“You do not know how dear she is to me; you do not know how her defection from our ancient faith would break my heart; how I should have to renounce her for my other children's sake!”
“And how you would stain your soul with the blackest ingratitude, Herr Löwenberg, if you did!” interrupted Henry excitedly.
“So you think that, do you? You don't know who she is, and how such a thing would be so unpardonable in her that no consideration could influence me. I never told you before, but she is of another blood than you are—she is the descendant of martyred rabbis, and her race is as pure as that of the old Machabees. We are not Germans. We are Spaniards, and, though ruined, our family pride is as great as it ever was—as great, too, as our love for our faith.”
“How long ago was it you were ruined?”
“Only a year and two months, and I fell ill six months ago; my wife died almost as soon as we came here, and my Maheleth has earned our daily bread, and taught her sisters, and managed the housekeeping, all [pg 525] alone. It is enough to make one curse God!”
“Hush, hush!” said Holcombe. “You do not mean that—you know you have too many blessings to thank him for.”
“And the best and only one you are seeking to take from me.”
“I swear to you that much as I should wish and pray for it—for that I will not conceal from you—yet I have never influenced your child in any way.”
“You have, because you love her.”
Henry was staggered at the suddenness of his words.