The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, October 4, 1903, Page 3

THE SUNDAY CALL EH-HOO!™ ated over the the little ra- through of the Matg look: night. rway where the rocks and formless sea of his was occasion- his esr, leaning e. She waited - roppe hand upon she ex , and fell to Sor i e of the be to the » W every t at her feet. called Mat came in the lo called again and the was mak- he opposite nswer told her s ng safe. the keel But when touched the sand wfiew the big tres where 1 led off from the main road ng place at the edge of the inch of the hear the waves softly; the answer from £ bateau and t against the Mat's strong arms gave way under the strain they had had to sustain. “Get in, stranger,” she said; “bdut 1 must rest before we go. It is days since I brought the boat over.” “Give me the blade, I'll take her back myself,” said the man. “I can't see ye, little ‘un, but I ecan tell by yer voice ye're i LILAC BLOOMS | right, 108, by T. C. McClure) ANBURY, fresh from the wilds of the West, where, for & year or more, he had been busy taming rebellious nature—efter the man- Der of civil engineers— same down the steps t lof from his to the street, with oulders well back and the alive in his heart Fometling of the wholesomeness of natvre's clung to him, show- ing in the clearness of his eyes and the breadth of his chest KHere was a man, one saw & glance, accustomed to wide borizons and great draughts of untainted “r May- that tender mixture of spring and sunmer—was casting its glamor over the ey, and blood whirled through his veins with an intoxicating Rockles, where the more Inti- onrush of the was delightful » magic touch, sights and sounds faded @ and axn old-fashioned gar ¥y before his mind's beve made me think of ) was the silent t to himself. But e his train a pushcart k. upon which of lilac bios- rstood. It was at had transport- enes and the membered b flowers and, the attention of with his parchment . t ng eves, who saw 1 3 her way of getting o ot & bunch insinuatingly. . select- plish spikes of face and sniffed at it eixth sense that comes . “ well much in citles, he to allow a vehicle victoria, and leaning hions was a girl of years, the sight of w eh' his thoughts quickly back sponsible moment he could lay no especial But the fresh, girlish € and clear, and by a t looked out at him lac as pale and soft in heid in his hand. er large hat, the were all of that color. vewildered feeling that { human flower, and he & trance, noting the -r skin and the clear d.passed. Iers were 1 Lhey verged upon and. Lanbury, who was but the + | By Heith Gordon | > he blossom lowed with a I ker of appreciation ful blur of Under the thick fo trees 1n Madison s re he sat down to pull him- self together. “Ridiculous!” he argued sagely. “A man of 38 to lose his head over the glimpse of an ordinary girl In a pale- tinted gown.” At last he rose and straightened himself with a quick, sharp de n of manner which those who knew him had learned to recognize as a sign of determination. She was The Woman! Absurd as it was, he felt exultantly positive of that. And for the rest— 1, he had a calm confidence in himself. He would surely find her and win her. As all observant persons must have no- ticed, fate dearly loves to be trusted. In this instance she rewarded Danbury’s confidence by bringing him face to face with the victoria once more @s he emerged from the Square. By her quick avoidance of his giance, he saw that the girl recog- nized him, and at the knowledge a sud- den glow suffused him. He felt as if their lives were already upon the loom of des- t Without & moment’s hositation he stopped & passing cab, and with a few hurried words to the driver, jumped In. ‘Do you happen to know the Gran- villes of East Twentieth Street?” he in- quired of Bartram, with whom he dined that night, for he had learned so much + (Copyright, 1803, by T. C. McClure). ERUSHA AMANDA DIBBS was his broth- er's wife, and bad as- serted and maintained her authority over both his brother and himself ever since she mall had become a mem- ber of the family. All morning he had been wondering uneasily for whom the storm was brewing, and as her husband had ten out of the house unscathed he feared that he was in for 1t. He was standing by the window now, looking out aimlessly. wishing that it were over and yet not daring to aveld it, and when she entered the room in which he stood, clearing her throat em- phatically, he turned toward her with a shiver of apprehension. He was a stout man, with an air of mild indectsion about him—about his soft sandy hair, about his broad, rounded shoulders, about even his easy grayish lace sack coat. “It's pretty capers vou have,been cut- ting around that Jennet widow,” she said. Jonathan looked, it must be confessed, not only surprised, but worried. “I hope I have not made any trouble for her,” he said. doubtfully. “It's absurd, positively absurd,” contin- ued Mrs. Dibbs, flopping into a chalr. i intervening hours. Bartram nodded, stopping to blow a few rings of oke Into the air before replying, as °f were a matter of no special import- in the “‘but ice people,” he observed at last rather quiet and old timey. Why?” I should like to meet them,” answered Danbury, with a straight look that con- veyed perfectly that no further explana- n was forthcoming. And so, before many days elapsed, he vas presented to the lady of his dreams, in a room where the odor of lilacs was as eavy as it had been In the garden of his boyhood. As their eyes met, he fan- cied that Miss Granville flushed ever so slightly, and that her glance was puzzled and inquiring. There were several other guests present, but at the end of a quarter of an hour Danbury and she were separated from them by enough space to make confi- dences possible. It was then that Faith Granville turned her clear eyes upon him and sald nalvely: *“Of course it is you who have been gending the lilacs? But how did you know who I was and why have you done Y There was a vague disapproval in her voice, but not enough to make him de- spair of forgiveness. Besides, her ques- tion proved that she was more child than woman, and that in the midst of a.so- clety bound by precedent she dared to be herself. So he threw prudence to the winds and after it diplomacy and convention, and stood before her the man that he was, telling her how it had happened how he had come back to New York and how, even before he had seen them, the scent of the lilacs had taken him back to his boyish days; how she had appeared sud- denly, clothed in the very colors of his dream. All this he told her rapidly and earnestly, and as only a clean souled, natural man could have done. Then he jthe beginning of the beginning?” “Joe unfolded a paper and Mat read a confession of theft.” waited breathiessly for her to speak. By her answer he would know whether he had read her aright. “O—oh!" she said with a little gasp. “It Is too beautiful!” There was a sus- picious humidity in her eyes, but she lifted them bravely to his and continued: “I am not worthy anything so poetical and beautiful as this, and when you come to know me you will find it out. I should hate that—having you discover what a commonplace girl I am.” She stopped and tried to steady her some- what tremulous lips. “But that is my risk,” was the answer, “and I am not afraid. May we call this and he smiled down at her with a loek in his eves tnat quickened the beating of her heart deliciously. The end of the beginning came about a vear later. The lilacs had made their appearance In the city once more, heaped apon the push carts at the curb, where their haughty sisters—the roses and vio- lets—would sometimes stare disdainfully out at them from behind the plate glass yindows of the flower shops. Had you been passing through East Twentieth street early in the afternoon of a cer- tain day you might have seen a big, ath- letic man and a slender, deep-eyed girl descending the steps of one of the som- ber brownstone residences. The man was in the regulation tweeds with his gloves grasped firmlv in one hand, and the girl was gowned in lilac of a shade as elu- sive and beautiful as a memory. At the sight of the gorgeously decoratd carriage that awaited them they half hesi- tated. Then, as a shower of something fine, white and hard as hallstones began to patter about their heads, they dashed down precipitously and gladly avalled themselves of its protection. “The idea of marrying that silly lttle fool, without & cent to her name, and at your age, too.” Her brother-in-law had not really had an intention of any sort in regard to the widow; indeed, he had never had a de- cided Intention in regard to anything since Mrs. Dibbs had taken possession. Never- theless, he felt mildly indignant enough to make a faint report. “Who told you?” “Who told me?” she burst out. “Who told me? Why, hasn't the little fool her- self been telling it all around the town that you wanted to marry her and”—in a high simpering falsetto—'"that she didn’t know whether she ought to think of it or not,, but that Mr. Dibbs was such a nice man, snd such a friend to her poor, dear Arthur, and she would hate to disappoint him—oh, the idiot!™ Jonathan Dibbs looked thoughtful. Sud- denly the figure of the widow in ques- tion appeared before his mind’s eyu. lt weas s neat, retiring lttle figure, wi unmmm-mtm-mt- ly sunburped, but sweet and tender, and with an individuality of its own that only a patient, conscientious life could have given it. He compared it with the large obtrusive face and figure of his sister- in-law, and gradually he began to smile. A sudden sense of rellef came to him In the contemplation of the little widow, and & strange, unusual sense of pleasure; the Joy of the awakening of a desire and a will in him which he had never before suspected. “I guess the little woman really d4id think I wanted to marry her,” he re- marked pleasantly. . **Of course she di replied Mrs. Dibbs smartly, in her loud, scornful voice, not noting the change in her victim's atti- tude toward her. *‘Of course she did, the conceited little plece.” “I wouldn't be absurd it I were you, Amanda,” sald Jonathan Dibbs. “It doesn’t suit your size.” He had spoken very slowly and smoothly, but he gasped a little now that he had achieved this crude but radical assertion of his free- dom. He had reason to gasp. “What! You dare! You dare!” Bhe stood before him glaring, and his unac- countable Inclination to laugh at her frightened him more than her passion did. “You dare,” she shouted. “You—you brutel! I knew that little fool had you in her clutches. I knew it. Did she tell you Io -ay that? I might have known she you to forget all honor and tru(h duty. J.n't you dare bring her to this house, you brute! Bize, indeed. She isn’t the size of a fence rall—that's your idea of beauty, I suppose. Just you dare to marry her!” Jonathan Dibbs, though his heart quaked within him, walked boldly past her to the door. There he turmed. “I may send you an invitation to the wad- ding, If she cares to have you come. Any. how, I'll send you an announcement. Say s woman. I knew ft the moment I heard yer answer from the hill on the other side. But where’s the ferryman, that ye're sent to bring me across?” The stranger had pulled the boat into the stream, but it was some time before Mat answered his question. She was sit- ting in the stern end of the boat, with her chin on her bosom, shedding silent tears. “The ferryman—the ferryman,” stammered at last, “is dead.” “Since when?* “To-night.” “An’ ye're alone?™ e “H'm. When ye answered me to-night from over the river, the cry brought a sadness to my heart. But who was the térryman?” “Abe Wellesley, my father.” “H'm! h'm!” muttered the man, after several minutes’ silence; and Mat knew that the oar had ceased to move In his hands. But presently & few quick strokes made by the strong arms of the stranger car- ried the nose of the bateau out upon the #and of-the shore. “Landed,” sald the man; and Mat was cousclous of a’ softness In his tone that ha#a not marked his first words. “Lead the wa he added, as the girl brushed past him on the sand. “T'll try to follow.” Mat turned along the path, and the stranger kepgyclose behind her. she “E'm, h'm,” be muttared again, pres- satly, and the tone of it brought fresh tears to Mat’s eyes. Tollsomely, she led the wey up the ra- yine, and the man kept track of her with & good degree of skill “If ye'd left e door open, we might Bave had the light to lead us,” he sug- gested. But Mat shrugged hu lhould.l ‘-t couldn’t do that,” sl “No. I guess not. 'l‘h. stranger's voice had grown so wonderfully soft that Mat felt an impulse to fall back and put her hand upon his arm. But now the famt light shining through the chinks outlined the cabin door to thelr eyes, and Mat soon caught the latch- string in her hand. But she paused. The horror of the death scene inside filled ber with dread. The stranger came up the steps and stood beside her. It was a long silence. Mat stood with her head pressed sgainst the door, the unpulled latch- string held In her hand. Presently the stranger’s arm slipped about her walst, and the girl made no resistance. “Did—dld ye ever hear the old man say anything about Joe?' The words fell fro'n his lips in whispers, but Mat caught 'Joe Joel” she exclaimed. “Yes, tell do you know anything of Joe? 'm Joe.” Mat’'s hand suddenly drew tight the latchstring, and, as the door swung In- ward, she buried her face against the breast of the stranger. “I wonder, dad,” sald the man & few minutes later, as he bent over the eorpse on the bed, “Bow many minutes too late 1 was. But I reckon ye know all about it now.” Weeks slipped by and Jos Wellesley was doing the dutles of the ferryman. The loneliness which had held Mat one m — E[ERRY o awful moment had not come upon hew again One day Joe came and sat down be- side Mat on the cabin steps and Ut his pipe. “Yo were two years old when I lere, Mat,” he sald presently, “an’ of course ye don't remember me then—I was six- teen. There was & misunderstanding. Dad accused me o' takin' his weazls skin with two gold pleces in it. Well, I hadn't done it, but I guessed who had, for the chap had skipped out. So I follow him all over the West, confession from him—and I got e Joe unfolded a paper and Mat read & confession of theft “But it seéms I got here too late with it, Mat.™ Joe-sucked his pipe slowly. “But it warn't about that I wanted to talk particularly, Mat™ he went on at “I reckon dad never did tell ye Mat sought his gaze. “Never told ye that ye warn't his flesh and blood daughter?” “What are ye tellin® was holding her breath. “Jest the truth, Ma Your father an” mother were killed in & tornado, and dad found you, without a scratch, in & hay- stack a hundred yards from the house. An’, somehow, I knowed, after I left, dad would never let on ye warn't his flesh an’ bone.™ ence for some time. “But I'm glad it's that way now, Mat, for I—I been thinkin' that if ye'd have me, I don’t ses the use o’ we two goin’ different ways through this old world. What d'ye say, Mat?” “T'm so glad we're no blood kin, Joe,* S;‘-l!.rl sald softly as he drew her to me, JoeT" Mat N MARNA’S MISTARE OU old poke! Take that for being.so hor- ribly late!” a girl's voice said, as Trevor went along an over- grown patch to reach his = uncle’s House. With the words came a hnndful of rose petals, crumpled, damp and deliclously fragrant.” It had ralned all day, clearing just before sundown. The rain had kept him prisoner at the inn three miles away. He had meant to reach Briarlaw early in the morning, In- stead of thus upon the edge of dusk. The rain had sent the creeks all out of banks —thus he was coming to his journey’s end afoot rather than behind his pranc- ing blacks. The footbridge defled the flood. That for carriages was swinging perilously in the rushing water. He could not rest until he had seen his uncle. Something had to be settled out of hand —something vital to his whole future. He looked about him. The dusking greenery betrayed no bhuman presence, but the mocking volce went on: *“You're a fine fellow! Upon my word, if you had kept me walting five minutes longer I should have marched straight back and said to my pastors and masters: ‘Please, sirs, I'm good now; quite ready to marry Mr. John Trevor— " “Oh, I say! Hold on! You—you must be Miss Lee—Marna—of whom I've heard, and I'm John Trevor,” that gentleman interrupted, his face scarlet. The shrub- bery at the right trembled violently, then out of it burst the very prettiest girl he had ever seen, who sald, her eyes blaz- ing: *“And you have comse here to marry me! Well, I can tell you now, I had rath- er die than be your wife!” “Let’s shake hands,” John said jovially. “It appears we're In exactly the same boat. I have got to see my Uncle John | JONATHAN DIBBS’ EMANCIPATION--By Helen T. Quigg. good-by to Luclen for me, will you? Poor Lucien!"” blazing eyes, and shiitting the doors with a bang as he went through the house, strode out Into the street. “What a fool—what a fool I used to be!” he thought. “What a fool a man is anyBow to let a woman ride over him at her pwn sweet will. And to think that I stood it for twelve years and never thought of breaking away! It must have been the widow, bless her heart!" Here he smiled to himself sentimentally, and wondered how she would take i, the “it"” in question being the plan he was going to propose to her. He flung the gate of the little yard ‘wide open and walked quickly along the path by the side of the house. The widow ‘was on the porch ironing out some lace ‘when he approached, and she looked up with face aglow when she percelved who He lost no time in announcing He grinned happlly into her - T By M. M. Williams T > and be off, because the dearest xirl in the world will be whisked away *» Eu- rope, clean out of reach, unless [ can manage to marry her all in & wink.” “Qh, how jolly!” Marna cried, giving him both her hands. “If you'll only run away, I can wait and have a church wed- ding, with bridesmalds and flower girls and everything. It would be horrible to miss them, but there seemed nothing else to do, so Billy Martin and I have every- thing all ready. Come! We won't wait for him any longer. I dare say he is water-bound, but he ought to have swam the creek, considering. Don’t you think s0?” “Undoubtedly! I'm sure he don’t de- serve you, letting such a little thing hin- der him,” Trevor said, still Holding her hands. “You mistook me for him, so we must look a Httle bit alike. But I disown the likesless. You would not have had to ‘walt for me, not if the stars had fallen.” “Ahem! Suppose thai other girl heard you now?” Marna sald wickedly, her lids lowered, a naive smile lurking about her lips. John pressed her hand and drew It upon his arm, saying only: “Keep close to me, the path is narrow and I mustn’t let vou get wet.” But Marna appeared to feel sufficiently answered. She smiled more winsomely than ever at him, and eald, as they came out In the clear lawn: “Cousin John—we are cousins, you know, your uncle is my stepfather as well as guardian—will you do something for my asking, and not misunderstand?” “Certainly,” Trevor sald, smiling him- self. Marna was silent for three breaths, then sald hurriedly: “Don’t say anything about anything until morning. Poor Papa Trevor doesn't sieep well at the best of times. He has been worrying all day about your delayed arrival, and if you let him know the unsetting of his most cher- volce, and a tone whose anxiety did not refer to catching the train. “I don't know,” she began slowly, “T didn't know we meant to get marrfed. But If you wish it very much—oh, dear!™ She hid her face suddenly In his coat. “Now go,” he sald after a little, ““De- cause we want to catch that train. And weéar that blue thing you have, with the ‘white spots—you know.” She smiled tremulously. No one had ever noticed her clothes before, and she had always half worshiped him, anyhow, and now she was very much confused and very happy. They managed to catch the train by means of a little running for it and they rode gayly and breathlessly away from home toward the city. She stole a look at his beaming face and after a while gath- ered courage to speak. “Jonathan,” she sald softly, “how aid I—what did I do to make you think of this?" I never hoped—'"" He laughed. “Call md Jack.” he sald with a blush. They used to call him Jack when he was a big, slow, good-natured schoolboy. “And what you did was to make a man of me, that is all,” he con- tinued. Then after a while he laughed again. “We have my sister-in-law to thank for some of this,” he remarked slowly, “but,” he turned to her and spoke with sudden emphasis, “but you must not let it grieve you if we never have a chance to express our gratitude.” iahed plans he won't get a wink to-night, and will be crosser than twoe bears to- morrow.” “Does he know about Billy Martin?™ Trevor demanded. Marna locked at him amazed. *“Oh, dear, nol™ she sald “If he had known, why I shouldn’t have been out there waiting. Papa Trevor has & habis of having his own way—" “Quite too bad. You make me feel ut- terly conscience-stricken. I didn’t dream his heart was so set on this plan™ Trevor sald. After a minute he burst out hotly: “But he has only himself to blame. He wouldn’t let us meet This used to be my home, and he has kept me in exile all the seven years since he married your mother. He has brought me up to regard myseif as his son and beir, and now, un- less I marry whom he chooses, 1 am to lose everything—" “You seem to think it would have been & case of I came, saw, conquered,’ ™ Marna sald, her eyes dancing. Trevor turned suddenly upgn her. “If you could put up with a Billy Martin for the sake of your own way, I don’t think you would be quits flint to me,” he sald, almost angrily. He truly loved his uncle Hé was, moreover, proud of his name, and the consequence of attaching to the big Trevor fortune. It hurt to have .this adorable Marna flout him when he was thus at grips with bard fate She was adorable; so adorable, in spite of fealty to the other girl, it gave a sharper odge to his perception of loss. “Indeed, you are right I might have chosen you, if it had been made a matter of choice,” Marna sald peastvely, “So, you've outwitted me, you villain!™ John Trevor Br. sald, 'fln‘ln. his nephew’'s hand. "I never meant you to ses that pretty baggage there until I was ready to give her to you for good and all. You know your way about Trot along. You'll find your room exact- lby as you left it, when you went away a 0y." “Let me be still a boy for this one night, Uncle Jack,” Trevor pleaded, keep- ing hold of a tremulous elderly hand. Papa Trevor wagged his head, saying: “Aye, aye, lad. But remember, you must ‘wake up ready to play a man's part.” Trevor slept badly and woke lats to find the world full cf sunshine and sing- ing birds, to hear his uncle shouting fm- patiently at the men mowing the lawn, and across the blurred nofses, high and clear, the silver tinkle of Marna's laugh- ter. He went down stalrs ltke one In a dream. There was a hideotts black cloud over all the morning brightness. As he ca e out on the steps a 'messenger on a bicycle haited there and handed him a yellow envelope, saying, apologetically: “Shure, sor-r, we thried to git ye this bit the night, but the divil was in the wather; besides the b'ye that writ it out sald the news would kape.” Mechanically Trevor opened it and read: “I sall to-day. Marry Paul in London. He did not deceive me. His fortune does not depend on anybody’s whim. No long- er yours, MARY." Just then Marna danced up to him, her hands full of dewy roses. He caught both her wrists and sald huskily: “Marna, you mistook me for Billy. Martin; can't you do it again long enough to marry med™ For a minute Marna did not answer. She looked down, her breast heaving, her cheeks rivaling the richest among her roses, and said at last, shyly lifting her eyes: “You are not quite accurate, Cousin John. The fact s, Billy was my mistake.” Of course, they were married, as Papa Trevor had ordained. They lived happily ever after, but they did not go abroad until they themselves chose.