There is an impatient spirit in the young, that will not suffer them to
take into consideration the pauses that occur between events. That which
they do not see move, they believe to be stationary. Falkner was
surprised by the silence of several days on the part of Neville; but he
did not the less expect and prepare for the time, when he should be
called upon to render an account for the wrong he had done. Elizabeth,
on the contrary, deemed that the scene was closed, the curtain fallen.
What more could arise? Neville had obtained assurance of the innocence
and miserable end of his mother. In some manner this would be declared
to the world; but the echo of such a voice would not penetrate the
solitude in which she and her guardian were hereafter to live. Silence
and exclusion were the signal and seal of discovered guilt--other
punishment she did not expect. The name of Falkner had become abhorrent
to all who bore any relationship to the injured Alithea. She had bid an
eternal adieu to the domestic circle at Oakly--to the kind and
frank-hearted Lady Cecil--and, with her, to Gerard. His mind, fraught
with a thousand virtues--his heart, whose sensibility had awoke her
tenderness, were shut irrevocably against her.
Did she love Gerard? This question never entered her own mind. She felt,
but did not reason on, her emotions. Elizabeth was formed to be alive to
the better part of love. Her enthusiasm gave ideality, her affectionate
disposition warmth, to all her feelings. She loved Falkner, and that
with so much truth and delicacy, yet fervour of passion, that scarcely
could her virgin heart conceive a power more absolute, a tie more
endearing, than the gratitude she had vowed to him; yet she intimately
felt the difference that existed between her deep-rooted attachment for
him she named and looked on as her father, and the spring of playful,
happy, absorbing emotions that animated her intercourse with Neville. To
the one she dedicated her life and services; she watched him as a mother
may a child; a smile or cheerful tone of voice was warmth and gladness
to her anxious bosom, and she wept over his misfortunes with the truest
grief.
But there was more of the genuine attachment of mind for mind in her
sentiment for Neville. Falkner was gloomy and self-absorbed. Elizabeth
might grieve for, but she found it impossible to comfort him. With
Gerard it was far otherwise. Elizabeth had opened in his soul an unknown
spring of sympathy, to relieve the melancholy which had hitherto
overwhelmed him. With her he gave way freely to the impulses of a heart
which longed to mingle its hitherto checked stream of feeling with other
and sweeter waters. In every way he excited her admiration as well as
kindness. The poetry of his nature suggested expressions and ideas at
once varied and fascinating. He led her to new and delightful studies,
by unfolding to her the pages of the poets of her native country, with
which she was little conversant. Except Shakspeare and Milton, she knew
nothing of English poetry. The volumes of Chaucer and Spenser, of
ancient date; of Pope, Gray, and Burns; and, in addition, the writings
of a younger, but divine race of poets, were all opened to her by him.
In music, also, he became her teacher. She was a fine musician of the
German school. He introduced her to the simpler graces of song; and
brought her the melodies of Moore, so "married to immortal verse," that
they can only be thought of conjointly. Oh, the happy days of Oakly! How
had each succeeding hour been gilded by the pleasures of a nascent
passion, of the existence of which she had never before dreamed--and
these were fled for ever! It was impossible to feel assured of so sad a
truth, and not to weep over the miserable blight. Elizabeth commanded
herself to appear cheerful, but sadness crept over her solitary hours.
She felt that the world had grown, from being a copy of paradise, into a
land of labour and disappointment; where self-approbation was to be
gained through self-sacrifice; and duty and happiness became separate,
instead of united objects at which to aim.
From such thoughts she took refuge in the society of Falkner. She loved
him so truly, that she forgot her personal regrets--she forgot even
Neville when with him. Her affection for her benefactor was not a
stagnant pool, mantled over by memories existing in the depths of her
soul, but giving no outward sign; it was a fresh spring of overflowing
love--it was redundant with all the better portion of our
nature--gratitude, admiration, and pity for ever fed it, as from a
perennial fountain.
It was on a day, the fifth after the disclosure of Falkner, that she had
been taking her accustomed ride, and, as she rode, given herself up to
those reveries--now enthusiastic, now drooping and mournful--that sprung
from her singular and painful position. She returned home, eager to
forget in Falkner's society many a rebel thought, and to drive away the
image of her younger friend, by gazing on the wasted, sinking form of
her benefactor, in whose singularly noble countenance she ever found new
cause to devote her fortunes and her heart. To say that he was "not less
than archangel ruined," is not to express the peculiar interest of
Falkner's appearance. Thus had he seemed, perhaps, thirteen years before
at Treby; but gentle and kindly sentiments, the softening intercourse of
Elizabeth, the improvement of his intellect, and the command he had
exercised over the demonstration of passion, had moulded his face into
an expression of benevolence and sweetness, joined to melancholy
thoughtfulness; an abstracted, but not sullen seriousness, that rendered
it interesting to every beholder. Since his confession to Neville, since
the die was cast, and he had delivered himself up to his fate to atone
for his victim, something more was added; exalted resolution and serene
lofty composure had replaced his usual sadness; and the passions of his
soul, which had before deformed his handsome lineaments, now animated
them with a beauty of mind which struck Elizabeth at once with
tenderness and admiration.
Now, longing to behold, to contemplate this dear face, and to listen to
a voice that always charmed her out of herself, and made her forget her
sorrows--she was disappointed to find his usual sitting-room empty--it
appeared even as if the furniture had been thrown into disorder; there
were marks of several dirty feet upon the carpet; on the half-written
letter that lay on the desk the pen had hastily been thrown, blotting
it. Elizabeth wondered a little, but the emotion was passing away, when
the head servant came into the room, and informed her that his master
had gone out, and would not return that night.
"Not to-night!" exclaimed Elizabeth; "what has happened? who have been
here?"
"Two men, miss."
"Men! gentlemen?"
"No, miss, not gentlemen."
"And my father went away with them?"
"Yes, miss," replied the man, "he did indeed. He would not take the
carriage; he went in a hired post-chaise. He ordered me to tell you,
miss, that he would write directly, and let you know when you might
expect him."
"Strange, very strange is this!" thought Elizabeth. She did not know why
she should be disturbed, but disquiet invaded her mind; she felt
abandoned and forlorn, and, as the shades of evening gathered round,
even desolate. She walked from room to room, she looked from the window,
the air was chill, and from the east, yet she repaired to the garden;
she felt restless and miserable; what could the event be that took
Falkner away? She pondered vainly. The most probable conjecture was,
that he obeyed some summons from her own relations. At length one idea
rushed into her mind, and she returned to the house, and rang for the
servant. Falkner's wandering life had prevented his having any servant
of long-tried fidelity about him--but this man was good-hearted and
respectable--he felt for his young mistress, and consulted with her maid
as to the course they should take under the present painful
circumstances; and had concluded that they should preserve silence as to
what had occurred, leaving her to learn it from their master's expected
letter. Yet the secret was in some danger, when, fixing her eyes on him,
Elizabeth said, "Tell me truly, have you no guess what this business is
that has taken your master away?"
The man looked confused; but, like many persons not practised in the art
of cross-questioning, Elizabeth balked herself, by adding another
inquiry before the first was answered; saying with a faltering voice,
"Are you sure, Thompson, that it was not a challenge--a duel?"
The domestic's face cleared up: "Quite certain, miss, it was no duel--it
could not be--the men were not gentlemen."
"Then," thought Elizabeth, as she dismissed the man, "I will no longer
torment myself. It is evidently some affair of mere business that has
called him away. I shall learn all to-morrow."
Yet the morrow and the next day came, and Falkner neither wrote nor
returned. Like all persons who determine to conjecture no more,
Elizabeth's whole time was spent in endeavouring to divine the cause of
his prolonged absence and strange silence. Had any communication from
Neville occasioned his departure? was he sent for to point out his
victim's grave? That idea carried some probability with it; and
Elizabeth's thoughts flew fast to picture the solitary shore, and the
sad receptacle of beauty and love. Would Falkner and Neville meet at
such an hour? without a clew to guide her, she wandered for ever in a
maze of thought, and each hour added to her disquietude. She had not
gone beyond the garden for several days, she was fearful of being absent
when anything might arise; but nothing occurred, and the mystery became
more tantalizing and profound.
On the third day she could endure the suspense no longer; she ordered
horses to be put to the carriage, and told the servant of her intention
to drive into town, and to call on Falkner's solicitor, to learn if he
had any tidings; that he was ill she felt assured--where and how? away
from her, perhaps deserted by all the world: the idea of his sick-bed
became intolerably painful; she blamed herself for her inaction; she
resolved not to rest till she saw her father again.
Thompson knew not what to say; he hesitated, begged her not to go; the
truth hovered on his lips, yet he feared to give it utterance. Elizabeth
saw his confusion; it gave birth to a thousand fears, and she exclaimed,
"What frightful event are you concealing? Tell me at once. Great God!
why this silence? Is my father dead?"
"No, indeed, miss," said the man, "but my master is not in London, he is
a long way off. I heard he was taken to Carlisle."
"Taken to Carlisle! Why taken? What do you mean?"
"There was a charge against him, miss," Thompson continued, hesitating
at every word, "the men who came--they apprehended him for murder."
"Murder!" echoed his auditress; "then they fought! Gerard is killed!"
The agony of her look made Thompson more explicit. "It was no duel," he
said, "it was done many years ago; it was a lady who was murdered, a
Mrs. or Lady Neville."
Elizabeth smiled--a painful, yet a genuine smile; so glad was she to
have her worst fears removed, so futile did the accusation appear; the
smile passed away, as she thought of the ignominy, the disgraceful
realities of such a process--of Falkner torn from his home, imprisoned,
a mark for infamy. Weak minds are stunned by a blow like this, while the
stronger rise to the level of the exigency, and grow calm from the very
call made upon their courage. Elizabeth might weep to remember past or
anticipated misfortunes, but she was always calm when called upon to
decide and act; her form seemed to dilate, her eyes flashed with a
living fire, her whole countenance beamed with lofty and proud
confidence in herself. "Why did you not tell me this before?"' she
exclaimed. "What madness possessed you to keep me in ignorance? How much
time has been lost! Order the horses! I must begone at once, and join my
father."
"He is in jail, miss," said Thompson. "I beg your pardon, but you had
better see some friend before you go."
"I must decide upon that," replied Elizabeth. "Let there be no delay on
your part, you have caused too much. But the bell rings; did I not hear
wheels? perhaps he is returned." She rushed to the outer door; she
believed that it was her father returned; the garden-gate opened--two
ladies entered; one was Lady Cecil. In a moment Elizabeth felt herself
embraced by her warm-hearted friend; she burst into tears. "This is
kind, more than kind!" she exclaimed; "and you bring good news, do you
not? My father is liberated, and all is again well!"