“Well, Richard, Lenore,” he began, drawing us a little apart from the others, speaking in a low voice, “what do you say to my leaving you?”
“Leaving us!” we both very naturally exclaimed.
“It would be rather sudden, that is true.”
“Where would you go? Walk off on the water, or betake yourself to the valleys and mountains of Mexico?”
“There’s no jest about it, Richard. Information, which has come to me in the strangest, most unexpected manner, renders it imperative that I should stop at Acapulco. I am as much surprised as you are. I have not even time to tell you the story; in twenty minutes the ship will begin to send off her passengers in a small-boat; and if I decide to remain here, I must go to my state-room for some of my clothes.”
“Are you in earnest, father?” asked Lenore, ready to cry.
“Yes, my darling. I am afraid I must let you go on to San Francisco without me; but you will have Marie, and Richard will take as good care of you as I would. I want you to enjoy yourselves, to have no cares, to take the second return steamer, which will give you a fortnight in San Francisco, and I will meet you at the isthmus. As you will have nothing to do, after your arrival, I will advise you to explore the country, ride out every pleasant day, etc. The time will soon pass, and in five weeks, God willing, we shall meet and be happy, my dear little girl. Run, run to Marie, and tell her what I am to do; she will come and get my orders.”
Lenore moved away, rather reluctantly, and Mr. Burton continued to myself, who was standing silent from mere stupidity of astonishment:
“By the merest chance in the world I overheard a conversation between the people about to land, which convinces me that George Thorley, instead of being in California, is not thirty miles from Acapulco. If I were not positive of it, I should not run the risk of experiment, now, when time is worth every thing. But I am so certain of it, that I do not see as there is any thing for you to do in San Francisco but to help little Lenore pass the time pleasantly. I have thought, as calmly as I could under the pressure of much haste, whether you had better stop with me, and await, at some hotel in Acapulco, the result of my visit into the interior, or go on to the end of your journey, and returning, meet me at the isthmus. On the child’s account, I think you had better finish the voyage as expected. The sea-air is benefiting her greatly; and, unless you fret too much, there is nothing to prevent your enjoying the trip.”
“I shall do just as you advise, Mr. Burton; but, of course, I shall be intolerably anxious. For my own part, I would rather keep with you; but that must be done which is best for all.”