“Good God, Sir Francis,” said Albert, “I never said any such thing!”
“Then it was Ada’s feelings which were to alter, provided she was rich and you poor.”
Albert looked abashed, and Ada said in a gentle voice to him,—
“Is this kind, Albert?”
“No, Ada,“ he said. “It is foolish and wrong. Forgive the scruple that rose up in my mind of still urging my suit to you when, as I hear from Sir Francis Hartleton you are likely to become very wealthy.”
“And did such a thought cross your mind, Albert,” said Ada, sadly, “when you stood between little Harry Gray and him who is now no more—when you spent days and nights of anxious toil in searching for me—did then a thought of that affection which sprang up in my heart for the only human voice which had spoken kindly to me—the only heart that had felt for my distresses—cross your mind? Are persecution, distress, danger, misery, all to fail in shaking our faith, to leave the gold the triumph of doing so? Albert, is this well done of you?”
Sir Francis quietly walked away from the window, leaving Albert to make his peace how he could; which it is to be supposed he did, as, after a few moments, Ada, with her usual frank candour, gave him her hand, and shaking her head said, with a smile, something that made his eyes glisten with joy.
CHAPTER CXIII.
Learmont and Britton after the Murder.
Having devoted so large a space to the hopes, the fears, the surprises, and the joys of those in whose happiness, and freedom from the distresses and persecutions which surrounded them, we are so largely interested, we turn with a sensation of sickening gloom to the two men of blood. Learmont and the savage smith, after they had sated themselves with gore, and like ferocious tigers of the jungle, came slinking from the feast of blood which they had sought with avidity, and tasted of so greedily.