Evening Republican, Volume 15, Number 187, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 August 1911 — Through the Pantry Window [ARTICLE]

Through the Pantry Window

By CLAUDINE SISSON

On a certain chill October afternoon, which was brightened only by a flare of crimson leaves on all the maples and the ever-present tangles of aster and goldenrod along the bushy banks, Elsie turned her horse In at a rickety picket gate and dismounted before the porch of a tiny, shabby, neglected house. With the reins upon her arm she stood looking about her with tender, remembering eyes. The little yard was grown up with mingled grass and weeds. In one corner was a bit of garden where corn had ripened and was curing where it stood, where a few red tomatoes which the birds had not eaten glowed jewel-wise upon fading vines, and a yellow pumpkin and a. green Hubbard squash lay side by side. At the right side of the narrow path which led up to the door a flower bed showed a , few scarlet geranium blossoms. Upon the shelf within the little porch stood an oxalis and a cactus dead for want of moisture. The house blinds were shut. It was a very pitiful little house, like a shell without its mollusk or a body without its soul. Tears came to Elsie’s eyes as she thought of the dear woman who had animated It with her kindly presence. She felt that she would like to go in and look about and try In imagination to refurnish the abandoned rooms and to people them with the gentle figures that had once frequented them. The thin old horse, a freckled gray from the Imrery stable In town, was pulling at the reins in an effort to get his nose 'to the grass. Elsie sought for some place to make him secure and remembered the little barn. If the door was not nailed up she could put him In there. s The door was not nailed up. It slid open easily and she led the horse In and tied him to the stall which had held'only cobwebs and bay dust for a long time. A little hay remained in one corner. She carried it to the horse, who received it as eagerly as if it had been the freshest of fodder. Then she went to the house. It was locked securely. She went about trying the shutters. At last she found one partly off the hinges—blown off by a high wind, no doubt She swung it dear and put her hand to the window underneath. To her surprise, it raised as she pushed upon it She seemed to hear a familiar voice saying in her ear; “The ketch on that pantry window needs fixing bad, but I can’t seem to do it But, la! what difference does It make? There ain’t no burglar coming in here for the little trash I’ve got. If one did come in he’d be glad enough to get out again after I’d given It to him good and lively with that old pair-of brass tongs I keep handy for the purpose.” Aunt Hope’s dear voice! Aunt Hopes’ own remembered words! And this was the pantry window. Elsie looked in. The tiny place was neat, the cupboard doors shut; an old iron spider hung against the wall. It looked perfectly natural and right, quite as if Aunt Hope had just stepped out Clarissa Mains, the heiress, had left some things as they should be. | The window-sill was only knee-high from the ground, and Elsie climbed over it easily. She let down the window behind her. The floor gave back an empty sound beneath her feet as she walked across it to the kitchen. The kitchen, too, was quite unchanged. There stood the old-fashioned stove from which she had eaten so many oi Aunt Hope’s good dinners. In the dining-room the chairs and the table still stood In their places upon the painted floor. After the dining-room came the parlor. the room that In Aunt Hope's lifetime Elsie had always loved best It was a good-sized room in the front of the house. She lifted a window and turned the slats of the closed shutter. The yellow afternoon light came In across the bare floor. Innumerable motes danced in its rays. Upon the walls a few old pictures still hung, and the wall paper showed fresh spaces upon Its faded surface where ethers had been. There was a what-not in one corner; a few chairs waited as if for occupants; a shell and a large cheap vase were upon the mantel. Of all Aunt Hope’s treasured parlor furnishings these things only remained. *' •» Elsie sat down upon one of the appealing chairs and clasped her hands in their riding-gauntlets about ler knee. There was a chill of fireless ness and stale air in the room, but she did not feel it She was thinking of the last time she had been In this room. There had been flowers tn the room and many people. In the midst lay Aunt Hope, always hitherto so gracious and genial, so quick to respond to the love of her friends and neighbors. Her hands were crossed upon a flower; her lips smiled a new little smile of understanding of men's ways and of God’s. Above the hushed sound of . tears rose a dignified voice: "I am the resurrection and the life.” How vividly she remembered ft all! She had sat here and he had sat there with Aunt Hope between. And though they both looked at Aunt Hope tearfully they would not look at each other. How pale he had been! And, perhaps, she, too. had been just aa pale under her veil. Well, it was

• V ’’y; • 7 . .» X’ ■ over. Of what use was it to regret?* Yet Elsie knew how anxiously Aunt Hope had longed for tfiqm ' to be friends again, how strongly she had' advised their making up their foolish quarrel. “You are both young and hightempered,” she had pleaded again and again, “but there’ll come a time when you’ll be old and remorseful unless you make up now. Why/you are made for each other, Elsie. You’ll never be happy with anyone else, nor will David. He’s a splerdfd young fellow. Don’t I know? Wasn’t I with his mother the night he was born and haven’t I watched hiflj grow up from baby to man? ’’And haven’t I Watched you grow up, too? And I love you both. I’ve tried to have you care for each other because I felt that was as it should be. And now ■you’ve let Cjit little trollop of a Doris Kennedy come between you! Oh, I knew what folks say about me —that I am a meddling old matchmaker— “ Peacemaker, Aunt Hope,” Elsie had laughed tremulously.' “Well, then, peacemaker, I hope I am. Blessed —you kpow what the Bible says. But I ain’t sure of that unless you'll let me make peace between you and David!* “Some day,” Elsie had half promised.’ That was a year ago. Then they had met at Aunt Hope’s funeral and had not spoken. Afterward David had gone back to the city to his work and Elsie had gone to hers in the little country town.' As far as she knew now, her romahice was ended. There was no Aunt Hope to advise and gently smooth away the difficulty. But, oh, the sweetness and the bitterfiess of it lingered with her like mingled myrrh and money. She had loved David—she loved him still —and must go on loving him as long as she lived. But she. bad the Bennett temper. He had It, too, for back somewhere, a couple of generations ago, a certain marriage had made 'them kin. She would not give up. Neither would he. And It was all because she had not liked his city cousin, Doris Kennedy, and he had! Perhaps down in her heart Elsie had been a bit jealous of the blonde young woman who looked ask If she had been run In an exceeding slender mold and had never so much as bent her back since—an effect obtained, it was said, by means of an exacting dressmaker. Elsie was far too natural to admire Doris’ immobility, loads of false hair and layers of pink and white powder. And she had told David so in a none too pleasant way. “But her heart is all right,” he had argued stoutly. "Doris-Is a good girt. The trouble Is, you are envious of her, that’s all.” “Envious!” cried Elsie, scarlet With rage. So thg quarrel had begun. And it had ended in David going his way end Elsie hers. As she sat there now in the empty room Elsie owned to . herself sadly that she had . been unreasonable. After all, Doris was David’s own cousin and older than he. There had been no reason in the world for her being jealous—as she had been; yes, she had to admit that now. T 9 ’ "If only I had listened to Aunt Hope. If only I had let her make peace as she wished—” ~ r - A crash at the back of the house startled her. A window bad fallen! She sprang to her feet. Steps were coming toward her through the house —heavy steps—a man’s. Now they were In the kitchen—now the diningroom. She plunged toward the door that opened into the little front entry. It was locked. She tugged at it frantically. Heaven! To be. shut in this bouse with a tramp. 'BtflL tagging, with futile desperation, at the unyielding door she looked back over her shoulder just as the Invader appeered In the parlor door—a tall ybung fellow In a respectable ulster, who looked almost as white and shaken as she knew she was. “Elsie!" he exclaimed. “Great Scott!” "David!” she gasped. And half felt against the supporting door. They stared at each other, the color slowly coming back to their faces. "Did you get in at the pantry window, too?" Elsie asked, " wheh she could. ' ' He nodded. “I remembered that Aunt Hope was always going to have it fixed and never did. What are you doing here, Elsie?" He came close to her. “What are you?” "I came becapse I had ta i felt as if I was being called.” "David! That’s just the way I frit" Their eyes sought each other’s, awestruck, wondering. Then their hands met "Forgive me, Elsie. I was wrong," he faltered. "Forgive me, David, I was wrong, too." They clung together. •.' ‘4 “I didn’t care for Doria. .But she was my cousin " , “1 know. I know." She was in his arms now. And ho had kissed her. -David." Elsie said, from his shoulder. solemnly, “do you she. Aunt Hope, drew us here today F His eyes had the look of one who knows?” ? he anlwerjd /w low. "Blessed are the peacemakers!"