by Mary Shelley
“I see no way to do that now,” replied Osborne, hesitating; “I do not come for that, I come — I could not stay away — I thought something might be done.”
“Elizabeth, my love,” said Falkner, “you, at least, will thank Mr. Osborne for his spontaneous services — you are watching the clouds which were to bear along the vessel towards him, and beyond our hopes he is already here.”
Elizabeth listened breathlessly — she feared to utter a word lest it might prove a dream — now, gathering Falkner’s meaning, she came forward, and with all a woman’s grace addressed the trembling man, who already looked at the door as if he longed to be on the other side, fearful that he was caught in his own toils; for, as Hoskins said, the fascinated prey had wheeled yet nearer to his fate involuntarily — he had been unable to resist his desire to see Falkner, and learn how it was with him, but he still resolved not to risk any thing; he had represented himself to the magistrates as coming from Osborne, showing false papers, and a declaration drawn up by him at Washington, and attested before official men there, setting forth Falkner’s innocence; he had brought this over to see if it would serve his benefactor, and had thus got access to him: such was his reliance on the honour of his patron that he had not hesitated in placing himself in his power, well aware that he should not be detained by him against his will; for still his heart quailed, and his soul shrunk from rendering him the service that would save his life.
His manner revealed his thoughts to the observant Falkner, but Elizabeth, less well read in men’s hearts, younger and more sanguine, saw in his arrival the completion of her hopes, and she thanked him with so much warmth, and with such heartfelt praises of his kindness and generosity, that Osborne began to think that his greatest difficulty would be in resisting her fascination, and disappointing her wishes. He stammered out at last some lame excuses. All he could do consistently with safety, they might command; he had shown this by coming over — more could not be asked, could not be expected — he himself, God knew, was innocent, so was Mr. Falkner, of the crime he was charged with. But he had no hand whatever in the transaction, he was not in his confidence, he had not known even who the lady was; his testimony, after all, must be worth nothing, for he had nothing to tell, and for this he was to expose himself to disgrace and death.
Acquiring courage at the sound of his own voice, Osborne grew fluent. Elizabeth drew back — she looked anxiously at Falkner, and saw a cloud of displeasure and scorn gather over his countenance — she put her hand on his, as if to check the outbreak of his indignation; yet she herself, as Osborne went on, turned her eyes flashing with disdain upon him. The miserable fellow, cowed before the glances of both, he shifted from one foot to the other, he dared not look up, but he knew that their eyes were on him, and he felt the beams transfix him, and wither up his soul. There are weak men who yield to persuasion, there are weaker who are vanquished by reproaches and contempt; of such was Osborne. His fluency faded into broken accents; his voice died away — as a last effort, he moved towards the door.
“Enough, sir,” said Falkner, in a calm, contemptuous voice; “and now begone — hasten away — do not stop till you have gained the shore, the ship, the waves of the Atlantic: be assured I shall not send for you a second time, I have no desire to owe my life to you.”
“If I could save your life, Mr. Falkner,” he began; “but” —
“We will not argue that point,” interrupted Falkner; “it is enough that it is generally asserted that your testimony is necessary for my preservation. Were my crime as great as it is said to be, it would find its punishment in that humiliation. Go, sir, you are safe! I would not advise you to loiter here, return to America; walls have ears in abodes like these; you may be forced to save a fellow-creature against your will; hasten then away, go, eat, drink and be merry — whatever betides me, not even my ghost shall haunt you. Meanwhile, I would beg you no longer to insult me by your presence — begone at once.”
“You are angry, sir,” said Osborne timidly.
“I hope not,” replied Falkner, who had indeed felt his indignation rise, and checked himself; “I should be very sorry to feel anger against a coward; I pity you — you will repent this when too late.”
“Oh do not say so,” cried Elizabeth; “do not say he will repent when too late — but now, in time, I am sure that he repents; do you not, Mr. Osborne? You are told that your fears are vain; you know Mr. Falkner is far too noble to draw you into danger to save himself — you know even that he does not fear death, but ignominy, eternal horrible disgrace, and the end, the frightful end prepared, even he must recoil from that — and you — no, you cannot in cold blood, and with calm forethought, make him over to it — you cannot, I see that you cannot” —
“Forbear, Elizabeth!” interrupted Falkner in a tone of displeasure; “I will not have my life, nor even my honour, begged by you; let the worst come, the condemnation, the hangman — I can bear all, except the degradation of supplicating such a man as that.”
“I see how it is,” said Osborne. “Yes — you do with me as you will — I feared this, and yet I thought myself firm; do with me as you will — call the gaoler — I will surrender myself.” He turned pale as death, and tottered to a chair.
Falkner turned his back on him—”Go, sir!” he repeated, “I reject your sacrifice.”
“No, father, no,” cried Elizabeth eagerly; “say not so — you accept it — and I also with thanks and gratitude: yet it is no sacrifice, Mr. Osborne — I assure you that is not, at least, the sacrifice you fear — all is far easier than you think — there is no prison for you — you arrival need not yet be known — your consent being obtained, a pardon will be at once granted — you are to appear as a witness — not as a—” her voice faltered — she turned to Falkner, her eyes brimming over with tears. Osborne caught the infection, he was touched — he was cheered also by Elizabeth’s assurances, which he hoped that he might believe; hitherto he had been too frightened and bewildered to hear accurately even what he had been told — he fancied that he must be tried — the pardon might or might not come afterwards — the youth, earnestness, and winning beauty of Elizabeth moved him; and now that his fears were a little allayed, he could see more clearly, he was even more touched by, the appearance of his former benefactor. Dignity and yet endurance — suffering as well as fortitude — marked his traits; there was something so innately noble, and yet so broken by fortune, expressed in his commanding yet attenuated features and person — he was a wreck that spoke so plainly of the glorious being he had once been; there was so much majesty in his decay — such real innocence sat on his high and open brow, streaked though it was with disease — such lofty composure in his countenance, pale from confinement, and suffering — that Osborne felt a mixture of respect and pity that soon rose above every other feeling.
Reassured with regard to himself, and looking on his patron with eyes that caught the infection of Elizabeth’s tears, he came forward—”I beg your pardon, Mr. Falkner,” he said, “for my doubts — for my cowardice, if you please so to name it; I request you to forget it, and to permit me to come forward in your behalf. I trust you will not disdain my offer; though late, it comes, I assure you, from my heart.”
There was no mock dignity about Falkner, a sunny smile broke over his features as he held out his hand to Osborne. “And from my heart, I thank you,” he replied, “and deeply regret that you are to suffer any pain through me — mine was the crime, you the instrument; it is hard, very hard, that you should be brought to this through your complaisance to me; real danger for you there is none — or I would die this worst death rather than expose you to it.”
Elizabeth now, in all gladness, wrote a hasty note; desiring Mr. Colville to come to them, that all might at once be arranged. “And Gerard, dear father,” she said, “we must write to Mr. Neville to recall him from his far and fruitless journey.”
“Mr. Neville is in Liverpool,” said Osborne; “I saw him the very day before I came away �
� he doubtless was on the look out for me, and I dare swear Hoskins betrayed me. We must be on our guard” —
“Fear nothing from Mr. Neville,” replied Elizabeth; “he is too good and generous not to advocate justice and truth. He is convinced of my father’s innocence.”
They were interrupted — the solicitor entered — Osborne’s appearance was beyond his hopes — he could not believe in so much good fortune. He had begun to doubt, suspect, and fear — he speedily carried off his godsend, as he named him, to talk over, and bring into form his evidence, and all that appertained to his surrender — thus leaving Falkner with his adopted child.
Such a moment repaid for much; for Elizabeth’s hopes were high, and she knelt before Falkner, embracing his knees, thanking Heaven in a rapture of gratitude. He also was thankful; yet mortification and wounded pride struggled in his heart with a sense of gratitude for unhoped-for preservation. His haughty spirit rebelled against the obligation he owed to so mean a man as Osborne. It required hours of meditation — of reawakened remorse for Alithea’s fate — of renewed wishes that she should be vindicated before all the world — of remembered love for the devoted girl at his feet, to bring him back from the tumult of contending passions, to the fortitude and humility which he at every moment strove to cultivate.
Elizabeth’s sweet voice dispelled such storms, and rewarded him for the serenity he at last regained. It was impossible not to feel sympathy in her happiness, and joy in possessing the affection of so gentle, yet so courageous and faithful a heart. Elizabeth’s happiness was even more complete when she left him, and sat in her solitary room — there, where Gerard had so lately visited her, and his image, and her gratitude towards him mingled more with her thoughts: her last act that night, was to write to him, to tell him what had happened: It was her note that he received at Liverpool on the eve of his second departure, and which had changed his purpose. He had immediately set out for London to communicate the good tidings to Lady Cecil.
CHAPTER XV.
Thesehad been hours of sunshine for the prisoner and his child, such as seldom visit the precincts of a gaol, and soon, too soon they changed, and the usual gloom returned to the abode of suffering. In misfortune various moods assail us. At first we are struck, stunned, and overwhelmed; then the elastic spirit rises, it tries to shape misery in its own way, it adapts itself to it; it finds unknown consolations arise out of circumstances which in moments of prosperity were unregarded. But this temper of mind is not formed for endurance. As a sick person finds comfort in a new posture at first, but after a time the posture becomes restrained and wearisome; thus after mustering fortitude, patience, the calm spirit of philosophy, and the tender one of piety, and finding relief; suddenly the heart rebels, its old desires and old habits recur, and we are the more dissatisfied from being disappointed in those modes of support in which we trusted.
There was perpetual struggle in Falkner’s heart. Hatred of life, pride, a yearning for liberty, and a sore, quick spirit of impatience for all the bars and forms that stood between him and it, swelled like a tide in his soul. He hated himself for having brought himself thus low; he was angry that he had exposed Elizabeth to such a scene, he reviled his enemies in his heart, he accused destiny. Then again, if he but shut his eyes — the stormy river, the desolate sands, and the one fair being dead at his feet, presented themselves, and remorse, like a wind, drove back the flood. He felt that he had deserved it all, that he had himself woven the chain of circumstances which he called his fate, while his innocence of the crime brought against him imparted a lofty spirit of fortitude, and even of repose.
Elizabeth, with an angel’s love, watched the changes of his temper. Her sensibility was often wounded by his sufferings; but her benign disposition was so fertile of compassion and forbearance, that her own mood was never irritated by finding her attempts to console fruitless. She listened meekly when his overladen heart spent itself in invectives against the whole system of life; or catching a favourable moment, she strove to raise his mind to nobler and purer thoughts — unobtrusive, but never weary — eagerly gathering all good tidings, banishing the ill; her smiles, her tears, her cheerfulness or calm sadness, by turns relieved and comforted him.
Winter came upon them. It was wild and drear. Their abode, far in the north of the island, was cold beyond their experience, the dark prison-walls were whitened by snow, the bars of their windows were laden, Falkner looked out, the snow drifted against his face, one peep at the dusky sky was all that was allowed him; he thought of the wide steppes of Russia, the swift sledges, and how he longed for freedom! Elizabeth, as she walked home through the frost and sleet, gave a sigh for the soft seasons of Greece, and felt that a double winter gathered round her steps.
Day by day, time passed on. Each evening returning to her solitary fireside, she thought, “Another is gone, the time draws near;” she shuddered, despite her conviction that the trial would be the signal for the liberation of Falkner; she saw the barriers time had placed between him and fate, fall off one by one with terror; January and February passed, March had come — the first of March, the very month when all was to be decided, arrived. Poor tempest-tost voyagers! would the wished-for port be gained — should they ever exchange the uncertain element of danger for the firm land of security!
It was on the first of March that, returning home in the evening, she found a letter on her table from Neville. Poor Elizabeth! she loved with tenderness and passion — and yet how few of the fairy thoughts and visions of love had been hers — love with her was mingled with so dire a tragedy, such real oppressive griefs, that its charms seemed crimes against her benefactor; yet now, as she looked on the letter, and thought, “from him,” the rapture of love stole over her, her eyes were dimmed by the agitation of delight, and the knowledge that she was loved suspended every pain, filling her with soft triumph, and thrilling, though vague expectation.
She broke the seal — there was an inner envelope directed to Miss Raby — and she smiled at the mere thought of the pleasure Gerard must have felt in tracing that name — the seal, as he regarded it, of their future union; but when she unfolded the sheet, and glanced down the page, her attention was riveted by other emotions. Thus Neville wrote: —
“My own sweet Elizabeth, I write in haste, but doubt is so painful, and tidings fly so quickly, that I hope you will hear first by means of these lines, the new blow fate has prepared for us. My father lies dangerously ill. This, I fear, will again delay the trial — occasion prolonged imprisonment — and keep you still a martyr to those duties you so courageously fulfil. We must have patience. We are impotent to turn aside irrevocable decrees, yet when we think how much hangs on the present moment of time, the heart — my weak heart at least — is wrung by anguish.
“I cannot tell whether Sir Boyvill is aware of his situation — he is too much oppressed by illness for conversation; the sole desire he testifies is to have me near him. Once or twice he has pressed my hand, and looked on me with affection. I never remember to have received before, such testimonials of paternal love. Such is the force of the natural tie between us, that I am deeply moved, and would not leave him for the whole world. My poor father! — he has no friend, no relative but me; and now, after so much haughtiness and disdain, he, in his need, is like a little child, reduced to feel his only support in the natural affections. His unwonted gentleness subdues my soul. Oh, who would rule by power, when so much more absolute a tyranny is established through love!
“Sophia is very kind — but she is not his child. The hour approaches when we should be at Carlisle. What will be the result of our absence — what the event of this illness? — I am perplexed and agitated beyond measure; in a day or two all will be decided: if Sir Boyvill becomes convalescent, still it may be long before he can undertake so distant a journey.
“Do not fear that for a moment I shall neglect your interests, they are my own. For months I have lived only on the expectation of the hour when you should be liberated from the
horrors of your present position; and the anticipation of another delay is torture. Even your courage must sink, your patience have an end. Yet a little longer, my Elizabeth, support yourself, let not your noble heart fail at this last hour, this last attack of adversity. Be all that you have ever been, firm, resigned, and generous; in your excellence I place all my trust. I will write again very speedily, and if you can imagine any service that I can do you, command me to the utmost. I write by my father’s bedside; he does not sleep, but he is still. Farewell — I love you; in those words is summed a life of weal or woe for me and for you also, my Elizabeth? Do not call me selfish for feeling thus — even here.”
“Yes, yes,” thought Elizabeth; “busy fingers are weaving — the web of destiny is unrolling fast — we may not think, nor hope, nor scarcely breathe — we must await the hour — death is doing his work — what victim will he select?”
The intelligence in this letter, communicated on the morrow to all concerned in the coming trial, filled each with anxiety. In a very few days the assizes would commence; Falkner’s name stood first on the list — delay was bitter, yet he must prepare for delay, and arm himself anew with resolution. Several anxious days passed — Elizabeth received no other letter — she felt that Sir Boyvill’s danger was protracted, that Gerard was still in uncertainty — the post hour now became a moment of hope and dread — it was a sort of harassing inquietude hard to endure: at length a few lines from Lady Cecil arrived — they brought no comfort — all remained in the same state.
The assizes began — on the morrow the judges were expected in Carlisle — and already all that bustle commenced that bore the semblance of gaiety in the rest of the town, but which was so mournful and fearful in the gaol. There were several capital cases; as Elizabeth heard them discussed, her blood ran cold — she hated life, and all its adjuncts: to know of misery she could not alleviate was always saddening; but to feel the squalid mortal misery of such a place and hour brought home to her own heart, was a wretchedness beyond all expression, poignant and hideous.
