Radio Mirror: The Magazine of Radio Romances (Jan-June 1943)

"I want to know I have the right to do that. Come on, Jackie. Get your coat!" I did as he asked and we hurried out of the tiny room, into Washington street. ACCORDING to the rules— I was a married woman — I suppose I should never have allowed Tom Trumble to touch me. I don't want to make excuses for myself and I'm not going to pretend that I thought this all out carefully before I let Tom kiss me on that day which was so important to my future happiness. No, I acted on impulse then, I'll admit that. The visit to New York, the uncertain days spent with Dean when I had so little reassurance about our future, and the evening at Margaretta Shelley's party when the horrible suspicion of Dean Hunter's motives in marrying me had been firmly planted in my ' mind — all those events had had a profound effect on my state of mind. I wasn't in love with Dean Hunter after all that. How could I still feel the wifely loyalty toward him I would have given to my dying day to a man who earned it? When Tom and I reached Dean's hotel, Tom held me for a moment and said softly, "I'll be with you, Jackie — don't forget that." Then he was gone and I was left to face the ordeal that lay ahead. Dean Hunter welcomed me eagerly. He had a bright, almost frightened look in his eyes when I came into the suite. He had been drinking, I knew, but liquor usually had little effect on him. He spoke in a clear voice and he was completely self possessed. But he said nothing. He just looked at me with an inscrutable gaze that shattered my own self-possession. All the fine phrases I'd planned escaped me. Presently his sorrowful look had completely disarmed and disconcerted me. All I could manage to do was chatter trivialities while I kept thinking: "Yes, I can understand why I fell for this man the way I did. Heaven knows he is attractive. He's clever. And famous. Why 36 should I blame myself? What if he did have a motive in marrying me? Nobody can question that there was something between us — perhaps just a physical bond — but something definitely. Even now with Tom's caresses still warm in my memory I can't put out of my mind what this man meant to me not so very long ago nor what excitement just THE MOYLAN SISTERS "Peggy Joan, you sing the downstairs notes and I'll sing the upstairs ones, shall we?" In that manner was radio's youngest harmony team, the Moylan sisters, launched. Veterans now of five years on the air, eight-year-old Peggy Joan and ten-year-old Marianne are favorites with Blue Network listeners. It was a stroke of fate that revealed the talented youngsters as a pair of natural harmonists. It happened one quiet Sunday evening— Mrs. Moylan was sewing, Mr. Moylan was reading, and the two girls were playing with their dolls. A quartet on the radio caught the attention of the children, and it was then that Marianne asked Peggy Joan to try the "downstairs notes". What followed made their parents catch their breath. Without a bit of coaching the youngsters broke into perfect harmony. Just a short time before, Mrs. Moylan had been persuaded to seek an audition for Marianne, and a few days later the audition came through. It was Marianne herself who sold the audition judges on accepting the two as a team. "Peggy Joan sings, too," she insisted, "even if she is only three!" To prove it, the two began "Beautiful Dreamer," Marianne shifting deftly from soprano to tenor when the melody went too high, and her lisping sister doing equally well alternating between alto and soprano. That was five years ago, and the two little girls have been stars ever since. But fame hasn't changed the children a bit, and their parents are determined that it shall not. They are raised in wholesome surroundings like any other children and taught that singing is just a routine matter, part of a growing child's daily activities. They attend a school near to their home with other neighborhood youngsters, getting slightly better than average marks in their studies. Their favorite pastime is designing, sewing and crocheting new dresses for two pretty Princess dolls, gifts from radio fans. Constant companion of the girls is Rascal — a wire-haired terrier who is frequently mentioned in their broadcasts. Mr. Moylan works out all of their arrangements, and rehearsals are of half an hour's duration each day. Marianne is learning to play the piano, while her sister seems to prefer the violin. Both girls have brown hair, and large, inquisitive brown eyes, and they say their favorite foods are spinach and milk. In addition to their radio work, the children are also recording stars. An album of childhood favorites, many times requested by listeners, has just recently been released. The picture on the opposite page shows Peggy Joan and Marianne as they look when singing together on their Sunday afternoon broadcasts. a look from him could kindle in me then. I'm sitting here, talking my fool head off and he just stands there disconcerting me with that look — what is it in his face that affects me so that I can't say what I came to say? — what is he trying to do — hypnotize me? Or does he think he can get to me through pity? And am I clever enough to play this game so I can win — so that Tom Trumble and I can have some hope of happiness?" Yes, I racked my brain for the right words that would settle everything once and for all. Dean said at last: "You ran away from me. Why?" I plunged into the icy waters. "Because of something Diana Stuart told me." "She told you I'd married you .to escape the draft. That's true, isn't it?" His directness was shocking. "That isn't just the way she put it," I said, "but that was the general idea," He took a deep draught of his drink. I heard the ice tinkle against the glass. "Of course you believed her," he said, looking straight into my eyes. He had me on the defensive. I couldn't lie. I couldn't pretend that I'd ever believed— or on the other hand disbelieved — what Diana Stuart had said. How could I tell him in one sentence the constant throbbing uncertainty I'd experienced, the shifting from momentary belief to momentary reassurance, the torturing inability to decide what was really true? I said, "I didn't know what to believe." "That's what I thought," he said. "I knew you didn't trust me." "You mean that it isn't true — that's what you want me to believe?" "You can believe what you like," he said evenly. "It happens that I love you and so it doesn't matter how many people succeed in poisoning your mind about me — I won't change — I can't change. Because love doesn't change, not when it's like mine for you." His voice was taut with emotion. If he was acting he was a mighty fine actor. But I pulled myself together. I mustn't let pity — or anything — stand in my way now. At last I said: "I'm afraid we made a mistake, Dean. I'll grant that I've been carried away by you but I guess I'm just an old-fashioned girl. I've thought too much about what marriage should be to be satisfied with what ours has been. No, there's nothing left between us." He did something disarmingly sweet. He (Continued on page 58)