University of Virginia Library

17. XVII.
THE MORNING AFTER.

All night long Mrs. Dunbury listened for Hector's footsteps
in the hall; and it was not until after she had heard him enter at
day-break, and go up to his chamber, that slumber overtook the
thronging troubles of her brain.

She was awakened by a knock at her door.

“Who is there?”

Hector entered. He was pale and haggard.

“O, my son!” said she, reaching out her hands from her pillow,
“come here! What a night I have passed!”

“What a night I have passed, mother!”

“What have you been doing?”

“Fighting fire.”

“But they told me there was no fire to fight.”

“Ah, but there was fire to fight!” — and Hector laid his hand
upon his breast. “Where is father?”

“I think he has gone in search of you. He was awake all
night; and as soon as it was beginning to grow light, he arose
and went out.”

“That is well. When he returns, please inform him that I
leave town to-day.”

“Leave town!”

“Temper your surprise, mother, and listen to me a moment.”

“But you must not think of it!” and Mrs. Dunbury held
her son's hand with spasmodic energy. “It will kill me to have
you go!”

“It will kill me to stay, mother!”

“But reflect —”

“I have had all night to reflect; and I must go. Life here can
be but one prolonged distress. O, mother, what stuff mortality
is made of! But a little time ago, the golden summer was all
before me; now it is all behind me. What was happiness is
dust; what was hope is ashes! My brain is unsettled, and I
need solitude.”

“I pity you, my son!”

“None of your pity! Rise up rather, like a Spartan mother,
and charge me to be a man! My destiny is not yet fulfilled.
Have no fears for my welfare. There is no danger for me, except
in resting here, to shrivel and wither up before my time.”

“But Charlotte —”

Hector pressed his forehead in his hand, as if to hold it from
bursting.

“Think of her!”

“O, God! were it possible not to think of her!” A sigh
shook his whole frame, and his voice was torn with anguish, like
his heart. “But I will not be weak. Let me make one last
request, mother. Do you know her whom we call Charlotte?”

“I think I do; I think she is a pure and good girl —”

“Think? O, mother!” — and there was a bright earnestness
in Hector's eyes, — “I could tell you a story! — To pass through
what she has passed through! — O, we have never known her!”

“I felt that, — I felt it all!”

“Then you should be ashamed to have said `I think.' For
my sake, cherish her with the tenderest care; comfort her in suffering,
be her friend at all times, and, happen what will, never
forsake her!”

“But you — why do you desert her? why leave her at all?”

“Let that rest where it does — between her and me alone.
If you knew all, then you would understand; then you would
say, `You do well to go.' — Destiny is strange — strange!”

The entrance of Mr. Dunbury interrupted the conference.

“It is a surprise to see you, sir,” he said, with a somewhat
surly look at Hector.

“If that surprise could have been postponed some minutes
longer, I should not be sorry. But, since you are here, I may as

well deliver the message I was about to leave for you.” And
Hector named his proposed journey.

“Very well,” said Mr. Dunbury, doggedly. “I suppose that
what I said yesterday has decided you.”

“What you said nettled me; for I was sore from head to heel,
when you hit me so rudely with your speech. But that is passed
with me, — I hope it is passed with you. I am grieved, not that
you addressed me as you did, but that you, my father, could find
it in your heart to address any one in such terms. I say this in
all kindness, and with due respect; but I have of late fallen into
the habit of plain speaking.”

Mr. Dunbury looked fiery; but whether from self-conviction or
resentment, Hector did not know.

“I leave to-day; and only Heaven knows when I shall return,
— if ever! I have spent a happy summer with you here. You
have been at most times a father to me; you, mother, have
been always more than a mother. I thank you both! That I
have not been worthy, I know too well, — too well! I am by
nature imperious and self-willed, fitful and rash, and I have too
often given rein to this wild horse of temper. You, dear mother,
can forgive all that, and a thousand times more! I hope you,
my father, will forgive so much. Let me kneel here until I hear
you say so.”

Hector got down by the bed, and hid his face. The invalid
pressed his noble head, and kissed his fair, flowing locks, sobbing
audibly. For more than a minute, Mr. Dunbury looked on in
rigid silence. Then his chest began to heave, and his lips to
quiver, and a glistening moisture quenched the flame of his eyes.
After two or three attempts, which pride appeared to foil, he
stooped and took Hector by the arm.

“Arise up now,” — his voice and manner betrayed emotion
struggling still with pride. “I — I do not like to see you so.
You know I forgive you. Then let us be men, and talk and act
like men.”

“Except we be first as little children, we can never be true
men,” said Hector, kneeling still.

There was love, and suffering, and an indescribable softness in

his tones, which troubled the parent's rugged spirit more and
more. Mrs. Dunbury wept aloud. Then Hector reached forth
instinctively, and took his father's hand. For a moment, there
was a terrible boiling and swelling of the restrained waters; then
the ice gave away, and they gushed forth. The strong man was
broken; he sank down by the bed; he threw himself on Hector's
neck; he cried out, in agony,

“I am the only offender; I am not fit to live!”

“O, my father!” said Hector, “my father! my father!”

The invalid wept still; but a deep happiness stirred under all
her grief, and sweetened her bitterest tears.

On leaving his mother's room, Hector passed an hour in his
own chamber, making preparations for his journey. Then returning
and finding her alone, and busily engaged in preparing some
little comforts to remind him of her in his absence, he bent over
her tenderly, and took her hand.

“Put away those trifles,” said he, with a sad smile. “It
pains me to see you strain your eyes, working for an ungrateful
son!”

“Anything I can do for you is a solace to my pain,” replied his
mother, blinded once more by her tears.

“But there is something of deeper importance, and of dearer
interest, that you can do for me now. I find I cannot go without
saying one last word to Charlotte. I wish to feel that she understands
me, and forgives me.”

“O, why did you not tell me this before?”

“Why before, and why not now?”

“Charlotte! Charlotte!” — a fresh distress choked the invalid's
voice, — “she is gone!”

Blank disappointment sent the color from Hector's face. He
repeated — “Gone!”

“Half an hour since. I could not detain her longer. O,
how she loves you! how she suffers, Hector! She would have
gone out wildly into the world last night, — anywhere, to
meet any fate, to die; but my entreaties prevailed, and she
remained. But this morning I could not move her. She

believed that it was her presence here that drove you from
your home —”

“Which way did she go?”

“To Mr. Jackwood's; it was by my advice; I sent Cornelius
with her.”

“It is well!” said Hector. “After I am gone, send for her,
— she cannot but come back to you. Perhaps it is better that I
should not see her again. Tell her — tell her — to think kindly
of me; and — that 's all.”

His mother sobbed. He stooped and kissed her. “Bless you,
bless you, mother!” Then, returning to his chamber, he hastened
to make final preparations for his journey.