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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (June 10, 1937)
mSStl* CHAPTER IX—Continued —11— “Oh, yes, plays backgammon very well,” Spencer answered, with his characteristic little bitter smile twisting his mouth. “But she gets no particular thrill from playing with me.” The drawing room was almost dark when they reached it, but Se rena immediately snapped up the lights. Only one lamp had been burning, and in its light and that of the fire Quentin and she had been sitting in big chairs, at the hearth. Had they been there all these long two hours, Vic wondered? Serena detained Quentin for a mo ment at the door. “Are you working tonight? Some times X see your light quite late? Last night you were late.” “Last night I was playing bridge with three men,” Quentin told her. “She watches his light,” Victoria thought, disappearing into the outer blackness with a farewell nod over her shoulder. “If you’re working tonight,” Se rena said to Quentin then, without the slightest expression in her voice or her face, "come over when you finish and I will give you a cup of chocolate.” “Good-night!” Quentin said. He followed Vicky down the porch steps. When they reached their room he said that he thought he would do a little work: fifteen min utes, maybe. The next morning at breakfast Vic said to him casually: “You didn’t go back to the Mor risons' last night, did you?” “Well, yes, I did,” Quentin an swered, looking off his paper. “I’d meant to take her a book and left it on my dresser. I ran over with it, and she was making chocolate. She says she often has a little supper, after he’s gone upstairs. We sat in the kitchen awhile.” Well, what was a wife to say to that? After that night there was an other change. And this one, to her sinking heart, seemed to Victoria much more ominous than the first. Quentin was always good-natured and gentle now; absent-minded; un interested in what went on at home. He no longer defended Mrs. Mor rison, or seemed especially to want to exchange family courtesies, din ners, and evening meetings, with the house next door. Whatever his relationship with Serena had be come, he was content never to men tion it; it was their own affair now, his and Serena’s, and needed no apologies, no justification. From Vic’s confused thoughts there emerged surprisingly one con crete fact: she loathed Serena; she would have been glad to. hear of Serena’s violent and sudden death. And this made it increasingly hard to endure Quentin's simple revela tions concerning her neighbor. “She’s always been just a little girl,” Quentin would say. “She says she still likes to get a kitten and a plate of apples and a good book on a rainy afternoon and curl up in the attic and read. "Just try to imagine it, Vic, this woman who has been adored and spoiled by some of the most famous persons in the world! Rothe say Middle^pn, for example—you know that every woman ir Holly wood is trying to get him? She tells me that when she married Morrison she told him that she had to spend one week every year with Middle ton, and no questions asked! She said Spencer almost lost his mind trying to reconcile himself to the idea, but in the end he gave in.” "Not much to his credit,” Vic might submit dryly. But, fortunate ly for her, Quentin was usually too much absorbed in his subject to see anything amiss. "Well, he couldn’t have gotten her otherwise! And when I think what that fellow has put her through—” "Spencer! How d’you mean ‘put her through’?” "Why, my God, Vic, he was climbing right to the top in diplo macy when he got hurt! They were to go to Spain; that's one of the fat places! There's lots of money; noth ing could have stopped him! She was packing her trunks when he Was hurt.” "Well, I don’t suppose he espe cially enjoyed it.” "She told me,” Quentin said in a tender undertone, not hearing one word of what Vicky had said—“she told me that just before the smash she had been planning to buy a cer tain white shawl at the Sea Cap tain’s Shop in Shanghai. She says it was the most gorgeous thing she ever saw and that when their plans all changed, and before she knew whether Morrison’s eye was going to be saved or not, she used to go every day and take a look at the shawl So when it was all over and he’d resigned from the diplomatic staff, she went up there one last time and kissed the white shawl good-by! “Somehow,” Quentin said, lost in his own thoughts—“somehow the thought of her going in there and laying her face against that shawl —well, it gets you! I mean she’s nothing but a little girl.” “And you're nothing but a little raw blind baby!” Vicky might think hotly. But she never said it aloud. No, he was in the grip of a fever now, and there was no saving him until it went down. He could nei ther hear nor understand until then. One day Vic met in the street a woman who stopped her with a smile. A pretty woman, but wear ing too much rouge and powder, lipstick and mascara, a woman sug gesting a gallant retreat from youth and beauty. “Marian Pool!” Vicky said. Mar ian was animated; the beautiful eyes worked with their old fire; she had an "adorable cattle king” in tow. “My dear, he owns half of Brazil!” she said in an aside, in troducing a copper-colored stout old person who spoke only a stilted English and used that almost entire ly for labored compliments to Mar ian. Marian was still beautiful, Vicky thought; she was not much more than forty, but ten years ago she would not have wasted any time I on Senor de Raa. Now she was working over him industriously, laughing at his lame jokes, allowing the fat paw to squeeze her own pretty hands. “Watch me get a present out of him. He shipped his wife and daughters on the last steamer, and he’s going wild,” said Marian, drawing Vicky with them into Marsh’s beautiful shop. She called the attention of the cattle king to the cabinets of jade jewelry. Vicky, who had left Gwen with a dentist for half an hour’s straightening of teeth, looked interestedly at one of the world’s finest collections of oriental jewelry and porcelain, brocade and teak and ivory, brass and enamel. A middle-aged sales woman presently drew her aside. “Excuse me, madam, but did your friend speak of you as ‘Mrs. Hardisty’?” “I’m Mrs. Hardisty,” Vic said. “And your husband is Dr. Har disty? I thought so. There was something I wanted to ask you. This is very unprofessional,” the woman broke off in a tone of smil ing and eager apology. Vic could only continue to look expectation and surprise. “You see,” the sales woman pursued, “Christmas is very close, and someone was looking at a present for you in here yesterday, and I thought . . .” She had led Victoria into a small adjoining salesroom where there were a teak table and some chairs. “Do sit down,” she said, “and I’ll explain. Your husband was in here yesterday looking at some of our lovely things, and he picked one out for your Christmas present. Now, often when a gentleman does that,” Mrs. Mooreweather went on confidentially, “I like to give the lady just a little hint, when I can, because sometimes, as we all know, tastes do differ, and when a present is very handsome—and this is hand some—it’s so easy to give a gentle man just a little hint, and say, ‘I think your wife would surely prefer that,’ and then she gets what she wants, and we please a customer.” While the amiable endless patter had been streaming on, Victoria had been smiling vaguely, hardly listen ing. Now, tins must be a secret. Where is that? I thought—oh, yes, I know where it is!” Mrs. Moore weather was saying, as she drew in and out of their frames great deep black drawers filled with silken beauty. “This must be a little se cret between you and me,” she ran on. Victoria did not hear her. Her head was spinning, and her mouth filled with salt water. Her brown hands were lying on the royal folds of a white Chinese shawl. After a while she was out in the Street again, walking in a business like way toward the White House. The familiar shops and corners went by her; flashing in winter sun light and cold shadows, moving with forms and sounding with the horns of cars and the chip of feet. Victoria felt dazed and weak; she felt that her knees would give way. “Oh, my God, my God, my God!” Victoria said, half aloud. She couldn’t stand here like an idiot; passers-by would notice her. She walked irresolutely toward Geary street, turned back. She had had something to do—something to do at three o’clock—oh, yes, Quen tin had asked her what she wanted for Christmas, and she had said that he would meet her some after noon to pick it out, and she had told the children that grown-ups didn't like surprises as much as they liked getting Just what they wanted. And then—only yesterday Quentin had suggested that she pick it out her self. She had said she would go in at three and pick out the electric re frigerator. Her Christmas gift was to be an electric refrigerator. Another oriental art shop. Vic toria went in. "You have a beautiful shawl in the window—the red-and-yellow one. What price is a shawl like that?” "That one, madam? Shall we take it out of the window? That one is $325.” "It's beautiful. But not today, thank you. It isn’t as handsome as the white one,” Vicky thought, wan dering aimlessly out into the sun shine again. "It isn’t anything like as handsome. What will he write on the card? But no, I won’t bear it. I won’t bear it!” She felt sick, sore, as if every bone of her, mental, moral, and spiritual, had been jarred and hurt. She couldn’t even select the refrig erator. Feverishly, in a sudden need to be home and with her children. Victoria picked up Gwen, very chat ty and gay, went to the garage, got into her car, and threaded her way through the south-bound traffic to ward the Peninsula. The trees were bare, and the roads looked cold. Smoke went straight up from all the little houses; Christmas wreaths showed in their windows. Victoria shud dered; it would be good to get home. But when she was in a cotton dress, and fairly smothered by the enthusiastic reception from the nursery, even then the sense of sickness and shock did not heal; even then she sat blankly, Maddy in her lap, the other children cir cling about her in the glow of the nursery Are, with her eyes staring into space. Quentin loved another woman. Quentin loved another woman ... A more beautiful wom an than she could ever hope to be. A strange, mysterious, fascinating woman . . . "The doctor will not be home for dinner, Mrs. Hardisty. Miss Cone just telephoned. He has an opera tion at nine.” “Thank you, Anna.” And the jealous agony, lulled for a moment. She Lay Thinking, Her Throat Thick, Her Head Confused. began again, fierce and tearing and irresistible. After a while Victoria was in her own room and idly han dling the telephone. Suddenly, shamed color in her pale face, she called the hospital. Was Dr. Hardisty there? Was he to be there? No operation that eve ning? ‘ You can get him at ms home, Atherton eight eight eight,” a pleas ant girl’s voice presently said. Vicky waited awhile, and the cold-bound winter world and the wind whining over the oaks and the blighted gardens seemed to wait, too. Presently she telephoned to Serena. ‘‘What are you two doing to night?” ‘‘My dear,' said Serena, ‘‘I’ve just ordered an early dinner for Spencer—why don’t you be a dar ling and come over and play back gammon with him? I’ve been called to town. A dear old friend, Mary Catherwood, is at the Fairmont, and she wants me to come in and dine late with her. I’m disgusted—such a frightful night, but what can you do?” There was more of it. It was very convincing, but not quite con vincing enough. When the conver sation was ended, there was noth ing for Victoria but vigil. Restless, feverish, sleepless, the hours of the night began to go by. It was a still night, the eve of Christmas eve, with the world tightened under a frost, and every outdoor sound echoing like a pistol shot. Ten. Eleven. Midnight, and no Quentin. At half-past twelve Vic toria, drowsing with her reading lamp shining full in her eyes, start ed up with a frightened sense that everything was all wrong. Fire—ac cident-calamity . . . Then she heard what had waked her; his car on the drive. She knew the sound of the engine and the scrunch of the gravel; her heart, heavy and sad as it was, felt some thing of reassurance and calm. She snapped oft her light, composed her self as if asleep. He mustn't feci himself watched. She heard him come upstairs; he wasn't going to put his car away? Poor Quentin, perhaps it had really been an operation then, at the City and County hospital, or the emer gency; perhaps he was completely blameless, tonight at least . . . CHAPTER X Other sounds, Victoria sat up in bed with her heart pumping. Ev erything was all wrong, cold, terri fying, shaken again. For Quentin, cautiously coming upstairs, had only put out his porch light, had snapped out the drive light. Now the car lights were up again, and the car itself was slowly wheeling on the drive. Victoria, not knowing what she did, was on her own upper porch, trembling with cold and fear and despair in her thin wrapper, with her feet bare and her eyes straining after the departing car. She saw the car turn, saw it leave the gates again, saw it turn toward the Morrisons' house. It stopped at the side door, and pres ently a house light went up, and then the car lights were put out. Shrubs shut the doorway partially from the window porch where Vic toria stood with all her world going to pieces about her, but she could discern two figures silhouetted for an instant against the open door. Then it closed, and presently the downstairs light went out, too, and, the cold Christmas countryside and her life and her love and her faith were all plunged into cold dark ness. An iron winter sky was low over the world when morning came with out sunrise; Vicky, waking at sev en, shivered wearily dowm again into her warm blankets. It would be good to stay in bed on such a morn ing, she thought, still caught in dreams—what morning was this, anyway? Good heavens, this was Christmas eve—with everything to do . . . Then she remembered, and the gray dark morning seemed darker, and her bones, her head, her whole being seemed to ache with the bitter necessity of coming back to con sciousness. Ah, if she could only stay asleep, and go on from sleep to death, beautiful, warm, friehdly death . . . She lay thinking, her throat thick, lur head confused, her heart and mind in confusion. Quentin. Quen tin and Serena Morrison. Victoria suddenly felt that she was suffocating, strangling. She flung off the blankets, reached for her heavy wrapper even while she was groping with her feet for her fur-lined slippers. “B-r-r-r!” she muttered, going to the opened window, shutting it with one swift gesture. The garden be low the window lay bleak and bare under a fine frosting of white; a delicate powdering of frost cov ered the bricks of the walks and lay like lace on the soaked bronze red of the leaf pile under the oaks. She splashed her face with cold water, brushed her hair, looked at the ghostly vision in the mirror. After a while she went down stairs, to sit holding her coffee cup at the level of her mouth, an elbow resting on the table, her eyes far away. She could eat nothing, but she managed a few swallows of cof fee; managed a question to the maid: “Did the doctor have his break fast, Anna?” “No, ma’am. He had a cup of coffee standing, in the kitchen, he wouldn’t sit down. He had an eight o’clock at the Dante.” “Did he say anything about din ner?” “He said he’d have Miss Cone telephone.” All the Keatses would be coming down tomorrow to have Christmas dinner with all the Hardistys. There would be presents for all the little Keatses upon the little Hardistys’ tree. This was Christmas eve. Hate ful. unendurable, empty, Christmas eve and Christmas day must some how be endured. She mounted the two flights of stairs to her mother’s room. Magda always stayed in bed in the morn ings; this morning she had a fire, and was cozily ensconced in her pillows, with her light burning, and her breakfast tray on her knees. "You look tired,” Magda said, with a glance. “I started trimming the Christ mas tree night before last,” Vic toria said. “I had to get some more things for it in town yesterday.” She stopped, remembering Marsh’s and the white shawl. The sick reluctance to believe it all took possession of her again. “Quentin gone?” “He went early—I didn’t see him.” (TO l(E CONTINUED) Basal Heat Production The once accepted general law that basal heat production is deter mined by the rate at which heat is lost cannot be valid. Possibly be cause of some activity of the duct less glands, most heat is generated when an animal least needs it. A living animal is like an engine. It burns up food like fuel and con verts it into muscular energy. Also, it stores up some fuel in the form of fat and tissue and draws on it in time of need. All this is called metabolism. The idling rate of the human engine, when it is doing nothing more than breathing easily is called the basal metabolic rate Correct Vacation Toggery VACATIONING they will go— Vera, Mom and Flo. And they will enjoy themselves the more because their wardrobes after Sew-Your-Own are just exactly right. Mother in this model will be mistaken for daughter many a time because her design and dots are so very youthful. She will have various frocks in various materials developed on this theme, and in one of them, at least, the dots will be red. Dates for Dancing. Vera, to the right, has a date for dancing and when her escort admiringly effuses some such non sense as, “That gown must have come on the last boat from Paris” she will toss her dark head and say, “No foreign frocks for me. I Sew-My-Own.” Her dress of soft flowered material with demure braid at the neck and hem al most makes a sweet old-fashioned girl of her, but the tailored collar and trim cut label her the sophis ticated young thing that she really is. Only a snappy sophomore can fully appreciate just how smart are those buttons down the back of the model to the left. Her yoke and neckline are “Oh, so new, my deah”; her plaid as British as she would like her accent to be. Best of good vacation wishes Character and Friendship CHARACTER forms friend ships and friendships form character. Friendship is based on something shared together, and so it comes about that friendship which could be the most beautiful thing in life, could also be one of the most dangerous. It was by our friendship more than by any thing else that we ascended the ladder of life, rung by rung from earth even to Heaven. When our friendships were based on the best in us, that gave us the opportunity to gain the victory over what was worst. — Dr. Temple, Arch bishop of York. to the three of them from Sew Your-Own. The Patterns. Pattern 1297 is designed in sizes 14 to 20 (32 to 42 bust). Size 16 requires 2% yards of 35-inch ma terial plus Vi yard contrasting. Pattern 1998 is designed in sizes 34 to 46. Size 36 requires 4% yards of 35-inch material. With long sleeves 476 yards of 35 inch material is required. Pattern 1307 is designed in sizes 12 to 20 (30 to 40 bust). Size 16 requires 376 yards of 39-inch ma terial. For trimming 7*6 yards of braid or ribbon is required. Send your order to The Sewing Circle Pattern Dept., Room 1020, 211 W, Wacker Dr., Chicago, 111. Price of patterns, 15 cents (in coins) each. © Bell Syndicate.—WNU Service. OlOUR TOUHl-lJOUR STORES f I Our community includes the form homes surrounding the town, t he town stores are there for the accommodation and to serve the people of our farm homes. The merchants who advertise “specials” are mer chants who are sure they can meet all competition in both quality and price*. JVHEY~%?fNice H > COME ON, m / WORN!| ^ GLOOMS—% (HURRY UP; i I'YE FOUNDi{ y MEN... f A FAMILY ) £ WE'LL J THAT'S m t SPOIL <5 STARTING My 77/£/« # r. o/v ^ p ttw./1 /I ho \ hjtfkJmhh . X HIST! THERE f I Hope \' THEY are/ DADDY \ GET ’EM, Hurries up— so VJE CAM \ START// , WHY, ^ JOHN— WE'VE BEEN WAITING 'OR you/ < ANY PICNIC, \^ARE YOU? IF You Would cut out\ COFFEE FOR 30 DAYS J AND DRINK POSTUM INSTEAD, AS YHE^~^ DOCTOR JOLO/ > YOU TO, YOU / WOULDN'T ( 1 FEEL SO BAD \ / ALL TRE /YYFN HyY rr/ME i WELL, / WELL — IT IS HARD GO AHEAD Y TO PEEL SORRY FOR AND WAIT! \ You! THE doctor told I DIDN'T \ You COFFEE -NERVES SLEEP MORE CAUSED YOUR THAN TWO SLEEPLESSNESS— y WINKS LAST 1 BUT YOU WON'T PAY / NIGHT-- ANY ATTENTION! S' AND I FEEL / _0^ ^TERRIBLE// ^OOP MOH£V 04CK’--?*\ yMsW {IF SWITCH,f/Q To Postum) W) II \DOESH'T HELP YOU/_/ If you cannot safely drink coffee... try Postum's 30-day test. Buy a can of Postum and drink it instead of coffee for a full month. If...after 30 days...you do not feel better, return the top of the Postum container to General Foods, Battle Creek, Michigan, and we will cheerfully refund the full purchase price, plus postage! (If you live in Canada, address General Foods, Ltd., Cobourg, Ont.) Postum contains no caffein. It is simply whole wheat and bran, roasted and slightly sweetened. Postuir. comes in two forms... Postum Cereal, the kind you boil or percolate... and Instant Postum, made in stantly in the cup. It is economical, easy to make and delicious. You may miss coffee at first, but after 30 days, you’ll love Postum for its own rich, full- /O < bodied flavor. A General V/'o'X / Foods Product. (This offer expires Dec. 31,1937.) _ Copr. 1937, King Feature* Syndicate. G. F. Corp. Licensee _