At one time the idea of Neville's accompanying them was alluded to—he was greatly disturbed—and seriously implored Elizabeth not to allow it. It was rather hard on the poor girl, who found so much support and solace in her new friend's society—but Falkner's slightest wish was with her a law, and she submitted without a murmur, "Do not let me even see him before we go," said Falkner. "Act on this wish, dearest, without hurting his feelings—without betraying to him that I have formed it—it would be an ungracious return for the services he has rendered you—for which I would fain show gratitude; but that cannot be—you alone can repay—do so, as you best may, with thanks—but do not let me see him more."
Elizabeth wondered; and, as a last effort to vanquish his dislike, she said, "Do you know that he is the same boy who interested us so much at Baden?—he is no longer savage as he was then—but I fear that he is as unhappy as ever."
"Too well do I know it," replied Falkner; "do not question me—do not speak to me again of him." He spoke in disjointed sentences—a cold dew stood on his brow—and Elizabeth, who knew that a mysterious wound rankled in his heart, more painful than any physical injury, was eager to calm him. Something, she might wonder; but she thought more of sparing Falkner pain than of satisfying her curiosity, and she mentally resolved never to mention the name of Neville again.
They were to embark at sunrise; in the evening her new friend came to take leave, she having evaded the notion of his accompanying them, and insisted that he should not join them in the morning to assist at their departure. Though she had done this with sweetness, and so much cordiality of manner as prevented his feeling any sort of slight, yet in some sort he guessed that they wished to dismiss him, and this notion added to his melancholy, while some latent feeling made him readily acquiesce in it. Elizabeth was told that he had come, and left Falkner to join him. It was painful to her to take leave—to feel that she should see him no more—and to know that their separation was not merely casual, but occasioned by her father's choice, which hereafter might again and again interfere to separate them. As she entered the room he was leaning against the casement, and looking on the sea which glanced before their windows, still as a lake, blue as the twilight sky that bent over it. It was a July evening—soft, genial, and soothing; but no portion of the gladness of nature was reflected in the countenance of Neville. His large dark eyes seemed two wells of unfathomable sadness. The drooping lids gave them an expression of irresistible softness, which added interest to their melancholy earnestness. His complexion was olive, but so clear that each vein could be discerned. His full and finely-shaped lips bespoke the ardour and sensibility of his disposition; while his slim, youthful form appeared half bending with a weight of thought and sorrow. Elizabeth's heart beat as she came near and stood beside him. Neither spoke; but he took her hand—and they both felt that each regretted the moment of parting too deeply for the mere ceremony of thanks and leave-taking.
"I have grieved," said Neville, as if answering her, though no word had been said, "very much grieved at the idea of seeing you no more; and yet it is for the best, I feel—and am sure. You do not know the usual unhappy tenour of my thoughts, nor the cause I have to look on life as an unwelcome burden. This is no new sentiment—it has been my companion since I was nine years old. At one time, before I knew how to rein and manage it, it was more intolerable than now; as a boy, it drove me to solitude—to abhorrence of the sight of man—to anger against God for creating me. These feelings have passed away; nay, more—I live for a purpose—a sacred purpose, that shall be fulfilled despite of every obstacle—every seeming impossibility. Too often, indeed, the difficulties in my way have made me fear that I should never succeed, and I have desponded; but never, till I saw you, did I know pleasure unconnected with my ultimate object. With you I have been at times taken out of myself; and I have almost forgotten—this must not be. I must resume my burden, nor form one thought beyond the resolution I have made to die, if need be, to secure success."
"You must not speak thus," said Elizabeth, looking at once with pity and admiration on a face expressive of so much sensitive pride and sadness springing from a sense of injury. "If your purpose is a good one, as I must believe that it is, you will either succeed, or receive a compensation from your endeavours equivalent to success. We shall meet again, and I shall see you happier."
"When I am happier," he said, with more than his usual earnestness, "we shall indeed meet—for I will seek you at the farthest end of the globe. Till then, I shrink from seeing any one who interests me—or from renewing sentiments of friendship which had better end here. You are too good and kind not to be made unhappy by the sight of suffering, and I must suffer till my end is accomplished. Even now I regret that I ever saw you—though that feeling springs from a foolish pride. For hereafter you will hear my name—and if you already do not know—you will learn the miserable tale that hangs upon it—you will hear me commiserated; you will learn why—and share the feeling. I would even avoid your pity—judge, then, how loathsome it is to receive that of others; and yet I must bear it, or fly them as I do. This will change. I have the fullest confidence that one day I may throw back on others the slur now cast upon me. This confidence, this full and sanguine trust, has altered me from what I once was; it has changed the impatience, the almost ferocity I felt as a boy, into fortitude and resolution."
"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I remember once I saw you a long time since, when I was a mere girl, at Baden. Were you not there about four years ago? Do you not remember falling with your horse and dislocating your wrist?"
A tracery of strange wild thought came over the countenance of Neville. "Do I remember?" he cried—"yes—and I remember a beautiful girl—and I thought such would have been my sister, and I had not been alone—if fate, if cruel, inexorable, horrible destiny had not deprived me of her as well as all—all that made my childish existence paradise. It is so—and I see you again, whom then my heart called sister—it is strange."
"Did you give me that name?" said Elizabeth. "Ah, if you knew the strange ideas I then had of giving you my father for your friend, instead of one spoken harshly—perhaps unjustly of—"