Elizabeth rose on the following morning, her bosom glowing with a
sensation of acknowledged happiness. So much of young love brooded in
her heart, as quickened its pulsations, as gave lightness and joy to her
thoughts. She had no doubts, nor fears, nor even hopes: she was not
aware that love was the real cause of the grateful sense of happiness,
with which she avowed, to Heaven and herself, that all was peace. She
was glad to be reunited to Falkner, for whom she felt an attachment at
once so respectful, and yet, on account of his illness and melancholy,
so watchful and tender, as never allowed her to be wholly free from
solicitude when absent from him. Also she expected on that morning to
see Gerard Neville. When Falkner's letter came to hasten her departure
from Oakly, she felt grieved at the recall, at the moment when she was
expecting him to join her, so to fill up the measure of her enjoyments;
with all this, she was eager to obey, and anxious to be with him again.
Lady Cecil deputed Miss Jervis to accompany her. On the very morning of
their departure, Neville asked for a seat in the carriage; they
travelled to town together; and when they separated, Neville told her of
his intention of immediately securing a passage to America, and since
then had written a note to mention that he should ride over to Wimbledon
on that morning.
The deep interest that Elizabeth took in his enterprise made her
solicitous to know whether he had procured any further information; but
her paramount desire was to introduce him to Falkner, to inspire him
with her sentiments of friendship, and to see two persons whom she
considered superior to the rest of the world bound to each other by a
mutual attachment; she wanted to impart to her father a pity for
Alithea's wrongs, and an admiration for her devoted son. She walked in
the shrubbery before breakfast, enjoying nature with the enthusiasm of
love; she gathered the last roses of the departing season, and mingling
them with a few carnations, hung, with a new sense of rapture, over
these fairest children of nature; for it is the property of love to
enhance all our enjoyments, "to paint the lily, and add a perfume to the
rose." When she returned to the house, she was told that Falkner still
slept, and begged not to be disturbed. She breakfasted, therefore, by
herself, sitting by the open casement, and looking on the waving trees,
her flowers shedding a sweet atmosphere around; sometimes turning to her
open book, where she read of
"The heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb,"
and sometimes leaning her cheek upon her hand, in one of those reveries
where we rather feel than think, and every articulation of the frame
thrills with a living bliss.
The quick canter of a horse, the stopping at the gate, the ringing of
the bell, and the entrance of Neville, made her heart beat and her eyes
light up with gladness. He entered with a lighter step, a more cheerful
and animated mien, than usual. He was aware that he loved. He was
assured that Elizabeth was the being selected from the whole world who
could make him happy; while he regarded her with all the admiration, the
worship, due to her virtues. He had never loved before. The gloom that
absorbed him, the shyness inspired by his extreme sensitiveness, had
hitherto made him avoid the society of women; their pleasures, their
gayety, their light airy converse, were a blank to him; it was
Elizabeth's sufferings that first led him to remark her: the clearness
of her understanding, her simplicity, tenderness, and dignity of soul
won him; and, lastly, the unbounded, undisguised sympathy she felt for
his endeavours, which all else regarded as futile and insane, riveted
him to her indissolubly.
Events were about to separate them, but her thoughts would accompany him
across the Atlantic--stand suspended while his success was dubious, and
hail his triumph with a joy equal to his own. The very thought gave
fresh ardour to his desire to fulfil his task; he had no doubt of
success, and, though the idea of his mother's fate was still a cloud in
the prospect, it only mellowed, without defacing the glowing tints shed
over it by love.
They met with undisguised pleasure; he sat near her, and gazed with such
delight as, to one less inexperienced than Elizabeth, would have at once
betrayed the secret of his heart. He told her that he had found a vessel
about to sail for New-York, and that he had engaged a passage on board.
He was restless and uneasy, he feared a thousand chances; he felt as if
he were neglecting his most sacred duty by any delay; there was
something in him urging him on, telling him that the crisis was at hand;
and yet, that any neglect on his part might cause the moment to slip by
for ever. When arrived at New-York, he should proceed with all speed to
Washington, and then, if Osborne had not arrived, he should set forward
to meet him. So much might intervene to balk his hopes! Osborne might
die, and his secret die with him. Every moment's delay was crime. The
vessel was to drop down the river that very night, and to-morrow he was
to join her at Sheerness. He had come to say farewell.
This sudden departure led to a thousand topics of interest; to his
hopes--his certainty that all would soon be revealed, and he rewarded
for his long suffering. Such ideas led him to speak of the virtues of
his mother, which were the foundation of his hopes. He spoke of her as
he remembered her; he described her watchful tenderness, her playful but
well-regulated treatment of himself. Still in his dreams, he said, he
sometimes felt pressed in her arms, and kissed with all the passionate
affection of her maternal heart; in such sweet visions her cry of agony
would mingle; it seemed the last shriek of wo and death. "Can you
wonder," continued Neville, "can my father, can Sophia wonder, that,
recollecting all these things, I will not bear without a struggle that
my mother's name should be clouded, her fate encompassed by mystery and
blame, her very warm, kind feelings and enchanting sensibility turned
into accusations against her? I do indeed hope and believe that I shall
learn the truth whither I am going, and that the unfortunate victim of
lawless violence, of whom Osborne spoke, is my lost mother; but, if I am
disappointed in this expectation, I shall not for that give up my
pursuit; it will only whet my purpose to seek the truth elsewhere."
"And that truth may be less sad than you anticipate," said Elizabeth;
"yet I cannot help fearing that the miserable tragedy which you have
heard is connected with your mother's fate."
"That it is a tragedy may well dash my eagerness," replied Neville;
"for, right or wrong, I cannot help feeling, that to see her again--to
console her for her sufferings--to show that she is remembered, loved,
idolized by her son, would be a dearer reward to me than triumph over
the barbarous condemnation of the world, if that triumph is to be
purchased by having lost her for ever. This is not an heroic feeling, I
confess--"
"If it be heroism," said Elizabeth, "to find our chief good in serving
others; if compassion, sympathy, and generosity be greater virtues, as I
believe, than cold self-absorbed severity, then is your feeling founded
on the purest portion of our nature."
While they were thus talking, seated near each other, Elizabeth's face
beaming with celestial benignity, and Neville, in the warmth of his
gratitude for her approval, had taken her hand and pressed it to his
lips, the door opened, and Falkner slowly entered. He had not heard of
the arrival of the stranger; but seeing a guest with Elizabeth, he
divined in a moment who it was. The thought ran through his frame like
an ice-bolt--his knees trembled under him--cold dew gathered on his
brow--for a moment he leaned against the doorway, unable to support
himself; while Elizabeth, perceiving his entrance, blushing, she knew
not why, and now frightened by the ghastly pallor of his face, started
up, exclaiming, "My father! Are you ill?"
Falkner struggled a moment longer, and then recovered his
self-possession. The disordered expression of his countenance was
replaced by a cold and stern look, which, aided by the marble paleness
that settled over it, looked more like the chiselling of a statue than
mortal endurance. A lofty resolve to bear unflinchingly was the spirit
that moulded his features into an appearance of calm. From this moment
he acquired the strength of body, as well as of mind, to meet the
destiny before him. The energy of his soul did not again fail. Every
instant--every word, seemed to add to his courage--to nerve him to the
utmost height of endurance; to make him ready to leap, without one
tremour, into the abyss which he had so long and so fearfully avoided.
The likeness of Neville to his mother had shaken him more than all. His
voice, whose tones were the same with hers, was another shock. His very
name jarred upon his sense, but he betrayed no token of suffering. "Mr.
Neville," said Elizabeth, "is come to take leave of me. To-morrow he
sails to America."
"To America! Wherefore?" asked Falkner.
"I wrote to you," she replied; "I explained the motives of this voyage.
You know--"
"I know all," said Falkner; "and this voyage to America is superfluous."
Neville echoed the word with surprise, while Elizabeth exclaimed, "Do
you think so? You must have good reasons for this opinion. Tell them to
Mr. Neville. Your counsels, I am sure, will be of use to him. I have
often wished that you had been with us. I am so glad that he sees you
before he goes--if he does go. You say his voyage is superfluous; tell
him wherefore; advise him. Your advice will, I am sure, be good. I would
give the world that he did the exact thing that is best--that is most
likely to succeed."
Neville looked gratefully at her as she spoke thus eagerly; while
Falkner, still standing, his eyes fixed on and scanning the person of
the son of his victim, marble pale, but displaying feeling by no other
outward sign, scarcely heard what she said, till her last words drew his
attention. He smiled, as in scorn, and said, "Oh, yes, I can advise; and
he shall succeed--and he will not go."
"I shall be happy," said Neville, with surprise. "I am willing to be
advised--that is, if your advice coincides with my wishes."
"It shall do so," interrupted Falkner.
"Then," exclaimed Neville, impetuously, "the moments that I linger here
will appear to you too many. You will desire that I should be on board
already--already under sail--already arrived. You will wish the man whom
I seek should be waiting on the sands when I reach the shore!"
"He is much nearer," said Falkner, calmly; "he is before you. I am he!"
Neville started; "You! What mean you? You are not Osborne."
"I am Rupert Falkner; your mother's destroyer."
Neville glanced at Elizabeth--his eye met hers--their thought was the
same, that this declaration proceeded from insanity. The fire that
flashed from Falkner's eyes as he spoke--the sudden crimson that died
his cheeks--the hollow though subdued tone of his voice, gave warrant
for such a suspicion.
Elizabeth gazed on him with painful solicitude.
"I will not stay one moment longer," continued Falkner, "to pain you by
the sight of one so accursed as I. You will hear more from me this very
evening. You will hear enough to arrest your voyage; and remember that I
shall remain ready to answer any call--to make any reparation--any
atonement you may require."
He was gone--the door closed; it was as if a dread spectre had vanished,
and Neville and Elizabeth looked at each other to read in the face of
either whether both were conscious of having been visited by the same
vision.
"What does he mean? Can you tell me what to think?" cried Neville,
almost gasping for breath.
"I will tell you in a few hours," said Elizabeth. "I must go to him now;
I fear he is very ill. This is madness. When your mother died, Mr.
Neville, my father and I were travelling together in Russia or Poland. I
remember dates--I am sure that it was so. This is too dreadful.
Farewell. You sail to-morrow--you shall hear from me to-night."
"Be sure that I do," said Neville; "for there is a method in his
speech--a dignity and a composure in his manner, that enforces a sort of
belief. What can he mean?"
"Do you imagine," cried Elizabeth, "that there is any truth in these
unhappy ravings? That my father, who would not tread upon a worm--whose
compassionate disposition and disinterestedness have been known to me
since early childhood--the noblest and yet the gentlest of human
beings--do you imagine that he is a murderer? Dear Mr. Neville, he never
could have seen your mother!"
"Is it indeed so?" said Neville; "yet he said one word--did you not
remark?--he called himself Rupert. But I will not distress you. You will
write; or rather, as my time will be occupied in preparations for my
voyage, and I scarcely know where the day will be spent, I will call
here this evening at nine. If you cannot see me, send me a note to the
gate, containing some information, either to expedite or delay my
journey. Even if this strange scene be the work of insanity, how can I
leave you in distress? and if it be true what he says--if he be the man
I saw tear my mother from me--how altered--how turned to age and
decrepitude! Yet, if he be that man, then I have a new and horrible
course to take."
"Is it so?" cried Elizabeth, with indignation; "and can a man so cloud
his fair fame, so destroy his very existence, by the wild words of
delirium, that my dear father should be accused of being the most odious
criminal?"
"Nay," replied Neville, "I make no accusation. Do not part from me in
anger. You are right, I do not doubt; and I am unjust. I will call
to-night."
"Do so without fail. Do not lose your passage. I little knew that
personal feeling would add to my eagerness to learn the truth. Do not
stay for my sake. Come to-night and learn how false and wild my father's
words were; and then hasten to depart--to see Osborne--to learn all!
Farewell till this evening."
She hurried away to Falkner's room, while stunned--doubting--forced, by
Elizabeth, to entertain doubts, and yet convinced in his heart; for the
name of Rupert brought, conviction home--Neville left the house. He had
entered it fostering the sweetest dreams of happiness, and now he dared
not look at the reverse.
Elizabeth, filled with the most poignant inquietude with regard to his
health, hastened to the sitting-room which Falkner usually occupied. She
found him seated at the table, with a small box--a box she well
remembered--open before him. He was looking over the papers it
contained. His manner was perfectly composed--the natural hue had
returned to his cheeks--his look was sedate. He was, indeed, very
different from the man who, thirteen years before, had landed in
Cornwall. He was then in the prime of life; and if passion defaced his
features, still youth, and health, and power animated his frame. Long
years of grief and remorse, with sickness superadded, had made him old
before his time. The hair had receded from the temples, and what
remained was sprinkled with gray; his figure was bent and attenuated;
his face careworn; yet, at this moment, he had regained a portion of his
former self. There was an expression on his face of satisfaction, almost
of triumph; and, when he saw Elizabeth, the old, sweet smile she knew
and loved so well lighted up his countenance. He held out his hand; she
took it. There was no fever in the palm--his pulse was equable; and when
he spoke his voice did not falter. He said, "This blow has fallen
heavily on you, my dear girl; yet all will be well soon, I trust.
Meanwhile it cannot be quite unexpected."
Elizabeth looked her astonishment--he continued:--"You have long known
that a heavy crime weighs on my conscience. It renders me unfit to live;
yet, I have not been permitted to die. I sought death--but we are seldom
allowed to direct our fate. I do not, however, complain; I am well
content with the end which will speedily terminate all."
"My dearest father," cried Elizabeth, "I cannot guess what you mean. I
thought--but no--you are not ill--you are not--"
"Not mad, dearest? was that your thought? It is a madness, at least,
that has lasted long--since first you stayed my hand on your mother's
grave. You are too good, too affectionate to regret having saved me,
even when you hear who I am. You are too resigned to Providence not to
acquiesce in the way chosen to bring all things to their destined end."
Elizabeth put her arm round his neck and kissed him. "Thank you," said
Falkner, "and God bless you for this kindness. I shall indeed be glad if
you, from your heart, pardon and excuse me. Meanwhile, my love, there is
something to be done. These papers contain an account of the miserable
past; you must read them, and then let Mr. Neville have them without
delay."
"Nay," said Elizabeth, "spare me this one thing--do not ask me to read
the history of any one error of yours. In my eyes you must ever be the
first and best of human beings--if it has ever been otherwise, I will
not hear of it. You shall never be accused of guilt before me, even by
yourself."
"Call it, then, my justification," said Falkner. "But do not refuse my
request--it is necessary. If it be pain, pardon me for inflicting it;
but bear it for my sake--I wrote this narrative when I believed myself
about to die in Greece, for the chief purpose of disclosing the truth to
you. I have told my story truly and simply; you can have it from no one
else, for no human being breathes who knows the truth except myself.
Yield, then--you have ever been yielding to me--yield, I beseech you, to
my solemn request; do not shrink from hearing of my crimes--I hope soon
to atone them. And then perform one other duty: send these papers to
your friend--you know where he is."
"He will call here this evening at nine."
"By that time you will have finished; I am going to town now, but shall
return to-night. Mr. Neville will be come and gone before then, and you
will know all. I do not doubt but that you will pity me--such is your
generosity, that perhaps you may love me still--but you will be shocked
and wretched, and I the cause. Alas! how many weapons do our errors
wield, and how surely does retribution aim at our defenceless side! To
know that I am the cause of unhappiness to you, my sweet girl, inflicts
a pang I cannot endure with any fortitude. But there is a remedy, and
all will be well in the end."
Elizabeth hung over him as he spoke, and he felt a tear warm on his
cheek, fallen from her eye--he was subdued by this testimony of her
sympathy--he strained her to his heart; but, in a moment after, he
reassumed his self-command, and, kissing her, bade her farewell, and
then left her to the task of sorrow he had assigned.
She knew not what to think, what image to conjure up. His words were
free from all incoherence; before her, also, were the papers that would
tell all--she turned from them with disgust; and then again she thought
of Neville, his departure, his promised return, and what she could say
to him. It was a hideous dream, but there was no awakening; she sat
down, she took out the papers; the number of pages written in her
father's hand seemed a reprieve; she should not hear all the dreadful
truth in a few short, piercing words--there was preparation. For a
moment she paused to gather her thoughts--to pray for fortitude--to hope
that the worst was not there, but, in its stead, some venial error that
looked like crime to his sensitive mind; and then--she began to read.