Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 138, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 June 1918 — LOVE AND LILACS [ARTICLE]

LOVE AND LILACS

By MILDRED WHITE.

(Copyri«Mt. 1818, t>r Weiteiii NMnparw L'n*o«.> Homer Brant drew his car up suddenly at sight of the lilac bush. To him In the roadway came the sweet haunting odor. Indefinably the perfume brought to mind the girl he had so recently and so quickly learned to love. . | ' Homer had stopped there, on his way to an engineering camp higher up. He had intended to remain over night, but with Justine Jordan’s coming, his visit had been prolonged. During the first day they had visited together, upon the hotel veranda, the second found them roaming the wonderful country In his car; at the end of one short enchanted week, Homer caught the girl In his arms, speaking out his love for her. And that had been the end. Like some startled bird she had escaped and flown from his embrace, and when after a troubled night, he awaited her morning appearance, humble in his apology—she had not appeared at all. Instead the hall boy had handed him a note in peculiarly characteristic handwriting.

“Dear friend,” It said, "when this reaches you, I shall be up among the hills, fulfilling a mission which lias been postponed just one week. Spring time, and lilac time, tempted me to linger. When I meet you again, I hope it may be in the more prosaic and less romantic atmosphere of the city. With best wishes ever —Justine Jordan.” Whereupon, Homer, inwardly fuming at his admired one’s practical coolness, bade the Inn good-by, and began a searching tour of the hills. What could be the delayed mission at which she mysteriously hinted and which brought her to this isolated country?

He alighted and made his why to the lilac bush which grew beside the open window of a vacated log cabin; looking'inside, he was surprised to see a reclining camp chair In the center of the room. Entering curiously, he sank Into the chair, idly drawing from its side bracket a recent Illustrated magazine. Some person evidently made this rude shelter a reading place. Gazing through the open door across the vista of glorious scenery Homer mentally complimented the reader bn his choice of location. Then as he replaced the magazine a pad of writing paper fell from the rack, one glance at the bold and pleasing handwriting brought a quick flush to his face. Surely this and the penmanship of his own hasty note of dismissal were the same. So Justine had found her way to this deserted cabin; then her stopping place must be in a hearby farm house. The heading of the closely written page caught his attention, “Dearest,” he read, "Oh, my dearest!” Homer Brant’s heart pounded furiously, as his eyes forcibly followed the lines: “Across the miles I have traveled to our trysting place, and you are not here. Instead, I find the loving note you braved danger to leave. Beloved, let not your courageous spirit falter. Without one look into your eyes, without a touch of your dear hand, I could not go back to the world. Some way I shall manage our meeting. Never in my heart can there be room for other than you. I am, —Your Own.” The pad slipped from the men’s trembling fingers. So this was the secret of the softly brooding eyes; and love after all these years had but found him to make mockery. Homer sprang to his feet, as a girl came through the doorway, came and stood a moment, surprise and diffidence in her gaze. “Justine!” he cried out sharply, then still Inwardly raging, pointed to the written pages at his feet “I read your letter through,” he said, "I even forgot about scruples and it has showed me why you ran away from my love. But I want to know,” he straightened before her, “I demand to know, why any man dare to ask a woman to meet him in secret dare bring her into threatened danger!” Across the girl’s somber e&s flashed her transforming smile. “That man, Is a German spy,” she replied. Brant came suddenly close, fiercely he caught her wrists in his grasp, “And you,” he breathed, “you—” For a time she stood, looking steadily' Into his face. "Let me go,” she said at last, "and I will explain.” When he loosed her hands, she smiled,* and going to the camp chair, brqbght back an open magazine holding it out before him. Dazedly he read the title of a story, “In Love and War,” and beneath IL "new serial, by Justine Jordan,” "You are more privileged than others.” she laughed, “for you have read the beginning of a later installment. That is what I came out here to write. The cabin is my study.” “So,” he said slowly, “you are a great author, little Justine.” "Not great,” the girl replied, "very simple, love and lilacs—that sort of thing.” “And In your own life, you have no use for love?” . t . She looked from the lilacs nodding through the cabin window, back to the man’s tease face. "Six days were too short a time in which to be sure,” she murmured, “the country confuses with its enchantment.” “But now? —” his eyes burned into hers the question. Helplessly she put out her hands, “Never in, my.heart can there be room, for other than you,” she quoted, “I am, ypur own.”