Henderson daily dispatch., 1940-05-25
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

LOLA MONTESA, born in Las
Cruces, New Mexico, and reared on
the Rio GranGe, had come TO ttliS
eastern city just five years ago
Part of that five had been spent III
college, the remainder in the more
stark business of trying to Keep
from starving.
She had succeeded to a degree
because of her beauty. With that,
she might have cashed in promptly
in a half dozen different ways. one
employment agency executive had
left his desk and pressed an I'M
mediate business proposition" on
her when she applied there, so that
she had been forced to strike nm
with her fists and run away from
him. Thor. when it was all over
she Wondered if she had acte"
hastily.
She did not fully understand the
WAYS of "thee Yankees" who were
busting and aggressive about
everything, especially everything III
business. Down on the Mexican
border, life moved at a slower
tempo. But here in the big north
ern city was something appealing,
too; she wanted to stick it out. The
peculiar employment" in the Mer-
rifield mansion had come as both
q surprise and a godsend.
Lola, lonely in spite of her en-
otto beauty, was one who wrote
things in a little book called
Thoughts, Day by Day"
This diary appealed to her be-
cause she could put into written
words things that she could not
speak. 1t was an opportunity to I'M
burden her heart, as every young
heart needs unburdening at times.
She had nc intimate friends-most
of the working girls she knew SHE'D
awav from her because, she cor
rectly supposed, she looked for
eign. Her skin was dark, her eyes
darker, her hair virtually black.
She had a habit, born of shyness,
of dropping her exceedingly long
eve lashes so as to avoid anybodys
direct gaze. This made her appear
a little cold and sullen at times,
she who really knew no anger, no
fear. 1t made people leave her
alone. It drove her, in loneliness,
to writing intimate things in her
little book.
"What I did Tuesday night does
not weigh on my conscience" she
was writing now, 48 hours later.
1T so sadly wanted something, and
needed it, so I took the initiative
myself. Can that be wrong? I do
not wish to hurt anyone. I realize
that I acted quite boldly, but it was
the only way, then. Today I wonder
if I did right
She put down her fountain pen,
there in the tiny room where she
slept, miles from the Merrifeld
estate. Hers was a miserable room,
really, made all the more squalid
by comparison with the luxury at
The Oaks. She hoped to move after
one or two paydays.,
She looked at the book, not see
ing it. Her mind was out in Mont
rose Manor, seething tonight be-
cause of minor events that she had
observed during the day.
All at once she dropped her head
on the table, over the little book,
and cried broken heartedly like the
unhappy person she was.
Social reopening Of The Oaks in
Montrose Manor, historic home of
Benjamin w. Merrifeld, remained
as the number one news story of
that week, locally.
It outshone a murder or two, a
change in city administration, a
minor riot over distribution of re-
lief groceries, and a fire that de-
stroyed a large warehouse and a
factory. The legend of the wealthy
Merrifelds wac apadenly revived in
all walks society-but most put
out" of I'll were the other rich
folk of this city who had heard
about the Merrifield party and had
not been asked to come.
It was most distressing, if you
haunted the golf courses, the polo
fields, or the sWankicr clubs. The