Bill entertained no question as to whether or not she was Valerie Ware when he had concluded her diatribe.
He instantly realized she must be a frustrated spinster who had taken this opportunity to make a vicious attack on a system which had brought her only disappointment.
He laid the typewritten sheets down on his desk and bit his lip as he considered the situation.
One thing was positive. He could not allow her article to be printed. Not after the build-up they had given her. And that was the terrible thing about it. The build-up! All St. Augustine was agog to read the first of the series by the unknown authoress.
“Goddam the goddam luck to hell and everlasting damnation,” Bill swore softly. He looked at his watch and calculated swiftly. Ten minutes until the deadline for copy to be in the hands of the make-up men.
He jumped to his feet and ran from the office. A copy boy was loitering outside. Bill grabbed his arm.
“Go tell Sweeny I’m held up on that feature article for the editorial page. He’ll have to hold it open for thirty minutes. Beat it! Then get the hell back here and be ready to grab it as I knock it out.” He gave the boy a shove and dived back into the office.
He rolled a sheet of paper into his machine savagely, and turned half way down the sheet. He stared at Vergie’s manuscript a moment, then grimly typed:
YOUTH LOOKS FORWARD
He bent over the machine with concentrated energy, and pounded out his message for the Argus’ expectant readers.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
DYNAMITE
The Daily Argus was eagerly received and avidly read the following morning. As Bill had predicted, St. Augustine was agog. Collectively, the readers of the paper turned hastily to the editorial page for the first article in the series which the Argus had triumphantly publicized.
Vergie was, perhaps, the first reader to discover what had happened. She awoke very early, when the first faint streaks of day were breaking in the east, and she arose at once. She trembled with excitement as she slipped into a robe and mules, and made her way quietly down to the front porch to secure the paper before Mrs. Tucker or Tuck awoke.
She was beaming as she re-entered her room with the paper folded under her arm. It did not seem important, at the moment, that the article had really been printed under false pretences. She had lost all feeling of shame in the triumphant moment preceding the reading of her first literary effort to be published.
Much might be written anent the ecstasy of that moment. Much has been written about just that subject. Every writer is tempted to some time set down a recollection of his or her reactions to that moment which comes but once in the life of every writer.
As a general thing, such attempts are miserable failures. It is simply a sensation which cannot be interpreted in words. Much better, perhaps, to leave Vergie’s sensations to the imagination of the reader.
She turned on her bed lamp and slipped back beneath the covers. Then she spread the paper out and turned to the editorial page.
The first thing her eyes saw was the heading:
YOUTH LOOKS FORWARD
She frowned at it in dismay. Then her eyes went swiftly to the end, and she was reassured to see her initials at the bottom.
She started to read the article doubtfully, then hurried on with a sort of concentrated hopelessness:
Writing a series of articles like this is something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Goodness knows, it won’t be weighty or pedantic. I’m not like that, you know. Not at all. I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it, like all the rest, though perhaps I’ve been a bit luckier than some.
..… fear is the most vicious heritage our puritanical and prudish forefathers left us.
..… this working out from beneath the cross of fear which women have borne for centuries. So many varied elements have worked toward this end that they are impossible to enumerate here. They don’t matter anyway. We’re interested in the present.
Passing from the general to the specific: Let’s look at some of the superstitions of the past and see how we have thrown off the yoke:
Perhaps the silliest and yet the strongest of our articles..… of this essential was an appalling disgrace, and its retention was considered absolute proof of the highest character and of utmost purity of one fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to have reached the wedding night in this condition.
There was middle-ground. No study of the situation in which the accident occurred. One was debased, or one was exalted.
Where did this silly superstition lead us?
Into a quagmire of deceit and hypocrisy unequalled in the annals of civilization..… “Teasing” was all right—just as long as the male sufferer was too gentlemanly to do what was apparently desired.
Youth has begun to question, and to learn.
In throwing away the old, youth has not yet formulated a new standard to take its place.
This is the challenge of youth. A challenge which cannot be met with pursed lips and dour disapproval.
A new standard must be adopted. A new set of values must be given them to replace that which they have discarded.
They seek guidance … Youth looks forward to the dawning of a new day. The double standard is definitely out. Unaided, they grope blindly toward honest understanding.
Youth looks forward! Must youth go unaided?
V. W.
Vergie sighed as she laid the paper down. Her first feeling was one of righteous indignation. Not a single word of her carefully written script was included. Her cutting indictment of modern morals had proved a boomerang. How could it have happened?
She felt dazed and bewildered at first. Her mind was incapable of dealing with anything save a dull wonderment as to how and why the change had been made.
Then her body slowly grew rigid as the import of the changes dawned upon her. She grasped the paper and reread the article. The first reading had simply not clicked with her conscious thoughts.
Her mind had been too full of disappointment and bewilderment to grasp the meaning of the words which were printed over her initials. She gasped as she reread the lines.
Each phrase seemed to leap at her: Each paragraph was a damning revelation.
The familiar objects in the room whirled about and assumed grotesque forms as she laid the paper down a second time. The universe had gone mad … and she was going mad.
There was a stir in the hallway. Whispered voices. Then a discreet tapping on her door. Vergie had no intention of replying to the tap. She was wholly surprised when she heard her voice calmly saying, “Come in.”
It was Nip and Tuck. Pushing in gleefully. Nip was fully dressed. Her hair blown about her face, and her eyes sparkling. Sleep still clung about Tuck. Her face was rosily flushed, and she wore only a dimity nightgown.
They stopped just inside the doorway and stared at Vergie in awed confusion. Tuck held the editorial section of the Argus in her hand, and she had evidently just finished reading the article.
“Oh,” said Nip. “You’ve already gotten the paper. We thought … thought maybe you …”
Vergie made a supreme effort of will and fixed her gaze and her attention on the two. “Yes,” she heard her voice say, “I’ve read the paper.”
The girls came forward. “I think it’s too perfectly marvelous for words,” Nip trilled.
“Believe me, you certainly did tell them,” Tuck put in with slangy emphasis. “I bet they’ll sit up and take notice now like nobody’s business!” Vergie sat on the bed and squirmed excitedly.
“Gosh! It’s wonderful to be able to put words together like that,” Nip went on admiringly. “And it’s more wonderful yet to have the nerve to do it. I’m just thrilled to death. I could hug you and hug you.”
“Why don’t you?” Vergie asked a little shyly.
Nip stared at her for a moment in speechless adoration. Then she leaned forward impulsively and threw her arms about Vergie’s neck and hugged her.
“I bet we’re the
two luckiest girls in the world,” she exclaimed, drawing back. “You know everything, don’t you?”
“Not quite,” Vergie admitted. Her heart was pounding like mad. She suddenly found that she wished with all her heart that she had really written the article.
“You’re going to write some more of them aren’t you?” Tuck asked happily. “Gee, there’s a hundred things I’d like to ask you about if you’re not going to explain them later.”
“I bet you’ve had one swell time finding out all you know,” Nip sounded envious. “Gosh! if you only knew how we have to stumble along and guess at everything. Then if we make a bad guess it’s just too bad.”
“She does know,” Tuck insisted. “That’s exactly what she meant there where she says …” She searched down the newspaper column with her finger. “Here …” She read aloud:
“Today, motives are more important than consequences. Youth has taken the bit between its teeth. No doubt our elders stand about and exclaim in consternation and horror, but youth goes blithely forward. The youth of today can afford to be honest. Decency is no longer penalized, nor is hypocrisy acclaimed.
“A girl who decides she wants to be with a man … does so. And is no better nor worse for the experience if it does not turn out exactly as she has hoped..…”
Tuck Looked up from her reading. “There!” she exclaimed. “I guess that shows that she knows what we’re up against.”
“Do you really mean that?” asked Nip. “That a girl is no better or worse for the experience if it doesn’t turn out just right?”
“Why … I …” Vergie faltered beneath Nip’s steady gaze. She blushed a deep scarlet. “Yes,” she lied. “Of course I believe that.”
“Just what I’ve always said,” Tuck said. “What’s marriage got to do with it anyway? I think it’s much worse to go to bed with a husband you don’t love, than with a man you do love. Don’t you?” She appealed to Vergie.
Vergie was helpless. “Of course,” she said. She didn’t know what she was saying.
“I’m afraid we’re an awful bother,” said Nip.
“It’s pretty early in the morning to be asking so many questions. But we just wanted you to know we were with you all the way,” she went on determinedly. “No matter what anyone else may say about that article, believe me, the kids like us certainly need that kind of straight talk. We’re tired of being preached at and told we mustn’t think about such things. Telling us we mustn’t doesn’t keep us from it. Just as you say, you can’t scare a person into not doing something. I hope mother gets an eyeful of it.”
Vergie smiled weakly as the two girls got up. The covers had become disarranged at the foot of the bed, and the lacy end of her nightgown was exposed.
Tuck leaned down to finger the lace. “Pretty,” she breathed. “You’ve got the right idea,” she went on with an impish smile. “Lace around the bottom. That’s a regular honeymoon nightgown. The only way the lace will show when it’s up around your neck where it belongs.”
Vergie stared at her in dismay. The implication wriggled through to her conscious mind as the girls turned away laughing.
“Don’t say honeymoon to her,” Nip told Tuck with mock seriousness. “She’s way ahead of all that junk. Why bother with a honeymoon if you’ve found the right man?”
Vergie heaved a deep sigh as the door closed behind the girls. She picked up the newspaper again, and read the article a third time. She was savoring and analyzing each phrase.
In other homes in St. Augustine the article was being read with varying reactions on the part of the readers.
Mr. Nipperson arose very early this Sunday morning. He padded about the bedroom very quietly, taking care not to awaken his wife who slept in an adjoining room.
He found one of the morning papers had vanished when he went down to the breakfast room, and the cook informed him that Nip had hurried out of the house before sunrise with the paper tucked under her arm.
Mr. Nipperson smiled secretly at this information, and unfolded his paper with a thrill of quiet satisfaction. His first thought was to turn to the editorial page to see what sort of article Bill had succeeded in getting from the gifted pen of Valerie Ware. He hoped, vaguely, that it would be “hot stuff,” yet he feared that it might be more than he had bargained for.
His eyes dilated as he read the first paragraph, then he settled down uneasily to read the remainder.
Nip came in from the front just as he read the concluding line. She smiled triumphantly at her father as he laid the paper down carefully.
“What a scoop!” she cried. “You certainly put it over that time, dad.”
He smiled. “Yes,” he admitted. “We should build some circulation with that young lady’s idea.”
“Don’t you think it’s simply swell, dad?” Nip sat down opposite him.
“I do.” He lowered his voice. “That’s a deep, dark secret,” he warned. “Ah … your mother … you understand, of course.”
“Do I?” Nip laughed. “I bet she has a hemorrhage.”
“What’s that?” A heavy voice spoke from behind Mr. Nipperson. A portentous voice. Commanding and deep-toned.
Mr. Nipperson’s shoulders became rigid as he folded the paper. An awesome silence fell over the room. Nip lifted her startled gaze to stare at her mother.
She advanced majestically toward the table as Mr. Nipperson stood up and smiled. “Good morning, my dear.”
She did not deign to answer his greeting. “Let me see the paper.” She held out a bony hand toward Nip.
Nip glanced at her father. His dismay was eloquent, but he nodded a glum consent. Nip passed her mother the paper which she had carried over to show Tuck. It was folded to make reading of the article easy.
“I’ll tell the cook to bring in your breakfast with ours,” Mr. Nipperson said. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” He edged toward the kitchen as Mrs. Nipperson’s gaze fell upon the column signed V. W.
Nip leaned back and watched the changing expressions on her mother’s face as she read the article. Suspicion; doubt; mounting horror; disbelief; they followed one another in rapid succession, finally all to give way to terrible anger.
Mrs. Nipperson laid the paper down as her husband reappeared in the room. Her face was crimson with rage.
“The brazen hussy!” She turned toward her husband, “Sit down, Henry,” she said in awful tones.
“What is it, my dear?” he asked.
“As though you didn’t know. Henry! Have you lost all sense of decency to publish this vile article?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he murmured.
“Ha!” She lifted her head and sniffed the air like a charger scenting the smoke of battle.
“You mean to say that you don’t know what’s being printed in your own newspaper?”
“Not everything, my dear,” he said. “I don’t pretend to proofread the entire contents.”
“You’re willfully evading the issue,” she trumpeted. “Why, even your own daughter …” She sputtered helplessly.
“Don’t worry about me,” Nip said with a great show of unconcern. “I think dad deserves a medal for publishing that. It’s the first decent thing I’ve read on the subject for a long time.”
“Leave the room.”
Nip arose and smiled at her father. “Looks like you’re in for it, dad,” she said as she walked away.
“Now, what is it, my dear?” Mr. Nipperson asked.
“Read that.” She thrust the offending column beneath his nose. “I’ve been expecting something like this since those announcements you’ve had on the front page. I weakly let you convince me that it was simply a publicity stunt. Now, read the shocking result.”
Mr. Nipperson took the paper and pretended to read the article. He clucked as he read, and attempted to assume an attitude of horror to match his wife’s.
“This is terrible, terrible,” he moaned as he laid the paper aside. “This is Porter’s doing without a doubt.”
&
nbsp; “There!” Mrs. Nipperson pounced upon the name. “Porter! Humph! I’m not surprised. Then you didn’t know about this, Henry?”
“I certainly didn’t,” he said stoutly. “Porter assured me it would be carefully read and any objectionable features deleted before publication.”
“And this woman, Henry. Who is she?”
“I … I don’t know,” he lied. “Porter attended to the entire matter.”
“V. W.,” Mrs. Nipperson. She was lost in concentrated thought for a moment. Then her face cleared. She turned to him. “Henry! That must be Valerie Ware! Do you recall that terribly salacious book we took away from Nip a year ago? I immediately burned it in the fireplace after reading it,” she went on virtuously. “It’s that woman, Henry! And you’ve published an article by her in your paper. She must be here in this town, Henry! In our very midst. Corrupting our youth. And you’ve lent the columns of your paper to her.” She stared at her husband as though he were some species of loathsome animal.
“It’s all Porter’s doing,” he repeated.
“And you sit there supinely and let this sort of thing go on and on and on?” she demanded.
“I certainly shall not,” he said with sudden determination. “By heaven! Porter shall be called to account for this outrage.”
“I should hope so. And immediately.” She transfixed him with a malignant gaze.
“At once,” Mr. Nipperson agreed. “By Jove, I’ll call him now and give him to understand the series is to be canceled at once.” He arose and walked to the alcove where the telephone stood. Mrs. Nipperson wheeled about in her chair and watched him. Mr. Nipperson sat down by the phone and glanced back toward the table. He shuddered as he met his wife’s gaze. Then he sighed imperceptibly and picked up the receiver.
She listened while he gave the number of the newspaper office. He leaned forward and cleared his throat defiantly as a feminine voice responded:
“Hello. The Daily Argus.”
“I want to speak to Porter,” he said.
“Sorry,” the feminine voice said. “Mr. Porter’s not in just now. Any message, please?”
“Hello? That you, Porter?” Mr. Nipperson spoke gruffly. “See here. My wife and I have just read this … this degrading article on the editorial page by one V. W. You know what I refer to?”
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