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Show t ,n,....-i . h , ..r - .' - . . - . ; n - - " - - n I W I If i Jill McFarlane, whose father, Richard, Rich-ard, disappeared In World War I, falls In love wllh Spane Cordon, a younie lieutenant. He tells her that her brother, broth-er, flic, Is seeing a divorcee and she (toes to camp to Investigate. Rlc avoids her but she later sees him with Sandra Calvert, an older, hardened woman. Captain Mackey, known as "Old Cyanide," Cy-anide," tells her he knew her mother many years auo. She feels she knows blm. Spang calls to say goodbye. Later, while riding with Dave Pattcr-on, Pattcr-on, a family friend secretly In love with her mother, Julia, she Is thrown from her horse and taken to a hospital. That night Richard returns from the dead to visit Julia. CHAPTER X Julia Ignored the interruption. "He spent two months trying to find iomethlng, some record, some grave anything that would end our suspense, sus-pense, lie went through dozens of hospitals, even the insane places; he even went out with crews of men who were opening graves! It was a nerve-racking experience for him and not too happy for me, Rich- happened to come to Washington, and he found me and sent for John I." "I gave you money when I had it, Doolcy," he said. "And borrowed it back again when the horses were running at Eowie!" she thought bitterly, but she did not say it. She said dully, "You must have been very sick of me. I must have cried too much, been frightened too much, left alone there in that cheap little flat. It was my fault, perhaps. I was too young. I'd always had people to take care of me. I was silly enough to think that all women were cared for when they married; it was quite a shock when I learned that that wasn't always true. I know I must have failed you in a lot of ways, Richard. I must not have been a strong person then a strong woman wom-an might have changed you. But you failed me, too, Richard. You failed us all!" "Don't blame yourself, Dooley. The whole thing was a mistake. I merely happened to realize that be- years of suspense. Surely you can spare me any more." "If you create suspense for yourself, your-self, Dooley, I won't be able to do anything about it But why create it? I'm assuming that to you I am not your husband any more." "But you are my husband! Even though you choose to masquerade and wear a false name, though you've ignored me for more than half our lifetimes, though you knew where I was, when one word from you would have ended all this misery mis-ery of uncertainty for me, you are still the man I was married to, Richard. You're still my children's father. Nothing can change that." "You can change it if you like, Dooley." "How can I change it? You mean I can divorce you? How can I divorce a man who doesn't exist? How could I explain it to your children?" chil-dren?" "The kids do complicate things, don't they? They might like me if they knew me. Though perhaps you've already attended to that?" "I've given them a hero for a father!" fa-ther!" Julia flamed. "You did that for yourself, Dooley, not for me. You're a proud woman, your pride wouldn't let you keep a man in your life unless he was heroic. 1 And you don't want your pretty picture torn to pieces now by the dismal reality. So I'll take myself off. You wouldn't want to shake hands, Father?" John I. thrust his hands into his pockets, drawing in his brows. "No, I wouldn't! You make me ashamed that I am also a McFar-lane." Without a word Richard walked out of the house. They heard his car roar off down the drive. John I. sank into a chair and dropped his head into his hands. Julia went quietly and kissed the thinned spot on the top of his head. She did not speak. David was mourning the unworthiness of Absalom, Ab-salom, and there were no words to touch the dignity of that grief. She went numbly, groping for the stair rail, up to her room. Somehow, always, she had known! Always, unaware perhaps at times, she had been waiting for this, feeling the pressure of odd,, uncertain dread. There was a strange and psychic bond, a vibration vibra-tion that lived on between two people peo-ple who had been married, and she knew now that that quivering tie lived on, bridging years and silence, si-lence, binding her to Richard, even thought the bond was bitter. Eventually Eventu-ally it had drawn him back to her. She had seen the nostalgia in his eyes, though he had tried to hide it behind his old, cool arrogance. And now what? What lay ahead? What threatened her, her peace of mind, her pride for her children? There was Ric. What if Richard found out about Ric, learned where he was, rnade contact with his son? And then there was Dave. She knew that Dave loved her, with another kind of love, deeper, finer no fire or passion, no young fever, but the lasting love of a man who would cherish a woman forever. Julia flung herself down on the bed. Hru. "Sorry." Ha let his gaze fall, let his clasped hwids dangle between his knees. "J didn't think you'd be concerned. I thought you'd be relieved re-lieved to be rid of me." "Your conscience must have been more acut than we gave you credit cred-it for," said his father, scornfully. "If it hadn't been for Julia's obstinacy, ob-stinacy, I'd have had you declared legally daid long ago." Richard laughed, a short, difficult bark. "Legally, I am dead. Richard Rich-ard McFarlane no longer exists. Not oi any record, or roster, at least I've been Roger Mackey for twenty years now. There was a lot of collusion after the armistice, and I happened to come into possessionaccidentally, posses-sionaccidentally, of course of a pasiport and some other papers. It suled me not to be Richard Mc-FsTlane Mc-FsTlane any longer. I wanted to Etrt over. I stayed on in Paris for few years and did pretty well " "Gambling, as usual?" This from John I. Richard's mouth lifted in a condescending, con-descending, mirthless smile. That smile, too, was an aching piece of Julia's remembering. "I got along," he said, "in various ways. And then things got rather nasty in France there was all that argument about the debts, Americans Amer-icans weren't popular so I came back to this country. I didn't know anything to get into things were a , little tough here too, you remember? remem-ber? So I went back to the army. This f ell this Mackey, whose ' papers I lS?4 had a commission. I got It renewed, I asked for service in Hawaii and got it. Then last year they sent me back. I'm at Ridley Field now." Almost Julia cried out. Ric was at Ridley Field. But she caught herself in time, made a little movement move-ment toward her father-in-law, begging beg-ging for silence. He caught the gesture, or perhaps he did not remember, re-member, did not connect Ric with any of this. The old forgot easily. Richard must not know about Rlc. All their lives she had built their father up to heroic stature for her children, made him a splendor to admire, but knowing all the while what a false and crumbling foundation foun-dation she built upon, how dangerous danger-ous was the structure she raised If a fierce wind blew upon it But she must not destroy it now. She must not tear Richard down, offer that ruin to Richard's son. She must not destroy that pictured inheritance in-heritance of gallantry. Ric was not strong and courageous like Jill. He had all the weaknesses of the Mc-Farlane Mc-Farlane men;. if he had inherited any strength from her it was latent, it had not begun its growth. Now she could not risk giving him a father fa-ther who had callously abandoned him even before he had learned to speak that father's name. So she said, rather flatly, "You were at Pearl Harbor, Richard?" His face changed, twisted. His -a "But you Just can't come- back this way from the dead." ' fore you did. I took the best way out of it, for you and for everybody." every-body." "You took a coward's way out," said his father. "Now now that you're getting old and life Isn'.t so gay and adventurous as it used to be, I suppose you think you should come back here and find a welcome? wel-come? Find things exactly as they were before." Richard flared. His eyes took on that icy look that Julia remembered. re-membered. "Have I said that? Have I asked for anything?" "Not yet. But you've made no decent excuse or explanation either. ei-ther. You walked out on Julia and left her to struggle alone " "Not alone, John I. You've been a rock under my feet, you've been my strength and courage when I faltered!" "You were all I had, Dooley," he said gently, "you and those kids." "They're pretty well grown up now, I suppose?" Richard changed the subject with the facile ease that had always been his gift "How are they?" "They're very well." She would not tell him anything. Not about Ric, not about Jill's accident, nothing. noth-ing. He had no right to know. He had no rights at all. "Richard is twenty-seven, Jill's twenty-six." "Oh, Dave!" her heart cried out. "Now that it's too late, I do love youl And what am I going to do?" Jill turned her head on the pillow, pil-low, eased her body from the cramp of her splinted arm and taped shoulder. shoul-der. "Dooley, you look simply ghastly!" ghast-ly!" she said. "I've never seen black hollows under your eyes before. be-fore. What's worrying you besides me?" "Nothing," Julia lied gallantly. "You're enough for one dose. Do I look so pathetic? I must need some vitamins or something. It's missing miss-ing you so much, I guess." Jill drew the corners of her mouth in. "You're a rotten actress, Dooley. Doo-ley. You're corny as heck and transparent as cellophane. When you hurt inside, it shows through like veins and things under a fluoro-scope. fluoro-scope. Have you and Dave had a fight?" "Of course not, silly. I haven't seen Dave since that Sunday. And why should we fight?" "I don't know any good reason, but you are sort of difficult to understand un-derstand at times, Dooley. You're so unpredictable. I think I know what you're thinking and feeling, and suddenly I discover I'm all lost and don't know you at all." Julia Fails to Deceive Jill "I'm a mystery woman! Human enigma. But the fewer feelings we all have now the better ofi" we'll be." Julia was being platitudinous, she knew, and undoubtedly Jill was probing past that evasive defense with her dry, shrewd, young eyes. "We're fighting a lot of people who've done away with feeling." "And now," said Jill, in a mocking mock-ing voice, "the gentlemanly ushers will pass among you, and all the ladies will deposit their ballots in the basket, please. And don't vote for yourselves, girls!" she chirped in a bright falsetto. "Dooley, it you won't talk, shut up! Don't ini suit my intelligence with that stuffl" (TO BE CONTINUED) eyes shifted. "Yes, I was thereat there-at Hickam Field. Now I'm at Ridley. Rid-ley. But I've worked for what I've got in the army." "So," Julia let her breath out, thankful oh, so terribly thankful that Jill was away! "So you are Roger Mackey now. But why, Richardwhy? Rich-ardwhy? All this talk, and I still don't understand it. You must not have cared about us at all. You didn't want to see us again, your own father your own children?" "I did think about the kids, of course," he said, "and you, too, Dooley. But I hadn't been a very successful husband. You were pretty pret-ty well fed up with me when I left." A Three-Way Conversation "I was nineteen years old!" Julia protested. "I'd loved you and married mar-ried you, and then I'd been left alone, for weeks at a time not knowing where you were, even hungry! hun-gry! I had a baby, and then I was going to have another right away and then it was war, and John I. got that commission for you, because be-cause he thought war was what you needed that it might quiet that restlessness in you and so you went away. And left me with nothing! noth-ing! Nothing but this shabby old house, this mortgaged land and no one to turn to till Dave Patterson Richard Offers No Solution "Makes a man feel old. Are they like you, Dooley?" Richard asked. "They're entirely unlike. But they're both McFarlanes." "Married, either of them?" "No, they're not married." "At least I'm not a grandfather!" he said, smiling thinly. "Well, I'll push along. Due back for reveille tomorrow. Have to drive all night to make it." "But, Richard, what happens now?" Julia cried. "What are you going to do?" He faced her, and she felt herself receding, shrinking as she had always al-ways done when he looked at her with that cold, blue stare. "What happens now depends on you, Dooley. As for what I'm going go-ing to do so far as I know, nothing!" noth-ing!" "But you can't just come back this way from the dead!" "I've never been dead. I came back because suddenly I wanted to see you, hear your voice again. If you mean shall I go back to being Richard McFarlane again, the answer an-swer is no. It would be awkward and embarrassing. I'm in the army. There's war going on. Till It's over, I'll concentrate on that." "Richard. I've had twenty-five |