Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Dec 1916)

MOTION PICTURE got up, wearily, from the wooden chair under the smoking lamp and put on her coat. It was a strange coat for an Army lassie to be wearing — velvet, richly full and graciously made, with a hood that drew the softening line of a beautiful fur about her pale face and plainly brushed hair. In this coat Joan Crawford became another person. She let herself out of the back door of the mission into a quiet, rear street, where an electric limousine awaited her. A chauffeur, with a disapproving expression but respectful manner, opened the door for her and turned his car's aristocratic back contemptuously upon the odoriferous neighborhood, into the smooth, chastely lighted avenues of the wealthy West Side. Another menial, twin brother of the chauffeur, to judge by hi: expression, opened the door of the Crawford mansion, at Joan’s ring, and helped her off with the cloak. The prim blue dress beneath twisted the butler's haughty features like the taste of vinegar. Joan's household disapproved vigorously, in their several degrees and manners, with her latest fad. ‘‘Is Mrs. Ellison in the drawing-room, Parker?” asked the girl. “Mrs. Ellison is at the opera, miss.” The butler's tone hinted, delicately, that the opera, at least, was a commendable place to spend the evening. "Mr. and Mrs. Van Alstyne and Mr. Ralston called for her, miss, at 'arfpast eight.” Joan started. A hurried look at the gilt wall-clock brought a frown to her brows. Midnight, and the opera, as she knew, was “Rusticana,” the shortest of the season. “Very good,” she said quietly ; “I will wait for her, I think. Is there a fire in the drawing-room? Yes? Then you need not wait, Parker. I will let my sister in.” She went into the drawing-room and over to where the warm comfort of the fire beckoned. If Madeline had not married a jealous man, her gay, light-hearted indiscretions would not have been such serious matters ; but Joan knew the caliber of Robert Ellison too well to misunderstand the grave folly of his wife’s flirtation with the handsome young man-about-town, Philip Ralston. Madeline had a little, hard, green, unripe soul and a flower face that turned obediently to each new masculine sun that shone on her, and Ellison was in Europe at this mo ment, dickering with governments and powers over some diplomatic errand of a treaty, serenely entrusting his pretty, chameleon mate to her sister’s care. It really was unpardonable in Madeline ! Joan sank into a chair and turned a mutinous glance on the red coals. "If Philip were a different kind of a man, I wouldn’t worry,” she thought ; “but there is something — something furtive about him ” She thought suddenly of the words she had listened to this evening in the deep, husky voice of her underworld lover : “We cant be just friends.” The presence of the other man — big, blunt, masterful — was too near her to be denied, and so, because she must learn to forget him, for pride’s sake — what would her world sav of Big Bill ? — she gave herself this one hour of luxurious remembering. Bit by bit she went over their strange acquaintance — the first meeting when he had saved her from a mob of roughs ; their talks after meeting in the barren Army headquarters ; the glimpses of his life he had let fall in rough-hewn manphrases, a rough, hard, full life, that fascinated her society-starved imagination ; the lessons she had given him ; the touch of his great, blunt hands. She rose, wearily, to her feet and stood still, frozen with dismay. In the hall a clock was striking two. “Madeline !” she murmured — “I had forgotten. Where is she at two in the morning?” In answer came the sound of a taxicab panting to a stop outside, then dragging footsteps and a faltering hand on the knob. Joan flung the door wide, drew her sister into the hall and turned on a cluster of pearl-andgold globes on the newel-post. Then she strangled a cry. In the pale light, Madeline’s face was ghastly. “Come into the other room — not here ! The servants will hear us talking.” Joan spoke vaguely. She put an arm about the swaying figure, in its crushed, evening frippery — a silly little gown of rose-colored chiffon — and drew her into the fire-lit drawing-room. Then, with a long breath, she faced her sister. “Dont cry,” she said quietly; “dont scream or have hysterics or faint away. That would only make things worse than they are. Nothing is absolutely hopeless until every one knows it. Tell me just what has happened.” “No — no; I — I cant!” Madeline shuddered from head to foot. “Oh, Joan, it is horrible! I Oh,, let me go upstairs — I cant stand any more. I’m sick, I tell you — sick !” “Tell me,” said Joan — “dont be afraid, little sister.” In broken phrases, the sick voice told the elder sister of her folly. “And I’ve been lonesome, Joan, with Robert away, and you, too, most of the time — and Ralston was awfully good fun. It wasn’t flirting, either, truly; we talked most of the time about Robert ; he seemed awfully interested in the treaty he was getting, and everything, tho, of course, I couldn’t explain it all, for I’m such a great stupid “And then tonight — I had a headache at the opera — such screeching! I wanted to come home, and he said he’d bring me. “I didn’t think it would do any harm for just a minute, Joan — of course I know I oughtn’t have gone, but he’d told me so much about his rooms — and I thought it would be fun. “Joan ! he locked the door ! He stood there, smiling at me — and then I knew ! I screamed and begged him, and then I fainted, I think. Joan ! Joan ” “Wait, dear,” Joan pressed the golden head to the bosom of her Army dress. “We must think what to do.” In the silence her brain worked ( Fifty-two 1