Evening Republican, Volume 22, Number 8, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 January 1919 — Broken Links [ARTICLE]

Broken Links

By A. W. PEACH

! (Copyright, WlB. by McClure Newspaper | Syndicate.) Miss Copeland paused on her way down the dusky corridor and listened. —there was no doubt in ifer mind that Ufier suspicions of the past week were well founded. Thirteen years of city life—most of tt spent In the hoarding house whkrh had been her only home —had not hardened nor driven away the deep, maternal tenderness which had gone out to many a waif .who had drifted Into the house. _ Sim, knewribat In that rcuim a gird-. was crying—weeping In the low, sui>dued, silent way that is ever significant of a breaking or homesick hfeart. She went on to the door of her room, and then paused again. She remembered the shy, refined, girlish woman, who with her young husband hnd rirorne to the room Carly in the week. Something was wrong, greatly wrong; and quietly Miss Copeland turaed back, readj- to meet the insolent word, the dumb. Impassive face of one who welcomes no kindly interference. ’ ; | She knocked softly, but heard no answer; then she opened the door. ! She saw the slight form of a girl ' stretched on the bed. her dark hair In disarray, her eyes covered with slim 1 hands, her shoulders heaving. j “My dear, may I help you in some way?" Miss Copeland asked gently. i“I am simply an old maid living in • the house when I am not a business . woman. I wish I could help yon," the ' older woman ‘said, a bit eagerly, for the beauty of the girl, her evident rei finement, and her grief, appealed to her. ~ . “Thank you—but you cannot help me. I am afraid —and I must be brave.” The girl sat up suddenly, brushing her dark hair into place. “But when Norman —he is my husband —is away, I have my blues out. He is trying so hard, and father has been so-—so terribly unkind I” The tears seemed again to be coming. Miss Copeland spoke hastily. “Now suppose you tell me about it. I am in charge of a number of girls in a great office—almost a mother confessor. Bee if I can’t help in some way, will you ?” . ’ The “dark eyes were wistful. “I have no mbther I can remember —and I have wanted one so much —to talk toi” 1 -

“Then make believe I am your mother; you see, I am an old maid but I love children. You set—l have suffered a little. I understand. So tell me. My name is Della Copeland.” The girl clasped her hands tensely for a moment, then the tight fingers relaxed.“lt’s simple—lt seems so, anyway. You see Norman and I learned to —to love each other. Father was angry. You see Norman worked in one of father’s mills. He said I was too young —I know I am, but we loved each other, and the years don’t count, do they ?" “No.- my dear, love knows no years.” Miss Copeland answered faintly. [ “I told father I would have more years to be happy with Norman. But he —he was stem, and harsh, and unkind. Then we learned he was planning to send Norman away—to South : Afrk*a. We—-we simply couldn’t stand that. I wanted’Norman to marry me. right away; he wouldn't without father’s consent, but father wouldn’t even see him. Then he told -me—fie was! going to send me away. I told him I would not go”—the dark eyes began to gleam, and the listener guessed that the father’s spirit was in Ms -child —“that I would marry ...Norman. He told me I did not dare. I did.” The girl looked wearily toward the window. She went on, a bit more i ■ ■■ quietly:

“We were married. ‘Father had Norman discharged. He refused to see me. I did not beg, nor shall I. though I know he loves m€. The worst is, everywhere Norman goes for work in his special 41 line father’s influence stops him from securing it. - Norman —oh. he has been so brave, so kind and so uncomplaining. He is trained in one kind of work, but he’s trying to do what he can, and it’s hard nbw.” • “Have you asked your father to forgive you?” Miss Copeland asked hesitatingly. a. The girl’s slight form stiffened and the watchers saw the pride of race sterh on her features. “Never* I shall never do that! He must ask us to return*!” Miss Copeland pondered a minute, her hopes sinking as she thought. - “Will you tell uje your name’’ she_ queried. “Why. I should have told you. Fm proud of It. Miss Copeland—Mrs. Norman Barker. My‘hwn name is Laurel Jeffery—father owns the Wellston mills.” ■ .. A'iong silence fell between ,them. It was broken by steps that, approachtng slowly, quickened as they neared the door. In came a tall, good-loOk-ing young man, whose gray eyes could not brighten the shadows beneath them. ’ He was Introduced toMiSs' Copeland by a proud wife. Taking advantage of her first opportunity. Miss Copeland slipped out and hurried toher own. robm. There she stood in Its silence and dusk, thinking. Finally A dAOiAIIMU - • -

“It is very foolish. very, very; but I,shall go and see father. Those brave, coiirageoug yjjung. hearts must “Hot suffer.” . .• With her decision made, she sat in the dusk near the window of her room, dreaming—dreaming of a lost girlhood, an empty womanhood, and. brooding on the gray and quiet ywr*that lay before her—lonely paths for 1 the walking of lonelyriepr.The maid at the door softened her voice. “Mr. Jeffrey says that yon . must give your name and state yotir , errand, please.” Miss < 'opeland smiled... .“Tell him JL have come over two hundred miles for five minutes of his time.” The maid hesitated, but went in. A moment later she returned smiling. “He is in the library, where you may se<‘ him.” ' ( Through the great hall she walked to the door whefe the maid stood and quietly entered the room,—7 7 A mavi nf p/ov.-r't'l build rose heals. fly from a chair, iqld_dowii Ma paper and lifted a strong. stprfr face. With lips parted he stood as if hypnotized, his gray eyes staring; then the harsh lines seemed swept from his face, a sudden overwhelming wonder and joy took the Jr place. He stepped forward with outstretched hands. “Dell I Della! It is you—it is you —oh — .... .■ . “Yes, Stephen, ft is I—but ymi must Dot hold my hand," she said, smiling faintly. “I shall hold it until I am sure I have you here! Della, where have you been? Why have you come? Do you remember —” “Stephen, are you so glad to see me?” “Glad to see you J I have been hungry for the sight of your face for fifteen years! Why didn’t you answer my letters? Why —” He stopped, ma king an effort to calm himself. “fet’asitshe suggested quietly. “Ah, Stephen, why bring back the old years and the old regrets? I .was willing to marry you, you remember, but—you didn’t have the courage to go against your father’s will. You remember, he would have nothing to do with me, you ” His voice was hoarse. “My God I If I only had had the courage! These years, Della, these years —years—of memories—” His head dropped. “I was a coward —but ft’s not too late, Della. You —why, the years have been kind to you—are you—” “Married? No!” She shook her head sadly. "I couldn’t—with my memories.” “Della I” “Wait, Stephen. I came to see you. You say you wish you had opposed your father. Let me tell you something —” She leaned over, and tenderly she told him of the young couple in th'e dingy boarding-house room, of tjie slight, brave young girl, of the young husband covering a dread of the future with a present smile. Then she told him their names. He started to his feeL “My little, girl—there I I wanted to teach them a lesson — I forgot my—lesson. I was a coward and —my God I I have paid for it.” He turned to her. “I am going to put a call straight to your house—where is it?” Her heart throbbed at his words “Stephen, they will be wild with joy I” She gave him the call as she imagined the scene tb.be enacted in that far away room of despair. He shouted the call into the telephone; brushing aside some rernonstrance with an abrupt word. He clung to the receiver while he waited —a picture of eagerness. Then—“ Hello I Laurvi’’—‘‘Father’’— “Yes, father”—“l want you to come home! You and-—and Norman. - ‘•There —there—there —little . girl l” “Yes, pack upl and come”—“l've been a pig-headed ass"—“Yes, you bet we will” —“Come right away!” He turned from the telephone. His eyes were quiet, his face calm. She thought as she, watched him tnat the years had been kind, indeed, to him. Sne rose, feeling as if into her heart had, entered again the silence and the emptiness, while soon for him the last shadows would pass. “Now, I must He sprang up and” laid his hands gently yet firmly upon her shoulders. His voice was vibrant, yet tender. “You are never''going—never, Della, if I can keep you. Now that chance has brought you, no one lives who can take you from me. I was too much of a coward once to take y.pu, and you had too much pride to come to me; but, my dear, we simply must save something ojit of the years—they not alt be lost years. Don't you love me even a little?” „ Her head sank. “Stephen. I have always loved you and a I wax's shall; but”—very softly and very quietly—“youth is past —and the dreams of youth.” 1 ’ Putting his arm about her. he drew her to him. “I know, oh. I know, my dear; but youth is not all.” His voice was shaking. “The springtime and summer have gone—but the Indian summer —let’s enjoy it together!” She looked up with tears in he» eyes. “Yes, I forgot—there is Indian summer —Stephen—Stephen.!”