Baxter Springs news. [volume] (Baxter Springs, Kan.) 1882-1919, 1914-07-23
CHAPTER XVII.
The Irony Of Fate.

brary ono Saturday morning. Oswald
with quiet insistence, had continued
the demand that he break away. &C
home, and begin work on another play
business can be carried along with
out you" was his daily assurance
1.-THE House Of Esterbrook' 10 good
for another season, perhaps for more
than one. and We ought to look ahead
I am asked every day II you are writ
ing another play. You ought to strike
while the iron 10 hot. The luck We
are having should be an inspiration to
you"
The Waverly Place house was per
fectly still. Enoch seated himself b.
fore the desk, cleared on the blotter.
laid out q heap Of copy paper. nlled
the ink-well, and adjusted new pen.
He leaned his head upon his hand
for . few minutes. and his hstless
eyes fell upon o calendar. He dis
covered that It bore the dates Of
March instead Of April. He tore on
the record Of weeks which had passed
and dropped It into the waste basket.
The pen rested llstlessly between his
fingers. When he tried to write with
It the ink had dried. He did not dip
It in the bottle again. A trail Of sleep.
less days and nights lay behind him
he felt a. II his brain had drowsed
at its post.
He picked up a rubber band. twisted
It about his fingers. then pulled It
thin till It suddenly snapped In two.
He shook himself as II q strenuous
effort to wake up. For days he had
been evolving what seemed like o
virile plot for play. He tramped the
streets to do his thinking and planned
the scenario from beginning to end.
The night before he had locked him
self in his ONCE at the Gotham and
in frenzy Of haste shaped out each
scene on his typewriter.
The manuscript lay at his elbow.
He read 1t through. Suddenly he re-
allied that the stun fell short, Of
what he could not decide. II lacked
reality. He compared It with Merrys
drama. The story in that rose up out
of the paper, each character living,
breathing man or woman. This story
was dead, absolutely dead. He lifted
the sheets and deliberately tore them
across, gritting his teeth while the
paper tipped. as q man does when he
Is in pain.
He picked up letter which lay be-
side him on the desk. 1t was ad;
dressed in Merry's irregular writing.
There was nothing inside the envelope
but q check for an amount in five
figures. Wentworth glanced at It, then
tore It across. He had sent the check
to the actor without word; It repre-
scented the entire royalties on the
House of Esterbrook." The mail
brought 1t back to him as It had gone.
A small clock licked out the time on
top Of the desk. He remembered 1t
was Christmas gift from Merry. The
ceaseless round Of its secondhand fas.
cinated him.
1T would be great II one could work
as that ridiculous needle Does" he
thought. 1T is such lifelike thing.
It goes on with q regularity that
feazes a man, never pausing day or
night, never dropping out or baking
as we humans do when the brain goes
numb. l wonder" Enoch loafed back
in his chair, II wonder II It Is too late
to come back. II does not seem pos
sible that man could undergo ply
steal change In a few months while he
Is still hale and hearty. They say such
q thing does come, though-quick as
scat, when your arteries harden, or
something Of that sort happens. I'm
forty.two. A man isn't old at forty.
two, and yeti feel old today. l sup
pose" he stared steadily at the face
Of the little clock as II 1t were a hu-
man countenance. Il suppose this is
part Of the scheme they call retribu.
ton"
He uttered the last word in an I'M
dertone as II some one were within
hearing. There had been moments
especially in the dead of night-when
he had longed to lay bare his soul to
a father confessor. The conscience
which had slept for months awoke
and was raging at him like demon.
He sat silent, going over his life step
by step from the day when he was
confronted by temptation and fell.
Dorcas had branded him as a thief.
Still she had kept her word and never
again questioned the authorship OF the
play. Her accusation left a welt in
his soul like a stroke from the thin
end Of q whip. It was a welt which
had not healed. He knew she had
spoken the truth. He dropped his
head upon his arms. It was years
since he had said a prayer. He had
forgotten the form that prayer takes.
God" he murmured. III there 10
any way for me to come back-and
begin again-show me that way"
He did not raise his head; In an
apathy he was listening curiously to
q commotion in the lower part Of the
house. From a wrangle Of voices in
the hall rose the clear tones OF a
woman. He jumped to his feet with