"The Melody Girl"

King Country Chronicle, Volume XXVI, Issue 3446, 22 March 1932, Page 6

"The Melody Girl"

By RUTH D. GROVES.

CHAPTER XXXVL—(Continued.)

A few days later Mr Everett appeared at the store with a brighter face than Beryl had seen him wearing for some time. "Your mother's written to Irene," he explained.

As the days passed and nothing was heard from Irene the brightness vanished from Mr Everett's face. Beryl knew that he had quarelled with her mother, but when she was present Mrs Everett would say nothing. There was a look of stubbornness on her mother's face that Beryl heard Mr Everett describe as mulish. Perhaps her mother didn't realise how things were. "I guess," Beryl said to her one day, "you don't know how serious it is with Dad. He's pretty badly in debt. He's got to have a life line or he'll sink." The lines of stubbornness deepened around her mothers compressed lips. "You might have thought of that," she answered, "when you wouldn't take care of yourself. Irene is married and gone. It seems to me the ones to help are those at home." Beryl bit her lip to keep back a sharp answer. There would be something in what her mother said, were it not for the many dollars of her earnings that had gone into the family exchequer. "I am doing all I can," she said quietly.

"And I've done all I can," her mother retorted. "I've stood over this stove and baked until I'm black in thi face. Irene was the only one with sense enough to look out for herself and I'm not going to hurt her pride for the sake of some who criticised her."

Beryl knew that she was the "some" referred to. "I don't want her to help me," she said. "I could get a job if I didn't have to help Dad in the store. And I can't see that it would hurt Irene's pride to do something for her mother and father."

"You can't? Don't you suppose that it would humble her to ask Gaylord for money for her family?" "I suppose it would, a bit," Beryl admitted. "But I'm sure Gaylord wouldn't mind if she were grateful." "Well, I wrote to her once about it and she hasn't answered. I'm not going to do it again!" Beryl was quieted by the finality in her tone. The task she'd been about was finished. She took off her smock and rolled down her sleeves. "I'll take the salad to the store," she said hurriedly. "Is the cake iced?"

"No, you'll have to come back for

"I haven't much time. It's Saturday, you know," Beryl reminded her. "You don't need to tell me! Hasn't every Saturday seen me chained to this kitchen for a month?"

Beryl felt suddenly very sorry for her. Perhaps she was suffering in silent disappointment—too loyal to Irene to complain.

"Never mind the icing," she said. "I'll whip a bottle of cream at the store."

"And suppose the cake doesn't sell?" "Mrs Barstow will take half of it, and Tommy will buy the other half. We're going on a picnic to-morrow to celebrate Tommy's return to college."

Beryl could not be depressed with the prospect of a picnic with Tommy, especially when it marked a signal triumph. Before starting she resolutely put trouble behind her. And the whipped cream cake was sold as a whole besides all the salad. Beryl decided she must make more of the salad since people had begun to ask for it. Perhaps the Everett craft could be floated on salads and cakes. She remarked to Tommy when she served him store cookies that ships ought to have spires made of spun sugar and keels of chocolate and oars of peppermint sticks and he asked her if she were rational.

"What's that about the path to your door?" she said dreamily. "I think I'm going to start one on stepping stones of brownies and devilled eggs. Maybe I'l get a stand out here somewhere In the country and serve hobo sandwiches . . . you know,

Tommy, people have to eat and if you make it a pleasure for them—if I made something better than anyone else made it and . . .'"

Tommy reached out and took her hand. "Cut it out," he said huskily and Beryl said, "Making a success of anything is thrilling, Tommy," for she knew that he was contrasting a career running a lunch stand with one as a singer. She had to be very careful with Tommy in some respects. He had changed. To Beryl he was vastly more interesting than he had been before. He was repentant and gentle and sympathetic when he was serious.

After a bit she managed to turn the conversation into a discussion of Tommy's future. She had a beautiful time listening to him, and watching the sun glint through the autumn leaves on his hair. Tommy would be somebody some day.

They drove home in mellow dusk. Most of the way they had the road to themselves. Beryl's old car shot past other vehicles easily. Some drivers swore at and others envied the young couple.

Beryl closed her eyes that night with a happy sigh and did not wake

(Copyright.)

the next morning until her mother came to show her a telegram from Irene.

CHAPTER XXXVII. Mrs Everett's face was beaming when she handed the telegram to Beryl. On the short journey from the front door to Beryl's room she had built magic plans for the near future. Beryl read the message at a glance and handed it back. "There!" her mother declared triumphantly. "Irene is coming home to help us. I knew she would do something 1" "She only said she's coming home," Beryl ventured. "Now you needn't start talking like that," Mrs Everett returned. "I won't have you picking on her while she's here. You and her father have said enough about her. And I should think you'd look a little happier, since you've been so anxious to have her help us." "To help you and Dad," Beryl corrected. "Please don't give Irene the impression that I wanted her to do anything for me," she added wearily. Her mother dropped the subject then and took up the matter of preparing a fitting reception for Irene. "We must get her room ready," she said, "and I think I'll go into the city to meet her. We'll be back to dinner about seven if we can make the 5.54. I suppose you can do the cooking. I'll make an oyster omelet for Irene when 1 get home. Be sure

to get some mushrooms. I don't sup- | pose the poor child has had one of those omelets since she left home. It's my own recipe." "Poor child . . ." Beryl was repeating in her mind. "And we ought to have pineapple mousse. You'd better get up and help me. There are a thousand things to do." "I'll get the dinner ready and leave it," Beryl said, getting out of bed.

"What do you mean?" "I've promised to drive Tommy to Long Island City," she explained. "He can't use his commutation ticket until to-morrow. We planned to have dinner together before he goes to his classes."

"Well!" Mrs Everett halted and stood arms akimbo. "That would be a pretty way to act. But I won't

have it! You shan't treat your sister so shamefully. I'll just call Tommy up and tell him you're staying home." "Irene could have let us know sooner," Beryl declared. "I'm not going to break a date with Tommy just because she waits until the last minute to telephone she's coming home." Mrs Everett, knowing it would do no good to argue with her, turned angrily away. But when Beryl went down to breakfast her mother felt constrained to voice her opinion of a person who cared more for an outsider than for a member of the family. "An outsider," Beryl repeated the word. It had an odd sound to her in connection with Tommy. Tommy an outsider I ....

"You needn't smile like that," her mother told her. "I know you don't care what I say and maybe you think other people won't criticise you but you can't convince me that Tommy will think any the better of you for putting him before your sister." Swiftly the smile fled from Beryl's lips. Her mother was pleased to see the change to seriousness, but when Beryl spoke she gave her no further satisfaction. "Tommy will understand," she said quietly. Perhaps her mother sensed that she was fighting a deep-rooted fear for she remarked, "You seem to forget that Tommy was in love with Irene." Consternation showed in Beryl's

eyes in spite of her effort to face her mother calmly. "That's why I believe he will understand," she said. "He was in love with Irene, but he's changed. He's grown up now. I don't believe he could turn back if he wanted to."

"Well," her mother said, "I certainly hope he won't be interested in a married woman. But he's an old friend of Irene's just the same and he isn't going to approve of your slighting her." "I'll lake a chance," Beryl announc-

ed and fled immediately. She couldn't stand another word of her mother's harangue. The best way to escape it would be to do something to appease her, and that meant doing something for Irene. Beryl set herself to turning Irene's

room inside out with a vigour that her mother could hear downstairs. The rugs came up and were thrown out the window. The mattress was hauled up on the foot of the bed to air and the furniture was piled in the middle of the room when Mrs Everett came in to inspect the work. She was satisfied. She did not see Beryl's face, for when Beryl heard her footsteps on the stairs she hastily applied herself to polishing the window panes.

'I think you might make the bed up with the pink sheets," Mrs Everett said pleasantly enough. "I've washed them but they'll have to be ironed."

"All right," Beryl muttered, "I'll see to it." Her mother went on to her own room and Beryl uttered a prayer of gratitude. She couldn't have said much just then.

A sickening foreboding had turned the day which for weeks she had been

looking forward to into a dismal parody of what she had hoped it would be. Tommy's victory was overshadowed by Irene's return. She need not tell him of it to-day or to-night, but to-morrow he must know. Everybodv would know then. Her mother would attend to that. Already she had talked of what they must do for Ircne _ a bridge luncheon on Thursday, a few of the young people in on Saturday night ...

Beryl's" heart was heavy. Her mother apparently expected Irene to pay them a prolonged visit and Irene could do so much in one short week. "She'd open an old wound with no more compunction than she'd have in stepping on a spider," Beryl whispered to the glistening glass. Her wrist was tired with rubbing but she did not know it.

Everything depended upon how far Tommy had succeeded In forgetting Irene.

"What will I do?" she asked of the parent who had never lived for her except in fancy. "What can anyone do when something they've built with all the love and faith you have is in danger of being kicked over by a brainless little idiot?"

She found nothing to allay her fears until she went for Tommy in her bright and shining ear. Tommy and her gang had lately painted it anew. There was something about him that was reassuring to Beryl. In Tommy's presence it was less easy to imagine him succumbing to Irene's wiles should she be moved to amuse herself with him. "Tommy," she said suddenly as they drove along at a rattling pace, "I'm about to turn sentimental on you. I might even grow mawkish, but I've got to say it—and it's not hokum."

"Maybe it's measles," Tommy suggested. "Well, shoot, I've had 'em." "It's this," Beryl said, and put a hand on his arm, "this going back to school. If I never have another big moment in my life I'm satisfied . . . only . .: ."

Tommy glanced at her from the corner of his eye. He could see a suspicious moisture on her lashes as for a second she lowered her lids. "I didn't know you had such nice eyelashes," he remarked. "Don't laugh at me, Tommy." "NO." He reached over and put a hand on hers. "Only . . .?" he invited. "Only—sometimes ladders, break." Tommy's lips went together in a firm line. "Yes, I know," he said soberly, "but we'll fasten this one well at the top, and if it breaks I'll hang on to the part that stays up. I won't fall again." Beryl was tempted to tell him then that Irene was coming, but this was their hour. She could not share it with Irene.

She made a valiant effort and was her own merry self during dinner. Tommy was truly Interested in his future. They talked about it at the table. Later, when they danced, Beryl was certain he was thinking of it.

Beryl was forced to believe in platonic friendship. She laughed at herself for her vain fancies, but the tears were never far behind her laughter.

More than ever did they well up when suddenly Tommy said with a touch of boyish yearning, "You know, Beryl, I'm through with the rough stuff but it isn't quite the same. Starting out again with no one to work fQr —"

Beryl pitied him, but she answered with a trace of impatience, "Oh, Tommy, can't you believe there will be a girl some day? And there's pride. Just suppose you were with Pol Larkin nowl"

She had spoken hastily, but when Tommy asked, "Why now?" she decided in a flash to tell him that Irene was coming home. "And I suspect," she added as he sat tight-lipped over the news, "that she'll be orazy to see how you've taken her marriage I"

(To be continued.)