"Then I may tell him that you will never give your consent—that what he terms his suit must end at once and forever?"

She again became very pale, and did not answer immediately.

"Ella, my only child, the hope and solace of my life, can you hesitate?"

With a rush of tears, she threw herself upon his neck, and sobbed, "Tell him that I will never do anything without your consent." Then she fled to her own room.

The captain and Mrs. Bodine sat looking at each other in consternation.



CHAPTER XXX

TEMPESTS

On his return home George found his father reading such of the Boston papers as most nearly reflected his own views, and in which he had lost none of his early interest. He had always looked upon himself somewhat in the light of an exile, and it had been his purpose to return to his native State; but as time passed, a dread of its harsh climate had begun to reconcile him to the thought of ending his days in Charleston. All morbid tendencies strengthen, if indulged. The desire, therefore, to remain near the watery grave of his eldest son increased. Allied to this motive was the pleasure of accumulating money, the excitement of business, and exultation over the fact that he was taking tens of thousands from his enemies. As far as possible he invested his capital at the North. The people among whom he dwelt knew this, knew that, unlike Mr. Ainsley, he was doing as little as possible to build up the section from which he was drawing his wealth.

George, as yet, had not been inducted into the spirit or knowledge of his father's business methods, for the old man had believed that the time for this had not come. Moreover, as the merchant became better acquainted with the maturer character of his son, he became convinced that George would not, indeed could not, carry on the business as he had. There was a large, tolerant good-nature about the youth which would render it impossible for him to deal with any one in his father's spirit. He had not known his elder brother, and was merely proud of his record as that of a brave soldier who had died in the performance of duty. George was like many of the combatants, both Union and Confederate, capable of fighting each other to the death during the war, but ready to shake hands after the battle was over.

No one understood this disposition better than Mr. Houghton, and he felt that the South was no place for George. He wished his son to go back to Massachusetts, where wealth and influence would open the way for a brilliant career; and the old man already saw in imagination his name famous in the Old Commonwealth.

He had been thinking over this scheme on the present evening, and his mind was full of it when George entered. "Glad to see you so early," he said genially. "Had a good dinner? Yes; well, then, sit down a while, for I wish to talk to you. I've had a good nap, and so won't need to go to bed very early. Well, my boy, you've reached that age when you should take your bearings for your future career."

"Why, father, I've always expected to go into business with you, and gradually relieve you of its burdens and cares."

"No, George, that wouldn't be best; that wouldn't suit me at all. You are fitted for something better and larger. You wouldn't carry on the business as I do, and that would lead to differences between us. I couldn't stand that. The iron entered into my soul before you were born. Your brother had equal promise with yourself, and, to put it very mildly, I have no love for those who destroyed him. I do business with them, but in much the same spirit that Antonio dealt with the Jew on the Rialto. You would not do this, nor could I expect you to. The accursed crime of rebellion has not smitten your soul as with lightning, nor broken your heart. The young fall into the ways of those with whom they live, and I wish you to have as little to do with this Southern people as possible. There is no career for you in this city, but in your native State you can become almost what you please. If, for instance, with your splendid health you entered upon the study of law and mastered it, I have influence and wealth enough to advance you rapidly, until by your own grip you can climb to the top of the ladder. You can then eventually marry into one of the best families in the State, and thus at the same time secure happiness and double your chances of success."

George listened aghast as his father proceeded complacently, and with a touch of enthusiasm rarely indulged. He was sitting by an open window, at some distance from Mr. Houghton, the darkness concealing his face. He now began to realize the truth of Mrs. Willoughby's belief and Bodine's conviction, that he might find as much trouble at home as elsewhere. It quickly became clear to him that he must reveal the truth at once, but how to set about it he scarcely knew, and he hesitated like one on the brink of icy water. What he considered a bright thought struck him, and he said, "Speaking of marrying, you never told me how you came to marry mother."

"Oh!" replied the old man dreamily, "I was almost brought up to marry her. She was the daughter of a near neighbor and dear friend of my father's. Your mother and I played together as children. I scarcely think we knew when our mutual affection changed into love—it all came about so gradually and naturally—and the union gave the deepest satisfaction to both families. Ah! George, George, your brother's death shortened the life of your mother, and left me very sad and lonely. I can never forgive this people for the irreparable injuries they have done to me and mine. I know you cannot feel as I do; but love of country and your affection for me should lead you to stand aloof from those who are still animated by the old, diabolical spirit which caused the death of such brave fellows as your brother, and broke the hearts of such women as your mother."

His son's distress was so deep that he buried his face in his hands.

"I don't wonder that your feelings are touched by my reminiscences, George," and the old man wiped tears from his own eyes.

"Oh, father!" cried the son, springing up, and placing his hand on the old man's shoulder, "I'm going to test your love for me severely. You are right in saying I cannot feel as you do. I did not know that you felt so strongly. I've given my love to a Southern girl."

Moments of oppressive silence followed this announcement, and the old man's face grew stern and rigid.

"Father, listen patiently," George began. "She is not to blame for the past, nor am I. If you only knew how good and noble and lovely she is—"

"Who is she? What is her name?"

"Ella Bodine."

"What! A relative of that double-dyed rebel in my office?"

"His daughter."

"George Houghton!" and his father sprang up, and confronted his son with a visage distorted by anger. Never had the youth called forth a look like that, and he trembled before the passion he had evoked.

"Father," he said entreatingly, "sit down. Do not look at me so, do not speak to me till you are calm. Remember I am your son."

The old man paced the room for a few moments in strong agitation, for he had been wounded at his most vulnerable point. The thought that his only son would ally himself with those whom he so detested, and whom for years he had sought to punish, almost maddened him. As we have seen before, there was a slumbering volcano in this old man's breast when adequate causes called it into action, and now the deepest and strongest forces of his nature were awakened.

At last he said in a constrained voice: "I hope you also will remember that I am your father. It would appear that you had forgotten the fact, when you made love to one whom I never can call daughter."

"I have not made love to her yet. You—"

"Has she been making love to you then?"

"Father, please don't speak in that way. There never were harsh words between us before, and there must not be now."

Again the dreadful silence fell between them, but it was evident that Mr. Houghton was making a great effort for self-control.

"You are right, George," he said at last. "I have never spoken to you before as I have to-night, and, I hope to God, I may never have cause to do so again. I have not been a harsh father, nor have I inflicted my unhappiness on you. I have given you large liberty, the best education that you would take, and ample means with which to enjoy yourself. I had expected that in return you would consult my wishes in some vital matters—as vital to your happiness as mine. I never dreamed that such incredible folly as you have mentioned was possible. Your very birthright precluded the idea. You said that you would have to test my love severely. I shall not only have to test your love, but also your reason, your common-sense, almost your sanity. What is thought of a man who throws away everything for a pretty face?"

"That I shall never do, father. The beauty in Ella Bodine's face is but the reflex of her character."

"That's what every enamored fool has said from the beginning of time," replied Mr. Houghton, in strong irritation. "What chance have you had to learn her character? I know more about the girl and her connections than you do. She works with that Wallingford girl, and that old fire-eater, Mrs. Hunter, in the baking trade. She lives with her cousin old Mrs. Bodine, who thinks of little else than what she is pleased to consider her blue blood, forgetting that it is not good, loyal, American blood. This little patch of a State is more to her than the Union bequeathed to us by our fathers. As to Bodine himself, if the South rose again, he'd march away on his crutches with the rebellious army. Can you soberly expect to live among such a set of people? Can you expect me to fraternize with them, to stultify all my life, to trample on my most sacred convictions, to be disloyal to the memory of wife and son, who virtually perished by the action of just such traitors?" and he laughed in harsh, bitter protest.

George sat down, again buried his face in his hands, and groaned aloud.

"You may well groan, young man, when you face the truth which you have so strangely forgotten. But come, I'm not one to yield weakly to any such monstrous absurdity. You are young and strong, and should have a spirit equal to your stature and muscle. You have not made love to this girl, you say. Never do it. Steer as wide of her as you would of a whirlpool, and all will soon be well. I won't believe that a son of mine can be so wretchedly, miserably, and contemptibly weak as to throw himself away in this fashion."

George was silent and overwhelmed. His father's words had opened an abyss at his feet. He loved the old man tenderly and gratefully, and, under his burning, scathing words, felt at the time that his course was black ingratitude. Even if he could face the awful estrangement which he saw must ensue, the thought of striking such a blow at his father's hopes, affection and confidence made him shudder in his very soul. It might be fatal even to a life already held in the feeble grasp of age. He could not speak.

At last Mr. Houghton resumed, very gravely, and yet not unkindly: "You are not the first one of your age who has been on the verge of an irreparable blunder. Thank God it is not too late for you to retreat! Do not let this word jar upon you, for it often requires much higher courage and manhood to retreat than to advance. To do the latter in this case would be as foolhardy as it would be wrong and disastrous to all concerned. It would be as fatal to me as to you, for I could not long survive if I learned that I had been leaning on such a broken reed. It would be fatal to you, for I would not leave my money so you could enrich these people. You would have nothing in the world but the pretty face for which you sold your birthright. I will say no more now, George. You will wake in the morning a sane man, and my son. Good-night."

"Good-night, father," George answered in a broken voice. Then, when alone, he added bitterly: "Wake! When shall I sleep again?"

The eastern horizon was tinged with light before, exhausted by his fierce mental conflict, he sank into a respite of oblivion. For a long time he wavered, love for his father tugging at his heart with a restraining power far beyond that of words which virtually were threats. "He could keep his money," the young fellow groaned, "if I could only keep his affection and confidence, if I could only be sure that I would not harm his life and health. I could be happy in working as a day-laborer for her."

At last he came to a decision. He had given both his love and his word to Ella. She only could reject the one, and absolve him from the other.

He was troubled to find that the forenoon had nearly passed when he awoke. Dressing hastily, he went down to make inquiries for his father.

"Marse Houghton went to de sto' at de us'l time," said the colored waiter. "He lef word not to 'sturb you, an' ter hab you'se breakfus' ready."

George merely swallowed a cup of coffee, and then hastened down town. Meanwhile, events had occurred at the office which require attention.

A very few moments after Mr. Houghton entered his private room he touched a bell. To the clerk who entered he said, "Take this letter to Mr. Bodine."

The veteran's face was as rigid and stern with his purpose as the employer was grim in his resolves; but when the captain read the curt note handed to him, his face grew dark with passion. It ran as follows:

"MR. BODINE—I have no further need of your services. Inclosed find check for your wages to the end of the month."

The captain sat still a few moments to regain self-control then quietly put his desk in order. He next halted to the private office, and the two men looked steadily and un-blenchingly into each other's eyes for a moment. Then the Southerner began sternly, "That hair-brained son of yours has told you of the interview he forced upon me last night."

"This is my private office, sir," replied Mr. Houghton, with equal sternness. "You have no right to enter it, or to use such language."

"Yes, sir, I have the right. Were it not for the folly and presumption of your headlong boy, I would have left your employ quietly in a few days, and had nothing more to do with you or yours. To save my daughter annoyance from his silly sentimentality I was compelled to come into this hated place wherein you concoct your schemes to suck dry our Southern blood. He asked for permission to pay his addresses to my daughter, and I forbade it. I told him that he could only do so at his peril."

"You are certainly right, sir. I also have told him that he would do so at his peril."

"I also told him that I would rather bury my daughter than see her married to him."

"Truly, sir, I never imagined we could agree so perfectly on any question," was Mr. Houghton's sarcastic reply. "Can we not now part with this clear understanding? I have much to attend to this morning."

"I have but one word more, and then trust I am through with his sentimentality and your insolence. Tell the boy that my daughter says she will have nothing to do with him without my consent. Now if there is even the trace of a gentleman in his anatomy he will leave us alone. Good-morning, sir." And tearing the check in two, he dropped it on the floor and halted away.

Mr. Houghton coolly and contemptuously turned to his writing till the door closed on Bodine, and then he smiled and rubbed his hands in self-felicitation. "This is better than I had hoped," he said. "I've often laughed at the idiotic pride of these black-blooded, rather than blue-blooded, fire-eaters, but I shall bless it hereafter."

"As you virtually say, you hardened old rebel, if George is worth the powder to blow him up, he'll drop you all now as if you had the plague. I've only to tell him what you and your doll-daughter have said."



CHAPTER XXXI

"I ABSOLVE YOU"

When George reached the counting-rooms, he saw that Bodine was not in his accustomed place. Surmising the truth at once, he hastened to his father's room, and asked almost sternly:

"Where is Captain Bodine?"

"I neither know nor care," was the cool reply. "He is dismissed from my service."

"You have acted unjustly, sir," his son began hotly, "you have punished him for my—"

"George," interrupted his father gravely, "remember what you said about angry words between us."

The young man paced the office excitedly for a few moments in silence and then sat down.

"That's right," resumed his father quietly. "I am glad you are able to attain self-control, for you now require the full possession of all your faculties. Fortunately for both of us, this man, Bodine, has said more than enough to end this folly forever," and he began to repeat the conversation which had taken place.

At a certain point George started, and, looking at his father with a shocked expression, asked, "Did you mean, sir, that you also would rather see me buried than married to a good woman whom I love?"

"That is your way of putting it," replied Mr. Houghton, somewhat disconcerted, for his son's tone and look smote him sorely. "You will understand my feelings better when you have heard that rebel's final words;" and he repeated them, ending with the sentences, "'Tell the boy that my daughter says she will have nothing to do with him without my consent. Now if there is even the trace of a gentleman in his anatomy he will leave us alone.' In this final remark I certainly do agree with him most emphatically," concluded the old man sternly. "Any human being, possessing a particle of self-respect, would prefer death to the humiliation and dishonor of seeking to force himself on such people."

"I suppose you are right, sir, but I cannot help having my own thoughts."

"Well, what are they?"

"That the girl has met in her home the same harsh, terrible opposition that I have found in mine."

"Undoubtedly, thank heaven! Whether she needed it or not she has evidently had the sense to take the wholesome medicine. The probabilities are, however, that she has laughed at the idea of receiving attentions so repugnant to her father and to me."

"No doubt," said George wearily. "Very well, there is a trace of a gentleman in my anatomy. I would like to leave town for a while."

"A very sensible wish, George," said his father kindly. "Go where you please, and take all the money you need. When you have come to see this affair in its true light come back to me. I will try to arrange my business so that we can make a visit North together in the early autumn."

"Very well, sir," and there was apathy in his tones. After a moment he added, "Please give me some work this morning."

"No, my boy. Go and make your preparations at once. Divert your thoughts into new channels. Be a resolute man for a few days, and then your own manhood will right you as a boat is righted when keeled over by a sudden gust."

George was not long in forming the same plan which Clancy had adopted. He would go to the mountains in the interior, fish, hunt and tramp till the fever in his blood subsided. He told his father of his purpose.

"All right, George. I only wish I were young and strong enough to go with you. It will not be long before you will see that I have had at heart only what was best for you."

"I hope so, father; I truly do, for I have had a new, strange experience. Even yet I can scarcely comprehend that you and Mr. Bodine could speak to your children, and dictate to them in matters relating to their happiness as you both have done. It savors more of feudal times than of this free age."

"In all times, George, the hasty passions and inconsiderate desires of the young, when permitted gratification, have led to a lifetime of wretchedness. But we need not refer to this matter again. Bodine's final words have settled it for all time."

"It would certainly seem so," said young Houghton. "Well, I will make my preparations to start to-morrow."

His first step was to go direct to Mrs. Willoughby, and his dejected expression revealed to the lady that her anticipations of strong opposition were correct.

"I won't annoy you," she said, as George sat down and looked at her with troubled eyes, "by that saying of complacently sagacious people, 'I told you so.' You may tell me all if you wish."

"I do so wish, for I fear my way is blocked." And he related all that had occurred. When he ended with Bodine's final words she said thoughtfully, "Such language as that, combined with Ella's message, does seem to end the affair."

"Well, I know this much," he replied ruefully, "I am a gentleman. No matter what it costs me I must continue to be one."

"Yes, Mr. Houghton, you have acted like a gentleman, and, as you say, you must continue to do so. Let me congratulate and thank you for keeping your temper."

"I nearly lost it when I learned that my father had discharged Mr. Bodine."

"I understand how you felt then. You were sorely tried as I feared. Have you any reason to think that Ella feels in any such way as you do?"

"None at all. My best hope was, that with time and opportunity I could awaken like regard. While not at all sanguine, I would have made every effort in my power to win her respect and love. But now what can I do? If I take another step I must forfeit my father's love and confidence, which is far more to me than his money. I have at least brain and muscle enough to earn a living for us both. I fear, however, that such a course would kill the old gentleman. I could meet this problem by simply waiting if Ella cared for me, but she and her father have made it impossible to approach her again. She has said she would have nothing to do with me without her father's consent, and he has said that he would rather bury her than permit my attentions."

"Well, my friend, I see how it is, and I absolve you utterly. You can't go forward under the circumstances."

"No, for she would now probably meet any effort on my part with contempt, and agree with her father that a Northern man couldn't even appreciate words that were like a kick."

"Well, then, go to the mountains and forget all about it. If Ella had set her heart upon you as you have on her, and you both could be patiently constant, the future might have possibilities; but if I were a man I would make no further effort under the circumstances."

George went home with a heavy heart, and grimly entered upon the first hard battle of his life.

Ella tried to be her old mirthful self when she came down to breakfast that morning, and succeeded fairly well. In spite of her father's bitter words and opposition he had told her a truth that was like the sun in the sky. George Houghton loved her, and he had revealed his love in no underhand way. She was proud of him; she exulted over him, and, in the delicious pain of her own awakening heart, she forgot nearly everything except the fact that he loved her.

Bodine was perplexed by her manner and not wholly reassured. When she had kissed him good-by for the day, he said, "Cousin Sophy, perhaps our fears last night had little foundation. Ella does not seem cast down this morning."

The old lady shook her head and only remarked, "I hope it is not as serious as I feared."

"Why do you fear so greatly?"

"Suppose Ella does care for him more than we could wish, the fact you told her last night that this young fellow loves her, or thinks he does, would be very exhilarating. Oh, I know a woman's heart. We're all alike."

"Curse him!" muttered the captain.

"No, no, no, pray for your enemies. That's commanded, but not that we should marry our daughters to them. Dear Cousin Hugh, we must keep our comon-sense in this matter. This is probably Ella's first little love affair, and girls as well as boys often have two or three before they settle down. Ella will soon get over it, if we ignore the whole affair as far as possible. You have much to be thankful for, since neither of the young people is sly and underhanded. Never fear. That old Houghton will set his boy down more decidedly than you have Ella, and also send him out of town probably. This cloud will sink below the horizon before we are many months older. Perhaps Ella will mope a little for a time, but we must not notice it, and must make it as cheerful for her as possible. Charleston men are beginning to call on her, and she'll soon discover that there are others in the world besides George Houghton."

But the veteran halted to his work sore-hearted and angry. Strong-willed and decided as Mr. Houghton himself, he could not endure the truth that his daughter had looked with favor on one so intensely disagreeable to him. He, too, felt that such an alliance would stultify his life and all his past, that it would bring him into contempt with those whose respect he most valued. Young Houghton's coolness and resolute purpose to ignore his opposition, together with the fact that Ella was not indifferent, troubled him, and led to the determination to take the strongest measures within his power to prevent further complications. This resolve accounted for his visit to Mr. Houghton's office and the words he uttered there. His employer, however, had aroused his anger to the last degree, and he returned home in a rage.

Mrs. Bodine listened quietly to his recital of what had occurred, and then said, with her irrepressible little laugh, "Well, it was Greek meeting Greek. You both fired regular broadsiders. Cool off, Cousin Hugh. Don't you see that all things are working for the best? Your rupture with old Houghton will only secure you greater favor with our people, and Ella be cured all the sooner of any weakness toward that old curmudgeon's son."

"I should hope so," said her father most emphatically.

"Don't you be harsh to Ella. We can laugh her out of this fancy much better than scold or threaten her out of it."

"I shall not do either," said Bodine gravely. "I shall tell her the facts and then trust to her love, loyalty and good sense. It has been no laughing matter to me."

Ella's cheerfulness and happiness grew apace all the morning. "To think that I should have brought that great Vandal to my feet so soon!" she thought, smiling to herself. "Dear me! Why can't people let bygones be bygones? Now if I could see him, naturally what a chase I could lead him! If he thinks I'll put my two hands together and say, 'Please, sir, don't exert yourself. The weather is too warm for that. Behold thine handmaid,' he will be so mistaken that he will make some poor dinners. I'd be bound to keep him sighing like a furnace for a time. Well, well, I fear we both will have to do a lot of sighing, but time and patience see many changes. As Aun' Sheba says, he's on ''bation,' and, if he holds out, our stern fathers may eventually see that the best way to be happy themselves is to make us happy. He thinks I'm a very frigid representative of the Southern people. Wouldn't he dance a jig if he knew? Well, speed thee on, old Father Time, and touch softly obdurate hearts." Thus with the hopefulness of youth she looked forward.

Mara regarded her with misgivings, but asked no questions. She also was sadly preoccupied with her own thoughts.

"Aun' Sheba," Ella said, as the old woman entered, "I rather like this ''bation' scheme of yours. I think of putting myself on ''bation.'"

"Oh, you go long, honey. Doan you make light ob serus tings."

"I'm doing nothing of the kind, Aun' Sheba. I've too much respect for you."

"Oh, well, honey, sich as you gits 'ligion jes as you did de measles. It's kin ob bawn an' baptize inter yez wen you doan know it. But I'se got to hab a po'ful conwiction ob sin fust, an' dats de trouble wid me. I says to myself, 'Aun' Sheba, you'se a wile sinner. Why doan you cry an' groan, an' hab a big conwiction? Den you feel mo' shuah;' but de conwiction won' come no how. Sted ob groanin' I gits sleepy."

"Well, I think I've got a conviction, Aun' Sheba, and I'm not a bit sleepy."

"I don't know what you dribin at. Bettah be keerful how you talk, honey."

"I think so too, Ella."

"Oh, Mara! you take such 'lugubrious' views, as I heard some one say. There, Aun' Sheba! I'll sober down some day."



CHAPTER XXXII

FALSE SELF-SACRIFICE

Ella was very much surprised to find her father reading in the parlor when she returned home. "Why papa!" she cried, with misgivings of trouble, "are you not well?"

"I cannot say that I am, Ella, but my pain is mental rather than physical. Mr. Houghton dismissed me with insults from his service this morning."

Ella flushed scarlet. "Where was young Mr. Houghton?" she asked indignantly.

"Sent to Coventry, probably. He evidently did not dare put in an appearance."

She sat down and drew a long breath.

"Ella," said her father very gravely, "I shall not treat you as a child. You have compelled me to recognize that you are no longer the little girl that had grown so gradually and lovingly at my side."

"Papa," cried Ella, "I am not less lovingly at your side to-day."

"I hope so. I shall believe it if, with the spirit which becomes your birth, you do take your place at my side in unrelenting hostility to these Houghtons who have heaped insult upon us, the son by rash, headlong action which he would soon regret, and the father by insufferable insolence. But you shall judge for yourself." And he began, as Mr. Houghton had done, to repeat what had passed between them.

At the same terrible words which had smitten George, she also cried, "Papa, did you say you would rather bury me?"

"Yes," said the veteran sternly, "and I would rather be buried myself. You must remember that I am at heart a soldier and not a trader. I could not survive dishonor to you or myself; and any relation except that of enmity to these Houghtons would humiliate me into the very mire. What's more, Mr. Houghton feels in the same way about his son. I am not one whit more averse than he is. He virtually said that he would disinherit and cast out his son should he continue to offend by seeking your hand. I, in return, told him that if the sentimental boy had even the trace of a gentleman in his anatomy he would leave us alone. Now you can measure the gravity of the situation. The name of our ancestors, the sacred cause for which I and so many that I loved perilled and lost life, forbid that I should take any other course. Turn from this folly and all will be serene and happy soon. I can obtain a position elsewhere. Surely, Ella, you are too true a Southern girl to have given your heart unsought, unasked to your knowledge till last night. Your very pride should rescue you from such a slough as this."

The girl had turned pale and red as he spoke. Now she rose and said falteringly: "Papa, I'm no hypocrite. As I told you last night, I will do nothing whatever without your consent."

"You will never have my consent even to speak to that fellow."

"Very well then," she said quietly, "that ends it."

So apparently it did. Ella went to her room and for a few moments indulged in a passion of grief. "Oh, to think," she moaned, "that fathers can say to their children that they would rather bury them than give up the bitterness of an old and useless enmity! It is indeed all ended, for he would never look at me again after papa's words." In a few moments she added, "Mine also, mine also, for I said, 'Tell him I will do nothing without papa's consent.' Well, I only hope he can get over it easier than I can."

She soon washed the traces of tears from her eyes and muttered: "I won't show the white feather anyhow, even if I haven't Aun's Sheba's comfort of being on ''bation.'" And she marched down to dinner with the feeling of a soldier who has a campaign rather than a single battle before him.

There was a little stiffness at first; but Mrs. Bodine, with her fine tact, soon began to banish this, and the old lady was pleased that Ella seconded her efforts so readily. Bodine was a man and a straightforward soldier, honest in his views and actions, however mistaken they might be. He had not feminine quickness in outward self-recovery, and the waves of his strong feeling could only subside gradually. He soon began to congratulate himself, however, that his strong measures had led to a most fortunate escape, and he admitted the truth of his cousin's words that young girls were subject to sudden attacks of romantic sentiment before they were fairly launched into society.

As the days passed these impressions were strengthened, for Ella appeared merrier than ever before. Mrs. Bodine kept pace with her nonsense which at times even verged on audacity, and the veteran began to laugh as he had done before the "Houghton episode," as he now characterized it in his mind. Mrs. Bodine, however, began to observe little things in Ella which troubled her.

On the morning following that of Bodine's dismissal, Mara saw at once from Ella's expression that something unpleasant had occurred.

"What has happened?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh, we've had an earthquake at our house," was the somewhat bitter reply. Fondly as she loved Mara, Ella stood in no awe of her whatever, and her heart was almost bursting from the strong repression into which she knew she must school herself for the sake of her father.

"Please, Ella, don't talk riddles."

"Well, papa and old Houghton have had a regular pitched battle; papa has been discharged, and is now a gentleman of leisure."

"Shameful! What earthly reason could that old wretch—"

"I'm the earthly reason."

"Ella, don't tantalize me."

"Well, that misguided little boy, who must stand six feet in his stockings, had the preposterous presumption—there's alliteration for you, but nothing else is equal to the case—to ask papa if he might pay his addresses to me. Isn't that the conventional phrase? At the bare thought both of our papas went off like heavy columbiads, and we poor little children have been blown into space."

"Oh, Ella I how can you speak so!" cried Mara indignantly. "The idea of associating your father with that man Houghton in your thoughts! It does indeed seem that no one can have anything to do with such Yankees as come to this city—"

"There now, Mara," said Ella a little irritably, "I haven't Aun' Sheba's grace of self-depreciation. I haven't been conjured into a monster by Northern associations, and I haven't lost my common-sense. I don't associate papa with old Houghton, as no one should know better than you. No daughter ever loved father more than I love papa. What's more, I've given him a proof of it, which few daughters are called upon to give. But I'm not a fool. The same faculties which enable me to know that you are Mara Wallingford reveal to me with equal clearness that papa and Mr. Houghton have acted in much the same way."

"Could you imagine for a moment that your father would permit the attentions of that young Houghton?"

"Certainly I could imagine it. If papa had come to me and said, 'Ella, I have learned beyond doubt that Mr. Houghton is sly, mean, unscrupulous, or dissipated,' I should have dropped him as I would a hot poker. Instead of all this the Vandal goes to papa like a gentleman, tells him the truth, intrusts him with the message of his regard for me, and promises that if papa will tell me he will not—also promises that he will not make the slightest effort to win my favor without papa's knowledge. Then he told his own father about his designs upon the little baker. Then both of our loving papas said in chorus of us silly children, 'We'll see 'em buried first.'"

"I don't wonder your father said so," Mara remarked sternly.

"Well, I wonder, and I can't understand it," cried Ella, bursting into a passion of tears.

"There now, Ella," Mara began soothingly, "you will see all in the true light when you have had time to think it over. Remember how old Houghton is looked upon in this city. Consider his intense hostility to us."

"I've nothing to say for him," sobbed Ella.

"Well, it would be said that your father had permitted you to marry the son of this rich old extortioner for the sake of his money. Your action would throw discredit on all your father's life and devotion to a cause—"

"Which is dead as Julius Caesar," Ella interrupted.

"But which is as sacred to us," continued Mara very gravely, "as the memory of our loved and honored dead."

"I don't believe our loved and honored dead would wish useless unhappiness to continue indefinitely. What earthly good can ever result from this cherished bitterness and enmity? Oh, mamma, mamma! I wish you had lived, for you would have understood the love which forgives and heals the wounds of the past."

"Ella, can you have given your love to this alien and almost stranger?"

"I have at least given him my respect and admiration," she replied, rising and wiping her eyes before resuming her work. Suddenly she paused, and in a serio-comic attitude she pointed with the roller as she said, "Mara, suppose you insisted that that kitchen table was a cathedral, would it be a cathedral to me? No more so than that your indiscriminate prejudices against Northern people are grand, heroic, or based on truth. So there, now. I've got to unburden my feelings somewhere; although I expect sympathy from no one, I believe in the angels' song of 'Peace on earth and good will toward men.'"

"I fear your good will toward one man," said Mara, very sadly, "is taking you out of sympathy with those who love you, and who have the best and most natural right to your love."

"See how mistaken you are! I shall never be out of sympathy with you, papa, or Cousin Sophy. But how can I sympathize with some of your views when God has given me a nature that revolts at them? If you ever love a good man, God and your own heart will teach you what a sacred thing it is. What if I am poor, and lacking in graces and accomplishments, I know I have an honest, loving nature. Think of that old man Houghton condemning and threatening his son, as if he had committed a vile crime in his most honorable intentions toward me! Well, well, it's all over. I've given my word to papa that I'll do nothing without his consent, and he'll see me buried before he'll give it. Don't you worry, I'm not going to pine and live on moonshine. I'll prove that I'm a Bodine in my own way."

"Yes, Ella, you will, and eventually it will be in the right way."

"Mara, what I have said is in confidence, and since I've had my say I'd rather not talk about it any more."

Mara was glad enough to drop the subject, for Ella had been saying things to which her own heart echoed most uncomfortably. She and Mrs. Hunter accepted Mrs. Bodine's invitation to dine that evening, and, in her sympathy for Bodine, was kinder to him than ever, thus reviving his hopes and deepening his feelings.

Time passed, bringing changes scarcely perceptible on the surface, yet indicating to observant eyes concealed and silent forces at work. And these were observant eyes; Mrs. Bodine saw that Ella was masking feelings and memories to which no reference was made. Ella began to observe that her father's demeanor toward Mara was not the same as that by which he manifested his affection for her. While she was glad for his sake, and hoped that Mara would respond favorably, she had an increased sense of injustice that he should seek happiness in a way forbidden to her. The thought would arise, "I am not so much to him after all."

One day, near the end of July, Ella, her father, Mrs. Hunter and Mara, were on the Battery, sitting beneath the shade of a live oak. The raised promenade, overlooking the water, was not far away, and among the passers-by Mara saw Clancy and Miss Ainsley approaching. Apparently they were absorbed in each other, but, when opposite, Clancy turned and looked her full in the face. She gave no sign of recognition nor did he. That mutual and unobserved encounter of their eyes set its seal on their last interview. They were strangers.

"There goes a pair, billing and cooing," said Ella with a laugh.

"Mara, don't you feel well?" asked the captain anxiously. "You look very pale."

"I felt the heat very much to-day," she replied evasively. "I am longing for August and rest."

"Oh, Mara! let us shut up shop at once," cried Ella. "Papa is at leisure now and we can make little expeditions down the bay, out to Summerville and elsewhere."

"No," Mara replied, "I would rather do just what we agreed upon. It's only a few days now."

"You are as sot as the everlasting hills."

Mara was silent, and glad indeed that her quiet face gave no hint of the tumult in her heart.

Mrs. Hunter's eyes were angrily following Clancy and Miss Ainsley. "Well," she said, with a scornful laugh, "that renegade Southerner has found his proper match in that Yankee coquette. I doubt whether he gets her though, if a man ever does get a born flirt. When she's through with Charleston she'll be through with him, if all I hear of her is true."

"Oh, you're mistaken, Mrs. Hunter," Ella answered. "She fairly dotes on him, and if he don't marry her he's a worse flirt than she is. Think of Mr. Clancy's blue blood. She undoubtedly appreciates that."

"I'm inclined to think that he was a changeling, and that old Colonel Clancy's child was spirited away."

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hunter, but I differ with you. While I cannot share in many of Mr. Clancy's views and affiliations, he has the reputation of being sincere and straightforward. Even his enemies must admit that he seeks to make his friendliness to the North conducive to Southern interests."

Mara's heart smote her that even Captain Bodine had been fairer to Clancy than she had been.

Words rose to Ella's lips, but she repressed them, and soon afterward they returned to their respective homes.

Mara early retired to the solitude of her own room, for that cold mutual glance on the Battery had suggested a new thought not yet entertained. In her mental excitement it promised to banish the dreary stagnation of her life. She must have a motive, and if it involved the very self-sacrifice that she had been warned against, so much the better.

"It would teach Owen Clancy how futile were his words," she said to herself. "It would bring happiness to my father's friend; it would become a powerful incentive in my own life, and, above all, would compel me to banish the thought of one to whom I have said I will never speak again."

The more she dwelt upon this course, the more clear it became in her warped judgment the one path of escape from an aimless, hopeless existence fast becoming unendurable. She was not by any means wholly selfish in reaching her decision, for thoughts of her own need did not predominate. "If I cannot be happy myself," she reasoned, "I can make Captain Bodine happy, for there could not be a more devoted wife than I will become, if he puts into words the language of his eyes. Ella has already ceased to be in true sympathy with him in matters that have made so much of the warp and woof of his life. We two are one in these respects. I can and will cast out all else if my motive is strong enough."



CHAPTER XXXIII

A SURE TEST

Clancy had gone to Nature to be calmed and healed, but he had brought a spirit at variance with her teachings. He soon recognized that he was neither receptive nor docile. He chafed impatiently and angrily at Mara's obduracy, which, nevertheless, only increased his love for her. The deepest instincts of his nature made him feel that she belonged to him, and he to her. The barrier between them was so intangible that he was in a sort of rage that he could not brush it aside. Reflection always brought him back to the conviction that she did love him. Her passionate words: "If my heart break a thousand times I will never speak to you again," grew more and more significant. Odd fancies, half-waking dreams about her, pursued him into the solitude of the forest. She seemed like one imprisoned; he could see, but could not reach and release her. Again she was under a strange, malign spell, which some day might suddenly be broken—broken all too late.

Then she would dwell in his thoughts as the victim of a species of moral insanity which might pass away. At times her dual life became so clear to him that he was almost impelled to hasten back to the city, in the belief that he could speak such strong, earnest words as would enable her to cast aside her prejudices, and break away from the influences which were darkening and misshaping her life. Then he would despondently recall all that he had said and done, and how futile had been his effort.

He neither fished nor hunted, but passed the time either in long tramps, or in sitting idly tormented by perturbed thoughts. Believing that he had reached a crisis in his life, it was his nature to come to some decision. He was essentially a man of action, strong-willed and resolute. He despised what he termed weakness, forgetting that the impulses of strength often lead to error, for the reason that patience and fortitude are lacking.

In facing the possibilities of the future, he began to yield to the promptings of ambition, a trait which had no mean place in his character. "If Mara denies her love, and sacrifices herself to Bodine," he reasoned, "what is there left for me but to make the most of my life by attaining power and influence? I can only put pleasures and excitements in the place of happiness. I won't go through life like a winged bird."

When such thoughts were in the ascendant, Miss Ainsley presented herself to his fancy, alluring, fascinating, beckoning. She seemed the embodiment of that brilliant career which he regarded as the best solace he could hope for. Often, however, he would wake in the night, and, from his forest bivouac, look up at the stars. Then a calm, deep voice in his soul would tell him unmistakably that, even if he attained every success that he craved, his heart would not be in it, that he would always hide the melancholy of a lifelong disappointment. All these misgivings and compunctions usually ended in the thought: "Caroline Amsley and all that she represents is the best I can hope for now. She may be playing with me—I'm not sure, if she will marry me, I can probably give her as true a regard as she will bestow upon me. She is not a woman to love devotedly and unselfishly, not counting the cost. I could not marry such a woman, for I feel it would be base to take what I could not return; but I could marry her. I would do her no wrong, for I could give to her all the affection to which she is entitled, all that she would actually care for. If I am mistaken, I am totally at fault in the impression which she has made upon me, and I do not think that I am. I am not in love with her, and therefore am not blind. She is not in love with me. It has merely so happened that I have proved agreeable to her, pleased, amused, and interested her. Possibly I have led her to feel that we are so companionable that a life journey together would be quite endurable. My reason, all my instincts, assure me that this beautiful girl has considered this question more than once before—that she is considering it now, coolly and deliberately. I am being weighed in the balances of her mind, for I do not think she has heart enough to enable that organ to have much voice in the matter. Her views and beliefs are intellectual. No strong, earnest feelings sway her. When have her sympathies been touched in behalf of any one or any cause? Oh, my rare beauty! I am not blind. Selfishness is the mainspring of your character; but it is a selfishness so refined, so rational and amenable to the laws of good taste, that it can be calculated upon with almost mathematical accuracy. You are no saint, but a saint might be beguiled into faults which to you are impossible. You are a fit bride for ambition, and would be its crown and glory."

Such was often the tenor of his thoughts, and ambition suggested the many doors to advancement which such an alliance would open. Mr. Ainsley was not only a man of wealth, but also of large, liberal ideas. It certainly would be a pleasure and a constant exhilaration to aid him in carrying out his great enterprises.

Thus Clancy, as well as Mara, was led by disappointment in his dearest hope of happiness to seek what next promised best in his estimation to redeem life from a dreary monotony of negations. He also resolved to have motives and incentives; nor was his ambition purely selfish, for he purposed to use whatever power, wealth and influence he might obtain for the benefit of the people among whom he dwelt. Hers, however, was the nobler motive, and the less selfish, for it involved self-sacrifice, even though it was mistaken, and could lead only to wrong action. It would cost him nothing to carry out his large, beneficent purposes. Indeed, they would add to his pleasures and enhance his reputation. She was but a woman, and saw no other path of escape from the conditions of her lot except the thorny one of self-abnegation.

Alternately cast down, and fired by conflicting thoughts and purposes, Clancy soon discovered that the woods was no place for him, and he resolved to return to the city, there to be guided by the circumstances of the next few weeks. If it became clear that Mara had not been influenced by his warning, but on the contrary was accepting Bodine's attentions, then he would face the truth that she was lost to him beyond hope. Without compunction he would turn to Miss Ainsley, and, with all the wariness and penetration which he could exercise, seek to discover how far she would go with him in his life campaign to achieve eminence. He was glad, however, that he did not regard her as essential to his plans and hopes. Indeed, he had the odd feeling that even if she rejected him as a husband, he could shake hands with her and say: "Very well, Ainsley, we can be good comrades just the same. We amuse and interest each other, we mutually stimulate our mental faculties. Let it end here."

In this mood he fulfilled his promise and wrote as follows:

"My DEAR AINSLEY—Permit me to remind you of my existence—if one can be said to exist in these wilds. An expedition of this kind is a good thing for a fellow occasionally. It enables him to get acquainted with himself, to indulge in egotism without being a nuisance. I have neither hunted, fished, nor studied the natives. I have not seen a "mountain maid" whose embrace I would prefer to that of a bear. I have merely tramped aimlessly about, meanwhile learning that I am not adapted to communion with nature. At this moment I should prefer smoking a cigar with you on the balcony to looking at scenery which should inspire artist and poet. I am neither, merely a man of affairs. Humanity interests me more than oaks, however gigantic. You see I have no soul, no heart, no soaring imagination. I am as matter-of-fact a fellow as you are. That's why we get on so well together. We can chaff, spar, and run intellectual tilts as amicably as any two men in town. This proves you to be quite exceptional—delightfully so. I'm not surprised, however, for, as I have said to you, you are sated with the other kind of thing. How long will this fancy last? Now that you are so manly you should not be fickle. You have not half comprehended the penalties of your new role, for you may find that it involves a distressing frankness. I think I had better close. Letter-writing pre-supposes literary qualities which I do not possess. Men, unless sentimentally inclined, or given to hobbies, rarely write long letters to each other. If unusually congenial they can talk together as long as women. I do not know of a man in town who can equal you as good company; and with this fact in mind, I shall atone for a brief letter by putting in an appearance at an early date. If you have had any flirtations in my absence I shall expect all the details. You know I do not care for such trivial amusements. In this material age, making the world move in the way of business affords ample scope for my limited faculties, while a chat with you is better than a game of chess in the way of recreation, better than moping in the woods. Your friend, CLANCY."

He had barely time to post the letter before the mail-stage left the little hamlet in which it was written. He was soon dissatisfied with himself and the missive, and regretted having written it. Before an hour had passed he muttered: "I never wrote such a letter to a woman before, and I won't again. I put myself in the worst light, in fact was unjust to myself. How differently I would write to Mara! Is it the difference in women which inevitably inspires different thought and action? At any rate, there is a touch of coarseness in this masculine persiflage which grates. When I return we must become friends as man and woman. I wonder if she will feel as I do about it?"

Miss Ainsley was not satisfied with the letter at all, one reason being that it revealed too much penetration on Clancy's part. While she welcomed him with her old cordiality she took him to task at once.

"This is a spurious letter," she said, holding it up. "You would never write such an affair to a male friend. You betrayed a consciousness of my femininity in every line. You preached to me and warned me with the same penful of ink. You write as if you were a commonplace male cynic, and I a woman who was trying to unsex herself by a lot of ridiculous affectations. I wished a genial, jolly letter such as you might write to an old college chum."

"Do you know the reason why I did not, rather could not, write such a letter?"

"No."

"Because you are not an old college chum."

"I was not aware that you were so tremendously sincere."

"I'm not tremendously sincere—not tremendous in any grand sense of the word, but I've learned that I can be tremendously awkward in a false position. It is absurd of you to fancy that I can think of you in any other light than that of a beautiful woman, gifted with more than your share of intellect. I prefer that our friendship should rest on this obvious fact. We are too old 'to make believe,' as children say. I came to this conclusion within an hour after I wrote the letter."

"Oh, you dashed it off hastily, without giving it thought?"

"I've given you two thoughts to your one," he replied, laughing lightly.

"And none of them very complimentary, judging from the letter." And she impatiently tore it up.

"That's right. Put it out of existence."

"I almost wish I had kept it as documentary evidence against you," she remarked.

"Oh, come! Friends do not wish evidence against, but for each other. I could remain away scarcely a week."

"From business, yes."

"Or from my most delightful recreation; yes."

"You find me very amusing then."

"I do indeed, and interesting also. I am quite certain that your society gives me far more pleasure than mine affords you."

"Since I am relegated to woman's sphere I certainly shall not protest against that belief. I am now under no bonds to be distressingly frank."

"You never would have been any franker than you wished to be. For the manifestation of that trait I shall have to depend on something very different."

"And what may that be?"

"Why, simply the quality of your friendship."

"I am satisfied that mine compares very favorably with yours."

"In both instances neither of us can escape one sure test."

"Indeed! What test?"

"That of time," he replied, smiling significantly. "Good-by. I'm quite sure that your regard will survive till to-morrow afternoon when we are to take a sail in the harbor, so Mrs. Willoughby has informed me."

Miss Ainsley gave a little complacent nod in his direction as he disappeared, and thought, "Since you are so content and agreeable as a friend merely, I'm half-inclined to keep you as such, and marry some one else."



CHAPTER XXXIV

"BITTERNESS MUST BE CHERISHED"

To all appearance the long hot days of August were passing very uneventfully to the characters of our story. The cold look which Clancy received from Mara on the Battery, together with the fact that Bodine appeared more lover-like than ever, speedily satisfied him that his best resource was the ambitious career which in his absence he had accepted in the place of happiness. He therefore gave himself up quite unreservedly to Miss Ainsley's fascinations, and, with all the skill and energy he possessed, seconded her father's business enterprises. Mr. Ainsley was sometimes in town, and again absent, as his business interests required; for he was one of those indefatigable men who, with soldier-like energy and fearlessness, carry out their plans, regardless of discomfort or danger. He recognized the fact that Clancy was both capable and useful, and was already inclined to make him one of his chief lieutenants in the South. He understood the young man's relations to his daughter perfectly, and was not at all averse to a union between them. At the same time, he knew how problematical Caroline's action would be, and that it would be useless for him to appear for or against the match. He was aware of his daughter's attitude in regard to marriage, and also convinced that she would take her own course.

It would seem that she was taking no course whatever at present, but indolently and complacently letting matters drift. She sometimes smilingly thought, "I scarcely know whether Mr. Clancy is friend or lover. I suppose I could lead him to be more pronounced in either character if I chose, but since he is so agreeable as he is, I would be a fool not to keep everything in statu quo till I wish a change. Life is too long to give up a pleasure before you are through with it."

Clancy quietly studied her mood, and was in no greater hurry than herself. Indeed, both felt that they had arrived at a comparatively clear mutual understanding, and so were quite at their ease, she enjoying his society abundantly, and he hers, as far as his bitter memories would permit.

Quick of apprehension, Bodine soon perceived a change in Mara's attitude toward him, but was considerate in availing himself of such slight encouragement as she gave. He had been taught by her manner that her first feeling on the discovery of a warmer regard than she had expected was that of repulsion. He now believed that she had thought the matter over, and was learning that it might not be impossible to regard him in a new and different light. Long since the ardor of youth had passed, and he was disposed to allow her time to become accustomed to the thought of wifehood. In the meantime he put forth every effort to prove himself companionable, in spite of their disparity in age. It was not his delicate and thoughtful attentions, however, which reconciled her to the future that she had accepted, but rather the motives already revealed. Under the influence of these, a certain species of mental excitement had been evoked. She had not ceased to suffer, but she had ceased merely to exist.

There was something now to look forward to, sacred duties to anticipate, and a future which was not a blank. She believed that in giving help and happiness to another she would more surely trample on self, and make it the vantage-ground for a greater devotion than that of most women whose love is often partly self-love. In regarding her first pure love and all its promptings as the phase of self to be destroyed, she was committing her fatal error; and of this error, not only Clancy's words, but also her own heart, often warned her. But she was not one to turn back, having once resolved upon a course.

She had far too much delicacy and maidenly pride to suggest consciously to Bodine the nature of her thoughts, but she was willing that he should see that she no longer shrank outwardly from his occasional manifestations of a tenderer regard than he bestowed upon Ella. That something in her woman's nature beyond her control did shrink and plead for escape, she knew well; but to conquer this instinctive aversion was a part of the task which she had set for herself.

Not only quick-witted Ella, but also Mrs. Bodine and Mrs. Hunter, saw the drift of affairs, and gave their unhesitating approval. Mrs. Hunter was glad, because it would destroy Clancy's prospects forever, and prove a sort of triumph over him. Then it was, as she assured Mara one day, "eminently fitting. Your father and mother would both approve."

"That thought comes to me, too," calmly rejoined the girl. "I hope they will—I think they will. But let us not talk further till all is settled."

Mrs. Bodine believed the marriage would result well on other grounds. "Cousin Hugh," she said one day when they were alone, "you may shut me up if I am meddling, but you are not thinking of Mara in the same way that you did in the spring."

"I admit it, Cousin Sophy, and you need not shut up."

"Well, I reckon it will come about. On general principles I don't approve of such marriages, but I suppose there are exceptions to most rules. As I have said to you before, Mara is as old in her feelings as you are, and I think you will be happier together than you would be apart. I never understood Mara altogether; but of one thing I am certain, she must have some strong motive, something or some person for whom she can sacrifice herself; and, being a woman, she would have a good deal better time sacrificing herself to a man than to anything else;" and the old lady chirped her little complacent laugh.

"Rest assured," said the veteran, "I don't want any self-sacrifice in Mara's case."

"Of course not; nor do I. I wouldn't approve of any actual self-sacrifice, but Mara will try to come as near it as she can. I reckon she'd be more drawn toward a cripple like you than the handsomest young fellow in town, on general principles; and then she has been interested in you from the first, because you, in a peculiar sense, represent to her the past, which has been almost her only inheritance."

"I confess that I have indulged in the same thoughts which you express. God grant that we both are right! She has become strangely dear to me. Once I could never have imagined it at my time of life."

"Oh, the heart needn't grow old," was the laughing reply.

The captain's outlook was rendered more favorable by the reception of a note which contained the offer of a better position than that held in the employ of the detested Mr. Houghton. When he investigated the matter he learned that the offer came largely through the influence of Clancy, and this last confirmed the veteran's impression that the young man was using his influence and prosperity for the benefit of the South.

To Mara it was a bitter ordeal to listen to Bodine's complacent explanation of the affair, and she was glad that she was told in the dusky twilight, which concealed an expression of pain even beyond her control. Words of passionate protest rose to her very lips, but she remembered in time that they would involve revelations which would thwart her purpose to make him happy at every cost to herself. If he ever learned what Clancy had been to her, what he was at this agonized moment, her vocation, if not gone, would be impaired beyond remedy. Afterward, in the solitude of her own room, she accepted this bitter experience, as she had resolved to accept all others, as a part of her lot.

In her morbidness she became Jesuitical. Her father's old friend should be made as happy as it was in her power to render him. Whatever interfered with this purpose should be concealed or trampled upon. Of Clancy she said bitterly, "If he thinks he has been magnanimous, how little he understands me."

Clancy's motives had been somewhat mixed. He was willing that her pride should be rebuked and wounded, and he also wished her to know that he was above the petty resentment of jealousy.

Poor Ella felt that she was becoming isolated; an impression, however, which she would not have had were it not for her recent experiences. Had her heart remained as light and untouched as it was when we first met her, her pleasure over her father's prospects would have been unalloyed. Even now her satisfaction was deep and sincere, but it was not in human nature to forget how summarily she had been denied the happiness so sweet to those of her age. She felt, however, that all were against her; that even kind old Mrs. Bodine would not listen patiently to her thoughts. So she kept them to herself, and sought by forced mirthfulness to disguise them. She talked and laughed with the young men who called upon her, and they came in increasing numbers as inevitably as a flower attracts the bees. She was the life of the "family excursions," as she characterized in her thoughts those in which Mara and Mrs. Hunter had a part; and she joined others of which her father approved, but there was often trouble and sadness in her eyes, and her cheeks and form were losing their roundness of outline. Mrs. Bodine was not deceived. She noted everything silently, and thought, "She is making a brave fight; she must make a brave fight. There is no other course for her. I reckon she'll win it, as many a girl has before."

The old lady was thoughtful, kind, and very attentive. At the same time, with the nicest tact, she infused a firmness and spirit into her demeanor which made the girl feel that her cousin had sympathy only with the effort to conquer or forget. And she honestly made such effort, but was often aghast at its futility. In her brusque way she said to herself, "What's the use of trying? It seems like a disease which must run its course till old Father Time brings some sort of a cure."

One day she went to see Aun' Sheba, and found the old woman feeling poorly.

"Yes, honey," she said, "bein' lazy doan 'gree wid me 'tall. I doan see how Unc. stan's it all de yeah roun'."

"I hab de rheumatiz," Uncle Sheba remarked in the way of explanation.

"Now, Unc., dat ar rheumatiz is like de scapegoat in de Bible. You loads it up with all you sins. We all hope dat wen you got so sot on dat you'd turn ober a new leaf. How you stan' it sittin' roun' all day I doan see, no how. I'se gettin' so heaby an' logy an' oncomf'ble dat I'se gwine ter take in washin' de rest ob de month."

"I'd be glad to go to work to-morrow, too," said Ella. "I'd be glad of anything to make the time pass."

"Why, honey, wot you want de time to pass quick fer? You oughter be like de hummin'-bird, gederin sweets all de day."

"I feel more like a croaking raven."

"You'se quar, Missy Ella. You'se up an' you'se down, an' you doan know why. Ole Hannah dat lib wid you says dat you'se gittin' a lot ob beaux. Why, you eben make a 'pression on dat big, 'ansome Northern chap, ole Houghton's son, wen you doan know it. More'n once he ax me which de cakes you make, an' wen I tell him, he wanter buy dem all."

"That's very funny," Ella said, and there was the old mirthful ring in her laugh.

"You know him?" Aun' Sheba asked, quickly.

"I met him at Mrs. Willoughby's."

"Shuah now! Dat counts fer it. Well, he'd gobble all you'se cake if I'd let him, but I had oder cus'mers on my min'; an' he seem ter hab on'y you on his min'."

"You were very wise, Aun' Sheba. So much cake would have made him ill," and she still laughed joyously.

"'Pears to me you'se gittin' betteh, Missy Ella."

"Oh, you always make me laugh and hearten me up, Aun' Sheba."

"Well, who'd a tink dat ar civil, nice spoken young man was de son ob dat ole sinner Houghton. Beckon Missy Mara doan like you'se talkin' wid him at Mis Wil'by's."

"Of course not. He's a Northern Vandal, you know."

"Dunno notin' 'bout Wandals. I jedge folks by wot dey is deysefs. He couldn't help bein' bawn at de Norf. Long as he 'habe himself, wot dat agin him?"

"Being born at the North is a crime, some people think."

"Yes,—I know, but dat ar suttingly fool talk. Dat ain't de trouble so much in dis case. It's cause he's dat ole 'tankerous Houghton's son."

"He isn't to blame for that either," Ella answered, hotly.

"Lor', Missy Ella! how you stan' up fer 'im."

"I don't believe in injustice, Aun' Sheba," said Ella quietly, conscious meanwhile that her cheeks were getting very red.

"De heat am po'ful," Aun' Sheba remarked, sententiously. Then her plump form began to shake with mirth. "Dar now, Missy Ella," she added, "de blin' ole woman kin see as fur in de grin-stone as de next one. He'd stan' up fer you agin de hull worl. It shines right out in his 'ansome face."

"How very blind you are, Aun' Sheba! Why, he's not fit to be spoken to, and I'm not to speak to him again as long as I live. Good-by. Good-by, Uncle Sheba. I've heard that sawing wood was the best cure for rheumatism known;" and she flitted out of the dusky cabin like a tropical bird.

Aun' Sheba still laughed to herself, and remarked, "Unc., s'pose you try Missy Ella's cure?"

"Wot she know 'bout it?" growled Uncle Sheba, with an injured aspect. "Wot de use ob sawin' wood all day wen de town hot 'nuff now to roas' lobsters?"

"Dat min's me, Unc. Why don' you took ter some sittin' wuck like fishin' in de harbor? You mought catch a lobster, or some oder fish."

"De fish an' me 'ud bof be briled in dis yere sun 'fore we got home."

"Bar, Unc., you wouldn't go to Heben 'less you was toted."

"Ob cose not. Doan de Bible say de angels gwine ter tote us?"

"Well, I s'pose dey is.—Ef a body ony know'd weder it ud be up or down."

"Dar now, Aun' Sheba, wot fei you talk so se'rus in Augst? Nex' winter we'se gwine ter hab a refreshin' from on high."

"P'raps you won' lib till nex' winter, Unc."

Uncle Sheba began to hitch uneasily, and remarked, "I doan see no use ob sech oncomf'ble talk in de restin' time ob de yeah."

Aun' Sheba soon forgot him in her unspoken thoughts of Ella and young Houghton.

"I begins ter unerstan' dat leetle gal now, an' all her goins on—puttin' aw-spice in de cake twice, an' sayin' quar tings. Well, well, I knows dey's all agin her, po' chile. Wot foolishness it all am! I once jam my ban' in de do'—s'pose I went on jamin' for eber. Der's no use ob der lookin' glum at me, fer dat young man's gwine ter hab all her cakes he wants. I won'er if Missy Mara got de same 'plaint as Missy Ella. She bery deep, an' won' let on, eben ter her ole nuss. Pears ter me de cap'n's gittin' kiner lopsided toward her, but I don' belibe dat'll wuck."

Ella was both gladdened and saddened by her visit. Houghton's buying her cake was one of those little homely facts on which love delights to dwell; for the heart instinctively knows that genuine love permeates the whole being, prompting to thoughtfullness in small matters which indifference overlooks. She could not but be glad that he had seemed to have "on'y you on his min'"; and then she grieved that all which was coming about so naturally, like a spring growth, should have been harshly smitten by the black frost of prejudice and hate.

After an early dinner that evening her father asked her kindly to go with him and Mara to the Battery; but she declined, saying she would rather keep Mrs. Bodine company. He did not urge her; and he had been so preoccupied by his thoughts as not to observe that she was pale and dejected, in spite of her efforts to appear as usual.

When alone Mrs. Bodine said, "You should have gone, Ella. You need the fresh cool air from the water. Why didn't you go?"

"Oh!" said the girl, in assumed lightness of tone, "three is sometimes a crowd."

"You shouldn't feel that way, Ella. You would never be a crowd."

"You are forgetting your old experiences, Cousin Sophy."

"No, I'm not. So you see whither affairs are tending?"

"Oh, cousin! Am I a bat?"

"I hope you are not averse."

"No, Cousin Sophy, I would do anything, and suffer much, to make papa happy. You know how I love Mara, though we disagree on many points; and if she and papa would be happier—Oh! why can't I be happy, too?" and she gave way to a tempest of sobs.

"We all wish you to be happy, Ella," said Mrs. Bodine, soothingly.

"Yes, in your own way," she replied, brokenly. "What happened before I was born must be considered first. If love is sweet to papa at his age think what it is to me?"

"You must not imagine, Ella dear, that we don't feel with you and for you. I am proud of you as I watch your brave fight in which you will conquer."

"Why should I conquer when my heart tells me that the one I love is worthy of my love? It hurts me, it wounds my very soul, that he and I should be spoken to as if we had committed a crime. How could my love be so sacred and heavenly if it were wrong? Oh, how I hate, hate! There is nothing so hateful as hate."

"But, Ella, you don't consider all—"

"There is no need of considering all, Cousin Sophy. There are some things which stand out so clearly that all else is insignificant. Mr. Houghton hates papa and me. Does papa love him or his son? You know me, faulty, foolish little girl that I am; but think of that man raging at his son because he dared to love me! If George had committed a crime his father would have spent a fortune in defending him. To love me was worse than a crime. He would have been turned into the streets. Oh, it's all so unjust, it's all the spawn of hate!"

Mrs. Bodine was aghast at the intensity of the girl's feelings, but could only say, "Well, Ella, dear, since things are as they are you must fight it out. Trust the experience of an old woman. Marriages in the face of such bitter opposition are rarely happy."

"Yes, the bitterness must be sacredly cherished, whatever else is lost. Oh, I know, Cousin Sophy, I know I must fight it out if it takes my lifetime, and all the while know that God would bless our love if hate hadn't blighted it."



CHAPTER XXXV

NOBLE REVENGE

George Houghton took to the mountain solitudes a better and purer spirit than Clancy, who was so ready to be consoled by ambition and the fascinations of a woman incapable of evoking the best in his nature. The young fellow did fish and hunt with tireless energy, and many a humble cabin was stocked with provisions by his exertions. Believing that not only Bodine, but also that Ella herself, would have nothing to do with him, his affectionate nature turned to his father. With a large charity he tried to forget the stern words which had sorely wounded him, and only to remember the influences on his father's life which had led to their utterance. He recalled the abundant proofs of his kindness and liberality; and, now that his young dream was over, he purposed to carry out the old man's schemes as best he could.

He tired himself out through the long hot days, and slept at night from exhaustion. The time thus passed until he felt that he had the strength to return to the city, and act as if Ella did not dwell there. He also thought of his father's need of help, and regretted that he had remained away so long.

The old man looked at him keenly when he returned, seeing that the young face had grown older by years, and that steadiness of purpose and resolution were in its every bronzed line.

"It's all right, father," George replied to the questioning glance. "I've come back to carry out your wishes."

"Ah, my boy! now I know that you are made of the same stuff as your brother. Well, you won't be sorry."

"I wish to leave this town, and I wish you would too. I don't think it's good for you to be here."

"I'll think of it, George. I have thought of it. I shouldn't be mulish since you are not."

"I'm glad you feel so about leaving, father. Go back with me to your old congenial friends and surroundings. I, for one, don't wish to stay where I am ostracized."

"Oh, curse the rebels! I've punished them! I've punished them well!"

"I don't wish to punish them; but, since they will have nothing to do with me, a decent self-respect leads me to go where I can be treated according to my behavior."

"I know you can't feel as I do. All I ask is that you have nothing to do with them."

For the next few days, regardless of the heat, George toiled early and late in his father's office, incited by the hope of soon taking the old man away on a visit to the more bracing climate of the North. In the evenings he refreshed himself by a long swim in the harbor, and by sailing his boat over its waters.

One evening, while enjoying the latter favorite pastime in the early twilight, it so happened that he caught sight, in a passing boat, of a group which made his heart throb quickly. In the stern sat Captain Bodine steering the vessel toward the city. Ella was near him, and two ladies whom he did not know. As a hunter his eyes were keen, and he was satisfied that he had not been recognized. He could not resist the temptation to get a better view of Ella, and, drawing his hat over his eyes, he began to manoeuvre his boat so as to accomplish his purpose.

His little craft skimmed here and there so swiftly, as he tacked, that Ella at last began to watch it with a pleased yet languid interest, remarking, "That boat yonder tacks about and sails as if it were alive."

"Yah, yah, so 'tis alibe," said the negro owner of the craft which Bodine had hired for their excursion. "Young Marse Houghton sail dat boat, an' he beats any duck dat eber swum."

Ella's breath came quick, and she turned pale and red in her conflicting feelings, for it was evident that Houghton was purposely keeping near to them. She saw the frown on her father's face, and that Mara's expression was grave. Mrs. Hunter indignantly said, "He had better go on and mind his own business. Why should old Houghton's son be hovering around us like a hawk, I'd like to know?"

"The harbor is as free to him as to us," Ella answered, hotly.

Mrs. Hunter pursed her lips and looked unutterable things at the girl, but she regarded neither the matron's sour expression nor her father's stern glance, for her eyes were fascinated and held by the vessel which sped along the water like a white-winged gull. No one except Ella and the colored man continued the observance of Houghton. The girl was in a perverse mood, and watched until her father rebukingly spoke her name; then she turned away.

Meanwhile George gazed wistfully at one whom he believed that he might never see again; for he and his father were almost ready for their visit North, where the young man was to remain. Then he saw her steady gaze in his direction. Could she have recognized him? Did she continue to watch him because of some faint interest? His pulses quickened at the thought. After a few moments he said bitterly: "Yes, she knows me at last, and turns away. Very well, away go I, then."

At this moment he caught a glimpse of the western sky, and his sailor instincts were alarmed. There was a single dark cloud rising rapidly, portending not a storm, but sudden, violent gusts. In the gathering gloom all thought of vanishing was abandoned. No matter how Ella regarded him, he would not be far away while there was a shadow of danger to her. Examining his sail carefully he knew he could drop it to the point of safety at a moment's notice.

The wind on which he had been sailing died out. Then came little puffs from the west. To catch these the colored skipper of the captain's boat took the helm and tacked, presenting a broad surface of sail to their force. Houghton tacked also in the same direction, but with his eye on the westward water, and his hand on the rope which would bring down his sail with a run. He speedily had need of this caution. There was a distant roar, the water shoreward darkened, and then, as his sail came down and the prow of his boat went round to the gust, he was enveloped in a cloud of spray. At the same instant shrill screams of women and the hoarse cries of men came from Bodine's vessel.

The fury of the first gust passed quickly. When the atmosphere cleared a little, Houghton saw that the mast of the other craft had broken, and, with the sail, lay over on the leeward side. He instantly knew that the occupants were in imminent danger. Raising his sail as high as he dared, he tacked toward them with such nice judgment that if he kept on he would pass a little abaft of the disabled vessel.

"Oh, Marse Houghton! come quick," yelled the negro. "She'm won' float anoder minit!"

"Bail, you lubber!"

"Don got notin to bail wid!"

"As usual," growled Houghton.

All the rest were now silent. In his agonized apprehension for Mara and Ella, Bodine felt his heart beat as it had never done in the bloodiest battle. His careless boatman had not recognized the danger since the cloud was so comparatively small, and when he sought to lower the sail something was out of gear and it stuck. The gust struck it fairly, and would have capsized the boat had not the mast broken. As it was, the vessel so careened as to ship a dangerous quantity of water, which was rapidly increased by every wave that broke over the sides.

Mara and Mrs. Hunter were pallid indeed, but calm in woman's patient fortitude, remembering, too, even in that awful moment, that if they escaped they would owe their lives to one whom they regarded with scorn and hostility. Ella's hope buoyed her spirit, although she felt herself sinking deeper every moment in the cold waters. With love's confidence she believed that Houghton would be equal to the emergency, and his swiftly coming sail was like the white wings of an angel. Then for an instant she was perplexed and troubled, for he seemed to be steering as if to pass them, near, yet much too far.

"She'm sinkin', she'm goin' un'er," the negro yelled.

"Be ready, every one, to jump the moment I lay alongside," Houghton shouted. Then he luffed sharply to the wind, dropped his sail; his light craft lost headway, and glided alongside of the sinking boat.

"Now jump, all," he cried.

The women and negro did so and were safe, but the crippled veteran failed, fell backward, and would have dragged Ella, who held his hand, with him, had not Houghton broken her grasp. As quick as light he sprang into the vessel, now down to the water's edge, and fairly flung the captain into his own boat. As he did so the water-logged craft went down, and he with it. Ella shrieked and called his name imploringly. In the wild anguish of the moment she would have jumped overboard after him had she not been restrained.

"Patience," cried her father, "he will rise in a moment."

Houghton's little boat, now so heavily freighted, had almost gone under in the suction. The negro, rendered half wild with terror, was bent only on saving his own life. He was scarcely in the boat before he had the oars in the rowlocks, and began to pull for the shore. In their eager scanning of the dark water, Bodine and the others did not notice this at first, and when they did the negro was deaf to their expostulations and threats. The captain tried to reach him as he heaped maledictions on his head, but at that instant another squall swooped down, enshrouding them in spray, and nearly swamping their frail vessel. They sat silent and trembling, expecting Houghton's fate, but the gust passed finally, and the lights of the city gleamed out.

"Now put about, you—coward," thundered Bodine.

"No, sah, neber," replied the negro; "de boat swamp in two mi nit if I put 'bout in dis sea."

The veteran began to crawl toward him to compel obedience. The man shouted: "Stop dat ar. Ef you comes nigher I hit you wid'n oar. Bettah one drown dan we all drown."

Ella gave a despairing cry, and found oblivion in a deathlike swoon.

"Truly, Captain Bodine," said Mrs. Hunter sternly, "you must keep your senses. If the man is right, and we have every reason to believe he is, you must not throw away all our lives for the chance of saving one."

Then she, with Mara, gave all her attention to Ella.

The captain groaned aloud, "Would to God it had been me instead of him!" Between his harrowing solicitude for Ella, and the awful belief that Houghton had given his life for him, he passed moments which whitened his hair.

As they neared the landing the water grew stiller, and their progress more rapid. Assured of safety, the negro began to reason and apologize. "Mus' be reas'n'ble, boss," he said. "I dun declar ter you dat we'd all be at de bottom, feedin' fishes, if I'd dun wot you ax. Been no use nohow. Young Marse Houghton mus' got cotched in de riggin' or he'd come up an' holler. I couldn't dibe a'ter 'im in de dark, and in dat swashin' sea."

"Stop your cursed croaking. If you had known how to manage your boat it wouldn't have happened."

"I dun my bes', boss. S'pose I want ter lose my boat an' my life? I'se jis' busted, an' I kin neber go out on de harbor agin widout fearin' I see young Marse Houghton's spook. I'se wus off dan you is, but I'se he'p you wen we gits asho', if you ain't 'tankerous."

"Certainly you must help us," said Mrs. Hunter, decidedly. "You must get men and a carriage. Captain Bodine has lost his crutches, and his daughter is in a swoon. If you help us I will testify that you did the best you could under the circumstances."

"All right, missus. I kin swar dat it ud been death to hab dun any oder ting."

The carriage was brought, and men lifted into it the unconscious girl and the almost equally helpless veteran. Then one mounted the box with the driver and another ran for a physician, who was directed to go to Mrs. Bodine's residence. The negro carefully moored Houghton's boat, feeling that there might be something propitiatory to the dreaded ghost in this act. He then hastened to his humble cabin, and filled the cars of his family and neighbors with lamentations over the lost boat and lost man, and also with self-gratulations that he was alive to tell the story.

On the way home, Mara took the stricken veteran's hand and said: "Captain, you must bear up under this. In no respect have you been to blame."

"Nevertheless," he replied, and there was almost desperation in his tone: "I feel that it will prove the most terrible misfortune of my life. Ella may never be herself again, and I have wronged one to whom I can never make reparation—a noble, generous boy who has taken a revenge like himself, but which is scorching my very soul."

"You are noble yourself, captain, or you wouldn't feel it so keenly," was the gentle reply.

Mrs. Bodine, without waiting for explanations, peremptorily ordered that Ella should be carried to her room. The veteran, using a second pair of crutches which he kept in reserve, went to the adjoining apartment, buried his face in his hands, and groaned audibly. He knew not how to perform one imperative and pressing duty, that of relating to Mr. Houghton what had happened.

Aware of what was on his mind, Mara came to him and said, "I will go and tell his father."

"God bless you, Mara, for the offer. I would rather face death than that old man, but it is my duty and I alone must do it. Hard as it is, it is not so terrible as the thought that the poor boy died for me and mine, and that I can never make the acknowledgment which his heroic self-sacrifice deserves. It would have been heroic in any man, but in him whom I had treated with such bitter scorn and enmity—How can I meet Ella's eyes again! Oh, I fear, I fear all this will destroy her!"

"Courage, my friend," said Mara, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Ella will live to comfort you."

"Mara, you will not fail me?"

"No, I will not fail you."

He pressed her hand to his lips, and then she returned to Ella.

Mrs. Hunter and old Hannah removed the poor girl's wet garments and applied restoratives. The invalid, whose strength and spirit rose with the emergency, directed their efforts, meantime listening to the fragmentary explanations which were possible at such a time.

"Oh, just God!" she exclaimed, "we are punished, terribly punished for our thoughts and actions toward that poor boy. Ella, dear child, was right after all, and we all wrong. She might well love such a hero."

At last Ella gave signs of returning consciousness. Mrs. Bodine hastened to the captain, and said: "Cousin Hugh, Ella is reviving. You must control yourself. Everything depends on how we tide her over the next few hours."

The length of the swoon revealed the force of the blow which the loving girl had received. Perhaps the long oblivion was nature's kindly effort to ward off the crushing weight. Mrs. Bodine hung over her when she opened her eyes with a dazed expression. "There, Ella dear," she said, "don't worry. You'll soon be better. Take this," and she gave the girl a little brandy and water.

The powerful stimulant acted speedily on an unvitiated system, and with returning strength memory recalled what had befallen the one she loved. From tears she passed to passionate sobs, writhing and moaning, as if the agony of her spirit had communicated itself to every fibre of her body.

"Oh, Ella, darling, don't," cried her father. "I cannot endure this. He has conquered me utterly; my prejudice is turned into homage. We will all love and revere his memory. Would to God it had been I instead of him!"

"There, Hugh, thank God," said Mrs. Bodine, "that Ella can weep. Such tears keep the heart from breaking."