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About The frontier. (O'Neill City, Holt County, Neb.) 1880-1965 | View Entire Issue (July 1, 1937)
mpm—■■ CHAPTER XI—Continued —11 “But couldn’t we go home on the train after dinner? Duna’d take us; he could take us the way he did the circus day?” Kate Keats pleaded eagerly. “Oh, no, it’s too much of an im position, Vic!” Violet said. “It’s no imposition at all,” Vicky assured her. She looked up over the baby’s head and her eyes wid ened, although she did not smile. "Here’s Quentin!” she added. There was a general swarm of children toward him, accompanied by the usual deafening uproar, and Quentin came up to the women with the younger members of his family hanging on him like limpets. Violet Keats thought he looked older Indeed; there were touches of silver in his Indian-brown temples, and he seemed quieter, somehow; more like the old remembered Quentin; she liked the expression of his face. He was genuinely happy to see her; kissed her in the old brotherly fashion; they had not seen each other since his return from a three months’ visit to Germany. Violet questioned him about it, and he sat holding the delicate little Martin very gently in his big hands, and sometimes kissing the top of the ba by’s dark fluffy little head. The question of the Keatses remaining was presently raised. "Next year—gosh, I can drive, Un cle Quent,” Duna Keats said man fully. “But gosh, Dad doesn't want me to until I get a license.” “But look here, Vicky,” Quentin said, with his face brightening. “I’ve got to go to San Francisco and see a patient tonight; a woman we operated on this afternoon. I told them I’d be in about ten. Why not let me drive these roughnecks in with me, if their mother’s will ing?” The ensuing wild pandemonium of the lawn in the spring sunset pres ently resolved itself into definite pic nic plans. The children were to use the grill behind the old cow yard. “Good to get home. Quentin?” Violet asked. “Yes,” he said quietly, unsmiling ly. “It’s good to get home.” “Well,” Violet said, stirring, "I have to go. I must get started. “You’re sure my youngsters won’t be horribly in the way tonight, Quentin?” “In the way? Love to have ’em. I’ll drop them at the house some time after nine.” “I’ll go in with you, Vi, and see you off.” Victoria stretched her arms for the baby. “You come along with your mother, Mister,” she said. “Nurse has something to say to you, young man!” She called over her shoulder to Quentin. “Coming?” “I thought I’d sit here and have a smoke. It’s so peaceful, Vic!” “Oh, and stop at the barn before you come in, and see Moogy’s pup pies. Claus had some story about the little brown one. I told him you’d come out!” Smiling, he turned the corner of the barn. A woman was standing there waiting for him. Serena. CHAPTER XII She was in pale blue, the broad straw hat that dipped about her face and lent an almost too pictur esque beauty to her appearance had a childish blue ribbon about it; the pale scallops of the frail blue gown swept the young spring grass. Se rena’s eyes were at their bluest, too, grave loving, reproachful. “Lover, I had to see you,” she said. “Was this terribly stupid of me? I had to see you.” Quentin had involuntarily glanced back toward the garden and the house. He and she were sheltered by a dozen intervening hedges and trees and angles of fence. He looked at her unsmilingly. “I don’t quite like it,” he said deliberately. “Why, I went to see Victoria and her mother often while you were gone, why shouldn’t I?” the woman said, in a sort of proud impatience. “Don’t look so serious; nothing hap pened! Darling, I had to see you. You know that I have to see you?” He looked at her without speak ing. “What is it, dear?” she asked tenderly. “What have I done?” Quentin Hardisty spoke quickly, almost with his professioaal man ner: “You’ve done nothing, of course. Don’t take that tone—don’t speak like that.” “Oh, but I will speak like that,” Serena persisted lovingly. “Surely I have the right just to ask you what I’ve done, Quentin, how I’ve offend ed you?” “You haven’t offended me at all. I—I wrote you months ago—before I went to Germany—” “I know you wrote me,” the woman said, as he hesitated flound ering and confused. ‘‘Why did you write me that hideous letter, Quen tin? I only began it; I couldn't fin ish it. It's burned.” "I’m horribly sorry, of course,” Quentin said gruffly, awkwardly in the silence. "Sorry!” the rich sweet voice echoed. "But what are you sorry about, dearest dearest? Remember what you told me in the beginning, that you had been twice married without ever knowing what real love was, lover, that you and Vicky had acknowledged that, had married with your eyes wide open. Remem ber?” • "We can’t talk about this here,” Quentin interrupted, in a hard, cold voice. "Where can we, then?” Serena usked, with a touch of steel in her own tone. "You got back a week ago today. I’ve not seen you until now. What about tonight? Can you come over about ten? Spencer’s tired; he'll be in bed.” "I’ve got to go up to San Fran cisco tonight. I’ve a patient at the Dante hospital.” "Then I’ll go with you.” "You can’t. The Keats children are all here; I’m taking them in.” "Then I’ll go in and drive back with you.” “I think Kenty’s planning to do that." "Kenty! As if you couldn’t put him off! Ah, lover,” Serena plead ed, coming close to him, pressing his arms with her own soft arm and hand, "tell me what’s wrong, tell me what I’ve done.” “I tried to tell you in that let ter,” Quentin said, looking down into the tear-misted blue eyes raised to his own. "It’s a horribly hard thing to say, I—I think wg both feel it. It's all been a—it’s the sort of thing that can’t—” Serena drew off a little, still look ing into his eyes. "You mean that you're going to punish me, for loving you, Quentin? You’re going to make me feel sorry that I loved you so generously, gave you everything I could give? You’re going to make me wish that I was calculating and wise, like other women? Are you going to fail me now?” “It isn’t a question of failing you, Sina. It’s that—well, I know we’re both sorry for the whole thing,” Quentin persisted miserably. Serena was regarding him with narrowed eyes; her breast moved visibly on constrained breath. “You mean for me to go on quietly living with Spencer,” she said, in a level voice, “and for you to go back to Vicky. You mean that you think, knowing what she might some day know, Vic will forgive you, and everything will be lovely?” “I don’t know how much Vic knows,” Quentin said, with simplici ty. “I know I'm—I’m damned sor ry about the whole thing. I’m hor ribly sorry. I blame myself en tirely. I don’t think we thought what we were getting into, how horribly rotten the thing was!” “We knew that we loved each oth er. Some of those first days,” Se rena said, "ah, weren’t they Heav en? We were brave, then, we weren’t thinking all the time of what the world would say. Vicky knows something, of course,” she added, “but she doesn’t know every thing. She doesn’t know that I went twice to Los Angeles with you, lover; she hadn’t seen any of your letters.” There was a silence, during which Quentin looked at the darkening strip of western sky up beyond the hills; his brows knit, his jaw set, his hands jammed into his pockets. “Y o u’r e forgetting Spencer,” Quentin observed dryly. Serena took instant hope from the words. “Lover,” she said, “he may not be a problem long. He's taking that sleeping stuff all the time. I told Dr. Cudworth the other day that it made me anxious, that some day he would sleep too deep and not wake up. I did really—I went into his office and told him, because I thought, ‘If anything happened, some day Spencer may not wake up a1 all.’ ” "You’re making this so horribly hard, Sina.” He put away the in sistent arms. “I tell you it’s all over. Good-night!” he said almost inaudibly, turning away. She fol lowed him swiftly, caught at his arm. “Oh, no, no, no! You can’t do that. You can’t just say good-night! When can I see you, Quentin? I must see you. We must settle this!” “It’s settled,” he said, briefly. "Nothing's settled!” she said breathlessly. "Not one thing is set tled! I can ruin your life, Quentin: 1 can tell Vicky everything.” “If you want to talk about it, al though it seems to me we’ve said everything there is to say,” he com promised unwillingly. Serena drew near to him again eagerly. “But remember I’ve got to take the Keats children home!” “Quent, Serena Morrison is ex tremely anxious to get hold of you,” Vicky said calmly, a few days later. He and she were alone beside the evening fire in their little upstairs sitting room. The doctor had been reading some scientific article in a medical magazine, had finished it, and was lying back in his chair, his arms locked behind his head, his stretched leg; crossed, his eyes half closed. Victoria was working at the flat-topped desk just behind him. Bill’s, receipts, checkbook, pa pers of all sorts were scattered be fore her; she made notes with a very sharp pencil. “I think I am going to come out even!” she had announced some moments earlier. And then, con tentedly, "This is pleasant, isn’t it?” but to neither remark had Quentin made any reply. He had shown no interest even when the telephone bell had trilled, except for a glance toward Vicky and a faint shake of the head, and Vicky had duly an nounced to the unseen speaker that the doctor had gone out for a mo ment. But his abstracted mood some how only accentuated her happiness tonight; these had been wonderful days, the days since his return. He and she had been closer together in every way than they had been for a long time. It had not been only that Quentin had been gentler, or kinder, or more generous than be fore, but he had been curiously, dumbly devoted, wanting to be at home, seeming to love every min ute of his life there, quietly contriv ing to re-establish himself in the children's plans, to contribute to the happiness of them all. "Life would simply be heaven if it could go on this way!” Vicky, feel ing herself pleasantly capable over her book-keeping, had been think ing to herself when the telephone _ 1*^£3jOe2J “Was That Serena?" had rung a second time. And aft er having for a second time dis posed of its claim, she had observed mildly: “Quent, Serena Morrison is extremely anxious to get hold of you.” That roused him. He turned his head to raise dark brows knitted in a faint scowl. “Was that Serena?" “Yes. She must know I often imi tate Anna,” Victoria said thought fully. “But I can’t help it. I don’t want to talk to her” “Telephone often?” Quentin asked, with a little effort. “Lately, yes. She’s called about five times today. She usually says that she’s anxious to see you, but today she’s been saying that Spen cer is ill.” “They have a doctor,” Quentin said dryly. “I know it. Cudworth. He’s a good man, isn’t he, Quent?” “Fine. Old-fashioned. But he’s all right,” Quentin answered and lapsed into silence again. Presently he began: “There’s something I want to say to you, Vic.” Victoria looked at him with bright eyes. “It’s probably something I’ve never asked you to say,” she said evenly., “No, you’ve never asked me to say it. And it won’t do any particu lar good for me to say it,” the man answered, his body bowed forward now, his big hands locked between his knees, his eyes on the fire. “But I’d like to say this, just the same. I’ve been—I’m just beginning to realize what a fool I’ve been! I’ve known I was a fool for a long time— since last summer, since Mart was born. I had time to think about it in Germany. My God, what I went through there, missing you all— Kenty and Sue and little Mad and the new baby! And I thought what a fool I'd made of myself, and how I'd hurt you.” Victoria left the desk and took the chair opposite his own. The spring night was cold, and she had put on for dinner an old brown vel vet gown with a deep, childish em broidered collar; her waved brushed mop, her round serious eyes, and the flat-heeled brown vel vet slippers she crossed on a foot stool all helped to give her the aspect of a child. “You mean you wish you were done with Serena?” “I am done with her!” Quentin muttered, not raising his head from , -- ■■ .. "'-y —.■■■—■■■■■ —■■■ .. his hands. “It was all over six j months ago.” “Ha!” Vicky commented and was ; silent. “It’s all a mess! She—” He stopped, but his tone and the long j pause were eloquent. “Why don’t you see Serena and 1 have it over?” Vicky asked pres- j ently, quite simply “I have seen her,” Quentin growled. “Since you got home?” “There were letters waiting when j I got here, ten days ago," Quentin j said, the painful rush of his words showing, even under the circum stances, his relief at finding an op- ; portunity to talk. "All that week j she telephoned, and twice she came j to the office, but I was only doing appointment work last week and didn’t see her. Then on Saturday, when Vi and the kids were here— remember?—I went up to the barn to see Moogy an dthe puppies, and she was waiting there—said she had been watching us on the lawn.” "Good heavens!" Vicky said. “Then it isn’t that Spencer’s ill,” she mused. “He didn't look as if he'd been ill today.” “Of course not!” "You’ve changed and she hasn’t,” Vicky added, in the same reflective tone. “That’s it?” “I’ve made such a mess of it; I’ve let you in for all this,” Quentin muttered, grinding his graying hair in his big hands. “Vic, there’s no use saying I’m sorry! There's noth ing I can say.” "She doesn’t seem to have much shame about it,” Vic observed mild ly. “Oh. my God, to be as happy as this again!” she said in her soul. “Now,” Quentin said, after thought, and with a change of tone— “now she’s everywhere, Vic, wait ing for me. As far as I’m con cerned, it's all been over for a year; it’s stale, it's cold, God knows I wish I need never set eyes on her again! But now’s the time she wants to see me. She keeps asking me, what has she done? Who has been telling me things about her?” CHAPTER XIII Victoria raised her round eyes. “Is that the line?” "I’m telling you about it," Quen tin muttered, surprised at himself. "But you’re not like most women, you’re different! I need you, even in this. I can’t get out, unless you help get me out. I let myself in for it, I’ve nobody to blame but myself, but I can’t get myself out. She’s everywhere.” he went on, glancing up restlessly, glancing back again. “If Johnny and I go to lunch at the St. Francis hotel, she's there; she comes across the room. He knows about it, Vic; every doctor in my office knows. They’re all smug when she comes in. Miss Cleve, in the outer office, is so damn discreet! ‘Doctor, Mrs. Morrison, and she says she’s in great pain!’ That's for the benefit of the people who are waiting, people in real pain. We used to think it was a great joke. It doesn't seem so funny now! And the minute she comes in, ‘Quent, what have I done? Who’s been talking about me?’ ” Quentin stared for some time into the fire in silence. After a time ho said: “Would you go away?” "If I were you?” “I mean all of us. Simply move out. We could have a city house now, for the kids’ schools, and a country place, too. Or we could take up that Boston proposition. Why not get away from it all?” “You mean run away?” Victoria amended the phrase slowly. "Well, I suppose that’s what it would amount to.” “I don’t think you can ever run away from anything, Quent. I was thinking,” Victoria said, “of Marty; if anything ever happened to Marty, I was thinking: ‘How can I bear the nursery and the crib and his brown dog on the chain, how can I bear to go back to five children when I’ve had Fix?' And I thought then,” she went on, speaking stead ily, but with brimming eyes—“I thought then that we’d have to go away, that we couldn’t stand it! But I don’t think so now. You can’t run away from anything. You can’t run away from sorrow, or from” —she jerked her head in the direc tion of the Morrison house—“or from anything you’ve done,” she said. “But Vic, I tell you honestly, I can’t stand her! She’s making my life a burden,” Quentin said sim ply, and if there was anything ab surd in the situation neither husband nor wife was in the mood to see it. “Every time I come out to the elevator at the office, I’m afraid she’s there. I’ve had ten days of it now, and I tell you it’s getting on my nerves!” Victoria’s eyes were on the fire. "I've had three years of it,” she said quietly. There was a long si lence. "Yes, I know you have, I know you have,” Quentin said then, gruf fly. (TO BE CONTINUED) Socrates on Trial When Socrates was on trial, with the penalty, as he well knew, of death if found guilty, he gave a lecture, not a defense, when it came time to speak in his behalf. He declared fearlessly that if it was required of him to state how the public in justice ought to treat him, he could only say that they ought to recognize him as a public benefactor and maintain him at the state’s ex pense, for he had spent his whole life in the service of his country. The Star Spangled Banner UNDER the ttarry flag that wave* over thit fair land, every citizen ia a king, and there it no avenue to wealth and fame, pontion and power, that it not open to every child of the Republic.—W. A. Prountr. THE Star Spangled Banner was designated as the national anthem by an Act of Congresl, approved on March 3, 1931. It was written by Francis Scott Key after he had witnessed the British bombardment of Fort McHenry in Baltimore, in l^lA The words of this stirring song were sung to the tunfe of “Anacreon in Heaven” and immediately became popular and it was regarded as the national anthem though it was not made legally so until 1931. __ _ I LIBERTY, one of two treasured BELLS • > a a ■ WO of the bells which played important roles in early American history — pealing warnings or glad tidings during the nation’s battle for survival—are treasured by Philadelphia, observes a Philadelphia United Press corre spondent. Most valuable of the two from historical standpoint is the world famed Liberty bell, which was tolled when first public announcement was made of the Continental congress’ adoption of the Declaration of Inde pendence on July 4, 1770. The bell had pealed for anniver saries and festivals until 1835, when it cracked while being rung for the funeral procession of Chief Justice John Marshall of the United States Supreme court. Other bells identified with Ameri ca's struggle against foreign encum brances are the chimes in the stee ple of Old Christ church. During the Revolutionary war they wer$ removed and secreted to block pos sible attempts of English soldiers to melt them for ammunition. The Orator of the Revolution “Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death.”—Patrick Henry. ** C'ORBID it. Almighty God!—” ” thundered Patrick Henry In the Virginia Convention at Rich mond, in 1775, in a speech typical of “the explosive temper of the time”—"I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!” The orator of the Revolution had been found. It was Patrick Henry who established before the Ameri can people that government was a contract between King and people and that the violation of such con tract by the King was truly an illegal act. TRANSCRIBED DECLARATION NEITHER Thomas Jefferson nor John Hancock was the penman who transcribed the Dec laration of Independence. The ac tual work of transcription was done by Timothy Matlack. Flag Was Ma*dej _Si- - ■’zmmmm ITIHE Betsy Ross House in ft) X Philadelphia, where the first American flag was made, is being restored to its colonial condition, through the gener osity of A. Atwater Kent. For many years this house has been visited by thousands of tourists annually. Falling rapidly into ruin, the dilapidated condition of ‘ the patriotic shrine was brought to Mr. Kent's attention through a newspaper article which pic- \ tured the falling plaster, the leaking roof and general con dition of disrepair. * The living-room, shown, still has the gorgeous fireplace • with white mantel framed with j the original blue Dutch tile. The room was originally decorated % I ‘n . . nimnillM Single Patch Forms a Gay Flower Quilt The quilt of olden-time lives again—the popular “Grandmoth er’s Flower Garden.” Made of one patch throughout it’s a fas cinating and amazingly easy quilt to piece. There’s endless chance for color variety for each flower Pattern 5802 is to be in different scraps. Here’s a quilt a beginner can piece, and point to with pride. In pattern 5802 you will find the Block Chart, an illustration of the finished block in actual size, showing con trasting fabrics; accurately drawn pattern pieces; an illustration of the entire quilt; three color schemes; step-by-step directions for making the quilt; and exact yardage requirements. To obtain this pattern send 15 cents in stamps or coins (coins preferred) to The Sewing Circle Household Arts Dept., 259 W. Fourteenth St., New York, N. Y. Please write your name, ad dress and pattern number plainly. ***** SOUTHERN SPICE CAKE Mrs. if. H. Taylor, Lenoir, H. C. Sift and measure 2 cups flour. Re serve a little; sift the rest with 2 tsps. cinnamon, 1 tsp. ground cloves, 1 tsp. ground allspice, K tsp. grated nutmeg, 1 tsp. soda. Cream yi cup Jewel Special-Blend Shortening and 2 cups light brown sugar. Add beaten yolks of 3 eggs. Add flour gradually with 1 cup sour milk to make a stiff, smooth batter. Fold in stiffly beaten whites of 2 eggs. Dust 1 cup seeded raisins with remainder of flour and stir into mixture. Bake in 2 layers in moderate oven about 25 minutes. Put layers together and cover with boiled icing; top with walnuts.Adv. Cap-BrusK"Applicator ,1 "BUCK LEAF AOM • I ® CO MUCH FARTHER ^^^B PASH IN rgATNiRSTTx: — HOUSEHOLD FREE "Handy Helps for Homemakers" Is a com pact handbook of practical remedies for the common household problems. How to remove chewing gum from clothes Is typi cal of the subjects dealt with. Other chap ters cover cooking, lighting and heating, Each part of the book has neen reviewed by prominent home economic experts and only the most valuable subjects are In cluded. Copies of this are free. Write to Miss Boyd, 715 West Adams Street. Chi cago. Include 5c to cover postage and handling. Write today. WNU—U26—37 “/ quote from , the Record”— The only record is the one you now hold in your hand—this newspaper Congress Is In session. Claim* and counter- claims about proposed legislation are being made. What our national legislators say la aoon forgot j ten. Forgotten, but recorded! The" record" la down In black and white—you hold today's record in your hand—it la this naws Kper. This is a record that can't die—that can't araaed. For your newspaper la srscord oi bet. Hare is recorded exactly what waa said and done by presidents and kings, by senator leaders and congressmen More important, the news paper Interprets what it all means to you. For *hl» newspaper is edited especially lor Us readers. News oi remote places is adequately covered and interpreted, local events are re ported fully. Thus, a newspaper la "tailored" for the people it serve*, you and your neighbors Now 1* a good time to lesrn how "the record" 1* kept — lor you. KNOW YOUR NEWSPAPER
