The Bottineau courant. (Bottineau, Bottineau County, N.D.) 1895-1929, 1914-02-06
HE FINISHEu HIS WORK
By J. A. TIFFANY.

The man wal old and broken In
spirit. His life had been a failure, az
ali lives are, measured by the degree
!s which they fulfill the dreams of
youth.
At two-and-twenty he had mistaken
the flush of enthusiasm for the ire
Of genius. After a quarter of a GEN.
tury's devotion to small parts in third
rate theatrical companies, he had been
forced to the conclusion that a man
gets no more, OF less, than his labor
is worth; and that his own labor was
worth very little.
His wife had been beautiful. Now,
she was a poor, faded, commonplace
creature. Her illusions, too, were all
gone, like her beauty; and, worse than
that, the mans illusions in regard to
her we're dead also.
She had no more talent for acting
than had he; and they both knew 1t
now.
OF gentle birth, she still retained
some traces of refinement, in spite OF
her long sojourn in Bohemia. But the
novelty, the charm, the mystery OF the
life were gone.
Every illusion had been destroyed.
save one; and to that they chung with
desperate tenacity. At an early period
in their married life the man had
conceived a great literary project.
1--WE been thinking, Evelyn" he had
said one day, "of writing a historical
! account Of the drama from its first In.
. ception down to the present day.
Imagine the possibilities of such a
work."
%"Splendid!" the woman had ex.
claimed. why don't you begin at
once?"
And he had begun that very day. He
knew then that 1t was no mean task,
this that he had set himself. 1t meant
much reading, research, condensing,
writing, rewriting and writing again.
Not a book that a man could rattle on
In six months or a year..
The one illusion that the hard reali.
ties of life had fail = to dissipate was
this: That though both were failures
at acting, yet one day the man was
to achieve fame for himself and a
competence for them both by the pub
LEGATION Of his great history of the
drama-the dedication to a grateful
world of his LIES work .
For twenty years and more he had
stuck s~toically to his task.
Often the last nickel went for pa.
per, while the children were crying
for bread. Present necessities were
forgotten, or ignored, in the anticipa'
ton of comforts to be bought through
the sale of Reginald's life work.
II have finished it at last, Evelyn"
the man announced one day-one day
while they were in Baltimore. 81
have finished my LIES work"
For three months he awaited the
publishers decision, calling upon them
at intervals, only to be told that his
manuscript would receive the earliest
attention possible. Three long, weary
anxious months; and then the mar
took to his bed in a high fever. He
was delirious, and raved about his
book.
FINISHED. flnished!" he would shout
exultingly. II have finished my LIES
work!"-and another time he would
repeat the same words, with a wal
of anguish and despair.
Then the woman passed her cooling
hand across his brow, and sought to
comfort him by saying his life's work
was only just begun.
One evening as he lay helpless on
his pillow, the crimson rays of the
setting sun shone suddenly into the
room and lighted up his pallid face
handsome even in emaciation. He
started up to his elbow, with wide
staring eyes, exclaiming:
"Finished-fnished! I have fin
ished my life's work. I am going
home"
And the tears that welled to Eve
lyn's eyes had fallen from them to hel
cheeks, she looked once more upon
his face and saw his words we're true
The man was dead. He had finished
his life's work. He had gone home.
And while the woman sat in silent
grief, gazing on the dead face of him
whom she had loved so we'll, there
came q gentle tap upon the door.
It was Mr.. Hayes, an elderly gentle
nan from the publishers Office, who
had called once or twice before to in
quire after the health of the autho,
Of the bulky manuscript.
AT last, my dear lady," he aid, II
am able to report that our house has
accepted your husbands life work"
"Your house? ?" the woman echoed
failing at first to recognize her visitor
or comprehend his meaning-the one
cruel sense of widowhood overwhelm'
ing all things else.
Then, as the recollection Of the
fatal book that had aapped her hus.