The prisoner and his faithful companion knew nothing of these momentous
changes. Day by day Elizabeth withdrew from the fire to the only window
in her father's room; moving her embroidery table close to it, her eyes
turned, however, to the sky, instead of to the flowers she was working;
and leaning her cheek upon her hand, she perpetually watched the clouds.
Gerard was already, she fancied, on the waste of waters; yet the clouds
did not change their direction--they all sped one way, and that contrary
to his destination. Thus she passed her mornings; and when she returned
to her own abode, where her heart could more entirely spend its thoughts
on her lover and his voyage, her lonely room was no longer lonely, nor
the gloomy season any longer gloomy. More than happy--a breathless
rapture quickened the beatings of her heart, as she told over again and
again Neville's virtues, and, dearer than all, his claims on her
gratitude.
Falkner saw with pleasure the natural effects of love and hope add to
the cheerfulness of his beloved child, diffuse a soft charm over her
person, her motions, and her voice, and impart a playful tenderness to
her before rather serious manners. Youth, love, and happiness are so
very beautiful in their conjunction. "God grant," he thought, "I do not
mar this fair creature's life--may she be happier than Alithea; if man
can be worthy of her, Gerard Neville surely is." As he turned his eyes
silently from the book that apparently occupied him, and contemplated
her pensive countenance, whose expression showed that she was wrapped
in, yet enjoying her thoughts, retrospect made him sad. He went over his
own life, its clouded morning, the glad beams that broke out to
dissipate those clouds, and the final setting amid tempests and wreck.
Was all life like this, must all be disappointed hope, baffled desires,
lofty imaginations engendering fatal acts, and bringing the proud thus
low? would she at his age view life as he did--a weary wilderness--a
tangled, endless labyrinth, leading by one rough path or another to a
bitter end? He hoped not, her innocence must receive other reward from
Heaven.
It was on a day as they were thus occupied--Falkner refrained from
interrupting Elizabeth's revery, which he felt was sweeter to her than
any converse--and appeared absorbed in reading; suddenly she exclaimed,
"The wind has changed, dear father; indeed it has changed, it is
favourable now. Do you not feel how much colder it is? the wind has got
to the north, there is a little east in it; his voyage will not be a
long one if this change only lasts!"
Falkner answered her by a smile; but it was humiliating to think of the
object of that voyage, and her cheerful voice announcing that it was to
be prosperous struck, he knew not why, a saddening chord. At this moment
he heard the bolts of the chamber-door pushed back, and the key turn in
the lock--the turnkey entered, followed by another man, who hesitated as
he came forward, and then, as he glanced at the inhabitants of the room,
drew back, saying, "There is some mistake; Mr. Falkner is not here."
But for his habitual self-command, Falkner had started up, and made an
exclamation--so surprised was he to behold the person who entered--for
he recognised his visitant on the instant--he himself was far more
changed by the course of years; time, sickness, and remorse had used
other than Praxitilean art, and had defaced the lines of grace and power
which had marked him many years ago, before his hands had dug Alithea's
grave. He was indeed surprised to see who entered; but he showed no sign
of wonder, only saying with a calm smile, "No, there is no mistake, I am
the man you seek."
The other now apparently recognised him, and advanced timidly, and in
confusion--the turnkey left them, and Falkner then said, "Osborne, you
deserve my thanks for this, but I did believe that it would come to
this."
"No," said Osborne, "I do not deserve thanks--I--" and he looked
confused, and glanced towards Elizabeth. Falkner followed his eye, and
understanding his look, said, "You do not fear being betrayed by a lady,
Osborne; you are safe here as in America. I see how it is, you are here
under a false name; no one is aware that you are the man who a few weeks
ago refused to appear to save a fellow-creature from death."
"I see no way to do that now," replied Osborne, hesitatingly; "I do not
come for that, I come--I could not stay away--I thought something might
be done."
"Elizabeth, my love," said Falkner, "you at least will thank Mr. Osborne
for his spontaneous services--you are watching the clouds which were to
bear along the vessel towards him, and beyond our hopes he is already
here."
Elizabeth listened breathlessly--she feared to utter a word, lest it
should prove a dream--now, gathering Falkner's meaning, she came
forward, and with all a woman's grace addressed the trembling man, who
already looked at the door as if he longed to be on the other side,
fearful that he was caught in his own toils; for, as Hoskins said, the
fascinated prey had wheeled yet nearer to his fate involuntarily--he had
been unable to resist his desire to see Falkner, and learn how it was
with him; but he still resolved not to risk anything; he had represented
himself to the magistrates as coming from Osborne, showing false papers,
and a declaration drawn up by him at Washington, and attested before
official men there, setting forth Falkner's innocence; he had brought
this over to see if it would serve his benefactor, and had thus got
access to him: such was his reliance on the honour of his patron, that
he had not hesitated in placing himself in his power, well aware that he
should not be detained by him against his will; for still his heart
quailed, and his soul shrunk from rendering him the service that would
save his life.
His manner revealed his thoughts to the observant Falkner; but
Elizabeth, less well read in men's hearts, younger and more sanguine,
saw in his arrival the completion of her hopes; and she thanked him with
so much warmth, and with such heartfelt praises of his kindness and
generosity, that Osborne began to think that his greatest difficulty
would be in resisting her fascination and disappointing her wishes. He
stammered out at last some lame excuses. All he could do consistently
with safety, they might command; he had shown this by coming over--more
could not be asked, could not be expected--he himself, God knew, was
innocent, so was Mr. Falkner, of the crime he was charged with. But he
had no hand whatever in the transaction; he was not in his confidence;
he had not known even who the lady was; his testimony, after all, must
be worth nothing, for he had nothing to tell, and for this he was to
expose himself to disgrace and death.
Acquiring courage at the sound of his own voice, Osborne grew fluent.
Elizabeth drew back--she looked anxiously at Falkner, and saw a cloud of
displeasure and scorn gather over his countenance--she put her hand on
his, as if to check the outbreak of his indignation; yet she herself, as
Osborne went on, turned her eyes flashing with disdain upon him. The
miserable fellow cowed before the glances of both; he shifted from one
foot to the other; he dared not look up; but he knew that their eyes
were on him, and he felt the beams transfix him, and wither up his soul.
There are weak men who yield to persuasion; there are weaker who are
vanquished by reproaches and contempt; of such was Osborne. His fluency
faded into broken accents; his voice died away--as a last effort, he
moved towards the door.
"Enough, sir," said Falkner, in a calm, contemptuous voice; "and now
begone--hasten away--do not stop till you have gained the shore, the
ship, the waves of the Atlantic; be assured I shall not send for you a
second time; I have no desire to owe my life to you."
"If I could save your life, Mr. Falkner," he began; "but--"
"We will not argue that point," interrupted Falkner; "it is enough that
it is generally asserted that your testimony is necessary for my
preservation. Were my crime as great as it is said to be, it would find
its punishment in that humiliation. Go, sir; you are safe! I would not
advise you to loiter here, return to America; walls have ears in abodes
like these; you may be forced to save a fellow-creature against your
will; hasten then away; go, eat, drink, and be merry--whatever betides
me, not even my ghost shall haunt you. Meanwhile, I would beg you no
longer to insult me by your presence--begone at once."
"You are angry, sir," said Osborne, timidly.
"I hope not," replied Falkner, who had indeed felt his indignation rise,
and checked himself; "I should be very sorry to feel anger against a
coward; I pity you--you will repent this when too late."
"Oh, do not say so," cried Elizabeth; "do not say he will repent when
too late--but now, in time, I am sure that he repents; do you not, Mr.
Osborne? You are told that your fears are vain; you know Mr. Falkner is
far too noble to draw you into danger to save himself--you know even
that he does not fear death, but ignominy, eternal, horrible disgrace;
and the end, the frightful end prepared, even he must recoil from
that--and you--no, you cannot in cold blood, and with calm forethought,
make him over to it--you cannot, I see that you cannot--"
"Forbear, Elizabeth!" interrupted Falkner, in a tone of displeasure; "I
will not have my life, nor even my honour, begged by you; let the worst
come, the condemnation, the hangman--I can bear all, except the
degradation of supplicating such a man as that."
"I see how it is," said Osborne. "Yes--you do with me as you will--I
feared this, and yet I thought myself firm; do with me as you will--call
the jailer--I will surrender myself." He turned pale as death, and
tottered to a chair.
Falkner turned his back on him--"Go, sir!" he repeated, "I reject your
sacrifice."
"No, father, no," cried Elizabeth, eagerly; "say not so--you accept
it--and I also, with thanks and gratitude: yet it is no sacrifice, Mr.
Osborne--I assure you that is not, at least, the sacrifice you fear--all
is far easier than you think--there is no prison for you--your arrival
need not yet be known--your consent being obtained, a pardon will be at
once granted--you are to appear as a witness--not as a--" her voice
faltered--she turned to Falkner, her eyes brimming over with tears.
Osborne caught the infection; he was touched--he was cheered also by
Elizabeth's assurances, which he hoped that he might believe; hitherto
he had been too frightened and bewildered to hear accurately even what
he had been told--he fancied that he must be tried--the pardon might or
might not come afterward--the youth, earnestness, and winning beauty of
Elizabeth moved him; and now that his fears were a little allayed, he
could see more clearly, he was even more touched by the appearance of
his former benefactor. Dignity and yet endurance--suffering as well as
fortitude--marked his traits; there was something so innately noble, and
yet so broken by fortune, expressed in his commanding yet attenuated
features and person--he was a wreck that spoke so plainly of the
glorious being he had once been; there was so much majesty in his
decay--such real innocence sat on his high and open brow, streaked
though it was with disease--such lofty composure in his countenance,
pale from confinement and suffering--that Osborne felt a mixture of
respect and pity that soon rose above every other feeling.
Reassured with regard to himself, and looking on his patron with eyes
that caught the infection of Elizabeth's tears, he came forward--"I beg
your pardon, Mr. Falkner," he said, "for my doubts--for my cowardice, if
you please so to name it; I request you to forget it, and to permit me
to come forward in your behalf. I trust you will not disdain my offer;
though late, it comes, I assure you, from my heart."
There was no mock dignity about Falkner; a sunny smile broke over his
features as he held out his hand to Osborne. "And from my heart I thank
you," he replied, "and deeply regret that you are to suffer any pain
through me--mine was the crime, you the instrument; it is hard, very
hard, that you should be brought to this through your complaisance to
me; real danger for you there is none--or I would die this worst death
rather than expose you to it."
Elizabeth now, in all gladness, wrote a hasty note; desiring Mr.
Colville to come to them, that all might at once be arranged. "And
Gerard, dear father," she said, "we must write to Mr. Neville, to recall
him from his far and fruitless journey."
"Mr. Neville is in Liverpool," said Osborne; "I saw him the very day
before I came away--he doubtless was on the look--out for me, and I dare
swear Hoskins betrayed me. We must be on our guard--"
"Fear nothing from Mr. Neville," replied Elizabeth; "he is too good and
generous not to advocate justice and truth. He is convinced of my
father's innocence."
They were interrupted--the solicitor entered--Osborne's appearance was
beyond his hopes--he could not believe in so much good fortune. He had
begun to doubt, suspect, and fear--he speedily carried off his godsend,
as he named him, to talk over, and bring into form his evidence, and all
that appertained to his surrender--thus leaving Falkner with his adopted
child.
Such a moment repaid for much; for Elizabeth's hopes were high, and she
knelt before Falkner, embracing his knees, thanking Heaven in a rapture
of gratitude. He also was thankful; yet mortification and wounded pride
struggled in his heart with a sense of gratitude for unhoped-for
preservation. His haughty spirit rebelled against the obligation he owed
to so mean a man as Osborne. It required hours of meditation--of
reawakened remorse for Alithea's fate--of renewed wishes that she should
be vindicated before all the world--of remembered love for the devoted
girl at his feet, to bring him back from the tumult of contending
passions, to the fortitude and humility which he at every moment strove
to cultivate.
Elizabeth's sweet voice dispelled such storms, and rewarded him for the
serenity he at last regained. It was impossible not to feel sympathy in
her happiness, and joy in possessing the affection of so gentle, yet so
courageous and faithful a heart. Elizabeth's happiness was even more
complete when she left, him, and sat in her solitary room--there, where
Gerard had so lately visited her, and his image, and her gratitude
towards him mingled more with her thoughts: her last act that night was
to write to him, to tell him what had happened. It was her note that he
received at Liverpool on the eve of his second departure, and which had
changed his purpose. He had immediately set out for London to
communicate the good tidings to Lady Cecil.