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TRUE Bl] THE SUN
CHAPTER Vlll—Continued
—l2—
He went downstairs. MacPher
aon glanced up over his paper.
"Bonny Prince Jamie,” he said ad
miringly. “You’re a sight to flut
ter the hearts of the ladies,” and
Mrs. MacPherson beamed with ma
ternal pride.
The night was still and clear.
There would be a moon later, very
late, an apricot August moon. Jim
walked through the garden, along
the drive, up to the familiar side
veranda. The house looked very
gay.
He was early. The guests had not
yet begun to arrive. The orches
tra, five dapper young negroes in
tuxedos, was grouped about the pi
ano in the hall. In the dining-room
one of the caterer’s men was mix
ing punch under Mr. Vaughn’s su
pervision.
“Anything I can do?” Jim asked.
“Taste this stuff.” Mr. Vaughn
filled a glass for Jim. “Too strong?”
he asked.
“Just right.” Jim set the glass
on the table.
Jim waited while Mr. Vaughn
gave further instructions to the ca
terer’s man and then went with
him into the hall. It was empty,
now. The members of the orches
tra were out on the side veranda,
talking in undertones, joking, their
laughter discreetly lowered.
“Everything seems to be all
right,” Mr. Vaughn said, standing
in the open door, looking out across
the terrace and the lawn where the
lanterns floated in still darkness.
“Looks festive, doesn't it? I want
Cecily to enjoy her party.” His
glance turned to Jim. “Having a
grown daughter is a tough propo
sition,” he said.
“I can neither agree nor dis
agree,” Jim said, smiling. “I’ve
had no experience.”
Mr. Vaughn made no immedi
ate reply. It was apparent to Jim
that he had something on his mind.
A voice hailed them. “Hello, you
two!"
The gentlemen looked toward the
stairs. Cecily was descending slow
ly, trailing a hand along the ban
ister, deliberately making an ap
pearance.
Cecily was lovely tonight. She
wore a slim shining cream-colored
dress which broke into cascades of
ripples below her knees. Her bright
hair was bound with a wreath of
golden leaves and golden sandals
twinkled beneath the satin ripples of
her skirt. Excitement deepened the
peach-Lke bloom of her cheeks and
shone in her dark golden eyes.
Above her, around her, floated a
soft radiance, a lovely luminous
glow. She came toward them, smil
ing. Jim drew a short painful
breath.
“Am I all right?” she asked, turn
ing for their approval, her arms
extended, her head turned to watch
them over her shoulder. “Do I
look pretty nice?”
“You’ll do,” her father replied,
the pride and affection in his face
discounting the brief comment, and
“Dazzling!” Jim said, having diffi
culty with his voice.
“Have you given the men in
structions about parking the cars?”
she asked her father and, “Jim,
would you mind awfully seeing that
the lanterns along the terrace are
lighted. That Ralph is an imbecile.
He hasn't one brain cell to rattle
against another.”
“I’m not on duty tonight," Jim
said, smiling. But he went to light
the lanterns, taking with him a lit
tle of her radiance, hurrying to
ward the moment when he would
see her again, dance with her, hold
her silken slenderness in his arms.
The moment which he anticipated
was slow in arriving. Cecily, for a
time, was occupied with the arriv
ing guests, with greetings and in
troductions. When the music start
ed she was whirled off by the pros
pective groom and, in turn, by the
wedding party to a man. Jim
danced with a languid blonde who
asked him if he didn’t think that
dancing in hot weather was too ut
terly foul and with a pert little
red-head who thought the music was
too divine and that dancing out-of
doors was too marvelous and the
lanterns awfully amusing.
Later, when he met Cecily in the
center of the floor, she asked:
“Why haven’t you danced with
me?"
“I haven’t a landing net.”
“Want to now?”
“Awfully."
He was dancing with her at last,
at last he held her in his arms,
breathed the fragrance of her hair,
felt her forehead against his chin.
She danced beautifully, effortlessly,
not as Dolly danced, with spirited
abandon, but with a fluid grace,
like a wave, like a—He gave it up,
content to dance with her silently,
endlessly, on and on—forever.
She drew a little away, looked up
at him.
“Is it a nice party, Jim?”
“Grand.”
“You’re making a terrific impres
sion.”
Jim scarcely heard what she said.
He watched varying colors wash
over her face, violet, rose, amber,
as they moved under the lanterns.
Cecily, Cecily darling. I love you
so. What am I going to do? . . .
The music stopped. There was en
thusiastic applause.
“That was nice,” Cecily said. “I
like to dance with you.”
“That goes for me, too.”
The music recommenced. Shc (
By LIDA LARRIMORE
© Lida Larrimore.
WNU Service.
came into his arms again. The tune
was familiar. Presently the plain
tive baritone sang—
“l've told every little star
Just how sweet I think you are.
Why haven’t I told you?”
"Cecily—”
She lifted her head, glanced up
questioningly.
“Listen, Cecily—! If I could sing
and knew all the words—”
"Jim — ?” She pronounced his
name softly, breathlessly, looking
up at him steadily. There was a
suggestion of alarm in her eyes,
more than a hint of compassion.
He saw the pulse in her throat stir
and beat, as though something alive
were imprisoned there, something
that wanted to be released.
The orchestra repeated the re
frain, playing softly now, with a low
muted rhythm.
"Jim—” She stirred gently in his
arms. "Jim, are you—?”
He hadn’t intended that she should
know. The compassion in her eyes
brought him back to reality. He
didn’t want her to pity him.
“I'm making love to you,” he
said lightly, smiling down into her
eyes.
“Are you—Jim?”
"Shouldn't I?” he asked teasing
ly. “When it’s a party and there
are lanterns and music like this
and pink punch and a prospective
bride?”
“Silly!” She laughed naturally,
with relief. “You frightened me.
I thought—for a minute—you meant
it. Conceit!”
When the dance ended, she led
him to the changing group at the
end of the terrace. Presently she
slipped away. When he saw her
again, she was dancing with her fa
ther. He thought, watching her
above his partner’s head, a sleek
head, blue-black as an egg-plant,
that her shining look was intensi
fied, as though, in the interval since
she had left him, something, some
one had given it a new breath-tak
ing luster. Cecily, Cecily darling!
She came to him at the end of
the dance.
“Will you excuse me, Millicent?”
she apologized to Jim's last part
ner. “I must drag Jim away. It’s
awfully important.”
“Certainly.”
"Where are we going?” Jim
asked.
“Out to the summer-house. I've
something to tell you." Happiness
sang in her voice, lent wings to her
golden sandals. She picked up her
rippling skirt and, catching Jim's
hand, ran with him down the cen
tral path of the garden. Beside the^
fountain she stopped. "I can't
wait!” she said with a little laugh.
“The summer - house is too far
away." She lifted her face, her
hands touched his shoulders, her
lips touched his. “Thank you,” she
said softly. “Thank you, Jim."
Jim collected his scattering wits.
“What for?” he asked, feeling the
light touch of her lips, hearing, as
though it came from far away, the
splash and drip of the fountain.
“Father just told me,” she said
breathlessly. "Jerry is coming for
a visit. I couldn’t wait to thank
you. I do thank you, Jim!”
“I had nothing to do with it."
“Didn't you? Early this evening
when you and Father were talking
in the hall—Didn’t you suggest it
to him then?”
“No." Jim said roughly. “I’ve
never mentioned it. You've noth
ing to thank me for."
"Why?” she stood very close to
him, looked up at him searchingly.
“Because—” The moon, rising
above the woods at the crest of the
hill, sprayed the garden with light.
He saw her distinctly, her parted
lips, the question in her eyes. She
saw him with equal clarity. Some
of the brightness went out of her
face.
“Jim!” she cried on a soft won
dering note of alarm and compre
hension. “You meant it, didn’t you?
When we danced—That song—”
“Yes.”
"I’m sorry—” She swayed toward
him. He caught her in his arms,
held her, bent her head back to
press his lips against the soft, hollow
in her throat, kissed her with pas
sion and with gentleness, her hair,
her eyes, her lips, released her
when, through the splashing sound
of the fountain, through distant mu
sic, through the drumming in his
ears, he heard her soft shaken cry.
They stood facing each other in
the diffused white moonlight. He
saw that her lips were trembling.
“Are you angry?” he asked. The
surge of passion receded, leaving
only gentleness. “Have I hurt you,
dear?”
She shook her head.
“You’re weeping."
“That's only because I'm sorry.”
“Never mind.”
“And because I’m afraid it's—my
fault.”
“It isn’t. It’s my fault entirely.”
She stood looking down, twisting
the wisp of handkerchief in her
hands. “I’ve deliberately made men
love me,” she said with charac
teristic candor. “I didn't do that
with you. I was only grateful—l—”
"I know.”
She raised her head. Tears glit
tered on her lashes.
“Maybe it isn’t real,” she said
slowly, considering each. word,
i “Maybe it's just the moonlight, this
WHEELER COUNTY EAGLE. ALAMO. GEORGIA.
dress, the pink punch, the music."
“It’s real, Cecily.”
“I hope you’re mistaken. I do
hope that, Jim. Os course, in a
way, I can’t help being glad. That’s
only the silly vain part of me. I
know how it feels to love somebody
terribly. I don’t want you to love
me like that. I’d have you on my
conscience—”
CHAPTER IX
Jeremy Clyde was at “Meadow
brook.” Cecily made a decided
point of introducing him to Jim.
“Jim, this is Jerry,” she said,
way-laying him early one evening
when Jim came to the house for a
conference with Mr. Vaughn.
“How do you do.”
“How are you?”
They clasped hands briefly. There
was a moment of silence.
“Jim has heard a great deal about
you, Jerry,” Cecily said in a light
quick voice. “I've talked to him
about you for hours and hours.”
“A dull subject, I’m afraid,” Jer
ry said, engagingly modest. "You
must have been awfully bored.”
“Not at all,” Jim protested po
litely. He felt that the Clyde was
—~
w Im
“1 Know How it Feels to Love
Someone Terribly.”
taking his measure, looking him
over with something guarded in his
eyes. His manner was agreeable.
He was good-looking.
The meeting between Jim and
Jeremy Clyde ended in an exchange
of polite amenities. Jim was glad
to escape. He had tried to con
vey, in answer to Cecily’s question
ing glance, that, to a certain ex
tent at least, he shared her en
thusiasm for Jeremy. He knew
that he had not convinced her. She
had looked a little hurt, a little dis
appointed. Her manner became dis
tant. Her hand resting upon Jer
emy’s arm, was tenderly protec
tive.
It was a relief to discuss business
affairs with Mr. Vaughn. Check
ing itemized bills, tracing a voucher
that had gone astray, adjusting the
weekly payroll, Jim was able to for
get, in a measure, the way Jeremy
Clyde had looked at Cecily, the hap
piness in her voice, the intimacy
which had excluded him.
Work! It would be less difficult
after a time. He would keep away
from “Meadowbrook." Sleep at the
riding academy. Not in the house.
He would see Cecily, there, as she
had been that rainy day, interested,
friendly, aware of him. In the of
fice adjoining the stable. Get a cot
and a kerosene stove—until cold
weather, at least. She would have
returned to the city then. The Mac
phersons would wonder. Let them—
“l beg your pardon, sir?”
“Wool - gathering, Jim?” Mr.
Vaughn settled back in his chair,
a signal that the conference, so far
as business details were concerned,
was at an end.
“I’m sorry.” Jim produced a
convincing yawn. “Sleepy. I guess.
We finished the fencing today.”
“Good! Smoke, if you like.” Mr.
Vaughn selected a cigar from the
box on his desk.
“I'd like to have the place in
good shape before you return to the
city,” Jim said.
“You probably will. I’ve decided
not to open the city house until
after Christmas. Susan is going to
boarding-school. Tommy will be in
school, too, if he works off those
conditions. Cecily and I will stay
here for the hunting in November.
I’ll put up at the club when I go to
town. The doctors seem to think
that three or four more months in
the country won’t do me any harm.”
“Probably not.” Jim’s heart leapt
and sank at the thought of Cecily
staying on through the fall. Unless
she married Clyde—Unless—
“Have you met our guest?” Mr.
Vaughn asked, changing the sub
ject.
“Yes,” Jim said. “This evening.”
“What do you think of him?”
“I haven’t thought—especially.”
Jim lit a cigarette. “He seems
pleasant enough. Very handsome.”
“I'll confess that I am agreeably
surprised,” Mr. Vaughn continued.
"I had expected something worse.
“Cecily has given me her word
not to do anything foolish. No elope
ments or anything of the kind. I
can trust Cecily. She's never broken
a promise. The boy is intelligent.
Good manners. Respe. table famt
ly. I don’t suppose he'd ever be
able to support her. Still—” Mr
Vaughn smiled in a shame-faced
fashion. “You aren’t interested in
all this,” he said apologetically.
“I’ve gotten into the habit of think
ing aloud to you.”
“I know that,” Jim said.
“It’s meant a great deal to me to
have you here this summer.” Mr
Vaughn said. “Now if Cecily had
taken a fancy to you—”
“Would you have approved?"
Jim’s slow smile discounted any
suggestion of flippancy or dis
respect.
“Probably not,” Mr. Vaughn con
fessed. “I would nrobably have dis
charged you. But I could have un
derstood the attraction. This Jer
ry, Jeremy—There’s a sort of sly
ness about him. He looks as
though he would slip out of any un
pleasant situation, save his own
pretty hide, no matter whom he
might hurt That’s prejudice, prob
ably. But tint’s my impression of
him.”
Mr. Vaugh- was prejudiced, Jim
thought. Certainly he, Jim, was
prejudiced, too. Probably they both
imagined an evasive quality in Jer
emy Clyde. Nothing that Jim could
put a finger on in his infrequent
encounters with Cecily’s guest after
the first meeting. Clyde was ami
able, devoted to Cecily, deferential
to Mr. Vaughn, charming to Miss
Parker.
Jim resolved to keep away from
“Meadowbrook.” In spite of Mrs.
MacPherson’s protests, he carried
a lunch to the riding academy and
returned to the estate for supper
at half past six. Usually, then, he
caught a glimpse of Cecily and her
guest, walking about the grounds in
the half hour before the family din
ner at seven o’clock. Sometimes
Cecily hailed him, called him over
to them as gaily and naturally as
though the moment beside the foun
tain had never existed. It had
meant so little to her, so terribly
much to him.
Jim, in the brief intervals of con
tact with Cecily and Clyde, attempt
ed to maintain the same natural
gaiety and casual friendliness which
Cecily established. He found it dif
ficult, especially since he was usual
ly in his working clothes, grimy
and weary and needing a shave.
At such times, he resented Jere
my’s fresh flannels, his tubbed and
laundered look, his smoothly rip
pled hair. Jeremy’s suave appear
ance roused primitive emotions in
Jim. He wanted to fight the fel
low, muss him up, snatch Cecily
and carry her away. He laughed
himself away from violence and
capture by force.
He resolved to keep away from
“Meadowbrook.”
No amount of resolution, however,
could keep him from thinking of
Cecily, could prevent continued
conjecture concerning Jeremy
Clyde. Too restless in the evening
to read or to play checkers with
MacPherson, too restless to sit on
the cottage veranda, listening,
through Mrs. MacPherson’s conver
sation, through the shrill piping of
tree toads in the orchard, for sounds
from’ the house, he fell into the
habit of driving the second-hand
roadster to the village, along the
country roads. Usually he stopped
in at the drug-store. Sometimes, if
closing time was near, Dolly con
tinued to drive with him. More
often he only talked to her, drink
ing orangeade at the fountain, di
verted, for a time, by her pert
gaiety.
One evening, when there w’ere no
other customers in the store, she
leaned across the counter and asked
him a question.
"What’s the matter, Mister?”
"Matter?”
“Are you rushing me or some
thing?”
“Why?”
“You've been dropping in pretty
often.”
“I have a secret passion for
orangeade.”
“Apple-sauce!" She looked at him
shrewdly, her elbows propped on
the fountain, her chin resting on
her folded hands. “You look like
you did the first day you came in
here.”
“How was that?” Jim tinkled the
ice in his glass.
“Sunk.”
“Oh, yes. I was playing 'Ham
let.' ”
“You aren’t playing now. It's a
natural expression. The Vaughna
have company, haven’t they?”
“Dolly,” Jim said evenly, “how
well do you know him?”
“Him?” He saw ’.hat she regret
ted making the statement. Her ex
pression, all at once, was too inno
cent, too bland. “You mean—Jerry
Clyde?"
“Miss Innocence! You know I do.”
“Oh, not very well.” She aban
doned her confiding position, moved
a glass, wiped a ring of moisture
from the fountain. “He used to
meet Miss Vaughn in here and a
couple of times—” Her brows drew
together in an exaggerated frown.
“Who do you think you are, a po
lice sergeant or one of those guys
from Scotland Yard?”
“Excuse me, Dolly.” Jim smiled
contritely. “That was a personal
question. I’m sorry. It doesn’t mat
ter.”
“Oh, no, it doesn’t matter!” Her
voice flaunted a sort of mocking
irony, knowing, not unsympathetic.
“It doesn’t matter to you who visits
Miss Vaughn. It doesn’t matter,
not any more than losing a leg or
an eye."
“Think you’re pretty slirewd,
don’t you.”
ITO BE CONTINUED)
A Winsome Quartette
1 1276
■>’ 'V. W
WjNw C rw :/1
&'O sh i/ ’ I
K * * w / i/ II MrS
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'■ ■ \ / /I yfurfa w / 5
: — II I i|
THERE was a lull in
the mid-morning ac
tivities of the Chic Twins
(in aprons this time) and
their week - end guests
when the candid camera
caught this gay quartette.
The guests are wearing—let’s have
a close-up — sports dresses be
cause they are so all purpose:
tennis frocks go shopping just as
often as not. The spectator model
to the right with its unusual use
of buttons is demure enough to
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day school teacher and yet would
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A Two-in-One Idea.
The aprons on the charming
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The Patterns.
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requires 1% yards of 39-ir.ch ma-,
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in sizes 14 to 20 (32 to 42). Size
16 requires 3% yards of 35-inch
material.
Pattern 1224 is designed in sizes
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quires 4% yards of 39-inch ma
terial. With long sleeves size 14
requires 4% yards of 35 inch ma
terial.
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a Aik )
u
(DD U ( LOf
J i W ) L iL...
TIME TO CHANGE
, I ]
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particular young women and ma
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in the Barbara Bell Pattern Book.
Send 15 cents today for your copy.
Send your order to The Sewing
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Price of patterns, 15 cents (in
coins) each.
© Bell Syndicate.—WNU Service.
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