by Mary Shelley
“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.”
CHAPTER IV.
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 skull, 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 further proof, among the bones were found a few ornaments — among them, on the skeleton hand, were 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 heart-felt 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 dispatched 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 jostle 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 d
inner 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 common-place 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, here he 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 straight-forward. 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.
CHAPTER V.
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 were 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 t
he 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 ever-flowing 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 all 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.