His rejoinder, cunningly conceived, designed with the subtlety of the devil, still further affects her, and painfully.
He answers, with assumed nonchalance,—
“Because I know it.”
“How?” comes the quick, unguarded interrogatory.
“Well; I chanced to meet Charley Clancy this morning, and he told me he was going off on a journey. He was just starting when I saw him. Some affair of the heart, I believe; a little love-scrape he’s got into with a pretty Creole girl, who lives t’other side of Natchez. By the way, he showed me a photograph of yourself, which he said you had sent him. A very excellent likeness, indeed. Excuse me for telling you, that he and I came near quarrelling about it. He had another photograph—that of his Creole chère amie—and would insist that she is more beautiful than you. I may own, Miss Armstrong, you’ve given me no great reason for standing forth as your champion. Still, I couldn’t stand that; and, after questioning Clancy’s taste, I plainly told him he was mistaken. I’m ready to repeat the same to him, or any one, who says you are not the most beautiful woman in the State of Mississippi.”
At the conclusion of his fulsome speech Helen Armstrong cares but little for the proffered championship, and not much for aught else.
Her heart is nigh to breaking. She has given her affections to Clancy—in that last letter written, lavished them. And they have been trifled with—scorned! She, daughter of the erst proudest planter in all Mississippi State, has been slighted for a Creole girl; possibly, one of the “poor white trash” living along the bayous’ edge. Full proof she has of his perfidy, or how should Darke know of it? More maddening still, the man so slighting her, has been making boast of it, proclaiming her suppliance and shame, showing her photograph, exulting in the triumph obtained! “O God!”
Not in prayer, but angry ejaculation, does the name of the Almighty proceed from her lips. Along with it a scarce-suppressed scream, as, despairingly, she turns her face towards home.
Darke sees his opportunity, or thinks so; and again flings himself before her—this time on his knees.
“Helen Armstrong!” he exclaims, in an earnestness of passion—if not pure, at least heartfelt and strong—“why should you care for a man who thus mocks you? Here am I, who love you, truly—madly—more than my own life! ’Tis not too late to withdraw the answer you have given me. Gainsay it, and there need be no change—no going to Texas. Your father’s home may still be his, and yours. Say you’ll be my wife, and everything shall be restored to him—all will yet be well.”