The Silver Star

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Wanted to a few times,” Dan grinned, then reached over and passed his hand over her thick, lustrous hair that caught the last glows of the sun. “But I’m glad I didn’t now. Are you happy?” he asked abruptly.

  Priscilla was almost ready to give a quick, easy answer, but her conscience prodded her to be completely honest. This was not always easy for her. She dreaded opening herself up to anyone. But she knew her father loved her and would always be there for her, as he had been in the past. During her rebellious years, they had had some rather fierce disputes, but after they were over, her father had always come over and put his arms around her and kissed her, saying, “We can fuss and fight all we want to, but after it’s over, you’re still my little girl.” He had been the rock of stability in her life, and now as Priscilla turned away from him slightly, a troubled expression clouded her eyes. Finally she turned around and said frankly, “I don’t know, Dad. I’ve got everything I ever wanted, but somehow it just doesn’t seem like enough.”

  Dan studied his daughter’s face carefully, admiring the clean sweep of her jawline and the depth of her gaze. “You want to tell me about it?”

  Priscilla told him about the decision that confronted her and how confused it made her. Finally, she gave a halfhearted laugh and said, “I haven’t been a Christian all that long, Dad. But I thought Christians were supposed to have peace.”

  “You’re right about that. Jesus said, ‘My peace I give unto you,’ and Jesus never told anything but the truth.”

  “Why don’t I have it, then?” Priscilla frowned.

  Dan hesitated, not wanting to preach a sermon. He said simply, “I think peace is a little bit harder to come by than most people think.”

  “Even after we’ve become followers of Christ?”

  “Even then. You see, daughter, our peace is not ours. It comes directly from God, and Jesus said, ‘My peace I give unto you.’ We can’t trick Him into giving to us. And sometimes there are things in our heart, I think, that keep us from taking the best God has for us.”

  “Why wouldn’t anyone want peace? If it’s there for the taking, I want it.”

  Dan Winslow’s heart ached for his daughter. It had for a long time. He put his arm around her, saying gently, “Well, daughter, I know one thing, the peace that the world offers will never satisfy. Jesus longs for you to accept His peace.”

  Priscilla looked long and questioningly at her father. Her trembling lips tightened as she blinked away a tiny tear.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “You’re Not My Father!”

  The summer of 1906 was a happy one for Jolie Devorak. The stability that had come into her life sank deep down into her, and her face glowed with satisfaction. All summer long she worked for Imperial Pictures, went to automobile races with Peter and Easy, and continued her studies with Tom Ziegler. She grew very fond of that young man who was so very serious, but all during that summer, and even into fall, she never went back to his house. The one visit with his mother had intimidated her.

  “You need to learn about what’s going on in the world,” Tom told her one day.

  “What for?” she asked. “I don’t live in China. Why should I know what’s going on there?”

  Tom looked up from the book he was holding and gave Jolie an astonished and sorrowful look. Somehow the emotions mixed together. His lean face seemed to stretch as he said, “You live in the world. We all do. There’s a part of a sermon that I’d like for you to read. It’s from a man named John Donne who lived back in the seventeenth century.” He leaned back and quoted, “ ‘No man is an island entire of itself. We are all part of the continent, so that if a piece is broken off, the whole continent suffers.’ ” He shrugged and said, “That’s not exact, but you see what he means, don’t you?”

  Jolie had become quite adept at interpreting the intricacies of literature and poetry. She was wearing her white coveralls that she wore to the races with Jolie Blonde on the back and looked very pretty. She had washed her hair the night before, and it was always extremely curly after that. Now she pushed her hair aside and said, “I think I see that. Somehow we’re all together, even though we’re far apart.” She smiled brilliantly, her teeth gleaming against the golden tan she had from going to the races and being out in the sun. “I guess it’s like we’re all in a big boat, isn’t it? Even if we don’t know everyone on the boat, we’re all together on the same journey.”

  Tom was delighted. “That’s exactly right! I think that’s as good a metaphor as Donne’s,” he said.

  Ever since that time, Jolie had taken more of an interest in newspapers and periodicals. That year, of course, the San Francisco earthquake had been the big story in America. Five hundred people died suddenly in the catastrophe of April 18. And tens of thousands of people had been left homeless in the aftermath. The damage was enormous, destroying three thousand acres in the center of the city. On an international scale, the war between Japan and Russia had finally ground to a halt the year before, with President Theodore Roosevelt acting as the negotiator of the peace. This year he had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize for his contribution. The more Tom encouraged her, the more Jolie read. She grew interested in the labor struggles and finally came to understand the charges against Standard Oil, who were attacked in a hearing before the Interstate Commerce Commission. It was difficult for her, but she kept at it until finally she had a good grasp of the labor situation.

  In August of that year, King Edward of England had traveled to Germany, where he spoke with Kaiser Wilhelm II. Tom told her how the political tensions were significant, and that all the nations of Europe were building up huge armies and navies. “Someday,” he said, “there’ll be a war over there.”

  “Will it come over here, do you think, Tom?”

  “I don’t think so, but it’ll be terrible over there. And with all the trouble in Russia,” he added, “there’s no telling how many people will be killed.”

  She became aware of the great men and women who had died that year, including the great Norwegian dramatist Henrik Ibsen and the French painter Paul Cézanne, and read an article concerning a German professor named Arthur Korn who used a telegraph late that spring to send a photographic image more than a thousand miles. She had spoken about this to Priscilla, asking her, “Do you think one day they can take pictures of a play and send it into people’s houses?”

  “Oh no! That’s not possible!” Priscilla had said. “Radios and telephones work, but they’ll never be able to send pictures like they do messages.”

  Early one morning in August Jolie had brought a newspaper to her lesson. “Look here, Tom.” She handed him the paper with a grin on her lips, and he read it aloud.

  “ ‘Enrico Caruso survived his day in court. Vocal chords, if not honor, intact. The world-famous operatic tenor was charged with annoying a Miss Hannah Graham in the Central Park Zoo monkey house in New York City. Caruso protested his innocence in low, soft tones, preserving his voice for an approaching production of La Bohème. Some fellow admirers surrounded the singer and expressed their faith in him. A police officer present called him “curs and dogs,” inviting hisses from the assembly.’ ”

  Tom looked up with puzzlement. “Why did you mark this item?”

  “Because it shows how silly people are,” Jolie said, her eyes sparkling with indignation. “There he is the most famous tenor in the world, I suppose, making thousands of dollars, and he has to pick on a young woman in a monkey house. I think he deserves to be behind the bars instead of the monkeys!”

  Tom smiled at her. “I think you’re a little bit hard on the fellow. Maybe she was a very pretty young woman. Perhaps he only spoke to her. The paper doesn’t say, and then again, maybe the woman was too touchy. He may have meant nothing at all, except being pleasant.”

  Two thin lines appeared between Jolie’s dark eyebrows, and a frown brought the corners of her lips down. “I know all about men being nice and attentive to women,” she said bitterly. “I’ve had to figh
t them off since I was thirteen years old.”

  Tom stirred uneasily in the swing. They were sitting together, books balanced on their laps. Tom did not answer for a moment. He had no easy solutions for the hardships Jolie had already suffered in her young life. His life had been so sheltered by his mother that he did not even know about things like this. From far away came the lonesome wail of the one-fifteen freight coming in from the east. When it died down, Tom turned to face her, saying simply, “You’ve had more experience in life than I have, although I’m older and should have had experience with girls. When I was very young, I went straight home from school and started doing homework. Mother always demanded that I do more than the teacher assigned, so that I would always be first in the class.” An odd light touched his gray eyes, and he said softly, “I guess I’ve missed a lot.”

  Jolie had long been puzzled about this side of Tom’s life. All the young men she knew had been aggressive, except for Peter and Easy. From the first time they had met her, they had treated her kindly. She trusted them, but no other men. She had a guarded air about her whenever a young man began to talk to her, as if she had retired behind a high wall.

  “You know, I guess I’m a little bit like that woman in the monkey house. Every time a man takes a strong interest in me, I throw my guard up because I figure he’s just the same as my stepfather.”

  “You never thought that about me, I hope!” Tom was startled and turned to face her.

  “No, of course not!” Suddenly Jolie broke out into delightful laughter. Her eyes seemed to crinkle until she could barely see, and she said, “I never thought of such a thing, Tom!” The idea amused her, and she shook her head, sending the curls cascading around her shoulders. “Why, you’ve never even tried to hold my hand!”

  “I guess I wouldn’t know how,” Tom admitted bashfully.

  “You really ought to pay more attention to girls,” Jolie said. “Most men need to pay less, but I think you need to pay more.”

  Tom sat there silent for a moment, looking down at his long fingers holding the book. He closed it suddenly and put the book down, then looked up at her. “There is a young woman I admire, but I don’t have any idea of how to go about telling her so.”

  “Who is she, Tom?”

  He smiled but shook his head. “I wouldn’t be telling that,” he said. “It won’t come to anything anyway.”

  Suddenly Jolie grew determined. “No reason why it can’t,” she said. “You’re not a bad-looking fellow. You wear nice clothes, and you’ve got good manners. Why, lots of girls would be glad to have you come courting.”

  “I . . . I don’t know how to start,” Tom said nervously.

  Jolie said, “Well, you can practice on me.” His mouth opened with shock, and she laughed and reached over and patted his hand. “Just for practice. I’ll tell you what. You know lots of poetry. I bet you write some sometimes.”

  “Yes, I do. But it’s not very good.”

  “Well, the next time you come, you write a pretty poem like some of those romantic poets you’ve been trying to get into my head. Then you talk to me just like I was a young woman you were calling on.”

  Tom looked at her strangely. “I suppose I could try.”

  “Go on. Try it now. You’ve got enough of that poetry in your head, I know. You must’ve memorized a truckload of it.”

  “I’d feel like a fool!”

  “It’s just practice,” Jolie urged. “Go ahead. Recite me some poetry and then tell me how pretty I look.”

  Tom hesitated for a moment, then turned to her and began quoting a poem:

  How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

  I love thee to the depth and height

  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

  For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

  I love thee to the level of everyday’s

  Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

  I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

  I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

  I love thee with the passion put to use

  In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

  I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

  With my lost saints—I love thee with the breath,

  Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,

  I shall but love thee better after death!

  Jolie sat very still while he spoke, and when he finished, she breathed, “Oh, Tom! That’s beautiful!”

  Clearing his throat, Tom smiled shyly, then said, “Jolie, you . . . look very pretty today. You have the prettiest hair I ever saw.” Abruptly, without warning, he reached over and took her hand, kissed it, then released it quickly, his face flaming with embarrassment.

  Jolie, taken aback by the gesture, stared at him. Seeing his intense embarrassment, she said quickly, “That was wonderful, Tom.” She reached over and grabbed the lapel of his coat and tugged it gently until he looked at her. “You don’t need much practice,” she teased. “Try it again next time.”

  “All right,” Tom said, managing a smile. “I will.”

  The two had not noticed Peter who had walked up and paused at the foot of the steps. Suddenly Jolie caught a motion and turned to see him standing there. “Why, Peter, come on up and sit down.” She laughed and said, “Tom’s giving me lessons.”

  “I see he is.” Peter’s voice was cold and hard, and he came up on the steps and stood before them, his hands shoved deep into the pocket of his trousers. “Are your lessons about over?”

  Tom Ziegler was aware that Peter had seen him kiss Jolie’s hand, and he got up hastily and began stuffing books into the canvas bag he always brought them in. He muttered, “Yes, we’re all through. I’ll see you day after tomorrow, Jolie.”

  “All right, Tom. I’ll finish that history book you wanted me to read.” She watched as he scurried away, not looking back. His head was bent over, and his shoulders were slumped.

  “Is this the kind of lesson you two have? Hand kissing?”

  Jolie was astounded. “Why, Peter,” she said, “that didn’t mean anything!”

  “What else is going on besides hand kissing?”

  Jolie looked up and saw that Peter’s face was tense. “Do you think I’ve been doing something wrong with Tom?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know. Have you?”

  “If you think that, then there’s no point in answering you! You’ve already got your mind made up!”

  “If he kisses your hand, then I wouldn’t be surprised if he did even more. And you didn’t appear to be outraged.”

  “Tom Ziegler’s a very sweet young man!” Jolie said, an anger growing in her. She was resentful of his accusations. “If you want to be jealous, then you ought to put your mind on Kenny French.” French was one of the members of the crew who was constantly finding an excuse to put his hands on Jolie and beleaguered her to go out with him. “He’s the one that’s always finding some way to get his hands on me!”

  “I’m not jealous!” Peter snapped. “I’m . . . I’m just worried about you. You’re just a kid, and you don’t know how easy it is to get in trouble!”

  “It’s none of your business! You’re not my father!” Jolie snapped.

  “It’s a good thing for you I’m not!” Peter was furious and sorely upset by what he had seen. “If you were my daughter, I’d give you a lickin’ so bad you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week!”

  “That’s what my stepfather did! Do you want to see the scar?” Jolie turned her face and pulled her hair back so that the scar was plainly visible.

  Suddenly Peter realized what his angry words had just done. Jolie was trembling and staring at him with a hard look in her eyes that he had not seen since the first time he had met her in the boxcar. A wave of remorse washed over him, and he licked his lips trying to think of something to say.

  “Good-bye, Peter!” Jolie turned and started to leave, but he caught her arm as she passed by. “Let go of me!�
�

  Instantly Peter did. “Wait a minute, Jolie,” Peter said quickly. He ducked his head and then shook it in a futile gesture. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’m . . . I’m sorry, Jolie. I didn’t mean to say those things. It’s just—well, you are an attractive young woman, and I’ve seen some of them get into trouble. I just don’t want anything to happen that would hurt you.”

  Jolie’s anger instantly fled. “I’m sorry I lost my temper, Peter. But really, you don’t understand about Tom. Do you know he’s never had a girlfriend?” She went ahead to tell him how innocent and naive Tom Ziegler was, and Peter listened attentively. Finally she said, “So I just told him to read me some poetry and tell me I looked nice so that he would get used to talking to a girl. Then he’ll find somebody. There’s some young woman he’s interested in, but he’s too shy to talk to her.”

  “I wish I’d known that,” Peter said, shaking his head ruefully. “I made a fool out of myself.” He reached out his hand, and she put hers into it. He squeezed it and grinned crookedly. “I know you’re straight as an arrow, Jolie. Just don’t pay any attention to what I said.” He hesitated, then said, “Don’t guess you’d care to go for an ice cream soda?”

  “Sure I would.” Snatching up her straw hat, she tied it under her chin and took his arm. “Let’s go. Maybe I’ll have two sodas.”

  “Have three if you want,” Peter said, and the two left the porch and proceeded down the street.

  The incident was not forgotten, however, by either of them, and Jolie especially thought of it often. He seems almost jealous. But he just didn’t understand.

  ****

  The scene was simple enough, at least from Priscilla’s point of view. All she had to do was hang by a rope suspended from a beam overhead. A stagehand placed a short ladder under the rope. After she had climbed it and grasped the thick, rough strand, he pulled it away.

  “All right, let’s see some real terror on your face, Priscilla!” Lem shouted. He was only five feet away, but he had formed the habit of shouting commands so that he could be heard all over the set.