Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3), Richard Harding Davis [best novel books to read TXT] 📗
- Author: Richard Harding Davis
Book online «Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3), Richard Harding Davis [best novel books to read TXT] 📗». Author Richard Harding Davis
Alert, Watching Him With Intent, Wide-Open Eyes; And At Tables Which
Had Been Marked By The Laughter Of Those Seated About Them There Fell
A Sudden Silence. Those Who Fully Understood The Value Of The Music
Withdrew Into Themselves, Submitting, Thankfully, To Its Spell;
Others, Less Susceptible, Gathered From The Bearing Of Those About
Them That Something Of Moment Was Going Forward; But It Was
Recognized By Each, From The Most Severe English Matron Present Down
To The Youngest "Omnibus-Boy" Among The Waiters, That It Was A Love-
Story Which Was Being Told To Them, And That In This Public Place The
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 107Deepest, Most Sacred, And Most Beautiful Of Emotions Were Finding
Noble Utterance.
The Music Filled Corbin With Desperate Longing And Regret. It Was So
Truly The Translation Of His Own Feelings That He Was Alternately
Touched With Self-Pity And Inspired To Fresh Resolve. It Seemed To
Assure Him That Love Such As His Could Not Endure Without Some
Return. It Emboldened Him To Make Still Another And A Final Appeal.
Mrs. Warriner, With All The Other People In The Room, Was Watching
Edouard, And So, Unobserved, And Hidden By The Flowers Upon The
Table, Corbin Leaned Toward Miss Warriner And Bent His Head Close To
Hers. His Eyes Were Burning With Feeling; His Voice Thrilled In
Unison To The Plaint Of The Violin.
He Gave A Toss Of His Head In The Direction From Whence The Music
Came.
"That Is What I Have Been Trying To Tell You," He Whispered. His
Voice Was Hoarse And Shaken. "That Is How I Care, But That Man's
Genius Is Telling You For Me. At Last, You Must Understand." In His
Eagerness, His Words Followed Each Other Brokenly And Impetuously.
"That Is Love," He Whispered. "That Is The Real Voice Of Love In All
Its Tenderness And Might, And--It Is Love Itself. Don't You
Understand It Now?" He Demanded.
Miss Warriner Raised Her Head And Frowned. She Stared At Edouard With
A Pained Expression Of Perplexity And Doubt.
"He Shows No Lack Of Feeling," She Said, Critically, "But His Technic
Is Not Equal To Ysaye's."
"Good God!" Corbin Gasped. He Sank Away From Miss Warriner And Stared
At Her With Incredulous Eyes.
"His Technic," He Repeated, "Is Not Equal To Ysaye's?" He Gave A
Laugh Which Might Have Been A Sob, And Sat Up, Suddenly, With His
Head Erect And His Shoulders Squared. He Had The Shaken Look Of One
Who Has Recovered From A Dangerous Illness. But When He Spoke Again
It Was In The Accents Of Every-Day Politeness.
At An Early Hour The Following Morning, Mrs. Warriner And Her
Daughter Left Waterloo Station On The Steamer-Train For Southampton,
And Corbin Attended Them Up To The Moment Of The Train's Departure.
He Concerned Himself For Their Comfort As Conscientiously As He Had
Always Done Throughout The Last Three Months, When He Had Been Their
Travelling-Companion; Nothing Could Have Been More Friendly, More
Sympathetic, Than His Manner. This Effort, Which Mrs. Warriner Was
Sure Cost Him Much, Touched Her Deeply. But When He Shook Miss
Warriner's Hand And She Said, "Good-By, And Write To Us Before You Go
To The Philippines," Corbin For The First Time Stammered In Some
Embarrassment.
"Good-By," He Said; "I--I Am Not Sure That I Shall Go."
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 108
He Dined At The Savoy Again That Night, In Company With Some
Englishmen. They Sat At A Table In The Corner Where They Could
Observe The Whole Extent Of The Room, And Their Talk Was Eager And
Their Laughter Constant And Hearty. It Was Only When The Boy Who Led
The Orchestra Began To Walk Among The Tables, Playing An Air Of
Peculiar Sadness, That Corbin's Manner Lost Its Vivacity, And He Sank
Into A Sudden Silence, With His Eyes Fixed On The Table Before Him.
"That's Odd," Said One Of His Companions. "I Say, Corbin, Look At
That Chap! What's He Doing?"
Corbin Raised His Eyes. He Saw Edouard Standing At The Same Table At
Which For The Last Two Nights Miss Warriner Had Been Seated. "What Is
It?" He Asked.
"Why, That Violin Chap," Said The Englishman. "Don't You See? He's
Been Playing To The Only Vacant Table In The Room, And To An Empty
Chair."
In The Fog
I
The Grill Is The Club Most Difficult Of Access In The World. To Be
Placed On Its Rolls Distinguishes The New Member As Greatly As Though
He Had Received A Vacant Garter Or Had Been Caricatured In "Vanity
Fair."
Men Who Belong To The Grill Club Never Mention That Fact. If You Were
To Ask One Of Them Which Clubs He Frequents, He Will Name All Save
That Particular One. He Is Afraid If He Told You He Belonged To The
Grill, That It Would Sound Like Boasting.
The Grill Club Dates Back To The Days When Shakespeare's Theatre
Stood On The Present Site Of The "Times" Office. It Has A Golden
Grill Which Charles The Second Presented To The Club, And The
Original Manuscript Of "Tom And Jerry In London," Which Was
Bequeathed To It By Pierce Egan Himself. The Members, When They Write
Letters At The Club, Still Use Sand To Blot The Ink.
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 109
The Grill Enjoys The Distinction Of Having Blackballed, Without
Political Prejudice, A Prime Minister Of Each Party. At The Same
Sitting At Which One Of These Fell, It Elected, On Account Of His
Brogue And His Bulls, Quiller, Q. C., Who Was Then A Penniless
Barrister.
When Paul Preval, The French Artist Who Came To London By Royal
Command To Paint A Portrait Of The Prince Of Wales, Was Made An
Honorary Member--Only Foreigners May Be Honorary Members--He Said, As
He Signed His First Wine-Card, "I Would Rather See My Name On That
Than On A Picture In The Louvre."
At Which Quiller Remarked, "That Is A Devil Of A Compliment, Because
The Only Men Who Can Read Their Names In The Louvre To-Day Have Been
Dead Fifty Years."
On The Night After The Great Fog Of 1897 There Were Five Members In
The Club, Four Of Them Busy With Supper And One Reading In Front Of
The Fireplace. There Is Only One Room To The Club, And One Long
Table. At The Far End Of The Room The Fire Of The Grill Glows Red,
And, When The Fat Falls, Blazes Into Flame, And At The Other There Is
A Broad Bow-Window Of Diamond Panes, Which Looks Down Upon The
Street. The Four Men At The Table Were Strangers To Each Other, But
As They Picked At The Grilled Bones, And Sipped Their Scotch And
Soda, They Conversed With Such Charming Animation That A Visitor To
The Club, Which Does Not Tolerate Visitors, Would Have Counted Them
As Friends Of Long Acquaintance, Certainly Not As Englishmen Who Had
Met For The First Time, And Without The Form Of An Introduction. But
It Is The Etiquette And Tradition Of The Grill That Whoever Enters It
Must Speak With Whomever He Finds There. It Is To Enforce This Rule
That There Is But One Long Table, And Whether There Are Twenty Men At
It Or Two, The Waiters, Supporting The Rule, Will Place Them Side By
Side.
For This Reason The Four Strangers At Supper Were Seated Together,
With The Candles Grouped About Them, And The Long Length Of The Table
Cutting A White Path Through The Outer Gloom.
"I Repeat," Said The Gentleman With The Black Pearl Stud, "That The
Days For Romantic Adventure And Deeds Of Foolish Daring Have Passed,
And That The Fault Lies With Ourselves. Voyages To The Pole I Do Not
Catalogue As Adventures. That African Explorer, Young Chetney, Who
Turned Up Yesterday After He Was Supposed To Have Died In Uganda, Did
Nothing Adventurous. He Made Maps And Explored The Sources Of Rivers.
He Was In Constant Danger, But The Presence Of Danger Does Not
Constitute Adventure. Were That So, The Chemist Who Studies High
Explosives, Or Who Investigates Deadly Poisons, Passes Through
Adventures Daily. No, 'Adventures Are For The Adventurous.' But One
No Longer Ventures. The Spirit Of It Has Died Of Inertia. We Are
Grown Too Practical, Too Just, Above All, Too Sensible. In This Room,
For Instance, Members Of This Club Have, At The Sword's Point,
Disputed The Proper Scanning Of One Of Pope's Couplets. Over So
Weighty A Matter As Spilled Burgundy On A Gentleman's Cuff, Ten Men
Part 3 Title 1 (Ranson's Folly) Pg 110Fought Across This Table, Each With His Rapier In One Hand And A
Candle In The Other. All Ten Were Wounded. The Question Of The
Spilled Burgundy Concerned But Two Of Them. The Eight Others Engaged
Because They Were Men Of 'Spirit.' They Were, Indeed, The First
Gentlemen Of The Day. To-Night, Were You To Spill Burgundy On My
Cuff, Were You Even To Insult Me Grossly, These Gentlemen Would Not
Consider It Incumbent Upon Them To Kill Each Other. They Would
Separate Us, And To-Morrow Morning Appear As Witnesses Against Us At
Bow Street. We Have Here To-Night, In The Persons Of Sir Andrew And
Myself, An Illustration Of How The Ways Have Changed."
The Men Around The Table Turned And Glanced Toward The Gentleman In
Front Of The Fireplace. He Was An Elderly And Somewhat Portly Person,
With A Kindly, Wrinkled Countenance, Which Wore Continually A Smile
Of Almost Childish Confidence And Good-Nature. It Was A Face Which
The Illustrated Prints Had Made Intimately Familiar. He Held A Book
From Him At Arm's-Length, As If To Adjust His Eyesight, And His Brows
Were Knit With Interest.
"Now, Were This The Eighteenth Century," Continued The Gentleman With
The Black Pearl, "When Sir Andrew Left The Club To-Night I Would
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