Part 42 (1/2)

”Go away and leave me, Fred. I am desperate to-night. I want to be alone,”

replied Calhoun, half despondently, half angrily.

Fred whistled. ”Look here, old fellow,” he said, kindly, ”this won't do.

It's time we met the folks down at the hotel. By the way, here is a telegram for you. A messenger boy handed it to me, as I was coming up to the room.”

Calhoun took the yellow envelope languidly, while Fred lighted the gas; but no sooner had he glanced at his telegram, than he gave a whoop that would have done credit to a Comanche Indian.

”Fred, Fred!” he shouted, dancing around as if crazy, ”when does the first train leave for the west? Tell the folks I can't meet them.”

”Well, I never-” began Fred, but Calhoun stopped him by shaking his telegram in his face.

It read:

”Come.

”Joyce.”

That was all, but it was enough to tell Calhoun that the long years of waiting were over, that the little Puritan girl had been true to her lover, true to her father, and won at last. The first train that steamed out of Boston west bore Calhoun as a pa.s.senger, and an impatient pa.s.senger he was.

How had it fared with Joyce during these years? If Calhoun had known all that she suffered, all her heartaches, he would not have been so happy at Harvard as he was. The fear of losing his daughter being gone, Mr.

Crawford, like Pharaoh, hardened his heart. He believed that in time Joyce would forget, a pitiable mistake made by many fathers. A woman like Joyce, who truly loves, never forgets. It is said that men do, but this I doubt.

The troublesome days of Reconstruction came on, and Mr. Crawford felt more aggrieved than ever toward the South. He believed that the facts bore out his views, that the North had been too lenient. As for Joyce, she gave little thought to politics. She believed that her father would surely relent before Calhoun had finished his college course; but as the time for his graduation approached, and her father was still obdurate, her courage failed. Her step grew languid, her cheeks lost their roses, the music of her voice in song was no longer heard.

Strange that her father did not notice it, but there was one who did. That was her brother Mark. He was now a major in the Regular Army, had been wounded in a fight with the Apaches, and was home on leave of absence. To him Joyce confided all her sorrows, and found a ready sympathizer, for he was as tender of heart as he was brave.

He went to his father and talked to him as he had never talked before.

”Your opposition is all nonsense,” said Mark. ”Young Pennington is in every way worthy of her. I have taken pains to investigate.”

The old gentleman fairly writhed under his son's censures, and tried to excuse himself by saying, ”Mark, I have said I had rather see her dead than married to a Rebel, one of Morgan's men.”

”Well, you will see her dead, and that very soon,” retorted Mark, thoroughly aroused. ”Have you no eyes? Have you not noticed her pale cheeks, her languid steps? Is she the happy girl she was? Your foolish, cruel treatment is killing her.”

Mr. Crawford groaned. ”Mark, Mark,” he cried, ”I can't bear to hear you talk like that, you my only son. I have only done what I thought was right. You must be mistaken about Joyce.”

”I am not; look at her yourself. Never was there a more dutiful daughter than Joyce. She would rather die than break her promise to you. Free her from it. Make her happy by telling her she can see Pennington.”

”Mark, don't ask too much. Joyce is all I have to comfort me. When I am gone you will be the head of the family. You can then advise her as you please.”

”Better be kind to her and give her your blessing while you live,” said his son, turning away, believing that his words would bear fruit.

What Mark had said deeply troubled Mr. Crawford. He now noticed Joyce closely, and was surprised that he had not perceived the change in her. He meant to speak to her, but kept putting it off day by day, until sickness seized him. The doctor came, and told him he had but a short time to live.