The Chanute times. [volume] (Chanute, Kan.) 1897-1913, 1900-09-21
ODE H<>E W. A Fascinating
-= OVk2I 90 Romance
W. AD~ Alan Adah~,

AT last ne reused himself, III WAS
getting late. Joyce already would be
uneasy about him. The thought OF
her pretty wifely solicitude, and how
after today 1t might never be put to
the test, overcame him altogether. To
feel that Joyce was living, and that
he must give her up, that they were
both young and loving, and must go
on living apart forever. was too much
for him. "My God, help us to bear it,"
Afterwards it came back to him with
profound regret that he had never
thought OF Veronica at all; but he
could be thankful that he had seen her
and had not hated her.
He crept home slowly. like wound
ed animal going to it's lair Home!
The very word hurt him. And he and
Joyce had only this morning talked
of buying the pretty house for their
summer residence. This morning was
it, or years ago Could 1t be only an
hour or so since he left the station,
all unsuspicious Of what was to befall
him?
For he had been unsuspicious. He
had entirely forgotten the woman who
he now easily identified as Veronica.
He had been happy as it is given to
few mortals to be happy. He groaned
aloud as he opened the door which led
into the pretty hall. His throat was
dry; he could not call Joyce.
But she had evidently heard the
opening door, for she came out Of the
morning-room, which they furnished
with the hangings they had bought
on the day he had seen Veronica. She
called gaily to him and little re-
proachfully. "Oh, Alan, how late you
are, you naughty boy! And cur ride
will you have tea first?"
He simply could not answer. 1t was
| impossible; his tongue Glove to the
roof of his mouth, and his dry throat
could not articulate sound.
"Alan," she called again, come
along, darling"
81 am coming" His voice was, how
ever, so muffled, in a moment she was
alarmed. She came running out to
him.
ALAN, Alan, what is it? Are you
i'll, dearest?"
Her Inconsistencies almost killed
him, together with the thought that he
would have to tell her. Then she
came up to him and saw his face. In
an instant she knew that something
awful had occurred. Her jaw fell, and
she staggered up to him, putting out
her hand and feeling as if she were
blind. She was unconscious no longer
for she remembered wildly the day
when he had turned so white, and had
told her the reason afterwards as they
sat together at the hotel. Her quick
mind told her that his ashy greyness
and the misery on his face had some
thing to do with his dead wife. Hand
pretty morning-room, into which the
sun was shining, and they sat down
speechless. A bird in bush close by
set up its joyous song. Nature was
full of gladness.
Then suddenly he wrenched his
hand out Of hers and threw himself
headlong upon the couch. Sobs broke
from him and his shoulders heaved.
For moment she let him weep, and
then she knelt down beside him and
flung her pretty, soft arms round his
neck, and pressed her cheek, down
which the tears were running, against
his, so that their tears mingled to-
gether.
"Tell me like this she said. But
he could not speak, his grief was I'M
comfortable. And so in whispers she
began 1T is something about your
wife, Alan-your first wife, l mean,
poor Veronica"
He groaned, and an awful knowl-
edge came to Joyce-a knowledge that
clutched her heart and made her very
being stand still. For a moment she
saw nothing distinctly. heard nothing
distinctly, only felt Alan's tears upon
her cheek. Then, when the mist
cleared away: SIS she alive?" she
whispered.
"Yesl" he cried.
"Alive? Oh, my poor heart! Alive!
Your wife? And IL"
He sat up then and grasped her
hands in his. "You, you'll" he cried.
And the agony of his voice came back
to Joyce for years after. you! I've
got to give you up, Joyce! You, the
wife of my heart. my own, my soul!
You've got to be as nothing to me!
How can l do it,
81 don't know" she said feebly.
"And yet, Alan, we must!"
do you think l don't know it, he
cried. do you think l would have you
live with me while my wife was Nv
ing? Do you think l should let one
person in this world point finger OF
scorn at you? Do you think l should
let you soil your beautiful white soul
for me? Oh, Joyce, love you too per-
fectly for that, you are too dear to me
for thatl l will say good-by to you,
my own, and never look at your face
again; but will not let you live dis
graced But the parting-the part
ingi"