by Mary Shelley
Mrs. Raby passed a sleepless night, revolving these thoughts. In the morning she called on her new friends; and then with all the grace that was her peculiar charm, she invited them to accompany her to Belleforest, and to take up their residence there for the next few months.
Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled with delight. Falkner at once accepted the invitation for her, and declined it for himself. “You hear him, my dear aunt,” cried Elizabeth; “but you will not accept his refusal — you will not permit this perversity.”
“You forget many things when you speak thus,” said Falkner; “but Mrs. Raby remembers them all. I thank her for her kindness; but I am sure she will admit of the propriety of my declining her invitation.”
“You imagine then,” replied Mrs. Raby, “that I made it for form’s sake — intending it should be refused. You mistake. I know what you mean, and all you would covertly suggest — let us cast aside the ceremonies of mere acquaintanceship — let us be friends, and speak with the openness natural to us — do you consent to this?”
“You are good, very good,” said Falkner; “except this dear girl, who will deign to be my friend?”
“If I thought,” replied Mrs. Raby, “that your heart was so narrowed by the disasters and injustice you have suffered, that you must hereafter shut yourself up with the remembrance of them, I should feel inclined to retract my offer — for friendship is a mutual feeling; and he who feels only for himself can be no one’s friend. But this is not the case with you. You have a heart true to every touch of sympathy, as Elizabeth can testify — since you determined to live for her sake, when driven to die by the agony of your sufferings. Let us then at once dismiss notions which I must consider as unworthy of us. When we turn to the page of history, and read of men visited by adversity — what do we say to those of their fellow-creatures who fall off from them on account of their misfortunes? Do we not call them little-minded, and visit them with our contempt? Do not class me with such. I might pass you carelessly by if you had always been prosperous. It is your misfortunes that inspire me with friendship — that render me eager to cultivate an intimacy with one who has risen above the most frightful calamity that could befall a man, and shown himself at once repentant and courageous.
“You will understand what I mean, without long explanation — we shall have time for that hereafter. I honour you. What my heart feels, my voice and actions will ever be ready to proclaim. For Elizabeth’s sake you must not permit the world to think that he who adopted and brought her up is unworthy of regard and esteem. Come with us to Belleforest — you must not refuse; I long to introduce my girls to their matchless cousin — I long to win her heart by my affection, and kindness; and if you will permit me the enviable task, how proud and glad I shall be to repay a portion of what we owe you on her account, by endeavouring to compensate, by a few months of tranquillity and friendship, for the misery you have undergone.”
Mrs. Raby spoke with sincerity and earnestness, and Elizabeth’s eyes pleaded her cause yet more eloquently. “Where you go,” she said to Falkner, “there also I shall be — I shall not repine, however you decide — but we shall be very happy at Belleforest.”
It was real modesty — and no false pride that actuated Falkner. He felt happy, yet when he looked outward, he fancied that hereafter he must be shut out from society — a branded man. He intimately felt the injustice of this. He accepted it as a punishment for the past, but he did not the less proudly rise above it. It was a real pleasure to find one entertaining the generous sentiments which Mrs. Raby expressed, and capable of acting on them. He felt worthy of her regard, and acknowledged that none but conventional reasons placed any barrier to his accepting her kind offers. Why then should he reject them? He did not; frankly, and with sincere thanks, he suffered himself to be overruled; and on the following day they were on their road to Belleforest.
CHAPTER XIX.
It was one of those days which do sometimes occur in March — warm and balmy, and enlivening as spring always is. The birds were busy among the leafless boughs; and if the carriage stopped for a moment, the gushing song of the skylark attracted the eye to his blue ethereal bower; a joyous welcome was breathed by nature to every heart, and none answered it so fervently as Falkner. Sentiments of pleasure possessed all three travellers. Mrs. Raby experienced that exultation natural to all human beings when performing a generous action. Elizabeth felt that in going to Belleforest she drew nearer Neville — for there was no reason why he should not enter her grandfather’s doors; but Falkner was happier than either. It was not the vulgar joy of having escaped danger, partly it was gladness to see Elizabeth restored to her family, where only, as things were, she could find happiness, and yet not divided from him. Partly it arose from the relief he felt, as the burthen of heavy, long-endured care was lifted from his soul. But there was something more, which was incomprehensible even to himself. “His bosom’s lord sat lightly on its throne” — he no longer turned a saddened, reproachful eye on nature, nor any more banished soft emotions, nourishing remorse as a duty. He was reconciled to himself and the world; the very circumstances of his prison and his trial being over, took with them the more galling portion of his retrospections — health again filled his veins. At the moment when he had first accused himself, Neville saw in him a man about to die. It was evident now that the seeds of disease were destroyed — his person grew erect — his eye clear and animated. Elizabeth had never, since they left Greece, seen him so free from suffering; during all her intercourse with him, she never remembered him so bland and cheerful in his mood. It was the reward of much suffering — the gift of Heaven to one who had endured patiently — opening his heart to the affections, instead of cherishing pride and despair. It was the natural result of a noble disposition which could raise itself above even its own errors — throwing off former evil as alien to its nature — embracing good as its indefeasible right.
They entered the majestic avenues and embowered glades of Belleforest — where cedar, larch, and pine diversified the bare woods with a show of foliage — the turf was covered with early flowers — the buds were green and bursting on the boughs. Falkner remembered his visit the preceding summer. How little had he then foreseen impending events; and how far from his heart had then been the peace that at present so unaccountably possessed it. Then the wide demesne and stately mansion had appeared the abode of gloom and bigotry; now it was changed to a happy valley, where love and cheerfulness reigned.
Mrs. Raby was welcomed by her children — two elegant girls of fifteen and sixteen, and a spirited boy of twelve. They adored their mother; and saw in their new cousin an occasion for rejoicing. Their sparkling looks and gay voices dispelled the last remnant of melancholy from the venerable mansion. Old Oswi Rabi himself — too much sunk in dotage to understand what was going on — yet smiled and looked glad on the merry faces about him. He could not exactly make out who Elizabeth was — he was sure that it was a relation, and he treated her with an obsequious respect, which, considering his former impertinent tone, was exceedingly amusing.
What was wanting to complete the universal happiness? Elizabeth’s spirits rose to unwonted gaiety in the society of her young relations — and her cousin Edwin in particular found her the most delightful companion in the world — for she was as fearless on horseback as himself, and was unwearied in amusing him by accounts of the foreign countries she had seen — and adventures, ridiculous or fearful, that she had encountered. In Mrs. Raby she found a beloved friend for serious hours; and Falkner’s recovered health and spirits were a source of exhaustless congratulation.
Yet where was Gerard Neville? Where the looks of love — and rapturous sense of sympathy, before which all the other joys of life fade into dimness? — Love causes us to get more rid of our haunting identity, and to give ourselves more entirely away than any other emotion; it is the most complete — the most without veil or shadow to mar its beauty. Every other human passion occupies but a distinct portion of our being. This
assimilates with all, and turns the whole into bliss or misery. Elizabeth did not fear that Gerard would forget her. He had remembered through the dark hours gone by — and now his shadow walked with her beneath the avenues of Belleforest, and the recollection of his love impregnated the balmy airs of spring with a sweetness unfelt before. Elizabeth had now leisure to love — and many an hour she spent in solitary yet blissful dreams — almost wondering that such happiness was to be found on earth. What a change — what a contrast between the deathgirt prison of Carlisle, and the love-adorned glades of her ancestral park! — Not long ago the sky appeared to bend over one universe of tears and woe — and now, in the midst, a piece of heaven had dropped down upon earth, and she had entered the enchanted ground.
Yet as weeks sped on, some thoughts troubled her repose. Gerard neither came nor wrote. At length she got a letter from Lady Cecil, congratulating her on Falkner’s acquittal, and the kindness of her aunt; her letter was amiable, yet it was constrained; and Elizabeth, reading it again and again, and pondering on every expression, became aware that her friends felt less satisfaction than she did in the turn of fortune, that placed her and Falkner together under her paternal roof. She had believed that, as Elizabeth Raby, Neville would at once claim her; but she was forced to recollect that Falkner was still at her side; — and what intercourse could there be between him and his mother’s destroyer?
Thus anxiety and sadness penetrated poor Elizabeth’s new found paradise. She strove to appear the same, but she stole away when she could, to meditate alone on her strange lot. It doubled her regret, to think that Neville also was unhappy. She figured the g more I see and admire my dearest niece,” she said, “the greater I feel our obligation to be to you, Mr. Falkner, for having made her what she is. Her natural disposition is full of excellence, but it is the care and the education you bestowed, which give her character so high a tone. Had she come to us in her childhood, it is more than probable she would have been placed in a convent, — and what nature, however perfect, but would be injured by the system that reigns in those places? To you we owe our fairest flower, and if gratitude could repay you, you would be repaid by mine; to prove it, and to serve you, must always be the most pleasing duty of my life.”
“I should be much happier,” said Falkner, “if I could regard my interference as you do; I fear I have injured irreparably my beloved girl, and that, through me, she is suffering pangs, which she is too good to acknowledge, but which, in the end, may destroy her. Had I restored her to you, had she been brought up here, she and Gerard Neville would not now be separated.”
“But they might never have met,” replied Mrs. Raby. “It is indeed vain thus to regard the past — not only is it unalterable, but each link of the chain, producing the one that followed, seems in our instance, to have been formed and riveted by a superior power for peculiar purposes. The whole order of events is inscrutable — one little change, and none of us would be as we are now. Except as a lesson or a warning, we ought not to contemplate the past, but the future certainly demands our attention. It is impossible to see Gerard Neville, and not to feel an intense interest in him; he is worthy of our Elizabeth, and he is ardently attached to her, and has besides made a deep impression on her young heart, which I would not have erased or lessened; for I am sure that her happiness, as far as mortals can be happy, will be insured by their marriage.”
“I stand in the way of this union; of that I am well aware,” said Falkner; “but be assured I will not continue to be an obstacle to the welfare of my angel girl. It is for this that I would consult you: — how are contradictions to be reconciled, or rather, how can we contrive my absence so as to remove every impediment, and yet not to awaken Elizabeth’s suspicions?”
“I dislike contrivances,” replied Mrs. Raby; “and I hate all mystery — suffer me therefore to speak frankly to you — I have often conversed with Elizabeth, she is firm not to marry, so as to be wholly divided from you. She reasons calmly, but she never wavers: she will not, she says, commence new duties, by, in the first place, betraying her old ones; she should be for ever miserable if she did, and therefore those who love her must not ask it. Sir Gerard entertains similar sentiments with regard to himself, though less resolute, and, I believe, less just than hers. I received a letter from him this morning. I was pondering whether to show it to you or to my niece; it seems to me best that you should read it, if it will not annoy you.”
“Give it me,” said Falkner; “and permit me also to answer it — it is not in my nature to dally with evils — I shall meet those that now present themselves, and bring the best remedy I can, at whatever cost.”
Neville’s letter was that of a man, whose wishes were at war with his principles; and yet who was not convinced of the justice of the application of those principles. It began by deeply regretting the estrangement of Elizabeth from his family, by asking Mrs. Raby if she thought that she could not be induced to pay another visit to Lady Cecil. He said that that lady was eager to see her, and only delayed asking her, till she ascertained whether her friendship, which was warm and lively as ever, would prove as acceptable as formerly.
“I will at once be frank with you,” the letter continued; “for your excellent understanding may direct us, and will suggest excuses for our doubts. You may easily divine the cause of our perplexities, though you can scarcely comprehend the extremely painful nature of mine. Permit me to treat you as a friend — be the judge of my cause — I have faith in the purity and uprightness of a woman’s heart, when she is endowed with gifts, such as you possess. I had once thought to refer myself to Miss Raby herself, but I dread the generous devotedness of her disposition. Will you who love her, take therefore the task of decision on yourself?”
Neville went on to express in few, but forcible words his attachment to Elizabeth, his conviction that it could never change, and his persuasion that she returned it. “It is not therefore my cause merely, that I plead,” he said, “but hers also. Do not call me presumptuous for thus expressing myself. A mutual attachment alone can justify extraordinary conduct, but where it is mutual, every minor consideration ought to give way before it; the happiness of both our lives depends upon our not trifling with feelings which I am sure can never change. They may be the source of perpetual felicity — if not, they will, they must be, pregnant with misery to the end of our lives. But why this sort of explanation, when the meaning that I desire to convey is, that if — that as — may I not say — we love each other — no earthly power shall deprive me of her — sooner or later she must, she shall be, mine; and meanwhile this continued separation is painful beyond my fortitude to bear.
“Can I take my mother’s destroyer by the hand, and live with him on terms of intimacy and friendship? Such is the price I must pay for Elizabeth — can I — may I — so far forget the world’s censure, and I may say the instigations of nature, as unreservedly to forgive?
“I will confess to you, dear Mrs. Raby, that when I saw Falkner in the most degrading situation in which a man can be placed, manacled, and as a felon, his dignity of mien, his majestic superiority to all the race of common mortals around, the grandeur of his calm yet piercing eye, and the sensibility of his voice — won my admiration: with such is peopled that heaven where the noble penitent is more welcome than the dull follower of a narrow code of morals, who never erred, because he never felt. I pardoned him, then, from my heart, in my mother’s name. These sentiments, the entire forgiveness of the injury done me, and the sense of his merits still continue: but may I act on them? would not you despise me if I did? say but that you would, and my sentence is pronounced — I lose Elizabeth — I quit England for ever — it matters little where I go.
“Yet before you decide, consider that this man possesses virtues of the highest order. He honoured as much as he loved my mother, and if his act was criminal, dearly has he paid the result. I persuade myself that there is more real sympathy between me and my mother’s childhood’s friend — who loved her so long and trul
y — whose very crime was a mad excess of love — than one who knew nothing of her — to whom her name conjures up no memories, no regret.
“I feel that I could lament with Falkner the miserable catastrophe, and yet not curse him for bringing it about. Nay — as with such a man there can be no half sentiments — I feel that if we are thrown together, his noble qualities will win ardent sentiments of friendship; were not his victim my mother, there does not exist a man whose good opinion I should so eagerly seek and highly prize as that of Rupert Falkner. It is that fatal name which forms the barrier between me and charity — shutting me out, at the same time, from hope and love.
