'And have you never found, in the course of your dealings with that man, that he could forget or pervert the truth; or even invent a falsehood, when it served his own purpose?'
Jacob Rhoneland laughed to himself, in a low chuckling tone, and rubbed his hands. 'What, lie?—Rust lie? Bless you, child, he does that more than any thing else. Ha! ha! He's a deep one, depend on it.'
'And can you see no reason for his traducing Ned?' said she, the blood mounting to her face, as she spoke. 'Was there no plan of his, which Ned's presence here crossed, and which rendered it necessary to prejudice you against him?'
The old man pondered; looked at her, and then at the floor; and at last sank back in his chair, in a deep and unpleasant reverie; from which he was only aroused by a knock at the door. 'Go to your room, Kate. It's Enoch. I'll open the door myself.'
Kate had scarcely left the room, and Jacob had not yet risen to obey the summons, when the door of the apartment opened, and Michael Rust walked in, as quietly and serenely as if nothing had happened.
'Good evening, friend Jacob,' said he, bowing low, and speaking in his softest tone. 'I'm here again, you see. I could not give you up so soon. I could not let a trifling misunderstanding break off old friendship. I had'nt the heart to do it, good Jacob. There was a severe struggle between pride and friendship, but friendship gained the day; and I have come with an open heart to offer you my most humble apology, and to ask you to forget and forgive. I feel that I took an unwarrantable liberty with Kate; but I loved her, Jacob, and was hurried too far by my feelings. I was wrong, and you acted as a father should. Let us forget the past, and be as we were.'
Michael stretched out his hand, as he spoke, and even held it so, for some moments; but Rhoneland neither took it, nor looked at it, nor at him, nor uttered a word in reply; but with both hands resting on the top of his cane, which he had taken to assist him in rising, and his chin on them, sat looking out of the window, as if there were no other person than himself in the wide world.
What was it that bowed the bold, bad man, who had never yielded to him before?—who had trodden on his very neck, mocking his sufferings, jeering at his agony of mind; returning threats for supplications, and revilement for tears; and now brought him a suppliant to his feet? Was it that strange, mysterious feeling which sometimes tells a man that the hour of his fate is approaching, and that his time is measured? Was the coming storm flinging its shadow over his path, even before the bursting of the tempest? Did he feel the earth sinking beneath his feet; and was he glad to grasp, even at a decayed and shattered branch to hold him up? Or was it a part of a deeper policy; and was there yet something to be gained by clinging to his former dupe? It may have been a mixture of all these feelings; but certain it is, that there he was; the same thin, bowing, cringing hypocrite, with a tongue of oil and a heart of flint, endeavoring by soothing words and fawning lies once more to win back the man who had turned his back upon him. And equally certain it is, that a more unyielding, impenetrable, imperturbable piece of humanity he had never met with; for to all his fine sentences, allurements, and artifices of every kind, he received no reply.
'This tack won't do,' thought Rust. 'He won't swallow honey. I'll give him wormwood; but before that, one more attempt.'
'Jacob, my friend,' said he, drawing a chair nearer to him, seating himself, and sinking his voice; 'perhaps you think I meant ill about your daughter?'