You say you are willing to have her for your wife.
Is she willing to have you?
I suppose there is a question about that?”
“I think, uncle, it will depend a good deal upon yourself.
You are her father. Surely you can convince her?”
“I’m not so sure of that.
She’s not of the kind to be convinced—against her will.
You, Cash, know that as well as I.”
“Well, I only know that I intend getting ‘spliced,’ as the sailors say; and I’d like Loo for the mistress of Casa del Corvo, better than any other woman in the Settlement—in all Texas, for that matter.”
Woodley Poindexter recoiled at the ungracious speech.
It was the first time he had been told, that he was not the master of Casa del Corvo!
Indirectly as the information had been conveyed, he understood it.
Once more rose before his mind the reality of lands, slaves, wealth, and social status—alongside, the apparition of poverty and social abasement.
The last looked hideous; though not more so than the man who stood before him—his own nephew—soliciting to become his son! For purposes impossible to comprehend, God often suffers himself to be defeated by the Devil. In this instance was it so.
The good in Poindexter’s heart succumbed to the evil.
He promised to assist his nephew, in destroying the happiness of his daughter.
“Loo!”
“Father!”
“I come to ask a favour from you.”
“What is it, father?”
“You know that your cousin Cash loves you.
He is ready to die for—more and better still, to marry you.”
“But I am not ready to marry him.
No, father; I shall die first.
The presumptuous wretch!
I know what it means.
And he has sent you to make this proposal!
Tell him in return, that, sooner than consent to become his wife, I’d go upon the prairies—and seek my living by lassoing wild horses!
Tell him that!”
“Reflect, daughter!
You are, perhaps, not aware that—”
“That my cousin is your creditor.
I know all that, dear father.
But I know also that you are Woodley Poindexter, and I your daughter.”
Delicately as the hint was given, it produced the desired effect.
The spirit of the planter surged up to its ancient pride, His reply was:—
“Dearest Louise! image of your mother!
I had doubted you.
Forgive me, my noble girl!
Let the past be forgotten.
I shall leave it to yourself.
You are free to refuse him!”
Chapter Eighty Five. A Kind Cousin.
Louise Poindexter made fall use of the liberty allowed by her father.
In less than an hour after, Calhoun was flatly refused.
It was his third time of asking.
Twice before had the same suit been preferred; informally, and rather by a figure of speech than in the shape of a direct declaration.
It was the third time; and the answer told it would be the last.
It was a simple
“No,” emphatically followed by the equally simple