An Arkansas Planter | Page 5

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