There was a peculiar emphasis in her question, which surprised and hurt me; but in a moment it flashed through my mind--the Chevalier had communicated his suspicions of me to Arnault, and Arnault had taken care to impart them to his daughter. I stood for a moment as one stupified--then, taking her hands in mine, I asked, "Helen, what is it that you mean? Can you--do you in the least believe me guilty?"
"No, Louis--no, dear Louis!" answered she, with a look of full, undoubting, unhesitating confidence; "if all the world were to declare you guilty, mine should be the dissenting voice; and I would never, never believe it.--I will not deny that tales have reached me, which I do not dwell on, because I am sure they are false--basely, ungenerously false, or originating in some mistake which you can correct when you will, and will correct when you ought. Do not explain them to me--do not waste a word or a thought upon them, as far as I am concerned," she added, seeing me about to speak, "for I believe not a word of them--not one single word."
Oh, woman's love! It is like the sunshine, so pure, so bright, so cheering; and there is nothing in all creation equal to it! I threw my arms round her unopposed--I pressed my lips upon hers; but the kiss that I then took was as pure as gratitude for such generous affection could suggest--I say not that it was brotherly, for it was dearer--sweeter; but if there be a man on earth who says there was one unholy feeling mingled therein, I tell him, in his throat, he lies!
At that moment the figure of a man broke at once through the boughs upon us. Helen turned, and, confused and ashamed at any one having seen her so clasped in my arms, fled instinctively like lightning, while the intruder advanced upon me in a menacing attitude.--It was Jean Baptiste Arnault; and with a flushed cheek and a raised stick he came quickly upon me, exclaiming, "Villain, you have seduced my sister, and, by the God above, your nobility shall not protect you!"
"Hear me, Arnault!" cried I; but he still advanced with the stick lifted, in an attitude to strike. My blood took fire. "Hear me," repeated I, snatching up my carbine,--"hear me, or take the consequences;" and I retreated up the hill, with the gun pointed towards his breast. Mad, I believe--for his conduct can hardly be attributed to anything but frenzy--he rushed on upon me without giving time for any explanation, and struck a violent blow at my head with his stick. I started back to avoid it; my foot struck against an angle of the rock; I stumbled; the gun went off; and Arnault, after reeling for a moment with an ineffectual effort to stand, pressed his hand upon his bosom, and fell lifeless at my feet.
CHAPTER XVII.
There is nothing like remorse:--it is the fiery gulf into which our passions and our follies lash us with whips of snakes. What language can tell the feelings of my bosom, while I stood and gazed upon the lifeless form of Helen's brother, as he lay before me slain by my hand? And oh! what words of horror and of agony did I not read in every line of that cold, still, mindless countenance, as it glared at me with an expression still mingled of the anger which had animated him, and the pang with which he had died.
It was terrible beyond all description. My whole heart, and mind, and brain, and soul, was one whirl of dreadful sensations. I had done that which it was impossible to recal--I had taken from my fellow-being that which I could never restore--I had extinguished the bright mysterious lamp of life; and where, oh, where, could I find the Promethean flame wherewith to light it again to action and to being?
In vain! The irrevocable deed had gone forth; and sorrow, and tears, and regret, and agony could have no more effect upon it than on the granite of the mountains that surrounded me. It was done! It was written on the book of fate! It was between me and my God,--a dreadful account, never to pass from my memory. I felt the finger, that had branded murderer! on the brow of Cain, tracing the same damning word in characters of fire upon my heart. And yet I gazed on, upon the thing that I made, with horror amounting to stupefaction. Like the head of the Gorgon, it seemed to have turned me into stone; and though I would have given worlds to have banished it for ever from my sight and my memory, I stood with my eyes fixed upon it as if I sought to impress every lifeless lineament on my remembrance with lines that time should never have power to efface.
A heavy hand, laid upon my shoulder, was the first thing that roused me; and turning round, I beheld Pedro Garcias, the Spanish smuggler, standing by my side. The discharged gun was still in my hand; the bleeding corpse lay before me; and had he had occasion to ask who had done the deed, whose consequences he beheld, I am sure that my countenance would have afforded a sufficient reply. No one but a murderer could have looked and felt as I did.