Indianapolis Times, Volume 40, Number 123, Indianapolis, Marion County, 12 October 1928 — Page 28

PAGE 28

THIS HAS HAPPENED SYBIL THGivNE, Boston society girl, Was engaged at 18 to a young soldier, JOHN LAWRENCE, who was sent to France on the eve of their marriage—and never returned. Sybil mourned him for months—and then, in the way of youth, gave herself up to romance and lndisoretions in a vain attemtp to forget. Years later she contracted a wretched marriage, of which a beautiful child was born. When her son was a year old, Sybil brought suit for divorce. On the day on which her case was to have opened, her husband was killed while motoring from his home in New Haven to court in Boston. Sybil incurred her family’s wrath and the displeasure of her friends by celebrating his death with a theater party. Shortly afterward she goes apartment huntiugg with MABEL MOORE, her dearest friend. The real estate agent calls for them at Mabel's flat. When he opens the door Sybil shrieks “John!” He recognizes her, and falls, fainting at her feet. Sybil and Mabel revive him —and he tells the story of his strange disappearance. John Lawrence —back from the dead! When he concludes his dramatic and tragic story of battles and death and shellshock —all as true as the history of the bravest of the brave —he takes Sybil In his arms. And, “Do you love me, Sybil?” he asks her. But, meantime, Sybil has had another lover—CRAIG NEWHALL. Her heart is pounding wildly as she tries to answer. NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY CHAPTER XLIII SYBIL drew away, but he held her In the circle of his arms. “Oh, John!” Prayerfully she besought him. “Not now—don’t ask me now, John. It's been such a long, long time. So much has happened. How can I tell?” His arms about her tightened, and he kissed her hair as he had done so many times before. “You’ve bobbed it, dearest!” he accused her. He held her away again, and, looking up, she saw that his forehead was wrinkled as though he were puzzled. “It’s that odor,” he said surprisingly. “ ‘Odor,’ ” she repeated stupidly. “What odor?” The stuff you use on your hair,” he told her, and pulled his eyebrows together perplexedly. ‘What is it?” “Verbena,” she said. “You used to like it.” John closed his eyes tightly so that they made a crinkly furrow. And furtive memory drew her skirts tantalizingly across his senses. a a a “tT was a girl in Paris,” he said 1 at last. “She used same stuff. Girl at Maxim’s. Something about her reminded me of somebody. But I didn’t know what it was —or who it was. She drove me almost crazy. I used to sit and ■watch her—and listen to her. One night—she was a cocotte you see, Sybil— a nd this night she asked me to buy her a drink. I stood there, staring like a fool—and all of a sudden I got giddy. I didn’t know what it was. . . . God, Sybil —don’t you see—that girl had on verbena too!” John passed his hand over his forehead. "I can smell her now. Verbena. , . . That’s what it was.” “Poor darling,” Sybil took his thin cheeks between her palms, and drawing his head down, put her lips to his hair. “She reminded you of me, I suppose, only you couldn't know.” "An odor,” he said brokenly. “Like a breath from the past.” “And it didn’t bring back anything?” she asked. ‘You used to kiss my hair, John—remember? Remember that big psyche I wore? When I had it cut, I put it all away, and kept it in memory of you and your kisses on it. I remember I had some perfume in a little green atomizer with pink roses on it—Tad gave it to me one Christmas. And I always squirted it on my hair when I was going to meet you because you told me once I had the sweetest hair in the world. That thrilled me awfully. . . . Tell me about that girl, John. You didn't associate her magnetism with any particular thing about her?” “I knew there was something,” he repeated, “but I couldn’t quite lay hold of it. I sort of thought it was her hands. She kind of fluttered them. You know the way some girls do, when they talk. ‘1 used to wonder if those white hands of hers held the secret of all I’d forgotten. ... I don’t remember of having been conscious of any scent about her. But now it all comes back. I can close my eyes, and see her sitting there. “She always wore black. French women do mostly, you know. Her hair was sort of goldy—bleached, I suppose. And it used to kind of slip out from under her hat. She’d sit there, toying with a glass, and smiling quietly. . . . Sometimes I thought it was her smile that would bring things back ” “Didn’t you ever talk with her?” demanded Sybil. John raised his shoulders. “Yes,” he said heavily. ‘I talked with her—after a while. It didn’t do any god’d, of course.” ‘Oh, welll.” Sybil slid her arm through his. “Let's talk about something else. Come —sit down. We’ll talk about me. Have I changed, John t Much, I mean. Os course I’ve grown older.” a a THEY sat on the divan in front of the fire, but he did not touch hC “Look at me,” she commanded, “and tell me.” She laughed. “Talk to me tenderly,” she begged. “Tell me lies.” “Lies?” he said. “I don’t have to tell you lies, Sybil. You were an exquisite child, my dear, and now you are a beautiful woman.” She clapped her hands softly. “Hear Hear!” she cried. “Tell me more, John.” And she drew closer to his shoulder. “You were a white-souled child,” he said, and said it in t ie voice a man uses when he spea is of the dead. “So sweet and gooc.” He looked deeply into her face, so that she felt herself flushing hotly, and put out her hands beseechingly. “Yes,” he said gravely, “I should say you had changed. “But,” she stammered, “you—really don’t know anything about me. Os course I’ve grown older. I —l’ve lived so fiercely—and loved and hated. I suppose I have changed. I’m wiser—and hard, I guess.” With a touch of unconscious coquetry she laid her hand on his, and lifted her eyes, swimming now jn tears. __ __

“Marrying and having a child,” she said, “changes and improves a woman. I think I am far more attractive now than I was when I was 18, John.” He had put her on the defensive, and she found herself growing angry with him in the first hour of their ecstacy. “Oh, you’re beautiful,” he cried. “It’s not th^V And then he fell silent. She held his hand in her lap, lifting his fingers one by one, and letting them drop back again. “Then,” she whispered, “all the things you love me for are gone? And all the lovely dreams are dead. Nothing could ever be the same again?” “Nothing is ever the same again,” he told her, and turned to meet her eyes. “You’ve been disillusioned, Sybil.” He looked at her so intently that she felt embarrassed, as if being disillusioned was like being pockmarked. “I suppose I have,” she agreed, and sighed deeply, so that he might be impressed with the bitterness and tragedy of her life. “You couldn’t expect a woman of 28 to be as idealistic as a girl of 18. Women don’t keep many illusions. Not outside of nunneries. And life’s been cruel to me since you went away, John.” nun IT was humiliating—this feeling that she must defend herself. “You used to' be a knight sans peur et sans reproche,” she reminded him. “You’ve probably changed a good deal yourself.” “Oh, yes,” he agreed. “Men do, you know. I’ve been a bit of an egg.” He smiled ruefully. “But it's different, somehow, with a woman.” “Why, I think ycw’re horrid! Anybody’d think—” She drew back from his shoulder, and settled her short skirts primly. “John!” We’re not going to quarrel today!” “I should say not!” He • gathered her in his arms again, and kissed her fiercely—not at all as he had kissed her ten years before. And when shfe had freed herself, she was breathless and more than half indignant. “You have changed!” she gasped. The blood in her veins pumped excitedly. She stood with one hand on the small table at the end of the divan. With the fingertips of her other hand she touched his shoulder, holding him at arm’s length. “Oh, John’” she cried, and her voice was small and breathless. “My dear—my dear!” The door swung open noiselessly, and Mabel advanced upon them, with a tray in her outstretched hands. “I couldn’t knock,” she apologized. “I didn’t have a hand left. It’s awfully convenient, having a door that doesn’t catch. You simply kick it when you’ve got your hands full.” John took the tray and placed it on a little red table that rubbed lacquered sides frequently with a painted fireplace screen. There was fragrant coffee in a silver pot, and wafers freighted with toasted marshmallows oozing temptingly. On the center of the tray was a green bowl with purple anemones in it. And the little cigaret trays were orange. “Doesn’t it look nice and cozy?” demanded Mabel. >.nd when they had murmured politely, she confessed good naturedly. “I simply couldn’t stay away any longer. So I ran down and got a jar of cream, and a package of marshmallow;. I thought maybe if I fed you, you’d let me come in.”

GyjJimeJlustin

Faith and Bob Hathaway, who did not properly belong to the “set” in which Mr. and Mrs. Tarver moved, but rather to the “younger married crowd,” but who had been urgently invited by Mrs. Tarver, arrived before the host and hostess had appeared, and while Tony and Crystal were sweetly greeting Mile. Dumont. Only four other couples were expected, as Tony had persuaded Peg to make it a small, informal party, the better to suit her own —or rather, Crystal’s—scheme for releasing Pat from his enchantment. Introductions were performed demurely by Tony, who noted that Faith, lovely and dignified in dovegray taffeta on which she wore a corsage of hothouse violets, was looking slightly puzzled by the presence of the exquisitely dressed, beautiful French woman. Mademoiselle was wearing an extremely chic black lace-and-chiffon afternoon dress. About her throat she wore what looked like real pearls, and she carried a not-too-large turquoise-blue ostrich feather fan who wickedly emphasized the color which had begun to fade a little from her blue eyes, made large and bright now by mascaro. “Oh, here are Peg and Pat—or must I be formal?” Tony cried, hailing her parents’ arrival. “Let me present my mother and father, Monsieur and Madame Tarver,” she added demurely in French, to her former teacher. “But I keep forgetting!” Tony dropped into English. “You already know my father, don’tf you? “Mademoiselle met Pat when he came to see me at Bradley, you know, Peg. Os course he had to meet our beloved mademoiselle! In all the years and years—twenty, wasn’t it, Mademoiselle?—that she taught in Bradley, she was the most popular woman teacher. “All of us girls got crushes on her. A freshman who didn’t begin right off to copy Mademoiselle’s clothes and hairdress and make-up was given an extra mean hazing as punishment, wasn’t she, Crystal? It jvaa simply the thing to be nuts

SHE looked from one to the other expectantly. “Please tell me about It,” she entreated. Sybil’s startled glance darted toward the kitchen. “Where’s Teddy?” she cried. “Oh, he’s all right,” Mabel assured her comfortably. “The little girl downstairs took him out.” She poured heavy yellow cream into huge cups sprigged with morning glories and nasturtiums. “There’s nothing,” she remarked serenely, “like a strong cup of coffee,” and she smiled contentedly as the rich brown fluid from her silver pot blended with the yellow cream. Sybil reached for the nearest cup. “Oh, Mab,” she begged, “don’t make John tell it all again. It’s awfully hard —talking about it. He simply lost his memory, and Mrs. Foster —you know—the congresswoman—she found him in Walter Reed Hospital, and became interested in him. John says she’s perfectly wonderful. And when he got strong enough she found him a position here in Boston. “Those real estate people are her cousins, I think. And she got him compensation and a brand new start in life. She even chose his name for him —didn’t she, John? But nothing anyone could do could restore his memory. Until he saw me, Mab. And now it’s all come back again.” Mabel stirred her coffee incredulously. . “Don’t you read the papers/” she demanded. “If you saw Sib’s name in print, wouldn’t it have meant anything to you?” "Yes, I read the papers,” he said. “Has Sybil’s name been in them? If it has, it didn’t mean anything to me.” “Oh, not much.” Sybil interrupted hastily. “I—l didn’t tell you—l haven’t had much time, you know. I had entered suit for divorce when my husband died. There were a few little stories. Last November it was.” “I was in Washington then,” he explained, "adjusting my compensation. I was there two weeks.” a a a HE was very pale. He put his cup on the table, and his long fingers, dropping between his knees, twitched nervously. Sybil, noticing his agitation, took his arm tenderly. “John, this has been an appalling experience for you. I want you to go home, and I’ll go to see you this evening. You're in for a terrific period of readjustment, and you’ve got to take things easily. Where are you living, John?” He pressed her hand, weakly grateful. “At the Fairmore,” he told her. “And I guess you’re right, dear. I hate to act like a weak-kneed idiot. But I am pretty well done up. Will you really come round this evening?” “I surely will,” she promised. "And I’ll drive you down now myself. I’ll be back for the baby in half an hour, Mab. You won’t mind keeping him awhile?” “Lord, no.” Mabel loved taking care of Teddy. “I’ll tell him a story,” she said, “about a man who went to sleep and when he woke up he was somebody else.” She laughed shortly. “It‘s ghostly —a dead man materializing in front of your eyes. Lordy! I thought for a minute we’d all gone crazy!” She shrugged with a semblance of horror and proffered her hand. “John Lawrence, if you’re half the man Sib thinks you are, I’m glad she found you.” He bowed courteously. “I hope,” he said, “we may be something more than business acquaintances now. I’d like to be your friend, Mrs. Moore.” (To Be Continued)

over Mademoiselle, an honored tradition of ‘dear old Bradley.’ ” “Crystal and I were classic examples of faithful devotion to a tradition, but I assure you we had it so bad that we gave new life to it.” Tony felt a twinge of shame, but after all, it was Pat who mattered. “You do me too much honor,” Mille. Dumont interrupted so tartly that Crystal and Tony jumped, as they had jumped in the schoolroom when they had made a particularly faulty translation of Frank-, cois Villon. “Ze girls zese days do—how you say?—exaggerate so,” the French woman shrugged, her blue eyes darting a fearful glance at Pat Tarver. “I taught in Bradley much less than twenty years, Mille. Antoinette . . . But i am forgetting myself, dear Mrs. Tarver.” “Oh, she’s all right, Tony!” Crystal interrupted, coming out of seeming abstraction. “It was eighteen years, not twenty at all. Don’t you remember that funny old Bradley annual of 1910, that was dedicated to Mademoiselle, although it was only her first year? “Weren’t the clothes funny then, Mademoiselle? We nearly died laughing! And the hair! I remember yours looked actually brown then, and such heaps of it, in the funniest pompadour. . . . “And you looked older than you do now—honestly, Mademoiselle! Modern short skirts and bobbed hair, even for the older women, like you and Mrs. Tarver—” “Crystal, will you show me where to put my things, please?” Faith interrupted the eager flow of speech. And Faith’s voice was so deadly cold that Crystal, who led her obediently out of the room, knew that she was “in for it.” But she was saved for the moment by Tony’s shepherding the thoroughly angry Mademoiselle close behind. The four were almost entirely silent as they ascended the stairs toward the room which Peg had fussily prepared as a dressing loom for her guests. (To Be Continued)

THE LNIXIANAPOLib TIMES

OUT OUR WAY

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BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

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FRECKLES AND JHS FRIENDS

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WASHINGTON TUBBS II

SALESMAN SAM

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THE BOOK OF KNOWLEDGE

.... .11l f. ... . i ,11. th. . Hi. .in .if. • • . t Senate rejected his ideal of world peace, the League of '■? 1914, and he had marNations. Stricken by a physical breakdown in 1919, he ri ®d Edith Bolling Galt in , remained an invalid until the day of his death. During December, 1915. She . the rest of his ttem he was able to give attention only cared for him tenderly I to the more important problems of government. io-il until tto end came, Feb. B Publisivrj}l^he^oo^

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

—By Williams

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'iii tl G (GfL.I.. Jam.. . y During Wilson's term Wilson was succeeded in office by Warren G. Hartwo amendments to the ding of Marion, 0., who had been a United States Constitution were adopt- senator prior to his presidential nomination by the Reed. One forbade manu* publican party. His opponent was James M. Cox, govfacture and sale of alco- ernor of the same state that Harding came from, holic liquors; the other Harding and the vice presidential candidate, Calvin gave women the right to Coolidge, were elected. (To Be Continued) . vote, 10 -'*- I .1 Mclcnct ana Synop, Copyright. VMB, Th GrotiCf Soenty. tO-11. J' “ j

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SKETCHES B 1 BESSET. SYNOPSIS BY BKAIJCIIER

Lull JIL, ’ 4

By Ahern

—By Martin

By Blosser

By Crnne

By Small

By Cowan