The times., 1899-08-13
NOT FOR PUBLICATION.

81 ASA' O~4S VI A4o liiihOt 0AttlliS Was
realized; the window OF his writing room
overlooked a suburban roadway along
which jarring wheels seldom ratified he
had got away from the whirr and drone OF
the town. where his nerves had been at a
tension all day long. He could compose
/ in peace. And yet he sat with the bitter,
idle stare, elutehing dry pen.
The door behind creaked; a woman
gided III on tiptoe Don't start--it's tnly
/. she whispered
Don't start" He threw down the zen
without turning. Its all starts--or the
strain Of expecting them. I'm sick of it,
! | tell you-sick of Ii all +"
! What is the matter?' She had paused
halfway, with hands together Cant you
write?"
Write! I've nothing to write. I'm
drained dry. And l promised a tragic
! story with a half sneer-''for that So
ciety Sun Tragic! What's the time?"
1T must be nearly o.
Six? Dark in another hour-dusk nowi
/ I've done nothing And you-you never
attempt to help me, by so much as a
word'
Never help you?" she echoed; and re-
peated 1t to herself. Il never help himl
But when have you asked such
thing? What good would be my ideas ?"
'Oh, not much. Women seldom have
real ideas-they're fitting superfcialities.
| StiII"-
long silence. The door creaked cgain,
| but he knew she had only closed it, and
was still lowering behind him. He was
somewhat surprised, but would not turn,
vaguely conscious of the sneer's hollow
ness. Then
4 never help you,' she repeated, calmly.
Would you. like me to try?-perhaps
| something has just come into my mind. 1t is
silly. maybe, as I tell it; but you-my
husband. might make it clever and inter-
esting. You say your stories are always
twaddle as you first set them down..
DO /? Well, what is it?" ne said, star
ing across at the opposite roofs. This
situation is novel. Go on. Never mind as
long as there is anything at all in it."
There is-there is woman's heart in
it. l think" she whispered rs that any
good?''
OH" he said. Her voice had tailed of
as if she had real idea. but was afraid
of the sneer. well. there usually is
that's one of the component parts of the
! average story. Even humor is the brighter
| for tragedy lurking in the background, you
know. Anything in the heart ?-that's the
point Yes; anything in this hearth"
| Another silence. Couldn't / tell you
| just as il came to me, then?" she said.
I'm not clever enough to know.
It's more of a sketch, perhaps-I-I i'm
/ agined two lovers, very dear lovers. They
| got married, and there was a beautiful
world before them, with such peace at the
end if they knew! Make the man an ar
tist. He lived for his art. The girl-the
girl was only Just girl; she lived for the
man. She hung on his every word you
| might say; she prayed for his success when
he was never there to hear, thought for
him in ways that ne would never know,
| and checked her singing, and moved al
ways SO softly, SO that he should never be
disturbed at his work. You're not
writing. 1t is so silly?"
Go on he whispered. "There-there's
nothing to write yet
| That went on for years. The man
| deeper and deeper in his work, never saw
| that his wife was changing, that the light
had gone out of her eyes He forgot all re
| had meant to be-forgot after time even
| to kiss her; and the girl-she could never
! bring herself TO remind him en- ?
She still lived only for him, but he never
! cared what she wore, never thought that
| her work might be hard in its little way
and that there are some women for whom
years of such silence and loneliness spells
| death-or worse. She was always crying
/ at first, and never dared to tell him why
| if be did not see for himself, and kept out
of his way so that his mind should not be
| spoiled for work. And he-say that he
| thought it was something else, and spoke
| harshly and sneered, and at last got so
| that he lived in world of his OWN, and
wouldn't open his door when-when he
| knew that her heart was bursting outside.
longing for one kind word again. =
| Or-or-something like that. Could you be-
! gin anything with that?'
| No answer She could not see, but the
| mans outward stare was as if it would
never again relax She went on a iittls
faster, her voice taking a thrill-just as
| though his silence implied that there might
| be real dramatic possibilities in her small
| inspiration
| Il think my husband could-yes The
world is used to seeing the man grow in
| different. and the woman cold and pale;
| but you-you might take the tragedy as it
| is within the four walls, and make it live
! and throb in there. You might put ii that
| at first the mans mistake was in always
straining forward to his goal, forgetting
that the happiest time is now-forgetting
| how, when he looks at last he will not find
| just the same laughing girl as he married
Often he left her, we will say;
he wanted cheerful faces and relaxation
| after his work. and the wife was only like
a ghost creeping about the house. And so
| at last, for her the only alternative to a
broken heart was heart hardened to
stone. And oh, she had so loved him-had
so determined always to look her brightest
| and best for him That might
have gone on till the end, as it often does;
! but there came a blow-one blow more
than she could bear. Well suppose-we'n
suppose that one day the wife, somehow or
other, heard him talking to friend The
friend was quiet; he had asked: What's
! the matter with-with her? All the ro-
nance gone that you used TO talk about?' p
Make it-make it that she held her breath
| for the answer, even then-even then that
even then she was hungering to put her
arms all around him, and tell him. OH no.
it was not gone! And supposing she heard
| him say: 'Heri Pooh, take no notice of
| her-always the same. Wish to God some
| times I'd never married-what with the ex-
| penses and the miseries at home. Can't
make her out-not like other women
! Given it up long ago. Don't you ever
marry, old mani And supposing
| the wife stood and cried to God to take her
| on the spot, and that God did not answer
and that at last-at last, when something
seemed as il it would snap in her brain
she erept into her husbands study and took
out the pistol that he kept in his desk and
! put 1t to her forehead, and-and almost
pulled the trigger. Wouldn't a
paper accept story like that?''
Still no answer The man had craned
still further forward, his hands gripping
the desk his face grey in the dusk, his
| stare widened. 1t looked-it somehow
| looked as if he feared for his life to look
around. in fear OF hand waiting for his
throat. 1t was not his wife talking. It
was Tragedy that had come creeping into
the room-as it sometimes did when he
! wrote late, and something stood and
| breathed behind each sh0ulder