Captain Bodine was halting serenely down into that new vista in his life of which we have already spoken. Every day both promise and fulfilment seemed richer than he had ever imagined any future experience could be. He was domiciled in a home exactly to his taste; his cousin's brave, cheerful spirit was infectious; the worry of financial straits was over, and Ella was blooming and happy. These favorable changes in themselves would have done much toward banishing gloom and despondency; but another element had entered into his existence which was as unexpected as it was sweet. A deep, subtile exhilaration was growing out of his companionship with Mara. Every long, quiet talk that he enjoyed with her left a longing for another. She was learning to regard him almost as a father, but he did not think of her as he did of Ella. He loved Ella as his child, but her buoyant spirit, her intense enjoyment of the present, and her eager, hopeful eyes, fixed upon the future, separated her from him. He did not wish it otherwise in her case, for he hoped that there was a happy future for her, and he rejoiced daily over the gladness in her face. Mara, although so young, seemed of his own generation. He often repeated to himself his cousin's words, "She is as old as you are." She appeared to live in the past as truly as himself. There was scarcely a subject on which they were not in sympathy.
He believed that Mrs. Bodine was right, and that Mara was essentially different from others of her age. Indeed the impression grew upon him that the mysterious principle of heredity had prepared her for the companionship which apparently was valued as much by her as by himself. During the many hours in which he was alone, he thought the subject over in all its aspects, as he supposed, and a hope, exquisitely alluring, began to take form in his heart.
No man is without a certain amount of egotism and self-love, and, although these were not characteristics of Bodine, he could not help dwelling upon the truth that the remainder of his life would be very different from what he had expected could Mara be near to him.
Her eloquent look of sympathy so soon after they met began to take the form of prophecy. At first it led him to believe that she would receive a paternal, loving regard, much the same as he gave to Ella; but, as time passed, he began to dwell upon the possibility of a closer tie. She appeared to have no especial friends among young men, nor indeed to care for any. Might not a strong, quiet affection grow in each heart until they could become one in the closest sense, even as they were now one in so many of their thoughts and views?
It was natural that his deepening regard should tinge his manner, yet Mara dreamed of nothing beyond the affection which she was glad to receive from him. Vigilant eyes, however, were following Captain Bodine, and Clancy, with a lover's jealous intuition, was guessing his rival's thoughts and intentions more clearly every day. He did not adopt any system of espionage, nor did he ask questions of any one, but merely took occasion to walk on the Battery at an hour when it was most frequented. Here he often saw Mara and the veteran enjoying the cool sunset hour, and sometimes he observed that Mara saw him. So far from shunning such observation, he not infrequently compelled her recognition, which was always coldly bestowed upon her part.
"It would seem that Mr. Clancy is more inclined to be friendly than you are," Bodine remarked one evening.
"Before Mr. Clancy valued Northern friends more than Southern ones we were friendly," was Mara's quiet reply. She had schooled herself now into outward self-control, but she chafed at his presence, and thought he happened to be near her too frequently. Still it was ever will versus heart, for the latter always acknowledged him as master.
He was satisfied that his impressions in regard to Bodine were correct, and was impelled by his love to make an effort to save her from drifting into relations which he believed must inevitably destroy her chance for happiness. His strong, keen mind had analyzed her every word, tone, and varying expression, and he had become quite sure that her bearing toward him was not the result of indifference, but was rather due to pride, and a resolute purpose not to yield to him unless he adopted her views. He also understood her sufficiently well to dread lest a morbid sense of loyalty to her father's memory might lead her to accept his friend and old companion in arms.
"Her immediate associates would encourage the idea," he thought, "and there are none to advise or warn her except myself. She is morbid and unbalanced enough to commit just such a fatal error. Her bringing up, and all the influence of that warped Mrs. Hunter, would lead her to sacrifice herself to the manes of her ancestors. Yet how can I warn her—how can I reach her except I write? I wish to look into her eyes when I speak. I wish to plead with her with all the power that I possibly possess. Great Heaven! if this that I fear should happen, what an awakening she might have when it was too late!"
At last he resolved on the simplest and most straightforward course, and wrote—
"MARA—Will you grant me one more interview—the last, unless you freely concede others. I have something important to say to you, something that relates far more to your happiness than to my own. In excuse for my request, I have nothing better to plead than my love which you have rejected, and yet which entitles me to some consideration. I think my motive is unselfish—as unselfish as can be possible under the circumstances. You may treat me as you please, but your welfare will always be dear to me. I shall not seek to change your convictions, nor shall I plead for myself, for I know that all this would be useless; but I wish to see you face to face once more alone in your own home. I must also request that Mrs. Hunter will not interfere with our interview. You are not a child, and you know that I am a gentleman, and that I am incapable of saying a word at variance with my profound respect for you. OWEN CLANCY."
Mara was deeply agitated by this missive. Her first emotion was that of anger, as much at herself as at him—a confused resentment that his words, his very handwriting, should so move her, and that he should venture to write at all. Had she not made it sufficiently plain that he had no right to take, or, at least, to manifest any such interest in her affairs? Were all her efforts futile to hide her love? In spite of her habit of reserve and repression she had a passionate heart, and this fact had been forced upon her by vain and continuous struggles. Had he the penetration to learn the truth? She could not tell, and this uncertainty touched her pride to the very quick. After hours of wavering purpose, impulses to ignore him and his request, moments of tenderness in which will, pride, and every consideration were almost overwhelmed, she at last arrived at a fixed resolution. "Iwillsee him," she murmured. "He has virtually told me that he will not give up what he terms his principles for love. I shall not acknowledge my secret, but if he has discovered it, he shall learn that I also will not give up my principles for love."
The next morning she quietly handed Clancy's note to Mrs. Hunter.
"Shameful!" ejaculated the lady. "Of course you will pay no attention to him, or else write a curt refusal. I insist on one course or the other."
Mara looked steadfastly at her aunt until the worthy lady was somewhat disconcerted, and asked fretfully, "What do you mean by that look, Mara?"
"Aunty, can't you realize that I am no longer a child, as he says?"
"Well, but in a case like this—"
"In a case like this which concerns me so personally, I must act according to my own judgment. You can be in the adjoining room. Indeed I have no objection to your hearing what is said, but I would rather you should not. You have no occasion to fear. Mr. Clancy has alienated me forever. I have no doubt that before the summer is over he will be engaged to Miss Ainsley, if he is not already engaged virtually. I have reasons for granting this final interview which are personal—which my self-respect requires, and, since they are personal, I need not mention them. There shall be no want of respect and affection for you, aunty, but you must realize that I have become an independent woman, and I have the entire right to decide certain questions for myself."
"Well, I wash my hands of it all," said Mrs. Hunter, coldly, "and since my strong convictions have no weight with you, and you intend to act independently of me, of course I shall not permit myself to hear a word of your conversation."
"That will be the more delicate and honorable course, aunty."
"Well, Mara, I only wish I need not be in the house at the time."
"Aunty, that is the same as saying that your enmity toward Mr. Clancy is greater than your love for me."
"But I don't see the use of this intensely disagreeable interview. This is the only home I have."
"And the only home I have also, aunty."
"Oh, well, if you will, you will, I reckon."
"Yes, if I will, Iwill, and Mr. Clancy shall learn that I have a will."
As Aun' Sheba was departing that morning, Mara followed her into the hallway, and, placing a note in her hand, said, "Give that to Mr. Clancy and to no other. Say nothing to him or to any one else. Do you understand, Aun' Sheba?"
"I does, honey. Wen you talk dataway you'se heah an eyster shoutin' 'foreAun' Sheba speak."
Clancy only said, "Thank you," as he thrust a half-dollar into the old woman's hand.
Aun' Sheba laid it on the desk, and remarked with great dignity, "I does some tings widout money."
He paid no heed to her, but read eagerly, "Mr. Clancy—Come this evening.Mara Wallingford."
With a long breath he thought, "It will be my last chance. I fear it will be useless, but at no future day shall she think in bitterness of heart, 'He might have done more to save me.'"
There was no sudden, involuntary illumination of her face on this occasion when he entered her little parlor, and she could not help noticing that his face was pale. She also saw from his expression that his spirit was as high as hers; that there was not a trace of the lover, eager to plead his cause. "He has pleaded successfully elsewhere," she thought, and, in spite of all other conflicting feelings, she was curious to know what his motive could be in seeking the interview.
"Good-evening, Mr. Clancy. Will you sit down?" she said, coldly.
"Yes, Mara. Pardon me for calling you Mara. I am beyond any affectation of formality with you, and you know there is no lack of respect on my part."
She merely bowed and waited in silence.
"When you learn my motive for making my request, for coming here to-night, you will probably resent it, but you have taught me to expect little else except resentment from you."
"Mr. Clancy, there is no cause for such language. Certainly I was quietly pursuing the even tenor of my way."
"Do you understand fully whither that way is leading?"
"Truly, Mr. Clancy, that is a singular question for you to ask."
"I understand you, Mara. You mean that it is no affair of mine."
He knew that her silence gave assent to this view, and he answered as if she had spoken.
"Nevertheless you are mistaken. Itisan affair of mine. There could be no peace for me in the future if I failed you now, for it seems to me I am the only true friend you have in the world."
"Mr. Clancy," she said hotly, "we have differed so greatly before that I might have been saved the pain of this interview, but we never differed as we do at this moment. I cannot listen to you any longer. It would be disloyalty to those whoaretrue friends—friends that I love and honor."
"Do you love Captain Bodine?"
"Certainly I do. He was my father's friend; he is my honored friend."
"Do youloveCaptain Bodine?"
"What do you mean?" she asked angrily, flushing to her very brow.
"Mara, be calm. Listen to me as you value your life, as you value your own soul. Do you think I would come here for slight cause at such cost to us both?"
"I think you are strangely mistaken in coming here, and using language which makes me doubt your sanity."
"Please do me the justice to note that there is nothing wild in my manner, nor any excitement in my words."
"Noting this, I find it more difficult to explain your course, or to pardon it."
"It is not necessary at present, that you should do either. Please be patient a few minutes longer and my mission is ended. I am not pleading for myself, but for you. Please listen, or a time may come when in a bitterness beyond words you may regret that you did not hear me. Thank Heaven! it is clear that I have not come too late. Captain Bodine is more than your friend inhisfeelings; he is your lover, and you are so morbid, unfriended, unguided, that you are capable of sacrificing yourself—"
"Hush! you are wronging a man whom you are unworthy to name. He has never dreamed of such love as you suggest."
"I am right. Oh, I have learned too deeply in the school of experience not to know. My warning may be of no avail, but you shall not drift unawares into this thing, you shall not enter into it, nor be persuaded into it from a false spirit of self-sacrifice—"
"Mr. Clancy, I will not listen a moment longer to such preposterous language. You are passing far beyond the limits of my forbearance. If your conscience is burdened on my account because I am so 'unfriended,' I absolve you fully. You will and do know how to console yourself. Our interview must end here and now. It were disloyalty for me to listen a moment longer. We are strangers from this day forth, Mr. Clancy." And she rose flushed and trembling.
He also rose, and with an intent look which held her gaze, said gently:"There is that which will speak although I am banished."
"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 itwillplead 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.
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 longnowto 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 charmingdishabille. 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 sportforthe 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 oldHoughton'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 ifI 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.
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."
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."