The Odanah star. [volume] (Odanah, Ashland Co., Wis.) 1912-1916, 1914-10-09
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Irony Of Fate.

The Irony Of Fate.
| Wentworth locked himself in the IL
brary one Saturday morning. Oswald,
with quiet insistence, had continued
| the demand that he break away, go
home, and begin work on another play.
Business can be carried along with
| out you," was his daily assurance.
1.-The House of Esterbrook' is good
for another season, perhaps for more
than one, and we ought to look ahead.
l am asked every day If you are writ
ing another play. You ought to strike
while the iron is hot. The luck we
are having should be an inspiration to
you"
The Waverly Place house was per-
fectly still. Enoch seated himself be-
fore the desk, cleared of the blotter,
laid out a heap Of copy paper, filled
the ink-well, and adjusted new pen.
He leaned his head upon his hand
for few minutes, and his listless
eyes fell upon calendar. He dis
covered that it bore the dates Of
March instead of April. He tore off
the record of weeks which had passed
| and dropped it into the waste basket.
The pen rested listlessly between his
fingers. When he tried to write with
it the ink had dried. He did not dip
| 1t in the bottle again. A trail of Sleep
less days and nights lay behind him
he felt as If his brain had drowsed
at its post
He picked up rubber band, twisted
it about his fingers, then pulled it
thin till it suddenly snapped in two.
He shook himself as If strenuous
effort to wake up. For days he had
been evolving what, seemed like a
virile plot for a 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 mis- Office at the Gotham and
in frenzy of haste shaped out each
scene on his typewriter.
The manuscript lay at his elbow
He read it through. Suddenly he re-
allied that the stuff fell short, of
what he could not decide. 1t lacked
reality. He compared it with Merry's
drama. The story in that rose up out
Of the paper. each character a 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 a man does when he
is in pain.
He picked up a letter which lay be-
side him on the desk. It was adj
dressed in Merry's irregular writing.
There was nothing inside the envelope
but 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-
sented the entire royalties on the
House of Esterbrook." The mail
brought it back to him as it had gone.
A small clock licked out the time on
top of the desk. He remembered it
was Christmas gift from Merry. The
ceaseless round of it's secondhand fas-
cinated him.
1T would be great If one could work
as that ridiculous needle does," he
thought 1T is such a lifelike thing.
It goes on with regularity that
feazes a man, never pausing day or
night, never dropping out or baking
as we humans do when the brain goes
numb. I wonder" Enoch loafed back
in his chair, II wonder if it is too late
to come back. 1t does not seem pos
sible that man could undergo ply
steal change in few months while he
is still hale and hearty. They say such
a 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 if it were a hui
man copntenance, II suppose this is
part of the scheme they call retribu-
ton"
He uttered the last word in an un-
dertone as If 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 a 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 stroke from the thin
end of a whip. It was 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 prayer. He had
forgotten the form that prayer takes.
God" he murmured, eff there Is
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
a connection in the lower part of the