by Mary Shelley
Falkner’s thoughts became busy on this with new ideas. It was at once pleasing, and painful, to hear of the virtues of Gerard Neville. The pleasure was derived from the better portion of human nature — the pain from the worst; a lurking envy, and dislike to excellence derived in any degree from one he hated, and with such sentiment he regarded the father of Gerard. Still he was the son of the angel he worshipped, and had destroyed; she had loved her child to adoration, and to know that he grew up all she would have wished, would console her wandering, unappeased spirit. He remembered his likeness to her, and that softened him even more. Yet he thought of the past — and what he had done; and the very idea of her son lamenting for ever his lost mother, filled him with renewed and racking remorse.
That Elizabeth should now for the third time be thrown in his way, was strange, and his first impulse was to recall her. It was well that Gerard should be noble-minded, endowed with talent, a rare and exalted being — but that she should be brought into near contact with him, was evil: between Falkner and Gerard Neville, there existed a gulf unfathomable, horrific, deadly; and any friendship between him and his adopted child, must cause disunion between her and Falkner. He had suffered much, but this last blow, a cause for disuniting them, would tax his fortitude too much.
Yet thus it was to be taxed. He received a letter from Lady Cecil, of which Elizabeth was ignorant. Its ostensible object was to give good tidings of her fair guest’s health, and to renew her invitation to him. But there was a covert meaning which Falkner detected. Lady Cecil, though too young to be an inveterate match-maker, yet conceived and cherished the idea of the marriage of Neville and Elizabeth. In common parlance, Gerard might look higher; but so also might Elizabeth, apparently the only daughter and heiress of a man of good birth, and easy fortune. But this went for little with Lady Cecil; — Gerard’s peculiar disposition — his devotion to his dead mother, his distaste to all society — the coldness he had hitherto manifested to feminine attractions, made the choice of a wife difficult for him. Elizabeth’s heroic, and congenial character; her total inexperience in the world, and readiness to sympathize with sentiments which, to the ordinary class of women would appear extravagant and foolish; all this suited them for each other. Lady Cecil saw them together, and felt that intimacy would produce love. She was delighted; but thinking it right that the father should have a voice, she wrote to Falkner, scarcely alluding to these things, but with a delicate tact that enabled her to convey her meaning, and Falkner jumping at once to the conclusion, saw that his child was lost to him for ever.
There arose from this idea a convulsion of feeling, that shook him as an earthquake shakes the firm land, making the most stable edifices totter. A chill horror ran through his veins, a cold dew broke out on his forehead; it was unnatural — it was fatal, it must bring on all their heads tenfold ruin.
Yet wherefore? Elizabeth was no child of his — Elizabeth Falkner could never wed Gerard Neville — but between him and Elizabeth Raby there existed no obstacle. Nay, how better could he repay the injury he had done him in depriving him of his mother, than by bestowing on him a creature, perhaps more perfect, to be his solace and delight to the end of his life? So must it be — here Falkner’s punishment would begin; to exile himself for ever from her, who was the child of his heart, the prop of his existence. It was dreadful to think of, but it must be done.
And how was the sacrifice to be fulfilled? by restoring Elizabeth to her father’s family, and then withdrawing himself to a distant land. He need not add to this the confession of his crime. No! thus should he compensate to Gerard for the injury done him; and burning his papers, leaving still in mystery the unknown past, die, without it ever being known to Elizabeth, that he was the cause of her husband’s sorrows. It was travelling fast, to arrange this future for all three; but there are moments when the future, with all its contingencies and possibilities, becomes glaringly distinct to our foreseeing eye; and we act as if that was, which we believe must be. He would become a soldier once again — and the boon of death would not be for ever denied to him.
To restore Elizabeth to her family was at any rate but doing her a long-withheld justice. The child of honour and faithful affection — who bore a proud name — whose loveliness of person and mind would make her a welcome treasure in any family; she, despite her generous sacrifices, should follow his broken fortunes no longer. If the notion of her marrying Neville were a mere dream, still to give back to her name and station, was a benefit which it was unjust any longer to withhold; nor should it be a question between them. They were now divided, so should they remain. He would reveal her existence to her family, claim their protection, and then withdraw himself; while she, occupied by a new and engrossing sentiment, would easily get reconciled to his absence.
The first step he took in furtherance of this new resolution, was to make inquiries concerning the present state of Elizabeth’s family — of which hitherto he knew no more than what he gathered from her mother’s unfinished letter, and this was limited to their being a wealthy Catholic family, proud of their ancestry, and devoted to their faith. Through his solicitor he gained intelligence of their exact situation. He heard that there was a family of that name in Northumberland; it was Roman Catholic, and exceedingly rich. The present head of the family was an old man; he had long been a widower; left with a family of six sons. The eldest had married early, and was dead, leaving his widow with four daughters and one son, yet a child, who was the heir of the family honours and estates, and resided with his mother, for the most part, at the mansion of his grandfather. Of the remaining sons little account could be gained. It was the family custom to concentrate all its prosperity and wealth on the head of the eldest son; and the younger, precluded by their religion, at that time, from advancement in their own country, entered foreign service. One only had exempted himself from the common lot, and become an outcast, and, in the eyes of his family, a reprobate. Edwin Raby had apostatized from the Catholic faith; he had married a portionless girl of inferior birth, and entered the profession of the law. His parents looked with indignation on the dishonour entailed on their name through his falling off; but his death relieved their terrors — he died, leaving a widow and an infant daughter. As the marriage had never been acknowledged, and female offspring were held supernumerary, and an incumbrance in the Raby family, they had refused to receive her, and never heard of her more; she was, it was conjectured, living in obscurity among her own relations. Falkner at once detected the truth. The despised, deserted widow had died in her youth; and the daughter of Edwin Raby was the child of his adoption. On this information Falkner regulated his conduct; and finding that Elizabeth’s grandfather, old Oswi Raby, resided habitually at his seat in the north of England, he — his health now restored sufficiently to make the journey without inconvenience — set out for Northumberland, to communicate the existence, and claim his acknowledgment, of his granddaughter.
There are periods in our lives when we seem to run away from ourselves and our afflictions; to commence a new course of existence, upon fresh ground, towards a happier goal. Sometimes, on the contrary, the stream of life doubles — runs back to old scenes, and we are constrained to linger amidst the desolation we had hoped to leave far behind. Thus was it with Falkner; the past clung to him inextricably. What had he to do with those who had suffered through his misdeed? He had fled from them — he had traversed a quarter of the earth — he had placed a series of years between them; but there he was again — in the same spot — the same forms before him — the same names sounding in his ears — the effects of his actions impending darkly and portentously over him; seeing no escape but by casting away the only treasure of his life — his adopted child — and becoming again a solitary, miserable wanderer.
No man ever suffered more keenly than Falkner the stings of remorse; no man ever resolved more firmly to meet the consequences of his actions systematically, and without outward flinching. It was perseverance to one goal that had occasioned all
his sin and woe; it followed him in his repentance; and though misery set a visible mark on his brow, he did not hesitate nor delay. The journey to Northumberland was long, for he could only proceed by short stages; and all the time miserable reflection doubled every mile, and stretched each hour into twice its duration. He was alone. To look back was wretchedness — to think of Elizabeth was no solace; hereafter they were to be divided — hereafter, no voice of love or gentle caress would chase the darkness from his brow — he was to be for ever alone.
At length he arrived at his destination, and reached the entrance to Belleforest. The mansion, a fine old Gothic building, adorned by the ruins of an ancient abbey, was in itself venerable and extensive, and surrounded by a princely demesne. This was the residence of Elizabeth’s ancestors — of her nearest relations. Here her childhood would have been spent — under these venerable oaks — within these ancestral walls. Falkner was glad to think, that, in being forced to withdraw from her his own protection, she would take a higher station, and in the world’s eye become more on an equality with Gerard Neville. Every thing around denoted grandeur and wealth; the very circumstance that the family adhered to the ancient faith of the land — to a form of worship, which, though evil in its effects on the human mind, is to the eye imposing and magnificent, shed a greater lustre round the place. On inquiry, Falkner heard that the old gentleman was at Belleforest; indeed he never quitted it; but that his daughter-in-law, with her family, were in the south of England. Mr. Raby was very accessible; on asking for him, Falkner was instantly ushered in,
He entered a library of vast dimensions, and fitted up with a sort of heavy splendour; very imposing, but very sombre. The high windows, painted ceiling, and massy furniture, bespoke an old-fashioned, but almost regal taste. Falkner, for a moment, thought himself alone, when a slight noise attracted his attention to a diminutive, and very white old gentleman, who advanced towards him. The mansion looked built for a giant race; and Falkner, expecting the majesty of size, could hardly contract his view to the slender and insignificant figure of the present possessor. Oswi Raby looked shrivelled, not so much by age as the narrowness of his mind; to whose dimensions his outward figure had contracted itself. His face was pale and thin; his light blue eyes grown dim; you might have thought that he was drying up and vanishing from the earth by degrees. Contrasted with this slight shadow of a man, was a mind that saw the whole world almost concentrated in himself. He, Oswi Raby, he, head of the oldest family in England, was first of created beings. Without being assuming in manner, he was self-important in heart; and there was an obstinacy, and an incapacity to understand that any thing was of consequence except himself, or rather, except the house he represented, that gave extreme repulsion to his manners.
It is always awkward to disclose an errand such as Falkner’s; it was only by plunging at once into it, and warming himself by his own words, that he contrived to throw grace round his subject. A cloud gathered over the old man’s features; he grew whiter, and his thin lips closed as if they had never opened except with a refusal.
“You speak of very painful circumstances,” he said; “I have sometimes feared that I should be intruded upon in behalf of this person; yet, after so many years, there is less pretence than ever for encroaching upon an injured family. Edwin himself broke the tie. He was rebellious and apostate. He had talents, and might have distinguished himself to his honour; he preferred irreparable disgrace. He abandoned the religion which we consider as the most precious part of our inheritance; and he added imprudence to guilt, by, he being himself unprovided for, marrying a portionless, low-born girl. He never hoped for my forgiveness; he never even asked it. His death — it is hard for a father to feel thus — but his death was a relief. We were applied to by his widow; but with her we could have nothing to do. She was the partner of his rebellion — nay, we looked upon her as its primal cause. I was willing to take charge of my grandchild, if delivered entirely up to me. She did not even think proper to reply to the letter making this concession. I had, indeed, come to the determination of continuing to her a portion of the allowance I made to my son, despite his disobedience; but from that time to this no tidings of either mother or daughter have reached us.”
“Death must bear the blame of that negligence,” said Falkner, mastering his rising disgust. “Mrs. Raby was hurried to the grave but a few months after your son’s death, the victim of her devoted affection to her husband. Their innocent daughter was left among strangers, who did not know to whom to apply. She, at least, is free from all fault, and has every claim on her father’s family.”
“She is nothing, and has no claim,” interrupted Mr. Raby, peevishly, “beyond a bare maintenance, even if she be the person you represent. I beg your pardon, sir, but you may be deceived yourself on this subject; but taking it for granted that this young person is the daughter of my son, what is she to me?”
“A grand-daughter is a relation,” Falkner began; “a near and dear one—”
“Under such circumstances,” interrupted Mr. Raby; “under the circumstances of a marriage to which I gave no consent, and her being brought up at a distance from us all, I should rather call her a connexion than a relation. We cannot look with favour on the child of an apostate; educated in a faith which we consider pernicious. I am an old-fashioned man, accustomed only to the society of those whose feelings coincide with mine; and I must apologize, sir, if I say any thing to shock you; but the truth is self-evident, a child of a discarded son may have a slender claim for support, none for favour or countenance. This young person has no right to raise her eyes to us; she must regulate her expectations by the condition of her mother, who was a sort of servant, a humble companion or governess, in the house of Mrs. Neville of Dromore—”
Falkner grew pale at the name, but, commanding himself, replied, “I believe she was a friend of that lady! I have said I was unacquainted with the parents of Miss Raby; I found her an orphan, subsisting on precarious charity. Her few years — her forlorn situation — her beauty and sweetness, claimed my compassion — I adopted her—”
“And would now throw her off,” again interrupted the ill-tempered old man. “Had you restored her to us in her childhood — had she been brought up in our religion among us — she would have shared this home with her cousins. As it is, you must yourself be aware, that it will be impossible to admit, as an inmate, a stranger — a person ignorant of our peculiar systems — an alien from our religion. Mrs. Raby would never consent to it; and I would on no account annoy her who, as the mother and guardian of my heir, merits every deference. I will, however, consult with her, and with the gentleman who has the conduct of my affairs; and as you wish to get rid of an embarrassment, which, pardon me if I say you entirely brought on yourself, we will do what we judge due to the honour of the family; but I cannot hold out any hopes beyond a maintenance — unless this young person, whom I should then regard as my grand-daughter, felt a vocation for a religion, out of whose pale I will never acknowledge a relation.”
At every word Falkner grew more angry. He always repressed any manifestation of passion, and only grew pale, and spoke in a lower, calmer voice. There was a pause; he glanced at the white hair, and attenuated form of the old man, so to acquire a sufficient portion of forbearance; and then replied: “It is enough — forget this visit; you shall never hear again of the existence of your outraged grandchild. Could you for a moment comprehend her worth, you might feel regret at casting from you one whose qualities render her the admiration of all who know her. Some day, when the infirmities of age increase upon you, you may remember that you might have had a being near, the most compassionate and kind that breathes. If ever you feel the want of an affectionate hand to smooth your pillow, you may remember that you have shut your heart to one who would have been a daily blessing. I do not wish to disembarrass myself of Miss Raby — Miss Falkner, rather, let me call her; she has borne my name as my daughter for many years, and shall continue to retain it, together with my paternal
guardianship, while I live. I have the honour to wish you a good morning.”
Falkner hastily departed; and, as he threw himself on his horse, and at a quick pace traversed the long avenues of Belleforest, he felt that boiling of the blood, that inexpressible bursting and tumult of the heart, that accompanies fierce indignation and disdain. A vehement desire to pour out the cataract of his contempt and anger on the offender, was mingled with redoubled tenderness for Elizabeth, with renewed gratitude for all he owed her, and a yearning, heart-warming desire to take her again to the shelter of his love, from whence she should never more depart.
CHAPTER VII.
Falkner’s mind had undergone a total change; he had gone to Belleforest, believing it to be his duty to restore to its possessors a dearer treasure than any held by them; he left it, resolved never to part from his adopted child. “Get rid of an embarrassment!” he repeated to himself; “get rid of Elizabeth, of tender affection, truth and fidelity! of the heart’s fondest ties, my soul’s only solace! How often has my life been saved, and cheered by her only! And when I would sacrifice blessings of which I hold myself unworthy, I hear the noblest and most generous being in the world degraded by the vulgar, sordid prejudices of that narrow-minded bigot! How paltry seems the pomp of wealth, or the majesty of these ancient woods, when it is recollected that they are lorded over by such a thing as that!”
