Here his voice broke down, and raising his cloak, he veiled his agitated face in its folds.
“Alas, alas, my father! what horror was it that so suddenly burst asunder all ties of affection between you? Father—father, answer me!—tell me that it was not her fault—not my mother’s fault!”
He dropped the fold of his cloak from his face, and looking for the first time angrily upon his daughter, demanded sternly:
“Why should you dare to ask if your mother was in fault?”
“Alas, I know not. I beg your pardon and hers. My short life has been made a desert by this mystery, father, and yet for myself I have never once complained, but when I know that her life is one prolonged agony, and now see the agony stamped upon your brow, I become half crazy, and think—I know not what.”
“I will answer your question, unhappy girl; and assure you, in the presence of high Heaven, that our violent parting was not caused by your mother’s fault. A purer, sweeter, nobler woman than your mother never lived,” said Hollis Elverton, earnestly.
“Oh, God, I thank thee!—I thank thee—I thank thee for that!” cried Alma, in a thrilling voice that betrayed how heavy had been the burden of doubt that rested on her mind, and how ineffable was the sense of relief now that it was lifted off.
“You are satisfied?” inquired Elverton.
“For her, oh, yes; but oh, my father, tell me—this separation was not your fault either?” she cried, clasping her hands, and gazing with imploring eyes into his face.
“No, nor my fault either, Alma; I swear it to you, by all my hopes of Heaven! We loved each other as man and woman seldom love in this world,” replied Elverton, in a hollow voice; “we severed, and until the judgment day it may never be known why.”