Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Dec 1916)

i'M*. AEmTION c y(^ma,ni^ruc e u l,l fer t h ’ shore, sailors — pull fer th’ shore !” Cracked baritones, drink -blurred tenors and shrill sopranos fell upon the hapless chorus with gusto, aided and abetted bv the blatant tones of a cornet and the inevitable bass-drum. The result was unbeautiful, but to the slender, thoughtful-eyed girl in the blue lassie’s uniform, standing on the platform, it had in it many of the overtones of beauty. She was one — tho no one could have guessed it from her look or manner — to whom the opera and symphony concert were old stories, and she thought, looking down into the weary, stolid, hopeless slum faces before her, lighted momentarily by their eager reaching for melody, that she had never been moved by Caruso’s golden voice as she was moved now. In the back row a man stopped singing, with a little catch of the breath. He was a great hulk of a creature, slouching of shoulder,, but surprisingly clear of skin and smoothmuscled for one of these undervitalized castaways, of life. His shabby suit was neatly brushed, and he carried a shoddy green fedora in his great fingers. The last wailing notes of the hymn died away and the audience shuffled uneasily from its seats into the narrow aisle. The momentary glow of interest faded from their faces like lamps blown out. They moved out silently, visibly taking up their burdens of poverty, sickness and worry at the door of the mission. The lassie on the platform closed the lid of the ancient organ, straightened a chair or two, said good-night to the sallow chaplain and turned to go, then hesitated. A faint color warmed her cheeks. She stood under the flickering oil-lamp, in her prim, blue dress, looking down at her clasped fingers, a tiny smile tilting her lip (Fifty-one) corners. At the sound of the heavy footsteps on the platform-stairs the smile deepened. She turned and held out one slim, ringless white hand to the tall figure with the green fedora pressed to his great chest. “Good-evening, Bill,” she said. “Evenin’, Miss Joan.” The big hand closed over her small one did not loosen its hold, and suddenly her rose deepened to crimson. She spoke fast and lightly to cover her confusion. “Not Miss Joan, Bill,” she laughed; there was an undercurrent of fright in the hurried sound. “You forget that we Army folks have given up worldly titles "like that. We’re none of us countesses, or Misses, or Mrs.’s here — we’re just comrades, all of us together, Bill.” She made a tentative effort to draw away her hand, and found it powerless. Her troubled eyes sought the face bending above her — a rugged, grim-featured face, just now very gentle, with a light that was not of the flickering oil-lamp. And suddenly her heart gave a queer, hurtful throb. So the end of her dear adventuring was come at last ! “There’s another name I’d like to call you,” Big Bill said, slowly, and even in her panic she thrilled with mother-pride at the painfully correct pronunciation. Her two months’ lessons had not been wasted. Then : “Do you want to hear what it is, Miss Joan? No, dont think I’ll let you go now — not till after I’ve told you what I’ve been wantin’ — wanting — to say ever since I saw you first. You’re a woman. Miss Joan. You must have guessed I loved you.” He paused and took a step nearer, so his rough coat brushed her sleeve and his voice grew almost stern. “And the name is — zvife,” he said slowly — “my wife, Miss Joan.” “Oh, no !” The girl’s voice was almost a wail. She sprang free of him and covered her face with her hands, trembling thruout her slim length. “Oh, I didn’t mean — I didn’t want this. You dont understand what you are asking.” In the tiny silence that fell, the big man’s face grew rather white. Then, very gently : “Mebbe I dont understand,” he said. “Will you — explain it to me, please?” “Oh !” said the girl, woefully — “oh !” Suddenly she drew a long breath and looked up at him bravely, laying one hand on his sleeve. "Listen, Bill,” she said ; “what do you know about me — about my life when I’m not here in this hall ? What do I know about yours? Dont you see how different they may be, and how unhappy either of us would be in the other one’s world ? Let’s let things go on as they have gone. It’s the better way — the safer way ; it’s the only way for us. Just comrades, Bill ; good pals — friends. Dont you want me for a friend?” “We cant be just friends, girl o’ mine,” said the big, slum fellow, quietly, in his clumsy, awkward syllables. “ ’Course I know I aint — I’m not fit for you, but I been straight since you came, and I’ll be square and honest with you always. But if it cant be zvife, dear, it’s got to be good-by. I’m a man and you’re a woman, and there aint any other way.” "Then — good-by, Bill,” said the girl, faintly. She did not look after him as he went down the aisle and out into the garish street. If she had looked, she would not have seen him for the tears that filmed her eyes. It was quite an hour later when she