FALKNER.
A NOVEL.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"FRANKENSTEIN," "THE LAST MAN," &c.
"There stood,
In record of a sweet sad story,
An altar, and a temple bright,
Circled by steps, and o'er the gate
Was sculptured, 'To Fidelity!'"
SHELLEY.
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.
NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS,
No. 82 CLIFF-STREET.
1837.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XL
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
CHAPTER XLVI
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
CHAPTER L
CHAPTER LI
CHAPTER LII
FALKNER
CHAPTER I
The opening scene of this tale took place in a little village on the
southern coast of Cornwall. Treby (by that name we choose to designate a
spot whose true one, for several reasons, will not be given) was,
indeed, rather a hamlet than a village; although, being at the seaside,
there were two or three houses which, by dint of green paint and chints
curtains, pretended to give the accommodation of "Apartments Furnished"
to the few bathers who, having heard of its cheapness, seclusion, and
beauty, now and then resorted thither from the neighbouring towns.
This part of Cornwall shares much of the peculiar and exquisite beauty
which every Englishman knows adorns "the sweet shire of Devon." The
hedges near Treby, like those round Dawlish and Torquay, are redolent
with a thousand flowers; the neighbouring fields are pranked with all
the colours of Flora--its soft air--the picturesque bay in which it
stood, as it were, enshrined--its red cliff's, and verdure reaching to
the very verge of the tide--all breathe the same festive and genial
atmosphere. The cottages give the same promise of comfort, and are
adorned by nature with more luxurious loveliness than the villas of the
rich in a less happy climate.
Treby was almost unknown; yet whoever visited it might well prefer its
sequestered beauties to many more renowned competitors. Situated in the
depths of a little bay, it was sheltered on all sides by the cliffs.
Just behind the hamlet the cliff made a break, forming a little ravine,
in the depth of which ran a clear stream, on whose banks were spread the
orchards of the villagers, whence they derived their chief wealth.
Tangled bushes and luxuriant herbage diversified the cliffs, some of
which were crowned by woods; and in "every nook and coign of 'vantage"
were to be seen and scented the glory of that coast--its exhaustless
store of flowers. The village was, as has been said, in the depth of a
bay; towards the east the coast rounded off with a broad sweep, forming
a varied line of bay and headland; to the west a little promontory shot
out abruptly, and at once closed in the view. This point of land was the
peculiarity of Treby. The cliff that gave it its picturesque appearance
was not high, but was remarkable for being crowned by the village
church, with its slender spire.
Long may it be before the village churchyard ceases to be in England a
favoured spot--the home of rural and holy seclusion. At Treby it derived
a new beauty from its distance from the village and the eminence on
which it was placed, overlooking the wide ocean, the sands, the village
itself, with its gardens, orchards, and gayly-painted fields. From the
church a straggling, steep, yet not impracticable path led down to the
sands by way of the beach; indeed, the distance from the village to the
church was scarcely more than half a mile; but no vehicle could approach
except by the higher road, which, following the line of coast, measured
nearly two miles. The edifice itself, picturesque in its rustic
simplicity, seemed at the distance to be imbosomed in a neighbouring
grove. There was no house, nor even cottage, near. The contiguous
churchyard contained about two acres; a light white paling surrounded it
on three sides; on the fourth was a high wall, clothed thickly with ivy:
the trees of the near wood overhung both wall and paling, except on the
side of the cliff'. The waving of their branches, the murmur of the
tide, and the occasional scream of seafowl, were all the sounds that
disturbed, or rather harmonized with, the repose and solitude of the
spot.
On Sunday, the inhabitants of several hamlets congregated here to attend
divine service. Those of Treby usually approached by the beach and the
path of the cliff, the old and infirm only taking the longer but more
easy road. On every other day of the week all was quiet, except when the
hallowed precincts were visited by happy parents with a newborn babe, by
bride and bridegroom hastening all gladly to enter on the joys and cares
of life--or by the train of mourners who attended relation or friend to
the last repose of the dead.
The poor are not sentimental--and, except on Sunday, after evening
service, when a mother might linger for a few moments near the fresh
grave of a lately lost child--or, loitering among the rustic tombs, some
of the elder peasants told tales of the feats of the dead companions of
their youth, a race unequalled, so they said, by the generation around
them. Save on that day, none ever visited or wandered among the graves,
with the one exception of a child, who had early learned to mourn, yet
whose infantine mind could scarcely understand the extent of the cause
she had for tears. A little girl, unnoticed and alone, was wont each
evening to trip over the sands--to scale with light steps the cliff,
which was of no gigantic height, and then, unlatching the low white gate
of the churchyard, to repair to one corner, where the boughs of the near
trees shadowed over two graves--two graves, of which one only was
distinguished by a simple headstone, to commemorate the name of him who
mouldered beneath. This tomb was inscribed to the memory of Edwin Raby,
but the neighbouring and less honoured grave claimed more of the child's
attention--for her mother lay beneath the unrecorded turf.
Beside this grassy hillock she would sit, and talk to herself, and play,
till, warned home by the twilight, she knelt and said her little prayer,
and, with a "Good-night, mamma," took leave of a spot with which was
associated the being whose caresses and love she called to mind, hoping
that one day she might again enjoy them. Her appearance had much in it
to invite remark, had there been any who cared to notice a poor little
orphan. Her dress, in some of its parts, betokened that she belonged to
the better classes of society; but she had no stockings, and her little
feet peeped from the holes of her well-worn shoes. Her straw bonnet was
died dark with sun and sea spray, and its blue riband faded. The child
herself would, in any other spot, have attracted more attention than the
incongruities of her attire. There is an expression of face which we
name angelic, from its purity, its tenderness, and, so to speak,
plaintive serenity, which we oftener see in young children than in
persons of a more advanced age. And such was hers: her hair, of a light
golden brown, was parted over a brow fair and open as day: her eyes,
deep-set and earnest, were full of thought and tenderness: her
complexion was pure and stainless, except by the roses that glowed in
her cheek; while each vein could be traced on her temples, and you could
almost mark the flow of the violet-coloured blood beneath: her mouth was
the very nest of love: her serious look was at once fond and imploring;
but when she smiled, it was as if sunshine broke out at once, warm and
unclouded: her figure had the plumpness of infancy; but her tiny hands
and feet, and tapering waist, denoted the faultless perfection of her
form. She was about six years old--a friendless orphan, cast, thus
young, penniless, on a thorny, stony-hearted world.
Nearly two years previous, a gentleman, with his wife and little
daughter, arrived at Treby, and took up his abode at one of the
moderate-priced lodging-houses before mentioned. The occasion of their
visit was but too evident. The husband, Mr. Raby, was dying of a
consumption. The family had migrated early in September, so to receive
the full benefit of a mild winter in this favoured spot. It did not
appear to those about him that he could live to see that winter. He was
wasted to a shadow--the hectic in his cheek, the brightness of his eyes,
and the debility apparent in every movement, showed that disease was
triumphing over the principles of life. Yet, contrary to every
prognostic, he lived on from week to week, from month to month. Now he
was said to be better--now worse--and thus a winter of extraordinary
mildness was passed. But with the east winds of spring a great
deterioration was visible. His invalid walks in the sun grew shorter,
and then were exchanged for a few minutes passed sitting in his garden.
Soon he was confined to his room--then to his bed. During the first week
of a bleak ungenial May, he died.
The extreme affection that subsisted between the pair rendered his widow
an object of interest even to the villagers. They were both young, and
she was beautiful; and more beautiful was their offspring--the little
girl we have mentioned:--who, watched over and attended on by her
mother, attracted admiration as well as interest, by the peculiar style
of her childish, yet perfect loveliness. Every one wondered what the
bereaved lady would do; and she, poor soul, wondered herself, and would
sit watching the gambols of her child in an attitude of unutterable
despondency, till the little girl, remarking the sadness of her mother,
gave over playing to caress, and kiss her, and to bid her smile. At such
a word the tears fell fast from the widow's eyes, and the frightened
child joined her sobs and cries to hers.
Whatever might be the sorrows and difficulties of the unhappy lady, it
was soon evident to all but herself that her own life was a fragile
tenure. She had attended on her husband with unwearied assiduity, and,
added to bodily fatigue, was mental suffering; partly arising from
anxiety and grief, and partly from the very virtues of the sufferer. He
knew that he was dying, and tried to reconcile his wife to her
anticipated loss. But his words, breathing the most passionate love and
purest piety, seemed almost to call her also from the desolation to
which he was leaving her, and to dissolve the ties that held her to
earth. When he was gone, life possessed no one attraction except their
child. Often while her father, with pathetic eloquence, tried to pour
the balm of resignation, and hopes of eternal reunion, into his wife's
heart, she had sat on her mother's knee, or on a little stool at her
feet, and looked up, with her cherub face, a little perplexed, a little
fearful, till, at some words of too plain and too dread an import, she
sprung into her father's arms, and clinging to his neck, amid tears and
sobs, cried out, "You must not leave us, papa! you must stay--you shall
not go away!"
Consumption, in all countries except our own, is considered a contagious
disorder, and it too often proves such here. During her close
attendance, Mrs. Raby had imbibed the seeds of the fatal malady; and
grief, and a delicate texture of nerves, caused them to develop with
alarming rapidity. Every one perceived this except herself. She thought
that her indisposition sprung from over-fatigue and grief, but that
repose would soon restore her; and each day, as her flesh wasted and her
blood flowed more rapidly, she said, "I shall be better to-morrow."
There was no one at Treby to advise or assist her. She was not one of
those who make friends and intimates of all who fall in their way. She
was gentle, considerate, courteous--but her refined mind shrunk from
displaying its deep wounds to the vulgar and unfeeling.
After her husband's death she had written several letters, which she
carefully put into the postoffice herself--going on purpose to the
nearest post-town, three miles distant. She had received one in answer,
and it had the effect of increasing every fatal symptom, through the
anguish and excessive agitation it excited. Sometimes she talked of
leaving Treby, but she delayed till she should be better; which time,
the villagers plainly saw, would never come, but they were not aware how
awfully near the crisis really was.
One morning--her husband had now been dead about four months--she called
up the woman of the house in which she lodged; there was a smile on her
face, and a pink spot burnt brightly in either cheek, while her brow was
ashy pale; there was something ghastly in the very gladness her
countenance expressed; yet she felt nothing of all this, but said, "The
newspaper you lent me had good news in it, Mrs. Baker. It tells me that
a dear friend of mine is arrived in England, whom I thought still on the
Continent. I am going to write to her. Will you let your daughter take
my little girl a walk while I write?"
Mrs. Baker consented. The child was equipped and sent out, while her
mother sat down to write. In about an hour she came out of her parlour;
Mrs. Baker saw her going towards the garden; she tottered as she walked,
so the woman hastened to her. "Thank you," she said; "I feel strangely
faint--I had much to say, and that letter has unhinged me--I must finish
it to-morrow--now the air will restore me--I can scarcely breathe."
Mrs. Baker offered her arm. The sufferer walked faintly and feebly to a
little bench, and sitting down, supported herself by her companion. Her
breath grew shorter; she murmured some words; Mrs. Baker bent down, but
could catch only the name of her child, which was the last sound that
hovered on the mother's lips. With one sigh her heart ceased to beat,
and life left her exhausted frame. The poor woman screamed loudly for
help as she felt her press heavily against her: and then, sliding from
her seat, sink lifeless on the ground.