The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, October 2, 1904, Page 14

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. . - 14 S . N BY KEITH GORDON TABING BLANKLY AFTER THE . 298 2 L Whiteheall) By the lime the great organ pealed HROUGH 1t ed glass above out the triumphant strains of the wed- th yme and roses the midday ding march he and the maid of honor, s ':vvm_:"q '“ '.”' l,lg the their masks on, faced the guests that un 2 » HecKIng 1% Glled the church, ready to play their scape with gorg reds, blues ts for all they were worth. Some- an@ greens. It sh iden glory 1 in the music was at once an in- wpon 1he Sall graceful bride ion and a challenge. and at the sight the best man shut his Isn't she sweet?” whispered one carriage that naa disappeared around altogether like other weddings to ma, jaw bit more det nedly. She was of the guests to a companion, refer- the corner. Then the man remembered either,” he went on with a matter of looking more than ever like an angel, Ting to the maid of honor, “but how where he was and pulled himself to- fact air, as if it were the most natura AP g T would be the pale she is and what a curious look gether with an effort. thing- in. -lh»-““rm. that .rh-y shoul ’ That was the P, Sort of ‘BetNing. “Seems Tather like the end of things, be confiding in each other a a - expression, and doesn’t it?” he observed as they turned She was watching him with a dawn- = hich kept re- (of 5 into the doorway. B ing understanding in her eyes. and he nd. As if b The speaker stopped, staring “From our standpoint, yes,” was the met her gaze with a whimsical smile, K Rty thoughtfully at the girl until she had listless answer. Then she caught her as if he were offering .her the open Opy 3 behind t . . lip between her teeth and darted a bodk of his soul to read if she would. For the than once during the course quick, inquiring glance at him. That “De you mean that you too—-" « wedding breakfast that fol- was not precisely what she would have There was no need to complete the guests g 1 the best man found himself chosen to say and she hoped that he question, for it was answered before a 3 ching her curiously. No one was would not notice it. But at the sight it was spoken. Involuntarily her wved ver than she; none so gay, in fact. of the somber smile in his eyes the hands went ; 15 carefully to e e hat ¥ nt vowing to t frient. She B rewildered « t n; or eyes were brilliant and her laugh but his own mis- of valiantly, e him =ubtly conscious ercurrent of feeling that w ng strong and pitiless under the bubbles undertow of mis- w ing with all rang out runr T ery that she h strength He remembefed that when, the ce their eves had that conf reiled glanc been starin room he at the ruld the during met in she had intently be He he w afte, n it thought, keenly than ever indeed, that once, not formulate but tched her more that; so keenly ble to bear it any longer 3 ance of unconsciousness, taxed him with it You are very rude!” she said light- but at his grave, sincere ave not meant to be, ing look that accompanied expressive of a sympathy he could not t into words, her lips quivered ever ntly. ““Wedd get upon my " she explained, with a little could reply she. with an she an shower of rice and old shoes had itself, and the bride amd groom eparted, taking all the romance world with them and leaving be notony without form and of the guests felt it and al- * A% the bustle of departure was in But to the best man and the f honor it was a ghastly fact that made them fter the others had re-ente! house, sta kly after the s S S e N S S L LY et e S é BADGE % of § ¢ SERVICE ¥ | By Frank . Sweet. 2 b 3 SLLH55% SO000000000R - k H. Sweei.) 1 cried the Count rapturously. “Ee AY AY ctepped from the IS in Paris that you vanish this three g ¢ nt’, and we nevaire know to where i th a bit of lace in g say to Ital'ee, and some that you She walked gy hack to heaven, where they keep ze b otunda, 100king angels. But eet is heaven that you nd left among make anywhere. Now I know why the ying palms. blace here seem so beautiful; eet is the M be May went fore be she search—a i corner reading a 1 imz she ex- k reading t ht have expected characters jn it where you e to be we're get- the white head and nd carry a broom amma the play have my I'm, be- Do wer said instar breaking Tt we 1, child, don’t bit of lace is worth as maid, could earn in must have something \aracter.” 1 have anything.” se mot. You will have one of the stores. You will Mrs. Allyn’s ga went in- gly about the hotel the rotunda until it aids dusting nt. She waited until she caught girl's eye, then raised a finger. I beg your pardon r dear,” she said as the approached, “but my daughter he rch benefit and have to wear a c - e g vours. Would you mind my ! at your pretty lace cap a moment The girl removed it w ,\ a pleased leok. is is what you want, May.” went on Mrs. Allyn, holding it up critically. *You— But May had snatched the little cap from her uprzised fingers and placed it upon her own fluffy brown hair. “Now let me have your apron a minute, please.” she cried merrily. “Thank you,” as the girl complied and she fastened the apron to her waist with deft fingers. “And now the dust- ing brush. There, mamma, how will do with flourish of the brush ud a sweeping courtesy. The girl laughed. and even Mrs. Al- Iyn smiled inculgently as May danced away toward the middle of the ro- tunda, flirting the brush indiscrimin- ately over jardinieres and palm leaves as’ she passed. Soon the pillars and palms intervened and concealed her from view. Count I'Ortegan and’ a young Amer- ican sculptor were just entering the rotunda. They had known each other in Parig and met again on the steam- er coming over, and now they had come to Gray Harbor together, not be- cause they had much in common, but they were acquainted and all the peo- ple around were strangers. May did not notice them until they stopped beside her with exclamations of astonishment and pleasure. Mademoiselle Allyn, ees it possar- laughed and gave him her hand Thank you, Coun she said. “I am You are sure tc like it the angel And Beth e.” offering her hand to the sculptc “an you not make a tty speech like the Count?’ I am afraid not,” smiling down at her. “Only that T am very, very glad tc vou here add Miss Al n.. Your pres- much to S will to our ple: Why, really, that does very nicely She irled the brush with a pretty. unconscious movement that caused the tips of its feathers to flick across one the nalm fronds near. The motion ie Count’s attention, and with 1g consternation his eyes went » her white anron and to the servitude upon her head, and his sloping shoulders stiffened suddenly ca wonder into protesting reserve “Pardonnez,” he rebuked, “‘but eet is so hurry I am now. I will see. Mon- sieur Bethune will tell you we have not register yet. I will do eet now. May waiched him hurry away with odd look of inquiry in her eyes. “What's the matter with the Count?” she asked innocently. “Has he forgot- ten something?” Bethune laughed joyou: before there had b and repression in . A moment n both reserve his eves, now they were suddenly eager, glowing, deter- mined. “The Count’s an ‘odd sort of stick,” he swered, “‘and his visit hepe is confessedly in search of a rich Ameri- ed his hand significantly to- ward her head: but for a moment she looked puzzled, then a quick, compre- hending flush rose to her face. “Oh, tha she said thoughtfully. “And you?' Bethune laughed again. He could not help it. “Can’t you see, Miss Allyn?” he de- “I fancied it was sticking out me. Over vonder 1 was a poor devil of an artist and you a rich heiress, and now—oh, May There was the soft rustle of silk mov- ing across the carpet. May raised her finger. “Mamma is coming,” she warned. “I don’t care,” impetuously. *“T've ®ot to speak mow. I can’'t wait an- other day. Where can I see you alone?” She hesitated, then appeared to con- sider. “The maids and nurses usually walk on the beach at about 3 o'clock,” she said demurely. “I expect I shall be there.” At 4 o'clock two wheel chairs swept leisurely down the bicycle avenue and on past the Breakers toward the beach. It was the hour for Mrs. Allyn’s daily outing, and she preferred to take it in 2 wheel chair and leisurely. The occu- pant of the other chair was Count |nrtfgun. and from the satisfaction on his face he had evidently discovered the mistake. As they turned toward the beach path they saw two figures approaching them only a few yards awa “There's May now!” exclaimed Mrs. Allyn. “Suppose we wait a few min- utes and sneak with her.” The Count’s face grew eager, and words of an elaborate apology began to form in his mind: but as the figures drew near and he saw the expression on their faces as they looked at each other the apology died away and a Parisian oath, muttered under his breath, took its place. He merely bowed politely and then waited for Mrs. Allyn to give the signal to go on. (> WANTED: A e R N N N o HE play was over. “he curtain had gone down, amidst tremen- dous applause, on a fitting ta- bleau—the heroine clasped in .he hero's arms, the villain, van- quished but defiant, glaring at them from the papier-mache arbor, and the pair of secondary lovers indulging in expressive pantomime on a balcony that threatened momentarily to col- lapse. PFrue love had run its uneven course for an hour and three-quarters, and after surviving a series of idiotic mis- haps, absurd doubts and all the other obstacles an enthusiastic amateur play- wright could put in its path, it had emerged unscathed and triumphant. The orchestra was playing the latest popular march as a sort of recessional for the admiring relatives of friends. Lady Gatacre, still in costume, sank wearily into a rickety wooden chair in one of the little anterooms near the stage. Sir Charles Windon climbed a pile of properties used in act I and, perched there precariously, rested his chin on his upturned palms and sur- veved the lady thoughtfully. “1 suppose I should apologize,” he began tentatively, “still I would like to say a word in self-defense. May J7" “Go on,” said Lady Gatacre coldly. “Well, I thought the scene demanded it. It seemed to make it more real. In everyday life the man would have done it.” 5 \ “Well?” she sald in challenge as he paused. ‘And—and so I did,” he said lamely. “‘And that is your excuse,” she asked with considerable asperity. “If T need one, yes,” said_he. Lady Gatacre regarded him icily. Her nose was elevated the fraction of an inch. “I suppose you realize fully the em barrassing position you placed me in she said. “‘Believe me, I didn’t intend to,” he remonstrated. “Of course you heard that very au- dible titter in the audience?” she went on. He nodded. “It was none of their business,” he complained. “If,” she said quickly, “you hadn’t made it so apparent; if you hadn't paused, debated as it were, it wouldn't have been quite so conspicuous. But when you stonped and looked about and then—and v “Kissed you,” he supplied almost tri- umophantly. “Oh, it was too ghastly evident that it was impromptu,” she finished. “I was perfectly willing to rehearse that piece of business,” he suggested. “It was unfair of you,” she said hotly. “We agreed to leave It out— that it was ridiculous and unneces- sary.” “It becama quite necessary when you appeared in that gown. I'm only hu- man, you know.” “I am an irresponsible party, that's a fact,” said he. “Look here, if I say T'm sorry, do you forgive me?” ..Sorry for what? For—for—" ‘For putting you in an embarrassing position; for the other, never!” Lady Gatacre frowned and flushed. “Youw'll have to be sorry for both be- REHEARSAL See fore you're forgiven,” she said. “Then 1 shall die unabsolved,” he de- clared with finality. “It seems to me you're making a bad matter worse,” said she. “Well, turn about is fair play,” he re- plied. “That is just what vou've been doing the past three weeks. “I fear I don’t follow you,” said Lady Gatacre. “When we started rehearsing this time,” said he, “‘I was beginning to fall in love with you; that was the ‘bad matter.’ Since we've been rehearsing Yyou have completed what was already begun; that's ‘the worse.’ ” He looked at her steadily. Lady Gat- acre studied the toe of her shoe. He could see her cheeks were crimson. ‘“‘Are you angry because I said I loved you?” he questioned. She was silent. “Are you?” he persisted. Still she was silent. Sir Charles permitted himself a covert smile. “If it's only the kiss She sat up suddenly. “It was the way you did it!” she flashed, and her eyes again sought the, interesting shoe. “The way I did it,”” he chuckled. “T think—well, I hadn’t rehearsed it, yon know—I think with a few rehearsals I could do it better.” He came close beside her and laid a hand on her hair. “I want to rehearse it through all my lifetime,” he said earnestly. He waited patiently. Presently Lady Gatacre looked up at him and smiled. “You—you really do need rehears- ing in that line,” she said. gut t_l;e villain and ht‘l;e pair of sec- ondary lovers were king to com- plete the tableau. . ** he began. hope passed. In a snug corner of the deserted library, where the farewells of the de- parting guests come to them but faintly, she next found herself, with- out being very clear as to how s came there. The best man was s ting in front of her, holding one of her hands in a protecting, big broth- erly fashion, while she vainly tried to keep back the tears that seemed to be rising as quietly and relent- lessly as a flood. It wa no use. Higher and higher they came. S winked hard and shut her teeth firmly. Then she snatched her hand away and covered her face. “My poor little girl,” murmured the hest man softly. “Weddings are always sad, don't you think?”" she gasped out, dabbinz at her eves with her handkerchief and giving a little hysterical laugh. “Still, I don’t usually behave like thi You see, when your best friend ms: ries—she—that is—everything is dif- ferent- and—" She gave up trying to explain the situation in despair, and ended with an incoherent, “But it is all very ridiculous, and I don't know why I should say all this to you.” She was the picture of helpless, girlish misery, and the best man's heart ached for her. Momentarily his sympathy took the edge off his own loneliness. He winced at the thought of having to suffer alone the madden- out to him"in a quick, warm sympathy, and though her only comment was a breathless “Oh™ it was eloquent with feeling. Little by little her composure came back to her. “It was so good of you to tell me,” she said gratefully. “I think I feel as Robinson Crusoe did when he discov« ered the man Friday.” “Not that I'm glad that you're un- happy. too,” she added quickly, “only it doesn’'t seem so lonely now that I know that there’'s some one who under- stands. After all, that’s what makes life worth living, isn’t it?"" she finished, looking up at him with what seemed to him the sweetest look he had ever seen in a girl's face. When, at the end of six months, the bride and groom returned from their honeymoon abroad, the best man and the maid of honor were among the first of their dinner guests. here, it seems to me that yeu two have been making hay in our ab- s the bride laughed, noting with & woman's «quick instinet “the deep, understanding that seemed to between the two. Whereupon P her listeners exchanged a somewhat humorous alb onfused glance, but refused to expla The following June they were mar- ried. Just Dbefore the Lohengrin march the organist played “Consola- tion,” at which such of the guests as recognized the selection elevated their ing sense of loss that tormented him. eyebrows wondered. But the “Perhaps it's because misery loves bride and g one were in the company,” he said gently. ‘“Perhaps secr case of in memo- you feel that this wedding hasn't been riam. T SOLHATD) Their SUMMER | ENGAGEMENT | ; By Herbert McB. jJohnston. e @ (Cogyright, 1904, by Herbert McB. Johnston.) ¢ HYLLIS,” said I solemnly, “do you know what day this is’ “Friday. September, the twenty-first, nineteen hundred and three,” repeated Phyllis glibly. Tea” d J, shaking my heac tragically; th is the fated day, the accursed hour. The time has come. Phyllis laughed. When Phyllis laughs the prettiest dimples come in her cheeks. I have accused her of laugh- ing just to bring them there, but she ‘only laughs the more. “Phyllis,” I warned her; “those dim- ples.” 1 tifink they grew even deeper. “And I'm such a weaX one,” I mur- mured thoughtfully. “We're geting away from the §ues- tion,” replied Phyllis with swift in- consequence. “What about the date?” I assutmed my most melancholy air. My eye caught the corner of my pocket handkerchief and I pulled it out. “The day of our parting,”I replied briefly, smothering a pseudo sob. Phyllis’ brows met in a perplexed frown, a most adorable frown. “I don’t get it,” she said. “It's your own doing,” I asserted, throwing the blame on her; “it was entirely your own suggestion and you kave no one to blame but yourself.” Still Phyllis frowned. I know a wa¢ 1 could have smoothed out the wrinkles. “Why, our engagement, you know,” T insinuated. “It was expressly un- derstood, I thought, that it was strictly a summer affair.” At last Phyllis comprehended. For a moment I thought she was going to smile and enjoy the joke. But instead her eyes grew wide with amazement, and then she buried her face in her handkerchief. There was no mistaking it; the sobs were too violent to be any- thing but genuine. “Phyllis?” I interrogated in amaze- ment. “Phyllis! What is it, dear I don't believe either of us noticed the last word. Then she dried her eyes and straight- ened up her head. “I never thought, Jack,” said Phyllis with considerable indignation, “that you ‘would have reminded me of it. And on the very day summer is over, too. If seems to me you were in rather a hurry to have it ended.” “But Phyllis—" T blundered. “Yes, ‘but Phyllis,” " she mocked me; “I suppose you were afraid that if it ran a day over it would mean a renewal of the contract. Or perhaps you thought I wouldn’t let you out of it. You needn’t have worried, I assure you.” Phyllis wds holding her head very high. A sunbeam playing across her brown bair set it afire. Her eyes needed no sunbeam. I never saw Phyllis look more han@some. And then, while I grew redder and more shame-faced, I saw the little vix- en was laughing at me. “Jack,” she said, “there’s something I like about you. I don’t know what it is; I think it must be your family.” That set me on my high horse. “Ah!” I murmured indifferently. “Good of you, I'm sure. Perhaps you have even picked out which one—Fred or Charlie?” ’ “I'm not quite sure,” said Phyllis, roguishly. The dimples were there again. “Phyllis,” I said, “I'm never going to ask you to marry me again. “I don’t want, to marry you again,” answered Phyllis. “You haven't vet,” I retorted. “What I mean is that I am never again going to ask you.” “Never?” answered Phyllis, in mock terror. “Never!” said I firmly; “this is the very last time. Will you marry me?” “That's once over, right there,” she , “it was you make me a promise?” d Phyllis ot to ask any cther girl either,” finished Phyllis. “I don't see what difference it would make,” I commented. Jecau: if you will,” said Phyllis, “I'l wait until 'm ready or on the shelf and then come around and ask you. Caly I'd like to be sure you disengaged.” guess I must have looked a bit blank, because Phyllis burst out laugh- ing. “How long will it be?” I asked. “I really can't say,” laughed Phyllis. “If I decide to wait until I'm ready for the shelf, I flatter myself - it will be some time yet.” 3 “So do L,” I said, sadly. “Well,” asked Phyllls with some asperity,- “you don’t hope for aay- thing else, do you?” But the thought of it seemed g long way ahead. “If I were sure—" I began. “If I-give you my word,” sald Phyllis. “Phyllis,” 1 said soberly, “if yeou said the word, I'd walit till the day of doom for you, dear. But you know, little girl, I don’t want to. I waat you now.” Phyllis’ eyes had lost that bard glow. There was only the dull, soft fire of burnished copper now. I ought to have taken her in my arms and. kissed her right there. But I didn‘t know enough. I was always noted for doing such stupid things. Phyliis has told me so since. - “Do you really, Jack?" sald ‘she softly. 2 “I really do, Phyllls. Without you I'm like that soul which the poet tells about, ‘That went into the storm and blackness and lost itself between the earth and heaven.’” Phyllis sat a little closer to me. It's a good dodge, is that poetry business. I've always felt that I owed a good deal to some of those poet Johnnies. “That was awfully dear of you, ck.” she whispered. £ Ja[‘- l’el(sa goodish bit like a cad then. It seemed so like taking an unfair advan-. tage. Yet it wasn't that I didn’t mean it, for I did, every word of it. “Phyllis,” 1 half whispered, my word?” . - br;:l;ui; never sald a word, but just/ crept a little closer. I dared and put my arm around her. Now, it's always been my contention that when a girl says “Stop” in a whis- per that she means the exact opposite. “shall 1. “Stop!” whispered Phyllis. i That was when I did it. Her head . was on my shoulder, but her face somehow got twisted up and I. kisseq her full on the lips. Phyllis’ lips are" warm and soft. . “Oh, Jack!” she whispered. Then I kissed her again. But ¥ only kissed her twice. An event is but mp- mentary: let it last longer and it sinks” . to the level of a mere Inciaent. “And it's my famity you like, it Phyllis?” 1 asked her. : ; Phyllis nodded her head.. She was too close to see her do it, but I could, feel it on my shoulder. “Fred or Charlie?” I asked again. “I guess — I think — er — their" brother.” After that I forgot all that rot about an event being but momentary. Any- how, what's the odds if it is> People don’t go through life looking for events all the time. Commonplace things are much nicer. “And you're going to be engaged to me now for all the time?” I questioned when 1 got my breath. - " said Phyllis, shaking her head. “Please, dearest,” I sdid: “T want you' g0—so much. Please say you will.” But. Phyllis shook her head. “No,” said she with a haj Mttle laugh, “it'll have to stop you marry me.”