Argosy All-Story Weekly — "The Purple Limited" — page 50: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

616 cept for the indefinable unease and loath- ing caused by that paper-bound book of vile import, she: had not been seriously alarmed. Poise of mind, calm control of thought when confronted by the revelation of some unsuspected and unexpected peril, implies a trained, directing power of will, or a com- plete lack of imagination. True ‘bravery exists in the first, but not in the last. Men- tal superiority; aloofness from the trap of adverse circumstances, gives hope, confi- dence and thereby brings nearer the achievement of conquering ability. Logical- ly speaking Julie was in no greater danger than when she had first entered that room. Ignorance had been her bliss. Now,- dis- turbing thoughts of her true position ap- palled her. Unaware that she was locked in, she had been comparatively content and _ unquestioning of ‘the future. Now, the thought uppermost in her confused, dis- traught mind had no kinship with gratitude that she had found out she was a prisoner. The truth that should have prompted con- centration-. of combating conditions and . nerved her to the availment of the moments that were hers to plan and do with the determination to finish whatever she start- ed, were being wasted. With childish, piti- able simplicity, Julie pressed her hands to her chin and wished herself back into a state ‘of ignorance. | “If I’d never had touched that door, I wouldn’t have known I was locked in,” she thought. And presently the tears and she shook with stifled heart-rending sobs. Seated in that brilliantly lighted, huge apartment of dead orgies and past scenes of high-stake gambling, she epitomized stark, scared, helpless grief. It cannot be said she was a Craven; an out-and-out creature of cowardice, for she did not know how to call up the qualities, that cohesively amalgamated, endow us with courage. She was a mouse beneath a cat’s paw. The human, spiritual part of her waited in vain the summons to gird the flesh. Her ‘soul called to her, but it was yet unborn in her conception of herself. The divine link of her with the spirit that broods with benign, superfathering wisdom over the mole in its burrow, and man in his highest state of de- “My God! “ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. velopment was to Julie an entirely dormant force. It was hers to command, but she captained an invisible host. She was un- conscious of her heritage, and for all prac- tical purposes, was, by the same token, a spiritual pauper. | ‘““Qh, God!” she moaned, and the words were empty of all but a bubbling over of fear. She had used that same short com- bination upon a thousand trivial occasions when she had been moved to give vent to a phrase that has been stereotyped to pro- miscuous and common use fo symbolism of surprise, pleasure, anger and pain or mere vapid, yawning indifference. ““ My Gawd!”’ splutters the scrub-woman when she runs a splinter into her finger. “My God! It’s disgraceful!” exclaims Mrs. Housewife when she is told the big- bug profiteers have sold her rightful share of sugar to Europe and the candy-makers. Ain’t it hot—cold—wet— warm,” and soon goes the chorus up and down the scale of word-poor squanderers of an overworked and very badly abused expression. Of course, no harm is meant, there is seldom any vicious intent in the habit of debasing a big word to petty, piffling ejacu- latory usage; but in the moments of crush- ing despair, when life itself is pulsing swiftly away, what then? ‘“ My God! Help me!” is probably the cry. ‘‘My God! Guard the loved ones whom I leave behind,” is surely the prayer. These messages are heard and conform- - ably with the unindividualistic, all-weighing wisdont of the Master, are heeded, and- Strength is given to the bearers of heavy burdens; but the same lips that form the pleas for help perhaps did also with reckless license play fast and loose with the name that stands for far more than we can grasp. Our music is but the tinkle of a little bell; our science but a wavering pointer toward the immeasurable profundity of what we do not know. Funny little puppets we are; pigmy, bleating marionettes clinging and asprawl on a grain of dust in the universe. We exist by favor, and yet regardless of the spirit within us we turn our backs on the poetic truth in the sunset, and go into ecstasies over a tour de force.with colored COMicboo S CO