Evening Republican, Volume 14, Number 305, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 December 1910 — Her Silent Crush [ARTICLE]

Her Silent Crush

Steven Paston was bored to death. He shunned social affairs in a blase fashion unnatural for a youngster ®°t yet twenty-live. Girls had somehow gotten on his nerves, and he atanknhout with his dog and his pipe, taking what Joy he had in abusing the Wood college baseball team , which he was disgustedly coaching. Lately, the team had been losing games for some inexplicable reason. At practise the boys filled his bosom with joy, but put them up against a neighboring college team, and they invariably started out well —but finished badly. He had finally got the trouble traced to Myers and Townsend. They always did some fatally foolish thing at the last minute. Then his sister gave him a key to the trouble. He had been complaining to her of these two, and she, with the bright ready wisdom of a young married woman, diagnosed. "It's—girl," she announced, “pure girl! Myers alwayd has Flossie Evers waiting round with a picnic basket for the game to end. Townsend fusses after Maude Forest. What can you expect? It’s the end of their last year, and they’re in honor bound to go home engaged!” “So that’s it. is it?” Steve looked at her in open admiration as he stood In the study door and filled his pipe. He was a goodly sight enough—big, brawny, masculine, with a fine eye and a reluctant but unforgetable smile. His sister certainly mußt know what she was talking about. Girl! He straightway resolved to give Myers and Townsend a talk that Would make them mad enough to win 'She next game! Girl, indeed! Though his sister gloried in his own attitude to the sex, she could not help giving him also a fling. “Perhaps it’s the coach, too," she remarked slyly. “You’re pretty canny, Steve, but I should think the way the girls in this manless town pursue ! you would begin to take effect pretty :8oon! A man escapes ninety-nine jtlmes and falls wounded the hundredth time. Mllly was here today to :see if she couldn't take baby out for j* walk, She’D bring him back jusl late enough so I’U have to ask her to dinner. Then she’ll stay so long I’ll have to send you home with her.” Steve grunted in an ashamed sort of fashion. He would have stopped her if he could. . ! “And Mabel Dwyermnl Irene Sorter Want you to come to their Impromptu jdanoe tomorrow night. It’s given by the town girls. You can take any town girl who will go with you. That’s just what Irene said." At this the young fellow turned in disgust into the study and threw himself on the couch to read. But he did not read; he thought it carefully over. Being young, he loved dancing; also he liked girls—of his own sort —the sort that let a man do his own pursuing, and maiile the chase interesting and often vain. While he was still meditating disgustedly, sister again appeared with her sweetest smile —and the darning basket. She sat down and surveyed him. “It's going to be a pretty dance,” she said casually. “Whom are you thinking of asking? You might put the names in your hat and draw. There’s not much choice.” She was thinking of Helen Weaver, but knew better than to mention her: - She would have been quite willing to have Helen for a sister-in-law. “Oh—what’s the matter with Helen —if she would go with me?” Suddenly he sprang up and went to the ’phone. He called up Helen, and in his impatient, yet somehow humble voice, asked her. Yes; she would go with him —gladly. After a moment’s talk he hung up the receiver. Her cordiality was undoubtedly genuine. It was unmistakably friendly. But it was nothing more, fie felt that after a year of a more or less intimate acquaintance he hardly knew “ her, though she was perfectly frank and had been about with him a good deal in a caftial way. Then he called up Irene and told her he was coming to the dance, of course, and it was lovely of her to ask him—and he would bring Helen Weaver, whom he had already asked. He felt the little chill in Irene’s voice and knew he should have asked her instead. When he got back to the study he was relieved that sister had been called to the parlor by a visitor. The door was open and he could hear them chatter. It was Edythe Allen, in her devil-may-carest mood. She was enough older than Steve to Joke about him and not be misunderstood. She had laved over the absent baby, talked about the neighbors, the latest college scandal and her own new consignment of hair from the city; then she began on the dance —and then on Steve. A sixth sense told her he was listening and the madcap knew he hated being adored —and discussed “How’s Adonis—and his brigade of female admirers?” she asked his siste*. ”1 saw him loping by this morning a little late for class, and as I was but for mischief, 1 listened to jtbe girts raving about him on the /campus. Does he know bow lovely te ®v®ry girl in town is crazy |&out him, and foolish enough to say

By JOANNA SINGLE

so to some other girl who invariably tells! Even Helen Ware ” Steve sat up angrily. He was going out to defend her. Then he remembered that he could better help her- hyiJteeping stia. -But sister rose to the ( occasion. “Helen is not that sort ” shewas beginning .a little coldly when Edythe broke in. “Let me finish, do! 1 was going to say, that even she, though she says and does nothing, Is deeper in than any of them!. One of those intense silent crushes. I don’t know how I know—but Ido know! Oh, isn’t that the prettiest Irish crochet! I don't see how you_ get time to do it, with a baby and a husband and a brother to look after! I’m sure with only myself, I never make anything ” and so on until almost dinner. Then she departed just in time to meet Milly bringing back the baby. Steve heard sister invite the girl to stay. He snatched his hat. As a member of the faculty, he darqd not get a free lunch. He went to the first chop house and ate a beefsteak. Then he took to the open country back of the campus and went with long strides to a little strip of wood. June was very sweet and green, and his pipe was solacing. He knew a -place where he could rest in peace, but as he turned a corner he ran squarely Into Maltbie, whom he hated. “Hello,” he said. “Where you going?” “Seen Miss Weaver anywhere, pastor?—Her brother said she went for a walk —I wanted to ask her to the dance before some idiot ” “Before some other idiot does?” finished Steve. “You’re too late. Just aßked her myself—over the phone. J>Jow you clear out while I brood oVhr my . luck.” He said this with a grin, but Maltbie knew enough to depart He was not out of sight before Steve heard a suspicious noise and turned to look about him. A gray skirt showed behind a nearby tree. He investigated, and the girl laughed outright “I>hated to eavesdrop,” said Helen, “but I saw him first, which means that I hid promptly. I just managed to keep out of his sight all the way here. I’ll deal with Jimmy for telling where I went” She stood looking at Steve coolly enough, and still she was friendly—very friendly. He somehow forgot to take his eyes from her face, but she did not blush. “I’m glad I had promised to go to the dance with you. If I had actually been brought to bay I could have told Sam Maltbie that—but I hate even to give kirn a chance to ask—he’s ” “Such a hopeless donkey,” finished Steve, still walking; beside^her. He no longer thought of resting. He was thinking how little she looked like a girl with a “silent crush.” In his heart he declared that Edythe had been wrong. Helen certainly had never showed a sign of caring for him when he sought her; she had never by so much as an extra smile sought to attract him. She did not care. He felt a little empty and lonesome somehow. Then, without warning, she left him at the first turn. “I mußt go back —I’m expecting company. No, don’t come with me—go on for your walk. I’ll he ready about 8 tomorrow evening.” At the dance the next evening be was baffled by her manner. He was sure she did not care —and yet he could not forget the foolish gossip of his sister’s caller. When Helen would not dance with him he found a wall flower and conscientiously did hia duty. Did she care? He spent one dance in the smoking room, when a new question came to him. Why did he want to know whether or not she cared? What was it to him? Why—he loved her, that was it! The full wonder of it all came over him. It was like him to go straight to the dressing room and ask the maid for Miss Weaver’s wrap. And It was like him to march up to the girl at the end of the waltz she was dancing, and insist on taking her out into the fresh night air. It was also like him not to mind about the the wrath of her disappointed partners. When he had made sure that they were out of sight and hearing, he turned and faced her. “I wanted to ask you—to tell you—something,” he said. She smiled in the old friendly way. But she did not help hint. He had to do it all himself. “1 —I’m crazy about you, Helen. I love you with all my heart. Could you—do you care—too? Do you? Will you marry me? He held hia hands out Then she laid both here in them and looked np at him, her eyes wet with unshed tears. She nAdded again and again. “Oh, say you love me, Helen! Can’t you say it?” She let him draw her closer. “It’d too big—and deep—and beautiful to talk about,” she said, “but I don’t mind telling just you that If you hadn’t loved me and told me so. I believe,l should have died!” He laughed in utter contentment It was another case of girl. But he did not know it —became it had bap pened to him.