upon a seat opposite to her,
the table between, and, crossing my arms upon the table, leaned my head
upon them, while my face was turned towards and my eyes fixed upon hers.
I seemed to have lost the power and the inclination to speak.

She regarded me, at first, with anxious curiosity; after examining my
looks, every emotion was swallowed up in terrified sorrow. "For God's
sake!--what does all this mean? Why am I called to this place? What
tidings, what fearful tidings, do you bring?"

I did not change my posture or speak. "What," she resumed, "could
inspire all this woe? Keep me not in this suspense, Arthur; these looks
and this silence shock and afflict me too much."

"Afflict you?" said I, at last; "I come to tell you what, now that I am
here, I cannot tell----" There I stopped.

"Say what, I entreat you. You seem to be very unhappy--such a
change--from yesterday!"

"Yes! From yesterday; all then was a joyous calm, and now all is--but
then I knew not my infamy, my guilt----"

"What words are these, and from you, Arthur? Guilt is to you impossible.
If purity is to be found on earth, it is lodged in your heart. What have
you done?"

"I have dared--how little you expect the extent of my daring! That such
as I should look upwards with this ambition."

I stood up, and taking her hands in mine, as she sat, looked earnestly
in her face:--"I come only to beseech your pardon. To tell you my crime,
and then disappear forever; but first let me see if there be any omen of
forgiveness. Your looks--they are kind; heavenly; compassionate still. I
will trust them, I believe; and yet" (letting go her hands, and turning
away) "this offence is beyond the reach even of _your_ mercy."

"How beyond measure these words and this deportment distress me! Let me
know the worst; I cannot bear to be thus perplexed."

"Why," said I, turning quickly round and again taking her hands, "that
Mervyn, whom you have honoured and confided in, and blessed with your
sweet regards, has been----"

"What has he been? Divinely amiable, heroic in his virtue, I am sure.
What else has he been?"

"This Mervyn has imagined, has dared--will you forgive him?"

"Forgive you what? Why don't you speak? Keep not my soul in this
suspense."

"He has dared--But do not think that I am he. Continue to look as now,
and reserve your killing glances, the vengeance of those eyes, as for
one that is absent.----Why, what--you weep, then, at last. That is a
propit