OCR Text |
Show Nothing but Love By THAYER WALDO (McClure Syndicate WNU Service.) LIE HUDDLED in the great chair before the row of windows, book in hand. Stark misery lay upon him; mind and spirit were elsewhere behind that closed door thirty feet away. No sound had reached him for minutes past, but he knew that in that bedroom Charlotte Char-lotte was packing. That when it was done she would go, away from him, out of this house that had been theirs together for three wonderful years. There had simply been the sudden outburst of bitter quarreling that brought anger, then hatred, and finally cold, furious silence. Even the specific cause had become an item remembered dimly, if at all. Of course the basis was clear enough. Ever since Charlotte had reached top in the Hollywood picture pic-ture scramble, their bliss had with slow certainty ebbed. Two thousand thou-sand a week matched against his hundred and a quarter made very I poor balance and evidence of her j lavish spending was everywhere. His wife was just emerging from a closet, arms fluffy with gowns and lingerie. She gave her cargo into the waiting hands of a maid who stood before an open wardrobe trunk. A second girl was busy with three smaller bags. "Mabel," Grant said, "you and Pearl may leave now. You'll be sent for when you're needed again." Charlotte swung about to face him, but kept silence until the girls were gone. Then, "Would you mind," she suggested, suggest-ed, voice brittle, "explaining yourself your-self as quickly and briefly as possible? possi-ble? This is a most hampering interruption." in-terruption." God! she was lovely, Grant reflected. re-flected. "Sorry," he told her, "but it was necessary. I believe there are some angles to this move you haven't thought over properly." "I see. And those are . . .?" "Well, for one thing, the publicity. You know you've always said your reputation couldn't stand the stuff a lot of other stars get away with. There's been too much sweet-and-pure painted into the picture the public has of you." Her brief laugh was utterly scorn-,ful. scorn-,ful. "Thanks for the solicitude, Grant, but I don't think I'll need to cling to you to protect myself." He flushed a little and looked away. "Very well; but I should think you might be a little less precipitate. precipi-tate. We have social engagements it isn't going to be easy to explain." ex-plain." "You can find the flimsiest arguments," argu-ments," Charlotte retorted, unmoved. un-moved. . "If that's all you have, would you mind saving your breath and my time? I've a train to catch." Grant gazed fully at her for a long moment. Strangely, through his frustration and discomfiture ran a strong current of desire to shout: "You can't go because I love you!" Yet he was glad it could be kept in check. That sort of maudlin sniveling snivel-ing would never do at a time like this. He turned to the door. "Certainly," he said; "stupid of me to have come in at all. Good-by, then, and good luck." Busy again, she neither looked around nor spoke. He went out and paced slowly over by the huge easy chair again. The book on the floor caught his eye and he stopped for it. Noticing the title for the first time, he recognized it as Charlotte's favorite volume of poems one he had given her. Taking it to her now would be no sentimental gesture, for her interest in the work itself was genuine. And it presented an excuse to see her for one fleeting instant more . . . His knock was answered by the servant, Pearl. Charlotte wasn't in evidence. Feeling an odd sense of embarrassment, Grant said: "Give this to my wife. Tell her I was reading it and remembered she might want to take it along." For twenty minutes after that, Grant stood by the French windows in the outer room. The spot would permit him a glimpse of Charlotte as she left. That finality no longer stirred passionate rebellion in him; there was only a sort of aimless dreariness now. Somewhere behind him a door latch clicked softly. From the shadows shad-ows appeared a form diaphanously white. It was Charlotte, negligeed and smiling up at him with a gentle radiance he had almost forgotten. "You're not " he began. "No, my dear, I'm not," she murmured, mur-mured, walking serenely into his arms. Her lips were raised and thirstily, in dazed joy, he took them. When the long kiss ended, she looked into his eyes. "And do you know why? No of course not, you silly, beloved, stiff-necked stiff-necked darling! That book you brought me I opened it where the book mark was and the page had two thumb smudges." He waited, wholly at sea, and then very tenderly she added: "They were on the top margin, dear, instead of the bottom. It's the first sign I'd had in longer than I like to remember that you were thinking of me. No one holds a book upside down long enough to leave thumb prints unless he's still in love or blind and your blindness snt' just that kind." |