Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 230, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 September 1915 — STANLEY’S RETURN [ARTICLE]

STANLEY’S RETURN

By GEORGE MUNSON.

Robert Stanley was running away. The train was a local. That was part of his scheme. At Philadelphia he meant to catch a quick train to the South. Thence he could make his way undetected to South America. He felt as eager as a schoolboy over it. And it occurred to him that his past life had ended when Miriam had died. The five and twenty years that had elapsed was only an interlude. He looked up as the train stopped at a small station with an odd sense of familiarity. He saw the name Bir-' mingham. Why, that was his home town, and he had never been home since his mother died. He had always meant to, until he heard of Miriam’s marriage, and then he had dropped a veil over the past. Now he had a sudden longing to see the little place again. He took his suitcase —all he was carrying with him —and got off. Two other passengers were leaving the train. One was a man about flfty-flve, the other a girl of nineteen or twenty. As Stanley stood on the platform she turned, and he saw Miriam looking at him. He raised his hat automatically, gasped, and stood staring at her foolishly. The girl looked doubtful for a moment —then she whispered to her father, who turned with a puzzled ex- ' pression upon his face. “I beg your pardon,” stammered Stanley, "but my name is Robert Stanley, and I —-I seemed to recognize—” “You did," smiled the man. "What an odd meeting! My name is Roger Leston, and this is my daughter Miriam. Her mother often spoke of you.” “I knew you from your photograph, Mr. Stanley, at once,” said the girl smiling. “Though it was taken before I was born —” "I feel complimented,” said Stanley. “Are you staying in Birmingham?” inquired the other. “If so you must be my guest. I hope you won’t refuse, for my wife always spoke so kindly of you; in fact, I understand you were an old admirer of hers?” Kindly of him? Could anyone have ever spoken kindly of him? Stanley was unguarded. For the firgt time in a score of years he dropped the mask of coldness that he presented te the world. “And I know all about you,” the elderly gentleman continued. “I Was saying to Miriam only yesterday that you must be harassed to death by those Wall street scoundrels. We hope you’ll best them. You see, we all speak kindly of you in Birmingham. It will be a great honor —” Before Stanley could recover from the surprise of this dramatic meeting he had accepted Leston’s hospitality overnight. But on the following morning he found himself unable to rise. It was nothing serious, the doctor said, but weeks of anxiety had broken down Stanley’s strength. And, coming back to the old town, with its boy* hood memories, he had yielded to the weakening and softening influence. He was like a runner who drops exhausted at the end of a race. For five days he did not stir from his room; he was too exhausted to leave his bed, even, during the greater part of them. Leston had scrupulously respected his secret, and, as Stanley had given out that he intended to spend a week in the mountains no anxiety or surprise was caused by his disappearance.

On the sixth day he came to the conclusion that the old life, always hateful, was now impossible. But the idea of running away had somehow become equally Impossible. Life seemed construable only in terms of the little town and —Miriam.. In the girl he saw his old love, fairer, and with the same winning charm and sweetness. And with the new life to begin, it seemed unbelievable that he should not have Miriam to share it: That night he had a frank talk with Mr. Leston. He had already showed him much of himself, but now he bared his life from the beginning. He told him his hopes and fears, how he had planned to run away, how the strange meeting had affected him. “It may sound strange to you, sir, in a man of forty-five,” he said, “but I feel like a young fellow coming to you to ask for your daughter’s hand. If Miriam does not consider the difference in our ages an irreparable disqualification, may I have your permission to ask her tc become my wife?” Leston clapped him on the shoulder. “There is no reason why you shouldn’t, Robert,” he said. “I don't think age changes our real natures very much. It would give me much happiness. And I believe you are the only American man I know who has gone to the father before going to the daughter.” Stanley found Miriam in the garden. “I have come to say good-by,’ be said, taking her hands in his. “I am going back to face the music. And when I return—l don’t know when—l shall ask you to be my wife.” The girl’s, eyes filled with tears. “I have loved you all my life —before I ever saw you,” Bhe said. “And mother used to say she wished I couid marry a man like you. You see, we all think so highly of you in Birmingham.” * (Copyright, 1916, by W. G. Chapman*) 1 i- S„ v.-a M&gataHwEMwfc *&&&