The Calumet Chieftain. (Calumet, Okla.), Vol. 6, No. 6, Ed. 1 Friday, September 4, 1914 Page: 3 of 8
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CALUMET, OKLA. CHIEFTAIN
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<gr flALLIE ERMINE PIYTS
ILLUSTRATIONS 6r LAUREN STOUT
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John Valiant, a rich society favorite,
suddenly discovers that the Valiant cor-
poration, which his father founded and
which was the principal source of his
wealth, had failed. He voluntarily turns
over his private fortune to the receiver
lor tiie corporation. His entire remaining
possessions consist of ar. old motor car, a
"white bull dog and Damory court, a neg-
lected estate In Virginia. On the way to
Damcry court he meets Shirley Dand-
ridge, an auburn-haired beauty, and de-
cides that he is going to like Virginia im-
mensely. Shirley's mother, Mrs. Dand-
ridge, and Major Bristow exchange rem-
iniscences during which it is revealed
that the major, Valiant's father, and a
man named Sassoon were rivals for the
hand of Mrs. Dandridge in her youth.
Sassoon and Valiant fought a duel on her
account in which the former was killed.
Valiant finds Damory court overgrown
with wjDeds and creepers and decides to
rehabilitate the place. Valiant saves
Shirley from the bite of a snake, which
bites him. Knowing the deadllnrss of the
bite, Shirley sucks the poison from the
wound and saves his life. Valiant learns
for the first time that his father left Vir-
ginia on account of a duel in which Doc-
tor Southall and Major Bristow acted as
his father's seconds. Valiant and Shirley
become good friends. Mrs. Dandridsre
faints when she meets Valiant for the
first time. Valiant discovers that he has
a fortune in old walnut trees. The yearly
tournament, a survival of the Jousting of
feudal rimes, is held at Damory court. At
the Inst moment Valiant takes the place
of one of the knights, who is sick, and
enters the lists. He wins and chooses
Shirley Dandridge as queen of beauty to
the dismay of Katherine Fargo, a former
sweetheart, who is visiting In Virginia.
The tournament ball at Damory court
draws the elite of the countryside. Shir-
ley is crowned by Valiant as queen of
beauty. Valiant tells Shirley of his love
and they become engaged. Katherine
Fargo determining n t to give up Vail
ant without a struggle, points out to Shir-
ley how terrible It would be for the wom-
an who caused the duel to meet Valiant,
who looks so much like hip father. Shir-
ley, uncertain, but feeling that her moth-
er was in love with the victim of Vali-
ant's pistol, breaks the engagement. Major
Bristow is fatally wounded by Greef
King, a liberated convict, who he had sent
to prison, but before dying Bristow con-
fesses to Mrs. Dandridge that he had
"kept a letter Valiant had written to her
after the duel. Valiant decides to leave
Damory court and writes Shirley that he
■will love her always.
With unsteady Angers she un-
wrapped the oiled-silk, broke the let-
ter's seal, and read:
"Before you read this, you will no
doubt have heard the thing that has
happened this sunshiny morning. Sas-
soon—poor Sassoon! I can say that
with all my heart—is dead. What this
fact will mean to you, God help me!
I cannot guess. For I have never
been certain, Judith, of your heart.
Sometimes I have thought you loved
me—me only—as I love you. Last
night when I saw you wearing my
cape jessamines at the ball, I was
almost sure of it. But when you made
me promise, whatever happened, not
to lift my hand against him, then I
doubted. Was it because you feared
for him ? Would to God at this moment
I knew this was not true! For what-
ever the fact, I must love you, dar-
ling, you and no other, as long as I
When she had read thus far, she
closed the letter, and pressing a hand
against her heart as If to still its
throbbing, locked the written pages
in a drawer of her bureau. She went
downstairs and made Ranston bring
her chair to Its accustomed place un-
der the rose-arbor, and sat there
through the falling twilight.
She and Shirley talked but little at
dinner, and what she said seemed to
come winging from old memories—her
own girlhood, its routes and picnics
and harum-scarum pleasures. And
there were long gaps in which she
sat silent, playing with her napkin,
the light color coming and going in
her delicate cheek, lost in revery. It
was not till the hall-clock struck her
usual hour that she rose to go to her
"Don't send Emmaline," she eaid.
"I shan't want her." She kissed Shir-
ley good night. "Maybe after a while
you will sing for me; you haven't
played your harp for ever so long."
In the subdued candle-light Mrs.
Dandridge locked the door of her
room. She opened a closet, and from
the very bottom of a small haircloth
trunk, lifted and shook out from its
many tissue wrappings a faded gown
of rose-colored silk, with pointed bod-
Ice and old-fashioned puff-sleeves. She
spread this on the bed and laid with it
a pair of yellowed satin slippers and
a little straw basket that held a spray
of what had once been cape jessa-
In the flickering light she undressed
and rearranged her hair, catching its
silvery curling meshes in a low soft
coil. Looking almost furtively about
her, she put on the roso-colored gown,
and pinned the withered flower-spray
on its breast. She lighted more
candles—in the wall-brackets Aid on
the dressing-table—and the reading-
lamp on the desk. Standing before
her mirror then, she gazed long at the
against the pale ivory of her slender
neck, and the white hair. A little
quiver ran over her lips.
" 'Whatever the fact,' she whispered,
"' . . . you and no other as long
as I live.'"
She unlocked the bureau-drawer
then, took out the letter, and seating
herself by the table, read the remain-
"I write this in the old library and
Bristow holds my horse by the porch.
He will give you this letter when I
"Last night we were dancing—all
of us—at the ball. I can scarcely be-
lieve it was less than twelve hours
ago! The calendar on my desk has a
motto for each leaf. Today's is this:
'Every man carries his fate on a rib-
and about his neck.' Last night I
would have smiled at that, perhaps;
today I say to myself, 'It's true—it's
true!' Two little hours ago I could
have sworn that whatever happened
to me Sassoon would suffer no harm.
"Judith, I could not avoid the meet-
ing. You will know the circum-
stances, and will see that it was forced
upon me. But though we met on the
field, 1 kept my promise. Sassoon did
not fall by my hand."
She had begun to tremble so that
the paper shook in her hands, and
from her breast, shattered by her
quick breathing, the brown jeesamine
petals dusted down in her lap. It was
some moments before she could calrt.
herself sufficiently to read on.
"He fired at the signal and the shot
went wide. I threw my piBtol on the
ground. Then—whether maddened by
my refusal to fire, I cannot tell—he
turned his weapon all at once and shot
himself through the breast. It was
over in an instant. The seconds did
not guess—do not even now, for it
happened but an hour ago. As the
code decrees, their backs were turned
when the shots were fired. But there
were circumstances I cannot touch
upon to you which made them disap-
prove—which made my facing him
just then seem unchivalrous. I saw
it in Bristow's face, and liked him the
better for it, even while it touched
my pride. They could not know, of
course, that I did not intend to fire.
Well, you and they will know it now!
And Bristow has my pistol; he will
find it undischarged — thank God,
"But will that matter to you? If
you loved Sassoon, I shall always In
your mind stand as the indirect cause
of his death! It is for this reason I
am going away—I could not bear to
look in your accusing eyes and hear
you say it. Nor could I bear to stay
here, a reminder to you of such a
horror. If you love me, you will write
and call me back to you. Oh, Ju-
dith, Judith, my own dear love! I
pray God you will!"
She put the letter down and laid
her face upon it. "Beauty! Beauty!"
she whispered, dry-eyed. "I never
knew! I never knew! But it would
have made no difference, darling. I
would have forgiven you anything—
everything! You know that, now,
dear! You have been certain of it all
these years that have been so empty,
empty to me!"
But when the faded rose-colored
gown and the poor time-yellowed sap-
pers had been laid back in the hair-
cloth trunk; when, her door once more
unbolted, she lay in her bed in the dim
glow of the reading-iamp, with her
curling silvery hair drifting across the
pillow and the letter beneath it, at
last the tears came coursing down her
And with the loosening of her tears,
gradually and softly came joy—infi-
nitely deeper than the anguish and
sense of betrayal. It poured upon her
like a trembling flood. Long, long ago
he had gone out of the world—it was
only his memory that counted to her.
Now that could no longer spell pain
or emptiness or denial. It was engold-
ened by a new light, and in that light
she would walk gently and smilingly
to the end.
She found the slender golden chain
that hung about her neck and opened
the little black locket with its circlet
of laureled pearls. And as she gazed at
the face it held, which time had not
touched with change, the sound of
Shirley's harp came softly in through
the window. She was playing an old-
fashioned song, of the sort she knew
her mother loved best:
DarllnK, I am growing old,
Silver threads amoni? the gold
Shine upon my brow today;
Life Is fading fast away.
But, my darling, you will be
Always young and fair to me.
Outside the leaves rustled, the birds
ending epithalamia of summer nights,
and on this tone-background the mel-
ody rose tenderly and Ungeringly like
a haunting perfume of pressed flowers.
She smiled and lifted the locket to her
face, whispering the words of the re-
Yes. my darling, you will be
Always young and fair to me!
The smile was still on her lips when
she fell asleep, and the little locket
still lay in her fingers.
When the Clock Struck.
"Sorrow weeps—sorrow sings." As
Shirley played that night, the old Rus-
ian proverb kept running through her
mind. When she had pushed the gold
harp into its corner she threw hereelf
upon a broad sofa in a feathery drift
of chintz cushions and dropped her
forehead in her laced fingers. A gilt-
framed mirror hung on the opposite
wall, out of which her sorrowful brood-
ing eyes looked with an expression of
dumb and weary suffering.
Her confused thoughts raced hither
and thither. What would be the end?
Would Valiant forget after a time?
Would he marry—Miss Fargo, per-
haps? The thought caused her a stab
of anguish. Yet she herself could not
marry him. The barrier was impas-
She was still lying listlessly among
the cushions when a step sounded on
the porch and she heard Chilly Lusk's
voice in the hall. With heavy hands
Shirley put into place her disheveled
hair and rose to meet him.
"I'm awfully selfish to come to-
night," he said awkwardly; "no doubt
you are tired out."
She disclaimed the weariness that
dragged upon her spirits like leaden
weights, and made him welcome with
her usual cordiality. She was, in fact,
relieved at his coming. At Damory
court, the night of the ball, when she
had come from the garden with her
lips thrilling from Valiant's kiss, she
had suddenly met his look. It had
seemed to hold a startled realization
that she had remembered with a re-
morseful compunction. Since that
night he had not been at Rosewood.
Ranston had lighted a pine-knot in
the fireplace, and the walls were shud
.reflection—the poor faded rose-tint called and the crickets sang their un-
Stooping, She Looked at It Closely.
She Started as She Did So.
dering with crimson shadows. Her
hand was shielding her eyes, and as
she strove to fill the gaps in their
somewhat spasmodic conversation
with the trivial impersonal things that
belonged to their old intimacy, the
tiny flickering flames seemed to be
darting unfriendly fingers plucking at
her secret. Leaning from her nest of
cushions she thrust the poker into
the glowing resinous mass till sparks
whizzed up the chimney's black maw
in a torrent.
"How they fly!" she said. "Rickey
Snyder calls it raising a blizzard in
Hades. I used to think they flew up
to the sky and became the littlest
stars. What a pity we have to grow
up and learn so much! I'd rather
have kept on believing that when the
red leaves in the woods whirled about
in a circle the fairies were dancing,
and that it was the gnomes who put
the cockle-burs In the hounds' ears."
She had been talking at random,
gradually becoming shrinkingly con-
scious of his constrained and stum-
bling manner. She had, however, but
half defined his errand when he came
to It all In a burst.
"I—I can't get to it, somehow, Shir-
ley," he said with sudden desperation,
"but here it is. I've come to ask you
to marry me. Don't stop me," he
went on hurriedly, lifting his hand:
"whatever you say, I must tell you.
I've been trying to for months and
months!" Now that he had started,
it came with a boyish vehemence that
both chilled and thrilled her. Even
In her own desolation, and shrinking
almost unbearably from the avowal,
the hope and brightness in his voice
touched her with pity. It seemed to
her that life was a strange jumble of
unescapable and incomprehensible
pain. And all the while. In the young
voice vibrant with feeling, her cring-
ing ear was catching imagined echoes
of that other voice, graver and more
self-contained, but shaken by the same
passion, in that Iteration of 'I love
you! I love you!"
Ills answer came to him Anally In
her silence, and he released her hands
which he had caught In his own. They
dropped, limp and unresponsive. In
her lap. "Shirley," he said brokenly,
"maybe you can't care for me—yet.
But if you will marry me, I—I'll be
content with so little, till—you do."
She shook her head, her hair mak-
ing dim flashes in the firelight. "No,
Chilly," she said. "It makes me
wretched to give you pain, but I must
—I must! Love Isn't like that It
doesn't come afterward. I know. I
could never give you what you want.
You would end by despising me, as
I—should despise myself."
"I won't give up," he said incoher-
ently. "I can't give up. Not so long
as I know there's nobody else. At the
ball I thought—I thought perhaps you
cared for Valiant—but Bince he told
He stopped suddenly, for she was
looking at him from an ashen face.
"He told me there was no reason why
I should not try my luck," he said dif-
ficultly. "I asked him."
There was a silence, while he gazed
at her, breathing despair. Then he
tried to laugh.
"All right," he said hoarsely. "It—
it doesn't matter. Don't worry."
She stretched out her hand to him
in a gesture of wistful pain, and he
held it a moment between both of
his, then released it and went hur-
As the door closed, Shirley sat
down, her head dropping into her
hands like a storm-broken flower. Val-
iant had accepted the finality of the
situation. With a wave of deeper
hopelessness than had yet submerged
her, she realized that, against her own
decision, something deep within her
had taken shy and secret comfort in
his stubborn masculine refusal.
Against all fact, in face of the impos-
sible, her heart had been clinging to
this-—as though hlB love might even
attain the miraculous and somewhere,
somehow, recreate circumstance. But
now he, too, had bowed to the decree.
A kind of utter apathetic wretched-
ness seized upon her, to replace the
sharp misery that had bo long been
her companion—an empty numbness
in which, in a measure, she ceased to
be the picture of his father. The fact
shocked and confounded her. Why
should her mother carry in secret the
miniature of the man who had
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Full of "Go."
An acquaintance of a merchant who
Is engaged in a large business recently
recommended an attractive young man
who at the time was looking for a
Not long after the merchant met his
friend, and was asked by him if the
selection of the young man in question
had not proved a thoroughly wise one.
"Wise?" exclaimed the merchant.
"Why, man, haven't you heard what
has just happened?"
"I'm terribly sorry If he has turned
out badly," said the other. "It was
my firm belief that he would have
suited you through and through—he
was so full of go."
"F*ull of go," was the response. "I
should think ho was—far too full of go
for me. Why, he's clean gone, and
there's a thousand dollars gone, too."
"Never," cried the tnan who had
recommended the bright young clerk.
"Really, I thought he was just the fel-
low you were lacking for."
"So he is," declared the merchant
emphatically. "So ho is. I'm looking
for him now."
To Dodge Lightning Stroke.
Every year many persons are killed
by lightning because they did not
know what to do in a thunderstorm.
First of all, It is safer to be Indoors
than out. Most persons are killed
when In the open. If you are caught
in a thunderstorm don't be afraid of
sheltering under a tree just because
you have heard that it Is dangerous.
It Is dangerous to shelter under a sol-
itary tree, because lightning likes to
strike the highest point ns a rule for
some distance round. But you are
pretty safe if you take shelter In a
wood. A tree in a wood is seldom
struck. Certain trees are more dan-
gerous than others. A far greater
number of oak trees are struck than
beech trees. Elm trees are nearly as
dangerous as oak trees. Avoid big
crowds and collections of animals.
For some reason—presumably the
warmth that rises from their bodies—
crowds of animals and persons are
liable to be struck by lightning.
Neilson Winthrop, at a dinner at his
Riviera villa in Nice, said of New
York's new rich:
"It is incredible how many servants
these people have tumbling over one
another. Pass their palaces of pale
limestone fronting the park, and you'll
see a lackey at every window and two
at every door.
"They tell a story about a Fifth ave-
nue food king who, blustering Into the
house at four o'clock In the morning,
'"Hello, where's all the servants V i
"'If you please, sir,' the butler an-
An hour dragged slowly by and at gwered respectfully, 'when It came
length sho rose and went slowly up three o'clocTt I t!bought"you was spend-
the stairs. Her head felt curiously
heavy, but It did not ache. Outside
her mother's door, as was her custom,
she paused mechanically to listen. A
tiny pencil of light struck through the
in' the night out, and ventured to send
most of the footmen off to bed, sir.'
" 'Humph,' growled the food king.
'Ventured to send 'em off to bed, eh?'
Fine piece of impudence! Suppose I'd
darkness and painted a spot of bright- | happened to bring a friend home—
ness on her gown. It came through
the keyhole; the lamp in her mother's
room was burning. "She has fallen
asleep and forgotten It," Bhe thought,
and softly turning the knob, pushed
the door noiselessly open and entered.
A moment she stood listening to the
low regular breathing of the sleeper.
The reading-lamp Bhed a shaded glow
on the pillow with its spread-out sil-
ver hair, and on the delicate hands
clasped loosely on the coverlet. Shir-
ley came close and looked down on
the placid face. It was smooth as a
child's and a smile touched It lightly
as If some pleasant sleep-thought had
Just laid rosy fingers on the dreaming
lips. The light caught and sparkled
from something bright that lay be-
tween her mother's hands. It was the
enamel brooch that held her own baby
curl, and she saw suddenly that what
she had all her life thought was a
solid pendant, was now open locket-
wise and that the two halves clasped
a miniature. It came to her at once
that the picture must be Saesoon's,
and a quick thrill of pity and yearn-
ing welled up through her own dejec-
tion. Stooping, she looked at it close-
ly. She started ns she did so, for the
face on the little disk of ivory was
that of John Valiant.
An instant she stared unbelievingly.
Then recollection of the resemblance
of which Valiant had told her rushed
to her, and she realized that it must
then there'd only have been you seven
to let us In.' "
Three Ages of Crime.
"There are three ages of criminals,"
said Lecoq, the detective.
"The first age, from seventeen to
thirty, is the daring and desperate
one. Highway robbery, bludgeonings
and hold-ups, murder for a few dollars
—this is the worst age, a cruel, wicked
and supremely foolish age.
"The second age, from thirty to for-
ty-five. Is the cautious middle one.
Burglaries that are safe and easy, for-
gery, counterfeiting—in a word, crimes
demanding neither violence nor pluck
—that Is the second age.
"The third age, from forty-five to
seventy, is the executive ona Th
criminal is now a gang leader. He does
not act himself,-but he plans and com-
mands crimes of magnitude, train rob-
beries, bank robberies, kidnapings and
"My dear," said Mrs. Newlywed, her
face flushed with the excitement of
her afternoon in the kitchen, "I want
you to be perfectly frank with me
now; what would you suggefit to Im-
prove those doughnuts I made today?"
'Well," replied Mr. Newlywed, lift-
ing one with a slight effort, "I think
it might be better if you made th&
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Clayton, J. C. The Calumet Chieftain. (Calumet, Okla.), Vol. 6, No. 6, Ed. 1 Friday, September 4, 1914, newspaper, September 4, 1914; Calumet, Oklahoma. (gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc167829/m1/3/: accessed November 14, 2018), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.