The San Francisco call. [volume], December 06, 1903, Image 6

About The San Francisco call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1895-1913

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All her color shattered by the words
she: had heard, Elizabeth stood among
them silent. She was wishing-desper
ately that he was poor, that she might
make the sacrifice for. him, and her
wlstfulness shone In her eyes.
"Poor Elizabeth," said their hostess.
"But th'e Van i Horn's left," cried a
soft, malicious girl voice. .
Suddenly Elizabeth laughed, a gay
little staccato that ended In a ripple
of poor mirth. "Yes." she said, "he is."
"She turned her head and met
Haworth's gaze."
stood here helpless, and out there,"
with another sweep that' took in the
universe, "Elizabeth refused him. He
wants to be married for himself—such
an old fogy idea—but he's very much
worth while: he's president of facto
ries and banks and trusts, all spelled
with a capital, and, and," in a shrill
little wall "Elizabeth, not knowing, re
fused him." ~
"Yo»*re going to marry me," said
¦ Graham.
"Do you think' she Is serious T" he
asked.
"Oh. not. yet. But she drifts, with
him, and that Is one of his most at
tractive. qualities—drifting. You drift,
and drift, and* think you are steering,
and all at once—"
She hesitated, frownlngly.
"Overboard?"- suggested Stephen.
",Yes, when»you never dreamt":of be
ing In love. He seems so harmless, so
colorless, you know what I mean.'Most
men have to be amused. You feel on
guard with them. But Haworth Is rest
ful. Before you know It you are per
fectly natural with him and you talk,
and drift, and talk, and all he says Is
yes, yes, and all he does is look at you.
not as If you were Just a rather good
looking girl, but as If you were really a
thinking, reasoning Individual. And
Marjorie will like that. And then some
day she'll look in his eyes and waken
and lose self In love."
"Cribbed," Bald Stephen, softly.
"Awfully pretty, Con, but it's an echo
from a greater even ¦ than thou. Have
some of the salmon a la heaven knows
what. It's coming our way."
Constance let the salmon pass, and
smiled contentedly at the plain, youth
ful face beside her. Even the eye
glasses, perched airily on a nonde
script nose, could add neither age nor
wisdom to It.
"Stephen, you are a dear," she said.
"You are a blessed relief to a threat
ened possibility of sentiment. After
Marjorie's married to Haworth I think
I shall adopt you.'*,.
"As a relief .to a threatened possi
bility, etc?" /
"No.' The possibility only threat-
"They can't have you," she an
swered gently.
(Copyright, 1903, by T. C. McClure.)
OSWUjaiGSBa HE maid knocked
nF* ¦ ffl'—anr/j gently upon Miss
fcH RJ3 fX? Catherwood's door
D -Ivt K? and handed in a
| 3sf! iSJH card. Miss Catber
islt Is wood looked at it
pfcfcw^-.^, ffi" and tossed it to the
"Oh, the dickens!" she said frankly.
It will be seen at once that, although
Miss Catherwood was a young lady of
beauty and chax-mlng personal char
acteristics, «she had decided opinions
about various things. One of the
things was Mr. Anthony Wadsworth.
•who, as appeared, was waiting below
for an audience with her.
"The dickens!" reiterated Miss
Catherwood, "I suppose I shall have
to see him." Miss Catherwood's' mother
happened to be within earshot.
"Who is ltr* she Inquired. She waa
informed. "Dear me," said Miss
Catherwood's mother, "why, Mr. An
thony Wadsworth has always appeared
to me to be a very proper young man."
"That's just the trouble, mother,"
returned Miss Catherwood, "he's too
proper. He's too conventional. He's
a tissue-paper man."
"Dear me," answered her mother;
"he— he doesn't look like a tissue
paper, man."
"Oh, I know," petulantly responded
the young lady. "I know; he's Just
about the proper weight and proper
height, and his shoulders are just the
proper breadth. He's like a pattern—
a fashion plate. He's Just unbeara
ble."
Miss Catherwood's mother, who
could not quite reconcile her daugh
ter's premises with her conclusion,
sighed. Her daughter swept out of
the room and went downstairs.
Mr. Anthony Wadsworth rose as she
entered and bowed in a quaint old
fashioned way. He was flustered and
embarrassed — and there was good
reason for it. For Mr. Anthony Wads
worth was there for a purpose, and his
purpose ultimately became apparent.
He was there to propose to Miss
Catherwood, and he proposed. He
didn't do It very well, and Miss Cather
wood, who had had a proposal or two
before, as she listened to him, made
mental comparisons that were un
favorable to this particular suitor.
"Don't — don't give me your answer
to-night," implored Mr. Wadsworth,
the perspiration standing out upon his
brow; "wait — wait until to-morrow
night. Take time."
Miss Catherwood, who would have
preferred to end It at once, assented.
She said with all the coldness she
could summon to her aid that she
would consider it: that she would wait
until to-morrow night. And she had
a reason for it. She had an engage
ment with Tommy Boggs for the next
night; and she Intended to write a
short note f qr Mr. Wadsworth " to re
ceive when he came. That would be
the end of Mr. Wadsworth.
She started with Tommy about 7
o'clock In the evening, in order to get
a choice seat in the ladies' quarters.
She left the fatal note with her moth
er, with Instructions to hand it to Mr.
Wadsworth; she told her mother 'what
It was. Her mother, who was a very
tender-hearted .old lady, met Mr.
Wadsworth at the door— he came at 8
o'clock sharp — and Mr. Wadsworth
was so downhearted when he found
that Miss Catherwood was out that
the old lady thought) she would' keep
the note to herself.
"I'll— I'll call to-morrow evening,"
said Mr. Wadsworth, tremulously;
"she probably forgot last night that
she had this— this engagement for to
night, although—. I'll call to-morrow
night."
Down in the Fourteenth Ward in
Bailey's hall Tommy Boggs and Miss
Catherwood were having the time of
their lives. The campaign was In full
blast— election was wear at hand. Miss
Catherwood kept her eyes on the
speaker, and she listened to every, word
he said.
"Isn't he fine?" she exclaimed to
Tommy. "It's Just great to be a man
like that— a man who can sway men."
There was a burst of applause from
something more than one-third of .the
crowd as the man upon the platform
paused In his. speech at the proper
place. He was a paid campaign orator,
and he was good at that. But there
was Just a bit of dissatisfaction visi
ble upon the faces* of the crowd. A
man near Miss Catherwood moved
about uneasily.
"I am three years older than Mar
jorie."
.
,
'
ened. It never came true. And beside*.
I am three years older than Marjorie.
Would you think I waa 26, Steve?"
Stephen turned the rimless eye
glasses on her with cheerful scrutiny.
"Thirty-nine," he said pleasantly.
','How long were you engaged to him?**
"Two weeks and a half."
She nodded her head.
"It's a bad time of. year for engage
gagements. Dead leaves and general
dampness and all that. I always choose
early summer. It don't hang on the
nerves so. Try June next time. Con."
She turned to him with sudden Im
patience.
"It isn't that I don't want to see
Marjorie happy, or that I care about
last October. I am afraid she will
waken as I did. He la so perfectly
colorless In temperament that It la
simply infuriating. A girl doesn't seek
a new engagement every summer,
Steve. I never waa engaged before,
and don't you know when you've been
looking forward to something ever
since you could chase butterflies, to
falling In love with the one man who
t was to be your prince of dreams, and
all at once you think you've found
him, and you love him and promise to
be his wife, and nothing happens at
all, why, you feel like the boy who
spent all his Fourth of July money for
one skyrocket, and then it wouldn't go
off."
"Better said boy than the boy who
shoots the merry rocket and then geta
unmercifully batted with the fallen
stick," said Stephen gently and philo
sophically.
"Haworth was Just the same. He
never seemed to understand how won
derful it all was to me, or how a girl
wants It to be wonderful. We were
good, stanch friends and comrades,
and he cared for me. I know he did,
last October, but there waa the rose
mist missing. He wasn't my prince
of dreams. He was just himself.
One likes the rose, mist of life, you
know, even if one knows they are all
Illusion. They give a glory to the path
behind and the hills ahead."
"But they aren't worth a cent close
around," said Stephen. "Rose mists
aren't worth a rap floating around
one's self, when one la busy living to
day. Seems to me I wouldn't want any
illusions around the one I loved best,
either. And I don't think Marjoria
would. Haworth's a splendid old chap.
We've been friends for over ten years.
He's given me many a hand grip over
tough places in the first days when I
was only a fresh kid fighting for a
place In the crowd, and he's always the
same. It may be monotonous, but It's
mighty comforting. Perhaps after ten
years even you might be glad to find a
man unchanged."
"Perhaps." She smiled bitterly, but
bravely still. . x
He looked Into her eyes Interestedly.
"Honest, don't you care, Con?"
She hesitated.
"Not as long as It Is Marjorie, and
she will be happy." Her voice was
low. "Of course one may still remember
the prince of dreams, when the dreams
never came true."
"Haworth waa up to my place last
night and we talked sense. No rose
mists or dreams, just plain sense. And
I told him that I was going to marry
the dearest girl In the world. If she'd
have me."
"Stephen!** Her face was radiant,
her tone tender and maternal In Its
quick sympathy. "I'm so glad for
you."
"If she'd have roe." repeated Stephen
modestly. "And Haworth opened up
and told me a few things about a cer
tain dearest girl whom he had wanted
to marry, but she wouldn't have him.
He wasn't bitter, you understand, or
wearing crape for any dead hopes. He
Just told me. He doesn't quite under
stand why she gave him up. but he
believes she loved him, and that some
•day the world will seem lonesome and
strange to her, and the rose mists' she
cared for will have faded. Then he
thinks she may be glad to find him
unchanged."
"Stephen! 1* She turned her head and
met Haworth's gaze. His eyes were
restful and steady, , as she had loved
best to remember them.
"And I told.him." continued Stephen
mildly, "not to wait for the lonesome
time, to take the day he was sure of.
And he said he thought he'd try to
night."
"But Marjorie!"
Her face flushed and her lips half
parted. She was still looking beyond
the yellow chrysanthemums.
Stephen smiled across the table.
"The dearest girl in the world said
_ yes just half an hour ago," he said.
w
«Hffie
And when he finished the crowd
surged up to the platform and literally
overwhelmed him. Miss Catherwood,
when it was all over, drew a sharp
breath. "To think," she walled to her
self, "that I have refused such a man."
The next night Mr. Anthony Wads
worth called upon her. She met him
at the door. She was radiant.
"I— I've come to| ask your pardon,"
he said contritely.
"For what?" she inquired.
"You— you haven't forgotten," he
stammered, "about — about my— my girl
last nljjht. I — I don't know why- I
said it. I felt reckless, I suppose."
She laughed Joyously. "That," she
said, "is the only part «f your speech
last night that I had forgotten. It
was Just superb."
He laughed. "Dear me," he an
swered, "that's ¦ nothing; every fellow
livpoMtlcs has to do that. That's not
the question," he went on. "There's
something else."
"W— what?" she Inquired timidly.
"I want to know," he continued,
"whether 1 — whether my — my girl is go-
Ing to turn me down to-night. If so,
I've got a meeting in the Fifth Dis
trict—the boys are waiting for me."
Miss Catherwood stepped toward
him and held out her* hand. "They
can't have you." she answered gently,
"Anthony Wadsworth, Alderman." ;
This, In black and white, amounts to
nothing. But it was the way that
Wadsworth said it that took. "Ha,
ha, ha!" roared the crowd; "Imagine
Tony's girl a-turnin' of him down. Go
on, Tony." . ¦
Mr. Anthony Wadsworth raised his
hand high in the air and started in.
Suddenly he stopped. He was looking
directly into the eyes of Miss Cather
wood herself.. He turned white and
then he turned red. Then he turned
away, and apparently forgot her. And
then he started in. He started in as
only . Alderman Anthony Wadsworth
knew how. Miss Catherwood had
thought the campaign orator had
talked - as no other man could talk.'
That was because she had never heard
Mr. Anthony Wadsworth. With one
hand In his trousers pocket and the
other in the air, the. Alderman walked
UP and down the stage, casting into the
very faces of his audience, humor,
pathos,- expletive, vituperation, sar
casm, .congratulation — everything..
"Tony, Tony. Tony, Tony!" yelled
the crowd. The big man stepped for
ward.- "Mr. Tony Wadsworth." he ex
claimed, by way of Introduction, and
pandemonium broke loose. Mr. An
thony Wadsworth stepped forward a
pace or two. "Ain't he corkln'," said
the loquacious individual near Miss
Catherwood, "and he always comes
here In a swallow-tail suit — he knows
what's what, he does."
Wadsworth nodded, and the crowd
fcecame instantly silent. "I didn't In
tend to be here to-night," he explained.
He hesitated. "The fact is," he went
on, "I had an engagement with my
girl and she turned me down. I didn't
have any other place to go and I came
here."
"Aw ," he - said, "why don't they
bring on the Alderman? What the
's the use o' this?" "¦'¦
Another man nudged him. "The
Alderman," he explained, "ain't a-goin'
to be on hand to-night."
As he . si>oke a stout man entered
from behind the scenes and stepped up
toward the front of the stage. He was
cheered loudly.
"That must be the Alderman," whis
pered Miss Catherwood to Tommy
Boggs. But he wasn't. He whispered
for a moment to the speaker, and the
speaker nodded and shook his head.
The big man raised Ms hand.
."Ladies and gents," he said, "we'd
fully expected to have the Alderman
with us here to-night, but I'm givin'
it to you straight that-\;"
He was Interrupted by a mighty
yell. "Hi, hi, hi!" yelled the crowd:
"what ye - givln' us? Look behind
you!"
The big man turned and everybody
looked and howled. "Hooray! hooray!
hooray!*' velfed the crowd. Miss Cath
erwood looked with the rest, : and then
she gave a little gasp. For the man
that the whole crowd was looking and
yelling at was a young man attired in
a full-dress suit. He was bowing, with
conventional stiffness, right and left.
And he was none other than Mr. An
thony Wadsworth.
Graham talked blithely. It
the easiest .thing he'd ever. done. • He
was vividly conscious of • Elizabeth out
there beyond the lawn standing knee
deep in clover.: . -; '. '!.* •>.' /.'<' : .\ '"¦" : '*' •'¦"¦¦
In his haste to get away from a place
grown unfriendly over night, \ he, ran
down- the steps as the -trap \ came
around, and almost, stumbled over j the
breathless Small' One." With words
not intelligible to the uninitiated;'; she
thrust something warm and moist into
his hand. • • •
"Did you mean It?" he asked eagerly.
He had raced over the lawn, with the
child on his shoulder. "One. leaf,. you
know, is for, love." : ~ \
"No; not that It's Just my good-by.
It's to bring you- all that a four-leaf
can bring; it's to ask you to think of
me more kindly." She broke off to
cry.
"Do you think I'm rich?" she flung
out defiantly. .
"Perhaps so; perhaps not." Graham
spoke contentedly. "Most of us here
have money enough to keep us going."
"I haven't!" she cried sharply. "I
don't belong among you! I'm Cinder
ella slipped into Vanity Fair— as poor
as a church mouse. I never went to a
house party before. I sold, the pitiful
little place I owned to come' here. ; I'm
tired of counting pennies, of going
shabby, of being Btarved of all that is
beautiful and desirable in life, and
so — "¦ ' ' ¦¦-¦ ' ¦'¦ '• - ¦ '•
"You're going to' marry . me," said
Graham.. ' , ,
"And so I'm going to. marry Mr/ Van
Horn," defiantly. "I'm going to leave
the schoolroom grind behind me. the
debts and duns - and skimpy : dinners.
You see how I take to luxury," -with a
laugh that had no Joy, In it. " "I'm born
for it. I've . got a . line of ancestors
that stretch across the sea,' beauty, a
swirl .of . .charming
femininity' in* ' her
crisp, beflounced muslin, well aware .'of
her beauty, arid . of: the : maddening, tilt
of her adorable chin, swept down the
stairs and out to the steps, where k she
lingered Just long enough^ to give. him
a cool, little good-by. and drifted on: : In
her wake was the Small One, her faith
ful follower.
RAH AM stood in the
center, of ; the group of
young .women: - who
were -loud \ In . their
regret at his depart
ure, '."¦' Elizabeth,, a
(Copyright, 1903, by T. C. McClure.)
/ iuj'F course you are his
nilSPwf " u makea no dlf *
"No," she assented,
L^^^^^fc doubtfully. "Only in
|fc^^^gg^>c'S i .the point of view. It
UmaiF" * r^mam would cre ate a cer
><ain . prejudice— the friendliness.^ 'I
: mean in his : favor, and you don't know
Marjorie as I do."
Stephen . glanced down the* long,
candle-shaded, dinner table to 'where
. Marjorie sat. A group of yellow jchrys
anthemums mingled their gold" with
thetint of herhair, and her face was
half hidden by them. . Only a slightly
tilted chin was visible.. It was a de
licious chin, piquant and . interrogative,'
and he knew that she was talking to
Haworth. , •
manner and no heart to. speak of." •
'-"Graham,", called his host."
VHave' you said lyes to Van . Horn?"
asked Graham." r y
-. "Not yet,'.' she said, a : touchr of de
fiance in her voice, . as . though' she
feared something, within": herself. . "It
was just after you asked, me last night.
But I. intend to.", ; Suddenly ' her • lips
quivered and she cried,' "I don't want
you to hate me, so I sent you the
clover." :.¦¦"/ . .
. ."There's but one life. Will you spend
it with < me. dear?"
¦¦'•' She shook. her head; there was a sob
in her throat;.
/'Is it so hard?" asked the man. The
child came nearer as. he spoke, caught
the girl's gown and : looked at them
with. wide, half .frightened eyes.
' "Toohard?" sternly. V
"Graham!" shouted his host, "you'll
miss your train!". . : *,
"Good-by." he said.
-"The girl stood motionless, her eyes
downcast.
He-was going I What were Jewels,
fine gowns, the Van Horn money—any
thing, everything, j without | him. "
, - She clutched his arm, but her words
choked in her" throat. :
"Billy!" she cried, desperately. .. .¦
" Graham swung around.
"Billy, I don't — want — anything— but
— you!"
Graham laughed out, the laugh of the
man triumphant, and the Small One
joined in with shrill and prolonged
glee.
"Girls." said their hostess, and she
waved her hand tragically, "he had me
under solemn promise. I was aching
to tell you — it was a cruel position. I
By William B. Osborne
THE TISSUE-PAPER MAN
THE BUKDAV OAJLL.
By Izola L. Forrester
HER PRINCE OF DREAMS
LUCK IN FOUR LEAF
By Sarah Lindsay . Coleman
They had met at the summer re
sorts.
A PAIR OF SLIPPERS
By W. W. fff ines
Iy— 3^-j— $t- — A UT, sweetheart, you
•^iP^^&JvJi are not going to be
' r ImS^'^^'H J ealous °f a S irl I
Jj£«i5iii^^fH never saw — a Kirl
' V> §3 feT'^'^ilIri Vlho P rot) ably never
T^M*&iZ?jLw existed - Remember
that I never heard
<Mf liH ' Bl aiS anything but . her
voice, and it is quite possible that she
was as homely as original sin." ¦
Tom Rlker. was provoked. Theoreti
cally, he held that in every love affair,
there should be some temporary ob-'
etacle to the happiness of the lovers.
These temporary obstacles not only
gave spice to the love affairs them
selves, but they afforded hardworking
novelists like himself a fair chance to
earn a living. Now he was finding a
lifetime of theory deftly upset by a few
moments of practice. His courtship of
and engagement to Anne Lorrimer had
been a very, commonplace affair, but
he was so much In love that he could
not see the . advantage of j obstacles,
temporary or otherwise. They had met
at the summer resort and were thrown
together constantly from the first meet
ing by relatives and friends, who had
promptly decided that the match would
be a good one. Now the inevitable rift
In the lute had appeared in Anne's jeal
ousy of the heroine whom Riker had
painted in his newest and most suc
cessful book, "A Pair of Slippers."
"Of course, she may have been home
ly and all that," said Anne, with an air
of dissatisfaction, "but you didn't paint
her as homely. You gave her, with a
lavish hand, all the graces and beauties
that a woman could possess and— what
is especially . galling to me— you de
scribed her as just the opposite to me
In every way. I can't help but think
that she represented your ideal."
'•Now, my, dear, little girl, don't be
foolish. • Just remember that when I
described her I had never met you. I
made her! a brunette because that
seemed to , fit : in with her contralto
voice. I'll make you a solemn promise
that from this time henceforth all "my
heroines shall have golden hair and the
deepest and truest of blue eyes. Her
voice, was excellent, but it was abso
lutely untrained, and I infinitely prefer
to listen to your high, dear soprano
than to any number, of contraltos, no
matter how rich and full is the quality
of their voice."
• "That's all very well, but you say
that some of theincidents in the. book
had a foundation In truth/ Suppose you
met this, woman some time?" asked
Anne, j ' ./•" ; . ; - " is. ¦ ¦ •...-•
"What difference would it make if I
did? You don't suppose that I will ever
have eyes or ears, for any other woman
but yourself,' do you?. I'll tell you Just
how much of the plot had a foundation
In truth.
i "When I was 111 this spring I occupied
a room In one of the" uptown hospitals
and, despite j the calls of my friends,
time hung very heavily on my hands.
My nurse was one of those efficient
machines .which school and hospital
training turn out, and I was ready to
turn to anything for relaxation and en
tertainment. Just across the areaway
from my ¦ window ;was I an apartment
house, ; and I used to hear some one
singing there and : would close my eyes
and listen to the music. One day some
of my friends had brought me a mag
nificent clump of lilies of the valley and
it occurred to. me that It would be nice
to send some of them to the girl who
made the music* I knew that it would
be useless .to try and enlist the services
of my matter-of-fact nurse in trying to
find out her name, so determined on
another plan. I had never seen . the
girl, but the voice seemed -to float out
of a window just opposite me^ i
"I was becoming convalescent rapidly
and, casting about for something to
weight the bouquet with, my eyes fell
on a pair of slippers. I stuck the flow
ers in the toe of one of the slippers and
hurled it across with all my force. I
saw it sail in the window and then,
the exertion proving too much for me,
I fainted and fell on the floor by the
window. I had [ counted on seeing the
girl pick up the flowers, 'but I fainted
too quickly. *
¦ "I was removed to another room .
which looked out on an inner court,
and I never heard the. voice again. I
recovered from the relapse quickly, and
while I was in bed I blocked out the
synopsis of my romance. The hero,
as you know, I made an art student
in Paris, and had him fall in love with
a girl across the way on account of
the girl's voice. He threw her flowers
just as I did, and they got to know each
other in that way.
"But both the young artist and the
young singer were poor; they drifted
away from Paris and lost the sight,
but not the memory, of each other.
Ten years later the artist, now on the
top wave of success, went" to hear a
new opera sung. by a new prima donna,
of whom great things are told. The
prima. donna 'turns out to be 'the girl
at the other window.' The artist rushes
out of the opera-house, buys some lilies
of the valley and a ' pair of slippers,
sticks the flowers into the toe of one
of the slippers and hurls It ¦ on the
stage. She. recognizes him by the sign,
'they marry,' and live happy ever after
ward. "And that's all there is to the lit
tle story ' which the critics Jumped on
me for* giving such a prosaic title as 'A
Pair of Slippers," "' \ -'
"And you are ¦ sure that If you met
the girl to whom you threw the flowers
you would never be tempted to try and
turn your romance into reality?" asked
Anne.
"I have enough romance to last mo
for a lifetime."
"But suppose the girl waa really*' a
very nice girt and a very pretty girl?"
"Makes no ' difference."
"Did you know that I lived in the
apartment house back of the hospital
at which you were a patient?" Anne's
expression was rather mischievous.
"No, I didn't. Then it Is possible that
you know the woman with the con
tralto voice. Do you?"
"Yes, I knew her v In fact, I have the
slipper and the bunch of lilies of the
valley." . .
"How did you get them? Tour voice
is soprano."
Anne's expression was distinctly mis
chievous now. In fact, she seemed to
have great . difficulty In keeping; from
laughing outright, as she Bald:
"The woman you heard singing wu
our old . negro cook whom we brought
up from the South with us. I had to
take the flowers and slipper off her
hands to pacify her. She was going
over to the hospital and raise a row
on the presumption that the negro jani
tor had tried to flirt with her. I put
the flowers and slipper out of her way
and she finally, forgot about them, and
so did L : "When I read your book it
started me to thinking, and when 1
met you I determined, to find out if It
was really you who threw the flowers.
"I think," said Tom, slowly, "that the
Joke is decidedly on me.",
"Undoubtedly," said Anne. \ "But 11
you had not have thrown the flowers
you wouldn't have written the book.
And r if " you had not written , the book
I would not have gone out of my way
to meet you. So, 'all is well that ends
well.'" £vBs£
6