by Mary Shelley
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 postchaise. 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 had 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 the 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 baulked 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 tomorrow.”
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 clue 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 any thing 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 gaol, 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!”
CHAPTER VI.
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 fr
eed 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 dependent 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 burthen 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 burthen 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!”
Lady Cecil read again and again — she wondered — she grieved — she uttered impatient reproaches against Gerard for having sought the truth; and yet her heart was with him, and she rejoiced in the acknowledged innocence of Alithea. She thought of Elizabeth with the deepest grief — had they never met — had she and Gerard never seen each other, neither had loved, and half this woe had been spared. How strange and devious are the ways of fate — how difficult to resign oneself to its mysterious and destructive course! Naturally serene, though vivacious — kind-hearted, but not informed with trembling sensibility — yet so struck was Lady Cecil by the prospects of misery for those she best loved, that she wept bitterly, and wrung her hands in impatient, impotent despair. At this moment Mrs. Raby was announced.
Mrs. Raby had something of the tragedy queen in her appearance. She was tall, and dignified in person. Her black full eyes were melancholy — her brow shadowing them over had a world of thought and feeling in its sculpture-like lines. The lower part of her face harmonized, though something of pride lurked about her beautiful mouth — her voice was melodious, but deep-toned. Her manners had not the ease of the well-bred Lady Cecil — something of the outcast was imprinted upon them, which imparted consciousness, reserve, and alternate timidity and haughtiness. There was nothing embarrassed, however, in her mien, and she asked at once for Elizabeth with obvious impatience. She heard that she was gone with regret. The praises Lady Cecil almost involuntarily showered on her late guest, at once dissipated this feeling; and caused her, with all the frankness natural to her, to unfold at once the object of her visit — the parentage of the orphan — the discovery of her niece. Lady Cecil clasped her hands in a transport, which was not all joy. There was so much of wonder, almost of disbelief, at the strange tale — had a fairy’s wand operated the change, it had not been more magical in her eyes. Heaven’s ways were vindicated — all of evil vanished from the scene — her friend snatched from ignominy and crime, to be shrined for ever in their hearts and love.
She poured out these feelings impetuously. Mrs. Raby was well acquainted with Alithea’s story, and was familiar with Gerard Neville’s conduct; all that she now heard was strange indeed. She did not imbibe any of Lady Cecil’s gladness, but much of her eagerness. It became of paramount importance in her mind to break at once the link between Elizabeth and her guardian, before the story gained publicity, and the name of Raby became mingled in a tale of horror and crime, which, to the peculiar tone of Mrs. Raby’s mind, was singularly odious and disgraceful. No time must be lost — Elizabeth must be claimed — must at once leave the guilty and tainted one, while yet her name received no infection; or she would be disowned for ever by her father’s family. When Lady Cecil learned Mrs. Raby’s intention of proceeding to London to see her niece, she resolved to go also, to act as mediator, and to soften the style of the demands made, even while she persuaded Elizabeth to submit to them. She expressed her intention, and the ladies agreed to travel together. Both were desirous of further communication. Lady Cecil wished to interest Mrs. Raby still more deeply in her matchless kinswoman’s splendid qualities of heart and mind; while Mrs. Raby felt that her conduct must be founded on the character and worth of her niece; even while she was more convinced at every minute, that no half measures would be permitted by Oswi Raby, and others of their family and connection, and that Elizabeth’s welfare depended on her breaking away entirely from her present position, and throwing herself unreservedly upon the kindness and affection of her father’s relations.
Strange tidings awaited their arrival in London, and added to the eagerness of both. The proceedings of Sir Boyvill, the accusation of Falkner, and his actual arrest, with all its consequent disgrace, made each fear that it was too late to interpose. Mrs. Raby showed most energy. The circumstances were already in the newspapers, but there was no mention of Elizabeth. Falkner had been taken from his home, but no da
ughter accompanied him, no daughter appeared to have had any part in the shocking scene. Had Falkner had the generosity to save her from disgrace? If so, it became her duty to co-operate in his measures. Where Elizabeth had taken refuge, was uncertain; but, on inquiry, it seemed that she was still at Wimbledon. Thither the ladies proceeded together. Anxiety possessed both to a painful degree. There was a mysteriousness in the progress of events, which they could not unveil — all depended on a clear and a happy explanation. The first words, and first embrace of Elizabeth reassured her friend; all indeed would be well, she restored to her place in society, and punishment would fall on the guilty alone.
CHAPTER VII.
The first words Elizabeth spoke, as she embraced Lady Cecil, “You are come, then all is well,” seemed to confirm her belief that the offered protection of Mrs. Raby would sound to the poor orphan as a hospitable shore to the wrecked mariner. She pressed her fondly to her heart, repeating her own words, “All is well — dear, dear Elizabeth, you are restored to us, after I believed you lost for ever.”