“Come.
“Joyce.”
That was all, but it was enough to tell Calhoun that the long years of waiting were over, that the little [pg 330]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 sym[pg 331]pathizer, 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.”