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  • Format: ePub

The bitterness of it tasted dry and insipid in John Charlock's mouth, like Dead Sea fruit. It was only lately that he had found out that all he had longed and hoped for since the early days was nothing more than vexation of spirit.
This process had been gradual, but it was none the less painful for that. It mattered nothing now that fame and fortune had come to him through the medium of his brush and pencil. For Charlock had fought his way up from the bottom. He had known what it was to starve. He had often slept in the open parks. And now everything was changed, and he stood almost…mehr

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Produktbeschreibung
The bitterness of it tasted dry and insipid in John Charlock's mouth, like Dead Sea fruit. It was only lately that he had found out that all he had longed and hoped for since the early days was nothing more than vexation of spirit.

This process had been gradual, but it was none the less painful for that. It mattered nothing now that fame and fortune had come to him through the medium of his brush and pencil. For Charlock had fought his way up from the bottom. He had known what it was to starve. He had often slept in the open parks. And now everything was changed, and he stood almost unrivalled as a portrait-painter. And at the same time he appeared to have found the one woman who could make his happiness complete.

It was only five years ago, yet it seemed to Charlock like a lifetime. Perhaps he had been to blame; perhaps he had been harsh and hard, but the gulf between his wife and himself seemed to have been bridged over since the boy came.

And the child was slipping away, as an evening primrose blooms and dies within the compass of a night.... It had been a weary vigil and cruel withal, since there was only one end. The doctor held out no hope. He had told him that the boy could not last till morning, and that was why Charlock had sent the nurse away, so that he might be with his child till the end. Very quietly he crept back to the bed again and stood looking down at the small, white face. The features were so colourless that death might have come already, save that the lips were parting and the eyelids twitched. The child had spoken his last words. Charlock would never hear that voice again.

The end was very, very near. The tiny life was drifting out to sea with the tide. As Charlock stood there his eye noted the sudden change, his quick ear caught a fluttering sigh. There was no need to tell him that the boy had gone...


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Autorenporträt
Fred Merrick White, better known by his pen name Fred M. White, was born in 1859 in West Bromwich, United Kingdom, and died in 1935 in Barnstaple, United Kingdom. He was an English writer who became well-known for his novels and short stories, particularly in the genres of mystery, crime, and science fiction. White wrote prolifically during the late 19th and early 20th centuries, with one of his most notable contributions being the "Doom of London" series. This collection of six science-fiction stories imagines a series of catastrophic events that devastate London, a theme that resonated with the growing anxieties of the time about industrialization and modern life. Throughout his career, Fred M. White also wrote detective stories, with works like The Mystery of the Four Fingers becoming significant examples of early mystery fiction. His storytelling style was marked by complex plots, twists, and the exploration of human nature under pressure. Although he did not achieve the widespread fame of some of his contemporaries, his work had a lasting impact on the genres he explored. His parents, whose names are not widely documented, supported his literary pursuits, allowing him to focus on his writing.