Mr. Atkins thrust his hands into his pockets, and working his jaw convulsively, struggled between the temptation to yield, and the obstinate desire to carry out his original purpose. Harrington saw that the crisis had come, and fearing to irritate the merchant into refusal by his presence, he rose.
“Permit me to leave you to think of it,” he said courteously. “Just give it candid consideration, solely as a business matter, and with regard to your own interests and political feelings, and let me call again, if it is not asking too much, at any time you may mention.”
It is perfectly impossible to describe the fine tact of bearing, the sweet and winning courtesy and delicacy with which Harrington conducted himself during this difficult interview. If Lemuel Atkins had not been more stubborn than the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, he would have soon opened to that subtle charm, and as it was, he began to open to it.
“Well, Mr. Harrington,” he said after a pause, “I’ll think of it, and you can call in about—no you needn’t,” he cried, with a sudden revulsion, turning red in the face with passion. “I’ll be damned if I’ll do it! There. It’s cursed folly, and I won’t consent to it.”
Harrington’s trembling heart froze, but he did not yet abandon hope.
“Nay,” said he, gently, “I trust you will not decide hastily. I know it may strike you unfavorably in one view of it, but if after careful consideration you do not approve the course I mention, why then I will submit to your maturer judgment. Only consider it calmly and candidly, and I do not fear the result.”
“I won’t,” snarled the merchant. “I won’t consider it at all.”
“But Mr. Atkins”—
“I tell you I won’t. Come, bother me no more with it.”
“At least, sir, give one moment’s consideration to the suffering your sister is in.”