Two years have elapsed since Ephraim Darke became the creditor of
Archibald Armstrong. Apparently, no great change has taken place in the
relationship between the two men, though in reality much.
The twenty thousand dollars' loan has been long ago dissipated, and the
borrower is once more in need.
It would be useless, idle, for him to seek a second mortgage in the same
quarter; or in any other, since he can show no collateral. His property
has been nearly all hypothecated in the deed to Darke; who perceives his
long-cherished dream on the eve of becoming a reality. At any hour he
may cause foreclosure, turn Colonel Armstrong out of his estate, and
enter upon possession.
Why does he not take advantage of the power, with which the legal code
of the United States, as that existing all over the world, provides him?
There is a reason for his not doing so, wide apart from any motive of
mercy, or humanity. Or of friendship either, though something
erroneously considered akin to it. Love hinders him from pouncing on
the plantation of Archibald Armstrong, and appropriating it!
Not love in his own breast, long ago steeled against such a trifling
affection. There only avarice has a home; cupidity keeping house, and
looking carefully after the expenses.
But there is a spendthrift who has also a shelter in Ephraim Darke's
heart--one who does much to thwart his designs, oft-times defeating
them. As already said, he has a son, by name Richard; better known
throughout the settlement as "Dick"--abbreviations of nomenclature being
almost universal in the South-Western States. An only son--only child
as well--motherless too--she who bore him having been buried long before
the Massachusetts man planted his roof-tree in the soil of Mississippi.
A hopeful scion he, showing no improvement on the paternal stock.
Rather the reverse; for the grasping avarice, supposed to be
characteristic of the Yankee, is not improved by admixture with the
reckless looseness alleged to be habitual in the Southerner.
Both these bad qualities have been developed in Dick Darke, each to its
extreme. Never was New Englander more secretive and crafty; never
Mississippian more loose, or licentious.
Mean in the matter of personal expenditure, he is at the same time of
dissipated and disorderly habits; the associate of the poker-playing,
and cock-fighting, fraternity of the neighbourhood; one of its wildest
spirits, without any of those generous traits oft coupled with such a
character.
As only son, he is heir-presumptive to all the father's property--slaves
and plantation lands; and, being thoroughly in his father's confidence,
he is aware of the probability of a proximate reversion to the slaves
and plantation lands belonging to Colonel Armstrong.
But much as Dick Darke may like money, there is that he likes more, even
to covetousness--Colonel Armstrong's daughter. There are two of them--
Helen and Jessie--both grown girls,--motherless too--for the colonel is
himself a widower.
Jessie, the younger, is bright-haired, of blooming complexion, merry to
madness; in spirit, the personification of a romping elf; in physique, a
sort of Hebe. Helen, on the other hand, is dark as gipsy, or Jewess;
stately as a queen, with the proud grandeur of Juno. Her features of
regular classic type, form tall and magnificently moulded, amidst others
she appears as a palm rising above the commoner trees of the forest.
Ever since her coming out in society, she has been universally esteemed
the beauty of the neighbourhood--as belle in the balls of Natchez. It
is to her Richard Darke has extended his homage, and surrendered his
heart.
He is in love with her, as much as his selfish nature will allow--
perhaps the only unselfish passion ever felt by him.
His father sanctions, or at all events does not oppose it. For the
wicked son holds a wonderful ascendancy over a parent, who has trained
him to wickedness equalling his own.
With the power of creditor over debtor--a debt of which payment can be
demanded at any moment, and not the slightest hope of the latter being
able to pay it--the Darkes seem to have the vantage ground, and may
dictate their own terms.
Helen Armstrong knows nought of the mortgage; no more, of herself being
the cause which keeps it from foreclosure. Little does she dream, that
her beauty is the sole shield imposed between her father and impending
ruin. Possibly if she did, Richard Darke's attentions to her would be
received with less slighting indifference. For months he has been
paying them, whenever, and wherever, an opportunity has offered--at
balls, _barbecues_, and the like. Of late also at her father's house;
where the power spoken of gives him not only admission, but polite
reception, and hospitable entertainment, at the hands of its owner;
while the consciousness of possessing it hinders him from observing, how
coldly his assiduities are met by her to whom they are so warmly
addressed.
He wonders why, too. He knows that Helen Armstrong has many admirers.
It could not be otherwise with one so splendidly beautiful, so
gracefully gifted. But among them there is none for whom she has shown
partiality.
He has, himself, conceived a suspicion, that a young man, by name
Charles Clancy--son of a decayed Irish gentleman, living near--has found
favour in her eyes. Still, it is only a suspicion; and Clancy has gone
to Texas the year before--sent, so said, by his father, to look out for
a new home. The latter has since died, leaving his widow sole occupant
of an humble tenement, with a small holding of land--a roadside tract,
on the edge of the Armstrong estate.
Rumour runs, that young Clancy is about coming back--indeed, every day
expected.
That can't matter. The proud planter, Armstrong, is not the man to
permit of his daughter marrying a "poor white"--as Richard Darke
scornfully styles his supposed rival--much less consent to the so
bestowing of her hand. Therefore no danger need be dreaded from that
quarter.
Whether there need, or not, the suitor of Helen Armstrong at length
resolves on bringing the affair to an issue. His love for her has
become a strong passion, the stronger for being checked--restrained by
her cold, almost scornful behaviour. This may be but coquetry. He
hopes, and has a fancy it is. Not without reason. For he is far from
being ill-favoured; only in a sense moral, not physical. But this has
not prevented him from making many conquests among backwood's belles;
even some city celebrities living in Natchez. All know he is rich; or
will be, when his father fulfils the last conditions of his will--by
dying.
So fortified, so flattered, Dick Darke cannot comprehend why Miss
Armstrong has not at once surrendered to him. Is it because her haughty
disposition hinders her from being too demonstrative? Does she really
love him, without giving sign?
For months he has been cogitating in this uncertain way; and now
determines upon knowing the truth.
One morning he mounts his horse; rides across the boundary line between
the two plantations, and on to Colonel Armstrong's house. Entering, he
requests an interview with the colonel's eldest daughter; obtains it;
makes declaration of his love; asks her if she will have him for a
husband; and in response receives a chilling negative.
As he rides back through the woods, the birds are trilling among the
trees. It is their merry morning lay, but it gives him no gladness.
There is still ringing in his ears that harsh monosyllable, "_no_." The
wild-wood songsters appear to echo it, as if mockingly; the blue jay,
and red cardinal, seem scolding him for intrusion on their domain!
Having recrossed the boundary between the two plantations, he reins up
and looks back. His brow is black with chagrin; his lips white with
rancorous rage. It is suppressed no longer. Curses come hissing
through his teeth, along with them the words,--
"In less than six weeks these woods will be mine, and hang me, if I
don't shoot every bird that has roost in them! Then, Miss Helen
Armstrong, you'll not feel in such conceit with yourself. It will be
different when you haven't a roof over your head". So good-bye,
sweetheart! Good-bye to you.
"Now, dad!" he continues, in fancy apostrophising his father, "you can
take your own way, as you've been long wanting. Yes, my respected
parent; you shall be free to foreclose your mortgage; put in execution;
sheriff's officers--anything you like."
Angrily grinding his teeth, he plunges the spur into his horse's ribs,
and rides on--the short, but bitter, speech still echoing in his ears.