The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, January 24, 1904, Page 2

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. This is the fourth and installment of “‘Crit- | tenden,” wherein is re- | vealed the seeret of who the unknown man Judith loved with such a love that the hero was completely overshad- last was whom owed. And what his fate was you may also learn. Next week watch for “The Two Vanrevels’— complete in four editions. 1900 by Charles Scribner's Sons.) wouth and he and again, footsteps near him s voice gain and Crit- geon he had kamauga, and Crittenden ad—I'm not going to an exclamation of sur- rave, won't you. Kkie.” ings, kindly. e me that—wha’ he I know her.” fever-camp e sick man’s uld not call his gently; and she rehead and the inched v, into sleep. him closely, the rounds of the was marveling d fought brave- ds and the sur- a .aurmur; who, ralized by fever d puling of spirit. sh; who would steal the very comrades for e while before they had lives—men who in a fort- allen from a high plane of pitiful level of brutes. Only d there was an exception. This When sane, complaining, consid- was never a r a word passed n mother might not s lips closed, an un- en, was one. ps that his ¢ and when & ted sp! them firm. T nurse shook her head “Ther u had better stay where you ar his se is pretty serious. I'll do ¥ work for you.” nodded and smiled. She 4 worn to death, but she sat was till dawn came over the sea the sake of the girl, whose fre young face she saw above the And she knew from other woman would ed just that way for her. at the XIIL. der of big guns, Cervera's The doom, = truce at the trenches. A trying eek of hot sun, cool nights, troy rains, and fevers. Then a harmless little bombardment one Sun- day afternoon—that befitted the day; another week of heat and cold and wet and sickuess. After that, the surren- der—and the fierce little war was over. Meantime, sick and wounded were homeward bound, and -of the Critten- dens, Bob was the first to reach Cane- wood. He came in one morning. hun- gry and footsore, but with a swagger of impo ce that he had well earned. He had left his Young Captain Basil at Old Point Comfort, he said, where the boy, not having had enough of war, had slipped aboard a transport and gone off with the Kentucky Legion for Porto Rico—the unhappy Legion that had fumed all summer at Chickamau- ga—and hagd hoisted sail for Porto Rico, without daring to look backward for fear it should be wigwagged back to land from Washington. Was Basfl well? “Yas'm. Young Cap’n didn’ min’ dat little bullet right through his neck.no mo'n a fly bite. Nothin' gwine to keep dat boy back.” They had let him out of the hospital, or, rather, he had got out by dressing himself when his doctor was not there. t tried to stop him: Young Cap'n he jes drew his- An attenda “An Bu* Ole Cap'n Bob reckoned; “killed on done killed,” the ere they’ druv the aniards out of the ditches whar they s shootin' from.” nden smiled he's coming home mnow,” and Bob’s eyes streamed. ‘You've been a good boy, Bob. Come hdre;"” and she led him into the hallway and told him > wait ¢ the door ‘of top of came out g0, Molly,” the cabin, Bob and nd and asking ons; and Bob. s well, ard about ques ou has scinethin’ to say said Bob, loftily. d to welcome h Crittenden,” vendent now, and e Lot <4 b 4 t - say?” you that T you—when you t -I'm sorry.” Well, is Molly w gal yo' fool- “Quit yo' foel In a moment and with lis Molly rose to I ual effort to unc “Quit o’ fool Bob's strong in to his began moment t arms, to tighten, ed and nd with her n to cry. ort of tears they gentle as though white as was his was ccming home— nt Crittenden, who had got d back to the > {0 ve flag on the very day of the of the fever vital that same 1 once more— ts, silent and t for the occasional offi- cer - tha or marched the deep dust of the tow diers, regulars a and the other sol- i volunteers, who gad opointment. the heat, ship of war with little tion at large, and no ss and ha t from the reward, such even as a like fidelity in any path eace would have brought them Half out of his head, weak and fev- erigh, Crittenden climbed into the dusty train and was whirled through the dusty town, out through 'dry marshes and dusty woods and dusty, cheerless, dead-flowered fields, but with an ex- hilaratjon that made his temple throb like 2 woman's, Up through the blistered, sandy, piney lowlands; through Chickamauga again, full of volunteers who, too, had suffered and risked all the ills. of the war without one thrill of compensation; and on again, until he was once more on the edge of the Bluegrass, with birds singing the sun down; and again the world for him was changed—from nervous exaltaticn to an air of balm and peace; from gfim hils to the rolling sweep of low, brown slopes; from giant poplar to broad oak and sugar tree; from log cabin to homestead of brick and stone. And so, from mountain of Cuba and mountain of his own land, Crittenden once more passed home. It had been green spring for the earth when he left, but autumn in his heart. Now autumn lay over the earth, but in his heart was spring. As he’glanced out of the window, he could see a great crowd about the sta- tion. A brass band was standing in front of the station door—some holiday excursion was on foot, he thought, As he stepped on the platform, a great cheer was raised and a dozen men swept toward him, friends, personal and political, but when they saw him pale, thin, lean-faced, feverish, dull- eyed, the cheers stopped and two pow- erful fellows took him by the arms and half carried him to the station door, where were waiting his mother—and little Phyllis. When they came out again to the car- riage, the band started “Johnny Comes Marching Home Agaln,” and Critten- den asked feebly: ““What does all this mean?” Phyllis laughed through her tears. “That’s for you.” 4 Crittenden’s brow wrinkled in a pathetic effort to collect his thoughts; but he gave it up and looked at his mother with an unspoken question on his lips. His.mother smiled merely, and Crittenden wondered why; but some- how he was not particularly curious— he was not particularly concerned about anything. In fact, he was get- ting weaker, and the excitement at the station was bringing on the fever again. Half the time his eyes were clgsed, and when he opened them on the swiftly passing autumn fields, his gaze was listless. Once he muttered several times, as though he were out of his head; and when they drove into the yard, his face was turning blue at the lips and his feeth began to ‘chatter. Close behind came the doctor's buggy. Crittenden climbed out slowly and slowly mounted the stiles. On the top step he sat down, looking at the old homestead and the barn and the stub- ble wheat-fields beyond, and at the servants coming from the guarters o welcome him, while his mother stood watching and fondly humoring him. “Uncle Ephraim,” he said to a re- spectful old white-haired man, “where’s my buggy?” “Right where you left it, suh.” “Well, hitch up—" Raincrow, he was about to say, and then he remembered that Raincrow was dead. “Have you got anything to drive?” “Yessuh; we got Mr. Basil's little mare,” “Hitch her up to my buggy, then, right away. I want you to drive me.” The old darky looked puzzled, but Mrs. Crittenden, still with the idea of humoring him, nodded for him to obey, and the old man turned toward the stable. “Yessuh—right away, suh,” ‘‘“Where’s Basil, mother?” Phyllis turned her face quickly. “‘He'll be here soon,” said his mother, with a smile. The doctor looked at his flushed face. “Come on, my boy,” he said firmly. “You must get out of the sun,” Crittenden shook his head. “Mother have I ever done anything that you asked me not to do?” “No, my son.” “Please don’'t make me begin now he said, gently. “Is—is she at home?" “Yes; but she is not very well. She has been ill a long while,” she added, but she did not tell him that Judith had been nursing at Tampa. and that she had been sent home, stricken with fever. % The doctor had been counting his pulse, and now, with a grave look, pulled a thermometer from his pocket; but Crittenden waved him away, “Not yet, dcctor: not yet,” he said, and stopped a moment to control his voice before he went on. “I know what’s the ‘matter better than you do. I'm going to have the fever again: but I've got something to do before I go to bed, or T'll never get up again. I have come up from Tampa just this way, and I can go on like this for two more hours; and I'm going.” Te doctor started to speak. but Mrs. Crittenden shook her head at him, and Phyllis’ face, too, was pleading for him. “Mcther, I'll be back in two hours, and then I'll do just what you and the doctor say; but not.now.” P Judith sat bare-headed on the porch with a white shawl drawn closely about her neck and about her half bare arms. * Behind her, on the floor of the porch, was, where she had thrown it, a paper in which there was a column about the home-coming of Crittenden— plain Sergeant Crittenden. And there was a long editorial comment. full of national spirit, and a plain statement to the effect that the next vacant seat in Congress was his without the a%king. The pike gate slammed—her father. was_getting home from town. The buggy coming over the turf made her think what a change a few months had brought to Crittenden and to her; of the ride home with him the previous “4 GAUNI- URED MAW Ty BF bRt o & COMMON SOQLDIFRT = A Kentvery S10oRY or Love & spring; anq what she rarely lallowed herself, she thought of the night of their parting and the warm color came to her cheeks. He had never sent her a line, of course. The matter would never be mentloned—it couldn’t be. It struck her while she was listening to the coming of the feet on the turf that they were much swifter than her father’s steady-going old buggy horse. The click was different; and when the buggy, Instead of turning toward the stable, came. straight for the stiles, her heart quickened and she raised her head. She heard acutely the creak of the springs as some one stepped to the ground, and then, without waiting to tie his horse, stepped slowly over the stiles. Unconsclously she rose to her feet. not knowing what to think—to do. And then she saw that the man wore a slouch hat, that his coat was off, and that a huge pistol was buckled around him, and then she turned for the door in alarm. “Judith!™ The voice was weak, and she did not know it: but in a moment the light from the lamp in the hallway fell upon a bare-headed, gaunt-featured man in the uniform of a common soldier. “Judith!” This time the voice broke a little, and for a moment Judith stood speechless— still—unable to believe that the wreck before her was Crittenden. His face and eyes were on fire—the fire of fever—she could not know that; and he was trem- bling and looked hardly able to stand. “TI've come, Judith,” he said. “1 haven't known what to do, and I've come to tell you—to—ask—"" He was searching her face anxlously, and he stopped suddenly and passed one hand over his eyes, as though he were trying to recall something. The girl had drawn herself slowly upward untll the honeysuckle above her head touched her hair, and her face, that had been so full of aching pity for him that in another moment she must have gone and put her arms about him; took on a sudden, hard quiet; and the long an- guish of the summer came out sud- denly in her trembling lips and the whiteness of her face. “To ask for forgivemess,” he might have said: but his instinct swerved him; and— “For mercy, Judith,” he would have said, but the look of her face stop the words in an unheard whisper he stooped slowly, feeling carefully f a step, and letting himself weakly in a wavy that almost unnerved again; but he had begun to talk now quietly and evenly, and without look ing up at her. “I'm not going to stay long. going to worry W Il go just 2 moment: but I had to had te come. I've been a lit and T believe I've not quite sgot the fever yet: but I couldn't go through it again without seeing you. I know that, and that's—why—I've—come. It isn’t the fever. Oh, no; I'm not sick at all. I'm very well, thank you—" He was getting incoherent and he knew it, and stopped a moment. “It's you, Judith—" He stopped again, and with a painful effort went on slowly—slowly and quiet- ly, and the girl, without a word, stood still, looking down at him. “] —used —to — think — that — I — loved—you. I — used — to — think I was—a—man. I didn’'t kn®w what love was, and I didn’t know what it was to be a man. Iknow both now, “hank God, and learning each has helped me to learn the other. If I killed all your feeling for me, I deserve the loss; but you must have known, Judith. that I was not myself that night. You did know. Your instinet told you the truth; you—knew—I loved—you—then— and that's why—you—God bless you— sald—what—you—did. To think that I should ever dare to open my lips again! but I can’t help it. T was crazy. Judith—crazy—and I am now; but It never went at all, as I found out, going down to Cuba—and yes, it did come back; but it was a thousand times higher and better love than it had ever been, for everything came back and I was a better man. I have seen nothing but your face all the time—nothing— nothing, all the time I've been gone; and I couldn’t rest or sleep—I couldn’t even die, Judith, until I had come to tell you that I never knew a man could love a woman as—I—love—you—Judith. I'm not away over p _— He rose very slowly, turned, and as he passed from the light, his weakness got the better of him for .he first time, because of his wounds and sickness, and his voice broke in a half sob—the sob that is so terrible to a woman's ears; she saw him clinch his arms flercely around his breast to stifle it .o It was the old story that night e story of the summer's heat and horror g—heard and seen, and n his delirium; the dusty grimy days of drill on the hot sands of Tampa; the long. hot wait on the transport 1 ; the stuffy elling breat wind was wrong t and th arc d him—buz in the air, and ¢ 1 and scorpion and gh th path. A t and heat and d of the last day's m every detail of the da fight b stench of dead horse and dead the shriek of shell and rattle of r ketry and yell of officer; the slow r through the long grass and the climb up the hill. And always, he was tramping, tramping, tragmp! through the long, green, thick grass. Sometimes a kaleidoscope series of pictures would go jumbling through his brain. as thcugh some imp were rolling the scroll of his brain backward, forward and sidewise; a whirling ¢l ud of sand, a driving sheet of visible bullets; a hose- pipe that shot streams of melted steel: a forest of smokestacks; the flash of trailing phosphorescent foam; a clear sky, full of stars—the mountains clear and radiant through sumlit vapors; campfires shooting flames into the darkness, and men and guns moving past them. Through it all he could feel his legs moving and his feet tramping, tramping, tramping through long green grass. Sometimes he was tramping to- ward the figure of a woman, whose face looked like Judith's; and tramp as he could, he could never get close enough through that grass to know whether it was Judith or not. But usually it was a hill that he'was tramping toward, and then his foothold was good; and while he went slowly he got forward and he reached the hill. and he climbed it to a queer looking little block house on top, from which queer looking little blue men were running. And mow and then one would drop and not get up again. And by and by came his time to drop. Then he would begin all over again, or he would go back to the coast, which he preferred to do, in spite of his aching wound, and the long wait in the hospital and the place where poor Reynolds was tossed into the air and into fragments by a shell: in spite of the long walk back .to Sib- oney; the graves of the Rough Riders and the scuttling land-crabs; and the heat and the smells. Then he would march back again to the trenches’ in his dream, as he had dome In Cuba when he got out of the hospital. There was the hill up which he had charged. It looked like the abode of eave-dwell- ers—eo burrowed was It with bomb- proofs. He could hear the shouts of welcome as his comrades and men, who had never spokem to him before, crowded about him. How often he lived through that last proud little drama of his soldier life There was his captain wounded, and there was the old sergeant—the “Gov ernor’”—with chevrons and a flag. “You're a sergeant. Crittenden,” said the captain. He, Crittenden, in blood and sym- pathy ‘the spirit of secession—bearer now of the stars and stripes! How his heart thumped, and how his head reeled when he caught the staff and looked dumbly up to the folds; and spite of all his self-control, the tears came, as they came again and again in his delirium. Right at that moment there was a great bustle in camp. And still holding that flag, Crittenden marched with h company up to the trenches. Ther was the army drawn up at parade a great ten-mile half ecircle and fac Santiago. There were the red rcofs the town, and the batteries, which were to thunder word when the red and yellow flag of defeat went down and the victorious stars and stripes r up. There were little men in straw ha and blue clothes, coming from Santiago and swinging hammocks and tethering horses In an open fleld, while more lit tle men in Panama hats were advanc- ing on the American trenches, Baluting