Part 29 (1/2)

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.