Evening Republican, Volume 16, Number 185, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 August 1912 — little Brown House [ARTICLE]

little Brown House

BY A. HOWARD GUNTER

(Copyright, 1912, by Associated Literary PreM.)

The divorce was granted, the papers signed, and Margery Graham and Henry Wade, whom God had joined together some eight years earlier, were put asunder by Norton & Norton, as attorneys for the husband, and young Keley West, representing Mrs. Wade. The whole affair, their friends agreed, had been beautifully managed, incompatibility was the plea, and the only disagreeable feature of the arrangement was that which necessitated a final meeting of the parties to the suit at the office of Norton & Norton. Margery had cried before the meeting, for it seemed absurd to think of Henry as not belonging to her any more, as marrying some other woman, perhaps. Then she had dried her eyes, powdered her nose and put on her most becoming suit, feeling that Henry must be made to see that he was ' losing something precious; and flanked by her bosom friend. Rita Whitmore, and on the arm of young West, she .had come to the appointment with just that look of resigned martyrdom on her face which the occasion demanded. Henry came to the meeting by himself and looked frankly worn and wretched, moreover, he made no attempt to ease the embarrassment of the situation, but was cold, gruff and unnatural, “a perfect brute,” as Rita said afterward, with a congratulatory squeeze of Margery’s hand. Margery went back to the mansion that Henry had built for her when they moved Into town five years before, and, putting, her head down on Polly Marie’s curls, cried so that her tears ran down Polly’s fat neck. That tickled Polly Marie and she laughed such a splendid, hearty gurgle that Margery had to laugh, too, though she was very miserable. A burning sense of indignation had upheld her during the ordeal, but now that Henry had granted all her demands the transgressor had in some way managed to put her in the wrong. She was sick of life, she hated this marble palace, which had been the scene of her troubles, and suddenly she remembered the little brown house. She had not been there for years, because it was ever so far out in an undeveloped suburb, that small, snug home where she and Henry had begun housekeeping when they ran away from their people *and were married years ago. Old Martha, her nurse, lived there now, and kept everything Just as they bad left it. "Dress Polly Marie for a walk,” she called to the governess, and began stuffing things into her handbag.

The governess protested, pointing to the heavy clouds that were gathering outside, but her mistress was obdurate. There was a long trolley ride and then a walk across an open field, with Polly Marie, who had fa*llen asleep, hanging limply over one shoulder, and the bag thumping against her ankles in a most uncomfortable way. But she struggled bravely on, for over the high stone wall in the distance she could see the gables other haven. Through the iron gate, up the long walk, and then came disappointment; for the sitting-room shutters were closed and Martha was evidently not at home. A moment she paused in consternation, then she recalled the broken hasp on the shutter of a back window. It had been so long since She was there that she had almost forgotten. All she had to do was to climb on the garden bench, pull the shutter open, she was! ' But this was not so easy with Polly Marie and the bag, and only after two or three futile leaps did she reach the ledge and scramble to the floor inside. The sky had darkened and great splashes of rain were falling, but from her vantage ground. Margery leaned out and called defiantly, “Rain away, rain away, we’re safe in our little brown house.” From room to room she went and the house was full of memories—nice, domesticated memories—that hovered about the linen eloset and purred from the kettle on the stove. The tiny bedrooms, a * dining ro6m, a sitting room and best— worst — of all, Henry’s den. At that door she stopped; it would be so dark in there, for the heavy panels needed a cheery fire to light them up. With something like a sob, she threw open the door and caught her breath with sheer joy. A bright fine crackled on the hearth and the reading lamp brought out warm lights from the brasses tn the room, and In front of the fire, with his head buried in his hands, sat Henry. Bat of course Henry should be in his den. It was the most natural thing in the world. So, "Please," she begged, "may we -come inf We’re dreadfully cold." "Are you real, Margy,” asked Henry, peering at her across the circle of light. Then wonderingly, "Come in, whether you're real or not —out of the darkness, out of the storm.** She stumbled across the floor with her burden and, dropping down in a

huge wicker chair before the fire, began unpeeling the sleeping Polly Marie. “It Isn’t a bag of chocolate eclairs, nor a poodle,” she assured him proudly, "It’s a baby.” Polly Marie emerged like a fat blossom, and Margery stripped off the damp stockings and held the tiny pink toes to the fire. Then she snuggled deep Into her chair, cuddled Polly against her heart, and sighed a long, deep sigh. “Oh, homey little house!” she whispered. Henry lit his pipe and settled himself deep In his arm chair. “Right little, tight little, nest," ho answered, through clouds of smoke, and did not even pretend to be ashamed of such foolishness. "Oh, cozy, cunning home,” cried Margery, with great content They sat for some time in silence while outside the storm roared and whistled through the trees. A vivid flash of lightning tore the darkness and Margy jumped and squealed. "Not afraid of that?” asked Henry, as of old. —is , She almost forgot what the answer should be, but got it out before the pause was noticeable. “Not when you are here,” she answered. “But Henry, what are you doing here? —I thought you had rooms at the club.” “Which shows how much you knew about me, or cared,” he answered gloomily. "I’ve been living here over two months, with old Martha keeping house for me. She’s gone to her sick daughter tonight. —When the trouble got so bad” —he winced and spoke with lowered voice—"l co.uldn’t stand it, Margy. I bolted from the club one night and came back home.” He leaned over and touched one of Polly’s pink toes. “Fine kiddie," he said, "very fine kiddie. But where did you get her, Margy?” Margery flushed with pleasure. “I’m so glad you like her. It’s Mary Hall’s baby. You remember poor Mary, that went to school with me? Her husband left her nothing, you know, and when she died the baby was put in an asylum, a horrid place where she had to wear a uniform." She hugged Polly Marie close. “I’d been going to see the little thing, and when the trouble got so bad”—her turn to speak with lowered voice—“l couldn’t fight it out alone. HBo I went right down and got Polly Marie for my very own." ■— ———— ———-7“I’m glad," declared Wade with satisfaction. “The little house had always wanted a baby, Margy." "Perhaps,” she suggested, "if we’d had one it wouldn’t have happened as it did.” Then, for a woman must ever meddle with the tree of useless knowledge. “What made it happen, Henry? Was it the stacks of money that brought on our di-—” But his hand was over her lips. “Hush, Margy! Not one word of that. That happened back there in the world. When you came through the iron gate, under the honeysuckle arbor, and raised the brass knocker on the door —you remember how we searched the town for that knocker? —then you left the world behind. You must never say that word in here, for it would hurt the little brown house. You see, Margy, the little brown house is a real home, and the minute that word is spoken, or even thought of, within its four walls, a real home dies.” “How stupid of me,” she cried, “and to think I almost killed the little house. I mustn’t . say that word even to tell you how sorry I am, Henry, that I was so foolish and unforgiving?” “No, my dear, not even to give me the chance to till you how ashamed I am of the wrong I did you.”

He drew a bowl of violets across the table and held them toward her. “They’ll make you forget, Margy. They grow so close to mother earth that they know her sweet, wise secrets.” “Oh, wild, faint, woodsy smell!” she cried and buried her face in the flowers. “Henry,” she declared, looking up at him with sudden understanding, “you’ve been working in the garden all day. Henry, you didn’t—you couldn’t be so cruel as to plant my pet patch?” He nodded guiltily. “How could I know this wonderful thing would happen ?” “Oh, you’re the stupid one now," she answered joyfully. “For shame to have so little faith. Didn’t you know I'd come home at last?” “You’re right,” he-apologized, “but you see I had to plant ever so hard today, to take my mind off other things. Tomorrow I’ll dig it up and you can plant it all over again.” He made a chain of the largest blossoms and put it on her head, drawing her hair about her face. “Madonna,” he called her, “my lady of the earth and man and all things sorrowful and human,” and stooping quickly he kissed her. g

» Margery blushed like a schoolgirl and sat up In a sudden, wide-eyed remembrance. “Henry, Henry, I must go. I can’t stay here tonight You aren’t myhusband any longer. What would people say ?” " ‘People’ would be horrified. But you can’t go out in all that storm, Margy." He laughed a long, contented laugh that defied the storm/ the world and “people." “Tomorrow we’ll be married again to restore your reputation, and In the meantime let us go on being happy. You aren’t my wife, Margy; I’m not your husband, and Polly isn’t our child; but for all that the kettle Is singing on the hearth tonight and we’re a real family in a real home."