Taken Alive
by
CHAPTER I
SOMETHING BEFORE UNKNOWN
Clara Heyward was dressed in deep mourning, and it was evident that the emblems of bereavement were not worn merely in compliance with a social custom. Her face was pallid from grief, and her dark beautiful eyes were dim from much weeping. She sat in the little parlor of a cottage located in a large Californian city, and listened with apathetic expression as a young man pleaded for the greatest and most sacred gift that a woman can bestow. Ralph Brandt was a fine type of young vigorous manhood; and we might easily fancy that his strong, resolute face, now eloquent with deep feeling, was not one upon which a girl could look with indifference. Clara’s words, however, revealed the apparent hopelessness of his suit.
“It’s of no use, Ralph,” she said; “I’m in no mood for such thoughts.”
“You don’t believe in me; you don’t trust me,” he resumed sadly. “You think that because I was once wild, and even worse, that I’ll not be true to my promises and live an honest life. Have I not been honest when I knew that being so might cost me dear? Have I not told you of my past life and future purposes when I might have concealed almost everything?”
“It’s not that, Ralph. I do believe you are sincere; and if the dreadful thing which has broken me down with sorrow had not happened, all might have been as you wish. I should have quite as much confidence in a young man who, like you, has seen evil and turned resolutely away from it, as in one who didn’t know much about the world or himself either. What’s more, father–“
At the word “father” her listless manner vanished, and she gave way to passionate sobs. “His foul murder is always before me,” she wailed. “Oh, we were so happy! he was so kind, and made me his companion! I don’t see how I can live without him. I can’t think of love and marriage when I remember how he died, and that the villain who killed him is at large and unpunished. What right have I to forget this great wrong and to try to be happy? No, no! the knife that killed him pierced my heart; and it’s bleeding all the time. I’m not fit to be any man’s wife; and I will not bring my great sorrow into any man’s home.”
Brandt sprang up and paced the room for a few moments, his brow contracted in deep thought. Then, apparently coming to a decision, he sat down by his companion and took her cold, unresisting hand.
“My poor little girl,” he said, kindly, “you don’t half understand me yet. I love you all the more because you are heart-broken and pale with grief. That is the reason I have spoken so earnestly to- night. You will grieve yourself to death if left alone; and what good would your death do any one? It would spoil my life. Believe me, I would welcome you to my home with all your sorrow–all the more because of your sorrow; and I’d be so kind and patient that you’d begin to smile again some day. That’s what your father would wish if he could speak to you, and not that you should grieve away your life for what can’t be helped now. But I have a plan. It’s right in my line to capture such scoundrels as the man who murdered your father; and what’s more, I know the man, or rather I used to in old times. I’ve played many a game of euchre with him in which he cheated me out of money that I’d be glad to have now; and I’m satisfied that he does not know of any change in me. I was away on distant detective duty, you know, when your father was killed. I won’t ask you to go over the painful circumstances; I can learn them at the prison. I shall try to get permission to search out Bute, desperate and dangerous as he is–“