By Sanction of Law/Chapter 21
It was far into the morning of the following day when Lida opened her eyes, following a sleep with pleasant dreams. As she awoke the sun was streaming into the room from high in the heavens. For a brief spell she surrendered herself to the luxury of being at home and in her own bed, sending her thoughts northward to Bennet. As she built her air castles of romance an intense longing to see her lover gripped her.
Picturing scene after scene in which the spirit of Bennet was present, she began to realize how difficult it would be to break the news of her engagement to her father. Long, long she argued with herself that her case was different, that Bennet was no different from anyone else except as his character and personality stood out above and beyond that of any other man she had ever met. She contrasted Bennet with the people of colored blood with whom she had come in contact during her life but could see nothing in him that was like them. He was as far removed from the plantation hand type of her father's lands and those of their neighbors as she was. After becoming hopelessly involved in speculations for a time she swept all these aside with the words:
"I don't care. I love him. He's all the world to me. Come what will my heart and life are his."
With that decision she arose, threw about her a dressing robe and wrote him a letter full of her heart.
"Dearest One:"—she wrote. "It is morning and I am at home. How good it seems to be again with those associations and friends who were yours from childhood. Everything seems the same. The people are just as hospitable, just as homey, just as loving. Life is sweet to me. Sweeter to me since I know I have the love of the best man in the world and my love is his. Just think what a difference a year makes in one's experience. A year ago this time I was but a girl. Now I have seen some of the world, have known some bitternesses, much joy and now know what love is. It is so different from what I used to imagine.
I can now understand the love that Christ gave to the world. For you have awakened in me such a deep love that I reverence the world for it. My love for you seems to make me see the world in such a different light that I see good in everything. Even the twigs of white oak in the yard as they sway in the breeze seem to whisper of love. If my love for you can make the world seem as it does to me, how wonderful must be that love which God gives to humanity. I seem to ask nothing of the world but your love; seem to want nothing but to look up into the sky and to know without seeing the words written there that I have your love and as you love me so does the Great God.
I have not yet told Daddy of my love for you; that I have found the man of my heart. I shall do so today. I pray God to give me strength for the ordeal. I know it will be an ordeal but I shall be brave, Dear, for your sake—for the sake of our love. He perhaps won't see it as I do, but he loves me and loving me I hope to convince him. When I go to him I shall have your hand in mine, in thought, and that shall cheer me along.
Since knowing you I have learned how blind prejudice wrongs many. It is unChristian, unholy. It has spoiled the whole of Christian living in this land of ours. Oh, I have learned a lot since knowing you, Dear. Prejudice has made a mockery of religion. What a farce religion has come to be because of the spectre prejudice has built up among us. In what a poor light we of this land must stand before the eyes of the world! In what a poor light we must stand before the poor untutored colored people who are our servants. What an example we set for them!
I shall be different from this on, thanks to the love you have awakened in me and some day perhaps all this land will be different. Then right will triumph and justice prevail, as they do not now. I anticipate a storm when I give the news to Daddy. Pray for me and with me, Dear, that I may have strength and success.
Remember that wherever you go, wherever you are, night and day, my heart is with you, my hopes are in you. Living or dead I am yours and always will be.
Well, Dear, it is nearly noon and I must be dressing. Give me your heart's love always and I shall ask no more.
The letter finished Lida rang for her maid and after her bath was soon dressed. Her father was waiting on the veranda when she appeared.
"Hello, Daddy," she greeted him effusively as she swept down on him, placing both arms about his neck as she kissed him. His arms clasped her long and tenderly as she sat on the arm of his wide rocker.
"Are you tired, after last night?" he asked, tenderly.
"Oh, no, Daddy. It was wonderful, wasn't it?"
"We're all glad to have you back with us," he said tenderly. "Even the blacks. They had a celebration themselves after you retired."
"It's good to be loved so well, isn't it, Daddy?"
"Yes, my child. Love of your friends, love of your neighbors and love of your servants, make life worth while. Now that you're back I suppose someone else will be claiming your love, Eh, Child?"
"I don't know, Daddy."
"I shall be a jealous and lonely old father, when that time comes."
"You won't need to be for whoever loves me must love you."
"Yes, but I may not love him, for he will be taking the jewel of an old man's heart."
"Sh-s-s-sh-sh." She warned, a finger on his lips. "Don't talk that way. Daddy will always be daddy to me."
"I'd like to see you well married and settled, Lida, before long. I'm getting old now. My days are few before I shall be called to join those now under the sycamore. I want to see you married and in a home of your own before I go.—There are several good boys about here, sons of good neighbors. It would be nice if you could find one of them satisfactory.
"Who, for instance?"
"Well, there's Old John Marley's son, Little Joe." Lida remained silent as the Colonel named over the young men he had in mind. "There's George Danielson, James Ferdick, John Knott. All sons of good men. Young men who are steady and native."
"Well, I don't care for any of them. They're all too stodgy. Besides Little Joe may be like his father. Imagine me the wife of a couple of hundred pounds of grease. Just fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh, imagine it," she mimicked. At the picture conjured up by the mimickry both laughed.
"Well," continued her father, when their laughter ceased, "Old John and I have been neighbors for years and years and his place adjoins mine. He comes from good stock, too. I understand Little Joe thinks a heap of you, too."
"It won't do any good, Daddy. I don't want any of them."
Colonel Lauriston detected the wistful tone in Lida's voice. He studied his daughter shrewdly. She blushed under his scrutiny.
"Ah," he said as she averted her face. "You've found someone while at school. Eh, I thought that would happen. Well, he'll have to prove himself to me."
"Oh, he can do that," she championed in brave admission. "You won't like him though, and I'm sorry for that because I'm going to marry him."
"Whether I will it or not? Would you defy your father? The father who nursed you like a mother from a little tot to now; who's been all and all to you. No! Lida, child, you'll not do that."
"You'll have to give your consent, then. For I'm pledged to him and he to me."
"Who is he?"
"Will you consent if I tell you?" she bargained.
"I want to know first," he nodded negatively.
"His name is Truman Bennet."
"Bennet, Bennet—Bennet? One of the Abbeville Bennets?" he queried.
"Oh, no. He's not a southerner at all."
"Who is he then? I must know.—What does he look like?—What are his prospects in life? A father must know these things to know if it is safe to trust the life of his child with the man."
"Why not let me be the judge and trust to me?" argued Lida.
"You're but a child yet. Only a girl. I must protect you."
"Did you think that way when you and mother eloped?"
"That was different. We lived in adjoining counties."
"You married the girl you loved. She married the man she loved. I've often heard you say neither your parents nor hers were pleased."
"Your case is different," he parried.
"Yes, the case of every child is different from that of the parent. You won't like my choice. I know you won't. Yet I came all the way back here to tell you."
"If he's manly and upright I'll like him, perhaps; if he treats you right and is worthy of you."
"He's more than manly and upright. He is one man in a thousand, Daddy, and I'd go to the ends of the earth with him and for him."
"Even forsaking me?" he queried.
"Even forsaking you. My love would not be true otherwise—and it is true—as true as life," she said solemnly—so solemnly that Colonel Lauriston was convinced and bowed his head. He remained with his head on his chest for several minutes while Lida stroked his hair tenderly as if to ward off the blow her next words would give.
"You won't like him, Daddy, and I'm sorry—so sorry."
"Why won't I like him? Why are you so sure?" He gripped her hand fiercely, not knowing what to anticipate.
Lida stood facing him. He also arose and towered in front of her, awaiting her answer, his eyes snapping and his nostrils dilating in excitement. In this crisis Lida did not flinch or wince. She looked straight into his eyes, the woman in her coming to the fore. There was tenderness in her eyes and face, yet determination. Colonel Lauriston was over matched in this. He slowly sank back into his chair, awaiting her answer.
"You won't like him," Lida pronounced the words slowly and with hesitation, "because—because he is not of my, not of our blood. He has colored blood in him."
For a moment Colonel Lauriston was stricken dumb with the shock of the news. His tongue seemed paralyzed. He looked up at his daughter, his face wildly distorted and agonized, the flesh sagging in wretched lines, as the import of the news came to him. His hands trembled as with palsy when they reached to grasp those of his daughter.
"You can't mean that, child. You're joking.—It's a poor joke, though, Lida—that's a ghastly joke."
"But, Daddy, it's no joke. I'm in earnest."
"I forbid it." The Colonel had mastered himself again. He had now risen from his chair, rage consuming him. "I forbid it," he shouted. "I'll disown you.—I'll kill you first.—It shan't be. My God! It shan't be."
In the face of this crisis Lida was calmness personified. She faced her father's rage and tempestuous outburst with surprising assurance. Colonel Lauriston in his tempest strode from one end of the veranda to the other. Muttering and cursing bitterly between threats.
"To think that a Lauriston should ever come to this. To bring this disgrace on my family—my name. It shall never be—how did you ever meet this man?—where did you first meet him?—though you be of my blood if you ever do such a thing I'll disinherit you—I'll cut you off—put you out. A villain to steal the heart of my innocent daughter. Oh, why did I ever send you away from me? Why didn't I keep you at my side and under my own eyes. Woe—woe is me. I'm truly cursed."
"But Daddy, it's no disgrace to love, if one loves truly."
"Shut up," he commanded in shouting tones. He had never before used such a tone to his daughter. She flinched under its volume and shrank away, resolution still written on her face.
"You talk of love.—You don't know the meaning of the word. I'll not let you throw yourself away."
There was calm determination of a fixed purpose in the entire attitude of the girl and Colonel Lauriston realized that it was the family will pitted against his and that this will would not be broken. It was now a battle of will powers and Colonel Lauriston knew that no argument or persuasion would turn the girl from her purpose. Knowing this his rage began to mount again and as it mounted he began to rave in such violently blasphemous language that Lida was forced to close her ears. He cursed God, man, devil and all the universe in his desperation, in the impotency of his rage. After half an hour he seemed to have exhausted himself and the storm that wracked him was spent. Lida had made no attempt either to halt him or to leave for her room. For some minutes after Colonel Lauriston ceased to rave he still walked the veranda intermittently throwing back his head and shaking it much as an angry bull does when in a rage. Finally he turned and entered the house leaving the girl puzzled, alone on the veranda. As he left her, Lida sank into the chair he had vacated, bowing her head on her arms in prayer.
It is characteristic of great simple souls that when in distress they turn to prayer. It was so with Lida. Lacking the comforting council of a mother her only consolation was in prayer. Tears of sorrow trickled slowly between her closed lids. Her mind tried to frame a prayer of her own but the only words that came to her lips were those of the Lord's prayer. These she murmured with pathetic tenderness as a lonely feeling enveloped her. "Forgive us our trespasses," she murmured, "as we forgive those who trespass against us." As she continued to the end of the prayer her soul seemed to take cheer and her depression departed. As depression disappeared the vision of her lover filled her mind and long she remained in the chair, her head bowed thinking of Bennet and wondering where he was.
Finally she arose and went to her room determined to write telling Bennet of the storm she was facing. "I don't mind the storm, Dear, she wrote. I live for you and I know that the Good God above will bring our love to a happy ending. I am suffering so, Truman, Dear. Suffering for you," she continued pathetically. "Suffering for my father who has taken it so heavily. If he only knew you as I know you and as your friends know you! I fear he will be hard to win over. I don't know what will be the end, but this I know. I love you—love you—and always will.
"I see things so differently now. We are all of one blood. Particularly are you and I of one blood for you are more white than otherwise. I have learned that nationality matters not where character and culture and heart have sway. We are a benighted people down here. Blinded by the prejudice of years of slavery and selfishness; clinging to the tenacles of a past age and condition while all the rest of the world is moving along.
"Well, Dear, I must close now. I hear my father still pacing the floor below and it is almost three o'clock. I shall try to sleep for I know tomorrow will be a hard day for me. I shall dream of you, however, and the time when we shall be together. I am so lonesome, Truman—lonesome for you. I would ask you to come to me so that we two could fight and master the situation together, I am so weak! But I know what a danger that would be for you and so I must bear it alone. I shall be brave for your sake, though, and our love shall carry us on."
She signed, sealed and closed the letter, then without calling for her maid, whom she had dismissed long ago, she prepared for bed. Daylight was streaking across the southern sky, however, before she was able to close her eyes. It was far toward mid-day when she awoke with a start, conscious even before she opened her eyes that someone was in her room. She slowly opened her eyes to look into the fiery orbs of her father. He had finished reading her letter of the night before. Her face flushed in anger at the intrusion and the discourtesy of the act of opening the letter, even though the act was performed by her father.
For several moments the two stood gazing at each other, the father's look being one of menace and threat, the girl's that of anger. Suddenly Colonel Lauriston's face became so distorted with rage that he seemed another man. He stepped to the bed. Lida did not flinch or avert her gaze, though believing, in his madness, he was about to do her harm. She was the first to speak.
"Daddy," she said, "I would never have believed a Lauriston capable of the ungentlemanliness of opening another's letters.—Give me my letter."
Colonel Lauriston stared so wildly at the girl that she began to believe he was out of his mind.
"Give me my letter, Daddy, please."
"No!" he thundered with such vehemence that the vibration of his voice seemed to shake the wall. His face was now that of a demon. He leaned closer and closer to the girl. Her eyes never left his. He raised his hands while his eyes fixed themselves on the pale pink whiteness of her lace bound throat. His fingers moved spasmodically. Lida recalled his threat to kill.
"I've a mind to kill you—choke you to death—you—you—you—ungrateful child. I—I—I—will kill you."
He bent closer to the pillow on which Lida's head was resting. Suddenly just as he was about to lay hands on her a medallion of Lida's mother, revealed itself from beneath the enfolding lace, due to her heaving breast just as wild hands were about to clutch the throat of the girl.
Colonel Lauriston's madness turned to an expression of horror. With a cry as of great pain he snatched the medallion from about the girl's neck, snapping the ribbon that held it and strode from the room, crying, "Oh, God! that I should live to see this day." He bore the crumpled letter with him. "Oh, God, I'm mad—I'm mad! Cursed and mad!"
As the door closed behind him Lida leaped from the bed.