A Man of Honor Part 16

"d.i.c.k, go out to the office and ask your Mas' Billy if he will be good enough to come to me in the library. I want to talk with him."

When Billy came in his father showed him Robert's letter.

"The thing looks very ugly," said the younger gentleman.

"Very ugly, indeed," said his father; "but the confounded rascal holds up his head under it all, and acts as honorably in Sudie's case as if he had never acted otherwise than as a gentleman should. He is a puzzle to me. But, of course, this must end the matter. We can have nothing whatever to do with him hereafter."

"But how is it, father, that they have managed to imprison him?"

"I presume they have secured an order of arrest under that New York statute which seems to have been devised as a means of securing to creditors all the advantages of imprisonment for debt without shocking the better sense of the community, which is clearly against such imprisonment. The majority of people rarely ever pay any attention to the fact so long as they are spared the name of odious things. No debtors' prison would be allowed to stand in the United States, of course, but the common jails answer all purposes when a way for getting debtors locked up in them has been devised."

"But how does it happen, father," asked Mr. Billy, "that only New York has such a statute?"

"Well, in New York the commercial interest overrides every other, and commercial men naturally attach undue importance to the collection of debts, and look with favor upon everything which tends to facilitate it. These things always reflect the feeling rather than the opinion of a community. In new countries, where horses are of more importance than anything else, horse-stealing is pretty sure to be punished with death, either by law or by the mob, which is only public sentiment embodied.

Here in Virginia you know how impossible it is to get anything like an effective statute for the suppression of dueling, simply because the ultimate public sentiment practically approves of personal warfare. But, I confess, I did not know that the New York statute could be stretched to cover a case like Robert's. As I understand it, there must be some evidence of fraud in the inception of the transaction."

"They proceed upon affidavits, I believe," said Billy, "and when that is done it isn't hard to make out a case, if the attorney is unscrupulous enough."

"That's true. But isn't it curious that Edwin should have proceeded so promptly to harsh measures? He is so mild of temper that this surprises me."

"Cousin Edwin doesn't always act out his own character, you know, father. His wife is the stronger willed of the two."

"True. I hadn't thought of that. However, it serves the young rascal right."

At this point of the conversation Cousin Sudie's knock was heard at the inner door, and Col. Barksdale opening the outer one said:

"You'd better go out this door, William. It would embarra.s.s Sue to find you here just now."

"Come in my daughter," he said, admitting Miss Sudie. "Sit down. I am greatly pained, on his account as well as yours, to find that Robert has no explanation to offer. But, of course, this ends it all, and you must take a little trip somewhere, my dear, until you forget all about it.

Where shall we go?"

"I do not care to go anywhere, Uncle Carter," replied the little maiden, without the faintest echo of a sob in her voice. "I am sorry for poor Robert, but not because I think him guilty of any dishonorable action, for indeed I do not."

"But, my dear, it will never do----"

"Pray hear me out, Uncle Carter, and then I will listen to anything you have to say. I love you as a father, as you know perfectly well. Indeed I have never known you as anything else. I have always obeyed you unquestioningly, and I shall not begin to disobey you now. I shall do precisely what you tell me to do, _so long as I remain in your house_."

"What do you mean by that, daughter?" asked her uncle, startled by the singular emphasis which Miss Sudie gave to the last clause of the sentence.

"Merely this, Uncle Carter. I cannot consent to do that which my conscience teaches me is a crime, even at your command; but while I remain at s.h.i.+rley as a daughter of the house I must obey as a daughter.

If you command me to do anything which I cannot do without sinning against my conscience, then I must not obey you, and when I can't obey you I must cease to be your daughter. I shall conceal nothing from you, Uncle Carter; you know that, and I beg of you don't command me to do the things which I must not do. I love you and it would kill me--no, it would not do that, but it would pain me more than I can possibly say, to leave s.h.i.+rley."

Col. Barksdale leaned his head sorrowfully upon his hand. He loved this girl and held her as his own. Moreover, he had solemnly promised his dying brother to care for her always as a father cares for his children, and an oath could not have been more sacred in his eyes than this promise was. Without raising his head he asked:

"You mean, Sudie, that you will not accept Robert's release?"

"Yes, uncle, that is what I mean." This was sorrowfully and gently said, but firmly too.

"He has offered to release you; has he not?"

"Yes."

"And in so offering, did he express or hint a wish that you should not accept his release?"

"No. On the contrary he a.s.sumed that I would accept it, and that I must do so in justice to myself. Here is his letter. Read it if you please."

Col. Barksdale read the letter, with which the reader is already familiar, and, handing it back, said:

"A very proper and manly letter."

"Because it came from a very proper and manly man," said Miss Sudie.

"You don't believe he has been guilty of the dishonorable acts laid to his charge, then?"

"Of the acts, yes. Of the dishonor, no," said the girl.

"On what ground do you base your persistent good opinion of him?"

"On my persistent faith in him."

"Your faith is very unreasonable, my dear."

"Perhaps so, but it exists nevertheless."

"Have you answered his letter?"

"Yes, sir; and I have brought my answer for you to read, if you care to do so," she said, taking her letter out of her desk, which lay in her lap, and giving it to her uncle, who read as follows:

"MY DEAR ROBERT:--I am not in the least surprised by your letter. I knew you would offer to release me from my engagement, because I knew you were a man of honor. I have never for a moment doubted that, and I do not doubt it now. Your character weighs more with me than any mere facts can. I know you are an honorable man, and knowing that I shall not let other people's doubts upon the subject govern my action. When I 'listened to your words of love, and gave them a place in my heart,' you were, as you say, 'a gentleman without reproach'; and the reproach which lies upon you now does not make you less a gentleman. It is an unjust reproach, and your manliness in bearing it and offering to accept its consequences, only serves to mark you still more distinctly as a gentleman. Shall I be less honorable, less fearlessly true than you? When I gave you my heart and promised you my hand, you had friends in abundance. Now that you have none, I have no idea of withdrawing either the gift or the promise.

"You say you can never clear your name of the stain which is upon it now. For that I am heartily sorry, for your sake, but as I know that the stain does not rightly belong there it becomes my duty and my pleasure to bear it with you. I shall retain my faith in you and my love for you, and I shall profess them too on all proper occasions, and when you claim me as your wife I shall hold up Mrs.

Robert Pagebrook's head as proudly as I now hold Susan Barksdale's.

"Under other circ.u.mstances I should have thought it unmaidenly to write in this way, but there must be no doubt of my meaning now. If you ever ask a release from your promise, with or without reason, I trust you know me well enough to know that it will be granted--but from my promise I shall ask none. Another reason for the frankness of this letter is that I want you, in your trouble, to know how implicitly I trust your honor; and I should certainly never trust such a letter in any but the cleanest of hands.

"Uncle Carter will see this before it goes, and he will know, as it is right that he should, that I have not availed myself of your proffered release...."

The omitted sentences with which the letter closed are not for our eyes.

Even Colonel Barksdale refused to read them, feeling that they were sacred, and that the permission given him to read the letter extended no further than the end of the sentence last set down in the extract above given.

Returning the sheet he said: "I suppose you have written this after giving the matter full consideration, daughter?"

"I never act without knowing what I am doing, Uncle Carter."

"Well, my child, I think you are wrong, but I shall not ask you to do anything which your conscience condemns. I shall not ask you to withhold your letter, or to alter it, but I would prefer that you hold it until to-morrow, so that you may be quite sure you want to send it as it is.

Will you mind doing that?"

"No, Uncle Carter. I will keep it till to-morrow, if you wish, but I shall not change my mind concerning it. You are very good to me. Thank you;" and kissing his forehead, she left him, not to return to her room as a more sentimental woman would have done, but to go about her daily duties, with a sober face, it is true, but with all her accustomed regularity and attention to business.