“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 apart[pg 329]ments 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: