Roux despairingly shook his head.
“If I had the money, madam,” he hoarsely faltered, “I’d try to buy him. But that’ll never be—never.”
“I’ll engage to furnish the money,” said Emily, vehemently, the generous color flooding her face like fire. “I will,” she added, stamping her foot as she sat. “If it costs me two thousand dollars, or twice two thousand, it shall be done.”
A dead silence ensued, in which she gazed at their mute faces. It was the brave New England scholar who did sweet service to liberty when the guns of tyranny stormed on Rome—it was Margaret Fuller who once gave away all her little property, five hundred dollars, to a poor exile, a stranger to her, whose distresses had touched her heart. Born of such an impulse, and kindred to that splendid generosity, was this act of Emily’s.
“Why do you all look so?” she continued. “I mean what I say.”
Harrington and Muriel, to whom she lifted her flushed face, were standing near each other, Muriel’s face still, solemn, and turned toward the window, Harrington’s noble countenance rigid, and bent upon the floor. The Captain stood looking at Emily with his head bent on one side, and his features all atwist. As for Roux, his black visage was wildly lighted with hope, joy, awe, and startled amazement, while Tugmutton sat in the low chair, with the baby in his arms, his mouth open, his huge eyes staring, and the big shocks of wool on his head seeming bigger than ever in his astonishment.
“It shall be done, I say,” declared Emily. “Harrington, I depend on you to show me the way.”
Harrington looked blank—like one who did not know how to answer her; then furtively glanced at Roux, and then at the floor.
“You are the soul of generosity, Miss Ames,” he said, after a pause, smiling constrainedly. “I should be happy to help you. We will see what can be done.”