“Fernando,” said Harrington, solemnly, clasping his hand, and putting his arm tenderly around him, “let the past be with the past, and live nobler for the future. See: your repentance cancels all, and lifts you into better life. You are not friendless—not forsaken. We are your friends, all of us, and we will stand by you. Forgive you? I do with all my soul, fully, heartily, cordially.”
“And I, too, Fernando,” cried Muriel, bounding up, and gliding swiftly toward him, with humid eyes and outstretched hand. “Well I may, for you did me the greatest service ever done to me, and I owe you much gratitude.”
“I don’t understand,” faltered poor Witherlee, trembling all over, and smiling, with an effort, a thin, gelid, arctic smile through his abject tears, as he tremulously shook her hand.
“You introduced me, three years ago, to Harrington,” she smilingly replied, “and now he is my husband. We were married yesterday.”
Fernando stopped trembling, and lifted his handsome eyebrows a hair’s breadth, with something of his old manner, then fell a-trembling again, and tried to smile.
“I am very glad to hear this,” he wanly faltered, “very glad indeed. I wish you much happiness. If you’ll please to excuse me, I’ll—I’ll take my leave.”
He bowed with the ghost of his former affected elegance of manner, and gelidly smiling, backed toward the door.
“Hold on, Fernando,” exclaimed Wentworth, flying over to him. “Tip us your flipper, my boy. There isn’t a speck of me that’s not friendly to you—not a speck. Come and see me as often as you can—that’s a good fellow.”
And Wentworth, smiling, shook his hand up and down with great cordiality, as he rattled off this address.
“And I, Fernando,” said Emily, with her slow, ambrosial smile, sweeping over to him as she spoke, and also taking his hand, “I am more your friend than I have ever been. I felt terribly at what you said, but I don’t now, so let it all go. Come to see me soon, won’t you?”