The family of Raby must be considered collectively, as each member
united in one feeling, and acted on one principle. They were Catholics,
and never forgot it. They were not bent on proselytism; on the contrary,
they rather shunned admitting strangers into their circle: but they
never ceased to remember that they belonged to the ancient faith of the
land, and looked upon their fidelity to the tenets of their ancestors as
a privilege, and a distinction far more honourable than a patent of
nobility. Surrounded by Protestants, and consequently, as they believed,
by enemies, it was the aim of their existence to keep their honour
unsullied; and that each member of the family should act for the good
and glory of the whole, unmindful of private interests and individual
affections. The result of such a system may be divined. The pleasures of
mediocrity--toiling merit--the happy home--the cheerful family union,
where smiles glitter brighter than gold; all these were unknown or
despised. Young hearts were pitilessly crushed; young hopes blighted
without remorse. The daughters were doomed, for the most part, to the
cloister; the sons to foreign service. This, indeed, was not to be
attributed entirely to the family failing--a few years ago, English
Catholics were barred out from every road to emolument and distinction
in their native country.
Edwin Raby had thus been sacrificed. His enlightened mind disdained the
trammels thrown over it; but his apostacy doomed him to become an
outcast. He had previously been the favourite and hope of his parents;
from the moment that he renounced his religion he became the opprobrium.
His name was never mentioned; and his death hailed as a piece of good
fortune, that freed his family from a living disgrace. The only person
among them who regretted him was the wife of his eldest brother; she had
appreciated his talents and virtues, and had entertained a sincere
friendship for him; but even she renounced him.
Her heart, naturally warm and noble, was narrowed by prejudice; but
while she acted in conformity with the family principle, she suffered
severely from the shock thus given to her better feelings. When Edwin
died, her eyes were a little opened; she began to suspect that human
life and human suffering deserved more regard than articles of belief.
The "late remorse of love" was awakened, and she never wholly forgot the
impression. She had not been consulted concerning, she knew nothing of,
his widow and orphan child. Young at that time, the weight of authority
pressed also on her, and she had been bred to submission. There was a
latent energy, however, in her character that developed itself as she
grew older. Her husband died, and her consequence increased in old Oswi
Raby's eyes. By degrees her authority became paramount; it was greatly
regulated by the prejudices and systems cherished by the family, as far
as regarded the world in general; but it was softened in her own circle
by the influence of the affections. Her daughters were educated at
home--not one was destined for the cloister. Her only son was brought up
at Eton; the privileges granted of late years to the Catholics made her
entertain the belief, that it was no longer necessary to preserve the
old defences and fortifications which intolerance had forced its victims
to institute; still pride--pride of religion, pride of family, pride in
an unblemished name, were too deeply rooted, too carefully nurtured, not
to form an integral part of her character.
When a letter from her father-in-law revealed to her the existence of
Elizabeth, her heart warmed towards the orphan and deserted daughter of
Edwin. She felt all the repentance which duties neglected bring on a
well-regulated mind--her pride revolted at the idea that a daughter of
the house of Raby was dependant on the beneficence of a stranger--she
resolved that no time should be lost in claiming and receiving her, even
while she trembled to think of how, brought up as an alien, she might
prove rather a burden than an acquisition. She had written to make
inquiries as to her niece's abode. She heard that she was on a visit at
Lady Cecil's at Hastings--Mrs. Raby was at Tunbridge--she instantly
ordered horses, and proceeded to Oakly.
On the morning of her visit, Lady Cecil had received a letter from
Gerard: it was incoherent, and had been written by snatches in the
carriage on his way to Dromore. Its first words proclaimed his mother's
innocence, and the acknowledgment of her wrongs by Sir Boyvill himself.
As he went on, his pen lingered--he trembled to write the words, "Our
friend, our Elizabeth, is the daughter of the destroyer." It was
unnatural, it was impossible--the very thought added acrimony to his
detestation of Falkner--it prevented the compassion his generous nature
would otherwise have afforded, and yet roused every wish to spare him,
as much as he might be spared, for his heroic daughter's sake. He felt
deceived, trepanned, doomed. In after life we are willing to compromise
with fate--to take the good with the bad--and are satisfied if we can at
all lighten the burden of life. In youth we aim at completeness and
perfection. Ardent and single-minded, Neville disdained prejudices; and
his impulse was, to separate the idea of father and daughter, and to
cherish Elizabeth as a being totally distinct from her parentage. But
she would not yield to this delusion--she would cling to her father--and
if he died by his hand, he would for ever become an object of
detestation. Well has Alfieri said, "There is no struggle so vehement as
when an upright but passionate heart is divided between inclination and
duty." Neville's soul was set upon honour and well-doing; never before
had he found the execution of the dictates of his conscience so full of
bitterness and impatience. Something of these feelings betrayed
themselves in his letter. "We have lost Elizabeth," he wrote; "for ever
lost her! Is there no help for this? No help for her? None! She clings
to the destroyer's side, and shares his miserable fate--lost to
happiness--to the innocence and sunshine of life. She will live a victim
and die a martyr to her duties; and she is lost to us for ever!"
Lady Cecil read again and again--she wondered--she grieved--she uttered
impatient reproaches against Gerard for having sought the truth; and yet
her heart was with him, and she rejoiced in the acknowledged innocence
of Alithea. She thought of Elizabeth with the deepest grief--had they
never met--had she and Gerard never seen each other, neither had loved,
and half this wo had been spared. How strange and devious are the ways
of fate--how difficult to resign one's self to its mysterious and
destructive course! Naturally serene, though vivacious--kind-hearted,
but not informed with trembling insensibility--yet so struck was Lady
Cecil by the prospects of misery for those she best loved, that she wept
bitterly, and wrung her hands in impatient, impotent despair. At this
moment Mrs. Raby was announced.
Mrs. Raby had something of the tragedy queen in her appearance. She was
tall and dignified in person. Her black full eyes were melancholy--her
brow shadowing them over had a world of thought and feeling in its
sculpture-like lines. The lower part of her face harmonized, though
something of pride lurked about her beautiful mouth--her voice was
melodious, but deep-toned. Her manners had not the ease of the well-bred
Lady Cecil--something of the outcast was imprinted upon them, which
imparted consciousness, reserve, and alternate timidity and haughtiness.
There was nothing embarrassed, however, in her mien, and she asked at
once for Elizabeth with obvious impatience. She heard that she was gone
with regret. The praises Lady Cecil almost involuntarily showered on her
late guest at once dissipated this feeling; and caused her, with all the
frankness natural to her, to unfold at once the object of her visit--the
parentage of the orphan--the discovery of her niece. Lady Cecil clasped
her hands in a transport, which was not all joy. There was so much of
wonder, almost of disbelief, at the strange tale--had a fairy's wand
operated the change, it had not been more magical in her eyes. Heaven's
ways were vindicated--all of evil vanished from the scene--her friend
snatched from ignominy and crime, to be shrined for ever in their hearts
and love.
She poured out these feelings impetuously. Mrs. Raby was well acquainted
with Alithea's story, and was familiar with Gerard Neville's conduct;
all that she now heard was strange indeed. She did not imbibe any of
Lady Cecil's gladness, but much of her eagerness. It became of paramount
importance in her mind to break at once the link between Elizabeth and
her guardian, before the story gained publicity, and the name of Raby
became mingled in a tale of horror and crime, which, to the peculiar
tone of Mrs. Raby's mind, was singularly odious and disgraceful. No time
must be lost--Elizabeth must be claimed--must at once leave the guilty
and tainted one, while yet her name received no infection; or she would
be disowned for ever by her father's family. When Lady Cecil learned
Mrs. Raby's intention of proceeding to London to see her niece, she
resolved to go also, to act as mediator, and to soften the style of the
demands made, even while she persuaded Elizabeth to submit to them. She
expressed her intention, and the ladies agreed to travel together. Both
were desirous of further communication. Lady Cecil wished to interest
Mrs. Raby still more deeply in her matchless kinswoman's splendid
qualities of heart and mind; while Mrs. Raby felt that her conduct must
be founded on the character and worth of her niece; even while she was
more convinced, at every minute, that no half measures would be
permitted by Oswi Raby, and others of their family and connexion, and
that Elizabeth's welfare depended on her breaking away entirely from her
present position, and throwing herself unreservedly upon the kindness
and affection of her father's relations.
Strange tidings awaited their arrival in London, and added to the
eagerness of both. The proceedings of Sir Boyvill, the accusation of
Falkner, and his actual arrest, with all its consequent disgrace, made
each fear that it was too late to interpose. Mrs. Raby showed most
energy. The circumstances were already in the newspapers, but there was
no mention of Elizabeth. Falkner had been taken from his home, but no
daughter accompanied him, no daughter appeared to have any part in the
shocking scene. Had Falkner had the generosity to save her from
disgrace? If so, it became her duty to co-operate in his measures. Where
Elizabeth had taken refuge, was uncertain; but, on inquiry, it seemed
that she was still at Wimbledon. Thither the ladies proceeded together.
Anxiety possessed both to a painful degree. There was a mysteriousness
in the progress of events which they could not unveil--all depended on a
clear and a happy explanation. The first words and first embrace of
Elizabeth reassured her friend; all indeed would be well, she restored
to her place in society, and punishment would fall on the guilty alone.