Books: Ranson\'s Folly
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Richard Harding Davis >> Ranson\'s Folly
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As the first notes of La Lettre d'Amour brought a pause of silence in
the restaurant, Corbin, who was talking at the moment, interrupted
himself abruptly, and turned in his chair.
All through the evening he had been conscious of the near presence of
the young musician. He had not forgotten how, on the night before,
his own feelings had been interpreted in La Lettre d'Amour, and for
some time he had been debating in his mind as to whether he would
request Edouard to play the air again, or let the evening pass
without again submitting himself to so supreme an assault upon his
feelings. Now the question had been settled for him, and he found
that it had been decided as he secretly desired. It was impossible to
believe that Edouard was the same young man who had played the same
air on the night previous, for Edouard no longer considered that he
was present on sufferance--he invited and challenged the attention of
the room; his music commanded it to silence. It dominated all who
heard it.
As he again slowly approached the table where Miss Warriner was
seated, the eyes of everyone were turned upon him; the pathos, the
tenderness of his message seemed to speak to each; the fact that he
dared to offer such a wealth of deep feeling to such an audience was
in itself enough to engage the attention of all. A group of
Guardsmen, their faces flushed with Burgundy and pulling heavily on
black cigars, stared at him sleepily, and then sat up, erect and
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 have
him bound and gagged and thrown into a sedan chair. The watch would
not interfere, the passers-by would take to their heels, my hired
bullies and ruffians would convey him to some lonely spot where we
would guard him until morning. Nothing would come of it, except added
reputation to myself as a gentleman of adventurous spirit, and
possibly an essay in the 'Tatler' with stars for names, entitled, let
us say, 'The Budget and the Baronet.'"
"But to what end, sir?" inquired the youngest of the members. "And
why Sir Andrew, of all persons--why should you select him for this
adventure?"
The gentleman with the black pearl shrugged his shoulders.
"It would prevent him speaking in the House to-night. The Navy
Increase Bill," he added, gloomily. "It is a Government measure, and
Sir Andrew speaks for it. And so great is his influence and so large
his following that if he does"--the gentleman laughed ruefully--"if
he does, it will go through. Now, had I the spirit of our ancestors,"
he exclaimed, "I would bring chloroform from the nearest chemist's
and drug him in that chair. I would tumble his unconscious form into
a hansom-cab, and hold him prisoner until daylight. If I did, I would
save the British taxpayer the cost of five more battleships, many
millions of pounds."
The gentleman again turned, and surveyed the baronet with freshened
interest. The honorary member of the Grill, whose accent already had
betrayed him as an American, laughed softly.
"To look at him now," he said, "one would not guess he was deeply
concerned with the affairs of state."
The others nodded silently.
"He has not lifted his eyes from that book since we first entered,"
added the youngest member. "He surely cannot mean to speak to-night."
"Oh, yes, he will speak," muttered the one with the black pearl,
moodily. "During these last hours of the session the House sits late,
but when the Navy bill comes up on its third reading he will be in
his place--and he will pass it."
The fourth member, a stout and florid gentleman of a somewhat
sporting appearance, in a short smoking-jacket and black tie, sighed
enviously.
"Fancy one of us being as cool as that, if he knew he had to stand up
within an hour and rattle off a speech in Parliament. I'd be in a
devil of a funk myself. And yet he is as keen over that book he's
reading as though he had nothing before him until bedtime."
"Yes, see how eager he is," whispered the youngest member. "He does
not lift his eyes even now when he cuts the pages. It is probably an
Admiralty Report, or some other weighty work of statistics which
bears upon his speech."
The gentleman with the black pearl laughed morosely.
"The weighty work in which the eminent statesman is so deeply
engrossed," he said, "is called 'The Great Rand Robbery.' It is a
detective novel for sale at all bookstalls."
The American raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
"'The Great Rand Robbery'?" he repeated, incredulously. "What an odd
taste!"
"It is not a taste, it is his vice," returned the gentleman with the
pearl stud. "It is his one dissipation. He is noted for it. You, as a
stranger, could hardly be expected to know of this idiosyncrasy. Mr.
Gladstone sought relaxation in the Greek poets, Sir Andrew finds his
in Gaboriau. Since I have been a member of Parliament, I have never
seen him in the library without a shilling shocker in his hands. He
brings them even into the sacred precincts of the House, and from the
Government benches reads them concealed inside his hat. Once started
on a tale of murder, robbery, and sudden death, nothing can tear him
from it, not even the call of the division-bell, nor of hunger, nor
the prayers of the party Whip. He gave up his country house because
when he journeyed to it in the train he would become so absorbed in
his detective-stories that he was invariably carried past his
station." The member of Parliament twisted his pearl stud nervously,
and bit at the edge of his mustache. "If it only were the first pages
of 'The Rand Robbery' that he were reading," he murmured bitterly,
"instead of the last! With such another book as that, I swear I could
hold him here until morning. There would be no need of chloroform to
keep him from the House."
The eyes of all were fastened upon Sir Andrew, and each saw, with
fascination, that, with his forefinger, he was now separating the
last two pages of the book. The member of Parliament struck the
table, softly, with his open palm.
"I would give a hundred pounds," he whispered, "if I could place in
his hands at this moment a new story of Sherlock Holmes--a thousand
pounds," he added, wildly--"five thousand pounds!"
The American observed the speaker sharply, as though the words bore
to him some special application, and then, at an idea which
apparently had but just come to him, smiled, in great embarrassment.
Sir Andrew ceased reading, but, as though still under the influence
of the book, sat looking, blankly, into the open fire. For a brief
space, no one moved until the baronet withdrew his eyes and, with a
sudden start of recollection, felt, anxiously, for his watch. He
scanned its face eagerly, and scrambled to his feet.
The voice of the American instantly broke the silence in a high,
nervous accent.
"And yet Sherlock Holmes himself," he cried, "could not decipher the
mystery which to-night baffles the police of London."
At these unexpected words, which carried in them something of the
tone of a challenge, the gentlemen about the table started as
suddenly as though the American had fired a pistol in the air, and
Sir Andrew halted, abruptly, and stood observing him with grave
surprise.
The gentleman with the black pearl was the first to recover.
"Yes, yes," he said, eagerly, throwing himself across the table. "A
mystery that baffles the police of London. I have heard nothing of
it. Tell us at once, pray do--tell us at once."
The American flushed uncomfortably, and picked, uneasily, at the
table-cloth.
"No one but the police has heard of it," he murmured, "and they only
through me. It is a remarkable crime, to which, unfortunately, I am
the only person who can bear witness. Because I am the only witness,
I am, in spite of my immunity as a diplomat, detained in London by
the authorities of Scotland Yard. My name," he said, inclining his
head, politely, "is Sears, Lieutenant Ripley Sears, of the United
States Navy, at present Naval Attache to the Court of Russia. Had I
not been detained to-day by the police, I would have started this
morning for Petersburg."
The gentleman with the black pearl interrupted with so pronounced an
exclamation of excitement and delight that the American stammered and
ceased speaking.
"Do you hear, Sir Andrew?" cried the member of Parliament,
jubilantly. "An American diplomat halted by our police because he is
the only witness of a most remarkable crime--THE most remarkable
crime, I believe you said, sir," he added, bending eagerly toward the
naval officer, "which has occurred in London in many years."
The American moved his head in assent, and glanced at the two other
members. They were looking, doubtfully, at him, and the face of each
showed that he was greatly perplexed.
Sir Andrew advanced to within the light of the candles and drew a
chair toward him.
"The crime must be exceptional, indeed," he said, "to justify the
police in interfering with a representative of a friendly power. If I
were not forced to leave at once, I should take the liberty of asking
you to tell us the details."
The gentleman with the pearl pushed the chair toward Sir Andrew, and
motioned him to be seated.
"You cannot leave us now," he exclaimed. "Mr. Sears is just about to
tell us of this remarkable crime."
He nodded, vigorously, at the naval officer and the American, after
first glancing, doubtfully, toward the servants at the far end of the
room, and leaned forward across the table. The others drew their
chairs nearer and bent toward him. The baronet glanced, irresolutely,
at his watch, and, with an exclamation of annoyance, snapped down the
lid. "They can wait," he muttered. He seated himself quickly, and
nodded at Lieutenant Sears.
"If you will be so kind as to begin, sir," he said, impatiently.
"Of course," said the American, "you understand that I understand
that I am speaking to gentlemen. The confidences of this Club are
inviolate. Until the police give the facts to the public press, I
must consider you my confederates. You have heard nothing, you know
no one connected with this mystery. Even I must remain anonymous."
The gentlemen seated around him nodded gravely.
"Of course," the baronet assented, with eagerness, "of course."
"We will refer to it," said the gentleman with the black pearl, "as
'The Story of the Naval Attache.'"
"I arrived in London two days ago," said the American, "and I engaged
a room at the Bath Hotel. I know very few people in London, and even
the members of our embassy were strangers to me. But in Hong Kong I
had become great pals with an officer in your navy, who has since
retired, and who is now living in a small house in Rutland Gardens,
opposite the Knightsbridge Barracks. I telegraphed him that I was in
London, and yesterday morning I received a most hearty invitation to
dine with him the same evening at his house. He is a bachelor, so we
dined alone and talked over all our old days on the Asiatic Station
and of the changes which had come to us since we had last met there.
As I was leaving the next morning for my post at Petersburg, and had
many letters to write, I told him, about ten o'clock, that I must get
back to the hotel, and he sent out his servant to call a hansom.
"For the next quarter of an hour, as we sat talking, we could hear
the cab-whistle sounding, violently, from the doorstep, but
apparently with no result.
"'It cannot be that the cabmen are on strike,' my friend said, as he
rose and walked to the window.
"He pulled back the curtains and at once called to me.
"'You have never seen a London fog, have you?' he asked. 'Well, come
here. This is one of the best, or, rather, one of the worst, of
them.' I joined him at the window, but I could see nothing. Had I not
known that the house looked out upon the street I would have believed
that I was facing a dead wall. I raised the sash and stretched out my
head, but still I could see nothing. Even the light of the street-
lamps, opposite, and in the upper windows of the barracks, had been
smothered in the yellow mist. The lights of the room in which I stood
penetrated the fog only to the distance of a few inches from my eyes.
"Below me the servant was still sounding his whistle, but I could
afford to wait no longer, and told my friend that I would try and
find the way to my hotel on foot. He objected, but the letters I had
to write were for the Navy Department, and, besides, I had always
heard that to be out in a London fog was the most wonderful
experience, and I was curious to investigate one for myself.
"My friend went with me to his front door, and laid down a course for
me to follow. I was first to walk straight across the street to the
brick wall of the Knightsbridge Barracks. I was then to feel my way
along the wall until I came to a row of houses set back from the
sidewalk. They would bring me to a cross street. On the other side of
this street was a row of shops which I was to follow until they
joined the iron railings of Hyde Park. I was to keep to the railings
until I reached the gates at Hyde Park Corner, where I was to lay a
diagonal course across Piccadilly, and tack in toward the railings of
Green Park. At the end of these railings, going east, I would find
the Walsingham, and my own hotel.
"To a sailor the course did not seem difficult, so I bade my friend
good-night and walked forward until my feet touched the paving. I
continued upon it until I reached the curbing of the sidewalk. A few
steps further, and my hands struck the wall of the barracks. I turned
in the direction from which I had just come, and saw a square of
faint light cut in the yellow fog. I shouted, 'All right,' and the
voice of my friend answered, 'Good luck to you.' The light from his
open door disappeared with a bang, and I was left alone in a
dripping, yellow darkness. I have been in the Navy for ten years, but
I have never known such a fog as that of last night, not even among
the icebergs of Behring Sea. There one at least could see the light
of the binnacle, but last night I could not even distinguish the hand
by which I guided myself along the barrack-wall. At sea a fog is a
natural phenomenon. It is as familiar as the rainbow which follows a
storm, it is as proper that a fog should spread upon the waters as
that steam shall rise from a kettle. But a fog which springs from the
paved streets, that rolls between solid house-fronts, that forces
cabs to move at half speed, that drowns policemen and extinguishes
the electric lights of the music-hall, that to me is
incomprehensible. It is as out of place as a tidal wave on Broadway.
"As I felt my way along the wall, I encountered other men who were
coming from the opposite direction, and each time when we hailed each
other I stepped away from the wall to make room for them to pass. But
the third time I did this, when I reached out my hand, the wall had
disappeared, and the further I moved to find it the further I seemed
to be sinking into space. I had the unpleasant conviction that at any
moment I might step over a precipice. Since I had set out, I had
heard no traffic in the street, and now, although I listened some
minutes, I could only distinguish the occasional footfalls of
pedestrians. Several times I called aloud, and once a jocular
gentleman answered me, but only to ask me where I thought he was, and
then even he was swallowed up in the silence. Just above me I could
make out a jet of gas which I guessed came from a street-lamp, and I
moved over to that, and, while I tried to recover my bearings, kept
my hand on the iron post. Except for this nicker of gas, no larger
than the tip of my finger, I could distinguish nothing about me. For
the rest, the mist hung between me and the world like a damp and
heavy blanket.
"I could hear voices, but I could not tell from whence they came, and
the scrape of a foot, moving cautiously, or a muffled cry as someone
stumbled, were the only sounds that reached me.
"I decided that until someone took me in I had best remain where I
was, and it must have been for ten minutes that I waited by the lamp,
straining my ears and hailing distant footfalls. In a house near me
some people were dancing to the music of a Hungarian band. I even
fancied I could hear the windows shake to the rhythm of their feet,
but I could not make out from which part of the compass the sounds
came. And sometimes, as the music rose, it seemed close at my hand,
and, again, to be floating high in the air above my head. Although I
was surrounded by thousands of householders, I was as completely lost
as though I had been set down by night in the Sahara Desert. There
seemed to be no reason in waiting longer for an escort, so I again
set out, and at once bumped against a low, iron fence. At first I
believed this to be an area railing, but, on following it, I found
that it stretched for a long distance, and that it was pierced at
regular intervals with gates. I was standing, uncertainly, with my
hand on one of these, when a square of light suddenly opened in the
night, and in it I saw, as you see a picture thrown by a biograph in
a darkened theatre, a young gentleman in evening dress, and, back of
him, the lights of a hall. I guessed, from its elevation and distance
from the sidewalk, that this light must come from the door of a house
set back from the street, and I determined to approach it and ask the
young man to tell me where I was. But, in fumbling with the lock of
the gate, I instinctively bent my head, and when I raised it again
the door had partly closed, leaving only a narrow shaft of light.
Whether the young man had re-entered the house, or had left it I
could not tell, but I hastened to open the gate, and as I stepped
forward I found myself upon an asphalt walk. At the same instant
there was the sound of quick steps upon the path, and someone rushed
past me. I called to him, but he made no reply, and I heard the gate
click and the footsteps hurrying away upon the sidewalk.
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