This I designed to be the closing scene
of my destiny. Presently I left this spot, and wandered upward through embarrassed and
obscure paths, starting forward or checking my pace, according as my
wayward meditations governed me. Shall I describe my thoughts? Impossible! It was certainly a temporary loss of reason; nothing less
than madness could lead into such devious tracks, drag me down to so
hopeless, helpless, panicful a depth, and drag me down so suddenly; lay
waste, as at a signal, all my flourishing structures, and reduce them in
a moment to a scene of confusion and horror. What did I fear? What did I hope? What did I design? I cannot tell; my
glooms were to retire with the night. The point to which every
tumultuous feeling was linked was the coming interview with Achsa. That
was the boundary of fluctuation and suspense. Here was the sealing and
ratification of my doom. I rent a passage through the thicket, and struggled upward till I
reached the edge of a considerable precipice; I laid me down at my
length upon the rock, whose cold and hard surface I pressed with my
bared and throbbing breast. I leaned over the edge; fixed my eyes upon
the water and wept--plentifully; but why? May _this_ be my heart's last beat, if I can tell why? I had wandered so far from Stedman's, that, when roused by the light, I
had some miles to walk before I could reach the place of meeting. Achsa
was already there. I slid down the rock above, and appeared before her. Well might she be startled at my wild and abrupt appearance. I placed myself, without uttering a word, 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
propitious sign. When pity drops from the eyes of our judge, then should
the suppliant approach. Now, in confidence of pardon, I will tell you;
this Mervyn, not content with all you have hitherto granted him, has
dared--to _love_ you; nay, to think of you as of _his wife_!" Her eye sunk beneath mine, and, disengaging her hands, she covered her
face with them. "I see my fate," said I, in a tone of despair. "Too well did I predict
the effect of this confession; but I will go--_and unforgiven_." She now partly uncovered her face. The hand was withdrawn from her
cheek, and stretched towards me. She looked at me. "Arthur! I _do_ forgive thee." --With what accents was this uttered! With
what looks! The cheek that was before pale with terror was now crimsoned
over by a different emotion, and delight swam in her eye. Could I mistake? My doubts, my new-born fears, made me tremble while I
took the offered hand. "Surely," faltered I, "I am not--I cannot be--so blessed." There was no need of words. The hand that I held was sufficiently
eloquent. She was still silent. "Surely," said I, "my senses deceive me. A bliss like this cannot be
reserved for me. Tell me once more--set my doubting heart at rest." She now gave herself to my arms:--"I have not words--Let your own heart
tell you, you have made your Achsa----"

At this moment, a voice from without (it was Miss Stedman's) called,
"Mrs. Fielding! where are you?" My friend started up, and, in a hasty voice, bade me begone. "You must
not be seen by this giddy girl. Come hither this evening, as if by my
appointment, and I will return with you." --She left me in a kind of
trance. I was immovable. My reverie was too delicious;--but let me not
attempt the picture. If I can convey no image of my state previous to
this interview, my subsequent feelings are still more beyond the reach
of my powers to describe. Agreeably to the commands of my mistress, I hastened away, evading paths
which might expose me to observation. I speedily made my friends partake
of my joy, and passed the day in a state of solemn but confused rapture. I did not accurately portray the various parts of my felicity. The whole
rushed upon my soul at once. My conceptions were too rapid and too
comprehensive to be distinct. I went to Stedman's in the evening. I found in the accents and looks of
my Achsa new assurances that all which had lately passed was more than a
dream. She made excuses for leaving the Stedmans sooner than ordinary,
and was accompanied to the city by her friend. We dropped Mrs. Fielding
at her own house, and thither, after accompanying Miss Stedman to her
own home, I returned upon the wings of tremulous impatience. Now could I repeat every word of every conversation that has since taken
place between us; but why should I do that on paper? Indeed, it could
not be done. All is of equal value, and all could not be comprised but
in many volumes.