Rensselaer Republican, Volume 27, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 June 1895 — WEYAND’S WIFE. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WEYAND’S WIFE.

HY should I W> waste any more thought on Isabel Reece?” said ifTul Vance Weyand, S- —. as he sat smoking ml (| in his study one ***&- night “After r ~ promising to marry me, she chose * i a man who W V. V 1 more money. I’ll take a run over v 71 to see Malvern ;« K » to-morrow; he’ll TIE V cheer me up. Tell s him that I mean

to marry again, and speedily.” He found on reaching Malvern house the next day that he had come too late. His dearest friend was dead. ! Vance stood at the window trying to realise what this intelligence might mean to him, when the door opened to admit s girl dressed in deepest mourning—the eyes passionate, intense; the face pale as death, the small head carried proudly, even in the face of her .woe. Could this perfect woman be the fif-teen-year-old Margery whom he dimly remembered seeing long before? She came to him, one small hand clasped {tightly in the other. “Darcey,” he managed to articulate, and that was all “Didn’t you know? He Is dead.” He was unable to answer her. Stepping forward, she laid her hand lightly on his arm. “Do you hear? He is dead—dead—dead!” and she turned and walked quickly from the room. Days passed, and Vance Weyland stayed on in the little village where Margery lived, forgetting his own story at Darcey’s death in an effort to alleviate the sufferings of the lonely, stricken ■later; and in time the light returned to the girl’s eyes and the color to the beautiful lips. They were friends, firm, steadfast friends, and the bond which united them was love for the dead man. When the time came that he must leave her, iVance went to bid farewell to Margery. He found her walking by the river. “Margery, I have come to say goodby. I must go to-morrow,” he said Quietly. "Going? So soon?” she asked, with a startled look. “I regret it, but it is necessary that I ■hould do so.” A dull paleness overspread the regular features of the girl, but she said nothing. "I have been thinking,” continued her companion, presently, “what lonely lives yours and mine must of necessity be, and I have thought—forgive me if I should not—that we might add to •ach other’s happiness if you would consent to be my wife. It is true, we do not love each other in a romantic way; but our tastes are alike and we agree in essential points. If you give yourself to me I think I can make you at least content, and I am not afraid to trust my happines In your hands.” Still she was silent, but pallor gave place to a calm brightness which grew Into radiance. She stole a sly glance at his face. It was turned from her, and filled with a strange unrest. She knew that his mind had to his old love, and she grdw suddenly grave. So long she remained silent that he looked around in surprise. “You do not answer. My words have not offended you?” <J**l am not offended.” "Will you be my wife?” "Yes.” "And soon? Remember my lonely life.” "If 700 desire it.” *Thank you, Margie; you have made mi yQFy happy ” He stooped and quietly kissed her. So ihej were married, and life passed

for many weeks In quietness and peace.; December had come, with chill winds' and heavy snows; Christmas was ap-j preaching. Vance was returning home from aj neighboring city, thinking of his life as it now was, and as it might haves been, and he felt that though he hadonce thought existence worthless without that which he deemed necessary to his happiness, he would not exchange what he possessed for the realization of the dream of his younger days,. For he loved Margery ns he had never dreamed he could love woman again. 1 At that moment his wife was stand] ing, tall and motionless, in the brightly lighted drawing-room, facing a betnw tiful woman whose dark eyes, large and lustrous, looked defiance into hers. “He is your husband?” she was saying. “He is my husband,” assented Margery, with a half sob in her throat. “Your husband, but my lover. Remember that It was I he loved, not you; for that I could almost forgive him for marrying you." Margery did not move. The whit© lips grew whiter, but a great scorn burned In her eyes; she feit the truth of her guest’s statement; but that she should have put It into words!

At that moment Vanee entered the room. The snow outside had deadened the sound of his approach. Margery did not know that he had returned until with a sudden movement the woman before her leaned forward, and “Vance”in soft, dulcet tones fell from her lips. “Isabel!” “The doctors tell me I have not long to live and I have come to make my peacg with you, Vance. I could not go leaving you in the belief that I was entirely heartless. I want to ask ” “All is forgiven and forgotten, Mrs. Weston. Pray do not disturb yourself. I trust that your physicians are mistaken, however.”* Vance’s tone was kind but cold. She looked at him keenly. “You forgive me? That is almost more than I had hoped.” Her slender white hand moved resfc-i lessly toward him, and he was compelled to take it Margery inwardly winced, but no outward sign of distress. She did not see what her husband saw. that Mrs. Weston was exceedingly ill. Vance made a slight attempt to remove the fingers which he held, but their clasp tightened in his; there was a slight swaying of the lithe body, and Isabel Weston was lying in his arms, her beautiful face on ids breast, utterly unconscious. lie placed her on a sofa. In a few minutes she recovered and insisted on returning to her father’s: house. When Vance re-entered thej drawing-room, after having placed! Isabel in her carriage, lie found Mar-: gery standing at the window, her face, pressed closely against the panes. He, took her cold hand in his, and led her, unresistingly to thi>. tiro. She obediently raised her eyes to hlsj face, but dropped them quickly. v e ;a.caafessia ar awbieh„l must--” “No, no, no!” she interrupted. “I can bear no more. Have I not seen andj heard enough. Is not my burden sufficiently heavy that yon seek to add to it? It was cruel of you, and yet I, too, was to blame. I should not have married you, knowing as I did, that you, still care for her; but I was foolish enough to think you would forget—how foolish I never before realized. She said—oh, she shouid not!—that you were my husband, but her lover; and you—you —” — — “Margery, you cannot believe that I am dishonorable enough to cherish love for a woman who, until a few weeks ago, was the wife of another man? Thej day on which I married you saw tha burial of my past love, and a new one succeeded it—a love strongery purer, than I gave to Isabel Reece —a love which is given to a woman who I know loves me, and whom, thank heaven, no other man can call his wife. You are mine, and I claim my own.” Still she was silent and unresponsive. “Margery,” he went on, in a pained voice, which yet contained a greai determination, “you must trust me.’

“Oh, Vauce, if I only might! But it ; has followed me always—this thought; that you ” A sound of hurried footsteps; the door was burst open, and a servant stood breathless on the threshold. “Mrs. Weston’s carringe, sir. There was an accident, and Mrs. Weston is dead, I think. They are bringing her here.” In a few minutes Isabel was again upon the sofa from which she had so lately risen. The black eyes opened Vance bent over her with a murmured thanksgiving that her life had been Bpared for a short time. She lifted one slender hand to his face. “Poor Vance,” she whispered. “You loved me then,! you love her now. I knew it when you spoke to me so coldly. My yanity led me astray —it was only a boyish fancy, soon forgotten—it was best so. They say I did not love Terence, but ah! it was death to me to see him die! His beautiful face so white and cold—the—ah, the pain Is here!” Her hand was pressed against her heart “They told me I could not live; I shq.ll sec him soon. You said you had for ” Her Sentence was never finished. She had gone to him. ■'■"The tears were streaming down Margery V cheeks, and Vance’s eyes were moist. “Margery, my dgrling, you see how It Is. Are you willing to trust me now?” One steady, searching glance, and their lips met in a long, solemn kiss. The clock In the neighboring church chimed the midnight hour, and they knelt band In hand, united in heart, by the side of the quiet form of Isabel Weston, and the cold dawn of morning found them still keeping a silent watch beside the one who had encountered death as they entered upon a new life of happiness and lore.—Yankee Blade.