By Sanction of Law/Chapter 28
The rural south retires with the chickens and as darkness came on Mrs. Gorton prepared the guest chamber of her little home and her youngest son, a stripling of twenty years showed Bennet to his room. The others of her family were either married or off in turpentine camps—till harvest time. "There was a time, when our family had servants too, like the Lauristons," he explained as if apologizing, "but that was long ago. Then we could have shown you such courtesies as the South used to offer its guests."
"Oh, that's all right. I'm glad to get a place to sleep as cosy as this, and I know my dreams will be pleasant with the scent of roses blowing on me during the night. Good night." He grasped the outstretched hand, in a hearty grip. He liked this family of plain people.
It was far in the night, however, before sleep came to his eyes. He lay looking through the open window into the starry sky thinking of Lida and what their love had brought them. He wondered what suffering she had endured and regretted that they loved. With such thoughts in his mind his eyes closed on dreams that were fitful as well as troublesome. The sun was hours high the next morning when he opened his eyes. As he came into a realization of where he was, across the field adjoining the yard there floated the guiding voice of a plowman turning furrows in a corn field. "Gee!Haw!Whoa!Haw." He looked in the direction of the sound and saw a man behind a plow, driving a team of horses in a field of head high corn, the reins from the team! thrown over the man's head which was beneath the widest-brimmed straw hat Bennet had ever seen. The smell of the freshly plowed earth, the green blades of corn and the general brightness of the air filled Bennet with sudden resolution. He sprang from his bed, hurried his toilet and was soon in the yard behind the rose trellis.
Not seeing Mrs. Gorton or her son he started for the road, determined to walk about this country a little before going to the Lauristons. The earth, moistened with the dews of night, was just being dried by the sun. The leaves under the shade of the trees were still damp. Vigor and vitalizing joy made Bennet stride along with a heart full of strength and a smile on his face. He walked along the edges of the growing corn and fairly reveled in the verdure that spread out before him.
He was just about to retrace his steps so as to be prepared for the noon meal when he turned into a cross road and noted a woman approaching, her head down. She was walking slowly as if in deep meditation. He determined to get a glimpse of her face to see if she bore out the traditions of the south. The woman approached to within twenty feet of him before she realized that she was meeting someone. She raised her head and Bennet looked into the eyes of Lida.
The girl was changed almost beyond recognition. There were great dark circles about her eyes which had become hollowed and sunken. The pink of her cheeks was fading. She looked up, halted for a moment as if unable to believe her eyes then stumbled, half fell toward him. He sprang to her in time to prevent her falling.
"My Darling," he murmured.
"Truman—Truman—Truman—" was all she could say. "God has answered my prayer."
Bennet lifted her tenderly and folded her to his shoulder where she lay her head, weeping silently. Bennet was too moved for words. He could only press his cheek to hers while his arms held her tightly till her spell of weeping exhausted itself. When her tears ceased to flow and her heart stilled its flutter, she looked up shyly into his face. Her arms folded tenderly about his shoulder and their lips met.
"How I've prayed and hoped you'd come, Dear. I have wanted you—needed you so," she sighed.
"I wrote you several times after getting your last letter. Not hearing from you I wondered what had happened and came down to see," was his simple explanation.
"Take me away, Truman. Take me away." Lida's eyes filled again as she spoke.
"After I've seen your father," said Bennet.
"Don't do that, please. He'll kill you.—He's said so. Please don't think of that," Lida begged in alarm.
"He got one of my letters asking you to come.—He's placed a guard over me—he wants me to marry someone else—don't you see?—don't you see it can't be that way," she cried wringing her hands.
Bennet soothed her but held to his determination. As she yielded she said in explanation:
"I have waited so long for you to come—I have wanted you so much and I need you so much I dread any further parting."
He embraced her tenderly while saying:
"Thank you, Dear Girl for that. It's worth wading through Hell for, and I'll not leave you again. When I go you go with me, and we'll be married. I must first, however, have your father's refusal or consent."
"It will never be consent, Dear. But tell me, where are you stopping. Whom do you know about here.—When did you get here," she prattled happily on, her mood shifting, not waiting for answers to any questions. When she paused, Bennet said:
"I stopped last night with a Mrs. Gorton, back on the road here. I came from Orangeburg yesterday."
At the mention of Mrs. Gorton, Lida gave a little gasp. Bennet turned to her questioning.
"Why, what's the matter? Wasn't that all right?" he asked.
"Ye-e-e-e-e-e-es, I suppose so. How'd you happen to stop there?" she queried.
Bennet then recounted the experience of the day before, telling of the alligator episode and Aunt Sally's hospitality. When he concluded, Lida said:
"She dislikes us—I don't know why.—She even pronounced a curse on us last year," Lida stated half in soliloquy.
"You're not superstitious enough to believe her curse could have any effect on you, do you?" Bennet asked.
"I don't know. I seem to have a lot of troubles.—Somehow I like her, yet I'm afraid of her."
"She seems a good old soul," was Bennet's observation.
"Well, it was good of her to take you in.—I thank her for that," Lida clung to his arm tenderly.
"Where will you stay tonight?" she asked.
"Don't know.—Suppose I'll make arrangements with her to keep me another night."
"I'll be happier tonight than I have been in weeks," Lida sighed as she looked into his eyes.
They had now started to walk along, Lida clinging to his arm when suddenly out of the shrubbery at the side of the road into their path stepped Young John Marley. Lida gave a gasp of dismay and surprise. John Marley stood in the middle of the road as if to dispute their passage, his feet spread apart.
Bennet felt a slight shudder run through the body of the girl at his side. He started forward. Lida stood still, her hand clenching and reclenching nervously about his coat sleeve. John Marley ignored Bennet and looked directly at the girl.
"Thought you'd skip out, would you—?" he snarled. Lida's face flushed with indignation.
"Skip out?—No—Why should I skip out? I'm not yet your wife," she answered with a haughty toss of her head.
"Not yet—but you will be," Marley threatened.
"Not to the man who has to stand guard over me," Lida retorted indignantly. "I won't stand for your following me any longer. And I tell you now I'll never marry you. I—I—I'll kill myself first. I want no more of your insults."
Marley ignored the words but indicating Bennet, asked: "Who's your friend?"
"A real friend and a true gentleman," replied Lida proudly.
"Your northern friend, I suppose?" Marley continued.
"Northern or not he's chivalrous enough not to impose himself on a lady when he's not wanted—and he's not cowardly enough to spy on a girl. He's too much of a gentleman for that," she ended.
Marley started toward the girl. Bennet quickly placed himself in front of her; menace in his attitude. "The lady has said that she wants none of your company.—You'd better go. Stand aside," he warned.
He took Lida's arm and walked by Marley, passing between him and the girl. When they had gone a few paces the latter turned to the couple. "So that's your northern white nigger is it. Well, we treat 'em all the same down here. Better watch out or he'll be decorating a tree too."
Neither Lida nor Bennet heeded the insults or taunt, though Bennet felt a tremor in his companion's arm. They passed on. When they reached the road that led to Lida's house, the girl turned to Bennet.
"I'm sincerely sorry I can't take you to my house tonight. I'll get word to you tomorrow, however, where we may meet. And then, Truman Dear, we must get away."
Bennet looked at the drooping girl at his side, saw the lines of forlorn weariness manifested in the face and a great pity well-ed into his heart. He was reminded of the figure of Eurydice as she must have appeared to Orpheus when the latter looked back to see if she was much changed by her journey in the land of Proserpina. She seemed so weak and helplessly suffering that he longed to snatch her away from the present into a golden bright future.
"Dear Little Girl," he said," I am just beginning to know what you must be enduring for my sake. I love you so I don't want harm to come to you. It kills me to see you suffer so. Would you be very lonesome should I go away.—Would it relieve you of your suffering?"
Lida looked up, touched his arm, tears dripping from her lashes.
"It would serve no good purpose to leave me. I'd—only—die. I cannot—and will not marry another. It is too late now, Dear. How would my love fare with you away?"
"Ah, but I only bring suffering to you.—And I can't bear to see you suffer. My love is not selfish enough to feed upon your suffering."
Lida shook her head in a sad negative. "I thought over all these things when we walked down the cinder path at college that night of the reception. You know, a woman looks at her love differently than a man. She weighs the cost. A man simply sees the object of his love, wants that love and strives to possess. Not so a woman. She calculates the cost, the obstacles, the chances of happiness and weighs the character of her man. When once she makes up her mind nothing changes her. I love you truly, and always will. I'm not one to love lightly."
"I know that, Dear, and I love you as sincerely. What love, however, can endure to see the object of that love suffer. Suppose I were suffering as you must be. Would you want to do differently than I?" he asked tenderly.
"I'd try to get you out of trouble as speedily as possible, but I'd never leave you," Lida suggested. "Take me away, please."
"I believe you—and bless you for it. I'll take you away tomorrow. I must be honorable, though, in the taking and honorably say to your father that I am taking you. At least I owe him that."
Lida smiled, as she stood on tiptoe to reach her lips to his. "Aufwiedersehen, then."
Never had words a deeper meaning to Bennet than these. He clasped her to his heart in a long embrace. "Aufwiedersehen," he repeated, tenderly. He stood watching her till she passed in at her gate far down the white sandy road and turning waved to him. As she tripped up the steps and entered, Bennet lifted his hat and bowed reverently then turned to retrace his steps to Mrs. Gorton's.
Once there he lost no time in asking for a chance to remain with her for a few days. He liked the locality so well, its picturesqueness and scenery. Her family was very willing to entertain the guest and soon placed him at his ease. Southern hospitality is so open and frank that a stranger is accepted at his face value till he proves himself undesirable.
Bennet spent the remainder of the day in unpacking his belongings and making himself at home in his surroundings. His mind was happier than it had been for several weeks. As he arranged his clothing on frames provided, and in the cedar chest Mrs. Gorton provided from her linen closet, he could not refrain at intervals from stepping to the window which opened toward the Lauriston house and gaze in the direction of Lida. The great live oak in front of the veranda seemed to wave its branches; Bennet was uncertain whether in a hostile or a friendly manner.
When Lida entered the house she was happier than she had been for weeks, knowing that her lover was near and that she would soon be leaving with him. Her heart was full of plans for the future and elopement. As she crossed the threshold of the door and was on her way to her room, the fiercely blaspheming voice of her father greeted her. She paused to listen. She distinguished three other voices also. Colonel Lauriston was pacing to and fro in the dining room raving as a madman, cursing God, his family, the world and himself. In his raging Lida realized that she was again the cause. She paused in the hallway long enough to hear her brother, Elvin, also angrily speaking to Young John Marley.
"I thought you were a man. Why didn't you kill the dog in his tracks? I'd have killed them both," she heard.
"There's plenty of time to kill," was Marley's sententious answer.
"Well, he's got his nerve with him. I thought you were going to watch Lida and take care of her. What sort of a husband would you make if you can't protect her." It was again Elvin's voice she heard.
"I'll protect her all right, all right when she's my wife. I went down to the stables for a minute and when I came back she was gone. I went right after her though," Marley explained.
"Yes, you went right after her—and was too much of a coward to protect her when you found her," sneered Elvin. "We don't want him about. First thing you know they'll be eloping."
"That's just what we will do," observed Lida mentally. She was on the point of taunting them with the fact but decided that discretion was better and continued to her room then locked the door securely behind her. "It's to be one woman against the pack of you now," she resolved.
During the remainder of the afternoon her maid, Chloe, was the only person she allowed to enter. She busied herself packing what belongings she considered her personal property. This occupied her till time for the evening meal which she ate in her room. As darkness came on she looked from her window at the familiar haunts and one by one bade them a mental farewell.
"I wonder, when, if ever, I'll see you all again. It's a sad way to leave you all, my friends, my woods, my hero pines, my cave where my childhood has been spent. I love you all and will carry you in my memory. You all were the best friends I had. Even your solitude was friendly to me. Love calls me and love must be obeyed."
Long she stood at her window, looking into the darkness. At a distance a hoot owl gravely spoke to the world out of his wisdom while in some nearer tree a screech owl answered.
"Good-bye, old friend. You've hooted me your last salutation, I fear. How fair one's birthplace seems when far away, or about to leave it. I wonder if at the hour of death we treasure what we've known in life as I treasure you at this moment. I shall smell the honeysuckle in my dreams; I shall build wreaths of the jasmine in my day dreams. Wish me well, friends, wish me well." She ceased to speak as her mind wandered off into pleasant fantasies.