His father had fought in the battle of Bull Run, and later at Bethel Church. Hugh was then an infant in his mother’s arms. The young mother was heartbroken when she learned that her husband was numbered among the missing. She died a year later. The son was christened with his father’s name and was given a home with his uncle and guardian. He possessed a studious turn of mind, and, even as a boy, had been noted for his success at school. Later, he led his classes with distinction at Princeton. Dr. Jack Redfield was Hugh’s ideal of true manliness, and, to the credit of Jack, his measure of sterling manhood was Hugh Stanton.
After their college days they had kept up, in an intermittent way, their social relations, but, as year after year went by, each became more and more absorbed in his own special pursuits, and gradually they drifted away from their old chum-day relations. Although Hugh had lived at Meade for a month, he had never thought of writing to Jack Redfield, and if Jack had been asked Hugh’s address, he could not have given it, for the very good reason that Hugh had neglected naming his objective point in the West.
One morning when Captain Osborn came to the bank he handed Hugh a daintily perfumed, monogrammed note. Opening it, Hugh found an invitation from Mrs. Osborn to drive with her that afternoon to the Hortons, where they were expected to dine.
Hugh offered the note to the captain, who asked, “Well, what is it?” looking at Hugh over his glasses.
“A letter from Mrs. Osborn,” replied Hugh.
“Well, is it not for you?” inquired the old captain.
“Certainly,” said Hugh, “but then—”
“If it is for you, it is not for me,” said the captain, “and, Hugh, my boy, understand for now and for all time that I have no curiosity as to any arrangements my wife may make or any letters she may choose to write. I trust her without question.”
“I hardly know why,” said Hugh, “but some way your words chill me.” He waited a moment in silence, and then went on, “I wish I were nearer to you, Captain, for ever since I saw that tear fall on little Harry’s sleeping face I have longed to be as close to you as a son.” The captain noticeably softened, and said, huskily, “There, there, Hugh, my boy, sit down and let me tell you something. You know I am much older than Mrs. Osborn. We have been married twelve years. She was about to enter a convent when I met her pretty girlish face and fell desperately in love with it; and, notwithstanding my almost fifty years of life, it was my first and only love-affair. She finds pleasure in society, and I despise it most cordially—regard it as a hollow mockery. It is not right to object to that in which she finds innocent pleasure. I am a sort of turned-down back number, while she is in the zenith of life. I have thought it all over, and here are my deductions: Mrs. Osborn must have an opportunity of pursuing those innocent paths of amusement in which she finds her greatest pleasure. She has given to me our little Harry, God bless the boy! She is Harry’s mother, and therefore she can do no wrong. When you are older you will learn that love is a looking-glass sort of an affair, framed about with a gossamer network of illusions, easily broken and impossible to mend.”
There was a pathetic tenderness in the old captain’s words as he uttered the last sentences, and it struck Hugh, at the time, as being odd.