“Oh, Lor’, young marse, yo’s bad as dem. Dere! I gwine away.”
Many such talks as these took place between the young man and the old servant.
At last the day came when Harcourt felt that he must leave the pleasant country house, now that it was looking so beautiful in the early April weather, with grass and foliage, all of that tender emerald green only seen in the young spring, with the fruit trees all in blossom, with the hyacinths and daffodils, the tulips and jonquils, all budding in the flower bed; with the lovely crocuses and violets blooming all over the lawn—he must leave all that, and the genial family, and the dear mother, and the comforts of home, and go back to self-imposed servitude. True, Harcourt might have got more congenial employment as a teacher, but he told himself that he was unworthy to become an instructor of youth, and that nothing remained for him but manual labor.
He took leave of all his kind friends, who parted from him with real regret.
He bade a tender good-by to his old mother, who let him go very cheerfully, saying:
“Your father and John say that you ought to go, and must go, and that I must not mind, as they will be with me. So I do not mean to hinder you, my boy.”
“Yes,” said Harcourt sadly, “it is true. I ought to go, and I must go. Good-by, dear mother.”
“God bless you, my good boy!”
So they parted.
Harcourt had intended to walk to Logwood, but when he stepped out upon the piazza he saw the pony carriage before the house, and Margaret Wynthrop, in a coat and hat, on the seat.