Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

myself thrust inside and heard him paying the driver and giving him my address. And in a few minutes I was turning the corner and he was gone. Well, we had quarreled before. That's what I told myself all that night. There had been other evenings when we both seemed to feel that need to strike out at each other. I know now it was a sort of substitute for the lovemaking we denied ourselves, but how could we know then? And always it was over by the next morning. He would call me, his voice contrite, and we would argue, each trying to take the blame. But Bruce did not call. WORK does help, of course. It got me through two days. It was the nights that were ghastly. Sleeping or not sleeping — thoughts or nightmares— I didn't know which was worse. The third morning I lifted my hand a dozen times to call Bruce. But each time the memory of his cold voice stopped me. He must have meant those vicious words he said, this time. Maybe his love had never been enough, and that last night had put a final end to it. It was up to me to let it be an end. I could take it. That was why, I guess, I was in such an odd, unreal mood on that fourth morning. I wished someone would come into the office and talk and fill this silence. Maybe my wish was like one of those dangerous ones in fairy tales which Fate grants in a way to make you wish you had thought a little more before you wished. For the door opened and Ferenc Vildar walked in. Oh, it was a perfectly ordinary occurrence. People were always dropping in, and this was not the first time Ferenc Vildar had been here to see Dr. Dale. He simply crossed the office with his swift, sure strides and said, "Good morning," smiling. And all I said was, "Good morning. Dr. Dale isn't in, I'm afraid. Is there anything I can do?" But I felt different, saying it this morning, looking into Ferenc's brown eyes and remembering what Bruce had said about the way he looked at me. He said, "Perhaps you can," and kept on standing there, just looking at me, half smiling, as if he simply enjoyed the sight. I said, feeling a little self-conscious, "I don't know just when Dr. Dale will be in. His hours are irregular, you know." "I know," he said, as if it didn't matter. He sat down, then, in the dark green leather chair beside the carved Italian table. I couldn't help thinking how the background suited his dark good looks. I thought, too, that I had never seen anyone sit with just that kind of complete relaxation, as if he held himself in such sure control that every muscle was ready, on call, to be instantly alert. That 80 physical sureness of his, expressed even in the clasp of his brown strong hands over his knee, seemed unexpectedly comforting to me in my mood of torn indecision. After a while he said, quietly, "I hope I did not make bad trouble for you the other night." In his soft, vibrant voice the imperfectly pronounced words — the way he said "ze" instead of "the" — was oddly appealing, and made me utterly sure that he really did not want me to have trouble. "You — you didn't." I wanted to cry. He did not seem like a stranger, but instead a friend with a shoulder good for weeping on. I bit my lip and said, "It wasn't your fault." His dark brows moved a little, his red lips twisting into a sympathetically painful quirk of comprehension. "I don't think it is usually any one's fault," he said gently. "I should blame myself, if I did not know tnat. Something that is meant to happen always happens, and nothing anyone can do would change the final outcome." "Do you think so?" I asked earnestly. "Do you, really? I have been thinking of so many things I could have said and done differently, wishing I could go back and do them over. You don't think it would have made •e»fi*e»s«o*e4e»e«e»o*e»oio»Q«e»e«e*o*o»o«e*o«e»e«o*e &oaa rTeXiCo lo BARBARA LUDDY— who plays Judith Clark in the daytime serial, Lonely Women. Biddy, to call her by her nickname, is one of the tiniest actresses in radio, being only four feet ten inches tall. She was born in Helena, Montana, and began her career as a singer in musical comedies as well as an actress. In 1929, when the stage went into a decline, her singing voice also went back on her and she took what she called a "whirl" at radio, and never went back to the footlights. A tragic accident almost made her an invalid for life, but with indomitable courage she fought her way back to health. She prefers playing comedy to tragedy, has blue eyes and brown hair, a happy nature and a quick temper. 4OtC*OtO*O»g4OtO«O«OtS»O»O«C490O«O4O«O4O»S*e0O4O»O4C4O»O«S4O4O»O»O«O4O»O» not doubt his sincerity. "But in America some girls have something more. Perhaps it is health, perhaps the free spirit. But there is a glow, a bloom that makes a far more deep appeal." He looked at me so directly as he spoke that I was curiously moved. To keep him talking I said, "Paris must be wonderful." He nodded and his brown face took on light and animation as he told me in his vibrant voice, with his correct words and appealingly incorrect pronunciation, of Paris and the people he had known there who sounded eccentric and talented and gay. "All that life must be gone now," I said in one of his pauses, when he just sat looking at me with that simple savoring gaze. "To anyone who lived there, the thought of Paris must be heartbreaking." He shrugged. "What is to happen happens," he said so unemotionally that I was shocked. The phone rang then and I picked it up absently. For the first time my heart did not jump with hope that it might be Bruce. And this time it was Bruce. "Janice?" he asked. He never called me anything but Jan. And even in that one word I could hear a cool remote quality that made my heart sink even as it rose. "Yes, Bruce!" I spoke eagerly. Surely, now that we could speak again, we could straighten things between us. "Bruce, I wanted to tell you — " I began, but he was speaking and his clear, impersonal voice drowned out mine. "Janice, I'm going. I've got my call. I'm going to Fort Scott, Illinois." I felt a blackness whirling around me. "When?" I gasped. any difference?" He shrugged. "For a little time, perhaps. But not in the end. In the end it works out as it was intended to. That can be a comfort in many things." He sighed, and his eyes had a dark remoteness that made me wonder what his troubles were. In that moment I knew that they were grievous, but I did not dream how grievous! But his slight, graceful figure straightened suddenly and he smiled. It was like a thousand-watt light, his smile, the gleam of his white teeth and the live look that came to his lean, dark-skinned face. He said, "Meanwhile, there are many things pleasant left us in this world to enjoy, as well as many things evil to forget. One thing to enjoy is the frock that you are wearing. So simple it is, yet I find that subtle yellow with the gray of your eyes and the copper metal of your hair — " He shook his dark head impatiently. "I could express it in French better — for your taste suggests the French — " I said, pleased, "Is it true that the French women are so marvelous?" "In style, yes," he answered, his concentrated objective tone making his words compelling so that you could "Now," he answered. "I'm at the station. I'm taking a train in five minutes." I couldn't speak. He had waited till the very last moment to call me, so that I couldn't see him. "Are you there, Janice?" he asked. "Bruce — " "Janice, it's goodbye, I guess." TPHE whirling had been getting bad, *■ so that I felt faint. I gripped the edge of my desk and tried to find words to hold Bruce at the phone until we could say the things that were important in our lives. But I saw Ferenc Vildar rising from his chair and coming toward me, his lips tense with concern. I could not find the words. "I'll write when I get there," Bruce was saying. "Goodbye, Jan." I said, "Goodbye, Bruce." And I heard the phone click in my ear. He had hung up. With the terribly final click of the receiver still in her ears, Janice turns away from the telephone — to meet Ferenc's eyes and read there the sympathy he is glad to give. Be sure to read next month's continuation of this dramatic story of love in today's world — in the December Radio Mirror. RADIO MIRROR