With a look of much distress, Lady Cecil left the room to receive her new guest; while Elizabeth stole out by another door into the grove, and mused under the shady covert on what had passed. She felt curious, yet saddened. Concord, affection, and sympathy are so delightful, that all that disturbs the harmony is eminently distasteful. Family contentions are worst of all. Yet she would not prejudge Neville. He felt, in its full bitterness, the pain of disobeying his parent; and whatever motive led to such a mode of action, it hung like an eclipse over his life. What it might be she could not guess; but it was no ignoble, self-centred passion. Hope and joy were sacrificed to it. She remembered him as she first saw him, a boy driven to wildness by a sense of injury; she remembered him when reason and his better nature had subdued the selfish portion of his feeling--grown kind as a woman--active, friendly, and sympathizing, as few men are; she recollected him by Falkner's sick couch, and when he took leave of her, auguring that they should meet in a happier hour. That hour had not yet come, and she confessed to herself that she longed to know the cause of his unhappiness; and wondered whether, by counsel or sympathy, she could bring any cure. She was plunged in revery, walking slowly beneath the forest trees, when she heard a quick step brushing the dead leaves and fern, and Neville joined her. "I have escaped," he cried, "and left poor Sophy to bear the scoldings of an unjust and angry man. I could not stay--it was not cowardice--but I have recollections joined to such contests, that make my heart sick. Besides, I should reply--and I would not willingly forget that he is my father." "It must be indeed painful," said Elizabeth, "to quarrel with, to disobey a parent." "Yet there are motives that might, that must excuse it. Do you remember the character of Hamlet, Miss Falkner?" "Perfectly--it is the imbodying of the most refined, the most genuine, and yet the most harrowing feelings and situation, that the imagination ever conceived." "I have read that play," said Neville, "till each word seems instinct with a message direct to my heart--as if my own emotions gave a conscious soul to every line. Hamlet was called upon to avenge a father--in execution of his task he did not spare a dearer, a far more sacred name--if he used no daggers with his mother, he spoke them; nor winced, though she writhed beneath his hand. Mine is a lighter, yet a holier duty. I would vindicate a mother--without judging my father--without any accusation against him, I would establish her innocence. Is this blameable? What would you do, Miss Falkner, if your father were accused of a crime?" "My father and a crime! Impossible!" exclaimed Elizabeth; for, strange to say, all the self-accusations of Falkner fell empty on her ear. It was a virtue in him to be conscience-stricken for an error; of any real guilt she would have pledged her life that he was free.