They all rose, with a flutter and rustle of movement. Presently, while the Atkins ladies, cloaked and bonneted, were moving toward the door, Harrington approached Mr. Atkins, who had gone into the entry for his hat and returned, and now stood, cold, harsh and moody, apart from the rest of the company.
“I trust, Mr. Atkins,” said the young man, with grave courtesy, “that you are not offended by my plain speaking on these matters, or at least that you will not understand me to intend any disrespect to you personally.”
The merchant glared at him with a sullen and insolent smile.
“Mr. Harrington,” he hissed hoarsely, bending his face close to the young man’s, “such sentiments as yours find favor with my sister and niece. It is politic in you to adopt them, and so curry favor with the one that you may mend your poverty by a rich marriage with the other.”
And with these brutal words, the merchant threw back his head, glaring at the young man with open mouth, and a frightful smile on his blanched visage, which was at that moment the visage of a demon. Harrington met that glare with a look of such majestic severity, such a stern glory of anger lighting his calm eyes and brow, that the merchant’s face fell, and he slunk a pace away. The company had left the parlor, and were talking in the hall, as Mr. Atkins had made his reply, but Mrs. Eastman, who was standing nearest the parlor door, had heard it all, and before Harrington could make any rejoinder, if any he intended, she came quickly in, shutting the door behind her, her silver tresses trembling and her beautiful face flushed with haughty and indignant emotion.
“Permit me to tell you, Lemuel Atkins,” said she, confronting her brother, and speaking in a proud and steady voice, “that the sentiments which you have not the wit to controvert, nor the manhood to entertain, were held by Mr. Harrington before we had the honor of his friendship, and let me further say to you that while the choice of my daughter’s heart, be he rich or poor, shall be my choice also, I should esteem it the best hour of my life which gave me assurance that she would wed a man worthier of her than any man I know, and dear to me as my own son! Take that home with you, sir, and do us the honor to believe that in this house we value gentlemen for what they are, and not for what they own.”
He shrank from the serene and haughty magnetism of her manner, and cowering under her rebuke, slunk away to the door without a word, and went into the hall. Harrington stood like one thunder-struck, the slow thrill her words gave him running through his veins, while she swept across the room to close the door the merchant had left ajar, and turning again, came quickly toward him, her beautiful face pale and wet with calmly-flowing tears.
“Tell me, John,” she said, seizing his hands, and speaking in low, rapid tones, tremulous with emotion—“this pitiful insult moved me to anger, and in my anger I have spoken the true thought of my heart—tell me that so dear a hope is not so vain. Oh, confide in me as in your own mother, for no mother could love you more tenderly than I do.”
In the spiritual passion of the moment, all cold prudence, all reticence, melted, and fell away. He clasped her in his arms, and with sweet and sorrowful emotion, kissed her fair brow and silver hair.