Newspaper Page Text
CHAPTER VII.
HE dance which had followed the con
cert in the park was quickly over. Two
sets wound up the platform perform
ance, out of respect to the scruples of
a number of Church members in the as
sembly. Those who yearned for the fas
cinating waltz adjourned to the newly
finished hotel, Lake View, on the sum
mit of the terraced hill.
■ I’—- l' 1
There in one of the large parlors, Claude Harland,
was seated at the piano, playing popular airs inter
spersed with fragments of his own composition. He
knew nothing of music as a science, but he was
born with melody in him, and he caught by ear every
tune that was afloat. The staid country folk shook
their heads when they spoke of him. No good ever
came of a piano playing man, particularly a long
haired one,” they averred, glancing with disapproval
at the little rings of chestnut hair clustering above
Claude’s low, white forehead.
Bus even they liked to listen to the music that
trickled from his slim fingers. He had a little crowd
about him tonight. They begged for a song and he
looked around for Sylvia to sing with him, but she
was nowhere to be seen.
Sylvia was outside looking for Faith. For awhile
she traversed the winding walks without finding her.
She did not look among the people gathered about
the platform, for these were mostly men who were
listening to speeches of the “pop-gun” order, the
speakers being small local politicians and young
neophytes, whose jokes and light sparring elicited
laughter and good humored chaffing from the audi
ence.
On the outskirts of the group around the platform,
Sylvia at last discovered Faith. She was standing
in the shadow of some trees, and beside her was
a queer-looking figure, an old man. Her hands
were locked around his arm and she was evidently
holding him back, trying to keep him from making
his way to the platform.
“Oh, my prophetic heart! it is my uncle!” groaned
Sylvia. “Poor Faith! He has come in spite of all,
and he on the verge of one of his drinking spells.
It was all in vain that she had that nice dinner
cooked for him and had old Mr. Twitty to come over
and play chess with him. He has come and he has
had whiskey, and what on earth shall we do with
him. Oh, where is Charley?”
While these thoughts flashed through her mind,
Sylvia was walking rapidly toward Faith and her
uncle. If she had not been so vexed and sorry, she
would have been inclined to smile at the comical pic
ture the old Major presented. He had put on his
best Sunday suit, but the waist-coat was wrong-side
out and his tall silk hat had suffered a smash.
He was intent on getting upon the platform and
making a speech and he was indignant at his daugh
ter for trying to prevent it. Faith, pale with morti
fication, was doing her best to quiet him and to keep
people from remarking his condition. Always she
had tried to shield her father from notice and ridi
cule when he was not himself. Now she was smil
ing wanly, as she talked to him, entreating and in
sisting by turns.
Her influence over him was usually strong, but
now he was more than half intoxicated. Some one
on the grounds had given him whiskey, and the in
stant he heard the sound of speaking on the plat
form, the old ex-officer had roused up as does the
ancient war-horse at the sound of the bugle. He had
been a noted politician—and of course an orator —in
his palmy days before mismanagement and reckless
generosity had caused his fortune—and with it his
summer friends —to melt away»
Tonight, he was transported back to his old cam
paigning days. He declared his intention to pour
hot shot into that fellow with the pompadour bang
who was crowing so loudly about the “new South”
and decrying the South under the old regime. What
did that cub know about the old South? He, Major
John Harland, would show the puppy how to sneer
at the glorious, gallant old land.
“Let go my arm, Faith; I tell you I must give
that popinjay a piece of my mind,” he was saying
TRIAL AND TRIUMPH
A Story of the Conflict of Good and IL bi I —By Mary E. Bryan.
The Golden Age for September 22, 1910.
as Sylvia came up. He immediateliy appealed to her
in a tearful, maudlin way, and when he found she
sided with Faith, he became more wrathful.
He made a violent effort to break away from the
two girls, who, one on either side, held his arms.
They felt they could not keep him back much longer.
“If only we could get him to go home with us,”
Faith said, a sob in her voice. “If I could see Claude
to have him bring the carriage and help us get
father in it.”
“It is Charley who ought to be here!” exclaimed
Sylvia indignantly. It is shameful in him to desert
us.”
“Ladies, permit me to help you.”
Both girls looked around as these words were
spoken in a cultured voice with an undertone of
respectful sympathy. Sylvia blushed as her look en
countered the dark eyes that had met hers more
than once today since Glenn had casually introduced
Stanley King to her. She hesitated but a little
while.
“Thank you, Mr. King,” she said with a strong
sense of relief. “We will be very glad if you can
persuade my uncle to come home with us. He —he
is not well —and —”
“Thash not so,” interposed the Major, shaking his
head viciously. “Im well ’nough, but I’m a mish
treated man, sir. I’m not ’preciated by my fam’ly.
Tried to make me sthay at home today with old
Twitty and a jug of molashes beer. Yes, sir, mo
lashes beer. The ingratitude of one’s children would
make angelsh shweep. But I shant shubmit to ty
rants any longer. I’m bound to spheak my mind to
night. I’m bound to shilence that crowin’ bantam
cried the Major in the thick utterance of a drunken
man.
At the same time, he made a fresh struggle to free
himself. King quickly put Sylvia on one side and
took her place.
“No, Major Harland, you are not going to do any
thing of the Raid,” he said. An old war eagle like
you stoop to contend with bantams! The idea is ab
surd, sir. It would be a sad lowering of your dig
nity. You must not waste your eloquence on such
pop-guns.”
“What do you know about my eloquence —hey?”
queried the old soldier looking at King with suspi
cion.
“I have heard of it, sir, from my father. He was
your friend; he served under your command; you
have not forgotten Troope King?”
“Troope King! My old comrade, Troope King!
Why he fought by my side at Shi'oh!”
The bleared eyes lighted up and the old Major
straightened- himself and held out his shaky hand
to Stanley. And you are Troope King’s son? A brave
sphirit! A jolly good comrade he was! I’ll tell you
sthory about him.”
“You can tell it to me as we drive home, Major.
It is late and these ladies are tired. I know where
your carriage is. I’ve been inspecting those ponies.
I’ll hitch them up and drive here for you. If your
driver is not on hand, I’ll do myself the pleasure of
taking his place,” bowing and looking from the Ma
jor to the two girls whose grateful smiles showed
that they appreciated his tactful kindness.
The Major was quite satisfied. He turned a deaf
ear to the popinjay and talked of Shiloh until King
drove up in the phaeton, with the little darkey foot
man, freshly roused from sleep, perched up behind.
King’s strong arms easily helped Major Harland
to a seat in front, his two “tyrants” occupying the
back seat. King held the reins over the ponies with
one hand, the other arm being around the old man
to keep him in his seat. He fell asleep, while trying
to tell the story about Captain Troope King, and
Stanley had to lift him out bodily when they arrived
at the Harland Cottage.
CHAPTER IX.
The phaeton stopped before Faith’s cottage home,
glorified by the moonlight and the milky moon-flow
ers that covered the porch. The old negro man,
Jackson, came out and assisted King to help the
Major out of the carriage and into the house.
“He slipped away from me, Missy,” Jack whis
pered apologetically to Faith. “He sent me off on
an arrant, and when I got back he was gone.”
Jackson had been the Colonel’s body servant in
slavery days, and he and his wife had clung to their
former owner through all the changes of fortune.
King saw his charge safely ensconced in a big
arm-chair in his room, then leaving Jackson to un
dress him and get him to bed, he came out. Faith
met him at the door. She held out her hand and
thanked him in a few words. Her moist eyes and
the hand-shake she gave him said more than the
words she uttered.
“Shall I drive you back?” he asked.
“Oh, no, I am too glad to be at home. I know
you will take care of Sylvia and find her brother for
her. I am wrapping her up a little; the air is getting
chill.”
She had taken off a small cape she wore and was
fastening it under Sylvia’s pretty chin. Then she
kissed her, and said:
“You must go at once, or Mr. King may lose his
train to Altamont. Fortunately, it is not far and the
ponies are fresh.”
King found the drive back to the park very short
indeed. Sylvia sat by him. She talked in her child
like way of what was occupying her thoughts, Faith
and aer trials and the patient sweetness with which
she bore them, how she taught school, kept house
and took care of her father, who was often cross,
and of Claude, who was sweet and affectionate, but
often a sore trouble, he was so absent-minded and
thoughtless.
“It is because he is a genius—that is what Faith
says—” Sylvia went on. “He would forget to eat
or sleep when he is in one of his day dreams if his
sister did not look after him. But he is so lovable
no one can scold him; Faith almost worships him.”
“And you?” Stanley queried, a tone of anxiety in
the light inquiry. He turned and looked at her pro
file, pa’e and tender’ in the moonlight.
“Oh, I am very fond of Claude,” she said. He was
sure a slight blush rose to her cheek. He wished
she had said with Aurora Leigh:
“I love my cousin, cousinly—no more.”
“Here is Claude now!” she exclaimed. A slender
young man had come in sight, walking fast and
whistling a lively tune.
“Halloa!” he called out, as he came up to them.
“I was hunting for you, Sylvia. You stole a march
on me.”
“Bad boy to desert us,” she said playfully.
“Bad girl to run off and not sing with me,” he
retorted. “I played for them until my fingers ached.
I played my Gypsy Bells symphony and nobody could
keep still. A fat girl danced or tried to. She is to
be baptized next Sunday, and I left a deacon lectur
ing her.”
He passed on, and King asked Sylvia about the
baptizing. She told him it would take place a mile
away in a crystal clear natural reservoir made by an
eddy of the mountain stream that fed the Twin
Lakes.
“I would like to see a rural baptizing,” King said.
“It must be an impressive ceremony, performed af
ter the manner of John in a live running stream,
with only the blue sky above. If I should —” He
hesitated and looked at her. It seemed strange to
him that he should be so drawn to this little village
girl. He had known her only a few hours, yet he
felt that in some way she would influence all his
future life.
“If I should come down next Sunday would you be
my guide to the baptismal stream?” he asked.
Sylvia gave a shy assent, adding, “If Faith will go
with us.”
She was half afraid of this dark, grave man, and
half fascinated by him. The smile that broke at
times over his stern face was like a sunburst on the
granite brow of a mountain, after a storm.
The town clock in the distance struck eleven as
they stopped in the park. The party had broken up.
The visitors from Altamont were hurrying to the
station. King alighted, leaving Sylvia in the car
riage and started to go in search of Glenn. At that
moment, Charley came up, looking pale and trou
bled. He was escorting Miss Boylan.
Anabel glanced quickly from King to the girl in
Continued on Page 11.)
3
