Gonzales Reform. (Gonzales, Tex.), Vol. 9, No. 33, Ed. 1 Thursday, April 9, 1914 Page: 3 of 8
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GONZALES RTCFORMf GONZALES, TEXAS
&3PYJ?fGm- JSV2
TH£ BOBBS-7f££KUL COWWiV
SYNOPS8&
Z^WOMAN
A Hotel b, j^gg*
TerJiune,
founded on
William G. de Milled Play
Illustrated with PfotorfmrfoP/qy
and imuiings- gy
Congressman Standish and the Woman,
t>«lleving themselves in love, spend a
trial week as man and wife in a hotel
fin northern New York under assumed
'lames. The "Woman awakens to the fact
that she does not love Standish and calls
their1 engagement off. Standish protests
undying devotion. Wanda Kelly, tele-
phone girl at the Hotel Keswick. Wash-
ington, is loved by Tom'Blake, son of the
political boss of the house. He proposes
marriage and is refused. She gives as
■wie of her reasons her determination to
set .revenge on Jim Blake for ruining her
'father. Congressman Frank K. Kelly.
Congressman Standish, turned insurgent,
is fighting the Mulllns bill, a measure in
'Hia interests of the railroads. Thf nia-
cin tie- !s seeking means to discredit .Stand-
iah in the hope of pushing the bill
Through. Robertson, son-in-law of Jim
Blake, and the latter's candidate tor
*f*»aker of the house, tries to, win Stana-
%sh over, and failing, threatens to dig
into his past. Jim Blake finds out about
tile episode of Ave years back at the
northern New York hotel. He secures all
"(he facts except the name of the Woman
and proposes to use the story as a cluo
(to force Standish to allow 'the Mulllns bin
to pass. Jim Blake lays a trap to secure
iin> na.me of the Woman. He tells Mm®
Kellv .that he is going to have a talk wltli
Standish, and that at its conclusion the
latter will call up a number on the tf*1®'
phone to warn the Woman "fie offers
M is» Kelly $100 for that number. At the
•conclusion of the interview with t>lake.
,-iiauridish gets a New York wire and eai.s
.Plaza 1001. A few minutes later Robert-
won 1 ells Miss Kelly to call Plaza 1001. and
gft his wife or one of the servants on the
phone. Miss Kelly refuses to give .Tim
Riak<» the number called by Standish.
Blake has a story of the Standish episoae
prepared ready to send out as soon as the
Wom»n"8 name is learned. Blake a daugh-
ter Grace arrives with her husband, wov-
••.irnof Robertson. Miss Kelly calls on
•<"? race to warn her that her good name 1®
threatened by impending exposure _ of
Standish and is insulted for ner pains.
•■n race appeals to Standish to give up the
flsrht in order to protect her name.. He
refuses. Qi^ice sends for Miss Kelly,
apologizes for her rudeness and begs
Wanda's assistance. Wanda declares she
will never betray the Woman. The ma-
chine attempts again to force Svandlsn
out Of the fight, without success. Blake
»calls up the Associated Presa to order the
j'Kb**s.tion of the story, but is cut off and
communication is restored too I ate to get
the story into the morning papers. Kob
ertson attempts to force Miss Kelly to
i:eve«,l the Woman's name. She is threat-
ened with imprisonment for cutting off
Tftlak«'s conversation with the Assoeiatoa
Press because of her refusal to give the
surinfoer called by St&ndiaft. Grace admits
that she knows the ^lame of the ^oroan
and her husband demands thai she tell It,
CHAPTER XXL
Jim Blake, Laser.
And bo <for an Instant they stood. It
was an odd tableau: Grace, helpless
stsliaking, dumb; Wanda, her arms
clasped protectingly about the u<nheed
sag Woman, who did not so much as
realize' their presence nor feel the
warm sympathy of tfasir embrace
Mark, his triumph tinged with impa-
tience at his wife's hesitation; Blake
■still gripping the telephone and glow
+>ring in angry surprise at the lawyer
Van Dyke grim, alert, master of the
Moment, his lean face set In lines of
■unwonted sadness.
And It was Van Dyke who broke the
brief silence. His precise dry voice
was tinged by a note of something al-
most solemn as he addressed Robert-
grotesquely. He took an involuntary
step toward Van Dyke. The latter
raised a protesting hand.
"Mark," he said, flinching not at all
before the bloodshot fury in the hus-
band's little eyes, "we are here as law-
yers, making an investigation. At last
we have struck the right trail. I am
sorry it leads where it does. I—"
He got no further. At a stride Rob-
ertson was beside his wife.
"You hear what this man insinu-
ates?", he cried thickly. "I don't ask
you to foul your lips by denying it.
I'll attend to him later. But give me
the right to do that by telling the
Woman's name at once."
"Grace!" croaked Blake, his throat
sanded with a horror that he would
not confess, "don't you hear what
they're saying, girl?"
In his harsh eagerness, Mark forci-
tly lifted his wife's bent head and
forced her eyes to meet his.
"What's the matter?" he demanded
sharply. "Why don't you speak? Tell
Van Dyke he lies. Tells him he lies, I
say! Oh!"
His fierce appeal broke off in a cry
of pain. He had at last raised her
face and had read it. For the briefest
moment he stood stupefied, expression-
less.
"Why, Grace!" expostulated Blake,
in pitiful bravado. "You're crazy!
You don't know what you're implying
what you're letting them think. I
won't believe it. Not a word of it.
It's a trick to—to—"
She caught his shaking hand and
murmured a broken incoherent sylla-
ble or two amid the passion of her
sobs.
"Almighty!"
Blake's legs gave way and he
sprawled inert into a chair, his head
on his breast. He had all at once
and done with—before you married
Mark!"
"Father!"
The Woman faced him In drv-eyed
horror. Every trace of weeping was
seared away by the flame of sudden
indignation. And, at the sight, Jim
Blake gave a great wordless cry and
gathered her into his arms as though
she were a baby.
"Gh, my little girl!" he choked,
"Dad's own, own little girl! We've
been tearing your poor heart to pieces
and your old father was the bitterest
against you. It's all right, I tell you,
girl. It's all right. Dad'll see you
through. You shan't be bothered.
There, there! Oh, don't cry like that<
I gave you every-
darling. N Don't!
His voice grew husky. Leaving her
abruptly, he crossed to Robertson.
"Mark," he faltered, avoiding his
son-in-law's eye, "you promised to pro-
tect her. This is the time to do it. It
was 'for better, for worse.' U that
vow is any good at all, it's a good
for 'worse' as for 'better.' Mark be
gentle with her, boy."
Slowly, with bent shoulders and
dragging step Blake made his way to
the big room's farthest end. There, in
the window's embrasure, out ot ear-
shot, his back to the others, he halted.
Drawing aside the curtains he
glanced out into the night. The gloom
of the sleeping city was below and
around him. But, in one black mass,
tiers upon tiers of garish lights
glowed. There, in the capitol, the
Mullins bill was coming to a vote.
There, Matthew Standish, freed by a
miracle from the toils that craftier
men had woven about him, was win-
ning the victory which was to clear
for him the pathway to the very sum-
mit of political power.
But he found his subconscious self
straying from the picture he was so
ruthlesely drawing. His mind would
not fix Itself on the lighted capitol and
the wreck of his life-work; but crept
over back into the dim room behind
him. Even his tongue tricked him.
For when he would have made it re-
cite further the tale of his losses, it
muttered brokenly:
"My own little girl! Dad's own,
own little girl!"
-when I k-new you.
thing-
"I'm trying to make it easy. We've
never had a real quarrel, you and I,
j,lark- So don't let us wind up our
married life with one, now. You are
in the right. I am hopelessly in the
wrong, I have cheated you, I admit
it, and I'll accept the consequences. It
ig in the blood. There is much in
heredity. My father is a—politician.
I don't know who my grandfather was.
And if he had been worth knowing
about, I'd know. There is a bad strain
running through the family. It cropped
out in me. Yes, I have cheated you.
You had the right to demand in our
bargain the hard-and-fast terms the
world has decreed: All of a wife's life
in exchange for a frayed and battered
remnant of her husband's. I can't
meet those terms, though I tried to
fool you into believing I could. So I
must meekly give up the love whose
price I can't pay. Don't let's make it
harder by having a scene over it.
CHAPTER XXII.
The Hour of Reckoning,
Mark Robertson and his wife, left
alone, together, in the other end of
1
\
Won't
Pafd?
"Haven't
We're Square?"
won.
•Mark,'" he said, "Miss Kelly hap
told us that she promised the—the
Woman not to tell. When did she
snake that promise?"
"What does that matter now?" snap-
ped Mark. "W e—"
"She never heard of .the affair until
early this evening. So it must be
•si.lice then that she talked with the
'Woman about it. Miss ICelly has been
on duty downstairs ever since six
o'clock. She has not left this hotel.
How could she have communicated
with the Woman?"
"By telephone. If—"
"J think not," denied Van Dyke, the
•cold sorrow in his voice now apparent |
to every one. "The Woman is here
in this house."
"So much fehe better!" declared
Blake, again picking up the telephone.
Van Dyke, in gloomy wonder, tura-
«d on his chief.
"You have often boasted, ^iim, said
he, "that you owe your success to the
fact you see things just a second soon-
er than other people. Don't you un-
derstand—even yet?"
"No," growled Blake, "I don t. Out
with It, man! What are you trying to
get at? Don't beat about the bush.
You're wasting time that we haven t
«ot " , . .
Van Dyke faced Roberstim; his lean
fare working.
"Mark," he said, tapping the dupli-
cate telephone list, "your house in
New York is charged here with two
■calls. We thought It was a mistake
Robertson haTforeed'°ht own^da^ed | ^e great" library facedthe
crfnOr » if ol preparation bad proved .o
he were giving a routine order, "you useless. .
will have every trace of this story de- Mark strove for speech. But for the
stroyed tonight. It must never get first time in his roughly aggressive ca-
beyond this room. I can count on reer, saiitable words were denied him.
' ?» I Alternately he longed to tell her in
"Certainly," agreed Van Dyke with ! naked terms what she was and how
equal coolness. j utterly he despised her. Again a
There was no hint in his voice or j gush of self-pity urged Mm to repioach
in his manner that Mark's command her for the wrecking of his ideals, the
entailed the defeat of a bill, the col- blasting of hie happiness \ anity
lapse of millions of dollars worth of i coming part way to his aid, he framed
stocks, a probably panic on Wall j —and left unspoken a curt sentence
street and the money interests' total of farewell. And, in the end, all ho
If temporary loss of power in con- could say was:
gress. For the moment, the great "Why didn't you tell me?"
corporation lawyer chanced to be also it was not whslt he had intended to
& man. [ say. It was banal. It expressed none
On his way from the room. Van 1 of the stark moods that seethed in
Dyke paused beside Blake's chair. J him. Yet as she did not answer,
"Jim," he said hesitatingly, "I'm go- j found himself asking once more:
"Why didn't you tell me?"
he
Gathered Her Into His Arms
Though She Were a Baby,
A wordless gurgle from Jim Blake
interrupted him. The telephone was
set down by a hand that shook as
though from palsy. For a single in-
stant the heavy-lidded eyes were whol-
ly, starkly unveiled in a glare of un-
believing horror. Then they turned
stupidly upon Grace who bowed her
head in a spasm of hysterical uncheck-
ed weeping before theT>anic query in
their gaze.
Wanda Kelly wound her arms tight-
er about the heavy body. But Grace
neither felt the contact nor hoard the
whisper of eager futile comfoiting.
Blake stared open-mouthed, his face
greenish and flabby, the stern jaw
loose the keen eyes bulging. Mark
Robinson was still frowning perplexed-
ly at Van Dyke.
"Don't you understand?" pleaded the
latter.
"No, I don't," returned Mark. ' What
have the two phone calls to my home
got to do with—?"
"Suppose the second call were not
a mistake—?" hesitated Van Dyke.
Kobinson's face went purple. The
'big veins near his temples swelled
ing over to the capitol. Shall I tell
Mullins to let the bill come to a
vote?"
"Yes," answered Blake, without stir-
ring or so much as looking up.
"Yes," he said again, and -his voice
was dead. "Yes—I'm—I'm licked."
As Van Dyke opened the dor, Wan-
da made as though to follow him.
"If you don't need me any further,
Mr. Blake," she said gently, "I'll go."
Blake lifted a palsied hand in nega-
tion.
"In there," he muttered, pointing to-
ward the door that led to the inner
rooms. "I must speak to you—after-
ward."
When the old man raised his eyes,
Mark and Grace alone were left in the
room with him. Robertson was stand-
ing moveless unseeing. Grace's sobs
broke the tense silence, as she fought
weakly for self-control. Blake crossed
over to her. She rose at his approach.
"Daughter," said Blake, almost tim
idly, "they've all gone. None of them
But there's one thing we've
And now, unknown and unwished
for, there crept into his bald question
a note that was almost of entreaty.
'Tell you?" she echoed. "Oh, if you
knew how I've wanted to!"
"Then—"
"1 didn't dare. I didn't dare."
"Truth and honor surely—"
"Your love meant more to me than
truth and honor. I sacrificed them to
keep it. I would sacrifice them and
everything else to get it back. Is
that shameless? Perhaps. The truth
usually is. If I had told you, you
would never have forgiven me. You
know you wouldn't. If I've wronged
you—"
"If you had loved me as a true wom-
an loves, you would have told me.
You would have had to. You could not
have deceived me like this. Love
doesn't feed on lies. It was my right
to know everything, so that I could
decide my own course. Instead, jou
have led me into this trap. There is
no escape now. And it is too iate to
reproach you or to try to make you
realize what you have done. 'iO13 8ay
your love for me kept you from tell-
ing? Believe that, if it is any com-
fort to you. I—"
"You s-ay 1 don't know what true
love is," she laughed bitterly. J m
afraid I can never learn it from you
So your love has died ? Love can t
die, any more than God can die. iou
have never loved me."
"Never. I see now that you didn t.
For you don't know what love means.
I lived few you. Every thought and
word and act of mine was shaped for
you. And for you alone. 1 knew you.
I knew your faults, your follies, your
brute savagery. And I loved you for
them as well as for the good that ^vas
in you. But what was it you loved?
The woman you married—or a >mow-
white saintly reputation? IE you cared
only for the reputation—that is gone
forever. But if you loved me the
woman I am—then I've been every-
thing you thought I was and wanted
me to be—-ever since the first moment
you had the right to think of nie at all.
I gave you my life, from that time on
and forever. And It has been all yours.
Before then, it was mine."
"And yet you 16t me believe it was
everything—your whole 11'® your
first love.'
"It. was. All that was worth the
giving. All that had ever been worth
the giving. It was my self. Oh. can't
you nee that a woman's body and
heart and soul belong not to her first
Good night. I'll stay with father until
you can decide just what you want to
do and on what basis we're to sepa-
rate. If it would do any good to ask
your forgiveness I'd ask it. That's
all. Good night, Mark."
She held out her hand with a shy
wistfulness. He was staring straight
into her tortured eyes and did not see
the gesture. The hand dropped back
limply to her side, and she moved to
rejoin Blake.
But afe the first step, Mark barred
her way. She looked at him in tired
wonder. His face was set and hard.
He made no move to touch her. His
voice, when he spoke, grated like a
file, as he forced it between his un-
willing lips.
"Grace," he began, "I've told you my
l0ve is fiead. And I lied when I said
it. I planned to put you out of my
life. And, even while I planned, I
knew I couldn't do it. It doesn t. mat-
ter what I want to do or what I ought
to do. Out of all this hideous tangle,
blazes forth just one thing that I must
do whether I want to or not. I must
go on loving yop with all my strength
and life."
"Do you mean," she panted wildly,
"do you mean that you can—that you
will—"
"I mean," he cried brokenly, his self-
control smashing to atoms under the
hammer blows of his heart, T mean
there is nothing in all this world for
me, dear love, away from you! I love
you. And I can't go on without you.
You are earth and heaven and hell to
me. I love you. And I have forgotten
everything but that. Girl of my heart,
will you let me make you forget, too?
Oh I love you! I love you!"
suite, Wanda, with elaborate care, was
shutting the door behind her.
Blake glanced quickly about the
room.
"Yes," said Wanda, answering the
question in his look and jerking her
pretty head back in the direction^ of
the rooms she had just quitted. In
there. I wouldn't worry if I were you."
Jim Blake's grim face took on a
light as incongruous as the play of
sunset rays on a mummy. The mask
of age and defeat seemed to melt be-
neath it. He took an eager step to-
ward the inner door.
."Just a minute," Wanda halted him.
"You asked me to wait. If you don't
need me here any longer—"
"Yes," hesitated Blake, trouble flit-
ting across the new light in his eyes.
"I wanted to ask you—to—not to let
Tom know about this. His sistei
"I'll never tell him," she promised.
"I sent him away so he wouldn't find
"You're white, clear through," grudg-
ingly admitted Blake. "Will you do
one thing more?"
"What?"
"Bring him back tp me."
"If I meet him again," she assented
primly, "I'll send "
"I didn't say 'send,' " corrected
Blake, "I said 'bring.' "
"That's different. I—"
"I'm out of politics. My own game
has broken me at last. I m old. I
know it now. I never did till tonight.
I'm old and I want my children around
"I'll tell Tom," she agreed, softened
despite herself by the new suppliance
in a voice that had never before beei>
turned to the uses of entreaty. "I'll tell
him. I'm sure he'll come back to you
when he understands. . Good night,
Mr. Blake."
"There's another thing," he broke
in roughly, staying her departure, "a.
thing that isn't easy to saj.
' "Then, why say it?"
"Because," he growled, "like ^ all
things that aren't easy to say, it s a
thing that's got to be said. Miss Kel-
ly, hasn't tonight pretty nearly squared
the old debt between you and me.
You and ytmrs have suffered a lot at
my hands. But, after what's hap-
pened here this evening, I guess you 11
admit, as far as suffering goes, you
haven't got much on me. Haven't I
paid? Won't you say we're square. ^
"We're—we're square, Mr. Blake,
she returned in a tone she could not
make wholly steady nor impersonal.
"And," pursued Blake, "and Tom.
"That's different, too," she faltered.
The jangle of the telephone inter-
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BAKING
mpted her. Blake, who was
bes.lde MAN THEY WERE LOOKING FOR;
the desk, picked up the instrument.
"Hello," he called into the transmit-
ter "Ye—yes—she's here. Who
wants her? Oh! Yes, put him on this
wire."
He lowered the telephone.
"Some one to speak to you, Miss
Kellv," he reported.
Mechanically, she took. hp , deBtrlan. Behind tho boj came
"Xe;i»aprof^.n drone': I other hoys, all peering easer.y 1B«»
Fortune Was Good to Youngster®*
Eager for the Delights of the
Moving Picture Theater. |
"Going in?" queried the small boy
excitedly.
His question was put to the elderly)
the pedestrian's puzzled face.
They hung to his footsteps until h©.
found himself, a little further on, ini
the midst of a numerous crowd of!
youngsters. Each boy clamored for*:
the pedestrian to accept a five-cent;
piece.
"What is all this?" demanded the,
pedestrian sharply.
"We are too young to go in alone,*
volunteered a ready spokesman. If'
you will buy our tickets for us we can.i
CHAPTER XXitl.
The Victor?
"They didn't seem exactly to be
hankering after my society in there,
observed Wanda Kelly, "so I came
' Jim Blake turned from the window
at sound of the telephone gills pur
posely raised voice. Just within the
threshold from the inner rooms of the
'Hello!" she called.
Then, turning on Blake, i^surprise,
she cried: ' j
"Why, it's Tom!" ;
"Yes," drawled Blake. "So I gath-
ered from the name. I'm glad. Glad
clear down to the ground. For both
of you. Tell him so, won't you?"
» • » » * *
The winter sun was butting its way
over the eastern sky-line. The dawn
was bitter-cold, mercilessly clear.
And into the track of the first white go in with you
glittering rays walked a tired man. A Then came a sudden light and tn&
man who that night had won a mighty 0id man smiled broadly. He went to
victory. A victory that foreshadowed the ticket window of an adjacent,
the richest gifts his country could be- moving-picture theater, where he
stow Before him the future stretched paused to count faces.
bright as that winter's dawn. As daz- "Nine tickets," he said.
7linelv brilliant, and as cold and stark- "There is a law against children,
ly empty. objected the ticket man. "Are those
' In Matthew Stahdish's ears, as he little people with you?"
returned toward the loveless abode "They are," declared the^ old man.
that he hated to call home, still rang "Come on, boys—going in?"
echoes of the pandemonium that had
broken loose in the house when the How a man does hate to make lov©.
Mullins bill had gone down to defeat. tQ a woman who wears spectacles all
"There is only one lasting victory, j time.
he muttered disjointedly to himself,
as he moved onward in the dazzling
ice-cold trail of light. "At the last, It
won't be the world's applause that the
world's great men will remember. It
will be the love smile of a Woman.
nd i shall never have known that
memory. What is the rest worth?"
(THE END.)
PRAISED WORK OF CANNIBALS
will tell. - . Y
got to know. I'm with you, no matter lover but to her first love . No woman
what you've done. But—but—tell me ( can even guess what love Is until she
that this was all over and— has found it. And I found it only
-that-
Henry M. Stanley Found Them Faith-
ful Followers, Intelligent anc$
Trustworthy.
Henry M. Stanley was among the
first to negative the prevailing idea
that cannibalism was the mark of a
special allotment of original sin,
among aborigines. In fact he pre
ferred cannibals because of their
greater intelligence and greater fidel-
ity Now we have the opinion of Mr.
Torday, who has just returned from
the neighborhood of Lake Tehad in
equatorial Africa. He says that he
was virtually unarmed, and unescort-
ed except by one friend and twenty
Bimbalaland porters who were all can-
nibals. He says they were "the most
devoted and reliable companions I
could ever wish to have in a tight cor-
ner." The practice of cannibalism
was originally confined to the bodies
of relatives and was Intended as a
mark of respect. Enemies were eaten
in order to absorb their valor. Prob-
ably the most degraded form of can-
nibalism is to be found in Thibet,
where it is the custom to expose the
bodies of the dead for disposal by
beasts and birds. But where the dis-
ease is of so loathsome a nature as
to repel nature's scavengers, the body
is eaten by the priests, which shows
that official, piety has its uses.
Ought to Be, Anyhow.
At dinner Mollie gated for a long
time at a bachelor guest, and then ex-
claimed:
"Mother, what Is an old bachelor?"
A frown was the only reply. But a
laugh burst fcrth from the assembled
company when Mollie answered the
question to suit herself.
"Oh, I know! An old bachelor i*
an old maid's husband!"
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Pleasant for Mamma.
' And what did my little darling do
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her youngest son—a second grader.
"We had nature study, and it was my
turn to bring a specimen," said the
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Arno, Carl. Gonzales Reform. (Gonzales, Tex.), Vol. 9, No. 33, Ed. 1 Thursday, April 9, 1914, newspaper, April 9, 1914; (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth404011/m1/3/?q=Lamar+University: accessed June 9, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu; .