Restless; ill at ease; unwilling to think upon the subject, which yet persisted in invading his mind; and in that state of nervous incertitude, in which mysterious agitations and sudden tinglings of the blood incessantly visit the frame, it was a positive relief to Harrington to get away from himself, among the cheerful, familiar faces around the Captain’s table. The family were assembled in the dining-room, which opened off the kitchen. A pleasant, old-fashioned room, looking on the street, and furnished with plain, old-fashioned, homely furniture. Curtains of white dimity to the windows; a semi-circular stand, holding rows of flower-pots, at one of them, from which the smell of geraniums and roses was shed throughout the apartment; the floor covered with a woven rag-carpet of soberly gay colors; a bureau, spread with white linen at one side, with the miniature model of a ship full-rigged, upon it; straight-backed mahogany chairs, with horsehair seats; two rocking chairs, with white tidies on their backs; a looking-glass between the windows, and on the opposite wall, on either side of the mantel, two portraits, fearfully bad, of the Captain and his wife. The Captain, however, regarded these works of art with complacent satisfaction, and held them as chief among his household treasures. The wandering country artist who had executed them, had represented the Captain as a dark-eyed, rosy-cheeked, staring, marine Adonis, preternaturally blooming in complexion, attired in an indigo blue coat with brass buttons, a buff waistcoat, and a frilled shirt-front, and grasping a spy-glass in one hand and a quadrant in the other. To match this artistic triumph, Mrs. Fisher appeared with sky-blue eyes, lily-white complexion, pink cheeks and lips, an azure dress with a huge broach, and a gold chain and pencil-case, on which the artist had spent his finest genius and his brightest chrome. To trace a resemblance between the portrait, and the kind, quiet, pale-eyed, colorless little woman in a gauze cap, who sat at the head of the breakfast-table, would have been more difficult than to establish a similar likeness between the other portrait and the Captain. But the Captain was happy in the belief that the portraits were gems of truth and art, and as he himself was accustomed to observe on various occasions, putting it as a profoundly philosophical conclusion, “What’s the odds, so as you’re happy!”
A chorus of greetings welcomed Harrington, as he came in and took his seat at the breakfast table.
“We began to think you warn’t comin’, John,” remarked Mrs. Fisher, pouring out his coffee.
“I hurried home as quick as I could, Hannah,” replied the young man. “Well, Sophy, you look as bright as gold this morning. The jewellers would put you in a box of pink cotton.”
Sophronia, a plump and pretty little miss, with blue eyes, a charming little snub nose, and a dimple in her chin, smiled coquettishly at this compliment, and glanced at the smiling face of the speaker.
“My!” she exclaimed, saucily, “how smart you are, John! I wish I could say such pretty things to you.”
“Well, try,” jested Harrington. “Compliment me on this beard which you admire so much.”
“Beard indeed!” said Sophy, tossing her head, with a playful pout of her ripe cherry lips, “I don’t admire it at all. The girls ought to set their faces against it.”
“Maybe they do, Sophy,” returned Harrington, with sly significance.