The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, September 20, 1903, Page 2

of tes, while he reharnessed the farmer whose sick child the doctor ded, three miles out on the Red use ad, said to Howard Paxton: r left baby tiil nigh onto 10 c k. ‘T've had a long day,’ he says, ad to get home,” ®a: e horse,’ says he. ‘Baby’s doing finely,’ says he, ‘but I'll drive out r w, s0's | can charge you for two g s having joke. W K x stop all night In the = t Doc says he has a couple f his own to home, meaning r sister Grace, as we knowed, end t € ha seen you since morn- [ e hear s call him post- me L S drove « the horse as £ s B ke's n both ‘em 3 . gine whis- s hat crossing € K, s knew how It appe tells me to come the manner in leaih at RUE HONEYMOON. I a ending et success In v when, he be- w to the farm srowing ton, dreaming in the lonely lonely supper, Te- Thankogiving son under the own his spe &e ttle girl shut of that e next onald on went nd talked to the ge s ents. He roge to tment of the arelessly this age ze office of th it chaaced - of r the preer Is nton reached Portage a little bet a town of several considerable ship county seat, » a pretentious which the mer- way to the principal cver in h e felt such liable anger as when he hoping—and dread! the hotel He muttered to when he should see¢ Lawton aln from violence—even in object of his expe- accompiished. He phrases it would be most when he saw them coming out of a jewelry store. Daisy was eager- 13 ng prrchases, as they turne n rect abeud of him, but Harry, peying no heed to about restiessly and soon around to look down the stre w Bun- ton tollowing “Your father!” he gasped, clutching nervously at Dalsy's arm. She turned, saw or, walked to- ward him, laughing. both hands outstretched. There was no 100k of co trition, not even of embarrassment, her pretty face; only the look of pert co fidence with which (it was characteristic of her) she would have asked her father any small favor—a present of a box of candy “Oh, papa!” she exclaimed, “you don't care, do you? We're all forgiven, eh? Harry was afrald you would he cr 1 w you wouldn't. Why, papa, what's the matter?” For the first time since he had read the telegram 1saac Bun.on felt sumething in his heart that was not whoily anger; something like pity for the girl, perhaps, as he realized her perfect ignurance of the character of the man wno now stood behind her, smiling weakiy, though he was pale with fright. Perhavs, too, his fa ner heart was touched that e came to him with the perfect confidence in which they had always met; perhaps, too, he recognized in her beiief that what she had done was right, because she had done it, his own strongest trait reflected in her. But in this emotion, whatever the cause, there was no pity for the mun. ‘“Dalsy, he said, “I‘m going to the hotei with yeu; we can not talk her. Bhe looked at him, surprised at his tone. “Papa, you are not cross? Won't you speak to Harry?” did not answer, and she little time as thev walked tel: but she soon gave her tion to some rin: il in their jeweler's boxes—one a woman's, two a man’s When they were in the little parlor of the “bridal suite’ at the hotel, Dalsy be- gan pouting again, for neither man had and now her father walked up room, with a look she had seen: and Harry no longer tried to smile, bu* looked pititully frizhtened as he glanced, now and then, at the face of er-in-law. papa,” the girl said rather sharp- I didn’t suppose you'd scold; but, If are going to, 1 wish you'd begin and t over with.” “Daisy,” her,fathes said, and at the sound of his voite Harry-sat down Umply, “this—this man—is a thief!"” Harry’s face turned gray, but the girl's flushed with anger. “Papa!” she cricd. “how can you say such a wicked thing He is my husband, and I love him!" She walked to her husband’s_side and took his hand. He held hers with nervous en- ergy, but did not rise as she stood be- side him. Mr. Bunton was not a hard- hearted man, was not without tender sen- timents, was fond of his daughter and had been pyoud of her, but when she said this he looked at her with incredu- lous scorn. It seemed impossible that e could see the man, and not know all about him that he did. To hear her say that she loved the cringing creature, who was now holding on to her skirts with one hand, added to the father's rage, if that was possible, and made him, for the THE SUNDAY CALL first time, feel bitterlyftoward his daugh- ter. “It is mean of you to say su thing, papa! How can you?’ L if he not a a wicked is thief,” Mr “I only me row the money, Mr. Bunton," said Harry. ‘I—I—you said that he would forgive us, Daisy. I did it for you, and 1 thought he'd take me into the bus negs, and I ceuld pay it back, And I—I- He began to weep and she bent over him and woul have kissed him, but her father sprang forward and dragged her away. It was a minute before Bunton could control his voice. “Daisy,” he sald, “I want to have a talk with l.arry. Go into the other room and wait. “Please stay here, Dais sobbed. “I only meant-to borrow the money. I wanted to buy you some rings. I think you ought to stay, as well as L” t to v,” her husband Even then she did not see. “There, papa. Harry didn’t steal. How much is it? Can't-I pay it? Don’t be rd on Harry, papa!” He looked at his daughter as he might if she had stabbed him. He had thought of separating her from the thief as the simplest part of his task. That she clung to the poor creature, after his miserable confession, well-nigh killed the pride that had been but bruised. He spoke to her now as if she were i1l or even insane, and he would rouse her to consciousness. to sanity: ‘“Daisy, I must speak to Harry alone. 1 shall not be—be hard on him. Please go, daughter.” He did not interfere now when she went to her husband, bent over nim, wiped his n'apered, “Tt will here, put on yeur two of the tlree »art of the Rev. Mr. all- man's quarterly salary had been spent. Mr. Bunton, when she left his side, had turned his back and did not look toward his unhappy son-in-law unuil Dalsy had Harry he gave h ~h 1l right, rings,” and rings for w left the room. Then he said, and so quietly that Harry looked up hopetully, I shall not have you arrested and sent to prigon if you promise to de promntly and precisely all T tell you to do.” “Yes. Mr. Bunton, I'll de-anything you say hing!" “You are to leave the State and nqt re- turn, nor make any appearance in Daisy's it for ~divorce,” the merchant said 0. You are never to speax to any one your—your marriage.” Harry had looked greatly relieved at the promise of immunity from arrest: but now L» was fearful that he could not comply with the condition. “I've spent much of the money that I—I borrowed, Mr. Bun- ton,” he faitered. “How can I get away and live until I-I find work?” “I am going to give you five hundred dollars,” Mr. Bunton said. Harry's face brightened. “You understand the condl tions; you are to go away at once, stay away, remain silent, and so long as you do so T will not prosecute you. You under- stand that there are no statutes of limita- tlon which apply to your offense. I can have you arrested and put in prison any time you fail In any of your promises. And, Harry—look at me—I will do exactly as I say about the prison. I need not re- peat that. You know me.” No need to repeat it in’ truth. The poor young man was chilled through and shaking with fright every time the word prison or arrest was spoken. Even the thought of the $i00 could not dispel his ague of fear, though through his troubled mind there danced detalls of the luxuries his unexpected fortune would purchase. No need to repeat the threat, for already he was eager to start, fearful that -the offer of immunity and money would be withdrawn before he could take advan- tage of it. He glanced apprehenstvely at the merchant and sald softly, “Did you wish me to start at once, sir?” “At once. Is that your valise?” “Yes, sir; we were going—somewhere else—this afternoon. It's all packed.” Mr. Bunton counted $500 iato the clerk hands. “There is & train,” he said, “go- ing south very soon. You will go on that. - “May 1 ses Dalsy?” Harry asked faintly. Mr, Bunton picked up the valiss, an old- fashioned black leather case, on whode metal clasp he chanced to notice the owner’s initials roughly scratched, and handed it to Harry without a word. The young man sighed; he had hoped for the emotional satisfaction of a parting from his bride. He belleved—knew—that she would promise to walt for him, would as- sure him of her belief in his innocence, would, certainly weep and embrace him, and he would tell her that be was mak- ing the sacrifice for her sake, and then tear himself away with & herolc speech. His poor, u bie wits were framing sueh a speech in the me fragmentary way that he was thinking of the pleasure he would buy with the money still held in his han ut the significant ac- tion of the merchant recalled him to a disma. semse of peril. He put the money in his pocket and walked out of the room, carrying the black leather va- lise. Mr. Bunton waited for some time for ar. He expected that she as soon as she heard the noise of the departure. He dreaded an- other interview with her, since the re elation of her character the first inter- view had made. His experience with Har- ry had been just what he had expected, for he had never bee loubt of that young man’'s moral wea He had read him, as he did most cor- rectly, except that If he had been called upon to eonsider the matter would bave thought that Harry did not have courage to steal. He was confident that his threat would effect its purpose with him; confident that no prompiing of greed or want would embolden Harry to attempt to assert himself as Dalsy’'s hus- band or to become troublesome as a threatening beggar after the divorce. But Daisy? She had astounded him. He had taken it for granted that his admission of gullt would make her turn on her hus- band with indignant loathing. Her unex- pected attitude amazed and troubled him But after the first rellef that Dalsy did not at once appear and demand an expla- nation her father_began to feel nervous that she did not appear. There was no sound whatever from her room. C phe have fainted? A sudden worse sent him with a bound to the door. opened it and looked into the r Daisy was seated in a deep, old- rocking chair, but so motionl stepped forward fearsomely, lest his sud- den thought should prove to be true. He smiled grimly, though, when he stood close by her side; her feet were restin on the hearth of a small box stove which a low wood fire was burning right hand lay in her lap, loosely h ing a novel; her left hand rested over open box of candy on the window s and she slept peacefully. He stood by her side many minutes } e tionl, silent: his eyes. She w 80 quietly, looked much could almost see—could f baby face, as he had often wat infant sleep, and he knew that he would e all else that he valued on earth to efface the last day of her iife—almost wished that ber profound sleep was her last, profounder one. He sighed, pe haps, for the girl awoke, smiled. and said *“Oh, is it yo pa? Where is mma ? Then he sobbed, and she sat up with a Ly , and said av r “Where Is Harry 3 Where?” “Gone away. He has left you.” “I don't belleve it!” she eried, ing to her feet in a rage. “If he has have sent h b He him. Then her father would not have to 8 bribe to desert you, Margle: and to es- cape the penalty of his theft.” “I don't believe you! You're Iying to away. You have frignt must come back—I will %o to aid what he hoped he ‘He has accepted s “Margle! Oh, Margie!” He stared at h's child, frightened: then sudden'y held out his har t she ed from him, ar window, where she etood tap ne with her fingers; and would he spoke to her. He did ove her, but sald, over and over, h riny Harry was of her; how weak:; and crim- tnal. He, her father, had forgiven her—t error of her i and thev wou grandfather, treat happened. It would and no one else would know But she would not answer 1 all, her nor look at him; nor when, soon ter, her grand- father came and to r in his arms and petted her, did she speak to bim. did not once speak on ther journe to Round Valley At the farm Mrs. Bunton was waitt for them and Dalsy ran to her weeping. They were together in the mother’'s room for an hour, while Isaac waited alone in the cold, stiffly furnished parlor. He had been sitting in the dark and when his wife came to him he rose to light a lamp, but she took his hand qu 1y and led Him back to his chair, seat raelf near him and holding both hands as he told her every detall ¢ story from the time he left her the es ing before. It was a minute after he had concluded bcfare she said ¥, do you seriously think that y er Bunton cah go on pla: a se tion, a divorce “Why not?’ he asked In a surprised gone. “Why not!” she repeated. “Why, what can you be thinking of? Dals: never comsent to this he will never to this. She will never agree to glve up Harry.” Carrie! Give him up? He has given her up. He has deserted her.” “She will find him wherever he is. She can never be convinced that he has de serted her—it would make no differe She loves him “Loves him!"” he cried in angry amaze- ment. “The man is a thiet.” “She does not belleve it. She loves him.” “Loves him! after he has taken a to run away from her—the sneak!” “She .does not believe that he has run away. She loves him.” “Carrfe, in the name._ of h can you talk like that?” He hands away from him and starte feet “Listen, Isaac, she d, patiently drawing him to his chair agaln, but ng his hands.. “You and fath Bunton have m your pl if y had a child—a baby—to deal with. Dal is a woman. She in love. No, don’t go away. You must hear me, or you will only make matte: worse, brin more suffering, more trouble to us all, if you do not understand what I understand— that Dalsy can no more be made to see any of this matter as you do than the blind can be made to see, or the dead to speak.” He felt her sob, and some of the anger that had possessed him all day passed from him, and he realized with a sudden softness of his heart something—not much—of the tender con: ration he owed to the faithful, unquestioning love which was here, which sometimes he for- got was so near to him. He drew her chair close to his and put his arm around her and thought of the pretty little school teacher she was when he met and impet- uously wooed and won her. He had loved her then: had believed that he could not live without her; and she had loved him —but he was an honest, brave fellow; hopeful, courageous, independent—wor- thy of a good women's love. “Carrie,” he sald, “it can't be possible that Daisy cares so much for Harry that she will not agree to our plan to end this misera- ble business, when she has had a day or t.vo to consider—go realize what a worth- less scamp he'ls.” “I wish I could think so,” she an- swered. “But you—we—must face the fact that it is uselesa.to expect Dalsy to see this in any other way than she does mow. To try to convince her by tal would be like talking to a moth t baby's imperfections—she « g the more.” She paused, and then added sadly, “Isaac, I think there is something of mother-love In Daisy’s feeling toward Harry. When they we hil ar would have no < Dalsy petted him € hor big dolls. And nos an no more think i intend to kee Harry away fr long than she thought dolls 1 1 & ish het for some littl n tand? I sgraced s cannot aw m her m 3 start agair you, or in Daisy's attitud is the worid-st the story w not contain an I robahliity—scasce & woman's story of ssibility—the at he i a tl ot ainst « s an ly r that he s te thing r her. Isaac, she 18 child and * g of both our n abandoned tures purpose Bhe is y s my child, tool even to think iti— would I not love you Isaac, it is pos: d stea as alwavs ms around her and tried now she broke down loved—oh, ar Y a ac, must go bac te e funeral | stared at her, shocked. ars star “Have y her sw yid the story of the accident at the rafiroad crossing by which Dr. Paxton et his dea and her hearers listened with expressions of sorrow, for the doc- »f the el se frien had w as a favorite is son’'s ¢l ay from the table and wers re, when Isaac “Howa her si wo. ral. I must go s some business. rt to it at eral, k you. B u he sat before the fire t sad news s wife had t for the first hich Harry ad wit presumab! take Harry that he started e next morning. OM THE BURNING knowledge of Harry's character led Bunton to the large city s little way rder, and there of the man he was s he had been t f when he sho and de: e return of the deed. He began to have fears he had not felt be- fore t the sued and harassed man n 1o deed rtain chant w should enter- ts and fears. What If he arry? A new deed a i, and the interests of Paxton protectsd bject in this journey 1 only their interests ot 50?7 Why chase the he went to anoth formation made it L3 Ther he learned at was traveling un- but was so easily de- 1 but a w minutes y to take a Mr. 1 to the stat he a train oked and ar saw Harry torward g swift- t trying to seen Mr. Bunton make the 1, and sighed with great w him checked. He was be had r might was always, al v y since the merc 1 him, he had tor h o f s of what people £ him as a prisoner; what one had remarked his soft white him—a prisoner at her, who had sery his =i 1 anticipation sons why Mr Md, determine and his departure d been haste Wh pany with sick w ned to tarry no intry, but to travel as as he could started in the evening » rode in a day coach a 1y full_ but for seat compa When a passen tered -an wn by him h doubled Bunton might graphed ahead to have him watched pulled his overcoat up around hi and his hat far over his eyes, althou the old fashioned car was stove-he ! Iy hot. When his se: d to enter P and did the rhythmic last broug iess that & this laste gasping ¢ piercing shriek of the lo: Then there was a hideous crash, a fal what seemed to be minutes, and a cruel, deafening. crushing shock. as If the world itself had met another world and chaos mocked the order of the universe. For a time there was no human sound; only the hatetul hissing of steam, the