Jasper County Democrat, Volume 10, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 September 1907 — His Magnum Opus. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

His Magnum Opus.

By LULU JOHNSON.

Copyrighted, 1907. by M. M. Cunningham.

Poindexter pulled the sheet of paper from the typewriter carriage and added It to the pile In the wire basket beside him. He caught up the last few pages and reread them with a glow of pride, for he knew that at last he had written a story of flath and blood instead of the mildly innocuous romance* that had added to his bank account but not to his fame. Ever since that night six months before, when he had coipe back to his darkened home to find the note on the dresser of his room notifying him that Agnes had gone away with the man he had considered his best friend, he

had worked with feverish energy upon, the novel. He had taken little Elsie and had crossed the continent with her that she should be far removed from all who might allude to her mother. As they sat in the car, the child lost in wonder at the constantly shifting scene, he had planned the story, and once he had made his new home he had set to work. All the bitterness of his heart he had written into the book. It was the plain tale of his own experience, told with the simple directness of one who feels deeply, except that into the last chapter he had written an ending such as he wished that she might suffer. Almost gloatingly he drew the picture of remorse and shame that followed the desertion, and now reading it over he shuddered at the evil picture his own fierce desire had conjured up. For years he had sought a theme that should lead him to his great accomplishment. Agnes, too, had sought to help him, but their lines had fallen in the pleasant places, and he wrote things that were salable, but not great. Then she had left him for Tredgar, a man who had done things, and his Inspiration had come. He knew that he had done well, that this book would bring him fame and opportunity, and he smiled as he gathered the sheets together and prepared them for mailing. He had kept in touch with his eastern connections, and Blauvelt, the publisher, had asked for the first reading. He was bent over the desk writing the address when there came the patter of bare feet across the uncarpeted floor, and he looked up from his work. “What is it, daughter?” he asked as he took the little nlghtgowned figure in his lap. "I was lonesome,” explained Elsie. “Ton didn’t come to kiss me good night like you said you would, daddy. I waited anc waited and waited. Then I just had to come. Is you most done, daddy f "All done, dear,” he said, with an affectionate pat on the package at his elbo v. “I was so Interested that I even forgot myAlttle Elsie.” “Jmd it’s going to make you a great big man?” she demanded. “It’s going to make you famous and happy, dad<iy?” “Famous and happy,” he repeated. “It’s my great work, dear.” "I’m so glad,” she whispered contentedly, patting the pale cheek, wasted to thinness by his sorrow and absorption in his work. “Some day when I get a big girl, a great big girl, J’U read it and tell all the other girls that my daddy Wrote that great book, and they’ll all be mad because their papas can’t write books like my papa can.” Poindexter shivered and drew the little form closer to him. Not once in all these months had he thought of that result He had worked steadily with one purpose—of holding this woman who had been Ms wife up to shame. He had given no thought to the child. Not once had be realised that there would come a day when she would read with undemanding tiie story of her mother’s disgrace. He had let her think that Agnes was dead. Simple statement sufficed the childish mind, but the day would come when perhaps the curtain might be drawn aside. Some old friend from the east might seek him out and unwittingly betray his secret to the girl, and she would read with horror the story

of her mother’s fall painted In words of bitterness such as only wounded pride and dead love can conjure. She would see her mother’s soul in all its 'nakedness, and his would be the hand that had thrown aside the garments of time and charity. “Are you sleepy, daddy?” Poindexter roused himself. “Not a bit” he declared, “What makes you think that, daughter?” “You are so still,” she explained, "and you don’t talk.” “Daddy’s a little tired,” he explained. “Shall I tell you a good night story?” The child nodded her head contentedly, and Poindexter began a fantastic tale. He had a fertile fancy, and these good night stories were glorious moments in the child’s life. There were times when she stole softly about the house lest she Interrupt his writing, but when bedtime came and she lay curled up in his lap while his rich voice recited weird tales of giants and fairies and dragons she had him for her very own and was content with the sacrifice. As they neared the climax his voice grew soft, and when at last the end came he waited for the usual applause of “That tAs lovely, daddy.”* Instead, soft lips brushed his cheek and the tired child sank oft to sleep. Tenderly he bore her to her bed and tucked her tn as gently as a woman might have done. Reverently htwiressed his lips against the rosy mouth and tiptoed from the room. The library seemed eold and cheerless when he returned. The child’s visit had but emphasized his loneliness. and he sat blankly at the table on which Jay the package with its address but half completed. He swung his chair about that he might not see it; but, though he had turned his back upon it, the script still danced before his mental vision. He could still see the uncompleted tail of the “y” he had been writing when Elsie had come in and the ink blotch in the corner where the pen had rolled against it. A dozen times he half turned to complete the address, and as often there came to his memory the words of his daughter. Some day she would read the book with a clear vision, and perhaps she would understand. There is always some one to disillusion with awkward speech. Perhaps she might never know how true to life the story was. Then again some chance remark might bear In upon her the truth. Agnes by her action had forfeited all right to his forbearance, but there was still his duty toward his child. It seemed like murder to destroy this masterpiece, and yet—lie went over every incident of his life since his marriage. She had married him, ambitious for his future, and he, utterly content, had been happy In his moderate success save for those moments when her urgings spurred his ambition. One purpose In writing this very book wks to show her, when it was too late, that he could accomplish those successes for which she had longed; that he could write as brilliantly as the man for whom she had left him. The east glowed with the first blush of the dawn when at last he rose from the chair and threw aside the curtains to- let in the morning light and the fresh air. Slowly he crossed the room to the empty fireplace and laid the package in the grate. A tiny tongue of flame crept along the wrapper, biting deeper as It grew. At last only the blackened sheets remained, and he turned away. “For Elsie’s sake,” he whispered and added, with a sign, “and for Agnes’ too. God pity her.” His magnum opus was found not In accomplishment, but in renunciation.

AT LAST ONLY THE BLACKENED SHEETS REMAINED.