Indianapolis Times, Volume 37, Number 29, Indianapolis, Marion County, 13 June 1925 — Page 12

12

CHICKIE

Chiekie (Helena), only daughter of Jonathan and Jennie Bryce, loves Barry Dunne, a young lawyer with Tufts & Lennox. Wealthy Jack Munson, friend of Janina Knowles and Amy Hc-aton tell Chlckie he considers Barry's feeling only a boy's love and that he will be waiting when Barry has jilted her. Ila Moore’s father expects to enrage Barry to represent locally the Gulf Steamship Company of San Francisco, and 11a invites him to tour the world with her party. When Chiekie accuses him of loving Ila, a quarrel follows and he leaves on the trip. In desperation she telegraphs him when she realizes she must endure the consequences of her love. Her parents, ignorant of her plight, favor Jake as a suitor for Chiekie. In Barry’s absence Jimmie Blake renews his attentions. When Barry tells Chiekie he has been married to Ila for two weeks. Chiekie takes the name of Mrs. John Clayton, buys herself a wedding ring and goes to the country home of a widow, Mrs. Agnes Robbins, for a month's vacation. Dorothy Drenden, a hotel clerk at Lancaster, agrees to forward Chickie's mail under her assumed name, The month over, she writes that anew position will keep her away from home for a long time. Her father asks her to come at once, as her mother is ill. GO OX WITH THE STORY By Klenore Meherin | Then Jonathan wrote again: "Well, we didn’t know what to make of It, Chiekie girl, when you ddn’t come and didn’t write. And your mother cried by the hour and that’s not good for her. She s not a bit well though I don’t want to frighten you. I’ve had the doctor and he thinks it’s a touch of pneumonia and her hearCs none so strong. "Please ask them to give you a little time off, Chiekie girl, and run down here to see us. Jennie is in bed and I can lift her now like a baby. She’s gotten thin. Chiekie, your old bad would find it mighty sweet to have you here in these night times —and sitting by the bed. What shall I tell your mother—that you’re coming as soon as the train will take you? Write at once— ’’ . This, too, went under the pillow. Chiekie knelt at the bed, her face buried in her arms. she cried. And she thought that God was hard to her. Doubly hard. Because Jonathan had sent another letter, inclosing it with his. It was from Barry Dunne. He sent her money. He wrote this: "I know you don’t wish to hear from me. I don’t send this to you. But the time must be about over. I can’t endure the thought that it should suffer because of me. It will suffer no matter what is done now, but you haven’t the right, because of contempt for me, to make it any harder. I will send more regularly if you will let me know.” No named signed—no greeting given. If anything on the green, sad earth could make her feel more alone, more desolate, It was that line from him she had so loved She took a plain envelope and put the bills—s2s0 —in this and sealed it. Then she put it in her trunk and trembled. The child was his—his, too —the pain all hers She walked into the room, holding his letter in her hand, feeling it like scalding in her mind. Suddenly she laughed. Ho—free—she had been free —ever so 'free. She had been glad—oh, joyous days on the river—oh, happy, long hours under a tree. And she had laughed—daring life to corner her! Life had taken her dare. But not Janina’s —not Amy Heaton's—nqt even Marjorie Abbott's. y But if they could eat their fruit as she was eating hers. Oh, if they could aste ihe ashen bitterness. She stoppel, e xhausted. * * * mONATHAN’S letter remained unanswered two days. Then came another... Swift, commanding frantic In its prayer: "Chiekie, girl, come now! Jennie is sinking. Leave everything and come. Your mother is out of her mind, calling for you. She’s taken this sudden turn. Pray God to help us. I don’t know what to do or what to say to her. Send me a telegram. Don’t waste a moment.” And Chiekie, shaken from head to foot crept up the steps to her. room. She closed the door, locked it. Then she raced into the closet pulled down her coat, pulled down a black silk cape. Oh, she would go—rush down to them—brazen it out—Hing her arim about Jennie’s neck, whisper and see the dear, faded eyes grow bright again. She pulled on the cape and stood

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before the mirror, her eyes dilated — almost a "radness lighting them. She draped the cape boldly, flung her head up! Her face grew leaden even watch Ing it, and the coldness of her hands went into her blood. Go down to little Jennie —rush in on her—kill her with a glance—how Jonathan in anguish! Oh, yes! Go home like this —their pretty angel! Come to them as such! Oh —break their hearts and walk on them! Better that Jennie go from her In peace; better that Jennie paw, thinking her sweet, thinking her so white and dear— Chiekie leaned against the mirror. She pressed her face against the glass. She "God, let me die! Oh —if there is a God, let me die.'” She called up her friend, tee telephone operator at the hotel, asking her to send this wire: “Jonathan, darling—don’t let Jennie sink! I'm coming! The very quickiest I can. -I won't lose a minute. Oh—if you let her sink I’ll never get over It! I may be delayed, because I have a terribly sprained ankle, and I can't walk on It. Wire me if she gets any worse.” A week passed. There was no further word. Os course—why. he thought she was on her way to them—he thought his letters wouldn't reach her— Time went with slothful feet. It trampled heavily upon her. A week longer—oh—she had but a week longer—if only }t might come on time—that little —that very little could be granted her! Even as she asked for this, Dorothy Wreden phoned from the hotel. She had telegram. “Jennie is dying. Chiekie-- what keeps you? You may not see your mother again. Come now or you will he too late. Hire machines—but get here!” Chiekie ran into the field. She went down to the river, the dog bounding at her side. She caught his head and rocket it wildly in her hands. Tears were flames on her face. She said: “I’m killing her —mother —oh God!” She leaned her back against a tree—misletoe trailed in her hair. She kept saying, “God! God!” And she ran up and down. She flung herself against the earth. Wildie licked the wetness from her face. j That night the child was born.

CHAPTER 101 Chickie’s Wire S*— “■"I HE lay on the pillows, her eyes closed. And she didn't look at the child and didn’t want it in her arms. She lay there. Knives, sharp and flashing’, went piercing through her brain. Her brain said to her: “She's dead—you'll never see her now—never. You wouldn’t go—would you—” She saw her mother witn the plump, gentle hands crossed on her breast. They were cold hands, and Jennie’s face was still. She had failed them. She was the one who had caused all this. Now Jonathan was alone—a stricken soul and robbed of all he had—even of her —his golden child^ ChicKle turned. She murmured: “Mother—oh, Jennie!’’ Then Agnes Robbins came and put the baby in her arms. “A little girl, Merle. Pretty— look at it—” A girl—but she didn't want a girl to stand so blithely at a mirror; to laugh a high, clear laugh because her heart was gay. Oh—at the last she prayed and prayed that it would be a son. So easy for a man! Agnes smoothed the covers. “Look at it - . Merle” Then Chickie did. A moan quivered from the depths of aching memory. Hair—the baby had hair, his hair —a red-gold fldss curling tight and thick over the small head. Chickie had never seen hair on a baby before. Lucy's children and Mary’s were all bald. She lowered her head that Agnes might not see her chin: her lips that twisted so. Then she touched the baby’s hair—lightly ran her fingers over it. She wept and brought the tiny face into the cradle of her arm —in a great pity—in a sheltering loyalty. She said: “Poor little thing —oh—poor little thing.” Hers—only hers—she leaned down and kissed its forehead. It lay so quiet. It opened its eyes and seemed to look right at her. Then its eyes were closed; the littli weazened face unmoved. She heard Agnes speaking to the doctor. She held her breath in fear. Agnes said: ‘You'll take her to the hospital now, doctor?” “Better not.” She caught a word here and there—“ Weak—l wouldn’t take the risk ” 1 A momentary gladness filled her. Safe —oh, she was safe here. The mad pain she had endured was not in vain. She had locked the door of her room, ground her hands together, wondering with each new, tearing shock that anyone could suffer so and live. Only when her senses seemed leaving her; when the wildness of torment was splitting her body in two had she called

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1 Jonathan and Jennie still plead for her return;

Agnes. When the doctor arrived the baby was born —here, on the farm — as she had so fervently determined. And they wouldn’t move her now —too weak. Agnes went quietly about the room. She took the baby and put it in a basket, leaning down and for a long while searching its face. Agnes shook her head—an almost imperceptible movement. Chlckie saw this distantly as in another world. Then she slept. She had a dream. Someone stood at a door. It was he. Then he came over and knelt at the bed. He took her hand and kissed it. She felt his lips along her arm. He was saying something. He seemed to be crying, and she had to lean over to catch the words. They were these: ‘Chiekie—ah—you thought I .wouldn’t come—you thought that, Dhickie? You were blaming me. But I didn’t know.” She answered with a faint laugh: “Oh—they told me you were married —” But he stooped down then and raised her in his arms. She noticed for the first time that he heiJ the child and her—both of them — • • • S r HE awakened shaking mumbling. Then she saw the makeshift cradle and gave a sharp, tortured cry. Emily Farls, the stout, gossipy woman who had come from a neighboring farm to ac* as nurse, hurried to the bed. She brought a cup and said to Chiekie: "Drink this, girlie—you’ll feel be’ter." Chiekie said: "Where is Agnes Robbins?’’ "Sleeping.” And Mrs. Faris carried the baby and laid it at her side. Mrs. Faris said: ”It has lovely hair—if it stays that way—” Chiekie answered: “It lies so quiet, It must he asleep.” “No —but it’s weak —it’s a weak little thing—don’t bother —it won’t nurse. It doesn't need anything for a day or so—” She put it back to the basket and began to talk in a monotonous, ambling way. Her children were such strapping infants. They were lively from the start. This little one was a. delicate mite—of course it might thrive —it might get along— She kept on like that. Chiekie said: “What t'.me is it?” “Five o’clock— ’’ Five hours till the mail came. Would there be another message. Suddenly Chiekie asked: "Can I get up tomorrow?” “No—indeed! Though there are some that do. I never took more than four days at my worst. Then I was about, sound as a nut.” Chiekie turned her face—pretended to sleep. She said again and again to her thought, “A little girl—mine—oh—” Each time her thought shuddered. Then she said. "The fourth day—wait that long Finally she slept. Now she had another dream. It was of her father. He was opening a window —flinging it wide. He was shouting: "Chiekie—come —!” And she was running. But she had no breath to answer. When finally the words did reach her lips, the window was banged down a shadow, massive and black, heaped behind It. And the shadow was Jonathan. He too was dead • • • 1 ONES ROBBINS bent over her: and now a wintry sun was In the room. "Dearie— you’re all right. The baby is all right.”

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Chiekie began to cry. She pressed her face in the pillows. Agnes stroked her hair. "Don’t cry, dearie.” , “It seems so strange. Oh—l wish my mother was here ” “Yes —yes ” “Did any mail come for me?” “None ” ’lhen Agnes, too brought over the child. All day she seemed to be doing till'-. It lay still and didn’t cry. It seemed to sleep. The more she looked at it, the more she pitied it. Once when she was alone in the room Chlckie raised it so that its tiny face was close against her neck and she whispered—"oh—ho—” She held it like this a long while. Then she stared at its face. And she was wondering what this little thing would say—oh, some day when it learned to know—how would it look at her. She brought its lips to hers and kissed them. Mrs. Faris urged her to sleep. She wouldn’t. She was afraid of her dreams. On the third day she asked Agnes to phone to Dorothy Wreden if there was a telegram for Mrs. Clayton. But there was none. This silence appalled her. It was like the touch of death. And she got up and stood at the bed. She said to herself: .“I'm strong—l feel all right!” Perspiration stood on her forehead. They came in and mi.de her get back and lie quietly. Agnes said: "You must keep your strength for the little one. She’ll need it." For the baby was quiet—all day it lay with its eyes shut—and it scarcely nursed at all. Chiekie had the basket brought near the bed. She spent the time looking at it. She liked to touch its hair. A strange fancy had taken possession of her. She had idea that she took the baby home and no one was surprised. And Jonathan raised it in his great arms and chuckled. She thought this as she looked at it. Why—oh. they might. The tenderness in her grew. Poor little thing—like she was—alone. And she wanted to guard It—save it The fourth day she said to Agnes Robbins: "I want to sit up.” She insisted. So they let her. She said: "I feel wonderful. Did any mall come for me?" None. In the afternoon Billie brought a message from Old Lady Arlett. She was dying. Someone ought to go and be with her. Because Chlckie seemed so well. Agnes went. She would stay till the poor, lone soul passed. The moment she was gone Chiekie said to Mrs. Faris: "I'd like a little chicken. Will you fry me some?” . When the woman was in the kitchen Chiekie stole to the phone. But a strange voice answered her. Dorothy Wreden was oft for the afternoon. Chlckie said in a mu ed voice: “Is there any message fi 'lrs. John Clayton?” No.” "I expected a telegram. Perhaps you have one for Helena Bryce?” "Oh, yes—l didn’t know where to send it. One came a few hours ago.”

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And the girl read to her: “Mother won’t last through the night. In God’s name, hurry. Jonathan." She said to the girl: “Send an answer to that. Say: ‘Coming. I'll be there tonight. Chiekie.’ ” (To Be Continued) (CopyTig-ht. King- Feature Syndicate)

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