Motion Picture Classic (Jan-Dec 1916)

CLASSIC The Huntress ( Continued from page 16) were coldly polite, finely indifferent, but the small, secret hours of the night often found the man pacing up and down his unshared room, fighting the passionate longing to fling prudence to the winds and go to her with his love humbly, a suppliant; often found the woman staring, dry-eved, into her mirror at the beautiful face that was powerless to bring her her heart’s desire. And so — for they were both stubborn in their pride — it might have been with these two till the end of the chapter, but for Nadine’s dinner-party and the events that followed it. One morning, over his solitary breakfast, Harcourt opened a rose-tinted envelope, with the suffocating sense of excitement his wife’s handwriting always aroused. Then he smiled grimly. It was an invitation to dine with Nadine that evening and to meet her old friends. “In these days,” he muttered, “it is an honor to be asked to dine with one's wife ; but — I shall decline.” For he saw that it would be fatal to yield to half-way advances now. It must be surrender or nothing, and he was beginning to fear that it would be nothing. He had no terror of the other men who surrounded Nadine — his greatest rival was himself. He remembered the bitter days of their sojourn at the mines : his sternness, her cold fury, the warring of their wills, and it seemed to him that there could be no tender meeting-ground for them in the long, lonely years to come. He was very nearly at the end of his endurance, when he wrote his answer, pleading a previous engagement to dine with the Countess Panoushka, a dancer of great beauty and greater notoriety. When evening came, inaction became unendurable. He put on his hat and coat and strode out into the night, to fight out his misery under the open skies. Laughter and the tinkle of glasses and Nadine’s voice speaking gaily drifted out to him as he passed her door. He thought of her short, upper lip, curling like a scarlet flower-petal, and clenched his hands till the nails bit the flesh. “I want her! — God! but I wrant her!” he cried aloud, as he drove thru the misty streets at heart-breaking speed— “and I want a man’s natural life, a home and children, and dear, quiet, gentle ways r” He was tired almost to exhaustion, when, hours later, he climbed the stairs and pushed open the door of his rooms. And then he fought with the cry that sprang to his lips as he saw Nadine herself standing before him, holding one long, white glove in her hands. They faced each other silently. Then the woman extended the glove. ( Sixty -three ) “I found this on your dresser. Tell me — is it hers — your Countess’ ; I suppose it is. Only a lover, I believe, cherishes such tokens.” The barbed malice of her tone pierced his heart, but, with an effort that turned his face gray, he controlled himself. “By what right do you ask?” he said. “By the right you gave me when you married me,” she retorted. “Then,” he said, slowly, “you are right in your surmise that the glove belongs to the woman I love.” Nadine bit her lip. Then, suddenly, helplessly, she began to cry. Great tears rolled down her cheeks, but she disdained to wipe them away. Sudden, strangling hope seized him. He went to her and stood looking down into her upraised face. “And now it is my turn to question,” he said, sternly. “Why did you come here, Nadine?” She looked down at the glove, then up at him, with a queer, sad little smile. “I have deserved this, I suppose,” she said, quietly — “at least I can take my medicine bravely, I hope. I, who have been favored of men above all others — even tonight you could not help but hear their adoration — am humbled, shamed by the man I have married.” “You are seeking only your natural bent,” he said coollv — “water cannot run uphill.” “But a woman must love,” she cried, quite hysterically, “or, unloving, die or disgrace herself.” “I must ask you again,” Harcourt said quietly, “why did you come here tonight?” Nadine watched his face closely, altho her eyes were dancing with defiance. “I could not leave you,” she said simply, “without saying good-by, and, perhaps, leaving a wifely kiss behind me.” “Then you are going?” She read the agony in his eyes, back of the words. There came a moment of silence — the rending of their world. “I came,” she decreed slowly, “because I love you and could not stay away.” “Nadine !” he cried. “Oh, my girl ! At last — at last, Nadine !” And he caught her in his arms. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, “that is your own glove. I picked it up where you had dropped it long ago. It is worn away — almost — with kisses. It was all I had of you, Nadine.” The face against his breast was shy and solemn. The Huntress of men’s hearts was gone, and in her place stood a bride on her marriage night. “But now,” she whispered, so low he had to bend to the words — “now there is no need to kiss — a glove, for — if you want me — I have come — to stay.” No more delicate compliment can be L paid a woman than this — “she is as ■ pretty as a picture.” Women who desire a complexion that will be admired and not questioned cannot be too careful of the powder they use. Ordinary face powders (no matter how tine they may seem in the box or between the fingers) are disappointing under the real test— on the face. Such powders deaden the skin with a lifeless hue. 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