FALKNER.

A NOVEL.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

"FRANKENSTEIN," "THE LAST MAN," &c.



"There stood,
In record of a sweet sad story,
An altar, and a temple bright,
Circled by steps, and o'er the gate
Was sculptured, 'To Fidelity!'"

SHELLEY.



COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.



NEW-YORK:

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS,

No. 82 CLIFF-STREET.

1837.




CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
CHAPTER XLVI
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
CHAPTER L
CHAPTER LI
CHAPTER LII




FALKNER


CHAPTER I


The opening scene of this tale took place in a little village on the
southern coast of Cornwall. Treby (by that name we choose to designate a
spot whose true one, for several reasons, will not be given) was,
indeed, rather a hamlet than a village; although, being at the seaside,
there were two or three houses which, by dint of green paint and chints
curtains, pretended to give the accommodation of "Apartments Furnished"
to the few bathers who, having heard of its cheapness, seclusion, and
beauty, now and then resorted thither from the neighbouring towns.

This part of Cornwall shares much of the peculiar and exquisite beauty
which every Englishman knows adorns "the sweet shire of Devon." The
hedges near Treby, like those round Dawlish and Torquay, are redolent
with a thousand flowers; the neighbouring fields are pranked with all
the colours of Flora--its soft air--the picturesque bay in which it
stood, as it were, enshrined--its red cliff's, and verdure reaching to
the very verge of the tide--all breathe the same festive and genial
atmosphere. The cottages give the same promise of comfort, and are
adorned by nature with more luxurious loveliness than the villas of the
rich in a less happy climate.

Treby was almost unknown; yet whoever visited it might well prefer its
sequestered beauties to many more renowned competitors. Situated in the
depths of a little bay, it was sheltered on all sides by the cliffs.
Just behind the hamlet the cliff made a break, forming a little ravine,
in the depth of which ran a clear stream, on whose banks were spread the
orchards of the villagers, whence they derived their chief wealth.
Tangled bushes and luxuriant herbage diversified the cliffs, some of
which were crowned by woods; and in "every nook and coign of 'vantage"
were to be seen and scented the glory of that coast--its exhaustless
store of flowers. The village was, as has been said, in the depth of a
bay; towards the east the coast rounded off with a broad sweep, forming
a varied line of bay and headland; to the west a little promontory shot
out abruptly, and at once closed in the view. This point of land was the
peculiarity of Treby. The cliff that gave it its picturesque appearance
was not high, but was remarkable for being crowned by the village
church, with its slender spire.

Long may it be before the village churchyard ceases to be in England a
favoured spot--the home of rural and holy seclusion. At Treby it derived
a new beauty from its distance from the village and the eminence on
which it was placed, overlooking the wide ocean, the sands, the village
itself, with its gardens, orchards, and gayly-painted fields. From the
church a straggling, steep, yet not impracticable path led down to the
sands by way of the beach; indeed, the distance from the village to the
church was scarcely more than half a mile; but no vehicle could approach
except by the higher road, which, following the line of coast, measured
nearly two miles. The edifice itself, picturesque in its rustic
simplicity, seemed at the distance to be imbosomed in a neighbouring
grove. There was no house, nor even cottage, near. The contiguous
churchyard contained about two acres; a light white paling surrounded it
on three sides; on the fourth was a high wall, clothed thickly with ivy:
the trees of the near wood overhung both wall and paling, except on the
side of the cliff'. The waving of their branches, the murmur of the
tide, and the occasional scream of seafowl, were all the sounds that
disturbed, or rather harmonized with, the repose and solitude of the
spot.

On Sunday, the inhabitants of several hamlets congregated here to attend
divine service. Those of Treby usually approached by the beach and the
path of the cliff, the old and infirm only taking the longer but more
easy road. On every other day of the week all was quiet, except when the
hallowed precincts were visited by happy parents with a newborn babe, by
bride and bridegroom hastening all gladly to enter on the joys and cares
of life--or by the train of mourners who attended relation or friend to
the last repose of the dead.

The poor are not sentimental--and, except on Sunday, after evening
service, when a mother might linger for a few moments near the fresh
grave of a lately lost child--or, loitering among the rustic tombs, some
of the elder peasants told tales of the feats of the dead companions of
their youth, a race unequalled, so they said, by the generation around
them. Save on that day, none ever visited or wandered among the graves,
with the one exception of a child, who had early learned to mourn, yet
whose infantine mind could scarcely understand the extent of the cause
she had for tears. A little girl, unnoticed and alone, was wont each
evening to trip over the sands--to scale with light steps the cliff,
which was of no gigantic height, and then, unlatching the low white gate
of the churchyard, to repair to one corner, where the boughs of the near
trees shadowed over two graves--two graves, of which one only was
distinguished by a simple headstone, to commemorate the name of him who
mouldered beneath. This tomb was inscribed to the memory of Edwin Raby,
but the neighbouring and less honoured grave claimed more of the child's
attention--for her mother lay beneath the unrecorded turf.

Beside this grassy hillock she would sit, and talk to herself, and play,
till, warned home by the twilight, she knelt and said her little prayer,
and, with a "Good-night, mamma," took leave of a spot with which was
associated the being whose caresses and love she called to mind, hoping
that one day she might again enjoy them. Her appearance had much in it
to invite remark, had there been any who cared to notice a poor little
orphan. Her dress, in some of its parts, betokened that she belonged to
the better classes of society; but she had no stockings, and her little
feet peeped from the holes of her well-worn shoes. Her straw bonnet was
died dark with sun and sea spray, and its blue riband faded. The child
herself would, in any other spot, have attracted more attention than the
incongruities of her attire. There is an expression of face which we
name angelic, from its purity, its tenderness, and, so to speak,
plaintive serenity, which we oftener see in young children than in
persons of a more advanced age. And such was hers: her hair, of a light
golden brown, was parted over a brow fair and open as day: her eyes,
deep-set and earnest, were full of thought and tenderness: her
complexion was pure and stainless, except by the roses that glowed in
her cheek; while each vein could be traced on her temples, and you could
almost mark the flow of the violet-coloured blood beneath: her mouth was
the very nest of love: her serious look was at once fond and imploring;
but when she smiled, it was as if sunshine broke out at once, warm and
unclouded: her figure had the plumpness of infancy; but her tiny hands
and feet, and tapering waist, denoted the faultless perfection of her
form. She was about six years old--a friendless orphan, cast, thus
young, penniless, on a thorny, stony-hearted world.

Nearly two years previous, a gentleman, with his wife and little
daughter, arrived at Treby, and took up his abode at one of the
moderate-priced lodging-houses before mentioned. The occasion of their
visit was but too evident. The husband, Mr. Raby, was dying of a
consumption. The family had migrated early in September, so to receive
the full benefit of a mild winter in this favoured spot. It did not
appear to those about him that he could live to see that winter. He was
wasted to a shadow--the hectic in his cheek, the brightness of his eyes,
and the debility apparent in every movement, showed that disease was
triumphing over the principles of life. Yet, contrary to every
prognostic, he lived on from week to week, from month to month. Now he
was said to be better--now worse--and thus a winter of extraordinary
mildness was passed. But with the east winds of spring a great
deterioration was visible. His invalid walks in the sun grew shorter,
and then were exchanged for a few minutes passed sitting in his garden.
Soon he was confined to his room--then to his bed. During the first week
of a bleak ungenial May, he died.

The extreme affection that subsisted between the pair rendered his widow
an object of interest even to the villagers. They were both young, and
she was beautiful; and more beautiful was their offspring--the little
girl we have mentioned:--who, watched over and attended on by her
mother, attracted admiration as well as interest, by the peculiar style
of her childish, yet perfect loveliness. Every one wondered what the
bereaved lady would do; and she, poor soul, wondered herself, and would
sit watching the gambols of her child in an attitude of unutterable
despondency, till the little girl, remarking the sadness of her mother,
gave over playing to caress, and kiss her, and to bid her smile. At such
a word the tears fell fast from the widow's eyes, and the frightened
child joined her sobs and cries to hers.

Whatever might be the sorrows and difficulties of the unhappy lady, it
was soon evident to all but herself that her own life was a fragile
tenure. She had attended on her husband with unwearied assiduity, and,
added to bodily fatigue, was mental suffering; partly arising from
anxiety and grief, and partly from the very virtues of the sufferer. He
knew that he was dying, and tried to reconcile his wife to her
anticipated loss. But his words, breathing the most passionate love and
purest piety, seemed almost to call her also from the desolation to
which he was leaving her, and to dissolve the ties that held her to
earth. When he was gone, life possessed no one attraction except their
child. Often while her father, with pathetic eloquence, tried to pour
the balm of resignation, and hopes of eternal reunion, into his wife's
heart, she had sat on her mother's knee, or on a little stool at her
feet, and looked up, with her cherub face, a little perplexed, a little
fearful, till, at some words of too plain and too dread an import, she
sprung into her father's arms, and clinging to his neck, amid tears and
sobs, cried out, "You must not leave us, papa! you must stay--you shall
not go away!"

Consumption, in all countries except our own, is considered a contagious
disorder, and it too often proves such here. During her close
attendance, Mrs. Raby had imbibed the seeds of the fatal malady; and
grief, and a delicate texture of nerves, caused them to develop with
alarming rapidity. Every one perceived this except herself. She thought
that her indisposition sprung from over-fatigue and grief, but that
repose would soon restore her; and each day, as her flesh wasted and her
blood flowed more rapidly, she said, "I shall be better to-morrow."
There was no one at Treby to advise or assist her. She was not one of
those who make friends and intimates of all who fall in their way. She
was gentle, considerate, courteous--but her refined mind shrunk from
displaying its deep wounds to the vulgar and unfeeling.

After her husband's death she had written several letters, which she
carefully put into the postoffice herself--going on purpose to the
nearest post-town, three miles distant. She had received one in answer,
and it had the effect of increasing every fatal symptom, through the
anguish and excessive agitation it excited. Sometimes she talked of
leaving Treby, but she delayed till she should be better; which time,
the villagers plainly saw, would never come, but they were not aware how
awfully near the crisis really was.

One morning--her husband had now been dead about four months--she called
up the woman of the house in which she lodged; there was a smile on her
face, and a pink spot burnt brightly in either cheek, while her brow was
ashy pale; there was something ghastly in the very gladness her
countenance expressed; yet she felt nothing of all this, but said, "The
newspaper you lent me had good news in it, Mrs. Baker. It tells me that
a dear friend of mine is arrived in England, whom I thought still on the
Continent. I am going to write to her. Will you let your daughter take
my little girl a walk while I write?"

Mrs. Baker consented. The child was equipped and sent out, while her
mother sat down to write. In about an hour she came out of her parlour;
Mrs. Baker saw her going towards the garden; she tottered as she walked,
so the woman hastened to her. "Thank you," she said; "I feel strangely
faint--I had much to say, and that letter has unhinged me--I must finish
it to-morrow--now the air will restore me--I can scarcely breathe."

Mrs. Baker offered her arm. The sufferer walked faintly and feebly to a
little bench, and sitting down, supported herself by her companion. Her
breath grew shorter; she murmured some words; Mrs. Baker bent down, but
could catch only the name of her child, which was the last sound that
hovered on the mother's lips. With one sigh her heart ceased to beat,
and life left her exhausted frame. The poor woman screamed loudly for
help as she felt her press heavily against her: and then, sliding from
her seat, sink lifeless on the ground.




CHAPTER II


It was to Mrs. Baker's credit that she did not attempt to investigate
the affairs of her hapless lodger till after the funeral. A purse,
containing twelve guineas, which she found on her table, served, indeed,
to satisfy her that she would be no immediate loser. However, as soon as
the sod covered the gentle form of the unfortunate lady, she proceeded
to examine her papers. The first that presented itself was the
unfinished letter which Mrs. Raby was engaged in writing at the time of
her death. This promised information, and Mrs. Baker read it with
eagerness. It was as follows:--


"My dearest Friend,

"A newspaper has just informed me that you are returned to England,
while I still believed you to be, I know not where, on the Continent.
Dearest girl, it is long since I have written, for I have been too sad,
too uncertain about your movements, and too unwilling to cloud your
happiness, by forcing you to remember one so miserable. My beloved
friend, my schoolfellow, my benefactress; you will grieve to hear of my
misfortunes, and it is selfish in me, even now, to intrude upon you with
the tale; but, under heaven, I have no hope, except in my generous, my
warm-hearted Alithea. Perhaps you have already heard of my disaster, and
are aware that death has robbed me of the happiness which, under your
kind fosterage, I had acquired and enjoyed. He is dead who was my all in
this world, and but for one tie I should bless the day when I might be
permitted to rest for ever beside him.

"I often wonder, dear Alithea, at the heedlessness and want of foresight
with which I entered life. Doomed, through poverty and my orphan state,
to earn my bread as a governess, my entrance on that irksome task was
only delayed by my visit to you; then under your dear roof I saw and was
beloved by Edwin; and his entreaties, and your encouragement, permitted
my trembling heart to dream of--to possess happiness. Timidity of
character made me shrink from my career: diffidence never allowed me to
suppose that any one would interest themselves enough in me to raise the
poor trembler from the ground, to shelter and protect her; and this kind
of despondency rendered Edwin's love a new, glorious, and divine joy.
Yet, when I thought of his parents, I trembled--I could not bear to
enter a family where I was to be regarded as an unwelcome intruder; yet
Edwin was already an outcast--already father and brothers, every
relation, had disowned him--and he, like I, was alone. And you, Alithea,
how fondly, how sweetly did you encourage me--making that appear my duty
which was the fulfilment of my wildest dreams of joy. Surely no being
ever felt friendship as you have done--sympathizing even in the untold
secrets of a timid heart--enjoying the happiness that you conferred with
an ardour few can feel, even for themselves. Your transports of delight
when you saw me, through your means, blessed, touched me with a
gratitude that can never die. And do I show this by asking now for your
pity, and saddening you by my grief? Pardon me, sweet friend, and do not
wonder that this thought has long delayed my letter.

"We were happy--poor, but content. Poverty was no evil to me, and Edwin
supported every privation as if he had never been accustomed to luxury.
The spirit that had caused him to shake off the shackles his bigoted
family threw over him, animated him to exertions beyond his strength. He
had chosen for himself--he wished to prove that his choice was good. I
do not allude to our marriage, but to his desertion of the family
religion, and determination to follow a career not permitted by the
policy of his relations to any younger son. He was called to the bar--he
toiled incessantly--he was ambitious, and his talents gave every promise
of success. He is gone--gone for ever! I have lost the noblest, wisest
friend that ever breathed, the most devoted lover, and truest husband
that ever blessed woman!

"I write incoherently. You know what our life in London was--obscure,
but happy--the scanty pittance allowed him seemed to me amply to suffice
for all our wants; I only then knew of the wants of youth and health,
which were love and sympathy. I had all this, crowning to the brim my
cup of life--the birth of our sweet child filled it to overflowing. Our
dingy lodgings, near the courts of law, were a palace to me; I should
have despised myself heartily could I have desired anything beyond what
I possessed. I never did--nor did I fear its loss. I was grateful to
Heaven, and thus I fancied that I paid the debt of my unmeasured
prosperity.

"Can I say what I felt when I marked Edwin's restless nights, flushed
cheek, and the cough that would not go away? these things I dare not
dwell upon--my tears overflow--my heart beats to bursting--the fatal
truth was at last declared; the fatal word, consumption, spoken: change
of air was all the hope held out--we came here; the churchyard near
holds now all earthly that remains of him--would that my dust were
mingling with his!

"Yet I have a child, my Alithea; and you, who are incomparable as a
mother, will feel that I ought not to grieve so bitterly while this dear
angel remains to me. I know, indeed, that without her life would at once
suspend all its functions; why, then, is it, that while she is with me I
am not stronger, more heroic? for, to keep her with me, I must leave the
indolence of my present life--I must earn the bread of both. I should
not repine at this--I shall not when I am better; but I am very ill and
weak; and though each day I rise, resolving to exert myself, before the
morning has passed away I lie down exhausted, trembling, and faint.

"When I lost Edwin, I wrote to Mr. Raby, acquainting him with the sad
intelligence, and asking for a maintenance for myself and my child. The
family solicitor answered my letter; Edwin's conduct had, I was told,
estranged his family from him; and they could only regard me as one
encouraging his disobedience and apostacy. I had no claim on them. If my
child were sent to them, and I would promise to abstain from all
intercourse with her, she should be brought up with her cousins, and
treated in all respects like one of the family. I answered this letter
hastily and proudly. I declined their barbarous offer, and haughtily,
and in few words, relinquished every claim on their bounty, declaring my
intention to support and bring up my child myself. This was foolishly
done, I fear; but I cannot regret it, even now.

"I cannot regret the impulse that made me disdain these unnatural and
cruel relatives, or that led me to take my poor orphan to my heart with
pride, as being all my own. What had they done to merit such a treasure?
How did they show themselves capable of replacing a fond and anxious
mother? How many blooming girls have they sacrificed to their peculiar
views! With what careless eyes they regard the sweetest emotions of
nature! never shall my adored girl be made the victim of that loveless
race. Do you remember our sweet child? She was lovely from her birth;
and surely, if ever angel assumed an earthly vesture, it took a form
like my darling: her loveliness expresses only the beauty of her
disposition: so young, yet so full of sensibility; her temper is without
a flaw, and her intelligence transcends her age. You will not laugh at
me for my maternal enthusiasm, nor will you wonder at it; her endearing
caresses, her cherub smiles, the silver accents of her infantine voice,
fill me with trembling rapture. Is she not too good for this bad world?
I fear it, I fear to lose her; I fear to die and to leave her; yet, if I
should, will you not cherish, will you not be a mother to her? I may be
presumptuous; but if I were to die even now, I should die in the belief
that I left my child another mother in you--"


The letter broke off here, and these were the last words of the
unfortunate writer. It contained a sad, but too common story of the
hard-heartedness of the wealthy, and the misery endured by the children
of the high-born. Blood is not water, it is said, but gold with them is
dearer far than the ties of nature; to keep and augment their
possessions being the aim and end of their lives, the existence, and,
more especially, the happiness of their children, appears to them a
consideration at once trivial and impertinent, when it would compete
with family views and family greatness. To this common and iniquitous
feeling these luckless beings were sacrificed; they had endured the
worst, and could be injured no more; but their orphan child was a living
victim, less thought of than the progeny of the meanest animal which
might serve to augment their possessions.

Mrs. Baker felt some complacency on reading this letter: with the common
English respect for wealth and rank, she was glad to find that her
humble roof had sheltered a man who was the son--she did not exactly
know of whom, but of somebody, who had younger sons and elder sons, and
possessed, through wealth, the power of behaving frightfully ill to a
vast number of persons. There was a grandeur and dignity in the very
idea; but the good woman felt less satisfaction as she proceeded in her
operations--no other letter or paper appeared to inform or to direct.
Every letter had been destroyed, and the young pair had brought no
papers or documents with them. She could not guess to whom the
unfinished letter she held was addressed; all was darkness and
ignorance. She was aghast--there was none to whom to apply--none to whom
to send the orphan. In a more busy part of the world, an advertisement
in the newspapers would have presented itself as a resource; but Treby
was too much cut off from the rest of the world for its inhabitants to
conceive so daring an idea; and Mrs. Baker, repining much at the burden
fallen upon her, and fearful of the future, could imagine no means by
which to discover the relations of the little orphan; and her only
notion was to wait, in hopes that some among them would at last make
inquiries concerning her.

Nearly a year had passed away, and no one had appeared. The unfortunate
lady's purse was soon emptied--and her watch, with one or two trinkets
of slight value, disposed of. The child was of small cost, but still her
sordid protectress harped perpetually on her ill luck: she had a family
of her own, and plenty of mouths to feed. Missy was but little, but she
would get bigger--though for that matter it was worse now, as she wanted
more taking care of--besides, she was getting quite a disgrace--her
bonnet was so shabby, and her shoes worn out--and how could she afford
to buy others for one who was not a bit of her flesh and blood, to the
evident hurt of her own children? It was bad enough now; but, by-and-by,
she saw nothing but the parish; though Missy was born for better than
that, and her poor mamma would turn in her grave at the name of such a
thing. For her part, she was to blame, she feared, and too generous--but
she would wait yet a little longer before it came to that--for who could
tell--and here Mrs. Baker's prudence dammed up the stream of her
eloquence--to no living ear did she dare trust her dream of the coach
and six that might one day come for her little charge--and the
remuneration and presents that would be heaped upon her; she actually
saved the child's best frock, though she had quite outgrown it, that on
such a day her appearance might do her honour. But this was a
secret--she hid these vague but splendid images deep in her heart, lest
some neighbour might be seized with a noble emulation--and, through some
artifice, share in her dreamy gains. It was these anticipations that
prevented Mrs. Baker from taking any decisive step injurious to her
charge--but they did not shed any rosy hues over her diurnal
complaints--they grew more peevish and frequent as time passed away, and
her visions attained no realization.

The little orphan grew, meanwhile, as a garden rose that accident has
thrown amid briers and weeds--blooming with alien beauty, and unfolding
its soft petals--and shedding its ambrosial odour beneath the airs of
heaven, unharmed by its strange position. Lovely as a day of paradise,
which, by some strange chance, visits this nether world to gladden every
heart, she charmed even her selfish protectress; and, despite her shabby
attire, her cherub smiles--the free and noble steps which her tiny feet
could take even now, and the music of her voice, rendered her the object
of respect and admiration, as well as love, to the whole village.

The loss of her father had acquainted the poor child with death. Her
mother had explained the awful mystery as well as she could to her
infantine intellects, and, indulging in her own womanish and tender
fancies, had often spoken of the dead as hovering over and watching
around his loved ones, even in the new state of existence to which he
had been called. Yet she wept as she spoke: "He is happy," she
exclaimed, "but he is not here! Why did he leave us? Ah, why desert
those who loved him so well, who need him so dearly! How forlorn and
cast away are we without him!"

These scenes made a deep impression upon the sensitive child--and when
her mother died too, and was carried away and placed in the cold earth
beside her husband, the orphan would sit for hours by the graves, now
fancying that her mother must soon return, now exclaiming, "Why are you
gone away? Come, dear mamma, come back--come quickly!" Young as she was,
it was no wonder that such thoughts were familiar to her. The minds of
children are often as intelligent as those of persons of maturer
age--and differ only by containing fewer ideas--but these had so often
been presented to her--and she so fixed her little heart on the idea
that her mother was watching over her, that at last it became a part of
her religion to visit, every evening, the two graves, and saying her
prayers near them, to believe that her mother's spirit, which was
obscurely associated with her mortal remains reposing below, listened to
and blessed her on that spot.

At other times, neglected as she was, and left to wander at will, she
conned her lesson, as she had been accustomed at her mother's feet,
beside her grave. She took her picture-books there, and even her
playthings. The villagers were affected by her childish notion of being
"with mamma;" and Missy became something of an angel in their eyes, so
that no one interfered with her visits, or tried to explain away her
fancies. She was the nursling of love and nature: but the human hearts
which could have felt the greatest tenderness for her beat no longer,
and had become clods of the soil--


"Borne round in earth's diurnal course
With rocks, and stones, and trees."


There was no knee on which she could playfully climb--no neck round
which she could fondly hang--no parent's cheek on which to print her
happy kisses--these two graves were all of relationship she knew upon
the earth--and she would kiss the ground and the flowers, not one of
which she plucked--as she sat embracing the sod. "Mamma" was everywhere
around. "Mamma" was there beneath, and still she could love and feel
herself beloved.

At other times she played gayly with her young companions in the
village--and sometimes she fancied that she loved some one among
them--she made them presents of books and toys, the relics of happier
days; for the desire to benefit, which springs up so naturally in a
loving heart, was strong within her, even in that early age. But she
never took any one with her in her churchyard visits--she needed none
while she was with mamma. Once, indeed, a favourite kitten was carried
to the sacred spot, and the little animal played amid the grass and
flowers, and the child joined in its frolics--her solitary gay laugh
might be heard among the tombs--she did not think it solitary; mamma was
there to smile on her, as she sported with her tiny favourite.




CHAPTER III


Towards the end of a hot, calm day of June, a stranger arrived at Treby.
The variations of calm and wind are always remarkable at the seaside,
and are more particularly to be noticed on this occasion; since it was
the stillness of the elements that caused the arrival of the stranger.
During the whole day several vessels had been observed in the offing,
lying to for a wind, or making small way under press of sail. As evening
came on, the water beyond the bay lay calmer than ever; but a slight
breeze blew from shore, and these vessels, principally colliers, bore
down close under it, endeavouring by short tacks to procure a long one,
and at last to gain searoom to make the eastern headland of the bay. The
fishermen on shore watched the manœuvres of the different craft; and
even interchanged shouts with the sailors, as they lay lazily on the
beach. At length they were put in motion by a hail for a boat from a
small merchantman--the call was obeyed--the boat neared the vessel--a
gentleman descended into it--his portmanteau was handed after him--a few
strokes of the oar drove the boat on the beach, and the stranger leaped
out upon the sands.

The new comer gave a brief order, directing his slight luggage to be
carried to the best inn, and, paying the boatmen liberally, strolled
away to a more solitary part of the beach. "A gentleman," all the
spectators decided him to be--and such a designation served for a full
description of the new arrival to the villagers of Treby. But it were
better to say a few words to draw him from among a vast multitude who
might be similarly named, and to bestow individuality on the person in
question. It would be best so to present his appearance and manner to
the "mind's eye" of the reader, that if any met him by chance, he might
exclaim, "That is the man!" Yet there is no task more difficult than to
convey to another, by mere words, an image, however distinctly it is
impressed on our own minds. The individual expression and peculiar
traits which cause a man to be recognised among ten thousand of his
fellow-men, by one who has known him, though so palpable to the eye,
escape when we would find words whereby to delineate them.

There was something in the stranger that at once arrested attention--a
freedom, and a command of manner--self-possession joined to energy. It
might be difficult to guess his age, for his face had been exposed to
the bronzing influence of a tropical climate, and the smoothness of
youth was exchanged for the deeper lines of maturity, without anything
being as yet taken from the vigour of the limbs, or the perfection of
those portions of the frame and face, which so soon show marks of decay.
He might have reached the verge of thirty, but he could not be
older--and might be younger. His figure was active, sinewy, and
strong--upright as a soldier (indeed, a military air was diffused all
over his person); he was tall, and, to a certain degree, handsome; his
dark gray eyes were piercing as an eagle's, and his forehead high and
expansive, though somewhat distorted by various lines that spoke more of
passion than thought; yet his face was eminently intelligent; his mouth,
rather too large in its proportions, yet grew into beauty when he
smiled--indeed, the remarkable trait of his physiognomy was its great
variation--restless, and even fierce; the expression was often that of
passionate and unquiet thoughts; while at other times it was almost
bland from the apparent smoothness and graceful undulation of the lines.
It was singular, that when communing only with himself, storms appeared
to shake his muscles and disfigure the harmony of his countenance--and
that, when he addressed others, all was composed--full of meaning, and
yet of repose. His complexion, naturally of an olive tint, had grown red
and adust under the influence of climate--and often flushed from the
inroads of vehement feeling. You could not doubt at the instant of
seeing him, that many singular, perhaps tragical, incidents were
attached to his history--but conviction was enforced that he reversed
the line of Shakspeare, and was _less_ sinned against than sinning--or,
at least, that he had been the active machinator of his fate, not the
passive recipient of disappointment and sorrow. When he believed himself
to be unobserved, his face worked with a thousand contending emotions,
fiery glances shot from his eyes--he appeared to wince from sudden
anguish--to be transported by a rage that changed his beauty into utter
deformity: was he spoken to, all these tokens vanished on the
instant--dignified, calm, and even courteous; though cold, he would
persuade those whom he addressed that he was one of themselves--and not
a being transported by his own passions and actions into a sphere which
every other human being would have trembled to approach. A superficial
observer had pronounced him a good fellow, though a little too
stately--a wise man had been pleased by the intelligence and information
he displayed--the variety of his powers, and the ease with which he
brought forward the stores of his intellect to enlighten any topic of
discourse. An independent and a gallant spirit he surely had--what,
then, had touched it with destruction--shaken it to ruin, and made him,
while yet so young, abhorrent even to himself?

Such is an outline of the stranger of Treby; and his actions were in
conformity with the incongruities of his appearance--outwardly
unemployed and tranquil; inwardly torn by throes of the most tempestuous
and agonizing feelings. After landing he had strolled away, and was soon
out of sight; nor did he return till night, when he looked fatigued and
depressed. For form's sake--or for the sake of the bill at the inn--he
allowed food to be placed before him; but he neither ate nor drank--soon
he hurried to the solitude of his chamber--not to bed--he paced the room
for some hours; but as soon as all was still--when his watch and the
quiet stars told him that it was midnight, he left the house--he
wandered down to the beach--he threw himself upon the sands--and then
again he started up and strode along the verge of the tide--and then
sitting down, covering his face with his hands, remained motionless:
early dawn found him thus--but, on the first appearance of a fisherman,
he left the neighbourhood of the village, nor returned till the
afternoon--and now, when food was placed before him, he ate like one
half famished; but after the keen sensation of extreme hunger was
satisfied, he left the table and retired to his own room.

Taking a case of pistols from his portmanteau, he examined the weapons
with care, and, putting them in his pocket, walked out upon the sands.
The sun was fast descending in the sky, and he looked, with varying
glances, at it and at the blue sea, which slumbered peacefully, giving
forth scarcely any sound as it receded from the shore. Now he seemed
wistful--now impatient--now struck by bitterer pangs, that caused drops
of agony to gather on his brow. He spoke no word; but these were the
thoughts that hovered, though unexpressed, upon his lips: "Another day!
Another sun! Oh, never, never more for me shall day or sun exist.
Coward! Why fear to die? And do I fear? No! no! I fear nothing but this
pain--this unutterable anguish--this image of fell despair! If I could
feel secure that memory would cease when my brain lies scattered on the
earth, I should again feel joy before I die. Yet that is false. While I
live, and memory lives, and the knowledge of my crime still creeps
through every particle of my frame, I have a hell around me, even to the
last pulsation! For ever and for ever I see her, lost and dead at my
feet--I the cause--the murderer! My death shall atone. And yet even in
death the curse is on me--I cannot give back the breath of life to her
sweet pale lips! Oh fool! Oh villain! Haste to the last act; linger no
more, lest you grow mad, and fetters and stripes become your fitter
punishment than the death you covet!"

"Yet"--after a pause, his thoughts thus continued:--"not here, nor now:
there must be darkness on the earth before the deed is done! Hasten and
hide thyself, oh sun! Thou wilt never be cursed by the sight of my
living form again!"

Thus did the transport of passion embrace the universe in its grasp; and
the very sunlight seemed to have a pulse responsive to his own. The
bright orb sunk lower; and the little western promontory, with its
crowning spire, was thrown into bold relief against the glowing sky. As
if some new idea were awakened, the stranger proceeded along the sands,
towards the extremity of the headland. A short time before, unobserved
by him, the little orphan had tripped along, and, scaling the cliff, had
seated herself, as usual, beside her mother's grave.

The stranger proceeded slowly, and with irregular steps. He was waiting
till darkness should blind the eyes of day, which now appeared to gaze
on him with intolerable scrutiny, and to read his very soul, that
sickened and writhed with its burden of sin and sorrow. When out of the
immediate neighbourhood of the village, he threw himself upon a fragment
of rock, and--he could not be said to meditate--for that supposes some
sort of voluntary action of the mind--while to him might be applied the
figure of the poet, who represented himself as hunted by his own
thoughts--pursued by memory, and torn to pieces, as Actæon by his own
hounds. A troop of horrid recollections assailed his soul! there was no
shelter, no escape! various passions, by turns, fastened themselves upon
him--jealousy, disappointed love, rage, fear, and, last and worst,
remorse and despair. No bodily torture, invented by revengeful tyrant,
could produce agony equal to that which he had worked out for his own
mind. His better nature, and the powers of his intellect, served but to
sharpen and strike deeper the pangs of unavailing regret. Fool! He had
foreseen nothing of all this! He had fancied that he could bend the
course of fate to his own will; and that to desire with energy was to
ensure success. And to what had the immutable resolve to accomplish his
ends brought him? She was dead--the loveliest and best of created
beings: torn from the affections and the pleasures of life! from her
home, her child! He had seen her stretched dead at his feet: he had
heaped the earth upon her clay-cold form; and he the cause! he the
murderer!

Stung to intolerable anguish by these ideas, he felt hastily for his
pistols, and rising, pursued his way. Evening was closing in; yet he
could distinguish the winding path of the cliff; he ascended, opened the
little gate, and entered the churchyard. Oh! how he envied the
dead!--the guiltless dead, who had closed their eyes on this mortal
scene, surrounded by weeping friends, cheered by religious hope. All
that imaged innocence and repose appeared in his eyes so beautiful and
desirable; and how could he, the criminal, hope to rest like one of
these? A star or two came out in the heavens above, and the church spire
seemed almost to reach them, as it pointed upward. The dim, silent sea
was spread beneath: the dead slept around: scarcely did the tall grass
bend its head to the summer air. Soft, balmy peace possessed the scene.
With what thrilling sensations of self-enjoyment and gratitude to the
Creator, might the mind at ease drink in the tranquil loveliness of such
an hour. The stranger felt every nerve wakened to fresh anguish. His
brow contracted convulsively. "Shall I ever die!" he cried; "will not
the dead reject me!"

He looked round with the natural instinct that leads a human being, at
the moment of dissolution, to withdraw into a cave or corner, where
least to offend the eyes of the living by the loathsome form of death.
The ivied wall and paling, overhung by trees, formed a nook, whose
shadow at that hour was becoming deep. He approached the spot; for a
moment he stood looking afar: he knew not at what; and drew forth his
pistol, cocked it, and throwing himself on the grassy mound, raised the
mouth of the fatal instrument to his forehead. "Oh, go away! go away
from mamma!" were words that might have met his ear, but that every
sense was absorbed. As he drew the trigger, his arm was pulled; the ball
whizzed harmlessly by his ear: but the shock of the sound, the
unconsciousness that he had been touched at that moment--the belief that
the mortal wound was given, made him fall back; and, as he himself said
afterward, he fancied that he had uttered the scream he heard, which
had, indeed, proceeded from other lips.

In a few seconds he recovered himself. Yet so had he worked up his mind
to die; so impossible did it appear that his aim should fail him, that
in those few seconds the earth and all belonging to it had passed
away--and his first exclamation, as he started up, was, "Where am I?"
Something caught his gaze; a little white figure, which lay but a few
paces distant, and two eyes that gleamed on him--the horrible thought
darted into his head--had another instead of himself been the victim?
and he exclaimed in agony, "Gracious God! who are you?--speak! What have
I done!" Still more was he horror-struck when he saw that it was a
little child who lay before him--he raised her--but her eyes had glared
with terror, not death; she did not speak; but she was not wounded, and
he endeavoured to comfort and reassure her, till she, a little restored,
began to cry bitterly, and he felt, thankfully, that her tears were a
pledge that the worst consequences of her fright had passed away. He
lifted her from the ground, while she, in the midst of her tears, tried
to get him away from the grave he desecrated. The twilight scarcely
showed her features; but her surpassing fairness--her lovely countenance
and silken hair, so betokened a child of love and care, that he was more
the surprised to find her alone, at that hour, in the solitary
churchyard.

He soothed her gently, and asked, "How came you here? what could you be
doing so late so far from home?"

"I came to see mamma."

"To see mamma! Where? how? Your mother is not here."

"Yes she is; mamma is there;" and she pointed with her little finger to
the grave.

The stranger started up--there was something awful in this childish
simplicity and affection: he tried to read the inscription on the stone
near--he could just make out the name of Edwin Raby. "That is not your
mother's grave," he said.

"No; papa is there--mamma is here, next to him."

The man, just bent on self-destruction, with a conscience burning him to
the heart's core--all concentrated in the omnipotence of his own
sensations--shuddered at the tale of dereliction and misery these words
conveyed; he looked earnestly on the child, and was fascinated by her
angel look; she spoke with a pretty seriousness, shaking her head, her
lips trembling--her large eyes shining in brimming tears. "My poor
child," he said, "your name is Raby then?"

"Mamma used to call me Baby," she replied; "they call me Missy at
home--my name is Elizabeth."

"Well, dear Elizabeth, let me take you home; you cannot stay all night
with mamma."

"Oh, no; I was just going home when you frightened me."

"You must forget that; I will buy you a doll to make it up again, and
all sorts of toys; see, here is a pretty thing for you!" and he took the
chain of his watch, and threw it over her head; he wanted so to distract
her attention as to make her forget what had passed, and not to tell a
shocking story when she got home.

"But," she said, looking up into his face, "you will not be so naughty
again, and sit down where mamma is lying."

The stranger promised, and kissed her; and, taking her hand, they walked
together to the village; she prattled as she went, and he sometimes
listened to her stories of mamma, and answered, and sometimes thought
with wonder that he still lived--that the ocean's tide still broke at
his feet--and the stars still shone above; he felt angry and impatient
at the delay, as if it betokened a failing of purpose. They walked along
the sands, and stopped at last at Mrs. Baker's door. She was standing at
it, and exclaimed, "Here you are, Missy, at last! What have you been
doing with yourself? I declare I was quite frightened--it is long past
your bedtime."

"You must not scold her," said the stranger; "I detained her. But why do
you let her go out alone? it is not right."

"Lord, sir," she replied, "there is none hereabouts to do her a
harm--and she would not thank me if I kept her from going to see her
mamma, as she calls it. I have no one to spare to go with her; it's hard
enough on me to keep her on charity, as I do. But"--and her voice
changed as a thought flashed across her--"I beg your pardon, sir,
perhaps you come for Missy, and know all about her. I am sure I have
done all I can; it's a long time since her mamma died; and, but for me,
she must have gone to the parish. I hope you will judge that I have done
my duty towards her."

"You mistake," said the stranger; "I know nothing of this young lady,
nor of her parents, who, it would seem, are both dead. Of course she has
other relations?"

"That she has, and rich ones too," replied Mrs. Baker, "if one could but
find them out. It's hard upon me, who am a widow woman, with four
children of my own, to have other people's upon me--very hard, sir, as
you must allow; and often I think that I cannot answer it to myself,
taking the bread from my own children and grandchildren, to feed a
stranger. But, to be sure, Missy has rich relations, and some day they
will inquire for her; though come the tenth of next August, and it's a
year since her mother died, and no one has come to ask good or bad about
her, or Missy."

"Her father died also in this village?" asked the stranger.

"True enough," said the woman; "both father and mother died in this very
house, and lie up in the churchyard yonder. Come, Missy, don't cry;
that's an old story now, and it's no use fretting."

The poor child, who had hitherto listened in simple ignorance, began to
sob at this mention of her parents; and the stranger, shocked by the
woman's unfeeling tone, said, "I should like to hear more of this sad
story. Pray let the poor dear child be put to bed, and then, if you will
relate what you know of her parents, I dare say I can give you some
advice to enable you to discover her relations, and relieve you from the
burden of her maintenance."

"These are the first comfortable words I have heard a long time," said
Mrs. Baker. "Come, Missy, Nancy shall put you to bed; it's far past your
hour. Don't cry, dear; this kind gentleman will take you along with him,
to a fine house, among grand folks, and all our troubles will be over.
Be pleased, sir, to step into the parlour, and I will show you a letter
of the lady, and tell you all I know. I dare say, if you are going to
London, you will find out that Missy ought to be riding in her coach at
this very moment."

This was a golden idea of Mrs. Baker, and, in truth, went a little
beyond her anticipations; but she had got tired of her first dreams of
greatness, and feared that, in sad truth, the little orphan's relations
would entirely disown her; but it struck her that, if she could persuade
this strange gentleman that all she said was true, he might be induced
to take the little girl with him when he went away, and undertake the
task of restoring her to her father's family, by which means she at
least would be released from all further care on her account:--"Upon
this hint she spake."

She related how Mr. and Mrs. Raby had arrived with their almost infant
child--death already streaked the brow of the dying man; each day
threatened to be his last; yet he lived on. His sufferings were great;
and night and day his wife was at his side, waiting on him, watching
each turn of his eye, each change of complexion or of pulse. They were
poor, and had only one servant, hired at the village soon after their
arrival, when Mrs. Raby found herself unable to bestow adequate
attention on both husband and child; yet she did so much as evidently to
cause her to sink beneath her too great exertions. She was delicate and
fragile in appearance; but she never owned to being fatigued, or relaxed
in her attentions. Her voice was always attuned to cheerfulness, her
eyes beaming with tenderness: she, doubtless, wept in secret; but when
conversing with her husband, or playing with her child, a natural
vivacity animated her, that looked like hope; indeed, it was certain
that, in spite of every fatal symptom, she did not wholly despair. When
her husband declared himself better, and resumed for a day his task of
instructer to his little girl, she believed that his disorder had taken
a favourable turn, and would say, "Oh, Mrs. Baker, please God, he is
really better; doctors are not infallible; he may live!" And as she
spoke, her eyes swam in tears, while a smile lay like a sunbeam on her
features. She did not sink till her husband died, and even then
struggled, both with her grief and the wasting malady already at work
within her, with a fortitude a mother only could practise; for all her
exertions were for her dear child; and she could smile on her, a wintry
smile--yet sweet as if warmed by seraphic faith and love. She lingered
thus, hovering on the very limits of life and death; her heart warm and
affectionate, and hoping, and full of fire to the end, for her child's
sake, while she herself pined for the freedom of the grave, and to soar
from the cares and sorrows of a sordid world, to the heaven already open
to receive her. In homely phrase, Mrs. Baker dwelt upon this touching
mixture of maternal tenderness and soft languor, that would not mourn
for him she was so soon to join. The woman then described her sudden
death, and placed the fragment of her last letter before her auditor.

Deeply interested, the stranger began to read, when suddenly he became
ghastly pale, and, trembling all over, he asked, "To whom was this
letter addressed?"

"Ah, sir," replied Mrs. Baker, "would that I could tell, and all my
troubles would be over. Read on, sir, and you will see that Mrs. Raby
feels sure that the lady would have been a mother to poor Missy; but
who, or where she is, is past all my guessing."

The stranger strove to read on; but violent emotion, and the struggle to
hide what he felt, hindered him from taking in the meaning of a single
word. At length he told Mrs. Baker that, with her leave, he would take
the letter away, and read it at his leisure. He promised her his aid in
discovering Mrs. Raby's relatives, and assured her that there would be
small difficulty in so doing. He then retired, and Mrs. Baker exclaimed,
"Please God, this will prove a good day's work."

A voice from the grave had spoken to the stranger. It was not the dead
mother's voice--she, whatever her merits and sufferings had been, was to
him an image of the mind only--he had never known her. But her
benefactress, her hope and trust, who and where was she! Alithea! the
warm-hearted friend--the incomparable mother! She to whom all hearts in
distress turned, sure of relief--who went before the desires of the
necessitous; whose generous and free spirit made her emperess of all
hearts; who, while she lived, spread, as does the sun, radiance and
warmth around--her pulses were stilled; her powers cribbed up in the
grave. She was nothing now; and he had reduced to this nothing the
living frame of this glorious being.

The stranger read the letter again and again; again he writhed, as her
name appeared, traced by her friend's delicate hand, and the concluding
hope seemed the acme of his despair. She would indeed have been a mother
to the orphan--he remembered expressions that told him that she was
making diligent inquiry for her friend, whose luckless fate had not
reached her. Yes, it was his Alithea; he could not doubt. His? Fatal
mistake--his she had never been; and the wild resolve to make her such
had ended in death and ruin.

The stranger had taken the letter to his inn--but any roof seemed to
imprison and oppress him--again he sought relief in the open air, and
wandered far along the sands, with the speed of a misery that strove to
escape from itself. The whole night he spent thus--sometimes climbing
the jagged cliffs, then descending to the beach, and throwing himself
his length upon the sands. The tide ebbed and flowed--the roar of ocean
filled the lone night with sound--the owl flapped down from its home in
the rock, and hooted. Hour after hour passed--and, driven by a thousand
thoughts--tormented by the direst pangs of memory--still the stranger
hurried along the winding shores. Morning found him many miles from
Treby. He did not stop till the appearance of another village put a
limit to solitude, and he returned upon his steps.

Those who could guess his crime, could alone divine the combat of life
and death waging in his heart. He had, through accident and
forgetfulness, left his pistols on the table of his chamber at the inn,
or, in some of the wildest of the paroxysms of despair, they had ended
all. To die, he fondly hoped, was to destroy memory and to defeat
remorse; and yet there arose within his mind that feeling, mysterious
and inexplicable to common reason, which generates a desire to expiate
and to atone. Should he be the cause of good to the friendless orphan,
bequeathed so vainly to his victim, would not that, in some sort,
compensate for his crime? Would it not double it to have destroyed her,
and also the good of which she would have been the author? The very
finger of God pointed to this act, since the child's little hand had
arrested his arm at the fatal moment when he believed that no interval
of a second's duration intervened between him and the grave. Then, to
aid those dim religious misgivings, came the manly wish to protect the
oppressed and assist the helpless. The struggle was long and terrible.
Now he made up his mind that it was cowardice to postpone his
resolve--that to live was to stamp himself poltron and traitor. And now
again, he felt that the true cowardice was to die--to fly from the
consequences of his actions, and the burden of existence. He gazed upon
the dim waste of waters, as if from its misty skirt some vision would
arise to guide or to command. He cast his eyes upward to interrogate the
silent stars--the roaring of the tide appeared to assume an inorganic
voice, and to murmur hoarsely, "Live! miserable wretch! Dare you hope
for the repose which your victim enjoys? Know that the guilty are
unworthy to die--that is the reward of innocence!"

The cool air of morning chilled his brow, and the broad sun arose from
the eastern sea, as, pale and haggard, he retrod many a weary step
towards Treby. He was faint and weary. He had resolved to live yet a
little longer--till he had fulfilled some portion of his duty towards
the lovely orphan. So resolving, he felt as if he paid a part of the
penalty due. A soothing feeling, which resembled repentance, stole over
his heart, already rewarding him. How swiftly and audibly does the inner
voice of our nature speak, telling us when we do right. Besides, he
believed that to live was to suffer; to live, therefore, was in him a
virtue: and the exultation, the balmy intoxication which always follows
our first attempt to execute a virtuous resolve, crept over him, and
elevated his spirits, though body and soul were alike weary. Arriving at
Treby, he sought his bed. He slept peacefully; and it was the first
slumber he had enjoyed since he had torn himself from the spot where she
lay, whom he had loved so truly, even to the death to which he had
brought her.




CHAPTER IV


Two days after, the stranger and the orphan had departed for London.
When it came to the point of decision, Mrs. Baker's conscience began to
reproach her; and she doubted the propriety of intrusting her innocent
charge to one totally unknown. But the stranger satisfied her doubts; he
showed her papers betokening his name and station, as John Falkner,
captain in the native cavalry of the East India Company, and moreover
possessed of such an independence as looked like wealth in the eyes of
Mrs. Baker, and at once commanded her respect.

His own care was to collect every testimony and relic that might prove
the identity of the little Elizabeth. Her unfortunate mother's
unfinished letter--her Bible and prayer-book--in the first of which was
recorded the birth of her child--and a seal (which Mrs. Baker's prudence
had saved, when her avarice caused her to sell the watch), with Mr.
Raby's coat of arms and crest engraved--a small desk, containing a few
immaterial papers, and letters from strangers, addressed to Edwin
Raby--such was Elizabeth's inheritance. In looking over the desk, Mr.
Falkner found a little foreign almanac, embellished with prints, and
fancifully bound--on the first page of which was written, in a woman's
elegant hand, _To dearest Isabella--from her A. R._

Had Falkner wanted proof as to the reality of his suspicions with regard
to the friend of Mrs. Raby, here was conviction; he was about to press
the dear handwriting to his lips, when, feeling his own unworthiness, he
shuddered through every limb, and thrusting the book into his bosom, he,
by a strong effort, prevented every outward mark of the thrilling agony
which the sight of his victim's writing occasioned. It gave, at the same
time, fresh firmness to his resolve to do all that was requisite to
restore the orphan daughter of her friend to her place in society. She
was as a bequest, left him by whom he last saw pale and senseless at his
feet--who had been the dream of his life from boyhood, and was now the
phantom to haunt him with remorse to his latest hour. To replace the
dead to the lovely child was impossible. He knew the incomparable
virtues of her to whom her mother bequeathed her, while every thought
that tended to recall her to his memory was armed with a double
sting--regret at having lost--horror at the fate he had brought upon
her.

By what strange, incalculable, and yet sure enchainment of events had he
been brought to supply her place! She was dead--through his accursed
machinations she no longer formed a portion of the breathing world--how
marvellous that he, flying from memory and conscience, resolved to
expiate his half involuntary guilt by his own death, should have landed
at Treby! Still more wondrous were the motives--hair slight in
appearance, yet on which so vast a weight of circumstance hung--that led
him to the twilight churchyard, and had made Mrs. Raby's grave the scene
of the projected tragedy--which had brought the orphan to guard that
grave from pollution, caused her to stay his upraised hand, and gained
for herself a protector by the very act.

Whoever has been the victim of a tragic event--whoever has experienced
life and hope--the past and the future wrecked by one fatal catastrophe,
must be at once dismayed and awestruck to trace the secret agency of a
thousand foregone, disregarded, and trivial events, which all led to the
deplored end, and served, as it were, as invisible meshes to envelop the
victim in the fatal net. Had the meanest among these been turned aside,
the progress of the destroying destiny had been stopped; but there is no
voice to cry "Hold!" no prophesying eye to discern the unborn event--and
the future inherits its whole portion of wo.

Awed by the mysteries that encompassed and directed his steps, which
used no agency except the unseen, but not unfelt, power which surrounds
us with motive as with an atmosphere, Falkner yielded his hitherto
unbending mind to control. He was satisfied to be led, and not to
command; his impatient spirit wondered at this new docility, while yet
he felt some slight self-satisfaction steal over him; and the prospect
of being useful to the helpless little being who stood before him, weak
in all except her irresistible claim to his aid, imparted such pleasure
as he was surprised to feel.

Once again he visited the churchyard of Treby, accompanied by the
orphan. She was loath to quit the spot--she could with difficulty
consent to leave mamma. But Mrs. Baker had made free use of a grown-up
person's much abused privilege of deceit, and told her lies in
abundance; sometimes promising that she should soon return; sometimes
assuring her that she would find her mother alive and well at the grand
place whither she was going: yet, despite the fallacious hopes, she
cried and sobbed bitterly during her last visits to her parents' graves.
Falkner tried to sooth her, saying, "We must leave papa and mamma,
dearest; God has taken them from you; but I will be a new papa to you."

The child raised her head, which she had buried in his breast, and in
infantine dialect and accent said, "Will you be good to her, and love
Baby, as papa did?"

"Yes, dearest child, I promise always to love you: will you love me, and
call me your papa?"

"Papa, dear papa," she cried, clinging round his neck--"my new, good
papa!" And then, whispering in his ear, she softly, but seriously,
added, "I can't have a new mamma--I won't have any but my own mamma."

"No, pretty one," said Falkner, with a sigh, "you will never have
another mamma; she is gone who would have been a second mother, and you
are wholly orphaned."

An hour after they were on the road to London; and, full of engrossing
and torturing thoughts as Falkner was, still he was called out of
himself, and forced to admire the winning ways, the enchanting innocence
and loveliness of his little charge. We human beings are so unlike one
to the other, that it is often difficult to make one person understand
that there is any force in an impulse which is omnipotent with another.
Children, to some, are mere animals, unendued with instinct,
troublesome, and unsightly--with others they possess a charm that
reaches to the heart's core, and stirs the purest and most generous
portions of our nature. Falkner had always loved children. In the Indian
wilds, which for many years he had inhabited, the sight of a young
native mother with her babe had moved him to envious tears. The fair,
fragile offspring of European women, with blooming faces and golden
hair, had often attracted him to bestow kind offices on parents whom
otherwise he would have disregarded; the fiery passions of his own heart
caused him to feel a soothing repose while watching the innocent gambols
of childhood, while his natural energy, which scarcely ever found
sufficient scope for exercise, led him to delight in protecting the
distressed. If the mere chance spectacle of infant helplessness was wont
to excite his sympathy, this sentiment, by the natural workings of the
human heart, became far more lively when so beautiful and perfect a
creature as Elizabeth Raby was thrown upon his protection. No one could
have regarded her unmoved; her silver-toned laugh went to the heart; her
alternately serious or gay looks, each emanating from the spirit of
love; her caresses, her little words of endearment; the soft pressure of
her tiny hand and warm rosy lips--were all as charming as beauty and the
absence of guile could make them. And he, the miserable man, was
charmed, and pitied the mother who had been forced to desert so sweet a
flower--leaving to the bleak elements a blossom which it had been
paradise for her to have cherished and sheltered in her own bosom for
ever.

At each moment Falkner became more enchanted with his companion.
Sometimes they got out of the chaise to walk up a hill; then, taking the
child in his arms, he plucked flowers for her from the hedges, or she
ran on before and gathered them for herself--now pulling ineffectually
at some stubborn parasite--now pricking herself with brier, when his
help was necessary to assist and make all well again. When again in the
carriage she climbed on his knee and stuck the flowers in his hair, "to
make papa fine;" and as trifles affect the mind when rendered sensitive
by suffering, so was he moved by her trying to remove the thorns of the
wild roses before she decorated him with them; at other times she
twisted them among her own ringlets, and laughed to see herself mirrored
in the front glasses of the chaise. Sometimes her mood changed, and she
prattled seriously about "mamma." Asked if he did not think that she was
sorry at Baby's going so far--far away--or, remembering the fanciful
talk of her mother when her father died, she asked whether she were not
following them through the air. As evening closed in, she looked out to
see whether she could not perceive her; "I cannot hear her; she does not
speak to me," she said; "perhaps she is a long way off, in that tiny
star; but then she can see us--Are you there, mamma?"

Artlessness and beauty are more truly imaged on the canvass than in the
written page. Were we to see the lovely orphan thus pictured (and
Italian artists, and our own Reynolds, have painted such) with uplifted
finger; her large earnest eyes looking inquiringly and tenderly for the
shadowy form of her mother, as she might fancy it descending towards her
from the little star her childish fancy singled out, a half smile on her
lips, contrasted with the seriousness of her baby brow--if we could see
such visibly presented on the canvass, the world would crowd round to
admire. This pen but feebly traces the living grace of the little angel;
but it was before Falkner; it stirred him to pity first, and then to
deeper regret: he strained the child to his breast, thinking, "Oh, yes,
I might have been a better and a happy man! False Alithea! why, through
your inconstancy, are such joys buried for ever in your grave!"

A few minutes after and the little girl fell asleep, nestled in his
arms. Her attitude had all the inartificial grace of childhood; her face
hushed to repose, yet breathed of affection. Falkner turned his eyes
from her to the starry sky. His heart swelled impatiently--his past life
lay as a map unrolled before him. He had desired a peaceful
happiness--the happiness of love. His fond aspirations had been snakes
to destroy others, and to sting his own soul to torture. He writhed
under the consciousness of the remorse and horror which were henceforth
to track his path of life. Yet, even while he shuddered, he felt that a
revolution was operating within himself--he no longer contemplated
suicide. That which had so lately appeared a mark of courage wore now
the guise of cowardice. And yet, if he were to live, where and how
should his life be passed? He recoiled from the solitude of the heart
which had marked his early years--and yet he felt that he could never
more link himself in love or friendship to any.

He looked upon the sleeping child, and began to conjecture whether he
might not find in her the solace he needed. Should he not adopt her,
mould her heart to affection, teach her to lean on him only, be all the
world to her, while her gentleness and caresses would give life a
charm--without which it were vain to attempt to endure existence?

He reflected what Elizabeth's probable fate would be if he restored her
to her father's family. Personal experience had given him a horror for
the forbidding, ostentatious kindness of distant relations. That hers
resembled such as he had known, and were imperious and cold-hearted,
their conduct not only to Mrs. Raby, but previously to a meritorious
son, did not permit him to doubt. If he made the orphan over to them,
their luxuries and station would ill stand instead of affection and
heartfelt kindness. Soft, delicate, and fond, she would pine and die.
With him, on the contrary, she would be happy--he would devote himself
to her--every wish gratified--her gentle disposition carefully
cultivated--no rebuke, no harshness; his arms ever open to receive her
in grief--his hand to support her in danger. Was not this a fate her
mother would have preferred? In bequeathing her to her friend, she
showed how little she wished that her sweet girl should pass into the
hands of her husband's relations. Could he not replace that friend of
whom he had so cruelly robbed her--whose loss was to be attributed to
him alone?

We all are apt to think that when we discard a motive we cure a fault,
and foster the same error from a new cause with a safe conscience. Thus,
even now, aching and sore from the tortures of remorse for past faults,
Falkner indulged in the same propensity, which, apparently innocent in
its commencement, had led to fatal results. He meditated doing rather
what he wished than what was strictly just. He did not look forward to
the evils his own course involved, while he saw in disproportionate
magnitude those to be brought about if he gave up his favourite project.
What ills might arise to the orphan from his interweaving her fate with
his--he, a criminal, in act, if not in intention--who might be called
upon hereafter to answer for his deeds, and who at least must fly and
hide himself--of this he thought not; while he determined that, fostered
and guarded by him, Elizabeth must be happy--and, under the tutelage of
her relations, she would become the victim of hardhearted neglect. These
ideas floated somewhat indistinctly in his mind--and it was half
unconsciously that he was building from them a fabric for the future as
deceitful as it was alluring.

After several days' travelling, Falkner found himself with his young
charge in London, and then he began to wonder wherefore he had repaired
thither, and to consider that he must form some settled scheme for the
future. He had in England neither relation nor friend whom he cared for.
Orphaned at an early age, neglected by those who supported him, at least
as far as the affections were concerned, he had, even in boyhood, known
intimately, and loved but one person only--she who had ruled his fate to
this hour--and was now among the dead. Sent to India in early youth, he
had there to make his way in defiance of poverty, of want of connexion,
of his own overbearing disposition--and the sense of wrong early
awakened that made him proud and reserved. At last, most unexpectedly,
the death of several relations caused the family estate to devolve upon
him--and he had sold his commission in India and hastened home--with his
heart so set upon one object, that he scarcely reflected, or reflected
only to congratulate himself, on how alone he stood. And now that his
impetuosity and ill-regulated passions had driven the dear object of all
his thoughts to destruction--still he was glad that there were none to
question him--none to wonder at his resolves; to advise or to reproach.

Still a plan was necessary. The very act of his life which had been so
big with ruin and remorse enjoined some forethought. It was probable
that he was already suspected, if not known. Detection and punishment in
a shape most loathsome would overtake him, did he not shape his measures
with prudence; and, as hate as well as love had mixed strongly in his
motives, he was in no humour to give his enemies the triumph of visiting
his crime on him.

What is written in glaring character in our own consciousness we believe
to be visible to the whole world; and Falkner, after arriving in London,
after leaving Elizabeth at an hotel, and walking into the streets, felt
as if discovery was already on him, when he was accosted by an
acquaintance, who asked him where he had been--what he had been
doing--and why he was looking so deusedly ill. He stammered some reply,
and was hastening away, when his friend, passing his arm through his,
said, "I must tell you the strangest occurrence I ever heard of--I have
just parted from a man--do you remember a Mr. Neville, whom you dined
with at my house, when last in town?"

Falkner at this moment exercised with success the wonderful mastery
which he possessed over feature and voice, and coldly replied that he
did remember.

"And do you remember our conversation after he left us?" said his
friend, "and my praises of his wife, whom I exalted as the pattern of
virtue? Who can know woman! I could have bet any sum that she would
preserve her good name to the end--and she has eloped."

"Well!" said Falkner, "is that all? is that the most wonderful
circumstance ever heard?"

"Had you known Mrs. Neville," replied his companion, "you would be as
astonished as I: with all her charms--all her vivacity--never had the
breath of scandal reached her--she seemed one of those whose hearts,
though warm, are proof against the attacks of love; and with ardent
affections yet turn away from passion, superior and unharmed. Yet she
has eloped with a lover--there is no doubt of that fact, for he was
seen--they were seen going off together, and she has not been heard of
since."

"Did Mr. Neville pursue them?" asked Falkner.

"He is even now in full pursuit--vowing vengeance--more enraged than I
ever beheld man. Unfortunately, he does not know who the seducer is; nor
have the fugitives yet been traced. The whole affair is the most
mysterious--a lover dropped from the clouds--an angel of virtue subdued,
almost before she is sought. Still they must be found out--they cannot
hide themselves for ever."

"And then there will be a duel to the death?" asked Falkner, in the same
icy accents.

"No," replied the other; "Mrs. Neville has no brother to fight for her,
and her husband breathes law only. Whatever vengeance the law will
afford, that he will use to the utmost--he is too angry to fight."

"The poltron!" exclaimed Falkner; "and thus he loses his sole chance of
revenge."

"I know not that," replied his companion; "he has formed a thousand
schemes of chastisement for both offenders, more dread than the field of
honour--there is, to be sure, a mean, as well as an indignant spirit in
him, that revels rather in the thought of inflicting infamy than death.
He utters a thousand mysterious threats--I do not see exactly what he
can do--but when he discovers his injurer, as he must some day--and I
believe there are letters that afford a clew--he will wreak all that a
savage, and yet a sordid desire of vengeance can suggest. Poor Mrs.
Neville! after all, she must have lived a sad life with such a fellow!"

"And here we part," said Falkner; "I am going another way. You have told
me a strange story--it will be curious to mark the end. Farewell!"

Brave to rashness as Falkner was, yet there was much in what he had just
heard that made him recoil, and almost tremble. What the vengeance was
that Mr. Neville could take, he too well knew--and he resolved to defeat
it. His plans, before vague, were formed on the instant. His lip curled
with a disdainful smile when he recollected what his friend had said of
the mystery that hung over the late occurrences--he would steep them all
in tenfold obscurity. To grieve for the past was futile, or rather,
nothing he could do would prevent or alleviate the piercing regret that
tortured him--but that need not influence his conduct. To leave his arch
enemy writhing from injury, yet powerless to revenge himself--blindly
cursing he knew not who, and removing the object of his curses from all
danger of being hurt by them, was an image not devoid of satisfaction.
Acting in conformity with these ideas, the next morning saw him on the
road to Dover--Elizabeth still his companion, resolved to seek oblivion
in foreign countries and far climes--and happy, at the same time, to
have her with him, whose infantine caresses already poured balm upon his
rankling wounds.




CHAPTER V


Paris was the next, but transient, resting-place of the travellers. Here
Falkner made such arrangements with regard to remittances as he believed
would best ensure his scheme of concealment. He laid the map of Europe
before him, and traced a course with his pencil somewhat erratic, yet
not without a plan. Paris, Hamburgh, Stockholm, St. Petersburgh, Moscow,
Odessa, Constantinople, through Hungary to Vienna. How many thousand
miles! miles which, while he traversed, he could possess his soul in
freedom--fear no scrutiny--be asked no insidious questions. He could
look each man in the face, and none trace his crime in his own.

It was a wild scheme to make so young a child as Elizabeth the companion
of these devious and long wanderings, yet it was her idea that shed
golden rays on the boundless prospect he contemplated. He could not have
undertaken this long journey alone--memory and remorse his only
companions. He was not one of those, unfortunately, whom a bright eye
and kindly smile can light at once into a flame--soon burnt out, it is
true, but warming and cheering, and yet harmless, while it lasted. He
could not, among strangers, at once discern the points to admire, and
make, himself the companion of the intelligent and good, through a sort
of freemasonry some spirits possess. This was a great defect of
character. He was proud and reserved. His esteem must be won--long
habits of intimacy formed--his fastidious taste never wounded--his
imagination never balked; without this he was silent and wrapped in
himself. All his life he had cherished a secret and ardent passion,
beyond whose bounds everything was steril--this had changed from the
hopes of love to the gnawing pangs of remorse--but still his heart fed
on itself--and unless that was interested, and by the force of affection
he were called out of himself, he must be miserable. To arrive
unwelcomed at an inn--to wander through unknown streets and cities
without any stimulus of interest or curiosity--to traverse vast tracts
of country, useless to others, a burden to himself, alone--this would
have been intolerable. But Elizabeth was the cure; she was the animating
soul of his project; her smiles--her caresses--the knowledge that he
benefited her, was the life-blood of his design. He indulged, with a
sort of rapture, in the feeling that he loved, and was beloved by an
angel of innocence, who grew each day into a creature endowed with
intelligence, sympathies, hopes, fears, and affections--all individually
her own, and yet all modelled by him--centred in him--to whom he was
necessary--who would be his; not, like the vain love of his youth, only
in imagination, but in every thought and sensation, to the end of time.

Nor did he intend to pursue his journey in such a way as to overtask her
strength or injure her health. He cared not how much time elapsed before
its completion. It would certainly employ years; it mattered not how
many. When winter rendered travelling painful, he could take up his
abode in a metropolis abounding in luxuries. During the summer heats he
might fix himself in some villa, where the season would be mitigated to
pleasantness. If impelled by a capricious predilection, he could stay
for months in any chance-selected spot; but his home was, with Elizabeth
beside him, in his travelling carriage. Perpetual change would baffle
pursuit if any were set on foot; while the restlessness of his life, the
petty annoyances and fleeting pleasures of a traveller's existence,
would serve to occupy his mind, and prevent its being mastered by those
passions to which one victim had been immolated, and which rendered the
remnant of his days loathsome to himself. "I have determined to live,"
he thought, "and I must therefore ensure the means of life. I must adopt
a method by which I can secure for each day that stock of patience which
is necessary to lead me to the end of it. In the plan I have laid down,
every day will have a task to be fulfilled, and while I employ myself in
executing it, I need look neither before nor behind; and each day added
thus, one by one, to one another, will form months and years, and I
shall grow old travelling post over Europe."

His resolution made, he was eager to enter on his travels, which,
singular to say, he performed even in the very manner he had determined;
for the slight changes in the exact route, introduced afterward from
motives of convenience or pleasure, might be deemed rather as in
accordance with, than deviating from, his original project.

Falkner was not a man ordinarily met with. He possessed wild and fierce
passions, joined to extreme sensibility, beneficence, and generosity.
His boyhood had been rendered miserable by the violence of a temper
roused to anger even from trifles. Collision with his fellow-creatures,
a sense of dignity with his equals, and of justice towards his
inferiors, had subdued this; still his blood was apt to boil when roused
by any impediment to his designs, or the sight of injury towards others,
and it was with great difficulty that he kept down the outward marks of
indignation or contempt. To tame the vehemence of his disposition, he
had endeavoured to shackle his imagination, and to cultivate his
reason--and perhaps he fancied that he succeeded best when, in fact, he
entirely failed. As now, when he took the little orphan with him away
from all the ties of blood--the manners and customs of her country--from
the discipline of regular education, and the society of others of her
sex--had not Elizabeth been the creature she was, with a character not
to be disharmonized by any circumstances, this had been a fearful
experiment.

Yet he fondly hoped to derive happiness from it. Traversing long tracts
of country with vast speed, cut off from intercourse with every one but
her, and she endearing herself more, daily, by extreme sweetness of
disposition, he began almost to forget the worm gnawing at his bosom;
and, feeling himself free, to fancy himself happy. Unfortunately, it was
not so: he had passed the fatal Rubicon, placed by conscience between
innocence and crime; and however much he might for a time deaden the
stings of feeling or baffle the inevitable punishment hereafter to arise
from the consequences of his guilt, still there was a burden on his soul
that took all real zest from life, and made his attempts at enjoyment
more like the experiments of a physician to dissipate sickness, than the
buoyant sensations of one in health.

But then he thought not of himself--he did not live in himself, but in
the joyous being at his side. Her happiness was exuberant. She might be
compared to an exotic, lately pinched, and drooping from the effects of
the wintry air, transported back, in the first opening of a balmy
southern spring, to its native clime. The young and tender green leaves
unfolded themselves in the pleasant air; blossoms appeared among the
foliage, and sweet fruit might be anticipated. Nor was it only the
kindness of her protector that endeared him to her: much of the warm
sentiment of affection arose from their singular modes of life. Had they
continued at a fixed residence, in town or country, in a civilized land,
Elizabeth had seen her guardian at stated periods; have now and then
taken a walk with him, or gambolled in the garden at his side; while,
for the chief part, their occupation and pursuits being different, they
had been little together. As it was, they were never apart: side by side
in a travelling carriage--now arriving, now departing; now visiting the
objects worthy of observation in various cities. They shared in all the
pleasures and pains of travel, and each incident called forth her sense
of dependance, and his desire to protect; or, changing places, even at
that early age, she soothed his impatience, while he was beguiled of his
irritability by her cheerful voice and smiling face. In all this,
Elizabeth felt most strongly the tie that bound them. Sometimes
benighted; sometimes delayed by swollen rivers; reduced to bear together
the miseries of a bad inn, or, at times, of no inn at all; sometimes in
danger--often worn by fatigue--Elizabeth found in her adopted parent a
shelter, a support, and a preserver. Creeping close to him, her little
hand clasped in his, or carried in his arms, she feared nothing, because
he was there. During storms at sea, he had placed his own person between
her and the bitter violence of the wind, and had often exposed himself
to the inclemency of the weather to cover her, and save her from wet and
cold. At all times he was on the alert to assist, and his assistance was
like the coming of a superior being, sufficient to save her from harm,
and inspire her with courage. Such circumstances had, perhaps, made a
slight impression on many children; but Elizabeth had senses and
sensibilities so delicately strung, as to be true to the slightest touch
of harmony.

She had not forgotten the time when, neglected, and almost in rags, she
only heard the voice of complaint or chiding; when she crept alone over
the sands to her mother's grave, and, did a tempest overtake her, there
was none to shield or be of comfort; she remembered little accidents
that had at times befallen her, which, to her infantine feelings, seemed
mighty dangers. But there had been none, as now, to pluck her from peril
and ensure her safety. She recollected when, on one occasion, a
thunder-storm had overtaken her in the churchyard; when, hurrying home,
her foot slipped, as she attempted to descend the wet path of the cliff;
frightened, she clambered up again, and, returning home by the upper
road, had lost her way, and found night darkening round her--wet, tired,
and shivering with fear and cold; and then, on her return, her welcome
had been a scolding--well meant, perhaps, but vulgar, loud, and painful:
and now the contrast! Her wishes guessed--her thoughts divined--ready
succour and perpetual vigilance were for ever close at hand; and all
this accompanied by a gentleness, kindness, and even by a respect, which
the ardent yet refined feelings of her protector readily bestowed. Thus
a physical gratitude--so to speak--sprung up in her child's heart, a
precursor to the sense of moral obligation to be developed in after
years. Every hour added strength to her affection, and habit generated
fidelity, and an attachment not to be shaken by any circumstances.

Nor was kindness from him the only tie between them. Elizabeth discerned
his sadness, and tried to cheer his gloom. Now and then the fierceness
of his temper broke forth towards others; but she was never terrified,
and grieved for the object of his indignation; or if she felt it to be
unjust, she pleaded the cause of the injured, and, by her caresses,
brought him back to himself. She early learned the power she had over
him, and loved him the more fondly on that account. Thus there existed
a perpetual interchange of benefit--of watchful care--of mutual
forbearance--of tender pity and thankfulness. If all this seems beyond
the orphan's years, it must be remembered that peculiar circumstances
develop peculiar faculties; and that, besides, what is latent does not
the less exist on that account. Elizabeth could not have expressed, and
was, indeed, unconscious of the train of feeling here narrated. It was
the microcosm of a plant folded up in its germe. Sometimes looking at a
green, unformed bud, we wonder why a particular texture of leaves must
inevitably spring from it, and why another sort of plant should not
shoot out from the dark stem: but, as the tiny leaflet uncloses, it is
there in all its peculiarity, and endowed with all the especial
qualities of its kind. Thus with Elizabeth, however, in the
thoughtlessness and inexperience of childhood, small outward show was
made of the inner sense; yet in her heart, tenderness, fidelity, and
unshaken truth were folded up, to be developed as her mind gained ideas,
and sensation gradually verged into sentiment.

The course of years, also, is included in this sketch. She was six years
old when she left Paris--she was nearly ten when, after many wanderings,
and a vast tract of country overpassed, they arrived at Odessa. There
had always been a singular mixture of childishness and reflection in
her, and this continued even now. As far as her own pleasures were
concerned, she might be thought behind her age: to chase a butterfly--to
hunt for a flower--to play with a favourite animal--to listen with
eagerness to the wildest fairy tales--such were her pleasures; but there
was something more as she watched the turns of countenance in him she
named her father--adapted herself to his gloomy or communicative
mood--pressed near him when she thought he was annoyed--and restrained
every appearance of discomfort when he was distressed by her being
exposed to fatigue or the inclement sky.

When at St. Petersburgh he fell ill, she never left his bedside; and,
remembering the death of her parents, she wasted away with terror and
grief. At another time, in a wild district of Russia, she sickened of
the measles. They were obliged to take refuge in a miserable hovel; and,
despite all his care, the want of medical assistance endangered her
life, while her convalescence was rendered tedious and painful by the
absence of every comfort. Her sweet eyes grew dim; her little head
drooped. No mother could have attended on her more assiduously than
Falkner; and she long after remembered his sitting by her in the night
to give her drink--her pillow smoothed by him--and, when she grew a
little better, his carrying her in his arms under a shady grove, so to
give her the benefit of the air, in a manner that would least incommode
her. These incidents were never forgotten. They were as the colour and
fragrance to the rose--the very beauty and delight of both their lives.
Falkner felt a half remorse at the too great pleasure he derived from
her society; while hers was a sort of rapturous, thrilling adoration,
that dreamed not of the necessity of a check, and luxuriated in its
boundless excess.




CHAPTER VI


It was late in the autumn when the travellers arrived at Odessa, whence
they were to embark for Constantinople, in the neighbourhood of which
city they intended to pass the winter.

It must not be supposed that Falkner journeyed in the luxurious and
troublesome style of a _Milord Anglais_. A calèche was his only
carriage. He had no attendant for himself, and was often obliged to
change the woman hired for the service of Elizabeth. The Parisian with
whom they commenced their journey was reduced to despair by the time
they arrived at Hamburgh. The German who replaced her was dismissed at
Stockholm. The Swede next hired became homesick at Moscow, and they
arrived at Odessa without any servant. Falkner scarcely knew what to do,
being quite tired of the exactions, caprices, and repinings of each
expatriated menial--yet it was necessary that Elizabeth should have a
female attendant; and, on his arrival at Odessa, he immediately set on
foot various inquiries to procure one. Several presented themselves, who
proved wholly unfit; and Falkner was made angry by their extortionate
demands and total incapacity.

At length a person was ushered in to him, who looked, who was, English.
She was below the middle stature--spare, and upright in figure, with a
composed countenance, and an appearance of tidiness and quiet that was
quite novel, and by no means unpleasing, contrasted with the animated
gestures, loud voices, and exaggerated protestations of the foreigners.

"I hear, sir," she began, "that you are inquiring for an attendant to
wait on Miss Falkner during your journey to Vienna: I should be very
glad if you would accept my services."

"Are you a lady's maid in any English family here?" asked Falkner.

"I beg your pardon, sir," continued the little woman, primly, "I am a
governess. I lived many years with a Russian lady at St. Petersburgh;
she brought me here, and is gone and left me."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Falkner; "that seems a very unjust proceeding--how
did it happen?"

"On our arrival at Odessa, sir, the lady, who had no such notion before,
insisted on converting me to her church; and because I refused, she used
me, I may say, very ill; and hiring a Greek girl, left me here quite
destitute."

"It seems that you have the spirit of a martyr," observed Falkner,
smiling.

"I do not pretend to that," she replied; "but I was born and brought up
a Protestant; and I did not like to pretend to believe what I could
not."

Falkner was pleased with the answer, and looked more scrutinizingly on
the applicant. She was not ugly--but slightly pitted with the
smallpox--and with insignificant features; her mouth looked
obstinate--and her light gray eyes, though very quick and intelligent,
yet from their smallness, and the lids and brows being injured by the
traces of the malady, did not redeem her countenance from an entirely
commonplace appearance, which might not disgust, but could not attract.

"Do you understand," asked Falkner, "that I need a servant, and not a
governess? I have no other attendant for my daughter; and you must not
be above waiting on her as she has been accustomed."

"I can make no objection," she replied; "my first wish is to get away
from this place, free from expense. At Vienna I can find a situation
such as I have been accustomed to--now I shall be very glad to reach
Germany safely in any creditable capacity--and I shall be grateful to
you, sir, if you do not consider my being destitute against me, but be
willing to help a country-woman in distress."

There was a simplicity, though a hardiness in her manner, and an entire
want of pretension or affectation that pleased Falkner. He inquired
concerning her abilities as a governess, and began to feel that in that
capacity also she might be useful to Elizabeth. He had been accustomed,
on all convenient occasions, to hire a profusion of masters; but this
desultory sort of teaching did not inculcate those habits of industry
and daily application which it is the best aim of education to promote.
At the same time he much feared an improper female companion for the
child, and had suffered a good deal of anxiety on account of the many
changes he had been forced to make. He observed the lady before him
narrowly--there was nothing prepossessing, but all seemed plain and
unassuming; though formal, she was direct--her words few--her voice
quiet and low, without being soft or constrained. He asked her what
remuneration she would expect; she said that her present aim was to get
to Vienna free of expense, and she did not expect much beyond--she had
been accustomed to receive eighty pounds a year as governess, but as she
was to serve Miss Falkner as maid, she would only ask twenty.

"But as I wish you to act as both," said Falkner, "we must join the two
sums, and I will pay you a hundred."

A ray of pleasure actually for a second illuminated the little woman's
face: while with an unaltered tone of voice she replied, "I shall be
very thankful, sir, if you think proper."

"You must, however, understand our conditions," said Falkner. "I talk of
Vienna--but I travel for my pleasure, with no fixed bourn or time. I am
not going direct to Germany--I spend the winter at Constantinople. It
may be that I shall linger in those parts--it may be that from Greece I
shall cross to Italy. You must not insist on my taking you to Vienna: it
is enough for your purpose, I suppose, if you reach a civilized part of
the world, and are comfortably situated, till you find some other family
going whither you desire."

She was acquiescent. She insisted, however, with much formality, that he
should make inquiries concerning her from several respectable families
at Odessa; otherwise, she said, he could not fitly recommend her to any
other situation. Falkner complied. Every one spoke of her in high terms,
lauding her integrity and kindness of heart. "Miss Jervis is the best
creature in the world," said the wife of the French consul; "only she is
English to the core--so precise, and formal, and silent, and quiet, and
cold. Nothing can persuade her to do what she does not think right.
After being so shamefully deserted, she might have lived in my house, or
four or five others, doing nothing; but she chose to have pupils, and to
earn money by teaching. This might have been merely for the sake of
paying for her journey; but, besides this, we discovered that she
supports some poor relation in England, and, while cast away here, she
still remembered and sent remittances to one whom she thought in want.
She has a heart of gold, though it does not shine."

Pleased with this testimony, Falkner thought himself fortunate in
securing her services, at the same time that he feared he should find
her presence a considerable encumbrance. A servant was a cipher, but a
governess must receive attention--she was an equal, who would
perpetually form a third with him and Elizabeth. His reserve, his love
of independence, and his regard for the feelings of another, would be
perpetually at war. To be obliged to talk when he wished to be silent;
to listen to, and answer frivolous remarks; to know that at all times a
stranger was there--all this seemed to him a gigantic evil; but it
vanished after a few days' trial of their new companion's qualities.
Whatever Miss Jervis's latent virtues might be, she thought that the
chief among them was to be


"Content to dwell in decencies for ever"--


her ambition was to be unimpeachably correct in conduct. It a little
jarred with her notions to be in the house of a single gentleman--but
her desolate situation at Odessa allowed her no choice; and she tried to
counterbalance the evil by seeing as little of her employer as possible.
Brought up from childhood to her present occupation, she was moulded to
its very form; and her thoughts never strayed beyond her theory of a
good governess. Her methods were all straightforward--pointing steadily
to one undisguised aim--no freak of imagination ever led her out of one
hard, defined, unerratic line. She had no pretension, even in the
innermost recess of her heart, beyond her station. To be diligent and
conscientious in her task of teaching was the sole virtue to which she
pretended; and, possessed of much good sense, great integrity, and
untiring industry, she succeeded beyond what could have been expected
from one apparently so insignificant and taciturn.

She was, at the beginning, limited very narrowly in the exercise of any
authority over her pupil. She was obliged, therefore, to exert herself
in winning influence, instead of controlling by reprimands. She took
great pains to excite Elizabeth to learn; and once having gained her
consent to apply to any particular study, she kept her to it with
patience and perseverance; and the very zeal and diligence she displayed
in teaching made Elizabeth ashamed to repay her with an inattention that
looked like ingratitude. Soon, also, curiosity and a love of knowledge
developed themselves. Elizabeth's mind was of that high order which soon
found something congenial in study. The acquirement of new ideas--the
sense of order, and afterward of power--awoke a desire for improvement.
Falkner was a man of no common intellect; but his education had been
desultory; and he had never lived with the learned and well-informed.
His mind was strong in its own elements, but these lay scattered, and
somewhat chaotic. His observation was keen, and his imagination fervid;
but it was inborn, uncultivated, and unenriched by any vast stores of
reading. He was the very opposite of a pedant. Miss Jervis was much of
the latter; but the two served to form Elizabeth to something better
than either. She learned from Falkner the uses of learning: from Miss
Jervis she acquired the thoughts and experience of other men. Like all
young and ardent minds, which are capable of enthusiasm, she found
infinite delight in the pages of ancient history: she read biography,
and speedily found models for herself, whereby she measured her own
thoughts and conduct, rectifying her defects, and aiming at that honour
and generosity which made her heart beat and cheeks glow when narrated
of others.

There was another very prominent distinction between Falkner and the
governess: it made a part of the system of the latter never to praise.
All that she tasked her pupil to do was a duty--when not done it was a
deplorable fault--when executed, the duty was fulfilled, and she need
not reproach herself--that was all. Falkner, on the contrary, fond and
eager, soon looked upon her as a prodigy; and though reserved, as far as
his own emotions were concerned, he made no secret of his almost
adoration of Elizabeth. His praise was enthusiastic--it brought tears
into her eyes--and yet, strange to say, it is doubtful whether she ever
strived so eagerly, or felt so satisfied with it, as for the
parsimonious expressions of bare satisfaction from Miss Jervis. They
excited two distinct sensations. She loved her protector the more for
his fervid approbation--it was the crown of all his gifts--she wept
sometimes only to remember his ardent expressions of approbation; but
Miss Jervis inspired self-diffidence, and with it a stronger desire for
improvement. Thus the sensibility of her nature was cultivated, while
her conceit was checked: to feel that to be meritorious with Miss Jervis
was impossible--not to be faulty was an ambitious aim. She easily
discovered that affection rather than discernment dictated the
approbation of Falkner; and loved him better, but did not prize herself
the more.

He, indeed, was transported by the progress she made. Like most
self-educated, or uneducated men, he had a prodigious respect for
learning, and was easily deceived into thinking much of what was little:
he felt elated when he found Elizabeth eager to recite the wonders
recorded in history, and to delineate the characters of ancient
heroes--narrating their achievements, and quoting their sayings. His
imagination and keen spirit of observation were, at the same time, of
the utmost use. He analyzed with discrimination the actions of her
favourites--brought the experience of a mind full of passion and
reflection to comment upon every subject, and taught her to refer each
maxim and boasted virtue to her own sentiments and situation; thus to
form a store of principle by which to direct her future life.

Nor were these more masculine studies the only lessons of Miss
Jervis--needlework entered into her plan of education, as well as the
careful inculcation of habits of neatness and order; and thus Elizabeth
escaped for ever the danger she had hitherto run of wanting those
feminine qualities without which every woman must be unhappy--and, to a
certain degree, unsexed. The governess, meanwhile, was the most
unobtrusive of human beings. She never showed any propensity to
incommode her employer by making him feel her presence. Seated in a
corner of the carriage, with a book in her hand, she adopted the ghostly
rule of never speaking except when spoken to. When stopping at inns, or
when, on arriving at Constantinople, they became stationary, she was
even less obtrusive. At first Falkner had deemed it proper to ask her to
accompany them in their excursions and drives; but she was so alive to
the impropriety of being seen with a gentleman, with only a young child
for their companion, that she always preferred staying at home. After
ranging a beautiful landscape, after enjoying the breezes of heaven and
the sight of the finest views in the world, when Elizabeth returned she
always found her governess sitting in the same place, away from the
window (because, when in London, she had been told that it was not
proper to look out of a window), even though the sublimest objects of
nature were spread for her view; and employed on needlework, or the
study of some language that might hereafter serve to raise her in the
class of governesses. She had travelled over half the habitable globe,
and part of the uninhabited--but she had never diverged from the
prejudices and habits of home--no gleam of imagination shed its golden
hue over her drab-coloured mind: whatever of sensibility existed to
soften or dulcify, she sedulously hid; yet such was her serenity, her
justice, her trustworthiness, and total absence of pretension, that it
was impossible not to esteem, and almost to like her.

The trio, thus diverse in disposition, yet, by the force of a secret
harmony, never fell into discord. Miss Jervis was valued, and by
Elizabeth obeyed in all that concerned her vocation--she therefore was
satisfied. Falkner felt her use, and gladly marked the good effects of
application and knowledge on the character of his beloved ward--it was
the moulding of a block of Parian marble into a muse; all corners--all
superfluous surface--all roughness departed--the intelligent, noble
brow--the serious, inquiring eye--the mouth--seat of sensibility--all
these were developed with new beauty, as animated by the aspiring soul
within. Her gentleness and sweetness increased with the cultivation of
her mind. To be wise and good was her ambition--partly to please her
beloved father--partly because her young mind perceived the uses and
beauty of knowledge.

If anything could have cured the rankling wounds of Falkner's mind, it
was the excellence of the young Elizabeth. Again and again he repeated
to himself, that, brought up among the worldly and cold, her noblest
qualities would either have been destroyed, or produced misery. In
contributing to her happiness and goodness, he hoped to make some
atonement for the past. There were many periods when remorse, and
regret, and self-abhorrence held powerful sway over him: he was, indeed,
during the larger portion of his time, in the fullest sense of the
word--miserable. Yet there were gleams of sunshine he had never hoped to
experience again--and he readily gave way to this relief; while he hoped
that the worst of his pains were over.

In this idea he was egregiously mistaken. He was allowed to repose for a
few years. But the cry of blood was yet unanswered--the evil he had
committed unatoned; though they did not approach him, the consequences
of his crime were full of venom and bitterness to others--and, unawares
and unexpectedly, he was brought to view and feel the wretchedness of
which he was the sole author.




CHAPTER VII


Three more years passed thus over the head of the young Elizabeth; when,
during the warm summer months, the wanderers established themselves for
a season at Baden. They had hitherto lived in great seclusion--and
Falkner continued to do so; but he was not sorry to find his adopted
child noticed and courted by various noble ladies, who were charmed by
the pure complexion--the golden hair, and spirited, though gentle,
manners of the young English girl.

Elizabeth's characteristic was an enthusiastic affectionateness--every
little act of kindness that she received excited her gratitude: she felt
as if she never could--though she would constantly endeavour--repay the
vast debt she owed her benefactor. She loved to repass in her mind those
sad days when, under the care of the sordid Mrs. Baker, she ran every
hazard of incurring the worst evils of poverty; ignorance and blunted
sensibility. She had preserved her little well-worn shoes, full of
holes, and slipping from her feet, as a sort of record of her neglected
situation. She remembered how her hours had been spent loitering on the
beach--sometimes with her little book, from which her mother had taught
her--oftener in constructing sand castles, decorated with pebbles and
broken shells. She recollected how she had thus built an imitation of
the church and churchyard, with its shady corner and single stone
marking two graves: she remembered the vulgar, loud voice that called
her from her employment with, "Come, Missy, come to your dinner! The
Lord help me! I wonder when anybody else will give you a dinner." She
called to mind the boasts of Mrs. Baker's children, contrasting their
Sunday frock with hers--the smallest portion of cake given to her last,
and with a taunt that made her little heart swell and her throat feel
choked, so that she could not eat it, but scattered it to the birds--on
which she was beat for being wasteful; all this was contrasted with the
vigilance, the tenderness, the respect of her protector. She brooded
over these thoughts till he became sacred in her eyes; and, young as she
was, her heart yearned and sickened for an occasion to demonstrate the
deep and unutterable thankfulness that possessed her soul.

She was not aware of the services she rendered him in her turn. The very
sight of her was the dearest--almost the only joy of his life. Devoured
by disappointment, gloom, and remorse, he found no relief except in her
artless prattle, or the consciousness of the good he did her. She
perceived this, and was ever on the alert to watch his mood, and to try
by every art to awaken complacent feelings. She did not know, it is
true, the cause of his sufferings--the fatal memories that haunted him
in the silence of night--and threw a dusky veil over the radiance of
day. She did not see the fair, reproachful figure that was often before
him to startle and appal--she did not hear the shrieks that rung in his
ears--nor behold her floating away, lifeless, on the turbid waves, who,
but a little before, had stood in all the glow of life and beauty before
him. All these agonizing images haunted silently his miserable soul, and
Elizabeth could only see the shadow they cast over him, and strive to
dissipate it. When she could perceive the dark hour passing off, chased
away by her endeavours, she felt proud and happy. And when he told her
that she had saved his life, and was his only tie to it--that she alone
prevented his perishing miserably, or lingering in anguish and despair,
her fond heart swelled with rapture; and what soul-felt vows she made to
remain for ever beside him, and pay back to the last the incalculable
debt she owed! If it be true that the most perfect love subsists between
unequals--no more entire attachment ever existed than that between this
man of sorrows and the happy, innocent child. He, worn by passion,
oppressed by a sense of guilt, his brow trenched by the struggles of
many years--she, stepping pure and free into life, innocent as an angel,
animated only by the most disinterested feelings. The link between them,
of mutual benefit and mutual interest, had been cemented by time and
habit--by each waking thought and nightly dream. What is so often a
slothful, unapparent sense of parental and filial duty, was with them a
living, active spirit, for ever manifesting itself in some new form. It
woke with them, went abroad with them--attuned the voice, and shone
brightly in the eyes.

It is a singular law of human life, that the past, which apparently no
longer forms a portion of our existence, never dies; new shoots, as it
were, spring up at different intervals and places, all bearing the
indelible characteristics of the parent stalk; the circular emblem of
eternity is suggested by this meeting and recurrence of the broken ends
of our life. Falkner had been many years absent from England. He had
quitted it to get rid of the consequences of an act which he deeply
deplored, but which he did not wish his enemies to have the triumph of
avenging. So completely during this interval had he been cut off from
any, even allusion to the past, that he often tried to deceive himself
into thinking it a dream; often into the persuasion that, tragical as
was the catastrophe he had brought about, it was in its result for the
best. The remembrance of the young and lovely victim lying dead at his
feet prevented his ever being really the dupe of these fond deceits--but
still, memory and imagination alone ministered to remorse--it was
brought home to him by none of the effects from which he had separated
himself by a vast extent of sea and land.

The sight of the English at Baden was exceedingly painful to him. They
seemed so many accusers and judges; he sedulously avoided their resorts,
and turned away when he saw any approach. Yet he permitted Elizabeth to
visit among them, and heard her accounts of what she saw and heard even
with pleasure; for every word showed the favourable impression she made,
and the simplicity of her own tastes and feelings. It was a new world to
her, to find herself talked to, praised, and caressed by decrepit,
painted, but courteous old princesses, dowagers, and all the tribe of
German nobility and English fashionable wanderers. She was much amused,
and her lively descriptions often made Falkner smile, and pleased him by
proving that her firm and unsophisticated heart was not to be deluded by
adulation.

Soon, however, she became more interested by a strange tale she brought
home of a solitary boy. He was English--handsome and well-born--but
savage, and secluded to a degree that admitted of no attention being
paid him. She heard him spoken of at first at the house of some
foreigners. They entered on a dissertation on the peculiar melancholy of
the English, that could develop itself in a lad scarcely sixteen. He was
a misanthrope. He was seen rambling the country either on foot, or on a
pony--but he would accept no invitations--shunned the very aspect of his
fellows--never appearing, by any chance, in the frequented walks about
the baths. Was he deaf and dumb? Some replied in the affirmative, and
yet this opinion gained no general belief. Elizabeth once saw him at a
little distance, seated under a wide-spreading tree in a little dell--to
her he seemed more handsome than anything she had ever seen, and more
sad. One day she was in company with a gentleman, who, she was told, was
his father; a man somewhat advanced in years--of a stern, saturnine
aspect--whose smile was a sneer, and who spoke of his only child,
calling him that "unhappy boy," in a tone that bespoke rather contempt
than commiseration. It soon became rumoured that he was somewhat
alienated in mind through the ill treatment of his parent--and Elizabeth
could almost believe this--she was so struck by the unfeeling and
disagreeable appearance of the stranger.

All this she related to Falkner with peculiar earnestness--"If you could
only see him," she said, "if we could only get him here--we would cure
his misery, and his wicked father should no longer torment him. If he is
deranged, he is harmless, and I am sure he would love us. It is too sad
to see one so gentle and so beautiful pining away without any to love
him."

Falkner smiled at the desire to cure every evil that crossed her path,
which is one of the sweetest illusions of youth, and asked, "Has he no
mother?"

"No," replied Elizabeth, "he is an orphan like me, and his father is
worse than dead, as he is so inhuman. Oh! how I wish you would save him
as you saved me."

"That, I am afraid, would be out of my power," said Falkner; "yet, if
you can make any acquaintance with him, and can bring him here, perhaps
we may discover some method of serving him."

For Falkner had, with all his sufferings and his faults, much of the Don
Quixote about him, and never heard a story of oppression without forming
a scheme to relieve the victim. On this permission, Elizabeth watched
for some opportunity to become acquainted with the poor boy. But it was
vain. Sometimes she saw him at a distance; but if walking in the same
path, he turned off as soon as he saw her; or, if sitting down, he got
up, and disappeared, as if by magic. Miss Jervis thought her endeavours
by no means proper, and would give her no assistance. "If any lady
introduced him to you," she said, "it would be very well; but, to run
after a young gentleman, only because he looks unhappy, is very odd, and
even wrong."

Still Elizabeth persisted; she argued, that she did not want to know him
herself, but that her father should be acquainted with him--and either
induce his father to treat him better, or take him home to live with
them.

They lived at some distance from the baths, in a shady dell, whose
sides, a little farther on, were broken and abrupt. One afternoon they
were lingering not far from their house, when they heard a noise among
the underwood and shrubs above them, as if some one was breaking his way
through. "It is he--look!" cried Elizabeth; and there emerged from the
covert, on to a more open but still more precipitous path, the youth
they had remarked: he was urging his horse, with wilful blindness to
danger, down a declivity which the animal was unwilling to attempt.
Falkner saw the danger, and was sure that the boy was unaware of how
steep the path grew at the foot of the hill. He called out to him, but
the lad did not heed his voice--in another minute the horse's feet
slipped, the rider was thrown over his head, and the animal himself
rolled over. With a scream, Elizabeth sprang to the side of the fallen
youth, but he rose without any appearance of great injury, or any
complaint, evidently displeased at being observed: his sullen look
merged into one of anxiety as he approached his fallen horse, whom,
together with Falkner, he assisted to rise--the poor thing had fallen on
a sharp point of a rock, and his side was cut and bleeding. The lad was
now all activity; he rushed to the stream that watered the little dell
to procure water, which he brought in his hat to wash the wound; and as
he did so, Elizabeth remarked to her father that, he used only one hand,
and that the other arm was surely hurt. Meanwhile Falkner had gazed on
the boy with a mixture of admiration and pain. He was wondrously
handsome; large, deep-set hazel eyes, shaded by long dark lashes--full
at once of fire and softness; a brow of extreme beauty, over which
clustered a profusion of chestnut-coloured hair; an oval face; a person
light and graceful as a sculptured image--all this, added to an
expression of gloom that amounted to sullenness, with which, despite the
extreme refinement of his features, a certain fierceness even was
mingled, formed a study a painter would have selected for a kind of
ideal poetic sort of bandit stripling; but, besides this, there was
resemblance, strange and thrilling, that struck Falkner, and made him
eye him with a painful curiosity. The lad spoke with fondness to his
horse, and accepted the offer made that it should be taken to Falkner's
stable, and looked to by his groom.

"And you, too," said Elizabeth, "you are in pain, you are hurt."

"That is nothing," said the youth; "let me see that I have not killed
this poor fellow--and I am not hurt to signify."

Elizabeth felt by no means sure of this. And while the horse was
carefully led home, and his wound visited, she sent a servant off for a
surgeon, believing, in her own mind, that the stranger had broken his
arm. She was not far wrong--he had dislocated his wrist. "It were better
had it been my neck," he muttered, as he yielded his hand to the gripe
of the surgeon, nor did he seem to wince during the painful operation;
far more annoyed was he by the eyes fixed upon him and the questions
asked--his manner, which had become mollified as he waited on his poor
horse, resumed all its former repulsiveness; he looked like a young
savage, surrounded by enemies whom he suspects, yet is unwilling to
assail: and when his hand was bandaged, and his horse again and again
recommended to the groom, he was about to take leave, with thanks that
almost seemed reproaches, for having an obligation thrust on him, when
Miss Jervis exclaimed, "Surely, I am not mistaken--are you not Master
Neville?"

Falkner started as if a snake had glided across his path, while the
youth, colouring to the very roots of his hair, and looking at her with
a sort of rage at being thus in a matter detected, replied, "My name is
Neville."

"I thought so," said the other; "I used to see you at Lady Glenfell's.
How is your father, Sir Boyvill?"

But the youth would answer no more; he darted at the questioner a look
of fury, and rushed away. "Poor fellow!" cried Miss Jervis, "he is
wilder than ever--he is a very sad case. His mother was the Mrs. Neville
talked of so much once--she deserted him, and his father hates him. The
young gentleman is half crazed by ill treatment and neglect."

"Dearest father, are you ill?" cried Elizabeth--for Falkner had turned
ashy pale--but he commanded his voice to say that he was well, and left
the room; a few minutes afterward he had left the house, and, seeking
the most secluded pathways, walked quickly on as if to escape from
himself. It would not do--the form of _her_ son was before him--a ghost
to haunt him to madness. _Her_ son, whom she had loved with passion
inexpressible, crazed by neglect and unkindness. Crazed he was
not--every word he spoke showed a perfect possession of acute
faculties--but it was almost worse to see so much misery in one so
young. In person, he was a model of beauty and grace--his mind seemed
formed with equal perfection; a quick apprehension, a sensibility, all
alive to every touch; but these were nursed in anguish and wrong, and
strained from their true conclusions into resentment, suspicion, and a
fierce disdain of all who injured, which seemed to his morbid feelings
all who named or approached him. Falkner knew that he was the cause of
this evil. How different a life he had led, if his mother had lived! The
tenderness of her disposition, joined to her great talents and
sweetness, rendered her unparalleled in the attention she paid to his
happiness and education. No mother ever equalled her--for no woman ever
possessed at once equal virtues and equal capacities. How tenderly she
had reared him, how devotedly fond she was, Falkner too well knew; and
tones and looks, half forgotten, were recalled vividly to his mind at
the sight of this poor boy, wretched and desolate through his rashness.
What availed it to hate, to curse the father!--he had never been
delivered over to this father, had never been hated by him, had his
mother survived. All these thoughts crowded into Falkner's mind, and
awoke an anguish, which time had rendered, to a certain degree, torpid.
He regarded himself with bitter contempt and abhorrence--he feared, with
a kind of insane terror, to see the youth again, whose eyes, so like
_hers_, he had robbed of all expression of happiness, and clouded by
eternal sorrow. He wandered on--shrouded himself in the deepest
thickets, and clambered abrupt hills, so that, by breathless fatigue of
body, he might cheat his soul of its agony.

Night came on, and he did not return home. Elizabeth grew uneasy--till
at last, on making more minute inquiry, she found that he had come back,
and was retired to his room.

It was the custom of Falkner to ride every morning with his daughter
soon after sunrise; and on the morrow, Elizabeth had just equipped
herself, her thoughts full of the handsome boy--whose humanity to his
horse, combined with fortitude in enduring great personal pain, rendered
far more interesting than ever. She felt sure that, having once
commenced, their acquaintance would go on, and that his savage shyness
would be conquered by her father's kindness. To alleviate the sorrows of
his lot--to win his confidence by affection, and to render him happy,
was a project that was occupying her delightfully--when the tramp of a
horse attracted her attention--and, looking from the window, she saw
Falkner ride off at a quick pace. A few minutes afterward a note was
brought to her from him. It said--


"DEAR ELIZABETH,

"Some intelligence which I received yesterday obliges me unexpectedly to
leave Baden. You will find me at Mayence. Request Miss Jervis to have
everything packed up as speedily as possible; and to send for the
landlord, and give up the possession of our house. The rent is paid.
Come in the carriage. I shall expect you this evening.


"Yours, dearest,

"J. FALKNER."


Nothing could be more disappointing than this note. Her first fairy
dream beyond the limits of her home, to be thus brushed away at once. No
word of young Neville--no hope held out of return! For a moment an
emotion ruffled her mind, very like ill-humour. She read the note
again--it seemed yet more unsatisfactory--but, in turning the page, she
found a postscript. "Pardon me," it said, "for not seeing you last
night; I was not well--nor am I now."

These few words instantly gave a new direction to her thoughts--her
father not well, and she absent, was very painful--then she recurred to
the beginning of the note. "Intelligence received yesterday"--some evil
news, surely--since the result was to make him ill--at such a word the
recollection of his sufferings rushed upon her, and she thought no more
of the unhappy boy, but, hurrying to Miss Jervis, entreated her to use
the utmost expedition that they might depart speedily. Once she visited
Neville's horse; it was doing well, and she ordered it to be led
carefully and slowly to Sir Boyvill's stables.

So great was her impatience, that by noon they were in the carriage--and
in a few hours they joined Falkner at Mayence. Elizabeth gazed anxiously
on him. He was an altered man--there was something wild and haggard in
his looks, that bespoke a sleepless night, and a struggle of painful
emotion by which the very elements of his being were convulsed:--"You
are ill, dear father," cried Elizabeth; "you have heard some news that
afflicts you very much."

"I have," he replied; "but do not regard me: I shall recover the shock
soon, and then all will be as it was before. Do not ask questions--but
we must return to England immediately."

To England! such a word Falkner had never before spoken--Miss Jervis
looked almost surprised, and really pleased. A return to her native
country, so long deserted, and almost forgotten, was an event to excite
Elizabeth even to agitation--the very name was full of so many
associations. Were they hereafter to reside there? Should they visit
Treby? What was about to happen? She was bid ask no questions, and she
obeyed--but her thoughts were the more busy. She remembered, also, that
Neville was English, and she looked forward to meeting him, and renewing
her projects for his welfare.




CHAPTER VIII


In the human heart, and, if observation does not err, more particularly
in the heart of man, the passions exert their influence fitfully. With
some analogy to the laws which govern the elements, they now sleep in
calm, and now arise with the violence of furious winds. Falkner had
latterly attained a state of feeling approaching to equanimity. He
displayed more cheerfulness--a readier interest in the daily course of
events--a power to give himself up to any topic discussed in his
presence; but this had now vanished. Gloom sat on his brow--he was
inattentive even to Elizabeth. Sunk back in the carriage--his eyes bent
on vacancy, he was the prey of thoughts, each of which had the power to
wound.

It was a melancholy journey. And when they arrived in London, Falkner
became still more absorbed and wretched. The action of remorse, which
had been for some time suspended, renewed its attacks, and made him look
upon himself as a creature at once hateful and accursed. We are such
weak beings, that the senses have power to impress us with a vividness
which no mere mental operation can produce. Falkner had been at various
times haunted by the probable consequences of his guilt on the child of
his victim. He recollected the selfish and arrogant character of his
father; and conscience had led him to reproach himself with the
conviction, that whatever virtues young Neville derived from his mother,
or had been implanted by her care, must have been rooted out by the
neglect or evil example of his surviving parent. The actual effect of
her loss he had not anticipated. There was something heart-breaking to
see a youth, nobly gifted by nature and fortune, delivered over to a
sullen resentment for unmerited wrongs--to dejection, if not to despair.
An uninterested observer must deeply compassionate him; Elizabeth had
done so, child as she was, with a pity almost painful from its excess;
what, then, must he feel who knew himself to be the cause of all his wo?

Falkner was not a man to sit quietly under these emotions. In their
first onset they had driven him to suicide; preserved as by a miracle,
he had exerted strong self-command, and, by dint of resolution, forced
himself to live. Year after year had passed, and he abided by the
sentence of life he had passed on himself--and, like the galley-slave,
the iron which had eaten into the flesh galled less than when newly
applied. But he was brought back from the patience engendered
by custom at the sight of the unfortunate boy. He felt himself
accursed--God-reprobated--mankind (though they knew it not) abhorred
him. He would no longer live--for he deserved to die. He would not again
raise his hand against himself--but there are many gates to the tomb; he
found no difficulty in selecting one by which to enter. He resolved to
enter upon a scene of desperate warfare in a distant country, and to
seek a deliverance from the pains of life by the bullet or the sword on
the field of battle. Above all, he resolved that Elizabeth's innocence
should no longer be associated with his guilt. The catastrophe he
meditated must be sought alone, and she, whom he had lived to protect
and foster, must be guarded from the hardships and perils to which he
was about to deliver himself up.

Meditation on this new course absorbed him for some days. At first he
had been sunk in despondency; as the prospect opened before him of
activity allied to peril, and sought for the sake of the destruction to
which it unavoidably led, his spirits rose; like a war-horse dreaming of
the sound of a trumpet, his heart beat high in the hope of forgetting
the consciousness of remorse in all the turbulence of battle or the last
forgetfulness of the grave. Still it was a difficult task to impart his
plan to the orphan, and to prepare her for a separation. Several times
he had tried to commence the subject, and felt his courage fail him. At
length, being together one day, some weeks after their arrival in
London--when, indeed, many steps had been already taken by him in
furtherance of his project--at twilight, as they sat together near the
window which looked upon one of the London squares--and they had been
comparing this metropolis with many foreign cities--Falkner
abruptly, fearful, if he lost this occasion, of not finding
another so appropriate, said, "I must bid you good-by to-night,
Elizabeth--to-morrow, early, I set out for the north of England."

"You mean to leave me behind?" she asked; "but you will not be away
long?"

"I am going to visit your relations," he replied; "to disclose to them
that you are under my care, and to prepare them to receive you. I hope
soon to return, either to conduct you to them, or to bring one among
them to welcome you here."

Elizabeth was startled. Many years had elapsed since Falkner had alluded
to her alien parentage. She went by his name, she called him father; and
the appellation scarcely seemed a fiction--he had been the kindest,
fondest parent to her--nor had he ever hinted that he meant to forego
the claim his adoption had given him, and to make her over to those who
were worse than strangers in her eyes. If ever they had recurred to her
real situation, he had not been chary of expressions of indignation
against the Raby family. He had described with warm resentment the
selfishness, the hardness of heart, and disdain of the well-being of
those allied to them by blood, which too often subsists in aristocratic
English families when the first bond has been broken by any act of
disobedience. He grew angry as he spoke of the indignity with which her
mother had been treated, and the barbarous proposition of separating her
from her only child; and he had fondly assured her that it was his
dearest pride to render her independent of these unworthy and inhuman
relations. Why were his intentions changed? His voice and look were
ominous. Elizabeth was hurt--she did not like to object; she was
silent--but Falkner deciphered her wounded feelings in her ingenuous
countenance, and he too was pained; he could not bear that she should
think him ungrateful--mindless of her affection, her filial attentions,
and endearing virtues; he felt that he must, to a certain degree,
explain his views--difficult as it was to make a segment of his feelings
in any way take a definite or satisfactory shape.

"Do not think hardly of me, my own dear girl," he began, "for wishing
that we should separate. God knows that it is a blow that will visit me
far more severely than you. You will find relations and friends who will
be proud of you--whose affections you will win; wherever you are, you
will meet with love and admiration--and your sweet disposition and
excellent qualities will make life happy. I depart alone. You are my
only tie--my only friend--I break it and leave you--never can I find
another. Henceforth, alone, I shall wander into distant and uncivilized
countries, enter on a new and perilous career, during which I may perish
miserably. You cannot share these dangers with me."

"But why do you seek them?" exclaimed Elizabeth, alarmed by this sudden
prophecy of ill.

"Do you remember the day when we first met?" replied Falkner; "when my
hand was raised against my own life, because I knew myself unworthy to
exist. It is the same now. It is cowardly to live, feeling that I have
forfeited every right to enjoy the blessings of life. I go that I may
die--not by my own hand--but where I can meet death by the hand of
others."

Strangely and frightfully did these words fall on the ear of his
appalled listener; he went on rapidly--for having once begun, the words
he uttered relieved, in some degree, the misery that burdened his soul.

"This idea cannot astonish you, my love; you have seen too much of the
secret of my heart; you have witnessed my fits of distress and anguish,
and are not now told, for the first time, that grief and remorse weigh
intolerably on me. I can endure the infliction no longer. May God
forgive me in another world--the light of this I will see no more!"

Falkner saw the sort of astonished distress her countenance depicted;
and, angry with himself for being its cause, was going on in a voice
changed to one less expressive of misery, but Elizabeth, seized with
dismay--the unbidden tears pouring from her eyes--her young--her child's
heart bursting with a new sense of horror--cast herself at his feet,
and, embracing his knees as he sat, exclaimed, "My dear, dear
father!--my more than father, and only friend--you break my heart by
speaking thus. If you are miserable, the more need that your child--the
creature you preserved, and taught to love you--should be at your side
to comfort--I had almost said to help you. You must not cast me off!
Were you happy, you might desert me; but if you are miserable, I cannot
leave you--you must not ask me--it kills me to think of it!"

The youthful, who have no experience of the changes of life, regard the
present with far more awe and terror than those who have seen one turn
in the hourglass suffice to change, and change again, the colour of
their lives. To be divided from Falkner was to have the pillars of the
earth shaken under her--and she clung to him, and looked up imploringly
in his face, as if the next word he spoke were to decide all; he kissed
her, and, seating her on his knee, said, "Let us talk of this more
calmly, dearest--I was wrong to agitate you--or to mix the miserable
thoughts forced on me by my wretchedness, with the prudent consideration
of your future destiny. I feel it to be unjust to keep you from your
relations. They are rich. We are ignorant of what changes and losses may
have taken place among them, to soften their hearts--which, after all,
were never shut against you. You may have become of importance in their
eyes. Raby is a proud name, and we must not heedlessly forego the
advantages that may belong to your right to it."

"My dear father," replied Elizabeth, "this talk is not for me. I have no
wish to claim the kindness of those who treated my true parents ill. You
are everything to me. I am little more than a child, and cannot find
words to express all I mean; but my truest meaning is, to show my
gratitude to you till my dying day; to remain with you for ever, while
you love me; and to be the most miserable creature in the world if you
drive me from you. Have we not lived together since I was a little
thing, no higher than your knee? And all the time you have been kinder
than any father. When we have been exposed to storms, you have wrapped
me round in your arms so that no drop could fall on my head. Do you
remember that dreadful evening, when our carriage broke down in the
wide, dark steppe; and you, covering me up, carried me in your arms,
while the wind howled and the freezing rain drove against you? You could
hardly bear up; and when we arrived at the post-house, you, strong man
as you are, fainted from exhaustion; while I, sheltered in your arms,
was as warm and well as if it had been a summer's day. You have earned
me--you have bought me by all this kindness, and you must not cast me
away!"

She clung round his neck--her face bathed in tears, sobbing and speaking
in broken accents. As she saw him soften, she implored him yet more
earnestly, till his heart was quite subdued; and, clasping her to his
heart, he showered kisses on her head and neck; while, to his surprise,
forgotten tears sprung to his own eyes. "For worlds I would not desert
you," he cried. "It is not casting you away that we should separate for
a short time; for where I go, indeed, dearest, you cannot accompany me.
I cannot go on living as I have done. For many years now my life has
been spent in pleasantness and peace--I have no right to this--hardship,
and toil, and death I ought to repay. I abhor myself for a coward, when
I think of what others suffer through my deeds--while I am scathless.
You can scarcely remember the hour when the touch of your little hand
saved my life. My heart is not changed since then--I am unworthy to
exist. Dear Elizabeth, you may one day hate me, when you know the misery
I have caused to those who deserved better at my hands. The cry of my
victim rings in my ears, and I am base to survive my crime. Let me,
dearest, make my own the praise, that nothing graced my life more than
the leaving it. To live a coward and a drone, suits vilely with my
former acts of violence and ill. Let me gain peace of mind by exposing
my life to danger. By advocating a just cause I may bring a blessing
down upon my endeavours. I shall go to Greece. Theirs is a good
cause--that of liberty and Christianity against tyranny and an evil
faith. Let me die for it; and when it is known, as it will one day be,
that the innocent perished through me, it will be added, that I died in
the defence of the suffering and the brave. But you cannot go with me to
Greece, dearest; you must await my return in this country."

"You go to die!" she exclaimed, "and I am to be far away. No, dear
father, I am a little girl, but no harm can happen to me. The Ionian
Isles are under the English government--there, at least, I may go.
Athens too, I dare say, is safe. Dear Athens--we spent a happy winter
there before the revolution began. You forget what a traveller I am--how
accustomed to find my home among strangers in foreign and savage lands.
No, dear father, you will not leave me behind. I am not unreasonable--I
do not ask to follow you to the camp--but you must let me be near--in
the same country as yourself."

"You force me to yield against my better reason," said Falkner. "This is
not right--I feel that it is not so--one of your sex, and so young,
ought not to be exposed to all I am about to encounter; and if I should
die, and leave you there desolate?"

"There are good Christians everywhere to protect the orphan," persisted
Elizabeth. "As if you could die when I am with you! And if you died
while I was far, what would become of me? Am I to be left, like a poor
sailor's wife--to get a shocking, black-sealed letter, to tell me that,
while I was enjoying myself, and hoping that you had long been--It is
wicked to speak of these things--but I shall go with my own dear, dear
father, and he shall not die!"

Falkner yielded to her tears, her caresses, and persuasions. He was not
convinced, but he could not withstand the excess of grief she displayed
at the thought of parting. It was agreed that she should accompany him
to the Ionian Isles, and take up her residence there while he joined the
patriot band in Greece. This point being decided upon, he was anxious
that their departure should not be delayed a single hour, for most
earnest was he to go, to throw off the sense of the present--to forget
his pangs in anticipated danger.

Falkner played no false part with himself. He longed to die; nor did the
tenderness and fidelity of Elizabeth disarm his purpose. He was
convinced that she must be happier and more prosperous when he was
removed. His tortured mind found relief when he thought of sacrificing
his life, and quitting it honourably on the field of battle. It was only
by the prospect of such a fate that he shut his eyes to sterner duties.
In his secret heart, he knew that the course demanded of him by honour
and conscience was to stand forth, declare his crime, and reveal the
mysterious tragedy, of which he was the occasion, to the world; but he
dared not accuse himself, and live. It was this that urged him to the
thoughts of death. "When I am no more," he told himself, "let all be
declared--let my name be loaded with curses--but let it be added, that I
died to expiate my guilt. I cannot be called upon to live with a brand
upon my name; soon it will be all over, and then let them heap obloquy,
pyramid-high, upon my grave! Poor Elizabeth will become a Raby; and,
once cold beneath the sod, no more misery will spring from acts of
mine!"

Actuated by these thoughts, Falkner drew up two narratives--both short.
The tenour of one need not be mentioned in this place. The other stated
how he had found Elizabeth and adopted her. He sealed up with this the
few documents that proved her birth. He also made his will--dividing his
property between his heir at law and adopted child--and smiled proudly
to think, that, dowered thus by him, she would be gladly received into
her father's family.

Every other arrangement for their voyage was quickly made, and it
remained only to determine whether Miss Jervis should accompany them.
Elizabeth's mind was divided. She was averse to parting with an
unoffending and kind companion, and to forego her instructions--though,
in truth, she had got beyond them. But she feared that the governess
might hereafter shackle her conduct. Every word Falkner had let fall
concerning his desire to die, she remembered and pondered upon. To watch
over and to serve him was her aim in going with him. Child as she was, a
thousand combinations of danger presented themselves to her imagination,
when her resolution and fearlessness might bring safety. The narrow
views and timid disposition of Miss Jervis might impede her grievously.

The governess herself was perplexed. She was startled when she heard of
the new scheme. She was pleased to find herself once again in England,
and repugnant to the idea of leaving so soon again for so distant a
region, where a thousand perils of war and pestilence would beset every
step. She was sorry to part with Elizabeth, but some day that time must
come; and others, dearer from ties of relationship, lived in England
from whom she had been too long divided. Weighing these things, she
showed a degree of hesitation that caused Falkner to decide as his heart
inclined, and to determine that she should not accompany him. She went
with them as far as Plymouth, where they embarked. Elizabeth, so long a
wanderer, felt no regret in leaving England. She was to remain with one
who was far more than country--who was indeed her all. Falkner felt a
load taken from his heart when his feet touched the deck of the vessel
that was to bear them away--half his duty was accomplished--the course
begun which would lead to the catastrophe he coveted. The sun shone
brightly on the ocean, the breeze was fresh and favourable. Miss Jervis
saw them push from shore with smiles and happy looks--she saw them on
the deck of the vessel, which, with sails unfurled, had already begun
its course over the sea. Elizabeth waved her handkerchief--all grew
confused; the vessel itself was sinking beneath the horizon, and long
before night no portion of her canvass could be perceived.

"I wonder," thought Miss Jervis, "whether I shall ever see them again!"




CHAPTER IX


Three years from this time, Elizabeth found herself in the position she
had vaguely anticipated at the outset, but which every day spent in
Greece showed her as probable, if not inevitable. These three years
brought Falkner to the verge of the death he had gone out to seek. He
lay wounded, a prey of the Greek fever, to all appearance about to die;
while she watched over him, striving, not only to avert the fatal
consequences of disease, but also to combat the desire to die which
destroyed him.

In describing Elizabeth's conduct during these three years, it may be
thought that the type is presented of ideal and almost unnatural
perfection. She was, it is true, a remarkable creature; and unless she
had possessed rare and exalted qualities, her history had not afforded a
topic for these pages. She was intelligent, warm-hearted, courageous,
and sincere. Her lively sense of duty was perhaps her chief peculiarity.
It was that which strung to such sweet harmony the other portions of her
character. This had been fostered by the circumstances of her life. Her
earliest recollection was of her dying parents. Their mutual
consolations, the bereaved widow's lament, and her talk of another and a
better world, where all would meet again who fulfilled their part
virtuously in this world. She had been taught to remember her parents as
inheriting the immortal life promised to the just, and to aspire to the
same. She had learned, from her mother's example, that there is nothing
so beautiful and praiseworthy as the sacrifice of life to the good and
happiness of one beloved. She never forgot her debt to Falkner. She felt
herself bound to him by stronger than filial ties. A father performs an
imperious duty in cherishing his child; but all had been spontaneous
benevolence in Falkner. His very faults and passions made his sacrifice
the greater, and his generosity the more conspicuous. Elizabeth believed
that she could never adequately repay the vast obligation which she was
under to him.

Miss Jervis also had conduced to perfectionize her mind by adding to its
harmony and justness. Miss Jervis, it is true, might be compared to the
rough-handed gardener, whose labours are without elegance, and yet to
whose waterings and vigilance the fragrant carnation owes its peculiar
tint, and the wax-like camellia its especial variety. It was through her
that she had methodised her mind--through her that she had learned to
concentrate and prolong her attention, and to devote it to study. She
had taught her order and industry--and, without knowing it, she had done
more--she had inspired ardour for knowledge, delight in its acquisition,
and a glad sense of self-approbation when difficulties were conquered by
perseverance; and when, by dint of resolution, ignorance was exchanged
for a clear perception of any portion of learning.

It has been said that every clever person is, to a certain degree, mad.
By which it is to be understood, that every person whose mind soars
above the vulgar, has some exalted and disinterested object in view to
which they are ready to sacrifice the common blessings of life. Thus,
from the moment that Elizabeth had brought Falkner to consent to her
accompanying him to Greece, she had devoted herself to the task, first,
of saving his life, if it should be in danger; and, secondly, of
reconciling him in the end to prolonged existence. There were many
difficulties which presented themselves, since she was unaware of the
circumstances that drove him to seek death as a remedy and an atonement;
nor had she any desire to pry into her benefactor's secrets: in her own
heart, she suspected an overstrained delicacy or generosity of feeling,
which exaggerated error, and gave the sting to remorse. But whatever was
the occasion of his sufferings, she dedicated herself to their relief;
and resolved to educate herself so as to fulfil the task of reconciling
him to life, to the best of her ability.

Left at Zante, while he proceeded to join the patriot bands of Greece,
she boarded in the house of a respectable family, but lived in the most
retired manner possible. Her chief time was spent in study. She read to
store her mind--to confirm its fortitude--to elevate its tone. She read,
also, to acquire such precepts of philosophy and religion as might best
apply to her peculiar task, and to learn those secrets of life and death
which Falkner's desire to die had brought so home to her juvenile
imagination.

If a time is to be named when the human heart is nearest moral
perfection, most alive, and yet most innocent, aspiring to good, without
a knowledge of evil, the period at which Elizabeth had arrived--from
thirteen to sixteen--is it. Vague forebodings are awakened; a sense of
the opening drama of life, unaccompanied with any longing to enter on
it--that feeling is reserved for the years that follow; but at fourteen
and fifteen we only feel that we are emerging from childhood, and we
rejoice, having yet a sense that as yet it is not fitting that we should
make one of the real actors on the world's stage. A dreamy, delicious
period, when all is unknown; and yet we feel that all is soon to be
unveiled. The first pang has not been felt; for we consider childhood's
woes (real and frightful as those sometimes are) as puerile, and no
longer belonging to us. We look upon the menaced evils of life as a
fiction. How can care touch the soul which places its desires beyond
low-minded thought? Ingratitude, deceit, treason--these have not yet
engendered distrust of others, nor have our own weaknesses and errors
planted the thorn of self-disapprobation and regret. Solitude is no
evil, for the thoughts are rife with busy visions; and the shadows that
flit around and people our reveries have almost the substance and
vitality of the actual world.

Elizabeth was no dreamer. Though brought up abstracted from common
worldly pursuits, there was something singularly practical about her.
She aimed at being useful in all her reveries. This desire was rendered
still more fervent by her affection for Falkner--by her fears on his
account--by her ardent wish to make life dear to him. All her
employments, all her pleasures, referred themselves, as it were, to this
primary motive, and were entirely ruled by it.

She portioned out the hours of each day, and adhered steadily to her
self-imposed rules. To the early morning's ride succeeded her various
studies, of which music, for which she developed a true ear and delicate
taste, formed one: one occupation relieved the other; from her dear
books she had recourse to her needle, and, bending over her embroidery
frame, she meditated on what she read; or, occupied by many conjectures
and many airy dreams concerning Falkner, she became absorbed in revery.
Sometimes, from the immediate object of these, her memory reverted to
the melancholy boy she had seen at Baden. His wild eyes--his haughty
glance--his lively solicitude about the animal he had hurt, and
uncomplaining fortitude with which he had endured bodily pain, were
often present to her. She wished that they had not quitted Baden so
suddenly: if they had remained but a few days longer, he might have
learned to love them; and even now he might be with Falkner, sharing his
dangers, it is true, but also each guarding the other from that rash
contempt of life in which they both indulged.

Her whole mind being filled by duties and affection, each day seemed
short, yet each was varied. At dawn she rose lightly from her bed, and
looked out over the blue sea and rocky shore; she prayed, as she gazed,
for the safety of her benefactor; and her thoughts, soaring to her
mother in heaven, asked her blessing to descend upon her child. Morning
was not so fresh as her, as she met its first sweet breath; and,
cantering along the beach, she thought of Falkner--his absence, his
toils and dangers--with resignation, mingled with a hope that warmed
into an ardent desire to see him again. Surely there is no object so
sweet as the young in solitude. In after years--when death has bereaved
us of the dearest--when cares, and regrets, and fears, and passions,
evil either in their nature or their results, have stained our lives
with black, solitude is too sadly peopled to be pleasing; and when we
see one of mature years alone, we believe that sadness must be the
companion. But the solitary thoughts of the young are glorious dreams--


"Their state,
Like to a lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate."


To behold this young and lovely girl wandering by the lonely shore, her
thoughts her only companions, love for her benefactor her only passion,
no touch of earth and its sordid woes about her, it was as if a new Eve,
watched over by angels, had been placed in the desecrated land, and the
very ground she trod grew into paradise.

Sometimes the day was sadly checkered by bad news brought from the
continent of Greece. Sometimes it was rendered joyous by the arrival of
a letter from her adored father. Sometimes he was with her, and he,
animated by the sense of danger, and the knowledge of his usefulness to
the cause he espoused, was eloquent in his narrations, overflowing in
his affection to her, and almost happy in the belief that he was atoning
for the past. The idea that he should fall in the fields of Greece, and
wash out with his heart's blood the dark blot on his name, gave an
elevation to his thoughts, a strained and eager courage and fortitude
that accorded with his fiery character. He was born to be a soldier; not
the military man of modern days, but the hero who exposed his life
without fear, and found joy in battle and hard-earned victory, when
these were sought and won for a good cause, from the cruel oppressor.




CHAPTER X


During Falkner's visits to Zante, Elizabeth had been led to remark the
faithful attentions of his chief follower, an Albanian Greek. This man
had complained to his young mistress of the recklessness with which
Falkner exposed himself--of the incredible fatigue he underwent--and his
belief that he must ere long fall a victim to his disdain of safety and
repose; which, while it augmented the admiration his courage excited,
was yet not called for by the circumstances of the times. He would have
been termed rash and fool-hardy, but that he maintained a dignified
composure throughout, joined to military skill and fertility of
resource; and while contempt of life led him invariably to select the
post of danger for himself, he was sedulous to preserve the lives of
those under his command. His early life had familiarized him with the
practices of war. He was a valuable officer; kind to his men, and
careful to supply their wants, while he contended for no vain
distinctions; and was ready, on all occasions, to undertake such duties
as others shrunk from, as leading to certain death.

Elizabeth listened to Vasili's account of his hairbreadth escapes, his
toils, and desperate valour, with tearful eyes and an aching heart. "Oh!
that I could attach him to life!" she thought. She never complained to
him, nor persuaded him to alter his desperate purpose, but redoubled her
affectionate attentions. When he left her, after a hurried visit, she
did not beseech him to preserve himself; but her tearful eyes, the agony
with which she returned his parting embrace, her despondent attitude as
his bark left the shore; and, when he returned, her eager joy--her eye
lighted up with thankful love--all bespoke emotions that needed no other
interpreter, and which often made him half shrink from acting up to the
belief he had arrived at, that he ought to die, and that he could only
escape worse and ignominious evils by a present and honourable death.

As time passed on--as by the arrival of the forces from Egypt the
warfare grew more keen and perilous--as Vasili renewed the sad tale of
his perils at each visit, with some added story of lately and narrowly
escaped peril--fear began to make too large and engrossing a portion of
her daily thoughts. She ceased to take in the ideas as she read--her
needle dropped from her hand--and, as she played, the music brought
streams of tears from her eyes, to think of the scene of desolation and
suffering in which she felt that she should soon be called upon to take
a part. There was no help or hope, and she must early learn the woman's
first and hardest lesson, to bear in silence the advance of an evil
which might be avoided, but for the unconquerable will of another.
Almost she could have called her father cruel, had not the remembrance
of the misery that drove him to desperation inspired pity, instead of
selfish resentment.

He had passed a few days with her, and the intercourse they held had
been more intimate and more affectionate than ever. As she grew older,
her mind, enriched by cultivation, and developed by the ardour of her
attachment, grew more on an equality with his experienced one, than
could have been the case in mere childhood. They did not take the usual
position of father and child--the instructer and instructed--the
commander and the obedient--


"They talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends."


And the inequality which made her depend on him, and caused him to
regard her as the creature who was to prolong his existence, as it were,
beyond the grave, into which he believed himself to be descending, gave
a touch of something melancholy to their sympathy, without which, in
this shadowy world, nothing seems beautiful and enduring.

He left her; and his little bark, under press of sail, sped merrily
through the waves. She stood to watch--her heart warmed by the
recollection of his fervent affection--his attentive kindness. He had
ever been brave and generous; but now he had become so sympathizing and
gentle, that she hoped that the time was not far off when moral courage
would spring from that personal hardihood which is at once so glorious
and so fearful. "God shield you, my father!" she thought, "God preserve
you, my more than father, for happier thoughts and better days! For the
full enjoyment of, and control over, those splendid qualities with which
Nature has gifted you!"

Such was the tenour of her thoughts. Enthusiasm mingled with fond
solicitude--and thus she continued her anxious watchings. By every
opportunity she received brief letters, breathing affection, yet
containing no word of self. Sometimes a phrase occurred directing her
what to do if anything fatal occurred to him, which startled and pained
her; but there was nothing else that spoke of death--nor any allusion to
his distaste for life. Autumn was far advanced--the sounds of war were
somewhat lulled; and, except in small skirmishing parties, that met and
fought under cover of the ravines and woods, all was quiet. Elizabeth
felt less fearful than usual. She wrote to ask when Falkner would again
visit her; and he, in reply, promised so to do immediately after a
meditated attack on a small fortress, the carrying of which was of the
first import to the safe quartering of his little troop during the
winter. She read this with delight--she solaced herself with the
prospect of a speedier and longer visit than usual; with childish
thoughtlessness she forgot that the attack on the town was a work of
war, and might bring with it the fatal results of mortal struggle.

A few days after, a small, ill-looking letter was put into her hands--it
was written in Romaic, and the meaning of its illegible ciphers could
only be guessed at by a Greek. It was from Vasili--to tell her, in a few
words, that Falkner was lying in a small village, not far from the
seacoast, opposite Zante. It mentioned that he had been long suffering
from a Greek fever; and having been badly wounded in the late attack,
the combined effects of wound and malady left little hopes of recovery;
while the fatal moment was hastened by the absence of all medical
assistance--the miserable state of the village where he was lying--and
the bad air of the country around.

Elizabeth read as if in a dream--the moment, then, had come, the fatal
moment which she had often contemplated with terror, and prayed Heaven
to avert--she grew pale and trembling; but again in a moment she
recalled her presence of mind, and summoned all the resolution she had
endeavoured to store up to assist her at this extremity. She went
herself to the chief English authority in the island, and obtained an
order for a vessel to bring him off--instantly she embarked. She neither
wept nor spoke; but sitting on the deck, tearless and pale, she prayed
for speed, and that she might not find him dead. A few hours brought her
to the desired port. Here a thousand difficulties awaited her--but she
was not to be intimidated by all the threatened dangers--and only
besought the people about her to admit of no excuses for delay. She was
accompanied by an English surgeon and a few attendants. She longed to
outspeed them all, and yet she commanded herself to direct everything
that was done; nor did her heart quail when a few shot, and the cry of
the men about her, spoke of the neighbourhood of the enemy. It
proved a false alarm--the shots came from a straggling party of
Greeks--salutations were exchanged, and still she pushed on--her only
thought was--"Let me but find him alive--and then surely he will live!"

As she passed along, the sallow countenances and wasted figures of the
peasants spoke of the frightful ravages of the epidemic by which Falkner
was attacked--and the squalidness of the cabins and the filth of the
villages were sights to make her heart ache; at length they drew near
one which the guide told her was that named by Vasili. On inquiring,
they were directed down a sort of lane to a wretched dilapidated
dwelling--in the courtyard of which were a party of armed Greeks,
gathered together in a sort of ominous silence. This was the abode of
Falkner; she alighted--and in a few minutes Vasili presented
himself--his face painted with every mark of apprehension and sorrow--he
led her on. The house was desolate beyond expression--there was no
furniture, no glass in the windows--no token of human habitation beyond
the weather-stained walls. She entered the room where her father
lay--some mattresses placed on the divan were all his bed; and there was
nothing else in the room except a brazier to heat his food. Elizabeth
drew near--and gazed in awe and grief. Already he was so changed that
she could scarcely know him--his eyes sunk, his cheeks fallen, his brow
streaked with pallid hues; a ghastly shadow lay upon his face, the
apparent forerunner of death. He had scarcely strength sufficient to
raise his hand, and his voice was hollow--yet he smiled when he saw
her--and that smile, the last refuge of the soul that informs our clay,
and even sometimes survives it, was all his own; it struck her to the
heart--and her eyes were dimmed with tears while Vasili cast a wistful
glance on her--as much as to say, "I have lost hope!"

"Thank you for coming--yet you ought not to be here," hoarsely murmured
the sick man. Elizabeth kissed his hand and brow in answer--and, despite
of all her endeavours, the tears fell from her eyes on his sunken cheek;
again he smiled. "It is not so bad," he said; "do not weep, I am willing
to die! I do not suffer very much, though I am weary of life."

The surgeon was now admitted. He examined the wound, which was of a
musket bullet in his side. He dressed it, and administered some potion,
from which the patient received instant relief; and then joined the
anxious girl, who had retired to another room.

"He is in a very dangerous state," the surgeon remarked, in reply to her
anxious looks. "Nothing certain can be pronounced yet. But our first
care must be to remove him from this pestiferous place--the fever and
wound combined must destroy him. Change of air may produce an
amelioration in the former."

With all the energy which was her prominent characteristic, Elizabeth
caused a litter to be prepared, horses hired, and everything arranged so
that their journey might be commenced at daybreak. Every one went early
to rest, to enjoy some repose before the morrow's journey, except
Elizabeth; she spent the livelong night watching beside Falkner, marking
each change, tortured by the groans that escaped him in his sleep, or
the suppressed complaints that fell from his lips--by the restlessness
and fever that rendered each moment full of fate. The glimmering and
dreary light of the lamp increased even the squalid and bare appearance
of the wretched chamber in which he lay; Elizabeth gazed for a moment
from the casement to see how moved the stars--and there, without, nature
asserted herself--and it was the lovely land of Greece that met her
eyes; the southern night reigned in all its beauty--the stars hung
refulgent lamps in the transparent ether: the fire-flies darted and
wheeled among the olive groves, or rested in the myrtle hedges, flashing
intermittingly, and filling for an instant a small space around them
with fairy brightness; each form of tree, of rocky fragment, and broken
upland, lay in calm and beautiful repose; she turned to the low couch on
which lay all her hope--her idolized father; the streaked brow--the
nerveless hand--half-open eye, and hard breathing betokened a frightful
stage of weakness and suffering.

The scene brought unsought into her mind the lines of the English poet,
which so touchingly describes the desolation of Greece--blending the
idea of mortal suffering with the long-drawn calamities of that
oppressed country. The words, the lines, crowded on her memory; and a
chord was struck in her heart as she ejaculated, "No! no, not so! Not
the first day of death--not now, or ever!" As she spoke, she dissolved
in tears--and, weeping long and bitterly, she became afterward
calmer--the rest of her watch passed more peacefully. Even the patient
suffered less as night verged into morning.

At an early hour all was ready. Falkner was placed in the litter; and
the little party, gladly leaving the precincts of the miserable village,
proceeded slowly towards the seashore. Every step was replete with pain
and danger. Elizabeth was again all herself. Self-possessed and
vigilant, she seemed at once to attain years of experience. No one could
remember that it was a girl of sixteen who directed them. Hovering round
the litter of the wounded man, and pointing out how best to carry him,
so that he might suffer least--as the inequalities of the ground, the
heights to climb, and the ravines to cross, made it a task of
difficulty. Now and then the report of a musket was heard; sometimes a
Greek cap, not unoften mistaken for a turban, peered above the precipice
that overlooked the road frequent alarms were given, but she was
frightened by none. Her large eyes dilated and darkened as she looked
towards the danger pointed out--and she drew nearer the litter, as a
lonely mother might to the cradle of her child, when in the stillness of
night some ravenous beast intruded on a savage solitude; but she never
spoke, except to point out the mistakes she was the first to
perceive--or to order the men to proceed lightly, but without fear--nor
to allow their progress to be checked by vain alarms.

At length the seashore was gained, and Falkner at last placed on the
deck of the vessel, reposing after the torture which, despite every
care, the journey had inflicted. Already Elizabeth believed that he was
saved--and yet, one glance at his wan face and emaciated figure
reawakened every fear. He looked, and all around believed him to be, a
dying man.




CHAPTER XI


Arrived at Zante, placed in a cool and pleasant chamber, attended by a
skilful surgeon, and watched over by the unsleeping vigilance of
Elizabeth, Falkner slowly receded from the shadow of death, whose livid
hue had sat upon his countenance. Still health was far. His wound was
attended by bad symptoms, and the fever eluded every attempt to dislodge
it from his frame. He was but half saved from the grave; emaciated and
feeble, his disorder even tried to vanquish his mind; but that resisted
with more energy than his prostrate body. The death he had gone out to
seek he awaited with courage, yet he no longer expressed an impatience
of existence, but struggled to support with manly fortitude at once the
inroads of disease and the long-nourished sickness of his soul.

It had been a hard trial to Elizabeth to watch over him, while each day
the surgeon's serious face gave no token of hope. But she would not
despond, and in the end his recovery was attributed to her careful
nursing. She never quitted his apartment except for a few hours' sleep;
and, even then, her bed was placed in the chamber adjoining his. If he
moved, she was roused and at his side, divining the cause of his
uneasiness, and alleviating it. There were other nurses about him, and
Vasili, the most faithful of all--but she directed them, and brought
that discernment and tact of which a woman only is capable. Her little
soft hand smoothed his pillow, or, placed upon his brow, cooled and
refreshed him. She scarcely seemed to feel the effects of sleepless
nights and watchful days--every minor sensation was merged in the hope
and resolution to preserve him.

Several months were passed in a state of the utmost solicitude. At last
he grew a little better--the fever intermitted--and the wound gave signs
of healing. On the first day that he was moved to an open alcove, and
felt some enjoyment from the soft air of evening, all that Elizabeth had
gone through was repaid. She sat on a low cushion near; and his thin
fingers, now resting on her head, now playing with the ringlets of her
hair, gave token, by that caress, that though he was silent and his look
abstracted, his thoughts were occupied upon her. At length he
said--"Elizabeth, you have again saved my life."

She looked up with a quick, glad look, and her eyes brightened with
pleasure.

"You have saved my life twice," he continued; "and through you, it
seems, I am destined to live. I will not quarrel again with existence,
since it is your gift; I will hope, prolonged as it has been by you,
that it will prove beneficial to you. I have but one desire now--it is
to be the source of happiness to you."

"Live! dear father, live! and I must be happy!" she exclaimed.

"God grant that it prove so!" he replied, pressing her hand to his lips.
"The prayers of such as I too often turn to curses. But you, my own
dearest, must be blessed; and as my life is preserved, I must hope that
this is done for your sake, and that you will derive some advantage from
it."

"Can you doubt it?" said Elizabeth. "Could I ever be consoled if I lost
you? I have no other tie on earth--no other friend--nor do I wish for
any. Only put aside your cruel thoughts of leaving me for ever, and
every blessing is mine."

"Dear, generous, faithful girl! Yet the time will come when I shall not
be all in all to you; and then, will not my name--my adoption--prove a
stumbling-block to your wishes?"

"How could that happen?" she said. "But do not, dear father, perplex
yourself with looking either forward or backward--repose on the present,
which has nothing in it to annoy you; or rather, your gallantry--your
devotion to the cause of an injured people, must inspire you with
feelings of self-gratulation, and speak peace to your troubles. Let the
rest of your life pass away as a dream; banish quite those thoughts that
have hitherto made you wretched. Your life is saved, despite yourself.
Accept existence as an immediate gift from Heaven; and begin life, from
this moment, with new hopes, new resolves. Whatever your error was,
which you so bitterly repent, it belonged to another state of being.
Your remorse, your resignation, has effaced it; or if any evil results
remain, you will rather exert yourself to repair them--than uselessly to
lament."

"To repair my error--my crime!" cried Falkner, in an altered voice,
while a cloud gathered over his face; "no, no! that is impossible!
never, till we meet in another life, can I offer reparation to the dead.
But I must not think of this now; it is too ungrateful to you to dwell
upon thoughts which would deliver me over to the tomb. Yet one thing I
would say. I left a short detail in England of the miserable event that
must at last destroy me, but it is brief and unsatisfactory. During my
midnight watchings in Greece, I prepared a longer account. You know that
little rosewood box, which, even when dying, I asked for; it is now
close to my bed; the key is here attached to my watch-chain. That box
contains the narrative of my crime; when I die, you will read it and
judge me."

"Never! never!" exclaimed Elizabeth, earnestly. "Dear father, how
cruelly you have tormented yourself by dwelling upon and writing about
the past! and do you think that I would ever read accusations against
you, the guardian angel of my life, even though written by yourself? Let
me bring the box--let me burn the papers--let no word remain to tell of
misery you repent, and have atoned for."

Falkner detained her, as she would have gone to execute her purpose.
"Not alone for you, my child," he said, "did I write, though hereafter,
when you hear me accused, it may be satisfactory to learn the truth from
my own hand. But there are others to satisfy--an injured angel to be
vindicated--a frightful mystery to be unveiled to the world. I have
waited till I should die to fulfil this duty, and still, for your sake,
I will wait; for while you love me and bear my name, I will not cover it
with obloquy. But if I die, this secret must not die with me. I will say
no more now, nor ask any promises: when the time comes, you will
understand and submit to the necessity that urged me to disclosure."

"You shall be obeyed, I promise you," she replied. "I will never set my
reason above yours, except in asking you to live for the sake of the
poor little thing you have preserved."

"Have I preserved you, dearest? I often fear I did wrong in not
restoring you to your natural relations. In making you mine, and linking
you to my blighted fortunes, I may have prepared unnumbered ills for
you. Oh, how sad a riddle is life! we hear of the straight and narrow
path of right in youth, and we disdain the precept; and now would I were
sitting among the nameless crowd on the common road-side, instead of
wandering blindly in this dark desolation; and you--I have brought you
with me into the wilderness of error and suffering; it was wrong--it was
mere selfishness; yet who could foresee?"

"Talk not of foreseeing," said Elizabeth, soothingly, as she pressed his
thin hand to her warm young lips, "think only of the present; you have
made me yours for ever--you cannot cast me off without inflicting real
pangs of misery, instead of those dreamy ills you speak of. I am happy
with you, attending on, being of use to you. What would you more?"

"Perhaps it is so," replied Falkner, "and your good and grateful heart
will repay itself for all its sacrifices. I never can. Henceforth I will
be guided by you, my Elizabeth. I will no longer think of what I have
done, and what yet must be suffered, but wrap up my existence in you;
live in your smiles, your hopes, your affections."

This interchange of heartfelt emotions did good to both. Perplexed, nay,
tormented by conflicting duties, Falkner was led by her entreaties to
dismiss the most painful of his thoughts, and to repose at last on those
more healing. The evil and the good of the day he resolved should
henceforth be sufficient; his duty towards Elizabeth was a primary one,
and he would restrict himself to the performing it.

There is a magic in sympathy, and the heart's overflowing, that we feel
as bliss, though we cannot explain it. This sort of joy Elizabeth felt
after this conversation with her father. Their hearts had united; they
had mingled thought and sensation, and the intimacy of affection that
resulted was an ample reward to her for every suffering. She loved her
benefactor with inexpressible truth and devotedness, and their entire
and full interchange of confidence gave a vivacity to this sentiment,
which of itself was happiness.




CHAPTER XII


Though saved from immediate death, Falkner could hardly be called
convalescent. His wound did not heal healthily, and the intermitting
fever, returning again and again, laid him prostrate after he had
acquired a little strength. After a winter full of danger, it was
pronounced that the heats of a southern summer would probably prove
fatal to him, and that he must be removed without delay to the bracing
air of his native country.

Towards the end of the month of April they took their passage to
Leghorn. It was a sad departure; the more so that they were obliged to
part with their Greek servant, on whose attachment Elizabeth so much
depended. Vasili had entered into Falkner's service at the instigation
of the Protokleft, or chief of his clan; when the Englishman was obliged
to abandon the cause of Greece, and return to his own country, Vasili,
though loath and weeping, went back to his native master. The young
girl, being left without any attendant on whom she could wholly rely,
felt singularly desolate; for as her father lay on the deck, weak from
the exertion of being removed, she felt that his life hung by a very
slender thread, and she shrank half affrighted from what might ensue to
her, friendless and alone.

Her presence of mind and apparent cheerfulness was never, however,
diminished by these secret misgivings; and she sat by her father's low
couch, and placed her hands in his, speaking encouragingly, while her
eyes filled with tears as the rocky shores of Zante became indistinct
and vanished.

Their voyage was without any ill accident, except that the warm
southeast wind, which favoured their navigation, sensibly weakened the
patient; and Elizabeth grew more and more eager to proceed northward. At
Leghorn they were detained by a long and vexatious quarantine. The
summer had commenced early, with great heats; and the detention of
several weeks in the lazaretto nearly brought about what they had left
Greece to escape. Falkner grew worse. The seabreezes a little mitigated
his sufferings; but life was worn away by repeated struggles, and the
most frightful debility threatened his frame with speedy dissolution.
How could it be otherwise? He had wished to die. He sought death where
it lurked insidiously in the balmy airs of Greece, or met it openly
armed against him on the field of battle. Death wielded many weapons;
and he was struck by many, and the most dangerous. Elizabeth hoped, in
spite of despair; yet, if called away from him, her heart throbbed
wildly as she re-entered his apartment; there was no moment when the
fear did not assail her, that she might, on a sudden, hear and see that
all was over.

An incident happened at this period, to which Elizabeth paid little
attention at the time, engrossed as she was by mortal fears. They had
been in quarantine about a fortnight, when, one day, there entered the
gloomy precincts of the lazaretto a tribe of English people. Such a
horde of men, women, and children, as gives foreigners a lively belief
that we islanders are all mad, to migrate in this way, with the young
and helpless, from comfortable homes, in search of the dangerous and
comfortless. This roving band consisted of the eldest son of an English
nobleman and his wife--four children, the eldest being six years old--a
governess--three nursery-maids, two lady's maids, and a sufficient
appendage of men-servants. They had all just arrived from viewing the
pyramids of Egypt. The noise and bustle--the servants insisting on
making everybody comfortable, where comfort was not--the spreading out
of all their own camp apparatus--joined to the seeming indifference of
the parties chiefly concerned, and the unconstrained astonishment of the
Italians--was very amusing. Lord Cecil, a tall, thin, plain, quiet,
aristocratic-looking man of middle age, dropped into the first
chair--called for his writing-case--began a letter, and saw and heard
nothing that was going on. Lady Cecil--who was not pretty, but lively
and elegant--was surrounded by her children--_they_ seemed so many
little angels, with blooming cheeks and golden hair--the youngest cherub
slept profoundly amid the din; the others were looking eagerly out for
their dinner.

Elizabeth had seen their entrance--she saw them walking in the garden of
the lazaretto--one figure, the governess, though disguised by a green
shade over her eyes, she recognised--it was Miss Jervis. Desolate and
sad as the poor girl was, a familiar face and voice was a cordial drop
to comfort her; and Miss Jervis was infinitely delighted to meet her
former pupil. She usually looked on those intrusted to her care as a
part of the machinery that supported her life; but Elizabeth had become
dear to her from the irresistible attraction that hovered round
her--arising from her carelessness of self, and her touching sensibility
to the sufferings of all around. She had often regretted having left
her, and she now expressed this, and even her silence grew into
something like talkativeness upon the unexpected meeting. "I am very
unlucky," she said; "I would rather, if I could with propriety, live in
the meanest lodging in London, than in the grandest tumbledown palace of
the East, which people are pleased to call so fine--I am sure they are
always dirty and out of order. Lady Glenfell recommended me to Lady
Cecil--and, certainly, a more generous and sweet-tempered woman does not
exist--and I was very comfortable, living at the Earl of G----'s seat in
Hampshire, and having almost all my time to myself. One day, to my
misfortune, Lady Cecil made a scheme to travel--to get out of her
father-in-law's way, I believe--he is rather a tiresome old man. Lord
Cecil does anything she likes. All was arranged, and I really thought I
should leave them--I so hated the idea of going abroad again; but Lady
Cecil said that I should be quite a treasure, having been everywhere,
and knowing so many languages, and that she should have never thought of
going, but from my being with her; so, in short, she was very generous,
and I could not say no: accordingly, we set out on our travels, and went
first to Portugal--where I had never been--and do not know a word of
Portuguese; and then through Spain--and Spanish is Greek to me--and
worse--for I do know a good deal of Romaic. I am sure I do not know
scarcely where we went--but our last journey was to see the pyramids of
Egypt--only, unfortunately, I caught the ophthalmia the moment we got to
Alexandria, and could never bear to see a ray of light the whole time we
were in that country."

As they talked, Lady Cecil came to join her children. She was struck by
Elizabeth's beaming and noble countenance, which bore the impress of
high thought and elevated sentiments. Her figure, too, had sprung up
into womanhood--tall and graceful--there was an elasticity joined to
much majesty in all her appearance; not the majesty of assumption, but
the stamp of natural grandeur of soul, refined by education, and
softened by sympathetic kindness for the meanest thing that breathed.
Her dignity did not spring in the slightest degree from self-worship,
but simply from a reliance on her own powers and a forgetfulness of
every triviality which haunts the petty-minded. No one could chance to
see her, without stopping to gaze; and her peculiar circumstances--the
affectionate and anxious daughter of a dying man--without friend or
support, except her own courage and patience--never daunted, yet always
fearfully alive to his danger--rendered her infinitely interesting to
one of her own sex. Lady Cecil was introduced to her by Miss Jervis, and
was eager to show her kindness. She offered that they should travel
together; but as Elizabeth's quarantine was out long before that of the
new comers, and she was anxious to reach a more temperate climate, she
refused; yet she was thankful, and charmed by the sweetness and
cordiality of her new acquaintance.

Lady Cecil was not handsome, but there was something, not exactly
amounting to fascination, but infinitely taking in her manner and
appearance. Her cheerfulness, good-nature, and high-breeding diffused a
grace and a pleasurable easiness over her manners that charmed
everybody; good sense and vivacity, never loud nor ever dull, rendered
her spirits agreeable. She was apparently the same to everybody; but she
well knew how to regulate the inner spirit of her attentions while their
surface looked so equal: no one ventured to go beyond her wishes--and
where she wished, any one was astonished to find how far they could
depend on her sincerity and friendliness. Had Elizabeth's spirit been
more free, she had been delighted; as it was, she felt thankful, merely
for a kindness that availed her nothing.

Lady Cecil viewed the dying Falkner and his devoted, affectionate
daughter with the sincerest compassion; dying she thought him, for he
was wasted to a shadow, his cheeks colourless, his hands yellow and
thin--he could not stand upright--and when, in the cool of evening, he
was carried into the open air, he seemed scarcely able to speak from
very feebleness. Elizabeth's face bespoke continual anxiety: her
vigilance, her patience, her grief, and her resignation formed a
touching picture, which it was impossible to contemplate without
admiration. Lady Cecil often tried to win her away from her father's
couch, and to give herself a little repose from perpetual attendance;
she yielded but for a minute; while she conversed, she assumed
cheerfulness--but in a moment after she had glided back and taken her
accustomed place at her father's pillow.

At length their prison-gates were opened, and Falkner was borne on board
a felucca bound for Genoa. Elizabeth took leave of her new friend, and
promised to write, but while she spoke she forgot what she said--for,
dreading at each moment the death of her benefactor, she did not dare
look forward, and had little heart to go beyond the circle of her
immediate, though dreary sensations. A fair wind bore them to Genoa, and
Falkner sustained the journey very well: at Genoa they transferred
themselves to another vessel, and each mile they gained towards France
lightened the fears of Elizabeth. But this portion of their voyage was
not destined to be so prosperous They had embarked at night, and had
made some way during the first hours; but by noon on the following day
they were becalmed; the small vessel--the burning sun--the shocking
smells--the want of all comfortable accommodation, combined to bring on
a relapse--and again Falkner seemed dying. The very crew were struck
with pity; while Elizabeth, wild almost with terror and the impotent
wish to save, preserved an outward calm, more shocking almost than
shrieks and cries. At evening she caused him to be carried on the deck,
and placed on a couch, with a little sort of shed prepared for him
there; he was too much debilitated to feel any great degree of
relief--there was a ghastly hue settled on his face that seemed
gradually sinking into death. Elizabeth's courage almost gave way; there
was no physician, no friend; the servants were frightened, the crew
pitying, but none could help.

As this sense of desertion grew strong, a despair she had never felt
before invaded her; and it was as she thus hung over Falkner's couch,
the tears fast gathering in her eyes, and striving to check the
convulsive throb that rose in her throat, that a gentle voice said, "Let
me place this pillow under your father's head, he will rest more
quietly." The voice came as from a guardian angel; she looked up
thankfully, the pillow was placed, some drink administered, a sail
extended, so as to shield him from the evening sun, and a variety of
little attentions paid, which evidently solaced the invalid; and the
evening breeze rising as the sun went down, the air grew cool, and he
sunk at last into a profound sleep. When night came on, the stranger
conjured Elizabeth to take some repose, promising to watch by Falkner.
She could not resist the entreaty, which was urged with sincere
earnestness; going down, she found a couch had been prepared for her
with almost a woman's care by the stranger; and before she slept he
knocked at her door to tell her, Falkner having awoke, expressed himself
as much easier, and very glad to hear that Elizabeth had retired to
rest; after this he had dropped asleep again.

It was a new and pleasant sensation to the lone girl to feel that there
was one sharing her task, on whom she might rely. She had scarcely
looked at or attended to the stranger while on deck; she only perceived
that he was English, and that he was young; but now, in the quiet that
preceded her falling asleep, his low, melodious voice sounded sweetly in
her ears, and the melancholy and earnest expression of his handsome
countenance reminded her of some one she had seen before, probably a
Greek; for there was something almost foreign in his olive complexion,
his soft, dark eyes, and the air of sentiment mingled with a sort of
poetic fervour, that characterized his countenance. With these thoughts
Elizabeth fell asleep; and when early in the morning she rose, and made
what haste she could to visit the little sort of hut erected for her
father on deck, the first person she saw was the stranger, leaning on
the bulwark, and looking on the sea with an air of softness and sadness
that excited her sympathy. He greeted her with extreme kindness. "Your
father is awake, and has inquired for you," he said. Elizabeth, after
thanking him, took her accustomed post beside Falkner. He might be
better, but he was too weak to make much sign, and one glance at his
colourless face renewed all her half forgotten terrors.

Meanwhile the breeze freshened, and the vessel scudded through the blue
sparkling waves. The heats of noon, though tempered by the gale, still
had a bad effect on Falkner; and when, at about five in the
evening--often in the south the hottest portion of the day, the air
being thoroughly penetrated by the sun's rays--they arrived at
Marseilles, it became a task of some difficulty to remove him. Elizabeth
and the stranger had interchanged little talk during the day; but he now
came forward to assist in removing him to the boat--acting without
question, as if he had been her brother, guessing, as if by instinct,
the best thing to be done, and performing all with activity and zeal.
Poor Elizabeth, cast on these difficult circumstances, without relation
or friend, looked on him as a guardian angel, consulted him freely, and
witnessed his exertions in her behalf in a transport of gratitude. He
did everything for her, and would sit for hours in the room at the
hotel, next to that in which Falkner lay, waiting to hear how he was,
and if there was anything to be done. Elizabeth joined him now and then;
they were in a manner already intimate, though strangers; he took a
lively interest in her anxieties, and she looked towards him for advice
and help, relied on his counsels, and was encouraged by his
consolations. It was the first time she had felt any friendship or
confidence, except in Falkner; but it was impossible not to be won by
her new friend's gentleness, and almost feminine delicacy of attention,
joined to all a man's activity and readiness to do the thing that was
necessary to be done. "I have an adopted father," thought Elizabeth,
"and this seems a brother dropped from the clouds." He was of an age to
be her brother, but few years older; in all the ardour and grace of
early manhood, when developed in one of happy nature unsoiled by the
world.

Elizabeth, however, remained but a few days at Marseilles--it was of the
first necessity to escape the southern heats, and Falkner was pronounced
able to bear the voyage up the Rhone. The stranger showed some sadness
at the idea of being left behind. In truth, if Elizabeth was gladdened
and comforted by her new friend, he felt double pleasure in the
contemplation of her beauty and admirable qualities. No word of self
ever passed her lips. All thought, all care, was spent on him she called
her father--and the stranger was deeply touched by her demonstrations of
filial affection--her total abnegation of every feeling that did not
centre in his comfort and recovery. He had been present one evening,
though standing apart, when Falkner, awakening from sleep, spoke with
regret of the fatigue Elizabeth endured, and the worthlessness of his
life compared with all that she went through for his sake. Elizabeth
replied at once with such energy of affection, such touching
representation of the comfort she derived from his returning health, and
such earnest entreaties for him to love life, that the stranger listened
as if an angel spoke. Falkner answered, but the remorse that burdened
his heart gave something of bitterness to his reply. And her eloquent
though gentle solicitations that he would look on life in a better and
nobler light--not rashly to leave its duties here to encounter those he
knew not of in an existence beyond--and kind intimations, which,
exalting his repentance into a virtue, might reconcile him to
himself--all this won the listener to a deep and wondering admiration.
Not in human form had he ever seen imbodied so much wisdom, and so much,
strong yet tender emotion--none but woman could feel thus, but it was
beyond woman to speak and to endure as she did. She spoke only just so
openly, remembering the stranger's presence, as to cast a veil over her
actual relationship to Falkner, whom she called, and wished to have
believed to be, her true father.

The fever of the sufferer being abated, a day was fixed for their
departure from Marseilles. Their new friend appeared to show some
inclination to accompany them in their river navigation as far as Lyons.
Elizabeth thanked him with her gladdened eyes; she had felt the want of
support, or rather she had experienced the inestimable benefit of being
supported during the sad crisis now and then brought about by Falkner's
changeful illness; there was something, too, in the stranger very
attractive, not the less so for the melancholy which often quenched the
latent fire of his nature. That his disposition was really ardent, and
even vivacious, many little incidents, when he appeared to forget
himself, evinced--nay, sometimes his very gloom merged into sullen
savageness, that showed that coldness was not the secret of his frequent
fits of abstraction. Once or twice, on these occasions, Elizabeth was
reminded, she knew not of whom--but some one she had seen before--till
one day it flashed across her; could it be the sullen, solitary boy of
Baden! Singularly enough, she did not even know her new friend's name;
to those accustomed to foreign servants this will not appear strange; he
was their only visiter, and "le monsieur" was sufficient announcement
when he arrived. But Elizabeth remembered well that the youth's name was
Neville--and, on inquiry, she learned that this also was the appellation
of her new acquaintance.

She now regarded him with greater interest. She recalled her girlish
wish that he should reside with them, and benefit by the kindness of
Falkner--hoping that his sullenness would be softened and his gloom
dissipated by the affectionate attentions he would receive. She wished
to discover in what degree time and other circumstances had operated to
bring about the amelioration she had wished to be an instrument in
achieving. He was altered--he was no longer fierce nor sullen--yet he
was still melancholy, and still unhappy--and she could discern that as
his former mood had been produced by the vehemence of his character
fretting against the misfortunes of his lot, so it was by subduing every
violence of temper that the change was operated--and she suspected that
the causes that originally produced his unhappiness still remained. Yet
violence of temper is not a right word to use; his temper was eminently
sweet--he had a boiling ardour within--a fervent and a warm heart, which
might produce vehemence of feeling, but never asperity of temper. All
this Elizabeth remarked--and, as before, she longed to dissipate the
melancholy that so evidently clouded his mind; and again she indulged
fancies that, if he accompanied them, and was drawn near them, the
affection he would receive must dissipate a sadness created by
unfortunate circumstances in early youth--but not the growth of a
saturnine disposition. She pitied him intensely, for she saw that he was
often speechlessly wretched; but she reverenced his self-control, and
the manner in which he threw off all his own engrossing feelings to
sympathize with and assist her.

They were now soon to depart, and Elizabeth was not quite sure whether
Neville was to accompany them--he had gone to the boat to look after
some arrangements made for the patient's comfort--and she sat with the
invalid, expecting his return. Falkner reclined near a window, clasping
her hand, looking on her with fondness, and speaking of all he owed her;
and how he would endeavour to repay, by living, and making life a
blessing to her. "I shall live," he said; "I feel that this malady will
pass away, and I shall live to devote myself to rewarding you for all
your anxieties, to dissipating the cloud with which I have so cruelly
overshadowed your young life, and to making all the rest sunshine. I
will think only of you; all the rest, all that grieves me, and all that
I repent, I cast even now into oblivion."

At this moment the stranger entered and drew near. Elizabeth saw him,
and said, "And here, dearest father, is another to whom you owe more
than you can guess--for kindness to me and the help to you. I do not
think I should have preserved you without Mr. Neville."

The young man was standing near the couch, looking on the invalid, and
rejoicing in the change for the better that appeared. Falkner turned his
eyes on him as Elizabeth spoke, a tremour ran through all his limbs, he
grew ghastly pale, and fainted.

An evil change from this time appeared in his state--and the physician
was afraid of the journey, attributing his fainting to his inability to
bear any excitement; while Falkner, who was before passive, grew eager
to depart. "Change of scene and moving will do me good," he said, "so
that no one comes near me, no one speaks to me, but Elizabeth."

At one time the idea of Neville's accompanying them was alluded to--he
was greatly disturbed--and seriously implored Elizabeth not to allow it.
It was rather hard on the poor girl, who found so much support and
solace in her new friend's society--but Falkner's slightest wish was
with her a law, and she submitted without a murmur, "Do not let me even
see him before we go," said Falkner. "Act on this wish, dearest, without
hurting his feelings--without betraying to him that I have formed it--it
would be an ungracious return for the services he has rendered you--for
which I would fain show gratitude; but that cannot be--you alone can
repay--do so, as you best may, with thanks--but do not let me see him
more."

Elizabeth wondered; and, as a last effort to vanquish his dislike, she
said, "Do you know that he is the same boy who interested us so much at
Baden?--he is no longer savage as he was then--but I fear that he is as
unhappy as ever."

"Too well do I know it," replied Falkner; "do not question me--do not
speak to me again of him." He spoke in disjointed sentences--a cold dew
stood on his brow--and Elizabeth, who knew that a mysterious wound
rankled in his heart, more painful than any physical injury, was eager
to calm him. Something, she might wonder; but she thought more of
sparing Falkner pain than of satisfying her curiosity, and she mentally
resolved never to mention the name of Neville again.

They were to embark at sunrise; in the evening her new friend came to
take leave, she having evaded the notion of his accompanying them, and
insisted that he should not join them in the morning to assist at their
departure. Though she had done this with sweetness, and so much
cordiality of manner as prevented his feeling any sort of slight, yet in
some sort he guessed that they wished to dismiss him, and this notion
added to his melancholy, while some latent feeling made him readily
acquiesce in it. Elizabeth was told that he had come, and left Falkner
to join him. It was painful to her to take leave--to feel that she
should see him no more--and to know that their separation was not merely
casual, but occasioned by her father's choice, which hereafter might
again and again interfere to separate them. As she entered the room he
was leaning against the casement, and looking on the sea which glanced
before their windows, still as a lake, blue as the twilight sky that
bent over it. It was a July evening--soft, genial, and soothing; but no
portion of the gladness of nature was reflected in the countenance of
Neville. His large dark eyes seemed two wells of unfathomable sadness.
The drooping lids gave them an expression of irresistible softness,
which added interest to their melancholy earnestness. His complexion was
olive, but so clear that each vein could be discerned. His full and
finely-shaped lips bespoke the ardour and sensibility of his
disposition; while his slim, youthful form appeared half bending with a
weight of thought and sorrow. Elizabeth's heart beat as she came near
and stood beside him. Neither spoke; but he took her hand--and they both
felt that each regretted the moment of parting too deeply for the mere
ceremony of thanks and leave-taking.

"I have grieved," said Neville, as if answering her, though no word had
been said, "very much grieved at the idea of seeing you no more; and yet
it is for the best, I feel--and am sure. You do not know the usual
unhappy tenour of my thoughts, nor the cause I have to look on life as
an unwelcome burden. This is no new sentiment--it has been my companion
since I was nine years old. At one time, before I knew how to rein and
manage it, it was more intolerable than now; as a boy, it drove me to
solitude--to abhorrence of the sight of man--to anger against God for
creating me. These feelings have passed away; nay, more--I live for a
purpose--a sacred purpose, that shall be fulfilled despite of every
obstacle--every seeming impossibility. Too often, indeed, the
difficulties in my way have made me fear that I should never succeed,
and I have desponded; but never, till I saw you, did I know pleasure
unconnected with my ultimate object. With you I have been at times taken
out of myself; and I have almost forgotten--this must not be. I must
resume my burden, nor form one thought beyond the resolution I have made
to die, if need be, to secure success."

"You must not speak thus," said Elizabeth, looking at once with pity and
admiration on a face expressive of so much sensitive pride and sadness
springing from a sense of injury. "If your purpose is a good one, as I
must believe that it is, you will either succeed, or receive a
compensation from your endeavours equivalent to success. We shall meet
again, and I shall see you happier."

"When I am happier," he said, with more than his usual earnestness, "we
shall indeed meet--for I will seek you at the farthest end of the globe.
Till then, I shrink from seeing any one who interests me--or from
renewing sentiments of friendship which had better end here. You are too
good and kind not to be made unhappy by the sight of suffering, and I
must suffer till my end is accomplished. Even now I regret that I ever
saw you--though that feeling springs from a foolish pride. For hereafter
you will hear my name--and if you already do not know--you will learn
the miserable tale that hangs upon it--you will hear me commiserated;
you will learn why--and share the feeling. I would even avoid your
pity--judge, then, how loathsome it is to receive that of others; and
yet I must bear it, or fly them as I do. This will change. I have the
fullest confidence that one day I may throw back on others the slur now
cast upon me. This confidence, this full and sanguine trust, has altered
me from what I once was; it has changed the impatience, the almost
ferocity I felt as a boy, into fortitude and resolution."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I remember once I saw you a long time since,
when I was a mere girl, at Baden. Were you not there about four years
ago? Do you not remember falling with your horse and dislocating your
wrist?"

A tracery of strange wild thought came over the countenance of Neville.
"Do I remember?" he cried--"yes--and I remember a beautiful girl--and I
thought such would have been my sister, and I had not been alone--if
fate, if cruel, inexorable, horrible destiny had not deprived me of her
as well as all--all that made my childish existence paradise. It is
so--and I see you again, whom then my heart called sister--it is
strange."

"Did you give me that name?" said Elizabeth. "Ah, if you knew the
strange ideas I then had of giving you my father for your friend,
instead of one spoken harshly--perhaps unjustly of--"

As she spoke he grew gloomy again--his eyes drooped, and the expression
of his face became at first despondent, then proud, and even fierce; it
reminded her more forcibly than it had ever done before of the boy of
Baden--"It is better as it is," he continued, "much better that you do
not share the evil that pursues me; you ought not to be humiliated,
pressed down--goaded to hatred and contempt.

"Farewell--I grieve to leave you--yet I feel deeply how it is for the
best. Hereafter you will acknowledge your acquaintance with me, when we
meet in a happier hour. God preserve you and your dear father, as he
will for your sake! Twice we have met--the third time, if sibyls' tales
are true, is the test of good or evil in our friendship--till then,
farewell."

Thus they parted. Had Elizabeth been free from care with regard to
Falkner, she had regretted the separation more, and pondered more over
the mysterious wretchedness that darkened the lives of the only two
beings, the inner emotions of whose souls had been opened to her. As it
was, she returned to watch and fear beside her father's couch--and
scarcely to remember that a few minutes before she had been interested
by another--so entirely were her feelings absorbed by her affection and
solicitude for him.




CHAPTER XIII


From this time their homeward journey was more prosperous. They arrived
safely at Lyons, and thence proceeded to Basle--to take advantage again
of river navigation; the motion of a carriage being so inimical to the
invalid. They proceeded down the Rhine to Rotterdam, and crossing the
sea, returned at last to England, after an absence of four years.

This journey, though at first begun in terror and danger, grew less
hazardous at each mile they traversed towards the North; and while going
down the Rhine, Falkner and his adopted daughter spent several tranquil
and happy hours--comparing the scenery they saw to other and distant
landscapes--and recalling incidents that had occurred many years ago.
Falkner exerted himself for Elizabeth's sake--she had suffered so much,
and he had inflicted so much anguish upon her while endeavouring to free
himself from the burden of life, that he felt remorse at having thus
trifled with the deepest emotions of her heart--and anxious to recall
the more pleasurable sensations adapted to her age. The listless, yet
pleasing feelings attendant on convalescence influenced his mind
also--and he enjoyed a peace to which he had long been a stranger.

Elizabeth, it is true, had another source of revery besides that
ministered to her by her father. She often thought of Neville; and
though he was sad, the remembrance of him was full of pleasure. He had
been so kind, so sympathizing, so helpful; besides, there was a poetry
in his very gloom that added a charm to every thought spent upon him.
She did not only recall his conversation, but conjectured the causes of
his sorrow, and felt deeply interested by the mystery that hung about
him. So young and so unhappy! And he had been long so--he was more
miserable when they saw him roving wildly among the Alsatian hills. What
could it mean? She strove to recollect what Miss Jervis mentioned at
that time; she remembered only that he had no mother, and that his
father was severe and unkind.

Yet why, when nature is so full, of joyousness, when, at the summer
season, vegetation basks in beauty and delight, and the very clouds seem
to enjoy their aerial abode in upper sky, why should misery find a home
in the mind of man? a misery which the balmy winds will not lull, nor
the verdant landscape and its winding river dissipate. She thought thus
as she saw Falkner reclining apart, a cloud gathered on his brow, his
piercing eyes fixed in vacancy, as if it beheld there a heart-moving
tragedy; but she was accustomed to his melancholy, she had ever known
him as a man of sorrows; he had lived long before she knew him, and the
bygone years were filled by events pregnant with wretchedness, nay, if
he spoke truth, with guilt. But Neville, the young, the innocent, who
had been struck in boyhood through no fault of his own, nor any act in
which he bore a part; was there no remedy for him? and would not
friendship, and kindness, and the elastic spirit of youth suffice to
cure his wound? She remembered that he declared that he had an aim in
view, in which he resolved to succeed, and, succeeding, he should be
happy: a noble aim doubtless; for his soft eyes lighted joyously up, and
his face expressed a glad pride when he prognosticated ultimate triumph.
Her heart went with him in his efforts; she prayed earnestly for his
success, and was as sure as he that Heaven would favour an object which
she felt certain was generous and pure.

A sigh, a half groan from Falkner, called her to his side, while she
meditated on these things. Both suffer, she thought; would that some
link united them, so that both might find relief in the accomplishment
of the same resolves! Little did she think of the real link that
existed, mysterious, yet adamantine; that to pray for the success of one
was to solicit destruction for the other. A dark veil was before her
eyes, totally impervious; nor did she know that the withdrawing it, as
was soon to be, would deliver her over to conflicting duties, sad
struggles of feeling, and stain her life with the dark hues that now,
missing her, blotted the existence of the two upon earth for whom she
was most interested.

They arrived in London. Falkner's fever was gone, but his wound was
rankling, painful, and even dangerous. The bullet had grazed the bone,
and this, at first neglected, and afterward improperly treated, now
betrayed symptoms of exfoliation; his sufferings were great--he bore
them patiently; he looked on them as an atonement. He had gone out in
his remorse to die--he was yet to live, broken and destroyed; and if
suffered to live, was it not for Elizabeth's sake! and having bound her
fate to his, what right had he to die? The air of London being
injurious, and yet it being necessary to continue in the vicinity of the
most celebrated surgeons, they took a pleasant villa on Wimbledon
Common, situated in the midst of a garden, and presenting to the eye
that mixture of neatness, seclusion, and comfort that renders some of
our smaller English country-houses so delightful. Elizabeth, despite her
wanderings, had a true feminine love of home. She busied herself in
adding elegance to their dwelling, by a thousand little arts, which seem
nothing, and are everything in giving grace and cheerfulness to an
abode.

Their life became tranquil, and a confidence and Friendship existed
between them, the source of a thousand pleasant conversations and happy
hours. One subject, it is true, was forbidden; the name of Neville was
never mentioned; perhaps, on that very account, it assumed more power
over Elizabeth's imagination. A casual intercourse with one, however
interesting, might have faded into the common light of day, had not the
silence enjoined kept him in that indistinct, mysterious darkness so
favourable to the processes of the imagination. On every other subject,
the so called father and daughter talked with open heart, and Falkner
was totally unaware of a secret growth of unspoken interest which had
taken root in separation and secrecy.

Elizabeth, accustomed to fear death for one dearest to her, and to
contemplate its near approaches so often, had something holy and solemn
kneaded into the very elements of her mind, that gave sublimity to her
thoughts, resignation to her disposition, and a stirring, inquiring
spirit to her conversation, which, separated as they were from the busy
and trivial duties of life, took from the monotony and stillness of
their existence, by bringing thoughts beyond the world to people the
commonplace of each day's routine. Falkner had not much of this; but he
had a spirit of observation, a ready memory, and a liveliness of
expression and description which corrected her wilder flights, and gave
the interest of flesh and blood to her fairy dreams. When they read of
the heroes of old, or the creations of the poets, she dwelt on the moral
to be deduced, the theories of life and death, religion and virtue,
therein displayed; while he compared them to his own experience,
criticised their truth, and gave pictures of real human nature, either
contrasting with, or resembling, those presented on the written page.

Their lives, thus spent, would have been equable and pleasant, but for
the sufferings of Falkner; and as those diminished, another evil arose,
in his eyes of far more awful magnitude. They had resided at Wimbledon
about a year, when Elizabeth fell ill. Her medical advisers explained
her malady as the effect of the extreme nervous excitement she had gone
through during the last years, which, borne with a patience and
fortitude almost superhuman, had meanwhile undermined her physical
strength. This was a mortal blow to Falkner; while with self-absorbed,
and, he now felt, criminal pertinacity, he had sought death, he had
forgotten the results such acts of his might have on one so dear and
innocent. He had thought that when she lost him, Elizabeth would feel a
transitory sorrow; while new scenes, another family, and the absence of
his griefs, would soon bring comfort. But he lived, and the consequences
of his resolve to die fell upon her--she was his victim! there was
something maddening in the thought. He looked at her dear face, grown so
pale--viewed her wasting form--watched her loss of appetite and nervous
tremours with an impatient agony that irritated his wound, and brought
back malady on himself.

All that the physicians could order for Elizabeth, was change of
air--added to an intimation that an entirely new scene, and a short
separation from her father, would be of the utmost benefit. Where could
she go? it was not now that she drooped--and trembled at every sound,
that he could restore her to her father's family. No time ought to be
lost, he was told, and the word consumption mentioned; the deaths of her
parents gave a sting to that word, which filled him with terror.
Something must be done immediately--what he knew not; and he gazed on
his darling, whom he felt that by his own act he had destroyed, with an
ardour to save that he felt was impotent, and he writhed beneath the
thought.

One morning, while Falkner was brooding over these miserable ideas, and
Elizabeth was vainly trying to assume a look of cheerfulness and health,
which her languid step and pale cheek belied, a carriage entered their
quiet grounds, and a visiter was announced. It was Lady Cecil. Elizabeth
had nearly forgotten, nor ever expected to see her again--but that lady,
whose mind was at ease at the period of their acquaintance, and who had
been charmed by the beauty and virtues of the devoted daughter, had
never ceased to determine at some time to seek her, and renew their
acquaintance. She, indeed, never expected to see Falkner again, and she
often wondered what would be his daughter's fate when he died; she and
her family had remained abroad till the present spring, when, being in
London, she, by Miss Jervis's assistance, learned that he still lived,
and that they were both at Wimbledon.

Lady Cecil was a welcome visiter wherever she went, for there was an
atmosphere of cheerful and kindly warmth around her, that never failed
to communicate pleasure. Falkner, who had not seen her at Leghorn, and
had scarcely heard her name mentioned, was won at once; and when she
spoke with ardent praise of Elizabeth, and looked upon her altered
appearance with undisguised distress, his heart warmed towards her, and
he was ready to ask her assistance in his dilemma. That was offered,
however, before it was asked--she heard that change of air was
recommended--she guessed that too great anxiety for her father had
produced her illness--she felt sure that her own pleasant residence and
cheerful family was the best remedy that could be administered.

"I will not be denied," she said, after having made her invitation that
both father and daughter should pay her a visit. "You must come to me:
Lord Cecil is gone to Ireland for two months, to look after his estate
there; and our little Julius being weakly, I could not accompany him. I
have taken a house near Hastings--the air is salubrious, the place
beautiful--I lead a domestic, quiet life, and I am sure Miss Falkner
will soon be well with me."

As her invitation was urged with warmth and sincerity, Falkner did not
hesitate to accept it. To a certain degree, he modified it, by begging
that Elizabeth should accompany Lady Cecil, in the first place, alone.
As the visit was to be for two months, he promised after the first was
elapsed to join them. He alleged various reasons for this arrangement;
his real one being, that he had gathered from the physicians that they
considered a short separation from him as essential to the invalid's
recovery. She acceded, for she was anxious to get well, and hoped that
the change would restore her. Everything was therefore soon agreed upon;
and, two days afterward, the two ladies were on their road to Hastings,
where Lady Cecil's family already was--she having come to town with her
husband only, who by this time had set out on his Irish tour.

"I feel convinced that three days of my nursing will make you quite
well," said Lady Cecil, as they were together in her travelling
carriage; "I wish you to look as you did in Italy. One so young, and
naturally so healthy, will soon recover strength. You overtasked
yourself--and your energetic mind is too strong for your body; but
repose, and my care, will restore you. I am sure we shall be very
happy--my children are dear little angels, and will entertain you when
you like, and never be in your way. I shall be your head nurse--and Miss
Jervis, dear odd soul! will act under my orders. The situation of my
house is enchanting; and, to add to our family circle, I expect my
brother Gerard, whom I am sure you will like. Did I ever mention him to
you? perhaps not--but you must like Gerard--and you will delight him. He
is serious--nay, to say the truth, sad--but it is a sadness a thousand
times more interesting than the gayety of commonplace worldly men. It is
a seriousness full of noble thoughts and affectionate feelings. I never
knew, I never dreamed, that there was a creature resembling or to be
compared to him in the world, till I saw you. You have the same freedom
from worldliness--the same noble and elevated ideas--feeling for others,
and thinking not of the petty circle of ideas that encompasses and
presses down every other mind, so that they cannot see or feel beyond
their Lilliputian selves.

"In one thing you do not resemble Gerard. You, though quiet, are
cheerful; while he, naturally more vivacious, is melancholy. You look an
inquiry, but I cannot tell you the cause of my brother's unhappiness;
for his friendship for me, which I highly prize, depends upon my keeping
sacredly the promise I have given never to make his sorrows a topic of
conversation. All I can say is, that they result from a sensibility, and
a delicate pride, which is overstrained, yet which makes me love him ten
thousand times more dearly. He is better now than he used to be, and I
hope that time and reason will altogether dissipate the vain regrets
that imbitter his life. Some new, some strong feeling may one day spring
up and scatter the clouds. I pray for this; for though I love him
tenderly, and sympathize in his grief, yet I think it excessive and
deplorable; and, alas! never to be remedied, though it may be
forgotten."

Elizabeth listened with some surprise to hear of another so highly
praised, and yet unhappy; while in her heart she thought, "Though this
sound like one to be compared to Neville, yet, when I see him, how I
shall scorn the very thought of finding another as high-minded, kind,
and interesting as he!" She gave no utterance, however, to this
reflection, and merely asked, "Is your brother older than you?"

"No, younger--he is only two-and-twenty; but passion and grief, endured
almost since infancy, prevented him when a child from being childish;
and now he has all that is beautiful in youth, with none of its follies.
Pardon my enthusiasm; but you will grow enthusiastic also when you see
Gerard."

"I doubt that," thought Elizabeth; "my enthusiasm is spent, and I should
hate myself if I could think of another as of Neville." This latent
thought made the excessive praises which Lady Cecil bestowed on her
brother sound almost distastefully. Her thoughts flew back to
Marseilles; to his sedulous attentions--their parting interview--and
fixed at last upon the strange emotion Falkner had displayed when seeing
him; and his desire that his name even should not be mentioned. Again
she wondered what this meant, and her thoughts became abstracted; Lady
Cecil conjectured that she was tired, and permitted her to indulge in
her silent reveries.




CHAPTER XIV


Lady Cecil's house was situated on the heights that overlook Fairlight
Bay, near Hastings. Any one who has visited that coast knows the
peculiar beauty of the rocks, downs, and groves of Fairlight. The oak,
which clothes each dell, and, in a dwarf and clipped state, forms the
hedges, imparts a richness not only to the wide landscape, but to each
broken nook of ground and sequestered corner; the fern, which grows only
in contiguity to the oak, giving a wild forest appearance to the glades.
The mansion itself was large, convenient, and cheerful. The grounds were
extensive; and from points of view you could see the wide sea--the more
picturesque bay--and the undulating, varied shore that curves in towards
Winchelsea. It was impossible to conceive a scene more adapted to revive
the spirits, and give variety and amusement to the thoughts.

Elizabeth grew better, as by a miracle, the very day after her arrival;
and within a week a sensible change had taken place in her appearance,
as well as her health. The roses bloomed in her cheeks--her step
regained its elasticity--her spirits rose even to gayety. All was new
and animating. Lady Cecil's beautiful and spirited children delighted
her. It was a domestic scene, adorned by elegance and warmed by
affection. Elizabeth had, despite her attachment to her father, often
felt the weight of loneliness when left by him at Zante; or when his
illness threw her back entirely on herself. Now on each side there were
sweet, kind faces--playful, tender caresses--and a laughing mirth,
cheering in its perfect innocence.

The only annoyance she suffered arose from the great influx of visiters.
Having lived a life disjoined from the crowd, she soon began to conceive
the hermitess, delight in loneliness, and the vexation of being intruded
upon by the frivolous and indifferent. She found that she loved friends,
but hated acquaintance. Nor was this strange. Her mind was quite empty
of conventional frivolities. She had not been at a ball twice in her
life, and then only when a mere child; yet all had been interest and
occupation. To unbend with her was to converse with a friend--to play
with children--or to enjoy the scenes of nature with one who felt their
beauties with her. "It was hard labour," she often said, "to talk with
people with whom she had not one pursuit--one taste in common." Often
when a barouche, crowded with gay bonnets, appeared, she stole away.
Lady Cecil could not understand this. Brought up in the thick of
fashionable life, no person of her clique was a stranger; and if any odd
people called on her--still they were in some way entertaining; or if
_bores_--bores are an integral portion of life, not to be shaken off
with impunity, for, as oysters, they often retain the fairest pearls in
close conjunction. "You are wrong," said Lady Cecil. "You must not be a
savage--I cannot have mercy on you; this little jagged point in your
character must be worn off--you must be as smooth and glossy in exterior
as you are incalculably precious in the substance of your mind."

Elizabeth smiled; but not the less when a sleek, self-satisfied dowager,
all smiles to those she knew--all impertinent scrutiny to the
unknown--and a train of ugly old women in embryo--called, for the
present, misses--followed, each honouring her with an insolent stare.
"There was a spirit in her feet," and she could not stay, but hurried
out into the woodland dells, and with a book, her own reveries, and the
beautiful objects around her, as her companions; and feeling
ecstatically happy, both at what she possessed, and what she had escaped
from.

Thus it was one day that she deserted Lady Cecil, who was smiling
sweetly on a red-faced gouty squire, and listening placidly to his angry
wife, who was complaining that her name had been put too low down in
some charity list. She stole out from the glass door that opened on the
lawn, and, delighted that her escape was secure, hurried to join the
little group of children whom she saw speeding beyond into the park.

"Without a bonnet, Miss Falkner!" cried Miss Jervis.

"Yes; and the sun is warm. You are not using your parasol, Miss Jervis;
lend it me, and let us go into the shade." Then, taking her favourite
child by the hand, she said, "Come, let us pay visits. Mamma has got
some visiters; so we will go and seek for some. There is my Lord Deer
and pretty Lady Doe. Ah! pretty Miss Fawn, what a nice dappled frock you
have on!"

The child was enchanted; and they wandered on through the glades, among
the fern, into a shady dell, quite at the other side of the park, and
sat down beneath a spreading oak-tree. By this time they had got into a
serious talk of where the clouds were going, and where the first tree
came from, when a gentleman, who had entered the park gates unperceived,
rode by, and pulling up his horse suddenly, with a start, and an
exclamation of surprise, he and Elizabeth recognised each other.

"Mr. Neville!" she cried, and her heart was full in a moment of a
thousand recollections--of the gratitude she owed--their parting
scene--and the many conjectures she had formed about him since they
separated. He looked more than pleased; and the expression of gloomy
abstraction which his face too often wore was lighted up by a smile that
went straight to the heart. He sprung from his horse, gave the rein to
his groom, and joining Elizabeth and her little companion, walked
towards the house.

Explanations and surprise followed. He was the praised, expected brother
of Lady Cecil. How strange that Elizabeth had not discovered this
relationship at Marseilles! and yet, at that time, she had scarcely a
thought to spare beyond Falkner. His recovery surprised Neville, and he
expressed the warmest pleasure. He looked with tenderness and admiration
at the soft and beautiful creature beside him, whose courage and
unwearied assiduity had preserved her father's life. It was a bewitching
contrast to remember her face shadowed by fear--her vigilant, anxious
eyes fixed on her father's wan countenance--her thoughts filled with one
sad fear; and now to see it beaming in youthful beauty, animated by the
happy, generous feelings which were her nature. Yet this very
circumstance had a sad reaction upon Neville. His heart still bore the
burden of its sorrow, and he felt more sure of the sympathy of the
afflicted mourner, than of one who looked untouched by any adversity.
The sentiment was transitory, for Elizabeth, with that delicate tact
which is natural to a feeling mind, soon gave such a subdued tone to
their conversation as made it accord with the mysterious unhappiness of
her companion.

When near the house, they were met by Lady Cecil, who smiled at what she
deemed a sudden intimacy naturally sprung between two who had so many
qualities in common. Lady Cecil really believed them made for each
other, and had been anxious to bring them together; for, being
passionately attached to her brother, and grieving at the melancholy
that darkened his existence, she thought she had found a cure in her new
friend; and that the many charms of Elizabeth would cause him to forget
the misfortunes on which he so vainly brooded. She was still more
pleased when an explanation was given, and she found that they were
already intimate--already acquainted with the claims each possessed to
the other's admiration and interest; and each naturally drawn to seek in
the other that mirror of their better nature, that touch of kindred
soul, which showed that they were formed to share existence, or,
separated, to pine eternally for a reunion.

Lady Cecil with playful curiosity questioned why they had concealed
their being acquainted. Elizabeth could not well tell; she had thought
much of Neville, but first the prohibition of Falkner, and then the
excessive praises Lady Cecil bestowed upon her brother, chained her
tongue. The one had accustomed her to preserve silence on a subject
deeply interesting to her; the other jarred with any confidence, for
there would have been a comparing Neville with the Gerard which was
indeed himself; and Elizabeth neither wished to have her friend
depreciated, nor to struggle against the enthusiasm felt by the lady for
her brother. The forced silence of to-day on such a subject renders the
silence of to-morrow almost a matter of necessity; and she was ashamed
to mention one she had not already named. It may be remarked that this
sort of shame arises in all dispositions; it is the seal and symbol of
love. Shame of any kind was not akin to the sincere and ingenuous nature
of Elizabeth; but love, though young and unacknowledged, will tyrannise
from the first, and produce emotions never felt before.

Neville hoarded yet more avariciously the name of Elizabeth. There was
delight in the very thought of her; but he shrunk from being questioned.
He had resolved to avoid her; for, till his purpose was achieved, and
the aim of his existence fulfilled, he would not yield to the charms of
love, which he felt hovered round the beautiful Elizabeth. Sworn to a
sacred duty, no self-centred or self-prodigal passion should come
between him and its accomplishment. But, meeting her thus unawares, he
could not continue guarded; his very soul drank in gladness at the sight
of her. He remarked with joy the cheerfulness that had replaced her
cares; he looked upon her open brow, her eyes of mingled tenderness and
fire, her figure, free and graceful in every motion, and felt that she
realized every idea he had formed of feminine beauty. He fancied,
indeed, that he looked upon her as a picture; that his heart was too
absorbed by its own griefs to catch a thought beyond; he was unmindful,
while he gazed, of that emanation, that shadow of the shape, which the
Latin poet tells us flows from every object, that impalpable impress of
her form and being, which the air took and then folded round him, so
that all he saw entered, as it were, into his own substance, and became
mingled up for evermore with his identity.




CHAPTER XV


Three or four days passed in great tranquillity; and Lady Cecil rejoiced
that the great medicine acted so well on the rankling malady of her
brother's soul. It was the leafy month of June, and nature was as
beautiful as these lovely beings themselves, who enjoyed her sweets with
enthusiastic and new-sprung delight. They sailed on the sunny sea--or
lingered by the summer brooks, and among the rich woodlands--ignorant
why all appeared robed in a brightness which before they had never
observed. Elizabeth had little thought beyond the present hour--except
to wish for the time when Falkner was to join them. Neville rebelled
somewhat against the new law he obeyed, but it was a slothful
rebellion--till on the day he was awakened from his dream of peace.

One morning, Elizabeth, on entering the breakfast-room, found Lady Cecil
leaning discontentedly by the window, resting her cheek on her hand, and
her brow overcast.

"He is gone," she exclaimed; "it is too provoking! Gerard is gone! A
letter came, and I could not detain him--it will take him probably to
the other end of the kingdom--and who knows when we shall see him
again!"

They sat down to breakfast, but Lady Cecil was full of discontent. "It
is not only that he is gone," she continued, "but the cause of his going
is full of pain and care--and, unfortunately, you cannot sympathize with
me, for I have not obtained his consent to confide his hapless story to
you. Would that I might!--you would feel for him--for us all."

"He has been unhappy since childhood," observed Elizabeth.

"He has, it is true; but how did you learn that? has he ever told you
anything?"

"I saw him, many years ago, at Baden. How wild, how sullen he
was--unlike his present self! for then there was a violence and a
savageness in his gloom, which has vanished."

"Poor boy!" said Lady Cecil; "I remember well--and it is a pleasure to
think that I am, to a great degree, the cause of the change. He had no
friend at that time--none to love--to listen to him, and foster hopes
which, however vain, diminish his torments, and are all the cure he can
obtain, till he forgets them. But what can this mean?" she continued,
starting up; "what can bring him back? It is Gerard returned!"

She threw open the glass door, and went out to meet him as he rode up
the avenue--he threw himself from his horse, and advanced, exclaiming,
"Is my father here?"

"Sir Boyvill? No; is he coming?"

"Oh yes! we shall see him soon. I met a servant with a letter sent
express--the post was too slow--he will be here soon; he left London
last night--you know with what speed he travels."

"But why this sudden visit?"

"Can you not guess? He received a letter from the same
person--containing the same account; he knew I was here--he comes to
balk my purpose, to forbid, to storm, to reproach; to do all that he has
done a thousand times before, with the same success."

Neville looked flushed and disturbed; his face, usually "more in sorrow
than in anger," now expressed the latter emotion, mingled with scorn and
resolution; he gave the letter he had received to Lady Cecil. "I am
wrong, perhaps, in returning at his bidding, since I do not mean
ultimately to obey--yet he charges me on my duty to hear him once again;
so I am come to hear--to listen to the old war of his vanity with what
he calls my pride--his vindictiveness with my sense of duty--his
vituperation of her I worship--and I must bear this!"

Lady Cecil read the letter, and Neville pressed Elizabeth's hand, and
besought her excuse, while she, much bewildered, was desirous to leave
the room. At this moment the noise of a carriage was heard on the
gravel. "He is here," said Neville; "see him first, Sophia, tell him how
resolved I am--how right in my resolves. Try to prevent a struggle, as
disgraceful as vain; and most so to my father, since he must suffer
defeat."

With a look of much distress, Lady Cecil left the room to receive her
new guest; while Elizabeth stole out by another door into the grove, and
mused under the shady covert on what had passed. She felt curious, yet
saddened. Concord, affection, and sympathy are so delightful, that all
that disturbs the harmony is eminently distasteful. Family contentions
are worst of all. Yet she would not prejudge Neville. He felt, in its
full bitterness, the pain of disobeying his parent; and whatever motive
led to such a mode of action, it hung like an eclipse over his life.
What it might be she could not guess; but it was no ignoble,
self-centred passion. Hope and joy were sacrificed to it. She remembered
him as she first saw him, a boy driven to wildness by a sense of injury;
she remembered him when reason and his better nature had subdued the
selfish portion of his feeling--grown kind as a woman--active, friendly,
and sympathizing, as few men are; she recollected him by Falkner's sick
couch, and when he took leave of her, auguring that they should meet in
a happier hour. That hour had not yet come, and she confessed to herself
that she longed to know the cause of his unhappiness; and wondered
whether, by counsel or sympathy, she could bring any cure.

She was plunged in revery, walking slowly beneath the forest trees, when
she heard a quick step brushing the dead leaves and fern, and Neville
joined her. "I have escaped," he cried, "and left poor Sophy to bear the
scoldings of an unjust and angry man. I could not stay--it was not
cowardice--but I have recollections joined to such contests, that make
my heart sick. Besides, I should reply--and I would not willingly forget
that he is my father."

"It must be indeed painful," said Elizabeth, "to quarrel with, to
disobey a parent."

"Yet there are motives that might, that must excuse it. Do you remember
the character of Hamlet, Miss Falkner?"

"Perfectly--it is the imbodying of the most refined, the most genuine,
and yet the most harrowing feelings and situation, that the imagination
ever conceived."

"I have read that play," said Neville, "till each word seems instinct
with a message direct to my heart--as if my own emotions gave a
conscious soul to every line. Hamlet was called upon to avenge a
father--in execution of his task he did not spare a dearer, a far more
sacred name--if he used no daggers with his mother, he spoke them; nor
winced, though she writhed beneath his hand. Mine is a lighter, yet a
holier duty. I would vindicate a mother--without judging my
father--without any accusation against him, I would establish her
innocence. Is this blameable? What would you do, Miss Falkner, if your
father were accused of a crime?"

"My father and a crime! Impossible!" exclaimed Elizabeth; for, strange
to say, all the self-accusations of Falkner fell empty on her ear. It
was a virtue in him to be conscience-stricken for an error; of any real
guilt she would have pledged her life that he was free.

"Yes--impossible!" cried Neville--"doubtless it is so; but did you hear
his name stigmatized--shame attend your very kindred to him--what would
you do?--defend him--prove his innocence--would you not?"

"A life were well sacrificed to such a duty."

"And to that very duty mine is devoted. In childhood I rebelled against
the accusation with vain, but earnest indignation; now I am calmer
because I am more resolved; but I will yield to no impediment--be
stopped by no difficulty--not even by my father's blind commands. My
mother! dear name--dearer for the ills attached to it--my angel mother
shall find an unfaltering champion in her son.

"You must not be angry," he continued, in reply to her look of wonder,
"that I mention circumstances which it is customary to slur over and
conceal. It is shame for me to speak--for you to hear--my mother's name.
That very thought gives a keener edge to my purpose. God knows what
miserable truth is hidden by the veils which vanity, revenge, and
selfishness have drawn around my mother's fate; but that truth--though
it be a bleeding one--shall be disclosed, and her innocence be made as
clear as the sun now shining above us.

"It is dreadful, very dreadful, to be told--to be persuaded that the
idol of one's thoughts is corrupt and vile. It is no new story, it is
true--wives have been false to their husbands ere now, and some have
found excuses, and sometimes been justified; it is the manner makes the
thing. That my mother should have left her happy home--which, under her
guardian eye, was paradise--have deserted me, her child, whom she so
fondly loved--and who, even in that unconscious age, adored her--and her
poor little girl, who died neglected--that year after year she has never
inquired after us--nor sent nor sought a word--while following a
stranger's fortune through the world! That she whose nightly sleep was
broken by her tender cares--whose voice so often lulled me, and whose
every thought and act was pure as an angel's--that she, tempted by the
arch fiend, strayed from hell for her destruction, should leave us all
to misery, and her own name to obloquy. No! no! The earth is yet
sheltered by heaven, and sweet and good things abide in it--and she was,
and is, among them sweetest and best!"

Neville was carried away by his feelings--while Elizabeth, overpowered
by his vehemence--astonished by the wild, strange tale he disclosed,
listened in silence, yet an eloquent silence--for her eyes filled with
tears--and her heart burned in her bosom with a desire to show how
entirely she shared his deep emotion.

"I have made a vow," he continued--"it is registered in heaven; and each
night as I lay my head on my pillow I renew it; and beside you--the best
of earthly things now that my dear mother is gone, I repeat--that I
devote my life to vindicate her who gave me life; and my selfish,
revengeful father is here to impede--to forbid--but I trample on such
obstacles, as on these dead leaves beneath our feet. You do not speak,
Miss Falkner--did you ever hear of Mrs. Neville?"

"I have spent all my life out of England," replied Elizabeth, "yet I
have some recollection."

"I do not doubt it--to the ends of the earth the base-minded love to
carry the tale of slander and crime. You have heard of Mrs. Neville,
who, for the sake of a stranger, deserted her home, her husband, her
helpless children--and has never been heard of since; who, unheard and
undefended, was divorced from her husband--whose miserable son was
brought to witness against her. It is a story well fitted to raise
vulgar wonder--vulgar abhorrence; do you wonder that I, who since I was
nine years old have slept and waked on the thought, should have been
filled with hate, rancour, and every evil passion, till the blessed
thought dawned on my soul, that I would prove her innocence, and that
she should be avenged--for this I live.

"And now I must leave you. I received yesterday a letter which promises
a clew to guide me through this labyrinth; wherever it leads, there I
follow. My father has come to impede me--but I have, after using
unavailing remonstrance, told him that I will obey a sense of duty
independent of parental authority. I do not mean to see him again--I now
go--but I could not resist the temptation of seeing you before I went,
and proving to you the justice of my resolves. If you wish for further
explanation, ask Sophia--tell her that she may relate all; there is not
a thought or act of my life with which I would have you unacquainted, if
you will deign to listen."

"Thank you for this permission," said Elizabeth; "Lady Cecil is
desirous, I know, of telling me the cause of a melancholy which, good
and kind as you are, you ought not to suffer. Alas! this is a miserable
world: and when I hear of your sorrows, and remember my dear father's, I
think that I must be stone to feel no more than I do; and yet, I would
give my life to assist you in your task."

"I know well how generous you are, though I cannot now express how my
heart thanks you. I will return before you leave my sister; wherever
fate and duty drives me, I will see you again."

They returned towards the house, and he left her; his horse was already
saddled, and standing at the door; he was on it, and gone in a moment.

Elizabeth felt herself as in a dream when he was gone, yet her heart and
wishes went with him; for she believed the truth of all he said, and
revered the enthusiasm of affection that impelled his actions. There was
something wild and proud in his manner, which forcibly reminded her of
the boy of sixteen, who had so much interested her girlish mind; and his
expressions, indignant and passionate as they were, yet vouched, by the
very sentiment they conveyed, for the justice of his cause. "Gallant,
noble-hearted being! God assist your endeavours! God and every good
spirit that animates this world." Thus her soul spoke as she saw him
ride off; and, turning into the house, a half involuntary feeling made
her take up the volume of Shakspeare containing Hamlet; and she was soon
buried, not only in the interest of the drama itself, but in the various
emotions it excited by the association it now bore to one she loved more
even than she knew. It was nothing strange that Neville, essentially a
dreamer and a poet, should have identified himself with the Prince of
Denmark; while the very idea that he took to himself, and acted on
sentiments thus high-souled and pure, adorned him yet more in her eyes,
endowing him in ample measure with that ideality which the young and
noble love to bestow on the objects of their attachment.

After a short time, she was interrupted by Lady Cecil, who looked
disturbed and vexed. She said little, except to repine at Gerard's going
and Sir Boyvill's stay--he also was to depart the following morning: but
Sir Boyvill was a man who made his presence felt disagreeably, even when
it was limited to a few hours. Strangers acknowledged this; no one liked
the scornful, morose old man; and a near connexion, who was open to so
many attacks, and sincerely loved one whom Sir Boyvill pretended most to
depreciate, was even more susceptible to the painful feelings he always
contrived to spread round him. To despise everybody, to contradict
everybody with marks of sarcasm and contempt, to set himself up for an
idol, and yet to scorn his worshippers; these were the prominent traits
of his character, added to a galled and sore spirit, which was for ever
taking offence, which discerned an attack in every word, and was on the
alert to repay these fancied injuries with real and undoubted insult. He
had been a man of fashion, and retained as much good breeding as was
compatible with a techy and revengeful temper; this was his only merit.

He was nearly seventy years of age, remarkably well preserved, but with
strongly-marked features, and a countenance deeply lined, set off by a
young-looking wig, which took all venerableness from his appearance,
without bestowing juvenility; his lips were twisted into a sneer, and
there was something in his evident vanity that might have provoked
ridicule, but that traces of a violent, unforgiving temper prevented him
from being merely despicable, while they destroyed every particle of
compassion with which he might have been regarded; for he was a forlorn
old man, separating himself from those allied to him by blood or
connexion, excellent as they were. His only pleasure had been in
society; secluding himself from that, or presenting himself only in
crowds, where he writhed to find that he went for nothing, he was
miserable, yet not to be comforted, for the torments he endured were
integral portions of his own nature.

He looked surprised to see Elizabeth, and was at first very civil to
her, with a sort of oldfashioned gallantry which, had it been
good-humoured, might have amused, but, as it was, appeared forced,
misplaced, and rendered its object very uncomfortable. Whatever Lady
Cecil said, he contradicted. He made disagreeable remarks about her
children, prophesying in them so much future torment; and when not
personally impertinent, amused them by recapitulating all the most
scandalous stories rife in London of unfaithful wives and divided
families, absolutely gloating with delight, when he narrated anything
peculiarly disgraceful. After half an hour, Elizabeth quite hated him;
and he extended the same sentiment to her on her bestowing a meed of
praise on his son. "Yes," he said, in reply, "Gerard is a very pleasant
person; if I said he was half madman, half fool, I should certainly say
too much, and appear an unkind father; but the sort of imbecility that
characterizes his understanding is, I think, only equalled by his
self-willed defiance of all laws which society has established; in
conduct he very much resembles a lunatic armed with a weapon of offence,
which he does not fear himself, and deals about on those unfortunately
connected with him, with the same indifference to wounds."

On this speech, Lady Cecil coloured and rose from the table, and her
friend gladly followed, leaving Sir Boyvill to his solitary wine. Never
had Elizabeth experienced before the intolerable weight of an odious
person's society--she was stunned. "We have but one resource," said Lady
Cecil; "you must sit down to the piano. Sir Boyvill is too polite not to
entreat you to play on, and too weary not to fall asleep; he is worse
than ever."

"But he is your father!" cried Elizabeth, astonished.

"No, thank Heaven!" said Lady Cecil. "What could have put that into your
head? Oh, I see--I call Gerard my brother. Sir Boyvill married my poor
mother, who is since dead. We are only connected--I am happy to
say--there is no drop of his blood in my veins. But I hear him coming.
Do play something of Herz. The noise will drown every other sound, and
even astonish my father-in-law."

The evening was quickly over, for Sir Boyvill retired early; the next
morning he was gone, and the ladies breathed freely again. It is
impossible to attempt to describe the sort of moral nightmare the
presence of such a man produces. "Do you remember in Madame de
Sévigné's Letters," said Lady Cecil, "where she observes that
disagreeable society is better than good--because one is so pleased to
get rid of it? In this sense, Sir Boyvill is the best company in the
whole world. We will take a long drive to-day, to get rid of the last
symptoms of the Sir Boyvill fever."

"And you will tell me what all this mystery means," said Elizabeth. "Mr.
Neville gave some hints yesterday; but referred me to you. You may tell
me all."

"Yes; I am aware," replied Lady Cecil. "This one good, at least, I have
reaped from Sir Boyvill's angry visit. I am permitted to explain to you
the causes of our discord, and of dear Gerard's sadness. I shall win
your sympathy for him, and exculpate us both. It is a mournful
tale--full of unexplainable mystery--shame--and dreaded ill. It fills me
perpetually with wonder and regret; nor do I see any happy termination,
except in the oblivion, in which I wish that it was buried. Here is the
carriage. We will not take any of the children with us, that we may
suffer no interruption."

Elizabeth's interest was deeply excited, and she was as eager to listen
as her friend to tell. The story outlasted a long drive. It was ended in
the dusky twilight--as they sat after dinner, looking out on the summer
woods--while the stars came out twinkling amid the foliage of the
trees--and the deer kept close to graze. The hour was still--and was
rendered solemn by a tale as full of heartfelt sorrow and generous
enthusiasm as ever won maiden's attention, and bespoke her favour for
him who loved and suffered.




CHAPTER XVI


Lady Cecil began:--

"I have already told you, that though I call Gerard my brother, and he
possesses my sisterly affection, we are only connexions by marriage, and
not the least related in blood. His father married my mother; but Gerard
is the offspring of a former marriage, as I am also. Sir Boyvill's first
wife is the unfortunate lady who is the heroine of my tale.

"Sir Boyvill, then Mr. Neville, for he inherited his baronetcy only a
few years ago, had advanced beyond middle age when he first married. He
was a man of the world, and of pleasure; and being also clever,
handsome, and rich, had great success in the circles of fashion. He was
often involved in liaisons with ladies, whose names were rife among the
last generation for loving notoriety and amusement better than duty and
honour. As he made a considerable figure, he conceived that he had a
right to entertain a high opinion of himself, and not without some
foundation; his good sayings were repeated; his songs were set to music,
and sung with enthusiasm in his own set--he was courted and feared.
Favoured by women, imitated by men, he reached the zenith of a system,
any connexion with which is considered as enviable.

"He was some five-and-forty when he fell in love, and married. Like many
dissipated men, he had a mean idea of female virtue--and especially
disbelieved that any portion of it was to be found in London; so he
married a country girl, without fortune, but with beauty and attractions
sufficient to justify his choice. I never saw his lady; but several of
her early friends have described her to me. She was something like
Gerard--yet how unlike! In the colour of the eyes and hair, and the
formation of the features, they resembled; but the expression was wholly
different. Her clear complexion was tinged by a pure blood, that ebbed
and flowed rapidly in her veins, driven by the pulsations of her soul,
rather than of her body. Her large dark eyes were irresistibly
brilliant; and opened their lids on the spectator with an effect such as
the sun has, when it drops majestically below a heavy cloud, and dazzles
the beholder with its unexpected beams. She was vivacious--nay, wild of
spirit; but though raised far above the dull monotony of common life by
her exuberant joyousness of soul, yet every thought and act was ruled by
a pure unsullied heart. Her impulses were keen and imperative; her
sensibility, true to the touch of nature, was tremblingly alive; but
their more dangerous tendencies were guarded by excellent principles,
and a truth never shadowed by a cloud. Her generous and confiding heart
might be duped--might spring forward too eagerly--and she might be
imprudent; but she was never false. An ingenuous confession of error, if
ever she fell into it, purged away all suspicion that anything
mysterious or forbidden lurked in her most thoughtless acts. Other
women, who, like her, are keenly sensitive, and who are driven by
ungovernable spirits to do what they afterward repent, and are endowed,
as she was, with an aptitude to shame when rebuked, guard their dignity
or their fears by falsehood; and while their conduct is essentially
innocent, immesh themselves in such a web of deceit, as not only renders
them absolutely criminal in the eyes of those who detect them, but in
the end hardens and perverts their better nature. Alithea Neville never
sheltered herself from the consequences of her faults; rather she met
them too eagerly, acknowledged a venial error with too much contrition,
and never rested till she had laid her heart bare to her friend and
judge, and vindicated its every impulse. To this admirable frankness,
soft tenderness, and heart-cheering gayety was added a great store of
common sense. Her fault, if fault it could be called, was a too earnest
craving for the sympathy and affection of those she loved; to obtain
this, she was unwearied, nay, prodigal, in her endeavours to please and
serve. Her generosity was a ready prompter, while her sensibility
enlightened her. She sought love, and not applause; and she obtained
both from all who knew her. To sum up all with the mention of a
defect--though she could feel the dignity which an adherence to the
dictates of duty imparts, yet sometimes going wrong--sometimes wounded
by censure, and always keenly alive to blame, she had a good deal of
timidity in her character. She was so susceptible to pain, that she
feared it too much, too agonizingly; and this terror of meeting anything
harsh or grating in her path rendered her too diffident of herself--too
submissive to authority--too miserable, and too yielding, when anything
disturbed the harmony with which she desired to be surrounded.

"It was these last qualities, probably, that led her to accept Mr.
Neville's offer. Her father wished it, and she obeyed. He was a retired
lieutenant in the navy. Sir Boyvill got him raised to the rank of post
captain; and what naval officer but would feel unbounded gratitude for
such a favour! He was appointed to a ship--sailed--and fell in an
engagement not many months after his daughter's marriage--grateful, even
in his last moments, that he died commanding the deck of a man-of-war.
Meanwhile his daughter bore the effects of his promotion in a less
gratifying way. Yet, at first, she loved and esteemed her husband. He
was not then what he is now. He was handsome; and his good breeding had
the polish of the day. He was popular, through a sort of liveliness
which passes for wit, though it was rather a conventional ease in
conversation than the sparkle of real intellect. Besides, he loved her
to idolatry. Whatever he is now, still vehemence of passion forms his
characteristic; and though the selfishness of his disposition gave an
evil bias even to his love, yet it was there, and for a time it shed its
delusions over his real character. While her artless and sweet caresses
could create smiles--while he played the slave at her feet, or folded
her in his arms with genuine and undisguised transport, even his darker
nature was adorned by the, to him, alien and transitory magic of love.

"But marriage too soon changed Sir Boyvill for the worse. Close intimacy
disclosed the distortions of his character. He was a vain and a selfish
man. Both qualities rendered him exacting in the extreme; and the first
gave birth to the most outrageous jealousy. Alithea was too ingenuous
for him to be able to entertain suspicions; but his jealousy was
nourished by the difference of their age and temper. She was
nineteen--in the first bloom of loveliness--in the freshest spring of
youthful spirits--too innocent to suspect his doubts--too kind in her
most joyous hour to fancy that she could offend. He was a man of the
world--a thousand times had seen men duped and women deceive. He did not
know of the existence of a truth as spotless and uncompromising as
existed in Alithea's bosom. He imagined that he was marked out as the
old husband of a young wife; he feared that she would learn that she
might have married more happily; and, desirous of engrossing her all to
himself, a smile spent on another was treason to the absolute nature of
his rights. At first she was blind to his bad qualities. A thousand
times he frowned when she was gay--a thousand times ill-humour and
cutting reproofs were the results of her appearing charming to others,
before she discovered the selfish and contemptible nature of his
passion, and became aware that, to please him, she must blight and
uproot all her accomplishments, all her fascinations; that she must for
ever curb her wish to spread happiness around; that she, the very soul
of generous, unsuspecting goodness, must become cramped in a sort of bed
of Procrustes, now having one portion lopped off, and then another, till
the maimed and half-alive remnant should resemble the soulless, niggard
tyrant, whose every thought and feeling centred in his Lilliputian self.
That she did at last make this discovery, cannot be doubted; though she
never disclosed her disappointment, nor complained of the tyranny from
which she suffered. She grew heedful not to displease, guarded in her
behaviour to others, and so accommodated her manner to his wishes, as
showed that she feared, but concealed that she no longer esteemed him. A
new reserve sprang up in her character, which, after all, was not
reserve; for it was only the result of her fear to give pain, and of her
unalterable principles. Had she spoken of her husband's faults, it would
have been to himself--but she had no spirit of governing--and
quarrelling and contention were the antipodes of her nature. If, indeed,
this silent yielding to her husband's despotism was contrary to her
original frankness, it was a sacrifice made to what she esteemed her
duty, and never went beyond the silence which best becomes the injured.

"It cannot be doubted that she was alive to her husband's faults.
Generous, she was restrained by his selfishness; enthusiastic, she was
chilled by his worldly wisdom; sympathetic, she was rebuked by a
jealousy that demanded every feeling. She was like a poor bird, that
with untired wing would mount gayly to the skies, when on each side the
wires of the aviary impede its flight. Still it was her principle that
we ought not to endeavour to form a destiny for ourselves, but to act
well our part on the scene where Providence has placed us. She reflected
seriously, and perhaps sadly, for the first time in her life; and she
formed a system for herself, which would give the largest extent to the
exercise of her natural benevolence, and yet obviate the suspicions and
cure the fears of her narrow-minded, self-engrossed husband.

"In pursuance of her scheme, she made it her request that they should
take up their residence entirely at their seat in the north of England;
giving up London society, and transforming herself altogether into a
country lady. In her benevolent schemes, in the good she could there do,
and in the few friends she could gather round her, against whom her
husband could form no possible objection, she felt certain of possessing
a considerable share of rational happiness--exempt from the hurry and
excitement of town, for which her sensitive and ardent mind rendered her
very unfit, under the guidance of a man who at once desired that she
should hold a foremost place, and was yet disturbed by the admiration
which she elicited. Sir Boyvill complied with seeming reluctance, but
real exultation. He possesses a delightful seat in the southern part of
Cumberland. Here, amid a simple-hearted peasantry, and in a
neighbourhood where she could cultivate many social pleasures, she gave
herself up to a life which would have been one of extreme happiness, had
not the exactions, the selfishness, the uncongenial mind of Sir Boyvill
debarred her from the dearest blessings of all--sympathy and friendship
with the partner of her life.

"Still she was contented. Her temper was sweet and yielding. She did not
look on each cross in circumstance as an injury or a misfortune; but
rather as a call on her philosophy, which it was her duty to meet
cheerfully. Her heart was too warm not to shrink with pain from her
husband's ungenerous nature, but she had a resource, to which she gave
herself up with ardour. She turned the full but checked tide of
affections from her husband to her son. Gerard was all in all to
her--her hope, her joy, her idol, and he returned her love with more
than a child's affection. His sensibility developed early, and she
cultivated it perhaps too much. She wished to secure a friend--and the
temptation afforded by the singular affectionateness of his disposition
and his great intelligence was too strong. Mr. Neville strongly objected
to the excess to which she carried her maternal cares, and augured ill
of the boy's devotion to her; but here his interference was vain, the
mother could not alter; and the child, standing at her side, eyed his
father even then with a sort of proud indignation, on his daring to step
in between them.

"To Mrs. Neville, this boy was as an angel sent to comfort her. She
could not bear that any one should attend on him except herself--she was
his playmate and instructress. When he opened his eyes from sleep, his
mother's face was the first he saw; she hushed him to rest at night--did
he hurt himself, she flew to his side in agony--did she utter one word
of tender reproach, it curbed his childish passions on the instant--he
seldom left her side, but she was young enough to share his
pastimes--her heart overflowed with its excess of love, and he, even as
a mere child, regarded her as something to protect, as well as worship.

"Mr. Neville was angry, and often reproved her too great partiality,
though by degrees it won some favour in his eyes. Gerard was his son and
heir, and he might be supposed to have a share in the affection lavished
on him. He respected, also, the absence of frivolous vanity that led her
to be happy with her child--contented away from London--satisfied in
fulfilling the duties of her station, though his eyes only were there to
admire. He persuaded himself that there must exist much latent
attachment towards himself, to reconcile her to this sort of exile; and
her disinterestedness received the reward of his confidence--he who
never before believed or respected woman. He began to yield to her more
than he was wont, and to consider that he ought now and then to show
some approbation of her conduct.

"When Gerard was about six years old, they went abroad on a tour.
Travelling was a mode of passing the time that accorded well with Mr.
Neville's matrimonial view of keeping his wife to himself. In the
travelling carriage, he only was beside her; in seeing sights, he, who
had visited Italy before, and had some taste, could guide and instruct
her; and short as their stay in each town was, there was no possibility
of forming serious attachments or lasting friendships; at the same time,
his vanity was gratified by seeing his wife and son admired by strangers
and natives. While abroad, Mrs. Neville bore another child, a little
girl. This added greatly to her domestic happiness. Her husband grew
extremely fond of his baby daughter; there was too much difference of
age to set her up as a rival to Gerard; she was by contradistinction the
father's darling, it is true; but this rather produced harmony than
discord--for the mother loved both children too well to feel hurt by the
preference; and, softened by having an object he really loved to lavish
his favour on, Sir Boyvill grew much more of a tender father and
indulgent husband than he had hitherto shown himself."




CHAPTER XVII


"It was not until a year after their return from abroad that the events
happened which terminated so disastrously Mrs. Neville's career in her
own family. I am perplexed how to begin the narration, the story is so
confused and obscure; the mystery that envelops the catastrophe so
impenetrable; the circumstances that we really know so few, and these
gleaned, as it were, ear by ear, as dropped in the passage of the event;
so making, if you will excuse my rustic metaphor, a meager, ill-assorted
sheaf. Mrs. Neville had been a wife nearly ten years; never had she done
one act that could be disapproved by the most circumspect; never had she
swerved from that veracity and open line of conduct which was a
safeguard against the mingled ardour and timidity of her disposition. It
required extraordinary circumstances to taint her reputation, as, to say
the least, it is tainted; and we are still in the dark as to the main
instrument by which these circumstances were brought about. Their result
is too obvious. At one moment Mrs. Neville was an honoured and beloved
wife; a mother, whose heart's pulsations depended on the well-being of
her children; and whose fond affection was to them as the sun's warmth
to the opening flower. At the next, where is she? Silence and mystery
wrap her from us; and surmise is busy in tracing shapes of infamy from
the fragments of truth that we can gather.

"On the return of the family from abroad, they again repaired to their
seat of Dromore; and, at the time to which I allude, Mr. Neville had
left them there, to go to London on business. He went for a week; but
his stay was prolonged to nearly two months. He heard regularly from his
wife. Her letters were more full of her children and household than
herself; but they were kind; and her maternal heart warmed, as she
wrote, into anticipations of future happiness in her children, greater
even than she now enjoyed. Every line breathed of home and peace; every
word seemed to emanate from a mind in which lurked no concealed feeling,
no one thought unconfessed or unapproved. To such a home, cheered by so
much beauty and excellence, Sir Boyvill returned, as he declares, with
eager and grateful affection. The time came when he was expected at
home; and true, both to the day and to the hour, he arrived. It was at
eleven at night. His carriage drove through the grounds; the doors of
the house were thrown open; several eager faces were thrust forward with
more of curiosity and anxiety than is at all usual in an English
household; and as he alighted, the servants looked aghast, and exchanged
glances of terror. The truth was soon divulged. At about six in the
evening, Mrs. Neville, who dined early in the absence of her husband,
had gone to walk in the park with Gerard; since then, neither had
returned.

"When the darkness, which closed in with a furious wind and
thunder-storm, rendered her prolonged absence a matter of solicitude,
the servants had gone to seek her in the grounds. They found their
mistress's key in the lock of a small masked gate that opened on a green
lane. They went one way up the lane to meet her; but found no trace.
They followed the other, with like ill success. Again they searched the
park with more care; and again resorted to the lanes and fields; but in
vain. The obvious idea was, that she had taken shelter from the storm;
and a horrible fear presented itself, that she might have found no
better retreat than a tree or hay-rick, and that she had been struck by
the lightning. A slight hope remained, that she had gone along the
high-road to meet her husband, and would return with him. His arrival
alone took from them this last hope.

"The country was now raised. Servants and tenants were sent divers ways;
some on horseback, some on foot. Though summer-time, the night was
inclement and tempestuous; a furious west wind swept the earth; high
trees were bowed to the ground; and the blast howled and roared, at once
baffling and braving every attempt to hear cries or distinguish sounds.

"Dromore is situated in a beautiful, but wild and thinly--inhabited part
of Cumberland, on the verge of the plain that forms the coast where it
first breaks into uplands, dingles, and ravines; there is no high-road
towards the sea--but as they took the one that led to Lancaster, they
approached the ocean, and the distant roar of its breakers filled up the
pauses of the gale. It was on this road, at the distance of some five
miles from the house, that Gerard was found. He was lying on the road in
a sort of stupor--which could be hardly called sleep--his clothes were
drenched by the storm, and his limbs stiff from cold. When first found,
and disturbed, he looked wildly around; and his cry was for his
mother--terror was painted in his face--and his intellects seemed
deranged by a sudden and terrific shock. He was taken home. His father
hurried to him, questioning him eagerly--but the child only raved that
his mother was being carried from him; and his pathetic cry of 'Come
back, mamma--stop--stop for me!' filled every one with terror and
amazement. As speedily as possible, medical assistance was sent for; the
physician found the boy in a high fever, the result of fright, exposure
to the storm, and subsequent sleep in his wet clothes in the open air.
It was many days before his life could be answered for--or the delirium
left him--and still he raved that his mother was being carried off, and
would not stop for him, and often he tried to rise from his bed under
the notion of pursuing her.

"At length consciousness returned--consciousness of the actual objects
around him, mingled with an indistinct recollection of the events that
immediately preceded his illness. His pulse was calm; his reason
restored; and he lay quietly with open eyes fixed on the door of his
chamber. At last he showed symptoms of uneasiness, and asked for his
mother. Mr. Neville was called, as he had desired he might be the moment
his son showed signs of being rational. Gerard looked up in his father's
face with an expression of disappointment, and again murmured, 'Send
mamma to me.'

"Fearful of renewing his fever by awakening his disquietude, his father
told him that mamma was tired and asleep, and could not be disturbed.

"'Then she has come back?' he cried; 'that man did not take her quite
away? The carriage drove here at last.'

"Such words renewed all their consternation. Afraid of questioning the
child himself, lest he should terrify him, Mr. Neville sent the nurse
who had been with him from infancy, to extract information. His story
was wild and strange; and here I must remark, that the account drawn
from him by the woman's questions differs somewhat from that to which he
afterward adhered; though not so much in actual circumstances as in the
colouring given. This his father attributes to his subsequent endeavours
to clear his mother from blame; while he asserts, and I believe with
truth, that time and knowledge, by giving him an insight into motives,
threw a new light on the words and actions which he remembered; and that
circumstances which bore one aspect to his ignorance, became clearly
visible in another, when he was able to understand the real meaning of
several fragments of conversation which had at first been devoid of
sense.

"All that he could tell during this first stage of inquiry was, that his
mother had taken him to walk with her in the grounds, that she had
unlocked the gate that opened out on the lane with her own key, and that
a gentleman was without waiting.

"Had he ever seen the gentleman before?

"Never; he did not know him, and the stranger took no notice of him; he
heard his mamma call him Rupert.

"His mother took the stranger's arm, and walked on through the lane,
while he sometimes ran on before, and sometimes remained at her side.
They conversed earnestly, and his mother at one time cried; he, Gerard,
felt very angry with the gentleman for making her cry, and took her
hand, and begged her to leave him and come away; but she kissed the boy,
told him to run on, and they would return very soon.

"Yet they did not return, but walked on to where the lane was
intersected by the high-road. Here they stopped, and continued to
converse; but it seemed as if she were saying good-by to the stranger,
when a carriage, driven at full speed, was seen approaching; it stopped
close to them; it was an open carriage, a sort of calèche, with the
head pulled forward low down; as it stopped his mother went up to it,
when the stranger, pulling the child's hand from hers, hurried her into
the carriage, and sprang in after, crying out to him, 'Jump in, my boy!'
but, before he could do so, the postillion whipped the horses, who
started forward almost with a bound, and were in a gallop on the
instant; he heard his mother scream; the words 'My child! my son!'
reached his ears, shrieked in agony. He ran wildly after the carriage;
it disappeared, but still he ran on. It must stop somewhere, and he
would reach it--his mother had called for him; and thus, crying,
breathless, panting, he ran along the high-road; the carriage had long
been out of sight, the sun had set; the wind, rising in gusts, brought
on the thunder-storm; yet still he pursued, till nature and his boyish
strength gave way, and he threw himself on the ground to gain breath. At
every sound which he fancied might be that of carriage-wheels, he
started up; but it was only the howling of the blast in the trees, and
the hoarse muttering of the now distant thunder; twice and thrice he
rose from the earth and ran forward; till, wet through and utterly
exhausted, he lay on the ground, weeping bitterly, and expecting to die.

"This was all his story. It produced a strict inquiry among the
servants, and then circumstances scarcely adverted to were remembered,
and some sort of information gained. About a week or ten days before, a
gentleman on horseback, unattended by any servant, had called. He asked
for Mrs. Neville; the servant requested his name, but he muttered that
it was no matter. He was ushered into the room where their mistress was
sitting; he stayed at least two hours; and, when he was gone, they
remarked that her eyes were red, as if she had been weeping. The
stranger called again, and Mrs. Neville was denied to him.

"Inquiries were now instituted in the neighbourhood. One or two persons
remembered something of a stranger gentleman who had been seen riding
about the country, mounted on a fine bay horse. One evening he was seen
coming from the masked gate in the park, which caused it to be believed
that he was on a visit at Dromore. Nothing more was known of him.

"The servants tasked themselves to remember more particularly the
actions of their lady, and it was remembered that one evening she went
to walk alone in the grounds, some accident having prevented Gerard from
accompanying her. She returned very late, at ten o'clock; and there was,
her maid declared, a good deal of confusion in her manner. She threw
herself on a sofa, ordered the lights to be taken away, and remained
alone for two hours past her usual time for retiring for the night,
till, at last, her maid ventured in to ask her if she needed anything.
She was awake, and, when lights were brought, had evidently been
weeping. After this she only went out in the carriage with the children,
until the fatal night of her disappearance. It was remembered, also,
that she received several letters, brought by a strange man, who left
them without waiting for any answer. She received one the very morning
of the day when she left her home, and this last note was found; it
threw some light on the fatal mystery. It was only dated with the day of
the week, and began abruptly:--


"'On one condition I will obey you; I will never see you more--I will
leave the country--I will forget my threats against the most hated life
in the world; he is safe on one condition. You must meet me this
evening; I desire to see you for the last time. Come to the gate of your
park that opens on the lane, which you opened for me a few nights ago;
you will find me waiting outside. I will not detain you long. A farewell
to you and to my just revenge shall be breathed at once. If you do not
come I will wait till night, till I am past hope, and then enter your
grounds, wait till he returns, and--oh, do not force me to say what you
will call wicked and worse than unkind, but come, come, and prevent all
ill. I charge you come, and hereafter you shall, if you please, be for
ever delivered from your


"'RUPERT.


"On this letter she went; yet in innocence, for she took her child with
her. Could any one doubt that she was betrayed, carried off, the victim
of the foulest treachery? No one did doubt it. Police were sent from
London, the country searched, the most minute inquiries set on foot.
Sometimes it was supposed that a clew was found, but in the end all
failed. Month after month passed; hope became despair; pity merged into
surmise; and condemnation quickly followed. If she had been carried
forcibly from her home, still she could not forever be imprisoned and
debarred from all possibility at least of writing. She might have sent
tidings from the ends of the earth, nay, it was madness to think that
she could be carried far against her own will. In any town, in any
village, she might appeal to the justice and humanity of her
fellow-creatures, and be set free. She would not have remained with the
man of violence who had torn her away, unless she had at last become a
party in his act, and lost all right to return to her husband's roof.

"Such suspicions began to creep about--rather felt in men's minds than
inferred in their speech--till her husband first, uttered the fatal
word; and then, as if set free from a spell, each one was full of
indignation at her dereliction and his injuries. Sir Boyvill was beyond
all men vain--vanity rendered him liable to jealousy--and, when jealous,
full of sore and angry feelings. His selfishness and unforgiving nature,
which had been neutralized by his wife's virtues, now, quickened by the
idea of her guilt, burst forth and engrossed every other emotion. He was
injured there where the pride of man is most accessible--branded by
pity--the tale of the world. He had feared such a catastrophe during the
first years of his wedded life, being conscious of the difference which
age and nature had placed between him and his wife. In the recesses of
his heart he had felt deeply grateful to her for having dissipated these
fears. From the moment that her prudent conduct had made him secure, he
had become another man--as far as his defective nature and narrow mind
permitted--he had grown virtuous and disinterested; but this fabric of
good qualities was the result of her influence; and it was swept away
and utterly erased from the moment she left him, and that love and
esteem were exchanged for contempt and hatred.

"Soon, very soon, had doubts of his wife's allegiance and a suspicion of
her connivance insinuated themselves. Like all evilly-inclined persons,
he jumped at once into a belief of the worst; her taking her son with
her was a mere contrivance, or worse, since her design had probably been
to carry him with her--a design frustrated by accident, and the
lukewarmness of her lover on that point; the letter left behind he
looked on as a fabrication, left there to gloss over her conduct. He
forgot her patient goodness--her purity of soul--her devoted attachment
to her children--her truth; and attributed at once the basest
artifice--the grossest want of feeling. Want of feeling in her! She
whose pulses quickened and whose blushes were called up at a word; she
who idolized her child even to a fault, and whose tender sympathy was
alive to every call; but these demonstrations of sensibility grew into
accusations. Her very goodness and guarded propriety were against her.
Why appear so perfect, except to blind? Why seclude herself, except from
fears which real virtue need never entertain? Why foster the morbid
sensibility of her child, except from a craving for that excitement
which is a token of depravity? In this bad world we are apt to consider
every deviation from stony apathy as tending at last to the indulgence
of passions against which society has declared a ban; and thus with poor
Alithea, all could see, it was said, that a nature so sensitive must end
in ill at last; and that, if tempted, she must yield to an influence
which few, even of the coldest natures, can resist.

"While Sir Boyvill revolved these thoughts, he grew gloomy and sullen.
At first his increased unhappiness was attributed to sorrow; but a
little word betrayed the real source--a little word that named his wife
with scorn. That word turned the tide of public feeling; and she, who
had been pitied and wept as dead, was now regarded as a voluntary
deserter from her home. Her virtues were remembered against her; and
surmises, which before would have been reprobated almost as blasphemy,
became current--as undoubted truths.

"It was long before Gerard became aware of this altered feeling. The
minds of children are such a mystery to us! They are so blank, yet so
susceptible of impression, that the point where ignorance ends and
knowledge is perfected is an enigma often impossible to solve. From the
time that he rose from his sick-bed, the boy was perpetually on the
watch for intelligence--eagerly inquiring what discoveries were
made--what means were used for, what hopes entertained of, his mother's
rescue. He had asked his father whether he should not be justified in
shooting the villain who had stolen her if ever he met him. He had shed
tears of sorrow and pity until indignation swallowed up each softer
feeling, and a desire to succour and to avenge became paramount. His
dear, dear mother! that she should be away--kept from him by force--that
he could not find--not get at her, were ideas to incense his young heart
to its very height of impatience and rage. Every one seemed too
tame--too devoid of expedients and energy. It appeared an easy thing to
measure the whole earth, step by step, and inch by inch, leaving no
portion uninspected till she was found and liberated. He longed to set
off on such an expedition; it was his dream by night and day; and he
communicated these bursting feelings to every one, with an overflowing
eloquence, inexpressibly touching from its truth and earnestness.

"Suddenly he felt the change. Perhaps some officious domestic suggested
the idea. He says himself, it came on him as infection may be caught by
one who enters an hospital. He saw it in the eyes--he felt it in the air
and manner of all: his mother was believed to be a voluntary fugitive;
of her own accord she went, and never would return. At the thought his
heart grew sick within him:--


"'To see his nobleness!
Conceiving the dishonour of his mother,
He straight declined upon't, drooped, took it deeply;
Fastened and fixed the shame on't in himself;
Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep,
And downright languished.'


"He refused food, and turned in disgust from every former pursuit.
Hitherto he had ardently longed for the return of his mother; and it
seemed to him that, give his limbs but a manlier growth, let a few years
go over, and he should find and bring her back in triumph. But that
contumely and disgrace should fall on that dear mother's head--how could
he avert that? The evil was remediless, and death was slight in
comparison. One day he walked up to his father, and fixing his clear
young eyes upon him, said, 'I know what you think, but it is not true.
Mamma would come back if she could. When I am a man I will find and
bring her back, and you will be sorry then!'

"What more he would have said was lost in sobs. His heart had beat
impetuously as he had worked on himself to address his father, and
assert his mother's truth; but the consciousness that she was indeed
gone, and that for years there was no hope of seeing her, broke in--his
throat swelled, he felt suffocated, and fell down in a fit."




CHAPTER XVIII


Lady Cecil had broken off her tale on their return from their morning
drive. She resumed it in the evening, as she and Elizabeth sat looking
on the summer woods; and the soft but dim twilight better accorded with
her melancholy story.

"Poor Gerard! His young heart was almost broken by struggling passions,
and the want of tenderness in those about him. After this scene with his
father, his life was again in the greatest danger for some days, but at
last health of body returned. He lay on his little couch, pale and
wasted, an altered child--but his heart was the same, and he adhered
tenaciously to one idea. 'Nurse,' he said, one day, to the woman who had
attended him from his birth, 'I wish you would take pen and paper, and
write down what I am going to say. Or, if that is too much trouble, I
wish you would remember every word, and repeat it to my father. I cannot
speak to him. He does not love mamma as he used; he is unjust, and I
cannot speak to him--but I wish to tell every little thing that
happened, that people may see that what I say is true, and be as sure as
I am that mamma never meant to go away.

"'When we met the strange gentleman first, we walked along the lane, and
I ran about gathering flowers--yet I remember I kept thinking, why is
mamma offended with that gentleman?--what right has he to displease her?
and I came back with it in my mind to tell him that he should not say
anything to annoy mamma; but when I took her hand she seemed no longer
angry, but very, very sorry. I remember she said, "I grieve deeply for
you, Rupert"--and then she added, "My good wishes are all I have to
give." I remember the words, for they made me fancy, in a most childish
manner, mamma must have left her purse at home--and I began to think of
my own--but seeing him so well dressed, I felt a few shillings would do
him no good. Mamma talked on very softly, looking up in the stranger's
face; he was tall--taller, younger--and better looking than papa: and I
ran on again, for I did not know what they were talking about. At one
time mamma called me and said she would go back, and I was very glad,
for it was growing late, and I felt hungry--but the stranger said, "Only
a little farther--to the end of the lane only"--so we walked on, and he
talked about her forgetting him, and she said something that was best,
and he ought to forget her. On this he burst forth very angrily, and I
grew angry too--but he changed, and asked her to forgive him--and so we
reached the end of the lane.

"'We stopped there, and mamma held out her hand, and
said--"Farewell!"--and something more--when suddenly we heard the sound
of wheels, and a carriage came at full speed round from a turn in the
road; it stopped close to us--her hand trembled which held mine--and the
stranger said--"You see I said true--I am going--and shall soon be far
distant: I ask but for one half hour--sit in the carriage, it is getting
cold." Mamma said, "No, no--it is late--farewell" but as she spoke the
stranger as it were led her forward, and in a moment lifted her up; he
seemed stronger than any two men--and put her in the carriage--and got
in himself, crying to me to jump after, which I would have done, but the
postillion whipped the horses. I was thrown almost under the wheel by
the sudden motion--I heard mamma scream; but when I got up the carriage
was already a long way off--and though I called as loud as I could--and
ran after it--it never stopped, and the horses were going at full
gallop. I ran on--thinking it would stop or turn back--and I cried out
on mamma--while I ran so fast that I was soon breathless--and she was
out of hearing--and then I shrieked and cried, and threw myself on the
ground--till I thought I heard wheels, and I got up and ran again--but
it was only the thunder--and that pealed and the wind roared, and the
rain came down--and I could keep my feet no longer, but fell on the
ground and forgot everything, except that mamma must come back and I was
watching for her. And this, nurse, is my story--every word is true--and
is it not plain that mamma was carried away by force?'

"'Yes,' said the woman, 'no one doubts that, Master Gerard--but why does
she not come back!--no man could keep her against her will in a
Christian country like this.'

"'Because she is dead or in prison,' cried the boy, bursting into
tears--'but I see you are as wicked as everybody else--and have wicked
thoughts too--and I hate you and everybody--except mamma.'

"From that time Gerard was entirely altered; his boyish spirit was
dashed--he brooded perpetually over the wrong done his mother--and was
irritated to madness, by feeling that by a look and a word he could not
make others share his belief in her spotless innocence. He became
sullen, shy--shut up in himself--above all, he shunned his father.
Months passed away: requisitions, set on foot at first from a desire to
succour, were continued from a resolve to revenge; no pains or expense
were spared to discover the fugitives, and all in vain. The opinion took
root that they had fled to America--and who on that vast continent could
find two beings resolved on concealment? Inquiries were made at New-York
and other principal towns; but all in vain.

"The strangest and most baffling circumstance in this mystery was, that
no guess could be formed as to who the stranger was. Though he seemed to
have dropped from the clouds, he had evidently been known long before to
Mrs. Neville. His name, it appeared, was Rupert--no one knew of any
bearing that name. Had Alithea loved before her marriage? such a
circumstance must have been carefully hidden, for her husband had never
suspected it. Her childhood had been spent with her mother, her father
being mostly at sea. When sixteen, she lost her mother, and after a
short interval resided with her father, then retired from service. He
had assured Sir Boyvill that his daughter had never loved; and the
husband, jealous as he was, had never seen cause to doubt the truth of
this statement. Had she formed any attachment during the first years of
her married life! Was it to escape the temptation so held out that she
secluded herself in the country? Rupert was probably a feigned name; and
Sir Boyvill tried to recollect who her favourites were, so to find a
clew by their actions to her disappearance. It was in vain that he
called to mind every minute circumstance, and pondered over the name of
each visiter: he could remember nothing that helped discovery. Yet the
idea that she had, several years ago, conceived a partiality for some
man, who, as it proved, loved her to distraction, became fixed in Sir
Boyvill's mind. The thought poured venom on the time gone by. It might
have been a virtue in her to banish him she loved and to seclude
herself; but this mystery, where all seemed so frank and open, this
defalcation of the heart, this inward thought which made no sign, yet
ruled every action, was gall and wormwood to her proud, susceptible
husband. That in her secret soul she loved this other, was manifest--for
though it might be admitted that he used art and violence to tear her
from her home, yet in the end she was vanquished; and even maternal
duties and affections sacrificed to irresistible passion.

"Can you wonder that such a man as Sir Boyvill, ever engrossed by the
mighty idea of self--yet fearful that that self should receive the
minutest wound; proud of his wife--because, being so lovely and so
admired, she was all his--grateful to her, for being so glorious and
enviable a possession--can you wonder that this vain but sensitive man
should be wound up to the height of jealous rage by the loss of such a
good, accompanied by circumstances of deception and dishonour? He had
been fond of his wife in return for her affection, while she in reality
loved another; he had respected the perfection of her truth, and there
was falsehood at the core. Had she avowed the traitor passion; declared
her struggles, and, laying bare her heart, confessed that, while she
preferred his honour and happiness, yet in the weakness of her nature
another had stolen a portion of that sentiment which she desired to
consecrate to him--then with what tenderness he had forgiven her--with
what soothing forbearance he had borne her fault--how magnanimous and
merciful he had shown himself! But she had acted the generous part;
thanks had come from him--the shows of obligation from her. He fancied
that he held a flower in his hand, from which the sweetest perfume alone
could be extracted--but the germe was blighted, and the very core turned
to bitter ashes and dust.

"Such a theme is painful; howsoever we view it, it is scarcely possible
to imagine any event in life more desolating. To be happy is to attain
one's wishes, and to look forward to the lastingness of their
possession. Sir Boyvill had long been skeptical and distrusting; but at
last he was brought to believe that he had drawn the fortunate ticket;
that his wife's faith was a pure and perfect chrysolite--and if in his
heart he deemed that she did not regard him with all the reverence that
was his due; if she did not nurture all the pride of place, and disdain
of her fellow-creatures which he thought that his wife ought to
feel--yet her many charms and virtues left him no room for complaint.
Her sensibility, her vivacity, her wit, her accomplishments, her
exceeding loveliness--they were all undeniably his--and all made her a
piece of enchantment. This merit was laid low--deprived of its
crown--her fidelity to him; and the selfish, the heartless, and the cold
whom she reproved and disliked, were lifted to the eminence of virtue,
while she lay fallen, degraded, worthless.

"Sir Boyvill was, in his own conceit, for ever placed on a pedestal; and
he loved to imagine that he could say, 'Look at me, you can see no
defect! I am a wealthy and a well-born man. I have a wife the envy of
all--children who promise to inherit all our virtues. I am
prosperous--no harm can reach me--look at me!' He was still on his
pedestal, but had become a mark for scorn, for pity! Oh, how he loathed
himself--how he abhorred her who had brought him to this pass! He had,
in her best days, often fancied that he loved her too well, yielded too
often his pride--nurtured schemes to her soft persuasions. He had indeed
believed that Providence had created this exquisite and most beautiful
being, that life might be made perfect to him. Besides, his months, and
days, and hours had been replete with her image; her very admirable
qualities, accompanied as they were by the trembling delicacy that
droops at a touch, and then revives at a word; her quickness, not of
temper, but of feeling, which received such sudden and powerful
impression, formed her to be at once admired and cherished with the care
a sweet exotic needs, when transplanted from its sunny, native clime, to
the ungenial temperature of a northern land. It was madness to recollect
all the fears he had wasted on her. _He_ had foregone the dignity of
manhood to wait on her--he had often feared to pursue his projects, lest
they should jar some delicate chord in her frame; to his own
recollection, it seemed that he had become but the lackey to her
behests--and all for the sake of a love which she bestowed on
another--to preserve that honour which she blasted without pity.

"It were in vain to attempt to delineate the full force of jealousy;
natural sorrow at losing a thing so sweet and dear was blended with
anger that he should be thrown off by her; the misery of knowing that he
should never see her more was mingled with a ferocious desire to learn
that every disaster was heaped on one whom, hitherto, he had, as well as
he could, guarded from every ill. To this we may add, commiseration for
his deserted children. His son, late so animated, so free--spirited and
joyous, a more promising child had never blessed a father's hopes, was
changed into a brooding, grief-struck, blighted visionary. His little
girl, the fairy thing he loved best of all, she was taken from him; the
carelessness of a nurse during a childish illness caused her death,
within a year after her mother's flight. Had that mother remained, such
carelessness had been impossible. Sir Boyvill felt that all good fell
from him--the only remaining golden fruit dropped from the
tree--calamity encompassed him; with his whole soul he abhorred and
desired to wreak vengeance on her who caused the ill.

"After two years were passed, and no tidings were received of the
fugitives, it seemed plain that there could be but one solution to the
mystery. No doubt she and her lover concealed themselves in some far
land, under a feigned name. If, indeed, it were--if it be so, it might
move any heart to imagine poor Alithea's misery--the obloquy that
mantles over her remembrance at home, while she broods over the
desolation of the hearth she so long adorned, and the pining, impatient
anguish of her beloved boy. What could or can keep her away, is matter
of fearful conjecture; but this much is certain, that, at that time at
least, and now, if she survives, she must be miserable. Sir Boyvill, if
he deigned to recollect these things, enjoyed the idea of her anguish.
But, without adverting to her state and feelings, he was desirous of
obtaining what reparation he could, and to dispossess her of his name.
Endeavours to find the fugitives in America, and false hopes held out,
had delayed the process. He at last entered on it with eagerness. A
thousand obvious reasons rendered a divorce desirable; and to him, with
all his pride, then only would his pillow be without a thorn, when she
lost his name, and every right or tie that bound them together. Under
the singular circumstances of the case, he could only obtain a divorce
by a bill in parliament, and to this measure he resorted.

"There was nothing reprehensible in this step; self-defence, as well as
revenge, suggested its expediency. Besides this, it may be said, that he
was glad of the publicity that would ensue, that he might be proved
blameless to all the world. He accused his wife of a fault so great as
tarnished irrecoverably her golden name. He accused her of being a false
wife and an unnatural mother, under circumstances of no common
delinquency. But he might be mistaken; he might view his injuries with
the eye of passion, and others, more disinterested, might pronounce that
she was unfortunate, but not guilty. By means of the bill for divorce,
the truth would be investigated and judged by several hundred of the
best born and best educated of his countrymen. The publicity, also,
might induce discovery. It was fair and just; and though his pride
rebelled against becoming the tale of the day, he saw no alternative.
Indeed, it was reported to him by some officious friend that many had
observed that it was strange that he had not sought this remedy before.
Something of wonder, or blame, or both, was attached to his passiveness.
Such hints galled him to the quick, and he pursued his purpose with all
the obstinacy and imperious haste peculiar to him.

"When every other preliminary had been gone through, it was deemed
necessary that Gerard should give his evidence at the bar of the House
of Lords. Sir Boyvill looked upon his lost wife as a criminal, so
steeped in deserved infamy, so odious, and so justly condemned, that
none could hesitate in siding with him to free him from the bondage of
those laws, which, while she bore his name, might be productive of
incalculable injury. His honour, too, was wounded. His honour, which he
would have sacrificed his life to have preserved untainted, he had
intrusted to Alithea, and loved her the more fervently that she regarded
the trust with reverence. She had foully betrayed it; and must not all
who respected the world's customs and the laws of social life; above
all, must not any who loved him be forward to cast her out from any
inheritance of good that could reach her through him?

"Above all, must not their son--his son, share his indignation, and
assist his revenge? Gerard was but a boy; but his mother's tenderness,
his own quick nature and lastly, the sufferings he had endured through
her flight, had early developed a knowledge of the realities of life,
and so keen a sense of right and justice, as made his father regard him
as capable of forming opinions, and acting from such motives, as usually
are little understood by one so young. And true it was that Gerard
fostered sentiments independent of any teaching; and cherished ideas the
more obstinately, because they were confined to his single breast. He
understood the pity with which his father was regarded--the stigma cast
upon his mother--the suppressed voice--the wink of the eye--the covert
hint. He understood it all; and, like the poet, longed for a word, sharp
as a sword, to pierce the falsehood through and through.

"For many months he and his father had seen little of each other. Sir
Boyvill had not a mind that takes pleasure in watching the ingenuous
sallies of childhood, or the development of the youthful mind; the idea
of making a friend of his child, which had been Alithea's fond and
earnest aim, could never occur to his self-engrossed heart. Since his
illness, Gerard had been weakly, or he would have been sent to school.
As it was, a tutor resided in the house. This person was written to by
Sir Boyvill's man of business, and directed to break the matter to his
pupil; to explain the formalities, to sooth and encourage any timidity
he might show, and to incite him, if need were, to a desire to assist in
a measure, whose operation was to render justice to his father.

"The first allusion to his mother made by Mr. Carter caused the blood to
rush from the boy's heart, and to die crimson his cheeks, his temples,
his throat; then he grew deadly pale, and, without uttering a word,
listened to his preceptor, till suddenly taking in the nature of the
task assigned to him, every limb shook, and he answered by a simple
request to be left alone, and he would consider. No more was thought by
the unapprehensive people about, than that he was shy of being spoken to
on the subject--that he would make up his mind in his own way--and Mr.
Carter at once yielded to his request; the reserve which had shrouded
him since he lost his mother had accustomed those about him to habitual
silence. None--no one watchful, attached, intelligent eye marked the
struggles which shook his delicate frame, blanched his cheek, took the
flesh from his bones, and quickened his pulse into fever. None marked
him as he lay in bed the livelong night, with open eyes and beating
heart a prey to contending emotion. He was passed carelessly by as he
lay on the dewy grass from morn to evening, his soul torn by
grief--uttering his mother's name in accents of despair, and shedding
floods of tears.

"I said that these signs of intense feeling were not remarked--and yet
they were, in a vulgar way, by the menials, who said it would be well
when the affair was over, Master Neville took it so to heart, and was
sadly frightened. Frightened! such a coarse undistinguishing name was
given to the sacred terror of doing his still loved mother an injury,
which heaved his breast with convulsive sobs and filled his veins with
fire.

"The thought of what he was called upon to do haunted him day and night
with agony. He, her nursling, her idol, her child--he who could not
think of her name without tears, and dreamed often that she kissed him
in his sleep, and woke to weep over the delusion--he was to accuse her
before an assembled multitude--to give support to the most infamous
falsehoods--to lend his voice to stigmatize her name: and wherever she
was, kept from him by some irresistible power, but innocent as an angel,
and still loving him, she was to hear of him as her enemy, and receive a
last wound from his hand. Such appeared the task assigned to him in his
eyes, for his blunt--witted tutor had spoken of the justice to be
rendered his father, by freeing him from his fugitive wife, without
regarding the inner heart of his pupil, or being aware that his mother
sat throned there, an angel of light and goodness, the victim of ill,
but doing none.

"Soon after Mrs. Neville's flight, the family had abandoned the seat in
Cumberland, and inhabited a house taken near the Thames, in
Buckinghamshire. Here Gerard resided, while his father was in town
watching the progress of the bill. At last the day drew near when
Gerard's presence was required. The peers showed a disposition, either
from curiosity or a love of justice, to sift the affair to the
uttermost, and the boy's testimony was declared absolutely necessary.
Mr. Carter told Gerard that on the following morning they were to
proceed to London, in pursuance of the circumstances which he had
explained to him a few days before.

"'Is it then true,' said the boy, 'that I am to be called upon to give
evidence, as you call it, against my mother?'

"'You are called upon by every feeling of duty,' replied the sapient
preceptor, 'to speak the truth to those whose decision will render
justice to your father. If the truth injure Mrs. Neville, that is her
affair.'

"Again Gerard's cheeks burned with blushes, and his eyes, dimmed as they
were with tears, flashed fire. 'In that case,' he said, 'I beg to see my
father.'

"'You will see him when in town,' replied Mr. Carter. 'Come, Neville,
you must not take the matter in this girlish style; show yourself a man.
Your mother is unworthy--'

"'If you please, sir,' said Gerard, half choked, yet restraining
himself, 'I will speak to my father; I do not like any one else to talk
to me about these things.'

"'As you please, sir,' said Mr. Carter, much offended.

"No more was said--it was evening. The next morning they set out for
London. The poor boy had lain awake the whole night; but no one knew or
cared for his painful vigils."




CHAPTER XIX


"On the following day the journey was performed; and it had been
arranged that Gerard should rest on the subsequent one; the third being
fixed for his attendance in the House of Lords. Sir Boyvill had been
informed how sullenly (that was the word they used) the boy had received
the information conveyed him by his tutor. He would rather have been
excused saying a word himself to his son on the subject; but this
account, and the boy's request to see him, forced him to change his
purpose. He did not expect opposition; but he wished to give a right
turn to Gerard's expressions. The sort of cold distance that separation
and variance of feeling produced, rendered their intercourse little like
the tender interchange of parental and filial love.

"'Gerard, my boy,' Sir Boyvill began, 'we are both sufferers; and you,
like me, are not of a race tamely to endure injury. I would willingly
have risked my life to revenge the ruin brought on us; so I believe
would you, child as you are; but the skulking villain is safe from my
arm. The laws of his country cannot even pursue him; yet, what
reparation is left, I must endeavour to get.'

"Sir Boyvill showed tact in thus bringing forward only that party, whose
act none could do other than reprobate, and who was the object of
Gerard's liveliest hatred. His face lightened up with something of
pleasure--his eye flashed fire; to prove to the world the guilt and
violence of the wretch who had torn his mother from him was indeed a
task of duty and justice. A little more forbearance on his father's part
had wound him easily to his will: but the policy Sir Boyvill displayed
was involuntary, and his next words overturned all. 'Your miserable
mother,' he continued, 'must bear her share of infamy; and if she be not
wholly hardened, it will prove a sufficient punishment. When the events
of to-morrow reach her, she will begin to taste of the bitter cup she
has dealt out so largely to, others. It were folly to pretend to regret
that--I own that I rejoice.'

"Every idea now suffered revulsion, and the stream of feeling flowed
again in its old channels. What right had his father to speak thus of
the beloved and honoured parent he had so cruelly lost? His blood boiled
within him, and, despite childish fear and reverence, he said, 'If my
mother will grieve or be injured by my appearing to-morrow, I will not
go--I cannot.'

"'You are a fool to speak thus,' said his father, 'a galless animal,
without sense of pride or duty. Come, sir, no more of this. You owe me
obedience, and you must pay it on this occasion. You are only bid speak
the truth, and that you must speak. I had thought, notwithstanding your
youth, higher and more generous motives might be urged--a father's
honour vindicated--a mother's vileness punished.'

"'My mother is not vile!' cried Gerard, and there stopped; for a
thousand things restrain a child's tongue; inexperience, reverence,
ignorance of the effect his words may produce, terror at the mightiness
of the power with which he has to contend. After a pause, he muttered,
'I honour my mother; I will tell the whole world that she deserves
honour.'

"'Now, Gerard, on my soul,' cried Sir Boyvill, roused to anger, as
parents too easily are against their offspring when they show any will
of their own, while they expect to move them like puppets; 'on my soul,
my fine fellow, I could find it in my heart to knock you down. Enough of
this; I don't want to terrify you: be a good boy to-morrow, and I will
forgive all.'

"'Forgive me now, father,' cried the youth, bursting into tears;
'forgive me and spare me! I cannot obey you; I cannot do anything that
will grieve my mother; she loved me so much--I am sure she loves me
still--that I cannot do her a harm. I will not go to-morrow.'

"'This is most extraordinary,' said Sir Boyvill, controlling, as well as
he could, the rage swelling within him. 'And are you such an idiot as
not to know that your wretched mother has forfeited all claim to your
affection? and am I of so little worth in your eyes, I, your father, who
have a right to your obedience from the justice of my cause, not to
speak of parental authority, am I nothing? to receive no duty, expect no
service? I was, indeed, mistaken; I thought you were older than your
years, and had that touch of gentlemanly pride about you that would have
made you eager to avenge my injuries, to stand by me as a friend and
ally, compensating, as well as you could, for the wrongs done me by your
mother. I thought I had a son in whose veins my own blood flowed, who
would be ready to prove his true birth by siding with me. Are you stone,
or a baseborn thing, that you cannot even conceive what thing honour
is?'

"Gerard listened, he wept; the tears poured in torrents from his eyes;
but, as his father continued, and heaped many an opprobrious epithet on
him, a proud and sullen spirit was indeed awakened; he longed to
say--'Abuse me, strike me, but I will not yield!' Yet he did not speak;
he dried his eyes, and stood in silence before his parent, his face
darkening, and something ferocious gleaming in eyes hitherto so soft and
sorrowing. Sir Boyvill saw that he was far from making the impression he
desired; but he wished to avoid reiterated refusals to obey, and he
summed up at last with vague but violent threats of what would
ensue--exile from his home, penury, nay, starvation, the abhorrence of
the world, his own malediction; and, after having worked himself up into
a towering rage, and real detestation of the shivering, feeble, yet
determined child before him, he left him to consider and to be
vanquished.

"Far other thoughts occupied Gerard. 'I had thought,' he has told me,
'once or twice to throw myself into his arms, and pray for mercy; to
kneel at his feet and implore him to spare me; one kind word had made
the struggle intolerable, but no kind word did he say; and while he
stormed, it seemed to me as if my dear mother were singing as she was
used, while I gathered flowers and played beside her in the park, and I
thought of her, not of him; the words, "kick me out of doors," suggested
but the idea, "I shall be free, and I will find my mother." I feel
intensely now; but surely a boy's feelings are far wilder, far more
vehement than a man's; for I cannot now, violent as you think me, call
up one sensation so whirlwind-like as those that possessed me while my
father spoke!'

"Thus has Gerard described his emotions; his father ordered him to quit
the room, and he went to brood upon the fate impending over him. On the
morrow early he was bid prepare to attend the House of Lords. His father
did not appear; he thought that the boy was terrified, and would make no
further resistance. Gerard, indeed, obeyed in silence. He disdained to
argue with strangers and hirelings; he had an idea that if he openly
rebelled he might be carried by force, and his proud heart swelled at
the idea of compulsion. He got into the carriage, and, as he went, Mr.
Carter, who was with him, thought it advisable to explain the forms, and
give some instructions. Gerard listened with composure, nay, asked a
question or two concerning the preliminaries; he was told of the oath
that would be administered; and how the words he spoke after taking that
oath would be implicitly believed, and that he must be careful to say
nothing that was not strictly true. The colour, not an indignant blush,
but a suffusion as of pleasure, mantled over his cheeks as this was
explained.

"They arrived; they were conducted into some outer room to await the
call of the peers. What tortures the boy felt as strangers came up, some
to speak, and others to gaze; all of indignation, resolution, grief, and
more than manhood's struggles that tore his bosom during the annoying
delays that always protract this sort of scenes, none cared to scan. He
was there unresisting, apparently composed; if now his cheek flushed,
and now his lips withered into paleness; if now the sense of suffocation
rose in his throat, and now tears rushed into his eyes, as the image of
his sweet mother passed across his memory, none regarded, none cared.
When I have thought of the spasms and throes which his tender and
highwrought soul endured during this interval, I often wonder his
heart-strings did not crack, or his reason for ever unsettle; as it is,
he has not yet escaped the influence of that hour; it shadows his life
with eclipse, it comes whispering agony to him, when otherwise he might
forget. Some author has described the effect of misfortune on the
virtuous as the crushing of perfumes, so to force them to give forth
their fragrance. Gerard is all nobleness, all virtue, all tenderness; do
we owe any part of his excellence to this hour of anguish? If so, I may
be consoled; but I can never think of it without pain. He says himself,
'Yes! without these sharp goadings, I had not devoted my whole life to
clearing my mother's fame.' Is this devotion a good? As yet no apparent
benefit has sprung from it.

"At length he was addressed: 'Young gentleman, are you ready?' and he
was led into that stately chamber--fit for solemn and high
debate--thronged with the judges of his mother's cause. There was a
dimness in his eye--a tumult in his heart that confused him, while on
his appearance there was first a murmur, then a general hush. Each
regarded him with compassion as they discerned the marks of suffering in
his countenance. A few moments passed before he was addressed; and when
it was supposed that he had had time to collect himself, the proper
officer administered the oath, and then the barrister asked him some
slight questions, not to startle, but to lead back his memory by
insensible degrees to the necessary facts. The boy looked at him with
scorn--he tried to be calm, to elevate his voice; twice it faltered--the
third time he spoke slowly but distinctly: 'I have sworn to speak the
truth, and I am to be believed. My mother is innocent.'

"'But this is not the point, young gentleman,' interrupted his
interrogator; 'I only asked if you remembered your father's house in
Cumberland.'

"The boy replied more loudly, but with broken accents--'I have said all
I mean to say--you may murder me, but I will say no more--how dare you
entice me into injuring my mother?'

"At the word, uncontrollable tears burst forth, pouring in torrents down
his burning cheeks. He told me that he well remembers the feeling that
rose to his tongue, instigating him to cry shame on all present--but his
voice failed, his purpose was too mighty for his young heart; he sobbed
and wept; the more he tried to control the impulse, the more hysterical
the fit grew--he was taken from the bar, and the peers, moved by his
distress, came to a resolve that they would dispense with his
attendance, and be satisfied by hearing his account of the transaction
from those persons to whom he made it at the period when it occurred. I
will now mention, that the result of this judicial inquiry was, a decree
of divorce in Sir Boyvill's favour.

"Gerard, removed from the bar, and carried home, recovered his
composure--but he was silent--revolving the consequences which he
expected would ensue from disobedience. His father had menaced to turn
him out of doors, and he did not doubt but that this threat would be put
into execution, so that he was somewhat surprised that he was taken home
at all; perhaps they meant to send him to a place of exile of their own
choosing, perhaps to make the expulsion public and ignominious. The
powers of grown-up people appear so illimitable in a child's eyes, who
have no data whereby to discover the probable from the improbable. At
length the fear of confinement became paramount; he revolted from it;
his notion was to go and seek his mother--and his mind was quickly made
up to forestall their violence, and to run away.

"He was ordered to confine himself to his own room--his food was brought
to him--this looked like the confirmation of his fears. His heart
swelled high: 'They think to treat me like a child, but I will show
myself independent--wherever my mother is, she is better than they
all--if she is imprisoned, I will free her, or I will remain with her;
how glad she will be to see me--how happy shall we be again together! My
father may have all the rest of the world to himself, when I am with my
mother, in a cavern or a dungeon, I care not where.'

"Night came on--he went to bed--he even slept, and awoke terrified to
think that the opportune hour might be overpassed--daylight was dawning
faintly in the east; the clocks of London struck four--he was still in
time--every one in the house slept; he rose and dressed--he had nearly
ten guineas of his own, this was all his possession, he had counted them
the night before--he opened the door of his chamber--daylight was
struggling with darkness, and all was very still--he stepped out, he
descended the stairs, he got into the hall--every accustomed object
seemed new and strange at that early hour, and he looked with some
dismay at the bars and bolts of the house door--he feared making a
noise, and rousing some servant, still the thing must be attempted;
slowly and cautiously he pushed back the bolts, he lifted up the
chain--it fell from his hands with terrific clatter on the stone
pavement--his heart was in his mouth--he did not fear punishment, but he
feared ill success; he listened as well as his throbbing pulses
permitted--all was still--the key of the door was in the lock, it turned
easily at his touch, and in another moment the door was open; the fresh
air blew upon his cheeks--the deserted street was before him. He closed
the door after him, and with a sort of extra caution locked it on the
outside, and then took to his heels, throwing the key down a
neighbouring street. When out of sight of his home, he walked more
slowly, and began to think seriously of the course to pursue. To find
his mother!--all the world had been trying to find her, and had not
succeeded--but he believed that by some means she would hear of his
escape and come to him--but whither go in the first instance?--his heart
replied, to Cumberland, to Dromore--there he had lived with his
mother--there had he lost her--he felt assured that in its neighbourhood
he should again be restored to her.

"Travelling had given him some idea of distance, and of the modes of
getting from one place to another--he felt that it would be a task of
too great difficulty to attempt walking across England--he had no
carriage, he knew of no ship to take him, some conveyance he must get,
so he applied to a hackney coach. It was standing solitary in the middle
of the street, the driver asleep on the steps--the skeleton horses
hanging down their heads--with the peculiarly disconsolate look these
poor hacked animals have. Gerard, as the son of a wealthy man, was
accustomed to consider that he had a right to command those whom he
could pay--yet fear of discovery and being sent back to his father
filled him with unusual fears; he looked at the horses and the man--he
advanced nearer, but he was afraid to take the decisive step, till the
driver awaking, started up and shook himself, stared at the boy, and
seeing him well dressed--and he looked, too, older than his years, from
being tall--he asked, 'Do you want me, sir?'

"'Yes,' said Gerard, 'I want you to drive me.'

"'Get in, then. Where are you going?'

"'I am going a long way--to Dromore, that is in Cumberland--'

"The boy hesitated; it struck him that those miserable horses could not
carry him far. 'Then you want me to take you to the stage,' said the
man. 'It goes from Piccadilly--at five--we have no time to lose.'

"Gerard got in--on they jumbled--and arriving at the coach-office, saw
some half dozen stages ready to start. The name of Liverpool on one
struck the boy, by the familiar name. If he could get to Liverpool, it
were easy afterward even to walk to Dromore; so getting out of the
hackney coach, he went up to the coachman, who was mounting his box, and
asked, 'Will you take me to Liverpool?'

"'Yes, my fine fellow, if you can pay the fare.'

"'How much is it?' drawing out his purse.

"'Inside or outside?'

"From the moment he had addressed these men, and they began to talk of
money, Gerard, calling to mind the vast disbursements of gold coin he
had seen made by his father and the courier on their travels, began to
fear that his little stock would ill suffice to carry him so far; and
the first suggestion of prudence the little fellow ever experienced made
him now answer, 'Whichever costs least.'

"'Outside, then.'

"'Oh, I have that--I can pay you.'

"'Jump up, then, my lad--lend me your hand--here, by me--that's
right--all's well, you're just in the nick, we are off directly.'

"He cracked his whip, and away they flew; and as they went, Gerard felt
free, and going to his mother.

"Such, in these civilized times, are the facilities offered to the
execution of our wildest wishes! the consequences, the moral
consequences, are still the same, still require the same exertions to
overcome them; but we have no longer to fight with physical impediments.
If Gerard had begun his expedition from any other town, curiosity had
perhaps been excited; but in the vast, busy metropolis each one takes
care of himself, and few scrutinize the motives or means of others.
Perched up on the coach-box, Gerard had a few questions to answer--Was
he going home? did he live in Liverpool? but the name of Dromore was a
sufficing answer. The coachman had never heard of such a place; but it
was a gentleman's seat, and it was Gerard's home, and that was enough.

"Some day you must ask Gerard to relate to you his adventures during
this journey. They will come warmly and vividly from him; while mine, as
a mere reflex, must be tame. It is his mind I would describe; and I will
not pause to narrate the tantalizing cross-questioning that he underwent
from a Scotchman--nor the heart-heavings with which he heard allusions
made to the divorce case before the lords. A newspaper describing his
own conduct was in the hands of one of the passengers; he heard his
mother lightly alluded to. He would have leaped from the coach; but that
was to give up all. He pressed his hands to his ears--he scowled on
those around--his heart was on fire. Yet he had one consolation. He was
free. He was going to her--he resolved never to mingle with his
fellow-creatures more. Buried in some rural retreat with his mother, it
mattered little what the vulgar and the indifferent said about either.

"Some qualms did assail him. Should he find his dear mother? Where was
she? his childish imagination refused to paint her distant from
Dromore--his own removal from that mansion so soon after losing her,
associated her indelibly with the mountains, the ravines, the brawling
streams, and clustering woods of his natal county. She must be there. He
would drive away the man of violence who took her from him, and they
would be happy together.

"A day and a night brought him to Liverpool, and the coachman, hearing
whither he wished to go, deposited him in the stage for Lancaster on his
arrival. He went inside this time, and slept all the way. At Lancaster
he was recognised by several persons, and they wondered to see him
alone. He was annoyed at their recognition and questionings; and, though
it was night when he arrived, instantly set off to walk to Dromore.

"For two months from this time he lived wandering from cottage to
cottage, seeking his mother. The journey from Lancaster to Dromore he
performed as speedily as he well could. He did not enter the house--that
would be delivering himself up as a prisoner. By night he clambered the
park railings, and entered like a thief the demesnes where he had spent
his childhood. Each path was known to him, and almost every tree. Here
he sat with his mother; there they found the first violet of spring. His
pilgrimage was achieved; but where was she? His heart beat as he reached
the little gate whence they had issued on that fatal night. All the
grounds bore marks of neglect and the master's absence; and the lock of
this gate was spoiled; a sort of rough bolt had been substituted. Gerard
pushed it back. The rank grass had gathered thick on the threshold; but
it was the same spot. How well he remembered it!

"Two years only had since passed, he was still a child; yet to his own
fancy how much taller, how much more of a man he had become! Besides, he
now fancied himself master of his own actions--he had escaped from his
father; and he--who had threatened to turn him out of doors--would not
seek to possess himself of him again. He belonged to no one--he was
cared for by no one--by none but her whom he sought with firm, yet
anxious expectation. There he had seen her last--he stepped forward; he
followed the course of the lane--he came to where the road crossed
it--where the carriage drove up, where she had been torn from him.

"It was daybreak--a June morning; all was golden and still--a few birds
twittered, but the breeze was hushed, and he looked out on the extent of
country commanded from the spot where he stood, and saw only nature, the
rugged hills, the green corn-fields, the flowery meads, and the
umbrageous trees in deep repose. How different from the wild,
tempestuous night when she whom he sought was torn away; he could then
see only a few yards before him, now he could mark the devious windings
of the road, and, afar off, distinguish the hazy line of the ocean. He
sat down to reflect--what was he to do? in what nook of the wide expanse
was his mother hid? that some portion of the landscape he viewed
harboured her, was his fixed belief; a belief founded in inexperience
and fancy, but not the less deep-rooted. He meditated for some time, and
then walked forward--he remembered when he ran panting and screaming
along that road; he was a mere child then, and what was he now? a boy of
eleven; yet he looked back with disdain to the endeavours of two years
before.

"He walked along in the same direction that he had at that time pursued,
and soon found that he reached the turnpike-road to Lancaster. He turned
off, and went by the cross-road that leads to the wild and dreary plains
that form the coast. The inner range of picturesque hills, on the
declivity of which Dromore is situated, is not more than five miles from
the sea; but the shore itself is singularly blank and uninteresting,
varied only by sand-hills thrown up to the height of thirty or forty
feet, intersected by rivers, which at low water are fordable even on
foot; but which, when the tide is up, are dangerous to those who do not
know the right track, from the holes and ruts which render the bed of
the river uneven. In winter, indeed, at the period of spring tides, or
in stormy weather, with a west wind which drives the ocean towards the
shore, the passage is often exceedingly dangerous, and, except under the
direction of an experienced guide, fatal accidents occur.

"Gerard reached the borders of the ocean near one of these streams;
behind him rose his native mountains, range above range, divided by
tremendous gulfs, varied by the shadows of the clouds, and the gleams of
sunlight; close to him was the waste seashore; the ebbing tide gave a
dreary sluggish appearance to the ocean, and the river--a shallow, rapid
stream--emptied its slender pittance of mountain water noiselessly into
the lazy deep. It was a scene of singular desolation. On the other side
of the river, not far from the mouth, was a rude hut, unroofed, and
fallen to decay--erected, perhaps, as the abode of a guide; near it grew
a stunted tree, withered, moss-covered, spectre-like--the sand-hills lay
scattered around--the seagull screamed above, and skimmed over the
waste. Gerard sat down and wept--motherless--escaped from his angry
father; even to his young imagination, his fate seemed as drear and
gloomy as the scene around."




CHAPTER XX


"I do not know why I have dwelt on these circumstances so long. Let me
hasten to finish. For two months Gerard wandered in the neighbourhood of
Dromore. If he saw a lone cottage, imbowered in trees, hidden in some
green recess of the hills, sequestered and peaceful, he thought, Perhaps
my mother is there! and he clambered towards it, finding it at last,
probably, a mere shepherd's hut, poverty-stricken, and tenanted by a
noisy family. His money was exhausted--he made a journey to Lancaster to
sell his watch, and then returned to Cumberland--his clothes, his shoes
were worn out--often he slept in the open air--ewes' milk cheese and
black bread were his fare--his hope was to find his mother--his fear to
fall again into his father's hands. But as the first sentiment failed,
his friendless condition grew more sad; he began to feel that he was
indeed a feeble, helpless boy--abandoned by all--he thought nothing was
left for him but to lie down and die.

"Meanwhile he was noticed, and at last recognised, by some of the
tenants; and information reached his father of where he was.
Unfortunately, the circumstance of his disappearance became public. It
was put into the newspapers as a mysterious occurrence; and the proud
Sir Boyvill found himself not only pitied on account of his wife's
conduct, but suspected of cruelty towards his only child. At first he
was himself frightened and miserable; but when he heard where Gerard
was, and that he could be recovered at any time, these softer feelings
were replaced by fury. He sent the tutor to possess himself of his son's
person. He was seized with the help of a constable; treated more like a
criminal than an unfortunate, erring child; carried back to
Buckinghamshire; shut up in a barricadoed room; debarred from air and
exercise; lectured; menaced; treated with indignity. The boy, hitherto
accustomed to more than usual indulgence and freedom, was at first
astonished, and then wildly indignant at the treatment he suffered. He
was told that he should not be set free till he submitted. He believed
that to mean, until he could give testimony against his mother. He
resolved rather to die. Several times he endeavoured to escape, and was
brought back and treated with fresh barbarity--his hands bound, and
stripes inflicted by menials; till, driven to despair, he at one time
determined to starve himself, and at another tried to bribe a servant to
bring him poison. The trusting piety inculcated by his gentle mother was
destroyed by the ill-judged cruelty of his father and his doltish
substitute. It is painful to dwell on such circumstances; to think of a
sensitive, helpless child treated with the brutality exercised towards a
galley-slave. Under this restraint, Gerard grew such as you saw him at
Baden--sullen, ferocious, plunged in melancholy, delivered up to
despair.

"It was some time before he discovered that the submission demanded of
him was not to run away again. On learning this, he wrote to his father.
He spoke with horror of the personal indignities he had endured; of his
imprisonment; of the conduct of Mr. Carter. He did not mean it as such,
but his letter grew into an affecting, irresistible appeal that even
moved Sir Boyvill. His stupid pride prevented him from showing the
regret he felt. He still used the language of reproof and conditional
pardon; but the tutor was dismissed, and Gerard restored to liberty. Had
his father been generous or just enough to show his regret, he might
probably have obliterated the effects of his harshness; as it was,
Gerard gave no thanks for a boon which saved his life, but restored him
to none of its social blessings. He was still friendless--still orphaned
in his affections--still the memory of intolerable tyranny, the
recurrence of which was threatened if he made an ill use of the freedom
accorded him, clung like the shirt of Nessus--and his noble, ardent
nature was lacerated by the intolerable recollection of slavish terrors.

"You saw him at Baden, and it was at Baden that I also first knew him.
You had left the baths when my mother and I arrived. We became
acquainted with Sir Boyvill. He was still handsome--he was rich--and
those qualities of mind which ill agreed with Alithea's finer nature did
not displease a fashionable woman of the world. Such was my mother.
Something that was called an attachment sprang up, and they married. She
preferred the situation of wife to that of widow; and he, having been
accustomed to the social comforts of a domestic circle, despite his
disasters, disliked his bachelor state. They married; and I, just then
eighteen--just out, as it is called--became the sister of my beloved
Gerard.

"I feel pride when I think of the services that I have rendered him. He
had another fall from his horse not long after, or rather, again urging
the animal down a precipice, it fell. He was underneath, and his leg was
broken. During the long confinement that ensued, I was his faithful
nurse and companion. Naturally lively, yet I could sympathize in his
sorrows. By degrees I won his confidence. He told me all his story--all
his feelings. He grew mild and soft under my influence. He grew to
regret that he had been vanquished by adversity so as to become almost
what he was accused of being, a frantic idiot. As he talked of his
mother, and the care she bestowed on his early years, he wept to think
how unlike he was to the creature she had wished him to become. A desire
to reform, to repair past faults, to school himself, grew out of such
talk. He threw off his sullenness and gloom. He became studious at the
same time that he grew gentle. His education, which had proceeded but
badly while he refused to lend his mind to improvement, was now the
object of his own thoughts and exertions. Instead of careering wildly
over the hills, or being thrown under some tree delivered up to
miserable revery, he asked for masters, and was continually seen with a
book in his hands.

"The passion of his soul still subsisted, modulated by his new feelings.
He continued to believe in the innocence of his mother, though he often
doubted her existence. He longed inexpressibly to unveil the mystery
that shrouded her fate. He devoted himself in his heart to discovering
the truth. He resolved to occupy his whole life in the dear task of
reinstating her in that cloudless purity of reputation which he
intimately felt she had never deserved to forfeit. He considered the
promise exacted from him by his father as preventing him from following
up his design, and as binding him till he was twenty-one. Till then he
deferred his endeavours. No young spendthrift ever aspired for the
attainment of the age of freedom and the possession of an estate as
vehemently as did Gerard for the hour which was to permit him to deliver
himself wholly up to this task.

"Before that time arrived I married. I wished to take him abroad with
us; but the unfounded (as I believe) notion that the secret of his
mother's fate is linked to the English shores made him dislike to leave
his native country. It was only on our return that he consented to come
as far as Marseilles to meet us.

"When he had reached the age of twenty-one he announced to his father
his resolve to discover his mother's fate. Sir Boyvill was highly
indignant. The only circumstance that at all mitigated the disgrace of
his wife's flight was the oblivion into which she and all concerning her
had sunk. To have new inquiries set on foot, and the forgotten shame
recalled to the memories of men, appeared not less wicked than insane.
He remonstrated, he grew angry, he stormed, he forbade; but Gerard
considered that time had set a limit to his authority, and only withdrew
in silence, not the less determined to pursue his own course.

"I need not say that he met with no success; a mystery so impenetrable
at first, does not acquire clearness after time has obscured the little
ever known. Whatever were the real circumstances and feelings that
occasioned her flight, however innocent she might then be, time has
cemented his mother's union with another, and made her forget those she
left behind. Or may I not say, what I am inclined to believe, that
though the violence of another was the cause at last of guilt in her,
yet she pined for those she deserted--that her heart was soon
broken--that the sod has long since covered her form--while the
miserable man who caused all this evil is but too eager to observe a
silence which prevents his name from being loaded with the execrations
he deserves? I cannot help, therefore, regretting that Gerard insists
upon discovering the obscure grave of his miserable mother--while he,
who, whether living or dead, believes her to have been always innocent,
is to be dissuaded by no arguments, still less by the angry
denunciations of Sir Boyvill, whose conduct throughout he looks on as
being the primal cause of his mother's misfortunes.

"I have told you the tale, as nearly as I can, in the spirit in which
Gerard himself would have communicated it--such was my tacit pledge to
him; nor do I wish, by my suspicions or conjectures, to deprive him of
your sympathy, and the belief he wishes you to entertain of his mother's
innocence; but truth will force its way, and who can think her wholly
guiltless? Would to God! oh, how often and how fervently have I prayed
that Gerard were cured of the madness which renders his life a wild,
unprofitable dream; and, looking soberly on the past, consent to bury in
oblivion misfortunes and errors which are beyond all cure, and which it
is worse than vain to remember."




CHAPTER XXI


There was to Elizabeth a fascinating interest in the story related by
Lady Cecil. Elizabeth had no wild fairy-like imagination. Her talents,
which were remarkable, her serious, thoughtful mind, was warmed by the
vital heat emanating from her affections--whatever regarded these, moved
her deeply.

Here was a tale full of human interest, of love, error, of filial
tenderness, and deep-rooted, uneradicable fidelity. Elizabeth, who knew
little of life, except through such experience as she gathered from the
emotions of her own heart, and the struggling passions of Falkner, could
not regard the story in the same worldly light as Lady Cecil. There was
an unfathomable mystery; but, was there guilt as far as regarded Mrs.
Neville? Elizabeth could not believe it. She believed, that in a nature
as finely formed as hers was described to have been, maternal love, and
love for such a child as Gerard, must have risen paramount to every
other feeling. Philosophers have said that the most exalted natures are
endowed with the strongest and deepest-seated passions. It is by
combating and purifying them that the human being rises into excellence;
and the combat is assisted by setting the good in opposition to the
evil. Perhaps Mrs. Neville had loved--though even that seemed
strange--but her devoted affection to her child must have been more
powerful than a love which, did it exist, appeared unaccompanied by one
sanctifying or extenuating circumstance.

Thus thought Elizabeth. Gerard appeared in a beautiful and heroic light,
bent on his holy mission of redeeming his mother's name from the stigma
accumulated on it. Her heart warmed within her at the thought, that such
a task assimilated to hers. She was endeavouring to reconcile her
benefactor to life, and to remove from his existence the stings of
unavailing remorse. She tried to fancy that some secret tie existed
between their two distinct tasks; and that a united happy end would
spring up for both.

After musing for some time in silence, at length she said, "But you do
not tell me whither Mr. Neville is now gone, and what it is that has so
newly awakened his hopes."

"You remind me," replied Lady Cecil, "of what I had nearly forgotten. It
is a provoking and painful circumstance; the artifice of cupidity to
dupe enthusiasm. You must know that Gerard, in furtherance of his wild
project, has left an intimation among the cottages and villages near
Dromore, and in Lancaster itself, that he will give two hundred pounds
to any one who shall bring any information that will conduce to the
discovery of Mrs. Neville's fate. This is a large bribe to falsehood,
and yet, until now, no one has pretended to have anything to tell. But
the other day he received a letter, and the person who wrote it was so
earnest, that he sent a duplicate to Sir Boyvill. This letter stated
that the writer, Gregory Hoskins, believed himself to be in possession
of some facts connected with Mrs. Neville of Dromore, and on the two
hundred pounds being properly secured to him by a written bond he would
communicate them. This letter was dated Lancaster--thither Gerard is
gone."

"Does it speak of Mrs. Neville as still alive?" asked Elizabeth.

"It says barely the words which I have repeated," Lady Cecil replied.
"Sir Boyvill, knowing his son's impetuosity, hurried down here, to stop,
if he could, his reviving, through such means, the recollection of his
unfortunate lady--with what success you have seen; Gerard is gone, nor
can any one guess what tale will be trumped up to deceive and rob him."

Elizabeth could not feel as secure as her friend, that nothing would
come of the promised information. This was not strange; besides, the
different view taken by a worldly and an experienced person, the tale,
with all its mystery, was an old one to Lady Cecil; while, to her
friend, it bore the freshness of novelty: to the one, it was a story of
the dead and the forgotten; to the other, it was replete with living
interest; the enthusiasm of Gerard communicated itself to her, and she
felt that his present, journey was full of event, the first step in a
discovery of all that hitherto had been inscrutable.

A few days brought a letter from Gerard. Lady Cecil read it, and then
gave it to her young friend to peruse. It was dated Lancaster; it said,
"My journey has hitherto been fruitless; this man Hoskins has gone from
Lancaster, leaving word that I should find him in London, but in so
negligent a way as to lower my hopes considerably. His chief aim must be
to earn the promised reward, and I feel sure that he would take more
pains to obtain it, did he think that it was really within his grasp.

"He arrived but a few weeks since, it seems, from America, whither he
migrated, some twenty years ago, from Ravenglass. How can he bring news
of her I seek from across the Atlantic? The very idea fills me with
disturbance. Has he seen her? Great God! does she yet live? Did she
commission him to make inquiries concerning her abandoned child? No,
Sophia, my life on it, it is not so; she is dead! My heart too truly
reveals the sad truth to me.

"Can I then wish to hear that she is no more? My dear, dear mother! Were
all the accusations true which are brought against you, still would I
seek your retreat, endeavour to assuage your sorrows; wherever, whatever
you are, you are of more worth to me--methinks that you must still be
more worthy of affection than all else that the earth contains! But it
is not so. I feel it--I know it--she is dead. Yet when, where, how? Oh,
my father's vain commands! I would walk barefoot to the summit of the
Andes to have these questions answered. The interval that must elapse
before I reach London, and see this man, is hard to bear. What will he
tell? Nothing! often, in my lucid intervals, as my father would call
them, in my hours of despondency, I fear--nothing!

"You have not played me false, dearest Sophy? In telling your lovely
friend the strange story of my woes, you have taught her to mourn my
mother's fate, not to suspect her goodness? I am half angry with myself
for devolving the task upon you. For, despite your kind endeavours, I
read your heart, my worldly-wise sister, and know its unbelief. I
forgive you, for you never saw my mother's face, nor heard her voice.
Had you ever beheld the purity and integrity that sat upon her brow, and
listened to her sweet tones, she would visit your dreams by day and
night, as she does mine, in the guise of an angel robed in perfect
innocence. I cannot forgive my father for his accusations; his own heart
must be bad, or he could not credit that any evil inhabited hers. For
how many years that guileless heart was laid bare to him! and if it was
not so fond and admiring towards himself as he could have wished, still
there was no concealment, no tortuosity; he saw it all, though now he
discredits the evidence of his senses--shuts his eyes,


'And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,
Cries out, "Where is it?"'


For truth was her attribute; the open heart, which made the brow, the
eyes, the cheerful mien, the sweet, loving smile and thrilling voice,
all transcripts of its pure emotions. It was this that rendered her the
adorable being, which all who knew her acknowledge that she was.

"I am solicitous beyond measure that Miss Falkner should receive no
false impression. Her image is before me, when I saw her first, pale in
the agony of fear, bending over her dying father; by day and by night
she forgot herself to attend on him. She who loves a parent so well can
understand me better than any other. She, I am convinced, will form a
true judgment. She will approve my perseverance, and share my doubts and
fears; will she not? ask her--or am I too vain, too credulous? Is there
in the whole world one creature who will join with me in my faith and my
labours? You do not, Sophia; that I have long known, and the feeling of
disappointment is already blunted; but it will revive, it will be barbed
with a new sting, if I am deceived in my belief that Elizabeth Falkner
shares my convictions, and appreciates the utility, the necessity of my
endeavours. I do not desire her pity, that you give me; but at this
moment I am blessed by the hope that she feels with me. I cannot tell
you the good this idea does me. It spurs me to double energy in my
pursuit, and it sustains me during the uncertainty that attends it: it
makes me inexpressibly more anxious to clear my mother's name in her
eyes; since she deigns to partake my griefs. I desire that she should
hereafter share in the triumph of my success.

"My success! the word throws me ten thousand fathoms deep, from the
thoughts of innocence and goodness, to those of wrongs, death, or living
misery. Farewell, dearest Sophia. This letter is written at night;
to-morrow, early, I set out by a fast coach to London. I shall write
again, or you will see me soon. Keep Miss Falkner with you till I
return, and write me a few words of encouragement."


Not a line in this letter but interested and gratified Elizabeth--and
Lady Cecil saw the blush of pleasure mantle over her speaking
countenance; she was half glad, half sorry--she looked on Elizabeth as
she who could cure Gerard of his Quixotic devotion, by inspiring him
with feelings which, while they had all the enthusiasm natural to his
disposition, would detach him from his vain endeavours, and centre his
views and happiness in the living instead of the dead. Lady Cecil knew
that Gerard already loved her friend--he had never loved before--and the
tenderness of his manner, and the admiration that lighted up his eyes
whenever he looked on her, revealed the birth of passion. Elizabeth,
less quick to feel, or at least more tranquil in the display of feeling,
yet sympathized too warmly with him--felt too deeply interested in all
he said and did, not to betray that she was touched by the divine fire
that smooths the ruggedness of life, and fills with peace and smiles a
darkling, stormy world. But instead of weaning Gerard from his madness,
she encouraged him in it--as she well knew; for when she wrote to
Gerard, she asked Elizabeth to add a few lines, and thus she wrote:

"I thank you for the confidence you repose in me, and more than that, I
must express how deeply I feel for you, the more that I think that
justice and truth are on your side. Whether you succeed or not, I
confess that I think you are right in your endeavours--your aim is a
noble and a sacred one--and, like you, I cherish the hope that it will
end in the exculpation of one deeply injured--and your being rewarded
for your fidelity to her memory. God bless you with all the happiness
you deserve."

No subsequent letter arrived from Gerard. Lady Cecil wondered and
conjectured, and expected impatiently. She and her friend could talk of
nothing else. The strange fact that a traveller from America proclaimed
that he had tidings of the lost one, offered a fertile field for
suppositions. Had Mrs. Neville been carried across the Atlantic? How
impossible was this, against her own consent! No pirate's bark was
there, with a crew experienced in crime, ready to acquiesce in a deed of
violence; no fortalice existed, in whose impenetrable walls she could
have been immured; yet so much of strange and fearful must belong to her
fate, which the imagination mourned to think of! Love, though in these
days it carries on its tragedies more covertly--and kills by the slow,
untold pang--by the worm in the bosom--and exerts its influence rather
by teaching deceit than instigating to acts of violence, yet love reigns
in the hearts of men as tyrannically and fiercely--and causes as much
evil, as much ruin, and as many tears, as when, in the younger world,
hecatombs were slain in his honour. In former days mortals wasted rather
life than feeling, and every blow was a physical one; now the heart
dies, though the body lives--and a miserable existence is dragged out,
after hope and joy have ceased to adorn it; yet love is still, despite
the schoolmaster and the legislator, the prime law of human life, and
Alithea Neville was well fitted to inspire an ardent passion. She had a
sensibility which, while it gave strength to her affections, yet
diffused a certain weakness over the mechanism of her being, that made
those around her tremble; she had genius which added lustre to her eye,
and shed around her a fascination of manner, which no man could witness
without desiring to dedicate himself to her service. She seemed the very
object whom Sheridan addressed when he said--


"For friends in every age you'll meet,
And lovers in the young."


That she should be loved to desperation could excite no wonder--but what
had been the effects of this love? a distant home across the ocean--a
home of privation and sorrow--the yearning for her lost children--the
slow breaking of the contrite heart; a life dragged on despite the pangs
of memory--or a nameless grave. Such were the conjectures caused by the
letter of the American.

At length Neville returned. Each turned her eye on his face, to read the
intelligence he had acquired in his speaking countenance. It was sad.
"She lives and is lost," thought Lady Cecil; "He mourns her dead!" was
the supposition of the single-minded Elizabeth. At first he avoided the
subject of his inquiry, and his companions did not question him; till at
last he suddenly exclaimed, "Do you not wish to learn something, Sophia?
Have you forgotten the object of my journey?"

"Dear Gerard," replied Lady Cecil, "these walls and woods, had they a
voice, could tell you that we have thought and spoken of nothing else."

"She is dead!" he answered, abruptly.

A start--an exclamation was the reply. He continued: "If there be any
truth in the tale I have heard, my dear, injured mother is dead; that
is, if what I have heard concern her--mean anything, or is not a mere
fabrication. You shall hear all by-and-by; I will relate all I have been
told. It is a sad story if it be hers, if it be a true story at all."

These disjointed expressions raised the curiosity and interest of his
auditors to their height. It was evening; instead of going on with his
account, he passed into the adjoining room, opened the glass door, and
stepped out into the open air. It was dark, scarcely could you see the
dim outline of the woods--yet, far on the horizon where sky and sea met,
there was a streak of light. Sophia and Elizabeth followed to the room
whence he had gone, and drew their chairs near the open window and
pressed each other's hands.

"What can it all mean?" at length said Lady Cecil.

"Hush!" whispered Elizabeth--"he is here, I saw him cross the streak of
light."

"True," said Gerard's voice--his person they could not distinguish, for
they were in darkness; "I am here, and I will tell you now all I have
heard. I will sit at your feet; give me your hand, Sophy, that I may
feel that you are really present--it is too dark to see anything."

He did not ask for Elizabeth's hand, but he took it, and placing it on
Lady Cecil's, gently clasped both: "I cannot see either of you--but
indulge my wayward humour; so much of coarse and commonplace has been
thrown on the most sacred subject in the world, that I want to bathe my
soul in darkness--a darkness as profound as that which wraps my mother's
fate. Now for my story."




CHAPTER XXII


"You know that I did not find this man, this Hoskins, at Lancaster. By
his direction I sought him in London, and, after some trouble, found
him. He was busy in his own affairs, and it was difficult to get at him;
but, by perseverance, and asking him to dine with me at a coffee-house,
I at last succeeded. He is a native of Ravenglass, a miserable town on
the seashore of Cumberland, with which I am well acquainted, for it is
not far from Dromore. He emigrated to America before I was born; and
after various speculations, is at last settled at Boston, in some sort
of trade, the exigences of which brought him over here, and he seized
the opportunity to visit his family. There they were, still inhabiting
the forlorn town of Ravenglass; their cottage still looking out on a
dreary extent of sand, mud, and marsh; and the far mountains, which
would seem to invite the miserable dwellers of the flats to shelter
themselves in their green recesses, but they invite in vain.

"Hoskins found his mother, a woman nearly a hundred years of age, alive;
and a widowed sister living with her, surrounded by a dozen children of
all ages. He passed two days with them, and naturally recurred to the
changes that had taken place in the neighbourhood. He had at one time
had dealings with the steward of Dromore, and had seen my father. When
he emigrated, Sir Boyvill had just married. Hoskins asked how it went on
with him and his bride. It is our glorious fate to be in the mouths of
the vulgar, so he heard the story of my mother's mysterious flight; and,
in addition to this, he was told of my boyish wanderings, my search for
my mother, and my declaration that I would give two hundred pounds to
any one through whose means I should discover her fate.

"The words fell at first upon a heedless ear, but the next morning it
all at once struck him that he might gain the reward, and he wrote to
me; and as I was described as a wanderer without a home, he wrote also
to my father. When I saw him in town, he seemed ashamed of the trouble
I had taken. 'It is I who am to get the two hundred pounds,' he said,
'not you; the chance was worth wasting a little breath; but you may not
think the little I have to tell worth your long journey.'

"At length I brought him to the point. At one period, a good many years
ago, he was a settler in New-York, and by some chance he fell in with a
man lately arrived from England, who asked his advice as to obtaining
employment: he had some little money--some few hundred pounds, but he
did not wish to sink it in trade or the purchase of land, but to get
some situation with a tolerable salary, and keep his little capital at
command. A strange way of using money and time in America! but such was
the fancy of the stranger; he said he should not be easy unless he could
draw out his money at any time, and emigrate at an hour's notice. This
man's name was Osborne; he was shrewd, ready-witted, and good-natured,
but idle, and even unprincipled. 'He did me a good turn once,' said
Hoskins, 'which makes me unwilling to do him a bad one; but you cannot
injure him, I think, in America. He has risen in the world since the
time I mention, and has an employment under our minister at Mexico.
After all, he did not tell me much, and what I learned came out in long
talks by degrees, during a journey or two we took together to the West.
He had been a traveller, a soldier in the East. Indies, and unlucky
everywhere; and it had gone hard with him at one time in Bengal, but for
the kindness of a friend. He was a gentleman far above him in station
who got him out of trouble, and paid his passage to England; and
afterward, when this gentleman returned himself to the island, he found
Osborne in trouble again, and again he assisted him. In short, sir, it
came out, that if this gentleman (Osborne would never tell his name)
stood his friend, it was not for nothing this time. There was a lady to
be carried off. Osborne swore he did not know who--he thought it a
runaway match; but it turned out something worse, for never did girl
take on so for leaving her home with a lover. I tell the story badly,
for I never got the rights of it. It ended tragically--the lady
died--was drowned, as well as I could make out, in some river. You know
how dangerous the streams are on our coast.

"'It was the naming Cumberland and our estuaries that set me asking
questions, which frightened Osborne. When he found that I was a native
of that part of the world, he grew as mute as a fish, and never a word
more of lady or friend did I get from him; except, as I guessed, he was
well rewarded, and sent over the water out of the way; and he swore he
believed that the gentleman was dead too. It was no murder--that he
averred, but a sad tragic accident that might look like one; and he grew
as white as a sheet if ever I tried to bring him to speak of it again.
It haunted his thoughts nevertheless: and he would talk in his sleep,
and dream of being hanged--and mutter about a grave dug in the sands,
and there being no parson; and the dark breakers of the ocean--and
horses scampering away, and the lady's wet hair--nothing regular, but
such as often made me waken him; for in wild nights, such mutterings
were no lullaby.

"'Now, sir, whether the lady he spoke of were your lady mother, is more
than I can say; but the time and place tally. It is twelve years this
summer since he came out; and it had just happened, for his heart and
head were full of horrors, and he feared every vessel from Europe
brought out a warrant to arrest him, or the like. He was a
chicken-hearted fellow; and I have known him hide himself for a week
when a packet came from Liverpool. But he got courage as time went on;
when I saw him last, he had forgotten all about it; and when I jeered
him about his terrors, he laughed, and said all was well, and he should
not care going to England; for that the story was blown over, and
neither he nor his friend even so much as suspected.

"'This, sir, is my story; and I don't think he ever told me any more, or
that I can remember anything else; but such as I tell it, I can swear to
it. There was a lady run off with, and she died, by fair means or foul,
before she quitted the coast; and was buried, as we might bury in the
far West, without bell or prayer-book. And Osborne does not know the
name of the lady; but the gentleman he knew, though he has never since
heard of him, and believes him to be dead. You best know whether my
story is worth the two hundred pounds.'

"Such, Sophia, is the tale I heard. Such is the coarse hand and vulgar
tongue that first touches the veil that conceals my mother's fate."

"It is a strange story," said Lady Cecil, shuddering.

"But, on my life, a true one," cried Neville, "as I will prove. Osborne
is now at Mexico. I have inquired at the American consul's. He is
expected back to Washington at the end of this summer. In a few weeks I
shall embark and see this man, who now bears a creditable character, and
learn if there is any foundation for Hoskins's conjectures. If there
is--and can I doubt it? if my mother died as he says, I shall learn the
manner of her death, and who is the murderer."

"Murderer!" echoed both his auditors.

"Yes; I cannot retract the word. Murderer in effect, if not in deed.
Remember, I witnessed the act of violence which tore my mother from me.
He who carried her away is, in all justice, an assassin, even if his
hands be not imbrued with blood. Blood! did I say? Nay, none was shed.
I know the spot; I have viewed the very scene. Our waste and desolate
coast--the perilous, deceitful rivers, in one of which she perished--the
very night, so tempestuous--the wild west wind bearing the tide with
irresistible impetuosity up the estuaries--he seeking the solitary
sands--perhaps some smuggling vessel lying in wait to carry her off
unseen, unheard. To me it is as if I knew each act of the tragedy, and
heard her last sigh beneath the waves breathed for me. She was dragged
out by these men; buried without friend; without decent rites; her tomb
the evil report her enemy raised above her; her grave the sands of that
dreary shore. Oh, what wild, what miserable thoughts are these! This
tale, instead of alleviating my anxious doubts, has taken the sleep out
from my eyes. Images of death are for ever passing before me; I think of
the murderer with a heart that pants for revenge, and of my beloved
mother with such pity, such religious wo, that I would spend my life on
that shore seeking her remains, so that at last I might shed my tears
above them, and bear them to a more sacred spot. There is an easier way
to gain both ends."

"It is a sad, but a wild and uncertain story," remarked Lady Cecil, "and
not sufficiently plain, I think, to take you away from us all across the
Atlantic."

"A far slighter clew would take me so far," replied Gerard, "as you well
know. It is not for a traveller to Egypt to measure miles with such
timidity. My dear Sophy, you would indeed think me mad if, after
devoting my life to one pursuit, I were now to permit a voyage across
the Atlantic to stand between me and the slightest chance of having my
doubts cleared up. It is a voyage which thousands take every week for
their interest or their pleasure. I do much, I think, in postponing my
journey till this man returns to Washington. At first I had thought of
taking my passage on the instant, and meeting him on his journey
homeward from Mexico; but I might miss him. Yet I long to be on the
spot, in America; for, if anything should happen to him; if he should
die, and his secret die with him, how for ever after I should be stung
by self-reproach!"

"But there seems to me so little foundation," Lady Cecil began. Neville
made an impatient gesture, exclaiming, "Are you not unreasonable, Sophy?
my father has made a complete convert of you."

Elizabeth interposed, and asked, "You saw this man more than once?"

"Who? Hoskins? Yes, three times, and he always told the same story. He
persisted in the main points. That the scene of the carrying off of the
lady was his native shore, the coast of Cumberland; that the act
immediately preceded Osborne's arrival in America, twelve years ago; and
that she died miserably, the victim of her wretched lover. He knew
Osborne immediately on his coming to New-York, when he was still
suffering from the panic of such a tragedy, dreading the arrival of
every vessel from England. At that time he concealed carefully from his
new friend what he afterward, in the overflow of his heart, communicated
so freely; and, in after times, he reminded him how, when an emissary of
the police came from London to seek after some fraudulent defaulter, he,
only hearing vaguely that there was search made for a criminal, hid
himself for several days. That Osborne was privy to, was participator in
a frightful tragedy, which, to my eyes, bears the aspect of murder,
seems certain. I do not, I cannot doubt that my mother died then and
there. How? the blood curdles to ask; but I would compass the earth to
learn, to vindicate her name, to avenge her death."

Elizabeth felt Gerard's hand tremble and grow cold. He rose, and led the
way into the drawing-room, while Lady Cecil whispered to her friend, "I
am so very, very sorry! To go to America on such a story as this, a
story which, if it bear any semblance to the truth, had better be for
ever buried in oblivion. Dear Elizabeth, dissuade him, I entreat you."

"Do you think Mr. Neville so easy of persuasion, or that he ought to
be?" replied her companion. "Certainly, all that he has heard is vague,
coming, as it does, from a third, and an interested person. But his
whole life has been devoted to the exculpation of his mother; and, if he
believes that this tale affords a clew to lead to discovery, he is a
son, and the nature that stirs within him may gift him with a clearer
vision and a truer instinct than we can pretend to. Who can say but that
a mysterious yet powerful hand is at last held out to guide him to the
completion of his task? Oh, dear Lady Cecil, there are secrets in the
moral, sentient world, of which we know nothing: such as brought
Hamlet's father before his eyes; such as now may be stirring in your
brother's heart, revealing to him the truth, almost without his own
knowledge."

"You are as mad as he," said Lady Cecil, peevishly.

"I thought you a calm and reasonable being, who would co-operate with me
in weaning Gerard from his wild fancies, and in reconciling him to the
world as it is; but you indulge in metaphysical sallies and sublime
flights, which my commonplace mind can only regard as a sort of
intellectual will-o'-the-wisp. You betray, instead of assisting me.
Peace be with Mrs. Neville, whether in her grave, or, in some obscure
retreat, she grieves over the follies of her youth. She has been mourned
for, as never mother was mourned before; but be reasonable, dear
Elizabeth, and aid me in putting a stop to Gerard's insane career. You
can, if you will; he reveres you--he would listen to you. Do not talk of
mysterious hands, and Hamlet's ghost, and all that is to carry us away
to Fairyland; but of the rational duties of life, and the proper aim of
a man, to be useful to the living, and not spend the best years of his
life in dreams of the dead."

"What can I say?" replied Elizabeth: "you will be angry, but I
sympathize with Mr. Neville; and I cannot help saying, though you scoff
at me, that I think that, in all he is doing, he is obeying the most
sacred law of our nature--exculpating the innocent, and rendering duty
to her who has a right, living or dead, to demand all his love."

"Well," said Lady Cecil, "I have managed very ill; I had meant to make
you my ally, and have failed. I do not oppose Gerard in Sir Boyvill's
open, angry manner; but it has been my endeavour throughout to mitigate
his zeal, and to change him, from a wild sort of visionary, into a man
of this world. He has talents, he is the heir to large possessions, his
father would gladly assist any rational pursuit; he might make a figure
in his country, he might be anything he pleased; and, instead of this,
all is wasted on the unhappy dead. You do wrong to encourage him; think
of what I say, and use your influence in a more beneficial manner."

During the following days, this sort of argument was several times
renewed. Lady Cecil, who had heretofore opposed Neville covertly, with
some show of sympathy, the fallacy of which he easily detected, and who
had striven rather to lead him to forget, than to argue against his
views, now openly opposed his voyage to America. Gerard heard in
silence. He would not reply. Nothing she said carried the slightest
weight with him, and he had long been accustomed to opposition, and to
take his own way in spite of it. He was satisfied to do so now, without
making an effort to convince her. Yet he was hurt, and turned gladly to
Elizabeth for consolation. Her avowed and warm approval, her anxious
sympathy, the certainty she expressed that in the end he would succeed,
and that his enthusiasm and zeal were implanted in his heart for the
express purpose of his mother's vindication, and that he would fail in
every higher duty if he now held back; all this echoed so faithfully his
own thoughts, that she already appeared a portion of his existence that
he could never part from, the dear and promised reward of all his
exertions.

In the ardour of her sympathy, Elizabeth wrote to Falkner. She had
before written to tell him that she had seen again her friend of
Marseilles; she wrote trembling, fearful of being recalled home; for she
remembered the mysterious shrinking of her father from the name of
Neville. His replies, however, only spoke of a short journey he was
making, and a delay in his own joining her. Now again she wrote to speak
of Neville's filial piety, his mother's death, her alleged dishonour,
his sufferings and heroism; she dilated on this subject with fond
approval, and expressed her wishes for his success in warm and eager
terms; for many days she had no reply; a letter came at last--it was
short. It besought her instantly to return. "This is the last act of
duty, of affection, I shall ever ask," Falkner wrote: "comply without
demurring, come at once; come, and hear the fatal secret that will
divide us for ever. Come! I ask but for a day; the eternal future you
may, you will, pass with your new friends."

Had the writing not been firm and clear, such words had seemed to
portend her benefactor's death; wondering, struck by fear, inexpressibly
anxious to comply with his wishes, pale and trembling, she besought Lady
Cecil to arrange for her instant return. Gerard heard with sorrow, but
without surprise; he knew, if her father demanded her presence, her
first act would be obedience. But he grieved to see her suffer, and he
began also to wonder by what strange coincidence they should both be
doomed to sorrow, through the disasters of their parents.




CHAPTER XXIII


Falkner had parted with his dear adopted child under a strong excitement
of fear concerning her health. The change of air and scene restored her
so speedily, that his anxieties were of short duration. He was, however,
in no hurry to rejoin her, as he was taught to consider a temporary
separation from him as important to her convalescence.

For the first time, after many years, Falkner was alone. True, he was so
in Greece; but there he had an object. In Greece, also, it is true that
he had dwelt on the past, writing even a narrative of his actions, and
that remorse sat heavy at his heart, while he pursued this task. Yet he
went to Greece to assist in a glorious cause, and to redeem his name
from the obloquy his confession would throw on it, by his gallantry and
death. There was something animating in these reflections. Then also
disease had not attacked him, nor pain made him its prey--his sensations
were healthful--and if his reflections were melancholy and
self-condemning, yet they were attended by grandeur, and even by
sublimity, the result of the danger that surrounded him, and the courage
with which he met it.

Now he was left alone--broken in health--dashed in spirit; consenting to
live--wishing to live for Elizabeth's sake--yet haunted still by one
pale ghost, and the knowledge that his bosom contained a secret which,
if divulged, would acquire for him universal detestation. He did not
fear discovery; but little do they know the human heart who are not
aware of the throes of shame and anguish that attend the knowledge that
we are in reality a cheat, that we disguise our own real selves, and
that truth is our worst enemy. Left to himself, Falkner thought of these
things with bitterness; he loathed the burden that sat upon his soul; he
longed to cast it off; yet, when he thought of Elizabeth; her devoted
affection and earnest entreaties, he was again a coward; how could he
consent to give her up, and plant a dagger in her heart!

There was but one cure to the irritation that his spirit endured, which
was--to take refuge in her society; and he was about to join her, when a
letter came, speaking of Gerard Neville--the same wild boy they had seen
at Baden--the kind friend of Marseilles, still melancholy, still
stricken by adversity; but endowed with a thousand qualities to attract
love and admiration: full of sentiment and poetry--kind and tender as
woman--resolute and independent as a man. Elizabeth said little,
remembering Falkner's previous restriction upon his name--but she
considered it her duty to mention him to her benefactor; and that being
her duty to him, it became another to her new friend to assert his
excellence, lest by some chance Falkner had mistaken, and attributed
qualities that did not belong to him.

Falkner's thoughts became busy on this with new ideas. It was at once
pleasing and painful to hear of the virtues of Gerard Neville. The
pleasure was derived from the better portion of human nature--the pain
from the worst; a lurking envy, and dislike to excellence derived in any
degree from one he hated, and with such sentiment he regarded the father
of Gerard. Still he was the son of the angel he worshipped and had
destroyed; she had loved her child to adoration, and to know that he
grew up all she would have wished would console her wandering,
unappeased spirit. He remembered his likeness to her, and that softened
him even more. Yet he thought of the past--and what he had done; and the
very idea of her son lamenting for ever his lost mother filled him with
renewed and racking remorse.

That Elizabeth should now for the third time be thrown in his way, was
strange, and his first impulse was to recall her. It was well that
Gerard should be noble-minded, endowed with talent, a rare and exalted
being--but that she should be brought into near contact with him was
evil: between Falkner and Gerard Neville there existed a gulf
unfathomable, horrific, deadly; and any friendship between him and his
adopted child must cause disunion between her and Falkner. He had
suffered much, but this last blow, a cause for disuniting them, would
tax his fortitude too much.

Yet thus it was to be taxed. He received a letter from Lady Cecil, of
which Elizabeth was ignorant. Its ostensible object was to give good
tidings of her fair guest's health, and to renew her invitation to him.
But there was a covert meaning which Falkner detected. Lady Cecil,
though too young to be an inveterate matchmaker, yet conceived and
cherished the idea of the marriage of Neville and Elizabeth. In common
parlance, Gerard might look higher; but so also might Elizabeth,
apparently the only daughter and heiress of a man of good birth and easy
fortune. But this went for little with Lady Cecil; Gerard's peculiar
disposition--his devotion to his dead mother--his distaste to all
society--the coldness he had hitherto manifested to feminine
attractions, made the choice of a wife difficult for him. Elizabeth's
heroic and congenial character; her total inexperience in the world, and
readiness to sympathize with sentiments which, to the ordinary class of
women, would appear extravagant and foolish; all this suited them for
each other. Lady Cecil saw them together, and felt that intimacy would
produce love. She was delighted; but thinking it right that the father
should have a voice, she wrote to Falkner, scarcely alluding to these
things, but with a delicate tact that enabled her to convey her meaning,
and Falkner, jumping at once to the conclusion, saw that his child was
lost to him for ever.

There arose from this idea a convulsion of feeling, that shook him as an
earthquake shakes the firm land, making the most stable edifices totter.
A chill horror ran through his veins, a cold dew broke out on his
forehead; it was unnatural--it was fatal--it must bring on all their
heads tenfold ruin.

Yet wherefore? Elizabeth was no child of his--Elizabeth Falkner could
never wed Gerard Neville--but between him and Elizabeth Raby there
existed no obstacle. Nay, how better could he repay the injury he had
done him in depriving him of his mother, than by bestowing on him a
creature, perhaps more perfect, to be his solace and delight to the end
of his life? So must it be--here Falkner's punishment would begin; to
exile himself for ever from her, who was the child of his heart, the
prop of his existence. It was dreadful to think of, but it must be done.

And how was the sacrifice to be fulfilled? by restoring Elizabeth to her
father's family, and then withdrawing himself to a distant land. He need
not add to this the confession of his crime. No! thus should he
compensate to Gerard for the injury done him; and burning his papers,
leaving still in mystery the unknown past, die, without its ever being
known to Elizabeth that he was the cause of her husband's sorrows. It
was travelling fast, to arrange this future for all three; but there are
moments when the future, with all its contingences and possibilities,
becomes glaringly distinct to our foreseeing eye; and we act as if that
was, which we believe must be. He would become a soldier once again--and
the boon of death would not be for ever denied to him.

To restore Elizabeth to her family was at any rate but doing her a
long-withheld justice. The child of honour and faithful affection--who
bore a proud name--whose loveliness of person and mind would make her a
welcome treasure in any family; she, despite her generous sacrifices,
should follow his broken fortunes no longer. If the notion of her
marrying Neville were a mere dream, still to give back to her name and
station, was a benefit which it was unjust any longer to withhold; nor
should it be a question between them. They were now divided, so should
they remain. He would reveal her existence to her family, claim their
protection, and then withdraw himself; while she, occupied by a new and
engrossing sentiment, would easily get reconciled to his absence.

The first step he took in furtherance of this new resolution, was to
make inquiries concerning the present state of Elizabeth's family--of
which hitherto he knew no more than what he gathered from her mother's
unfinished letter, and this was limited to their being a wealthy
Catholic family, proud of their ancestry, and devoted to their faith.
Through his solicitor he gained intelligence of their exact situation.
He heard that there was a family of that name in Northumberland; it was
Roman Catholic, and exceedingly rich. The present head of the family was
an old man; he had long been a widower; left with a family of six sons.
The eldest had married early, and was dead, leaving his widow with four
daughters and one son, yet a child, who was the heir of the family
honours and estates, and resided with his mother, for the most part, at
the mansion of his grandfather. Of the remaining sons little account
could be gained. It was the family custom to concentrate all its
prosperity and wealth on the head of the eldest son; and the younger,
precluded by their religion, at that time, from advancement in their own
country, entered foreign service. One only had exempted himself from the
common lot, and become an outcast, and, in the eyes of his family, a
reprobate. Edwin Raby had apostatized from the Catholic faith; he had
married a portionless girl of inferior birth, and entered the profession
of the law. His parents looked with indignation on the dishonour
entailed on their name through his falling off; but his death relieved
their terrors--he died, leaving a widow and an infant daughter. As the
marriage had never been acknowledged, and female offspring were held
supernumerary, and an encumbrance in the Raby family, they had refused
to receive her, and never heard of her more; she was, it was
conjectured, living in obscurity among her own relations. Falkner at
once detected the truth. The despised, deserted widow had died in her
youth; and the daughter of Edwin Raby was the child of his adoption. On
this information Falkner regulated his conduct; and finding that
Elizabeth's grandfather, old Oswi Raby, resided habitually at his seat
in the north of England, he--his health now restored sufficiently to
make the journey without inconvenience--set out for Northumberland, to
communicate the existence, and claim his acknowledgment, of his
granddaughter.

There are periods in our lives when we seem to run away from ourselves
and our afflictions; to commence a new course of existence, upon fresh
ground, towards a happier goal. Sometimes, on the contrary, the stream
of life doubles--runs back to old scenes, and we are constrained to
linger amid the desolation we had hoped to leave far behind. Thus was it
with Falkner; the past clung to him inextricably. What had he to do with
those who had suffered through his misdeed? He had fled from them--he
had traversed a quarter of the earth--he had placed a series of years
between them; but there he was again--in the same spot--the same forms
before him--the same names sounding in his ears--the effects of his
actions impending darkly and portentously over him; seeing no escape but
by casting away the only treasure of his life--his adopted child--and
becoming again a solitary, miserable wanderer.

No man ever suffered more keenly than Falkner the stings of remorse; no
man ever resolved more firmly to meet the consequences of his actions
systematically, and without outward flinching. It was perseverance to
one goal that had occasioned all his sin and wo; it followed him in his
repentance; and though misery set a visible mark on his brow, he did not
hesitate nor delay. The journey to Northumberland was long, for he could
only proceed by short stages; and all the time miserable reflection
doubled every mile, and stretched each hour into twice its duration. He
was alone. To look back was wretchedness--to think of Elizabeth was no
solace; hereafter they were to be divided--hereafter no voice of love or
gentle caress would chase the darkness from his brow--he was to be for
ever alone.

At length he arrived at his destination, and reached the entrance to
Belleforest. The mansion, a fine old Gothic building, adorned by the
ruins of an ancient abbey, was in itself venerable and extensive, and
surrounded by a princely demesne. This was the residence of Elizabeth's
ancestors--of her nearest relations. Here her childhood would have been
spent--under these venerable oaks--within these ancestral walls. Falkner
was glad to think that, in being forced to withdraw from her his own
protection, she would take a higher station, and in the world's eye
become more on an equality with Gerard Neville. Everything around
denoted grandeur and wealth; the very circumstance that the family
adhered to the ancient faith of the land--to a form of worship which,
though evil in its effects on the human mind, is to the eye imposing and
magnificent, shed a greater lustre round the place. On inquiry, Falkner
heard that the old gentleman was at Belleforest; indeed, he never
quitted it; but that his daughter-in-law, with her family, were in the
south of England. Mr. Raby was very accessible; on asking for him,
Falkner was instantly ushered in.

He entered a library of vast dimensions, and fitted up with a sort of
heavy splendour; very imposing, but very sombre. The high windows,
painted ceiling, and massy furniture bespoke an oldfashioned, but almost
regal taste. Falkner, for a moment, thought himself alone, when a slight
noise attracted his attention to a diminutive and very white old
gentleman, who advanced towards him. The mansion looked built for a
giant race; and Falkner, expecting the majesty of size, could hardly
contract his view to the slender and insignificant figure of the present
possessor. Oswi Raby looked shrivelled, not so much by age as the
narrowness of his mind; to whose dimensions his outward figure had
contracted itself. His face was pale and thin; his light blue eyes grown
dim; you might have thought that he was drying up and vanishing from the
earth by degrees. Contrasted with this slight shadow of a man, was a
mind that saw the whole world almost concentrated in himself. He, Oswi
Raby, he, head of the oldest family in England, was first of created
beings. Without being assuming in manner, he was self-important in
heart; and there was an obstinacy and an incapacity to understand that
anything was of consequence except himself, or rather, except the house
he represented, that gave extreme repulsion to his manners.

It is always awkward to disclose an errand such as Falkner's; it was
only by plunging at once into it, and warming himself by his own words,
that he contrived to throw grace round his subject. A cloud gathered
over the old man's features; he grew whiter, and his thin lips closed,
as if they had never opened except with a refusal.

"You speak of very painful circumstances," he said; "I have sometimes
feared that I should be intruded upon in behalf of this person; yet,
after so many years, there is less pretence than ever for encroaching
upon an injured family. Edwin himself broke the tie. He was rebellious
and apostate. He had talents, and might have distinguished himself to
his honour; he preferred irreparable disgrace. He abandoned the religion
which we consider as the most precious part of our inheritance; and he
added imprudence to guilt, by, he being himself unprovided for, marrying
a portionless, low-born girl. He never hoped for my forgiveness; he
never even asked it. His death--it is hard for a father to feel
thus--but his death was a relief. We were applied to by his widow; but
with her we could have nothing to do. She was the partner of his
rebellion--nay, we looked upon her as its primal cause. I was willing to
take charge of my grandchild, if delivered entirely up to me. She did
not even think proper to reply to the letter making this concession. I
had, indeed, come to the determination of continuing to her a portion of
the allowance I made to my son, despite his disobedience; but from that
time to this no tidings of either mother or daughter have reached us."

"Death must bear the blame of that negligence," said Falkner, mastering
his rising disgust. "Mrs. Raby was hurried to the grave but a few months
after your son's death, the victim of her devoted affection to her
husband. Their innocent daughter was left among strangers, who did not
know to whom to apply. She, at least, is free from all fault, and has
every claim on her father's family."

"She is nothing, and has no claim," interrupted Mr. Raby, peevishly,
"beyond a bare maintenance, even if she be the person you represent. I
beg your pardon, sir, but you may be deceived yourself on this subject;
but taking it for granted that this young person is the daughter of my
son, what is she to me?"

"A granddaughter is a relation," Falkner began; "a near and dear one--"

"Under such circumstances," interrupted Mr. Raby, "under the
circumstances of a marriage to which I gave no consent, and her being
brought up at a distance from us all, I should rather call her a
connexion than a relation. We cannot look with favour on the child of an
apostate; educated in a faith which we consider pernicious. I am an
oldfashioned man, accustomed only to the society of those whose feelings
coincide with mine; and I must apologize, sir, if I say anything to
shock you; but the truth is self-evident, a child of a discarded son may
have a slender claim for support, none for favour or countenance. This
young person has no right to raise her eyes to us; she must regulate her
expectations by the condition of her mother, who was a sort of servant,
a humble companion or governess, in the house of Mrs. Neville of
Dromore--"

Falkner grew pale at the name, but, commanding himself, replied, "I
believe she was a friend of that lady! I have said I was unacquainted
with the parents of Miss Raby; I found her an orphan, subsisting on
precarious charity. Her few years--her forlorn situation--her beauty and
sweetness, claimed my compassion--I adopted her--"

"And would now throw her off," again interrupted the ill-tempered old
man. "Had you restored her to us in her childhood--had she been brought
up in our religion among us--she would have shared this home with her
cousins. As it is, you must yourself be aware that it will be impossible
to admit, as an inmate, a stranger--a person ignorant of our peculiar
systems--an alien from our religion. Mrs. Raby would never consent to
it; and I would on no account annoy her who, as the mother and guardian
of my heir, merits every deference. I will, however, consult with her,
and with the gentleman who has the conduct of my affairs; and as you
wish to get rid of an embarrassment, which, pardon me if I say you
entirely brought on yourself, we will do what we judge due to the honour
of the family; but I cannot hold out any hopes beyond a
maintenance--unless this young person, whom I should then regard as my
granddaughter, felt a vocation for a religion, out of whose pale I will
never acknowledge a relation."

At every word Falkner grew more angry. He always repressed any
manifestation of passion, and only grew pale, and spoke in a lower,
calmer voice. There was a pause; he glanced at the white hair and
attenuated form of the old man, so to acquire a sufficient portion of
forbearance, and then replied: "It is enough--forget this visit; you
shall never hear again of the existence of your outraged grandchild.
Could you for a moment comprehend her worth, you might feel regret at
casting from you one whose qualities render her the admiration of all
who know her. Some day, when the infirmities of age increase upon you,
you may remember that you might have had a being near, the most
compassionate and kind that breathes. If ever you feel the want of an
affectionate hand to smooth your pillow, you may remember that you have
shut your heart to one who would have been a daily blessing. I do not
wish to disembarrass myself of Miss Raby--Miss Falkner, rather, let me
call her; she has borne my name as my daughter for many years, and shall
continue to retain it, together with my paternal guardianship, while I
live. I have the honour to wish you a good-morning."

Falkner hastily departed; and, as he threw himself on his horse, and at
a quick pace traversed the long avenues of Belleforest, he felt that
boiling of the blood, that inexpressible bursting and tumult of the
heart, that accompanies fierce indignation and disdain. A vehement
desire to pour out the cataract of his contempt and anger on the
offender, was mingled with redoubled tenderness for Elizabeth, with
renewed gratitude for all he owed her, and a yearning, heart-warming
desire to take her again to the shelter of his love, from whence she
should never more depart.




CHAPTER XXIV


Falkner's mind had undergone a total change; he had gone to Belleforest,
believing it to be his duty to restore to its possessors a dearer
treasure than any held by them; he left it, resolved never to part from
his adopted child. "Get rid of an embarrassment!" he repeated to
himself; "get rid of Elizabeth, of tender affection, truth, and
fidelity! of the heart's fondest ties, my soul's only solace! How often
has my life been saved and cheered by her only! And when I would
sacrifice blessings of which I hold myself unworthy, I hear the noblest
and most generous being in the world degraded by the vulgar, sordid
prejudices of that narrow-minded bigot! How paltry seems the pomp of
wealth, or the majesty of these ancient woods, when it is recollected
that they are lorded over by such a thing as that!"

Falkner's reflections were all painful; his heavily-burdened conscience
weighed him to the earth. He felt that there was justice in a part of
Mr. Raby's representations; that if Elizabeth had been brought up under
his care, in a religion which, because it was persecuted, was the more
valuable in their eyes; participating in their prejudices, and endeared
to them by habit, she would have had claims, which, as she was, unseen,
unknown, and totally disjoined from them in opinions and feelings, she
could never possess. He was the cause of this, having, in her infancy,
chosen to take her to himself, to link his desolate fate to her brighter
one; and now he could only repent for her sake; yet, for her sake, he
did repent, when, looking forward, he thought of the growing attachment
between her and the son of his victim.

What could he do? recall her? forbid her again to see Gerard Neville?
Unexplained commands are ever unjust, and had any strong feeling sprung
up in either of their hearts, they could not be obeyed. Should he tell
her all, and throw himself on her mercy? He would thus inflict deep,
irreparable pangs, and, besides, place her in a painful situation, where
duty would struggle with inclination; and pride and affection both made
it detestable to him to create such a combat in her heart, and cause her
to feel pangs and make sacrifices for him. What other part was there to
take? to remain neuter? let events take their course? If it ended as he
foresaw, when a marriage was mentioned, he could reveal her real birth.
Married to Gerard Neville, her relations would gladly acknowledge her,
and then he could withdraw for ever. He should have much to endure
meanwhile; to hear a name perpetually repeated that thrilled to the very
marrow of his bones; perhaps to see the husband and son of her he had
destroyed: he felt sick at heart at such a thought; he put it aside. It
was not to-day, it could not be to-morrow, that he should be called upon
to encounter these evils; meanwhile, he would shut his eyes upon them.

Returning homeward, he felt impelled to prolong his tour, he visited
some of the lakes of Westmoreland, and the mountain scenery of
Derbyshire. The thought of return was painful, so he lingered on the
way, and wrote for his letters to be forwarded to him. He had been some
weeks without receiving any from Elizabeth, and he felt extreme
impatience again to be blessed with the sight of her handwriting--he
felt how passionately he loved her--how to part from her was to part
from every joy of life; he called himself her father--his heart
acknowledged the tie in every pulsation; no father ever worshipped a
child so fervently; her voice, her smile--and dear loving eyes, where
were they?--they were far, but here was something--a little packet of
letters, that must for the present stand in lieu of the dearer blessing
of her presence. He looked at the papers with delight--he pressed them
to his lips--he delayed to open them, as if he did not deserve the joy
they would communicate--as if its excess would overpower him. "I purpose
parting from her," he thought; "but still she is mine, mine when she
traced those lines--mine as I read the expressions of her affection;
there are hours of delight garnered for me in those little sealed
talismans that nothing future or past can tarnish, and yet the name of
Neville will be there!" The thought brought a cold chill with it, and he
opened the letters hastily to know the worst.

Elizabeth had half forgotten the pain with which Falkner had at one time
shrunk from a name become so dear to her; when she wrote, her heart was
full of Gerard's story--and, besides, she had had letters from her
father speaking of him with kindness, so that she indulged herself by
alluding to it--to the disappearance of his mother and Gerard's misery;
the trial--the brutality of Sir Boyvill; and last, to the resolution
formed in childhood, brooded over through youth, now acted upon, to
discover his mother's destroyer. "Nor is it," she wrote, "any vulgar
feeling of vengeance that influences him--but the purest and noblest
motives. She is stigmatized as unworthy--he would vindicate her fame.
When I hear the surmises, the accusations cast on her, I feel with him.
To hear a beloved parent accused of guilt, must indeed be the most
bitter wo; to believe her innocent, and to prove her such, the only
alleviation. God grant that he may succeed!--and though I wish no ill to
any human being, yet rather may the height of evil fall on the head of
the true criminal, than continue to cloud the days of a being whose soul
is moulded in sensibility and honour!"

"Thus do you pray, heedless Elizabeth! May the true criminal feel the
height of evil; may he--whom you have saved from death--endure tortures
compared to which a thousand deaths were nothing! Be it so! you shall
have your wish!"

Impetuous as fire, Falkner did not pause: something, some emotion
devouring as fire, was lighted up in his heart--there must be no
delay!--never had he seen the effects of his crime in so vivid a light;
avoiding the name of Neville, he had never heard that of his victim
coupled with shame--she was unfortunate, but he persuaded himself that
she was not thought guilty; dear injured saint! had then her sacred name
been bandied about by the vulgar--she pronounced unworthy by the judges
of her acts--ignominy heaped upon the grave he had dug for her? Was her
beloved son the victim of his belief in her goodness? Had his youthful
life been blighted by his cowardly concealments? Oh, rather a thousand
deaths than such a weight of sin upon his soul! He would declare all;
offer his life in expiation--what more could be demanded?

And again--this might be thought a more sordid motive; and yet it was
not--Gerard was vowed to the discovery of the true criminal; he would
discover him--earth would render up her secrets, Heaven lead the son to
the very point--by slow degrees his crime would be unveiled--Elizabeth
called upon to doubt and to believe. His vehement disposition was not
calculated to bear the slow process of such discoveries; he would meet
them, avow all--let the worst fall on him: it was happiness to know and
feel the worst.

Lost for ever, he would deliver himself up to reprobation and the
punishment of his guilt. Too long he had delayed--now all his motives
for concealment melted away like snow overspread by volcanic fire.
Fierce, hurrying destiny seized him by the hair of his head--crying
aloud, "Murderer, offer up thy blood--shade of Alithea, take thy
victim!"

He wrote instantly to Elizabeth to meet him at their home at Wimbledon,
and proceeded thither himself. Unfortunately, the tumult of his thoughts
acted on his health; after he had proceeded a few miles, he was taken
ill--for three days he was confined to his bed, in a high fever. He
thought he was about to die--his secret untold. Copious bleeding,
however, subdued the violence of the attack--and weak and faint, he,
despite his physician's advice, proceeded homeward; weak and faint, an
altered man--life had no charms, no calls, but one duty. Hitherto he had
lived in contempt of the chain of effects which ever links pain to evil
and of the Providence which will not let the innocent be for ever
traduced. It had fallen on him; now his punishment had begun, not as he,
in the happier vehemence of passion, had determined, not by sudden,
self-inflicted, or glorious death--but the slow grinding of the iron
wheels of destiny, as they passed over him, crushing him in the dust.

Yet his heart, despite its sufferings, warmed with something like
pleasure when, after a tedious journey of three days, he drew near his
home, where he hoped to find Elizabeth. He had misgivings; he had asked
her to return, but she might have written to request a delay--no! she
was there; she had been there two days, anxiously expecting him. It is
so sweet a thing to hear the voice of one we love welcoming us on our
return home! It seems to assure us of a double existence; not only in
our own identity--which we bear perpetually about with us--but in the
heart we leave behind, which has thought of us--lived for us, and now
beats with warm pleasure on beholding the expected one. On the whole
earth Falkner loved none but Elizabeth. He hated himself; the past--the
present--the future, as they appertained to him, were all detestable;
remorse, grief, and loathsome anticipation made up the sum of feelings
with which he regarded them: but here, bright and beautiful; without
taint; all affection and innocence--a monument of his own good feelings,
a lasting rock to which to moor his every hope, stood before him the
child of his adoption; his heart felt bursting when he thought of all
she was to him.

Yet a doubt entered to mar his satisfaction--was she changed? If love
had insinuated itself into her heart, he was rejected; at least the
plenteous, abundant fountain, that gave from its own source, would be
changed to the still waters that neither received increase nor bestowed
any overflowing. Worse than this--she loved Gerard Neville, the son of
his victim, he whose life was devastated by him, who would regard him
with abhorrence. He would teach Elizabeth to partake this feeling. The
blood stood chilled in Falkner's heart when he thought of thus losing
the only being he loved on earth.

He mastered these feelings when he saw her. The first moment, indeed,
when she flew to his arms, and expressed with eager fondness her delight
in seeing him again, was all happiness. She perceived the traces of
suffering on his brow, and chided herself for having remained away so
long; she promised never to absent herself thus again. Every remembered
look and tone of her dear face and voice, now brought palpably before
him, was a medicine to Falkner. He repressed his uneasiness, he banished
his fears; for a few hours he made happiness his own again.

The evening was passed in calm and cheering conversation. No word was
said of the friends whom Elizabeth had left. She had forgotten them,
during the first few hours she spent with her father; and when she did
allude to her visit, Falkner said, "We will talk of these things
to-morrow; to-night let us only think of ourselves." Elizabeth felt a
little mortified; the past weeks, the fortunes of her friends, and the
sentiments they excited, had become a part of herself; and she was
pained that so much of disjunction existed between her and Falkner, as
to make that which was so vivid and present to her vacant of interest to
him; but she checked her disappointment: soon he would know her new
friend, sympathize in his devotion towards his injured mother, enter as
warmly as she did into the result of his endeavours for her exculpation.
Meanwhile she yielded to his wish, and they talked of scenes and
countries they had visited together, and all the feelings and opinions
engendered by the past; as they were wont to do in days gone by, before
a stranger influence had disturbed a world in which they lived for each
other only--father and daughter--without an interest beyond.

Nothing could be more pure and entire than their affection, and there
was between them that mingling of hearts which words cannot describe;
but which, whenever it is experienced, in whatever relation in life, is
unalloyed happiness. There was a total absence of disguise, of covert
censure, of mutual diffidence; perfect confidence gave rise to the
fearless utterance of every idea, and there was a repose, and yet an
enjoyment in the sense of sympathy and truth, which filled and
satisfied. Falkner was surprised at the balmy sense of joy that, despite
everything, stole over him; and he kissed and blessed his child, as she
retired for the night, with more grateful affection, a fuller sense of
her merits, and a more fervent desire of preserving her always near him,
than he had ever before been conscious of experiencing.




CHAPTER XXV


Elizabeth rose on the following morning, her bosom glowing with a
sensation of acknowledged happiness. So much of young love brooded in
her heart, as quickened its pulsations, as gave lightness and joy to her
thoughts. She had no doubts, nor fears, nor even hopes: she was not
aware that love was the real cause of the grateful sense of happiness,
with which she avowed, to Heaven and herself, that all was peace. She
was glad to be reunited to Falkner, for whom she felt an attachment at
once so respectful, and yet, on account of his illness and melancholy,
so watchful and tender, as never allowed her to be wholly free from
solicitude when absent from him. Also she expected on that morning to
see Gerard Neville. When Falkner's letter came to hasten her departure
from Oakly, she felt grieved at the recall, at the moment when she was
expecting him to join her, so to fill up the measure of her enjoyments;
with all this, she was eager to obey, and anxious to be with him again.
Lady Cecil deputed Miss Jervis to accompany her. On the very morning of
their departure, Neville asked for a seat in the carriage; they
travelled to town together; and when they separated, Neville told her of
his intention of immediately securing a passage to America, and since
then had written a note to mention that he should ride over to Wimbledon
on that morning.

The deep interest that Elizabeth took in his enterprise made her
solicitous to know whether he had procured any further information; but
her paramount desire was to introduce him to Falkner, to inspire him
with her sentiments of friendship, and to see two persons whom she
considered superior to the rest of the world bound to each other by a
mutual attachment; she wanted to impart to her father a pity for
Alithea's wrongs, and an admiration for her devoted son. She walked in
the shrubbery before breakfast, enjoying nature with the enthusiasm of
love; she gathered the last roses of the departing season, and mingling
them with a few carnations, hung, with a new sense of rapture, over
these fairest children of nature; for it is the property of love to
enhance all our enjoyments, "to paint the lily, and add a perfume to the
rose." When she returned to the house, she was told that Falkner still
slept, and begged not to be disturbed. She breakfasted, therefore, by
herself, sitting by the open casement, and looking on the waving trees,
her flowers shedding a sweet atmosphere around; sometimes turning to her
open book, where she read of


"The heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb,"


and sometimes leaning her cheek upon her hand, in one of those reveries
where we rather feel than think, and every articulation of the frame
thrills with a living bliss.

The quick canter of a horse, the stopping at the gate, the ringing of
the bell, and the entrance of Neville, made her heart beat and her eyes
light up with gladness. He entered with a lighter step, a more cheerful
and animated mien, than usual. He was aware that he loved. He was
assured that Elizabeth was the being selected from the whole world who
could make him happy; while he regarded her with all the admiration, the
worship, due to her virtues. He had never loved before. The gloom that
absorbed him, the shyness inspired by his extreme sensitiveness, had
hitherto made him avoid the society of women; their pleasures, their
gayety, their light airy converse, were a blank to him; it was
Elizabeth's sufferings that first led him to remark her: the clearness
of her understanding, her simplicity, tenderness, and dignity of soul
won him; and, lastly, the unbounded, undisguised sympathy she felt for
his endeavours, which all else regarded as futile and insane, riveted
him to her indissolubly.

Events were about to separate them, but her thoughts would accompany him
across the Atlantic--stand suspended while his success was dubious, and
hail his triumph with a joy equal to his own. The very thought gave
fresh ardour to his desire to fulfil his task; he had no doubt of
success, and, though the idea of his mother's fate was still a cloud in
the prospect, it only mellowed, without defacing the glowing tints shed
over it by love.

They met with undisguised pleasure; he sat near her, and gazed with such
delight as, to one less inexperienced than Elizabeth, would have at once
betrayed the secret of his heart. He told her that he had found a vessel
about to sail for New-York, and that he had engaged a passage on board.
He was restless and uneasy, he feared a thousand chances; he felt as if
he were neglecting his most sacred duty by any delay; there was
something in him urging him on, telling him that the crisis was at hand;
and yet, that any neglect on his part might cause the moment to slip by
for ever. When arrived at New-York, he should proceed with all speed to
Washington, and then, if Osborne had not arrived, he should set forward
to meet him. So much might intervene to balk his hopes! Osborne might
die, and his secret die with him. Every moment's delay was crime. The
vessel was to drop down the river that very night, and to-morrow he was
to join her at Sheerness. He had come to say farewell.

This sudden departure led to a thousand topics of interest; to his
hopes--his certainty that all would soon be revealed, and he rewarded
for his long suffering. Such ideas led him to speak of the virtues of
his mother, which were the foundation of his hopes. He spoke of her as
he remembered her; he described her watchful tenderness, her playful but
well-regulated treatment of himself. Still in his dreams, he said, he
sometimes felt pressed in her arms, and kissed with all the passionate
affection of her maternal heart; in such sweet visions her cry of agony
would mingle; it seemed the last shriek of wo and death. "Can you
wonder," continued Neville, "can my father, can Sophia wonder, that,
recollecting all these things, I will not bear without a struggle that
my mother's name should be clouded, her fate encompassed by mystery and
blame, her very warm, kind feelings and enchanting sensibility turned
into accusations against her? I do indeed hope and believe that I shall
learn the truth whither I am going, and that the unfortunate victim of
lawless violence, of whom Osborne spoke, is my lost mother; but, if I am
disappointed in this expectation, I shall not for that give up my
pursuit; it will only whet my purpose to seek the truth elsewhere."

"And that truth may be less sad than you anticipate," said Elizabeth;
"yet I cannot help fearing that the miserable tragedy which you have
heard is connected with your mother's fate."

"That it is a tragedy may well dash my eagerness," replied Neville;
"for, right or wrong, I cannot help feeling, that to see her again--to
console her for her sufferings--to show that she is remembered, loved,
idolized by her son, would be a dearer reward to me than triumph over
the barbarous condemnation of the world, if that triumph is to be
purchased by having lost her for ever. This is not an heroic feeling, I
confess--"

"If it be heroism," said Elizabeth, "to find our chief good in serving
others; if compassion, sympathy, and generosity be greater virtues, as I
believe, than cold self-absorbed severity, then is your feeling founded
on the purest portion of our nature."

While they were thus talking, seated near each other, Elizabeth's face
beaming with celestial benignity, and Neville, in the warmth of his
gratitude for her approval, had taken her hand and pressed it to his
lips, the door opened, and Falkner slowly entered. He had not heard of
the arrival of the stranger; but seeing a guest with Elizabeth, he
divined in a moment who it was. The thought ran through his frame like
an ice-bolt--his knees trembled under him--cold dew gathered on his
brow--for a moment he leaned against the doorway, unable to support
himself; while Elizabeth, perceiving his entrance, blushing, she knew
not why, and now frightened by the ghastly pallor of his face, started
up, exclaiming, "My father! Are you ill?"

Falkner struggled a moment longer, and then recovered his
self-possession. The disordered expression of his countenance was
replaced by a cold and stern look, which, aided by the marble paleness
that settled over it, looked more like the chiselling of a statue than
mortal endurance. A lofty resolve to bear unflinchingly was the spirit
that moulded his features into an appearance of calm. From this moment
he acquired the strength of body, as well as of mind, to meet the
destiny before him. The energy of his soul did not again fail. Every
instant--every word, seemed to add to his courage--to nerve him to the
utmost height of endurance; to make him ready to leap, without one
tremour, into the abyss which he had so long and so fearfully avoided.

The likeness of Neville to his mother had shaken him more than all. His
voice, whose tones were the same with hers, was another shock. His very
name jarred upon his sense, but he betrayed no token of suffering. "Mr.
Neville," said Elizabeth, "is come to take leave of me. To-morrow he
sails to America."

"To America! Wherefore?" asked Falkner.

"I wrote to you," she replied; "I explained the motives of this voyage.
You know--"

"I know all," said Falkner; "and this voyage to America is superfluous."

Neville echoed the word with surprise, while Elizabeth exclaimed, "Do
you think so? You must have good reasons for this opinion. Tell them to
Mr. Neville. Your counsels, I am sure, will be of use to him. I have
often wished that you had been with us. I am so glad that he sees you
before he goes--if he does go. You say his voyage is superfluous; tell
him wherefore; advise him. Your advice will, I am sure, be good. I would
give the world that he did the exact thing that is best--that is most
likely to succeed."

Neville looked gratefully at her as she spoke thus eagerly; while
Falkner, still standing, his eyes fixed on and scanning the person of
the son of his victim, marble pale, but displaying feeling by no other
outward sign, scarcely heard what she said, till her last words drew his
attention. He smiled, as in scorn, and said, "Oh, yes, I can advise; and
he shall succeed--and he will not go."

"I shall be happy," said Neville, with surprise. "I am willing to be
advised--that is, if your advice coincides with my wishes."

"It shall do so," interrupted Falkner.

"Then," exclaimed Neville, impetuously, "the moments that I linger here
will appear to you too many. You will desire that I should be on board
already--already under sail--already arrived. You will wish the man whom
I seek should be waiting on the sands when I reach the shore!"

"He is much nearer," said Falkner, calmly; "he is before you. I am he!"

Neville started; "You! What mean you? You are not Osborne."

"I am Rupert Falkner; your mother's destroyer."

Neville glanced at Elizabeth--his eye met hers--their thought was the
same, that this declaration proceeded from insanity. The fire that
flashed from Falkner's eyes as he spoke--the sudden crimson that died
his cheeks--the hollow though subdued tone of his voice, gave warrant
for such a suspicion.

Elizabeth gazed on him with painful solicitude.

"I will not stay one moment longer," continued Falkner, "to pain you by
the sight of one so accursed as I. You will hear more from me this very
evening. You will hear enough to arrest your voyage; and remember that I
shall remain ready to answer any call--to make any reparation--any
atonement you may require."

He was gone--the door closed; it was as if a dread spectre had vanished,
and Neville and Elizabeth looked at each other to read in the face of
either whether both were conscious of having been visited by the same
vision.

"What does he mean? Can you tell me what to think?" cried Neville,
almost gasping for breath.

"I will tell you in a few hours," said Elizabeth. "I must go to him now;
I fear he is very ill. This is madness. When your mother died, Mr.
Neville, my father and I were travelling together in Russia or Poland. I
remember dates--I am sure that it was so. This is too dreadful.
Farewell. You sail to-morrow--you shall hear from me to-night."

"Be sure that I do," said Neville; "for there is a method in his
speech--a dignity and a composure in his manner, that enforces a sort of
belief. What can he mean?"

"Do you imagine," cried Elizabeth, "that there is any truth in these
unhappy ravings? That my father, who would not tread upon a worm--whose
compassionate disposition and disinterestedness have been known to me
since early childhood--the noblest and yet the gentlest of human
beings--do you imagine that he is a murderer? Dear Mr. Neville, he never
could have seen your mother!"

"Is it indeed so?" said Neville; "yet he said one word--did you not
remark?--he called himself Rupert. But I will not distress you. You will
write; or rather, as my time will be occupied in preparations for my
voyage, and I scarcely know where the day will be spent, I will call
here this evening at nine. If you cannot see me, send me a note to the
gate, containing some information, either to expedite or delay my
journey. Even if this strange scene be the work of insanity, how can I
leave you in distress? and if it be true what he says--if he be the man
I saw tear my mother from me--how altered--how turned to age and
decrepitude! Yet, if he be that man, then I have a new and horrible
course to take."

"Is it so?" cried Elizabeth, with indignation; "and can a man so cloud
his fair fame, so destroy his very existence, by the wild words of
delirium, that my dear father should be accused of being the most odious
criminal?"

"Nay," replied Neville, "I make no accusation. Do not part from me in
anger. You are right, I do not doubt; and I am unjust. I will call
to-night."

"Do so without fail. Do not lose your passage. I little knew that
personal feeling would add to my eagerness to learn the truth. Do not
stay for my sake. Come to-night and learn how false and wild my father's
words were; and then hasten to depart--to see Osborne--to learn all!
Farewell till this evening."

She hurried away to Falkner's room, while stunned--doubting--forced, by
Elizabeth, to entertain doubts, and yet convinced in his heart; for the
name of Rupert brought, conviction home--Neville left the house. He had
entered it fostering the sweetest dreams of happiness, and now he dared
not look at the reverse.

Elizabeth, filled with the most poignant inquietude with regard to his
health, hastened to the sitting-room which Falkner usually occupied. She
found him seated at the table, with a small box--a box she well
remembered--open before him. He was looking over the papers it
contained. His manner was perfectly composed--the natural hue had
returned to his cheeks--his look was sedate. He was, indeed, very
different from the man who, thirteen years before, had landed in
Cornwall. He was then in the prime of life; and if passion defaced his
features, still youth, and health, and power animated his frame. Long
years of grief and remorse, with sickness superadded, had made him old
before his time. The hair had receded from the temples, and what
remained was sprinkled with gray; his figure was bent and attenuated;
his face careworn; yet, at this moment, he had regained a portion of his
former self. There was an expression on his face of satisfaction, almost
of triumph; and, when he saw Elizabeth, the old, sweet smile she knew
and loved so well lighted up his countenance. He held out his hand; she
took it. There was no fever in the palm--his pulse was equable; and when
he spoke his voice did not falter. He said, "This blow has fallen
heavily on you, my dear girl; yet all will be well soon, I trust.
Meanwhile it cannot be quite unexpected."

Elizabeth looked her astonishment--he continued:--"You have long known
that a heavy crime weighs on my conscience. It renders me unfit to live;
yet, I have not been permitted to die. I sought death--but we are seldom
allowed to direct our fate. I do not, however, complain; I am well
content with the end which will speedily terminate all."

"My dearest father," cried Elizabeth, "I cannot guess what you mean. I
thought--but no--you are not ill--you are not--"

"Not mad, dearest? was that your thought? It is a madness, at least,
that has lasted long--since first you stayed my hand on your mother's
grave. You are too good, too affectionate to regret having saved me,
even when you hear who I am. You are too resigned to Providence not to
acquiesce in the way chosen to bring all things to their destined end."

Elizabeth put her arm round his neck and kissed him. "Thank you," said
Falkner, "and God bless you for this kindness. I shall indeed be glad if
you, from your heart, pardon and excuse me. Meanwhile, my love, there is
something to be done. These papers contain an account of the miserable
past; you must read them, and then let Mr. Neville have them without
delay."

"Nay," said Elizabeth, "spare me this one thing--do not ask me to read
the history of any one error of yours. In my eyes you must ever be the
first and best of human beings--if it has ever been otherwise, I will
not hear of it. You shall never be accused of guilt before me, even by
yourself."

"Call it, then, my justification," said Falkner. "But do not refuse my
request--it is necessary. If it be pain, pardon me for inflicting it;
but bear it for my sake--I wrote this narrative when I believed myself
about to die in Greece, for the chief purpose of disclosing the truth to
you. I have told my story truly and simply; you can have it from no one
else, for no human being breathes who knows the truth except myself.
Yield, then--you have ever been yielding to me--yield, I beseech you, to
my solemn request; do not shrink from hearing of my crimes--I hope soon
to atone them. And then perform one other duty: send these papers to
your friend--you know where he is."

"He will call here this evening at nine."

"By that time you will have finished; I am going to town now, but shall
return to-night. Mr. Neville will be come and gone before then, and you
will know all. I do not doubt but that you will pity me--such is your
generosity, that perhaps you may love me still--but you will be shocked
and wretched, and I the cause. Alas! how many weapons do our errors
wield, and how surely does retribution aim at our defenceless side! To
know that I am the cause of unhappiness to you, my sweet girl, inflicts
a pang I cannot endure with any fortitude. But there is a remedy, and
all will be well in the end."

Elizabeth hung over him as he spoke, and he felt a tear warm on his
cheek, fallen from her eye--he was subdued by this testimony of her
sympathy--he strained her to his heart; but, in a moment after, he
reassumed his self-command, and, kissing her, bade her farewell, and
then left her to the task of sorrow he had assigned.

She knew not what to think, what image to conjure up. His words were
free from all incoherence; before her, also, were the papers that would
tell all--she turned from them with disgust; and then again she thought
of Neville, his departure, his promised return, and what she could say
to him. It was a hideous dream, but there was no awakening; she sat
down, she took out the papers; the number of pages written in her
father's hand seemed a reprieve; she should not hear all the dreadful
truth in a few short, piercing words--there was preparation. For a
moment she paused to gather her thoughts--to pray for fortitude--to hope
that the worst was not there, but, in its stead, some venial error that
looked like crime to his sensitive mind; and then--she began to read.




CHAPTER XXVI

FALKNER'S NARRATIVE


"To palliate crime, and, by investigating motive, to render guilt less
odious--such is not the feeling that rules my pen; to confer honour upon
innocence, to vindicate virtue, and announce truth--though that offer my
own name as a mark for deserved infamy--such are my motives. And if I
reveal the secrets of my heart, and dwell on the circumstances that led
to the fatal catastrophe I record, so that, though a criminal, I do not
appear quite a monster, let the egotism be excused for her dear
sake--within whose young and gentle heart I would fain that my memory
should be enshrined without horror, though with blame.

"The truth, the pure and sacred truth, will alone find expression in
these pages. I write them in a land of beauty, but of desolation--in a
country whose inhabitants are purchasing by blood and misery the dearest
privileges of human nature--where I have come to die! It is night; the
cooing aziolo, the hooting owl, the flashing fire-fly, the murmur of
time-honoured streams, the moonlit foliage of the gray olive woods, dark
crags, and rugged mountains, throwing awful shadows, and the light of
the eternal stars--such are the objects around me. Can a man speak false
in the silence of night, when God and his own heart alone keep watch!
when conscience hears the moaning of the dead in the pauses of the
breeze, and sees one pale, lifeless figure float away on the current of
the stream! My heart whispers that before such witnesses the truth will
be truly recorded; and my blood curdles, and my nerves, so firm amid the
din of battle, shrink and shudder at the tale I am about to narrate.

"What is crime?

"A deed done injurious to others--forbidden by religion, condemned by
morality, and which human laws are enacted to punish.

"A criminal feels all mankind to be his foes, the whole frame of society
is erected for his especial ruin. Before he had a right to choose his
habitation in the land of his forefathers--and, placing the sacred name
of liberty between himself and power, none dared check his freeborn
steps--his will was his law; the limits of his physical strength were
the only barriers to his wildest wanderings--he could walk erect and
fear the eye of no man. He who commits a crime forfeits these
privileges. Men from out the lowest grade of society can say to him,
'You must come with us!'--they can drag him from those he loves, immure
him in a loathsome cell, dole out scant portions of the unchartered air,
make a show of him, lead him to death, and throw his body to the dogs;
and society, which for the innocent would have raised one cry of horror
against the perpetrators of such outrages, look on and clap their hands
with applause.

"This is a vulgar aspect of the misery of which I speak--a crime may
never be discovered. Mine lies buried in my own breast. Years have
passed, and none point at me and whisper, 'There goes the murderer!' But
do I not feel that God is my enemy, and my own heart whispers
condemnation? I know that I am an impostor--that any day may discover
the truth; but more heavy than any fear of detection is the secret
hidden in my own heart; the icy touch of the death I caused creeps over
me during the night. I am pursued by the knowledge that naught I do can
prosper, for the cry of innocence is raised against me, and the earth
groans with the secret burden I have committed to her bosom. That the
death-blow was not actually dealt by my hand in no manner mitigates the
stings of conscience. My act was the murderer, though my intention was
guiltless of death.

"Is there a man who at some time has not desired to possess, by illegal
means, a portion of another's property, or to obey the dictates of an
animal instinct, and plant his foot on the neck of his enemy? Few are so
cold of blood or temperate of mood as not, at some one time, to have
felt hurried beyond the demarcations set up by conscience and law; few
but have been tempted without the brink of the forbidden; but they
stopped, while I leaped beyond--there is the difference between us.
Falsely do they say who allege that there is no difference in guilt
between the thought and act; to be tempted is human; to resist
temptation--surely, if framed like me, such is to raise us from our
humanity into the sphere of angels.

"Many are the checks afforded us. Some are possessed by fear; others are
endowed by a sensibility so prophetic of the evil that must ensue, that
perforce they cannot act the thing they desire; they tremble at the idea
of being the cause of events over whose future course they can have no
control; they fear injuring others--and their own remorse.

"But I disdained all these considerations--they occurred but faintly and
ineffectually to my mind. Piety, conscience, and moral respect yielded
before a feeling which decked its desires in the garb of necessity. Oh,
how vain it is to analyze motive! Each man has the same motives; but it
is the materials of each mind--the plastic or rocky nature, the mild or
the burning temperament--that rejects the alien influence, or receives
it into its own essence and causes the act. Such an impulse is as a
summer healthy breeze just dimpling a still lake to one--while to
another it is the whirlwind that rouses him to spread ruin around.

"The Almighty who framed my miserable being made me a man of passion.
They say that of such are formed the great and good. I know not that--I
am neither; but I will not arraign the Creator. I will hope that in
feeling my guilt--in acknowledging the superexcellence of virtue, I
fulfil, in part, his design. After me, let no man doubt but that to do
what is right is to ensure his own happiness; or that self-restraint,
and submission to the voice of conscience implanted in our souls, impart
more dignity of feeling, more true majesty of being, than a puerile
assertion of will and a senseless disregard of immutable principles.

"Is passion known in these days? Such as I felt, has any other
experienced it? The expression has fled from our lips; but it is as
deep-seated as ever in our hearts. Who, of created beings, has not
loved? Who, of my sex, has not felt the struggle, and the yielding in
the struggle, of the better to the worse parts of our nature? Who so
dead to nature's influence as not, at least for some brief moments, to
have felt that body and soul were a slight sacrifice to obtain
possession of the affections of her he loved? Who, for some moments in
his life, would not have seen his mistress dead at his feet rather than
wedded to another? To feel this tyranny of passion is to be human; to
conquer it is to be virtuous. He who conquers himself is, in my eyes,
the only true hero. Alas, I am not such! I am among the vanquished, and
view the wretch I am, and learn that there is nothing so contemptible,
so pitiable, so eternally miserable, as he who is defeated in his
conflict with passion.

"That I am such, this very scene--this very occupation testifies. Once
the slave of headlong impulse, I am now the victim of remorse. I am come
to seek death, because I cannot retrieve the past; I long for the moment
when the bullet shall pierce my flesh, and the pains of dissolution
gather round me. Then I may hope to be, that for which I thirst, free!
There is one who loves me. She is pure and kind as a guardian angel--she
is as my own child--she implores me to live. With her my days might pass
in a peace and innocence that saints might envy; but so heavy are the
fetters of memory, so bitter the slavery of my soul, that even she
cannot take away the sting from life.

"Death is all I covet. When these pages are read, the hand that traces
them will be powerless--the brain that dictates will have lost its
functions. This is my last labour--my legacy to my fellow-beings. Do not
let them disdain the outpourings of a heart which for years has buried
its recollections and remorse in silence. The waters were pent up by a
dam--now they rush impetuously forth--they roar as if pursued by a
thousand torrents--their turmoil deafens heaven; and what though their
sound be only conveyed by the little implement that traces these
lines--not less headlong than the swelling waves is the spirit that
pours itself out in these words.

"I am calmer now--I have been wandering beside the stream--and, despite
the lurking foe and deceptive moonbeams, I have ascended the steep
mountain's side--and looked out on the misty sea, and sought to gain
from reposing nature some relief to my sense of pain. The hour of
midnight is at hand--all is still--I am calm, and with deliberation
begin to narrate that train of circumstances, or rather of feelings,
that hurried me first to error, then to crime, and, lastly, brought me
here to die.

"I lost my mother before I can well remember. I have a confused
recollection of her crying--and of her caressing me--and I can call to
mind seeing her ill in bed, and her blessing me; but these ideas are
rather like revelations of an ante-natal life, than belonging to
reality. She died when I was four years old. My childhood's years were
stormy and drear. My father, a social, and, I believe, even a polite man
in society, was rough and ill-tempered at home. He had gambled away his
own slender younger brother's fortune and his wife's portion, and was
too idle to attend to a profession, and yet not indolent enough for a
life devoid of purpose and pursuit. Our family was a good one; it
consisted of two brothers, my father, and my uncle. This latter,
favoured of birth and fortune, remained long unmarried; and was in weak
health. My father expected him to die. His death, and his own consequent
inheritance of the family estate, was his constant theme; but the
delayed hope irritated him to madness. I knew his humour even as a
child, and escaped it as I could. His voice, calling my name, made my
blood run cold; his epithets of abuse, so frequently applied, filled me
with boiling but ineffectual rage.

"I am not going to dwell on those painful days when, a weak, tiny boy, I
felt as if I could contend with the paternal giant; and did contend,
till his hand felled me to the ground, or cast me from his threshold
with scorn and seeming hate. I dare say he did not hate me; but
certainly no touch of natural love warmed his heart.

"One day he received a letter from his brother--I was but ten years old,
but rendered old and careworn by suffering; I remember that I looked on
him as he took it and exclaimed, 'From Uncle John! What have we here?'
with a nervous tremour as to the passions the perusal of it might
excite. He chuckled as he broke the seal--he fancied that he called him
to his dying bed--'And that well over, you shall go to school, my fine
fellow,' he cried; 'we shall have no more of your tricks at home.' He
broke the seal, he read the letter. It announced his brother's marriage,
and asked him to the wedding. I let fall the curtain over the scene that
ensued: you would have thought that a villanous fraud had been
committed, in which I was implicated. He drove me with blows from his
door; I foamed with rage, and then I sat down and wept, and crept away
to the fields, and wondered why I was born, and longed to kill my uncle,
who was the cause to me of so much misery.

"Everything changed for the worse now. Hitherto my father had lived on
hope--now he despaired. He took to drinking, which exalted his passions
and debased his reason. This at times gave me a superiority over
him--when tipsy, I could escape his blows--which yet, when sober, fell
on me with double severity. But even the respite I gained through his
inebriety afforded me no consolation--I felt at once humbled and
indignant at the shame so brought on us. I, child as I was, expostulated
with him--I was knocked down, and kicked from the room. Oh, what a world
this appeared to me! a war of the weak with the strong--and how I
despised everything except victory.

"Time wore on. My uncle's wife bore him in succession two girls. This
was a respite. My father's spirits rose--but, fallen as he was, he could
only celebrate his reawakened hopes by deeper potations and coarse
jokes. The next offspring was a boy--he cost my father his life. Habits
of drink had inflamed his blood--and his violence of temper made him
nearly a maniac. On hearing of the birth of the heir, he drank to drown
thought; wine was too slow a medicine; he quaffed deeply of brandy, and
fell into a sleep, or rather torpor, from which he never after awoke. It
was better so--he had spent everything--he was deeply in debt--he had
lost all power of raising himself from the state of debasement into
which he had fallen--the next day would have seen him in prison.

"I was taken in by my uncle. At first the peace and order of the
household seemed to me paradise--the comfort and regularity of the meals
was a sort of happy and perpetual miracle. My eye was no longer blasted
by the sight of frightful excesses, nor my ear wounded by obstreperous
shouts. I was no longer reviled--I no longer feared being felled to the
ground--I was not any more obliged to obtain food by stratagem or by
expostulations, which always ended by my being the victim of personal
violence. The mere calm was balmy, and I fancied myself free, because I
was no longer in a state of perpetual terror.

"But soon I felt the cold--and rigid atmosphere that, as far as regarded
me, ruled this calm. No eye of love ever turned on me, no voice ever
spoke a cheering word. I was there on sufferance, and was quickly deemed
a troublesome inmate; while the order and regularity required of me, and
the law passed that I was never to quit the house alone, became at last
more tormenting than the precarious, but wild and precious liberty of my
former life. My habits were bad enough; my father's vices had fostered
my evil qualities--I had never learned to lie or cheat, for such was
foreign to my nature; but I was rough, self-willed, lazy, and insolent.
I have a feeling, such was my sense of bliss on first entering the
circle of order and peace, that a very little kindness would have
subdued my temper and awakened a desire to please. It was not tried.
From the very first I was treated with a coldness to which a child is
peculiarly sensitive; the servants, by enforcing the rules of the house,
became first my tormentors, and then my enemies. I grew imperious and
violent--complaint, reprehension, and punishment despoiled my paradise
of its matin glow--and then I returned at once to my own bad self; I was
disobedient and reckless; soon it was decreed that I was utterly
intolerable, and I was sent to school.

"This, a boy's common fate, I had endured without a murmur, had it not
been inflicted as a punishment, and I made over to my new tyrants, even
in my own hearing, as a little blackguard, quite irreclaimable, and only
to be kept in order by brute force. It is impossible to describe the
effect of this declaration of my uncle--followed up by the master's
recommendation to the usher to break my spirit if he could not bend
it--had on my heart, which was bursting with a sense of injury, panting
for freedom, and resolved not to be daunted by the menaces of the
tyrants before me. I declared war with my whole soul against the world;
I became all I had been painted; I was sullen, vindictive, desperate. I
resolved to run away; I cared not what would befall me; I was nearly
fourteen--I was strong, and could work--I could join a gang of gipsies,
I could act their life singly, and, subsisting by nightly depredation,
spend my days in liberty.

"It was at an hour when I was meditating flight that the master sent for
me. I believed that some punishment was in preparation. I hesitated
whether I should not instantly fly--a moment's thought told me that was
impossible, and that I must obey. I went with a dogged air, and a
determination to resist. I found my tyrant with a letter in his hand. 'I
do not know what to do with you,' he said; 'I have a letter here from a
relation, asking you to spend the day. You deserve no indulgence, but
for this once you may go. Remember, any future permission depends upon
your turning over an entirely new leaf. Go, sir; and be grateful to my
lenity, if you can. Remember, you are to be home at nine.' I asked no
questions--I did not know where I was to go; yet I left him without a
word. I was sauntering back to the prison-yard which they called a
playground, when I was told that there was a pony-chaise at the door
ready to take me. My heart leaped at the word; I fancied that, by means
of this conveyance, I could proceed on the first stage of my flight. The
pony-carriage was of the humblest description; an old man drove. I got
in, and away we trotted, the little cob that drew it going much faster
than his looks gave warrant. The driver was deaf--I was sullen--not a
word did we exchange. My plan was, that he should take me to the
farthest point he intended, and then that I should leap out and take to
my heels. As we proceeded, however, my rebel fit somewhat subsided. We
left the town in which the school was situated, and the dreary, dusty
roads I was accustomed to perambulate under the superintendence of the
ushers. We entered shady lanes and umbrageous groves; we perceived
extensive prospects, and saw the winding of romantic streams; a curtain
seemed drawn from before the scenes of nature; and my spirits rose as I
gazed on new objects, and saw earth spread wide and free around. At
first this only animated me to a keener resolve to fly; but, as we went
on, a vague sentiment possessed my soul. The skylarks winged up to
heaven, and the swallows skimmed the green earth; I felt happy because
nature was gay, and all things free and at peace. We turned from a lane
redolent with honeysuckle into a little wood, whose short thick turf was
interspersed with moss and starred with flowers. Just as we emerged I
saw a little railing, a rustic green gate, and a cottage clustered over
with woodbine and jessamine, standing secluded among, yet peeping out
from the overshadowing trees. A little peasant boy threw open the gate,
and we drove up to the cottage door.

"At a low window which opened on the lawn, in a large arm-chair, sat a
lady, evidently marked by ill health, yet with something so gentle and
unearthly in her appearance as at once to attract and please. Her
complexion had faded into whiteness--her hair was nearly silver, yet not
a grizzly grayish white, but silken still in its change; her dress was
also white--and there was something of a withered look about
her--redeemed by a soft, but bright gray eye, and more by the sweetest
smile in the world, which she wore, as, rising from her chair, she
embraced me, exclaiming, 'I know you from your likeness to your
mother--dear, dear Rupert.'

"That name of itself touched a chord which for many years had been mine.
My mother had called me by that name; so indeed had my father, when any
momentary softness of feeling allowed him to give me any other
appellation except 'You sir!' 'You dog, you!' My uncle, after whom I was
also called John, chose to drop what he called a silly, romantic name;
and in his house, and in his letters, I was always John. Rupert breathed
of a dear home and my mother's kiss; and I looked inquiringly on her who
gave it me, when my attention was attracted, riveted by the vision of a
lovely girl, who had glided in from another room, and stood near us,
radiant in youth and beauty. She was, indeed, supremely
lovely--exuberant in all the charms of girlhood--and her beauty was
enhanced by the very contrast to the pale lady by whom she stood--an
houri she seemed, standing by a disimbodied spirit--black, soft, large
eyes, overpowering in their lustre, and yet more so from the soul that
dwelt within--a cherub look--a fairy form; with a complexion and shape
that spoke of health and joy. What could it mean? Who could she be? And
who was she who knew my name? It was an enigma, but one full of promise
to me, who had so long been exiled from the charities of life; and who,
'as the hart panteth for the water brooks,' panted for love."




CHAPTER XXVII


"After a little explanation, I discovered who my new friends were. The
lady and my mother were remotely related; but they had been educated
together, and separated only when they married. My mother's death had
prevented my knowing that such a relation existed; far less that she
took the warmest interest in the son of her earliest friend. Mrs. Rivers
had been the poorer of the two, and for a long time considered that her
childhood's companion was moving in an elevated sphere of life, while
she had married a lieutenant in the navy; and while he was away,
attending the duties of his profession, she lived in retirement and
economy, in the rustic, low-roofed, yet picturesque and secluded
cottage, whose leaf-shrouded casements and flowery lawn even now are
before me, and speak of peace. I never call to mind that abode of
tranquillity without associating it with the poet's wish:--


'Mine be a cot beside the hill--
A beehive's hum shall sooth my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.'


To any one who fully understands and appreciates the peculiar beauties
of England--who knows how much elegance, content, and knowledge can be
sheltered under such a roof, these lines must ever, I think, as to me,
have a music of their own, and, unpretending as they are, breathe the
very soul of happiness. In this imbowered cot, near which a clear stream
murmured--which was clustered over by a thousand odoriferous
parasites--which stood in the seclusion of a beech wood--there dwelt
something more endearing even than all this--and one glance at the only
daughter of Mrs. Rivers served to disclose that an angel dwelt in the
paradise.

"Alithea Rivers--there is music, and smiles, and tears--a whole life of
happiness--and moments of intensest transport in the sound. Her beauty
was radiant; her dark eastern eye, shaded by the veined and
darkly-fringed lid, beamed with a soft but penetrating fire; her face of
a perfect oval, and lips which were wreathed into a thousand smiles, or
softly and silently parted, seemed the home of every tender and poetic
expression which one longed to hear them breathe forth; her brow clear
as day; her swan throat and symmetrical and fairy-like form disclosed a
perfection of loveliness, that the youngest and least susceptible must
have felt, even if they did not acknowledge.

"She had two qualities which I have never seen equalled separately, but
which, united in her, formed a spell no one could resist--the most acute
sensitiveness to joy or grief in her own person, and the most lively
sympathy with these feelings in others. I have seen her so enter heart
and soul into the sentiments of one in whom she was interested, that her
whole being took the colour of their mood; and her very features and
complexion appeared to alter in unison with theirs. Her temper was never
ruffled; she could not be angry; she grieved too deeply for those who
did wrong; but she could be glad; and never have I seen joy, the very
sunshine of the soul, so cloudlessly expressed as in her countenance.
She could subdue the stoutest heart by a look--a word; and were she ever
wrong herself, a sincere acknowledgment, an ingenuous shame--grief to
have offended, and eagerness to make reparation, turned her very error
into a virtue. Her spirits were high, even to wildness; but, at their
height, tempered by such thought for others, such inbred feminine
softness, that her most exuberant gayety resembled heart-cheering music,
and made each bosom respond. All, everything loved her; her mother
idolized her; each bird of the grove knew her; and I felt sure that the
very flowers she tended were conscious of, and rejoiced in, her
presence.

"Since my birth--or at least since I had lost my mother in early
infancy, my path had been cast upon thorns and brambles--blows and
stripes, cold neglect, reprehension, and debasing slavery; to such was I
doomed. I had longed for something to love--and in the desire to possess
something whose affections were my own, I had secreted at school a
little nest of field mice on which I tended; but human being there was
none who marked me, except to revile, and my proud heart rose in
indignation against them. Mrs. Rivers had heard a sad story of my
obduracy, my indolence, my violence; she had expected to see a savage,
but my likeness to my mother won her heart at once, and the affection I
met transformed me at once into something worthy of her. I had been told
I was a reprobate till I half believed. I felt that there was war
between me and my tyrants, and I was desirous to make them suffer even
as they made me. I read in books of the charities of life--and the very
words seemed only a portion of that vast system of imposture with which
the strong oppressed the weak. I did not believe in love or beauty; or
if ever my heart opened to it, it was to view it in external nature, and
to wonder how all of perceptive and sentient in this wondrous fabric of
the universe was instinct with injury and wrong.

"Mrs. Rivers was a woman of feeling and sense. She drew me out--she
dived into the secrets of my heart; for my mother's sake she loved me,
and she saw that to implant sentiments of affection was to redeem a
character not ungenerous, and far, far from cold--whose evil passions
had been fostered as in a hotbed, and whose better propensities were
nipped in the bud. She strove to awaken my susceptibility to kindness,
by lavishing a thousand marks of favour. She called me her son--her
friend; she taught me to look upon her regard as a possession of which
nothing could deprive me, and to consider herself and her daughter as
near and dear ties that could not be rent away. She imparted happiness,
she awoke gratitude, and made me in my innermost heart swear to deserve
her favour.

"I now entered on a new state of being, and one of which I had formed no
previous idea. I believed that the wish to please one who was dear to me
would render every task easy; that I did wrong merely from caprice and
revenge, and that if I chose, I could with my finger stem and direct the
tide of my passions. I was astonished to find that I could not even bend
my mind to attention--and I was angry with myself, when I felt my breast
boiling with tumultuous rage, when I promised myself to be meek,
enduring, and gentle. My endeavours to conquer these evil habits were
indeed arduous. I forced myself by fits and starts to study
sedulously--I yielded obedience to our school laws; I taxed myself to
bear with patience the injustice and impertinence of the ushers, and the
undisguised tyranny of the master. But I could not for ever string
myself to this pitch. Meanness, and falsehood, and injustice again and
again awoke the tiger in me. I am not going to narrate my boyhood's
wrongs; I was doomed. Sent to school with a bad character, which at
first I had taken pains to deserve, and afterward doing right in my own
way, and still holding myself aloof from all, scorning their praise, and
untouched by their censure, I gained no approbation, and was deemed a
dangerous savage, whose nails must be kept close pared, and whose limbs
were still to be fettered, lest he should rend his keepers.

"From such a scene I turned, each Sunday morning, my willing steps to
the cottage of Mrs. Rivers. There was something fascinating to me in the
very peculiarities of her appearance. Ill health had brought premature
age upon her person--but her mind was as active and young--her feelings
as warm as ever. She could only stand for a few minutes, and could not
unassisted walk across the room--she took hardly any nourishment, and
looked, as I have said, more like a spirit than a woman. Thus deprived
of every outward resource, her mind acquired, from habits of reflection
and resignation, aided by judicious reading, a penetration and delicacy
quite unequalled. There was a philosophical truth in all her remarks,
adorned by a feminine tact and extreme warmth of heart, that rendered
her as admirable as she was endearing. Sometimes she suffered great
pain, but, for the most part, her malady, which was connected with the
spine, had only the effect of extreme weakness, and at the same time of
rendering her sensations acute and delicate. The odour of flowers, the
balmy air of morning, the evening breeze almost intoxicated her with
delight; any dissonant sound appeared to shatter her--peace was within,
and she coveted peace around; and it was her dearest pleasure when we--I
and her lovely daughter--were at her feet, she playing with the sunny
ringlets of Alithea's hair, and I listening, with a thirst for
knowledge--and ardour to be taught; while she with eloquence mild and
cheering, full of love and wisdom, charmed our attentive ears, and
caused us to hang on all she said as on the oracles of a divinity.

"At times we left her, and Alithea and I wandered through the woods and
over the hills; our talk was inexhaustible, now canvassing some
observation of her mother, now pouring out our own youthful bright
ideas, and enjoying the breezes and the waterfalls, and every sight of
nature, with a rapture unspeakable. When we came to rugged uplands, or
some swollen brook, I carried my young companion over in my arms; I
sheltered her with my body from the storms that, sometimes overtook us.
I was her protector and her stay; and the very office filled me with
pride and joy. When fatigued by our rambles, we returned home, bringing
garlands of wild flowers for the invalid, whose wisdom we revered, whose
maternal tenderness was our joy; and yet, whose weakness made her, in
some degree, dependant on us, and gave the form of a voluntary tribute
to the attentions we delighted to pay her.

"Oh, had I never returned to school, this life had been a foretaste of
heaven! but there I returned, and there again I found rebuke, injustice,
my evil passions, and the fiends who tormented me. How my heart revolted
from the contrast! with what inconceivable struggles I tried to subdue
my hatred, to be as charitable and forgiving as Mrs. Rivers implored me
to be; but my tormentors had the art of rousing the savage again, and,
despite good resolves, despite my very pride, which urged me merely to
despise, I was again violent and rebellious; again punished, again
vowing revenge, and longing to obtain it. I cannot imagine--even the
wild passions of my after life do not disclose--more violent struggles
than those I went through. I returned from my friends, my heart stored
with affectionate sentiments and good intentions; my brow was smooth, my
mind unruffled; my whole soul set upon at once commanding myself, and
proving to my tyrants that they could not disturb the sort of heavenly
calm with which I was penetrated.

"On such a day, and feeling thus, I came back one evening from the
cottage. I was met by one of the ushers, who, in a furious voice,
demanded the key of my room, threatening me with punishment if I ever
dared lock it again. This was a sore point; my little family of mice had
their warm nest in my room, and I knew that they would be torn from me
if the animal before me penetrated into my sanctuary before I could get
in to hide them; but the fellow had learned from the maids that I had
some pets, and was resolute to discover them. I cannot dwell on the
puerile yet hideous minutiæ of such a scene; the loud voice, the blow,
the key torn from me, the roar of malice with which my pets were hailed,
the call for the cat. My blood ran cold; some slave--among boys even
there are slaves--threw into the room the tiger animal; the usher showed
her prey; but before she could spring I caught her up, and whirled her
out of the window The usher gave me a blow with a stick; I was a
well-grown boy, and a match for him unarmed; he struck me on the head,
and then drew out a knife, that he might himself commence the butcher's
work on my favourites: stunned by the blow, but casting aside all the
cherished calm I had hitherto maintained, my blood boiling, my whole
frame convulsed with passion, I sprung on him. We both fell on the
ground, his knife was in hand, open; in our struggle I seized the
weapon, and the fellow got cut in the head--of course I inflicted the
wound; but had, neither before nor at that time, the intention; our
struggle was furious; we were both in a state of phrensy, and an open
knife at such a moment can hardly fail to do injury; I saw the blood
pouring from his temple, and his efforts slacken. I jumped up, called
furiously for help, and when the servants and boys rushed into the room,
I made my escape. I leaped from the window, high as it was, and
alighted, almost by a miracle, unhurt on the turf below; I made my way
with all speed across the fields. Methought the guilt of murder was on
my soul, and yet I felt exultation that at last I, a boy, had brought
upon the head of my foe some of the tortures he had so often inflicted
upon me. By this desperate act I believed that I had severed the cords
that bound me to the vilest servitude. I knew not but that houseless
want would be my reward, but I felt light as air and free as a bird.

"Instinctively my steps took the direction of my beloved cottage; yet I
dared not enter it. A few hours ago I had left it in a pure and generous
frame of mind. I called to mind the conversation of the evening before,
the gentle eloquence of Mrs. Rivers, inculcating those lessons of mild
forbearance and lofty self-command which had filled me with generous
resolve; and how was I to return?--my hands died in blood.

"I hid myself in the thicket near her house, sometimes I stole near it;
then, as I heard voices, I retreated farther into the wild part of the
wood. Night came on at last, and that night I slept under a tree, but at
a short distance from the cottage.

"The cool morning air woke me; and I began seriously to consider my
situation; destitute of friends and money, whither should I direct my
steps? I was resolved never to return to my school. I was nearly
sixteen; I was tall and athletic in my frame, though still a mere boy in
my thoughts and pursuits; still, I told myself that, such as I, many a
stripling was cast upon the world, and that I ought to summon courage,
and to show my tyrants that I could exist independent of them. My
determination was to enlist as a soldier; I believed that I should so
distinguish myself by my valour as speedily to become a great man. I saw
myself singled out by the generals, applauded, honoured, and rewarded.
I fancied my return, and how proudly I should present myself before
Alithea, having carved out my own fortune, and become all that her sweet
mother entreated me to be--brave, generous, and true. But could I put my
scheme in execution without seeing my young companion again? Oh, no! my
heart, my whole soul led me to her side, to demand her sympathy, to ask
her prayers, to bid her never forget me; at the same time that I dreaded
seeing her mother, for I feared her lessons of wisdom. I felt sure, I
knew not why, that she would wholly disapprove of my design.

"I tore a leaf from my pocketbook, and, with the pencil, implored
Alithea to meet me in the wood, whence I resolved not to stir till I
should see her. But how was I to convey my paper without the knowledge
of her mother? or being seen by the servants? I hovered about all day;
it was not till nightfall that I ventured near, and, knowing well the
casement of her room, I wrapped my letter round a stone, and threw it
in. Then I retreated speedily.

"It was night again; I had not eaten for twenty-four hours; I knew not
when Alithea could come to me, but I resolved not to move from the spot
I had designated till she came. I hunted for a few berries, and a turnip
that had fallen from a cart was as the manna of the desert. For a short
half hour it stilled the gnawings of my appetite, and then I lay down
unable to sleep. Eying the stars through the leafy boughs above,
thinking alternately of a prisoner deserted by his jailer, and starved
to death, while at each moment he fancied the far step approaching, and
the key turning in the lock; and then, again, of feasts, of a paradise
of fruits, of the simple, cheerful repasts at the cottage, which, for
many a long year, I was destined never again to partake of.

"It was midnight; the air was still, not a leaf moved; sometimes I
believed I dosed; but I had a sense of being awake always present to my
mind; the hours seemed changed to eternity. I began suddenly to think I
was dying; I thought I never should see the morrow's sun. Alithea would
come, but her friend would not answer to her call; he would never speak
to her more. At this moment I heard a rustling; was there some animal
about? it drew near, it was steps; a white figure appeared between the
trunks of the trees; again I thought it was a dream, till the dearest of
all voices spoke my name, the loveliest and kindest face in the world
bent over me; my cold, clammy hand was taken in hers, so soft and warm.
I started up, I threw my arms around her, I pressed her to my bosom. She
had found my note on retiring for the night; fearful of disobeying my
injunctions of secrecy, she had waited till all was at rest before she
stole out to me; and now, with all the thoughtfulness that characterized
her, when another's wants and sufferings were in question, she brought
food with her, and a large cloak to wrap my shivering limbs. She sat
beside me as I ate, smiling through her tears; no reproach fell from her
lips, it was only joy to see me, and expressions of kind encouragement.

"I dwell too much on these days; my tale grows long, and I must abridge
the dear recollections of those moments of innocence and happiness.
Alithea easily persuaded me to see her mother, and Mrs. Rivers received
me as a mother would a son who has been in danger of death, and is
recovering. I saw only smiles, I heard only congratulations. I wondered
where the misery and despair which gathered so thickly around me had
flown--no vestige remained; the sun shone unclouded on my soul.

"I asked no questions, I remained passive; I felt that something was
being done for me, but I did not inquire what. Each day I spent several
hours in study, so to reward the kindness of my indulgent friend. Each
day I listened to her gentle converse, and wandered with Alithea over
hill and dale, and poured into her ear my resolutions to become great
and good. Surely in this world there are no aspirations so noble, pure,
and godlike as those breathed by an enthusiastic boy, who dreams of love
and virtue, and who is still guarded by childlike innocence.

"Mrs. Rivers, meanwhile, was in correspondence with my uncle, and, by a
fortunate coincidence, a cadetship long sought by him was presented at
this moment, and I was removed to the East Indian military college.
Before I went, my maternal friend spoke with all the fervour of
affection of my errors, my duties, the expectation she had that I should
show myself worthy of the hopes she entertained of me. I promised to her
and to Alithea--I vowed to become all they wished; my bosom swelled with
generous ambition and ardent gratitude; the drama of life, methought,
was unrolling before me--the scene on which I was to act appeared
resplendent in fairy and gorgeous colours; neither vanity nor pride
swelled me up; but a desire to prove myself worthy of those adored
beings who were all the world to me, who had saved me from myself, to
restore me to the pure and happy shelter of their hearts. Can it be
wondered that, from that day to the present hour, they have seemed to me
portions of heaven incarnate upon earth?--that I have prized the thought
of them as a rich inheritance? And how did I repay? Cold, wan figure of
the dead! reproach me not thus with your closed eyes, and the dank
strings of your wet clinging hair. Give me space to breathe, that I may
record your vindication and my crime.

"I was placed at the military college. Had I gone there at once, it had
been well; but first I spent a month at my uncle's, where I was treated
like a reprobate and a criminal. I tried to consider this but as a trial
of my promises and good resolution to be gentle--to turn one cheek when
the other was smitten. It is not for me to accuse others or defend
myself; but yet I think that I had imbibed so much of the celestial
virtues of my instructress, that, had I been treated with any kindness,
my heart must have warmed towards my relatives; as it was, I left my
uncle's, having made a vow never to sleep beneath his roof again.

"I reached the military college, and here I might fairly begin a new
career. I exerted myself to study--to obey--to conciliate. The applause
that followed my endeavours gave me a little pleasure; but when I wrote
to Alithea and her mother, and felt no weight on my conscience, no
drawback to my hope, that I was rendering myself worthy of them, then
indeed my felicity was without alloy; and when my fiery temper kindled,
when injustice and meanness caused my blood to boil, I thought of the
mild, appealing look of Mrs. Rivers, and the dearer smiles of her
daughter, and I suppressed every outward sign of anger and scorn.

"For two whole years I did not see these dear, dear friends, while I
lived upon the thought of them--alas! when have I ceased to do that?--I
wrote constantly and received letters. Those dictated by Mrs. Rivers,
traced by her sweet daughter's hand, were full of all that generous
benevolence, and enlightened sensibility which rendered her the very
being to instruct and rule me; while the playful phrases of Alithea--her
mention of the spots we had visited together, and history of all the
slight events of her innocent life, breathed so truly of the abode of
peace from which they emanated, that they carried the charm of a soft
repose even to my restless spirit. A year passed, and then tidings of
misery came. Mrs. Rivers was dying. Alithea wrote in despair--she was
alone--her father distant. She implored my assistance--my presence. I
did not hesitate. Her appeal came during the period that preceded an
examination; I believed that it would be useless to ask leave to absent
myself, and I resolved at once to go without permission. I wrote a
letter to the master, mentioning that the sickness of a friend forced me
to this step; and then, almost moneyless and on foot, I set out to cross
the country. I do not record trivialties--I will not mention the
physical sufferings of that journey, they were so much less than the
agony of suspense I suffered, the fear that I should not find my
maternal friend alive. Life burnt low indeed--when I, at last, stepped
within the threshold of her sick chamber; yet she smiled when she saw
me, and tried to hold out her hand--one already clasped that of Alithea.
For hours we thus watched her, exchanging looks, not speech. Alithea,
naturally impetuous, and even vehement, now controlled all sign of
grief, except the expression of wo, that took all colour from her face,
and clouded her brow with anguish. She knelt beside her mother--her lips
glued to her hand, as if to the last to feel her pulse of life, and
assure herself that she still existed. The room was darkened; a broken
ray tinged the head of the mourner, while her mother lay in shadow--a
shadow that seemed to deepen as the hue of death crept over her face;
now and then she opened her eyes--now and then murmured inarticulately,
and then she seemed to sleep. We neither moved--sometimes Alithea raised
her head and looked on her mother's countenance, and then, seeing the
change already operated, it drooped over the wan hand she held. Suddenly
there was a slight sound--a slight convulsion in the fingers. I saw a
shade darken over the face--something seemed to pass over, and then
away--and all was marble still--and the lips, wreathed into a smile,
became fixed and breathless. Alithea started up, uttered a shriek, and
threw herself on her mother's body--such name I give--the blameless soul
was gone for ever.

"It was my task to console the miserable daughter; and such was the
angelic softness of Alithea's disposition, that when the first burst of
grief was over, she yielded to be consoled. There was no hardness in her
regrets. She collected every relic, surrounded herself with every object
that might keep alive the memory of her parent. She talked of her
continually; and together we spoke of her virtues, her wisdom, her
ardent affection, and felt a thrilling, trembling pleasure in recalling
every act and word that most displayed her excellence. As we were thus
employed, I could contemplate and remark the change the interval of my
absence had operated in the beautiful girl--she had sprung into
womanhood; her figure was surrounded by a thousand graces; a tender
charm was diffused over each lineament and motion that intoxicated me
with delight. Before I loved--now I revered her; her mother's angelic
essence seemed united to hers, forming two in one. The sentiments these
beings had divided were now concentrated in her; and added to this, a
breathless adoration, a heart's devotion, which still even now dwells
beside her grave, and hallows every memory that remains.

"The cold tomb held the gentle form of Mrs. Rivers: each day we visited
it, and each day we collected fresh memorials, and exhausted ourselves
in talk concerning the lost one. Immediately on my arrival I had written
to my uncle, and the cause of my rash act pleading my excuse, it was
visited less severely than I expected; I was told that it was well that
I displayed affection and gratitude towards a too indulgent friend,
though my depravity betrayed itself in the manner even in which I
fulfilled a duty. I was bid at once return to the college--after a
fortnight had passed I obeyed; and now I lived on Alithea's letters,
which breathed only her eloquent regrets--already my own dream of life
was formed to be for ever her protector, her friend, her servant, her
all that she could deign to make me; to devote myself day after day,
year after year, through all my life to her only. While with her,
oppressed by grief as we both were, I did not understand my own
sensations, and the burning of my heart, which opened as a volcano when
I heard her only speak my name, or felt the touch of her soft hand. But,
returned to college, a veil fell from my eyes. I knew that I loved her,
I hailed the discovery with transport; I hugged to my bosom the idea
that she was the first and last being to awaken the tumultuous
sensations that took away my breath, dimmed my eyes, and dissolved me
into tenderness.

"Soon after her mother's death she was placed as a parlour boarder at a
school. I saw her once there, but I did not see her alone. I could not
speak--I could only gaze on her unexampled loveliness; nor, strange to
say, did I wish to disclose the passion that agitated me: she was so
young, so confiding, so innocent, I wished to be but as a brother to
her, for I had a sort of restless presentiment that distance and reserve
would ensue on my disclosing my other feeling. In fact, I was a mere
boy; I knew myself to be a friendless one and I desired time and
consideration, and the fortunate moment to occur, before I exchanged our
present guileless, but warm and tender attachment, for the hopes and
throes of a passion which demands a future, and is therefore full of
peril. True, when I left her I reproached myself for my cowardice; but I
would not write, and deferred, till I saw her, all explanation of my
feelings.

"Some months after, the time arrived when I was to embark for India.
Captain Rivers had returned, and inhabited the beloved cottage, and
Alithea dwelt with him. I went to see her previous to my departure. My
soul was in tumults: I desired to take her with me, but that was
impossible; and yet to leave her thus, and go into a far and long exile
away from her, was too frightful. I could not believe that I could exist
without the near hope and expectation of seeing her--without that
constant mingling of hearts which made her life-blood but as a portion
of my own. My resolution was easily made to claim her as mine, my
betrothed, my future bride; and I had a vague notion that, if I were
accepted, Captain Rivers would form some plan to prevent my going to
India, or to bring me back speedily. I arrived at the cottage, and the
first sight of her father was painful to me. He was rough and uncouth;
and though proud of his daughter, yet treated her with little of that
deference to which she had a right even from him--the more reason, I
thought, to make her mine; and that very evening I expressed my desire
to Captain Rivers: a horselaugh was the reply; he treated me partly as a
mad boy, partly as an impertinent beggar. My passions were roused, my
indignation burst all the fetters I sought to throw over it; I answered
haughtily--insolently--our words were loud and rude; I laughed at his
menaces and scoffed at his authority. I retorted scorn with scorn, till
the fiery old sailor was provoked to knock me down. In all this I
thought not of him in the sacred character of Alithea's father--I knew
but one parent for her; she had, as it were, joined us by making us
companions and friends--both children of her heart; she was gone, and
the rude tyrant who usurped her place excited only detestation and
loathing, from the insolence of his pretensions. Still, when he struck
me, his age and his infirmities--for he was lame--prevented my returning
the blow. I rose, and folding my arms, and looking at him with a smile
of ineffable contempt, I said, 'Poor, miserable man! do you think to
degrade me by a blow? but for pity, I could return it so that you would
never lift up your head again from that floor--I spare you--farewell.
You have taught me one lesson--I will die rather than leave Alithea in
the hands of a ruffian, such as you.' With these words I turned on my
heel, and walked out of the house.

"I repaired to a neighbouring public house, and wrote to Alithea,
asking, demanding an interview; I claimed it in her mother's name. Her
answer came, it was wetted with her tears--dear gentle being!--so alien
was her nature from all strife, that the very idea of contention shook
her delicate frame, and seemed almost to unhinge her reason. She
respected her father, and she loved me with an affection nourished by
long companionship and sacred associations. She promised to meet me if I
would abstain from again seeing her father.

"In the same wood, and at the same midnight hour as when before she came
to bring assistance and consolation to the outcast boy three years
before, I saw her again, and for the last time, before I left England.
Alithea had one fault, if such name may be given to a delicacy of
structure that rendered every clash of human passion terrifying. In
physical danger she could show herself a heroine; but awaken her terror
of moral evil, and she was hurried away beyond all self-command by
spasms of fear. Thus, as she came now clandestinely, under the cover of
night, her father's denunciations still sounding in her ears--the friend
of her youth banished--going away for ever; and that departure disturbed
by strife, her reason almost forsook her--she was bewildered--clinging
to me with tears--yet fearful at every minute of discovery. It was a
parting of anguish. She did not feel the passion that ruled my bosom.
Hers was a gentler, sisterly feeling; yet not the less intwined with the
principles of her being, and necessary to her existence. She lavished
caresses and words of endearment on me: she could not tear herself away;
yet she rejected firmly every idea of disobedience to her father; and
the burning expressions of my love found no echo in her bosom.

"Thus we parted; and a few days afterward I was on the wide sea, sailing
for my distant bourn. At first I had felt disappointed and angry; but
soon imagination shed radiance over what had seemed chilly and dim. I
felt her dear head repose on my heart; I saw her bright eyes
overbrimming with tears; and heard her sweet voice repeat again and
again her vow never to forget her brother, her more than brother, her
only friend; the only being left her to love. No wonder that, during the
various changes of a long voyage--during reveries indulged endlessly
through calm nights, and the mightier emotions awakened by storm and
danger, that the memory of this affection grew into a conviction that I
was loved, and a belief that she was mine for ever.

"I am not writing my life; and, but for the wish to appear less criminal
in my dear child's eyes, I had not written a word of the foregone pages,
but leaped at once to the mere facts that justify poor Alithea, and tell
the tragic story of her death. Years have passed, and oblivion has swept
away all memory of the events of which I speak. Who recollects the wise,
white lady of the secluded cot, and her houri daughter? This heart
alone; there they live enshrined. My dreams call up their forms. I visit
them in my solitary reveries. I try to forget the ensuing years, and to
become the heedless half-savage boy who listened with wonder, yet
conviction, to lessons of virtue; and to call back the melting of the
heart which the wise lady's words produced, and the bounding, wild joy I
felt beside her child. If there is a hell, it need no other torment but
memory to call back such scenes as these, and bid me remember the
destruction that ensued.

"I remained ten years in India, an officer in a regiment of the
company's cavalry. I saw a good deal of service; went through much
suffering; and doing my duty on the field of battle, or at the hour of
attack, I gained that approbation in the field which I lost when in
quarters by a sort of systematized insubordination, which was a part of
my untameable nature. In action even I went beyond my orders--however,
that was forgiven; but when in quarters, I took part with the weak, and
showed contempt for the powerful. I was looked upon as dangerous; and
the more so, that the violence of my temper often made my manner in a
high degree reprehensible. I attached myself to several natives; that
was a misdemeanor. I strove to inculcate European tastes and spirit,
enlightened views, and liberal policy, to one or two native princes,
whom, from some ill luck, the English governors wished to keep in
ignorance and darkness. I was for ever entangled in the intimacy, and
driven to try to serve the oppressed; while the affection I excited was
considered disaffection on my part to the rulers. Sometimes also I met
with ingratitude and treachery: my actions were misrepresented, either
by prejudice or malice; and my situation, of a subordinate officer,
without fortune, gave to the influence I acquired, through learning the
language and respecting the habits and feelings of the natives, an air
of something so inexplicable, as might, in the dark ages, have been
attributed to witchcraft, and in these enlightened times was considered
a tendency to the most dangerous intrigues. Having saved an old rajah's
life, and having taken great pains to extricate him from a difficulty in
which the Europeans had purposely entangled him, it became rumoured that
I aspired to succeed to a native principality, and I was peremptorily
ordered off to another station. My views were in diametrical opposition
to the then Indian government. My conversation was heedless--my youthful
imagination exalted by native magnificence; I own I often dreamed of the
practicability of driving the merchant sovereigns from Hindostan. There
was, as is the essence of my character, much boyish folly joined to
dangerous passion; all of which took the guise in my own heart of that
high heroic adventure with which I longed to adorn my life. A subaltern
in the company's service, I could never gain my Alithea, or do her the
honour with which I longed to crown her. The acquisition of power, of
influence, of station, would exalt me in her father's eyes--so much of
what was selfish mingled in my conduct--but I was too young and
impetuous to succeed. Those in power watched me narrowly. The elevation
of a day was always followed by a quick transfer to an unknown and
distant province.

"In all my wildest schemes the thought of Alithea reigned paramount. My
only object was to prove myself worthy of her; and my only dream for the
future was to make her mine for ever.

"A constancy of ten years, strung perpetually up to the height of
passion, may appear improbable; yet it was so. It was my nature to hold
an object with tenacious grasp--to show a proud contempt of
obstacles--to resolve on ultimate triumph. Besides this, the idea of
Alithea was so kneaded up and incorporate with my being, that my living
heart must have been searched and anatomized to its core, before the
portion belonging to her could have been divided from the rest. I
disdained the thought of every other woman. It was my pride to look
coldly on every charm, and to shut my heart against all but Alithea.
During the first years of my residence in India, I often wrote to her,
and pouring out my soul on paper, I conjured her to preserve herself for
me. I told her how each solitary jungle or mountain ravine spoke to me
of a secluded home with her; how every palace and gorgeous hall seemed
yet a shrine too humble for her. The very soul of passion breathed along
the lines I traced--they were such as an affianced lover would have
written, pure in their tenderness; but heartfelt, penetrating, and
eloquent; they were my dearest comfort. After long, wearisome
marches--after the dangers of an assault or a skirmish--after a day
spent among the sick or dying--in the midst of many disappointments and
harassing cares--during the storms of pride and the languor of despair,
it was my consolation to fly to her image and to recall the tender
happiness of reunion--to endeavour to convey to her how she was my hope
and aim--my fountain in the desert--the shadowy tree to shelter me from
the burning sun--the soft breeze to refresh me--the angelic visiter to
the unfortunate martyr. Not one of these letters ever reached her--her
father destroyed them all: on his head be the crime and the remorse of
his daughter's death! Fool and coward! would I shift to other shoulders
the heavy weight? No! no! crime and remorse still link me to her. Let
them eat into my frame fiery torture; they are better than
forgetfulness!

"I had two hopes in India: one was, to raise myself to such a station as
would render me worthy of Alithea in the eyes of Captain Rivers; the
other, to return to England--to find change there--to find love in her
heart--and to move her to quit all for me. By turns these two dreams
reigned over me; I indulged in them with complacency--I returned to them
with ardour--I nourished them with perseverance. I never saw a young
Indian mother with her infant, but my soul dissolved in tender fancies
of domestic union and bliss with Alithea. There was something in her
soft dark eye, and in the turn of her countenance, purely eastern; and
many a lovely, half-veiled face I could have taken for hers; many a
slight, symmetrical figure, round, elegant, and delicate, seemed her
own, as, with elastic, undulating motion, they passed on their way to
temple or feast. I cultivated all these fancies; they nourished my
fidelity, and made the thought of her the absolute law of my life.

"Ten years passed, and then news came that altered my whole situation.
My uncle and his only son died; the family estate devolved on me. I was
rich and free. Rich in my own eyes, and in the eyes of all to whom
competence is wealth. I felt sure that, with this inheritance, Captain
Rivers would not disdain me for his child. I gave up my commission
immediately, and returned to England.

"England and Alithea! How balmy, how ineffably sweet was the idea of
once more beholding the rural spot where she resided; of treading the
woodland paths with her--of visiting her dear mother's grave--of
renewing our old associations, and knitting our destinies inextricably
in one. It was a voyage of bliss. I longed for its conclusion; but
feeling that a pathway was stretched across the ocean, leading even into
her very presence, I blessed each wave or tract of azure sea we passed
over. The limitless Atlantic was my road to her, and became glorified as
the vision of the Hebrew shepherd boy; and yet loved with the same
homefelt sweetness as that with which I used to regard the lime-tree
walk that led to her garden-gate. I forgot the years that had elapsed
since we met; it was with difficulty that I forced my imagination to
remember that I should not find her pale mother beside her to sanctify
our union."




CHAPTER XXVIII


"On landing in England, I at once set off to the far northern county
where she resided. I arrived at the well-known village; all looked the
same; I recognised the cottages and their flower-gardens, and even some
of the elder inhabitants looking, methought, no older than when I left
them. My heart hailed my return home with rapture, and I quickened my
steps towards the cottage. It was shut up and abandoned. This was the
first check my sanguine spirit had met. Hitherto I had not pronounced
her name or asked a question--I longed to return, as from a walk, and to
find all things as I had left it. Living in a dream, I had not
considered the chances and the storms, or even the mere changes, of the
seasons of life.

"My pen lags in its task--I dilate on things best hurried over, yet they
serve as a screen between me and fate. A few inquiries revealed the
truth. Captain Rivers was dead--his daughter married. I had lived in a
fool's paradise. None of the obstacles existed that I expected to meet
and conquer, but in their stead a fourfold brazen door had risen,
locked, barred, and guarded, and I could not even shake a hinge, or put
back a bolt.

"I hurried from the fatal spot; it became a hell to me. And oh, to think
that I had lived in vain--vainly dreamed of the angel of my idolatry,
vainly hoped--and most vainly loved; called her mine when another held
her, sold myself to perpetual slavery to her shadow, while her living
image enriched the shrine of another's home! The tempest that shook my
soul did not permit me to give form, or, indeed, to dwell consecutively
on such desolating thoughts. As a man who arrives from a pleasant
journey, and turns the corner where he expects to view the dwelling in
which repose his wife, his children--all dear to him--and when he gains
the desired spot, beholds it smouldering in ashes, and is told that all
are consumed, and that their bones lie beneath the ruins; thus was I--my
imagination had created home, and bride, and fair being sprung from her
side, who called me father, and one word defaced my whole future life
and widowed me for ever.

"Now began that chain of incidents that led to a deed I had not thought
of. Incidents or accidents; acts, done I know not why; nothing in
themselves; but meeting, and kindled by the fiery spirit that raged in
my bosom, they gave such direction to its ruinous powers as produced the
tragedy for ever to be deplored.

"Bewildered and overwhelmed by the loss which to me had all the novelty
and keenness of a disaster of yesterday, though I found that many years
had gone by since, in reality, it was completed, I fled from the spot I
had so fondly sought, and hurried up to London on no fixed errand, with
no determined idea, yet vaguely desiring to do something. Scarcely
arrived, I met a man whom I had known in India. He asked me to dine with
him, and I complied; because to refuse would have required explanation,
and the affirmative was more easily given. I did not mean to keep my
engagement; yet when the hour came, so intolerable had I become to
myself--so poignant and loathsome were my thoughts--that I went, so to
lose for a few moments the present sense of ill. It was a bachelor's
dinner, and there were, in addition to myself, three or four other
guests--among them a Mr. Neville. From the moment this man opened his
lips to speak, I took a violent dislike to him. He was, and always must
have been, the man whom among ten thousand I should have marked out to
abhor. He was cold, proud, and sarcastic, withal a decayed dandy, turned
cynic--who, half despising himself, tried wholly to disdain his
fellow-creatures. A man whose bosom never glowed with a generous
emotion, and who took pride in the sagacity which enabled him to detect
worms and corruption in the loveliness of virtue. A poor, mean-spirited
fellow, despite his haughty outside; and then when he spoke of women,
how base a thing he seemed! his disbelief in their excellence, his
contemptuous pity, his insulting love, made my blood boil. To me there
was something sacred in a woman's very shadow. Was she evil, I regarded
her with the pious regret with which I might view a shrine desecrated by
sacrilegious hands--the odour of sanctity still floated around the
rifled altar; I never could regard them as mere fellow-creatures--they
were beings of a better species, sometimes gone astray in the world's
wilderness, but always elevated above the best among us. For Alithea's
sake I respected every woman. How much good I knew of them! Generous,
devoted, delicate--their very faults were but misdirected virtues; and
this animal dared revile beings of whose very nature he could form no
conception. A burden was lifted from my soul when he left us.

"'It is strange,' said our host, 'that Neville should indulge in this
kind of talk; he is married to the most beautiful, and the best woman in
the world. Much younger than himself, she yet performs her duties as a
wife with steadiness and cheerfulness; lovely beyond her sex, she is
without its weakness; to please some jealous freak of his, she has
withdrawn herself from the world, and buried herself alive at his seat
in the North. How she can endure an eternal tête-à-tête with that
empty, conceited, and arrogant husband of hers is beyond any guessing.'

"I made some observation expressive of my abhorrence of Mr. Neville's
character, and my friend continued--'Disagreeable and shallow as he is,
one would have thought that the society of so superior, so perfect a
woman, would reconcile him to her sex, but I verily believe he is
jealous of her surpassing excellence; and that it is not so much a
natural, and I might almost call it generous, fear of losing her
affections, as a dislike of seeing her admired, and knowing that she is
preferred to him, especially now that he absolutely looks an old fellow.
Poor Alithea Rivers--hers is a hard fate!'

"I had a glass of wine in my hand; my convulsive grasp shivered the
brittle thing, but I gave no other outward sign; before, I was
miserable, I had lost all that made life dear; but to know that she was
lost to herself, bound for life to a human brute, curdled my heart's
blood, and spread an unnatural chilliness through my frame.

"What a sacrifice was there; a sacrifice of how much more than life, of
the heart's sweetest feelings, when a spirit, sent to gladden the world,
and cast one drop of celestial nectar into the bitterness of existence,
was made garbage for that detested animal; from that moment, from the
moment I felt assured that I had seen Alithea's husband, something
departed from the world, such as I had once known it, never to return
again. A sense of acquiescence in the decrees of Providence, of
confidence in the benevolence and beauty of the universe, of pride,
despite all my misfortunes, in being man, of pleasure in the loveliness
of nature, all departed! I had lost her--that was nothing; it was my
disaster, but did not injure the order and grace of the creation; she
was, I fondly trusted, married to a better man than I; but, bound to
that grovelling and loathsome type of the world's worst qualities, the
devil usurped at once the throne of God, and life became a hell.

"'You are miserable, Alithea! you must be miserable! For you there is no
sympathy, no mingling of hearts, no generous confidence in another's
esteem and kindness, no indulgence in golden imaginations of the beauty
of life. You are tied to a foul, corrupting corpse. You are cut off from
the dear associations of the social hearth, from the dignified sense of
having exchanged virgin purity for a sweeter and more valuable
possession in another's heart; coldly and listlessly you look on the day
which brings no hope to you, if, indeed, you do not rave and blaspheme
in your despair. Oh! with me, the brother of your soul, your servant,
lover, untiring friend, how differently had your lot been cast!"

"I rushed from my friend's house; I entered no roof that night; my
passions were awake, my fierce volcanic passions! Had I encountered
Neville, I had assuredly murdered him; my soul was chaos, yet a
tempestuous ray gave a dark light amid the storm; a glimmering, yet
permanent irradiation mantled over the ruins among which I stood. I said
to myself, 'I am mad, driven to desperation;' but, beneath this outward
garb of my thought, I knew and recognised an interior form. I knew what
I desired, what I intended, and what, though I tried to cheat myself
into the belief that I wavered, I henceforth steadily pursued. There is,
perhaps, no more dangerous mood of mind than when we doggedly pursue
means, recklessly uncertain of their end.

"Thus was I led to the fatal hour; a life of love, and a sudden
bereavement, with such a thing the instrument of my ruin! A contempt for
the order of the universe, a stern, demoniacal braving of fate, because
I would rule, and put that right which God had let go wrong. Oh, let me
not again blaspheme. God made the stars, and the green earth, within
whose bosom Alithea lies. She also is his, and I will believe, despite
the hellish interference that tainted and deflowered her earthly life,
that now she is with the source of all good, reaping the reward of her
virtues, the compensation for her suffering. Else, why are we created!
To crawl forth, to suffer and die? I cannot believe it. Spirit of the
blessed, omnipotence did not form perfection to shatter and dissipate
the elements like broken glass! But I rave and wander; Alithea still
lives and suffers at the time of which I write, and I erecting myself
into a providence, resolved to put that right which was wrong, and cure
the world's misrule. From that moment I never paused to look back; I set
my soul upon the cast, and I am here. And Alithea! her mysterious grave
you shall now approach.

"Bent upon a dangerous purpose, fate led before me an instrument,
without which I should have found it difficult to execute my plan. I got
a letter from a man in great distress, asking for some small help; he
was on the point of quitting England for America, and working his
passage; slight assistance would be of inestimable benefit in furthering
his plans. The petitioner followed his petition quickly, and was ushered
in before me. I scrutinized his shrewd yet down-looking countenance; I
scanned his supple yet uncertain carriage; I felt that he was a coward,
yet knew he would tamper with roguery, in all safety, for a due reward.
I had known the fellow in India; James Osborne was his name; he dabbled
in various disreputable money transactions, both with natives and
Englishmen, and at last, having excited the suspicion of government, got
thrown into prison. He had then written to me, who was considered a sort
of refuge for the destitute, and I went to see him. There was no great
harm in the man; on the contrary, he was soft-hearted and humane; the
infection of dishonesty, caught in bad company, and fostered in poverty,
was his ruin; and he joined to this a strong desire to be respectable,
if he could only contrive to subsist without double-dealing. I thought,
that by extricating him from his embarrassments, and removing him from
temptation, I might save him from ignominy; so I paid his passage to
England; where he told me that he had friends and resources. But his old
habits pursued him, and even now, though poverty was the alleged motive
for his emigration, I saw that there was secret fear of legal pursuit
for dishonest practices; he had been inveigled, he said, to lend his
name to a transaction which turned out a knavish one. With all this,
Osborne was not a villain, and scarcely a rogue; there was truth in what
he said; he had always an aspiration for a better place in society, but
he saw no way of attaining it except by money, and no way of gaining
money except by cheating.

"I listened to his story. 'You are an incorrigible fellow,' said I. 'How
can I give ear to your promises? Still I am willing to assist you. I am
myself going to America; you shall accompany me.' By degrees I afterward
explained the service I needed; yet I only half disclosed the truth.
Osborne never knew the name or position of the lady who was to be my
companion across the Atlantic. A man's notions of the conduct of others
are always coloured by his own ruling passion. Osborne thought I was
intent on carrying off an heiress.

"With this ally I proceeded to Cumberland--my mind more intent on the
result of my schemes than their intermediate detail. I learned before I
went that Mr. Neville was still in town. This was a golden opportunity,
and I hastened to use it. I reached the spot that Alithea inhabited--I
entered the outer gate of the demesne--I rode up to the avenue that led
to the house--I was ushered into the room where I knew that I should
find her. I summoned every power to calm the throbbing of my heart. I
expected to find her changed; but when I saw her, I discovered no
alteration. It was strange that so much of girlish appearance should
remain. Her figure was light and airy; her rich clustering ringlets
abundant as before; her face--it was Alithea! All herself! That soft,
loving eye--that clear brow--those music-breathing lips--time had not
harmed her--it was herself.

"She did not at once recognise me; the beardless stripling was become a
weather-beaten, thought-worn man; but when I told her who I was--the
name so long forgotten--never heard since last she spoke it, 'Rupert!'
burst from her lips--it united our severed lives; and her look of
rapture, her accent all breathless with joy, told me that her heart was
still the same--ardent, affectionate, and true.

"We sat together, hand linked in hand, looking at each other with
undisguised delight. At first, with satanic cunning, I assumed the
brother's part. I questioned her concerning her fate--her feelings; and
seeing that she was averse to confess the truth of her disappointed,
joyless married state, I led her back to passed days. I spoke of her
dear mother. I said that often had the image of that pale, wise spirit
checked, guided, and whispered sage lessons to me in my banishment. I
recalled a thousand scenes of our childhood, when we wandered
together--hand in hand--heart linked to heart--confiding every
pain--avowing every wild or rebellious thought, or discussing the mighty
secrets of nature and of fate, which to our young hearts were full of
awe and mystery, and yet of beauty and joy. As I spoke, I examined her
more narrowly. At first she had appeared to me the same; now I marked a
difference. Her mouth, the home of smiles, had ever its sweet, benignant
expression; but her eyes, there was a heaviness in the lids, a liquid
melancholy in their gaze, which said that they were acquainted with
tears; her cheeks, once round, peachlike, and downy, were not fallen,
yet they had lost their rich fulness. She was more beautiful; there was
more reflection, more sentiment in her face; but there was far, far less
happiness. Before, smiles sprung up wherever she turned to gaze; now, an
interest akin to pity and tears made the spectator's heart ache as he
watched the turns of a countenance which was the faithful mirror of the
truest heart that ever beat. Worse than this, there ever and anon shot
across her face a look that seemed like fear. Oh, how unlike the
trusting, dreadless Alithea!

"My talk of other days at first soothed, then excited, and threw her off
her guard. By degrees I approached the object of all my talk, and drew
her to speak of her father, and the motives that induced her marriage.
My knowledge and vivid recollections of all that belonged to her made
her unawares speak, as she had not done since we parted, the undisguised
truth; and before she knew what she had said, I had led her to confess
that she had never loved her husband; that she found no sympathy, and
little kindness in him; that her life had been one of endurance of
faults alien to her own temperament. Had I been more cautious, I had
allowed this to pass off at first, and won her entire confidence before
I laid bare my own thoughts; for all she said had never before been
breathed into any living ear but mine. It was her principle to submit,
and to hide her sense of her husband's defective disposition; and had I
not, with a serpent's subtlety, glided on imperceptibly; had I not
brought forward her mother's name, and the memory of childhood's
cloudless years, she had been mute with me. But now I could contain
myself no longer. I told her that I had seen the miserable being to whom
she was linked. I uttered curses on the fate that had joined them
together. She laid her hand on my arm, and looking in my face with
confiding innocence, 'Hush, Rupert,' she said, 'you make me mean more
than I would willingly have you think. He is not unkind; I have no right
to complain; it is not in every man that we can find a brother's or a
friend's heart. Neville does not understand these things; but he is my
husband; as such I honour him.'

"I saw the internal feeling that led her to speak thus; I saw the
delicate forbearance that filled her noble mind. She thought of her
virgin faith plighted--long years spent at his side--her children--her
fidelity, which, if it had ceased to cling to him, had never wandered,
even in thought, to another; duties exemplarily fulfilled--earnest
strivings to forget his worthlessness. All this honour for her own pure
nature, she cheated herself into believing was honour paid to him. I
resolved to tear the veil which her gentleness and sense of right had
drawn before the truth, and I exclaimed, impetuously, 'Wrong yourself
not so much, dear girl! do not fancy that your high soul can really bow
down to baseness. You pay reverence to your own sense of duty; but you
hate--you must hate that man.'

"She started, and her face and neck became died in blushes, proceeding
half from anger at being urged beyond her wish, half from native modesty
at hearing her husband thus spoken of. As for myself, I grew mad as I
looked on her, and felt the sweet, transporting influences that gathered
round; here indeed was the creature whom I had loved through so many
years, who was mine in my dreams, whose faith and true affection I
fancied I held for ever; and she was torn from me, given away, not to
one who, like me, knew and felt her matchless excellence, but to a
base-minded thing, from whom she must shrink as from an animal of
another species. All that her soul contained of elevated thoughts and
celestial aspirations, all of generous, high, and heroic that warmed her
heart, what were they before a blind, creeping worm, who held a
matchless jewel in his hand, and deemed it dross? He even could not
understand, or share the more sober affections--mutual trust and mutual
forbearance; the utterance of love, the caresses of tenderness, what
were these to a wretch who saw baseness and deceit in the most lofty and
pure feelings of a woman's heart?

"I expressed these thoughts, or rather, they burst from me. She
interrupted me. 'I do not deny,' she said, 'for I know not how you have
cheated me of my secret, but that repinings have at times entered my
mind; and I have shed foolish tears, to think that the dreams of my
girlhood were as a bright morning, quickly followed by a dim, cloudy
day. But I have reproved myself for this discontent, and you do very
wrong to revive it; the heart will rebel, but religion, and philosophy,
and the very tears I shed, sooth its ruffled mood, and make me remember
that we do not live to be happy, but to perform our duties; to fulfil
mine is the aim of my life; teach me how to do that more completely,
more entirely to resign myself, and you will be my benefactor. It is
true that my husband does not understand the childish overflowings of my
heart, which is too ready to seek its joys among the clouds; he does not
dwell with rapture on the thoughts and sentiments which give me so much
life and happiness--he is a stronger and sterner nature; a slower one
also, I acknowledge, one less ready to sympathize and feel. But if I
have in my intercourse with him regretted that lively, cheering
interchange of sentiment which I enjoyed with you, you are now here to
bestow it, and my life, hitherto defective, your return may render
complete.'

"I laughed bitterly. 'Poor innocent bird,' I cried; 'think you at once
to be free, and in a cage? at once to feel the fowler's grasp, and fly
away to heaven? Alithea, you miserably deceive yourself; hitherto you
have but half guessed the secrets of a base grovelling spirit--have you
never seen your husband jealous?'

"She shuddered--and I saw a spasm of exquisite pain cloud her features
as she averted her head from me, and the look of trembling fear I had
before remarked crept over her. I was shocked to see so much of the
slave had entered her soul. I told her this; I told her she was being
degraded by the very duties which she was devoting herself, body and
soul, to perform; I told her that she must be free; she looked
wonderingly, but I continued. 'Is not the very name of liberty dear and
exhilarating? does it not draw you irresistibly onward? is not the very
thought of casting your heavy chains from off you full of new and
inexpressible joy? Poor prisoner, do you not yearn to breathe without a
fear? would you not with transport escape from your jailer to a home of
love and freedom?'

"Hitherto she had fancied that I but regretted her sorrows as she did,
and repined as she did over a fate whose real misery she alone could
entirely feel; she repented having spoken so openly--yet she loved me
for my unfeigned sympathy; but now she saw that something more was
meant; she looked earnestly at me, as if to read my heart; she saw its
wishes in my eyes, and shrunk from them as from a snake, as she
exclaimed, 'Never, dear Rupert, speak thus to me again, or we must again
part--I have a son.'

"The radiance of angelic love lighted up her face as she uttered these
words; and then, my error and weakness being her strength, she resumed
the self-possession she had lost during our previous conversation; with
bewitching grace she held out her hand to me, and in a voice modulated
by the soul of persuasion, said, 'Let us be friends, Rupert, such as we
once were, brother and sister; I will not believe that you are returned
only to pain and injure me--I am happy in my children--stay but a
little, and you will see how foolish I have been to complain at all. You
also will love my boy.'

"Would you not think that these words had sufficed to cure my madness
and banish every guilty project? Had you seen her, her inimitable grace
of attitude, the blushing, tender expression of her face, and her
modest, earnest manner, a manner which spoke the maternal nature, such
as Catholics imagine it, without a tincture of the wife, a girlish, yet
enthusiastic rapture at the very thought of her child, you would have
known that every scheme I meditated was riveted faster, every desire to
make her my own for ever more fixed and eager. I went on to urge her,
till I saw every feature give token of distress; and at last she
suddenly left me, as if unable any longer to bear my pertinacity. She
left me without a word, but I saw her face bathed in tears. I was indeed
insane. These tears, which sprung from anguish of soul to think that her
childhood's companion should thus show himself an injurer instead of a
friend, I interpreted into signs of relenting--into a struggle with her
heart."




CHAPTER XXIX


"I called again the following morning, but she was denied to me; twice
this happened. She feared me, I believed; and still more franticly I was
driven to continue my persecutions. I wrote to her; she did not answer
my letters. I entered the grounds of her house clandestinely; I lay in
wait for her; I resolved to see her again. At length one afternoon I
found her alone, walking and musing in the more solitary part of the
park; I stood suddenly before her, and her first emotion was pleasure,
so true was she to her affections, so constant to her hope that at last
I should be persuaded not to pain her by a renewal of my former
conversation. But I believed that I had a hold on her that I would not
forego. When she offered to renew our childhood's compact of friendship,
I asked her how that could be if she refused me her confidence; I asked
how she could promise me happiness, whose every hope was blighted. I
told her that it was my firm conviction that her mother had intended us
for one another, that she had brought her up for me, given her to me,
and that thus she was indeed mine. Her eyes flashed fire at this. 'My
mother,' she said, 'brought me up for a higher purpose than even
conducing to your happiness. She brought me up to fulfil my duties, to
be a mother in my turn. I do not deny,' she continued, 'that I share in
some sort my mother's fate, and am more maternal than wife-like; and as
I fondly wish to resemble her in all her virtues, I will not repine at
the circumstances that lead me rather to devote my existence to my
children, than to be that most blessed creature, a happy wife--I do not
ask for that happiness; I am contented with my lot; my very girlish,
romantic repinings do not really make me unhappy.'

"'Nor your fears, nor his base jealousy, his selfishness, his narrow
soul, and brutish violence? I know more than you think, Alithea--I read
your heart--you must be miserable; submissive, yet tyrannized over;
wedded to your duty, yet watched, suspected, accused. There are traces
of tears on your cheeks, my poor girl; your neck is bowed by the yoke,
your eyes have no longer the radiance of conscious rectitude, and yet
you are innocent.'

"'God knows I am,' she replied, as a shower of tears fell from her
eyes--but she was ashamed, and brushed them away--'I am, and will be,
Rupert, though you would mislead me. Where, indeed, can I find a
consciousness of rectitude, except in my heart? My husband mistrusts me,
I acknowledge it--by torture you force the truth--he does not
understand, and you would pervert me; in God and my own heart I put my
trust, and I will never do that which my conscience tells me is
wrong--and despite both I shall be happy. A mother is, in my eyes, a
more sacred name than wife. My life is wrapped in my boy; in him I find
blameless joy, though all the rest pierce my heart with poisoned
arrows.'

"'You shall, sweet Alithea,' I cried, 'preserve him, and every other
blessing. You were not born to inherit this maimed, poverty-stricken
life, the widowed mother of an orphan child--such are you now; I will be
a father to him for your sake, and many other joys will be yours, and
the fondest, truest heart that ever warmed man's bosom shall be all your
own. Alithea, you must not offer yourself up a living sacrifice to that
base idol, but belong to one whose love, and honour, and eternal
devotion merit you, though he possess no other claim. Let me save you
from him, I ask no more.'

"I felt a tear, for many long years forgotten, steal down my cheek--my
heart worshipped her excellence, and pity and grief mingled with my deep
regrets; she saw how sincerely I was moved, and tried to comfort me. She
wept also, for, despite her steadier thoughts, she knew the cruelty of
her destiny, and I do believe her heart yearned to taste, once more
before she died, the full joy of complete sympathy. But, if indeed her
tears were partly shed for herself, yet she never wavered; she deplored
my unhappiness, but she reproved my perversion of principle; she tried
to awaken patience, piety, or philosophic fortitude--any of the noble
virtues that might enable me to combat the passion by which I was
enslaved.

"Time was forgotten as we thus talked with the same openness of heart as
in former days, yet those hearts how saddened and wounded since then! I
would not let her go: while the moon rose high, shedding its silvery
light over the forest trees, and casting dark shadows on our path, still
we indulged in what she deemed our last conference. As I must answer my
crimes before God, I swear I could discern no wavering thought, no one
idea that strayed to the forbidden ground, towards which I strove to
lead her. She told me that she had intended not to see me again till her
husband returned; she said that she must implore me not again to seek
her in this way, or I should make her a prisoner in her house. I
listened--I answered, I knew not what--I was more resolved than ever not
to lose her--despite all, I still was mad enough to hope. She left me at
last, hoping to have conquered, yet resolved not to see me again, she
said, till her husband returned. This determination on her part was in
absolute contradiction to what I resolved should be. I had decreed to
see her again; nay, more, I would see her, not within the precincts of
her home, where all spoke against me; but where she should be free,
where, seeing nothing to remind her of the heavy yoke to which she bent
her neck, I fondly dreamed I might induce her wholly to throw it aside.
If it so pleased her, I would detain her but a few short hours, and
restore her to her home in all liberty; but, could I induce her to
assert her freedom, and follow me voluntarily--then--to think that
possible, the earth reeled under me, and my passion gained strength from
its very folly.

"I prepared all things for my plan; I went to Liverpool, and bought two
fleet horses and a light foreign calèche suited to my purpose.
Returning northward towards Dromore, I sought a solitary spot, for the
scene of our last interview, or of the first hour of my lasting bliss.
What more solitary than the wild and drear seashore of the south of
Cumberland? Landward it is screened by a sublime back-ground of
mountains; but in itself presenting to the view a wide extent of
uninhabited sands, intersected by rivers which, when the tide is up,
presents a dreary expanse of shallow water, and at ebb are left, except
in the channels of the rivers, a barren extent of mud and marsh; the
surrounding waste being variegated only by a line of sand-hills thrown
up to the height of thirty or forty feet, shutting in the view from
shore, while seaward no boat appeared ever to spread its sail on that
lonely sea. On these sands, near the mouth of one of the rivers, there
was a small hut deserted, but not in ruins; it was probably occasionally
inhabited by guides who are used in this part of the country to show the
track of the fords when the tide is full, and any deviation from the
right path is attended by peril, the beds of the rivers being full of
ruts and deep holes; that hut I selected as the spot where all should be
determined. If she consented to accompany me, we would proceed rapidly
forward to Liverpool, and embark for America; if she resolved to return,
this spot was but five miles from her home, and I could easily lead her
back without suspicion being excited. I was anxious to put my scheme in
execution, as her husband was shortly expected.

"It seemed a feasible one. In my own heart I did not expect to induce
her to forsake her home; but I might; and the very doubt maddened me.
And if I did not, yet for a few hours to have her near me, not in any
spot that called her detested husband master, but in the wide, free
scenes of nature, the ocean, parent of all liberty, spread at our feet;
the way easy to escape, no eye, no ear, to watch and spy out the
uncontrolled and genuine emotions of her heart, or no hand to check our
progress if she consented to follow. In this plan Osborne, whom I had
left at the miserable town of Ravenglass--and who, indeed, had been the
man to find and point out to me the solitary hut, was necessary. My
explanation and directions to him were few and peremptory: he was to
appear with the calèche, he acting as postillion, at a certain spot;
the moment he saw me arrive, as soon as I had placed the lady who was to
be my companion in the carriage, he was to put spurs to his horses, and
not by any cry of hers, nor command of mine, nor interference of
strangers, to be induced to stop till he reached the hut: there she
should be free; till then I would have her a prisoner even beyond my own
control, lest her entreaties should cheat me out of my resolves. Osborne
looked frightened at some portion of these orders, but I glossed over
any inconsistency; my bribe was high, and he submitted.

"At every step I took in this mad and guilty scheme, I became more
resolved to carry it on. Here is my crime--here the tale of sin, I have
to relate. The rest is disaster and endless remorse. What moved me to
this height of insanity--what blinded me to the senseless as well as the
unpardonable nature of my design, I cannot tell; except that, for years,
I had lived in a dream, and waking in the real world, I refused to
accommodate myself to its necessities, but resolved to bend its laws to
my desires. I loved Alithea--I had loved her through years of absence;
she was the wife of my reveries, my hopes, my heart. I could no more
part with the thought of her as such, than with a consciousness of my
own identity. To see her married and a mother, might be supposed capable
of dissipating these fancies; far from it. Her presence, her beauty, the
witchery of her eye, her heart-subduing voice, her sensibility, the
perfection of her nature, which her inimitable loveliness only half
expressed, but which reached my soul, through a sort of inner sense that
acknowledged it with worship; all this added to my phrensy, and steeped
me to the very lips in intoxication.

"What right had I to call this matchless creature mine? None! That I
acknowledged--but that he, the man without a soul, the incarnate Belial,
should claim her, was not to be endured. Mad as I was, I aver, and He
who reads all hearts be now my testimony, that it was more my wish to
set her free from him than to bind her to myself, that urged me on. I
had in the solitary shades of her park, during the arguments and
struggles of our last interview, sworn, that if she would suffer me to
take her, and her boy too if she chose, away from him, I would place her
in some romantic spot, build a home worthy of her, surrounded with all
the glory of nature, and only see her as a servant and a slave. I
pledged my soul to this, and I would have kept my oath. Those who have
not loved may look on this as the very acme of my hallucination; it
might be--I cannot tell--but so it was.

"All was ready; and I wrote to her to meet me for the last time. In this
also I was, in one sense, sincere; for I had determined, if I should
fail in my persuasions, never to see her more. She came, but several
hours later than I intended, which, to a certain degree, deranged my
plans. The weather had a sultriness about it all day, portending storm,
occasioning a state of atmosphere that operates to render the human
frame uneasy and restless. I paced the lane that bounded the demesnes of
Dromore for hours; I threw myself on a grassy bank. The rack in the
upper sky sped along with fearful impetuosity; it traversed the heavens
from west to east, driven by a furious wind which had not yet descended
to us; for below on earth, no breath of air moved the herbage, or could
be perceived amid the topmost boughs of the trees. Everything in nature,
acted upon by these contrary influences, had a strange and wild
appearance. The sun descended red towards the ocean before Alithea
opened the private gate of the grounds, and stood in all her loveliness
before me.

"She brought her son with her. At first this annoyed me; but at a second
thought it seemed to render my whole design more conclusive. She had
spoken of this child with such rapture that it would have been a
barbarity beyond my acting to separate her from him. By making him her
companion, she completed my purpose; I would take them away together. I
met her, I thought, with self-possession, but she read the conflict of
passion in my face, and, half fearful, asked what disturbed me. I
attributed my agitation to our approaching parting; and drawing her hand
through my arm, walked forward along the lane. At the moment of
executing my project, its wickedness and cruelty became so apparent,
that a thousand times I was about to confess all, solicit her
forgiveness, and leave her for ever: but that hardness, which in the
ancient religions is deemed the immediate work of God, crept over my
heart, turning its human misgiving to stony resolution. I endeavoured to
close every aperture of my soul against the relenting moods that
assailed me; yet they came with greater power each time, and at length
wholly mastering me, I consented to be subdued. I determined to
relinquish my schemes, to bid her an eternal adieu; and, moved by
self-pity at the desolate lot I was about to encounter, I spoke of
separation and absence, and the death of hope with such heartfelt pathos
as moved her to tears.

"Surely there is no greater enemy to virtue and good intentions than
that want of self-command, the exterior of which, though I had acquired,
no portion existed in the inner substance of my mind. Calm, proud, and
stern as I seemed to others, capable of governing the vehemence of my
temper, within I was the same slave of passion I had ever been. I never
could force myself to do the thing I hated; I never could persuade
myself to relinquish the thing I desired. There is the secret of my
crimes; there the vice of my disposition, which produced for her I loved
a miserable death, and for myself endless, unutterable wo. For a moment
I had become virtuous and heroic. We reached the end of the lane--my
emissary appeared with the carriage. I had worked myself up by this time
to determine to restore her to her home; to part with her for ever. She
believed this. The despair written on my brow--my sombre, mute, yet
heart-broken mien--my thoughts which had totally relinquished their
favourite project, and consented to be widowed of her for ever,
expressed in brief, passionate sentences, proved to her, who had never
suspected that I meant otherwise, that I took my last look and spoke my
last words. We reached the end of the lane; Osborne drove up. 'Be not
surprised,' I said. 'Yes, it is there, Alithea; the carriage that is to
convey me far, far away. Gracious God, do I live to see this hour!'

"The carriage stopped; we walked up to it. A devil at that moment
whispered in my ear, a devil, who feeds on human crimes and groans,
prompted my arm. Coward and dolt! to use such words--my own hellish mind
was the sole instigator. In a moment it was done. I lifted her light
figure into the carriage; I jumped in after her; I bade her boy follow.
It was too late. One cry from him, one long, piercing shriek from her,
and we were gone. With the swiftness of the winds we descended the
eminence towards the shore, and left child and all return far behind.

"At that moment the storm burst over us; but the thunder was unheard
amid the rattling of the wheels. Even her cries were lost in the uproar;
but, as the thickening clouds changed twilight into night, the vivid
lightning showed me Alithea at my feet, in convulsions of fear and
anguish. There was no help. I raised her in my arms; and she struggled
in them without meaning, without knowledge. Spasm succeeded to spasm; I
saw them, by the flashes of the frequent lightning, distort her features
with agony, but I could not even hear her groans; the furious haste at
which we went, the thunder from above, the plash of the rain, suspended
only by the howlings of the rising wind, drowned every other sound. I
called to Osborne to stop; he gave no heed to my cries. Methought the
horses had taken fright, and held the bit in their teeth, with such
unimaginable speed we swept along. The roar of ocean, torn up by the
wild west wind, now mingled with the universal uproar--hell had broken
loose upon earth--yet what was every other and more noisy tempest
compared to that which shook my soul, as I pressed Alithea to my heart
in agony, vainly hoping to see the colour revisit her cheeks, and her
dear eyes open! Was she already a corpse! I tried to feel her breath
upon my cheek; but the speed of our course, and the uproar of the
elements, prevented my being able to ascertain whether she was alive or
dead. And thus I bore her--thus I made her my bride, thus I, her
worshipper, emptied the vials of pain on her beloved head!"




CHAPTER XXX


"At last I became aware that the wheels of the carriage passed through
water. Hope revived with the thought. The hut where Osborne was to stop
was to the south of the river we were now crossing: the tide was ebbing,
and, despite the wind and storm, we passed the ford in safety; a moment
more, and the carriage stopped amid the sands. I took the unfortunate
lady in my arms, and carried her into the hut; then, fetching the
cushions of the carriage, I bade Osborne take the horses on to a covered
shed about half a mile off, which he had prepared for them, and return
immediately.

"I re-entered the hut--still Alithea lay motionless on the ground where
I had placed her. The lightning showed me her pale face; and another
flash permitted me to discover a portion of luggage brought here by
Osborne--necessary if we fled. Among other things which, soldier-like, I
always carried with me, I saw my canteen; it contained the implements
for striking a light, and tapers. By such means I could at last discover
that my victim still lived; and sometimes also she groaned and sighed
heavily. What, had happened to her I could not tell, nor by what means
consciousness might be restored. I chafed her head and hands in
spirituous waters; I made her swallow some--in vain. For a moment she
somewhat revived, but relapsed again; and the icy cold of her hands and
feet seemed to portend instant dissolution. Osborne returned, as I had
ordered; he was totally unaware of the state to which my devilish
machinations had brought my victim. He found me hanging over
her--calling her by every endearing name--chafing her hands in
mine--watching in torture for such signs of returning sense as would
assure me that I was not about to see her expire before my eyes. He was
scared by what he saw; but I silenced him, and made him light a fire,
and heat sand, which I placed at her feet; and then, by degrees, with
help of large doses of sal-volatile and other drugs, circulation was
restored. She opened her eyes and gazed wildly round, and tears gushed
from under the lids in large slow drops! My soul blessed God! Every mad
desire and guilty scheme had faded before the expectation of her death.
All I asked of Heaven was her life, and leave to restore her to her
child and her home. Heaven granted, as I thought, my prayer. The livid
streaks which had settled round her mouth and eyes disappeared; her
features lost the rigidity of convulsions, a slight colour tinged her
cheeks; her hands, late chill and stiff, now had warmth and voluntary
motions of their own. Once or twice she looked round and tried to speak.
'Gerard!' that word, the name of her boy, was murmured; I caught the
sound as I bent eagerly over her. 'He is safe--he is well,' I whispered.
'All is well; be comforted, Alithea.' The poor victim smiled; yes, her
own sweet smile dawned upon her face. 'She too is safe,' I thought. Once
again I felt my heart beat freely and at ease.

"She continued, however, in a state of torpor. There were two rooms in
the hut. I prepared a sort of couch for her in the inner one. I placed
her on it; I covered her with her cloak. By degrees the sort of
insensibility in which she sunk changed to sleep. We left her then, and
sat watching in the outer room. I kept my eyes fixed on her, and saw
that each hour added to the tranquillity of her repose; I could not hear
her breathe; for though the thunder and rain had ceased, the wind howled
and the near ocean roared; its billows, driven by the western gale,
encroached upon the sands almost to the threshold of the hut.

"A revulsion had taken place within me; I felt that there was something
dearer to me than the fulfilment of my schemes, which was her life. She
appeared almost miraculously restored, and my softened heart thanked God
and blessed her. I believed I could be happy even in eternal absence,
now that the guilt of her death was taken from my soul. Well do I
remember the kind of rapture that flowed in upon my heart, as at dawn of
day I crept noiselessly to her side, and marked the regular heaving of
her bosom; and saw her eyelids, heavy and dark with suffering, it is
true, yet gently closed over the dear orbs which again and for many a
long year would enjoy the light of day. I felt a new man, I felt happy.
In a few short hours I should receive her pardon--convey her
home--declare my own guilt; and while absolving her, offer myself as the
mark of whatever vengeance her husband might choose to take. Me!--oh,
what was I? I had no being; it was dissolved into a mere yearning for
her life--her contentment. I was about to render myself up as a criminal
to a man whose most generous act would be to meet me in the field; but
that was nothing; I thought not of it, either with gladness or regret.
She lives--she shall be restored to all she loves--she once again will
be at peace.

"These were my dreams as I hung over her, and gradually the break of day
became more decided; by the increasing light I could perceive that I had
not deceived myself, she slept a healthy, profound, healing sleep: I
returned to the outer room; Osborne had wrapped himself in his
great-coat, and lay stretched on the floor. I roused him, and told him
to go for the horses and carriage immediately, so that the first thing
that might welcome Alithea's awakening should be the offer of an
immediate return home. He gladly obeyed, and left the hut; but scarcely
was he gone than a sort of consciousness came over me, that I would not
remain with her alone; so I followed him at some little distance towards
the shed where the carriage and horses were.

"The wind had scattered every cloud, and still howled through the clear
gray morning sky; the sea was in violent commotion, and huge surges
broke heavily and rapidly on the beach. The tide was flowing fast, and
the bed of the river we had crossed so safely the night before was
covered by the waves; in a little time the ford would be impassable, and
this was another reason to hasten the arrival of the horses. To the east
each crag and precipice, each vast mountain-top, showed in dark relief
against the golden eastern sky; seaward the horizon was misty from the
gale, and the ocean stretched out inimitably; curlews and gulls screamed
as they skimmed the crested waves, and breaker after breaker dashed
furiously at my feet. It was a desolate, but a magnificent spectacle,
and my throbbing heart was in unison with its vast grandeurs. I blessed
sea, and wind, and heaven, and the dawn; the guilt of my soul had passed
from me, and without the grievous penalty I had dreaded; all again was
well. I walked swiftly on, I reached the shed. Osborne was busy with the
horses; he had done what he could for them the night before, and they
seemed tolerably fresh. I spoke cheerfully to the man, as I helped to
harness them. Osborne was still pale with fright; but when I told him
that I was going to carry the lady back to her friends, and that there
was nothing to fear, he took heart; I bade him come slowly along, that
the noise of the wheels might not waken her, if she still slept, and I
walked beside, my hand on the neck of one horse while he bestrode the
other, and we gazed around and pointed to each other signs of the recent
tempest, which had been so much more violent than I in my preoccupation
had known; and then as the idea of the ford being rendered impassable
crossed me again, I bid him get on at a quicker rate, there was no fear
of disturbing the sleeping lady, for the wheels were noiseless on the
heavy sands.

"I have mentioned that huge sand-hills were thrown up here and there on
the beach; two of the highest of these shut out all view of the hut, and
even of the river, till we were close upon them. As we passed these
mounds, my first glance was to see the state of the tide. The bed of the
river was entirely filled with dashing crested waves, which poured in
from the sea with inconceivable rapidity, and obliterated every trace of
the ford. I looked anxiously round, but it was plain we must wait for
the ebbing tide, or make a long detour to seek the upper part of the
stream. As I gazed, something caught my eyes as peculiar. The foam of
the breaking waves was white, and this object also was white; yet was it
real, or but the mockery of a human form? For a moment my heart ceased
to beat, and then with wings to my feet I ran to the hut: I rushed into
the inner room--the couch was deserted, the whole dwelling empty! I
hurried back to the river's brink and strained my eyeballs to catch a
sight of the same fearful object; it was there! I could not mistake, a
wave lifted up and then again overwhelmed and swallowed it in its abyss,
the form, no longer living, the dead body of Alithea. I threw myself
into the water, I battled with the waves, the tide bore me on. Again and
again I was blinded and overwhelmed by the surges, but still I held on,
and made my way into the middle of the roaring flood. As I rose gasping
from one large billow that had, for more than a minute, ingulfed me in
its strangling depths, I felt a substance strike against me;
instinctively I clutched at it, and grasping her long streaming hair,
now with renewed strength and frantic energy I made for shore. I was as
a plaything to the foaming billows; but by yielding to them, by
suffering myself to be carried up the tide to where the river grew
shallower and the waves less powerful, I was miserable enough at last to
escape. Fool! did I not know that she was dead!--why did I not, clasping
her in my arms, resign my life to the waters? No! she had returned to me
from the gates of death the night before, and I madly deemed the miracle
would be twice performed.

"I reached the bank. Osborne, trembling and ghastly, helped me to lift
her on shore; we endeavoured by various means to recall the spark of
life--it was too late. She had been long in the water, and was quite
dead!

"How can I write these words, how linger on these hideous details? Alas!
they are for ever before me; no day, no hour passes but the whole scene
is acted over again with startling vividness--and my soul shrinks and
shudders from the present image of death. Even now that the dawn of
Greece is breaking among the hills--that the balmy summer air fans my
cheek--that the distant mountain-tops are gilded by the morning beams,
and the rich, tranquil beauty of a southern clime is around--yet even
now the roar of that distant ocean is in my ear, the desolate coast
stretches out far away, and Alithea lies pale, drenched, and lifeless at
my feet.

"I saw it all; and how often and for ever do I go over in my thoughts
what had passed during the interval of my absence! She had awoke
refreshed--she collected her scattered senses--she remembered the
hideous vision of her carrying off. She knew not of my relenting--she
feared my violence--she resolved to escape; she was familiar with that
shore; its rivers and the laws which governed their tides were known to
her. She believed that she could pass the water in safety, for often,
when the bed of the estuary was apparently full, she knew that she had
forded the stream on horseback, and the waters scarce covered the
animal's fetlock. Intent on escaping the man of violence, of reaching
her beloved home, she had entered the stream without calculating the
difference of a calm neap tide, and the mass of irresistible waves borne
up by the strong western wind; they perhaps seemed less terrible than I;
to fly from me, she encountered, delivered herself up to them! and there
she lay, destroyed, dead, lost for ever!

"No more of this! What then I did may, I now conceive, appear more
shocking to my countrymen than all that went before. But I knew little
of English customs. I had gone out an inexperienced stripling to India,
and my modes of action were formed there. I now know that when one dies
in England, they keep the lifeless corpse, weeping and watching beside
it, for many days, and then, with lingering ceremonies and the
attendance of relations and friends, lay it solemnly in the dismal tomb.
But I had seen whole armies mown down by the sword and disease; I was
accustomed to the soldier's hastily-dug grave in a climate where
corruption follows fast upon death. To hide the dead with speed from
every eye was the Indian custom.

"And then, should I take the corpse of Alithea, wet with the ocean tide,
ghastly from the throes of recent death, and bear her to her home, and
say, here she is--she enjoyed life and happiness yester-evening; I bore
her away, behold my work! Should I present myself to her husband, answer
his questions, detail the various stages of my crime, and tamely await
his vengeance or his pardon! Never!

"Or should I destroy myself at her side, and leave our bodies to tell a
frightful tale of mystery and horror? The miserable terrors of my
associate would of itself have prevented this catastrophe. I had to
reassure and protect him.

"My resolution was quickly made not to outlive my victim--and, making
atonement by my death, what other penalty could I be called upon to pay?
But my death should not be a tale to appal or amuse the vulgar, or to
swell with triumph the heart of Alithea's tyrant husband. Secrecy and
oblivion should cover all. My plan was laid, and I acted accordingly.

"Osborne entered into the design with alacrity. He was moved by other
feelings, he was possessed by an agony of fear; he did not doubt but
that we should be accused of murdering the hapless lady, and the image
of the gallows flitted before his eyes.

"Understanding each other without many words, Osborne said that in the
shed where we had placed the horses he had remarked a spade; it was so
early that no one was about to observe him, and he went to fetch it. He
returned in about half an hour; I sat keeping watch the while by the
dead, and feasted my eyes with the sight of my pale victim as she lay at
my feet. Of what tough materials is man formed, that my heart-strings
did not break, and that I outlived that hour!

"Osborne returned, and we went to work. Some ten yards above high-water
mark there was a single leafless, moss-grown, skeleton tree, with
something like soil about its roots, and sheltered from the spray and
breeze by the vicinity of a sand-hill; close to it we dug a deep grave.
I placed the cushions in it on which her fair form, all warm and soft,
had reposed, during the preceding night. Then I composed her stark
limbs, banding the long wet tresses of her abundant hair across her
eyes, for ever closed, crossing her hands upon her pure, death-cold
bosom; I touched her reverently--I did not even profane her hand by a
kiss; I wrapped her in her cloak, and laid her in the open grave. I tore
down some of the decaying boughs of the withered tree, and, arching them
above her body, threw my own cloak above, so with vain care to protect
her lifeless form from immediate contact with the soil. Then we filled
up the grave, and, scattering dry sand above, removed every sign of
recent opening. This was performed in silence, or with whispered
words--the roaring waves were her knell, the rising sun her funeral
torch; I was satisfied with the solemnity of the scene around, and I was
composed, for I was resolved on death. Osborne trembled in every limb,
and his face rivalled in hue her wan, bloodless countenance.

"We carefully removed every article from the hut, and put all in the
same state as when we found it. I did not, indeed, fear discovery; who
would imagine that my course would be to the desolate seabeach? and if
they did, and found all, I should be far, I should be dead. But Osborne
was eager to obliterate every mark of the hut having been visited. When
he was satisfied that he had accomplished this, without looking behind,
I got into the carriage, we drove with what speed we could to Lancaster,
and thence to Liverpool. Osborne was in a transport of fear till he got
on board an American vessel: fortunately, the wind having veered towards
the north, there was one about to weigh anchor. I placed a considerable
sum of money in my accomplice's hands, and recommended discretion. He
would have questioned me as to my own designs, but he respected my stern
silence, and we parted never to meet again. A small coasting vessel,
bound for Plymouth, was at that moment making her way out of harbour; I
hailed a man on board, and threw myself on to the deck.

"Elizabeth can tell the rest. She knows how I landed in a secluded
village of Cornwall, with the intent there to make due sacrifice to the
outraged manes of Alithea. Still I grieve for the unaccomplished
purpose; still I repine that I did not there die. She stopped my hand.
An angel, in likeness of a human child, arrested my arm; and winning my
wonder by her extraordinary loveliness, and my interest by her orphan
and desolate position, I seemed called upon to live for her sake. The
struggle was violent, for I longed to make atonement by my death; and I
longed to forget my crimes and their consequences in the oblivious
grave. At first I thought that the respite I granted myself would be
short; but it lasted for years; and I dragged out a living death, having
survived love and hope: remorse my follower; ghastly images of crime and
death my comrades. I travelled from place to place, pursued by Alithea's
upbraiding ghost and my own torturing thoughts. By frequent change of
place, I sought to assuage my pangs; I believe that I increased them.
They might perhaps have been mitigated by the monotony of a stationary
life. But a traveller's existence is all sensation, and every emotion is
rendered active and penetrating by the perpetual variation of the
appearances of natural objects. Thought and feeling awaken with the sun,
and dewy eve and the radiant stars cause the eyes to turn towards the
backward path; while darkness, felt palpably, as one proceeds onward in
an unknown land, awakens the snakes of conscience. The storm and
expected wreck are images of retribution; while yet the destruction I
pined for receded from before my thirsting lips.

"Yet still I dragged on life, most unworthily and unworthy, till on a
day I saw the son of my victim at Baden. I witnessed misery, widely
spread, through my means; and felt that her disimbodied spirit must
curse me for the evil I had brought on her beloved child. I remembered
all she had fondly said of him: and the cloudless beauty of his face,
his joyous laugh, and free step when last I saw him at her side. He was
blighted and destroyed by me; gloomy, savage, and wild, eternal sorrow
was written on his brow, fear and hatred gleamed in his eyes. Such by my
means had the son of Alithea become; such had his base-minded father
rendered him; but mine the guilt--mine be the punishment! What a wretch
was I, to live in peace and security, ministered to by an angel--while
this dearest part of herself was doomed to anguish, and to the
unmitigated influence of the demon for ever at his side, through my
accursed means.

"From that hour I became thrice hateful to myself; I had tried to live
for my Elizabeth; but that idea passed away with every other solace, in
which hitherto I had iniquitously indulged. I resolved to die; but as a
taint has been cast by the most villanous heart in the world upon her
hallowed name, my first task was to redeem that out of her unworthy
husband's hands; and yet I could not, I would not, while living,
disclose the truth and give a triumph to my enemy. But soon, oh, very
soon, will the soil of Greece drink up my life-blood! and while this
writing proclaims her innocence, I shall be sheltered by the grave from
the taunts and revilings of men.

"And you, dear child of my affection, who have been to me as a blessing
immediate from Heaven, who have warmed my heart with your love and
smoothed the fierceness of my temper by your unalterable sweetness; who
having blessed me with your virtues, clinging to the ruin with a
fidelity I believed impossible, how shall I say farewell to you? Forgive
your friend that he deserts you; long ago he deserted himself and the
better part of life; it is but the shell of him that remains; and that
corroded by remorse, and the desire to die. You deserve better than to
have your young days clouded by the shadow of my crime thrown over them.
Forget me, and be happy; you must be so, while I--The sun is up; the
martial trumpet sounds. It is a joy to think that I shall have a
soldier's grave."




CHAPTER XXXI


Such was the tale presented to the young, enthusiastic, innocent
Elizabeth, unveiling the secret of the life of him whom she revered
above all the world. Her soul was in her eyes as she read, or rather
devoured, page after page, till she arrived at the catastrophe; when a
burst of passionate tears relieved her swelling bosom, and carried away
upon their stream a thousand, trembling, unspeakable fears that had
gathered in wild multitude around her heart. "He is innocent! He, my
benefactor, my father, when he accused himself of murder, spoke, as I
thought, of a consequence, not an act; and if the chief principle of
religion be true, that repentance washes away sin, he is pardoned, and
the crime forgotten. Noble, generous heart! What drops of anguish have
you not shed in atonement! What glorious obsequies you pay your victim.
For she also is acquitted. Gerard's mother is more than innocent. She
was true to him, and to the purest sentiments of nature, to the end;
nay, more, her life was sacrificed to them." And Elizabeth went over in
her mind, as Falkner had often done, the emotions that actuated her to
attempt the dangerous passage across the ford. She fancied her awakening
on the fatal morning, her wild look around. No familiar object met her
view--nor did any friendly voice reassure her; the strange scene and
solitary hut were testimonies that she did not dream, and that she had
really been torn from home and all she loved by a violence she could not
resist. At first she must have listened tremblingly, and fancied her
lover-enemy at hand. But all is still. She rises; she ventures to
examine the strange dwelling to which she has been carried--no human
being presents himself. She quits the threshold of the hut--a familiar
scene is before her eyes, the ocean and the dreary but well-known
shore--the river which she has so often crossed--and among the foldings
of the not distant hills, imbosomed in trees, she sees Dromore, her
tranquil home. She knows that it is but a few miles distant; and while
she fancies her enemy near at hand, yet the hope animates her that she
may cross the stream unseen, and escape. Elizabeth imaged all her hopes
and fears; she seemed to see the hapless lady place her uncertain feet,
her purpose being stanch and unfaltering, within the shallow wave, which
she believed she could traverse in safety; the roar of the advancing
tide was in her ears, the spray dashed round her, and her footing grew
uncertain, as she sought to find her way across the rugged bed of the
river. But she thought only of her child, from whom she had been torn,
and her fears of being, through the deed of violence which had carried
her off, excluded from her home for ever. To arrive at that home was all
her desire. As she advanced she still fixed her eyes on the clustering
woods of Dromore, sleeping stilly in the gray, quiet dawn: and she
risked her life unhesitatingly to gain the sacred shelter. All depended
on her reaching it, quickly and alone; and she was doomed never to see
it more. She advances resolutely, but cautiously. The waves rise
higher--she is in the midst of the stream--her footing becomes more
unsteady--does she look back?--there is no return--her heart proudly
repels the very thought of desiring it. She gathers her garments about
her--she looks right onward--she steps more carefully--the surges buffet
her--they rise higher and higher--the spray is dashed over her head, and
blinds her sight--a false step--she falls--the waters open to ingulf
her--she is borne away. One thought of her Gerard--one prayer to Heaven,
and the human eye can pursue the parting soul no farther. She is lost to
earth--none upon it can any longer claim a portion in her.

But she is innocent. The last word murmured in her last sleep--the last
word human ears heard her utter, was her son's name. To the last she was
all mother; her heart filled with that deep yearning, which a young
mother feels to be the very essence of her life, for the presence of her
child. There is something so beautiful in a young mother's feelings.
Usually a creature to be fostered and protected--taught to look to
another for aid and safety; yet a woman is the undaunted guardian of her
little child. She will expose herself to a thousand dangers to shield
his fragile being from harm. If sickness or injury approach him, her
heart is transfixed by terror: readily, joyfully, she would give her own
blood to sustain him. The world is a hideous desert when she is
threatened to be deprived of him; and when he is near, and she takes him
to the shelter of her bosom, and wraps him in her soft, warm embrace,
she cares for nothing beyond that circle; and his smiles and infantine
caresses are the life of her life. Such a mother was Alithea; and in
Gerard she possessed a son capable of calling forth in its intensity,
and of fully rewarding, her maternal tenderness. What wonder, when she
saw him cast pitilessly down on the road-side--alive or dead she knew
not--the wheel of the carriage that bore her away might have crushed and
destroyed his tender limbs--what wonder that she should be threatened by
instant death, through the excess of her agony? What wonder that,
reviving from death, her first and only thought was to escape--to get
back to him--to clasp him to her heart--never to be severed more?

How glad, and yet how miserable, Gerard would be to read this tale. His
proudest and fondest assertions certified as true, and yet to feel that
he had lost her for ever, whose excellence was proved to be thus
paramount. Elizabeth's reflections now rested on him--and now turned to
Falkner--and now she opened the manuscript again, and read anew--and
then again her heart made its commentary, and she wept and rejoiced; and
longed to comfort her father, and congratulate Neville, all in a breath.

She never thought of herself. This was Elizabeth's peculiarity. She
could be so engrossed by sympathy for others, that she could forget
herself wholly. At length she remembered her father's directions, that
his manuscript should be given to Neville when he called. She had no
thought of disobeying; nor could she help being glad that Gerard's
filial affection should receive its reward, even while she was pained to
think that Falkner should be changed at once into an enemy in her new
friend's eyes. Still her generous nature led her instantly to ally
herself to the weaker side. Neville was triumphant--Falkner humiliated
and fallen; and thus he drew her closer to him, and riveted the chain of
gratitude and fidelity by which she was bound. She had shed many tears
for Alithea's untimely fate; for the virtues and happiness hurried to a
mysterious end--buried in an untold grave. But she had her reward. Long
had she been there, where there is no trouble, no strife--her pure soul
received into the company of kindred angels. Her heroism would now be
known; her actions justified; she would be raised above her sex in
praise; her memory crowned with unfading glory. It was Falkner who
needed the exertion of present service, to forgive and console. He must
be raised from his self-abasement; his despair must be cured. He must
feel that the hour of remorse was past; that of repentance and
forgiveness come. He must be rewarded for all his goodness to her, by
being made to love life for her sake. Neville, whose heart was free from
every base alloy, would enter into these feelings. Content to rescue the
fame of his mother from the injury done it; happy in being assured that
his faithful, filial love had not been mistaken in its reliance, the
first emotion of his generous soul would be to forgive. Yet Elizabeth
fancied that, borne away by his ardour in his mother's cause, he might
altogether pass over and forget the extenuating circumstances that
rendered Falkner worthy of pardon; and she thought it right to accompany
the narrative with an explanatory letter. Thus she wrote:--


"My father has given me these papers for the purpose of transmitting
them to you. I need not tell you that I read them this day for the first
time: that till now I was in total ignorance of the facts they disclose.

"It is most true that I, a little child, stopped his arm as he was about
to destroy himself. Moved by pity for my orphan state, he consented to
live. Is this a crime? Yet I could not reconcile him to life, and he
went to Greece, seeking death. He went there in the pride of life and
health. You saw him at Marseilles; you saw him to-day--the living effigy
of remorse and wo.

"It is hard, at the moment you discover that he was the cause of your
mother's death, to ask your sympathy for his sufferings and high-minded
contrition. I leave you to follow the dictates of your own heart with
regard to him. For myself, attached to him as I am by every sentiment of
affection and gratitude, I am, from this moment, more than ever devoted
to his service, and eager to prove to him my fidelity.

"These words come from myself. My father knows not what I write. He
simply told me to inform you that he should remain here; and if you
desired aught of him, he was ready at your call. He thinks, perhaps, you
may require further explanation--further guidance to your mother's
grave. Oh, secret and obscure as it is, is it not guarded by angels?
Have you not been already led to it?"


She left off abruptly--she heard a ring at the outer gate--the hour had
come--it must be Neville! She placed the papers in the writing-case, and
directing and sealing the letter, gave both to the servant, to be
delivered to him. Scarcely was this done, when suddenly it flashed
across her how the relative situations of Neville and herself were
changed. That morning she had been his chosen friend--into her ear he
poured the history of his hopes and fears--he claimed her sympathy--and
she felt that from her he derived a happiness never felt before. Now he
must regard her as the daughter of his mother's destroyer, and should
she ever see him more? Instinctively she rushed to the highest room of
the house to catch one other glimpse. By the time she reached the
window, the act was fulfilled that changed both their lives--the packet
given. Dimly, in the twilight, she saw a horseman emerge from under the
wall of the garden, and slowly cross the heath; slowly at first, as if
he did not comprehend what had happened, or what he was doing. There is
something that excites unspeakable tenderness when the form of the loved
one is seen, even from far; and Elizabeth, though unaware of the nature
and depth of her sensations, yet felt her heart soften and yearn towards
her friend. A blessing fell from her lips; while the consciousness of
all of doubtful and sad that he must at that moment experience, at being
sent from her door with a written communication only, joined to the
knowledge that each succeeding hour would add to the barriers that
separated them, so overcame her, that when at last he put spurs to his
horse, and was borne out of sight into the thickening twilight, she
burst into a passion of tears, and wept for some time, not knowing what
she did, nor where she was; but feeling that from that hour the colour
of her existence was changed--its golden hue departed--and that patience
and resignation must henceforth take place of gladness and hope.

She roused herself after a few minutes from this sort of trance, and her
thoughts reverted to Falkner. There are few crimes so enormous but that,
when we undertake to analyze their motives, they do not find some excuse
and pardon in the eyes of all except their perpetrators. Sympathy is
more of a deceiver than conscience. The stander-by may dilate on the
force of passion and the power of temptation, but the guilty are not
cheated by such subterfuges; he knows that the still voice within was
articulate to him. He remembers that at the moment of action he felt his
arm checked, his ear warned; he could have stopped, and been innocent.
Perhaps of all the scourges wielded by the dread Eumenides, there is
none so torturing as the consciousness of the wilfulness of the act
deplored. It is a mysterious principle, to be driven out by no
reasonings, no commonplace philosophy. It had eaten into Falkner's soul;
taken sleep from his eyes, strength from his limbs, every healthy and
self-complacent sentiment from his soul.

Elizabeth, however, innocent and good as she was, fancied a thousand
excuses for an act, whose frightful catastrophe was not foreseen.
Falkner called himself a murderer; but, though the untimely death of the
unfortunate Alithea was brought about by his means, so far from being
guilty of the deed, he would have given a thousand lives to save her.
Since her death, she well knew that sleep had not refreshed, nor food
nourished him. He was blighted, turned from all the uses and enjoyments
of life; he desired the repose of the grave; he had sought death; he had
made himself akin to the grim destroyer.

That he had acted wrongly, nay, criminally, Elizabeth acknowledged. But
by how many throes of anguish, by what repentance and sacrifice of all
that life holds dear, had he not expiated the past! Elizabeth longed to
see him again, to tell him how fondly she still loved him, how he was
exalted, not debased, in her eyes; to comfort him with her sympathy,
cherish him with her love. It was true that she did not quite approve of
the present state of his mind; there was too much of pride, too much
despair. But when he found that, instead of scorn, his confession met
with compassion and redoubled affection, his heart would soften, he
would no longer desire to die, so to escape from blame and retribution;
but be content to endure, and teach himself that resignation which is
the noblest and most unattainable temper of mind to which humanity may
aspire.




CHAPTER XXXII


While these thoughts, founded on a natural piety, pure and gentle as
herself, occupied Elizabeth, Falkner indulged in far other speculations.
He triumphed. It is strange, that although perpetually deceived and led
astray by our imagination, we always fancy that we can foresee, and in
some sort command, the consequences of our actions. Falkner, while he
deplored his beloved victim with the most heartfelt grief, yet at no
time experienced a qualm of fear, because he believed that he held the
means of escape in his own hands, and could always shelter himself from
the obloquy that he now incurred, in an unapproachable tomb. Through
strange accidents, that resource had failed him; he was alive, and his
secret was in the hands of his enemies. But as he confronted the injured
son of a more injured mother, another thought, dearer to his lawless yet
heroic imagination, presented itself. There was one reparation he could
make, and doubtless it would be demanded of him. The law of honour would
be resorted to, to avenge the death of Alithea. He did not for a moment
doubt but that Neville would challenge him. His care must be to fall by
the young man's hand. There was a sort of poetical justice in this idea,
a noble and fitting ending to his disastrous story, that solaced his
pride, and filled him, as it has been said, with triumph.

Having arrived at this conclusion, he felt sure also that the
consummation would follow immediately on Neville's perusal of the
narration put into his hands, This very day might be his last, and it
was necessary to make every preliminary arrangement. Leaving Elizabeth
occupied with his fatal papers, he drove to town to seek Mr. Raby's
solicitor, to place in his hands the proofs of his adopted child's
birth, so to secure her future acknowledgment by her father's family.
She was not his child; no drop of his blood flowed in her veins; his
name did not belong to her. As Miss Raby, Neville would gladly seek her,
while as Miss Falkner, an insuperable barrier existed between them; and
though he fell by Gerard's hand, yet he meant to leave a letter to
convince her that this was but a sort of cunning suicide, and that it
need place no obstacle between two persons whom he believed were formed
for each other. What more delightful than that his own Elizabeth should
love the son of Alithea? If he survived, indeed, this mutual attachment
would be beset by difficulties; his death was like the levelling of a
mountain--all was plain, easy, happy, when he no longer deformed the
scene.

He had some difficulty in meeting with Mr. Raby's man of business. He
found him, however, perfectly acquainted with all the circumstances, and
eager to examine the documents placed in his hands. He had already
written to Treby, and received confirmation of all Falkner's statements.
This activity had been imparted by Mrs. Raby, then at Tunbridge Wells,
who was anxious to render justice to the orphan, the moment she had been
informed of her existence; Falkner heard with great satisfaction of the
excellent qualities of this lady, and the interest she showed in poor
Edwin Raby's orphan child. The day was consumed, and part of the
evening, in these arrangements, and a final interview with his own
solicitor. His will was already made: he divided his property between
Elizabeth and his cousin, the only surviving daughter of his uncle.

Something of shame was in his heart when he returned and met again his
adopted child, a shame ennobled by the sense that he was soon to offer
up his life as atonement; while she, who had long been reflecting on all
that occurred, yet felt it brought home more keenly when she again saw
him, and read in his countenance the tale of remorse and grief, more
legibly than in the written page. Passionately and gratefully attached,
her heart warmed towards him, his very look of suffering was an urgent
call upon her fidelity; and though she felt all the change that his
disclosures operated, though she saw the flowery path she had been
treading at once wasted and barren, all sense of personal disappointment
was merged in her desire to prove her affection at that moment;
silently, but with heroic fervour, she offered herself up at the shrine
of his broken fortunes: love, friendship, good name, life itself, if
need were, should be set at naught; weighed in a balance against her
duty to him, they were but as a feather in the scale.

They sat together as of old, their looks were affectionate, their talk
cheerful; it seemed to embrace the future as well as the present, and
yet to exclude every painful reflection. The heart of each bore its own
secret without betrayal. Falkner expected in a few hours to be called
upon to expiate with his life the evils he had caused, while Elizabeth's
thoughts wandered to Neville. Now he was reading the fatal narrative;
now agonized pity for his mother, now abhorrence of Falkner, alternated
in his heart; her image was cast out, or only called up to be associated
with the hated name of the destroyer. Her sensibility was keenly
excited. How ardently had she prayed, how fervently had she believed
that he would succeed in establishing his mother's innocence; in what
high honour she had held his filial piety--these things were still the
same; yet how changed were both towards each other! It was impossible
that they should ever meet again as formerly, ever take counsel
together, that she should ever be made happy by the reflection that she
was his friend and comforter.

Falkner called her attention by a detail of his journey to Belleforest,
and the probability that she would soon have a visit from her aunt. Here
was a new revulsion; Elizabeth was forced to remember that her name was
Raby. Falkner described the majestic beauties of the ancestral seat of
her family, tried to impress her with the imposing grandeur of its
antiquity, to interest her in its religion and prejudices, to gild the
reality of pride and desertion with the false colours of principle and
faith. He spoke of Mrs. Raby, as he had heard her mentioned, as a woman
of warm feeling, strong intellect, and extreme generosity. Elizabeth
listened, but her eyes were fondly fixed on Falkner's face, and at last
she exclaimed with spontaneous earnestness, "For all this I am your
child, and we shall never be divided!"

It was now near midnight; at each moment Falkner expected a message from
the son of his victim. He engaged Elizabeth to retire to her room, that
her suspicions might not be excited by the arrival of a visiter at that
unaccustomed hour. He was glad to see her wholly unsuspicious of what he
deemed the inevitable consequence of his confession; for though her
thoughts evidently wandered, and traces of regret clouded her brow, it
was regret, not fear, that inspired sadness; she tried to cheer, to
comfort for the past, and gain fortitude to meet the future; but that
future presented no more appalling image than the never seeing Gerard
Neville more.

She went, and he remained waiting and watching the livelong night, but
no one came. The following day passed, and the same mysterious silence
was observed. What could it mean? It was impossible to accuse Alithea's
child of lukewarmness in her cause, or want of courage. A sort of dark,
mysterious fear crept over Falkner's heart; something would be done;
some vengeance taken. In what frightful shape would the ghost of the
past haunt him? He seemed to scent horror and disgrace in the very
winds, yet he was spell-bound; he must await Neville's call, he must
remain as he had promised, to offer the atonement demanded. He had felt
glad and triumphant when he believed that reparation to be his life in
the field; but the delay was ominous; he knew not why, but at each ring
at the gate, each step along the passages of the house, his heart grew
chill, his soul quailed. He despised himself for cowardice, yet it was
not that; but he knew that evil was at hand; he pitied Elizabeth, and he
shrunk from himself as one doomed to dishonour and unspeakable misery.




CHAPTER XXXIII


On arriving in London from Hastings, Neville had repaired, as usual, to
his father's house; which, as was to be supposed at that season of the
year, he found empty. On the second day, Sir Boyvill presented himself
unexpectedly. He looked cold and stern as ever. The father and son met
as they were wont: the latter anticipating rebuke and angry, unjust
commands; the other assuming the lofty tone of legitimate authority,
indignant at being disputed. "I hear from Sophia," said Sir Boyvill,
"that you are on the point of sailing for America, and this without
deigning to acquaint me with your purpose. Is this fair? Common
acquaintances act with more ceremony towards each other."

"I feared your disapproval, sir," replied Neville.

"And thought it less faulty to act without than against a father's
consent: such is the vulgar notion; but a very erroneous one. It doubles
the injury, both to disobey me, and to keep me in the dark with regard
to my danger."

"But if the danger be only imaginary?" observed his son.

Sir Boyvill replied, "I am not come to argue with you, nor to dissuade,
nor to issue commands. I come with the more humble intention of being
instructed. Sophy, though she evidently regrets your purposed journey,
yet avers that it is not so wild and aimless as your expeditions have
hitherto been; that the letters from Lancaster did lead to some
unlooked-for disclosure. You little know me if you are not aware that I
have the question, which you debate in so rash and boyish a manner, as
deeply and more sorely at heart than you. Let me then hear the tale you
have heard."

Surprised, and even touched to find his father unbend so far as to
listen to him, Neville related the American's story, and the information
that it seemed probable that Osborne could afford. Sir Boyvill listened
attentively, and then observed, "It will be matter of triumph to you,
Gerard, to learn that your strange perseverance has a little overcome
me. You are no longer a mere lad; and though inexperienced and
headstrong, you have shown talents and decision; and I am willing to
believe, though perhaps I am wrong, that you are guided by conviction,
and not by a blind wish to disobey. Your conduct has been consistent
throughout, and so far is entitled to respect. But you are, as I have
said (and forgive a father for saying so), inexperienced--a mere child
in the world's ways. You go straightforward to your object, reckless of
the remark that you excite, and the gall and wormwood that such remark
imparts. Why will you not in some degree be swayed by me? Our views, if
you would deign to inquire into mine, are not so dissimilar."

Neville knew not what to answer, for every reply and explanation were
likely to offend. "Hitherto," continued Sir Boyvill, "in disgust at your
wilfulness, I have only issued disregarded commands. But I am willing to
treat my son as my friend, if he will let me; but it must be on one
condition. I exact one promise."

"I am ready, sir," replied Neville, "to enter into any engagement that
does not defeat my purpose."

"It is simply," said Sir Boyvill, "that you shall do nothing without
consulting me. I, on the other hand, will promise not to interfere by
issuing orders which you will not obey. But if there is any sense in
your pursuit, my counsels may assist. I ask no more than to offer
advice, and to have opportunity afforded me to express my opinion. Will
you not allow that so much is due to me? Will you not engage to
communicate your projects, and to acquaint me unreservedly with every
circumstance that falls to your knowledge? This is the limit of my
exactions."

"Most willingly I make this promise," exclaimed Neville. "It will indeed
be my pride to have your participation in my sacred task."

"How far I can afford that," replied Sir Boyvill, "depends on the
conduct you will pursue. With regard to this Osborne, I consent at once
that his story should be sifted; nay, that you should go to America for
that purpose, while you are ready to engage that you will not act on any
information you may gather, without my knowledge."

"You may depend," said Gerard, "that I will keep to the letter of my
promise; and I pledge my honour, gladly and unreservedly, to tell you
everything, to learn your wishes, and to endeavour throughout to act
with your approbation."

This concession made on both sides, the father and son conversed on more
unreserved and kinder terms than they had ever before done. They passed
the evening together, and though the arrogance, the wounded pride, the
irritated feelings, and unredeemed selfishness of Sir Boyvill betrayed
themselves at every moment, Gerard saw with surprise the weakness masked
by so imposing an exterior. His angry commands and insulting blame had
been used as batteries to defend the accessible part. He still loved and
regretted Alithea; he pined to be assured of her truth; but he despised
himself for these emotions--calling them feebleness and credulity. He
felt assured that his worst suspicions would be proved true. She might
now be dead; he thought it probable, that ere this her faults and
sorrows were hushed in the grave: but had she remained voluntarily one
half hour in the power of the man who had carried her from her home, no
subsequent repentance, no remorse, no suffering could exculpate her.
What he feared, was the revival of a story so full of dishonour--the
dragging a mangled half-formed tale again before the public, which would
jeer his credulity, and make merry over the new gloss of a time-worn
subject. When such a notion occupied his brain, his heart swelled with
uncontrollable emotions of pride and indignation.

Neville cared little for the world. He thought of his mother's wrongs
and sufferings. He conjured up the long years which might have been
spent in wretchedness; he longed, whatever she had done, to feel her
maternal embrace, to show his gratitude for her early care of him. This
was one view, one class of emotions present to his mind, when any
occurrence tended to shake his belief in her unblemished honour and
integrity, which was the religion of his heart. At the same time he, as
much as his father, abhorred that the indifferent and light-hearted, the
levelling and base, should have any food administered to their loathsome
appetite for slander. So far as his father's views were limited to the
guarding Alithea's name from further discussion, Neville honoured them.
He showed Sir Boyvill that he was not so imprudent as he seemed, and
brought him at last to allow that some discovery might ensue from his
voyage. This open-hearted and peaceful interchange of sentiment between
them was very cheering to both; and when Gerard visited Elizabeth the
following day, his spirit was lighter and happier than it had ever been,
and love was there to mingle its roseate visions with the sterner calls
of duty. He entered Falkner's house with much of triumph, and more of
hope gladdening his heart; he left it horror-struck, aghast, and almost
despairing.

He would not return to his father. Elizabeth's supposition that Falkner
spoke under a delusion, produced by sudden insanity; and his reluctance
that while doubt hung over the event, that her dear name should be
needlessly mixed up with the tragedy of his mother's death, restrained
him. He resolved at once to take no final step till the evening, till he
had again seen Elizabeth, and learned what foundation there was for the
tremendous avowal that still rung in his ears. The evening--he had
mentioned the evening--but would it ever come? till then he walked in a
frightful dream. He first went to the docks, withdrew his luggage, and
yet left word that by possibility he might still join the vessel at
Sheerness. He did this, for he was glad to give himself something to do;
and yet, soon after, how gladly would he have exchanged those hours of
suspense for the certainty that too quickly came like a sudden ray of
light, to show that he had long been walking at the edge of a giddy
precipice. He received the packet and letter from the servant; dizzy and
confounded he rode away; by the light of the first lamp he read
Elizabeth's letter; it disordered the current of his blood, it confused
and maddened the functions of reason; putting spurs to his horse, he
galloped furiously on till he reached his father's house.

Sir Boyvill was seated solitarily in his drawing-room, sipping his
coffee, and indulging in various thought. His wedded life with
Alithea--her charms, her admirable qualities, and sweet, endearing
disposition--occupied him as they had never done before since her
flight. For the first time, the veil, woven by anger and vanity, fell
from his eyes, and he saw distinctly the rashness and injustice of his
past actions. He became convinced that deceit could never have had a
part in her; did not her child resemble her, and was he not truth
itself? He had nourished an aversion to his son, as her offspring; now
he looked on his virtues as an inheritance derived from his sweet
mother, and his heart instinctively, unaccountably, warmed towards both.

Gerard opened the door of the room and looked in; Sir Boyvill could
hardly have recognised him, his face whiter than marble, his eyes wild
and wandering, his whole countenance convulsed, his person shrunk up and
writhing. He threw the packet on the table, crying out, "Victory, my
father, victory!" in a voice so shrill and dissonant, so near a shriek,
as to inspire his auditor with fear rather than triumph: "Read! read!"
he continued, "I have not yet--I keep my word, you shall know all, even
before me--and yet, I _do_ know all, I have seen my mother's destroyer!
She is dead!"

Sir Boyvill now, in some degree, comprehended his son's agitation. He
saw that he was too much excited to act with any calmness; he could not
guess how he had discovered the villain on whom both would desire to
heap endless, unsatiable revenge; but he did not wonder, that if he had
really encountered this man, and learned his deeds, that he should be
transported into a sort of phrensy. He took up the packet--he cut the
string that tied it--he turned over the papers, and his brow darkened.
"Here is a long narrative," he said; "there is much of excuse, and much
of explanation here. The story ought to be short that exculpates her; I
do not like these varnishings of the simple truth."

"You will find none," said Neville; "at least, I heard none. His words
were direct--his avowal contained no subterfuge."

"Of whom do you speak?" asked Sir Boyvill.

"Read," said Neville, "and you will know more than I; but half an hour
ago those papers were put into my hands. I have not read them. I give
them to you before I am aware of their contents, that I might fully
acquit myself of my promise. They come from Rupert Falkner, my mother's
destroyer."

"Leave me then to my task," said Sir Boyvill, in an altered and subdued
tone. "You speak of strange things; facts to undo a frightful past, and
to generate a future dedicated to a new revenge. Leave me; let me remain
alone while I read--while I ponder on what credit I may give--what
course I must pursue. Leave me, Gerard. I have long injured you, but at
last you will be repaid. Come back in a few hours; the moment I am
master of the contents of the manuscript I will see you."

Gerard left him. He had scarcely been aware of what he was doing when he
carried the packet, unopened, unexamined, to his father. He had feared
that he might be tempted--to what?--to conceal his mother's vindication?
Never! Yet the responsibility sat heavy on him; and, driven by an
irresistible impulse, he had resolved to deprive himself of all power of
acting basely by giving at once publicity to all that passed. When he
had done this, he felt as if he had applied a match to some fatal rocket
which would carry destruction to the very temple and shrine of his
dearest hopes--to Elizabeth's happiness and life. But the deed was done;
he could but shut his eyes and let the mortal ball proceed towards its
destined prey.

Gerard was young. He aspired to happiness with all the ardour of youth.
While we are young we feel as if happiness were the birthright of
humanity; after a long and cruel apprenticeship, we disengage ourselves
from this illusion--or from (a yet more difficult sacrifice) the
realities that produce felicity--for on earth there are such, though
they are too often linked with adjuncts that make the purchase of them
cost in the end peace of mind and a pure conscience. Thus was it with
Gerard. With Elizabeth, winning her love and making her his own, he felt
assured of a life of happiness; but to sacrifice his mother's name--the
holy task to which he had dedicated himself from childhood--for the sake
of obtaining her--it must not be!

With this thought came destruction to the fresh-sprung hopes that
adorned his existence. Gerard's poetic and tender nature led him to form
sweet dreams of joys derived from a union which would be cemented by
affection, sympathy, and enthusiastic admiration of the virtues of his
companion. In Elizabeth he had beheld the imbodying of all his wishes;
in her eyes he had read their accomplishment. Her love for her father
had first awakened his love. Her wise, simple, upright train of
thinking--the sensibility ennobled by self-command, yet ever ready to
spring forth and comfort the unhappy--her generosity--her total
abnegation of self--her understanding so just and true, yet tempered
with feminine aptitude to adapt itself to the situation and sentiments
of others--all these qualities, discovered one by one, and made dear by
the friendship she displayed towards him, had opened the hitherto closed
gates of the world's only paradise; and now he found that, as the poet
says, evil had entered even there--"and the trail of the serpent" marked
with slimy poison the fairest and purest of Eden's flowers.[1]

Neville had looked forward to a life of blameless but ecstatic
happiness, as her friend, her protector, her husband. Youth, without
being presumptuous, is often sanguine. Prodigal of self, it expects, as
of right, a full return. Ready to assist Elizabeth in her task of
watching over her father's health--who, in his eyes, was wasting
gradually away--he felt that he should be near to soften her regrets,
and fill his place, and sooth her sinking spirits when struck by a loss
which to her would seem so dire.

And now--Falkner! He believed him to be in a state of health that did
not leave him many years to live. He recollected him at Marseilles,
stretched on his couch, feeble as an infant, the hues of death on his
brow. He thought of him as he had seen him that morning--his figure bent
by disease--his face ashy pale and worn. He was the man whom, thirteen
years before, he remembered in upright, proud, and youthful strength; wo
and disease had brought on the ravages of age--he was struck by
premature decay--a few years, by the course of nature, he would be laid
in his grave. But Gerard could not leave him this respite--he must at
once meet him in such encounter as must end in the death of one of the
combatants--whichever that might be, there was no hope for Elizabeth--in
either case she lost her all--in either case Falkner would die, and an
insuperable barrier be raised between her and her only other friend.
Neville's ardent and gentle spirit quivered with agony as he thought of
these things. "Oh ye destructive powers of nature!" he cried; "come all!
Storm, flood, and fire, mingled in one dire whirlwind; or bring the
deadlier tortures tyrants have inflicted and martyrs undergone, and say,
can any agony equal that which convulses the human heart when writhing
under contending passions--torn by contrary purposes! This very morning
Elizabeth was all the universe of hope and joy. I would not for worlds
have injured one hair of her dear head--and now I meditate a deed that
is to consign her to eternal grief."

Athwart this tumult of thought came the recollection that he was still
in ignorance of the truth. He called to mind the narrative which his
father was then reading; would it reveal aught that must alter the line
of conduct which he now considered inevitable? A devouring curiosity was
awakened. Leaving his father, he had rushed into the open air, in
obedience to the instinct that always leads the unquiet mind to seek the
solace of bodily activity. He had hurried into Hyde Park, which then, in
the dimness of night, appeared a wide expanse--a limitless waste. He
hurried to and fro on the turf--he saw nothing, he was aware of nothing,
except the internal war that shook him. Now, as he felt the eager desire
to get quit of doubt, he fancied that several hours must have elapsed,
and that his father must be waiting for him. The clocks of London
struck--he counted--it was but eleven--he had been there scarcely more
than an hour.


[Footnote 1: "Alas, for man! said the pitying spirit,
Dearly you pay for your primal fall!
Some flowers of Eden you still inherit,
But the trail of the serpent is over them all."

_Paradise and the Peri_.]




CHAPTER XXXIV


Neville returned home--he paused at the drawing-room door--a slight
noise indicated that his father was within--his hand was on the lock,
but he retreated; he would not intrude uncalled for--he wandered through
the dark, empty rooms, till a bell rang. Sir Boyvill inquired for
him--he hurried into his presence--he devoured the expression of his
countenance with his eyes, trying to read the thought within. Sir
Boyvill's face was usually stamped with an unvarying expression of cold
self-possession, mingled with sarcasm. These feelings were now at their
height--his aged countenance, withered and deep lined, was admirably
calculated to depict the concentrated, disdain that sat upon his lips
and elevated his brows. He pointed to the papers before him, and said in
a composed, yet hollow voice, "Take these away--read, for it is
necessary you should--the amplified confession of the murderer."

Gerard's blood ran cold. "Yet why call it a confession," continued Sir
Boyvill, his assumed contempt rising into angry scorn; "from the
beginning to the end it is a lie. He would varnish over his unparalleled
guilt--he would shelter himself from its punishment, but in vain. Read,
Gerard--read and be satisfied. I have wronged your mother--she was
innocent--murdered. Be assured that her vindication shall be heard as
loudly as her accusation, and that her destroyer shall die to expiate
her death."

"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 balk 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 afterward, it would seem, he quitted the house.

"Now to my task," thought Neville; "and O, 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 wo. 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
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 phrensy 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 reread the manuscript
with a new feeling of skepticism; 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 XXXV


That night was spent in travelling, and without any sleep. Neville saw
the day break in melancholy guise, struggling with the clouds, with
which a southeast 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 toward 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-capped 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--"Oh
my mother!" burst, from his lips. It was a spasm of uncontrollable
pain--an instant afterward 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 scull.
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
wo-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.

"If you speak the truth--if he possess a spark of those feelings which,
as a soldier, you have a right to believe may animate him, do you think
that he would return your fire? He raves about remorse in that tissue of
infamous falsehoods which you put into my hands; if he be human, he must
have some touch of that; and he could not, if he would, raise his weapon
against the child of poor Alithea. He will therefore refuse to meet you,
or, meeting you, refuse to fire; and either it will end in a farce for
the amusement of the world, or you will shoot a defenceless man. I do
not see the mercy of this proceeding."

"Of that, sir," said Neville, "we must take our chance."

"I will take no chance," cried his father. "My unfortunate wife was
borne off forcibly from her home; you can bear witness to that. Two men
carried her away, and no tidings ever again reached us of her fate. And
now one of these men, the arch criminal, chooses to gloss over these
circumstances, events, as pleases him; tells his own story, giving it
such graces of style as may dupe the inexperienced, and we are to rest
satisfied, and say, It is so. The absurdity of such conduct would mark
us as madmen. Enough of this; I have reasoned with you as if the
decision lay with me; when, in fact, I have no voice on the subject. It
is out of my hands; I have made it over to the law, and we can but stand
by and view its course. I believe, and before Heaven and your country
you must assert the same, that the remains we have uncovered are all
that is left us of your lost mother; the clandestine burial at once
declares the guilt of murder; such must be the opinion of impartial
judges, if I mistake not. I can interfere no further. The truth will be
sifted by three juries; this is no hole-and-corner vengeance; let our
enemy escape, in God's name, if they acquit him; but, if he be guilty,
then let him die, as I believe he will, a felon's death."

Sir Boyvill looked on his son with glassy eyes, but a sneering lip, that
spoke of the cruel triumph he desired. "There is Ravenglass," he added,
"there the coroner is summoned--there the court meets. We go to give our
deposition. We shall not lie, nor pervert facts; we tell who it was
revealed to us your mother's unknown grave; it rests with them to decide
whether he, who by his own avowal placed her therein, has not the crime
of murder on his soul."




CHAPTER XXXVI


Sir Boyvill quickened his pace; Neville followed. He was still the same
being who in his youth had been driven to the verge of insanity by the
despotism of his father. His free and feeling heart revolted from
arbitrary commands and selfishness. It was not only that his thoughts
flew back, wounded and sore, to Elizabeth, and figured her agony, but he
detested the fierce and vulgar revenge of his father. It is true that he
had seen Falkner, and in the noble though tarnished grandeur of his
countenance he had read the truth of the sad tale he related; and he
could not treat him with the contempt Sir Boyvill evinced; to whom he
was an image of the mind--unseen, unfelt. And then Falkner had loved his
mother; nay, more, she as a sister had loved him; and faulty and cruel
as had been his return for her kindness, he, through her, was endued
with sacredness in his eyes.

To oppose these softening feelings came a sort of rage that Elizabeth
was his child; that through him a barrier was raised to separate him
from the chosen friend of his heart, the one sweet, angel who had first
whispered peace to his soul. The struggle was violent--he did not see
how he could refuse his evidence at the inquest already summoned; in
every way his motives might be misunderstood, and his mother's fame
might suffer. This idea became the victor--he would do all that he was
called upon to do--to exculpate her; the rest he must leave to the
mysterious guidance of Providence.

He arrived at the poverty-stricken town of Ravenglass--the legal
authorities were assembled--and while preliminaries were being arranged,
he was addressed by Sir Boyvill's solicitor, who asked him to relate
what he knew, that his legal knowledge might assist in framing his
evidence briefly and conclusively. Neville recounted his story simply,
confining himself, as much as possible, to the bare outline of the
facts. The man of law was evidently struck by the new turn he gave to
the tale; for Sir Boyvill had unhesitatingly accused Falkner of murder.
"This Falkner," he said, "had concealed himself for the space of
thirteen years, till his accomplice Osborne was discovered--and till he
heard of Gerard's perseverance in sifting the truth--then, fearful the
tale might be disclosed in America, he came forward with his own
narrative, which glossed over the chief crime, and yet, by revealing the
burial-place of his victim, at once demonstrated the truth of the
present accusation. It is impossible that the facts could have occurred
as he represents them, plausible as his account is. Could a woman as
timid as Alithea have rushed on certain death, as he describes? Why
should she have crossed the stream in its fury? A bare half mile would
have carried her to a cottage where she had been safe from Falkner's
pursuit. What lady in a well-known country, where every face she met
must prove a friend, but would not have betaken herself to the nearest
village, instead of to an estuary renowned for danger. The very wetting
her feet in a brook had terrified her--never could she have encountered
the roar of waves sufficient to overwhelm and destroy her."

Such were the observations of Sir Boyvill; and though Gerard, by his
simple assertion that he believed Falkner's tale, somewhat staggered the
solicitor, yet he could not banish his notion that a trial was the
inevitable and best mode of bringing the truth to light. The jury were
now met, and Sir Boyvill gave such a turn to his evidence as at once
impressed them unfavourably towards the accused. In melancholy
procession they visited poor Alithea's grave. A crowd of country people
were collected about it--they did not dare touch the cloak, but gazed on
it with curiosity and grief. Many remembered Mrs. Neville, and their
rude exclamations showed how deeply they felt her injuries. "When I was
ill," said an old woman, "she gave me medicine with her own hand." "When
my son James was lost at sea," said another, "she came to comfort me,
and brought young Master Gerard--and cried, bless her! When she saw me
take on--rich and grand as she was, she cried for poor James--and that
she should be there now!" "My dear mistress," cried another, "never did
she speak a harsh word to me--but for her, I could not have married--if
she had lived, I had never known sorrow!"

Execrations against the murderer followed these laments. The arrival of
the jury caused a universal murmur--the crowd was driven back--the cloak
lifted from the grave--the men looked in; the scull, bound by her long
hair--hair whose colour and luxuriance many remembered--attracted
peculiar observation; the women, as they saw it, wept aloud--fragments
of her dress were examined, which yet retained a sort of identity, as
silk or muslin--though stained and colourless. As farther proof, among
the bones were found a few ornaments--among them, on the skeleton hand,
was her wedding-ring, with two others--both of which were sworn to by
Sir Boyvill as belonging to his wife. No doubt could exist concerning
the identity of the remains; it was sacrilege to gaze on them a moment
longer than was necessary--while each beholder, as they contemplated so
much beauty and excellence reduced to a small heap of bones, abhorrent
to the eye, imbibed a heartfelt lesson on the nothingness of life.
Stout-hearted men wept--and each bosom glowed with hatred against her
destroyer.

After a few moments the cloak was again extended--the crowd pressed
nearer--the jury retired, and returned to Ravenglass. Neville's evidence
was only necessary to prove the name and residence of the
assassin--there was no hesitation about the verdict. That of wilful
murder against Falkner was unhesitatingly pronounced--a warrant issued
for his apprehension, and proper officers despatched to execute it.

The moment that the verdict was delivered, Sir Boyvill and his son rode
back to Dromore. Mr. Ashley and the solicitor accompanied them--and all
the ordinary mechanism of life, which intrudes so often for our good, so
to justle together discordant characters and wear off poignant
impressions, now forced Neville, who was desirous to give himself up to
meditation, to abide for several hours in the society of these
gentlemen. There was a dinner to be eaten--Mr. Ashley partook of it, and
Gerard felt that his absence would be indecorous. After dinner he was
put to a trial--more severe to a sensitive, imaginative mind than any
sharp strokes of commonplace adversity. He was minutely questioned as to
the extent of his acquaintance with Falkner--how he came to form it--how
often he had seen him--and what had drawn confession from him they named
the criminal. These inquiries had been easily answered, but that the
name of Elizabeth must be introduced--and, as he expected, at the
mention of a daughter, a world of inquiry followed--and coarse remarks
fell from his father's lips--which harrowed up his soul; while he felt
that he had no exculpation to offer, nor any explanation that might take
from her the name and association of the child of a murderer.

As soon as he could he burst away. He rushed into the open air, and
hurried to the spot where he could best combat with and purify the
rebellious emotions of his heart--none but the men placed as watch were
near his mother's grave. Seeing the young squire, they retreated--and he
who had come on foot at such quick pace that he scarcely felt the ground
he trod, threw himself on the sands, grateful to find himself alone with
nature. The moon was hurrying on among the clouds--now bright in the
clear ether, now darkened by heavy masses--and the mirroring ocean was
sometimes alive with sparkling silver, now veiled and dim, so that you
could hear, but not see, the breaking of the surge.

An eloquent author has said, in contempt of such a being: "Try to
conceive a man without the ideas of God and eternity; of the good, the
true, the beautiful, and the infinite." Neville was certainly not such.
There was poetry in his very essence; and enthusiasm for the ideal of
the excellent gave his character a peculiar charm, to any one equally
exalted and refined. His mother's decaying form lay beneath the sands on
which he was stretched, death was there in its most hideous form;
beauty, and even form had deserted that frame-work which once was the
dear being, whose caresses, so warm and fond, it yet often thrilled him
to remember. He had demanded from Heaven the revelation of his mother's
fate, _here_ he found it, here in the narrow grave lay the evidence of
her virtues and her death; did he thank Heaven? even while he did, he
felt with bitterness that the granting of his prayer was inextricably
linked with the ruin of a being, as good and fair as she whose honour he
had so earnestly desired to vindicate.

He thought of all the sordid, vulgar, but heart-thrilling misery which
by his means was brought on Elizabeth; and he sought his heart for
excuses for the success for which he had pined. They came ready; no
desire of vulgar vengeance had been his; his motives had been exalted,
his conduct straightforward. The divine stamp on woman is her maternal
character--it was to prove that his idolized mother had not deserted the
first and most sacred duty in the world that had urged him--and he could
not foresee that the innocent would suffer through his inquiries. The
crime must fall on its first promoter--on Falkner's head must be heaped
the consequences of his act; all else were guiltless. These reflections,
however, only served to cheat his wound of its pain for a time--again
other thoughts recurred, the realities, the squalid realities of the
scene, in which she, miserable, was about to take a part. The
thief-takers and the gyves--the prison, and the public ignominious
trial--Falkner was to be subjected to all these indignities, and he well
knew that his daughter would not leave his side. "And I, her son, the
offspring of these sainted bones--placed here by him--how can I draw
near his child! God have mercy on her, for man will have none!"

Still he could not be satisfied. "Surely," he thought, "something can be
done, and something I will do. Already men are gone, who are to tear him
from his home, and to deliver him up to all those vile contrivances
devised for the coercion of the lowest of mankind--she will accompany
him, while I must remain here. To-morrow these remains will be conveyed
to our house--on the following day they are to be interred in the family
vault, and I must be present--I am tied, forced to inaction--the
privilege of free action taken from me."

Hope was awakened, however, as he pursued these thoughts, and
recollected the generous, kindly disposition of Lady Cecil, and her
attachment to her young friend. He determined to write to her. He felt
assured that she would do all in her power to alleviate Elizabeth's
sufferings--what she could do, he did not well understand--but it was a
relief to him to take some step for the benefit of the devoted daughter.
Bitterly as he thought of these things, did he regret that he had ever
seen Elizabeth? So complicated was the web of event, that he knew not
how to wish any event to have occurred differently; except that he had
not trusted to the hollow pretences of his father. He saw at once how
the generous and petty-minded can never coalesce--he ought to have acted
for himself, by himself; and miserable as in any case the end must have
been, he felt that his own open, honourable revenge would have been less
cruel in its effects than the malicious pursuit of his vindictive
father.




CHAPTER XXXVII


There is an impatient spirit in the young, that will not suffer them to
take into consideration the pauses that occur between events. That which
they do not see move, they believe to be stationary. Falkner was
surprised by the silence of several days on the part of Neville; but he
did not the less expect and prepare for the time, when he should be
called upon to render an account for the wrong he had done. Elizabeth,
on the contrary, deemed that the scene was closed, the curtain fallen.
What more could arise? Neville had obtained assurance of the innocence
and miserable end of his mother. In some manner this would be declared
to the world; but the echo of such a voice would not penetrate the
solitude in which she and her guardian were hereafter to live. Silence
and exclusion were the signal and seal of discovered guilt--other
punishment she did not expect. The name of Falkner had become abhorrent
to all who bore any relationship to the injured Alithea. She had bid an
eternal adieu to the domestic circle at Oakly--to the kind and
frank-hearted Lady Cecil--and, with her, to Gerard. His mind, fraught
with a thousand virtues--his heart, whose sensibility had awoke her
tenderness, were shut irrevocably against her.

Did she love Gerard? This question never entered her own mind. She felt,
but did not reason on, her emotions. Elizabeth was formed to be alive to
the better part of love. Her enthusiasm gave ideality, her affectionate
disposition warmth, to all her feelings. She loved Falkner, and that
with so much truth and delicacy, yet fervour of passion, that scarcely
could her virgin heart conceive a power more absolute, a tie more
endearing, than the gratitude she had vowed to him; yet she intimately
felt the difference that existed between her deep-rooted attachment for
him she named and looked on as her father, and the spring of playful,
happy, absorbing emotions that animated her intercourse with Neville. To
the one she dedicated her life and services; she watched him as a mother
may a child; a smile or cheerful tone of voice was warmth and gladness
to her anxious bosom, and she wept over his misfortunes with the truest
grief.

But there was more of the genuine attachment of mind for mind in her
sentiment for Neville. Falkner was gloomy and self-absorbed. Elizabeth
might grieve for, but she found it impossible to comfort him. With
Gerard it was far otherwise. Elizabeth had opened in his soul an unknown
spring of sympathy, to relieve the melancholy which had hitherto
overwhelmed him. With her he gave way freely to the impulses of a heart
which longed to mingle its hitherto checked stream of feeling with other
and sweeter waters. In every way he excited her admiration as well as
kindness. The poetry of his nature suggested expressions and ideas at
once varied and fascinating. He led her to new and delightful studies,
by unfolding to her the pages of the poets of her native country, with
which she was little conversant. Except Shakspeare and Milton, she knew
nothing of English poetry. The volumes of Chaucer and Spenser, of
ancient date; of Pope, Gray, and Burns; and, in addition, the writings
of a younger, but divine race of poets, were all opened to her by him.
In music, also, he became her teacher. She was a fine musician of the
German school. He introduced her to the simpler graces of song; and
brought her the melodies of Moore, so "married to immortal verse," that
they can only be thought of conjointly. Oh, the happy days of Oakly! How
had each succeeding hour been gilded by the pleasures of a nascent
passion, of the existence of which she had never before dreamed--and
these were fled for ever! It was impossible to feel assured of so sad a
truth, and not to weep over the miserable blight. Elizabeth commanded
herself to appear cheerful, but sadness crept over her solitary hours.
She felt that the world had grown, from being a copy of paradise, into a
land of labour and disappointment; where self-approbation was to be
gained through self-sacrifice; and duty and happiness became separate,
instead of united objects at which to aim.

From such thoughts she took refuge in the society of Falkner. She loved
him so truly, that she forgot her personal regrets--she forgot even
Neville when with him. Her affection for her benefactor was not a
stagnant pool, mantled over by memories existing in the depths of her
soul, but giving no outward sign; it was a fresh spring of overflowing
love--it was redundant with all the better portion of our
nature--gratitude, admiration, and pity for ever fed it, as from a
perennial fountain.

It was on a day, the fifth after the disclosure of Falkner, that she had
been taking her accustomed ride, and, as she rode, given herself up to
those reveries--now enthusiastic, now drooping and mournful--that sprung
from her singular and painful position. She returned home, eager to
forget in Falkner's society many a rebel thought, and to drive away the
image of her younger friend, by gazing on the wasted, sinking form of
her benefactor, in whose singularly noble countenance she ever found new
cause to devote her fortunes and her heart. To say that he was "not less
than archangel ruined," is not to express the peculiar interest of
Falkner's appearance. Thus had he seemed, perhaps, thirteen years before
at Treby; but gentle and kindly sentiments, the softening intercourse of
Elizabeth, the improvement of his intellect, and the command he had
exercised over the demonstration of passion, had moulded his face into
an expression of benevolence and sweetness, joined to melancholy
thoughtfulness; an abstracted, but not sullen seriousness, that rendered
it interesting to every beholder. Since his confession to Neville, since
the die was cast, and he had delivered himself up to his fate to atone
for his victim, something more was added; exalted resolution and serene
lofty composure had replaced his usual sadness; and the passions of his
soul, which had before deformed his handsome lineaments, now animated
them with a beauty of mind which struck Elizabeth at once with
tenderness and admiration.

Now, longing to behold, to contemplate this dear face, and to listen to
a voice that always charmed her out of herself, and made her forget her
sorrows--she was disappointed to find his usual sitting-room empty--it
appeared even as if the furniture had been thrown into disorder; there
were marks of several dirty feet upon the carpet; on the half-written
letter that lay on the desk the pen had hastily been thrown, blotting
it. Elizabeth wondered a little, but the emotion was passing away, when
the head servant came into the room, and informed her that his master
had gone out, and would not return that night.

"Not to-night!" exclaimed Elizabeth; "what has happened? who have been
here?"

"Two men, miss."

"Men! gentlemen?"

"No, miss, not gentlemen."

"And my father went away with them?"

"Yes, miss," replied the man, "he did indeed. He would not take the
carriage; he went in a hired post-chaise. He ordered me to tell you,
miss, that he would write directly, and let you know when you might
expect him."

"Strange, very strange is this!" thought Elizabeth. She did not know why
she should be disturbed, but disquiet invaded her mind; she felt
abandoned and forlorn, and, as the shades of evening gathered round,
even desolate. She walked from room to room, she looked from the window,
the air was chill, and from the east, yet she repaired to the garden;
she felt restless and miserable; what could the event be that took
Falkner away? She pondered vainly. The most probable conjecture was,
that he obeyed some summons from her own relations. At length one idea
rushed into her mind, and she returned to the house, and rang for the
servant. Falkner's wandering life had prevented his having any servant
of long-tried fidelity about him--but this man was good-hearted and
respectable--he felt for his young mistress, and consulted with her maid
as to the course they should take under the present painful
circumstances; and had concluded that they should preserve silence as to
what had occurred, leaving her to learn it from their master's expected
letter. Yet the secret was in some danger, when, fixing her eyes on him,
Elizabeth said, "Tell me truly, have you no guess what this business is
that has taken your master away?"

The man looked confused; but, like many persons not practised in the art
of cross-questioning, Elizabeth balked herself, by adding another
inquiry before the first was answered; saying with a faltering voice,
"Are you sure, Thompson, that it was not a challenge--a duel?"

The domestic's face cleared up: "Quite certain, miss, it was no duel--it
could not be--the men were not gentlemen."

"Then," thought Elizabeth, as she dismissed the man, "I will no longer
torment myself. It is evidently some affair of mere business that has
called him away. I shall learn all to-morrow."

Yet the morrow and the next day came, and Falkner neither wrote nor
returned. Like all persons who determine to conjecture no more,
Elizabeth's whole time was spent in endeavouring to divine the cause of
his prolonged absence and strange silence. Had any communication from
Neville occasioned his departure? was he sent for to point out his
victim's grave? That idea carried some probability with it; and
Elizabeth's thoughts flew fast to picture the solitary shore, and the
sad receptacle of beauty and love. Would Falkner and Neville meet at
such an hour? without a clew to guide her, she wandered for ever in a
maze of thought, and each hour added to her disquietude. She had not
gone beyond the garden for several days, she was fearful of being absent
when anything might arise; but nothing occurred, and the mystery became
more tantalizing and profound.

On the third day she could endure the suspense no longer; she ordered
horses to be put to the carriage, and told the servant of her intention
to drive into town, and to call on Falkner's solicitor, to learn if he
had any tidings; that he was ill she felt assured--where and how? away
from her, perhaps deserted by all the world: the idea of his sick-bed
became intolerably painful; she blamed herself for her inaction; she
resolved not to rest till she saw her father again.

Thompson knew not what to say; he hesitated, begged her not to go; the
truth hovered on his lips, yet he feared to give it utterance. Elizabeth
saw his confusion; it gave birth to a thousand fears, and she exclaimed,
"What frightful event are you concealing? Tell me at once. Great God!
why this silence? Is my father dead?"

"No, indeed, miss," said the man, "but my master is not in London, he is
a long way off. I heard he was taken to Carlisle."

"Taken to Carlisle! Why taken? What do you mean?"

"There was a charge against him, miss," Thompson continued, hesitating
at every word, "the men who came--they apprehended him for murder."

"Murder!" echoed his auditress; "then they fought! Gerard is killed!"

The agony of her look made Thompson more explicit. "It was no duel," he
said, "it was done many years ago; it was a lady who was murdered, a
Mrs. or Lady Neville."

Elizabeth smiled--a painful, yet a genuine smile; so glad was she to
have her worst fears removed, so futile did the accusation appear; the
smile passed away, as she thought of the ignominy, the disgraceful
realities of such a process--of Falkner torn from his home, imprisoned,
a mark for infamy. Weak minds are stunned by a blow like this, while the
stronger rise to the level of the exigency, and grow calm from the very
call made upon their courage. Elizabeth might weep to remember past or
anticipated misfortunes, but she was always calm when called upon to
decide and act; her form seemed to dilate, her eyes flashed with a
living fire, her whole countenance beamed with lofty and proud
confidence in herself. "Why did you not tell me this before?"' she
exclaimed. "What madness possessed you to keep me in ignorance? How much
time has been lost! Order the horses! I must begone at once, and join my
father."

"He is in jail, miss," said Thompson. "I beg your pardon, but you had
better see some friend before you go."

"I must decide upon that," replied Elizabeth. "Let there be no delay on
your part, you have caused too much. But the bell rings; did I not hear
wheels? perhaps he is returned." She rushed to the outer door; she
believed that it was her father returned; the garden-gate opened--two
ladies entered; one was Lady Cecil. In a moment Elizabeth felt herself
embraced by her warm-hearted friend; she burst into tears. "This is
kind, more than kind!" she exclaimed; "and you bring good news, do you
not? My father is liberated, and all is again well!"




CHAPTER XXXVIII


The family of Raby must be considered collectively, as each member
united in one feeling, and acted on one principle. They were Catholics,
and never forgot it. They were not bent on proselytism; on the contrary,
they rather shunned admitting strangers into their circle: but they
never ceased to remember that they belonged to the ancient faith of the
land, and looked upon their fidelity to the tenets of their ancestors as
a privilege, and a distinction far more honourable than a patent of
nobility. Surrounded by Protestants, and consequently, as they believed,
by enemies, it was the aim of their existence to keep their honour
unsullied; and that each member of the family should act for the good
and glory of the whole, unmindful of private interests and individual
affections. The result of such a system may be divined. The pleasures of
mediocrity--toiling merit--the happy home--the cheerful family union,
where smiles glitter brighter than gold; all these were unknown or
despised. Young hearts were pitilessly crushed; young hopes blighted
without remorse. The daughters were doomed, for the most part, to the
cloister; the sons to foreign service. This, indeed, was not to be
attributed entirely to the family failing--a few years ago, English
Catholics were barred out from every road to emolument and distinction
in their native country.

Edwin Raby had thus been sacrificed. His enlightened mind disdained the
trammels thrown over it; but his apostacy doomed him to become an
outcast. He had previously been the favourite and hope of his parents;
from the moment that he renounced his religion he became the opprobrium.
His name was never mentioned; and his death hailed as a piece of good
fortune, that freed his family from a living disgrace. The only person
among them who regretted him was the wife of his eldest brother; she had
appreciated his talents and virtues, and had entertained a sincere
friendship for him; but even she renounced him.

Her heart, naturally warm and noble, was narrowed by prejudice; but
while she acted in conformity with the family principle, she suffered
severely from the shock thus given to her better feelings. When Edwin
died, her eyes were a little opened; she began to suspect that human
life and human suffering deserved more regard than articles of belief.
The "late remorse of love" was awakened, and she never wholly forgot the
impression. She had not been consulted concerning, she knew nothing of,
his widow and orphan child. Young at that time, the weight of authority
pressed also on her, and she had been bred to submission. There was a
latent energy, however, in her character that developed itself as she
grew older. Her husband died, and her consequence increased in old Oswi
Raby's eyes. By degrees her authority became paramount; it was greatly
regulated by the prejudices and systems cherished by the family, as far
as regarded the world in general; but it was softened in her own circle
by the influence of the affections. Her daughters were educated at
home--not one was destined for the cloister. Her only son was brought up
at Eton; the privileges granted of late years to the Catholics made her
entertain the belief, that it was no longer necessary to preserve the
old defences and fortifications which intolerance had forced its victims
to institute; still pride--pride of religion, pride of family, pride in
an unblemished name, were too deeply rooted, too carefully nurtured, not
to form an integral part of her character.

When a letter from her father-in-law revealed to her the existence of
Elizabeth, her heart warmed towards the orphan and deserted daughter of
Edwin. She felt all the repentance which duties neglected bring on a
well-regulated mind--her pride revolted at the idea that a daughter of
the house of Raby was dependant on the beneficence of a stranger--she
resolved that no time should be lost in claiming and receiving her, even
while she trembled to think of how, brought up as an alien, she might
prove rather a burden than an acquisition. She had written to make
inquiries as to her niece's abode. She heard that she was on a visit at
Lady Cecil's at Hastings--Mrs. Raby was at Tunbridge--she instantly
ordered horses, and proceeded to Oakly.

On the morning of her visit, Lady Cecil had received a letter from
Gerard: it was incoherent, and had been written by snatches in the
carriage on his way to Dromore. Its first words proclaimed his mother's
innocence, and the acknowledgment of her wrongs by Sir Boyvill himself.
As he went on, his pen lingered--he trembled to write the words, "Our
friend, our Elizabeth, is the daughter of the destroyer." It was
unnatural, it was impossible--the very thought added acrimony to his
detestation of Falkner--it prevented the compassion his generous nature
would otherwise have afforded, and yet roused every wish to spare him,
as much as he might be spared, for his heroic daughter's sake. He felt
deceived, trepanned, doomed. In after life we are willing to compromise
with fate--to take the good with the bad--and are satisfied if we can at
all lighten the burden of life. In youth we aim at completeness and
perfection. Ardent and single-minded, Neville disdained prejudices; and
his impulse was, to separate the idea of father and daughter, and to
cherish Elizabeth as a being totally distinct from her parentage. But
she would not yield to this delusion--she would cling to her father--and
if he died by his hand, he would for ever become an object of
detestation. Well has Alfieri said, "There is no struggle so vehement as
when an upright but passionate heart is divided between inclination and
duty." Neville's soul was set upon honour and well-doing; never before
had he found the execution of the dictates of his conscience so full of
bitterness and impatience. Something of these feelings betrayed
themselves in his letter. "We have lost Elizabeth," he wrote; "for ever
lost her! Is there no help for this? No help for her? None! She clings
to the destroyer's side, and shares his miserable fate--lost to
happiness--to the innocence and sunshine of life. She will live a victim
and die a martyr to her duties; and she is lost to us for ever!"

Lady Cecil read again and again--she wondered--she grieved--she uttered
impatient reproaches against Gerard for having sought the truth; and yet
her heart was with him, and she rejoiced in the acknowledged innocence
of Alithea. She thought of Elizabeth with the deepest grief--had they
never met--had she and Gerard never seen each other, neither had loved,
and half this wo had been spared. How strange and devious are the ways
of fate--how difficult to resign one's self to its mysterious and
destructive course! Naturally serene, though vivacious--kind-hearted,
but not informed with trembling insensibility--yet so struck was Lady
Cecil by the prospects of misery for those she best loved, that she wept
bitterly, and wrung her hands in impatient, impotent despair. At this
moment Mrs. Raby was announced.

Mrs. Raby had something of the tragedy queen in her appearance. She was
tall and dignified in person. Her black full eyes were melancholy--her
brow shadowing them over had a world of thought and feeling in its
sculpture-like lines. The lower part of her face harmonized, though
something of pride lurked about her beautiful mouth--her voice was
melodious, but deep-toned. Her manners had not the ease of the well-bred
Lady Cecil--something of the outcast was imprinted upon them, which
imparted consciousness, reserve, and alternate timidity and haughtiness.
There was nothing embarrassed, however, in her mien, and she asked at
once for Elizabeth with obvious impatience. She heard that she was gone
with regret. The praises Lady Cecil almost involuntarily showered on her
late guest at once dissipated this feeling; and caused her, with all the
frankness natural to her, to unfold at once the object of her visit--the
parentage of the orphan--the discovery of her niece. Lady Cecil clasped
her hands in a transport, which was not all joy. There was so much of
wonder, almost of disbelief, at the strange tale--had a fairy's wand
operated the change, it had not been more magical in her eyes. Heaven's
ways were vindicated--all of evil vanished from the scene--her friend
snatched from ignominy and crime, to be shrined for ever in their hearts
and love.

She poured out these feelings impetuously. Mrs. Raby was well acquainted
with Alithea's story, and was familiar with Gerard Neville's conduct;
all that she now heard was strange indeed. She did not imbibe any of
Lady Cecil's gladness, but much of her eagerness. It became of paramount
importance in her mind to break at once the link between Elizabeth and
her guardian, before the story gained publicity, and the name of Raby
became mingled in a tale of horror and crime, which, to the peculiar
tone of Mrs. Raby's mind, was singularly odious and disgraceful. No time
must be lost--Elizabeth must be claimed--must at once leave the guilty
and tainted one, while yet her name received no infection; or she would
be disowned for ever by her father's family. When Lady Cecil learned
Mrs. Raby's intention of proceeding to London to see her niece, she
resolved to go also, to act as mediator, and to soften the style of the
demands made, even while she persuaded Elizabeth to submit to them. She
expressed her intention, and the ladies agreed to travel together. Both
were desirous of further communication. Lady Cecil wished to interest
Mrs. Raby still more deeply in her matchless kinswoman's splendid
qualities of heart and mind; while Mrs. Raby felt that her conduct must
be founded on the character and worth of her niece; even while she was
more convinced, at every minute, that no half measures would be
permitted by Oswi Raby, and others of their family and connexion, and
that Elizabeth's welfare depended on her breaking away entirely from her
present position, and throwing herself unreservedly upon the kindness
and affection of her father's relations.

Strange tidings awaited their arrival in London, and added to the
eagerness of both. The proceedings of Sir Boyvill, the accusation of
Falkner, and his actual arrest, with all its consequent disgrace, made
each fear that it was too late to interpose. Mrs. Raby showed most
energy. The circumstances were already in the newspapers, but there was
no mention of Elizabeth. Falkner had been taken from his home, but no
daughter accompanied him, no daughter appeared to have any part in the
shocking scene. Had Falkner had the generosity to save her from
disgrace? If so, it became her duty to co-operate in his measures. Where
Elizabeth had taken refuge, was uncertain; but, on inquiry, it seemed
that she was still at Wimbledon. Thither the ladies proceeded together.
Anxiety possessed both to a painful degree. There was a mysteriousness
in the progress of events which they could not unveil--all depended on a
clear and a happy explanation. The first words and first embrace of
Elizabeth reassured her friend; all indeed would be well, she restored
to her place in society, and punishment would fall on the guilty alone.




CHAPTER XXXIX


The first words that Elizabeth spoke, as she embraced Lady Cecil, "You
are come, then all is well," seemed to confirm her belief that the
offered protection of Mrs. Raby would sound to the poor orphan as a
hospitable shore to the wrecked mariner. She pressed her fondly to her
heart, repeating her own words, "All is well--dear, dear Elizabeth, you
are restored to us, after I believed you lost for ever."

"What, then, has happened?" asked Elizabeth, "and where is my dear
father?"

"Your father! Miss Raby," repeated a deep, serious, but melodious voice;
"whom do you call your father?"

Elizabeth, in her agitation, had not caught her aunt's name, and turned
with surprise to the questioner, whom Lady Cecil introduced as one who
had known and loved her real father; as her aunt, come to offer a happy
and honourable home--and the affection of a relative to one so long
lost, so gladly found.

"We have come to carry you off with us," said Lady Cecil; "your position
here is altogether disagreeable; but everything is changed now, and you
will come with us."

"But my father," cried Elizabeth; "for what other name can I give to my
benefactor? Dear Lady Cecil, where is he?"

"Do you not then know?" asked Lady Cecil, hesitatingly.

"This very morning I heard something frightful, heart-breaking; but
since you are here, it must be all a fiction, or at least the dreadful
mistake is put right. Tell me, where is Mr. Falkner?"

"I know less than you, I believe," replied her friend; "my information
is only gathered from the hasty letters of my brother, which explain
nothing."

"But Mr. Neville has told you," said Elizabeth, "that my dear father is
accused of murder; accused by him who possesses the best proof of his
innocence. I had thought Mr. Neville generous, unsuspicious--"

"Nor is it he," interrupted Lady Cecil, "who brings this accusation. I
tell you I know little; but Sir Boyvill is the origin of Mr. Falkner's
arrest. The account he read seemed to him unsatisfactory, and the
remains of poor Mrs. Neville. Indeed, dear Elizabeth, you must not
question me, for I know nothing; much less than you. Gerard puts much
faith in the innocence of Mr. Falkner."

"Bless him for that!" cried Elizabeth, tears gushing into her eyes. "Oh
yes, I knew that he would be just and generous. My poor, poor father! by
what fatal mistake is your cause judged by one incapable of
understanding or appreciating you?"

"Yet," said Lady Cecil, "he cannot be wholly innocent; the flight, the
catastrophe, the concealment of his victim's death; is there not guilt
in these events?"

"Much, much; I will not excuse or extenuate. If ever you read his
narrative, which, at his desire, I gave Mr. Neville, you will learn from
that every exculpation he can allege. It is not for me to speak, nor to
hear even of his past errors; never was remorse more bitter, contrition
more sincere. But for me, he had not survived the unhappy lady a week;
but for me, he had died in Greece, to expiate his fault. Will not this
satisfy his angry accusers?

"I must act from higher motives. Gratitude, duty, every human obligation
bind me to him. He took me, a deserted orphan, from a state of miserable
dependance on a grudging, vulgar woman; he brought me up as his child;
he was more to me than father ever was. He has nursed me as my own
mother would in sickness; in perilous voyages he has carried me in his
arms, and sheltered me from the storm, while he exposed himself for my
sake; year after year, while none else have cared for, have thought, of
me, I have been the object of his solicitude. He has consented to endure
life, that I might not be left desolate, when I knew not that one of my
father's family would acknowledge me. Shall I desert him now? Never!"

"But you cannot help him," said Lady Cecil; "he must be tried by the
laws of his country. I hope he has not in truth offended against them;
but you cannot serve him."

"Where is he, dear Lady Cecil? tell me where he is."

"I fear there can be no doubt he is in prison at Carlisle."

"And do you think that I cannot serve him there? in prison as a
criminal! Miserable as his fate makes me, miserable as I too well know
that he is, it is some compensation to my selfish heart to know that I
can serve him, that I can be all in all of happiness and comfort to him.
Even now he pines for me; he knows that I never leave his side when in
sorrow; he wonders I am not already there. Yes, in prison, in shame, he
will be happy when he sees me again. I shall go to him, and then, too, I
shall have comfort."

She spoke with a generous animation, while yet her eyes glistened, and
her voice trembled with emotion. Lady Cecil was moved, while she
deplored; she caressed her; she praised, while Mrs. Raby said, "It is
impossible not to honour your intentions, which spring from so pure and
noble a source. I think, indeed, that you overrate your obligations to
Mr. Falkner. Had he restored you to us after your mother's death, you
would have found, I trust, a happy home with me. He adopted you, because
it best pleased him so to do. He disregarded the evil he brought upon us
by so doing; and only restored you to us when the consequence of his
crimes prevented him from being any longer a protection."

"Pardon me," said Elizabeth, "if I interrupt you. Mr. Falkner is a
suffering, he believed himself to be a dying, man; he lived in anguish
till he could declare his error, to clear the name of his unhappy
victim; he wished first to secure my future lot, before he dared fate
for himself; chance altered his designs; such were his motives, generous
towards me as they ever were."

"And you, dear Elizabeth," said Lady Cecil, "must act in obedience to
them and to his wishes. He anticipated disgrace from his disclosures--a
disgrace which you must not share. You speak like a romantic girl of
serving him in prison. You cannot guess what a modern jail is, its
vulgar and shocking inhabitants: the hideous language and squalid sights
are such that their very existence should be a secret to the innocent:
be assured that Mr. Falkner, if he be, as I believe him, a man of honour
and delicacy, will shudder at the very thought of your approaching such
contamination; he will be best pleased to know you safe and happy with
your family."

"What a picture do you draw!" cried Elizabeth, trying to suppress her
tears; "my poor, poor father, whose life hangs by a thread! how can he
survive the accumulation of evil? But he will forget all these horrors
when I am with him. I know, thank God, I do indeed know, that I have
power to cheer and support him, even at the worst."

"This is madness!" observed Lady Cecil, in a tone of distress.

Mrs. Raby interposed with her suggestions. She spoke of her own desire,
the desire of all the family, to welcome Elizabeth; she told her that
with them, belonging to them, she had new duties; her obedience was due
to her relatives; she must not act so as to injure them. She alluded to
their oppressed religion; to the malicious joy their enemies would have
in divulging such a tale as that would be, if their niece's conduct made
the whole course of events public. And, as well as she could, she
intimated that if she mixed up her name in a tale so full of horror and
guilt, her father's family could never after receive her.

Elizabeth heard all this with considerable coldness. "It grieves me,"
she said, "to repay intended kindness with something like repulse. I
have no wish to speak of the past; nor to remind you that if I was not
brought up in obedience to you all, it was because my father was
disowned, my mother abandoned; and I, a little child, an orphan, was
left to live and die in dependance. I, who then bore your name, had
become a subject of niggard and degrading charity. Then, young as I was,
I felt gratitude, obedience, duty, all due to the generous benefactor
who raised me from this depth of want, and made me the child of his
heart. It is a lesson I have been learning many years; I cannot unlearn
it now. I am his; bought by his kindness; earned by his unceasing care
for me, I belong to him--his child--if you will, his servant--I do not
quarrel with names--a child's duty I pay him, and will ever. Do not be
angry with me, dear aunt, if I may give you that name--dearest Lady
Cecil, do not look so imploringly on me--I am very unhappy. Mr. Falkner
a prisoner, accused of the most hideous crime--treated with ignominy--he
whose nerves are agonized by a touch--whose frame is even now decaying
through sickness and sorrow--and I, and every hope, away. I am very
unhappy. Do not urge me to what is impossible, and thrice, thrice
wicked. I must go to him; day and night I shall have no peace till I am
at his side; do not, for my sake do not, dispute this sacred duty."

It was not thus that the two ladies could be led to desist; they soothed
her, but again returned to the charge. Lady Cecil brought a thousand
arguments of worldly wisdom, of feminine delicacy. Mrs. Raby insinuated
the duty owed to her family, to shield it from the disgrace she was
bringing on it. They both insisted on the impossibility, on the foolish
romance of her notions. Had she been really his daughter, her joining
him in prison was impracticable--out of all propriety. But Elizabeth had
been brought up to regard feelings, rather than conventional
observances; duties, not proprieties. All her life Falkner had been her
law, rule, every tie to her; she knew and felt nothing beyond. When she
had followed him to Greece--when she had visited the Morea, to bear him,
dying, away--when at Zante she had watched by his sick couch, the world,
and all the Rabys it contained, were nothing to her; and now, when he
was visited by a far heavier calamity, when, in solitude and misery, he
had, besides her, no one comfort under heaven, was she to adopt a new
system of conduct, become a timid, home--bred young lady, tied by the
most frivolous rules, impeded by fictitious notions of propriety and
false delicacy? Whether they were right and she were wrong--whether,
indeed, such submission to society--such useless, degrading dereliction
of nobler duties, was adapted for feminine conduct, and whether she,
despising such bonds, sought a bold and dangerous freedom, she could not
tell; she only knew and felt, that for her, educated, as she had been,
beyond the narrow paling of boarding-school ideas, or the refinements of
a lady's boudoir, that, where her benefactor was, there she ought, to
be; and that to prove her gratitude, to preserve her faithful attachment
to him amid dire adversity, was her sacred duty--a virtue before which
every minor moral faded and disappeared.

The discussion was long; and, even when they found her proof against
every attack, they would not give up. They entreated her to go home with
them for that day. A wild light beamed from her eyes. "I am going home,"
she cried; "an hour hence, and I shall be gone to where my true home is.
How strange it is that you should imagine that I could linger here!

"Be not afraid for me, dear Lady Cecil," she continued; "all will go
well with me; and you will, after a little reflection, acknowledge that
I could not act other than I do. And will you, Mrs. Raby, forgive my
seeming ingratitude? I acknowledge the justice of your demands. I thank
you for your proposed kindness. The name of Raby shall receive no
injury; it shall never escape my lips. My father will preserve the same
silence. Be not angry with me; but--except that I remember my dear
parents with affection--I would say, I take more joy and pride in being
his daughter, his friend at this need, than in the distinction and
prosperity your kindness offers. I give up every claim on my family; the
name of Raby shall not be tainted: but Elizabeth Falkner, with all her
wilfulness and faults, shall, at least, prove her gratitude to him who
bestowed that appellation on her."

And thus they parted. Lady Cecil veiling her distress in sullenness;
while Mrs. Raby was struck and moved by her niece's generosity, which
was in accordance with her own noble mind. But she felt that other
judges would sit upon the cause, and decide from other motives. She
parted from her as a pagan relative might from a young Christian
martyr--admiring, while she deplored her sacrifice, and feeling herself
wholly incapable of saving.




CHAPTER XL


Elizabeth delayed not a moment proceeding on her journey; an exalted
enthusiasm made her heart beat high, and almost joyously. This buoyancy
of spirit, springing from a generous course of action, is the
compensation provided for our sacrifices of inclination--and at least,
on first setting out, blinds us to the sad results we may be preparing
for ourselves. Elated by a sense of acting according to the dictates of
her conscience, despite the horror of the circumstances that closed in
the prospect, her spirits were light, and her eyes glistened with a
feeling at once triumphant and tender, while reflecting on the comfort
she was bringing to her unfortunate benefactor. A spasm of horror seized
her now and then, as the recollection pressed that he was in
prison--accused as a murderer--but her young heart refused to be cowed,
even by the ignominy and anguish of such a reflection.

A philosopher not long ago remarked, when adverting to the principle of
destruction latent in all works of art, and the overthrow of the most
durable edifices; "but when they are destroyed, so as to produce only
dust, Nature asserts an empire over them; and the vegetative world rises
in constant youth, and in a period of annual successions, by the labours
of man, providing food, vitality and beauty adorn the wrecks of
monuments, which were once raised for purposes of glory." Thus when
crime and wo attack and wreck an erring human being, the affections and
virtues of one faithfully attached decorate the ruin with alien beauty;
and make that pleasant to the eye and heart which otherwise we might
turn from as a loathsome spectacle.

It was a cold September day when she began her journey, and the solitary
hours spent on the road exhausted her spirits. In the evening she
arrived at Stony Stratford, and here, at the invitation of her servant,
consented to spend the night. The solitary inn-room, without a fire, and
her lonely supper, chilled her; so susceptible are we to the minor
casualties of life, even when we meet the greater with heroic
resolution. She longed to skip the present hour, to be arrived--she
longed to see Falkner, and to hear his voice--she felt forlorn and
deserted. At this moment the door was opened, "a gentleman" was
announced, and Gerard Neville entered. Love and nature at this moment
asserted their full sway--her heart bounded in her bosom, her cheek
flushed, her soul was deluged at once with a sense of living
delight--she had never thought to see him more--she had tried to forget
that she regretted this; but he was there, and she felt that such a
pleasure were cheaply purchased by the sacrifice of her existence. He
also felt the influence of the spell. He came agitated by many fears,
perplexed by the very motive that led him to her--but she was there in
all her charms, the dear object of his nightly dreams and waking
reveries--hesitation and reserve vanished in her presence, and they both
felt the alliance of their hearts.

"Now that I am here, and see you," said Neville, "it seems to me the
most natural thing in the world that I should have followed you as I
have done. While away, I had a thousand misgivings--and wherefore? did
you not sympathize in my sufferings, and desire to aid me in my
endeavours; and I feel convinced that fate, while by the turn of events
it appeared to disunite, has, in fact, linked us closer than ever. I am
come with a message from Sophia--and to urge also, on my own part, a
change in your resolves; you must not pursue your present journey."

"You have, indeed, been taking a lesson from Lady Cecil, when you say
this," replied Elizabeth; "she has taught you to be worldly for me--a
lesson you would not learn on your own account--she did not seduce me in
this way; I gave you my support when you were going to America."

Elizabeth began to speak almost sportively, but the mention of America
brought to her recollection the cause of his going and the circumstances
that prevented him; and the tears gushed from her eyes as she continued,
in a voice broken by emotion, "Oh, Mr. Neville, I smile while my heart
is breaking--my dear, dear father! What misery is this that you have
brought on him--and now, while he treated you with unreserve, have you
falsely--you must know--accused him of crime, and pursued your vengeance
in a vindictive and ignominious manner? It is not well done!"

"I pardon your injustice," said Neville, "though it is very great. One
of my reasons for coming was to explain the exact state of things,
though I believed that your knowledge of me would have caused you to
reject the idea of my being a party to my father's feelings of revenge."

Neville then related all that had passed; the discovery of his mother's
remains in the very spot Falkner had indicated, and Sir Boyvill's
resolve to bring the whole train of events before the public. "Perhaps,"
he continued, "my father believes in the justice of his accusation--he
never saw Mr. Falkner, and cannot be impressed as I am by the tokens of
a noble mind, which, despite his errors, are indelibly imprinted on his
brow. At all events, he is filled with a sense of his own
injuries--stung by the disdain heaped on him in that narration, and
angry that he had been led to wrong a wife, the memory of whose virtues
and beauty now revives bitterly to reproach him. I cannot wonder at his
conduct, even while I deplore it: I do deplore it on your account; for
Mr. Falkner, God knows I would have visited his crime in another mode;
yet all he suffers he has brought on himself--he must feel it due--and
must bear it as best he may: forgive me if I seem harsh--I compassionate
him through you--I cannot for his own sake."

"How falsely do you reason," cried Elizabeth; "and you also are swayed
and perverted by passion. He is innocent of the hideous crime laid to
his charge--you know and feel that he is innocent; and were he guilty--I
have heard you lament that crime is so hardly visited by the laws of
society. I have heard you say, that even where guilt is joined to the
hardness of habitual vice, that it ought to be treated with the
indulgence of a correcting father, not by the cruel vengeance of the
law. And now, when one whose very substance and flesh are corroded by
remorse--one whose conscience acts as a perpetual scourge--one who has
expiated his fault by many years spent in acts of benevolence and
heroism; this man, because his error has injured you, you, forgetting
your own philosophy, would make over to a fate which, considering who
and what he is, is the most calamitous human imagination can conceive."

Neville could not hear this appeal without the deepest pain. "Let us
forget," he at last said, "these things for a few minutes. They did not
arise through me, nor can I prevent them; indeed, they are now beyond
all human control. Falkner could as easily restore my mother, whose
remains we found mouldering in the grave which he dug for them; he could
as easily bring her back to the life and happiness of which he deprived
her, as I, my father, or any one, free him from the course of law to
which he is made over. We must all abide by the issue--there is no
remedy. But you--I would speak of you--"

"I cannot speak, cannot think of myself," replied Elizabeth, "except in
one way--to think all delays tedious that keep me from my father's side,
and prevent me from sharing his wretchedness."

"And yet you must not go to him," said Neville; "yours is the scheme of
inexperience--but it must not be. How can you share Mr. Falkner's
sorrows? you will scarcely be admitted to see him. And how unfit for you
is such a scene! You cannot guess what these things are; believe me,
they are most unfit for one of your sex and age. I grieve to say in what
execration the supposed murderer of my mother is held. You would be
subjected to insult, you are alone and unprotected--even your high
spirit would be broken by the evils that will gather round you."

"I think not," replied Elizabeth; "I cannot believe that my spirit can
be broken by injustice, or that it can quail while I perform a duty. It
would indeed--spirit and heart would both break--were my conscience
burdened with the sin of deserting my father. In prison--amid the
hootings of the mob--if for such I am reserved--I shall be safe and well
guarded by the approbation of my own mind."

"Would that an angel from heaven would descend to guard you!" cried
Neville, passionately; "but in this inexplicable world, guilt and
innocence are so mingled, that the one reaps the blessings deserved by
the other; and the latter sinks beneath the punishment incurred by the
former. Else why, removed by birth, space, and time from all natural
connexion with the cause of all this misery, are you cast on this evil
hour? Were you his daughter, my heart would not rebel--blood calls to
blood, and a child's duty is paramount. But you are no child of his; you
spring from another race--honour, affection, prosperity await you in
your proper sphere. What have you to do with that unhappy man?

"Yet another word," he continued, seeing Elizabeth about to reply with
eagerness; "and yet how vain are words to persuade. Could I but take you
to a tower, and show you, spread below, the course of events, and the
fatal results of your present resolves, you would suffer me to lead you
from the dangerous path you are treading. If once you reach Cumberland,
and appear publicly as Falkner's daughter, the name of Raby is lost to
you for ever; and if the worst should come, where will you turn for
support? Where fly for refuge? Unable to convince, I would substitute
entreaty, and implore you to spare yourself these evils. You know not,
indeed you do not know, what you are about to do."

Thus impetuously urged, Elizabeth was for a few minutes half bewildered;
"I am afraid," she said, "I suppose, indeed, that I am something of a
savage--unable to bend to the laws of civilization. I did not know
this--I thought I was much like other girls--attached to their home and
parents--fulfilling their daily duties, as the necessities of those
parents demand. I nursed my father when sick: now that he is in worse
adversity, I still feel my proper place to be at his side, as his
comforter and companion, glad if I can be of any solace to him. He is my
father--my more than father--my preserver in helpless childhood from the
worst fate. May I suffer every evil when I forget that! Even if a false
belief of his guilt renders the world inimical to him, it will not be so
unjust to one as unoffending as I; and if it is, it cannot touch me.
Methinks we speak two languages--I speak of duties the most sacred; to
fail in which would entail self-condemnation on me to the end of my
days. You speak of the conveniences, the paint, the outside of life,
which is as nothing in comparison. I cannot yield--I grieve to seem
eccentric and headstrong--it is my hard fate, not my will, so to
appear."

"Do not give such a name," replied Neville, deeply moved, "to an heroic
generosity, only too exalted for this bad world. It is I that must
yield, and pray to God to shield and recompense you as you deserve--he
only can--he and your own noble heart. And will you pardon me, Miss
Raby?"

"Do not give me that name," interrupted Elizabeth. "I act in
contradiction to my relations' wishes--I will not assume their name. The
other, too, must be painful to you. Call me Elizabeth--"

Neville took her hand. "I am," he said, "a selfish, odious being; you
are full of self-sacrifice, of thought for others, of every blessed
virtue. I think of myself--and hate myself while I yield to the impulse.
Dear, dear Elizabeth, since thus I may call you, are you not all I have
ever imagined of excellent? I love you beyond all thought or word; and
have for many, many months, since first I saw you at Marseilles. Without
reflection, I knew and felt you to be the being my soul thirsted for. I
find you, and you are lost!"

Love's own colour died deeply the cheeks of Elizabeth--she felt
recompensed for every suffering in the simple knowledge of the sentiment
she inspired. A moment before, clouds and storms had surrounded her
horizon; now the sun broke in upon it. It was a transcendent though a
transient gleam. The thought of Falkner again obscured the radiance,
which, even in its momentary flash, was as if an angel, bearing with it
the airs of paradise, had revealed itself, and then again become
obscured.

Neville was less composed. He had never fully entered into his father's
bitter thoughts against Falkner--and Elizabeth's fidelity to the unhappy
man made him half suspect the unexampled cruelty and injustice of the
whole proceeding. Still compassion for the prisoner was a passive
feeling; while horror at the fate preparing for Elizabeth stirred his
sensitive nature to its depths, and filled him with anguish. He walked
impatiently about the room--and stopped before her, fixing on her his
soft lustrous eyes, whose expression was so full of tenderness and
passion. Elizabeth felt their influence; but this was not the hour to
yield to the delusions of love, and she said--"Now you will leave me,
Mr. Neville--I have far to travel to-morrow--good-night."

"Have patience with me yet a moment longer," said Neville; "I cannot
leave you thus--without offering from my whole heart, and conjuring you
to accept my services. Parting thus, it is very uncertain when we meet
again, and fearful sufferings are prepared for you. I believe that you
esteem, that you have confidence in me. You know that my disposition is
constant and persevering. You know that the aim of my early life being
fulfilled, and my mother's name freed from the unworthy aspersions cast
upon it, I at once transfer every thought, every hope, to your
well-being. At a distance, knowing the scene of misery in which you are
placed, I shall be agitated by perpetual fears, and pass unnumbered
hours of bitter disquietude. Will you promise me, that, despite all that
divides us, if you need any aid or service, you will write to me,
commanding me, in the full assurance that all you order shall be
executed in its very spirit and letter?"

"I will indeed," replied Elizabeth, "for I know that whatever happens
you will always be my friend."

"Your true, your best, your devoted friend," cried Neville; "it will
always be my dearest ambition to prove all this. I will not adopt the
name of brother--yet use me as a brother--no brother ever cherished the
honour, safety, and happiness of a sister as I do yours."

"You knew," said Elizabeth, "that I shall not be alone--that I go to one
to whom I owe obedience, and who can direct me. If in his frightful
situation he needs counsel and assistance, it is not you, alas, that can
render them; still in the world of sorrow in which I shall soon be an
inhabitant, it will be a solace and support to think of your kindness,
and rely upon it as unreservedly as I do."

"A world of sorrow, indeed!" repeated Neville; "a world of ignominy and
wo, such as ought never to have visited you, even in a dream. Its
duration will be prolonged also beyond all fortitude or patience. Of
course Mr. Falkner's legal advisers will insist on the necessity of
Osborne's testimony--he must be sent for, and brought over. This demands
time; it will be spring before the trial takes place."

"And all this time my father will be imprisoned as a felon in a jail,"
cried Elizabeth, tears, bitter tears springing into her eyes. "Most
horrible! Oh how necessary that I should be with him, to lighten the
weary, unending hours. I thought all would soon be over--and his
liberation at hand; this delay of justice is indeed beyond my fears.

"Thank God, that you are thus sanguine of the final result," replied
Neville. "I will not say a word to shake your confidence, and I
fervently hope it is well placed. And now indeed good-night, I will not
detain you longer. All good angels guard you--you cannot guess how
bitterly I feel the necessity that disjoins us in this hour of mutual
suffering."

"Forgive me," said Elizabeth, "but my thoughts are with my father. You
have conjured up a whole train of fearful anticipations; but I will
quell them, and be patient again--for his, and all our sakes."

They separated, and at the moment of parting, a gush of tenderness
smoothed the harsher feelings inspired by their grief--despite herself,
Elizabeth felt comforted by her friend's faithful and earnest
attachment; and a few minutes passed in self-communion restored her to
those hopes for the best, which are the natural growth of youth and
inexperience. Neville left the inn immediately on quitting her; and she,
unable to sleep, occupied by various reveries, passed a few uneasy, and
yet not wholly miserable, hours. A hallowed calm at last succeeded to
her anxious fears; springing from a reliance on Heaven, and the natural
delight of being loved by one so dear; it smoothed her wrinkled cares
and blunted her poignant regrets.

At earliest dawn she sprung from her bed, eager to pursue her
journey--nor did she again take rest till she arrived at Carlisle.




CHAPTER XLI


In the best room that could be allotted to him consistently with safe
imprisonment, and with such comforts around as money might obtain,
Falkner passed the lingering days. What so forlorn as the comforts of a
prison! the wigwam of the Indian is more pleasing to the
imagination--that is in close contiguity with Nature, and partakes her
charm--no barrier exists between it and freedom--and Nature and freedom
are the stanch friends of unsophisticated man. But a jail's best room
sickens the heart in its very show of accommodation. The strongly-barred
windows, looking out on the narrow court, surrounded by high frowning
walls; the appalling sounds that reach the ear, in such close
neighbourhood to crime and wo; the squalid appearance given to each
inhabitant by the confined air--the surly, authoritative manners of the
attendants--not dependant on the prisoner, but on the state--the
knowledge that all may come in, while he cannot get out--and the
conviction that the very unshackled state of his limbs depends upon his
tame submission and apparent apathy; there is no one circumstance that
does not wound the free spirit of man, and make him envy the meanest
animal that breathes the free air, and is at liberty.

Falkner, by that strange law of our nature which makes us conceive the
future, without being aware of our foreknowledge, had acquainted his
imagination with these things--and while writing his history amid the
far-stretched mountains of Greece, had shrunk and trembled before such
an aspect of slavery; and yet now that it had fallen on him, he felt in
the first instance more satisfied, more truly free, than for many a long
day before.

There is no tyranny so hard as fear; no prison so abhorrent as
apprehension; Falkner was not a coward, yet he feared. He feared
discovery--he feared ignominy, and had eagerly sought death to free him
from the terror of such evils, with which, perhaps--so strangely are we
formed--Osborne had infected him. It had come--it was here--it was his
life, his daily bread; and he rose above the infliction calmly, and
almost proudly. It is with pride that we say that we endure the
worst--there is a very freedom in the thought, that the animosity of all
mankind is roused against us--and every engine set at work for our
injury--no more can be done--the gulf is passed--the claw of the wild
beast is on our heart--but the spirit soars more freely still. To this
was added the singular relief which confession brings to the human
heart. Guilt hidden in the recesses of the conscience assumes gigantic
and distorted dimensions. When the secret is shared by another, it falls
back at once into its natural proportion.

Much had this man of wo endured--the feeling against him throughout the
part of the country where he now was was vehement. The discovery of poor
Alithea's remains--the inquest, and its verdict--the unhappy lady's
funeral--had spread far and wide his accusation. It had been found
necessary to take him into Carlisle by night; and even then, some few
remained in waiting, and roused their fellows, and the hootings of
execration were raised against him. "I end as I began," thought Falkner;
"amid revilings and injustice--I can surely suffer now that which was so
often my lot in the first dawn of boyhood."

His examination before the magistrates was a more painful proceeding.
There was no glaring injustice, no vindictive hatred here, and yet he
was accused of the foulest crime in nature, and saw in many faces the
belief that he was a murderer. The murderer of Alithea! He could have
laughed in scorn, to think that such an idea had entered a man's mind.
She, an angel whom he worshipped--whom to save he would have met ten
thousand deaths--how mad a world--how insane a system must it be, where
such a thought was not scouted as soon as conceived!

Falkner had no vulgar mind. In early youth he experienced those
aspirations after excellence which betoken the finely moulded among our
fellow-creatures. There was a type of virtue engraved in his heart,
after which he desired to model himself. Since the hour when the
consequences of his guilt revealed its true form to him, he had striven,
like an eagle in an iron-bound cage, to free himself from the trammels
of conscience. He felt within how much better he might be than anything
he was. But all this was unacknowledged and uncared for in the present
scene--it was not the heroism of his soul that was inquired into, but
the facts of his whereabouts; not the sacred nature of his worship for
Alithea, but whether he had had opportunity to perpetrate crime. When we
are conscious of innocence, what so heart-sickening as to combat
circumstances that accuse us of guilt which we abhor. His prison-room
was a welcome refuge after such an ordeal.

His spirit could not be cowed by misfortune, and he felt unnaturally
glad to be where he was; he felt glad to be the victim of injustice, the
mark of unspeakable adversity; but his body's strength failed to keep
pace with the lofty disdain of his soul--and Elizabeth, where was she?
He rejoiced that she was absent when torn from his home; he had directed
the servants to say nothing to Miss Falkner--he would write; and he had
meant to fulfil this promise, but each time he thought to do so he
shrunk repugnant. He would not for worlds call her to his side, to share
the horrors of his lot; and feeling sure that she would be visited by
some member of her father's family, he thought it best to let things
take their course--unprotected and alone, she would gladly accept refuge
there where it was offered--and the tie snapped between them--happiness
and love would alike smile on her.

He had it deeply at heart that she should not be mingled in the
frightful details of his present situation, and yet drearily he missed
her, for he loved her with a feeling which, though not paternal, was as
warm as ever filled a father's breast. His passions were ardent, and all
that could be spared from remorse were centred in his adopted child. He
had looked on her, as the prophet might on the angel who ministered to
his wants in the desert: in the abandonment of all mankind, in the
desolation to which his crime had led him, she had brought love and
cheer. She had been his sweet household companion, his familiar friend,
his patient nurse--his soul had grown to her image, and when the place
was vacant that she had filled, he was excited by eager longings for her
presence, that even made his man's heart soft as a woman's with very
desire.

By degrees, as he thought of her and the past, the heroism of his soul
was undermined and weakened. To every eye he continued composed, and
even cheerful, as before. None could read in his impassive countenance
the misery that dwelt, within. He spent his time in reading and writing,
and in necessary communications with the lawyers who were to conduct his
defence; and all this was done with a calm eye and unmoved voice. No
token of complaint or impatience ever escaped; he seemed equal to the
fortune that attacked him. He grew, indeed, paler and thinner--till his
handsome features stood out in their own expressive beauty; he might
have served for a model of Prometheus--the vulture at his heart
producing pangs and spasms of physical suffering; but his will
unconquered--his mind refusing to acknowledge the bondage to which his
body was the prey. It was an unnatural combat; for the tenderness which
was blended with his fiercer passions, and made the charm of his
character, sided with his enemies, and made him less able to bear, than
one more roughly and hardly framed.

He loved nature--he had spent his life among her scenes. Nothing of her
visited him now, save a star or two that rose above the prison wall into
the slip of sky his window commanded; they were the faintest stars in
heaven, and often were shrouded by clouds and mist. Thus doubly
imprisoned, his body barred by physical impediments--his soul shut up in
itself--he became, in the energetic language of genius, the cannibal of
his own heart. Without a vent for any, thoughts revolved in his brain
with the velocity and action of a thousand mill-wheels, and would not be
stopped. Now a spasm of painful emotion covered his brow with a cold
dew--now self-contempt made every portion of himself detestable in his
own eyes--now he felt the curse of God upon him, weighing him down with
heavy, relentless burden; and then again he was assailed by images of
freedom, and keen longings for the free air. "If even, like Mazeppa, I
might seek the wilds, and career along, though death was the bourn in
view, I were happy!" These wild thoughts crossed him, exaggerated into
gasping desire to achieve such a fate, when the sights and sounds of a
prison gathered thick around, and made the very thought of his
fellow-creatures one of disgust and abhorrence.

Thus sunk in gloom, far deeper internally than in outward show--warring
with remorse and the sense of unmerited injury--vanquished by fate, yet
refusing to yield, nature had reached the acme of suffering. He grew to
be careless of the result of his trial, and to neglect the means of
safety. He pondered on self-destruction--though that were giving the
victory to his enemies. He looked round him; his cell appeared a tomb.
He felt as if he had passed out of life into death; strange thoughts and
images flitted through his mind, and the mortal struggle drew to a
close--when, on a day, his prison-door opened, and Elizabeth stepped
within the threshold.

To see the beloved being we long for inexpressibly, and believe to be so
far--to hear the dear voice, whose sweet accent we imagined to be mute
to us for ever--to feel the creature's very soul in real communion with
us, and the person we dote on visible to our eyes, such are moments of
bliss, which the very imperfections of our finite nature render
immeasurably dear. Falkner saw his child, and felt no longer imprisoned.
She was freedom and security. Looking on her sweet face, he could not
believe in the existence of evil. Wrongs and wo, and a torturing
conscience, melted and fled away before her; while fresh-springing
happiness filled every portion of his being.




CHAPTER XLII


Elizabeth arrived at the moment of the first painful crisis of Falkner's
fate. The assizes came on--busy faces crowded into his cell, and various
consultations took place as to the method of his defence; and here began
a series of cares, mortifications, and worse anxieties, which brought
home to the hearts of the sufferers the horrors of their position.

The details of crime and its punishment are so alien to the individuals
placed in the upper classes of society, that they read them as tales of
another and a distant land. And it is like being cast away on a strange
and barbarous country to find such become a part of our own lives. The
list of criminals--the quality of their offences--the position Falkner
held among them, were all discussed by the men of law; and Falkner
listened, impassive in seeming apathy--his eagle eye bent on
vacancy--his noble brow showing no trace of the rush of agonizing
thought that flowed through his brain; it was not till he saw his
child's earnest, searching eyes bent on him that he smiled, so to soften
the keenness of her lively sympathy. She listened too, her cheek
alternately flushed and pale, and her eyes brimming over with tears, as
she drew nearer to her unfortunate friend's side, as if her innocence
and love might stand between him and the worst.

The decision of the grand jury was the first point to be considered.
There existed no doubt but that would go against the accused. The
lawyers averred this, but still Elizabeth hoped; men could not be so
blind, or some unforeseen enlightenment might dawn on their
understandings. The witnesses against him were Sir Boyvill and his son;
the latter, she well knew, abhorred the course pursued; and if some
touch could reach Sir Boyvill's heart, and show him the unworthiness and
falsehood of his proceedings, through the mode in which their evidence
might be given, all would alter--the scales would drop from men's eyes,
the fetters from Falkner's limbs, and this strange and horrible
entanglement be dissipated like morning mist. She brooded for ever on
these thoughts; sometimes she pondered on writing to Neville--sometimes
on seeing his father; but his assertion was recollected that nothing now
could alter the course of events, and that drove her back upon despair.

For ever thinking on these things and hearing them discussed, it was yet
a severe blow to both when, in the technical language of the craft, it
was announced that a true bill was found against Rupert Falkner.

Such is the nature of the mind, that hitherto Falkner had never looked
on the coming time in its true proportions or colours. The decision of
the preliminary jury, which _might_ be in his favour, had stood as a
screen between him and the future. Knowing himself to be innocent,
abhorring the very image of the crime of which he was accused, how could
twelve impartial, educated men agree that any construction put upon his
actions should cast the accusation on him? The lawyers had told him that
so it would be--he had read the fearful expectation in Elizabeth's
eyes--but it could not! Justice was not a mere word--innocence bore a
stamp not to be mistaken; the vulgar and senseless malice of Sir Boyvill
would be scouted and reprobated; such was his intimate conviction,
though he had never expressed it; but this was all changed now. The tale
of horror was admitted, registered as a probability, and had become a
rule for future acts. The ignominy of a public trial would assuredly be
his. And going, as is usual, from one extreme to the other, the belief
entered his soul that he should be found guilty and die the death. A
dark veil fell over life and nature. Ofttimes he felt glad even to
escape thus from a hideous system of wrong and suffering; but the innate
pride of the heart rebelled, and his soul struggled as in the toils.

Elizabeth heard the decision with even more dismay; her head swam, and
she grew sick at heart. Would his trial come on in a few days? would all
soon, so soon, be decided? was the very moment near at hand to make or
mar existence, and turn this earth from a scene of hope into a very hell
of torture and despair? for such to her it must be if the worst befell
Falkner. The worst! oh, what a worst! how hideous, squalid, unredeemed!
There was madness in the thought, and she hurried to his cell to see him
and hear him speak, so to dissipate the horror of her thoughts; her
presence of mind, her equanimity, all deserted her; she looked
bewildered--her heart beat as if it would burst her bosom--her face grew
ashy pale--her limbs unstrung of every strength--and her efforts to
conceal her weakness from Falkner's eyes but served the more to confuse.

She found him seated near his window, looking on so much of the autumnal
sky as could be perceived through the bars of the high narrow opening.
The clouds traversed the slender portion of heaven thus visible; they
fled fast to other lands, and the spirit of liberty rode upon their
outstretched wings; away they flew far from him, and he had no power to
reach their bourn, nor to leave the dingy walls that held him in. Oh,
Nature! while we possess thee, thy changes ever lovely, thy vernal airs
or majestic storms, thy vast creation spread at our feet, above, around
us, how can we call ourselves unhappy? There is brotherhood in the
growing, opening flowers, love in the soft winds, repose in the verdant
expanse, and a quick spirit of happy life throughout, with which our
souls hold glad communion. But the poor prisoner was barred out from
these; how cumbrous the body felt, how alien to the inner spirit of man
the fleshy bars--that allowed it to become the slave of his fellows.

The stunning effects of the first blow had passed away, and there was in
Falkner's face that lofty expression that resembled coldness, though it
was the triumph over sensibility; something of disdain curled his lip,
and his whole air denoted the acquisition of a power superior to fate.
Trembling, Elizabeth entered; never before had she lost self-command;
even now she paused at the threshold to resume it, but in vain; she saw
him, she flew to his arms, she dissolved in tears, and became all woman
in her tender fears. He was touched--he would have soothed her; a
choking sensation arose in his throat: "I never felt a prisoner till
now," he cried: "can you still cling to one struck with infamy?"

"Dearer, more beloved than ever!" she murmured: "surely there is no tie
so close and strong as misery?"

"Dear, generous girl." said Falkner, "how I hate myself for making such
large demand on your sympathy. Let me suffer alone. This is not the
place for you, Elizabeth. Your free step should be on the mountain's
side; these silken tresses the playthings of the unconfined winds. While
I thought that I should speedily be liberated, I was willing to enjoy
the comfort of your society; but now I, the murderer, am not a fit mate
for you. I am accursed, and pull disaster down on all near me. I was
born to destroy the young and beautiful."

With such talk they tried to baffle this fierce visitation of adversity.
Falkner told her that on that day it would be decided whether the trial
should take place at once, or time be given to send for Osborne from
America. The turn Neville had given to his evidence had been so
favourable to the accused as to shake the prejudice against him, and it
was believed that the judges would at once admit the necessity of
waiting for so material a witness; and yet their first and dearest hope
had been destroyed, so they feared to give way to a new one.

As they conversed, the solicitor entered with good tidings. The trial
was put off till the ensuing assizes in March, to give time for the
arrival of Osborne. The hard dealing of destiny and man relented a
little, and despair receded from their hearts, leaving space to breathe,
to pray, to hope. No time was to be lost in sending for Osborne. Would
he come? It could not be doubted. A free pardon was to be extended to
him; and he would save a fellow-creature, and his former benefactor,
without any risk of injury to himself.

The day closed, therefore, more cheeringly than it had begun. Falkner
conquered himself, even to a show of cheerfulness; and recalled the
colour to his tremulous companion's cheeks, and half a smile to her
lips, by his encouragement. He turned her thoughts from the immediate
subject, narrating the events of his first acquaintance with Osborne,
and describing the man; a poltron, but kindly hearted--fearful of his
own skin to a contemptible extent, but looking up with awe to his
superiors, and easily led by one richer and of higher station to any
line of conduct; an inborn slave, but with many of a slave's good
qualities. Falkner did not doubt that he would put himself eagerly
forward on the present occasion; and whatever his evidence were good
for, it would readily be produced.

There was no reason, then, for despair. While the shock they had
undergone took the sting from the present--fearing an immediate and
horrible catastrophe--the wretchedness of their actual state was
forgotten--it acquired comfort and security by the contrast--each tried
to cheer the other, and they separated for the night with apparent
composure. Yet that night Elizabeth's pillow, despite her earnest
endeavours to place reliance on Providence, was watered by the bitterest
tears that ever such young eyes shed; and Falkner told each hour of the
livelong night, as his memory retraced past scenes, and his spirit
writhed and bled to feel that, in the wantonness and rebellion of youth,
he had been the author of so wide-spreading, so dark a web of misery.

From this time their days were spent in that sort of monotony which has
a peculiar charm to the children of adversity. The recurrence of one day
after the other, none being marked by disaster, or indeed any event,
imparted a satisfaction, gloomy indeed, and sad, but grateful to the
heart wearied by many blows, and by the excitement of mortal hopes and
fears. The mind adapted itself to the new state of things, and
enjoyments sprung up in the very home of desolation--circumstances that,
in happier days, were but the regular routine of life, grew into
blessings from Heaven; and the thought, "Come what will, this hour is
safe," made precious the mere passage of time--months were placed
between them and the dreaded crisis--and so are we made, that when once
this is an established, acknowledged fact, we can play on the eve of
danger almost like the unconscious animal destined to bleed.

Their time was regularly divided, and occupations succeeded one to
another. Elizabeth rented apartments not far from the prison. She gave
the early morning hours to exercise, and the rest of the day was spent
in Falkner's prison. He read to her as she worked at the tapestry frame,
or she took the book while he drew or sketched; nor was music wanting,
such as suited the subdued tone of their minds, and elevated it to
reverence and resignation; and sweet still hours were spent near their
fire; for their hearth gleamed cheerfully, despite surrounding
horrors--gayety was absent, but neither was the voice of discontent
heard; all repinings were hidden in the recesses of their hearts; their
talk was calm, abstracted from matters of daily life, but gifted with
the interest that talent can bestow on all it touches. Falkner exerted
himself chiefly to vary their topics, and to enliven them by the
keenness of his observations, the beauty of his descriptions, and the
vividness of his narrations. He spoke of India, they read various
travels, and compared the manners of different countries--they forgot
the bars that checkered the sunlight on the floor of the cell--they
forgot the cheerless gloom of each surrounding object. Did they also
forget the bars and bolts between them and freedom? the thoughtful
tenderness which had become the habitual expression of Elizabeth's
face--the subdued manner and calm tones of Falkner were a demonstration
that they did not. Something they were conscious of at each minute, that
checked the free pulsations of their hearts; a word in a book, brought
by some association home to her feelings, would cause Elizabeth's eyes
to fill with unbidden tears--and proud scorn would now and then dilate
the breast of Falkner, as he read some story of oppression, and felt, "I
also am persecuted, and must endure."

In this position they each grew unutterably dear to the other--every
moment, every thought, was full to both of the image of either. There is
something inexpressibly winning in beauty and grace--it is a sweet
blessing when our household companion charms our senses by the
loveliness of her person, and makes the eye gladly turn to her, to be
gratified by such a form and look as we would travel miles to see
depicted on canvass. It soothed many a spasm of pain, and turned many an
hour of suffering into placid content, when Falkner watched the
movements of his youthful friend. You might look in her face for days,
and still read something new, something sublime in the holy calm of her
brow, in her serious, yet intelligent eyes; while all a woman's softness
dwelt in the moulding of her cheeks and her dimpled mouth. Each word she
said, and all she did, so became her, that it appeared the thing best to
be said and done--and was accompanied by a fascination, both for eye and
heart, which emanated from her purity and truth. Falkner grew to worship
the very thought of her. She had not the wild spirits and trembling
sensibility of her he had destroyed, but in her kind she was no way
inferior.

Yet though each, as it were, enjoyed the respite given by fortune to
their worst fears, yet this very sense of transitory security was in its
essence morbid and unnatural. A fever preyed nightly on Falkner, and
there were ghastly streaks upon his brow that bespoke internal suffering
and decay. Elizabeth grew paler and thinner--her step lost its
elasticity, her voice became low-toned--her eyes were acquainted with
frequent tears, and the lids grew heavy and dark. Both lived for ever in
the presence of misery--they feared to move or speak, lest they should
awaken the monster, then for a space torpid; but they spent their days
under its shadow--the air they drew was chilled by its icy influence--no
wholesome light-hearted mood of mind was ever theirs--they might pray
and resign themselves, they might congratulate themselves on the safety
of the passing moment; but each sand that flowed from the hourglass was
weighed--each thought that passed through the brain was examined--every
word uttered was pondered over. They were exhausted by the very
vividness of their unsleeping endeavours to blunt their sensations.

The hours were very sad that they spent apart. The door closed on
Elizabeth, and love, and hope, and all the pride of life vanished with
her. Falkner was again a prisoner, an accused felon--a man over whom
impended the most hideous fate--whom the dogs of law barked round, and
looked on as their prey. His high heart often quailed. He laid his head
on his pillow, desiring never again to raise it--despair kept his lids
open the livelong nights, while naught but palpable darkness brooded
over his eyeballs; he rose languid--dispirited--revolving thoughts of
death; till at last she came who by degrees dispelled the gloom, and
shed over his benighted soul the rays of her pure spirit.

She also was miserable in solitude; the silent evening hours spent apart
from him were melancholy and drear. Nothing interrupted their stillness.
She felt deserted by every human being, and was indeed reduced to the
extremity of loneliness. In the town and neighbourhood many pitied, many
admired her, and some offered their services; but none visited or tried
to cheer the solitary hours of the devoted daughter. As the child of a
man accused of murder, there was a barrier between her and the world.
The English are generous to their friends, but they are never kind to
strangers; the tie of brotherhood, which Christ taught as uniting all
mankind, is unacknowledged by them. They so fear that their sullen
fireside should be unduly invaded, and so expect to be ill-treated, that
each man makes a Martello tower of his home, and keeps watch against the
gentler charities of life, as from an invading enemy. Hour after hour,
therefore, Elizabeth spent--thought her only companion.

From Falkner and his miserable fortunes, sometimes her reflections
strayed to Gerard Neville--the generous friend on whom she wholly
relied, yet who could in no way aid or comfort her. They were divided.
He thought of her, she knew: his constant and ardent disposition would
cause her to be for ever the cherished object of his reveries; and now
and then, as she took her morning ride, or looked from her casement at
night upon the high stars, and pale, still moon, Nature spoke to her
audibly of him, and her soul overflowed with tenderness. Still he was
far--no word from him reached her--no token of living remembrance. Lady
Cecil also--she neither wrote nor sent. The sense of abandonment is hard
to bear, and many bitter tears did the young sufferer shed--and many a
yearning had she to enter, with her ill-starred father, the silent abode
of the tomb--scarcely more still or dark than the portion of life which
was allotted to them, even while existence was warm in their hearts, and
the natural impulse of their souls was to seek sympathy and receive
consolation.




CHAPTER XLIII


The varied train of hopes and fears which belonged to the situation of
the prisoner and his faithful young companion, stood for some time
suspended. In some sort, they might be said neither to hope nor fear;
for, reasoning calmly, they neither expected that the worst would
befall; and the actual and impending evil was certain. Like shipwrecked
sailors, who have betaken themselves to a boat, and are tossed upon a
tempestuous sea, they saw a ship nearing; they believed that their
signal was seen, and that it was bearing down towards them. What if,
with sudden tack, the disdainful vessel should turn its prow aside, and
leave them to the mercy of the waves. They did not anticipate such a
completion to their disasters.

Yet, as time passed, new anxieties occurred. Falkner's solicitor, Mr.
Colville, had despatched an agent to America to bring Osborne over. The
pardon promised ensured 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 southwest 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
shown 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 recognised, muffled as he was, the
form of Gerard Neville. No wonder, then, that her heart was lightened of
its burden; 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 poltron 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
recognising 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, dryly.

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 burden 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 burden 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, bloodthirsty 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 trustworthy 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 XLIV


Elizabeth listened 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; but 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 revery 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 everything 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 burden 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; she 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."

"But tell me, dear Mr. Neville, tell me, what has happened?"

"Nothing!" he replied; "and does not that imply the worst? I cannot make
up my mind to endure the visitation of ill fallen upon us; it drives me
from place to place like an unlaid ghost. I am very selfish to speak in
this manner. Yet it is your sufferings that fill my mind to bursting;
were all the evil poured on my own head, while you were spared, welcome,
most welcome would be the bitterest infliction! but you, Elizabeth, you
are my cruel father's victim, and the future will be more hideous than
the hideous present!"

Elizabeth was shocked and surprised; what could he mean? "The future,"
she replied, "will bring my dear father's liberation; how then can that
be so bad?"

He looked earnestly and inquiringly on her. "Yes," she continued, "my
sorrows, heavy as they are, have not that additional pang; I have no
doubt of the ultimate justice that will be rendered my father. We have
much to endure in the interim, much that undermines the fortitude and
visits the heart with sickening throes; there is no help but patience;
let us have patience, and this adversity will pass away; the prison and
the trial will be over, and freedom and security again be ours."

"I see how it is," replied Neville; "we each live in a world of our own,
and it is wicked in me to give you a glimpse of the scene as it is
presented to me."

"Yet speak; explain!" said Elizabeth; "you have frightened me so much
that any explanation must be better than the thoughts which your words,
your manner, suggest."

"Nay," said Neville, "do not let my follies infect you. Your views, your
hopes, are doubtless founded on reason. It is, if you will forgive the
allusion that may seem too light for so sad a subject, but the old story
of the silver and brazen shield. I see the dark, the fearful side of
things; I live among your enemies--that is, the enemies of Mr. Falkner.
I hear of nothing but his guilt, and the expiation prepared for it. I am
maddened by all I hear.

"I have implored my father not to pursue his vengeance. Convinced as I
am of the truth of Mr. Falkner's narration, the idea that one so gifted
should be made over to the fate that awaits him is abhorrent; and when I
think that you are involved in such a scene of wrong and horror, my
blood freezes in my veins. I have implored my father, I have quarrelled
with him, I have made Sophia advocate the cause of justice against
malice; all in vain. Could you see the old man--my father I mean; pardon
my irreverence--how he revels in the demoniacal hope of revenge, and
with what hideous delight he gloats upon the detail of ignominy to be
inflicted on one so much his superior in every noble quality, you would
feel the loathing I do. He heaps sarcasm and contempt on my feeble
spirit, as he names my pardon of my mother's destroyer, my esteem for
him, and my sympathy for you; but that does not touch me. It is the
knowledge that he will succeed, and you be lost and miserable for ever,
that drives me to desperation.

"I fancied that these thoughts must pursue you even more painfully than
they do me. I saw you writhing beneath the tortures of despair, wasting
away under the influence of intense misery. You haunted my dreams,
accompanied by every image of horror--sometimes you were bleeding,
ghastly, dying--sometimes you took my poor mother's form, as Falkner
describes it, snatched cold and pale from the waves--other visions
flitted by, still more frightful. Despairing of moving my father,
abhorring the society of every human being, I have been living for the
last month at Dromore. A few days ago my father arrived there. I
wondered till I heard the cause. The time for expecting Osborne had
arrived. As vultures have instinct for carrion, so he swooped down at
the far off scent of evil fortune; he had an emissary at Liverpool, on
the watch to hear of this man's arrival. Disgusted at this foul appetite
for evil, I left him. I came here--only to see you, to gaze on you afar,
was to purify the world of the 'blasts from hell' which the bad passions
I have so long contemplated spread round me. My father learned whither I
had gone; I had a letter from him this morning--you may guess at its
contents."

"He triumphs in Osborne's refusal to appear," said Elizabeth, who was
much moved by the picture of hatred and malice Neville had presented to
her; and trembled from head to foot as she listened, from the violent
emotions his account excited, and the vehemence of his manner as he
spoke.

"He does indeed triumph," replied Neville; "and you--you and Mr.
Falkner, do you not despair?"

"If you could see my dear father," said Elizabeth, her courage returning
at the thought, "you would see how innocence and a noble mind can
sustain; at the worst, he does not despair. He bears the present with
fortitude, he looks to the future with resignation. His soul is firm,
his spirit inflexible."

"And you share these feelings?"

"Partly I do, and partly I have other thoughts to support me. Osborne's
cowardice is a grievous blow, but it must be remedied. The man we sent
to bring him was too easily discouraged. Other means must be tried. I
shall go to America, I shall see Osborne, and you cannot doubt of my
success."

"You?" cried Neville; "you to go to America? you to follow the traces of
a man who hides himself? Impossible! This is worse madness than all.
Does Falkner consent to so senseless an expedition?"

"You use strong expressions," interrupted Elizabeth.

"I do," he replied; "and I have a right to do so--I beg your pardon. But
my meaning is justifiable--you must not undertake this voyage. It is as
useless as improper. Suppose yourself arrived on the shores of wide
America. You seek a man who conceals himself, you know not where: can
you perambulate large cities, cross wide extents of country, go from
town to town in search of him? It is by personal exertion alone that he
can be found; and your age and sex wholly prevent that."

"Yet I shall go," said Elizabeth, thoughtfully; "so much is left undone,
because we fancy it impossible to do; which, upon endeavour, is found
plain and easy. If insurmountable obstacles oppose themselves, I must
submit, but I see none yet; I have not the common fears of a person
whose life has been spent in one spot; I have been a traveller, and know
that, but for the fatigue, it is as easy to go a thousand miles as a
hundred. If there are dangers and difficulties, they will appear light
to me, encountered for my dear father's sake."

She looked beautiful as an angel as she spoke; her independent spirit
had nothing rough in its texture. It did not arise from a love of
opposition, but from a belief that, in fulfilling a duty, she could not
be opposed or injured. Her fearlessness was that of a generous heart,
that could not believe in evil intentions. She explained more fully to
her friend the reasons that induced her determination. She repeated
Falkner's account of Osborne's character, the injury that it was
believed would arise from his refusal to appear, and the probable
facility of persuading him, were he addressed by one zealous in the
cause.

Neville listened attentively. She paused--he was lost in thought, and
made no reply--she continued to speak, but he continued mute, till at
last she said, "You are conquered, I know--you yield, and agree that my
journey is a duty, a necessity."

"We are both apt, it would seem," he replied, "to see our duties in a
strong light, and to make sudden, or they may be called rash,
resolutions. Perhaps we both go too far, and are in consequence
reprehended by those about us: in each other, then, let us find
approval--you must not go to America, for your going would be
useless--with all your zeal you could not succeed. But I will go. Of
course this act will be treated as madness, or worse, by Sir Boyvill and
the rest--but my own mind assures me that I do right. For many years I
devoted myself to discovering my mother's fate. I have discovered it.
Falkner's narrative tells all. But clear and satisfactory as that is to
me, others choose to cast frightful doubts over its truth, and conjure
up images the most revolting. Have they any foundation? I do not believe
it--but many do--and all assert that the approaching trial alone can
establish the truth. This trial is but a mockery, unless it is fair and
complete--it cannot be that without Osborne. Surely, then, it neither
misbecomes me as her son, nor as the son of Sir Boyvill, to undertake
any action that will tend to clear up the mystery.

"I am resolved--I shall go--be assured that I shall not return without
Osborne. You will allow me to take your place, to act for you--you do
not distrust my zeal?"

Elizabeth had regarded her own resolves as the simple dictates of reason
and duty. But her heart was deeply touched by Neville's offer; tears
rushed into her eyes as she replied, in a voice faltering with emotion,
"I fear this cannot be; it will meet with too much opposition; but
never, never can I repay your generosity in but imagining so great a
service."

"It is a service to both," he said; "and as to the opposition I shall
meet, that is my affair. You know that nothing will stop me when once
resolved. And I am resolved. The inner voice that cannot be mistaken
assures me that I do right--I ask no other approval. A sense of justice,
perhaps of compassion, for the original author of all our wretchedness,
ought probably to move me; but I will not pretend to be better than I
am; were Falkner alone concerned, I fear I should be lukewarm. But not
one cloud, nor the shadow of a cloud, shall rest on my mother's fate.
All shall be clear, all universally acknowledged; nor shall your life be
blotted and your heart-broken by the wretched fate of him to whom you
cling with matchless fidelity. He is innocent, I know; but if the world
thinks and acts by him as a murderer, how could you look up again?
Through you I succeeded in my task; to you I owe unspeakable gratitude,
which it is my duty to repay. Yet, away with such expressions. You know
that my desire to serve you is boundless; that I love you beyond
expression; that every injury you receive is trebled upon me--that vain
were every effort of self-command; I must do that thing that would
benefit you, though the whole world rose to forbid. You are of more
worth in your innocence and nobleness, than a nation of men such as my
father. Do you think I can hesitate in my determinations thus founded,
thus impelled?"

More vehement, more impassioned than Elizabeth, Neville bore down her
objections, while he awakened all her tenderness and gratitude: "Now I
prove myself your friend," he said, proudly; "now Heaven affords me
opportunity to serve you, and I thank it."

He looked so happy, so wildly delighted, while a more still but not less
earnest sense of joy filled her heart. They were young, and they
loved--this of itself was bliss; but the cruel circumstances around them
added to their happiness by drawing them closer together, and giving
fervour and confidence to their attachment; and now that he saw a mode
of serving her, and she felt entire reliance on his efforts, the last
veil and barrier fell from between them, and their hearts became united
by that perfect love which can result alone from entire confidence and
acknowledged unshackled sympathy.

Always actuated by generous impulses, but often rash in his
determinations, and impetuous in their fulfilment; full of the warmest
sensibility, hating that the meanest thing that breathed should endure
pain, and feeling the most poignant sympathy for all suffering, Neville
had been maddened by his own thoughts, while he brooded over the
position in which Elizabeth was placed. Not one of those various
circumstances that alleviate disaster to those who endure it, presented
themselves to his imagination--he saw adversity in its most hideous
form, without relief or disguise--names and images appending to
Falkner's frightful lot, which he and Elizabeth carefully banished from
their thoughts, haunted him. The fate of the basest felon hung over the
prisoner--Neville believed that it must inevitably fall on him; he often
wondered that he did not contrive to escape; that Elizabeth, devoted and
heroic, did not contrive some means of throwing open his dungeon's
doors. He had endeavoured to open his father's eyes, to soften his
heart, in vain. He had exerted himself to discover whether any trace of
long past circumstances existed that might tend to acquit Falkner. He
had gone to Treby, visited the graves of the hapless parents of
Elizabeth, seen Mrs. Baker, and gathered there the account of his
landing; but nothing helped to elucidate the mystery of his mother's
death; Falkner's own account was the only trace left behind; that bore
the stamp of truth in every line, and appeared to him so honourable a
tribute to poor Alithea's memory, that he looked with disgust on his
father's endeavours to cast upon it suspicions and interpretations the
most hideous and appalling.

In the first instance, he had been bewildered by Sir Boyvill's
sophistry, and half conquered by his plausible arguments. But a short
time, and the very circumstance of Elizabeth's fidelity to his cause
sufficed to show him the baseness of his motives, and the real injury he
did his mother's fame.

Resolved to clear the minds of other men from the prejudice against the
prisoner thus spread abroad, and at least to secure a fair trial,
Neville made no secret of his belief that Falkner was innocent. He
represented him everywhere as a gentleman--a man of humanity and
honour--whose crime ought to receive its punishment from his own
conscience, and at the hand of the husband or son of the victim in the
field; and whom, to pursue as his father did, was at once futile and
disgraceful. Sir Boyvill, irritated by Falkner's narrative; his vanity
wounded to the quick by the avowed indifference of his wife, was enraged
beyond all bounds by the opposition of his son. Unable to understand his
generous nature, and relying on his previous zeal for his mother's
cause, he had not doubted but that his revenge would find a' ready ally
in him. His present arguments, his esteem for their enemy, his desire
that he should be treated with a forbearance which, between gentlemen,
was but an adherence to the code of honour--appeared to Sir Boyvill
insanity, and worse--a weakness the most despicable, a want of
resentment the most low-minded. But he cared not--the game was in his
hands--revelling in the idea of his enemy's ignominious sufferings, he
more than half persuaded himself that his accusation was true, and that
the punishment of a convicted felon would at last satisfy his thirst for
revenge. A feeble old man, tottering on the verge of the grave, he
gloried to think that his grasp was still deadly, his power acknowledged
in throes of agony, by him by whom he had been injured.

Returning to Dromore from Carlisle, Gerard sought his father. Osborne's
refusal to appear crowned Sir Boyvill's utmost hopes; and his sarcastic
congratulations, when he saw his son, expressed all the malice of his
heart. Gerard replied with composure, that he did indeed fear that this
circumstance would prove fatal to the course of justice; but that it
must not tamely be submitted to, and that he himself was going to
America to induce Osborne to come, that nothing might be wanting to
elucidate the mystery of his mother's fate, and to render the coming
trial full, fair, and satisfactory. Such an announcement rendered, for a
moment, Sir Boyvill speechless with rage. A violent scene ensued.
Gerard, resolved, and satisfied of the propriety of his resolution, was
calm and firm. Sir Boyvill, habituated to the use of vituperative
expressions, boiled over with angry denunciations and epithets of abuse.
He called his son the disgrace of his family--the opprobrium of
mankind--the detractor of his mother's fame. Gerard smiled; yet, at
heart, he deeply felt the misery of thus for ever finding an opponent in
his father, and it required all the enthusiasm and passion of his nature
to banish the humiliating and saddening influence of Sir Boyvill's
indignation.

They parted worse friends than ever. Sir Boyvill set out for town;
Gerard repaired to Liverpool. The wind was contrary--there was little
hope of change. He thought that it would conduce to his success in
America, if he spent the necessary interval in seeing Hoskins again; and
also in consulting with his friend, the American minister; so, in all
haste, having first secured his passage on board a vessel that was to
sail in four or five days, he also set out for London.




CHAPTER XLV


The philosophy of Falkner was not proof against the intelligence that
Gerard Neville was about to undertake the voyage to America for the sake
of inducing Osborne to come over. Elizabeth acquainted him with her
design, and her friend's determination to replace her, with sparkling
eyes, and cheeks flushed by the agitation of pleasure--the pure pleasure
of having such proof of the worth of him she loved. Falkner was even
more deeply touched; even though he felt humiliated by the very
generosity that filled him with admiration. His blood was stirred, and
his feelings tortured him by a sense of his own demerits, and the
excellence of one he had injured. "Better die without a word, than
purchase my life thus!" were the words hovering on his lips--yet it was
no base cost that he paid--and he could only rejoice at the virtues of
the son of her whom he had so passionately loved. There are moments when
the past is remembered with intolerable agony; and when to alter events,
which occurred at the distance of many years, becomes a passion and a
thirst. His regret at Alithea's marriage seemed all renewed--his agony
that thence--forth she was not to be the half of his existence, as he
had hoped; that her child was not his child; that her daily life, her
present pleasures, and future hopes were divorced from his--all these
feelings were revived, together with a burning jealousy, as if, instead
of being a buried corpse, she had still adorned her home with her
loveliness and virtues.

Such thoughts lost their poignancy by degrees, and he could charm
Elizabeth by dwelling on Gerard's praises; and he remarked with pleasure
that she resumed her vivacity, and recovered the colour and elasticity
of motion, which she had lost. She did not feel less for Falkner; but
her contemplations had lost their sombre hue--they were full of
Neville--his voyage--his exertions--his success--his return; and the
spirit of love that animated each of these acts were gone over and over
again in her waking dreams; unbidden smiles gleamed in her countenance;
her ideas were gayly coloured, and her conversation gained a variety and
cheerfulness that lightened the burden of their prison hours.

Meanwhile Neville arrived in London. He visited the American minister,
and learned from him that Osborne had given up the place he held, and
had left Washington--no one knew whither he was gone--these events being
still too recent to leave any trace behind. It was evident that to seek
and find him would be a work of trouble and time, and Neville felt that
not a moment must be lost--December was drawing to a close. The voyages
to and from America might, if not favourable, consume the whole interval
that still remained before the spring assizes. Hoskins, he learned, was
gone to Liverpool.

He visited Lady Cecil before he left town. Though somewhat tainted by
worldliness, yet this very feeling made her highly disapprove Sir
Boyvill's conduct. A plausible, and, she believed, true account was
given of Mrs. Neville's death--exonerating her--redounding indeed to her
honour. It was injurious to all to cast doubts upon this tale--it was
vulgar and base to pursue revenge with such malicious and cruel
pertinacity. Falkner was a gentleman, and deserved to be treated as
such; and now he and Elizabeth were mixed up in loathsome scenes and
details, that made Lady Cecil shudder even to think of.

That Gerard should go to America as the advocate, as it were, of
Falkner, startled her; but he represented his voyage in a simpler light,
as not being undertaken for his benefit, but for the sake of justice and
truth. Sir Boyvill came in upon them while they were discussing this
measure. He was absolutely phrensied by his son's conduct and views; his
exasperation but tended to disgust, and did not operate to shake their
opinions.

Neville hastened back to Liverpool; a southwest wind reigned, whose
violence prevented any vessel from sailing for America; it was evident
that the passage would be long, and perhaps hazardous. Neville thought
only of the delay; but this made him anxious. A portion of his time was
spent in seeking for Hoskins; but he was not to be found. At last it was
notified to him that the wind had a little changed, and that the packet
was about to sail. He hurried on board--soon they were tossing on a
tempestuous sea--they lost sight of land--sky and ocean, each dusky, and
the one rising at each moment into more tumultuous commotion, surrounded
them. Neville, supporting himself by a rope, looked out over the
horizon--a few months before he had anticipated the same voyage over a
summer sea--now he went under far other auspices--the veil was
raised--the mystery explained; but the wintry storms that had gathered
round him were but types of the tempestuous passions which the
discoveries he had made raised in the hearts of all.

For three days and nights the vessel beat about in the Irish Channel,
unable to make any way--three days were thus lost to their voyage--and
when were they to arrive? Impatient--almost terrified by the delay which
attended his endeavours, Neville, began to despair of success. On the
fourth night the gale rose to a hurricane--there was no choice but to
run before it--by noon the following day the captain thought himself
very lucky to make the harbour of Liverpool; and though the gale had
much abated, and the wind had veered into a more favourable quarter, it
was necessary to run in to refit. With bitter feelings of
disappointment, Neville disembarked; several days must elapse before the
packet would be able to put to sea, so he abandoned the idea of going by
her--and finding a New-York merchantman preparing to sail at an early
hour the following morning, he resolved to take his passage on board. He
hastened to the American coffee-house to see the captain, and make the
necessary arrangements for his voyage.

The captain had just left the tavern; but a waiter came up to Neville,
and told him that the Mr. Hoskins, concerning whom he had before
inquired, was in the house--in a private room. "Show me to him," said
Neville, and followed the man as he went to announce him.

Hoskins was not alone--he had a friend with him, and they were seated
over their wine on each side of the fire. Neville could not help being
struck with the confusion evinced by both as he entered. The person with
Hoskins was a fair, light-haired, rather good-looking man, though past
the prime of life--he had at once an expression of good-nature and
cunning in his face, and, added to this, a timid, baffled look--which
grew into something very like dismay when the waiter announced "Mr.
Neville."

"Good-morning, sir," said Hoskins; "I hear that you have been inquiring
for me. I thought all our business was settled."

"On your side, probably," replied Neville; "on mine I have reasons for
wishing to see you. I have been seeking you in vain in London and here."

"Yes, I know," said the other, "I went round by Ravenglass to take leave
of the old woman before I crossed--and here I am, my passage taken, with
not an hour to lose. I sail by the Owyhee, Captain Bateman."

"Then we shall have time enough for all my inquiries," observed Neville.
"I came here for the very purpose of arranging my passage with Captain
Bateman."

"You, sir! are you going to America? I thought that was all at an end.'

"It is more necessary than ever. I must see Osborne--I must bring him
over--his testimony is necessary to clear up the mystery that hangs over
my mother's fate."

"You are nearer hanging Mr. Falkner without him than with him," said
Hoskins.

"I would bring him over for the very purpose of saving a man whom I
believe to be innocent of the crime he is charged with; for that purpose
I go to America. I wish the truth to be established--I have no desire
for revenge."

"And do you really go to America for that purpose?" repeated Hoskins.

"Certainly--I consider it my duty," replied Neville. "Nay, it may be
said that I went for this design, for I sailed by the John Adams--which
has been driven back by contrary winds. I disembarked only half an hour
ago."

"That beats all!" cried Hoskins. "Why, do you know--I have more than
half a mind to tell you--you had really sailed for America for the
purpose of bringing Osborne over, and you now intend taking a passage on
board the Owyhee?"

"Certainly; why not? What is there so strange in all this? I sought you
for the sake of making inquiries that might guide me in my search for
Osborne, who wishes to conceal himself."

"You could not have addressed a better man--by the Lord! He's a craven,
and deserves no better; so I'll just let out, Mr. Neville, that Osborne
sneaked out of this room at the instant he saw you come into it."

Neville had seen Hoskins's companion disappear--he thought it but an act
of civility--the strangeness of this coincidence, the course of events
at once so contrary and so propitious, staggered him for a moment. "They
tell of the rattlesnake," said Hoskins, "that, fixing its eye on its
prey, a bird becomes fascinated, and wheels round nearer and nearer till
he falls into the jaws of the enemy--poor Osborne! He wishes himself on
the shores of the Pacific, to be far enough off--and here he is, and
turn and twist as he will, it will end by the law grasping him by the
shoulder, and dragging him to the very noose he so fears to slip into;
not that he helped to murder the lady--you do not believe that, Mr.
Neville?--you do not think that the lady was murdered?"

"I would stake my existence that she was not," said Neville; "were it
otherwise, I should have no desire to see Osborne, or to interfere.
Strange, most strange it is, that he should be here; and he is come, you
think, with no design of offering his testimony to clear Mr. Falkner?"

"He is come under a feigned name," replied Hoskins; "under pretence that
he was sent by Osborne--he has brought a quantity of attested
declarations, and hopes to serve Mr. Falkner without endangering his own
neck."

It was even so. Osborne was a weak man, good-hearted, as it is called,
but a craven. No sooner did he hear that Hillary had sailed for Europe,
and that he might consider himself safe, than he grew uneasy on another
score. He had still possession, even while he had denied all knowledge
of the writer, of Falkner's letter, representing to him the necessity of
coming over. It was simply but forcibly written; every word went to the
heart of Osborne, now that he believed that his conduct would make over
his generous benefactor to an ignominious end. This idea haunted him
like an unlaid ghost; yet, if they hanged Falkner, what should prevent
them from hanging him too? suspicion must fall equally on both.

When Hillary had urged the case, many other objections had presented
themselves to Osborne's mind. He thought of the new honest course he had
pursued so long, the honourable station he had gained, the independence
and respectability of his present life; and he shrunk from giving up
these advantages, and becoming again, in all men's eyes, the Osborne
whose rascality he had left behind in England; it seemed hard that he
should feel the weight of the chain that bound his former existence to
his present one, when he fondly hoped that time had broken it. But these
minor considerations vanished as soon as the idea of Falkner's danger
fastened itself on his mind. It is always easy to fall back upon a state
of being which once was ours. The uncertain, disreputable life Osborne
had once led, he had gladly bidden adieu to; but the traces were still
there, and he could fall into the way of it without any great shock.
Besides this, he knew that Hillary had made his coming, and the cause of
it, known to the legal authorities in Washington; and though he might
persist in his denials, still he felt that he should be universally
disbelieved.

A dislike at being questioned and looked askance upon by his American
friends made him already turn his eyes westward. A longing to see the
old country arose unbidden in his heart. Above all, he could neither
rest, nor sleep, nor eat, nor perform any of the offices of life, for
the haunting image of his benefactor, left by him to die a felon's
death. Not that he felt tempted to alter his determination, and to come
forward to save him: on the contrary, his blood grew chill, and his
flesh shrunk at the thought; but still he might conceal himself in
England; no one would suspect him of being there; he would be on the
spot to watch the course of events; and if it was supposed that he could
render any assistance, without compromising himself, he should at least
be able to judge fairly how far he might concede: his vacillating mind
could go no further in its conclusions. Hoskins had rightly compared him
to the bird and the rattlesnake. He was fascinated; he could not avoid
drawing nearer and nearer to the danger which he believed to be yawning
to swallow him; ten days after Hillary left America, he was crossing the
Atlantic. Hoskins was the first person he saw on landing, the second was
Neville. His heart grew cold; he felt himself in the toils; how bitterly
he repented his voyage. Coward as he was, he died a thousand deaths from
fear of that one which, in fact, there was no danger of his incurring.

That Osborne should of his own accord have come to England appeared to
smooth everything. Neville did not doubt that he should be able to
persuade him to come forward at the right time. He instructed Hoskins to
reassure him, and to induce him to see him; and, if he objected, to
contrive that they should meet. He promised to take no measures for
securing his person, but to leave him in all liberty to act as he chose;
he depended that the same uneasy conscience that brought him from
America to Liverpool would induce him at last, after various throes and
struggles, to act as it was supposed he would have done at the
beginning.

But day after day passed, and Osborne was not to be found; Hoskins had
never seen him again, and it was impossible to say whither he was gone
or where he was hid. The Owyhee, whose voyage had again been delayed by
contrary winds, now sailed. Hoskins went with her. It was possible that
Osborne might be on board, returning to the land of refuge. Neville saw
the captain, and he denied having such a passenger; but he might be
bound to secrecy, or Osborne might have disguised himself. Neville went
on board; he carefully examined each person; he questioned both crew and
passengers; he even bribed the sailors to inform him if any one were
secreted. The Owyhee was not, however, the only vessel sailing; nearly
thirty packets and merchantmen, who had been detained by foul winds,
were but waiting for a tide to carry them out. Neville deliberated
whether he should not apply to a magistrate for a search-warrant. He was
averse to this--nay, repugnant. It was of the first importance to the
utility of Osborne as a witness, that he should surrender himself
voluntarily. The seizing him by force, as an accomplice in the murder,
would only place him beside Falkner in the dock, and render his evidence
of no avail; and his, Neville's, causing his arrest, could only be
regarded as a piece of rancorous hostility against the accused; yet to
suffer him to depart from the English shores was madness; and worse
still, to be left in doubt of whether he had gone or remained. If the
first were ascertained, Neville could take his passage also, and there
might still be time to bring him back.

When we act for another, we are far more liable to hesitation than when
our deeds regard ourselves only. We dread to appear lukewarm; we dread
to mar all by officiousness. Ill success always appears a fault, and yet
we dare not make a bold venture--such as we should not hesitate upon
were it our own cause. Neville felt certain that Falkner would not
himself deliberate, but risk all to possess himself of the person of
Osborne; still he dared not take so perilous, perhaps so fatal, a step.

The tide rose, and the various docks filled. One by one the
American-bound vessels dropped out and put to sea. It was a moment of
agony to Neville to see their sails unfurl, swell to the wind, and make
a speedy and distant offing. He now began to accuse himself bitterly of
neglect--he believed that there was but one mode of redeeming his
fault--to hurry on board one of the packets, and to arrive in America as
soon as Osborne, whom, he felt convinced, was already on his way
thither. Swift in his convictions, rash in execution, uncertainty was
peculiarly hostile to his nature; and these moments of vacillation and
doubt, and then of self-reproach at having lost all in consequence, were
the most painful of his life. To determine to do something was some
consolation, and now he resolved on his voyage. He hurried back to his
hotel for a few necessaries and money. On his entrance, a letter was put
into his hands--the contents changed the whole current of his ideas. His
countenance cleared up--the tumult of his thoughts subsided into a happy
calm. Changing all his plans, instead of undertaking a voyage to
America, he the same evening set out for London.




CHAPTER XLVI


The prisoner and his faithful companion knew nothing of these momentous
changes. Day by day Elizabeth withdrew from the fire to the only window
in her father's room; moving her embroidery table close to it, her eyes
turned, however, to the sky, instead of to the flowers she was working;
and leaning her cheek upon her hand, she perpetually watched the clouds.
Gerard was already, she fancied, on the waste of waters; yet the clouds
did not change their direction--they all sped one way, and that contrary
to his destination. Thus she passed her mornings; and when she returned
to her own abode, where her heart could more entirely spend its thoughts
on her lover and his voyage, her lonely room was no longer lonely, nor
the gloomy season any longer gloomy. More than happy--a breathless
rapture quickened the beatings of her heart, as she told over again and
again Neville's virtues, and, dearer than all, his claims on her
gratitude.

Falkner saw with pleasure the natural effects of love and hope add to
the cheerfulness of his beloved child, diffuse a soft charm over her
person, her motions, and her voice, and impart a playful tenderness to
her before rather serious manners. Youth, love, and happiness are so
very beautiful in their conjunction. "God grant," he thought, "I do not
mar this fair creature's life--may she be happier than Alithea; if man
can be worthy of her, Gerard Neville surely is." As he turned his eyes
silently from the book that apparently occupied him, and contemplated
her pensive countenance, whose expression showed that she was wrapped
in, yet enjoying her thoughts, retrospect made him sad. He went over his
own life, its clouded morning, the glad beams that broke out to
dissipate those clouds, and the final setting amid tempests and wreck.
Was all life like this, must all be disappointed hope, baffled desires,
lofty imaginations engendering fatal acts, and bringing the proud thus
low? would she at his age view life as he did--a weary wilderness--a
tangled, endless labyrinth, leading by one rough path or another to a
bitter end? He hoped not, her innocence must receive other reward from
Heaven.

It was on a day as they were thus occupied--Falkner refrained from
interrupting Elizabeth's revery, which he felt was sweeter to her than
any converse--and appeared absorbed in reading; suddenly she exclaimed,
"The wind has changed, dear father; indeed it has changed, it is
favourable now. Do you not feel how much colder it is? the wind has got
to the north, there is a little east in it; his voyage will not be a
long one if this change only lasts!"

Falkner answered her by a smile; but it was humiliating to think of the
object of that voyage, and her cheerful voice announcing that it was to
be prosperous struck, he knew not why, a saddening chord. At this moment
he heard the bolts of the chamber-door pushed back, and the key turn in
the lock--the turnkey entered, followed by another man, who hesitated as
he came forward, and then, as he glanced at the inhabitants of the room,
drew back, saying, "There is some mistake; Mr. Falkner is not here."

But for his habitual self-command, Falkner had started up, and made an
exclamation--so surprised was he to behold the person who entered--for
he recognised his visitant on the instant--he himself was far more
changed by the course of years; time, sickness, and remorse had used
other than Praxitilean art, and had defaced the lines of grace and power
which had marked him many years ago, before his hands had dug Alithea's
grave. He was indeed surprised to see who entered; but he showed no sign
of wonder, only saying with a calm smile, "No, there is no mistake, I am
the man you seek."

The other now apparently recognised him, and advanced timidly, and in
confusion--the turnkey left them, and Falkner then said, "Osborne, you
deserve my thanks for this, but I did believe that it would come to
this."

"No," said Osborne, "I do not deserve thanks--I--" and he looked
confused, and glanced towards Elizabeth. Falkner followed his eye, and
understanding his look, said, "You do not fear being betrayed by a lady,
Osborne; you are safe here as in America. I see how it is, you are here
under a false name; no one is aware that you are the man who a few weeks
ago refused to appear to save a fellow-creature from death."

"I see no way to do that now," replied Osborne, hesitatingly; "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
should 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 anything; 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 jailer--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--your 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 afterward--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 XLVII


These had been hours of sunshine for the prisoner and his child, such as
seldom visit the precincts of a jail; 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 a 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-tossed 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 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 wo 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 gayety in the rest of the town, but which was so mournful and fearful
in the jail. 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.

The day that the judges arrived, Elizabeth presented herself in
Falkner's cell--a letter in her hand--her first words announced good
tidings; yet she was agitated, tearful--something strange and awful had
surely betided. It was a letter from Neville that she held, and gave to
Falkner to read.

"I shall soon be in Carlisle, my dearest friend, but this letter will
outspeed me, and bring you the first intelligence of my poor father's
death. Thank God, I did my duty by him to the last--thank God, he died
in peace--in peace with me and the whole world. The uneasiness of pain
yielded at first to torpor, and thus we feared he would die; but before
his death he recovered himself an hour or two, and though languid and
feeble, his mind was clear. How little, dear Elizabeth, do we know of
our fellow-creatures--each shrouded in the cloak of manner--that cloak
of various dies--displays little of the naked man within. We thought my
father vain, selfish, and cruel--he was all this, but he was something
else that we knew not of--he was generous, humane, humble--these
qualities he hid as if they had been vices--he struggled with
them--pride prevented him from recognising them as the redeeming points
of a faulty nature; he despised himself for feeling them, until he was
on his deathbed.

"Then, in broken accents, he asked me, his only son, to pardon his
mistakes and cruelties--he asked me to forgive him, in my dear mother's
name--he acknowledged his injustices towards her. 'Would that I might
live,' he said; 'for my awakened conscience urges me to repair a portion
of the evils I have caused--but it is too late. Strange that I should
never have given ear to the whisperings of justice--though they were
often audible--till now, when there is no help! Yet is it so? cannot
some reparation be made? There is one'--and as he spoke he half raised
himself, and some of the wonted fire flashed from his glazed eye--but he
sunk back again, saying, in a low but distinct voice, 'Falkner--Rupert
Falkner--he is innocent, I know and feel his innocence--yet I have
striven to bring him to the death. Let me record my belief that his tale
is true, and that Alithea died the victim of her own heroism, not by his
hand. Gerard, remember, report these words--save him--his sufferings
have been great--promise me--that I may feel that God and Alithea will
forgive me, as I forgive him; I act now as your mother would have had me
act; I act to please her.'

"I speak it without shame, my eyes ran over with tears, and this
softening of a proud heart before the remembered excellence of one so
long dead, so long thought of with harshness and resentment, was the
very triumph of the good spirit of the world; yet tears were all the
thanks I could give for several minutes. He saw that I was moved--but
his strength was fast leaving him, and pressing my hand and murmuring,
'My last duty is now performed--I will sleep,' he turned away his head;
he never spoke more, except to articulate my name, and once or twice, as
his lips moved, and I bent down to listen, I heard the name of my mother
breathed at the latest hour.

"I cannot write more--the trial will take place, I am told,
immediately--before the funeral. I shall be in Carlisle--all will go
well, dear Elizabeth--and when we meet again, happier feelings will be
ours. God bless you now and always, as you deserve."




CHAPTER XLVIII


All things now assumed an anxious aspect; all was hurrying to a
conclusion. _To-morrow the trial was to come on._ "Security" is not a
word for mortal man to use, more especially when the issue of an event
depends on the opinions and actions of his fellow-creatures. Falkner's
acquittal was probable, but not certain; even if the impression went in
general in his favour, a single juryman might hold out, and
perverseness, added to obstinacy, would turn the scale against him.
Sickening fears crept over Elizabeth's heart; she endeavoured to conceal
them; she endeavoured to smile and repeat, "This is our last day of
bondage."

Falkner cast no thought upon the worst--innocence shut out fear. He
could not look forward to the ignominy of such a trial without acute
suffering; yet there was an austere composure in his countenance, that
spoke of fortitude and reliance on a power beyond the limit of human
influence. His turn had come to encourage Elizabeth. There was a
nobleness and simplicity of character, common to both, that made them
very intelligible to each other. Falkner, however, had long been
nourishing secret thoughts and plans, of which he had made no mention,
till now, the crisis impending, he thought it best to lift a portion of
the veil that covered the future.

"Yes," he said, in reply to Elizabeth, "to-morrow will be the last day
of slavery; I regain my human privileges after to-morrow, and I shall
not be slow to avail myself of them. My first act will be to quit this
country. I have never trod its soil but to find misery; after to-morrow
I leave it for ever."

Elizabeth started, and looked inquiringly: were her wishes, her destiny
to have no influence over his plans? he knew of the hope, the affection,
that rendered England dear to her. Falkner took her hand. "You will join
me hereafter, dearest; but you will in the first instance yield to my
request, and consent to a separation for a time."

"Never!" said Elizabeth; "you cannot deceive me; you act thus for my
purposes, and not your own, and you misconceive everything. We will
never part."

"Daughters when they marry," observed Falkner, "leave father, mother,
all, and follow the fortunes of their husbands. You must submit to the
common law of human society."

"Do not ask me to reason with you and refute your arguments," replied
Elizabeth; "our position is different from that of any other parent and
child. I will not say I owe you more than daughter ever owed
father--perhaps the sacred tie of blood may stand in place of the
obligations you have heaped on me; but I will not reason; I cannot leave
you. Right or wrong in the eyes of others, my own heart would
perpetually reproach me. I should image your solitary wanderings, your
lonely hours of sickness and suffering, and my peace of mind would be
destroyed."

"It is true," said Falkner, "that I am more friendless than most men;
yet I am not so weak and womanish that I need perpetual support. Your
society is dear to me, dearer, God, who reads my heart, knows, than
liberty or life; I shall return to that society, and again enjoy it;
but, for a time, do not fear but that I can form such transitory ties as
will prevent solitary suffering. Men and women abound who will feel
benevolently towards the lonely stranger; money purchases respect;
blameless manners win kindness. I shall find friends in my need if I
desire it, and I shall return at last to you."

"My dearest father," said Elizabeth, "you cannot deceive me. I penetrate
your motives, but you wholly mistake. You would force me also to mistake
your character, but I know you too well. You never form transitory
friendships; you take no pleasure in the ordinary run of human
intercourse. You inquire; you seek for instruction; you endeavour to
confer benefits; but you have no happiness except such as you derive
from your heart, and that is not easily impressed. Did you not for many
long years continue faithful to one idea--adhere to one image--devote
yourself to one, one only, despite all that separated you? Did not the
impediment you found to the fulfilment of your visions blight your whole
life, and bring you here? Pardon me if I allude to these things. I
cannot be to you what she was, but you can no more banish me from your
heart and imagination than you could her. I know that you cannot. We are
not parent and child," she continued, playfully, "but we have a strong
resemblance on one point--fidelity is our characteristic; we will not
speak of this to others, they might think that we boasted. I am not
quite sure that it is not a defect; at least in some cases, as with you
it proved a misfortune. To me it can never be such: it repays itself. I
cannot leave you, whatever befalls. If Gerard Neville is hereafter lost
to me, I cannot help it; it would kill me to fall off from you. I must
follow the natural, the irresistible bent of my character.

"To-morrow, the day after to-morrow, we will speak more of this. What is
necessary for your happiness, be assured, I will fulfil without
repining; but now, dearest father, let us not speak of the future now;
my heart is too full of the present--the future appears to me a dream
never to be arrived at. Oh, how more than blessed I shall be when the
future, the long future, shall grow into interest and importance!"

They were interrupted. One person came in, and then another, and the
appalling details of the morrow effectually banished all thoughts of
plans, the necessity of which Falkner wished to impress on his young
companion. He also was obliged to give himself up to present cares. He
received all, he talked to all, with a serious but unembarrassed air:
while Elizabeth sat shuddering by, wiping away her tears unseen, and
turning her dimmed eyes from one to the other, pale and miserable. We
have fortitude and resignation for ourselves; but when those beloved are
in peril we can only weep and pray. Sheltered in a dusky corner, a
little retreated behind Falkner, she watched, she listened to all, and
her heart almost broke. "Leave him! after this leave him!" she thought,
"a prey to such memories? Oh, may all good angels desert me when I
become so vile a wretch!"

The hour came when they must part. She was not to see him on the morrow,
until the trial was over; for her presence during the preliminary scenes
was neither fitting nor practicable. Already great indulgences had been
granted to the prisoner, arising from his peculiar position, the great
length of time since the supposed crime had been committed, and the
impression, now become general, that he was innocent. But this had
limits--the morrow was to decide all, and send him forth free and
guiltless, or doom him to all the horrors of condemnation and final
suffering.

Their parting was solemn. Neither indulged in grief. Falkner felt
composed--Elizabeth endeavoured to assume tranquillity; but her lips
quivered, and she could not speak; it was like separating not to meet
for years; a few short hours, and she would look again upon his
face--but how much would happen in the interval! how mighty a change
have occurred! What agony would both have gone through! the one
picturing, the other enduring the scene of the morrow; the gaze of
thousands--the accusation--the evidence--the defence--the verdict--each
of these bearing with it to the well-born and refined a barbed dart,
pregnant with thrilling poison; ignominy added to danger. How Elizabeth
longed to express to the assembled world the honour in which she held
him, whom all looked on as overwhelmed with disgrace; how she yearned to
declare the glory she took in the ties that bound them, and the
affection that she bore! She must be mute--but she felt all this to
bursting; and her last words, "Best of men! excellent, upright, noble,
generous, God will preserve you and restore you to me!" expressed in
some degree the swelling emotions of her soul. They parted. Night and
silence gathered round Falkner's pillow. With stoical firmness he
banished retrospect--he banished care. He laid his hopes and fears at
the feet of that Almighty power, who holds earth and all it contains in
the hollow of his hand, and he would trouble himself no more concerning
the inevitable though unknown decree. His thoughts were at first solemn
and calm; and then, as the human mind can never, even in torture, fix
itself unalterably on one point, milder and more pleasing reveries
presented themselves. He thought of himself as a wild yet not worthless
schoolboy--he remembered the cottage porch clustered over with
odoriferous parasites, under whose shadow sat--the sick, pale lady, with
her starry eyes and wise lessons, and her radiant daughter, whose soft
hand he held as they both nestled close at her feet. He recalled his
wanderings with that daughter over hill and dale, when their steps were
light, and their hearts unburdened with a care, soared to that heaven
which her blessed spirit had already reached. Oh, what is life, that
these dreams of youth and innocence should have conducted her to an
untimely grave--him to a felon's cell! The thought came with a sharp
pang; again he banished it, and the land of Greece, his perils, and his
wanderings with Elizabeth on the shores of Zante, now replaced his other
memories. He then bore a burden on his heart, which veiled with dark
crape the glories of a sunny climate, the heart-cheering tenderness of
his adopted child--this was less bitter, this meeting of fate, this
atonement. Sleep crept over him at last; and such is the force of
innocence, that though a cloud of agony hung over his awakening, yet he
slept peacefully on the eve of his trial.

Towards morning his sleep became less tranquil. He moved--he
groaned--then, opening his eyes, he started up, struggling to attain
full consciousness of where he was, and wherefore. He had been
dreaming--and he asked himself what had been the subject of his dreams.
Was it Greece--or the dreary waste shores of Cumberland? And why did
that fair lingering shape beckon him? Was it Alithea or Elizabeth?
Before these confused doubts could be solved, he recognised the walls of
the cell, and saw the shadow of the bars of his windows on the curtain
spread before it. It was morning--_the morning_--where would another sun
find him?

He rose and drew aside the curtain--and there were the dark, high
walls--weather-stained and huge; clear, but sunless daylight was spread
over each object--it penetrated every nook, and yet was devoid of cheer.
There is indeed something inexpressibly desolate in the sight of the
early, gray, chill dawn dissipating the shadows of night, when the day
which it harbingers is to bring misery. Night is a cloak--a shelter--a
defence--all men sleep at night--the law sleeps, and its dread
ministrants are harmless in their beds, hushed like cradled children.
"Even now they sleep," thought Falkner, "pillowed and curtained in
luxury--but day is come, and they will soon resume their offices--and
drag me before them--and wherefore?--because it is day--because it is
Wednesday--because names have been given to portions of time, which
otherwise might be passed over and forgotten."

To the surgeon's eye a human body sometimes presents itself merely as a
mass of bones, muscles, and arteries--though that human body may contain
a soul to emulate Shakspeare--and thus there are moments when the
wretched dissect the forms of life--and contemplating only the outward
semblance of events, wonder how so much power of misery, or the reverse,
resides in what is after all but sleeping or waking--walking here or
walking there--seeing one fellow-creature instead of another. Such were
the morbid sensations that absorbed Falkner as day grew clearer and
clearer--the narrow court more gloomy as compared with the sky, and the
objects in his cell assumed their natural colour and appearances. "All
asleep," he again thought, "except I, the sufferer; and does my own
Elizabeth sleep? Heaven grant it, and guard her slumbers! May those dear
eyes long remain closed in peace upon this miserable day!"

He dressed himself long before any one in the prison (and jailers are
early risers) was awake; at last there were steps in the passage--bolts
were drawn and voices heard. These familiar sounds recalled him to
actual life, and approaching, inevitable events. His haughty soul awoke
again--a dogged pride steeled his heart--he remembered the
accusation--the execration in which he believed him--self to be
held--and his innocence. "Retribution or atonement--I am ready to pay it
as it is demanded of me for Alithea's sake--but the injustice of man is
not lessened on this account; henceforth I am to be stamped with
ignominy--and yet in what am I worse than my fellows? at least they
shall not see that my spirit bends before them."

He assumed cheerfulness, and bore all the preliminaries of preparation
with apparent carelessness; sometimes his eagle eye flashed
fire--sometimes fixed on vacancy, a whole life of memories passed across
his mental vision; but there was no haste, no trepidation, no
faltering--he never thought of danger or of death--innocence sustained
him. The ignominy of the present was all that he felt that he had to
endure and master--that, and the desolation beyond, when branded through
life as he believed he should be, even by acquittal, he was henceforth
to be looked on as an outcast.

At length he was led forth to trial--pride in his heart--resolution in
his eye; he passed out of the gloomy portal of the prison, and entered
the sunlit street--houses were around; but through an opening he caught
a glimpse of the country--uplands, and lawny fields, and tree-crested
hills--the work of God himself. Sunshine rested on the scene--one used
to liberty had regarded with contempt the restricted view presented by
the opening; but to the prisoner, who for months had only seen his
prison-walls, it seemed as if the creation lay unrolled in its majesty
before him. What was man in comparison with the power that upheld the
earth and bade the sun to shine? And man was to judge him? What mockery!
Man and all his works were but a plaything in the hands of Omnipotence,
and to that Falkner submitted his destiny. He rose above the degrading
circumstances around him; he looked down upon his fate--a real, a lofty
calm at last possessed his soul; he felt that naught said or done that
day by his fellow-creatures could move him; his reliance was
elsewhere--it rested on his own innocence, and his intimate sense that
he was in no more danger now than if sheltered in the farthest, darkest
retreat, unknown to man; he walked as if surrounded by an atmosphere
which no storms from without could penetrate.

He entered the court with a serene brow, and so much dignity added to a
look that expressed such entire peace of conscience, that every one who
beheld him became prepossessed in his favour. His distinct, calm voice
declaring himself "Not Guilty;" the confidence, untinged by vaunting,
with which he uttered the customary appeal to God and his country,
excited admiration at first, and then, when a second sentiment could be
felt, the most heart-moving pity. Such a man, so unstained by vice, so
raised above crime, had never stood there before; accustomed to the
sight of vulgar rogues or hardened ruffians, wonder was mingled with a
certain self-examination, which made each man feel that, if justice were
done, he probably deserved more to be in that dock than the prisoner.

And then they remembered that he stood there to be consigned to life or
death, as the jury should decide. A breathless interest was awakened,
not only in the spectators, but even in those hardened by habit to
scenes like this. Every customary act of the court was accompanied by a
solemnity unfelt before. The feeling, indeed, that reigned was something
more than solemn; thirsting curiosity and eager wonder gave way before
thrilling awe, to think that man might be condemned to an ignominious
end.

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 XLIX


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
commonplace 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 minutiæ 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 L


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 amid 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 heartfelt 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 outpouring 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
frail humanity."

As they returned into the town, a carriage with four posters passed
them; Elizabeth recognised 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 toilet--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 recognise 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."

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 LI


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 burden 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 imbowered 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 Raby 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 gayety 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 wo--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 struggles he underwent. She
almost thought that, if he were happy, she could bear all. She
remembered him as she last saw him, agitated and wretched--she alone,
she felt sure, could calm--she alone minister happiness--and were they
never more to meet?

Falkner, who watched Elizabeth with all the jealousy of excessive
affection, soon perceived the change. At first, her gayety had been
spontaneous, her step free, her voice and laugh the very echo of joy:
now, the forced smile, the frequent abstraction, the eagerness with
which she watched for opportunities to steal into solitude, while her
attentions to him became even more sedulous and tender; as if she wished
to prove how ready she was to make every sacrifice for his sake--all
these appearances he saw, and his heart ached to think how the effects
of his errors still spread poison over his own life and that of one so
dear.

He felt sure that Mrs. Raby shared his uneasiness. She and her niece
were much less together than before. Elizabeth could not speak of the
thoughts that occupied her; and she could not feign with her dear, wise
friend, whose eyes read her soul, and whose counsels or consolations she
alike feared. Falkner saw Mrs. Raby's regards fix anxiously on her young
relative; he penetrated her thoughts, and again he was forced to abhor
himself as the destroyer of the happiness of all who came within his
sphere.

It was evident that some communication must take place between some one
of the individuals thus misplaced and wretched. Elizabeth alone was
resigned, and therefore silent. Falkner longed to act rather than to
speak; to depart, to disappear for ever; he also, therefore, brooded
mutely over the state of things. Mrs. Raby, seeing the wretchedness that
was creeping over the hearts of those whose happiness she most desired,
was the first to enter on the subject. One day, being alone with
Falkner, she began: "The 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 ensured 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 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 pardon 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 truly--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.

"Thus incoherently I put down my thoughts as they rise--a tangled maze
which I ask you to unravel. I will endeavour to abide by your decision,
whatever it may be; yet I again ask you to pause. Is Elizabeth's
happiness as deeply implicated as mine? if it be, can I abide by any
sentence that shall condemn her to a wretchedness similar to that which
has so long been an inmate of my struggling heart? no; sooner than
inflict one pang on her, I will fly from the world. _We three_ will seek
some far obscure retreat and be happy, despite the world's censure, and
even your condemnation."

Falkner's heart swelled within him as he read. He could not but admire
Neville's candour--and he was touched by the feelings he expressed
towards himself; but pride was stronger than regret, and prompted an
instant and decisive reply. He rebelled against the idea that Gerard and
Elizabeth should suffer through him, and thus he wrote:--

"You have appealed to Mrs. Raby; will you suffer me to answer that
appeal, and to decide? I have a better right; for kind as she is, I have
Elizabeth's welfare yet more warmly at heart.

"The affection that she feels for you will endure to the end of her
life--for her faithful heart is incapable of change; on you therefore
depends her happiness, and you are called upon to make some sacrifice to
ensure it. Come here, take her at my hand--it is all I ask--from that
hour you shall never see me more--the injured and the injurer will
separate; my fortunes are of my own earning, and I can bear them. You
must compensate to my dear child for my loss--you must be father as well
as husband--and speak kindly of me to her, or her heart will break.

"We must be secret in our proceedings--mystery and deception are
contrary to my nature--but I willingly adopt them for her sake. Mrs.
Raby must not be trusted; but you and I love Elizabeth sufficiently even
to sacrifice a portion of our integrity to secure her happiness. For her
own sake we must blindfold her. She need never learn that we deceived
her. She will naturally be separated from me for a short time--the
period will be indefinitely prolonged--till new duties arise wholly to
wean her from me--and I shall be forgotten.

"Come then at once--endure the sight of the guilty Falkner for a few
short days--till you thus earn his dearest treasure--and do not fear
that I shall intrude one moment longer than is absolutely necessary for
our success; be assured that when once Elizabeth is irrevocably yours,
wide seas shall roll between us. Nor will your condescension to my wish
bring any stigma on yourself or your bride, for Miss Raby does not bear
my tainted name. All I ask is, that you will not delay. It is difficult
for me to cloak my feelings to one so dear--let my task of deception be
abridged as much as possible.

"I shall give my Elizabeth to you with confidence and pleasure. You
deserve her. Your generous disposition will enable you to endure her
affection for me, and even her grief at my departure. Never speak
unkindly of me to her. When you see me no more, you will find less
difficulty in forgetting the injury I have done you; you must endeavour
to remember only the benefit you receive in gaining Elizabeth."




CHAPTER LII


The beautiful month of May had arrived, with her light budding foliage,
which seems to hang over the hoar branches of the trees like a green
aerial mist--the nightingales sung through the moonlight night, and
every other feathered chorister took up the note at early dawn. The
sweetest flowers in the year embroidered the fields; and the verdant
corn-fields were spread like a lake, now glittering in the sun, now
covered over by the shadows of the clouds. It appeared impossible not to
hope--not to enjoy; yet a seriousness had again gathered over Falkner's
countenance that denoted the return of care. He avoided the society even
of Elizabeth--his rides were solitary--his evenings passed in the
seclusion of his own room. Elizabeth, for the first time in her life,
grew a little discontented. "I sacrificed all to him," she thought, "yet
I cannot make him happy. Love alone possesses the sceptre and arbitrary
power to rule; every other affection admits a parliament of
thoughts--and debate and divisions ensue, which may make us wiser, but
which sadly derogates from the throned state of what we fancy a master
sentiment. I cannot make Falkner happy; yet Neville is miserable through
my endeavours--and to such struggle there is no end--my promised faith
is inviolable, nor do I even wish to break it."

One balmy, lovely day, Elizabeth rode out with her cousins; Mrs. Raby
was driving her father-in-law through the grounds in the pony
phaeton--Falkner had been out, and was returned. Several days had
passed, and no answer arrived from Neville. He was uneasy and sad, and
yet rejoiced at the respite afforded to the final parting with his
child. Suddenly, from the glass doors of the saloon he perceived a
gentleman riding up the avenue; he recognised him, and exclaimed, "All
is over!" At that moment he felt himself transported to a distant
land--surrounded by strangers--cut off from all he held dear. Such must
be the consequence of the arrival of Gerard Neville; and it was he who,
dismounting, in a few minutes after entered the room.

He came up to Falkner, and held out his hand, saying, "We must be
friends, Mr. Falkner--from this moment I trust that we are friends. We
join together for the happiness of the dearest and most perfect being in
the world."

Falkner could not take his hand--his manner grew cold; but he readily
replied, "I hope we do; and we must concert together to ensure our
success."

"Yet there is one other," continued Neville, "whom we must take into our
consultations."

"Mrs. Raby?"

"No! Elizabeth herself. She alone can decide for us all, and teach us
the right path to take. Do not mistake me; I know the road she will
point out, and am ready to follow it. Do you think I could deceive her?
Could I ask her to give me her dear self, and thus generously raise me
to the very height of human happiness, with deception on my lips? I were
indeed unworthy of her, if I were capable of such an act.

"Yet, but for the sake of honest truth, I would not even consult her--my
own mind is made up if you consent; I am come to you, Mr. Falkner, as a
suppliant, to ask you to give me your adopted child, but not to separate
you from her: I should detest myself if I were the cause of so much
sorrow to either. If my conduct need explanation in the world, you are
my excuse, I need go no further. We must both join in rendering Miss
Raby happy, and both, I trust, remain friends to the end of our lives."

"You are generous," replied Falkner; "perhaps you are just. I am not
unworthy of the friendship you offer, were you any other than you are."

"It is because I am such as I am that I venture to make advances which
would be impertinent from any other."

At this moment, a light step was heard on the lawn without, and
Elizabeth stood before them. She paused in utter wonder on seeing
Falkner and Neville together; soon surprise was replaced by undisguised
delight--her expressive countenance became radiant with happiness.
Falkner addressed her: "I present a friend to you, dear Elizabeth; I
leave you with him--he will best explain his purposes and wishes.
Meanwhile I must remark, that I consider him bound by nothing that has
been said; you must take counsel together--you must act for your mutual
happiness--that is all the condition I make--I yield to no other. Be
happy; and, if it be necessary, forget me, as I am very willing to
forget myself."

Falkner left them; and they instinctively, so to prevent interruption,
took their way into a woody glade of the park; and as they walked
beneath the shadows of some beautiful lime-trees, on the crisp green
turf, disclosed to each other every inner thought and feeling. Neville
declared his resolve not to separate her from her benefactor. "If the
world censure me," he said, "I am content; I am accustomed to its
judgments, and never found them sway or annoy me. I do right for my own
heart. It is a godlike task to reward the penitent. In religion and
morality, I know that I am justified; whether I am in the code of
worldly honour, I leave others to decide; and yet I believe that I am. I
had once thought to have met Falkner in a duel, but my father's
vengeance prevented that. He is now acquitted before all the world of
being more than the accidental cause of my dear mother's death. Knights
of old, after they fought in right good earnest, became friends, each
finding, in the bravery of the other, a cause for esteem. Such is the
situation of Rupert Falkner and myself; and we will both join, dear
Elizabeth, in making him forget the past, and rendering his future years
calm and happy."

Elizabeth could only look her gratitude. She felt, as was most true,
that this was not a cause for words or reason. Falkner in himself
offered, or did not offer, full excuse for the generosity of Neville. No
one could see him, and not allow that the affectionate, duteous son in
no way derogated from his reverence for his mother's memory, by entirely
forgiving him who honoured her as an earthly angel, and had deplored,
through years of unutterable anguish, the mortal injury done her.
Satisfied in his own mind that he acted rightly, Neville did not seek
for any other approval; and yet he gladly accepted it from Elizabeth,
whose heart, touched to its very core by his nobleness, felt an almost
painful weight of gratitude and love; she tried to express it:
fortunately, between lovers mere language is not necessary ineffectually
to utter that which transcends all expression. Neville felt himself most
sweetly thanked; a more happy pair never trod this lovely earth than the
two that, closely linked hand in hand, and with hearts open and true as
the sunlight about them, enjoyed the sweetest hour of love, the first of
acknowledged perpetual union, beneath the majestic, deep-shadowing
thickets of Belleforest.

All that had seemed so difficult now took its course easily. They did
not any of them seek to account for or to justify the course they took.
They each knew that they could not do other than they did. Elizabeth
could not break faith with Falkner--Neville could not renounce her; it
might be strange--but it must be so; they three must remain together
through life, despite all of tragic and miserable that seemed to
separate them.

Even Lady Cecil admitted that there was no choice. Elizabeth must be
won--she was too dear a treasure to be voluntarily renounced. In a few
weeks, the wedding-day of Sir Gerard Neville and Miss Raby being fixed,
she joined them at Belleforest, and saw, with genuine pleasure, the
happiness of the two persons whom she esteemed and loved most in the
world, secured. Mrs. Raby's warm heart reaped its own reward in
witnessing this felicitous conclusion of her interference.

Whether the reader of this eventful tale will coincide with every other
person, fully in the confidence of all, in the opinion that such was the
necessary termination of a position full of difficulty, is hard to
say--but so it was; and it is most certain that no woman who ever saw
Rupert Falkner but thought Neville just and judicious; and if any man
disputed this point, when he saw Elizabeth he was an immediate convert.

As much happiness as any one can enjoy, whose inner mind bears the
unhealing wound of a culpable act, fell to the portion of Falkner. He
had repented; and was forgiven, we may believe, in heaven, as well as on
earth. He could not forgive himself--and this one shadow remained upon
his lot--it could not be got rid of; yet perhaps in the gratitude he
felt to those about him, in the softened tenderness inspired by the
sense that he was dealt with more leniently than he believed that he
deserved, he found full compensation for the memories that made him feel
himself a perpetual mourner beside Alithea's grave.

Neville and Elizabeth had no drawback to their felicity. They cared not
for the world, and when they did enter it, the merits of both commanded
respect and liking; they were happy in each other, happy in a growing
family, happy in Falkner; whom, as Neville had said, it was impossible
to regard with lukewarm sentiments; and they derived a large store of
happiness from his enlightened mind, from the elevated tone of moral
feeling, which was the result of his sufferings, and from the deep
affection with which he regarded them both. They were happy also in the
wealth which gave scope to the benevolence of their dispositions, and in
the talents that guided them rightly through the devious maze of life.
They often visited Dromore, but their chief time was spent at their seat
in Bucks, near which Falkner had purchased a villa. He lived in
retirement: he grew a sage amid his books and his own reflections. But
his heart was true to itself to the end, and his pleasures were derived
from the society of his beloved Elizabeth, of Neville, who was scarcely
less dear, and their beautiful children. Surrounded by these, he felt no
want of the nearest ties; they were to him as his own. Time passed
lightly on, bringing no apparent change; thus they still live--and
Neville has never for a moment repented the irresistible impulse that
led him to become the friend of him whose act had rendered his childhood
miserable, but who completed the happiness of his maturer years.




THE END