"What words are these, and from you, Arthur? Guilt is to you impossible. If purity is to be found on earth, it is lodged in your heart. What have you done?"
"I have dared—how little you expect the extent of my daring! That such as I should look upwards with this ambition."
I stood up, and taking her hands in mine, as she sat, looked earnestly in her face:—"I come only to beseech your pardon. To tell you my crime, and then disappear forever; but first let me see if there be any omen of forgiveness. Your looks—they are kind; heavenly; compassionate still. I will trust them, I believe; and yet" (letting go her hands, and turning away) "this offence is beyond the reach even of your mercy."
"How beyond measure these words and this deportment distress me! Let me know the worst; I cannot bear to be thus perplexed."
"Why," said I, turning quickly round and again taking her hands, "that Mervyn, whom you have honoured and confided in, and blessed with your sweet regards, has been——"
"What has he been? Divinely amiable, heroic in his virtue, I am sure. What else has he been?"
"This Mervyn has imagined, has dared—will you forgive him?"
"Forgive you what? Why don't you speak? Keep not my soul in this suspense."
"He has dared—But do not think that I am he. Continue to look as now, and reserve your killing glances, the vengeance of those eyes, as for one that is absent.——Why, what—you weep, then, at last. That is a propitious sign. When pity drops from the eyes of our judge, then should the suppliant approach. Now, in confidence of pardon, I will tell you; this Mervyn, not content with all you have hitherto granted him, has dared—to love you; nay, to think of you as of his wife!"
Her eye sunk beneath mine, and, disengaging her hands, she covered her face with them.