Indianapolis Times, Volume 37, Number 309, Indianapolis, Marion County, 28 April 1926 — Page 12

PAGE 12

SANDY

SANDY McNEIL, in love ■with life, marries BEN MURILLO, riiii Italian, to please her impoverished family. Tyranny by Murillo and frequent quarrels follow. A son dies at birth. 808 MrNEIL, her uncle, aids in plans for Sandy and her mother to take a trip to Honolulu. There she meets RAMON WORTH, who saves her life in the surf. On the same steamer home he declares his love.. Murillo says he will never release her. JUDITH MOORE, a cousin, tells Sandy love is everything'. Murillo over takes lier as she goes ior a tryst with Ramon. She leaves his house and accepts the kindly attentions of Ramon, whoso home she shares. She goes homo when she learns her mother is very ill. Sandy'* mother tiles and Sandy goes to live with her cousin, Judith, after parting with Ramon. DOUGLAS KEITH, the man whom Judith loves, introduces his friend. HAL HUME, to Judith. He, himself, falls in love with Sandy, who reciprocates his affection. This leaves •Tudith heart-broken. GO ON WITH THE STORY CHAPTER LXXXII Sandy sat at her typewriter after aJI the other girls in the office were gone. “Are you doing that brief. Mrs. Murillo? It can go till the morning. I’m driving out your way.” Dick Carlson, the quiet, junior member of the firm, stopped at Sandy’s desk. “I’m staying in town this evening, so I. thought I might as well finish it.” “I can’t drive you home, then?” “Not tonight.” ' He loitered as though he had much to say. Sandy typed with all her speed, whistling softly. But the moment she was alone, this gaiety dropped from her: "My last night,” she told herself, her throat dry and hot. “Our last night.” She leaned her elbows on the typewriter, touched the tips of her fingers to her parted lips. She saicl to herself with a soft, harsh laugh: “I suppose this is the way a man feels in the death chamber —the night before the gallows.” Then she went in to the dressing room, washed her hands a long time. She smoothed the powder over her nose and noticed with a peculiar, rhelancholy satisfaction that she looked wistful and lovely. "If I were really honest I’d want to look hideous so that he would not regret me.” She pushed at her nails: “I’ve got to do it....l'm going to do It.” * * It was the night before Thanksgiving. Years ago in the old home, they would be sitting in the kitchen, Isabel preparing the turkey; Alice taking the plum pudding from the great pot where it had steamed all day: Sandy on a box reaching her mother's wedding china from the topmost shelves; Madeline’s children running in and out, banging all the doors. How often one of them had dashed perilously near as Sandy cautiously stepped from the box. And ’ how often she had impatiently thought: “Lord, I’ll be glad to get out of this bedlam!” Picturing herself sitting to a holiday dinner in state, waited upon, some gallant lover turned husband but no whit less adoring, sitting opposite. If someone had said to her that she would yet be so lonely she would hunger for the confusion of the old home; if someone said that on a Thanksgiving day she would be practically without a home, without a future, without the right even to hope for love, she would have laughed mockingly. Suddenly she remembered that it was Thanksgiving day, four years ago, that Ben Murillo spoke for her hand. He had presented himself, in his ceremonious way, to Angus, and he had stayed to dinner. As though it were but yesterday, Sandy recalled her excitement, her Insolent audacity. “Spiffy,” she had thought, to be courted by this dreamy-eyed aristocrat, thinking no more of the marriage than she did of the end of the world. There came a picture of herself at ID, badgered by her mother and the two married sisters. How annoyed they were when she spoke of waiting for a love that would sweep her to a flame-lit heaven in its ecstaey. She should be* ashamed to have such thoughts. How smug was their relief when at last they were able to force her hand because of that pitiful night in the hillside cabin. * * * She> reviewed this now In a shiver-

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by ELENORE MEHERIN, Author of “C HIC KIE”

ing quiet, wondering at her own fate. It did po good to tell herself she had been vain, weak, blind. Other girls at 19 were equally so. No blight came to them. All that had happened seemed the will of a relentless fate overtaking her as a storm does the bewildered, unsuspecting traveler. Stories she had read of reincarnation filtered to her mind. What sin had she committed in another life that she was punished now? Perhaps she had misused a great happiness; perhaps she had flouted love and must learn through borrowing deprivation to cherish it; wait for it as Judith did, as for some sacred revelation. But surely the wretchedness of her life with Murillo amply paid for the error of her marriage. She didn't deserve to atone for that with the rest of her years. She argued thus as though unseen judges passed sentence, which she fought against accepting. Why, at 22, was she standing here in this dressing room, her teeth chattering because of the thing she had now to do? With all her breezy, joyous temperament why should she be doomed to lonely repression all the days of her life? And be compelled to give up the one great, fine thing that had ever come to her; giving up this love so piercing and so sweet—her first and only love. Yes—the first and only one. She insisted on this, putting from her the thought of Ramon. “I’m not belittling him!” she now challenged with hot, defiant eyes, refusing to admit to her consciousness the flood tide of regret that could easily have rushed upon her. No—,all that was generous' and kind in him deserved gratltlde. She would always feel it. In that cruel hour when she had gone stumbling up the road to hide in the bushes, he had come like a prince and championed her. There was tenderness* and beauty in their relatiop. Now, though she would so gladly ha\ o wiped the whole episode away, she would not deny this. She hoped fervently that Ramon was happy. He had married, perhaps, that girl who was like herself. Ho had found the love he was so capable of treasuring. She wouldn’t shame him or herself with remorse. Ail this she thought grimly. And she now told the white, pathetic image of horsolf trying to smile there in the mirror: “I'm not crying over anything. What's done is did.” Ah. but what she felt for Ramon was never love! Call it loneliness, call it need, call It the mere flush of joy that comes because of great ami unearned kindness in another, but it was not this surge and singing in the heart; it was not this wish to laugh and cry because another s eyes looked so; not this wish to faint because of a happiness too great to bear. This that she felt for Douglas was was love, tender and complete. A hint of it she had known in her feelin; for Timmy. IVmglos was but another glorified Timmy with an equal sweetness, a richer charm, and underneath, a dogged strength that made him dominant with his attraction; that made her, Sandy, the breezy insolent one, humble’ and eager to please. • • * This was their last night together. Judith said she could only break ,lls lifo in two. Much easier to kill her own heart! A Sandy, hysterically gay. now went to meet him. "I’ll wait till after dinner. I’ll wait till we’ve driven out to somo dark, secluded spot. Then he can’t look at me—then I can’t see his face. Then I’ll tell him.” But when they had driven down the beach and turning off Kloat boulevard, were parked in the trees —the tall, delicate trees holding eternal concourse about that lake where the Boy Scouts have their encampment—when they were parked here they had to watch the moon, part giiazy silver drapes, enter the .sapphire sky; they had to watch the ►tarry Venus outshine so many other lights. Then Sandy said: “I’ll wait till he kisses me—just once. I’m entitled to that.” When it came; when he stooped with a soft: "Well, seraphic one!” and ever so sweetly put his lips on hors, she closed her eyes. She thought “a little longer!” Bjlt sudenly she reached her hands to his face; she looked In his fine, hazel eyes now winking and glowing at her. He thought her so lovely— so wronged yet so lovely. He would make up to her for all that suffering, She had borne It so bravely, with a high, laughing heart. Even Jude wasn’t any stronger. This was his thought of her. Sandy knew this, she was the pluckiest thing running -away in the night alone, getting a job. But if he learned that she wasn’t brave like that—hadn’t gone alone— She looked away from those eyes. She said faintly :"This is our last night. Douglas. We’re not to see each other again/* “How so? M “Oh a flippant gesture: "Flirtations end—’tis the way of all flesh'" Tou’ve not been flirting with me Sandy?” “Yes. that’s the kind of a person 1 aih.” Ho took lier hands down and held

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them: “Y'ou think I fall for that? Why are your lips so white? Why have you such a queer look in your eyes?” Then she told him—with quick, altering breath she swept away his fine illusion of her, made him see the weakling that she was. And all she had been to Ramon. (To Be Continued.)

A New Writer Ksther Forbes, whose first novel, “O Genteel Lady” has just been published by Houghton Mifflin Company, comes to authorship not unaware of the responsibilities and consequent renunciations of peace of mind that are involved. For four years she has been with me editorial department of a leading publishing house, resigning her position only recently to give her time to writing. Her novel is an evocation (if the gentler days of the 1850's, though the heroine is as rebelllously alive as any flapper of today.

“SANDY” 1

THU LN HIAN APOLiS TIMES

Barrymore Confesses He Loved His Mustache

By Walter I). Hickman In the early acting days of John Barrymore, the actor was very proud of his own mustache. Ho had the idea that said mustache was necessary for his success as a comedy actor. It was not until Edward Sheldon came to Barrymore and told him he should play tragic roles, not comedy. John now admits in public print that he supposed lie might try it and that he ‘‘could paste down my mustache.” He admits ‘‘My first thought was not of what I might do in the serious parts, but that a great many Berious parts might require me to make the sacrifice of my mustache. To me, then, this seemed a thing not to be too lightly parted from.” But John did do serious parts. You will run up against this human confession in John Barrymore's own book. “Confessions of an Actor," Just published by Bobbs-Merrill of this city, selling at $2.50. So many of these books by noted players give me the feeling that a secretary arranged and even collected the data, and that a press agent might have had a hand In the actual writing. Not so with the confessions of Jack Barrymore. He talks to the reader as if he were a long-time and un-

SALESMAN SAM—By SWAN

BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES—By MARTIN

FRECKLES AND II IS FRIENDS—By BLOSSER

WKKKI.Y HOOK REVIEW.

derstanding friend. He gets chummy, human in these confessions. Because one finds this intimate and human thing in Barrymore’s confessions, is the very reason that the world will have confidence in what the actor-author has to say. It is probably the most unconventional hook ever written by an actor. And, being so. it is probably the truest of ’em all. More Confessions Barrymore is today considered one of the big successes on the stage and his real love for the movies lias made him one of the brightest stars on the screen. And the truth is that Jack didn’t want to be an actor. In his own words: “....I mean to be frank in these confessions, and 1 might as well state early in them that I didn't want to be an actor. I wanted to boa painter. I left the stage to study at art schools, and I only went back to the theater because there ig. hope—at least money —sos the bad actor. The Indifferent painter usually starves.” And- you will love these words of Barrymore: ‘‘....As a boy I was. I think, a little more fruitful In untruth than my contemporaries. Also, I went In for theft. I stole my grandmother's jewel/ and hid them ... .Before this I had pilfered money from the other members of the family, in such small amounts that suspicion was not aroused. I care-

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fully hoarded it till I had enough to buy a rosary for a symmetrical lady in Philadelphia, many years my senior, with whom I fancied myself in love. What strange in roads religion makes into the minds of the young!” Again he confesses: “....The only part that I have ever played that is always fresh to me is Hamlet. It is such a stark, blazing, glorious part, and he has such deathless things to say. And yet I know that I cannot play Hamlet eight times a week many weeks in succession.” In Hollywood The last page of \he confession tells you that he is back In Hollywood —at the time he made ‘‘Moby Dick,” known on the screen as "The Sea Beast." Barrymore writes: “. , .1 like to interlard work In the theater with the making of movies, which I thoroughly enjoy. 1 am back In Hollywood once more working upon anew picture, it is made from a great classic of American literature. Melville's ‘Moby Dick.’ This book appeals to me and always has. It has an especial appeal now, for in the last few years, both on the stage and on the screen, I have Played so many scented, bepuffed, be-

OUR BOiYRDLNG HOUSE—By AHERN

wiggled and ringletted characters — princes and kings and the like —that I revel in the rough and almost demoniacal character, such as Captain Ahab becomes in the last half of the picture after his leg has been amputated by Moby Dick, the white whale. What are wo going to do

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APRIL 28, IU2U

for a love interest, I don't quite know. He might fall In love with the whale. I am sure, however, Hollywood will find a way.” Am going to urge you to read Barrymore’s confession—he Is always delightful because he Is John Barrymore.

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