“Make a slave of your own blood if you like,” replied the father, whose stupid apathy was pierced at last. “She had better serve you than serve the devil. She is a good, serviceable child.”
“O, you know that, do you? No doubt you know all about that. Look you, Ned Evans, I owe you no service. I have earned every dollar I have, whilst you have squandered a fortune twice as large as mine, of your own, and another for your wife, whilst you have been a sponge to soak brandy, a gambler and a stool-pigeon for gamblers, and have made acquaintance with every horse-dealer and all the horse-flesh in the Union, and have murdered your wife by inches, till at the age of 29 years, an age when she should be as fresh as a new-blown rose, and with her fortune living as well as any lady in the land, you have done her the last and only kindness you ever did her—you have bought her a pine coffin, and have seen her buried. But though I know you ought to be hung, I will make a bargain with you. I will see you on board a vessel bound for New Orleans, with your passage paid, and take your child. You agree to go to New Orleans. When once you are there, I have no fear of you or your ghost ever appearing to me again. On these conditions I will take the child.”
“When must I sail for New Orleans? I’ll go after Monday. The race with Eclipse and Black Bess comes off then. I have agreed to ride for Kenny. I know the horse better than anybody else. Besides, a fellow must keep his word.”
“Very good,” said Charles, after a moment’s thought. “You may break your neck, and save me the passage-money. I agree to that—any thing more?”
“When may I bring the girl?”
“To-morrow morning at 6 o’clock.”
“That’s too early to wake her,” mumbled Ned.
“Then, or not at all. You can keep sober one night, and get up in decent season one morning in your life, for the sake of getting your child a situation.”
If a particle of Ned Evans’ old spirit had been left, this taunt of getting his daughter a situation would have roused it. But his life was crushed. He was hopelessly besotted and exhausted, though now he had decent clothes, for which he had sacrificed the last remnant of decent feeling he possessed. These clothes belonged to the keeper of the vilest Hell in New York; and Ned was his “decoy-duck,” and did any job the fellow set him about.
He was as craven before his cousin as possible. He had one instinct of his nature left—he wanted to provide for his child.