The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 28, 1904, Page 6

righ 4, by K. M. Whitehead.) OULD you object tc telling me your rea- son for wanting to marry me? she asked in an aggres- sive fone that quav- ered into pathos be- e was completed ted answer caused some remem- from his chair rise inches before he is the unexpected that He sat down ca hieved a calm that im- as the generally rec- of answering a pro- appens. aving @ at hers meth zed for the same reason that Why—er « have asked you to marry THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. PO B LiKE SOMEONE FE_A5 THEY DO THE FRETTY - LITTLE \WorAN | / //&* » // R e them, 1 suppose—because I care more the strong. white hands, larger than for vou than for any one else.” his by far The othe she said sbowly, “have Do men ever love a woman that had various motives. There haven't Weighs one hundred and ninety-five been so very many,” she added, as if Pounds?” she asked bitterly. P constrained to be honest. I have known one man that accom- T fiave known you so short’a time Plished the feat,” he smiled in her eyes 1%ou'd not be aware of that. I should €ncour never have believed it without your “One couldn’t feel an inclination to assuranc hold a hand of that size, it's uncom- The hardness of her face relaxed fortable in a six and three-quarter slightly. “You are the fourth,” she glove.” She held the offending mem- said shortly. ber before him as if she could cheer- “Will you tell me why the other fully have yutated the left one three failed?” softly. and have overtaken the right with a Sh. leaned back in the Morris chair and grasped its arms with a nervous awkward ovement. Bernard noticed similar fate before they communicated to each other any knowledge of their various doings. “The man 1 mentioned feels a trou- blesome inclination to held that very hand.” he laughed. “You are old enough to have ac- quired better taste,” she retorted cen- soriously, “How old are you, by the way ?" “Born exactly forty-nine years and three months ago.” % don’t object to that,” leniently; “It makes me feel somewhat better, ‘I think. A woman of thirty-five likes to feel young, even by comparifon.” “T'm smre I'll never object to com- parisons in our family. If it pleases you, we'll turn dow Mr. Shakes- peare’s opinion concerning them.” she “In all my thirty-five years—" began. “You seem proud to enumerate them, You might knock off five without any one suspecting,” eying her with the embezzlin, she similed, with a sense of good comradeship, her hands relax- ed from their grip on the chair and fell more comfortably upon her lap. “Didn’'t the other three think it would be rather »* He looked nice? meaningly at the hand nearest him. “I don’t think anybody ever wanted to,” she answered simply. T look too much like the sturdy oak, and have received none of the tenderness that falls to the lot of clinging vines. Of course there are storms from which the oak might like to be sheltered. I don’t like my ma line manner, I hate it,” vehemently, “but it gives a better ef- fect than if I tried to be kittenish. A hundred and ninetyv-five pound Kitten ¥ PURSUING AN IDEAL HEY were discussing the wedding. “Didn't Tillie look heavenly?” cried the girl who wrote stor- fes. Very sweet,” sald added the editor, No one says anything about the g m’s appearance—or mine,” grum- n” “and I came all Nebraska just for this You d quite like a Bostonian, aid the girl with the iolin, consolingly. As for Mr. Adams, he looked just as he always does—all bones and brains,” asserted the schoolteacher. “I admire that type immensely.” I assure you The Westerner was not tall and was somcwhat inclined to stoutness. My cousin Abe is an undeniably brainy man,” he retorted, “but believe me n, some slight cover- ing pose tissue over the bones is not incompatible with intellectuality.” Do you return to Nebraska at once, M Copverse?”” interposed the artist, tend to leave Boston to- night, but T have found that my ranch needs 3 m I shall remain a week longer and pe 1o persuade some one to go with me. The words were uttered laughingly. but there was a significant look in the kcen, gray eyes that betrayed his earn- cstne of purpose. There were vary- ing exclamations of surprise from six of his hearer The seventh remained scornfully silent. The others looked from ome to another questioningly. When eight young women have liyed together for 2 year, and one of the number has just departed with the blessing of the pastor and the shower of rice devised by satan, it is not un- naturgy for the others to wonder “Who mext?” | By Otho B. Senga | | - - “You promised to show me the beau- ties of the library, Miss Selwyn,” sald Converse, turning to the silent one; “can we go to-morrow?” “After 1 o'clock,” she replied, quiet- 1y, but her dark eyes met his with a look of understanding and defiance, “if you will wait until the next day, Satur- e will go to-morrow,” he de- cided quickly. “How can you spare the time for sight-seeing, Mr. Converse?’ queried the artist, teasingly. “I should think you would want every hour of the week for your wooing.” “I shall waste no time in my sight- seeing,” returned Converse, with marked emphasis, “and you must un- derstand that a western wooing is less deliberate than is usually considered necessary in New England. There are no ‘superfluous women' in Nebraska, and with us it's a case of ‘learn your fate at once and get out of the way to make room for the next man.’” “So these are the famous paintings of Puvis de Chavannes,” remarked Converse the next day, bestowing a very hasty glance at the mural dec- orations at the public library. “‘They are doubtless all that you have said of them, Eleanor, but they really have Tlittle interest for me just now. I want to talk with you. You are disappointed in me, Eleanor—" Miss Selwyn’s pale face pushed pain- fully. “It was very good of you, Dick, to keep the secret. I have, never told the others that I knew you before you went west, or of our silly correspond- ence—" “I don’t call it silly,” he said, stout- ly, “the only foolish thing about it is that I did not come for you long ago. You were only fifteen when I left Ver- mont. That is fifteen years ago and—" ““Heavens!” she cried, hastily, “don’t reminid me of my age, An old maid school teacher—I suppose you're think- ing.” “Nothing of the kind. I was about to say that in all those years I have never seen any one who made me for- get you, Eleanor. If only you felt the same toward me—" “But I don’t, Dick,” deprecatingly, ou—you have changed.” “Not in my heart, Eleanor.” She opened a small portfolio, and took out a faded photograph. ‘See, Dick, this is the man I love.” He looked at it curiously and laughed softly. “The boy, you mean. been about twenty then. fellow, wasn't I? locks poetical?” She put the picture away hastily. “You had the soul of a poéet then,” she cried, resentfully. “That is twenty years ago, Eleanor, and Ive had some hard battles the world since then. The poetry pretty well battered out of me, I con- fess; but you might go home with me and put some poetry into my life once more.” “It couldn’t be, Dick—you are too— too—" f “Say it, Eleanor—too fat, I suppose you mean."” ‘Not exactly,” desperately, “but you are too prosperous, and too well-satis- fied.” “I admit the prosperity, and I have no reason to be dissatisfied. I really thought,’ until I saw you again, that [ needed nothing' more to make my life full and complete. Now, I want you.” Every afternoon and evening for the next four days he pleaded, demanded, argued—but to no avail. She admitted that she cared for mo one else, con- fessed that she was tired-—desperately tired—of teaching, but she was loyal to her girlhood’s ideal, and he was not the realization of that ideal. ‘When she reached the house on ‘Wednesday afternoon she found in her room a box of violets and a note from Converse. “I give it up, Eleanor—I was stupid- ly presumptuous to think you :could care for a fat, bald-headed ruffian like I must have Pretty, littie Aren’'t those curling i 'MAN.\@ | i me. I cannot see you again. It all means too much to me—and too little to you. I leave on the 3:30 train. “Think of me kindly and wear the violets a little while to-night for the sake of old times. Their perfume re- minds me of the days when together we hunted for them in the woods at old Hill Side. Happy days, those— when the poetry of life was still mine, and the love of my little sweetheart— Goed-by, Eleanor, DICK.” The 3:30 train! Oh, why had she waited to show those horird boys about the geometry les- son? Why didn’t she came directly home? No one would have recognized the dignified Miss Selwyn in the excited girl, with flying and flushed chéeks, who ran rapidly down_the stairs from the elevated and rushed through the station, dexterously dodging through the crowd and making her way to the farther tracks. “The 3:30 train!” she gasped, paus- ing before the tall gulrd at the gate. “Just gone, madam; it is too bad. She did not wait to hear his cour- teous condolences. She flew to the information bureau. “Where is the first stop—this train—going west?" she panted. “Trinity Place,” mechanically; “leav- ing there now—stops on signal at South 3:30 Framingham—next regular stop at ‘Worcester.” Trinity Place! Hardly a block from home. If she had only known! A dispatch for Richard Converse was carried into the drawing-room car when the train reached Worcester Passengers on the next train from ‘Worcester to Boston might have won- dered at the protracted study and the tender touches given to a slip of yellow paper by a man no longer young and somewhat inclined to stoutness, and a peep over his shoulder at the yellow slip would not have enlightened them. “Come back. I have buried the ideal.” He read the line over and over again. “God . bless her,” he murmured huskily. “I'll do my best to resur- Tect it.” » It was now 2:45.° would run such a serious risk of being mistaken for a giddy elephant.” “Precisely,” he agreed. “But even a feminine elephant might long to be admired occasionally, and —loved.” “Didn’t the other three ever—" gently stroked the firm. white hand. “They didn’t want to,” she blushed furiously. “But why, then——" he commenced. ““Oh—one of them was a widower and said it was so_expensive having all the sewing done out for four chil- dren,” He frowned symipathetically. “The second wanted a partner to help run a boarding school.” He nodded. “The third was a preacher, fand theught it was not good for man to live alone. - e didn't seem to think dyspeptic tendencies and an insuffi cient income obstacles to prevent his finding a companion with all ee fact, his manner was full of as that I would jump at the ¢ None of them. nobody in all my ever really cared for -me; they he life only nted me to help them do some- Her were full of tears. *“T would > one to love me as they do the p i woman. [ just as nd tende tle and dainty,” nd—I want—to be like them.” She covered her th her hands. He sat down on the arm of the Mor- chair with an air that was joyous and youthfu ‘Dear little woman,” he ing the fact that the shoul shaken by sobs were broad as his own, “the other three needed killing. T would love to slay them for you, one by one, but, unfortunately, there a law against it. I will content myself rejoicing that their lack of appreciation left a chance for the fourth one.” He smoothed the hair gently from her forehead. “The fourth man loves vou,” he said, with a simplieity of words strong in feeling. She slowly raised her head and looked in his face. In her eyes was shining the same expression that men have often seen in the eyes of those more favored women she envied. The Amazon sank into insignificance, the woman came into her own triumph- antly. auivered, * ved-——and to said, ignor- weetheart!"” he said. rtune HIS LORDSHIP | AND MILADY ‘By Espes Winthrop Sargent i { IS Lordship was a good sort in his way. He was great at golf, could ride and knew how to handle a yacht. And he not onc of the sort that comes over here merely to marry the richest girl who is willing to ha® him. “My Lady” is Grace Ormonde. I don’t know who first called her that, but she had all the airs and graces of the lady of the manor. All of us calied her “My Lady,” but the posses- sive case appealed particularly to me. I wanted to make her “My Lady” in fact, as, in truth, she had been ever since the day when, as a boy in my first long trousers, I awoke to a realiza- tion that Grace was the nicest girl I knew. Every one used to laugh at us when we both were children, because old Mrs. Ormonde, Grace's grandmother, approved the match. As the old lady had the money, the rest all approved of what she approved. Then she went away; just about that time the poor old pater lost his money in the Nine- teenth National crush, and Mr. Or- monde had a little chat with me about what he called our “childish infatua- tion.” He was proud, he said, to know that his old friend (that was poor Dad) was willing to sacrifice his private for- because the bank had been wrecked while he was its president. But I must see that it was impossible that —er- I assured him that T did see, before he had had a chance to find a nice sounding word to replace the ‘“er,” and T went down to the bank and rode home with dad, prouder than ever that he hadn't made money his fetich. Then 1 had a chance to make some money. Poor father did not long sur- was vive the bank crash. He wasn't re- sDC but someh he seemed to feel that it a ace. Mother had some moneyy and I got a chance, with B on a patent that in a few years will make us more than merely rich. It was hard work at first, but we hustled like ten-dollar-a-week men, and now we are pretty well along A soon as I could see things clear, I put my pride in my pocket and went to ol! man Ormonde. I told him that I was going to make a pile for myself and asked him if he would hold the other fellows off for a couple of years. He was awfully nice about it, with that greasy kind of niceness that keeps you from kicking a man when you want to most. He reeled out a lot of talk about his duty toward his daugh- ter (as though her happiness should not be the first considefation), and ex- plained that a gentleman he had met in England was just then on his way to press his suit. From the ; he rolled the name, Lord Lancaster, un- der his tongue, I could see it was the title he was after. I went out of the room with black rage in my heart, and the bitter memory of things I had said to a man old enough to be my father. If there ever was a man I wanted to hate—after Ormonde, of course—it was Lancaster. But after I had met him I | | simply couldn’t. He was one of those clean-built, hearty English chaps i whom good breeding is a habit and cordiality a second nature. Even “My Lady” liked him, though she knew why he had come. Lancas- ter had been when he had s dressing table England. When girlish charm, he h formal announcement was to be e at the end _ v Then the O , dinner to their victory over a woman's art It as to be a big event, and 1 was among the very few not invited either to the dinner or the bail to follow I met “My Lady™ down on the rocks the afternoon of the di at silent for a long time, “My and I, when who should come along the beach but his Lordship. “My Lady™ had been crying and Lancaster was up in arms on the instant. He was not a very quick thinker in some ways and he got an idea that I was responsi- ble for the tears. That made me lose my head, and before I knew what I was doing I had let the whole truth out. 1 didn’t mince my words. They just came out in a torrent and I am afrat@ that I pretty plain spoken. shouldn’t blamed him if he h knocked me down. Instead, he simplys stood ther gray as the mist that veiled the sedl All of a sudden I realized what I nt as suddenly & was done and turned I had commenced. His Lordship made no answer to m@ but turned to “My Lady.’ “Is it true, Miss Ormonde?” he asked gently My Lady” was crying harder thal ever now, but she bowed her head. HES took her hand. “Believe me,” he saldy “I had no idea. Your father assured m@ that there were np entanglements an@ that you re loved me. It unfors tunate that I should have fallen =@ deeply in love with you before I dise covered the truth, still, I do not know that I am her sorry. It ha# perhaps, but i§ so.well worthy loved “As for you,” “I can and he shr anticipate tre there is my complications State t out vacht. If sai be my den, of England minister. He walked down to th nding place to see us off and give his orders to the sailing master. He shook ha with me, then turned and kissed “My Lady"” full on the lips. “God bless you,” he sald, “and make you haopy.” Thém he turned on his heel and strode off toward the house. It was he who made the announce- ment of our marriage to the dinner guests. It was the bravest thing I ever 11 tell and his an e Stuarts. heard of, but QI cestors fought [POLLY'S MANEUVERING | (Copyright, 19G4, ha McCulloch Wil- NAP was in full when Jack blagt Jimmerson got to the Exum party. It was a play party— strictly. Pa Exum thought dancing the chief snare of the evil one—and the stout and hearty young folk simply could not keep still through a whole long evening. Notwithstanding, it had not been easy to get the playing start- ed. Snap was useful for starting—it re- quired, you see, so few extra bold spir- its. In playing it a man and woman held hands, facing each other, thus forming something that could be run around. Another man ran around them once, twice, thrice,-then snapped im- perative fingers at some seated damsel, who, as in duty bound, came out on the floor and began chasing him round and round the standing couple. Quarry and hunter were privileged to dodge underneath the clasped hands if there- by they gained safety or advantage— privileged also to lay hold violently on the standers to save themselves from falling in the whirling rush. The first snapper, once he was caught, took the place of the man standing up. Then the girl he had snapped snapped out somebody else to pursue her, and when captured became likewise part of the central group, known technically as “the stump.” This explanation is necessary if one would understand why Jack Jimmer- son was so wildly angry the minute he There was his sweetheart, Ellie Andrews, scuffling boisterously about, turning, twisting, doubling, dodging, now falling to her knees, now springing agilely aside, with young Tom Wilson, of all men, in the very hottest pursuit. Plainly she had snapped him out—plainly also there was ground for the significant looks, and whispers behind the hand, plenti- ful all through the room. It was part of the game to consider that a man snapped out thus was specially fav- ored by the snapper. And Ellie had all along laughed at Tom—pretend- ing to Jack she wou?d have nothing to say to him if he did not have a big river bottom farm, to say nothing of money in two. banks and expectations from his tough old grandfather. Jack also had a farm—upland; rich and in good heart, but there was his mother to look out for, and his blind sister. - He could never think of put- came in. "i By M. M. Williams | 4 - ting them off by themselves, and he knew it was asking a lot of a hand- some and imperious girl to live in the house with them and accommaodate her ways to theirs. , though he_had an understanding with Ellie, there was no set engagement. He had let her know how- he found himself held and hampered, and was waiting for her to study out the problem. She had known that he loved her ever since she was out of short frocks. “Jack, I reckon you'll get a mitten, may be a pair of 'em—for Christmas,” Polly Exum said in his ear, as he shook hands. Polly was a bouncing flaxen beauty, always laughing, with the kindest heart in the world, and the most reckless tongue. She made no bones of letting it be known that she “loved Jack Jimmerson better'n pie’— also that it was quite a hopeless love so long as Ellie Andrews was single. “T'll git over it and marry somebody— a preacher, may be,” she said to Jack himself. Therefore . his conscience was quite easy regarding her, al- though it often seemed to him matri- monial providence had made a big mis- take. Why did not Polly—pretty, laughing Polly—love the rich Tom ‘Wilson? Why, also, did not Tom Wil- son yearn to bestow himself and his belongings on her, rather than on EIl- lie? But he kent his speculations to himself, and answered, squeezing Pol- ly's hand hard: “Why, who has cut me out with you, Polly? I never thought you'd go back on a fellow this He tried to speak reproachfully, but wrath got the mastery. Polly giggled comprehendingly. “You know what I meant,” she said. Then with a little toss of her head, “There! Tom's done catched Ellie. He'll snap me dead sure —and I'll snap you. That'll give you a chanee—if you ain't too bashful to use i True enough, Tom did snap her— she was off like a shot, weaving away after him, nimble, supple, light- footed for all her hundred and seventy «pounds. She was a fine figure, tall, lithe, perfectly proportioned, and strong enough to hold her own with half the men in the county. Tom ran away from her manfully, but in a wink she had him fast. He was half a head lower than she—wherefore she looked down at him captive with twinkling eyes. “You all ain’t playin’ the strength of the game,” she said, smiling wickedly. “Over the river they. 'dc 1t better—there it's catch and Sulting deed to_word, she gave Tom + a resounding smack, then shoved him forward, blushing furiously, to take hands with Ellie. Ellie had laughed with all the rest rejoicingly, though, that her turn had come before this innovation. . The rejoicing was, how- ever, premature. True to her word, Polly snapped out Jack, and when he had duly caught, kissed and passed her on he called Ellle again to the floor. She shook her head and tried to sit still, but there was such uproar round about she got up and began the chase. It was a half-hearted pursuit at first. Jack was evidently in little danger. But when he rashly leaned across the !'nked hands and blew =& kiss in her -yes she could do no less than slip underneath and try to seize him—but only in time to see him whisk to the other side. Then, enter- ing a little into the spirit of the cross purposes she knew lay back of the game, she began to chase In good sooth—one that lasted five long min- utes and ended only when, breathless and panting, she stopped still and found her quarry run fairly into her hands. “Jack, I always knowed she’'d rum ye down at last. Make her kiss, ye to bind the bargain,” Polly said joyously, loosing one hand. Then, to her part- ner she added coyly: “I don't know what's to become o' us two—unless we can take each other sorter for con- solation.” “Why—why— Polly—I hadn’t never thought o’ hit—but it might an- is fine face growing & swer right down well,” Tom said awk- | wardly, yet trying to be gay and airy. Jack stood facing Ellie with folded hands and downcast eyes, the moral and pattern of modest confusion, with yet tell-tale quivers at the corners of the mouth. After a second or two of walting he said plaintively: “Miss Polly, Ellie don’t play fair. What shall I do about i “I reckon you had better marry her —jest try to.” Polly retorted, and Ellie, the high-strung, the coquettish, after one glance into Jack's illumined face, whispered v softly, “I reckon g0, too.” ol o hey were married the next year— but not until Tom Wilson had carried Polly off to the river bottom farm. There she proved herself still more a friend to the lovers by -stirring up Grandfather Wilson to court and marry Widow Jimmerson. Blind Har- riet, of course, went along with her mother and became .so great a fa- vorite with grandfather he never rest- ed until she agreed to let the doctors and the big hospital give her back some measure of sight—a thing Jack had urged all along, but for which she had never found courage. “And only think—it all comes out of a game of snap,” Ellie said to her new husband a month after the infare. “Polly doesn’t look the least like a guardian angel—but she has been bet= ter than one to all of us.”