Newspaper Page Text
PAGE TWO
X N N R SRR AR AR
B B v N N N 3 NN AR \\\\\\‘\\ NN N
a 4 Pk NS N ¥ RS R NN N N
- S e N e ANN
Gi w B N N N 3 SR DN R R
R : N 8 RN NN LA
& R ( @ T AR \% . » N N NAN
- & NNN N QAW ‘\\\:S\ QW N N
AN ; T DN Al N
C o
Start Story This Story
- Of Love and Mystery
v . ° !
~ In a Grim Old Mansion
: CHAPTER 1 |
Two young men leaving an eastern army camp in thef
fall of 1917, both in a great hurry, both carrying suit-|
cases and wearing on their collars the shining new bars|
of second lieutenancy, bumped squarely into one another. |
Each muttered, “Pardon!” at the same time and hastened |
on his way. Each was about to be sent overseas. Each|
was going home first, for a brief visit with an adored wife |
and child. Each, during that visit, took on his knees hisi
baby daughter and caressed her, and wondered if he|
would come back to the things he loved—home and wife
and child. !
Brian Chalmers, turning 2-year-old Elaine back to her |
sedate English nurse, pulled one of the child’s sunny curlsl
teasingly. “Goodby, Beautiful! You’ll be asleep when I
pull out in the morning. If I don’t come back, don’t take
‘any wooden nickels or stepfathers!” '
- The child laughed with delight at the jolly, meaning-i
lesswords her father was saying. She liked his pungent,
tobaccoish, shaving-cream smell, and the feel of his lean,
hard cheek against her own. She liked his big polished
boots and the funny belt that went around his waist and
gp over one shoulder. * 'By, Daddy!” she said, kissing
him rapturously.
~ “She likes men,” the child’s mother drawled. She was
a beautiful woman in a clinging sea-green negligee, with
a face that was rather soft and petulent, “She’s going to
be man-hungry, that girl. A little witch. I'm already jeal
ous of her.”
- The man drew his wife to the arm of his chair and{
buried his face in the scented lace of her negligee. “You
like men, too,” he accused. “If I'm blown to atoms over
there you’ll select the best-looking mourning in town.
ggou’ll wear it becomingly for a year, and the day you
step out of it you'll’marry Higate Deal!” ‘
. “Darling!” she remonstrated. “Must you be spiteful |
about all the men who have nice safe jobs in Washing-|
ton?” |
= “No,” amswered Brian Chalmers. “Only when they’re|
your old suitors and still in love with you. Gwen, you'lll
take good care of Elaine, won’t you?” |
The woman’s eyes opened in surprise. “What a thing |
0 say to the child’s own mother! Please remember, dear, |
that I love her, too. I putin hours and hours seleteing |
her little frocks and toys.” |
- “I know,” the man nodded impatiently. “But I'm think-|
ing of her character, Gwen, and things like that, 1 want%
her to grow up to be fine and straight and dependable.”
%paused uncertainly and lit a cigaret. “Lord! Whatl
DO I want for her?” He looked after the iovely child |
as she toddled up the broad stairway, holding tightly to |
w murse’s hand. “I suppose I just want her to havel
anything in this world that will make her happy. Yes,”|
he repeated it, rather like a prayer, “~—anything in the
world that will make her happy.”
* The other young man was named George Woodson. He
~and his wife, Eleanor, were so beautifully and simply in
“love with each other that this short leave of his was like
@ bit of heaven in a sea of horror. Through every hour
“of its radiance sounded the relentless drum-beat of ap
proaching separation, of submarine-infested seas. and a
_war to be fought. |
““ were restless in their love and foreboding. George
said, “Let’s walk along the river this evening. It's swell
in October—"
. “’'d thought of a picnic supper there,” Eleanor replied.'
““At the little cove where we used to go when we were en
“gaged. But there’s Baby Ruth, dear. She has a croupy!
cough and we shouldn’t leave her. Mrs. Gary would come‘
in to look affer her, but I'm just afraid—do you mind|
terribly ? T've a party for us in the ice-box. A cold chicken!
and all the things you love—" i
- George Woodson took his wife in his arms. “Mind,
dear? It doesn’t matter to me where I am, just so youl
ire near enough to touch. Tell me, Eleanor! If I don’t|
ecome back, will you promise—7" |
" Her dark eyes widened in pain and she quickly laid
ger hand over his mouth. ‘Don’t say it!” she begged.‘
“Don’t. think it!” : » |
=“F will!” he replied stubbornly.. “It's got te bHe spid.
" We've evaded it long enough. If 1 fail to come back,
& you're ready to go on gamely. That will be your duty,
st as it’s mine to go out and die, if necessary, to get
‘this bloody war ended.” ;
- She replied in a muffled voice from his arms. “Your
lart is easier than mine, George. I'd rather go and fight
han wait here. I'd rather die in battle than be left with
out my very heart.”
know,” he said soothingly. “I know.” To himself
‘he was thinking: “War is hellish. Just three years ago
we found each other. It was in the fall, like this. I loved
the way she walked along picking up red leaves, sticking
them in her hat, in her dress. I loved the way she laughed
ind the way she sang, a little off key, like a happy child.
I loved the way she closed her eyes when she kissed me.
1 still love these things in her. I'd like to go on loving
. them forever. Instead, I'm going off to a dizzy war that
8¢ mebody else started, and maybe have my guts torn out
“with a cold steel bayonet—"
;"C‘;t’?orge,” Eleanor said, *“you're shivering. Are you
Coia J e
. “No,” he replied. “You’re imagining things. What 1
I started out to say, dear, is this. If T shouldn’t come back,
‘you’ll have Ruth to take care of. It's not as if we had
& parents and brothers and sisters to help you. There’s no
‘body you’ll have any real claim on. But there’ll be my
linsurance. My war risk insurance, and $2,000 more, of
i the regular kind. T'll show you are papers tonight—"
“There’s no use in your urging me to live on,” she said,
f yvou don’t come back to me. T wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I
f would go to you, wherever you might be. Someone else
- would care for Ruth—" .
- RO R
§ He loved her the more, even for this weakness, this in
fgonsistency. “All within five minutes,” he pointed out,
' “you’ve refused to leave your baby for a picnic because
i ghe has croup, and you've refused to live for her if I die.
¢ That's logic for you.”
& They laughed together, rather shakily, and she pushed
TOMORROW: RUTH MAKES A DECISION, SETS OUT ON AN ADVENTURE
A,
RR L ;
Fri 5 2 .
T %
i - g B -
S 5 s R R
g ; i B T
B e S e
o e .é,fi . T
.. . T
s Z R R
e R R ‘;:515;22:'4.2515’::5':5‘? B IR 5 2
R R . . TSR
P B ':E;E;E;é:igi5555535:;5,515;55:5:5251315:122:E:Z-'E;E;E’.;’égff;:,'f?“;‘g%g:;i;i;i;:;Z;-:--fl:;:E:::; T
s : g e e
R R i '::':'5?%555353}5{:-7?:"j’ff""-’j'i?zf?i‘.' g ’
g e e
T R 2 SRR S ET b
% T g T e :
4 . e
3 B s e i o s g 3 :
3 W ; o E
2 A R ey g -
4 e ; .
= R R O+, >
: e , : LR
R N St . :
e e £ 3 e .
B e
4 g ; ; # R pas
3 ; B i : R B
. e i i . o
7 \ . . . 4
s E : ? : oe R B
A ? ST e s
g ~ G R oo
-:e g s
g ] . TR e, =
o > T
oRR R % .
W B |SN & e G
g 000 e . i g’% "il g
Bee B A S
, B PR i G e
B e RS v R oo
: B 5*&:%:& o e e
;BS b e B
Bo R R R g P e : B
BeS S A
R : R S R R i
¥ R s 2 3 S 7 o B -
: L R L B g &
. e ’ e o o
.. : b R e
3 B e T 0 ooamEsERRReTc o e .
e B L e . R s
o e B
a 0 e T e e B
St B oo e et e oo
T R S G s B S 2 :
L B e e 5 T B 2 X
A G b e e SR B
i o o e s o
BoSAie s i B R % %
R 5 2 B B R SRR
RRO SR I s A e
B R R i N R Aot
S R SRR s
R o 3 e S e
R L T e e
N S i oo s
L e e I
o B .
oR e R
R B S
G R e R
e e e R e SRt
R R R b
S@g b e
SRR TR R L e = 3 g e
Lo e o Go T
R R B 3 B oot R
-RGB S 3 5
L B 3
.
R 3
¥ R s
R e e et e X
gEee e s 3
i - %o »
B TR e e
S Ty W S &=
e Gk e s
& NR R S 8 s
g g 5 RA R P f,i:-‘:1:1:!:1:1:1:2:131:? 5 SR X%
i R AR e S
&RN R G :
R . B T g
SR g S B L 5
eSi U s
B : B 53 e
i k. S LT e :
e e R, S G s A s e B N y
2.A R s £
i : B P e
: e ee R T %
’
Ruth Woodson’s face made the passerby want to stop and
. .
look again . .. not because of any startling beauty but be
cause of an inner radiance and piquancy of expression.
him down into his- favorite chair and filled his pipe for
him. He said, “Isn’t that a new dress you're wearing?”
She answered, “Of course. If you hadn’t noticed it, I
was going to put poison in your tea. I'm making over the
yellow flannel into a coat for Ruth. It’s going to have
cgnning beaver collar and cuffs, made out of my neck
piece.” ’ :
“More inconsistencies’ he remarked, raising one eye
brow. “What'll you do for a neck-piece?”
Eleanor answered, “I'll wrap up in a muffler, I suppose.
And I've done something else reckless,.dear. I've bought
six bronze chrysanthemums for the supper table, because
we both love them so. And wait! That’s not the worst.
I've made two kinds of cake for tonight. The govern
ment may get me for that, but this is a celebration. I’ll
go make the coffee now, and you can read the paper—”
- But he did not read the paper. He went into the bed
‘room and looked at his child in her crib. He marveled at
the smallness of the two hands that lay outside the covers,
iand at the softness of the round, flushed cheeks. The dark
eyes, closed in sleep, were like her mother’s. But he
‘knew that the wide, engaging mouth and the squareness
‘of the little chin were his own contribution. “Funny little
mixture,” he mused, looking down at her.
And then, strangely, he said something that the other
young father had said of his child: “I want her to have
whatever it takes to make her happy. Whatever it takes!”
Though they never encountered each other again, Brian
Chalmers and George Woodson had two things in com
mon: a rendezvous with death on a distant Flanders field,
and the wish they had made for their children. It was
the fault of Fate that these two children, in the distant
year marked 1935, should find themselves in the same
place, wanting the same thing. . . . Which of you wished
harder, oh gallant young fathers?
CHAPTER 1I
Ruth Woodson stooped to pick up a red maple leaf
from the ground and realized that fall had come.
- “Fall and no job yet!” Well, what could she expect
- when she’d not had a business course, or any special
training? She'd heard countless stories of girls like her
self walking their shoes thin, and not getting anywhere.
““And it’s no idle tale, my girl,” she murmured to herself
as she stepped on'a pebble and felt its sharp prod against
the sole of her foot. “These shoes have got to be half
' soled soon, or I'll have stone bruises.”
' The shoes were trim enough ot look at, however, and
covered a shapely, well-arched foot. Nor were her feet
‘the only points of interest which the girl possessed. She
THE BANNER-HERALD, ATHENS, GEORGIA
had a slender, nicely poised body and a face that made
a passer-by want to stop and look again. Not because of
any startling beauty, but because of an inner radiance and
a piquancy of expression that she wore. The eyes were
dark and micely lashed. The hair was dark and waving.
The nose was short and straight, the chin square, and
between the two was a mouth that was too wide, like
a small boy’s, but alluringly shaped. Today a brave dash
of lipstick caused the mouth to mateh exactly in color
the gay, blood-red leaf which she had just fastened in
the lapel of her suit. ;
Ruth sat down on a park bench and opened the news
paper she had bought on the corner. She turned to .the
column that said “Help Wanted, Female.” She saw there
was nothing new there—nothing she had not already fol
lowed up or eliminated as out of her range. With a sharp
little sigh she laid the paper down and let her thoughts
run riot. . . . “I can’t afford lunch today. Thirty cents
saved is 30 cents made. . . . T must go to one of the 10-
cent stores and buy narcissus bulbs for Cousin Bessie’s
birthday. . ..” :
Cousin Bessie, of the impending birthday, was the wid
owed relative with whom Ruth lived in a small, artistic
and very crowded flat in Brooklyn. Mrs. Lawrence read
manuscripts for a tottering publishing house in New QYork
and was very poorly paid indeed. With this inadequate
salary she supported herself, an 18-year-old daughter, and
a 16-year-old son. For some months now she had been
supporting Ruth Woodson as well, at least as far as food
and shelter were concerned. It was this thought that
made Ruth a little desperate when she had time to think
about it, as she was doing now.
Ruth had been “passed around” since her fourth birth
day. George Woodson, her father, had gone to his brave
death just before Armistice. Eleanor Woodson had event
ually followed him, as she had told him she would do. It
took long months of grieving assisted by nervous exhaus
tion and pneumonia to turn the trick, but in the end she
had died with a triumphant smile on her face and a feeling
of release in her heart. She was off to find her lover.
The child. Kuth, and George’s insurance went to Great
aunt Sarah Woodson, who accepted them as a sacred trust
and a terrible burden. Great-aunt Sarah lived several
years to do her duty by Ruth before dying and passing
her on to another great-aunt whom Ruth affectionately
recalled as “Aunt Matilda”. At Aunt Matilda’s death
the child’s real troubles began. She was 10 years old and,
as she naively expressed it at the time, she had “run out
/é%_/ I<Rachel son <)
© 1935 NEA Service, Inc. ] ack" |
of aunts.” She had also run out of money, for the (~
:old ladies between them had invested the little compe.
| tence unsoundly.
! " Ruth was then passed about among several c¢ousin. of
!her parents’.u"ith more speed than tact. A child of je..
| character mighi have been broken in spirit and have 1.
| come a self-pitying, shrinking little introvert. Or she
!mlgh.t havezdev?,loped into a pushing, obnoxious litte ag
;gresswe, snatching advantage where she might. But Ruth
; Woogson did neither. As her bpdy grew straight and tr.
|BO did her naturally, sunny disposition. The knowledge
‘that she was a moneyless orphan whom no o vded di
not embitter her. It only rgade her a littlemrangz?:id\l\'("nff;{i
: qul and we}}-{nannered than most children. She mlr.fi.(.i}
0 squeeze into corners, as it : s hersell
' useful when she could. e, BUAIO make hersel
| When Ruth finished high school in the little upstate
town where she had grown up, there was no job a fi;;’
,: able for her, so she came to New York to the one rel-u(i\--‘
. who remained untried—Cousin Bessie Lawrence "n .
i cousins in Worthvlile waved her off with finality ‘dhd illll
| concealed relief, for they had broods of their 'oxi’n -mri
| they regarded Ruth as “a problem.” The girl hag an
| excess of high spirits and a taste for adventure \\-hi(«h
| upset and annoyed them,
. Cousin Bessie, to whom Ruth had ¢ome so eagerly that
. day two summers ago, was kindness itself. Unfortunate.
ly, she was also inefficient and impractical. She had
. spoiled her own two children beyond reason, and she dash
. ed from home to office every day, and back again, like g
! rabbit persued by hounds—the hounds of work and deht
'and possible failure.
g _Bessie Lawrence managed to give Ruth the wrong ad
vice at every turn. Instead of arranging for the girl 1o
| borrow money for a short and thorough business course
‘or for some vocational training, she aliowed her to take
| temporary jobs for which she was unsuited and which
' soon ‘“‘petered out”, leaving Ruth discouraged and dis
' mayed. For weeks now she had had nothing at all to do.
| The dwindling change in her pocketbook was there he.
[ca.use she had been able to reline a coat for a woman in
;the' apartment above them. '
P Ruth got up from the bench to go and noticed that a
lfxgure was standing in front of her. It was an ecxeeding
'ly well-dressed man, not add, not young. He was looking
| at her, and as she looked at him he took off his hat cour
| téously.
' He zaid, “I'm on my way to a late lunch at the Casino.
‘I wonder if you will join me?” '
! The casualness of the attack impressed Ruth more than
(any maneuvering on his part would have done. She look
' ed at him with interest and found him to be rather hand
| some and impressive. He might even be a gentleman. She
ithought( “I'm hungry. Why not? Besides, it’s an adven
ture. Imagine being asked to the Casino, just like that!”
' She’d never been inside the doors, of course.
|~ The man said, “Girls who look’ like Claudette Colbert
| expect to be admired by strangers, naturally.”
| Ruth again felt a prick of admiration for his cleverness.
' She knew there was a haunting resemblance to Colbert’s
{ face in her own. This observing man might be entertain
ing. Certainly he was flattering. And then, struggling up
from some deeper consciousness of her mind, there came
this warning, like a little bell in some far away femple
| garden: ,
| “Wrong things begin this way. Careful, Ruth! You'rt
| about to be picked up! Once done, it gets easier and
| easier!”
| She looked at the man for a moment, cooly. Then she
' said to him, “I hope you’ll enjoy your lunch. Don’t let
tme detain you.” 2 i
| He smiled guardedly. “I'm sorry,” he replied. “;:\,‘,’“'
'and then one tries the wrong girl. No offense, I hope! :
| “None at all,” Ruth told him.. “And thank you for say
'ing I look like Claudette.” She smiled as she turned and
left him, but it was a clear-cut smile of dismissal.
' In the 5-and-10 she bought a chocolate har when she
' selected Cousin Bessie’s nareissus bulbs. The bar was h‘*§
'lunch, and she came out of the store nibbling it. It y
'heavenly. She had sold no part of herself to obtain it,
{not even her -pride.
g i 11 {To.Be Continued)
o A;?,,. SO
i A RAR XN
-__.:.;~';:s<?~sl'.'. oSe R R NG
CEaa A b
e e R e e
Soo R S ?&’é‘ A R SR A =
oi L e G %% G A _,W B
i RGy S oR S IR R
i fix» 00, %r e S :r-f-,;.-.‘-ég,- * SRR
PSR LT B 2 £ it 3
A Shnn BMR o 8 e RrA g
q?,,f R o BG R B % _gcfl:: R e R 3025
i"a B W o 5-;_.__:;.;_?.- R P e -cop i
RS RRR e 2 S RRI 5
o SRR ey "’: R e% 3 <f§\ % ] G:\
SR O 2 _t,w»;-:,__;".-:;;., eBB RR Pl Bs |
:"W,,“‘ *“ Qi S §,«>w sk- »<" !
g T e e Ae - |
Bil e R AR e {
B e e i o g eSBy |
L 27 SR B A%, “f‘ RI A SR G |
T é‘g"” g ’wfi’g-& s s SS SRRV L s i |
P 3 : ; vg, PR ATAB Rg, |
}:‘;z- 2 S B oxr oojgß Se |
B e PR Rd R < %NN PO
T ¢ By oy Psßl |
i e e e B Pi R
S P 1 PL ‘ ol ;::;3”‘:‘:: "%" I
e T gFa s ERT §
% s R B £iße S
" egl oLR fae &‘; s |
: kg o S 4 O e R “‘:“ G |
g o oA, 1 2 3 AS S
e s e 5 sL:%fl £ :
3 A Sril it e R SLHH e RS e |
B R 3R, TR s, i |
: ™3 P 3 2 eN o T Ko |
=& T i es b 7 ,\gfifr 2% R |
b E W 5 |
oo iaes & s BRI S {
i b {
S R B ":'b 1
T B o s R ;
G I NTees -~ go |
G o B BEEST AN soOB %
i R S ”;m |
i B By "‘:*.‘r,.';i?"‘fi?—k"-";}':‘:--’- By |
G AR A m—,;w&'»«;:fls; S |
i o T P Sesec s |
P 2 WPy as RO bo e |
b Ner s M’“‘Jw
Loy .§§‘ o 2P PAR g |
f"' o o Poess m%"s,%’ifé’“ g |
SRR ';:5:}:35:5::-«-.,.;:j,-;.-, oo s BoR s |
G g :.44'*57:,»'1" e
SR SS RO ;’ér’x« SR
R ".-"5fi:5-’i~f§sl:s'3£"’:?" e = R
E o R T eI
: : LpEsE MOO /283 ,"’V
B AN 3 445 AR S
3 RR S Ous Eeic ~»Mcwr,« % !
2 ~;;;‘iri.-:‘,'jofi': 2N Tet A 2 |
N o e e R |
TRt BRI, 2\‘ s |
3 2 o 00 SRR Ae |
” S 2 3;%,}0 ;‘ AB c
i %?g R S
B % L S “3“" $i |
: - LT g o
- B e g e
: i G oA |
S iRSRS TR o eo &S
" 5 sTR gsR e |
> s e ) R GRS R R
£33 SRS :,:::‘;:;_-;;;;_:-_;;:‘::;@;;;:5;;:55 R B &
SR E -".;;;;,;5;5:5:_:;;-f;i:?.;::::f{.;:{?'?‘"':':‘"5-'3 e
3 3 . i ¢<~>w\~ ;_;f;;f g,« 5
R o R S
& B I gB %
£B B R & -_-,’:‘5;;;;’:-_:}25
B 3 ,:-'f:v':l.f;:i:f:‘::i}"'. R SRR, k 7 f;'t s
e 4 R R B =
BSs e S eL R
B R R eoy ,_.;t_';z___,:,.;v;‘ 3
el . ‘ s
H : d e 5._.;.;.1:155::-,;;: : 'S\w»s; &
e sai segs i
» ’
if you will joi }.on my way to a |
Hi join me?”’ a late lunch | wonder
g . ond¢
MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 103
