"I have made a vow," he continued--"it is registered in heaven; and each night as I lay my head on my pillow I renew it; and beside you--the best of earthly things now that my dear mother is gone, I repeat--that I devote my life to vindicate her who gave me life; and my selfish, revengeful father is here to impede--to forbid--but I trample on such obstacles, as on these dead leaves beneath our feet. You do not speak, Miss Falkner--did you ever hear of Mrs. Neville?" "I have spent all my life out of England," replied Elizabeth, "yet I have some recollection." "I do not doubt it--to the ends of the earth the base-minded love to carry the tale of slander and crime. You have heard of Mrs. Neville, who, for the sake of a stranger, deserted her home, her husband, her helpless children--and has never been heard of since; who, unheard and undefended, was divorced from her husband--whose miserable son was brought to witness against her. It is a story well fitted to raise vulgar wonder--vulgar abhorrence; do you wonder that I, who since I was nine years old have slept and waked on the thought, should have been filled with hate, rancour, and every evil passion, till the blessed thought dawned on my soul, that I would prove her innocence, and that she should be avenged--for this I live. "And now I must leave you. I received yesterday a letter which promises a clew to guide me through this labyrinth; wherever it leads, there I follow. My father has come to impede me--but I have, after using unavailing remonstrance, told him that I will obey a sense of duty independent of parental authority. I do not mean to see him again--I now go--but I could not resist the temptation of seeing you before I went, and proving to you the justice of my resolves. If you wish for further explanation, ask Sophia--tell her that she may relate all; there is not a thought or act of my life with which I would have you unacquainted, if you will deign to listen." "Thank you for this permission," said Elizabeth; "Lady Cecil is desirous, I know, of telling me the cause of a melancholy which, good and kind as you are, you ought not to suffer. Alas! this is a miserable world: and when I hear of your sorrows, and remember my dear father's, I think that I must be stone to feel no more than I do; and yet, I would give my life to assist you in your task." "I know well how generous you are, though I cannot now express how my heart thanks you. I will return before you leave my sister; wherever fate and duty drives me, I will see you again." They returned towards the house, and he left her; his horse was already saddled, and standing at the door; he was on it, and gone in a moment.