Raiding with Morgan Part 42

"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.

Mr. Crawford heard the verdict with composure. The Puritan blood in his veins led him to meet death as he would meet any enemy in life. But he would do justice to his daughter before he died. Calling Joyce to him, he took her hand in his, and said: "Joyce, you have been all that a daughter should be to me, but to you I have been a hard, cruel father."

"No, no, you have been the kindest of fathers," she cried, her tears falling fast. "Father, don't talk so, or you will break my heart."

"Listen, Joyce. I now know how much suffering I have caused you. I drove from you the man you loved. Do you still love him, Joyce?"

"Father, I love him, I shall always love him, but I have been true to my promise. I-"

"There, child," broke in Mr. Crawford, "say no more. I know how true you have been, how sacred you have kept your word, while I-oh, forgive me, Joyce!"

"Don't, father, don't, you only did what you thought was right."

"But Pennington, Joyce-has he been true all these years?"

"I charged him not to see or write to me until I bade him, and that was to be when I had your free and full consent. Father, have I that consent now?"

"Yes, yes, tell him to come."

With her feet winged with love Joyce flew to send the glad message. But that night Mr. Crawford became much worse. It was doubtful if he would live until Calhoun could arrive.

Once more the sun is sinking in the west; again is Calhoun galloping up the road which leads to the Crawford residence. But Joyce is not standing at the gate watching for him. The little cloud of dust grows larger and larger, but it is not noticed. In the house a life is ebbing away-going out with the sun. Calhoun is met by Abe, who takes his horse, and points to the house. "Ma.s.sa Crawford dyin'," is all he said.

He is met at the door by Joyce. "Come, father wants to see you," she says, and leads him into the chamber where the dying man lies.

"Father, here is Calhoun," she sobbed.

Mr. Crawford opened his eyes, stretched forth a trembling hand, and it was grasped by Calhoun. In that hour all animosity, all bitterness, was forgotten.

Joyce came and stood by the side of her lover. Her father took her hand and placed it in that of Calhoun. "G.o.d bless you both, my children," he whispered. "Forgive!"

"There is nothing to forgive," replied Calhoun, in a choking voice.

A look of great contentment came over the dying man's face. "Sit by me, Joyce," he whispered. "Let me hold your hand in mine."

Joyce did so, her tears falling like rain. For some time she held her father's hand, and then his mind began to wander. It was no longer Joyce's hand he held, but the hand of her mother, who had lain in the grave for so many years. Once he opened his eyes, and seeing the face of Joyce bending over him, murmured, "Kiss me, Mary."

Brus.h.i.+ng aside her tears, Joyce kissed him, not once, but again and again.

He smiled, closed his eyes-and then fell asleep.

A year has pa.s.sed since the death of Mr. Crawford. Calhoun has come to claim his beautiful bride. He is making his last raid; but this time no enemy glowers upon him. Instead, flowers are scattered in his path; glad bells are ringing a joyful welcome. He is fully aware that the war has left many bitter memories; yet when the words are spoken which link his life to Joyce's forever and forever (for true love ends not in the grave), he clasps her to his heart, and thanks G.o.d that Morgan made his raid into Ohio.

THE END.