Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1920)

High above the Alpine clouds the treachery of a jackal Austrian, the indifference of an eminent American surgeon, and the love-hunger of his pretty young wife meet and fight to an impressive climax. By BETTY SHANNON questions with a tone of vast preoccupation, and rushed out straightway in quest of Old Sepp. But Lieutenant Von Steuben in his chamber down the hall changed his clothes with the greatest care, sprayed himself with perfume, then stooped over to look at himself approvingly in the glass. "The lady pines for attention" he smiled to himself, "She shall have it." Margaret Armstrong was not a frivolous, vain young woman. She was to the contrary a sane-minded, wholesomely reared American girl with ambition to be of real use in the world. She looked back with tender memory at the days before her husband becaipe an eminent surgeon, days when they were forced to economize and plan, days dear to recall because then he needed her. She hated the success which demanded all his time and thought, and which had pushed her out of his life so far that he no longer turned to her even in his playtime. It had been Margaret's hope that this trip into the Alps would bring him back to her again, back to her as the lover of their early married days. She had selected her wardrobe with greatest care, remembering even the colors he had preferred on their honeymoon. She had, chosen practical things for climbing, hoping that he would see by these that she was prepared to go with him wherever he went. But Dr. Armstrong did not notice the new clothes. It did not enter his head to include Margaret in the expeditions he planned with Sepp, nor did he think of consulting her pleasure in the matter. He was liberal in his allowance to his wife. He assumed that she would prefer to sit around the hotel or to make excursions into the interesting places of the village with the other women guests, rather than to go with him. With husbandly absent-mindedness he let her do her own fetching and carrying. He was entirely unmindful of her comfort. Also he spent all of the time when they were together, either in their suite or in public, reading from his fascinating new works on science. At first she ignored the officer's persistent courtesies, or accepted them with frigid thanks. Then as he persisted in spite of her hauteur, and as her resentment and loneliness grew upon her she unbent a little for sheer want of human companionship. By the evening of the celebration of the Festival of the Transfiguration, Margaret and Von Steuben were on rather friendly terms. He had been clever enough to recognize her fundamental loyalty to her husband and had so far tempered his flattery and conducted himself as not to destroy her confidence. This was, he recognized, a case in which he must work slowly. He was a sly dog. It was a night for loves and lovers — the silver night of the Festival of the Transfiguration. Through all the curious old streets of Cortina D'Ampezzo dallied the amorous evening wind, gentle as dew, and wooing with the fragrance of a thousand flowers brought from the mountain sides. Bright lanterns burned like jewels, lending passion and color to the shimmering chastity of the moonlight. Wild music called to the joys of the dance and the air was sweet with song. The vividness of the night with its lavishness of delight awakened a poignant longing in the heart of Margaret Armstrong for something that was not hers. It was not enough that she should sit looking down at the The surgeon forced Von Steuben to the edge of the precipice. " Has there been anything between you and my wife ? " he asked, with deadly calm. "Now — the truth — or you die! " hotel piazza while her husband, unmindful of her presence or of the glamour of the evening, talked learnedly with the American physician who was his guest, or listened to boastings of the American's two companions who vowed to climb Monte Cristall.o from the unconquered side the next day. These things were vapid to Margaret. The youth in her was calling for love. At last she could stand it no longer. She arose and went into the inn. The piano stood open in the deserted livingroom. She swayed against it, holding her hands before her eyes for a moment. Then she sank down to the bench and slipped into a plaintive melody she had sung as a girl. Margaret did not know that Erich Von Steuben entered the room, or that he had picked up a violin from its case on the music cabinet, until the thin, sweet voice of the instrument joined hers. She glanced at the Austrian and they went on to the end. When they were done she sat still, looking down at her hands. Von Steuben laid the violin down on top of the piano and bent over Margaret. "Why are you here?" he asked. "You are missing all of the gaiety." "I do not care for gaiety tonight," she answered drably. There was a pause. Von Steuben bent closer and took Margaret's hands in his. "You are brave," he said with feeling. "But why do you always think of him?" — he pointed to the piazza — "he does not think of you. He does not care how young you are. He does not see that you are beautiful. I see your loveliness. I adore—" ATarcarpf rnsp frnm thp henrh. Von SfpiiVipn rpnrhpd nut