Neville had looked forward to a life of blameless but ecstatic happiness, as her friend, her protector, her husband. Youth, without being presumptuous, is often sanguine. Prodigal of self, it expects, as of right, a full return. Ready to assist Elizabeth in her task of watching over her father's health--who, in his eyes, was wasting gradually away--he felt that he should be near to soften her regrets, and fill his place, and sooth her sinking spirits when struck by a loss which to her would seem so dire. And now--Falkner! He believed him to be in a state of health that did not leave him many years to live. He recollected him at Marseilles, stretched on his couch, feeble as an infant, the hues of death on his brow. He thought of him as he had seen him that morning--his figure bent by disease--his face ashy pale and worn. He was the man whom, thirteen years before, he remembered in upright, proud, and youthful strength; wo and disease had brought on the ravages of age--he was struck by premature decay--a few years, by the course of nature, he would be laid in his grave. But Gerard could not leave him this respite--he must at once meet him in such encounter as must end in the death of one of the combatants--whichever that might be, there was no hope for Elizabeth--in either case she lost her all--in either case Falkner would die, and an insuperable barrier be raised between her and her only other friend. Neville's ardent and gentle spirit quivered with agony as he thought of these things. "Oh ye destructive powers of nature!" he cried; "come all! Storm, flood, and fire, mingled in one dire whirlwind; or bring the deadlier tortures tyrants have inflicted and martyrs undergone, and say, can any agony equal that which convulses the human heart when writhing under contending passions--torn by contrary purposes! This very morning Elizabeth was all the universe of hope and joy. I would not for worlds have injured one hair of her dear head--and now I meditate a deed that is to consign her to eternal grief." Athwart this tumult of thought came the recollection that he was still in ignorance of the truth. He called to mind the narrative which his father was then reading; would it reveal aught that must alter the line of conduct which he now considered inevitable? A devouring curiosity was awakened. Leaving his father, he had rushed into the open air, in obedience to the instinct that always leads the unquiet mind to seek the solace of bodily activity. He had hurried into Hyde Park, which then, in the dimness of night, appeared a wide expanse--a limitless waste. He hurried to and fro on the turf--he saw nothing, he was aware of nothing, except the internal war that shook him. Now, as he felt the eager desire to get quit of doubt, he fancied that several hours must have elapsed, and that his father must be waiting for him. The clocks of London struck--he counted--it was but eleven--he had been there scarcely more than an hour.