The Wilmington morning star., 1940-01-31
TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY
It rained the Saturday that Fa.
bienne was moving from her spa
cious, luxurious quarters to the small
room at the back of Ellen's apart
ment. 1t was a cold, s~pirit-chilling
rain that siuiced over the windows
and dripped drearily on tin roofing
of the terrace below Fabienne's Win
dows, beating out a dirge to
the passing Of comforts.
The room at Ellen's had a big
four-poster bed that took up most
Of the space, a writing desk and
big easy chair, fresh frilled cur
tains at the windows and lamps that
cast a CHEEKY glow over the fresh
ly painted walls. It was comforta-
BILE and attractive. But it's single
window looked over a brick court
and presented a view very differ
ent from the one that Fabienne faced
from her hotel window.
The broad areas of the park. for
all that they were brown and gray
with winters blight and January
rain, gave her a feeling Of space.
Space space, she thought wildly as
all men do when the limitless fields
of peace are not within the domain
of their own hearts, I must have
space. AS if an answer lay over the
far horizon, an answer to the mar
ticulate cry for fu1fillment.
That cry was deep in Fabienne
Seymour, although she did not
know it for what it was. If she had
had a gift for divining the depths
Of herself, she would have known
that chance had swerved her from
the destiny toward which her
twenty-four years had been pointed.
Who is there to know that the fit
of pique that sent her footsteps on
the unaccustomed path Of service
was not something more? A pre-
ordained means, perhaps, Of sound.
ing the sleeping good that had been
wasted in the soft, selfish pattern
by which she had lived.
For the changes in her character
had been many since that autumn
day when she had first come to Will
loughby house. Not that she was
willing to recognize a growing
strength and grace and unselfish-
ness in herself. Later, she thought
it was the gift Of love that had
erased her former values and
taught her the real meaning Of life.
In a sense, at this period of her
1ife-this novitiate that was her ex-
perience in working for others-it
was not Bill Mallory, or her feel
ing for him, that vas molding the
fine, strong lines Of her character.
1t was her feeling for him that had
first made her aware Of a quickened
ems Of living. But it was the poor,
the unfortunate themselves and
Ellen Chapman-who had made her
feel a sense of responsibility that
she was to rid herself Of.
AS for her feeling for Bill she
had met that problem twice. The
first time she had told herself, with
conviction, that her brief unhappi.
ness had been only Illustration. The
second time had been recent; 1t was
on Christmas day that she had de-
cided she wanted to have him for
her friend.
The cry within her was not stri-
dent, was not voiced. Not even once
did she say to herself, This is the
man I want. I know now that I
want and need love-" No, for she
believed that it was not true.
And yet when Ellen invited her
to share her home, instinctively
Fabienne had said she must have a
room that would guarantee hor pri
vacy.
1t would not be privacy like this,
she thought, sweeping the living
room with her glance. She went on
into the bathroom and looked for
a long time at the cleaning tiles,
the mammoth bath, the great
thick towels. She turned her back
o. them and went out to close the
last of her three trunks.
Not for many years was she eve
to know luxury like that which she
was leaving. But the years were to
be filled with greater happiness
than sybaritic pleasures had ever
brought her.
She val putting on her hat When
b sharp knock sounded at her door.
It would be the porters coming for
her trunks.
Come in," she called.
Thought I'd surprise you" Nickv
drawled in his nice easy voice from
the door.
"Nicky!" she flew across the room.
kissed him and told him that he
was the %proverbial sight for sore
eyes.
whats all this?" he asked, wav-
ing his hat in the general direction
Of her luggage.
I'm moving. Going out into the
cold, cruel world" she said, sud.
denly feeling sorry for herself.
She added, I'm moving down to
Twelfth street with Ellen Chapman.
Remember her? T wrote you about
her."
Remember her!" he snorted.
sThe woman that ruined my life.
How I rue the day I ever consented
to drive you to those slums! What
is this strange power this female