The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1895-07-26

1uented these places. Now that he had
wife to support he felt still more the
necessity of keeping his friends. He had
thought SuZanne's beauty would act as
her passport into the circle he frequent
ed, but in the artificial light of city life
Suzanne's beauty seemed to wane as a
wild flower withers quickly in a hot
room. Her splendid color looked coarse
at first beside the carefully groomed wo-
men they met Then after few months
it faded into a dull pallor. She con-
stantly mortified Philips pride in small
matters. She would let her great won-
dering pansy colored eyes roam over the
costume of a caller, from her bonnet to
her boots, as a child might do, and she
would call the attention of Philips
friends to her new garments or bits Of
jewelry, showing such happy pleasure
in their possession that it seemed utter
cruelty to reprove her. She would cry
out with delight or surprise at any new
sight which attracted her, no matter in
what public place she CHANGED to be.
She was absolutely unconscious of her
surroundings in the fullest sense Of the
word if Philip were with her. Whether
in public restaurant, or theater box,
or OH the street, she forgot that others
were near who would criticise or ridi-
cule her, and she would point to things
which interested her or piqued her Gu
riosity, and she would laugh or cry
aloud at the play or exclaim, ooh,
Philip, look, lookp' and seize his arm
while every eye was turned upon them.
When reproved, she would seem incred-
ulcus or Indifferent, saying: 81 am
never watching other people when am
with you. Why should they watch me!
Have they nothing else to think about
in all this big city full of things but
poor little me?"
But after time she began to lose her
old buoyancy of spirits, She felt less In.
terest in the new life which had pleased
her so at the first, more Indifferent to
her pretty garments and jewels. She
felt a constant sense of Philips disap-
proval, and she was growing to under.
stand the glances and covert saroasms
which she received from people, those
poisoned arrows of wit which are shot
by the skilled society archer into hu-
man hearts. All her sweet, happy salts
faction in herself and her new life, all
her pleased delight over the new sights
and sounds were deserting her. A pain
full self consciousness was taking Its
place with a sad conviction that she
could never be like these other women
whom she met, "And yet. she would
say to herself, "if Philip liked these
other women better than me, why did
he not marry one Of them? Surely he
could have had them for the asking"
But one day the answer to this question
came to her.
Between Philips studio and the suit
of rooms which the young couple occu,
pied as living apartments there was a
small ourtained Above. 1t contained
Turkish divan, small table and few
books. This alcove was only lighted by
gas and was unused save on occasions
when the artist gave studio tea, when
it served as sort of cloakroom.
Sometimes Suzanne stole in here,
however, and curling herself upon the
divan watched Philip at his work. He
never liked to be disturbed in his studio,
and she seldom intruded upon him.
Since their marriage he had never asked
her to pose for him. His pride resented
the idea that any one could say he had
married his model,
Suzanne found the hours when he
was at work very long as the months
rolled by, and to lie on the divan and
watch her husband before the easel was
one of the stolen sweets of the day to
her. She had grown to fear his dis.
pleasure in almost every act she COM
initted, and so she hid this innocent
pastime from him as if she were guilty
Of crime.
If any one entered the studio from the
front hall, she slipped out of her retreat
and back to the living rooms. 1t was
only when he was alone that she cared
to watch him. But enc day--it was the
middle OF Maya warm, languorous
afternoon full of suggestions of sum-
mer, Suzanne fell asleep OH the divan.
She had felt strange fatigue of late.
which caused her to fall asleep at the
most unexpected times and places.
When she awolle, she was in sort of
dazed condition. She thought she was
back in the little fishing coast house in
Maine, and she heard her name uttered
and sat up listening to see who had
called her. She heard q strange voice
saying: 'But this girl Suzanne was no
wife for you, Philip. Every one says it
is the most unaccountable thing that
you ever married her. You have made
an awful mistake, and it is killing Mil
dred by inches. She will not live q year
unless you can undo this dreadful work,
y9hich has made us all so wretched."
By this time Suzanne was fully
awake, and she sat still, like one turn
ed to stone, listening. Philips voice
sounded very stern and clear as he Fa.
sponded;
III do not know who is at fault in
this dreadful work, Mrs. Montrose, save
yourself. You come here and tell me to
my face that you destroyed my letters
to Mildred, hoping to ALLEVIATE us. You
succeeded, and now you find that Mil
dred is i'll and wretched, and you know
that am unhappy, and you ask me to
undo the dreadful work, by which you
mean, suppose, pnmarEy myself. May
/ ask you, madam, how you expect me
to do this?"
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