Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 208, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 September 1918 — HIS WIFE [ARTICLE]

HIS WIFE

By MILDRED WHITE.

ISTUS, Western Newspaper ” Union.) Richard’s arms stretched despairingly across his desk, and presently his head drooped, to rest between them. It was all over as far as he was concerned, and there was nothing to do but go away and leave Constance in her father’s care, from which he, Richard, should never have presumed to take her. But “love” at that time had seemed to be “the greatest thing in the world.” Wealth, and all its protecting comforts paled to nothingness besides. He had not realized in youth’s confidence to what length his ambition for his wife was leading him. . Creditors had forced the fact upon him —he was in debt, hopelessly in debt. How had expenses been allowed to exceed so completely his regular Income? Surely the smart Titttle coupe had been needful; Connie, perched on the arm of his chair, had delighted in the convenience of her purchase. The beautiful bungalow with its well-kept lawn had been her appropriate setting. The bungalow must go, this was now inevitable, the servants engaged by his wife must be dismissed. War conditions might partially excuse his own lack of success in money matters. He could bear the father’s contempt—it was of Connie he was thinking. How would she look when he told her the truth? What would she do? But there was just one thing, of course, that she could do. She must go back to her father’s home. White-faced, and with lines of suffering about his mouth, he raised his head —reached for the telephone—no, he could not tell her —yet He would write a letter, that would be the easiest way. • He would place the sum of their Indebtedness against that Of his income; Connie should draw her own conclusion and give him answer. Not once did it occur to him that his merry little wife might have shared the blame, yet it was she who had selected plans for the bungalow and its costly location. “ «■ > , When the letter was seht on its way, Richard left town for a business tripi On his return he would learn his fate. His own street seemed strange as he drove up to the bung: door, and the auto went for the last time perhaps—back to the stone garage. The rooms were empty as he passed from one to another, a speaking air of desertion hovered everywhere. In Connie’s own boudoir, bureau drawers and closets stood open—she had been packing—and was gone. Richard sank wearily into a chair and rang for a maid; his fears were realized; yet he knew that he had been hoping against hope, allowing himself to fancy the impossible—that Connie might still have loved him enough to face with him a new beginning of things. “Mrs. Byron started to pack Immediately upon receiving his letter.” the maid informed him. "She had left tlie address of her destination if he wished it.” Richard caught at the scrap of paper. “Willowdale,” he read in Connie’s writing, and that was all. He wrinkled his brow perplexedly, then sighed.' No doubt Willowdale was some new country place of her father's. They directed him at the railroad station. It was a small suburban town he learned, not far from the city. The agent at Willowdale shook his head when Richard inquired for the Home of Constance’s father. That great man’s name appeared to be unknown. “Mrs. Byron then,” Richard asked, “can you direct me to her?’ The agent’s face brightened visibly. “White cottage,” he replied, “across from the square.” Richard was still perplexed as he turned intq the garden path leading to the white cottage. It was a very pretty little house, with rambler roses climbing the'veranda pillars, but he could not understand what Connie should be doing there —and at the doorway she met him. He paused breathless before her radiant face. There were not reproaches, surely, in that evident happiness. “Come in,” said Connie. She laughed as he had not heard her laugh since those first joyous days long ago. Then at sight of her husband’s wan face, she put up her arms to draw him down* to her. “Dear,” she murtpured, “welcome, this is home at last.” Richard held her close. “You mean —” he asked eagerly. “That I. have never really bad a home,” said Constance. “Always there were servants about to order things—gardens too well kept to enjoy. Here there is but one small servant whom I shall order, Richard, and a garden full of flow-era that grow alone. • I chose the place and moved in while, you were away. The rest of our furniture shall be sold. It has been such fun to plan things out. Father wanted to help, but I would’t let him. This is our home —our very own; and so ridiculously cheap. This time there will be a surplus on the Income side. And dear” —Connie smiled tremulously—“you need not be worried and distrait any more or give me anxious wondering hours. We are free, Richard, we shall really live, you and i—ln this little real home of ours.” With a great content Richard gazed deep into the eyes of his wife who-had not failed, while clambering rosea nodded promise to them from the dopeway- _