The Empire Annual for Girls, 1911 Part 29

The Grumpy Man

BY

MRS. HARTLEY PERKS

It was past nine on a winter's evening. Through the misty gloom a tenor voice rang clear and resonant. The singer stood on the edge of the pavement, guitar in hand, with upturned coat-collar, a wide-brimmed soft hat sheltering his face.

"I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem: Since the lovely are sleeping, Go sleep thou with them.

Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed, Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow When friends.h.i.+ps decay, And from love's s.h.i.+ning circle The gems drop away.

When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?"

The well-placed voice and accent were those of an educated man. The words of the old song, delivered clearly with true musical feeling, were touched with a thrill of pa.s.sion.

The thread of the melody was abruptly cut off by a sudden mad clatter of hoofs. A carriage dashed wildly along and swerved round the corner. The singer dropped his instrument and sprang at the horse's bridle. A moment's struggle, and he fell by the curb-stone dazed and shaken, but the runaway was checked and the footman was down at his head, while the coachman tightened his rein.

The singer struggled to his feet. The brougham window was lowered, and a clear-cut feminine face leaned forward.

"Thank you very much," said a cool, level voice, in a tone suitable to the recovery of some fallen trifle.

"Williamson"--to the coachman--"give this man half a crown, and drive on."

While Williamson fumbled in his pocket for the money, the singer gave one glance at the proud, cold face framed by the carriage window, then turned hurriedly away.

"Hey, David!" called the coachman to the groom. "Give her her head and jump up. She'll be all right now. Whoa--whoa, old girl. That chap's gone--half-crowns ain't seemingly in his line. Steady, old girl!" And the carriage disappeared into the night.

The singer picked up his guitar and leant on the railings. He was shaken and faint. Something seemed amiss with his left hand. He laid his forehead against the cool iron and drew a deep breath, muttering--

"It was she! When I heard her cold, cruel voice I thanked G.o.d I am as I am. Thank G.o.d for my child and a sacred memory----"

"Are you hurt?" asked a friendly voice.

The singer looked up to see a man standing hatless above him on the steps of the house. He strove to reply, but his tongue refused to act; he swayed while rolling waves of blackness encompa.s.sed him. He staggered blindly forward, then sank into darkness--and for him time was not.

When consciousness returned his eyes opened upon a glint of firelight, a shaded lamp on a table by which sat a man with bent head writing. It was a fine head, large and ma.s.sive, the hair full and crisp. A rugged hand grasped the pen with decision, and there was no hesitation in its rapid movement.

The singer lay for a moment watching the bent head, when it suddenly turned, and a pair of remarkably keen grey eyes met his own.

"Ah, you are better! That's right!" Rising, the writer went to a cupboard against the wall, whence he brought a decanter and gla.s.s.

"I am a doctor," he said kindly. "Luckily I was handy, or you might have had a bad fall."

The singer tried to rise.

"Don't move for a few moments," continued the doctor, holding a gla.s.s to his lips. "Drink this, and you will soon be all right again."

The singer drank, and after a pause glanced inquiringly at his left hand, which lay bound up at his side.

"Only a sprain," said the doctor, answering his glance. "I saw how it happened. Scant thanks, eh?"

The singer sat up and his eyes flashed.

[Sidenote: "I want no Thanks!"]

"I wanted no thanks from her," he muttered bitterly.

"How is that?" questioned the doctor. "You knew the lady?"

"Yes, I knew her. The evil she has brought me can never be blotted out by rivers of thanks!"

The doctor's look questioned his sanity.

"I fail to understand," he remarked simply.

"My name is Waldron, Philip Waldron," went on the singer. "You have a right to my name."

"Not connected with Waldron the great financier?" again questioned the doctor.

"His son. There is no reason to hide the truth from you. You have been very kind--more than kind. I thank you."

"But I understood Waldron had only one son, and he died some years ago--I attended him."

"Waldron had two sons, Lucien and Philip. I am Philip."

"But----"

"I can well understand your surprise. My father gave me scant thought--his soul was bound up in my elder brother."

"But why this masquerade?"

"It is no masquerade," returned the singer sadly. "I sing to eke out my small salary as clerk in a city firm. My abilities in that way do not command a high figure," he added, with a bitter laugh.

"Then your father----?"

"Sent me adrift because I refused to marry that woman whose carriage I stopped to-night."

The doctor made an expression of surprise.

"Yes, it seems strange I should come across her in that fas.h.i.+on, doesn't it? The sight of her has touched old sores."

Philip Waldron's eyes gleamed as he fixed them on the doctor's face.

"I will tell you something of my story--if you wish it."

"Say on."

"As a young man at home I was greatly under my father's influence.