“Forgotten Sweetheart”

Franklin Times, Volume XXIV, Issue 20, 19 February 1934, Page 7

“Forgotten Sweetheart”

(Copyright).

CHAPTER XIX. Bob telephoned the hospital to inquire about Pat. He sent flowers. He came as near to it as placing one finger on the dial, then hesitated. No, he wouldn’t call. What good could come of it? The breach between them which had begun when Joan had driven to the barbecue with Jim Warfield had widened until now there seemed no way to bridge it. He had been confused, mistaken. The talk with his father had clarified this confusion somewhat, made him see more clearly. People were what they were by an accident of birth, by environment and training. The encounter with Joan at the “Night Cap Club” had been another disappointment. Perhaps he had

hoped for something—a word, a gesture, a look or tone —that would bring them closer together. But it had not come.

Bob remembered the flash in her eyes when he had criticised Jim Warfield’s behaviour and her cool proposal, “Don’t you think you had better go back to your friends?” ■ Strange how he had allowed himself to be tormented by the thought of this girl. It seemed impossible to get away from her. Only that morning he had been on the verge of calling her. Except for the talk with his father, he would have done so. If there had been the slightest encouragement from Joan he would doubtless have been making a. fool of himself again—over a girl who could play fast and loose with the wide-eyed, level look of a child. Well, that was over! He was through. Joan had much the same feeling. She had come close to the harsh realities of life at the hospital and it had stripped her of softer illusions for the time, at least.

The physicians and surgeons did not believe in temporising with a disease. Neither would she. This romantic obsession had occupied all her thoughts and made her miserable. It might have been partly responsible for the tragic climax of Pat’s infatuation. “If I had not been so absorbed in my own unhappiness, I might have come closer to Pat when she needed me,” Joan thought. It was painful, this cutting something deep-rooted and

BY MARY RAYMOND.

dear from one’s life.

The third day after the accident Pat Came home. She was a strangely chastened Pat, her big, blue eyes wells of misery. During the days that followed Joan fought to protect Pat from the inevitable morbid reaction.

It had been hard at the hospital but there had been excitement, even drama, in the busy centre of life and death. Flowers had come. There had been one huge basket from the office employees with whom Pat had worked. It brought the girl such poignant memories of happy, care-l'ree days gone forever that the flowers were removed from the room.

Relatives and friends of other patients inquired about the pretty patient who had figured in the tragedy and looked through the half-open door. Friends and neighbours called to express sympathy. But now Pat was back home and the big house seemed empty and still. No one felt like laughing with Benny sick and lively, Pat moving about like a ghost of her former self. A sense of loss spread over the entire household.

With Pat no longer working, Joan insisted that her sister accompany her on her . round of lessons. After the first few days Pat rebelled. It was boring to listen to Joan coaching, to see her don the “schoolmarm” expression and turn academic. It was even more trying to sit in the car outside and wait.

Waiting was a terrible trial for impatient Pat who had always danced or skipped or run through the hours. And waiting for time to heal a fresh wound was a painful process. Joan and Pat, comfng out of a department store one day at noon, ran at a store near Forrester’s. They eyed Pat curiously, spoke frigidly, and into two girls who had been employed moved on. Spots of colour sprang to Pat’s cheeks. She was wearing a black hat with a saucy bunch of cherries at one side, drooping against her blond curls. Her dress was white with small red polka dots. “Guess I’ve given them something to talk about,” Pat said bitterly. “Can’t you hear them saying I should be wearing black for killing him? They think I’m heartless and wild and —” “Oh, don’t Pat!” Joan interrupted, knowing the suffering behind the words.

One morning .loan siep later than usual and awoke to tind that Pat had dressed before her. Joan went into the bathroom and turned on her bath. A few minutes later she came downstairs. Her mother was sitting in the living room.

“Everything’s hot, dear. I’ll turn the gas on under the coffee.” “Don’t get up, Mother. Sorry .1 was late. Felt lazy.”

“Is Pat sleeping?” Mrs Waring ask-

“Pat!” Joan said sharply. “Why, no! She’s not upstairs. I thought siie was with you.” “Perhaps she’s in Benny’s room.” "I didn’t hear them talking.” Joan was running upstairs. She opened the door of Benny’s room and a quick glance confirmed her fears. Pat was not there. Benny was still sleeping, his delicate features in the early morning light looking almost as though they were chiselled in marble. Joan softly closed the door and went into her own room.

On the desk, lying flat, was a smail square of white paper. Joan turned it over with trembling fingers and read: “Darlings: I’m running away because it is unbearable to stay here. I want to get away from everything that reminds me of Jerry and of all the trouble I’ve brought you. I had saved a little in the bank, enough to keep me in New York until I find a job. Don’t worry about me. . I'm not worth it. “Love —Pat.”

.loan laid the note aside and looked at her watch. Seven fifty-five. There were two early trains to New York. One left about this time.

Joan got out her suitcase from the closet and began to throw in clothing. In the midst of packing she ran to the stairs to call frantically, “Mother, Bill!”

Her excited voice brought Mrs Waring up the stairs and a moment later Bill was beside her.

“Joan, dear, what are you doing?” “Mother, Pat’s gone!”

“Gone?”

Joan put the note io her mother’s hands. “She’s run away.” Then as Mrs Waring collapsed weakly into a chair, Joan was on her knees beside her.

“There, dear! What an idiot 1 am. frightening you so. Everything will he all right. I’m going after her!” “Going where?” Mrs Waring raised tear-filled eyes. “Oh, Joan, how can you find her?”

“I’ll wire the Travellers’ Aid in New York to meet her and take care of her until I come.”

“Darling, do you think they’ll do it?” Mrs Waring wrung her hands helplessly, tears pouring down her cheeks.

“Of course. Now, dear, you must not worry!”

Bill, with masculine practicality, was at the telephone on the stairs. He returned in a moment.

“Pat’s train left less than 10 .minutes ago. There’s another leaving at 8.40 and they both reach New York about the same time. Hurry, into your things, Sis. I'll get the car out. ’

.loan was slipping into her clothes now, trying to talk cheerfully. “Girls do such crazy things, Mother, and then regret it long before they reach their destination. Pat probably won’t turn around. You know how she is! But they’ll meet her at the train and she'll be glad and relieved to know I’m coming.”

“But suppose she doesn't wait?” “Then they’ll persuade her to. It’s really wonderful how quickly they work, Mother. Bless the day the telegraph was invented!”

.loan was planning the telegram that Bill would send: “Meet Pat Waring of Memphis, slender with blond, curly hair and wearing a blue suit. Take care of her until arrival of sister who will reach New York about the same time.”

By the time the train arrived in New York poor, lonely, little Pat would be sorry and frightened. She would be glad to come home.

“Try not to worry, darling,” -loan was saying gently a few moments later as she stood on the train steps looking down at her mother and Bill. “You’ll get the telegram off, Bill?” “The minute the train leaves.” “She's sure to be waiting lor me, Mother. And if she isn’t —” Joan hesitated, hating to let doubts creep in. “It will he only a question of a short time until 1 find her. She’ll go to the employment agencies and I’ll get in touch with them the first thing.” .loan kissed them. Then the train was pulling out. Joan’s heart ached as the pathetic face of her mother began to recede. Bill’s face, with its anxious scowl, became a blur. Oh. how could Pat have done this to Mother!

“She must he waiting for me when I get there!” Joan told herself. (To be Continued).