Evening Star Newspaper, March 29, 1931, Page 81

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, MARCH 29, 1931. LIFE IS LIKE THA'T By Hector Lundie A Powerful Story of Father andSonWhoSaw TheirDreamsBroken and Their Ambitions Shattered. HE sea. The sea. A many-masted schooner slipping through pale wreaths of fog. The long swell of gray-green water. The thunder of white waves on the sand. Sunset—red, flaming, over endless wastes. Islands of coral rising like blazing jewels from scented seas. The sting of salt. So he dreamed. A tall, gangling boy, white of face, blue-eyed, wistful—smiled. Harvey Lyton. The hired men smirked when they saw that far-away look come into his eyes. “Who's the girl?” they asked, until the dreaming turned to gray reality. Girl? Girl? Not Liz’ Murcher, thin-faced, thin-flanked? Not carrct-headed Janet Cairnes? Not—— Girl? There was something in his blood more passionate, more strange than leve. The sea. He felt it beating in upon him. Salt. The sharp bite of salt. He feit it while the black dust rose from the harrows or when the smell of dry hay filled his nostrils. The sea. His father was dead. His mother was old Some day—— He shut that thought out of his mind. But the thought came back. Some day —she would die. The farm would be his. Freedom. He would sell. He would go to New York. He would go before the mast. Gray wet decks glistening under the moon. Billows of canvas stretching, straining. Singapore. Valparaiso, Rio de Janeiro. Names of romance. Names of passion. The sea. The sea. So the thought beat through his mind. He felt the lustful tug of the wind on his body. He tasted salt on his lips. B‘U’r there was a girl, of course. Liz’ Murcher, ‘Thin of body, thin of face. But her lips, red; her eyes, black. There were long walks along dusty country roads. There were dances. There were long hours together in dark picture houses. The thin coolness of her hand in his. The brush of her arm against his sleeve. The gleam of her hair, her eyes. The gleam of her lips—— ‘There were rides. Sometimes—often—they stopped on quiet side roads. He would feel & trembling. A faintness. Her body would move closer. His arm would slide about her. Her face below him. A white face, with two round eyes and a round, red mouth. He would kiss her—— “Gosh, Liz’—" “Harvey——" And one evening, from his arms, her lips “Harvey?” “Yeah?” “Do you love me?” He thought. There was the red of her lips below him. The sea. The acrid bite of salt, salt. The wind lifting his hair—— A little sigh. A snuggling closer. “Harvey?"” “Yeah?” “Then—then we're engaged——?" A cold something in his chest. Engaged? White sails straining. Fog, fog. Married—— “If you wish, Liz’'——" Closer. Closer. He was kissing her, kissing those red lips, that white face, that gleaming hair. A warmth flowed through him. But his heart was cold, cold. He was drunk with her, drunk with the red lips and the white face and the black wide eyes and the moonlight. This was love. This was passion. They would be always thus, Lovers. “Harvey, we must be sensible——" “Yes, we must go in—" A coldness. They—they were He started the car. through the night. Her home. For a moment she was there, against him. He could feel the warmth of her body, the beating of her heart. Wide eyes staring into wide eyes. Heart to heart. “Dear—dear—dear——" “Harvey—oh, Harvey——" The scurry of her footsteps. The closing of bher door. A light in an upstairs window. He drove. He held the wheel of a ship in his hands. He could f2el under his feet the lurch, the steadying, the drive. The slap-slap of waves against the side of the vessel came to him. Sails creaked. : Liz’. Red lips. Engaged. They drove silently SPRI.NG. The black earth to turn. The black earth to cut and tear and smooth and plant. Milking. Cutting hay. Making fences. Driving cattle—slow-moving cows. Heat. Long, hot days. Long, hot nights. Wheat—golden wheat everywhere. And always his dream. Always a moment or two to his dream. A minute to stare over the blue hills. A minute to imagine the hot breeze & sea wind, A minute to taste salt. Then the threshing. The roar of the great engine. Bundles flashing into the black now. The trickle of golden grain-— Illustrated by Paul Kroesen. “Harvey, Harvey!™ A hired man shouting. Wild, scared faces. Something had happened— Liz’' in the doorway. A white-faced Liz'. A Liz' with great, wide, staring eyes. “Harvey, Harvey——" “What——2" “Your mother——" “Dead?” “Yes” His mother. Dead. A sudden wild surge along the veins. A glad life suddenly in his heart. His mother. Dead. An old woman. A gray woman. She was dead. The sea—— But Liz' was there. with great eyes. He was engaged to her. To Liz’. Engaged. A confused week. The funeral. Free. It beat through him. Free. Free. Free. He would sell. He would go to New York. Tokio. Valparaiso. Singapore—— A voice droning continually in her ears: “Harv:y, Harvey!” It was Liz’. Her face was thin. Thin. Had he ever kissed those lips, that hair? Liz’. He was engaged to her—engaged. “Harvey, why can't we be married this Winter? After a few months, of course. Harvey s 4 Hard, hard voice. Thin face. Black, wide eyes staring at him. nl__l___" “We could get married about January, Harvey——" The wet sheen of decks. The writhing of flailed sails. The lashing of waters—— “I—Liz’, I'm going to sell the farm——" A pause. A widening of her eyes. “Harvey! Sell the farm!” A mumble. He could not tell her. “Haven’t you any plan? Then what are you selling for? Harvey, tell me! Don't you love me, Harvey? We're engaged——" Words. Words that beat at him, tore at him. He could not think. Words. Words. Peace was what he wanted. A silent deck. A lone watch. “Harvey, this is serious! You must be sen- sible! It's a good farm. If I knew what you wanted to sell it for! Harvey, don't you love me? Don't you want to marry me?” Words. Words. He could not think. But suddenly everything was clear. going—going—— He found words to tell her. What! Harvey! Go to sea! As a common sailor? Harvey, be sensible! Life is serious, Harvey. You're making a joke of it. You foolish boy!" Words. Words. He stood numbly in front of her, white-faced, stubborn-mouthed. Words rained, poured, beat upon him. Life is serious, Harvey. Harvey, you silly boy! Words. Hong- kong! Naked brown boys on the spars. Black clouds, gray clouds, white clouds. “You foolish boy! You were only talking! Fooling your Liz’! I almost believed you! Harvey, kiss me. Harvey, don’t you love me?” There was panic in her voice now. “Harvey, we'll be married in January! In January, Harvey. Oh, Harvey, you gave me such a fright! Kiss me, Harvey. Hold me close, dear——" She was in his arms. He was kissing her, He was kissing those thin lips. He was saying yes, yes, yes. But—the wild leap and splash, the long, long swells of green and white— He was Liz’ was staring at him - E was a captive. He knew it, even before the wedding. Captive to thin, red lips, to a thin, white body. Never. Never. The words beat through him. Never. Never to see white- walled cities rising out of the dawn. Never to hold a quivering wheel in his hands. Never to feel his lips blacken in salt water. Never. Liz’ was his wife. She was up before him in the morning. Working. Bustling. That was Liz’. “The west field looks good for cuttin’.” “The roan cow is off her milk.” “Eggs is 40 a dozen at the store.” That was Liz". Spring came, and Summer. “Harv'?” “Yeah?” “Harv’, I'm goin’ to have a baby.” A pause. A moment of wild thinking. A baby. Another tie te hold him. A baby. “Why, that's—that's great, Liz’'!" “Oh, oh, Harv'—" The doctor. Liz' in bed. Days—days of waiting. Nights of waiting. The baby. A life paid for with a life. Liz' was dead. Liz' was dead, but she had left something of herself behind. She still smiled sardonically at him. He had to stay. There was the baby. He had to stay. A christening. John David Lyman. A good name, a solid name. John for that Franklin who died exploring the wastes of a northern sea. David for Livingstone. John David. It was & good name. o His son. John David. He would follow Franklin, follow Livingstone. He would be a rover, a sea wanderer. He would be everything that his father was not. He would do every- thing that his father had dreamed of doing. Years. Dry, barren years. Years of toil, years of fruitless work. Milking. Feeding. Cleaning—— But it was different now. John David was growing. He was going to school. He was able to listen to a father's voice telling adven- turous tales. “And he died?” “Yes, son. They found him, half in his sleeping bag, half in the ground—frozen, dead. They guessed he must have tried to shake the others by the hand.” They—the others—were in their sleeping bags—frozen, too. Comrades. ‘They fought together, they died together. Scott had written a last note in his diary. It was this: “It is far better to die here than to live at home in sloth and ease . . .* or: “Rio, daddy?” “Yes. It is somewhere in South America. A broad, blue bay, I think, with majestic mountains rising above a swarming city. “Did you ever see it, daddy?” A shadow crosses the man’s face. But you will.” Years. Years. The boy who dreamed once of the sea is gray now; he is stooped, worn, bent. But the son is growing. He is going to high school. He is going to college. Soon he will be 20. And then—— They have it all planned, the father and the son. He is to go to New York. He is to ship before the mast. He is to see . Vladivostok, Valparaiso. Singapore. Gold Coast. Java. The Fijis—— He will have his own ship some day. He—— He is tall, lithe, blue-eyed and yellow-haired. His father dreams as he gazes at him, He sees him leaping from rope to rope. He sees him at the cross-trees of a mast. He sees him hauling on long ropes. He sees him at the helm, alone. “No, son. OHN DAVID. His son. - In a month now he will be gone. The ticket will be bought next week. It is the great adventure. A month now. The boy is restless. He moons about the house. “Dad, can I have the car?” “Sure, son. Where you off to tonight?* “A dance.” “A dance, eh?” There is a girl. L&l Perrault. Short and plump. Golden-skinned, golden- haired. A baby face. China-blue baby eyes. Lill Perrault. So, one evening: The man had sat in the sunset and the dark- ness for long hours. Thinking. Dreaming. A$ last he climbed the stairs. But in the bed room he did not at once go to bed. He sat before the open window. It was then that he heard them, Long days of work, when black dus( rose from the plow. Spring came, and Summer, and he could feel the sea. John David and Lill, sitting in the hammock that swung across the porch. They were talk- ing. And something cold and heavy filled the heart of the listening man as he heard whis< pered words. “Lill, L “Oh, Jack——" There was the sound of a kiss. Then, after a moment. “Yes?” came the answering whisper. “Do you love me, Jack?” A pause. A silence. Memory was stirring in the heart of the man who sat above— - Kisses. Wild, passionate kisses. Young kisses. “Lin, Lin” “Oh, Davey-Jack, oh, Jack dear—* Another moment: “Then—then we’re engaged, Jack?” Another silence. A long silence. “Lill——" ‘The boy's voice sounded older, changed. “Lill, I'm going away this month.” “Going away——!” A harsh little voloe. A hard voice. A selfish voice. “Why—why, Jack!" “ves.” “But, but Jack, I thought—I thought you'd be helping your father on the farm. Or teach- ing, or something . . .” The mumble of an answering voice. Then: “Why, Davey-Jack!” There was & cold edge to that soft voice. “Jack—you foolish boy! Go to seal Why, you—you—oh, Jack, be sensible—" “I am, LilL.” “But, go to sea! As a common sailor? Oh, Jack, be serious!” “Lill, don’t laugh. Lill, T mean it. I want to go. I can’t explain—— It's like a woice calling me, it's—" A frantic note in the answering voice. “Jack! You can't go, Jack! Life is serious, Jack. Why, Jack, you'd be crazy. Jack, don’t you love me? Don’t you want to marry me?——" “Lill, Lill! I want you. I love you, Lill You're so soft and sweet and golden. But Lill, I—I have to go.” Tears now.. Slow, sobbing tears. conquering tears. pi o “Jack, I love you. Jack, you can’t leave me, I'd just die. You can't do this crazy trick, Jack! Life is serious, Jack! Why, you're @ man new! A grown man, Jack. “Hold me close—close, Jack! Kiss mey The MNitle Jack——" Silence. Conquering silence. sounds of a triumphant woman. Sniffs. Kisses, Murmurs. John David. John for the Franklin who had left his bones on the ice. David for Livings stone. John David. She had won. She would hold him. With her baby eyes and her baby face, she would hold him. Him—John David, his son. Hold him with her wet cheeks and her little cries and her sniffies. Hold him with her phrase “Life is serious! Life is serious!” f Tnn man who sat by the open window abové seemed curiously old, curiously gray. Life is sedious. Life is serious. She had won. The .Birl had conquered the dream. His hands clenched on the sill of the window. Was his son to fail as he had failed, to miss what he had missed? Was—— The night breeze puffed against his face. He pondered a moment. A light grew upon his face. Yes, it was the way, the only way. He rose slowly, luxuriously, as if suddenly some great and wonderful realization had come to him. A slave lifted from chains. Raising his arms over his head he breathed in the clean night air. Ah-h-h. Then, slowly, his stock«