The varied train of hopes and fears which belonged to the situation of
the prisoner and his faithful young companion, stood for some time
suspended. In some sort, they might be said neither to hope nor fear;
for, reasoning calmly, they neither expected that the worst would
befall; and the actual and impending evil was certain. Like shipwrecked
sailors, who have betaken themselves to a boat, and are tossed upon a
tempestuous sea, they saw a ship nearing; they believed that their
signal was seen, and that it was bearing down towards them. What if,
with sudden tack, the disdainful vessel should turn its prow aside, and
leave them to the mercy of the waves. They did not anticipate such a
completion to their disasters.
Yet, as time passed, new anxieties occurred. Falkner's solicitor, Mr.
Colville, had despatched an agent to America to bring Osborne over. The
pardon promised ensured his coming; and yet it was impossible not to
feel inquietude with regard to his arrival. Falkner experienced least of
this. He felt sure of Osborne, his creature; the being whose life he had
heretofore saved, whose fortunes he had created. He knew his weakness,
and how easily he was dealt with. The mere people of business were not
so secure. Osborne enjoyed a comfortable existence, far from danger--why
should he come over to place himself in a disgraceful situation, to be
branded as a pardoned felon? In a thousand ways he might evade the
summons. Perhaps there was nothing to prove that the Osborne whom
Hoskins named was the Osborne who had been employed by Falkner, and was
deemed an accessory in Mrs. Neville's death.
Hillary, who had been sent, to Washington in September, had written
immediately on his arrival. His passage had been tedious, as autumnal
voyages to America usually are; he did not arrive till the last day of
October; he announced that Osborne was in the town, and that on the
morrow he should see him. This letter had arrived towards the end of
November, and there was no reason wherefore Hillary and Osborne should
not quickly follow it. But November passed away, and December had begun,
and still the voyagers did not arrive; the southwest wind continued to
reign with slight variation; except that as winter advanced it became
more violent: packets perpetually arrived in Liverpool from America,
after passages of seventeen and twenty days; but Hillary did not return,
nor did he write.
The woods were despoiled of their leaves; but still the air was warm and
pleasant; and it cheered Elizabeth, as favourable to her hopes: the sun
shown at intervals, and the misty mornings were replaced by cheerful
days. Elizabeth rode out each morning, and this one day, the sixteenth
of December, she found a new pleasure in her solitary exercise. The
weather was calm and cheerful; a brisk canter gave speed to the current
of her blood; and her thoughts, though busy, had a charm in them that
she was half angry with herself for feeling, but which glowed all warm
and bright, despite every effort. On the preceding evening she had
observed on her return home at nine o'clock from the prison, the figure
of a man, which passed her hastily, and then stood aloof, as if guarding
and watching her at a distance. Once, as he stood under an archway, a
flickering lamp threw his shadow across her path. It was a bright
moonlight night, and as he stood in the midst of an open space, near
which her house was situated, she recognised, muffled as he was, the
form of Gerard Neville. No wonder, then, that her heart was lightened of
its burden; he had not forgotten her--he could no longer command himself
to absence; if he might not converse with her, at least he might look
upon her as she passed.
On the same morning she entered her father's prison-room--she found two
visiters already there, Colville and his agent, Hillary. The faces of
both were long and serious. Elizabeth turned anxiously to Falkner, who
looked stern and disdainful. He smiled when he saw her, and said, "You
must not be shocked, my love, at the news which these gentlemen bring. I
cannot tell how far it influences my fate; but it is impossible to
believe that it is irrevocably sealed by it. But who can express the
scorn that a man must feel, to know that so abject a poltron wears the
human form. Osborne refuses to come."
Such an announcement naturally filled her with dismay. At the request of
Falkner, Hillary began again to relate the circumstances of his visit to
America. He recounted, that finding that Osborne was in Washington, he
lost no time in securing an interview. He delivered his letters to him,
and said that he came from Mr. Falkner, on an affair of life and death.
At the name, Osborne turned pale; he seemed afraid of opening the
letters, and muttered something about there being a mistake. At length
he broke the seals. Fear, in its most abject guise, blanched his cheek
as he read, and his hand trembled so that he could scarcely hold the
paper. Hillary, perceiving at last that he had finished reading, and was
hesitating what to say, began himself to enter on the subject; when,
faltering and stammering, Osborne threw the letter down, saying, "I said
there was a mistake--I know nothing--all this affair is new to me--I
never had concern with Mr. Falkner--I do not know who Mr. Falkner is."
But for the pale quivering lips of the man, and his tremulous voice,
Hillary might have thought that he spoke truth; but he saw that
cowardice was the occasion of the lie he told, and he endeavoured to set
before him the perfect safety with which he might comply with the
request he conveyed. But the more he said, Osborne, gathering assurance,
the more obstinately denied all knowledge of the transactions in
question, or their principal actor. He changed, warmed by his own words,
from timid to impudent, in his denials, till Hillary's conviction began
to be shaken a little; and at the same time he grew angry, and
cross-questioned him, with a lawyer's art, about his arrival in America;
questions which Osborne answered with evident trepidation. At last, he
asked him if he remembered such and such a house, and such a journey,
and the name of his companion on the occasion; and if he recollected a
person of the name of Hoskins. Osborne started at the word as if he had
been shot. Pale he was before, but now his cheeks grew of a chalky
white, his limbs refused to support him, and his voice died away; till,
rousing himself, he pretended to fly into a violent passion at the
insolence of the intrusion and impertinence of the questions. As he
spoke, he unwarily betrayed that he knew more of the transaction than he
would willingly have allowed; at last, after running on angrily and
incoherently for some time, he suddenly broke away, and (they were at a
tavern) left the room, and also the house.
Hillary hoped that, on deliberation, he would come to his senses. He
sent the letters after him to his house, and called the next day; but he
was gone; he had left Washington the evening before, by the steamer to
Charlestown. Hillary knew not what to do. He applied to the government
authorities; they could afford him no help. He also repaired to
Charlestown. Some time he spent in searching for Osborne--vainly; it
appeared plain that he travelled under another name. At length, by
chance, he found a person who knew him personally, who said that he had
departed a week before for New-Orleans. It seemed useless to make this
further journey, yet Hillary made it, and with like ill success. Whether
Osborne was concealed in that town; whether he had gone to Mexico, or
lurked in the neighbouring country, could not be discovered. Time wore
away in fruitless researches, and it became necessary to come to a
decision. Hopeless of success, Hillary thought it best to return to
England--with the account of his failure--so that no time might be lost
in providing a remedy, if any could be found, to so fatal an injury to
their cause.
While this tale was being told, Falkner had leisure to recover from that
boiling of the blood which the first apprehension of unworthy conduct in
one of our fellow-creatures is apt to excite, and now spoke with his
usual composure. "I cannot believe," he said, "that this man's evidence
is of the import which is supposed. No one, in fact, believes that I am
a murderer; every one knows that I am innocent. All that we have to do
is to prove this in a sort of technical and legal manner; and yet hardly
that--for we are not to address the deaf ear of law, but the common
sense of twelve men, who will not be slow, I feel assured, in
recognising the truth. All that can be done to make my story plain, and
to prove it by circumstances, of course must be done; and I do not fear
but that, when it is ingenuously and simply told, it will suffice for my
acquittal."
"It is right to hope for the best," said Mr. Colville; "but Osborne's
refusal to come is, in itself, a bad fact; the prosecutor will insist
much upon it--I would give a hundred pounds to have him here."
"I would not give a hundred pence," said Falkner, dryly.
The other stared--the observation had an evil effect on his mind; he
fancied that his client was even glad that a witness so material refused
to appear, and this to him had the aspect of guilt. He continued, "I am
so far of a different opinion, that I should advise sending a second
time. Had you a friend sufficiently zealous to undertake a voyage across
the Atlantic for the purpose of persuading Osborne--"
"I would not ask him to cross a ditch for the purpose," interrupted
Falkner, with some asperity. "Let such men as would believe a dastard
like Osborne in preference to a gentleman and a soldier, take my life,
if they will. It is not worth this pains in my own eyes--and thirsted
for by my fellow-men, it is a burden I would willingly lay down."
The soft touch of Elizabeth's hand placed on his recalled him--he looked
on her tearful eyes, and became aware of his fault--he smiled to comfort
her. "I ought to apologize to these gentlemen for my hastiness," he
said, "and to you, my dear girl, for my apparent trifling--but there is
a degradation in these details that might chafe a more placid temper. I
cannot, I will not descend to beg my life; I am innocent; this all men
must know, or at least will know, when their passions are no longer in
excitement against me--I can say no more--I cannot win an angel from
heaven to avouch my guiltlessness of her blood--I cannot draw this
miserable fellow from his cherished refuge. All must fall on my own
shoulders--I must support the burden of my fate; I shall appear before
my judges; if they, seeing me, and hearing me speak, yet pronounce me
guilty, let them look to it--I shall be satisfied to die, so to quit at
once a blind, bloodthirsty world!"
The dignity of Falkner as he spoke these words, the high, disdainful,
yet magnanimous expression of his features, the clear though impassioned
tone of his voice, thrilled the hearts of all. "Thank God, I do love
this man even as he deserves to be loved," was the tender sentiment that
lighted up Elizabeth's eyes; while his male auditors could not help,
both by countenance and voice, giving token that they were deeply moved.
On taking their leave soon after, Mr. Colville grasped Falkner's hand
cordially, and bade him rest assured that his zeal, his utmost
endeavours should not be wanting to serve him. "And," he added, in
obedience rather to his newly awakened interest than his judgment, "I
cannot doubt but that our endeavours will be crowned with complete
success."
A man of real courage always finds new strength unfold within him to
meet a larger demand made upon it. Falkner was now, perhaps, for the
first time, thoroughly roused to meet the evils of his lot. He threw off
every natural, every morbid sensibility, and strung himself at once to a
higher and firmer tone of mind. He renounced the brittle hopes before
held out to him--of this or that circumstance being in his favour--he
intrusted unreservedly his whole cause to the mighty irresistible power
who rules human affairs, and felt calm and free. If by disgrace and
death he were to atone for the destruction of his victim, so let it
be--the hour of suffering would come, and it would pass away--and
leaving him a corpse, the vengeance of his fellow-creatures would end
there. He felt that the decree for life or death having received already
the irrefragable fiat--he was prepared for both; and he resolved from
that hour to drive all weak emotions, all struggle, all hope or fear
from his soul. "Let God's will be done!" something of Christian
resignation--something (derived from his Eastern life) of belief in
fatality--and something of philosophic fortitude, composed the feeling
that engraved this sentiment in his heart in ineffaceable characters.
He now spoke of Osborne to Elizabeth without acrimony. "My indignation
against that man was all thrown away," he said; "we do not rebuke the
elements when they destroy us, and why should we spend our anger against
men?--a word from Osborne, they say, would save me--the falling of the
wind, or the allaying of the waves, would have saved Alithea--both are
beyond our control. I imagined in those days that I could guide
events--till suddenly the reins were torn from my hands. A few months
ago I exulted, in expectation that the penalty demanded for my crime
would be the falling by the hands of her son--and here I am an
imprisoned felon!--and now we fancy that this thing or that might
preserve me; while in truth all is decreed, all registered, and we must
patiently await the appointed time. Come what may, I am prepared--from
this hour I have taught my spirit to bend, and to be content to die.
When all is over, men will do me justice, and that poor fellow will
bitterly lament his cowardice. It will be agony to him to remember that
one word would have preserved my life then, when no power on earth can
recall me to existence. He is not a bad man--and could he now have
represented to him his after remorse, he would cease to exhibit such
lamentable cowardice--a cowardice, after all, that has its origin in the
remnants of good feeling. The fear of shame; horror at having
participated in so fearful a tragedy; and a desire to throw off the
consequences of his actions, which is the perpetual and stinging
accompaniment of guilt, form his motives; but could he be told how
immeasurably his sense of guilt will be increased if his silence
occasions my death, all these would become minor considerations, and
vanish on the instant."
"And would it be impossible," said Elizabeth, "to awaken this feeling in
him?"
"By no means," replied Falkner; "though it is out of our power. We sent
a mercenary, not indeed altogether lukewarm, but still not penetrated by
that ardour, nor capable of that eloquence, which is necessary to move a
weak man, like the one he had to deal with. Osborne is, in some sort, a
villain; but he is too feeble-minded to follow out his vocation. He
always desired to be honest. Now he has the reputation of being such;
from being one of those miserable creatures, the refuse of civilization,
preying upon the vices, while they are the outcasts of society, he has
become respectable and trustworthy in the eyes of others. He very
naturally clings to advantages dearly earned--lately gained. He fancies
to preserve them by deserting me. Could the veil be lifted--could the
conviction be imparted of the wretch he will become in his own eyes, and
of the universal execration that will be heaped on him after my death,
his mind would entirely change, and he would be as eager, I had almost
said, to come forward, as now he is set upon concealment and silence."