The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1901-04-19
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friend"
Martha Dubreuil said this in tone
half railing and half TESTING.
Pierre raised his head without an
swering and twitched nervously the
page blackened by ink. It was the
twentieth time at least that his wife
had made such remarks, and what
was worse, he realized sorrowfully
that she spoke the truth.
Once he had written book of which
he had been proud, novel launched
timidly by publisher who made him
pay the cost of publication: That was
an hour of ambitious dreams, long
since dissipated by the grim reality.
II will amount to something in the
world,' he had said resolutely. And
he believed it as did those who adj
mired him-which is to say his mother,
his sister and some of his friends who
read the book. Martha, his wife, was
not one of these admirers. She told
him frankly again and again: "You
will amount to nothing"
He had no answer to make to Mar
tha's sneers, and he suffered keenly in
recalling the lucky days when they
walked together as lovers along paths
bordered by flowers and they made
VOWS to each other and kissed. "You
will be a great man, my darling" she
had said then.
Pierre believed that he had been
faithless in not keeping his promise of
greatness made four years before.
She had brought him her youth and
beauty, and he ought to have given her
in exchange the literary fame she had
expected, and have earned fortune
for her by his pen. But now she had
abandoned those cherished dreams OF
reflected glory.
The poor fellow recalled the happy
days that had preceded their mar rage,
and the delights of their companion
ship during their honeymoon. And he
answered to her taunt:
$50 much the worse, my dear. But
we love each other, and thati enough"
He would not have cared for the plaud-
its of the crowd if he had had the love
of Martha. But she broke into laugh
ter that froze his feeble smile.
"Oh, yes, indeed. That's well
enough. One can't live on love. lis all
very we'll to say so in the novels you
write-or count on writing-but in real
life things are different"
When summer came they went to
the seashore, Pierre securing an APP
pointment as the resort correspondent
of newspaper. When he told her that
they were going, she said: 'Ah, you
are nice husband, after ALL" And she
smiled, but the smile was given as in
aims.
At the seashore she was soon the
belle of the place, and people forgot
about her husband, the reporter, who
in the shade. Some men were
with her much Of the time, and gossip
linked her name with that of a wealthy
ldler. Pierre ventured to speak of it.
"What of it?'' she asked. ''The man
amuses me with his compliments. You
know that 1 am an honest woman.
But I need amusement"
Dubreuil's sufferings were intense.
The thought of that imbecile who
was ever at Martha's side bruised his
heart. He wanted to strangle him in
the crowded ballroom; and longed
for duel. But the man was influ-
entail and litterateur of renown.
duel between them would have
been grotesque and useless.
The count deigned to interest him
.ef little in Pierre.
"Let US write q piece, my young
triend," said he, "and will give you
A man has talent,
when he has the sense to win wife |
Is pretty al yours"
Eyes, Pierre, why haven't you some
hing on hand?" said his wife.
One evening when he was in the |
title room, he seated himself at his |
work table, while his wife, who had
danced too much, slept peacefully.
He rested his head on his hands and
thought sadly: Eyes, Martha's love
or me has passed"
White paper was in front of him.
t was one of those silent nights that
empt writer, night of stars and
ilence.
II will try to work." he unused.
Feverishly he took up his pen. He
wrote of things and thoughts such
IS he had in his heart, speaking of
he happy past and the chagrin of the
present, of charming memories and
he painful reality. All night he
worked upon his work of life and
motion.
Cup already, Pierre?" exclaimed
lartha when she opened her pretty
yes in the morning. "At what are
on working, my early bird?'
"1Vhat difference does it make?"
aid he, coldly. 'You know well that
am capable Of nothing."> Il