by Mary Shelley
“But tell me, dear Mr. Neville, tell me what has happened?”
“Nothing!” he replied; “and does not that imply the worst? I cannot make up my mind to endure the visitation of ill fallen upon us; it drives me from place to place like an unlaid ghost. I am very selfish to speak in this manner. Yet it is your sufferings that fill my mind to bursting; were all the evil poured on my own head, while you were spared, welcome, most welcome, would be the bitterest infliction! but you, Elizabeth, you are my cruel father’s victim, and the future will be more hideous than the hideous present!”
Elizabeth was shocked and surprised; what could he mean? “The future,” she replied, “will bring my dear father’s liberation; how then can that be so bad?”
He looked earnestly and inquiringly on her. “Yes,” she continued, “my sorrows, heavy as they are, have not that additional pang; I have no doubt of the ultimate justice that will be rendered my father. We have much to endure in the interim, much that undermines the fortitude, and visits the heart with sickening throes; there is no help but patience: let us have patience, and this adversity will pass away; the prison and the trial will be over, and freèdom and security again be ours.”
“I see how it is,” replied Neville; “we each live in a world of our own, and it is wicked in me to give you a glimpse of the scene as it is presented to me.”
“Yet speak; explain!” said Elizabeth; “you have frightened me so much that any explanation must be better than the thoughts which your words, your manner, suggest.”
“Nay,” said Neville, “do not let my follies infect you. Your views, your hopes, are doubtless founded on reason. It is, if you will forgive the allusion that may seem too light for so sad a subject, but the old story of the silver and brazen shield. I see the dark, the fearful side of things; I live among your enemies — that is, the enemies of Mr. Falkner. I hear of nothing but his guilt, and the expiation prepared for it. I am maddened by all I hear.
“I have implored my father not to pursue his vengeance. Convinced as I am of the truth of Mr. Falkner’s narration, the idea that one so gifted should be made over to the fate that awaits him is abhorrent, and when I think that you are involved in such a scene of wrong and horror, my blood freezes in my veins. I have implored my father, I have quarrelled with him, I have made Sophia advocate the cause of justice against malice; all in vain. Could you see the old man — my father I mean; pardon my irreverence — how he revels in the demoniacal hope of revenge, and with what hideous delight he gloats upon the detail of ignominy to be inflicted on one so much his superior in every noble quality, you would feel the loathing I do. He heaps sarcasm and contempt on my feeble spirit, as he names my pardon of my mother’s destroyer, my esteem for him, and my sympathy for you; but that does not touch me. It is the knowledge that he will succeed, and you be lost and miserable for ever, that drives me to desperation.
“I fancied that these thoughts must pursue you, even more painfully than they do me. I saw you writhing beneath the tortures of despair, wasting away under the influence of intense misery. You haunted my dreams, accompanied by every image of horror — sometimes you were bleeding, ghastly, dying — sometimes you took my poor mother’s form, as Falkner describes it, snatched cold and pale from the waves — other visions flitted by, still more frightful. Despairing of moving my father, abhorring the society of every human being, I have been living for the last month at Dromore. A few days ago my father arrived there. I wondered till I heard the cause. The time for expecting Osborne had arrived. As vultures have instinct for carrion, so he swooped down at the far off scent of evil fortune; he had an emissary at Liverpool, on the watch to hear of this man’s arrival. Disgusted at this foul appetite for evil, I left him. I came here, — only to see you; to gaze on you afar, was to purify the world of the ‘blasts from hell,’ which the bad passions I have so long contemplated spread round me. My father learned whither I had gone, I had a letter from him this morning — you may guess at its contents.”
“He triumphs in Osborne’s refusal to appear,” said Elizabeth, who was much moved by the picture of hatred and malice Neville had presented to her; and trembled from head to foot as she listened, from the violent emotions his account excited, and the vehemence of his manner as he spoke.
“He does, indeed, triumph,” replied Neville; “and you — you and Mr. Falkner, do you not despair?”
“If you could see my dear father,” said Elizabeth, her courage returning at the thought, “you would see how innocence, and a noble mind can sustain; at the worst, he does not despair. He bears the present with fortitude, he looks to the future with resignation. His soul is firm, his spirit inflexible.”
“And you share these feelings?”
“Partly, I do, and partly I have other thoughts to support me. Osborne’s cowardice is a grievous blow, but it must be remedied. The man we sent to bring him was too easily discouraged. Other means must be tried. I shall go to America, I shall see Osborne, and you cannot doubt of my success.”
“You?” cried Neville; “you, to go to America? you to follow the traces of a man who hides himself? Impossible! This is worse madness than all. Does Falkner consent to so senseless an expedition?”
“You use strong expressions,” interrupted Elizabeth.
“I do,” he replied; “and I have a right to do so — I beg your pardon. But my meaning is justifiable — you must not undertake this voyage. It is as useless as improper. Suppose yourself arrived on the shores of wide America. You seek a man who conceals himself, you know not where; can you perambulate large cities, cross wide extents of country, go from town to town in search of him? It is by personal exertion alone that he can be found; and your age and sex wholly prevent that.”
“Yet I shall go,” said Elizabeth thoughtfully; “so much is left undone, because we fancy it impossible to do; which, upon endeavour, is found plain and easy. If insurmountable obstacles oppose themselves, I must submit, but I see none yet; I have not the common fears of a person whose life has been spent in one spot; I have been a traveller, and know that, but for the fatigue, it is as easy to go a thousand miles as a hundred. If there are dangers and difficulties, they will appear light to me, encountered for my dear father’s sake.”
She looked beautiful as an angel, as she spoke; her independent spirit had nothing rough in its texture. It did not arise from a love of opposition, but from a belief, that in fulfilling a duty, she could not be opposed or injured. Her fearlessness was that of a generous heart, that could not believe in evil intentions. She explained more fully to her friend the reasons that induced her determination. She repeated Falkner’s account of Osborne’s character, the injury that it was believed would arise from his refusal to appear, and the probable facility of persuading him, were he addressed by one zealous in the cause.
Neville listened attentively. She paused — he was lost in thought, and made no reply — she continued to speak, but he continued mute, till at last she said, “You are conquered, I know — you yield, and agree that my journey is a duty, a necessity.”
“We are both apt, it would seem,” he replied, “to see our duties in a strong light, and to make sudden, or they may be called rash, resolutions. Perhaps we both go too far, and are in consequence reprehended by those about us: in each other, then, let us find approval — you must not go to America, for your going would be useless — with all your zeal you could not succeed. But I will go. Of course this act will be treated as madness, or worse, by Sir Boyvill and the rest — but my own mind assures me that I do right. For many years I devoted myself to discovering my mother’s fate. I have discovered it. Falkner’s narrative tells all. But clear and satisfactory as that is to me, others choose to cast frightful doubts over its truth, and conjure up images the most revolting. Have they any foundation? I do not believe it — but many do — and all assert that the approaching trial alone can establish the truth. This trial is but a mockery, unless it is fair and complete — it cannot be that without Osborne. Surel
y, then, it neither misbecomes me as her son, nor as the son of Sir Boyvill, to undertake any action that will tend to clear up the mystery.
“I am resolved — I shall go — be assured that I shall not return without Osborne. You will allow me to take your place, to act for you — you do not distrust my zeal.”
Elizabeth had regarded her own resolves as the simple dictates of reason and duty. But her heart was deeply touched by Neville’s offer; tears rushed into her eyes, as she replied in a voice faltering from emotion. “I fear this cannot be, it will meet with too much opposition; but never, never can I repay your generosity in but imagining so great a service.”
“It is a service to both,” he said, “and as to the opposition I shall meet, that is my affair. You know that nothing will stop me when once resolved. And I am resolved. The inner voice that cannot be mistaken assures me that I do right — I ask no other approval. A sense of justice, perhaps of compassion, for the original author of all our wretchedness, ought probably to move me; but I will not pretend to be better than I am: were Falkner alone concerned, I fear I should be but lukewarm. But not one cloud — nor the shadow of a cloud — shall rest on my mother’s fate. All shall be clear, all universally acknowledged; nor shall your life be blotted, and your heart broken, by the wretched fate of him to whom you cling with matchless fidelity. He is innocent, I know; but if the world thinks and acts by him as a murderer, how could you look up again? Through you I succeeded in my task, to you I owe unspeakable gratitude, which it is my duty to repay. Yet, away with such expressions. You know that my desire to serve you is boundless, that I love you beyond expression, that every injury you receive is trebled upon me — that vain were every effort of self-command; I must do that thing that would benefit you, though the whole world rose to forbid. You are of more worth in your innocence and nobleness, than a nation of men such as my father. Do you think I can hesitate in my determinations thus founded, thus impelled?”
More vehement, more impassioned than Elizabeth, Neville bore down her objections, while he awakened all her tenderness and gratitude: “Now I prove myself your friend,” he said proudly; “now Heaven affords me opportunity to serve you, and I thank it.”
He looked so happy, so wildly delighted, while a more still, but not less earnest sense of joy filled her heart. They were young, and they loved — this of itself was bliss; but the cruel circumstances around them added to their happiness, by drawing them closer together, and giving fervour and confidence to their attachment; and now that he saw a mode of serving her, and she felt entire reliance on his efforts, the last veil and barrier fell from between them, and their hearts became united by that perfect love which can result alone from entire confidence, and acknowledged unshackled sympathy.
Always actuated by generous impulses, but often rash in his determinations, and impetuous in their fulfilment; full of the warmest sensibility, hating that the meanest thing that breathed should endure pain, and feeling the most poignant sympathy for all suffering, Neville had been maddened by his own thoughts, while he brooded over the position in which Elizabeth was placed. Not one of those various circumstances that alleviate disaster to those who endure it, presented themselves to his imagination — he saw adversity in its most hideous form, without relief or disguise — names and images appending to Falkner’s frightful lot, which he and Elizabeth carefully banished from their thoughts, haunted him. The fate of the basest felon hung over the prisoner — Neville believed that it must inevitably fall on him; he often wondered that he did not contrive to escape, that Elizabeth, devoted and heroic, did not contrive some means of throwing open his dungeon’s doors. He had endeavoured to open his father’s eyes, to soften his heart, in vain. He had exerted himself to discover whether any trace of long past circumstances existed that might tend to acquit Falkner. He had gone to Treby, visited the graves of the hapless parents of Elizabeth, seen Mrs. Baker, and gathered there the account of his landing; but nothing helped to elucidate the mystery of his mother’s death; Falkner’s own account was the only trace left behind; that bore the stamp of truth in every line, and appeared to him so honourable a tribute to poor Alithea’s memory, that he looked with disgust on his father’s endeavours to cast upon it suspicions and interpretations, the most hideous and appalling.
In the first instance, he had been bewildered by Sir Boyvill’s sophistry, and half conquered by his plausible arguments. But a short time, and the very circumstance of Elizabeth’s fidelity to his cause, sufficed to show him the baseness of his motives, and the real injury he did his mother’s fame.
Resolved to clear the minds of other men from the prejudice against the prisoner thus spread abroad, and at least to secure a fair trial, Neville made no secret of his belief that Falkner was innocent. He represented him everywhere as a gentleman — a man of humanity and honour — whose crime ought to receive its punishment from his own conscience, and at the hand of the husband or son of the victim in the field; and whom, to pursue as his father did, was at once futile and disgraceful. Sir Boyvill, irritated by Falkner’s narrative; his vanity wounded to the quick by the avowed indifference of his wife, was enraged beyond all bounds by the opposition of his son. Unable to understand his generous nature, and relying on his previous zeal for his mother’s cause, he had not doubted but that his revenge would find a ready ally in him. His present arguments, his esteem for their enemy, his desire that he should be treated with a forbearance which, between gentlemen, was but an adherence to the code of honour — appeared to Sir Boyvill insanity, and worse — a weakness the most despicable, a want of resentment the most low-minded. But he cared not — the game was in his hands — revelling in the idea of his enemy’s ignominious sufferings, he more than half-persuaded himself that his accusation was true, and that the punishment of a convicted felon would at last satisfy his thirst for revenge. A feeble old man, tottering on the verge of the grave, he gloried to think that his grasp was still deadly, his power acknowledged in throes of agony, by him by whom he had been injured.
Returning to Dromore from Carlisle, Gerard sought his father. Osborne’s refusal to appear crowned Sir Boyvill’s utmost hopes; and his sarcastic congratulations, when he saw his son, expressed all the malice of his heart. Gerard replied with composure, that he did indeed fear that this circumstance would prove fatal to the course of justice; but that it must not tamely be submitted to, and that he himself was going to America to induce Osborne to come, that nothing might be wanting to elucidate the mystery of his mother’s fate, and to render the coming trial full, fair, and satisfactory. Such an announcement rendered, for a moment, Sir Boyvill speechless with rage. A violent scene ensued. Gerard, resolved, and satisfied of the propriety of his resolution, was calm and firm. Sir Boyvill, habituated to the use of vituperative expressions, boiled over with angry denunciations, and epithets of abuse. He called his son the disgrace of his family — the opprobrium of mankind — the detractor of his mother’s fame. Gerard smiled; yet at heart, he deeply felt the misery of thus for ever finding an opponent in his father, and it required all the enthusiasm and passion of his nature, to banish the humiliating and saddening influence of Sir Boyvill’s indignation.
They parted worse friends than ever. Sir Boyvill set out for town; Gerard repaired to Liverpool. The wind was contrary — there was little hope of change. He thought that it would conduce to his success in America, if he spent the necessary interval in seeing Hoskins again; and also in consulting with his friend, the American minister; so, in all haste, having first secured his passage on board a vessel that was to sail in four or five days, he also set out for London.
CHAPTER XIII.
The philosophy of Falkner was not proof against the intelligence, that Gerard Neville was about to undertake the voyage to America for the sake of inducing Osborne to come over. Elizabeth acquainted him with her design, and her friend’s determination to replace her, with sparkling eyes, and cheeks flushed by the agitation of pleasure — the pure pleasure of having such proof of t
he worth of him she loved. Falkner was even more deeply touched; even though he felt humiliated by the very generosity that filled him with admiration. His blood was stirred, and his feelings tortured him by a sense of his own demerits, and the excellence of one he had injured. “Better die without a word than purchase my life thus!” were the words hovering on his lips — yet it was no base cost that he paid — and he could only rejoice at the virtues of the son of her whom he had so passionately loved. There are moments when the past is remembered with intolerable agony; and when to alter events, which occurred at the distance of many years, becomes a passion and a thirst. His regret at Alithea’s marriage seemed all renewed — his agony that thenceforth she was not to be the half of his existence, as he had hoped; that her child was not his child; that her daily life, her present pleasures, and future hopes were divorced from his — all these feelings were revived, together with a burning jealousy, as if, instead of being a buried corpse, she had still adorned her home with her loveliness and virtues.
Such thoughts lost their poignancy by degrees, and he could charm Elizabeth by dwelling on Gerard’s praises; and he remarked with pleasure, that she resumed her vivacity, and recovered the colour and elasticity of motion, which she had lost. She did not feel less for Falkner: but her contemplations had lost their sombre hue — they were full of Neville — his voyage — his exertions — his success — his return; and the spirit of love that animated each of these acts, were gone over and over again in her waking dreams; unbidden smiles gleamed in her countenance; her ideas were gaily coloured, and her conversation gained a variety and cheerfulness, that lightened the burthen of their prison hours.
Meanwhile Neville arrived in London. He visited the American minister, and learned from him, that Osborne had given up the place he held, and had left Washington — no one knew whither he was gone — these events being still too recent to leave any trace behind. It was evident that to seek and find him would be a work of trouble and time, and Neville felt that not a moment must be lost — December was drawing to a close. The voyages to and from America might, if not favourable, consume the whole interval that still remained before the spring assizes. Hoskins, he learned, was gone to Liverpool.