The Sauk Centre herald., 1897-08-12

In something that was near to panic
he did the very worst thing that he
could have done. He drove back to his
chamber and tried to write.
OF course he could not write, wor-
ried by his fears and paralyzed by a
self distrust that was new to him. He
shut his eyes and tried to call up pic
ture. He could see nothing but an aged
parson lowering over green speckled
omelet, waving hairy forefnger and
saying: "You will come to the bottom
of the bag, my dear boy. You should
make provision. 1t may be quite sud-
den."
He sat bolt upright and tapped on
the table with his nails. 81 must pull
myself together" he said. He reflected
that there had been many other occa-
sions on which he had been unable to
write. He had also to reflect that there
had always been reason; that he had
been mentally or physically tired or ill
or distracted by something which for
the moment absorbed bis mind, and
that now there was nu ,~-son which he
could trace,
He made no further attempt to work.
He paid a call, dined out, went to bed
early and slept peacefully for ten hours.
He felt when he woke that he was in
the best of health, but he also felt that
his mind was blank and arid. He had
an hours work to do before in the
afternoons story to finish. The story
was already half written, and that
comforted him; he would not have to
make a start; it would only be neces-
sary to get into the vein and 60 on, and
he remembered that it was splendid
story and that he had found his previ-
GUS work on it fascinating and delight
full.
He read and read again what he had
written. Yes, it was good, but he could
not for the life Of him remember how
he had meant to finish it, nor could he
think of any end that was at all salts
factory. His thought had stopped like a
thread cut short. The story began we'll,
but it was like story that had been
written by another man. It seemed to
him to lead to nothing.
At o'clock he wrote note Of ex-
cuse. His work had never been late be-
fore, but he said that he was i'll. Then
he tried to occupy his mind differently.
He had bought quantity of Japanese
prints, and he turned them over. Then
he put them away, turning out big
drawer in an old cabinet for the pur-
pose. There was lot of rubbish in the
drawer-relics of holidays abroad, an
old silver crucifix, a little branch of
coral, handful of foreign coins and
the little red bulb that the mad Ameri-
can had given him, together with a
somewhat fantastic story.
The day waned and the next day
came. The waste paper basket was
piled high, and Blackthorn rising from
his seat looked out at the dawn. He
was quite sure now that he would never
write again, and he hated his uncle as
he had never hated any man. "He has
taken away my nerve" he said, "and
that is all that one wAnts-nerve, the
belief that one can do it, His cheeks
were pale and his hands shook He
really was i'll now, and he had not
been to bed. He went into his bedroom
and locked himself in. Then in the
early morning he dressed for the even
ing and sat on his bed waiting until the
evening came, admitting no one, send
ing his servant away, turning over in
his hands the little red bulb. He would
hold it over the claret glass between his
thumb and the second finger and break
it. 1t would not show if he held it like
that.
So the Rev. Julian Sibwell died in a
Regent street restaurant and Black
thorn's death by hanging will take
place tomorrow.
In the interval between the death of
the man who took from him his nerve
and his own execution he is said to
have written much which is far above
the level of his previous work, and in
deed amounts to genius. But this is
rumor. Barry Pain in Black and
White.