by Mary Shelley
Falkner’s reflections were all painful; his heavily-burthened conscience weighed him to the earth. He felt that there was justice in a part of Mr. Raby’s representations; that if Elizabeth had been brought up under his care, in a religion which, because it was persecuted, was the more valuable in their eyes; participating in their prejudices, and endeared to them by habit, she would have had claims, which, as she was, unseen, unknown, and totally disjoined from them in opinions and feelings, she could never possess. He was the cause of this, having, in her infancy, chosen to take her to himself, to link his desolate fate to her brighter one; and now, he could only repent for her sake; yet, for her sake, he did repent, when, looking forward, he thought of the growing attachment between her and the son of his victim.
What could he do? recall her? forbid her again to see Gerard Neville? Unexplained commands are ever unjust, and had any strong feeling sprung up in either of their hearts, they could not be obeyed. Should he tell her all, and throw himself on her mercy? He would thus inflict deep, irreparable pangs, and, besides, place her in a painful situation, where duty would struggle with inclination; and pride and affection both made it detestable to him to create such a combat in her heart, and cause her to feel pangs and make sacrifices for him. What other part was there to take? to remain neuter? let events take their course? If it ended as he foresaw, when a marriage was mentioned, he could reveal her real birth. Married to Gerard Neville, her relations would gladly acknowledge her, and then he could withdraw for ever. He should have much to endure meanwhile; to hear a name perpetually repeated that thrilled to the very marrow of his bones; perhaps, to see the husband and son of her he had destroyed: he felt sick at heart at such a thought; he put it aside. It was not to-day, it could not be to-morrow, that he should be called upon to encounter these evils; meanwhile, he would shut his eyes upon them.
Returning homeward, he felt impelled to prolong his tour; he visited some of the lakes of Westmoreland, and the mountain scenery of Derbyshire. The thought of return was painful, so he lingered on the way, and wrote for his letters to be forwarded to him. He had been some weeks without receiving any from Elizabeth, and he felt extreme impatience again to be blest with the sight of her handwriting — he felt how passionately he loved her — how to part from her was to part from every joy of life; he called himself her father — his heart acknowledged the tie in every pulsation; no father ever worshipped a child so fervently; her voice, her smile — and dear loving eyes, where were they? — they were far, but here was something — a little packet of letters, that must for the present stand in lieu of the dearer blessing of her presence. He looked at the papers with delight — he pressed them to his lips — he delayed to open them, as if he did not deserve the joy they would communicate — as if its excess would overpower him. “I purpose parting from her” — he thought—”but still she is mine, mine when she traced those lines — mine as I read the expressions of her affection; there are hours of delight garnered for me in those little sealed talismans that nothing future or past can tarnish, and yet the name of Neville will be there!” The thought brought a cold chill with it, and he opened the letters hastily to know the worst.
Elizabeth had half forgotten the pain with which Falkner had at one time shrunk from a name become so dear to her; when she wrote, her heart was full of Gerard’s story — and besides she had had letters from her father speaking of him with kindness, so that she indulged herself by alluding to it — to the disappearance of his mother and Gerard’s misery; the trial — the brutality of Sir Boyvill; and last, to the resolution formed in childhood, brooded over through youth, now acted upon, to discover his mother’s destroyer. “Nor is it,” she wrote, “any vulgar feeling of vengeance that influences him — but the purest and noblest motives. She is stigmatized as unworthy — he would vindicate her fame. When I hear the surmises, the accusations cast on her, I feel with him. To hear a beloved parent accused of guilt, must indeed be the most bitter woe; to believe her innocent, and to prove her such, the only alleviation. God grant that he may succeed! — and though I wish no ill to any human being, yet rather may the height of evil fall on the head of the true criminal, than continue to cloud the days of a being whose soul is moulded in sensibility and honour!”
“Thus do you pray, heedless Elizabeth! May the true criminal feel the height of evil; may he — whom you have saved from death — endure tortures compared to which a thousand deaths were nothing! Be it so! you shall have your wish!”
Impetuous as fire, Falkner did not pause; something, some emotion devouring as fire, was lighted up in his heart — there must be no delay! — never had he seen the effects of his crime in so vivid a light; avoiding the name of Neville, he had never heard that of his victim coupled with shame — she was unfortunate, but he persuaded himself that she was not thought guilty; dear injured saint! had then her sacred name been bandied about by the vulgar, she pronounced unworthy by the judges of her acts; ignominy heaped upon the grave he had dug for her? Was her beloved son the victim of his belief in her goodness? Had his youthful life been blighted by his cowardly concealments? Oh, rather a thousand deaths than such a weight of sin upon his soul! — He would declare all; offer his life in expiation — what more could be demanded!
And again — this might be thought a more sordid motive; and yet it was not — Gerard was vowed to the discovery of the true criminal; he would discover him — earth would render up her secrets, Heaven lead the son to the very point — by slow degrees his crime would be unveiled — Elizabeth called upon to doubt and to believe. His vehement disposition was not calculated to bear the slow process of such discoveries; he would meet them, avow all — let the worst fall on him: it was happiness to know and feel the worst.
Lost for ever, he would deliver himself up to reprobation and the punishment of his guilt. Too long he had delayed — now all his motives for concealment melted away like snow overspread by volcanic fire. Fierce, hurrying destiny seized him by the hair of his head — crying aloud, Murderer, offer up thy blood — shade of Alithea, take thy victim!
He wrote instantly to Elizabeth to meet him at their home at Wimbledon, and proceeded thither himself. Unfortunately the tumult of his thoughts acted on his health; after he had proceeded a few miles, he was taken ill — for three days he was confined to his bed, in a high fever. He thought he was about to die — his secret untold. Copious bleeding, however, subdued the violence of the attack — and weak and faint, he, despite his physician’s advice, proceeded homewards; weak and faint, an altered man — life had no charms, no calls, but one duty. Hitherto he had lived in contempt of the chain of effects, which ever links pain to evil; and of the Providence, which will not let the innocent be for ever traduced. It had fallen on him; now his punishment had begun, not as he, in the happier vehemence of passion, had determined, not by sudden — self-inflicted, or glorious death — but the slow grinding of the iron wheels of destiny, as they passed over him, crushing him in the dust.
Yet his heart, despite its sufferings, warmed with something like pleasure when, after a tedious journey of three days, he drew near his home where he hoped to find Elizabeth. He had misgivings, he had asked her to return, but she might have written to request a delay — no! she was there; she had been there two days, anxiously expecting him. It is so sweet a thing to hear the voice of one we love welcoming us on our return home! It seems to assure us of a double existence; not only in our own identity — which we bear perpetually about with us — but in the heart we leave behind, which has thought of us — lived for us, and now beats with warm pleasure on beholding the expected one. On the whole earth Falkner loved none but Elizabeth. He hated himself; the past — the present — the future, as they appertained to him, were all detestable; remorse, grief, and loathsome anticipation, made up the sum of feelings with which he regarded them: but here, bright and beautiful; without taint; all affection and innocence — a monument of his own good feelings, a lasting rock to which to moor his every hope; stood befo
re him, the child of his adoption; his heart felt bursting when he thought of all she was to him.
Yet a doubt entered to mar his satisfaction — was she changed? If love had insinuated itself into her heart, he was ejected; at least the plenteous abundant fountain, that gave from its own source, would be changed to the still waters that neither received increase, nor bestowed any overflowing. Worse than this — she loved Gerard Neville, the son of his victim, he whose life was devastated by him, who would regard him with abhorrence. He would teach Elizabeth to partake this feeling. The blood stood chilled in Falkner’s heart, when he thought of thus losing the only being he loved on earth.
He mastered these feelings when he saw her. The first moment, indeed, when she flew to his arms and expressed with eager fondness her delight in seeing him again, was all happiness. She perceived the traces of suffering on his brow, and chided herself for having remained away so long; she promised never to absent herself thus again. Every remembered look, and tone, of her dear face, and voice, now brought palpably before him, was a medicine to Falkner. He repressed his uneasiness, he banished his fears; for a few hours he made happiness his own again.
The evening was passed in calm and cheering conversation. No word was said of the friends whom Elizabeth had left. She had forgotten them, during the first few hours she spent with her father; and when she did allude to her visit, Falkner said, “We will talk of these things to-morrow; to-night, let us only think of ourselves.” Elizabeth felt a little mortified; the past weeks, the fortunes of her friends, and the sentiments they excited, had become a part of herself; and she was pained that so much of disjunction existed between her and Falkner, as to make that which was so vivid and present to her, vacant of interest to him; but she checked her disappointment: soon he would know her new friend, sympathize in his devotion towards his injured mother, enter as warmly as she did, into the result of his endeavours for her exculpation. Meanwhile she yielded to his wish, and they talked of scenes and countries they had visited together, and all the feelings and opinions engendered by the past; as they were wont to do in days gone by, before a stranger influence had disturbed a world in which they lived for each other only — father and daughter — without an interest beyond.
Nothing could be more pure and entire than their affection, and there was between them that mingling of hearts, which words cannot describe; but which, whenever it is experienced, in whatever relation in life, is unalloyed happiness. There was a total absence of disguise, of covert censure, of mutual diffidence; perfect confidence gave rise to the fearless utterance of every idea, and there was a repose, and yet an enjoyment in the sense of sympathy and truth, which filled and satisfied. Falkner was surprised at the balmy sense of joy that, despite every thing, stole over him; and he kissed, and blessed his child, as she retired for the night, with more grateful affection, a fuller sense of her merits, and a more fervent desire of preserving her always near him, than he had ever before been conscious of experiencing.
CHAPTER VIII.
Elizabeth rose on the following morning, her bosom glowing with a sensation of acknowledged happiness. So much of young love brooded in her heart, as quickened its pulsations, and gave lightness and joy to her thoughts. She had no doubts, nor fears, nor even hopes: she was not aware that love was the real cause of the grateful sense of happiness, with which she avowed, to Heaven and herself, that all was peace. She was glad to be reunited to Falkner, for whom she felt an attachment at once so respectful, and yet, on account of his illness and melancholy, so watchful and tender, as never allowed her to be wholly free from solicitude, when absent from him. Also she expected on that morning to see Gerard Neville. When Falkner’s letter came to hasten her departure from Oakly, she felt grieved at the recall, at the moment when she was expecting him to join her, so to fill up the measure of her enjoyments; with all this, she was eager to obey, and anxious to be with him again. Lady Cecil deputed Miss Jervis to accompany her. On the very morning of their departure, Neville asked for a seat in the carriage; they travelled to town together, and when they separated, Neville told her of his intention of immediately securing a passage to America, and since then, had written a note to mention that he should ride over to Wimbledon on that morning.
The deep interest that Elizabeth took in his enterprise, made her solicitous to know whether he had procured any further information; but her paramount desire was to introduce him to Falkner, to inspire him with her sentiments of friendship; and to see two persons, whom she considered superior to the rest of the world, bound to each other by a mutual attachment; she wanted to impart to her father a pity for Alithea’s wrongs, and an admiration for her devoted son. She walked in the shrubbery before breakfast, enjoying nature with the enthusiasm of love; she gathered the last roses of the departing season, and mingling them with a few carnations, hung, with a new sense of rapture, over these fairest children of nature; for it is the property of love to enhance all our enjoyments, “to paint the lily, and add a perfume to the rose.” When she returned to the house, she was told that Falkner still slept, and had begged not to be disturbed. She breakfasted, therefore, by herself, sitting by the open casement, and looking on the waving trees, her flowers shedding a sweet atmosphere around; sometimes turning to her open book, where she read of
“The heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb,”
and sometimes leaning her cheek upon her hand, in one of those reveries where we rather feel than think, and every articulation of the frame thrills with a living bliss.
The quick canter of a horse, the stopping at the gate, the ringing of the bell, and the entrance of Neville, made her heart beat, and her eyes light up with gladness. He entered with a lighter step, a more cheerful and animated mien, than usual. He was aware that he loved. He was assured that Elizabeth was the being selected from the whole world who could make him happy; while he regarded her with all the admiration, the worship, due to her virtues. He had never loved before. The gloom that had absorbed him, the shyness inspired by his extreme sensitiveness, had hitherto made him avoid the society of women, their pleasures, their gaiety, their light, airy converse, were a blank to him; it was Elizabeth’s sufferings that first led him to remark her: the clearness of her understanding, her simplicity, tenderness, and dignity of soul won him; and lastly, the unbounded, undisguised sympathy she felt for his endeavours, which all else regarded as futile and insane, riveted him to her indissolubly.
Events were about to separate them, but her thoughts would accompany him across the Atlantic — stand suspended while his success was dubious, and hail his triumph with a joy equal to his own. The very thought gave fresh ardour to his desire to fulfil his task; he had no doubt of success, and, though the idea of his mother’s fate was still a cloud in the prospect, it only mellowed, without defacing, the glowing tints shed over it by love.
They met with undisguised pleasure; he sat near her, and gazed with such delight as, to one less inexperienced than Elizabeth, would have at once betrayed the secret of his heart. He told her that he had found a vessel about to sail for New York, and that he had engaged a passage on board. He was restless and uneasy, he feared a thousand chances; he felt as if he were neglecting his most sacred duty by any delay; there was something in him urging him on, telling him that the crisis was at hand; and yet, that any neglect on his part might cause the moment to slip by for ever. When arrived at New York, he should proceed with all speed to Washington, and then, if Osborne had not arrived, he should set forward to meet him. So much might intervene to balk his hopes! Osborne might die, and his secret die with him. Every moment’s delay was crime. The vessel was to drop down the river that very night, and to-morrow he was to join her at Sheerness. He had come to say farewell.
This sudden departure led to a thousand topics of interest; to his hopes — his certainty, that all would soon be revealed, and he rewarded for his long suffering. Such ideas led him to speak of the virtues of his mother, which were the foundation of his hopes. He spoke of her
as he remembered her; he described her watchful tenderness, her playful but well-regulated treatment of himself. Still in his dreams, he said, he sometimes felt pressed in her arms, and kissed with all the passionate affection of her maternal heart; in such sweet visions her cry of agony would mingle; it seemed the last shriek of woe and death. “Can you wonder,” continued Neville, “can my father, can Sophia wonder, that, recollecting all these things, I will not bear without a struggle that my mother’s name should be clouded, her fate encompassed by mystery and blame; her very warm, kind feelings and enchanting sensibility turned into accusations against her. I do indeed hope and believe, that I shall learn the truth whither I am going, and that the unfortunate victim of lawless violence, of whom Osborne spoke, is my lost mother; but, if I am disappointed in this expectation, I shall not for that give up my pursuit; it will only whet my purpose to seek the truth elsewhere.”
“And that truth may be less sad than you anticipate,” said Elizabeth, “yet I cannot help fearing that the miserable tragedy which you have heard, is connected with your mother’s fate.”
“That it is a tragedy may well dash my eagerness,” replied Neville; “for, right or wrong, I cannot help feeling that to see her again — to console her for her sufferings — to show that she is remembered, loved, idolized, by her son, would be a dearer reward to me, than triumph over the barbarous condemnation of the world, if that triumph is to be purchased by having lost her for ever. This is not an heroic feeling, I confess—”
“If it be heroism,” said Elizabeth, “to find our chief good in serving others; if compassion, sympathy, and generosity, be greater virtues, as I believe, than cold self-absorbed severity, then is your feeling founded on the purest portion of our nature.”
While they were thus talking, seated near each other, Elizabeth’s face beaming with celestial benignity, and Neville, in the warmth of his gratitude for her approval, had taken her hand and pressed it to his lips, the door opened, and Falkner slowly entered. He had not heard of the arrival of the stranger; but seeing a guest with Elizabeth, he divined in a moment who it was. The thought ran through his frame like an ice-bolt — his knees trembled under him — cold dew gathered on his brow — for a moment he leaned against the door-way, unable to support himself; while Elizabeth, perceiving his entrance, blushing she knew not why, and now frightened by the ghastly pallor of his face, started up, exclaiming, “My father! Are you ill?—”
