Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 February 1910 — In the Wrong Pew [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

In the Wrong Pew

The trouble began, innocently on my part, at the senior prom In New, Haven, where I, Don Blecker—ho, It isn t a pet-dog name for Donald: Just named me that way—was about concluding the regulation four (years at Shelf. Rafe Scrlngeor and I were chums and bunkies; hence, he knew that I <was engaged to Jessica Callandar, while to me it was no secret that he hoped to adorn a similar romantic relation to Estelle Folsom. My inamorata lived with her widowad mother near the Washington Arch on lower Fifth avenue, New York, While Estelle Folsom was the only daughter of a rich manufacturer, residing on Whitney avenue. New Haven, (Which facts will explain how I knew [Estelle quite well, while Miss Callandar did not, except possibly through hearsay. I may mention also the physical and psychological facts that the (two girls belonged to opposite types— Jessica being tall, dark and stately; (Estelle petite, blonde, and of a Dres-den-chlna-shepherdess style of prettiness. it should be heedless to stare that personally I do not much care for blondes, a confession offset by Scrimjgeors avowal that somehow, since he (had met Estelle Folsom, he felt that way about all brunettes. Now ft lejl out, that on the night of /the prom, owing to his mother and sisters being* in town, Rafe didn’t have time to drive way out on Whitney avenue and back, so he begged me to start * little early and escort Miss Folsom f. the Hyperion before I called for Jessie Callandar at her hotel, he promising to be on hand and meet us in the foyer. thus releasing me quickly. What else could a man do but consent? My car was a speedy one, and I made three three miles out and back In record time. But there was no Rafe on hand to meet us. Miss Foleom and I stood chatting just inside the swinging doors of the foyer where we could be seen by every one bidden to the greatest social event of the Ya'e year.

Nine-thirty came and went, then 10 o’clock, and still no Rafe. Again, what could I do, save continue to squire my chum s pretty dame, although I was aching to fetch my own lady-love. I'o her, of course, I thought I could easily explain matters. But good-fellowship peters out at a certain point; the music had begun long ago; arrivals were < perceptibly fewer, and I was considering how I might decently escape, when the doors swung apart to admit—Jessica Callandar with her mother, attended by a tall, rather distinguished-look-ing fellow. He was a complete stranger to me—wearing a monocle attached to a narrow black ribbon, by which token I sized him up for an Englishman before he opened his mouth and I hated him instinctively. Imagine my surprise and chagrin No wonder, as I have since been assured, I looked like a farmer’s boy caught stealing apples! To have seemed to break an appointment with my fiancee and to be apparently “caught with the goods,” laughing and chatting with another girl! It was horrible, and, I admit, didn’t look very well. However, Miss Callandar carried off matters superbly.

“How do you do, Mr. Bleeclier?" (That mister sent cold chills down mv spine.) “Let me introduce the Honorable Mr. Gordon-Powell, of the British legation in Washington." We men shook hands perfunctorily while the attache murmured his English "Chaw med, I’m shaw.” Then it was my cue to introduce Miss Folsom to the trio. Jessie overtopped Estelle by four or five inches, and seemed to completely overlook, the diminutive little thing. Yet she said, quite compos•dly and smilingly: “I’m delighted to meet gny—er—friend of Mr. Bleecker’s.” The sting was covert, but all the more apparent to mv sensitive and guilty ears. Miss Callandar, her mother, and hir escort moved on toward the dancingfloor, Jessie merely flinging over her shoulder, with that adorable tilt of the eyebrows I knew and loved so well: “Aren’t you coming—you and Miss Folsom?” “Certainly, in a few minutes. I'm only waiting for ” They were gone, and I turned to my companion with something very like a scowl on my otherwise usually amiable features.

“Oh, I’m *o sorry——" *he wi® beginning when I cut her short. "Don’t mention it—doesn’t matter a bit now!" I added under my breath. The mischief was done, but of course pretty little fluttering Estelle Folsom was not to blame. ’ When Rafe did appear with a bevy cf five ladies in tow —four ingenue sisters and a "first old woman” mamma—l could have killed him with a look. However, he was profuse in his regrets —I managed to infer that “the girls” had been a long time over their toilets —and I broke away to make my peace with Miss Callandar. But there was to be neither peace nor pardon for me that! night. The Honorable Gordon-Powell was Very much in evidence; I couldn’t find a vacant place on her dance-card, and to hurried aside requesting a few minutes’ private talk in order that I might explain something the girl returned coolly:

"I don’t think it really matters, Mr. Bleecker, does it? Seeing is believing, you know,” she ended, flashing me a dazzling smile over the shoulder of that confounded attache as he whirled her aiyay. For the rest of the evening I played “gooseberry” to Miss Folsom, flirted desperately with the four bread-and-butter Scrimgeor girls, and rather took a savage delight in dancing with Rafe s fiancee more times than was perhaps prudent or necessary.

Punishment came In the morning bright and early in the shape of a note from Miss Callandar, delivered while I was dressing. It was short, tart, and to the point. Her ring—my ring—fell from the envelope to the floor as I

opened it. Here is what I read, undated, unsigned: “After last night, I am reluctantly convinced that you are as fickle as 1 once thought you true. I abhor deceit and double-dealing as the one unpardonable sin between men and women. Henceforth should we meet it must be as strangers. But I hope never to see you again.” So I was condemned unheard! That started my fighting bloow. By heaven, she should know the truth! By 10

o’clock I was at the hotel, only to be told that “Mrs. Callandar and party left for New York on the a o’clock express?’ I followed by the Shore Line an hour later, and suffered another rebuff upon calling at the Callandar residence. Miss Callandar was conventionally "not at home.” Then I wrote a long letter, detailing the facts. That Jessie read it I didn’t doubt, althougn it was returned to me along with a bunch of my former letters.

For the third time I ask you: What more could a fellow do? I stiffened my jaw, plunged into work, was graduated with my B. S., and went West to work for a big construction firm.

Four years later, early on a Sunday morning in May, I laaded in New York. The'’ s little blind god of happen-so put it into my head that for once I'd oa good and go to church. Naturally I chose the old Collegiate Chapel where for two hundred years the Bleeckers had worshiped, and where our family pew was handed down as an heirloom. But, as I afterward discovered, our seat had been so long untenanted by the family—l a.m the last of the line—that is was now used as a strangers’ pew. This, of course, I did not know when I whispered to the usher—a complete stranger, by the way:

"The pew, if you please.” He nodded and preceded me up the aisle, although I could have found my way blindfold. He did not pause at the well-remembered door, but went on half a dozen paces further. Then I noticed that the Bleecker pew already held its quota. My guide opened the door of an sitting and motioned me within, saying under his breath: “The Bleecker pew is full, but you’ll be entirely welcome here.” ■ I bowed and took the end seat nearthe aisle. Service had not yet begun, and I was interestedly gazing around the old sanctuary where as a lad in knickerbockers I had sat between my father and mother, Sunday after Sunday, when I was roused from my reverie by the rustle of skirts and the click of the door-catch. Two ladies were being ushered tn.

Naturally I rose and stepped into the aisle to permit the new arrivals to enter, raising my eyes for a moment as they passed me, and got the surprise of my life. They were Jessica Callandar and her mother! Jessica Callandar, after all those years, just as fresh and cool and stately as ever. Neither had recognized me, and for an instant I thought of flight. But only for an instant. 1116 chance rencontre was too fortunate to be despised unless—and I stole another glance at the face of the girl beside me, and in that same in-

stant knew that I was still hopelessly in love. But that "unless” would not down! What if she were married to the Honorable! Less likely things have happened. I wished she’d remove her glove so that I might see if a fateful and tell-tale plain gold band encircled a certain left-hand finger. But a second glance at that pure girlish profile beside me somehow gave assurance that my fears in that respect were groundless.

Perhaps a couple of minutes passed while the ladies were settling themselves in their seats, Mrs. Callandar sitting on the other side of Jessie. Thus far, I was sure, the girl had no idea who she had for a right-hand neighbor. Then, though keeping my eyes resolutely frontward, I was conscious that her head turned in my direction. I felt the red blood surging over neck and face, although I was so browned and tanned that I hoped it would escape notice. I glanced quickly and to my secret delight noted that Jessie’s cheek and one tiny ear were corhl pink. In that instant our eyes met. She had recognized me? Yet her cool glance was of the kind usually accorded to a complete stranger, and Miss Callandar’s outward composure might be described as glacial. The organ ceased its mellow prelude, the choir sang their “opening piece,” the minister delivered his brief invocation, and then the congregation rose for the responsive reading. Calmly and coolly the girl found the place and offered me half of her book.

Neither of us joined in the responses. Personally I was conscious of a very inconvenient dryness and tightening in 'my vocal apparatus. What Jessica felt* just then I have never been able to learn. However, I was doing a pile of thinking, and all the old feeling of resentment at her injustice came over me again.

Casting my eyes down the page 1 saw, several paragraphs ahead, some words that I told myself were almost providential in their appositeness—from my point of view. In an instant I had evolved a very pretty plot, for I was resolved that, willy-nilly, Miss Jessica Callandar and I would have an explanation ere the day was many hours older. >

Clearing my throat dnd swallowing as the minister and congregation neared the fateful lines, I made my one and only response in a clear and deep bass voice:

“Judge not according to the appearr ance, : Bftt judge righteous judgment ” Then came the Gloria Patri, and we all sat down. Not by a single tremor of wrist or fingers did the girl betray the least sign that she had heard. After the notices were read, the ser-mon-hymn was given out, and we rose to sing. As before I was offered the right-hand half of the hymn-book with the place already found. Also as before neither of us joined in, although the melody was a very familiar one. I kept my eyes glued to the page. Two verses, three verses, went by, and choir and congregation entered on the last verse. I noted that the words were by Dr. Watts—good old T)r. Watts! Suddenly I was electrified by Jessica’s beautifully clear and vibrant soprano joining in the first two lines: “He that does one fault at first. And stoops to hide it, makes it two.”

She had given me my answer—a very pretty and appropriate retort from her viewpoint—paying me back in my own coin. But at least she had spoken, and when once a woman consents to argue the battle’s half won If tne man's cause be just. I was determined she should not enjoy her woman’s privilege of the last word.

So all through the forty-minute sermon I planned my little campaign. I believed dear old Mrs. Callandar would prove my ally, and unless Jessica had changed her name and condition during my absence I promised myself I’d conquer.

When the benediction was concluded I offered my hand to the girl and her mother and spoke. The old lady was unfeignedly glad to see me; indeed, she looked and said so. Jessica was more coy, but she did not freeze me altogether, for which small mercy I was devoutly thankful. Indeed, my feelings might be likened to those of a bank clerk who wins out on a hnn-dred-to-one gamble a day or two before the bank examiner comes around. In the most matter-of-fact manner possible I turned their way down the avenue that glorious May morning, nodding to old acquaintances here and there. Yet were we both far enough from the madding crowd. Arrived at the Callandar house, Mrs. Callandar insisted on my remaining for luncheon. I Iqpked at Jessica for my cue—whether to accept or decline —but she persistently kept her eyes averted: however, I remembered that “silence gives consent,” and interpreted it as another good omen. Surely this was going to be the blessedest Sunday I had ever known!

Well, once inside the. house you may imagine what followed. Almost insensibly our steps led us to the old library in the rear extension where, in fact, I had first, asked her to be mine more than five years before. Mrs. Callandar, dear old thing, discreetly vanished upstairs to “take off hsr things.’’ Once we were alone I confess to rather rushing the attack. Resolutely taking Jessica's now ungloved hands in mine—l noteji that the ring, finger was still unringed—l compelled her to listen while I hurriedly poured out tin true story of that prom night. Perhaps my strongest card was. the fact that Estelle Folsom had become Mrs. &crimgeor the year after I went West.

was in my arms once more, our peace was made, and I was kissing'away the tears of happy relief that dimmed the radiance of the dearest eyes on earth. Then the luncheon-bell tingled, and as hand in hand we went down the wide stairs I chuckled gayly: r “Well, it turned out to be the right church for me, sure enough, even if I did get into the wrong pew!”—San Francisco Argonaut.

JOINING IN THE FIRST TWO LINES.