"ANN STEPS OUT"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 10 December 1938, Page 12

"ANN STEPS OUT"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

MARGARET GORMAN NICHOLS.

CHAPTER IX. .—Continued. “I hope that when I return your sister is safely home with you —wiser, but not worse for the experience.

“I sugest that you take the week off and spend it with your mother. To save you the embarrassment of going to the office for your salary, I am leaving it with Wang who can, I have found, be trusted. I have also left other money, which is at your disposal if you need it.

i “I hope I shall be back within a week. And I shall prepare myself for a severe bawling-out by every one in general. But yours, I feel, will be gentler becaus e of your understanding.— John.”

Ann folded the note. She closed her eyes. What if anything happened to John on this trip? Ann found Dick Nelson amusing company during the week she stayed at home. She saw him often. He came to the Dryden home, mixed with the family, ate with them, and took Ann on long rides in the country in his selfstyled, “air-conditioned roadster.” Each morning she waited for the postman to arrive only to return to her mother with the discouraging news, “No letter from Jean.” They were lonely days for Ann. And as always when she was alone she thought of Doug, and the quick ending of their long love affair. Added, to that, Mr Dryden came home one night with the news that his salary had been reduced, and Ann knew the burden of responsibility rested more heavily on her. She came downstairs one chilly, rainy morning and ate a solitary breakfast. At 9.30 the postman came. There was a letter in Jean’s girlish scrawl! Standing in the vestibule, with the rain beating in, Ann tore it open. “Dear Ann: “You’ve won —all of you. I’ve worn my soles thin and haven’t got a job. I got one singing in a cheap night club but after one night I knew I couldn’t stand it. The men were fresh. “Ann, I haven’t any money. Won’t you come up and get me? I’m beaten, and I’m ready to come home. —Jean.” Between the lines Ann read much more misery and despair than Jean had actually written. Mrs Dryden came in the hall. “Did you . . .” Ann gave her mother the letter, and there was a tense silence while she read it. Their eyes met. “You’ll go?” “Yes. At once.” CHAPTER X. Ann turned, went upstairs, and got her suitcase from the closet. It was strange, she thought, that in moments like these people were very quiet. Her mother wept at the slightest upsetting incident, but in a matter of this kind when her child was involved, she had said nothing and was very quiet. “You go?” was all she had said in a hus.ied, tense voice. As Ann was packing, her mother came in the room. “I called your father.” And then, “But where are you going to get the money, Ann?” “I have the money.” “But where did you get it?” Ann straightened up and face ! her mother squarely. Should she tell her about John’s generous cheque? Would she understand? “Mr Hamill gave me a cheque to cover my expenses.” “Mr Hamill!” Ann’s throat hurt. Was dissension and lack of understanding to meet her wherever she turned? “Yes. I told him about Jean. He wanted to help me.” Tears came in her mother’s eyes. "But ... I never thought you’d accept money from a man.” “Accept money from a man! Is that vyhat you think? Do you think I’ve degenerated that much? It was a loan. I’m going to pay him back. I didn’t ask him for it.”

But men —rich men —don’t give money like that for nothing!”

“John Hamill does.” Mrs Dryden shook her head. “I never thought my girls . . .”

“Would come to this? One in New York, scared and hungry, and one here accepting money from a .man!” Desperately Ann turned her head and looked out the window at the rain beating on the pane. “You’re wrong about John Hamill,” she said slowly. "He wants to marry me.”

Mrs Dryden took a step nearer. “I’m sorry for reproaching you. I’m oldfashioned, I guess. And I’ve been so upset about Jean. You’ve always bem a good girl, Ann.” She smiled faintly. "I don't know how we would have gotten along without your help—you were always so willing to give up your salary.” Ann confined with the packing. “I don't want you to marry for money,” said her mother. “Too many marriages of that kind end in divorce. 1 want my girls to be happy.” Mrs Dryden went downstairs. Ann Look off her woollen dressing gown, and put on a dark travelling dress. Carefully he wrote Jean’s address and Nick’s on a slip of paper and put it in her pocket book along with John’s money. She wrote a hurried letter to John, and sent it to his Guilford home. She came downstairs with her black suitcase in her hand. Her mother came out of the kitchen and kissed her. “Wire me as soon as you’ve found her,” she said. “I won’t rest until I hear.”

Ann wont out and Mrs Dryden stood at the front window and watched her walk up the street in the rain. She always experienced a feeling of pride when she saw Ann. She thought, "She’s my daughter and she's unaware of her beauty and charm. She’s an unusual girl, and she doesn’t know it. She should have all the things I haven’t been able to give her. John Hamill can give them to her.”

It was a long impatient ride. At Jersey City Ann got off the train and took a bus over the ferry. New York’s skyline looked immense and spectacularlike a bouquet with too many flowers. It was still raining, though not so hard. At Columbus Circle she alighted from the bus and hailed a cab. She knew little about New York, but she knew as the cab edged its way through the hurrying traffic to a narrow street that she was in the poor section of the city. The cab finally drew up alongside a grey, dingy lookhouse.

Ann got out, paid the driver, and looked for ,a moment at the house. It had a sign in the window, “Furnished Rooms.” And a woman, fat, untidy, with dank hair hanging over her face,

sat near the window dressed in a gingham dress. A girl, cheaply dressed and flashily made up, came out of the house and put up an umbrella. So Jean's dreams had brought her to this! How much pretty girls thought that beauty was in demand when there was such an oversupply! Ann rang the bell. The fat slovenly woman sitting in the window leaned ever and looked at her. Presently a face stuck itself halfway through the partly opened door. “I’m looking for Miss Jean Dryden,” said Ann.

The door opened, all the way. The girl, wiping her soapy, red hands on a kitchen apron, glared stupidly.

“Who?” . “Miss Jean Dryden. I’m her sister.” “There ain’t nobody here by that name.” Jean —not here? Where would she turn if she couldn’t find her here? The fat woman came out of the living room. “Who do you want?” she asked in an irritated voice. “Jean Dryden.” The woman’s mouth drew up at the corners cynically. “She didn’t give that name here. None of ’em do. They got fancy names.” She turned to the servant in a voice that made the girl tremble. “It’s the kid on the top floor —the little one. Take her up, Annie, and be quick about it.” She turned to Ann. “It's a good thing you came.” “Why?” “I was jes’ gettin’ ready to turn her out. This ain’t no flop-house.” Ann followed the girl up three flights of dark, unlighted steps. The odour of boiling cabbage permeated the house and there was also the odour of musty, damp clothes trying to dry on a rainy day. The girl stopped in front of a door and pointed to it. “She’s in there.” Ann gave her a quarter. “Thanks, Miss.” Somehow Ann couldn’t bring herself to knock. She had a sick, empty feeling as though she couldn’t bear the scene that would undoubtedly follow. She must not let herself cry. She stood a few minutes with a pained, strained expression on her face. Several times she lifted her hand, but she could not knock. She could not! Finally, in desperation, she knocked faintly. It was Jean’s voice! “Is that you, Annie?” Ann turned the knob and opened the door a little. For a moment she did not notice the cold, empty room with a cot, a dresser, with a broken mirror, the bare floors. She saw only Jean huddled in a chair with her coat around her. “It’s not Annie,” she said trying to control her voice. “It’s Ann.” Ann went to her. Jean dropped her curly head and started to cry. “Don’t cry now,” said Ann. The younger girl lifted her arms and Ann held her close to her as though she were a hurt child. “Come on. Get yourself together. We’re going to get out of this place.” “Out of this awful hole!” sobbed Jean. Ann stroked her head. “We’re going to a decent hotel and you’re going to get a hot bath and put on some of my clothes and we’re going to get something to eat. On second thought,” she paused, “I think we’ll eat first.” She gave Jean an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “Come on. Where are your clothes? I’ll get them together for you.” Jean wiped her eyes. “In the drawer over there. They’re all soiled. Gosh,” she looked up through wet lashes, “it’s swell to see you. I didn’t realize how good you looked until I saw you standing there in the doorway. And you didn't even say, ‘I told you so,’ like I did when you and Doug broke off.” Ann packed Jean’s things. When the last piece was in the suitcase, she turned to her. “We’re going to get out of here and go to a restaurant.”

“Wait’ll I wash my dirty face and comb my hair, or I’ll look like an orphan sister.” She moved in the chair. "I’m stiff and cold. I haven't moved out of this chair since last night.” She got up and stretched her legs and went to the basin. Ann looked at her. She was thinner and she had a long run in her stocking. Presently Jean turned a clean face to her. “Let's go,” she said, “where there is food.”

“You owe the woman downstairs, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I guess w,e’d better pay old Battle-axe. She was going to toss me into the street tonight—without my baggage.” They went out and closed the door of the dingy, forlorn room, and walked down the steps together. Jean didn’t say anything, but Ann knew that despite her appearance of bravery, she was admitting defeat. The stout woman came out of the living room.

“I want to pay you what my sister owes,” said Ann. She took the amount the woman mentioned out of her pocketbook and gave it to her, “Listen, girlie,” the woman turned to Jean, “this town’s full of yellow-haired cuties lookin’ for jobs in the chorus. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go back to your home town. The food’s better and —oftener.” They went out of the street, Jean turned once and looked back. “I hope I’ve put that sort of thing out of my life forever. It was horrible—lonely and cold ...” They ate al a small immaculate restaurant. When the food arrived Jean looked at it and said, “Stop me if I eat too fast. I —l’ve never seen anything look so good.”

(To be Continued.)