The herald., 1896-01-05
Her NOVEL,.
BY ISABEL WH|TELEY

There was an evening wheA she lay upon
the Turkish divan in her boudor, lighted
only by the flicker from the open hre. She
was stretched out supinely, after the manner
recommended by the Delsarte system, In
which every muscle is limp and every nerve
tensionless
Sleep came not to her tired eyes, nor did
forgetfulness relieve the painful pressure on
her brain, the pain of a headache that had
lasted for days. And all at once, in this
semi-comatose condition, her novel came into
existence within the tired, blurred brain.
She the heroine, a SUBTLE splendid crea-
ture, new woman" with all the sweetness
of the old, yet with mysterious development
of mind and soul which made her grand
mothers seem as lavoress as anemone
beside a lotus flower.
She saw the hero, a man big enough in head
and heart to worthiy win the strange woman,
and they came together in a surrounding OF
other characters, clever. clear-cut and cum
nngly interviewer in a plot so intricate and
yet so humanlJ probable that if it were writ
ten as she saw 1t the whole world must read
and marvel
Thers was only one possible point of doubt
or question, and THAT is, that have thought
Of it, she said to herself in humility. II
will ask the Critic what he thinks Of it when
he comes again."
Therefore, when the Critic came in and
found her with the headache burnt out with
' al cN tyoc
frankly admiring as she unfolded her plot.
1T 10 a novel, a wonderful one" he said
looking earnestly al her. The freight fell
on her face, making her pink cheeks glow
more brightly and casting rosy lights on her
shmmering gown of gray. "You have taken
off your black gown. l like this better" the
Critic said "But the novel. How did you
think of it?'
Il did not think of it. 1t boomed in my
head as I lay thinking of nothing. Oh,
Critic!" she cried, clasping her hands with
the pleading of child, "tell me to write it.
Command me to write it,
II command you," he said, half laughing;
and then earnestly, "It is novel. fine one.
1t will be the novel of the year and one of the
novels Of all time" The next day she was
we'll and strong. full of restless longing to
write the novel. She conquered this lest
through eagerness she should make false
start. In the afternoon telegram came from
her friend the Editor. saying. Expect me
tomorrow for short visit" A clever woman
the Editor, and successful though still In her
twenties. lovely woman we'll. and SYM
pathetic In all that touched her friend. Her
visit heightened into weeks. which slipped
by In pleasant fashion. and she said to
herself, when the Editor goes l will write
the novel;"
Every day added new sentence, an cpl
gram or side light to the novel Each of those
the Critic approved, and if she said clever
thing she had to catch herself to keep from
saying, THAT is from such n chapter of the
novel," so complete was it without her mind.
When the Editor had gone she said "I IL
begin this week, but to-day and tomorrow
I must finish all those visits so that | may
have my time uninterrupted" She ordered
the carriage and drove from house to house,
finding no one so interesting as the creatures
who lived within her brain.
That evening the Critic came. "IIow is the
novel?" he asked.
mot line is written yet, but tomorrow
shall begin"
The Critic looked at her tenderly. but with
probing earnestness. You used the smile
of negative in reference to this story. You
know, If negative flashes out complete it
is overturned. l hope" he added, with some-
thing like timidity for the Critic, that your
novel is not overtimed.''
II think not" she said.
"But you must write it," urged the Critic
81 saw the other day point in poor story
very poor story, which l was reviewing that
just suggested yours. Some else might
think OF other points, and your novel would
be spoiled" He spoke with eagerness which
seemed strange to her.
Before the novel had been thought of this
woman had satisfied him she was. From
the soft parting of her gold brown hair, the
red lips, the questioning eyes, to the beaded
tips OF her dainty slippers, she was all he
craved. But now he wished her to be the
author OF book that all might praise.
In the early morning a maid came to her
with troubled face. She fastened to the
nursery, and found her little son tossing in
fever The golden hair was harsh and tan
gled; the gray eyes, like her own. wistfully
bewldered; the little hands pulling at the
bed clothes like the fears that tugged at the
mothers heart. And when the Critic came
he had not the heart to ask her about the
novel, though the days turned into weeks
for the child grew no better. but fingered
in slow, consuming fever. Then there came
a change, and the fever left him, and he was
ordered to watering place early in the sum-
mer, when June roses blow, and no one has
time for anything except joyfully to be alive.
So she said: 'When my child is well again
I will write the novel; And she wrote to the
Critic: "Do not be impatient with me, my
friend; this idle place is not the one for ear
nest work. Come to see it, and Justify my
procrastnation.
The Critic laid down his pen. locked his
desk and sailed to the desert paradise, where
the gray sea washed the rocks and the mist
hid the islands enwrapped in mysterious
veil that provoked one to wonder and dream.
Here he found the child growing sturdy
again, and she was more beautiful. more
fascinating than ever. The days slid by on