Newspapers / Zebulon Record (Zebulon, N.C.) / Jan. 21, 1938, edition 1 / Page 7
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Wfcifctci r- SHINING . • v! PALACE ’ s ■ ’ .". v » • By CHRISTINE WHITING PAKMEXTER -• :-;t r •t.f ... • . v :» v... . . Ciipjriqhl b> ( britlinr W ltilin<« l*nrn»«*nt«-r • • . j- > W.\l SI.HVK K James, still slightly ruffled, snort ed like an angry horse. “Very pretty. Very pretty indeed; but you must consider the fact that my—that Nora has been accustomed to every luxury. Hardship is some thing she doesn’t dimly glimpse. You’re twenty-seven, and according to Nora you’ve accumulated only a thousand dollars. If she’s mistaken, I apologize. If she’s right, what, may I ask, have you to offer her compared to what dozens of the men she knows could offer?” So it was war! The young man comprehended. “I’ve a clean bill of health, sir. When I was a kid of nineteen and carried a message from a wonder ful English girl who had stayed at home because she was going to have a baby, to her husband sta tioned in China (a man, by the way, whom you’d have been proud to introduce to Nora), and found the fellow living with —Well, I won’t go into details; but it gave me a jolt which wasn’t easy to forget I’ve rubbed elbows with a lot that’s sor did, Mr. Lambert, but I’ve hurt no woman. Balance that, please, against my depleted bank account” “Well, Daddy?” she prodded after a moment “This is all very well,” responded James, “all very commendable; but it doesn’t change the financial as pect of the case. Suppose,” he said, turning to Don, “suppose you per suade this girl of mine to marry you. What assurance can you give me that, unless I continue to sup port her, she won’t during the next ten years or so, know poverty and hardship?” “Only this,” said Don, and held up two strong, browned fists. It was an argument more eloquent than words, but the older man re fused to see it. For a moment there was a silence so profound that one was conscious of the crackling fire and rain beat ing against a window at the far end of the big room. Then James said quickly, as if to get it over: “I sup pose you know that Nora is not my daughter—l should say, my legal daughter?” Don nodded. “What he means, Don,” explained Nora, throwing a perfectly amicable glance to James, “is that I’m not entitled to one penny of the Lam bert fortune. So if you’ve that in mind, darling. Dad’s giving you a tactful chance to vamoose grace fully.” "I’m still here,” said Don, his eyes smiling at her. Watching the young people, James stirred uneasily. “Nora misunderstood me,” he went on. “She often does, though I think she knows I wouldn't be un just to her. If at my death her brother inherits more than she does, it's not because I adopted him le gally when I married his mother, but because he's helped build up the business I started as a youngster. What I referred to was—See here, Nora, suppose you leave me alone with this young man.” A laugh of merriment bubbled from Leonora. “Poor Father! You can’t get used to this generation, can you? We’re so outspoken! Don knows the whole story, darling: how when you went at the call of my poor, dying, de serted mother and found me, a gangling six-year-old whose birth record named you as my father, you took me-home and treated me ex actly as if I were your own, though you knew, with no shadow of a doubt that I was the child of—” “Leonora!” She raised her head, meeting his shocked eyes gravely. “Well. Dad. it’s true, isn't it? I THE ZEBULON RECORD. ZEBULON, NORTH CA ROLINA, FRIDAY. JANUARY r i had to tell him. Don knows what an angel you’ve been to me, and that I’d do anything on earth for you short of giving him up. You really shouldn't ask me to do that, you know.” “Not when I believe it’s for your own happiness?” asked James. Then, as the girl shook her head, he added: “Well, clear out, both of you. I've got to think things over. Clear out.” CHAPTER □ It was long past midnight when James Lambert went upstairs. “Thinking things over” had been a devastating process that led him back to his first amazing glimpse of Leonora, her thin little legs dangling forlornly from a straight-backed, uncomfortable chair beside a bed on which lay the body of her mother. He had come in answer to a fran tic telegram, the first word Iris had vouchsafed him since the note he had found after she went away. But he was too late. She had bten dead almost three hours; and ever since (the woman who ran the rooming house said afterwards), the child had sat there, refusing to move, to eat, to cry, holding tight in one small, clenched fist a scrap of paper which she had promised her mother to give to “the dear, kind father” who was coming for her, and to no one else. James never forgot the shock of Nora’s presence in that silent room. While he stood below on a sagging, littered porch, the landlady had told him that his wife “was gone, poor soul,” but because he was expected “the body” had not been removed; and added, remembering the little girl; "She's in the fourth-floor-back, Mister, and if you don’t mind I won’t go up. My heart's not good and them stairs is something aw ful.” James did not want her to go up. He was about to look upon the face of his dead wife, the woman who had betrayed him. but whom he had never forgotten nor ceased to love He was vastly stirred—stirred and horrified that she had been living in so sordid a place. He had pictured her sharing a life of luxury with her Italian lover —had even attend ed the man’s concerts in the futile hope of catching a glimpse of his beloved amid the audience. It was plain now that the fellow had de serted her—damn him!—left her to die in poverty and among stran gers . . . Ascending those steep and narrow stairs, James Lambert’s heart pounded with indignation. His whole form trembled as he stepped into the gloomy room. Out of deference to the dead a shade at its one small window had been partly low ered, and, closing the door, he stood for a long moment with his back against it, breathing heavily. So this was where his adored Iria had lived—and died! The man’s sad eyes dragged slowly around the place, avoiding instinctively the bed where lay all that was left of some thing he had cherished. God, what a room! The dim light could not hide what seemed to James its dreadful poverty: the broken win dow stuffed with an old skirt; the sagging bureau propped with a block of wood; the shabby rug, a small, mute pair of shoes beside a chair . . . His stricken glance came to the bed at last, and seeing that rigid form beneath a sheet, hard tears that had been suppressed for seven years, suddenly blinded him. More shaken than seemed possible after so long a time, he took one dazed step forward, then, dashing the mist out of his eyes with an impatient hand he «i'v — .... w for her pres ence, even for her existence, James vas for the moment without speech; * enrrv’ih;rut aoout the patient, drooping figure—the soft, gold hair like that of his lost Iris, gripped him strangely. He came still nearer, staring down at the child with pity ing eyes. “Whose —whose little girl are you?” he questioned, though he knew the answer. “Mamma’s,” said Nora. She looked up wearily. “Are you my father—the dear, kind father who’s going to take me—home?” “She told you that?” he asked, and his voice trembled. “Yes,” said the child. Then, quite without warning, her mouth worked pitifully, dreadfully. Her small, cold hand extended the crumpled paper. “She—she gave me this —for you. I—l’d like to go home now, please. “She gave me this for you.” if you don’t mind. It’s bedtime, isn’t it? I’m pretty tired.” And then, her strange calm breaking, she wailed suddenly: “I want Mamma! I —l want Mamma!” Her tears were the best thing that could have happened, for both of them. In comforting Nora, James himself found comfort. For those painfully scrawled words on the scrap of paper tore his heart. De serted only a month before her baby was born, too proud to appeal to the husband she had wronged so griev ously yet giving the child his name because she had no other. Iris had at the last turned to him, asking protection for her little Nora. Nor did she ask in vain. From the moment when James lifted the heartbroken, lonely child into his arms, Leonora had never lacked a father. Indeed, the knowledge that Iris had known he would not fail her, was the man’s greatest com fort. Nora was barely six years old at the time. She grew into a happy, sweet-tempered little girl who accepted the good things which came to her without question, and often without thanks. They were a part of life. The bare, cold room where she had kept her unchildlika vigil, became at last only a vague memory, a memory dimly painful of something she must have dreamed. Not until a tragic day when she was thirteen did James Lambert realize that the child had accepted him lit erally as her own father. He re turned from business late one after noon to find her sitting alone in the twilight. This was unusual, for Nora loved gaiety and young companions. He asked, puzzled and a bit wor ried: “What’s the matter, dear? Not sick, are you?” “No,” she answered. “I was try ing to—to remember.” Her voice was husky, and, still troubled, James came nearer. “Remember what?” “Things,” said Nora. "Things about —about my—” She hesitated, looked up at him; and it seemed to her foster-father that the girl had left childhood far behind in the few hours since they had last met _’ell me,” she said, “was Mamma a—a bad woman? Aren’t you my father? Is that why Ned hates me? Don’t I belong to anyone—anyone in the wnole world?” “My God!” cried James, pro foundly shocked. “You belong to me! Where did you hear . . ” Then, as upon that other day of tragedy, Nora’s self-control gave way and the story was sobbed out in those loving, fatherly arms that had never failed her—the old, old story of hearing the tale from some spite ful playmate. Perhaps, James pon dered as he held her close, per haps Nora had been growing a trifle arrogant. Ned had complained on more than one occasion that his lit tle sister "put on airs.” His father had thought the comment mere jeal ousy on the boy’s part; for despite the ten years’ difference in their ages, Ned was jealous of Leonora. The two had never understood each other nor got along. Well, he sighed, the time had come his girl must learn the truth, though it would hurt them both; so, as ten derly as such truth can be told, James told her. Nora had gone to boarding school after that; then to college, whera she majored in music. Then came Europe, a gorgeous. colorful six months to Nora—a lone ly, dragging time to James. And on the way home, because he* com panion insisted on taking a one class boat, she met Don Mason who ever since, James Lambert tolc '•lf, been “eternally hang ing around the house,” that fs, l.j v. ;_.i t trailing off to some landish place where no one ir senses would consider going. F. during his absences the fellow written every day; and Leone who took a Pullman chair for hour's journey, was thrilled by 1 adventures in towns where the wasn’t even a clean hotel! “It is.” James had confessed 1 Ned the day before, “an infatuatio beyond my understanding.” “And if she marries him,” Ne predicted, “you’ll be supporting ’er all their lives. Dad. Don Mason 1 no good. He's a rolling stone. An what, will you tell me. does Nor know about economy? Nothing You've spoiled that girl.” It would have been some satisfac tion to the girl in question had sh< known that James told her brothel brusquely to “mind his own bust ness” —that he would look after Leo nora. It was seldom indeed that his much-loved son caused this some what fiery man to lose his temper; but now he was worried, and Ned’s well-aimed criticism touched a ten der spot. So the younger man had gone home rather disgruntled to tel Corinne that Nora was “pulling th» wool over Dad’s eyes in great shape”; and that evening at the Country Club they both had been noticeably cool to Don. Well, James pondered, perhaps he had spoiled Leonora. He closed his eyes as from the room beyond drift ed the tender, haunting strains of a Chopin Nocturne. Nora was play ing, and, much as James loved to listen, this gift of her musician fa ther subtly disturbed him. It was late when he went to bed; and in the morning he gave Nora his ultimatum. “If I’m to consider your happi ness, my dear, there’s but one way out. I’ll give that boy a job. I don’t say that he must keep it for a lifetime; but he must prove that he’s got the stability to stick at some thing that will support you. A year ought to show that, Nora; and you’re both young. If at the end of that time he has saved money and shown himself even fairly efficient, I’ll say no more.” “Even if he throws up the job next day?” asked Leonora. Her father looked at her, his eyes a trifle hard. “You think he would?” “I think,” she answered, speak ing thoughtfully, “that a year in an office —especially in Ned's office, will finish Don, Father.” “You feel then, that my proposal is unfair?” Nora glanced up, a wistful smile lighting her face as she responded: “Not as you view things, Daddy. But to Don it will be—well—a year out of life. What would you do, I wonder, if I ran away with him?” “I should disinherit you,” said James, and meant it. Then, as she remained silent: “Is that what you’re considering, my dear?” Don accepted James Lambert’s offer. “I fear I won’t make a successful office worker, sir; but I can try,” he said. And James responded with unfeigned heartiness: “That’s all I ask.” To Nora the young man was more explicit. "Remove that worried frown at once.” he told her sternly. “Your father’s right, of course—that is, right from his own viewpoint. If I can’t serve a year for you, Nora, I’m no good. We’ll make a game of it, beloved —mark off each day on a calendar, and when the time is up we'll forge our chains and sail away together, ’lnto the sunset’s turquoise marge, ... To fairyland Hesperides, Over the hills and far away . . .!’ ” He kissed her, and lifting her chin to look into her eyes, saw with satis faction that the smiles which had vanished from them were back again. His girl wasn’t to know, Don vowed, the jail sentence that year ahead appeared to him. She wasn't to realize that his only rea son for submitting was to save her he sorrow that any trouble with s Lgmbert would have meant cor m his wildest imagination this young man could not see himself a part of the hustling throng which jammed the subway every morning. The thought of joining it turned him a little sick. And there was Ned! 11 anyone had accu-ed Ned Lam- dear, » _ you don’t mind being a bit late I’ll—” She broke in then with sudden understanding: “Os course we won’t go if you’re used up, Don.” “But you wanted to go, Nora!” He spoke in genuine distress. “You’ve been looking forward to it —a lot. See here, would you go without me? Tag along with Corinne and Ned? Honestly, darling, I’m all in. Too tired to eat” Said Nora, very quietly: “Are you keeping something back, Don? Are you sick?” A reassuring laugh came over the wire. “Os course not! But I haven’t been sleeping well for weeks, if you want the truth; and last night was rather the worst on record. I didn’t close my eyes till daylight, and disgraced myself by nodding in the office Just as your highly efficient brother en tered the room! The air was close, you know. It sort of drugged me. A warning kick from a kind little stenog was all that saved my price less reputation. Don’t worry, dear. I’ll be O. K. tomorrow; but—don’t think me a piker, will you?” “Crazy!” “And you'll go to the dance with Ned? Promise?” She laughed and told him to sleep the clock around; but she didn’t go to the dance. Next evening the girl said out of a silence: “Don—it’s appalling.” Watching her lover closely she had observed, with something of a shock, how those months of confine ment had changed his whole ap pearance. It had been a gradual change, of course, and seeing him daily Nora had not realized the growing hollows below his cheek bones, or that the tan born of years in the open was quite gone, leaving his face with an unnatural pallor. Even his sea-blue eyes that made her think of sun-lit, dancing water, were more opaque, more lifeless; and his feet which always seemed to touch earth lightly, dragged now as he crossed the room to sit be side her. “What’s appalling, beloved?” “You.” said Nora. “I—” (her voice trembled) “I’m not worth the price. Don.” He kissed her, not pretending to misunderstand. “I’m the best judge of that, dear. Play to me, won’t you—something that’ll make me believe there are things in the world like brooks, and birds, and wind on the prairie? I’m stifled.” It was the first admission of the sort that he’d allowed himself to make. Nora played for an hour, lilting Gypsy strains at first that led Don’s troubled spirit far away to the “green pastures and still waters” for which it hungered. The music grew quieter . . . Old things . . . things one remembered . . . Rubinstein . . . Mendelssohn . . . Ah! Beethoven! The Moonlight Sonata, played as only Nora played it ... So quiet; so sure; so firm and yet so tranquil . . . When the last note of that match less lullaby had died away. Don was asleep, his head pillowed on one arm, his face more peaceful than it had been for many weeks. (Continued Next Week)
Zebulon Record (Zebulon, N.C.)
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Jan. 21, 1938, edition 1
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