Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 262, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 November 1915 — A WOMAN'S CHOICE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A WOMAN'S CHOICE

By MARY BOYNTON CLARK.

Fearfully Miss Clarice bored a hole in the top left-hand corner of the pile of manuscript. When the knife had gone completely through the sheets she inserted *a piece of dainty blue ribbon. She tied the ribbon in a knot. Bhe rolled the manuscript in a wrapper and wrote the address of a famous publishing house. She hurried rather furtively into th street, bought some stamps at the post office, and affixed them. She dropped the package into the box. And she walked homeward in a happy dream. She had sent her first novel to the publishers. She sang as she went about her work that evening. Her mother was surprised at the girl’s happy demeanor.

“I believe it’s going to be Jim Thom after all,” she said to her husband. “He’s a good fellow," answered the farmer slowly. "I guess he’s a little beneath the girl, though. More like me, Jim is. Clarice could get someone better.” “But nobody that loved her more,” answered his wife. Clarice, seated with Jfm in the parlor, was bubbling over with the secret. She was waiting to tell Jim, as soon as he gave her an opening. They were as good as engaged, and everybody knew it. Jim had loved Clarice for years.j He had a substantial farm on the outskirts of the town, he had money in the bank; he was the new type of prosperous, progressive farmer. “Clarice,” he said, as they sat very close together, “when are you going to let me ask you that question?” Clarice looked up at her lover frankly. She was very fond of Jim. But — there was that intangible, elusive

“but.” How was she to say to him that she wished he would interest himself in higher things? Jim was speaking before she could begin. “You know, Clarice,” he said, taking her hand, “we’ve been as good as engaged for years. When you came back from high school I was scared for awhile for fear I’d lose you. But you weren’t that kind, Clarice. You don’t forget. And I love you just as much as I’ve always loved you. Won’t jrou say ‘yes,’ dear?” And in another moment even the novel was forgotten in the Joy of knowing that she loved and was loved. “Jim,” she ventured presently, “do you know you never asked to see my —my stories? Jim, don’t you think that, when we are married, you and I ought to share everything together?” Jim laughed and laid his hand upon hers.

“My dear little girl,” he said, “I guess you don’t know much about authors, do you? Remember that fellow that milked the cows for me last summer? He was an author. Went broke, and I kept him —for his work wasn’t worth his board alone, much less his pay—l kept him all summer. He told me a thing or two. There isn’t money in it, and it’s all a swindle anyway. Suppose you do sell some magazine a story? That doesn’t bring in the bread and butter regularly. Of course, you wouldn’t need that, but dpn’t you see, dear, one has to be practical? Now you can do all the writing you want as my wife, and I mean to give you a pretty easy time —only you mustn’t get unpractical, Clarice.” He lowered his voice. “You know, dear, I always think a woman’s task is to keep her house neat, and look after her babies.” Clarice was eminently practical, only not In the same way as Jim. That night she faced the problem with her own frankness. If she could never share those hopes with Jim —and she knew that she could not—she resolved that they should never come between them. She would abandon them. She would take up the part of wife and mother. She would live for Jim. She would be everything to him. And, once the decision was made, it was astonishing how quickly she forgot all about her novel. She had signed it with a pen name. She had given no address. To her it seemed a terrible undertaking, something that was liable to call down on her the scathing ridicule of the publishers, if they knew who she was. No dount, she thought, the novel would And its way quietly Into the waste-basket, and that would be the end of it. ft seemed a foolish little dream of

the past six months later, when she was established as Jim’s wife in his home. Jim was everything to her. He even tried —she could see that —to interest himself in literature. It was so dear of him! And his delight when she whispered to him the momentous secret made her cry for happiness. There would soon be three of them — a little world of three! How weak and vain the old dreams had been! He brought her home some books. “There!” he said, laying them down. “Here’s ‘Ebenezer's Folly.’ They say it’s the talk of the country nowadays. Well read it together. And here’s ‘When We Were Young.’ Everybody’s raving over that, the book-fellow told me in the shop. Why, dear, are you feeling sick?”

“No, its nothing, Jim,” answered Clarice. There, before her, lay her own book. She opened it. It was hers, word for word and she had written it. Giddily she flew upstairs and thrust it deep into a drawer. That evening she turned almost automatically to an inside page of the city weekly. She had never read the “Authors’ Gossip” before. And there, on the top of the page, in huge headlines, was the question: “Who Is the Author of 'When We Were Young’?” “The Publishers’ Statement.”

Clarice devoured the long article that followed. The publishers announced that they tad received the manuscript, written in longhand, and apparently the work of an amateur, six months before. A cursory survey had revealed a novel of an uncommon type. It had been read with an enthusiasm that even the most hardened reader in the firm was not proof against. Its setting of country life, its truth, its fidelity, its scorn of the picturesque had demanded Instant publication. And the reading public had endorsed it by purchasing ninety thousand copies of It. But who was the author? The publishers' statement that they did no v t know was believed to be genuine It was no advertising scheme. Somewhere in America a genius lay hidden, watching with amusement the frantic efforts of the public to discover her identity —for of course it was a woman!

Clarice let the paper fall. She had not the dimmest idea of the value of her book to her. How much was it worth? A hundred dollars? Two hundred? Jim did not need that badly. And to reveal the truth . . . she saT? the slow estrangement that must follow. Simple as she was, she almost Intuitively discerned the results of publicity, her husband’s inability to live the new life that would open before her, her struggle between the old and the new. And Jim was very dear to her. And then . . . she blushed as she thought of that other reason that bound them together in bonds that none might break. “Clarice! Clarice, dear!” She rose from her chair. “Jim dear!” she answered. And what was a wretched old, stupid novel in comparison with Jim? (Copyright, 1915, by W. G. Chapman.)

Thrust It Deep Into a Drawer.