Waterbury evening Democrat., 1892-03-30

her hand with gesture of denial; words
she had none.
81 know of what you are thinking,
Princess. know the idea that has taken
possession of your mind. You have
heard of my former marriage and you
know that the woman who was my wife
still lives. Is it not sop She bent her
head in mute assent. Thorne gazed at
her pale, resolute face with his brows
knit heavily, and then continued:
''Listen to me, Princess. That woman
Ethel Ross-is my wife no longer, even
In name; she ceased to be my wife in
fact two years ago. Our lives have drift
ed utterly asunder. 1t was her will, and
l acquiesced in it, for she had never
loved me, and when my idiotic in
fatuation for her heartless, diabolical
beauty passed-had ceased to love her.
AT last even my presence became trou-
BILE to her, which she was at no pains to
conceal. The breach between us widened
with the years, until nothing remained
to us but the CALLING strain Of useless
fetter. Now that is broken and we are
free"-there was an exultant ring in his
voice, as though his freedom were pre-
cious to him.
"Were you bound or free that night
at Shirley?' questioned the girl slowly
and steadily.
A flush crept warmly over Thorne's
dark face and lost itself in the waves of
his hair. He realized that he would
meet with more opposition here than he
had anticipated. No matter. The prize
was worth fighting for-worth winning
at any cost. His determination increased
with the force opposed to it, and so did
his desire.
'In heart and thought was free, but
in fact was bound" he acknowledged.
1.-THE words 1 spoke on the steps that
| night escaped me unawares. was tor
tured by jealousy and tempted by love.
had no right to speak them then.
Nothing can excuse or palliate the weak
! ness which allowed me to- I should
have waited until could come to you
untrammeled-as now. I attempt no
justification of my madness, Princess.
have no excuse but my love, and can
only sue for pardon. You will forgive
me, sweetheart" the old word
tenderly-"for the sake of my great love.
It's my only plea" His voice took a
pleading tone as he advanced the plea
hardest of all for a woman to steel her
heart against.
Pocahontas gazed at him in bewilder-
ment, her mind graphing with an idea
that appalled, her, her face blanching
with apprehension and her form COVER
ing as from an expected blow.
Must understand, Mr.. Thorne, that
love for me suggested the thought of di-
vorcing your wife?" she questioned
hoarseIy. THAT came between you
and caused this horrible thing? It is
MOTT cannot be true. God above!
Have fallen so low! Am l guilty of
this terrible SIM"
Thorne's quick brain recognized in
stantly the danger of allowing this idea
to obtain possession of her mind. Fool!
he thought furiously, why had not he
been more cautious, more circumspect2
Dexterously he set himself to remove the
idea or weaken its force-to prove her
guiltless in her own eyes,"
Princes" he said, meeting the hon
est, agonized eyes squarely, 'I want to
tell you the story Of my marriage with
Ethel Ross, and of my subsequent life
with her. l had not intended to harass
you with it until later, if at all; but now
deem it best you should become ac-
quainted with it, and from my lips. It
will explain many things.
Then he briefly related all the miser-
able commonplace story. He CLOSED
over nothing, palliated nothing; bearing
hardly now on his wife, and again on
himself, but striving to<show throughout
how opposed to true marriage was this
| marriage, how far removed from a per-
feet union was this union. Pocahontas
listened with intense, strained interest,
following every word, sometimes almost
anticipating them. Her heart ached for
him-ached YEARLY. Life had been so
hard upon him; he had suffered 80.
With wOman's involuntary hardness to
woman, she raised the blame from
Thorne's shoulders and heaped it upon
those Of his wife. Her love and her
sympathy became his advocates and
pleaded for him at the bar Of her iudg-
ment. Her heart yearned over him with
infinite compassion.
If Thorne had kept silence and left the
matter there, and waited until she should
have adapted herself to the new condi-
tons, should have assimilated tho new
influences which crowded thick upon
her, it would have been better. But he
could not keep silent-he had no patience
to wait. He could not realize that the
things which were as a thrice told tale
to him had an overwhelming newnesa
for her. That the influences which had
nodded his thought were very far re-
moved from the influences which had
made her what she was. He could net
understand that, while the world had
progressed, this isolated community had
remained stationary. and that the prin-
ciples and rules of conduct among them
still were those which had governed his
world in the beginning Of the century.
He saw that her sympathy had been
aroused, that she suffered for and with
him, and he could not forbear from
striving to push the advantage. He
went on speaking earnestly; he demon
strated that this marriage which had
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