by Mary Shelley
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, “I remember once I saw you a long time since, when I was a mere girl, at Baden. Were you not there about four years ago? Do you not remember falling with your horse and dislocating your wrist?”
A tracery of strange wild thought came over the countenance of Neville. “Do I remember?” he cried—”Yes — and I remember a beautiful girl — and I thought such would have been my sister, and I had not been alone — if fate, if cruel, inexorable, horrible destiny had not deprived me of her as well as all — all that made my childish existence Paradise. It is so — and I see you again, whom then my heart called sister — it is strange.”
“Did you give me that name?” said Elizabeth. “Ah, if you knew the strange ideas I then had of giving you my father for your friend, instead of one spoken harshly — perhaps unjustly of—”
As she spoke — he grew gloomy again — his eyes drooped, and the expression of his face became at first despondent, then proud, and even fierce; it reminded her more forcibly than it had ever done before of the Boy of Baden—”It is better as it is,” he continued, “much better that you do not share the evil that pursues me; you ought not to be humiliated, pressed down — goaded to hatred and contempt.
“Farewell — I grieve to leave you — yet I feel deeply how it is for the best. Hereafter you will acknowledge your acquaintance with me, when we meet in a happier hour. God preserve you and your dear father, as he will for your sake! Twice we have met — the third time, if sibyls’ tales are true, is the test of good or evil in our friendship — till then, farewell.”
Thus they parted. Had Elizabeth been free from care with regard to Falkner — she had regretted the separation more; and pondered more over the mysterious wretchedness that darkened the lives of the only two beings, the inner emotions of whose souls had been opened to her. As it was, she returned to watch and fear beside her father’s couch — and scarcely to remember that a few minutes before she had been interested by another — so entirely were her feelings absorbed by her affection and solicitude for him.
CHAPTER XIII.
From this time their homeward journey was more prosperous. They arrived safely at Lyons, and thence proceeded to Basle — to take advantage again of river, navigation; the motion of a carriage being so inimical to the invalid. They proceeded down the Rhine to Rotterdam, and crossing the sea, returned at last to England, after an absence of four years.
This journey, though at first begun in terror and danger, grew less hazardous at each mile they traversed towards the North; and while going down the Rhine, Falkner and his adopted daughter spent several tranquil and happy hours — comparing the scenery they saw to other and distant landscapes — and recalling incidents that had occurred many years ago. Falkner exerted himself for Elizabeth’s sake — she had suffered so much, and he had inflicted so much anguish upon her while endeavouring to free himself from the burthen of life, that he felt remorse at having thus trifled with the deepest emotions of her heart — and anxious to recal the more pleasurable sensations adapted to her age. The listless, yet pleasing feelings attendant on convalescence influenced his mind also — and he enjoyed a peace to which he had long been a stranger.
Elizabeth, it is true, had another source of reverie beside that ministered to her by her father. She often thought of Neville; and, though he was sad, the remembrance of him was full of pleasure. He had been so kind, so sympathizing, so helpful; besides there was a poetry in his very gloom that added a charm to every thought spent upon him. She did not only recall his conversation, but conjectured the causes of his sorrow, and felt deeply interested by the mystery that hung about him. So young and so unhappy! And he had been long so — he was more miserable when they saw him roving wildly among the Alsatian hills. What could it mean? — She strove to recollect what Miss Jervis mentioned at that time; she remembered only that he had no mother, and that his father was severe and unkind.
Yet why, when nature is so full of joyousness, when, at the summer season, vegetation basks in beauty and delight, and the very clouds seemed to enjoy their aerial abode in upper sky, why should misery find a home in the mind of man? a misery which balmy winds will not lull, nor the verdant landscape and its winding river dissipate? She thought thus as she saw Falkner reclining apart, a cloud gathered on his brow, his piercing eyes fixed in vacancy, as if it beheld there a heart-moving tragedy; but she was accustomed to his melancholy, she had ever known him as a man of sorrows; he had lived long before she knew him, and the bygone years were filled by events pregnant with wretchedness, nay, if he spoke truth, with guilt. But Neville, the young, the innocent, who had been struck in boyhood through no fault of his own, nor any act in which he bore a part; was there no remedy for him? and would not friendship, and kindness, and the elastic spirit of youth, suffice to cure his wound? She remembered that he declared that he had an aim in view, in which he resolved to succeed, and, succeeding, he should be happy: a noble aim, doubtless; for his soft eyes lighted joyously up, and his face expressed a glad pride when he prognosticated ultimate triumph. Her heart went with him in his efforts; she prayed earnestly for his success, and was as sure as he, that Heaven would favour an object which she felt certain was generous and pure.
A sigh, a half groan from Falkner, called her to his side, while she meditated on these things. Both suffer, she thought; would that some link united them, so that both might find relief in the accomplishment of the same resolves! Little did she think of the real link that existed, mysterious, yet adamantine; that to pray for the success of one, was to solicit destruction for the other. A dark veil was before her eyes, totally impervious; nor did she know that the withdrawing it, as was soon to be, would deliver her over to conflicting duties, sad struggles of feeling, and stain her life with the dark hues that now, missing her, blotted the existence of the two upon earth, for whom she was most interested.
They arrived in London. Falkner’s fever was gone, but his wound was rankling, painful, and even dangerous. The bullet had grazed the bone, and this, at first neglected, and afterwards improperly treated, now betrayed symptoms of exfoliation; his sufferings were great — he bore them patiently; he looked on them as an atonement. He had gone out in his remorse to die — he was yet to live, broken and destroyed; and if suffered to live, was it not for Elizabeth’s sake? and having bound her fate to his, what right had he to die? The air of London being injurious, and yet it being necessary to continue in the vicinity of the most celebrated surgeons, they took a pleasant villa on Wimbledon Common, situated in the midst of a garden, and presenting to the eye that mixture of neatness, seclusion and comfort, that renders some of our smaller English country houses so delightful. Elizabeth, despite her wanderings, had a true feminine love of home. She busied herself in adding elegance to their dwelling, by a thousand little arts, which seem nothing, and are every thing in giving grace and cheerfulness to an abode.
Their life became tranquil, and a confidence and friendship existed between them, the source of a thousand pleasant conversations, and happy hours. One subject, it is true, was forbidden, the name of Neville was never mentioned; perhaps, on that very account, it assumed more power over Elizabeth’s imagination. A casual intercourse with one, however interesting, might have faded into the common light of day, had not the silence enjoined, kept him in that indistinct mysterious darkness so favourable to the processes of the imagination. On every other subject, the so called father and daughter talked with open heart, and Falkner was totally unaware of a secret growth of unspoken interest, which had taken root in separation and secrecy.
Elizabeth, accustomed to fear death for one dearest to her, and to contemplate its near approaches so often, had something holy and solemn kneaded into the very elements of her mind, that gave sublimity to her thoughts, resignation to her disposition, and a stirring inquiring spirit to her conversation, which, separated as they were from the busy and trivial duties of life, took from the monotony and stillness of their existence, by bringing thoughts beyond
the world to people the commonplace of each day’s routine. Falkner had not much of this; but he had a spirit of observation, a ready memory, and a liveliness of expression and description which corrected her wilder flights, and gave the interest of flesh and blood to her fairy dreams. When they read of the heroes of old, or the creations of the poets, she dwelt on the moral to be deduced, the theories of life and death, religion and virtue, therein displayed; while he compared them to his own experience, criticised their truth, and gave pictures of real human nature, either contrasting with, or resembling, those presented on the written page.
Their lives, thus spent, would have been equable and pleasant, but for the sufferings of Falkner; and as those diminished, another evil arose, in his eyes of far more awful magnitude. They had resided at Wimbledon about a year, when Elizabeth fell ill. Her medical advisers explained her malady as the effect of the extreme nervous excitement she had gone through during the last years, which, borne with a patience and fortitude almost superhuman, had meanwhile undermined her physical strength. This was a mortal blow to Falkner; while with self-absorbed, and, he now felt, criminal pertinacity, he had sought death, he had forgotten the results such acts of his might have on one so dear, and innocent. He had thought that when she lost him, Elizabeth would feel a transitory sorrow; while new scenes, another family, and the absence of his griefs, would soon bring comfort. But he lived, and the consequences of his resolve to die fell upon her — she was his victim! there was something maddening in the thought. He looked at her dear face, grown so pale — viewed her wasting form — watched her loss of appetite, and nervous tremours, with an impatient agony that irritated his wound, and brought back malady on himself.
All that the physicians could order for Elizabeth, was change of air — added to an intimation that an entirely new scene, and a short separation from her father, would be of the utmost benefit. Where could she go? it was not now that she drooped — and trembled at every sound, that he could restore her to her father’s family. No time ought to be lost, he was told, and the word consumption mentioned; the deaths of her parents gave a sting to that word, which filled him with terror. Something must be done immediately — what he knew not; and he gazed on his darling, whom he felt that by his own act he had destroyed, with an ardour to save that he felt was impotent, and he writhed beneath the thought.
One morning, while Falkner was brooding over these miserable ideas — and Elizabeth was vainly trying to assume a look of cheerfulness and health, which her languid step and pale cheek belied — a carriage entered their quiet grounds, and a visitor was announced. It was Lady Cecil. Elizabeth had nearly forgotten, nor ever expected to see her again — but that lady, whose mind was at ease at the period of their acquaintance, and who had been charmed by the beauty and virtues of the devoted daughter, had never ceased to determine at some time to seek her, and renew their acquaintance. She, indeed, never expected to see Falkner again, and she often wondered what would be his daughter’s fate when he died; she and her family had remained abroad till the present spring, when being in London, she, by Miss Jervis’s assistance, learned that he still lived, and that they were both at Wimbledon.
Lady Cecil was a welcome visitor wherever she went, for there was an atmosphere of cheerful and kindly warmth around her, that never failed to communicate pleasure. Falkner, who had not seen her at Leghorn, and had scarcely heard her name mentioned, was won at once; and when she spoke with ardent praise of Elizabeth, and looked upon her altered appearance with undisguised distress, his heart warmed towards her, and he was ready to ask her assistance in his dilemma. That was offered, however, before it was asked — she heard that change of air was recommended — she guessed that too great anxiety for her father had produced her illness — she felt sure that her own pleasant residence, and cheerful family, was the best remedy that could be administered.
“I will not be denied,” she said, after having made her invitation, that both father and daughter should pay her a visit. “You must come to me: Lord Cecil is gone to Ireland for two months, to look after his estate there; and our little Julius being weakly, I could not accompany him. I have taken a house near Hastings — the air is salubrious, the place beautiful — I lead a domestic, quiet life, and I am sure Miss Falkner will soon be well with me.”
As her invitation was urged with warmth and sincerity, Falkner did not hesitate to accept it. To a certain degree, he modified it, by begging that Elizabeth should accompany Lady Cecil, in the first place, alone. As the visit was to be for two months, he promised after the first was elapsed to join them. He alleged various reasons for this arrangement; his real one being, that he had gathered from the physicians, that they considered a short separation from him as essential to the invalid’s recovery. She acceded, for she was anxious to get well, and hoped that the change would restore her. Every thing was therefore soon agreed upon; and, two days afterwards, the two ladies were on their road to Hastings, where Lady Cecil’s family already was — she having come to town with her husband only, who by this time had set out on his Irish tour.
“I feel convinced that three days of my nursing will make you quite well,” said Lady Cecil, as they were together in her travelling carriage; “I wish you to look as you did in Italy. One so young, and naturally so healthy, will soon recover strength. You overtasked yourself — and your energetic mind is too strong for your body; but repose, and my care, will restore you. I am sure we shall be very happy — my children are dear little angels, and will entertain you when you like, and never be in your way. I shall be your head nurse — and Miss Jervis, dear odd soul! will act under my orders. The situation of my house is enchanting; and, to add to our family circle, I expect my brother Gerard, whom I am sure you will like. Did I ever mention him to you? perhaps not — but you must like Gerard — and you will delight him. He is serious — nay, to say the truth, sad — but it is a sadness a thousand times more interesting than the gaiety of common-place worldly men. It is a seriousness full of noble thoughts, and affectionate feelings. I never knew, I never dreamt, that there was a creature resembling, or to be compared to him in the world, till I saw you. You have the same freedom from worldliness — the same noble and elevated ideas — feeling for others, and thinking not of the petty circle of ideas that encompasses and presses down every other mind, so that they cannot see or feel beyond their Lilliputian selves.
“In one thing you do not resemble Gerard. You, though quiet, are cheerful; while he, naturally more vivacious, is melancholy. You look an inquiry, but I cannot tell you the cause of my brother’s unhappiness; for his friendship for me, which I highly prize, depends upon my keeping sacredly the promise I have given never to make his sorrows a topic of conversation. All I can say is, that they result from a sensibility, and a delicate pride, which is overstrained, yet which makes me love him ten thousand times more dearly. He is better now than he used to be, and I hope that time and reason will altogether dissipate the vain regrets that embitter his life. Some new — some strong feeling may one day spring up, and scatter the clouds. I pray for this; for though I love him tenderly, and sympathize in his grief, yet I think it excessive and deplorable; and, alas! never to be remedied, though it may be forgotten.”
Elizabeth listened with some surprise to hear of another so highly praised, and yet unhappy; while in her heart she thought “Though this sound like one to be compared to Neville, yet, when I see him, how I shall scorn the very thought of finding another as high-minded, kind, and interesting as he?” She gave no utterance however to this reflection, and merely asked, “Is your brother older than you?”
“No, younger — he is only two-and-twenty; but passion and grief, endured almost since infancy, prevented him when a child from being childish; and now he has all that is beautiful in youth, with none of its follies. Pardon my enthusiasm; but you will grow enthusiastic also when you see Gerard.”
“I doubt that,” thought Elizabeth—”my enthusiasm is spent — and I should hate myself if I could thin
k of another as of Neville.” This latent thought made the excessive praises which Lady Cecil bestowed on her brother sound almost distastefully. Her thoughts flew back to Marseilles; to his sedulous attentions — their parting interview — and fixed at last upon the strange emotion Falkner had displayed when seeing him; and his desire that his name even should not be mentioned. Again she wondered what this meant, and her thoughts became abstracted; Lady Cecil conjectured that she was tired, and permitted her to indulge in her silent reveries.
CHAPTER XIV.
Lady Cecil’s house was situated on the heights that overlook Fairlight Bay, near Hastings. Any one who has visited that coast, knows the peculiar beauty of the rocks, downs, and groves of Fairlight. The oak, which clothes each dell, and, in a dwarf and clipped state, forms the hedges, imparts a richness not only to the wide landscape, but to each broken nook of ground and sequestered corner; the fern, which grows only in contiguity to the oak, giving a wild forest appearance to the glades. The mansion itself was large, convenient, and cheerful. The grounds were extensive; and from points of view you could see the wide sea — the more picturesque bay — and the undulating varied shore that curves in towards Winchelsea. It was impossible to conceive a scene more adapted to revive the spirits, and give variety and amusement to the thoughts.
Elizabeth grew better, as by a miracle, the very day after her arrival; and within a week a sensible change had taken place in her appearance, as well as her health. The roses bloomed in her cheeks — her step regained its elasticity — her spirits rose even to gaiety. All was new and animating. Lady Cecil’s beautiful and spirited children delighted her. It was a domestic scene, adorned by elegance, and warmed by affection. Elizabeth had, despite her attachment to her father, often felt the weight of loneliness when left by him at Zante; or when his illness threw her back entirely on herself. Now on each side there were sweet, kind faces — playful, tender caresses — and a laughing mirth, cheering in its perfect innocence.
