The Yale expositor., 1896-07-10

damp hands through it. His eyes alt
cred like opals; at times they sparkled
and almost blazed, and then grew dim.
He changed at each sentence; he
mouthed his written talk audibly;
each thought was reflected in his pale,
mobile face. He laughed and then
groaned; at the crisis tears ran down
and blurred the already indecipherable
script. But at II he rose, stiff in every
limb, and staggering. With difficulty
he picked the unpaged leaves from the
floor and sorted them in due order. He
fell into his chair.
"It's good, it's good" he said, chuck
ling. What queer devil am! My
dumb ancestors pipe oddly in me. It's
| strange, devilish strange; mans but a
mouthpiece, and crazy at that. How
long has this last thing been Matching ?
The story is old, yet new. Gibbon
shall have it. 1t will just suit him.
Little beast, little horror, little hog,
with divine gold ring of appreciation
in his grubbing snout."
He drank half a tumbler of whisky
and tumbled into bed. His mind ran
riot.
MY ego's a bit assured" he said.
L ought to be careful"
And ere he fell asleep he talked
conscious nonsense. Incongruous IDEAS
linked themselves together; he sneered
at his brains folly, and yet he was
afraid. He used morphine at last In
such a big dose that it touched the op-
tic center and subjective lightnings
flashed in his dark room. He dreamed
Of AT Home" where he met big,
brutal Burford wearing a great dia-
mond in his shirt front.
Bought by my conveyed thoughts
he said. But, looking down he per-
ceived that he had a greater jewel OF
his own, and soon his soul melted into
the contemplation of it's rays, till MS
consciousness was dissipated by a di-
vine absorption into the very Nirvana
| of Light.
When he woke the next day it was
already late in the afternoon. lie was
| overcome by yesterdays labor, and,
| though much less irritable, he walked
| feebly. The trouble of posting his
| story to Gibbon seemed almost too
much for him, but he sent it, and took
a cab to his club, where he sat almost
comatose for many hours.
Two weeks afterwards he received a
| note from the editor, returning the
story. 1t was good, but
"Burford sent me tale with the
| same motive weeks ago, and l accepted
! it,"
Esplan smashed his thin white hand
| on his mantelpiece, and made 1t Dleed.
| That night he got drunk on cham
| pagne, and the brilliant wine seemed
| to nip and bite and twist every nerve
and brain-cell His irritability grew
| so extreme that he lay in wait for
| subtle, unconceived insults, and medi-
| tated morbidly on the aspect OF inno-
| cent strangers. He gave the waiter
| double what was necessary, not be-
| cause it was particularly deserved, but
| because he felt that the slightest sign
of discomfort on the walters part might
| lead to an uncomfortable outburst OF
anger on his own.
Next day he met Burford in Picca-
| dilly and cut him dead with bitter
| sneer.
II daren't speak to him-I daren't," "
| he muttered.
And Burford, who could not quite
understand, felt outraged. He himself
| hated Esplan with the hatred of an
| outpaced, outsailed rival. He knew his
own work lacked the diabolical GER
tainty of Esplan's-it wanted the fine
phrase, the right red word of color,
the rush and onward march of due
finality, the bitter, exact conviction,
the knowledge of humanity that lies
in inheritance, the exalted experience
that proves received intuitions. He
was, he knew, a successful failure. and
his ambition was greater even than
Esplan's. For he was greedy, grasp
ing, esurient, and his hollowness was
obvious even before Esplan proved it
with his wringing touch.
HE takes what l have done. and
does it better. It's malice, malice he
urged to himself.
And when Esplan placed his last
story and the world remembered only
to forget in its white-hot brilliance the
cold paste of Burford's Paris jewel, he
felt hell surge within him. But he
beat his thoughts down for awhile, and
went on his little, labored way.
The success of this story and Bur-
ford's bitter eclipse helped Esplan
greatly, and he might have got saner II
other influences working for misery in
his life had not hurt him. For GER
tain woman died, one whom none knew
he knew, and he clung to morphine,
which, in its increase, helped to throw
him later ON. 1t works as one who
builds a dam higher and higher yet
against the rising waters, and the
crsah must come.
And at last it did come, for Burford
had two stories, better far than his
usual work. in a magazine that Esplan
almost looked on as his own. They
were on Esplan's very motives, he had
them almost ready to write. The sting
of this last bitter blow drove him off
1T, tottoripo halapco. ha copoaiyod