"What?"

"Your heart."

"If it broke a thousand times I will not speak to you again," she cried passionately. "Even if you were right it would be ignoble to suggest such a thing. Truly your associations have led you far from the promise of your youth."

"I have not said that your heart would plead for me," he replied sternly. "But it will plead against all that is unnatural, contrary to your young girlhood, contrary to the true, right instincts which God has created. You may seek to stifle its voice, but you cannot. When you are alone it will tell you, like the still small voice of God, that your obdurate will is wrong, that your narrow prejudices and morbid memories are all wrong and vain;—it will tell you that you cannot become the wife of this man, who would sacrifice you as a solace to his remaining years, without wrecking your happiness for life. Farewell, Mara Wallingford. There is one thing you can never forget—that I warned you."

He bowed low and departed immediately.



CHAPTER XXIV

"THE IDEA!"

Mara was not the kind of girl that faints or goes into hysterics. The spirit of her father was aroused to the last degree. She felt that she had been arraigned and condemned by one who had no right to do either; that all the cherished traditions of her life had been trampled upon; that her father's loved companion-in-arms, and her dear friend, had been insulted. Even wise, saintly Mrs. Bodine, her genial counsellor, had been ignored. "Was there ever such monstrous assumption!" she cried, as she paced back and forth with clinched hands.

She soon heard the step of Mrs. Hunter, and became outwardly calm.

"Well?" said her aunt.

"He won't come again, nor shall I speak to him again. Let these facts content you, aunty."

"That much at least is satisfactory," said Mrs. Hunter, "but I think it was a wretched mistake to see him at all."

"It was not a mistake, for he has revealed the depths into which a man can sink who adopts his course. I have some respect for an out-and-out Northerner, brought up as such; but it does seem that when a man turns traitor, as it were, he goes to greater lengths than those whose camp he joins. He suspects those who are too noble for him to understand."

"Whom does Mr. Clancy suspect?"

"Oh, all of us. He came to advise me as an unprotected, unfriended, unguided girl."

"Was there ever such impudence on the face of the earth!"

Mara sank exhausted into a chair in the inevitable reaction from her strong excitement.

"Aunty, it is all over, and we shall not meet again except as strangers. Never say a word of his coming, of this interview, to any one. It is my affair, and I wish to forget it as far as possible."

"You know I'm not a gossip, Mara, about family matters, especially disagreeable matters. Well, perhaps it will turn out for the best, since you have broken with him entirely. It always made me angry that he should continue to speak to you, and even sit down and talk to you at an evening company, when you could not repulse him without arresting the attention of every one."

"Good-night, aunty. All that is over."

"Mara, you must take an opiate to-night."

"Yes; give me something to make me sleep, that will bring oblivion for at least to-night. I must be ready for my work in the morning. It won't take me long now to attain self-control."

"Mara," cried Ella the next day, "you look positively ill. I wish you could take a rest. Suppose we shut up shop for a while, and hang out a sign, 'closed for repairs.'"

"No, Ella. I can stand it, if you can, till August, and then we will take a month's rest. I wasn't very well last night, but I have found a remedy which is going to help me, and I shall be better."

Ella took the surface meaning of these words, and, being preoccupied with her own thoughts, remained, as well as Mara, rather silent that morning. Although she assured herself more than once that George Houghton was "nothing to her," she found herself thinking a great deal about him, and what she termed "their droll experiences." Prone to take a mirthful view of everything, she often laughed over the whole affair, and it grew rather than lost in interest with time. It was the first real adventure of her girlhood, and he was the first man who had retained more than a transient place in her thoughts. Feeling that their acquaintance had come about through no fault of hers, she was disposed to get all the fun possible out of what had occurred.

The morning was warm, and she was working in charming dishabille. Dressed in light summer costume, thrown open at her throat, and with sleeves rolled to her shoulders, she appeared a veritable Hebe. Her bright, golden, fluffy hair was gathered carelessly into a Grecian knot, and her flushed face received more than one flour-mark as she impatiently brushed away the flies. Seeing her smiling to herself so often, Mara envied her, but made no comment. At last the girl broke into a ringing laugh.

"What is amusing you so greatly?" Mara asked.

"I can't get over that party at Mrs. Willoughby's. It was all so irresistibly comical. Cousin Sophy thinks she has a genius for choosing chaperons, and so she has, but fate is too strong for men and gods, not to mention saintly and secluded old ladies. I had scarcely more than entered the drawing-room, and taken my bearings, as cousin would say, when the worst Vandal of the lot is marched up to me, and I—green little girl—thought I must be polite to him and every one else. When I think of it all, I see that my chaperon was like a distressed hen with a duckling that would go into the water. Without any effort of mine, that great Goth, Mr. Houghton, submitted himself to my inspection, and instead of being horrified, I have been laughing at him ever since. He struck me as an exceedingly harmless creature, with large capabilities for blundering. He would not step on a fly maliciously, yet poor Mrs. Robertson acted as if I were near an ogre who might devour me at a mouthful. How she did manoeuvre to keep that big fellow away! and what a homily she gave me on our way home! It all seems so absurd. I wish papa would not take such things so seriously, for I can't see any harm in making sport of the Philistines."

"Making sport for the Philistines—that is what your father and what we all object to. This young Houghton would very gladly amuse himself at your expense."

"I'd like to see him try it," said Ella defiantly. "I'd turn the tables on him so quickly as to take away his breath."

"Oh, Ella! why do you think about such people at all?"

"Because they amuse me. What's the harm in thinking about him in my jolly way? There's nothing bad about him. His worst crimes are, that he is comical and the son of his father."

"How do you know there's nothing bad about him?"

"For the same reason that I distrust Miss Ainsley. Each makes an impression which I believe is correct."

"Well, well, Ella," said Mara, a little impatiently, "laugh it out and have done with him. For all our sakes, please have nothing more to do with such people."

"I haven't sought 'such people,'" replied Ella, with a shrug; "but I tell you, Mara, I'm not going through life with my eyes shut, nor am I going to look through a pair of blue spectacles. See here, sweetheart, what did God give me eyes for? What did he give me a brain for? To see through some one else's eyes? to think with the brain of another? No, indeed; that's contrary to such reason and common-sense as I possess."

"You certainly will be guided by your father?"

"Yes, yes, indeed, in all that pertains to his welfare and happiness. I could die for him this minute, and would if it were required. But there are things which I cannot do for him or any one. I cannot ignore my own conscience and sense of right. I cannot think his thoughts any more than he can think mine. You dear, melancholy little goose, don't you know that God never rolls two people into one, even after they are married? They are, or should be, one in a vital sense, yet they are different, independent beings, and were made so. I'd like to know of any one in this town more bent upon having her own way than you."

Mara was silent, for Ella had a way of putting things which disturbed her.

"Cousin Sophy," said Ella in the afternoon, "hasn't the proper time come for me to make my party call on Mrs. Willoughby? You are my Mentor in all that relates to etiquette, and that giddy fraction of the world termed society."

"Well, yes," said the old lady, "I suppose it is time. In the case of Mrs. Willoughby it will be little more than a formality, for she is an acquaintance you will not care to cultivate. You may be lucky enough to find her out, and then your card will answer all the purposes of a call."

"Oh, I know that much, cousin, if I am from the wilds of the interior; but if she is in, I suppose I should sit down and talk about the weather a little while."

"Go along, you saucy puss. Tell her how shocked you were to see old Houghton's son in her parlors."

"Well, I was at first. Bah! cousin, he's a great big boy, and doesn't know any more than I do about some things."

"Well added. Tell her, then, we have enough Southern gentlemen remaining, and there is no necessity of inviting big Northern hobble-de-hoys."

"Oh! I didn't mean that, cousin. Be fair now. He was gentlemanly enough, as much so as the rest of them, but he was young and giddy, like myself, just as you used to be and are now sometimes;" and she stopped the old lady's mouth with kisses, then ran to dress for the street.

The kitchen Hebe of the morning was soon metamorphosed into a very charmingly costumed young woman.

Even Miss Ainsley was compelled to recognize the lovely and harmonious effect, although it did not bear the latest brand of fashion, or represent costly expenditure.

Both she and Mrs. Willoughby were pleased as Ella stepped lightly into the back parlor, and the young girl congratulated herself that she had come so opportunely, for they were evidently expecting visits like her own.

One and another dropped in until Mrs. Willoughby was entertaining three or four in the front parlor. Miss Ainsley remained chatting with Ella, who felt that the Northern girl's remarks were largely tentative, evincing a wish to draw her out. Shrewd Ella soon began to generalize to such a degree that Miss Ainsley thought, "You are no fool," and had a growing respect for the "little baker," as she had termed the young girl.

Then Clancy appeared, and Ella was forgotten, but she saw the same unmistakable welcome which from some women would mean all that a lover could desire. Ella thought that a slight expression of vexation crossed his brow as he recognized in her Mara's partner and friend, but he spoke to her politely and even cordially. Indeed, no one could do otherwise, for her face would propitiate an ogre. She thought there was a spice of recklessness in Clancy's manner, and she heard him remark to Miss Ainsley that he had come to say good-by for a short time. That young woman led the way to the balcony and began to expostulate; and then Ella's attention was riveted on a tall young fellow, who was shaking hands with Mrs. Willoughby.

"Good gracious!" she thought, "what can I do if he sees me? How can I 'shake off and avoid' in this back parlor? I can't make a bolt for the front door or sneak out of the back door; I can't sit here like a graven image if he comes—"

"Miss Bodine! Well, I'm lucky for once in my ill-fated life."

"Oh! I beg your pardon," remarked Ella, turning from the window, out of which she had apparently been gazing with intense preoccupation. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Houghton." But he held out his hand with such imperative cordiality that she had to take it. Then he drew up a chair to the corner of the sofa on which she sat and placed it in a way that barred approach or egress. "Oh, shade of Mrs. Hunter!" she groaned inwardly, "what can I do? I'm fairly surrounded—all avenues of retreat cut off. I must face the enemy and fight."

"I knew the chance would come for us to get acquainted," said Houghton, settling himself complacently in the great armchair, "but I had scarcely hoped for such a happy opportunity as this so soon."

"I must go in a few minutes," she remarked demurely. "I have been here some time."

"Miss Bodine, you are not capable of such cruelty. You know it is very early yet."

"I thought you came to call on Mrs. Willoughby?"

"So I did, and I have called on her. See her talking ancient history to those dowagers yonder. What a figure I'd cut in that group."

She laughed outright, as much from nervous trepidation as at the comical idea suggested, and was in an inward rage that she did so, for she had intended to be so dignified and cool as to depress and discourage the "objectionable person" who hedged her in.

"What a jolly, infectious laugh you have!" he resumed. "To be able to laugh well is a rare accomplishment. Some snicker, others giggle, chuckle, cackle, make all sorts of disagreeable noises, but a natural, merry, musical laugh-Miss Bodine, I congratulate you, and myself also, that I happened in this blessed afternoon to hear it. And that terrible chaperon of yours isn't here either. How she frowned on me the other evening as if I were a wolf in the fold," and the young man broke into a clear ringing laugh at the recollection.

Ella was laughing with him in spite of herself. Indeed the more she tried to be grave and severe the more impossible it became.

"Mr. Houghton," she managed to say at last, "will you do me a favor?"

"Scores of them."

"Then stop making me laugh. I don't wish to laugh."

His face instantly assumed such portentous and awful gravity that he set her off again to such a degree that the dowagers in the other room looked at her rebukingly. It was bad enough, they thought, that she should talk to old Houghton's son at all, but to show such unbecoming levity-well, it was not what they would "expect of a Bodine." Ella saw their disapproval, and felt she was losing her self-control. The warnings she had received against her companion embarrassed her, and banished the power to be her natural self.

"Please don't," she gasped, "or I shall go at once. I asked a favor."

"Pardon me, Miss Bodine," he now said in a tone and manner which quieted her nerves at once. "I have blundered again, but I was so happy to think that I had met you here. I am not wholly a rattle-brain. What would you like to talk about?" and he looked so kindly and eager to please her that she cast down her eyes and contracted her brow in deepest perplexity.

"Truly, Mr. Houghton, I should be on my way homeward, and you have so hedged me in that I cannot escape."

"Is running away from me escaping?"

"I don't like that phrase 'running away.'"

"Yet that is what you propose to do."

"Oh, no, I shall take my departure in a very composed and dignified manner."

His face had the expression of almost boyish distress. "You find on further thought that you cannot forgive me?" he asked sadly.

"Did I not say that was all explained and settled? Southern girls are not fickle or false to their word." And she managed to assume an aspect of great dignity. "If I do not shake him off in the next few minutes I'm lost," she thought.

"I've offended you again," he said anxiously.

She took refuge in silence.

"Miss Bodine, I ask your pardon. You know I can't do more than that, or if I can, tell me what. I wish to please you very much."

The girl was at her wit's end, for his ingenuous expression emphasized the truth of his words. "There is no reason why you should please me," she began coolly, and then knew not how to proceed.

"Let us be frank with each other," he resumed earnestly. "We are too young yet to indulge in society lies. When a man apologizes at the North he is forgiven. I have been told that Southerners are a generous, warm-hearted people. In their cool treatment of me they counteract the climate. Are you, too, going to ostracize me?"

"I fear I shall have to," she replied faintly.

"Of your own free will?"

"No, indeed."

His heart gave a great throb of joy, but he had the sense to conceal his gladness. He only said quietly, "Well, I'm glad that you at least do not detest me."

"Why should I detest you, Mr. Houghton?"

"I'm sure I don't know why any one should. I have never harmed any one in this town that I know of."

She knew not how to answer, for she could not reflect upon his father.

"I don't care about others, but your case."

"Truly, Mr. Houghton," she began hastily, "this is a large city. A few impoverished Southern people are nothing to you."

"I was not thinking of Southern people," he replied gravely. "You said a moment since you saw no reason why I should try to please you. Am I to blame if you have inspired many reasons? I know you better than any girl in the world. You revealed your very self in a moment of danger to me as you thought. I saw that you were good and brave—that you possess just the qualities that I most respect and admire in a woman. Every moment I am with you confirms this belief. Why should I not wish to please you, to become your friend? I know I should be the better in every respect if you were my friend."

She shook her head, but did not venture to look at him.

"You believe I am sincere, Miss Bodine. You cannot think I am sentimental or flirtatious. I would no more do you wrong, even in my thoughts, than I would think evil of my dead mother. You are mirthful in your nature; so am I, but I do not think that either of us is shallow or silly. If I am personally disagreeable, that ends everything, but how can a man secure the esteem and friendly regard of a woman, when he covets these supremely, unless he speaks and reveals his feelings?"

"You are talking wildly, Mr. Houghton," said Ella, with averted face. "We have scarcely more than met."

"You would lead me to think that you Southern people are tenfold colder and more deliberate than we of the North. You may not have thought of me since we met, but I have thought of you constantly. I could not help it."

Ella felt that she must escape now as if for her life, and, summoning all her faculties and resolution, she said, looking him in the eyes, "I've no doubt, Mr. Houghton, you think you are sincere in your words at this moment, but you may soon wonder that you spoke such hasty words."

"In proving you mistaken, time will be my ally."

"You have asked me to be frank," she resumed. "In justice to you and myself I feel that I must be so. I do not share in the prejudices, if you prefer that word, of my father, but I must be governed by his wishes. I trust that you will not ask me to say more. Won't you please let me go now? See, the last guests are leaving."

"Tell me one thing," he pleaded eagerly as he rose. "I am not personally disagreeable to you?"

"The idea of my telling you anything of the kind!" and there was a flash of mirthfulness in her face which left him in a most tormenting state of uncertainty. A moment later she had shaken hands with Mrs. Willoughby, and was gone.

He stood looking after her, half-dazed by his conflicting feelings. Turning, Mrs. Willoughby saw and understood him at once. She came to his side and said kindly, "Sit down, Mr. Houghton, I've not had a chance to talk with you yet."

With an involuntary sigh he complied.



CHAPTER XXV

FEMININE FRIENDS

Mrs. Willoughby was a woman of the world, yet in no bad sense. Indeed, beneath the veneer of fashionable life she possessed much kindliness of nature. She was capable of a good deal of cynicism toward those who she said "ought to be able to take care of themselves," and in this category she placed Clancy and Miss Ainsley. "I shall leave both to paddle their own canoes," she had said to herself.

Looking kindly at Houghton, who seemed to have lost his volubility, and waited for her to speak again, she thought: "If this young fellow was infatuated with Caroline I'd warn him quick enough." With the astuteness of a matron she merely remarked: "You seem greatly pleased with my little friend, Miss Bodine. You must not trifle with her, if she is poor, for she comes of one of the best families in the State."

"Trifle with Miss Bodine! What do you take me for, Mrs. Willoughby?" and he rose indignantly.

"There, now, sit down, my friend. I only said that so you might reveal how sincere you are, and I won't use any more diplomacy with you."

"I hope not," he replied laughing grimly. "You ought to know, what I am fast finding out, that a young fellow, like me, can no more understand a woman, unless she is frank, than he can Choctaw."

Mrs. Willoughby laughed heartily, and said: "I'll be frank with you, if you will be so with me."

"Then tell me why I am treated by so many in your set as if I had overrun the South with fire and sword?"

His first question proved that she could not be frank, for in order to give an adequate explanation she would have to reveal to him his father's animus and the hostility it evoked. She temporized by saying: "I do not so treat you, and surely Miss Bodine seemed to enjoy your conversation."

"I'm not so sure of that. At any rate she said she would have to ostracize me like the rest."

"She was kind in telling you that she would have to do so. She certainly bears you no ill-will."

"She probably does not care enough about me yet to do that. The worst of it is that I shall have no chance. Her father objects to her having anything to do with me, and that blocks everything. Even if I were capable of seeking a clandestine acquaintance, she is not. She is a thoroughly good girl; she doesn't know how to be deceitful."

"I'm glad you appreciate her so truly."

"I'd be a donkey if I didn't."

"Well, don't be unwise in your future action."

"What action can I take?" and he looked at her almost imploringly. A young man of his age is usually very ready to make a confidante of a married woman older than himself, yet young enough to sympathize with him in affairs of the heart. Houghton instinctively felt that the case might not be utterly hopeless if he could secure an ally in Mrs. Willoughby, for he recognized her tact, and believed that she was friendly. He promptly determined therefore to seek and to take her advice.

She looked at him searchingly as she said: "Perhaps it would be best not to take any action at all. If Miss Bodine has made only a passing and pleasant impression, and you merely desire to secure another agreeable acquaintance you had better stop where you are. It will save you much annoyance, and, what is of far more consequence, may keep her from real trouble. As you suggest, you cannot do anything in an underhand way. If you attempted it, you would lose her respect instantly, your own also. She idolizes her father, and will not act contrary to his wishes. Why not let the matter drop where it is?"

"Can't take any such advice as that," he replied, shaking his head resolutely.

"Why not?"

"Oh, confound it! Suppose some one, years ago, had advised Mr. Willoughby in such style."

"Is it as serious as that?"

He passed his hand in perplexity over his brow. "Mrs. Willoughby," he burst out, "I'm in deep water. 'I reckon,' as you say here, you understand me better than I do myself. I only know that I'd face all creation for the sake of that girl, yet what you say about making her trouble, staggers me. I'm in sore perplexity, and don't know what to do."

"Will you take my advice?"

"Yes, I will, as long as I believe you are my honest friend, as long as I can."

"Well, you won't try to see Ella before you have consulted me?"

"I promise that."

"Don't do anything at present Think the matter over quietly and conscientiously. I'm sorry I must make one other suggestion. I fear your father would be as much opposed to all this as Captain Bodine himself."

"I think not. My father is not so stern as he seems. At least he is not stern to me, and he has let me spend more money than my neck's worth. I fancy he is well disposed toward Captain Bodine, for he has given him employment. I asked the old gentleman about it one day, but he changed the subject. He wouldn't have employed the captain, however, unless he was interested in him some way."

"Why wouldn't he?"

"Oh, well, he naturally prefers to have Northerners about him."

"Will you permit me to be a little more frank than I have been?"

"I supposed you were going to be altogether frank."

"For fear of hurting your feelings I have not been. Your father is not friendly to us, and we reciprocate. This makes it harder for you."

Houghton thought in silence for a few moments, and then said: "You should make allowance for an old man, half heart-broken by the death of his oldest son, drowned in the bay there."

"I do; so would others, if he were not vindictive, if he did not use his great financial strength against us."

"I don't think he does this, certainly not to my knowledge. He only seeks to make all he can, like other business men."

"Mr. Houghton, you haven't been very much in Charleston. Even your vacations have been spent mainly elsewhere, I think, and your mind has been occupied with your studies and athletics. You are more familiar with Greek and Roman history than with ours, and you cannot understand the feelings of persons like Captain Bodine and his cousin, old Mrs. Bodine, who passed through the agony of the war, and lost nearly everything—kindred, property, and what they deem liberty. You cannot understand your own father, who lost his son. You think of the present and future."

Houghton again sighed deeply as he said: "I admit the force of all you say. I certainly cannot feel as they do, nor perhaps understand them." Then he added: "I wouldn't if I could. Why should I tie the millstone of the past about my neck?"

"You should not do so; but you must make allowance for those to whom that past is more than the present or future can be."

"Why can't they forgive and forget, as far as possible, as you do?"

"Because people are differently constituted. Besides, young man, I am not old enough to be your grandmother. I was very young at the time of the war, and have not suffered as have others."

"Grandmother, indeed! I should think that Mr. Willoughby would fall in love with you every day."

"The grand passion has a rather prominent place in your thoughts just now. Some day you will be like Mr. Willoughby, and cotton, stocks, or their equivalents, will take a very large share of your thoughts."

"Well, that day hasn't come yet. Even the wise man said there was a time for all things. How long must my probation last before I can come back for more advice?"

"A week, at least"

"Phew!"

"You must think it all over, as I said before, calmly and conscientiously. I have tried to enable you to see the subject on all its sides, and I tell you again that you may find just as much opposition from your father as from Captain Bodine. He may have very different plans for you. Ella Bodine has nothing but her own good heart to give you, supposing you were able to persuade her to give that much."

"That much would enrich me forever."

"Your father wouldn't see it in that light. He may call her that designing little baker."

"I hope he won't for God's sake. I never said a hot word to my father."

"Never do so, then. If you lose your temper, all is lost. But we are anticipating. Sober, second thoughts may lead you to save yourself and others a world of trouble."

"Oh! I've had second thoughts before. Good-by. At this hour, one week hence;" and he shook hands heartily.

A moment later, he came rushing back from the hall, exclaiming: "There! See, what a blunderbuss I am! I forgot to thank you, which I do, with all my heart."

"Ah!" sighed the mature woman, as her guest finally departed, "I'd take all his pains for the possibilities of his joys."

Ella had not been mistaken in thinking that she detected a trace of recklessness in Clancy's manner. He had been compelled to believe that Mara was in truth lost to him; that her will and pride would prove stronger than her heart. Indeed, he went so far as to believe that her heart, as far as he was concerned, was not giving her very much trouble.

"I fear she has become so morbid and warped by the malign influences that have surrounded her from infancy," he had thought, "that she cannot love as I love. My best hope now is, that when Bodine begins to show his game more clearly, she will remember my words. It's horrible to think that she may develop into a woman like Mrs. Hunter. Until this evening, I have always believed there was a sweet, womanly soul imprisoned in her bosom, but now I don't know what to think. I'll go off to the mountains on the pretence of a fishing excursion, and get my balance again."

The following morning had been spent in preparations, and the afternoon, as we have seen, found him at Mrs. Willoughby's. His sore heart and bitter mood were solaced by Miss Ainsley's unmistakable welcome. He knew he did not care for her in any deep and lasting sense, and he much doubted whether her interest in him was greater than that which she had bestowed upon others in the past. But she diverted his thoughts, flattered the self-love which Mara had wounded so ruthlessly, and above all fascinated him by her peculiar beauty and intellectual brilliancy.

"Why are you going away?" she asked reproachfully, when they were seated on the balcony.

"Oh, I've been working hard. I'm going off to the mountains to fish and rest."

"I hope you'll catch cold, and come back again soon."

"What a disinterested friend!"

"You are thinking only of yourself; why shouldn't I do likewise?"

"No, I'm thinking of you."

"Of course, at this minute. You'd be apt to think of a lamp-post if you were looking at it."

"Please don't put out the sunshine with your brilliancy."

"Ironical, too! What is the matter to-day?"

"What penetration! Reveal your intuitions. Have I failed in business, or been crossed in love?"

"The latter, I fancy."

"Well, then, how can I better recover peace of mind and serenity than by going a-fishing? You know what Izaak Walton says—"

"Oh, spare me, please, that ancient worthy! You are as cold-blooded as any fish that you'll catch. If I find it stupid in Charleston I'll go North."

"That threat shakes my very soul. I promise to come back in a week or ten days."

"Or a month or so," she added, looking hurt.

"Come, my good friend," he said, laughing. "We're too good fellows, as you wished we should be, to pretend to any forlornness over a parting of this kind. You will sleep as sweetly and dreamlessly as if you had never seen Owen Clancy, and I will write you a letter, such as a man would write to a man, telling you of my adventures. If I don't meet any I'll bring some about—get shot by the moonlighters, save a mountain maid from drowning in a trout pool, or fall into the embrace of a black bear."

"The mountain maid, you mean."

"Did I? Well, your penetration passes bounds."

"You may go, if you will write the letter. There must be no dime-novel stories in it, no drawing on your imagination. It shall be your task to make interesting just what you see and do."

"Please add the twelve labors of Hercules."

"No trifling. I'm in earnest, and put you on your mettle in regard to that letter. Unless you do your best, your friendship is all a pretence. And remember what you said about its being a letter to a man. If you begin in a conventional way, as if writing to a lady, I'll burn it without reading."

"Agreed. Good-by, old fellow—beg pardon, Miss Ainsley."

She laughed and said, "I like that; good-by." And she gave him a warm, soft hand, in a rather lingering clasp.

When he was gone she murmured softly, "Yes, he has a chance."



CHAPTER XXVI

ELLA'S CRUMB OF COMFORT

Ella walked up Meeting Street in a frame of mind differing widely from the complacent mood in which she sought Mrs. Willoughby's residence. The unexpected had again happened, and to her it seemed so strange, so very remarkable, that she should have met Mr. Houghton once more without the slightest intention, or even expectation, on her part, that she was perplexed and troubled. What did it mean?

In matters purely personal, and related closely to our own interests, we are prone to give almost a superstitious significance to events which come about naturally enough. It was not at all strange that Houghton should have been strongly and agreeably impressed by Ella from the first; and that he should happen to call at the same hour that she did, would have been regarded by her as a very ordinary coincidence, had not the case been her own. Since it was her own, she was almost awed by the portentous interview from which she had just escaped. The inexperienced girl found her cherished ideas in respect to young Houghton completely at fault. She had sighed that she could not meet him without restraint or embarrassment, for, as she had assured herself, "It would be such fun." She had supposed that she could laugh at him and with him indefinitely—that he would be a source of infinite jest and amusement. He had banished all these illusions in a few brief moments. How could she make sport of a man who had coupled her name with that of his dead mother? His every glance, word, and tone expressed sincere respect and admiration, and, she had to admit to herself, something more. She was so sincere herself, so unsullied, so lacking in the callousness often resulting from much contact with the world, that it seemed to her that it would be a profanation henceforth to regard him as the butt of even the innocent ridicule of which she was capable. Yet in all her perplexity and trouble there was a confused exhilaration and a glad sense of power.

"To think that I, little Ella Bodine, a baker by trade," she thought, "should have inspired that big fellow to talk as he did! He is apology embodied, and seems far more afraid of me than he was of that great bully on the street." And she bent her head to conceal a laugh of exultation.

Then she remembered her father, and her face grew troubled. "I shall have to tell him," she murmured, "and then the old scene will be enacted over again. A plague on that old shadow of the war! If I were a man I'd fight it out and then shake hands."

Soon after reaching home she heard her father's crutches on the sidewalk, and ran down to meet him. In accordance with her custom, she took away one crutch, and supported him to a chair in the parlor. He kissed her fondly, and remarked, "You look a little pale, Ella."

"I feel pale, papa. I've something to tell you, and you must listen patiently and sensibly. I've met Mr. Houghton again."

The veteran's face darkened instantly, but he waited till she explained further.

"Now see how you begin to look," she resumed. "You are judging me already. You can't be even fair to your own child."

"It would rather seem that you are judging me, Ella."

"Oh, bother it all!" she exclaimed. "I wish I could be simple and natural in this affair, for I was so embarrassed and constrained that I fear I acted like a fool. Well, I'll tell you how it happened. After lunch I asked Cousin Sophy if it was not time for me to make my party call on Mrs. Willoughby, and she said it was. I found that Mrs. Willoughby was expecting callers. We chatted a few minutes, and then others came, Mr. Houghton among them. I no more expected to meet him than I expected to meet you there. After shaking hands with Mrs. Willoughby he came to me in the back parlor instantly, and drew up a chair so that I could not escape unless I jumped over him. He began with such funny speeches that I got laughing, as much from nervousness as anything else, for I'd been so warned against him that I couldn't be myself."

"You shall not go to Mrs. Willoughby's again," said her father, decidedly.

"Now please listen till I'm all through. He soon saw that I did not want to laugh, and stopped his nonsense. He wanted to become acquainted, friendly, you know; and finally I had to tell him that it couldn't be—that I must be governed by your wishes."

"Ah, that was my dear, good, sensible girl!"

"No, papa, I don't feel sensible at all. On the contrary, I have a mean, absurd feeling—just as if I had gone to Mrs. Willoughby's and slapped a child because it was a Northern child."

He laughed at this remark, for she unconsciously gave the impression that she had been more repellant than had actually been true. He soon checked himself, however, and said gravely, "Ella, you take these things too seriously."

"No, papa, it seems to me that it is you and Cousin and Mara who take these things too seriously. What harm has that young fellow ever done any of us?"

"He could do me an immense deal of harm if you gave him your thoughts, and became even friendly. I should be exceedingly unhappy."

"Oh, well! that isn't possible—I mean, that we should become friendly. I certainly won't permit him to speak to me in the streets, although I spoke to him once in the street. Oh, I'm going to tell you everything now!" and she related the circumstances of her first meeting with Houghton.

"All this is very painful to me," her father said, with clouded brow. "But, as you say, it has come about without intention on your part. I am glad you have told me everything, for now I can better guard you from future mischances. My relations to this young man's father are such that it would make it very disagreeable, indeed, positively unendurable, if his son should seek your society. You should also remember that Mr. Houghton would be as bitterly hostile to any such course on his son's part as I am. Your pride, apart from my wishes, should lead you to repel the slightest advance."

"I reckon your wishes will have the most influence, papa. I have too strong a sense of justice to punish the son on account of his father."

"You cannot separate them, Ella. Think of our own relation. What touches one touches the other."

"Well, papa, it's all over, and I've told you everything. Since I'm not to go to Mrs. Willoughby's any more, there is little probability that I shall meet him again, except in the street. If he bows to me, I shall return the courtesy with quiet dignity, for he has acted like a gentleman toward me, and, for the sake of my own self-respect, I must act like a lady toward him. If he seeks to talk to me, I shall tell him it is forbidden, and that will end it, for he is too honorable to attempt anything clandestine."

"I'm not sure of that."

"I am, papa. He wouldn't be such an idiot, for he understands me well enough to know what would be the result of that kind of thing. But he isn't that kind of a man."

"How should you know what kind of a man he is?"

"Oh, Heaven has provided us poor women with intuitions!"

"True, to a certain extent, but the rule is proved by an awful lot of exceptions."

"Perhaps if they were studied out, inclinations rather than intuitions were followed."

"Well, my dear, we won't discuss these vague questions. Your duty is as simple and clear as mine is. Do as you have promised, and all will be well. I must now dress for dinner." And kissing her affectionately, he went up to his room.

She took his seat, and looked vacantly out of the window, with a vague dissatisfaction at heart. Unrecognized fully as yet, the great law of nature, which brings to each a distinct and separate existence, was beginning to operate. As she had said to Mara, vital interests were looming up, new experiences coming, of which she could no more think his thoughts than he hers.

Her face was a little clouded when she sat down to dinner, and she observed Mrs. Bodine looking at her keenly. Instinctively she sought to conceal her deeper feelings, and to become her mirthful self.

"You have not told me about your call yet," the old lady remarked.

"Well, I felt that papa should have the first recital. I met again the son of that old—ahem!—Mr. Houghton, and I have begun to ostracize him."

"Ella," said her father, almost sternly, "do not speak in that way. Our feelings are strong, sincere, and well-grounded."

"There, papa, I did not mean to reflect lightly upon them. Indeed, I was not thinking of them, but of Mr. Houghton."

"Oh, Cousin Hugh! let the child talk in her own natural way. She wouldn't scratch one of your crutches with a pin, much less hurt you."

"Forgive me, Ella," he said, "I misunderstood you."

"Yes, in the main, papa, but to be frank, I don't enjoy this ostracizing business, and I hope I won't have any more of it to do."

"There is no reason why you should. Cousin Sophy, there should be people enough in Charleston for Ella to visit without the chance of meeting Mr. Houghton, or any of his ilk."

"So there are. I'll manage that. Well, Ella, how did you set about ostracizing young Houghton?" And the old lady began to laugh.

"It's no laughing matter," said Ella, shaking her head ruefully. "He was frank and polite and respectful as any young gentleman would be under similar circumstances, and he wanted to become better acquainted, call on me, I suppose, and all that, but I had to tell him virtually that he was an objectionable person."

"I would rather this subject should not be discussed any further," said her father gravely.

"So would I," Ella added. "Papa and I have settled the matter, and Mr. Houghton is to recede below the horizon."

The old lady thought that when Ella was alone with her she would get all the details of the interview, but she was mistaken. The girl not only grew more and more averse to speaking of Houghton, but she also felt that what he had said so frankly and sincerely to her was not a proper theme for gossip, even with kindly old Mrs. Bodine, and that a certain degree of loyalty was due to him, as well as to her father and cousin.

The captain had some writing on hand that night, and Ella read aloud to her cousin till it was time to retire. Apparently the evening passed uneventfully away; yet few recognize the eventful hours of their lives. A subtle and mysterious change was taking place in the girl's nature which in time she would recognize. More than once she murmured, "How can I be hostile to him? He said he could no more do me wrong, even in his thoughts, than think evil of his dead mother. He said he would be better if I were his friend, and he is as good-hearted this minute as I am. Yet I must treat him as if he were not fit to be spoken to. Well, I reckon it will hurt me as much as it does him. There's some comfort in that."



CHAPTER XXVII

RECOGNIZED AS LOVER

It was inevitable that Mara should pay the penalty of being at variance with nature and her own heart. The impulses of youth had been checked and restrained. Instead of looking forward, like Ella, she was turning ever backward, and drawing her inspiration from the past, and a dead, hopeless past, at that. It fell upon her like a shadow. All its incentive tended toward negation, prompting her to frown on changes, progress, and the hopefulness springing up in many hearts. The old can hug their gloom in a sort of complacent misanthropy; the young cannot. If they are unhappy they chafe, and feel in their deepest consciousness that something is wrong. Mara laid the blame chiefly upon Clancy, believing that, if he had taken the course adopted by Captain Bodine, she could have been happy with him in an attic. His words, at their interview, were not the only causes of her intense indignation and passion. Although she was incensed to the last degree, that he should charge Captain Bodine with such "preposterous" motives and intentions, she was also aware that her fierce struggles with her own heart, at the time, distracted and confused her. She could not maintain the icy demeanor she had resolved upon.

Left to herself, the long afternoon and evening of the following day, she had time for many second thoughts. She was compelled to face in solitude the hard problems of her life. Anger died out, and its support was lost. She had driven away the only man she loved, or could ever love, and she had used language which he could never forget, or be expected to forgive. The more she thought of his motive in seeking the interview, the more perplexed and troubled she became. As now in calmer mood she recalled his words and manner, she could not delude herself with the belief that he came only in his own behalf, or that he was prompted by jealousy. She remembered the grim frankness with which he said virtually that he had nothing to hope from her, not even tolerance. She almost writhed under the fact that he had again compelled her to believe that, however mistaken, he was sincere and straightforward, that he truly thought that Bodine was lover rather than friend.

She would not, could not, imagine that this was true, and yet she groaned aloud, "He has destroyed my chief solace. I was almost happy with my father's friend, and was coming to think of him almost as a second father. Now, when with him I shall have a miserable self-consciousness, and a disposition to interpret his words and manner in a way that will do him hateful wrong. Oh, what is there for me to look forward to? What is the use of living?"

These final words indicated one of Mara's chief needs. She craved some motive, some powerful incentive, which could both sustain and inspire. Mere existence, with its ordinary pleasures and interests, did not satisfy her at all. Clancy's former question in regard to her devotion to the past and the dead, "What goodwill it do?" haunted her like a spectre. He had again made the dreary truth more clear, that there was nothing in the future to which she could give the strong allegiance of her soul. She would work for nothing, suffer for nothing, hope for nothing, except her daily bread. As she said, the friendship of Bodine was but a solace, great indeed, but inadequate to the deep requirements of a nature like hers. She knew she was leading a dual life—cold, reserved, sternly self-restrained outwardly, yet longing with passionate desire for the love she had rejected, and, since that was impossible, for something else, to which she could consecrate her life, with the feeling that it was worth the sacrifice. If she had been brought up in the Roman Catholic religion, she might have been led to the austere life of a nun. But, in her morbid condition, she was incapable of understanding the wholesome faith, the large, sweet liberty of those who remain closely allied to humanity in the world, yet purifying and saving it, by the sympathetic tenderness of Him who had "compassion on the multitude." She had still much to learn in the hard school of experience.

The next day, Ella was nothing like so voluble as usual. Little frowns and moments of deep abstraction took the place of the mirthful smiles of the day before. Nevertheless, her strong love for Mara led her to speak quite freely of her experience during her call at Mrs. Willoughby's. As Mara's closest friend, she felt that reticence was a kind of disloyalty. It was also true that out of the abundance of her heart she was prone to speak. At the same time, the belief grew stronger hourly that she had a secret which she had not revealed, and could not reveal to any one. The more she thought over Houghton's words and manner, the more sure she became that his interest in her was not merely a passing fancy. Maidenly reserve, however, forbade even a hint of what might seem to others a conceited and indelicate surmise. She therefore gave only the humorous side of her meeting with Houghton again, and laughed at Mara's vexation. So far from being afraid of her friend, she rather enjoyed shocking her. At last she said, "There, Mara, don't take it so to heart. Papa says I must ostracize him, and so Goth and Vandal he becomes—the absurd idea!"

"Your father would not require you to do anything absurd."

"No, not what was absurd to him; but he does not know Mr. Houghton any more than you do. It's not only absurd, but it's wrong, from my point of view."

"Oh, Ella, I'm sorry you feel so different from the rest of us."

"Why do you feel different from so many others, Mara? It isn't to please this or that one, or because you have been told to think or to feel thus and so. You have your views and convictions because you are Mara Wallingford, and not someone else. Am I made of putty any more than you are, sweetheart?"

Her words were like a stab to Mara, for the thought flashed into her mind, "I have required that Clancy should be putty under my will." Ella, in her simple common-sense, often made remarks which disturbed Mara's cherished belief that she was right and Clancy all wrong.

As a very secondary matter of interest to her, Ella at last began to speak of Clancy and Miss Ainsley. "If ever a girl courted a man with her eyes that feminine riddle courts Mr. Clancy. I don't think I ever could be so far gone as to look at a man as she does at him, unless I was engaged."

"How does he look at her?" Mara asked with simulated indifference.

"Oh, there's some freemasonry between them, probably an engagement or an understanding! She expostulated against his going away as if she had the right. I don't think he cares for her as I would wish a man to care for me, for there was a humorous, half-reckless gleam in his eyes. It may be all natural enough though," she added musingly. "I don't believe Miss Ainsley could inspire an earnest, reverent love. A man wouldn't associate her in his thoughts with his dead mother."

"What a strange expression! What put it into your mind?"

"Oh," replied Ella hastily, and flushing a little, "I've been told that Mr. Clancy's parents are dead! A plague on them both, and all people that I can't understand—I don't mean the dead Clancys, but these two who are fooling like enough. You should be able to interpret Clancy better than I, for Cousin Sophy says you were once very good friends."

"I cannot remain the friend of any one who is utterly out of sympathy with all that I believe is right and dignified."

"Well, Mara, forgive me for saying it, but Mr. Clancy may have had convictions also."

"Undoubtedly," replied Mara coldly, "but there can be no agreeable companionship between clashing minds."

"No, I suppose not," said Ella, laughing; "not if each insists that both shall think exactly alike. It would be like two engines meeting on the same track. They must both back out, and go different ways."

"Well, I've back out," Mara remarked almost sternly.

"That's like you, Mara dear. Well, well, I hope the war will be over some day. By the way, papa told me to tell you that he was busy last evening, but that he would call this afternoon for a breathing with you on the Battery."

At the usual hour the veteran appeared. Mara's greeting was outwardly the same; nevertheless, Clancy's words haunted her, and her old serene unconsciousness was gone. Now that her faculties were on the alert, she soon began to recognize subtle, unpremeditated indications of the light in which Bodine had begun to regard her, and a sudden fear and repugnance chilled her heart. "Was Clancy right after all?" she began to ask herself in a sort of dread and presentiment of trouble. Instinctively, and almost involuntarily, she grew slightly reserved and distant in manner, ceasing to meet his gaze in her former frank, affectionate way. With quick discernment he appreciated the change, and thought, "She is not ready yet, and, indeed, may never be ready." His manner, too, began to change, as a cloud gradually loses something of its warmth of color. Mara was grateful, and in her thoughts paid homage to his tact and delicacy.

"Mara," he said, "has Ella told you of her experiences at Mrs. Willoughby's?"

"Yes, quite fully. I should think, however, from her words that you were more truly her confidant."

"Yes, she has acted very honorably, just as I should expect she would, and yet I am anxious about her. I wish she sympathized with us more fully in our desire to live apart from those who are inseparable in our thoughts from the memory of 'all our woes,' as Milton writes."

"I have often expressed just this regret to Ella; but she loves us all, and especially you, so dearly that I have no anxiety about her action."

"No, Mara, not her action; I can control that: but I should be sorry indeed if she became interested in this young man. There is often a perversity about the heart not wholly amenable to reason."

Poor Mara thought she knew the truth of this remark if any one did, nor could she help fancying that her companion had himself in mind when he spoke.

"Young Houghton," he resumed, "is beginning to make some rather shy, awkward advances, as if to secure my favor—a very futile endeavor as you can imagine. My views are changing in respect to remaining in his father's employ. The grasping old man would monopolize everything. I believe he would impoverish the entire South if he could, and I don't feel like remaining a part of his infernal business-machine."

"I don't wonder you feel so!" exclaimed Mara warmly. "I don't like to think of your being there at all."

"That settles it then," said Bodine quietly. "It would not be wise or honorable for me to act hastily. I must give Mr. Houghton proper notification, but I shall at once begin to seek other employment."

Mara was embarrassed and pained by such large deference to her views, and her spirits grew more and more depressed with the conviction that Clancy was right. But she had been given time to think, and soon believed that her best, her only course, was to ignore that phase of the captain's regard, and to teach him, with a delicacy equal to his own, that it could never be accepted.

"Moreover," resumed Bodine, "apart from my duty to Mr. Houghton—and I must be more scrupulous toward him than if he were my best friend—I owe it to Ella and my cousin not to give up the means of support, if I can honorably help it, until I secure something else. Houghton has held to our agreement both in spirit and letter, and I cannot complain of him as far as I am concerned."

"I have confidence in your judgment, Captain, and I know you will always be guided by the most delicate sense of honor."

"I hope so, Mara; I shall try to be, but with the best endeavor we often make mistakes. To tell the truth I am more anxious about Ella than myself. This young Houghton is, I fear, a rather hair-brained fellow. I've no doubt that he is sincere and well-meaning enough as rich and indulged young men of his class go, but he appears to me to be impetuous, and inclined to be reckless in carrying out his own wishes. Ella, in her inexperience, has formed far too good an opinion of him."

"Well, Captain, I wouldn't worry about it. Ella is honest as the sunshine. They have scarcely more than met, and she will be guided by you. This episode will soon be forgotten."

"Yes, I hope so; I think so. I shall count on your influence, for she loves you dearly."

"I know," was the rather sad reply, "but Ella does not think and feel as I do. I wish she could become interested in some genuine Southern man."

"That will come in time, all too soon for me, I fear," he said, with a sigh, "but I must accept the fact that my little bird is fledged, and may soon take flight. It will be a lonely life when she is gone."

"She may not go far," Mara answered gently, "and she may enrich you with a son, instead of depriving you of a daughter."

He shook his head despondently, and soon afterward accompanied her to her home. She knew there was something like an appeal to her in his eyes as he pressed her hand warmly in parting. By simply disturbing the blind confidence in which she had accepted and loved her father's friend, Clancy had given her sight. She saw the veteran in a new character, and she was distressed and perplexed beyond measure. Scarcely able, yet compelled to believe the truth, she asked herself all the long night, "How can I bear this new trouble?"



CHAPTER XXVIII

"HEAVEN SPEED YOU THEN"

Aun' Sheba and Vilet entered at the usual hour the following day. The girls smiled and nodded in an absent sort of way, and then the old woman thought they seemed to forget all about her. She also observed that they were not so forward with the work as customary, and she watched them wonderingly yet shrewdly. Suddenly she sprang up, exclaiming, "Lor bress you, Missy Ella, dat de secon' time you put aw-spice in dat ar dough."

Both the girls started nervously, and Ella began to laugh.

"Missy Mara, you fergits some cake in de oben from de way it smell," and Aun' Sheba drew out cookies as black as herself instead of a delicate brown.

Mara looked at them ruefully, and then said, "I must make some more, that's all." "Wot's de matter wid you bofe, honeys?" the old woman asked kindly.

"Politics," Ella blurted out.

"Polytics! No won'er you'se bofe off de handle. Dere's been only two times wen I couldn't stan' Unc. nohow. De fust an' wust was wen he get polytics on de brain, an' belebed dat ole guv'ner Moses was gwine ter lead de culud people to a promis' lan'. I alus tole him dat his Moses 'ud lead him into a ditch, an' so he did. De secon' time was wen he got sot on, but you knows all 'bout dat. You'se bofe too deep fer me. How you git into polytics I doan see nohow."

"There, Aun' Sheba, don't you mind Ella's nonsense. We're no more into politics than you are."

"You'se inter sump'in den."

"Yes," said Ella, "we're still carrying on the war."

"Please don't talk so, Ella."

"Oh, Mara! I must have my nonsense. You've got the 'storied past'—that's how it's phrased, isn't it?—to sustain you, and I've only my nonsense."

"Well, puttin' in aw-spice double is nonsense, shuah nuff," said Aun' Sheba, looking at the girl keenly. "Wot you want spicin' so fer all't once, Missy Ella? You peart, an' saucy as eber. I ony wish I could see Missy Mara lookin' like you."

"You are getting old and blind, Aun' Sheba. I have a secret sorrow gnawing at my 'inards,' as you term those organs which keep people awake o' nights, gazing at the moon."

"Yes, honey, Aun' Sheba gittin' bery ole an' bery blin', but she see dat dere's sump'in out ob kilter wid de inards ob you bofe. Well, well, I s'pose it's none ob de ole woman's business."

"Ann' Sheba," cried Ella, with an exaggerated sigh, "if you could mend matters I'd come to you quicker than to any one else, you dear old soul! Well now, to tell you the honest truth, there isn't very much the matter with me, and there's a certain doctor that's going to cure me just as sure as this batter (holding up a spoonful) is going to be cake in ten minutes."

"Who dat?"

"Doctor Time—oh, get out!" At this instant an irate bumble-bee darted in, and Ella, in a spasmodic effort of self-defence, threw the spoon at it, and both went flying out of the window. The girl sat down half-crying, half-laughing in her vexation, while Aun' Sheba shook with mirth in all her ample proportions.

"Dat ar cake's gwine to be dough for eber mo', Missy Ella," she said. "I'se feerd you'se case am bery serus. Yit I worries mo' 'bout Missy Mara. Heah now, honey, you jes dun beat out. You sit down an' Missy Ella an' me'll finish up in a jiffy. I reckon Missy Ella ony got a leetle tantrum dis mawnin, but you'se been a wuckin' an' tinkin' too hard dis long time."

"Yes, Aun' Sheba," cried Ella, "that's the trouble. Let's you and I take the business out of her hands for a time, and make her a silent partner."

"She too silent now. Bofe oh you gittin' ter be silent par'ners. In de good ole times I'd heah you chatterin' as I come up de stars, an' to-day you was bofe right smart ways off from dis kitchen in you mins. Mum, mum, tinkin' deep, bofe ob you. Eysters ud make a racket long ob you uns dis mawnin'."

"There, Aun' Sheba," said Mara, kindly, "don't you worry about us. This is July, and in August we'll take a rest. You deserve and need it as much as either of us. I'll get well and strong then, and you know it makes people worse to tell them they don't look well and all that."

Aun' Sheba gave a sort of dissatisfied grunt, but she helped the girls through with their tasks in her own deft way, and departed with Vilet, who was always very quiet and shy except when at home.

"Well," said Ella, giving herself a little shake, when they were alone, "I'm going to get over my nonsense at once."

"What's troubling you, Ella?"

"Oh, I hardly know myself. What's troubling you? We both seem out of sorts. Do let us be sensible and jolly. Now if we both had a raging toothache we'd have some excuse for melancholy. Good-by, dear, I'll be up with the lark to-morrow, and we'll make a lark of our work;" and she started homeward, with her cherry lips sternly compressed in her resolution to be her old mirthful self. In the energy of her purpose she began to walk faster and faster. "There now, Ella Bodine," she muttered, "since it's your duty to ostracize and bake, ostracize and bake, and be done with your ridiculous fancies." And she swiftly turned the corner of a street, as if, under the inspiration of a great purpose, she was entering upon a new and wiser course. The result was, she nearly ran over George Houghton. Looking up, she saw him standing, hat in hand, with a broad, glad smile on his face.

"You almost equal that express-wagon," he said. "Are you going for the doctor?"

Her mouth twitched nervously, but she managed to say, "Good-morning, Mr. Houghton, I'm in haste," and on she went. He saw her head go down. Was she laughing or crying? The latter possibility brought him to her side instantly.

"Are you in trouble?" he asked very kindly. "Isn't there something—oh, I see you are laughing at me," and his tones proved that his feelings were deeply hurt.

Her mirth ceased at once. "No, Mr. Houghton," she replied, looking up at him with frank directness, "I was not laughing at you, but I could not help laughing at what you said. I'm in no trouble, nor shall I be if—if—well, you know what I told you. We must be strangers, you know," and she went on again as if her feet were winged.

"I don't know anything of the kind," he muttered, as he turned on his heel and slowly pursued his way to his father's counting-rooms. Entering he paused an instant and looked grimly at Bodine, whose head was bent over his writing. "I'll tackle you next, old gentleman," was his thought.

Punctually to a minute he called on Mrs. Willoughby when the week had expired. She looked into his resolute face and surmised before he spoke that time and reflection had not inclined him to a prudent withdrawal from a very doubtful suit. Nevertheless she said: "Well, you've had a little time to think, and you probably see now that your wisest course will be to give up this little affair utterly."

"Pardon me, Mrs. Willoughby, I've had an age in which to think, and it's not a little affair to me. I did not quite understand myself when I last saw you—it was all so new, strange, and heavenly. But I understand myself now. Ella Bodine shall be my wife unless she finally rejects me, unless she herself makes me sure that it's of no use to try. What's more, it will take years to prove this. As long as she does not belong to another I'll never give up."

"She belongs to her father."

"No, not in this sense. She has the right of every American girl to choose her husband."

"Do you mean to defy her father?"

"No, I mean to go to him like a gentleman, and ask permission to pay my addresses to his daughter. I mean to do this before I say one word of love to her."

"Since you are so resolved upon your course you do not need any more advice from me."

"I don't mean that at all. Isn't this the right, honorable course?"

"Oh, your royalty wishes me to applaud your decrees and decisions," she said laughing.

"Now please don't be hard on me, Mrs. Willoughby. I've followed your advice with all my might for a week."

"Done nothing with all your might?"

"Yes, and you couldn't have given me a harder task."

"Are you of age?"

"Yes, I am. I'm twenty-two, however immature I may seem to you."

"Miss Bodine is not of age."

"Well, I'll wait till she is."

"Wouldn't that be better? Wait till she is of age, and more capable of judging and acting for herself. Time may soften her father's feelings, and your father's also, for, believe me, you are going to have as much trouble at home as with Captain Bodine, that is, supposing that Ella would listen to your suit."

"And while I'm idly biting my nails through the creeping years some level-headed Southerner will quietly woo and win her. I would deserve to lose her, should I take such a course."

"You certainly would have to take that risk; but perhaps you will incur greater risks by too hasty action."

"Be sincere with me now, Mrs. Willoughby. I don't believe you women like timid, pusillanimous men. How could I appear otherwise to Miss Bodine if I should withdraw, like a growling bear into winter quarters, there to hibernate indefinitely? The period wouldn't be life to me, scarcely tolerable existence. What could she know about my motives and feelings? I tell you my love is as sacred as my faith in God. I'm proud of it, rather than ashamed. I wish her to know it, no matter what the result may be, and I don't care if all the world knows it, too."

"You mean to tell your father then?"

"Certainly, at the proper time."

"Suppose you find him utterly opposed to it all?"

"I do not think I shall; not when he sees my happiness is at stake. He may fume over it for a time, but when he comes to know Ella she'll disarm him. Why, it's just as clear to me as that I see you, that she could make the old gentleman happier than he has been for over a quarter of a century."

"My poor young friend! I wish I could share in your sanguine feelings."

"Oh, I'm not so very sanguine about her. What she will do worries me far more than what the old people will do."

"Well, you are right there. The old people are the outworks, she the citadel, which you can never capture unless she chooses to surrender."

"That's true, but I don't believe she ever would surrender to a man who was afraid to approach even the outworks."

Mrs. Willoughby laughed softly as she admitted, "Perhaps you are right."

"If I'm not, my whole manhood is at fault," he replied earnestly. "Please tell me, haven't I decided on the right, honorable course—on what would seem honorable to Captain Bodine and to Ella also?"

"Yes, if you will act now you can take no other."

"Well, won't you please approve of it?"

"Mr. Houghton, I'm not going to be timid and pusillanimous either. Since you are of age, and will take a perfectly honorable course, I will stand by you as a friend. I will still counsel you, if you so wish, for I fear that your troubles have only begun."

"I thank you from my heart," he said, seizing her hand and pressing it warmly. "I do need and wish your counsel, for I have very little tact. I can sail a boat better than I can manage an affair like this."

"Will you make me one solemn promise?"

"Yes, if I can."

"Then pledge me your word that you will not lose your temper with either Captain Bodine or your father."

"Oh, I think I can easily do that," he said good-humoredly.

"You don't know, you can't imagine, how you may be tried."

"Well, it's a sensible thing you ask, and I've sense enough to know it. I pledge you my word. If I break it, it will be because I'm pushed beyond mortal endurance."

"Mr. Houghton," she said, almost sternly, "you must not break it, no matter what is said or what happens. You would jeopardize everything if you did. You might lose Ella's respect."

He drew a long breath. "You make me feel as if I were going into a very doubtful battle," he said thoughtfully.

"It is a very doubtful battle. It certainly will be a hard, and probably a long one, and you will lose it if you don't keep cool."

"I can be very firm, I suppose."

"Yes, as firm and decided as you please, as long as you are quiet and gentlemanly in your words. Let me say one thing more," she added, very gravely. "If you enter on this affair, and then, in any kind of weakness or fickleness, give it up, I shall despise you, and so will all in this city who know about it. Count the cost. I'm too true a Southerner to look at you again if you trifle with a Southern girl. Your father will offer you great inducements to abandon this folly, as he will term it."

He flushed deeply, but only said, in quiet emphasis, "If I ever give up, except for reasons satisfactory to you, I shall despise myself far more than you can despise me."

"And you give me your word that you will keep your temper to the very end?"

"Yes, Heaven helping me, I will."

"Heaven speed you then, my friend."



CHAPTER XXIX

CONSTERNATION

Young Houghton was like a high-mettled steed, from which the curb had been removed. His temperament, even more than the impatience of youth, led him to chafe at delay, and Ella appeared so lovely, so exactly to his mind, that he had a nervous dread lest others should equally appreciate her, and forestall his effort to secure her affection. He resolved, therefore, that not an hour should be lost, and so went directly back to his father's counting-rooms.

Bodine was writing as usual at his desk, and Houghton looked at him with an apprehension thus far unknown in his experience. But he did not hesitate. "Captain Bodine," he said, with a little nervous tremor in his voice, "will you be so kind as to grant me a private interview this evening?"

The veteran looked at him coldly as he asked, "May I inquire, sir, your object in seeking this interview?"

"I will explain fully when we are alone. I cannot here, but will merely say that my motives are honorable, as you yourself will admit."

Bodine contracted his brows in painful thought for a moment. "I may as well have it out with him at once," was his conclusion. "Very well, sir, I will remain after the office is closed," he said frigidly, then turned to his writing.

George went to his desk in his father's private room, and there was a very grim, set look on his face also. "I understand you, my future father-in-law," he murmured softly. "You think you are going to end this affair in half an hour. We'll see."

The afternoon was very warm, and his father said kindly, "Come, George, knock off for to-day. I'm going home and shall try to get a nap before dinner."

"That's right, father; do so by all means. I have an engagement this evening, so please don't wait dinner for me." His thought was, "If I'm to keep my temper I can't tackle more than one the same day; yet I don't believe my father will be obdurate. If I succeed, the time will come when he'll thank me with all his heart."

Mr. Houghton had no disposition to control his son in small matters, and the young fellow came and went at his own will. Thus far his frankness and general good behavior had inspired confidence. His tastes had always inclined to athletic, manly sports, and these are usually at variance with dissipation of every kind.

The impatient youth had not long to wait. The clerks soon departed, and the colored janitor entered on his labors. Bodine remained writing quietly until George came and said, "Will you be so kind as to come to the private office?"

The veteran deliberately put his desk in order, and followed the young man without a word. There was still an abundance of light in which to see each other's faces, and George observed that Bodine's expression boded ill. He took a seat in silence, and looked at the flushed face of the youth coldly and impassively.

"Captain Bodine," George began hesitatingly, "you can make this interview very hard for me, and I fear you will do so. Yet you are a gentleman, and I wish to act and speak as becomes one also."

Bodine merely bowed slightly.

"I will use no circumlocution. You have been a soldier, and so will naturally prefer directness. I wish your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter."

"I cannot grant it."

"Please do not make so hasty a decision, sir. I fear that you are greatly prejudiced against me, but—"

"No, sir," interrupted Bodine, "I am not prejudiced against you at all. I have my own personal reasons for taking the ground I do, and it is not necessary to discuss them. I think our interview may as well end at once."

"Captain Bodine, you will admit that I have acted honorably in this matter. Since your daughter told me that you were averse to our acquaintance, I have made no effort to see her."

"Certainly, sir, that was right and honorable. Any other course would not have been so."

"It is my purpose to maintain a strictly honorable and straightforward course in this suit."

"Do you mean to say that you will pursue this suit contrary to my wishes?"

"Certainly. There is no law, human or divine, which forbids a man from loving a good woman, and Miss Bodine is good if any one is."

"How do you propose to carry on this suit?" the captain asked sternly.

"I scarcely know yet, but in no underhand way. I must ask you to inform Miss Bodine of this interview."

"Suppose I decline to do this?"

"Then I shall make it known to her myself."

"In other words, you defy me."

"Not at all, not in the sense in which you speak. I shall take no action whatever without your knowledge."

"You must remember that my daughter is not of age."

"I do not dispute your right in the least to control her action till she is, but I shall not take the risk of losing her by timidity and delay. Others will appreciate her worth as well as myself. I wish her to know that I love her, and would make her my wife."

"You appear to think that this is all that is essential so far as she is concerned," said Bodine, in bitter sarcasm.

"You do me wrong, sir," Houghton replied, flushing hotly. "Even if you should give your full consent, I, better than any one, know that my suit would be doubtful. But it would be hopeless did I not reveal to her my feelings and purposes."

"If she herself, then, informs you that it is hopeless, that would end the matter?"

"Certainly, after years of patient effort to induce her to think otherwise."

"I do not think you have shown any patience thus far, sir. You have scarcely more than met her before you enter, recklessly and selfishly, on a 'suit,' as you term it, which can only bring wretchedness to her and to those who have the natural right to her allegiance and love."

"You do me wrong again, Captain Bodine. I am no more reckless or selfish than any other man who would marry the girl he loves. By reason of circumstances over which I had no control I have met Miss Bodine, and she has inspired a sacred love, such as her mother inspired in you. You can find no serious fault with me personally, and I am not responsible for others. I have my own life to make or mar, and never to win Miss Bodine would mar it wofully. I am an educated man and her equal socially, although she is greatly my superior in other respects. I have the means with which to support her in affluence. I mean only good toward her and you. This is neither selfishness nor recklessness."

"Have you spoken to Mr. Houghton of your intentions?"

"Not yet, but I shall."

"You will find him as bitterly opposed to it all as I am."

"I think not. I shall be sorry beyond measure if you are right, but it can make no difference."

"You will defy him also, then?"

"I object to the use of that word, Captain Bodine. In availing myself of my inalienable rights I defy no one."

"Have I no rights in my own child? Your purpose is to rob me as ruthlessly as our homes were desolated years since."

"I am not responsible for the past, any more than I am for your prejudices against me. My purpose is simple and honorable, as much so as that of any other man who may ask you for your daughter's hand."

"Mr. Houghton," said Bodine, rising, "there is no use in prolonging this painful and intensely disagreeable interview. I said to your father in this office that our relations could be only those of business. Even these shall soon cease. I now understand you, sir. Of course the past is nothing to you, and you are bent on obtaining what you imagine you wish at the present moment, without any regard to others. Let me tell you once for all there can be no alliance between your house and mine. I would as soon bury my daughter as see her married to you. I do find fault with you personally. You are headlong and inconsiderate. You would lay your hands on the best you can find in the South just as your armies and politicians have done. But you proceed further at your peril—do you comprehend me?—at your peril," and the veteran's eyes gleamed fiercely.

"Captain Bodine," said George, also rising, "you cannot make me lose my temper. I shall give you no just reason for saying that I am headlong. I wish you could be more calm and fair yourself. Before we part one point must be settled. My request must be met in one way or the other. If you will give me your word that you will repeat the purport of what I have said to Miss Bodine, I will make no effort to do so myself. However hostile you may be to me, I know that you are a man of honor, and I will trust you. I merely wish Miss Bodine to know that I love her and am willing to wait for her till I am gray."

"You wish me to tell her that you will wait and pray for my death, and seek to lead her to do likewise," was the angry reply.

"It is useless for me to protest against your unjust and bitter words. The trust that I offer to repose in you entitles me to better courtesy."

By a great effort Bodine regained self-control, and balanced himself for a few moments on his crutches in deep thought. At last he said, "I accept the trust, and will be as fair to you as it is possible for an outraged father to be. I forbid that you should have any communication with my daughter whatever, and I shall forbid her to receive any from you. What is more, you must take her answer as final."

"I promise only this, Captain Bodine, that I shall take no action without your knowledge. I shall trust you implicitly in repeating the purport of this interview. The moment that I looked into your face I recognized that you were a gentleman, and I again apologize for my rude remark before I knew who you were. Good-evening, sir."

Bodine bowed stiffly, and departed with many conflicting emotions surging in his breast, none of them agreeable. He scarcely knew whether he had acted wisely or not. Indeed, the impression grew upon him that he had been worsted in the encounter, that George, in making him his messenger to Ella, had acted with singular astuteness. This was true, but the young man's action was not the result of the Yankee shrewdness with which the veteran was disposed to credit him. A simple, straightforward course is usually the wisest one, and George instinctively knew that Ella would appreciate such openness on his part. He was left in a very anxious and perturbed condition, it is true, but in his heart he again thanked Mrs. Willoughby for putting him so sacredly on his guard against his hasty temper.

Absorbed in thought, he sat till the gloom of night gathered in the office; then the shuffling feet of the impatient janitor aroused him.

Solacing the old man with a dollar, he went out hastily, and walked a mile or two to work off his nervous excitement, then sought a restaurant, muttering, "I haven't reached the point of losing my appetite yet."

By the time Bodine reached home he was much calmer, and disposed to take a much more hopeful view of the affair.

He again concluded that after all it was best that he should be the one to inform Ella, and thus keep the matter entirely within his own hands. Believing her to be as yet untouched by anything that Houghton might have said to her, he felt quite sure that he could readily induce her to take the same attitude toward the objectionable suitor which he proposed to maintain to the end.

He found her and his cousin very anxious about his late return—an anxiety not allayed by his grim, stern expression.

"I have been detained by an unpleasant interview," he said.

"With that old—"

"No, not with Mr. Houghton. I will explain after dinner."

With the swiftness of light, Ella surmised the truth, and made but a very indifferent repast. Her father noted this, and asked himself, "Could she have known of his purpose?" Then he reproached himself inwardly for entertaining the thought.

The meal was comparatively a silent one, and soon over; then they all went to Mrs. Bodine's room.

"I wish you to be present, Cousin Sophy," said the captain, "for I have a very disagreeable task to perform, and I can scarcely trust myself to do it fairly. You must prompt me if you think I do not. Ella, my dear and only child, I trust that you will receive the message, which, in a sense, I have been compelled to bring you, in the right spirit I feel sure that you will do so, and that your course now and hereafter will continue to give me that same deep, glad peace at heart which your fidelity to duty and your devotion to me have always inspired. You have my happiness now in your hands as never before; but I do not fear that you will fail me. The son of the man whom we all detest, and whose employ I shall leave presently, has asked permission to pay you his addresses."

She turned pale as he spoke so gravely, and trembled visibly.

"Why do you tell me this, papa?" she faltered. "I would rather not have known it."

"Because he requested me to tell you. Because he said he wished you to know that he loved you, and that if I did not tell you he would himself;" and he looked at her keenly.

"Then," cried Ella, impetuously, "although I may never speak to him again, I say he has acted honorably. I told you that he was incapable of anything clandestine."

"I trust that you never will speak to him again," said her father, almost sternly. "I have forbidden him to have any communication with you, and I certainly forbid your speaking with him again."

"Father," said Ella, gently, with tears in her eyes, "I do not deserve that you should speak to me in that tone. I've always tried to obey you."

"Forgive me, Ella, but I have been intensely annoyed by the interview inflicted upon me, and I cannot think of it, or of his preposterous course, with patience. Moreover, pardon me for saying it, you have shown a friendly interest in him which it has been very painful to note."

"I've only tried to be fair to him, papa."

"Please try merely to forget him, Ella—to think nothing about him whatever."

"I shall try to obey you, papa; but you are too old and wise to tell me not to think. As well tell me not to breathe."

"Ella," began her father sternly, "can you mean—"

"Now, Hugh," interrupted his cousin, "be careful you don't do more mischief than young Houghton can possibly accomplish. How men do bungle in these matters! Hough-ton hasn't bungled, though. His making you his messenger strikes me as the shrewdest Yankee trick I ever heard of."

"I had the same impression on my way home," admitted Bodine, irritably.

Ella felt that she owed no such deference to Mrs. Bodine as she did to her father, and, with an ominous flash in her eyes, said decidedly, "You are bungling, Cousin Sophy. George Houghton is incapable of what you term a Yankee trick. I will be pliant under all motives of love and duty to my father, but you must not outrage my sense of justice. You must remember that I have a conscience, as truly as you have."

"There, forgive me, Ella. You've seen the young fellow, and I haven't. Cousin Hugh, remember that Ella has your spirit, and the spirit of her ancestors. Show her what is right and best, and she will do it."

Bodine looked at his daughter in deep perturbation. Could that flushed, beautiful woman be his little Ella? With an indescribable pang he began to recognize that she was becoming a woman, with an independent life of her own. The greatness of the emergency calmed him, as all strong minds are quieted by great and impending danger. "Ella," he said, gently and sadly, "I do not wish to treat you as a little, foolish girl, but as becomes your years. I wish your conscience and reason to go with mine. You know that your happiness is the chief desire of my life. There could be no happiness for either of us in such a misalliance. The father of this hasty youth will be as bitterly opposed to it all as I am. We belong to different camps, and can never have anything in common. You know my motive in taking employment from him. I have thought better of it, and shall now leave his office as soon as I can honorably. I don't wish to outrage your sense of justice, Ella, and I will mention one other essential point in the interview. I told young Houghton that he must accept your answer as final, and that he would proceed further at his peril, and he said he would only take a final answer from you after years of patient waiting and wooing. How he proposes to do the latter I do not know, nor does he know himself. He did say, however, that he would take no action without my knowledge. You see that I am trying to be just to him."

"I would like to ask one question, papa. Did he use any angry, disrespectful language toward you?"

Bodine winced under this question, but said plainly, "No, he did not. He apologized for the third time for a hasty remark he once made before he knew who I was. He said that he recognized that I was a gentleman then, and that he would trust me as such to deliver his message."

The girl drew a long breath as if a deep cause for anxiety had been removed.

"Oh, come now, Cousin Hugh, you and Ella are taking this matter too much to heart. Why, Lor bless you! I had nearly a dozen offers by the time I was Ella's age. There is nothing tragic about this young fellow or his proceedings. Indeed, I think with Ella, that he has done remarkably well, wonderfully well, considering. Nine out of ten of his kind wouldn't be so scrupulous. He has done neither you nor Ella any wrong, only paid you the highest compliment in his power. Regard it as such, and let the matter end there. He can't marry Ella out of hand any more than he can me."

At this the girl, seeing inevitably the comic side of everything, burst into a laugh. "Cousin Sophy," she cried, "you surpass Solomon himself. Come, dear papa, let us try to be sensible. Of course Mr. Houghton can't marry me without your consent or mine."