Falkner's mind had undergone a total change; he had gone to Belleforest,
believing it to be his duty to restore to its possessors a dearer
treasure than any held by them; he left it, resolved never to part from
his adopted child. "Get rid of an embarrassment!" he repeated to
himself; "get rid of Elizabeth, of tender affection, truth, and
fidelity! of the heart's fondest ties, my soul's only solace! How often
has my life been saved and cheered by her only! And when I would
sacrifice blessings of which I hold myself unworthy, I hear the noblest
and most generous being in the world degraded by the vulgar, sordid
prejudices of that narrow-minded bigot! How paltry seems the pomp of
wealth, or the majesty of these ancient woods, when it is recollected
that they are lorded over by such a thing as that!"
Falkner's reflections were all painful; his heavily-burdened conscience
weighed him to the earth. He felt that there was justice in a part of
Mr. Raby's representations; that if Elizabeth had been brought up under
his care, in a religion which, because it was persecuted, was the more
valuable in their eyes; participating in their prejudices, and endeared
to them by habit, she would have had claims, which, as she was, unseen,
unknown, and totally disjoined from them in opinions and feelings, she
could never possess. He was the cause of this, having, in her infancy,
chosen to take her to himself, to link his desolate fate to her brighter
one; and now he could only repent for her sake; yet, for her sake, he
did repent, when, looking forward, he thought of the growing attachment
between her and the son of his victim.
What could he do? recall her? forbid her again to see Gerard Neville?
Unexplained commands are ever unjust, and had any strong feeling sprung
up in either of their hearts, they could not be obeyed. Should he tell
her all, and throw himself on her mercy? He would thus inflict deep,
irreparable pangs, and, besides, place her in a painful situation, where
duty would struggle with inclination; and pride and affection both made
it detestable to him to create such a combat in her heart, and cause her
to feel pangs and make sacrifices for him. What other part was there to
take? to remain neuter? let events take their course? If it ended as he
foresaw, when a marriage was mentioned, he could reveal her real birth.
Married to Gerard Neville, her relations would gladly acknowledge her,
and then he could withdraw for ever. He should have much to endure
meanwhile; to hear a name perpetually repeated that thrilled to the very
marrow of his bones; perhaps to see the husband and son of her he had
destroyed: he felt sick at heart at such a thought; he put it aside. It
was not to-day, it could not be to-morrow, that he should be called upon
to encounter these evils; meanwhile, he would shut his eyes upon them.
Returning homeward, he felt impelled to prolong his tour, he visited
some of the lakes of Westmoreland, and the mountain scenery of
Derbyshire. The thought of return was painful, so he lingered on the
way, and wrote for his letters to be forwarded to him. He had been some
weeks without receiving any from Elizabeth, and he felt extreme
impatience again to be blessed with the sight of her handwriting--he
felt how passionately he loved her--how to part from her was to part
from every joy of life; he called himself her father--his heart
acknowledged the tie in every pulsation; no father ever worshipped a
child so fervently; her voice, her smile--and dear loving eyes, where
were they?--they were far, but here was something--a little packet of
letters, that must for the present stand in lieu of the dearer blessing
of her presence. He looked at the papers with delight--he pressed them
to his lips--he delayed to open them, as if he did not deserve the joy
they would communicate--as if its excess would overpower him. "I purpose
parting from her," he thought; "but still she is mine, mine when she
traced those lines--mine as I read the expressions of her affection;
there are hours of delight garnered for me in those little sealed
talismans that nothing future or past can tarnish, and yet the name of
Neville will be there!" The thought brought a cold chill with it, and he
opened the letters hastily to know the worst.
Elizabeth had half forgotten the pain with which Falkner had at one time
shrunk from a name become so dear to her; when she wrote, her heart was
full of Gerard's story--and, besides, she had had letters from her
father speaking of him with kindness, so that she indulged herself by
alluding to it--to the disappearance of his mother and Gerard's misery;
the trial--the brutality of Sir Boyvill; and last, to the resolution
formed in childhood, brooded over through youth, now acted upon, to
discover his mother's destroyer. "Nor is it," she wrote, "any vulgar
feeling of vengeance that influences him--but the purest and noblest
motives. She is stigmatized as unworthy--he would vindicate her fame.
When I hear the surmises, the accusations cast on her, I feel with him.
To hear a beloved parent accused of guilt, must indeed be the most
bitter wo; to believe her innocent, and to prove her such, the only
alleviation. God grant that he may succeed!--and though I wish no ill to
any human being, yet rather may the height of evil fall on the head of
the true criminal, than continue to cloud the days of a being whose soul
is moulded in sensibility and honour!"
"Thus do you pray, heedless Elizabeth! May the true criminal feel the
height of evil; may he--whom you have saved from death--endure tortures
compared to which a thousand deaths were nothing! Be it so! you shall
have your wish!"
Impetuous as fire, Falkner did not pause: something, some emotion
devouring as fire, was lighted up in his heart--there must be no
delay!--never had he seen the effects of his crime in so vivid a light;
avoiding the name of Neville, he had never heard that of his victim
coupled with shame--she was unfortunate, but he persuaded himself that
she was not thought guilty; dear injured saint! had then her sacred name
been bandied about by the vulgar--she pronounced unworthy by the judges
of her acts--ignominy heaped upon the grave he had dug for her? Was her
beloved son the victim of his belief in her goodness? Had his youthful
life been blighted by his cowardly concealments? Oh, rather a thousand
deaths than such a weight of sin upon his soul! He would declare all;
offer his life in expiation--what more could be demanded?
And again--this might be thought a more sordid motive; and yet it was
not--Gerard was vowed to the discovery of the true criminal; he would
discover him--earth would render up her secrets, Heaven lead the son to
the very point--by slow degrees his crime would be unveiled--Elizabeth
called upon to doubt and to believe. His vehement disposition was not
calculated to bear the slow process of such discoveries; he would meet
them, avow all--let the worst fall on him: it was happiness to know and
feel the worst.
Lost for ever, he would deliver himself up to reprobation and the
punishment of his guilt. Too long he had delayed--now all his motives
for concealment melted away like snow overspread by volcanic fire.
Fierce, hurrying destiny seized him by the hair of his head--crying
aloud, "Murderer, offer up thy blood--shade of Alithea, take thy
victim!"
He wrote instantly to Elizabeth to meet him at their home at Wimbledon,
and proceeded thither himself. Unfortunately, the tumult of his thoughts
acted on his health; after he had proceeded a few miles, he was taken
ill--for three days he was confined to his bed, in a high fever. He
thought he was about to die--his secret untold. Copious bleeding,
however, subdued the violence of the attack--and weak and faint, he,
despite his physician's advice, proceeded homeward; weak and faint, an
altered man--life had no charms, no calls, but one duty. Hitherto he had
lived in contempt of the chain of effects which ever links pain to evil
and of the Providence which will not let the innocent be for ever
traduced. It had fallen on him; now his punishment had begun, not as he,
in the happier vehemence of passion, had determined, not by sudden,
self-inflicted, or glorious death--but the slow grinding of the iron
wheels of destiny, as they passed over him, crushing him in the dust.
Yet his heart, despite its sufferings, warmed with something like
pleasure when, after a tedious journey of three days, he drew near his
home, where he hoped to find Elizabeth. He had misgivings; he had asked
her to return, but she might have written to request a delay--no! she
was there; she had been there two days, anxiously expecting him. It is
so sweet a thing to hear the voice of one we love welcoming us on our
return home! It seems to assure us of a double existence; not only in
our own identity--which we bear perpetually about with us--but in the
heart we leave behind, which has thought of us--lived for us, and now
beats with warm pleasure on beholding the expected one. On the whole
earth Falkner loved none but Elizabeth. He hated himself; the past--the
present--the future, as they appertained to him, were all detestable;
remorse, grief, and loathsome anticipation made up the sum of feelings
with which he regarded them: but here, bright and beautiful; without
taint; all affection and innocence--a monument of his own good feelings,
a lasting rock to which to moor his every hope, stood before him the
child of his adoption; his heart felt bursting when he thought of all
she was to him.
Yet a doubt entered to mar his satisfaction--was she changed? If love
had insinuated itself into her heart, he was rejected; at least the
plenteous, abundant fountain, that gave from its own source, would be
changed to the still waters that neither received increase nor bestowed
any overflowing. Worse than this--she loved Gerard Neville, the son of
his victim, he whose life was devastated by him, who would regard him
with abhorrence. He would teach Elizabeth to partake this feeling. The
blood stood chilled in Falkner's heart when he thought of thus losing
the only being he loved on earth.
He mastered these feelings when he saw her. The first moment, indeed,
when she flew to his arms, and expressed with eager fondness her delight
in seeing him again, was all happiness. She perceived the traces of
suffering on his brow, and chided herself for having remained away so
long; she promised never to absent herself thus again. Every remembered
look and tone of her dear face and voice, now brought palpably before
him, was a medicine to Falkner. He repressed his uneasiness, he banished
his fears; for a few hours he made happiness his own again.
The evening was passed in calm and cheering conversation. No word was
said of the friends whom Elizabeth had left. She had forgotten them,
during the first few hours she spent with her father; and when she did
allude to her visit, Falkner said, "We will talk of these things
to-morrow; to-night let us only think of ourselves." Elizabeth felt a
little mortified; the past weeks, the fortunes of her friends, and the
sentiments they excited, had become a part of herself; and she was
pained that so much of disjunction existed between her and Falkner, as
to make that which was so vivid and present to her vacant of interest to
him; but she checked her disappointment: soon he would know her new
friend, sympathize in his devotion towards his injured mother, enter as
warmly as she did into the result of his endeavours for her exculpation.
Meanwhile she yielded to his wish, and they talked of scenes and
countries they had visited together, and all the feelings and opinions
engendered by the past; as they were wont to do in days gone by, before
a stranger influence had disturbed a world in which they lived for each
other only--father and daughter--without an interest beyond.
Nothing could be more pure and entire than their affection, and there
was between them that mingling of hearts which words cannot describe;
but which, whenever it is experienced, in whatever relation in life, is
unalloyed happiness. There was a total absence of disguise, of covert
censure, of mutual diffidence; perfect confidence gave rise to the
fearless utterance of every idea, and there was a repose, and yet an
enjoyment in the sense of sympathy and truth, which filled and
satisfied. Falkner was surprised at the balmy sense of joy that, despite
everything, stole over him; and he kissed and blessed his child, as she
retired for the night, with more grateful affection, a fuller sense of
her merits, and a more fervent desire of preserving her always near him,
than he had ever before been conscious of experiencing.