Man and Maid. Glyn Elinor
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.
VI
For two days after I last wrote, I tried not to see Miss Sharp—I gave short moments to my book—and she answered a number of business letters. She knows most of my affairs now—Burton transmits all the bills and papers to her.—I can hear them talking through the thin door. The excitement of that time I was so rude seems to have used up my vitality, an utter weariness is upon me, I have hardly stirred from my chair.
The ancient guardsman, George Harcourt, came to lunch yesterday. He was as cynically whimsical as ever—He has a new love—an Italian—and until now she has refused all his offers of presents, so he is taking a tremendous interest in her—.
"In what an incredible way the minds of women work, Nicholas!" he said—"They have frequently a very definite aim underneath, but they 'grasshopper'—."
I looked puzzled I suppose—.
"To 'grasshopper' is a new verb!" he announced—"Daisy Ryven coined it.—It means just as you alight upon a subject and begin tackling it, you spring to another one—These lovely American war workers 'grasshopper' continuously.—It is impossible to keep pace with them."
I laughed.
"Yet they seem to have quite a definite aim—to get pleasure out of life."
"To 'grasshopper' does not prevent pleasure to the grasshopper.—It is only fatiguing to the listener. You can have no continued sensible conversation with any of these women—they force you to enjoy only their skins—"
"Can the Contessa talk?"
"She has the languour of the South—She does not jump from one subject to another, she is frankly only interested in love."
"Honestly, George—do you believe there is such a thing as real love?"
"We have discussed this before, Nicholas—You know my views—but I am hoping Violetta will change them. She has just begun to ask daily if I love her"—
"Why do women always do that—even one's little friends continually murmur the question?"
"It is the working of their subconscious minds——Damn good cigars these, my dear boy—pre-war eh?——Yes it is to justify their surrender—They want to be assured in words that you adore them—because you see the actions of love really prove nothing of love itself. A stranger who has happened to appeal to the senses can call them forth quite as successfully as the lady of one's heart!"
"It is logical of women then to ask that eternal question?"
"Quite—I make a point of answering them always without irritation."
——I wonder—if Miss Sharp loved anyone would she?——but I am determined not to speculate further about her—.
When Colonel Harcourt had gone—I deliberately rang my bell—and when she came into the room I found I was not sure what I had rung for—It is the most exasperating fact that Miss Sharp keeps me in a continual state of nervous consciousness.
Her manner was indifferently expectant, if one can use such a paradoxical description—.
"I—I—wondered if you played the piano?—"I blurted out.
She looked surprised—if one can ever say she looks anything, with the expression of her eyes completely hidden. She answered as usual with one word—.
"Yes."
"I suppose you would not play to me?—er—it might give me an inspiration for the last chapter—"
She went and opened the lid of the instrument.
"What sort of music do you like?" she asked.
"Play whatever you think I would appreciate."
She began a Fox trot, she played it with unaccountable spirit and taste, so that the sound did not jar me—but the inference hurt a little. I said nothing, however. Then she played "Smiles," and the sweet commonplace air said all sorts of things to me—Desire to live again, and dance, and enjoy foolish pleasures—How could this little iceberg of a girl put so much devilment into the way she touched the keys? If it had not been for the interest this problem caused me, the longing the sounds aroused in me to be human again, would have driven me mad.
No one who can play dance music with that lilt can be as cold as a stone—.
From this she suddenly turned to Debussy—she played a most difficult thing of his—I can't remember its name—then she stopped.
"Do you like Debussy?" I asked.
"No, not always."
"Then why did you play it?"
"I supposed you would."
"If you had said in plain words, 'I think you are a rotter who wants first dance music, then an unrestful modern decadent, 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