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About Tillamook headlight. (Tillamook, Or.) 1888-1934 | View Entire Issue (May 26, 1922)
I THE ■¿MARY ¿MARIE A* Sy Eleanor H. Porter A* One Six n Three agai do r dead will man for 1 the 1 by ub; eau ever servi conn flags meal nous riflej grav flow syml nee cca; f tl ero he < ng t (>ll(l ny < bsei Illustration by H. Livingstone Friendship and Financej Of Great Importance To Us We want you to deposit ( as well as M 0 X E Y when you start an account with us. Your interests will be protected and in return for your Confidence. MEMBER FEDERAL RESERVE SYSTEM Tillamook County Bank Our customers are taking advantage of our discounts Are you one of them? rcil( toa< irithi |ort, Ince )u1ti’ merit le tl ror t nani he f 11 tntH 1K th dll b Clio Tert )R 8 |5O( |3O( jjchev (Ford touri 1326 PREFACE!—’Mary Marie" explains her apparent "double personality" and lust why she is a "cross-current and a contra diction;” she also tells her reasons tor writing the diary—later to be a novel. The diary Is commenced at Andersonville. The Prosperity Of Our Depositors Is FRIENDSHIP amounts purclinse We save you money by our discount offe r Try it and prove ft. CONOVER & CONOVER TILLAMOOK. OREGON 8YNOPSI8 CHAPTER I.—Mary begins with Nurse Sarah’s account of her (Mary’s) birth, which seemingly Interested her father, who la a famous astronomer, less than a aew star which was discovered the same night. Her name is a compromise, her mother wanted to call her viola and her father Insisting on Abigail Jane. The child quickly learned that her home was In some way different from those of her small friends, and was puzzled thereat. Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother’s ar rival at Andersonville as a bride and how astonished they all were at the sight of the dainty elghteen-year old girl whom the sedate professor had chosen for a wife. TILLAMOOK HEADLIGHT "Well, Mary, what shall we do to ! day?” Just like that he said it, as if i we’d been doing things together every day of <>ur lives. "D-do?” I asked; and I know I showed how surprised I was by the I way I stammered and flushed up. "Certainly, do," he answered, impn- ' tlent and scowling. “What shall we . do?” “Why, Father, I—I don't linow," I stammered again. “Come, come, of course you know!" he cried. “You know what you want to do, don’t you?” I shook my head. I was so aston ished I couldn’t even think. And when you can't think you certainly can’t talk. “Nonsense, Mary,” scowled Father. “Of course you know what you want to do! What are you In the habit of doing with your young friends—your Carries and Charlies, and all the rest ?” I guess I just stood and stared and didn’t say anything; for after a min ute he cried: “Well—well—well? I’m waiting.” “Why, wi ■we walk—and talk—and play games," I began; but right away he Interrupted. “Good I Very well, then, we’ll walk. I’m not Carrie or Charlie, but I be- lleve I can walk and talk—perhaps even play games. Who knows? Come, get your hat." And I got my hat, and we went, But what a funny, funny walk that was I He meant to make It a good one, I know he did. And be tried. He tried real hard, But he walked so fast I couldn’t half keep up with him; then, when he saw how I was hurrying, he’d slow down, 'way down, CHAPTER II.—Continuing her story, Nurse Sarah makes It plain why the household seemed a strange one to ths child and howhor father and mother drifted apart through misunderstanding, each too proud to in any way attempt to smooth over the situation. inArifiK Hl.—Mary tells of the time spent “out west” where the “perfectly all right and genteel and respectable” divorce was being arranged for, and her mother’s (to her) unacountable behavior. By the court’s decree the child Is to spend six months of the year with her mother and six months with her father. Boston is Mother’s home, and she and Mary leave Andersonville for that city to spend the first six months. CHAPTER IV.—At Boston Mary be come« "Marie." She la delighted with her new home, so different from the gloomy house at Andersonville. The number of gentlemen who call on her mother leads her to speculate on the possibility of a new father. She classes the callers as “prospective suitors,” Anally deciding the choice Is to be between "the violinist" and a Mr. Harlow. A conversation she overhears between her mother and Mr Harlow convinces her that It will not be that gentleman, and "to violinist” seems to be the likely man Mrs. Anderson re ceives a letter from "Aunt Abigail Ander son, her former husband’s sister, will is keeping house for him, reminding her that “Mary 1s expected at Andersonville for the six months she Is to spend with her father. Her mother Is distressed, but has no alternative, and “Marie" departs for Andersonville. CHAPTEHt V.—At Andersonville Aunt Jane meets her at the station. Her fa ther Is away somewhere. studying an eclipse of the moon. Marie—"Mary" now- Instinctively compares Aunt Jane, prim and severe, with her beautiful, dainty mother, much to the former’s dlsadvnn- •asre. Aunt Jane dis approves of the daln 'y clothes which the child is w< arlng. and replaces them with "serviceable" ser s and thick-c< led shoes Her father arrives home and seems surprised to see her. The chll I ..... hoi-ins to notice that the crlrls at s< hool seem to avoid her Her father ilfi-iis inti:■■■! In 'he life Mrs. An- derson leads at Poston and asks many questions In a miser manner which P’trzlea Mary S1A- finds out that her scho dmutes do n,.i aasoklate wtth het on account of her parents being divorced, and she refuses to attend school. Angry at first. Mr Anderson, when he learns the reason for her determination, decides that she n *d not go. He wiU hear her — sons In Aunt Jane's and hor father’s tbsm. e Mary dresses In the prettt cloth, a she brought from F >aton nnd plavs the liveliest tunes ahe knows, on the llttlo- used piano Then, overcome by her lone- ■omeness ch.* Io lutg.-s ’n a crying spell which hor father’s unexpected appear anco Interi o'. She sobs out the storv of her iinhorolnesD. nnd tn n clnmsv way he comforts her (tier that he appears to desiro to make her stay more pleasant Her mother writes asking that Mary be allowed to corm, to Ronton for the begin ning of the school term, and Mr Ander son contents thong', from an expression he lets fall Mary believes he pi sorry’ ah« la going speak to tup and ask nip to comp to the library. I hoped lie would. There were lots more things I’d like to have Said Io him. But he didn't. He never said a word. He Just kept scowling, mid got up from the table mid went off by himself. But he didn’t go out to the observatory, ns lie most generally floes, lie went Into the library and shut the door. He was there when the telephone message came nt eight o'clock. And what do you think? He’d forgotten he ruing to speak before the Col- Astrommi y club ttint evening! tten bis old stars for one«). I don't know why. I did tlilnjc, for a minute, 'twn s ‘cause of me—what I'd told him. But 1 knew, of course, right away Him it couldn't be that, He'd never forgot his stars for me! Prob- ably lie was just reading up about some other gtnrs. or hinl forgotten how late It wns, or something, (Fa tiler's always forgetting things.) But. anyway, when Aunt Jnne culled him he got his hat nnd hurried off without so much as one word to me. who was standing near, or to Aunt Jane, who was following him nil through the hall. ami telling him In Iter most I’m- mnaxed nt-you voice how shockingly absent minded he was gelling to be. ONE WEEK LATER. Father’s bean awfully queer this ' whole week through. I can't make i him out nt all. Sometimes I think he's | glad I told him all those things In the . parlor that day 1 dressed up lu Marie's i things, and sometimes I think lie's tor- ' ry mid wished I hadn’t. The very next morning he came4 down to breakfast with «uch a funny look on hl« face, lie said good-morn ing to me three times, and all through breakfast he kept looking over at me with a kind of scowl that was not cross at all- Just purtled. After break faat lie didn't go out to the observatory, not even Into the library, lie fidgeted around the din- Ing room till Aunt Jane went out Into the kitchen to give her udera to Susie; then lia burst out. all of a »Uddin; He Didn’t Say Much at Firat. and look so worried—till he’d forget and go striding off again, 'way ahead of me. We went up on the hill through the Benton woo<l% nnd B "’as perfectly lovely up there. He didn’t say mlich at first. Then, all of a sudden, he be gan to talk, nhoijj anything and every thing. And I knew, by the way he did It, that he’d just happened to think he’d got to talk. And how ho talked! He naked me was I warmly clad (nnd here ft Is August!), nnd did T have n good break fast. nnd how old wns I. nnd did I en joy my studies—which shows how lit tle he wns really thinking ^vhat he was saying. He knows school closed ages ago. Wasn’t he teaching me himself the last of it, too? All around us were flowers and birds, nnd oh, so many, many lovely things. But he never said a word about them. He just talked— because he'd got to talk. I knew It, and It made me laugh inside, though all the while It maoe me sort of want to cry. too. Funny, wasn’t it? After a time he didn’t talk any more, but just w alked on and on; and by and by we came home. Of course, it wasn’t awfully Jolly— that walk wasn’t: nnd I guess Father didn’t think, it was either. Anyhow, he hasn't asked me to go again this week, and he looked tired nnd worried and sort of discouraged when he got back from that one. But lie's asked me to do other things. The next day after the walk he asked me to play to him. Yes. he naked me to; and he went Into the parlor and sat down on one of the chairs and listened while I plqyed three pieces. Of course, I didn't play loud ones, nor very fast ones, and I was so scared l‘m afraid I didn't play them very well. But he was very po lite and said. ’’Thank you, Mary,” and. “That was very nice"; then he stood up aud said, "Thank you” again and went away Into the library, very po lite, but stiff, like company. The next evening he took me mq to ' the observatory to sei the stars. That was lovely. Honestly I had a perfect ly beautiful time, and I think Father did. t<xx He wasn't stiff and polite one bit Oh. I don’t mean that he was ■ Impolite or rude, It’s Just that he wasn't stiff as If I was company, And he was so happy wtth his stars and Ills telescope, and so glad to show them to me—oh, I had a beautiful time, and I told him so; and he looked real pleased. But Aunt Jane cam« for me before I'd had half enough, and I had to go to bed. The next momtng I thought he’d be different, somehow, because we'.d had such a lovely time together the night before. But he wasn’t, lie Just said. “Good morning. Mary.” and began to read his pn|>er. And he read bls pa per all through breakfast without «ay- big another word to me. Then lie got up and went Into the library, and I never saw him again all day except at dinner-time and supper-time, and then he didn’t talk to me. But after supper he took me out again to see the stars, and he was just us nice and friendly as cculd be. Not a bit like a man that’s only a futher by order of the court. But the next day—! Well—and that's the way It’s been all the week. And that’s why I say he’s been so queer. One minute he'll be just as nice and folksy as you could ask anybody to be, and the very next he’s looking right through you as If lie didn’t see you at all, and you wonder and wonder what’s the mat ter, and If you’ve done anything to displease him. Sometimes he seems almost glad and happy, and then he'll look so sorry and sad! I just can’t understand my father at all. ANOTHER WEEK LATER. ?riday. May 26. 1922 under the circumstances» you would manage somehow to put up with the i noise and—” I "Jane!” Just like that he interrupt- i ed, and he thundered, too, -so that [ Aunt Jane actually jumped. And I guess I did, too. K had sprung to his feet. “Jane, let t close this mat- ter once for all. I f 1 not letting the child go for my sal I am letting her go for her own. So far as I am concerned. if I consulted no one’s wishes but my own, I should—keep her here always,” With that lie turned ana strode from the room, leaving Aunt Jane and me just staring after him. But only for a minute did I stare. It came to me then what he had said —that he would like to keep me here always. For I had heard It, even if he had said the last word very low, and in a queer, Indistinct voice, I was sure I liad heard it, and I suddenly realized what It meant. So I ran after him; and that time, If I had found him, I think I would have hugged him. But I didn’t find him. He must have gone quite away from the house. He wasn’t even out to the observatory. I went out to see. He didn't come In all the afternoon. I watched for that, too. And when he did come—well, I wouldn’t have dared to hug him then. He had his very sternest I-ain-not-thlnktng-of-you-at-all air, and he just came In to supper and then went into the library without say ing hardly anything. Yet, some way, the look on his face made me cry. I don’t know why. The next day he was more as he has been since we Dad that talk In the parlor. And he has been different since then, you know. He really has. He has talked quite a lot with me, as I have said, and I think lie’s been try ing, part of the time, to find something I'll be Interested In. Honestly, 1 think lie’s been trying to make up for Carrie Heywood and Stella Mayhew and Charlie Smith and Mr. Livingstone. I think that’s why he took m^to walk that day In the woods, and why he took me out to the observatory to see the stars quite a number of times. Twice he's asked me to play to him, and once he asked me If Mary wasn't about ready to dress up in Marie’s clothes again. But he was joking then, I knew, for Aunt Jane was right there in the house. Besides, I saw the twinkle In his eyes that I’ve seen there once or twice before. I just love that twinkle in Father's eyes! But that hasn't come any since Mother’s letter to Aunt Jane arrived. He's been the same in one way, yet different In another. Honestly, if It didn’t seem too wildly nbsurd for any thing, I should say he wns actually sorry to have me go. But, of course, that isn’t possible. Oh, yes, I know he said that day at the dinner table that he should like to keep me always. But I don’t think he really meant It. He hasn’t acted a mite like that since, nnd I guess lie said It just to hush up Aunt •Jnne, and make her Stop arguing the matter. Anyway, I'm going tomorrow. And I'm so excited I can hardly breathe. I’m so excited I don’t know what to do. The most wonderful thing has happened, I can’t hardly believe it yet myself. Yet It's so. My trunk is all packed, and I’m to go home tomor row. Tomorrow! This Is the way It happened: Mother wrote Aunt Jane and asked If I might not be allowed to come home for the opening of school In September. She said she understood quite well that she had no right to ask this, and, of course, If they saw tit, they were entirely within their rights to refuse to allow me to go un til the allotted time. But that she could not help asking It for m.v sake, on account of the benefit to be derived from being there at the opening of the school year. Of course, I didn’t know Mother was going to write this. But she kne* nil about the school here, anti how 1 came out, and everything. I’ve always told Mother everything that has hap pened. Oh, of course, I haven't writ ten “every few minutes," as she asked me to. (That was a joke, anyway, of course.) But I have written every few days, and, as I said before, I told her everything. Well, when the letter came I took it to Aunt Jane myself; and I was crazy to know what was Ln it, for I recog nized the writing, of course. But Aunt Jane didn't tell me. She opened K read It, kind of flushed up, and said. “Humph ! The Idea !” under her breath, and put the letter In her pocket Marie wanted to make a scene and Insist on knowing what was In her own mother’s letter; but Mary con- tented herself with looking superb and haughty and disdainful, and marching out of tlirf room without giving Aunt Jane the satisfaction of even being asked what wns Ln that letter. But at the table that noon Aunt June read It to Father out loud, So thnt's how I came to know just what was tn It. She started first to hand It over to him to read ; but ns he put out his hand to take It I guess he saw the handwriting, for he drew back quickly, looking red nnd queer. “From Mrs. Anderson to you?" ht CHAPTER VI. asked. And when Aunt Jnne nodded her head he sat still farther back In When I Am Both Together. his chair and said, with a little wave of his hand, “I never care to read— BOSTON AGAIN. other people’s letters.” Well, I came last night. Mother and Aunt Jnne said, "Stuff and nonsense ¡randfather nnd Aunt Hattie nnd Charles, don’t be silly!” Rut sh> Baby Lester all met me nt the station. pulled back the letter and reud it— And, my! wasn’t I glad to see them? after giving s kind ot an uneasy Well, I just guess 1 was! glance In my direction. I was special!}’ glad on account of Father never looked up once while having such a dreadful time with Fa she was reading It. He kept his eyes ther that morning. I mean. I was on hfs plate and the baked beans he feeling specially lonesome and home wns eating. I watched him. You see. sick, nnd not-beimiging-anywhere like. I knew, by Aunt Jane’s rending the You see, it was this way: I’d been letter to him, that It was something sort of hoping, I know, that nt the Inst, he had got to decide; and when I when i came to really g >. i at her found out what it was, of course, 1 would get back the understanding was just crazy. I wanted to go so. smile and the twinkle, and show that So I watched Father’s face to i see if he really did care for me, and was he was going to let me go. But I sorry to have me go. But, dear me ! couldn't make out. I couldn't : make Why, he never was so stern and sol- out at all. It cluinged—oh, ; yes, it enui. and you're-my-daughter-only-by- changed a great deal as she read; but the-order-of-the-court sort of way as I couldn’t make out what kind of a he was that morning. change It was at all. He never even spoke at the break Aunt Jnne finished the letter and fast-table. (He wasn't there hardly begun to fold it up. I coulif ee she long enough to speak, anyway, and he was waiting for Father to speak; but never ate a thing, only his coffee—I be never said a word. He kept right, mean he drank It.) Then be pushed on—eating beans. hie chair back from the table and Then Auut Jane cleared her throat Stalked out of tile room. and spoke. 11»’ went to the station with me; “You will not let hor go. of course, but he didn't talk there much, only to Charles; but natuiuiij 1 had to read ask if I was sure I hadn't forgotten the letter to you. I will write to Mrs. anything, and was I warmly dad. Anderson tonight.” Warmly clad. Indeed! And there It Futher baiked up thet was still August, and hpt as it could “Yes." ho said quiet yon be I But that only goes to show how may tell her, please, t will absent-minded hb-wns, and how little Ko." he wns really thinking of me! “Charles!" Well, of course, he got my ticket and Aunt Jane said that. But I—I al checked my trunl». and did all those most ran around the table anil hugged proper, necessary things; then we sat him. (<>li, how I wish he was the kind down to wait for the train. But did of a father yoti.cotrld do that to!) he stay with me and talk to tne and "Charles!" said Aunt Jane again. tell me how glad he had been to have "Surely you aren't going to give In so me wtth him. and how sorry he was tanielv ns this to that child and her to have me go, and all the other nice, mother I" polite things ‘most everybody thinks “I’m not giving tn at all, Jane." said they’ve got to say when a visitor goes Father, very quietly again, “I am con- away? He did not. He naked me suiting nry own wishes in the matter. again If I was sure I had not left any I prefer to have her go." thing. and was I warmly clad; then he I ’most cried out then. Some way. took out his newspaper an<L,began to It hurt to have him say It like that, rend. That Is, he preteiMed to read: right out—that he wanted me to go. but I don’t believe he read much, for You see. I’d begun to think he was he never turned the sheet once; and getting so he didn’t mind so very much twice, when I looked at him. he was having me here. All the last two looking fixetlly at me. as if he was week« he'd been different, really dif thinking of something. So I guess he ferent. But more of that anon. Fll WM Just pretending to read, so he go on with what happened at the table. wouldn’t have to talk to me. And, as I said. I did feel bad to have But he didn't even do that long, for him apeak tike that. And I can re be got up and went over ami looked at member now Just how the lump came a map hanging on the wall opposite right up In my throat. and at a big time-table near th«y other Then Aunt Jane spoke, stiff and dig- comer. Then he looked It his watch nlfled. again with a won’t-that train-ever ”(»h, very well, of course. if you put come? air, and walked back to me and it that wy. ! con quite well under aat down. stand that • on wonid want her to go And how do you suppose 1 felt, t« fer j"ur -ake. liut I thought that, MYS_hl^_a<lUkq.tbaLterfore all those people—to show so plainly thaf he u just longing to haVe me go? I gt wasn’t any more anxious for th: to come than I was. And It d! us If it never would come, t. o It didn’t come for ages. It minutes late. Oh, I did so hope he wou down to the Junction. It’s so hard be taken care of “because It's my dutj you know!” Bht he went. I told hit he needn’t, when he was get^g ,.| the train with me. I told him I Juq knew I could do It beautifully all b myself, almost-a-young lady like inej But he only put his lips together ha rib and said, cold, like Ice: “Are you then so eager to be rid of me?' Just as 11 I was the one that was eager to gel rid of somebody I Well, as I said, he went But hq wasn’t much better on the train tliai he had been in the station. He was a nervous and fidgety as a witch, and h acted as if he did so wish It would bi over, and over quick. But at th< Junction—at the Junction a funny thln| happened. He put me on the train Just as Mother had done, and spoke t( the conductor. (How I hated to hav< him do that! Why, I’m six wholi months older, 'most, than I was whei I went up there!) And then, whet he’d put me In my seat (Father, ] mean; not the conductor), all of a sud den he leaned over and kissed me; kissed me—Father! Then, before 1 could speak, or even look at him, hel was gone; and I didn't see him again, though It must have been five whole! minutes before that train went, I had a nice trip down to Boston, though nothing much happened. This conductor was not near so nice and polite as the one I had coming up; and there wasn’t any lady with a baby to play with, nor any nice young gentleman to loan me magazines o buy candy for me. But it wasn’t a verj long ride from the Junction to Boston anyway. So I didn’t mind. Besides, I knew I had Mother watting for me. And wasn’t I glad to get there Well, I Just guess I was! Aud they acted as if they were glad to see me— Mother, Grandfather, Aunt Hattie, and even Baby Lester. He knew me, and remembered me. He'd grown a lot, too. And they said I had, and that I looked very nice. (I forgot to say that, of. course, I had put on the Marl clothes to come home in—though honestly think Aunt Jane wanted to send me home In Mary’s blue glnghai and calfskin shoes. As If I’d have ap peared In Boston In that rig!) My, but it was good to get into an automobile again and just go! And It was so good to have folks around you dressed in something besides don't-car black alpaca and stiff collars. And I said so. And Mother seemed st pleased. “You dra want to come back to me, darling, didn't you?” she cried, giving ine a little hug. Aud she looked s< happy when I told her all over agulu how good It seemed to be Marie again, and have her and Boston, and automo biles, and pretty dresses and fo and noise again. She didn't say anything about Fathe then ; but later, when we were up ii my pretty room alone, and I was tak Ing off my things, she made me tell her that Father hadn't won my away from her, arffl that I didn't him better than I did her; and I wouldn’t rather stay with him with her. Then she askod me a lot of questlo about what I did there, and Aunt Jane and how she looked, and Father. an< was he ns fond of stars as ever (thougl she must have known 'most everythin«; 'cause I’d already written it, but sh< asked me just the same.) And sh seemed real interested in everything tolil her. And sae asked was lie- lonesome and I told her no, I didn’t think so nnd that, anyway, he, could have al the ladies’ company h<4 wanted by jus being around when they called. An< when she asked what I meant, I tol her about Mrs. Darling, ami the res and how they came evenings ami Sut days, and how Father didn’t like then but would flee to the observatory. An she laughed and looked funny, f r minute. But right away she cbm _e and looked very sober, with the kin of expression she has when she stand up in church nnd «nvs the Apo lp<>stl .Creed on Sumhiy; only this tini' time s snid she was «r.v s«rry. sb w s -ui that she hoped my father would fin| some estimable woman who v mil make a good, home for him. Then' the dinner-gong soumlml, am she dldu't say any more. There wns company that evenin The violinist. He brought his vloll velvet Kllch Shop. JR SA land, 14500 quire )R SA or tra is ful tense. Motor shape. Boaki R S- good Garib; R S j Barns, R RE lahed bath, tingle EN 1 ■ale c bhone. ade f, rnsdi INTED pc a < nildrei ressini INTED the er : might —tend< 1 serve 's, ere jant sa Have diniC deligh lent 1 vice, and price« U1 (Continued next week)