Theresa had listened to him with shining eyes, and now she turned them anxiously, appealingly, toward her father.
“Shall I be doing right if I accede to this request?” the old man muttered.
“You have spoken of some reason for the recluse-like life you are leading,” added Sir Harold; “you have spoken of some danger that menaces your daughter if your identity be discovered. Why should you run the risk of this? If you object to my presence here, let me go quietly away elsewhere.”
At that moment he saw the light of adoration in Theresa’s humid eyes, and he never forgot it.
“Sir Harold,” Mr. Hamilton said, brokenly, “you shall please yourself. You shall do just as you wish—all but one thing. I cannot part with you; I dare not let you go away until God lifts the cloud that has blotted out your past. We are poor—miserably poor—but you will not miss the luxuries of life now, and it may be that soon, very soon, you will awaken to the full knowledge of all that you have lost. At least, we will hope for the best. We will wait for a while, and then——”
But Sir Harold interrupted him with words of thanks, saying:
“Enough, sir; I am quite satisfied. You have told me sufficient to convince me that my past, whatever it may be, is linked with the perfidy of some woman—that it is one of misery. The present is one of perfect joy! I shall not be a burden upon you. I have money in my pocketbook amounting to hundreds of pounds. I will stay until I can return to the world a rational being, and it will be amusing to read the papers about myself—to see how a man is valued after he is thought to be dead.”
He laughed a little, and while Mr. Hamilton grasped his hand in token of acquiescence, Theresa glided swiftly from the room to hide her joy.
CHAPTER IX.
“I SHALL WAIT, IF NEED BE, FOREVER.”