He had met Miss Dudley in Brighton, in a house where he had been
asked to tea. She was a small, elderly spinster with sharp features
and gray curls. She had expected him to address to her a few
commonplace remarks for politeness' sake, and then to leave her for
some attractive girl. But he had showed no wish to leave her, and
when they met again he walked by her bath-chair the entire length of
the Cliff. Miss Dudley was a cripple. She had fallen from some rocks
when a child playing on the beach, and had injured herself
irremediably. She lived with her maid in a small lodging, and being
often confined to her room for days, nearly every visitor was
welcome. Mike liked this pallid and forgotten little woman. He found
in her a strange sweetness--a wistfulness. There was poetry in her
loneliness and her ruined health. Strength, health, and beauty had
been crushed by a chance fall. But the accident had not affected the
mind, unless perhaps it had raised it into more intense sympathy with
life. And in all his various passions and neglected correspondence he
never forgot for long to answer her letters, nor did he allow a month
to pass without seeing her. And now he bought for her a great packet
of roses and a novel; and with some misgivings he chose Zola's _Page
d'Amour_.
"I think this is all right. She'll be delighted with it, if she'll
read it."
She would have read anything he gave, and seen no harm since it came
from him. The ailing caged bird cannot but delight in the thrilling
of the wild bird that comes to it with the freedom of the sky and
fields in its wings and song. She listened to all his stories, even
to his stories of pigeon-shooting. She knew not how to reproach him.
Her eyes fixed upon him, her gentle hand laid on the rail of her
chair, she listened while he told her of the friends he had made, and
his life in the country; its seascape and downlands, the furze where
he had shot the rabbits, the lane where he had jumped the gate. Her
pleasures had passed in thought--his in action; the world was for
him--this room for her.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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