“I hope you are satisfied,” he said, sternly. “I make but one request of you—that from this time forth, you will never mention the name of Drayton to me again as long as you live.”
“I suppose I should hate her,” said the son, bitterly, “but I do not. I love her and I believe she cares for me.”
His father turned in the door-way and faced him.
“Cares for you! Not so much as she cares for the smallest negro on that place. If you ever marry her, I will disinherit you.”
“Disinherit me!” burst from the young man. “Do you think I care for this place? What has it ever brought to us but unhappiness? I have seen your life embittered by a feud with your nearest neighbor, and now it wrecks my happiness and robs me of what I would give all the rest of the world for.”
Judge Hampden looked at him curiously. He started to say, “Before I would let her enter this house, I would burn it with my own hands”; but as he met his son's steadfast gaze there was that in it which made him pause. The Hampden look was in his eyes. The father knew that another word might sever them forever.
If ever a man tried to court death, young Oliver Hampden did. But Death, that struck many a happier man, passed him by, and he secured instead only a reputation for reckless courage and was promoted on the field.
His father rose to the command of a brigade, and Oliver himself became a captain.
At last the bullet Oliver had sought found him; but it spared his life and only incapacitated him for service.