by Mary Shelley
Lady Cecil viewed the dying Falkner and his devoted, affectionate daughter with the sincerest compassion; dying she thought him, for he was wasted to a shadow, his cheeks colourless, his hands yellow and thin — he could not stand upright — and when, in the cool of evening, he was carried into the open air, he seemed scarcely able to speak from very feebleness. Elizabeth’s face bespoke continual anxiety; her vigilance, her patience, her grief, and her resignation, formed a touching picture which it was impossible to contemplate without admiration. Lady Cecil often tried to win her away from her father’s couch, and to give herself a little repose from perpetual attendance; she yielded but for a minute; while she conversed, she assumed cheerfulness — but in a moment after, she had glided back and taken her accustomed place at her father’s pillow.
At length their prison-gates were opened, and Falkner was borne on board a felucca, bound for Genoa. Elizabeth took leave of her new friend, and promised to write, but while she spoke, she forgot what she said — for, dreading at each moment the death of her benefactor, she did not dare look forward, and had little heart to go beyond the circle of her immediate, though dreary sensations. A fair wind bore them to Genoa, and Falkner sustained the journey very well: at Genoa they transferred themselves to another vessel, and each mile they gained towards France lightened the fears of Elizabeth. But this portion of their voyage was not destined to be so prosperous. They had embarked at night, and had made some way during the first hours; but by noon on the following day they were becalmed; the small vessel — the burning sun — the shocking smells — the want of all comfortable accommodation, combined to bring on a relapse — and again Falkner seemed dying. The very crew were struck with pity; while Elizabeth, wild almost with terror, and the impotent wish to save, preserved an outward calm, more shocking almost than shrieks and cries. At evening she caused him to be carried on the deck, and placed on a couch, with a little sort of shed prepared for him there; he was too much debilitated to feel any great degree of relief — there was a ghastly hue settled on his face that seemed gradually sinking into death. Elizabeth’s courage almost gave way; there was no physician, no friend; the servants were frightened, the crew pitying, but none could help.
As this sense of desertion grew strong, a despair she had never felt before invaded her; and it was as she thus hung over Falkner’s couch, the tears fast gathering in her eyes, and striving to check the convulsive throb that rose in her throat, that a gentle voice said, “Let me place this pillow under your father’s head, he will rest more quietly.” The voice came as from a guardian angel; she looked up thankfully, the pillow was placed, some drink administered, a sail extended, so as to shield him from the evening sun, and a variety of little attentions paid, which evidently solaced the invalid; and the evening breeze rising as the sun went down, the air grew cool, and he sunk at last into a profound sleep. When night came on, the stranger conjured Elizabeth to take some repose, promising to watch by Falkner. She could not resist the entreaty, which was urged with sincere earnestness; going down, she found a couch had been prepared for her with almost a woman’s care by the stranger; and before she slept, he knocked at her door to tell her — Falkner having awoke, expressed himself as much easier, and very glad to hear that Elizabeth had retired to rest; after this he had dropped asleep again.
It was a new and pleasant sensation to the lone girl to feel that there was one sharing her task, on whom she might rely. She had scarcely looked at or attended to the stranger while on deck; she only perceived that he was English, and that he was young; but now, in the quiet that preceded her falling asleep, his low, melodious voice sounded sweetly in her ears, and the melancholy and earnest expression of his handsome countenance reminded her of some one she had seen before, probably a Greek; for there was something almost foreign in his olive complexion, his soft, dark eyes, and the air of sentiment, mingled with a sort of poetic fervour, that characterized his countenance. With these thoughts Elizabeth fell asleep, and when early in the morning she rose, and made what haste she could to visit the little sort of hut erected for her father on deck, the first person she saw was the stranger, leaning on the bulwark, and looking on the sea with an air of softness and sadness that excited her sympathy. He greeted her with extreme kindness. “Your father is awake, and has inquired for you;” he said. Elizabeth, after thanking him, took her accustomed post beside Falkner. He might be better, but he was too weak to make much sign, and one glance at his colourless face renewed all her half-forgotten terrors.
Meanwhile the breeze freshened, and the vessel scudded through the blue sparkling waves. The heats of noon, though tempered by the gale, still had a bad effect on Falkner; and when, at about five in the evening — often in the south the hottest portion of the day, the air being thoroughly penetrated by the sun’s rays — they arrived at Marseilles, it became a task of some difficulty to remove him. Elizabeth and the stranger had interchanged little talk during the day; but he now came forward to assist in removing him to the boat — acting, without question, as if he had been her brother, guessing, as if by instinct, the best thing to be done, and performing all with activity and zeal. Poor Elizabeth, cast on these difficult circumstances, without relation or friend, looked on him as a guardian angel, consulted him freely, and witnessed his exertions in her behalf in a transport of gratitude. He did every thing for her, and would sit for hours in the room at the hotel, next to that in which Falkner lay, waiting to hear how he was, and if there was any thing to be done. Elizabeth joined him now and then; they were in a manner already intimate, though strangers; he took a lively interest in her anxieties, and she looked towards him for advice and help, relied on his counsels, and was encouraged by his consolations. It was the first time she had felt any friendship or confidence, except in Falkner; but it was impossible not to be won by her new friend’s gentleness, and almost feminine delicacy of attention, joined to all a man’s activity and readiness to do the thing that was necessary to be done. “I have an adopted father,” thought Elizabeth, “and this seems a brother dropped from the clouds.” He was of an age to be her brother, but few years older; in all the ardour and grace of early manhood, when developed in one of happy nature, unsoiled by the world.
Elizabeth, however, remained but a few days at Marseilles — it was of the first necessity to escape the southern heats, and Falkner was pronounced able to bear the voyage up the Rhone. The stranger showed some sadness at the idea of being left behind. In truth, if Elizabeth was gladdened and comforted by her new friend — he felt double pleasure in the contemplation of her beauty and admirable qualities. No word of self ever passed her lips. All thought, all care, was spent on him she called her father — and the stranger was deeply touched by her demonstrations of filial affection — her total abnegation of every feeling that did not centre in his comfort and recovery. He had been present one evening — though standing apart, when Falkner, awakening from sleep, spoke with regret of the fatigue Elizabeth endured, and the worthlessness of his life compared with all that she went through for his sake. Elizabeth replied at once with such energy of affection, such touching representation of the comfort she derived from his returning health, and such earnest entreaties for him to love life, that the stranger listened as if an angel spoke. Falkner answered, but the remorse that burthened his heart gave something of bitterness to his reply. And her eloquent, though gentle solicitations, that he would look on life in a better and nobler light — not rashly to leave its duties here, to encounter those he knew not of, in an existence beyond; and kind intimations, which exalting his repentance into a virtue, might reconcile him to himself — all this won the listener to a deep and wondering admiration. Not in human form had he ever seen embodied so much wisdom, and so much strong, yet tender emotion — none but woman could feel thus, but it was beyond woman to speak and to endure as she did. She spoke only just so openly, remembering the stranger’s presence, as to cast a veil over her actual relationship to Falkner, whom she called and wished to have beli
eved to be her true father.
The fever of the sufferer being abated, a day was fixed for their departure from Marseilles. Their new friend appeared to show some inclination to accompany them in their river navigation as far as Lyons. Elizabeth thanked him with her gladdened eyes; she had felt the want of support, or rather she had experienced the inestimable benefit of being supported, during the sad crisis now and then brought about by Falkner’s changeful illness; there was something, too, in the stranger very attractive, not the less so for the melancholy which often quenched the latent fire of his nature. That his disposition was really ardent, and even vivacious, many little incidents, when he appeared to forget himself, evinced — nay, sometimes his very gloom merged into sullen savageness, that showed that coldness was not the secret of his frequent fits of abstraction. Once or twice, on these occasions, Elizabeth was reminded, she knew not of whom — but some one she had seen before — till one day it flashed across her; could it be the sullen, solitary boy of Baden! Singularly enough, she did not even know her new friend’s name; to those accustomed to foreign servants this will not appear strange; he was their only visitor, and “le monsieur” was sufficient announcement when he arrived — but Elizabeth remembered well that the youth’s name was Neville — and, on inquiry, she learnt that this also was the appellation of her new acquaintance.
She now regarded him with greater interest. She recalled her girlish wish that he should reside with them, and benefit by the kindness of Falkner — hoping that his sullenness would be softened, and his gloom dissipated, by the affectionate attentions he would receive. She wished to discover in what degree time and other circumstances had operated to bring about the amelioration she had wished to be an instrument in achieving. He was altered — he was no longer fierce nor sullen — yet he was still melancholy, and still unhappy — and she could discern that as his former mood had been produced by the vehemence of his character fretting against the misfortunes of his lot; so it was by subduing every violence of temper that the change was operated — and she suspected that the causes that originally produced his unhappiness still remained. Yet violence of temper is not a right word to use; his temper was eminently sweet — he had a boiling ardour within — a fervent and a warm heart, which might produce vehemence of feeling, but never asperity of temper. All this Elizabeth remarked — and, as before, she longed to dissipate the melancholy that so evidently clouded his mind; and again she indulged fancies, that if he accompanied them, and was drawn near them, the affection he would receive must dissipate a sadness created by unfortunate circumstances in early youth — but not the growth of a saturnine disposition. She pitied him intensely, for she saw that he was often speechlessly wretched; but she reverenced his self-control, and the manner in which he threw off all his own engrossing feelings to sympathize with, and assist her.
They were now soon to depart, and Elizabeth was not quite sure whether Neville was to accompany them — he had gone to the boat to look after some arrangements made for the patient’s comfort — and she sat with the invalid, expecting his return. Falkner reclined near a window, clasping her hand, looking on her with fondness, and speaking of all he owed her; and how he would endeavour to repay, by living, and making life a blessing to her. “I shall live,” he said; “I feel that this malady will pass away, and I shall live to devote myself to rewarding you for all your anxieties, to dissipating the cloud with which I have so cruelly overshadowed your young life, and to making all the rest sunshine. I will think only of you; all the rest, all that grieves me, and all that I repent, I cast even now into oblivion.”
At this moment the stranger entered and drew near. Elizabeth saw him and said: “And here, dearest father, is another to whom you owe more than you can guess — for kindness to me and the help to you. I do not think I should have preserved you without Mr. Neville.”
The young man was standing near the couch, looking on the invalid, and rejoicing in the change for the better that appeared. Falkner turned his eyes on him as Elizabeth spoke, a tremor ran through all his limbs, he grew ghastly pale, and fainted.
An evil change from this time appeared in his state — and the physician was afraid of the journey, attributing his fainting to his inability to bear any excitement; while Falkner, who was before passive, grew eager to depart. “Change of scene and moving will do me good,” he said, “so that no one comes near me, no one speaks to me but Elizabeth.”
At one time the idea of Neville’s accompanying them was alluded to — he was greatly disturbed — and seriously implored Elizabeth not to allow it. It was rather hard on the poor girl, who found so much support and solace in her new friend’s society — but Falkner’s slightest wish was with her a law, and she submitted without a murmur. “Do not let me even see him before we go,” said Falkner. “Act on this wish, dearest, without hurting his feelings — without betraying to him that I have formed it — it would be an ungracious return for the services he has rendered you — for which I would fain show gratitude; but that cannot be — you alone can repay — do so, as you best may, with thanks — but do not let me see him more.”
Elizabeth wondered — and as a last effort to vanquish his dislike, she said: “Do you know that he is the same boy, who interested us so much at Baden? — he is no longer savage as he was then — but I fear that he is as unhappy as ever.”
“Too well do I know it” — replied Falkner—”do not question me — do not speak to me again of him.” He spoke in disjointed sentences — a cold dew stood on his brow — and Elizabeth, who knew that a mysterious wound rankled in his heart, more painful than any physical injury, was eager to calm him. Something, she might wonder; but she thought more of sparing Falkner pain, than of satisfying her curiosity — and she mentally resolved never to mention the name of Neville again.
They were to embark at sunrise — in the evening her new friend came to take leave — she having evaded the notion of his accompanying them, and insisted that he should not join them in the morning to assist at their departure. Though she had done this with sweetness, and so much cordiality of manner as prevented his feeling any sort of slight; yet in some sort he guessed that they wished to dismiss him, and this notion added to his melancholy, while some latent feeling made him readily acquiesce in it. Elizabeth was told that he had come, and left Falkner to join him. It was painful to her to take leave — to feel that she should see him no more — and to know that their separation was not merely casual, but occasioned by her father’s choice, which hereafter might again and again interfere to separate them. As she entered the room, he was leaning against the casement, and looking on the sea which glanced before their windows, still as a lake, blue as the twilight sky that bent over it. It was a July evening — soft, genial, and soothing; but no portion of the gladness of nature was reflected in the countenance of Neville. His large dark eyes seemed two wells of unfathomable sadness. The drooping lids gave them an expression of irresistible softness, which added interest to their melancholy earnestness. His complexion was olive, but so clear that each vein could be discerned. His full, and finely shaped lips bespoke the ardour and sensibility of his disposition; while his slim, youthful form appeared half bending with a weight of thought and sorrow. Elizabeth’s heart beat as she came near and stood beside him. Neither spoke; but he took her hand — and they both felt that each regretted the moment of parting too deeply for the mere ceremony of thanks and leave-taking.
“I have grieved,” said Neville, as if answering her, though no word had been said, “very much grieved at the idea of seeing you no more; and yet it is for the best, I feel — and am sure. You do not know the usual unhappy tenor of my thoughts, nor the cause I have to look on life as an unwelcome burthen. This is no new sentiment — it has been my companion since I was nine years old. At one time, before I knew how to rein and manage it, it was more intolerable than now; as a boy, it drove me to solitude — to abhorrence of the sight of man — to anger against God for creating me. These feelings have passed
away; nay, more — I live for a purpose — a sacred purpose, that shall be fulfilled despite of every obstacle — every seeming impossibility. Too often indeed the difficulties in my way have made me fear that I should never succeed, and I have desponded; but never, till I saw you, did I know pleasure unconnected with my ultimate object. With you I have been at times taken out of myself; and I have almost forgotten — this must not be. I must resume my burthen, nor form one thought beyond the resolution I have made to die, if need be, to secure success.”
“You must not speak thus,” said Elizabeth, looking at once with pity and admiration on a face expressive of so much sensitive pride and sadness springing from a sense of injury. “If your purpose is a good one, as I must believe that it is — you will either succeed, or receive a compensation from your endeavours equivalent to success. We shall meet again, and I shall see you happier.”
“When I am happier,” he said, with more than his usual earnestness, “we shall indeed meet — for I will seek you at the furthest end of the globe. Till then, I shrink from seeing any one who interests me — or from renewing sentiments of friendship which had better end here. You are too good and kind not to be made unhappy by the sight of suffering, and I must suffer till my end is accomplished. Even now I regret that I ever saw you — though that feeling springs from a foolish pride. For hereafter you will hear my name — and if you already do not know — you will learn the miserable tale that hangs upon it — you will hear me commiserated; you will learn why — and share the feeling. I would even avoid your pity — judge then how loathsome it is to receive that of others, and yet I must bear it, or fly them as I do. This will change. I have the fullest confidence that one day I may throw back on others the slur now cast upon me. This confidence, this full and sanguine trust, has altered me from what I once was; it has changed the impatience, the almost ferocity I felt as a boy, into fortitude and resolution.”
