“What of all that, father? I, for one, care not; and I’m sure sister will feel the same. But is there no way to—”
“Save me from bankruptcy, you’d say? You need not ask that. I have spent many a sleepless night thinking it there was. But no; there is only one—that one. It I have never contemplated, even for an instant, knowing it would not do. I was sure you did not love Richard Darke, and would not consent to marry him. You could not, my child?”
Helen Armstrong does not make immediate answer, though there is one ready to leap to her lips.
She hesitates giving it, from a thought, that it may add to the weight of unhappiness pressing upon her father’s spirit.
Mistaking her silence, and perhaps with the spectre of poverty staring him in the face—oft inciting to meanness, even the noblest natures—he repeats the test interrogatory:—
“Tell me, daughter! Could you marry him?”
“Speak candidly,” he continues, “and take time to reflect before answering. If you think you could not be contented—happy—with Richard Darke for your husband, better it should never be. Consult your own heart, and do not be swayed by me, or my necessities. Say, is the thing impossible?”
“I have said. It is impossible!”
For a moment both remain silent; the father drooping, spiritless, as if struck by a galvanic shock; the daughter looking sorrowful, as though she had given it.
She soonest recovering, makes an effort to restore him.