Broadway and Hollywood "Movies" (Jan - Aug 1934)

“ MOVIES ” 13 orchestra as the sensuous notes floated out on the night air. Larry slipped his arm about the girl, virtually lifted her into the waiting car. “We don’t dare,” he reminded her. “Lord, I’d love to as well as you. Realize, Beth, I’ve never once danced with you? But we wouldn’t dare. First thing you know someone would tell dominie, then our goose would be cooked.” She hated to hear of her father being called “dominie”, but realized how terrible the result would be should he find out about their pleasures and clandestine meetings. “Got a cigarette, Larry?” she questioned, and without waiting for an answer, searched the pocket of his sweater with his college letter on it until she located the pack and the matches. She lit it, and lit one for him. . . They rode on through the balmy night air in silence, and yet happy, these two. They turned into a country road that followed the contour of the river, startling a lot of petters whose cars were parked along the roadsides. “A great little night for petting,” Larry said. He threw one arm lightly about Beth, clutching her soft, rounded shoulder under its wispy sweater covering, in exultant fingers as he did so. “Better not,” said Beth, moving away reluctantly. For answer Larry stopped the car in the shadows of great trees that skirted the road. “Beth,” he said suddenly, “We’ve got to have this thing out. I — I — well gosh. I’m crazy about you, Beth. This thing can’t go on. I — well I’m afraid I’ll lose my head some time. I ” He stopped suddenly, and swept the girl roughly into the circle of his strong arms. Her flower-like face fell back, upturned, on his shoulder and he bent his own face to her, covering her mouth, her throat, with quick rough kisses. With a quick muscular movement she freed herself from his passionate embrace. “Larry, you promised last time! I said I’d never come again if you did, and you promised ” The man understood, unwillingly, and let go. Beth put her hand to his shoulder. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” she said slowly". “It’s just that I’m afraid. If anything happened, — well, it would kill mother; and I’ve given my promise to dad. I couldn’t — ” “You don’t love me,” he blurted out. “Yes, I do!” Larry Caspar didn't answer immediately; he knew the power the Reverend Bruce MacDougal could wield in exacting a stern promise from a daughter. “There’s the other way, Beth! Trial marriage. Why can’t we try it,” he asked. “But Larry, we don’t get anywhere with it. It’s just begging the question. Give us a chance to see each other oftener. Be more — more intimate. Why, we wouldn’t dare. It would be found out. Sooner or later someone ” “It wouldn’t be found out. I just accepted a job in Chicago, darling. Another two weeks and we wouldn’t see each other again. I couldn’t stand that, — could you?” “Well, if I had to ” Impulsively he swept the words out of her mouth. “You couldn’t; neither could I. Get a job as a teacher in Chicago. Your folks don’t need to know I’m in the windy city. “I’m almost converted to this companionate idea of marriage. Many judges are back of it. They say couples are surer of each other if they aren’t bound so tightly ; and they try harder to make a go of it. They say trial marriages couldn’t fail once in a hundred times while one real marriage fails to every one that succeeds. The human psychology of the old-fashioned marriage is all wrong. When you’re twenty-five you’ll be released from your promise to your father. Then we can get married in tbe old way. By that time you’d know if you wanted to — to put up with a fellow like me for the rest of your life.” Larry’s face looked so pleadingly boyish in the moonlight that Beth felt her heart yearn toward him. It was hard on her, this secrecy, these clandestine meetings, this sneaking about through alleyways fearful lest some person should see them and report to her stern old father. Perhaps it would have been different if Beth had lived a normal girlhood. In spite of her bare twenty years she felt as though she had already lived most of life. Since her earliest girlhood Beth remembered the same weekly regime repeating itself in dreary cycles. Saturday night and choir practice. Sunday morning and Sunday school with the squirming little bunch of 10-year-olds who would rather have been out. And the rest of the week, with prayer meetings and young people’s societies for spiritual advancement, — all alike and jammed down her throat. She nearly had the matter settled in her own mind, in response to his pleas and the influence of a wise, old moon, when a car pulled up and gay voices called. “Hello, Larry, — thought it was your car!” “Billy McGee,” Larry whispered. “He can be trusted.” “And Miss MacDougal,” Billy McGee’s voice held surprise, almost consternation, as be recognized Beth. Then they noticed Billy too had a companion, — introduced as Hortense Parsons, and slightly “under the weather.” After they drove off, Beth drew a deep breath. “Larry, wasn’t she — wasn’t she awful?” “Yes. Can‘t understand why fellows pick up with that kind of girl. Can’t understand!” Beth sat in silence. Her cheeks burned. She felt degraded. Larry, the man she loved, would say that to her! As though she were any other type than this drunken Hortense. What a hypocrite she, Beth, was! Posing as a good girl, and out — like this. And the man whom she loved witb all her heart and soul had proposed that they — live together — without benefit of clergy — -just live together. She as his mistress. And she had listened. Generations of conventional living back of the girl revolted at the thought. And yet in her heart Beth MacDougal. virtuous daughter of John Bruce MacDougal, knew exactly what she intended to do. Beth could see that Hortense, when they met a few minutes later at a roadhouse, had recognized her as Miss MacDougal. She was coming to, now. Not so bad, this girl who had dabbled in art and music, but mostly “dates.” They ordered barbecued sandwiches and “something to drink” on the side, and were no sooner started on the victuals when somebody screamed: “It’s the sheriff!” Then pandemonium broke loose. In strode one of the raiders. The face of eternal doom itself could not have quailed Beth MacDougal more, for the face was that of Robert McDivitt, President of the Anti-Saloon League and a pillar in her own father’s church. Larry took a sudden hand in the tragedy. In a flash he had squared his athletic shoulders — college football training standing him in good stead — literally heaved the thin parti Would YOU want YOUR daughter or sister to enter into a companionate marriage without benefit of clergy ?