"Yes—impossible!" cried Neville—"doubtless it is so; but did you hear his name stigmatized—shame attend your very kindred to him—what would you do?—defend him—prove his innocence—would you not?"
"A life were well sacrificed to such a duty."
"And to that very duty mine is devoted. In childhood I rebelled against the accusation with vain, but earnest indignation; now I am calmer because I am more resolved; but I will yield to no impediment—be stopped by no difficulty—not even by my father's blind commands. My mother! dear name—dearer for the ills attached to it—my angel mother shall find an unfaltering champion in her son.
"You must not be angry," he continued, in reply to her look of wonder, "that I mention circumstances which it is customary to slur over and conceal. It is shame for me to speak—for you to hear—my mother's name. That very thought gives a keener edge to my purpose. God knows what miserable truth is hidden by the veils which vanity, revenge, and selfishness have drawn around my mother's fate; but that truth—though it be a bleeding one—shall be disclosed, and her innocence be made as clear as the sun now shining above us.
"It is dreadful, very dreadful, to be told—to be persuaded that the idol of one's thoughts is corrupt and vile. It is no new story, it is true—wives have been false to their husbands ere now, and some have found excuses, and sometimes been justified; it is the manner makes the thing. That my mother should have left her happy home—which, under her guardian eye, was paradise—have deserted me, her child, whom she so fondly loved—and who, even in that unconscious age, adored her—and her poor little girl, who died neglected—that year after year she has never inquired after us—nor sent nor sought a word—while following a stranger's fortune through the world! That she whose nightly sleep was broken by her tender cares—whose voice so often lulled me, and whose every thought and act was pure as an angel's—that she, tempted by the arch fiend, strayed from hell for her destruction, should leave us all to misery, and her own name to obloquy. No! no! The earth is yet sheltered by heaven, and sweet and good things abide in it—and she was, and is, among them sweetest and best!"
Neville was carried away by his feelings—while Elizabeth, overpowered by his vehemence—astonished by the wild, strange tale he disclosed, listened in silence, yet an eloquent silence—for her eyes filled with tears—and her heart burned in her bosom with a desire to show how entirely she shared his deep emotion.
"I have made a vow," he continued—"it is registered in heaven; and each night as I lay my head on my pillow I renew it; and beside you—the best of earthly things now that my dear mother is gone, I repeat—that I devote my life to vindicate her who gave me life; and my selfish, revengeful father is here to impede—to forbid—but I trample on such obstacles, as on these dead leaves beneath our feet. You do not speak, Miss Falkner—did you ever hear of Mrs. Neville?"
"I have spent all my life out of England," replied Elizabeth, "yet I have some recollection."
"I do not doubt it—to the ends of the earth the base-minded love to carry the tale of slander and crime. You have heard of Mrs. Neville, who, for the sake of a stranger, deserted her home, her husband, her helpless children—and has never been heard of since; who, unheard and undefended, was divorced from her husband—whose miserable son was brought to witness against her. It is a story well fitted to raise vulgar wonder—vulgar abhorrence; do you wonder that I, who since I was nine years old have slept and waked on the thought, should have been filled with hate, rancour, and every evil passion, till the blessed thought dawned on my soul, that I would prove her innocence, and that she should be avenged—for this I live.
"And now I must leave you. I received yesterday a letter which promises a clew to guide me through this labyrinth; wherever it leads, there I follow. My father has come to impede me—but I have, after using unavailing remonstrance, told him that I will obey a sense of duty independent of parental authority. I do not mean to see him again—I now go—but I could not resist the temptation of seeing you before I went, and proving to you the justice of my resolves. If you wish for further explanation, ask Sophia—tell her that she may relate all; there is not a thought or act of my life with which I would have you unacquainted, if you will deign to listen."