“Well,” continued Wentworth, “I felt a little abashed at Witherlee’s entrance, for I thought he had seen us, and in fact, it was so awkward for me, that I took my leave in a few minutes.”
“And that evening—I remember it well”—interrupted Muriel, “he and Emily talked together in a corner the whole time, while mother and I were busy with a roomful of guests.”
“Did they!” said Wentworth, coldly, seeing nothing in the circumstance worthy of notice. “Well, Muriel,” he continued, after a moment’s consideration, “I called the next morning to see Emily, happy as I could be, and full of love for her, and she met me with such chilling hauteur that I was frozen. It was like an ice-bath. I felt piqued and hurt, and though I thought it only a passing freak, I could not help being cool to her. Indeed, her manner prevented anything but coolness. I thought, however, it would pass over. But the next day it was the same, and the next and the next. I am proud, Muriel, and I was innocent of any fault. Could I do less, and keep my self-respect, than remain cool to a lady who was treating me so? Meanwhile, I saw her attentions to Harrington, and I made up my mind that she had trifled with me for her amusement. So it went on, till last night when she heaped contumely on me, and I repaid her with the speech you heard. There. I did not mean to speak of this, but you have led me on. Now I am quits with her.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then Wentworth resumed:
“In all this, Muriel, I did, as far as she was concerned, only one wrong thing. When I saw her wooing Harrington, to show her that I could bear her injury, and to spoil her triumph, I was very attentive to you. I knew you would not mistake my assiduities for love, and I knew it would pique her. I ask your pardon. It was wrong. I did another and a greater wrong to Harrington, and I have sought him in vain to-day, to beg his forgiveness. I thought he loved Emily, and I was meanly envious and jealous of him—I was cold and reserved to him—I treated him with hauteur, which I saw he could not understand, and”—
“How did Harrington act to you when you treated him with hauteur?” interrupted Muriel, quickly.
“Like the man he is!” replied Wentworth, with impetuous fervor. “Like the nature too noble for this world! Great, grand heart, he shamed me even in my very treason to him with his unaltered kindness. He came to me frankly, unrepelled by my attitude to him, he came with a look, a word, a generous hand, and he conquered me. My envy and my jealousy arose again, and were wasted on him. I could not alienate him from me. He overlooked—he forgave all. Let me only see him again, let me ask his compassion and his pardon, and then let me go away, and hide my shame in Italy, for I am not worthy to live on the same soil with him—I am not worthy to be his friend.”
Two bright tears flowed calmly down the face of Muriel, and her smile was sweet and proud for her lover.
“Ah, Richard,” she said, gently, “had you treated Emily’s hauteur as Harrington treated yours, you, too, might have conquered her. It was not true love to answer her slights with coldness and silence.”
“Perhaps, so, Muriel,” he answered with averted eyes, feeling her rebuke. “Perhaps I might. But no. It was not her nature. She meant to play upon me. No matter. Let it pass. And as for Witherlee, I hate him. Chiefly because I believe his insidious words set me against Harrington.”