It was a painful interview. He could not leave without seeing them once
more; he longed for a loving good by; but after that first outburst he
almost wished he had not forced the meeting. He did not speak of his
wife, nor did they; but a barrier as of adamant was raised between them,
and he felt as though congealing in the breath of an iceberg. At length
he rose to go.
"Father!" he said then, "perhaps you will care to know that I do not
return to my old command, but have been commissioned to raise a brigade
from the freedmen."
Both father and mother knew the awful peril of this service, and both
cried, half in suffering, half in anger, "This is your wife's work!"
while his father added, with a passionate exclamation, "It is right,
quite right, that you should identify yourself with her people. Well, go
your way. You have made your bed; lie in it."
The blood flushed into Surrey's face. He opened his lips, and shut them
again. At last he said, "Father, will you never forego this cruel
prejudice?"
"Never!" answered his mother, quickly. "Never!" repeated his father,
with bitter emphasis. "It is a feeling that will never die out, and
ought never to die out, so long as any of the race remain in America.
She belongs to it, that is enough."
Surrey urged no further; but with few words, constrained on their
part,--though under its covering of pride the mother's heart was
bleeding for him,--sad and earnest on his, the farewell was spoken, and
they watched him out of the room.
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