The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 27, 1904, Page 7

> e 2 ANSEe % X 2% 5% « X L) W Bz - 7 THE SAN FRANCISCO SUN DAY CALL. are about he 1 d 2 there is no ne I fates of fiction to i t The ¢ idences of y g peopie sh ¢ ters in most extravagant ces that would not be believable the sta sensation. mstance confir f a man over a woman makes a fool of is d the ken of human nd yet the most bril- often the first to succumb to influence of polished rascality re that makes him so jealous as 1o be totally irresponsible- Now, that kind of love never brings any happi- ness, and is not worth the price that & woman pays in heartaches and tears. nately a woman will often do ything for the purpose of re- the regard of a man who is not :sh her shoes. And the jeais.:s 10 exacts such tribute does not make her or himself any the happier after the trouble is brewed. It is a mistake to suppose that jeal- ousy is a proof of love and that they who are not jealous know nothing of love. Jealousy is a proof of a warped mind that is so distorted by suspicion as to have no confidence in the faith, truth or virtue of any woman, and she who marries a jealous brute plans for herself a life of misery that knows no compensation. If the woman appears happy for the moment the jealous fiend attributes it to some other cause. No matter how trivial the incident, how insignificant e thoughtless word or act, the man so constituted can exaggerate it into every crime of the decalogue. As for humoring such a creature, the woman who attempts it will find her hands and heart overburdened with sorrow. Strange to say it is otfn the most sensible women who become the very tools of these men. A man who does not believe in a good w n is not fit to assoclate with the lowest that trails a city’s slums. No cir- cumstance or combination of circum- stances could plant in his heart an seed of faith. To him a woman is al- ways merely waiting for temptation to come her way and be welcomed. One of the noblest, most self-sacrificing g was ever my good fortune to know hides In her heart a history beyond belief. Her home environ- ment was of the purest, she cared noth- ng for the society of men, but was one f the brightest, happiest and truest men ever known. ng to earn her own living, she n contact with many men, who tertained for her the most unbounded niration. And then came other days >n another came into her life. At rst all went well, but soon his jeal- usy became a horror. There was never a happy moment. He could not be with her at any time without reproaching suave irls it In An . OPERA BOX ;i ' By Lillian her for all sorts of things having ab: lutely no foundation. Every man with whom her business affiliation obligated rcourse was an object of his sus- Despite it all, she loved breaking up her friend- d even discarding the friends fe. She was never happy either with him through his mania, nor away from him through her love. % One day, when indulging in an outing, he was moze than ever bitter, for no cause. Again and again she tried to explain, meanwhile protesting her in- nocence, but all to no purpose, until in 2 reckless moment for the sake of peace after having been assured of his forgiveness, she admitted indiscretions of which she had never been guilty, lied and smirched her own reputation to humor a man who was little lgss | o WOPPPOPON() TOVIVOTITPIIIIOIOTPIL C. Paschal P AR (Copyright, 1804, by Lilllan C. Pas- he sneered miserably, sitting there in chal.) the dark. “Curse the whole sex, any- HE great hotel facing the park way, and their deceitful wiles!” And was an obelisk of light flecks. his clenched hands thumped the win- Motor cars came and went dowsill flercely. He had mooned over noisily under the wide porte her like a maundering idiot, he told cochere. himself hotly, and now she was en- Back of the large hostelry and across a narrow alley a white girlish face banked with pillows looked out wistfully from the one narrow window of a third-floor back at these evi- dences of life and gayety, listening to the orchestra. Suddenly the music burst into a wild tropical alr from “Carmen,” a very revel of life and youth and lusty, red-blooded joy. The invalid buried her tired eyes in the soft pillows and her thin shoulders shook. Shaken by the tempest of sobs, a crutch that had been leaning against the bedside rat- tied to the floor. “Oh, I can bear their old ragtime things without a shiver!™ she cried, “but the opera airs—they break my heart! And now I shall never sing them again—TI know I shan‘t!” The incoherent cry went straight through the opemn window, llke a winged arrow, across the alleyway in the grand hotel and lodged deep in the sick heart of a listener there. Its note of suffering and aching longing eded no interpreter—that is a uni- versal language, understood allke in palace and tenement. John Wixton had been staring moodily out of the darkened shadows of his unlighted room into the still shadows of a future that looked gloomy indeed to his usually areless, sunny eyes. He had been ard hit, there was no doubt of that; nd the girl's refusal of him had cut deep. He had been so sure of her— too sure, perhaps, but he had thought he could not be mistaken in that m light in her eyes that had set his heart on fire all these weeks. The light that lies in woman's eyes—and lies—and lies—and " darker lies! gaged, so her mother had told him the last time he called, to Billy Launders, and his milllons—principally the lat- ter, he thought. Lord! There was that beastly chan- sonnette from Carmen again—Could he never escape the thing? the song that breathed so horribly of her in every seductive note. She had worn a red rose in her hair, too, that night he first met her with the Van Lorns. He could smell that rose now. To-night Carmen was on the bill again—he recalled dully that he had the same box for this performance, intending to take her and show her he remembered that first night so long ago—she had said men always forgot the dates a woman remem- bered. He had meant to tell her of his loving little surprise that evening. ‘Weas it only a week ago? How could he ever bear to hear an opera again. Curse it! He would get out of this sickening old New York and go West—to Chi- cago—anywhere. “These opera airs—they break my heart!” broke in the sobbing cry from the window across the alley. John raised his head to listen. “Same here, kid,” he muttered heavily. “It's that lame girl—poor little beggar! She does have a devil of ti_.e of it, lying there all dav with hot-water bags and things around her—it's a shame “I want to be back there on the stage agaln,” went on the voice, “singing with the rest of the chorus. I was a village maiden in Carmen, you know, Mrs. Beebe.” To the conscious pride in this salready well-known fact there came an indistinct murmur of consola- tion from the dark interior of the little room. “And maybe some day I might have ) d than a fiend incarnate. His forgive- ness was something beautiful in his magnanimity. He had simply tortured her into humoring him, at a price that should have made any woman shudder. For a few days his tenderness was a poem and then his exactions became greater than before, until, in self-de- fense, as much as the girl loved him, the final break had to come. The man has paid devoted attention to other women, who he says have al- been a Sembrich or a Melba my own self; the master sald so; and now my back's hurt and I'll never sing again— I know it! If I could only go just once and hear it all again I think maybe I could bear it better; but to be penned In here all the time like & rat with the snappers of a trap caught over his back —Iit's too—" The rest was lost In the enfolding pillow. The man in the dark@ned window across the way suddenly stood up, turned on the light and squared his shoulders like a soldler ready for march- ing. “I'll do it!” he said grimly. “I'll not run away ltke a coward—I'll face this thing out. I've got to go through it some time and I might as well begin now. I'll go right to that same box and fight it out. And, what's more, I'm go- ing to take that child along. She'll probably look a fright and people will stare—but hang the people!"” He took his hat and overcoat and hurried from the room. At the office he stopped to give an order for an auto cab. Twenty minutes later he was bowling toward Broadway with his strange lit- tle companion still breathless over the wondrous angel in evening clothes whose determination had carried all opposition before him. Even the fat landlady had been subdued Into defer- ence and helped to dress her quickly so as not to keep the young gentleman walting. Wixton glanced down at her thin lit- tle face, sharpened by suffering, at her two crutches and her simple white frock. To his surprise, she appeared tastefully gowned. 4 She told him quite simply, with a lit- tle pathetic quaver in her voice, about her ambition to be a great singer; how she had fallen through a trapdoor left carelessly open by the stage hands one night after the opera was over, and had been in the charity ward of a hospital, ways deceived him, but there is a strong suspicion in m¥ mind that they found him out and gave him his conge. It may seem a paradox, but the more sensible a girl in other respects the greater fool will love make of her. The girl whom everybody considers a fool is very apt to make a sensible marriage, from the fact that she is prone to ex- treme selfishness, which leads her to look out beautifully for No. L Your fool woman always has at her came out ill and went away. After a bit she came back with a ticket for a seat in this one.” When Wixton ushered his charge into the box he found, to his surprise, that the place was unlighted. The cur- tain had just closed on the first act, and the solitary occupant was shrink- ing into the farthest corner as though seeking to avold observation. John reached out to press the elec- tric button and turned in the blaze of light to confront the woman who had refused him the week before. His lips tightened and his face went white. “Bunice! You here?” The woman turned a lovely pale face up to him entreatingly without speak- ing. This unlooked-for contretemps had destroyed her poise, woman of the world though she was, and left her as excited and embarrassed as a school- girl. There were traces of tears about the dark eves; hollow from sleepless- ness. Her soft, white throat worked in the stress 6f emotion and her bosom rose and fell pantingly. At last she found her voice. It was low and tremulous, and at the thrill- ing sweetness of it the man’s heavy heart pounded like a mad thing behind immaculate shirt front. Jack,” she whispered, “if you don’t forgive me and love me I shall dle. I never dreamed tiil mamma made me send you away how dreadfully I cared —and I never was engaged to Bllly Launders at all. I couldn’t be—not if the whole family rose up to slay me.” The orchestra began the overture to he next act—the wild gypsy motif of the immortal opera rose and bathed them In its melting torrents of love made into muste. The little cripple was leaning over the edge of the box waiting breathlessly for the curtain te rise on the familiar scene she loved. “Jack, darling—hear it! That music has been killing me till you came! Do you remember that night we——" John reached out an audacious thumb and pressed the button on the wall. As the box was enveloped in darkness he crushed her close in his where they had not seemed able to clre -2TIS, unable to say one word. her; how she could walk only a little way without hurting. When they reached the opera-house the first act was nearly over. ‘Wixton gathered up her slight form and strode up the wide stairway as if his burden were a baby. At the door of the box he halted. It was slightly ajar. “Sold the other seats?” he ques- tioned of the usher. “Only one, to a lady,” answered that worthy, and volunteered further the whispered information that “she Was a queer one—came with a party in the fourtl. box farther down, and On their way home in the carriage, when Eunice had been told the little cripple’s story, she laughed tenderly in her new found joy, so nearly lost, ard, with one jeweled hand in John's and the other caressing the young girl's pale cheek, sald with a confl- dence that the future proved not un- fcunded: “I shall take care of her, her voice, her future and her back. I know a great doctor who can straighten out this little one’s tangles, even as she has been the means of unsnarling the dreadful knot in my web of fate.” finger tips a lot of cheap philosophy that is her safeguard, and she will demonstrate it by living up to it. The woman who Is sweet and lovable, good and self-sacrificing, judges others by their own standard; being too true to decelve, she cannot fathom the small meannesses of others. o But the woman Who by her own ad- mission smirches her own reputation to humor a man places herself in a posi- tion where incalculable harm may be done her, not only at the crop up even years la Kk her happinesz. A man so warned will ver respe: apy woman, comseque her e held sacred ences will never He does not love—he or own egotism on all that is be: woman to give. He cares only for self, and the woman who fanc honor plays any part in 1 wake up to find that his supren g ism has spolled not only but has left burning scars of others. It was all very well to ht ous flend through a mistak endeavor to make sacrifice. It was all very well to ¢ forgiveness for sins never - This and other foolish things t woman guileless in herself mig! puts a deadly weapon into the t a man whose love were w valueless, whose honor wo questionable. The secret may he kept i for ten or even fifteen years, the may marry a man worthy of her, a be happy in her home, surrounded by her children with all the blessir a love that Is of her life a pz this man will loom ue as a s and remembering the" old deavor to reassert his Influe: may hold that fool her head like an | a moment’s swaying will ca and crush her. If he has enough not to betray her, yet the dread lest he should will haunt It he did tell the husband, andjshe attempted to explain—no man on earth would believe her. And all this comes of a sen woman loving devotedly and uns Iy a jealous brute masquerading as a man. The sentimental nonsense that a girl would not believe that a man loved her were he not jealous is the veriest rot. A jealous lover is bad enough, but a Jjealous husband s worse than a dentist’s file on a se tive tooth, and if young people rel beforehand they will come blows later. Love should mean happiness, and if two people who think they are in love are always quarreling there can be no hope for happiness. And, girls, don’t think you can be in love with a man who keeps the misery always at high pressure, because you really are not.in love—you are only hysterical. lays her. ! HUSTLE It you've anything to do e Hustle, And the soomer you'll be through. Hust] Time will never wait for you, Putting off, you're sure to rue, Get to work and try to do. Hustle, It you've any place to ge, Hustla os0050: Laggard borse ne'er won a race; You, yourself, must set the When and where for tims and pl Hustle. 1 you love a pretty girl, Hustle, Though your heart be in & whirl, Hustle, Go to her and tell her so, Or some otber swain, you kmow, May not be L\k.flyon. so slow, ust] s KATF THYSON MARR. Ghe END OF IT By Richard B. Shelton (Copright, 1904, by Rickard B. Shelton.) ANDYNE stood very stiff and straight, with folded arms. Out- lined against the background of dull sky and gray water, his fig- ure seemed almost heroic. Desplte his clothes of conventional cut there was something suggestive of the bronze age about him—some hint of rugged, primitive strength. Miss Desboro real- ized suddenly that the mask of conven- tional restraint had been thrown aside and that there stood before her all of the rugged, primitive man that lay be- neath that mask. A moment ago she had been inclined to laugh; now there was a strange sen- sation tugging at her heart, but wheth- er it was pity or fear she could not tel. This was the stage of the game she generally found most enjoyable—this olimax, where she always expressed her surprise and sorrow and bound up the wounded heart with the balm of good, sisterly advice. She had particu- larly enjoyed the anticipation of giving this sisterly adviee to Vandyne, but somehow the realization bade fair to fall short of the anticipation. Vandyne’s eyes seemed to search the secret cor- ners of her soul, and beneath that calm, stony scrutiny she was stunned and helpless. She seemed to feel rather than .hear Vandyne's deep voice say- ing with quiet bitterness: “I congratulate you, Miss Desboro. I have seen the game before, but never played like this. You have thor- oughly mastered all its fine points.” She looked up with an appealing glance. That same appealing glance had saved the situation for her many times before this. But for once it failed; the primitive man before her was unmoved by its eloquence. “Do you think you are quite fair to me?” she asked with an attempt at hauteur that fell pathetically flat. Vandyne smiled slowly. “Do you think you have been fair to me?” he sald. The girl pulled her gloves nerv- ously. “1 don’t know what you call fair,” she sald. “You grasp at straws; you take possibilities for certainties.” Vandyne laughed harshly. “In other words, I have made the ghastly mis- take of thinking you imbued with all the qualities of the perfect woman, when in reality you are a heartless trifier.”” - The girl sprang to her feet, her eyes ablaze. “You are going too far, Mr. Van- dyne!” she sald heatedly. “You are saying things quite beyond bounds of courtesy or—or decency!™ Vandyne was unmoved by the out- burst. He looked at her with a calm that was almost contemptuous. “I am not speaking with the inten- tion of being courteous or decent. I am simply stating the truth as I see it. If it hurts, I am sorry, but you deserve it.” The girl flushed. She started to walk away, but Van~ * dyne’'s voice stopped her. “Wait a moment,” he sald curtly, “you shall hear a few things I have to say before you leave She turned. “Well wearily. “I want to say that it is such women as you that make misogynists—women who lead men on to laugh at them and make sport of them.” He paused. “Is that all?” she asked coldly. “I have known little, very little, of women in my life,” he went on, “and I have always placed them mentally in a shrine as something holy and sacred. Perhaps I should thank you for un- decelving me.” She turned away agaln. Vandyne could not see the tears in her eyes. “It’s an {1l wind that blows no good,” he went on cruelly. “At least you have taught me that what seems to be and what is are very 'different matters. That is all. Permit me to congratulate you again, and—good-by!" He turned on his heel and strode down the bank toward the water. The sound of unrestrained sobbing made him turn back. The girl was standing quite still, with her hands over hes eyes. He hurried up the bank and stood before her, repentant and help- less before her stormy grief. “Good Lord!" he gasped contritely. “What have I done?” “You—you have made me love you, that’'s what you've done,” she sobbed. And the Bronze Man suddenly be- came wery human. * she asked o U0 ¥ g 'I.«x‘ 92 5 4 7 T 0 % A