Falkner had parted with his dear adopted child under a strong excitement
of fear concerning her health. The change of air and scene restored her
so speedily, that his anxieties were of short duration. He was, however,
in no hurry to rejoin her, as he was taught to consider a temporary
separation from him as important to her convalescence.
For the first time, after many years, Falkner was alone. True, he was so
in Greece; but there he had an object. In Greece, also, it is true that
he had dwelt on the past, writing even a narrative of his actions, and
that remorse sat heavy at his heart, while he pursued this task. Yet he
went to Greece to assist in a glorious cause, and to redeem his name
from the obloquy his confession would throw on it, by his gallantry and
death. There was something animating in these reflections. Then also
disease had not attacked him, nor pain made him its prey--his sensations
were healthful--and if his reflections were melancholy and
self-condemning, yet they were attended by grandeur, and even by
sublimity, the result of the danger that surrounded him, and the courage
with which he met it.
Now he was left alone--broken in health--dashed in spirit; consenting to
live--wishing to live for Elizabeth's sake--yet haunted still by one
pale ghost, and the knowledge that his bosom contained a secret which,
if divulged, would acquire for him universal detestation. He did not
fear discovery; but little do they know the human heart who are not
aware of the throes of shame and anguish that attend the knowledge that
we are in reality a cheat, that we disguise our own real selves, and
that truth is our worst enemy. Left to himself, Falkner thought of these
things with bitterness; he loathed the burden that sat upon his soul; he
longed to cast it off; yet, when he thought of Elizabeth; her devoted
affection and earnest entreaties, he was again a coward; how could he
consent to give her up, and plant a dagger in her heart!
There was but one cure to the irritation that his spirit endured, which
was--to take refuge in her society; and he was about to join her, when a
letter came, speaking of Gerard Neville--the same wild boy they had seen
at Baden--the kind friend of Marseilles, still melancholy, still
stricken by adversity; but endowed with a thousand qualities to attract
love and admiration: full of sentiment and poetry--kind and tender as
woman--resolute and independent as a man. Elizabeth said little,
remembering Falkner's previous restriction upon his name--but she
considered it her duty to mention him to her benefactor; and that being
her duty to him, it became another to her new friend to assert his
excellence, lest by some chance Falkner had mistaken, and attributed
qualities that did not belong to him.
Falkner's thoughts became busy on this with new ideas. It was at once
pleasing and painful to hear of the virtues of Gerard Neville. The
pleasure was derived from the better portion of human nature--the pain
from the worst; a lurking envy, and dislike to excellence derived in any
degree from one he hated, and with such sentiment he regarded the father
of Gerard. Still he was the son of the angel he worshipped and had
destroyed; she had loved her child to adoration, and to know that he
grew up all she would have wished would console her wandering,
unappeased spirit. He remembered his likeness to her, and that softened
him even more. Yet he thought of the past--and what he had done; and the
very idea of her son lamenting for ever his lost mother filled him with
renewed and racking remorse.
That Elizabeth should now for the third time be thrown in his way, was
strange, and his first impulse was to recall her. It was well that
Gerard should be noble-minded, endowed with talent, a rare and exalted
being--but that she should be brought into near contact with him was
evil: between Falkner and Gerard Neville there existed a gulf
unfathomable, horrific, deadly; and any friendship between him and his
adopted child must cause disunion between her and Falkner. He had
suffered much, but this last blow, a cause for disuniting them, would
tax his fortitude too much.
Yet thus it was to be taxed. He received a letter from Lady Cecil, of
which Elizabeth was ignorant. Its ostensible object was to give good
tidings of her fair guest's health, and to renew her invitation to him.
But there was a covert meaning which Falkner detected. Lady Cecil,
though too young to be an inveterate matchmaker, yet conceived and
cherished the idea of the marriage of Neville and Elizabeth. In common
parlance, Gerard might look higher; but so also might Elizabeth,
apparently the only daughter and heiress of a man of good birth and easy
fortune. But this went for little with Lady Cecil; Gerard's peculiar
disposition--his devotion to his dead mother--his distaste to all
society--the coldness he had hitherto manifested to feminine
attractions, made the choice of a wife difficult for him. Elizabeth's
heroic and congenial character; her total inexperience in the world, and
readiness to sympathize with sentiments which, to the ordinary class of
women, would appear extravagant and foolish; all this suited them for
each other. Lady Cecil saw them together, and felt that intimacy would
produce love. She was delighted; but thinking it right that the father
should have a voice, she wrote to Falkner, scarcely alluding to these
things, but with a delicate tact that enabled her to convey her meaning,
and Falkner, jumping at once to the conclusion, saw that his child was
lost to him for ever.
There arose from this idea a convulsion of feeling, that shook him as an
earthquake shakes the firm land, making the most stable edifices totter.
A chill horror ran through his veins, a cold dew broke out on his
forehead; it was unnatural--it was fatal--it must bring on all their
heads tenfold ruin.
Yet wherefore? Elizabeth was no child of his--Elizabeth Falkner could
never wed Gerard Neville--but between him and Elizabeth Raby there
existed no obstacle. Nay, how better could he repay the injury he had
done him in depriving him of his mother, than by bestowing on him a
creature, perhaps more perfect, to be his solace and delight to the end
of his life? So must it be--here Falkner's punishment would begin; to
exile himself for ever from her, who was the child of his heart, the
prop of his existence. It was dreadful to think of, but it must be done.
And how was the sacrifice to be fulfilled? by restoring Elizabeth to her
father's family, and then withdrawing himself to a distant land. He need
not add to this the confession of his crime. No! thus should he
compensate to Gerard for the injury done him; and burning his papers,
leaving still in mystery the unknown past, die, without its ever being
known to Elizabeth that he was the cause of her husband's sorrows. It
was travelling fast, to arrange this future for all three; but there are
moments when the future, with all its contingences and possibilities,
becomes glaringly distinct to our foreseeing eye; and we act as if that
was, which we believe must be. He would become a soldier once again--and
the boon of death would not be for ever denied to him.
To restore Elizabeth to her family was at any rate but doing her a
long-withheld justice. The child of honour and faithful affection--who
bore a proud name--whose loveliness of person and mind would make her a
welcome treasure in any family; she, despite her generous sacrifices,
should follow his broken fortunes no longer. If the notion of her
marrying Neville were a mere dream, still to give back to her name and
station, was a benefit which it was unjust any longer to withhold; nor
should it be a question between them. They were now divided, so should
they remain. He would reveal her existence to her family, claim their
protection, and then withdraw himself; while she, occupied by a new and
engrossing sentiment, would easily get reconciled to his absence.
The first step he took in furtherance of this new resolution, was to
make inquiries concerning the present state of Elizabeth's family--of
which hitherto he knew no more than what he gathered from her mother's
unfinished letter, and this was limited to their being a wealthy
Catholic family, proud of their ancestry, and devoted to their faith.
Through his solicitor he gained intelligence of their exact situation.
He heard that there was a family of that name in Northumberland; it was
Roman Catholic, and exceedingly rich. The present head of the family was
an old man; he had long been a widower; left with a family of six sons.
The eldest had married early, and was dead, leaving his widow with four
daughters and one son, yet a child, who was the heir of the family
honours and estates, and resided with his mother, for the most part, at
the mansion of his grandfather. Of the remaining sons little account
could be gained. It was the family custom to concentrate all its
prosperity and wealth on the head of the eldest son; and the younger,
precluded by their religion, at that time, from advancement in their own
country, entered foreign service. One only had exempted himself from the
common lot, and become an outcast, and, in the eyes of his family, a
reprobate. Edwin Raby had apostatized from the Catholic faith; he had
married a portionless girl of inferior birth, and entered the profession
of the law. His parents looked with indignation on the dishonour
entailed on their name through his falling off; but his death relieved
their terrors--he died, leaving a widow and an infant daughter. As the
marriage had never been acknowledged, and female offspring were held
supernumerary, and an encumbrance in the Raby family, they had refused
to receive her, and never heard of her more; she was, it was
conjectured, living in obscurity among her own relations. Falkner at
once detected the truth. The despised, deserted widow had died in her
youth; and the daughter of Edwin Raby was the child of his adoption. On
this information Falkner regulated his conduct; and finding that
Elizabeth's grandfather, old Oswi Raby, resided habitually at his seat
in the north of England, he--his health now restored sufficiently to
make the journey without inconvenience--set out for Northumberland, to
communicate the existence, and claim his acknowledgment, of his
granddaughter.
There are periods in our lives when we seem to run away from ourselves
and our afflictions; to commence a new course of existence, upon fresh
ground, towards a happier goal. Sometimes, on the contrary, the stream
of life doubles--runs back to old scenes, and we are constrained to
linger amid the desolation we had hoped to leave far behind. Thus was it
with Falkner; the past clung to him inextricably. What had he to do with
those who had suffered through his misdeed? He had fled from them--he
had traversed a quarter of the earth--he had placed a series of years
between them; but there he was again--in the same spot--the same forms
before him--the same names sounding in his ears--the effects of his
actions impending darkly and portentously over him; seeing no escape but
by casting away the only treasure of his life--his adopted child--and
becoming again a solitary, miserable wanderer.
No man ever suffered more keenly than Falkner the stings of remorse; no
man ever resolved more firmly to meet the consequences of his actions
systematically, and without outward flinching. It was perseverance to
one goal that had occasioned all his sin and wo; it followed him in his
repentance; and though misery set a visible mark on his brow, he did not
hesitate nor delay. The journey to Northumberland was long, for he could
only proceed by short stages; and all the time miserable reflection
doubled every mile, and stretched each hour into twice its duration. He
was alone. To look back was wretchedness--to think of Elizabeth was no
solace; hereafter they were to be divided--hereafter no voice of love or
gentle caress would chase the darkness from his brow--he was to be for
ever alone.
At length he arrived at his destination, and reached the entrance to
Belleforest. The mansion, a fine old Gothic building, adorned by the
ruins of an ancient abbey, was in itself venerable and extensive, and
surrounded by a princely demesne. This was the residence of Elizabeth's
ancestors--of her nearest relations. Here her childhood would have been
spent--under these venerable oaks--within these ancestral walls. Falkner
was glad to think that, in being forced to withdraw from her his own
protection, she would take a higher station, and in the world's eye
become more on an equality with Gerard Neville. Everything around
denoted grandeur and wealth; the very circumstance that the family
adhered to the ancient faith of the land--to a form of worship which,
though evil in its effects on the human mind, is to the eye imposing and
magnificent, shed a greater lustre round the place. On inquiry, Falkner
heard that the old gentleman was at Belleforest; indeed, he never
quitted it; but that his daughter-in-law, with her family, were in the
south of England. Mr. Raby was very accessible; on asking for him,
Falkner was instantly ushered in.
He entered a library of vast dimensions, and fitted up with a sort of
heavy splendour; very imposing, but very sombre. The high windows,
painted ceiling, and massy furniture bespoke an oldfashioned, but almost
regal taste. Falkner, for a moment, thought himself alone, when a slight
noise attracted his attention to a diminutive and very white old
gentleman, who advanced towards him. The mansion looked built for a
giant race; and Falkner, expecting the majesty of size, could hardly
contract his view to the slender and insignificant figure of the present
possessor. Oswi Raby looked shrivelled, not so much by age as the
narrowness of his mind; to whose dimensions his outward figure had
contracted itself. His face was pale and thin; his light blue eyes grown
dim; you might have thought that he was drying up and vanishing from the
earth by degrees. Contrasted with this slight shadow of a man, was a
mind that saw the whole world almost concentrated in himself. He, Oswi
Raby, he, head of the oldest family in England, was first of created
beings. Without being assuming in manner, he was self-important in
heart; and there was an obstinacy and an incapacity to understand that
anything was of consequence except himself, or rather, except the house
he represented, that gave extreme repulsion to his manners.
It is always awkward to disclose an errand such as Falkner's; it was
only by plunging at once into it, and warming himself by his own words,
that he contrived to throw grace round his subject. A cloud gathered
over the old man's features; he grew whiter, and his thin lips closed,
as if they had never opened except with a refusal.
"You speak of very painful circumstances," he said; "I have sometimes
feared that I should be intruded upon in behalf of this person; yet,
after so many years, there is less pretence than ever for encroaching
upon an injured family. Edwin himself broke the tie. He was rebellious
and apostate. He had talents, and might have distinguished himself to
his honour; he preferred irreparable disgrace. He abandoned the religion
which we consider as the most precious part of our inheritance; and he
added imprudence to guilt, by, he being himself unprovided for, marrying
a portionless, low-born girl. He never hoped for my forgiveness; he
never even asked it. His death--it is hard for a father to feel
thus--but his death was a relief. We were applied to by his widow; but
with her we could have nothing to do. She was the partner of his
rebellion--nay, we looked upon her as its primal cause. I was willing to
take charge of my grandchild, if delivered entirely up to me. She did
not even think proper to reply to the letter making this concession. I
had, indeed, come to the determination of continuing to her a portion of
the allowance I made to my son, despite his disobedience; but from that
time to this no tidings of either mother or daughter have reached us."
"Death must bear the blame of that negligence," said Falkner, mastering
his rising disgust. "Mrs. Raby was hurried to the grave but a few months
after your son's death, the victim of her devoted affection to her
husband. Their innocent daughter was left among strangers, who did not
know to whom to apply. She, at least, is free from all fault, and has
every claim on her father's family."
"She is nothing, and has no claim," interrupted Mr. Raby, peevishly,
"beyond a bare maintenance, even if she be the person you represent. I
beg your pardon, sir, but you may be deceived yourself on this subject;
but taking it for granted that this young person is the daughter of my
son, what is she to me?"
"A granddaughter is a relation," Falkner began; "a near and dear one--"
"Under such circumstances," interrupted Mr. Raby, "under the
circumstances of a marriage to which I gave no consent, and her being
brought up at a distance from us all, I should rather call her a
connexion than a relation. We cannot look with favour on the child of an
apostate; educated in a faith which we consider pernicious. I am an
oldfashioned man, accustomed only to the society of those whose feelings
coincide with mine; and I must apologize, sir, if I say anything to
shock you; but the truth is self-evident, a child of a discarded son may
have a slender claim for support, none for favour or countenance. This
young person has no right to raise her eyes to us; she must regulate her
expectations by the condition of her mother, who was a sort of servant,
a humble companion or governess, in the house of Mrs. Neville of
Dromore--"
Falkner grew pale at the name, but, commanding himself, replied, "I
believe she was a friend of that lady! I have said I was unacquainted
with the parents of Miss Raby; I found her an orphan, subsisting on
precarious charity. Her few years--her forlorn situation--her beauty and
sweetness, claimed my compassion--I adopted her--"
"And would now throw her off," again interrupted the ill-tempered old
man. "Had you restored her to us in her childhood--had she been brought
up in our religion among us--she would have shared this home with her
cousins. As it is, you must yourself be aware that it will be impossible
to admit, as an inmate, a stranger--a person ignorant of our peculiar
systems--an alien from our religion. Mrs. Raby would never consent to
it; and I would on no account annoy her who, as the mother and guardian
of my heir, merits every deference. I will, however, consult with her,
and with the gentleman who has the conduct of my affairs; and as you
wish to get rid of an embarrassment, which, pardon me if I say you
entirely brought on yourself, we will do what we judge due to the honour
of the family; but I cannot hold out any hopes beyond a
maintenance--unless this young person, whom I should then regard as my
granddaughter, felt a vocation for a religion, out of whose pale I will
never acknowledge a relation."
At every word Falkner grew more angry. He always repressed any
manifestation of passion, and only grew pale, and spoke in a lower,
calmer voice. There was a pause; he glanced at the white hair and
attenuated form of the old man, so to acquire a sufficient portion of
forbearance, and then replied: "It is enough--forget this visit; you
shall never hear again of the existence of your outraged grandchild.
Could you for a moment comprehend her worth, you might feel regret at
casting from you one whose qualities render her the admiration of all
who know her. Some day, when the infirmities of age increase upon you,
you may remember that you might have had a being near, the most
compassionate and kind that breathes. If ever you feel the want of an
affectionate hand to smooth your pillow, you may remember that you have
shut your heart to one who would have been a daily blessing. I do not
wish to disembarrass myself of Miss Raby--Miss Falkner, rather, let me
call her; she has borne my name as my daughter for many years, and shall
continue to retain it, together with my paternal guardianship, while I
live. I have the honour to wish you a good-morning."
Falkner hastily departed; and, as he threw himself on his horse, and at
a quick pace traversed the long avenues of Belleforest, he felt that
boiling of the blood, that inexpressible bursting and tumult of the
heart, that accompanies fierce indignation and disdain. A vehement
desire to pour out the cataract of his contempt and anger on the
offender, was mingled with redoubled tenderness for Elizabeth, with
renewed gratitude for all he owed her, and a yearning, heart-warming
desire to take her again to the shelter of his love, from whence she
should never more depart.