by Mary Shelley
“Be that my task,” said Gerard, trembling and pale from the conflict of passion; “I take the office of vengeance on myself — I will meet Mr. Falkner.”
“Ha! you think of a duel!” cried his father. “Remember your promise, young man — I hold you strictly to it — you do nothing without first communicating with me. You must read these papers before you decide; I have decided — be not afraid, I shall not forestall your purpose, I will not challenge the murderer; but, in return for this pledge, give me your word that you have no communication with the villain till you see me again. I will not baulk you of your revenge, be sure of that; but you must see me first.”
“I promise” — said Gerard.
“And one word more,” continued Sir Boyvill; “Is there any possibility of this man’s escape? Is he wrapped in the security which his lie affords, or has he even now fled beyond our vengeance?”
“Be his crimes what they may,” replied Neville, “I believe him to entertain a delicate sense of worldly honour. He has promised to remain in his home till he hears from me. He doubtless expects to be challenged, and I verily believe desires to die. I feel convinced that the idea of flight has not crossed his mind.”
“Enough; good night. We are now one, Gerard; united by our love and honour for your wronged mother’s memory, and by our revenge; dissimilar only in this, that my desire to repair her injuries is more vehement even than yours.” Sir Boyvill pressed his son’s hand, and left him. A few minutes afterwards, it would seem, he quitted the house.
“Now to my task,” thought Neville; “and oh, thou God, who watchest over the innocent, and yet gavest the innocent into the hands of the destroyer, rule thou the throbbings of my heart; that neither mad hate, nor hunger for revenge, take away my human nature, and turn me into a fiend!”
He took up the manuscript; at first the words seemed written in fire, but he grew calmer as he found how far back the narration went; and curiosity succeeding to devouring impatience, he became attentive.
He read and pitied. All that awoke Sir Boyvill’s ire; Falkner’s presumption in daring to love, and his long-cherished constancy, excited his compassion. When he came to the account of the meeting of the forsaken lover and happy husband, he found, in the epithets so liberally bestowed in the contemptuous description of his father, a cause for his augmented desire for vengeance. When he read that his mother herself repined, herself spoke disparagingly of her husband, he wondered at the mildness of Sir Boyvill’s expressions with regard to her, and began to suspect that some strange and appalling design must be working in his head to produce this unnatural composure. The rest was madness, madness and misery, thus to take a wife and mother from her home, to gratify the insane desire to exert for one half hour a power he had lost for ever; the vain hope of turning her from her duties, which at least, as far as her children were concerned, were the dearest part of herself; her terror, her incapacity of mastering her alarm, the night of insensibility which she passed in the hut — with a start, Gerard felt sure that he had seen and marked that very spot; all wrought him up to the height of breathless interest; till, when he read the sad end of all, cold dew gathered on his brow, the tears that filled his eyes changed to convulsive sobbings, and, despite his manhood, he wept with the agony of a child.
He ended the tale, and he thought—”Yes, there is but one termination to this tragedy; I must avenge my sweet mother, and, by the death of Falkner, proclaim her innocence. But wherefore, it came across his mind, had his father called him murderer? in intention and very deed he was none; why term the narrative a lie. He followed it word by word, and felt that truth was stamped in every line.
The house was still; it was two in the morning. Had his father retired to rest? He had been so absorbed by his occupation, that he had heard no sound, knew nothing that might have been passing around. He remembered at last Sir Boyvill’s Good night, and believing, as all was hushed, that all slept, he retired to his own room. He could not think of Elizabeth, or of the projected duel; he could think only of the narrative he had read. When in bed, unable to sleep, he rose, lighted his candle, and read much of it again: he pondered over every word, in the concluding pages; it was all true, he would have staked his existence on the accuracy of every word: was it not stamped on Falkner’s brow, as he had seen him but a few hours ago? sad, and worn with grief and suffering, but without the stain of concealed guilt, lofty in its very woe. It was break of day, just as Gerard was thinking of rising to find and consult with his father, that sleep crept unawares over him. Sleep will visit the young unbidden; he had suffered so much fatigue of mind and body, that nature sought relief; sleep, at first disturbed, but soon profound and refreshing, steeped his distracted thoughts in peace, his wearied limbs in delightful repose.
The morning was far advanced when he awoke, refreshed, ready to meet the necessities of the hour, grieved, but composed, sad, but strengthened and resolved. He inquired for his father, and heard, to his infinite astonishment, that he had left town; he had set out in his travelling carriage at four that morning; a note from him was put into Neville’s hands. It contained few words: “Remember your engagement — that you take no steps, with regard to Mr. Falkner, till you have seen me. I am setting out for Dromore; on my return, which will be speedy, I will communicate my wishes, to which I do not doubt you will accede.”
Neville was startled; he guessed at once Sir Boyvill’s aim in the sudden journey; — but was he not a fit partner in such an act? ought he not to share in the duty of rendering honour to his mother’s grave? He felt that he ought to be at his father’s side, and, ordering his own chariot, set out with the hope of overtaking him.
But Sir Boyvill travelled with equal speed, and was many miles and many hours in advance. Gerard hoped to come up with him when he stopped at night. But the old gentleman was so eager in his pursuit, that he prosecuted his journey without rest. Gerard continued in the same way; travelling alone, he revolved again and again all that must be, all that might have been. Whatever happened, he was divided from Elizabeth for ever. Did she love him? he had scarcely questioned the return his affection would one day meet, till now that he had lost her for ever; and, like a true lover, earnestly desirous to preserve some property in her he loved, he cherished the hope that she would share his deep regrets, and so prove that in heart they were one. How pleasant were the days they had passed at Oakly; all his sorrows there, and his passionate desire to unveil the mystery of his mother’s fate, how had it given an interest to each hour, and imparted an untold and most sweet grace to the loved Elizabeth, that she should sympathize with so much fervour and kindness.
How strange the chance that led the daughter of the destroyer to share the feelings of the unhappy victim’s son; yet stranger still that that destroyer had a child. Rambling among many tangled thoughts, Gerard started when first this idea suggested itself. Where was Falkner’s boasted fidelity, on which he laid claim to compassion and pardon; where his assertion, that all his soul was centred in Alithea? and this child, an angel from her birth, was even then born to him; he opened the writing-case which contained the papers, and which he carried with him; he referred to them for explanation. Yes, Elizabeth then lived, and was not far from him; her hand had staid his arm, raised against his life. It was not enough that the frenzy of passion urged him to tear Alithea from her home and children, but even the existence of his own daughter was no restraint, he was willing to doom her from very childhood to a partnership in guilt and misery. Hitherto, despite all, and in despite of his resolve to meet him in mortal encounter, Neville had pitied Falkner; but now his heart grew hard against him, he began to revolve thoughts similar to those expressed by Sir Boyvill, and to call Elizabeth’s father an impostor, his tale a lie. He re-read the manuscript with a new feeling of scepticism; this time he was against the writer, he detected exaggeration, where, before, he had only found the energy of passion: he saw an attempt to gloss over guilt, where, before, he had read merely the struggles of conscience, the
innate innocence of profound feeling, combating with the guilt, which circumstances may impart to our loftiest emotions; his very sufferings became but the just visitation of angry Heaven; he was a wretch, whom to kill were mercy — and Elizabeth, beautiful, generous, and pure, was his child!
CHAPTER III.
That night was spent in travelling, and without any sleep. Neville saw the daybreak in melancholy guise, struggling with the clouds, with which a south-east wind veiled the sky. Nature looked bleak and desolate, even though she was still dressed in her summer garments. It was only the latter end of August, but so changeable is our climate, that the bright festive days which he had lately enjoyed in Sussex, were already followed by chill and dreary precursors of the year’s decline. Gerard reached Dromore at about noon. He learned that his father had arrived during the night — he had slept a few hours, but was already gone out; it appeared that he had ridden over to a neighbour, Mr. Ashley; for he had inquired if he were in the county, and had, with his groom, both on horseback, taken the road that led towards his house.
Neville hastily took some refreshment, while he ordered a horse to be saddled. — His heart led him to seek and view a spot which he had once before visited, and which seemed accurately described in Falkner’s narrative. He left behind him the woods of Dromore, and the foldings of the green hills in which it was situated — he descended towards the barren dreary shore — the roar of ocean soon met his ear, and he reached the waste sands that border that melancholy coast — he saw the line of sand-hills, which formed a sort of bulwark against the tide — he reached at length a rapid, yet shallow stream, which was but about twenty yards wide, flowing over a rough bottom of pebbles; the eye easily reached its utmost depth, it could not be more than two feet. Could that be the murderous, furious estuary in which his mother had been borne away? he looked across — there stood the hut — there the moss-grown, leafless oak, and gathered round it was a crowd of men. His father, and two or three other gentlemen on horseback, were stationed near — while some labourers were throwing up the sand beneath the withered trunk. When we have long thought of and grieved over an incident — if any outward object bring the image of our thoughts bodily before us, it is strange what an accession of emotion stirs the depths of the heart. For many hours Neville’s mind had dwelt upon the scene in all its parts — the wild waste sea, dark and purple beneath the lowering clouds — the dreary extent of beach — the far, stupendous mountains, thrown up in sublime, irregular grandeur, with cloud-capt peaks, and vast gulfs between — a sort of Cyclopean screen to the noble landscape, which they encompassed with their wide majestic extent — his reflections had selected the smaller objects — the river, the hut, the monumental tree; and it seemed as if actual vision could not bring it home more truly; but when he actually beheld these objects, and the very motive of his coming was revealed, as it were, by the occupation of the men at work, his young heart, unhardened by many sufferings, sickened, the tears rushed into his eyes, and the words—”O my mother!” burst from his lips. It was a spasm of uncontrollable pain — an instant afterwards he had mastered it, and guiding his horse through the ford, with tranquil mien, though pale and sad, he took his station abreast with his father. Sir Boyvill turned as he rode up; he manifested no surprise, but he looked thankful, and even triumphant, Gerard thought; and the young man himself, as he contemplated the glazed eyes and attenuated form of his parent, which spoke of the weight of years, despite his still upright carriage, and the stern expression of his face, felt that his right place was at his side, to render the support of his youthful strength, and active faculties. The men went on with their work in silence, nor did any speak; the sand was thrown up in heaps, the horses pawed the ground impatiently, and the hollow murmurs of the neighbouring breakers filled every pause with sound, but no voice spoke; or if one of the labourers had a direction to give, it was done in whispers. At length some harder substance opposed their progress, and they worked more cautiously. Mingled with sand they threw out pieces of dark substance like cloth or silk, and at length got out of the wide long trench they had been opening. With one consent, though in silence, every one gathered nearer, and looked in — they saw a human skeleton. The action of the elements, which the sands had not been able to impede, had destroyed every vestige of a human frame, except those discoloured bones, and long tresses of dark hair, which were wound around the skull. A universal yet suppressed groan burst from all. Gerard felt inclined to leap into the grave, but the thought of the many eyes all gazing, acted as a check; and a second instinctive feeling of pious reverence induced him to unfasten his large black horseman’s cloak, and to cast it over the opening. Sir Boyvill then broke the silence: “You have done well, my son; let no man lift that covering, or in any way disturb the remains beneath. Do you know, my friends, who lies there? Do you remember the night when Mrs. Neville was carried off? The country was raised, but we sought for her in vain. On that night she was murdered, and was buried here.”
A hollow murmur ran through the crowd, already augmented by several stragglers, who had heard that something strange was going on. All pressed forward, though but to see the cloak, now become an object of curiosity and interest. Several remembered the lady, whose mouldered remains were thus revealed, in the pride of youth and beauty, warm of heart, kind, beloved; and this was all left of her! these unseemly bones were all earth had to show of the ever sweet Alithea!
“Mr. Ashley kindly assists me,” continued Sir Boyvill; “we are both magistrates. The coroner is already sent for, a jury will be summoned; when that duty is performed, the remains of my unfortunate, much-wronged wife will be fitly interred. These ceremonies are necessary for the punishment of the murderer. We know him, he cannot escape; and you, every one of you, will rejoice in that vengeance which will be mine at last.”
Execrations against the villain burst from every lip; yet even then each eye turned from old Sir Boyvill, whose vindictive nature had been showed before towards the hapless victim herself, to the young man, the son, whose grief and pious zeal had been the theme of many a gossip’s story, and who now, pale and mute as he was, showed, in his intent and woe-struck gaze, more true touch of natural sorrow than Sir Boyvill’s wordy harangue could denote.
“We must appoint constables to guard this place,” said Sir Boyvill.
Mr. Ashley assented; the proper arrangements were made; the curious were to be kept off, and two servants from Dromore were added to the constables; then the gentlemen rode off. Neville, bewildered, desirous to stay to look once again on what had been his mother, yet averse to the vulgar gaze, followed them at a slower pace, till Mr. Ashley, taking leave of Sir Boyvill, rode away, and he perceived that his father was waiting for him, and that he must join him.
“Thank you, my son,” said Sir Boyvill, “for your zeal and timely arrival. I expected it of you. We are one now; one to honour your mother; one in our revenge. You will not this time refuse your evidence.”
“Do you then believe that Mr. Falkner is actually a murderer?” cried Neville.
“Let the laws of his country decide on that question,” replied Sir Boyvill, with a sneering laugh. “I bring forward the facts only, you do the same; let the laws of his country, and a jury of his equals, acquit or condemn him.”
“Your design then is to bring him to a trial?” asked Gerard. “I should have thought that the publicity—”
“I design,” cried Sir Boyvill, with uncontrolled passion, “to bring him to a fate more miserable than his victim’s; and I thank all-seeing Heaven, which places such ample revenge in my hands. He will die by the hands of the hangman, and I shall be satisfied.”
There was something horrible in the old man’s look and voice; he gloated on the foul disgrace about to be heaped on his enemy. The chivalrous notions of Gerard, a duel between the destroyer and his victim’s son, was a paltry, trifling vengeance, compared with the ignominy he contemplated. “Was not the accusation against your mother loud,” continued Sir Boyvill, “public,
universal? Did not the assembled parliament pronounce upon her guilt, and decree her shame? And shall her exculpation be hushed up and private? I court publicity. A less august tribunal, but one whose decisions are no less widely circulated, shall proclaim her innocence. This idea alone would decide my course, if I could so far unman my soul as to forget that vengeance is due. Let it decide yours, if so much milk still mingle with your blood, that it sicken at the thought of justice against a felon.”
Transported by rage, Sir Boyvill sought for words bitter and venomous enough to convey his meaning; and Neville discerned at once how much he was incensed by the language used with regard to him in Falkner’s manuscript. Wounded vanity sought to ape injured feelings; in such petty selfish passions, Gerard could take no share, and he observed: “Mr. Falkner is a gentleman. I confess that his narration has won belief from me. His crime, dressed in his own words, is frightful enough; and heavily, if it be left to me, shall I visit it; but the plan you adopt is too discordant with the habits of persons of our rank of life, for me to view it without aversion. There is another which I prefer adopting.”
“You mean,” replied Sir Boyvill, “that you would challenge him, risk your life on the chance of taking his. Pardon me; I can by no means acquiesce in the propriety of such an act. I look on the wrongs he has done us as depriving him of the right to be treated with courtesy; nor do I wish him to add the death of my only son, to the list of the injuries I have sustained.”
The old man paused: his lip quivered — his voice dropped. Neville fancied that tenderness of feeling caused these indications; he was deceived; his father continued: “I am endeavouring so far to command myself as to speak with moderation. It is difficult to find words to express implacable hatred, so let that go by, and let us talk, since you can, and believe doubtless that I ought, calmly and reasonably. You would challenge this villain, this gentleman, as you name him. You would put your life on a par with his. He murdered your mother, and to repay me, you would die by the same hand.
