The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 12, 1904, Page 6

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CAL Lowell O. Reese.) ve been driven 1 threw up y, groaned expletive the declared had the ground point of the i of the 1 Thor 1ore to say to I was back veranda tch that rutab t in s human and she was me of it was—she knew you love her and you a “Ar me to go out with she said with pr ng “And why, please First going t ly tell promised to maIry ou ‘eston 7 She wasn't angry. I had not even But I was both S You—well, you know it's as good es ed 1 began, but she inter- rupted me od—as—settled!” she mur- “Watch me mnow!’ ed her hand toward h had alight- J of the ned. “'See!” hies I reach my gers nea touch him. “though? It seems all is close my fingers—so gaudy creature eluded fingers brushed his 1 didn't get him! And I v so sure of jumped up, gave me a teasing and ran down the steps. Pres- I saw her, with Blakeslee, going boat, landing. A little later moving briskly up the river en I saw— e my heart stop. palpably. was the rawest dub in a ca- noe. And a canoe with an unskillful hand on the paddle is about as danger- ous as a powder mill with a live coal knoc € about in it. I started involuntarily toward the boat landing where my own canoe lay. Then I turned on my heel and stamped back. Not to save a thousand lives— my own included—would I be seen fol- lowing them. They and all the rest of the world would attribute it to jeal- ousy: and— And deep down in my poor, aching e Blakeslee, M7 zwoor re DDz ET IFrE Bo7rors TrIE CHAINOE SHTID WNO7T AT bedeviled heart 1 knew it would be the truth. 1 dug up my pipe and polluted the sweet summer air for rods around. I determined to be a pessimist and a cynic and spend the rest of my life sheering at everything I used to like. I jeered at the idea of human felicity and wished I'd never been born. I had what is technically known as the mol- lygrubs. And then— — THE SECON zr Suddenly a great light broke over me, and I saw where T had been playing the fool instead of the wise geperal. I had been giving her all the advantage; and as I reviewed my case I grew ut- terly and thoroughly ashamed of my- self. The spectacle of a great six-foot grown-up man toddling around, be- seeching a small girl to love him! How could she, when 1 was so devoid of stamina as that? And then 1 determined that, come what might, I would do sp no more. It might bre: my heart, but 1 was de- termined. Then, too, my heart was all crushed to frazzles anyway; so a little more bre £ would be a mere inci- dent not rth considering. A mutter of thunder in the west and 1 glanced up in apprehension. A black cloud was rolling up through ox ANO wWorx . the pines and already the wind was beginning to sway the tree tops. I rose and looked up the rive No canoe was in sight. Filled with alarm I ciimbed into my canoe—a tiny thing —and paddled furiously up the stream ahead of the rising wind. Half a mile up the river and no sign of the canoeists. The wind swept down and almost instantly the water was beaten into whitecaps and the lit- tle shell bobbed like a cork, but I held it straight ahead and watched it with the instinct of one trained to the pad- dle. And then the rain came! As I rounded a bend in the chan- nel I saw them. They were huddled under a heavy pilne near the water's edge. The waves were trying to drag the canoe away from the bank and Blakeslee, the picture of woe, was struggling to get it ashore. (Copyright, 1804, by Otho B. Senga.) HE girl with the violin, standing before the great box of orchids, sighed heavily. “Oh,dear, why is everything in life so unsatisfactory?” “My dear Kara,” said the woman who resd stories. “I hope you don't consider those magnificent orchids unsatisfactory?” o “No, no; they are beautiful, but—" “Perhaps it is the giver—" suggest- fvely. 0, Mr. Coleridge s all that a man might, could, would or should be—except—only—" “Don’t tell me unless you wish, Kara,” said the other, kindly, “I have no desire to pry into your affairs.” “But I do wish,” cried Kara, des- perately. “Oh, Miss Fairlle, you think I care for nothing but my wviolin, but there was some one—in Switzerland— I thought he cared—but he never sald - “But he writes to you?” “Not mow, I have not heard for nearly a year. He was hardly more than a boy, and he may bave forgot- ten. If I only knew—" “Do you mean” Miss Fairlie said gently, “that if you knew he did not care you could be glad of the orchids —and M» Coleridger” “I'm not sure of that, but I cannot be happy in even accepting the orchids when I think of Ulrich. Ulrich would bring me snowflowers, with the breath of the cold and the light of the stars upon them. These—they oppress me —they seem to speak of heat and of— money." “They mean money,” sald Miss Fairlie, gravely, “but they probably mean much more than that to the giver. If they mean only that to you—" and a little icy note uncon- sciously hardened her voice. The other did not notice. “I am grateful to him for these and for all his kindnesses. He has offered his carriage for to-night—Mrs. Gray is to chaperone me, you know."” “Oh, yes, to-night is the Bardner concert. I hope it will be a great tri- umph for you, Kara. And perhaps, dear little girl, perhaps some of your doubts may be settled for you to-night.” “I wish you and Kathleen were go- ing,” wisttully. “My dear,” and a slight trace of bit- terness crept into the even tones, “when you are Mrs. James Coleridge you will likely be invited to many af- fairs that are entirely out of my life. You are going to play something of your own to-night, aren’t you, Kara?" “Yes, that one for two violins—the ‘Ranz des Vaches' comes in from the distance, you remember.” “Yes, I remember it; it is beautiful.” “It is not entirely my own composi- tlon, Miss Falrile; Ulrich wrote the solo for the first violin, and he used to play first In that when we were studying to- gether. I play first now, of course, and Signor Alboni will take second.” “] prophesy a most gratifying sue- eess; and, Kara, I am deeply impresed with the feeling that much more than success—happiness—will come to you to-night. Go now and dress before your carriage comes.” “She is just what he ought to have,” mused Miss Fairlie, when the girl had gone, “beautiful, gifted—how proud he will be of her. Bee, the unappreciative child has forgotten the orchids!™ The exclusives at the Bardner con- cert softly tapped their gloved fingers in delight. The Bardner affalrs were always so charmingly unique! “8he has some foreign nobleman here to-night,” whispered one = beringed dame to another, “Itatian, I think. He has consented to play here, a wonder- ful violinist.” The nobleman was introduced with many flourishes—the Baron Jomini, who had conscnted to honor, etc., etc. He played magnificently. Mr. Coler- idge watched the girl with the violin. Bhe seemed as unawed as if she were at home, and he sighed relievedly. “She is a thoroughbred!” he whis- pered to Mrs. Gray. “She is & thoroughly good girl,” re- turned that lady, somewhat sharply. She ' fancied Coleridge’s expression rather “horsey,” and hardly approved. The great Mrs. Bardner swelled with pride at the sensation created hv her handsome young player. “An importation, if 1 may so express it, of my own,” she announced quite audibly to the satellites circled about her. She swooped down upon Kara with her frigid afr. “At the last moment, Miss Venn, that wretched Alboni sends me word he is Il So very annoying on his part! In order to give you an oppor- tunity to play, I will ask Baron Jomint to piay with you, but of course you must give him the first part. I could not ask so great a musician to play second to any one.” * “But, Mrs. Bardner, I could not per- mit any one else to play first violin in this composition under any circum- stances,” Kara protested firmly. Mrs. Bardner stared at her, coldly incredulous. “You evidently do not understand. If I can prevall upon Baron Jomini to play first violin your composition will have a chance to be heard—other- wise—" and a scornful shrug of the sholders completéd the sentence. The great violinist listened to Mrs. Bardner and went at once to Kara's side. “I am pleased to play with you, madame,” he said with simple cour- tesy, and took the music from her shaking fingers, “which part, ma- dame?” . “You are kind to play at allL” she responded earnestly, “and, of course, I must give vou the Arste—" ---By Otho B. Senga. VIOLIN —_— s —0 e — “But you would like to play that yourself?” smiling down on her. “I would,” she answered quletly, “you cannot understand, of course, but that part belongs to—to some one else in a way that I cannot bear te have a stranger " “Enough, madame, you are first vie- In. Begin.” It was indeed a triumph for Kara. The velvety applause pattered on and on, and the two violinists were begged to play again. “Can you remember ‘Loved One, Ever Near” ” he whispered. Bhe turned a white, startled face toward him. That was Ulrich Ges- ner's own! How could this Baron Somebody— “Quick, madame, the audience—" “I remember,” siowly, half-fright- ened. Play, then, I will take second.” And this time the exclusives fairly rose in their chairs to express their enthusiasm. “Miss Venn is exceedingly fortu- nate,” sald ,Mrs. Bardner, “and Baron Jomini—’ ‘“Miss Venn, madame? Did you say Miss Venn?"” interrupted the Baron, eagerly, “I did,” returned his hostess, coldly, “I would introduce you but—" ““We need not introductions,” quick-~ ly, “we are old friends.” He turned abruptly toward Kara, who was standing with Coleridge and Mrs. Gray. \ I ran my canoe close in and sprang apon the bank before they saw me. It was growing dark, what with the storm and the lateness of the hour. Miss Milwood turned and gave a glad cry. “Oh; Jack!” she said piteously, “I'm so glad. We've been unable to get home! Our canoe was beaten back by the storm and it upset and we were thrown into the water, and It was a mercy it was near the shore, else we'd have drowned!"” “How did you escape?” stifly. “We—we waded! And I'm chilling to death, Jack!” Her lips were blue with cold and she shivered miserably. Poor Blakeslee was in no better plight. 1 bastened to right the other canoe, I asked the Constantia, Kara, do you not remember Ulrich? It is but flve years—" She put her hand in his hesitatingly. “But they said Baron—" . “The title has come to me through “You remember my great-uncle, it means nothing—to you. I hope I am still Ulrich Gesner to you.” She turned and Introduced him to her friends. “It is strange to me f§o find her Miss Venn,” the younger man said, holding out his hand, and looking appealingly into Coleridge’s honest eyes, “I was told a year ago that she was—mar- rled.” The firm, white hand held his an instant longer thap was conventionally necessary. “If you and Miss Venn will relieve us of the carriage, Mr. Gesner, Mrs. Gray and I wish to walk a little way—" Kara looked at him with misty eyes. How sincere and cordial he was, and how friendly of him to say Mr. Ges- ner instead of that strange Baron Jo- mini. She put out both hands impuls- tvelw. with Blakesle help. Then I put the luckless boatman aboard, paddled him across to the mainland and bade him sprint for the hotel and get a roaring fire ready. I then recrossed the river, lifted the terrified girl Into the large canoe, tied the other behind and set out in the teeth of the storm. Doggedly and steadily, keeping as much as bl the lea of the shore, down the angry sheet of water. Milwood, strangely quiet, huddled the bottom of the canoe and said not a word. But I could hear h chattering and I felt love and pi struggiing hard with to be grimly firm my new resoiution and uncompror My muscles ching and my a t 14 heart throbbing as 1 it wou burst when at last we w into the shelter of the boathous I fastened the canoes and lifted the wet figure ashore. “Oh, Jack!" she qu have died if you had I should ntion 1it, Miss “I beg you won't Milwood,” I said with exaggerated politeness. It was a mean thing to say—I realized it at the time; but it was to crush the flerce longing to take her in my arms. 1 hurried her up to the hotel. From time to time she pushed back her wet hair and gazed at me with a pathetic wistfulness which [ affected mpot to see. The storm had blown swiftly away and the big white moon was sailing through the sky dotted with scudding cloudrift. 1 resigned her to the care of the so- licitous Mrs. Kerens, who was ail sym- ary if I pathy and bustling motherliness. Blakeslee was there, in an agony of contrition. 1 went away, changed my wet ciothing and sat down within the Phalf-lighted library, gloomily watching the pine logs in the wide fireplace. After about an hour a timid hand parted the curtains and I knew without my head who it was. She came lowly. “Jack,” she said tremulously. I sprang to my feet and offered her a chair. She refused to notice it. She held out her hands. I in turn to notice them. “Jack,” she whispered, “are you an~ gry " Not at all, Miss Miwood!™ I we- Joined, s excessively polite and proper. am merely going to Te- form.” She knew. For a moment she stood silent, with her head bent down. I stood gasing over her head with eyes which dared not look for @ moment at hers, else all were lost. Then I heard her sob. “It was a bad day for butterfiles!™ I muttered huskily. Ehe glanced up and T saw her eyes filled with tears. 'This butterfly s tired, Jack—dear Jaclks'” she whispered. “It doesn’t want to fiy!” ‘Never—for always “Never—for always! It was good—all that wretchedness and anxlety of long months, when she lay tight against my breast and I kissed the perverse, red lips—meek now, and sweetly submissive. Per- verse no more—for the butterfly was caught! “You are so good, Mr. Coleridge—" He put her carriage wrap over her shoulders. “Go, little girl,” he whis- pered, “and let nothing bar your way to happiness.” When Coleridge and Mrs. Gray reached The Octagon it was Miss Fairlie who let them ta. She lingered for a moment In the wvestibule, after he had sald good-night, and Mrs. Gray had turned away to remove her wraps. “I am so very, very sorry—" she sald earnestly. He smiled with instani comprehen- sion. “I thank you for your sympathy. You have been my good friend. But you do not understand—it Is quite misplaced. Good night.” As she passed the parlor door she heard Kara's volce, tremulous with excitement. ot forty great barons would 1 allow a ranger to play the music of my Ulrich!" And the stranger’s soothing velce replied: “The great Baron, my dear- est, was very glad to play second vicl)f lin to Kara Venn.” Miss Fairlie, spiling inserutably, went un the