"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."
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.