The Lady Next Door by Laura Matthews Read Free Book Online

waste time with the prosy attorney. Nevertheless, Roberts informed Miss Findlay of her visitor and perfectly concurred with her exasperated sigh.
    “Show him into the drawing room. I’ll be with him in a moment.”
    Marianne set the little brass bell where her aunt could easily reach it if she awoke, and straightened the mobcap which hid a good deal of her auburn tresses. Trust Mr. Oldham to take her away from important matters to listen to his pompous platitudes. When she had met him in the hallway the previous evening he had mumbled such phrases as “the burdens laid on the downtrodden,” “the true strength of Christian fortitude,” and “the hallowed sanctity of perseverance,” none of which had made the least sense, but he had seemed inordinately proud of his easy rhetoric.
    On entering the room, she found him eyeing the furniture speculatively, his arms still full of the flowers and fruit. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Oldham?”
    “Ah my dear lady, I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve brought a few little things for your esteemed aunt. I hope she does rather better today.”
    “Much the same as yesterday, Mr. Oldham, but she is sleeping now. How kind of you to think of her.” Marianne set the basket of fruit on a scarred side table which she had intended to restore this week, and placed the flowers in a small urn saying, “I’ll give them some water later. You really shouldn’t have made a special trip here, Mr. Oldham; I realize what a busy man you are.”
    “Not too busy to inquire after your aunt, and see that you are not dissipating your strength. Your aunt would not wish you to overtire yourself. ‘They also serve who only stand and wait.’ Milton, you know.”
    Marianne knew it very well, and wondered what it had to say to the present circumstance. As always when someone called, she seated herself on the stained spot of the sofa. Probably she should offer her visitor refreshment, but she had no intention of doing so; it would only encourage him to stay. “Have you read a great deal of Milton, Mr. Oldham?”
    “More than most, I dare say. I am a firm believer in our own English classics. The Trojans and Greeks are all very well, but for my money give me Sir Thomas More, Sir Philip Sidney, William Shakespeare, John Milton, John Dryden, and a dozen others. I have long held the opinion that the most intelligent men are those who are able to recognize the works of genius of their own time. To be able to sift through the welter of brochures, articles, books, and poems and come up with the golden egg, so to speak. A book may prove of temporary interest, or for a moment beguile the reader, but will it stand the Test of Time?”
    He paused dramatically to emphasize his point, wagging an admonitory finger. “Will anyone a hundred years from today read the works of Henry Fielding or James Thomson? I think not. But those of Thomas Gray and Robert Blair—ah, there is the work of intellect, of mental and artistic genius. Of course, Blair is dead now, but I promise you, I recognized his worth even when I was at university."
    Marianne was struck dumb by his theory, and Mr. Oldham preened himself on the impression he had made. This was, perhaps, as good a time as any to further his prospects, so he suddenly dropped his pedantic air, hurriedly shifted from his chair to the sofa beside her, and grasped her hand with a most sympathetic and kindly air. “Forgive me for being the tutor when you are in distress, my dear. Your interest alone could have prompted me to digress at such a time, when your aunt lies so deplorably ill but a few feet from us. I want you to know that if anything happens to her—God forbid!—you may count on my support. I will stand your friend through the vale of sorrow to the shores of composure . . . and further. Has she a will? I would be happy to draw one up for her—gratis.”
    “You are too kind, Mr. Oldham,” Marianne replied smoothly, withdrawing her hand from his moist clasp.