The Storyteiier

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXII, Issue 48, 1 December 1904, Page 23

The Storyteiier

HER FATHER'S GUARDIAN. - •> ♦-, . Mr. Baxton Miller was tftie wealthy owner of a steel plant in Nortncrn Illinois. It appeared to bei no trouble to him to accumulate dollars ; hut it did appear to the outside working world that Mr. Miller's ever-uicr easing wealth was accompanied by an equal increase of avarice and an unbearable tyranny over his employees. The more Uhey tii'd the more he exacted from them, while he invariably refused lo raise their wages. In fact, things had reached such a pitch that the men would bear it no longer, and the result was a general strike.

Things were in this unsettled state when one day a group of the strikers congregated outside their place of labor in no very peaceful frame of mind, judging from the expression of their faces. It was noon hour, and a very hot day in July.

Piominent among tne men was one Anthony Dwyer, a noteu desperado, for whom nothing was too daring. He was the centre of attraction just then, for he was in the act of telling his companions that he would do something desperate to end their troubles.

' To-day, my friends, to-day,' he said, ' not later than to-day,' and as though to add earnestness and determination to his threats, he disclosed the shining muzzle of a loaded revalver, which he had concealed in an inside pocket.

Look well at him, dear reader, as the demon of murder takes possession of his soul. See his haggard face and wandering eve. Watch him as he leaves the otheis and steals into his master's garden with a grim smile of satisfaction as he espies the object of his search, Mr. Baxtion Miller, amjon^ the flowers. That gentleman is giving instructions t,o his head gardener, utterly unconscious of the danger that lurks near him.

Dwyer, pleased with the situation, crouched behind the shrubbery to await a satislactory moment in which to do his cowardly deed.

It t-ame sooner than he expected. Mr Miller finished hi.-, instructions and walked of! to a more secluded part of the grounds, where he sought a ruUic teat, deep in thought.

' There he is ! Mhnssed Dwyer between' his teeth, as though communicating with an unseen companion. ' Doesn't he hide well Ins rascality ? Oh, how I hate him ! See, his sins are weighing him down. Now's my chance,' and with a devil isih chuckle he stole through the shrubs till he found himself close behind nis hated master. 1 1 ? s hand sin light his revolver and with an other fiendis<h glaie of tnumph was just about to pull the trigger, when a tiny girlish form sprang upon Miller's knee and broke the awful stillness with her ripplnolaughter. n

' I knew I would surprise you, papa,' sjie said, se+< - ling herself on his knee. ' I've been hunting you high up and low down. And now that I've found you I'm very tirdd and wooild just< like to stay here and rest.' ' You can rest here, darling, but I'm afraid papa will not be able to stay with you, for he has important work to attend to.'

' Oih, papa, you have always 'portant work to do. Don't you think that I am a little bit 'portant sometimes. Since mamma died I've only you, and you know, papa, I ran away from nursie just to talk with you. And now you won't stay with me,' and with a suppressed baby sigh she hid her curly head on his shoulder.

1 Now, Hetty, don't be unreasonable, child. I thought that all good little girls understood that theii papas had to work to make money. ' Work, indeed ' ' thought Dwyer, as he studied the contrast between father and child. ' You would be a darned siide better if you did have to work, you hardened scoundrel. How I would love to put* this bullet through you ; but the sight of that little angel unmans me. Heavens ' I feel as if I had no strength ieft ! Winy did she come here ait this minute 9 '

' But why must you have money, papa,' she was saying. ' Everybody isn't ridi and they can live just as well as we can.'

• Perhaps,' he replied absently. ' Sometimes I think it isn't worth the trouble. But then there is the glory of it.'

1 I don't know anything about glory,' said the little daughter, ' but I s'pose I will when I get big.' ' Yes, that's it, Hetty, that's it, dear,' amd he stroked her golden hair. ' When you get big, I can talt'c of these things to you, but now you are too young.' ' Yom may play with your dollies now, pet, or run after butterflies in the meadow while I go and arrange my business. Want a kiss ? All right. Now, goodbye.'

He took the garden path towards the .house, while Hetty, overjoyed at the permission to hunt- butterflies in the meadow, skipped ott in that direction, her large lace hat dangling by its strings from her neck. Jjwycr followed and Kept her within sight.

' Butterfies, butterf'ies, come when I call, High-a-fly, sky-a-lly, over the wall ; Yellow or ietl or purple or blue, Buttert'ies, butterf'ies, 1 will oafceh you.'

Over and ovier again she sang these lines with an air all her own, as she ran heedlessly along among the sweet-smelling clover. Presently a big yellow buttertly liu tiered just under her eyes, and dared her to follow him in his uncertain course.

• isn't he a beauty, 1 stie exclaimed, as she darted after it.

Furst on one flower, t/hen on another he alighted, but however quietly s,he tiptoed after him, he always eluded her little lingers. This and many similar, attempts and failures were experienced until at last the child, tired out and over come by tne oppressive heat, threw herself gladly in the long grass, and, ignorant of tJie fact that Dwyer was neai-by watching her, was soon fast asleep. Her sunbonnet, Wi'luc-h had sinpe come undone, .was va.ughfc [carelessly in one plump hand, while the other reposed under her rosy cheek. iShe looked what sihe was, a perfect pictuie ot lovely innocence. As Dwyer gazed down at her, strange emotions hiled his soul. Why did he so readily forsake that chance of taking his master's life? Had he not waited for it — longed for it '> It came, but he did not profit by it. Why did he not dodge the father's footsteps instead of coming after his innocent child "' lie did not mean to harm her. Then wny did he follow her ?

To nojie of these questions could Dwyer find an answer. Some unseen power had forced him to abandon his murderous intentions and keep watch over the little wanderer.

' After all, how could I harm the father of .that angel '.' ' he thought as he continued to look at» her. ITo kill the father would mean to leave the child an orphan, and suiely what would be more cruel Oh, no, my God ' ' he cried, and his strong frame shook with emiotion. ' I will not do it. Heaven help me to be strong. How sweetly and calmly she sleeps,' he thought ' all unconscious that she has saved her father's life, and me from becoming a murderer ! '

He shuddered as the awful meaning of the word became clear to him, and from the depths of his- soul rose a prayer for pardon which pierced the clouds and found favor with God.

He>tty turned her golden head, and a smile — Dwyer thought it a heavenly one— played around her dimpled mouth.

He moved cautiously away lest he should wake her, and si lung down at a short distance he continued to keep hi>s> vigil over her.

Befqre long, discordant sounds broke on the still air, and lending an attentive ear, Dwyer discovered tihat they were the voices of his enraged fellow-laborers, oommg no doubt in rnaadened desperation to seek redress of grievance at the master's house.

In an instant Dwyer was up, his blood boiling with anger as| the old rebellious feelings were awakened on hearing the shouts of his comrades. But one glance at the little form outstretched in sleeping beauty, and all lcbeluous thoughts were stilled within his breasrt.

On came the noisy band of strikers from their cottages. They were now in the meadow, ajnd close upon the spot where lay Hetty asleep and Dwyer concealed.

' Hello ! what's this ? shouted the foremost, as he caught sight of the child. 'I'll be Wowed if it isn t the boss's young 'un. WJiat d'ye say, boys, if we make short work of her to begin with,' and he advanced to the now awakened and terrified Hetty.

' Stand back, you infernal murderers,' yelled Dwyer, springing at them, like a tiger. ' Stand back, I say ! Touch not a hair of her head or it is with me you will ha\e to deal,' and he took the weeping baby in hi.s arnih.

' Now stand aside, and tell me what brought you heie ? '

His comrades looked at him and at one another, unable for the instant to give an explanation. Then one stepped out.

'We want what we have always wanted and what you want yourself— fair treatment. You told us thi; morning you were going to free us, and an hour after you had made yiour escape no one knew where, while the boss extorts more unbearable regulations. We won't stand it. We want justice.'

' Arid you will <ret it if you let me have my own way,' replied Dwyer, cooling down. ' Return to your homes, and if in the morning you are not satisfied with the outlook of things, you can follow your own course.

Can't you trust me, boys ? When I say a thing I'll do it i[ it is in the pov\ er of man at all. lkit I must have my own time and way Now go, and don't stand staling trtns little one to death.' They tinned without a word, for when Anthony Dwjcr spoke it was law. ' Please, si:, what i-> it all about 7 ' timidly askel Hetty, when the uti eating figures had disappea- ed.

'II is, deai, taut jour papa won't pay his men enough money i.ir the \\ ork they do lor him, and they aie angry with him.' 1 Angry wiiu my p.i^a ° Oh, they mustn't get angty with my papa. lie lias lots of money and lie will i>i.e some to these men. 1 know he v- ill.'

' Hut he won't. 'that's just what makes them angry. They ha\e asked him more than once.' ' Well, p'raps my papa didn't un'stantl. Sometimes he don't un'otand me either when he is thinking about 'portant business, you know. But if I talk to him about mamma, then lie always un'stands me and gives me whatever I ■ask.

' it makes papa cry when I talk about mamma. Hut he says he loves In.-, lit lie UeLty and would do anything for her, so h'po->e I ask him to gnc money to

those angiy men ' Dwyer could not have asked a better arrangement In fact, it- was just what he had in miixl. ''I hats what you must do, Miss Hetty, so besuie you tell >our papa that the angry men want money ' ' \cs, ye 1 -, I Know Papa has plenty of money It is 'poila-nt business, but I don't like it, "cause it makes men ansrry. Guess I'm hungry now,' she brok'* oft abruptly, looking at Dv.yei. 'Is it dinner nine yet ■' ' ' No, miss, not \et But we can get a bite to eat at my cottage over there, and then i will take you home. on will see my little daughter Mabc, she is just atxHit your m/l\ but not s-o nicely dressed, for

is poor ' I'm s<v ry she is poor But take me to her, won't you ? ' sine asked coaxingly And hand jii hand they went to the cottage.

Aftcir leaving his little daughter in t|hc|garden, Mr. Baxton Miller proceeded to ln^ prnatc odice where letters were lead and ansvvcicd, diflcrcnt business transactions attended to, and persons of nice or less importance seen and dismissed. An agreement with Ins men was proposed by them but rccened with contempt He was blind to his own interests, and trusting to hi-> immense wealth preferred to lemani obstinate, knowing that want and starvation must force the strikers to yield in the end

Closing and locking his ollioe dnoi, Jfe »t rolled /nice m.ore through the garden. There he met Mary, ' the nurse, seeking the lnissme; child. ' I uan't think where she is, sn,' she said in des-

' \ oiu will fn.fl her in the meadow, Alary , I told her she might hunt butterflies there lkit you had better bring her in, for 1 in afiaul theie is a storm threatening, do quickh, Mary The meadow was searched and ic-searohed in \ain Hetty was ,not there Largo drops of rain fell, forerunners of a nnghl> stoim Mr. Miller paced the ground m front of his house, trusting to see the familiar little figuie run to him from behind some tree. When, however, his ser\ants returned fiom a fruitless search bo was like one deranged.

' Keep on hunting, stoim or no storm,' he commanded, •my child must be tound. Go now, don't waste the precious minutes It may mean life or death to her. My Cod ' what rain ' And mv Hetty can't be found. Oh huiry, my brave men, lor her sake, 'or God's sake, hurry. Fi\e hundred dollars to the man who will hi ing her back to me '

They obeyed, despite the ranging storm, and left him alone.

' She was all I had to h\e for,' he cried, in real, heart-felti sorrow, as he paced his loom during the long, weary hours that iollovved. 'All 1 had and she ha-, been taken from me 9 My poor lit lie Hetty ' Merciful hea\en '' ha\e they stolen her troin me 9 ' he gasped, a-, threats he had lieaul Hashed sluddenly across his mmd. 'IGicat Cod ' \\hv are <mch deeds allowed 9 My child ' niv flesh and blood ' The image of her dead mother. Is .vhe to he thus lai\cn from me 9 Oh, no ' It cannot be Jo cannot be (Jood is good after all He knows how 1 love her, and what I have suffered for her sake. He wiil not allow harm to reach her.'

These and many such thoughts filled his now feverish brain. The hours sped on. The storm increased with the approach of night, and still no news reached him He threw himself into a chair and buiied his' face in his hand-*.

Pictures of his enraged workmen came up "before him. 'I heir homes, wives and ohildien lav exposed before his A troubled gaze, deprived of work, food and

money, ajid for the first time thoughts of how they 'were sufienng caused him some uneasiness.

' And all because of my stubbornness,' he reasoned. 'My God ! You are puni&hing me. I know it ! I feel it ! But I am sorry, Just God ! I repent ! I will make amends , only gi\e me back my child. I cannot live without her '

'i ne long hours of the night dragged slowly on. From one room into another, out into the grounds whcie the storm seemed to nrocK at his grief, anywhere went the stricken lather like a restless spirit. Daybreak brought him no consolation— no hope. He passed out to the garden once mose where the air was pure and refreshing after the night's storm. He turned to the oki rustic scat where he had last seen and talked to her.

He sat there for some time when approaching voices met his ears. His heart gave one bound. lie listened and looked. It was her voice chattering gaily. There she was, the darling, coming towards him, but at the head of Ins rebellious workmen. What can it mean ?

He knows very soon what it all means, for in less time than it takes to tell it, Hetty is in his arms and between kis.es and hugs is pouring out her little story. Antihony Dwyer is there, too, and in a rougher but perhaps more satisfactory manner, added that had it not bcem for the storm, he would have brought the child home the night before. As it was she passed the night in his cottage.

' Veil, papa, only tor hfm, p'r.apfc your Heity would really a,nd truly have been lost, or maybe killed.' ' Hush, dear,' said her father with a shudder, as he held her to him.

But 'deed, papa, I know it,' and she drew his ear close to her baby lips, to whisper the rest of her story. ' Won't you now, papa 9 ' she asked aloud, with a knowing little glance at Dwyer. 1 Yes, pet, I will.'

' Dwyer, you can tell yotir comrades that they can go to work as soo-n as they like. I agree to their terms. You yourself may come to my office in the afternoon to receive the five hundred dollars reward, which I offered to the Under of my little Hetty '— ' Uosary Magaxine.'