THE LONE RAIDER.
It was near the close of a beautiful day in early June that Joyce Crawford
was once more standing by the gate, looking down the road. It is nearly
two years since we saw her last. She has grown taller, more womanly, even
more beautiful, if that were possible. The sound of war had ceased in the
land. No longer was the fierce raider abroad; yet Joyce Crawford stood
looking down that road as intently as she did that eventful evening when
Calhoun Pennington came riding to the door.
She had not heard a word from him since his escape; nor had she expected
to hear. All that she could do was to scan the papers for his name among
the killed or captured Confederates. But the Northern papers published few
names of Confederates known to have been killed, except the highest and
most distinguished officers.
During these two years Joyce’s heart had been true to her raider lover. He
had said that he would come when the war was over, that the thunder of the
last cannon would hardly have ceased to reverberate through the land
before he would be by her side. It was two months since Lee had
surrendered yet he had not come. That he had been untrue she would not
admit; if such a thought came to her, she dismissed it as unworthy. No!
Like his general, he was lying in a soldier’s grave; or he might be sick,
wounded, unable to come.
This June evening, as she stood looking down the road, her thoughts were
in the past. Once more, in imagination, Morgan’s raiders came riding by;
she beheld the country terror-stricken; men, women, and children fleeing
from—they hardly knew what. Once more she heard the sound of distant
battle, then down the road that little cloud of dust which grew larger and
larger, until the horse with its stricken rider came to view. How vividly
she remembered it all, how real it seemed to her! She actually held her
breath and listened to catch the sound of battle; she strained her eyes to
catch a glimpse of that little cloud of dust.
[Illustration: SHE HELD HER BREATH AND LISTENED TO CATCH THE SOUND OF
BATTLE]
No sound of battle came to her ears, but away down the road, as far as she
could see, arose a little cloud of dust. Her heart gave a great throb; why
she could not tell, for she had seen a thousand clouds of dust arise from
that road, as she watched and waited. The little cloud grew larger. Now
she could see it was caused by a single horseman, one who rode swiftly,
and sat his horse with rare grace. She stood with hands pressed to her
bosom, her eyes dilating, her breath coming in quick, short gasps.
Before she realized it, the rider had thrown himself from his horse, and
with the cry of “Joyce! Joyce!” had her in his arms, kissing her hair, her
brow, her lips. For a minute she lay at rest in his arms; then, with
burning brow and cheek and neck, she disengaged herself from his embrace,
and stood looking at him with lovelit eyes. Could this be he whom, two
years before, she had taken in wounded nigh unto death? How manly he had
grown! How well his citizen suit became him!
“Were you watching for me, Joyce?” asked Calhoun.
“I have watched for you every night since Lee surrendered. I began to
think you had forgotten—no, not that, I feared you had been slain,” she
exclaimed, in a trembling voice.
“Death only could have kept me from you, Joyce. In camp and battle your
image was in my heart. The thought of seeing you has sweetened the
bitterness of defeat. The war did not end as I thought it would, but it
has brought me to you—to you. Now that the war is over, there is nothing
to separate us, is there, Joyce?”
She grew as pale as death. She had not thought of her father before—he
believed that the South had been treated too leniently, that treason
should be punished. All that the South had suffered he believed to be a
just punishment for her manifold sins. If the Rebels’ lives were spared,
they should be thankful, and ask nothing more. Joyce knew how her father
felt. Not a word had ever passed between them relative to Calhoun since
his escape; but the father knew much more than Joyce thought. He had kept
still, thinking that time would cure his daughter of her infatuation, for
he considered it nothing else.
Calhoun saw the change in Joyce, how she drew from him, how pale she had
grown, and he asked, “What is it, Joyce? Why, you shrink from me, and
tremble like a leaf. Tell me, Joyce, what is it?”
“My father!” she whispered, “Oh, I fear—I fear!”
“Fear what, darling?”
“That he will drive you from me; that he will forbid me seeing you!”
“For what?”
“Because you fought against your country; because you were one of Morgan’s
men.”
“What would he do? Hang me, if he could?” asked Calhoun, bitterly.
“No, no, but—oh, Calhoun, let us hope for the best. Perhaps when he sees
you it will be different. You must see him. He and aunt have gone to New
Lisbon; but they will be at home presently.”
With many misgivings Calhoun allowed his horse to be put up, and he and
Joyce enjoyed an hour’s sweet converse before her father and aunt
returned.
When her father entered the room Joyce, with a palpitating heart, said:
“Father, let me introduce you to Mr. Calhoun Pennington, of Danville,
Kentucky. He is the young officer whom we cared for when wounded. He has
come to thank us for the kindness shown him.”
Mr. Crawford bowed coldly, and said, without extending his hand, “Mr.
Pennington need not have taken the trouble; the incident has long since
been forgotten. But supper is ready; I trust Mr. Pennington will honor us
by remaining and partaking of the repast with us.”
Calhoun could do nothing but accept, yet he felt he was an unwelcome
guest. As for Joyce, she knew not what to think; she could only hope for
the best. The meal passed almost in silence. Mr. Crawford was scrupulously
polite, but his manner was cold and constrained. Poor Joyce tried to talk
and appear merry, but had to give it up as a failure. Every one was glad
when the meal was through. As they arose from the table, Mr. Crawford
said: “Joyce, remain with your aunt, I wish to have a private conversation
with Mr. Pennington.” Calhoun followed him into the parlor. He knew that
what was coming would try his soul more than charging up to the mouth of a
flaming cannon.
The first question asked nearly took Calhoun’s breath away, it was so
sudden and unexpected. It was, “Young man, why am I honored with this
visit?”
“As your daughter said, to thank you for the kindness I received while an
enforced guest in your house,” answered Calhoun, and then he mentally
cursed himself for his cowardice.
“Guests who leave as unceremoniously as you did do not generally return to
express their thanks,” answered Mr. Crawford, dryly. “It was a poor return
you gave my daughter for her kindness.”
“What do you mean?” asked Calhoun, in surprise.
“I mean that leaving as you did subjected my daughter to much unjust
criticism. An honorable man would have gone to prison rather than
subjected the young lady to whom he owed his life to idle remarks.”
Calhoun felt every nerve in him tingle. His hot blood rushed through his
veins like fire, he clenched his hands until his nails buried themselves
in the palms. How he longed to throttle him and force the insult down his
throat! But he was an old man; he was Joyce’s father. Then, as Joyce had
never told him it was she who had planned the escape, it was not for him
to speak. Controlling himself by a mighty effort, he calmly said: “Mr.
Crawford, I am sorry you think so poorly of me, for I came here to ask of
you the greatest boon you have to give on earth, that is your consent that
I may pay my addresses to your daughter, and in due time make her my wife.
I love her with my whole soul, and have reason to know that my love is
returned.”
“And I had rather see my daughter dead than married to a Rebel and
traitor, especially to one of Morgan’s men. You have my answer,” said Mr.
Crawford, angrily.
“Why call me Rebel and traitor?” asked Calhoun. “Whatever I may have been,
I am not that now. The government has pardoned; can you not be as generous
as the government? as generous as your great generals, Grant and Sherman?”
“And the government will find out its mistake. Your punishment has not
been what your sins deserve. Your lands should be taken from you and given
to the poor beings you have enslaved these centuries. But we need not
quarrel. You have had my answer concerning my daughter. Now go, and never
let me see you again.”
“Mr. Crawford,” said Calhoun, rising, “you have been very outspoken with
me, and I will be equally so with you. As to the terms you say should have
been given the South, I will say that had such been even hinted at, every
man, woman, and child in the South would have died on their hearthstones
before yielding. But this is idle talk, as I trust there are but few in
the North so remorseless as you. Now, as to your daughter; if she is
willing, I shall marry her in spite of you. There is one raider of Morgan
still in the saddle, and he will not cease his raid until he has carried
away the fairest flower in Ohio.”
“Go,” cried Mr. Crawford, losing his temper, “go before I am forced to use
harsher means.”
Before Calhoun could reply, before he could take a step, there was a swish
of woman’s garments, and before the father’s astonished eyes there stood
his daughter by the side of her lover. Her form was drawn to its full
height, her bosom was heaving, her eyes were flashing. Taking her lover’s
hand, she cried: “Father, what have you done? I love this man, love him
with all my heart and soul, and he is worthy of my love. If I can never
call him husband, no other man shall ever call me wife.”
The father staggered and grew deadly pale.
“O God,” he moaned. “I have no daughter now. Child, child, much as I love
you, would that you were lying beside your mother.”
Leaving the side of Calhoun, Joyce went to her father, and taking his
hands in hers said, “Father, grant me but a few moments’ private interview
with Captain Pennington, and I promise I will never marry him without your
free and full consent. Nay, more, without your consent I will never see
him again or correspond with him.”
“Joyce, Joyce!” cried Calhoun, “what are you doing? What are you
promising?” and he started toward her, but she motioned him back.
“Father! Father!” she wailed, “don’t you hear?”
Mr. Crawford looked up.
“Joyce, what did you say? What do you mean?” he whispered.
Joyce repeated what she had said.
“And you mean it, Joyce? you are to stay with me?” he asked, eagerly.
“Yes, but I must have a private interview with Captain Pennington before
he goes. Then it is for you to say whether I shall ever meet him again or
not.”
Calhoun stood by while this conversation was going on, the great drops of
perspiration gathering on his forehead. Was he going to lose Joyce after
all?
The father arose and left the room. No sooner was he gone than she turned,
and with a low cry sank into her lover’s arms.
“Joyce, Joyce, what have you done?” cried Calhoun. “Fly with me now! Let
me take you to my Kentucky home. Father will welcome you. You will not
lack the love of a father.”
Joyce raised her head, her eyes swimming in tears, but full of love and
tenderness. “Hear me, Calhoun,” she said, “and then you will not blame me.
We cannot marry now, we are both too young. You told me that you and your
cousin were to go to Harvard. That means four long years. Before that time
my father may give his consent to our union.”
“But you told him you would not see me, would not even write. That means
banishment.”
“Not from my heart,” she whispered. “Calhoun, for you to attempt to see me
now, or to write to me, would be but to increase my father’s opposition. I
trust to time, and by filial obedience to win him. It is a fearful thing,
Calhoun, to be disowned by one’s own father, and by a father who loves one
as I know my father loves me. It would kill him if I left him, and the
knowledge would make me unhappy, even with you. Calhoun, do you love me?”
“As my life,” he answered, clasping her once more to his breast. “And to
be banished entirely from your presence is more than I can bear. It is
cruel of you to ask it.”
“Calhoun, did you love me when I aided you to escape?”
“You know I did, why do you ask?”
“Yet you left me for two long years, left me to fight for principles which
you held dear. What if, for love of me, I had asked you to resign from the
army, to forsake the cause for which you were fighting?”
“I couldn’t have done it, Joyce. I couldn’t have done it, even for your
love. But you would not ask me to do such a craven act.”
“And yet you ask me to forsake my father, to be false to what I know is
right.”
“Joyce, how can I answer you? I am dumb before your logic. But how can I
pass the weary years which are to come?”
“You have passed two since we parted, and your college years need not be
weary. They will not be weary. Have faith. When father learns how good,
how noble, how true you are, he will give his consent. And Mark, my
brother Mark, he will plead for me, I know.”
“Joyce, I am like a criminal awaiting pardon—a pardon which may never
come.”
“Don’t say that. Now, Calhoun, we must part. Remember you are not to try
to see me or write to me. But the moment father relents I will say, Come.
It will not be long. Now go.”
Calhoun clasped her once more in his arms, pressed the farewell kiss on
her lips, and left her.