THE TENTS OF SHEM

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 70, Issue 126, 13 March 1950, Page 5

THE TENTS OF SHEM

5 B> Grace Jones Morgan j-j

Serial Story

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CHAPTER XXXXI. THE “H. E. SUNDERSEN” OVERDUE And on Sunday morning she sat in the back seat 'of Mart Morell’s car with Maisie and was driven to the sand dunes where little,' ramshackle cabins leaned ci’azily as if windblown. In one of them Nina lived. Fanchee was never in life to forget the falling fence with pickets broken off, the starved geraniums putting forth blighted red flowers, the drawn blinds at the windows, and the dark apertures of the open door. Dark-skinned children played in thG street, shivering in the winter wind, noses running with colds. Mariette’s knock brought no response, so she went inside and Fanchee followed. A table with unwashed dishes, a rusted stove without a fire, empty bottles on the floor, and .Nina in bed, reaching for a cigarette, lighting it before she spoke, match-flare gleaming on her dishevelled dark hair. “What time is it? . . . you’re out early, huh. And my daughter come to see me. Well, it’s about time. You ain’t the first visitors I had lately. There was a man here asking about you, Francisca . . .” “Yes? Nina, tell me, wnat aid you tell him ....?” The twisted quilts writhed. Nina sat up, a cigarette drooping from her lips, her arms wrapping her knees, the throat of her flannelette nightgown

open on the wrinkled breast. “So you expected he’d come to me, huh? Says you’re his wife. I told him where you worked . . .” v The air of the bedroom was thick and foul. Fanchee groped for the dool and stood there.

“Nina, I’ve brought you some things, here on the table. Good-bye. Good bye, Nina . . .” She went to the car where Mart sat, one arm on the hack of the seat talking to Maisie, but Mariette stayed to straighten the kitchen and start a fire in the stove. They saw her standing at the bedroom door talking to Nina, saw her enter, and she was bidden from view for a long time. Fanchee fidgeted, her eyes closed. How could Daddy love and marry Nina? How could Mariette endure her now? “Mariette has a heart as big as herself,” said Mart, as if he read Faneliee’s thoughts. “But, as she says: some days they’ll find Nina dead . . .” He had brought a Sunday paper, and Maisie opened it, looked over the comic, section, and handed it to Mart What was Mariette doing in that bedroom? Why didn’t she come? Dick had found Nina. Dick had seen, in tliat hag, the mother of Fanchee D’Arcy. Well, it didn’t matter now. Nothing mattered. She was going away from all of it, going to Canada, going to Straith Kirk. How strange it would be to walk into the old house and stand before the faded flags and crossed swords! “Love God, honour tne Queen, shoot straight, and keep clean . . .” Funny old man’s litany, as if any of it meant anything .... Sunlight pouring down, but a cold wind fluttering the news sheets in Maisie’s hand. Maisie folding one section and bending her head to read the headlines. Then:

“My God, the H. E. Sundersen is overdue. They’re afraid she’s lost, Fanchee, wasn’t that Captain Sundersen’s ship?” - “Yes, let me see, Maisie?’,’

The print blurred, the news was tor mentingly small. The H. E, Blunder sen should have made some South Sea port and hadn’t. And a passing ship reported her foundering, picked up her crew in small boats at sea. The H. E. Sundersen had gone on her beam ends. Captain Sundersen refused to leave his ship. With two men, he stayed on the vessel,'and fear for their safety was expressed by the Sundersen Company. Captain Sundersen was the youngest son of Captain Eric Sundersen, one of the finest seamen of the younger generation of Pacific Coast vikings. The jinx ship, Marvella, had been overhauled and refitted for this voyage .... Fanchee could read no more.

That golden giant gone . . . Hervej Sundersen caught by the sea, drragged down to dark waste of waters, the pity of it, the shame of it, the uselessness. . . The pitiless, cruel sea. But he loved it, loved ships. Jealous, greedy sea, passionless and dark, rolling in white, carded foam' to the sand; darting swiftly forward, running stealthily back. The long trail, the out trail, the trail that was always new ...

Marie sat late in ner room, smoking innumerable cigarettes, talking of Paris, telling gay, pretty stories of Russia, of Berlin. Marie had been everywhere with her young husband before the crash came and he gambled away her money and was so involved it cost her father’s fortune to emerge honourably. “But nothing can take away memory. Fanchee. It’s like a rosary to slip through one’s fingers lingering •on each bead, living over again the good times. ...”

“But your memories are not sordid, horrible, Marie. To-day I saw something that was even worse than Hervey Sundersen’s tragedy. EVen death can’t make him less glorious. I’d rather someone I loved died like Daddy, than lived like Nina!” “Ah, yes, death is not unkind. Someone said: ‘lt isn’t the fact that you’re dead that counts, it’s only “how did you die”?’ If Sundersen died, he went splendidly, fighting. . . .” When Marie went, she' lay in bed reading, drawn irresistibly !o the Kipling verse, turning from one to another, coming back at last to:— “Where the wildest bluffs hold good, dear lass, And the wildest tales hold true,

And men bulk big on the old trail. .” * Men! Not like Dick and the others. Men like Sundersen! If it had not been for marrying Dick he would have taken her. That was the fault of first love, of loving Straith Kirk, and being so hurt in losing him, rushing into chains with Dick. Only for that she would be with Sundersen now, under the deep, locked in his arms in the sea cradle. Chum, companion, only to have her near him. But she wanted more than that now. She wanted Love. Next day the sea news -was no more hopeful or comforting. The day dragged, interminably and on Tuesday (

came a truck from which a trunk was carried to Fanchee’s room. “It can’t be for me,” she cried, but her name was on the label. Rosfleur had not forgotten. Everything would be arranged for her, she need not worry or bother about anything. The trunk lid disclosed a wardrobe dresses, lingerie, stockings by dozen pairs, shoes for every occasion, everything, even handkerchiefs. Fanchee stood staring down, cheeks aflame, hands freezing. Then she went to the telephone and called Rosfleur’s office. “Mr' Rosfleur, this is Francisca D’Arcy ...” ~ “Ah, yes, the things came? Are they satisfactory?” “Yes, .but ... I have not returned the peacock dress and ehincilla wrap. . “No, they are yours. You will receive the transportation slips to-mor« row. Good-bye and a pleasant journey, Miss D’Arcy.” (To be conTinut/dD.