“And why not, madam?” he answered, coolly, while Mrs. Livingstone continued: “You, a low-born Yankee, who have been, as it were, an hireling. You presume to ask for my daughter!”
“I do,” he answered calmly, with a quiet smile, ten-fold more tantalizing than harsh words would have been, “I do. Can I have her with your consent?”
“Never, so long as I live. I’d sooner see her dead than wedded to vulgar poverty.”
“That is your answer. Very well,” said Malcolm, bowing stiffly. “And now I will hear yours,” turning to Mr. Livingstone, who replied, that “he would leave the matter entirely with his wife—it was nothing to him—he had nothing personal against Mr. Everett—he rather liked him than otherwise, but he hardly thought Anna suited to him, she had been brought up so differently;” and thus evasively answering, he walked away.
“Cowardly fool!” muttered Mrs. Livingstone, as the door closed upon him. “If I pretended to be a man, I’d be one;” then turning to Malcolm, she said, “Is there anything further you wish to say?”
“Nothing,” he replied. “I have honorably asked you for your daughter. You have refused her, and must abide the consequence.”
“And pray what may that be?” she asked, and he answered: “She will soon be of an age to act for herself, and though I would far rather take her with your consent, I shall not then hesitate to take her without, if you still persist in opposing her.”
“There is the door,” said Mrs. Livingstone rising.
“I see it, madam,” answered Malcolm, without deigning to move.
“Oblige me by passing out,” continued Mrs. Livingstone. “Insolent creature, to stand here threatening to elope with my daughter, who has been destined for another since her infancy.”