Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 220, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 September 1910 — On Courting Night [ARTICLE]

On Courting Night

By EDITH GRAY

Above, In the shadows, the author was speaking softly to the other boarder. The other boarder was an artist, and the author and he seemed always to have a great deal to say to one another. They often came to the little Miller farm to spend care-free week ends, undisturbed by obtrusive critics and condescending art patrons, and tonight, as was their custom, they tipped their chair legs back against the shingles, their feet stretching out toward the piazza rail, their eyes searching the stars beyond. Below, on tho steps, sat the pretty daughter of Farmer Miller, gorgeous In the panoply of courting evenings, her soft hair, of mornings so alluring in the careless disarray of goldbrown strands, caressing slender neck and warm flushed cheeks, now knotted In a tight, awkward wad; and the soft house dress, which usually clung so prettily about her 6hapely little figure, displaced by a horror of stiff stafched gingham. It was courting evening, and she sat primly upon the steps complacently conscious of Importance of the occasion and of her own immaculate splendor. But the eyes of Elizabeth Miller were troubled, and a frown puckered the usual serenity of her sun-browned forehead. Was it after all, she pondered, so Wonderful a thing to be loved ahd wooed by young Dave Stetson? Of course he was handsome and rich, in his own account, and. richer still in anticipation of greater things, for some day he would be the sole owner of the old Stetson place, with Its wealth of bams, and greenhouses, Its expanse of sun-kissed hills and rich brown meadow land. It la true, however, that he might have had Nellie Wharton, the justice’s daughter, or pretty Mary Howard, for the asking. Nellie had been away to school and Mary’s father, part owner of the big Howard mills, was a \ man whose wealth and Influence were in no way to ho scorned! Yet, for all that, David had turned to her, despite the greater attractions of wealth and beauty. Tonight within ear shot of the softly modulated voice of the writer man and the answering echo of his friend’s sympathetic understanding, the eyes of ’Lisbeth Miller were troubled and the frown, deep puckering, defied the calm tranquillity of the 'summer stars. She could hear, plainly, every word of the author, though he was sublimely unconscious of r her presence, hidden as she was behind the piazza pillar. He was speaking strange, incomprehensible words, socialism, anarchy, democracy, and the tyranny of the powers. But It was not the words, or their import, it was the voice with its peculiar richness, its strange risings and fallings, its numerous subtle inflections that held and thrilled her inmost being. David might say: "I love you, I love you, I love you,” a thousand times, but his passionate outpourings could not move her one-half as much as the utterances of this strange creature, cold and Impersonal as he was. She thought: "He must see that I am pretty! Perhaps, In time—” Her cheeks flamed scarlet under their rich coat of tan.

Well, she would wait The writer and his less prepossessing friend would be returning, from time to time, during the long summer. So she would have ample time to think It over, and sufficient occasion to Impress the writer with her unsurpassed week-day dexterity and her wondrous Sunday splendor. There was the cerise silk that Aunt Sabina had left her. She would wear that one day—and grandmother Miller's black Jet necklace and edrrings should be called upon In time of necessity. She knew that the women in the great city were beautiful, but she would show this man that she could cope with any fair damsel of the far metropolis. She patted her pink gingham thoughtfully and lifted her hand approvingly to the shapeless coiffure above. Then her chin rose in proud determination. Yes, she would tell Dave at once. She would go and meet him when the front gate clicked and Inform him of the fact that there could be no more courting, no more strolling In forest pathways on summer afternoons, no more winter confidences over the open fire. The thing should be ended at once and for all time. And yet, in spite of the fact that her brain was dazzled with the thought of the tall, slender man, with his keen, Well-chizzled features and farseeing, but frankly impersonal eyes, the vision of the broad-browed face, heavy but regularly molded. Its dark eyes overshadowed by a shock of wavy hair, thrust Itself persistently upon her. Yes, David was handsome and big and kindly, and he knew how to turn a pretty compliment She recalled the night of the dance in Evans’ barn. It was two years ago that he had “offered,** and yet it seemed but yesterday, so pleasant liad been the tlmfe of courting. There was a sudden throb of the fiddle in her ears, the scrape of many feet upon »bare, swept boards, the sweet pungent odor of new-packed hay. the lights of lamps

swinging high from the rafters, and jack-o’-lanterns grinning fantastic, from far corners. And then a mighty beating of heart as Dave having lured her beyond the great doors, spoke to her beneath the stars. “Your eyes are very big," he had said simply, “and there Is light In them. I want them for my own." “Your eyes are very big and there is light In them!” Could the writerman do better?” Yes, yes; a thousand times, yes! For if David, with no schooling at all, could say such things, what might this other then express, with his list unmeasurable of magic words, the more remarkable that they were but half understood? ... Surely, even after this review of old, surging memories, for all that the past had been so sweet, her decision was made and, irrevocably. For, arguing with woman’s logic, If the past had been pleasant with, a man like David, what would the future be, made glorious by a great wonder, a being of experience and travel, a writer and talker, a prodigy like the man above in the shadows? The big moon swung gloriously about the far meadow hillocks, a little breeze scattered late rose petals softly at her feet The voice of the writer-man seemed a thing far-off, wondrous as the star light. Suddenly Xlsbeth Miller sat keenly erect, her ears straining to catch the words of tho men beyond. “She’s beautiful,” the artist was saying, “but the usual peasant type, boorish and unimaginative. But she would he a credit to Millet with her bossies and her loose blown hair, and even a greater artist might dlspatr erf reproducing her wonderful color.' ‘‘Right,’’ the other answered, “But you must admit that the cleverest caricaturist emild hardly do justice to her atrocities on dress-up occasions. She was unspeakably commonplace in that pink gingham tonight, and that monstrous arrangement of hair was unutterable. If only the commons would have sense enough to leave well enough alone.” They drifted off &en to town talk and friends of the city. The artist said; “I wonder if the incomparable Lucia could find amusement here?* And the other answered: "She always makes her own amusements, and what surrounds her la Invariably beautiful. Ah,” between long-drawn puffs of contentment, “there's a woman!” “Worthy even of you!” There was deep silence, save for the mad beating of a girl’s heart la the shadows, then there was a firm step upon upon the gravL The girl flew like a hurt thing down the crunching length of pathway and into the wide open arms of her lover in the darkness. “Dave,” she sobbed against the sheltering strength of firm-set shoulders- “Dave, boy, how I love you!”