The Mitchell capital. (Mitchell, Dakota [S.D.]) 1879-1918, 1909-09-30
that evening, driving back to Elton
square, during dinner. and a%fterward. But

ing talrly apt, ana, though not quite at
/, ease, quick-witted enough not to betray
himself. His patron was delighted with
her protege. From tina. night Peter Grif-
fin died and Paul Lawrence took his place.
Was he happy" He did not know. he
could not say. The life was a dream OF
ease and luxury. A study was fitted up
for him, with creamy, handmade note
paper to write upon and an expensive
gold-mounted fountain pen to inspire him.
Here he sat when not driving or visiting
with Lady Anstruther.
But he wrote nothing. New clothes
poured in upon him He was made much
of by the ladies, asotered and flirted with.
some lovely drawing room. surrounded by
charming women and in an atmosphere
Of ease and cultured leisure, her sorrow
full face would arise, not to reproach him,
but to remind him of the time when it had
seemed to him the very sweetest in the
world.
Poor Nellie! She would forget him In
time. He must marry we'll. His patron
said so.
But he wrote nothing. One day he sat
down intending to commence a great epic.
He sat for an hour without result. He did
not write a single line, He could not.
Then the horror Of the thing suddenly
fastened upon him. Suppose he could not
write any more! The blood in his veins
tingled at the thought; his hands grew
clammy, his head swan giddily. The fear
drove him frantic. He turned again to his
table and picked up his pen. He wrote
furiously, feverishly.
Rubbish-utter silly Jingle. with hating
metre and not a poetic idea In it!
He threw down his pen and went for q
long walk. When on his return, he tried
again, the result was the same. Failure.
He could not write a line.
Then he realized that the muse had for
\ 80 r~ Ll~, y T -,1~ 50 -.-fN A. I---- A.
morrow would bring her back. He knew
it would not; nor would a hundred tomor-
rows. He was as certain as that he was
living that he would never write again.
Poet he was, but now he was an imposter,
a fraud, a lie.
His brain throbbed at the thought. The
happy. tender ideas and fancies that had
thrilled him in his dingy room, here amid
comfort, wealth and luxury, would not
come. And he knew that they never would
come, too knew 1t without hope of doubt.
His whirling thoughts returned to Nell
lie. How her tender face and simple, low
ing ways would have comforted him! But
he had cut himself adrift from her for
ever by his choice. And this-this was his
punishment.
His patron found Pau Lawrence
strangely absent at dinner that night.
There was a large and fashionable par
ty, and those who expected something
poetic from him must ave gone, SO far
as that was concerned, mpty away. 1t
is to be trusted that they consoled them
selves with the reflection that poets, Of
all men, shine least in society.
Lady Anstruther quietly rallied him, and
hinted that he was thinking out an epic.
Poor Paul! He gave a sickly smile, and
made an apology that he did not mean. So
soon did he begin to play the hypocrite.
But for how long?
Those terse, pregnan words haunted
him for long after For how long cOIld ha
keep up?
He knew-none better-that he would
never write even so much as a Quatrain
or a rondeau in the lap of luxury, much
less the great epic his patron expected OF
him..
How he bore the next week-fortnight-
month, Paul Lawrence never knew. Every
day he tried to wr1te-it was a waste OF
beautiful paper and the best ink money
could buy. Yet in his dingy, dirty garnet
he could scribble without ceasing, ideas
flowed, thoughts came to him. though the
paper on which he wrote was bought by
the pound, cheaply, and his inkstand was
"a penny ink bottle! And his patron!
All, that was the point. Even the most
complaisant OF patrons are anxious to see
the results of their patronage.
To Lady Anstruther's surprise, then dis
appointment, and at the last annoyance,
there were no results.
This story is not a tragedy, though 10
poor Peter it began to assume almost those
dimensions. He tried to avoid Lady
Ansuuther, but he could not. He began to
fear she was growing suspicious.
He was not far wrong. And all the while
he had to play the liar and the hypocrite.
While he knew very we'll in his heart the
lap of luxury was not the place in which
to write poems, or, indeed, to do any kind
of work worthy Of the world for which it
is written. He knew his brain was dulled
by the artificiality of the life he led. He
knew it..
But he thought of Nellie. Where was
she? Was she breaking her heart be-
cause he, as others had done before him.
had chosen luxury rather than love? And
she had loved him, with tender eyes,
chnging soft hands,, and tears OF admira-
ton in the former which were a million
times more eloquent than all the fulsome
praise of his patrons friends.
He thought of Nellie-his old sweetheart.
But even thinking Of ner could not bring
him back his lost gift.
| One very wet night Lady Anstruther
went out to dine without him. He had
pleaded that he wanted to "think OUT
) some work: but even then he fancied he
/ saw something like contempt in his pat
ron's eyes. Was he right? he wondered.
True, the poem he had shown her the
day before was a poor effort. Butt was
the best he could do.
1t was an absolute relief to be free. He
SuuOeNiy IelC munger lie went into a res
%taurant and had a chop from the grill, and
he enjoyed it more than a ten-course din
ner!
He went out. after paying his modest
bill, with a queer feeling %throbbing at his
t heart. He looked around him dazedly.
The part to which he had wandered
seemed strangely familiar. He looked
! again; he was in the very same suburban
) street in which he used to meet Nellie!
And there she stood. under the gas lamp
!. a little, white-faced. pathetic figure, with,
Z oh! such sad eyes. She ran to meet him
with a cry. W
, "Oh. dear, dear love, I know you would
t come back to mel" And the poet could
!. not speak,, SO he simply took her in his
! arms under that %twinkling, unconscious
gas lamp. and kissed her.
How she chung to him, how her soft
I eyes filled with tears, how she held his
hand in her cold fingers!
With a mad impulse her lover-he was
that still-tore off his gloves. threw his