New Britain Herald Newspaper, July 23, 1929, Page 17

NEW BRITAIN DAILY HERALD, TUES SDAY, JULY THE JTORY, OF A GIRL WHAO CAO/E ~ FICTION CHAPTER 1 t is strange the way a little thing can change you: whole life. If Molly Burnham had not read that poem the day she was graduated, everything would have been entirely different. She’d have married and settled down, most likely And it was such an unimportant little poem, too. And merest chance that Molly saw it at all. It was on the won- an’s page of a morning newspaper. The wonder is that Molly I;ad time even to glance at the headlines on that eventful day. There had Lieen a breakfast at her sorority house in th i And what with one thing and another the houvs were flying like mad. At 11 o'clock the seniors scrubberd down the steps of College Hall, and gave the Greek statues their traditional annual bath. Then there was the luncheci that Claudia Cabot gave for her bridesmaids. Claudia was getting married the next day in Collese Chapel, and Molly was to be maid of honor. Her dress was that lovely new shade of green that looks like creme de menthe with cream drifting through it. It made Molly’s evesz, which are gray sometimes and biue other times, as green as anything. Molly loved green eyes. She was sure the Lo- relei and all | sirens had green eyes and auburn hair.. Only Molly’s hair isn’t auburn, but brown, with streak. in it about the color of red fox, which may not sound allur- ing when you read about it but really is extraordinarily e lective. . Iispecially with straight black eyebrows and eyes like Molly’s. They say Molly got more prom bids that year than any- one else in cullogc. She had stepped at Princeton and We. Point, and had been to Dartmouth Winter Carnival. But, mostly, Molly had a yen for Harvard. That was because Wells was a Harvard man. Jack had been working a year but still was as poor as a church mousz. He was coming out that afternoon to take Molly to the president’s tea . . . Heavens, what a day! A sorority breakfast, a bridesmaids’ luncheon—and now the president’s tea. Molly in a way pitied Claudia Cabot, getting marvied right on top of being graduated. [t must be pretty nice, though, marrving money. Not that Claudia cared. She had enough of it herself. Wasn't it alwa like that?—the move vou had the more you got . .. Now if only J had a rich father or something. Or if Molly was an heiress like Claudia Cabot. Oh, well o ox Moliy glanced at her watch. She had an appointment at the Dean’s office at two-thirt She leaned toward the mirror. from her lips, powdered her nose thoughtfully. the sun did the Dean want? On the way out she lingered in the lobby a moment. Ii was crowded with girls and reeked with the sweetness of Commencement offerines—flowers and perfumes. Molly felt a sudden pang. After all, eollege had been home to her for four years. e would miss it dreadfully. “Ask Mr. Wells. if he comes before T act back, to wait for me here,” she told the maid, and waved to a group thar hailed her jovous! “Hey, Molly, v a minute.” “Can’t,” she told them. “The Dean- Wiped a bit of roug What un —no less—is pa he had a sort of lump in her throat. A silly thing. She at times, absurdly sentimen Just r the girls like that, all together, made her think how lonely she was aoing to be when she couldn't see them any more. “Lay off my boy,” she admonished them with her ing smile. “He’ll be here any minute.” And off she ran, across the green and down the hill, ‘o the administration office, where the Dean's secretary to'd her she was expected and asked her to wait. So Molly sat at a window, watching the Commencemernt eroups drift acvoss the lawn. A lovely green lawn, smooth as velvet. It would b2 a marvelous place, she thought, (o switeh trains. I'wenty years ago givls DID wear trains at Commencement Melly surveyed her knees and smiled, and pulled her t down as far as possible. o a little bit old-fashioned. Five minutes Ten minutes . There was a news- paper on the table, and Molly reached for it restlessly t was open at the woman’s page, and she noted idly that Dr. West had something to say about the care of babics in summer. And Aunt Emily held, in her column, that a man could not respect a girl who indulged in promiscuous kiss- ing. She read a letter from “Mother of Eight,” and anoth=i from “Bashful Sixteen,” and wondered if women reall: wrote those things. Or if the editor made them up. Jut she thought of a girl she knew, named Emmalin> Luce, who had a baby nearly every vear and raised them on ‘Dr. West's Words to Mothers.” And she thought of Jack Wells, and how much she loved him. And wondered if she, too, might marry and settle down like Emmaline and erow mediocre and dull . . . But of course she wouldn't. She and Jack would be different. Different from all thos2 commonplace couples who played bridge ani listened to the radio and gossiped about the neighbors. Dii- forent from all other lovers everywhere , Suddenly Molly's eyes fell on a little verse: s flash A givl, she had her hope and chance— But fate was thwarted by a glance, A look that set her heart afire, So genius died, for warm desire. Yet, still the phantom visions glow, Although a world will never know The Shining Talent that was dead So soon as that bright soul was wed. A dull and stodgy wife is she, And dark the flame that used to be; But always come to torture her The dreams of things that never v So this is the song of the wife— Ah, what have I don» with my life? P Molly read it through twice . . . “A girl, she had ha hope and chanc. . A dull and stodgy wife is she 4 Well, if it wasn't for all the world I|I\o Emmaline Luce! . “So genius died for warm desire . . . Poor old meu]ln “Yet still the phantom visions glow, Although a world will never know The Shining Talent that was dead So soon as that bright soul was wed.” “I wondar ™ mused Molly, “if there come to torture het he dreams of things that never were.'” It sounded to her as if a woman had written that verse LY ELE ANOR JHININ LARLY woman who,wondered what she’d done with her life. 1t s a disturbing little poem . . . “The Dean will see you now, Miss Burnham.” Molly jumped guiltily to her feet. She had torn the verse from the paper and tucked it in the powder compact of her vanity. She felt at once uplifted and depressed. The Dean, a busy woman, wasted no time on preambles. “Ah, M Burnham. Sorry to have kept _\nu waiting. Sit down, won’'t you? Our employment bureau has had areat many applications from the eraduating d s, and 1 view of that fact, it may seem a trifle strange that I shou seem to urge a position upon any of our gi You must nof think me presumptuous, Miss Burnham—I am quite awaie that you have not entered your name among the applicants for positions. But [ have here a most unusual opportunity in the literary world . . . I ask what your p! e for the future?” Molly flushed like a hi hool girl. ‘[—I'm thinking of getting married,” she stammered. “Indeed?" The ll\.n smiled politely. “I had not heard of your engagement.’ “No.” Molly ned defensively. It seemed, somehow, ment sorority “in the fall 'k in het the positi M Buin! to neglect a wor ussing, the other ev a VOt really uisite verse, l’uv!l~. 3 Nmull.-m ki mting little thing ye u called ‘Song of oeare , vou knov 1 y you know b uld not dre: of urging a Tupon a younz woman who has chose marviage . . . 1 I of immaiurity about the You did vei the Seniow Play. Howey in the world.” profierad hand 1 ically an sma’l and quite rasped the Dean's nd insienificant ¢ Dean's impoitance, She wondered, ir- could have married if she had w: od. “Maybe," write, teo.” rded doubifully, “I'll get married and er shook her iren av think co0.” Molly demnaded. “Lots of women do.” 1. “Women with & r ambition.® saruzeed. vVl I Hnnl\ Yyou .w en’t that, s Buinham. Oniy y head. “Oh, no.” she said. ¢ a pretty lit il ver dhoug “I know. That is exac ¢ ]lm t mix \m > and a ¢ " Molly faltered. 1t.” The Dean stood up, she admonished, and tle. “To the womun conilict is death. Single-minded sions must b2 denicd—even love. two m-siers, neither can a woman and her mind. iid 1 had talent,” nrotested Molly. The Dean smiled, as one dismiszing a’ subject. hed an cloetrie button, and her seerctary openad the ‘Gat in touch with Miss S e commandad, “and tell her, please, that T should like to see her immediately. Melly w that Berta Scgal, who was the most brilliant oirl in he s s to be offered “a most unusual oppor- Ltunity in the ]|t Berta Segal sent neat little cssays to the l)nt“ me where thcy were occasional- Iy "rl the better magazines did not ;S0 W ~1'»~ sold e stuff to the Sunday s pie- ments. \\' all her heart Molly .suddenly )Mtvd Berta Segal, who had 'K, o1 v hair. And also the Dean. who offerd 1 a mary s opportunity cn a silver pla\tv)' and then “mtmc-l it aws For a moment she must be. Al nthm I As no man can ser serve her hear “But you s she almost hated Jack, who hadn't i P & ©1929 By NEA Service: Ine. enough money {o marry her, and didn't like it when sh= wiote thing: sion and virgins . . . Jack was awfuily old-fa ally. And probably the Dean thought her a silly little fool now Molly kicked at the little painted sign that said “I'LEASE,” and walked deliberately across the grass, dig- ging her high heels in the soft turf defiantly. She felt not at all as an er :d givl should feel. Particularly an engaged girl on her way lu mcrt her fiancee. She felt, in fact, as if she were ge much the small end of things. As ir. indeed, she were being sorely cheated. Which wasn't, of course, the proper frame of mmr{ for o sweet girl graduats contemplating matrimony. All the gils thought her k was perfectly stunnine. And, after all, a girl can’t have everything. Claudia Cabot might be marrying a million and all that—but everybody knew that Dick Godfrey had a cleft palate and a perfectly rotten di iti There really Lu\ anywhere who could touen Jack for lool e had, v say, everything—everything, that is, but moncy. He ws 15 six feet one. In his stocking feet. s had the most adorabie e, It was de » had cves to mateh. Sort of ng cyves, . But his chin was one of dfully deteimined thin 0, if a giil thought s ing to cet away with murder—just looking at his eye <he had only te ¢ chin of his and change h mind. Like Gilbvai “If only,” she wa 50 uwn~ uk > open-d vanity and unfolded the torn clippit He'll have a fit,” she mused, “but he can’'t expect me to = around with my hands folded for the next year! Ifl en she read the little verse aloud. And a frightened ¢l forgot to bury whatever it was'he v burying and she was so dramatic about it. » mad claimed, throwing her arms wide s Molly used to add thinking at the moment song of the 3 wpe and wiie i dormitory she saw Jack talking to (ldmlm Cabot on H e s, “I'll sneak in the back way,” nose.” But once in her reom she foraot her nose for the mo- ment and read agzin the bit of dogzerel that was destined to influence ail her life. When she had finished > stuek it in the mirror witl afety pin. Vice little verse,” she approved. “Mak girl.” hen she powdered her nose and rouged her lips and she decided, “and powdei Molly a big } im life for me,” she vowed. “Not until T've d my fling! od downstairs to ) Dick God Claudia cee, had arrived meantime, and Rita Mei- notte’s boy, icir Newton. Dick was ail right—and he had oodies of money—but Molly was glad it was Claudia who was mareying him tomorrow. And Bob—well, of course, Bob was awfully and all that. But there he was grouchin and crabbing, just becanse Rita was a few minutes late. He wasn't a bit eood looking cither, with those wishy blue eyes and big, thick glasses . .. No use talking—Jack certainly vas the best iooking man at Commencement. Molly's heart beat warmly, and she was engulfed 1n one of those nice. benavolent fezlings. £ “Hello, darlin She greeted him happily. “You bet.” he assured her. man? She kissed him swiftly, drawing his sudden sweep of his arms. “Better get married,” “Love your little senior?” “Love your little drafts- head down with u advised Diek Godfrey. “Better not,” love?” Claudia threw her arms violently around Molly. “Oh, Melly!" she squealed. “Let’'s have a double wed- ding! Wouldn't that be the thrillingest thing, kids! You be my maid of honor, Molly. Then I'll be your matron. And yuu can wear my wedding veil and everything. Gee, Moliy, wouldn’t it b2 just knock-out?” Claudia was dancing up and down. b vthing’s all she proclaimed. “Decorations Choir. Minister. 'vthing. You can have my bridesmaids, honey, and we'll just call up the Ritz and tell 'em to sot some more place Molly looked at Jack. He was grinning foolishly. “Will you? she breathed. “Oh, Jack, wouldn’t it be won- derful ?” Molly, are you crazy?” He frowned on her enthusiasm. “We're no blooming millionaires, you know, honey. Just a poor young couple try- ing to get along.” Yeah ?” taunted Bob Newton. * vears are the hardest Rita laughed nervously. “Next year,” caily, “we’ll all be married. Won't we, Bob? You and me. And Molly and Jack . .. And Claudia and Dick will b2 coming home from Payis for the weddings.” “Why wait?” demanded Claudi “Why starve?” Bob countered irritably. Rita patted his arm gently “Little Sunshine!” she chided sandwich.” “What T need.” he told her coolly, Of all the fool places to drag a man party is the worst!” “My sweetheart!” Rita cooed Amldh]\ the sweetest rh\pn\llmn girls and boy “Come on down to the lake,” suggested Molly, up a canoe for tonight.” “Who wants to go canocing when they can get mar- ried?” demandeé Dick. Molly made : face, and pouted gaily. “] can't oot married today. My sweetie won't lot me.” counseled Bob Newton. “Why not stay i And the first hundred she pxedictvd “What you need is a “is a box of aspirin, this blooming hen “Hasn't he just “and date % 5 She slippea her hand through J sauntered towaid the lake. “Did you ever know,” she asked him, “that there's a tradition about that little island out there in the middle of the lake—see?” She pointed to a bit of green that dotted the sparkling blue. “Well, they say that any girl that takes a man there is sure to get a pmpnxdl You paddle out, and draw your canoe up on the bank. And nobody ever comes to bother you. I'he girls are awfully chivalrous about it. There isn’t a kid in college would trespass for the world, if there was some other airl on the beach waiting for a proposal. As soc you gel one, vou withdraw. That's ctiquet, you see. And it give some other ol a chance.” 3 Jack laughed. “And you're going to take me there?” he hantered. “Don’t you consider yourself engaged now, young ‘Well, i\md of,” she admitted. “Only . . shameless ck. | want to get married “On $17 )ll() a year!” he exclaimed. “You don't know what vou're talking about, Molly.” “Well,” Molly giggled, “we'll go out there anyhow and see what happens.” There was a moon that night. A little bit of a baby moon, that threw a dim and silvery light. And there were a lot of fireflies that sparkled with 10,000 tiny golden lighss. The astronomy professor looked at the hea\ms and re- marked, “A perfect night to study the star: But the professor was getting old. It w. a night for love. Jack and Molly paddled about until it was dark, eating sandwiches and playing Molly’s small phonograph. Molly even took a book from the pienic basket and read some of Oscar Wilde's verse. By that time it was dark, and they mlil(‘rl into the shadows that hugged the mossy banks. “No use trying to get ashore,”” Molly decreed. “That place is dated up for a week.” Jack drew the paddle into the canoe and lay down be- side her. Ile put his arm beneath her head and they lay quietly, studying the stars. student of astronomy committed suicide,” remarked Jack. “And beforce he died he wrote a letter ending with this quotation: ack's arm, and they . I'm aw{ul . pre-eminently, ‘What is it all but the trouble of ants. In the light of a million, million sun “Iivery ume 1 see heaven full of stars I think of it. Don’t they make yvou feel fearfully small and unimportant, dear? And as 1f your finest dreams and deepest sorrows were insignificant as the frettings of ants . .. ‘in the light of a million, million suns’ Molly elaspad her hands beneath her head. *0h, no,” she said. “l don't like feeling small. I'd lots rather feel important. You know that grand thing Emerson wrote: “I am the owner of the sphere, Of the seven stars and the solar year, Of Caeser's hand, and Plato’s brain, Of Lord Christ’s heart, and Shakespeare's strain.” Jack laughed. don't you?" he teased. Molly snueeled closer. “Well,” she confessed “Feel pretty special, “sometimes 1 get off on a grand train, and there's no holding me. 1 think 1I'd like to be a areat novelist, or a playwright, maybe. Or a poet, like Edna St. Vincent Millay, and write verse that sings and sparkles.” Jack \\ln\llurl softlv., “My gosh.” he asked, “and who's going to drop my e and broil my bacon, while you're writing this stuff that ~lng‘= and sparkles?” Molly pushed him away choulder. “That's just it,” she said, and considering the stais solemnly. “Being a poor man’s wife might cramp my style, mightn’t it? Frying bacor is fearfully dull.” “Dearest!” . Jack put his lips against the fragrance of her hair. “You didn't mean that, Molly ? Tell me you didu't mean it, Sweetheart.” She raised her arms then, neck his and held her head from and flung them about "is Oh, Jack! Jack!” she cried. “Marry me tomorrow, darling, and T'll never, never talk that way again! I don’t care, dearest, HOW poor we are.” (To Be Continued)