An Arkansas Planter | Page 4

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