The Color of Death Read Free

I fear I had my hands full with Latin. And I must say, Greek was quite beyond me. They seemed useless to me. When would I meet an ancient Roman or Greek whom I might speak with?”
    Clarissa and I, both autodidacts, agreed most emphatically, for such as we were, utility was all. (While I cannot speak for Clarissa, I know that today I would be less likely to dismiss those dead languages as useless.) But when he went further and declared all education “beyond plain reading, writing, and sums” to be excessive and unnecessary, then we were forced to demur.
    We argued with him on that point quite heatedly for some minutes; he maintained that the six years that he had spent under the tutelage of Monsieur Desmoulins was not much more than time wasted, and we maintained that it was not. Clarissa said that Frank Barber himself was proof of the efficaciousness of Monsieur Desmoulins s schooling. She declared him as gentlemanly as any fellow one might meet in St. James Park.
    Then, did he reveal himself to me as somewhat vain. He preened a bit, striking a pose with his head tilted just slightly toward the light. “Oh,” said he, “do you really think so?”
    “Of course we do.”
    “Well, thank you for saying so.” His self-conceit, such as it was, seemed quite childishly innocent.
    At that, and with a great bustle of authority, a stout-figured woman, well-known to me, appeared of a sudden in the doorway, scowling down at Frank — on the occasions I had encountered her here before, she seemed always to look displeased.
    “Mr. Johnson would like to see you, Frank,” said she. “He is now come down for breakfast.” Then, having delivered her summons, she turned about and left as noisily as she had come.
    Rising, he waited until he had heard the last of her, and said, at not much above a whisper, “That’s Miss Williams. She doesn’t like me — no, not at all.” He himself started from the room, but turned back to us and declared, “I’ll tell him you’re waiting to see him.”
    As soon as we were alone, Clarissa began muttering to me about Francis Barber. She asked who he was and what was his relation to Mr. Johnson. I assured her that I had neither met nor heard of the fellow before. Rather insistently, she rephrased her question, and I rephrased my answer. We might have gone on so for the rest of the morning, had not the subject of our lame discussion swiftly returned and bade us come along with him that we might see Mr. Johnson. Following obediently, we were conducted down a short hall to a room just off the kitchen where I had met Johnson at breakfast on one previous occasion. Frank introduced us, and, with a cheerful goodbye to all, took his leave.
    Mr. Johnson looked from me to Clarissa and back again to me. “Well,” said he, “you, young sir, have been here before. We are somewhat acquainted, and I understand there is a letter for me from Sir John Fielding, but is it of such heavy matter that it took two of you to carry it?”
    Clarissa, never at a loss for words, spoke up fearlessly as ever: “By no means, sir. I came along that I might meet you and gaze upon your face.”
    “If that was your purpose, child, you must be sorely disappointed,” said he in response. “This face of mine frightens some — but gives others cause for merriment.” He took a prodigious gulp of tea and smiled upon her.
    “We have things in common,” said she.
    “Oh? Tell me then, by all means.”
    “Well, we are both natives of Lichfield.”
    “And we have proven ourselves wiser than its entire population by leaving the place when we could.”
    “You are the son of a bookseller,” said she, “and I am the granddaughter of one. My mother did often tend the shop for him.”
    “What was the name of the shop?”
    “Gladdens. Perhaps you remember it?”
    “I thought I might — but no. It has been many years since I left.” He seemed to be attempting a polite withdrawal from his conversation with her.
    But Clarissa,