by Mary Shelley
At an early hour all was ready. Falkner was placed in the litter; and the little party, gladly leaving the precincts of the miserable village, proceeded slowly towards the sea shore. Every step was replete with pain and danger. Elizabeth was again all herself. Self-possessed and vigilant — she seemed at once to attain years of experience. No one could remember that it was a girl of sixteen who directed them. Hovering round the litter of the wounded man, and pointing out how best to carry him, so that he might suffer least — as the inequalities of the ground, the heights to climb, and the ravines to cross, made it a task of difficulty. Now and then the report of a musket was heard, sometimes a Greek cap — not unoften mistaken for a turban, peered above the precipice that overlooked the road — frequent alarms were given — but she was frightened by none. Her large eyes dilated and darkened as she looked towards the danger pointed out — and she drew nearer the litter, as a lonely mother might to the cradle of her child, when in the stillness of night some ravenous beast intruded on a savage solitude; but she never spoke, except to point out the mistakes she was the first to perceive — or to order the men to proceed lightly, but without fear — nor to allow their progress to be checked by vain alarms.
At length the sea shore was gained — and Falkner at last placed on the deck of the vessel — reposing after the torture which, despite every care, the journey had inflicted. Already Elizabeth believed that he was saved — and yet, one glance at his wan face, and emaciated figure re-awakened every fear He looked — and all around believed him to be — a dying man.
CHAPTER XI.
Arrived at Zante, placed in a cool and pleasant chamber, attended by a skilful surgeon — and watched over by the unsleeping vigilance of Elizabeth, Falkner slowly receded from the shadow of death — whose livid hue had sat upon his countenance. Still health was far. His wound was attended by bad symptoms — and the fever eluded every attempt to dislodge it from his frame. He was but half saved from the grave; emaciated and feeble, his disorder even tried to vanquish his mind; but that resisted with more energy than his prostrate body. The death he had gone out to seek — he awaited with courage — yet he no longer expressed an impatience of existence, but struggled to support with manly fortitude at once the inroads of disease, and the long nourished sickness of his soul.
It had been a hard trial to Elizabeth to watch over him, while each day the surgeon’s serious face gave no token of hope. But she would not despond, and in the end his recovery was attributed to her careful nursing. She never quitted his apartment, except for a few hours sleep; and even then, her bed was placed in the chamber adjoining his. If he moved, she was roused, and at his side, divining the cause of his uneasiness, and alleviating it. There were other nurses about him, and Vasili the most faithful of all — but she directed them, and brought that discernment and tact of which a woman only is capable. Her little soft hand smoothed his pillow, or placed upon his brow, cooled and refreshed him. She scarcely seemed to feel the effects of sleepless nights and watchful days — every minor sensation was merged in the hope and resolution to preserve him.
Several months were passed in a state of the utmost solicitude. At last he grew a little better — the fever intermitted — and the wound gave signs of healing. On the first day that he was moved to an open alcove, and felt some enjoyment from the soft air of evening, all that Elizabeth had gone through was repaid. She sat on a low cushion near; and his thin fingers now resting on her head, now playing with the ringlets of her hair, gave token by that caress, that though he was silent and his look abstracted, his thoughts were occupied upon her. At length he said:—”Elizabeth, you have again saved my life.”
She looked up with a quick, glad look, and her eyes brightened with pleasure.
“You have saved my life twice,” he continued; “and through you, it seems, I am destined to live. I will not quarrel again with existence, since it is your gift; I will hope, prolonged as it has been by you, that it will prove beneficial to you. I have but one desire now — it is to be the source of happiness to you.”
“Live! dear father, live! and I must be happy!” she exclaimed.
“God grant that it prove so!” he replied, pressing her hand to his lips. “The prayers of such as I, too often turn to curses. But you, my own dearest, must be blest; and as my life is preserved, I must hope that this is done for your sake, and that you will derive some advantage from it.”
“Can you doubt it?” said Elizabeth. “Could I ever be consoled if I lost you? I have no other tie on earth — no other friend — nor do I wish for any. Only put aside your cruel thoughts of leaving me for ever, and every blessing is mine.”
“Dear, generous, faithful girl! Yet the time will come when I shall not be all in all to you; and then, will not my name — my adoption — prove a stumbling-block to your wishes?”
“How could that happen?” she said. “But do not, dear father, perplex yourself with looking either forward or backward — repose on the present, which has nothing in it to annoy you; or rather, your gallantry — your devotion to the cause of an injured people, must inspire you with feelings of self-gratulation, and speak peace to your troubles. Let the rest of your life pass away as a dream; banish quite those thoughts that have hitherto made you wretched. Your life is saved, despite yourself. Accept existence as an immediate gift from heaven; and begin life, from this moment, with new hopes, new resolves. Whatever your error was, which you so bitterly repent, it belonged to another state of being. Your remorse, your resignation, has effaced it; or if any evil results remain, you will rather exert yourself to repair them — than uselessly to lament.
“To repair my error — my crime!” cried Falkner, in an altered voice, while a cloud gathered over his face, “No! no! that is impossible! never till we meet in another life, can I offer reparation to the dead! But I must not think of this now; it is too ungrateful to you to dwell upon thoughts which would deliver me over to the tomb. Yet one thing I would say. I left a short detail in England of the miserable event that must at last destroy me, but it is brief and unsatisfactory. During my midnight watchings in Greece, I prepared a longer account. You know that little rosewood box, which, even when dying, I asked for; it is now close to my bed; the key is here attached to my watch-chain. That box contains the narrative of my crime; when I die, you will read it and judge me.”
“Never! never!” exclaimed Elizabeth, earnestly. “Dear father, how cruelly you have tormented yourself by dwelling on and writing about the past! and do you think that I would ever read accusations against you, the guardian angel of my life, even though written by yourself? Let me bring the box — let me burn the papers — let no word remain to tell of misery you repent, and have atoned for.”
Falkner detained her, as she would have gone to execute her purpose. “Not alone for you, my child,” he said, “did I write, though hereafter, when you hear me accused, it may be satisfactory to learn the truth from my own hand. But there are others to satisfy — an injured angel to be vindicated — a frightful mystery to be unveiled to the world. I have waited till I should die to fulfil this duty, and still, for your sake, I will wait; for while you love me and bear my name, I will not cover it with obloquy. But if I die, this secret must not die with me. I will say no more now, nor ask any promises: when the time comes, you will understand and submit to the necessity that urged me to disclosure.”
“You shall be obeyed, I promise you,” she replied. “I will never set my reason above yours, except in asking you to live for the sake of the poor little thing you have preserved.”
“Have I preserved you, dearest? I often fear I did wrong in not restoring you to your natural relations. In making you mine, and linking you to my blighted fortunes, I may have prepared unnumbered ills for you. Oh, how sad a riddle is life! we hear of the straight and narrow path of right in youth, and we disdain the precept; and now would I were sitting among the nameless crowd on the common road-side, instead of wandering blindly in this dark desolation; and you — I h
ave brought you with me into the wilderness of error and suffering; it was wrong — it was mere selfishness; yet who could foresee?”
“Talk not of foreseeing,” said Elizabeth, soothingly, as she pressed his thin hand to her warm young lips, “think only of the present; you have made me yours for ever — you cannot cast me off without inflicting real pangs of misery, instead of those dreamy ills you speak of. I am happy with you, attending on, being of use to you. What would you more?”
“Perhaps it is so,” replied Falkner, “and your good and grateful heart will repay itself for all its sacrifices. I never can. Henceforth I will be guided by you, my Elizabeth. I will no longer think of what I have done, and what yet must be suffered, but wrap up my existence in you; live in your smiles, your hopes, your affections.”
This interchange of heart-felt emotions did good to both. Perplexed, nay, tormented by conflicting duties, Falkner was led by her entreaties to dismiss the most painful of his thoughts, and to repose at last on those more healing. The evil and the good of the day, he resolved should henceforth be sufficient; his duty towards Elizabeth was a primary one, and he would restrict himself to the performing it.
There is a magic in sympathy, and the heart’s overflowing, that we feel as bliss, though we cannot explain it. This sort of joy Elizabeth felt after this conversation with her father. Their hearts had united; they had mingled thought and sensation, and the intimacy of affection that resulted was an ample reward to her for every suffering. She loved her benefactor with inexpressible truth and devotedness, and their entire and full interchange of confidence gave a vivacity to this sentiment which of itself was happiness.
CHAPTER XII.
Though saved from immediate death, Falkner could hardly be called convalescent. His wound did not heal healthily, and the intermitting fever, returning again and again, laid him prostrate after he had acquired a little strength. After a winter full of danger, it was pronounced that the heats of a southern summer would probably prove fatal to him, and that he must be removed without delay to the bracing air of his native country.
Towards the end of the month of April, they took their passage to Leghorn. It was a sad departure; the more so that they were obliged to part with their Greek servant, on whose attachment Elizabeth so much depended. Vasili had entered into Falkner’s service at the instigation of the Protokleft, or chief of his clan; when the Englishman was obliged to abandon the cause of Greece, and return to his own country, Vasili, though lothe and weeping, went back to his native master. The young girl, being left without any attendant on whom she could wholly rely, felt singularly desolate; for as her father lay on the deck, weak from the exertion of being removed, she felt that his life hung by a very slender thread, and she shrank half affrighted from what might ensue to her, friendless and alone.
Her presence of mind and apparent cheerfulness was never, however, diminished by these secret misgivings; and she sat by her father’s low couch, and placed her hands in his, speaking encouragingly, while her eyes filled with tears as the rocky shores of Zante became indistinct and vanished.
Their voyage was without any ill accident, except that the warm south-east wind, which favoured their navigation, sensibly weakened the patient; and Elizabeth grew more and more eager to proceed northward. At Leghorn they were detained by a long and vexatious quarantine. The summer had commenced early, with great heats; and the detention of several weeks in the lazaretto nearly brought about what they had left Greece to escape. Falkner grew worse. The sea breezes a little mitigated his sufferings; but life was worn away by repeated struggles, and the most frightful debility threatened his frame with speedy dissolution. How could it be otherwise? He had wished to die. He sought death where it lurked insidiously in the balmy airs of Greece, or met it openly armed against him on the field of battle. Death wielded many weapons; and he was struck by many, and the most dangerous. Elizabeth hoped, in spite of despair; yet, if called away from him, her heart throbbed wildly as she re-entered his apartment; there was no moment when the fear did not assail her, that she might, on a sudden, hear and see that all was over.
An incident happened at this period, to which Elizabeth paid little attention at the time, engrossed as she was by mortal fears. They had been in quarantine about a fortnight, when, one day, there entered the gloomy precincts of the lazaretto, a tribe of English people. Such a horde of men, women, and children, as gives foreigners a lively belief that we islanders are all mad, to migrate in this way, with the young and helpless, from comfortable homes, in search of the dangerous and comfortless. This roving band consisted of the eldest son of an English nobleman and his wife — four children, the eldest being six years old — a governess — three nursery-maids, two lady’s maids, and a sufficient appendage of men-servants. They had all just arrived from viewing the pyramids of Egypt. The noise and bustle — the servants insisting on making every body comfortable, where comfort was not — the spreading out of all their own camp apparatus — joined to the seeming indifference of the parties chiefly concerned, and the unconstrained astonishment of the Italians — was very amusing. Lord Cecil, a tall, thin, plain, quiet, aristocratic-looking man, of middle age, dropped into the first chair — called for his writing-case — began a letter, and saw and heard nothing that was going on. Lady Cecil — who was not pretty, but lively and elegant — was surrounded by her children — they seemed so many little angels, with blooming cheeks and golden hair — the youngest cherub slept profoundly amidst the din; the others were looking eagerly out for their dinner.
Elizabeth had seen their entrance — she saw them walking in the garden of the lazaretto — one figure, the governess, though disguised by a green shade over her eyes, she recognized — it was Miss Jervis. Desolate and sad as the poor girl was, a familiar face and voice was a cordial drop to comfort her; and Miss Jervis was infinitely delighted to meet her former pupil. She usually looked on those intrusted to her care as a part of the machinery that supported her life; but Elizabeth had become dear to her from the irresistible attraction that hovered round her — arising from her carelessness of self, and her touching sensibility to the sufferings of all around. She had often regretted having quitted her, and she now expressed this, and even her silence grew into something like talkativeness upon the unexpected meeting. “I am very unlucky,” she said; “I would rather, if I could with propriety, live in the meanest lodging in London, than in the grandest tumble-down palace of the East, which people are pleased to call so fine — I am sure they are always dirty and out of order. Lady Glenfell recommended me to Lady Cecil — and, certainly, a more generous and sweet-tempered woman does not exist — and I was very comfortable, living at the Earl of G—’s seat in Hampshire, and having almost all my time to myself. One day, to my misfortune, Lady Cecil made a scheme to travel — to get out of her father-in-law’s way, I believe — he is rather a tiresome old man. Lord Cecil does any thing she likes. All was arranged, and I really thought I should leave them — I so hated the idea of going abroad again, but Lady Cecil said that I should be quite a treasure, having been everywhere, and knowing so many languages, and that she should have never thought of going, but from my being with her; so, in short, she was very generous, and I could not say no: accordingly we set out on our travels, and went first to Portugal — where I had never been — and do not know a word of Portuguese; and then through Spain — and Spanish is Greek to me — and worse — for I do know a good deal of Romaic. I am sure I do not know scarcely where we went — but our last journey was to see the pyramids of Egypt — only, unfortunately, I caught the ophthalmia the moment we got to Alexandria, and could never bear to see a ray of light the whole time we were in that country.”
As they talked, Lady Cecil came to join her children. She was struck by Elizabeth’s beaming and noble countenance, which bore the impress of high thought, and elevated sentiments. Her figure, too, had sprung up into womanhood — tall and graceful — there was an elasticity joined to much majesty in all her appearance; no
t the majesty of assumption, but the stamp of natural grandeur of soul, refined by education, and softened by sympathetic kindness for the meanest thing that breathed. Her dignity did not spring in the slightest degree from self-worship, but simply from a reliance on her own powers, and a forgetfulness of every triviality which haunts the petty-minded. No one could chance to see her, without stopping to gaze; and her peculiar circumstances — the affectionate and anxious daughter of a dying man — without friend or support, except her own courage and patience — never daunted, yet always fearfully alive to his danger — rendered her infinitely interesting to one of her own sex. Lady Cecil was introduced to her by Miss Jervis, and was eager to show her kindness. She offered that they should travel together; but as Elizabeth’s quarantine was out long before that of the new comers, and she was anxious to reach a more temperate climate, she refused; yet she was thankful, and charmed by the sweetness and cordiality of her new acquaintance.
Lady Cecil was not handsome, but there was something, not exactly amounting to fascination, but infinitely taking in her manner and appearance. — Her cheerfulness, good-nature, and high breeding, diffused a grace and a pleasurable easiness over her manners, that charmed every body; good sense and vivacity, never loud nor ever dull, rendered her spirits agreeable. She was apparently the same to every body; but she well knew how to regulate the inner spirit of her attentions while their surface looked so equal: no one ventured to go beyond her wishes, — and where she wished, any one was astonished to find how far they could depend on her sincerity and friendliness. Had Elizabeth’s spirit been more free, she had been delighted; as it was, she felt thankful, merely for a kindness that availed her nothing.
