Thus impetuously urged, Elizabeth was for a few minutes half bewildered; "I am afraid," she said, "I suppose, indeed, that I am something of a savage—unable to bend to the laws of civilization. I did not know this—I thought I was much like other girls—attached to their home and parents—fulfilling their daily duties, as the necessities of those parents demand. I nursed my father when sick: now that he is in worse adversity, I still feel my proper place to be at his side, as his comforter and companion, glad if I can be of any solace to him. He is my father—my more than father—my preserver in helpless childhood from the worst fate. May I suffer every evil when I forget that! Even if a false belief of his guilt renders the world inimical to him, it will not be so unjust to one as unoffending as I; and if it is, it cannot touch me. Methinks we speak two languages—I speak of duties the most sacred; to fail in which would entail self-condemnation on me to the end of my days. You speak of the conveniences, the paint, the outside of life, which is as nothing in comparison. I cannot yield—I grieve to seem eccentric and headstrong—it is my hard fate, not my will, so to appear."
"Do not give such a name," replied Neville, deeply moved, "to an heroic generosity, only too exalted for this bad world. It is I that must yield, and pray to God to shield and recompense you as you deserve—he only can—he and your own noble heart. And will you pardon me, Miss Raby?"
"Do not give me that name," interrupted Elizabeth. "I act in contradiction to my relations' wishes—I will not assume their name. The other, too, must be painful to you. Call me Elizabeth—"
Neville took her hand. "I am," he said, "a selfish, odious being; you are full of self-sacrifice, of thought for others, of every blessed virtue. I think of myself—and hate myself while I yield to the impulse. Dear, dear Elizabeth, since thus I may call you, are you not all I have ever imagined of excellent? I love you beyond all thought or word; and have for many, many months, since first I saw you at Marseilles. Without reflection, I knew and felt you to be the being my soul thirsted for. I find you, and you are lost!"
Love's own colour died deeply the cheeks of Elizabeth—she felt recompensed for every suffering in the simple knowledge of the sentiment she inspired. A moment before, clouds and storms had surrounded her horizon; now the sun broke in upon it. It was a transcendent though a transient gleam. The thought of Falkner again obscured the radiance, which, even in its momentary flash, was as if an angel, bearing with it the airs of paradise, had revealed itself, and then again become obscured.
Neville was less composed. He had never fully entered into his father's bitter thoughts against Falkner—and Elizabeth's fidelity to the unhappy man made him half suspect the unexampled cruelty and injustice of the whole proceeding. Still compassion for the prisoner was a passive feeling; while horror at the fate preparing for Elizabeth stirred his sensitive nature to its depths, and filled him with anguish. He walked impatiently about the room—and stopped before her, fixing on her his soft lustrous eyes, whose expression was so full of tenderness and passion. Elizabeth felt their influence; but this was not the hour to yield to the delusions of love, and she said—"Now you will leave me, Mr. Neville—I have far to travel to-morrow—good-night."
"Have patience with me yet a moment longer," said Neville; "I cannot leave you thus—without offering from my whole heart, and conjuring you to accept my services. Parting thus, it is very uncertain when we meet again, and fearful sufferings are prepared for you. I believe that you esteem, that you have confidence in me. You know that my disposition is constant and persevering. You know that the aim of my early life being fulfilled, and my mother's name freed from the unworthy aspersions cast upon it, I at once transfer every thought, every hope, to your well-being. At a distance, knowing the scene of misery in which you are placed, I shall be agitated by perpetual fears, and pass unnumbered hours of bitter disquietude. Will you promise me, that, despite all that divides us, if you need any aid or service, you will write to me, commanding me, in the full assurance that all you order shall be executed in its very spirit and letter?"
"I will indeed," replied Elizabeth, "for I know that whatever happens you will always be my friend."
"Your true, your best, your devoted friend," cried Neville; "it will always be my dearest ambition to prove all this. I will not adopt the name of brother—yet use me as a brother—no brother ever cherished the honour, safety, and happiness of a sister as I do yours."
"You knew," said Elizabeth, "that I shall not be alone—that I go to one to whom I owe obedience, and who can direct me. If in his frightful situation he needs counsel and assistance, it is not you, alas, that can render them; still in the world of sorrow in which I shall soon be an inhabitant, it will be a solace and support to think of your kindness, and rely upon it as unreservedly as I do."