While these thoughts, founded on a natural piety, pure and gentle as
herself, occupied Elizabeth, Falkner indulged in far other speculations.
He triumphed. It is strange, that although perpetually deceived and led
astray by our imagination, we always fancy that we can foresee, and in
some sort command, the consequences of our actions. Falkner, while he
deplored his beloved victim with the most heartfelt grief, yet at no
time experienced a qualm of fear, because he believed that he held the
means of escape in his own hands, and could always shelter himself from
the obloquy that he now incurred, in an unapproachable tomb. Through
strange accidents, that resource had failed him; he was alive, and his
secret was in the hands of his enemies. But as he confronted the injured
son of a more injured mother, another thought, dearer to his lawless yet
heroic imagination, presented itself. There was one reparation he could
make, and doubtless it would be demanded of him. The law of honour would
be resorted to, to avenge the death of Alithea. He did not for a moment
doubt but that Neville would challenge him. His care must be to fall by
the young man's hand. There was a sort of poetical justice in this idea,
a noble and fitting ending to his disastrous story, that solaced his
pride, and filled him, as it has been said, with triumph.
Having arrived at this conclusion, he felt sure also that the
consummation would follow immediately on Neville's perusal of the
narration put into his hands, This very day might be his last, and it
was necessary to make every preliminary arrangement. Leaving Elizabeth
occupied with his fatal papers, he drove to town to seek Mr. Raby's
solicitor, to place in his hands the proofs of his adopted child's
birth, so to secure her future acknowledgment by her father's family.
She was not his child; no drop of his blood flowed in her veins; his
name did not belong to her. As Miss Raby, Neville would gladly seek her,
while as Miss Falkner, an insuperable barrier existed between them; and
though he fell by Gerard's hand, yet he meant to leave a letter to
convince her that this was but a sort of cunning suicide, and that it
need place no obstacle between two persons whom he believed were formed
for each other. What more delightful than that his own Elizabeth should
love the son of Alithea? If he survived, indeed, this mutual attachment
would be beset by difficulties; his death was like the levelling of a
mountain--all was plain, easy, happy, when he no longer deformed the
scene.
He had some difficulty in meeting with Mr. Raby's man of business. He
found him, however, perfectly acquainted with all the circumstances, and
eager to examine the documents placed in his hands. He had already
written to Treby, and received confirmation of all Falkner's statements.
This activity had been imparted by Mrs. Raby, then at Tunbridge Wells,
who was anxious to render justice to the orphan, the moment she had been
informed of her existence; Falkner heard with great satisfaction of the
excellent qualities of this lady, and the interest she showed in poor
Edwin Raby's orphan child. The day was consumed, and part of the
evening, in these arrangements, and a final interview with his own
solicitor. His will was already made: he divided his property between
Elizabeth and his cousin, the only surviving daughter of his uncle.
Something of shame was in his heart when he returned and met again his
adopted child, a shame ennobled by the sense that he was soon to offer
up his life as atonement; while she, who had long been reflecting on all
that occurred, yet felt it brought home more keenly when she again saw
him, and read in his countenance the tale of remorse and grief, more
legibly than in the written page. Passionately and gratefully attached,
her heart warmed towards him, his very look of suffering was an urgent
call upon her fidelity; and though she felt all the change that his
disclosures operated, though she saw the flowery path she had been
treading at once wasted and barren, all sense of personal disappointment
was merged in her desire to prove her affection at that moment;
silently, but with heroic fervour, she offered herself up at the shrine
of his broken fortunes: love, friendship, good name, life itself, if
need were, should be set at naught; weighed in a balance against her
duty to him, they were but as a feather in the scale.
They sat together as of old, their looks were affectionate, their talk
cheerful; it seemed to embrace the future as well as the present, and
yet to exclude every painful reflection. The heart of each bore its own
secret without betrayal. Falkner expected in a few hours to be called
upon to expiate with his life the evils he had caused, while Elizabeth's
thoughts wandered to Neville. Now he was reading the fatal narrative;
now agonized pity for his mother, now abhorrence of Falkner, alternated
in his heart; her image was cast out, or only called up to be associated
with the hated name of the destroyer. Her sensibility was keenly
excited. How ardently had she prayed, how fervently had she believed
that he would succeed in establishing his mother's innocence; in what
high honour she had held his filial piety--these things were still the
same; yet how changed were both towards each other! It was impossible
that they should ever meet again as formerly, ever take counsel
together, that she should ever be made happy by the reflection that she
was his friend and comforter.
Falkner called her attention by a detail of his journey to Belleforest,
and the probability that she would soon have a visit from her aunt. Here
was a new revulsion; Elizabeth was forced to remember that her name was
Raby. Falkner described the majestic beauties of the ancestral seat of
her family, tried to impress her with the imposing grandeur of its
antiquity, to interest her in its religion and prejudices, to gild the
reality of pride and desertion with the false colours of principle and
faith. He spoke of Mrs. Raby, as he had heard her mentioned, as a woman
of warm feeling, strong intellect, and extreme generosity. Elizabeth
listened, but her eyes were fondly fixed on Falkner's face, and at last
she exclaimed with spontaneous earnestness, "For all this I am your
child, and we shall never be divided!"
It was now near midnight; at each moment Falkner expected a message from
the son of his victim. He engaged Elizabeth to retire to her room, that
her suspicions might not be excited by the arrival of a visiter at that
unaccustomed hour. He was glad to see her wholly unsuspicious of what he
deemed the inevitable consequence of his confession; for though her
thoughts evidently wandered, and traces of regret clouded her brow, it
was regret, not fear, that inspired sadness; she tried to cheer, to
comfort for the past, and gain fortitude to meet the future; but that
future presented no more appalling image than the never seeing Gerard
Neville more.
She went, and he remained waiting and watching the livelong night, but
no one came. The following day passed, and the same mysterious silence
was observed. What could it mean? It was impossible to accuse Alithea's
child of lukewarmness in her cause, or want of courage. A sort of dark,
mysterious fear crept over Falkner's heart; something would be done;
some vengeance taken. In what frightful shape would the ghost of the
past haunt him? He seemed to scent horror and disgrace in the very
winds, yet he was spell-bound; he must await Neville's call, he must
remain as he had promised, to offer the atonement demanded. He had felt
glad and triumphant when he believed that reparation to be his life in
the field; but the delay was ominous; he knew not why, but at each ring
at the gate, each step along the passages of the house, his heart grew
chill, his soul quailed. He despised himself for cowardice, yet it was
not that; but he knew that evil was at hand; he pitied Elizabeth, and he
shrunk from himself as one doomed to dishonour and unspeakable misery.