The Bamberg herald. (Bamberg, S.C.) 1891-1972, July 13, 1922, Page 3, Image 3
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SYNOPSIS
PREFACE.?'Mary Marie"'explains her
apparent "double personality" and Just
why she is a "cross-current and a contradiction;"
she also tells her reasons for
writing the diary?later to be a noveL The
diary is commenced at Andersonville.
CHAPTER L?Mary begins with Nurse
Sarah's account .of her (Mary's) birth*
which seemingly interested her father,
who is a famous astronomer, less than a
lew star which was discovered the same
light Her name is a compromise, her
mother wanted to call her Viola and her
gather insisting on Abigail Jane. The
child quickly learned that her home was
in some way different from those of her
small friends, and was puzzled thereat
Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's arrival
at Andersonville as a bride and how
astonished they all were at the sight of
the dainty eighteen-year old girl whom
the sedate professor had chosen for a
wife.
CHAPTER XL?Continuing her story.
Nurse Sarah makes It plain why the
, household seemed a strange one to the
child and howher father and mother
drifted apart through misunderstanding,,
each too proud to in any way attempt to
smooth over the situation.
j
CHAPTER IIL?Mary tells of the time
spent "out west" where the 'perfectly
ell right and genteel and respectable
divorce was being arranged for, and her
mother's (to her) unacountable behavior.
By the court's decree the child is to spend
six months' of the year with her mother
and six months with her father. Boston
qaha ar>A Aiorv ,
IV ittVUiCU V UVUM7f WMVft / ,
leave Andersonville for that city to spend
the first six months.
CHAPTER IV.?At Boston Mary becomes
"Marie." She is delighted with her
new home, so different from the gloomy
house at Andersonvillo. The number of
gentlemen who call on her mother leads
, -l her to speculate on xthe possibility of a
' new father. She classes the callers as
"prospective suitors," finally deciding the
choice is to bei between "the violinist"
and a Mr. Harlow. A conversation she
overhears between her mother and Mr.
Harlow convinces her that it will not be
that gentleman, and "to violinist" seems
to be the likely man. Mrs. Anderson receives
a letter from "Aunt Abigail Anderson,
her former husband's sister, whi is
keeping house for him, reminding her that
"Mary" is expected at Andersonvllle for
the -siv months she is to snend with her
father. Her mother Is distressed, but
has no alternative, and "Marie" departs
for Andersonville. 1
CHAPTER IX.?The diary takes a jump
of twelve years, during which Marie
(always Marie then) has the usual harmless
love affairs inseparable rrom girlhood.
Then she meets THE man?Gerald
Weston, young, wealthy, and already a
successful portrait painter. They are
deeply in love and the wedding follows
quickly. With the coming of the baby,
Eunice, things seem to change with Marie
, and Gerald, and they in a manner drift
TTTL.
d.^JO.1 U nueu OUUIVC u u?c jr caw wiu,
Marie decides to part from Gerald. In- I
tending to break the news to her mother,
she is reminded of her own frequently !
unhappy childhood and how her action
tn parting from her husband will subject
Eunice tc the same humiliationn Her
eyes opened, Marie gives up her idea of
a separation, and returns to her husband,
her duty, and her love.
CHAPTER V.?At Andersonville Aunt
Jane meets her at the station. Her father
is away somewhere, studying an
eclipse of the moon. Marie?"Mary"
now?instinctively compares Aunt Jane,
prim and severe, with her beautiful, dainty
mother, much to the former's disadvantage.
Aunt Jane disapproves of the. dainty
clothes which the child is wearing, and
replaces them with "serviceable" serges
and thick-coled shoes. Her father arrives
home and seems surprised to see her. 1%e
r child soon begins to notice that the girls
at school seem to avoid her. Her father
appears Interested In the lire Mrs. Anderson
leads at Boston and asks many
questions in a queer manner which
pussies Mary. She finds out that her
schoolmates do not associate with her
on account of her parents being "divorced,
and she refuses to attend school. Angry
at first, Mr. Anderson, when, he learns
the reason for her determination, decides
that she need not go. He will hear her
r lessons. Ih Aunt Jane's and her father's
absence Mary dresses in the pretty clothes
ahe brought from Boston and plays the
liveliest tunes she knows, on the littleused
piano. Then, overcome by her lonesomeness
she Indulges in a crying spell
v- which her father's unexpected -appearance
Interrupts. She sobs out the story
of her unhapplness, and In a clumsy way
v he comforts her. After that he appears
to desire to make her stay more pleasant
Her mother writes asking thit Mary be
allowed to come to Boston for the beginning
of the school term, and Mr. Ander,
son consents,_ though from an expression
lie lets rail Mary Believes tie is sorry sue
is going.
CHAPTER VI.?Mary is surprised at
the tenderness- her father displays when
he puts her on the train for Boston.
She discovers "the violinist" making
* love to her mother's maid, Theresa, but
says nothing. Later, however, she overhears
him making a proposal of marriage
to her mother, and tells what she saw.
"The violinist" is dismissed. An unac*
countable change in her mother astonishes
her. The child is given to understand
she is being taught self-discipline
and she has less good times and fewer
pretty things to wear. As ?the time for
her return to Andersonville approaches,
MfS. Anderson equips her In plain
dresses and "sensible" shoes?"Mary"
k things, the child complains.
CHAPTER VII.?At the Andersonville
station Mary is met by her father In a
new automobile, and finds Instead of the
prim and angular Aunt Jane a young and
attractive woman who she learns Is
"Cousin Grace." Mary writes her mother
of the change, and is astonished at the
many questions she is called on to answer
concerning her father's new housekeeper.
Mary decides that he intends to
marry "Cousin Grace." In a moment of
confidence she asks him If that is not
his intention. He tells her it Is not, and
Is dumfounded when she Informs him she
has written to her mother telling her her
idea of the situation. A few days later
Mary goes back to Boston. *
CHAPTER VIII.?Mr. Anderson visits
Boston to deliver a lecture. Mrs. Anderson
and Marie hear him and Marie talks
with him. Later that day Marie finds her
moiner crying over some oiu uuery m uie
attic, and she learns the things were connected
with Mrs. Anderson's first meeting
with her divorced husband. At a re,
ception tendered Professor Anderson Marie
leads her father to admit that he
regrets the separation, and Marie is sure
from her observations that her mother
still loves him. She suggests that he call
> at the house and she will arrange for her
mother to meet him without first knowing
who the visitor is. Marie is confident
that if they meet, a reconciliation
will follow. Her intuition is correct, mutual
misunderstandings are explained,
*and the two, who have really always
loved one another, are remarried.
\
"i". , 1 . '
lRYJII
ftPORTER
TIONSBV
MGSTONE.
?
V
AN OR H. PORTER)
rue handsomest, most popular boy in
school, and how all the girls were just
crazy to be asked to go anywhere
with him; and I argued what if Father
had seen him with boys he did not
like?then that was all the more reason
why nice girls like me. when he
asked them, should go with him, so as
to keep him away from bad boys. And
I reminded them again that he was
the very handsomest, most popular
boy In school; and that there wasn't
a girl . I knew who wouldn't be crazy
to be In ray shoes.
Then I stopped, all out of breath,
i and I can imagine just how pleading
; and palpitating I looked.
I thought Father was going to refuse
right away, but I saw the glance
that Mother threw him?the glance
that said, "Let me attend to this,
dear." I'd seen that glance before.
several times, ano i Knew just wnai
It meant: so I wasn't surprised to see
Father shrug his shoulders and turn
away ai Mother said to me:
VVery well, dear. Til think It over
and let you know tonight"
But I was surprised that night to
' have Mother say I could go, for I'd
about given up hope, after all that
talk at the breakfast table. And she
said something else that surprised me,
too. She said she'd like to know Paul
Mayhew herself; that she always
wanted to' know fhe friends of her
little girl. And she told me to ask
him to call the next evening and play
checkers or chess with me.
Happy? I could scarcely contain
myself for joy. And when the next
evening came, bringing Paul, and
Mother, all prettily dressed as If he
were really, truly company, came Into
the room and talked so beautifully to
him, I was even more entranced. To
be sure, It did bother me a little that
Paul laughed so much, and ^o loudly,
and that he couldn't seem to find anything
to talk about only himself, and
what he was doing, and what he wa?
going to do. Somef way, he had never
seemed like that at school. And I
was afraid Mother wouldn't like that.
All the evening I was watching and
listening with her eyes and her ears
everything he did, everything he said.
I so wanted Mother to like him! I so
wanted Mother to see how really fine
and splendid and noble he was. But
that evening?Why couldn't he stop
talking about the prizes he'd won,
and the big racing car he'd just ordered
for next summer? There was
nothing fine and splendid and noble
about that And were his finger nails
always so dirty?
Why, Mother would think?
Mother did not stay in the room all
the time; but she was in more or less
often to watch the game; and at halfpast
nine she brought in some little
cakes and lemonade as a surprise. I
I thought it was lovely; but I could
have shaken Pau^when he pretended
to be afraid of it, and asked Mother
if there was a stick in it.
The idea?Mother! A stick!
I just knew Mother wouldn't like
that But if she didn't, she never
showed a thing in her face. She just
smiled, and said no, there wasn't any
stick in It; and passed the cakes.
When he had gone I remember I
didn't like to meet Mother's eyes, and
I didn't ask her how she liked Paul
May-hew. I kept right on talking fast
about something else. Some way, I
didn't want Mother to talk then, for
fear of what she would say.
And Mother, didn't say anything
about Paul Mayhew?then. But only a
few days later she tgld me to invite
him again to the house (this time
to a chafing-dish supper), and to ask
Carrie Heywood and Fred Small, too.
We had a beautiful time, only again
Paul Mayhew didn't "show off" at all
In the way I wanted him to?though
he most emphatically "showed off" in
his way! It seemed to me that he
bragged even more about himself and
his belongings than he had before.
And I didn't like at all the way he
ate his food. Why. Father didn't eat
like that?with such a noisy mouth,
and such a rattling of the silverware!
And so it went?wise mother that
she was! Far from prohibiting me to
] have anything to do with Paul Mayi
hew, she let me see all I wanted to
! of htm, particularly in my own home.
) She let me go out with him, properly
, chaperoned, and she never, by word :
j or manner, hinted that she didn't ad'
mire his conceit and braggadocio.
And it all came out exactly as I
I suspect she had planned from the beginning.
When Paul Mayhew asked to
: be my escort to the class reception in
j June, I declined with thanks, and im!
mediately afterward told Fred Small
I would go with him. But even when
j I told Mother nonchalantly, and with
j carefully averted eyes, that I was go>
ing to the reception with Fred Small
-p-even then her pleasant "Well, that's
good!" conveyed only cheery mother
interest; nor did a hasty glance into
her face discover so much as a lifted j
eyebrow to hint. "I thought you'd I
%
come to your senses sometime!"
Wise little mother that she was!
In the days and weeks that followed
(though nothing was said) I detected,
a subtle change in certain matters,
however. And as I look badk at It
now, I am sure 1 can trace its origin to
my "affair" with Paul Mayhew. Evidently
Mother had no intention of running
the risk of any more courtships;
also evidently she intended to know
who my friends were. At all events,
the old Anderson mansion soon became
the rendezvous of all the boys
and girls of piy acquaintance. And
such good times as we had, with
Mother always one of us, and ever proposing
something new and interesting!
And because boys?not a% boy, but
boys?were as free to come to the
hnnco cirlc cnnn caompfl
to me as commonplace and matter-ofcourse
and free from sentimental interest
as were the girls.
Again, wise little mother!
But, of course, even this did not
prevent my falling in love with some
one older than myself, some one quite
outside of my own circle of intimates.
My especial attack of this kind
came to me when I was barely eighteen,
the spring I was being graduated
from the Andersonville High
school. And the visible embodiment
of my adoration was the head master.
Mr. Harold Hartshorn, a handsome,
clean-shaven, well-set-up man of (I
nW Aiil /^ / ? a A 4- V* ? n/\ a Mn /\^ A MA
auuuiu juu&ej uiinj-uve .years ui age.
rather grave, a little stern, and very
dignified.
But how I adored him! How I hung
upon his every word, his every glance!
How I maneuvered to wip from him a
few minutes' conversation on a Latin
verb or a French translation! How I
thrilled if he bestowed upon me one
of his infrequent smiles! How I
grieved over his stern alOofne'ssI
By the end of a month I had evolved
this: his stern aloofness meant that
he hRj Jreen disappointed in love! his
melancholy was loneliness?his hear*
was bre?Hng. How I logged to bp'
to heali, to cure! How 1 thrilled at the
thought of the love and companionship
I oould give him somewhere in a roseembowered
cottage far from the madding
crowd! (He boarded at the Andersonville
hotel alone now.) If only
he could see it as I saw it. If only by
some sign or token he could know of
the warm love that was. his but for
the asking! Could he not see that no
longer need he pine alone and unappreciated
in the Andersonville hotel?
Why, in just a few weeks I was to
be through school. And then?
On the night before commencement
Mr. Harold Hartshorn ascended our
front steps, rang the bell, and called
for my father. I knew because I was
upstairs in my room over the front
door; and I saw him come up the walk
and heard him ask for Father.
Oh, joy! Oh, happy day! He knew.
He had seen it as I saw it He had
? 4-~ 4-Vinaumteelnn thot
uiHiie LU gaiu x amci o pcnuiooiuu) wui
he might be a duly accredited suitor
for my hand!
During the next ecstatic ten minutes,
with my hand pressed against my
wildly beating heart, I planned my
wedding dress, selected with care and
discrimination my trousseau, furnished
the rose-embowered cottage far from
the madding crowd ? and wondered
why Father did not send for me. Then
the slam of the screen door downstairs '
sent me to the window, a sickening
terror within me.
Was he going?without seeing me,
his future bride? Impossible!
Father and Mr. Harold Hartshorn
stood on the front steps below, talking.
In another minute Mr. Harold Hartshorn
had walked away, and Father
had turned back on to the piazza.
As soon as I couid control my shaking
knees, I went downstairs.
Father was in his favorite rocking'chair.
I advanced slowly. I did not
B1C UOWI1.
"Was that Mr. Hartshorn?" I asked,
trying to keep the shake out of my
voice.
"Yes."
"Mr. H-Hartshorn," I repeated stupidly.
"Yes. He came to see me about the
Downer place," nodded Father. "He
wants to rent it for next year." t
"To rent it?the Downer place!" (The
Downer place was no rose-embowered
cottage far from the madding crowd!
Why, it was big, and brick, and right
next to the hotel! I didn't want to
live there.)
"Yes?for his wife and family. He's
going to bring them back with him
next year," explained Father.
"His. wife and family!" I can imag
lne about how I gasped out those four
words.
? "Yes. He has five children, I believe,
and?"
But I had fled to my room.
After all, ipy recovery was rapid. I
was In love with love, you see; not
with Mr. Harold Hartshorn. Besides,
the next year I went to college. And
it was while I was at college that I.
met Jerry.
Jerry was the brother of my college
friend, Helen "Weston. Helen's elder
sister was a senior in that same col
lege, a?d was graduated at the close
of my freshman year. The father,
mother and brother came on to the
graduation. And that Is where I met
Jerry.
If It might be called meeting him.
He lifted his hat, bowed, said a polite
nothing with his lips, and an indifferent
"Oh, some friend of Helen's," with
his eyes, and turned to a radiant
blonde senior at my side.
And that was all?for him. But for
me ?
All that day I watched him whenever
opportunity offered; and I suspect
that I took care that opportunity offered
frequently. I was fascinated. I
had never seen any one like him before.
Tall, handsome, brilliant, at perfect
easet he plainly dominated every
Towarc
; Jerry Was an Artist, It Seemed.
Jilm every face was tuVned?yet he
.'never seemed to know it. (Whatevei
T ! .. 1
His rauus, jerry is uui tuutcucu. j
will give him credit for that!) To me
he did not speak again that day.
am not sure.that he even looked at me
If he did there must still have beer
in his eyes only the "Oh, some frienc
of Helen's," that I had' seen at the
morning introducticm.
; I did not meet him again for nearlj
a year; but that did not mean that 1
did not hear of him. I wonder ii
Helen aver noticed how often I used
to get her to talk of her home and hei
family life; and how interested I wai
in her gallery of portraits on the mantel?there
were two fine ones of her
brother there.
Helen was very fond of her brother.
I soon found that she loved to talk
about him?if she had a good listener
Needless to say she had a very good
one in me. /
Jerry was an artist, it seemed. He
was twenty-eight years old, and already
he had won no small distinction.
Prizes, medals, honorable mention, and
a special course abroad ? all these
Helen told me about. She told me, too,
about the wonderful success he had
just had with the portrait of a certain
New York society woman. She said
that it was just going to "make" Jerry;
that he could have anything he wanted
now?anything.
I saw Jerry myself during the East
er vacation of my second year in col
lege. Helen invited me to go home
wfth her, and Mother wrote that 1
might go^ Helen had been home with
rne for the Christmas vacation, anc
Mother* and Father liked her verj
much. There was no hesitation, there
fore, in their consent that I shoulc
vis^t Helen at Easter time. So I went
Helen lived in New York. Theii
home was a Fifth avenue mansion witl
nine servants, four automobiles anc
two chauffeurs. Naturally such a scale
of living was entirely new to me, anc
correspondingly fascinating. From the
elaborately uniformed footman thai
opened the door for me to the awe
some French maid who "did" my hair
I adored them all, and moved as in c
dream of enchantment. Then came
? - 1. Ji
Jerry home rrom a weea-enu a iny?
and I forgot everything else.
I knew from the minnte his eyes
looked into mine that whatever I hac
been before, I was now certainly n<
mere "Oh, some friend of Helen's." 1
was (so his eyes said) "a deucedlj
pretty girl, and one well worth cul
tivating." Whereupon he began' ai
once to do the "cultivating."
In less than thirty-six hours I was
caught up in the whirlwind x>f his
wooing, and would not have escapee
It if I could.
When I went back to college he helc
my promise that if he could gain the
consent of Father and Mother, h<
might put the engagement ring on mj
finger. ^
Back at college, alone in my owi
room, I drew a long breath, and begar
tn think. It was the first chance I hac
had, for even Helen now had become
Jfcrry?by reflection.
The more I thought, the more fright
ened, dismayed, and despairing I be
came. In the clear light of calm, sane
reasoning,, it was all so absurd, so lm
possible! What could I have beer
thinking of? I must forget Jerry.
I pictured him in Andersonville, ir
my own home. I tried to picture hiu
talking to Father, to Mother.
Absurd, What had jerry to do witi
learned treatises on stars, or with the
humdrum, everyday life of a stupid
small town? For that matter, what
had Father and Mother to do wit!
dancing and motoring and painting
society queens' portraits? Nothing.
Plainly, even If Jerry, for the saK(
of the daughter, liked. Father anc
Mother, Father and Mother certainly
would not like Jerry. That was cer
tain.
Of course I cried myself to sleep
that night. That was to he expected
Jerry was the world; and the worlc
was lost. There was nothing left ex
cept, perhaps, a few remnants anc
sr-nrr-plv wnrth the counting?
excepting, of course. Father and Moth
er. But one could not always have
one's father and mother. There wotric
come a time when?
Jerry's letter came the next day?
by special delivery. He had gone
straight home from the .station and be
gun to write to me. (How like Jerrj
that was?particularly the special
delivers: s&re?f? 1)_ The. most of his let
' ter, aside from the usual lover's rhapsodies,
had to do with plans for the
summer?what we would do together
at the Westons' summer cottage in
| Newport. He said he should run up
to Andersonville early ? very early;
just as soon as I was hack from college,
in fact, so that he might meet
Father and Mother, and put that ring
on my finger.
And while I read the letter, I just
knew he would do It. Why, I could
even see the sparkle of the ring on
my finger. But in five minutes after
the letter was folded and put away,
I knew, with equal certitude?that he
wouldn't.
I had been at home exactly eight
hours when a telegram from Jerry
asked permission to come at once.
: As gently as I could I broke the
news to Father ann Mother. He was
| Helen's brother. They must nave
i heard me mention him. I knew him
well, very well, indeed. In fact, the
purpose of this visit was to ask them
for the hand of their daughter.
Father frowned and scolded, and
said, "Tut, tut!" and that I was nothing
but a child. But Mother smiled
and shook her head, even while she
sighed, and reminded him that I was
twenty?two whole years older than
she was- when she married him;
though in the same breath she admitted
that I was young, and she certainly
hoped Td be willing to wait before
I married, even if the young man
- was all that they could ask him to be.
Father was still a little rebellious, I
[ think, but Mother?bless her dear
svmpatneuc nean;?suuu cuuviutreu
hira that they must at least consent
to see this Gerald Weston. So I sent
1 the wire inviting him to come.
Jerry came?and he had not been
J five minutes in the house before It
might easily have seemed that he had
r always been there. He did know about
t stars; nt least, he talked with Father
about them, and so as to hold Father's
I Interest too. And he knew a lot about
Innumerable things in which Mother
1 was Interested. He stayed four dayt;
and all the while he was there, I never
' so much as thought ot ceremonious
dress and dinners, and liveried butlers
and footmen; nor did it once occur
to me that our simple kitchen
Nora, and Old John's son at the wheel
I of our one motorcar, were not beautifully
and entirely adequate, so unas
sumingly and so perfectly did Jerry
unmistakably "fit in." (There are no
other words that so exactly express
1 what I mean.) And in the end, even
! his charm and his triumph were so un,
obtrusively complete that I never
I thought of being surprised at the
i prompt capitulation of both Father
I and Mother.
; Jerry had brought the ring. (Jerry
I always brings his "rings"?and he
never fails to "put them on.") And.
he went back to New York with
- Mother's promise that I should visit
s them in July at their cottage in New[
port.
' They seemed like a dream?those
I four days?after he had gone; and I
r ^jpuld have been tempted to doubt
the whole thing had there not been
I the sparkle of the ring on my finger,
. and the frequent reference to Jerry
on the lips of both Father and Mother.
1 They loved Jerry, both of them.
I Father said he was a fine, manly
i young fellow; and Mother said he was
1 a dear boy, a very dear boy. Neither
- of them spoke much of his painting,
t Jerry himself had scarcely mentioned
it to them, as I remember, after he
had gone.
1 I went to Newport in July. "The cot1
tage," as I suspected, was twice/ as
large and twice as pretentious as the
New York residence; and it sported
' twice the number of servants. Once
1 again I was caught in the whirl of din)
ners and dances and motoring, with
r the addition of tennis and bathing.
7 And always, at my side, was Jerry,
" seemingly living only upon my lightest
^ whim and fancy. He wished to paint
my portrait; but there was no time, es3
pecially as my visit, in accordance with
3 Mother's inexorable decision, was of
' only one week's duration.
Rut arhot a wonderful week that
* was! I seemed to be under a kind,of
* spell. It was as if I were In a new
i world?a world such as no one had
r . ever been in before. Oh, I knew, of
course, that others had loved?but not
1 as we loved. I was sure that no one
1 had ever loved as we loved. And it
1 was so much more wonderful than
J anything I had ever dreamed of?this
love of ours. Yet all my life since my
' early teens I had been thinking and
- planning and waiting for It?love. And
* now it had come?the real thing. The
?oil tho nthorc had heen shams
a nn w*iv
? and make-believes and counterfeits.
At Newport Jerry decided that Jie
i wanted to be married rizht away. He
i
didn't want to wait two more endless
t years until I was graduated. The idea
4 of wasting all that valuable time when
we might be together! And when
t' there was really no reason for it,
J either?no reason at all!
r I smiled to myself, even as I thrilled
at his sweet insistence. I was pretty
, sure I knew two reasons?two very
I good reasons?why I could not marry
, before graduation. One reason was
Father; the other reason was Mother.
I Jtiinted as much,
j "Ho! Is that all?" He laughed and
kissed me. "I'll run down and see
' '*- KA aoiH ^anntilr
| ! LUfcMJJ ciUUUl 11, lie .^uiu
. j I smiled again. I had no more idea
1 i that anything he could say would?
iBut I didn't know Jerry?then.
I had not been home from Newport
i ' a week when Jerry kept his promise
1 and "ran down." And he had not been
there two days before Father and
Mother admitted that, perhaps, after
> all, it would not be so bad an idea if
- I shouldn't graduate, but should be
r married instead.
And so I was married.,
(Didn't I tell you that Jerry always
-
\ ?
At Newport Jirry Decided That Ha
Wanted to Be Married Right Away.
j .
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"
brought rings and put them on?)
And again I say, and so we were
married.
But what did we know of each
other??the real other? True, we had
danced together, been swimming together,
dined together, played tennis
together. But what did we really know
of each other's whims and prejudices,
opinions and personal habits and
tastes? I knew, to a word, what Jerry
would say about a sunset; and he
knew, I fancy, what I would say about
a dreamy waltz\ song. But we didn't
either of us know what the other
wonld ?av to a dinnerless home with
the cook gone. * We were leaving a
good deal to be learned later en; but
we didn't think of that Love that
. is to last must be built upon the realization
that troubles and trials and sorrows
are sura to come, and that they
must be borne together?if one back is
not to break under the load. We were
entering into a contract, not for a
week, but, presumably, for a lifetime
?and a good deal may come to one
in a lifetime?not all of it pleasant
We had been brought up in two distinctly
different social environments,
but we didn't stop to think of that We
/v AAwtz-k cmnoAfo or>H tHst QPTT1A ^y'.
I|HCU kliC oauic cuiu um. m...?
make of car, and the same kind of icecream;
and we looked into each other's
eyes and thought we knew each
other?whereas we were really only
seeing the mirrored reflection of ourselves.
And so we were married.
It was everything that was blissful
and delightful, of course, at first We
were still e^ing the ice-cream and admiring
the sunsets. I had forgotten
that there were things other than sunsets
and ice-cream, I suspect I was
not twenty-one, remember, and my
feet fairly ached to dance. The whole
world was a show. Music, lights,
laughter?how I loved them alll
Then came the baby, Eunice, my
little girl; and with one touch of her
tiny, clinging fingers, the whole world
>?"* H?rV?+c anH mnsif and
UJL suai iic iigubo uuvt - ..
flare and glitter just faded all away
into nothingness, where it belonged.
As if anything counted, with her on
the other side of the scales!
I found out then?oh, I found out
lots of things. You see, it wasn't that
way at all with Jerry. The lights and
music and the glitter and the sham
didn't fade away a mite, to him, when
Eunice came. In fact, sometimes it
seemed to me they just grew stronger,
if anything. t
He didn't like it because I couldn't
go with him any more?to dances and
things, I mean. He said the nurse
could take care of Eunice. As if Td
leave my baby with any nurse that
ever lived, for any old dance! The
idea! But Jerry went. At first he
stayed with me; but the baby cried,
and Jerry didn't like that It made
narrnn* until I WU8
111114 uuu MV* f V, ?
glad to have him go.
I think it was about this time that
Jerry took up his painting again. I
guess I have forgotten to mention that
all through the first two years of our
marriage, before the baby came, he
just tended to toe. He never paintad
a single pictuife. Bdt after Eunice
came?
But, after all, what to the use of #
going over these last miserable years
TTnnJne Ifi HOW. Her
11AC IU10 * MUftMVV
father is the most popular portrait
painter in the country. I am almoat
tempted to say that he is the most
popular man, as well. All the eld
charm and magnetism are there. Sometimes
I watch him (for, of course, I
do go out with him once in a while),
and always I think of that first day I
saw him at college. Brilliant, polished,
witty?he still dominates every group
of which he is a member. Men and
women alike bow to his charm.
I After all, I suspect that it's just that
T -4.H1 i?IT]B*
JBrrj sun iuvcs uic vhiu
sets, and I don't. That's all. To me ^
there's something more to life than
that?something higher, deeper, more
worth while. We haven't a taste in
common, a thought in unison, an
aspiration in harmony. I suspect?In
fact I know?that 1 get on his nerves
just as rasplngly as he does on mine.
For that reason I'm sure he'll be gla*?
when he gets my letter. \
But, some way, I dread to tell , 3
Mother.
Well, it's finished., I've been about
* "V %
(Continued on page 7, column 3.),