“If I understand you aright, nephew, you mean marriage! Surely it is not the time to talk of it now—while death is in our house! To think of such a thing would cause a scandal throughout the settlement.”
“You mistake me, uncle. I do not mean marriage—that is, not now. Only something that will secure it—when the proper time arrives.”
“I do not understand you, Cash.”
“You’ll do that, if you only listen to me a minute.”
“Go on.”
“Well; what I want to say is this. I’ve made up my mind to get married. I’m now close upon thirty—as you know; and at that time a man begins to get tired of running about the world. I’m damnably tired of it; and don’t intend to keep single any longer. I’m willing to have Loo for my wife. There need be no hurry about it. All I want now is her promise; signed and sealed, that there may be no fluke, or uncertainty. I want the thing settled. When these bothers blow past, it will be time enough to talk of the wedding business, and that sort of thing.”
The word “bothers,” with the speech of which it formed part, grated harshly on the ear of a father, mourning for his murdered son!
The spirit of Woodley Poindexter was aroused—almost to the resumption of its old pride, and the indignation that had oft accompanied it.
It soon cowered again. On one side he saw land, slaves, wealth, position; on the other, penury that seemed perdition.
He did not yield altogether; as may be guessed by the character of his reply.