“Are you sure—that—that—you cannot be mistaken?” I asked, gasping for breath.
“Yes, quite sure,” replied Mason. “What’s the matter? you don’t appear to be pleased at it?”
“Oh nothing—nothing. But what reason have you for thinking she is married?” I asked, trying to appear indifferent.
“Only that I heard so. Besides, I saw her at the Captain’s house in London where I called on business. I had some notion of going a voyage with him.”
“But are you sure the person you saw was Lenore—the daughter of Captain Hyland?”
“Certainly. How could I be mistaken? You know I was at Captain Hyland’s house several times, and saw her there—to say nothing of that scene we had with Adkins, when we were all in Liverpool together. I could not be mistaken: for I spoke to her the time I was at her house in London. She was married about two years before to the captain of the Australian ship—a man old enough to be her father.”
What reason had I to doubt Mason’s word? None.
I went ashore with a soul-sickening sensation, that caused me to wish myself as free from the cares of this life, as the mother I had lately lowered into her grave.
How dark seemed the world!
The sun seemed no longer shining, to give light; but only to warm my woe.