"THE MELODY GIRL"

Franklin Times, Volume XXII, Issue 7, 18 January 1932, Page 7

"THE MELODY GIRL"

BY RUTH DEWEY GROVES

(Copyright)

BEGIN HERB TO-DAY. Beryl Borden, secretly in love with Tommy Wilson, succeeds in delaying his elopement with her half-sister, Irene Everett, but fails to convinoe him that it is his duty to his family to finish college. Later Irene postpones the marriage date believing she is to become a radio singer. Securing an audition, she permits Beryl to go to the studio with her. While waiting in an ante-room, Beryl sits down at a piano and croons melodies. One of the directors hears her and gives her a private test. He promises an interview with Mr Gaylord. Irene fails and is furious when she hears her sister has been given a test. Beryl's Hopes of a radio career dim as no word comes from the studio.

At last a letter arrives and she slips for her interview. Nervous dur- ' ing the ordeal, Beryl is elated when presented with a contract. Her victory is bitter-sweet for her family and Tommy believe she robbed Irene of her chance. However her "gang" console her and celebrate by putting on a show. Beryl proves a success, and the envious Irene quarrels with Tommy when he praises her. „ A crowd gathers at the house to greet Beryl after her first broadcast.

NOW GO ON WITH THE STORY

CHAPTER XVI

Irene and Tommy, their walk ending in a quarrel, returned to her home a few minutes after the party that had gone to the station to meet Beryl. Mrs Everett was about to give herself over to anxiety when Irene took her aside and declared that it was no more than they could expect. Look how Beryl had treated them all along —not saying a word —springing . the whole thing on them as if they were outsiders! That was just what they were to her anyway. She didn't consider herself one of them. If she hadn't felt that way she wouldn't have kept her father's name; she'd have called herself Beryl Everett. "Just the same," Mrs Everett pro-

s tested, "it's not like Beryl to say one 1 thing and do another. And she said she'd be home on the 11.57. She could just make it from the studio,

she said, if she hurried." „. Irene laughed. ... "If she hurried," -~jr»he repeated insinuatingly. "Maybe that's the answer. Maybe she didn't hurry." ■ , "She's here!" someone exclaimed. "There's a car stopping before the house."

Mrs Everett ran to see who it was arid just as she reached the door between the dining room and the living room Beryl came tumbling into the hall Came tumbling literally, for she had cartwheeled through the front door on a rug that slipped. When her mother reached her she was sitting in a heap of flowers, stifling a laugh in the sudden embarrassment of finding herself unexpectedly facing a roomful of people. She got up, let herself be congratulated and praised, and then apologised. "I didn't cxpject there'd be anyone here but the folks," she explained, "and I couldn't hold in any longer." "No one would expect you to be dignified dear," Irene said sweetly. Beryl did not appear to hear. "Someone's got to come out and help lug in the flowers," she invited. "They've dumped on the kerb." "Why didn't you have the taxi driver bring them in?" her mother asked.

'Taxi driver?" Beryl repeated. Then she laughed. "That was Mr Gaylord's car and his driver," she said and stuck out her chest in unabashed boastfulness. "Think of that, folks! A limousine! I'll bet the driver's sore. He has to go all the way back to New York to-night. But I had to have some way to get the floral pieces out here. Wait until you see what the darling gang sent me!" She bounded out ahead of I hern, and all but Irene followed, fired by her animation and high spirits. Even Tommy went along. Everyone gasped and cried out in admiration of the "foowkay" her gang had sent to Beryl. It was indeed and exceptional offering a radio made entirely of flowers, paid for with the proceeds of the "benefit" show that had ostensibly been given for Snooks. As her friends were carrying it up to the front porch Beryl was besieged by the gang in person. The boys came out of the dark from every direction and.swarmed all over her. each striving to be the first of their number to congratulate her. Beryl welcomed them with open arms. When she got to the light again she was much dishevelled and out of breath but happier than she'd been ever before in her life. "Did you come out alone, with just, the chauffeur?" Irene asked when Beryl entered the house. "I though successful people always had a . . . a coterie." She stumbled a little on the pronunciation of "coterie" but got it out in the belief that Beryl wouldn't know the difference anyway. "Whatever that is," Beryl replied good-naturedly.

"Well, you might have let Mother know," Irene declared. "She was worried half to death because you weren't on the 11.57." "I'm sorry," Beryl said to her mother. "I expected to beat the train here but I was a little late in getting started." Irene- also addressed her mother. "Didn't I tell you?" she said. Beryl sensed the undercurrent of accusation in the words and resented it. "Several people wanted to come with me," she said coldly "but I . . ." She stopped. After all it was not necessary to tell the neighbours that she had been too sceptical of the reception that awaited her at home to risk bringing strangers into it. "I decided I'd rather come alone," 'she added haughtily. "It took a little time to convince them that I was used to going about unescorted." Irene turned away, biting her tongue to keep from further display of her temper. A little later a member of the party, feeling sleepy, remarked that Beryl must be tired. Someone else, thinking it an occasion for an all-night celebration, wanted her to sing for them but from that Beryl asked to be excused.

Her refusal seemed to be a cue for

the gathering to break up and presently she was alone in her room, where she had wanted to lie —to stand face to face with this bewildering event in her life, to ask "Old Faithful" what he thought about it, and to suffer with an intensity that shamed her over Tommy's attitude. It had been bitterly disappointing. He had not been more interested than anyone else and she had wanted some special demonstration from him. Of course she was a fool.

She stood by her window staring

down at the gate where Tommy was saying good-night to Irene and a sense of the irony of fate swept over her. Here she was, going to bed with the ring of plaudits still in her ears —sound that she knew would he pricesless to Irene. And there was Irene, down

there saying good-night to Tommy—something that she, Beryl, would give all the world's applause to be doing if she and Tommy were sweethearts.

She turned quickly from the win-

dow as the lovers kissed. She didn't mean •to be spying. Then she heard Tommy go whistling down the street.

Irene must have made him very happy. Poor Beryl:- The very thing that she had secretly hoped would impress Tommy, make him realise that there was someone else on earth besides Irene, had driven him farther away. Irene was ready to claim everything to which she had the slightest right. And it was salve to her wound, the wound inflicted by Beryl's rise to greater popularity, to feel that Tommy was her slave, that she had only to yield a little to have him begging for possession of her. • When Tommy left her at the gate he had at least a half promise that she would marry him soon. It was this sudden softening on her part which had begun soon after Beryl arrived that caused his indifference to Beryl's success to continue through her hour of triumph. For several days he lived on hope while Irene wavered. She would: she wouldn't. It was hard to live with Beryl's success, but on the other hand

it was interesting, too. Telephone calls, flowers, fan mail, invitations. They did not come in great numbers but there were enough to make Irene feel that she was at least in contact, even if it was only by a family relationship, with the life for which she yearned

At one time she had thought of going to Hollywood to try her fortune bul someone had told her how that city turns girls back from its threshold by the scores by presenting to them the truth about conditions there and showing them the difficulty of getling a chance. Irene was no crusader. She gave up the idea fo going to Hollywood. The sheltered life was good enough for her. she decided. But she had not given up the desire to be a darling of the public. And so she was torn two ways by having a popular radio artist in the house. She could shine in reflected glory or brood in darkest envy.

Then one of her girl friends married and although it was a quiet wedding with a short engagement and no kitchen showers or bridge luncheons to precede it, Irene saw that a bride is, above all other persons, the centre of attraction.

Suppose she married Tommy—eloped with him as they bad planned—everyone would be talking about her then. Beryl would, at least locally, be overshadowed for a time. Perhaps—whe could tell ?—if people could be made lo think of someone else in the family for a little while they might never think so much of Beryl again. They'd turn next to a new wonder.

Yep, she would marry Tommy—o\npn with him. Bight, away.

CHAPTER XVII. For this elopement Tommy and Irene kept their plans secret, taking no chance of interference. Beryl saw her sister sewing on a pretty new

dress of eyelet embroidered organdie (Irene sewed the ribbon bows on; her mother had made the dress) and noted the mysterious smile that accomj panied the work. Why that smile, she wondered. Irene had worn it on her soft red lips constantly in Beryl's presence for the past three days. It was beginning to be irritating. Beryl believed if you had a secret you should keep it or let it go, not keep it hanging about you half concealed, half revealed. The dress had been made hurriedly but Irene was always wanting dresses made in a hurry. Sometimes she wore them little more than fastened together. J

Beryl might have guessed the truth but her work kept her too busy to give much thought to Irene's affairs. Tommy's elation would have given it away but Beryl had not seen him with her sister since Irene had agreed to the elopement. Irene would not take that' chance. She wanted to make Beryl suspect there was something in the air and worry over it but she did not want to give her too many clues. Tommy packed his suitcase for a honeymoon—and again he was frustrated. On this occasion the interference came from a grim source. Death stepped in and put an end to the affair.

Quietly and without a word to anyone his Aunt Emma died. His uncle called him an hour before the time he had to set to slip out of the house to met Irene. It was morning. A heavy, foggy morning of the kind on which people with asthma find it difficult to breathe.

Uncle George couldn't he said, wake AunL Emma. Tommy ran to see what he could do. Presently they called a doctor. Before the physician got there Aunt Emma had turned cold.

Out in the sound the fog horn bellowed dismally. Aunt Emma had always hated to hear it.

Vagrant thoughts came to Tommy as he stood for a while before the window, trying to check his tears so that lie could go down and telephone to Irene.

Beryl liked the fog horn. Its bellow or faint boom had stirred elusive thoughts in her mind, she had said. Something seemed to come—like that train in Liliom—and carry her away.

Only this was a boat, and for a bit of time she could feel that she had travelled, been somewhere. Tommy had laughed at her. "Carried away by a sound—huh? That's some imagination!"

Now he did not laugh. Did death give you a new sense—someone else's death? Bewildering thoughts—and he had to telephone Irene.

How did he feel when he had talked with her? Back room —the tears unchecked now—he was not conscious of any effect upon himself from Irene's words. What had she said to him? Certainly nothing of moment, nothing to be remembered. Many people came to the house. Irene, of course, and Beryl, too. There were many things to do. Tommy felt bewildered. Death, was new to him. New and terrible. Beryl told him in conventional phrases that tortured her how grieved she was for him. Her voice was steady, but what she suppressed would have astonished Tommy.

Irene had declared openly against the tyranny of a fate that upset- her plans. Beryl had learned then what those plans were and what that mysterious smile had meant. Irene did not seem to mind that Aunt Emma was dead. She was annoyed because her plans were spoiled. Beryl had dreaded to hear what Tommy would say. Would he, like Irene, think of himself? Would he have less regret for the passing of one who had loved him because that passing interfered with his plans?

He did not once speak of the proposed elopement and Beryl knew, with an elation she found it hard to hide, that it was because he had not thought of it. She watched him with Irene and could see that Irene was provoked with him. There could be but one explanation for that. He was not thinking about her. With Beryl it was as though she lived on (he edge of a deep, black never knowing at what moment shi> would be pitched headlong into the bottomless depths. That's what Tommy's marriage to Irene would mean lo her. She had not quite known what it would mean before their first attempt to run away and be married. That occasion had opened her eyes and she had not been able to close them completely since. Once when she was a little girl there was a thing Beryl had said she would never do. Later she did it. It wasn't, a great sin—some slight, piece of mischief that she had since forgotten—but. from it she had learned a lesson. The lesson was that she might say she would never do so-and-so again but that did not make it a fact. She might be fooling herself again, Beryl argued, when she said she would never love anyone but Tommy. Still she believed this was true and the anguish the thought of his being marired lo Irene caused her was real enough no matter what changes the future might hold.

For a while after his aunt's death Beryl felt safe. Then the terms of Emma Hoffman's will were made public and she didn't know what, to think. Tommy was not the heir. His aunt had died intestate. She'd had a superstitious fear of preparing for death and so her favourite nephew was left to share her fortune with other kin. There were several children of several brothers and sisters and Tommy did not receive much.

Irene told her nothing. Beryl did not ask questions. It was like the crisis in an illness. She held her breath and waited. She was uncertain. Would Irene think of Tommy now? Was there a streak of fineness in her character deep under the shallow exterior? In her generous moments Beryl hoped this was true—and rebelled against it in a flash. Irene could never make Tommy happy. No matter what he thought, that was true. Irene told her nothing because she did not want Beryl to know what was going on. Suppose Beryl knew that Tommy was giving up college? She'd heard Beryl express herself on this subject ' with a talent for words that Irene had found too searing to wish to hear repeated. Irene had a habit of shrugging, bothj mentally and physically. She shrug-'

ged aside what reproaches her con-: science urged upon her in this mat-} ter of Tommy turning his back upon" higher education for her sake. She had promised to marry him if

e would accept his uncle's offer to

take over the management of Hoffman's Motion Picture Palace as a per-

manent job. Mr Hoffman had induced Irene to place this condition upon her consent by bribery. She and Tommy would, he had said, come to live with him and

the Hoffman house was an attractive dwelling. Aunt Emma's sister, Erenstine, who had been keeping house for him would be going home soon. She expected to take a lot of her sister's things with her but he would see that they were left. They were old-fashioned things and he understood people were making a fuss over such things at the present time.

He need not have urged further. Bight there Irene made up her mind. What envy it would excite in Beryl to see her among the Hoffman heirlooms, Irene thought. She remembered Beryl had once said she hoped Mrs Hoffman would will her just one piece of the Lowestoft. Of course Mrs Hoffman hadn't done anything of the kind, Irene decided to give a luncheon for Beryl, bringing the Lowestoft from the china closet and serving her food on it just as though it were ordinary ware.

She was planning the meal even as Mr Hoffman continued talking. Perhaps her mother would cook the luncheon. No, Mr Hoffman would let her have a maid for that. A smart maid in a black dress and lace apron and cap. "I haven't a lot of relatives like Emma had," Mr Hoffman was saying to grasp the significance or his words, and Irene's mind snapped back in time She and Tommy would live with him. They could remodel the house as they liked because some clay it would be theirs. It wouldn't be any fun fixing the house but they could have a decorator from New York and

that would make people open their eyes.

Irene was too much taken up with these thoughts to give Mr Hoffman the answer he wanted and when she realised, as she did suddenly, that he was piling up inducement on inducement, she deliberately waited until he had made his final offer.

This is how it came about that, with the anticipation of a handsome wedding present in her mind, she issued her ultimatum to Tommy.

Tommy felt that the marriage should be delayed a while in respect to his aunt's memory—a decision which he shortly came to regret. (To be continued).