Elizabeth looked her astonishment—he continued:—"You have long known that a heavy crime weighs on my conscience. It renders me unfit to live; yet, I have not been permitted to die. I sought death—but we are seldom allowed to direct our fate. I do not, however, complain; I am well content with the end which will speedily terminate all."
"My dearest father," cried Elizabeth, "I cannot guess what you mean. I thought—but no—you are not ill—you are not—"
"Not mad, dearest? was that your thought? It is a madness, at least, that has lasted long—since first you stayed my hand on your mother's grave. You are too good, too affectionate to regret having saved me, even when you hear who I am. You are too resigned to Providence not to acquiesce in the way chosen to bring all things to their destined end."
Elizabeth put her arm round his neck and kissed him. "Thank you," said Falkner, "and God bless you for this kindness. I shall indeed be glad if you, from your heart, pardon and excuse me. Meanwhile, my love, there is something to be done. These papers contain an account of the miserable past; you must read them, and then let Mr. Neville have them without delay."
"Nay," said Elizabeth, "spare me this one thing—do not ask me to read the history of any one error of yours. In my eyes you must ever be the first and best of human beings—if it has ever been otherwise, I will not hear of it. You shall never be accused of guilt before me, even by yourself."
"Call it, then, my justification," said Falkner. "But do not refuse my request—it is necessary. If it be pain, pardon me for inflicting it; but bear it for my sake—I wrote this narrative when I believed myself about to die in Greece, for the chief purpose of disclosing the truth to you. I have told my story truly and simply; you can have it from no one else, for no human being breathes who knows the truth except myself. Yield, then—you have ever been yielding to me—yield, I beseech you, to my solemn request; do not shrink from hearing of my crimes—I hope soon to atone them. And then perform one other duty: send these papers to your friend—you know where he is."
"He will call here this evening at nine."
"By that time you will have finished; I am going to town now, but shall return to-night. Mr. Neville will be come and gone before then, and you will know all. I do not doubt but that you will pity me—such is your generosity, that perhaps you may love me still—but you will be shocked and wretched, and I the cause. Alas! how many weapons do our errors wield, and how surely does retribution aim at our defenceless side! To know that I am the cause of unhappiness to you, my sweet girl, inflicts a pang I cannot endure with any fortitude. But there is a remedy, and all will be well in the end."
Elizabeth hung over him as he spoke, and he felt a tear warm on his cheek, fallen from her eye—he was subdued by this testimony of her sympathy—he strained her to his heart; but, in a moment after, he reassumed his self-command, and, kissing her, bade her farewell, and then left her to the task of sorrow he had assigned.
She knew not what to think, what image to conjure up. His words were free from all incoherence; before her, also, were the papers that would tell all—she turned from them with disgust; and then again she thought of Neville, his departure, his promised return, and what she could say to him. It was a hideous dream, but there was no awakening; she sat down, she took out the papers; the number of pages written in her father's hand seemed a reprieve; she should not hear all the dreadful truth in a few short, piercing words—there was preparation. For a moment she paused to gather her thoughts—to pray for fortitude—to hope that the worst was not there, but, in its stead, some venial error that looked like crime to his sensitive mind; and then—she began to read.