The Argosy — page 315: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

296 In the Past. to leave the piano when there came a special request from one of the company : “ Tet us have that Christy song you gave us last time, Frank. You know which I mean.” Frank adzd know. It was the very last song he would have chosen that night, but, having no excuses to offer, he sang it. It was a commonplace ballad enough, but with a pretty taking air | and words full of sound sentiment that spoke of a happy home and a mother’s love. He sang the ballad well, the better perhaps because it made his heart ache. When it was finished, he still sat at the instrument running his fingers over the keys. He dare not turn round, for his eyes were full of tears. He dare not let his thoughts linger with his mother, who, he knew was lying awake thinking of him, lest he should have wept outright. To have been able to lean for- ward upon the key-board and sob would have been a boon to him— better still to have been away in the wilderness alone, where he could have cried mightily, and relieved his breast of its strange oppression. He longed, now, to be alone, and he rose from the piano deter- mined upon retiring. When he turned to the room, he found that during his preoccupa- tion a great change had taken place. A large number of the members had disappeared, and the few who remained were preparing to depart. Frank hastily looked into the other rooms. ‘They were all empty. ‘‘ Where is Anson ?” he then asked. ‘Gone home,” was the answer. The indignant blood rushed to Frank’s face. This was the world that he had expected to receive him with open arms! ‘These were the men he had counted upon and called friends, the men who had said they would guide him, and see that he was all right! It was his first experience of the outer world he had thought so fair, and a bitter one. ‘The first of many fond illusions had gone, and the edifice of cards must tumble ! Frank put on his hat and walked out into the deserted streets with a heart full of bitterness. ‘* Miserable, mean wretches,” he muttered, turning up the collar of his coat, for a soft soaking rain was falling. They avoid me because I have no money or prospects, I suppose. ‘They little know me if they imagine that I would come on them for anything.” Turning into Oxford Street he stopped under a lamp-post and looked at his watch. It was a quarter past two. What was he to do at that hour? He knew that only expensive hotels kept night porters, and his means were terribly limited. He stood upon the wet pave- ment hesitating, and burning with anger and shame, anger against the heartless, selfish men who had abandoned him, and shame at the part he himself had played during the evening. It wasacritical moment in Frank Dewar’s life. In his humour then the very slightest incident might determine his fate, for good or ill. COMIC OOOKS.GO©