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22 pages

English

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. Temptation came to me when I was in the worst possible position to resist it.

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Short story

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Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	06 novembre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819934752
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0050€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE LOG OF THE “JOLLY POLLY”
By Richard Harding Davis
Temptation came to me when I was in the worstpossible position to resist it.
It is a way temptation has. Whenever I swear offdrinking invariably I am invited to an ushers' dinner. Whenever Iam rich, only the highbrow publications that pay the least, want mywork. But the moment I am poverty-stricken the MANICURE GIRL'SMAGAZINE and the ROT AND SPOT WEEKLY spring at me with offers of adollar a word. Temptation always is on the job. When I am down andout temptation always is up and at me.
When first the Farrells tempted me my vogue haddeparted. On my name and “past performances” I could still disposeof what I wrote, but only to magazines that were just starting. Theothers knew I no longer was a best-seller. All the real editorsknew it. So did the theatrical managers.
My books and plays had flourished in the dark age ofthe historical-romantic novel. My heroes wore gauntlets and longswords. They fought for the Cardinal or the King, and each loved ahigh-born demoiselle who was a ward of the King or the Cardinal,and with feminine perversity, always of whichever one her young manwas fighting. With people who had never read Guizot's “History ofFrance, ” my books were popular, and for me made a great deal ofmoney. This was fortunate, for my parents had left me nothing saveexpensive tastes. When the tastes became habits, the public leftme. It turned to white-slave and crook plays, and to novels true tolife; so true to life that one felt the author must at one timehave been a masseur in a Turkish bath.
So, my heroines in black velvet, and my heroes withlong swords were “scrapped. ” As one book reviewer put it, “Toexpect the public of to-day to read the novels of Fletcher Farrellis like asking people to give up the bunny hug and go back to thelancers. ”
And, to make it harder, I was only thirty yearsold.
It was at this depressing period in my career that Ireceived a letter from Fairharbor, Massachusetts, signed FletcherFarrell. The letter was written on the business paper of theFarrell Cotton Mills, and asked if I were related to the Farrellsof Duncannon, of the County Wexford, who emigrated to Massachusettsin 1860. The writer added that he had a grandfather named Fletcherand suggested we might be related. From the handwriting of FletcherFarrell and from the way he ill-treated the King's English I didnot feel the ties of kinship calling me very loud. I repliedbriefly that my people originally came from Youghal, in CountyCork, that as early as 1730 they had settled in New York, and thatall my relations on the Farrell side either were still at Youghal,or dead. Mine was not an encouraging letter; nor did I mean it tobe; and I was greatly surprised two days later to receive atelegram reading, “Something to your advantage to communicate; wifeand self calling on you Thursday at noon. Fletcher Farrell. ” I wasannoyed, but also interested. The words “something to youradvantage” always possess a certain charm. So, when the elevatorboy telephoned that Mr. and Mrs. Farrell were calling, I told himto bring them up.
My first glance at the Farrells convinced me theinterview was a waste of time. I was satisfied that from two suchpersons, nothing to my advantage could possibly emanate. On thecontrary, from their lack of ease, it looked as though they hadcome to beg or borrow. They resembled only a butler and housekeeperapplying for a new place under the disadvantage of knowing they hadno reference from the last one. Of the two, I better liked the man.He was an elderly, pleasant-faced Irishman, smooth-shaven,red-cheeked, and with white hair. Although it was July, he wore afrock coat, and carried a new high hat that glistened. As though hethought at any moment it might explode, he held it from him, andeyed it fearfully. Mrs. Farrell was of a more sophisticated type.The lines in her face and hands showed that for years she mighthave known hard physical work. But her dress was in the latestfashion, and her fingers held more diamonds than, out of ashowcase, I ever had seen.
With embarrassment old man Farrell began his speech.Evidently it had been rehearsed and as he recited it, in swiftasides, his wife prompted him; but to note the effect he wasmaking, she kept her eyes upon me. Having first compared my name,fame, and novels with those of Charles Dickens, Walter Scott, andArchibald Clavering Gunter, and to the disadvantage of thosegentlemen, Farrell said the similarity of our names often had beencommented upon, and that when from my letter he had learned ourfamilies both were from the South of Ireland, he had a premonitionwe might be related. Duncannon, where he was born, he pointed out,was but forty miles from Youghal, and the fishing boats out ofWaterford Harbor often sought shelter in Blackwater River. Had anyof my forebears, he asked, followed the herring?
Alarmed, lest at this I might take offense, Mrs.Farrell interrupted him.
“The Fletchers and O'Farrells of Youghal, ” sheexclaimed, “were gentry. What would they be doing in a trawler?”
I assured her that so far as I knew, 1750 beingbefore my time, they might have been smugglers and pirates.
“All I ever heard of the Farrells, ” I told her,“begins after they settled in New York. And there is no one I canask concerning them. My father and mother are dead; all my father'srelatives are dead, and my mother's relatives are as good as dead.I mean, ” I added, “we don't speak! ”
To my surprise, this information appeared to affordmy visitors great satisfaction. They exchanged hasty glances.
“Then, ” exclaimed Mr. Farrell, eagerly; “if Iunderstand you, you have no living relations at all— barring thosethat are dead! ”
“Exactly! ” I agreed.
He drew a deep sigh of relief. With apparentirrelevance but with a carelessness that was obviously assumed, hecontinued.
“Since I come to America, ” he announced, “I havemade heaps of money. ” As though in evidence of his prosperity, heflashed the high hat. In the sunlight it coruscated like one of hiswife's diamonds. “Heaps of money, ” he repeated. “The mills arestill in my name, ” he went on, “but five years since I sold them—We live on the income. We own Harbor Castle, the finest house onthe whole waterfront. ”
“When all the windows are lit up, ” interjected Mrs.Farrell, “it's often took for a Fall River boat! ”
“When I was building it, ” Farrell continued,smoothly, “they called it Farrell's Folly; but not NOW. ” Infriendly fashion he winked at me, “Standard Oil, ” he explained,“offered half a million for it. They wanted my wharf for their tanksteamers. But, I needed it for my yacht! ”
I must have sat up rather too suddenly, for, seeingthe yacht had reached home, Mr. Farrell beamed. Complacently hiswife smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt.
“Eighteen men! ” she protested, “with nothing to dobut clean brass and eat three meals a day! ”
Farrell released his death grip on the silk hat tomake a sweeping gesture.
“They earn their wages, ” he said generously.
“Aren't they taking us this week to Cap May? ”
“They're taking the yacht to Cape May! ” correctedMrs. Farrell; “not ME! ”
“The sea does not agree with her, ” explainedFarrell; “WE'RE going by automobile. ” Mrs. Farrell now took up thewondrous tale.
“It's a High Flyer, 1915 model, ” she explained;“green, with white enamel leather inside, and red wheels outside.You can see it from the window. ”
Somewhat dazed, I stepped to the window and foundyou could see it from almost anywhere. It was as large as a freightcar; and was entirely surrounded by taxi-starters, bellboys, andnurse-maids. The chauffeur, and a deputy chauffeur, in a greenlivery with patent-leather leggings, were frowning upon the mob.They possessed the hauteur of ambulance surgeons. I returned to mychair, and then rose hastily to ask if I could not offer Mr.Farrell some refreshment.
“Mebbe later, ” he said. Evidently he felt that asyet he had not sufficiently impressed me.
“Harbor Castle, ” he recited, “has eighteenbedrooms, billiard-room, music-room, art gallery and swimming-pool.” He shook his head. “And no one to use 'em but us. We had a boy. ”He stopped, and for an instant, as though asking pardon, laid hishand upon the knee of Mrs. Farrell. “But he was taken when he wasfour, and none came since. My wife has a niece, ” he added, “but— —”
“But, ” interrupted Mrs. Farrell, “she was too highand mighty for plain folks, and now there is no one. We always tookan interest in you because your name was Farrell. We were alwaysreading of you in the papers. We have all your books, and a pictureof you in the billiard-room. When folks ask me if we are anyrelation— sometimes I tell 'em we ARE. ”
As though challenging me to object, she paused.
“It's quite possible, ” I said hastily. And, inorder to get rid of them, I added: “I'll tell you what I'll do.I'll write to Ireland and— — ”
Farrell shook his head firmly. “You don't need towrite to Ireland, ” he said, “for what we want. ”
“What DO you want? ” I asked.
“We want a SON, ” said Farrell; “an adopted son.