Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Face and the Mask by Robert Barr (beach read book txt) 📖
- Author: Robert Barr
Book online «The Face and the Mask by Robert Barr (beach read book txt) 📖». Author Robert Barr
“Shall I have the boy copy it?” she asked.
“Oh, bless you, no!” answered Mr. Denham, with evident trepidation.
The young woman said to herself, “He doesn’t want Mr. Rogers to know, and no wonder. It is a most unbusiness-like proposal.”
Then she said aloud, “Shall you want me again to-day?”
“No, Miss Gale; and thank you very much.”
Next morning, Miss Gale came into Mr. Denham’s office with a smile on her face.
“You made a funny mistake last night, Mr. Denham,” she said, as she took off her wraps.
“Did I?” he asked, in alarm.
“Yes. You sent that letter to my address. I got it this morning. I opened it, for I thought it was for me, and that perhaps you did not need me to-day. But I saw at once that you put it in the wrong envelope. Did you want me to-day?”
It was on his tongue to say, “I want you every day,” but he merely held out his hand for the letter, and looked at it as if he could not account for its having gone astray.
The next day Miss Gale came late, and she looked frightened. It was evident that Denham was losing his mind. She put the letter down before him and said:
“You addressed that to me the second time, Mr. Denham.”
There was a look of haggard anxiety about Denham that gave color to her suspicions. He felt that it was now or never.
“Then why don’t you answer it, Miss Gale?” he said gruffly.
She backed away from him.
“Answer it?” she repeated faintly.
“Certainly. If I got a letter twice, I would answer it.”
“What do you mean?” she cried, with her hand on the door-knob.
“Exactly what the letter says. I want you for my partner. I want to marry you, and d—n financial considerations——”
“Oh!” cried Miss Gale, in a long-drawn, quivering sigh. She was doubtless shocked at the word he had used, and fled to her typewriting room, closing the door behind her.
Richard Denham paced up and down the floor for a few moments, then rapped lightly at her door, but there was no response. He put on his hat and went out into the street. After a long and aimless walk, he found himself again at his place of business. When he went in, Rogers said to him:
“Miss Gale has left, sir.”
“Has she?”
“Yes, and she has given notice. Says she is not coming back, sir.”
“Very well.”
He went into his own room and found a letter marked “personal” on his desk. He tore it open, and read in neatly type-written characters:
“I have resigned my place as typewriter girl, having been offered a better situation. I am offered a partnership in the house of Richard Denham. I have decided to accept the position, not so much on account of its financial attractions, as because I shall be glad, on a friendly basis, to be associated with the gentleman I have named. Why did you put me to all that worry writing that idiotic letter, when a few words would have saved ever so much bother? You evidently need a partner. My mother will be pleased to meet you any time you call. You have the address,—Your friend,
“MARGARET GALE.”“Rogers!” shouted Denham, joyfully.
“Yes, sir,” answered that estimable man, putting his head into the room.
“Advertise for another typewriter girl, Rogers.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rogers.
THE DOOM OF LONDON. I.—THE SELF-CONCEIT OF THE 20TH CENTURY.
I trust I am thankful my life has been spared until I have seen that most brilliant epoch of the world’s history—the middle of the 20th century. It would be useless for any man to disparage the vast achievements of the past fifty years, and if I venture to call attention to the fact, now apparently forgotten, that the people of the 19th century succeeded in accomplishing many notable things, it must not be imagined that I intend thereby to discount in any measure the marvellous inventions of the present age. Men have always been somewhat prone to look with a certain condescension upon those who lived fifty or a hundred years before them. This seems to me the especial weakness of the present age; a feeling of national self-conceit, which, when it exists, should at least be kept as much in the background as possible. It will astonish many to know that such also was a failing of the people of the 19th century. They imagined themselves living in an age of progress, and while I am not foolish enough to attempt to prove that they did anything really worth recording, yet it must be admitted by any unprejudiced man of research that their inventions were at least stepping-stones to those of to-day. Although the telephone and telegraph, and all other electrical appliances, are now to be found only in our national museums, or in the private collections of those few men who take any interest in the doings of the last century, nevertheless, the study of the now obsolete science of electricity led up to the recent discovery of vibratory ether which does the work of the world so satisfactorily. The people of the 19th century were not fools, and although I am well aware that this statement will be received with scorn where it attracts any attention whatever, yet who can say that the progress of the next half-century may not be as great as that of the one now ended, and that the people of the next century may not look upon us with the same contempt which we feel toward those who lived fifty years ago?
Being an old man, I am, perhaps, a laggard who dwells in the past rather than the present; still, it seems to me that such an article as that which appeared recently in Blackwood from the talented pen of Prof. Mowberry, of Oxford University, is utterly unjustifiable. Under the title of “Did the People of London Deserve their Fate?” he endeavors to show that the simultaneous blotting out of millions of human beings was a beneficial event, the good results of which we still enjoy. According to him, Londoners were so dull-witted and stupid, so incapable of improvement, so sodden in the vice of mere money- gathering, that nothing but their total extinction would have sufficed, and that, instead of being an appalling catastrophe, the doom of London was an unmixed blessing. In spite of the unanimous approval with which this
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