The Scranton tribune. [volume] (Scranton, Pa.) 1891-1910, 1896-06-06

on the knocker sounded as he spoke.
and few moments later the door of the
studio opened. AS Sturman rose he
saw Sydney go forward with out
stretched hand to greet tall, slightly
built, perfectly-dressed young fellow,
fair-haired and dark k-eyed. with the COM
plexion of boy and the face of wo-
man-at least 1t would have been a wo-
mans face. he thought, but for cer-
tain strength of brow and chin and two
little perpendicular lines between the
eyebrows, which would not have quite
become a woman.
This was Marcus Agar, le success de
rheure, as they would have called him
in France-the writer. unknown the
day before yesterday. whose first book
was selling in thousands, despite the
fact that it didn't even hint at the
Seventh commandment, and hadn't a
chapter that either the British matrOn
or the young person could condemn
openly with view to dwelling fondly
on it in secret.
The reviewers already called their no.
tices Of his work appropriations" and
were almost falling over each other in
their haste not to be last or least loud in
his praise. Far-seeing editors were
competing for his unwritten works, and
literary agents were scheming subtly
for the honor of standing between him
and them.
In a word Marcus Algar was the man
of the hour, as other men and women
had been Of previous hours. The vaga-
bonds had entertained him and the au-
thors had dined him--and John Stur-
man knew all this, and If he had had all
the wealth of Kimberly he would have
given it ceerfully to stand in his shoes,
for he did not possess that priceless
gift of literary expression, that God
given, unlearnable art, the want Of
which meant 20 him the difference be-
tween Sylvia's friendship. which had
been his for years, and her love, which
as she had told him. could be given only
to the twin soul for whose advent hers
was waiting, the ideal she had not yet
met, unless-and as he looked at Marcus
Algar and thought Of that wonderful
book of his all the evil spirits that lurk
behind-the rose bushes in the Garden of
Love seemed to come out of their hid
ing places and take possession of his
soul.
He made his excuses and got away as
soon as he decently could, because he
wasn't the sort of man who could chat
ter cheerful trivialities when his soul
was full Of bitterness, and the earth's
base seemed subtle and the pillars of
the armament rottenness to him.
He was a strong, straightforward,
cleanh hearted, clear-headed man, rich,
we'll read and we'll educated, but with
no more romance in his being than was
inspired by his almost lifelong and
now hopeless love for the sister Of his
old schoolfellow and friend, Sydney
March. this girl with the soft chestnut
hair and big dreamy gray eyes whom he
had worshiped as boy and loved as a
man, in his own plain, honest manly
fashion-only to learn,a he had learned
but few days before, that that
wretched transcendent soul-theory of
matrimony of hers was to condemn him
to stand by and see her give herself to
some one else just because he lacked the
one faculty that she PLACID above all
others.
1t was maddening to be so near and
yet so far. for, with the confidence born
Of their lifelong friendship. she had
even told him that she liked him so
much lin other ways" that she really
would have tried to love him if she could
and she had said this so innOcently
and so sweetly that it had hurt him
more than the most scornful refusal
could have done. for it did not even
leave him the poor consolation of get
ting angry either with her or with him
SELF
If Mephistopheles had come to his
side just then, as he was walking home
from Marchs studio in Edith Villas,
West kensington, to the big house in
Bolton gardens-which he had made so
beautiful in the hope that Sylvia would
one day reign over it-and offered him
that one gift of Marcus AlgarAs in cX-
change for everything else on the usual
terms, he would have struck the bar
gain there and then, coute que coute,
for Sylvia's sake-and yet, If he had
only known it, Mephistopheles was a
good deal nearer to his elbow just then
than he had any idea of his being.
Altogether his walk home was any.
thing but pleasant one, for, do what
he would, he couldn't keep his thoughts
from wandering back to March's studio,
and picturing Sylvia and Agar wander
ing together in that magical Garden Of
Romance. which he could only look
over the fast-closed gate that only the
key Of Genius could unlock.