by Thomas Dixon
CHAPTER XIV
THE FOLLY OF PITY
Norton sat in the library for more than an hour trying to nerve himself forthe interview while waiting for Helen. He had lighted and smoked two cigarsin rapid succession and grown restless at her delay. He rose, strolledthrough the house and seeing nothing of either Tom or Helen, returned tothe library and began pacing the floor with measured tread.
He had made up his mind to do a cruel thing and told himself over and overagain that cruel things are often best. The cruelty of surgery is thehighest form of pity, pity expressed in terms of the highest intelligence.
He was sure the boy had not made love to the girl. Helen was no doubtequally innocent in her attitude toward him.
It would only be necessary to tell her a part of the bitter truth and herdesire to leave would be a resistless one.
And yet, the longer he delayed and the longer he faced such an act, themore pitiless it seemed and the harder its execution became. At heart adeep tenderness was the big trait of his character.
Above all, he dreaded the first interview with Helen. The idea of theresponsibility of fatherhood had always been a solemn one. His love for Tomwas of the very beat of his heart. The day he first looked into his facewas the most wonderful in all the calendar of life.
He had simply refused to let this girl come into his heart. He had closedthe door with a firm will. He had only seen her once when a little tot oftwo and he was laboring under such deep excitement and such abject fearlest a suspicion of the truth, or any part of the truth, reach the sistersto whom he was intrusting the child, that her personality had made noimpression on him.
He vaguely hoped that she might not be attractive. The idea of a girl ofhis own had always appealed to him with peculiar tenderness, and, unlikemost fathers, he had desired that his first-born should be a girl. If Helenwere commonplace and unattractive his task would be comparatively easy. Itwas a mental impossibility for him as yet to accept the fact that she washis--he had seen so little of her, her birth was so unwelcome, her cominginto his life fraught with such tragic consequences.
The vague hope that she might prove weak and uninteresting had not beenstrengthened by the momentary sight of her face. The flash of joy thatlighted her sensitive features, though it came across the lawn, had reachedhim with a very distinct impression of charm. He dreaded the effect atclose range.
However, there was no other way. He had to see her and he had to make herstay impossible. It would be a staggering blow for a girl to be told in thedawn of young womanhood that her birth was shadowed by disgrace. It wouldbe a doubly cruel one to tell her that her blood was mixed with a race ofblack slaves.
And yet a life built on a lie was set on shifting sand. It would notendure. It was best to build it squarely on the truth, and the sooner thetrue foundation was laid the better. There could be no place in ourcivilization for a woman of culture and refinement with negro blood in herveins. More and more the life of such people must become impossible. Thatshe should remain in the South was unthinkable. That the conditions in theNorth were at bottom no better he knew from the experience of his stay inNew York.
He would tell her the simple, hideous truth, depend on her terror to keepthe secret, and send her abroad. It was the only thing to do.
He rose with a start at the sound of Tom's voice calling her from thestairway.
The answer came in low tones so charged with the quality of emotion thatbelongs to a sincere nature that his heart sank at the thought of his task.
She had only said the most commonplace thing--"All right, I'll be down in amoment." Yet the tones of her voice were so vibrant with feeling that itsforce reached him instantly, and he knew that his interview was going to beone of the most painful hours of his life.
And still he was not prepared for the shock her appearance in the shadowsof the tall doorway gave. He had formed no conception of the gracious andappealing personality. In spite of the anguish her presence had brought, inspite of preconceived ideas of the inheritance of the vicious nature of hermother, in spite of his ingrained repugnance to the negroid type, in spiteof his horror of the ghost of his young manhood suddenly risen from thedead to call him to judgment, in spite of his determination to be cruel asthe surgeon to the last--in spite of all, his heart suddenly went out toher in a wave of sympathy and tenderness!
She was evidently so pitifully embarrassed and the suffering in her large,expressive eyes so keen and genuine, his first impulse was to rush to herside with words of comfort and assurance.
The simple white dress, with tiny pink ribbons drawn through its edges,which she wore accentuated the impression of timidity and suffering.
He was surprised to find not the slightest trace of negroid blood apparent,though he knew that a mixture of the sixteenth degree often left no traceuntil its sudden reversion to a black child.
Her hair was the deep brown of his own in young manhood, the eyes large andtender in their rich blue depths--the eyes of innocence, intelligence,sincerity. The lips were full and fluted, and the chin marked with anexquisite dimple that gave a childlike wistfulness to a face that withoutit might have suggested too much strength.
Her neck was slightly curved and set on full, strong shoulders with anunconscious grace. The bust was slight and girlish, the arms and figurerounded and beautiful in their graceful fullness.
Her walk, when she took the first few steps into the room and paused, hesaw was the incarnation of rhythmic strength and perfect health.
But her voice was the climax of her appeal--low, vibrant, quivering withfeeling and full of a subtle quality that convinced the hearer from thefirst moment of the truth and purity of its owner.
She smiled with evident embarrassment at his silence. He was stunned forthe moment and simply couldn't speak.
"So, I see you at last, Major Norton!" she said as the color slowly stoleover her face.
He recovered himself, walked quickly to meet her and extended his hand:
"I must apologize for not seeing you earlier this morning," he saidgravely. "I was up all night travelling through the country and slept verylate."
As her hand rested in his the girl forgot her restraint and wounded prideat the cold and doubtful reception he had given earlier. Her heart suddenlybeat with a desire to win this grave, strong man's love and respect.
With a look of girlish tenderness she hastened to say:
"I want to thank you with the deepest gratitude, major, for your kindnessin inviting me here this summer----"
"Don't mention it, child," he interrupted frowning.
"Oh, if you only knew," she went on hurriedly, "how I love the South, howmy soul glows under its skies, how I love its people, their old-fashionedways, their kindness, their hospitality, their high ideals----"
He lifted his hand and the gesture stopped her in the midst of a sentence.He was evidently struggling with an embarrassment that was painful and haddetermined to end it.
"The time has come, Helen," he began firmly--"you're of age--that I shouldtell you the important facts about your birth."
"Yes--yes----" the girl answered in an excited whisper as she sank into achair and gazed at him fascinated with the terror of his possiblerevelation.
"I wish I could tell you all," he said, pausing painfully.
"You know--all?"
"Yes, I know."
"My father--my mother--they are living?"
In spite of his effort at self-control Norton was pale and his voicestrained. His answers to her pointed questions were given with his faceturned from her searching gaze.
"Your mother is living," was the slow reply.
"And my father?"
His eyes were set in a fixed stare waiting for this question, as a prisonerin the dock for the sentence of a judge. His lips gave no answer for themoment and the girl went on eagerly:
"Through all the years that I've been alone, the one desperate yearning ofmy heart has been to know my father"--the lines of the full lipsquivered--"I've alway
s felt somehow that a mother who could give up herbabe was hardly worth knowing. And so I've brooded over the idea of afather. I've hoped and dreamed and prayed that he might be living--that Imight see and know him, win his love, and in its warmth and joy, itsshelter and strength--never be lonely or afraid again----"
Her voice sank to a sob, and Norton, struggling to master his feelings,said:
"You have been lonely and afraid?"
"Utterly lonely! When other girls at school shouted for joy at the approachof vacation, the thought of home and loved ones, it brought to me onlytears and heartache. Many a night I've laid awake for hours and sobbedbecause a girl had asked me about my father and mother. Lonely!--oh, dearLord! And always I've dried my eyes with the thought that some day I mightknow my father and sob out on his breast all I've felt and suffered"--shepaused, and looked at Norton through a mist of tears--"my father is notdead?"
The stillness was painful. The man could hear the tick of the little Frenchclock on the mantel. How tired his soul was of lies! He couldn't lie to herin answer to this question. And so without lifting his head he said verysoftly:
"He is also alive."
"Thank God!" the girl breathed reverently. "Oh, if I could only touch hishand and look into his face! I don't care who he is, how poor and humblehis home, if it's a log cabin on a mountain side, or a poor white man'shovel in town, I'll love him and cling to him and make him love me!"
The man winced. There was one depth her mind had not fathomed!
How could he push this timid, lonely, haunted creature over such aprecipice! He glanced at her furtively and saw that she was dreaming as ina trance.
"But suppose," he said quietly, "you should hate this man when you hadmet?"
"It's unthinkable," was the quick response. "My father is my father. I'dlove him if he were a murderer!"
Again her mind had failed to sound the black depths into which he was aboutto hurl her. She might love a murderer, but there was one thing beyond allquestion, this beautiful, sensitive, cultured girl could not love the manwho had thrust her into the hell of a negroid life in America! She mightconceive of the love of a father who could take human life, but her mindcould not conceive the possibility of facing the truth with which he mustnow crush the soul out of her body. Why had he lied and deceived her atall? The instinctive desire to shield his own blood from a life ofignominy--yes. But was it worth the risk? No--he knew it when it was toolate. The steel jaws with their cold teeth were tearing the flesh now atevery turn and there was no way of escape.
When he failed to respond, she rose, pressed close and pleaded eagerly:
"Tell me his name! Oh, it's wonderful that you have seen him, heard hisvoice and held his hand! He may not be far away--tell me----"
Norton shook his head:
"The one thing, child, I can never do."
"You are a father--a father who loves his own--I've seen and know that. Anameless waif starving for a word of love begs it--just one word of deep,real love--think of it! My heart has never known it in all the years I'velived!"
Norton lifted his hand brusquely:
"You ask the impossible. The conditions under which I am acting as yourguardian seal my lips."
The girl looked at him steadily:
"Then, you are my real guardian?"
"Yes."
"And why have you not told me before?"
The question was asked with a firm emphasis that startled him into a senseof renewed danger.
"Why?" she repeated.
"To avoid questions I couldn't answer."
"You will answer them now?"
"With reservations."
The girl drew herself up with a movement of quiet determination and spokein even tones:
"My parents are Southern?"
"Yes----"
"My father and mother were--were"--her voice failed, her head dropped andin an effort at self-control she walked to the table, took a book in herhand and tried to turn its leaves. The hideous question over which she hadlong brooded was too horrible to put into words. The answer he might givewas too big with tragic possibilities. She tried to speak again andcouldn't. He looked at her with a great pity in his heart and when at lastshe spoke her voice was scarcely a whisper:
"My father and mother were married?"
He knew it was coming and that he must answer, and yet hesitated. His replywas low, but it rang through her soul like the stroke of a great belltolling for the dead:
"No!"
The book she held slipped from the trembling fingers and fell to the floor.Norton walked to the window that he might not see the agony in hersensitive face.
She stood very still and the tears began slowly to steal down her cheeks.
"God pity me!" she sobbed, lifting her face and looking pathetically atNorton. "Why did you let them send me to school? Why teach me to think andfeel and know this?"
The low, sweet tones of her wonderful voice found the inmost heart of theman. The misery and loneliness of the orphan years of which she had spokenwere nothing to the anguish with which her being now shook.
He crossed the room quickly and extended his hand in a movement ofinstinctive sympathy and tenderness:
"Come, come, child--you're young and life is all before you."
"Yes, a life of shame and humiliation!"
"The world is wide to-day! A hundred careers are open to you. Marriage isimpossible--yes----"
"And if I only wish for marriage?" the girl cried with passionateintensity. "If my ideal is simple and old-fashioned--if all I ask of God isthe love of one man--a home--a baby----"
A shadow of pain clouded Norton's face and he lifted a hand in tenderwarning:
"Put marriage out of your mind once and for all time! It can only bring toyou and your loved ones hopeless misery."
Helen turned with a start:
"Even if the man I love should know all?"
"Yes," was the firm answer.
She gazed steadily into his eyes and asked with sharp rising emphasis:
"Why?"
The question brought him squarely to the last blow he must give if heaccomplish the thing he had begun. He must tell her that her mother is anegress. He looked at the quivering figure, the white, sensitive, youngface with the deep, serious eyes, and his lips refused to move. He triedto speak and his throat was dry. It was too cruel. There must be an easierway. He couldn't strike the sweet uplifted head.
He hesitated, stammered and said:
"I--I'm sorry--I can't answer that question fully and frankly. It may bebest, but----"
"Yes, yes--it's best!" she urged.
"It may be best," he repeated, "but I simply can't do it"--he paused,turned away and suddenly wheeled confronting her:
"I'll tell you all that you need to know to-day--you were born under theshadow of a hopeless disgrace----"
The girl lifted her hand as if to ward a blow while she slowly repeated:
"A hopeless--disgrace----"
"Beneath a shadow so deep, no lover's vow can ever lift it from your life.I should have told you this before, perhaps--well, somehow I couldn't"--hepaused and his voice trembled--"I wanted you to grow in strength andcharacter first----"
The girl clenched her hands and sprang in front of him:
"That my agony might be beyond endurance? Now you _must_ tell me the wholetruth!"
Again the appealing uplifted face had invited the blow, and again his heartfailed. It was impossible to crush her. It was too horrible. He spoke withfirm decision:
"Not another word!"
He turned and walked rapidly to the door. The girl clung desperately to hisarm:
"I beg of you! I implore you!"
He paused in the doorway, and gently took her hands:
"Forgive me, child, if I seem cruel. In reality I am merciful. I must leaveit just there!"
He passed quickly out.
The girl caught the heavy curtains for support, turned with an effort,staggered back into the room, fell prostrate on the lo
unge with a cry ofdespair, and burst into uncontrollable sobs.