"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 pa.s.sion 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 G.o.d, 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 ingrat.i.tude. 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed when he awoke.

Dressing hastily, he went down to make inquiries for his father.

"Ma.r.s.e 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 pa.s.sion. 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 x.x.xI

"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.