by Mary Shelley
He visited Lady Cecil before he left town. Though somewhat tainted by worldliness, yet this very feeling made her highly disapprove Sir Boyvill’s conduct. A plausible, and she believed true, account was given of Mrs. Neville’s death — exonerating her — redounding indeed to her honour. It was injurious to all to cast doubts upon this tale — it was vulgar and base to pursue revenge with such malicious and cruel pertinacity. Falkner was a gentleman, and deserved to be treated as such; and now he and Elizabeth were mixed up in loathsome scenes and details, that made Lady Cecil shudder even to think of.
That Gerard should go to America as the advocate, as it were, of Falkner, startled her; but he represented his voyage in a simpler light, as not being undertaken for his benefit, but for the sake of justice and truth. Sir Boyvill came in upon them while they were discussing this measure. He was absolutely frenzied by his son’s conduct and views; his exasperation but tended to disgust, and did not operate to shake their opinions.
Neville hastened back to Liverpool; — a south-west wind reigned, whose violence prevented any vessel from sailing for America; it was evident that the passage would be long, and perhaps hazardous. Neville thought only of the delay; but this made him anxious. A portion of his time was spent in seeking for Hoskins; but he was not to be found. At last it was notified to him, that the wind had a little changed, and that the packet was about to sail. He hurried on board — soon they were tossing on a tempestuous sea — they lost sight of land — sky and ocean, each dusky, and the one rising at each moment into more tumultuous commotion, surrounded them. Neville, supporting himself by a rope, looked out over the horizon — a few months before he had anticipated the same voyage over a summer sea — now he went under far other auspices — the veil was raised — the mystery explained; but the wintry storms that had gathered round him, were but types of the tempestuous passions which the discoveries he had made, raised in the hearts of all.
For three days and nights the vessel beat about in the Irish Channel, unable to make any way — three days were thus lost to their voyage — and when were they to arrive? — Impatient — almost terrified by the delay which attended his endeavours, Neville began to despair of success. On the fourth night the gale rose to a hurricane — there was no choice but to run before it — by noon the following day the captain thought himself very lucky to make the harbour of Liverpool, and though the gale had much abated, and the wind had veered into a more favourable quarter, it was necessary to run in to refit. With bitter feelings of disappointment, Neville disembarked; several days must elapse before the packet would be able to put to sea, so he abandoned the idea of going by her — and finding a New York merchantman preparing to sail at an early hour, the following morning, he resolved to take his passage on board. He hastened to the American coffee-house to see the captain, and make the necessary arrangements for his voyage.
The captain had just left the tavern; but a waiter came up to Neville, and told him that the Mr. Hoskins, concerning whom he had before inquired, was in the house — in a private room. “Show me to him,” said Neville, and followed the man as he went to announce him.
Hoskins was not alone — he had a friend with him, and they were seated over their wine on each side of the fire. Neville could not help being struck with the confusion evinced by both as he entered. The person with Hoskins was a fair, light-haired, rather good-looking man, though past the prime of life — he had at once an expression of good-nature, and cunning in his face, and, added to this, a timid baffled look — which grew into something very like dismay when the waiter announced “Mr. Neville” —
“Good morning, sir,” said Hoskins, “I hear that you have been inquiring for me. I thought all our business was settled.”
“On your side, probably,” replied Neville; on mine I have reasons for wishing to see you. I have been seeking you in vain in London, and here.”
“Yes, I know,” said the other, “I went round by Ravenglass to take leave of the old woman before I crossed — and here I am, my passage taken, with not an hour to lose. I sail by the Owyhee, Captain Bateman.”
“Then we shall have time enough for all my inquiries,” observed Neville. “I came here for the very purpose of arranging my passage with Captain Bateman.”
“You, sir! are you going to America? I thought that was all at an end.”
“It is more necessary than ever. I must see Osborne — I must bring him over — his testimony is necessary to clear up the mystery that hangs over my mother’s fate.”
“You are nearer hanging Mr. Falkner without him than with him,” said Hoskins.
“I would bring him over for the very purpose of saving a man whom I believe to be innocent of the crime he is charged with; for that purpose I go to America. I wish the truth to be established — I have no desire for revenge.”
“And do you really go to America for that purpose?” repeated Hoskins.
“Certainly — I consider it my duty,” replied Neville. “Nay, it may be said that I went for this design, for I sailed by the John Adams — which has been driven back by contrary winds. I disembarked only half an hour ago.”
“That beats all!” cried Hoskins. “Why, do you know — I have more than half a mind to tell you — you had really sailed for America for the purpose of bringing Osborne over, and you now intend taking a passage on board the Owyhee?”
“Certainly; why not? — What is there so strange in all this? — I sought you for the sake of making inquiries that might guide me in my search for Osborne, who wishes to conceal himself.”
“You could not have addressed a better man — by the Lord! He’s a craven, and deserves no better; so I’ll just let out, Mr. Neville, that Osborne sneaked out of this room at the instant he saw you come into it.”
Neville had seen Hoskins’s companion disappear — he thought it but an act of civility — the strangeness of this coincidence, the course of events at once so contrary, and so propitious, staggered him for a moment. “They tell of the rattlesnake,” said Hoskins, “that fixing its eye on its prey, a bird becomes fascinated, and wheels round nearer and nearer till he falls into the jaws of the enemy — poor Osborne! He wishes himself on the shores of the Pacific, to be far enough off — and here he is, and turn and twist as he will, it will end by the law grasping him by the shoulder, and dragging him to the very noose he so fears to slip into; — not that he helped to murder the lady — you do not believe that, Mr. Neville? — you do not think that the lady was murdered?”
“I would stake my existence that she was not,” said Neville; “were it otherwise, I should have no desire to see Osborne, or to interfere. Strange, most strange it is, that he should be here; and he is come, you think, with no design of offering his testimony to clear Mr. Falkner?” “He is come under a feigned name,” replied Hoskins; “under pretence that he was sent by Osborne — he has brought a quantity of attested declarations, and hopes to serve Mr. Falkner, without endangering his own neck.”
It was even so. Osborne was a weak man, good-hearted, as it is called, but a craven. No sooner did he hear that Hillary had sailed for Europe, and that he might consider himself safe, than he grew uneasy on another score. He had still possession, even while he had denied all knowledge of the writer, of Falkner’s letter, representing to him the necessity of coming over. It was simply but forcibly written; every word went to the heart of Osborne, now that he believed that his conduct would make over his generous benefactor to an ignominious end. This idea haunted him like an unlaid ghost; yet, if they hanged Falkner, what should prevent them from hanging him too? suspicion must fall equally on both.
When Hillary had urged the case, many other objections had presented themselves to Osborne’s mind. He thought of the new honest course he had pursued so long, the honourable station he had gained, the independence and respectability of his present life; and he shrunk from giving up these advantages, and becoming again, in all men’s eyes, the Osborne whose rascality he had left behind in England; it seemed h
ard that he should feel the weight of the chain that bound his former existence to his present one, when he fondly hoped that time had broken it. But these minor considerations vanished, as soon as the idea of Falkner’s danger fastened itself on his mind. It is always easy to fall back upon a state of being which once was ours. The uncertain, disreputable life Osborne had once led, he had gladly bidden adieu to, but the traces were still there, and he could fall into the way of it without any great shock. Besides this, he knew that Hillary had made his coming, and the cause of it, known to the legal authorities in Washington; and though he might persist in his denials, still he felt that he should be universally disbelieved.
A dislike at being questioned and looked askance upon by his American friends, made him already turn his eyes westward. A longing to see the old country arose unbidden in his heart. Above all, he could neither rest nor sleep, nor eat, nor perform any of the offices of life, for the haunting image of his benefactor, left by him to die a felon’s death. Not that he felt tempted to alter his determination, and to come forward to save him: on the contrary, his blood grew chill, and his flesh shrunk at the thought; but still he might conceal himself in England; no one would suspect him of being there; he would be on the spot to watch the course of events; and if it was supposed that he could render any assistance, without compromising himself, he should at least be able to judge fairly how far he might concede: his vacillating mind could go no further in its conclusions. Hoskins had rightly compared him to the bird and the rattlesnake. He was fascinated; he could not avoid drawing nearer and nearer to the danger which he believed to be yawning to swallow him; ten days after Hillary left America, he was crossing the Atlantic. Hoskins was the first person he saw on landing, the second was Neville. His heart grew cold; he felt himself in the toils; how bitterly he repented his voyage. Coward as he was, he died a thousand deaths, from fear of that one which, in fact, there was no danger of his incurring.
That Osborne should of his own accord have come to England appeared to smooth every thing. Neville did not doubt that he should be able to persuade him to come forward at the right time. He instructed Hoskins to re-assure him, and to induce him to see him; and, if he objected, to contrive that they should meet. He promised to take no measures for securing his person, but to leave him in all liberty to act as he chose; he depended that the same uneasy conscience that brought him from America to Liverpool, would induce him at last, after various throes and struggles, to act as it was supposed he would have done at the beginning.
But day after day passed, and Osborne was not to be found; Hoskins had never seen him again, and it was impossible to say whither he was gone, or where he was hid. The Owyhee, whose voyage had again been delayed by contrary winds, now sailed. Hoskins went with her. It was possible that Osborne might be on board, returning to the land of refuge. Neville saw the captain, and he denied having such a passenger; but he might be bound to secrecy, or Osborne might have disguised himself. Neville went on board; he carefully examined each person; he questioned both crew and passengers; he even bribed the sailors to inform him if any one were secreted. The Owyhee was not, however, the only vessel sailing; nearly thirty packets and merchantmen, who had been detained by foul winds, were but waiting for a tide to carry them out. Neville deliberated whether he should not apply to a magistrate for a search-warrant. He was averse to this — nay, repugnant. It was of the first importance to the utility of Osborne as a witness, that he should surrender himself voluntarily. The seizing him by force, as an accomplice in the murder, would only place him beside Falkner in the dock, and render his evidence of no avail; and his, Neville’s, causing his arrest, could only be regarded as a piece of rancorous hostility against the accused; yet to suffer him to depart from the English shores was madness, and worse still, to be left in doubt of whether he had gone or remained. If the first were ascertained, Neville could take his passage also, and there might still be time to bring him back.
When we act for another, we are far more liable to hesitation than when our deeds regard ourselves only. We dread to appear lukewarm; we dread to mar all by officiousness. Ill-success always appears a fault, and yet we dare not make a bold venture — such as we should not hesitate upon were it our own cause. Neville felt certain that Falkner would not himself deliberate, but risk all to possess himself of the person of Osborne; still he dared not take so perilous, perhaps so fatal, a step.
The tide rose, and the various docks filled. One by one the American-bound vessels dropped out, and put to sea. It was a moment of agony to Neville to see their sails unfurl, swell to the wind, and make a speedy and distant offing. He now began to accuse himself bitterly of neglect — he believed that there was but one mode of redeeming his fault — to hurry on board one of the packets, and to arrive in America as soon as Osborne, whom he felt convinced was already on his way thither. Swift in his convictions, rash in execution, uncertainty was peculiarly hostile to his nature; and these moments of vacillation and doubt, and then of self-reproach at having lost all in consequence, were the most painful of his life. To determine to do something was some consolation, and now he resolved on his voyage. He hurried back to his hotel for a few necessaries and money. On his entrance, a letter was put into his hands — the contents changed the whole current of his ideas. His countenance cleared up — the tumult of his thoughts subsided into a happy calm. Changing all his plans, instead of undertaking a voyage to America, he the same evening set out for London.
CHAPTER XIV.
Theprisoner and his faithful companion knew nothing of these momentous changes. Day by day Elizabeth withdrew from the fire to the only window in her father’s room; moving her embroidery table close to it, her eyes turned, however, to the sky, instead of to the flowers she was working; and leaning her cheek upon her hand, she perpetually watched the clouds. Gerard was already, she fancied, on the world of waters; yet the clouds did not change their direction — they all sped one way, and that contrary to his destination. Thus she passed her mornings; and when she returned to her own abode, where her heart could more entirely spend its thoughts on her lover and his voyage, her lonely room was no longer lonely; nor the gloomy season any longer gloomy. More than happy — a breathless rapture quickened the beatings of her heart, as she told over again and again Neville’s virtues, and dearer than all, his claims on her gratitude.
Falkner saw with pleasure the natural effects of love and hope add to the cheerfulness of his beloved child, diffuse a soft charm over her person, her motions, and her voice, and impart a playful tenderness to her before rather serious manners. Youth, love, and happiness are so very beautiful in their conjunction. “God grant,” he thought, “I do not mar this fair creature’s life — may she be happier than Alithea; if man can be worthy of her, Gerard Neville surely is.” As he turned his eyes silently from the book that apparently occupied him, and contemplated her pensive countenance, whose expression showed that she was wrapped in, yet enjoying her thoughts, retrospect made him sad. He went over his own life, its clouded morning, the glad beams that broke out to dissipate those clouds, and the final setting amidst tempests and wreck. Was all life like this, must all be disappointed hope, baffled desires, lofty imaginations engendering fatal acts, and bringing the proud thus low? would she at his age view life as he did — a weary wilderness — a tangled, endless labyrinth, leading by one rough path or another to a bitter end? He hoped not, her innocence must receive other reward from Heaven.
It was on a day as they were thus occupied — Falkner refrained from interrupting Elizabeth’s reverie, which he felt was sweeter to her than any converse — and appeared absorbed in reading; suddenly she exclaimed, “The wind has changed, dear father; indeed it has changed, it is favourable now. Do you not feel how much colder it is? the wind has got to the north, there is a little east in it; his voyage will not be a long one, if this change only lasts!”
Falkner answered her by a smile; but it was humiliating to think of the object of that voyage, and her chee
rful voice announcing that it was to be prosperous, struck, he knew not why, a saddening chord. At this moment he heard the bolts of the chamber-door pushed back, and the key turn in the lock — the turnkey entered, followed by another man, who hesitated as he came forward, and then as he glanced at the inhabitants of the room, drew back, saying, “There is some mistake; Mr. Falkner is not here.”
But for his habitual self-command, Falkner had started up, and made an exclamation — so surprised was he to behold the person who entered — for he recognized his visitant on the instant — he, himself, was far more changed by the course of years; time, sickness, and remorse had used other than Praxitilean art, and had defaced the lines of grace and power, which had marked him many years ago, before his hands had dug Alithea’s grave. He was indeed surprised to see who entered; but he showed no sign of wonder, only saying with a calm smile, “No, there is no mistake, I am the man you seek.”
The other now apparently recognized him, and advanced timidly, and in confusion — the turnkey left them, and Falkner then said, “Osborne, you deserve my thanks for this, but I did believe that it would come to this.”
“No,” said Osborne, “I do not deserve thanks — I—” and he looked confused, and glanced towards Elizabeth. Falkner followed his eye, and understanding his look, said, “You do not fear being betrayed by a lady, Osborne, you are safe here as in America. I see how it is, you are here under a false name; no one is aware that you are the man, who a few weeks ago refused to appear to save a fellow-creature from death.”