Back in the little town of Bremen, Bennet, with his father, mother and sister, arrived without incident, after the graduation exercises. The first few days of the return were filled with social affairs, visitations and congratulations on the part of the friends of the family for the young man. There were letters from Lida, on her way home and replies such as only two happy lovers, separated for a time can write.
It was after the receipt of one of these one morning that Bennet's face became serious and his attitude thoughtful. While in this mood his father came upon him. Bennet still held the letter in his hand and was looking off into the distance.
"What's the matter, boy?—When will you marry the girl?—Why don't you tell us about her?" he asked without giving the young man a chance to reply.
"That's just what I was thinking about.—Telling you." He looked at his father.
"No better time. Who is she?—and what's she like?" The elder man asked.
Father and son had always been frank with each other, a comradeship having been established between them from the time Truman was a lad and preserved more closely than is the case between most fathers and sons.
"Well, Dad. She's a wonder."
"They all are at your time of life," he answered philosophically. "It takes time and patience to prove that. Still what's she like?"
"She's a southern girl, whose family can be traced back generations and generations; to old Colonial days; to old slavery days," Bennet answered proudly.
"What! You don't mean to say she's a southern white girl?"
"Yes."
The elder man shook his head solemnly and sadly as he exclaimed, "Poor boy! Poor boy! Impossible! Impossible!"
"What's impossible about that?"
"Everything," he exclaimed hopelessly. "Everything. Forget it. Don't think of such a thing. You're dooming yourself.—You'll be throwing your life away. Don't think of it. I've brought you up—you and your sister—in an atmosphere and midst environments where you would not be brought into contact with such a thing. I did this for your best. You don't know what prejudice is. You don't know what you are planning for yourself.
"Forget it, Boy. Forget her. There are estimable girls up here in this section who would make you an excellent wife, and a charming daughter for me and your mother; one that we could welcome into the family with pride and with loving hearts. We can't do that with this girl. Besides, there are white girls of the colored race, fully as charming, intelligent and beautiful as any white girl in the south. You could be happy with one of them. You will never be with this girl. Besides you will never marry her.—Her parents will not allow it. No, Boy, forget her. Does she know that you are of mixed blood?" he asked.
"Yes, she knows all. And that makes no difference to her. It did at first but she loves me and I love her."
The elder man bowed his head in his hands. "Forget her, Boy. It will only mean pain and suffering for you both otherwise."
"No, Dad. I've given my word in pledge to her. And she's given hers. I'll not give her up as long as she holds to her mind. Why Dad, I couldn't and be a man. I won't. That's all. I won't."
"Youth feeds at the breast of impatience," exclaimed the elder man half to himself. "It is only when time has dried up the food sources that experience can gain a hearing."
"You're wrong, Father. Wise youth observes and studies the experiences of others then maps his chart according to the drift of the winds of his own life and the strength of his ship—his soul."
"I'll tell you, Boy. In setting your course as you've planned you're running into the trade winds of prejudice and proscription. You're bringing harm to the girl you say you love; alienating her from her own poeple—her own family; her outlook on life has been different than yours; bringing her into a life of loneliness. She will be deserted by her own people."
"Won't you and mother accept her?"
"Yes, Boy. We'll accept any good girl whom you bring tous. Weare not prejudiced. You're asking a mighty big sacrifice of her when you ask her to quit her own people."
"What do you mean, 'own people?' Of what race am I—are you—mother—sister?" Bennet asked impatiently. "Are we not all Americans?"
"The South does not see it that way, Boy."
"We don't intend to live in the south," he challenged.
"You'll be lucky to be allowed to live at all, if you go down there for her."
"I'll go just the same, if necessary. We intend to live our own lives."
"There's no such thing as 'individual lives,'" the elder man contended. "Your acts will have an influence on many others, either directly or indirectly. Her family for instance,—and your own."
"Why should this be?"
"Don't ask why. It is so. A matter of cause and effect; a natural law. If you marry you won't be accepted by her family and there'll be many antagonisms."
"But, Dad, you don't know her. She's too big hearted to permit such a condition. Besides we're not marrying the races or the families of each other. I marry her. She marries me."
"Yes, yet you've got to live in some community. You'll be isolated on either hand. You don't know the pride of races as I do, nor pride of families."
"Yet I know that I'm of both races."
"Yes, but prejudice and narrowness can show themselves in so many bitterly hurtful ways to sensitive souls. I know. I've been through it all. So has your mother. No, Truman. I strongly advise against it. You're of age and I can't command you, else I'd forbid it. I predict for you, though, if you persist in your fool-hardy act, misery and failure.—And these things in you, my first born, will bring an old man's heart in sorrow to the grave.
"Oh, Truman! Truman, my first born, my pride! Don't wrench my heartstrings till I fall into my grave a broken man. Don't do this monstrously rash thing. Give up this foolish love. Be a man and master yourself."
"Yes, but of honor? What about my honor—my pledged and sacred word?" he asked.
"There are rights above such honor as you cling to," stated the father. "There is no honor in rashness that would wreck many lives."
"What about breaking the heart of the girl who's trusted you with her love—her happiness?" Bennet asked.
"Her love, with her southern slave-holding background can't but be passion; her happiness in you but visionary. There is no real love there. When passion dies her love will die," the elder man prophesied.
"Never. Her heart's too simple and honest. I have her happiness in my keeping. Let her fail me if she will. I'll not fail her nor myself. Not if all hell prevails," Truman protested. "When you speak as you do I can't believe you ever knew love. You married for convenience and have lived a sham life; outwardly honorable but inwardly hollow."
"Tut-tut-tut, Boy. Let's not quarrel. Hasty words only mean sorrow and regret," the elder Bennet ended, walking away.
Father and son held no further talks on the subject, each seeming to avoid the topic. At each mail, however, when letters would be received by Truman, in a handwriting all had come to know, the elder Bennet would watch his son reading eagerly the written words, see the lighting on the face and the happiness for the remainder of the day and shake his head sadly. Mrs. Bennet, though told by her husband, gave no outward appearance of knowing the state of affairs. She sensed in her woman's way, however, the depth of her son's regard for the girl and pitied him at the same time that she hoped the girl would prove as loyal as she knew Truman would be. Mrs. Bennet's motherly understanding was shown a few days following when there was no letter. As she passed his chair at the breakfast table she allowed her hand to rest for a moment on his shoulder. Truman was gloom while his sister teased him about the girl and the letter that failed to appear. When on the third morning no mail was received, the elder man was tempted to utter an "I told you so," but a warning look from the mother prevented him. The sister also out of consideration began to dislike the girl who did not write to her brother when he had been expecting and had been receiving daily communications.
Days lengthened into more than a week when on the morning of the tenth day when no letter had been received in answer to repeated telegraph messages, Truman announced, at breakfast, that he was going away. The elder Bennet's head bowed, as he muttered, "I know it." Mrs. Bennet's eyes filled with tears though she gave no evidence of her feeling.
Bennet's packing was hastily done and when ready to leave he kissed his mother. As he did so, she murmured, in his ear, "God keep you from harm, my boy—and bring her back to us." For response, Truman gave her a bear hug and a resounding kiss. When he parted with his father at the station just as the train was pulling out, the two gripped hands in man-to-man fashion, the youth looking steadily and honestly into the eyes of his elder.
"Whatever happens, Boy, remember we are yours. Play fair. Take care of yourself and come back as soon as possible. You're going into the devil's own country. God keep you safely."