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

by T. C."McClure.) T bad been a hard day for the little mistress The ¢ dren bad been » clze t p was 100 young he board should aia not dare the Stonington place near by. From the window she could overiook the grounds, all a twinkle with innumerable Japanese lanterns; see the house itself, its lighted porches, its windows lively with many col- ored passing figures, and watch the la- dies arriving at the entrance and floating in like white moths out of the summer night. At first it was enough just to sit there, head on siil, watching it all and hearing the swing and rhythm of the faint dance But litti€ by little came over her music al e some pert in the gay- ety young spirit craved. She was 3 too. She w mirror told her. ing ays. Ah, those days! t, and yet only comd slip BETWEEN TWO STOOLS | By Alice Bruce. sighed the w Stahl, for the was in the s of a dil both ed a affectior balance she had d neither wanting down went Hans. down went Gottlieb. e to ounce they weighed a very hair would sway them oth be goot vor husbands 1 don’t know now,” she eb, he haaf a varm, dree ed acres, two horse, som' cow, som’ , an’ he vork hard; he plow so much. Ach Hans, he haat dat much, too, alretty, en’ he vork harder; he plow so much as ottlteb. Eider vood do, Ohone!” and again the widow sighed. Truly for this caution the widow had good cause. Before marriage, the late Herr ke the present suitors, had weighed in the balance and found After marriage, & long sermon he had preached, which had been “The waste love.” And now, “Loofe, no—oh, no!" sneered the such tings as dat I haaf not- Nein, nein!™ Gottlieb or Hi man s, which- ever won her d, would “vash close, make ride goot soup, clean house and do chust so val as she could. Bud, loofe? Nein, nein Now, to her name the Widow Stahl had nothing, no horse, no cow, no pig, no dot. But worst of all, the marriage mangie had squeezed from her that subtle coqueétry, net of her sex, and try as she ct & proposal from her they returned only sheep- bandoiaps and praise for culi- Ohone, what was the matter? jow steeped her brain “Ach, Gott, the sordid loons!” It was CGowry they were after. To vash close, to make ride goot soup, to clean house, to do chust o val &s & woman can, was not enough for them, ach, mien! At last she understood In the ol country the widow had an oncle. Bev of age was the oncle, and at sometimes die. To Gottlleb and te bad often spoken, yah! vah! Eight thou- sand dollars. she believed he had amassed. Ab, It oofe Pauline was weak; In strategy she was strong. Mine Gott! she bad a scheme “Iv the w Biuhl t &pond, of som't w of the late Auguste ondersigned viil corre- g greatly to her ad- vantage she vili hear. In BStutigart, her aged oncle haaf died.” Four insertions such as tbat in the Western FPrairie Farmer, and Pauline could take her choice. Hans? Mebbe. Gottlieb? Mebbe. Ach, chust so val she might be carevul. The less sordid, she would choose. N “Hey?" mused Gottlieb, two weeks lat- er, when his gray-green eyes devoured four closely printed lines in the personal of the Western Prairle Farmer. “Hey, Stittgart? Dat might be Pauline’s oncle mit the comvortable vortune. Pauline, ha! she vash close: she make ride goot soup. Vy not ged mine dinner by her eferey day? 1 can chust so val pay vor two, den. 1 haaf more time to work. Hey, vy mot? - Und—und to Hans, dat leetle mortgage 1 could pay. Hey, vy not?” $5 $6 the widow hastened Gottlieb. “Pauline,” in & cold sweat he trembied, fingers clenching and unc d hat dree h a crack ou. I—I—haaf acres, two horse, som’ cow, som you haaf notting—notting at : no varm, no husband. You elic: but I loofe you, Pauline, I You vash he cloge, ged dinner ise. 1 plow, v-vork in de fleld. ged married, hey?” a mighty effort for the wooer, but 1t did not rase the wooed. ‘Hey, so I a relic, vas I, Gottlleb? What vor you loofe relics? Dem only interes i Ac art you do not loot me, ne Vrom the omach, mebbe ‘Ride goot soup, Pauline,” you once sa b ha! Vat vor we ged married lieb, hey? Nein, nein!” she ciashed In his face. Threatened *lieb: “Den | marry Katrina.” “Katrina, hey?" sneered Pauline with & clumsy shrug. “Ach, val she marry you, Gottlieb. She joomp at you. You ask at her!” Himmel! A few moments later, 2s she istened to the slow, uncertain shuffle of his heavy feet trailing down the wooden etair, the widow wavered. Should she re- call him, hey? Ach, nein! He had seen the ad. about her oncle in the paper. His was a sordid, stomach loofe, chust the thing for the spinster Katrina. For her, Pauiine, der vas stiill the handsome Hans, dree hondred acres, and a varm! A month passed. The four Insertions petered out. Hans must have seen them, one at least. Every farmer read the Western Prairfe news. Still Hans did not come. His customary week-end visits even he omitted, and no letter, no expla- nation, nothing. He must be sick, declared the widow. Two months passed. Yah, Hans vas sick! She would make some soup, and she would go to him since he could not come to her. So, armed with a pall of Gottlleb’s delight, she sought the bashful bachelor in his den. She found him robust, quite cheery and smoking a corncob pipe. “Ha, you raskel!” she cried playfully, “what vor you vrighten me? What vor you stay away vrom Pauline?” Replied Hans, rudely puffing an eye- smarting cloud past the olive-tinted face so near his own: “Your oncle, out ov respec’ vor heem, I stay away.” Tip, up went Hans. Himmel! Such sweet consideration! “Ya-as, ya-as,” stammered Pauline, a series of tiny gulps impeding her usually g!ib response, “I—I—vas a-amournin’, eh, eh, bud, Hans,” she murmured, seating her fiat, ungraceful figure close beside him on the settie, and searching his stolid face for a tender gleam, “y—you sym- bathize, you loofe me, hey? Hans moved away. “Nein, nein!” he muttered, roughly; “T haaf change my mind, Pauline. Mine Oncle Charles—I never tell you so before ~he own der ‘Western Prairie Varmer, yah! Und you, Pauline, von dollar you pay mine oncle vor you'm Stuttgart on- cle’s ad. ‘Look out, Hans, look out! mine Oncle Charles say. Ah, ha! oncle is not dled, Pauline. Ven I ad 1 write to heem. Mine oncl advise. Your oncle, he reply: ‘I haat not died. 1 haaf notting to her advantage, nein” Hees letter I vill read,” concluded ns. “Hey! Huh! A letter! Y-your oncle? M-mine oncle! Hey!” stuttered the as- tonished strategist, tiltiag backward on her seat. “¥-yaas," and, disgusted, Hans arose. Crash! The widow. was between two stools. Two hours later Cicely—no, not Cicely, but & Dresden china shepherdess—who had stolen away from her own life and forgotten all {ts cares, found herself one of a hundred or two other gay, fant. tic conundrums, who chatted, laughed, bandied repartee, fiirted In obscure cor- ners, sat on shadow porches or glided beneath soft lights to the dreamy music of a hidden orchestra. The life and movement, the kaleido- scopic play of color, the sheen and luster of eflk and satin, the gleam of snowy arms and shoulders, the fragrance of . flowers, the admiration of her partners, filled the girl's heart with delight, and ber courage rose to the occasion. She was surprised to find bow, behind the “Why did you runf You might have known you could not escape me,” said her pursuer as he came up. IRIAM came into the library and sat down opposite Graham. There was a pucker of anxiety on her she sald, “wowd you mind be- ing engaged to me?” Graham tovk his feet off the window slll and sat up. “Engaged?’' he repeated dublously. Miriam nodded. “It's only for a couple of da she bastened to reassure him. ‘‘Mr, Forsythe is coming to propose, and I'm at my wits' end. I haven't a single excuse for refus- ing him. He's good, end wealthy, and nice looking. Mother won't hear an ob- Jection, even his age. 8o, you see, the only way is to let him understand, ever 8o delicately, that I'm not free to listen to him. Nobody will know, for he isn't the sort to repeat confidences.” Graham lay back In his chalr and sur- veyed her coolly. *“If you've no objection to him, why don’t you marry him? he inquired. “I thcught I made it clear that I didn‘t want to,” she explained, with a note of injury in her voice. “I'm sure, if you don’t wish to help me out, Bart, you needn’t. But we've been such chums, I thought you'd as llef as not. I'd do as much for you.” Graham swallowed hard, not notice. ““Why don’t you tell him the truth?’ he said at last. “He's man enough to stop his attentions, If he knows they're un- welcome.” “That's just It,” she rejoined, hopeless- ly. “Mother has tacitly given him to un- derstand that I do care for him, for all my seeming Indifference. In fact, they’'ve done nearly all the courting themselves.” Graham's lips curled. “Well!” he sald shortly, “I should think you could disabuse him of the idea easily enough. Mirlam’s brown eyes widened. “You must think it is prime fun, Bart Graham, to boldly tell a good friend right to his face that you don't care for him, especially when he's such a dear old fellow!” she sald, with a little quiver in but she aid .her voice. Graham stared. What a refreshing phase of womanhpod! Then he smiled grimly, ‘S0, I suppose, 1t was your idea to let Forsythe down easily by giving him to understand that, although I held your HER CHAPTER OF PROPOSALS | By Hattie P. Rider * hand, your heart responied to him, eh? You'll pardon me, Miriam, but you re- mind me forcibly of the Irishman who was too tender hearted to dock his 10g's ears at one fell stroke, 4o he cut them a haif inch at a time." Mirfam winced, reddening. The truth sounds so different, stripped of pletur- esque phrases. Graham relit his c.gar. “You want me to go I with you, vir- Rually Iying to Forsythe,” he went on gravely. “At the risk of appearing un- gallant I'm afrald 1 must decline your flattering offer. I don't know much about such things, but it seems to me, If I didn’t care to go into partnership with a man I could make him understand my re- fusal had nothing to do with my personal regard for him. If—if I didn't want to marry you, for Instance, Miriam, you wouldn’t take it as unfriendliness on my part, would you?" Her downcast eyes missed the fact that he was watching her narrowly. She got up. “I don't know If I've the nerve to do 1t,” she said, rather tremulously and let- ting his question pass unheeded. *‘You've no idea how hard It is, Bart. I've always liked him, if not {n that other way, so very much, till—till—" She hesitated and looked at him appeal- ingly; but there was no sign of relenting in his averted face. She sighed softly. A moment later he heard the swish of her light skirt along the hall. He laid down his cigar, “In one respect,” he groaned, “women are like Providence—their ways are past finding out!™ On the morning of the third day, from the vantage point of his own window, he saw the suitor depart, There was a rose- bud in the lapel of his faultless coat. As he got Into the autobus Graham caught a glimpse of his face. His own promptly fell. As it that were not sufficient, on going out directly after, he met Mirlam's mother in the hall. The pretty widow's cheeks were flushed like a :fl’l. ‘9;‘. it seemed to him, there was a it} look in her eyes. Bhe gave him a smile that re- laxed not & tone of its sweetness at the savage tone of his *“ morning.” This last confirmed his worst forebodings; he decided that, between the two, they had succeeded in coercing Mirlam to their ‘wishes. 4 He went back to the house and sent a peremptory note to the young lady. He wished to se once more, and at her —_— earliest convenience. He' thought . their former close friendship gave him the privilege. He was hardly prepared for the flushed cheeks and deflant eyes that greeted him. Nevertheless, he resolved to stick man- fully to his role of protector. “If it came to this, Miriam!” he burst forth, “I think you might have. trusted me to help you out, for all I refused the other day! I would have donme anything but what you asked—even to shooting him,” savagely. Mirfam’'s nervous color deepened. “I—I don’t see how any one could have helped it, except mother,” she stammered. “I could, and I intend to yet,” he re- torted grimly. He came a step nearer. “I tell you, child, you shall not be forced Into this marriage against your will. I have some right as—as your nearest friend, and I shall remonstrate with your mother. That failing, 1 shall go to For- sythe himself, and telling him the truth, since you dare not. He {s an honorable man, and he will release you.” Mirlam backed away from him and hid her face in her hands. ‘Oh, Bart!” she cried, between hyster- fcal sobs and laughter. “What in the world are you talking about?” “You shall not marry Forsythe against your will,” he insisted. Then, to his as- tonishment, Miriam uncovered her face ll'|ld burst into a ringing laugh of sheer rel “It was mother, not me, to whom he proposed,” she sald. “It was just her silly blunder, the blessed goose! She never told me they were engaged years ago. And I acted such a guy before you. I fretted myself sick about it. But,” meet- ing his eyes with unwonted and bewilder- ing shyness, “if he had asked me, Bart, I should have told him the truth. I've mrmlv.od to be as honest as the day here- er." Graham's head swam in the great light breaking on him. Impulsively he strode forward and took both her hands. “‘Miriam, be honest with me, then, as I am with you. I've loved you all the while I was pretending friendship, and when I thought another man was wi you I ‘was beside myself with Tell me, little chum, could you love me in that ‘other way’'?" The flushed face was instantly Buriea against his sleeve, Graham as promptly unearthed it and forced its shy eyes to meet his again. What he saw there only he knows; but it proved to him beyond a doubt that Mirfam’s impersonal friendship Was as preposterous a fraud as his own. protection of her mask, she could act her part, even as if she, too, belonged to the party. Once in the swirl of a walts she caught sight of herselt In a long mirror and doubted her eyes. Could that be she, that dainty, graceful madcap with her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling through the slits in her visor, ber hair in golden dis- order at her neck—that Cicely Winthrop, with her own living to make and shabby clothes o wear? And the music—it seemed to lift her on its wings and bear her over the fioor as lightly as any thistic- down. That was what her last partner had said—a cavaller of Charles II—when at the end of a dance they were sitting in the dimly lit eonservatory. “Thistledown! I belleve that's what you are—or else a fairy. No shepherdess could dance you do, not even one out of Watteau, and besides, where are your sheep? You haven't n one little inno- cent snow-white lamb!” £ “I've escaped for a moment from them. “Faithless shepherdess! Aren't you afrald of wolves?” “Awfully! One came into the sheep- fold to-day, & very savage one.” ° “The poor lambs. My heart bleeds—"" “It needn't. They only eat shep- herdesses."” “The brutes! Do you have to fight them single-handed 7" Clcely nodded. “It's hard sometimes.” “Don’t you need an assistant shepherd to help? T like to kill wolves and I adore sheep—and shepherdesses.” *“You wou..n't If you could ser them as they really are. The lambs are not a bit adorable, only stupld and tiresome, and the shepherdess—she’d be wearing a shabby gown and big shoes and her bair tled. No, you'd best remain with the court.” “Hang the court! I'd heaps rather be a shepherd. Won't you take me on trial?™" ‘There was just & note of earnestness In the cavaller's volce, and Cicely tried to turn it away lightly. “I don’t think you would do at all. You are much too fine & gallant.” “I may not be as fine as I seem,” he re- something quite differ turned, “1 may “That's know, and then—what my flock! No, I ean’t “Then when is the & to court again?”’ “Never, I'm afrald. You allowed one evening off in )ears.(i::ld z[;:; sides, she has no court costume. Ob. Z * touched the shabby and when the seo back as they take the risk.” hepherdess coming see, she's only gown and night 1s over they were.”" 1 “And the girl?"” “Not before unmasking time comem anyway. There is the signal now; ais sald as a chime of beils rang in the < tant hall, followed by the sound of mui;l- ter. “Ah, you are caught, fairy :lh'v?,"“fl; ess! Now disappear If you dragged off his mask and walted expegt- ant, looking at the girl Cicely felt the blood rush to her flc-a- “I—1 must go,” she said hurlfl!ld]x an 1o 1 didn’t know It was so late. 0! Why, you know you promised me supper, and—"" “f didn't t No, 1 must. “Without unmasking?” . “I can't. Don't ask me why. There are reasons. Oh, I can’t explain. Please let me get away,” she cried, for the man had stepped before the door. Cicely cast a hurried glance about. She spled & door heading Into the garden and before the cavaller could guess her Intention sha had fled through it bilndly into the might, he after her. She did not know where she ran mor care. Her only thought was to escape discovery, to get away home befors ex- posure came. On she sped, across the lawn, Into the shadow of the shrubbery, tripping over roots, held back by cling- ing vines, her mask brushed from her face, her breath giving out, and discovery and shame at her heels. Then she tried to find some hiding place, and falling, sank down on a bench with a bitter, despatring cry, and buried her face in hex hands. “Why 414 you run? You might have known you couldn’t escape me,” sald her pursuer as he came up. Then, as he heard the girl's sobs, “are you hurt? “Yes—yes!” she sobbed, “but not as you think. Oh, why did I ever come? How am I to tell you? What will you think of me? I ought not to be here to- night. I am not a guest. I had no right to come.” It was a confession punctuated By sobs and little gasps of pain that the cavaller listened to. “I saw the lights,” Clcely added. “and then the waltz music came to me and I couldn’t resist ft. I thought there’d be no hafm—just for an hour, and then I could g0 back and no one would know, and I could have one pleasant memory among dreary, drudging days. I'm—I'm not so very old and I haven’t had any pleasurs o¢ happiness in so long and this was a chance—and I took ft.” She rose and dried her eyes. “You ses, I told you the truth. I'm onmly & shep- herdess and had no place m court, and now I must go back to the sheep—and the wolves again. It's been—I can’t tell you what this evening has been—except this “Do you care so much then that I know who you are?™ The cavalier was stand- ing beside the shepherdess looking dT at the bent head showing so softly in the dusky shadows. “T would have sought you out In any case—ifI had to search the world over. Do you care, now that I know?” “No,"” returned Cicely softly. “And I mavy come to-morrow and see the lambs—and the shepherdess?” “I don’t think it would be best for the lambs, but—I usually come home from: the sheepfold by way of the red bridgs and— “If you saw a wolf walting by bridge wiuld you mind ™" “Not If it was a nice wolf.” “And if the wolf were to carry you off and the lambs have to have another shep- herdess, would you be very much scared P asked the cavaller. “I— don't think s0,” whispered the little Dresden shepherdess. I think—I'd rather like ft.” nk. I forgot for & moment. the -+ | IN THE STORM'S VOICE By A. S. Richardson. (Copyrighted, 193, by T. C. McClure.) $—2 OMMY, this is the fourth time in ten days—and you prom- ised to behave if Nell let you come! “But 1 couldn't help it this time, dear. It Just slipped out.” Then, in wheedling tones, he added, “Besides, this s the day for declarations.” *“Of independence,” Interrupted Harriet ruthlessly. “And your declaration calls for dependence. I should be dependent upon you for everything—the roof over my head, the food on the table, the furbe- lows on my back, even my happiness—'" 'And would It be so hard, little girl, to accept them? Why, I have dreamt of nothing else for years but giving you all these—and more. I am willing to take my chances of drawing big dividends in happiness—"* ‘““Men are born gamblers,” replied Har- riet, with her big brown eyes fixed on the line where blue water and bluer sky met in rippling kisses. Tom sat up very straijght and dug the toe of his tennis shoe viciously into the stony walk. “Of course, you are not taking any chances In going on the stage. You are going to be a star inside of a year, just because the man to whom you've been paying good money says you are his most promising pupil— “I think that will do, Tommy. I really d1dn’t know you could be so rude.” Harriet had risen and was dusting off her linen skirt with elaborate care. Tom ‘was on his feet in an instant “Forgive me, dear, but you can’t under- stand how I feel, when I think ghat in less than a short month you will pass out of my life, perhaps forever, and if you do come back, that you will not be just the same girl, but one embittered by hard ex- perience. Hattle, do you think any audi- ence will ever listen to the music of your voice and hang on every word as I do? And the critics, they will say things that will hurt and cut you, and I—I won't be able to punch their heads off! Oh, if you only could—"" “But I can’t. And I think it is very horrid of you to spoil my vacation by ery- ing for the moon, for that is what you are doing when you ask me to give up my career.” Harriet swept across the porch and Into the house. Tom pulled his cap far down over his eyes and plunged into the tangle of laurel which screened the house on the right. While Tom smoked and shied pebbles at unoffending birds and insects, Harriet sat In her room, looking over some pho- tographs which had arrived in the last mall. She had ordered them for the man- ager whose company she was to join In August for a road tour. There was her “Lady of Lyons” costume worn at the last school review and one as “Jullet,” and a head clouded in tulle, to say noth ing of haif a dozen less striking pos With a hand that was quite firm and determined she Iindorsed the pictures, “Yours faithfully, Harriet Wentworth.” Bhe would play under her own There was nothing to be ashamed of. She was going to be very happy. Ot course, it would be hard at first, because some of the fellow players to which she had been, introduced before leaving town were a bit plebelan. But all professions bad their drawbacks. And at last her life of dependence would be over. Mrs. Wal. ton had been kind, and her husband even more so. They had not sald one word when Harriet took the last dollar of her little inheritance to pay for & term’'s tul- ~ — tion at a well advertised dramatic school. “Independence!” Bhe had hungered for it ever since she could remember. And now in brief weeks she would be mistress of the situation—quite capabdle of taking care of herself. An hour of hard study on the role of “Amy Leighton, who is always misunder 5tood,” as the play bills would read, a brief respite at the luncheon tabls, where personalities wers carefully avoided, and she was back in her room. But somehow she could not study. BShe suddenly re- called that Tom had only two weeks’ va- cation, that this was the biggest holiday of the year, and he had given up the jaunt with other members of the house party. Why? Because she was afraid to g0. She hated the long ride on the water —she had always been afraid of boating— and she hated the noiss of & country osbe ebration. And Tom loved it all. Bhe lay on her couch trying study, but her thoughts reverted unu.-auyl and persistently to Tom—Tom, who had carried her books and her lunch to school, Who had fought for her and fetched and carried for her ever since she could ™~ member. But, of course, there might be another Tom on the road. If Bot—well, her art would comfort her. The room was suddenly shrouded n gloom, and from the distance came the mutter of thunder. Ah, that was why she fl;uld not study. Electricity in the alr always unnerved her. It mere case of depression. b . She closed her window, then passed dly from room to roo; ;nd windows, and busyt: esperation, for an electrical sto: Adirondacks is no trifiing matter. !xx;;‘.'h: came the darkness like a mighty pall and with hands that trembled she lighted the sitting-room lamp. Surely Tom would come In & few moments—if he could find his way through the blackness outdoors. A flash of lightning played on the win- dow and she jerked down the shade. With the thunder there boomed another erash- Ing sound and a forest monarch lay prone on the lake's edge. Andther crash and enother, with the wind whistling and howling a minor accompaniment to the thunder. Harriet lay face downward on the wicker couch, her head buried in pil- lows. In the inky blackness of the entry stood Tom, his face grim and set, his arms crossed over his chest. Suddenly there came a pause, one of those awful, portentous pauses that presage an excep- tional burst of fury. On the ominous lueTnca rang a terrible volce: ““Tom, where are you? Why don" =S ¥ don’t you He reached her side just as the yellow- blue light of the bolt seemed to r’nvelap ;Pe entire cottage. When it was over om was holding a lUmp, wun form tight to his heart. R TIR “It's all over, little girl. It was tree or something that was struck. ,’l‘l::r: can't be another crash ltke that. Look at me, dear; it's Tom. - she e oo, I Wik yeu.s Mr. Walton was smoking his prandial cigar two nights later ?:"Z Deaceful frame of mind on the ‘widest hammock the porch afforded. His wifs ':;v!:lklnl In an undertone. ell, thank heaven, Hattle hag it up for good. I taink 1t was th::m of find.ld about the maflager being 4i- vorced and marrying his ) man’ wife. Such a tangle!” e * “I don’t believe It was anyth: sort. It was that storm.” T ram ““Nonsense. How do you know* “Pom." And Mr. Walton lighted s fresh clgar watch the figures of rap- closing doors erself in sheer and rolled over to & man and a tall, slend hcnmmmnum.:m might be a wolf.. you P would happen KCM »