The day book. [volume], February 15, 1913, 2, Image 19

About The day book. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1911-1917

Image provided by: University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library, Urbana, IL

                
John Pascoe never did. He had
the Welsh obstinacy in his na
ture, which makes mountains of
molehills. Each waited for the
other's advances. After three
months Mary married Will Stur
gis, a capable, middle-aged con
tract miner. He was kind, when
sober, but he was seldom that.
John had heard sinister descrip
tions of their relationship. He
had done all but strike her; and
if he had not done that, it was be
cause he knew that the first blow
would never be repeated.
Mary would have left him long
since. She could not bear to
think that John would know how
disastrous her adventure had
been. She hid her wounds and
passed, in the eyes of her little
world, as a docile, submissive
wife.
John Pascoe knew the Penny
man mine like a book, for he had
toiled in its multitudinous galler
ies for years before old Penny
man, struck by his build and air
of refinement, had made him one
of the guards a privileged post.
He seldom met Sturgis. The lat
ter could not have been ignorant
of his affair with Mary, but his
was too coarse a mind to feel any
resentment; on the contrary, he
gloated secretly over his success,
and esteemed himself a pretty fel
low to have won his wife from
such a man. There was no hard
feeling between them.
But since her marriage Mary
Sturgis had never been to the
mine. Her cottage was the
furthest of all the little white
homes strung out over Penny-
man's r-'-s. And never until
that da had she set eyes on
John. He had often wondered
whether life held any hope for
her. He knew that with Stur-t
gis she must endure continual,
martyrdom. He knew that shej
was childless. More than this het
did not speculate; it was a night-t
mare which obsessed his freet
hours, and tortured him. He had
intended to go west at the end of
the year as soon as-he had saved
sufficient money to put the scene
of his unhappiness forever behind
him.
"Is my husband down there?"
Mary had asked, and John Pascoe
was silent. He bowed his head in
affirmation. He knew that she
would make no scene. He knew,
too, that her humanity would re
volt against the thought of even
Sturgis choking in that hideous
fire damp.
"There's the elevator bell," he
exclaimed suddenly. "The vol
unteers must be coming up with
the bodies I mean the surviv
ors," he said clumsily. "No doubt
your husband is among them,
Mrs. Sturgis. Will you wait here
while I go and see?"
For an instant her eyes met his,
and he saw the agony in them.
Even in his despair that involun
tary glance sent a thrill through
him. Mary still cared, then, even
as he cared; he read her soul'
aright; there was no doubting.
A little light gleamed through the
dark clouds that hung over him.'
Even though that were their lasti
meeting, what matter, so long as
Mary loved him?