"Worse! Feared! Father, what should you be afraid of?"
"Never mind, my child; nothing that concerns you. Tell me: in what way
did you give him answer?"
"In one little word. I simply said _no_."
"That little word will, no doubt, be enough. O Heaven! what is to
become of us?"
"Dear father!" demands the beautiful girl, laying her hand upon his
shoulder, with a searching look into his eyes; "why do you speak thus?
Are you angry with me for refusing him? Surely you would not wish to
see me the wife of Richard Darke?"
"You do not love him, Helen?"
"Love him! Can you ask? Love that man!"
"You would not marry him?"
"Would not--could not. I'd prefer death."
"Enough; I must submit to my fate."
"Fate, father! What may be the meaning of this? There is some secret--
a danger? Trust to me. Let me know all."
"I may well do that, since it cannot remain much longer a secret. There
_is_ danger, Helen--_the danger of debt_! My estate is mortgaged to the
father of this fellow--so much as to put me completely in his power.
Everything I possess, land, houses, slaves, may become his at any hour;
this day, if he so will it. He is sure to will it now. Your little
word `no,' will bring about a big change--the crisis I've been long
apprehending. Never mind! Let it come! I must meet it like a man. It
is for you, daughter--you and your sister--I grieve. My poor dear
girls; what a change there will be in your lives, as your prospects!
Poverty, coarse fare, coarse garments to wear, and a log-cabin to live
in! Henceforth, this must be your lot. I can hold out hope of no
other."
"What of all that, father? I, for one, care not; and I'm sure sister
will feel the same. But is there no way to--"
"Save me from bankruptcy, you'd say? You need not ask that. I have
spent many a sleepless night thinking it there was. But no; there is
only one--that one. It I have never contemplated, even for an instant,
knowing it would not do. I was sure you did not love Richard Darke, and
would not consent to marry him. You could not, my child?"
Helen Armstrong does not make immediate answer, though there is one
ready to leap to her lips.
She hesitates giving it, from a thought, that it may add to the weight
of unhappiness pressing upon her father's spirit.
Mistaking her silence, and perhaps with the spectre of poverty staring
him in the face--oft inciting to meanness, even the noblest natures--he
repeats the test interrogatory:--
"Tell me, daughter! Could you marry him?"
"Speak candidly," he continues, "and take time to reflect before
answering. If you think you could not be contented--happy--with Richard
Darke for your husband, better it should never be. Consult your own
heart, and do not be swayed by me, or my necessities. Say, is the thing
impossible?"
"I have said. _It is impossible_!"
For a moment both remain silent; the father drooping, spiritless, as if
struck by a galvanic shock; the daughter looking sorrowful, as though
she had given it.
She soonest recovering, makes an effort to restore him.
"Dear father!" she exclaims, laying her hand upon his shoulder, and
gazing tenderly into his eyes; "you speak of a change in our
circumstances--of bankruptcy and other ills. Let them come! For myself
I care not. Even if the alternative were death, I've told you--I tell
you again--I would rather that, than be the wife of Richard Darke."
"Then his wife you'll never be! Now, let the subject drop, and the ruin
fall! We must prepare for poverty, and Texas!"
"Texas, if you will, but not poverty. Nothing of the kind. The wealth
of affection will make you feel rich; and in a lowly log-hut, as in this
grand house, you'll still have mine."
So speaking, the fair girl flings herself upon her father's breast, her
hand laid across his forehead, the white fingers soothingly caressing
it.
The door opens. Another enters the room--another girl, almost fair as
she, but brighter, and younger. 'Tis Jessie.
"Not only my affection," Helen adds, at sight of the newcomer, "but hers
as well. Won't he, sister?"
Sister, wondering what it is all about, nevertheless sees something is
wanted of her. She has caught the word "affection," at the same time
observing an afflicted cast upon her father's countenance. This decides
her; and, gliding forward, in another instant she is by his side,
clinging to the opposite shoulder, with an arm around his neck.
Thus grouped, the three figures compose a family picture expressive of
purest love.
A pleasing tableau to one who knew nothing of what has thus drawn them
together; or knowing it, could truly appreciate. For in the faces of
all beams affection, which bespeaks a happy, if not prosperous, future--
without any doubting fear of either poverty, or Texas.