Reaching Orangeburg about a half hour after sunrise, Bennet and Lida, unmindful of the tragedy behind them, stabled their horses then enquired their way to the little railroad station at the east end of the town. Once here, Bennet purchased tickets for New York and asked when the next train for Columbia and the North would leave. Informed that one would depart in half hour, Bennet sought a small lunchroom to which he was directed by the ticket agent, secured a lunch and reappeared.
He and Lida disposed of their hasty meal, the locomotive was heard at the lower end of the town. Bennet ushered her into the coach, disposed of their baggage and seated himself beside her. Lida watched the station agent, a thin-moustached, spare man of middle age ordering the baggage and mail placed aboard, then heard the locomotive puff itself into action. As the train left the station she leaned back in the coach, her heart saddened by the memory of her father whose image she could not force from her mind, At Columbia they sent a wire to Elvin telling where the horses had been stabled and directing that he call for them there.
"We're married," the message read. "And on our way abroad. Take care of father till I return."
Elvin fingered the message a long time when it reached him in the afternoon. His thoughts turned from the father whose body lay silent in the room, being prepared for burial, to his sister. "Life—death—pawns of fate," he soliloquized. "We never know—we never know.—It's the way of the law." He still sat pondering, his hand hanging over the arm of the chair dangling the message when the buggy of Old John Marley came up the driveway.
"I fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh just heard the news, Ellie. Can I fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh help?"
"Come in. Come in, John—Poor Father, he's gone."
"Fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh killed by his heedless daughter."
Elvin shook his head slowly and smiled faintly. "No, Uncle John. You can't blame her. The blame goes further back."
Old John, not understanding, merely shook his head lugubriously, at the same time adding, "Fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh Women're both fuh-tuh Heaven and Hell—fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh mostly hell, eh, Elvin? They'se no knowin' 'em."
"We make 'em so, I guess, Uncle John.—You wanted Lida to marry Young John, didn't you?"
"Fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh she'll marry him now quicker'n ever. She'll need fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh someone to take care of her."
"No, she won't," Elvin retorted. "Not now. She's married," waving the message. "And she has my blessing."
"Fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh what?" stammered Old John Marley. "Fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh, run away?" he asked, his huge jowls of jaws working spasmodically as he tried to frame the question.
Elvin merely bowed in assent.
"I'll fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh be fuh-fuh-fuh-tuh durned," he replied as his face purpled with the news. "Fuh-tuh married and her daddy dead?" Disappointment was written all over the old man's face. His flabby fat became flabbier. He could say no more. He had come to offer condolences and aid. In his disappointment he tightened the reins and clucked to his horse then started off for home again.
Elvin looked at the retreating equipage and smiled but made no comment.
Bennet and Lida reached New York and were just about to leave the Pennsylvania Station for a hotel when they heard a little scream and turned in time to see Louise Comstock dropping her bags and running toward them, her face wreathed in smiles.
"Lida Lauriston!"
"Oh, Louise, You Darling. What are you doing here?—Of all things. My husband," she turned proudly to Bennet.
Louise Comstock flushed confusedly then recovered herself as she returned the hearty grasp of the hand outstretched to her. Bennet looked into her eyes and she saw there no resentment or ill will. She still held Bennet's hand as she took Lida's arm and drew the two close to her.
"I owe you two my apologies." Lida, understanding, reached her arm about the girl, but before she could say anything, Louise Comstock continued. "I did you a wrong, Mr. Bennet.—I hope you'll forgive me, if you can. I don't see how you can—." Bennet tried to interrupt. "No—no—no—don't interrupt me. You don't know how sorry I've been—how sorry.—I'm glad you're married and I'm glad Lida is the girl. I've learned a lot since I saw you last. I've learned that prejudices we hold are wrong. I've decided to try and right some of those wrongs. I saw some horrible things in the South; things I was ashamed of; things America ought to be ashamed of; things America will be ashamed of some of these days.
"Professor Armstrong—"
"Oh, Professor Armstrong? Is he up here too?" Bennet interrupted.
"Yes, after Dr. Tansey's awful death—You heard about that?" she rattled on. "No?—He died, killed in a mob—trampled on as he and Professor Armstrong tried to prevent two innocent persons from being lynched. They failed—Oh, it was horrible—horrible. Professor Armstrong was so shocked at the conditions that he has decided to devote his life to changing conditions.—I'm going to help him. The South is wrong—wrong—wrong.
"Professor Armstrong is going to start settlement work in the South and try to get the white South to help better the conditions. By bettering conditions of the colored people, which is their duty, they will better their own. It's a glorious work.—I was just on my way down to meet him now. Congratulations and may your lives be full of happiness. Lida, I adore you." She kissed Lida heartily.—"On your honeymoon? Well, good luck to you. I'm awfully glad you're married."
"We were just on our way to book passage for England," Bennet explained.
"How wonderful! A honeymoon abroad. Oh, Goody."
"Take Professor Armstrong and bring him over."
Louise dropped her head but said nothing. There was a suspicious bulge on a finger of her left hard, however, which both Bennet and Lida noticed. A handshake for Bennet and a kiss for Lida and the girl was gone. Bennet and Lida lost no time getting to a hotel and making arrangements for their trip abroad.
As they passed the Statue of Liberty, Lida and Bennet were standing on the afterdeck with a group watching the shores of America fade from view. All the fellow voyagers were waving handkerchiefs, or blowing kisses to their native land and the image of Miss Columbia. Bennet, hat in hand, stood facing the statue, a peculiar tug at his heart. He looked to see how Lida was affected. She was still, but not looking toward the statue at all. He was surprised.
"Aren't you going to say good-bye to Columbia?"
"No, why should I? Look how much trouble she's made for us?"
Bennet shook his head as, before all the group, he took his wife gently in his arms. "You shouldn't say that, Dear. Matters not what troubles we have, this is our country—our birthplace—our native land. However, cruel and hurtful, it is our land just the same." He folded her in his arms.
The End