Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 253, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 October 1910 — CATCHING STEP [ARTICLE]

CATCHING STEP

By JENNIE O. LOIZEAUX

Akers was discouraged. He had plodded along with his set of books at Bennison’s for ten years. He had come there when he was 25. Now the hair was thin at his temples and a little gray. And be no longer hid from himself the fact that there was a small bald spot on his crown. He did his work well, but he had become a fixture —he made no headway. They had raised his wages twice in the first four years he had been there, but no raise had been mentioned since. He dared not mention it because they might refuse it, and his pride could not let him remain after that. But he could not lose his job. There was the old mother at home, bedridden for years. And, a year ago, she had died. He had not yet paid all the doctor’s bills. And there was a bill at a drug store. Akers was honest, and paid installments as he coifld. He had given up the small house in the suburbs where, after and before work, he had taken almost the entire care of his mother except when she was at her worst Then he had had to hire a woman. Anxiety had laid its fearful hand upon him. And youth had taken wings and fled. When he was almost 30, the year his mother first took to her bed, there had been a girl. She was pretty and gentle and sweet, a billing clerk in the office, but a born homemaker. Her smile was a comfort, and though she was not much past 20 she mothered everybody in the store Impartially, from' the skulking, smoky cat to Akers. She seemed to understand. Nobody made love to, and everybody loved her. The other girls told Amy Bartlett their little jealousies and rivalries, and the men took courage from her. Akers waked up one morning—-one morning after he had been Up all night with his mother and had been told that her case was hopeless, but that she might live many years : —to the . fact that he loved Amy Bartlstt. After that he kept away from the girl. He could not bear to be near her and remember that common decency and honor kept him from saying: "I love you.” So his life became a starvation, for hearts must be fed—and minds. He no longer found time to read anything, or even to go to church, or ever to the theater —he could not afford the latter. And, he found he must sleep when he could, lest he be so weary that his office work suffer. From doing his work confidently, gladly, it became a drag and a trouble. He might make a mistake and lose his place. It was about a year after he had reached this point that Amy came to him a moment ona day when he was feeling so tired and blank that the figures were a mere daze. She had not said more than a casual word' for months, and now her nearness brought a feeling akin to hysteria to his throat He was afraid that in spite of himself he would break into tears, or put his head down against her woman’s arm for comfort—he so nebded comfort A sort of gruffness was his only safety. “I just thought I’d ask you—if I had offended you in any way?” she said rather timidly. “I’m so careless of what I say, and you’ve—well, we used to be friends, and I thought I might have said or done something that hurt you or—” This was more than he could bear, but he maanged to be very steady and formal, and to speak with a set little smile. “No, indeed, Miss Bartlett, not at all. You’ve' always been very good. I’ve only been busy—my mother is sick at home, and I’ve had to be up nights—and I’m sure you’ve never said anything." And then, tfecadee he knew he could not bear her questions of sympathy about his home life, he turned from her to answer the senior partner who was about to ask him something. The girl’s eyes were pitying and pitiful, but she went away. A few weeks after that she took —a position In another store, and he never saw her—not even on the street. Then his mother grew much worse —and much more trying, and he was up more at night, and the bills became more frequent. And his work —his one effort was to do his work well, and it was done. No fault could be found with that, but all human spontaneity left him. He had lost step. The girls did not smile at him and throw jokes and slang his way. The partners called him "Mr. Akers not the jovial “John” he had been for the first years. And then he Insured his life. In a spasm of self-searching he thought It his duty. He might be killed in a street car crash on the way to work some morning, and leave nothing to his mother and his creditors. His filial duty* and his honesty made him thus further a slave. One day he heard the girls in the office talklhg about a party the force was to have. His name was mentioned. They were not even careful lest he hear them. One of them wanted to Invite him, but another carelessly remarked that be was V a thousand years old—and entirely out of the running.” He realized this. He knew‘he had lost step with the march of joy and progress. And then the mother bad died. The firm gave him two weeks off, on pay.

and perfunctory condolences. They liked Akers; he was faithful. He went home and managed the funeral, made the few distant relatives who could come as comfortable as he could, wrote letters, faced an empty house. Then he knew that, trying as the half-insane, peevish unloving old woman had been, her absence was a terrible thing. His heart wds empty. He faced the fact, which was not the worst thing he did; he accepted it, which was fatal. He not only recognized loneliness and failure and limitation —he accepted them. He had ceased to fight. When the two weeks were over he went back to the office. He gave up the little rented house and moved to a cheap boarding place. It was not comfortable, but neither - was debt. He settled down to work and the stoop in his shoulders was most marked and his hair thinned a bit more; but his smile grew very gentle and a fine quality crept Into his voice. He slept and began to be really rested, and some of the daze passed. After a few months he began to read again magazine stories—foolish things, but they reminded him that there was somewhere, youth and love and laughter in the world. And then there was Ninette. She was the landlady’s little girl, curlyheaded, warm-hearted. With the confidence of her four years the baby-woman walked into his heart and took possession. She would come up to his room, creep into his arms, and demand a story. Unable to deny her anything, he bestirred his memory, his imagination, and the stories became an escape from reality. It was his first itep up from the depths of apathy. He would think things out to tell the baby and he took to buying her cqndy and cheap toys. It was.the first time In years that he had practiced self-indul-gence. He did it as a lover wastes gifts on the lady of his dreams. One night the child, over-tired, fell asleep, her yellow little head on his breast; and he held her awhile before carrying her down to her mother, who was none too sorry to have the care of the child fall sometimes upon this big, kind man. He became lighter of heart and brighter, and his work had a tinge of his boyish energy In it It occurred to him one morning just as the senior partner came up, to speak to him to ask for a raise. Without giving himself time to weigh and ponder, somewhat to his own surprise, he did it confidently on the spot The request was granted; he had forgotten that a man was valued by himself and that others rated him with some dependence on this valuation. That night he bought a new gray suit and took the band from his hat. It was early summer, and he took Ninette out for a walk in the little park. Sitting' 1 in a red swing in the twilight, with the sleepy child In his arms, all of a sudden his heart was full of Amy Bartlett. Where was she? He longed to see her, to hear her gentle voice and see the womanly, motherly, comforting smile. Being fair himself, he liked dark women; there was to him something deep and sweet about them. He remembered that Amy had a dimple In her plump cheek. Then he carried the little one home and went to his room with his mind full of Amy Bartlett The next day he asked Mrs. Farley, who had been years in the office, what had become of her. The elder woman looked at him with a sort of pity, before she replied. “Well, you actually want to know? She’s at Woodly’s—two whole blocks away, John Akers! And while we’re talking about her, let me tell you something—you’re the most awful idiot. Well, it’s time you were catching step!” That night he walked out of the office thinking. What had Mrs. Farley meant?—what? He did not go home. He went for a walk, passing out of the hot streets to a quieter way, one that led to the little park. It was early evening. He went along, and then suddenly he turned his head to glance at a woman sitting on a bench. He met her dark eyes. It was Amy Bartlett, and be went straight to her —it was as if she might disappear before he could tell her something. She held out her hand and gave him a smile, but there was a pathetic look in her eyes. A great light came to him. “Amy,” he said low and breathlessly. “do you know how I have starved for you? how I have loved you? Do you know? I wanted you to know — it Will be easier then to go on alone.” She choked a little and he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. • “Alone? Why should it be alone, John?” They sat long Into the twilight, and, the heavy past lifted Itself likes a mist - and floated away, and love revealed her shining face. * » -