I sank into a chair, and my father's groan confirmed Burley's words.
"Hopelessly involved," continued Mr. Burley,—"Unless he can raise three hundred thousand dollars by to-morrow noon, he is a dishonored man. Do you hear me, my dear? Dishonored!"
"Dishonored!" groaned my father burying his head in his hands.
"And more than this," continued Burley, "Your father, among his many mercantile speculations, has dabbled a little,—yes more than a little,—in the African slave-trade. He has relations with certain gentlemen at Havana, which once known to our government, would consign him to the convict's cell."
The words of the man filled me with indignation, and with horror. Half fainting as I was, I felt the blood boil in my veins.
"Father, rebuke the liar,"—I said as I placed my hand on his shoulder.—"Raise your face, and tell him that he is the coiner of a falsehood, as atrocious as it is foolish—"
My father did not reply.
"And more than this,"—Burley went on, as though he had not heard me,—"I have it in my power, either to relieve your father from his financial embarrassments, or,—" he paused and surveyed me from head to foot, "or to denounce him to the government as one guilty, of something which it calls piracy,—to wit, an intimate relationship with the African slave trade."
Again my father groaned, but did not raise his face.
The full truth burst upon me. My father was ruined, and in this man's power. Confused,—half maddened, I flung myself upon my knees, and clasped Burley by the hands.