“Did you wed her?”
“No, sir; had I done so, a world in arms should not have separated us.”
“The father then, I presume, was adverse to your suit?”
“She had no father, sir—no mother—no relations—no friend in the world but me, and I left her in peril; and never saw her more—never—never!”
“Go on with your story.”
“He who was with her, or rather held her in durance, was a mysterious man. I have often thought, sir, some great crime weighed heavily upon his heart.”
“Perhaps so,” said Learmont, in a hollow voice. “Perhaps so. His life might have been one long mistaken, and he bartered for gold that which was priceless. Go on—go on.”
“He seemed, sir, ever wakeful to some great danger, and if ever there was a miserable man, it was that man.”
“Well—well,” said Learmont.
“Time passed, and still I fondly, dearly loved. She would have left him, or denounced him for his cruelty, but then she always had the dread upon her spirit that he might be what he appeared to be—her father; so, sir, she bore with much, and with a noble spirit would not sacrifice him, by which I much fear she has sacrificed herself. Still are they living in some dark obscurity in London, or—or he has killed her! Alas! Alas! My poor Ada!”