Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 277, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 November 1910 — A Man’s Equal [ARTICLE]

A Man’s Equal

By LOUISE OLNEY

Half-hidden from the others in a corner, almost forgotten by them, Elaine bent her fair head over hex. dainty bit of sewing and listened unheedingly through her dream of Jerry, * dream that would soon be reality, ie would be home any day, surprising her as on all his college vacations. He Vas trough the .law school and they would be married. They had been plannlng it for five years—since she was eighteen. it had been a long wait, and she had felt, uncomfortably, that his sister Anne, his housekeeper since their mother's death, did not approve JerJ 7 8 choice. Now at the little neighborhood ‘‘sewing” that represented society to some extent, where much opinion went forth, but where gossip was theoretically tabooed. Anne was holding forth to the. rest. The talk had been largely of college and college people, and Anne was saying in her sententious manner: «

"Well, college does change a man! And I believe a man’s wife should be his equal if she’s to take any comfort herself or be anything but a drag on him. There’s Mary Stevens, for a shining example of misery. Don Martin got engaged to her before he went away to school merely because he was idle and she was .pretty and always about. Then, while he studied four years she sat at home and read his letters and Embroidered doilies. She simply lived from one vacation to another, and never had an Independent thought of her own, or read a book that she was not forced to read! she waited for him to marry her, and that was all. You know, as well as I, that finally everybody but her saw that he had outgrown her. It was evident that he gave her both a chance and ah excuse to break the engagement. But she wouldn’t though Mark Towne, who had remained right here and adored her and was on her own level, was wild to get her. She would marry Don, and she did. Now—he’s indifferent and she is jealous and it’s a bad mess. He has known women who think and need mental companionship, a thing she can’t give him. She had nothing but mere youth and selfish devotion; now, the youth is slipping away and what is left?” Her needle pricked back and forth through the garment she was making. “But surely,” defended the minister’s wife, gently, and remembering Elaine and her tender young sensibilities, “surely love does not depend on mere mental companionship. Mary's case was but one instance. Many men want the simple sweethearts of their boyhood, the girls who have always known and understoodd them. They can get intellectual stimulus from men friends and other women. From a man they want love, which the Intellectual woman cannot always give." Anne still pursued her theme. “Of course, exceptions occur. But I maintain that most men find small interest in the girls they leave behind them. They may marry them, if they have promised to, but it will be, generally, because the girl has not the sense to see that his interest has wandered and that he would be glad of his freedom if he knew how to get ft without seeming like a scoundrel to himself and the home town. I’m sure I could tell whether a man really wanted to marry me or not, and I would at least give him a chance —’’ Just then a new arrival and a silencing gesture of the minister’s wife toward Elaine, whose cheek had gone white, put an end to the talk. But it bad been wantonly cruel, and the others firmly believed that Anne had done it purposely. They knew her ambitions for Jerry, her brilliant brother, and the interest Alma Terris, a young artist friend of his had taken in him. The town bad thought he would jilt Elaine and marry Alma Terris, and the town had said so. Now Elaine folded her work and slipped into the June sweetness of the late afternoon, a new thought tearing at her heart Would Jerry like to have his freedom? Had he cftr ed for Alma Terris? She had not been jealous of the young artist who had visited the Terhunes the summer before. The air was full of bird song and rose bloom, but the ache at her heart hid these things. And he might be home any time, tonight, even. ghe had waited with a sort of rapture for him, for the final arrangements for the wedding. But now—well, >be not go home. Half unconsciously she went over the hill, taking the little path that, led to the wood where they had told their simple boy and S*** l love. She must think It out A sort of agony folded in uD on her as she remembered that of late hi« letters had been brief, full of the homely, simple past, with very little of life now, his thoughts now. Had be tired of her? If she tried to break the engagement would he let her’ Would ehe have the courage to . ghe eould not imagine Jerry taking dismissal from his meek Plaine’ Then, with sudden decision. . -ride arose in arms. She would it W kfH®d her — he would have toe ehsnce of freedom. She would go tow h ,tn * nd A aound made her turn, and Jarry Ils. '•> ~

stood beside her, reaching out both hands. He was thin and wan and worried-looking, but his smile was very sweet. She would have leaped to his arms, but she knew that once in the dear, old shelter she could never let him go. She drew back. “Jerry," she said, while wonderment and alarm grew In his gaze, “you we—have made a mistake. I am going to give you your freedom. I cannot —marry you. I think we were—you were—too young. Our lives have grown apart My thoughts are not your thoughts, and you—we—would not be happy." She was vehement in her speech, utterly unlike the gentle Elaine. She looked at him a moment, then turned and airmost ran from him.

“Don’t you—dare come after me," she said breathlessly. “I—could not bear it" ' 5 He stood looking after her, and just as she turned the corner a young fellow in white flannels and straw hat joined her. It was Ed Stanton. So Anne had been right! She had written him that Elaine seemed to be interested in Stanton. Jerry threw himself, face downward on the • grass and tried to think it out. tried to make himself believe the girl was not in earnest. Evidently she was, and it was unbelievably cruel not to have given him a hint in her letters, to have feigned the sanqe unchanged love for him that she had showed for years! Presently he arose and went home. He had not seen Anne yet, and she welcomed him royally, surrounding him with home attentions. And after dinner, when twilight was falling, she asked him: “And your—marriage^Jerry?” “He answered shortly. “There will be none-—Elaine has just broken the engagement." He glanced quickly up and caught something like triumph in his sister’s face. "I suppose, Anne, that you were right about Stanton. I have neglected her—and lost her. It is my own fault I could not expect a girl, like her, infinitely above me—”

The sister Interrupted indignantly: "She was never your equal, Jerry. The world knows you could have married Alma Terries any day. You can now. What surprises me is that Elaine should have toe sense to see things as they are and set you free. Well* perhaps I helped her see it— I hope I did." Her brother stiffened to instant attention. “Tell me just what you mean, Anna," he said with a strange quiet. “Well, at the circle this afternoon somebody brought up the subject of college men coming back to home girls. We spoke of Mary Stevens and Don, and the failure of their marriage. He manned her because he had promised to, and because she had not the sense to see that he wanted his freedom and to give it to him. When I began I did not think of Elaine, and then it was too late to stop—lt would have been worse than going on. I said that any man who has lived four years among thinking college women rarely comes back to the girl at home unless he is promisebound; that she has nothing but mere youth and a dog-like faith to give him, whereas he needs the mental companionship and real help in his career. I could see by her face that the thought had not occurred to her, though she had been with Stanton so much lately. I daresky it made her think ’’

But her brother had snatched his hat. “I dare say It did make her think,” he remarked as he hurried out of the room and went down '* the street as if time itself were at hl, heels. Ten minutes later he parted into the Waite grounds; through the pretty rose garden and up to the front door. Mrs. Waite welcomed him like the son she'had long considered him. Evidently the good lady had, as yet, heard of no change in the situation. “Where’s Elaine? I want to see her immediately.” “She went out into the garden awhile ago—you will probably find her." Without a word he strode out. She sat on the rustic bench In the rosearbor, her arms over the back, her pretty head bent down upon them. At his step she jumped up and faced him in the gloom. “Elaine, you dismissed me, but you did not say It was because you no longer love me. Tell me, truthfully, that you do not love me, and I will go, but until then I. never will. I love you as I always have loved you. only a thousand times more. You are tearing my heart out of me, girl, lid 1 neglect you, until you have fallen back for love on—Stanton?** That brought her, with a little cry, to her dear old place In his arms, where she could tell him all about It It took a long time and there were many interruptions. Finally he laughed. “But f ; don’t want to marry my equal—l want an angel, my superior in every way! I want you! I want a real woman who loves me—not somebody who loves her work first herself second, and her husband third. I’m not a thirdplace man. Elaine—l want everything. Do you seer* was very dark in tile summer house, bit light dawned on Elaine.