“I did not know it—oh, would to heaven I had never known,” was my wild answer. “What am I to do?—how act?”
“Go home—be passive—let the curse work itself out. You know all—tell it to your father.”
“It will murder him!” I cried.
“Well!”
The word fell upon my ear like a blow, it was uttered so fiercely.
“Oh, don’t!—this conflict—this hardness—it kills me.”
“No, there must be death, but not for you, till the work is done.”
“Oh, what is this fearful work?”
“Nothing, only wait. Men who know how to wait for vengeance need only be patient and look on. Death is here—I this night give you proofs that will sweep all the wealth Lord Clare controls into his daughter’s lap. Poh! child, revenge is nothing when forced, the soul that knows how to wait need not work.”
I did not comprehend the cold-blooded philosophy of his words—what young heart could? But one thing I did understand; George Irving might be independent of his mother. The property that Chaleco was grasping for me must be wrested from him. A fierce joy possessed me with the thought. If this wealth were offered to me it would place his destiny in my hands. I could withhold or restore independence to the man who had trifled with my orphanage—stolen the friend from my bosom, and uprooted my faith in human goodness. Not for one moment did I dream of taking his inheritance, but there was joy in the thought of humbling him to the dust, by restoring it with my own hands. Too young to comprehend the refined selfishness of this idea, it really seemed that there was magnanimity in this desire to humiliate a man I had loved.