Indianapolis Times, Volume 35, Number 261, Indianapolis, Marion County, 12 March 1923 — Page 8

8

Alice of Old Vincennes By Maurice Thompson COPYRIGHT. 190 8. BY ALICE LEE THOMPSON

BEGIN' HERE CAPT. LEONARD HELM r and LIEUT. FITZHUGH BEVERLEY were sent from Kaskaskia by GEORGE ROGERS CLARK, an officer of the American Army during the Revolutionary Wax. to take charge of tuilitary affairs at Vincennes. ALICE, foster daughter of GASPARD ROUSSILLON, a man of prestiee in Vincennes, was the center of attraction, tor Beverley over whom hir < harm sc. mnd to weave a spell of magnetic splendor, but he realizes that because of his noble lineaire a girl of the wilderness was not for him. RENE DE RONVILLK. although the fiancee of ANDRIENNE BOURCIER. was also an ardent admirer of ALICE. HE began to like walking about rather aimlessly In the town’s narrow streets, with the muddaubed cabins on either hand. This simple life under low, thatched roofs had a charm. When a door was opened he could see a fire of logs on the ample hearth shooting its yellow tongues up the sooty chimney-throat. Soft creole voices murmured and sang, or jangled their petty domestic discords. Women in scant petticoats, leggings and moccasins swept snow from the squat verandas, or fed the pigs in little sties behind the cabins. Everybody cried cheerily: “Bonjour, Monsieur, comment allez-vous?” as he went by, always accompanying the verbal salute with a graceful wave of the hand. When he walked early in the morning a waft of broiling game and browning com scones was abroad. Pots and kettles occupied the hearths with glowing coals heaped around and under. Shaggy dogs whined at the doors until the mensal remnants were tossed out to them In the front yard. But it was always a glimpse of Alice that must count for everything in Beverley’s reckonings, albeit he would have strenuously denied it. True he went to Roussillon place almost every day. it being a fixed part of his well ordered habit, and a talk with her. Sometimes, when Dame Roussillon was very busy and so quite off her guard, they read together in a novel, or in certain parts of th“ odd volume of Montaigne. This was done more for the sweetness of dis obedience than to enjoy the already familiar pages. Now and again they repeated their fencing bout: but never with the result which followed the first. Beverley soon mastered Alice’s tricks and showed her that, after all. masculine muscle is not to be discounted at its own game by even the most wonderful womanly strength and suppleness. She struggled bravely to hold her van tage ground once gained so easily, but the inevitable was not to be avoided. At last, one howling winter day, he disarmed her by the very trick that she had shown him. That ended the play and they ran shivering into the house. “Ah,” she cried, “it isn't fair. You are so much bigger than I; you have so much longer arms; so much more weight and power. It all counts against me. You ought to be ashamed of yourself!” She was rosy with the exhilarating exercise and the biting of the frosty breeze. Her beauty gave forth anew ray. Deep in her heart she was pleased to have him master her so superbly: but as the days passed she never said so, never gave over trying to make him feel the touch of her foil. She did not know that her eyes were getting through his guard, that her dimples were stabbing his heart to its middle. “You have other advantages," he replied, “which far overbalance my greater stature and stronger muscles.” Then after a pause he added: “After all a girl must be a girl.” Something in his face, something in her heart, startled her so that she made a quick little move like- that of a restless bird. “You are beautiful and that makes my eyes and my hand uncertain.” he went on. “Were I fencing with a man there would be no glamour.” He spoke in English, which he did not often do In conversation with her. It was a sign that he was somewhat wrought upon. She followed his rapid words with difficulty: but she caught from them anew note of feeling. He saw a little pale flare shoot across her face and thought she was angry. “You should not use your dimples to distract my vision,” he quickly added, with a light laugh. “It would be no worse for me to throw my hat In your face!”

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His attempt at levity was obviously weak; she looked straight into his eyes with the steady gaze of a simple. earnest nature shocked by a current quite strange tc it. She did not understand him, and she did. Her fine intuition gathered swiftly together a hundred shreds of impression received from him during their recent growing intimacy. He was a patrician, as she vaguely made him out, a man of wealth, whose family was great. lie belonged among people of gentle birth ana high attainments. She magnified him so that he was diffused in her imagination, as difficult to comprehend as a mist in the morning air —-and as beautiful. “You make fun of me,” she said, very deliberately, letting her eyes droop: then she looked up again suddenly and continued, with a certain naive expression of disappointment gathering in her face. “I have been too free with you. Father Beret told me not to forget my dignity when in your company. He told me you might misunderstand me. I don't care; I shall not fence with you again.” She laughed, hut there was no joyous freedom in the sound. “Why, Alice—my dear Miss Roussillon. you do me a wrong: I beg a thousand pardons if I've hurt you,” he cried, stepping nearer to her. “and I can never forgive myself. You have somehow misunderstood me, I know you have!” <n his part it was exaggerating a mere contact of mutual feelings into a dangerous collision. He was as much self-deceived as was she, and he made more noise about it. “It is you who have misunderstood me,” she replied, smiling brightly now, but with just a faint, pitiful touch of regret, or self-blame lingering in her voice. “Father Beret said you would. I did not believe him; but—”

"And you shall not believe him." *aid Beverley. “I have not misunlerstood you. There has been nothng. You have treated me kindly tnd with beautiful friendliness. You lave not done or said a thing that wither Beret or anybody else could criticise. And if I have said or done he least thing to trouble you, I repudiate it —I did not mean it. Now. vou believe me, don't you. Miss Roussillon?” He seemed to he falling into tb habit of speaking to hT in English. She understood it somewhat imperfectly, especially when in an earnest moment he rushed his words together as if they had been soldiers lie Was leading at the charge-step against an enemy. His manner convinc' and her, ■ven though his diction fell short. “Then we'll talk about something . “lse.” she said, laughing naturally now, and retreating to a chair by the hearthside. “r want you to tell me all about yourself and your f.tinly. your home and everything." She seated herself with an air of conscious aplomb and motioned him to take a distant stool. There was a great heap of dry logs I- n the fireplace. with pointed names shooting out of its crevices and leap ing into the gloomy, cave like throat, of the flew. Outside a wind passed heavily across the roof and bellow and | in the chimney top. Beverley drew the stool near Alice, who, with a’charred stick, used as a poker, was thrusting at the glowing crevices and sending showers of sparks aloft. A hv. there wouldn't be mucji to | tell.” he said, glad to feel secure I again. “Our home is a big old ma nsion named Beverley Hall on a hill among trees, and half surrounded with slave cabins. It overlooks the plantation in the valley where a little liver goes wandering on its way." He was speaking French and she followed him easily now, her eyes beginning to fling out .again their natural sunny beams of interest. "1 was bom there twenty-six years ago and haven’t done much of anything since. You see before you. Mademoiselle, a very undistinguished young man, who has signally failed to accomplish the dream of his boyhood, which was to be a great artist like Raphael or An gelo. Instead of being famous 1 am but a poor lieutenant in the forces of Virginia.” “You have a mother, father, broth ers and sisters?" she interrogated. She did not understand his allusion to the great artists of whom she knew nothing. She had never before heard of them. She leaned the poker against the chimney jamb and turned her face toward him. “Mother, father and otic sister.” he said, “no brothers. We were a happy little group. But my sister mar ied and lives in Baltimore. [ am here. Father and mother are alone in the old house. Sometimes I a.m terribly homesick.” He was silent a moment, then added: “But you are selfish, you make me do all the telling. Now I want you to give me a little of your story, Mademoiselle, beginning ;is I did, at the first.” “But I ean’t," she replied with childlike frankness, “for I don’t know where I was born, nor my parents’ names, nor who I am. You see how different it is with me. I ant called Alice Roussillon, but I suppose that my name is Alice Tarleton; it is not certain, however. There is very littie •n help out the theory. Here is all the proof there is. T don’t know that it is worth anything.” She took off her locket and handed it to him. He handled it rather indifferently, for he was just then studying the fine lines of her face. But in a moment he was interested. “Tarleton. Tarleton,” he repeated. Then he turned the little disc of gold over and saw the enameled drawing on the back —a crest clearly outlined. He started. The crest was quite familiar. “Where did you get this?” he do- ! manded in English, and with such blunt suddenness that she was star- ! tied. “Where did il come from?” “I have always had it.” “Always? It's the Tarleton crest. Do you belong to that family?” “Indeed Ido not know. Papa Roussillon says he thinks I do.” “Well, this Is strange and interest ing.” said Beverley, rather to himself than addressing her. lie looked from the miniature to the crest and back to the miniature again, then a: Alice. “I tell you this is strange.” he re peated with empharis. “It is < a >eea ingly strange.” Her cheeks flushed quickly under their soft brown, and her eyes flashed with excitement. "Yes, I know.” Her voice fluttered; her hands were clasned in he,- e,,.

DOINGS OF THE DUFFS—

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TIIF.\I DAYS IS GONE FOIiEYE.It

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Sin. leaned toward him eagerly. “It is strange. I've thought about it a great deal.” “Alice Tarleton; that Is right; Alien is a name <>£ the family Lady Alice Tarleton was the mother of the Ilrst Sir Harnett Tarleton who came over in the time of Yardiey. It’s a great family. One of the oldest and best in Virginia.” He looked at hbr now with a gaze of concentrated interest, “ \A thu

OUT OUR WAY—By WILLIAMS

THE OLD HOME TOWN—By STANLEY

is romantic!” he exclaimed, "absolutely romantic. And you don't know how you came by this locket? You don’t know who was your father, tour mother?" "1 do not know anything.” “And what does Monsieur Roussillon know?” “Just as little.” “But how came he to be taking you aiid caring for you? He must know UN HIM

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of whom he got you? Surely he knows ” “Oh, I know all that. 1 was 12 years old when Rapa Roussillon took me. * ig!u year;- ago. I had been havi ' !-i Ife and hut for him 1 must have died. I was a captive d..tuiiK me Indians. He took me and has cared for me and taught me. He has been very, very good to' me. I love him dearly.”

Tlie Absentminded Teacher

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“You Milliun-Dullar Dull”

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at all about when, where, how the Indians got you?” “No.” She shook her head and seemed :o he trying to recollect something. 'No. 1 just can’t remember; and yet there lias always been something like a dream in my mind, which 1 could not quite get hoid of. 1 know that I am not a Catholic. I vaguely remember a sweet woman who taught me to pray like this! “Our Father who

FRECKLES AND ILLS FRIENDS—By BLOSSER

OUR BOARDING HOUSE—By AHERN

And Alice went on through the beautiful and perfect prayer, which she repeated in English with infinite sweetness and solemnity, her eyes uplifted, her hands clasped before her. Beverley could have sworn that she was a shining saint and that he saw an aureole. "I know,” she continued, “that sometime, somewhere, to a very dear person that I promised I never, never -wiouid nrav anv prayer but that- And

MONDAY, MARCH 12, 1923

—By ALLMAN

—By AL POSEN

I remember almost nothing else about that other life, which Is far off back : yonder in the past, I don’t know where—sweet, peaceful, shadowy; a dream that I have all but lost from j my mind.” (To Be Continued.) South Africa now furishes about 1 sixty-threa per cent of tha world’* mpply of lntUAfubbag.