Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 4, 1925 — page 93: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

PAGE ROMEO! ain't it, so that after a while vou can’t see the original canvas at all? Well, lL want to keep mine fresh and clear and shin- ing. Mame—lke Romeo and Jultet.”’ I was crying—terrible, hot tears that scalded my cheeks. Mame wiped her soapy hand and laid it on my bent back, comforting. ‘““ Tess,” she said, sad and final, “ you’re looking for what ain’t.” I didn’t say no more, only thanked her and executed my exit. On my way home I bumped into Miss Mendel, with a book she’d reaped from the hibrary. I stared at her, curious, that funny fussy little old maid as dry as the tale she toted. And I loved her—and hated her—and tore up to my attic boodoir to entomb my dead heart in the cold white pillow. And as I laid there, shaking like an oak uprooted by the storm, I thought of Mame, and more, of Mame’s eyes. Little and nar- row they was, when once they had been so wide and trusting. Narrow eyes! Trying not to notice her Romeo wink at waitresses. Narrow eyes and married eyes! Well, I would keep mine like Miss Mendel’s. I rose from my pillow, resolute, then caved again. Dave! Dave! Oh, that loving shoulder that made such a warm nest for my weary head—that mer- ry smile—that rumpled hair that seemed to kiss my fingers as I rumpled it! Oh, Dave! I become quiet, like a shaken ship that finds a little lull between the tempests— my heart crying for Davie, no matter what —my soul crying for that picture of things as I planned them. The supper bell dinged from the lower nall. I rose instinctive. The call of the waffle was too strong, and habits are like porous plasters. So I marched, mechanic, out into the hall, though I couldn’t of swallowed a wafer. For when the mind is et by doubt and fear the stomach seems to inaugurate a hunger strike outa sympathy. But I went brave, to answer the call of the hash. Passing Miss Mendel’s door a timid tone 883 trailed me, and a head poked itself out cautious. Miss Tessie! iss Tessie!” she hailed In a potent whisper. ‘‘ Could you come in a minute? I'm afraid a fuse has blown out or something, and I don’t dare leave it like that.” I entered, attempting to appear com- petent. ‘“Tt’s there,” she explained. thing’s broke, I think.” “Yeh,” echoed I from my weary heart. ‘“ Something’s broke, all right.” “It’s the connection,” she analyzed. “ It ain’t joined the way it should be—” ‘Like lots of people,” I butt in bitter, She eyed me keen. “But I don’t want vou to bother about it,” she said gentle, ‘‘ when your young man’s waiting to have supper with you.” “YT ain't hungrv— Is he downstairs?” I inquired, torn between longing and indif- ference, ‘Mrs. Gilman called up to you half an hour ago, saying you had company. Didn’t vou hear?” &¢ No.”’ She eyed me again, keen. ‘Dear me,” she ffurried, “I—I hope you ain't been—quarreling.” “It ain’t that,” I denied, as far from tears as the sink tap from the sink. “It ain’t that, only—” Of a sudden that little old lemon seemed almost human. “Oh, Miss Mendel,” I bust out, respond: ing to her sympathy like a stray pup to a soup bone, ‘* Oh, Miss Mendel, 7s there such a thing as love—real, real romance—like Romeo and Juliet?” Miss Mendel tucked me close to her on the dumpy old sofa. “There is,” she answered, positive, her voice so firm and steady, her eyes as wide and blue as violets washed with new rain. “You know it?” I asked, wondering. The little book about love songs of an earlier day squatted comfv beside us un- derneath the lamp. She took it, gentle, in her skinny old hands and shook out the ratty brown rose that must of once been red. ‘‘ There is,” she repeated like a recita~ ‘“ Some- An CO GIOok