The day book. [volume], November 10, 1915, LAST EDITION, Image 26

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

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

                
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CONFESSIONS OF A WIFE
THE TENNEYS HAVE COME BACK
The telephone rang this morning
about 10 o'clock and I was much sur
prised to recognize Bill Tenney's
voice coming over the wire.
"How are you, Margie?" he said.
"I'm just fine," I answered. "When
did you get home?"
"We came in last night."
"Is Donna well?"
"Perfectly."
"Tell her I am coming over to see
her very soon."
"Margie," my name came rather
hesitatingly over the wires, " I want
to see you alone. I want to talk to
you about Kitty. I am so shocked
and grieved that I must talk to some
one and you are the one person in
all this living world I can talk to
who will understand."
"Yes, Bill, I think I do understand,
but I can hardly see how I can see
you alone, especially before I see
Donna. Besides, do you think it will
do any good to talk it all over? Kitty
is out of it all now, poor girl."
"Look here, Margie, you've got to
see me some way, somehow. You
had more to do with this affair than
any one and I've got to know some
things which only you can tell me.
Now where and when can I see you?"
I did feel sorry for him and again
I asked myself if I had done right in
interfering with his affair with Kit
ty. Every day that I live I find my
self more and more coming to the
conclusion that trying to run other
people's affairs is a great mistake
a greater mistake, perhaps, than any
they could make, provided they had
done their own managing.
I believe, littie book, that it is one
of the tilings we seldom learn thor
oughly, but it is nevertheless true
that one's life is one's own the only
thing in this mortal existence that is
one's own. We, however, must live
it in solitary state, pay for our own
mistakes and sins. Whenever we
let any one into the sacred place
no matter who and ask advice or
help, we are always wrong because
no one not even the one who loves
us most, can know all the twists and
turns of our minds, all the aspira
tions and struggles of our souls.
We must live alone, as we are born,
and die alone. Some we may love,
some we may hate, some may walk
very near us for a time and help us
bear our load, but it comes to the one
thing at last we struggle on and
even though we are surrounded by a
marching multitude that seems
bound for the same place, by the
same road, yet, we must march on
our own feet, no matter how crippled
and weary they are.
We may count our life by our emo
tions, but our emotions are not all Df
life. Love, hate, grief, pleasure, pain,
good, evil all these may come and
go almost without our volition, but
we come into life, it takes us and
wraps us about with its great mys
tery, we know not why it has picked
us out of the void of the never-was or
at what moment that, tired of our
futile cries against fate, it will throw
us into the void of the know-not-where.
We only know that we are
in the land of the living and must
stay here for a time alone. Poor Bill,
I feel rather sorry for him. Indeed, I
feltvvery sorry for him when he was
talking, and so I said, "You can come
and take me up to Donna's in your
car and I will call on her."
"But Donna will want to come with
me."
"You need not tell her what you
are going to do."
"The ride will not be long enough
for our talk."
I laughed. "Well, Mr. Bill, you cer
tainly have settled down into a do
mestic animal. I know a time not so
long ago when Bill Tenney could be
counted upon to take the longest
way home if he wanted to talk "
"To a dear, sweet woman," inter-
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