The Wheeling intelligencer. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1903-1961, 1921-05-21
Rv RICHARD HARDING DAVIS.
on,rioht 1921 BY The Wheeler Ne1cspaper syndtosss

ever, I'll sing IT, and then you kno"
what it's about. I'll sing you some
funny ones after have finished IT,
There was a murmur Of delighted In
terest.
Wait till get light. will your
said Cathcart.
Thorold placed his own cigar care
fully on the glass rim Of one Of the
candles beside the music-rack, and, as
he waited, turned smiling counte-
nance upon his audience and struck
the opening chord OF his song. The
words could have been sung by either
a man or a woman. 1t began by tell
ing Of the days Of the past. the days
that were gone; and the accompant-
ment suggested the brightness Of sum
shine and Of running streams and
rustling leaves, Of the lost Eden If
our innocence" and Of sweet content:
then 1t merged suddenly into Drawer
and more powerful strains as the words
spoke of ambitions and hopes and of
great deeds for the life In the future.
Thorold had a very good voice, full
Of dramatic feeling and power. and
every word he sang came to the list
ener's ear bearing its proper emphasis
as sharp and sure as the lines Of an
actors soliloquy.
He began contemptuously, but the
artist In him made 1t impossible for
him to do ought else but sing the song
we'll The music change; to low mutter-
ings, and the words told OF doubts and
trouble. and then broke out into passion
ate regret and agony Of spirit. Thorold
had forgotten himself and his audience.
The music grew in volume, and filled
the room with great cry Of mourn
Ing eerie, awful. and despairinG. Hope
lessness and remorse were the meaning
Of the music and Of the words-the
impotent cry for the days that could
not come again. the futile regret for
the chances that had passed and that
had not been taken; and then the voice
Of the singer sank and died away with
one low deep cry. as though despairing
OF succor or relief. without faith and
without hope, and the music running
on ended in a wild crash that sounded
like the laughter Of those already lost,
hooking at those just fallen. The room
was strangely silent.
Thorold reached for his cigar and
relit It at the candle. He pulled It
back into a flame again, and then. as
no one moved. turned slowly toward
his guests. Cathcart sat just as he had
last noticed him, leaning forward with
the half-burned match still in his hand.
The girl At his feet was staring up
at Thorold with wide-open eyes, plead
ing and terrified Her lips were quiver-
ing. And then as Thorold smiled Oh,
did the only natural thing she had
ever done in her short, silly, artificial
life. and. turning swiftly, threw herself
across Cathcart's knees and burst into
wild torrent OF tears
Thorold sprang UP with an exclaIna-
ton that was half anger and half
apology. He turned toward the older
woman Of the two for some explann-
ton, and then sank back again slowly
before the piano. Mrs. Inness had not
altered her position, but the meaning,
languishing smile was gone, and had
changed to one Of frank. open-eyed
amusement. She was looking at him
as though she had known him for
long time In the past. but as though he
had but just then disclosed himself.
Her awe Of him that he himself had
noticed earlier In the evening had
hallen from her like a cloak, and she
was smiling at him familiarly and with
a look Of perfect understanding and
equality. Thorold turned away his
eyes and struck the keys resentfuIly.
What had this woman to do with him?
Mrs. Inness rose leisurely, and swept
smiling across the room toward him.
She leaned one bare elbow on the
piano, and placed the hand Of the
other arm on her hip with the arm
akimbo and her head thrown back. In
her right hand she held the glass, and
with the forefinger OF the same hand
she pointed at Thorold. She was not
a very tall woman. but she seemed to
tower above him as he sat looking up
at her, his fingers wandering over the
keys. Her attitude was too easy to be
graceful, and to Thorold it seemed to
have a touch Of menace in 1t and CT
insolence. She nodded her head at
him, smiling strangely between half
closed eyelids.
And you" she said at last. speaking
slowly. and smiling with each word
you're Archibald Thorold, are you?
You're the man who wrote Tho Well
of TRUTH and the oratorios. and those
operas the curates go to see What 4
jolly fraud you are!". She laughed
easily. and touched the glass to Ac-
lips. and then pushed IT away from her
across the piano. You're the man who
writes the songs the little girls cry
over, all about Love and the Ideal Oh,
I know! I've sung them and cried over
them too. And now here you are, Just
like anybody else-aren't you? Just an
everyday, common, ordinary man."
Thorold pressed heavily on the keys
beneath his fingers. Il do not think
Mrs. Inness." he said. stifny, that I
ever posed as being anything else"
Perhaps not" the woman went on
easily. Perhaps not. But why aren't
you different? Why are you just like
all the other Johnnies - She rested
her chin on the palm Of her hand. and
looked into his with frank, wide open
eyes. And yet Thorold doubted her
frankness. and looked up at her un-
easily.
II don't think understand YOU" he
said with severe politeness.
oh yes, you do she laughed, light
ly. You know you're not like them.
I don't meap your being a swell. but
the rest OF It." She turned and pointed
her hand toward the corner where
Cathcart sat In the semi darkness pat
ting the girls curls as they rested On
his knee. She had .sobbed herself 10
sleep. or was pretending to sleep. and
the man was putting softly on his cigar
and looking down at her. You See"