Sir Boyvill quickened his pace; Neville followed. He was still the same
being who in his youth had been driven to the verge of insanity by the
despotism of his father. His free and feeling heart revolted from
arbitrary commands and selfishness. It was not only that his thoughts
flew back, wounded and sore, to Elizabeth, and figured her agony, but he
detested the fierce and vulgar revenge of his father. It is true that he
had seen Falkner, and in the noble though tarnished grandeur of his
countenance he had read the truth of the sad tale he related; and he
could not treat him with the contempt Sir Boyvill evinced; to whom he
was an image of the mind--unseen, unfelt. And then Falkner had loved his
mother; nay, more, she as a sister had loved him; and faulty and cruel
as had been his return for her kindness, he, through her, was endued
with sacredness in his eyes.
To oppose these softening feelings came a sort of rage that Elizabeth
was his child; that through him a barrier was raised to separate him
from the chosen friend of his heart, the one sweet, angel who had first
whispered peace to his soul. The struggle was violent--he did not see
how he could refuse his evidence at the inquest already summoned; in
every way his motives might be misunderstood, and his mother's fame
might suffer. This idea became the victor--he would do all that he was
called upon to do--to exculpate her; the rest he must leave to the
mysterious guidance of Providence.
He arrived at the poverty-stricken town of Ravenglass--the legal
authorities were assembled--and while preliminaries were being arranged,
he was addressed by Sir Boyvill's solicitor, who asked him to relate
what he knew, that his legal knowledge might assist in framing his
evidence briefly and conclusively. Neville recounted his story simply,
confining himself, as much as possible, to the bare outline of the
facts. The man of law was evidently struck by the new turn he gave to
the tale; for Sir Boyvill had unhesitatingly accused Falkner of murder.
"This Falkner," he said, "had concealed himself for the space of
thirteen years, till his accomplice Osborne was discovered--and till he
heard of Gerard's perseverance in sifting the truth--then, fearful the
tale might be disclosed in America, he came forward with his own
narrative, which glossed over the chief crime, and yet, by revealing the
burial-place of his victim, at once demonstrated the truth of the
present accusation. It is impossible that the facts could have occurred
as he represents them, plausible as his account is. Could a woman as
timid as Alithea have rushed on certain death, as he describes? Why
should she have crossed the stream in its fury? A bare half mile would
have carried her to a cottage where she had been safe from Falkner's
pursuit. What lady in a well-known country, where every face she met
must prove a friend, but would not have betaken herself to the nearest
village, instead of to an estuary renowned for danger. The very wetting
her feet in a brook had terrified her--never could she have encountered
the roar of waves sufficient to overwhelm and destroy her."
Such were the observations of Sir Boyvill; and though Gerard, by his
simple assertion that he believed Falkner's tale, somewhat staggered the
solicitor, yet he could not banish his notion that a trial was the
inevitable and best mode of bringing the truth to light. The jury were
now met, and Sir Boyvill gave such a turn to his evidence as at once
impressed them unfavourably towards the accused. In melancholy
procession they visited poor Alithea's grave. A crowd of country people
were collected about it--they did not dare touch the cloak, but gazed on
it with curiosity and grief. Many remembered Mrs. Neville, and their
rude exclamations showed how deeply they felt her injuries. "When I was
ill," said an old woman, "she gave me medicine with her own hand." "When
my son James was lost at sea," said another, "she came to comfort me,
and brought young Master Gerard--and cried, bless her! When she saw me
take on--rich and grand as she was, she cried for poor James--and that
she should be there now!" "My dear mistress," cried another, "never did
she speak a harsh word to me--but for her, I could not have married--if
she had lived, I had never known sorrow!"
Execrations against the murderer followed these laments. The arrival of
the jury caused a universal murmur--the crowd was driven back--the cloak
lifted from the grave--the men looked in; the scull, bound by her long
hair--hair whose colour and luxuriance many remembered--attracted
peculiar observation; the women, as they saw it, wept aloud--fragments
of her dress were examined, which yet retained a sort of identity, as
silk or muslin--though stained and colourless. As farther proof, among
the bones were found a few ornaments--among them, on the skeleton hand,
was her wedding-ring, with two others--both of which were sworn to by
Sir Boyvill as belonging to his wife. No doubt could exist concerning
the identity of the remains; it was sacrilege to gaze on them a moment
longer than was necessary--while each beholder, as they contemplated so
much beauty and excellence reduced to a small heap of bones, abhorrent
to the eye, imbibed a heartfelt lesson on the nothingness of life.
Stout-hearted men wept--and each bosom glowed with hatred against her
destroyer.
After a few moments the cloak was again extended--the crowd pressed
nearer--the jury retired, and returned to Ravenglass. Neville's evidence
was only necessary to prove the name and residence of the
assassin--there was no hesitation about the verdict. That of wilful
murder against Falkner was unhesitatingly pronounced--a warrant issued
for his apprehension, and proper officers despatched to execute it.
The moment that the verdict was delivered, Sir Boyvill and his son rode
back to Dromore. Mr. Ashley and the solicitor accompanied them--and all
the ordinary mechanism of life, which intrudes so often for our good, so
to justle together discordant characters and wear off poignant
impressions, now forced Neville, who was desirous to give himself up to
meditation, to abide for several hours in the society of these
gentlemen. There was a dinner to be eaten--Mr. Ashley partook of it, and
Gerard felt that his absence would be indecorous. After dinner he was
put to a trial--more severe to a sensitive, imaginative mind than any
sharp strokes of commonplace adversity. He was minutely questioned as to
the extent of his acquaintance with Falkner--how he came to form it--how
often he had seen him--and what had drawn confession from him they named
the criminal. These inquiries had been easily answered, but that the
name of Elizabeth must be introduced--and, as he expected, at the
mention of a daughter, a world of inquiry followed--and coarse remarks
fell from his father's lips--which harrowed up his soul; while he felt
that he had no exculpation to offer, nor any explanation that might take
from her the name and association of the child of a murderer.
As soon as he could he burst away. He rushed into the open air, and
hurried to the spot where he could best combat with and purify the
rebellious emotions of his heart--none but the men placed as watch were
near his mother's grave. Seeing the young squire, they retreated--and he
who had come on foot at such quick pace that he scarcely felt the ground
he trod, threw himself on the sands, grateful to find himself alone with
nature. The moon was hurrying on among the clouds--now bright in the
clear ether, now darkened by heavy masses--and the mirroring ocean was
sometimes alive with sparkling silver, now veiled and dim, so that you
could hear, but not see, the breaking of the surge.
An eloquent author has said, in contempt of such a being: "Try to
conceive a man without the ideas of God and eternity; of the good, the
true, the beautiful, and the infinite." Neville was certainly not such.
There was poetry in his very essence; and enthusiasm for the ideal of
the excellent gave his character a peculiar charm, to any one equally
exalted and refined. His mother's decaying form lay beneath the sands on
which he was stretched, death was there in its most hideous form;
beauty, and even form had deserted that frame-work which once was the
dear being, whose caresses, so warm and fond, it yet often thrilled him
to remember. He had demanded from Heaven the revelation of his mother's
fate, _here_ he found it, here in the narrow grave lay the evidence of
her virtues and her death; did he thank Heaven? even while he did, he
felt with bitterness that the granting of his prayer was inextricably
linked with the ruin of a being, as good and fair as she whose honour he
had so earnestly desired to vindicate.
He thought of all the sordid, vulgar, but heart-thrilling misery which
by his means was brought on Elizabeth; and he sought his heart for
excuses for the success for which he had pined. They came ready; no
desire of vulgar vengeance had been his; his motives had been exalted,
his conduct straightforward. The divine stamp on woman is her maternal
character--it was to prove that his idolized mother had not deserted the
first and most sacred duty in the world that had urged him--and he could
not foresee that the innocent would suffer through his inquiries. The
crime must fall on its first promoter--on Falkner's head must be heaped
the consequences of his act; all else were guiltless. These reflections,
however, only served to cheat his wound of its pain for a time--again
other thoughts recurred, the realities, the squalid realities of the
scene, in which she, miserable, was about to take a part. The
thief-takers and the gyves--the prison, and the public ignominious
trial--Falkner was to be subjected to all these indignities, and he well
knew that his daughter would not leave his side. "And I, her son, the
offspring of these sainted bones--placed here by him--how can I draw
near his child! God have mercy on her, for man will have none!"
Still he could not be satisfied. "Surely," he thought, "something can be
done, and something I will do. Already men are gone, who are to tear him
from his home, and to deliver him up to all those vile contrivances
devised for the coercion of the lowest of mankind--she will accompany
him, while I must remain here. To-morrow these remains will be conveyed
to our house--on the following day they are to be interred in the family
vault, and I must be present--I am tied, forced to inaction--the
privilege of free action taken from me."
Hope was awakened, however, as he pursued these thoughts, and
recollected the generous, kindly disposition of Lady Cecil, and her
attachment to her young friend. He determined to write to her. He felt
assured that she would do all in her power to alleviate Elizabeth's
sufferings--what she could do, he did not well understand--but it was a
relief to him to take some step for the benefit of the devoted daughter.
Bitterly as he thought of these things, did he regret that he had ever
seen Elizabeth? So complicated was the web of event, that he knew not
how to wish any event to have occurred differently; except that he had
not trusted to the hollow pretences of his father. He saw at once how
the generous and petty-minded can never coalesce--he ought to have acted
for himself, by himself; and miserable as in any case the end must have
been, he felt that his own open, honourable revenge would have been less
cruel in its effects than the malicious pursuit of his vindictive
father.