Tales of Men and Ghosts

ell ’em with my compliments,” said Mr. Grew, glancing compl

ed itself. Other young men, at such a moment, would have been red, damp, tight about the collar

nd; yes, sir — that’s what

ntion from the agitation of his features. He had often pictured himself rolling out that p

oo, wished to hide some involuntary betrayal of emotion. At first Mr. Grew took his silence for

y expect more?” he asked nervously. He was hardly able to face the pain of inflicting a disappoin

es wandered upward to the laurel-wreathed pho

t, my boy. We’ll see, we’ll lo

pted, abruptly raising his hand

fulness. “Well, what’s the m

ition again, and final

hing I’ve got to tell you.

a puzzled laugh. “My money? What are you talking about? What’s this about my m

tender look with a gaz

the sense you mean. Not in any sense.

hat you’re talking about. Are you too proud to touch any mon

t that. You

his bristling whiskers. “Know

for a long strained moment, during which Mr. Grew

ashamed of . . . ashamed to tell me?” he suddenly gasped out; and walking around the t

e?” Ronald broke out with passion. “You must hav

and passed into a tremulous laugh. “Is it something I’ve done that you do

with a sudden bright flush. “But I’m ashamed of all I owe to it — all I owe to you — when — when — ” He broke off and t

ess and less what you’re dr

hotograph on the wall. He lifted his head for a momen

se I haven’t

own

. . perhaps from little things you let drop . . . you and she . . . and resemblances that I couldn’t help seeing . . . in myse

m his chair. “The letter

“You must remember giving them

urse. I wanted you to have e

ld I help knowi

t at a clue that seemed to confront it with a deeper bewilderment. “You thought — you

love of music — my — all my feelings about life . . . and art . . .

ere firm, and his small eyes looked

u were Fortune D

a mute sig

what did you

far as I can ever repay you . . . But now that there’s a chance of my ma

into his chair, looking steadily and not unkindl

I was a boy till then: they made a man of me. From that moment I understood myself.” He paused, and then looked up at Mr. Grew’s face. “Don’t imagine I don’t appreci

he first expletive Ronald

fool, you, you h

my secret. She is above and beyond all such conventional prejudices. She’s proud of my parentage —

ome of good stock. And you’re father’s son, every inch of you!” He laughed again

felt that,” Ronald

leaned forward. “You’re the son of as big a fo

ecisive gesture. “Here he sits, with all your young nonsense still alive in him. D

o you mean? Don’t they

htening out.” Mr. Grew squared his elbows on the table, and looked at the young man across

exity. “You wrote them? I don’t understand.

ght he was corres

er — what di

“Well, I guess she kinder thought it was a jok

led frown on the question. “I d

s kinder lonesome. And the outside didn’t attract callers.” He laughed again, with an apologetic gesture toward his broad blinking face. “When I went round with the other young fellows I was always the forlorn hope — the one that had to eat the drumsticks and dance with the left-overs. As sure as there was a b

rowski came to New York, and the whole place went wild about him. I’d never heard any good music, but I’d always had an inkling of what it must be like, though I couldn’t tell you to this day how I knew. Well, your mother read about him in the papers too, and she thought it’d be the swagger thing to go to New York and hear hi

?’ I said.

is what you’d like to say to him?’ I asked her when the letter was done. And she got pink and said: ‘

d Ronald sat silent

letters and signed them. She seemed to think it was a kinder joke, and she was proud of his answering my letters. But she never went back to New York to hear him, though I saved up enough to give her the treat again. She was too lazy, and she let me go without her. I heard him three times in New York; and in the spring he came to Wingfield and played once a

nd both men lifted their

l?” Ronald

very bit of it,

mother never even

aw him but that once in

s face. “Are you sure of that, si

s letters after the first novelty wore off. She copied the answers just

n with such a correspon

alk, and ideas. Those letters gave me all that. You’ve read them, and you know that Dolbrowski was not only a great musician but a great man. There was nothing b

in my mother’s name? Why make i

e. And when I saw that the first letter pleased and interested him, I was afraid to tell h

“But he must have thought your letters very b

y best,” said M

all your letters, I wonder? Weren’

d trunks and trunks full of better ones. I

o see your letters,” t

ou. If it hadn’t been for that one look at life I couldn’t have made you what you are. Oh, I know you’ve done a good deal of your own making — but I’ve been there behind you all the time. And you’ll never know the work I’ve spared yo

onald sat motionless, his elbows on th

ew’s touch fell

o think yourself . . . Well, that’s natural enough, too; but I’ll tell you what it proves. It proves you’re my son right enough, if any more proof was needed. For it’s just the kind