Forfeits

Forfeits

By Nephi Anderson

The train stopped long enough at the switch to let Gale

Thompson alight, and then it rolled on down the valley. The

young man stood for a moment and looked about him. His

native village had not as yet attained to the importance of hav-

ing a station house, and there was now no life about the spur

nor the lone box-car which served for a shelter.

A little less than five years ago Gale had left home to seek

adventure and perchance fortune in the world; and now as he

swung up the dusty road it seemed to him that he had been away

a few months only. True, the trees were larger and a few new

houses had been built, but the village looked very much the

same as of old, as it lay embowered in orchards of peach and

cherry with the big, nearby Wasatch mountains rearing their

craggy tops into the blue sky to the east.

On nearing the village, Gale slackened his pace, seeming

in no great hurry to get home. No mother was awaiting him,

and he did not know how his father would receive a son who

had for many years paid little heed to wise counsel. His sister

Laura — a kind, sweet soul, as he remembered her — would be

quite a woman now. * * * And then, there was Mell. * *

For a year he had not heard from any of them. How would he

find them? What kind of reception would he get?

The afternoon was warm, and Gale stopped in the shade of

a big boxelder tree. He seated himself on the grass of the ditch

bank, and as he had done many times as a boy, he looked into

the clear irrigation stream which gurgled over the pebbles. He

was lingering now as then, but for other and less definite reasons.

This home-coming was not the result of sudden whim nor

repentant mood; it was, doubtless, just the homing instinct as-

serting itself. He did not want — he did not expect, any "fatted

calf" demonstration over his return. He wanted just to slip

quietly into his native town and as quietly readjust himself to

the old-time home life. Of course, he wanted to see the folks —

and then there was Mell * * *

Mell Andrews had been his boyhood girl-chum. She had

lived next door to them, and as far as he knew, she lived there

still. It was Mell who had faithfully kept him informed on

things at home, and between the lines of her letters, had uncon-

sciously confessed the condition of her heart to him. Over a

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year ago she had sent him her photograph. This, with the con-

fessions, and the memory of a sweet, childish face looking trust-

fully up to his, had been among the forces which had drawn

him home.

On the other side of the street had lived Dick Stevens, the

young man who had gone with him to see the world. He and

Dick had been close companions in many ups and downs until

some two years ago when Dick had returned home. Where was

he now? For a long time he had not heard from him.

Gale arose from the bank and walked on. He had not sent

word that he was coming, so his arrival would be a surprise to

all. Again he asked himself what would he find. Again he lin-

gered. * • * JJe realized he was somewhat prodigal. * *

How quiet the little town, was, how soothingly restful after the

roar and the turmoil of the big cities! He felt as if he would

like to stay at home a long time, yes, to settle down again — ■

with Mell! His heart glowed at that thought. Mell had al-

ways been different from other girls, and now how sharply she

stood out from those with whom he had recently associated!

He had neglected her shamefully. Well, he would make up for

all that now. Then he laughed softly at his own conceits. Mell

might be married and settled long ago. He had best not in-

dulge too much in fond dreams.

As Gale approached what was once the Stevens' vacant lot,

he saw a new house on it. On the front porch sat a man read-

ing a newspaper, which he lowered as Gale reached the gate.

The two men stood for a moment looking at each other, then

with mutual greetings, they met half way on the path.

"Dick, do you live here?" asked Gale.

"Sure — and so you've come home!" exclaimed the other.

"Why didn't you let us know? You've surprised us all!"

Gale only smiled and said, "How's everybody?"

They walked to the porch where, in the shade of the vines,

lay a young baby in a cradle. Gale glanced at it.

"Yours?" he asked.

"Yes; didn't you know?"

"I know nothing — haven't heard from any of you for a

year."

"Why, Gale — I married Laura!"

"What — my sister? Great guns! Shake again with your

brother-in-law. And this is the baby?" Gale gently lifted the

coverlet, and the child moved. Its sweet, tiny face lay upturned

— its eyes were wide open — but there was something unnatural-

ly strange about them. Gale looked steadily at the child for a

moment, then touched tenderly the soft, pink cheeks.

"It's a fine kid, Dick; but what's the matter with its eyes?"

"It's blind."

FORFEITS 521

"Blind! My heavens, Dick ,how's that?"

Dick turned away and did not answer. Gale's eyes were

riveted on this helpless bit of humanity — this tiny body contain-

ing an immortal spirit which had so recently come from the

realms of eternal light to a world of darkness. * * * And

this was his sister's child. Poor thing!

"Dick, Dick," said Gale, as he saw the father's emotion,

"I'm sorry * * * Gee, where's Laura?"

"She's gone to the store, and to do some other errands."

"Is she well?"

"Yes — that is, as well as can be expected."

"What do you mean, Dick?"

"Gale, are you as ignorant as I was? Are you yet such a

consummate ignoramus as I was?"

"I don't quite get you yet."

"Well, don't you go and get married. * * * You keep

away from the girls in this town * * * if I had only known!"

• • • "Is it as bad as that?" He began to understand

what the other was aiming at.

"Bad!" Dick found his tongue. "It's hell — hell for me and

for Laura, and it's the regions of darkness all her life for that

little one — that's what it is. * * * Sit down, Gale, I want

to talk now. Laura will not be home for some time yet, and

we two can speak plainly."

"Yes."

"We two thought we were smart when we left home to

„ee the world. We thought it was an act of courage to dabble

in forbidden things — and you know what happened in Chi-

cago. You haven't forgotten what followed our fall from pu-

rity, but the ultimate results of our sins neither you nor I ever

dreamed of. But I know now. * * * That little innocent

thing in the cradle is paying the debt— think of imposing such a

debt on such a being! When I look on that child and think

that though she may live to be a hundred, yet she will never see

the light of day, then, Gale, I suffer the torments of the damned."

Gale sat listening. He was overwhelmed with what had

come to him so suddenly. The calloused crust of indifference

with which he had smoothed over his past sins now seemed

to be in a state of upheaval, threatening to cast into chaotic

ruin all the fond hopes he had recently indulged in. He wished

he had never come home. Could he get away again without be-

ing seen by anyone else? How could he face his father and

Laura and Mell! They would read his terrible secret in his

tell-tale eves.

"I didn't know," continued Dick, "that my child might have

come into the world deformed, diseased, demented, or afflicted

in various other ways than blindness. I didn't know until it was

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too late. I was ignorant — the kind of ignorance that is a

breeder of sin with all its terrible consequences. And now,

Dick Thompson, you keep away from Mell."

"Mell— is, is she here?"

"Yes; Mell is still here; and a better, sweeter, more beauti-

ful girl you'll go a long way to find. And although she is keep-

ing company with Tom Mason, you remember him, yet I know

the reason she keeps putting him off is because she hopes you

will come back — and now you are here."

Gale seemed unable to make any statement of protest or

defense.

"That doctor we went to in Chicago was a fake," continued

Dick. He either didn't know better, or he lied to us when he

said we were cured. We were not, never can be — never for cer-

tain. The cursed thing is in the blood, and it may crop out to

afflict and kill, not only us, but our innocent offspring to the

third and the fourth generation. That's what I have learned."

Dick seemed to have talked himself out for the moment.

The afternoon sun was nearing the hills as Gale looked up to

them. How beautiful they were! Many a time he had roamed

over them after the cows. He remembered distinctly just where

die choicest choke-cherries grew on those hills, and where the

service-berries were biggest and best. Many a pailful he and

Mell had picked, and because these two had "stuck to their

bush" and had not run all over the hills, they had filled their

pails much sooner than the others. * * * The sun went

down, and the evening quiet settled over the village.

"Come in," said Dick. "I'll light the lamp. Laura will be

here any minute, and she will get supper."

"No; I'll not go in. I'll not stay. I believe it will be best

not to, at least, not now."

Footsteps were heard, and Dick looked out through the

vines. "Laura is coming," he said, "wait for her."

"No; she must not see me. How can I get away?"

Dick led the way through the back door. "Go down into the

orchard, and stay there until I come," he admonished. "I'll not

be long."

Gale hurried along the path under the trees until he was

out of sight of the house. He leaned against a big apple tree,

and looked up to the mountains, now glowing in the setting sun.

How those big mountains appealed to him ! After all, his home-

hunger was not to be appeased. * * * Might he not just

look once more on his father, his sister, and Mell? * * *

Better not, better not. * * *

Dick came walking to him. "It's all right," he declared,

"Laura did not see you. Now, don't be in such a hurry to leave.

You might as well — "

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"Dick—" and the speaker came close to his friend, "I've

decided to go away again without being seen, if I can. Prom-

ise me that you'll not tell anyone that I've been here. I've for-

feited my right to live among my people. I've forfeited what

might have been mine: home, friends, wife, children. » * *

you, Dick, so have you! * * * Forgive me, but

you're in it, and you have to stick. Do the right thing, Dick

— promise me, or, by the fates, I'll come back." * * *

"Gale, Gale!"

"It will be no easier for you than for me — no, not so easy;

but stick it out, Dick, stick it out. * * * Will you?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now, if you are my friend, never let Mell know

how near I have been to her, and how near she has been to

disaster. Let her think I have forgotten her — let her marry

Tom Mason and be happy. I shall never more come into her

life. Goodby."

Dick stood still in the darkening shadows of the trees and

watched Gale walk through the orchard, across the open lot, and

into the unfrequented back street. Along the stone wall which

bordered this street, the retreating figure moved as a dark bulk

against a sun-reddened surface. On he went to the end of the

wall, then disappeared in the shadows at the bend of the road.

Dick lingered. The darkness deepened. A light gleamed

from the kitchen window of his house, and a voice called. Then

slowly and hesitatingly he turned his steps homeward.