The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 14, 1903, Page 5

THE SUNDAY CALL, . tune than usual, the violins had a shriller squeak, viol made insffectual the general the low thunder of the drown sound bass out and soften into harmony When L mea in her made it none the l.ss sure in coming, and the propiietv Liz owever eamed on for her high spirits were infectious rtainly worth her $ a night, b ilke waier until owded and mon>y to be carriei out peuring in her matter of fact the proprietors were at the v 4z $10 a night diring ber 1 y rep oftener, b -cause this 1-hase extra line of patrons to the saloon; viance periods as ment always b ar of her indlvidual cha u» handsomely for the most 4 un to her exaited mental expected to a monopoly z alwave made this class put — i efg 0% NIGHT ! JIM . | SEEMED ODDLY MOVED LITTLE | BALLAD ‘ THAT ‘LIZ’ { sANG.” P o % ightly duties, as she did that night, 1 a brighter light eves, a 11 in her short peroxide tresses and \ her dress lower in the néek and st er at the knees than usual, and her dain y, high-heeled slippers showing a de diginciination to remain in ihe low altitude cesigned for them by nature, the s of Bl Palacio knew that Liz's spre= was at least three or four days off “ON THIS BY A SAD | “L172” of EI Palacio===sv oora pesmono. b HE ah” places in Rhoenix were all in full blast. From El Palacio the discordant strains of so-called music poured out in reckiess abandon. The piano was more aggressively out of the blasts of the cornet pounded mere obnoxiously through the air, while efforts to confusion of Above all this din, above the maudiin laugiter, above the aree jests. clapping of hands and stamping of feet, arcse the shrill song of Liz. fo wa in unusualiy high spiriis that night. Now it must not be rred that Liz had gone on a spree oOr she had ever started on one of those Interesting expeditions; not came galling into the saloon at $:30 o'clock to begin her looser \ort- ided hab. Its rs of and final to her hack some morning in the time consulting as to the an of her varied tempera- men who were os- ters interested in starting her on the stra‘ght and nariow pa‘h and who pri- s while saving her expensive attitude. in- nks rder to keep her body bra s it w be scen t there was me excuse for the unusual hilar'ty at P a'acio with this vailed programme In promise for the delectation of the e wno enjoyed all this more than d'd Jim. good natured Jim, Jim. kind hearted Jim. g nerous J'm. Why, Jim was such a fine an't hurt a fly. If any one was in troub'e they only had te He was good for a “touch” any time ard never remembered to rn. They all knew that Jim wasn't rich although he always ad a ble amount of mopey about him which ‘his friends were wel- me The money he brough' to the saloon. the result heing that Jim with the reck ess population of that gav resort. No ut his outside life, or the source of his in- fond of Jim. E€ns vociferous'y dec‘ared him to be the very She made a sort of lackey of him. It was Jim who y who pinned on a siray bow that was pulled off in a I hack and w0 rendered her constant littie service 2 e night Occasionally he made her a substantial present « night Jim seemed especially moved by a sentimental little ballad X 3 | that Liz sang. all about home and flowers and the babies by the hearthstone, and effusively presented her with a $2) plece. *To buy some little thing to make your home pleasant, Liz.”" he sald. She took it with a gay laugh and_ giv- frg Ler lace skirts a saucy flutter. she sent it s!iding down inside of her silk stcckings to jingle in campany with other votive offerings, and—skipped out into one of the wine rooms with & bank cashier who st!ll had his money In his pocket. Early next morning Liz had occasion to visit her dressmaker. It was late in the afternoon for tired little Mme. Leéfroi and her weary sewing girls, but it was very early for Liz. She was vawning sleepily and a little cross because her dress wasn't quite ready to fit. Ths madame and her git's always addressed 1iz respectfully as Miss Stevenson. Thay had a vague idca that she led a gilded life. but as she pald liberally and thev had to werk for a living anyway they saw no valid reason for not sharing her gilding. She sank down into an ea chair ard threw her hat Into a corner, while madame went out to hurry up her work. Miss Stevenson did not look up as she heard a t'mid knock. but she became gradually consclous of a pathetic lit'le fifure before her and that she was b g nddressed as Mme. Lefroi. *Oje of my neighbors told me you em- Dloved: Kowiig g sald a hopeless voice. ‘‘Indeed, I can sew very nicely. Y mustn’t judge of what I can do hy my own clothes,” she addel quickly, as M’'ss Stevenson glanced .involuntiri'y at the scant, faded calleo dress. *I Lnow 1 can su't vou—I da need the work £ much—T have three f‘ttle children veu know.” She hurried breathlessly. “Why do vou have to work? Is your huehand dead?” queried Miss Stevenson. with faint interest. “Oh. no! But then vou see he has 19 be un late, and it makes him cross to be woke up ea even if te cou'ld find work. Then the children disturb his sleep. They cry for more to eat. They can't go to school w'thout shoes, and then the baby.” Here the “Doesn’t poor woman quite broke down your husband give you any money at all?” asked M'ss Stevenson, ‘‘He savs t'mes are hard and we cost so much. 1 can’'t sce where we cost him much. We live in a little cabin. away out on ths ecge cf town, and | do cleaning #n? washing for the neighbors to help qut. My husband bad proverty and a good income when we were marr'gd d was kind to me, hut now a woman told me she guessed he had found some one else, but,” with a quick loyaltv, “1 don’t believe that.” Miss Sievenson looked actually amused. The litt'e womnan bravely choked back her tears. *1 want something regular to do so I can be sure of something each week for the chil- dren “Well,” sald s S'evenson, “I am not Mme. Lefroi, but I will sde that she g'ves you wor then, with an impuise that weuld have been charity in a better woman, but which in Mes Stevenson was only 4 disnesition to end a scene that was mak'ng even her hardened heart feel slightly uncomfortabls. “Write vour name and address down for me and I will send some things for the children The worn fingers took a vencil from the dressmaker's desk and writing a name handed it to M'ss Stevenson and her wan face lightened as she said: “You are kind, mies. and 1 will pay you with work. ™ . Miss Stevenson g'anced 'anguidly at the paper in her hand. jumped to her feet, and taking the frightened little creature before her roughly by the shou'der, exclaimed: “My God, woman! Have you told me the tryth?' The wan face drew back. M ss Stevenson's hands and skirts tosk on a characteristic pese as her supple fingers slid down ‘rside of her sllk stocking and brought to l'ght a $20 gold piece. “Here, vou take this. A man gave it to me last night. and your chi'dren need ft. And, say, Mme. Lefroi has ne work for you. I den't think vou will have to work as long as th's girl stave in town: yeu bet. You go home and take care of the banjes.”” She pushed the unresisting form through the front door “We are ready to fit you now, Miss Stevenson,” bowing politely rhat night Tiz was in wilder sp rits than usual. “I'm goin’ to make she shouted. jumping nimbly to the top of a gambling table * over there, now, and listcn tome. I'm goin’ to tell you that's goin' to make you feel badly.” Then she went on and told them all about the little cabin, way out on the edge of town, about the little baby anl the children who were hungry and ecould not go to schoal for lack of shoes: the husband who neglected his home: the loval I'ttle wife who shielded him and tried to earn enough to feed her babies. Liz's larguage was quite forcible, at times profane, but the story.only gained added pathcs from her picturesque wording. At the beginning of her speech kind old Jim beamed on her from the out- s of the crowd and started to force his way through in order to be nearer to his divinity. Someth ng in her eyes as she glanced in his direction stopped him. As her speech proceeded he drew back with a white face. “Now. beys. what do you think we had better do about it? asked Liz, stop- ping suddenly and looking around with a sudden assumption of her usual reck- less manner. “Take up a collection,” “Not on your life,” answered Liz. ‘‘That worthless husband is comin’ here every night. spendin’ more'n enough to keep that family comfortable. And, would you believe it, I've been havin' a sort of a sneakin' affection for him my- self. Say. boys. I'll bet he stays home after this and spends his money on h's family. If he don't and comes sHowin' his face around here again, we'll give him a b'g Here her tiny foot thot suddenly skyward. The crowd was so latent on Liz’s kick and the accompanying bewildering display of lace draperies that no one noticed generous, whole-souled Jim sneak out through the front door. “Get down off your perch, Liz, and let's take a drink on it,” drawled a per- suasive voice The faro dealer lifted her gently down. Liz's spree arrived in full force that n.ght. three days ahead of schedule time. said the Iittle dressmaker, speech, You auit somethin’ crinkin shouted a rough voice. THE SUNDAY | y | ocALws E STORIETTE i PAGE | GIVES YOU HALF AN HOUR | WITH THE BEST WRITERS OF THE _DAY. REGEDE ES D SRR P S SR At s T S Hér“Rival BY CLINTON DANGERFIELD. in Marble T The Heart of a Hero BY ISABEL FROST. ; KNOW T'd oughtn't to mind it,” whispered Lucinda re- pentantly to herséf, as she pushed another pie into the oven. “John an' me done been married six months now, an’ ‘cept for one thing I ain’t got a sorrer.” No prettier girl than Lucinda was ever born in quiet little Greenville. She was so pretty indeed that when John logan, a widower of 38, married her and bore her away to his home in a Georgia village there were many to predict that Lucinda would spend most of her time “primping.” But no girl was ever more anxious to win her husband's praise, and it was the qualifications attending that praise that troubled her sorely. Out in the daisied Lafayette Cemetery sient all that was left of Martha Logan, his first wife. ler tombstone was almost a monument. Merely the word “virtues' was a crown of pralse indeed. But “unexampled” before it gave crushing weight to Juhn Logan's constant recital of his dead part- mer’s perfections. No matter how flaky Lucinda's pies and biscuit, the utmost she could win from John was a gentle: . “Nearly as good as Martha's, dear! Jest keep on—you'll get there.” A fierce hatred swelled at last in the girl's heart. Often when she passed the cemetery on her way from the village store she felt an urgent desire to go In and defy the sleeper with scornful words. She put away the thought again and again. But at last it overcame her. One musky summer evening, John not being due’ till late, she found herself standing beside Martha's stately tomb In the cold moonlight 1 hate you,” she cried. “I hate you—you detestable woman!" The sound of her voice echoed throush the pale little congregation of the dead and terrified her. But she rajlied. “Yes, T mean it! 1 want you to hear! I don't belleve you are in .heaven. You're vnder that stone, putting ideas In John's head every day “Ahem,” =aid a voice dryly. “Why, Uncle Lemuel,” gasped Lucinda, recognizing a village patrigrch, uni- versally called by that name. “Was you listening?” “Don’t have to do much listening when folks is shoutin’ like you was,” re- turned Uncle Lemuel, still more dryly. Lucinda hung her pretty head, then burst into a flood of tears. “She takes it all—all!” she wailed. ‘“No matter how patient T am, I Kain’t be as patient as she was, nor so low voiced. nor such a c-c-c-cook.” Uncle Lemuel seated himself on a convenient corner of the tombstone. “'S that so?” he remarked with a curious inflection in his voice. “Wal, I kin tell you somethin’ of her cookin'—" Lucinda sat upright with blazing eves. Un-cle Lem-u-el,”” stammmered Lucinda, “d'you know what you're in’?" “Reckon so0, I boarded with Marthy an' John a month, cookin’ was aw- ful. Took myself off arter that. She scolded from mornin’ to night. She pecked on John till ef he hadn’t been the kindest hearted feller tn the world he'd a beat her. ‘Unexampled virtues,’ indeed!” chuckled the old man. “But why then—why,” gasped Lucinda, now on her feet and pointing tragical- ly to the elegant inscription, “why did he have that dedication wrote there?" The old man chuckled again. “He done the whole thing on your account.” “On mine—on mine—" “Jest so! He come to me an’ he says, ‘Uncle,’ he says, ‘I'm going to marry the prettiest girl in the world, an’ if so be she don’t make a good wife "twill break my heart! T lald awake for weeks, God knows,’ he says, ‘thinkin’ how to guide her right. I kain't hector a woman. Ay so’' he says, ‘I'm going to let Marthy do me one good turn. 1I'm going to let her be a shinin’ ensample of the way Lucindy shall walk!” " g “And she really— 3 “Was the orfulest cross a man ever stogd. Sence you kept his house you've made it like heaven to him—he tells me so every day, but— It was 9 o'clock before John Logan came home. As he sat down to the daint- jest of suppers and fell to, Luecindy, sitting opposite with dancing eyes and rose- pink cheeks, asked smilingly: “How's your coffee, John?" “Best 1—"" he began, then true to his formula, sald kindly, “Nigh as good as Marthy's used to be.” i “John,” said Lucinda with a sudden gravity, yet belied by her still dancing eyes, “John, I've sad news for you.” , as he held his cup in midalr, she added mournfully, “Martha is dead ‘The coffee cup went crashing on the floor as John sprang up. “Dead! What do you mean, Lucinda? You know she’s been dead five years!" Lucinda smiled serenely. . “No she hasn't, John. But she died this evening—there in the churchyard—at o'cloek!” - e g B - 8 v VE got to go,” he said. “Uncle Sam accepts no excuses. That was all, but it was enough to make one woman's heart sink. s "Then if you can be brave enough to go I can be brave enough to give you up,” she =aid, with a little choke and a emile. “Let's talk about the time when you come back.” So this Southern beauty, Katharine, let us call her, sent her San Francisco lover off on a long cruise to the Orient, for he had chosen a navy life, and the duties of the navy called. The first one to be told of the engagement was his brother George. The two men were more closely bound than any brothers in town. They had been a Damon and Pythias from their boyhood up—inseparable companions day in and day out. Only when Fred had joined the navy had there come to be en- forced separations, but the brothers kept up, their correspondence regularly, as men seldom do, and they planned for the royal good dinner they would |have together on the first night of Fred's return. When he did return the dinner came off and many more of them. Then Fred became engaged, but even that could not part them. George accepted Katharine as a sister, and a three-sided chumminess sprang up. One day a splendid Oriental screen of carved wood and heavy embroidery caught the fancy of the lovely flancee. *I want it for the hall,” she said. ‘1 mnst have it for the hall. It's done in wistaria, you see, and you know I've planned to have wistaria growing over the veranda, so the house will match indvors and out if I have it. Fred, don't you see we've got to have that screen?” George intérrupted: “‘Done.”” he said. should go broke before the day comes around. the Jrice of that tiara.” 8o George's gift was laid aside for the home where he was to play the role of devoted brother. When Fred and his flancee were alone she had a bit of gossip to whisper. “I wish George would keep the house furnishings he buys,” she said. do hope he’s going to need them.’ “What? What do you mean? “Isn’t that just like a man'! You never see anything that isn't right under your neses. Haven't you noticed—oh, you stupid!—of course George is falling in love with Laura!" . So together tney watched and whispered and called themselves the marriage bureau. It was no end of fun to think up little devices to encourage the affair of the other two. “Take good care of my little girl, old man,” Fred sald to George one day. It was the day he sailed. The night before there had been a dinner aboard his vessel and the friends of the officers had drunk to their bon voyage and speedy . return. This was the blue day after when the good-bys had to be sald. “Take ®ood care of her." he repeated. *Trust me for that. So long. old man.” There was a flutter of handkerchiefs, and the good ship sailed. The letters from Fred came often. Some went to the downtown office where George held a fine Government position. Others went to Katharine’s address. The answers were rare, for Fred's address was unsettieu. He was working loyally, gaining ground every day and bringing himself to- ward the point of promotion. There came the day. a vear later, when his vessel sailed for home again. “I wish T could go by cable.” he said. ““This thing of steam is too slow. But as he could not get out and push, he had to accept “this thing of steam.” When the vessel came chug-chugging in at the Golden Gate he was on deck with a field glass. trying to single out George's office and Katharine's house. He landed and saw here and 'Sfi" a familiar face in the throng that greeted the arrivel. He nodded, dodgéd welcoming hands and hurried on. He had thought they would be tlere—perhaps they had mistaken the hour of arrival— erhaps. it Atplny rate, they were not there. He jumped aboard a car and was off for George's office. He rattled the knob on the door marked “Private.” George opened it and stood coldly aside. o There, in a big leather chair, sat Katharine. Her hat lay in her lap. She lazily looking over a magazine In an at-home manmer. She glanced up to who was entering, then rose languidly, saying, “How are you, Fred?" “Fred, allow me to present my wife,” George said calmly. The battle of Santiago, In which Fred afterward became a hero, did not demand any more sheer grit than that moment, nor did he show any more. “I congratulate you, brother, on securing so beautiful a bride. I wish you great joy,” was what he said. and he left them. And the end of the story is—for this is all fact, not fiction—that Fred is now married. (Copyrighted 1903 by T. C. McClure.) “Call it a wedding present in case I I may never be able to raise AN * Tt e MR T A Mo i e mees aw o BN T R I R wi h