Jasper County Democrat, Volume 15, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 August 1912 — HER PRESENCE OF MIND [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

HER PRESENCE OF MIND

By ESTELLA BENSON

(Oopriight, lflu, by Associated Literary Press.)

“Grand Central station!*’ shouted the brakeman. “All out.” Miss Bartlett gripped her handbag witk sudden thought of the lightfingered gentry of New York. “Aunt Lucy! Aunt Lucy! v»You darling Aunt Lucy!” Warm, soft young arms drew her out of the stream of men and women laden with impedimenta of travel. “I knew you’d come when I wrote how much I wanted you to see my picture while It’s on exhibition. There’s always some one standing around It. I’m so silly over It I must have the dearest aunt In the world see Just how It looks In such grand company.” For a hurried Instant the bewildered little lady felt the pulsebeat of the mighty city. There was a scramble In and out between street cars, hairbreadth escapes from gigantic horses in front of towering loads, dashes from beneath hissing, darting automobiles, and, presto, the swarming multitude dropped away and the deafening clamor was hushed. She was In a sleepy street on Brooklyn Heights, where the old-time houses stood In quiet, self-contained dignity. It was the first uninterrupted confidential moment after lunch. “How is Ben, Lucile?” Miss Bartlett bent over her suitcase. The status of declared lovers was a

beatific mystery to be approached only by half-averted face or lowered lids. No reply coming, she timidly glanced over her shoulder. "You haven’t told me anything about Ben.” * “I have nothing to tell,” she replied, indifferently. Miss face came back to her from the mirror. "Don’t look like that, Aunt Lucy. Don’t, don’t! He’s all right, I fancy, only I don’t see him any more.” “Don’t see Ben any more.” “No; we have learned how utterly unlike we are. All he cares for is a law book, and I must have my art. It’s my life, Aunt Lucy, my very life. I must have liberty."

“Llberty?” “Yes, liberty to live my own life." She bent and kissed the quivering lips. “You’ll make me cry if you look like that. It wasn’t Just the picture, Aunt Lucy. I wanted you; I wanted you as I did when I was little and things went wrong. It’s time I was off to my classes. Here, let me tuck you up on this couch. I’ve tired you all out. Don’t stir, darling, till I get back.” The door closed on her niece and •he was gone. Trivialities occupied her at first; that money she brought for the trousseau. There was the danger of burglars—and the old home. She meant Luclle and Ben to have it when she had used it her allotted time. Where were the babies she was to tend, the boys and girls that were to romp under the big elms? Were they always to be dream children? Dully her eyes followed the wall paper up and down. Its monotonous repetition was intolerable. She sprang to her feet and fastened on her wraps with nervous fingers.

A damp, chill air met her at the outer door. The unaccustomed streets oppressed her with their narrowness. She hurried so escape the persistent nearness of the crowding houses. From the gray gloom of the sky a loitering snowflake floated down. Thicker and faster, borne by a rising wind, came a blinding flurry. A sudden gust nearly—took her from her feet. She staggered and caught at an iron railing. A passerby heard a groan, hesitated, but after a glance at the high-bred face of the well-dresßed little lady, went on. A puzzling similarity of the corners confronted her; rows on rows of houses presented an unbroken front. Distracted, she crossed and recrossed streets till lights began to prick out through the whirl of flakes. Weary ud faint almost to the point of drop-

Ping, she peered helplessly from door to door. Suddenly she stopped, then followed a man up the steps of a brown stone building. His latchkey admitted him and she slipped in directly Yes, there was the warm red carpet in the hall and the serpentine stairs winding up around the wall. Her room was dark and Lucile had mot returned. The bed invited her, and she groped across to it. It was a grief-stricken face that rested against the pillow, aged by many years since its round benefieence of the morning. The physical comfort Boothed her as a mother’s arms a tired child, and the shadbwy room filled with vague, indistinct forms that came and went and floated off into the darkness. Suddenly she was awake, wideeyed, conscious that she was no longer alone. Eagerly she raised herself on her elbow. The light from the street sent a long, bright ray across the room and her near-sighted eyes made out a form In front of the dressing table. *‘Lu ” the word was checked., The form had moved. It was a man! Limp, nerveless, she dropped back on her pillow. The fear that haunted her by day, the trembling terror of her waking hours at night, had taken shape. ■

She was alone In the presence of a burglar. In her fright and horror she lay, following in a maze the man’s smooth dexterity as he handled the objects on the dresing table.. The man moved from the dressing table; a door creaked. She looked up to see his square shoulders disappearing into the closet. Her blood leaped and coursed through her veins. Her fears dropped from her. She was no longer a frightened, helpless little woman. She slipped from the bed; her noiseless feet skimmed the floor. Just before she reached the closet they Caught in a rug. She stumbled; her outstretched hand hit the door. It swung to with a bang. Instantly she was up, her fingers grasping the key. She turned it and leaned breathless but triumphant against the panel. There was a moment of quiet. Neither she nor the burglar moved. Then the knob of the door was turned gently. The man breathed heavily as he braced himself to break the lock. Again her fears were upon her. Her shaking knees failed her; she was sinking to the carpet when a louder rattle of the knob behind stiffened her to life.

She started to run. The floor rose to meet her, but she kept on till she reached the hall. “Murder! Murder!” Only a whisper came to her lips. "Murder! Murder!" A thin, quavering falsetto. “What is It, madam? What is it?” exclaimed a big man, struggling with a collar button at the back of his neck. “A man,” gasped Miss Bartlett, “a man—” “A man, madam, a man?" “Yes, yes; a burglar. He went into the closet. I locked him in." "Why? 1 What the devil?” exclaimed the big man, when he opened the closet. “No, Johnson, I deny the tender appellation. “What In thunder, Atterbury, are you doing locked up in your own closet?” “Well, Sammy, that’s something I wish you would explain.” "Ben! O Ben!” Miss Bartlett pushed to the center of the group and seized Mr. Atterbury by the arm. “Why, Aunt Lucy, Aunt Lucy, what are jjpu doing here?” “Where’s the burglar?” “But Aunt Lucy, how did you como here?” “I came to see Lucile. Where’s the burglar?” she demanded peering around into the closet. “There isn’t any burglar that I know of. Who locked me in there?” “Why, I did. I thought—l thought you were a burglar.” "But I don’t understand. How did you come here Ip my room?” "Your room? Lucile said it was my room.” “Seems to me things are a little mixed. Lucile lives two blocks from here.” Miss Bartlett’s bewildered eyes wandered from one to the other of the three gentlemen. “I see how it Is.’ she said at last. “I’ve got into the wrong house. I’m Just a stupid old woman.” Supported on Ben’s strong arm, the street lamps blinked merrily at her through the whirling flakes, and the wind that caught her skirts and whipped in her face, was but a gleeful winter gale. “Do come Jn. IJga.; do come in," she urged at tn© door. "Don’t leave me till I find out whether Lucile is hunting for me among the lost articles at the police station or is dragging the river.” “Aunt Lucy!” a voice cried from the hall above. Flying feet, floating draperies, a vision of disheveled golden hair, and she was seized in a warm embrace. "I have hunted— Good evening, Mr. Atterbury,” from a remote distance. "Lucile,” said Miss Bartlett, solemnly, "I came near getting Ben murdered. Yes, murdered,” she repeated in response to Lucile’s incredulous expression. “He’ll tell you all about it. I want to get off these things. They are inch-deep in snow. Take him into the parlor. 'l’ll be back in a minute. I have some business I want to consult him about," she called back half way up the stairs.

She Leaned Breathlessly Against the Door.