|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 53
"Hear the rain!" said Adam.
"I hear it," said Kenny hopelessly.
"And you'll lock me in!"
"Yes!"
"I'll ring for Hughie and tell him to batter the door down. I would
rather bump myself into eternity down that hallway," flung out Adam
Craig passionately, banging his fist upon the arm of the wheel-chair,
"than sit here, alone, to-night."
With his hands clenched Kenny choked back his anger and faced his fate.
He could not lock the door. Either he must stay or go back with the
haunting conviction that this hungry-eyed old fiend who could strum
with diabolic skill upon the sensitive strings of his very soul, would
propel himself in his wheel-chair to the stairway, there to sit like a
ghoul at the top. Rain beat in Kenny's ears like a trumpet of doom.
He felt sick and dizzy. No! with the memory of that last wonderful
moment when the music had blended into the fire of his tenderness, he
could not go back. Invisible, Adam Craig would still be pervasive. He
would jar the idyl into a mockery, the indefinable malignity of him,
alert and silent up there at the head of the stairs, floating down like
an evil wind to mingle with the reminiscent sound of rain.
"Well?" said the old man softly.
"Oh, my God!" said Kenny, wiping his forehead. "I'll stay!"
"Good!" said Adam, moistening his lips. "Good! You know, Kenny," he
whispered, shivering, "I--I hate the rain."
"Yes," said Kenny wretchedly, "so do I."
"Kenny," said the old man later when Kenny had carried the lamp back
and made sure that Joan had gone to her room, "don't sulk. You're old
enough to know better."
"I'm not sulking."
"You are."
"Very well, then, I am."
"You've had enough music for one night."
Kenny did not trouble to reply. Whatever he said would be combated.
"Music," insisted Adam, "makes you as noisy as a magpie. If you're not
whistling, you're singing some damned rake of an Irish song and if
you're not singing, you're at the piano battering out a scrap-heap of
tunes."
"From the first day until the last when he goes to sleep with a daisy
quilt over him," said Kenny stiffly, "an Irishman lives his life to
music."
"Humph!" said the old man, ready for battle, "the music of his own
voice, telling lies."
Reckless, Kenny used his one weapon of composure. It made the old man
cough with fury and propel himself up and down the room in his
wheel-chair until, with a feeling of whirling fire in his brain, Kenny
wondered if a man could lose his sanity by watching an infuriated
lunatic in a wheel-chair narrowly miss everything in his way.
But he made no further effort at rebellion. Instead he went each
night, invincible in his determination not to be outdone. When by
playing on his pity Adam trapped him he smiled and shrugged. When the
old man assailed him with shafts of truth, no matter what the aftermath
of communion with himself and his notebook, he accepted it with
composure and an air of interest. When in a fury, Adam reviled him for
his phlegm, he laughed and was cursed for his pains.
"You told me, Adam," he said, "that my greatest drawback is a habit of
excitement and temper. Excitable I shall probably be all my life.
It's temperamental. But I'm learning to control my temper."
In a week his coolness and composure were bearing horrible fruit.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|