“O father!” was all poor Myra could say.
“If he is a gentleman, he shall answer this as a gentleman. If he is what I suppose, then I will chastise this insolence as I would a menial. When once we meet, one or the other will never return alive.”
Myra shuddered, her pale lips refused to utter the words that sprang to them, and she stood before the angry man with her hands clasped, but motionless as a statue. At length she gathered strength to utter a single sentence.
“Father, you will not challenge Mr. Whitney? It would be terrible; it would kill me.”
“If he comes within my reach, if he dares to intrude his presence even into the neighborhood, he shall answer it with his life or mine!” was the stern reply.
Myra turned away trembling and heart-sick; she knew that this was no idle threat, no mere burst of vivid passion that would die within the hour. Her lover would be in Wilmington in a few days; it was a firm but courteous announcement to this effect that had so exasperated the man whom she had just left.
“Mother—mother, he will not do this thing—he will not meet Mr. Whitney with a challenge!” cried the harassed young creature, throwing herself into the arms of Mrs. D., who stood in the chamber of her child, where she had retired from the angry storm below.
“I fear it, alas! he deems himself braved and insulted,” said the good lady, weeping bitterly. “O Myra! why did we permit Whitney to write—why consent to his coming to the neighborhood?”
“Why, why, indeed! if it is but to meet his death?” cried the poor girl, wringing her hands. “But, mother, this can not be; my father will relent!”
Mrs. D. shook her head. “Not where he deems his honor or authority contemned, my poor child!”