Newspaper Page Text
CONFESSIONS OF A WIFE
THINGS BECOME "MIXED UP" IN MY MIND
What Pat saw in Alice's face must ,
have surprised him, for he made a
peculiar, inarticulate sound..
For a moment his face went so
white I thought he was going to
"Alice!" he cried, in a voice so
strange that, had I not been looking
at him I would not have dreamed had
come from him.
Poor Alice's head drooped like a
flower. For a moment he looked
Oh, little book, how I wished I had
power to move from the room. I felt
that his pain and Alice's agony were
too sacred for any eyes but their
own. But there I was, and there I
It seemed to me hours before
either of them stirred. Then Alice
said in a stifled voice, "If you don't
need me, airs. Waverly, I think I'll
go out into the air a moment"
As she started to go Pat turned
and again he only said her name,
"Alice," but this time the word con
tained all the love, all the pity, all
the tenderness that could possibly be
compressed into it.
Before she had taken a step he was
at her side and had her in his arms.
And she, after one look into his eyes,
buried her face in his coat, while her
form shook with sobs.
"Take her into my sitting room,
Pat, dear," I said, for we had been
talking in my bedroom because Pat
had come so early. He looked at me
gratefully, and then what did that
blessed Irishman do but pick that lit
tle woman up in his arms as though
she were a hurt child and carry her
into the other room.
I felt my cheeks were wet where
the tears were chasing themselves
down and hastily dabbed them with
an end of the sheet I did not seem
to have a handkerchief handy.
Then I began selfishly to wonder
what 1 should do without my little
nurse. She has grown to De sucn a
part of me that I shall feel more help
less than ever when she is gone.
I am glad, little book, that the great
specialist from Vienna is coming over
and I have determined absolutely to
abide by his decision about myself.
To you, little book, I am going to
confess just how happy it makes me
think to know that Malcolm Stuart
still thinks of me.
Isn't it strange how things come
about? No one seems to realize but
Mollie that I, too, had a letter from
him, and Mollie has attached so lit
tle importance to the fact that she
has never mentioned it I do not
really understand, little book, why I
do not tell any one about these
things, but some way they seem like
one of those sweet things in life that
one hides in one's heart and hugs to
the delighted soul.
The little tokens and the notes he
has sent me have been only those
that any admiring friend might send
to a woman in my condition to cheer
her up, and yet they are so sympa
thetic, so much more than merely
thoughtful that I cannot help feel
ing that in Some way I am a little
more in his thoughts than most
I expect, little book, that most of
the "good" women of the world
would consider this a terrible weak
ness, if not a terrible sin, on my part
(aren't you glad you are not for pub
lication?), but I wish some of those
women who know what they would
do under any circumstances could
live the life that Margie Waverly has
lived since her marriage, and come at
last to lie here where she is now ly
ing. Then let us see what they would
do under the circumstances.
It would not be human to refuse
to grasp the little joy I get out of it
Of course, if I were like other women
well and happy, or even just in good
health- I hoDe I would hp strom;