Evening star., 1932-07-31
STUBBY FINGERS


ing voice extracting the promise from her to
stay no longer than the week end of the
Pardon, could feel his hand like cold lard,
patting her cheek, could see his green eyes,
with hint of glaciers in their depth. A chill
crept up her spine and to the farthest
corners Of her body, leaving her cold frozen.
Just thinking of John Marshall had done that
to her, when she had tried SO hard after the
announcement of the engagement to feel other
wise.
1T is really the only thing left to do" Clare
had told her mother after she had left John
for a moment In the drawing room and had
come to inform that slim, regal Dresden china
lady of the betrcthal.
Mrs Randolphs lips moved slightly, her
thread-line brows knitted in a faint, question:
ing frown. why, dear?" she asked not con-
tentiously, but with the calm assurance of one
who expects answer, not too shocking.
You see, mother" she had explained, Il am
quite convinced that I will never fall in love.
It is really time that married. almost
3d. You know, girl can't be officially out
for six long, hectic years and retain her self
respect if she hasn't married and well!
Not in our proud chill. censoring world. any
way. John leaves me perfectly fiat, neither
like him nor dislike him, really. and yet, I
couldn't do better socially financially. Obi
mother, please don't look so revoted. know
I'm being brutally frank about it, but after
all, why not?" She hesitated for a moment
and then continued, laughing sweetly as
the blackbird's song in April NOW be sport,
honey, and confess you're tickled silly about
this brilliant match. You know you are. I
can hear you now my daughter, Mrs. John
Marshall!"
Mrs John Randolphs eyes, resting on Claire
in benignant admonition slowly hmled with
tears. She placed a slender, tapering finger,
heavily weighted with great emeralds and costly
diamonds, on her daughters lips Please,
Claire! I would rather you wouldn't talk this
way. 1t Is most unfortunate, indeed, that you
don't love John, but then I never loved your
father, and we have been quite happy together.
Perhaps :. :"
"Oh yes u. d. perhaps!" Claire said calmly
But for the perhaps, I might not have the
nerve to even try"
IEAN-LOUIS was laughing, the musical note
- ringing in her ears, above the sea, the
wind, the thin, rasping ghost that had been
John Marshalls voice. He shrugged his shoul-
ders, rolled his eyes to heaven. "Mam'selle!"
he said, demanding attention. "You so
quiet. Surely I have not frightened you?"
NO" she repeated. You have not fright
ened me-"
Then I am glad, for you are too beautiful
too fragile to hurt"
Again Claire felt that crowding of her blood
to all the surface of her body. She looked out
to steady her pulses.
"The pension at Iasti" he announced, putting
her once more at ease.
A S Claire sat waiting for Jean-Louis on the
n ancient stone seat in front of the pension
she went carefully over their relationship from
the beginning, five days ago. She tried to ridi-
cule him in her mind to calm the maddenng
beat of her heart by reminding herself of
her own superior station. After all, he was
only fisherman, an Iceland fisherman who
knew the acrid smell of f1sh-pickle and bge-
water, a fisherman who had connections
In all the world, nobody at all. A fisherman
who had an incongruous love of the beautiful,
who could speak Of Iceland, its pale, nightless
Summers. the sun that never set, the fjords,
in voice that had all passion concentrated in
its fire. fisherman with strange superstitions
and a powerful faith in his Catholic God;
fisherman with short stubby fingers and the
lean, sensitive, handsome features of a noble
man. fisherman, who, with a sad light in
his grave blue eyes, had told her the story of
his life, the wild ambition that famed Within
for something, he hardly knew what, the hours
he had spent in reading and meditation and
educating himself in the more recondite
branches of the fishing business, buying and
selling the cargoes Of vessels; the loss Of his
mother, a lovely English lady who had been
disinherited by her family for clipping with his
father, an Iceland fisherman, like himself,
held in great respect by his fellowmen.
His mother had taught him many things the
love of beautiful paintings and fine books,
which he now read In four languages
"You are like my mother, Claire" he had
said, very seriously, with great violet eyes as
fathomess the seas, with hair black as
the storm of Winter night with a face as
dangerously beautiful as an Isolde"
Claire leaned back against the wall and closed
her Her hand claSped tightly
her heart as though she were trying to steady
the wild tumult beneath the pout of her full
breast. "Jean-Louis!" she breathed, and the
words formed song on her lips.
He came then and stood for a moment look
ing down upon the delicate perfection OF her