“I am thinking of many things,” was my vague answer; “but God will help me.”
Chaleco sneered.
“He has helped us, if you choose to fancy it,” he said; “are not her enemies in the dust—have you not revenge in your grasp?”
“No,” I said, filled with the holy spirit my soul had invoked, “no, Chaleco, God gives revenge to no human being; it belongs to him. The memory of my dead father is before me—never again will I wrestle with these weak, human hands for power which belongs to omnipotence alone.”
Chaleco looked at me sternly; a dark frown was in his eyes.
“If I thought this,” he exclaimed, grasping the paper as if about to rend it.
He stopped, and held the paper motionless between his hands. Cora had risen from the sofa, and was leaning forward, looking at us.
“You learned that of my father, Zana,” she said, while a tender smile stole over her lips; “if anything troubles you, go back to him; I will.”
I was touched to the heart by the pathos and sweetness of these words. My soul yearned towards the suffering child, and that instant the resolve which had been floating mistily through my brain took form and shape. If the disputed estates proved to be mine, I would so endow that gentle girl, that Irving would rejoice in the chance of redeeming his prosperity by a marriage with her. Her fame at least I might partially restore.
“You are right, my Cora; I did learn all that is good in me from that noble-hearted man. You and I should never have left his side.”