Ranson's Folly (Fiscle Part 3) by Richard Harding Davis (dar e dil novel online reading TXT) 📕

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

Deepest,  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."

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.

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

Fought 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