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Father and daughter for a minute gazed mutely at their uninvited guest, the girl at least in no very amiable mood. But whatever her father’s faults might be, want of hospitality was not one of them, and what the house could supply of meat and drink was speedily set before the stranger. He was, as he made haste to inform them, the new owner of the property, come down to take possession. “And egad! sir,” said he brusquely, “it strikes me it’s not before it was time. There’s a bit o’ money wanted here, anybody can see with half an eye.” And with choice criticisms of a similar nature he lightened the time in the intervals of shovelling food into his heavy-lipped mouth.

“Yes, I’ve bought it–and paid for it, too–lock, stock, and barrel,” he resumed; “and we’ll put things to rights in a brace of shakes. For what’s the use o’ having money, says I, if a man don’t spend it on his whim! Ay! whether it’s a fine lass, or what not, plank it down, and enjoy yourself while ye can. That’s what I say. What’s the sense o’ waiting till a man’s too old? And I’m not so young as I was, thinks Missie, eh? But let me tell you, there’s many a fine lass, yet, that would snap me up if she had the chance, if it was only for the sake of the ducats. 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.

Helen’s scornful rejection of the proposal at first was scathing, and little less her scorn of a parent who could urge it. “It’s to save me from want, and from worse than want,” he whimpered. Finally, ere many days had passed, wearied by her father’s importunity, she gave her consent.

A pair more ill-matched could not have been found; the man by nature coarse, brutal, and cowardly; the woman, insolent, fearless, and of ungoverned temper. From the first things went badly, and when, within a week of the wedding, Helen’s father was drowned in attempting to ford the Tweed on horseback, she chose to consider that her part of the bargain was ended. Henceforward she was a wife only in name. Bluster and storm as he might, she was more than the master of her husband, and after one wild outburst he cringed before her. And as, before her marriage, the wife had insisted on reinstating the greater number of the old servants, who to fidelity to the old line added hostility to a master whom they looked on as an interloper, the husband soon found it to his advantage to conciliate the household by giving way to the whims of his wife. Thereafter, the two met, if at all, only at meals.