“Well, nephew; you have certainly spoken plain enough. But I know not my daughter’s disposition towards you. You say you are willing to have her for your wife. Is she willing to have you? I suppose there is a question about that?”
“I think, uncle, it will depend a good deal upon yourself. You are her father. Surely you can convince her?”
“I’m not so sure of that. She’s not of the kind to be convinced—against her will. You, Cash, know that as well as I.”
“Well, I only know that I intend getting ‘spliced,’ as the sailors say; and I’d like Loo for the mistress of Casa del Corvo, better than any other woman in the Settlement—in all Texas, for that matter.”
Woodley Poindexter recoiled at the ungracious speech. It was the first time he had been told, that he was not the master of Casa del Corvo! Indirectly as the information had been conveyed, he understood it.
Once more rose before his mind the reality of lands, slaves, wealth, and social status—alongside, the apparition of poverty and social abasement.
The last looked hideous; though not more so than the man who stood before him—his own nephew—soliciting to become his son!
For purposes impossible to comprehend, God often suffers himself to be defeated by the Devil. In this instance was it so. The good in Poindexter’s heart succumbed to the evil. He promised to assist his nephew, in destroying the happiness of his daughter.
“Loo!”
“Father!”