Newark evening star and Newark advertiser. [volume] (Newark, N.J.) 1909-1916, 1910-09-27

And you know how you've lived, Jack,
for this last year. First, l only heard
things-you know how girls gossip
among themselves-and each one has a
brother, or a cousin or \ sweetheart,
who tells her things; so, first I heard.
and then, little by little, 1 could see for
myself. l tried to think just as much
of you as ever, Jack. / pretended to
laugh at the stories they told. And
then there came one night at a dance,
when you weren't yourself at ALL hate
to remember it even-and | knew then
that things couldn't go on like that;
that we'd have to come to some kind OF
an understanding. So 1 sent word by
Franz Helmar, to ask you to come
out to see me that Friday night.
I'd made up my mind that we'd talk
everything all over between our
s~elves-about your drinking, ana
about that girl-Td heard all people
were saying; you can't keep those
things from being known. And then,
after I'd waited and waited for you all
that evening, and finally given you up
then to come across you, the way we
did, by accident out motoring with her
with that common girl don't see
how you could do it, Jack. / don't see
how men can do things like that. n
respect themselves; much less expect
other people to respect them. And you,
Jack, of all people-that vas a terrible
night for me. If l hadn't cared for you
if / didn't care for you, jack
wouldn't have minded; / wouldn't mind
now. But for me to know that you'd
been as devoted to me as you had
| that everyone talked about us as If we
were really engaged-and then to know
that all the time you'd been-oh, Jack,
1 had such faith in you! l thought you
were different from other men. / don't
see how you could"
Carleton had sat listening, his eyes
fixed on the ground. wincing under
her words. Gradually. as she spoke, a
dull red flush had mounted to his very
temples, and when she ended he at once
made answer, speaking rapidly, as If
the words were fairly wrung, by force,
from his lips. Don't Marjoryl" he
cried. For Gods sake, don't! It's all
true enough. I've been selfish. thought
less, brutal; anything you please. 1
don't know why I did 1t. Men are
queer things, that way, / guess. Be-
cause 1 loved you just as much,
Marjory, all the time. I didn't know 1t
then, but I do now. And IL wasn't so
bad, Marjory. 1t was f~oolishness, but
that was all. The girls one the worse
for me. Don't condemn me for all our
lives, because I've failed once. Let me
make my fight Let me show that |
can be the kin Of q man a girl can
respect. And then It will be all right
again. You'll marry me then, Marjory;
say that you will"
Perhaps the straightforward vehem-
ence of his speech helped him as moth
ing else could have done. The girl
hesitated a moment before she an
swered; and, finally, half-doubtfully,
shook her head. "Ah, Jack" she said,
az you would. Then things you'd be
all right again. But would you, Jack,
Can you change our way of
living, as you think you can?
Suppose you did. for a time. Suppose
we should marry, even. And then-ff
anything should happen. I'm different
from most women, perhaps. But my
husband has to be mine, the whole of
him. And If you did-things like this
again, 1t would kill me, Jack. l
couldn't bear the misery n the
shame. I want to trust you, Jack; 1
want to. more thar anything in the
world. But can I? Would you do as
you say?'
Impulsively he rose and walked over
to the fireplace, leaning a hand on the
mantel. and looking down into her
face. II can't blame you. Marjory,
he cried, IF | would. And | won't
waste time in words. But let me tell
you what I'll do. I've two chances
now. One here in town-that Henry's