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O MARTHA OSTENSO—WNU SERVICE
THE STORY THUS FAB
Lovely, Independent Autumn Dean, returning home to British Columbia from
abroad without her father's knowledge, stops at the home of Hector Cardigan,
an old family friend. He tells her that she should not have come home, that
things have changed. Arriving homo at the “CasUe of the Norns." she is greeted
lovingly by her father. Jarvis Dean, who gives her to understand that she is wel
come—for a short visit Her mother, former belle named MUUcent Odell, has
been dead tor years. Autumn cannot understand her father's attitude, though
gives him to understand that she is home for good. She has grown tired of life in
England, where she lived with sn aunt Her father gives a welcoming dance at the
casUe. Autumn meets Florian Parr, dashing, well-educated young man of the
countryside. Late In the evening Autumn leaves the dance, rides horseback to the
neighboring ranch where she meets Bruce Landor, friend and champion of her
childhood days.
CHAPTER ll—Continued
It was only when they reached the
long avenue of Lombardy poplars
leading to the Landor house that
their voices ceased. Bruce seemed
suddenly to have become preoccu
pied with something apart and re
mote as he rode slowly forward, his
•yes fixed upon the house that stood
among the shadows at the farther
end of the avenue. A cool ripple of
apprehensiveness passed down over
Autumn’s body, a feeling ominous
and totally strange to her experi
ence. She recalled now that as a
girl she had always been afraid of
Jane Landor, though she had never
known the reason. And now, within
a room there beyond that glowing
window, lay the helpless form of the
woman whose forbidding manner
had often caused Autumn to shrink
from her. It was not fear that over
came her now, but pity—deep pity
for the woman whose staunch forti
tude had been reduced to frailty by
a life that had beaten her at last.
When Bruce finally dismounted be
fore the doorway and stretched his
hand up to her, she laid her own
slender one within it and got down.
For a moment she clung to his hand
and hesitated.
“Wait, Bruce,” she whispered, and
the thought struck her that she
should not have come like this to
see Jane Landor.
He smiled down upon her and fold
ed his other hand over hers. “You
look—frightened,” he said, leaning
close to her.
She followed him into the house.
The large room was in darkness,
but a light from the open doorway of
an adjoining room cast a soft glim
mer over the old-fashioned furnish
ings of the place.
Immediately a woman’s voice,
small and nervous to the point of
querulousness, spoke from the inner
room.
“Is that you, Bruce?”
“Yes, mother. I’ve brought a vis
itor to see you.”
There was a moment’s silence.
Then, “A visitor? Who?”
“I’ll let you figure that out for
yourself,” Bruce said, and led Au
tumn into the room.
Jane Landor was in a half-sitting
position among the pillows, a light
attached to the bed above her thin,
colorless face. Autumn had expect
ed to find her changed from the
woman she remembered, but she
was not prepared for what she saw
there under the soft light of the
bed-lamp. She drew back instinc
tively before the look from the fierce
black eyes that were turned upon
her as she stepped through the door
way.
“Come in where I can see you,”
Jane Landor ordered, and struggled
to draw herself up for a closer look
at her visitor.
Autumn stepped into the light and
stood for a moment smiling down
at the frail woman.
“Don’t you remember me?” she
asked in a soft voice that was none
too steady.
Jane Landor’s face twisted sud
denly as if in spasm. She lifted
her thin hands to her wasted cheeks
and drew her breath in a quick gasp.
“You! You!” she cried. “Milli
cent Odell! What brings you back
here? Take her away, Bruce! Take
her away!”
Her voice was a hysterical shriek
now. She covered her eyes with her
hands as she lay back sobbing
among the pillows.
Bruce was beside her instantly,
his arms about her shoulders.
“Mother — mother, it’s Autumn
Dean,” he tried to reassure her.
“Don’t you remember Autumn? She
has come back."
His face under the light was
shocked and bewildered.
“Take her away, I say!" Jane
Landor insisted vehemently. “Noth
ing but death follows in the way of
the Odells!”
She clung to Bruce, who tried in
vain to soothe her, and Autumn stole
In a trembling daze from the room
and out of the house.
CHAPTER HI
Breakfast in the Dean household
had always been a ritual. In his
busiest season Jarvis Dean never
theless attended his table of a morn
ing with the leisurely grace of a
country gentleman. If a man could
not begin the day becomingly, the
Laird maintained, he had better re
main in bed.
He was in good spirits this morn
ing as he sat in his place, his daugh
ter on his right and old Hannah op
posite him at the end of the table
nearest the kitchen. Hannah Stew
art had, since the death of her mis
tress twenty years before, been ac
customed to eating with the family
unless there were guests. This ar
rangement had seemed to Jarvis to
be the most sensible one while Au
tumn was small and had to be at-
tended to, and later Hannah was so
much one of the family that it was
unthinkable that she should eat
alone. Hannah had seen to it that
the paper streamers and other dec
orations that had festooned the din
ing room for the dance of the night,
before had been cleared away and
the place restored to its wonted
homely austerity. She would give
her attention to the drawing room
and the rest of the house as soon
as the meal was over. Here in this
room, however, life had returned to
its accustomed way.
To Autumn, it seemed that some
perverse fate had ordered the quiet
scene so that she might find it im
possible to seek an answer to the
questions that had assailed her mind
throughout an almost sleepless
night. She had ridden home from
the Landor place and had returned
to her father’s guests with a feel
ing that some curse had been laid
upon her. She had moved about
under a black spell that was as un
real to her as a delirious dream.
And when it was all over and the
last guest had gone, she had hurried
to her room and lain awake until
dawn.
Her father turned his eyes search
ingly upon her as she seated her
self at the breakfast table.
"It was a little too much for you,
that business last night,” he ob-
“You look — frightened,” he
said, leaning close to her.
served gently. “You look stale this
morning.”
“I didn't sleep well,” Autumn ad
mitted. “I’ll be all right when I’ve
had a little rest.”
She had permitted her father to
know only that she had indulged an
impulse last night to get away alone
for a ride in the moonlight; it had
been impossible to tell him of her
frightening visit to the Landors.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with
the women nowadays,” Jarvis con
tinued. "In my time a young wom
an could dance all night and go to
work the next day and be none the
worse for it. But the women today
have gone to pot.”
Old Hannah sniffed. “I don't see
that your men nowadays show much
to brag about.”
The Laird smiled. “Aye, they’re
a feckless lot, and have a mighty
high opinion of themselves.”
“It’s hard to judge the present by
the past, Da,” Autumn ventured.
“Aye, my girl, there’s something
in that, too. It’s the times that
make the difference. It was a hard
life we lived when I was a young
ster—and it made hard men of us.”
And hard women, too, Autumn
thought, her mind upon Jane Lan
dor.
“It’d take more than a hard life
to make anything o’ the like o’ that
Par lad, I’m thinking,” Hannah
suggested.
“There’s no way of telling that,”
Jarvis countered. “There’s good
blood in the boy. His father comes
of a good line."
“The world’s full of fools who can
boast of good fathers before them,
then," said Hannah stoutly.
“Right enough,” declared Jarvis,
chuckling to himself. “It takes two
to breed even a flock of culls.”
“Will you be using the car today,
Da?” Autumn asked abruptly.
"No. I’ll be down at the pens
till supper. Haven’t you done enough
traveling to be content for a while?”
"I have some things to do in town,
she said. “I’ll leave right away and
be back early.”
“There’ll be no call for haste,” the
Laird cautioned her. “You drive
that car like something that had lost
her wits.”
Autumn smiled at him. “I’d lose
them completely, Da. if I had to sit
and watch you drive it”
BAKER COUNTY NEWS
By
MARTHA
OSTENSO
Her father grunted. “There’s no
taming you, I’m afraid. Well, you
didn’t get that from me.”
“No,” observed old Hannah, “that
she didn't. She’s her own mother
over again, and there’s little fault to
find wife her for that.”
Silence fell upon Jarvis Dean as
Hannah told of how Millicent Dean
had ridden to the hounds in the days
when the Cornwalls of Ashcroft Man
or were still famous disciples of the
chase. Autumn listened eagerly and
would have ventured a question here
and there but that her father’s
brows grew darker and his counte
nance clouded the more as the gar
rulous old housekeeper proceeded.
"That will be enough now,” Jar
vis interrupted finally, in a voice
that quieted Hannah at once and
the breakfast was finished almost in
silence.
“You’d better be getting away,”
the Laird advised Autumn as they
got up from the table, and Autiimn
felt that her father had no desire to
leave her alone with Hannah. “Get
your things together and I’ll have
the car brought out for you.”
And while Autumn was in her
room preparing for the trip to town,
she could hear her father’s voice in
stern admonishment to poor old
Hannah.
Hector Cardigan possessed a hor
ror of glaring daylight, and the rays
of the late morning sun that filtered
into his drawing room between the
heavy drapes of the windows sug
gested to Autumn the curious fin
gers of the present prying into the
crypt of the past. She sat in one of
Hector’s armchairs, a glass of iced
tea in her hand, her lids half closed
upon that searching beam of light
from the window.
“Hector,” she said, glancing up
at him with sudden directness, “I
came to have a talk with you. Do
you mind?”
Hector smiled at her. "We used
to get on very well with our talks, if
I remember.”
"I was a child, then, Hector.”
“Yes—that’s so, that’s so. I real
ly hadn’t considered that aspect of
our—our friendship, may I say?”
“I am no longer a child. Hector.”
"Very true, my dear. I recog
nize the fact—and I am forced to
confess that I have never been a
spectacular success in conversations
with women."
“You don’t have to be on this oc
casion, Hector. I am not here for
small talk."
“Hm-m-m—well, of course—”
"I want to ask you some ques
tions.”
“I cannot promise—ah, definitely,
you know—to answer any question a
young woman might put to me. Can
I, now?”
Autumn could not tell whether his
manner was becoming evasive or
merely apologetic.
“You can answer the questions I
have in mind, Hector. I am sure of
that.”
“Well, we shall see, perhaps.
What, for example, are you going to
ask?"
Autumn drained her glass and set
it aside.
“I went over to visit Jane Landor
last night,” she began.
“I thought you were giving a
dance.”
“I left it for an hour or so—and
rode over to the Landor place. I
met Bruce and he took me to the
house to see his mother.”
“I see. Rather singular conduct—
for a hostess, I should say.”
“I’ll admit it was—for the time
being, in any case. I saw Jane Lan
dor.”
“You—spoke to her?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps a word. I
forget. It was what she said to me
that I have come to ask you about.”
Hector moved uneasily. “Poor
Jane Landor is not to be held to ac
count for anything she says these
days, my dear. I understand she is
no longer—coherent.”
“I am not going to hold her re
sponsible for what she said, Hector.
I want to know the meaning of it,
that’s all."
“Hm-m, well, my dear—what did
she say?”
“When I stepped into the room
with Bruce, she became hysterical.
She declared to Bruce that I was
Millicent Odell and pleaded with him
to put me out.”
"Was that all?”
"Not quite. As I turned to leave,
I heard her say that death followed
in the way of the Odells.”
“Anything else?”
"Nothing. I hurried out and rode
back home as fast as I could.”
For several seconds Hector re
mained standing with his back to the
fireplace, his hands folded behind
him, his eyes at gaze across the
room.
“Well, now,” he said at last, “it
was a somewhat curious greeting
you received, I confess, and one
likely to give you pause, but as I
said before, the poor woman—”
“The poor woman, Hector, has
lost her sense of time and place,
but there is no use in your attempt
ing to convince me that there was
nothing significant in what she
said."
“Hm-m—well, perhaps you had
better ask me your questions, my
dear, and I shall consider them.”
“What sort of woman was my
mother, Hector?" Autumn asked
him bluntly.
He looked at her quickly, a star-
tied expression in ais eyes. "Your
mother? She was ths most beautiful
woman I have ever known, my
dear.”
“I have heard that—years ago—
from Hannah. Was she in love with
my father?”
Hector smiled. "How can one
know what is hidden in a woman’s
heart?”
“I know my father loved her—
and loves her still, after twenty
years. Did anyone else love her?”
“My dear child, we all loved her,”
Hector replied with a sigh. He
turned slightly away from her then
and picked up one of the yellowed
dice on the mantelpiece. "She was
the only woman I ever loved.”
The simplicity of the statement
brought a momentary silence to Au
tumn. She was aware suddenly of
an awed thrill, as though some
haunting fragrance of the past had
for a fleet instant possessed the
room. But then, as she glanced cov
ertly up at Hector, it seemed to her
that she had always known that the
elderly soldier had cherished a ro
mantic and hopeless passion for Mil
licent. Autumn made an effort to
regain her composure.
“Did Geoffrey Landor love her?”
she pursued.
“I don’t see how he could help it,
really."
“Please, Hector. I want the truth.
You know exactly what I mean. I
must know.”
Hector Cardigan stepped slowly
from his place and seated himself
in a large chair opposite Autumn.
I
wl
“Partly—as far as it goes,”
Autumn replied.
He spread his feet before him and
slowly brought his hands together,
the points of his fingers meeting.
“In my time, my dear,” he be
gan, “we were accustomed to living
our lives in the best way we knew
how, without giving much thought
to the past. This country was set
tled by men who had left their pasts
behind them in the Old Country, and
were eager to begin life anew in
this. It is only natural if I should
feel a bit embarrassed, perhaps, in
the presence of a young woman who
demands that I tell her what manner
of mother she had. I have not grown
used to the ways of young people to
day. It happens, however, that I
can be just as direct in my answer
as you were in your question. You
say I know exactly what you mean.
I do. And I tell you that Millicent
Odell, who became Millicent Dean,
was a woman of honor and integrity
and would have gone to her grave
before she would have broken the
vows that bound her in marriage to
Jarvis Dean.” He paused for a mo
ment and gazed unflinchingly into
Autumn’s eyes. “Is that an an
swer to your question, my dear?”
he asked finally.
“Partly—as far as it goes,” Au
tumn replied.
"I think it goes quite far enough,”
Hector said. “I confess I—”
“Let me come to the point at once,
Hector,” Autumn interrupted. “Be
hind what Jane Landor said to me
last night there exists a life-long
hatred—or fear—of mother. A wom
an doesn’t ordinarily hate another
woman without reason, and some
where at the bottom of it all, if you
take the trouble to search, you find
a man. It isn’t reasonable to sup
pose that father is the man in ques
tion. We know him too well for that.
What I want to know is whether
Geoffrey Landor is the man.”
“I think I have answered that, my
dear.”
“Please, Hector!” Autumn was
losing her patience. “Do you think
that Geoffrey shot himself because
he loved mother too much to live
without her?”
“It is too late—too late by many
years, my dear, to answer that ques
tion. I could believe it. I knew
Geoffrey well. He was headstrong.
He was—romantic, I should say. But
he was hopelessly in debt at the
time—and he had been drinking
heavily, as I recall, for several days
before the tragedy. Given the facts,
I should imagine your guess would
be as good as mine."
“And your guess, Hector?”
He considered the question a long
time before he made his reply. Then
he got suddenly to his feet and
stepped toward Autumn, his shoul
ders drawn back and his head erect
in soldierly bearing. “I refuse to
answer that question, my girl. You
should know better than to ask it
There is a point in sugh matters
beyond which a man of honor can
not go. I must ask you to considei
the question closed.”
/TO BE CONTINUED)
SEW
Ruth Wyeth Spears r
attic.
IP com
* PICTURE Cj
fc^CASINS FOR J
I CURTAIN ROO
J^braid
FRW6E
l.tws“eog»to
AI«HT SIPE
'T'HE bride came home, but not
A to weep on Mother's shoulder.
“There are too many bare spots in
our house,” she said; “and I want
to rummage in your attic.” “You
are welcome,'” replied Mother,
“but you will find no antiques—
nothing there but junk.”
A golden oak dresser; a fish
bowl; an old portier; a chromo
in a wide gold frame; and.an old
piano stool; were carted away.
Varnish remover and plain
drawer pulls transformed the
dresser into a good-looking chest
of drawers. A glazier put a mir
ror in the oval gold frame. Those
are dusky pink branches in the
fish-bowl—lovely against the rose
red brocade hanging. The dia
gram shows how the hanging was
made from a part of the portier.
Jlsk Me Another
0 A General Quiz
The Question*
1. What is the difference between
a contest and a tournament?
2. Why did George Eliot, the
English novelist and poet, not live
to be an old man?
3. How many time changes from
Chicago to San Francisco?
4. What is a trade dollar?
5. For what do the following
abbreviations stand: Ad lib.; e.g.;
i.e.; viz.?
6. Would you call a person liv
ing in Rome a Roman or an Ital
ian?
The Answers
1. A contest is any battle for
supremacy; a tournament usually
refers to some test of athletics or
card skill.
2. George Eliot was a woman.
3. Two—one to mountain time,
and one to Pacific time.
4. A U. S. coin not minted since
1885, made for trade in the Orient.
5. Ad libitum, at pleasure; ex
empli gratia, for example; id est,
that is; videlicet, namely.
6. "Roman” generally implies
the early Roman empire. "Italian”
is used.
Engulfed by Taxes
When Edward Green, son of
Hetty Green, died in 1936, the
claims for death taxes by the fed
eral government and the four
states in which he held property-
New York, Massachusetts, Florida
and Texas—totaled $37,727,213, or
$1,589,877 more than the value of
his net estate.—Collier’s.
HAROLD MoCRACKBN
sated Arctic explorer
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The edges were finished with duh
gold colored braid and fringe; and
it hung with matching cord, tas
sels and an ordinary curtain rod.
What became of the stool and the
mirror will be told next week.
» • •
NOTE: Readers who are now
using Sewing Books No. 1, 2 and 3
will be happy to learn that Ito. 4
is ready for mailing; as well as
the 10 cent editions of No. 1, 2 and
3. Mrs. Spears has just made
quilt block patterns for three de
signs selected from her favorite
Early American quilts. You may
have these patterns FREE with
your order for four books. Price
of books—lo cents each postpaid.
Set of three quilt block patterns
without books—lo cents. Send or
ders to Mrs. Spears, Drawer 10,
Bedford Hills, New York.
THIN WOMEN
LOOK TOO OLD
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Useless Wisdom
If wisdom were offered me on
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close and not communicate it, I
would refuse the gift.—Seneca.
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“You’re good for something in
this world—for service of some
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Useful Delusions
I was never much displeased
with those harmless delusions that
tend to make us more happy.—
Goldsmith.
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