— -
The DIM LANTERN
By TEMPLE BAILEY —===—
O PENN PUBLISHINO COMPANY —WNU SERVICE
1
CHAPTER X—Continued
—15—
Adelaide sat motionless, eyes on
her plate. When she spoke again it
was of other things. “Did you hear
that Delafleld is coming back?”
“Who told you?” asked Frederick.
“Eloise Harper. Benny’s sister
saw Del at Miami. She is sure he
is expecting to marry the other
girL”
“Bad taste, I call it.”
“Everybody is crazy to know who
she is.”
“Have they any idea?”
“No. Benny’s sister said he talked
quite frankly about getting married.
But he wouldn’t say a word about
the woman."
“I hardly think he will find Edith
heart-broken.” Towne glanced
across the table. Edith was not
wearing the willow. No shadow
marred her lovely countenance. Her
eyes were clear and shining pools
of sweet content.
Her uncle was proud of that high
held head. He and Edith might not
always hit it off. But, by Jove, he
was proud of her.
"No, she’s not heart-broken,” Ad
elaide’s cool tone disturbed his re
flections, “she is getting her heart
mended.”
"What do you mean?”
"They are an attractive pair, lit
tle Jane and her brother. And the
boy has lost his head.”
"Over Edith? Oh, well, she plays
around with him; there’s nothing se
rious in it.”
“Don’t be too sure. She’s inter
ested.”
"What makes you insist on that?”
Irritably.
"I know the signs, dear man," the
cat seemed to purr, but she had
claws.
And it was Adelaide who was
right. Edith had come to the knowl
edge that night of what Baldy meant
to her.
As she had entered the ballroom
men had crowded around her.
"Why,” they demanded, "do you
wear mistletoe, if you don’t want
to pay the forfeit?”
Backed up against one of the mar
ble pillars, she held them off. “I
do want to pay it, but not to any of
you.”
Her frankness diverted them.
“Who is the lucky man?”
"He is here. But he doesn’t know
he is lucky.”
They thought she was joking. But
she was not. And on'the other side
of the marble pillar a page in scar
let listened, with joy and fear in his
heart. “How fast we are going.
How fast.”
There was dancing until midnight,
then the curtains at the end of the
room were drawn back, and the
tree was revealed. It towered to
the ceiling, a glittering, gorgeous
thing. It was weighted with gifts
for everybody, fantastic toys most
of them, expensive, meaningless.
Evans, standing back of the
crowd, was aware of the emptiness
of it all. Oh, what had there been
throughout the evening to make men
think of the Babe who had been born
at Bethlehem?
The gifts of the Wise Men? Per
haps. Gold and frankincense and
myrrh? One must not judge too
narrowly. It was hard to keep sim
plicities in these opulent days.
Yet he was heavy-hearted, and
when Eloise Harper charged up to
him, dressed somewhat scantily as
a dryad, and handed him a foolish
monkey on a stick, she seemed to
suggest a heathen saturnalia rather
than anything Christian and civi
lized.
“A monkey for a monk,” said
Eloise. “Mr. Follette, your cassock
is frightfully becoming. But you
know you are a whited sepulchre.”
“Am I?”
“Of course. I'll bet you never say
your prayers.”
She danced away, unconscious
that her words had pierced him.
What reason had she to think that
any of this meant more to him than
it did to her? Had he borne witness
to the faith that was within him?
And was it within him? And if not,
why?
He stood there with his foolish
monkey on his stick, while around
him whirled a laughing, shrieking
crowd. Why, the thing was a carni
val not a sacred celebration. Was
there no way in which he might bear
witness?
Edith had asked him to sing the
old ballads, “Dame, get up and
bake your pies,” and “I saw three
ships a-sailing.” Evans was in no
mood for the dame who baked her
pies on Christmas day in the morn
ing, or the pretty girls who whistled
and sang—on Christmas day in the
morning.
When all the gifts had been dis
tributed the lights in the room were
turned out. The only illumination
was the golden effulgence which en
circled the tree.
In his monk’s robe, within that
circle of light, Evans seemed a mys
tical figure. He seemed, too, appro
priately ascetic, with his gray hair,
the weary lines of his old-young
face.
But his voice was fresh and clear.
And the song he sang hushed the
great room into silence.
“O little town of Bethlehem,
How still we see thee lie.
Above thy deep and dreamless
sleep,
The silent stars go by:
Yet in thy dark streets shineth.
The everlasting light.
The hopes and fears of all the
years
Are met in thee tonight.”
He sang as if he were alone in
some vast arched space, beneath
spires that reached towards Heaven,
behind some grille that separated
him from the world.
And now it seemed to him that he
sang not to that crowd of upturned
faces, not to those men and women
in shining silks and satins, not to
Jane who was far away, but to those
others who pressed close—his com
rades across the Great Divide!
So he had sung to them in the
hospital, sitting up in his narrow
“And—I told him he must not.
Miss Towne.”
bed—and most of the men who had
listened were—gone.
As the last words rang out his
audience seemed to wake with a
sigh.
Then the lights went up. But the
monk had vanished!
Evans left word with Baldy that
he would go home on the trolley. “I
am not quite up to the supper and
all that. Will you look after Moth
er?”
“Of course. Say, Evans, that song
was top notch. Edith wants you to
sing another.”
“Will you tell her I can’t? I’m
sorry. But the last time I sang
that was for the fellows—in France.
And it—got me—”
“It go^me, too,” Baldy confided;
“made all this seem—silly.”
It was just before New Year’s
that Lucy Logan brought a letter
for Frederick Towne to sign, and
when he had finished she said, “Mr.
Towne, I’m sorry, but I’m not going
to work any more. So will you
please accept my resignation?”
He showed his surprise. “What’s
the matter? Aren’t we good enough
for you?”
“It isn’t that." She stopped and
went on, “I’m going to be mar
ried, Mr. Towne.”
“Married?” He was at once con
gratulatory. “That’s a pleasant
thing for you. and I mustn’t spoil it
by telling you how hard it is going
to be to find someone to take your
place.”
“I think if you will have Miss
Dale? She’s really very good.”
Frederick was curious. What kind
of lover had won this quiet Lucy?
Probably some clerk or salesman.
“What about the man? Nice fellow,
I hope—”
“Very nice, Mr. Towne,” she
flushed, and her manner seemed to
forbid further questioning. She went
away, and he gave orders to the
cashier to see that she had an in
crease in the amount of her final
check. “She will need some pretty
things. And when we learn the date
we can give her a present."
So on Saturday night Lucy left,
and on the following Monday a card
was brought up to Edith Towne.
She read it. “Lucy Logan? I
don’t believe I know her,” she said
to the maid.
“She says she is from Mr.
Towne’s office, and that it is im
portant.”
“Miss Towne,” Lucy said as Edith
approached her, “I have resigned
from your uncle's office. Did he
tell you?"
"No. Uncle Fred rarely speaks
about business.”
With characteristic straightfor
wardness Lucy came at once to the
point. "I have something I must
talk over with you. I don’t know
whether I am doing the wise thing.
But it is the only honest thing."
"I can’t imagine what you can
have to say.”
“No you can’t. It’s this—” she
hesitated, then spoke with an ef
fort. "I am the girl Mr. Simms is
in love with. He wants to come
back and marry me.”
Edith’s fingers caught at the arm
of the chair. “Do you mean that it
was because of you—that he didn’t
marry me?”
“Yes. He used to come to the of
fice when he was in Washington and
dictate letters. And we got in the
way of talking to each other. He
seemed to enjoy it, and he wasn't
like some men—who are just—silly.
And I began to think about him a
lot. But I didn't let him see it. And—
he told me afterward, he was al
ways thinking of me. And the morn
ing of your wedding day he came
down to the office—to say ‘Good-by.’
He said he—just had to. And—well,
he let it out that he loved me, and
didn’t want to marry you. But he
said he would have to go on with it.
And—and I told him he must not.
Miss Towne.”
Edith stared at her. "Do you
mean that what he did was your
fault?”
“Yes,” Lucy’s face was white, “if
you want to put it that way. I told
him he hadn’t any right to marry
you if he loved me.” She hesitated,
then lifted her eyes to Edith’s with
a glance of appeal. “Miss Towne,
I wonder if you are big enough to
believe that it was just because 1
cared so much—and not because of
his money?”
"You think you love him?” she
demanded.
“I know I do. And you don’t. You
never have. And he didn’t love you.
Why—if he should lose every cent
tomorrow, and I had to tramp the
road with him, I’d do it gladly.
And you wouldn’t You wouldn’t
want him unless he could give you
everything you have now, would
you? Would you, Miss Towne?”
Edith’s sense of justice dictated
her answer. “No,” she found her
self unexpectedly admitting. “If I
had to tramp the roads with him.
I’d be bored to death.”
“I think he knew that. Miss
Towne. He told me that if he didn't
marry you, your heart wouldn’t be
broken. That it would just hurt
your pride.”
Edith had a moment of hysterical
mirth. How they had talked her
over. Her lover—and her uncle’s
stenographer! What a tragedy it
had been! And what a comedy!
She leaned forward a little, lock
ing her fingers about her knees. “I
wish you’d tell me all about it.”
So Lucy told the simple story.
And in telling it showed herself so
naive, so steadfast, that Edith was
aware of an increasing respect for
the woman who had taken her place
in the heart of her lover. She per
ceived that Lucy had come to this
interview in no spirit of triumph.
She had dreaded it, but had felt it
her duty. “I thought it would be
easier for you if you knew it be
fore other people did.”
Edith’s forehead was knitted in a
slight frown. "The whole thing has
been most unpleasant,” she said.
"When are you going to marry
him?”
“I told him on St. Valentine’s
day. It seemed—romantic.”
Romance and Del! Edith had a
sudden illumination. Why, this was
what he had wanted, and she had
given him none of it! She had
laughed at him—been his good com
rade. Little Lucy adored him—and
had set St. Valentine’s day for the
wedding!
There was nothing small about
Edith Towne. She knew fineness
when she saw it, and she had a feel
ing of humility in the presence of
little Lucy. "I think it was my i
__
fault as much as Del’s," she stated.
“I should never have said ‘Yes.’
People haven’t any right to marry
who feel as we did.”
"Oh,” Lucy said rapturously,
“how dear of you to say that. Miss
Towne, I always knew you were—
big. But I didn’t dream you were
so beautiful." Tears wet her cheeks.
"You’re just — marvellous,” she
said, wiping them away.
“No, I’m not.” Edith’s eyes were
on the Are. "Normally, I am rath
er proud and—hateful. If you had
come a week ago—” Her voice fell
away into silence as she still stared
at the Are.
Lucy looked at her curiously. “A
week ago?”
Edith nodded. "Do you like fairy
tales? Well, once there was a prin
cess. And a page came and sang—
under her window.” The Are purred
and crackled. “And the princess
liked the song—”
“Oh,” said Lucy, under her
breath.
She stood up. "I can't tell you
how thankful I am that I came.”
"You’re not going to run away
yet,” Edith told her. “I want you
to have lunch with me. Upstairs.
You must tell me all your plans.”
“I haven’t many. And I really
oughtn’t to stay."
“Why not? I want you. Please
don’t say no.”
So up they went, with the per
turbed parlor maid speaking
through the tube to the pantry.
“Miss Towne wants luncheon for
two, Mr. Waldron. In her room.
Something nice, she says, and plen
ty of it.”
Little Lucy had never seen such
a room as the one to which Edith
led her. The whole house was, in
deed, a dream palace. Yet it was
the atmosphere with which her lov
er would soon surround her. She
had a feeling almost of panic. What
would she do with a maid like Alice,
who was helping Josephine set up
the folding-table, spread the snowy
cloth, bring in the hot silver dishes?
As if Edith divined her thought,
she said when the maids had left,
“Lucy, will you let me advise?"
“Of course, Miss Towne.”
“Don’t try to be—like the rest of
us. Like Del’s own crowd, I mean.
He fell in love with you because
you were different. He will want
you to stay—different.”
“But I shall have so much to
learn.”
i^dith was impatient, wnat must
you learn? Externals? Let them
alone. Be yourself. You have dig
nity—and strength. It was the
strength in you that won Del. You
and he can have a life together that
will mean a great deal, if you will
make him go your way. But you
must not go his—”
Lucy considered that. "You mean
that the crowd he is with weakens
him?”
“I mean just that. They’re so
phisticated beyond words. You’re
what they would call—provincial.
Oh, be provincial, Lucy. Don’t be
afraid. But don’t adopt their ways.
You go to church, don’t you? Say
your prayers? Believe that God’s in
His world?”
Lucy’s fair cheeks were flushed.
“Why, of course I do.”
“Well, we don’t—not many of us,”
said Edith. “The thing you have
got to do is to interest Del in some
thing. Don't just go sailing away
with him in his yacht. Buy a farm
over in Virginia, and help him make
a success of it."
“But he lives in New York.”
"Of course he does. But he can
live anywhere. He's so rich that he
doesn't have to earn anything, and
his office is just a fiction. You must
make him work. Go in for a fad;
blooded horses, cows, black Berk
shires.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Bears Protected in Vast Territory in Alaska
Alaskan bears have the benefit of
protection on three types of sanctu
aries—refuges established by execu
tive orders, closed areas under
game law regulations and national
parks and monuments.
Mount McKinley National park
and Katmai and Glacier Bay Nation
al monuments, where all wild life is
protected, provide the bears with
more than 5,800,000 acres of safe
range—1,939,493 acres on Mount Mc
Kinley, 2,697,590 on Katmai and
1,164,800 on Glacier bay.
The Aleutian islands bird refuge
includes the 998,000-acre Unimak is
land where bears occur and share
the protection given all wild life.
Through an executive order, bears
share with elk the protection af
forded by the 448,000 acres of Afog
nak island.
Regulations under the Alaska
game law prevent bear hunting on
eight additional areas, totaling more
than 1,340,000 acres. An area of
over 1,222,000 acres contiguous to
Glacier Bay National monument and
two areas on Admiralty with a com
bined acreage of nearly 52,000 acres
have been closed to bear hunting.
The Admiralty island areas, Thay
er mountain and Pack creek, in
elude 38,400 and 13,440 acres, re
spectively. f'ive other areas, with
an aggregate acreage of 66,560, have
been closed to all hunting. The com
monly used names for these areas
and their acreage are as follows:
Eyak lake, 21,760; Mendenhall lake,
5,120; Alaska railr ad, 24,960; Key
stone canyon, 4,480, and Big Delta,
10.240.
neguiations under the Alaska
game law protect the bears in other
parts of the territory where hunt
ing is of any consequence. No hunt
ing is permitted anywhere through
out the summer season, and during
about five months of the open hunt
ing season the bears are hibernat
ing. The bag limit for large brown
and grizzly bears is two a year, ex
cept on Admiralty island where a
limit of one has been made to in
duce nonresident hunters to visit
other areas. Sale of bear hides is
prohibited, a regulation that is con
sidered as one outstanding factor
which has permitted an increase in
the large brown and grizzly bears.
Since this restriction was placed
in effect, when the original Alaska
game law was passed in 1925, there
has been a perceptible change for
the better in the brown and grizzly
bear population.
Play Clothes Smartly Styled
Of Dependable Wash Fabrics
By CHERIE NICHOLAS
PLAY clothes have come to be a
theme of themes with costume
designers. The idea of wearing Just
any old duds when you go out to
play or to rough it in camp life or
mountain climbs or Just simple
cross-country hikes is completely ta
boo these days. No woman of mod
ern outlook can afford to sidetrack
the Issue of being smartly and ap
propriately garbed wherever she
goes. There's absolutely no escap
ing the new demand for "style”
tuned to environs of the time, the
place and the game. Indulge in any
outdoor pastime you will, but be
sure you "look the part” in the
matter of correct attire.
Designers have risen so valiantly
to the occasion of creating an entire
wardrobe of play clothes that all ore
has to do is to go to specialized de
partments and make your needs
known and you will be outfitted to
the ’nth degree of correctness for
this sports occasion or that.
However, there is more to the play
clothes challenge than just style,
for dependable wearability that will
withstand the ravages of roughing it
is of such vast importance one needs
must meet the issue with all the
art and science at command. Which
is exactly what fabric manufactur
ers are doing.
Note the play clothes pictured.
They are extremely fabric conscious
we can assure you, demonstrating
perfectly the fact of their non-shrink
ableness and their color fastness.
Describing these timely modes, from
left to right, the perfectly tailored
slacks and shirt on the standing fig
ure is of a wool and cotton flannel
which has been scientifically san
forized shrunk in Switzerland.
A dark blouse with lighter skirt,
both of sturdy cotton gabardine that
has been pre-shrunk, as shown cen
tered in the group will undoubtedly
be a first choice with outdoor girls
who know their 1939 fashions. Note
the impeccably tailored pockets.
The Gay Nineties dressmaker
bathing suit comes back again. Full
skirt, basque bodice, snug-fitting
waistband and tiny puffed sleeves
with touches of narrow black velvet
ribbon against demure yellow and
white and black printed cotton de
scribes tbe liwa version or uns
quaint type as illustrated aboye to
the right. Underneath this sanfor
ized-shrunk cotton outfit, jersey
tights fit snugly making a complete
trim and ship-shape ensemble.
Full of Nineteenth century charm,
yet intensely modern with its brief
bras is the beach ensemble on the
seated figure in the foreground. It
can be relied on to give perfect wear
in that the flower print cotton which
fashions it is pre-shrunk and fast
color. Quaint ruffles edge the snug
shorts and finish the formal little
semi-fitted basque-like coat The
platform shoes are also interesting.
(Released by Western Newspaper Uulpn.l
Hats, Tiny or Big
There is no excuse for not having
a flattering hat this summer for
every type is included in the show
ings from tiniest toques to brims
that go to extremes in the matter of
size. The diminutive hat for dinner
and evening wear, as shown below,
gains daily in popularity. It is here
interpreted in soft irridescent feath
ers with a touch of shell pink velvet.
The black veil is strikingly embroid
ered. Compared to some of the new
brims the large mushroom hat shown
here of black Milan is in reality
quite conservative. There’s no limit
as to brim dimensions.
Favor Tweed-Like
Linens for Suits
Although this year’s linens abound
in the traditional smooth finishes
of the sort that denote well-bred
aristocracy, many new versions are
appearing. Something for the home
make-your-own-clothes designer to
get excited about is the smart new
slubbed, nubbed and tweed-like lin
ens which combine the celebrated
coolness of flax with a fine aptitude
for tailoring that insures a suit of
distinction and comfort for town of
travel wear.
Fruit Trims New
White Straw Hats
Perfectly charming among sum
mer girl fashions are the new,
usually large, rough white straw
hats that are trimmed with clus
ters of gay colored fruit instead of
the usual flower garnitures. This
new fashion is wonderfully effective
whether the hat be worn with an
all-white costume or with a gay
and festive silk print. It adds to
the glory of this mode to carry a
matching white straw handbag that
is similarly fruit-trimmed.
Deck White Suits
In Brass Buttons
There is a tendency to impart a
military air to summer dresses and
suits made of white sharkskin or
white gossamer sheer wool by the
use of handsome brass buttons, and
in some instances epaulets of gold
braid have been added. The fad
for all white with gold trimming is
also carried out in that gold kid
belts are being worn with classic
white dresses the draping of which
takes on a sculptural beauty.
Fishnet Trim
A New York designer, on the
search for something different to die
tinguish summer clothes, has turned
to fishnet
WHO’S
NEWS
THIS
WEEK
By LEMUEL F. PARTON
NEW YORK.—Filming of Kip
ling’s "The Light That Failed”
on the New Mexico desert, near
Santa Fe, was delayed the other
day when a
Sandstorm Mild savage wind
Compared lo blew the tents
Dir'c'or’.P*.,
Wellman, the director, long known
as "Wild Bill,” enjoys fighting sand
storms, having licked one almost
single-handed when he was filming
"Beau Geste," in Arizona. He
probably got a few good shots of the
storm and will work them into
the film, with his gift for improvi
zation.
He was the flying partner of
Tommy Hitchcock, the polo
player, in the Lafayette Esca
drllle in the World war, and re
vealed an instinct for showman
ship by playing tunes on Ger
man tower bells with a machine
gun as he zipped around the
belfry. It was said that, before
the Germans dropped him In a
tree and sent him home, he
could peg out "Silver Threads
Among the Gold” without a
sour note.
In aviation films, he has employed
effectively both his histrionic talents
and his training in air acrobatics.
His film, "Wings," of 1928, touched
off his expanding fame. "Men
With Wings,” of last year, rated
by discerning critics as a top
bracket film, told the story of avia
tion from the day of the Wright
brothers’ first flight.
He was known at times,
around Hollywood, as "Screwball
Bill,” but has simmered down
considerably since he married
Dorothy Coonan, finding a des
ert sandstorm only mildly di
verting, considering his rough
and-tumble past.
He Is, however, as Irish as ever,
and his famous serial fight with an
unknown Paris antagonist probably
will continue. On leave in Paris,
he found it nec
Engages in a essary to re
Serial Fight buke an offen
With Unknown aive. Btran*“
by knocking
him stiff as a plank. Later, in Chi
cago, the stranger, spying Mr. Well
man on the street, did the same to
him. A year or two later, in Holly
wood, seeing his unknown sparring
partner crossing the street, Mr.
Wellman put himself one up by a
blow to the chin. There have been
other encounters. I believe the score
is now even. But he bears no grudge.
It is just a detail of his native ebul
lience, which leads him to such de
vices as galvanizing the chairs on
the lot so his working crew can’t
sit down.
With Capra, La Cava and
Hitchcock, he is achieving a
sharp characterization and fin
ished technique, as the movies
get into long pants and offer
adult entertainment. He grew
up in Brookline, Mass., tried
to sell chocolates and woolen
goods, but didn’t, went to the
war with an ambulance unit
and won the Croix de Guerre
with the Lafayette Escadrllle.
His friend, Douglas Fairbanks
Sr., steered him to Hollywood,
soon after the war, as a mes
senger boy for Goldwyn. In 10
years, he did almost everything
for every studio in Hollywood,
before he hit his stride with
‘‘Wings.”
He is 43, slender, whippy, with a
touch of gray in his curly brown
hair, and is apt to sock anybody in
an argument and then affectionate
ly buy him a drink. “A Star Is
Born" hiked his fame considerably.
'T'HIS reporter asked several in
* formed persons if they knew
that a woman was assistant secre
tary of the United States treasury.
, None of them
Women in Office did. Mrs. Blair
No Longer Rate Banister, who
‘Scare Heads’ 5°lds ** „of;
fice, would find
encouragement in that. She tells
the Regional Conference of Demo
cratic Women at Washington that
the decreasing public excitement
about women in office is a good
sign. Their status in public life,
if that’s what interests them, is so
assured that they no longer rate
“glaring headlines” when they are
put in a responsible post.
Mrs. Banister is a sister of
Senator Carter Glass, one of
a family of six boys and six
girls, all following their father’s
business—newspaper work. Her
sister, Dr. Meta Glass, is presi
dent of Sweetwater college. Mrs.
Banister left Lynchburg, Va., in
1919, to assist George Creel’s
committee on public informa
tion. She was appointed to the
treasury post in July, 1933.
(Consolidated Features— WNU Service.)