THE TENTS OF SHEM

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 70, Issue 119, 4 March 1950, Page 7

THE TENTS OF SHEM

5 By Grace Jones Morgan E

5 Serial Story S

S (Copyright) 5

CHAPTER XXXVIII THE NIGHT OF THE BALL Mario lighted a cigarette and reached for the Kipling book. Her slender, beautiful hands turned the pages. Gossamer smoke coiled about her pretty head. “ ‘You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind And the thresh of the deap-sea rain You have heard the song,' how long! how long! Pull out on the trail ,again. ' Have done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass . . .’ ” “Marie, what are the Tents of Shem?” asked Fanchee. Marie laughed softly and continued reading: “ ‘Have done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, We’ve seen the seasons through, It’s time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail Pull out, pull out on the Long Trail, the trail that is always new . . “Shem was the son of Noah. Don’t you read scripture at all, Fanchee? Shem was the Semite . . Marie’s head was against the chairback, her eyes on the silver-streaked window glass. “In youth we feel, we move by feelIng and instanct, Fanchee . . . Youth is adventurous, of course. Once thinking takes the place of emotional guidance, we slow down . . “You mean that I don’t think, I haven’t the brains to think, Marie?” “Not that. Perhaps heritage. You’re half Spanish, are you not? Your mother • • f “Marie, I feel as if you’re trying to tVarn me about something. What is it ...” “No. God forbid I thrust my ideas on you, Fanchee . . . Listen . . .” “ ‘Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, That blaze in the velvet blue, They’re all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, but out trail. They’re Go,d’s own guides on the Long Trail, the trail that is always new. • ’ ” “Read it yourself, Fanchee. To me it brings Captain Sundersen, the big gulden man, the sea man, loving his ship first • • .” With wind soughing about the house and rain slashing in torrents, Fanchee read the sonorous, swinging, rhythmic verses, and seemed to feel again the lift of the H. E. Sundersen under her feet,- seemed to see tall masts among the stars, and Hervey beside her, his head turned to look down at her lifted face. “I love you, isn't that enough . . . oh, girl. Woman of mine . . “You’ve heard of the Flying Dutchman, The story they say is true, How his wife with a stick for a month made him sick. Well, no wonder the Dutchman flew.”

That was Fanchee lying on her pillows staring at the rain, trying to make light of Sundersen, trying to forget the storms at sea,, clinging to first love, looking backward, covering the blunders of youth, and still hagridden by hurt that had not healed, still blinded by cluttering mists of things gone by. Feeling instead of thinking! The morning brought roses as Marie had predicted. The afternoon brought boxes, the peacock dress, the filmiest of chiffon underthings, pale pink, lace, ribbon bows. Silver slippers with rhinestone buckles, silver silk stockings, and a band of sapphire and em-erald-coloured paste jewels for her hair. Marie helped her dress that night, fastened the hair band <in her dark, curling hair. Fanchee went downstairs to where the old couple sat before the fire and turned slowly for them to see.

“Beautiful, beautiful," said the old man, twirling one end of his white moustache, and the old woman’s head nodded like a toy mandarin. “Much happiness I wish you!" Marie draped the cloak about her shoulders, soft chinchilla folded about her cheeks, and the taxi driver held an umbrella over her as they went down the walk to the gate. Lights were rain-blurred. Drops danced on the sidewalks, gutters ran water. The electric signs downtown hung coloured pennons which crawled on the black pavements like serpents. But M. Rosfleur'was at the door, as if he waited for her. Someone took the cloak and her hand was through M. Rosheur’s arm. Lights sparkled, glowed, gleamed. It was like a dream world and she a Cinderella. Emerged from the ash, the alley, the husks of the past, trailing the peacock gown over a shimmering floor, with music sighing, singing, and the patter of applause. The large ballroom was for the employees. A smaller one held the visitors and Stylp Show, which swept into a dance, and Fanchee was swinging down the floor in the arms of M. Rosfleur!

Mirrors reflected the pretty gowns, the black and w T hite evening dress of men, a kaleidoscopic, bewildering whirl of colour from which Rosfleur guided her towards one end and drew her to a mirror.

Blue and green light flashed amid the dusky crown on her hair, bluegreen iridescence, shone from the gown. She laughed softly. “Mercy; mercy on us, this is none of I!” she sang.

“This is as you should be,” said the earnest dark eyes of Rosfleur. “The choifce lies with you . . . This is your world, where you belong. Next week I leave for France, for Paris. You would like to travel? ... To see the old world? . . . There is a chateau in the lovely French hills you would adorn . . . Come, let us dance again • • .”

Tile orchestra played airs fi*bm “The Merry Widow,” and Rosfleur’s arm tightened, his dark eyes held her gaze • ■-

“Oh, you beautiful lady . . . Come, come, come and forget . . . Care, pain, useless regret - . .” “This is none of I,” crooned through her bewilderment. “I’ll wake up and find it a dream.” Swinging past faces, threading the maze of colour and light, dizzy with the incredible heights of this night, she came to rest in the curve of Rosfleur’s arm, and turned to look into the eyes of Richard Dell! CTo he continued}.