The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, March 4, 1906, Page 6

se there was a seid would there o AAAAAIAAAAAAAAAANAAAASAAAAAA a minute or two. g reconnoitered last retu J n an absent p of toffee, but was indig- hed away 1 proprietor nantly when Lord Bray- afternoon,” id said L I would say, the sologized p declared some- me a lit- ‘He pect I forgot to take down in the * she contin- nk I understand ome provocation, ving our mut- vton. I take kick Frou Frou,” cried “I paid him, though; would marry, observed her hand to-day,” i disgust. “That was w Le tried to kick Frou Frou because Frou Frou rubbed up THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY., CALL inst his legs in a perfectly rriendly her hand—was he?" I growled. “The beast! Kissing her— Sibyl, my dear. I car’t allow you to tell me—er, family secrets. You know it's Kissing not proper. Really it isn't.” “Rot!"” said Sibyl clegantly. “And he put a ring on it, too—her hand, vou know. What would he be doing that for? She wouldn't let him kiss her, though. She said, ‘Neot yet. Give me a littl * caid I firmly, “that is enough. & listen to you. Elin—Lady Blinor wouldn't like it at all. Ah, Sib, Sib, it's a bitter world! I can't sce any good in. it.” “What n't you see any good in?”’ inquired Lady Elinor from the doorway. “1 can’t see any good.” said I, “in not ziving Sib all the sweets she wants; cut- 1g her off that way only leads to immor- bad for Sibyl's tummy,” sald tummy?" I inquired. said’ it was rather—' Icr “Why, I ould have But a rentleman never betrays a confidence, and 1 held my peace, Sib, darling,"\.said she presently, your hands are very, very shocking. Don’t you want to go and have them cd—as a speeial favor to me?” Sibyl swallowed the last of the toffee and departed, with the Perslan cat under one arm. w “I told that Fiossie Brayton tried to kick ou Frou,” she sald from the doorway. “Ah, fed Lady Elinor, looking up quick “So Sib told you?” “Yes,” d I “Yes, Sib said that Brayton had been here to-day. is it true—is 1t true. Elinor?” “Why, yes, Teddy,” said Lady Elinor, ther low es. It's true. You're the first one I've told. Won't you say something nice to me, Teddy? “I hope,” said I, loking into the fire, “that you'll have all the toffee you Ah, want, so that wu wen't have to. steal it, like pocr Sib—and be smacked. I hope vour life will be as.beautiful as you are, Elinor. I hope your future will be an illuminated page and your: meémory a blank onme. 1 hope you'll be as happy as ever you've dreamed of being.” “Oh, no, no, Ted,” cried Elinor softly. “Not that. I shan’t be as happy as T've dreamed of being, so, don’'t hope that —If you really did hope it. As happy as I've dreamed of being! Ah, rather not! You don't know what a girl dreams, Teddy, you're nothing but a man, you se “Oh, I've had my dream: cherished them somewhat. It appears [ must forget them—or try to. No, I don’t fancy you will be as happy as you've dreamed. It's a pity."” “Yes,” sighed Lady Elinor. *“Ah, yes, it's a pity. Still, dreams never come true, -do they, Teddy?" ve heard that theory advanced,” said 1, “but I don't recollect ever to have seen it proved.” “Why, if they could come true, sald " sald I, “and Elinor in a half whisper. “If they could—-" “You wouldn't be wearing that very handsome ring?” T suggested. ““No,” sald Lady Elinor, I shouldn’t be wearing Brayton's ring. I shouldn't Le doing what they all want me to do—what they all expect me to do.”” “All?” 1 objected. Lady Elinor turned her head with a lit- tie sweet half sgd smile, and I took a firm hold upon the arms of my chalr. | “All,”” she murmured. *‘All, Ted, bu one—one very foolish and—and very dear dissenter—who's degr for his great, great folly, and foolish because—why, because he’s such a dear.” “But whose opinion Is of no weight,” said I. “Whose opinion,” said Lady Elinor, “must be of no weight, must be erased with—with the other—dcar things to maks that memory page blank.” b il e et T : g population for @ said that it be- Adams, son of Dea- Burt con Adams, and Eunice Taylor, tweer @aughter of the widow Taylor. The young folks had known each other as children. The parents approved the en- gagement and the deacon went as far &s take his son by the hand and by “My son, she is a fine girl, and you will make no mistake In marrying her. 1 feel toward her as my own chughter.” 4 The engagement was announced and the wedding day set. Everything went well til the @eacon's brother out in Wisc n died and left him a legacy of $14,000 in cash. The deacon, who had lived without life, wvas stur any of the luxuries of nned for & time by the size of the legacy “We are on a different plane now.” he said to his old wife, “and we must conform to the new circymstances. You Contimued ¥rom Page 5. ngest 1 had ridden in my life the roofs of the chateau at length before us I could scarcely within bounds. I had 1 ‘ado to refrain from going to the & booted and unwashed as 1 was ough T had not eaten since the ious evening ywever, the habit of propriety, h no man may lightly neglect, my aid. 1 made my toilet, and, g broken my fast standing, to the court the way I the King was in the den, and, directing my steps nd him walking with my lieagues, Villeroy and Sillery, in the ttle avenue which leads to the garden ! onclergerie. A number of the urtiers were standing on the low ter- « them, while a second E ed about the Queen's stair- se. ¥ull of the news which 1 had for e King, I crossed the terrace, taking rarticular heed of any one, but pg such s came in my way in my ion At the edge of the ter- 1sed 1 moment before descend- three steps, and at the same nent, %o it happened, Henry\looked sp. and our eyes met. On the instant e averted bis gaze, and, turning on his heel in a marked way, retired slowly further end of the walk. he tion was so deliberate that T could not doubt he meant to slight me, and 1 paused where 1 was, divided be- won't have wear calico any more and shall a hired girl, and I shall do no more work except boss the hired man.” ‘And what about Burt?” was asked. ‘He must go to college and become a lawyer or doctor.” “But he and Eunice are to be married, you know, and I don’t believe he'll want to put it off.” “Look here, ma,” said the deacon af- ter thinking for a while, “we can't let Burt throw himself away on no such girl. It might have done passably well when we were poor, but now we can buy out the whole county and have money left; he can't afford to tie him- self to any such wife. To begin with, she don't look aristocratic.” “But do we?" “Of course we do. Any one would know to look at us that we had blood and money. In the second place, she has no style about her. “And have we got any? “Heaps of it. In the third ‘place, she t got no eddecation.” ut you'n' mec never went to any- thing better'n district school!” protest- ‘while Eunice attended a two whole years. I THE LOST CIPHER tween grief and indignation, as a2 mark for all those glances and whispered gibes in which courtlers indulge on such occasions I perceived all this and was not blind to the sneering “smiles which were ex- changed behind my back; but 1 affected to see nothing and to be absorbed in sud- den thought At this a courtier, one of Sillcry’s crea- tures, who had presumed on the occasion S0 far as to come to my elbow, thought that he might safely amuse himself with me. “I am afrald that the King grows older, Monsieur ‘de Rosny,” he sald, smirking at his companlons. “His sight eeems to be. fafling.” “It should not be neglected then,” 1 said, grimly; “I will tell him presently what you say. He fell back, looking foolish at that. at the very moment that Henry, having taken another turn, dismissed Villeroy, who, wiser than the puppy at my elbow, greeted me with particular civility.as he passed. Freed from him, Henry stood a moment hesitating. I went down to him gravely, and not hurriediy. He looked at me with some signs of confusion in his face. *You are late this morning.” said he. *“I have been on your Majesty’'s busi- ness,” 1 answered. *“I do not doubt that,” he replied, queru- lously, his eyes wandering. “I am not—I am troubled this morning. The Queen Is not well. Sillery has seen her and will tell you. =0.” Monsieur de Sillery began to affirm fit. thought she knew more'n all of us put together.” “But she don’'t. At the seminury she jest chawed gum and played the pianer. We hain’t been braggin’ around any, because that ain’t the way of the Adamses, but we've got eddecation 'nuff to pass in any crowd. When I talked with the Governor at the county falr two years ago I felt perfectly to home. I must have a talk with Burt.” / “I don’t believe he will give her up. You know how obstinate he' is about some things. 1f Eunice would give him e “I've got an idea, ma—one of the brightest ideas I ever had. Keéep mum. Don’t say a word. I'l tell you all about it to-morrer or next day. Don't say a single word to Burt, and don't go around lookin’ as if you had somethin’ on your mind.” “You—you hain’t goin" to do any- thin’ desperate?” stammered the wife. “Of course not. I'm simply goin’ to work out my idea, and when I get ready to tell you you'll say 1 am about. as sharp as they make 'em. S-s-sh! Keep mum!” I let him go on for a little time and then interrupted him brusquely. “I think it was you,” I said, “who nominated Ferret to be one of the King’s clerks.” “Ferret?’ he exclaimed, reddening at my tone, while the King, who knew me well, pricked uo his ears. Yes,” I sald, ‘“Ferret. ‘And Jf so?” Sillery asked haughtily. “What do vou mean?” “Only this,” T sald. *“That if his Maj- esty will summon him to the Queen’'s closet, without warning or delay, and ask him in her vresence how much Madame de Verpeuil gave him for the King's cipher, her Majesty, I think, will learn something which she wishes_to know.” “What?” the King cried. ‘“You have discovered it? But he gave you a receipt for the papers he took.” ¢ “For the phpers he took with my knowl- edge—yes, sfre.” ““The rogue!” Slllery. exclaimed vicious- ly. “I will go and fetch him.” ‘Not so—with your Majesty's leave,” I sald, interposing quickly. ‘Monsleur de Sillery may say too much or too little. Let a lackey take a message, bidding him to the Queen’s closet, and he will suspeect nothing.” The King assented and badé me go and give the order. When I returned, he asked me anxiously if I feit sure that the man would confess. X “‘Yes, if you pretend to know all, sire,” 1 answered. ‘‘He will think that madame has betrayed him."” “Very well,” Henry said. ‘“Then let us go.” 3 L The above conversation took place one evening, and at 9 o'clock the next morning the deacon was knocking at the door of widow Taylor's farmhouse. “Why, deacon, is this you?” she asked, as she answered the knock and held out her hand. "I hope none of the folks are sick?” No, the folks are all well. None of the cows alling? “Nope.” “Well, you ought to be thankful for that. Won't you come in and sit down?" “No, 1 guess not. The fact 1s, wid- der, I've come over to say somethin’ to you.” “Well, say on.” “It's about Burt and Eunice. You know I am rich now? Got fourteen thousand dollars in cold cash—f-o-u-r- t-e-e-n thousand dolla~s. I'm the rich- est man in Plum County. “Well?” “Wall, I want to say that 1 want Burt w0 go to college and become a great lawyer or doctor. I don’t want him fo marry for three or four years yet, and when he does I'd like the woman to be—to be—"" “To be somebody better than Kunice But T declined to be present partly on the ground that if I were there the Queen might suspect me of inspiring the man, and partly because I thought that the rogue would entertain a more confident hope of pardon and be more likely to con- fess.if he saw the King alone. I con- trived to keep Sillery also; and Henry giving the word as he mounted the steps, that he should be back presently, . the whole court remained in a state of sus- pense, aware that something was iu progress. The dinner hour came and went neglect- ed by all. At length, when the curiosity of the mass of courtiers had been raised by -delay to an almost intolerable pitch, the King returned with signs,of disorder in his bearing; and. crossing the terrace in half a dozen strides; drew me hastily, along with Sillery, into the grove of white mulberry trees, There We Were no sooner hidden in part, though not completely, than he threw his arms about me and embraced me with the warmest expres- sions. “‘Ah, my friénd,” he sald, putting me from him at last, “what shall T say to you?” . . 5 “The Queen is satisficd, sire.” “Perfectly; and gesires to be commend- ed to you.” ““He confessed then?’ Henry' nodded, with a look in his face that T did not understand. “Yes,” he said, “fully. It was as you thought, my friend. God have merey upon him!” ' I started. “What?' I sald. “Has he killed—"" ar The King nodded, and could not repress a shudder. “Yes" he sald; “but not, thank heaven, until he had left the closet, He had something about him.” . Copyright by the 8. 8. McClure Company. “Ah, that memory page!” said I. “It's the sweetest of all the pages,” murmured, “the very sweetest.” “If only it needn’t b: erased,” sald I. *“Erased it must be.” declared Lady Elinor firmly. “Oh, Teddy, Teddy, weren't they good old days, those days! How did we ever come to stray out of Paradise, Teddy, after we'd gone so far in? Is there a little masked gate in the wall that we opened by chance that we thought would lead us sti!ll further in? Were we too Busy looking at each other to see where our feet were turned?” “We didn't stray out.” sald I, with my head in my hands. 'We were chucked out—by the main gate. Ask your mother how, Elinor.” “'‘Of course, we were only children,” she cried softly, “‘but such dear children, Ted. ‘Why mayn’t people be children always? Why must they grow up?™” ~*They needn’t grow up,” said I “Why must they be taught wisdom?" demanded Elinor. “Why mayn't they be left in their belief that love is the only thing?” “Love is the only thing. Elinor,” said I. “Wisdom's a lle; love is the only thing.” Lady Eliner shock her head. “The wise people say o, Teddy,” she murmured. “They tell us that love is all dreams, castles In Spain—and that there's no happiness in Spain.” “I shoull make you happier than ever Brayton * said I bitterly. I was a contemp?ille thing to say, for she was wearizg Brayton's ring. Elincr gave a little, low, gasping cry, and her eyes closéd for an instant. “He—tried to—kiss me—today!”’ she whispered presently. ““I nearly—screamed! Ah, yes, yes, Ted, you would make mc happier. Is happiness all, Teddy?"” “Upon mYy falth,” sald L “There, say not,” sald Elinor. “Oh, I should—I shall become used to—Brayton after—after a while. He's a good sort, Ted. He loves me. I think, and—and he has a great deal of money. I shall be a power, shan't I?" she Taylor,” finished the widow, as the dea- con hung fire. ‘I hain’t sayin’ that exactly, but you know that the eagle and the crow can’t mate.” “I've heard that they couldn’t. what you came to say?” “Yes, that's about all.” . “Then you have finished, and can go. Good morning, Deacon Adams.” The widow turned away, and there was nothing for the deacon to do but go. He had got off better than he hoped for. “He had expected to have a row, and he was clated that the widow had taken the matter so coolly. In coming he had come by the highway, but in returning he decided to take a short cut across the fields. To do this he must climb the fence of the widow’s barnyard, and when he reached the top rail he sat for a moment to look around. Is that When he started to dismount he found ~himses caught by a stout sliver and hanging head down- ward. He couldn’t lift himself up and the sliver wouldn't give way to his wriggles, and there was nothing to do but call out. He called lustily, and in about five minutes the widow appeared. T is difficult to define a crank. An act which appears eccentric to one per- son one day may seem normal enough at another time to another mind. A few eccentricities, as to which there can be no doubt, however, are recorded herewith. It is but a short time since there died at Como a rich old man who was noted for a yery strange eccentricity. Although for years he had never been outside his grounds, he would proudly inform his visitors that he _had that very day walked to certain vil- lages in the neighborhood. What he actually did was this. When- ever he made up his mind to visit a dis- tant village or town he made an estimate of the distance; and covered it on foot on a carefully measured walking track in his grounds. When he wished to call on his friends in the district he would not only do it by proxy, but would conduct a conversation for hours by sending a servant to and fro with questions and A well known Italian Count, who died recently at an advanced age, had for many yeers defied the weather by drink- ing a solution of camphor, which he con- sidered an efficient substitute for clothes. Summer and winter alike he would sleep without a particle of covering and with the windows of his room thrown “Is that enough?” said I. “It isn't what I'd dreamed, Ted,” sald. “I'd dreamed—oh, such a life! power, Teddy o great position—just happiness! Just two young, foolish, dear people, who loved each other madly—wor- shiped each other!—just their life to- gether, a selfish life, I suppose, for no one else came into it at all. There were just the two of—of them, and nothing else counted In the least. They mnever grew up, vou know, my two people; they wouldn't Yet each other grow up. They were infants, aiways, about most things. “Oh, weren't they dears! I'd dreamed all sorts of beautifyl lttle particulars. details about them—my people in Spain! What they’'d do and what they’d say and how they’d act toward each other; how they’d sit béfore the fire of a nasty day or an evening In—in just one chalir, not such a very big chair. Fires are so comfy, and make you want to be nice and say nice things. They're so noddy and sputtery and bless-you-my-childreny. People couldn’t row over an open fire, could they? Sometimes they’d talk— when they wanted, and sometimes they’d stop, and understand each other quite as well—that's a test— “Oh, and I-I think she'd ke her head where—it belonged, and if he should happen to kiss her, there’d be no one but the firelight to see, and it would never, never teil. It would be very quiet, and the glow from the fire 'would be red on their faces, and they would not want another thing in all the world. She'd slip down, I think, to the rug, and lean her cheek against his hand, and look into the embers, and his other hand would be smoothing her hair as she loved it smoothed. “Ah, Teddy, Teddy, wake me! I'm dreaming again, and I mustn't, I mustn’t. Bring me back from Spain, Teddy. I mustn’t wander there. That's the life I've dreamed of. Isn't it mad? That isn’t what's before me.” “No,” sald 1. “No, Elinor, that isn’t Is there something you forgot to * she asked, as she came up. You see I'm caught on the fence,” he replied. “Oh, that's it? It's singular what things happen to rich men. If any one had told me that a man worth f-o-u-r- t-e-e-n thousand dollars could be caught by a sliver on an old rail fence, T should have said it was impossible. Are you enjoying the novelty of the sit- uation?” “Say, widder| I've got to ask you to help me out of ‘this scrape. The blood's rushin’ to my head 'till my ‘ears roar.” “But as long as it's blue blood it won't hurt you. Take it calmly, dea- con. All the wriggling around you can do won't tear the cloth nor break the sliver. I'm going back to the house.” “What! You goin’ to leave me here hung up like this?” “I'm going back to the house to skim the milk and get ready for churning.” “But 1 shall be a corpse in ten min- utes more. My head's almost bustin' now.” “I shall be back In a quarter of an hour. While I'm gone you do some thinking. Think about Burt and Eu- HABITS OF RICH CRANKS wide open, and would walk for hours in his garden on a bitterly cold day in the garment most people devote to night wear. There is in Cape Breton a worthy and much married gentleman who has just taken his eighth wife to his heart and home. And a grewsome home It must be to greet a homecoming wife, for seven of its rooms, each painted in black and white and liberafly garnished with skulls and crossbones, are dedicated to wives Nos. 1to 7. As the birthday of each of these de- parted spouses comes round the by no means disconsolate husband entertains his friends at dinner In the room specially devoted to her memory and improves the occasion by telling anecdotes tq illustrate her many virtues. In Vienna there is living to-day Count K—, a wealthy nobleman of Polish ori- gin, who occuples a sumptuously furnish- ed flat in the most fashionable part of the city. . ‘When he wants his servants he sum- mons them by bugle calls. much to the annoyance of his neighoors. His favorite pastime is to ®ire an omnil=u® and, dress- ed like an ordinary driver, drive his cum- brous vehicle wherever aristocratic equip- ages are thickest. He spends a fortune every year on the costliest of clothes, yet never wears any what's before you. Have you thought of what you've to look forward to? Listen: Brayton is 39—nearly 40. He growing big. stout, Elinor. He'll be fat mn five years, and he’s undeniably bald at the tonsure. He likes his din- ner—he even loves it—and for a couple of hours afterward he's somnolent. I don’t like talking about men behind their backs, but this is a time for plain speaking. Brayton wouldn’t care for sitting a deux’ before the fire. That wouldn't amuse him. He'd fall asleep and spoil things. No; he'd be better off at his club of an evening. Brayton wouldn’t fit into a castle in Spain; he's a bit—solid, Still, he'd be nice to you— if you didn’t interfere with him. Hw'd be proud to have you at the head of his table; you would ornament It Elinor, and I dare say you would get on together in a very friendly. peace~ able sort of fashlon—in England, not Spain.” Elinor dropped her face into her arms, and her bowed shoulders quiv- ered and shook. “Ah, no, no!” she moaned. “Ah, no, no, Teddy! Not that. I—I can’t bear it!"” Then after a long time she looked up once more. Her beautiful face was very flushed and there were tears wet upon her cheeks. “It's impossible,” sald she. “I can't do it. I was mad even to fanoy for an instant that I could bear suoh = life after—after everything.” She pulled the dlamond and ruby ring from her finger suddenly and threw it from her as if it burned her hand. It rolled into the gloem beyond the circle of firelight, the three gems flashing as they went. “Let them say what they will,” cried Lady Elinor. “Oh, take me away to Spain, Teddy! Then I stood up before her and held out my arms. “Come to Spain, Elinor!” said L nice. Think about that f-o-u-r-t-e-e-n thousand dollars. Think what a fool you are trying to make of yourseif. You've got the swellhead, deacon, and the rush of blood will be good for it. Because you've got fourteen thousand dollars you are ready to swell up and bust, and make yourself a laughing-stock. Get hold of yo and get your common sense baock.” “Don’t leave me, widder!” But she did. She went to the house and dallied around for a long twenty minutes, and then returned. The deacon had been thinking. He was red in the face, and his nose was bleeding, and there was a roar llke Niagara in his head. “Widder,” he said, as he became aware that she had returned. “Well?" “I've got f-o-u-r-t-e-e-m thousand dollars, and I'm going’ to give Burt and Eunice three thousand of it for a marriage present! “Very nice. 'm sure” replied the widow, as she brought the ax and chopped the sliver, and let him tumble to the ground. (Copyright, 1906, by E. C. Parcells.) but the suits discarded by his valet; ap- pears In the ballroom decked from head to heel in white, with the exception of black shirt and tie; and when he dines— always at one of the most exclusive of restaurants—he begins his meal with a cup of black coffee and. working his way backward. winds up with the soup, Not long ago. too, there lived near Has- tings a gentleman whose eccentricities very naturally excited considerable atten— tion. Punctually at the stroke of noon each dav he would appear in his front garden with a gayly colored turban on his head, his feet shod with richly embroid- ered and jeweled sandals, and with a coolie cloth around his waist. and. quite indifferent to the amusement he was pro- viding for a crowd of spectators, would first pray aloud to the sun, “the father of light and good,” and then prostrate him- seit before a quaint miniature temple in which was enshrined a grotesque idol with diamond eyes. To give but one more example of ec- centricity up to date. there is a certain lady in California who once every year performs a singular act of self-imposed perance, Maay years ago her husband. to whom she was very devoted. lost his sight. ana Mrs. Willlams—for that is the lady's name—made a vow that if he recov- ered it she would, in gratitude for an- swer to her prayers. crawl ons<hands and knees once a year from her house’ to the church, a distatice of a quarter of a mile, This vow she has religiously kept for