dm03514
09-26-2013, 11:45 AM
The House of Mr. Valentine
“Well, I should really be going,” I announced.
Mr. Valentine had left some time ago, and I could tell by the look on Mrs. Valentine's face she was tiring.
“Very well, if you must,” she said, feigning disappointment.
“If you don't mind, I would like to enjoy a smoke before I depart.”
Mrs. Valentine sighed. She had never liked my habit of smoking. We embraced, and I kissed her on the cheek. She motioned to her man to open the front door; and after doing so, they both entered and closed it behind them. What a bore Mrs. Valentine is, I thought, as I removed a cigarette from my case. She was a great beauty to behold, picturesque in her resemblance to the great busts of the Greeks. She had an old world beauty, striking, intoxicating, but somehow out of time.
As I drew in each warm puff of smoke, my thoughts moved to the view I had from the porch of Mr. Valentine's front door. Of course he had a manor house in the country, but why was the always spending his time here? It was a good sized property, for being in the middle of the city. I stared over a couple of acres of his front yard towards an ornate, tall, wrought-iron fence, the only thing separating him from the masses. I noticed that his front gate was open. Had he begun to leave it open, in his initiative to run for mayor, perhaps trying to encourage the common man to call on him?
There was nothing common about his house, though. European royalty are not even entitled to such luxury. The two doors behind me opened to more space and extravagance than the Valentines, a small army of servants, and Mr. Valentine's captain of finance, Mr. Greene, could occupy. Just then, as I was reflecting on why anyone would want to live this close to the lower classes, my cigarette began to burn low. I was about to call to my driver when a group of men entered through the open gate from the front street. I thought at their odd approachment, how it was they cut right across the lawn to meet me on the front doorstep. The men were all wearing suits. Unsure of what to do as they approached, I reached for another cigarette. Looking unexpected to see me there, one abruptly asked if he could have an application. Now, Mr. Valentine had a number of ventures, but he was best known as a man of production. The visitor's baseness was evident. It manifested itself in the leather of their skin, from years of exposure, the permanent dirt discoloration under their nails, and their old suits. None of these things, seemingly, apparent to them at all.
It was unfortunate that they had chosen that exact time, as they did not know me, they could have thought I was employed by Mr. Valentine. Not wanting to reflect poorly on my friend, I thought it would be for the best to fetch them an application. Considering myself a confidant and one of the few who knows Mr. Valentine's heart, in addition to having seen he himself offer a walker-by an application the past week, I answered the man affirmatively. Normally, I would have ordered my driver to fetch the application, but he had not been with us the other day when Mr. Valentine had showed me where the applications were. Like a common serving man, I said “follow me”, and began walking the group of men to the side house where the papers were kept. The only redeeming part was the smirk that came to my face when I considered, that I too like my friend, was acting in the publics service.
As soon as we entered the side door, I immediately realized that the paper holder was empty. As I began looking around the desk I heard a hastened scurry of feet behind me. Looking up quickly I saw the house door entrance slam behind two members of the suited party, as they slipped inside Mr. Valentine's house. Indignant that anyone take advantage of me, as such, I ran after them leaving the remaining members of the party alone in the garage. There is a long hall connecting the side house to the main house, but no traces of the suited people remained.
I had felt I already caused enough trouble. Not wanting to end up going through every room in the house; I determined to tell Mr. Greene, who oddly shared the house with Mr. and Mrs. Valentine. I debated calling the police, but not wanting to bring any controversy to my dear friend, I instead determined to tell Mr. Greene. Before doing so, I headed back to ask the remaining suited men to leave, but they were already gone, (the space was empty).
I knocked before pushing open his door, a rough “What is that noise?”, Mr. Green's agitated voice greeted me.
“I regret to inform you, that you have some unwanted guests. I launched into the story of how they made their entry. I could tell by the look on his face that it was a very bothersome message. He quickly rose to anger, grabbing me by the shirt so hard, I thought my clothes would surely tear.
“You are not part of this company. Did Mr. Valentine or myself approve of this?”.
I was taken back. I was just acting in accordance of what I saw Mr. Valentine do the week before, when Mr. Valentine himself offered up an application from the garage. I considered myself a victim of circumstance, how was I to know the mens plan? I offered this thought to Mr. green, but my response seemed to enrage him further. I saw his control over his body waver for a second as he began to clench his first, his knuckles white with strain. As fast as it happened he was opening and closing his fists, “I believe you should leave, sir”. Before I could answer he stormed off, presumably, to fix the problem.
Mr. Greene and I have hardly ever seen eye to eye, but in this matter I thought it best to agree with him. The intruders were beginning to overrun the place. More and more had entered during my brief chat with Mr. Greene. It was then apparent this had been intentional. There were no lack of entrances for a few men to sneak into this home. Because of its size, it would have taken a small army to cover all the entrances. The guests made short work at feeling home. Someone had started music. It drifted and echoed rhythmically through the halls, crescendoing before it crashed over the happy throngs of people, as they stood sipping from Mr. Valentine's fine crystal; unaware, that the glasses they held firmly were worth more then they could earn in a year.
I rather enjoyed the pulse of the party. Their merriment was pervasive, and I could not help but enjoy myself. I walked around and observed the guests for quite sometime, until a concern for Mrs. Valentine began to grow on my mind. I thought it best to visit her and see if she was still fine. I had only been to the Valentine's room a handful of times before, because Mr. Valentine's office was located through it. When I arrived at her door I knocked loudly.
“Ma'am”, I continued to knock, “would you mind if I entered?”.
“What's going on?”, she responded.
I pushed open the large wooden door.
“I'm sorry for the inappropriateness, please forgive me,” I dribbled, “ but I had the strongest feeling of concern.”
“Is Mr. Valentine having guests?”, she asked. “I do hate it when he doesn't consult me before company”, oblivious to the intruders. I sort of envied her naiveté. I thought that perhaps it could be a product of innocence. Perhaps her simplicity was to be respected? Seeing Mrs. Valentine here behind her large wooden door, oblivious and protected did little to calm me, as my thoughts turned to Mr. Greene. He was unpredictable, one of those men, who had to constantly be in vigil of his own control. He was not the type of person to sit idle while people made themselves at home in his house.
Leaving Mrs. Valentine's room, I was abruptly confronted with a change in the feeling of the party. So fast? I was not gone for more then 15 minutes. Their sound was subdued, the exuberance gone, and their attention diverted. I heard it from down the hall, coming from the main room, Mr Greene's panicked voice.
“Get out! Leave!”. His arms were flailing wildly, his voice a desperate screech. A crowd had surrounded him. Their faces blanked from emotion, but their eyes danced with something primal. They hated this man, and hungered for an excuse to act on it. The light heartedness of the party up until this time did not alter the fact that these people hated us. They despised us, and what we had, and for that being what they lacked.
Mr. Greene storming about, blabbering uncontrollably, in all his finery, reminded them of it. Their worn suits, and lined hands, their years of toil while he profited. That irrational, afraid animal. Just sheer luck that Mr. Greene had ended up on top. Yes, he worked, and was often found to be working late at night, but his worked could not compare to the toil of these people. If merit truly is rewarded, wThe House of Mr. Valentine
“Well, I should really be going,” I announced.
Mr. Valentine had left some time ago, and I could tell by the look on Mrs. Valentine's face she was tiring.
“Very well, if you must,” she said, feigning disappointment.
“If you don't mind, I would like to enjoy a smoke before I depart.”
Mrs. Valentine sighed. She had never liked my habit of smoking. We embraced, and I kissed her on the cheek. She motioned to her man to open the front door; and after doing so, they both entered and closed it behind them. What a bore Mrs. Valentine is, I thought, as I removed a cigarette from my case. She was a great beauty to behold, picturesque in her resemblance to the great busts of the Greeks. She had an old world beauty, striking, intoxicating, but somehow out of time.
As I drew in each warm puff of smoke, my thoughts moved to the view I had from the porch of Mr. Valentine's front door. Of course he had a manor house in the country, but why was the always spending his time here? It was a good sized property, for being in the middle of the city. I stared over a couple of acres of his front yard towards an ornate, tall, wrought-iron fence, the only thing separating him from the masses. I noticed that his front gate was open. Had he begun to leave it open, in his initiative to run for mayor, perhaps trying to encourage the common man to call on him?
There was nothing common about his house, though. European royalty are not even entitled to such luxury. The two doors behind me opened to more space and extravagance than the Valentines, a small army of servants, and Mr. Valentine's captain of finance, Mr. Greene, could occupy. Just then, as I was reflecting on why anyone would want to live this close to the lower classes, my cigarette began to burn low. I was about to call to my driver when a group of men entered through the open gate from the front street. I thought at their odd approachment, how it was they cut right across the lawn to meet me on the front doorstep. The men were all wearing suits. Unsure of what to do as they approached, I reached for another cigarette. Looking unexpected to see me there, one abruptly asked if he could have an application. Now, Mr. Valentine had a number of ventures, but he was best known as a man of production. The visitor's baseness was evident. It manifested itself in the leather of their skin, from years of exposure, the permanent dirt discoloration under their nails, and their old suits. None of these things, seemingly, apparent to them at all.
It was unfortunate that they had chosen that exact time, as they did not know me, they could have thought I was employed by Mr. Valentine. Not wanting to reflect poorly on my friend, I thought it would be for the best to fetch them an application. Considering myself a confidant and one of the few who knows Mr. Valentine's heart, in addition to having seen he himself offer a walker-by an application the past week, I answered the man affirmatively. Normally, I would have ordered my driver to fetch the application, but he had not been with us the other day when Mr. Valentine had showed me where the applications were. Like a common serving man, I said “follow me”, and began walking the group of men to the side house where the papers were kept. The only redeeming part was the smirk that came to my face when I considered, that I too like my friend, was acting in the publics service.
As soon as we entered the side door, I immediately realized that the paper holder was empty. As I began looking around the desk I heard a hastened scurry of feet behind me. Looking up quickly I saw the house door entrance slam behind two members of the suited party, as they slipped inside Mr. Valentine's house. Indignant that anyone take advantage of me, as such, I ran after them leaving the remaining members of the party alone in the garage. There is a long hall connecting the side house to the main house, but no traces of the suited people remained.
I had felt I already caused enough trouble. Not wanting to end up going through every room in the house; I determined to tell Mr. Greene, who oddly shared the house with Mr. and Mrs. Valentine. I debated calling the police, but not wanting to bring any controversy to my dear friend, I instead determined to tell Mr. Greene. Before doing so, I headed back to ask the remaining suited men to leave, but they were already gone, (the space was empty).
I knocked before pushing open his door, a rough “What is that noise?”, Mr. Green's agitated voice greeted me.
“I regret to inform you, that you have some unwanted guests. I launched into the story of how they made their entry. I could tell by the look on his face that it was a very bothersome message. He quickly rose to anger, grabbing me by the shirt so hard, I thought my clothes would surely tear.
“You are not part of this company. Did Mr. Valentine or myself approve of this?”.
I was taken back. I was just acting in accordance of what I saw Mr. Valentine do the week before, when Mr. Valentine himself offered up an application from the garage. I considered myself a victim of circumstance, how was I to know the mens plan? I offered this thought to Mr. green, but my response seemed to enrage him further. I saw his control over his body waver for a second as he began to clench his first, his knuckles white with strain. As fast as it happened he was opening and closing his fists, “I believe you should leave, sir”. Before I could answer he stormed off, presumably, to fix the problem.
Mr. Greene and I have hardly ever seen eye to eye, but in this matter I thought it best to agree with him. The intruders were beginning to overrun the place. More and more had entered during my brief chat with Mr. Greene. It was then apparent this had been intentional. There were no lack of entrances for a few men to sneak into this home. Because of its size, it would have taken a small army to cover all the entrances. The guests made short work at feeling home. Someone had started music. It drifted and echoed rhythmically through the halls, crescendoing before it crashed over the happy throngs of people, as they stood sipping from Mr. Valentine's fine crystal; unaware, that the glasses they held firmly were worth more then they could earn in a year.
I rather enjoyed the pulse of the party. Their merriment was pervasive, and I could not help but enjoy myself. I walked around and observed the guests for quite sometime, until a concern for Mrs. Valentine began to grow on my mind. I thought it best to visit her and see if she was still fine. I had only been to the Valentine's room a handful of times before, because Mr. Valentine's office was located through it. When I arrived at her door I knocked loudly.
“Ma'am”, I continued to knock, “would you mind if I entered?”.
“What's going on?”, she responded.
I pushed open the large wooden door.
“I'm sorry for the inappropriateness, please forgive me,” I dribbled, “ but I had the strongest feeling of concern.”
“Is Mr. Valentine having guests?”, she asked. “I do hate it when he doesn't consult me before company”, oblivious to the intruders. I sort of envied her naiveté. I thought that perhaps it could be a product of innocence. Perhaps her simplicity was to be respected? Seeing Mrs. Valentine here behind her large wooden door, oblivious and protected did little to calm me, as my thoughts turned to Mr. Greene. He was unpredictable, one of those men, who had to constantly be in vigil of his own control. He was not the type of person to sit idle while people made themselves at home in his house.
Leaving Mrs. Valentine's room, I was abruptly confronted with a change in the feeling of the party. So fast? I was not gone for more then 15 minutes. Their sound was subdued, the exuberance gone, and their attention diverted. I heard it from down the hall, coming from the main room, Mr Greene's panicked voice.
“Get out! Leave!”. His arms were flailing wildly, his voice a desperate screech. A crowd had surrounded him. Their faces blanked from emotion, but their eyes danced with something primal. They hated this man, and hungered for an excuse to act on it. The light heartedness of the party up until this time did not alter the fact that these people hated us. They despised us, and what we had, and for that being what they lacked.
Mr. Greene storming about, blabbering uncontrollably, in all his finery, reminded them of it. Their worn suits, and lined hands, their years of toil while he profited. That irrational, afraid animal. Just sheer luck that Mr. Greene had ended up on top. Yes, he worked, and was often found to be working late at night, but his worked could not compare to the toil of these people. If merit truly is rewarded, what larger merit then running the city? Running the factories, the transportation, growing and selling the food? It really did not seem so absurd that these people wanted to live for one night as we did. After all, were they not entitled to it?
My attention drew back to the situation at hand. Although soft in terms of work, Mr. Greene was by no means weak. He was a towering powerful man; when I saw one of the workers draw his arm back to take a swing at Mr. Greene, my stomach dropped. By this moment the party had hushed, staring at Mr. Greene and the men surrounding him. I knew this would not end well. The lower class, was waiting for an excuse, any excuse, Mr. Greene was bent on providing them one. With the large amount of people, it was easy for me to move through them unnoticed. Mr. Greene's actions were causing a domino effect as talk radiated through the intruders. Shoulders bumped and voices began to grow more agitated. I began to hear glass shatter, its angering cry echoing through the house. I hastened to a side room, where the Valentine's telephone was kept. I quickly dialed the police and alerted them there was a mob break in at Mr. Valentine's. Reputation be damned! Mr. Greene's irrationality was going to get someone hurt.
Just then a loud thud struck the door. I walked over and tried to open it but it would not open wider than a small crack. A heavy-set man was slumped against it, trail of blood tracing down his face. As I began to fear for the worse, a low moan slipped from his mouth. In addition to sharp broken glass, throughout the hall , there were people screaming, yelling, running by carrying Mr. Valentine's possessions, piece by piece.
I became increasingly concerned for my own safety. Not being the type of man to hide while others get injured, I opened the room's window, which sat a couple of feet about the lawn, and lowered myself out. Knowing my driver kept a revolver in the glove box of the car, and determined that I would feel safer once I had it, I began a hasted walk towards the garage. Being no more than a football field from where I stand I began to jog, mind set on the perceived safety the firearm would provide. The last thing I remember was a loud whip sound breaking through the night. Thinking someone had discharged a gun. My left leg burned, right above my ankle, in a searing pain and I dropped to the ground. Then darkness.hat larger merit then running the city? Running the factories, the transportation, growing and selling the food? It really did not seem so absurd that these people wanted to live for one night as we did. After all, were they not entitled to it?
My attention drew back to the situation at hand. Although soft in terms of work, Mr. Greene was by no means weak. He was a towering powerful man; when I saw one of the workers draw his arm back to take a swing at Mr. Greene, my stomach dropped. By this moment the party had hushed, staring at Mr. Greene and the men surrounding him. I knew this would not end well. The lower class, was waiting for an excuse, any excuse, Mr. Greene was bent on providing them one. With the large amount of people, it was easy for me to move through them unnoticed. Mr. Greene's actions were causing a domino effect as talk radiated through the intruders. Shoulders bumped and voices began to grow more agitated. I began to hear glass shatter, its angering cry echoing through the house. I hastened to a side room, where the Valentine's telephone was kept. I quickly dialed the police and alerted them there was a mob break in at Mr. Valentine's. Reputation be damned! Mr. Greene's irrationality was going to get someone hurt.
Just then a loud thud struck the door. I walked over and tried to open it but it would not open wider than a small crack. A heavy-set man was slumped against it, trail of blood tracing down his face. As I began to fear for the worse, a low moan slipped from his mouth. In addition to sharp broken glass, throughout the hall , there were people screaming, yelling, running by carrying Mr. Valentine's possessions, piece by piece.
I became increasingly concerned for my own safety. Not being the type of man to hide while others get injured, I opened the room's window, which sat a couple of feet about the lawn, and lowered myself out. Knowing my driver kept a revolver in the glove box of the car, and determined that I would feel safer once I had it, I began a hasted walk towards the garage. Being no more than a football field from where I stand I began to jog, mind set on the perceived safety the firearm would provide. The last thing I remember was a loud whip sound breaking through the night. Thinking someone had discharged a gun. My left leg burned, right above my ankle, in a searing pain and I dropped to the ground. Then darkness.
“Well, I should really be going,” I announced.
Mr. Valentine had left some time ago, and I could tell by the look on Mrs. Valentine's face she was tiring.
“Very well, if you must,” she said, feigning disappointment.
“If you don't mind, I would like to enjoy a smoke before I depart.”
Mrs. Valentine sighed. She had never liked my habit of smoking. We embraced, and I kissed her on the cheek. She motioned to her man to open the front door; and after doing so, they both entered and closed it behind them. What a bore Mrs. Valentine is, I thought, as I removed a cigarette from my case. She was a great beauty to behold, picturesque in her resemblance to the great busts of the Greeks. She had an old world beauty, striking, intoxicating, but somehow out of time.
As I drew in each warm puff of smoke, my thoughts moved to the view I had from the porch of Mr. Valentine's front door. Of course he had a manor house in the country, but why was the always spending his time here? It was a good sized property, for being in the middle of the city. I stared over a couple of acres of his front yard towards an ornate, tall, wrought-iron fence, the only thing separating him from the masses. I noticed that his front gate was open. Had he begun to leave it open, in his initiative to run for mayor, perhaps trying to encourage the common man to call on him?
There was nothing common about his house, though. European royalty are not even entitled to such luxury. The two doors behind me opened to more space and extravagance than the Valentines, a small army of servants, and Mr. Valentine's captain of finance, Mr. Greene, could occupy. Just then, as I was reflecting on why anyone would want to live this close to the lower classes, my cigarette began to burn low. I was about to call to my driver when a group of men entered through the open gate from the front street. I thought at their odd approachment, how it was they cut right across the lawn to meet me on the front doorstep. The men were all wearing suits. Unsure of what to do as they approached, I reached for another cigarette. Looking unexpected to see me there, one abruptly asked if he could have an application. Now, Mr. Valentine had a number of ventures, but he was best known as a man of production. The visitor's baseness was evident. It manifested itself in the leather of their skin, from years of exposure, the permanent dirt discoloration under their nails, and their old suits. None of these things, seemingly, apparent to them at all.
It was unfortunate that they had chosen that exact time, as they did not know me, they could have thought I was employed by Mr. Valentine. Not wanting to reflect poorly on my friend, I thought it would be for the best to fetch them an application. Considering myself a confidant and one of the few who knows Mr. Valentine's heart, in addition to having seen he himself offer a walker-by an application the past week, I answered the man affirmatively. Normally, I would have ordered my driver to fetch the application, but he had not been with us the other day when Mr. Valentine had showed me where the applications were. Like a common serving man, I said “follow me”, and began walking the group of men to the side house where the papers were kept. The only redeeming part was the smirk that came to my face when I considered, that I too like my friend, was acting in the publics service.
As soon as we entered the side door, I immediately realized that the paper holder was empty. As I began looking around the desk I heard a hastened scurry of feet behind me. Looking up quickly I saw the house door entrance slam behind two members of the suited party, as they slipped inside Mr. Valentine's house. Indignant that anyone take advantage of me, as such, I ran after them leaving the remaining members of the party alone in the garage. There is a long hall connecting the side house to the main house, but no traces of the suited people remained.
I had felt I already caused enough trouble. Not wanting to end up going through every room in the house; I determined to tell Mr. Greene, who oddly shared the house with Mr. and Mrs. Valentine. I debated calling the police, but not wanting to bring any controversy to my dear friend, I instead determined to tell Mr. Greene. Before doing so, I headed back to ask the remaining suited men to leave, but they were already gone, (the space was empty).
I knocked before pushing open his door, a rough “What is that noise?”, Mr. Green's agitated voice greeted me.
“I regret to inform you, that you have some unwanted guests. I launched into the story of how they made their entry. I could tell by the look on his face that it was a very bothersome message. He quickly rose to anger, grabbing me by the shirt so hard, I thought my clothes would surely tear.
“You are not part of this company. Did Mr. Valentine or myself approve of this?”.
I was taken back. I was just acting in accordance of what I saw Mr. Valentine do the week before, when Mr. Valentine himself offered up an application from the garage. I considered myself a victim of circumstance, how was I to know the mens plan? I offered this thought to Mr. green, but my response seemed to enrage him further. I saw his control over his body waver for a second as he began to clench his first, his knuckles white with strain. As fast as it happened he was opening and closing his fists, “I believe you should leave, sir”. Before I could answer he stormed off, presumably, to fix the problem.
Mr. Greene and I have hardly ever seen eye to eye, but in this matter I thought it best to agree with him. The intruders were beginning to overrun the place. More and more had entered during my brief chat with Mr. Greene. It was then apparent this had been intentional. There were no lack of entrances for a few men to sneak into this home. Because of its size, it would have taken a small army to cover all the entrances. The guests made short work at feeling home. Someone had started music. It drifted and echoed rhythmically through the halls, crescendoing before it crashed over the happy throngs of people, as they stood sipping from Mr. Valentine's fine crystal; unaware, that the glasses they held firmly were worth more then they could earn in a year.
I rather enjoyed the pulse of the party. Their merriment was pervasive, and I could not help but enjoy myself. I walked around and observed the guests for quite sometime, until a concern for Mrs. Valentine began to grow on my mind. I thought it best to visit her and see if she was still fine. I had only been to the Valentine's room a handful of times before, because Mr. Valentine's office was located through it. When I arrived at her door I knocked loudly.
“Ma'am”, I continued to knock, “would you mind if I entered?”.
“What's going on?”, she responded.
I pushed open the large wooden door.
“I'm sorry for the inappropriateness, please forgive me,” I dribbled, “ but I had the strongest feeling of concern.”
“Is Mr. Valentine having guests?”, she asked. “I do hate it when he doesn't consult me before company”, oblivious to the intruders. I sort of envied her naiveté. I thought that perhaps it could be a product of innocence. Perhaps her simplicity was to be respected? Seeing Mrs. Valentine here behind her large wooden door, oblivious and protected did little to calm me, as my thoughts turned to Mr. Greene. He was unpredictable, one of those men, who had to constantly be in vigil of his own control. He was not the type of person to sit idle while people made themselves at home in his house.
Leaving Mrs. Valentine's room, I was abruptly confronted with a change in the feeling of the party. So fast? I was not gone for more then 15 minutes. Their sound was subdued, the exuberance gone, and their attention diverted. I heard it from down the hall, coming from the main room, Mr Greene's panicked voice.
“Get out! Leave!”. His arms were flailing wildly, his voice a desperate screech. A crowd had surrounded him. Their faces blanked from emotion, but their eyes danced with something primal. They hated this man, and hungered for an excuse to act on it. The light heartedness of the party up until this time did not alter the fact that these people hated us. They despised us, and what we had, and for that being what they lacked.
Mr. Greene storming about, blabbering uncontrollably, in all his finery, reminded them of it. Their worn suits, and lined hands, their years of toil while he profited. That irrational, afraid animal. Just sheer luck that Mr. Greene had ended up on top. Yes, he worked, and was often found to be working late at night, but his worked could not compare to the toil of these people. If merit truly is rewarded, wThe House of Mr. Valentine
“Well, I should really be going,” I announced.
Mr. Valentine had left some time ago, and I could tell by the look on Mrs. Valentine's face she was tiring.
“Very well, if you must,” she said, feigning disappointment.
“If you don't mind, I would like to enjoy a smoke before I depart.”
Mrs. Valentine sighed. She had never liked my habit of smoking. We embraced, and I kissed her on the cheek. She motioned to her man to open the front door; and after doing so, they both entered and closed it behind them. What a bore Mrs. Valentine is, I thought, as I removed a cigarette from my case. She was a great beauty to behold, picturesque in her resemblance to the great busts of the Greeks. She had an old world beauty, striking, intoxicating, but somehow out of time.
As I drew in each warm puff of smoke, my thoughts moved to the view I had from the porch of Mr. Valentine's front door. Of course he had a manor house in the country, but why was the always spending his time here? It was a good sized property, for being in the middle of the city. I stared over a couple of acres of his front yard towards an ornate, tall, wrought-iron fence, the only thing separating him from the masses. I noticed that his front gate was open. Had he begun to leave it open, in his initiative to run for mayor, perhaps trying to encourage the common man to call on him?
There was nothing common about his house, though. European royalty are not even entitled to such luxury. The two doors behind me opened to more space and extravagance than the Valentines, a small army of servants, and Mr. Valentine's captain of finance, Mr. Greene, could occupy. Just then, as I was reflecting on why anyone would want to live this close to the lower classes, my cigarette began to burn low. I was about to call to my driver when a group of men entered through the open gate from the front street. I thought at their odd approachment, how it was they cut right across the lawn to meet me on the front doorstep. The men were all wearing suits. Unsure of what to do as they approached, I reached for another cigarette. Looking unexpected to see me there, one abruptly asked if he could have an application. Now, Mr. Valentine had a number of ventures, but he was best known as a man of production. The visitor's baseness was evident. It manifested itself in the leather of their skin, from years of exposure, the permanent dirt discoloration under their nails, and their old suits. None of these things, seemingly, apparent to them at all.
It was unfortunate that they had chosen that exact time, as they did not know me, they could have thought I was employed by Mr. Valentine. Not wanting to reflect poorly on my friend, I thought it would be for the best to fetch them an application. Considering myself a confidant and one of the few who knows Mr. Valentine's heart, in addition to having seen he himself offer a walker-by an application the past week, I answered the man affirmatively. Normally, I would have ordered my driver to fetch the application, but he had not been with us the other day when Mr. Valentine had showed me where the applications were. Like a common serving man, I said “follow me”, and began walking the group of men to the side house where the papers were kept. The only redeeming part was the smirk that came to my face when I considered, that I too like my friend, was acting in the publics service.
As soon as we entered the side door, I immediately realized that the paper holder was empty. As I began looking around the desk I heard a hastened scurry of feet behind me. Looking up quickly I saw the house door entrance slam behind two members of the suited party, as they slipped inside Mr. Valentine's house. Indignant that anyone take advantage of me, as such, I ran after them leaving the remaining members of the party alone in the garage. There is a long hall connecting the side house to the main house, but no traces of the suited people remained.
I had felt I already caused enough trouble. Not wanting to end up going through every room in the house; I determined to tell Mr. Greene, who oddly shared the house with Mr. and Mrs. Valentine. I debated calling the police, but not wanting to bring any controversy to my dear friend, I instead determined to tell Mr. Greene. Before doing so, I headed back to ask the remaining suited men to leave, but they were already gone, (the space was empty).
I knocked before pushing open his door, a rough “What is that noise?”, Mr. Green's agitated voice greeted me.
“I regret to inform you, that you have some unwanted guests. I launched into the story of how they made their entry. I could tell by the look on his face that it was a very bothersome message. He quickly rose to anger, grabbing me by the shirt so hard, I thought my clothes would surely tear.
“You are not part of this company. Did Mr. Valentine or myself approve of this?”.
I was taken back. I was just acting in accordance of what I saw Mr. Valentine do the week before, when Mr. Valentine himself offered up an application from the garage. I considered myself a victim of circumstance, how was I to know the mens plan? I offered this thought to Mr. green, but my response seemed to enrage him further. I saw his control over his body waver for a second as he began to clench his first, his knuckles white with strain. As fast as it happened he was opening and closing his fists, “I believe you should leave, sir”. Before I could answer he stormed off, presumably, to fix the problem.
Mr. Greene and I have hardly ever seen eye to eye, but in this matter I thought it best to agree with him. The intruders were beginning to overrun the place. More and more had entered during my brief chat with Mr. Greene. It was then apparent this had been intentional. There were no lack of entrances for a few men to sneak into this home. Because of its size, it would have taken a small army to cover all the entrances. The guests made short work at feeling home. Someone had started music. It drifted and echoed rhythmically through the halls, crescendoing before it crashed over the happy throngs of people, as they stood sipping from Mr. Valentine's fine crystal; unaware, that the glasses they held firmly were worth more then they could earn in a year.
I rather enjoyed the pulse of the party. Their merriment was pervasive, and I could not help but enjoy myself. I walked around and observed the guests for quite sometime, until a concern for Mrs. Valentine began to grow on my mind. I thought it best to visit her and see if she was still fine. I had only been to the Valentine's room a handful of times before, because Mr. Valentine's office was located through it. When I arrived at her door I knocked loudly.
“Ma'am”, I continued to knock, “would you mind if I entered?”.
“What's going on?”, she responded.
I pushed open the large wooden door.
“I'm sorry for the inappropriateness, please forgive me,” I dribbled, “ but I had the strongest feeling of concern.”
“Is Mr. Valentine having guests?”, she asked. “I do hate it when he doesn't consult me before company”, oblivious to the intruders. I sort of envied her naiveté. I thought that perhaps it could be a product of innocence. Perhaps her simplicity was to be respected? Seeing Mrs. Valentine here behind her large wooden door, oblivious and protected did little to calm me, as my thoughts turned to Mr. Greene. He was unpredictable, one of those men, who had to constantly be in vigil of his own control. He was not the type of person to sit idle while people made themselves at home in his house.
Leaving Mrs. Valentine's room, I was abruptly confronted with a change in the feeling of the party. So fast? I was not gone for more then 15 minutes. Their sound was subdued, the exuberance gone, and their attention diverted. I heard it from down the hall, coming from the main room, Mr Greene's panicked voice.
“Get out! Leave!”. His arms were flailing wildly, his voice a desperate screech. A crowd had surrounded him. Their faces blanked from emotion, but their eyes danced with something primal. They hated this man, and hungered for an excuse to act on it. The light heartedness of the party up until this time did not alter the fact that these people hated us. They despised us, and what we had, and for that being what they lacked.
Mr. Greene storming about, blabbering uncontrollably, in all his finery, reminded them of it. Their worn suits, and lined hands, their years of toil while he profited. That irrational, afraid animal. Just sheer luck that Mr. Greene had ended up on top. Yes, he worked, and was often found to be working late at night, but his worked could not compare to the toil of these people. If merit truly is rewarded, what larger merit then running the city? Running the factories, the transportation, growing and selling the food? It really did not seem so absurd that these people wanted to live for one night as we did. After all, were they not entitled to it?
My attention drew back to the situation at hand. Although soft in terms of work, Mr. Greene was by no means weak. He was a towering powerful man; when I saw one of the workers draw his arm back to take a swing at Mr. Greene, my stomach dropped. By this moment the party had hushed, staring at Mr. Greene and the men surrounding him. I knew this would not end well. The lower class, was waiting for an excuse, any excuse, Mr. Greene was bent on providing them one. With the large amount of people, it was easy for me to move through them unnoticed. Mr. Greene's actions were causing a domino effect as talk radiated through the intruders. Shoulders bumped and voices began to grow more agitated. I began to hear glass shatter, its angering cry echoing through the house. I hastened to a side room, where the Valentine's telephone was kept. I quickly dialed the police and alerted them there was a mob break in at Mr. Valentine's. Reputation be damned! Mr. Greene's irrationality was going to get someone hurt.
Just then a loud thud struck the door. I walked over and tried to open it but it would not open wider than a small crack. A heavy-set man was slumped against it, trail of blood tracing down his face. As I began to fear for the worse, a low moan slipped from his mouth. In addition to sharp broken glass, throughout the hall , there were people screaming, yelling, running by carrying Mr. Valentine's possessions, piece by piece.
I became increasingly concerned for my own safety. Not being the type of man to hide while others get injured, I opened the room's window, which sat a couple of feet about the lawn, and lowered myself out. Knowing my driver kept a revolver in the glove box of the car, and determined that I would feel safer once I had it, I began a hasted walk towards the garage. Being no more than a football field from where I stand I began to jog, mind set on the perceived safety the firearm would provide. The last thing I remember was a loud whip sound breaking through the night. Thinking someone had discharged a gun. My left leg burned, right above my ankle, in a searing pain and I dropped to the ground. Then darkness.hat larger merit then running the city? Running the factories, the transportation, growing and selling the food? It really did not seem so absurd that these people wanted to live for one night as we did. After all, were they not entitled to it?
My attention drew back to the situation at hand. Although soft in terms of work, Mr. Greene was by no means weak. He was a towering powerful man; when I saw one of the workers draw his arm back to take a swing at Mr. Greene, my stomach dropped. By this moment the party had hushed, staring at Mr. Greene and the men surrounding him. I knew this would not end well. The lower class, was waiting for an excuse, any excuse, Mr. Greene was bent on providing them one. With the large amount of people, it was easy for me to move through them unnoticed. Mr. Greene's actions were causing a domino effect as talk radiated through the intruders. Shoulders bumped and voices began to grow more agitated. I began to hear glass shatter, its angering cry echoing through the house. I hastened to a side room, where the Valentine's telephone was kept. I quickly dialed the police and alerted them there was a mob break in at Mr. Valentine's. Reputation be damned! Mr. Greene's irrationality was going to get someone hurt.
Just then a loud thud struck the door. I walked over and tried to open it but it would not open wider than a small crack. A heavy-set man was slumped against it, trail of blood tracing down his face. As I began to fear for the worse, a low moan slipped from his mouth. In addition to sharp broken glass, throughout the hall , there were people screaming, yelling, running by carrying Mr. Valentine's possessions, piece by piece.
I became increasingly concerned for my own safety. Not being the type of man to hide while others get injured, I opened the room's window, which sat a couple of feet about the lawn, and lowered myself out. Knowing my driver kept a revolver in the glove box of the car, and determined that I would feel safer once I had it, I began a hasted walk towards the garage. Being no more than a football field from where I stand I began to jog, mind set on the perceived safety the firearm would provide. The last thing I remember was a loud whip sound breaking through the night. Thinking someone had discharged a gun. My left leg burned, right above my ankle, in a searing pain and I dropped to the ground. Then darkness.