Mike Fletcher by George Moore (ebook pc reader .txt) 📕

Of Intense And Blinding Electric Fire. And He Fled From The Light,

Seeking Darkness Like Some Nocturnal Animal. His Head Was Leaned

Slightly On One Side,  The Thin,  Weary Face Lying In The Shadow Of The

Chair,  And The Hair That Fell Thickly On The Moist Forehead. As He

Dreamed The Sky Grew Ghastly As The Dead. The Night Crouched As If In

Terror Along The Edges Of The River,  Beneath The Bridges And Among

The Masonry And The Barges Aground,  And In The Ebbing Water A Lurid

Reflection Trailed Ominously. And As The Day Ascended,  The Lamps

Dwindled From Red To White,  And Beyond The Dark Night Of The River,

Spires Appeared Upon Faint Roseate Gray.

Then,  As The Sparrows Commenced Their Shrilling In The Garden,

Another Veil Was Lifted,  And Angles And Shapes On The Warehouses

Appeared,  And Boats Laden With Newly-Cut Planks; Then The Lights That

Seemed To Lead Along The River Turned Short Over The Iron Girders,

And In White Whiffs A Train Sped Across The Bridge. The Clouds Lifted

And Cleared Away,  Changing From Dark Gray To Undecided Purple,  And In

The Blank Silver Of The East,  The Spaces Flushed,  And The Dawn

Appeared In Her First Veil Of Rose. And As If The Light Had

Penetrated And Moved The Brain,  The Lips Murmured--

"False Fascination In Which We Are Blinded. Night! Shelter And Save

Me From The Day,  And In Thy Opiate Arms Bear Me Across The World."

He Turned Uneasily As If He Were About To Awake,  And Then His Eyes

Opened And He Gazed On The Spectral Pallor Of The Dawn In The

Windows,  His Brain Rousing From Dreams Slowly Into Comprehension Of

The Change That Had Come. Then Collecting His Thoughts He Rose And

Stood Facing The Dawn. He Stood For A Moment Like One In Combat,  And

Then Like One Overwhelmed Retreated Through The Folding Doors,

Seeking His Pistol.

"Another Day Begun! Twelve More Hours Of Consciousness And Horror! I

Must Go!"

  *        *        *        *        *        *

None Had Heard The Report Of The Pistol,  And While The Pomp Of Gold

And Crimson Faded,  And The Sun Rose Into The Blueness Of Morning,

Mike Lay Still Grasping The Revolver,  The Blood Flowing Down His

Face,  Where He Had Fallen Across The Low Bed,  Raised Upon Lions'

Claws And Hung With Heavy Curtains. Receiving No Answer,  The Servant

Had Opened The Door. A Look Of Horror Passed Over Her Face; She

Lifted His Hand,  Let It Fall,  And Burst Into Tears.

And All The While The Sun Rose,  Bringing Work And Sorrow To Every

Living Thing--Filling The Fields With Labourers,  Filling The Streets

With Clerks And Journalists,  Authors And Actors. And It Was In The

Morning Hubbub Of The Strand That Lizzie Escott Stopped To Speak To

Lottie,  Who Was Going To Rehearsal.

"How Exactly Like His Father He Is Growing," She Said,  Speaking Of

The Little Boy By The Actress's Side. "Frank Saw Mike In Piccadilly

About A Month Ago; He Promised To Come And See Us,  But He Never Did."

"Swine.... He Never Could Keep A Promise. I Hope Willy Won't Grow Up

Like Him."

"Who Are You Talking Of,  Mother? Of Father?"

The Women Exchanged Glances.

"He's As Sharp As A Needle. And To Think That That Beast Never Gave

Me But One Hundred Pounds,  And It Was Only An Accident I Got That--We

Happened To Meet In The Underground Railway. He Took A Ticket For

Me--You Know He Could Always Be Very Nice If He Liked; He Told Me A

Lady Had Left Him Five Thousand A Year,  And If I Wanted Any Money I

Had Only To Ask Him For It. I Asked Him If He Wouldn't Like To See

The Child,  And He Said I Mustn't Be Beastly; I Never Quite Knew What

He Meant; But I Know He Thought It Funny,  For He Laughed A Great

Deal,  And I Got Into Such A Rage. I Said I Didn't Want His Dirty

Money,  And Got Out At The Next Station. He Sent Me A Hundred Pounds

Next Day. I Haven't Heard Of Him Since,  And Don't Want To."

"Suicide Of A Poet In The Temple!" Shouted A Little Boy.

"I Wonder Who That Is," Said Lizzie.

"Mike Used To Live In The Temple," Said Lottie.

The Women Read The Reporter's Account Of The Event,  And Then Lottie

Said--

"Isn't It Awful! I Wonder What He Has Done With His Money?"

"You May Be Sure He Hasn't Thought Of Us. He Ought To Have Thought Of

Frank. Frank Was Very Good To Him In Old Times."

"Well,  I Don't Care What He Has Done With His Money. I Never Cared

For Any Man But Him. I Could Have Forgiven Him Everything If He Had

Only Thought Of The Child. I Hope He Has Left Him Something."

"Now I'm Sure You Are Talking Of Father."

Publication Date: 05-30-2014

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