Though saved from immediate death, Falkner could hardly be called
convalescent. His wound did not heal healthily, and the intermitting
fever, returning again and again, laid him prostrate after he had
acquired a little strength. After a winter full of danger, it was
pronounced that the heats of a southern summer would probably prove
fatal to him, and that he must be removed without delay to the bracing
air of his native country.
Towards the end of the month of April they took their passage to
Leghorn. It was a sad departure; the more so that they were obliged to
part with their Greek servant, on whose attachment Elizabeth so much
depended. Vasili had entered into Falkner's service at the instigation
of the Protokleft, or chief of his clan; when the Englishman was obliged
to abandon the cause of Greece, and return to his own country, Vasili,
though loath and weeping, went back to his native master. The young
girl, being left without any attendant on whom she could wholly rely,
felt singularly desolate; for as her father lay on the deck, weak from
the exertion of being removed, she felt that his life hung by a very
slender thread, and she shrank half affrighted from what might ensue to
her, friendless and alone.
Her presence of mind and apparent cheerfulness was never, however,
diminished by these secret misgivings; and she sat by her father's low
couch, and placed her hands in his, speaking encouragingly, while her
eyes filled with tears as the rocky shores of Zante became indistinct
and vanished.
Their voyage was without any ill accident, except that the warm
southeast wind, which favoured their navigation, sensibly weakened the
patient; and Elizabeth grew more and more eager to proceed northward. At
Leghorn they were detained by a long and vexatious quarantine. The
summer had commenced early, with great heats; and the detention of
several weeks in the lazaretto nearly brought about what they had left
Greece to escape. Falkner grew worse. The seabreezes a little mitigated
his sufferings; but life was worn away by repeated struggles, and the
most frightful debility threatened his frame with speedy dissolution.
How could it be otherwise? He had wished to die. He sought death where
it lurked insidiously in the balmy airs of Greece, or met it openly
armed against him on the field of battle. Death wielded many weapons;
and he was struck by many, and the most dangerous. Elizabeth hoped, in
spite of despair; yet, if called away from him, her heart throbbed
wildly as she re-entered his apartment; there was no moment when the
fear did not assail her, that she might, on a sudden, hear and see that
all was over.
An incident happened at this period, to which Elizabeth paid little
attention at the time, engrossed as she was by mortal fears. They had
been in quarantine about a fortnight, when, one day, there entered the
gloomy precincts of the lazaretto a tribe of English people. Such a
horde of men, women, and children, as gives foreigners a lively belief
that we islanders are all mad, to migrate in this way, with the young
and helpless, from comfortable homes, in search of the dangerous and
comfortless. This roving band consisted of the eldest son of an English
nobleman and his wife--four children, the eldest being six years old--a
governess--three nursery-maids, two lady's maids, and a sufficient
appendage of men-servants. They had all just arrived from viewing the
pyramids of Egypt. The noise and bustle--the servants insisting on
making everybody comfortable, where comfort was not--the spreading out
of all their own camp apparatus--joined to the seeming indifference of
the parties chiefly concerned, and the unconstrained astonishment of the
Italians--was very amusing. Lord Cecil, a tall, thin, plain, quiet,
aristocratic-looking man of middle age, dropped into the first
chair--called for his writing-case--began a letter, and saw and heard
nothing that was going on. Lady Cecil--who was not pretty, but lively
and elegant--was surrounded by her children--_they_ seemed so many
little angels, with blooming cheeks and golden hair--the youngest cherub
slept profoundly amid the din; the others were looking eagerly out for
their dinner.
Elizabeth had seen their entrance--she saw them walking in the garden of
the lazaretto--one figure, the governess, though disguised by a green
shade over her eyes, she recognised--it was Miss Jervis. Desolate and
sad as the poor girl was, a familiar face and voice was a cordial drop
to comfort her; and Miss Jervis was infinitely delighted to meet her
former pupil. She usually looked on those intrusted to her care as a
part of the machinery that supported her life; but Elizabeth had become
dear to her from the irresistible attraction that hovered round
her--arising from her carelessness of self, and her touching sensibility
to the sufferings of all around. She had often regretted having left
her, and she now expressed this, and even her silence grew into
something like talkativeness upon the unexpected meeting. "I am very
unlucky," she said; "I would rather, if I could with propriety, live in
the meanest lodging in London, than in the grandest tumbledown palace of
the East, which people are pleased to call so fine--I am sure they are
always dirty and out of order. Lady Glenfell recommended me to Lady
Cecil--and, certainly, a more generous and sweet-tempered woman does not
exist--and I was very comfortable, living at the Earl of G----'s seat in
Hampshire, and having almost all my time to myself. One day, to my
misfortune, Lady Cecil made a scheme to travel--to get out of her
father-in-law's way, I believe--he is rather a tiresome old man. Lord
Cecil does anything she likes. All was arranged, and I really thought I
should leave them--I so hated the idea of going abroad again; but Lady
Cecil said that I should be quite a treasure, having been everywhere,
and knowing so many languages, and that she should have never thought of
going, but from my being with her; so, in short, she was very generous,
and I could not say no: accordingly, we set out on our travels, and went
first to Portugal--where I had never been--and do not know a word of
Portuguese; and then through Spain--and Spanish is Greek to me--and
worse--for I do know a good deal of Romaic. I am sure I do not know
scarcely where we went--but our last journey was to see the pyramids of
Egypt--only, unfortunately, I caught the ophthalmia the moment we got to
Alexandria, and could never bear to see a ray of light the whole time we
were in that country."
As they talked, Lady Cecil came to join her children. She was struck by
Elizabeth's beaming and noble countenance, which bore the impress of
high thought and elevated sentiments. Her figure, too, had sprung up
into womanhood--tall and graceful--there was an elasticity joined to
much majesty in all her appearance; not the majesty of assumption, but
the stamp of natural grandeur of soul, refined by education, and
softened by sympathetic kindness for the meanest thing that breathed.
Her dignity did not spring in the slightest degree from self-worship,
but simply from a reliance on her own powers and a forgetfulness of
every triviality which haunts the petty-minded. No one could chance to
see her, without stopping to gaze; and her peculiar circumstances--the
affectionate and anxious daughter of a dying man--without friend or
support, except her own courage and patience--never daunted, yet always
fearfully alive to his danger--rendered her infinitely interesting to
one of her own sex. Lady Cecil was introduced to her by Miss Jervis, and
was eager to show her kindness. She offered that they should travel
together; but as Elizabeth's quarantine was out long before that of the
new comers, and she was anxious to reach a more temperate climate, she
refused; yet she was thankful, and charmed by the sweetness and
cordiality of her new acquaintance.
Lady Cecil was not handsome, but there was something, not exactly
amounting to fascination, but infinitely taking in her manner and
appearance. Her cheerfulness, good-nature, and high-breeding diffused a
grace and a pleasurable easiness over her manners that charmed
everybody; good sense and vivacity, never loud nor ever dull, rendered
her spirits agreeable. She was apparently the same to everybody; but she
well knew how to regulate the inner spirit of her attentions while their
surface looked so equal: no one ventured to go beyond her wishes--and
where she wished, any one was astonished to find how far they could
depend on her sincerity and friendliness. Had Elizabeth's spirit been
more free, she had been delighted; as it was, she felt thankful, merely
for a kindness that availed her nothing.
Lady Cecil viewed the dying Falkner and his devoted, affectionate
daughter with the sincerest compassion; dying she thought him, for he
was wasted to a shadow, his cheeks colourless, his hands yellow and
thin--he could not stand upright--and when, in the cool of evening, he
was carried into the open air, he seemed scarcely able to speak from
very feebleness. Elizabeth's face bespoke continual anxiety: her
vigilance, her patience, her grief, and her resignation formed a
touching picture, which it was impossible to contemplate without
admiration. Lady Cecil often tried to win her away from her father's
couch, and to give herself a little repose from perpetual attendance;
she yielded but for a minute; while she conversed, she assumed
cheerfulness--but in a moment after she had glided back and taken her
accustomed place at her father's pillow.
At length their prison-gates were opened, and Falkner was borne on board
a felucca bound for Genoa. Elizabeth took leave of her new friend, and
promised to write, but while she spoke she forgot what she said--for,
dreading at each moment the death of her benefactor, she did not dare
look forward, and had little heart to go beyond the circle of her
immediate, though dreary sensations. A fair wind bore them to Genoa, and
Falkner sustained the journey very well: at Genoa they transferred
themselves to another vessel, and each mile they gained towards France
lightened the fears of Elizabeth. But this portion of their voyage was
not destined to be so prosperous They had embarked at night, and had
made some way during the first hours; but by noon on the following day
they were becalmed; the small vessel--the burning sun--the shocking
smells--the want of all comfortable accommodation, combined to bring on
a relapse--and again Falkner seemed dying. The very crew were struck
with pity; while Elizabeth, wild almost with terror and the impotent
wish to save, preserved an outward calm, more shocking almost than
shrieks and cries. At evening she caused him to be carried on the deck,
and placed on a couch, with a little sort of shed prepared for him
there; he was too much debilitated to feel any great degree of
relief--there was a ghastly hue settled on his face that seemed
gradually sinking into death. Elizabeth's courage almost gave way; there
was no physician, no friend; the servants were frightened, the crew
pitying, but none could help.
As this sense of desertion grew strong, a despair she had never felt
before invaded her; and it was as she thus hung over Falkner's couch,
the tears fast gathering in her eyes, and striving to check the
convulsive throb that rose in her throat, that a gentle voice said, "Let
me place this pillow under your father's head, he will rest more
quietly." The voice came as from a guardian angel; she looked up
thankfully, the pillow was placed, some drink administered, a sail
extended, so as to shield him from the evening sun, and a variety of
little attentions paid, which evidently solaced the invalid; and the
evening breeze rising as the sun went down, the air grew cool, and he
sunk at last into a profound sleep. When night came on, the stranger
conjured Elizabeth to take some repose, promising to watch by Falkner.
She could not resist the entreaty, which was urged with sincere
earnestness; going down, she found a couch had been prepared for her
with almost a woman's care by the stranger; and before she slept he
knocked at her door to tell her, Falkner having awoke, expressed himself
as much easier, and very glad to hear that Elizabeth had retired to
rest; after this he had dropped asleep again.
It was a new and pleasant sensation to the lone girl to feel that there
was one sharing her task, on whom she might rely. She had scarcely
looked at or attended to the stranger while on deck; she only perceived
that he was English, and that he was young; but now, in the quiet that
preceded her falling asleep, his low, melodious voice sounded sweetly in
her ears, and the melancholy and earnest expression of his handsome
countenance reminded her of some one she had seen before, probably a
Greek; for there was something almost foreign in his olive complexion,
his soft, dark eyes, and the air of sentiment mingled with a sort of
poetic fervour, that characterized his countenance. With these thoughts
Elizabeth fell asleep; and when early in the morning she rose, and made
what haste she could to visit the little sort of hut erected for her
father on deck, the first person she saw was the stranger, leaning on
the bulwark, and looking on the sea with an air of softness and sadness
that excited her sympathy. He greeted her with extreme kindness. "Your
father is awake, and has inquired for you," he said. Elizabeth, after
thanking him, took her accustomed post beside Falkner. He might be
better, but he was too weak to make much sign, and one glance at his
colourless face renewed all her half forgotten terrors.
Meanwhile the breeze freshened, and the vessel scudded through the blue
sparkling waves. The heats of noon, though tempered by the gale, still
had a bad effect on Falkner; and when, at about five in the
evening--often in the south the hottest portion of the day, the air
being thoroughly penetrated by the sun's rays--they arrived at
Marseilles, it became a task of some difficulty to remove him. Elizabeth
and the stranger had interchanged little talk during the day; but he now
came forward to assist in removing him to the boat--acting without
question, as if he had been her brother, guessing, as if by instinct,
the best thing to be done, and performing all with activity and zeal.
Poor Elizabeth, cast on these difficult circumstances, without relation
or friend, looked on him as a guardian angel, consulted him freely, and
witnessed his exertions in her behalf in a transport of gratitude. He
did everything for her, and would sit for hours in the room at the
hotel, next to that in which Falkner lay, waiting to hear how he was,
and if there was anything to be done. Elizabeth joined him now and then;
they were in a manner already intimate, though strangers; he took a
lively interest in her anxieties, and she looked towards him for advice
and help, relied on his counsels, and was encouraged by his
consolations. It was the first time she had felt any friendship or
confidence, except in Falkner; but it was impossible not to be won by
her new friend's gentleness, and almost feminine delicacy of attention,
joined to all a man's activity and readiness to do the thing that was
necessary to be done. "I have an adopted father," thought Elizabeth,
"and this seems a brother dropped from the clouds." He was of an age to
be her brother, but few years older; in all the ardour and grace of
early manhood, when developed in one of happy nature unsoiled by the
world.
Elizabeth, however, remained but a few days at Marseilles--it was of the
first necessity to escape the southern heats, and Falkner was pronounced
able to bear the voyage up the Rhone. The stranger showed some sadness
at the idea of being left behind. In truth, if Elizabeth was gladdened
and comforted by her new friend, he felt double pleasure in the
contemplation of her beauty and admirable qualities. No word of self
ever passed her lips. All thought, all care, was spent on him she called
her father--and the stranger was deeply touched by her demonstrations of
filial affection--her total abnegation of every feeling that did not
centre in his comfort and recovery. He had been present one evening,
though standing apart, when Falkner, awakening from sleep, spoke with
regret of the fatigue Elizabeth endured, and the worthlessness of his
life compared with all that she went through for his sake. Elizabeth
replied at once with such energy of affection, such touching
representation of the comfort she derived from his returning health, and
such earnest entreaties for him to love life, that the stranger listened
as if an angel spoke. Falkner answered, but the remorse that burdened
his heart gave something of bitterness to his reply. And her eloquent
though gentle solicitations that he would look on life in a better and
nobler light--not rashly to leave its duties here to encounter those he
knew not of in an existence beyond--and kind intimations, which,
exalting his repentance into a virtue, might reconcile him to
himself--all this won the listener to a deep and wondering admiration.
Not in human form had he ever seen imbodied so much wisdom, and so much,
strong yet tender emotion--none but woman could feel thus, but it was
beyond woman to speak and to endure as she did. She spoke only just so
openly, remembering the stranger's presence, as to cast a veil over her
actual relationship to Falkner, whom she called, and wished to have
believed to be, her true father.
The fever of the sufferer being abated, a day was fixed for their
departure from Marseilles. Their new friend appeared to show some
inclination to accompany them in their river navigation as far as Lyons.
Elizabeth thanked him with her gladdened eyes; she had felt the want of
support, or rather she had experienced the inestimable benefit of being
supported during the sad crisis now and then brought about by Falkner's
changeful illness; there was something, too, in the stranger very
attractive, not the less so for the melancholy which often quenched the
latent fire of his nature. That his disposition was really ardent, and
even vivacious, many little incidents, when he appeared to forget
himself, evinced--nay, sometimes his very gloom merged into sullen
savageness, that showed that coldness was not the secret of his frequent
fits of abstraction. Once or twice, on these occasions, Elizabeth was
reminded, she knew not of whom--but some one she had seen before--till
one day it flashed across her; could it be the sullen, solitary boy of
Baden! Singularly enough, she did not even know her new friend's name;
to those accustomed to foreign servants this will not appear strange; he
was their only visiter, and "le monsieur" was sufficient announcement
when he arrived. But Elizabeth remembered well that the youth's name was
Neville--and, on inquiry, she learned that this also was the appellation
of her new acquaintance.
She now regarded him with greater interest. She recalled her girlish
wish that he should reside with them, and benefit by the kindness of
Falkner--hoping that his sullenness would be softened and his gloom
dissipated by the affectionate attentions he would receive. She wished
to discover in what degree time and other circumstances had operated to
bring about the amelioration she had wished to be an instrument in
achieving. He was altered--he was no longer fierce nor sullen--yet he
was still melancholy, and still unhappy--and she could discern that as
his former mood had been produced by the vehemence of his character
fretting against the misfortunes of his lot, so it was by subduing every
violence of temper that the change was operated--and she suspected that
the causes that originally produced his unhappiness still remained. Yet
violence of temper is not a right word to use; his temper was eminently
sweet--he had a boiling ardour within--a fervent and a warm heart, which
might produce vehemence of feeling, but never asperity of temper. All
this Elizabeth remarked--and, as before, she longed to dissipate the
melancholy that so evidently clouded his mind; and again she indulged
fancies that, if he accompanied them, and was drawn near them, the
affection he would receive must dissipate a sadness created by
unfortunate circumstances in early youth--but not the growth of a
saturnine disposition. She pitied him intensely, for she saw that he was
often speechlessly wretched; but she reverenced his self-control, and
the manner in which he threw off all his own engrossing feelings to
sympathize with and assist her.
They were now soon to depart, and Elizabeth was not quite sure whether
Neville was to accompany them--he had gone to the boat to look after
some arrangements made for the patient's comfort--and she sat with the
invalid, expecting his return. Falkner reclined near a window, clasping
her hand, looking on her with fondness, and speaking of all he owed her;
and how he would endeavour to repay, by living, and making life a
blessing to her. "I shall live," he said; "I feel that this malady will
pass away, and I shall live to devote myself to rewarding you for all
your anxieties, to dissipating the cloud with which I have so cruelly
overshadowed your young life, and to making all the rest sunshine. I
will think only of you; all the rest, all that grieves me, and all that
I repent, I cast even now into oblivion."
At this moment the stranger entered and drew near. Elizabeth saw him,
and said, "And here, dearest father, is another to whom you owe more
than you can guess--for kindness to me and the help to you. I do not
think I should have preserved you without Mr. Neville."
The young man was standing near the couch, looking on the invalid, and
rejoicing in the change for the better that appeared. Falkner turned his
eyes on him as Elizabeth spoke, a tremour ran through all his limbs, he
grew ghastly pale, and fainted.
An evil change from this time appeared in his state--and the physician
was afraid of the journey, attributing his fainting to his inability to
bear any excitement; while Falkner, who was before passive, grew eager
to depart. "Change of scene and moving will do me good," he said, "so
that no one comes near me, no one speaks to me, but Elizabeth."
At one time the idea of Neville's accompanying them was alluded to--he
was greatly disturbed--and seriously implored Elizabeth not to allow it.
It was rather hard on the poor girl, who found so much support and
solace in her new friend's society--but Falkner's slightest wish was
with her a law, and she submitted without a murmur, "Do not let me even
see him before we go," said Falkner. "Act on this wish, dearest, without
hurting his feelings--without betraying to him that I have formed it--it
would be an ungracious return for the services he has rendered you--for
which I would fain show gratitude; but that cannot be--you alone can
repay--do so, as you best may, with thanks--but do not let me see him
more."
Elizabeth wondered; and, as a last effort to vanquish his dislike, she
said, "Do you know that he is the same boy who interested us so much at
Baden?--he is no longer savage as he was then--but I fear that he is as
unhappy as ever."
"Too well do I know it," replied Falkner; "do not question me--do not
speak to me again of him." He spoke in disjointed sentences--a cold dew
stood on his brow--and Elizabeth, who knew that a mysterious wound
rankled in his heart, more painful than any physical injury, was eager
to calm him. Something, she might wonder; but she thought more of
sparing Falkner pain than of satisfying her curiosity, and she mentally
resolved never to mention the name of Neville again.
They were to embark at sunrise; in the evening her new friend came to
take leave, she having evaded the notion of his accompanying them, and
insisted that he should not join them in the morning to assist at their
departure. Though she had done this with sweetness, and so much
cordiality of manner as prevented his feeling any sort of slight, yet in
some sort he guessed that they wished to dismiss him, and this notion
added to his melancholy, while some latent feeling made him readily
acquiesce in it. Elizabeth was told that he had come, and left Falkner
to join him. It was painful to her to take leave--to feel that she
should see him no more--and to know that their separation was not merely
casual, but occasioned by her father's choice, which hereafter might
again and again interfere to separate them. As she entered the room he
was leaning against the casement, and looking on the sea which glanced
before their windows, still as a lake, blue as the twilight sky that
bent over it. It was a July evening--soft, genial, and soothing; but no
portion of the gladness of nature was reflected in the countenance of
Neville. His large dark eyes seemed two wells of unfathomable sadness.
The drooping lids gave them an expression of irresistible softness,
which added interest to their melancholy earnestness. His complexion was
olive, but so clear that each vein could be discerned. His full and
finely-shaped lips bespoke the ardour and sensibility of his
disposition; while his slim, youthful form appeared half bending with a
weight of thought and sorrow. Elizabeth's heart beat as she came near
and stood beside him. Neither spoke; but he took her hand--and they both
felt that each regretted the moment of parting too deeply for the mere
ceremony of thanks and leave-taking.
"I have grieved," said Neville, as if answering her, though no word had
been said, "very much grieved at the idea of seeing you no more; and yet
it is for the best, I feel--and am sure. You do not know the usual
unhappy tenour of my thoughts, nor the cause I have to look on life as
an unwelcome burden. This is no new sentiment--it has been my companion
since I was nine years old. At one time, before I knew how to rein and
manage it, it was more intolerable than now; as a boy, it drove me to
solitude--to abhorrence of the sight of man--to anger against God for
creating me. These feelings have passed away; nay, more--I live for a
purpose--a sacred purpose, that shall be fulfilled despite of every
obstacle--every seeming impossibility. Too often, indeed, the
difficulties in my way have made me fear that I should never succeed,
and I have desponded; but never, till I saw you, did I know pleasure
unconnected with my ultimate object. With you I have been at times taken
out of myself; and I have almost forgotten--this must not be. I must
resume my burden, nor form one thought beyond the resolution I have made
to die, if need be, to secure success."
"You must not speak thus," said Elizabeth, looking at once with pity and
admiration on a face expressive of so much sensitive pride and sadness
springing from a sense of injury. "If your purpose is a good one, as I
must believe that it is, you will either succeed, or receive a
compensation from your endeavours equivalent to success. We shall meet
again, and I shall see you happier."
"When I am happier," he said, with more than his usual earnestness, "we
shall indeed meet--for I will seek you at the farthest end of the globe.
Till then, I shrink from seeing any one who interests me--or from
renewing sentiments of friendship which had better end here. You are too
good and kind not to be made unhappy by the sight of suffering, and I
must suffer till my end is accomplished. Even now I regret that I ever
saw you--though that feeling springs from a foolish pride. For hereafter
you will hear my name--and if you already do not know--you will learn
the miserable tale that hangs upon it--you will hear me commiserated;
you will learn why--and share the feeling. I would even avoid your
pity--judge, then, how loathsome it is to receive that of others; and
yet I must bear it, or fly them as I do. This will change. I have the
fullest confidence that one day I may throw back on others the slur now
cast upon me. This confidence, this full and sanguine trust, has altered
me from what I once was; it has changed the impatience, the almost
ferocity I felt as a boy, into fortitude and resolution."
"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I remember once I saw you a long time since,
when I was a mere girl, at Baden. Were you not there about four years
ago? Do you not remember falling with your horse and dislocating your
wrist?"
A tracery of strange wild thought came over the countenance of Neville.
"Do I remember?" he cried--"yes--and I remember a beautiful girl--and I
thought such would have been my sister, and I had not been alone--if
fate, if cruel, inexorable, horrible destiny had not deprived me of her
as well as all--all that made my childish existence paradise. It is
so--and I see you again, whom then my heart called sister--it is
strange."
"Did you give me that name?" said Elizabeth. "Ah, if you knew the
strange ideas I then had of giving you my father for your friend,
instead of one spoken harshly--perhaps unjustly of--"
As she spoke he grew gloomy again--his eyes drooped, and the expression
of his face became at first despondent, then proud, and even fierce; it
reminded her more forcibly than it had ever done before of the boy of
Baden--"It is better as it is," he continued, "much better that you do
not share the evil that pursues me; you ought not to be humiliated,
pressed down--goaded to hatred and contempt.
"Farewell--I grieve to leave you--yet I feel deeply how it is for the
best. Hereafter you will acknowledge your acquaintance with me, when we
meet in a happier hour. God preserve you and your dear father, as he
will for your sake! Twice we have met--the third time, if sibyls' tales
are true, is the test of good or evil in our friendship--till then,
farewell."
Thus they parted. Had Elizabeth been free from care with regard to
Falkner, she had regretted the separation more, and pondered more over
the mysterious wretchedness that darkened the lives of the only two
beings, the inner emotions of whose souls had been opened to her. As it
was, she returned to watch and fear beside her father's couch--and
scarcely to remember that a few minutes before she had been interested
by another--so entirely were her feelings absorbed by her affection and
solicitude for him.