Newspapers / Carolina Watchman (Salisbury, N.C.) / Jan. 18, 1935, edition 1 / Page 3
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ruUKlttlNlh INSTALMENT "Hello, Ellen,” said Margie, and there was more warmth in her voice than there had been in Jane’s. "Say, I’m glad you brought your boy friend. He’s amusing—the one with the whiskers, I mean.” Ellen laughed. She didn’t dislike Margie. "He thinks you’re amusing, too,” she said. "He’s mad to paint you.” "Nude?” asked Margie. Her voice had a slightly rising note. "Isn’t that the way artists usually paint their woman?” Ellen felt her color rising, but she answered levelly. "Some do,” she answered, "but not Sandy. He’s a fashion man pri marily, although he does stunning illustrations.” , "Oh,” said Margie. That was all. The other girls were bending for ward, frosted glasses in hand, cigar ettes held before carefully rouged lips. One of them, a dark young person, spoke languidly. "You’re the first model I ever met,” she said. "Do you pose for the figure?” Again Ellen answered as casually as she could. "Only for my mother, years ago —” she told the dark girl. "She was an artist, you see. She was rather —an important artists. You pro bably wouldn’t know . . . I’m afraid that even if I wanted to pose in the altogether I couldn’t compete with some of the models who go in for figure work. My own figure—” she laughed, apologetically and smoothed the dark silk that shroud ed her knees. Jane stopped shaking the cock tails. She poured one for herself, with a steady hand. "I won’t offer you a glass, El len,” she said at last. "I know you don’t drink. Is it—” she paused, and the dark girl, whose name El len didn’t know, went on. "It is a pose?” drawled the dark girl. "Your Elsie Dinsmore atti tude? If so, it’s a good one.” Ellen stretched her feet out in front of her, and regarded the toes of her plain little black slippers. "Call it a pose, if you want to,” she said, at last. "I’m not the type o smoke and be catty and get tight. One has to be dark and dramatic to get away with that, I fear.” Margie, still draped against the mantel, chuckled. "Atta, kid,” said Margie, almost inaudibly. Margie was blonde. Dinner was again a magnificent jumble—all the way from the cav iar in its little ice molds to the magnificent birthday cake that was carried in .blazing, by the butler. Ellen didn’t sit next to Tony— she sat next to Sandy, at the ex treme end of the table. "Below the salt,” Sandy whispered to her. Tony sat at Jane’s right. oumcuuuy was toasting jane, it wasn’t Tony—that was all Ellen could tell. But it was somebody with a voice well bred and assured like Tony’s. "There’s nothing we can wish her,” said the voice, "she has every thing!” "|Yeah,” said Sandy under his breath, to Ellen, "not quite every thing. We know.” Ellen wanted to slap him—to do more, to murder him! They danced after dinner, in the same drawing room. When the dancing began, Jane held out her hand to Tony with an air so pro prietary that it gave Elllen a little kicked feeling in the pit of her stomach. But she scarcely had time :or any definite feelings, for she was I >eing whirled off in the arms of he stout boy who, like many stout; souths, was an exceptionally good i lancer. And then somebody was cutting j in—one of the Jacks or Jims ori Charleys who had been in Tony’s class in college. It was the fourth dance before Ellen found herself in her husband’s arms—found herself being steered, with a complete directness of pur pose, toward a conservatory tha "ned out of the room in whicf they danced. i’ve got to see you alone,” Ton} murmured in her ear. "This is th (ueerest situation I’ve ever beei mixed up in.” That,” said Ellen, "goes double’ "Gcsh almighty!” said Tony. Just that. And— "I wonder why I came-” Ellen asked of him, very seriously. Tony’s hands were holding hen so tightly that her wedding ring bit into the two fingers next to it. "Have they been giving you n buggy ride?” he asked Ellen. "I heard that they looked you over before dinner. Margie told me.” "They tried to,” Ellen told him., "but I can take care of myself.” "Sometimes,” said Tony, "I wish you couldn’t!” What was the idea, anyway?” Ellen wanted to know. "This party, I mean. If it hadn’t been for Sandy, and for the way he precipitated me into it, it would have all the ear marks of being an announcement for you and Jane of something or other. I feel like a guilty secret.” "You may be guilty,” said Tony, —"but you’re no secret— not any more. To tell you the truth, Ellen,” he admitted, "I don't quite get the hang of this thing, myself. Believe xw ux xiut—wnen me party came up that night, it was just sheer devil ishness on Jane’s part. Irealizjed it at the time; it took me off my feet for a moment. She’d said nothing about any party to me, before. She just said it to get your goat. I’m not even sure it’s her birthday, to night—I never can remember dates. I wouldn’t have told you this if Sandy hadn’t made her come through in a big way. When he did I was tickled to death. It gave me a chance to be with you again. I told a dozen lies—white ones— about how my friends would feel— and yours—” So that was that! Ellen all along had suspected, from Tony’s bewild erment on the night of- the im promptu meetings, that there had been something odd in back of the birthday party arrangements. I don’t get Jane,” she said fi nally. "What’s she playing for, Tony? Not that it’s very sane to' ask—I know what she’s playing for. j It’s you.” There was a seriousness back of j roxiy’s casual sounding speech. "Jane and I,” he said, "knocked iround together for years. I sup-, pose she’d gotten to sort of taking me for granted. . . . After all, we weren’t responsible when we met, ( you and I. We shook all of the world’s plans into a cocked hat.’ Ellen spoke resentfully. That, she said makes me tee! like a spare tire. If you want an an nulment any time, you and Jane; _>1 "You’d drop me as easily as that?” said Tony. "You mean it?” Ellen wanted to say that she didn’t mean it; that she wouldn’t give him up, not for fifty Janes. But instead she made her mouth in to a straight line and lowered her lashes so that Tony couldn't look into her eyes. j "I’d let you go as easily as I’d let go of this—” she told him. She opened her fingers and the huge chiffon handkerchief that she was carrying fluttered, like a dead but Iterfly, to the conservatory floor. "I’d—” "Yes, you would!” said Tony gruffly. All at once he had gath ered her so tightly into his arms that her body felt bruised against the hardness of his body. "I’m sick and tired of this stuff,” said Tony, "it’s time for a showdown. We’re not fencing, you and I we’re married. It’s time we behaved like human beings, or—” He stopped. For there was a rustle of skirts (skirts do rustle, this year) and a voice spoke. "Oh—but I’m intruding!” said a voice. "It always seems as if I choose the wrong time for my en trances, doesn’t it?” Of course, it was Jane—it could n’t be anybody else. She stood in the doorway of the conservatory— the light was behind her. They couldn’t see the outline of her face —the expression of her eyes and mouth—but somehow Tony’s arms had loosened, somehow Ellen was wriggling free of them. "You don’t know,” said Jane, "how silly I feel!” Tony don’t say anything at all— perhaps it was because he couldn’t trust his voice. Ellen didn’t say anything either, for a moment, and then— "It’s quite all right,” she said, "we were just rehearsing our big scene.” Jane took a step into the conser vatory. "It seems to me,” she said at last, and levelly, "that it’s always a big scene, that it’s always a rehearsal:. You and Tony aren’t married, really—” "Well,” Ellen extended her slim left hand, "here’s the evidence, and I have my marriage lines some where.’’ If Tony had been clever enough he could have read the desperation f her bravado. Jane went on — her voice had thickened. "You know what I mean,” she said. "You and Tony don’t belong together. You belong with fellows like Sandy and with that Dick of yours. Tony — Tony’s down my street. It’s all so silly. It’s like playing hide in the dark, and find ing you with the wrong person when the lights come up.” "Yes, isn’t it?” agreed Ellen. She wouldn’t give Tony a chance to say it first—she’d say it. "I wonder,” said Jane, "why you came to my house—” "I wonder,” said Ellen, "why you asked me?” Tony spoke at last. "Oh, for crying out loud,” he said, i "it’s complicated enough without _>J Ellen was smoothing the skirt of!, her pretty dress. I. "Yes,” she said, "it is—comr>li-li cated enough with—without me. I think,” her eyes were so bright that only tears could have made them so, "I think it’s just about i time that I did the conventional thing—even though I am a profes- i sional Bohemian. It’s about time 1 ' told you, Jane, that I’ve just had word from town. Th*» a^xmoug tele gram—or what have you. Explain to your guests that my grand mother is ill; tell them that a great- j uncle has died and left me a legacy.i Tell them I’ve gone back to pose j for Dick, tomorrow— and tomor- j row’s Sunday, too. That’ll perhaps be nearer the truth.” All at once she was running from the conservatory, scurrying along through the darker corners of the room. And then she was out of the door and racing up the stairs. Now she had gained the haven of her room and was tumbling things into her suitcase. There was a knock at the door. For a moment Ellen didn’t answer, and then with an effort she stead ied her voice until she could speak. "Come in,” she called. The door opened. It was Jane’s mother. "I met Tony,” Jane’s mother said without preamble. "He told me that you weren’t well. That he was afraid you were going home. Some thing like that. Is there anything I can do?” Ellen’s voice was steady. "I was going to leave a note for ou,” she said. "To tell you—how sorry I am. Yes, there is something. I wish, maybe, that I could be taken to the station. I’ve had a telegram, you see.” "Poor child,” said Jane’s mother, "I hope it’s not bad news!” Ellen’s eyes, meeting hers, knew that she didn’t believe in the mythi cal telegram. "Yes,” said Ellen, “I’m afraid that it is bad news.” Jane s mother was still standing in the doorway. Swiftly she spoke. "Jane is my daughter,” she said, "and I love her very much. Maybe she’s a little spoiled; but she’s a dear girl. And you must remember that she has loved Tony for a long while.” "Whereas,” answered Ellen, "I haven’t!” "Ah,” said Jane’s mother, "you haven’t! You’ll have to love him a great deal to make up for the time you’ve missed.” She was turning ,and then— "I’ll make your excuses to the rest, at breakfast,” she said. "Don’t you worry. And if you don’t want to go down through the crowded rooms, now, I’ll have the car wait for ;you at the side door. It will take you right to your door, of course. Traffic is not heavy—this time of night. It will be quicker than the train—” Ellen was looking at her. '"My mother’s hair,” said Ellen, "was like your hair. Her eyes were sweet—like your eyes. But she was always so tired. "I’m tired, myself, most of the time,” said Jane’s mother, and then silently she had closed the door. When Tony arrived ten minutes later, after locating the room through a certain amount of bri bery and corruption—when he tap ped at the door of that room there ivas no answer. After a moment he pushed the door in, even though ie did’nt belong on the floor. But there wasn’t anyone in the room vhen he entered. There wasn’t even :he dust of powder on the immacul ite top of the vanity table. It was nearly dawn when Ellen irrived back in her own little room. She threw her suitcase, unpacked, icross a seat, and undressed rapidly md flung herself across her bed. \nd, though she had quite expected :o sob herself to sleep, she didn’t. Exhaustion is like that—it drains >ne of the emotions! There was bright sunshine—yel ow, buttery sunshine—lying across Ellen’s face when she wakened. Vnd, such is the buoyancy of youth, :offee and toast restored to her a :ertain amount of confidence in lerself. Her voice didn’t even :remble when she called Dick on he phone. "If you’re working today," she old him, "I’m just the girl that will ielp you. Here am I, all alone in :own over Sunday.” The taxi seemed to crawl through the quiet Sunday streets, and yet at last she was with Dick in his old familiar workroom. Ellen, with scarcely more than a word of greeting, went behind the accustomed screen and changed into her Indian dress. And then she was out again and posing, a little kneeling figure once more—once again the child priestess. When Tony came knocking at the door, after the first half hour of her posing, when at Dick’s bidd ing he pushed the door wide, she did not change her position. Even though his coming was—just now —more than a surprise. "I’m here,” Tony said by way of greeting, "hunting for my run away wife!” He didn’t address El len at all; he spoke to Dick. "Yes?” answered Dick, and went (Continued on page six) She did not draw her hand away, even though it was held so loosely. "You drop me as easily as that?” said Tony. Black-Draught For Dizziness, Headache Due To Constipation “I have used Thedford’s Black Draught several years and find It splendid,” writes Mr. G. W. Hol ley, of St. Paul, Va. “I take it for - dizziness or headache (due to con- 11 stipation). 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Carolina Watchman (Salisbury, N.C.)
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Jan. 18, 1935, edition 1
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