Jasper County Democrat, Volume 3, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 May 1900 — TWO DECORATION DAYS AND THE TIME BETWEEN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

TWO DECORATION DAYS AND THE TIME BETWEEN

BY KATE M. CLEARY

Ttsr ARK! |m| That high, clear, vibrant note, •inking through the alienee like a •word of sound! “There!” cried Jack Harrowsby. “They ’re starting up. That’s Kipperton’s fills. He’s going to play ‘Columbia.* ” “No,” decided old McClelland. “He’s Cit a-tunln’ np. I don’t remember to over seen so many folks cornin’ Into town. Jest look at that Kansas hill, an’ atang by tiM railroad track. Like as not they’ll be full fifteen hundred at the grove. “Bure! They’ve got the flag strung acrost the street. It’s gittin* wore.” "It oughtn’t to. It ain’t out but Decoration day an* Fourth of July. But the winds la hard on it.” It was a fair day—a fine daly. A day fit for the flag to float high, for music to resound, for prayers to arise, for the loyal living to honor the valiant dead. A day of blue and gold—of soft breezes that claimed no kinship with fierce midsummer winds. Rain had fallen in the night, and •ven yet upon the roadside grass it glittered, a delicate, brilliant web, fine as lace upon a lady’s gown. “There’s John Harriston gittin* out of his old buggy,” commented Harrowsby. “I wonder he ain’t ashamed to own such a lookin’ trap, with all the money he's got" “Yes, an’ here comes Thorn’s carriage from the other way. Thorn’s the only farmer around here that keeps one. I don’t say he ain’t right to git some comfort out’n his life.” The Thorn surrey rolled down the street. On the front seat sat a heavily built, auburn bearded man. Beside him was a white-bloused boy. On the back •eat was a pleasant faced woman, and beside her a slender young, girl, whitedad from her head to her feet. Mr. McClelland shook his head. “They •pend too much. They’ll wind up in the poor house!" “Oh, I guess not,” laughed Harrowsby. “Any one who picks up Ed Thorn for a fool is goln’ to drop him mighty quick. He can afford to spend some. Of course Barrlaton la wuth as much again.” "Don’t look like it!” clicked out the ■ndertaker. It didn’t look like It. One would never have imagined the gaunt old creature, fumbling over his broken rope harness at ths side of his ramshackle vehicle, the poMeasor of more worldly wealth than ths prosperous appearing man driving by at ease with his handsome family. One likeness, however, in common they had. Both wore the army blue. “They’re both good haters,” went on ths speaker. “Them two men come to thia country pretty soon after we did. One of ’em must be here nigh on to thirty years, an’ they’ve never spoke a word to each other In all that time. From the same town back East, I’ve heerd, an’ fit in the war together—same reg’ment—same comp'ny!" Mr. McClelland nodded. “I remember. Thorns come several years after. An’ to think of them two eatln’ the same dinner, •a’ drivin* to the same funerals, walkin’ fa the same Fourth of July procession, or like now in this here Memorial day parade—even havin' the same politics, an’ never as much as a civil word between ’em. I wonder what caused it.” “A woman, I’ve heerd said.” “The town’s fillin’ fast.” It wm filling up fast. On every road leading down into the peaceful valley trickled people on foot, on horseback, in buggies, and in wagons. There were burly farmers, greeting neighbors, talking of crops and weather. There were women with children in their tired arms and dinging to their gowns, some alert, more •tolid, but almost all in their appearance •f premature age and weariness, giving evidence of overwork and latent depression. The Grand Army hall was only the upper floor of an abandoned and dilapidated building, used as a furniture shop before the town boom had burst. But the men who came down the rickety steps scaling the outer wall were the units who made the magnet of attraction. These men termed in line on the broad strip of the •treet, Intervening between their occa•kmal quarters and the livery barn. The rtirrtag notes of the fife rang out, and the beating of a drum throbbed upon the air. The blue-clad ranks formed. There was ths bent old body, the square, firm face •nd the floating white hair of the father. Beside him tramped his son—spare, sinewy, upright, but perceptibly lame in one leg—th* leg which had been presented at fihiloh with a much-prised bullet And one was pounding, and one was blowing, each with vigor and enthusiasm. Up the main street they marched, perkape two-score veterans in all, the colors •f their country and their post ahead, the ■uric rising bravely In their midst. And, •ide by ride, as It chanced, in the parade were the two men between whom for so many years a bitter grudge had lain unbolted—John Barrlston and Edward Thorn. The summit of the Incline was reached, and the wooden church which rose from a •weep of rocky soil. Horses and buggies were hitched all along the rough fence. Th* foreground was crowded with people waiting to see the veterans pass in. Then there were prayers and hymns and addreeee*. The latter were delivered from behind the dividing rail where pictures of

the heroes of a great conflict hung fa State. For the women of the Relief Corps, who had marched derp the street in the rear of th* men, had beggared the little town of Ito glowing peonies, its heavy headed snowballs. Its pungent southernwood, and starry syringas, and red honeysuckles, and the first white, scented catalpa branches to do honor to the occasion. And here again, side by side, were the two men, who, fast fettered by a childhood and youth of friendship, had gone forth to war together. The services were over at last, and the crowd in the church poured out into the sunshine. Again fife and drum made martial music. The brief journey to the cemetery was begun. It was here, after the stiff wreaths and crosses which the women had brought from the church were duly distributed and speeches made by some of the old soldiers, that John Barriston first caught a glimpse of the young man who had come late Into church. He stared in astonishment—strode towards him. “What has brought you back?” he demanded. “A row,” replied his son. "I’d a fight with one of the fellows at college. I was in the right, but I did him up a bit worse than I meant to. I thought I’d better come home until It blew over." The old man choked with rage. “And It’s for this—for this—l’ve toiled ’for you, and slaved for you, and all but starved myself for you. How—” he was choking in his wrath—“how dare you?” “I dare a good deal—sometimes.” * Just then a girl brushed by them. Her gown caught on the point of a stone. She stumbled. Involuntarily Mark Barrlston extended his hand to aid her. She shot him a swift glanee. In that look was recognition and a certain startled, pleased surprise. Then she had passed on, and Mark Barrlston stood hat in hand staring after her. “Do you know who that is?” “It’s Edward Thorn’s daughter,” said John Barrlston slowly. The hoarse voice shook over the words. “You must never hold word with him or his, or ” He lifted his <reat rough hand to the dazzling sky, with a mighty oath, “or else you go yeur way, penniless and poor, save for my curse!” “That’s unfair!" flamed Mark Barriston. The old man’s blood spoke then. “It’s unjust! You read the Bible—and you hate your brother. Tell me why!” But the passion of his father had spent itself for the time. He looked suddenly gray and stricken. He turned and walked unsteadily away to where the close, sharp spikes of an iron railing kept jealous guard over the narrow mound it inclosed. All other boundaries in that sunny little city were of wood, but these John Barrlston had deemed too frail to keep the world apart from her—the one woman of his love, whose life had been a brief •nd unsuspected tragedy. “Poor father!” The young fellow, looking after the lean old figure—seeing the gnarled fingers clutched hard around the iron spike on top of the railing, felt a fierce ache in his throat. He turned—went away. When Mark Barrlston—straight as a Norway spruce and good to look upon—striding home in the sunset light, came upon the wrecked carriage of Edward Thorn, he was hardly surprised—only moat absurdly elated. Obviously, he could not pass on. He might not take the wholly disinterested credit accruing to the stray Samaritan, but mere courtesy demanded that aid be offered. And since Mark Barrlston had been away at college he had learned a lesson which prairie people are slow to appreciate—that while kindliness, however gruff and sullen, is good, courteous kindliness is infinitely to be preferred. And so he uncovered to the ladles in the carriage with a grace that was pleasing as novel to the farmer folk, and offered his services. And when he had gone to the nearest farm house for rope, and had helped to splice the pole, •nd all was once more in readiness for the homeward drive, he would have turned •way but that Edward Thorn, putting out his hand with a word of thanks, detained him. “Thank you much, Mr.—Mr.—you are a stranger hereabouts, I judge?” * “My name la Mark Barrlston.” “Mark—Barris—O!" He leaned more heavily over the side of his surrey. Twice the lipa set in the blonde beard opened—twlee closed without speech. His eager look dwelt hard on the boyish face uplifted in the mellowing light. “I might hav« known,” he muttered. And then he said slowly: "Her eyes—you have your mother’s eye«s!” “My mother!" echoed Mark. “You knew her—you knew my mother?” “Well, my boy. “Better.” he Mid, and so low hie voice now ho might have been communing with himself, “better than any one else!" / There was silence. A chill stole up from the draw below. A gopher rah •croM the road, frightening the horse which had broken the pole. An anxious voice spoke from the rear seat. “It to late, Edward. “We’d better go on.” "Yes—yes. Well,” to Mark, "I’m glad to have seen you. I suppose, ’’ with some hesitation, “I- can’t ask you to come to our house?” *Tm afraid not, sir.” Ha moved a step backward. The elder man sighed—a wistful sigh it sounded. When Mark reached home he found his father sitting reading by lamplight. The, book was the Bible, his only literary posseMton. The deep cut lines of the old face seemed deeper, the stern mouth more Inflexible, the keen old eyes more relentleesly penetrating. "Tell mo about your quarrel, lad,” he ■ld. Mark told Mm. not sparing the other man, but equally outspoken in regard to hia part In the affair. There wm a long silence when he had finished. “Weill" he asked at length. “ ‘Air eye for an eye,’ " Mid the hard old voice. "*A tooth for a tooth.* You’d better take that north farm. Try It until faU. You can go back to college then. The man there needs looking after.” “I hate farming.”

“Perhaps,” dryly; "but »man must work with his head or his hands. It isn’t every one who gets the chance to choose.” The following day Mark Barrlston unpacked his books and set himself to study furiously. Bat how might one study books when day by day nature turned over a fresher and still more enchanting page of her own Inimitable volume? But, it was not wholly the charms of nature which made Mark Barrlston change his mind about accepting a temporary residence on the farm in the North belonging to his father. It was quite casually he learned that this farm which his father had but lately purchased was near another belonging to and occupied by Edward Thorn. He told himself he would not attempt to see Delila, but it must be admitted it was a little difficult to avoid doing so when he was obliged to pass her home every time he went to or returned from town. The romance was an innocent one, and as sweet as it was innocent. Rambles along the creek—a search for the latest flowers—the steadying clasp of a hand in abrupt descent or ascent—the discovery of mutual tastee—snatches of song—the flutter of her saah ribbon against his hand—silences embarrassing but delicious; and—that was all. Only Edward Thorn used to remark Co his wife that really that girl Was growing too pretty to be useful, and the man on John Barriaton’s north farm averred he “never seen that kind of a farmer afore,” It was he who blunderingly precipitated the climax of the situation. He had ridden over to John Barriaton’s relative to a shipment of cattle. “You’d better go through to Chicago with the stock, Dan,” his mart er said. "My son can attend to things until you get back.” . ... "He can, if he takes time enough from pickin’ posies with Delila Thorn.” “What!" screamed John Barrlston. “What!” “I didn’t think, sir!” Dan had shambled up aghast. "I forgot the bad blood atween ” "Saddle my horse—quickl Thia minute! Quick! Five minutes later*he was riding north at breakneck speed. * Mark chanced to meet Delila at the abandoned bridge down by the walnut grove, when his father came tearing along. But when that father dropped from his sweating horse, so shaken was he by passion—so racked by rage—he could not utter one syllable. “What—what is the matter?” Delila turned appealingly to Mark. She had never been told of the enmity between the houses. “Never mind—now. Go home,” he said in the tone of authority no man dare use except to one woman, and she that one to whom he is most madly enslaved, most willingly subservient—she who holds his life in her fingers as one may hold a rose. "Stop!” cried John Barrlston. He burst out into a storm of abuse of his son—her father—herself! There was no stemming the tide of his fury. It came down in a sweeping flood—a partially incoherent fury, it is true, but none the less overwhelming—resistless. Once Mark strove to speak—twice. In vain. Suddenly he turned—held out his hands to the girl. He had never spoken one word of love to her. He spoke none now. But there was that in his eyes which no woman needs words to interpret—a look that was at once a surrender and a demand. The old man saw the gesture— mw the look. A silence fell upon him. Indeed, there was no sound betwixt earth and sky just then save his heavy breathing. Mark put his arm around Delila, drew her to him. And he faced his father, not irreverently, but fearlessly. “She has done you no wrong, father!" he cried, “she—nor I. You said you would curse me. If you must—curse us! We can bear It better for sharing it!” Again, as that day in the cemetery on the hill, John Barrlston lifted hia hand aloft. A little, fluttering cry broke from the girl. “Papa—here Is papa!” And there, indeed, stood Edward Thorn. He saw the young people. He saw the gaunt old form towering before them. He saw the hand uplifted in wordleM malediction. They heard one wild word — mw Mark Barrlston spring forward. Then the old man, tottering down, was caught in the strong arms of his son and lowered to the ground. His face was purple. Hia teeth were clinched. There was a foam on his lips. Although Barrlston was borne at once to hia eon’s bed, although the physician drove over in hot haste, and all was done that could be done, it was many months before a gleam of consciousneM Irradiated his countenance—before he gazed intelligently into the faces which came and went at his bedside. Delila was sitting with him one radiant January day. Her right hand held a book. She felt a touch upon the left which rested on his coverlid —a caressing touch. "A pretty hand.” she heard a voice murmur. “Annie had pretty hands. Annie ” Ths murmurous sound trailed off into silence. And he slept. In March John Barrlston was moved back to his old home. He was warted, frail, patient to the point of pathos. He heard all his son had to say on business matters, gave replies that were ctear and logical, but left to Mark every arrangement—every decision. In April, when ths Hlac trees in the front garden were purple add fragrant, he went out for the first time. Mark drove him. Neither spoke of the winter passed—nor of what had led up to his selsnre. In May he wm able to sit out on the front porch—hte one book on hie knee. On the morning of Decoration day Mark wm surprised to find him up early and dressed fa hia old uniform. "Why, father,” he cried, “you can’t think of going in to the ceremonies.” "Not into the hall— dot to the church — no. But you can drive me up on the hill, and I'll wait there until they come.” John Barrlston could see the black dots

before the old Grand Army HaH merge fa a close, black phalanx. He could see the farm wagons piling down, as he had seen them often before. He even fancied he could hear Kipperton tuning up hid fife and see the old man handing his hat to a bystander to be cared for until the drum “was made go like she ought.” A sense of serenity came over him as he looked down and away, one hand gripping the iron railing. Mark Barriston, turning his team into the livery barn, looked arotfnd at sound of his name to find Edward Thorn at hie elbow. "How’s your father? Where is he?” "Up there.” He motioned towards ths hillside. Thorn turned past the hotel, the lumber yard, and the little lumber office. Around the sweep by the railroad track, across the lines, up the hill opposite—on he went. Through the gateway on the right—and across the worn path to where by the quadrangular Iron railing a man sat with bowed head. “Jack!” It was the old name that leaped to hi| lips. The other looked up. '• "Ned!” He rose trembling to his feet “Let’s talk it over. Jack. I never meanj to do so. I thought she—she might not wish it. But I think she’d rather ws would, than that our children—yours and mine—should suffer.” “Yours and mine!” Then the old Bap riston vindictiveness came back fa all its strength. “Mine shall not suffer. Why should 1 care for yours? You know what you did, Edward Thorn. Played fast and loosd with the woman you loved—the woman 1 loved!” “I don’t know what you mean,” said Edward Thorn. “I’ll tell you then.” He wm trembling still, but his grip on the railing helped to support him. "The day we marched forth to fight you told me Annie Lester had promised to be your wife when you came back. You knew how I loved her "Loved her—then?” Thorn’s voice wm a husky whisper. “No—no!” Barrlston stared at him a moment Then he went on. “That’s all right. It doesn’t really matter what you say now. But you know how you acted down there fa Virginia. The disgraceful scrapes you got into—the dishonor you brought not only upon your own name, but upon that of the woman who has been rash enough to promlM to marry you!” “Yes,” Thorn said slowly. "Yee, I dirt all you say—more. I wm young. Pm net urging this in extenuation. But ** he paused, fumbling In hia breast pocket, and extracting one yellow slip from a package. "I wish you’d look at this. It was after I had got this that I Hold on! Have you finished?” “Not quite. Then you went home—you remember? I staid away. I couldn’t go back and see Annie and you ” “Well, what then?” “Then —Jack! Do you think I’m Imbecile—pr delirious yet? Then you jilted her—flung her over as heartlessly as a man flings aside the woman who has loved him. There is no comparison to be made. The whole town was talking of your conduct when I returned. But you had gone. You coward!” Edward Thorn took one step—then stood quite still. “Will you listen now?” he asked. "I did love Annie—yes. And I did many things I am ashamed of in those old army days—that Is true. But that I ever of my own accord broke faith with Annie—no, John Barriston—no!” Barriston laughed—a harsh laugh. “Go on!” he said. "Perhaps,” Thorn rejoined, “it would be better If you were to read this first.” He held the slip of paper toward him. Harriston unfolded it—read it. Ned, dear, forgive me. Yon wilt I know. I did encourage you—yes. I did let you speak. I was even so wicked as to answer you •• you wished. But I didn’t care for you —I have never cared for you—in that way. I only did so to make Jack Barrlston under stand that he—O, I don’t know what I wanted him to understand! Anyhow, he never spoke. And now that the war is nearly over and you are coming back you must give me np. I can’t give you up, because my fatherwell, you know how stern he is and how he has set his heart upon our marriage. Bui I’m afraid to oppose him—and I*l] marry no man while Jack lives—so pretend that you wouldn’t , have me. O, do, Ned. And after awhile, perhaps. Jack—but, no—he doesn’t care—■ ANNIE. It was a long time before either spoke again. The procession had left the church, and one could trace its sinuous progress through the town. In silence Barriston handed back the letter. "I wiah you had known it always, Jack,” murmured Thorn. “The pride of a woman,” muttered Barriston. “The stupidity of a man,” said Thorn. There was the roll of vehicles up the hill—the tramp of feet The veterans filed In the gate. The little doctor came forward in all his gay regalia. Delila Thorn knelt beside Barriston. She comprehended the broken sounds he made. "The letter—with you? Yes—you shall have It always.” The band played on. The doctor put a professional forefinger on the pulse of the prostrate man. He rose—spoke. Hf could not make himself heard. “Men of the Grand Army of the Repub lie,” he essayed again. “Your comradeJohn Barriston.” The music swelled aloft, martial, triumphant But John Barriston did not hear.