New Britain Herald Newspaper, November 23, 1925, Page 10

S Wd/l) NEA sr:-v?c; INC CHAPTER 1 ARBARA leaned wearily against the door jamb, her face resting on her right hand, her left hand limp at her side. Outside, footsteps creaked down the old wooden steps and clicked on the sidewalk, Then the gate slammed. The steps were hasty, decisive, with a hint of sharpness. They did not hesitate, but went down the street until Barbara heard them no more. At last she straightened her shoulders, brushed a hand across her forehead and started toward the stairway., As she rounded the landing, a clock in the distant room struck twelve, Her mother came out of the shadows of the dining room wnd glanced at the closed door., Then she peered up the >L||1\\.1,. There were no sounds from above. Mrs, Hawley moved across the hall, bolted the door, snapped out the lights and climbed the stairs. ¢ Parbara was sitting on the bed when her mother entered. She was brushing her hair with short sharp strokes of a silver-hacked brush, and there was a line between her eyes. “Would you like a cup of tea, Babs?" asked her mother, “There is cold meat Aml some cake in the pantry. You didn’t eat much dinner.” “I'm not hungr) Yy mother,” perhaps, the tea—." Mrs. Hawley was gone almost before the words were out. Barbara went on brushing her hair, her face growing more grim every moment. Then suddenly she dropped the brush and melted into a limp little heap on the bed, sob- bing. When the storm of tears had passed, she sat up again and wiped her eyes. They were gray-blue eyes, ved-trimmed and swimming. She'dabbed at them with a hard little ball of wet handkerchief, and sat up very straight. Then she slipped off to bed, thrust her feet into the satin mules that lay waiting, and crossed the room to the open mq,h( . The Hawley house belonged to that era of the past in which open hearths were not unusual in bedrooms. On the rug before the fire, Barbara sat down, hugging her knees with both arms. She stared at the fire, and see- ing that it was about to go out, jabbed at it with a little brass poker. The flames shot up and brightened the room. Barbara was thankful for the added warmth. Her body, in the thin silk lounging robe, was shivering with that sick cold- ness which follows emotion in sensitive women. She stirred uneasily and glanced over her shoulder. There was a picture of a young man in a silver frame on her dress- ing table across the room. She turned her head away from it with a jerk. But the eyes seemed to be burning into her back. Barbara was grateful for the steaming tea that her mother brought in on an old tray. She felt the blood rising again in her cheeks, as she sat on the rug and sipped the rrant liquid. s it all over, Babs?” nodded, but did not speak. After a long silence, with an impatient movement of her head poke. *“Yes, mother, it's all over. [ shall never see him again—or, at least, never gpeak to him again. And I'm glad of it. “He's a selfish tyrant and it's lucky for me | it in tim “But is it really final?” asked Mrs. twisted in deep lines of an e Barbara began to talk rapidly, in a torrent of feeling. “Yes, mother, it's final. And he knows it, too. It's so final that T don't ever want to speak to him after tonight. We'v made a clean break—no hang-overs or regrets. Tomorrow is the beginning of everything. “He was quite impossible—spoke his mind about my views —called me selfish—said I'd never get anywhere in a pro- fession—no women did, except sour old maids and monstrosi- ties. Said a newspaper office was no place for a woman, and all I'd get out of it was hard knocks and a bad reputation.” Barbara stoppe od, breathless. Her eyes were blazing and her lips quivering. “That's the old-fazhioned idea,” said Mrs. Hawley. “I've heard your father the same thing, not only about news- paper work, but about any kind m public work for women. Men just don't like it, Barbai “And why?” cried Barbara. “Because they're jealous, that's all. They've had things all their own way in business for so long that they can't bear to let women in. “And the ones that aren't jealous are just plain selfish, Take father! He wanted you to have no interest in life but to cook and sweep and sew for him, and be on hand to br him his slippers. And what a life he led you!" Barba ~tuxv]wi, struck by the look of pain in her mother's eyes It was a moment before Mrs. Hawley answered. “Yes,” it's true that my kind of life hasn't brought me much joy, except what I've found in vou. But your father's idea and Pruce's idea is the orthodox one, you know. You can't upset centuries of custom over night, Barbara. “But 1 can. torted Barbara. *1 can set rules for my own life, at any . Why should Bruce try to rule 1 | answered Barbara. “But, ed her mother softly. Barbara discovered Hawley, her thin face she said, * mothe o, and lav out plans for me to give up my whole life to o much_that he wants to rule y thought of his wife working for 1 her mother, “It hurts his pride \ man's aignit precious posses- . You ought to know that. rned on her moth “Do you mean that you n with hi she flared. hook her head. “No,” she said. wishing my kind of life for you. f, if only I'd had your talent. “I don't t ou, as it is that | ¢ the 13 his mo < “Heaven I'd have If there'd ild do well enough to earn money, I'd ant you to go as far as your 1 s mother's neck. “I 80 Cross, mum she said. “But if you up in this, T don't know what I'd do. | u: would s !nmt ze with me—you always do.” iiled atwisted ile. “1 do, Babs,” she ou've done what you did. ¥or I can't see s and vour beauty, tied forever to some :mi nursery, and never a chance to t vou could have done in the world. i Barbara, that can make a go of it Hl'IT ttchen sin one of the f vou've vour father's brains and the beauty 1 used to g you can't do with the two of them. ) have, and there's notl Bruce is and I think vou must have hurt him considerably, for him to say all Hum things to you. “But I'm glad vou've broken with him. And of course I'll back yvou.” Barbara gave her mother a squeeze and spr: ing up frnm the 1 “I'm catching cold, mumsy,” she said. “My e are red already, and if 1 don't get some sleep, 1 shall lka like a boiled owl for the great job hunt tomorrow.” Her mother smiled again, reilecting the shifting mood of her daughter. \RBARA HAWLEY f@*,‘?*@ “Hop into bed,” open the window."” When her mother was gone, Barbara stretched out be- tween the sheets hx\luinu\I,\. The fire was crackling very , making only a dim haze of red light through the room, out a few polished surf: to gleam upon. ra saw the light on the wl frame that stood on the dressing table. She was alad that she could not see the face within its circle. She sighed and rolled over on her face, for a final effort to win sleep. She had almost succeeded, when the telephone hell rang. It brousht her out of bed with a jerk that dragged the covers to the floor. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the picture in the frame, and then hurried out to the hall. “Hello,” she said. *Oh, yes, Bruce.” Ier voice was she said, “and T'll turn out the light and Wit! plunee Rarbara was out of bed and across the grasped the silver frame and ripped the picture room. of Bruce from it. "NDAY, NOVEMEET BRUCE REYNCLDS tremulous. “No, 1 wasn't asleep.” Then, most asleep, though. “No, it didn't wake mother. What is it?” For some time, she listened to the words at the other end of the wire. “But Bruce, that doesn't change the facts.” She was struggling for cool decision. “No, I don't want you to make concessions. It isn’t con- cessions that T want. [ just want my rights as a human be- ing—and I don't want a man that has to be clubbed into yiving them to me!” She hung up. hurriedly, *“Al- The morning was erisp and bright, with a sparkle here and there of light frost. Maple leaves t:lmrm:: aeainst Barbara's window awoke her not long after sunrise, but she lay in bed, watching the long streak of pale, early h'v 1t that erept across the l)lue rug. When the perfume of colice drifted in from downstairs, she sat up and stretched her arms. She had resolutely shut out thoughts of the night before, fixing her mind upon the coming search for a joh. Her eyes fell upon the picture of Bruce. With a plunge, she was out of bed and across the room. She grasped the silver frame and ripped the picture out of it. Another mo- tion of her nervous fingers would have torn it across. She hesitated, opened the lower drawer, -and slipped the picture beneath the pe wper that lined it. Then she closed the drawer with a bang and began to dress. z She found breakfast waiting for her. Her mother greeted her brightly. “Sleep well, Babs?” “Like a top, mother. Talkes lots to keep me from eating or sleeping, you know. Life’s too short to lie awake when vou might be resti “I thought I heard the telephone ving in the night,” Mrs. Hawley spoke hesitantly. “You did, nm\iu replied Barbara, with a petulant note in her voice. “It was Bruce again. T told him there was no use. “My, what a busy day this viously changing a disagrecable subject. I'll find a job?" “Of course you will, Babs, but maybe not the first day. When you go into the telegraph office, don’'t forget to tell Mr. MeDermott you are Fdward Hawley's daughter. He knew your father. Barbara was eating mother, watching her, bly. “Of course you'll get something, Barbara. You always come out on top, ! is going to be.” She was ob- “Do you suppose toast and marmalade with relish. Her nodacd her head almost impercepti- yYou know. Barbara nibbled the last ecrumb and-rose from the table. The New Britain interurban station was crowded this morning, chiefly with chattering boys and girls going into New Britain to school. They were much like the youngsters with whom Barbara had labored for three weary years of school teaching. As she looked at them, she was doubly thankful that that chapter was closed. A faded woman acrc:s the aisle looked enviously at Bar- bara's happy eyes and at the crisply smart blue suit and the tilted velour turban. Barbara was the picture of tri- umphant youth. She' had decided to try the Telegraph firs managing editor knew something of her father. When the elevator stopped and she stepped out into the editorial rooms, heads went up on every side. Barbara was conscious of smoke, a clatter of telegraph instruments, ejaculations and a crowd of people rushing in and out of doors. because its The place was terrifying, but she went through tiic and asked directions of a girl seated at a switehboard. When she turned away, Barbara saw a woman witch, her fixedly across a cluttered desk in a nearby corner, i woman might have heen six or seven years older than Dus- bara, Her face was drawn and her mouth thin and :upwi cilious. The city editor looked up from his work as Barbava | proached. “Mr, McDermott does not get down until a litt! ater,” he said in answer to her question. “But if you w ooking for employment, 1 may as \'\ul! tell you that tin Telegraph is over-staited right now. Barbara caught her breath. Then she answercd, 1err most winnine smile, “I think 1'll wait for him, «n) While she waited she glanced avound the office. co smoke curled about the head of every man in the Shouts and replies went hurtling on every side and re ess errand boys brushed around her chair perilously. Barbara was surprised to see that everyhody, including the city editor, was working in his shirt sleeve The woman at the corner desk shot several plances ol hostility at Barbara, and turned away angrily when Barbai: caught her eye. An extraordinarily homely youth was dasii ing in and out of a mysterious door that gave short glimps: of a blacker chaos bevond. From this door came a clattc of metallic sounds. The curious glances of the workers at the typewritol desks had almost ruined Barbara’s morale, when help eam in the person of the homely youth, who approached her, and with a jerk of his elbow toward a tiny enclosed office, an nounced, “Mr. McDermott's in there now.” The moment had come. Barbara looked around wildly. She could see no escape. So, with an added bit of swagger. she crossed the room to the enclosure indicated. A man who looked to be about 42 raised h pile of proofs. His face was thin and dee were strikingly blue against a bronzed skin. “You are Miss Hawley?” He was looking at a card thut Barbara had given the city editor. “Yes,” she replied, Edward Hawley's daughter, as m mother reminded me to tell you.” She smiled. MeDermott raised his eyes and studied her face. “Yuu.‘ father was a brilliant man, Miss Hawley.” Then he added. “but not a very successful man, I think.” Barbara was taken aback. She thought of her mothei struggle against necessity and against Edward Haw- ey's erratic temper. “.\o, she said, “I think not.” McDermott was evident- v pleased with her candor. “T hear you are looking for a job—or is it a position ?” “A job,” answered Bar- rara, smiling again. “I don't care what it is, so ong as it lets me into the newspaper game.” “What makes you think vou can hold a job if T give vou one?” queried MeDer- mott, looking at ler through lazy, half-shut lids. “What experience rou had?” Barbara flushed. in the newspaper line,” she confessed. “But I can write. And I'm fairly well edu- cated.] have taught for three years at the Vilmont Counts Day School.” “And what connection do you think that has with news paper work?” Barbara answered sharply. to write good English.” McDermott smiled, with evident relish of her firve. “We have no job at present,” he drawled. Barbara mouth drooped. “And of course, to make this true to type. you ought to be turned down by about half a dozen editos: before anybody gives you a glimmer of encouragement. Never saw a cub who amounted to a darn, without that initial ordeal.” “But there aren't half a dozen editors in New Britain, protested Barbara. “There are only Mr. Morledge of the Press and Mr. Simmons of the Tribune left, if you refuse me. And I'd much rather work for the Telegraph. “Hm-m,” said McDermott. “Then it looks as if I would have to make a job for you, doesn’t it? Now, as it happens | am inclined to do that very thing. Your father had brai vou know. What do you say to a reporter’s place at week, starting \londd\ Barbara did not hesitate. “I'd like it,” she answered. “Don’t to too sure you would. In the Telegraph office the newest cub may have to do anything from interviewing the president to sweeping out the composing room.” “T'll take a chance.” she said. She was about to thank him, when she realized that for McDermott, she no longer existed. He had turned his back on her and was rattling away at a dilapidated typewriter, She went out. Fobae roon 1ead from a lined. His eyer . /. “None ) ANDQE\’ Mc DERMOTT “At least it should help m: . e 8 On the car going back to Berlin Barbara met Wilma C. . lins, a girl who lived on her street. Wilma welcomed her with glee and began to chatter about the trousseau she had been buying in town. “T'll tell you, Babs, I have a grand idea. Why don't you and Bruce get married next month and have a double wedding with us? I've just been shopping for linens and things, and it's such fun.” Barbara replied crisply, “for the good reason that I'm not going to marry Bruce or anyone else. I'm going to be a re- porter on the New Britain Telegraph. If you like, I'll give vou my madeira luncheon set that I bought for my hope chest. I've outgrown those things now.” Wilma's mouth and eyes widened. “Why, do you mean? You and Bruce—!” “Just that. We've quit. I'm going out for journalism and a career.” \ “As a reporter?” asked Wilma. She pronounced the w ()l'i‘l‘ with a slightly flat tone, as she might have spoken of some- thing beyond the social pale. “Exactly.” Barbara retreated into the pages of her new- paner. When she reached home, she found Bruce sitting on the (ront Babs, what (Continued Tomorrow)