The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 20, 1903, Page 4

HALMERS 14 BY DOoLORES MARBOVRG BACON Chalmers, with eagerness in pose and tone. *Do—do we dine together?" “I dine at home to-night—if you mean that,” she renlied es; and wil you await dinner here?” well bere as elsewhere,” she ac- ced. Chalmers had a courtly Wwa: He motioned toward a chair near the lre, 4 Mrs. Chalmers caught her breath, as ways did when she observed in him and manner. She hoped Chal i was on something else. said Chalmers, looking at Norman. ne over The boy had been standing quite apart, watching them wistfully. When Chal- mers spoke he start You something?’ asked Mrs. C >king coldly at him. 1 hesitated eak up,” sald Chalmers testil 1 wondered if—to-night you would I had my dinner with you—or isekeeper; if you had rather continued hurriedly. with us—or the housekeeper—"' ¢ and the gold braid and— so gay and—" stol at the fire, t he ¥ pitiful. You mean that you are lonesome?” querfed Mrs. Chalmers, Yes “You may dine with—us,” she returned, looked back at the fire, as is served.” dinner on at her feet to the country to-morrow,” “I'll take you with You can have a look at if you choose.” hank you, sir.” And at that moment the floated in from the street. Norm egan, bo , to drum with his he said, with ap uncon- asm. “Was father a rers and his wife looked at and then, contemptuously, at his wife looked at nd turned abo: it will nat di ppoir il: you dine with 1s some othe Yes sir Norman rose. the country 1ted to. have * Norman said again, with y smile called Mrs. Chalmers, “since prefers that you do not us, 1 will tell you storfes, here, after you have had your tea—if—if you wish it.” He wished it and left the room. Man and wife were sllent for a moment, then Chalmers spoke. You did not m that 1 dismissed him, “There was but one letter in the drawer.” You know more about that than I do,” she returned, pointedly. “I wish you would sit down.” Chalmers sat down. “I “Now I beg of you,” began Chalmers. “to be more kind to him? I fear I am not very thoughtful of Him; I mean “Might not that have been the impuls- ive act of consclous Innocence?"” “Why,” she sald with deliberation, UNCLE JAMES' GREAT By Clinton Dangerfield. * VICTORY t, 1503, by T. C. McClure). NCLE JAMES helped himself to another por- tion of the very appe- g roast chicken be- fore him “It's a light meat and agrees with me when properly cooked like this,” he observed, with the delightful confi- @ence most people have that their indi- vidual testes are unfallingly interesting to every one. “My present cook under- stands meats to perfection.” The Boy, genera referred to by the lJadies of his acquaintance as “really a lovely fellow,” made haste to agree with his uncle’s estimate. In reality he could not have told you whether he was eating chicken or ham sandwich, his mind being absorbed by thoughts of momentous im- portance, all connected with one problem. growled his uncle. ing on your mind—or yourymind,” he added with g frankness of near rela- tives. “Helen Vanderveer,” blurted the Boy. his nervousness in this crisis scattering his diplomacy to the winds. Uncle James down his fork as bastily as though the tender pullet had been a setting hen “Helen Vand you going to m: * he shouted. “Are into that set of tall- ored idiots after I've said to you?" “If I can get your approval,” sald the Boy, meek Let no one think the worse of for his hu He was penni- er had been curt- a very determined pair of unless she secured a Count at least she need expect no income. Van- derveer pere hs waded through much discomfort t n his present position and he me ow the world that he was as & his cheek was financia’ Helen and the ncle James was r Vanderveer. e « turiously. ng jacka: That girl three months. No, sir, selt.” He I've chosen —a woman that will —the kind of woman make my old age a a wife for 3 be the makir that will held tc sasure to both of us. You!" gesped the Boy, turning pale. “You've chosen a wife for me? 1 shan't you will,” posedly. returned Uncle “When 1 adopted . I sald to myself, t wife'—and you shall have her, with my blessing.” The calm of uesperation came to the Boy. Rather than give up Helen he would join the “White Wings" and earn his bread and hers on the street. Then he shivered to think how Helen would figure in such a programme—his dainty Helen, whom he had always seen in trail- ing gowns, except for a change to her spotiess yachting suit. “May I ask.” he sald, trying to suppress his rage, “whom you have selected for me? “My cook,” said Uncle James, “You needn't start coolly. up and snort like a wild horse! She is a lady born, but forced to earn her bread by reverses. Instead of pounding on some Infernal pilano, or screeching on the stage, or herding half & dozen spollt youngsters as a governess, she had the sense to take up a woman's highest profession—cooking.” “'Cooking! You have a fine idea of a woman’s abllity!” muttered the Boy. “‘Certainly I bave. The good cook con- serves man's Intellectual powers, leaving him undistracted by dyspepsia or other nightmares. Since this girl has been with me my brain has been 50 per cent clearer. A# to all this rot about woman's com- panionship, I tell you a well-roasted plece of meat or a light loaf of bread s a bet- ter stimulant than all the companionship of the best petticoat going. Look at the table—beautifully set! Remember the promptness of our meals for the past fortnight. She's waiting on the table to- dili because the mald is sick. She's never sick.” The Boy rose, choking with rage. “Understand me, sir,” he sald, as soon (Copyright, 1903, by W. C. McClure.) ES, an old man, Miss Edith, who begins to feel his age,” sald the colonel. “But you are not old, Colonel Lisenby. I am sure that few of the young men of to-day hold themselves as erect as you do, and I am quite sure that I have met few of them who have that graceful, deferential manner of yours in the presence of women. I think you are wrong to say that all romance must be dead for you,” said the girl, laughingly. Tall, glender and graceful, the youth of the girl's twenty years showed In sharp contrast to the fifty odd years of the handsome, soldierly looking man who stood at her side. “When you were younger, Miss Edith,” said the colonel, *you used to be very fond of having me tell you stories, and I think I will tell you one now, if you are sure it will not bore you.” *Please do, colonel. I used to think that there was no one who could tell such de- e as he could speak clearly, “that from now on- ¥ “Did you ring, sir?” demanded a eweet, familiar voice, The Boy whirled around to be confront- ed by a slim, demure vision in cap and apron. The vision ignored him complete- ly, her ey being fixed respectfully on Uncle James. “Did you ring, sir?” she repeated. was sure I heard the bell.” o ! “No, M [ didn’t ring,” said her em- ploycr, complacently, “but since you are here you may iill my glass again wita water.” Mary complied, The Boy. standing dumbly by his ch: , watched her slender, steady fingers as she served his uncle. When the girl disappeared Uncle James demanded triumphantly: Isn't she neat and pretty?’ The Boy attacked his dinner with an ap- petite which he had faiied to show be- fore. “Bhe's neat enough,” he sald, coolly. “With your permission, I'll help her clean up the dishes after dinner and see what I think of her.” A few minutes later Helen Vanderveer and the Boy faced each other in Uncle James’ kitchen with a sink full of dirty dishes between them, The Boy, coat off and sleeveg rolied up, was turning the hot water on with one hand and flourishing a dish mop in the other. ‘“What in the wide world ever made you think of such a gloriously foxy move as this?” he demanded. “Why,” confessed Miss Vanderveer laughing and yet blushing a little, “I owe it all to a sharp tongued od woman on Hester street. Some of us were down there slumming, and I carried an arm- ful of flowers. I offered her a rose and what do you think she did with 1t?" “Wore it next her heart forever more!"” sald the Boy promptly. “Not she! She threw it in the dirty grate, and with arms akimbo dellvered an address: ‘I've hearn about you rich folks,’ quoth she, ‘how you come nosin’ ‘round poor folks' rooms, puffing your- selves up that you are teachin’ us some- thin'! Teach, indeed! When you know enough to fill a workman's pail with o decent dinner then I'll hear to your llower missions an’ your religions!” “We got out of there promptly. The others said they were simply paralyzed by her impudence—but her words stuck in my head; I determined to show that old woman something—and I did. Afterward, when I found out from you that your uncle was an economical gourmet, I saw reason to bless my secret lessons at the cooking school. I am supposed,” she added, laughing, “to be with the De Peysters in Phlladelphia!" The Boy dropped the dishmop and folded her in an ecstatic embrace, from which they were finally aroused by a sharp volce at the pantry door: “Turn off that water, will you The Boy leaped to the faucet, for the forgotten dishwater in t.e sink was pour- ing over the edge, sputtering greasily everywhere. But the gourmet apparently did not mind. “You seem to have come to a good understanding!” he sald dryly. pet ed to speak with you about this to be.” “men do make fools of themselves occa- hy should 1 mind?” h your permission.” “You are,” he said. “Why did you sionally, I suppose.” “1 will try and make It up to him to- wished she would not be so take charge of him? ‘Because you hated 'Why ' not I. then?” morrow.” cursedly courteous me utterly T asked you whose child he was and—" “And I-—after dinner.” “It is but natural that a man should I did not hate you. Perhaps,” she sald “When I had no ready answer you as- aps we have not—considered the be demonstrative toward his own son,” slowly, “perhaps I did it because of the sumed that I was the man.” . she began. “I have theught you® re- love I once bore his father.” You never denfed it.” well? 1 have not"— strgined yourself on my account. If this “I never told you I was his father.” y God! I can't!” cried Chalmers, ris- o nk veu ve, 1 was thinking of is true I do not wish it any more; it 1s You brought him to this house to live ing. % . be served presently,” said my own remissness.” unfair to the boy"— —if 1 would keep hirm.” ““That is something to your credit,” she o -t o I answered, erimping the hem of her gown. “Since you decided that the boy was mine, why did you have him here?” “That,” she sald slowly, one of those things a man is constitutionally unable to understand.” *“Try to make me understan: “Well, vour son must have my care, since he has no mother.” “But I can't understand.” “I told you you couldn’'t. Do you not see, since you seemed to regret that his existence forever separated you from me, I wanted you should have some compen- sation?” Chalmers grew excited and stammered as he spoke. “You did it for love of me, because I ‘seemed’ to regret. You cannot call it ‘seeming’ when every throb of my heart was for you." “It throbled for another—there's boy, you know.” “What satisfaction could I feel In the dally presence of this wretched child?” “None, perhaps. But I may be forgiven for thinking that you still have left somes remnant of honorable and gentle feeling. A man’s.own son—"" “You took the child in for love of me, believing it to be mine. For love of me! Bay it, Dorothy, say it For the love I had felt—" “Love cannot die in an hour. You had been my wife less than two years—'" “And that boy was less than a year old. I assure you, love can dle in a min- ute under favorable circumstances.” “Suppose 1 were to tell you this boy Is not mine?”’ She started forward in her chalr. It love dles quickly the habit of hopa does not. “Suppose I were to ask you, ‘Whose cbild is he? " she answered hoarsely. “Why, it might be—any one's.” “Norman once told me that a little boy ‘might eat a bear,’" she replied. Mrs. Chalmers was articulating with difficulty. This was to be a Waterloo—for somebody on Napoleon's side. . “Dorothy, in Heaven's name—you love me to-day as you did In that first year of our married life. It is true, Dorothy, I did "not dare dream of that before, but now I know it. I cannot let this hour pass—give me one chance—the benefit of the doubt. Oh, Dorothy!” “There is no doubt,” she sald, staring at him. She hoped for something, she didn't know what. “Let us be reconciled. When I be- leved you hated me I had no power to plead, but now for God's sake, Dorothy"— 1 “Don't speak, don't speak,” Chalmers cried. He was holding out his arms. “What shall Is do?" she murmured, twisting her fingers and looking at Chal- mers’ open arms and remembering the feel of them about her in the old days. “What shall I do?” And then Norman laughed, just without the library door. They started as the same shaft struck them both. “For the last time,” she sald, hurriedly and under her breath, “who is bhis father?” 1 sald it—might be any one; 1t might— why, it might be your father”— Chal- mers was speaking convulsively, or he would never have sald it. “My father,” she repeated. Then Mrs. Chalmers seemed to assemble her wits. “My father—who loved you as his own son, whose memory great men celebrated to-day; my father, who loved my mother and her children next to homor! A hero the RS SRR SEI truth, whose h! Take that back,” she sald, looking for all the worla like the old general himself. T—take it back.,” answered Chal “But I luve you so—"" Chalmers se to be about deme for. “Madame is served,” spoke the discreet servant. 1 capnot dine to-night,” she said, and sud out at another door. Chalmers stood In the middle floor and looked off where his wife had E very ne “T will do it,” he sald suddenly. is hell, and T'll tell the truth.” E locked the small drawer of a cabinet near his desk. “And . maybe—she w hate me for the truth. She es me T for certain. 1 wonder just hox bad t truth would sound. It's years s 1 heard it—years,” he mused as a letter from the drawer. He carefully upon the desk. It seem have been read frequent how Dorothy’s hero father “ad mess of his affairs, and how his sclence was troubling him now that was dying. and how he trusted to ! loved son-in-law to square things for and for his consclence—and for a who was not his wife's. “I have not courage,” he had written, remer the boy fn my will, lest it excite s cion, and now I'm dying I have to make ether arrangements.” “Oh, Lord!" groaned Cha should die and Dorothy never t I was always as true, as true—" ( mers wiped the sweat from his face. “*If Dorothy found I was not she always thought me I should t my grave,’ ” Chalmers read. * the courage to ignore the ch W ence; his mother is dead a woman I knew In Paris. The boy onght to be looked after—leave all to you “By Jove! It sounds worse than I thought,” murmured Chalmers. “No, I guess I won't—but I'd rather be a dead hero than a& live one. I won't tell h about the old man, after all the dev— What s it, N man from the doorway. riedly thrust the letter into the drawer and fumblingly dropped the key upen the floor. While he was trying to find it without overturning his chair or rising from it Norman stood upon the heart watching him. “I'm to hear a stor about her father.” Chalmers, falling to find the key, the room, and Mrs. Chalmers entered “Your father was a hero, all righ wasn’'t he, Mrs. Chalmers?' sald Nor- man, sitting back on his heel “Yes,” she answered “My tather wasn't, was he?” wistfully left *Mr.' Chalmers once sald he was not.” “Are you very fond of Mr. Chalmers?” he I think paused. loved you W “]J—I—don't know, mada is very good.” The boy “Would you m! 38 much?” “There is no reason love me at a ¥ why you should lied, coldly. “I should be glad If you loved meé. You do not,” pausing. “do you, Mrs. Chal- mers? No one d do they?" He was becoming hysterical In hi ax, and she moved uneas! “I'm sorry portiere about his mechanically picked up feet. “It's Mr. Chalmers’ key,” & still in the curtains. “Tt belo drawer of the cabinet.” Mrs. T looked long at the key and longer at t cabinet. Chalmers’ secret | had dw there, she knew it, and she had fore permitted her gown to b cabinet as she passed by, things seemed different. S the key and then fitted There was but one letter in the draw and that bore her father's writing. M Chalmers was a miserable woman a longed that night to be near her fat the aoked She fingered the letter, and N snuffed softly and looked out at winking street lights. All the glory the military had now departed and it ‘was ralning. “She found your key, Mr. Chal esald Norman from the window as mers stood shaking in the doorway First she read the letter then she was & long, long time in Chalmers’ arms, and then & small voice sald amazed never saw you do that before.” Chalmers began to laugh and could not al- stop. “T'll be all right to-morrow,” he sobbed, “but to-night I've gone clean mad. I know new that happiness might kill. Nothing ever went wrong again with Mr. or Mrs, Chalmers, and every day thereafter the boy had the “time of his life,” according to his own account. | THE REAL TROUBLE WITH DAN — (Copyright, 1903, by T. C. McClure.) 5—g NE after another the carriage doors banged and their black tops glistened into distance with the sound of quick trotting hoofs, as the well-groomed horses, S sleek and steaming in the drizzle, hurried impatiently for shelter and warm blankets. She who a half hour ago was Justina Macomber, now to be known as Mrs. Al- mon Hartwell, stood, bright-eyed and smiling, by her husband's side. Her hand ached from many fervent grasps, her round cheeks blushed from many kisses, wclcome and otherwise. She longed for the moment when escape would be hers, and with Almon’s arm about her, they might hear the shutting of another car- riage door, and speed away upon life's happy journey. ‘The man at the door was still busy, al- though that lull had come between gen- eral arrival and departure. At first his broad, clean-shaven face had borne a grin of polite welcome. Now it was grave and worried, and he glanced frequently over his shoulder to scan the throng crowding the rooms behind. Many knew the old family indoor man, and nodded at him famillarly, wondering at his perturbed look. Then his mistress came up. ““What's the trouble, Dan, Tired out?” “No, mum.” IAsmxul stories beginning ‘Once upon a ok’ ““This story begin in the same way, Miss Edith. ‘Once upon a time,’ nearly forty Years ago, & young man was very much in love with a very beautiful woman. The two lived in a little Southern village on the Mississipp! River, and had been play- mates through childhood. It was an un- derstood thing between the families of the two that the boy and girl should be mar- ried when they were grown. . ““One day a foolish little quarrel came up between the two young people, and it was not made up as soon as it should have been. Perhaps the man was wrong; at any rate he was heartily sorry afterward that he did not say he was wrong and make peace in that way. “Before the quarrel was made up, the Civil War broke out, and the young man considered it his duty to go to the front in the ranks of the Southern army. It ‘was his luck to see a great deal of fight- ing and to win promotion more than once. At Gettysburg he was badly wounded and captured. For months he lay in a hospi- tal, and on his recovery was confined in a Northern prison until the end of the ‘war. ““When the war was over he was re- leased and hurried back to the little vil- . COLONEL LISENBY'S ROMANCE--By Angus Blantyre. lage he had lived in. There he found that eyes across the river to where the lights the <oman he loved was dead. Her of West Point could be seen on top of mother told him that it had been sald the Palisades. in the village that he was killed at Get- tysburg, and that when nothing The man's glance followed hers. Neither was Spoke for a moment, and then, with an ef- heard of him afterward the girl had died fort which he hoped was not visible to of a broken heart. “Memory of the woman he had loved did not leave him. The man himselt, in his bitterest moments, never wished for that. ““The man, as the old memories became dulled after many years, began to wonder . if it was best for him to always live a 8oll- grateful to you. But we neither of tary life. Then he began to wonder If thought that you would be at all inter- the girl. the man sald: “So you are engaged to Jack Carter? I thought I was too old a friend not to have been told of this before.” “I meant to have told you this even- ing,” said the girl. “Jack says you were 80 good about getting him appointed to academy that we have both felt us he was not in love with a beautiful YOUNE egted fn a romance.’ girl whom he knew and then resclved to ask her to marry him. Do you think he nel, with a little dry laug! did right? The girl did not answer for a moment, ‘“You do me an injustice,” said the colo- 3 am always interested in romance, for instance, the one which I have been just telling you. and then she sald, in & voice so low and I know the man and have taken a great sympathetic that you could almost de- tect the ring of tears in it: deal of interest In the case. 1 shall ad- Vise him not to propose to the girl. But “I am thinking of the woman who died. You must permit me to tell you that I I do not belleve the man will ever forget Wish you all happiness, and that I con- her if he loved her as much as you say. I know that if I were to dle I would want sider Jack a very lucky fellow.” “They are beginning to dance, colonel; Jack to love me alwiys, as the man you WOn't you come in with me?” ; hove told me of loved the woman, and not “Thanks; I fancy my dancing days are to think of another woman. over. I think I will stay here and smoke The girl was looking with tear-dimmed a cigar.” 1 “Anything go wrong? “No, mum—but there’s a many people here. Most of 'em I know. Some of "em I dow't. I'm frettin’ lest you may have something stole, mum.” 5 Mrs. Macomber chuckled. “There isn't the slightest danger, Dan. What with an officer watching the presents and a de- tective keeping his eye on things, we needn’t worry I guess. Why don’t you go now and get a bit to eat and a cup of coffee? You haven't sat down since morning. I'll tell Mary to take your place.” “No, mum! Not till they're all gone, mum.” “You're foolish,” said the lady, and moved away. “Maybe!” muttered the old man, lean- ing one thick shoulder against the wall “The Bobby's a weary boy he's told me. Three nights now an’ not sleepin’ well. ‘Dan,’ he says to me this noon, ‘I dredd the evenin’. 'Tis bard for one pair of eves to cover a mob. Two of us is one too few,’ says he, ‘but Mr. Macomber gives me the grand laugh, and I'll have to 'tend bar alone. And It's so. “The detective? A needle iIn a hay- stack! Oh, well, there’ll prob’ly be noth- in' happen. Ah! but to think of Miss Tina a-leavin’ us. And to stop and kiss old Dan good-by when she starts for the church—all in her weddin' gown like the angel she is. A baby when L first come L The girl stepped in through one of the open windows and the man lit a cigar. Perhaps it was the moonlight on the water, perhaps it was the old waltz tune which floated out of the windows of the house, perhaps the old memories were brought up so keenly by the story he had told the girl on the plazza. Whatever the cause, the effect was to carry the mind of the man back to another time and an- other scene. The Hudson became another river, the Palisades on the farther side became a low, wooded shore. The breeze which came from the river seemed heavy with scent of magnolia. The man who paced slowly up and down the plazza was young again. At his side there seemed to walk a wom- an, as beautiful and as young as the girl who had just left him. But the beauty of this woman was of the South, and her dress was of the fashion of forty years ago. The measure of forgetfulness which time had granted the man slipped away, and the old keen heartache woke once again to poignant life, And the man, walking with memories and ghosts in the pure, calm moonlight, thanked God that the heartache was alive once more. By Elliot WalKer. twenty year ago te work on the hosses. Liked me, she did, an’ "twas ‘Dan! Dan!” tl I was like a nurse gal and in the house helpin’. And me, three months after a ring fight 'Twas time I quit—too old— too old. Lucky I've been to get where I em and no one suspectin’. Still, "twas an honest trade, and only now and then I'd meet a man. A waiter, a coachman, a trainer, a fighter, a hostler, a nurse gal— he—he—and now a nice respectable old butler man mindin’ the door and every- thing else. Sure, 'tis a curious round— bloomin’ queer one. Father a Yankee, mother English, me born in Australia, brought up in Frisco, fit In Kansas City. and now for twenty year a New Yorker, decent and layin’ up coin. Dan, you're not a bad sort, to do so well by your gray hatrs.” ‘These reflections, cut short by a burst of shouting mirth, a rush eof feet, a shower of rice and a fiying slipper, changed to swift attention. Dan closed the portal after the fleeing couple and watched the scattering to the dresst: rooms, for the exodus was at hand. “Mr. Hopper's. carriage.” *“Mrs. Cotway!™ “Now, Colonel Mix.” The crowd began to thin with Dan’ rapid dispositions. A heavy-set man, with his overcoat collar high turned to his ears, pressed close upon the heels of the Drayton party. There was a suddea stoppage. Dan's watchful eye narro sharply. The old servant's hand stol cautiously up the back of the overcoat beside him to touch the halr and lft it slightly with an unfelt finger. “Wig!” he growled to himseif, “and cropped. By— “Right along,” sounded his pleasant call, and with the movement his foot went out. The gentleman beside him stumbled and clicked his teeth with aa exclamation. “Beg pardon!” sald the butler, and caught him gently around the body, but with hands that ran searchingly and pressed on curious hard knobs. “Go on, please,” entreated Dan calmly, dropping his right arm and slipping to the left and forward. ‘“Not hurt, sir, I hope.” A mumbled “No,” with a shake of the lowered head. “Do move out,” cried the butler more loudly. “Sorry to seem to hurry you, but I want room for this gentleman. He's fainted.” 0 one had seen that heavy, paralyzing heart blow, nor heard the gasp as the vic- tim sank to his knees. Some looked back and shook their heads, unknowingly, to see good old Dan tenderly supporting the sufferer, while he called genially across the hall to the detective, talking to Mr. After the last carriage had rolled away, another was driven up and the bracelets worn by the short-haired, hard-jawed man, so unceremoniously bundled in, were not Justina's.