Read Online The Nymph and the Lamp by Thomas H Raddall - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas H Raddall
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These visions and speculations perished in winter, when the windows were shut and masked with frost, and all the inmates of the lodginghouses shivered over their tepid radiators and crept early to bed. But worst were rainy Sundays, when there was nowhere to go, nothing to do, and nothing to see but the sordid little court streaming in the downpour of the gutterspouts. In the gray daylight the windows were blank and lifeless. Now and again a mysterious hand parted the curtains for a moment and flicked them back again in evident disgust, or tossed a cigarette stub into the rain. These were the empty pages in their lives, not to be skipped over as they skipped a dull chapter in the battered books they passed from room to room.
On fine Sundays in spring, summer and autumn the warren was deserted during the daylight hours. Nearly all of the lodgers made their way to the Public Gardens, to Point Pleasant, to the park at Northwest Arm, or sat about the slopes of the Citadel looking over the rooftops at the harbor and the Dartmouth shore. At night they returned with a pleasant air of accomplishment; their rooms seemed no longer cells in a prison from which there was no escape; they took off their shoes and sprawled on their beds and contemplated the familiar walls and furniture with a sense of home and ownership.
When Miss Jardine returned from Point Pleasant she ran lightly up the stairs and entered her room with all the relish of a sailor entering port after a voyage. She felt refreshed. It was nice to get back, and she had a good appetite for tea. She did not look forward to tomorrowâs tea with the same relish. Now that she had time to think it over, an evening with the man from Marina seemed rather an ordeal, an act of charity that she must perform with all possible grace. She knew she would feel embarrassed and a little ridiculous, going about the streets with that gentle bearded giant in his suit of shabby reach-me-downs.
The odd thing was that beneath these doubts she felt a tingle of elation, and she wondered why. Because she had a date with a man? Pooh! Besides, Carney wasnât a man in the sense that enabled you to say in the office next morning, with a casual air and if possible a yawn, in the manner of the Benson girl, âI was out with a man again last night. Oh dear!â
Miss Benson was a virtuous girl who nevertheless enjoyed a good time and made full use of her charms in getting what she wanted. Men came to her like wasps to jam. Most of them were wireless operators, good-looking youngsters from the ships, who met her in the office, admired her person, and quite misread the invitation in her eyes. One after another, like suitors of a modern Atalanta, they pursued her through dinners, dances and shows, casting their golden apples in the modern form of flowers, chocolates, stockings, scarves or jewelry, according to their funds and their thirst for conquest. It was a splendid game, and unlike Atalanta, Miss Benson always managed to pick up the apples and win.
If the young men were disappointed they seldom reproached her, and most of them admired her skill. Indeed they talked about it in foreign ports, in distant stations up the coast, in dot-and-dash chat far at sea. With less than five yearsâ experience in the radio world Miss Benson in her own way was almost as famous as Carney was in his. She did not know this, and she would have been indignant if she had; but the knowledge would not have spoiled her amusing and rewarding game for a moment.
Miss Benson in moments of candor described herself as a flirt. The young men had another word. Miss Jardine considered her a heartless fraud. After all the young men were simply healthy animals following natural instincts, and Miss Bensonâs game was not only dishonest but rather cruel. For her part Miss Benson enjoyed the indignant look of Miss Jardine whenever a new victim came under her spell. She was well aware that this tall pale creature
These visions and speculations perished in winter, when the windows were shut and masked with frost, and all the inmates of the lodginghouses shivered over their tepid radiators and crept early to bed. But worst were rainy Sundays, when there was nowhere to go, nothing to do, and nothing to see but the sordid little court streaming in the downpour of the gutterspouts. In the gray daylight the windows were blank and lifeless. Now and again a mysterious hand parted the curtains for a moment and flicked them back again in evident disgust, or tossed a cigarette stub into the rain. These were the empty pages in their lives, not to be skipped over as they skipped a dull chapter in the battered books they passed from room to room.
On fine Sundays in spring, summer and autumn the warren was deserted during the daylight hours. Nearly all of the lodgers made their way to the Public Gardens, to Point Pleasant, to the park at Northwest Arm, or sat about the slopes of the Citadel looking over the rooftops at the harbor and the Dartmouth shore. At night they returned with a pleasant air of accomplishment; their rooms seemed no longer cells in a prison from which there was no escape; they took off their shoes and sprawled on their beds and contemplated the familiar walls and furniture with a sense of home and ownership.
When Miss Jardine returned from Point Pleasant she ran lightly up the stairs and entered her room with all the relish of a sailor entering port after a voyage. She felt refreshed. It was nice to get back, and she had a good appetite for tea. She did not look forward to tomorrowâs tea with the same relish. Now that she had time to think it over, an evening with the man from Marina seemed rather an ordeal, an act of charity that she must perform with all possible grace. She knew she would feel embarrassed and a little ridiculous, going about the streets with that gentle bearded giant in his suit of shabby reach-me-downs.
The odd thing was that beneath these doubts she felt a tingle of elation, and she wondered why. Because she had a date with a man? Pooh! Besides, Carney wasnât a man in the sense that enabled you to say in the office next morning, with a casual air and if possible a yawn, in the manner of the Benson girl, âI was out with a man again last night. Oh dear!â
Miss Benson was a virtuous girl who nevertheless enjoyed a good time and made full use of her charms in getting what she wanted. Men came to her like wasps to jam. Most of them were wireless operators, good-looking youngsters from the ships, who met her in the office, admired her person, and quite misread the invitation in her eyes. One after another, like suitors of a modern Atalanta, they pursued her through dinners, dances and shows, casting their golden apples in the modern form of flowers, chocolates, stockings, scarves or jewelry, according to their funds and their thirst for conquest. It was a splendid game, and unlike Atalanta, Miss Benson always managed to pick up the apples and win.
If the young men were disappointed they seldom reproached her, and most of them admired her skill. Indeed they talked about it in foreign ports, in distant stations up the coast, in dot-and-dash chat far at sea. With less than five yearsâ experience in the radio world Miss Benson in her own way was almost as famous as Carney was in his. She did not know this, and she would have been indignant if she had; but the knowledge would not have spoiled her amusing and rewarding game for a moment.
Miss Benson in moments of candor described herself as a flirt. The young men had another word. Miss Jardine considered her a heartless fraud. After all the young men were simply healthy animals following natural instincts, and Miss Bensonâs game was not only dishonest but rather cruel. For her part Miss Benson enjoyed the indignant look of Miss Jardine whenever a new victim came under her spell. She was well aware that this tall pale creature
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