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 and I can't command you, else I'd forbid it. I predict for you, though, if you persist in your fool-hardy act, misery and failure.—And these things in you, my first born, will bring an old man's heart in sorrow to the grave.

"Oh, Truman! Truman, my first born, my pride! Don't wrench my heartstrings till I fall into my grave a broken man. Don't do this monstrously rash thing. Give up this foolish love. Be a man and master yourself."

"Yes, but of honor? What about my honor—my pledged and sacred word?" he asked.

"There are rights above such honor as you cling to," stated the father. "There is no honor in rashness that would wreck many lives."

"What about breaking the heart of the girl who's trusted you with her love—her happiness?" Bennet asked.

"Her love, with her southern slave-holding background can't but be passion; her happiness in you but visionary. There is no real love there. When passion dies her love will die," the elder man prophesied.

"Never. Her heart's too simple and honest. I have her happiness in my keeping. Let her fail me if she will. I'll not fail her nor myself. Not if all hell prevails," Truman protested. "When you speak as you do I can't believe you ever knew love. You married for convenience and have lived a sham life; outwardly honorable but inwardly hollow."

"Tut-tut-tut, Boy. Let's not quarrel. Hasty words only mean sorrow and regret," the elder Bennet ended, walking away.