Oliver Pickersgill Senior turned his swivel-chair about, bit hard on
the end of his cigar, and stared at his only son.
"What's that?" he said abruptly, "Say that again."
Oliver Junior winced, not so much at the words as at his father's
face.
"I want to marry Ruth Lannithorne," he repeated steadily.
There was a silence. The elder Pickersgill looked at his son long and
hard from under lowered brows. Oliver had never seen his father look
at him like that before: as if he were a rank outsider, some detached
person whose doings were to be scrutinized coldly and critically, and
judged on their merits. It is a hard hour for a beloved child when he
first sees that look in {24} heretofore indulgent parental eyes. Young
Oliver felt a weight at his heart, but he sat the straighter, and did
not flinch before the appraising glance.
"So you want to marry Peter Lannithorne's daughter, do you? Well, now,
what is there in the idea of marrying a jail-bird's child that you
find especially attractive?"
"Of course I might say that I've seen something of business men in
this town, Ross, say, and Worcester, and Jim Stone, and that, if it
came to a choice between their methods and Lannithorne's, his were the
squarer, for he settled up, and is paying the price besides. But I
don't know that there's any use saying that. I don't want to marry any
of their daughters and you wouldn't want me to. You know what Ruth
Lannithorne is as well as I do. If there's a girl in town that's {25}
finer-grained, or smarter, or prettier, I'd like to have you point her
out! And she has a sense of honor like a man's. I don't know another
girl like her in that. She knows what's fair," said the young man.
Mr. Pickersgill's face relaxed a little. Oliver was making a good
argument with no mushiness about it, and he had a long-settled habit
of appreciating Ollie's arguments.
"She knows what's fair, does she? Then what does she say about
marrying you?"
"She says she won't marry anybody who doesn't respect her father as
she does!"
At this the parent grinned a little, grimly it is true, but
appreciatively. He looked past Oliver's handsome, boyish head, out of
the window, and was silent for a time. When he spoke, it was gravely,
not angrily.
{26}
"Oliver, you're young. The things I'm as sure of as two and two, you
don't yet believe at all. Probably you won't believe 'em if I put them
to you, but it's up to me to do it. Understand, I'm not getting angry
and doing the heavy father over this. I'm just telling you how some
things are in this world,--facts, like gravitation and atmospheric
pressure. Ruth Lannithorne is a good girl, I don't doubt. This world
is chuck full of good girls. It makes some difference which one of 'em
you marry, but not nearly so much difference as you think it does.
What matters, from forty on, for the rest of your life, is the kind of
inheritance you've given your children. You don't know it yet, but the
thing that's laid on men and women to do is to give their children as
good an inheritance as they can. Take it from me that this {27} is
gospel truth, can't you? Your mother and I have done the best we can
for you and your sisters. You come from good stock, and by that I mean
honest blood. You've got to pass it on untainted. Now--hold on!" he
held up a warning hand as Oliver was about to interrupt hotly. "Wait
till I'm through--and then think it over. I'm not saying that Peter
Lannithorne's blood is n't as good as much that passes for untainted,
or that Ruth isn't a fine girl. I'm only telling you this: when first
you look into your son's face, every failing of your own will rise up
to haunt you because you will wish for nothing on God's earth so much
as that that boy shall have a fair show in life and be a better man
than you. You will thank Heaven for every good thing you know of in
your blood and in your wife's, and you will regret every {28}
meanness, every weakness, that he may inherit, more than you knew it
was in you to regret anything. Do you suppose when that hour comes to
you that you'll want to remember his grandfather was a convict? How
will you face that down?"
Young Oliver's face was pale. He had never thought of things like
this. He made no response for a while. At last he asked,--
"What kind of a man is Peter Lannithorne?"
"Eh? What kind of--? Oh, well, as men go, there have been worse ones.
You know how he came to get sent up. He speculated, and he borrowed
some of another man's money without asking, for twenty-four hours, to
protect his speculation. He didn't lose it, either! There's a point
where his case differs from most. He pulled the thing {29} off and
made enough to keep his family going in decent comfort, and he paid
the other money back; but they concluded to make an example of him, so
they sent him up. It was just, yes, and he said so himself. At the
same time there are a great many more dishonest men out of prison than
Peter Lannithorne, though he is in it. I meet 'em every day, and I
ought to know. But that's not the point. As you said yourself, you
don't want to marry their daughters. Heaven forbid that you should!
You want to marry his daughter. And he was weak. He was tempted and
fell, and got found out. He is a convict, and the taint sticks. The
Lord knows why the stain of unsuccessful dishonesty should stick
longer than the stain of successful dishonesty. I don't. But we know
it does. That is the way things are. Why not marry where there is no
taint?"
{30}
"Father--?"
"Yes, Ollie."
"Father, see here. He was weak and gave way--_once_! Are there any men
in the world who have n't given way at least _once_ about something or
other?--are there, father?"
There was a note of anguish in the boy's voice. Perhaps he was being
pushed too far. Oliver Pickersgill Senior cleared his throat, paused,
and at last answered somberly,--
"God knows, Ollie. I don't. I won't say there are."
"Well, then--"
"See here!" his father interrupted sharply. "Of course I see your
argument. I won't meet it. I shan't try. It doesn't change my mind
even if it is a good argument. We'll never get anywhere, arguing along
those lines. I'll propose something else. Suppose {31} you go ask
Peter Lannithorne whether you shall marry his daughter or not. Yes,
ask him. He knows what's what as well as the next man. Ask Peter
Lannithorne what a man wants in the family of the woman he marries."
There was a note of finality in the older man's voice. Ollie
recognized it drearily. All roads led to Lannithorne, it seemed. He
rose, oppressed with the sense that henceforward life was going to be
full of unforeseen problems; that things which, from afar, looked
simple, and easy, and happy, were going to prove quite otherwise. Mrs.
Lannithorne had angered rather than frightened him, and he had held
his own with her, but this was his very own father who was piling the
load on his shoulders and filling his heart with terror of the future.
What was it, after all, this adventure of the married life {32}
whereof these seasoned travelers spoke so dubiously? Could it really
be that it was not the divine thing it seemed when he and Ruth looked
into each other's eyes?
He crossed the floor dejectedly, with the step of an older man, but at
the door he shook himself and looked back.
"Say, dad!"
"Yes, Ollie."
"Everybody is so terribly depressing about this thing, it almost
scares me. Aren't there really any happy times for married people,
ever? You and Mrs. Lannithorne make me feel there are n't; but somehow
I have a hunch that Ruth and I know best! Own up now! Are you and
mother miserable? You never looked it!"
His father surveyed him with an expression too wistful to be
complacent. {33} Ah, those broad young shoulders that must be fitted
to the yoke! Yet for what other end was their strength given them?
Each man must take his turn.
"It's not a soft snap. I don't know anything worth while that is. But
there are compensations. You'll see what some of them are when your
boys begin to grow up."