“That which I have said I abide by!” was the stern reply.
Myra pleaded no longer, but turned gently and left the room. In the upper hall she met her mother.
“Does he relent—will he accept the sacrifice of your offer?” questioned the anxious lady.
“No, mother, he refuses; he seems athirst for the life of this noble young man; but I will save him, I will save them both.”
“How, my child? how can you, so frail and so helpless, struggle against the strong will of your father?”
“I will leave the house. I will no longer remain where innocent and honorable love leads to scenes like this.”
“What, leave your mother—your own fond, too fond mother? Myra, my child, my child!”
“Hush! mother; dear, dear mother; these tears, they make me weak as an infant. If you weep and cling to me thus, mother, my strength may fail; and do you not know that death may follow—death to your husband or to mine, for is he not my husband before God, do you think, sweet mother?”
But Mrs. D. only wept, and clung more fondly to her daughter. Myra withdrew herself gently from that warm clasp, and went away. On the morrow Mr. Whitney would be in Wilmington, and before then the young girl had much to accomplish—much to suffer.
All that day Myra avoided the family, above all the gentle mother, whose tears she feared far more than the anger of her proud father. She had formed a resolution that required all her courage, and more strength than seemed to animate that slender form. She shrunk, therefore, from encountering the tears of that sweet and loving woman.