The Elbert County tribune. [volume], February 12, 1915, Image 6

About The Elbert County tribune. [volume] (Elbert, Elbert County, Colo.) 18??-1920

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The LAPSE of
ENOCH WENTWORTH
by ISABEL GORDON CURTIS
Author y "The Woman. _frorr\Wolverfor\s”
ILLUSTRATIONS ELLSWORTH YOUNG''
COPYRIGHT, I9H- BY f.C.DKOWHE fa. CO. ♦ ♦ ♦
CHAPTER XXVl—Continued.
Across the pale face of the fnvalid
•wept a wave of scarlet; then he be-
Kan to talk slowly and hesitatingly.
*'l was In a Southern academy the llrst
time it happened. 1 must have been
seventeen or thereabouts. Prizos were
to be given for a public oration and
people were coming from everywhere
to hear us. The governor was to ad
dress us. My father was a lawyer, one
of the big lawyers of the state. He
went to this school when ho was a
boy, and he had carried off the oration
prise. Ills heart was set on my win
ning it. 1 toiled and toiled over that
speech; it was about the death of
Julius Caesar. I can remember, as I
lay awake nights staring out into the
darkness, how the speech came throb
bing in my brain. I could never write,
though, as 1 declaimed it to myself in
the still dormitory. 1 used to go out
into the woods and try to write. One
day I gave up. 1 sat huddled against
a stone wall which ran down the hill,
dividing a pasture from the forest.
There was a tall pine over my head
and the crows were calling from the
top of it. I can see the place yet."
Enoch lifted his eyes and turned
to meet the steady glance of the man
who sat beside the bed.
"Do you want to hear the story
out?" he asked bluntly.
"Yes —If you are bound to tell it.”
"It isn't an easy task to set the
atark-naked soul of man before anoth
er's gaze, especially when it’s a man’s
own soul; but I’ve been over this,
■tep by step, during these bedridden
days, and I’ll feel better when it’s out
of my system."
"Are you surer* Merry spoke gent
ly.
“Yes, sure.” The reflective tone had
gone from Enoch's voice. It was em
phatic. “Out there in the sunshine,"
be continued, “I realized what defeat
meant. I knew my oration was mere
ly a babble of senseless words; there
was not a throb in it. Besides, I knew
that 1 could not make it better. Sud
denly, on the quiet hillside, I heard
a voice close beside me."
There was a long pause. Wentworth
turned his eyes from Merry and stared
out at the window. A trumpet vine
climbed over the back of the Waverly
Place house end one scarlet blossom
hung vivid between him and the sun
shine.
"Say, old fellow," said Merry in a
low voice, "you and I are friends,
closer friends than we ever were.
What’s the use of raking up old mem
ories if they hurt. The story of some
thing you did when you were in swad
dling clothes doesn't count. Drop it!"
"It does count," answered Went
* worth stolidly. "1 tell you it does
count. It is the only thing that ex
plains what I did —when you called my
bluff. I have lain here —I've had days
and nights with nothing to do but to
///////////z.
f“What’B the Use of Raking Up Old
Memories?”
incinui ico.
'think and to analyze things. Why,
old man, I haven’t bad a chance like
this for years before. Let me tell you
my story; it's interesting even if it
.Isn’t much to my credit."
"All right, have your own way.”
"I sat there in the shadow of the
'wall listening. It was young David
Ross practising his oration. Dave
icauu of what the niggers called ’po’
white trash.' but he had ambition and
genius and was working his way
through school like a man. He had
chosen the death of Caesar, as 1 had.
& crouched there, scarcely breathing;
3 was afraid he would hear me and
■top. His speech was great! As I
Hat looking out over the valley I could
■ee the Roman warrior while he stood
(there In the Senate, down and out,
footed at and reviled, yet haughty and
jdefl&nt, facing the enemies who had
once been his friends. 1 began to
%o*. •»* boy does in a shamed, husky,
choked fashion. Suddenly a thought
came to me. I leaped over the wall
and held before Dave a new twenty
dollar gold-piece father had given me
that morning. It bought his oration.”
Wentworth paused as if in an em
barrassment of shame. Merry watched
him In silence.
"I feel—even now —the reluctant
grip with which Dave held on to those
sheets of blurred foolscap. I never
gavo a thought to what I had done.
Every moment for twenty-four hours
was needed to commit Dave's speech
to memory. My father, proud and hap
py. gave me another twenty-dollar
gold-piece. I carried it to Dave. He
refused it, turning his back on me
with angry scorn. Twenty yearß later
I met him again. He had gone to
congress and was blasting his way
upwards toward fame. I was assigned
to interview him. He remembered me
instantly. For a moment he stared at
me from head to foot, then he turned
away without a word and never
touched the hand I offered him. My
God! how that hurt!" A shiver went
through the man’s body.
"That happened twenty-five years
ago,” said Merry hesitatingly. "You
can’t lay up a boyhood sin against a
man. He changes—he’s almost an
other human being."
"No, he isn’t," answered Wentworth
doggedly. "I want to show you that
the psychological fellow was in the
right. That was ray first fall from
grace; but there was a second lesion.
It was worse, worse even than —than
what I did to you, Merry. I was out
in the Balkan mountains where the
blamed barbarian Turks go tearing at
each other’s throAts once in so often.
The world looked on, waiting for a
story of war. I had none to tell, noth
ing happened but a skirmish or two
once in a while. There was nothing
a man could make Into a story. It
was a wretched campaign. Young
Forsyth, of the Tribune, and I hung
together through it for months, living
like stray dogs, sick to death of our
Job, and ready fco throw it up at any
moment. One morning at daybreak
wo were awakened by shooting. We
scrambled from the cave where we
had slept and looked down into the
valley. We were in the very heart of
a battle, and these savages wore climb
ing over the rocks with their cuilasßes
flashing. They shrieked like maniacs,
the bullets went flying about our
heads. 1 crept hack to the hole among
the rocks where we had spent the
night. I couldn't see what was hap
pening; I didn't want to see. Death
shrieks echoed all around and above
me. It waa the most hellish din or
battle 1 ever listened to. I had turned
coward. I lay there with every tooth
In my head chattering. A nice con
fession for a man to make, eh?" asked
Wentworth with a grim smile.
Merry half rose then dropped back
into his chair. "Hold on. Enoch, I
swear you’re not fit for this sort of
thing! Your temperature will go up,
then the nurse—"
"Damn the nurse. I’m fit enough;
keep still. I want to finish my story.
Forsyth, the Intrepid young fool, went
creeping along the face of the cliff.
He had never seen a battle before. I
called to him to lie low, but he never
heeded me. Through a crevice in the
rock I saw him stretch his head over
the chasm and crane his neck, then
plunge down and begin to write as if
he were mad. Once 1 sneaked out
and tried to drag him in beside me.
lie fought like u wildcat, so I went
back to shelter. The bullets pinged on
the rocks all around me. Suddenly I
heard a low, gurgling, awful cry and
somebody called my name in a hoarse
shout. It was Forsyth. I crept out.
He stood on a cliff above me, clutch
ing at his throat, then he toppled and
fell. He caihe plunging down over the
jocks until he reached my feet. He
was dead, stark dead, when I pulled
him into the cave. Ills notebook was
clutched so tight in his hand that 1
tore a corner from one page as 1 took
it from his lingers. 1 buried him right
there.
"After a little while the battle fiz
zled down to a stray shot or two. That
night under the gleam of a sputtering
little torch I read Forsyth’s* story. It
waa tremendous—perfectly tremen
dous—perfectly tremendous! It read
like inspired stuff. I had never
dreamed the fellow had such a vocab
ulary. And ho lay there close beside
me, asleep—under the damp, warm,
soft earth. I had a fit of the horrors.
I put out my light, Btuffed tho pages
of writing in my pocket, then went
doubling and twlßtlng down those wild
mountains, dodging the enemy’s camp
tires and their infernal bullets, until
I reached the miserable little town in
the valley we two men had our
headquarters. 1 hurried to the tele
graph office to send out Forsyth’s story
to the Tribune, with the news of his
death. I was waiting to get the wire
when somebody handed me a cable.
I looked at it half-dazed. It came from
my own paper, crazy because 1 had
sent them no story; they were hungry
as vultures for news. As soon as I
could get a wire I sent out Forsyth's
story."
"Under his name?” asked Merry
quietly.
"No." Enoch lifted his bead, looked
ELBERT COUNTY TRIBUNE.
at his friend with guilt and shame in
his eyes, then be turned away. "No.
I signed my own name to it I sent
It to my own paper. I wired the news
of Forsyth's death to the Tribune.”
Neither of the men spoke for some
minutes. When Merry turned, Went
worth lay staring at him with a pray
er for pity, comprehension, and for
giveness in his eyes.
"I want you to understand one
thing,” pleaded the older man. "When
you called my bluff that morning and
I wrote that bond, I was innocent of
any thought of injury to you. I don’t
know what was in my mind. It l was
nothing in tho world but an idle fancy.
I told you so at the time. I did not
dream that you could write a play. If
anyone had told me you were capable
of turning out 'The House of Ester
brook’ I should have laughed af him.
Then that day, when you came and
read the manuscript—l had Just given
up all hope, as I did with the oration
on Caesar. I had been toiling for
years and years on a play. There
was one —it had seemed to me like a
great plot—but I had begun to realize
that labor does not mean everything.
You want inspiration, or genius or art
—or something, and I didn't have it."
Enoch paused, wrinkling his eyes as
if in an attempt to remember some
thing. "I was trying to think of
something Ellen Terry wrote on the
back of a photograph she once gave
me. It ran like this:
" ‘When am I to be an actress? Well,
after fifteen years’ labor, perhaps,
bor! Why, I thought it was all Insplr
atlon. No, labor and art are the
foundation; inspiration—a result.*
“Terry wasn’t altogether right.
bor alone won’t land the prize. You’ve
proved that, Boy."
“I don’t know." said Merry vaguely.
"I do.” The man's pale face flushed.
"When you dropped In on me, eager
as a young victor for a laurel wreath.
I knew as surely as if a judge had
passed sentence on mo that my years
and years of toil meant nothing but j
waste paper. Then, suddenly, as tempt
ation had clutched at me twice before '
in my life, came a revenous desire for |
fame—the fame that another man had
labored for and —’*
"I understand," cried Merry. There
was a thrill of impassion in his voice.
"Now, dear old man, let’s target it.
The one thing I can never forget is
that you have raked me from the
depths more than once. I might have
been/worse than dead today if it
hadn't been for you."
“You never descended to the d.epths
I did," said Wentworth abruptly.
"Sin—my variety of it or yours—is
nothing but the difference in a man's
taste. His palate dictates what he will
eat. There is a moral palate, and if
you go on slak!#g your appetite,
there’s a weakening of the mural tis
sue. Isn’t that what your psycholo
gists call it? If it had not been for
you, Enoch, I might have been w’orse
than dead today.” Merry uttered the
last sentence in an undertone. “I have
a feeling, though, that I can never go
so low again, because —”
He sat silent for a minute. Went
worth’s eyes were fixed upon him like
ae insistent question. "Because
Enoch.” he went on in a steady voice,
"because Dorcas has promised to be
my wife.”
"Oh!” cried Wentworth quickly.
“Oh, thank God for that!”
CHAPTER XXVII.
Behind the Curtain.
It was a wet night in October. A
line of carriages moved slowly over
the shining asphalt to the door of the
Gotham. Grant Oswald stood in a
corner of the foyer watching the
throng pour In.
"This beats your first night in Lon
don, doesn’t it?” queried a newspaper
man who stood beside him.
" Y os," acceded the Englishman.
"The first night or any other night.”
"Wentworth's escape from death was
a great ad —if you look at it that way.
lie had a close call.’’
"Yes." Oswald Bpoke absently.
That morning he had arrived from
Ixrndon. Although he was the least
curious of men, he felt as if the peo
ple from whom he had parted lour
months ago were living in a different
atmosphere. Before the ship docked
ho had discovered a group waiting to
welcome him. Dorcas was there, her
beautiful face glowing with happiness.
He watched her untie a gray scarf
from her hat and wave it. Merry
stood beside her. but the girl's hand
was clasped inside her brother's arm.
Wentworth was wan and thin. Across
his temple gleamed a wide red scar.
Merry lifted his hat when he caught
sight of Oswald and the wind tossed
down, almost into his eyes, the wavy
lock of long fair hair which proclaimed
his calling. Alice Volk stood in the
group, with Julie Jumping impatiently
beside her. Little Robin clasped her
hand, while he searched for the ship
with his sightless eyes.
With a courteous “Good night" Os
wald left the man and walked into the
theater, where a gay, chattering crowd
streamed past him. The throng was
so dense that he was pushed into a
corner. When tho overture began he
moved toward the rail and took his
place among a group of men who had
not been able to buy seats. Ho found
Singleton, of the Times, at his elbow.
"Hullo," said the young editor heart
ily. "I’m glad to see you back and
glad you've come back to such a
house. Why, it’s one of the biggest 1
over saw in New York. You fellows
must be raking in the shekels. '
"It does look that way,” Oswald
smiled. "I don't know how loqg it
will hold out. The play has ajready
gone far beyond my expectations.”
"It ought to last through several
seasons. Generally a drama that pulls
at the heart strings has a clutch on
the purse strings of the public. Be
sides, you’re a great card in your Miss
Wentworth, to say nothing of Merry.
She’s out of sight. Why, I’ve run in.
heaven knows how often, for that
third act. I can't think of any big
actress who could get as much out
of that situation as Dorcas Wentworth
does. There are minutes when it
doesn't seem as if the girl were act
ing—she lives the character from start
to finish.”
"I believe you are right,” acknowl
edged Oswald.
Before tho third act began the
bouse settled down to that silence
which means Intense anticipation.
When the curtain fell, the applause
rose to a deafening clamor. One play
er after another appeared to take an
encore. of all came Dorcas. She
stood on the stage alone, smiling and
bowing. Her face was radiantly hap
py. When tho curtain dropped, the
applause began again. Wentworth ap
peared, leading Merry by the hand.
The face of the older map looked pal-
Oswald Was Watching the Throngs
Pour In.
lid and the red scar cut lividly across
his forehead. A stillness fell upon
the house. Jt seemed to Oswald as
If the people waited intently for some
unusual event.
Enoch Wentworth raised his hand
with a gesture which was' strangely
dramatic for a man who was neither
an actor nor an orator. Like a flash
Oswald remembered a day when he
sat watching a prisoner at the bar.
The man had been condemned to
death; a moment later, with a stifled
cry of terror, he stretched out his
arm for mercy and sympathy.
"Ladles and gentlemen," Went
w’orth began, in a voice which was
low, but so marvelously distinct that
each syllable carried to the farthest
seat in the house, "this is not a curtain
speech—you have not called me be
fore the footlights tonight; it is an
explanation. It is a —confession."
Enoch paused as if mustering
strength to go through an ordeal. He
felt the curious scrutiny of a thou
sand eyes. "It is a confession," he re
peated slowly, "a confession which has
been long delayed—”
He never finished his sentence.
Merry stepped forward and laid his
hand upon the man’s arm with a cling
ing grasp which was full of affection,
even while it pushed Wentworth aside.
"Allow me.” Then he laughed.
"Good people, one and all, who have
so long been friends of mine, thi6 is
my confession, late in the day, as my
friend Wentworth suggests, but it is
mine. He waa simply breaking the
news to you that I wrote ’The House
of Esterbrook.' *’
He hesitated for a moment, then
Enoch touched his arm as if in pro
test. Merry smiled and gently put
him aside. A whisper of sturtled sur
prise ran through the house, followed
by a moment of hush, then applause.
It subsided slowly. During the tu
mult men and women who kept their
eyes upon the stage saw Wentworth
turn as if pleading vehemently. Merry
answered with a few decisive words,
then he stepped down to the foot
lights.
"We have saved this confession,
ladies and gentlemen,'' he began grave
ly, "not to create a sensation or to
further advertise the play, but each
one of you must realize how the pub
lic distrusts a Jack-of-all-trades. Many
of you doubted the ability of a Merry
Andrew to touch human emotion t ever
so lightly, and came that first 'bight
with eager curiosity to see him in the
character of ‘John Esterbrook.' How
much more would you have hesitated
If you had known that this same Merry
Andrew was the author of the play?
Hence the secret, to deceive you until
an honest verdict had been rendered.
Tonight 1 release my friend Enoch
Wentworth from the role he has car
ried for ten months. I also wish, be
fore you, to acknowledge a large in
debtedness to him. For years he has
been the truest friend a man ever
had. He has believed in me, encour
aged me, and to his untiring labor you
are indebted for much of the perfect
detail which has carried ’The House
of Eastabrook' to success.”
The audience saw Wentworth stare
as if in utter amazement when Merry
began his confession. Then his eyes
grew misty, and when the young actor
turned to him with an affectionate
smile, he gripped the hand held out
to him as a man doeb when he can
not put love or gratitude Into words.
Across the footlights men and women
realized vaguely, through the strange
human insight we call intuition, that
another drama was being played be
fore their eyes; a life-and-blood drama,
where the feelings of strong men were
deeply stirred.
"Good Lord!” said Singleton.
Oswald turned with a start as if he
had been aroused from sleep. The
newspaper man stood at his elbow
with a look of blank astonishment la
his eyes.
"What’s back of all that?” he a*k*d.
"I can understand that Merry wrote
the play. I’ve known Enoch Went
worth for years, and I was never so
staggered in my life as the first night
when I saw ‘The House of Ester
brook.' I went to the office afterwards
to write my stuff and I sat for ten
minutes—dumb, stupid—trying to fig
ure out how Wentworth, the Enoch
Wentworth I knew, could have writ
ten It. How long have you known
this?”
"I have known it," answered Os
wald quietly, “just as long as you
have."
"Then I’m right,” cried Singleton.
"I knew Merry was lying when he
stood there on the stage giving us
ttat bluff about Wentworth carrying
the secret for him. Merry wrote it all
right. I might have guessed it long
ago. I say, do you know a
devil of a big story back of all that?”
Oswald’s face grew stern.
“You see I know both of the men
so well,” went on Singleton eagerly.
"Why, they were a regular David and
Jonathan pair ever since I met them
first. Enoch was forever setting Merry
on his pins. The actor would go off.
Heaven knows where, throw over a
part, and drop off the edge of the
world. I don’t believe he dissipated
exactly; he simply tossed his money
away and went downhill. Wentworth
would hunt him up and drag him back
where he belonged. He straightened
up suddenly when he began to play
’John Esterbrook.' You can’t even
pull him into a poker game now. I
guess I took the winnings at the last
game he stood in for. That night I
had a great mind to hand the money
back to him. We said ‘Good-by’ about
daylight. He looked pessimistic and
gluin. No, he wasn’t glum either;
Merry never gets glum. He had a
down-and-out, don’t-give-a-damn ex
pression that morning. I can see him
yet. Suddenly be disappeared again.
When he came back Wentworth and
he cut each other dead. That Paget
woman affair began, then Wentworth
saved Merry’s life. Why, it’B a tre
mendous story!"
Oswald turned abruptly. Something
in his quiet gaze made Singleton shift
his eyes with a start of guilt. "I want
to say a word to you,” the English
man's voice was stern, "and I Want
you to repeat I say to every man
in your fraternity. There may be a
big story somewhere behind this—l
cannot tell. If there is, if an enmity
or a misunderstanding did exist, if
there was a wrong done, or if anything
lies behind these two men which we
do not comprehend, leave it to them.
They have burled it. Don’t turn
ghoul,” he pleaded, "and dig it up.
simply to make a curious, hearties*
world buy your paper for a day or
two. I am told there is a bond be
tween newspaper men, like a warm
hearted brotherhood. Wentworth be*
longed to that brotherhood; he doe*
yet —remember that”
Singleton stretched out his hand
with an impulsive gesture. ’’Thank
you, Mr. Oswald. You’re a good deal
of a man. I never knew you before.
We all need a jog on the elbow once
in a while. A newspaper man grows
a buzzard when a story is in the air.
He forgets how the other fellow feels.
**’ll pass the word around. I can prom-
you that not a man among us will
do anything but take Merry’s word for
it. His confession is a big story In
itself."
"Thank you,” said Oswald with a
cordiality which few men had seen
in the dignified Englishman.
He stood talking with a group who
gathered about him at the clode of
the play, eager as Singleton had been
to discuss Merry’s dramatic confes
sion, when an usher interrupted them.
“Mr. Oswald, you’re wanted back of
the scenes,” said the boy.
Under the white glare of electricity
a little group stood on the half-dis
mantled stage. Tho people In the cast
were there—property men, the call
boy, electricians, ushers, and the
humblest employe of the house. The
actors still wore their stage garb and
make-up. Dorcas’ hand was linked in
her brother’s arm. For a moment Os
wald stood watching he#. Her face
was flushed, her eyes shone, she
seemed transfigured by happiness.
Merry stretched out a welcoming
hand to Oswald. “We’ve been waiting
for you. Oswald, to round out oui
circle," he cried gaily. *T had a Scotch
grandmother. When she reached the
western wilderness and built a home
she made her husband carve over the
chimney-piece: ‘We’re a’ sibb tae ane
aniether here.’ Once, when 1 was a
little boy, she explained it to me ]
understood. The English language
won t translate these words, but thej
mean that there’s nobody here but the
best of friends. Because we are a
sibb tae ane anither here tonight 1
want to break a secret to you. It li
a more wonderful secret than tha new*
I gave to the audience."
Merry looked about him with t
quick, boyish smile. "I used to say J
could not make a curtain speech tc
save my life. Tonight I feel as if ]
were blossoming out. I seem capable
of speeches behind the curtain as wel.
as in front. I suppose happiness makei
an orator of a man.” He laughed Joy
oußly. "But—to my secret. Th!s deal
lady, whom you all love and honor
has promised tc be my wife."
He held out his hands to Dorcas anc
caught hers, then he drew her inti
hiß arms as if they stood alone to
some empty corner of the world.
THE END.
M
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UNITED STATES RANKS HIGH
Percentage of Illiteracy Compare*
Well With Those of Other Coun
tries of the World.
In the United States the percentage
of illiteracy is 7.7 for the total popula
tion (over ten years of age) and 3 for
the native white population. In Den
mark, Germany, the Netherlands, Swe
den, Switzerland and the United King
dom the percentage of illiteracy is
lower than that for the native white
population of the United States. Doubt
less the list should also include Nor
way, although no figures are available
for that country; but In the other Eu
ropean countries the percentage of
illiteracy is higher than it is in the
United States, and usually very much
higher. In Bulgaria it is 65 per cent;
in Greece 70, in Hungary 33, in Italy
37, in Portugal 69, in Roumania 61,
in Russia 69, in Servia 79, and in Spain
58. There is less illiteracy in Aus
tralia than In the United States, but in
all other non-European countries the
percentage of illiteracy is in general
very high.
Voluble.
“Is he a man of his word?”
“I don’t believe so. He’s a man of
too many words.”
People cause no surprise by saying
they enjoy good health. Why shouldn’t
they?
Monuments to men really great are
superfluous.
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and it agrees with me,” writes
a doctor, “better than any
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—unless there is one I have
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Grape-Nuts is scientifically
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strong and weak digestions.
Long baking—about 20 hours
partially pre-digests the
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assimilation.
Besides, Grape-Nuts sup
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all of the nutriment of wheat
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‘‘There’s a Reason”
f or
Grape-Nuts
—sold-by Grocers.