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. Parrot & Co. by Harlod MacGrath (nice books to read .txt) 📖
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a train at midnight."
Arthur stood up. "Mother, I am the guilty man. I was the thief. All these years I've let you believe that Paul had taken the money. . . ."
"Yes, yes!" she interrupted, never taking her eyes off this other son. "I heard everything behind these curtains. You were going away, Paul, without seeing me?"
"What was the use of stirring up old matters? Of bringing confusion into this house?" He did not look at her. He could not tell her that he now knew what had drawn him hither, that all along he had deceived himself.
"Paul, my son, I have been a wicked woman."
"Why, mother, you mustn't talk like that!"
"Wicked! My son, my silent, kindly, chivalric boy, will you forgive your mother? Your unnatural mother?"
He caught her before her knees touched the floor; and, ah! how hungrily her arms wound about him.
[Illustration: He That Was Dead.]
"What's the use of lying?" he cried brokenly. "My mother! I wanted to hear your voice and feel your arms. You don't know how I have always loved you. It was a long time, a very long time. Perhaps I was to be blamed. I was proud, and kept away from you. Don't cry. There, there! I can go away now, happy." Over his mother's shoulders, now moving with silent stabbing sobs, he held out his hand to his brother. Presently, above the two bowed heads, Warrington's own rose, transfigured with happiness.
The hall-door opened and closed, but none of them regarded it.
By and by the mother stood away, but within arm's length. "How big and strong you have grown, Paul."
"In heart, too, mother," added Arthur. "Old Galahad!"
"You must never leave us again, Paul. Promise."
"May I always come back?"
"Always!" And she took his hand and pressed it tightly against her cheek. "Always! Ah, your poor blind mother!"
"Always to come back! . . . I am going to China in a little while, to take up the work I have always loved, the building of bridges."
"And I am going, too!" It was Elsa, at her journey's end.
Jealous love is keen of eye. There was death in Arthur's heart, but he smiled at her. After all, what was more logical than that she should appear at this moment? Why sip the cup when it might be drained at once, over with and done with?
"Elsa!" said the mother, holding Warrington's hand in closer grasp.
"Yes, mother. Ah, why did you not tell me all?"
Arthur walked to the long window that opened put upon the garden. There, for a moment, he paused, then passed from the room.
"Go to him, mother," said Elsa, wisely and with pity.
The mother hesitated, pulled by the old and the new love, by the fear that the new-found could be hers but a little while. Slowly she let Paul's hand fall, and slower still she followed Arthur's footsteps.
"I wasn't quite brave enough," he said, when she found him. "They love. And love me well, mother, for I am the broken man."
She pressed his head against her heart. "My boy!" But her glance was leveled at the amber-tinted window through which she had come.
To Warrington, Elsa was a little thinner, and of color there was none; but her eyes shone with all the splendor of the Oriental stars at which he had so often gazed with mute inquiry.
"Galahad!" she said, and smiled. "Well, what have you to say?"
"I? In God's name, what can I say but that I love you?"
"Well, say it, and stop the ache in my heart! Say it, and make me forget the weary eighteen thousand miles I have journeyed to find you! Say it, and hold me close for I am tired! . . . Listen!" she whispered, lifting her head from his shoulder.
From out the stillness of the summer night came a jarring note, the eternal protest of Rajah.
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Arthur stood up. "Mother, I am the guilty man. I was the thief. All these years I've let you believe that Paul had taken the money. . . ."
"Yes, yes!" she interrupted, never taking her eyes off this other son. "I heard everything behind these curtains. You were going away, Paul, without seeing me?"
"What was the use of stirring up old matters? Of bringing confusion into this house?" He did not look at her. He could not tell her that he now knew what had drawn him hither, that all along he had deceived himself.
"Paul, my son, I have been a wicked woman."
"Why, mother, you mustn't talk like that!"
"Wicked! My son, my silent, kindly, chivalric boy, will you forgive your mother? Your unnatural mother?"
He caught her before her knees touched the floor; and, ah! how hungrily her arms wound about him.
[Illustration: He That Was Dead.]
"What's the use of lying?" he cried brokenly. "My mother! I wanted to hear your voice and feel your arms. You don't know how I have always loved you. It was a long time, a very long time. Perhaps I was to be blamed. I was proud, and kept away from you. Don't cry. There, there! I can go away now, happy." Over his mother's shoulders, now moving with silent stabbing sobs, he held out his hand to his brother. Presently, above the two bowed heads, Warrington's own rose, transfigured with happiness.
The hall-door opened and closed, but none of them regarded it.
By and by the mother stood away, but within arm's length. "How big and strong you have grown, Paul."
"In heart, too, mother," added Arthur. "Old Galahad!"
"You must never leave us again, Paul. Promise."
"May I always come back?"
"Always!" And she took his hand and pressed it tightly against her cheek. "Always! Ah, your poor blind mother!"
"Always to come back! . . . I am going to China in a little while, to take up the work I have always loved, the building of bridges."
"And I am going, too!" It was Elsa, at her journey's end.
Jealous love is keen of eye. There was death in Arthur's heart, but he smiled at her. After all, what was more logical than that she should appear at this moment? Why sip the cup when it might be drained at once, over with and done with?
"Elsa!" said the mother, holding Warrington's hand in closer grasp.
"Yes, mother. Ah, why did you not tell me all?"
Arthur walked to the long window that opened put upon the garden. There, for a moment, he paused, then passed from the room.
"Go to him, mother," said Elsa, wisely and with pity.
The mother hesitated, pulled by the old and the new love, by the fear that the new-found could be hers but a little while. Slowly she let Paul's hand fall, and slower still she followed Arthur's footsteps.
"I wasn't quite brave enough," he said, when she found him. "They love. And love me well, mother, for I am the broken man."
She pressed his head against her heart. "My boy!" But her glance was leveled at the amber-tinted window through which she had come.
To Warrington, Elsa was a little thinner, and of color there was none; but her eyes shone with all the splendor of the Oriental stars at which he had so often gazed with mute inquiry.
"Galahad!" she said, and smiled. "Well, what have you to say?"
"I? In God's name, what can I say but that I love you?"
"Well, say it, and stop the ache in my heart! Say it, and make me forget the weary eighteen thousand miles I have journeyed to find you! Say it, and hold me close for I am tired! . . . Listen!" she whispered, lifting her head from his shoulder.
From out the stillness of the summer night came a jarring note, the eternal protest of Rajah.
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Publication Date: 05-21-2008
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