by Mary Shelley
Thus sunk in gloom, far deeper internally than in outward show — warring with remorse, and the sense of unmerited injury — vanquished by fate, yet refusing to yield, — nature had reached the acme of suffering. He grew to be careless of the result of his trial, and to neglect the means of safety. He pondered on self-destruction — though that were giving the victory to his enemies. He looked round him; his cell appeared a tomb. He felt as if he had passed out of life into death; strange thoughts and images flitted through his mind, and the mortal struggle drew to a close, — when, on a day, his prison-door opened, and Elizabeth stepped within the threshold.
To see the beloved being we long for inexpressibly, and believe to be so far — to hear the dear voice, whose sweet accent we imagined to be mute to us for ever — to feel the creature’s very soul in real communion with us, and the person we doat on, visible to our eyes; — such are moments of bliss, which the very imperfections of our finite nature renders immeasurably dear. Falkner saw his child, and felt no longer imprisoned. She was freedom and security. Looking on her sweet face, he could not believe in the existence of evil. Wrongs and woe, and a torturing conscience, melted and fled away before her; while fresh springing happiness filled every portion of his being.
CHAPTER X.
Elizabeth arrived at the moment of the first painful crisis of Falkner’s fate. The assizes came on — busy faces crowded into his cell, and various consultations took place as to the method of his defence; and here began a series of cares, mortifications, and worse anxieties, which brought home to the hearts of the sufferers the horrors of their position.
The details of crime and its punishment are so alien to the individuals placed in the upper classes of society, that they read them as tales of another and a distant land. And it is like being cast away on a strange and barbarous country to find such become a part of our own lives. The list of criminals — the quality of their offences — the position Falkner held among them, were all discussed by the men of law; and Falkner listened, impassive in seeming apathy — his eagle eye bent on vacancy — his noble brow showing no trace of the rush of agonizing thought that flowed through his brain; it was not till he saw his child’s earnest searching eyes bent on him, that he smiled, so to soften the keenness of her lively sympathy. She listened, too, her cheek alternately flushed and pale, and her eyes brimming over with tears, as she drew nearer to her unfortunate friend’s side, as if her innocence and love might stand between him and the worst.
The decision of the grand jury was the first point to be considered. There existed no doubt but that that would go against the accused. The lawyers averred this, but still Elizabeth hoped — men could not be so blind — or some unforeseen enlightenment might dawn on their understandings. The witnesses against him were Sir Boyvill and his son; the latter, she well knew, abhorred the course pursued; and if some touch could reach Sir Boyvill’s heart, and show him the unworthiness and falsehood of his proceedings, through the mode in which their evidence might be given, all would alter — the scales would drop from men’s eyes — the fetters from Falkner’s limbs — and this strange and horrible entanglement be dissipated like morning mist. She brooded for ever on these thoughts — sometimes she pondered on writing to Neville — sometimes on seeing his father; but his assertion was recollected that nothing now could alter the course of events, and that drove her back upon despair.
For ever thinking on these things, and hearing them discussed, it was yet a severe blow to both, when, in the technical language of the craft, it was announced that a true bill was found against Rupert Falkner.
Such is the nature of the mind, that hitherto Falkner had never looked on the coming time in its true proportions or colours. The decision of the preliminary jury, which might be in his favour, had stood as a screen between him and the future. Knowing himself to be innocent, abhorring the very image of the crime of which he was accused, how could twelve impartial, educated men agree that any construction put upon his actions, should cast the accusation on him? The lawyers had told him that so it would be — he had read the fearful expectation in Elizabeth’s eyes — but it could not! Justice was not a mere word — innocence bore a stamp not to be mistaken; the vulgar and senseless malice of Sir Boyvill would be scouted and reprobated; such was his intimate conviction, though he had never expressed it; but this was all changed now. The tale of horror was admitted, registered as a probability, and had become a rule for future acts. The ignominy of a public trial would assuredly be his. And going, as is usual, from one extreme to the other, the belief entered his soul that he should be found guilty and die the death. A dark veil fell over life and nature. Ofttimes he felt glad, even to escape thus from a hideous system of wrong and suffering; but the innate pride of the heart rebelled, and his soul struggled as in the toils.
Elizabeth heard the decision with even more dismay; her head swam, and she grew sick at heart — would his trial come on in a few days? would all soon, so soon, be decided? was the very moment near at hand to make or mar existence, and turn this earth from a scene of hope into a very hell of torture and despair? for such to her it must be, if the worst befell Falkner. The worst! oh, what a worst! how hideous, squalid, unredeemed! There was madness in the thought; and she hurried to his cell to see him and hear him speak, so to dissipate the horror of her thoughts; her presence of mind, her equanimity, all deserted her; she looked bewildered — her heart beat as if it would burst her bosom — her face grew ashy pale — her limbs unstrung of every strength — and her efforts to conceal her weakness from Falkner’s eyes, but served the more to confuse.
She found him seated near his window, looking on so much of the autumnal sky as could be perceived through the bars of the high narrow opening. The clouds traversed the slender portion of heaven thus visible; they fled fast to other lands, and the spirit of liberty rode upon their outstretched wings; away they flew, far from him, and he had no power to reach their bourn, nor to leave the dingy walls that held him in. Oh, Nature! while we possess thee, thy changes ever lovely, thy vernal airs or majestic storms, thy vast creation spread at our feet, above, around us, how can we call ourselves unhappy? there is brotherhood in the growing, opening flowers, love in the soft winds, repose in the verdant expanse, and a quick spirit of happy life throughout, with which our souls hold glad communion; but the poor prisoner was barred out from these: how cumbrous the body felt, how alien to the inner spirit of man, the fleshy bars that allowed it to become the slave of his fellows.
The stunning effects of the first blow had passed away, and there was in Falkner’s face that lofty expression that resembled coldness, though it was the triumph over sensibility; something of disdain curled his lip, and his whole air denoted the acquisition of a power superior to fate. Trembling, Elizabeth entered; never before had she lost self-command; even now she paused at the threshold to resume it, but in vain; she saw him, she flew to his arms, she dissolved in tears, and became all woman in her tender fears. He was touched — he would have soothed her; a choking sensation arose in his throat: “I never felt a prisoner till now,” he cried: “can you still, still cling to one struck with infamy?”
“Dearer, more beloved than ever!” she murmured; “surely there is no tie so close and strong as misery?”
“Dear, generous girl,” said Falkner, “how I hate myself for making such large demand on your sympathy. Let me suffer alone. This is not the place for you, Elizabeth. Your free step should be on the mountain’s side; these silken tresses the playthings of the unconfined winds. While I thought that I should speedily be liberated, I was willing to enjoy the comfort of your society; but now I, the murderer, am not a fit mate for you. I am accursed, and pull disaster down on all near me. I was born to destroy the young and beautiful.”
With such talk they tried to baffle this fierce visitation of adversity. Falkner told her that on that day it would be decided whether the trial should take place at once, or time be given to send for Osborne from America. The turn Neville had
given to his evidence had been so favourable to the accused, as to shake the prejudice against him, and it was believed that the judges would at once admit the necessity of waiting for so material a witness; and yet their first and dearest hope had been destroyed, so they feared to give way to a new one.
As they conversed, the solicitor entered with good tidings. The trial was put off till the ensuing assizes, in March, to give time for the arrival of Osborne. The hard dealing of destiny and man relented a little, and despair receded from their hearts, leaving space to breathe — to pray — to hope. No time was to be lost in sending for Osborne. Would he come? It could not be doubted. A free pardon was to be extended to him; and he would save a fellow-creature, and his former benefactor, without any risk of injury to himself.
The day closed, therefore, more cheeringly than it had begun. Falkner conquered himself, even to a show of cheerfulness; and recalled the colour to his tremulous companion’s cheeks; and half a smile to her lips, by his encouragement. He turned her thoughts from the immediate subject, narrating the events of his first acquaintance with Osborne, and describing the man: — a poltroon, but kindly hearted — fearful of his own skin, to a contemptible extent, but looking up with awe to his superiors, and easily led by one richer and of higher station to any line of conduct; an inborn slave, but with many of a slave’s good qualities. Falkner did not doubt that he would put himself eagerly forward on the present occasion; and whatever his evidence were good for, it would readily be produced.
There was no reason then for despair. While the shock they had undergone took the sting from the present — fearing an immediate and horrible catastrophe — the wretchedness of their actual state was forgotten — it acquired comfort and security by the contrast — each tried to cheer the other, and they separated for the night with apparent composure. Yet that night Elizabeth’s pillow, despite her earnest endeavours to place reliance on Providence, was watered by the bitterest tears that ever such young eyes shed; and Falkner told each hour of the live-long night, as his memory retraced past scenes, and his spirit writhed and bled to feel that, in the wantonness and rebellion of youth, he had been the author of so widespreading, so dark a web of misery.
From this time, their days were spent in that sort of monotony which has a peculiar charm to the children of adversity. The recurrence of one day after the other, none being marked by disaster, or indeed any event, imparted a satisfaction, gloomy indeed, and sad, but grateful to the heart wearied by many blows, and by the excitement of mortal hopes and fears. The mind adapted itself to the new state of things, and enjoyments sprung up in the very home of desolation — circumstances that, in happier days, were but the regular routine of life, grew into blessings from Heaven; and the thought, “Come what will, this hour is safe!” made precious the mere passage of time — months were placed between them and the dreaded crisis — and so are we made, that when once this is an established, acknowledged fact, we can play on the eve of danger, almost like the unconscious animal destined to bleed.
Their time was regularly divided, and occupations succeeded one to another. Elizabeth rented apartments not far from the prison. She gave the early morning hours to exercise, and the rest of the day was spent in Falkner’s prison. He read to her as she worked at the tapestry frame, or she took the book while he drew or sketched; nor was music wanting, such as suited the subdued tone of their minds, and elevated it to reverence and resignation; and sweet still hours were spent near their fire; for their hearth gleamed cheerfully, despite surrounding horrors — gaiety was absent, but neither was the voice of discontent heard; all repinings were hidden in the recesses of their hearts; their talk was calm, abstracted from matters of daily life, but gifted with the interest that talent can bestow on all it touches. Falkner exerted himself chiefly to vary their topics, and to enliven them by the keenness of his observations, the beauty of his descriptions, and the vividness of his narrations. He spoke of India, they read various travels, and compared the manners of different countries — they forgot the bars that chequered the sunlight on the floor of the cell — they forgot the cheerless gloom of each surrounding object. Did they also forget the bars and bolts between them and freedom? — the thoughtful tenderness which had become the habitual expression of Elizabeth’s face — the subdued manner and calm tones of Falkner were a demonstration that they did not. Something they were conscious of at each minute, that checked the free pulsations of their hearts; a word in a book, brought by some association home to her feelings, would cause Elizabeth’s eyes to fill with unbidden tears — and proud scorn would now and then dilate the breast of Falkner, as he read some story of oppression, and felt, “I also am persecuted, and must endure.”
In this position, they each grew unutterably dear to the other — every moment, every thought, was full to both of the image of either. There is something inexpressibly winning in beauty and grace — it is a sweet blessing when our household companion charms our senses by the loveliness of her person, and makes the eye gladly turn to her, to be gratified by such a form and look as we would travel miles to see depicted on canvas. It soothed many a spasm of pain, and turned many an hour of suffering into placid content, when Falkner watched the movements of his youthful friend. You might look in her face for days, and still read something new, something sublime in the holy calm of her brow, in her serious, yet intelligent eyes; while all a woman’s softness dwelt in the moulding of her cheeks and her dimpled mouth. Each word she said, and all she did, so became her, that it appeared the thing best to be said and done, — and was accompanied by a fascination, both for eye and heart, which emanated from her purity and truth. Falkner grew to worship the very thought of her. She had not the wild spirits and trembling sensibility of her he had destroyed, but in her kind, she was no way inferior.
Yet though each, as it were, enjoyed the respite given by fortune to their worst fears, yet this very sense of transitory security was in its essence morbid and unnatural. A fever preyed nightly on Falkner, and there were ghastly streaks upon his brow, that bespoke internal suffering and decay. Elizabeth grew paler and thinner — her step lost its elasticity, her voice became low-toned — her eyes were acquainted with frequent tears, and the lids grew heavy and dark. Both lived for ever in the presence of misery — they feared to move or speak, lest they should awaken the monster, then for a space torpid; but they spent their days under its shadow — the air they drew was chilled by its icy influence — no wholesome light-hearted mood of mind was ever theirs — they might pray and resign themselves, they might congratulate themselves on the safety of the passing moment; but each sand that flowed from the hour-glass was weighed — each thought that passed through the brain was examined — every word uttered was pondered over. They were exhausted by the very vividness of their unsleeping endeavours to blunt their sensations.
The hours were very sad that they spent apart. The door closed on Elizabeth, and love, and hope, and all the pride of life, vanished with her. Falkner was again a prisoner, an accused felon — a man over whom impended the most hideous fate — whom the dogs of law barked round, and looked on as their prey. His high heart often quailed. He laid his head on his pillow, desiring never again to raise it — despair kept his lids open the livelong nights, while nought but palpable darkness brooded over his eyeballs; — he rose languid — dispirited — revolving thoughts of death; till at last she came, who by degrees dispelled the gloom — and shed over his benighted soul the rays of her pure spirit.
She also was miserable in solitude; the silent evening hours spent apart from him were melancholy and drear. Nothing interrupted their stillness. She felt deserted by every human being, and was indeed reduced to the extremity of loneliness. In the town and neighbourhood many pitied — many admired her, and some offered their services; but none visited or tried to cheer the solitary hours of the devoted daughter. As the child of a man accused of murder, there was a barrier between her and the world. The English are generous to their friends, but they are nev
er kind to strangers; the tie of brotherhood, which Christ taught as uniting all mankind, is unacknowledged by them. They so fear that their sullen fireside should be unduly invaded, and so expect to be illtreated, that each man makes a Martello tower of his home, and keeps watch against the gentler charities of life, as from an invading enemy. Hour after hour therefore Elizabeth spent — thought, her only companion.
From Falkner and his miserable fortunes, sometimes her reflections strayed to Gerard Neville, — the generous friend on whom she wholly relied, yet who could in no way aid or comfort her. They were divided. He thought of her, she knew; his constant and ardent disposition would cause her to be for ever the cherished object of his reveries; and now and then, as she took her morning ride, or looked from her casement at night upon the high stars, and pale, still moon, Nature spoke to her audibly of him, and her soul overflowed with tenderness. Still he was far — no word from him reached her — no token of living remembrance. Lady Cecil also — she neither wrote nor sent. The sense of abandonment is hard to bear, and many bitter tears did the young sufferer shed — and many a yearning had she to enter with her ill-starred father the silent abode of the tomb — scarcely more still or dark than the portion of life which was allotted to them, even while existence was warm in their hearts, and the natural impulse of their souls was to seek sympathy and receive consolation.
CHAPTER XI.
The varied train of hopes and fears which belonged to the situation of the prisoner and his faithful young companion, stood for some time suspended. In some sort they might be said neither to hope nor fear; for, reasoning calmly, they neither expected that the worst would befall; and the actual and impending evil was certain. Like shipwrecked sailors who have betaken themselves to a boat, and are tossed upon a tempestuous sea, they saw a ship nearing, they believed that their signal was seen, and that it was bearing down towards them. What if, with sudden tack, the disdainful vessel should turn its prow aside, and leave them to the mercy of the waves. They did not anticipate such a completion to their disasters.