The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 30, 1903, Page 5

THE SUNDAY CALL. Copyright, 1902, by T. C. McClure. HERE was nothing at all extraordinary in its appearance, and it ar- rived in the usual way. o words, it was a le n & square white envelope, and the . man stuffed it ¢ of mail boxes g,” just as in- advertising x and an envelope nd visible signs n he blew d continued own the block. e and wondered re was any tter-of-fact t calmly on about learned from experi- share of the United usually of a char- p down four flights of i no presenti- was hang- head, it was fully an hour be was ready to go out on an ed & emall key out of bowl that etood on the mantel making her way in an unhur- ule, fitted it into box and took to that one of t ich bore the name * erently as he on his impersonal errand Barbara heard the w with 1d interest w Bven then, with the momentous docu- sext in her fingers, she failed to “feel it fn her bones,” as her great-great-grand- mether would have done, that something unususl was about to happen. A gleam of curiosity @id, however, light up her face as she glanced at the superscription, and tearing the edge of the envelope off éaintily, passed out into the street, read- ing the note &s she went. When ehe had finished she stopped quite still and locked about her in a dased way, She felt that it was the sort of a letter that could only arrive by a page on a siiver tray, heralded by & fanfare of trumpets. Still, she seemed to be awake. All the familiar landmarks were there—the church across the way, the house opposite where the ivy wes just tinging the walls with & faint green, and the inevitable group of chiliren of assorted ages and nationalities, sci ng g with small regard for an. I ked precis street, She began ly like West —— the note a second atically down the rose in her cheeks and rkled with excitement. An thundered by just ahead of uch fuss &s if it were the make C 1t disap- its passing served its reality of fon of it had the ished ext block she ran into a portly man with a large bundle. nishment, “I and she contin- avenue with ance. Once she were walking on alr, saying over and again to herself, ““Millions—do you understand— millions 7’ Then she tried impatiently to get away from that thought, to think of what the note meant in more concrete things. It would mean cabs and violets and a mald. That was her first thought, and she laughed outright at the meagerness. An imagination fnured to poverty could not reach the possibilities of such a fortune all at once. It would have to be trained up to it, just as contralto voices were sometimes trained up to sopranos. Cabs and violets, indeed! Orchids and a vic- toria with two men on the box was more like it. But what were those things? Mere bag- atelles! It meant Paris, London, St. Pe- tersburg and Rome! Aye, and India and Egypt! It meant all the dreams of her life come true—and in addition, spendors that she had never even thought of in her wildest flights of fancy. She drew her breath in sharply. The realization of what it would mean to be the wife of a man with a score of mil- lions was almost oppressive. Even now she was beginning to feel the responsi- bility of wealth, and as she turned into an art gallery at the corner of Thirty- fourth street, where, in the silence, she meant to sit and think it out, there was a little frown upon her forehead. For the third time within the hour she read over the note. Now that the first dizziness of the magnificence offered her was over, she began to have an acuto sense of something else than the twenty millions meant. It meant being the wife of a man older than her own father would have been had he lived, and one for whom in her most enthusiastic moments she had never more than an indifferent toleration. Still, with the glamour of his great fortune about him, he did not seem repellant. She tried to think what their life together would be like, but in spite of her best efforts it was another face—young, strong and frank—that rose before her. She sum- moned Peter Milward, but it was Jack Carruthers that appeared and insisted upon taking his place at her side. She shook herself impatiently, and from the expression of her face it was evident that she willed Satan, not to get behind her, but to come out into the open with all his most alluring temptations. “I've been poor so long,” she was think- ing. “Of course, it won't be—won't be—" she caught her breath and then forced herself to think the unthinkable—"it won't be like marrying Jack. But I should have everything in the world besides him. No life is all beer and skittles, and, after all, if I had never met him I should have lived and been happy without him. I shall make believe that I never did.” Having reached this worldly conclusion, the leaned back in a more comfortable position and gazed at a dreamy Claude Monet on the opp: Then her self-communion be “But there's Mr I shall not be able to forget him! quite so Decemb: little more alive!” With a quickened breath she fancied herself alone with him in a beautiful home. Servants move noisily about, but he was always cold and prim and still. She felt stifled. She felt like a prisoner. She belonged to him, for he had bought her with his twenty millions. Oh, the horror—the degradation of it! I wish he were not If only he seemed a l?}nce more she took herself to task an- grily. “It's perfect nonsense!” she told herself vehemently, and in time you'll get used to him. All your life you've longed for wealth, and now, when it is laid at your feet, you must auibble! Wait until the next in- terest payment is due on the morigage at home. You'll wish then that you had forgotten sentiment.” Thus she went on goading herself, but to no purpose. There was not another person in the room, and she hid her face: in her hands and murmured in despera- tion ."Oh, Jack—Jack!" Restlessly she rose and emerged into the street again. The clouds hung low and there was a slight fog. The gray of the stone walks, the pavements and the sky all seemed to melt together into one sad-toned picture. Vehicles of all deserip- tions, from the butcher’'s wagon up, filled the street, keeping so close together that even the most daring person did not ven- ture to cross, and Barbara stood at the edge of the walk, waiting for a break in the line to occur. She never knew how long she stood there—long enough to listen to some new whisperings of His Satanic Mafesty tell- ing her how much good she could do with all that money for the people she loved and the sufferers of the earth. £he was beginning to believe that it was her duty to sacrifice her feelings whether she wished to or not. She might throw away fortune for hereelf, but she had no right to deny it to the others who would ben- efit through her. Her eyes, which had been staring fixed- ly at the procession of carriages without seeing them, were suddenly attracted by an approaching coupe. The blood tingled in her veins, for she recognized the Mil- ward liverv. It was a handsome carriage with the curved glass front which enables the oc- cupant to get a more extended view than can be had in the other kind, and the men on the box sat very straight and stiff. But it was none of these things that held Barbara's glance fascinated. It was a pair of glittering, fiendish eyes that leered at her from the dark interior as the carriage drew near, a pair of eyes so horrid in their glare that her blood ran cold, and she stared insstupefaction, thinking she saw the outlines of a grotesque, shadowy face around them. Not until the coupe was opposite her did the {llusion fade and explain itself. Then she drew a breath of relief, for what she saw then was only the reflection of the two large silver buttons on the back of the coachman’s coat, and Peter Mil- ward bowing to her in his most gallant manner. “I never expect to see anything so much like the Jabberwock again,” she laughed to herself, and then she grew suddenly grave. Perhaps if she accepted Peter Milward that skeleton in the coupe would be quite real after all! R e A month later, when Jack Carruthers, whose salary had been raised to $1800 a year, asked her to share it with him, she accepted without taking any time for consideration. “How much do you really love me, dear?” he asked fervently for the twen- tieth time, after the manner of lovers who like to hear the same assurances over and over again. And at last, in despera- tion, she replied: “Well, If you want to know how much A BOHEMIAN. By Helen Rowland. SRS A T by T. C. McClure.) OTHY BROCKWAY gayly ;p the T the first-class passenger coach as it stood in the Richmond mer ew a kiss to ting t n the door of the “The m Then he stroaeWhw urt look in his eyes to see the tace of the win- dow ms the ed and puffed out of the station, : Oh, brace uF ison. This won't do. There's no making & mute of your- welf for who doesn’t half ap- n walked off, leaving i been trying to cheer g where he was, a little a bit s for the big As the traln whizzed past the out- e city Doro Brockway st her arms and drew a deep free!” she breathed in a passionate whisper and leaned back in the seat with & wonderful smile in her eyes and deep, joyous satisfaction per- g her whole being. “No more No more Teddy! No more chapgrons! No more tea parties,” she went on, “just fun and work and do &s 1 please and be bohemian. Oh, how I hate it all! Mamma's conventionalities; Teddy's bossing—dear old Ted! How broken up he looked—" and some of the merriment faded from her eyes. 91t was dusk as her train steamed into Jersey City and the tall sky-scrapers on park Row were sending forth a miilion liwinkiing lights that streamed over the water. Dorothy looked about her a little bewildered but made her way hurriedly to the gates, followed by a fat porter who carried her grips. Through the bars she spied a smiling pair of eyes, and Cor- rinne Morrison came to meet her with an amused look on her face. “You dear little idiot,” said Corinne as she kissed her and led the way to the ferry boat. *You absurd little greenle! Why on earth did you leave my good and glorious brother to come up to this seething caldron? Why didn’t you stay at home and marry him and get sup- ported for the rest of your ife “Connie!” sald Dorothy. severely, “you don’t know what it is %6 be bossed and bossed and bossed. l‘lfl! to be bohe- mian.” There was a queer little light in Cor- inne’s eyes as she answered: “All right, dear, we'll begin right away. Come, we'll take & streetcar instead of a cab. It wouldn't be bohemian to take & cab, you know. Bohemians are all poor. I'm & Bohemian!” “But—but—all these bags!” and Dor- othy looked helplessly at the pile of leather satchels beside her. *“They eren’t bohemian, either,” and Corinne relentlessly led the way to the ca#, tugging two satchels while Dorothy foliowed helplessly with the rest. Three-quarters of an bour later they were wearily climbing the stairs to Cor- inne’s studio. Up one long flight, up two, up three! Dorothy sat down in a heap on the dirty fl “Connle, is 3 to rest ur studio in heaven?” “Yes, when I sell anything. Come girly, you'll get there. It merely and one more two to a battered door in % smelling of mold and dampness. re took out her latchkey ana unlocked the door “Oh, how glorious!” sighed Dorothy, “to carry your,own latchkey “Delightful!” and Corinne’s voice was a bit ironical. Just three weeks later Dorothv rolled over wearily in her automatic combina- tion bed and folding couch that did duty by day as an “Oriental corner,” with a lot of gaudy pillows piled upon it “Connie,” she sald tragically, “do you know just how much money I have be- tween me and the cold, cold world? Just fifteen dollars! And I haven't sold a sin- gle thing I've written, and—Connie, Is there anything else in Bohemia besides work and disappointment and editors who you?" > said Corinne doubtfully, “I be- lieve there are the Hungarian restaurants. You need cheering up, girly. We'll do a Hungarian restaurant to-night. T'll tel- ephone two of the boys from Park Row to meet us somewhere and we'll go to Martinetti's.”" “Meet us? Meet us? Can't they call for us here?” “Why, no,” and Corinne turned re- proachful eyes on Dorothy. ‘“They are newspaper men, you know, and can only steal an hour or so from the office. Be- sides, that would be awful conventional. No, not that low cut frock, goosie. Plck out your plainest shirt walst if you're going slumming with me.” Dorothy set her teeth firmly and smiled away the little frown that had begun to cloud her forehead. The tweezy orchestra was playing the latest air from a popular comic opera as Dorothy Brockway, followed by Corinne and the two newspaper men, In thelr morning clothes, entered the third-rate Bohemian cafe. The lights flashed on a hundred women in gaudy gowns, wearing every color and variety of hat. Jewels, real and paste, twinkled under the chan- deliers and the fumes from a hundred cigarettes rose to heaven. Some college boys were singing “Bola Bol totally oblivious of time and tune, and were pounding on the table with their forks in wild applause at their own jokes. “How do you like it?” asked Corinne, as they took thelr seats. “It's choky,” - sald Dorothy non-com- mittally. “What do you take?” asked one of the men, looking at Dorothy. “Why-—why—oh, anything. I think I'd like a chocolate frappe.” A loud laugh from the other three greet- ed this remark. “Bring us four Martinis to start with,” sald Reggie Cutting to the walter, who wore a solled collar and a cutaway. Dorothy looked at Corinne apprehensive- 1y. “Are Martinis cocktails?” she asked shyly, “because If they—are, I've never tasted one.” Just then one of the college boys arose, looked around and blew & kiss toward Corinne and Dorothy. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “in the presence of a lady who has just de- clared that she never before tasted a cocktail I blush to remark—"" “Oh, oh! I'm going home this minute,” sald Dorothy, rising and looking about her with misty eyes and cheeks burning with mortification, “Sit down, Dolly,” whispered Corinne, “he doesn’t mean anything. Sit down and don’t notice him. Here's your cocktall.” That is all that Dorothy ever remem- bered of that horrible evening. The next morning she stood before the washstand, , towel in hand. fe, Connie, this water's so cold and I can'’t find any soap, and haven’t you ot anything but a tin basin to wash in?" “Other’s broken,” came cheerfully from the inner recesses of a closet. “Oh, my head!" said Dorothy, sinking down on the hard pillows of the “fake” couch. *“Oh, my head! How could you make me drink that cocktail—and the ta- ble and everything went around and—oh, Connfe, I'm sick yet. I'll never touch another—and what would Teddy say?” “Oh, he'd just be bossy and particular about it. You'll get used to Bohemia aft- er a while. Are you tired of it already?” And Corinne glanced oddly at Dorothy. “I'm tired of something. My last story came back by the post this morning, de- clined ‘with thanks,’ and I've trled the last place I know of for a position on a staff. Why, there aren’t any positions here. And everybody’s such an atom in New York and editors don't take off their hats when you go to see them, but just keep right on smoking their pipes and in their shirt sleeves, too. Oh, my head,” and Dorothy was sobbing violently in half a minute. “Dorothy Brockway, if you muss that pillow up I'll make you pay for it. It's my best, so you just stop your crying on it_right awa: Dorothy arose with a sudden gulp and glared at her companion, “You're a cold, hard hearted, coarse person,” she sald with blazing ey, , “and I'm going back home to-morrow.” Two days later Mr. Ted Morrison sat in his office in the afternoon sunshine, looking over the mail which had just come in. His hat was pushed back from his forehead, showing a fine head of cur- ly brown halr. He was laughing softly and reading over for the third time two letters he had just recetved. The first ran in this vein: “Dearest Teddy: . “Meet me to-morrow at the station, ¢ p. m. I'm coming home forever and ever. New York is the most uninteresting place I have ever been in. Publishers up here aren’t a bit Interested in young talent. They seem to be anxious, above all’ things, to nip it in the bud. Soclally New York is degrading. People do noth.- ing but wash in tin basins, drink cock- talls and live in attics. You dear, darl- ing old boy! I am just longing to:come },'omle and ery it all out on your coat pel. “Your penitent, Dorothy.” The other letter was quite different purport. It ran thus: e tion “Dear Ted: “I've done the very best I could for you and you owe me that $100 you prom- ised me if I'd send her back. I followed her about and persuaded every publisher who might be inclined to look favorably upon her work to turn it coldly and peremptorily down. I took her to th meanest restaurant I know of and made her drink & cocktall. I even ed Reggle Cutting to be rude to her. All O. K. Bhe leaves In the morning. Re- member the hundred. “Your affectionate sister, Connle.” “He is a very nice old man _ e o T WAS A PAIR OF N CLITTERING FIENDISH EYESS HEN <JABBERVWOCK LEERED AT [ER - FRON THE PARK INTERIOR- . PR RODE;, By Keith Gordon. in dollars and cents, I can prove that I love you at least $20,000,000 worth!™ And then she told him how she thought of him, and the glimpse of the Jabber- wock had kept her from accepting old Peter Milward and his fortune, UNDER THE JUGGERNAUT CAR. By Barry Preston. I88 DOROTHY BEN- NETT was embrojdering impossible strawberries on a dolly. A small, brown sparrow perched on the rail of the vine- clad plazza viewed the work critically for sev- eral moments and then fluttered noisily away. As her eyes followed its flight to a neighboring cherry tres she heard the front gate bang and turning, beheld com- ing up the path Mr. James Dent, better known to the summer colony, from the most stald matron to the smallest urchin, as “Jimmy." He came up to the veranda, stretched himself comfortably in a steamer chalr and mopped a perspiring brow. “Sorter warm-like, isn't 1t?"" he sald ““What vegetable are you making now?” he inquired amiably, bend- ing over her work. Strawberry? Bet- ter label it. I thought it was a tomato.” Dorothy made a feint at him with her needle, which he discreetly dodged. ““There's polo game the club to- morrow,” he went on. “Want to come?" “Indeed I do, if you'll take me,” she said. “I'm yours to command, as usual,” he answered. He lighted a clgarette and smoked for several moments in silence, his brows puckered in thought. Presently he straightened himself in his chair. “Dorothy,” he sald gravely, ‘“what have you been doing to young Ashford?” “So, after all, it was partly curlosity that brought you here to-day,” she said, sbut despite the nonchalance of her words, she colored slightly. ‘“What have I been doing to young Ashford? Why, I've been acting my prettiest for him, of course.” “Um-m,” Dent mused. “So I feared, he sald laconically. “Doll, it's too bad. Ashford is really a mighty nice kid, and he's taken it very much to heart, too.” Dorothy lald down her work rather abruptly. “Jimmy Dent,” she exclaimed, *‘what 1s it young Ashford has taken so to heart, and, for heaven's sake, why is It too bad?” . “My Lady Innocence,” he sald, “I have seen all this many times before. History repeats itself, as it were. When I see a young man monopolizing the soclety of the most charming girl in Cedarville, and when suddenly sald young man quits THE SUNDAY CALL’S Two Full Pages- of the Cleverest Fiction by the Cleverest Writers HALF-HOUR STORIETTES her soclety, puts on & face like a graven image, stays much at the bar of the Country Club, and acts generally as if he wished the world would cave in on him, it's pretty good indication that sald young man has been proposing to sald most charming girl nd that she has—has t'run him down. “I—I can't marry every man who pro- poses to me,” she protested. “Of course not,” he admitted, “but you might shut them off a trifle soonmer. It seems to me, a girl with your intuition should be quick to discover matrimonial intention in its inciplent stages, and nip it in the bud. It's only when the disease is advanced that it is troublesome. Now there's Ashford, poor chap. As I say, he’'s a really nice kid. He's running away with the idea that the light of his soul is gone out forever and all that sort of thing. Doll, it's too bad.” “Perhaps you came at Mr. Ashford's suggestion to say these things,” she re- marked rather tartly. She expected Dent_to bristle up; instead, he laughed easily. “Oh, dear, no,” he sald, *“this expedi- tiom, of remonstrance is quite my own undertakin, “It doesn’t seem to me you're called upon to fight his battles,” she sald. “Oh, I'm not fighting his battle. He did that himself—and lost,” he chuckled. “I'm merely urging a little clemency on the part of his captor. I'm really sorry for Ashford—and the rest, for that mat- ter.” ““The rest?” she inquired. “Yes. The fleld, we might call it, T sup- se,” he sald. “There was—let's see— tanley. He went to Cuba.” “And married a Spanish girl,” she sup- plemented. “And Crayton,” he went on, “what be- eame of him?* “He married an actress,” she sald shortly. \ “And there was Johnny Diggs. He was hard hit. He was all for missionarying it in some particularly pestilential cli~ mate.” “He’s teller In & bank still. His en- gagement was announced in last week's ‘Clarion,” " she sald. “And numerous others,” he sald. “It's a regular Juggernaut every season, Deoll. The roadway is strewn with dead and dying when the car has passed.” “If they throw themselves beneath the wheels I can't help it,” she sald. “My dear young woman,” he expostu- lated, “not that. They try te climb aboard the car and slip off. Perhaps if the goddess wers not se smiling and in- viting many of the casualties might be averted.” “Indeed,” she sald mockingly. “This grows quite serious.” “I could give you quite & list of those who have fallen beneath the wheels, and yet whose doleful groans you have never heard.” v ) He sat twirling his cigaretts thought- fully for a moment. “Suppose.” he continued slowly, “that 1 should tell you ‘I:vm I— have been more or less damaged.” “I should say it was the cholcest plece of fiction published this summer,” shé laughed. “It's gospel truth,” he sald solemnly. “It will be my turn next to wear a masik of sorrow and drink too much. When the brown sparrow flitted back to. the rail he saw an Interesting scene be- hind the wistarias. “I did 1t to protect the others,” he was explaining. “You might have saved them long age,” she said.