiculous?--No--it is I who am ridiculous--I shall go for a
drive--!

* * * * *

God! what is the meaning of it all--!

I have been in hell----I came in from my drive very quietly, it was
early, a quarter to six, Miss Sharp goes at six--It was a horribly
chilly evening and Burton had lit a bright wood fire--and I suppose its
crackling prevented my hearing the sounds which were coming from the
next room for a minute. I sat down in my chair--.

What was that?--the _roucoulements_ of a dove?--No, a woman's voice
cooing foolish love words in French and English--and a child's treble
gurgling fondness back to her. It seemed as if my heart stopped
beating--as if every nerve in my spine quivered--a tremendous emotion of
I know not what convulsed me.--I lay and listened and suddenly I felt my
cheek wet with tears--then some shame, some anger shook me, and I
started to my feet, and hobbled to the door which was ajar--I opened it
wide--there was Miss Sharp with the _concierge's_ daughter's baby on her
lap fondling it--the creature may be six months old. Her horn spectacles
lay on the table. She looked up at me, the slightest flash of timidity
showing--but her eyes--Oh! God! the eyes of the Madonna--heavenly blue,
tender as an angel's--soft as a doe's--. I could have cried aloud with
some pain in the soul--and so that brute part of me spoke--.

"How dare you make this noise"?--I said rudely--"do you not know that I
have given orders for complete quiet"--.

She rose, holding the child with the greatest dignity--The picture she
made could be in the Sistine Chapel.

"I beg your pardon" she said in a voice which was not quite steady--"I
did not know you had returned, and Madame Bizot asked me to hold little
Augustine while she went to the next floor--it shall not occur again!"

I longed to stay and gaze at them both--I would have liked to have
touched the baby's queer little fat fingers--I would have liked--Oh--I
know not what--And all the time Miss Sharp held the child protectively,
as though something evil would come from me and harm it.--Then she
turned and carried it out of the room--and I went back into my
sitting-room and flung myself down in my chair--.

What had I done--Beast--brute--What had I done?

And will she never come back again?--and will life be emptier than
ever--?

I could kill myself--.

* * * * *

It shall not be only Suzette but six others for supper to-night--.

_Five a.m._--The dawn is here and it is not the rare sound of an August
pigeon that I am listening to, but the tender cooing of a woman and a
child--God, how can I get it out of my ears.

V

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

"You would not be wishin' for the company of your Aunt Emmeline, Sir
Nicholas"?--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 never
late.

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

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

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

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

I felt an egregious ass, I knew I was nervous as a bird, I could not
think of anything to say--I, Nicholas Thormonde, accustomed to any old
thing! nervous of a little secretary!

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

She bowed again. I almost hated her at that moment, she was making me
feel 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 perfectly
cultivated.--Her family must be very refined gentlefolk--ordinary
English typists have not that indescribable distinction of tone.

What voices mean to one!--The delight of that exquisite sound of
refinement in the pronunciation. Miss Sharp never misplaces an
inflection or slurs a word, she never uses slang, and yet there is
nothing pedantic in her selection of language--it is just as if her
habitual associates were all of the same class as herself, and that she
never 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 purposely
keeping 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 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.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17