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THE STORY
CHAPTER I—James Lambert tries la
,vain to dissuade his beautiful foster
daughter. Leonora, from marrying Don
Mason, young ‘‘rolling stone,” whom he
likes but of whom he disapproves ac
cording to his conventional business-man
standards. He tells her, ‘‘Unless a house
is founded upon a rock, it will not sur
vive.” Leonora suspects the influence of
her half-brother, Ned. always jealous of
the girl since the day his father brought
jher home from the deathbed of her
mother, abandoned by her Italian bari
tone lover. Don arrives in the midst of
•the argument, and Lambert realizes the
frank understanding between the two.
CHAPTER ll—Sitting up late into the
night, Lambert reviews the whole story,
of Nora as a child, at boarding school.
Studying music abroad, meeting Don oil
the return trip. In the morning he de
livers his ultimatum, to give Don a Job
with Ned for a year’s showdown. When
Nora suggests the possibility of running
away with Don, Lambert threatens dis
inheritance. Don agrees to the job, but
before a month is over, his nerves are
lumpy, he cannot sleep at night, he is
too tired to go out much with Nora, and
admits to her that he feels stifled. Nora
soothes him with her music. He falls
asleep and his face is more peaceful than
it has been in many weeks.
CHAPTER Hl—Nora grows quieter,
and broods over Don, complains to her
father of Ned’s spying on him, and de
cides that rather than see Don’s spirit
broken, she will run away. She urges
her father to put an end to the futile ex
periment. James Lambert is obdurate
and angry. Lambert tells her that if
Don quits she will quit with him; that be
will be through with her. He adds that
if she tires of her bargain it will be use
less t/» pome to him tor h*ln
CHAPTER IV—With the coming of
spring, Don is full of unrest and wander
lust, and takes long walks at night. One
evening a poor girl speaks to him, and
in his pity for her, he gives her money.
A car passes at that moment, flashes
headlights and moves on. A terrific heat
wave ushers in the summer, and Nora
refuses to go to the country with her
father. Nea, meanwhile, insinuates to
his father about Don's evenings away
from Nora, but Lambert refuses to lis
ten. Meanwhile, Don broods over the un
dermining of hit moral*
CHAPTER V—At the height of the
heat wave, when Don is finding every
thing insupportable, Ned speaks of hav
ing the goods on him, having seen him
give a girl money. When Ned scoffs
at the true story of the episode. Don
knocks him down, and is through. He
calls Nora, who insists on running away
with him to get married, realizing it is
her Job to restore Don’s faith in himself.
Her good-by to fier father is met with
comolete silent-*
CHAPTER Vl—Don and Nora go to
Maine and settle down in the studio of
Carl Venable, a famous artist friend of
Don's, whose daughter he saved from
drowning. Nora writes her father. There
is no answer, except her baggage, con
taining her entire wardrobe, and SI,OOO
hidden in a gold mesh bag.
"I can’t help wondering about the
man who carved these posts,” he
observed dreamily. “I can’t help
thinking how I'd feel myself if,
after creating anything so good, it
was left neglected in such a place.
You see, the chap who did this
carving put his heart into it. He
must have, or the work wouldn’t
be so perfect. For all we know, it
may have been hia masterpiece.
And he was carving to the glory of
God, Nora —something he thought
permanent—something he thought
would be a part of that old church
long, long after he was gone and
perhaps forgotten.” Don paused,
flushing a little as he met her eyes.
'"Am—am I an idiot, Nora, to want
to save it for him?”
She answered, rising: "You are a
dreamer; but I love you for it. Don.”
Don lifted the rusted hasp and put
ting his shoulder to the heavy door,
found it unlocked.
"And you’re a marvel to under
stand," he told her ardently. “ ’Most
any other girl would think me crazy.
Lend a hand with that end, dear,
and we’ll have it safe inside in no
time. Gee!” (as they laid their bur
den down) “what a peach of a barn!
I’m going to climb into the cupola.
Tva a longing to look out of those
colored windows.”
“And risk breaking a leg so we
can’t start tomorrow?” retorted
Nora. “Really, Don, 1 believe
there’s no one in the world just
like you. One minute you’re a
thoughtful idealist; then—presto,
change I A bit of colored glass
transforms you into a little boy!”
Yes, that was Don! Nora was
jinking of this when, hours later.
THE ZEBULON RECORD, ZEBULON, NORTH CAROLINA, FRIDAY, APRIL 1,1938
Don lifted the rusty hasp,
she lay try. _, yet unable
to close her eyes as she watched a
harvest moon brighten the room.
That was Don —a dreamer who saw
into the hearts of others. His imag
inative sympathy might run away
with him at times, as it had today,
perhaps; but without that quality—
without his unfailing capacity for
seeing “the other fellow’s side,”
would he be able to regard her fa
ther without bitterness?
Her father! Leonora had put the
thought of him behind her during
the last few hours. Their supper
had been a gay affair. A bowl of
late purple asters adorned the ta
ble; her biscuits were fluffy as
could be desired, and even James
Lambert would have praised the
soup! Since they must rise at six
o’clock they had turned in early;
but it is one thing to go to bed,
and quite another to drop at once
into refreshing slumber. And now
the old ache —the nostalgia of the
afternoon was back again. Strange,
she pondered, that Don, sleeping so
peacefully beside her—Don, who un
derstood people so well, so quickly,
shouldn’t have known by instinct
that to go so far away while the
black cloud of her father’s anger lay
between them, would hurt his wife.
Yet she was glad, too, that he
hadn’t guessed, thought Nora, with
all the inconsistency of woman. Why
mar his happiness in the adven
ture? If she could keep a stiff upper
lip till they were once away . . .
“Nora—are—are you awake,
dear?”
Don’s voice was cautious, as if
he feared to rouse her, and Nora
turned.
“I thought you were asleep your
self, Don.”
“I wasn’t! I’ve been lying here
thinking—trying to see the thing we
ought to do. I know what’s trou
bling you, dearest. I knew this
afternoon, only I wanted time to
think a little before I spoke. It’s
your father, isn’t it? You hate to
leave him?”
“Oh, Don!” breathed Nora, turn
ing her face into the shadows. She
must not cry. He mustn’t know how
much she wanted to. \
He said, gently: "I understand,
dear. It’s only because he is still
angry. You’re afraid something
might happen to him—that he might
need you when you couldn’t come.
Isn’t that it? If you were friends the
parting would be so different. It’s
the terrible misunderstanding that
makes it hard. I was a dumbbell
not to see it sooner, Nora. Why
didn’t you tell me?”
“How could I?”
Don managed a little laugh which
broke the tension.
“You couldn’t—you being yourself
—and I being I! But you should
have, Nora. As I see it, marriage
is a sort of compromise. We can’t,
•ither of us, expect to have our own
way eternally. But until this after
noon I didn’t imagine for one min
ute that you weren’t crazy for an
Italian winter. You’re a better ac
tress than I thought, my dear; and
in the future I’ll have to watch my
step! But it’s never too late to
change our plans, you know. That’s
one of the reasons life’s so thrill
ing. And I’ve been thinking about
the West. There are places—”
Nora sat up suddenly, drawing
his head down against her breast
“If you think that I’U let you
change . .
She was crying now. Somehow
Don raised his head and got his
arms about her. He said, with
more unselfishness than truth: “But
I won’t mind changing—not a little
bit! There’s a lot to interest us in
the Southwest, and you’ve never
been there. If those tears will help
you, Nora, why keep right on, but
they’re almost killing me! As I was
saying—”
Then Nora laughed. It was an
hysterical laugh, perhaps, but it
cleared the atmosphere.
“You can keep on saying things
all night,” she told him, “but we’re
sailing tomorrow. Once we really
get away I shall feel better. Have
you forgotten those articles you’re
going to write for that London edi
tor? Have you forgotten you've a
family to support? Os course we’re
going to Capri!” With every word
she was getting back her courage.
“And besides, I wrote Dad we were
sailing. I thought perhaps he’d
come to the boat, Don. Don’t —don’t
you think he might come to the
boat?”
“He might,” Don echoed; and to
himself: “How can he stay away?
How can he hurt her so? How can
he?” Yet somehow, he knew in
stinctively* that Nora’s father was
not yet ready to forgive.
They sailed next afternoon, a
bright, clear, sparkling day that
cheered Nora immeasurably, de
spite James Lambert’s absence
from the scene. Standing beside
the rail, her eyes searching the
thronged pier hungrily, hoping un
til the final whistle sounded that
she would catch a glimpse of his
familiar face, the girl’s mind went
back to her last sailing. She saw
again the crowd of youthful friends
waving farewell—Ned, moved by
one of his rare impulses (those im
pulses which made him almost lov
able) arriving breathless with a box
of roses —kissing her like a real
brother . . . And her father—dear
Dad! trying so hard to put a cheer
ful face upon this parting she knew
he hated—saying: “Don’t stint your
self, Nora.” (as if she ever had!)
. . . “Remember my London bank
ers if you need money.” (As if she
wouldn’t!) . . . “Be careful about
the drinking water in those filthy
places.” (To Dad all Europe was
unsanitary) . “Be sure to cable
as soon as the boat docks.”
It all came back; and suddenly
Nora was conscious of a great lone
liness. Her carefree girlhood
seemed left far, far behind. Ahead
lay motherhood—mystery—that ul
timate struggle which she must face
alone. The thought frightened her,
as one is sometimes frightened at
a stark glimpse of the inevitable.
She turned, seeking the reassurance
of Don’s presence; but he had dis
covered a friend among the pas
sengers: a little woman who, Nora
thought, looked like a missionary.
And then, almost wierdly in that
last confusing moment—breaking
through shouts of “All ashore” and
shrieking sirens, the certainty that
though she could not see him her
father was somewhere amid that
throng—too proud to speak, yet lov
ing her too greatly to stay away,
fell on the girl’s bruised heart like
balm.
The gangplank was up now—the
boat moving. Nora pressed closer
to the rail—raised her arm high—
waved a white wisp of handkerchief
and shouted with a hundred others:
“Good-by .* . . Good-by . . .”
“Who was it, dear?” The voice
was Don’s. His hand closed over
her possessively. Such a strong
hand! “Who was it, Nora? I saw
you waving. Find someone you
knew in all that jam?”
His wife looked up. Her eyes
were wet, but with a deep sense of
thankfulness Don saw that they
were happy eyes.
“I—l was just—waving,” said
Nora simply.
(Continued Next Week)
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