Jasper County Democrat, Volume 4, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 March 1902 — AN EASTER RECONCILIATION. [ARTICLE]

AN EASTER RECONCILIATION.

It was one of Mark Staunton’s black days, in which nothing had any beauty to his eyes, nor enjoyment for his mind. He certainly was somewhat ungrateful to insist upon being so persistently miserable, for he had enjoyed as reasonable a share of blessings as any one man has a right to expect. He was only 30 now, prominent in his profession, had held several political offices of honor, and had lately come in possession of a comfortable fortune, which, added to the competency he had amassed in his profession, made him a rich man. Once Mark had been in love —yes, really in lore; and, long ago as It was, recollections of that time would yet come up, and often brought him considerable bitterness. It was when he was first setting out In the world. He was only 21, starting as a poor young lawyer. But only two years after that pleasant passage in their lives, which ended in the disquiet and trouble such things often do, Katharine Anson had married and in all those years their paths had never crossed. It was very long since Mark bad believed himself in love with her; but there were times, in looking over his somewhat solitary life, it occurred to him how different it might have been had that affair terminated as it ought to have done. The striking of the dock roused him from bis reverie, and woke him to the consciousness that while ho was dreaming, his dressing case sat ready packed on the table, and he had only just time to reach the train. He was going into the country to pass • week or two with a far-off cousin, whose pleasant house and merry-hearted husband usually succeeded in driving away one of Mark's dissatisfied tits more rapidly than anything else. It was growing near sunset when they approached the station where Mark was to end his little journey. With a fearful shrieking the train made another halt, and Mark, In his leisnrely way. followed the little crowd that got off at Briarton. He stoppl'd in the waiting room to apeak with an acquaintance, and when he came out, he passed by a carriage In which a lady was sitting—her veil was up, and, after the first moment of pointed recollection, Mark recognised Katharine Anson. It was only an instant, and the carriage had driven on; he was unable to tell whether she recognised him or not. That Was the first time they had met in ten ream.

She was very much altered, he thought —thin, and he believed somewhat sallow. She was in half-mourning, too—that was for her husband—he wondered how deeply she had grieved over him. In his misanthropical mood he said to himself that she had not heart enough to be inconsolable about anything. Mark's recollection of that past was not altogether pleasantly mournful. He had never felt that Katharine had been quite fair and honest with him. Well, it was over long enough ago, that was certain; he was a fool to be troubling his head with those old memories! But he must wonder if she saw him, and if so, whether that meeting had any effect at all upon her. He passed through the woods and came out into his cousin's grounds. “Hello, old fellow!” some one called out, and, looking up, he saw Tom Ford running down the veranda steps to meet him. There was a hearty exchange of greetings, for the two had always been the best of friends in the world, and a week in Tom's cheerful society never failed to send Mark back to his bustling life, elevated in spirits, and with pleasanter views of things in general. He led the way up to the room Mark had always occupied—a pleasant chamber that Ellen had fitted up with an eye to their cousin’s peculiar fancies. “Here we are," said Tom. "Now you can beautify yourself as much as you please; there’s the trunk you sent up by express—l hope it's got your most dandified clothes in It." “Why, have you visitors?” asked Mark. “I thought I should be sure to find you quite alone.” “The truth is,” said Tom, sitting down in an easy chair, and looking intently at the toe of his boot, “it’s an old friend of yours, and Ellen and I were afraid the thing would be awkward; but there wns no help for it. Katherine Warner is here. Mark,” he added abruptly; blurting out the secret he had meant to communicate with such care as a man is sure to do when he tries to be extra delicate. “We didn’t expect her any more than —than the man in the moon,” said Tom, falling back on that familiar comparison for want of a better. “She has only just got here from Europe. She was Ellen's greatest friend, you know, and only a few hours ago we got a telegram from her. saying she should be here to-night. It was awkward. But what could we do?” Honest Tom grew quite red in the face with the energy of his explanations. “It is a matter of perfect Indifference to me,” said Mark, in a stately way; “one female is about the same as another.” “That’s the way to look at it!" cried Tom, quite delighted, "I was afraid you might be annoyed; and so was Ellen." The tea bell rang before they had remembered to go down; then they hurried off at a great rate, and dashed down into the hall, where they met Ellen. “I am so glad to see you," she said, giving him the cousinly kiss with which he was accustomed to be greeted. She led him into the library, chatting carelessly, and in the childish manner which was partly natural to her and a little exaggerated for the occasion. Mark was in the room. There stood Tom, talking to a lady. He knew he walked toward her—heard Ellen say, “I need not introduce you to my friend, Mrs. Warner"—was conscious that he shook hands with her, and said all that was proper on the occasion; but—it must be owned —the room looked a little unsteady for a moment. However, he betrayed very little emotion outwardly; and Mrs. Warner appeared so perfectly self-possessed that it quieted him at once. When Mark got into hi* room he was astonished to remember that he had not taken a fair look at his old acquaintance during the whole evening. The next morning, even looking with

his jaundiced eyes. Mark was forced to acknowledge that, if those ten years had taken away something of the girlish look from her face, she was much handsomer than she ever had been—with her dazzling complexion, her beautiful brown eyes, and the rare smile, which, when she talked, Mt up the sad expression of her face. . Katharine comported herself admirably. She talked freely with Mark—sang Tom’s favorite songs—was easy and unembarrassed; and for her pains, Mark, in his heart, denounced her as the most soulless creature that ever breathed. “She never could have loved him,” said Tom, one night, when he and his wife were holding a confidential talk in their room. “I fancy she was a bit of a flirt." “Nobody was ever farther from it 7* returned Ellen, indignantly. “It's my opinion that Mark was as unjust as possible. You know how passionate he used to be, and Katherine was always the proudest creature that ever breathed?” Ellen was right there. Katharine was sitting alone In the parlor one evening, amusing herself at the piano, playing old mefodies, and recalling half-forgotten sougs. Ellen had gone out to visit a sick neighbor, and Mark she had seen wandering off toward the village, an hour before, so that she was left quite to herself. But just then Mark was coming up the walk, and the tones of that low, sweet voice reached him through the stillness of the everting, and the song struck his heart like the echo of- some half-forgot-ten language. It was an old, old melody she had often sung for him. “Don’t let me interrupt you,” he said, entering quietly. “You came in so suddenly that I almost thought it was your wraith,” she said. “I had just finished my song—a sweet old melody that my mother used to love." He was vexed that she should speak so composedly of a thing that had stirred his heart like a wind fromihe past. “Will you sing me one of those Scotch songs I heard you singing to Ellen the other night?” Mark asked. She sang him several songs, and then they fell into more familiar conversation than they had before done during all these days. It was a full hour before Ellen came in, and there she found them, with the new moon looking in at the window and casting its light upon Katharine’s face, and softening it. Inwardly Madam Ellen thought a great step had been gained; but she was innocent as a dove. The next day Ellen arranged it so that Mark was obliged to go out riding with Katharine; and, as she saw them depart, stood on the veranda and nodded her head in sign of approval. The following day was Easter; and Katharine resumed her old place in the choir, the place which she had filled when she was Ellen's chum and schoolmate in the long ago. How fair and sweet she looked as she stood in the organ loft singing; and how the beautiful words of the Easter carols fell from her lips. “She must be happy,” thought Mark, “to sing like that.” “He is risen. He is risen,” sounded sweetly upon the air and the audience sat spellbound while the sweet singer’s offertory filled the church. The next morning Mark surprised his cousin by announcing that he had decided to go to Europe. “Don’t go—yet,” whispered his cousin Ellen. But Katharine gave no sign of disapproval. Mark’s departure was to be as sudden as his resolve; and that very afternoon he stood in the broad hallway with his satchel in hand, his baggage strapped for the train. Mark and Katharine found themselves alone. He had taken her hand—they both tried to speak—then she was conscious that he dropped it and turned away. She stood there incapable of a movement—she knew that he was looking back at her from the doorway, and suddenly Ellen cried out in a voice full of misery: “If you are human, Katharine, don’t let him go so! Can’t you see he loves you ?" At those words her false strength gave way—she heard his voice full of passionate tenderness calling: “Katharine! Katharine!" She could not speak—she put out her bands blidly, and in that instant Mark read more clearly in her heart than he had done even in the old time. "Katharine—my Katharine!" There was no time for many words; but in those few moments there was happiness enough to live upon their memory for life.