The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 24, 1904, Page 5

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. t to read it as an etter, undc f the woman wa “Dear Un read it girl had e realized that girl could not nd disap- expected nd through 1l her disap- he to th y understand i L 1a 1 putting her ghts on paper talked sz 1 an extra cigar. same pr e t he his The rstand was that depths of in- to v chair and A cold driz- window chair before it would be poss ate her. He fancie uld like to meet her and GOOD UNCLE BEN | By C. B. Lewis 1 (Copyright, 1804, by C. B. Lewis.) ARAH JANE WIL- LIAMS, daughter of Farmer John Wil- llams, was char- acterized by her parents as a pig- headed girl. They sald she had been pigheeded ever in her babyhood days and had grown worse as she grew older. When asked by her in reply to furnish a bill of particulars, about #11 they could bring forward was the fect thet at 17 she had refused to marry a lightning-rod man twice her ege; that at 18 she had scorned a patent hayfork agent who had fallen in love h her at first sight; at 19 she had refused to receive the atten- tions of an old widower, who owned the only windmill for ten miles rou and at 20 she was “taken up” with Harry Seymour, son of a nearby farmer. moderate circumstances. ¥ did not deny that she meant tp marry Harry. But the old folks had ather plans in view. They wanted her ook higher—even as high as the man who came through the try every fall buying up thou- sar 'y s. They first >cting to Harry in a general W the course of a few e had been as good as forbid- ssion ashels of lificulties simply in- c their love. They had about on an elopement, when Un E Churchill arrived on a visit, h him a distant relative. Uncle Willlams’ brother, and as a second cous- i a young man of 22. The f thin th Uncle Ben did was to wanted to marry were opposed to st thing that the to fall in love That rzade three hand at once, and n his element. If there ing he liked better than an- as complications. When he n the second cousin was he took his part against the tive k-a-here, Sarah,” he began one the girl to sit down be- hard; “you believe r'n you do, don’t Yes, of course.* —1I orter. I've been to York and Boston and all around. €nd I can spot a pickpocket as far as I can see him. That feller Harry ain't no feller for you to marry. I didn't have to look at him twice to see that he’ll never make a hustler “I don’t see why,” protested Sarah. “Natur’ didn't make him that way. You'd never have a second dress to your back if you married him. Better give him right up now, and lemme p'int you out a feller who'll make a crackin’ good husband.” “Who is 1t?” “Your cousin Walter. He's fell in love with you and can’t sleep o'nights He's a feller who's goin’ to rip up the ground all around some day.” “But 7 know I never could love him.” “One can do a heap of things, my girl, if they set out to. You jest go around thinkin' about Walter from mornin’ till night and you'll be lovin' him inside of a week.” “I don’t believe father and mother 1d like it.” now, that's the fun of the hull thing,” laughed Uncle Ben, as he rub- bed his hands together. “T've kinder sounded your dad and mam, and they ain't stuck on Walter. They can't cotton to a feller who parts his hair in the middle and has a gold filled tooth. They might be opposed to & marriage, but that marriage could come off jest the same.” “How?” asked Sarah with consid- erable interest. “Lean your head down till I whisper one word in your ear—elopement. If you and Walter make up to each other T'll help you plan an elopement and put $100 in your hand for a bridal dower. I'd jest like to show your dad and mam that there's other folks who know a thing or two.” An idea was trying to work fitself out in Sarah’s mind, and she asked for half a day to think things over. At the end of that time she accepted Uncle Ben's proposition. “Good girl!” he exclaimed as he kissed her. and smiled like a June morning. “You just go right ahead Jovin’ Walter and when the time comes I'll be on hand.” Sarah and Walter went ahead. As he was no great favorite of her par- ents she was not put to any great bother. The most she had to do was to hear him sigh and recite poetry and apostrophize the rising and set- ting sun. Backed and wurged on ’by Uncle Ben, he finally proposed and was inferentially acceptegd. This was no sooner over than there was a fur- ther confab in the orchard. “Now, then, for the elopement!” chuckled Uncle Ben, “and here's the $100. TI'll give Walter another hun- dred before the thing comes off.” ‘Dear old Uncle Ben, but what a g00d man vou are!” Sarah said grate- felly. “Yes, all wool and a yard wide,”he replied as he ninched her cheek. Three nights later at 11 o'clock at night Sarah Jane Williams tiptoed softly downstairs and left the house. There was a horse and buggy waiting in the road for her—one ordered by Uncle Ben. A young man followed close on her heels and took the lines and drove away. As the outfit dis- appeared in the darkness the good man waved his hat and chuckled. It needs no Sherlock Holmes to "LARLING HE SAIL, X 17Y GREATEST DESIRE TIE UNKNOWN TTAN ) 7 WAS TC BE mystery. Sarah had the locked Walter in, and Walter was out unravel of it. The man who had driven off with her to get married before a wait- ing minister in the nearest village must be Harry Seymour. They would see Niagara Falls and other wonders of the world on that $100, and then come back for forgiveness. “Walter, my boy,” sald good Uncle Ben when through with his figuring, “you part your hair in the middle and have got a gold-filled tooth, and you are a fool.” “Uncle Ben,” replied the chagrined and dejected distant relative, ‘“you conspire and plan and chuckle, and are an idiot.” o | ART, A DOG AND A A“v“‘)» Y ( T ~MAN study the woman, aided by his knowl- edge of her inner thoughts as ex- pressed in the erratic letter. Suddenly he threw away his cigar with an expression of satisfaction, “Sherlock Holmes might have solved It in less time, but he couldn’t have thought of an easier method of find- ing her.” The next morning at the library the woman in charge gave Stanley the at- tention that his looks always won from women. “The book was last returned by Joan Ransdell, 2008 Massachusetts avenue. I am sure it will be very kind of you to return anything that you found in it. Very few people would trouble themselves to that extent.” Stanley kent the letter in his pocket and if his acquaintances could have compared notes during the next few days they would have thought that he was suffering from a mania that took the form of an acute desire to learn if his auditor knew a certain Miss Joan Ransdell. He himself had only been in the city a few months, after an absence of several vears. He thought she must be' a new comer, and the add given carried out this idea that she was not among the working classes. It was a week before he met a mu- tual acquaintance. Then Jim Dent re- peated his aquestion, “Know Miss Ransdell? Certainly I do. She dinner with us to-gight. Do you ¥ to come,’ old man?” ‘When Stanley was getting into his evening clothes he carried on his usual conversation with the dog. “Don, old chappie, I'm going to see her to-night. We are going to solve a problem. Be good, old fellow, and don’t get lonely, and I'll tell you about her when I get home."” He brought a rug from the bedroom and put it in front of the grate. The dog looked on knowingly and then lay down on it to take the ham bone that The pretty waitress’ in the cafe had a habit of coaxing the elevator boy to give the nice bones to the nice dog that belonged to the nice man on the fourth floor. - Don beat the floor with his tail in satisfied approval while Stanley put on hig overcoat, patted him on the head and went out. When he came in that night the dog heard his step and met him at the door. He put on his dressing gown and sHppers, sat down before the fire and took the dog’s head between his knees and the palms of his hands before he spoke. “She’s all right, old boy. If I hadn’t read that letter I should never have believed that she was lonely. I don't see how such a beautiful woman could be so lonely, do you?” The dog whined a reply that the master evidently tock to mean that he really did not see how it could be possible. “She’s tall and slender and gray- eyed, Donald, and she is about 28 years old. She has slender, white hands with lots of rings, and she had on a flimsy b dress that trained after her on the floor. I generally hate td keep jumpig to aveld those trains, Donald, but I swear I would make a jumping-jack of myself for- eyer to stay where I could see those eyes. I'm going to call to-morrow. If you w you could go with me and s le. Well, old brute, maybe you'll be a lucky dog some As the weeks went by they reached 2 state of friendship that permitted Don to go driving with them in the trap. 0Old fellow.” he said that night, “you've seen her, you've seen her ile, to say nothing of her gray You know we mnever lked women, but you don’t think I'm a fool to ask” her what I intend asking her o Y - N a\ § ~ tone that perhaps had a touch of Jealousy in it. “There’s only one thing that worries me,” he continued meditatively, “how could she have put that letter in the book? I don't believe she intended to do it, Donald, do you?” 8 98 Joan happened to have on the flimsy black dress when he asked her. Its soft trailing length lay on the white fur rug as she sat by the open fire. Stanley had forgot: there was ever such an allment as loneliness in the world. If any one had asked him to name all the elements in nature, he would have answered, “One element, happiness, composed of Joan, black dress, white fur rug, and light from a lamp with a pink shade. “When are you going to write me your second love letter, dear?" he asked. Joan looked surprised. “Happiness and excitement haven't caused your mind to wander, have they, dear boy?” she asked in aston- ishment. “I haven't written the first one yet." r He took from his p to the “Unknown Man “Here's the firs laughed at looked at it. “John, I'm so glad you found it. I've been in a constant state of morti- fication for three months about that letter. T left it in the book while I went for a drive to take away a blue et the letter he her confession when she said, and headache!l Mother knew I had finished the book and sent it to the library before I returned. Didn't you think it awful when you found it?” He wrapped the fluffy black train around her feet %o that the fear of it would not keep him at an unreason- le distance. “Darling,” he said, sitting on the arm of the chair at the same time as arm of her chair, “I was seized with a feeling of most abject humility, my his master alwavs left as a special to-night, do you?” greatest desire was to be ‘The Un treat when he went out to dinn The dog whined a low, melancholy known Man. " % B = on v < A . | By W. W. Hines | * TR S 3 - ROM the open win- this,” continued the man in very much “No,” said the woman, reflectively, dows came music by the orchestra in the ballroom on the fur- ther side of the house, softened by distance. Moonlight, broken up by intervening trees into bars and splotches of golden radi- ance, lay all about them as they walked up and down the veranda. “The fight kind of a woman always appregiates a proposal of marriage from any man as a great compliment. Coming from you it Is the much more to be valued, but I cannot marry you,” said the woman. “I have to thank you for having lis- tened to me so patiently. Might I tres- pass a little more upon your good na- ture and ask permission to discuss the matter further with you?” “No amount of discussion can profit either of us, so far as I can see. But, as 1 have sdid, in asking me to marry you a great compliment was paid me, and in return for that compliment I suppose that I owe you permissicn to indulge your love for discussion or ar- gument.” “Thanks for the permission,” said the man, still in his stol: 1 manner. “I can- not recognize my proposal as., In any sense, a complimexut, but I am willing that you should, if you wish, take the manner in which I made it as a com- * pliment. Recognizing the splendid de- velopment of your own logical faculties, I have made my offer of marriage in perfectly business-like form. I have heard you often declare that a contract of marriage is like any other contract, and should be entered into only when both parties are fully aware of what they are doing.” “Do you think women are ever en- tirely consistent?” interrupted the wo- man. The man looked a trifle surprised, and replied: “At least, I give you credit for hav- ing a splendidly consistent mind. You do not mean that I have erred in my manner of proposing, that you would have preferred more of an air of ro- mance, and all that sort of thing?” “Now the situation is something like (Copyright, 1903, by Sarah Comstock.) NSTEAD of rap- ping the landlady grasped the knob with her bony, de- termined hand and rattled it roughly. In reply came a tart little bark and a gentle yolce. “Yes, Mrs. Siefke; come in.” Mrs. Slefke did not come in, though. She crashed open the door, wounding its varnish on Lois’ trunk. “Packed?” she inquired. “No, no, I haven't packed,” the girl replied nervously, while the fox ter- rier grumbled. “I can make it all right by this evening, I'm sure I can, Mrs. Slefke.” “You've thought that for a lot o’ evenin’s. What you looking’ for now?"” Lois pointed proudly to the array on the cot. “These are the best I've done,” she said. “I'm going downtown with them now.” The landlady, her bony hands firmly clasping her hips, said “Humph!” Then she added: “To-night's your last chance. Settle or leave.” She trod away, down the hall, walking heavily on her heels as always. Lois choked a little. But when she turned back to the cot her pride prick- ed up. "Agen't they beautiful, Holy Terror?” she said. “Mrs. Siefke doesn’t know anything about art.” The terrier jumped upon the cot and burst into a spasm of glowing barks over them. His ears were up and his stub of a tail quivered. They were all the work of her hands, and Terror sniffed them lovingly, trac- ing her in every one. They were the high-water mark of her artistic ambi- tion; couch cushions and opera bags and book covers and photograph frames, all of leather wrought in elab- orate designs by burning. On the book covers were _outlined willowy ladies, who appeared to be absorbed in their reading. The photograph frames and the opera bags were etched {n wreaths and scrolls. One of the cushions was of brilliant green leather and in fits center, in deep black burning and vivid water color, was a life-sized portrait of Holy Terror. This was her master- piece. “We can't fail to make money from these, can we, Terror?” she sald. “We've worked so hard over them.” It was true that they had worked together. For ever since she had set out to make pyrography her life work, Terror had helped her. All the prep- arations were watched critically by him, and as soon as the hot point be- an to move over the stamped design is labor commenced. Every line and curve and dot of the etching he fol- lowed with his busy strawberry nose, the same nose that had frightened away the bench show prize. “I like strawberry noses much bet- ter than black, Terror,” Lois told him when she took pim home, dejected. It was the only time in his life that he had ever placed his stub of a tall at half mast; he knew bitterly well that he had failed. ‘When the portrait, the masterpiece, was being etched, he had spent days of exultation. “Do you think it's like you, ror?” ‘At moments she feared it was only the green leather that pleased him so mightily, for green was his favorite color. But {t must be that he knew, she reassured herself. At any rate, his nose followed the hot point like a sleuth’s, and whenever the point stopped he would raise his head and bark “Hurrah!” in two sharp yaps. ‘When the etching of Holy Terror's outline was done, Lols -ainted in his spots of black and white, and with a final tender and brilllant carmine touch she colored the strawberry nose. “Take a last look at your portrait,” she sald to him now. She laid the articles in a neat box and wrapped and tled it Then she dressed for the street. It was close quarters for dressing in the hall bed- room with the cot, the chair, the wash- stand, the trunk and the chiffonier, that sky-scraper of dressing tables -that serves In the lack of ground space. Holy Terror had his customary bark at the impossible head. which for many winters now had her fur collar. “If I bring back a great deal of money, Terror, perhaps we can throw this away and have a new stole that won't gt on your nerves.” ‘With the box under her arm she told him good-by. She hated to leave him; as a rule, they were inseparable. But she had met with those who did not understand him in some of the shops and she explained to him that it was best he should wait at home for her. Ter- the same tone of voice that he would have used in arguing an important case before the Supreme Court. “You are 29—or is it 30?—years old, have a repu- tation as a beauty, and all that. You can, I know, marry any one of two or three men who can offer you at least as much as I, but modesty was never a prevalling characteristic of mine, and I have not feared to measure myself with these other men. “On the other hand, I can give you pretty much anything you desire that costs money. I stand well in my pro- fession, and have prospects of soon be- ing near the top of it. Altogether, I am satisfied that any one would call it a very suitable match all around.” “Does the prosecution here close its case?” inquired the woman, laughing a little. “I hardly care to regard the matter as one of prosecution and defense,” said the man imperturbably, “but if you wish to use the terms I am forced to admit their applicability. Will the defense rest its case on the testimony submitted by the prosecution, or will it elect to submit an argument?” “The defense will submit an argu- ment,” replied the woman. *“I admit that the match would be, as you say, pronounced suitable by every one. As for the two or three other men whom you aver that I can marry at any time, I cannot answer. I have noticed that the number of my proposals has been falling off of late, and attributed the fact to advancing age—you were right when you said I was 30. I may close the discussion by saying that I have made up my mind to become on old maid.” “Far be it from me to say anything against those estimable members of so- ciety—the old malds,” said the man, “but I do not think you will ever be one of them. A wise man once said that the cowl of a monk always hides either a disappointed lover or & great rascal, and, while I do not indorse his opinien unqualifiedly, I am firm in the belief that every old maid is a woman who was disappolnted in love or who was too cold-bloodedly selfish to ever marry. Surely you do not come in either class?™ “I can’t say that I do, and yet—" “Perhaps,” said the man, and now his voice was very gentle, as though he feared he might here touch some old wound unwittingly, “there is in your life some romance which I have not guessed. Belleve me, I would not wound you for worlds, and I trust you will pardon my clumsy speech.” “Oh, I am not a blighted being, never fear,” this with a laugh that did not ring altogether of merriment. “Then your refusal to marry me Is not based upon the ground that you prefer some other man?” No..I am not in love—with some other man.” “Then why not marry me?"” “I have given you the best of all a woman's reasons, ‘because.’” “But your refusal of me is final, I may take 1t?” —the “yes” with an almost in- e sigh, a sigh so nearly inaudi- ble that it did not reach the man. He had thrown away his cigar and stood for a moment gazing out toward the trees. Then he began to speak, and his voice was harsh with feeling that had been restrained. “I think I quite forgot to mention one thing in my proposal. I did not say that I love you very dearly; that, not wishing to be a beggar of love, I have walted all these years to be in a posi- tion to offer you the things which I mentioned as rendering me eligible for your hand. You, who are 85 cool and calm, what can you know of love and passion? Now, I know that I have worked all these years in vain—no, not altogether in vain—for, by God, I am going to kiss you once, here and now, if it means the loss of all the little that is left me of your regard.” He gathered her In his strong arms and kissed her, not once, but many times, on her forehead. on her eyes and on her lips, and then released her, with the full consciousness that he had done an unpardonable thing which he did not regret. But the woman held out her arms to him and said: “Ob, Jack, dear, why didn’t you tell me that you loved me at first.” HUSBAND-- By Sarah Comstock. l The walk downtown was miserabla without him. She longed to feel tne tug of his buoyant strength as hs dragged at her at the end of his chain. She longed to watch his pointed muz- zle prying out the way ahead of her and returning with noisy reports. She longed for his infectious cheer that had tided over many a dark hour in the hall bedroom. On the avenue she came to the shops where pictures are sold. These she canvassed, as she often had done before, feeling that pyrography had its place among works of art. Then there were shops that had depart- ments of fancy goods. She made the rounds. It was dark when she turned the latchkey. She knew that the dinner would be cold and that the waiter would frown, and she did not care for dinner anyway. She started upstairs. Mrs. Siefke met her at the first landing. “Well—got it?” she asked. Although Lois could not see on the dark stairway, she knew the land- lady’s hard hands clamped her hips. “I can’'t—not to-night—" The girl's yoice broke wretchedly. “Humph!” said Mrs. Siefke. “I knew you wouldn’t. There’s no use goin’ up. Your room’s locked and your goods are attached.” Lois turned white and silent, taking it in. From above came a furious barking. “Oh! Holy Terror!” the girl cried, and ran up the stairs. She seized the knob and shook the door. The bark- ing came from within. “Terror! Let him out, Mrs. Siefke,” she called. Bdlow, the landlady chuckled with frory. “He's attached all right,” she saild comfortably. “No! Not Terror! Mrs. Siefke, you can’t—oh, take everything else”— She heard the landlady walking off heavily. “Terror!” she cried passion- ately, and sank in a little heap outside the door, while he leaped madly against the inside. scratching and yelping and rattling the latch in vain. ‘When Burr met her at the door he ‘wondered at her being alone. “It's disobliging of you to be going out just as I'm coming to see you,” he ‘said blithely. “And where’s Holy Terror? Has he thrown you over?” ‘No—he’s upstairs,” sne stammered. “I've got to go: I'm so sorry, but it's urgent business.” He looked at her keenly, then he turned and walked beside her, with his great, sure strides. “My aunt is ill. Can you to stay with her at her home to-night? She'll consider it a great favor.” “It was a somewhat random shot, but I think it has hit the mark,” he said to himself later, after he had de- livered her at his aunt’s house. Then he set out to call on Mrs. Siefke. They returned together. Burr and Holy Terror. Lois was down in the kitchen preparing malted milk. Ter- ror rushed into her arms like a minia- ture hurricane, and their emotions merged in a hysteria of sobs and barks. Burr stood above them and watched. “It’s odd,” he remarked, “how a life of art bars out a husband, but does not h‘: least interfere with a fox ter- rier.” At what followed Holy Terror burst into a fury of jealous barking.