by Mary Shelley
Falkner struggled a moment longer, and then recovered his self-possession. The disordered expression of his countenance was replaced by a cold and stern look, which, aided by the marble paleness that settled over it, looked more like the chiselling of a statue than mortal endurance. A lofty resolve, to bear unflinchingly, was the spirit that moulded his features into an appearance of calm. From this moment he acquired strength of body, as well as of mind, to meet the destiny before him. The energy of his soul did not again fail. Every instant — every word, seemed to add to his courage — to nerve him to the utmost height of endurance; to make him ready to leap, without one tremor, into the abyss which he had so long and so fearfully avoided.
The likeness of Neville to his mother had shaken him more than all. His voice, whose tones were the same with hers, was another shock. His very name jarred upon his sense, but he betrayed no token of suffering. “Mr. Neville,” said Elizabeth, “is come to take leave of me. To-morrow he sails to America.”
“To America! Wherefore?” asked Falkner.
“I wrote to you,” she replied; “I explained the motives of this voyage. You know—”
“I know all,” said Falkner; “and this voyage to America is superfluous.”
Neville echoed the word with surprise, while Elizabeth exclaimed, “Do you think so? You must have good reasons for this opinion. Tell them to Mr. Neville. Your counsels, I am sure, will be of use to him. I have often wished that you had been with us. I am so glad that he sees you before he goes — if he does go. You say his voyage is superfluous; tell him wherefore; advise him. Your advice will, I am sure, be good. I would give the world that he did the exact thing that is best — that is most likely to succeed.”
Neville looked gratefully at her as she spoke thus eagerly; while Falkner, still standing, his eyes fixed on, and scanning the person of the son of his victim, marble pale, but displaying feeling by no other outward sign, scarcely heard what she said, till her last words drew his attention. He smiled, as in scorn, and said, “Oh, yes, I can advise; and he shall succeed — and he will not go.”
“I shall be happy,” said Neville, with surprise. “I am willing to be advised — that is, if your advice coincides with my wishes.”
“It shall do so,” interrupted Falkner.
“Then,” exclaimed Neville, impetuously, “the moments that I linger here will appear to you too many. You will desire that I should be on board already — already under sail — already arrived. You will wish the man whom I seek should be waiting on the sands when I reach the shore!”
“He is much nearer,” said Falkner, calmly; “he is before you. I am he!”
Neville started; “You! What mean you? You are not Osborne.”
“I am Rupert Falkner; your mother’s destroyer.”
Neville glanced at Elizabeth — his eye met hers — their thought was the same, that this declaration proceeded from insanity. The fire that flashed from Falkner’s eye as he spoke — the sudden crimson that dyed his cheeks — the hollow, though subdued, tone of his voice, gave warrant for such a suspicion.
Elizabeth gazed on him with painful solicitude.
“I will not stay one moment longer,” continued Falkner, “to pain you by the sight of one so accursed as I. You will hear more from me this very evening. You will hear enough to arrest your voyage; and remember that I shall remain ready to answer any call — to make any reparation — any atonement you may require.”
He was gone — the door closed; it was as if a dread spectre had vanished, and Neville and Elizabeth looked at each other to read in the face of either, whether both were conscious of having been visited by the same vision.
“What does he mean? Can you tell me what to think?” cried Neville, almost gasping for breath.
“I will tell you in a few hours,” said Elizabeth. “I must go to him now; I fear he is very ill. This is madness. When your mother died, Mr. Neville, my father and I were travelling together in Russia or Poland. I remember dates — I am sure that it was so. This is too dreadful. Farewell. You sail to-morrow — you shall hear from me to-night.”
“Be sure that I do,” said Neville; “for there is a method in his speech — a dignity and a composure in his manner, that enforces a sort of belief. What can he mean?”
“Do you imagine,” cried Elizabeth, “that there is any truth in these unhappy ravings? That my father, who would not tread upon a worm — whose compassionate disposition and disinterestedness have been known to me since early childhood — the noblest, and yet the gentlest, of human beings — do you imagine that he is a murderer? Dear Mr. Neville, he never could have seen your mother!”
“Is it indeed so?” said Neville; “yet he said one word — did you not remark? — he called himself Rupert. But I will not distress you. You will write; or rather, as my time will be occupied in preparations for my voyage, and I scarcely know where the day will be spent, I will call here this evening at nine. If you cannot see me, send me a note to the gate, containing some information, either to expedite or delay my journey. Even if this strange scene be the work of insanity, how can I leave you in distress? and if it be true what he says — if he be the man I saw tear my mother from me — how altered! how turned to age and decrepitude! Yet, if he be that man, then I have a new and horrible course to take.”
“Is it so!” cried Elizabeth, with indignation; “and can a man so cloud his fair fame, so destroy his very existence, by the wild words of delirium — that my dear father should be accused of being the most odious criminal!”
“Nay,” replied Neville, “I make no accusation. Do not part from me in anger. You are right, I do not doubt; and I am unjust. I will call to-night.”
“Do so without fail. Do not lose your passage. I little knew that personal feeling would add to my eagerness to learn the truth. Do not stay for my sake. Come to-night and learn how false and wild my father’s words were; and then hasten to depart — to see Osborne — to learn all! Farewell till this evening.”
She hurried away to Falkner’s room, while stunned — doubting — forced, by Elizabeth, to entertain doubts, and yet convinced in his heart; for the name of Rupert brought conviction home — Neville left the house. He had entered it fostering the sweetest dreams of happiness, and now he dared not look at the reverse.
Elizabeth, filled with the most poignant inquietude with regard to his health, hastened to the sitting-room which Falkner usually occupied. She found him seated at the table, with a small box — a box she well remembered — open before him. He was looking over the papers it contained. His manner was perfectly composed — the natural hue had returned to his cheeks — his look was sedate. He was, indeed, very different from the man who, thirteen years before, had landed in Cornwall. He was then in the prime of life; and if passion defaced his features, still youth, and health, and power, animated his frame. Long years of grief and remorse, with sickness superadded, had made him old before his time. The hair had receded from the temples, and what remained was sprinkled with grey; his figure was bent and attenuated; his face care-worn; yet, at this moment, he had regained a portion of his former self. There was an expression on his face of satisfaction, almost of triumph; and when he saw Elizabeth, the old, sweet smile, she knew and loved so well, lighted up his countenance. He held out his hand; she took it. There was no fever in the palm — his pulse was equable; and when he spoke, his voice did not falter. He said, “This blow has fallen heavily on you, my dear girl; yet all will be well soon, I trust. Meanwhile it cannot be quite unexpected.”
Elizabeth looked her astonishment — he continued:—”You have long known that a heavy crime weighs on my conscience. It renders me unfit to live; yet, I have not been permitted to die. I sought death, but we are seldom allowed to direct our fate. I do not, however, complain; I am well content with the end which will speedily terminate all.”
“My dearest father,” cried Elizabeth, “I cannot guess what you mean. I thought — but no — you are not ill — you are not—”
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“Not mad, dearest? was that your thought? It is a madness, at least, that has lasted long — since first you staid my hand on your mother’s grave. You are too good, too affectionate, to regret having saved me, even when you hear who I am. You are too resigned to Providence not to acquiesce in the way chosen, to bring all things to their destined end.”
Elizabeth put her arm round his neck, and kissed him. “Thank you,” said Falkner, “and God bless you for this kindness. I shall indeed be glad if you, from your heart, pardon and excuse me. Meanwhile, my love, there is something to be done. These papers contain an account of the miserable past; you must read them, and then let Mr. Neville have them without delay.”
“Nay,” said Elizabeth, “spare me this one thing — do not ask me to read the history of any one error of yours. In my eyes you must ever be the first, and best of human beings — if it has ever been otherwise, I will not hear of it. You shall never be accused of guilt before me, even by yourself.”
“Call it, then, my justification,” said Falkner. “But do not refuse my request — it is necessary. If it be pain, pardon me for inflicting it; but bear it for my sake — I wrote this narrative when I believed myself about to die in Greece, for the chief purpose of disclosing the truth to you. I have told my story truly and simply, you can have it from no one else, for no human being breathes who knows the truth except myself. Yield then — you have ever been yielding to me — yield, I beseech you, to my solemn request; do not shrink from hearing of my crimes, I hope soon to atone them. And then perform one other duty: send these papers to your friend — you know where he is.”
“He will call here this evening at nine.”
“By that time you will have finished; I am going to town now, but shall return to-night. Mr. Neville will be come and gone before then, and you will know all. I do not doubt but that you will pity me — such is your generosity, that perhaps you may love me still — but you will be shocked and wretched, and I the cause. Alas! how many weapons do our errors wield, and how surely does retribution aim at our defenceless side! To know that I am the cause of unhappiness to you, my sweet girl, inflicts a pang I cannot endure with any fortitude. But there is a remedy, and all will be well in the end.”
Elizabeth hung over him as he spoke, and he felt a tear warm on his cheek, fallen from her eye — he was subdued by this testimony of her sympathy — he strained her to his heart; but in a moment after he reassumed his self-command, and kissing her, bade her farewell, and then left her to the task of sorrow he had assigned.
She knew not what to think, what image to conjure up. His words were free from all incoherence; before her also were the papers that would tell all — she turned from them with disgust; and then again she thought of Neville, his departure, his promised return, and what she could say to him. It was a hideous dream, but there was no awakening; she sat down, she took out the papers: the number of pages written in her father’s hand seemed a reprieve — she should not hear all the dreadful truth in a few, short, piercing words — there was preparation. For a moment she paused to gather her thoughts — to pray for fortitude — to hope that the worst was not there, but in its stead some venial error, that looked like crime to his sensitive mind — and then — She began to read.
CHAPTER IX.
FALKNER’S NARRATIVE.
“To palliate crime, and by investigating motive to render guilt less odious — such is not the feeling that rules my pen; to confer honour upon innocence, to vindicate virtue, and announce truth — though that offer my own name as a mark for deserved infamy — such are my motives. And if I reveal the secrets of my heart and dwell on the circumstances that led to the fatal catastrophe I record, so that, though a criminal, I do not appear quite a monster, let the egotism be excused for her dear sake — within whose young and gentle heart I would fain that my memory should be enshrined without horror — though with blame.
“The truth, the pure and sacred truth, will alone find expression in these pages. I write them in a land of beauty, but of desolation — in a country whose inhabitants are purchasing by blood and misery the dearest privileges of human nature — where I have come to die! It is night; the cooing aziolo, the hooting owl, the flashing fire-fly — the murmur of time-honoured streams; the moonlit foliage of the grey olive woods — dark crags and rugged mountains, throwing awful shadows — and the light of the eternal stars; such are the objects around me. Can a man speak false in the silence of night, when God and his own heart alone keep watch! when conscience hears the moaning of the dead in the pauses of the breeze, and sees one pale, lifeless figure float away on the current of the stream! My heart whispers that, before such witnesses, the truth will be truly recorded; and my blood curdles, and my nerves, so firm amidst the din of battle, shrink and shudder at the tale I am about to narrate.
“What is crime?
“A deed done injurious to others — forbidden by religion, condemned by morality, and which human laws are enacted to punish.
“A criminal feels all mankind to be his foes, the whole frame of society is erected for his especial ruin. Before, he had a right to choose his habitation in the land of his forefathers — and placing the sacred name of liberty between himself and power, none dared check his free-born steps — his will was his law; the limits of his physical strength were the only barriers to his wildest wanderings; he could walk erect and fear the eye of no man. He who commits a crime forfeits these privileges. Men from out the lowest grade of society can say to him—’You must come with us!’ — they can drag him from those he loves — immure him in a loathsome cell, dole out scant portions of the unchartered air, make a show of him, lead him to death — and throw his body to the dogs; and society, which for the innocent would have raised one cry of horror against the perpetrators of such outrages, look on and clap their hands with applause.
“This is a vulgar aspect of the misery of which I speak — a crime may never be discovered. Mine lies buried in my own breast. Years have passed and none point at me, and whisper, ‘There goes the murderer!’ — But do I not feel that God is my enemy, and my own heart whispers condemnation? I know that I am an impostor, that any day may discover the truth; but, more heavy than any fear of detection, is the secret hidden in my own heart, the icy touch of the death I caused creeps over me during the night. I am pursued by the knowledge that nought I do can prosper, for the cry of innocence is raised against me, and the earth groans with the secret burthen I have committed to her bosom. That the death-blow was not actually dealt by my hand, in no manner mitigates the stings of conscience. My act was the murderer, though my intention was guiltless of death.
“Is there a man who at some time has not desired to possess by illegal means a portion of another’s property, or to obey the dictates of an animal instinct, and plant his foot on the neck of his enemy? Few are so cold of blood, or temperate of mood, as not at some one time to have felt hurried beyond the demarcations set up by conscience and law: few but have been tempted without the brink of the forbidden; but they stopped, while I leaped beyond, — there is the difference between us. Falsely do they say who allege that there is no difference in guilt between the thought and act: to be tempted is human; to resist temptation — surely if framed like me, such is to raise us from our humanity, into the sphere of angels.
“Many are the checks afforded us. Some are possessed by fear; others are endowed by a sensibility so prophetic of the evil that must ensue, that perforce they cannot act the thing they desire; they tremble at the idea of being the cause of events, over whose future course they can have no control; they fear injuring others — and their own remorse.
“But I disdained all these considerations; they occurred but faintly and ineffectually to my mind. Piety, conscience, and moral respect yielded before a feeling which decked its desires in the garb of necessity. Oh, how vain it is to analyse motive! Each man has the same motives; but it is the materials of each mind — the plastic or rocky nature, the mild or the burning temperament,
that rejects the alien influence or receives it into its own essence, and causes the act. Such an impulse is as a summer healthy breeze, just dimpling a still lake, to one; while to another it is the whirlwind that rouses him to spread ruin around.
“The Almighty who framed my miserable being, made me a man of passion. They say that of such are formed the great and good. I know not that — I am neither; but I will not arraign the Creator. I will hope that in feeling my guilt — in acknowledging the superexcellence of virtue, I fulfil, in part, his design. After me, let no man doubt but that to do what is right, is to insure his own happiness; or that self-restraint, and submission to the voice of conscience implanted in our souls, impart more dignity of feeling, more true majesty of being, than a puerile assertion of will, and a senseless disregard of immutable principles.
“Is passion known in these days? Such as I felt, has any other experienced it? The expression has fled from our lips; but it is as deep-seated as ever in our hearts. Who, of created beings, has not loved? Who of my sex has not felt the struggle, and the yielding in the struggle, of the better to the worse parts of our nature? Who so dead to nature’s influence as not, at least for some brief moments, to have felt that body and soul were a slight sacrifice to obtain possession of the affections of her he loved? Who, for some moment in his life, would not have seen his mistress dead at his feet, rather than wedded to another? To feel this tyranny of passion, is to be human; to conquer it, is to be virtuous. He who conquers himself is, in my eyes, the only true hero. Alas, I am not such! I am among the vanquished, and view the wretch I am; and learn that there is nothing so contemptible, so pitiable, so eternally miserable, as he who is defeated in his conflict with passion.