“Faith,” said Harrington, “it was simply lucky. I happened to have been reading the speeches lately, and so had the passages by heart. But I wonder at Mr. Atkins making such an absurd assertion.”
“Oh, he remembers nothing previous to 1850,” said Muriel. “These people are perfectly wild with their Webster and Fugitive Slave Law mania, and they repeat certain phrases until their organs of intelligence are ossified, as Goethe says. Come, Emily, let us have some music.”
“Yes, do, Emily,” said Wentworth, half absently, and forgetting for a moment, as was frequent with him, the state of affairs between him and Miss Ames.
Emily looked at him with cool serenity, as if she thought his request impertinent. Wentworth, recalled to himself, was maddened by the look and all it brought him, and turning to conceal his anger, wandered away to the piano, humming an air.
“Come, Emily, we must go home, for it’s getting late,” said Harrington; “so sing us that sweet song of Körner’s—the ‘Good Night’ song—to sooth us to dreams.”
Emily smiled with superb languor, and half-reluctant, for she was not in a songful mood, swept over to the piano, looking steadily as she advanced at Wentworth, who was leaning carelessly against the instrument, and regarding her with stern eyes.
“I believe,” said she, listlessly, as she sunk upon the music-stool, and with a parting glance of cold hauteur dropped her eyes from the steady gaze of Wentworth, “I believe that the piano is out of tune.”
“Do you know why, Miss Ames?” asked Wentworth suddenly, in a voice at once so quiet and so marked that both Muriel and Harrington looked at him.
“Because,” he said with bitter and terrible significance, a scowl darkening his features—“because it has been played upon!”
Muriel and Harrington started with a low exclamation, and glanced first at Wentworth, and then at Emily, with mute amazement. A smile arose on Wentworth’s face, and mingled with his scowl, as he slowly walked away. Emily rose from her seat, and gazed after him, her form dilated to its full height, her bosom heaving, and her face and neck suffused with an indignant scarlet glow. Turning, Wentworth looked haughtily at her for a moment, and then, utterly reckless, with heart and brain on fire, laughed a bitter and scornful laugh, and moved toward the parlor door. Emily’s lip quivered, her color faded to pallor, and bursting into a passionate flood of tears, she covered her face with her hands, and swept by the other door from the room.