Two days after, the stranger and the orphan had departed for London.
When it came to the point of decision, Mrs. Baker's conscience began to
reproach her; and she doubted the propriety of intrusting her innocent
charge to one totally unknown. But the stranger satisfied her doubts; he
showed her papers betokening his name and station, as John Falkner,
captain in the native cavalry of the East India Company, and moreover
possessed of such an independence as looked like wealth in the eyes of
Mrs. Baker, and at once commanded her respect.
His own care was to collect every testimony and relic that might prove
the identity of the little Elizabeth. Her unfortunate mother's
unfinished letter--her Bible and prayer-book--in the first of which was
recorded the birth of her child--and a seal (which Mrs. Baker's prudence
had saved, when her avarice caused her to sell the watch), with Mr.
Raby's coat of arms and crest engraved--a small desk, containing a few
immaterial papers, and letters from strangers, addressed to Edwin
Raby--such was Elizabeth's inheritance. In looking over the desk, Mr.
Falkner found a little foreign almanac, embellished with prints, and
fancifully bound--on the first page of which was written, in a woman's
elegant hand, _To dearest Isabella--from her A. R._
Had Falkner wanted proof as to the reality of his suspicions with regard
to the friend of Mrs. Raby, here was conviction; he was about to press
the dear handwriting to his lips, when, feeling his own unworthiness, he
shuddered through every limb, and thrusting the book into his bosom, he,
by a strong effort, prevented every outward mark of the thrilling agony
which the sight of his victim's writing occasioned. It gave, at the same
time, fresh firmness to his resolve to do all that was requisite to
restore the orphan daughter of her friend to her place in society. She
was as a bequest, left him by whom he last saw pale and senseless at his
feet--who had been the dream of his life from boyhood, and was now the
phantom to haunt him with remorse to his latest hour. To replace the
dead to the lovely child was impossible. He knew the incomparable
virtues of her to whom her mother bequeathed her, while every thought
that tended to recall her to his memory was armed with a double
sting--regret at having lost--horror at the fate he had brought upon
her.
By what strange, incalculable, and yet sure enchainment of events had he
been brought to supply her place! She was dead--through his accursed
machinations she no longer formed a portion of the breathing world--how
marvellous that he, flying from memory and conscience, resolved to
expiate his half involuntary guilt by his own death, should have landed
at Treby! Still more wondrous were the motives--hair slight in
appearance, yet on which so vast a weight of circumstance hung--that led
him to the twilight churchyard, and had made Mrs. Raby's grave the scene
of the projected tragedy--which had brought the orphan to guard that
grave from pollution, caused her to stay his upraised hand, and gained
for herself a protector by the very act.
Whoever has been the victim of a tragic event--whoever has experienced
life and hope--the past and the future wrecked by one fatal catastrophe,
must be at once dismayed and awestruck to trace the secret agency of a
thousand foregone, disregarded, and trivial events, which all led to the
deplored end, and served, as it were, as invisible meshes to envelop the
victim in the fatal net. Had the meanest among these been turned aside,
the progress of the destroying destiny had been stopped; but there is no
voice to cry "Hold!" no prophesying eye to discern the unborn event--and
the future inherits its whole portion of wo.
Awed by the mysteries that encompassed and directed his steps, which
used no agency except the unseen, but not unfelt, power which surrounds
us with motive as with an atmosphere, Falkner yielded his hitherto
unbending mind to control. He was satisfied to be led, and not to
command; his impatient spirit wondered at this new docility, while yet
he felt some slight self-satisfaction steal over him; and the prospect
of being useful to the helpless little being who stood before him, weak
in all except her irresistible claim to his aid, imparted such pleasure
as he was surprised to feel.
Once again he visited the churchyard of Treby, accompanied by the
orphan. She was loath to quit the spot--she could with difficulty
consent to leave mamma. But Mrs. Baker had made free use of a grown-up
person's much abused privilege of deceit, and told her lies in
abundance; sometimes promising that she should soon return; sometimes
assuring her that she would find her mother alive and well at the grand
place whither she was going: yet, despite the fallacious hopes, she
cried and sobbed bitterly during her last visits to her parents' graves.
Falkner tried to sooth her, saying, "We must leave papa and mamma,
dearest; God has taken them from you; but I will be a new papa to you."
The child raised her head, which she had buried in his breast, and in
infantine dialect and accent said, "Will you be good to her, and love
Baby, as papa did?"
"Yes, dearest child, I promise always to love you: will you love me, and
call me your papa?"
"Papa, dear papa," she cried, clinging round his neck--"my new, good
papa!" And then, whispering in his ear, she softly, but seriously,
added, "I can't have a new mamma--I won't have any but my own mamma."
"No, pretty one," said Falkner, with a sigh, "you will never have
another mamma; she is gone who would have been a second mother, and you
are wholly orphaned."
An hour after they were on the road to London; and, full of engrossing
and torturing thoughts as Falkner was, still he was called out of
himself, and forced to admire the winning ways, the enchanting innocence
and loveliness of his little charge. We human beings are so unlike one
to the other, that it is often difficult to make one person understand
that there is any force in an impulse which is omnipotent with another.
Children, to some, are mere animals, unendued with instinct,
troublesome, and unsightly--with others they possess a charm that
reaches to the heart's core, and stirs the purest and most generous
portions of our nature. Falkner had always loved children. In the Indian
wilds, which for many years he had inhabited, the sight of a young
native mother with her babe had moved him to envious tears. The fair,
fragile offspring of European women, with blooming faces and golden
hair, had often attracted him to bestow kind offices on parents whom
otherwise he would have disregarded; the fiery passions of his own heart
caused him to feel a soothing repose while watching the innocent gambols
of childhood, while his natural energy, which scarcely ever found
sufficient scope for exercise, led him to delight in protecting the
distressed. If the mere chance spectacle of infant helplessness was wont
to excite his sympathy, this sentiment, by the natural workings of the
human heart, became far more lively when so beautiful and perfect a
creature as Elizabeth Raby was thrown upon his protection. No one could
have regarded her unmoved; her silver-toned laugh went to the heart; her
alternately serious or gay looks, each emanating from the spirit of
love; her caresses, her little words of endearment; the soft pressure of
her tiny hand and warm rosy lips--were all as charming as beauty and the
absence of guile could make them. And he, the miserable man, was
charmed, and pitied the mother who had been forced to desert so sweet a
flower--leaving to the bleak elements a blossom which it had been
paradise for her to have cherished and sheltered in her own bosom for
ever.
At each moment Falkner became more enchanted with his companion.
Sometimes they got out of the chaise to walk up a hill; then, taking the
child in his arms, he plucked flowers for her from the hedges, or she
ran on before and gathered them for herself--now pulling ineffectually
at some stubborn parasite--now pricking herself with brier, when his
help was necessary to assist and make all well again. When again in the
carriage she climbed on his knee and stuck the flowers in his hair, "to
make papa fine;" and as trifles affect the mind when rendered sensitive
by suffering, so was he moved by her trying to remove the thorns of the
wild roses before she decorated him with them; at other times she
twisted them among her own ringlets, and laughed to see herself mirrored
in the front glasses of the chaise. Sometimes her mood changed, and she
prattled seriously about "mamma." Asked if he did not think that she was
sorry at Baby's going so far--far away--or, remembering the fanciful
talk of her mother when her father died, she asked whether she were not
following them through the air. As evening closed in, she looked out to
see whether she could not perceive her; "I cannot hear her; she does not
speak to me," she said; "perhaps she is a long way off, in that tiny
star; but then she can see us--Are you there, mamma?"
Artlessness and beauty are more truly imaged on the canvass than in the
written page. Were we to see the lovely orphan thus pictured (and
Italian artists, and our own Reynolds, have painted such) with uplifted
finger; her large earnest eyes looking inquiringly and tenderly for the
shadowy form of her mother, as she might fancy it descending towards her
from the little star her childish fancy singled out, a half smile on her
lips, contrasted with the seriousness of her baby brow--if we could see
such visibly presented on the canvass, the world would crowd round to
admire. This pen but feebly traces the living grace of the little angel;
but it was before Falkner; it stirred him to pity first, and then to
deeper regret: he strained the child to his breast, thinking, "Oh, yes,
I might have been a better and a happy man! False Alithea! why, through
your inconstancy, are such joys buried for ever in your grave!"
A few minutes after and the little girl fell asleep, nestled in his
arms. Her attitude had all the inartificial grace of childhood; her face
hushed to repose, yet breathed of affection. Falkner turned his eyes
from her to the starry sky. His heart swelled impatiently--his past life
lay as a map unrolled before him. He had desired a peaceful
happiness--the happiness of love. His fond aspirations had been snakes
to destroy others, and to sting his own soul to torture. He writhed
under the consciousness of the remorse and horror which were henceforth
to track his path of life. Yet, even while he shuddered, he felt that a
revolution was operating within himself--he no longer contemplated
suicide. That which had so lately appeared a mark of courage wore now
the guise of cowardice. And yet, if he were to live, where and how
should his life be passed? He recoiled from the solitude of the heart
which had marked his early years--and yet he felt that he could never
more link himself in love or friendship to any.
He looked upon the sleeping child, and began to conjecture whether he
might not find in her the solace he needed. Should he not adopt her,
mould her heart to affection, teach her to lean on him only, be all the
world to her, while her gentleness and caresses would give life a
charm--without which it were vain to attempt to endure existence?
He reflected what Elizabeth's probable fate would be if he restored her
to her father's family. Personal experience had given him a horror for
the forbidding, ostentatious kindness of distant relations. That hers
resembled such as he had known, and were imperious and cold-hearted,
their conduct not only to Mrs. Raby, but previously to a meritorious
son, did not permit him to doubt. If he made the orphan over to them,
their luxuries and station would ill stand instead of affection and
heartfelt kindness. Soft, delicate, and fond, she would pine and die.
With him, on the contrary, she would be happy--he would devote himself
to her--every wish gratified--her gentle disposition carefully
cultivated--no rebuke, no harshness; his arms ever open to receive her
in grief--his hand to support her in danger. Was not this a fate her
mother would have preferred? In bequeathing her to her friend, she
showed how little she wished that her sweet girl should pass into the
hands of her husband's relations. Could he not replace that friend of
whom he had so cruelly robbed her--whose loss was to be attributed to
him alone?
We all are apt to think that when we discard a motive we cure a fault,
and foster the same error from a new cause with a safe conscience. Thus,
even now, aching and sore from the tortures of remorse for past faults,
Falkner indulged in the same propensity, which, apparently innocent in
its commencement, had led to fatal results. He meditated doing rather
what he wished than what was strictly just. He did not look forward to
the evils his own course involved, while he saw in disproportionate
magnitude those to be brought about if he gave up his favourite project.
What ills might arise to the orphan from his interweaving her fate with
his--he, a criminal, in act, if not in intention--who might be called
upon hereafter to answer for his deeds, and who at least must fly and
hide himself--of this he thought not; while he determined that, fostered
and guarded by him, Elizabeth must be happy--and, under the tutelage of
her relations, she would become the victim of hardhearted neglect. These
ideas floated somewhat indistinctly in his mind--and it was half
unconsciously that he was building from them a fabric for the future as
deceitful as it was alluring.
After several days' travelling, Falkner found himself with his young
charge in London, and then he began to wonder wherefore he had repaired
thither, and to consider that he must form some settled scheme for the
future. He had in England neither relation nor friend whom he cared for.
Orphaned at an early age, neglected by those who supported him, at least
as far as the affections were concerned, he had, even in boyhood, known
intimately, and loved but one person only--she who had ruled his fate to
this hour--and was now among the dead. Sent to India in early youth, he
had there to make his way in defiance of poverty, of want of connexion,
of his own overbearing disposition--and the sense of wrong early
awakened that made him proud and reserved. At last, most unexpectedly,
the death of several relations caused the family estate to devolve upon
him--and he had sold his commission in India and hastened home--with his
heart so set upon one object, that he scarcely reflected, or reflected
only to congratulate himself, on how alone he stood. And now that his
impetuosity and ill-regulated passions had driven the dear object of all
his thoughts to destruction--still he was glad that there were none to
question him--none to wonder at his resolves; to advise or to reproach.
Still a plan was necessary. The very act of his life which had been so
big with ruin and remorse enjoined some forethought. It was probable
that he was already suspected, if not known. Detection and punishment in
a shape most loathsome would overtake him, did he not shape his measures
with prudence; and, as hate as well as love had mixed strongly in his
motives, he was in no humour to give his enemies the triumph of visiting
his crime on him.
What is written in glaring character in our own consciousness we believe
to be visible to the whole world; and Falkner, after arriving in London,
after leaving Elizabeth at an hotel, and walking into the streets, felt
as if discovery was already on him, when he was accosted by an
acquaintance, who asked him where he had been--what he had been
doing--and why he was looking so deusedly ill. He stammered some reply,
and was hastening away, when his friend, passing his arm through his,
said, "I must tell you the strangest occurrence I ever heard of--I have
just parted from a man--do you remember a Mr. Neville, whom you dined
with at my house, when last in town?"
Falkner at this moment exercised with success the wonderful mastery
which he possessed over feature and voice, and coldly replied that he
did remember.
"And do you remember our conversation after he left us?" said his
friend, "and my praises of his wife, whom I exalted as the pattern of
virtue? Who can know woman! I could have bet any sum that she would
preserve her good name to the end--and she has eloped."
"Well!" said Falkner, "is that all? is that the most wonderful
circumstance ever heard?"
"Had you known Mrs. Neville," replied his companion, "you would be as
astonished as I: with all her charms--all her vivacity--never had the
breath of scandal reached her--she seemed one of those whose hearts,
though warm, are proof against the attacks of love; and with ardent
affections yet turn away from passion, superior and unharmed. Yet she
has eloped with a lover--there is no doubt of that fact, for he was
seen--they were seen going off together, and she has not been heard of
since."
"Did Mr. Neville pursue them?" asked Falkner.
"He is even now in full pursuit--vowing vengeance--more enraged than I
ever beheld man. Unfortunately, he does not know who the seducer is; nor
have the fugitives yet been traced. The whole affair is the most
mysterious--a lover dropped from the clouds--an angel of virtue subdued,
almost before she is sought. Still they must be found out--they cannot
hide themselves for ever."
"And then there will be a duel to the death?" asked Falkner, in the same
icy accents.
"No," replied the other; "Mrs. Neville has no brother to fight for her,
and her husband breathes law only. Whatever vengeance the law will
afford, that he will use to the utmost--he is too angry to fight."
"The poltron!" exclaimed Falkner; "and thus he loses his sole chance of
revenge."
"I know not that," replied his companion; "he has formed a thousand
schemes of chastisement for both offenders, more dread than the field of
honour--there is, to be sure, a mean, as well as an indignant spirit in
him, that revels rather in the thought of inflicting infamy than death.
He utters a thousand mysterious threats--I do not see exactly what he
can do--but when he discovers his injurer, as he must some day--and I
believe there are letters that afford a clew--he will wreak all that a
savage, and yet a sordid desire of vengeance can suggest. Poor Mrs.
Neville! after all, she must have lived a sad life with such a fellow!"
"And here we part," said Falkner; "I am going another way. You have told
me a strange story--it will be curious to mark the end. Farewell!"
Brave to rashness as Falkner was, yet there was much in what he had just
heard that made him recoil, and almost tremble. What the vengeance was
that Mr. Neville could take, he too well knew--and he resolved to defeat
it. His plans, before vague, were formed on the instant. His lip curled
with a disdainful smile when he recollected what his friend had said of
the mystery that hung over the late occurrences--he would steep them all
in tenfold obscurity. To grieve for the past was futile, or rather,
nothing he could do would prevent or alleviate the piercing regret that
tortured him--but that need not influence his conduct. To leave his arch
enemy writhing from injury, yet powerless to revenge himself--blindly
cursing he knew not who, and removing the object of his curses from all
danger of being hurt by them, was an image not devoid of satisfaction.
Acting in conformity with these ideas, the next morning saw him on the
road to Dover--Elizabeth still his companion, resolved to seek oblivion
in foreign countries and far climes--and happy, at the same time, to
have her with him, whose infantine caresses already poured balm upon his
rankling wounds.