by Mary Shelley
Yet, as time passed, new anxieties occurred. Falkner’s solicitor, Mr. Colville, had dispatched an agent to America to bring Osborne over. The pardon promised insured his coming; and yet it was impossible not to feel inquietude with regard to his arrival. Falkner experienced least of this. He felt sure of Osborne, his creature, the being whose life he had heretofore saved, whose fortunes he had created. He knew his weakness, and how easily he was dealt with. The mere people of business were not so secure. Osborne enjoyed a comfortable existence, far from danger — why should he come over to place himself in a disgraceful situation, to be branded as a pardoned felon? In a thousand ways he might evade the summons. Perhaps there was nothing to prove that the Osborne whom Hoskins named, was the Osborne who had been employed by Falkner, and was deemed an accessory in Mrs. Neville’s death.
Hillary, who had been sent to Washington in September, had written immediately on his arrival. His passage had been tedious, as autumnal voyages to America usually are — he did not arrive till the last day of October; he announced that Osborne was in the town, and that on the morrow he should see him. This letter had arrived towards the end of November, and there was no reason wherefore Hillary and Osborne should not quickly follow it. But November passed away, and December had begun, and still the voyagers did not arrive; the south-west wind continued to reign with slight variation; except that as winter advanced, it became more violent: packets perpetually arrived in Liverpool from America, after passages of seventeen and twenty days; but Hillary did not return, nor did he write.
The woods were despoiled of their leaves; but still the air was warm and pleasant; and it cheered Elizabeth as favourable to her hopes; the sun shone at intervals, and the misty mornings were replaced by cheerful days. Elizabeth rode out each morning, and this one day, the sixteenth of December, she found a new pleasure in her solitary exercise. The weather was calm and cheerful; a brisk canter gave speed to the current of her blood; and her thoughts, though busy, had a charm in them that she was half angry with herself for feeling, but which glowed all warm and bright, despite every effort. On the preceding evening she had observed, on her return home, at nine o’clock, from the prison, the figure of a man, which passed her hastily, and then stood aloof, as if guarding and watching her at a distance. Once, as he stood under an archway, a flickering lamp threw his shadow across her path. It was a bright moonlight night, and as he stood in the midst of an open space near which her house was situated, she recognized, muffled as he was, the form of Gerard Neville. No wonder then that her heart was lightened of its burthen; he had not forgotten her — he could no longer command himself to absence; if he might not converse with her, at least he might look upon her as she passed.
On the same morning she entered her father’s prison-room, — she found two visiters already there, Colville and his agent Hillary. The faces of both were long and serious. Elizabeth turned anxiously to Falkner, who looked stern and disdainful. He smiled when he saw her, and said, “You must not be shocked, my love, at the news which these gentlemen bring. I cannot tell how far it influences my fate; but it is impossible to believe that it is irrevocably sealed by it. But who can express the scorn that a man must feel, to know that so abject a poltroon wears the human form. Osborne refuses to come.”
Such an announcement naturally filled her with dismay. At the request of Falkner, Hillary began again to relate the circumstances of his visit to America. He recounted, that finding that Osborne was in Washington, he lost no time in securing an interview. He delivered his letters to him, and said that he came from Mr. Falkner, on an affair of life and death. At the name, Osborne turned pale — he seemed afraid of opening the letters, and muttered something about there being a mistake. At length he broke the seals. Fear, in its most abject guise, blanched his cheek as he read, and his hand trembled so that he could scarcely hold the paper. Hillary, perceiving at last that he had finished reading, and was hesitating what to say, began himself to enter on the subject; when, faltering and stammering, Osborne threw the letter down, saying, “I said there was a mistake — I know nothing — all this affair is new to me — I never had concern with Mr. Falkner — I do not know who Mr. Falkner is.”
But for the pale, quivering lips of the man, and his tremulous voice, Hillary might have thought that he spoke truth; but he saw that cowardice was the occasion of the lie he told, and he endeavoured to set before him the perfect safety with which he might comply with the request he conveyed. But the more he said, Osborne, gathering assurance, the more obstinately denied all knowledge of the transactions in question, or their principal actor. He changed, warmed by his own words, from timid to impudent in his denials, till Hillary’s conviction began to be shaken a little; and at the same time he grew angry, and cross-questioned him with a lawyer’s art, about his arrival in America — questions which Osborne answered with evident trepidation. At last, he asked him, if he remembered such and such a house, and such a journey, and the name of his companion on the occasion; and if he recollected a person of the name of Hoskins? Osborne started at the word as if he had been shot. Pale he was before, but now his cheeks grew of a chalky white, his limbs refused to support him, and his voice died away; till, rousing himself, he pretended to fly into a violent passion at the insolence of the intrusion, and impertinence of the questions. As he spoke, he unwarily betrayed that he knew more of the transaction than he would willingly have allowed; at last, after running on angrily and incoherently for some time, he suddenly broke away, and (they were at a tavern) left the room, and also the house.
Hillary hoped that, on deliberation, he would come to his senses. He sent the letters after him to his house, and called the next day; but he was gone — he had left Washington the evening before by the steamer to Charlestown. Hillary knew not what to do. He applied to the government authorities; they could afford him no help. He also repaired to Charlestown. Some time he spent in searching for Osborne — vainly; it appeared plain that he travelled under another name. At length, by chance, he found a person who knew him personally, who said that he had departed a week before for New Orleans. It seemed useless to make this further journey, yet Hillary made it, and with like ill-success. Whether Osborne was concealed in that town — whether he had gone to Mexico, or lurked in the neighbouring country, could not be discovered. Time wore away in fruitless researches, and it became necessary to come to a decision. Hopeless of success, Hillary thought it best to return to England — with the account of his failure — so that no time might be lost in providing a remedy, if any could be found, to so fatal an injury to their cause.
While this tale was being told, Falkner had leisure to recover from that boiling of the blood which the first apprehension of unworthy conduct in one of our fellow-creatures is apt to excite, and now spoke with his usual composure. “I cannot believe,” he said, “that this man’s evidence is of the import which is supposed. No one, in fact, believes that I am a murderer; every one knows that I am innocent. All that we have to do, is to prove this in a sort of technical and legal manner; and yet hardly that — for we are not to address the deaf ear of law, but the common sense of twelve men, who will not be slow, I feel assured, in recognizing the truth. All that can be done to make my story plain, and to prove it by circumstances, of course must be done; and I do not fear but that, when it is ingenuously and simply told, it will suffice for my acquittal.”
“It is right to hope for the best,” said Mr. Colville; “but Osborne’s refusal to come is, in itself, a bad fact; the prosecutor will insist much upon it — I would give a hundred pounds to have him here.”
“I would not give a hundred pence,” said Falkner, drily.
The other stared — the observation had an evil effect on his mind; he fancied that his client was even glad that a witness so material refused to appear, and this to him had the aspect of guilt. He continued, “I am so far of a different opinion, that I should advise sending a second time. Had you a friend sufficiently zealous to undertake a voyage across
the Atlantic for the purpose of persuading Osborne” —
“I would not ask him to cross a ditch’ for the purpose,” — interrupted Falkner, with some asperity. “Let such men as would believe a dastard like Osborne in preference to a gentleman, and a soldier, take my life, if they will. It is not worth this pains in my own eyes — and thirsted for by my fellow men — it is a burthen I would willingly lay down.”
The soft touch of Elizabeth’s hand placed on his recalled him — he looked on her tearful eyes, and became aware of his fault — he smiled to comfort her. “I ought to apologize to these gentlemen for my hastiness,” he said;—”and to you, my dear girl, for my apparent trifling — but there is a degradation in these details that might chafe a more placid temper. — I cannot — I will not descend to beg my life — I am innocent, this all men must know, or at least will know, when their passions are no longer in excitement against me — I can say no more — I cannot win an angel from heaven to avouch my guiltlessness of her blood — I cannot draw this miserable fellow from his cherished refuge. All must fall on my own shoulders — I must support the burthen of my fate; I shall appear before my judges; if they, seeing me, and hearing me speak, yet pronounce me guilty, let them look to it — I shall be satisfied to die, so to quit at once a blind, blood-thirsty world!”
The dignity of Falkner as he spoke these words, the high, disdainful, yet magnanimous expression of his features, the clear though impassioned tone of his voice, thrilled the hearts of all. “Thank God, I do love this man even as he deserves to be loved,” was the tender sentiment that lighted up Elizabeth’s eyes; while his male auditors could not help, both by countenance and voice, giving token that they were deeply moved. On taking their leave soon after, Mr. Colville grasped Falkner’s hand cordially, and bade him rest assured that his zeal, his utmost endeavours, should not be wanting to serve him. “And,” he added, in obedience rather to his newly awakened interest than his judgment, “I cannot doubt but that our endeavours will be crowned with complete success.”
A man of real courage always finds new strength unfold within him to meet a larger demand made upon it. Falkner was now, perhaps for the first time, thoroughly roused to meet the evils of his lot. He threw off every natural, every morbid sensibility, and strung himself at once to a higher and firmer tone of mind. He renounced the brittle hopes before held out to him — of this or that circumstance being in his favour — he intrusted unreservedly his whole cause to the mighty irresistible power who rules human affairs, and felt calm and free. If by disgrace and death he were to atone for the destruction of his victim — so let it be — the hour of suffering would come, and it would pass away — and leaving him a corpse, the vengeance of his fellow-creatures would end there. He felt that the decree for life or death having received already the irrefragable fiat — he was prepared for both; and he resolved from that hour to drive all weak emotions, all struggle, all hope or fear from his soul. “Let God’s will be done!” something of Christian resignation — something (derived from his eastern life) of belief in fatality — and something of philosophic fortitude, composed the feeling that engraved this sentiment in his heart, in ineffaceable characters.
He now spoke of Osborne to Elizabeth without acrimony. “My indignation against that man was all thrown away,” he said; “we do not rebuke the elements when they destroy us, and why should we spend our anger against men? — a word from Osborne, they say, would save me — the falling of the wind, or the allaying of the waves, would have saved Alithea — both are beyond our control. I imagined in those days that I could guide events — till suddenly the reins were torn from my hands. A few months ago I exulted, in expectation that the penalty demanded for my crime would be the falling by the hands of her son — and here I am an imprisoned felon! — and now we fancy that this thing or that might preserve me; while in truth all is decreed, all registered, and we must patiently await the appointed time. Come what may, I am prepared — from this hour I have taught my spirit to bend, and to be content to die. When all is over, men will do me justice, and that poor fellow will bitterly lament his cowardice. It will be agony to him to remember that one word would have preserved my life then, when no power on earth can recall me to existence. He is not a bad man — and could he now have represented to him his after remorse, he would cease to exhibit such lamentable cowardice — a cowardice, after all, that has its origin in the remnants of good feeling. The fear of shame; horror at having participated in so fearful a tragedy; and a desire to throw off the consequences of his actions which is the perpetual and stinging accompaniment of guilt, form his motives; but could he be told how immeasurably his sense of guilt will be increased, if his silence occasions my death, all these would become minor considerations, and vanish on the instant.”
“And would it be impossible,” said Elizabeth, “to awaken this feeling in him?”
“By no means,” replied Falkner; “though it is out of our power. We sent a mercenary, not indeed altogether lukewarm, but still not penetrated by that ardour, nor capable of that eloquence, which is necessary to move a weak man, like the one he had to deal with. Osborne is, in some sort, a villain; but he is too feeble-minded to follow out his vocation. He always desired to be honest. Now he has the reputation of being such; from being one of those miserable creatures, the refuse of civilization, preying upon the vices, while they are the outcasts of society, he has become respectable and trust-worthy in the eyes of others. He very naturally clings to advantages dearly earned — lately gained. He fancies to preserve them by deserting me. Could the veil be lifted — could the conviction be imparted of the wretch he will become in his own eyes, and of the universal execration that will be heaped on him after my death, his mind would entirely change, and he would be as eager, I had almost said, to come forward, as now he is set upon concealment and silence.”
CHAPTER XII.
Elizabethlistened in silence. All that had passed made a deep impression — from the moment that the solicitor had expressed a wish, that Falkner had a zealous friend to cross the Atlantic — till now, that he himself dilated on the good that would result from representations being clearly and fervently made to Osborne, she was revolving an idea that absorbed her whole faculties.
This idea was no other than going to America herself. She had no doubt, that, seeing Osborne, she could persuade him, and the difficulties of the journey appeared slight to her who had travelled so much. She asked Falkner many questions, and his answers confirmed her more and more in her plan. No objection presented itself to her mind; already she felt sure of success. There was scarcely time, it was true, for the voyage; but she hoped that the trial might be again deferred, if reasonable hopes were held out of Osborne’s ultimate arrival. It was painful to leave Falkner without a friend, but the object of her journey was paramount, even to this consideration; it must, it should, be undertaken. Still she said nothing of her scheme, and Falkner could not guess at what was passing in her mind.
Wrapped in the reverie suggested by such a plan, she returned home in the evening, without thinking of the apparition of Neville, which had so filled her mind in the morning. It was not till at her own door, that the thought glanced through her mind, and she remembered that she had seen nothing of him — she looked across the open space where he had stood the evening before. It was entirely vacant. She felt disappointed, and saddened; and she began to reflect on her total friendlessness — no one to aid her in-preparations for her voyage — none to advise — her sole resource was in hirelings. But her independent, firm spirit quickly threw off this weakness, and she began a note to Mr. Colville, asking him to call on her, as she wished to arrange every thing definitively before she spoke to Falkner. As she wrote, she heard a rapid, decided step in her quiet street, followed by a hurried, yet gentle knock at her door. She started up. “It is he!” the words were on her lips, when Gerard entered; she held out her hand, gladness thrilling through her whole frame, her heart throbbing wildly — her eyes lighted up with joy. �
�This is indeed kind,” she cried. “Oh, Mr. Neville, how happy your visit makes me!”
He did not look happy; he had grown paler and thinner, and the melancholy which had sat on his countenance before, banished for a time by her, had returned, with the addition of a look of wildness, that reminded her of the youth of Baden; Elizabeth was shocked to remark these traces of suffering; and her next impulse was to ask, “What has happened? I fear some new misfortune has occurred.”
“It is the property of misfortune to be ever new,” he replied, “to be always producing fresh and more miserable results. I have no right to press my feelings on you; your burthen is sufficient; but I could not refrain any longer from seeing in what way adversity had exerted its pernicious influence over you.”
His manner was gloomy and agitated; she, resigned, devoted to her duties, commanding herself day by day to fulfil her task of patience, and of acquiring cheerfulness for Falkner’s sake, imagined that some fresh disaster must be the occasion of these marks of emotion. She did not know that fruitless struggles to alleviate the evils of her situation, vain broodings over its horrors, and bitter regret at losing her, had robbed him of sleep, of appetite, of all repose. “I despise myself for my weakness,” he said, “when I see your fortitude. You are more than woman, more than human being ever was, and you must feel the utmost contempt for one, whom fortune bends and breaks as it does me. You are well, however, and half my dreams of misery have been false and vain. God guards and preserves you: I ought to have placed more faith in him.”
