Indianapolis Times, Volume 37, Number 92, Indianapolis, Marion County, 17 August 1925 — Page 12

12

LnluJvlD

The Sequel to

Chickie i Helena) is the only daughter ot Jonathan and Jennie Bryce of Indianapolis To start life anew after her child dies and Barry Dunne her sweetheart, jilts her to marry wealthy Ila Moore. Chickie goes to Chicago for employment. Sarah Dillon, the Abbott sisters Amy Heaton. Stella Wilson. Mary Blake McPike. Janina Knowles and wealtny Jake Munson are Chickie s home-town friends. Jimmia Blake, a childhood sweetheart w o still loves Chickie, accepts a position in Honolulu. Chickie goes to the home of her employer, Norp WUlman. as companion for his daughter Barbara. Lee. his son. loves Chickie. Myra King recognizes Chickie and tells their sister Edith (Mrs. Dirks Potter) of her past life. Edith orders Chickie to Pave and Lee attempts suicide when Chickie confirms the story. Chickie returns home with her parents and begins training as a nurse. Jake givesXlhiekie time to consider his proposal of marriage. Kenneth Harmon, young interne, discards his fiancee. Edith Unoerwood, for Chickie. When Miss Simonds. through Edith, learns of Chickie's past life, she Bromptlv expels her. but because of r. David Ramm Chickie is cordially received at another hospital b.v Mrs. Ellis. Elizabeth Pruett. Chickie's new roommate 's grave and precise. At a concert with Dr Ramm. Chickie again meets Barry and his wife, whom Dr. Ramm know. Mrs Bardell, his aunt, tells Chickie that a girl of her reputation will affect the prestige of her brilliant nephew She .writes Jake of the bitterness in her heart. He takes it as a summons. Dr. Ramm tries to pry from Chickie her reason for refusing his company, now GO ON WITH THE STORY

By Ellnore Meherin She gave him a swift glance of appeal: Oh, no—not that. But that I don't want to go now, I see things differently—” "Well—l don't. I see them as I did before. Did anything happen at the hospital?” — ll "Who said anything then? What made you all of a sudden see the light?” “Nbthlng and no one—oh, really —just my own eyes—” ‘Then we’ll go for a ride. That’ll be all right, won’t it —” She bit her lips.. He repeated: "We can do that." "No—” “Then it’s I you're agamst, is it? I'm the thing to be eliminated and not the concert? Is that it?” No forcing of her will would bring forth such a confirmation. She said only: “I have to do this —oh. really. I have to.”

CHAPTER LXXIV. , Two Men P HE looked at his hand holdI I ing hers; its pressure touched 1 I her heart. He saw by the pallor of her face that she was overwrought; that she was not goinrto speak, yet he said: “You have not told me the truth, Helena. Has any fault been found with your work at the hospital?” “No —none —” “Something has happened, though. Are you going to force me to believe in your good reasons without telling them?” She set a flickering smile against his warm, insistent look: “Yes — well you see, my dear friend David, you have done so much for me already—perhaps you don't know how much. So you do this, too. Can’t you? It is the greatest kindness you can do to me —it really is—" She sat with her hands clasped in that attitude of sad, gentle acquiescence that had once so stirred the hot, impetuous youth of one man: the warm exultant passions of another and now was waking to flame the spirit of David Ramm. He kept hold of her hands—he kept looking at her face as though there dwelt here before him a pallid gold and white the spirit of beauty. That image of her profile, palely cut, went Into his mind like an etching. It was before him that night when he read the book and learned or thought he learned why she cried. She was once the girl. Eliza with the transparent and beautiful dream of a love ineffably pure and enduring. And she cried because her dream was lost: so pitifully and irrevocably lost. He could see her closed eyes with the tears on her lashes. In this new light he wondered about* her and about the man she had loved. It occurred to him sharply that she might still love this man. Perhaps this was the reason she wept, and this was the reason she asked for solitude. The thought made him vaguely impatient . . . and he wondered where the man might be what sort he was, forsaking her so. For it came to him now with a certainty that Chickie had given to this other in trust —30 the man was bound in any kind of honor to marry her— A moment later he dismissed this idea—killing to be doomed to a marriage of this kind—far better to be deserted if the love had not endured — - * So she was not regretting the man. but the lost ideals. This explained the poignant sadness often on her mouth. Watching her now he read into all her expressions this wistful regret. But it did not explain the sudden and drastic decision she made. And kept. She was determined about . and would not even riae wih him. He said to her: “You’re a foolish little thing! Oh, you’re a silly little fanatic—aren’t you?” She thought by this that he was making very light of It and she was oddly dismayed. “How long Is the exile to last?” She aid with a studied flippance. "Oh. this, you know, is the day of Indeterminate sentences. So I can't just tell —” y "But when a man is sentenced he always knows for why. When am I to be told the nature of my offense?” She colored so painfully that he did not Insist. He would wait his time. He would learn—well, he wanted to know about her. • • • mN a manner, commonplace enough, yet remarkable, the facts he sought were given him. He was called out of town on a consultation. And it happened that the afternoon he was leaving he met Chickie at the hospital he told her of this. The simple announcement came with the force of a blow. She was instantly confused and stammered: \*Oh—yes— are you? Will you be gone long?” "Three of four days, perhaps. I've arranged to look over some research of a classmate of mine. He’s done some good work." She said faintly: “That must be Dr Robert Emerson, isn’t it?” "Yes —do you know him*’’ She nodded# feeling that hands

pressed her bowing to the earth. Why did . she say that! Why had she spoken! But she went on: “Yes —I know Dr. Emerson quite well —” “You do? Well —he's a good fellow. Now, goodby. Miss!” His eyes were winning: “I hope you miss me. There’s a concert the night I return or something, and listen, you mere nurse! I'm taking you. You’ve had your way—we’ll see about mine. . . She scarcely heard—for there was a ringing and a fog in her brain. He would say to Dr. Emerson: “Oh, by the way—you know Helena Bryce—nurse—” And Dr. Emerson would be astounded. He would talk of her. Then David would hear it all . . . even of the inquest and of all the charges that were brought— Hours and hours after he left her thoughts pressed upon her, warm and faint. They frightened her. Why should she care if he learned it all? Didn’t she want this? Didn’t she wish to be left alone? Hadn’t she deliberately sought to eliminate him? Os course— Yet a thousand times she saw Dr. Emerson’s large, Intelligent face —then David’s so sallow and strongly cut, yet with its vital and winning eyes. He would be repulsed learning all this of her. He would wish ne\er to look at her again— She dreaded the thought of his return: and dreaded again the thought of his remaining there. But she said to herself: “He knows already—of course, he does! Why does he suppose I had to leave?” This didn't, reassure her. For it would be different when he learned all the details and how she had sneaked of to a ranch house and worn a wedding ring and pretended to be married and lied so much and then at last running away and carrying the child dead to the doctor — Oh—he might even wonder about that and just how the child had died. Others did— What if he did? But if he should come and ask her about it? If he should do that? She would never speak. She would turn from him —let him think anything he wished. An overpowering melancholy stole upon her. She had a feeling that the world was now swept entirely clean, even of friendships—as far as she was concerned. She said to herself and smiled ironically: “I should have a mission in the world—l should think of others —” She wrote this in a breezy strain to Jake, bringing in, as she was accustomed to do, all her experiences in the hospital. She said she had decided to open a foundling asylum—- “ For you know, Jake, getting born is really the start of all the trouble In the world. And we ought to begin at the start. Now I will tell you of a sad case because It will make you happy to hear of this, and hospitals are full of such cases. Well, two babies were born here in this last week. One had a birthmark all over Its cheek and if I were the mother I’d just have thanked all the sweet angels In heaven when it died. But its mother wasn't that kind. She is crying all day about it. And being aa I am a tender, charitable soul I bethought me of a way to ease her grief. It was most otherwise, my solution. For you must also know that there was this other baby, and I'm not quite sure about the mother, except that she doesn’t like the child and didn’t want it and makes it live on a bottle, which isn’t the proper caper. Anyway, the father has only come twice and then he said to me: ‘Never mind about the baby—l’ll see it later —' He hasn't looked at it, and the rpother is always asking me about having children adopted. So you see—do you? “Well —I thought it would be quite coquettish to give this baby to the mother who wants hers so much. And I said to the girl who won’t nurse hers: ‘Suppose I take little Anna into another patient of mfne and let her stay there 3. while because her baby died and she’s broken-hearted.’ “The mother said: ‘Sure, kiddo! Go as far as you like —’ I felt very glib, as you may imagine, and went into the room, just pretending to be passing. The mother whose baby died almost jumped out of the bed. She yelled ‘Take it out of here! Take it out!’ “And that’s what a dear, kind heart the world has! And all trouble begins when we’re born. “But really, Jake, isn’t It frightful to make a criminal of a baby right from the start. That’s what we and call it a criminal because it got born. In my asylum that will not be! No, indeed. Now what do, •/ou think of my idea? For I may ask you for $7 to lay the corner stone. Will you give it. kind sir?” Jake wrote back to her —the longest letter he had ever written. 'ln it was thto paragraph . . . “What Is the matter with you and what all has happened. Helena, dear? I

Puzzle a Day

[TTH In\_y

Cut up this six into various parts and rehssemble them into a right angle triange, using every single bit of the original number. Last puzzle answer: In 1830 there were 8,450 postal stations, in 1923 there were 51,613 (or 8450 times 6 equals 50,70,0 plus 913 equals 51,613). Also, 8 plus 4 tlus 5 plus 0 equals 17, while 5 plus ‘l plus 6 plus 1 plus 3 equals 16, or 1 more than 17.

Dr. Ramm Learns All the Details of Chickie’s Child’s Birth and Death.

Read — GLORIA Better than CHICKIE Beginning Aug. 20

cannot let you grow so sad. For you are, and I read it between the lines of ail your letters. What are you keeping from your old friend, Jake? Don’t do that, Helena. And as for your foundling asylum—start it whenever you like, since I’m to be the papa of it. Go to it. I'm coming back, Helena, my darling, to help you In this or in anything you want —so you give your hand and your golden heart to me— I’ll be home and having you this day week —so that’s that and never say me nay!” CHAPTER LXXV Tlie Great Call mT HAPPENED even as Chickie feared. David was passing with Dr. Emerson down the main street. Before the drug store were three or four wooden chairs, occupied by the portly and ths politically inclined. A burly fellow, with a great bull neck and a slouch hat pulled slantwise, accosted them with a menacing glance from large, slothful eyes. Emerson said: “Hello, Larry.” The other mumbled some inarticlulate answer and spat out a great wad of tobacco, just grazing their feet and making both of them step quickly. David growled: “Hell of a way your friends'greet you!” Emerson laughed: “Small town for you. That’s Mitford. Used to be coroner; lost out in the last election and blames me.” v How so?” “Got himself in wrong in a girl case some years ago. The town went against him. He tried to get me for signing the baby’s death certificate. He’s been down and out ever since.” David repeated carelessly: “Girl case?” He recalled at once the rumors he had heard and Chickie’s confused admission: “I know, Dr. Emerson. Yes! Quite well—” He waited with an abnormal anxiety for the details. “Yes, the baby died. No question about it. I attended the girl. It was'a very unusual case.” Again David repeated: “Unusual? Aren’t they all alike?” “Not this one. By the way, the girl came from Indianapolis. Well connected down there. Munson knew her and sent a lawyer to defend her....” David said laboriously: “Helena Bryce?” “You know of it?” He nodded heavily: “Yes —somewhat. She’s in training at the hospital.” “You don’t tell me! Went back and faced it, did she? She had the goods. I knew It. A damn shame —the whole thing was.” “You attended Ijer—did you see much of her?” “Well—she was around here five or six months, I believe. Had everyone buffaloed. I never gave the question of her marriage a second thought. She seemed very quiet and superior.” David interrupted harshly. “That’s possible, isn’t it? What was the mixup over the death? Why the inquest—months later?” Then Emerson told him and thinking that David knew far more than W did sketched a heartening picture of that blustery day in January when Chickie came with tne dead child in her arms, the dog following her. How white and beaten she was; how she cried out when he said the child was gone; how she gave money for the burial, even for a stone above the grave. • * • R. EMERSON said: “I’ve never forgotten it. She waa i. . quite a beautiful girl. Her mother was dying. It was a pitiful affair all the way through—” David turned his head: “Did the man show up? Did anyone know of him?” “She wouldn’t tell. They couldn’t cuff or threaten it out of her. Wonderful the way she's stuck It out. I heard afterwards—l believe it was old Nickev told me, that it was some young lawyer— they were engaged; had been going around for years. Some trouble or quarrel came up and he dashed off to New York and got married. I believe the second girl was wealthy— ’’ “Didn’t other people know? Didn’t they stand by her?” “They didn't know. No one knew until Mitford sent down and had her brought back here by the sheriff months after the whole thing was over . . . ” David doubled his fists. So this was Helena’s story— He sat In a room of Dr. Emerson’s home that night and reviewed it. He scratched up pad after pad of Emerson’s prescription blanks — then he stood at the window and smoked. Chickie's face, with soft, fair hair done low at her neck, and her slim, delicate, white hands, were before him. He kept seeing her eyes, so deep and beautiful, as she turned suddenly in a way she had, and asked: “What now, Mr. David?” He became bitterly uncomfortable : —tossed away a cigaret, then another. He was conscious of a maddening desire to rush down to the city and look at her—learn if her face was the same as when he left—if she might smile. The picture Emerson had drawn of her running along in the wind, carrying the child, laying it dead on the table, grew vivid as though he had seen it. Or as though it were but yesterday the tragedy had happened and he should hurry to her. offer comfort— In the back of his mind a voice said to him: ‘I love her—” It caught him with a dull shock. He would not hear It. But he became feverish with his unrest; with his

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

eagerness to return—speak to her—see her — He decided finally to read —and forced the concentration that rarely failed him. After'an hour he grew impatient; after two hours he tossed the book aside — So they were engaged and were to have been married; and the fellow ditched her—the damned skunk— The violence of his contempt tempered immediately. Good thing he did—much better — Suddenly he remembered the letter Chickie had written terminating their friendship; cancelling all her dates and that pathetic doom she had pronounced on herself: “From now on I must give myself to the work and to that alone. It is a better thing for me to do-—” , From now on! All her life she must go alone! Well —must she! And there was again this judgment: “We should be brave —oh, anyway, to take the consequences we ourselves have courted. We should be glad to suffer if this is what we need to make us strong—David—you believe this—you do?” It ran along his nerves now in a piercing way. She had sat forward in the car, her face uplifted, the beauty of the night no holier than her look. He would leave in the morning. He would leave early. He would go at once and see her. He would put his arm about her. Again the voice in his mind whispered: “You love her —you love her —” What if he did! What about it? He sat with his arms folded on th’e book. Suppose he did love her. His affair —nobody else’s. Faces took shape and filed before him. He viewed them with a chill irony—faces of women and girls he knew —lifted brows —curled lips —things that would be said — And why? Because ’of this pitiful affair that had come''lnto her life? Because of this, she was not to be loved? Then he summoned Chickie’s form and her face into this group—he contrasted her with these others. There was Marsha Newlands. Marsha was a good sort—handsome in a way. She dabbled idly in art and cocktail. At every dinner she had some potent new mixture to offer. She could outdrink any two men. But Marsha had money; she talked with a posy brilliance of compiunism and fraternity. She was a friend of eminently respectable people. His sister thought highly of Marsha —she had social prestige. That would be a nice marriage for David. It had been urged upon his attention. There was Gladys Ross —a demure little vampire who wore her coal black hair bobbed with thin curlicues pasted to her cheek-bones. Well, it was fun to pass an hour with Gladys—more than an hour was utter boredom. Her tongue rattled along, echoing, repeating. If Gladys had ever thought a thought—ever experienced an honest emotion, it left no trace on mind or heart— There was Dulcie Hartwick—stepdaughter and protege of Emily Burdell—a distant aunt of his. Dulcie was a sweet- little flapper with a cool million in her own right. She rather adored him—and blushed and used to say: “David, I think you’re just too awful —you swear so!” And she expected him ,to roar at that. Whenever he called on his aunt—rarely enough, > Dulcie took a rose and made him stoop down while she put it in his buttonhole. She would purse her lips and say: “There, now, ain’t that sweet?” Because he knew she wanted him to kiss her —he never did —he thought her quite ridiculous . . . But Emily lauded her to the skies. Think of that fortune. What does a brilliant man want with an intellectual wife? It would be a wonderful marriage. He would establish himself securely in society. The eyes of the world would smile upon it. And when the door of his own home closed? Well—such a trifle to consider! Then Chickie stood in line with these others. He saw her sitting in the garden of the little cottage, saw the mighty Jonathan —the blushing and uncertain mother — But he saw Chickie’s sac her eyes. He heard her voice— Does a maji love in order to please the world —or to have them approve his choice? Does he marry to win his own happiness; to meet his own mate? Get up early in the morning and race down . . . Chickie’s face remained —all the others faded. (To Be Continued) (Copyright. King Feature Syndicate)

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