Evening Republican, Volume 23, Number 175, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 July 1920 — The Anniversary [ARTICLE]

The Anniversary

By ELVA LORENCE

(Copyright.) She was a true, lovin’ woman, who had dreamed, as most of us do, of the fumblin' little hands, the snugglin' little face, of our very own, and the grown of womanhood had been denied her. In the minute I stood there silent I understood, and my heart ached for her. Disappointment had changed the world, and the days and weeks of lonely brooding, while he was away, had changed her, too. Droppin' down by the couch, I got my arms about her and did my best to comfort her. “I know, missus,” I whispered, when she had grown quiet “But it’s wrong to grieve. There's many worse troubies than yours. You have your husb*nd—” “My husband cares nothing for me I" she cried. “I am shut out of his life I “You shut yourself out, dearie,” I mid gently. “1 am sure of it I'm only 'Omely Lia. No man will ever call me bls wife now, but I think I can understand why you two have gone apart, and I'd like to see you happy together again. Little children come to bind affection closer, true enough, and where the blessing Is denied the greater the call for lovin' kindness. That’s where you’ve failed. ' dearie. Forgive me If I hurt you by my plain speakin', but it seems to me that you've lived with disappointment — Sb long It’s made yon bitter. Why not meet him tonight with a smilin’ face, an’ say you’re sorry? I know he would smile, too, and that his arms would hold you. You are together for better or worse for maybe many years. Why not always fonbetter?" “He has ceased to care!" she said bitterly. “He would turn from we with a laugh!"

“I think not, dearie," I said quietly. “I have seen the look in his eyes when you have left the room, and I he, too, is wretched. Make it up today.” » “Today!" she cried. “Today is the anniversary of our wedding day. For the first four years he marked It with a gift; he has forgotten it altogether now!” “Oh, no!” I said, smiling confidently. “Meet him when he comes hoqie tonight as I want you to, and see if he has forgotten. It seems such a pity you should be bad friends. Listen to me, dearie!” And, very quietly, I told her about my last place. She heard me through, and at the end lay back,, with glistening tears in her eyes. — “Thank you, Lizzie!” she said. That was all, but I Jumped up, smilin’, because I knew I had won her round. “Now listen, ma'am,” I said. “I’ve got a plan. He’ll be home, as usual at seven for dinner. We’ll have a special spread In honor of the day, and you shall be waitin’ for him in your wedding dress!" “My wedding dress!" she cried. “Oh, no, Liz; it’s hopelessly old-fashioned; I should look like a fright!" “We’ll see you don’t,” I said. “He is going to come into the room, and find his old sweetheart and, just as sure, you will find him again!" “You think so. Liz?” she cried, trembling. “Sure of it!”

“Come and dig out the dress,” she said. And laughin’ at our pleasant thoughts, we tripped upstairs. The of the day. until the Usual hour of his home-coming, passed like a dream. The difference in the missus you’d hardly credit. She seemed another woman altogether. Now that her mind was given up to It, nothing could go amiss. His favorite dishes must be cooked; there must be flowers on the table, his slippers must be in the fender; everything must be just as he liked it. At six o’clock she went upstairs to dress. As I put on my best apron I heard her quietly singin’. When she called me to see how she looked I stood and smiled, because, for some reason I couldn’t say a word. The white silk dress fitted her perfectly; her eyes were shinin’, the smilin’ lips had given a new expression to her face. —• She looked like a happy, blushin’ bride. “Shall I do. Lizzie?” she said, with a playful curtsy. j “Oh. ma’am, you look beautiful!” I exclaimed.

“You think he’ll know me?” she said. “Ton'll see.” I answered, laughin’. From behind my back I held out the spray of flowers I had got from the shop with the others downstairs. “I want yon to wear this, ma’am,” I said. “Let me fasten It in your gown!” “A bunch of rosemary I" she cried. “For remembrance, ma’am." “Thank you, Lizzie." she said quietly, pressin' my hand; an’ smiling happily, we went down the stairs. “When yon want dinner served you’ll please ring, ma’am,” I said, as I turned the kitchen. “It’s nearly seve* la ten minutes he’ll be here!" As the dock struck I stood with the kitchen door open, watchin’ for the sound of his key in the lock. In the dining room I knew she, too, was listenin’. For five, ten, fifteen minutes we Mt there, quietly waitin’. He

I 4tole aiong the hall, and. softly openin’ the vestibule door, looked out along the road. There was no sign of him. Backward and forward from kitchen to door I went a dozen times, until the clock struck eight. And then I went slowly back, and sittin' by the kitchen table, sobbed like a kid. The dinner was spoiled. All our little planning was wasted. He was not coming. How long I sat there I couldn’t say, but presently I looked up, and there was the missus' stan'din’ in the doorway. Her face had gone white an’ drawn again; the dull look came back into her eyes. She didn’t cry. I think she couldn’t —

“We’ve been a little foolish. Lizzie," she said, with a queer, harsh laugh. “You see, he has quite forgotten!” For the life of me I couldn’t find words to say to her. “Poor, sentimental Liz!” she cried. “I’m afrul’d, after all, you don’t know much of men."— —-—— And with that she turned and went back again. Nine o’clock struck, and she still sat In the dining room, brooding and miserable. Ten came, and, with a heavy heart, I cleared away the meal. Eleven, and I heard no sound of her. When the half-hour chimed. I took my alarm clock, and, after windin’ it, crept to the dining room to say good-night. Quietly I opened the door, and looked in, to find her stretched on the hearthrug, with one arm under her head, asleep. Gently closing the door again, I stole back to the kitchen, and sat down to wait. A few minutes before twelve his key grated In the door, and at the sound I shot up, with my hand pressed to my breast, I heard him bolt the outer door. I stood there shakln’ while he hung his coat an’ hat on the stand and crossed to the dining room. “Mary!’’ I caught his cry as, the door shut behind him. Then—l am not ashamed to own it —I stole quietly along the hall and listened. His shout must have aroused her, for I heard her whisper, as if dazed: “Ned!" “Mary!” he cried; and I think he must have stooped to raise her up. “What on earth —” And then he stopped, as if the meaning of her dress and the set-out table had come to him, and for quite a spell I heard no sound, until came the pitiful outburst of chokin' sobs she could no longer hold back.

"My poor girl!” he cried. “I did not think you cared any longer! You have been waiting for me all this time! I—what a blind fool I have been!" “I wanted you to come —to tell you Tin sorry 1” she said. “Ned, I am ashamed ! Will you forgive—and let us be as we were—always?” “Mary!” he cried. Aud I stole quietly upstairs to my room, smilin’ an’ dryin’ the silly tears from my face.