by Mary Shelley
Still a plan was necessary. The very act of his life which had been so big with ruin and remorse enjoined some forethought. It was probable that he was already suspected, if not known. Detection and punishment in a shape most loathsome would overtake him, did he not shape his measures with prudence; and, as hate as well as love had mixed strongly in his motives, he was in no humour to give his enemies the triumph of visiting his crime on him.
What is written in glaring character in our own consciousness, we believe to be visible to the whole world; and Falkner, after arriving in London, after leaving Elizabeth at an hotel, and walking into the streets, felt as if discovery was already on him, when he was accosted by an acquaintance, who asked him where he had been — what he had been doing — and why he was looking so deucedly ill? He stammered some reply, and was hastening away, when his friend, passing his arm through his, said, “I must tell you of the strangest occurrence I ever heard of — I have just parted from a man — do you remember a Mr. Neville, whom you dined with at my house, when last in town?”
Falkner, at this moment, exercised with success the wonderful mastery which he possessed over feature and voice, and coldly replied that he did remember.
“And do you remember our conversation after he left us?” said his friend, “and my praises of his wife, who I exalted as the pattern of virtue? Who can know women! I could have bet any sum that she would have preserved her good name to the end — and she has eloped.”
“Well!” said Falkner, “is that all? — is that the most wonderful circumstance ever heard?”
“Had you known Mrs. Neville,” replied his companion, “you would be as astonished as I: with all her charms — all her vivacity — never had the breath of scandal reached her — she seemed one of those whose hearts, though warm, are proof against the attacks of love; and with ardent affections yet turn away from passion, superior and unharmed. Yet she has eloped with a lover — there is no doubt of that fact, for he was seen — they were seen going off together, and she has not been heard of since.”
“Did Mr. Neville pursue them?” asked Falkner.
“He is even now in full pursuit — vowing vengeance — more enraged than I ever beheld man. Unfortunately he does not know who the seducer is; nor have the fugitives yet been traced. The whole affair is the most mysterious — a lover dropped from the clouds — an angel of virtue subdued, almost before she is sought. Still they must be found out — they cannot hide themselves for ever.”
“And then there will be a duel to the death?” asked Falkner, in the same icy accents.
“No,” replied the other, “Mrs. Neville has no brother to fight for her, and her husband breathes law only. Whatever vengeance the law will afford, that he will use to the utmost — he is too angry to fight.”
“The poltroon!” exclaimed Falkner, “and thus he loses his sole chance of revenge.”
“I know not that,” replied his companion; “he has formed a thousand schemes of chastisement for both offenders, more dread than the field of honour — there is, to be sure, a mean as well as an indignant spirit in him, that revels rather in the thought of inflicting infamy than death. He utters a thousand mysterious threats — I do not see exactly what he can do — but when he discovers his injurer, as he must some day — and I believe there are letters that afford a clue, — he will wreak all that a savage, and yet a sordid desire of vengeance can suggest. — Poor Mrs. Neville! — after all, she must have lived a sad life with such a fellow!”
“And here we part,” said Falkner; “I am going another way. You have told me a strange story — it will be curious to mark the end. Farewell!”
Brave to rashness as Falkner was, yet there was much in what he had just heard that made him recoil, and almost tremble. What the vengeance was that Mr. Neville could take — he too well knew — and he resolved to defeat it. His plans, before vague, were formed on the instant. His lip curled with a disdainful smile when he recollected what his friend had said of the mystery that hung over the late occurrences — he would steep them all in tenfold obscurity. To grieve for the past was futile, or rather, nothing he could do, would prevent or alleviate the piercing regret that tortured him — but that need not influence his conduct. To leave his arch enemy writhing from injury, yet powerless to revenge himself — blindly cursing he knew not who, and removing the object of his curses from all danger of being hurt by them, was an image not devoid of satisfaction. Acting in conformity with these ideas, the next morning saw him on the road to Dover — Elizabeth still his companion, resolved to seek oblivion in foreign countries and far climes — and happy, at the same time, to have her with him, whose infantine caresses already poured balm upon his rankling wounds.
CHAPTER V.
Paris was the next, but transient, resting-place of the travellers. Here Falkner made such arrangements with regard to remittances, as he believed would best insure his scheme of concealment. He laid the map of Europe before him, and traced a course with his pencil, somewhat erratic, yet not without a plan. Paris, Hamburgh, Stockholm, St. Petersburgh, Moscow, Odessa, Constantinople, through Hungary to Vienna. How many thousand miles! miles — which while he traversed, he could possess his soul in freedom — fear no scrutiny — be asked no insidious questions. He could look each man in the face, and none trace his crime in his own.
It was a wild scheme to make so young a child as Elizabeth the companion of these devious and long wanderings; yet it was her idea that shed golden rays on the boundless prospect he contemplated. He could not have undertaken this long journey alone — memory and remorse his only companions. He was not one of those, unfortunately, whom a bright eye and kindly smile can light at once into a flame — soon burnt out, it is true, but warming and cheering, and yet harmless while it lasted. He could not among strangers at once discern the points to admire, and make himself the companion of the intelligent and good, through a sort of freemasonry some spirits possess. This was a great defect of character. He was proud and reserved. His esteem must be won — long habits of intimacy formed — his fastidious taste never wounded — his imagination never baulked — without this, he was silent and wrapt in himself. All his life he had cherished a secret and ardent passion, beyond whose bounds every thing was sterile — this had changed from the hopes of love to the gnawing pangs of remorse — but still his heart fed on itself — and unless that was interested, and by the force of affection he were called out of himself, he must be miserable. To arrive unwelcomed at an inn — to wander through unknown streets and cities, without any stimulus of interest or curiosity — to traverse vast tracts of country, useless to others, a burthen to himself — alone, this would have been intolerable. But Elizabeth was the cure; she was the animating soul of his project: her smiles — her caresses — the knowledge that he benefited her, was the life-blood of his design. He indulged with a sort of rapture in the feeling, that he loved, and was beloved by an angel of innocence, who grew, each day, into a creature endowed with intelligence, sympathies, hopes, fears, and affections — all individually her own, and yet all modelled by him — centred in him — to whom he was necessary — who would be his: not like the vain love of his youth, only in imagination, but in every thought and sensation, to the end of time.
Nor did he intend to pursue his journey in such a way as to overtask her strength, or injure her health. He cared not how much time elapsed before its completion. It would certainly employ years; it mattered not how many. When winter rendered travelling painful, he could take up his abode in a metropolis abounding in luxuries. During the summer heats he might fix himself in some villa, where the season would be mitigated to pleasantness. If impelled by a capricious predilection, he could stay for months in any chance selected spot: but his home was, with Elizabeth beside him, in his travelling carriage. Perpetual change would baffle pursuit, if any were set on foot; while the restlessness of his life, the petty annoyances and fleeting pleasures of a traveller’s existence, would serve to occupy his mind, and prevent its being
mastered by those passions to which one victim had been immolated, and which rendered the remnant of his days loathsome to himself. “I have determined to live,” he thought, “and I must therefore insure the means of life. I must adopt a method by which I can secure for each day that stock of patrence which is necessary to lead me to the end of it. In the plan I have laid down, every day will have a task to be fulfilled; and, while I employ myself in executing it, I need look neither before nor behind; and each day added thus, one by one, to one another, will form months and years, and I shall grow old, travelling post over Europe.”
His resolution made, he was eager to enter on his travels, which, singular to say, he performed even in the very manner he had determined; for the slight changes in the exact route, introduced afterwards, from motives of convenience or pleasure, might be deemed rather as in accordance with, than deviating from, his original project.
Falkner was not a man ordinarily met with. He possessed wild and fierce passions, joined to extreme sensibility, beneficence, and generosity. His boyhood had been rendered miserable by the violence of a temper roused to anger, even from trifles. Collision with his fellow-creatures, a sense of dignity with his equals, and of justice towards his inferiors, had subdued this; still his blood was apt to boil when roused by any impediment to his designs, or the sight of injury towards others; and it was with great difficulty that he kept down the outward marks of indignation or contempt. To tame the vehemence of his disposition, he had endeavoured to shackle his imagination, and to cultivate his reason — and perhaps he fancied that he succeeded best, when, in fact, he entirely failed. As now, when he took the little orphan with him away from all the ties of blood — the manners and customs of her country — from the discipline of regular education, and the society of others of her sex — had not Elizabeth been the creature she was, with a character not to be disharmonized by any circumstances, this had been a fearful experiment.
Yet he fondly hoped to derive happiness from it. Traversing long tracts of country with vast speed, cut off from intercourse with every one but her, and she endearing herself more, daily, by extreme sweetness of disposition, he began almost to forget the worm gnawing at his bosom; and, feeling himself free, to fancy himself happy. Unfortunately, it was not so: he had passed the fatal Rubicon, placed by conscience between innocence and crime; and however much he might for a time deaden the stings of feeling, or baffle the inevitable punishment, hereafter to arise from the consequences of his guilt, still there was a burthen on his soul that took all real zest from life, and made his attempts at enjoyment more like the experiments of a physician to dissipate sickness, than the buoyant sensations of one in health.
But then he thought not of himself — he did not live in himself, but in the joyous being at his side. Her happiness was exuberant. She might be compared to an exotic, lately pinched, and drooping from the effects of the wintry air, transported back in the first opening of a balmy southern spring, to its native clime. The young and tender green leaves unfolded themselves in the pleasant air; blossoms appeared among the foliage, and sweet fruit might be anticipated. Nor was it only the kindness of her protector that endeared him to her: much of the warm sentiment of affection arose from their singular modes of life. Had they continued at a fixed residence, in town or country, in a civilized land, Elizabeth had seen her guardian at stated periods; have now and then taken a walk with him, or gambolled in the garden at his side; while, for the chief part, their occupation and pursuits being different, they had been little together. As it was, they were never apart: side by side in a travelling carriage — now arriving, now departing; now visiting the objects worthy of observation in various cities. They shared in all the pleasures and pains of travel, and each incident called forth her sense of dependence, and his desire to protect; or, changing places, even at that early age, she soothed his impatience, while he was beguiled of his irritability by her cheerful voice and smiling face. In all this, Elizabeth felt most strongly the tie that bound them. Sometimes benighted; sometimes delayed by swollen rivers; reduced to bear together the miseries of a bad inn, or, at times, of no inn at all; — sometimes in danger — often worn by fatigue — Elizabeth found in her adopted parent a shelter, a support, and a preserver. Creeping close to him, her little hand clasped in his, or carried in his arms, she feared nothing, because he was there. During storms at sea, he had placed his own person between her and the bitter violence of the wind, and had often exposed himself to the inclemency of the weather to cover her, and save her from wet and cold. At all times he was on the alert to assist, and his assistance was like the coming of a superior being, sufficient to save her from harm, and inspire her with courage. Such circumstances had, perhaps, made a slight impression on many children; but Elizabeth had senses and sensibilities so delicately strung, as to be true to the slightest touch of harmony.
She had not forgotten the time when, neglected, and almost in rags, she only heard the voice of complaint or chiding; when she crept alone over the sands to her mother’s grave, and, did a tempest overtake her, there was none to shield or be of comfort; she remembered little accidents that had at times befallen her, which, to her infantine feelings, seemed mighty dangers. But there had been none, as now, to pluck her from peril, and insure her safety. She recollected when, on one occasion, a thunder-storm had overtaken her in the church-yard; when, hurrying home, her foot slipped, as she attempted to descend the wet path of the cliff — frightened, she clambered up again, and, returning home by the upper road, had lost her way, and found night darkening round her — wet, tired, and shivering with fear and cold; and then, on her return, her welcome had been a scolding — well meant, perhaps, but vulgar, loud, and painful: and now the contrast! Her wishes guessed — her thoughts divined — ready succour and perpetual vigilance were for ever close at hand; and all this accompanied by a gentleness, kindness, and even by a respect, which the ardent, yet refined feelings of her protector readily bestowed. Thus a physical gratitude — so to speak — sprung up in her child’s heart, a precursor to the sense of moral obligation, to be developed in after years. Every hour added strength to her affection, and habit generated fidelity, and an attachment, not to be shaken by any circumstances.
Nor was kindness from him the only tie between them. Elizabeth discerned his sadness, and tried to cheer his gloom. Now and then the fierceness of his temper broke forth towards others; but she was never terrified, and grieved for the object of his indignation; or if she felt it to be unjust, she pleaded the cause of the injured, and, by her caresses, brought him back to himself. She early learnt the power she had over him, and loved him the more fondly on that account. Thus there existed a perpetual interchange of benefit — of watchful care — of mutual forbearance — of tender pity and thankfulness. If all this seems beyond the orphan’s years, it must be remembered that peculiar circumstances develop peculiar faculties; and that, besides, what is latent does not the less exist on that account. Elizabeth could not have expressed, and was, indeed, unconscious of the train of feeling here narrated. It was the microcosm of a plant, folded up in its germ. Sometimes looking at a green, unformed bud, we wonder why a particular texture of leaves must inevitably spring from it, and why another sort of plant should not shoot out from the dark stem: but, as the tiny leaflet uncloses, it is there in all its peculiarity, and endowed with all the especial qualities of its kind. Thus with Elizabeth, however, in the thoughtlessness and inexperience of childhood, small outward show was made of the inner sense; yet in her heart tenderness, fidelity, and unshaken truth, were folded up, to be developed as her mind gained ideas, and sensation gradually verged into sentiment.
The course of years, also, is included in this sketch. She was six years old when she left Paris — she was nearly ten when, after many wanderings, and a vast tract of country over-passed, they arrived at Odessa. There had always been a singular mixture of childishness and reflection in her, and this continued even now. As far as her own pleasures were concerned, she might
be thought behind her age: to chase a butterfly — to hunt for a flower — to play with a favourite animal — to listen with eagerness to the wildest fairy tales, — such were her pleasures; but there was something more as she watched the turns of countenance in him she named her father — adapted herself to his gloomy or communicative mood — pressed near him when she thought he was annoyed — and restrained every appearance of discomfort, when he was distressed by her being exposed to fatigue or the inclement sky.
When at St. Petersburgh he fell ill, she never left his bed-side; and, remembering the death of her parents, she wasted away with terror and grief. At another time, in a wild district of Russia, she sickened of the measles. They were obliged to take refuge in a miserable hovel; and, despite all his care, the want of medical assistance endangered her life; while her convalescence was rendered tedious and painful by the absence of every comfort. Her sweet eyes grew dim; her little head drooped. No mother could have attended on her more assiduously than Falkner; and she long after remembered his sitting by her in the night to give her drink — her pillow smoothed by him — and, when she grew a little better, his carrying her in his arms under a shady grove, so to give her the benefit of the air, in a manner that would least incommode her. These incidents were never forgotten. They were as the colour and fragrance to the rose — the very beauty and delight of both their lives. Falkner felt a half remorse at the too great pleasure he derived from her society; while hers was a sort of rapturous, thrilling adoration, that dreamt not of the necessity of a check, and luxuriated in its boundless excess.