The Cass County Sun (Linden, Tex.), Vol. 56, No. 50, Ed. 1 Tuesday, December 15, 1931 Page: 3 of 8
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THE CASS COUNTY SUN
JOHN GRESHAM'S GIRL
THE STORY
By chance Jnmea I.,ee meet*
J.ucy (irexlinm, daughter of Sir
John Greshum, wealthy *hli>
builder. Lee, unjustly accused of
robbing the Orenham firm, was
sent to prison. He blames Oliver
Ames, Lucy's cousin, and Gresli-
am's manager, and se«ks revenge.
Led inherits wealth, nnd, In com-
pliance with the will, changes
his name from Warrington. He
secures an Invitation to the girl's
birthday party. Lucy Is practical-
ly engaged to Ames. She meets
Lee, who makes love to her, plan-
ning thereby to hurt Oresham
and Ames. With Gresham's ap-
proval, Lucy and Lee are mar-
ried. Lee stuns the girl by tell-
ing her he does not love her,
and hates her "whole breed."
CHAPTER IV—Continued
—6—
"If your love for me has all been a
lie . . . how am I to believe anything
you say to me?" she cried. ".Jim, you
don't know what you (ire saying!
You can't know. . . . Jim, do you
mean that when you have taken me
In your arms, it has been a He? When
you have kissed me ... It has been
* lie, too? Jim, you can't mean
that. . . ." It was k cry right U[>
from the depths of her hurt heart. A
cry it would have been easy to an-
swer. He had only to take her into
his arms and tell the lie again. . . .
But still he couldn't. The personal
equation was a stronger thing than
he had ever known. . . . He shook
htmself free of her hands and moved
away from her.
"I do mean it," be said.
She went so terribly pale that he
thought she was going to faint; but
she didn't. She stood stone still, for
a moment, then bowed her head and
covered her face with her hands. The
utter stillness of her was almost un-
canny. It seemed to him that no liv-
ing thing could ever have appeared so
utterly lifeless. Then slowly she
raised her face, all white nnd drawn,
and looked up at him again.
"Then I suppose," she said tonelesa-
ly. "I suppose it is true ... I sup-
pose I must believe. . . ."
The change In her was startling.
Some life had gone out of tier eyes;
some lilt from her voice. It was ns
!f In that moment of stillness her
youth had died. With a word he had
killed the lovely younguess of her.
It gave him a feeling of having driven
his fist into the face of a child.
"But, Jiin," she went on in the same
toneless voice. "Why? Why, Jim?
What has made you do this to me?
What have I done that you should
want to hurt me so?"
"You are your father's daughter,"
he answered slowly.
"Then what is it that he has done?
Jim, you must tell me. You can't do
a thing like this and leave me all in
the dark. You can't say these night-
mare things and leave them unex-
plained. . . . You must tell me. What
has father done?"
"Do you remember telling me of the
man who had robbed a pay clerk and
been Imprisoned . . . ?"
She drew a breath as if she knew
what was coming, nnd nodded.
"Do you remember saying that he
was horrid? And that he had to be
hurt?"
"Yes."
"Weil, I'm that man."
There was a silence. Her eyes never
left his face, but they were quite un-
readable. Whether she was shocked
at this news or not, he couldh't tell.
Perhaps after what had Just gone, she
was past the point of being shocked
further. She was so unmoved that he
said again:
"I am that man."
"Well," she said In that steady,
measured voice that sounded so ter-
ribly wrong, from her. "Well, you
are that man, then; I believe you.
After tonight, I don't think I shall -
ever And It difficult to believe any-
thing. You are that man. I still don't
understand. . . . I'm slow, I suppose.
But why did you marry me, Jim?"
"To pay them back." The words
fell very cold and clear.
"Father?" she questioned.
"And—Ames."
"Oh, yes. ... I'm beginning to
See. . . ." She pnssed a tired hand
across her eyes. . . .
"They let me go to prison," he said
harshly. "For three years. . , ,"
"For robbing a pay clerk?"
"Yes . . . with violence. . . ,
Three years penal was my sen-
tence. . . ." There was another si-
lence. then:
"Had you done it, Jim?" Her dead
voice came up to him. hitting on his
nerves. If only she'd change the tone,
■how soma life. . . .
"Tou said that that man must hav*
dofl* It," he retorted bluntly. "Yo«
■aid that Amea wouldn't hare let him
go to prison If It hadn't been absolute-
ly proved that he had done It. . ,
By CONCORDIA MERREL
(Copyright.)—WNU Service.
"Yes; I did say that ... I remem-
ber. . . ." she admitted.
"You said," he went on, "that he
must be hurt. . . . Well, be has been
hurt. , , . Believe me, he has been
hurt. . . . Can you Imagine what a
purgutory prison Is. . . . ('an you pic-
ture what it meant to me, with my
strength and ambitions, to be eaugbt
and held for three whole years? With
life going by outside? Three years!
Thirty-six whole months. ... A hun-
dred and fifty-six dragging weeks. . . .
Over a thousand Interminable days.
. . ! Hurt?" he laughed dully. "Don't
worry about that, Lucy. . . . I've
been hurt . . . good and plenty. . . ."
"And so you hurt me?" she said.
"No; them—your father and Ames
—through you."
"You set yourself to make me love
you, so that you could make Oliver
suffer . . . and father. . .
"He'll scarcely like to have a jail-
bird for a son-in-law," he broke In
bitterly.
"Oh, yes, T see. ... It was a neat
plan, and marvelously successfully
carried through."
If she would only cry or break down
In some way, he thought. This dead-
level calm was ghastly to listen to.
"And I see why you were afraid of
losing me. Always so queerl.v afraid
of that, weren't you, Jim? I under-
stand It now. You were afraid of los-
ing this revenge of yours. Afraid
something might happen to upset your
scheme. And I thought you were
afraid of losing me because you loved
me; In the way that a lover is afraid,
because he loves so much and can
hardly believe that such happiness can
last. I thought that was what made
you afrnld, Jim. ... I thought I
understood It, because sometimes I
was almost afraid myself. . , ."
The dead voice went on. dinning
Into his ears, heating on his nerves,
<9
k
6
"And So You Hurt Me?" She Said.
till he almost gave way to a sheerly
womanish desire to scream. But he
could only say:
"Yes, It's all true. Everything you
say. . . ."
He wanted to move his eyes from
hers, but somehow could not. Those
big, blue eyes of hers, void of feeling
as that changed, terrible voice, Just
looked straight up into his, and held
them. . . .
"And your pride of conquest; your
triumph; your glory In that great, big
strength of yours, that could pick me
up and carry me ofT as easily as you
had taken my love. , , , Oh, a big
triumph, Jim! A big triumph. . . ."
"Well, it was the triumph I had
been working for. . . . Three years'
hell takes some paying back," he said
sullenly,
"And I was so simple, wasn't I? So
unbelievably easy. You Just looked
nnd—conquered, didn't you? Did you
laugh sometimes to yourself, Jim,
when you held r.:e In your arms
and. . . ."
"No," he said roughly. "T've never
—laughed. Think what you like. . . ,
But that, at least. Isn't true. . . ."
"Not that It matters much. And If
you had, It would be understandable,
for aurel.v there was humor In It,
somewhere. . . ." She broke off,
turned away, looking round the room
as If she hnd been walking In her
sleep and had Just awakened to won-
der, dazedly, where she was. Then
her eyes came back to his.
"And now, Jim, we are married,"
she said, "and you have told me that
you don't love me. Now, what are
we to do?"
"I didn't mean to tell you!" he
cried.
"Then, why did you?" she asked
wearily. "After setting your plans
so carefully, why should you do any-
thing you did not mean to do? That
was not typical of you, was It?" It
was not bitterly said; nellher was
there the least hint of Irony in It. It
was as If she hud suddenly seen him
in a new and terrible light, nnd quite
simply accepted that he was this new
ami terrible thing.
"No," he answered abruptly, "it
Isn't typical; but I did it. You'll not
believe me capable of a . . . decent
Impulse toward you, after this . . .
but .. . well, marriage is a . , . big
thing ... I couldn't take all that It
means . . . letting you think that
I Oh, hang it all, some Idiotic
weakness caught me . . . and I told
you!" That came roughly, and he
flung away from her and strode over
to the window, pulled back the cur-
tains and stood breathing in the soft
nlfht air, as If the room had suddenly
become suffocating. She turned slow-
ly and looked after him.
"Well, Jim, what are we to do?"
"I suppose you'll leave me, won't
you?" he suggested. She paused,
then:
"Tonight?"
"If you are not afraid to be In the
house with a man who has been con-
victed of robbery with violence, per-
haps you'd ralher leave it till to-
morrow?" The bitterness of that was
Indescribable.
"Oh, I'm not In the least afraid,"
she answered. "I wasn't afraid of
your love and I'm not afraid of your
hate."
"Then you'd better go to bed.
There's nothing profitable In this." He
turned violently nnd flung himself
toward the door of his dressing room.
"Is that your room, Jim?" her voice
came after him.
He turned in the doorway.
"Yes. But I'll go and sleep In one
of tlie spare rooms if you object to
my being so near you," he answered
bluntly.
"Oh. no." she said tlvedly. "It doesn't
matter. Good night, Jim." The little
formality, coming with such lifeless
mechanlcalness clutched nt Ills heart
In the most extraordinary way. A
chaos of impulses arose within him,
and died before he could get them
sorted out. Hut that last sight he had
of her, standing there looking after
him, suddenly brought something she
had said to his memory:
"'Bather a little girl. . .
And he found that he was saving the
words to himself as he closed the
door and shut out the sight of her.
I.ucy sat on the edge of the big
bed staring out helplessly before her,
trying vainly to get a hold on life
again. 1 tea 1 ity seemed to have slipped
from her grasp, and she felt that she
was struggling In the throes of a night-
mare. And yet she knew that the
r 'ghtmnre was only the truth. It
had happened, that ghastly scene
Just now, with Jim. He bad told
her all those terrible things. She
knew that they were true, and she
knew that they had changed everything
for her. Yesterday seemed centuries
past. Her love, her engagement, her
wedding—all seemed ns If they hnd
happened to some one else,
Jim was that man who had gone
to prison for robbery with violence;
n workman at Oresham's. She had
heard her father speak of that man;
Ames, too; but she had never heard
of the affair in much detail.
What was she to do? Go back to
her father, as Jim had suggested? She
could be sure of sympathy nnd com-
fort there. . . . Yes, she supposed
that was the only thing to do. Go
back and tell the truth. Tell that It
wns for this man who could deal so
treacherously with her, that she hnd
given up her rose-strewn girlhood; for
a man who could wound her in this
terrible way, that she had refused
Oliver's devoted love. . . . For a mnn
who hnd suddenly become this terrible,
this monster thing that Jim had
shown himself to be. From being
everything she had loved, he had be-
come—this.
What did she feel for him now?
An answering hatred? An answering
vengefulness? She senrched her heart
for the truth. It wns none of these.
She did not know quite whnt It wns.
Just a sort of numbed horror was as
near as she could get to It. Fenr?
No. There was no fenr of him In her
heart. She hnd told him that, and It
hnd not been In any way a bluff. Just
horror, that was all. Horror of llmllng
that something she had loved and
reverenced was really a thing to be
hated, despised, abhorred.
Thoughts began then to go round In
circles; repeating over and over again ;
dinningly; unbearably. It was nearly
dawn when ahe wearily undressed and
got Into bed; and full day before, ex-
hausted with a sort of utter exhaus-
tion she had never before known, she
sank Into sleep.
She did not see Lee again until
noon next day. Sha had not been up
long, but evidently he had, for he
came Into the house In riding kit. As
he crossed the hall, he turned, and
through the open doorway of the liv-
ing room he saw her standing by a
table, arranging pink roses in a big
silver bowl. He slopped, startled by
her strange air of composure. She
had been pale and dazed last night.
She wns pale, still, hut there was a
look of determination In her eyes; a
queer firmness about her lips; the
little hands among the roses were
steady nnd purposeful. He knew, too,
that nothing was finished last night,
and that there was almost everything
still to have out with her. He said
challengingly:
"Well?"
She lowered her eyes to the roses,
selected two and put them into tha
bowl before saying:
"Yes, I suppose there are things to
talk over. . . , We haven't quite said
It all, have we?" Her voice was
strangely steady and controlled. She
was not the girl he had married yes-
terday—the happy, radiant-eyed brldn
who had put her fond little hand Into
his—but at least she wns not the
stunned, hurt thing she had been last
night. Evidently, even though there
had been no magic wand to work Its
wonders for tier, sleep had brought
some sort of peace and determination
with it.
He was silent, and he couldn't quite
look at her. Then she said, looking
him up and down:
"I have been thinking, Jim," she
said slowly.
"Yes. I suppose so."
She hesitated a moment, then:
"First of all, I want to apologize
to you. . . ."
lie flashed a sharp look at her.
"To me?" he exclaimed. "In heaven's
name, what for?"
"I asked you last night whether you
had done that horrible thing for which
you suffered so badly. I don't believe
that you did do It. . . . And I apolo-
gize for asking."
That shook him badly; It was so un-
expected ; and so brave.
"Believe what you like nbout It,"
he said roughly to hide that he was
moved.
"Well, then, I believe that you didn't
do it. And now, Jim—about us. You
married me to revenge yourself upon
father and Oliver, but your revenge
has fallen, cruelest of all, upon
me No matter what they
might suffer because of it, It could
never come so near to them as It has
to me. Because you see, Jim, I did
not marry you for revenge or for any
other reason in the world other than
that I loved you. It's best to put
things quite squarely between us."
She spoke very gravely nnd stead-
ily. He scarcely knew what to say.
He had regarded her as little more
than a child, but he saw now that that
was a mistake. It was a woman who
stood there, confronting him; with a
woman's seriousness on her lips and
a woman's suffering in her eyes.
"Yes." he said, after a moment. "As
far as It's po"«<ble we may as
well . . . have^fcigs square. . , .*
He paused again, then added, chal-
lengingly: "So you may as well know
that nothing you say or do will turn
me from my purpose. . . . Those who
punished me have got to bear their
punishment In return. . . . Nothing
that has happened between you and
me is going to alter that. , . . You
are your father's blood, and ns long
ns life lasts, his blood and mine will
be at war. I'll heat him, humble him,
drag him down as he allowed me to
be dragged down. I'll make him suf-
fer, through you, as he could never
suffer for any pain of his own. . . .
I'll do this still, and you cannot stop
me."
He broke off, drawing a breath.
"I've admitted risking my first move
for some weakness that I can't ex-
plain. hut It cannot hurt my main
schemes. And It shall not. You can
do what you like; I shall not con-
sider you again."
She answered the challenge of his
tone and eyes with an unflinching look.
"I quite understand, Jim; and I
don't think that I shall interfere very
much. About that, I haven't qulta
made up my mind. . . . But I be-
lieve I shall leave you to go your own
way without attempting to Interfere."
"I'm glad to hear It," he put iQ
gruffly.
(TO HE CONTINUEP.)
Early Surgical Operation!
Garrison's History of Medicine says
that certain pictures engraved on the
doorposts of a tomb near Memphis,
Egypt, are regarded by their discover-
er, W. Max Muiler, as the earliest
known pictures of surgical operation!
(2500 B. C.), and antedating these arf
the well splinted fracture* of the flftfc
dynasty (27SO-S626 H. U)
- ■
STOP YOUR COLD
IN 12 HOURS WITH
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Drives it away in 12 hours.
Relievos
Headache—Neuralgia—Pains
McKesson ^Robbins
Quality Since 1833
Two Days of "Freedom"
for Husband and Wife
It Is a mistake to think that two
people can, In this Twentieth century,
live their whole lives happily, suc-
cessfully and abundantly on the basis
that husband and wife are one, un-
less each party to the arrangement Is
free to follow his own tastes and fan-
cies. Otherwise you Inevitably get
boredom and unbearable dullness.
Dullness has wrecked many mar-
riages which otherwise would have
been successful.
I have eliminated the possibility of
dullness. On two days each week I
never see my husband. It has proved
a really sound arrangement. I do
what I like, go out with friends I
choose, even though some of them he
dislikes nnd others he thinks Just
silly. Still, he does not object. For
those two days we live our lives
apart as If we had no mutual re-
sponsibilities at all.
He chooses his own friends. Some
of his friends I dislike as much as
lie dislikes some of mine. Others are
just dull and uninteresting.
The days we are together we enjoy
each other more because we have
been apart. We are each of us re-
freshed and have something new to
talk about. It is not a bad plan, and
I might even say that it is a plan
which many other people might And
very suitable. They will be sur-
prised at the results.—Anita Loos in
the London Saturday Review.
Women Need This
Health Protection
To avoid colds, coughs and serious
ills which Winter inflicts on a run-
down constitution—build up your
vitality and strength with the aid
of St.Joseph's G.F.P. Made from
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will sell you the big dollar bottle
of St.Joseph's G.F.P. on an abso-
lute money-back guarantee.
Scalp l« Heirloom
The scalp of an Indian chief slain
by her father is among the cherished
possessions of Mrs. Burch Young, of
Fort Worth, Texas. This heirloom
and other trappings taken from the
dead warrior passed into her hands
recently on the death of her mother,
Mrs. Ira Long, widow of the former
Texas ranger captain of frontier
fame. Captain Long died in 1913 at
seventy-one. The Indian chief was
killed by Captain Long in a hand-to-
hand encounter in Lost valley in
Jack county, Texas, more than fifty
years ago.
Medali for Rent
An enterprising citizen makes a
good living in Hollywood. Calif., rent-
ing out medals to the heaving bos-
oms of the movie heroes. He Is said
to have 2,000 varieties, one for every
type of screen heavies.
New Civil War
Any student of history who thinks
the conflict between North and South
was a savage affair, should have over-
heard East and West on the way
home in the taxi.—Judge.
Free
JAYNE'S ALMANAC
FOR 1932
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Banger, J. E. A. & Erwin, W. L. The Cass County Sun (Linden, Tex.), Vol. 56, No. 50, Ed. 1 Tuesday, December 15, 1931, newspaper, December 15, 1931; Linden, Texas. (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth340948/m1/3/?q=Lamar+University: accessed June 30, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; crediting Atlanta Public Library.