THE ST7XDAY OREGOXIAX, PORTLAND, JULY 25. 1909.
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CHAPTER IV.
August 1st
H
I LI.BS' CHANDLER has been here all
fternoon. She was called to town
unexpectedly for a few days some
thing about her husband's estate. Said
the felt she must see me. That she
wanted to talk and felt I would under
stand as no one else could.
I hardly knew her she looked so white
and frail In her heavy crepe. 1-took her
upstairs at once, made her lie down,
and had Mary bring seme tea. But she
pushed the tea aside and began walking
up and down the room.
"No no I can't rest! I can't be quiet
I want to talk! It will help me more
than anything else.
"Oh, I know what you think what
every one thinks that he was a- brute
that he drank that he was untrue to me!
You wonder why I should grieve so. I
presume some people think it an affecta
tion my grief. I mean. God! If It only
werel But I loved him I loved himl In
spite of all his dissipations he was never
unkind to me. lie was fond of me in his
way his selfish, careless way. But I
would rather have had what little he gave
me than the most loyal, faithful devotion
of the noblest man on .earth!
"Can you reason about love? If he had
beat me I would still have loved him.
But my love never blinded me don't
think that. I saw all his coarseness, all
his weakness: I never for a moment
Idealized him. I knew him for what he
was but I loved him.
"And now at night I feel that I must
ret up and go to his grave and with my
bare hands dig down to the coffin and lie
there with him. He always hated to be
alone hs always wanted company, lite.
gaiety. And now he Is lying there alone
alone In that dark, silent graveyard, on.
there are times when I feel I must go to
him that ha Is calling me that I must
get up out of bed and go to him and stay
with himl"
3ly face was now as white as hers.
felt If she did not stjp I would faint. But
I made no effort to quiet her. I knew It
would be useless that she must wear her
self out.
"He was so big end strong so full of
life and vitality. Oh. how I loved his
great, strong body his vigorous man
hoodhis physical self. His muscles were
like Iron, and yet his skin was aa soft and
white as a baby's. I used to say It was
like velvet white velvet over Iron. Ob,
his body his milk-white body "
I don't think I heard any more. It
seemed to me the room was full of wo
men. I could hear the swish of trailing
skirts the air seemed charged with the
feet of women, of flowing hair, of heaving
breasts, of the anguished love of wo
manhood.
At length from sheer exhaustion she
threw herself upon the couch. I did not
try to comfort her I knew too well the
cheapness; the futility of words. After a
while she said faintly: "I think I can
sleep jnow. It Is always like this. After
I wear myself out there comes a sense
almost of peace it Is the only peace
have. I ran't explain It. but It always
comes. After these violent outbursts I
feel 89 though I had been drugged a
soothing, quieting drug."
I stooped over and kissed her. "Don't
say anything more try not to arouse
yourself again Fleep If you can," I
darkened tiie room and left her. She
slept quietly for over an hour. I tried
to persuade her to stay all night. But
she wanted to go bark home to their
country home where he died. Said she
had been In town two nights, and she
wsnted to get back she felt nearer him
out there.
August Sd
"The Incessant sadness of life." That
phrase comes to me so often now. I have
been standing at the window watching the
steady stream of traffic In which there
are so mny notes of misery. A wagon
filled with freshly slaughtered calves,
their tegs, now only bloody stumps, pro
truding stiffly from under the burlap
roverir.sr. And 1 think of the terror In
the soft eyes of those helpless animals
as they wore driven pitilessly to the ax.
Another wagon piled high with slatted
boxs full of huddling chickens. Poor,
frightened things, on their way to he
ktlied. straining their necks through the
slats for a bivnth of air. The stolid in
difference of the driver as he whips up
the jaded horse that draws them. Tlie
rlarg of the police patrol as It dashed
hy. a hacgard man with a bandalged
head inside.
T turned from th window sick at heart.
The. incessant sadness of life! The in
cessant sadness of life!
August 4th.
There 1s a boarding-house across the
street from us the only one in tho
block, where almost everyone owns
their own property. Every evening now,
since the weather Is so warm, the steps
of the house are full of people. They
bring out gmss mats and sofa pillows
and sit on th steps and stone balus
trades, the cigars of the men glowing
among the light dreasos of the .nen.
I think I watch them with something
like envy, they seem so happy and so
ciable in an easy, unconventional way.
The sound of their laughter comes re
peatedly through my open windows. Now
and then a coifple will leave the rest
and stroll bareheaded down the street.
Tonicht they were sincing; one of J
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TUB MIXAS GERAES.
NEW YORK, July n. (Special..) It is reported that the three Brazilian Dreadnoughts being built In
England will be purchased by Japan. These ships are the Mlnas Geraes, the Rio Janeiro and the Sao
Paoia. Their armament is more powerful than that of the British Dreadnoughts. These vessels carry a dozen
12-inch suns, as against ten of these guns carried by the British ships. The Brazilians also carry 22 4.7-inch
guns. Each of the battleships is of 21,000 tons, 630 feet long, draws 25 feet of water and will be capable
of 21 knots aa hour. The Minis Geraes was launched In September, the Sao-Paola In ApriL
them had a " mandolin. They began
with some new popular airs and ended
with a number of old-farnioned songs
"My Old Kentucky Home." "Ben Bolt."
and "Annie Laurie." As I sat there
by the window In my lonely, silent house,
those old, familiar songs, the Summer
night for roe there was an Infinite
melancholy about It all. All my lone
liness and heart-hunger seemed Intensi
fied. The air grew more and more close
and sultry. Then came a distant mut
tering of thunder, and then some large
raindrops. The songs ceased and there
were little shrieks of laughter as the
group across the street hurried into the
house.
Now it is raining In torrents a Sum
mer heat-rain. I can hear it beating
upon the roof almost like hall. Little
rills of water are running down the
window-pane beside my desk. How
black It has grown the street lights are
only faint blurs through this thick rain
veil. And I sit here writing writing, try
ing only to keep some of the horror of
my loneliness away.
Could Horace have gone out without
an umbrella? He takes cold so easily.
How strange a thing Is a woman's love!
Even though she feels her husband Is
spending the evening with another
woman, still she worries lest he has
no umbrella -his physical welfare still
fills ber thoughts.
August Eth.
How many- women past their first
youth find consolation in the thought
still attractive, still admired, late in
life! The memory of such women as
Madame de Stael, Madame Recamier
and George Sand has instilled hope and
comfort In the heart of many a faded
woman that though time may line the
face, the charm of personality. Intel
ligence and wit may still win and hold
love.
The lookingglass may be undeniable
proof that her face Is no longer beauti
ful, but nothing can prove to even the
most vapid woman that her mentality,
grace and wit have not the greatest
charm.
Sunday, August 6th.
The telephone Just rang. I answered
It but no one spoke. Again and again
I said "Hello!" but there was no re
sponse. And yet the silence seemed
charged with a personality I felt there
was someone there. Could It be
Had she called and, not hearing his
voice, had not answered? Of course it
may have been a mistake; central may
have unintentionally rung our number.
But somehow I feel that there was not
& mistake. I have that strange, weak
sensation which always comes with any
thing that relates to her.
August 9th.
This evening we went out to dinner.
Until the last 'year we have always
dined out at some hotel or resturant
at least once a week. But now so rarely
we ever go anywhere together. Perhaps
It was because I have eaten so little
lately that made him suggest the change
might do me good. I consented eagerly.
Vv e went to the , a place I
have always liked.
For the first few moments I was al
most happy the lights, the music, the
gay, well-dressed people all around, and
my husband, gracious and distinguished,
across from me. Impulsively I reached
my hand across the table toward him.
He pressed it slightly and smiled at
me kindly. I could see that he was
trying to respond, that he sincerely
wanted me to have a happy evening.
that he wanted to give me what he could.
And I resolved to keep the ache from
my heart and the choking lump from my
throat, to try to forget everything but
that we were together.
He ordered the dinner with his usual
quiet discrimination that always wins
Instantly the best attention of the waiter.
have never had the same excellent
service tn dining with anyone else as
with my husband. He always order
some light wine, and tonight It was
sparkling Chablls.
But in spite of both our efforts, for
know we both tried, the dinner "was
strained and silent. One of the most
pitiful conditions of our life now Is that
we ha-e so little to say. Oh, It la
horrible this conscious strained silence
that is always between us! If only for
one evening we could talk just talk as
we used to do It would help me more
than anything In the world.
Feeling the failure of the dinner, he
asked if I would like to go to the theater.
The thought that there, at least, we
would not feel the need of talk, and
that I could be with him, near him a
little longer, made me say yes. For I
knew If we went home It would be to
separate: he would go to his room and
to mine.
When we reached the street he bought
n evening paper, handed It to me with
the list of the theaters folded out, and
sked where I would like to go. I
glanced down the list. There were only
three actors playing that I knew either
of us would care to see, and they were
all In plays which from reviews I knew
were built around the marriage and di
vorce question the unfaithfulness of
ither the husband or the wife.
finally chose a new play, in which
the theme was a political one.
The first act was well advanced
when we entered; by the end of the
BRAZILIAN DREADNOUGHTS MAY BE BOUGHT
"AT LENGTH THROUGH SHEER EXHAUSTIO . sriE THREW HERSELF UPON THE COUCH.
second I was rolling; and unrolling my
programme with cold, nervous hands.
The "political" element was only a
background for the "problem" the
love of a Senator for a woman who was
not his wife, a woman whom he had
known and loved before he was married
and whom in his heart he had loved
ever since. .
The dramatic crisis was In the third
act, where the woman. In a moment of
fierce, uncontrollable jealousy, sends
his wife one of the Senator's love let
terschoosing with deliberate cruelty
the one that will hurt her most, a
beautiful, impassioned love message,
written several months before on her
birthday. There Is no address or sig
nature, but his wife will know his
writings It Is unmistakable.
But she has hardly mailed the letter
before she Is overwhelmed with re
morse, with bitterest regret for what
she has done. She must stop its de
livery at any sacrifice she must keep
his wife from reading that letter!
It was almost midnight when she
mailed It it could not be delivered be
fore morning.
The next scene, at 8 o'clock the fol
lowing morning, finds her at the door
of the Senator's house. She will not
give her card or name, but there Is
something In the tenseness of her voice
and manner that makes the servant
reluctantly admit her. As she waits in
the reception-room she asks herself
fearfully: "If he should refuse to see
her? Should she have risked it and
sent up her card?" ,
And then he enters. When he sees
who it Is, he starts, closes the door and
comes toward her with outstretched
hands.
"Margaret! What Is it, dear?"
Excitedly she questions him about the
mail the first delivery. Has it come
yet?
He answers wonderlngly "No," and
then tenderly: "Is It some letter you
have written me. dear, that you do not
want me to read?"
"If it were only that!" she moans.
"If It were only that!"
And then she tells him. He does not
speak; ne stands by a desk, turning a
paperweight over and over in his hand.
Then a whistle the postman's
whistle is heard. The man crosses the
BY JAPAN.
room and presses an electric bell. A
servant enters.
""You will bring the mail to me here
at once all of It."
"Yes. sir." The maid returns, lays
the mall on the table and leaves the
room.
The man glances hurriedly through
the letters and then turns to the wom
an, who Is leaning against the wall,
her face burled in her hands.
"It is not here!"
"Not here?" Her voice is full of ter
ror.
The maid Is recalled and questioned.
She says she brought all the mail ex
cept two letters for Mrs. Hampton,
which she herself took out as she was
going Into the breakfast room.
As the maid withdraws the man
starts violently at some sound in the
hall. "Carrie ray wife she is coming
In here!" he murmurs huskily.
"No! no! It would be too horrible!
Don't let It be!"
"It is too late now!" he answers, and
even then the door opens.
Quickly the woman slips behind
heavy curtain. The wife holds an open
letter in her hand, her face quivering
with Joy and tenderness.
, "Oh, Richard Richard what a beau
tiful letter! That you should have re
membered my birthday in this way!
Yesterday I was afraid you had for
gotten, and today oh. It was the most
wonderful gift you could have sent.
And you had the envelope typewrit
ten so the surprise would be more
complete!" She clings to him lov
ingly, showering on him caresses
and endearments, crying out that she
had been so unhappy of late, that she
felt he was growing farther away from
her, that he no longer cared. And there
had been a terrible fear in her heart
that there might be some one else; but
now she knows that she was wrong,
she knows he loves her still, or he
would not have written that letter.
He gently soothes and quiets her and
leads her from the stage.
In the next act follows a wonderful
scene of renunciation. Realizing as
never before the piteous, clinging love
of his wife, and feeling that they could
never come together over the grave of
her happiness, they resolve to part.
Only once during the play did I see
Horace's face, and then It was when he
stooped to pick up the programme my
nerveless fingers had dropped. He was
very pale.
We left the theater In silence. Out
side it was mistins. He motioned to
a cab and helped me in. I was filled
with an intense longing for him to
speak to say some trivial, common
place thing anything but this silence,
which seemed a subtle acknowledgment
a willingness that I should know. . .
We were almost home before he spoke,
and then It was only to ask if he should
draw down the curtain, if the mist was
blowing in on me.
When we reached the house he made
some remark about being tired, bade
me good-night, and went at once to
his room. What did his silence mean?
Did he intend it for an admission? Did
he want me to construe it that way?
Why did he not talk casually of the
play, comment on the acting or the
construction of the plot, as we have al
ways done before?
It is almost 3 o'clock. But how hope-
,less to try to sleep!
' August 10.
This morning I know from his
eyes that he, too, has not slept.
I felt that I would regrret it, that I
would make a mistake if I made any
reference to the play, and yet the hope
that he would say something to help
me, to make me feel that he had not
wished to convey by his silence what I
had thought last night, drove me to
try to force from him some expression.
"Do you think such things end that
way in life?" I tried to say it casually.'
"How do you mean?" quietly.
"The parting in the last act. If a
man really loves another woman, do
they often renounce her for the sake
of their wife?" I did not look up: I kept
my eyes on a crust I was crumbling on
the tablecloth.
There was a slight pause, and then
he answered slowly:
"I should think that would depend
n tha man's strength,"
"But If he had much strength," my
voice was measured, "would he have
ever allowed himself to love another
woman?"
"No; I presume not."
I waited, but he said nothing more.
In a few moments he glanced at his
watch, and left for the office. My ef
forts had been futile his voice and
manner had betrayed nothing.
August 11.
Am I too self-centered? Do I give
way to my grief too much? Would
another woman under the same cir
cumstances have more strength? I
know how dangerous is this constant
brooding. I know that I am losing all
sense of proportion. His slightest word
and action I know bring to bear al
ways upon one thing. I know that I
draw suspicions from perfectly inno
cent causes. My mind is so colored
that I am able to see nothing else.
And yet how can I help it? I have
tried to fight against It, to force an in
terest In other things, to drive my
mind to things outside myself. And
yet always the background of my
thoughts remains the same. Never for
a moment am I wholly free from the
consciousness that my husband Is drift
ing away from me that he loves
another woman That poisonous thought
Is always with me.
August 12
More and more I have come to
take a morbid, feverish Interest In
newspaper accounts of divorce scan
dals and Intrigues. Such things have
always repulsed me; until lately,
I would not even read the headlines.
But now now I read all the details
with a consuming interest- I will even
read the varying accounts of the same
case in the different papers. It all fills
me with loathing, and yet It has this
fearful hold upon me.
These things that I have always re
garded with such horror are now
touching so closely my own life. Not
the vulgar publicity, of course; that I
feel will never come. .But the under
lying cause Is always the same the love
of a man for a woman who is not his
wife. It terrifies me when I think that
everything in life now seems bearing
on that novels, plays they are all
built on variations of that theme.
August 13.
I was in a bookstore today buy
ing some stationery. when I saw
one of the many reprints of a pen-
and-ink sketch that have been much
displayed In the shops. I have always
r-
GENERAL WOOD IS FIRM
NEW YORK, July 24. (Special.) General Leonard Wood has taken careful survey of the New England
Coast, planning war maneuvers which will be held there from August 14 to August 21. There will be 15,000
National Guard of the District of Columbia. New York and Connecticut In these maneuvers. These troops
will invade New England and try to take Boston, which will be defended by Massachusetts troops under Gen
eral Pew. General Wood-is a great believer In the militia system as an adjunct to the military system of
the country. He thinks we should have 600,000 militiamen to aid the Regu lar Army In time of war.
f thought It grewsome, and passed it
with a shudder. But today I bought
one. I don't know why.
From a distance it is the outline of
a skull; nearer, one sees it is cleverly
formed by a beautiful . woman sitting
before a dressing table, ithe bottles and
trinkets before her forming the teeth,
and the drapery over the dresser the
top of the skull.
I have it now on my desk. There Is
a sort ' of fierce pleasure in thinking
that the woman Horace loves will one
day be a hideous, grinning skeleton.
All his love and devotion cannot save
her from that. The skeleton is there
now the ugly, gaunt bones if he
could only see through the soft, fair
flesh that cover them.
August 14.
Once or twice a year Ellen sends
a box of clothing to her mother,
who, with a large family of chil
dren, lives In Georgia. They are
very poor and can make use of any
thing that is sent. I always collect a
lot of my own and Horace's clothes,
and it was for this purpose that I went
through some trunks in the store-room
today.
In one of the trays I came across a
pale-blue dressing gown, one of the
garments 1 had myself made for my
trousseau. I had worn it but a few
times, for I always felt the neck was
cut too low. And now, except that the
lace had grown yellow, it was still
fresh.
How beautifully it was made, with
what care I had finished each small
seam. And what hopes and dreams I
had sewn into it. And now those tiny
stitches, fine and frail as they were,
had outlived my happiness! Oh, if I
could only go back if I could only go
back!
For a long time I held the gown In
my lap, brooding over it, filled with
the memories it brought. How strange
to have it there before me, every stitch
I had put into it still so real, so per
manent while all that it was made for
is dead!
In the lace of the sleeve was a long,
Jagged tear. Oh, how vividly I remem
bered that. It had been torn on
Horace's cuff button during our bridal
trip. I was standing before the dress
ing table arranging my hair, when
suddenly he came up behind me and
caught me In his arms, bent back my
head against his shoulder, and with his
lips against my hair, murmured: "My
darling my beautiful darling! You
belong to me now! You can never go
hack and be just yourself again, for
now you belong to me do you know
that, dear?" My only answer was to
press my face closer against his breast,
and so he held me silently.
When at length he released me, there
was a sound of tearing lace. "Oh, Mary!
I'm so sorry!" as he stooped to un
fasten It from his cuff-button.
"You needn't be," I laughed hap
pily. "As if It mattered as if any
thing mattered but you!"
Oh, Horace, Horace, you have torn
my heart as you tore this lace;
neither will ever be the same again.
You said I could never go back and
be Just myself. I would now If I
could, for I know you no longer need
me. But I cannot I cannot! You
made me part of yourself you taught
me to want you to need you ...
And now now you love some else.
And I am alone with only my mem
ories.
August 15th.
I saw him looking af my 'hands
this morning. He may have done it
abse-ntmlndedly. But all throueh
brea?-fast I was miserably conscious
of how dark and withered they were.
Oh, how cruelly hands show age! And
he used to call them beautiful! And
they were beautiful, solf and white.
with tapering fingers and a delicate
tracery of veins. But now the veins
seem more like wires, the knuckles
larger, and the skin has become yel
low and leathery. I have been ex
amining them mercilessly, holding
them in different positions that I may
know how they look best and worst.
When they are closed the skin is
more tightly drawn and they do not
look so wrinkled, but when I lay
them flat on the table, the skin on
the back gathers in little folds and
they look old old. But worst of
all is when I hold up my arm and let
the hand droop at the wrist there
Is something almost claw-like about
it then. Oh, why do not women die
before they grow old?
August 17th
I have been reading a much-advertised
book in the form of a woman's
diary. The publishers have enthusi
astically proclaimed it a "marvelous
revelation of a woman's heart!"
would any woman ever reveal her
heart in carefully wrought epigrams,
or in an extravagant series of trip
licated adjectives? What strained
attempts at cleverness and painful
striving for effect! In her desperate
efforts to be brilliant and sensational,
the author seems to have quite for
gotten that it might also be effective
merely to be. true.
When just now I came to this sen
tence, I threw down the book in vio
lent protest: .
"It is all blued over with oblivion
now, but sometimes I apprehend my
self looking fearfully over the delic
ate whiteness of my arms, and fancy
ing I discern here and there the faint,
faded saffron of a bruise, my mind
shudderingly recoils lest I be once
more steeped In memory with its '
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BELIEVER IX MILITIA AS ADJUNCT
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vast terrifying silence shot with
sharp, convulsive flames of blinding
pain, memories which engulf me in
a maelstorm of emotions, crushing,
castrating, deadening, leaving me but
a pallid, swooning shadow of my
self." Would any suffering woman on
God's earth ever write like that?
Why this book should have aroused
in me such fierce resentment I hardly
know, unless it is because my whole
nature rebels at the thought of a
woman's emotions being bandied
forth with such mawkish sentimen
talism and glaring artificiality.
Sunday, August ISth
Again it has happened the tele
phone ring and no call. And now I
know it was not a mistake that it
was she. Both times it has been on
Sunday, the only day she cannot
reach him at his office. He had been
in all morning, and just gone out
when the bell rang. And when I
answered there was no response.
But this time Central shrilled:
"There's your party go on!" Again
I said "Hello!" but there was still no
answer, nothing but that strange
silence, that seemed throbbing with
some mysterious presence. And
then faint and far away came a sound
lik a sob a stilled sob. I listened
tensely and for many moments, but
there was no other sound.
Then I rang Central and asked
where the call was from, but she
could not tell me. All day I have
been haunttM by the sound of that
faint, distant sob. What did it
mean? Can she be unhappy? The
thought that she may suffer, too, had
nver come to nie. And yet If she
loves him . . .
August 20th
For several days he has seemed
strangely harassed and worried. He
does not go out, but spends the eve
ning alone in his study. He avoids
me and will see no callers. Says he
is not well, but I know it is not that.
It is something about her. That an- .
other woman should have the power
to make my husband' suffer! The
same question beats always in my
mind: Why did God ever let this
thing happen? Why did she ever
come into his life?
I cannot bear to see him unhappy.
If I could only share with him or
help him in his trouble yes, I would
do even that! I would lighten or
bar, if I could, the suffering this
woman has brought him. But he
shuts me out completely. Says he
hopes I will not feel hurt, but thut
just now he would rather be alone.
Last night he could eat no dinner;
until almost dawn the light burned
in -his room, and this morning he
only drank a cup of coffee and hur
ried off to the office.
August 24th
He was out until midnight last
night, the first time for over a week.
And this morning he came down to
breakfast radiant. So ' whatever the
trouble that was between them. It is
over. And that has made hira hap
py! Oh. my husband, my dear hus
band! Perhaps it was from a feeling of
pity for me, or perhaps his happiness
filled him with a desire to give me
some pleasure, too, for all through
breakfast he talked to me, tried to
take an interest in the house, and
asked if there was anything he could
send "me. After he had gone, I
went up to his room, took from the
closet the coat he had worn the
night before. Yes, the odor of that
soft, elusive perfume was there. And
on the shoulder was a long brown
hair silkly fine and with a glint of
gold.
(Continued Next Week.)
The VanlMhed Bootjnclt.
Covered it was with a carpet strip,
And studded with nails of brass
or
wire;
Back would the wearer of tl&ht boots tip
While he pulled and tugged with in
creasing ire
And the flush of his wintry cheeks
climbed higher;
But ne'er again shall we pause on our
way
To witness the comedy by the Are
Where is the bootjack of grandpa's
day?
The light from the blazing logs shone
bright
On the polished tacks, as a star de
signed, And then came the struggle a short,
sharp fight
And he, to his slippered ease assigned.
Would settle down with a peaceful mind;
But now where he sat, like a prophet
gray,
Is only a hassock a bargain find
Where Is the bvotjack of grandpa's
day?
In case of its loss, what a hue and cry.
Till some one the vanished treasure
brings.
And at last, with the forked aid put by
He succumbs to the order: "Now play
smoke rings;"
Who Is there left to cherish the things
That sparkled of old in the back log
play?
'Mong relics we know that have taken
wings.
Where is the bootjack of grandpa's
day?
Denver Republican.
4 VV
- ,. -
t T
TO REGULAR ARMY.