He had some difficulty in meeting with Mr. Raby's man of business. He found him, however, perfectly acquainted with all the circumstances, and eager to examine the documents placed in his hands. He had already written to Treby, and received confirmation of all Falkner's statements. This activity had been imparted by Mrs. Raby, then at Tunbridge Wells, who was anxious to render justice to the orphan, the moment she had been informed of her existence; Falkner heard with great satisfaction of the excellent qualities of this lady, and the interest she showed in poor Edwin Raby's orphan child. The day was consumed, and part of the evening, in these arrangements, and a final interview with his own solicitor. His will was already made: he divided his property between Elizabeth and his cousin, the only surviving daughter of his uncle.
Something of shame was in his heart when he returned and met again his adopted child, a shame ennobled by the sense that he was soon to offer up his life as atonement; while she, who had long been reflecting on all that occurred, yet felt it brought home more keenly when she again saw him, and read in his countenance the tale of remorse and grief, more legibly than in the written page. Passionately and gratefully attached, her heart warmed towards him, his very look of suffering was an urgent call upon her fidelity; and though she felt all the change that his disclosures operated, though she saw the flowery path she had been treading at once wasted and barren, all sense of personal disappointment was merged in her desire to prove her affection at that moment; silently, but with heroic fervour, she offered herself up at the shrine of his broken fortunes: love, friendship, good name, life itself, if need were, should be set at naught; weighed in a balance against her duty to him, they were but as a feather in the scale.
They sat together as of old, their looks were affectionate, their talk cheerful; it seemed to embrace the future as well as the present, and yet to exclude every painful reflection. The heart of each bore its own secret without betrayal. Falkner expected in a few hours to be called upon to expiate with his life the evils he had caused, while Elizabeth's thoughts wandered to Neville. Now he was reading the fatal narrative; now agonized pity for his mother, now abhorrence of Falkner, alternated in his heart; her image was cast out, or only called up to be associated with the hated name of the destroyer. Her sensibility was keenly excited. How ardently had she prayed, how fervently had she believed that he would succeed in establishing his mother's innocence; in what high honour she had held his filial piety—these things were still the same; yet how changed were both towards each other! It was impossible that they should ever meet again as formerly, ever take counsel together, that she should ever be made happy by the reflection that she was his friend and comforter.
Falkner called her attention by a detail of his journey to Belleforest, and the probability that she would soon have a visit from her aunt. Here was a new revulsion; Elizabeth was forced to remember that her name was Raby. Falkner described the majestic beauties of the ancestral seat of her family, tried to impress her with the imposing grandeur of its antiquity, to interest her in its religion and prejudices, to gild the reality of pride and desertion with the false colours of principle and faith. He spoke of Mrs. Raby, as he had heard her mentioned, as a woman of warm feeling, strong intellect, and extreme generosity. Elizabeth listened, but her eyes were fondly fixed on Falkner's face, and at last she exclaimed with spontaneous earnestness, "For all this I am your child, and we shall never be divided!"
It was now near midnight; at each moment Falkner expected a message from the son of his victim. He engaged Elizabeth to retire to her room, that her suspicions might not be excited by the arrival of a visiter at that unaccustomed hour. He was glad to see her wholly unsuspicious of what he deemed the inevitable consequence of his confession; for though her thoughts evidently wandered, and traces of regret clouded her brow, it was regret, not fear, that inspired sadness; she tried to cheer, to comfort for the past, and gain fortitude to meet the future; but that future presented no more appalling image than the never seeing Gerard Neville more.
She went, and he remained waiting and watching the livelong night, but no one came. The following day passed, and the same mysterious silence was observed. What could it mean? It was impossible to accuse Alithea's child of lukewarmness in her cause, or want of courage. A sort of dark, mysterious fear crept over Falkner's heart; something would be done; some vengeance taken. In what frightful shape would the ghost of the past haunt him? He seemed to scent horror and disgrace in the very winds, yet he was spell-bound; he must await Neville's call, he must remain as he had promised, to offer the atonement demanded. He had felt glad and triumphant when he believed that reparation to be his life in the field; but the delay was ominous; he knew not why, but at each ring at the gate, each step along the passages of the house, his heart grew chill, his soul quailed. He despised himself for cowardice, yet it was not that; but he knew that evil was at hand; he pitied Elizabeth, and he shrunk from himself as one doomed to dishonour and unspeakable misery.
On arriving in London from Hastings, Neville had repaired, as usual, to his father's house; which, as was to be supposed at that season of the year, he found empty. On the second day, Sir Boyvill presented himself unexpectedly. He looked cold and stern as ever. The father and son met as they were wont: the latter anticipating rebuke and angry, unjust commands; the other assuming the lofty tone of legitimate authority, indignant at being disputed. "I hear from Sophia," said Sir Boyvill, "that you are on the point of sailing for America, and this without deigning to acquaint me with your purpose. Is this fair? Common acquaintances act with more ceremony towards each other."
"I feared your disapproval, sir," replied Neville.
"And thought it less faulty to act without than against a father's consent: such is the vulgar notion; but a very erroneous one. It doubles the injury, both to disobey me, and to keep me in the dark with regard to my danger."
"But if the danger be only imaginary?" observed his son.
Sir Boyvill replied, "I am not come to argue with you, nor to dissuade, nor to issue commands. I come with the more humble intention of being instructed. Sophy, though she evidently regrets your purposed journey, yet avers that it is not so wild and aimless as your expeditions have hitherto been; that the letters from Lancaster did lead to some unlooked-for disclosure. You little know me if you are not aware that I have the question, which you debate in so rash and boyish a manner, as deeply and more sorely at heart than you. Let me then hear the tale you have heard."
Surprised, and even touched to find his father unbend so far as to listen to him, Neville related the American's story, and the information that it seemed probable that Osborne could afford. Sir Boyvill listened attentively, and then observed, "It will be matter of triumph to you, Gerard, to learn that your strange perseverance has a little overcome me. You are no longer a mere lad; and though inexperienced and headstrong, you have shown talents and decision; and I am willing to believe, though perhaps I am wrong, that you are guided by conviction, and not by a blind wish to disobey. Your conduct has been consistent throughout, and so far is entitled to respect. But you are, as I have said (and forgive a father for saying so), inexperienced—a mere child in the world's ways. You go straightforward to your object, reckless of the remark that you excite, and the gall and wormwood that such remark imparts. Why will you not in some degree be swayed by me? Our views, if you would deign to inquire into mine, are not so dissimilar."
Neville knew not what to answer, for every reply and explanation were likely to offend. "Hitherto," continued Sir Boyvill, "in disgust at your wilfulness, I have only issued disregarded commands. But I am willing to treat my son as my friend, if he will let me; but it must be on one condition. I exact one promise."
"I am ready, sir," replied Neville, "to enter into any engagement that does not defeat my purpose."
"It is simply," said Sir Boyvill, "that you shall do nothing without consulting me. I, on the other hand, will promise not to interfere by issuing orders which you will not obey. But if there is any sense in your pursuit, my counsels may assist. I ask no more than to offer advice, and to have opportunity afforded me to express my opinion. Will you not allow that so much is due to me? Will you not engage to communicate your projects, and to acquaint me unreservedly with every circumstance that falls to your knowledge? This is the limit of my exactions."
"Most willingly I make this promise," exclaimed Neville. "It will indeed be my pride to have your participation in my sacred task."
"How far I can afford that," replied Sir Boyvill, "depends on the conduct you will pursue. With regard to this Osborne, I consent at once that his story should be sifted; nay, that you should go to America for that purpose, while you are ready to engage that you will not act on any information you may gather, without my knowledge."
"You may depend," said Gerard, "that I will keep to the letter of my promise; and I pledge my honour, gladly and unreservedly, to tell you everything, to learn your wishes, and to endeavour throughout to act with your approbation."
This concession made on both sides, the father and son conversed on more unreserved and kinder terms than they had ever before done. They passed the evening together, and though the arrogance, the wounded pride, the irritated feelings, and unredeemed selfishness of Sir Boyvill betrayed themselves at every moment, Gerard saw with surprise the weakness masked by so imposing an exterior. His angry commands and insulting blame had been used as batteries to defend the accessible part. He still loved and regretted Alithea; he pined to be assured of her truth; but he despised himself for these emotions—calling them feebleness and credulity. He felt assured that his worst suspicions would be proved true. She might now be dead; he thought it probable, that ere this her faults and sorrows were hushed in the grave: but had she remained voluntarily one half hour in the power of the man who had carried her from her home, no subsequent repentance, no remorse, no suffering could exculpate her. What he feared, was the revival of a story so full of dishonour—the dragging a mangled half-formed tale again before the public, which would jeer his credulity, and make merry over the new gloss of a time-worn subject. When such a notion occupied his brain, his heart swelled with uncontrollable emotions of pride and indignation.
Neville cared little for the world. He thought of his mother's wrongs and sufferings. He conjured up the long years which might have been spent in wretchedness; he longed, whatever she had done, to feel her maternal embrace, to show his gratitude for her early care of him. This was one view, one class of emotions present to his mind, when any occurrence tended to shake his belief in her unblemished honour and integrity, which was the religion of his heart. At the same time he, as much as his father, abhorred that the indifferent and light-hearted, the levelling and base, should have any food administered to their loathsome appetite for slander. So far as his father's views were limited to the guarding Alithea's name from further discussion, Neville honoured them. He showed Sir Boyvill that he was not so imprudent as he seemed, and brought him at last to allow that some discovery might ensue from his voyage. This open-hearted and peaceful interchange of sentiment between them was very cheering to both; and when Gerard visited Elizabeth the following day, his spirit was lighter and happier than it had ever been, and love was there to mingle its roseate visions with the sterner calls of duty. He entered Falkner's house with much of triumph, and more of hope gladdening his heart; he left it horror-struck, aghast, and almost despairing.
He would not return to his father. Elizabeth's supposition that Falkner spoke under a delusion, produced by sudden insanity; and his reluctance that while doubt hung over the event, that her dear name should be needlessly mixed up with the tragedy of his mother's death, restrained him. He resolved at once to take no final step till the evening, till he had again seen Elizabeth, and learned what foundation there was for the tremendous avowal that still rung in his ears. The evening—he had mentioned the evening—but would it ever come? till then he walked in a frightful dream. He first went to the docks, withdrew his luggage, and yet left word that by possibility he might still join the vessel at Sheerness. He did this, for he was glad to give himself something to do; and yet, soon after, how gladly would he have exchanged those hours of suspense for the certainty that too quickly came like a sudden ray of light, to show that he had long been walking at the edge of a giddy precipice. He received the packet and letter from the servant; dizzy and confounded he rode away; by the light of the first lamp he read Elizabeth's letter; it disordered the current of his blood, it confused and maddened the functions of reason; putting spurs to his horse, he galloped furiously on till he reached his father's house.
Sir Boyvill was seated solitarily in his drawing-room, sipping his coffee, and indulging in various thought. His wedded life with Alithea—her charms, her admirable qualities, and sweet, endearing disposition—occupied him as they had never done before since her flight. For the first time, the veil, woven by anger and vanity, fell from his eyes, and he saw distinctly the rashness and injustice of his past actions. He became convinced that deceit could never have had a part in her; did not her child resemble her, and was he not truth itself? He had nourished an aversion to his son, as her offspring; now he looked on his virtues as an inheritance derived from his sweet mother, and his heart instinctively, unaccountably, warmed towards both.
Gerard opened the door of the room and looked in; Sir Boyvill could hardly have recognised him, his face whiter than marble, his eyes wild and wandering, his whole countenance convulsed, his person shrunk up and writhing. He threw the packet on the table, crying out, "Victory, my father, victory!" in a voice so shrill and dissonant, so near a shriek, as to inspire his auditor with fear rather than triumph: "Read! read!" he continued, "I have not yet—I keep my word, you shall know all, even before me—and yet, Idoknow all, I have seen my mother's destroyer! She is dead!"
Sir Boyvill now, in some degree, comprehended his son's agitation. He saw that he was too much excited to act with any calmness; he could not guess how he had discovered the villain on whom both would desire to heap endless, unsatiable revenge; but he did not wonder, that if he had really encountered this man, and learned his deeds, that he should be transported into a sort of phrensy. He took up the packet—he cut the string that tied it—he turned over the papers, and his brow darkened. "Here is a long narrative," he said; "there is much of excuse, and much of explanation here. The story ought to be short that exculpates her; I do not like these varnishings of the simple truth."
"You will find none," said Neville; "at least, I heard none. His words were direct—his avowal contained no subterfuge."
"Of whom do you speak?" asked Sir Boyvill.
"Read," said Neville, "and you will know more than I; but half an hour ago those papers were put into my hands. I have not read them. I give them to you before I am aware of their contents, that I might fully acquit myself of my promise. They come from Rupert Falkner, my mother's destroyer."
"Leave me then to my task," said Sir Boyvill, in an altered and subdued tone. "You speak of strange things; facts to undo a frightful past, and to generate a future dedicated to a new revenge. Leave me; let me remain alone while I read—while I ponder on what credit I may give—what course I must pursue. Leave me, Gerard. I have long injured you, but at last you will be repaid. Come back in a few hours; the moment I am master of the contents of the manuscript I will see you."
Gerard left him. He had scarcely been aware of what he was doing when he carried the packet, unopened, unexamined, to his father. He had feared that he might be tempted—to what?—to conceal his mother's vindication? Never! Yet the responsibility sat heavy on him; and, driven by an irresistible impulse, he had resolved to deprive himself of all power of acting basely by giving at once publicity to all that passed. When he had done this, he felt as if he had applied a match to some fatal rocket which would carry destruction to the very temple and shrine of his dearest hopes—to Elizabeth's happiness and life. But the deed was done; he could but shut his eyes and let the mortal ball proceed towards its destined prey.
Gerard was young. He aspired to happiness with all the ardour of youth. While we are young we feel as if happiness were the birthright of humanity; after a long and cruel apprenticeship, we disengage ourselves from this illusion—or from (a yet more difficult sacrifice) the realities that produce felicity—for on earth there are such, though they are too often linked with adjuncts that make the purchase of them cost in the end peace of mind and a pure conscience. Thus was it with Gerard. With Elizabeth, winning her love and making her his own, he felt assured of a life of happiness; but to sacrifice his mother's name—the holy task to which he had dedicated himself from childhood—for the sake of obtaining her—it must not be!
With this thought came destruction to the fresh-sprung hopes that adorned his existence. Gerard's poetic and tender nature led him to form sweet dreams of joys derived from a union which would be cemented by affection, sympathy, and enthusiastic admiration of the virtues of his companion. In Elizabeth he had beheld the imbodying of all his wishes; in her eyes he had read their accomplishment. Her love for her father had first awakened his love. Her wise, simple, upright train of thinking—the sensibility ennobled by self-command, yet ever ready to spring forth and comfort the unhappy—her generosity—her total abnegation of self—her understanding so just and true, yet tempered with feminine aptitude to adapt itself to the situation and sentiments of others—all these qualities, discovered one by one, and made dear by the friendship she displayed towards him, had opened the hitherto closed gates of the world's only paradise; and now he found that, as the poet says, evil had entered even there—"and the trail of the serpent" marked with slimy poison the fairest and purest of Eden's flowers.[1]
Neville had looked forward to a life of blameless but ecstatic happiness, as her friend, her protector, her husband. Youth, without being presumptuous, is often sanguine. Prodigal of self, it expects, as of right, a full return. Ready to assist Elizabeth in her task of watching over her father's health—who, in his eyes, was wasting gradually away—he felt that he should be near to soften her regrets, and fill his place, and sooth her sinking spirits when struck by a loss which to her would seem so dire.
And now—Falkner! He believed him to be in a state of health that did not leave him many years to live. He recollected him at Marseilles, stretched on his couch, feeble as an infant, the hues of death on his brow. He thought of him as he had seen him that morning—his figure bent by disease—his face ashy pale and worn. He was the man whom, thirteen years before, he remembered in upright, proud, and youthful strength; wo and disease had brought on the ravages of age—he was struck by premature decay—a few years, by the course of nature, he would be laid in his grave. But Gerard could not leave him this respite—he must at once meet him in such encounter as must end in the death of one of the combatants—whichever that might be, there was no hope for Elizabeth—in either case she lost her all—in either case Falkner would die, and an insuperable barrier be raised between her and her only other friend. Neville's ardent and gentle spirit quivered with agony as he thought of these things. "Oh ye destructive powers of nature!" he cried; "come all! Storm, flood, and fire, mingled in one dire whirlwind; or bring the deadlier tortures tyrants have inflicted and martyrs undergone, and say, can any agony equal that which convulses the human heart when writhing under contending passions—torn by contrary purposes! This very morning Elizabeth was all the universe of hope and joy. I would not for worlds have injured one hair of her dear head—and now I meditate a deed that is to consign her to eternal grief."
Athwart this tumult of thought came the recollection that he was still in ignorance of the truth. He called to mind the narrative which his father was then reading; would it reveal aught that must alter the line of conduct which he now considered inevitable? A devouring curiosity was awakened. Leaving his father, he had rushed into the open air, in obedience to the instinct that always leads the unquiet mind to seek the solace of bodily activity. He had hurried into Hyde Park, which then, in the dimness of night, appeared a wide expanse—a limitless waste. He hurried to and fro on the turf—he saw nothing, he was aware of nothing, except the internal war that shook him. Now, as he felt the eager desire to get quit of doubt, he fancied that several hours must have elapsed, and that his father must be waiting for him. The clocks of London struck—he counted—it was but eleven—he had been there scarcely more than an hour.
[1]"Alas, for man! said the pitying spirit,Dearly you pay for your primal fall!Some flowers of Eden you still inherit,But the trail of the serpent is over them all."Paradise and the Peri.
[1]
"Alas, for man! said the pitying spirit,Dearly you pay for your primal fall!Some flowers of Eden you still inherit,But the trail of the serpent is over them all."
"Alas, for man! said the pitying spirit,Dearly you pay for your primal fall!Some flowers of Eden you still inherit,But the trail of the serpent is over them all."
Paradise and the Peri.
Neville returned home—he paused at the drawing-room door—a slight noise indicated that his father was within—his hand was on the lock, but he retreated; he would not intrude uncalled for—he wandered through the dark, empty rooms, till a bell rang. Sir Boyvill inquired for him—he hurried into his presence—he devoured the expression of his countenance with his eyes, trying to read the thought within. Sir Boyvill's face was usually stamped with an unvarying expression of cold self-possession, mingled with sarcasm. These feelings were now at their height—his aged countenance, withered and deep lined, was admirably calculated to depict the concentrated, disdain that sat upon his lips and elevated his brows. He pointed to the papers before him, and said in a composed, yet hollow voice, "Take these away—read, for it is necessary you should—the amplified confession of the murderer."
Gerard's blood ran cold. "Yet why call it a confession," continued Sir Boyvill, his assumed contempt rising into angry scorn; "from the beginning to the end it is a lie. He would varnish over his unparalleled guilt—he would shelter himself from its punishment, but in vain. Read, Gerard—read and be satisfied. I have wronged your mother—she was innocent—murdered. Be assured that her vindication shall be heard as loudly as her accusation, and that her destroyer shall die to expiate her death."
"Be that my task," said Gerard, trembling and pale from the conflict of passion; "I take the office of vengeance on myself—I will meet Mr. Falkner."
"Ha! you think of a duel!" cried his father. "Remember your promise, young man—I hold you strictly to it—you do nothing without first communicating with me. You must read these papers before you decide; I have decided—be not afraid, I shall not forestall your purpose, I will not challenge the murderer: but, in return for this pledge, give me your word that you have no communication with the villain till you see me again. I will not balk you of your revenge, be sure of that; but you must see me first."
"I promise," said Gerard.
"And one word more," continued Sir Boyvill; "is there any possibility of this man's escape? Is he wrapped in the security which his lie affords, or has he even now fled beyond our vengeance?"
"Be his crimes what they may," replied Neville, "I believe him to entertain a delicate sense of worldly honour. He has promised to remain in his home till he hears from me. He doubtless expects to be challenged, and I verily believe desires to die. I feel convinced that the idea of flight has not crossed his mind."
"Enough; good-night. We are now one, Gerard; united by our love and honour for your wronged mother's memory, and by our revenge; dissimilar only in this, that my desire to repair her injuries is more vehement even than yours." Sir Boyvill pressed his son's hand, and left him. A few minutes afterward, it would seem, he quitted the house.
"Now to my task," thought Neville; "and O, thou God, who watchest over the innocent, and yet gavest the innocent into the hands of the destroyer, rule thou the throbbings of my heart; that neither mad hate nor hunger for revenge take away my human nature, and turn me into a fiend!"
He took up the manuscript; at first the words seemed written in fire, but he grew calmer as he found how far back the narration went; and curiosity succeeding to devouring impatience, he became attentive.
He read and pitied. All that awoke Sir Boyvill's ire; Falkner's presumption in daring to love, and his long-cherished constancy, excited his compassion. When he came to the account of the meeting of the forsaken lover and happy husband, he found, in the epithets so liberally bestowed in the contemptuous description of his father, a cause for his augmented desire for vengeance. When he read that his mother herself repined, herself spoke disparagingly of her husband, he wondered at the mildness of Sir Boyvill's expressions with regard to her, and began to suspect that some strange and appalling design must be working in his head to produce this unnatural composure. The rest was madness, madness and misery, thus to take a wife and mother from her home, to gratify the insane desire to exert for one half hour a power he had lost for ever; the vain hope of turning her from her duties, which at least, as far as her children were concerned, were the dearest part of herself; her terror, her incapacity of mastering her alarm, the night of insensibility which she passed in the hut—with a start, Gerard felt sure that he had seen and marked that very spot; all wrought him up to the height of breathless interest; till, when he read the sad end of all, cold dew gathered on his brow, the tears that filled his eyes changed to convulsive sobbings, and, despite his manhood, he wept with the agony of a child.
He ended the tale, and he thought—"Yes, there is but one termination to this tragedy; I must avenge my sweet mother, and, by the death of Falkner, proclaim her innocence." But wherefore, it came across his mind, had his father called him murderer? in intention and very deed he was none; why term the narrative a lie? He followed it word by word, and felt that truth was stamped in every line.
The house was still; it was two in the morning. Had his father retired to rest? He had been so absorbed by his occupation, that he had heard no sound, knew nothing that might have been passing around. He remembered at last Sir Boyvill's good-night, and believing, as all was hushed, that all slept, he retired to his own room. He could not think of Elizabeth, or of the projected duel; he could think only of the narrative he had read. When in bed, unable to sleep, he rose, lighted his candle, and read much of it again: he pondered over every word in the concluding pages; it was all true, he would have staked his existence on the accuracy of every word: was it not stamped on Falkner's brow, as he had seen him but a few hours ago? sad, and worn with grief and suffering, but without the stain of concealed guilt, lofty in its very wo. It was break of day, just as Gerard was thinking of rising to find and consult with his father, that sleep crept unawares over him. Sleep will visit the young unbidden; he had suffered so much fatigue of mind and body, that nature sought relief; sleep, at first disturbed, but soon profound and refreshing, steeped his distracted thoughts in peace, his wearied limbs in delightful repose.
The morning was far advanced when he awoke, refreshed, ready to meet the necessities of the hour, grieved, but composed, sad, but strengthened and resolved. He inquired for his father, and heard, to his infinite astonishment, that he had left town: he had set out in his travelling carriage at four that morning; a note from him was put into Neville's hands. It contained few words: "Remember your engagement—that you take no steps with regard to Mr. Falkner till you have seen me. I am setting out for Dromore; on my return, which will be speedy, I will communicate my wishes, to which I do not doubt you will accede."
Neville was startled; he guessed at once Sir Boyvill's aim in the sudden journey; but was he not a fit partner in such an act? ought he not to share in the duty of rendering honour to his mother's grave? He felt that he ought to be at his father's side, and, ordering his own chariot, set out with the hope of overtaking him.
But Sir Boyvill travelled with equal speed, and was many miles and many hours in advance. Gerard hoped to come up with him when he stopped at night. But the old gentleman was so eager in his pursuit, that he prosecuted his journey without rest. Gerard continued in the same way; travelling alone, he revolved again and again all that must be, all that might have been. Whatever happened, he was divided from Elizabeth for ever. Did she love him? he had scarcely questioned the return his affection would one day meet, till now that he had lost her for ever; and like a true lover, earnestly desirous to preserve some property in her he loved, he cherished the hope that she would share his deep regrets, and so prove that in heart they were one. How pleasant were the days they had passed at Oakly; all his sorrows there, and his passionate desire to unveil the mystery of his mother's fate, how had it given an interest to each hour, and imparted an untold and most sweet grace to the loved Elizabeth, that she should sympathize with so much fervour and kindness.
How strange the chance that led the daughter of the destroyer to share the feelings of the unhappy victim's son; yet stranger still that destroyer had a child. Rambling among many tangled thoughts, Gerard started when first this idea suggested itself. Where was Falkner's boasted fidelity, on which he laid claim to compassion and pardon; where his assertion, that all his soul was centred in Alithea? and this child, an angel from her birth, was even then born to him; he opened the writing-case which contained the papers, and which he carried with him; he referred to them for explanation. Yes, Elizabeth then lived, and was not far from him; her hand had staid his arm, raised against his life. It was not enough that the phrensy of passion urged him to tear Alithea from her home and children, but even the existence of his own daughter was no restraint, he was willing to doom her from very childhood to a partnership in guilt and misery. Hitherto, despite all, and in despite of his resolve to meet him in mortal encounter, Neville had pitied Falkner; but now his heart grew hard against him; he began to revolve thoughts similar to those expressed by Sir Boyvill, and to call Elizabeth's father an impostor, his tale a lie. He reread the manuscript with a new feeling of skepticism; this time he was against the writer, he detected exaggeration, where, before, he had only found the energy of passion; he saw an attempt to gloss over guilt, where, before, he had read merely the struggles of conscience, the innate innocence of profound feeling, combating with the guilt, which circumstances may impart to our loftiest emotions; his very sufferings became but the just visitation of angry Heaven; he was a wretch, whom to kill were mercy—and Elizabeth, beautiful, generous, and pure, was his child!
That night was spent in travelling, and without any sleep. Neville saw the day break in melancholy guise, struggling with the clouds, with which a southeast wind veiled the sky. Nature looked bleak and desolate, even though she was still dressed in her summer garments. It was only the latter end of August, but so changeable is our climate, that the bright festive days which he had lately enjoyed in Sussex were already followed by chill and dreary precursors of the year's decline. Gerard reached Dromore at about noon. He learned that his father had arrived during the night—he had slept a few hours, but was already gone out; it appeared that he had ridden over to a neighbour, Mr. Ashley; for he had inquired if he were in the county, and had, with his groom, both on horseback, taken the road that led toward his house.
Neville hastily took some refreshment, while he ordered a horse to be saddled. His heart led him to seek and view a spot which he had once before visited, and which seemed accurately described in Falkner's narrative. He left behind him the woods of Dromore, and the foldings of the green hills in which it was situated—he descended towards the barren, dreary shore—the roar of ocean soon met his ear, and he reached the waste sands that border that melancholy coast—he saw the line of sand-hills, which formed a sort of bulwark against the tide—he reached at length a rapid, yet shallow stream, which was but about twenty yards wide, flowing over a rough bottom of pebbles; the eye easily reached its utmost depth, it could not be more than two feet. Could that be the murderous, furious estuary in which his mother had been borne away? he looked across—there stood the hut—there the moss-grown, leafless oak, and gathered round it was a crowd of men. His father, and two or three other gentlemen on horseback, were stationed near—while some labourers were throwing up the sand beneath the withered trunk. When we have long thought of and grieved over an incident—if any outward object bring the image of our thoughts bodily before us, it is strange what an accession of emotion stirs the depths of the heart. For many hours Neville's mind had dwelt upon the scene in all its parts—the wild waste sea, dark and purple beneath the lowering clouds—the dreary extent of beach—the far, stupendous mountains, thrown up in sublime, irregular grandeur, with cloud-capped peaks, and vast gulfs between—a sort of Cyclopean screen to the noble landscape, which they encompassed with their wide majestic extent—his reflections had selected the smaller objects—the river, the hut, the monumental tree; and it seemed as if actual vision could not bring it home more truly; but when he actually beheld these objects, and the very motive of his coming was revealed, as it were, by the occupation of the men at work, his young heart, unhardened by many sufferings, sickened, the tears rushed into his eyes, and the words—"Oh my mother!" burst, from his lips. It was a spasm of uncontrollable pain—an instant afterward he had mastered it, and guiding his horse through the ford, with tranquil mien, though pale and sad, he took his station abreast with his father. Sir Boyvill turned as he rode up; he manifested no surprise, but he looked thankful, and even triumphant, Gerard thought; and the young man himself, as he contemplated the glazed eyes and attenuated form of his parent, which spoke of the weight of years, despite his still upright carriage, and the stern expression of his face, felt that his right place was at his side, to render the support of his youthful strength and active faculties. The men went on with their work in silence, nor did any speak; the sand was thrown up in heaps, the horses pawed the ground impatiently, and the hollow murmurs of the neighbouring breakers filled every pause with sound, but no voice spoke; or if one of the labourers had a direction to give, it was done in whispers. At length some harder substance opposed their progress, and they worked more cautiously. Mingled with sand they threw out pieces of dark substance like cloth or silk, and at length got out of the wide long trench they had been opening. With one consent, though in silence, every one gathered nearer, and looked in—they saw a human skeleton. The action of the elements, which the sands had not been able to impede, had destroyed every vestige of a human frame, except those discoloured bones, and long tresses of dark hair, which were wound around the scull. A universal yet suppressed groan burst from all. Gerard felt inclined to leap into the grave, but the thought of the many eyes all gazing acted as a check; and a second instinctive feeling of pious reverence induced him to unfasten his large black horseman's cloak, and to cast it over the opening. Sir Boyvill then broke the silence: "You have done well, my son: let no man lift that covering, or in any way disturb the remains beneath. Do you know, my friends, who lies there? Do you remember the night when Mrs. Neville was carried off? The country was raised, but we sought for her in vain. On that night she was murdered, and was buried here."
A hollow murmur ran through the crowd, already augmented by several stragglers, who had heard that something strange was going on. All pressed forward, though but to see the cloak, now become an object of curiosity and interest. Several remembered the lady, whose mouldered remains were thus revealed, in the pride of youth and beauty, warm of heart, kind, beloved; and this was all left of her! these unseemly bones were all earth had to show of the ever sweet Alithea!
"Mr. Ashley kindly assists me," continued Sir Boyvill; "we are both magistrates. The coroner is already sent for, a jury will be summoned; when that duty is performed, the remains of my unfortunate, much-wronged wife will be fitly interred. These ceremonies are necessary for the punishment of the murderer. We know him, he cannot escape; and you, every one of you, will rejoice in that vengeance which will be mine at last."
Execrations against the villain burst from every lip; yet even then each eye turned from old Sir Boyvill, whose vindictive nature had been showed before towards the hapless victim herself, to the young man, the son, whose grief and pious zeal had been the theme of many a gossip's story, and who now, pale and mute as he was, showed, in his intent and wo-struck gaze, more true touch of natural sorrow than Sir Boyvill's wordy harangue could denote.
"We must appoint constables to guard this place," said Sir Boyvill.
Mr. Ashley assented; the proper arrangements were made; the curious were to be kept off, and two servants from Dromore were added to the constables; then the gentlemen rode off. Neville, bewildered, desirous to stay to look once again on what had been his mother, yet averse to the vulgar gaze, followed them at a slower pace, till Mr. Ashley, taking leave of Sir Boyvill, rode away, and he perceived that his father was waiting for him, and that he must join him.
"Thank you, my son," said Sir Boyvill, "for your zeal and timely arrival. I expected it of you. We are one now; one to honour your mother; one in our revenge. You will not this time refuse your evidence."
"Do you then believe that Mr. Falkner is actually a murderer?" cried Neville.
"Let the laws of his country decide on that question," replied Sir Boyvill, with a sneering laugh. "I bring forward the facts only—you do the same; let the laws of his country and a jury of his equals acquit or condemn him."
"Your design, then, is to bring him to a trial?" asked Gerard. "I should have thought that the publicity—"
"I design," cried Sir Boyvill, with uncontrolled passion, "to bring him to a fate more miserable than his victim's; and I thank all-seeing Heaven, which places such ample revenge in my hands. He will die by the hands of the hangman, and I shall be satisfied."
There was something horrible in the old man's look and voice; he gloated on the foul disgrace about to be heaped on his enemy. The chivalrous notions of Gerard, a duel between the destroyer and his victim's son, was a paltry, trifling vengeance, compared with the ignominy he contemplated. "Was not the accusation against your mother loud," continued Sir Boyvill, "public, universal? Did not the assembled parliament pronounce upon her guilt, and decree her shame? And shall her exculpation be hushed up and private? I court publicity. A less august tribunal, but one whose decisions are no less widely circulated, shall proclaim her innocence. This idea alone would decide my course, if I could so far unman my soul as to forget that vengeance is due. Let it decide yours, if so much milk still mingle with your blood that it sicken at the thought of justice against a felon."
Transported by rage, Sir Boyvill sought for words bitter and venomous enough to convey his meaning; and Neville discerned at once how much he was incensed by the language used with regard to him in Falkner's manuscript. Wounded vanity sought to ape injured feelings; in such petty, selfish passions, Gerard could take no share, and he observed: "Mr. Falkner is a gentleman. I confess that his narration has won belief from me. His crime, dressed in his own words, is frightful enough; and heavily, if it be left to me, shall I visit it; but the plan you adopt is too discordant with the habits of persons of our rank of life, for me to view it without aversion. There is another which I prefer adopting."
"You mean," replied Sir Boyvill, "that you would challenge him—risk your life on the chance of taking his. Pardon me; I can by no means acquiesce in the propriety of such an act. I look on the wrongs he has done us as depriving him of the right to be treated with courtesy; nor do I wish him to add the death of my only son to the list of the injuries I have sustained."
The old man paused: his lip quivered—his voice dropped. Neville fancied that tenderness of feeling caused these indications; he was deceived; his father continued: "I am endeavouring so far to command myself as to speak with moderation. It is difficult to find words to express implacable hatred, so let that go by; and let us talk, since you can, and believe doubtless that I ought, calmly and reasonably. You would challenge this villain, this gentleman, as you name him. You would put your life on a par with his. He murdered your mother, and, to repay me, you would die by the same hand.
"If you speak the truth—if he possess a spark of those feelings which, as a soldier, you have a right to believe may animate him, do you think that he would return your fire? He raves about remorse in that tissue of infamous falsehoods which you put into my hands; if he be human, he must have some touch of that; and he could not, if he would, raise his weapon against the child of poor Alithea. He will therefore refuse to meet you, or, meeting you, refuse to fire; and either it will end in a farce for the amusement of the world, or you will shoot a defenceless man. I do not see the mercy of this proceeding."
"Of that, sir," said Neville, "we must take our chance."
"I will take no chance," cried his father. "My unfortunate wife was borne off forcibly from her home; you can bear witness to that. Two men carried her away, and no tidings ever again reached us of her fate. And now one of these men, the arch criminal, chooses to gloss over these circumstances, events, as pleases him; tells his own story, giving it such graces of style as may dupe the inexperienced, and we are to rest satisfied, and say, It is so. The absurdity of such conduct would mark us as madmen. Enough of this; I have reasoned with you as if the decision lay with me; when, in fact, I have no voice on the subject. It is out of my hands; I have made it over to the law, and we can but stand by and view its course. I believe, and before Heaven and your country you must assert the same, that the remains we have uncovered are all that is left us of your lost mother; the clandestine burial at once declares the guilt of murder; such must be the opinion of impartial judges, if I mistake not. I can interfere no further. The truth will be sifted by three juries; this is no hole-and-corner vengeance; let our enemy escape, in God's name, if they acquit him; but, if he be guilty, then let him die, as I believe he will, a felon's death."
Sir Boyvill looked on his son with glassy eyes, but a sneering lip, that spoke of the cruel triumph he desired. "There is Ravenglass," he added, "there the coroner is summoned—there the court meets. We go to give our deposition. We shall not lie, nor pervert facts; we tell who it was revealed to us your mother's unknown grave; it rests with them to decide whether he, who by his own avowal placed her therein, has not the crime of murder on his soul."
Sir Boyvill quickened his pace; Neville followed. He was still the same being who in his youth had been driven to the verge of insanity by the despotism of his father. His free and feeling heart revolted from arbitrary commands and selfishness. It was not only that his thoughts flew back, wounded and sore, to Elizabeth, and figured her agony, but he detested the fierce and vulgar revenge of his father. It is true that he had seen Falkner, and in the noble though tarnished grandeur of his countenance he had read the truth of the sad tale he related; and he could not treat him with the contempt Sir Boyvill evinced; to whom he was an image of the mind—unseen, unfelt. And then Falkner had loved his mother; nay, more, she as a sister had loved him; and faulty and cruel as had been his return for her kindness, he, through her, was endued with sacredness in his eyes.
To oppose these softening feelings came a sort of rage that Elizabeth was his child; that through him a barrier was raised to separate him from the chosen friend of his heart, the one sweet, angel who had first whispered peace to his soul. The struggle was violent—he did not see how he could refuse his evidence at the inquest already summoned; in every way his motives might be misunderstood, and his mother's fame might suffer. This idea became the victor—he would do all that he was called upon to do—to exculpate her; the rest he must leave to the mysterious guidance of Providence.
He arrived at the poverty-stricken town of Ravenglass—the legal authorities were assembled—and while preliminaries were being arranged, he was addressed by Sir Boyvill's solicitor, who asked him to relate what he knew, that his legal knowledge might assist in framing his evidence briefly and conclusively. Neville recounted his story simply, confining himself, as much as possible, to the bare outline of the facts. The man of law was evidently struck by the new turn he gave to the tale; for Sir Boyvill had unhesitatingly accused Falkner of murder. "This Falkner," he said, "had concealed himself for the space of thirteen years, till his accomplice Osborne was discovered—and till he heard of Gerard's perseverance in sifting the truth—then, fearful the tale might be disclosed in America, he came forward with his own narrative, which glossed over the chief crime, and yet, by revealing the burial-place of his victim, at once demonstrated the truth of the present accusation. It is impossible that the facts could have occurred as he represents them, plausible as his account is. Could a woman as timid as Alithea have rushed on certain death, as he describes? Why should she have crossed the stream in its fury? A bare half mile would have carried her to a cottage where she had been safe from Falkner's pursuit. What lady in a well-known country, where every face she met must prove a friend, but would not have betaken herself to the nearest village, instead of to an estuary renowned for danger. The very wetting her feet in a brook had terrified her—never could she have encountered the roar of waves sufficient to overwhelm and destroy her."
Such were the observations of Sir Boyvill; and though Gerard, by his simple assertion that he believed Falkner's tale, somewhat staggered the solicitor, yet he could not banish his notion that a trial was the inevitable and best mode of bringing the truth to light. The jury were now met, and Sir Boyvill gave such a turn to his evidence as at once impressed them unfavourably towards the accused. In melancholy procession they visited poor Alithea's grave. A crowd of country people were collected about it—they did not dare touch the cloak, but gazed on it with curiosity and grief. Many remembered Mrs. Neville, and their rude exclamations showed how deeply they felt her injuries. "When I was ill," said an old woman, "she gave me medicine with her own hand." "When my son James was lost at sea," said another, "she came to comfort me, and brought young Master Gerard—and cried, bless her! When she saw me take on—rich and grand as she was, she cried for poor James—and that she should be there now!" "My dear mistress," cried another, "never did she speak a harsh word to me—but for her, I could not have married—if she had lived, I had never known sorrow!"
Execrations against the murderer followed these laments. The arrival of the jury caused a universal murmur—the crowd was driven back—the cloak lifted from the grave—the men looked in; the scull, bound by her long hair—hair whose colour and luxuriance many remembered—attracted peculiar observation; the women, as they saw it, wept aloud—fragments of her dress were examined, which yet retained a sort of identity, as silk or muslin—though stained and colourless. As farther proof, among the bones were found a few ornaments—among them, on the skeleton hand, was her wedding-ring, with two others—both of which were sworn to by Sir Boyvill as belonging to his wife. No doubt could exist concerning the identity of the remains; it was sacrilege to gaze on them a moment longer than was necessary—while each beholder, as they contemplated so much beauty and excellence reduced to a small heap of bones, abhorrent to the eye, imbibed a heartfelt lesson on the nothingness of life. Stout-hearted men wept—and each bosom glowed with hatred against her destroyer.
After a few moments the cloak was again extended—the crowd pressed nearer—the jury retired, and returned to Ravenglass. Neville's evidence was only necessary to prove the name and residence of the assassin—there was no hesitation about the verdict. That of wilful murder against Falkner was unhesitatingly pronounced—a warrant issued for his apprehension, and proper officers despatched to execute it.
The moment that the verdict was delivered, Sir Boyvill and his son rode back to Dromore. Mr. Ashley and the solicitor accompanied them—and all the ordinary mechanism of life, which intrudes so often for our good, so to justle together discordant characters and wear off poignant impressions, now forced Neville, who was desirous to give himself up to meditation, to abide for several hours in the society of these gentlemen. There was a dinner to be eaten—Mr. Ashley partook of it, and Gerard felt that his absence would be indecorous. After dinner he was put to a trial—more severe to a sensitive, imaginative mind than any sharp strokes of commonplace adversity. He was minutely questioned as to the extent of his acquaintance with Falkner—how he came to form it—how often he had seen him—and what had drawn confession from him they named the criminal. These inquiries had been easily answered, but that the name of Elizabeth must be introduced—and, as he expected, at the mention of a daughter, a world of inquiry followed—and coarse remarks fell from his father's lips—which harrowed up his soul; while he felt that he had no exculpation to offer, nor any explanation that might take from her the name and association of the child of a murderer.
As soon as he could he burst away. He rushed into the open air, and hurried to the spot where he could best combat with and purify the rebellious emotions of his heart—none but the men placed as watch were near his mother's grave. Seeing the young squire, they retreated—and he who had come on foot at such quick pace that he scarcely felt the ground he trod, threw himself on the sands, grateful to find himself alone with nature. The moon was hurrying on among the clouds—now bright in the clear ether, now darkened by heavy masses—and the mirroring ocean was sometimes alive with sparkling silver, now veiled and dim, so that you could hear, but not see, the breaking of the surge.
An eloquent author has said, in contempt of such a being: "Try to conceive a man without the ideas of God and eternity; of the good, the true, the beautiful, and the infinite." Neville was certainly not such. There was poetry in his very essence; and enthusiasm for the ideal of the excellent gave his character a peculiar charm, to any one equally exalted and refined. His mother's decaying form lay beneath the sands on which he was stretched, death was there in its most hideous form; beauty, and even form had deserted that frame-work which once was the dear being, whose caresses, so warm and fond, it yet often thrilled him to remember. He had demanded from Heaven the revelation of his mother's fate,herehe found it, here in the narrow grave lay the evidence of her virtues and her death; did he thank Heaven? even while he did, he felt with bitterness that the granting of his prayer was inextricably linked with the ruin of a being, as good and fair as she whose honour he had so earnestly desired to vindicate.
He thought of all the sordid, vulgar, but heart-thrilling misery which by his means was brought on Elizabeth; and he sought his heart for excuses for the success for which he had pined. They came ready; no desire of vulgar vengeance had been his; his motives had been exalted, his conduct straightforward. The divine stamp on woman is her maternal character—it was to prove that his idolized mother had not deserted the first and most sacred duty in the world that had urged him—and he could not foresee that the innocent would suffer through his inquiries. The crime must fall on its first promoter—on Falkner's head must be heaped the consequences of his act; all else were guiltless. These reflections, however, only served to cheat his wound of its pain for a time—again other thoughts recurred, the realities, the squalid realities of the scene, in which she, miserable, was about to take a part. The thief-takers and the gyves—the prison, and the public ignominious trial—Falkner was to be subjected to all these indignities, and he well knew that his daughter would not leave his side. "And I, her son, the offspring of these sainted bones—placed here by him—how can I draw near his child! God have mercy on her, for man will have none!"
Still he could not be satisfied. "Surely," he thought, "something can be done, and something I will do. Already men are gone, who are to tear him from his home, and to deliver him up to all those vile contrivances devised for the coercion of the lowest of mankind—she will accompany him, while I must remain here. To-morrow these remains will be conveyed to our house—on the following day they are to be interred in the family vault, and I must be present—I am tied, forced to inaction—the privilege of free action taken from me."
Hope was awakened, however, as he pursued these thoughts, and recollected the generous, kindly disposition of Lady Cecil, and her attachment to her young friend. He determined to write to her. He felt assured that she would do all in her power to alleviate Elizabeth's sufferings—what she could do, he did not well understand—but it was a relief to him to take some step for the benefit of the devoted daughter. Bitterly as he thought of these things, did he regret that he had ever seen Elizabeth? So complicated was the web of event, that he knew not how to wish any event to have occurred differently; except that he had not trusted to the hollow pretences of his father. He saw at once how the generous and petty-minded can never coalesce—he ought to have acted for himself, by himself; and miserable as in any case the end must have been, he felt that his own open, honourable revenge would have been less cruel in its effects than the malicious pursuit of his vindictive father.
There is an impatient spirit in the young, that will not suffer them to take into consideration the pauses that occur between events. That which they do not see move, they believe to be stationary. Falkner was surprised by the silence of several days on the part of Neville; but he did not the less expect and prepare for the time, when he should be called upon to render an account for the wrong he had done. Elizabeth, on the contrary, deemed that the scene was closed, the curtain fallen. What more could arise? Neville had obtained assurance of the innocence and miserable end of his mother. In some manner this would be declared to the world; but the echo of such a voice would not penetrate the solitude in which she and her guardian were hereafter to live. Silence and exclusion were the signal and seal of discovered guilt—other punishment she did not expect. The name of Falkner had become abhorrent to all who bore any relationship to the injured Alithea. She had bid an eternal adieu to the domestic circle at Oakly—to the kind and frank-hearted Lady Cecil—and, with her, to Gerard. His mind, fraught with a thousand virtues—his heart, whose sensibility had awoke her tenderness, were shut irrevocably against her.
Did she love Gerard? This question never entered her own mind. She felt, but did not reason on, her emotions. Elizabeth was formed to be alive to the better part of love. Her enthusiasm gave ideality, her affectionate disposition warmth, to all her feelings. She loved Falkner, and that with so much truth and delicacy, yet fervour of passion, that scarcely could her virgin heart conceive a power more absolute, a tie more endearing, than the gratitude she had vowed to him; yet she intimately felt the difference that existed between her deep-rooted attachment for him she named and looked on as her father, and the spring of playful, happy, absorbing emotions that animated her intercourse with Neville. To the one she dedicated her life and services; she watched him as a mother may a child; a smile or cheerful tone of voice was warmth and gladness to her anxious bosom, and she wept over his misfortunes with the truest grief.
But there was more of the genuine attachment of mind for mind in her sentiment for Neville. Falkner was gloomy and self-absorbed. Elizabeth might grieve for, but she found it impossible to comfort him. With Gerard it was far otherwise. Elizabeth had opened in his soul an unknown spring of sympathy, to relieve the melancholy which had hitherto overwhelmed him. With her he gave way freely to the impulses of a heart which longed to mingle its hitherto checked stream of feeling with other and sweeter waters. In every way he excited her admiration as well as kindness. The poetry of his nature suggested expressions and ideas at once varied and fascinating. He led her to new and delightful studies, by unfolding to her the pages of the poets of her native country, with which she was little conversant. Except Shakspeare and Milton, she knew nothing of English poetry. The volumes of Chaucer and Spenser, of ancient date; of Pope, Gray, and Burns; and, in addition, the writings of a younger, but divine race of poets, were all opened to her by him. In music, also, he became her teacher. She was a fine musician of the German school. He introduced her to the simpler graces of song; and brought her the melodies of Moore, so "married to immortal verse," that they can only be thought of conjointly. Oh, the happy days of Oakly! How had each succeeding hour been gilded by the pleasures of a nascent passion, of the existence of which she had never before dreamed—and these were fled for ever! It was impossible to feel assured of so sad a truth, and not to weep over the miserable blight. Elizabeth commanded herself to appear cheerful, but sadness crept over her solitary hours. She felt that the world had grown, from being a copy of paradise, into a land of labour and disappointment; where self-approbation was to be gained through self-sacrifice; and duty and happiness became separate, instead of united objects at which to aim.
From such thoughts she took refuge in the society of Falkner. She loved him so truly, that she forgot her personal regrets—she forgot even Neville when with him. Her affection for her benefactor was not a stagnant pool, mantled over by memories existing in the depths of her soul, but giving no outward sign; it was a fresh spring of overflowing love—it was redundant with all the better portion of our nature—gratitude, admiration, and pity for ever fed it, as from a perennial fountain.
It was on a day, the fifth after the disclosure of Falkner, that she had been taking her accustomed ride, and, as she rode, given herself up to those reveries—now enthusiastic, now drooping and mournful—that sprung from her singular and painful position. She returned home, eager to forget in Falkner's society many a rebel thought, and to drive away the image of her younger friend, by gazing on the wasted, sinking form of her benefactor, in whose singularly noble countenance she ever found new cause to devote her fortunes and her heart. To say that he was "not less than archangel ruined," is not to express the peculiar interest of Falkner's appearance. Thus had he seemed, perhaps, thirteen years before at Treby; but gentle and kindly sentiments, the softening intercourse of Elizabeth, the improvement of his intellect, and the command he had exercised over the demonstration of passion, had moulded his face into an expression of benevolence and sweetness, joined to melancholy thoughtfulness; an abstracted, but not sullen seriousness, that rendered it interesting to every beholder. Since his confession to Neville, since the die was cast, and he had delivered himself up to his fate to atone for his victim, something more was added; exalted resolution and serene lofty composure had replaced his usual sadness; and the passions of his soul, which had before deformed his handsome lineaments, now animated them with a beauty of mind which struck Elizabeth at once with tenderness and admiration.
Now, longing to behold, to contemplate this dear face, and to listen to a voice that always charmed her out of herself, and made her forget her sorrows—she was disappointed to find his usual sitting-room empty—it appeared even as if the furniture had been thrown into disorder; there were marks of several dirty feet upon the carpet; on the half-written letter that lay on the desk the pen had hastily been thrown, blotting it. Elizabeth wondered a little, but the emotion was passing away, when the head servant came into the room, and informed her that his master had gone out, and would not return that night.
"Not to-night!" exclaimed Elizabeth; "what has happened? who have been here?"
"Two men, miss."
"Men! gentlemen?"
"No, miss, not gentlemen."
"And my father went away with them?"
"Yes, miss," replied the man, "he did indeed. He would not take the carriage; he went in a hired post-chaise. He ordered me to tell you, miss, that he would write directly, and let you know when you might expect him."
"Strange, very strange is this!" thought Elizabeth. She did not know why she should be disturbed, but disquiet invaded her mind; she felt abandoned and forlorn, and, as the shades of evening gathered round, even desolate. She walked from room to room, she looked from the window, the air was chill, and from the east, yet she repaired to the garden; she felt restless and miserable; what could the event be that took Falkner away? She pondered vainly. The most probable conjecture was, that he obeyed some summons from her own relations. At length one idea rushed into her mind, and she returned to the house, and rang for the servant. Falkner's wandering life had prevented his having any servant of long-tried fidelity about him—but this man was good-hearted and respectable—he felt for his young mistress, and consulted with her maid as to the course they should take under the present painful circumstances; and had concluded that they should preserve silence as to what had occurred, leaving her to learn it from their master's expected letter. Yet the secret was in some danger, when, fixing her eyes on him, Elizabeth said, "Tell me truly, have you no guess what this business is that has taken your master away?"
The man looked confused; but, like many persons not practised in the art of cross-questioning, Elizabeth balked herself, by adding another inquiry before the first was answered; saying with a faltering voice, "Are you sure, Thompson, that it was not a challenge—a duel?"
The domestic's face cleared up: "Quite certain, miss, it was no duel—it could not be—the men were not gentlemen."
"Then," thought Elizabeth, as she dismissed the man, "I will no longer torment myself. It is evidently some affair of mere business that has called him away. I shall learn all to-morrow."
Yet the morrow and the next day came, and Falkner neither wrote nor returned. Like all persons who determine to conjecture no more, Elizabeth's whole time was spent in endeavouring to divine the cause of his prolonged absence and strange silence. Had any communication from Neville occasioned his departure? was he sent for to point out his victim's grave? That idea carried some probability with it; and Elizabeth's thoughts flew fast to picture the solitary shore, and the sad receptacle of beauty and love. Would Falkner and Neville meet at such an hour? without a clew to guide her, she wandered for ever in a maze of thought, and each hour added to her disquietude. She had not gone beyond the garden for several days, she was fearful of being absent when anything might arise; but nothing occurred, and the mystery became more tantalizing and profound.
On the third day she could endure the suspense no longer; she ordered horses to be put to the carriage, and told the servant of her intention to drive into town, and to call on Falkner's solicitor, to learn if he had any tidings; that he was ill she felt assured—where and how? away from her, perhaps deserted by all the world: the idea of his sick-bed became intolerably painful; she blamed herself for her inaction; she resolved not to rest till she saw her father again.
Thompson knew not what to say; he hesitated, begged her not to go; the truth hovered on his lips, yet he feared to give it utterance. Elizabeth saw his confusion; it gave birth to a thousand fears, and she exclaimed, "What frightful event are you concealing? Tell me at once. Great God! why this silence? Is my father dead?"
"No, indeed, miss," said the man, "but my master is not in London, he is a long way off. I heard he was taken to Carlisle."
"Taken to Carlisle! Why taken? What do you mean?"
"There was a charge against him, miss," Thompson continued, hesitating at every word, "the men who came—they apprehended him for murder."
"Murder!" echoed his auditress; "then they fought! Gerard is killed!"
The agony of her look made Thompson more explicit. "It was no duel," he said, "it was done many years ago; it was a lady who was murdered, a Mrs. or Lady Neville."
Elizabeth smiled—a painful, yet a genuine smile; so glad was she to have her worst fears removed, so futile did the accusation appear; the smile passed away, as she thought of the ignominy, the disgraceful realities of such a process—of Falkner torn from his home, imprisoned, a mark for infamy. Weak minds are stunned by a blow like this, while the stronger rise to the level of the exigency, and grow calm from the very call made upon their courage. Elizabeth might weep to remember past or anticipated misfortunes, but she was always calm when called upon to decide and act; her form seemed to dilate, her eyes flashed with a living fire, her whole countenance beamed with lofty and proud confidence in herself. "Why did you not tell me this before?"' she exclaimed. "What madness possessed you to keep me in ignorance? How much time has been lost! Order the horses! I must begone at once, and join my father."
"He is in jail, miss," said Thompson. "I beg your pardon, but you had better see some friend before you go."
"I must decide upon that," replied Elizabeth. "Let there be no delay on your part, you have caused too much. But the bell rings; did I not hear wheels? perhaps he is returned." She rushed to the outer door; she believed that it was her father returned; the garden-gate opened—two ladies entered; one was Lady Cecil. In a moment Elizabeth felt herself embraced by her warm-hearted friend; she burst into tears. "This is kind, more than kind!" she exclaimed; "and you bring good news, do you not? My father is liberated, and all is again well!"
The family of Raby must be considered collectively, as each member united in one feeling, and acted on one principle. They were Catholics, and never forgot it. They were not bent on proselytism; on the contrary, they rather shunned admitting strangers into their circle: but they never ceased to remember that they belonged to the ancient faith of the land, and looked upon their fidelity to the tenets of their ancestors as a privilege, and a distinction far more honourable than a patent of nobility. Surrounded by Protestants, and consequently, as they believed, by enemies, it was the aim of their existence to keep their honour unsullied; and that each member of the family should act for the good and glory of the whole, unmindful of private interests and individual affections. The result of such a system may be divined. The pleasures of mediocrity—toiling merit—the happy home—the cheerful family union, where smiles glitter brighter than gold; all these were unknown or despised. Young hearts were pitilessly crushed; young hopes blighted without remorse. The daughters were doomed, for the most part, to the cloister; the sons to foreign service. This, indeed, was not to be attributed entirely to the family failing—a few years ago, English Catholics were barred out from every road to emolument and distinction in their native country.
Edwin Raby had thus been sacrificed. His enlightened mind disdained the trammels thrown over it; but his apostacy doomed him to become an outcast. He had previously been the favourite and hope of his parents; from the moment that he renounced his religion he became the opprobrium. His name was never mentioned; and his death hailed as a piece of good fortune, that freed his family from a living disgrace. The only person among them who regretted him was the wife of his eldest brother; she had appreciated his talents and virtues, and had entertained a sincere friendship for him; but even she renounced him.
Her heart, naturally warm and noble, was narrowed by prejudice; but while she acted in conformity with the family principle, she suffered severely from the shock thus given to her better feelings. When Edwin died, her eyes were a little opened; she began to suspect that human life and human suffering deserved more regard than articles of belief. The "late remorse of love" was awakened, and she never wholly forgot the impression. She had not been consulted concerning, she knew nothing of, his widow and orphan child. Young at that time, the weight of authority pressed also on her, and she had been bred to submission. There was a latent energy, however, in her character that developed itself as she grew older. Her husband died, and her consequence increased in old Oswi Raby's eyes. By degrees her authority became paramount; it was greatly regulated by the prejudices and systems cherished by the family, as far as regarded the world in general; but it was softened in her own circle by the influence of the affections. Her daughters were educated at home—not one was destined for the cloister. Her only son was brought up at Eton; the privileges granted of late years to the Catholics made her entertain the belief, that it was no longer necessary to preserve the old defences and fortifications which intolerance had forced its victims to institute; still pride—pride of religion, pride of family, pride in an unblemished name, were too deeply rooted, too carefully nurtured, not to form an integral part of her character.
When a letter from her father-in-law revealed to her the existence of Elizabeth, her heart warmed towards the orphan and deserted daughter of Edwin. She felt all the repentance which duties neglected bring on a well-regulated mind—her pride revolted at the idea that a daughter of the house of Raby was dependant on the beneficence of a stranger—she resolved that no time should be lost in claiming and receiving her, even while she trembled to think of how, brought up as an alien, she might prove rather a burden than an acquisition. She had written to make inquiries as to her niece's abode. She heard that she was on a visit at Lady Cecil's at Hastings—Mrs. Raby was at Tunbridge—she instantly ordered horses, and proceeded to Oakly.
On the morning of her visit, Lady Cecil had received a letter from Gerard: it was incoherent, and had been written by snatches in the carriage on his way to Dromore. Its first words proclaimed his mother's innocence, and the acknowledgment of her wrongs by Sir Boyvill himself. As he went on, his pen lingered—he trembled to write the words, "Our friend, our Elizabeth, is the daughter of the destroyer." It was unnatural, it was impossible—the very thought added acrimony to his detestation of Falkner—it prevented the compassion his generous nature would otherwise have afforded, and yet roused every wish to spare him, as much as he might be spared, for his heroic daughter's sake. He felt deceived, trepanned, doomed. In after life we are willing to compromise with fate—to take the good with the bad—and are satisfied if we can at all lighten the burden of life. In youth we aim at completeness and perfection. Ardent and single-minded, Neville disdained prejudices; and his impulse was, to separate the idea of father and daughter, and to cherish Elizabeth as a being totally distinct from her parentage. But she would not yield to this delusion—she would cling to her father—and if he died by his hand, he would for ever become an object of detestation. Well has Alfieri said, "There is no struggle so vehement as when an upright but passionate heart is divided between inclination and duty." Neville's soul was set upon honour and well-doing; never before had he found the execution of the dictates of his conscience so full of bitterness and impatience. Something of these feelings betrayed themselves in his letter. "We have lost Elizabeth," he wrote; "for ever lost her! Is there no help for this? No help for her? None! She clings to the destroyer's side, and shares his miserable fate—lost to happiness—to the innocence and sunshine of life. She will live a victim and die a martyr to her duties; and she is lost to us for ever!"