Raiding with Morgan Part 41

"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 flas.h.i.+ng. 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 G.o.d," 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 pa.s.s the weary years which are to come?"

"You have pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble, 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.

CHAPTER XXVI.

"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 languis.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed, 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 friends.h.i.+ps 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 das.h.i.+ng 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?"