One hot afternoon the Major sat in his library. The doors were open and
a cool breeze, making the circuitous route of the passage ways, swept
through the room, bulging a newspaper which he held opened out in front
of him. He was scanning the headlines to catch the impulsive moods of
the world. The parlor was not far away, down the hall, and voices
reached him. And then there came the distressing hack, hack, of a hollow
cough. He put down the newspaper, got up, and slowly strode about the
room, not shaking with joviality as he walked. In the parlor the voices
were hushed, there was a long silence, and then came the hollow cough.
He sat down and again took up the newspaper, but the cough, hack, hack,
smote him like the recurrence of a distressing thought, and he crumpled
the paper and threw it upon the floor. Out in the yard a negro woman was
singing; far down the stream a steamboat whistled. And again came the
hollow cough. There was another long silence, and then he heard light
footsteps in the hall. A young woman halted at the door and stood
looking at him. Her face was pale and appeared thin, so eager was her
expression. She was slight and nervous.
"Well," he said. She smiled at him and said, "Well." Then she slowly
entered the room, and with a sigh took a seat near him. The cough from
the parlor was more distressful, and she looked at him, and in her eyes
was a beseeching sadness.
"Louise."
"Yes, sir."
"What did I tell you?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Don't say that, for you do know."
"You've told me so many things--"
"Yes, I know. But what did I tell you about Carl Pennington?"
"I don't know, sir."
"Yes you do. I told you that I didn't want him to come here. Didn't I?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then why is he here?"
"I met him and invited him to come."
"Ah, ha. But I don't want him here; don't want you to see him."
She sat looking at him as if she would study every line of his face. He
shoved his hands deep into his pockets and looked down. The cough came
again, and he looked at the girl. "You know the reason I don't want you
to see him. Don't you?"
"Yes, sir, and I know the reason why I do want to see him."
"The devil--pardon me," he quickly added, withdrawing his hands from his
pockets and bowing to her. She slightly inclined her head and smiled
sadly. He looked hard at her, striving to read her thoughts; and she was
so frail, her face was so thin and her eyes so wistful that she smote
him with pity. He reached over and took one of her hands, and
affectionately she gave him the other one. She tried to laugh. The cough
came again, and she took her hands away. He reached for them, but she
put them behind her. "No, not until I have told you," she said, and he
saw her lip tremble. "He was afraid to come in here to see you," she
went on, speaking with timid slowness. "He is so weak and sick that he
can't stand to be scolded, so I have come to--" She hesitated. He shoved
himself back and looked hard at her, and his eyebrows stuck out
fiercely.
"To ask me what?" His voice was dry and rasping. "What can you ask me?
To let him come here to see you? No, daughter. I can't permit that. And
I don't intend to be cruel when I say this. I am sorry for him, God
knows I deeply sympathize with him, but he must not hope to--"
"I was not going to ask you to let him come," she broke in. "I am going
to ask you to let me go--go with him."
"By the blood!" the Major exclaimed, jumping to his feet. "What do you
mean? Marry him?"
"Yes, sir," she quietly answered. He looked at her, frowning, his face
puffed, his brows jagged. And then appearing to master himself he sat
down and strove to take her hand, but she held it behind her. "My
daughter, I want to talk to you, not in anger, but with common sense. It
actually horrifies me to think of your marriage--I can't do it, that's
all. Why, the poor fellow can't live three months; he is dead on his
feet now. Listen at that cough. Louise, how can you think of marrying
him? Haven't you any judgment at all? Is it possible that you have
lost--but I won't scold you; I must reason with you. There is time
enough for you to marry, and the sympathetic fancy that you have for
that poor fellow will soon pass away. It must. You've got plenty of
chances. Jim Taylor--"
"Why do you speak of him, father?"
"I speak of him because he loves you--because he is as fine a young
fellow as walks the face of the earth."
"But, father, he is so big and strong that he doesn't need any one to
love him."
At this the Major appeared not to know whether to laugh or to frown.
But he did neither; he sat for a time with his hands on his knees,
looking wonderingly, almost stupidly at her; and then he said:
"Nonsense. Where did you pick up that preposterous idea? So strong that
he doesn't need love! Why, strength demands love, and to a big man the
love of a little woman--" She drew back from him as he leaned toward her
and he did not complete the sentence. Her impatience made him frown.
"Won't you let me reason with you?" he asked. "Won't you help me to
suppress all appearance of displeasure?"
"It is of no use," she replied.
"What is of no use? Reason?"
"Argument."
"What! Do you mean--"
"I mean that I am going to marry him."
In her eyes there was no appeal, no pleading, for the look that she gave
him was hard and determined. Harsh words flew to the Major's mind, and
he shook with the repression of them; but he was silent. He shoved his
hands into his pockets and she heard his keys rattling. He arose with a
deep sigh, and now, with his hands behind him, walked up and down the
room. Suddenly he faced about and stood looking down upon her, at the
rose in her hair.
"Louise, one night on a steamboat there was a rollicking dance. It was a
moonlight excursion. There was a splash and a cry that a woman had
fallen overboard. I leaped into the river, grasped her, held her head
above the stream, fighting the current. A boat was put out and we were
taken on board, and then by the light of a lantern I found that I had
saved the life of my own daughter. So, upon you, I have more than a
father's claim--the claim of gallantry, and this you cannot disregard,
and upon it I base my plea."
She looked up straight at him; her lips were half open, but she said
nothing.
"You don't seem to understand," he added, seeming to stiffen his
shoulders in resentment at the calmness with which she regarded him. "I
tell you that I waive the authority of a father and appeal to your
gratitude; I remind you that I saved your life--leaped into the cold
water and seized you, not knowing whose life I was striving to save at
the risk of losing my own. Isn't that worth some sort of return? Isn't
it worth even the sacrifice of a whim? Louise, don't look at me that
way. Is it possible that you don't grasp--" He hesitated and turned his
face toward the parlor whence came again the cough, hollow and
distressing. The sound died away, echoing down the hall, and a hen
clucked on the porch and a passage door slammed.
"Louise," he said, looking at her.
"Yes, sir."
"Do you catch--"
"I catch everything, father. It was noble of you to jump into the river
when you didn't know but that you might be drowned, and recognizing that
you risked your life, and feeling a deep gratitude, it is hard to repay
you with disobedience. Wait a moment, please. You must listen to me. It
is hard to repay you with disobedience, but it cannot be helped. You say
that Mr. Pennington is dying and I know that you speak the truth. He
knows that he is dying, and he appeals to me not to let him die
alone--not alone in words," she quickly added, "but with something
stronger than words, his helplessness, his despair. Other people have
appeared to shun him because he is dying, but--"
"Hold on," he broke in. "I deny that. No one has shunned him because he
is dying. Everybody is sorry for him, and you know that I would do
anything for him."
"Would you? Then let him die under this roof as my husband. Oh, look how
poor and thin he is, so helpless, and dying day by day, with no
relatives near him, with nothing in prospect but long nights of
suffering. Please don't tell me that I shan't take care of him, for I
feel that it is the strongest duty that will ever come to me. Listen how
he coughs. Doesn't it appeal to you? How can you refuse--how can you
remind me of the gratitude I owe you?"
Tears were streaming down her face. He bent over her, placed his hands
upon her cheeks and kissed her, but instantly he drew back with his
resentful stiffening of the shoulders.
"Louise, it can't be. No argument and no appeal can bring it about. It
makes me shudder to think of it. Really I can't understand it. The
situation to me is most unnatural. But I won't be harsh with you. But I
must say that I don't know where you get your stubbornness. No, I won't
be harsh. Let me tell you what I will agree to do. He may come to this
house and stay here until--may stay here and the best of care shall be
taken of him, and you may nurse him, but you must not bear his name.
Will you agree to this?"
She shook her head. She had wiped away her tears and her eyes were
strong and determined. "After conceding so much I don't see why you
should refuse the vital point," she said.
"I can tell you why, and I am afraid that I must."
"Don't be afraid; simply tell me."
"But, daughter, it would seem cruel."
"Not if I demand it."
"Then you do demand it? Well, you shall know. His father served a term
in the Louisiana penitentiary for forgery. And now you may ask why I
ever let him come into this house. I will tell you. He had been teaching
school here some time and I said nothing. One day during a rainstorm he
stopped at the gate. He was sick and I invited him to come in. After
that I could not find enough firmness to tell him not to come, he was so
pale and weak. I see now that it was a false sympathy. Do you understand
me? His father was a convict."
"Yes, I understand. He told me."
"By the blood on the Cross! Do you mean to say--Louise," he broke off,
gazing upon her, "your mind is unsettled. Yes, you are crazy, and, of
course, all your self-respect is gone. You needn't say a word, you are
crazy. You are--I don't know what you are, but I know what I am, and
now, after the uselessness of my appeal to your gratitude, I will assert
the authority of a father. You shall not marry him."
"And would you kill a dying man?" she quietly asked.
The question jolted him, and he shouted out: "What do you mean by such
nonsense? You know I wouldn't."
"Then I will marry him."
For a moment the Major's anger choked him. With many a dry rasp he
strove to speak, and just as he had made smoother a channel for his
words, he heard the hollow cough drawing nearer. He motioned toward a
door that opened in an opposite direction, and the girl, after
hesitating a moment, quickly stepped out upon a veranda that overlooked
the river. The Major turned his eyes toward the other door, and there
Pennington stood with a handkerchief tightly pressed to his mouth. For a
time they were silent, one strong and severe, the other tremulous and
almost spectral in the softened light.
"There is a chair, sir," said the Major, pointing.
"I thank you, sir; I don't care to sit down. I--I am very sorry that you
are compelled to look upon me as--as you do, sir. And it is all my
fault, I assure you, and I can't defend myself."
He dropped his handkerchief and looked down as if he were afraid to
stoop to pick it up. The Major stepped forward, caught up the
handkerchief, handed it to him and stepped back.
"Thank you, sir," Pennington said, bowing, and then, after a short
pause, he added: "I don't know what to say in explanation of--of myself.
But I should think, sir, that the strength of a man's love is a
sufficient defense of any weakness he may possess--I mean a sufficient
defense of any indiscretion that his love has led him to commit. This
situation stole upon me, and I was scarcely aware of its coming until it
was here. I didn't know how serious--" He coughed his words, and when he
became calmer, repeated his plea that love ought to excuse any weakness
in man. "Your daughter is an angel of mercy," he said. "When I found
myself dying as young as I was and as hopeful as I had been my soul
filled up with a bitter resentment against nature and God, but she drew
out the bitterness and instilled a sweetness and a prayer. And now to
take her from me would be to snatch away the prospect of that peaceful
life that lies beyond the grave. Sir, I heard you tell her that she was
crazy. If so, then may God bless all such insanity."
He pressed the handkerchief to his mouth, racking, struggling; and when
the convulsive agony had passed he smiled, and there in the shadow by
the door the light that crossed his face was ghastly, like a dim smear
of phosphorus. And now the Major's shoulders were not stiffened with
resentment; they were drooping with a pity that he could not conceal,
but his face was hard set, the expression of the mercy of one man for
another, but also the determination to protect a daughter and the good
name of an honored household.
"Mr. Pennington, I was never so sorry for any human being as I am for
you at this moment, but, sir, the real blessings of this life come
through justice and not through impulsive mercy. In thoughtless sympathy
a great wrong may lie, and out of a marriage with disease may arise a
generation of misery. We are largely responsible for the ailments of
those who are to follow us. The wise man looks to the future; the weak
man hugs the present. You say that my daughter is an angel of mercy. She
has ever been a sort of sister of charity. I confess that I have never
been able wholly to understand her. At times she has even puzzled her
mother, and a daughter is odd, indeed, when a mother cannot comprehend
her. I am striving to be gentle with you, but I must tell you that you
cannot marry her. I don't want to tell you to go, and yet it is better
that this interview should come to a close."
He bowed to Pennington and turned toward the veranda that overlooked the
river, but a supplicating voice called him back. "I wish to say," said
the consumptive, "that from your point of view you are right. But that
does not alter my position. You speak of the misery that arises from a
marriage with disease. That was very well put, but let me say, sir, that
I believe that I am growing stronger. Sometimes I have thought that I
had consumption, but in my saner moments I know that I have not. I can
see an improvement from day to day. Several days ago I couldn't help
coughing, but now at times I can suppress it. I am growing stronger."
"Sir," exclaimed the Major, "if you were as strong as a lion you should
not marry her. Good day."