A TRAGIC ENDING
IT was on a Friday that Henry arrived at Hampton. He had expected a
telegram from Adrian Grant that evening, explaining his failure to join
him at St. Pancras, but no word was received. Nor did Saturday morning
bring a note. But it brought the morning papers and tragic news.
Henry was seated in the garden behind his father's house--a real
old-world garden, with rudely-made paths and a charming tangle of
flowers--gigantic hollyhocks, bright calceolarias, sweet-smelling
jasmine, stocks, early asters and chrysanthemums, growing in rich
profusion and in the most haphazard manner. The jasmine climbed over the
trellis-work of the summer-seat, made long years ago by the hands of
Edward John before he had grown stout and lazy, and now creaking aloud
to be repaired.
He had come out here with a Birmingham morning paper in his hand--a
paper which made his journalistic blood boil when he thought how
intolerably dull and self-sufficient it was--and he had only opened it
at the London letter when he saw a name that made him fumble the sheets
quickly into small compass for close reading--Adrian Grant!
A new book by him? a bit of personal gossip? No. He read:
"The literary world will be shocked this morning to hear of the
tragic death of Mr. Adrian Grant, the celebrated author of
'Ashes' and other novels, which have achieved great success in
this country and America. As is well known, the name of the
novelist is an assumed one, his own cognomen being the somewhat
curious one of Phineas Puddephatt. He was a gentlemen of private
means, and peculiar in his habits. There is probably no other
living writer of his eminence about whose private life less is
known. He was frequently absent from this country for long
periods, and cared little for the usual attractions of literary
life in London. This morning (Friday) he was found dead in his
apartments at Gloucester Road, Kensington, under mysterious
circumstances. He had intended leaving to-day for a short stay
in the country, but as he did not appear at breakfast at the
usual hour, and gave no response when summoned, the door of his
bedroom was opened, and he was not there, nor had his bed been
slept in. Entering his study, which adjoined the bedroom, the
domestics were shocked to find Mr. Grant--to give him the name
he is best known by--seated on a chair, with the handle of his
'cello in his left hand and the bow held in his right, in the
very act of drawing it across the strings. He was dead; and the
extraordinary life-likeness of the pose added greatly to the
tragic nature of the discovery. At present no explanation is
forthcoming, and an inquest will be held. The deceased novelist
was an accomplished performer on the 'cello, and those who knew
him describe him even as a master of that instrument, and
capable of having achieved as great, if not greater, distinction
as a musician than as a novelist. He is believed to have been
just about forty years of age."
It seemed but yesterday that Henry read in the _Weekly Review_ a
paragraph about the identity of Adrian Grant, and now--this! The stabs
of Fate come fast and ruthless to the young man, to rid him of youth's
illusion of immortality. He sees men rise up suddenly into fame, and
dreams that one day he shall do so too. Then a brief year or two glides
by, and the hearse draws up at the door of Fame's latest favourite, and
youth begins to understand that the bright game of life must now be
played with a blinking eye on the end of all things mortal. If he also
understands that the end is in truth the beginning, that "the best is
yet to be," then he may be happy no less. If not, he is booked for
cynicism and things unlovely.
Adrian Grant dead! Fame, fortune his, and but half-way through life.
Dead, and "mysteriously." Henry sat dumb, struck thoughtless with
amazement.
"'Ow d'you like them 'olly'ocks, 'Enry; ain't they tremenjous?"
The voice of his father recalled him, and the good human ring of it was
sweet in his ears.
"Father, a terrible thing has happened. My friend Mr. Grant is dead."
Edward John pursed his mouth to whistle in token of blank surprise, but
the scared look on Henry's face stayed him in the act, and he said
"Well, well!" instead.
"'Ow did it happen? Run over?"
An accident was about the only means of death to people under seventy
that was known in Hampton, if we except consumption.
"Listen to this, father; it's dreadful!"
And Henry re-read the paragraph, turning also to the news columns, where
the information was supplemented by the statement of a servant to the
effect that the novelist had been heard playing his 'cello late in the
night, and had stopped suddenly in the middle of a bar.
"Well, well," said Edward John, "that beats all! Poor fellow, and me
went up to Brum to get some things all on account of 'im."