The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, April 17, 1904, Page 5

7 & T K. A. Whitehead ) 1904, by heart bufly shing the ull pose , and made an insuf- t alone. em Burson; he He wa fertile fancy about her very we & mode ectively, the piano with was 22, and 33, and cess. per- THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. OVER A HONEYSUCHLE B> A. M. Davies Ogden (Copyright, 1904, by T. C. McClure.) HE afternoon was and warm, and young man lying beneath the oak tree let the book slip from listless fingers and his eyes wandered ¥y to the tangle of it happened that he @id not see a siender white figure which came down the hill to the frag- rant hedge dividing them. Aroused by a slight sound, be thrust back his hat. For an instant he gased, bewlldered. Then. meeting the girl's surprised look he sprang up. “I hope that I am mot trespassing.” green above he began doubtfully. “If I am in- truding—" “No, I believe mot,” she responded. “Our land stops et this hedge, I fancy. It you care to stay, of course—] came to look at the view,” she added, with some irrelevance is great,” The man nodded. he agreed. “I have at her, him a suspicious ten come here to read be went on calmly. “It fits in w '1» polite, if vague inter- for Omar, then?” A book of verses, un- igh; a loaf of bread, and thou beside me, ilderness—ah! wilder- now. ely unfuried her fluffy the w singing in must not longer interrupt your ding then e said. “Good-by.” “Ggod-by! But you have only just comf. Please don't go,” he begged. “I've read enough for to-da. Z she objected. “But I don’t know you,” The man held out the Omar. My £ug name is on the title page” he ested tentatively, and the girl, a moment’s hesitation, ruffiing the pages, read the name aloud: don Lenox Maxwell. Are you really Gordon Maxwell?” The man looked surprised. “What do you know of me?” ““Who has not heard of the great ten- nis champion?” she laughed, half-mock- ingly. “Here is your book.” “But you were only a child then,” he persisted. “And I have been abroad ever since.” “SBure, but children have good memo- ries, you know.” “You must have been a lovely child,” bhe murmured reflectively. The girl frowned. “Y really must go,” she repeated. Max- well took a hasty step forward. “Please don’t. And forgive me. won't you tell me who you are?” The girl shook her head decidedly. “I only tell my name to my friends.’ “And are not we friends 7" She opened wide eyes. “Not yet, sure- 1y.” “Well, let's pretend then,” he urged. The girl, gazing at him with more ap- proval, relented a little. “Let’s pretend by all means. I will therefore introduce myself as the Prin- cess of the Blue Forget-me-nots, who lives in yonder enchanted castle,” wav- ing her hand toward the hill Maxwell sighed contented. “What a lovely name. It exactly suits your eyes. And is Mrs. Cory your aunt, then?” hurrying on at signs of danger. “Why haven't I met you before? I will come and call,” reflectively. “I love Mrs. Cory.” The girl flushed. “No, no, you mustn’'t,” she cried ab- ruptly. “That is, my aunt is {IL"” half confused., Then at Maxwell's puzzled stare she broke into persuasion. “Don’t yop see how the whole thing would be spoiled,” she cried. “If we were to meet at teas and chatter inanities as people do, if you were to meet me ‘out’ as plain Miss Emith — can’t you see, don't you understand?” “But—" objected Maxwell. The girl's e;es flashed.” “Oh, very well, then, do it,” she de- clared. “What does it matter anyway? 1 should mot have come here, should not have spoken to you at all. You have shown me that quite plainly. Therefore, In any case I think the ac- quaintance had better stop here and And now.” “But,” interposed Maxwell again, “can't you see it's only because I want to mect you agaln somewhere, any- where,” recklessly. “What do I care for Mrs. Cory. You will come back here,” he implored. The girl smiled. “You will promise to stay on your own side of the hedge?” “If I must,” obediently. “But—am I never to cross it?” Her face changed. “Before I leave I will myself break the spell, and then perhaps—" she hesitated. *“But until then, no.” “You sare going,” in alarm. She laughed again. “Surely you cannot expect me to re- main forever.” “I could remain here — forever,” answered. “On the other side of the fence,” with tilted chin. 2 *“On the other side,” emphatically. 'Would I were there now.” "Aveady wishing for my deplh ture,” murmured the girl in exagger- ated reproach. “Good-by, then, this time really good-by.” “But you will come back,” eagerly. She paused and glanced back over her shoulder. “Perhaps,” she answered. The slow, sweet summer days drift- ed lazily by and with them Maxwell, half consciously, but none the less steadily, felt his peace of mind slip- ping likewisc And then at last, when all the world lay white and dreamy beneath the moonshine, she came, stepping dain- tily across the dewy grass. At sight of her Maxwell drew & long breath, “Ah, moon of my delight, that knows no wane,” he breathed. The girl's gaze wandered past him to where the waves danced in shimmer- ing rippies under the soft radiance, and for a space the spell of the night laid ,its hush upon them. Maxwell leaned toward the barrier. “Do you smell the honeysuckle?” he murmured. The girl shivered. It is almost too sweet,” she an- swered low. “Too intense.” “Then give me the spray you wear,” he he begged. But as she mechanically held it out he drew back. “Put it on for me,” he besought. Still in silence the girl bent across the odorous hedge and slipped the flower into his coat. Suddenly his hand closed over the fingers on his breast, holding them so that she could feel the pounding of his heart. For a long moment the girl looked deep into his eyes “The game has been very pleasant,” she sald slowly. *“But now the end has come and to-night I am to say good-by.” Maxwell echoed stupidly. started. “Good-by,” he “Now, after you have come to me. Good-by! It has not been all a game,” he went on, gather- ing courage. The girl put up a pro- testing hand. “No, no, we were pretending. member.” “There was no pretense on my side,” Maxwell's voice was steady. “I love you.” “But you can't, you mustn’t. You're not playing fair. Besides, you don’t even know my name,” urged the girl in dismay. Maxwell laughgd. “Not know you? I have always known you and waited for you,” he as- serted. The girl, who had glanced up quickly, shook her head. “You are mistaken,” she murmured. “I—I thought ourselves just pretend- ing, I thought you knew the rules of the game, forgive me, but—I am al- ready engaged.” “What!” the exclamation broke sharply from Maxwell. When he went on it was in an altered voice. “I see. It has been m: own fault. I should have played even, but I put too much on the hazard. Double or quits the game-and I lose. Quits it 1s," with a bitter little laugh. The girl caught her breath. “But 1 never dreamed that you would take it like this,” she faltered. “And—and it was so long ago that I became engaged; it is only lately I have learned that he still cares. ‘Would you care to see my engage- ment ring?”’ rather wistfully, “Yes, Re- — I want you to” as Maxwell uttered a flerce protest. Untying a blue rib- bon from her throat she laid it in his palm; on the ribbon was fastened a slender circlet of gold, twined with forget-me-nots. Maxwell looked at it with distaste. ‘‘Hence your name,” he said absent- 1y, twisting the ring with ynconscious fingers. ‘A good message for him to leave, but surely an unnecessary name for you. Who would forget you, blue- eyed Princess. Blue is true, blue is— why—" He broke off abruptly with eyes suddenly riveted on the Ilittle ring. For a second he stared in be- wilderment, then glanced at the girl. Her face was rose-red in the moon- light and Maxwell gasped. “Madeleine,” he cried swiftly, in- credulously. “Madeleine. is it really you? My dear little girl sweetheart, my first little love, who promised to marry me when she grew up the day 1 gave her this ring? Madeleine!” The girl uttered an uncertain little l‘n‘m “I am Madeleine.” “And you knew me all the um.." with sudden intuition. “Why, I—I heard that you were here,” under lowered lashes. “And the book settled it. I told you children had good memories. Didn’'t you think me very forward for a princess? You see I didn't want you to know me, be- cause, that it—-" breaking off, in pretty embarrassment. “You see—"" “I see that I have been an ass!” ex- claimed Maxwell, unsteadily. ‘“Made- leine,” he leaned across the hedge and tried to take her hand, but the girl slipped back. “Madeleine, I can't put the ring back from this side of the hedge.” His pulses were racing, his voice sounded strange in his own ears. ““Madeline, may I cross the hedge?"” - There was & moment's silence, tense, vibrant, through which Maxwej caught dimly the distant beat of the waves. the delicate penetrating fra- grance of the honeysuckle; then slowly she lifted tender, wistful eyes to his, while her lips curved into the sweetest smile. _“¥You may try,” she sald. sonally, as he had studied all girls since his betrothed married another man while Howbridge was at college dream- ing and writing her sentimental love letters. The other man had always wanted her, so he stayed on the spot, saw her every day, and djd things until he got her—which taught Howbridge a lesson. He woke up, and after that his characters were more real—not like those in his first book. Joanna had no heart history. Men who saw much of her did. They, al- ways to her surprise, fell in love with her, and to their own surprise, married other women, and sighingly remem- bered her as a lost love when they had indigestion, or lost out in some project. Joanna liked men in a comradely way, and never flirted, for she was very sin- cere, and hated to hurt any thing. Be- sides, she wanted to keep her heart all in one piece. She and Oliver walked and drove and canoed together, and talked much about nothing in particular, and sald a lot that they did not mean, which was a sure method of learning each other's tastes. She ridiculed his com- monplace title, and began posing to Phil for the illustrations. Howbridge tried to get down to work on his story, which was to be of no great length, and which ordinarily he could have written in a few days, but he made no headway. He could not suit himeelf; he made a jumble of it, and each morning’s installment was written in a different mood. At last he destroyed it and began over again, wondering what was the matter with him. He soon found out. Meanwhile, he found himself at an inexplicable stand- still in his acquaintance with Joanna, who seemed to avold him. One day he entered the studio while she was posing, and her eyes met his with a question new to him. The same day she broke off in the midst of a song to ask: “To compose a heart-breaking thing like that did he have to have had the experience himself?” “Not necessarily. If he had suffi- clent artistic imagination he would get a better perspective of the suffer- ings of another.” She struck up a gay melody, but her face was thoughtful. Then her mood changed, and he could not keep up with her brilllant sallles. She teased and dared him, half bewildered and wholly charmed him. He decided that she could flirt most gloriously, and was ready for her, but by evening she was again unapproachable. The next morning he was called to the studio, where he found Joanna posing listlessly. Phil was fIrritated and critical. “She can‘t get it. Help her, How- bridge, there has to be a man any You know how the scene ought @ may do for attitude,” he said calmly, “but keep my face out—the dear public knows it. Ready? Tell me if the pose is not right.” But he knew it was He walked to her side and drew her into his arms, with his face ggainst her hair and her hands in hin He quivered, knowing his touch meant nothing to her—that she was only posing. When it wadlover he thought it out in his room. And nearly all night he wrote—his own story—and Joanna's— just as it was—how he had met and come to love her. He put into it his heart and soul, going beyond fact only in making her finally yield to his piea for her love. It was morning when he finished. After breakfast he told Phil to let the pletures go for awhile, got the sketches of Joanna, locked them up, and went to touching up his work of the night preceding. Surely it would move her—it would tell her better than spoken words. After luncheon he slipped the manu- script under her door, and waited. He heard her enter her room. He walked the floor, but all afternoon she made no sign. % At dinner her head was high, her cheeks pink and her eyes very bright, and later she asked Howbridge to go fup the river. They walked silently to the cance. Johanna took the paddle, and bade Howbridge not to talk. He did not wish to. It was enough to look at her and wait till she let him ask her about their story. As they glided near the shore in blurring tree shadows, she spoke. “That is & good story. I congratu- late you om your success.” Could she be joking? “The plot is clever, the characters are true to life and ft Is full of feeling.” Her tone was cutting. “Joanna! Don’t you understand? Don’t— “I understand perfectly. You came for material, and you got i{t. Phil says you are going to see your publish- ers to-morrow. Well, you needn’t re- turn. I despise you. You not only made me care, but you dared show me to what advantage you use my love. I shall get over it. “Joanna!” Her eye- blazed. “And vou dared té touch me when my brother’s presence made me power- less to resent it, and you knew what it meant to me? Oliver Howbridge, you—" but he stopped her. “It's my turn, now. I love you. The story was written for you alone: no one else will see it. It is the story of my heart, dear. I thought you would understand. It was my way of telling you that life is made up of wanting you. Don’t you see? - Can’t you love me, Jo?” Her anger dled away. Tears stood in her eyes, but her laugh was saucy, provoking. “Yes, Oliver, but not enough to dle with you just yet.” “Die?” “Yes, we will, if you don't stay where you are and stop tipping the canoe. She was her old teasing self. It wi shametully late before she would land, and let her lover take her into his arms and into his heart for all time. ——— » .E._ | SARAH’'S STRATEGY | By C. B. Lewis +(Copyfl:ht‘ 1904, by C. B. Lewls.) When evening came again behold ARAH Pendergast was not to blame that she had lived to the age of thirty-three without being married. When she looked back over the long road she couldn’t see where it was her fault, and as for oth- er people, they said: ““What, Sarah Pendergast, the old maid? Why, she’s been trying her very best for the last fifteen years to catch a man, and she'd give all her old shoes even to say yes to a widower eighty years old.” Indeed, it was no one’s fault. It was simply one of those things that occur now and then in every commu- nity. A girl gets left out for no par- ticular reason, and the first thing she knows she's being called aunt, and looked up to with respect due to old age. Sarah had a brother Willlam for whom she kept house. Willlam was an old bachelor and inclined to silence, but now and then he had a way of making the sister feel that her mission had been left unaccomplished. On the night of her thirty-third birthday the spirit moved him to say: “Sarah, I've lived a single life for forty years, and I . don't Intend to change it, but if I were you, I'd get a husband if I had to chase him from here to Bebee's Corners.” “I could have married ten times over if I had wented to leave youw'™ she replied. “Well, don't let me stand in the way any longer. I ain’t blaming you al- together, but folks are giggling and poking fun at you all over the county. ‘Why don’t you get out and hustle like other girls?” Sara defended - her position with spirit, but that night after she got to bed she lay awake for two hours and then came to a decision. For the first time since she was old enough to marry she made up her mind to go on a man-hunt and show brother Willlam and the rest of Temple County that she could get married as well as other folks. One thing that helped her to reach this decision just at the time was the fact that young Enos John- son, son of Farmer Johnson, had been paying her attention. That is, he had The innocent Enos didn’t-know what was in store for him, and, therefore, came over the next evening to tell how the old spotted cow had a sore back and one of the hogs had a swelling on its jaw. If he hadn’t been so busy eat- ing Spitzenberg apples and black walnuts he might have noticed that Sarah was more affectionate than usual, and that brother William went off to bed half an hour ahead of his usual time. But Enos had no guile and didn’t expect it in others. Before he left for home had agreed to go sliding’ on the d with Sarah the next evening, and that night she lay awake again to do a little more plan- ning. Next morning as soon as the bachelor brother had taken his de- parture for the woods, she hunted up an old ax and waded through snow to & pond in the old mumd tocntlmddudholelnth.la.m the been on a gentleman’s farm it would have been called a lake; had it been nearer the barnyard it would have been referred to as a horse pond. called at the house now and then of an evening to eat apples and pop-corn in her company, and to talk weather and crops with her farmier brother. brother William nursing a sore heel before the kitchen fire, and Sarah and Enos cantering about the pond like two children given a holiday. The No. 10 Boots worn by Enos soon made a slid- ing place, and, of course, the coy Sarah —Enos had never seen her so coy be- fore—managed to slip down at every slide and be set on her feet again by his strong arms. Gradually, as she grew more coy and artless, and as Enos gal- Toped about with more vigor and began to wonder if he wasn't a good deal of a feller after all. she so managed things as to approach nearer and nearer the hole cut in the ice that morning. By and by she got a warning, and later on another, but she smiled and said she had a hero at hand to save her. Then came the climax of her planning. There was a quick run down hill, a long slide and a fall and a scream, and into the hole she went. It was no matter that her feet could touch the cold mud and make the bullheads wonder what was going on, or that she could have pulled herself out as fast as she got in had she so minded. She had a part to play. and she played it. At her first scream Enos started for the house yelling “po- lice!” at the top of his voice. At her second he turned back and grabbed a fence rail and shoved it at her so vigor- ously that he came near breaking her ribs with the end of it. It was not until scream the fifth had risen on the night air to make the stars turn pale and shudder that Enos flung down his hat, yanked off his overcoat and blue yarn mittens and showed himself the hero that he was. After trying to push Sarah a foot farther down into the mud and water he suddenly realized that the right way was to pull instead of push, and with & heave and a grunt he flopped her out on the ice. He had heard that half-drowned people ought to be rolled on a barrel. There was no bar- rel handy, and so he rolled Sarah over and over in the snow. When he be- leved that he had recalled the flame of life he picked her up like a bag of potatoes and flung her over his shoul- der and sgarted for the house, and there was no mistaking his feelings when he sald: “If Sarah dies of this I hope our old muley cow will kick my head off.” In wading through the snowdrifts and climbing rail fences Sarah was dropped three or four times, and each time she faintly protested that she was able to walk, but the hero had been roused to action, and nothing could stop him. Up went Sarah again, her shoes leaking mud and water and her wet arms clinging around Enos’ neck and shoulders, and at last he arrived at the kitchen door and kicked it open and lald his burden on the floor. “Gee-whiz, but what is it?” gasped brother William, as he got his sore heel under his chalr and faced about. “Sarah’s fell in the pond!” “No!™ “And T've fell in love with Sarah!” “It can’t be!" “Enos, darling, kiss me!” came from the soppy bundle on the. floor. “Durned if I don’t, and right off now, with Bill lookin" oll"' Next morning at breakfast, after a long period of silence, brother Wil- Ham queried: “Sarah, who cut that hole In the fce?” “] aid,” she promptly answered. “When are you and Enos to be mar- ried?” “The firgt of May.” “Um! 1 see. you are mo old maid!”