"Because I know it."
"How?" comes the quick, unguarded interrogatory.
"Well; I chanced to meet Charley Clancy this morning, and he told me he
was going off on a journey. He was just starting when I saw him. Some
affair of the heart, I believe; a little love-scrape he's got into with
a pretty Creole girl, who lives t'other side of Natchez. By the way, he
showed me a photograph of yourself, which he said you had sent him. A
very excellent likeness, indeed. Excuse me for telling you, that he and
I came near quarrelling about it. He had another photograph--that of
his Creole _chere amie_--and would insist that she is more beautiful
than you. I may own, Miss Armstrong, you've given me no great reason
for standing forth as your champion. Still, I couldn't stand that; and,
after questioning Clancy's taste, I plainly told him he was mistaken.
I'm ready to repeat the same to him, or any one, who says you are not
the most beautiful woman in the State of Mississippi."
At the conclusion of his fulsome speech Helen Armstrong cares but little
for the proffered championship, and not much for aught else.
Her heart is nigh to breaking. She has given her affections to Clancy--
in that last letter written, lavished them. And they have been trifled
with--scorned! She, daughter of the erst proudest planter in all
Mississippi State, has been slighted for a Creole girl; possibly, one of
the "poor white trash" living along the bayous' edge. Full proof she
has of his perfidy, or how should Darke know of it? More maddening
still, the man so slighting her, has been making boast of it,
proclaiming her suppliance and shame, showing her photograph, exulting
in the triumph obtained! "O God!"
Not in prayer, but angry ejaculation, does the name of the Almighty
proceed from her lips. Along with it a scarce-suppressed scream, as,
despairingly, she turns her face towards home.
Darke sees his opportunity, or thinks so; and again flings himself
before her--this time on his knees.
"Helen Armstrong!" he exclaims, in an earnestness of passion--if not
pure, at least heartfelt and strong--"why should you care for a man who
thus mocks you? Here am I, who love you, truly--madly--more than my own
life! 'Tis not too late to withdraw the answer you have given me.
Gainsay it, and there need be no change--no going to Texas. Your
father's home may still be his, and yours. Say you'll be my wife, and
everything shall be restored to him--all will yet be well."
She is patient to the conclusion of his appeal. Its apparent sincerity
stays her; though she cannot tell, or does not think, why. It is a
moment of mechanical irresolution.
But, soon as ended, again returns the bitterness that has just swept
through her soul--torturing her afresh.
There is no balm in the words spoken by Dick Darke; on the contrary,
they but cause increased rankling.
To his appeal she makes answer, as once before she has answered him--
with a single word. But now repeated three times, and in a tone not to
be mistaken.
On speaking it, she parts from the spot with proud haughty step, and a
denying disdainful gesture, which tells him, she is not to be further
stayed.
Spited, chagrined, angry, in his craven heart he feels also cowed,
subdued, crestfallen. So much, he dares not follow her, but remains
under the magnolia; from whose hollow trunk seems to reverberate
the echo of her last word, in its treble repetition:
"_never_--_never_--_never_!"