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Show SiawkintheWsiid EY HELEN TOPPING MILLER ' TSS C0 S3 half - open, Incredulous question. Then her composure returned. "Well good-by," she said, getting to her feet. "I suppose it would be too much for you to tell them in Washington that we are really fairly decent people, if we do mill pulp." "I'm not going to Washington. I'm staying here." An older man, a wiser man would have caught the light that flamed up briefly behind her eyes, noted the quick little catch of her breath. But Branford Wills was young and not terribly wise. "Oh so you're staying here." Marian's voice wavered ever so little. lit-tle. "I'm going to work in the Morgan mill. Didn't your mother tell you?" "No," she said slowly, "she didn't tell me." She stood waiting, with the old desk where David Morgan had kept his dusty piles of letters and his stacked trade papers, with David Morgan's photograph steely-eyed and with a fierce, handle-bar mustache mus-tache behind her, as the tradition of the Morgan mill and the Morgan Mor-gan money was behind her. It was a little like standing on a proud mountain, disdaining all below, but Marian was not thinking of that because at that moment a white pain had her by the throat There had been an hour but of course Wills had been desperately iney all left the hall in a group and Lucy had a moment of panic lor fear Stanley Daniels might leave her to walk home with some of the others. But he kept his hand on her elbow and her spirits rose. The three blocks home were too pitifully short. At the door she grew nervous again, hated her stammering uncertainty. uncer-tainty. "Won't you come in?" she faltered. fal-tered. "I'm hungry, aren't you? This air is so chilly" Stanley Daniels hesitated briefly. His ego had been given a satisfying satisfy-ing lift at the meeting by Sally Gal-lup's Gal-lup's fulsomeness. Even Marian Morgan's lack of enthusiasm had failed to dampen him. But eager little lit-tle Lucy fed some gnawing bit of uncertainty in his nature. He still felt the need of approval and Lucy was naively adoring. So he was gracious about letting her urge him into the house, and kind in ignoring her confusion when they entered. Mrs. Fields' shoes and woolen stockings were sitting in front of the stove and Daniels busied himself tactfully folding his overcoat, while Lucy whisked them away. He did not see Lucy snatch a glass containing con-taining an upper set of teeth from the mantel, or turn a cushion swiftly swift-ly because of the inevitable cat-hairs clinging to it. "I'll make some chocolate." Lucy was a little breathless. "This chair is more comfortable, I'm sure." "Can I help?" Daniels offered. "Oh, no, I couldn't think of it." Lucy laughed quickly. "I'm old-fashioned, old-fashioned, you see. I belong to that vanishing race of women who think that men should be waited upon." Never could she let him see the Inside of that dreadful old kitchen. The old wood stove, the smoked kettle ket-tle and rusty pipe, the smoky little two-burner kerosene contraption they used in summer. She lit this affair now, to heat the cocoa, carefully closing the door so its smudgy smell would not penetrate pene-trate the other room. The little cups were pretty. She had bought them hopefully, and kept them now in her trunk, after having found one on the back porch with medicine in it, mixed for a sick hen. She had crocheted the lacy edge of the napkins nap-kins and ironed them to a gloss. Everything was delicate and pleasing even Marian Morgan herself her-self could not have arranged a daintier dain-tier tray. Then she lifted the lid of the cake box and exclaimed in sudden dismay, dis-may, "Oh mean! Oh, what shall I do?" Mrs. Fields had eaten all the little lit-tle cakes. Even before he was able to stand alone without wavering, Branford Wills knew that he was falling in love with Marian Morgan. The realization troubled him. He was under deep obligation to Virgie. She had, he knew, saved his life by taking him in, by the care he had had when illness laid him low. To repay that debt by falling In love with Virgie's child, especially now that Virgie was also to be his employer, em-ployer, seemed a left-handed and slightly dubious procedure but there was no help for it. Marian's very aloofness, her odd, prickly, half-sweet, half-bitter withdrawing, with-drawing, the secret and judging quality that lived in her dark eyes and hid in her long lashes, made her an enigma, a challenging mystery mys-tery to dare any man with blood in his veins. And Branford Wills was young and fiercely proud and adventurous. ad-venturous. His pride was what bothered him. As he stood, erect finally and shaving shav-ing himself with a rather uncertain hand before the mirror in his room, he told himself grimly that no one, least of all the girl herself, should ever guess the state of his feelings until he could look Virgie Morgan calmly in the face, a man on his own, worth what he was paid and able to love a woman without apology apol-ogy or without humility. So whenever Marian came near, he kept the conversation on the brittle, brit-tle, half-bantering, half-contemptuous strain that modern youth assumes, as-sumes, choosing it for sophistication, sophistica-tion, hiding any current of feeling, masking every emotion. And so soon as he could mount the stairs without staggering, he rented a room in the house of Ada Clark's mother, and prepared to move. "I have to do this. You understand," under-stand," he said to Virgin. "Yes," she said, "I understand." "I haven't anything to pack," he said, "so I might as well go. I have to send some wires and locate my belongings. I'll report for work on Monday. And I'll earn whatever you pay me." "You'll earn it, all right." Virgie was terse. "I had to give up philanthropy phi-lanthropy after three banks had busted in my face. People who work for me have to produce." To Marian, Wills pitched his farewell fare-well speech in another key. "I'm about to depart hence," he remarked, walking into the little room at the foot of the stairs which had once been David Morgan's private pri-vate lair. "My obnoxious person is about to be removed from your vicinity. vi-cinity. Then you can smile and be lightsome and gay once more." Marian looked up from the letter she was writing. A quick little shadow shad-ow moved over her face, her eyes darkened, and her lips caught on a dustmop m a hall closet, ready to erase the tracks of visitors almost before the door had closed upon them. Bry was shaving, she said. Bry Hutton had only two types of conversation where women were concerned. An ironic, half-bitter drawl and an insinuating, caressing intimacy, that verged faintly on insult in-sult He began in this second manner man-ner but Marian cut it short crisply. "I didn't call up to be petted, Bry. This is business. I want to go to Sally Gallup's. That mountain road is muddy and mother will fuss If I drive it myself.' You'll have to take me." "Oh, look here, sweetness, It's raining and cold as hell. Can't you call Sally on the phone? Can't you wait till tomorrow? It might freeze over by that time." "I want to go today. If you don't want to take me, Bry, I'll call somebody else." "Well, don't do that. If you absolutely ab-solutely have to go, I'll take you. But it's a nutty idea, if you ask me. There's no sense to it." "Nobody asked you and perhaps there isn't any sense to it. Bry, will you take me to Asheville instead?" "Sure stick around. I'll be there." "No, I won't stick around. I'm going into town, now." She spoke hurriedly. A car was stopping outside. out-side. In a moment Branford Wills would be going down those stairs. "I'll meet you at the drug-store, Bry," she said as she hung up. Rain beat through the open window win-dow of her little car as she tore down the mountain. The wheels lurched and skidded on muddy curves but she was reckless and heedless. She had to get away. Anger An-ger rode her like an imp of white flame anger that hurt. The stiff fiber in her that she had from her father, that odd fierce honesty that could be both intolerant and tender, was tortured by the thought of weakness, weak-ness, of surrender. How could she have been so weak so easy? She braced herself so hard on the steering-wheel that her knuckles ached. She did not like Bry Hutton particularly. par-ticularly. She did not care particularly particu-larly for any man she had met, as yet They were all too obvious, too aware of the fact that Virgie Morgan Mor-gan was supposed to be a rich woman. wom-an. They were too glib or too diffident, diffi-dent, they got their conversation and their manners from pulp magazines, or moving pictures, they were country! coun-try! College men did not stay in little towns. They went ranging, seeking wider opportunities, and those who came in from outside, like Stanley Daniels, came with an air of condescending superiority. She went around with Bry, as Los-sie Los-sie had so shrewdly surmised, to get her own way and because Bry was stimulating. Being with him was a constant battle and dominating dominat-ing him was an achievement for any woman. Marian rather liked the struggle to keep Bry aloof, to maintain main-tain her delicate, arrogant remoteness. remote-ness. And she had to get away to stop thinking about Branford Wills' lean, sardonic face. At the drug-store she parked her car and went inside. The one clerk swabbed off the top of the counter and said, "What for you, Marian?" "I'm Just waiting." She shook the rain from her coat. "Has mother been in?" "Not this morning. She's been trying try-ing to find Perry Bennett. Lucy and Mildred were calling all over town. I guess they found him. I called a while ago and told Lucy I saw him going into Piute's shoeshop. I asked her if she wanted me to yell at him but she said never mind." Marian stood near the door, watching. She was sorry she had told Bry to come here. Every one in town would know in no time that she had gone off somewhere with him. But that might be just as well. If every one knew it, Ada Clark would know it, and the sharp-nosed sharp-nosed girl who was head nurse, superintendent, su-perintendent, and manager of the absurd little hospital would know it. Ultimately, by the sheer saturating effect of knowledge in small places, Branford Wills would also know it. She waited until Bry was actually in the store, and then said with elaborate elab-orate casualness, "If you're going over to the court-house, Bry, do you mind if I ride along with you? I have to see a dentist and mother worries when I drive on wet roads." Bry stared stupidly, began, "1 thought you" "I did," Marian cut in, with some scorn, "I meant to go alone but if you're going anyway I could save my gasoline, couldn't I?" "Sure, come along." Bry comprehended compre-hended finally and instantly appreciated appre-ciated the element of the clandestine. clandes-tine. "Going to leave your car sitting sit-ting there?" "It's dirty anyway. It doesn't matter." She lifted the latch and Bry said, "Wait a minute till I get some cigarettes. cig-arettes. Cash a check for me, will you, Ed?" "If it's any good, I will," the clerk snickered. "It ought to be good. It's on the old man and I signed it myself." "He'll come in here and raise the devil about it." "He has to raise it somewhere. What do you run a drug-store for, anyway?" (TO BE COMIMED) CHAPTER VI Continued. G All the way to the lodge hall, where the meeting was to be held, Lucy walked on air. Oh, this was living this was being young! Going out, meeting young people, having fun. They passed the mill and the sulphurous sul-phurous reek settled like a cloud over them. Daniels said, "Have I smelied something like that before? Is it roses, do you think?" Lucy giggled with delight. "I never nev-er notice it any more. I went away to business college for a while and when I came back it seemed dreadful, dread-ful, but since I work in it I think if the mill shut down I'd miss it Probably I wouldn't be able to breathe at all." "Like David Morgan. You've heard that story, I suppose?" Lucy had heard the story of the night the pipe froze and David Morgan Mor-gan leaped up and was half-way to town in three minutes, pulling on his clothes as he ran. It was a classic clas-sic in the town, but she said naively, naive-ly, "Oh, no. What happened?" "Too bad Morgan died," Daniels remarked when he had related the old tale. "That mill needs a man. Not that Mrs. Morgan isn't a grand woman, of course. But any business busi-ness needs a man." Lucy gasped a little, because here was the opening she needed, the chance to talk over what was bothering both-ering her mind. Now she could say, "Oh, but there will be a man. Mr. Branford Wills." But somehow she could not say it. She sensed that Stanley Daniels was not going to like the news when he heard it; that he would stiffen and grow thoughtful and remote, that this lovely evening would be spoiled. So she kept silent though the silence troubled her. Keeping anything from Daniels was like cheating to her naively honest mind. And there was, deep in her mind, a traitorous small tingle of excitement that she would not have admitted even to herself. Having a young man in the mill some one new and enthusiastic and impatient was going to be something some-thing of a thrill. Lucy glowed a little lit-tle with this idea as she went up the cold, clacking stairs to the lodge room. And there the drabness of reality chilled her again as Marian Morgan, brisk and assured, said, "Hello, Lucy," in the same old tone of kind indifference. Instantly Lucy was just Lucy Fields again. Lucy Fields who lived in the shabby house at the end of a shabby street, who had a dreary time of it supporting her mother. Marian said, "Sit down. You know all these people, Lucy?" And Lucy murmured, "Oh, yes," and settled herself for an evening of pure torment Sally Gallup, wife of young Bill who ran the power-plant over the mountain, was there, brisk and sophisticated so-phisticated and wearing the little air of personal triumph that young married women flaunt for the express ex-press torture of spinsters. Sally announced an-nounced that under no circumstances circum-stances would she agree to be a leading lady.' "It spoils the illusion for the audience, audi-ence, knowing that the heroine is really the wife of a perfectly solid husband. I can't enjoy some of my favorite movie stars any more, knowing they're probably worrying about Junior's tonsils while they're making love in the play. You'll have to be the heroine, Marian. Could you play the male lead, Mr. Daniels, if we find the right play?" "I've never tried acting " Daniels Dan-iels hesitated, but obviously, Lucy saw, he was pleased. "You've such a grand voice and you're tall," Sally Gallup continued to effervesce. "You'd make a wonderful won-derful actor." Marian Morgan said nothing. "She wants Bry Hutton for the lead," Lucy was thinking, "and the others will be against it for fear Bry will be drunk at the last minute and spoil the show." "We have to organize first" Marian Mar-ian announced, "and appoint committees. com-mittees. We'll have to write and find out about plays. We can't pay any big royalty. If we charge even so much as fifty cents people will grumble and go to the movies instead. in-stead. Lucy, you can write and find out about the plays. You're writing letters every day. I'll speak to mother about it" "Oh, yes," Lucy hated her own faint acquiescence, "I can do that" Instantly Lucy was just Lucy Fields again. ill then and sick men are unaccountable unaccount-able but there had been an hour of dusk and quietness, when she had been keeping watch and Wills had caught her hand in his hot, twitching twitch-ing fingers and told her that her voice was like a song. Mad folly, of course, even to have listened! But she had listened, and her heart, lonely and self-contained and timorous for all the briery barriers bar-riers she had let grow around it, had waited hungrily for more. But obviously there was no more. He did not care. He was going to work in the mill. He had wanted a job and he had been Ingratiating and smooth and, engaging until he got it She let bitter acid, brewed from galling disappointment, seethe through her blood and sting the tip of her tongue. "So, you're going to work In the mill. You never waste time, do you? I hope mother is able to make money enough to pay you. She has had a hard time, paying the men she has already." "It was her suggestion." He stiffened stiff-ened himself, missing everything that a man should have seen and heard in her eyes, in her voice a man who was In love. Then he plunged on angrily, because he was hurt and tingling from a vague scorn he thought he caught In her attitude. atti-tude. "It won't be necessary for you to see me, if it's painful to you. You can ride by and disdain me from beyond the wall. I've been looked at with loathing before. I can bear it" He walked out, and Marian stood still, pressed against the old desk, her teeth set on her lip. The little room was small and gloomy from an overhanging hemlock tree. An old chair, twisting squeakily, stood there and she sat in it, her knuckles pressed against her teeth, her nails cutting her palms. So he was an opportunist, and callously brazen about it! And she, daughter of pavid Morgan, had dreamed dreams! She writhed against the cold leather of the chair. Then, on an impulse, she ran to the hall, dragged on a hat and coat, picked up the telephone, and gave a number crisply. "I'm ringing," announced Mildred, Mil-dred, the operator, In suave tones that made Marian's teeth click. All the girls in the exchange knew that she was calling Bry Hutton. All the girls knew also that probably Bry wasn't up yet Mrs. Hutton answered, a hurrying nervous woman with a nervous voice. Marian could almost see her standing there with a duster in her hand and an ear cocked to one side to listen for fear the beans might be boiling over. She was a marvelous marvel-ous housekeeper and it was rumored in the town that Mrs. Hutton kept a |