“She was happier for the hope that it might be true, however, as I intended that she should be,” said Hollis Elverton, gravely.
Alma did not reply to this strange observation. She could not bear to acknowledge that her mother had been happier for this hope.
“But the ruse did not fully succeed, since it did not convince her of my decease; since the death of H. Elverton, the American stranger, who died at St. Petersburg did not pass quite current with her for mine. Nevertheless, she is the better for the hope that, after all, it may be mine. Leave her to the enjoyment of that saving hope, which must strengthen every year until it becomes a certainty?”
“Oh, my father,” said Alma, bowing her burning face upon her hands, while the tears stole through her fingers, “these cruel words pierce my heart like daggers. You say you loved each other as man and woman seldom love, and that you severed without a fault on either side. Oh, why then, even if you must be parted, why should you wish her to believe you dead—and why should she be happier in that belief? Would you be happier if she were dead?”
“I should; for it would be well, Alma.”
“And if I, also, were dead?”
“It would be better, still, Alma!”
“And if you were?”
“Best of all!”
“Oh, this is fearful! I remember, too, overhearing it said that, when in childhood, I was ill, and in great danger, my mother’s mournful face was lighted up as by a wild hope; but that when I recovered and got well, it sank back to its habitual look of dull despair! Oh, this is dreadful! Why is it that the life of each one of us is a curse to the others, or that the death of either would be a blessing to the rest?” cried Alma, wildly.