“Harman, my dear fellow,” said Hickman, “we understand you, we respect your feelings, and we sympathize with you—but, in the meantime, do see and hear this woman.”
He had scarcely uttered the words when the servant entered, stating that she was at the door.
“Let her come in,” said Harman; “let the vile wretch come in.”
“And, do you, John, withdraw,” said Hickman.
Poll Doolin entered.
Her appearance threw Harman into a violent state of agitation; he trembled, got pale, and seemed absolutely sickened by the presence of the wicked wretch who had been the vile instrument of Phil M'Clutchy's success, of Mary M'Loughlin's dishonor, and of his own unhappiness. It was the paleness, however, of indignation, of distress, of misery, of despair. His blood, despite the paleness of his face, absolutely boiled in his veins, and that the more hotly, because he had no object on which he could wreak his vengeance. Poll, who was always cool, and not without considerable powers of observation, at once noticed the tumult of his feelings, and, as if replying to them, said—
“I don't blame you, Mr. Harman, thinkin' as you do; the sight of me is not pleasant to you—and, indeed, you don't hate me more than you ought.”
“What is your business with me?” said Harman.
Poll looked around her for a moment, and replied—
“I'm glad of it, the more the better; Francis Harman,” she proceeded, “sit down, and listen to me; yes, listen to me—for I have it in my power to make you a happy man.”