During Clancy's visit to New York in the winter, Mr. Ainsley had spoken of him to his daughter in terms that interested her before she even saw the young man, and the moment the experienced woman of the world (for she was a woman of the world, though but little past her majority) looked upon him she was still more interested, recognizing at a glance the truth that whatever Clancy might be, he was not commonplace. This explains why he was perplexed by the intentness and soft fire of her eyes. If the way opened, she was inclined to give him "a chance." It might cost him dear, as it had others, but that was his affair. She felt that he was highly honored and distinguished in being given what she contemptuously denied to the great majority. The way had opened. She was in Charleston, and now, this particular and lovely June evening found her on a balcony overlooking the shining ripples of the bay, reclining in a cane chair with her head leaning against a pillar and her eyes fixed on him with all the dangerous fascination they possessed. Some soft, white clinging material draped her form that was rendered more graceful than usual by her well-chosen attitude. A spray from an ivy vine hung above her, and its slightly moving shadow flickered on her throat and bosom. She knew she was entrancingly beautiful; so did he. He felt that if he were an artist nothing was left to be desired. As a man he was flattered with her preference and charmed with her beauty. He did not and could not believe that he had more than a passing interest in her mind as yet, and he felt that she would never be more to him than a gifted lovely friend, who could at one and the same time gratify his taste and bestow fine intellectual companionship. They talked freely with lapses of silence between them. These she would occasionally break with little snatches of song from some opera. Her familiarity with life abroad enabled her to say much which supplemented his reading and which interested him. So he was not averse to these interviews and was conscious of no danger.

To her they had an increasing pleasure. She was delighted that Clancy thawed so deliberately, that instead of speedily verging toward sentiment he found more pleasure in her intellectuality than in her outward beauty. So many others to whom she had given a chance had quickly lost both their heads and hearts, and she was beginning to rejoice in the belief that it might require a summer's tactics to beguile him of either. His gray eyes, which appeared dark in the moonlight, were clearly regarding her with quiet admiration, but instead of paying a compliment he would broach some topic so interesting in itself that before she knew it she was talking well and even brilliantly.

This present evening he did pay her a compliment, however, which delighted her. She had stated her view of a subject, and he had replied, "I must differ with you most decidedly, Miss Amsley." Then he added with a little apologetic laugh, "I could have made such a remark to very few ladies. I would have said, 'I beg your pardon, do not think I am contradicting you, but possibly on further reflection—' In brief, I would have gone through the whole conventional circumlocution. You are a woman of mind, and you put your views so strongly and clearly that I forget everything except your thought. Good reason why, your thought is so interesting, all the more so because it is your view, not mine, and because I do not agree with you. Have I made sufficient apology?"

"You have done much more, Mr. Clancy, you have paid me the only kind of a compliment that I enjoy. I am sick of conventionalities, and as for ordinary compliments, I am as satiated as one would be if the entire contents of Huyler's candy-shop had been sent to him."

"Oh, I knew that much before I had seen you five minutes. The only question in my mind was whether you had not been made ill mentally by them as one would be physically by the candy."

"In other words, whether I was a fool or not."

"Precisely."

"Well?"

"No need of that rising inflection. If you were a fool I would not be here."

"I reckon not, as you say in the South."

"Yet you value your beauty, Miss Ainsley."

"Indeed I do, very highly."

"And you know equally well that I admire it greatly, but I value your power of companionship more. Why should not a man and woman entertain each other without compliments, conventionalities and sentimentalities?"

"No reason in the world if they are capable of such companionship. The trouble with so many is that they tumble into these things, especially the last, as if they were blind ditches in their path."

"That is excellent. Do you regard love as a blind ditch?"

"The deepest and worst of them all, judging from the experiences of very many."

"I am inclined to agree with you," he answered very quietly.

A few moments later he rose to take his leave. She gave him her hand without rising, and said, "Good-night. I'm not going to leave this lovely scene till I am sleepy. Come again when you want companionship. Drop conventionality I would like a friend who would talk to me as men of brains talk to men of brains, without circumlocution."

"Very well, then, I shall begin at once. You have a head that ought to inspire an artist, but I like its furniture. I am going to read up on our point of disagreement. If I actually prove you are wrong you must yield like a man."

"I will."

The smile on her lips still lingered as she looked out upon the moonlit waters, and she passed into a delicious revery. At last she murmured, "Yes, he has a chance. I don't know how it will end. I may yield to his argument, but as to yielding to him, that is another affair. The best part of it all is that he is so slow in yielding to me. Here, in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, is a cup that I can at least drain slowly."

Clancy sauntered up Meeting Street, his thoughts preoccupied with the interview. Then half a block in advance two persons entered the thoroughfare, and he recognized Captain Bodine and Mara. He crossed the street so as not to meet them, and they passed in low, earnest conversation. If Miss Ainsley had been in the furthest star, he would not have cared. Every drop of his Southern blood was fired, and, with clinched hands, he strode homeward, and passed a sleepless night.



CHAPTER XIX

A CHIVALROUS IMPULSE

It must be admitted that Clancy had some cause for his perturbation. Captain Bodine was a middle-aged man, who had had deep, if not wide experiences. He had come to regard himself as saddened and way-worn, halting slowly down the westward slope of life, away from the exaltations of vanished joys, and the almost despairing grief of former sorrows.

Memory kept both in sharp outline; nevertheless they were receding, as do hills and mountains which the traveller leaves behind him. The veteran had believed that he had no future besides earning an honest living, and providing for his beloved child.

The traveller—to employ again the figure—often journeys forward in what promises to be a monotonous road. He is not expecting anything, nor is he looking forward to any material change. Unawares he surmounts a little eminence, and there opens a vista which kindles his dull eyes with its beauty, and stirs his heavy heart with the suggestion that he has not passed by and beyond all the best things of life.

Mara's glance of profound and intelligent sympathy had opened such a vista to Bodine's mental vision. It had been enough then; it had been enough since, in the main, that she was the daughter of his old and dearest friend, and that their thoughts, beliefs and sorrows were in such complete accord. Mara had become his daughter's closest friend, as well as co-laborer, and so he heard of her daily, and saw her very often. All that he saw and heard confirmed and deepened his first impressions. A companionship, wonderfully sweet and cheering, was growing between them. He had not yet begun to analyze this, or to recognize whither it was tending, while not a shadow of suspicion crossed her mind. She only felt that she had found a friend who diverted her thoughts, solaced all her trouble, and made the past, to which she believed she belonged, more real, more full of precious memories. The days in the main were passing quietly and evenly for both, full of work and deeply interesting thoughts, and the delightful reunions around the chair of the genial invalid, Mrs. Bodine, increased in number.

The old lady talked and acted as if she had emerged into the warmest sunshine of prosperity, and only Ella could surpass her in blitheness of spirit and comical speeches. They caricatured each other, every one, everything, yet without a particle of malice. Even poor old Mrs. Hunter sometimes had to relax her grim rigidity, and Bodine often laughed with the hearty ring of his old campaigning days. At times Mara was beguiled into the belief that she was happy, that her deep wound was healing. The illusion would last for days together; then something unexpected would occur, and the love of her heart would reveal itself in bitter out-cry against its wrong. If she could only see Clancy in some light which her veritable God-bestowed conscience could condemn, she believed that her struggle would be much easier; but he always confronted her with his earnest, steady eyes, which said, "I have as true a right to think as I do, as you have to think differently. Not even for your sake will I be false." Thus after days of comparative peace, the tempest would again rage in her soul.

Buoyant, happy Ella felt now as if she could trip on through life indefinitely; but one summer morning she tripped into a little adventure which brought unwonted expressions of perplexity into her fair face. She was returning along the shady side of the street from her duties, her face like a blush-rose from the heat, when she observed coming toward her a young man who, from his garb and bearing, caught her eyes. Pretty Ella knew she attracted a great deal of attention from the opposite sex when she appeared in the street, and she was not such a demure little saint as to let a fine, manly figure pass without her observation, but her observance was quick, furtive, like the motion of a bird's eye that looks you over before you are aware of the bird's presence. No staring fellow ever met her blue eyes in the street. On the present occasion the little maiden said to herself, "There's a style of a man I haven't seen, and he's evidently a Northerner, too. Well, he's not bad; indeed he is the best-looking Vandal, as Mrs. Hunter would say—Oh, merciful Heaven! that old woman will be run over."

Her commentary had been interrupted by an express wagon driven recklessly around the corner. Picking her way slowly across the street was a plain, respectable looking old woman, with a basket of parcels on her arm, and, at the moment of Ella's cry, she was almost under the horse's feet, paralyzed with terror. Her cry caught the young man's attention. With a single bound, he was in the street, his right hand and arm forcing the horse back on its haunches, while with his left he gathered up the old woman. Then by a powerful effort he threw the horse's head and forequarters away from him with such force that the shafts cracked. Bearing the woman to the sidewalk, he placed her upon her feet, then went back, picked up her parcels and placed them in her basket. Without waiting to hear her thanks, he lifted his hat and was turning away as if all had been a trifle, when he was confronted by the enraged expressman pouring forth volleys of vituperation. With a chivalric impulse the girl drew nearer the stranger, who looked the bully steadily in the eyes while he kept his hands in his pockets. The man made a gesture as if to strike. Instantly the young fellow's left arm was up in the most scientific attitude of self-defence. "Don't do that, you fool," he said. "Are you too drunk not to see that I'm strong? Clear out, or I'll have you arrested. If you touch me, I'll knock you under the feet of your horse."

There was something in the athlete's bearing, and the way he put up his left arm, which brought the expressman to his senses, and he drew off swearing about the blanked "Northerners, who acted as if they owned the city."

George Houghton—for we may as well give his name at once—regarded the fellow contemptuously an instant, and again turned to pursue his way regardless of the gathering crowd. But his attention was at once arrested by a pair of blue eyes which were so eloquent with admiration and approval, that he smiled and again lifted his hat.

"You are a gentleman," Ella breathed softly, the words coming with scarcely any volition on her part.

A frown instantly darkened Houghton's face, and, with a slight, stiff acknowledgment, he strode away. "Why the deuce shouldn't I be a gentleman!" he muttered. "The very young girls of this town are taught to look upon Northerners as boors. One has only to save an old woman from being run over, face a blackguard, and the wondering expression is wrung from one of the blue-blooded scions, 'You're a gentleman!' And she was blue-blooded. A fellow with half an eye and in half a minute could see that. And I suppose she thought that one of my ilk was no more capable of such a deed than Toots or Uriah Heep. Bah!"

Having thus relieved his mind, young Houghton's step soon grew slower and slower. It was evident that a new and different train of thought had begun in his mind. At last, with characteristic force, he communed with himself:

"Thin-skinned fool! why didn't I look at the girl instead of thinking of my blasted self and pride! Why, that girl's face will haunt me for many a day, whether I ever see her again or not. I'm as bad as these Bourbons themselves in my prejudice. Now I think of it she stood almost alone at my side when others were keeping at a safer distance, fearing a fight. Her look was one of simple, ingenuous approval—almost the expression of a child, and I acted like a brute. That's the Old Harry with me, I act first and think afterward."

A few minutes later he was at the office, and writing rapidly at his father's dictation. After a time Mr. Houghton said, "Take these two letters to Bodine's desk, and tell him to make copies. Then you can go, George. Your vacation is too new for me to take so much of your time."

"See here, father," replied the young man, putting his hand on the old gentleman's shoulder. "You've been here all these years working like thunder to make money, and I've been spending it like thunder. If you're going to keep on working, I'm going to work with you; if you'll knock off and go on a lark with me, I'll guarantee that you'll be ten years younger before fall."

The old man's face softened wonderfully. Indeed one could scarcely imagine it was capable of such an expression.

"Ah, George! you don't, you can't know," he said, "yet my heart is not so dead but that I feel and recognize the spirit in which you speak. My place is here, right here, and I should not be contented anywhere else. But you are just from your studies. You didn't dazzle the faculty by your performances. Perhaps they would say you were a little too much given to boating and that sort of thing. But I am satisfied that you have come home a man, and not a blue-spectacled milk-sop. Help me out a little, and then go off on your lark yourself and recuperate."

"Recuperate!" and the young fellow made the office ring with his laugh. "Feel of that muscle, old gentleman. All the recuperation I need I can get a few hours before and after sundown. I'll go now, however, for there's a spanking breeze on the bay, and I'd like to make a run around Fort Sumter."

"George, George, be prudent. You know that your brother lies at the bottom of that accursed bay."

"There, father, there, he died doing his duty like a man, and you mustn't grieve for him so. Good-by."

The old man looked wistfully after him a moment, then turned his mind, like a strong motor power, to the complicated machinery that was coining wealth.

George went to Bodine, whom he had never seen before, and of whom he knew nothing, and began in his half-boyish way: "Here, mine ancient, father wants—Beg your pardon. Didn't know that you had lost a leg."

"What is it that Mr. Houghton wishes?" said the captain coldly, and turning upon the young man a visage which impressed him instantly.

"I beg your pardon again," said George. "My father would like copies made of these letters;" and he touched his hat as he turned away.

"Thunder!" he muttered as he left the counting-house. "I was told that I was a gentleman for a little trumpery act in the street. That man tells you he is one by a single glance from his sad, stern eyes. He is another of the blue-bloods, Southerner to the backbone. How is it that he is in the old gentleman's employ, I wonder? I supposed father hated ex-Confederates as the Devil does holy water. Bodine, Bodine. I must find out who he is, for he evidently has a history."

He soon forgot all about Bodine in the pleasure of skilfully sailing his boat close to the wind.

Ella had pursued her way homeward with bowed head and a confused sense of shame and resentment. "Suppose I did speak to him, a stranger," she murmured, "was he so dull, or so cold and utterly conventional as to make no allowance for the circumstances? No matter, I've had a lesson that I shall never forget. Hereafter he and his kind may save all the old women in Charleston, and fight all the bullies, and I won't even look at them. If he had had the brains and blood of a frog even, he would have understood me. And he did seem to understand at first, for he smiled pleasantly and lifted his hat. Does he consider it an insult to be told he is a gentleman? Perhaps he thought this fact should be too apparent to be mentioned, or else he thought it bold and unmaidenly to open my lips at all. A plague on him for not being able to see the simple truth. No Southerner would have been so stupid, or ready to think evil."

Thus she communed with herself till she reached her own room. After a little thought, she decided not to speak of the adventure. She had an unusual share of common-sense, and knew that the affair would only give pain to her father and cousin, and that its relation would serve no earthly good to any one.



CHAPTER XX

THE STRANGER EXPLAINS

There are those who touch our life closely, and become essentially a part of it; there are many more who are but casual and passing acquaintances, and yet these very people often unconsciously become the most important factors in our destiny. Ella Bodine was soon to prove this truth. It will of course be understood that her life was not so secluded and restricted that she practically had no acquaintances beyond the characters of our story. Sensible Mrs. Bodine had no intention that her pretty cousin should be hidden behind the prejudices so powerful in those with whom she was immediately associated.

"Cousin Hugh," she said, one day soon after Ella's encounter with Houghton, "how was it with you when you were a young fellow? how was it with me when I was a girl? Do you suppose your daughter is made of different flesh and blood? She is so unselfish in nature and sunny in temperament that you will never learn from her that she has longings for society of her own age. We have no right to keep her among our shadows. We belong to the past; she has a future, and should have the chance which is the right of every young girl. You must not judge her by Mara, who stands by herself, and is not a representative of any ordinary type. She is as old as you are, and a great deal older than I am. She has grown up among shadows and loves them. Ella loves the sunshine, and should have all of it that we can give her. Now, you must let her go out more. I will choose her chaperons, and I reckon I know whom to choose. If I do say it, I would like you to mention any one in Charleston more competent. I know about the fathers and mothers, the grandfathers and grandmothers, and the remote ancestors of every one in Charleston who is any one."

"Cousin Sophy, I believe you are right. I have permitted Ella to be too devoted to me, but we have lived such a precarious life of late—indeed it has been the vital question how we were to live at all. We are now very differently situated. Yes, you are right. Ella should see something of society, and enjoy some of its pleasures, and, as you say, should have her chance." At these final words he sighed deeply.

"I know what that sigh means," resumed the old lady. "You would wish to keep Ella to yourself always—the natural impulse of a father's heart. Yet if you allow this impulse to control you, it will become selfishness of the worst kind. I say again that every girl should have her chance to see and be seen, and to make the most and best of her life according to woman's natural destiny. You may trust me, as I have said, to choose those who shall have the care of Ella when she goes out. She has an invitation to a little company at Mrs. Willoughby's, and a most discreet friend has offered to chaperon her. We'll fix her out so that she will appear as well as any one, and you know our claims don't rest on expensiveness of dress. Mrs. Willoughby comes of one of the oldest and best families in the State. I know she is liberal, and affiliates with Northern people more than I could wish, but they are all said to be of the best class—and I suppose there is a best class among 'em. Good Lor', Hugh! we may feel and think as we please, and can never change, but we can't keep back the rising tide. If there are a few Northern people present Ella won't be contaminated any more than you are by working among Northern people. We have our strong prejudices—that's what they are called—but we must not let them make us ridiculous. Mrs. Willoughby says she's emancipated, and that she'd have whom she pleased in her parlors. She has been abroad so much, you know. Well, well, we'll consider it settled." And so it was.

When Ella was informed of her cousin's plan in her behalf she was half wild with delight. "I may consider myself a debutante," she said. "Oh, Cousin Sophy! how shall I behave?"

"Behave just as a bird flies," said the wise old lady. "If you put on any airs, if you are not your own natural self, I'll shake you when you come home."

The captain saw his child's pleasure, and felt anew the truth of his cousin's words. Ella should be immured no longer. Mara had been invited also, but declined, preferring to spend the evening with Mrs. Bodine.

Mrs. Willoughby's company was not large, and had been selected from various motives. We need mention but one that had influenced her. Miss Ainsley had requested that George Houghton should be invited. Her father and Mr. Houghton had large business interests in common, and at Mr. Ainsley's request the young man had called upon his daughter. She was pleased with him, although she felt herself to be immeasurably older than he. Mrs. Willoughby had also been favorably impressed by his fine appearance and slightly brusque manner.

"Yes," said the astute Miss Ainsley, as they were talking him over after his departure, "he's a big, handsome, finely educated boy, who would walk through your Southern conventionalities as if they were cobwebs, had he a chance."

"Delightful!" cried Mrs. Willoughby. "If I can keep my drawing-room free from insipidity, I am content. As to his walking through our conventionalities, as you term them, let him try it. If he doesn't butt his head against some rather solid walls, I'm mistaken. You don't half know what a bold thing I am doing when I invite old Houghton's son; but then it is just this kind of social temerity that enchants me, and he shall come. I only hope that some good people won't rise up and shake off the dust of their feet."

"Don't worry; you're a privileged character. Mr. Clancy has told me all about it. He admires you immensely because you are so untrammelled."

"He admires you a hundred-fold more. What are you going to do with him?"

"I don't know. I couldn't do anything with him yet. That's his charm. If I didn't know better, I should say he was the coldest—he is not cold at all. The woman who reaches his heart will find a lot of molten lava. I'm often inclined to think it has been reached by some one else, and that his remarkable poise results from a nature fore-armed, or else chilled by a former experience. At any rate, there is a fire smouldering in his nature, and when it breaks out it won't be of the smoky, lurid sort that has so often made me ill. There will be light and heat in plenty."

"Well, you're an odd girl, Caroline. You experiment with men's hearts like an old alchemist, who puts all sorts of substances into his crucible in the hope of finding something that will enrich him."

"And probably, like the old alchemist, I shall never find anything except what, to me, is dross."

Under Mrs. Robertson's wing Ella appeared, and met with a very kindly reception. She had not Miss Ainsley's admirable ease, but she possessed something far better. There was a sweet girlish bloom in addition to her innately refined manner and ingenuous loveliness of face, which made even the experienced belle sigh that she had passed by that phase forever. Yet shrewd Ella's eyes were as busy as they were intelligent. She wondered at Miss Ainsley with mingled admiration and distrust, but she had received a sufficient number of hints from Mrs. Bodine to understand her hostess quite well. She saw Clancy enter, and Miss Ainsley's welcome, and quickly observed that there was a sort of free-masonry between them. Then some one appeared who almost took away her breath. It was the stranger to whom she had spoken so unexpectedly, even to herself. She saw that Mr. Clancy, Miss Ainsley, and Mrs. Willoughby greeted him cordially, but that many others appeared surprised and displeased. Little time was given to note more, for the stranger's eyes fell upon her. He instantly turned to his hostess, and evidently asked for an introduction. With a slight sparkle of mischief in her eyes, Mrs. Willoughby complied, and Ella saw the stranger coming toward her as straight and prompt as if he meant to carry her off bodily. He seemed to ignore every one and everything else in the room, but she was too high-spirited to fall into a panic, or even to be confused. Indeed she found herself growing angry, and was resolving to give him a lesson, when his name was mentioned. Then she was startled, and for an instant confused. This was no other than the son of "that old—Mr. Houghton," as Mrs. Bodine always mentioned him, with a little cough of self-recovery as if she had been on the perilous edge of saying something very unconventional. His father was her father's employer, and the instinctive desire to save her father from trouble led to hesitation in her plan of rebuke and retaliation. Her petty resentment should not lead to any unpleasant complications, and she therefore merely bowed civilly.

Houghton repeated her name as if a victim of momentary surprise himself, and then said with his direct gaze, "I wish to ask ten thousand pardons."

"That is a great many. I shall have to think about granting one."

"If I were you I wouldn't do it," was his next rather brusque remark.

"That is your advice, then?"

"No, indeed. I'm not my own worst enemy. Miss Bodine, circumlocution is not my forte. I had not walked a block away from you the other day before I charged myself with being a fool and a brute. It took just that long for me to get it into my thick head what your manner and words meant, and I've been in a rage with myself ever since."

"Well," she asked, looking down demurely, "what did they mean?"

"They meant you were a brave girl—that from a chivalric impulse you had drawn near when even men stood a little aloof, as if fearing that if the affair came to blows, they might get a chance one themselves. Your face had the frank expression of a child—how often in fancy I've seen it since!—the words came from your lips almost as a child would speak them. Now that I see you again I know how true my second thoughts were of you and of myself. I deserve a whipping instead of your pardon."

There was a point yet to be cleared up in Ella's mind, and she remarked coldly, "I do not see how you could have had any other thoughts than what you term your second thoughts."

"Nor do I, now; and I suppose you can have no mercy on a poor fellow who is often hasty and wrong-headed. I will make a clean breast of it. I was charmed with your expression when first aware of your presence, but when you spoke you touched a sore spot. Miss Bodine, you would not be ostracized at the North. You would be treated with the courtesy and cordiality to which every one would see you to be entitled. Practically I am ostracized here by the class to which you belong. When you spoke I stalked away like a sulky boy, muttering, 'Why shouldn't I be a gentleman?' Even the girls in this town are taught to look upon Northerners as boors. I had only to pick up an old woman, and face a bully, when, as if in utter surprise that one of my ilk should be so grandly heroic, I heard the words, 'You are a gentleman.' You see it was my wretched egotism that got me into the scrape. When I thought of you, not myself, I saw the truth at once, and felt like going back to the expressman and meekly asking him to give me a drubbing."

All was clear to Ella now. Indeed there was a frankness and sincerity about Houghton which left no suspicion of dark corners and mental reservations. As his explanation proceeded she began to laugh. "Well," she remarked, "I had my first thoughts too. I said to myself, as I pursued my way homeward, with burning cheeks, that you or any one else might save all the old women in town, and fight all the bullies, and that I would pass on my way without looking to the right or left."

"Pardon me, Miss Bodine, you are mistaken. Your generous spirit would get the better of you again in two seconds. Heaven grant, however, that next time you may have a gentleman as your ally. For a few moments I ceased to be one, and became an egotistical fool."

"You are too hard upon yourself. Since you interpret me so kindly it would ill become me to—"

"Ella, my dear," said her chaperon, "let me present to you Mr. Vandeveer."

Houghton gave her a bright, grateful glance, rose instantly, and bowed himself away.

Mrs. Robertson had been on pins and needles over this prolonged conference. There was something so resolute about Houghton's manner, and he had placed his chair so adroitly to bar approach to Ella, that the good lady was in sore straits. Mrs. Willoughby saw her perplexity, and felt not a little mischievous pleasure over it. She disappeared that she might not be called upon to interfere. At last in desperation Mrs. Robertson laid hold on Mr. Vandeveer, and ended the ominous interview.

Ella gave rather lame attention to her new companion's commonplaces; then others were introduced, and the evening was drifting away in the ordinary fashion. She soon began to talk well in her own bright way, and had all the attention a young debutante could desire, but she was always conscious of Houghton's presence, and also aware that he was quietly observant of her. She saw that he met with very little cordiality, and that from but a few. Womanlike, she began to take his part in her thoughts, and to feel the injustice shown him. She had an innate sense of fair play, and she resented the manoeuvring of her chaperon to keep him away from her. Yet she soon found herself enjoying abundantly the conversation of such young men as met with Mrs. Robertson's approval. This truth was apparent to that lady's satisfaction, but the independent young woman was not long in resolving that if she went into society she would not go as a child in leading-strings, and she determined that she would speak to Houghton again before the evening was over, if the opportunity offered. He had at last disappeared, but she soon discovered that he was on the balcony with Clancy and Miss Ainsley. Strolling past them with her escort, she heard enough of their bright, merry talk to wish that she had a part in it. It was her nature, however, to avoid him until she could speak under the eye of her chaperon, and she again entered the lighted drawing-room.

Houghton, meanwhile, had been doing some thinking himself. The girl, whose blue eyes had looked at him so approvingly in the street, was taking a stronger hold on his fancy every moment. The relaxation of her cold aspect into mirthfulness, and an approach to kindness had enchanted him; while her ardent, honest, fearless nature appealed to him powerfully. "She strikes me as a woman who would stand by a fellow through thick and thin as long as he was right," he thought, "and if my judgment is correct the whole ex-Confederate army shan't keep me from getting acquainted with her. Ah! how I liked that severe look in her eyes till she knew what my first thoughts were! She has blue blood of the right sort, and I'm sorely mistaken if it doesn't feed a brain that can think for itself."

He also returned to the drawing-room, and was vigilant for an opportunity. It soon occurred. Ella and her attendant were chatting with Mrs. Willoughby a little apart from the others. Houghton joined them instantly, and was encouraged when both the ladies greeted him with a smile. The attendant gentleman soon withdrew, the hostess remained a few moments longer, and then Houghton and Ella were alone.

"You may have observed," he said, "the penalty I pay for being a Northerner."

"Yes," she replied, "and I don't think it's fair."

"Miss Bodine, do you dare think for yourself?"

"I scarcely know how I can help doing so."

"That is just what I was thinking out on the balcony."

"I thought you were charmed by that beautiful Miss Ainsley."

"She has no eyes except for Clancy, and a fine fellow he is too—too good for her, I imagine. I can't make her out."

"Neither can I."

"Oh, bother her! I don't like feminine riddles. Miss Bodine, there's a gentleman in my father's employ bearing your name. Is he a relative?"

"He is my father," she replied proudly.

"I should guess as much if your eyes were not so blue."

"I have my mother's eyes, I am told."

"Well, on that same day—you know—he told me that he was a gentleman: can you guess how?"

"I would rather you should tell me."

"I was sent to him by my father with a message, and I spoke rudely to him at first; not intentionally, but as a harum-scarum young fellow might speak to an elderly man under ordinary circumstances, I meaning nothing more than friendly familiarity. I fear you won't understand, but with you I can't help downright honesty."

"Yes, I understand. He was one of your father's clerks, and you cared little what you said to him."

"Scarcely right, Miss Bodine. With all my faults—and they are legion—I'm good-natured, and do not intentionally hurt people's feelings. What a fine proof of that I gave you in my insufferable stupidity!"

"That's been explained and is past. Please don't refer to it any more."

"Heaven knows I wish to forget it. Well, your father turned to me from his writing. One look was enough. I begged his pardon twice on the spot. That is the way he told me he was a gentleman. It had been so born and bred into him that, unless a fellow was an idiot, one glance told the story."

Her face softened wonderfully as he spoke, and her eyes grew lustrous with feeling, as she said:

"You are not an idiot, Mr. Houghton. I am glad you so quickly appreciated my father. He is more than a gentleman, he is a hero, and I idolize him."

"I should fancy it was a mutual idolatry," and his eyes expressed an admiration of which the dullest girl would have been conscious, and Ella was not dull at all. "I wish we could become acquainted," he added abruptly, and with such hearty emphasis that her color deepened.

Before she could reply, her chaperon managed to separate them again, and she saw him no more until, rather early in the evening, she was bidding her hostess goodnight. Then she encountered such an eager, questioning, friendly look, that she smiled involuntarily, and slightly bowed as she turned away. Mrs. Robertson was so preoccupied at the moment that she did not witness this brief, subtile exchange of—what? Ella did not know, herself, but her heart was wonderfully light, and there was a delicious sense of exhilaration in all her veins.

As they were driving home, Mrs. Robertson began sententiously, "Ella, in the main you behaved admirably. I don't suppose anything better could be expected of one so unversed in society, especially Charleston society. You were natural and refined in your deportment, and bore yourself as became your ancestry. You will soon learn to make discriminations. I had no idea that young Houghton would be present, or I would have told you about him and his father. Mrs. Willoughby is carrying things too far, even if many of our people have consented to wink at much that we disapprove of. Houghton represents the most detested Northern element among us. Of course you, in your inexperience, felt that you must be polite to every man introduced to you, and he talked with the volubility of which only a Yankee is capable. It is scarcely possible that you will meet him anywhere except at Mrs. Willoughby's, and if you go there any more you must learn the art of shaking off an objectionable person speedily. Your meeting Houghton to-night was purely accidental, and I reckon that after you have been out a few times you will learn to choose your associates from those only of whom your father and cousin would approve. Perhaps therefore you had better not say anything about your meeting Houghton, unless you feel that you ought. No harm has been done, and it would only displease your father, and render him adverse to your going out hereafter."

The good lady was a little worried by the fear that her reputation as a chaperon would be damaged, and, sincerely believing that "no harm had been done," and that her homily would remove all danger from the future, she counselled as she thought wisely. Her heart was full of goodwill toward the girl, and she was desirous that nothing should prevent her from enjoying society in her interpretation of the word.

Ella thanked her warmly for her kindness and advice, but she was in deep perplexity, for she had never concealed anything from her father before. Her lightness of heart was already gone, and there were tears in her eyes before she slept.



CHAPTER XXI

UNCLE SHEBA SAT UPON

Old Tobe, keeper of the "rasteran," may have been right in saying that Uncle Sheba had backslidden as far as he could slide, remembering the limitations of a life like his, but circumstances had recently occurred which brought his church relations to a crisis. Tobe was the opposite pole in character to Uncle Sheba. There was an energy about the old caterer which defied age and summer heat. Even his white wool always seemed bristling aggressively and controversially. His fiery spirit influenced his commonest acts. When he boiled potatoes his customers were wont to say "he made 'em bile like de debil."

He carried his energy into his religion, one of his favorite exhortations in the prayer-meeting being, "Ef you sinners wants to'scape you'se got to git up an' git." During the preaching service he took a high seat in the synagogue, and if any one in the range of his vision appeared drowsy he would turn round and glare till the offender roused into consciousness. The children and young people stood in awe of him, and there was a perfect oasis of good behavior surrounding his pew. Once some irreverent young men thought it would be a joke to pretend to "conviction ob sin," and to seek religious counsel of old Tobe, but they came away scared half out of their wits, one of them declaring that he smelt brimstone a week afterward. The Rev. Mr. Birdsall felt that he had a strong ally in Tobe, but he often sighed over the old man's want of discretion.

Uncle Sheba was Tobe's bete noir, and he often inwardly raged over "dat lazy niggah." "De time am comin' w'en dat backslider got to be sot on," he would mutter, and this seemed his one consolation. He could scarcely possess his soul in patience in the hope of this day of retribution; "but I kin hole in till it come, fer it's gwine to come shuah," he occasionally said to some congenial spirits.

Tobe had a very respectable following in the church both as to numbers and character, for many looked upon his zeal as heaven-inspired. At last there came a hot Sunday afternoon which brought his hour and opportunity. Mr. Birdsall was not only expounding, but also pounding the pulpit cushion in order to waken some attention in his audience. Old Tobe had been whirling from one side to the other, and glaring hither and thither, till in desperation he got up and began to nudge and pinch the delinquents. From one of the back pews, however, there soon arose a sound which so increased as to drown even Mr. Birdsall's stentorian voice. Tobe tiptoed to the spot, and, in wrath that he deemed righteous, blended with not a little exultation, looked upon Uncle Sheba. His head had fallen on his bosom, and from his nose were proceeding sounds which would put to shame a high-pressure engine. Aun' Sheba was shaking him on one side and Kern Watson on the other. Audible snickering was general, but this soon gave way to alarm as Aun' Sheba exclaimed aloud, "He's dun gwine an' got de popoplexy shuah."

"Carry him out," said old Tobe, in a whisper which might have been heard in the street.

Two or three men sprang forward to aid, but Kern sternly motioned them back, and, lifting Uncle Sheba's portly form as if it were a child, carried the unconscious man to the vestibule. Scores were about to follow, but Tobe, with his wool bristling as never seen before, held up his hand impressively, and in the same loud whisper heard by all, remarked, "It doan took de hull cong'ration to wait on one po' sinner. Sabe yo'selves, brud'ren an' sisters. Sabe yo'selves, fer de time am a comin' w'en you'se all will be toted out dis yere temple ob de Lawd foot fo'most."

With this grewsome recollection forced upon their attention the people sat down again, wide awake at last. Tobe beckoned to three or four elderly men whom he knew he could rely upon, and they gathered around Uncle Sheba. His wife was slapping him on the back and chafing his hands, while Kern was splashing water in his face. The unfortunate man began to sneeze, and manifest rather convulsive signs of recovery. At last he blurted out, "Dar now, dar now, Aun' Sheba, doan go on so. I'se gwine to bring in de kinlins right smart"

"Bress de Lawd!" exclaimed Aun' Sheba, "dat soun' nat'rel. No popoplexy in dat ar kin' ob talk."

Tobe and his allies exchanged significant glances. Uncle Sheba was brought to his senses sufficiently to be supported home by his wife and son-in-law. He soon became aware that he had committed an awful indiscretion, for Watson looked stern, and there was a portentous solemnity in Aun' Sheba's expression. He began to enter on excuses. "I was jis' come ober by de heat," he said. "'Tween de heat an' de po'ful sarmon, I was jis' dat 'pressed dat de sperit went out ob me."

"Mr. Buggone," replied his wife, severely, "it was wat went inter you, an' not wat wen' out ob you, dat made de trouble. You jes' gormidized at dinnah. I'se gwine to cut off you'se 'lowance one-half."

At this dire threat Uncle Sheba groaned aloud, feeling that his sin had overtaken him swiftly indeed. His supper was meagre, and to his plaintive remarks Aun' Sheba made no reply, but maintained an ominous silence until sleep again brought the relief of oblivion.

After Uncle Sheba's departure, Tobe and the other pillars of the church held a whispered conference in the vestibule, and soon agreed up their course. When the services were over, they, with other sympathizers, waited upon the minister. Mr. Birdsall was hot, tired, and incensed himself, and so was in a mood to listen to their representations.

"Hit's time dis yere scan'el was r'moved," said Tobe, solemnly. "We mus'purge ourselves. Mr. Buggone should be sot on, an' 'spended at de berry leas'; an' ter make de right 'pression on oders dat's gettin' weak in dere speritool jints, I move we sot on Mr. Buggone's case to-morrer ebenin'."

Mr. Birdsall was made to feel that it was his duty to accede, but he already felt sorry for Aun' Sheba and the Watsons, and had misgivings as to the result.

"Well," said he at last, "I'll agree to a prelim'nary conf'rence to-morrow evenin' at Mr. Buggone's house. Brud-'ren, we must proceed in de spirit ob lub an' charity, an' do our best to pluck a bran' from de burnin'."

In the morning he went around to prepare Aun' Sheba for the ordeal, but she and Vilet had gone out upon their mercantile pursuits, and Uncle Sheba also had disappeared. To Sissy the direful intelligence was communicated. In spite of all Mr. Birdsall's efforts to console, she was left sobbing and rocking back and forth in her chair. When Kern came home, he heard the news with a rigid face.

"Well," he said, "ef it's right, it's right. Ef I'd done wrong I'd stan' up an' face wot come ob it."

Uncle Sheba knew when his wife would return, and was ready to receive her in the meekest of moods. He had cut an unusual quantity of wood and kindlings, but they failed to propitiate. Sissy soon called her mother to come over to her cabin to hear of Mr. Birdsall's visit, and all that it portended. Aun' Sheba listened in silence, and sat for a long time in deep thought, while Sissy and Vilet sobbed quietly. At last the old woman said firmly, "Sissy, I wants you and Kern ter be on han'. Vilet kin take keer ob do chillun. Dis am gwine ter be a solemn 'casion, an' de Lawd on'y knows wot's gwine ter come out ob it. Anyhow dis fam'ly mus' stan' by one noder. My mind ain't clar jes yit, but'll git clar wen de'mergency comes; I jes' feel it in my bones it'll git clar den."

There was such an awful solemnity in her aspect when she returned, that Uncle Sheba was actually scared. It seemed to him that her manner could not be more depressing if she were making preparations for his funeral. His trepidation was increased when he was told briefly and sternly to put on his "Sunday-go-to-meetin's."

"Wotfer, Aun' Sheba?"

"You'se know soon 'nuff. De Elder's gwine to call on you dis ebenin'. Ef you'd had de popoplexy in arnest, we'd make great 'lowance fer you, but wen you eat an' drink till you mos' ready to bust, and den'sturb de hull meetin' by snortin' like a 'potamus, dar's got to be trouble, an' I'se got to meet it."

Uncle Sheba did as he was directed, with the feeling that the judgment day had come.

Meanwhile old Tobe had prepared his indictment, and marshalled his forces for the occasion. At seven in the evening he led them to the nearest corner, and waited for Mr. Birdsall, who soon appeared. Led by him, they entered Aun' Sheba's living-room in solemn procession. Although the evening was warm, there was a fire on the hearth, for she had said, "Dere's gwine ter be notin' wantin' to de 'casion." All the chairs had been brought in from Watson's cabin, and he and Sissy sat in the background. Uncle Sheba had been placed on the further side of the hearth, and was fairly trembling with apprehension. He tried to assume a pious, penitent air, but failed miserably. Aun' Sheba made an imposing spectacle.

She had arrayed herself in her Sunday gown and had wound a flaming turban about her head. Apparently she was the most collected person present, except Kern Watson who sat back in shadow, his face quiet and stern. As the minister and committee entered she rose with dignity and said, "Elder an' brud'ren, take cheers."

Then she sat down again, folded her hands and gazed intently at the ceiling.

If old Tobe was not cool, as indeed he never was, he was undaunted, and only waited for the minister to prepare the way before he opened on Uncle Sheba. A few moments of oppressive silence occurred, daring which the culprit shook as if he had an ague, but Aun' Sheba did not even wink. Mr. Birdsall, regarding her portentous aspect with increased misgiving, began at last in a mournful voice, "Mis Buggone, dis is a very sorrowful 'casion. We are here not as you'se enemies but as you'se fren's. Our duty is painful, 'stremely so, but de brud'ren feel dat de time is come wen Mr. Buggone mus' be made to see de error ob his ways, dat dere mus' be no mo' precrastination. De honah ob de church is japerdized. Neber-de-less he is a free-agent. De lamp still holes out to burn—"

"An' de wilest sinner can return," interrupted Aun' Sheba, nodding her head repeatedly. "I unerstan'. You means well, Elder."

Old Tobe could hold in no longer, and began excitedly, "De question am weder de wile sinner's gwine ter return, or wants ter return, or's got any return in 'im. Elder, I feels fer Mis Buggone an' her family, but dis yere ting's gwine on long anuff. We'se been forbearin' an' long-sufferin' till dere's a scan'el in de church. I'se tried wid all my might 'er keep de people awake an' listenin', and I'se gettin' dun beat out. Ef we wink at dis awful 'zample you mought as well go to de grabeyard an' preach. It ud be mo' comfable fer you, kase dey'd hear jus' as well, an' dey wouldn't 'sturbe de'scorse by snorin' de roof off. Now I ask de sense ob dis meetin'. Wen a member backslide so he do notin' but eat an' sleep, oughtener he be sot on?"

There was audible approval from all of Tobe's followers, and he was encouraged to go on.

"Ef Mr. Buggone mus' sleep mos' ob de time let him sleep peac' ble in his own house, but de Scripter say, 'Wake dem dat sleepest,' an' we say it's time Mr. Buggone woke up. Any cullud pusson dat kin snore so po'ful as Mr. Buggone needn't say he weakly an' po'ly. Hafe de poah he put in his snore ud lif' 'im right along in all good works, week days an' Sundays. But I'se los' faith in 'im. He's been 'spostulated an' 'monstrated with, an' 'zorted so often dat he's hardened an' his conscience zeered wid a hot iron. We'se jes' got to take sich sinners in han', or de paster-lot won't hole de flock no mo'. I move we take steps to s'pend Mr. Buggone."

"Secon' dat motion," said one of his followers promptly.

"Mr. an' Mis Buggone, have you nothin' to say?" asked Mr. Birdsall sadly.

"Elder," began Uncle Sheba in his most plaintive tone, "you know de heat yistidy was po'ful—"

"Mr. Buggone," interrupted his wife severely, "dis ain't no 'casion fer beatin' round de bush an' creepin troo knotholes. You knows de truf an' I knows de truf. No, Elder, we'se got not'in ter say at jes' dis time."

"Den, Elder, you put de motion dat we take steps," said Tobe, promptly.

With evident reluctance Mr. Birdsall did so, and the affirmative was unanimously voted by the committee.

"I wants ter be s'pended too," said Aun' Sheba, still gazing at the ceiling.

"Now, Mis Buggone, dere would be no right nor reason in dat," the minister protested.

"Elder, I doesn't say you-uns ain't all right, an' I does say you means well, but I'se de bes' jedge of my inard speritool frame. Hit was neber jes' clar in my mind dat I was 'ligious, an' now I know I ain't 'ligious, an' I wants ter be s'pended."

"But it is clar in my mind dat you are religious, dat you'se a good woman. Would to de good Lawd dat de church was full ob Christians like you!"

"I'se spoke my min'," persisted Aun' Sheba, doggedly. "Ole Tobe shall hab his way an' de church be purged."

"Elder," said Tobe, now quite carried away by zeal and exultation, "p'raps Mis Buggoue am de bes' jedge. Ef she feel she ain't one ob de aninted ones—"

"Peace!" commanded Mr. Birdsall, "never with my consent shall any steps be taken to suspend Mis Buggone. You forgits, Tobe, how easy it is to pull up de wheat wid de tares."

"Den I s'pend myself," said Aun' Sheba, "an' I is s'pended. Now I gwine ter 'fess de truf. I gave Mr. Buggone an extra Sunday dinner yistidy. I was puff up wid pride kase business was good, an' I bress de Lawd fer prosperin' me. Den like a fool I 'dulge myself and I 'dulge Mr. Buggone. Ef he's ter be s'pended fer a snorin' sleep, I oughter be s'pended fer a dozin' sleep, fer I was a-dozin'; an' I feels it in my bones dat we bofe oughter be s'pended, an' I is, no matter wot you does wid Mr. Buggone. Now, Tobe, you hab had you'se say, an' I'se a-gwine to hab mine. You'se got a heap ob zeal. You wouldn't lead de flock; you'd dribe 'em, you'd chase 'em, you'd worry de bery wool off ob dem. Whar you git you sperit fum? You ain't willin' ter wait till de jedgment day; you'd hab a jedgment ebery day in de week. You'se like dem 'siples dat was allers wantin' ter call down fiah from Heben. Look out you don't get scorched yo'self. I can't be 'ligious long o' you, an' if you got 'ligion I habn't. Elder, you says de Lawd libed yere on dis yarth. I ony wish I'd libed in dem days. I'd a cooked, an' washed, an' ironed, an' baked fer Him an' all de 'siples. Den like anuff He'd say: 'Ole Aun' Sheba, you means well. I won't be hard on you nor none of you'se folks when de jedgment day comes.' But so much happen since dat ar time wen He was yere dat I kinder got mixed up. I reckon I jes' be s'pended, an' let Him put de ole woman whar she belong wen de time comes."

There was pathos in her tones; her stoicism had passed away, and tears were streaming from her eyes, while Sissy was sobbing audibly. The committee at first had been aghast at the result of the meeting, and now their emotional natures were being excited also. Old Tobe was disconcerted, and still more so when Aun' Sheba suddenly rallied, and, turning upon him, said with ominous nods, "Wen dat day come, Old Tobe, you won't be de jedge."

Thus far Kern Watson had sat silent as a statue, but now his strong feelings and religious instincts gained the mastery. Lifting up his powerful mellow voice he sang:

"The people was a-gatherin' from far and neah; Some come fer fishes an' some ter heah; But He fed dem all, an' He look so kin' Dat dey followed, dey followed, an' none stay behin'

"But one got loss, an' he wandered far, De night come dark, no moon, no star; De lions roared an' de storm rose high, An' de po' loss one lie down ter die.

"Den come a voice, an' de win's went down, An' de lions grovel on de groun', An' de po' loss one am foun' an' sabed, For de Shepherd ebery danger brabed."

These words, as sung by Kern, routed old Tobe completely; he hung his head and had not a word to say. The committee had beaten time with their feet, and began to clap their hands softly. Then Mr. Birdsall, with kindly energy, exhorted Uncle Sheba, who groaned aloud and said "Amen" as if in the depths of penitence. A long prayer followed which even moved old Tobe, for Aun' Sheba had shaken his self-confidence terribly. The little company broke up with hand-shaking all around, Tobe saying: "Sister Buggone, I bears no ill-will. I'se gwine ter look inter my speritool frame, an' ef I cotch de debil playin' hob wid me he's gwine to be put out, hoof an' horns."

Aun' Sheba wrung her son-in-law's hand, as she said: "You'se singin', Kern, kinder went to de right spot. Neber-de-less I'se s'pended till I feels mo' shuah."

Sissy kissed her mother and father affectionately, and then the old couple were left alone. Aun' Sheba gazed thoughtfully into the dying fire, but before long Uncle Sheba began to hitch uneasily in his chair. Finally he mustered up courage to say: "Aun' Sheba, dis am been bery po'ful 'casion, bery tryin' to my narbes an' feelin's. Yet I feels kinder good an' hopeful in my inards. Ef I wasn't jes' so dun beat out I'd feel mo' good. P'raps now, 'siderin' all I'se pass troo, you wouldn't min' gibin' me a bit ob dat cole ham an' hoe-cake—"

"Mr. Buggone," began Aun' Sheba sternly, then she suddenly paused, threw her apron over her head and rocked back and forth.

"Dar now, Aun' Sheba, dar now, doan go on so. I was ony a sigestin' kase I feels po'ly, but I kin stan' it."

"I'se no better dan old Tobe hisself," groaned Aun' Sheba. "All on us is hard on some one, while a hopin' fer marcy ourselves. Ef you'se hebin is in de cubud, go in dar an' hep a sef." And she rose and opened the door of the treasure-house.

"I'se jes' take a leetle bite, Aun' Sheba, jes a leetle comf'tin bite, kase I'se been so sot on dat I feels bery weakly an' gone-like."

Uncle Sheba was soon comforted and sleeping, but Aun' Sheba still sat by the hearth until the last glowing embers turned to ashes. "Yes," she muttered at last, "I'se s'pended till I feels mo' shuah."



CHAPTER XXII

YOUNG HOUGHTON IS DISCUSSED

Sleep and buoyancy of temperament enabled Ella to see everything in a very different light the following morning. "The idea of my taking what happened last night so seriously!" she said aloud while making her toilet. "As Mrs. Robertson said, 'no harm has been done.' Of course I shall tell papa and Cousin Sophy that I met and talked to Mr. Houghton. What if I did? He was introduced to me just as the others were, and what do I care for him? He was a very agreeable Vandal, and I'm glad to have had a chance to see what Vandals are like. As with other bugaboos they lose their terrors under close inspection."

At breakfast, therefore, she was merrier than usual, and gave a graphic and humorous account of the company, expatiating on the beauty and mystery of Miss Ainsley, her preference for Clancy, and his apparent devotion to her.

"By the way," she said at last, "who do you think was there? You can't guess, so I will tell you—young Mr. Houghton."

"What! the son of that old-beg pardon, Cousin Hugh," and Mrs. Bodine laughingly added, "It nearly slipped out that time."

"I hope he was not presented to you, Ella," said her father gravely.

"Well, he was, and by Mrs. Willoughby. I didn't talk with him very much, but of course I had to be polite. When I first heard his name I felt that I should be polite for your sake; and I was rather sorry for him, too, because so many evidently frowned on his presence."

"You need not be polite to him again for my sake," said her father decidedly. "I am under no obligations to him or his father, and this is a case into which policy cannot enter. I do not blame you, however," he added, more kindly, "for you acted from good impulses. Of course, as you say, you must be polite to every one, but you have a perfect right to be cold toward those who are unfriendly to us, and with whom we can never have any part or lot. I have been in Mr. Houghton's employ long enough to be convinced more fully, if possible, that, while he is an honest man, he has not a particle of sympathy with or for our people. I told him from the start that there could be no social relations between us. You must learn to avoid and shake off people who are objectionable."

"Well," said Ella, laughing, "I won't have to shake off people while under Mrs. Robertson's wing. She bore down upon us, as Cousin Sophy would say, like a seventy-four of the line. Dear papa, you know that Mr. Houghton is nothing to me, but it scarcely seems fair that he should be punished for the sins of his father."

"You need not punish him, my dear. Simply have nothing to do with him. He is the last person in the world to be regarded as an object of sympathy," and her father spoke a little irritably.

Ella thought it wise to make no further reference to him. "After all," she thought, "what does it matter? I'm glad he had a chance to explain that disagreeable episode in the street, and now I am practically done with him. I can at least be civil, should we ever meet again, and there it will end."

"Mrs. Willoughby is going too far," said Mrs. Bodine, musingly. "If she continues to invite such people she may find that other invitations will be declined without regrets. We haven't much left to us, but we can at least choose our associates."

"Don't be alarmed," said Ella lightly. "I did not invite him to spend this evening with us," and kissing her father and cousin good-by, she started for Mara's home.

Her thoughts were busy on the way, and they were chiefly of a self-gratulatory character. The whole episode now amused her greatly, for she could not help agreeing with her father that the great, strapping fellow was not an object of sympathy. "He probably has a score of flames at the North," she thought, "and wouldn't mind adding a little Southern girl to the number, especially as she is a sort of forbidden fruit to him. Well, he's not a bad fellow, if he is that old blank's son, as Cousin Sophy always suggests. Nevertheless, I don't think he's treated fairly, and I can't keep up these old bitter feelings. What had he or I to do with the war, I'd like to know? Well, well, I suppose it's natural for those who went through it to feel as they do, but I wish Mara wasn't so bound up in the past. It isn't fair to him," she broke out again. "He said I wouldn't be ostracized at the North. Bother! it don't matter what he said. As to our getting acquainted—" And she almost laughed outright at the preposterous idea.

She and Mara were soon busy as usual, and as opportunity offered, she told her fellow-worker of the events of the evening. Mara, with a languid interest, inquired about those whom she knew, and how they appeared, and she sometimes laughed aloud at Ella's droll descriptions. She was even more emphatic in her disapproval of young Houghton's presence than the captain or Mrs. Bodine had been. "I shall never accept any invitation from Mrs. Willoughby after this," she said firmly.

"Well now, Mara," replied Ella, with a little toss of her head, "I can't share in that spirit. Mr. Houghton is a gentleman, and I could meet him in society, chat with him, and let it end there. We can't keep this thing up forever, that is, we of the younger generations. Why should I hate that big, good-natured fellow? The very idea seems ridiculous. I could laugh at him, and tease and satirize him a little, but I could no more feel as you do toward him, than I could cherish an enmity toward a sunflower. Still, since father feels as he does, I shall have to cut him as far as possible, should I ever meet him again, which is not probable. I reckon that Mrs. Willoughby will be so crushed that even she won't invite him any more."

"I should hope not, truly."

"Well, she has a Northern girl visiting her, and a very remarkable looking girl she is."

"That is a different affair, although I do not approve of it. Miss Ainsley is the daughter of a rich man who is doing much for the South, and who feels kindly toward us, while old Mr. Houghton detests us as heartily as we do him. He is absorbing our business and taking it away from Southern men, and he exults over the fact. Miss Ainsley is certainly a very beautiful girl, for I've seen her. I suppose she received much attention." Mara purposely turned her back on Ella, and busied herself in the further part of the kitchen. She had heard rumors of Clancy's attention to the fair Northerner, and she both dreaded and hoped to have them verified. "Anything," she sighed, "oh, anything which will break his hold upon my heart!"

Unconsciously, Ella gave her more information than she could well endure. "I reckon she did receive attention, very concentrated attention, and that was all she cared for evidently. She was rather languid until Mr. Clancy appeared, and then she welcomed him with all her brilliant eyes. He looked as if he understood her perfectly, and they spent most of the evening on the shadowy balcony together. It is another case of the North conquering the South; but if I were a man, I'd think twice before surrendering to that girl. I had an instinctive distrust of her."

Mara felt that she was growing pale, and she immediately busied herself about the stove until her face flamed with the heat.

"You don't seem to take much interest in the affair," Ella remarked, as Mara continued silent.

"I never expect to make Miss Ainsley's acquaintance," was the quiet reply, "and Mr. Clancy in my view has almost ceased to be a Southerner."

"Well, I never met him before, and have only heard a little about him from cousin Sophy, and that not in his favor. He has a strong, intelligent face though, and a very resolute look in his eyes."

"Yes," admitted Mara coldly, "I reckon he's one who would have his own way without much regard for others."

"He may slip up for once. Miss Ainsley struck me as a girl who would have her way, no matter how many hearts she fractured."

Aun' Sheba and Vilet now entered, diverting Ella's thoughts. The old woman sat down rather wearily, a look of deep dejection on her face.

"Look here, Aun' Sheba," said the lively girl, "you're not well, or else something is troubling you. You looked down-hearted yesterday, and you look funereal now."

"We'se been sot on," said Aun' Sheba solemnly.

"'Sot on!' good gracious! Aun' Sheba, what do you mean?"

"Well, dey sot on my ole man, an' husband an' wife am me. Hit didn't turn out bad as I s'posed it would, bress tat ar son-in-law ob mine, but I keeps a tinkin' it all ober, an' I'se 'jected, I is; an' dar's no use ob shoutin' glory wen you doan feel glory." Then she told the whole story, which kept Ella on pins and needles, for, while she felt an honest sympathy for the poor soul, she had an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh.

"Yes, Missy Mara," concluded Aun' Sheba pathetically, "I'se s'pended, I s'pended myself, an' I'se gwine to stay s'pended till I feels mo' shuah."

"Suspended, Aun' Sheba!" said Mara, starting, suddenly becoming conscious of present surroundings.

Aun' Sheba looked at her wonderingly, but voluble Ella made it all right by saying, "No wonder Mara exclaimed. The idea! I wish I was half as good as you are."

"Oh, yes," cried Mara, striving to conceal her deep preoccupation, "that's the way with Aun' Sheba; the better she is, the worse she thinks she is. Do you mean to say that your church people have suspended you?"

"No. I'se s'pended myself. Didn't I tole you?"

"There, there, Aunty, I didn't understand. I believe in you and always will."

"Well, honey, I reckon you'se ole nuss'll alers be do same ter you wheder she'se 'ligious or no."

Both the girls now stood beside her, with a hand on either shoulder, and Ella said heartily, "Now, Aun' Sheba, it is just as you said, you're 'jected; you've got the blues, and everything looks blue and out of shape to you. You can't see the truth any more than if you were cross-eyed. I can prove to you whether you're 'ligious or not. Vilet, ain't your grandma a good Christian woman?"

"'Deed an' she is troo an' troo," said the child, who had been a silent, yet deeply sympathetic listener. "Many's de time she's sent me wid good tings to po' sick folks."

"There now," cried Ella. "Aun' Sheba, you've got to believe the Bible. 'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,' it says. You can't deceive a child. Vilet knows better than you do."

"Shuah now, does you tink it's dataway?" and Aun' Sheba looked up with hope in her eyes.

"Of course we think it's that way," said Ella. "Aun' Sheba, you know a heap, as you say, about many things, but you don't half know how good you are."

"I know how bad I is anyhow. I tells you I was in a dozin' sleep."

"Well, I've been in a dozin' sleep many a time," said Ella, "and I'm not going to be suspended by any one, not even myself."

"Aun' Sheba," said Mara gently but firmly, "you know I'm in earnest, and how much I love you for all your goodness ever since I was a helpless baby. You wouldn't say hard, untrue things against any one else. You have no more right to be unjust to yourself. As Ella says, I wish I was as good a Christian as you are."

"Now, Missy Mara, no mo' ob dat ar talk. I knows my inard feelin's bes' ob any one. What Vilet say chirk me up po'fully, kase she see me ebery day. I tell you what I'se gwine ter do; I'se gwine ter put myself on 'bation, and den see wot come ob it. Now, honeys, I'se 'feered long nuff wid business. You'se dun me good, honey lam's, an' de Lawd bress you bofe. I'se tote de basket a heap pearter fer dis yere talk. I feels a monst'us sight betteh. Wish I could see you, honey, lookin' as plump as Missy Ella. Dat do me mos' as much good as feelin' 'ligious."

Mara worried Mrs. Hunter over her pretence of making a dinner, and then gladly sought the solitude of her own room. At last she said with a bitter smile, "He has broken the last shred that bound me." But as the hours passed in tumultuous thoughts, her heart told her how vain were such words.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE WARNING

Captain Bodine was halting serenely down into that new vista in his life of which we have already spoken. Every day both promise and fulfilment seemed richer than he had ever imagined any future experience could be. He was domiciled in a home exactly to his taste; his cousin's brave, cheerful spirit was infectious; the worry of financial straits was over, and Ella was blooming and happy. These favorable changes in themselves would have done much toward banishing gloom and despondency; but another element had entered into his existence which was as unexpected as it was sweet. A deep, subtile exhilaration was growing out of his companionship with Mara. Every long, quiet talk that he enjoyed with her left a longing for another. She was learning to regard him almost as a father, but he did not think of her as he did of Ella. He loved Ella as his child, but her buoyant spirit, her intense enjoyment of the present, and her eager, hopeful eyes, fixed upon the future, separated her from him. He did not wish it otherwise in her case, for he hoped that there was a happy future for her, and he rejoiced daily over the gladness in her face. Mara, although so young, seemed of his own generation. He often repeated to himself his cousin's words, "She is as old as you are." She appeared to live in the past as truly as himself. There was scarcely a subject on which they were not in sympathy.

He believed that Mrs. Bodine was right, and that Mara was essentially different from others of her age. Indeed the impression grew upon him that the mysterious principle of heredity had prepared her for the companionship which apparently was valued as much by her as by himself. During the many hours in which he was alone, he thought the subject over in all its aspects, as he supposed, and a hope, exquisitely alluring, began to take form in his heart.

No man is without a certain amount of egotism and self-love, and, although these were not characteristics of Bodine, he could not help dwelling upon the truth that the remainder of his life would be very different from what he had expected could Mara be near to him.

Her eloquent look of sympathy so soon after they met began to take the form of prophecy. At first it led him to believe that she would receive a paternal, loving regard, much the same as he gave to Ella; but, as time passed, he began to dwell upon the possibility of a closer tie. She appeared to have no especial friends among young men, nor indeed to care for any. Might not a strong, quiet affection grow in each heart until they could become one in the closest sense, even as they were now one in so many of their thoughts and views?

It was natural that his deepening regard should tinge his manner, yet Mara dreamed of nothing beyond the affection which she was glad to receive from him. Vigilant eyes, however, were following Captain Bodine, and Clancy, with a lover's jealous intuition, was guessing his rival's thoughts and intentions more clearly every day. He did not adopt any system of espionage, nor did he ask questions of any one, but merely took occasion to walk on the Battery at an hour when it was most frequented. Here he often saw Mara and the veteran enjoying the cool sunset hour, and sometimes he observed that Mara saw him. So far from shunning such observation, he not infrequently compelled her recognition, which was always coldly bestowed upon her part.

"It would seem that Mr. Clancy is more inclined to be friendly than you are," Bodine remarked one evening.

"Before Mr. Clancy valued Northern friends more than Southern ones we were friendly," was Mara's quiet reply. She had schooled herself now into outward self-control, but she chafed at his presence, and thought he happened to be near her too frequently. Still it was ever will versus heart, for the latter always acknowledged him as master.

He was satisfied that his impressions in regard to Bodine were correct, and was impelled by his love to make an effort to save her from drifting into relations which he believed must inevitably destroy her chance for happiness. His strong, keen mind had analyzed her every word, tone, and varying expression, and he had become quite sure that her bearing toward him was not the result of indifference, but was rather due to pride, and a resolute purpose not to yield to him unless he adopted her views. He also understood her sufficiently well to dread lest a morbid sense of loyalty to her father's memory might lead her to accept his friend and old companion in arms.

"Her immediate associates would encourage the idea," he thought, "and there are none to advise or warn her except myself. She is morbid and unbalanced enough to commit just such a fatal error. Her bringing up, and all the influence of that warped Mrs. Hunter, would lead her to sacrifice herself to the manes of her ancestors. Yet how can I warn her—how can I reach her except I write? I wish to look into her eyes when I speak. I wish to plead with her with all the power that I possibly possess. Great Heaven! if this that I fear should happen, what an awakening she might have when it was too late!"

At last he resolved on the simplest and most straightforward course, and wrote—

"MARA—Will you grant me one more interview—the last, unless you freely concede others. I have something important to say to you, something that relates far more to your happiness than to my own. In excuse for my request, I have nothing better to plead than my love which you have rejected, and yet which entitles me to some consideration. I think my motive is unselfish—as unselfish as can be possible under the circumstances. You may treat me as you please, but your welfare will always be dear to me. I shall not seek to change your convictions, nor shall I plead for myself, for I know that all this would be useless; but I wish to see you face to face once more alone in your own home. I must also request that Mrs. Hunter will not interfere with our interview. You are not a child, and you know that I am a gentleman, and that I am incapable of saying a word at variance with my profound respect for you. OWEN CLANCY."

Mara was deeply agitated by this missive. Her first emotion was that of anger, as much at herself as at him—a confused resentment that his words, his very handwriting, should so move her, and that he should venture to write at all. Had she not made it sufficiently plain that he had no right to take, or, at least, to manifest any such interest in her affairs? Were all her efforts futile to hide her love? In spite of her habit of reserve and repression she had a passionate heart, and this fact had been forced upon her by vain and continuous struggles. Had he the penetration to learn the truth? She could not tell, and this uncertainty touched her pride to the very quick. After hours of wavering purpose, impulses to ignore him and his request, moments of tenderness in which will, pride, and every consideration were almost overwhelmed, she at last arrived at a fixed resolution. "I will see him," she murmured. "He has virtually told me that he will not give up what he terms his principles for love. I shall not acknowledge my secret, but if he has discovered it, he shall learn that I also will not give up my principles for love."

The next morning she quietly handed Clancy's note to Mrs. Hunter.

"Shameful!" ejaculated the lady. "Of course you will pay no attention to him, or else write a curt refusal. I insist on one course or the other."

Mara looked steadfastly at her aunt until the worthy lady was somewhat disconcerted, and asked fretfully, "What do you mean by that look, Mara?"

"Aunty, can't you realize that I am no longer a child, as he says?"

"Well, but in a case like this—"

"In a case like this which concerns me so personally, I must act according to my own judgment. You can be in the adjoining room. Indeed I have no objection to your hearing what is said, but I would rather you should not. You have no occasion to fear. Mr. Clancy has alienated me forever. I have no doubt that before the summer is over he will be engaged to Miss Ainsley, if he is not already engaged virtually. I have reasons for granting this final interview which are personal—which my self-respect requires, and, since they are personal, I need not mention them. There shall be no want of respect and affection for you, aunty, but you must realize that I have become an independent woman, and I have the entire right to decide certain questions for myself."

"Well, I wash my hands of it all," said Mrs. Hunter, coldly, "and since my strong convictions have no weight with you, and you intend to act independently of me, of course I shall not permit myself to hear a word of your conversation."

"That will be the more delicate and honorable course, aunty."

"Well, Mara, I only wish I need not be in the house at the time."

"Aunty, that is the same as saying that your enmity toward Mr. Clancy is greater than your love for me."

"But I don't see the use of this intensely disagreeable interview. This is the only home I have."

"And the only home I have also, aunty."

"Oh, well, if you will, you will, I reckon."

"Yes, if I will, I will, and Mr. Clancy shall learn that I have a will."

As Aun' Sheba was departing that morning, Mara followed her into the hallway, and, placing a note in her hand, said, "Give that to Mr. Clancy and to no other. Say nothing to him or to any one else. Do you understand, Aun' Sheba?"

"I does, honey. Wen you talk dataway you'se heah an eyster shoutin' 'fore Aun' Sheba speak."

Clancy only said, "Thank you," as he thrust a half-dollar into the old woman's hand.

Aun' Sheba laid it on the desk, and remarked with great dignity, "I does some tings widout money."

He paid no heed to her, but read eagerly, "Mr. Clancy—Come this evening. Mara Wallingford."

With a long breath he thought, "It will be my last chance. I fear it will be useless, but at no future day shall she think in bitterness of heart, 'He might have done more to save me.'"

There was no sudden, involuntary illumination of her face on this occasion when he entered her little parlor, and she could not help noticing that his face was pale. She also saw from his expression that his spirit was as high as hers; that there was not a trace of the lover, eager to plead his cause. "He has pleaded successfully elsewhere," she thought, and, in spite of all other conflicting feelings, she was curious to know what his motive could be in seeking the interview.

"Good-evening, Mr. Clancy. Will you sit down?" she said, coldly.

"Yes, Mara. Pardon me for calling you Mara. I am beyond any affectation of formality with you, and you know there is no lack of respect on my part."

She merely bowed and waited in silence.

"When you learn my motive for making my request, for coming here to-night, you will probably resent it, but you have taught me to expect little else except resentment from you."

"Mr. Clancy, there is no cause for such language. Certainly I was quietly pursuing the even tenor of my way."

"Do you understand fully whither that way is leading?"

"Truly, Mr. Clancy, that is a singular question for you to ask."

"I understand you, Mara. You mean that it is no affair of mine."

He knew that her silence gave assent to this view, and he answered as if she had spoken.

"Nevertheless you are mistaken. It is an affair of mine. There could be no peace for me in the future if I failed you now, for it seems to me I am the only true friend you have in the world."

"Mr. Clancy," she said hotly, "we have differed so greatly before that I might have been saved the pain of this interview, but we never differed as we do at this moment. I cannot listen to you any longer. It would be disloyalty to those who are true friends—friends that I love and honor."

"Do you love Captain Bodine?"

"Certainly I do. He was my father's friend; he is my honored friend."

"Do you love Captain Bodine?"

"What do you mean?" she asked angrily, flushing to her very brow.

"Mara, be calm. Listen to me as you value your life, as you value your own soul. Do you think I would come here for slight cause at such cost to us both?"

"I think you are strangely mistaken in coming here, and using language which makes me doubt your sanity."

"Please do me the justice to note that there is nothing wild in my manner, nor any excitement in my words."

"Noting this, I find it more difficult to explain your course, or to pardon it."

"It is not necessary at present, that you should do either. Please be patient a few minutes longer and my mission is ended. I am not pleading for myself, but for you. Please listen, or a time may come when in a bitterness beyond words you may regret that you did not hear me. Thank Heaven! it is clear that I have not come too late. Captain Bodine is more than your friend in his feelings; he is your lover, and you are so morbid, unfriended, unguided, that you are capable of sacrificing yourself—"

"Hush! you are wronging a man whom you are unworthy to name. He has never dreamed of such love as you suggest."

"I am right. Oh, I have learned too deeply in the school of experience not to know. My warning may be of no avail, but you shall not drift unawares into this thing, you shall not enter into it, nor be persuaded into it from a false spirit of self-sacrifice—"

"Mr. Clancy, I will not listen a moment longer to such preposterous language. You are passing far beyond the limits of my forbearance. If your conscience is burdened on my account because I am so 'unfriended,' I absolve you fully. You will and do know how to console yourself. Our interview must end here and now. It were disloyalty for me to listen a moment longer. We are strangers from this day forth, Mr. Clancy." And she rose flushed and trembling.

He also rose, and with an intent look which held her gaze, said gently: "There is that which will speak although I am banished."