Evening Star Newspaper, September 8, 1929, Page 92

STAR, \V/\S}UNGTQN, D. C, SEPTEMBER & 1929, LifeSeemed to BeTooDifficult to Bear, She De- -cided She Couldn’t "Fa.ce It—Her Loss Was Too - Great. { ALOU had seen it in the morning / paper. Coming back, letters in one hand, paper in the other, from thé trip to the living room door that was part of her morn- ing ritual, yawning comfortably, glancing he had seen it. Now the paper lay on the floor beside Malou's ‘bed, and Malou lay among all her pillows— shivering. Not weeping. Too stunned—too sick for that. . ‘-Bhehynntonherhcemherbeduue:: blown her there, and from h t?l'memhguvered ceaselessly and soundlessly, _while the little clock upon her bedside table ticked off minute after minute—while in at her open window came sounds of street cars passing, _taxies honking, wheels turning, whistles blow- ing. A world still going on—incredibly. : With Eddie out of it. “Airman Killed in Trial Flight. Eddie Mac- kenzie Crashes—Plane of His Own Design.” She had told him that plane would get him X ., “Wings Buckle.” What wings don't—if you crowd them too far! Eddie g Eddie! Up and down the corridors of her inner consciousness something ran shrieking his name —Eddie—Eddie—Eddie!—wailing, crying. But her lips didn't move. That was what loving Eddie had taught her; to consume her own smoke, to cover her trail, to keep a close matter what went on back of her eyes. For she and Eddie had been secretly or almost a year, in deflance of a contract that bound her,to remain un- until the gigantic picture in which she an important part had been finished. would have to go on keeping her would break down if she did any- Her grief would overwhelm her, what was the use of saying any- ? It wouldn’t bring Eddie back. orld,” he had said, “is not the one made in seven days. But what have & moon is better than no moon at . #HEEERELE Eg%z:gigsig GEe her his Half-moon Girl. metn'ys, kid!” he used to say. uld I be,” he once said to her, take a joke from the gods? , long ago—that’s where I'd be!” not—washed up was where he B § “MACKENZIE’S plane burst into flames as it touched the ground,” the news story had said. Malou set her teeth into lace and pink satin —acrid and dry to the taste as sawdust. She in an agony of sobs erowding up frem rtured center of her being. i a hand to her hair, putting the hem e sheet to her eyes, in the extremest of her suffering, reaching for powder- d lipstick on the night-table beside She swallowed desperately. She steadied herself as if a rod of the length of her body. she called in a voice only faintly had heard the maid—the latch y r closing. ’ “Good mornin’, Miss Carlin,” said Ann. “I'm e 19 gggéa of the Times, Malou responded svhe'eytlygap '?ént’g all right, Ann, You could be a little later and nobody’d report you for it.” “Was it a good party last night?” Anr ‘Inquired, with friendly solicitude. s Of course, there had been a party the nigh before. Malou remembered. She had got Ann to. press something for her—she had told her Howard was back from Europe—she had told her about the bracelet from Paris. She was in the habit of telling Ann a good deal—Ann was such.a mothering soul. “Ye've had no breakfast!” said Ann. “What's ithe matter—now? Don't ye feel good: this mornin’?” “Oh, I'm all right, Ann,” said Malou. She actually laughed. e ; “Well—that’s good,” said Ann. She sent a carpet-sweeper along the taupe and golden spaces of Malou’s rugs with long, easy strokes. “I think I'll get up,” said Malou suddenly. Bhe swung her feet over the side of the bed, put the tips of her fingers to her eyes—better not let Ann see her mouth; it must be written there—that the world had come to an end that morning. Malou's world—Eddie’s world. Bhe sat quietly, the paper on her knees, seeing nothing. “Miss Carlin, you're wanted on the phone. €hall I say you can’t come?” “Yes—no—no, Ann! Tell them to hold the Wire!” “I think it's Mr. West,” said Ann. ... She she rolled over and sat up in bed— - SR r— —2By Fannie Heaslip Lca Eddie—somewhere under that! Eddie’s teasing smile . . . his splendid strong proud body . . . Eddie! brought a silver shawl and put it about Malou’s shoulders. “Do you want to get your death of cold, Miss Carlin?” “Might be one way out,” said Malou, smiling. She was prettily pleasant to Howard. “Oh—wonderful! How are you? It was a swell party, Howard. I never in my life had a better time. ... Why—let me see. ... No— I can’t possibly! Having lunch with a girl I used to go to school with back in Georgia.” She had gone to school with Charlotte Greene —years ago, before she met Eddie. “Don’t think about Eddie,” she said to her- self, “—not now. ... Wait!” So she walled off Eddie, in her mind con- trolling a tendemcy to chattering teeth—and returned to Howard and the matter of Char- lotte Greene. “We're lunching at one—at the Carlton— don’t be so curious.” She rang off very gently. She couldn’t have stood there much longer. “Don’t come in too early tomorrow morning, Ann,” she said suddenly. “Is it another party?” asked Ann. “It must be wonderful to be an actress,” she said wist- fully. “Why, Ann?” asked Malou curiously. One never knew what went on back of other peo- ple’s eyes—any more than other people knew - one’s own hidden strugglings and squirmings. Fancy, nice simple Ann yearning for glory! “Well,” sald Ann, “you certainly do get to know & lot of men—don’t you, Miss Carlin?” MAIOU laughed. Her laughter cracked in the middle, and she stopped it abruptly. Had she ever known but one man her whole life long? Had she ever known him? The monotonous inner chant began again: “Ed- die—Eddie—Eddie.” She couldn’t see his face—couldn’t bring it back any more than’if he had been the veriest stranger. . . . What had his voice been like? She had so loved his voice—there had been a queer resonant note in it; but what was it like? How did it sound? It couldn’t be gone, 80 soon—not absolutely gone, in just a few hours, not gone! “What time t, Ann?” she asked brightly. “I've got to stog’at a drug store.” * Anr said it was half-past twelve. She fol- lowed Malou to the door and stood there dust- rag in one plump reddened hand, a wisp of blonde hair straggling over one cheek. The drug store was almost empty—of peo- ple. Full of perfume and powders and can- dies and nail brushes, bath salts and swimming caps. Luckily the clerk behind the counter knew her—she’d been there often enough. “A dozen tablets—please,” she said. “And I'm in a frightful hurry!” Her smile flattered him with its suggestion of depending upon his pleasure—in hurrying. He resisted her—obviously embarrassed and reluctant. “I don’'t know if I can let you have it, Miss Carlin. Not that much—at one time.” “What on earth?” inquired Malou, wide-eyed and guileless. “I've gotten it here before— without any question.” Her eyes reproached him gently for his cruelty in raising obstacles. “Well, you see—Mr. Voladay's not in, just now.” “Good!” said the flutter in Malou's breast. “I'll tell Mr. Voladay I insisted.” She'd leave a note, she secretly considered. She told the clerk pathetically: “I haven't been sleeping at all well—and I can't afford to be nervous and tired out. I've got to be—rested. . . . You see!” “Well—" he said again, less surely. “Thank you so much!” sighed Malou. She had the 12 tablets wrapped and in the suede bag under one arm before he had defi- nitely decided to brave Mr. Voladay's absence. “Isn’t it a wonderful day!” she said to him, comradely—departing. “Beautiful!” said the young drug clerk. He saw her, November though it was, through a mist of white pear-blossoms, dogwood and other flora. . Charlette Greene was waiting when Malou got to the Carlton. They met with effusion. “Charlotte, darling—how absolutely heavenly tfo see you again! Am I late? So sorry! I overslept this morning.” “Malou—you look tired. working yourself to death.” Malou thought: “Then it does show!” Aloud she said, smiling: “Well, Charlotte— how's the baby? Don't tell me you left him in Atlanta!” Charlotte said guiltily: “Yes, Malou, I did. I've got the most wonderful nurse for him— she practically raised Edwin, after his mother died.” Then she noticed that Malou was star- ing across the room. Some one you know, over there? she asked curiously. Malou jerked herself together, frightened. She said casually: “Let's go into the dining room, shall we? You st be starved. . . . No—just some one I thought I knew, for a moment.” I suppose you're OVER their black coffee, at the end of an endless meal in which Malou had made all the gestures of eating and drinking, over and over, inwardiy revolted—— “Malqu,” said Charlotte suddenly, “when are you going to get married, dear?” Not to be able to shriek with crazy laughter! Not to be able to sob one’s grief out. “Why, Charlotte!” said Malou. “Do you think I'm getting—spinsterish?” “Isn’t there any one at all?” persisted Char- lotte. “You must meet a lot of nice men.” “Oh, I do—flocks of them. You've no idea!” “Then, Malou—why don't you marry one of them? You don't know, my dear, what hap- piness really is—until you've got a house—and a man—and a child—of your own.” “I've got two rooms and a bath,” said Malou. Very dimly, fainter than smoke along the hori- zon, came back to her for one moment the turn of Eddie's head—his long-limbed slouch- ing walk, crossing the sitting-room. . . “Must a house,” added Malou, dry-lipped, “have more than that?” “Be as funny as you like,” said Charlotte. “Some day you'll wake up.” “If you're doing any praying for me, darling, I'd much rather sleep,” said Malou. She slid a bill beneath the check the waiter presented to her, smiled at him and rose. She told Charlotte good-by—prettily, with all the necessary phrases—and turned from the Carlton south along the avenue. Steps, steady behind her, steady, finally, be- side her, drew her resentful look. “Howard—how perfectly absurd of you!” “The watch-dog of the treasure!” said Howe ard, beaming. “How'd your party go?” Howardewas short and thick-set and ruddy. Tweeds from London—cliches from Paris—mind from the town in which he was born. He fingered his small reddish mustache, walking along beside her, looking sideways at her out of gray eyes. Boyish eyes, for all their sophisticate weariness: “What're you doing this afternoon?” “Got a tea-date,” said Malou. She flicked her lashes—automatically demure. “Who with, Malou?” He said it twice before she heard him. “Hey—hey!” he said cheerfully. “What did you say?” gasped Malou. Howard began to sing, seftly: “ ‘The sky was blue, the mcon was old——' Seen that show, haven't you?” Malou said she didn't think she had. “What night'll you go?” asked Howard promptly, When she said he might give her a ring later, he veered to more immediate measures: “Don't be so stingy with yourself, child. How about a movie this afternoon?” “Now?"” said Malou. “Now—as the gong strikes!"” said Howard. When she sald why not—and she thought it might be done—he reddened with such pleasure she was momentarily. ashamed. “You're awfully sweet to me, Howard'” Howard said: “You aint seen nothin’ yet!” His eyes, looking into hers, grew suddeniy misty—glazed with ardor. Malou thought: “Why is it—that look can turn your heart over, or make you cold and sick, depending on whose eyes?” HE drew away from Howard's shoulder—but once in the movie place, not so easy to escape it. They slumped down, side by side— shoulders, elbows, touching-—and Howard sighed comfortably. > “Let the chips,” he said, “fall where they may . .. I calls this luck!” Malou didn’t answer him. The movie gave her that much—she didn’t have to answer. She sat and stared at the screen. She let the world fall away from her. After a long time: “I like this man—don’t you?" she murmured. Long ago, it seemed to her, something in the shape of the actor’s head—s®mething about his mouth, had suggested Eddie. Now she tried with a fierce desolate hunger to recapture that suggestion—and fafled. Just one more sleek dark head, one more laughing, rakishly mus- tached mouth. White teeth—impudent eyes. All of that was Eddie—and was the lover on the screen. But all the shadow's swashbuckling and love-making and debonair abusurdity did not give her back one gleam . . . They had come in near the end of the pic- ture—an obvious appeal to the emctions, but it wrung no tears from Malcu. Only one moment did her stunned senses quiver—when, in a railway-station, a woman, darkly veiled, waiting on the edge of the plate form, stepped down before an oncoming train Light, born in the distanc —sraviag brishter, SO