“COME.”
Calhoun found his life in the university delightful. He was a good
student, and a popular one. The black-haired young Kentuckian who had
ridden with Morgan was a favorite in society. Many were the languishing
glances cast upon him by the beauties of Cambridge and Boston, but he was
true to Joyce. In the still hours of the night his thoughts were of her,
and he wondered when he would hear that word “Come.” But months and years
passed, and no word came. He heard that her father was still obdurate. He
would wait until his college course was finished, and then, come what
would, he would see Joyce and try to shake her resolution. He would carry
her off _vi et armis_ if necessary.
The day of his graduation came. It was a proud as well as a sad day to
him. Sad because friendships of four years must be broken, in most cases
never to be renewed; and sadder yet because no word had come from Joyce.
She must know that he was now free, that of all things he would long to
come to her. Why should she longer be held by that promise to her father?
For the first time he felt bitterness in his heart.
Twilight, darkness came, still he sat in his apartments brooding. From
without came the shouts and laughter of students, happy in the thought of
going home; but their laughter found no echo in his heart. A step was
heard, and his cousin Fred came dashing into the room. “Why, Cal,” he
exclaimed, “why sit here in the darkness, especially on this day of all
days? We are through, Cal, we are going back to Old Kentucky. Don’t the
thought stir your blood?”
“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 passenger, and an impatient passenger
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. “Massa 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. “God 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.”
Brushing aside her tears, Joyce kissed him, not once, but again and again.
He smiled, closed his eyes—and then fell asleep.
A year has passed 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 God that Morgan made his raid into
Ohio.
THE END.
PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY
AND SONS COMPANY, AT THE
LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL.
FOOTNOTES
1 Calhoun did not tell Morgan the exact truth regarding his capture
and release. For this see “General Nelson’s Scout.”
2 For full particulars of this see “On General Thomas’s Staff.”
3 This convention was in reality not held until June 15, 1864.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
The author’s footnotes have been moved to the end of the volume.
The following typographical errors were corrected:
page 70, “wagon train” changed to “wagon-train”
page 73, “orced” changed to “forced”
page 86, “kulking” changed to “skulking”
page 125, “way” changed to “way.”
page 140, “At” changed to “As”
In addition, several missing, superfluous or misplaced quote marks have
been corrected.
Variations in spelling (“pass-word” and “password”, “tear-drop” and
“teardrop”, “bastile” and “Bastille”) were not changed. The single
occurrence of “Matthews” was not changed to “Mathews” as it is not clear
if the same character is meant. Similarly, it can not be decided if a
horse is called “Salim” or “Selim”.