THE TENTS OF SHEM

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 70, Issue 116, 1 March 1950, Page 3

THE TENTS OF SHEM

E By Grace Jones Morgan

Serial Story

= (Copyright) 5

CHAPTER XXXVII FANCHEE SPRAINS AN ANKLE Dick. Dick in San Francisco. She had forgotten. Hervey swept everything else away. What a lover he was. if only she had loved Hervey first and best. If only she could forget Straith Kirk. But she ha,d never given up hope, her heart still clung to a wish that some day she and Straith would meet, would explain away all the unhappiness, and begin again. To be his wife now, to stand beside him in this high place! Once Dick was paid she would save her money to return to lhe old house, see Straith, an older, wiser Straith, lonelier perhaps, as she was lonely. The linen coverings were off the store counters. Salesgirls were placing goods on display, but old Rookie was at the door watching for stragglers to sign the “late slips,” a dime forfeit for being late. She passed the corset department and Mariette hailed her.

“Late, huh, Dorsey. Have a big night last night? Say, you missed the announcement. This store is having a dance. Get that, Christmas dance and style show. Leave it to Louie Rosebloom to combine business with pleasure. And it will be at the Palace!” November rains came down. Storms at sea, wind howling around the hill, rattling the windows of the Rotofsky house. But her coal-shuttle was always filled, her fire burning. She was taking meals with them now, and after dinner reading a little of “The Kipling verse. She could make little of “The First Chantey” until Marie read it aloud:

“Mine was the woman to me, dark- - ling I found her; Hailing her dumb from the camp, held

her and bound her. Hot rose her tribe on our track ere I had proved her; Hearing her laugh in the gloom, greatly I loved her.” Marie’s voice was soft, a singing contralto, and she read with pnderstanding.

“Don’t you see, Fanchee. He took her by brute force, but she laughed, she loved him. She shoved the log from shore, singing as they braved the dangers. And that was the first watercraft, the forerunners of all ships. Just a log and a woman standing on it, spreading out the skin garments she Wore to catch the wind ... It is the fact that she loved him, dared death for his sake.” “Oh, but do people love so greatly, Marie ■ • .?” “Some people, perhaps, Fanchoh . . . What will you wear to the Christmas dance?” “You see, I’m part of the style show, and I’m wearing that peacock gown. I’m lucky.” “Would you like my pearls?” “No thanks, Honey. You see, they supply everything. But you’re a dear to offer the* pearls. I’d be afraid I’d lose them, anyway.” Rain slashing silver streaks on the window-pane, silver that turned golden from the firelight. Beads of golden rain on the glass. Storms up and down the coast, vessels staggering to port, disabled, battered, some of them lost. Fanchee hoped it was not storm ing where the H. E. Sundersen sailed. The siren at Alcatraz moaned dismally through the night, fog. Sometimes the ferry whistles tooted all day Curtains of rain shut away the Berkeley hills, but when the sun shone they had changed from velvet-brown to green. The hills ran water, the pave ment-gutters were flushed. Frost-silver glimmered on the sodden garden, made the cement slippery, and one morning going down the hill to work Fanchee’s heel slipped and she wrenched her ankle, not badly, but enough to pain when she walked. For the first time it occurred to her that in spite of the hurt she must be able to walk, even dance, the night of the Style Show. The peacock gown must be displayed. That morning she went to the office of M. Louis Rosfleur, and was halted outside the door by a clerk at the information desk.

“Have you an appointment with Mr Rosfleur?”

“No. But ask him to please see Miss D’Arcy. He’ll see me.” “Oh, yes?” Something in the inflection of the girl’s voice sent the colour to Fanchee’s cheeks. They flamed as she entered the office, limping a little, saving lifer hurt ankle. “Good morning,” he said. “Why, what’s the matter, Miss D’Arcy?” Fanchee told him.

“If I could rest my foot until the Style Show ... Of course, I don’t expect wages for days I don’t work, Mr Rosfleur.”

“Have we ever treated you so shabbily as that? Sit down at once and I’ll have you j;aken home. At all costs that foot must'be well for Thursday night. Stay home until then. We’ll send the gowns to your home. Is it badly wrenched?”

He dropped on one knee and lifted her foot, took off her shoe, then, as the door opened, he rose. “Call a taxi for Miss D’Arcy and send Boynton here,” he said. “Boynton will take you home, Miss D’Arcy. I’m glad you came' to me this morning. I don’t want anything to fail now.” The house detective went downstairs with her-and to the hill. Lying on the couch with the Kipling book, Fanchee was having the first vacation of her working career, but it was not uninterrupted. That afternoon a Swedish masseuse was sent by M. Rosfleur. At five o’clock a box of roses came without a card. After dinner Mariette arrived with Maisie the beauty specialist, and Marie came upstairs.

“Roses, red roses,” said Mariette. “1 love them. Wouldn’t mind breaking a leg for a holiday and plenty of red roses. Instead of luck like that, all 1 get is a movie while Mart Morel! holds my hand in the love scenes while the hero saves the bfeautiful il virtuous lady. Mart ain’t one to kiss a lady’s hoop-skirt, .and I don’t come of a race that offers their finger-tips to labouring swain. My people were probably hard-fisted- types of few words that didn’t kiss the hand that fed them. And say, Fanchee, I’ve been asking Mart about this Captain Sundersen. Mart has something to do with the wharves. He probably stands by when they heave ho. At least that used to be his remark when a bunch of us young things carried sandwiches and bottles to Tiburon picnics. It was about the drinks Mart passed that immortal ‘Heave ho’ remark. As a ‘heave-hoer’ Mart is perpetual motion as long as the drinks hang out.

“Last night I said to him, ‘Mart, take me to a picture show and tell me who is this Sundersen, and why:’

‘We don’t need to squander fifty cents each in the rain over that,’ he says, while I was wondering why women kept their hair and girlish figures longer than men. Sundersen, Mart says, is all right. He had brung ships staggering in when all but him was washed away and the jibbs’ll kissed the keel a fond farewell. Of course, staggering into port has been done by more men than Sundersen probably, but, anyway, I asked Mart if he was good enough to marry one of the best women in the world. Mart said several million men had done just that, and a million more are ready to do it. What he means is that all women are the best in the world till they forget to send some ( man’s shirt to the laundry. Then Mart says ‘When will the wedding be?’ ‘lf Sundersen asked me,’ I said to him, ‘l’d say to-morrow, but it ain’t me.’ “ ’Do you know the woman I’d ask that right now?’ Mart says to me. You can’t beat the Irish for saying things that every woman wishes she could believe. So I guess Mart and I , . “Oh, Marietta!” Panchee forgot her twisted ankle, she was on her feet and Mariete was in her arms. “I wish you happiness, dear Marietta, and joy and prosperity and all good things.” “Thanks. But you won’t need to dig down for a wedding present yet. We’re seeing Rachel through . . “Rachel! I had forgotten Rachel, Mariette.”

“Yeah, most of us did. I wish sometimes I could forget her. But the head that kid drew of me got under my complexion. Men have told me I was beautiful when they had a few drinks. But that picture of me wasn’t meant that way.” “Mari'ette, I’m a pig. I meant to help about Rachel, but I forgot. Things happened.” “Oh, you had Nina. She liked the clothes. And I felt in the pockets, Dorsey, and found the money you put there. Not that it helps much. Dope costs. That’s why I’ve quit giving money to Nina and I’m keeping what I can spare for Rachel. When’s Sundersen coming back?” “I don’t know, Mariete. I don’t hear from him.”

“My God, then those ain’t his roses? And here I’ve been working up a case for him in vain.” Marie laughed, golden-voiced.

“Oh, Miss Higgins, I love to hear you make fun. Do come again soon. Come to see me sometimes. And don’t go without speaking to my 'mother and father. They enjoyed you so much the last time.”

“Not as much as I enjoyed them, though I like to hear you say so. Well, so long, Dorsey. I won’t be seeing you till after the ball, I suppose.” “Mariete, aren’t you going?” “Now, what would I go there for?' All I can dance is a two-step of the vintage of 1905. I’ve been saving my feet for the wellknown lock-step of Maison Honore and never trained them to tango. And Mart is in the same condition, so I’ll run out to the hospital that evening and let Rachel make a perfectly beautiful sketch of me. If there’s anything makes a woman feel virtuous jt’s a picture that flatters her so even her own mother wouldn’t know who it was.” "“Mariette, please take those roses to Rachel for me, and give her my love.”

“Sure. ’Bye, Dorsey. ’Bye,, Miss Rotofsky. Come on, ivlaisie.” Marie wrapped the roses and placed them in Mariette’s arms. Marie’s plump little figure was topped by a head of brown curls, she had a way of throwing back her head when she laughed which made her eyes seem slumbrous under the lowered lashes. Her vivacity flashed unexpectedly. \ “More roses will come to-morrow, she said to Fanchee. ; “Oh, no. I think Mr Rosfleur ■ sent them; he won’t send any more.” “Yes, he will. He is in a red rose mood about you ...” “Marie, I’m only somebody working in his store.” “1 know . . . but one feels, one senses the coming events. And why not, Cherie. You are young and beautiful. How the wind blows. There are storm warnings out 'to-night. One pities the sailors.” (To be continued).