Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 54, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 March 1911 — Jerry's Faithfulness [ARTICLE]

Jerry's Faithfulness

By ELEANOR H. PORTER

The letter was addressed to “Mias Station Hartley” and not for five years had Mrs. William Saybrook been that, ffce was at the old Hartley homestead on a visit to her brother and bis wife when the letter cams and the postman smiled broad ley as he placed the missive in her hand. , Tees’m that's all; but I guess that belongs to you all right, Mrs. Sayibrook, even if you haven’t been seeing much of that name lately, eh?” he bantered Jovially. “It can’t be—bat It Is — Jerry!” she brssthpd. “And ha doesn't know—l’m married!” With a dismayed cry she tore open the envelope. The letter, in an entirely different handwriting frorp that OB the envelope, began: “Jerry Hap•ood who asks me to write you’this jlstter, feels too ill to do more than superscribe it, but he requests me to ■ay ” • • > Mrs. Saybrook continued to read, her eyes widening and her cheeks paling. At the end she crumpled the letter In her hand and hurried down stairs to the living room where her sister-in-law sat sewing. "Kate, what shall I do?” she burst out “Jerry Hapgood is sick—l mean pm's better and he's coming back—•or ms!” “And who may Jerry Hapgood be?" pmiled Kate, tranquilly. “Surely, not a kidnaper?” "Worse than tbs*. He's a lover—my lover. Kate, what shall I do?” Even the placid Kate was stirred now. "Tour lover! Why, Marlon, what are you talking about?" “About Jerry Hapgood,” cried the younger woman, feverishly, sinking lato a low chair. "It’s awful, Kate, perfectly awful, and you must help me out You see it was ages ogo. I wasn’t but 18; and he—well, there was—an understanding. I'm afraid. Then he went away—’way off, west or south, or somewhere, and we —wrote. Well, that went on for a year or two, then all of a sudden his letters stopped right off short And how was I to know? I thought he’d died or forgotten me, or found somebody else, of course, and naturally 1 didn’t want to be found wearing the weeping Willow, so I —well, William came along about then, anyway, and I—l1 —I couldn’t help myself.” “Of course not” “But, Kate, listen; this is the awful part Jerry didn’t die, or forget, or anything. It’s a dreadful story, all ishipwrecks and wars and imprisonments and sickness. The doctor—my totter was from a doctor —just told me a little of that, but he said that Jerry was gaining fast and would soon come and tell me himself—himself. Kate! He’s coming here and he expects to find me Marion Hartley,’ waiting for him. Kate, what shall 1 do?” “Do? Why. go right along the even tenor of your way, of course. When he comes—if he does come—he’ll find out very quickly that you aren’t Miss Hartley and that you aren’t waiting for him.” “But think of him—how he’ll feel!” “Nonsense, Marion! After all these ye&np I fancy he’ll survive.” Marion uplifted her chin with an air of wounded dignity. You don’t know Jerry Hapgood, Kate. If you did you wouldn't say that in that tone of voice. Besides—why, Kate, they were simply awful—those letters,” she wailed suddenly; "both his and mine. They were forever raving of truth and love and loyalty and high Ideals. And he —he was the kipd that —that never gets over things. And he thinks now that I—l ihave been true, too—as true as he's been! Mrs. William Saybrook did not mention Jerry Hapgood's name again for ■omt days, but that did not mean that •he had forgotten him. She trembled at every knock and held her breath every time the door bell rang. In •pita of her angry remonstrance with herself she found, too, that she could not don a gown nor arrange her hair that she did not have a thought for the possible effect on eyes that had seen her last a 3 an IS-year-old girl. She was shocked and shamed by all this. She told herself that she was actually becoming disloyal to William —William, at about this time, began 4o wonder mildly at the length and Warmth and frequency of hla wife's totters. Bat as the days passed and no Jerry appeared Mrs. Saybrook began to breathe with less apprehension. Then, one day, it happened. She met the man face to face in the woods near •the town. She knew him at once. She noticed that he changed color as their eyes met One band sought his hat, the other extended Itself hesitatingly. "You are—it is—Mias Hartley—Marton," he stammered. He was plainly embarrassed and ihts embarrassment was contagious. ’Before Mrs. William Saybrook knew Just what she was doing she found herself blushing and stammering, too. "li-Marlon, y-yea,” she nodded. She realised then, suddenly, that be had ■aid "Miss Hartley," and that her •“yes” would be taken' as an assent to jthat With a frightened little gesture | •be tried to set matters right She noted with relief that some children {were gathering nuts near them— he wonil not, then, attempt to kiss her. But she bad not begun to speak *hea m man blurted out Jerkily:

"I came right over across lots from the station, you know. I—wanted to see you first. Things have changed a lot around 4 here. I didn't see a soul I knew at the station.” TIT’I Mrs. Saybrook wet her lips. Her j knees were shaking,' and her fingers had grown cold. Under her breath .ihe.. was iterating: “It must be settled J —it must be settled! Why can’t I j make him see?” ! "It’s more than I deserve that you j should even speak to me, after all ! those years of silence,” the man bur- J ried on. “But when 1 explain He i hesitated, and she plunged at once into the pause. “sut you don’t need to explain. Don’t you see? It is 1, just as much — i that is, more. Er —I didn't write, either.” He shook his head and smiled sadly, | as if brushing this aside. “And when I think of all those years," he resumed, “and see you now —and know that year after year you’ve besp right here, and —and haven’t forgotten, I —T-" “But I haven’t been right here, I did forget," broke in Mrs. William Saybrook, frenziedly. “It’s all a mistake! You don’t understand. I’m not Miss Hartley, at all!” Jerry Hapgood stopped short. His face grew white, then red. "You mean that you're—married?” he burst out. “Yes, yes; don’t look like that, please! It was so long, and I was so young, and you didn’t write,” she rushed on childishly, not realizing what she was saying. “And I don’t think ; you ought to blame me. I saw William —that is, he. saw me first, of course—not that I mean that I’m sorry he did see me; but—Jerry, why don’t you say something? Can’t you understand ?” “But you—l called you Miss Hartley at the first, and you—you ” He stopped helplessly. “Yes, yes, I know I did,” she moaned, keeping her eyes resolutely turned from his face. “I was taken by surprise, and didn’t think. But since then, all the time I’ve been trying to tell you." “But, Marion—” “No, no, not a word, please, if you ever cared for me, go now! I tell you she knows who you are—who you were. Please, go!” And Jerry Hapgood went. For a week Mrs. William Saybrook wore the air of gentle gloom that belongs to those who, through no fault of her own, have sorely wounded a much-loved friend. Then, one day, In a letter from her husband in New York, she found these words: “I heard such a good story the other day that I’m going to pass it on to you. j 1 ran across a fellow that I met down | in Panama, and saw quite a little Of that year before 1 came north and found you. It was he who told the j story. He said 'twas such a good joke that he'd just got to tell some oneonly he hadn’t quite made up his mind yet whether the joke was on him or the girl. “It seems that years ago he’d had the most romantic sort of a love affair with an eighteen-y ear-old miss somewhere up here in New England. They had vowed undying love and loyalty after the fashion of impetuous youth, and had then parted, he to seek his fortune wide, wide world, she to watch aiql wait.

“Well, it seems that he traversed the wide, wide world before he got through with it, and, youth-like, his vision of the eighteen-y Car-old maid grew dim, aided by a particularly exciting series of adventures, including wars and shipwrecks, not to mention imprisonment and serious illness. It j was the last that was his undoing; for It was while he lay tossing with fever tha't his new love —a beautiful girl whom he had been ardently courting for a year or so —found out about the old. She got enough from his ravlugs and from a letter she found (while hunting for some friend’s qame to write to of his Illness) to make her suspicious; and when he got better she put him through a merciless catechism. It was all up with him then. The girl refused utterly to have anj other thing to do with him. and peremptorily ordered him to go back and marry his boyhood sweetheart, who— , in the letter—had promised faithfully to wait for him—forever. t Jf need be. “Well, he went. He got the doctor to write first, and sort of break the ice; then he followed the letter. He owned up to me that he was ashamed of himself and meant to make the best of things. Girl Number Two had opened his eyes to what a rascal he’d been to Number One. and he came back with a determined resolution that he'd make good. Indeed, he worked himself up into really a very virtuous state of martyrdom by the time he arrived here duly prepared to reward the long, dreary watch of the faithful maid of eighteen. * “Then , came the joke—the girl hadn’t waited. She’d married. They had one romantic meeting ’neath the green spreading trees, then parted to meet no more. T-e fun of it is. they were interrupted, or something, and lie didn’t” sTveß have a chance to find out the name of the chap who had cut him out, or to explain to the girl that be wasn't quite so broken-hearted, after all. He left the town on the next train and there the matter ended except that he’s gone back to bliss and Number Two.