The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, May 29, 1904, Page 4

by S. L. Tinsley.) W then at the ‘é es would be a dollars mor: you could leave on the roll of pa- door. 1d so that leave to-night, ¥ Thicker who was ng the drawers of A hastily I'll see!” 4 his head, and re the room when irled around sud- with an expression thin, smooth face. will I do with an exclama- 1" exclaimed hardly know- o his amaze- kerton seized upon his the very thing! Glad I'll attend to it at after all, I'll be able midnight express.” around, Mr. self to work. s letters, Mr. ang the bell a ited the arrival Eloise Thick- hor! she entered her father’s about her with a ession. A summons t something extra. as always too busy good morning or good daughter. When Eloise her father began sed the door, had <l ng st leave at once for s. 1 may be gone gone years.” father’s arm in “Yes, 1 must go at once. This deal means much money for me. Therefore, 1 have sent for you to yell you that you are to be married at once; this evening by 8 o'clock at the latest, That dear. You run awa I am Poor Eloise! The room swam before her s. She sank into a chair, be- cause she could not trust herself to stand ~papa, dear; dear papa, what do you mean 7" Her voice was so pitiful, that even usy father found time to turn nd and look at her. there. my dear, don’t fret; it will soon all be over.” e shuddered. ‘“Papa, dear, you don't mean it, do you? You're just teasing me, aren’t you he clagped her hands. He did not look at her, but shook his head and drummed nervously upon the desk. “There, there, my dear, run away now and don’t bother me. I am very busy; but remem! be ready by 8. Cloise walked sadly toward the door. Then she hesitated, and looked back timidly at her father “Whom am 1 going to marry, papa®™ Franklin Thickerton did not under- stand his daughter's question, and he was too busy to ask her to repeat it. So he answered absently: “Never mind, my dear, never mind!” Eloise silently left the room One hour later, Franklin Thickerton was sitting in Judge Walton's office. The Judge listened while Mr. Thick- erton talked. The conversation con- cerned Judge Walton's son. “You have always favored a mar- riage between Eloise ana Harry. As I start for Russia to-night, and have no one with whom I could leave my daughter, why not let us have the marriage performed this evening. What do you say?” The lawyer looked at the Judge. “What does Eloise say?” replied the Judge She will do what I say!™ Very well, Harry shall be on hand at eight o'clock to-night.” The two men shook hand: yer Thickerton hurried aw the final arrangements journey. At a quarter before eight o'clock the Thickerton household was in a state of excitement, Eloise was missing. The housekeeper was weeping in the sitting-room. The lawyer had looked himself in the library. The servants nd Law- to make for his ay were huddled together whispering in the kitchen. Eloise had left the house an hour before and her father had expected her pa!” she exclaimed to return in a few moments. She had Bascom’s Aristocracy a By Jasper Collingwood com’s effects the Holbein ther occupants in the front wi jeered openly. I whose hearing was singularly ac aught the comments as far up as t third floor. The only trouble with Bascom's ef- fects that they were new—distress- ingly new. ¥From the oflcloth for the tiny kitchen t Persian rugs and Turkish hangings, they all came from first-hend st The Holbelnites were unaccustomed to such extrava- gances. They had bought second-hand things when they had first set up, and thereby ha red merit in the e of those a ¥ lished. It ¥ unbohemian, as Tol r expresed it, have glaring new furniture and things in one’s studio. d the poss sion of unseemly apd emall artistic merit moment that the first deliv backed up to the do surname, so far as h concerned, and gained Aristocrat. It was name, but it spread rapidly, French Communist ever hated the name more than the Holbeini: As soon as the place had been set- tled Bascom went around one morning delivering invitations for a studio tea that afternoon. There were many moved to accept the invitation, for the dellvery wagon of a leading grocery Jbed unloaded much that looked attract- ive that morning But Tolliver made a personal canviss and when Bascom hurried home that afternoon, laden with additional pack- ages, be was met by a neat pile of re- grets carefull ned upon his door. As a result of Tolliver's activity it had to this aristocrat by means of the tea to flaunt his rich posses eyes. It was unbohemian, and whi his presence had to be tolerated, friend- ship and fellowship should be withheld. Bascom was He readlly per- celved why he & snubbed and uietly accepted t ation. He no led friendly to when he met avely removed s _of money From the y wagon m lost his his hat when he 7 d the women. For the rest he went w work and found in this an absorpti 1 which did mot permit him to worry zb titude of his neighbors their companionship, but he had letters in plenty. Since the artistic colony re- d to recognize him he devoted him- b ty engagements when , thereby bringing fort nal comment as to the gorgeous- of his garments. Alice Caswell. She decorator of china, but her ere pitifully meager and she wags &t once accepted by the rest of th» inhabi s as a Bohemian. She a bright, brisk, even tem- pered girl, and before the week was out she had made friends even with the janitor, & feat hitherto supposed to be impossible. She had the studio across the hall from Bascom, and before she head learned of his isolation had already formed a friencéship with him. She had needed some material which she did not heve time to go out for, and he had slied her wants. She pproving eve his skill fine sense of she €c acquired cpping in to ask his ad- vi e about her designs, fi~Zing h's wide missed and experfence of great value. By the time the other dwellers in the Studio ldinz had thought to warn her of the intruder in their colony the intruder had become her mentor, and she grieved greatly as one after an- other the r of the artists let slip some caustic fling “But he is a really clever man,” she asspred Tolliver one day as he sat perched in the window seat declaiming against the aristocrat. “I assure you that his paintings are very much above the average.” Tolliver snorted contemptuously. “My dear child,” he remarked patronizingly “You do some very clever china work. Don't try to get beyond it and set up as a critic. There never was a man came into this place with new furni- ture. He can’t be an artist.” Then the conversation dropped. There was no arguing with Tolliver when he called one “dear child.” A few weeks later she had a birthday party. Early in the morning the occu- pants of the other studios began to ar- rive, each with some little token and the invariable inquiry as to whether Bascom had been invited to the evening festivities. It seemed odd to her that they should be so interested in his pos- sible appearance, but she readily an- swered that he would. No obijection being offered she personally rounded up Bascom when the time of the party ar- rived and got him across the hall on the plea that she needed help in the preparation of the supper. Bascom had interposed many objec- tions when she had invited him. but she had pleaded with him and on her assurance that the attitude of the oth- ers had materially changed he decided to risk it because she wanted it. £he never realized that the abate- ment of the criticiem was because she was openly his champion and the rest had decided to respect her “delusion.” as they termed it. She was so happy getting the spread ready that she never noticed the clock. until all of the preva- rations had been made. “Why, it's 9,” she said wonderinglv. “I asked them to come in about 8. I'll take a little run down the hall and re- mind some of them.” Bascom sank into the easy chair in front of the cannel coal fire. Cannel coal was a Juxury in the Holbein flats. but he had sent two scuttlefuls that morning in honor of the event. Allce ran down the hall to Tolliver's door. There, pinned to a panel, the sign, “Gone to the theater.” 8She retraced her steps to the stairway. On every door was some card giving notice that the owner had gone out. She descended to the lower floors, apparently not a =oul remnined in the bujlding. Bascom. by the firep'ace, was rtartled by the tiny figure that darted in and sank sobbing upon the home-made cozy cor- ner. It took small questioning to get at the trouble. The cause he already knew. The form the opposition had taken was all he needed to ask. “T wouldn't have minded so much,” she sobbed, “only I did so want them to meet vou and see how nice you really were,” S “Did vou get it all up for me,” he demarded eagerly. £he nodded. ““That isn't the worst of it.”" she confessed, I even invented the birthday. Mine was seven months away and T couldn’t wait. I thought they would be more apt to come to a birth- day narty. Now I have all their pres- erts ard th~- wouldn't come.” 1he tearful little face down “houlder. “Little girl,” le 'Se, Uy “ e s svever sala gently, “don't you think they would be more apt to come to a wed- ding?” “I couldn’t invent that,” she protest- ed in a muffled volce. “It's very eagy,” he persisted. “Just say ‘ves.’ I will look after the rest. I have wanted to ask you for a long time.” Even Tolliver came to ‘the wedding and led the chorus of “He's a Jolly good fellow,” as he poured several quarts of rice down the elevator shaft after the departing pair. James had discovered that Bascom really had to work for a living and that the studio had been furnished by a maiden aunt, who insisted (hat he be started right. June Calendar l Girl On the front page of this Magazine Section The Sunday Call presents to- day the “June Muitiple Color Calendar 3irl,” the fifth in the new series for 1904, which have been attracting much attention for their beauty and artistic quality, since the first was published in January last. The June Calendar Girl is a special e e nger? Y )\, pose of Miss Ella Kearney, one of the prettiest and cleverest girls in San Francisco and one who has a special faculty for dramatic effects. This, however, is the first time she has appeared before the cam- era, and it was because she was such a good subject that Mr. Terkelson, chiet operator at Bushnell's, chose her for this striking picture, which is a novelty in photography. The suit, which is of the new silk-finish, to give it that wind-swept effect necessary to an instantaneous picture, is from New- man & Levinson. It is an importation designed expressly for this picture. oo not returned and the housekeeper had found a note in her room addressed to Mr. Thickerton: This note informed the lawyer that his daughter would not be married that night. She had gone away and would never again trouble her father's busi- ness arrangements. She expressed the hope that he would be successful with his Russian business transaction, then she bade him good-by. When Eloise's father had read this note he seated himself before his desk and for fully ten minutes opened and closed the drawers in rapid succession. He seemed to be searching for some- thing—perhaps Eloise At this mo- ment the door swung open and Judge Wilton hurried into the room, his face pale, his hands working with ex- citement. “Thickerton,” he cried when he had gained control of his voice, “my son has gone!” Frankl!in Thickerton looked at the Judge as though he had never before seen him. “So has my daughter!” Eloise Thickerton looked around the waiting room of the depot, a fright- large, gray ened expression in her eyes. She held her muff tightly in both hands and watched the people coming from and going to the ticket windows. Eloise had not fully made up her mind just where she wanted to go. When Harry Wilton, carrying his satchel, came into the waiting-room, the first person he saw was Eloise Thickerton. The young man looked at her in amazement, then he slowly drew out his watch; it was eight o'c’ock. Of course, she must be look- ing for himself. Poor girl, the idea of being deserted was intolerable to her. Walking quickiy across to Eloise’s side, Harry touched her lightly upon the arm. The girl gave a little, startled cry. ‘Oh, Mr. Miiton, I'm so nervous. I—I—really am so glad to see you. I want you to buy me a ticket, will you? Harry was bewildered. “Going aw did you say? Why, I understood t you—you—were to be rled th ning. Why dosen't ur husband buy the ticket?” hed scarlet. She turned r face away and looked across the room, then out into the train-shed, where bells were ringing, smoke puff- ing and whistles screaming. Mr Wil- ton was waiting for her answer. When she again turned her face toward him, Harry saw that her eyes were filled with tears. : “I couldn’t do it,” she whispered. “1 couldn’t marry that horrid little Mr. THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CAL E—— papa meant well, but he's old and, well —1I hated him. So I just determined to run away.” Young Wilton was staring at the girl in silent amazement. “Why,” he stam- mered, “why, when did your father change his mind? When did he tell you that you must marry that man, that Mr. Glade?” , “Papa never told me whom I was to marry. He said ‘Never mind’ when 1 tried to.question him, but I know that be- it was to be Mr. Glade. I know, cause he always looks at me so fu and then he jvas invited to breakfa and to lunch, and to dinner to-day. Anyway, who else could it possibly be? would just poor, No one se marry plain me For a moment Harry Wilton was silent, then drawing a step nearer he looked down into his companion’s face. “Mr. Glade was not to be your hus- band. I was to be the man. You?” “Yes, but when the time came I ceuldn’t do it. I felt that I was being ferced upon you, and, well, T just de- cided to leave you in peace and go away!” “You?" Eloise repeated. “Why, I never thought that you cared about s “Yes, I cared so much that I eould not bear to hurt you. I supposed, of course, your father told you.” loise fingered her boa nerv- o, if he had perhaps I might “Yes,” Harry drew closer to the girl's side. Her cheeks flushed and were dared not ralse her eyes to the young man's face, for she knew that he was looking at her. When she again spok her voice trembled. “What are we—that is—I mean, what are you—?" her speech. and she hid her faée in Nevertheless, Harry W stood her meaning. A moment and he had settled her future. “I am going to be married 46~ Elofse lifted her face. ‘“‘Are ¥s she whispered. “Who to 5 “You!" “Me?” “Yes,” and together they walked Glade. Perhaps he is nice. Perhaps toward the ticket wlndc_:w. = - - | Incorrigible William | } By Forbes Dwight o+ - i —— (Copyright, 1904, by K. M. ‘Whitehead.) ILLIAM had said he would come at 2:30 sharp. The races at the Country Club course began at 3, and it would take a good half-hour to make the drive. Beatrice Hanscom, fidgeting impa- tiently on the broad veranda, glanced at the clock on the tower of St. Mark’s. It was 3:20. An hour late already! It was so like Willlam! It would be haz- ardous to speculate when he might ar- rive now. Very probably the unimpor- tant fact that he was to drive her out to the races had quite slipped his mind, for Willlam’s memory was of a decid- edly uncertain variety, as Beatrice knew from countless precedent cases. She would wait no longer. She would go over to the links and take it out of one of the caddies. Some one must feel as out of sorts as did she. She rose angrily, and as she did so there was a great clatter of hoofs on the winding driveway. A pair of cobs, pulling a smart trap, were drawn up before the stoop, and William, very shame-faced and apologetic, sprang from the seat. “Oh, I say,” he began. “Well, what have you to say?” sald Beatrice, turning on him wrathfully. “Whatever it is, it should have been sald before 3:30.” William coughed in embarrassment. “We haven't any time to lo: he urged. “Jump in and I'll try to explain on the way out. “Out where?” she said coldly. “Why, out to the track, of course,” said he. “No, thanks,” said Beatrice. “The last few races are always tame a! fairs. I'm not going.” + “Not going?” he questioned in dis- may. “You said—" “l1 saild at half-past two,” she re- minded him. ‘Willlam stared at her blankly. Then face brightened. “May 1 stay here with you then?" he asked. “I was just starting for the links” said she. - “But you'll let me you?” Beatrice shrugged her shoulders, “If it won't take too long,” she sald. William hitched the cobs and came up the veranda steps. “Look here,” he said contritely, “I'm horribly sorry about this, but—but—" “But you forgot, as usual,” sald Be- atrice. “Well,” he said, “Barrows and Mor- ton came In to talk up that lumber deal—" “Just say you forgot,” said Beatrice wearlly. “It's the oniy explanation.” “I did remember it, though, at three,” he said hopefully. “So like you to shut the stable door after the horse has gone,” she said savagely. ‘William locked pained. He said noth- ing. “If this were the first offense T might overlook it,” continued the girl. “But it's been like this four times out of every five. The exact number of times i'vi szant weiting for you to fulfill h explain, won't overdue appointments is simply appall- ing!™” Still William said nothing. He looked across the trim lawn with its winding driveway and its flourishing shrubs. “And so, hereafter,” she went on, “you need make no appointments with me.” “You don’t mean expostulation. “I do mean just that,” said she. “This is about the last straw. I don't intend ‘to be subjected to such heed- less annoyance again.” “You won't go anywhere with me?™ he asked. “I shall make no appointments to go anywhere with you. If we go, it will be on the spur of the moment; and even then I shall net be surprised if your treacherous memory allows me to come home alone, as I did the day of the river carnival.” William thought deeply for a mo- ment. “Perhaps you're right,” he said at length. “I haven't fully realized until now what I have inflicted upon you. I'll stay away as much as possible until I can educate my memory into something like normal condition. 1 won’'t bother you any longer now— you said you were going over to the links, I believe. I'm really more sor- ry about all this than I can make you understand. Good-by." He ran down the steps, and a mo- ment later the cobs whirled down the driveway in a cloud of dust. Beatrice sat on the veranda lost in thought. She knew she had hurt him deeply. But, he deserved it, she told herself grimly. Still, she was rather sorry she had been so disagreeable about it; he was so big and good- natured, and so absurdly helpless. ** he began In She was roused by the clatter of hoofs on the driveway. The cobs were again pulled up before her, and ‘William ran up the steps. “See here, Beatrice,” he said, hur- riedly, “I came here this afternoon with a firm determination to tell you some- thing important, but in the confusion of being late and alf that, you know—" “You forgot it, of course,” she laughed. At the sound of her laughter William was evidently relieved. “Exactly,” he said. “I meant to tell you that the deal in Lakeside real es- tate has been closed and that I've made a tidy bit out of it. I meant to ask you —hang it! It sounds cold-blooded, but I don’t mean it so—if you'd marry me.” The girl gasped. She looked at him steadily for several moments. P :liam, William, you incorrigi- she said. “Will you?” said he eagerly. “Marry me, you know?"” She laughed nervously. “You'd forget,” she declared, “and marry some one else within a month.” know I've no right to ask you,” he said, humbly. Beatrice was absorbed in a bit of tvy she was assiduously picking to bits. “Still,” she said, “you do need a guar- dian—so perhups sk it