The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 27, 1903, Page 2

/ THE SUNDAY CALL. for some minutes. ‘Oh, mot much! My & physician, alwa table—and was there- said e better than the f his neighbors—and we k the wine or not as we . me good claret ng to a sald, after a n. He looked 2 » w his thoughts h beg your pardon,” em all say very pleasant 4 most eager d agreeabl hat sit- eager th agreeably t- 1. He drank while Howard fin- when Howard sald g, Turnbull asked , and they for him. nd with a sudden nd voice that sug- different person, said: man. I know that nd he knows that I keeps us such good friends. I'm squeezed Carson is such an knows that I know it!" compaman shocked He would have left certs that Carson walted, talking nbull some t a est man—and change in his peined Howard hed he been 1d soon be there on different subjects replying in his natura managing d Turnbull door of his ng with the editor came walked with lodging-house While strugg’ jar door lock Howard overheard Say to some re strance of Carson’s, “Oh, you needn't fear! I've promised to dine Paxton to-morrow evening, 80 you needn't fear for me this time. I'll go home to-nigh IX—THE TWO WHITE RIVER GIRLS. Some readers of this page have aiready made acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. John Worthington in another history of days llke these. In the years during which his eldest son gradually emerged from the restricted world governed by his high-priced tutors into the larger world of society and affairs John Worthington Br. had changed but little His rounded &hould had expanded a little, making his resemblance to an inverted pyramid more marked; his face had grown more gray, making it a little more to discover the fact that he wore gray sidewhiskers; a little more nced was his manner of determined and ponderous amiability—as if, whatever the justification, he would never be sur- prised into displaying by his expression how far beneath him was the world in general. He still belleved that he was a person, not an institution; he still thought that the “Worthington interests” were in some manner controlled by him, and that the people really in charge of the many and mighty affairs known as the Worth- ington interests were directed by him. No one ever sought to disabuse his simple mind of that harmiless delusion, and he ettended board meetings, councils, confer. ences with his accustomed bearing of having something to do there besides to give his consent, and when required his signature, to the decisions and resuits of the managers who actually forwarded the ehort pron industrial and commercial and financial interests which combined to make the fortune vested in his name, but with whose direction or control he had no more to do than the man in the street. Mrs. Worthington, who had been the beautiful Nan Lansing, rejoiced more than she had over any other thing that had wh into her serene, smiling life n she saw that her first-born, Jack, had in inheriting her strong mental fiber nerited her m determination to rule ere he reigned. When at an early age into contact with the men in the Worthington interests and u »ok to train him into the re- ectable figurehead required as a con- essor of his father they were o see him show a good-natured his mother's manuer, to he uld know to equip ead of the Worth- ts. His mother rejoiced to to redeem the af- nto the family hands £ which disturbed her repose was that her come iite in band was t in the hands of men who took y perfunctory pains to make show of treating him otherwise th of office furniture. —had taken preliminary formation of a n industries, in was to be the final plans of aved by the failure plece of mining quiet re body. The fact was s control by the Worthingto: on, a would always t ening T h its control a rivalry wo be impossible, two teres struggiing for th ship in the proposed formation that the the center of mined ore, evelopments combination t 3 Bunton 1 was, In deposit of rich and proved to be so by all sides of cret on which Bunton himself could ha ect knowledge. Why, then, would he sell? the evening that Howard made his ce in the editorial rooms of ronicle Jack Worthington it and mother the story ot his latest fallure to b g Mr. Bun terms. “He's a curious chap, i “or rather he is curiously minded abou this land of his. In other things he seem: to be a stralghtforward sort of fellow His mother, who had seemed to be but lightly interested in the detalls of the looked up now with a sudden terest, and repeated, *‘Straightforwa Did I say straightforward?”’ her son “I might have sald common- might have sald Hoboken,” she ng, “but what you did say was traightforward.’ I'm dreadfully disap- pointed for your sake, Jack. I hoped you'd make a success of this—believed you woul She was silent for a moment and then sald with the conviction of volce and manner that women use only when they have formed an opinion intui tively: “Then Mr. Bunton is dishones “Nonsense, Nan!" This from the sen- for Worthington. *‘Mr. Bunton is—he is —is a man of—of property.” “Then of course he can’t be dishones ghe said, laughing good-naturedly at him. “I'd like to see the honest gentleman.” ‘I was about to tell you,” Jack said. “They are in town, and as they enter- tained me out there you must call on m ‘Certainly,” said his mother. “You say ‘them,” Jack: how many of them?" “Mr. and Mrs. and Miss Bunton. Like what, for instance.” “Personally? Oh, father and mother like any one you'd meet anywhere. Mother a quiet, well mannered woman, somewhat disciplined by daughter, I should say. Was a schoolma’am, I seem to have heard. Pa Bunton, rather nerv- ous chap; seems to like to have his wom- going it soclally—in a White River way. Angd the daughter?” es, the daughter!” jolned in Worthington with awakened interest. “The daughter?—oh, she's a—why, she’s a girl.” “Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Worthington in pretended amazement. “I rather fan- cled her being a boy."” “Well, she's—let me see,” Jack said, puckering his brows. “She’s decidedly a good looker.” “Good looker? What's the English for en Mr. that?’ asked his mother, raising her brows. “I thought, mamma dear, that you might know the song in which the soul- ful line occurs: ‘She’s a corking good looker! See? But, of course, if you only speak Bnglish, and know no Manhattan- “Well, Miss Bunton has two rather large blue eyes with which she is not at all afrald to look at you—meaning any one—with assurance. She has hair which, as 1 recall, was of a fluffiness. She sings the songs of Broadway with a dash quite surprising to hear in White River; and generally tangles the hearts of the swains of them parts, as the poet says, in a manner sad-to contemplate; and—' I think that will do,” his mother inter- rupted hopelessly. “Is this young person of & marriage- able age?’ asked his father solemnly. rmnBULL INVERTED 7/4E LA o Gl T THATT?” G SAID. “Sir, she is so,~ Jack answered just as solemnly. “Then,” said the head of the house of Worthington, with deep meaning “I see & way to get that Bunton land into the fam- {ly without buying it. “What in ever can papa be hinting at 1d Jack, winking at his mother. A marriageable daughter, and the only child. Ah said Mr. Worthington in a tone of solemn mystery. “Ah!" Your father is a lrem?nda:l,u social diplomat,” Mrs. Worthington said to her gon, shaking her head at him, to keep him from laught And, mamma," “There are some other p White River you must call on. You've rd me speak of Paxton? The chap the rs call the ‘Wkite River Advocate Is it White River etiquette that I nould 1 on him?" she asked, smiling. ster, Miss Paxton.” k, Ic inot extend my call- indefinitely. It's getting rather 1 with nobodies again, and needs said Jack suddenly, e here from call the Paxtons ‘no- le said in a tone that at him with sudden scrut- I thought I had mentioned eniertained me at their 15t sides have she cried, pinching his need not be serlous, need you have accepted 1 shall on the girl— did you s Grace Advocate Paxton.” 1 what is she like?” ? Well, it it comes to that, she's “Dat “But er ki 1 girls! Pecullar White red his mother. d of girl. She goes in “Charity, temperance or woman's hts rchitect ecoration.” podness, 4 Plays like an angel!” “Harp?"”’ Sings bully, and—and—what to know particula mam- s to eyes and hair, for instance. You remember the iron-ore girl's.” “But Miss Paxton is different.” *“8o you've sald.” “Let's see s jolly, without being and can droop not u know: Yes, I know And is awfully proud of Howard.” “Howard?’ “Her brother. Good, honest, stanch pride; and her eyes—did 1 mention them? —are dark and clear, and kind, and sweet —why, what's the matter, mamma?" othing, my son. Those electric lights just there. Y turn out that cluster. They rather hurt my eyes. Were you go- ing to your club? Good night, my dear. Nan,” sald Mr. Worthington when they were alone, “I have a plan. We'll not let Jack know until you've seen and formed a judgment of the young person, but if Miss Bunton seems to be a desira- ble wife for him, why, don't you see, we can have him marry her, and then the land—did you speak to me?"” “Were you awake when Jack talked to me just now?’ “I don't think I've slept.”” ““Then, didn’t you hear Jack tell me that he's in love with Miss Paxton? “In love? Truly, I must have dozed! I did not once hcar the word love.” “He said it a hundred—a thousand— times. Oh, my son!” Grace made her home with widowed Mrs. Hartley and her daughter Florence, who, happily for Grace's plans, was a student at the School of Design. They lived in an old-fashioned nelghborhood of the East Side, about midway between Madison square and the Park, but not so far off the avenue that it could not be found by Mrs. Worthington's coachman with only a little trouble. The small wis- taria-covered dwélling, and a little income —a very little one—was all that the late Mr. Hartley left of a once respectable fortune; so the widow had fallen into a social obscurity from a former luster which can be judged when it is said that, upon recelving Grace's address, Mrs. Worthington distinctly recalled Mrs, Hartley as a person she once knew. Therefore, as Mrs. Worthington is the most tactful woman in New York, when she was recelved by the widow Hartley, she greeted her as if they had parted but yesterday, and met now, as alway friends, equals. Mrs. Hartley, not being much more lonely now than during the festive life- time of the departed Haftley, had accept- ed widowhood apd reduced income with cheerful philosophy, and was in a frame of mind now to enjoy the great Mrs. ‘Worthington's pose without bitterness or cynicism. ‘‘Nan Worthington deserves all her good fortune,” she thought, ‘‘for it never spoiled her.” Mrs. Hartley was above making pre- tense as to her worldly state, so, when Mrs, Worthington said, ““And your visitor, her eyelids—not Miss Paxton 11 1 see her?” the widow replied, “My boarder, Miss Paxton, is sure to be home in a few minutes with my daughter. They are attending the School of Design together—and here they are. And there they were, to be sure, for a voice in the | called out sturdily, tea; bread and jam; oh, how y starved we am! Where are you, nma?" Mrs. Worthington had not seen Miss Hartley eince the days when she took her airing on the avenue with a nurse- maid, and now, when two young women burst into the little parlor, laugaing and keeping step to the refrain, “Tea, tea, bread and jam,” she looked from one to the other keenly, to see if she could de- cide which was the Westerner who had captured the affections of her son. Her instinet quickly and correctly decided upon the taller of the two, the one with big dark eyes, who, discovering a stranger, blushed, stopped swinging the picture hat she held in one hand, and gave a m of brown hair a hasty, des- perate sweep with the other bhand, in a hope that !ts workroom disorder would abate somewhat, Mrs. Worthington made an enfashion- ably long call; waited for and partook of tea, bread and jam: walted to hear all about Miss Hartley's studies, and to ex- press her surprise that such an Institu- tion as the 8chool of Design was flourish- ing ‘n New York and she never hear of it; waited to refresh Mrs. Hartley with gossip of the sct, exactly as if that lady was still a member: but never did she seem to take more than casual notice of Grace, after politely putting the one or two conventional questions required by the fact that it was Grace, after all, whom she had called on. But when she on her way home she canvassed Grace: every point in her appearance, _her volce, manner, every word she had spoken, every detall. Grace was a little nervous about re- turning that call, until Mrs. Hartley agreed to go With her. “I must go," she eald, “for one good card deserves another, so I might as well go when you do, Miss Paxton. 1 probably shall not have the privilege of meeting Mrs. Worth- ington again in another dozen years or more; but that is nothing—in New York.” The call developed nothing of a terrify- ing nature. There were several other women there, and, to Grace's surprise, a few men: but no one took much notice of any one else; no more or less, cer- tainly, than they did of Grace, and after a few words with the hostess Grace felt emboldened in the general lack of interest any one had in any one or anything, to inspect such rooms of the great house as were opened and thrown together. She became much interested in this and was glad that her professional curiosity was not observed—though sometimes she caught Mrs. Worthington glancing at her: “Just to see that I don't get lost, I sup- pose,” thought Grace. When she went, with Mrs. Hartley, to say good-by to Mrs. Worthington, the hostess sald, “You are going In for architectural de- signing, my son tells me. “‘Yes,” Grace replied. “When we left White River I feit prepared to design the decorations of a palace or a theater. But now”—she smiled—""I would not un- dertake to decorate a doll's house. My! I have a year of the principles of archl- tecture before I am allowed even to un- dertake a conventional detail.” “You have been looking at our decora- tions hers. What do you think of them?” “In White River I should have been prepared with an answer,” Grace replled, with another smile. = “But here—I am dumb.” “But you must not lack confidence—in New York of all places.” The Buntons took a furnished house near the park, and were in a sur- prisingly short time very much at home there. Mrs. Bunton solved the problem of how to manage an establishment re- quiring a dozen servants for its proper conduct, by the expedient of turning the whole management over to a housekeep- er, who made such a liberal estimate for expenses that. with her own tradesmen’s commissions and the cook’s and butler's stealings added to the actual expenses, the total came near enough to the esti- mate 10 make complaint seem mere fault- finding. So domestic peace reigned. Isaac approved of this plan, for his af- fairs were prosperous. It was a desirable arrangement, too, for it gave Mrs. Bun- ton leisure to devote to Dalsy’s amuse- ments. These were found chiefly in the shops, the restaurants where ladies may go unattended and the theaters. The lat- ter fascinated Daisy. A single visit to a popular play or light opera far from sat- jsfled her. She went again and again, and the more numerous and gay the com- pany of performers the oftener she would see them. As she showed a calm purpese to g0 to the afternoon perform- ances alone if her mother was disposed to rebel against a third or fourth visit to the same playhouse within a few weeks, Mrs. Bunton was constrained to g0, too, the more as it was evident that Dalsy would have welcomed an excuse to go alone. When Mrs. Bunton confided this discovery to her husband he sald: “Well, Carrie, it's a task on you, I know; but try to endure it, for it's the first thing Daisy has taken a real interest in since—since then.” I wish she cared for the soclety of nice people,” his wife commented. *“ Since we dined at the Worthingtons’ & number of the people we met there, and others, have called on us. I know they were asked to call by Mre. Worthington. Some of the young men are very nice, and seem dis- posed to be attentive to Dalsy; but she is the same here as at home—capricious, or careless, or cynical to them.” “Is she that way to young Worthing- ton?"” *Not wholly 8o; but it seems to me that is only because her pride is flattered by his attentlon—she is not interested in him,"” “I'm sorry for that. Carrie, Mr. Worth- ington gave me a very plain hint recently that he would favor a marriage between Daisy and his son.” “'Oh, Isaa “He éicn’t say 50 In so many words; but if that wasn’t the meaning of his talk I'm more mistakén than I'm in the habit of being.” “Isaac, supposing Dalsy should change —should take an Interest in some man that led to a proposal—what should we do about—about—-' “Why need we say anything?' he asked. “The old Justice who married them Is dead; no record of the marriage exists and no one outside of the family knows.” “Daisy has changed so much,” sighed the mother. She did not tell her husband that what made her sigh’' was not any change in Daisy that could be observed by the po- lite people they met now at thelr own end other houses. There, any change in the girl was to her advantage. She was cleverly imitative when she chose to be, and her manner was now a close copy of the bdest models she saw; and, with the exception of young men whose interest seemed to have a sentimental leaning, her new acquaintances found her quietly frank and amiable. But Mrs. Bunton gaw another side of Dalsy; saw that her interest in the theaters she most fre- quented was more in the performers than in the performance. Daisy had already picked up an acquaintance with other young women, who, like her, wers per- sistent matinee goers, and their talk was of the men on the stage. The mother saw that it was in this life that the girl's whole Teal interest was centered—aside from the one thing they never mentioned. Yet Daisy did not seem to be wayward minded—she was willful, rather—and If it had not been for the appearance of the thing, her mother would have as freely trusted her to go out alone now as in the unconventional days of White River. The love she bore even for the memory of Harry Lawton would save her from ac- tual evil, her mother belleved. X~LOVE AT THE HURDLES. Howard Paxton prospered in his way as well as did Isaac Bunton. The uneasy fears excited by the words of Turnbull at their supper were soon dispelled by his experiences at the office. There was one early unpleasantness, but that was ex- plained. When his first contribution to the paper appeared, the objectionable il- lustration to the verses also appeared in its place. Howard went to the office thoroughly angry. He was glad there was no contract; he would resign! But before he could utter a word of protest, when he called on Mr. Carson for that purpose, the managing editor, who seem- ed to be In a towering rage, exclaimed: “Well, I guess that art editor will obey instructions after this—wherever he gets work. I declare, Paxton, I never was so angry in my life! He needn’t tell me about mnot understanding orders; about the rush of work that upset him: about his wife and family. He should think of his wife and family before he makes such a blunder as to leave that picture in your verses. And then for the stupid fel- low to come here and whine that he can't get work anywhere else. Let him starve!” Howard's rage instantly passed and he was all compassion. “I was awfully put out by that picture being run, after you ordered it killed; but if it's a question of any one being discharged who needs work I'd feel much worse to have that dore than to have my stuff pictured with ballet girls “Oh, you're too soft-hearted, Paxton! Let the fellow go. It'll teach him a les- son—to starve a little.” “No, really, Mr. Carson. I'd feel like a thief if the man was discharged on my account.” “If you insist upon it,” the editor said reluctantly, “I'll give him another chance.” “1 really wish you would,” Howard said earnestly. “Just send that fellow a note, then, sald Carson, turning to his stenographer, “and say that he has another chance.” “Yes, sir,” the stenographer repiied, but instead of making any note he glanced at Howard in a way which sald, “As clever a man as you are, gulled by Car- son’s commonest pretense! When Howard grew hardened to seeing his name and picture often and glaringly displayed in the columns of the paper and on the bill bcards of the elevated road stations he enjoyed his neg experiences. His work was hard, but he liked to work hard. He agreed to write ten columns a week; but he wrote when he liked, and as he was accustomed to day work he wrote in the daytime now, and this gave him his evenings with Grace, an arrange- ment they both keenly enjoved. They searched for, found and luxuriated In good music, until Turnbull, who was their frequent companion, declared that he wag at last convinced of the truth of the saying he had long doubted that archi- tecture wi the art most closely allied to music. ‘‘No oné merely human crea- ture could possibly have two separate en- thusiasms such as yours for architecture and music,” he sald to Grace. “T see it all; they gre but two forms of the same art, and you have but one enthusiasm for ene thing, differently expressed.” 'But,” sald Grace, “architecture s sa:1 €0 be frozen music. You don't think t do you? I think it is living and wa. and loving—or lovable, Don’t you?" Did he? He would have thought a thing she could possibly have sugges as to this world or the next; of art life, or of man, God, devil, or death! “The saying lives,” he replied, “because it is picturesque; not that it bhas a truth, or even sense. Here is your bro er; he makes words into sayligs without & glimmer of sense, but in a form that jingles, that catches on the threads of the mind as a burr catches on the threads of your skirt and clings there, FPeople repeat his sayings with the modest p of being their inventor; on the stage they set his jingles to music and sing t deeper into men’s minds, and your bro becomes conceited and begins to thi that he has done a worthy thing. Not at all. Now real worth—well, for instance, I'm preparing a special article on the national economic value of substituting corn cakes for beefsteaks as the Ameri- can breakfast dish. It is one of a series of brilliant articies by which we propose to down the beef trust. Or see the color of its money,” he added under his breath. “Mr. Turnbulll” exclaimed Grace, “if ou dare to joke about Howard's writing shall not let you ro to the concert with us to-night.” pore the man's envy and malice, sis- ter,” said Howard, ntil he has put me up and had me elected a member of this club.” They were dining, as Turnbull's guests, at a little club whose members were near- ly all writers or artists. The club was housed in the first floor and basement of an old residence in a street far enough down town to be convenient for mor newspaper men who must return to w after dinner, and to Howard was ons AN ® the chief attractions of New York. When he found that members were permitted to have the women of their families to din ner there he eagerly accepted Turnbull's offer to put him up for membership. its atmos and wit him the club was romantic, phers semsitively congenial its walls, quaintly decor: drawings by trators toonists whose names wers he found a charm fn It he had dreamed belong companionship between men, but w he had never befors known. Howard was soon made welcome there as a A poet whose verses ha alry or gently satiric Ima phases of New York comer’s seconder w pipe, rose from where he was expla the gentle art of pug who would smile w gentle poet’s didacty, can wrestling, and then est This young man Howard had e or despalr. some explos! feared would quick smile look Wway 80 engaging t smile at him in town for G club at a favor dinner—he was by the pale-faced youth of tions. George Bannister, young man's name, sat by Howard's side and talked with exceeding vol ity a with highly un-American but expressive use of eyes, shoulders and hands in em phasis and explanation of sentiments. He praised Howard's work extravagantly and showed & familiarity with It that was flattering. Then with a sigh he became silent and his manner denoted & deep of melancholy, emergence from which would seem to require a miracle. Howard, fear- ing to disturb this settled sadness, began reading the advertisements in the car, and after a smilling study of them pro- ceeded to copy some of those in rhyme He was making a collection of them and eagerly sought new specimens. In this innocent employment he was rudely dis- turbed by hearing Bannister hiss in his ear: “Sir, 1 demand to know what you are laughing at “Weas 1 laughing?’ asked Howard startled at the other's intensity. “That is & quibble, sir. You were smil ing.” “One may smils, and not be & villain,™ Howard suggested. “If 1t 1s your purpose to insult me, sir” Bannister hissed, “I only ask that you do it elsewhere—on the sidewmlk Wil you go with me?* Howard could but comply with the in- vitation, for already the other passen- gers were showing an embarragsing In- terest In him and his companion. On ti sidewalk Bannister again demanded: “Will you tell me what you were laugh- fog_at?” “Yes, 1 will,” Howard replied, “bdut I rmst say that I don’t like your man 14 make my explanation, and then I'll ask one of you, if you please.” I'll give you any kind of satisfact! 2 n r'* the other exclaimed ome peop!l ¥ for collecting epitaphs, sa bookplates, or after-dinner speeches ve a fancy for dvertiseme: v Iy 1 find which extol the merits of Iron Beds, among others, find a new crop in that car, I them, and it appears that I sm were worth a smile—I thought th witty. Now, sir, if you But he got no further to ask an explanation ter's flew around his neck hands, put an arm hurried him up the rush of words am a th Say that street, “I am a triple donk saying tle-eating ass! Forgive you hate and d abominate me, but that yo me! I thought your I that you gibed me; t tution full of idiots worthless life—that is nothing! that you forgive me!™ He was so honestly in an agony of b miliation that Howard sald with re concern: “I forgive you. But what t put both hands He was beam boy. “I wrote sald Howard, confused he declared, smiling brightly “I write verses for the drawings I make for beds, foods, soap—no one ever befors acknowledged their wit. But,” his face was suddenly the picture of despair—" I am unsung, unhonored—it is a dog's eall- ing! It is a jest! The crowd laughs, but will not give credit for the wit that makes it laugh! I hate the crowd! I loathe, de- spite—bah! The dirt beneath—but, sir, I love you! I am an outcast, a dog—dine with me! This nameless trade makes money—aye, we'll dine as princes dine.’ “Thank you,” Howard said, still slightly dazed by the young man's torrential and