Wausau pilot. [volume] (Wausau, Wis.) 1896-1940, 1908-07-14

george. ITuSl me, Gear rove, anu let US
| be again as we have been, united in every
thought"
You do not know what you are ask
ing me, Mildred" said George Greswold,
IN his deep, grave voice, looking at her
with haggard, reproachful eyes. You
| cannot measure the torture you are In
| 1icting by this aimless curiosity
You cannot measure the agony of
doubt which | have suffered since l knew
that you loved another woman before
you loved me-loved me so well that you
cannot bear even to speak of that past
life which you lived with her-regret her
SO intensely that now, after fourteen years
of welded life with me, the mere memory
of that lost love can plunge you into
gloom and despair" said Mildred passion
ately.
That smothered fire of jealousy which
had been smouldering in her breast for
weeks broke out all at once in impetuous
speech. She no longer cared what she
said. Her only thought was that the dead
love had been dearer than the living, that
she had been cozened by lover whose
heart had never been wholly hers.
You are very cruel, Mildred" her hus-
band answered quietly. you are prob
ing an old wound, and deep one. to the
quick. You wrong yourself more than
| you wrong me by causeless jealousy and
unworthy doubts. Yes, / did conceal the
| fact OF my first marriage-not because
had loved my wife too well, because had
| not loved her well enough. ! was silent
| about period Of my life which was one
of intense misery-which il was my duty
| to myself to forget, if it were possible to
forget-which it was perilous to remem-
ber My only chance of happiness-or
| peace of mind-lay in oblivion of that
bitter time. 1t was only when / loved
you that l began to believe forgetfulness
was possible. courted oblivion by every
means In my power. / told myself that
the man who had so suffered was a man
who had ceased to exist. George Ran
some was dead. George Greswold stood
on the threshold Of a new life, with in
finite capacities for happiness. i told
myself that I might De a beloved and
honored husband-which had never been
"a useful member Of society-which
had not been hitherto. Until that hour
all things had been against me. With
you for my wife all things would be in
my favor. For thirteen happy years this
promise of our marriage morning was
fully realized; then came our child's
death; and now comes your estrange-
ment"
Il am not estranged, George. 1t is
only my dread of the beginning Of es-
arrangement which tortures me- Since that
man spoke of your first wife, l have
brooded perpetually upon that hidden
past. 1t is weak, know, to have done
so. l ought to trust unquestioningly
but l cannot, l cannot. love you too
we'll without jealousy"
'Well, let the veil be lifted then, since
it must be SO. Ask what questions you
please, and l will answer them-as best
| cam"
you are very good" she faltered, draw
ing a little nearer to him, leaning her
head against his shoulder as she talked
to him, and laying her hand on his as it
lay before him on the desk, tightly clench-
ed. Tell me, dear, were you happy with
your first wife?"
II was not"
"Not even in the beginning?"
Hardly in the beginning. 1t was an
ill-advised union, the result of impulse"
But she loved you sery dearly, per-
haps"
"She loved me-dearly-after her man
ner of loving"
And you did not love herr"
1T is a cruel thing you force me to
say, Mildred. No, did not love her."
Had you been married long when she
diedf"
She felt quivering movement in the
clenched hand on which her own lay ca
ressingly, and she heard him draw a long
and deep breath.
about a year."
Her death was a sad one, 1 know.
Did she go out of her mind before she
died?"
"No."
did she leave you-or do you any
great wrongi"
"No."
"Were you false to her, George-oh,
forgive me- forgive me-but there must
have been something more sad than COM
mon sadness, and might be that some new
and fatal love-"
"There was no such thing" he an
swered sternly. II was true to my duties
as husband. 1t was not e long trial
only year"
II see you will not confde in me- l
will ask no more questions, George. That
kind of catechism will not make us more
in sympathy with each other. win ask
you nothing Eore-except-just one cues
tion-a woman's question. Was your first
wife beautiful in your eyes?"
"She was not beautiful: but she was
intellectual, and she had an interesting
countenance-a face that attracted me at
first sight 1t was even more attractive
to me than the faces of handsomer wom-
en-. But If you want to know what your
fancied rival was like you need not Ian
guish in ignorance" with some touch of
scorn. II have her photograph in this
desk. l have kept II for my days of hui
initiation, to remind me of what i have
been and what | may be again. Would
you like to see it?'
''Yes, George, if it win not pain you
too much to show it TO ms"
do not talk of pain. You have stirred
the waters of Marah so deeply that one
more bitter drop cannot signify He
unlocked his desk as he spoke, lifted the
upright, and CROPPED among the sccumula-
ton of papers and parchments inside.
The object for which he was seeking
was at the back of the desk, under all
the papers. He found 1t by touch; mo-
rocco case containing cabinet photo
graph. Mildred stood up beside him, with
one hand on his shoulder as he searched.
He handed her the case without word.
She opened il in silence and looked at
the portrait within. A small. delicately
featured face, with large, dark eyes-eyes
almost too large for the face-a slender
throat, thin, sloping shoulders-eyes that
looked out of the picture with a strange
intensity--a curious alertness IN the coun-
tenance. as Of a woman made UP of nerves
and emotions. q nature wanting the ele-
ment OF repose.
Mildred stared at the picture three or
four seconds, and then with choking
sound like q ssrangled sob, fell uncon-