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FAIR PLAY, STE. GENEVIEVE. MISSOURI NO DEFENSE Gilbert Parke 1 3k35jg COPY RIGHT 0 "TO VIRGINIAl" Synopsis. Returning home after a day's shooting, Dyck Calhoun, Kitted young Irish gentleman of the time of the French and American revolutions, meets Sheila Llyn, seventeen-year-old Blrl visiting In the neighborhood. They are mutually attracted. Shclla never knew her dissipated father, Krrls Hoyne, her mother having divorced him and resumed her maiden name, Bench ing home, Dyck finds Leonard Mallow, son of Lord Mallow, with a message from the attorney gen eral summoning Miles Calhoun, Dyck's father, to Dublin. They go to Dublin and there Mal low quarrels with Dyck and a duel Is arranged. They fight with swords and Dyck Is victor. Krrls Hoyne, secretly In French employ, gets Dyck drunk and tries to per sunde him to Join In revolt against England. They quarrel and Dyck Is overheard to threaten Boyne. While the former Is overcome with drugged wine, Uoyno's second wife enters the room and stabs her faithless husband to tho heart Dyck la arrested on a charge of murder. He does not know If ho killed Boyne or not, he was so mud dled with the drugged wine. Sheila begs her mother to go to Dublin with her to help Dyck. Mrs. I-lyn opposes the Idea. CHAPTER VI Continued.) Sheila took the letter. It ran us follows : "Dearest Sister: "It Is eleven years since I wrote to you, and yet, though It may seem strange, there have not been eleven days In nil the time In which I have not wished you and Sheila were here. Sheila why, she Is a youns woman ! She's about the age you were when I left Ireland, and you were one of the most beautiful and charming creatures God ever gave life to. "My estate is neither north nor south, but farther south than north. In a tense it is always summer, but winter in my place would be like sum mer In Norway Just bltlngly fresh, happily alert. I'm writing In the sum mer now. I look out of the window and ace hundreds of acres of cotton Belds, with hundreds upon hundreds f negroes at work. I hear the songs they sing, faint echoes of them, as I write. Yes, my black folk do sing, because they are well treated. "Not that we haven't our troubles here. You can't administer thousands f acres, control hundreds of slaves, ami :un an estate like a piece of clockwork without creaks In the ma chinery. I've built it ull up out of next to nothing. I landed in this country with my little fortune of two thousand pounds. Tills estate Is worth ot least a quarter of a million now. I've an estate in Jamaica, too. I took It far a debt. What it'll be worth in (mother twenty years I don't know. I shan't be here to see. I'm not the man I was physically, and that's one of the reasons why I'm writing to you to-day. "I want you and Sheila to cotne here to me, to make my home yoilr home, to take control of my house hold, and to 'et mo see faces I love ubout me as the shadows Infold me. "This place, which I have called Moira, Is to be yours, or, rather, Sheila's. So, In any one, you will wart to come and see the home I have made tlds old colonial mansion, with Its Corinthian pillars and veranda, high steps, hard-wixnl lloors polished like a pan, every room hung in dim ity and chintz, and the smell of fruit and (lowers everywhere. You will want to see It nil, and you'll want to live here. I have placed to your credit In the Bank of Ireland a thousand pounds. That will bo the means of bringing you here you and l-'heiln to my door, to Moira. Let noth ing save death, prevent your com ing. As far as Sheila's eye can see north, Fouth, east and west the land will be hers when I'm gone. Dent est sister, sell nil things that are yours, and come to me. You'll not forget Ire land here. Whoever has breathed her air enn never forget the hills and dells, the valleys and bogs? the moun tains, with their mist of rain, the wild girls, with their tmro ankles, their red pettlfoats, and their beautiful, reckless nlr. None who has ever breathed the nir of Ireland can breathe In another land without memory of the nncleut harp of Ireland. Hut It Is as a mem mory deep, wonderful, and abiding, yet a memory. "Oh, believe rne, I speak of what I know! I have been away from Ire land for a long time, and I'm never going back, but I'll bring Ireland to me. Conio here, colleen, come to VIr glnln. Write to me, on the day you get this letter, that you're coming soon, because I feel the cords blndlnt me to my beloved ilelds growing thin ner. They'll soon crnck, but, please God, they won't crnck before you come here. NW with iy love to you and SbI-I f& IT WW ?pHT or my 31rgILBER.T PARKER. I la I stretch out my hand to you. Take it. All that It has worked for is yours; all that it wants Is you. "Your loving brother, "BIIYAN." As Sheila read, the tears started from her eyes; and at last she could read no longer, so her mother took tho letter front her and read the rest of it' nloud. When she hud finished, there was a silence n long warm si lence; then, nt last, Mrs. Llyn rose to her feet. "Sheila, when shall wo go?" With frightened eyes Sheila sprang up. "I said we must go to Dublin 1" she murmured. "Yes, we will go to Dublin, Sheila, but it will bo on our way to Uncle Brynn's home." Sheila caught her mother's hands. ".Mother," she said, nfter n mo ment of licsltation,"I must obey you!" "It Is, the one way, my child the one thing to do. Some one lu prison As Sheila Read, the Tears Started From Her Eyes. calls perhaps; some one far away who loves you, and needs us, calls that we know. Tell me. mil I not right? I ask you, where shall we go?" "1 o Irglnla, mother." The girl's head dropped, and her eyes lllled with tears. CHAPTER VII Dyck's Father Visits Him. In vain Dyck's lawyer, Will Mc- Conulck, urged him to deny absolute ly the killing of Errls Hoyne. Dyck would not do so. He hud, however, Immediately on being jailed, written to Uie government, telling of the pro jected invasion of Ireland by the I'rench tleet, and saying that It had come to him from a sure source. The government bad at once taken action. Regarding the deatli of Hoyne. the only living thing in his favor was that ills own sword-point was free from stain. Ills lawyer made the ut most of this, but to no avail. The Impression in the court was that both men hud been drinking; that they had qunrreled, and that without a duel being fought Dyck had killed his enemy. That there had been no duel wns clear from the fact that Krrls Boyne's sword was undrawn. The charge, however, on the Instigation of the attorney general, who was grateful for the information nbnut France, had been changed from murder to manslaughter, though It seemed clear that Hoyne had been ruthlessly killed by a man whom he had befriended. On one of the days of the trial, Dyck's father, bowed, morose, and obstinate, came to see him. Miles Calhoun looked nt ills son with dejection. Ills eyes wandered over the grimly furnished cell. Ills nose smelted the damp of it, and suddeiily the whole soul of him burst forth. "You don't give yourself u chance of escape, Dyck! You know what Irish Juries are. Why don't you tell the truth about tho quarrel? What's the good of keeping your mouth shut when there's ninny that would profit by your telling It? "Who would profit?" nsked Dyck. "Who would profit?" snarled the old man. "Well, you would profit first, for it might break the dark chain of circumstnntlnl evidence. Also your father would profit. I'd be saved shame, perhaps; I'd get relief from this disgrace. Oh, man, think of others besides yourself I" "Think of others I" said Dyck, and a queer smile lighted his haggard face. "I'd save myself If I honor- ably .could," The old man fumbled with a waist' cont button. Ills eyes blinked hard. "You don't see," he continued, "the one thing that's plain to my eyes, and It's this that your only chance of escape Is to tell the truth about the quarrel. If tho truth were told, what ever It Is, I believe It would ho to your credit I'll say that for you. If It was to your credit, even If they be lieve you guilty of killing Krrls Hoyne, they'd touch you lightly. Ah, In the name of the mother you loved, I nsk you to tell the truth abouf the quar rel 1 In the name of God " "Don't speak to mo like that," In terrupted Dyck, with emotion. "I've thought of nil those things. I hold my pence because because I hold my peace. To speak would be to hurt some one I Iovl aye, to hurt sonic one I love with all my soul." "And you won't speak to save me your father because you don't love me with all your soul! Is that It?" asked Miles Calhoun. "It's different It's different" "Ah, It's a woman I" "Never mind what It Is. I will not tell. There are things more shameful than deatli." "Yes," snarled the old man. "Itnth er than save yourself, you bring dishonor upon him who gave you birth." Dyck's face was submerged In color. "Father," said he, "on my honor 1 wouldn't hurt you If I could help It, but I'll not tell the, world of the qunr rel between that man nnd myself. My silence may hurt you, but It would hurt some one else far more If I told." "Hy God, I think you are some mad dreamer slipped out of the ancient fold! Do you know where you are? You're In Jail. If you're found guilty, you'll be sent to prison at least for the years that'll spoil the making of your life; nnd you do It because you think you'll spare somebody. Well, I ask you to spare me. We've been a rough race, we Calhouns; we've done mad, bad things, perhaps, but none has shamed us before the world none but you." "I have never shinned you. Miles Calhoun," replied his son sharply. "As the ancients said, alls volat pro prlls I will lly with my own wings. Come weal, come woe, come dark, come light, I have fixed my mind, nnd nothing shall change It. You loved my mother better than the rest of the world. You would have thought It no shame to have said so to your own father. Well, I say It to you I'll stand by what my conscience and my soul have dictated to me. You call me a dreamer. Let it be so. I'm Irish: I'm a Celt. I've drunk deep of all that Ireland means. All that's behind me Is my own, back to the shadowy kings of Ireland, who lost life and gave It because they believed in what they did. So will I. If I'm to walk the hills no more on the es tate where you are ma.-ter, let it be so. I have no fear; 1 want no favor. If it Is to be prison, then It shall be prison. If it Is to be shame, then let It be shame. These are days when men must suffer If they muke mis takes. Well, I will suffer, fearlessly if helplessly, but I will not break the oath which I have taken. And so I will not do It never never never I" Hut of one thing have you thought?" nsked his father. "You will not tell the cause of the quarrel, for the reason that you might hurt somebody. If you don't tell the cause. and you nre condemned, wou't that hurt somebody even more?" For a moment Dyck stood silent, absorbed. Ills face looked nlnched. "I Have Never Shamed You, Miles Calhoun." his whole appearance shriveled. Then, with deliberation, he said: "This Is not a matter of expedi ency, but of principle. My heart tells me what to do, and my heart has al ways been right." There was silence for u long time. At last the old man drew the cloak about his shoulders and turned to ward the door. "Walt a minute, fathor," said Dyck. "Don't go like that. You'd better not come and see me ngaln. If I'm con demned, go back to I'laymore; If Tin acquitted, go back to I'laymore. That's the place for you to be. You've got your own troubles there." "And you If you're set free?" "If I'm acquitted, I'll take to tho high sens till I'm cured." A moment later, without further words, Dyck was alone. lie heard tho door clung. lie sat for some time on tho edge of his bed, buried in dejection. I'res ently, however, the door opened. "A letter for you, sir," said tho JaUer. jj it The light of the cell una dim, but Dyck managed to read the. letter with, out great difficulty, us the writing was almost as precise us print. The sight of It caught his heart like n warm hand and pressed It. This wns the substnnco of the letter:' "My Dear Friend: "I have wanted to visit you In pris on, but my mother has forbidden It, and so, even If I could be let to enter, I must not disobey her. I have not read the papers giving an account of your trlnl. I only know you are charged with killing a bad man, noto rious In Dublin life, nnd that ninny think he got his just deserts In being killed. "I will not beJlevo that your fate Is. an evil one, that the Jaw will grind you between the mllls'lones of guilt and dishonor; hut If the law should call you guilty, I still will not believe. Far awny I will think of you, and believe In you, dear, masterful, mad man friend. Yes, you nre a madman, for Michael Clones told me faith, he loves you well ! thut you've been liv ing a gay life In Dublin since you came here, and that the man you are accused of killing wns In great part the cause of It. "I think 1 never saw my mother so troubled In spirit as she Is nt this time. Of course, she could not feel as I do about you. It Isn't that which makes her sad and haggard ; It Is that we are leaving Ireland behind. "Yes, she and I are saying good-by to Ireland. That's why I think she might have let "me sec you before we went ; but since It must not be, well, then, It must not. Hut we shnll meet again. In my soul I know that on the hills somewhere far off, as on the first day we met, we shall meet each other once more. Where are we go ing? Oh, very far I We nre going to my Uncle Hrynn Bryan Llyn, In Virginia. A letter has come from hlni urging us to make our home with him. You see, my friend " Then followed the story which Bryan Llyn had told her mother and herself, and she wrote of her mother's decision to go out to the new, great home which her uncle had made among the cotton fields of the South. When she had finished that part of the tale, she went on as follows: ' "We shall know your fate only through the letters that will follow us, but I will not believe In your bad luck. Listen to me why don't you come tn America also? Oh, think It over! Don't believe the worst will come. When they release you from prison, Innocent and acquitted, cross the ocean nnd sot up your tent under the Stnrs and Stripes. Think of It! Nearly all those men in America who fought under Washington and won were born In these Islands. They took with them to that far land the mem ory and love of these old homes. You and I would have fought for England and with the British- troops, because we detest revolution. Here, In Ire land, we have seen its evils; nnd yet If we had fought for the Union Jack beyond the mountains of Maine and In the lonely woods, we should, I be lieve, In the end have said that the freedom fought for by the American states was well won. "So keep this matter In your mind, as my mother and I will soon be gone. She would not let me come to you I think I have never seen her so dis turbed ns when I asked her and she forbade me to write to you ; but I dis obey her. Well, this is a sad busi ness. I know my mother hns suffered. I know her married life wns unhappy, 'ind that her husband my father died many n year ago, leaving n dark, trail of regret behind him; hut, you see, I never knew my fnther. That was all long ngo, and It Is n hundred times best forgotten, "Our ship sails for Virginia In three days, and I must go. I will keep looking back to the prison where lies, charged with an evil crime, of which he Is not guilty, n young man for whom I shall always carry tho spirit of good friendship. "Do not believe all will not go well. The thing to do Is to keep the courage of our hearts nnd the faith of our souls, and I hope I always shall. I believe In you, and, believing, I say good-by. 1 say farewell In tho great hope that somehow, somewhere, we shall help each other on the way of life. God be with you! "I am your friend, "SHEILA LLYN." "I'. S. I beg you to remember that America Is a good place for n young man to live In and succeed." Dyck read tho letter with u wonder ful slowness. lie realized that by happy accident It could be nothing elsi. Mrs. Llyn had been aide to keep from her daughter the fact that tho man who bad been killed In the tavern by the river was her father. Sheila's Ignorance must not be broken by himself. He hud done the right thing he had held his peace for the girl's sake, and he would hold it to the end. Slowly ho folded up the letter, pressed It to his lips, and put It In the pocket over his heart BOOK II CHAPTER VIII. Dyck Calhoun Enters the World Again. "Is It near the time?" asked Michael Clones of his friend, us they stood in front of tho prison. Ills companion, who wns seated on a stone, wrapped In dark-green cover ings, faded and worn, uud looking pinched with cold In tho dour Novem ber day, said, without lifting his head: "Seven minutes, an' he'll bo out, God bless him I" "And snve him and protect him I" said Michael. "lie deserved nunish. meat, no more .thun I did, and it's broke him. I've seen the Bray gather nt his temples, though he's only been In prison four years. He wns con demned to eight, but they've let him free. I don't know why. I'erhnps It was because of what he told the gov ernment nbout the French navy. I've seen the Joy of life sob Itself down to the sour earth. When I took hint the news of his father's dentil, nnd told bltn the creditors were swallowing what was left of I'laymore, what do you think he did?" Old Christopher Dognn smiled; bin1 eyes twinkled with n mirth which had more pnli than gaiety. "God love you, I know what he did. He flung out his bands nnd said, 'Let It go! It's nothing to me.' Michael, have I said true?" Michael nodded. "Almost his very words you've used, nnd he flung out his hands, us you said." "Aye, he'll be changed; hut they've kept the clothes he had when he went to prison and he'll come out In them, I'm thinking" "Ah, no!" Interrupted Mlchncl. "That can't be, for his clotlius was stole. Only a week ago he sent to me for a suit of my own. I wouldn't have him wear my clothes he n gentle man! It wasn't fitting. So I sent him a suit I bought from n shop, but he wouldn't have It. lie would leave prison a poor man, ns a peasant In peasant's clothes. So he wrote to me. Here Is the letter." He drew from his pocket n sheet of paper, nnd sprend it out. "See rcail It. Ah, well, never mind," he added, as old Christopher shook his head. "Never mind, I'll read It to youl" Thereupon he read the note, and ndded: "We'll see him of the Calhouns rlsin' high beyant poverty and misfortune some day." Old Christopher nodded. "I'm glad Miles Calhoun wns burled on the hilltop above I'laymore. He had his day; he lived his life. Things went wrong with him, and lie paid the price we all must pay for work Ill done." "There you're right, Christopher Dogan, and I remember the day the downfall began. It was when him that's now Lord Mallow, governor of Jnmalca, came to summon Calhoun to Dublin. Things were never the same after that ; but I well remember' one tnlk I bad with Miles Calhoun just be fore his death : 'Michael,' he said to me, 'my family have had many ups and downs, and some thnt' hear my name have been In prison before; this, but never for killing n man out of fair light.' 'One of your name mny be In prison, sir,' said I, 'but not for killing a man out of fair fight. If you believe ho did, there's no death bad enough for you 1' He was silent for n wlille; then nt last he whispered Mr. Dyck's name, and said to me: 'Tell htm thut as a Calhoun I love him, and ns Ids father I love him ten times more. For, look you, Michael, though we never ran together, but quarreled nnd took our own paths, yet we are both Calhouns, nnd my heart Is warm to him. If my son were a thousand times a criminal, neverthe less I would nche to tnke him by the hand.' " "Hush 1 Look nt the prison pate," said his companion nnd stood up. As the gates of the prison opened. the sun broke through the clouds nnd gnve u brilliant phase to the scene. Out of the gates there came slowly, yet firmly, dressed In peasant clothes, the stalwart but faded figure of Dyck Calhoun. Terribly changed he was. He had entered prison with the Hush upon his cheek, the tilt of young munhood in his eyes, with hair black and hands slender, nnd handsome. There was no look of youth In his face now. It wns the face of a middle-aged man from which the dew of youth had van ished, Into which life's storms had come and gone. Though the body was held erect, yet the, head wns thrust slightly forward, and the heavy eye brows were like n penthouse. The eyes were slightly feverish, and round the mouth there crept a smile, hulf- cynlcal, but a little happy. All fresh ness was gone from his hands. One hung at his side, listless, corded; the other doffed his hat In reply to the salute of his two humble friends. As the gates closed behind htm he looked gravely nt the two men, who were standing not a foot upart. There swept slowly Into his eyes, enlarging, brightening them, the glamor of the Celtic soul. Of all Ireland.' or nil who had ever known htm, these two were the only ones welcoming him Into the world again t Michael Clones, with his oval red face, big nose, steely eyes' and stead fast bearing, had in him the soul of great kings. Ills hat was sot firmly on his head. Ills knee breeches were neat, If coarse; ids stockings were clean. Ills feet were well, shod, his coat worn, and he bud still tho look that belongs to the well-to-do peas ant. He was a figure of courage and endurance. Dyck's hand went out to him und n warm smile crept to his Hps. "Mlclmel evcr-falthful Michael 1" A moisture cumo to Michuel's eyes. Ho did not speak us, with a look of gratitude, ho clasped tho hand Dyck offered hi in. l'resoiitly Dyck turned to old Chris topher with a kindly laugh. "Well, old friend I You, too, come to see the stng sot loose again? You're not many, that's sure." A grim, hnrd look came Into his face, but both hands went out nnd caught the old man's Phuulders affectionately, 'This Is no day for you to bo wnlting nt prison's gates, Christopher; but there uro two men who believe In me two In all the world. It Isn't the killing," he ndded nfter a moment's silence "It Un't the killing that hurts so. If it's true that I killed Errls Boyne, what hurts most is the reason why I killed him." "One way or another does it mnttM now?" asked Christopher gently. "It Is that you think nothing Rat ters since I've paid thu price, mini myself In shame, lost my friends and come out with not a penny left?" usked Dyck. "But yes," ho added with n smile, wry nnd twisted. "Yes, I have a little leftl" He drew from his pocket four smnll ineeos of gold, nnd gazed Ironically nt them In his palm. "Look nt them!" He held out his hand, so that the two men could See the little coins. "Those were taken from me when I entered prison. They've been In the hands of the head of tho Jail ever since. They give diem to me now all that's left of what I wns." "No, not all, sir," declnred Michael. "There's something left from I'Iny more there's ninety pounds, nnd it's In my pocket. It was got from the "Michael Ever-Faithful Michael I" sale of your sporting kit. There was the boat upon the lake, the gun and all kinds of riffraff stuff not sold with I'laymore." Dyck nodded nnd smiled. "Good MlchneJl"" Then he drew'hlmself up stiffly and blew In and out his breath ns If with the Joy of living. For four hnrd years he had been denied the free nlr of free men. Even when walking la the prison yard, on cold or fair days, when the nlr was like a knife or when it hud the sun of summer In It, it still had seemed to choke him. In prison he had read, thought and worked much. They had at least dona that for him. The attorney, general had given him freedom to work with his hnnds, and to slave In the work-, shop like one whose living depended on It. Some philanthropic official had started the Idea of a workshop, and the olllcinls had given the best of the prisoners a chance to learn trades and tnnku a little money before they went out into the world. Ail that Dyck had earned went to ptirchaso things he needed, and to hell) his fel low prisoners or their families. Where was he now? The gap be tween the old life of nonchalance, fri volity, fantasy und excitement was as grent ns thut between heaven and hell. Here he was, nfter four years of prison, walking the highway with two of the humblest creatures of Ire land, and yet, as his soul said, two of the best. Stalking along in thought, he sud denly became conscious that Michael and Christopher had fallen behind. He" turned round, "Come on. Come on with me." But the two shook their heads. "It's not fitting, you a Calhoun of I'laymore I" Christopher answered. "Well, then, listen to me," said Dyck, for he saw the men could not bear his new democracy. "I'm hun gry. In four years I haven't had a meal thnt came from the right place or went to the right spot. Is tho lit tle tavern, the Hen and Chicken, on the Llffeysldo, still going? I mean the place where the seamen und thu merchant-ship officers visit." Michael nodded. "Well, look you, Michael get you both there, and order me as gpod a meal of fish and ' chops nnd baked pudding ns can be bought for money. Aye, and I'll have a bottle of red French wine and you two will huva' what you like best. Mark me, we'll sit together thori?, for we're one of a kind. I'vo got to take to'a life that fits me, nn ex-Jailbird, n man that's been In prison for killing!" "There's the king's army," said Michael. "They make good officers In it." A strange, hnlf-soro smile came to Dyck's thin lips. "Mlclmel," said he, "give up these vain Illusions. I wns condenineu'foe killing u man not In fair light. I can'cH enter the army ns an olllcer, and yoti should know It. The king himself could set me up again; but the dis tance between him and nic-4s ten times round the world nnd back again 1 No,, my friends, whut Is In my mind now Is thnt I'm hungry. For four years I've eaten tho bread of prison, nnd It's soured my mouth nnd gulled my belly. Go you ,to thut Inn and make' ready a good meal." Dyck enlists at a quota man in tho British navy. (TO BB C0NTIMUKD4