Short Stories 1895-1926 Read Free Page A

Could I now? Come, you shall choose.”
    â€˜She rose and opened the long door of a narrow cupboard, looking towards the card-players as she stooped. I remember the cakes to this day; little oval shortbreads stamped with a beehive, custards and mince-pies; and a great glass jar of goodies which I carried in both arms round the little square table. I took a mince-pie, and sat down on a footstool nearby Miss Grey, and she talked to me while she worked with slender hands at her lace embroidery. I told her how old I was; about my great-aunt and her three cats. I told her my dreams, and that I was very fond of Yorkshire pudding, “from under the meat, you know”. And I told her I thought my father the handsomest man I had ever seen.
    â€˜â€œWhat, handsomer than Mr Spencer?” she said laughing, looking along her needle.
    â€˜I answered that I did not very much like clergymen.
    â€˜â€œAnd why?” she said gravely.
    â€˜â€œBecause they do not talk like real,” I said.
    â€˜She laughed very gaily. “Do men ever?” she said.
    â€˜And her voice was so quiet and so musical, her neck so graceful, I thought her a very beautiful lady, admiring especially her dark eyes when she smiled brightly and yet half sadly at me; I promised, moreover, that if she would meet me on the heath, I would show her the rabbit warren and the “Miller’s Pool”.
    â€˜â€œWell, Jane, and what do you think of my son?” said my father when we were about to leave.
    â€˜She bent over me and squeezed a lucky fourpenny-piece into my hand. “I love fourpence, pretty little fourpence, I love fourpence better than my life,” she whispered into my ear. “But that’s a secret,” she added, glancing up over her shoulder. She kissed lightly the top of my head. I was looking at my father while she was caressing me, and I fancied a faint sneer passed over his face. But when we had come out of the village on to the heath, in the bare keen night, as we walked along the path together between the gorse-bushes, now on turf, and now on stony ground, never before had he seemed so wonderful a companion. He told me little stories; he began a hundred, and finished none; yet with the stars above us, they seemed a string of beads all of bright colours. We stood still in the vast darkness, while he whistled that strangest of all old songs – “The Song the Sirens Sang”. He pilfered my wits and talked like my double. But when – how much too quickly, I thought with sinking heart – we were come to the house-gates, he suddenly fell silent, turned an instant, and stared far away over the windy heath.
    â€˜â€œHow weary, flat, stale – ” he began, and broke off between uneasy laughter and a sigh. “Listen to me, Nicholas,” he said, lifting my face to the starlight, “you must grow up a man – a Man, you understand; no vapourings, no posings, no caprices; and above all, no sham. No sham. It’s your one and only chance in this unfaltering Scheme.” He scanned my face long and closely. “You have your mother’s eyes,” he said musingly. “And that,” he added under his breath, “ that’s no joke.” He pushed open the squealing gate and we went in.
    â€˜My mother was sitting in a low chair before a dying and cheerless fire.
    â€˜â€œWell, Nick,” she said very suavely, “and how have you enjoyed your evening?”
    â€˜I stared at her without answer. “Did you play cards with the gentlemen; or did you turn over the music?”
    â€˜â€œI talked to Miss Grey,” I said.
    â€˜â€œReally,” said my mother, raising her eyebrows, “and who then is Miss Grey?” My father was smiling at us with sparkling eyes.
    â€˜â€œMr Grey’s sister,” I answered in a low voice.
    â€˜â€œNot his wife, then?” said my mother, glancing furtively at the fire. I looked towards