Gloucester County Democrat. (Woodbury, N.J.) 1878-1932, 1893-11-09
WOODBURY., N. J, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 9, 1898.

are wrong Inc UreuDle mes mere. i
unfortunately must still be sincere and
must put something Of myself into ev-
erything l write When one believes in
and cares for SO little, it is very hard.
have not yet matched your stride, you
see-you who with one arm around your
neighbor's wife could write an essay on
the beauty Of morality"
The door banged, and Delatole's foot
steps grew fainter in the echoing pas
sage In the silence that followed Tom
still lay motionless, his wide open eyes
fixed upon the ceiling, the small unob-
trusiye sounds Of quiet room futter-
ing the loneliness that settled around
him.
"How hate himr and though the
words were but whisper their reality
was intense
He thought Of the past.
That year in Paris-every detail Of it
returned to him as he hay there-that
crowded, riotous, unholy year. His first
taste of pleasure, his exuberant appre-
citation Of life carrying him along with
uAO lush Va a. SbACelA144 S5D1lle5
down hill; the new, fevered atmosphere;
the days spinning by in a sort Of moral
vertigo; the crowd that called him to
follow where it was brightest, that
brightness lining the sheer descents Of
vice
And now2 Now he was back in famil-
lar New York, bound by honor by wo-
man who wearied him, inclined to rid
himself Of the obligations he had as
sumed in the beginning through sheer
disinclinatien to the trouble of resisting,
following pleasure with foreknowledge
of weariness, in debt to Delatole while
straining at the wornout cord that bound
them, struggling against the maddening
inactivity that palsied his faculties in
the art still dear to him.
A sharp. quiverias breath came from
his lips. FR
Delatole had spoken truly. Some
thing had withered within him, or in
the degradation of his life he had lost it
forever. He had striven to write and
always in vain. His ideas were no long
erf vivid, stirring, flowing to d logical
sequence, but dim, abortive-a haze of
tangled threads. Heaps of closely writ
ten paper, upon which the best efforts Of
his brain had been expended with the
feverish intensity man feels in running
race, had been cast aside as worthless.
The day was surely coming when his
world would know the truth and liken
him to plant that puts forth radiant
blossoms once and withers in a night.
How miserably he had failedl Was
there no escape from social annihila-
ton except by trading on the infatua-
ton of woman 10 years older than
himelf? And once-once-when be had
thought like one inspired, and honor was
shining reality in his life, he had be-
trayed love for chimera. But he must
not remember that, and least of all to-
night, in the silence, when his thoughts
were like knives in his heart
He stood up, shivering, and from habit
turned to the sideboard. He half filled
a goblet with brandy and laughed aloud
as the decanter clinked against the glass
in his hand, a laugh that subsided to a
chuckle and rose again, beating upon the
stiffness like the wings of Gagged bird.
''It wouldn't be out Of order to drink
toast to my own defeat"
When he re-entered his studio few
months later, his eyes were flaming,
though the smile-a hideous contortion
fingered on his lips.
An open letter on his disordered desk
faced him as he sat down. The closing
lines caught his eye:
l will finally withdraw 1.-THE Worlds Way
from the road in fortnight. Now that four
act society drama is what I'm waiting for II
two years I've had only two curtain raisers
from you-rags of things that only drew at all
because your name was to them. If / can't rely
on you, must look elsewhere. If you're not
going to write any more, for Gods sake say SO.
GEORGE PLuNKET.
He read it and tore it to bits There
was a sob in his throat as his eager hands
went searching through the mass of pa
pers for half sketched plots and notes of
ideas not worth the leaves they were
scrawled upon. He would not even
leave q scrap. All should be destroyed
And these crowded, dusty drawers,
they, too, must be emrhed, lest some
day when he had sunk into'comfortable
apathy, with only profound respect
for the we'll being of the body, he might
open them and hear each fluttering leaf
whisper how he had once dreamed
dream.
He worked with an eager intensity, as
if following his hearts desire, even went
on his knees and scattered the scrawled
sheets right and left, then pauseda abb
ruptly and looked with puzzled eyes at
what he had dragged out-a long roll Of
manuscript, dusty and tied with gray
tape. He did not remember it. had nev-
er seen it before Yet, wait. Now that
it lay unfolded before him, fully writ
ten play, he did recall the title. Doctor
Fleming" sa sa... a za3
Just before his departure for Europe,
distinguished looking man in the trsl-
ditional shabbiness of unrecognized gen
ius had called on him with this play,
asking in shy, embarrassed way that
he, the splendidly prosperous young au-
thor, would read it and tell him what its
merits were. His papers were never
touched by his servant. 1t had lain for-1
gotten in his desk for more than a year.
And the man who had brought it-where
was he? gF
Still kneeling among the mass of dusty
papers, he turned the leaves. A letter
futtered to the ground:
DEAR SrR-I inclose this note, as 1t may not
be possible to have an interview with you. The
play Dr. Fleming" which beg you 10 read
as favor to me, has for its basis incidents in
my own life. The scene in Russia is particu-
larly accurate, and think presents adramaticl
situation distinctly new. Your respectfully
FELIX DAWSON, No. - Bedford street.
p. S.-If you can find time to look it over,
you will be doing mo an inestimable favor.
beg that you will be careful of it, as have no
copy, and even though Commercially worth
less it is very dear to me-
every dear to you" Tom said slowly.
81 know just how you felt, Mr.. Felix
Dawson, when you wrote those words,
Very dear to you.' You shall have your
treasure back
in. ! !,