CHAPTER VIII—Continued
an) om
“Offended! How could you possi-
bly offend a Lambert, Martha, after
all you've done for us? But there's
more to this business than you un-
derstand.” The man's face dark-
ened. He was recalling a hot June
day—a blow that had left his jaw
lame for a week. ‘‘There are things
one can’t forgive, or . . .”
He paused, not knowing just how
to proceed; and the woman said, in
the gentle way she had told him
many truths in the years gone by:
“Excuse me, Mr. Ned, but there's
nothing we can't forgive—if we care
enough. Run along up now. Run
up and see your father.”
“And when I got there,” Ned told
his wife later that evening, ‘‘Dad
was sitting in the big wing-chair in
Nora's bedroom. There was a fire
on the hearth, and the place did
look more—well, more cheerful,
perhaps, than the rooms downstairs.
He was reading a letter, but when
he glanced up and saw me he
stuffed it into a pocket, which made
me wonder if it was from Leonora.
I thought—honestly, Corinne, I sort
of felt that he didn’t like my find-
ing him there, He got right up and
said: “Why didn't you telephone?
If I'd known you were coming over
I'd have been downstairs.”
“Did you go down then?”
“No. It was plain he wanted to;
but I said: ‘Sit still, Dad. I'm only
going to stay a minute. Did you
know that Nora sailed for Italy this
afternoon?’ You see, Corinne, 1
thought it was better to speak right
out. I felt, after what Martha'd
said, that it might do him good to
talk, if he once got started.”
“What'd he say?”
think my question took him a bit
off guard. But you know Dad! He
can always pull himself together.
And after a minute he said quietly:
‘Yes, I know.” That's all, Corinne.
It made me feel almost uncomfort-
able—as if he'd said: ‘It's none of
your business, Ned. Get along
home.” You know what I mean.”
“Oh, yes, I know!" Corinne’'s eyes
narrowed unpleasantly. ‘‘He made
me feel that way just after Nora
left, when I was trying to tell him
that he'd done exactly right. I'm
fond of your father, Ned, but there
are times when he irritates me to |
distraction.”
A vision of the faithful Martha
slinging teacups, caused Ned Lam-
bert to smile a little. Then his wife
asked: “Did you speak of Nora any
more?”
‘““We did because I rather forced
the subject—not because 1 was cu-
rious, you know, but I wanted to
help him if I could. Dad's had such
a lot of trouble through his family,
Corinne. I've always—ever since I
was old enough to think about it—
wanted to feel that I, who've never
gone against his wishes, had made
it up to him. But tonight, sitting
there in Nora's bedroom, it came
over me that I was accountable for
this last break that's hurt him more
than anything since the trouble with
my—my mother.”
“You accountable!” Corinne
closed the most talked of novel of
the month, forgot its 50 unread
pages, and gave him her entire at-
tention. *‘‘Of all the absurd state-
ments! What would your father
have had you do when that fellow
hit you? Turn the other cheek?”
“It was a jaw, dear,” Ned re-
minded her in a feeble attempt at
humor. He hated his wife to get
“worked up.”
“If that's supposea to be funny,”
she retorted, “I don’t see the joke.
Why, you were black and blue! If
your father hadn’t stood by you he'd
have been a beast, Ned. Well, what |
else did you say?” |
“Not much. 1 ventured the re-
mark that I wondered how their trip
was financed; and Father answered
with that uncanny way he has of
understanding something you
haven't said: ‘Well, I didn’t finance
it, if that's troubling you.” That
riled me a little, I'll admit, but I
kept my temper. 1 felt so sorry
for him, Corinne. I've never
thought of my father as being an
old man; but he looked old tonight,
old and unhappy. I decided not to
say anything further about Nora;
and then with the best intention in
the world, I put my foot in it!”
“How?”
Ned smiled, regretfully.
“It was this way: As the atmos-
phere seemed a little strained I got
up and began moving about the
room. That's such a beautiful
room, Corinne.”
“Beautiful? That shows your ig-
norance of such things, Ned.” Cor-
inne spoke as one with authority.
“I'll admit it has a sort of charm;
but it’s no special period, so in an
artistic way it's not correct. Why,
that wing-chair you spoke of is cov-
ered with flowered chintz — and
there are silk hangings at the win-
dows! Imagine making such an er-
ror. And the bed and bureau are
early American, while the rug
(which must have cost your father
a small fortune, too) is Oriental.
Besides, so many books are out of
place in a bedroom. Any good dec-
orator would tell you that. But
Nora refused any advice, you know;
and that room's just like her. Aw-
of thing, but—well it's really a
hodge-podge.”’
“A damn fine hodge-podge,” re-
torted Ned. ‘And it was that early
American bed that made the trou-
ble. I've always thought it the hand-
somest bed I ever saw. 1 stopped
beside it to admire one of the posts.
1 never expected to stir Dad up
when I asked where it came from.
He didn't answer right away, so 1
turned around and-—honestly, Cor-
inne, he looked as if someone had
struck him. Then he pulled him-
self up and said: ‘It came from a
country auction down in Maine. It
was a rainy day. Only one antique
dealer to compete with and he didn’t
know his business. I got that bed
for forty dollars.’
“I said: ‘You certainly got a bar-
gain, and any time you want to get
ridof it . . .'"
“Well?” prodded Corinne as her
husband stopped.
“That, it seems, was my mis-
take. Father said, and his voice
was exactly as cold as if I'd been
some smart Aleck trying to get the
better of him in a business deal,
“What do I care about a son.”
as you unpleasantly put it.
longs to my daughter.” Just that,
Corinne.”
Ned's wife sat up so suddenly on
the chaise longue that the great
American novel dropped unheeded
to the floor.
“He has no right to answer you
like that, Ned. I hope you told him
so.”
“Oh, calm down, my dear. 1
didn’t have to. I guess he saw by
my face how awfully surprised I
was, for he came over and put his
arm across my shoulders—said I
mustn't pay any attention to him-—
that he was upset about something.
We didn't quarrel. Never have, you
know. We sat down again and
talked about nothing in particular—
the stock market—the weather—
anything in fact, except Nora! He
promised to go to bed soon as I
left.”
But James Lambert didn't go to
bed just then.
Nora's big wing-chair (‘I want one
big enough to curl all up in, Dad-
dy!’’) until he heard the front door
close and knew that he would not
be interrupted. Then he drew from
a pocket the letter he was reading
in. Not that he
having already perused it a dozen
times, as he did all Nora's letters.
His eyes lingered on the signature—
those childish black crosses below
it. James knew instinctively that
to in the days of little-girlhood. The
same Nora, and yet not the same
. . . Never, never, he vowed with
stubborn bitterness, would she be
the same to him . . Never again
would he let her get near enough to
hurt him . . .
And then, softly: “1 wonder if
she could possibly have seen me,
there on the pier . . . I don’t be-
lieve so . . . I kept well back until
the very last, and there was such a
crowd . . . But it was strange, too,
the way she waved at the last mo-
ment . . . very strange . . . I could
have sworn, even at that distance,
that her face brightened . , .”
CHAPTER IX
It is a wise Providence that blinds
our eyes to what lies ahead. Nora
little thought as she stood on the
deck of the Larino with Don's hand
on hers, that she would be twice a
mother before she saw her native
land again—that she was to descend
into the shadow of death herself—
that she was to watch fine lines
etched by the ruthless hand of Care
gather about Don’s happy, sea-blue
PARMENTER
eyes—that she was to fight for the
life of a little boy tossing with fever
in far off Cape Town.
Her first son was born in England
on a May night. The winter had
gone well. As Carl Venable prom-
ised, Don’s “Letters from Capri”
were welcomed with enthusiasm by
the London editor; and the same
letters (supplemented by thumbnail
sketches by the great Venable)
found a ready market in America.
And living in Italy was inexpen-
sive. Nora soon made a home of
the tiny pink villa with its glimpse
of sapphire waters and rocky hill-
sides, which Constance Venable had
ready for their arrival.
“This is the most heavenly spot,”
(she wrote her father) "and I'm
fast becoming a thrifty Italian
wousewife, or should be if I weren't
compelled to stop my work every
ties of this twin-humped camel of
an island, kneeling so gently in
the blue, blue waters of the Medi-
terranean.
fort of climbing the million or so
steps that lead to our front door (I
can hear you say, ‘Don’t exagger-
ate, Nora. It's a bad habit'!), to
gaze down on this wealth of flowers
and foliage. Nature was inf a lavish
wish you could see it, Dad. In fact,
the only thing needed to make me
supremely happy would be to look
out day and discover that
my handsome father had overcome
his prejudice against every country
not flying the Stars and Stripes, and
was climbing that rocky path
though he wouldn't have a
enough to kiss me when he reached
the top . »
“The Venables
utes walk (perhaps I
climb!) away; and if you could look
upon the
now, you'd mortgage the house to
possess it. Incidentally, they have
a beautiful piano on which they
some
are only fiv
to practice;
grow stiff,
might.
ables ranging from sixteen to sixX—
such jolly youngsters! And their
mother is every bit as good a moth-
ér to me as she is to them, though
sO my
as I had feared they
OF .
This was quite true. Nora had
not counted Constance Venable
in vain. “You say it's to be in
May?" the older woman questioned
thoughtfully. And then: "We must
take you to England. Not that bam-
binos don't arrive daily in Italy!”
she smiled; “but my Phil was born
in London and I had a most skillful
doctor. The nurse was a wonder,
too. I'll write at once and engage
her for you, Nora. I'll arrange ev-
erything. You'll want a room in a
nursing home; and I'll write the doc-
tor. We were planning to sail for
New York the first of May. I must
tell Carl to put it off another
month."
And no protest on the part of
Leonora would make her change.
“Of course I shall stay with you!”
she said, almost indignantly. “Don’t
you know that our Alice wouldn't
be here if it weren't for Don? He
kept on working over her when ev-
erybody told him it was useless.
Nothing you ever ask of us, Nora,
will be too much.”
What Don and Nora never knew,
was that half the expenses incurred
by the arrival of this first son of
theirs, were paid by Carl Venable,
who would have paid them all had it
been possible to do so without arous-
ing Don’s suspicions. All the young
couple ever knew was that the bills
were far, far less than they'd antici-
pated; for Nora was very sick in-
deed.
Don sometimes wished he could
on
SERVICE
forget that nightmare time when the
firm hand of an English doctor
thrust him unceremoniously from
the bare, white room which shel-
tered Nora.
“Get outside and sit down, my
dear chap,” he commanded brisk-
ly. “She won't suffer any more.”
He had a very English accent,
that doctor, which made Don won-
der if the man were quite efficient!
There was a bench in the corridor
and he sank down on it, very weak
as to knees; wondering how long
this horrible business would go on;
why the universe had to be popu-
lated in such a manner: and what
for had they sent him out and let
Connie Venable stay inside?
And after an interval which
seemed hours, there came from be-
yond that door a cry like nothing
he had ever heard before, but Don
knew it instantly for the wail of his
first-born. It was then that all the
remaining strength went out of him,
and he wiped the sweat from his
d said: "1ieak God it's
no one came from
n except a nurse. She
had a blanket-wrapped bundle in
her arms, and was hurrying so fast
didn't see him: but
forehead ar
’
Bu
r
over!"
a
she when
minute later hout
bundle, Don caught her skirt,
though his question wouldn't
to the girl appeared to
underst: and told him hastily:
A
i o 4
“It's a boy. A splendid little boy,
the
and
seem come,
i
h that “but” he
door
nent it ha
and sickish scen
rifted out to him. It was
able who came next
lifetime, it seemed to Don,
“but”
and with
face his
Literally.
was left
closed,
i
’
14
11S ears);
Connie's
beating
afterwards
OK into
heart stopped
He told No that he
a minute. And then Con-
stance sat down and took his hand.
She said: “You've a Don-—a
beautiful little boy—"" and he broke
in harshly: "What do I care about
or
y
va
ia
son,
still
his
the
Constance was stroking
hand as he'd seen her stroke
hands of her children when she
to calm She an-
“Nora will be all right,
I don't care what they say,
be all right! There were—
complications — something no one
had foreseen. Just at the last we
very nearly--lost her; but she will
wished them.
Don
che will
she will
Then, after another aeon, the door
opened. It was the English doctor
-—the man with the accent. He
threw one significant glance at Con-
nie and his hand gently on
Don's shoulder.
“She needs you, old man,” he
said—just that—but Don knew, and
Constance knew, what he was think-
ing; and Connie still held Don's
hand when he crossed the thresh-
old of that quiet room.
He stood there looking down on
Nora, a Nora as white as the bed
on which she lay—as white as mar-
ble. Her eyes were closed. Don
could not see her breathe. He won-
dered . And then the doctor
spoke, softly: “I'd take her hand,
my dear fellow, if I were you.”
His voice, despite the accent
which had sounded so la-de-da an
hour before, was very kind. And
because no one had thought to bring
a chair, Don dropped to his knees
beside the bed and took that white,
strangely transparent hand into his
own. He had forgotten the nurses,
the doctors, and Constance Vena-
ble. He said (s6 Connie told him
later), “Come back, Nora. I can’t
go on without you. Come back,
dearest 4
laid
(TO BE CONTINUED)
tes, who welcomed travelers at his
home in a lonely spot beside the
road. Procrustes had only one bed,
but he always made his wayfarers fit
the bed. If they were too long, he
chopped off their feet. If they were
too short he stretched them on a
rack. Finally, he was slain by The-
seus.
Saucer-eyed as are youngsters
reading the exploits of Procrustes,
even grown-ups blink in amazement
at the achievements of chemists in
the petroleum industry in stretch-
ing, shrinking and reshaping petro-
leum molecules. Nature has given
this country a bountiful supply of
crude oil, but some of the oil mole-
cules are too large and some too
small to fit the requirements for
gasoline in modern high-compres-
sion motors.
Petroleum chemists have discov-
ered effective methods to break
down the fat molecules into smaller
ones. Chemists wiso are able by
other methods to rebuild molecules
to a desired size and composition.
What this juggling means to the
average person is just this: if the
petroleum chemists were unable to
perform a Procrustean act, an addi-
face every year to meet the gasoline
demand of the 25,000,000 motorists
in the United States. Chemical re-
search in the oil industry has had
the practical effect, by reducing the
amount of crude oil needed, of dou
bling the oil reserves of the United
States. Without these chemical
achievements of the petroleum sci-
entists, the price of gasoline would
be beyond the means of millions of
families,
Yellow-Bellied Sea Snake
Though the yellow-bellied sea
snake may not be ferocious-looking,
it is nothing to get gay with, accord-
ing to a writer in the Wash
Post. A member of the dreaded
cobra clan, it is among the most
deadly of poisonous reptiles. In cap-
tivity it is particularly dangerous,
becoming sullen and striking at ev.
eryone. It is the only poisonous sea
snake found in the waters around
America, although there are 49 oth-
er species just as deadly, else-
where. As the name indicates, this
slender snake is a brilliant yellow
underneath, though its top side is
black. It has no gills, must come to
the surface to breathe. It is some-
times caught in fishing nets.
Winners
Kit
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Jean
be
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en who are bad are
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