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Polaris, v. 1, issue 1, December 1939
15
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POLARIS 15 "Yes, that is right; she is gone." "Your interests are so bound up in your work-- it is not surprising that she should have wandered. You do not blame her, Le Marc? You can forgive?" He poured another glass of wine. "What is there to forgive? The fault was mine, Paul. I never should have married Clarissa. But she was so young, tender-- so alive. "You cannot imagine how I hungered for Clarissa." His head sank forward. "It is a terrible thing to know such hunger. To live with it as I have lived. We were together for several years, you know. And every night I would dream that I was again young and lithe-- only to awake and see myself as I was. Yet, she loved me: I was not blind, Paul: she loved me even as I loved her. She saw the real Le Marc, not this padded sepulchre. Yet-- for all my love, I knew that some day, she must go. "I think she knew it, too. I could see the realization of it grow upon her day by day. How can I forget that? How can I forget the love and trust she had for me? She saw my soul, but the world cannot see it. The world can only see this mockery of the human form I have become. How can they know how I loved her?" Brightly in the yellow candlelight, tears coursed down his cheeks. "Le Marc! What are you saying?" "What difference does it make now? What use are these tears? She is gone." "Le Marc! What happened to her? Where is Clarissa?" A sob welled up from the enormous figure in the great chair. He stretched forth a swollen hand for the wine bottle, but his reach fell short and it overturned, reddening the white of the tablecloth. On the weirdly decorated silver platter rested a few cold slices of delicate, tender, white meat. THE END THE ORGAN By Duane W. Rimel (Continued from Page 13) the family tomb and brought her forth to the church before anyone was awake. But I know that I have done right, for the mark on her throat is gone and her soul is free. And I understand now why she was waiting for me, and I can understand, too, the impulse which caused me to struggle to her bower. As evening draws on I am appeased by the fact that she smiled when I saw her last-- smiled as the organ played. And now I hear those haunting, impelling notes again, seemingly from some vast distance; and I think I know why they have come. For the organ is playing that same melody we heard in church this morning-- the melody which wafted her soul to heaven. THE END
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POLARIS 15 "Yes, that is right; she is gone." "Your interests are so bound up in your work-- it is not surprising that she should have wandered. You do not blame her, Le Marc? You can forgive?" He poured another glass of wine. "What is there to forgive? The fault was mine, Paul. I never should have married Clarissa. But she was so young, tender-- so alive. "You cannot imagine how I hungered for Clarissa." His head sank forward. "It is a terrible thing to know such hunger. To live with it as I have lived. We were together for several years, you know. And every night I would dream that I was again young and lithe-- only to awake and see myself as I was. Yet, she loved me: I was not blind, Paul: she loved me even as I loved her. She saw the real Le Marc, not this padded sepulchre. Yet-- for all my love, I knew that some day, she must go. "I think she knew it, too. I could see the realization of it grow upon her day by day. How can I forget that? How can I forget the love and trust she had for me? She saw my soul, but the world cannot see it. The world can only see this mockery of the human form I have become. How can they know how I loved her?" Brightly in the yellow candlelight, tears coursed down his cheeks. "Le Marc! What are you saying?" "What difference does it make now? What use are these tears? She is gone." "Le Marc! What happened to her? Where is Clarissa?" A sob welled up from the enormous figure in the great chair. He stretched forth a swollen hand for the wine bottle, but his reach fell short and it overturned, reddening the white of the tablecloth. On the weirdly decorated silver platter rested a few cold slices of delicate, tender, white meat. THE END THE ORGAN By Duane W. Rimel (Continued from Page 13) the family tomb and brought her forth to the church before anyone was awake. But I know that I have done right, for the mark on her throat is gone and her soul is free. And I understand now why she was waiting for me, and I can understand, too, the impulse which caused me to struggle to her bower. As evening draws on I am appeased by the fact that she smiled when I saw her last-- smiled as the organ played. And now I hear those haunting, impelling notes again, seemingly from some vast distance; and I think I know why they have come. For the organ is playing that same melody we heard in church this morning-- the melody which wafted her soul to heaven. THE END
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