THE ZEBULON RECORD, ZEBULON, NORTH CA ROf.INA, FRIDAY, JUNE 17,1938
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PALACE
By
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• I
THE STORY
Leonora Lambert persists in her
intention to marry Don Mason al
though her foster-father, James
Lambert, tries to dissuade her.
Leonora suspects that her half
brother, Ned, has influenced their
father. Lambert offers to give Don
a job for a year, saying that if the
pair elope, he will disinherit the
girl. Don attempts the work offered
but becomes nervous and tired, de
daring he feels sitfled. Nora is din
tressed and begs her father to end
the experiment. Ned tries to induce
her to doubt Don. When accused
of having given money to a girl
whom he had helped in charity Don
knocks Ned down. He and Nora
elope and settle down in Maine.
Lambert refuses to communicate
with them, but sends the girl her
clothes and SI,OOO. Don and Nora
go to Capri for the winter. Their
son is born while they are away,
Don having work on a London pa
per. Don is sent to Cape Town,
has typhoid, and his work suffers
because of ill-health and worry.
They return to. America. A friend
gives Nora a parting gift of a
Kimberly diamond. They buy an
old house in Maine and remodel it.
They are sent to California on an
assignment for the London paper.
CHAPTER XII—In Chicago en route
West, a movie theater collapses under a
heavy snowfall. Don and Nora escape,
but Don heroically to the rescue,
and is carried out a broken man.
Three years later, on old Martha's
birthday, she reveals to Lambert Nora's
remembrance over the years, and shows
him her last gift, a handkerchief yel
low with age and mended. She worries
over what nas befallen the girl, and re
proaches Lambert for his stubbornness
CHAPTER XIH
James was still deep in thought
when, an hour later, his son came
down from the birthday visit with
old Martha. In fact, Ned found his
father so noncommittal that he, too,
lapsed into silence and took up a
book. But he did not read. Not only
had he something on his mind, but
he was observing with genuine con
cern those lines of care and worry
in the older man's familiar visage.
Ten years, and troubles with a
growing son had made Ned Lam
bert more tolerant of others. Now,
coming to a decision, he asked
abruptly: "Dad, do you hear from
Nora these days?”
James started, because Ned
seemed to have read his thoughts.
"Not a line for nearly three
years, son.”
"You’re worried?”
His father nodded.
"I ean’t help wdndering if they’re
in difficulties; and tonight Mur
tfaa-” ■ , j
He not wishing to go fur
ther; and Ned moved to a window,
looking into the dark night as if
uncertain about something. It was
Jameit .wbo spoke.
“Look here, son. I think you
ought to know that when your sis
ter went away I didn’t change my
will as I intended. Except for an
extra two hundred thousand and the
business, which goes to you, the es
tate is divided evenly, as it was
then. There are bequests to serv
ants, of course; and to the men
who’ve been with us longest at the
office, besides something for Nora's
boys; but the bulk of the prop
erty goes to you and—and your sis
ter. When she left home I was too
upset to think about such things.
Later I let the matter drift. Now—
.well, if you feel that it’s unjust
to you and yours—**
"Why should I?” Ned turned—
sat down beside his father on the
davenport. "It’s your money, Dad.
Do as you please with it. I’ve got
enough of my own—enough to have
pretty nearly ruined my own boy.
as you know. We’ll both be happi
er, you and I, if we feel that Nora
is provided for.”
"You mean that?" questioned
James, a trifle puzzled.
Ned smiled.
"Os course I mean it! Why in the
world shouldn’t I? I’ll admit that I
used to be jealous of Nora when I
was a kid; and after I understood
about things I was sometimes cad
enough to feel ashamed of her. I
think she knew it, and despised me
a little. But I realize now that you
seemed every bit as near to her as
you did to me, and I shouldn’t want
you to hurt her in any way. Where
was she, Father, when you last
heard?”
James cleared his throat, not in
anger as he used to do in the old
days, but because of a sudden rush
of feeling. Ned’s words had brought
him immeasurable relief.
"They were in Chicago, on their
way West. Her husband was plan
ning to write a series of articles
like those he did about South Africa.
You read ’em, didn’t you?"
Ned nodded, admitting: “They
were darned good. I remember sit
ting up late to finish one. But I’ve
never seen any of them since, Dad.
Have you?”
"Not one.” The old man’s eyes
grew vaguely troubled. "I watched
for them too. Nora wrote as if
there were no uncertainty about
their publication—it was an assign
ment, I believe. She seemed hap
py; but her letter must have been
two weeks old before I saw it. I
was down with pneumonia just
then, and all my personal mail was
laid aside until I could attend to it
myself. She wrote from a boarding
house, I think, not a hotel. They
were leaving in a day or two, as
soon as Don attended to some busi
ness and the city got dug out of a
blizzard.”
Ned raised his head, quickly, as
if reminded of something.
"You say this was within three
years? Are you absolutely sure,
Dad?”
"Sure? Am I likely to forget
that wretched sickness? It was
three years next month when the
letter came, Ned; and since then
nothing but silence. Such a thing
never happened before. I didn’t an
swer Nora’s letters, but she’s al
ways written. Sometimes regular
ly, sometimes with several months
between. I tried to persuade my
self that their plans changed sud
denly, especially when Don’s arti
cles failed to appear. I thought
they might have gone to some out
of-the-way country and stayed
there. I suppose I was just trying
to ‘kid myself,’ as the boys say. I
even tried to believe that since they
were apparently successful she had
forgotten me—given me up as a
bad job—but that’s not—Nora. I’ve
been very unhappy about her, Ned.
Very troubled. And tonight some
thing that Martha said has made
me more so.”
James glanced up, conscious that
his son was inattentive. Ned said,
thoughtfully: "Do you remember a
terrible catastrophe in Chicago,
when the roof of a theater collapsed
under a weight of snow?”
His father was suddenly erect
“You don’t mean—”
“I don’t mean that anything hap
pened to Nora,” broke in Ned. “The
thing occurred, as I remember now,
when you were too sick to see the
papers. I only glanced at the head
lines myself. I loathe such details.
But Corinne revels in ’em, you
know. She even read part of the
story aloud at the table—how a fel
low who was in the audience and
got out safely, went back into the
doomed place and spent hours un
der a collapsing balcony trying to
rescue a child who was pinned be
neath the wreckage. It was very
luridly told. The reporter claimed
to have been an eye witness. Said
the man refused to quit even when
warned. He saved the child, I be
lieve, but failed to get out himself.
And his name was Mason. He was
caught under the timbers.”
"Killed?”
"No; but I judged from what the
paper said that he’d better have
been. If it were Don—”
James turned on his son angrily.
"Why wasn’t I told of this?”
his voice softening: "But Ma
lough narpe. Ned.
.»hy should you think it was Nora's (
husband?”
“Only because the paper said Dan
Mason —not Don, you understand, 1
but so near that a misprint might j
have been possible. I didn’t speak
of it because you were so sick just
then. I couldn’t worry you. Dad;
though I see now that I should have (
investigated the matter myself. My
only excuse is that it was the very ,
time when Junior got into that 1
scrape at college, and Corinne was
—well, sae felt it was all my fault. !
She thought I was too strict —didn’t |
understand the boy at all —said he
forged that check because I didn’t
give him enough allowance and —
Oh, I was snowed under! I went
through things I never told you, and |
never will. My home very nearly |
went on the rocks, Dad; though i
that’s over now, thank God! But it
put everything else out of my mind
at the time —the awful worry of it.
And later, when I remembered, I
supposed of course that if Nora
were in real want she would have
appealed to you.”
"Oh, no she wouldn’t!” The bit
terness in James Lambert’s voice
was toward himself. “I lost my
temper one day and warned her not
to. And Nora’s got pluck. Always
did have. And character. Did I
ever tell you ...”
It was then that Ned heard the
story of courageous little Nora, sit
ting for hours beside the body of
her mother, waiting for the father
she had never seen to take her
"home.” He was plainly touched.
“Yes, she’s got character,” he ad
mitted. “She showed it when she
gave up a fortune (or thought she
did) because she loved that fellow
and knew he needed her. There’ve
been times these last few years,
Dad, when I’ve felt responsible for
the whole racket. If Don Mason
hadn’t knocked me down that day
in the office, the break between you
and Leonora might never have
come about.”
James, staring into the fire, said
nothing because there was no deny
ing this aspect of the case; and
after a silence Ned went on:
"You see, I thought that story he
told me was just bunk. I sup
posed he was trying to pull the wool
over my eyes; and I as much as
told him he lied. I couldn’t imagine
(can’t now, for that matter) how
any sane man could be so easy as
to hand over a roll of bills to a
girl he’d never seen before, without
"Too aee, 1 thought that story
he told me was just bunk.”
making some sort of investigation.
But I suppose it takes all kinds of
people to make a world; and my—
my own kids, now they’re old
enough to think about it, tell me I
haven’t any imagination. And if
Don wasn’t lying (and I doubt now
that he was), you can hardly blame
him for seeing red, can you?”
"He didn’t lie,” said James, “but
the fellow had no business to lose
his temper to —to that extent,” he
added hastily, remembering occa
sions when his own temper had ex
ploded too violently for the com
fort of those concerned.
Surmising his father’s thought,
Ned smiled a little; and then went
on: "Well, that’s ancient history
now; and since then other things*
have hurt me so much more that
that old experience doesn’t seem
worth remembering—certainly not
worth bearing grudges for. What
troubles me is that I’ve gone on all
these years without trying to bring
you and Nora together. And I
might have. You can’t deny that,
Dad. I’ve known you were missing
her; but I’ve never lifted a finger
to bring her back. Years ago Mar
tha told me how dead the whole
house seemed without her. She hint
ed that I ought to talk with you
about it; but somehow I couldn’t.
It was the night I made the mis
take of trying to buy Nora’s four
poster! Do you remember?”
James looked up, a pathetic smile
in his worried eyes.
"Did I hurt your feelings, son?”
"Not so they stayed hurt. You
never have, Dad. It’s because you
and I have always been so close
and understood each other, that the
gap between my boy and me has
seemed so tragic. Even the girls
(whom I sometimes feared I was
spoiling) tell me I never see their
side —that I’m unsympathetic. I
suppose I am, in away. I was
unsympathetic to Nora, always;
though it took a number of hard
knocks to open my eyes to the fact.”
James murmured, as if his mind
had wandered a little from what
Ned was saying: “If —if I could only
know where she is now!”
"I know where she was six weeks
ago,” was the amazing rejoinder.
“You do!” James Lambert’s voice
sounded belligerent.
"I heard not half an hour before
I started over,” Ned told him. "Cor
inne was at a tea this afternoon
and gave one of the other women a
lift home—Mrs. Ed Whitney, whose
niece was in school with Nora, you’ll
remember. She and some friends
were on a motor trip through Maine
a while ago. They stopped some
where for lunch and couldn’t get
away for several hours —some trou
ble with their car—and to pass the
time they wandered into the hotel
ball room to watch a dancing class
—children of the summer popula
tion, I suppose. And Nora was at
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"She was!”
Ned nodded.
"Mrs. Whitney didn’t recognize
her at first. Said she looked a good
deal older, and—and pretty rocky.
She was going to speak, but on sec
ond thoughts decided it would be
kinder not to. But she made some
inquiries of the hotel people who
were natives of the place. They
said that Nora was trying to support
her family. That she played the
organ at church, and gave music
lessons, and made cakes to sell
during the summer season; and—”
Ned hesitated, as if uncertain
whether to finish, “and—well they
said. Father, that she was living in
an old bam or garage or some
thing, down near the water.”
James stared at him.
"My Nora living in a bam?”
"That’s what Mrs. Whitney said;
but she’s one who makes the most
of a good story, Dad, so don’t let
that worry you. What riled me was
that she told Corinne she thought
we ought to do something about it.
She implied, as politely as possible,
that we’d treated Nora outrageous
ly. Corinne was so mad she didn’t
have sense enough to ask the name
of the town; but I’ll call Mrs. Whit
ney on the telephone and find out.
Even Corinne thinks that something
should be done—that is” (a cynical
smile curved Ned’s lips) "she’s
afraid there’ll be talk unless we uo
it!”
For a moment or two James
Lambert did not respond. Then he
arose and unlocked a beautiful cab
inet of Chinese lacquer. As the
doors swung open Ned saw that it
contained letters—neat piles of let
ters held together with elastic
bands, and a somewhat surprising
pair of silver slippers, tarnished
now, from being laid away.
"Nora’s!” he thought; and then his
father turned, extending the postal
written so lone ago.
(Continued Next Week)
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