“I beg your pardon, but I don’t quite understand your question,” observed Bourne.
“Oh, don’t you? You follow me—that is, you understand the narrative as far as I’ve gone.”
“I should indeed be a dunce if I could not do that.”
“Ah, ’xactly, that’s all right then. Where was I? Oh, the sons and the daughter. Wall, matters went on right enough for some considerable time after the old lady’s death. She was not very old by the way, but I call her so to distinguish her from the younger members of the family. I say matters went on all right enough for some time. Clara Leaven had her admirers, with whom she flirted to her heart’s content. One of these was a Britisher, who was very persistent in his attentions to the young gal. Wall, ye see, the planter, for some reason or another, didn’t like this gentleman—perhaps the reason for this was his being a Britisher, for prejudice does run high with some. Anyway he did not approve of him as a suitor to his daughter’s hand.”
“The old story, I suppose,” observed the doctor, with a sickly smile. “A hard-hearted parent and a self-willed, disobedient child.”
“I s’pose we may call it the old story,” returned the detective. “She was a little fool—that’s what she was; but it is not much use dwelling upon that now. She gave the Britisher encouragement, and I suppose she fell madly in love with him. That’s what I’ve been told. Her father, when he discoverd the state of her mind towards him, became furious. He threatened to lock her up, to take her life, if she acted in disobedience to his expressed commands. If his daughter was a little fool he was a big one, for that was not the way to quench the flame which had been kindled. Women, and gals in particular, are so perverse that by opposing them in affairs of this sort you clench the nail more securely—on the other side.”
“Really, Mr. Shearman, I do hope you have not come hither for the purpose of reciting a love story to a hackneyed man of the world like myself. If it concerned me——”
“If!” cried the detective. “There’s the point, which I hope to arrive at in good time.”
“Oh, well, that being the case, I have no other alternative than to complacently listen.”
“I think you’d better hear me out, doctor—indeed I do. Wall, as I was saying, Leaven led the gal a devil of a life. He wasn’t altogether a tyrant or anything of that sort, but he was impetuous, and liked to have his own way. He did his level best to corner the Britisher, who, however, in the end proved too much for him. A parent hasn’t much chance against a favourite lover of his daughter, and so Leaven found out. As to giving his consent, that was altogether out of the question—not to be thought of for a moment. What was to be done under the circumstances? The old expedient—an elopement. Clara Leaven was under the delusion that her parent would forgive her, and matters would be made up after the marriage, so she consented to fly with the Britisher.”