Newspaper Page Text
••••••••••••
TRUE
BY THE
SUN
— BY-
LIDA LARRIMORE
© Lida Larrimore.
WNU Service.
••••••••••••
CHAPTER IX— Continued
—l3—
“Oh, no!” She was smiling again,
joking him out of the doldrums. ‘‘My
disposition is soured from shaking
up lemon phosphates. Let’s go for
a ride or something? I have a date
with Herb but I’ll fix it. You fade
away and I’ll meet you. I’ll tell
him my grandmother is sink
ing again.”
But Dolly was diverting only for
a time. Sooner or later Jim’s
thoughts returned to Cecily. Dolly
was a Rart of those circling thoughts
only because she knew, or pretended
to know, something about Clyde.
Jim could not trick her into telling
him. He doubted whether what she
knew was important. He suspected
that she used those vague hints to
hold his interest.
She wanted to hold his interest.
He was sure of that. He began to
have an uneasy suspicion that Dol
ly was thinking of him too much,
falling a little in love with him.
Small things made him aware of
her increasing interest, a sudden un
natural reticence, moments of si
lence, an expression, a question.
“How long will you be here,
Jim?”
“I don't know.”
“Leaving soon?” A sharply in
drawn breath. Hands with nails
painted raspberry red pleating her
apron, twisting a button, drumming
a silent tune on the fountain, a ta
ble, the door of the second-hand
roadster.
“I don’t know that either. Look
here! Why, Dolly? Haven’t I an
swered that question before?”
“Nothing.” A toss of her golden
head, blue eyes glinting and yet
with shyness in their depths. “Noth
ing. I was just wondering when I’d
have a free evening. Rudy Vallee
wants a date.”
Jim realized, then, that he had
spent with Dolly a part of seven
evenings in a row, a part of every
evening since Jeremy Clyde had
come to “Meadowbrook.” The dis
covery surprised him. His visits to
the drug-store, to the small frame
house with the sagging porch, had
been casual, never pre-arranged,
just something that happened, a
way of getting through the mild
September evenings, brilliant with
starlight, nostalgic with summer’s
lingering farewell. Obviously, seven
evenings in a row meant something
special to Dolly. Jim made an
other resolve.
“Wire Rudy,” he said lightly,
smilingly, “I’m signing off after to
night.”
“Why?” A startled expression
flared, for a moment, in her eyes.
‘Tve been drifting,” he said.
“Drinking too many orangeades.
I’ve got to get to work.”
“Home-work?”
“Reading,” Jim explained.
“There's so much that I don’t know
about horses. I have a room full
of Breeders’ Gazettes that I've got
to absorb.”
Perhaps his suspicions had been
without foundation, Jim thought,
with a feeling of relief. Dolly
seemed gay enough. He liked her.
She appealed to his sympathies. He
inferred from bits of information
she had given him, that she had a
pretty thin time of it at home.
She criticized her father and her
step-mother indulgently, as though
they were children. She was loyal
to her brothers and sisters, proud
of them, not discriminating against
the “steps.”
"You think I can sing! You ought
to hear Joey. He can warble rings
around Morton Downey or Lanny
Ross. Joey would be a big-timer
if he could get a break. Joey Quinn.
That would be a good radio name,
wouldn’t it? Sort of cute and Irish.”
Dolly’s family, in Dolly’s anec
dotes and observations, amused and
interested Jim. Actually, they
were a commonplace assortment.
Dolly was the smart one. Dolly
had personality and spunk and en
dearing charm. “The family” was
a dragging anchor, a milestone
around her neck.
She had talked to him, too, of
Herbert, the sandy young man in
the drug-store.
“Herb wants me to marry him,”
she had said, quite casually one
evening as they sat in a lumpy
couch hammock on the porch of the
small frame house. "His uncle has
a drug-store in a town with a funny
name up near Scranton somewhere.
Herb’s going into business with
him.”
“Are you going to marry him,
Dolly?”
"Sometime, maybe. I’m keeping
Herb for a rainy day. He’s smart
and steady, but not much fun. He’s
swell to me, though, and I treat
him like dirt.”
“You ought to be ashamed of
yourself."
"I am. Honestly, Jim. I guess
I ought to. Only Scranton's so far
away. I’d like to see the kids get
a break. And—Oh, I don’t know.”
Her voice was wistful. “I can think
of things so much more fun than
marrying Herb.”
CHAPTER X
Jim parked his car in the en
closure at the side of the Cherry
Hollow theater. Cecily's fawn-col
ored roadster was already there.
Jim wondered whether or not Cecily
would be in the audience. Jeremy
Clyde frequently used her car to
drive to the theater. She was prob
ably here this evening, though. To
night the Cherry Hollow company
was giving the last performance of
the season.
The small, dimly-lighted theater
was well filled when Jim found his
seat in the row next to the last.
Cecily was there. She sat at the
side, near the front, alone apparent
ly, wearing some sort of soft brown
dress with a scarf knotted under her
chin. He had an excellent view of
her profile against a background of
rough, smoke-colored wall.
What was she thinking? She sat
so quietly, looking down at some
thing in her lap. Was she happy?
New arrivals blocked his view of
her. Jim’s glance settled upon the
deep blue curtain with a roughly
stenciled border design of acorns
and leaves. He was curious to see
Jeremy on the stage. He had a
compelling desire to find out all
that he could about him, to discov
er, if possible, whether or not there
was anything under his surface
charm and romantic good looks.
That, he told himself, was the rea
son he had come to the theater to
night. Was it actually, though? Or
had his presence there a morbid
aspect—like the irresistible desire
to prod a wound or bite on an
aching tooth? . . .
Something brushed the back of
his neck. Jim glanced up and
around. Two girls were settling
themselves in the seats directly be
hind him, a tall girl with an olive
skin and dark braids bound around
her head; a small fair girl with a
piquant face and light brown hair
cut in a deep bang level with her
brows. It was a scarf in the tall
girl’s hand which had touched Jim.
The girls behind him, he present
ly inferred, were members of the
company not playing this evening.
They talked of a trip to the coast
which the company was to make
during the autumn and early win
ter. Jim listened, filling in the time
before the performance com
menced.
—“Has Jeremy condescended to
sign up for the trip?”
It W'as the tall girl who asked the
question.
“Jeremy! On the road!” The an
swering voice had a lyric quality,
light, lilting, clear. “You insult him,
darling. Our Jeremy has his eyes
on bigger and better things. His
girl’s papa is going to back a play
for him—at least that is what he
modestly intimates.”
“So!” A low throaty laugh.
“Something romantic, I suppose.
Costumes, perhaps. He will need
to look very beautiful not to waste
papa's money.”
“It won’t matter whether he can
act or not. I think he can. At
least he’s terribly effective.”
“Shh!”
A gong rang. The deep blue cur
tain slithered open disclosing the
stage. The performance began.
Jeremy was effective. Jim re
alized that as he saw him make his
first entrance, dressed in evening
clothes, a silk hat held negligently
in the crook of his arm. He felt the
ip
j
"I’m Keeping Herb for a Rainy
Day.”
reaction of the audience — largely
feminine—and knew that the girl
behind him was right. It probably
made no difference whether Jeremy
could or could not act.
The play was a Broadway success
of a few seasons past. Jeremy
played the role of a young Italian
opera singer who meets, in a speak
easy in New York, a little southern
girl doing the town with her fiance
a surly young prig from East Or
ange. The girl was small and dain
ty. By contrast Jeremy appeared
tall and debonaire and romantically
handsome. His voice was caress
ing, his accent authentic, his profile
undeniably handsome.
But was it acting? Jim did not
know. Cecily thought he had genius.
But Cecily was in love with him.
Jim’s curiosity was being satisfiea
but, beyond that, the evening was
being wasted. He made no startling
discoveries. Clyde was effective in
WHEELER COUNTY EAGLE, ALAMO, GEORGIA
a role that might have been written
especially for him.
The theater was stuffy. Jim’s
legs felt cramped. He left his seat
as the lights came on for the inter
mission at the end of the first act.
Cecily, too, had risen, was walking
up the aisle. She saw him and
waved. They met in the small
crowded lobby.
“Hello!” she said.
“Hello! How about a breath of
air?”
“That’s what I’m looking for.”
“I thought perhaps you were look
ing for me.”
“No.” She smiled. “You are a
nice surprise.”
They stood on the steps of the
theater. Jim lit her cigarette, lit
his own, flicked the match away.
“Are you interested in the drama,
Miss Vaughn?”
She laughed. “We are being po
lite, aren’t we? That’s so stupid.
Jim, do you want to see the rest of
the play?”
“I can take it or leave it.”
“Let’s leave it, then. I’ve seen
it four times this summer. It’s one
of the best things Jerry does.” Her
voice brightened. “Let’s run over
to Dutch’s."
“How about Jeremy?”
“We’ll be back here by the time
the performance is over.”
Jim took her arm. “All right,”
he said. "Let’s go.”
They walked to the fawn-colored
roadster.
“Will you drive?” she asked.
“Want me to?”
“Please. I’m awfully tired.” She
settled into the seat with a little
sigh of relief. “I’ve been driving
all afternoon. We went up to New
Hope and along the canal. I adore
Jerry but I won’t ride in a car he
drives.”
There were only a few scattered
groups in Dutch’s garden, two or
three couples moving about the
floor. A waiter led them to a seclud
ed stall at some distance from the
orchestra.
“Want to dance?” Jim asked
when the waiter had taken their or
der.
She shook her head.
“I’m weary. I just want to sit.
You’re so restful, Jim."
“Thank you," he said.
“I mean it. I like to be with
you.” She pulled off her hat, rested
her head against the trellis behind
her. She looked weary, Jim thought,
dispirited. There were faint shad
ows under her eyes.
“What is it Cecily?” Jim asked.
“What is troubling you? Do you
want to tell me?”
“Os course. That's why I kid
naped you. Will you listen, Jim?”
"My one accomplishment.”
The waiter brought tall glasses.
Cecily took a few sips and set her
glass aside.
“It’s Jerry,” she said, aftelr a
moment,
"You astonish me,” he said. “I
thought it was the new issue of
government bonds.”
She smiled faintly. “Do you mind
if I talk about Jerry?” she asked.
“I mean—after the night we danced
—Will it hurt you, Jim?”
“That isn't important.”
“I think it is.” She glanced up
at him fleetingly, looked down at
her fingers snapping the purple and
scarlet pod.
Jim bent toward her across the
table.
“Cecily,” he asked gravely, "will
you try not to think of what hap
pened that night? You can’t entire
ly, I suppose. Neither, of course,
can I. But don't let it spoil our—
well, friendship, for want of a more
adequate word. Anything that I can
say will make me sound self-sacri
ficing and noble. I don’t feel espe
cially noble. It’s really selfishness,
perhaps. I want you to talk to me.”
The smile vanished. Her expres
sion was weary again. “I’ve had
an exhausting day. I’ve been trying
to make Jerry see that he should go
with the Cherry Hollow company on
their tour this fall. You see I’ve
talked to Father. He can’t put
money into a play for Jerry now.
He explained it all to me. I had no
idea how much he’s lost during the
depression. But I'm afraid Jerry
won’t understand. He’ll think it’s
prejudice or something. And I’m
afraid he has talked about Father
backing a play for him.”
Jim knew that her apprehension
was correct. Jeremy had talked.
The conversation he had overheard
in the theater made him aware of
that. He waited in silence for Cec
ily to continue.
“I don’t like the idea of not see
ing Jerry all fall and half the win
ter,” she went on. “I'll miss him
awfully. But I think it’s a splendid
opportunity. The company has a
certain amount of prestige. Wesley
North is an excellent director. The
experience would be valuable.”
“Jerry doesn't like road trips?”
Jim asked.
For an instant her eyes flashed
with indignation.
“What if he doesn’t?” she said
sharply. "I don’t suppose you real
ly liked picking beans and chang
ing tires!”
Jim was surprised and touched.
He felt and controlled a feeling of
elation.
"But I haven’t artistic tempera
ment,” he said lightly.
“Jerry has, of course.” The in
dignation was gone. Her eyes held
a brooding expression. “He : s either
flying among the stars or sunk in
Vie depths of gloom. He acts, at
times, like a spoiled little boy.” A
note of affectionate indulgence in
her voice softened the criticism.
"And I do nag him,” she added.
“Nag!” Jim disposed of the ugly
word. “You couldn't nag anybody.”
"I do,” she said thoughtfully. “I
can’t seem to help nagging even
when I know it irritates him. I
want him to do the fine things of
which he is capable. I love him and
believe in him. Jerry doesn’t like
spurs. He doesn’t get on very well
with Wesley North because Mr.
North digs the spurs in, too. Jer
ry’s bean so accustomed to praise
and flattery. I’m just finding that
out. You see, I’ve never been with
him so—” She broke off with a rue
ful smile and a quick glance at
Jim. “That was Father’s idea, of
course. He thought if I knew Jer
ry better—”
“Your idea,” Jim reminded her,
feeling again, for a moment, that
lifting elation.
“I know.” She sighed. “I’m mak
ing mountains out of mole-hills to
night. I’m making you think that
Jerry is petty and selfish and un
reasonable. He is, at times. Who
isn't? But he’s splendid, too. I’m
W (OT/L
*
Mw 1
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I
Eilis
“Come On, Jim, Let’s Fly!”
tired and disappointed and a little
exasperated. I was, I mean. I feel
better now.” She breathed deeply,
smiled across the table at Jim.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You’ve let me talk. I can talk
to you. Do you remember when we
hated each other?”
“I can just barely remember.”
Jim smiled.
“You hated me longer than I
hated you.” Her eyes were soft and
bright with amusing memories.
“You’re a disconcerting young
lady.”
"You aren’t sorry, are you?” The
laughing lights died out of her eyes.
“What happened the evening we
danced hasn’t made you regret be
ing at 'Meadowbrook’? We’re all so
fond of you, Father, Susan, Tommy,
I—”
“No, I’m not sorry,” Jim said.
"This summer has been a break for
me.” He paused, looked down at
his glass. If he could talk to her
indirectly, without hurting her or
antagonizing her —He felt terribly
inadequate. If he were wiser and
more articulate—ls he were not so
deeply in love with her—
She looked at him with sympathy
and interest. "How, especially, has
it been a break for you?” she asked.
"I think living—everything—is a
question of values,” he said slowly.
“There are times when we don’t
see clearly. It's like being in a
place of shadows, a deep forest, a
lamp-lit room. Distortions, falsities
seem true because we have no
measure of comparison. Then, after
a time, we come out into the sun
light. Do you understand? I’m not
good at symbolism, but the thought
beneath it is true. I know it is
true because it has happened to
me.”
“Before you came here?” she
asked.
"Yes. There was something I
thought I could do, something false
and distorted. Then I came here.
When one lives and works in the
sun, shadows seem unsubstantial. I
have, for a time at least, re-estab
lished my scale of values. That’s
why I’m not sorry.”
"You’ve given me something to
think about. I don’t know. Some
times—’’ Her eyes glanced thought
fully across the garden. Jim,
watching her, w'aiting for the conclu
sion of the sentence, saw her sud
denly startled expression.
“There’s the Nolan girl from the
theater!” she said. “What time is
it, Jim?”
Jim consulted his watch. “Ten
minutes past eleven.”
“Good heavens! Jerry is waiting
for me!” She caught up her hat
and her purse. “Come on, Jim,
let’s fly!”
Jim sent the fawn-colored road
ster speeding along the return route
to Cherry Hollow. He had felt, for
a moment, very close to Cecily.
Now he had lost her again. Be
neath her comments and exclama
tions, he felt her anxiety. When he
brought the car to a skidding stop
in the theater drive, she was out
before he could make a motion to
assist her.
The headlights revealed a small
group of people standing on the
steps. Jeremy detached himself
from the group, as Cecily walked
quickly toward the %teps, and came
to meet her. Jhm, following Cecily
at a little distance, saw that Jere
my's expression was unpleasant.
“Well!" he said. “Thank you for
coming back.”
"Jerry, darling! I'm so sorry!”
Cecily slipped her arm through his
in a conciliating gesture.
(TO BE CONTINLEDJ
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