The domestic's face cleared up: "Quite certain, miss, it was no duel—it could not be—the men were not gentlemen."
"Then," thought Elizabeth, as she dismissed the man, "I will no longer torment myself. It is evidently some affair of mere business that has called him away. I shall learn all to-morrow."
Yet the morrow and the next day came, and Falkner neither wrote nor returned. Like all persons who determine to conjecture no more, Elizabeth's whole time was spent in endeavouring to divine the cause of his prolonged absence and strange silence. Had any communication from Neville occasioned his departure? was he sent for to point out his victim's grave? That idea carried some probability with it; and Elizabeth's thoughts flew fast to picture the solitary shore, and the sad receptacle of beauty and love. Would Falkner and Neville meet at such an hour? without a clew to guide her, she wandered for ever in a maze of thought, and each hour added to her disquietude. She had not gone beyond the garden for several days, she was fearful of being absent when anything might arise; but nothing occurred, and the mystery became more tantalizing and profound.
On the third day she could endure the suspense no longer; she ordered horses to be put to the carriage, and told the servant of her intention to drive into town, and to call on Falkner's solicitor, to learn if he had any tidings; that he was ill she felt assured—where and how? away from her, perhaps deserted by all the world: the idea of his sick-bed became intolerably painful; she blamed herself for her inaction; she resolved not to rest till she saw her father again.
Thompson knew not what to say; he hesitated, begged her not to go; the truth hovered on his lips, yet he feared to give it utterance. Elizabeth saw his confusion; it gave birth to a thousand fears, and she exclaimed, "What frightful event are you concealing? Tell me at once. Great God! why this silence? Is my father dead?"
"No, indeed, miss," said the man, "but my master is not in London, he is a long way off. I heard he was taken to Carlisle."
"Taken to Carlisle! Why taken? What do you mean?"
"There was a charge against him, miss," Thompson continued, hesitating at every word, "the men who came—they apprehended him for murder."
"Murder!" echoed his auditress; "then they fought! Gerard is killed!"
The agony of her look made Thompson more explicit. "It was no duel," he said, "it was done many years ago; it was a lady who was murdered, a Mrs. or Lady Neville."