The Bismarck Tribune Newspaper, June 21, 1928, Page 10

reser" Sei DIOUESTANRA TUATHA TT iii vt dinitrate ccna on HULU TT broad, hested—a fine figure of a man. s a baby and as a boy the eyes of his mother followed him —ardent, adoring, mother eyes, which said: “I have gotten a man from the Lord. Lo, he is beautiful,” As a child he was imitative. Narcissus-like, he stood before the mirror—making gestures, striking poses, gazing in rapt fascination at his reflected image. a lad, he memorized Shakespeare and in solitude enacted the lines of Hamlet and Orlando. Later, at college, he was organizer of a dramatic club and casted himself, as lead, in heroic roles. He had football shoul- ders but he draped them in Mark Antony's toga. He was black-haired, black-browed, ruddy- cheeked. Everywhere he went the eyes of women followed him. But he turned from them. One day, he said: ‘Mother, I'm going on the stage.”” The adoring eyes of his mother lifted to his. “All right, my son,’ she said and she went with him to Europe where he studied. c ‘When he was twenty-one he secured his first professional sete Tt was as juvenile lead in a crook play, destined to tour the provinces. “Has he talent?” asked the manager, and the casting director shifted his cigar and said: “He doesn't need talent. He has looks. The kind of looks that will bring out the women in droves.” They, came in di women. They sent him flowers. They wrote him notes. After matinees, they hung around the stage doors, wait- ing for him. he appear . big, tall, physically dominant, always measly Heals . « the women would nudge eac! other and whisper: “There he is! Isn't he big? And after he had gone, E WAS born beloved. His mother H called him David. He grew up tall, Isn't he beautiful?” they would return to their husbands and sweet- hearts, discontented, restive, troubled. Always he brought this vague disquietude to women. His beauty hurt them. His manner them. It was urbane, svelte, flawless— a manner of practical charm—of elegance alto- gether continental. He could be so attentive at teas and so forgetful after them. 669 SHALL never marry.” he said to his I mother one day. They had just returned from a visit to his married brother. “John,” he added with a quick oblique look into a nearby mirror, “looks so old.” David nodded. In his twenty-fourth year, he was on tour heading his own company. His picture was often in small town papers. He rill of ex- quisite happiness when, in Detroit, they put his name over the theatre in electrics. “So success- ful, so young!"" a woman said to him. He smiled down indulgently as one does at children. He had early adopted an amused—a paternal atti- tude towards women. He was born to money. He had attained a certain success. He was twenty-six when thé fen theca fell acts ‘ce a Pa a it at first it must the light. le peer closer into the mirror. No, it wasn’t the light! There shining out against the satin sheen of his coal black locks was a gray hair. He showed it he ge ache sid: Ma hoped would a my side of the family. Your father was white at thirty.” upon which the stage feeds as Molochs feed on virgins—was youth passing from him? Absurd! And yet—he went again to the mii should turn gray. Suzane, Brent and the boy! As they grouped themselves before him, it wasn't exactly their faces he saw. . . . It was something bigger . something diferent. . . , Completion. E HEARD Suzanne speak before he saw her. He heard her say: ‘Who is that distinguished man with the wing of gray at the temples?” He turned and saw that, like her voice, she was tender, golden. Brent introduced then—good, old Brent, who was a year his senior and had been his friend since their days of mumble-peg and marbles. In spite of her nineteen years, she was so gently, so softly luminous. Her look tucked him in. It was as if she were smothering his spirit. All the little bru'ses on his soul seem magically kissed away. Her gaze enfolded him, like arms. He felt her heart to be a little house which opened to let him enter. He saw Suzanne often during that visit. Dimly he was aware of Brent standing outside the house that was her heart and gazing reverently in through the windows. So her eyes became his mirror. Narcissus- like, he stood before them—making gestures, striking poses, gazing in rapt fascination at the beautiful, the lovely image of himself which he saw reflected there. He said to her: “I am afraid of marriage. It means either the divorce courts or the wonderful thing.” He gave her a quick look. She did not speak but her eyes said: “I could make it mean the wonderful thing for you!" Always he came back to Suzanne because always, she let him go. She gave him little, scattered bits of herself. Of these she wove a lovely garment which she flung about his shoul- ders. No stage costume ever became him so well as the garment which Suzanne wove. But he wore it carelessly, as one accustomed to treasures. He was so busy the next few years. He was trying to get a role in a Broadway production. He was frenzied with efforts to cover his rapidly whitening hair. One night he heard a woman say of him: “What a well-preserved man for his years.” He awoke to the truth with a stab. White like his father at thirty! The next morning he went distressedly to his barber, who comforted him and said: “Oh, that is nothing! Don’t worry. You shall see. I will restore the color to your hair.”” IR a while he was quite happy. He got another role on tour. Again he saw Su- *zanne. She was frailer—thinner. Her eyes had suffering in them. Once, as she stood over him, her fingers touched his hair. “I miss,” she said, “that wing of gray at the temples.” He laughed. “Gray hairs are taboo on the stage.” But his happiness did not last. His play failed. These days, it seemed, he was always going to specialists, who were always smilingly assuring him that their particular concoction would, with- out fail, permanently darken his hair, But as hope after hope was blasted, he grew skeptical. Almost he had determined to stop trying, when, of a sudden, humiliation felled him hike a blow. On the crown of his head there was a rapidly * widening spot of baby-pinkness! This time he went to a beauty parlor. The woman who examii him said frankly: “I can treat you but I doubt if I'll be able to coun- teract the harm already done by the dyes you have been using. You asked for the truth, so T'll tell you. In two years you'll be bald.” His thirty-sixth year was cataclysmic. He was compelled to patronize a wig-maker and to abandon the shop that had habited him for years. His old tailor seemed unable. to cope with his spreading gith—his thickening bulge, So be. went fh. 98 depart. Ae line and color. i Then, in his new wig and suits, he made the rounds of the theatrical o! Here managers Sppateed Nien teases the He Size of nee “We're not jing companies on tour. Business is bad,” they tol But he kept on doggedly. One of the managers, at last, offered him a Broadway part. “A character VOUTH bit in the first act,” he de- scribed it. David read the Iines— refused them. The charac- eis cf a father, eee aged, stolid, ternal. le shuddered. Not even to acdiaee his life- time desideratum—a part on Broadway— vont he accept that dnd pression came upon him—grew upon him— settled. He said to his mother: “lfm fed up with New York. Let's go home.” And they went. 'E CALLED on Suzanne as a matter of course. His hands outstretched to hers but she did not take them. Her greeting was a cry of pain. “Take it off. I hate it. It makes you look hard and old!" she told him. Tt was then he abandoned the wig. After- wards, he felt freer, lighter. For in spite of his spread of hip and his shining crown with its silky fringe of white, Suzanne flung her gar- ment about him, while her eyes still said: “I could make life wonderful for you!” One night, while he was west, his brother said to him: “You're getting on, Dave. Why don’t you marry?” David looked at John. He was a big cha —rugged—deep-lined—curiously buoyant He young. Lie was ten, ey ee than David and yet, somehow, now that was reaching the meridian of life, he seemed rejuvenated. David said: “Marriage brought struggle to you. Meditatively, John drew at his pipe. _ “It’s a good thing to forget your life in the lives of others—a good thing. Junior's twenty- two. I hope he marries soon.”” David made a protesting gesture. “That would age him. Handicap his ca- reer,” he objected. john nodded, ant “It, might at first. But there'd be children. finds incentive and youth in one's children.” Next day, they motored to Chicago where they had some business at the bank. bank president, who had not seen David for years, said, as he shook his hand: ‘8 see, you're the oldest brother, aren't you?” John answered: “Oh, no. I’m the oldest. David's the one on the ol And afterwards at luncheon, John mentioned marriage again. “It’s not too late, Dave. Marry. Put some- thing real into life.” what of my career?” David His brother scowled. “Drop it. old for the stage.” David laughed defensively, ‘Nonsense! Look at Faversham! Look at Barrymore. Both of them are older than I.” © The eyes of his brother narrowed. *" i You're too le Te diferent. They have genius. ‘You had looks.” He leaned forward, tapping the cloth with bis tay finger. “Dave,” he said, “don’t meet old age alone.” David startled. “Alone? You're forgetting Mother. I al- bia sare Mathes he said, i inded: “Mother is very old.” AVID'S next three years were tragic. Heavily ments of middle age. of food. He did nothi fessi » He Salk oa os «ks ie py On Weariedly he to travel; to books; to music. When he was forty his mother died. Closing eyelids against her weakening tears, she said: “ bse) oe ses bed marred.” bent close to her. “Why, Mother?” " She looked at him with sadness. TULUM MILI The Story of a Handsome Man W hose Fancy Did Not Turn to Love In/the Spring of His Life “MARGERY LAND © - MAY - Ilhistrated by GEORGE CLARK “I hate you to face the rest of it. . . alone.” Later, as he sre at ie Lisson grave, Su- zanne, cypress slim, was beside him. Her li said: i David, I'm 40 sorry.” Her eyes cried out: “Let me fill her place with you!” He smiled at her with gentleness, How marvelously Patient was the love of women. Ten years now since he had met her and felt that, mother-wise, she was tucking his spirit into bed. : 5 t of her walked with him away from his "s grave. Hi to feel sence. He ine to it ea le Night-time it stood, in fragrance, at his pillows. t out arms to him, it said: “Here I am! Soll you see me? There's just a bit of life Sometimes, when he was in a crowded street or room, he could hear it calling: “David! David!" And his own spirit would answer: ‘What is it, Suzanne?” As if he needed to ask! Oh, the marvel of the patience of the love of oes ght he d r presence st to him and pee acigeuis need me toe. iEwat a want you, ¥ i i to Lb pedigre my rbd t a bit of life left. Let Ble ge ge ng ogee ga ance 5 loneliness of life and thought: "She would mabe me hay t—Suzanne!" He “T have something to ~ I will marry her early. + tell T shall be t five,” he sai ane nn over at five,” he said and all felt young and happy because after all he was to marry Suzanne. _ He adorwed hisneelé 0. s00, ber, He put on his cee waistcoat; his darkest suit; his most ore He ers He gloves and cane. ly he started out. ‘was going to marry Suzanne, and he would take her roses. ‘AMISON'S picture in which David appeared as governor was a great success. David's part was small. As the husband of a faith- less woman, whose lover was a scoundrel, he acted in six short scenes. Though the film cre- ated much comment, David's name and part were overlooked by the critics of the press. Tt was to one of the smaller Broadway houses that he went to see himself on the screen. The theater lights went out, the picture on. The next few moments of his life were ghastly. Outwardly he sat there calm enough. Inwardly, his heart was dripping blood. That man—that thick, square-jawed, bald man—himselfl Good , that man was old! i 4 Fat—old—he felt both as he let himself into is impressive, empty rooms. He felt all his movements were thick—inelastic. His body dra; as if it were weighted with lead. fust a snatch of life left! Nothing to do wnt fie to ae en ata Ssiiai a bright hope quivered like butterflies within him. There was always the little house waiting —the house that was the heart of Suzanne. Of a sudden he felt slim again; young again; beautiful! He would write her. No! He would go to her at once. He got up to ring for his man but just then his man came in. “A message for you, sir,” he said and- gave a telegram to David. avid ripped the message. Ages crushed over him. He had been put out of his house. It was closed to him forever. She had married Brent that morning. i Life dragged. One had to do something. He traveled widely the next five years. But he did not go alone. In Pekin; in Rome; in Cairo; ever at his elbow was the image of Suzanne. he was forty-seven he returned to the town of his birth. i As he went up the steps of Brent's cottage, he thought: Truly the house of Suzanne! How warm! How glowing! : “Daddy! Daddy!” called an ecstatic voice and a little boy came galloping down to the door. “Oh, I thought you were my daddy,” said the little piping voice. A David tried to speak but could not. From his great height, he looked blindly down into %0 like Suzanne's that almost it seemed as i they were kissing his bruised spirit. “David!” “Suzanne! She came down the hall—more beautifully a thing of light even than tree inted her. He stopped still, arrested by the Sabbath joy of her; by the something hushed that was different. She held out her Hans to him and he leapt for- ward to meet her. Clinging to her fingers, he let her draw him in. Then she was sitting in a chair and he was kneel- ing beside her, all the fine phrases he had re- hearsed utterly swept away. 664-H. Suzanne, how dreadful for both of us!” he cried. “Why did you do it?” “Poor little boy,” she said, “Poor David!” He looked up expectantly to meet in her eyes not the old light of love but the cruel light of pity. He shrank from it—hurt as nothing had ever hurt him before. He got up and went away from her, across the room. But she came and stood before him. “David,” she said, “I thought I loved you He could not meet her eyes. “Di iis voice was hollow. “Did you?” Hi “You oe it,” she answered. “I waited for eedaty ? Oh, why did you change?” he asked qui ey She answered: “I think it must have been be- cause I learned to see real beauty.” He looked up questioningly and saw again the E was looking ald, the worshiping poricge ina light ia her quiet Nareissus-like, David stood b pice wg agli thon. wing be felt jo the ee. et striking pose et houlder. poses, fascinated with his image. Tate vanes te up ‘ “What's the trouble?” Jamison asked. David smiled. “There was i 0.09 Ba te o It couldn't have been — IN saw Brent, as riot- gleeful as the boy squirming to a better point of vant on his shoulder. zanne, Brent and the boy! As Touched to have won his favor, David suc- ceeded in smiling down at him. “Oh, you do this for me? How nicel Do you do it for your daddy?” The head tilted. The blue looked up squarely at hit him—sweetly—un: 4 “Not for Daddy,” he answered bluntly, “But you are old!” (THE END) all 0 nem MUERTE T Sa