" Forgotten Sweetheart."

Matamata Record, Volume XVII, Issue 1544, 19 July 1934, Page 7

" Forgotten Sweetheart."

Copyright.

CHAPTER XXXV. One thing marred Mrs Waring’s happiness during the days that followed Joan’s return home. That was the way in which her daughter refused to he paraded before their friends. Mrs Waring would have liked to ■walk along Main street and ‘about the stores, having people stare, thinking of ■Joan’s success and glamorous adventures in New York. The mother’s triumphant manner was like a banner proclaiming, “This is my daughter. She has been singing at the most popular night club In !New York!’’ She could not have been prouder if Joan had sung at the Metropolitan. But Joan refused to be “shown off.” I She had come home wearing the same suit she had worn when she departed. There was an unimpressive array of frocks in the closet" of her bedroom. The beautiful costumes she had worn when she sang had been packed in a trunk to come later. There was nothing whatever about Jdffi’s appearance to suggest the brilliance and glitter of the life which had \so recently enveloped her. She was content to sit at home, preferring to be there. She had drifted easily into the Jiomely round of duties and seemed to find pleasure in such mild excitement | as challenging Benny to a game of croquet, going to the library with him, attending a movie or discussing household plans with Mrs Waring and Sara, her sister-in-law. Happy as she was to have her •daughter at home, Mrs Waring unconsciously aighed for a little of the reflected glory she thought might rightfully have been hers. Then, too, Joan flatly refused to capitalise her accomplishments. She , had declared her Intention of staying home “forever and ever.” She had said this fervently, almost childishly. She would And some work here in Memphis, she declared, perhaps teaching a class of vocal students. “Well, there’s nothing like striking while the iron is hot,” her mother counselled wisely. “You wouldn’t any trouble getting pppilfi-.ndw v everybody is talking about you.” “No,” Joan said. “I hate that, Mother, i don’t want pupils who are. just curious to see what I look like! In ,a month no one will even remember that I’ve been away. Then I’ll ■organise my class.” This attitude. was beyond Mrs Waring’s comprehension. Things -were hard enough in this world without deliberately setting out to make them harder! But if Joan persisted in this course. Mrs Waring found vicarious thrills in reading Pat’sl first letter. It was filled with extravagant phrases. Pat - sent a glowing account of the sea vov- j age, beginning with the first night on ship when the captain had invited Pat and Barney to sit at his table. There were interesting people on the boat —a fabulously rich Indian prince; a grey-haired, distinguished foreign consul; a charming woman whose husband had developed the resources of some of the more remote islands; some attractive English people ; and a movie star who thought she •was travelling incognito. Always and inevitably Pat’s lavish adjectives led up to Barney, who was simply perfect. Pat wrote that she i, loved the ship, the deck sports at ; which they spent their mornings, the lazy afternoons on the cool, windswept decks, and the glamorous nights when she wore pretty frocks and was sure that all the other women aboard envied her as they saw her dancing with Barney. The enthusiasm that was so characteristic of Pat coloured every word of the incoherent but vivid account.

SERIAL STORY

By MARY RAYMOND.

“Yes.” “I shouldn’t think he would care anything about her.” ‘‘Why, Benny! You don’t even know her!” ‘‘Oh. I’ve seen her picture lots of times.” Joan hesitated. Then she askedj “Why don’t you think lie would like her?” “Because,” answered Benny, “he knows you.” She laughed but there were tears in her eyes. Benny, with his absurd loyalty! How dear and good they were here at home and how wrong it was of her to trouble them as she had. Even Benny was trying to bring balm to her wounds. She should get back to work immediately, without wasting more time. Her hands seemed strangely empty these days. Now that Benny was well there were no tempting trays to be prepared, no sick bed to .be sheeted and aired, and no frail youngster to be bundled into - a big chair and wheeled out into the sunshine. The house was kept so immaculate that it required little of her time to set it in daily order. And when she entered the kitchen her mother rebelled. “Get right out of this kitchen,” Mrs Waring would scold. “Haven’t I turned the rest of the house over to (Continued in Next Column)

One morning Joan and Benny finished a game of tennis at Beauregard court and started home. “Let’s stop for something cool to drink,” said Benny, the victor. He was highly gratified over the outcome of the game because Joan had put up a good fight. She agreed, always eager to fall in with his plans. Benny was himseif these days. If the long months in New' York had brought nothing but pain to Joan they had at least brought happiness to Pat and health to Benny. Waiting for their drinks to be served, they watched automobiles arriving and pulling away from the kerb. Joan recognised several of the young people.

A green roadster pulled into position and suddenly Joan found herself staring into the eyes of Carol Sheridan. Then suddenly she smiled. “How arc you, Joan?” she asked. “Very well, thank you.” “Have you heard the news about Barbara? Isn’t it marvellous?” Joan waited. She could not have spoken just then if her life depended on it. The other girl, missing nothing of Joan’s agitation, went on easily.’ “Perhaps you didn’t know, but Bob Weston is giving a yachting party. They’re in Havana now. Barbara’s !n the crowd, naturally, and she wrote her mother that they’re having the most thrilling time! Isn’t Barbara the luckiest girl you ever heard of?” “Yes,” said Joan slowly. “She is.”

Carol turned to her companion then. Joan drank the limeade quickly, scarcely conscious of what she was doing. So Barbara and Bob were cruising the West Indies! Well, she had known that before Carol told her. Why should the news torture her so? Why should she even be interested? “Let’s go home,” Joan said suddenly. Her voice sounded strained and unnatural. “Okay,” Benny agreed cheerfully. He was talking about what a pretty boulevard Belvedere was and about the yellow brick house on the hill. He would like, he said, to live in a house with gables. They looked interesting. Joan answered absently. 1 After a while Benny said, “That girl was talking about Mr Weston, wasn’t she?” j “Yes.” “IS Barbara Courtney the girl she meant?”

you, Joan? No, you can’t help-me. ■There’s nothing for you to do here. Go on in the living room and sing some of your songs.” When Joan and Benny reached the house they found their mother in the lcitchen with the inevitable pan of potatoes before her. “Joan,” she insisted, “There’s nothing for you to do here. Did you sing that pretty song for Benny—the one that sounds lilce water running over a fall?” . Mrs .Waring had never seen a waterfall except in the movies. Nevertheless, travel-starved and loving beauty witlffall the passion of a nature that had been denied it, she had imagined such scenes many times. “When my ship comes in!” How many times as a little girl had Joan heard that phrase! But it had been a long time now, with recurring disappointments and hardships, since the old, optimistic tone had been in Mrs Waring’s voice. Joan looked at her mother, patiently paring potatoes, and thought of Barbara Courtney on a beautiful yacht at sea. (To be Continued)