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

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

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

and he looked at her keenly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"There, forgive me, Ella. You've seen the young fellow, and I haven't.

Cousin Hugh, remember that Ella has your spirit, and the spirit of her ancestors. Show her what is right and best, and she will do it."

Bodine looked at his daughter in deep perturbation. Could that flushed, beautiful woman be his little Ella? With an indescribable pang he began to recognize that she was becoming a woman, with an independent life of her own. The greatness of the emergency calmed him, as all strong minds are quieted by great and impending danger. "Ella," he said, gently and sadly, "I do not wish to treat you as a little, foolish girl, but as becomes your years. I wish your conscience and reason to go with mine. You know that your happiness is the chief desire of my life. There could be no happiness for either of us in such a misalliance. The father of this hasty youth will be as bitterly opposed to it all as I am. We belong to different camps, and can never have anything in common. You know my motive in taking employment from him. I have thought better of it, and shall now leave his office as soon as I can honorably. I don't wish to outrage your sense of justice, Ella, and I will mention one other essential point in the interview. I told young Houghton that he must accept your answer as final, and that he would proceed further at his peril, and he said he would only take a final answer from you after years of patient waiting and wooing.

How he proposes to do the latter I do not know, nor does he know himself.

He did say, however, that he would take no action without my knowledge.

You see that I am trying to be just to him."

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

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

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

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

At this the girl, seeing inevitably the comic side of everything, burst into a laugh. "Cousin Sophy," she cried, "you surpa.s.s Solomon himself.

Come, dear papa, let us try to be sensible. Of course Mr. Houghton can't marry me without your consent or mine."

"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 x.x.x

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 pa.s.sed, 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 acc.u.mulating 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 Ma.s.sachusetts, 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 n.o.ble and lovely she is--"

"Who is she? What is her name?"

"Ella Bodine."

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