The Providence news. (Providence [R.I.]) 1891-1906, 1893-09-16

refuse to do. It would mean social dis
grace. Do you understand"
Dawson's face was terrible in its scorn.
"Money won't content me-"
"See here. / could have denied your
right to this play-lied to your teeth.
But l didn't. Face to face in this silent
room I have been honest with you.
would undo 1t all If / could, God knows
how readily" He paused, and his voice,
though quiet, was like the strokes Of
steel upon steel. "But before the world
it will be different. If you have no
mercy on my position, I'll have none on
YOU. will swear if need be that the
play is mine from the first word to the
last / tell you it will be an unequal
struggle, and I will win. Cranks and
blackmailers abound in New York. You
will be classed among them and be for
gotten. You'd better accept my terms.
Think again. Take the money. I'll be
glad to give it to you. But the play
must remain mine. 1t is too late for
anything else. Don't you see? Can't
you seer
Dawson seemed scarcely to listen to
him. He was looking past him, faint,
dreamy smile upon his pale lips.
That's your view OF the situation.
Now hear mine. I've been trying for 10
years to touch success. I've always just
missed it. / made my last throw when
/ wrote DIR. Fleming and it won.
Money? Do you think money will make
up for the loss of the thing most precious
to me? Deny me as you will; I'll take
my chances. You've robbed me of what
love. That play was friend and sweet
heart, fire and food, to me for year. 1t
is part Of me. All have hoped and
suffered appears in its lines like refiec-
tion in q glass. Oh, yes, I'll have it
back"
He walked to the door, the blush dusk
shading his white, earnest, clear cut
face, and clothing him with mystery.
Long after he was gone Tom stood
listening to the splashing of the rain.
His brain was afire with questions.
Dawson would accuse him, but 1t
would amount to nothing; he would be
thought a man driven frantic by misfor-
tune. But the money-that was diff
ferent matter and an unpleasant one.
He would never put another penny Of
the plays payments to his own use. They
must be saved for Felix Dawson-saved
secretly-and some day he might be in
duced to accept them. This meant sud-
den poverty for himself and might excite
curiosity. He could say he was paying
his debts, or some of the speculations
recently indulged in might be fortunate.
He was not afraid. He felt secure.
Coffee and liquors were on the table
when Delatole rushed in.
pass over the absinthe, Tom," he
said, with q smile and a comfortable
kind of shiver. "Gad, this room looks
cozy after the rain. Hear it. splashing
in bucketfuls. / had to go to Emerson's
and have bite with him-listened to
nothing but praises of yop from the soup
until / broke away befoIs dessert. He
says you're genius. But that's moth
ing new. Haven't / always said you
stood alone? This last play settles the
point beyond dispute. The Russian color
is admirable! How the deuce you caught
it can't tell, when you never had your
nose III ftussld. Dub WHO can eXplaln
the vagaries Of genius? When you wrote
that play, Tom, you prepared delight
for posterity."
All, it was to hear words like these
that Felix Dawson demanded what he
created. Money, after all, was the
smallest part of the triumph. Tom
reused himself and found Delatole smil-
ing at him in his most engaging way.
His smiles were usually very expensive
dainties and augured frowns for some
body else.
"Do you know, Tom." and his black
eyes sparkled as he looked down at the
opalescent liquor swaying under. the
movement of his fingers, "the time has
come when you can do me favor?"
"Can I indeedY"
"You don't seem overjoyed," he said
in pu.ring tone. "Look here. know
we've had few small differences, but
can any two people Of marked individu-
ality live together in state Of unruffled
peace9 Tom, give me your hand"