Desperate Remedies, The Hand of Ethelberta & A Laodicean: Complete Illustrated Trilogy. Томас ХардиЧитать онлайн книгу.
ring as if it equalled her Majesty’s crown in value, and desperately set it on my finger thus. He will fix his eyes unflinchingly upon what he is doing — just as if he stood in battle before the enemy (though, in reality, very fond of me, of course), and blush as much as I shall.
‘If he’s a sailor, he will take my finger and the ring in this way, and deck it out with a housewifely touch and a tenderness of expression about his mouth, as sailors do: kiss it, perhaps, with a simple air, as if we were children playing an idle game, and not at the very height of observation and envy by a great crowd saying, “Ah! they are happy now!”
‘If he should be rather a poor man — noble-minded and affectionate, but still poor —’
Owen’s footsteps rapidly ascending the stairs, interrupted this fancy-free meditation. Reproaching herself, even angry with herself for allowing her mind to stray upon such subjects in the face of their present desperate condition, she rose to meet him, and make tea.
Cytherea’s interest to know how her brother had been received at Mr. Gradfield’s broke forth into words at once. Almost before they had sat down to table, she began cross-examining him in the regular sisterly way.
‘Well, Owen, how has it been with you today? What is the place like — do you think you will like Mr. Gradfield?’
‘O yes. But he has not been there today; I have only had the head draughtsman with me.’
Young women have a habit, not noticeable in men, of putting on at a moment’s notice the drama of whosoever’s life they choose. Cytherea’s interest was transferred from Mr. Gradfield to his representative.
‘What sort of a man is he?’
‘He seems a very nice fellow indeed; though of course I can hardly tell to a certainty as yet. But I think he’s a very worthy fellow; there’s no nonsense in him, and though he is not a public school man he has read widely, and has a sharp appreciation of what’s good in books and art. In fact, his knowledge isn’t nearly so exclusive as most professional men’s.’
‘That’s a great deal to say of an architect, for of all professional men they are, as a rule, the most professional.’
‘Yes; perhaps they are. This man is rather of a melancholy turn of mind, I think.’
‘Has the managing clerk any family?’ she mildly asked, after a while, pouring out some more tea.
‘Family; no!’
‘Well, dear Owen, how should I know?’
‘Why, of course he isn’t married. But there happened to be a conversation about women going on in the office, and I heard him say what he should wish his wife to be like.’
‘What would he wish his wife to be like?’ she said, with great apparent lack of interest.
‘O, he says she must be girlish and artless: yet he would be loth to do without a dash of womanly subtlety, ’tis so piquant. Yes, he said, that must be in her; she must have womanly cleverness. “And yet I should like her to blush if only a cock-sparrow were to look at her hard,” he said, “which brings me back to the girl again: and so I flit backwards and forwards. I must have what comes, I suppose,” he said, “and whatever she may be, thank God she’s no worse. However, if he might give a final hint to Providence,” he said, “a child among pleasures, and a woman among pains was the rough outline of his requirement.”’
‘Did he say that? What a musing creature he must be.’
‘He did, indeed.’
3. from the Twelfth to the Fifteenth of July
As is well known, ideas are so elastic in a human brain, that they have no constant measure which may be called their actual bulk. Any important idea may be compressed to a molecule by an unwonted crowding of others; and any small idea will expand to whatever length and breadth of vacuum the mind may be able to make over to it. Cytherea’s world was tolerably vacant at this time, and the young architectural designer’s image became very pervasive. The next evening this subject was again renewed.
‘His name is Springrove,’ said Owen, in reply to her. ‘He is a thorough artist, but a man of rather humble origin, it seems, who has made himself so far. I think he is the son of a farmer, or something of the kind.’
‘Well, he’s none the worse for that, I suppose.’
‘None the worse. As we come down the hill, we shall be continually meeting people going up.’ But Owen had felt that Springrove was a little the worse nevertheless.
‘Of course he’s rather old by this time.’
‘O no. He’s about six-and-twenty — not more.’
‘Ah, I see. . . . What is he like, Owen?’
‘I can’t exactly tell you his appearance: ’tis always such a difficult thing to do.’
‘A man you would describe as short? Most men are those we should describe as short, I fancy.’
‘I should call him, I think, of the middle height; but as I only see him sitting in the office, of course I am not certain about his form and figure.’
‘I wish you were, then.’
‘Perhaps you do. But I am not, you see.’
‘Of course not, you are always so provoking. Owen, I saw a man in the street today whom I fancied was he — and yet, I don’t see how it could be, either. He had light brown hair, a snub nose, very round face, and a peculiar habit of reducing his eyes to straight lines when he looked narrowly at anything.’
‘O no. That was not he, Cytherea.’
‘Not a bit like him in all probability.’
‘Not a bit. He has dark hair — almost a Grecian nose, regular teeth, and an intellectual face, as nearly as I can recall to mind.’
‘Ah, there now, Owen, you have described him! But I suppose he’s not generally called pleasing, or —’
‘Handsome?’
‘I scarcely meant that. But since you have said it, is he handsome?’
‘Rather.’
‘His tout ensemble is striking?’
‘Yes — O no, no — I forgot: it is not. He is rather untidy in his waistcoat, and neck-ties, and hair.’
‘How vexing! . . . it must be to himself, poor thing.’
‘He’s a thorough bookworm — despises the pap-and-daisy school of verse — knows Shakespeare to the very dregs of the foot-notes. Indeed, he’s a poet himself in a small way.’
‘How delicious!’ she said. ‘I have never known a poet.’
‘And you don’t know him,’ said Owen dryly.
She reddened. ‘Of course I don’t. I know that.’
‘Have you received any answer to your advertisement?’ he inquired.
‘Ah — no!’ she said, and the forgotten disappointment which had showed itself in her face at different times during the day, became visible again.
Another day passed away. On Thursday, without inquiry, she learnt more of the head draughtsman. He and Graye had become very friendly, and he had been tempted to show her brother a copy of some poems of his — some serious and sad — some humorous — which had appeared in the poets’ corner of a magazine from time to time. Owen showed them now to Cytherea, who instantly began to read them carefully and to think them very beautiful.
‘Yes — Springrove’s no fool,’ said Owen sententiously.
‘No fool! — I should think he isn’t, indeed,’