The Montgomery advertiser., 1906-01-24
AS WILLED BY FATE.
Ny George T. Pardy.

He threw the pen down tnpatlentiS | and rose from the desk at which ne hdu been writing for the last three hours. It's no use," he muttered to him self. as he paced up and down the
 room. T shall have to let it walt un- til tomorrow after all. Ethel Will pc ] disappointed but it cant be helpeo. I Ethel was his sixteen year-oio | daughter, and she was coming nome
 tonight from school in Paris, where
 she had spent the last two years. Only two days before he had written
 to her promising that he would give ! himself a weeks holiday when she
 came home. and take her about to see
 all the sights of London. And now here was his novel still lying unfinished
 and every mornings post bringing im- ploring letters from the publishers and 1 reminders that the time scheduled TOT l the delivery of the book was long past. | He was genuinlly annoyed with hlm-
 self
 | His wife had died in giving Ethel birth, and the affection which he had
 lavished upon the former had been
 transferred, almost in it's entirety. to the living legacy she had bequeathed him. It had been a severe wrench to let the girl go away Jo school at all, wrench which, each time she went back again after her holidays. had seemed all the worse to bear. Now that her schooldays were over at last and she was coming back to him Tor good. his pleasure was exquisite. He had planned out everything that they would do in the short weeks vacation which was all he could permit him self. and had been thinking of it for the past fortnight.
 He had expected, of course. to have hte int fal before Ethers arrival. so that noth- ing in the way of work should inter- fere with the enjoyment of her first week of new life. And here, as i'll luck would have 1t, was the book still incomplete. True there was only one chapter lacking, but that chapter had been waiting to be written for over a week. Possibly the idea of Ethefs approaching return had unsettled him for work; possibly his mind, aglow with it's ever present anticipation of pleas ure to come. was unable to contem- plate, what for the proper accomplish ment of the book it was necessary 1t should contemplate-a picture of very different kind.
 For the great climax of "Forsaken" was, as he was perfectly aware, tragedy and a death, and to write in such vein when he himself was sim ply permeated with the intense joy of living. was anything but an easy task. Yet If Ethel was not to be disap- pointed, the tale must be finished, and quickly too. Even now the tall clock in the corner pointed to five, and the shadows were lengthening across the trim kept lawn. By ten Ethel would be at the station.
 "Confound itv he muttered, T must pull myself together. This nervous ness is simply ridiculous"
 He stopped for a moment in his perambulations to press the electric bell.
 T shan't want any dinner tonight. Dawkins," he said to the servant who appeared I'll have some supper with Miss Ethel when she comes. Don't forget, the carriage Is to be round at half past nine sharp.
 Very good. sir"
 The novelist sat down to his desk again, and for a few minutes remained lost in a reverie. At last he dipped his pen into the ink, and it began to move across the white surface of the paper, slowly at first, as though the ideas were tardy in assuming coherent shape, then quicker and quicker still. Suddenly, as it seemed, his mood had
 changed, his thoughts attuned them selves to the minor key. And as the sunlight died away from the garden and the dusk crept out of the earth. the tragedy of the woman's death spread itself out over the paper, line by line, sheet by sheet, and the book swept on to its appointed end.
 Only once in the gathering darkness did he pause to call for lights, and then bent over his task again, to dash on to the page one of those living word pictures which had helped to build up his fame. He felt even as he wrote. that he had never done bet ter work than this, and wondered at himself that he could do 1t
 Somehow he had never experienced the fiery thrill of inspiration as he experienced it tonight. He had writ ten of death before. but never had the final calamity of a heroine of his own creating stirred him as it stirred him now. He lived himself every emo tion that he described, was wrenched with every pang that his pen painted.
 The death of this magnificent crea- ture, with all it's attendent agony. as sumed for him an absolute reality. He seemed to feel against his cheeks the icy breath of the Dark Angel. the lamp fickered ominously, and strange, fan tastic shadows moved in weird process