Volume I Part 31 (1/2)

CHAPTER XV.

THE CONFESSION.

To err is human; to forgive-divine!

The astonishment of Paullus, at this strange burst of feeling on the part of one usually so calm, so self-controlled, and seemingly so unimpa.s.sioned as that sweet lady, may be more easily imagined than described.

That she, whose maidenly reserve had never heretofore permitted the slightest, the most innocent freedom of her accepted lover, should cast herself thus into his arms, should rest her head on his bosom, was in itself enough to surprise him; but when to this were added the violent convulsive sobs, which shook her whole frame, the flood of tears, which streamed from her eyes, the wild and disjointed words, which fell from her pale lips, he was struck dumb with something not far removed from terror.

That it was fear, which shook her thus, he could not credit; for during all the fearful sounds and rumours of the past night, she had been as firm as a hero.

Yet he knew not, dared not think, to what other cause he might attribute it.

He spoke to her soothingly, tenderly, but his voice faltered as he spoke.

”Nay! nay! be not alarmed, dear girl!” he said. ”The tumults are all, long since, quelled; the danger has all vanished with the darkness, and the storm. Cheer up, my own, sweet, Julia.”

And, as he spoke, he pa.s.sed his arm about her graceful form, and drew her closer to his bosom.

But whether it was this movement, or something in his words that aroused her, she started from his arms in a moment; and stood erect and rigid, pale still and agitated, but no longer trembling. She raised her hands to her brow, and put away the profusion of rich auburn ringlets, which had fallen down dishevelled over her eyes, and gazed at him stedfastly, strangely, as she had never gazed at him before.

”Your own Julia!” she said, in slow accents, scarce louder than a whisper, but full of strong and painful meaning. ”Oh! I adjure you, by the G.o.ds! by all you love! or hope! Are you false to me, Paullus!”

”False! Julia!” he exclaimed, starting, and the blood rus.h.i.+ng consciously to his bold face.

”I am answered!” she said, collecting herself, with a desperate effort.

”It is well-the G.o.ds guard you!-Leave me!”

”Leave you!” he cried. ”By earth, and sea, and heaven, and all that they contain! I know not what you mean.”

”Know you this writing, then?” she asked him, reaching the letter from the table, and holding it before his eyes.

”No more than I know, what so strangely moves you,” he answered; and she saw, by the unaffected astonishment which pervaded all his features, that he spoke truly.

”Read it,” she said, somewhat more composed; ”and tell me, who is the writer of it. You must know.”

Before he had read six lines, it was clear to him that it must come from Lucia, and no words can describe the agony, the eager intense torture of antic.i.p.ation, with which he perused it, devouring every word, and at every word expecting to find the d.a.m.ning record of his falsehood inscribed in characters, that should admit of no denial.

Before, however, he had reached the middle of the letter, he felt that he could bear the scrutiny of that pale girl no longer; and, lowering the strip of vellum on which it was written, met her eye firmly.

For he was resolute for once to do the true and honest thing, let what might come of it. The weaker points of his character were vanis.h.i.+ng rapidly, and the last few eventful days had done the work of years upon his mind; and all that work was salutary.

She, too, read something in the expression of his eye, which led her to hope-what, she knew not; and she smiled faintly, as she said-

”You know the writer, Paullus?”

”Julia, I know her,” he replied steadily.

”Her!” she said, laying an emphasis on the word, but how affected by it Arvina could not judge. ”It _is_ then a woman?”