Wheeling Sunday register. [volume] (Wheeling, W. Va.) 1882-1934, 1893-10-22


can't-it may be you don't care. In
either case I've been bitterly disappoint-
ed in you. You're the last embryo gen
ius IN put on pedestal. Genius? BY
heaven! that's rich. Why, you've fallen
into psychical ruin. You exhausted
yourself In The Worlds Way"
An unwilling, dusty red started up in
Toms followed cheek. II eObed slow
y away as, opening his eyes wide, he
smiled at Delatole with an expression
Of positive hatred.
THAT IS one Of those chsrmingly
soothing speeches we must learn TO eX-
pect from those we live with. But you
are wrong. The trouble lies here. l
unfortunately must still be sincere and
must put something of myself into
everything write. When one believes
in and cares for SO little, it Is very hard.
have not vet matchedyour stride, you
see-yOu who with one arm around your
neighbor's wife could write an essay on
morality"
The door banged, and Delatole's foot
steps grew fainter In the echoing pas
sage. In the silence that followed Tom
still lay motlonless, his wide open eyes
fixed upon the ceiling, the small unob-
trusive sound of quiet room lutterlng
the loneliness that settled around him.
How / hate him" and though the
words were but a whisper their reality
was intense.
the beauty OF morality"
He thought Of the past.
That year In Paris-every DEAL Of IL
returned 70 him as he lay there-that
crowded, riotOus, unholy year. His
first taste Of pleasure, his exuberant
appreciation OF life carrying him along
with the rush Of laughing stream
going down hill; the new, tevered at
mosphere; the days spinning by In
sort OF moral vertigo; the crowd that
called him to follow where il was
brightest, that 6righeness lining the
sheer descents Of vice.
And now? Now he was back 10 famil
far New York, bound by honor by wo-
man who wearled him, inclined to rid
himself OF the obligations hs had as
sumed In the beginning through sheer
Discrimination to the trouble Of resisting,
following pleasure with sfOreknoWledge
or WEAKNESS, in debt TO Delatole while
straining at the worn out cord that
bound them, struggling against the
maddeniug inactivity that plsied his
faculties in the art still dear to him.
A sharp, Quivering breath came from
his lips.
Delatoe had spoken truly. Something
had withered within him, or in the
degradation OF his life be had lost it for
eveI. He had striyen TO write and
always in vain. HS ideas were no long
er vivid, stirring, flowing to 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
feverlsh intensity a man feels in run
ming a race, had been cast aside as
worthless. The day was surely coming
when his world would know the truth
and liken him 10 q plant that puts forth
radiant blossoms once and withers in
a night.
now miserably he had failed Was
there no escape from social annihila-
tion except by trading on the infatua-
tion of a woman 10 years older than
himself? And once-Once-Whe he
had thought like one inspired, and hon
or was shining reality in his life, he
had betrayed love for a chimera. But
be must not remember that, and least
of all tonight, in the silence, when his
thoughts were like knives in his heart.
He stood up, shiverinR, and from
habit turned TO the sidebOard. He half
filed goblet with brandy and laughed
aloud as the decauter clinked against
the glass in his hand, a laugh that sub
sided 10 a Chuckle and rose again, best
/ ing upon the stiffness like the wings Of
a Gagged bird.
ut wouldn's be out OF order to drink
a toast TO my own defeat"
When he re-entered his studio few
months later, bis eyes we're flaming,
] thoughtthe smile-a hideous contortion
fingered on his lips.
An open letter on his disordered
desk faced him as be sat down, The
chasing lines caught his eve:
Twill fanally withdraw The Worlds
Way" from the road In fortnight
Now that four act society drama is
what Pm waiting for. In two years
I've had only two curtain raisers from
vou-rags of things that only drew at
an because your name was 10 them. If
1 can't rely on you, l must look else
where. II you're not going to write
any more, for Gods sake say so.
GEORGE PLUNKET.
He read Il and tore Ii to bits. There
was a sob in his throat as his eager
hands went searching through the mass
OF papers for half sketched plots aud
notes Of ideas not worth the leaves they
were scrawled upon. He would not
even leave scrap. All should be de-
stroyed.
And these crowded, dusty drawers,
they, too. must be emptied, lest some
day when be had sunk into comiOrts-
bic apathy, with only a profound res
pect for the we'll being Of the bony, he
might open them and hear each futter-
leaf whisper how he had once dreamed
a dream.
He worked with an eager intensity,
as ii following his hearts desire, even
went on his knees and scattered the
scrawled sheets right and left, then
paused abruptly and looked with puz-
zled eyes at what he had dragged out
a long roll OF manuscripts, dusty and
tied With gray tape. be did not re-
member it, had never seen it before.
Yet. wait Now, that it lay unfolded
before hin, fully written play be did
recall the title, doctor Fleming"
Just before his departure for Europe,
distinguished looking man in the ira
ditiOnal Shabbiness Of unrecognized
genius had called on him with this
play, asking In q shy, embarrassed way
shat be. the splendidly prosperous
young author, would read It and tell
him what its merits were. His papers
were never touched By his servant. Is
had lain forgotten 10 his desk for more