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Show 13 t!ii &2? Sasdj eSb Vs By George Agnew Chamberlain - - Geon wch mbei n SYNOPSIS Joyce Powell, on the eve of her twentieth twen-tieth birthdny, rebels Inwarrllv nt her lot dependent on her detested stepmother' lima, nnd full of tracic memories of her mother's murder twelve years before and her father's death six months ae.o Irma calls in Helm Blnekadder, an admirer to help her persuade Jovce to marry rich, young Michael Kirkpatrick. CHAPTER I Continued o Joyce started toward a chair but stopped. "No; if we are going to have one of our reasonable talks, I'd rnther stand." "That means I'll have to stand too," said Blackadder, sensing he faced a wise and clever fighter. "It doesn't leave me a choice, does it?" "Not if you feel you have to stay." "Joyce!" cried Mrs. Sewell sharply. sharp-ly. "How can you be rude to Mr. Blackadder, a man twice your age and my oldest friend?" "I wasn't trying to be rude," said Joyce coolly, "I was wondering why he's here." "I've told you. Because he's my oldest and almost my only friend. We were boy and girl together and if I can't turn to him in my trouble I can appeal to nobody." "Your trouble!" exclaimed Joyce. "If you'd only leave me alone, let me go my own way, you wouldn't have a thing in the world to worry about." "That's just it I can't. I can't stand aside and watch you ruin your life. It wouldn't be right. I can tell you to your face, here before Mr. Elackadder, if you don't take Michael Mich-ael Kirkpatrick while you still have the chance you'll regret it the rest of your life." "So it's narrowed down to Mike, has it?" said Joyce. "How did you come to pick on him?" As if she were resigning the floor Mrs. Sewell made a gesture toward Blackadder. Strangely uneasy he straightened and braced his elbows on the mantel. He leveled his eyes at her, taking her measure. "Let's see if I can talk your language. lan-guage. Do you mind listening till we find out?" "No; I'll listen." "You're young, Joyce, and you're up against a tough situation. You don't like your stepmother. Well, there's nothing we can do about that. Likes and dislikes don't go by favor or obligation; they hang on two Spanish words, easy to understand, un-derstand, hard to translate sim-patica sim-patica and antipatica. Right?" "Yes," said Joyce, amazed at the boldness of his attack and startled by his idiomatic use of a language she thought she alone in Elsinboro knew. "The yoke of living on Irma has been galling you till all you can think of is escape. The first thing you picked on was to be a teacher, but you found out it isn't enough to know your subject you've got to have a string of silly letters after your name. So you thought you'd be a stenographer and look for a firm engaged in foreign trade. Unfortunately, Un-fortunately, you're unfitted for business. busi-ness. You'd be an absolute flop." J "Why?" "Because you're emotional and a thoroughbred; the first time you found yourself the mechanical link in a gyp game you'd walk out." s "Then what's left?" asked Joyce dismally as much of herself as of, him. "We're coming to that," said Blackadder sharply. Perceiving he had shaken her, his head moved forward for-ward between his shoulders and his eyes grew beady. "You don't like Irma, but you've lived on her since you were eight years old. She's given you everything you've had shelter, food, raiment and care and you've never paid for any of it in love or in cash." "Oh!" gasped Joyce, wincing under un-der the sting of a lash she had used on herself again and again. "How could I? You know I have nothing-nothing!" nothing-nothing!" "That's not so," said Blackadder, shooting the words at her. "You have plenty if you take it to the right market. Let's get down to bedrock bed-rock Do you dislike Mike any more than you do your stepmother? Do you?" "No!" said Joyce. "Then why not live on him for a while where you can pay ten for one?" . Watching her sink into a chair as if he had knocked her knees from under her he felt a curious elation. He had beaten her, it had been a hard fight, but he had won out "This way out that Helm suggests-" said Mrs. Sewell-' this thing I've been begging you to do-you do-you don't think it's for me, do you? It's for you-for your own good. We're older than you are, we can see back as well as ahead. Cant you believe us? Can't you see it s . your best chance for happiness? , "Happiness!" breathed Joyce. I suppose every girl has her dream of happiness." Then her low voice be-gan be-gan to grow in volume and in tens., ty. "I know I have mine and it s a dream of giving, not taking. I don mean giving things-money, food, clothes-because love doesn't grow out of things. Even if you try your best to make it, it doesn't, it won't. I mean giving something that's inside in-side you, that aches to be given and and " "I know, dear," interrupted Mrs. Sewell soothingly, "but believe me you'll feel all that if you'll only just" ' "Oh, you're horrible!" cried Joyce desperately. "I wish I hadn't told you! Do you think I'm blind? You want to be rid of me both of you. All right. I give in. I promise. prom-ise. If it isn't Mike it will be something some-thing else, some other way. I promise." prom-ise." She was gone from the room before either of them could answer. CHAPTER II Her departure left Blackadder breathless and somewhat confused. He continued to stand with his back to the mantel, staring at her as if her hurrying figure were still in sight, filling his eyes. And he had thought she was licked! He became aware of Irma's murmuring voice. "You were wonderful, Helm, but I knew you would be, I was sure of it. The minute I thought of you the load began to lift oft my shoulders and now, whatever happens, it's -.AX ';i A Pungent Odor of Age-Old Paper. gone. But let's forget trouble. I can't tell you what it means to me to see you standing there like a pillar pil-lar giving sense and reason to everything ev-erything in the room, including me." She smiled up at him expectantly. His lips parted but it was ordained the maid should enter then. "It's Mr. Kirkpatrick, ma'am." The young man entered, flamboyant flamboy-ant as to hair, complexion, manner and clothes. "Michael, you know Mr. Blackadder, don't you?" "Sure thing," said Mike, holding out his hand. Blackadder beat him to the grip and almost crushed his knuckles, then let go too quickly for a comeback. come-back. Mrs. Sewell came to the rescue. res-cue. "You can go right up, Michael. You'll find Joyce in her sitting room. I I wish you luck." Something in the manner of her final words made Kirkpatrick glance at her curiously. He nodded and started for the back where a side staircase supplemented the one in the main hall. Arriving at Joyce's door he knocked softly, pretended he heard an answering call, turned the knob and stepped in. Joyce was on her knees before the petaca, in the act of fitting a clumsy key into the homemade lock. "Where did you find the Ellis island is-land trunk?" he asked jovially. She turned her head and stared up at him out of unbelieving eyes. "It was my father's," she answered automatically. Then she rose, hold-ing hold-ing tight to the key, and stood at her full height. "What are you doing do-ing here?" she demanded. Who told you you could come in?" He backed against the door until the latch clicked shut. "You did. I knocked and I thought I heard you say 'Come in.' " "You were mistaken. Please go. "Aw get off the horse. Joycie. Can't 'you talk from the floor for once in your life?" Abruptly her frown deepened. Did they send for you?' "Who?" Mr. Blackadder and my step- mThey did not; I brought myself." "Then take yourself away." "What's the rush, Joycie, now i m here? Listen, let's have a show-Hmvn show-Hmvn I've told you over and over Sn'i can give you a lot of things and so can you me. but I've done a the crawling I'm going to do Resides I've just had a tip. 1 may not know books like some of your ""h-rah friends, but I can see out of bo h eyes. So I'm askmg you for the last time will you marry me or won't you?" "I won't, now or ever." He stepped toward her, his fingers itching but his eyes frightened and wet. Abruptly he stopped. Why? He didn't know. She had not moved. She stood with the big key held tightly in her right hand as though it were a dagger. Pressed against her dark dress her fist seemed small and white yet powerful. She had brought him to a halt with only a look a look of loathing beyond words. He turned, tore open the door and rushed from the room. Joyce knelt on the floor, then bent over the little rawhide trunk, turned the key and raised the lid. A pungent pun-gent odor of age-old paper, rust, leather and rotting tape greeted her nostrils. Her father's last years had left her memory of a weakling, a lovable lov-able weakling. Now, immersed in his fervent letters and shocked by the impersonal frigidity of the replies re-plies they had evoked, she saw him in his true proportions as a martyr burned at the stake. Slowly, day after day, month after month, yet uttering no cry. Unshed tears stung in her eyes, blinding her. Anger at injustice mounted into rage and rage into the incandescent heat that tempers steel to a cutting edge. He had left no son to avenge his wrongs only a girl. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. Some day, somehow, she would find a way. Again there came a knock at her door, a hesitant knock quite unlike her stepmother's. "Who is it?" she whispered hoarsely. "It's me, Miss Joyce," answered the maid's voice. "I've brought you a letter and a bit of supper." "Thanks, Ellen, but I don't want a thing to eat. Please slip the letter let-ter under the door." It was long and without a stamp, probably a circular. Her inclination inclina-tion was to let it lie, but abruptly she was seized by its similarity to a dozen envelopes in the petaca, all bearing the penalty-for-private-use formula. A pale yellow slip fluttered flut-tered to the floor as she tore open the official envelope and unfolded the letter within. She read it at a glance, then again slowly, word by word: "At the instance of the Mexican Mexi-can ambassador, who has deposited the necessary funds, I beg to enclose en-close a warrant on the Treasury of the United States for $10,000 compensation com-pensation in full for the death of Ann Burden Sewell. Your endorsement will be sufficient receipt." She caught up the pale yellow slip. Sitting cross-legged she stared and stared at it, for it looked like no check she had ever seen. Yet its purport was unmistakable the Treasury of the United States held $10,000 at her disposal. The finger of fate was upon her. If this amazing amaz-ing windfall had come an hour sooner she might have signed it over to her stepmother, flung it at her with actual joy, in payment for back rent and board. But not now no, not now. She put her arms around the petaca, pressed her cheek against its arabesques of brass tacks and bowed her head as if she were making a vow. Presently she went to bed, but lay awake for a long time, dreaming, planning, then floating off into a restful haze midway mid-way between sleep and consciousness. conscious-ness. In the morning she was up early. She drank her coffee with eyes on the clock and shortly after nine was being shown into the private office of the president of the City National bank. Toward the last Mr. Bradley had been her father's only remaining remain-ing friend. "It's Joyce," she reminded him, "Joyce Sewell." "Why, of course! How you've grown, my dear. You're lovely!" BilHeHBaiiilHBKHKd "Mr. Bradley, are bankers like doctors, lawyers, and priests? I mean are they bound to keep a secret se-cret if you ask them to?" "They are and they aren't A court order, can open wide oui mouths and our vaults, but short of that we're bound to respect our clients' cli-ents' wishes. Why? Have you a secret se-cret you want to deposit?" "Yes; oh, yes." He leaned toward her and asked in a whisper, "Is it about the check for ten thousand?" She sank back, her eyes wide, the color draining from her cheeks. He patted her knee reassuringly and chuckled. "There, there, that was a mean trick. Nobody knows but me, my dear. It was I who supplied your name and address." "Oh!" breathed Joyce. "Please don't ever do a thing like that to me again!" "You're safe. I doubt whether I'll ever have any other chance. But why the secrecy?" "Because I'm going away and 1 don't want anybody to know where." She leaned forward. "Mr. Bradley, you know my father's story, sto-ry, don't you?" "No man knows it better, and that goes for his one-time lawyers." "I learned it last night," said Joyce. "I read every letter, every paper, every deed back to the original origi-nal grant from the king of Spain. Is there any doubt La Barranca belonged be-longed to my father?" "None whatever. He had as clear a title as I have to my hat or my coat or anything else I've paid for in cash." "Then it's mine now." "I wish I could answer no to that, but I can't." "Have you a conscience, Mr. Bradley?" she asked soberly. "Me?" he exclaimed, puzzled and astonished. "I was wondering whether it's ever right to to take your conscience con-science and choke it" His eyes twinkled violently but he did not laugh. "I see. What's your conscience been telling you to do?" "Give this money to my stepmother." step-mother." "What for?" "Well, for all she's done keeping me all these years." Mr. Bradley's eyes shone with a strange and increasing fire. "Who's been stuffing your head with that?" he demanded. "Anyway, let me put you straight. In the first place step-parents are required by law to do what's been done for you; it's an integral part of their original bargain. In the second Irma's kindness ruined your father by keeping him from going to work. In the third, since she's a do-good-to-others addict, she's had her mon eys worth out of the two of you ten times over." "Thank you," she murmured. "You don't know what you've done for me. Now I can do what I've been planning; I can go." "Where to, Joyce?" She looked at him steadfastly. "All those years my father stayed here, Mr. Bradley. But La Barranca Bar-ranca isn't here; it's in Mexico. I'm going to Mexico." Joyce laid the warrant, already endorsed, on Mr. Bradley's desk and rose. "I'm leaving the money with you, but you understand I may need a great deal of it any day, don't you?" "Sit down, Joyce," he said soberly. sober-ly. "Do you know what I've been asking myself?" "No, sir," said Joyce, sinking to the edge of her chair. "If I had a girl your age, your looks, your background what would I want some other fellow to do in this particular case?" He frowned. "Of course you remember remem-ber Mexico, but do you remember what happened?" (TO BE COXTIM ED) |