# By Sanction of Law/Chapter 34

Dusk was just creeping under the clouds as they left Elvin slowly breathing but still unconscious. "We'll have to get out of this land tonight dear. That's all. If he wakes and finds us still here, nothing will save us." Bennet gathered up his clothes and started toward the cave, half guiding, half carrying Lida in his arms. She was almost too weak to walk from the ordeal through which she had passed. By the time they reached the falls she had recovered, however.
Bennet prepared to wash the blood from his body and face. Lida was all tenderness now. "Let me do that. Let me do that.—Here, bend over."
Bennet leaned over the little stream as directed while Lida dipped the handkerchief he offered her into the water and tenderly laved his wounds. There were great scratches on his arms and body where Elvin's nails had dug in their effort to get a grip. His chin was swollen and bruised from the blows, landed there and his body was a mass of welts and blotches. An eye was almost closed. About the throat whole inches of flesh had been torn away. Lida closed her eyes from the sight as she carefully bathed and dressed them. That finished she said:
"I'll hurry home and get what things we need, and we'll have to get away in the darkness.—We'll have to use two horses."
"Where's the nearest minister?" Bennet asked. Lida blushed in the growing dark.
​"I don't know," she answered,—"Let's see."
"I met a Father Buntin, in Charleston," Bennet offered, who said he lived somewhere above Orangeburg. I don't sup—"
"Oh, yes. Father Buntin—Father Buntin. I know whom you mean.—I know him. He's down beyond Carter's, on the way into Orangeburg.—We can go there."
"There's where we'll go. I take you away from here as my wife.—The wife of my heart." He took her gently in his arms.
"Anywhere—Truman, with you."
"You'll never regret," he answered feelingly. "Hurry now," he urged as he freed her. "Hurry, we've no time to lose. I wish I had an automobile."
"Horses are better, Truman, in this country. The roads, you know are wretched, particularly after a rainstorm. I'll meet you at the edge of the clearing."
"Minutes become hours, dear, with you away," he said as he kissed her tenderly.
When she had departed Bennet climbed to the cave and quickly gathered what few things he had kept there and descended. Lida fairly flew to the house and bade Chloe have two horses brought to the front. While the maid was gone she hastily gathered what few treasures of her room she felt she could not leave, then descended. She started toward her father's room but as she approached she heard him singing incoherently and alternately cursing. She knew his mind was gone. Reverently she bowed at the door for an instant, uttered a prayer and was gone. As she ​opened the door she heard the horses stamping impatiently with surprise at being called upon on this dark rainy night. Quickly she mounted one and led the other to the place of meeting. Bennet was there to meet her. Without a word he mounted and the two started off at a trot into the dark, only the white ribbon of sandy road to guide them. As they started off, horses side by side, Lida reached over and placed her hand in his. He grasped it tenderly.
"Riding off into the dark with me, My Heart," he murmured.
She pressed his in return, "Not into the dark, but through the dark into light, Truman. For there's the light of tomorrow ahead."
"God keep it always light ahead," he prayed fervently.
Thus they traveled for more than two hours, sometimes pausing to listen to see if they were being followed. They heard nothing, however, save the screech of an owl from time to time as his slumbers were despoiled by the hoof sounds, or the bay of a distant hound. At last they reached Carter's. Lida knew the place by the wide stretch of garden in front of it and the scale house at the roadside where cotton and grain were weighed at the end of each day's harvest. Carter was known as the greatest grower of oats and wheat in the county.
"Father Buntin's church is not far from here, Dear."
"I hope he'll be in."
"He'll most likely be in on a night like this."
A few miles further on they passed the graveyard of ​the little country church. Back behind the cedars and juniper trees nestled the church with its parish house off to one side. They turned in at the gate. A light shone from the study. They rode straight to the door and Bennet dismounted. Lida remained on her mount. Bennet rapped at the door and soon there was a motion of activity seen from the reflection at the study window, followed by an opening of the door while Father Buntin, his gray hair showing under the edges of his study cap and his kindly benign eyes showing through his reading glasses peered into the darkness.
"Who's there?" he asked shading his eyes with a hand.
"It is I, Father. I've come to be married."
Father Buntin smiled broadly and genially as he said, "You can't marry here. You're alone."
Bennet laughed. "Oh, no, Father, I'm not alone."
"I usually marry couples not single men," Father Buntin continued, enjoying his joke.
"Oh, but I have the girl."
"Oh, but I don't see her," he mocked. "However, come in, come in!" Here he threw the door wide. Before Bennet could turn, Lida leaped from her horse and stood beside him. "Here am I, Father—the other part of the contract."
"Ah, daughter. It is well. I was just about to believe either the young man was having his joke with me or else he was under the influence of Luna."
"I'm under the influence of a far greater goddess, Father," Bennet offered looking at Lida who stood beside ​him in the doorway, touching his arm affectionately.
"Come in children. Come in." Father Buntin noted shrewdly the condition of Bennet's face and commented:
"Youth will ever fight for love, eh, Boy?"—So you're running away?—Well, you're both of age and know your own minds."
"Yes, Father, we love and want to marry," Bennet said simply.
"This is a serious step you take. Few young people realize nowadays how serious. They become enamored of a face or the eyes or some other feature and immediately believe themselves in love and want to rush to the altar. Love and marriage are serious things. They present serious problems both of the present and future. Have you considered all these things?"
"We have, Father." Father Buntin looked long and silently at Bennet. "If it were not for the difference in feature I should say I had met you somewhere. Let's see." He stroked his chin ministerially. "Ah—" he sighed. "I have it. Aren't you the young man I met at Charleston, with Dr. Tansey?"
Bennet nodded his head affirmatively. "That's it.—That's it. You're Mr. Bennet.—I sense it all now. You came down here to get a girl. Well, she seems well worth coming for—and fighting for," he added. "I take it you're eloping." Bennet nodded. "In that case you're in a hurry."
"Yes, Father."
"We'll lose no time then. Daughter, step this way.—​Now join hands," he commanded as they stood side by side. The ceremony was soon over and the prayer pronounced, After both had shaken hands with the clergyman and started for the door, Father Buntin touched Bennet on the shoulder.
"You knew of the fate of poor Dr. Tansey, did you?" Bennet whirled.
"No, I hope to see him in the city."
"Well, you won't," Father Buntin said solemnly. "He's dead."
Father Buntin then gave Lida and Bennet a brief story of the events leading up to the killing of Dr. Tansey. "I only hope his death will have some effect on the people down here. It was a sad thing, my boy. My heart bleeds for the people here. Dr. Tansey was a brave outspoken man. An honest and a fearless man. Never will I forget the bravery he showed in challenging the attitude of the southerners toward their black neighbors. A good man has gone. Many more will go unless the people turn from their ways. Unless they get more of Christ in their hearts. Unless they live more the life of the Saviour."
"Dr. Tansey was a saintly man, and my friend," added Bennet.
"He was a saintly man. I tell you all the Godly men are not in the church. There are some great souls whose lives are the best sermons, and Dr. Tansey's was one of these. I think the people are beginning to feel remorse. If his death can but have the effect of putting more of God into the hearts of the people of this section and the ​seed be spread, then Dr. Tansey will not have died in vain. His death and my meeting with and knowing him, have given me courage to do my work here better, to be braver, and to look with more compassion on the black folk who are our neighbors. I'm going to try to make their lives easier and if possible establish a settlement house for them."
Lida, remembering her brother and the people on her own plantation grew worried lest they delay too long and her brother overtake them when he revived, pressed Bennet's arm to which she clung.
"Better be going, don't you think?" she warned.
"That's right," added Father Buntin. "Don't mind a garrulous old preacher. "There may be somebody after you. God bless you, my children. May your lives be happy and true to God." With that he closed the door and they were again in the dark. Bennet took Lida in his arms and in a long embrace. When they were disengaged, he uttered two words, "My wife." Lida stood on tiptoe and kissed him gently, the love of her heart in her lips. He lifted her to the saddle then mounted himself and they were off.
Scarcely had they left the district, riding away to the city, and Father Buntin had settled himself to a resumption of his studies when he heard wild horse's hoofs padding down the road as if racing. Father Buntin listened. The sound of hoofs came toward his door. He waited till they came to the very door when he heard the sound of someone dismounting. The visitor strode heavily to the door and pounded loudly.
​"Humph!" exclaimed Father Buntin, readjusting his glasses. "You're in too big a hurry. I'll just let you cool your heels." He turned to his reading again. Again the knocking, this time more forcibly. Father Buntin still paid no heed. A third time there was a loud knocking, this time accompanied by a smothered oath. Father Buntin arose and shuffled to the door.
"Come in! Come in! Don't wait.—Break the door in and enter."
Here he opened the door only to stand staring into the muzzle of a revolver. "Mercy me." He stepped back exclaiming, "What a fearsome boy. You play with a very dangerous toy. Very dangerous. Come in but leave your weapon outside. Leave that outside where you left your good manners."
It was Elvin Lauriston. He had revived sometime after being left, and after floundering about in the darkness bewildered, recalled the battle and hurried to the house to find Lida gone. He surmised they would hasten to the first minister to make sure of marriage, so he had ridden posthaste to Father Buntin, knowing him to be the nearest clergyman. He stepped into the little reception room as bidden, the revolver still pointing at the body of the minister.
"Where are they?" he demanded. "I know they came here. Where are they?"
"They who? Whom do you mean? Put that down or I won't talk to you at all."
"You'll talk or you'll never preach again. Kneel down and answer me."
​Father Buntin fingered the crucifix that hung at his breast. "I kneel to no one but God. And I'll kneel to no one with murder in his heart." He looked fearlessly and calmly into the eyes of the young man before him whose eyes were blazing with mad anger and lust for blood.
"Where are they? I'm going to kill them."
Father Buntin raised the crucifix till it was on level with the muzzle of the revolver, then looking past the eyes and into the very heart of the man before him, slowly and solemnly he uttered the words, "Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not kill," he repeated slowly and deliberately, "Thou shalt not kill.—Don't hit him, Job!"
At that warning Elvin turned his head for the flash of a second and in that instant Father Buntin sprung to the boy, grabbed the revolver, pointed it toward the ceiling and wrenched it from Elvin's hand. He had acted so quickly, and Elvin was taken so unawares, that before he realized it he had been disarmed.
"Now you kneel," Father Buntin commanded. Elvin refused. "You'll kneel or take some of your own medicine. Kneel now." He held the revolver toward Elvin's body. Slowly the latter sank to his knees.
"It is so that God always triumphs," said Father Buntin. "God and right always win in the end."
"Now my boy, let Father Buntin read you a lesson. You have had murder in your heart for weeks, perhaps for a lifetime. Cast it out. If you live by violence you must die by violence. There is and has been altogether too much violence in this land. We are too quick to slay. ​Only the devil prompts a slayer. And one slaying begets another. The laws are immutable. We live by laws even when we break them.
"There is a law of good which creates goodness. There is a law of evil which spawns evil. An evil act begets an evil act though it be years in showing. It is said in the Commandments that the sins of the father are visited upon the children unto the third and fourth generation." Elvin thought of the courthouse records and of that one of his forbears that had brought evil upon his head. "Good law—right law, is right thought—thought rightly directed. Bad law is bad thought poorly directed. There is a law of recompense which we too often forget. We have forgotten it in this land of ours—in our treatment of those about us who are dependent upon us. This whole country will some day reap an evil harvest from the evil laws by which it has existed.
"There are laws of right and justice well thought out and laid down to direct our lives. Some were laid by Christ and his life; others by wise men who thought for humanity. By way of the law let us live. Let us live by way of the good law, the right law, the true law. Only then shall we know true real happiness. There is only one law that is supreme by which we should live."
Father Buntin paused here, stepped to Elvin whose head was now bowed, the evil in his heart soothed away with the calm, almost divine, talk of this man of God. Father Buntin laid his hand gently on the head of the young man bowed before him, raised his face toward heaven and said:
​"Love ye one another. Love is mankind's best creation and good will the most powerful friend. Hatred is the most destructive enemy. Let this reach your heart, it is the most beautiful and most enlightened form of self-interest and self-protection. It was that which made Christ die to save the world. Oh, my boy, my poor deluded, self-willed boy. Look up."
Elvin raised his head. Father Buntin held the Crucifix before him. "Wherever you go, hereafter, whatever be your fate, remember this symbol, and recall the words of Him who died for you, when he said, 'Love ye one another.'"
Father Buntin reached over and gently raised the kneeling form to a standing position. Without a further word he handed the revolver back to Elvin and turned to his study.
Elvin stood for a few moments looking at the revolver, then at the light shining from the adjoining room. He stepped through the door, looked at the revolver for a few minutes, broke the breech, withdrew the cartridges, cast them to one side and the revolver to the other, he walked to the window and peered in. Father Buntin was kneeling at his table, his head bowed. Slowly Elvin sank to his knees. He wanted to pray but could frame no words. His mind reverted to the times when at his mother's knee he had knelt and slowly his lips framed the words, "Our Father, who art in Heaven." He slowly repeated the Lord's prayer.
Elvin continued to kneel some moments after the prayer ​was ended, his mind still unsettled and his heart troubled. In his trouble the image of his father flashed into his mind. "Poor Father," he murmured. "He needs me. I must go." Slowly he stood erect in the darkness. After looking once more into the window through which he could still see Father Buntin kneeling, he turned toward his horse champing at the hitching post impatient to be free. After mounting he gave the animal free rein, and was soon in the road and headed back for home. His mind was heavy with the events of the past few days. Father Buntin's words still pounding in his ears and the crucifix dancing before his eyes.
"Thou shalt not kill," he repeated reflectively. "Unto the children of the third and fourth generations of them that hate me, and showing mercy unto those that keep my commandments.'—I never knew what that meant before.—We certainly heap up sins by our acts for those who come after us.—I wonder what more's in store for me?" It was almost daybreak when he again reached the Lauriston place. As his horse turned into the familiar drive he could see lights flashing back and forth from various rooms. An unusual circumstance. With an effort he dismissed his mood and spurred his horse into a trot.
One of the domestics heard the footsteps of the horse and hurried out to the veranda. Discerning Elvin as he mounted, who had started up the steps, the man said feelingly with tears in his eyes:
"Mr. Lauriston's gone, Suh—Gone. He's done kilt."
"Suicide," thought Elvin, recalling the state of mind of ​his father, a feeling of horror enveloping him. Before he could frame a question, however, as to details, the colored servant continued, apologetically. "I didn't mean to let him get outa my sight, Suh. But I went to git him a drink and when I cum back he's gone. I didn't mean to lef? him go, knowin' he ain't right," tapping his head to suggest bereft mind.
Elvin was still silent, his mind dazed at the calamity which overwhelmed him. The servant continued. "Next I hyeard a commotion out in the stables. The horses was a-trompin' and kickin' and neighin'. I go out theah and come to the stall of the big bay, who's making most of the fuss and under his feet is Mistuh Lauriston, daid. Oh, Lordy, trompled down by that horse." The domestic could say no more, his voice choked and tears began to flow freely.
"My God! What a horrible end." Again the words of the clergyman came to his ears, "unto the third and fourth generations." Elvin lifted his head to the sky. "Oh, God, help me," was all he could say. "It is more than I can bear."
As he uttered these words he felt the hand of the colored servant grasp his arm and pull him gently toward the door to enter. He removed it from his arm only to grasp it firmly in his hand. "William," he said. "Your heart is simpler than mine but it's also nobler. I'll never forget you. I'm going to treat you and your people like friends hereafter."
"Thass all right, Suh,—Thass all right. We all loves you, Suh, an' we'll stick by you. We'll tek care of you—an' Miss Lida."