by Mary Shelley
When once the trial had begun, and his preliminary part had been played, Falkner sat down. He became, to all appearance, abstracted. He was, indeed, thinking of things more painful than even the present scene; the screams and struggles of the agonized Alithea — her last sad sleep in the hut upon the shore — the strangling, turbid waves — her wet, lifeless form — her low, unnamed grave dug by him: had these been atoned for by long years of remorse and misery, or was the present ignominy, and worse that might ensue, fitting punishment? Be it as it might, he was equal to the severest blows, and ready to lay down a life in compensation for that of which he, most unintentionally, and yet most cruelly, had deprived her. His thoughts were not recalled to the present scene, till a voice struck his ear, so like hers — did the dead speak? Knit up as he was to the endurance of all, he trembled from head to foot; he had been so far away from that place, till the echo, as it were, of Alithea’s voice, recalled him; in a moment he recovered himself, and found that it was her child, Gerard Neville, who was giving his evidence.
He heard the son of his victim speak of him as innocent, and a thrill of thankfulness entered his soul; he smiled, and hope and sympathy with his fellow-creatures, and natural softening feelings, replaced the gloomy bitterness and harshness of his past reflections. He felt that he should be acquitted, and that it became him to impress all present favourably; it became him to conduct himself so as to show his confidence in the justice of those on whom his fate depended, and at once to assert the dignity of innocence. From that time he gave himself entirely up to the details of the trial; he became attentive, and not the less calm and resolute, because he believed that his own exertions would crown the hour with success. The spectators saw the change in him, and were roused to double interest. The court clock, meanwhile, kept measure of the time that passed; the hands travelled silently on — another turn, and all would be over; — and what would then be?
CHAPTER XVII.
Elizabeth meanwhile might envy the resolution that bore him through these appalling scenes. On the night after leaving him, she had not even attempted to rest. Wrapped in a shawl, she threw herself on a sofa, and told each hour, during the livelong night; her reveries were wild, vague, and exquisitely painful. In the morning she tried to recall her faculties — she remembered her conviction that on that day Falkner would be liberated, and she dressed herself with care, that she might welcome him with the appearances of rejoicing. She expected, with unconquerable trepidation, the hour when the court would meet. Before that hour, there was a knock at her door, and a visiter was announced; it was Mrs. Raby.
It was indeed a solace to see a friendly face of her own sex — she had been so long deprived of this natural support. Lady Cecil had now and then written to her — her letters were always affectionate, but she seemed stunned by the magnitude of the blow that had fallen on her friend, and unable to proffer consolation. With kindness of heart, sweetness of temper, and much good sense, still Lady Cecil was common-place and worldly. Mrs. Raby was of a higher order of being. She saw things too exclusively through one medium — and thus the scope of her exertions was narrowed; but that medium was a pure and elevated one. In visiting Elizabeth, on this occasion, she soared beyond it.
Long and heavily had her desertion of the generous girl weighed on her conscience. She could sympathize in her heroism, and warmly approve — it was in her nature to praise and to reward merit, and she had withheld all tribute from her abandoned niece. The interests of her religion, blended with those of family, actuated her, and while resisting a natural impulse of generosity she fancied that she was doing right. She had spoken concerning her with no one but Lady Cecil; and she, while she praised her young friend, forgot to speak of Falkner, and there lay the stumbling-block to every motion in her favour.
When Elizabeth repaired to Carlisle, Mrs. Raby returned to Belleforest. She scarcely knew how to introduce the subject to her father-in-law, and when she did, he, verging into dotage, only said; “Act as you please, my dear, I rely on you; act for the honour and welfare of yourself and your children.” The old man day by day lost his powers of memory and reason; by the time of the trial he had become a mere cipher. Every responsibility fell on Mrs. Raby; and she, eager to do right and fearful to do wrong, struggled with her better nature — wavered, repented, and yet remained inactive.
Neville strongly reprobated the conduct of every one towards Elizabeth. He had never seen Mrs. Raby, but she in particular he regarded with the strongest disapprobation. It so happened, that the very day after his father’s death, he was at Lady Cecil’s when Mrs. Raby called, and by an exception in the general orders — made for Elizabeth’s sake, — she was let come up. Gerard was alone in the drawing-room when she was announced — he rose hastily, meaning to withdraw, when the lady’s appearance changed his entire mind. We ridicule the minutia of the science of physiognomy — but who is not open to first impressions? Neville was prepossessed favourably by Mrs. Raby’s countenance; her open thoughtful brow, her large dark melancholy eyes, her dignity of manner joined to evident marks of strong feeling, at once showed him that he saw a woman capable of generous sentiments and heroic sacrifice. He felt that there must have been some grievous error in Sophia’s proceedings not to have awakened more active interest in her mind. While he was forming these conclusions, Mrs. Raby was struck by him in an equally favourable manner. No one could see Gerard Neville without feeling that something angelic — something nobly disinterested — unearthly in its purity, yet, beyond the usual nature of man, sympathetic, animated a countenance that was all sensibility, genius, and love. In a minute they were intimate friends. Lady Cecil hearing that they were together, would not interrupt them; and their conversation was long. Neville related his first acquaintance with Elizabeth Raby — he sketched the history of Falkner — he described him — and the scene when he denounced himself as the destroyer of Alithea. He declared his conviction of his innocence — he narrated Sir Boyvill’s dying words. Then they both dwelt on his long imprisonment, Elizabeth’s faithful affection, and all that they must have undergone — enough to move the stoniest heart. Tears rushed into Gerard’s eyes while he spoke — while he described her innocence, her integrity, her total forgetfulness of self. “And I have deserted her,” exclaimed Mrs. Raby; “we have all deserted her — this must not continue. You go to Carlisle to-morrow for the trial; the moment it is over, and Mr. Falkner acquitted — when they have left that town, where all is so full of their name and story — I will see her, and try to make up for my past neglect.”
“It will be too late,” said Gerard; “you may then please yourself by admiring one so superior to every human being; but you will not benefit her — Falkner acquitted, she will have risen above all need of your support. Now is the hour to be of use. The very hour of the trial, when this unfortunate, heroic girl is thrown entirely on herself — wounded by her absolute friendlessness, yet disdaining to complain. I could almost wish that Sophia would disregard appearances, and hasten to her side; although her connexion with our family would render that too strange. But you, Mrs. Raby, what should stop you? she is your niece — how vain to attempt to conceal this from the world — it must be known — through me, I fondly trust, it will be known — who shall claim her as Miss Raby — when as Elizabeth Falkner, I could never see her more. And when it is known, will not your desertion be censured? Be wise, be generous — win that noblest and gentlest heart by your kindness now, and the very act will be your reward. Hasten to Carlisle; be with her in the saddest hour that ever one so young and innocent passed through.”
Mrs. Raby was moved, she was persuaded, she felt a veil fall from before her eyes, she saw her duty, and she keenly felt the littleness of her past desertion; she did not hesitate; and now that she perceived how gladly her niece welcomed her in this hour of affliction, and how gratefully she appreciated her kindness, she found in the approval of her own heart the sweetest recompense for her disinterestedness.
Elizabeth’s swollen eyes,
and timid, hurried manner, betrayed how she had passed the night, and how she was possessed by the most agitating fears. Still she spoke of the acquittal of her father, as she took pride in calling him at this crisis, as certain; and Mrs. Raby taking advantage of this, endeavoured to draw her mind from the torture of representing to herself the progress of the scene then acting at so short a distance from them, by speaking of the future. Elizabeth mentioned Falkner’s determination to quit England, and her own to accompany him; the hinted dissuasion of Mrs. Raby she disregarded. “He has been a father to me — I am his child. What would you say to a daughter who deserted her father in adversity and sickness? And, dear Mrs. Raby, you must remember that my father is, in spite of all his courage, struck by disease; accustomed to my attentions, he would die if left to hirelings. Deserted by me, he would sink into apathy or despair.”
Mrs. Raby listened — she admired the enthusiasm and yet the softness, the sensibility and firmness, of her young kinswoman; but she was pained; many ideas assailed her, but she would not entertain them, they were too wild and dangerous; and yet her heart, formed for generosity, was tempted to trample upon the suggestions of prudence and the qualms of bigotry. To give diversion to her thoughts she mentioned Gerard Neville. A blush of pleasure, a smile shown more in the eyes than on the lips, mantled over her niece’s countenance. She spoke of him as of a being scarcely earthly in his excellence. His devotion to his mother first, and lately his generosity towards her, his resolution to go to America, to seek Osborne, for her sake and the sake of justice, were themes for eloquence; she spoke with warmth and truth—”Yet if you follow Mr. Falkner’s fortunes,” said Mrs. Raby, “you will see him no more.”
“I cannot believe that,” replied Elizabeth; “yet, if it must be so, I am resigned. He will never forget me, and I shall feel that I am worthy of him, though separated: — better that, than to remain at the sacrifice of all I hold honourable and good; he would despise me, and that were worse absence, an absence of the heart ten thousand times more galling than mere distance of place — one would be eternal and irremediable, the other easily obviated when our duties should no longer clash. I go with my father because he is suffering; Neville may join us because he is innocent — he will not, I feel and know, either forget me, or stay away for ever.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
While they were conversing, quick footsteps were heard in the street below. Mrs. Raby had succeeded in making the time pass more lightly than could be hoped; it was three o’clock — there was a knock at the door of the house. Elizabeth, breaking off abruptly, turned ashy pale, and clasped her hands in the agony of expectation. Osborne rushed into the room. “It is all over!” he exclaimed, “all is well!” Tears streamed from his eyes as he spoke and ran up to shake hands with Elizabeth, and congratulate her, with an ardour and joy that contrasted strangely with the frightened-looking being he had always before shown himself.
“Mr. Falkner is acquitted — he is free — he will soon be here! No one could doubt his innocence that saw him — no one did doubt it — the jury did not even retire.” Thus Osborne ran on, relating the events of the trial. Falkner’s mere appearance had prepossessed every one. The frankness of his open brow, his dignified, unembarrassed manner, his voice, whose clear tones were the very echo of truth, vouched for him. The barrister who conducted the prosecution, narrated the facts rather as a mystery to be inquired into, than as a crime to be detected. Gerard Neville’s testimony was entirely favourable to the prisoner: he showed how Falkner, wholly unsuspected, safe from the shadow of accusation, had spontaneously related the unhappy part he took in his unfortunate mother’s death, for the sake of restoring her reputation, and relieving the minds of her relatives. The narrative written in Greece, and left as explanation in case of his death, was further proof of the truth of his account. Gerard declared himself satisfied of his innocence; and when he stated his father’s dying words, his desire at the last hour on the bed of death, to record his belief in Falkner’s being guiltless of the charge brought against him — words spoken as it were yesterday, for he who uttered them still lay unburied — the surprise seemed to be that he should have suffered a long imprisonment, and the degradation of a trial. Osborne’s own evidence was clear and satisfactory. At last Falkner himself was asked what defence he had to make. As he rose every eye turned on him, every voice and breath were hushed — a solemn silence reigned. His words were few, spoken calmly and impressively; he rested his innocence on the very evidence brought against him. He had been the cause of the lady’s death, and asked for no mercy; but for her sake, and the sake of that heroic feeling that led her to encounter death amidst the waves, he asked for justice, and he did not for a moment doubt that it would be rendered him.
“Nor could you doubt it as you heard him,” continued Osborne. “Never were truth and innocence written so clearly on human countenance as on his, as he looked upon the jury with his eagle eyes, addressing them without pride, but with infinite majesty, as if he could rule their souls through the power of a clear conscience and a just cause; they did not hesitate — the jury did not hesitate a moment; I rushed here the moment I heard the words, and now — he is come.”
Many steps were again heard in the street below, and one, which Elizabeth could not mistake, upon the stairs. Falkner entered — she flew to his arms, and he pressed her to his bosom, wrapping her in a fond, long embrace, while neither uttered a word.
A few moments of trembling almost to agony, a few agitated tears, and the natural gladness of the hour assumed its genuine aspect. Falkner, commanding himself, could shake hands with Osborne, and thank him, and Elizabeth presented him to Mrs. Raby. He at once comprehended the kindness of her visit, and acknowledged it with a heart-felt thankfulness, that showed how much he had suffered while picturing Elizabeth’s abandonment. Soon various other persons poured into the room, and it was necessary to pass through many congratulations, and to thank, and, what was really painful, to listen to the out-pouring talk of those persons who had been present at the trial. Yet at such a moment, the heart, warmed and open, acknowledges few distinctions; among those whose evident joy in the result filled Elizabeth with gratitude, she and Falkner felt touched by none so much as the visit of a turnkey, who was ashamed to show himself, yet who, hearing they were immediately to quit Carlisle, begged permission to see them once again. The poor fellow, who looked on Elizabeth as an angel, and Falkner as a demigod, for, not forgetting others in their adversity, they had discovered and assisted his necessities; the poor fellow seemed out of his mind with joy — ecstasy was painted on his face — there was no mistaking the clear language of a full and grateful heart.
At length the hurry and tumult subsided — all departed. Falkner and his beloved companion were left alone, and for a few short hours enjoyed a satisfaction so perfect that angels might have envied them. Falkner was humbled, it is true, and looked to the past with the same remorse; but in vain did he think that his pride ought to feel deeply wounded by the scene of that day; in vain did he tell himself that after such a trial the purity of his honour was tarnished — his heart told another tale. Its emphatic emotions banished every conventional or sophisticated regret. He was honestly though calmly glad, and acknowledged the homely feeling, with the sincerity of a man who had never been nourished in false refinements or factitious woes.
In the evening, when it was dusk, said Falkner, “Let us, love, take a walk;” the words made Elizabeth both laugh and cry for joy — he put on his hat, and with her on his arm they got quickly out of the town, and strolled down a neighbouring lane. The wind that waved the heads of the still leafless trees, the aspect of the starry sky, the wide spread fields were felt as blessings from heaven by the liberated prisoner. “They all seem,” he said, “created purely for my enjoyment. How sweet is nature — how divine a thing is liberty! Oh my God! I dare not be so happy as I would, there is one thought to chill the genial glow; but for the image of lost, dead Alithea, I should enjoy a felicity too pure for fra
il humanity.”
As they returned into the town, a carriage with four posters passed them; Elizabeth recognized at once Gerard Neville within — a pang shot through her heart, to remember that they did not share their feelings, but were separated, perhaps for ever — at this very hour. On her return, worn out with fatigue, and oppressed with this reflection, she bade good night to Falkner; and he, happy in the idea that the same roof would cover them, kissed and embraced her. On entering her room, she found a letter on her toilette — and smiles again dimpled her face — it was a letter from Neville. It contained a few words, a very few of congratulation, reminding her that he must hurry back to town for the melancholy task of his father’s funeral; and imploring that neither she nor Falkner would determine on any immediate step. “I cannot penetrate the cloud in which we are enveloped,” he said, “but I know that I ought not, that I cannot, lose you. A little time, a little reflection may show us how to accord our various duties with the great necessity of our not being separated. Be not rash therefore, my own Elizabeth, nor let your friend be rash; surely the worst is over, and we may be permitted at last to hate no more, and to be happy.”
Elizabeth kissed the letter, and placed it beneath her pillow. That night she slept sweetly and well.
Early in the morning Mrs. Raby called on them. The same prepossession which Gerard had felt in her favour as soon as he saw her, had taken place in her on seeing Falkner. There is a sort of magnetism that draws like to like, and causes minds of fine and lofty tone to recognize each other when brought in contact. Mrs. Raby saw and acknowledged at once Falkner’s superiority; whatever his faults had been, they were winnowed away by adversity, and he was become at once the noblest and gentlest of human beings. Mrs. Raby had that touch of generosity in her own character that never permitted her to see merit without openly acknowledging, and endeavouring to reward it. The first thought of the plan she now entertained, she had cast away as impracticable, but it returned; the desire to give and to benefit, a natural growth in her heart, made her look on it with complacency — by degrees she dismissed the objections that presented themselves, and resolved to act upon it. “We complain,” she thought, “of the barrenness of life, and the tediousness and faults of our fellow-creatures, and when Providence brings before us two selected from the world as endowed with every admirable quality, we allow a thousand unworthy considerations, which assume the voice of prudence, to exile us from them. Where can I find a man like Falkner, full of honour, sensibility, and talent? where a girl like Elizabeth, who has proved herself to be the very type of virtuous fidelity? Such companions will teach my children better than volumes of moral treatises, the existence and loveliness of human goodness.”
