“My father was famous,” declared the youth hotly. “He was one of the most famous singers in this country. Everybody knows that—that is, everybody but Grandfather and the gang down here,” he added, in disgust.
“I don't say you're wrong. Laban tells me that some of those singin' folks get awful high wages, more than the cap'n of a steamboat, he says, though that seems like stretchin' it to me. But, as I say, Cap'n Lote was proud, and nobody but the best would satisfy him for Janie, your mother. Well, in that way, you see, he reminds me of General Rolleson in the book.”
“Look here, Mrs. Ellis. Tell me about this business of Dad's marrying my mother. I never knew much of anything about it.”
“You didn't? Did your pa never tell you?”
“No.”
“Humph! That's funny. Still, I don't know's as 'twas, after all, considerin' you was only a boy. Probably he'd have told you some day. Well, I don't suppose there's any secret about it. 'Twas town talk down here when it happened.”
She told him the story of the runaway marriage. Albert listened with interest and the almost incredulous amazement with which the young always receive tales of their parents' love affairs. Love, for people of his age or a trifle older, was a natural and understandable thing, but for his father, as he remembered him, to have behaved in this way was incomprehensible.
“So,” said Rachel, in conclusion, “that's how it happened. That's why Cap'n Lote couldn't ever forgive your father.”
He tossed his head. “Well, he ought to have forgiven him,” he declared. “He was dead lucky to get such a man for a son-in-law, if you ask me.”
“He didn't think so. And he wouldn't ever mention your pa's name.”