Thomas Dixon
The Sins of the Father: A Romance of the South
"You'll do as I ask now, and give him up?"
The tangled mass of brown hair sank lower and her answer was a sigh of despair:
"Yes!"
The man couldn't speak at once. His eyes filled. When he had mastered his voice he said eagerly:
"There's but one way, you know. You must leave at once without seeing him."
She lifted her face with a pleading look:
"Just a moment – without letting him know what has passed between us – just one last look into his dear face?"
He shook his head kindly:
"It isn't wise – "
"Yes, I know," she sighed. "I'll go at once."
He drew his watch and looked at it hurriedly:
"The first train leaves in thirty minutes. Get your hat, a coat and travelling bag and go just as you are. I'll send your things – "
"Yes – yes" – she murmured.
"I'll join you in a few days in New York and arrange your future. Leave the house immediately. Tom mustn't see you. Avoid him as you cross the lawn. I'll have a carriage at the gate in a few minutes."
The little head sank again:
"I understand."
He looked uncertainly at the white drooping figure. The serenaders were repeating the chorus of the old song in low, sweet strains that floated over the lawn and stole through the house in weird ghost-like echoes. He returned to her chair and bent over her:
"You won't stop to change your dress, you'll get your hat and coat and go just as you are – at once?"
The brown head nodded slowly and he gazed at her tenderly:
"You've been a brave little girl to-night" – he lifted his hand to place it on her shoulder in the first expression of love he had ever given. The hand paused, held by the struggle of the feelings of centuries of racial pride and the memories of his own bitter tragedy. But the pathos of her suffering and the heroism of her beautiful spirit won. The hand was gently lowered and pressed the soft, round shoulder.
A sob broke from the lonely heart, and her head drooped until it lay prostrate on the table, the beautiful arms outstretched in helpless surrender.
Norton staggered blindly to the door, looked back, lifted his hand and in a quivering voice, said:
"I can never forget this!"
His long stride quickly measured the distance to the gate, and a loud cheer from the serenaders roused the girl from her stupor of pain.
In a moment they began singing again, a love song, that tore her heart with cruel power.
"Oh, God, will they never stop?" she cried, closing her ears with her hands in sheer desperation.
She rose, crossed slowly to the window and looked out on the beautiful moonlit lawn at the old rustic seat where her lover was waiting. She pressed her hand on her throbbing forehead, walked to the center of the room, looked about her in a helpless way and her eye rested on the miniature portrait of Tom. She picked it up and gazed at it tenderly, pressed it to her heart, and with a low sob felt her way through the door and up the stairs to her room.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE PARTING
Tom had grown impatient, waiting in their sheltered seat on the lawn for Helen to return. She had gone on a mysterious mission to see Minerva, laughingly refused to tell him its purpose, but promised to return in a few minutes. When half an hour had passed without a sign he reconnoitered to find Minerva, and to his surprise she, too, had disappeared.
He returned to his trysting place and listened while the serenaders sang their first song. Unable to endure the delay longer he started to the house just as his father hastily left by the front door, and quickly passing the men at the gate, hurried down town.
The coast was clear and he moved cautiously to fathom, if possible, the mystery of Helen's disappearance. Finding no trace of her in Minerva's room, he entered the house and, seeing nothing of her in the halls, thrust his head in the library and found it empty. He walked in, peeping around with a boyish smile expecting her to leap out and surprise him. He opened the French window and looked for her on the porch. He hurried back into the room with a look of surprised disappointment and started to the door opening on the hall of the stairway. He heard distinctly the rustle of a dress and the echo on the stairs of the footstep he knew so well.
He gave a boyish laugh, tiptoed quickly to the old-fashioned settee, dropped behind its high back and waited her coming.
Helen had hastily packed a travelling bag and thrown a coat over her arm. She slowly entered the library to replace the portrait she had taken, kissed it and started with feet of lead and set, staring eyes to slip through the lawn and avoid Tom as she had promised.
As she approached the corner of the settee the boy leaped up with a laugh:
"Where have you been?"
With a quick movement of surprise she threw the bag and coat behind her back. Luckily he had leaped so close he could not see.
"Where've you been?" he repeated.
"Why, I've just come from my room," she replied with an attempt at composure.
"What have you got your hat for?"
She flushed the slightest bit:
"Why, I was going for a walk."
"With a veil – at night – what have you got that veil for?"
The boyish banter in his tones began to yield to a touch of wonder.
Helen hesitated:
"Why, the crowds of singing and shouting men on the streets. I didn't wish to be recognized, and I wanted to hear what the speakers said."
"You were going to leave me and go alone to the speaker's stand?"
"Yes. Your father is going to see you and I was nervous and frightened and wanted to pass the time until you were free again" – she paused, looked at him intently and spoke in a queer monotone – "the negroes who can't read and write have been disfranchised, haven't they?"
"Yes," he answered mechanically, "the ballot should never have been given them."
"Yet there's something pitiful about it after all, isn't there, Tom?" She asked the question with a strained wistfulness that startled the boy.
He answered automatically, but his keen, young eyes were studying with growing anxiety every movement of her face and form and every tone of her voice:
"I don't see it," he said carelessly.
She laid her left hand on his arm, the right hand still holding her bag and coat out of sight.
"Suppose," she whispered, "that you should wake up to-morrow morning and suddenly discover that a strain of negro blood poisoned your veins – what would you do?"
Tom frowned and watched her with a puzzled look:
"Never thought of such a thing!"
She pressed his arm eagerly:
"Think – what would you do?"
"What would I do?" he repeated in blank amazement.
"Yes."
His eyes were holding hers now with a steady stare of alarm. The questions she asked didn't interest him. Her glittering eyes and trembling hand did. Studying her intently he said lightly:
"To be perfectly honest, I'd blow my brains out."
With a cry she staggered back and threw her hand instinctively up as if to ward a blow:
"Yes – yes, you would – wouldn't you?"
He was staring at her now with blanched face and she was vainly trying to hide her bag and coat.
He seized her arms:
"Why are you so excited? Why do you tremble so?" – he drew the arm around that she was holding back – "What is it? What's the matter?"
His eye rested on the bag, he turned deadly pale and she dropped it with a sigh.
"What – what – does this mean?" he gasped. "You are trying to leave me without a word?"
She staggered and fell limp into a seat:
"Oh, Tom, the end has come, and I must go!"
"Go!" he cried indignantly, "then I go, too!"
"But you can't, dear!"
"And why not?"
"Your father has just told me the whole hideous secret of my birth – and it's hopeless!"
"What sort of man do you think I am? What sort of love do you think I've given you? Separate us after the solemn vows we've given to each other! Neither man nor the devil can come between us now!"
She looked at him wistfully:
"It's sweet to hear such words – though I know you can't make them good."
"I'll make them good," he broke in, "with every drop of blood in my veins – and no coward has ever borne my father's name – it's good blood!"
"That's just it – and blood will tell. It's the law of life and I've given up."
"Well, I haven't given up," he protested, "remember that! Try me with your secret – I laugh before I hear it!"
With a gleam of hope in her deep blue eyes she rose trembling:
"You really mean that? If I go an outcast you would go with me?"
"Yes – yes."
"And if a curse is branded on my forehead you'll take its shame as yours?"
"Yes."
She laid her hand on his arm, looked long and yearningly into his eyes, and said:
"Your father has just told me that I am a negress – my mother is an octoroon!"
The boy flinched involuntarily, stared in silence an instant, and his form suddenly stiffened:
"I don't believe a word of it! My father has been deceived. It's preposterous!"
Helen drew closer as if for shelter and clung to his hand wistfully:
"It does seem a horrible joke, doesn't it? I can't realize it. But it's true. The major gave me his solemn word in tears of sympathy. He knew both my father and mother. I am a negress!"
The boy's arm unconsciously shrank the slightest bit from her touch while he stared at her with wildly dilated eyes and spoke in a hoarse whisper:
"It's impossible! It's impossible – I tell you!"
He attempted to lift his hand to place it on his throbbing forehead. Helen clung to him in frantic grief and terror:
"Please, please – don't shrink from me! Have pity on me! If you feel that way, for God's sake don't let me see it – don't let me know it – I – I – can't endure it! I can't – "
The tense figure collapsed in his arms and the brown head sank on his breast with a sob of despair. The boy pressed her to his heart and held her close. He felt her body shiver as he pushed the tangled ringlets back from her high, fair forehead and felt the cold beads of perspiration. The serenaders at the gate were singing again – a negro folk-song. The absurd childish words which he knew so well rang through the house, a chanting mockery.
"There, there," he whispered tenderly, "I didn't shrink from you, dear. I couldn't shrink from you – you only imagined it. I was just stunned for a moment. The blow blinded me. But it's all right now, I see things clearly. I love you – that's all – and love is from God, or it's not love, it's a sham – "
A low sob and she clung to him with desperate tenderness.
He bent his head close until the blonde hair mingled with the rich brown:
"Hush, my own! If a single nerve of my body shrank from your little hand, find it and I'll tear it out!"
She withdrew herself slowly from his embrace, and brushed the tears from her eyes with a little movement of quiet resignation:
"It's all right. I'm calm again and it's all over. I won't mind now if you shrink a little. I'm really glad that you did. It needed just that to convince me that your father was right. Our love would end in the ruin of your life. I see it clearly now. It would become to you at last a conscious degradation. That I couldn't endure."
"I have your solemn vow," he interrupted impatiently, "you're mine! I'll not give you up!"
She looked at him sadly:
"But I'm going, dear, in a few minutes. You can't hold me – now that I know it's for the best."
"You can't mean this?"
She clung to his hand and pressed it with cruel force:
"Don't think it isn't hard. All my life I've been a wistful beggar, eager and hungry for love. In your arms I had forgotten the long days of misery. I've been happy – perfectly, divinely happy! It will be hard, the darkness and the loneliness again. But I can't drag you down, my sweetheart, my hero! Your life must be big and brilliant. I've dreamed it thus. You shall be a man among men, the world's great men – and so I am going out of your life!"
"You shall not!" the boy cried fiercely. "I tell you I don't believe this hideous thing – it's a lie, I tell you – it's a lie, and I don't care who says it! Nothing shall separate us now. I'll go with you to the ends of the earth and if you sink into hell, I'll follow you there, lift you in my arms and fight my way back through its flames!"
She smiled at him tenderly:
"It's beautiful to hear you say that, dearest, but our dream has ended!"
She stooped, took up the bag and coat, paused and looked into his face with the hunger and longing of a life burning in her eyes:
"But I shall keep the memory of every sweet and foolish word you have spoken, every tone of your voice, every line of your face, every smile and trick of your lips and eyes! I know them all. The old darkness will not be the same. I have loved and I have lived. A divine fire has been kindled in my soul. I can go into no world so far I shall not feel the warmth of your love, your kisses on my lips, your strong arms pressing me to your heart – the one true, manly heart that has loved me. I shall see your face forever though I see it through a mist of tears – good-by!"
The last word was the merest whisper.
The boy sprang toward her:
"I won't say it – I won't – I won't!"
"But you must!"
He opened his arms and called in tones of compelling anguish:
"Helen!"
The girl's lips trembled, her eyes grew dim, her fingers were locked in a cruel grip trying to hold the bag which slipped to the floor. And then with a cry she threw herself madly into his arms:
"Oh, I can't give you up, dearest! I can't – I've tried – but I can't!"
He held her clasped without a word, stroking her hair, kissing it tenderly and murmuring little inarticulate cries of love.
Norton suddenly appeared in the door, his face blanched with horror. With a rush of his tall figure he was by their side and hurled them apart:
"My God! Do you know what you're doing?"
He turned on Tom, his face white with pain:
"I forbid you to ever see or speak to this girl again!"
Tom sprang back and confronted his father:
"Forbid!"
Helen lifted her head:
"He's right, Tom."
"Yes," the father said with bated breath, "in the name of the law – by all that's pure and holy, by the memory of the mother who bore you and the angels who guard the sanctity of every home, I forbid you!"
The boy squared himself and drew his figure to its full height:
"You're my father! But I want you to remember that I'm of age. I'm twenty-two years old and I'm a man! Forbid? How dare you use such words to me in the presence of the woman I love?"
Norton's voice dropped to pitiful tenderness:
"You – you – don't understand, my boy. Helen knows that – I'm right. We have talked it over. She has agreed to go at once. The carriage will be at the door in a moment. She can never see you again" – he paused and lifted his hand solemnly above Tom's head – "and in the name of Almighty God I warn you not to attempt to follow her – "
He turned quickly, picked up the fallen bag and coat and added:
"I'll explain all to you at last if I must."
"Well, I won't hear it!" Tom cried in rage. "I'm a free agent! I won't take such orders from you or any other man!"
The sound of the carriage wheels were heard on the graveled drive at the door.
Norton turned to Helen and took her arm:
"Come, Helen, the carriage is waiting."
With a sudden leap Tom was by his side, tore the bag and coat from his hand, hurled them to the floor and turned on his father with blazing eyes:
"Now, look here, Dad, this thing's going too far! You can't bulldoze me. There's one right no American man ever yields without the loss of his self-respect – the right to choose the woman he loves. When Helen leaves this house, I go with her! I'm running this thing now – your carriage needn't wait."
With sudden decision he rushed to the porch and and called:
"Driver!"
"Yassah."
"Go back to your stable – you're not wanted."
"Yassah."
"I'll send for you if I want you – wait a minute till I tell you."
Norton's head drooped and he blindly grasped a chair.
Helen watched him with growing pity, drew near and said softly:
"I'm sorry, major, to have brought you this pain – "
"You promised to go without seeing him!" he exclaimed bitterly.
"I tried. I only gave up for a moment. I fought bravely. Remember now in all you say to Tom that I am going – that I know I must go – "
"Yes, I understand, child," he replied brokenly, "and my heart goes out to you. Mine is heavy to-night with a burden greater than I can bear. You're a brave little girl. The fault isn't yours – it's mine. I've got to face it now" – he paused and looked at her tenderly. "You say that you've been lonely – well, remember that in all your orphan life you never saw an hour as lonely as the one my soul is passing through now! The loneliest road across this earth is the way of sin."
Helen watched him in amazement:
"The way of sin – why – "
Tom's brusque entrance interrupted her. With quick, firm decision he took her arm and led her to the door opening on the hall:
"Wait for me in your room, dear," he said quietly. "I have something to say to my father."
She looked at him timidly:
"You won't forget that he is your father, and loves you better than his own life?"
"I'll not forget."
She started with sudden alarm and whispered:
"You haven't got the pistol that you brought home to-day from the campaign, have you?"
"Surely, dear – "
"Give it to me!" she demanded.
"No."
"Why?" she asked pleadingly.
"I've too much self-respect."
She looked into his clear eyes:
"Forgive me, dear, but I was so frightened just now. You were so violent. I never saw you like that before. I was afraid something might happen in a moment of blind passion, and I could never lift my head again – "
"I'll not forget," he broke in, "if my father does. Run now, dear, I'll join you in a few minutes."
A pressure of the hand, a look of love, and she was gone. The boy closed the door, quickly turned and faced his father.
CHAPTER XXV
FATHER AND SON
Norton had ignored the scene between Helen and Tom and his stunned mind was making a desperate fight to prepare for the struggle that was inevitable.
The thing that gave him fresh courage was the promise the girl had repeated that she would go. Somehow he had grown to trust her implicitly. He hadn't time as yet to realize the pity and pathos of such a trust in such an hour. He simply believed that she would keep her word. He had to win his fight now with the boy without the surrender of his secret. Could he do it? It was doubtful, but he was going to try. His back was to the wall.
Tom took another step into the room and the father turned, drew his tall figure erect in an instinctive movement of sorrowful dignity and reserve and walked to the table.
All traces of anger had passed from the boy's handsome young face and a look of regret had taken its place. He began speaking very quietly and reverently:
"Now, Dad, we must face this thing. It's a tragedy for you perhaps – "
The father interrupted:
"How big a tragedy, my son, I hope that you may never know – "
"Anyhow," Tom went on frankly, "I am ashamed of the way I acted. But you're a manly man and you can understand."
"Yes."
"I know that all you've done is because you love me – "
"How deeply, you can never know."
"I'm sorry if I forgot for a moment the respect I owe you, the reverence and love I hold for you – I've always been proud of you, Dad – of your stainless name, of the birthright you have given me – you know this – "
"Yet it's good to hear you say it!"
"And now that I've said this, you'd as well know first as last that any argument about Helen is idle between us. I'm not going to give up the woman I love!"
"Ah, my boy – "
Tom lifted his hand emphatically:
"It's no use! You needn't tell me that her blood is tainted – I don't believe it!"
The father came closer:
"You do believe it! In the first mad riot of passion you're only trying to fool yourself."
"It's unthinkable, I tell you! and I've made my decision" – he paused a moment and then demanded: "How do you know her blood is tainted?"
The father answered firmly:
"I have the word both of her mother and father."
"Well, I won't take their word. Some natures are their own defense. On them no stain can rest, and I stake my life on Helen's!"
"My boy – "
"Oh, I know what you're going to say – as a theory it's quite correct. But it's one thing to accept a theory, another to meet the thing in your own heart before God alone with your life in your hands."
"What do you mean by that?" the father asked savagely.
"That for the past hour I've been doing some thinking on my own account."
"That's just what you haven't been doing. You haven't thought at all. If you had, you'd know that you can't marry this girl. Come, come, my boy, remember that you have reason and because you have this power that's bigger than all passion, all desire, all impulse, you're a man, not a brute – "
"All right," the boy broke in excitedly, "submit it to reason! I'll stand the test – it's more than you can do. I love this girl – she's my mate. She loves me and I am hers. Haven't I taken my stand squarely on Nature and her highest law?"
"No!"
"What's higher? Social fictions – prejudices?"
The father lifted his head:
"Prejudices! You know as well as I that the white man's instinct of racial purity is not prejudice, but God's first law of life – the instinct of self-preservation! The lion does not mate with the jackal!"
The boy flushed angrily:
"The girl I love is as fair as you or I."
"Even so," was the quick reply, "we inherit ninety per cent. of character from our dead ancestors! Born of a single black progenitor, she is still a negress. Change every black skin in America to-morrow to the white of a lily and we'd yet have ten million negroes – ten million negroes whose blood relatives are living in Africa the life of a savage."
"Granted that what you say it true – and I refuse to believe it – I still have the right to live my own life in my own way."
"No man has the right to live life in his own way if by that way he imperil millions."
"And whom would I imperil?"
"The future American. No white man ever lived who desired to be a negro. Every negro longs to be a white man. No black man has ever added an iota to the knowledge of the world of any value to humanity. In Helen's body flows sixteen million tiny drops of blood – one million black – poisoned by the inheritance of thousands of years of savage cruelty, ignorance, slavery and superstition. The life of generations are bound up in you. In you are wrapt the onward years. Man's place in nature is no longer a myth. You are bound by the laws of heredity – laws that demand a nobler not a baser race of men! Shall we improve the breed of horses and degrade our men? You have no right to damn a child with such a legacy!"
"But I tell you I'm not trying to – I refuse to see in her this stain!"
The father strode angrily to the other side of the room in an effort to control his feelings:
"Because you refuse to think, my boy!" he cried in agony. "I tell you, you can't defy these laws! They are eternal – never new, never old – true a thousand years ago, to-day, to-morrow and on a million years, when this earth is thrown, a burnt cinder, into God's dust heap. I can't tell you what I feel – it strangles me!"
"No, and I can't understand it. I feel one thing, the touch of the hand of the woman I love; hear one thing, the music of her voice – "
"And in that voice, my boy, I hear the crooning of a savage mother! But yesterday our negroes were brought here from the West Soudan, black, chattering savages, nearer the anthropoid ape than any other living creature. And you would dare give to a child such a mother? Who is this dusky figure of the forest with whom you would cross your blood? In old Andy there you see him to-day, a creature half child, half animal. For thousands of years beyond the seas he stole his food, worked his wife, sold his child, and ate his brother – great God, could any tragedy be more hideous than our degradation at last to his racial level!"
"It can't happen! It's a myth!"
"It's the most dangerous thing that threatens the future!" the father cried with desperate earnestness. "A pint of ink can make black gallons of water. The barriers once down, ten million negroes can poison the source of life and character for a hundred million whites. This nation is great for one reason only – because of the breed of men who created the Republic! Oh, my boy, when you look on these walls at your fathers, don't you see this, don't you feel this, don't you know this?"
Tom shook his head:
"To-night I feel and know one thing. I love her! We don't choose whom we love – "
"Ah, but if we are more than animals, if we reason, we do choose whom we marry! Marriage is not merely a question of personal whim, impulse or passion. It's the one divine law on which human society rests. There are always men who hear the call of the Beast and fall below their ideals, who trail the divine standards of life in the dust as they slink under the cover of night – "
"At least, I'm not trying to do that!"
"No, worse! You would trample them under your feet at noon in defiance of the laws of man and God! You're insane for the moment. You're mad with passion. You're not really listening to me at all – I feel it!"
"Perhaps I'm not – "
"Yet you don't question the truth of what I've said. You can't question it. You just stand here blind and maddened by desire, while I beg and plead, saying in your heart: 'I want this woman and I'm going to have her.' You've never faced the question that she's a negress – you can't face it, and yet I tell you that I know it's true!"
The boy turned on his father and studied him angrily for a moment, his blue eyes burning into his, his face flushed and his lips curled with the slightest touch of incredulity:
"And do you really believe all you've been saying to me?"
"As I believe in God!"
With a quick, angry gesture he faced his father:
"Well, you've had a mighty poor way of showing it! If you really believed all you've been saying to me, you wouldn't stop to eat or sleep until every negro is removed from physical contact with the white race. And yet on the day that I was born you placed me in the arms of a negress! The first human face on which I looked was hers. I grew at her breast. You let her love me and teach me to love her. You keep only negro servants. I grow up with them, fall into their lazy ways, laugh at their antics and see life through their eyes, and now that my life touches theirs at a thousand points of contact, you tell me that we must live together and yet a gulf separates us! Why haven't you realized this before? If what you say about Helen is true, in God's name – I ask it out of a heart quivering with anguish – why haven't you realized it before? I demand an answer! I have the right to know!"
Norton's head was lowered while the boy poured out his passionate protest and he lifted it at the end with a look of despair:
"You have the right to know, my boy. But the South has not a valid answer to your cry. The Negro is not here by my act or will, and their continued presence is a constant threat against our civilization. Equality is the law of life and we dare not grant it to the negro unless we are willing to descend to his racial level. We cannot lift him to ours. This truth forced me into a new life purpose twenty years ago. The campaign I have just fought and won is the first step in a larger movement to find an answer to your question in the complete separation of the races – and nothing is surer than that the South will maintain the purity of her home! It's as fixed as her faith in God!"
The boy was quiet a moment and looked at the tall figure with a queer expression:
"Has she maintained it?"
"Yes."
"Is her home life clean?"
"Yes."
"And these millions of children born in the shadows – these mulattoes?"
The older man's lips trembled and his brow clouded:
"The lawless have always defied the law, my son, North, South, East and West, but they have never defended their crimes. Dare to do this thing that's in your heart and you make of crime a virtue and ask God's blessing on it. The difference between the two things is as deep and wide as the gulf between heaven and hell."
"My marriage to Helen will be the purest and most solemn act of my life – "
"Silence, sir!" the father thundered in a burst of uncontrollable passion, as he turned suddenly on him, his face blanched and his whole body trembling. "I tell you once for all that your marriage to this girl is a physical and moral impossibility! And I refuse to argue with you a question that's beyond all argument!"
The two men glared at each other in a duel of wills in which steel cut steel without a tremor of yielding. And then with a sudden flash of anger, Tom turned on his heel crying:
"All right, then!"
With swift, determined step he moved toward the door. The father grasped the corner of the table for support:
"Tom!"
His hands were extended in pitiful appeal when the boy stopped as if in deep study, turned, looked at him, and walked deliberately back:
"I'm going to ask you some personal questions!"
In spite of his attempt at self-control, Norton's face paled. He drew himself up with an attempt at dignified adjustment to the new situation, but his hands were trembling as he nervously repeated:
"Personal questions?"
"Yes. There's something very queer about your position. Your creed forbids you to receive a negro as a social equal?"
"Yes."
The boy suddenly lifted his head:
"Why did you bring Helen into this house?"
"I didn't bring her."
"You didn't invite her?"
"No."
"She says that you did."
"She thought so."
"She got an invitation?"
"Yes."
"Signed with your name?"
"Yes, yes."
"Who dared to write such a letter without your knowledge?"
"I can't tell you that."
"I demand it!"
Norton struggled between anger and fear and finally answered in measured tones:
"It was forged by an enemy who wished to embarrass me in this campaign."
"You know who wrote it?"
"I suspect."
"You don't know?"
"I said, I suspect," was the angry retort.
"And you didn't kill him?"
"In this campaign my hands were tied."
The boy, watching furtively his father's increasing nervousness and anger, continued his questions in a slower, cooler tone:
"When you returned and found her here, you could have put her out?"
