Western High School - Westward Ho Yearbook (Baltimore, MD)

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I2 WESTWARD HO fond of-her shining cars, her big white house, comfort, position, luxuries. She looked about her and could find nothing that was not of his giving, to the very lace at her throat and the rings on her fingers. Proud she was of her doctor son and her capable Alicia, these 'so typical children of Clement, proud of their suc- cess and their smart establishments and their cleverness, and proud in the knowledge that it was Clement to whom they owed most in the world. Of Lotis the Fair she was passing proud, her youngest daughter and the incom- prehensible, elusive and charming and unfath- omed. It was time for lunch, over which she daw- dled. Since Alicia and Paul had left, and her servant force had increased, there was little for her to do, and she missed the old house- wifely duties. There were still some market lists and menus and directions without end, but she had lost the dearer and more intimate occu- pations. While she was lingering over her salad, Lotis dashed in, very much out of breath and a little excited. I've brought your present, Mamma. I was so afraid they wouldn't have it readylu Marian gkissed her. Thank you, dear. It must be wonderful, you're just glowing. She unwrapped the parcel, smiling and expectant. A book! Oh-Lotis-not yours-- But it was. The letters looked up at 'her, winking goldly. The Tavern of Dreams, and Other Poems. Lotis Vane. , Tears, absurd and typically maternal, swam in her eyes. She said, Lotis, honey! and mopped at them with her handkerchief. Lotis laughed. Oh, you sweetheart! Then you're really pleased? Wasn't it noble of me to keep it secret so long? Course Dad knows, and 'Lecy and Haul, and we were so frightfully afraid we couldn't get it on time. Don't 'cry about it, Mistress Marian, they aren't that bad! You're happy? Good ! 'Tm wonderfully happy, Marian said, al- most too happy to bear it. And so proud of you, daughter. You're going to be home with me this afternoon ? IJotis screwed up her mouth. No-honest, I'm awfully sorry! But you know there's an afternoon concert, and I promised Freddy Em- mond. . . Shouldn't I've? Oh, I'm horrible! I'll 'phone him- Don't! No, I don't need you at all. Please don't, Lotis.. Perhaps I'd rather read here all by myself, who knows? Do go, dear. But I humor him too much, anyhow, Lotis objected. He's taking me to Violet's dance tonight, you know. That's all right. He's a nice sort. You like him very much, don't you P Lotis laughed a little-odd, happy laughter. Yes, I do rather. He's sweet. Y'know, he reminds me of Dad. . . Mamma ! Yes, Lotis ? Dad's awfully influential, isn't he? He's infiuential, yes. But -she looked roguish- not so influ- ential as you are with him-. Do something for me, Mamma? Dearest, you know, if I can. Thank you so! It isn't really much. You know Mr. Granger is going to transfer Fred- give him the San Francisco branch, and Freddy doesn't want to go. Can't blame him, can you? All his interests are here. And I know if Dad were just to say to Mr. Granger, 'I think that young Emmond is valuable. Why don't you send F otherill to the coast and let Mr. Emmond have his rnanagership P'-why, Mr. Granger would. He takes Dad's advice in everything anyhow, Fred says. So if you'd suggest it to Dad-would you, Mamma ? Marian looked grave. It's rather round-about, isn't it, Lotis? Mr. Emmond asks you to ask me to ask your father to ask Mr. Granger. W'hy doesn't he ask Dad himself ? Because, Lotis protested, a little quickly, he hardly even knows Dad! Besides, he didn't ask me to say anything about it. It isn't much, Mam- ma. Mr. Fotherill would really like to go, too, he told Freddy so. And you F Well, I shouldn't like Fred to go. He's a splendid sport and lots of fun to go about with, and so patient. I'd miss him if he went, yes. Don't you think Dad would want to? Is that it? I don't know, Lotis. Marian sighed, and smiled again. It's you I'm interested in. Are you-in love with that youngster ? Llotis's color rose a trifle. Oh, I thought you had that on your mind. Course not, Jealous! We're only the best of friends, that's all. I feel the same about his leaving as about another girl's. And I thought I would do him a good turn, if I could. I'll ask Dad myself if you don't want to, but he's more apt to do it for you. Couldn't you, Mamma? Oh, I do think you could! If it means so much, dear, I shall. Marian's hands moved vaguely towards the sugar bowl, in whose silver plumpness she was gazing as into a crystal. A bit of the past Hoated by, and left a vagrant small smile about her mouth .... Why, Marian, I do believe you're falling in love with him!

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rllxe Maker O Go S MARGARET Ports, '25 T was the first day of Spring, the first glorious day, more than that, it was Marian Vane's birth- y 'I day, and 4Marian Vane was half a hundred. !'--4-'-- -- Fifty! The gifts lay as she had piled them, a neat little heap on her dress- ing table. The square velvet-lined box was there, with its bracelet of sapphires, Clement's present, pendants and sheer silk hosiery, from friends, a negligee that she would never wear, satin, hand-painted, expensive, from Aliciag a silver bag from Paul and his wife, a book or two, a vial of a French perfume. Marian touched them, contemplating, they meant that she was fifty, It seemed such a conclusive sort of age, as if she were old at last, and must acknowledge it. And I am, she said philosophically, but her eyes went wistfully to her reflection. Her daughters said that she did not look her age, but she knew that she did. The hair that she swept off her face into its sedate knot was al- most pure white: only the slender line of her brows remained to tell that it had been brown. Her skin was pleasantly firm and wholesomely colored, but the wrinkles, eye and mouth and neck, were damning. She was a plump wom- an, too, but her plumpness was pleasing and matronly and not unsuited to her height. Yes, and she confessed it, fifty she looked, no more, perhaps, but all of fifty. She chuckled at herself, and forgot her re- flections. The sheaf of mail, in the main con- gratulatory cards, dwindled rapidly as the pa- per knife slit envelope after envelope. There was one letter, fat and travel worn, that she tucked into the pocket of her morning dress. Best till last-dear old Nan ! The telephone rang. Alicia's even cool voice: Mother? Congratulations, darling! How do you feel? , Quite fine, thank you, Marian answered, wondering why Alicia always inquired about her excellent health. And, Alicia, the negli- gee is beautiful. You shouldn't have sent me anything so costly. It is far too good for an old dowdy creature like me. . Alicia laughed conventionally. You dear silly! I'm glad if it pleased you. VVhat did Dad give you ? The most beautiful bracelet, Marian said, that I've ever seen, all sapphires and dia- monds. You'll love it. Paul and Martha sent a bag. Oh, everything's beautiful! I've quite exhausted my adjectives, you must come early, dear, and see for yourself. I shall, Alicia promi-sed. Bertie and Phyl- lis have something for their Gramma, too. You aren't going out this afternoon? Then I'll be over about four. Goodbye, darling, and be good to yourself.-Oh! What about Lotis? You didn't tell me- Lotis dashed out of here very mysteriously this morning, said Marian. She has something marvellous in store, I can see by her eyes. Probably she's saving her surprise till dinner, you'll see. At four, then! Goodbye, Alicia. She sat by the phone for perhaps five min- utes, reflecting on daughters in general and Alicia Pendleton in particular. Alicia was very like the capable, cool Clement, at twenty-eighty as much mistress of herself, her husband, her two babies, and her big house as was Marian, in all the experience of-fifty. Lotis, now- Nothing quite accounts for Lotis, Mrs. Vane thought, and there was a gladness in her throat. The telephone called her again. Marian I my dear? I Yes, Clement? She knew it was Clement. She knew his round smooth barytone and his easy laughter. Yes-I wanted to tell you-you haven't made any arrangement for this evening, have you ? No, except the dinner, that's only the chil- dren. Fine! I've tickets for this new French thing they say is so good. Alicia and Charles and Paul and Martha can play bridge, and Lotis will be off somewhere, probably, with young Emmond or some such. It'll be all right, won't it?,' Lovely, she said, weary of the adjective. Yes, delightful. . . yes. . . Goodbye, dear. It was good of Clement to make the little sacrifice for her, for she knew his club dinner had been scheduled. For thirty years Clement had been just that good: never a moment, never a word of unkindliness or lack of consideration. He had given her all the dear things she was ll

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WESTWARD HO I3 Nonsense! Nonsense! I do think Clements awfully nice, but, goodness, I'ni not in love with anybody! VVe're only the best of friends, that's all. . . . . Thank you, Lotis said, and squeezed her hand, recalling her. She dropped a lump of sugar briskly into the tea and looked up. Don't mind, dear. Do you have to dress? It's a bit late, I fancy, and it takes you such ages. I'm so proud of you, Lotis! And the little book- another grandchild! She felt the tears coming again. There-kiss me-run along. Dinner at seven. I'll see you before you go, shan't I? Of course, said Lotis, going. She stood in the doorway a moment, slender and tall, smiling a little, her dark eyes dreaming. She was the dark-eyed one of them all, and the only blonde. Her hair was rather green-gold than yellow, straight and satiny, looped tight across her ears. No wonder Fred Emmond was losing his level young head about her. A nice boy, Emmond. Everyone said the same. Marian rose with a jerk. She was hearing rath- er too much of that nice boy of late. Then she smiled at herself: she supposed it was the way of mothers, when their daughters began to drift. Alicia now-but capable, common-sense Alicia had been so different, turning always more to Clement than to her mother. She returned to her own chamber, and to her little heap of gifts. The Tavern of Dreams was not laid with the common lot. Marian sat down at the window and opened the quaint little vol- ume almost reverently. The frail bits of rhyme sang up at her. Her breath caught. Oh, they're wonderful! Not only because of Lotis. I'm sure they're really art-yes-as if I didn't know! The little spark's ther-e: the publishers saw it: the re- viewers'll see it-future! Why, my baby has all the world in her two pretty hands ! She was past the maudlin sentimentality of tears now: as much critic as mother, she read quickly and intel- ligently, weighing values. The poems were snatches written during the later college days, merry little lyrics or sadder ones, all touched un- deniably with the little spark of true poetry. And I once thought I wrote verses. Marian thought. jingles! She looked out at the pleas- ant, fresh. First-day-of-spring world, Haunting her triumph at it. She's mv child, you know. She laughed. Going to make me share, aren't vou? All right: take her: but she was mine first! The world looked back, bland and amiable. Downstairs the bell rang. Marian heard Emmond asking for her daughter. His voice was pleasing, deen and easv and-well fed, somehow: as if'its owner were bound to get on well with Creation. Lotis, in the next room, called, just a minute, F red. We're going to be scandalously late, Emmond replied. Cou1dn t step on it a little, could you P All ready now, said Lotis, and flicked a kiss in at Marian's door as she whisked by. She was no more than a Hash of appl-e-green satin and vast hat. I-ler mother watched them drive away, ban- tering each other and laughing youthfully. I hope he appreciates that he's racing off with a favorite of the gods, Marian reflected, -the Mus-es, anyhow. I-Ier hand struck her pocket. Why, Nan's let- ter! I'd almost forgotten. It was dingy, and bore a French stamp 5 she tested its weight approv- ingly. Nice one, this time. A careless hand sprawled across many sheets. Marian settled herself expectantly. Chaligny-sur-Mer, March 10, 1925. Marion, dear old friend, I am the happiest woman alive. It came to me suddenly today as I was sketching in the held, and I said to myself, 'It is wonderful. I must tell somebody. I shall tell Marionf For I knew you would be interested, recalling those remark- able conversations we were wont to have before you committed yourself to the pleasant plump creature, your husband, and broke all the excel- lent plans you had made, and condemned me to a solitary globe trotting. My dear, do not believe that balderdash they are so fond of spreading in my country, about women who don't marry feeling 'an emptiness about the heart-a yearning to hold other people's babies.' It is quite false. There is a baby here at my inn. It belongs to an English couple, and I would not hold it for worlds. A more offensive little thing I never saw. Nor do I gaze with envy on the callow domestic bliss of its parents. 'He' is consumptive, I do believe, and in the Midi for his health, and 'she' is everlastingly busy with one sloppy concoction or another, for him or that child, and has most awful troubles with her nurse- maid. I have just Finished a divine picture, Marion -it is gone to Paris now, and all the critics say so, and it hangs in a spot of honor. But it is nothing, my dear, nothing, to the one I am doing now. I am mad about it myselfg I live it: it is all I ever hoped my painting could be. Oh, my dear, do you remember those hopes? It is so good to see them realized. Save me, I wax sentimental! I indulged in a real bout of feminine capers not so long ago. My picture was done at Monte Carlo-a moonlight thing, terrace and garden and figure in gauzy stuff on the porch