Jasper County Democrat, Volume 14, Number 94, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 March 1912 — GENEVIEVE’S MATCH [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

GENEVIEVE’S MATCH

By Marion Gordon

(Copyright, Itll. by Associated Literary Frees.)

Mrs. Whitmore and her sister watched Genevieve’s slender, erect figure until it disappeared from view down the crowded avenue.

“There isn’t another girl in the world just like Genieve,” sighed her mother, picking up her embroidery. “It’s an excellent thing there isn’t —or all the mothers and aunts tn creation would be battering at the doors of the lunatic asylums,” returned Miss Augusta Levering grimly. Genevieve's mother ruffled indignantly. “I’m glad my daughter has sufficient strength of character to resist the temptation of a title, Augusta!" “An empty title, you mean!” retorted Miss Levering. “You would be the first to criticise Gene if the count squandered her money,” commented Mrs. Whitmore. “At least, it would be spent royally,” was Miss Levering's strange retort « “Augusta Levering!” “Well?” defiantly. "Would you marry a man like Count Tremaine?” Augusta flushed darkly. “I believe we were speaking of Genevievve and the match you expected her to make,” she said coldly. "There has been talk enough about Genevieve and the sort of match she would make from the time she yut up her hair — and that was a good ten years ago—you needn’t try to evade the situation, Bessie; Gene has had every opportunity to make a good match, and so tar she does not seem to have met the right one.” “She says they do not come up to her ideal,” murmured Genevieve’s mother. “You know Gene is an exceptional girl.” “I admit it—exceptionally beautiful —unusually accomplished—singularly charming when she chooses to be — yet some of the men who have loved

Genevieve have been fine fellows, and in their own way, good matches.” “I know it, Augusta.” Mrs. Whitmore was quite meek now. “Bessie,” and Miss Augusta Levering's voice was hoarsely significant, “whom do you suppose Gene is waiting for?” “Waiting for?" faltered Genevieve’s little mother. “Yes.”

“Why—l haven’t the least idea,” and Mrs. Whitmore at that Instant appeared to speak the truth. “Hum!”, ejaculated Augusta, with contemptuous disbelief.

Mrs. Whitmore arose with dignity in every line of her small, graceful figjure. Slowly she gathered up her needlework into its silken bag, and went to the door.

“Really, Augusta, I think we better not discuss Gene and her affairs. We can never agree upon the matter.”

When the door closed behind Mrs. Whitmore’s offended back, Miss Levering frowned at her reflection in the long mirror between the front windows.

“Humph,” she muttered discontentedly; “it’s all very well for Bessie to appear indifferent to Gene's foolishness where men are concerned, but in my opinion if the girl isn’t married pretty soon she will have to take Up with a poor stick after all. Brunettes age quickly,” she scanned her ’ own dark, thin face critically, “and soon Miss Gene will be going to a beauty specialist!”

"I wonder if she is waiting for Ben Marlow —I rather thought she was, impressed with him, but he’s been abroad three years and she’s had time to get over that fancy.” Augusta spoke as if love were a malady that required a certain time to run its course, after which the patient might once more go forth and tempt contagion.

“Ben Marlow is the handsomest, the richest, the very nicest fellow’ in Gene’s set, and I don’t wonder she lost her, heart to him. I wonder if she knows that Ben came homeyeaterday?” Augusta picked up the morning newspaper and turned to the steamer arrivals of the day before. “'Benjamin Champnie Marlow,”' she read thoughtfully. “I’ll ask her sud

denly and she may be taken unawares —it’s my right to know,” she excused herself, “for Gene is my favorite niece, and if I-never marry I shall leave her all my money." Genevieve Whitmore was the only niece Augusta Levering wag blessed with, and therefore her favoritism was compulsory rather than a ni attar of choice. But Augusta Levering had deceived herself all her life, and con* sequently her whole viewpoint was wrongly focussed. It would need a distinct shock to bring her back to an understanding of rightful values and the requisite concussion was not far distant! Later in the afternoon Genevieve sauntered into the room, wearing her clothes in the carelessly graceful manner that her aunt secretly envied. Mrs. Whitmore had returned to the drawing room and was making tea. She looked up as her daughter entered. "So you are back again, darling?” she murmured, as Genevieve leaned over and kissed the snowy hair. “Yes, and hungry enough to eat a square yard of bread and butter,” said Genevieve, as she tossed her furs on a chair and slowly drew off her gloves. The two older women looked at her adoringly. t Genevieve had dropped In at a tea in the next block and they talked about It now. In the midst of the talk Augusta tossed her bombshell. “Gene, did you know Ben Marlow had returned?”

“Oh, yes, I saw him at the tea,” returned Genevieve, coolly. “Is he as handsome as ever and as fascinating?" demanded Augusta. “Quite, Aunt Gus,” said the girl, carelessly. “He attracted me as much as he ever did.” Miss Levering did not see the gleam of mischief in her niece’s eye. Mrs. Whitmore was indignantly rattling the teaspoons, Augusta’s eyes were fastened on 1 her niece’s white left hand. “Genevieve Whitmore, whose ring are you wearing?” she almost shrieked. “Bessie, Ido believe the witch Is engaged to Ben Marlow!” Augusta was delighted. “Ben Marlow?” repeated Genevieve, contemptuously. "Mother, dear, I was going to tell you first, of course, but as Aunt Gus has forestalled me I shall have to make a public confession. I’ve promised to marry Neal Waite.” “Neal Waite!” almost screamed Miss Levering. “Neal Waite?" echoed Mrs. Whitmore, faintly. “What Is the matter with Neal?" demanded Genevieve, rising and standing before them In outraged dignity. “Matter? The very idea of marrying that insignificant little nonenity! A pretty picture you *lll make marching up to the altar with that ridiculously homely, red-haired infant in tow! I distinctly refuse to be present” Augusta swept to the door. Loviler than ever, Genevieve stood there staring from one to the other of them. Her cheeks were flushed to a warm red and her breath came in startled little gasps between her parted lips. Her soft, black eyes were wide with wonderment.

“Why, Aunt Gus,” she said at last, with genuine reproach in her voice. “How can you talk so about Neal —. he certainly is not as tall as I am, but he is not insignificant, and as for being homely,” she paused and a little smile curved her lips. “I never thought of Neale as being homely. I think he has the most adorable face in the world. She looked down at her mother and was relieved that she received a loving pressure of the hand. The mother arose and leaned against her beautiful daughter, with an arm around her waist. “I don't believe you quite understand, Augusta,” said Mrs. Whitmore, quietly. “Understand what?” demanded Miss Levering, bewildered. “Why, that Gene loves Neale Waite -—and nothing else matters! ” said Genevieve’s mother.

“Nothing else matters!” . repeated Miss Levering, as she went upstairs to her own room and sat down before her writing desk. “Nothing else matters,” she said again, as if the truth of the statement was slowly forced upon her dormant understanding. She pulled out a locked drawer, and from its secret depths she brought a photograph and propped it before her on the table# It was of a young man, a musician, seated with a ’cello between his knees. His face was inclined over the instrument and one hand drew the bow across the strings. Tears came into Augusta Levering’s ;hard eyes as she addressed an envelope to a remote German town. After she had written a letter and sealed the envelope she arose and looked defiantly at her reflected image in the glass. Then she was positively handsome again. "Because she loves him —of course nothing else matters!” she cried triumphantly.

She Sauntered Into the Room.