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.
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.
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.
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.
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, whichmightbe 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.
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."