"We've picked out a good husband for you," Warham continued.
"It's Jeb Ferguson."
Susan quivered. "I—I don't want to," she said.
"It ain't a question of what you want," retorted Warham roughly. He was twenty-four hours and a night's sleep away from his first fierce outblazing of fury—away from the influence of his wife and his daughter. If it had not been for his brother Zeke, narrow and cold, the event might have been different. But Zeke was there to keep his "sense of duty" strong. And that he might nerve himself and hide and put down any tendency to be a "soft-hearted fool"—a tendency that threatened to grow as he looked at the girl—the child—he assumed the roughest manner he could muster.
"It ain't a question of what you want," he repeated. "It's a question of what's got to be done, to save my family and you, too—from disgrace. We ain't going to have any more bastards in this family."
The word meant nothing to the girl. But the sound of it, as her uncle pronounced it, made her feel as though the blood were drying up in her veins.
"We ain't going to take any chances," pursued Warham, less roughly; for now that he had looked the situation full and frankly in the face, he had no nerve to brace himself. The necessity of what he was prepared to do and to make her do was too obvious. "Ferguson's here, and Zeke saw the preacher we sent for riding in from the main road. So I've come to tell you. If you'd like to fix up a little, why your Aunt Sallie'll be here in a minute. You want to pray God to make you a good wife. And you ought to be thankful you have sensible relations to step in and save you from yourself."
Susan tried to speak; her voice died in her throat. She made another effort. "I don't want to," she said.
"Then what do you want to do—tell me that!" exclaimed her uncle, rough again. For her manner was very moving, the more so because there was none of the usual appeal to pity and to mercy.
She was silent.
"There isn't anything else for you to do."