Photoplay (Jul - Dec 1921)

44 Photoplay Magazine And so there came to Dons the one sorrow of her life — the superb grief which comes to women whose men are killed in battle. for more than a week he watched them playing together about the beach, laughing, happy, carefree — she never having known trouble and suffering, he utterly unaffected by it. He came to like the young man, and did not notice that his visitor seldom spoke of himself. He knew vaguely that the man who called himself Rogers was a business man from the North . . . and he refused to question impertinently. There were times, however, when the visitor fancied that he was unobserved that there flamed in his eyes a light which troubled the father of the girl who had grown to rich womanhood. And as the days passed it grew more and more difficult for him to throw aside the sensation of menace. As for Doris Merriam, with the advent of the man called Rogers and the ripening of their friendship, there came to her a new rounding out of character. Here, for the first time in her life, she was daily in the society of some person other than her father. The persons who visited Horizon Island on fishing trips were but casuals of the day. Here was something different . . . and Doris was slowly beginning to understand that, perfect as her life on the island had always been, it lacked something — something stronger even than contentment. Hers was no process of sophistication. She did not understand the exaltation which alternately brought to her happiness of a quality she had never before known and a pensiveness deliciously doubtful. She did not understand that she was undergoing the phenomenon of love and that the great alchemy of the universe was at work upon her. She only knew that here was something different, something ineffably sweeter than anything'she had ever before experienced in a life of free, sheltered contentment. And gradually the murderer came to realize that this beautiful girl had fallen in love with him. That was the signal for his awakening interest in her. Before, she merely had amused him, but he was a virile male animal and no man can remain impervious to a woman's adoration. And so he altered his attitude toward her, recking not of the effect upon her life, throwing aside all thought of the cloud over his own. He became the deferential cavalier, paid adept court to Doris. He was quick of tongue with pretty compliments, and Peter Merriam, watching with deep-set, hawklike eyes, saw — and tried not to understand. He attempted to blind himself to the fact that his daughter was succumbing to the inexorable law of nature and of sex. And so he was brought up with a start the day he rounded a sand dune and saw Doris in the arms of the man who called himself Rogers, her lips on his in the first love kiss of her life. PETER M erriam tu rned slowly away. Far down the beach he walked, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Faced by facts, he was too much of a man to give 'way to bald theories. He faced the conditions squarely, despite realization that it meant years of unu tterable loneliness for him bereft of his daughter's society. . . . That night he called Doris to him, and together they walked upon the beach. And then she told him frankly of the glory which had come into her life, and he stroked her shoulder and lightly kissed her golden hair. He spoke without looking at her, a mist of tears dimming the radiance of the silver moonpath which danced over the waters. "Of course it had to come, dear. I'm very glad — for your sake." She gave way to no mock emotion. " I'm happier than ever before in my life, Daddy. Not happier — but happy in a different sort of way. It's something new — " "Of course, Doris. Of course it would be that way." He paused — then, awkwardly: "You want very much to marry him?" He could feel her cheek grow hot against his. "Yes, Daddy ■ — I want that more than anything in the world." That was all. No senseless talk of the inevitability of separation, no absurd wishing for an island Utopia which both knew could never be. Here was the mating call, and father and daughter knew that it could not be denied. Back in the cozy little home adjoining the lighthouse, Bill Walters nervously paced the living room. He had talked blithely of marriage. He was afraid now that Peter Merriam would object — would force him to leave Horizon Island, and the little jewel-spot afforded him perfect sanctuary. That would be unpleasant; particularly so as he knew that he could not leave. Of course if the old man proved tractable and gave his consent to their engagement, he'd go through with it — even a marriage if necessary — and then, when opportunity for flight offered, he'd leave. The fact that he would wreck the life of Doris Merriam did not occur to him, nor would it have bothered had he thought of it. He thought only of himself . . . Doris was but a passing incident in his life — here today and gone tomorrow. But — and his fists clenched and the flare of the water moccasin came into his narrowed eyes — Peter Merriam had better not try to force his departure. He had no intention of leaving . . . He was smiling with simulated affection when father and daughter returned. And he clasped {Continued on page 115)