70. CHAPTER LXX.
THE CONFESSION.
FALCONBRIDGE displayed an emotion even
greater than that of his companion. His face
flushed with passionate emotion, and his breast
heaved, as he gazed upon the woman whom he
loved, even more than ever it seemed to him, now that she
was helpless and surrounded by bloody enemies.
The nature of this man was one of those which remembers
the good and forgets the bad. He no longer recalled
the terrible wrong which the young lady had inflicted upon
him—he no longer thought of her as the woman who had
trifled with him, broken his heart, and laughed in his face
when he suffered. She was only the poor stricken girl
whose will and heart were diseased by an awfnl visitation
of the Supreme Ruler of the universe—he thought of her,
as she struggled in her father's arms that day, and cried,
“I loved him only”—as she looked when she came with
streaming eyes, and broken accents, and prayers for pardon,
to return his mother's ring. As he looked at her now, and
heard her murmur, “Do not speak to me—I am not worthy,”
his heart was filled with an inexpressible love and pity.”
Of the feelings of the young lady herself, it is scarcely
necessary to speak. The change which had taken place in
her whole being has been described—we have rapidly
touched upon, with a sort of fear, at undertaking such a
picture, the scene when another light than that of earth illuminated
the gloomy depths of her soul:—and we know
thus what she felt in looking upon the victim of her untruth
and cruelty.
She scarcely dared to meet his eyes, and turned away,
covering her blushes of shame, as we have said, with her
hands. For more than a minute Falconbridge did not speak
—emotion had overcome him. Then he regained his self-possession,
and said:
“Do you think that I remember the past, with bitterness?
No, I do not. Look up, it is a faithful, devoted friend who
speaks to you.”
“How can I?” murmured the young lady, removing her
hands from her face, but averting her head; “I am filled
with such shame, sir, that it almost kills me!”
“Do not speak thus! Do not even refer to the past!”
“I must,” she said in a low tone, glancing with unutterable
sadness at him, and then looking away again, “I must,
Mr. Falconbridge, for I have acted toward you in so base a
manner, that it almost breaks my heart to think of it. But
do not think too cruelly of me! One of my bitterest pangs,
even here in this gloomy place, where I have so much else
to make me miserable, is the recollection of my dishonorable
conduct toward yourself. Do not interrupt sir,” she said,
as he was about to speak, and gazing now with sorrowful
and shrinking modesty into his face; “do not stop me, Mr.
Falconbridge. You know I am a poor insane creature, and
I know not whether I shall have the mind or memory to
speak as I wish to speak to you, if I do not go on now. I
say, that I have been guilty of dishonor to you, and I must
confess it all, before I can feel that you have forgiven it—I
do not know if you can. You came to the Valley, and from
our first meeting I determined to engage your affection, that
I and my father might be compelled to live no longer in this
solitude. I practiced upon you those wiles which it is the
sad misfortune of woman to possess—I succeeded in my
aim—and then I deceived you, basely, dishonorably, shamefully!”
Her face was crimson as she spoke. The effort which she
made in thus speaking, was plainly immense, passionate,
cruel.
“I met Lord Fairfax,” she went on, “and I broke my faith
with you—I treated you as no lady can treat a gentleman
without degrading herself; I sneered at you when you complained;
turned my back when you remonstrated; when
you begged me with that deep love which should have been
my pride, and honor, to be true to my plighted word, I laughed
in your face. Mr. Falconbridge!” said the young lady with
quivering lips and hands which trembled so much that they
were almost unable to put back the mass of raven curls
which fell over her face, “Mr. Falconbridge, it almost kills
me to utter these words!—it makes me sick at heart!—I am
so humiliated and degraded in my own eyes, that I could
sink through the earth for shame! But I must speak!
Yes, sir, I behaved toward the most honorable and noble
gentleman I've ever known in a manner which I can scarcely
believe as I think of it—I repeat it, with base, base dishonor!—and
on my knees I beg, I pray your forgiveness!
Stop, Mr. Falconbridge!—do not speak—let me add what I
know you are thinking at this moment—let me tell you my
only excuse for this terrible conduct. But I need not—I
see in your eyes that you have recalled it. Oh, yes, sir!
that is my sole excuse—it is something, is it not, sir? I
was only a poor miserable creature—with my head whirling,
my mind unsound—my heart depraved and awfully wicked!
I was not always so, sir! Once I was true and pure—
mamma taught me to be good and tender—but I could not
remain so! Against my better nature I acted with awful deception—I
wounded you, and made you suffer without pity!
—but—but, through it all—I can scarcely find strength to
confess it, for you may misunderstand me—it escaped me,
papa says, in that mad attack which you witnessed—I—
loved you,—Edmund!—as you loved me—with my whole,
entire heart!—you only! Do not think me unmaidenly!”
she sobbed, turning away, and blushing to the roots of her
hair; “do not think that I wish you to return to me! That
can never be, if you even desired it! We must part forever,
after this terrible night! We can never meet more, but I
am changed, and I can pray for you—I can pray to God to
forgive me my great sin—as I pray you humbly to do so—
you, whom I have wronged so terribly and basely!”
She stopped, sobbing convulsively,—overcome by the woful
confession, so repugnant to a woman: shaken by a depth
and poignancy of shame and anguish which no words can describe.
And Falconbridge was as passionately moved as herself.
Her words had struck him like sharp arrows, recalling as they
did all his suffering, his long agony, his despair. This was
not the dominant feeling in the breast of the young man,
however. An unutterable compassion and tenderness made
his heart throb. His frame trembled, and he vainly essayed
to speak. In a few moments, however, he had mastered his
agitation, and had opened his lips, when suddenly Lightfoot
stood beside them.
“Come!—there is no moment to lose!” said the Indian
in a low, quick voice, “the sentinel is asleep, and the day is
breaking!”
The Indian cautiously awoke Mrs. Butterton and Cannie
as he spoke—and they silently rose from their couches.
Falconbridge had only time to bend over Miss Argal, to press
her hand to his lips and say in a deep broken voice:
“I forgive you from my heart! May God forgive all my
sins as completely!”
