“What! I can’t regulate my own daughter’s marriage, you young hound?”
“You misunderstand me, Mr. Barrett. You cannot prevent me from loving her, even though I may never see nor speak to her again.”
And Elva, blushing, tremulous, yet determined, looked straight in her father’s eyes, saying, “And I love him.”
Barrett realized that his anger was making a sorry figure compared with this young man’s resolute calmness. With an effort he held himself in check.
“We won’t argue the love side of this thing,” he said, grimly. “I haven’t any notion of doing that with a nineteen-year-old girl and a pauper. But I want to inform you, young man, that the marriage of John Barrett’s only child and heir is a matter for my judgment to control. I’m taking it for granted that you are not sneak enough to run away with her, even if you have stolen her affections.”
The millionaire understood his man. He had calculated the effect of the sneer. He knew how New England pride may be spurred to conquer passion.
“These are wicked insults, sir,” said the young man, his face rigid and pale, “but I don’t deserve them.”
“I tell you here before my daughter that I have plans for her future that you shall not interfere with. This is no country school-ma’am, down on your plane of life—this is Elva Barrett, of ‘Oaklands,’ a girl who has temporarily lost her good sense, but who is nevertheless my daughter and my heiress. She will remember that in a little while. Take yourself out of the way, young man!”
The girl’s eyes blazed. Her face was transfigured with grief and love. She was about to speak, but Wade hastened to her and took her hand.