Mr. Delancey moaned, and covered his face with his hands.
"Rather would you that men point at you with the finger of scorn—that former friends despise you—that the world look down upon you, and speak your name with scoffing, rather this, than see your child happy with the man of her choice?"
"Yes!" cried the merchant, springing to his feet, "if that man be you, a thousand times, yes! Go; do your worst; cast forth my name like waste-paper on the winds, scourge it, brand, blacken it; do what you will. Though you curse me to the confines of purgatory, my daughter never shall be yours!"
"This is your final decision?"
"My last—leave my house, sir, and never do you dare to darken its doors again."
"You may regret, sir, what you have said to-night," said Wilkins, putting on his hat and cloak.
"I shall always abide by it. Begone, sir! Why do you tarry?"
The folds of the heavy cloak fluttered a moment in the door-way, then passed through it, and disappeared down the long stairs. Through those vast halls, with frowning brow and heavy tread, Bernard Wilkins strode, and the massive door closed after him for the first and last time, and he went forth into the silent streets.