Now, when I was in the Spanish Main--hey! _that_ was the
place!--I mind...."
But what he "minded" Helen had no wish to hear, and she retired, leaving
her father and the stranger, both rapidly becoming somewhat over-loose
of speech under the influence of brandy.
"A likely wench!" cried the stranger as the door closed. "A likely
wench, sir. He'll be a lucky dog that get's her. Now ... ah!... hum!...
here's you, an old man, leaving this place--and not likely to get
another, says you; and here's me, a bachelor, or anyways a widower, with
plenty of cash and wanting a wife. Come I what's against our making a
bargain? You give me your daughter, and I'll see that you don't want a
home. Eh? What do you say to that, now?"
It was not very delicately put, but neither were the times very
delicate, and the upshot was that Helen's father, weak and selfish,
agreed to use his influence towards bringing the marriage about. The
stranger did not tell--and perhaps it would have made little difference
if he had told--his full history; how as a boy in London, the son of a
petty tradesman, he had been kidnapped and sold to the Plantations (a
common enough fate in those days); how in the West Indies, after a
varied and not over reputable career, in which buccaneering played no
small part, he had at length persuaded the wealthy old widow of a
planter to marry him; and how, when she had suddenly ended her days, in
a way which gave rise to more than a little talk in the island, he had
sold the estate and the slaves without haggling much over the price, and
had abruptly left for England, where--the talk ran--he meant to settle
down and found a family.
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