But, thank Heaven, I
am not at your mercy at all. He to whom nature has drawn me all these
years is my father--Oh, papa, come to me; is it for _you_ to stand aloof?
It is into your hands, with all the trust and love you have earned so
well from your poor Grace, I give my love, my veneration, and my heart
and soul forever." Then she flung herself panting on his bosom, and he
cried over her. The next moment he led her to the house, where he made
her promise to repose now after this fresh trial; and, indeed, he would
have followed her, but Bartley implored him so piteously, for the sake of
old times, not to refuse him one word more, that he relented so far as to
come out to him, though he felt it was a waste of time.
He said, "Mr. Bartley, it's no use; nothing can undo this morning's
work: our paths lie apart. From something Walter Clifford let fall one
day, I suspect he is the person you robbed, and induced me to rob, of a
large fortune."
"Well, what is he to you? Have pity upon me; be silent, and name your
own price.
Pages:
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356