The Van Buren press., 1895-03-02
moriam notice-every year on the an
niyersarv of her loss.

moriam notice-every year on the an
niversary Of her loss.
The child was no comfort TO him.
The baby seemed to the husbands grief
responsible for what had happened. He
left It to the care of the nurse, and
often, when he returned from the city,
and the little chap was asleep, he did
not go upstairs to look at him.
Yes,j indeed, 1t had been love-
match, and Paul's heart seemed buried
in Ethel's grave. For months he lived
the life Of an nutomaton, performing
his duties mechanically, thinking of
nothing, caring for nothing, but thu
past which could never be reltindled OF
revived.
Once, when hc came home, he found
that the play had been sent back by
the manager as useless to him. He
scarcely noticed II. He glanced at the
rejection form indifferently, and tossed
the manuscript into q drawer among
the limbo Of forgotten things.
One day was so like another, the
months SO void OF event, and 1t came
upon him with shock one night to
realize that Ethel would soon have
been dead q year. Was 1t possible?-
twelve months agol Yes, on the ED,
and 1t was now the 21st. He went
heavily to his desk, just where he had
sat before, and wrote the In memoriarn
notice he had vowed to write. 1.-THE
dearly beloved wife Of Paul Weguelinl'
| The tears ran down his face. EVERY
year, sweetheart" he mutterei, husk-
lily, "every year till we meet each other
again@
People commented on his faithful
ness to o memory-so few men are
faithful to the living. In the office he
was sometimes invited to spend an
evening at friend'sAhouse or at a the
ater. He invariably declined. He still
wore deep mourning. Acquaintance
began to call it affectation, but they
wronged him. He had but one relaxa-
tion, and that had come to him rather
than been sought. AS the boy grew
an affection that surprised himself
awoke in Paul Weguelin's breast, and
the only hours In which he rcgained
something Of his former cheerfulness
were when he was playing with his
child.
From ono step to another. When
the youngster was two years old Paul
came, by chance, upon the play he had
thrown aside In despair. He took 1t up
and reread 1t. II was good-good. A
little of his old interest in it sprang
into being again. Supposing he were
to submit 1t somewhere else?
He forwarded 1t to theater the fol-
lowing day. 1t came back month
later, but he was In earnest again
now, and he sent it to another house.
The latest management was o long
time replying, but when an answer did
come, it was, to some extent, favorable.
| Assuming that certain alterations were
made In it, the drama might possibly
be put on.
He was not excited; he was dismayed
at himself In perceiving how dull and
inert the prospect left him. He con-
trasted his absence Of emotion with
what he would have felt at the time
when Ethel was with him-Ethel, who
had died crying that she would not live
to sec the play produced. Neverthe-
less he went to see the manager, and
had the suggested amendments defin-
itely explained. They took several
weeks to effect, and when they were
completed, some changes in the man.
age rial intentions left the fate of the
play doubtful still.
| 1t remained doubtful while summer
merged into autumn and autumn
turned to winter SHOWS. And then at
last it was accepted absolutely. Paul
Weguelin's name began to creep into
the newspapers. The drama went into
rehearsal The authors pulses beat q
shade more quickly and his fellow
clerks wrung his hand and asked for
"orders" with astonishment writ
large" on their countenances.
"Great Scott, old fellowl You q
dramntistl You did keep 1t close. Well,
congratulate you, I'm sure. sup.
pose you'll be chucking the city direct
ly and be heavy swell up wcst?"
It was pleasant He could not deny
that he enjoyed it; his tobacco tasted
better; he knew at last what 1t was to
be excited again. The rehearsals,
when he was able to attend them, even
banished the memory Of Ethel from
his mind But this distressed him when
he observed 1t, and he made pilgrim.
age to her grave which was for the
first time perfunctory.
When the curtain went up on the
first night he stood at the back Of the
dress circle with ashen cheeks and q
heart that thumped as II 1t would suf
focate him. His lines-his lines-were
being spoken on. the stage, and the
audience laughed and clapped thei,
hands at them. The act drop fell; II
rose; the applause grew more vocif
erous. The piece was o success, on
unmistakable triumph. He was called
ut the end and loudly cheered.
He asked no more Of fate; his cup was
full.
Someone insisted on carrying him of
with party to supper. There were
champagne and merriment. He made
a speech; it was witty speech; every
body banged the table. Perhaps he
had drunk q little more than he was
accustomed to, but-what did it mat
ter2 The champagne was good, and
the play was good, too. BY Jove, they
were oil good-all good fellows to-
gether. Just as he made the last re-
mark his tongue changed, and with Q
brief word he sat down hastily.
It occurred to him at this moment
that the date was the 22d. The third
In memoriam announcement should