These had been hours of sunshine for the prisoner and his child, such as
seldom visit the precincts of a jail; and soon, too soon, they changed,
and the usual gloom returned to the abode of suffering. In misfortune
various moods assail us. At first we are struck, stunned, and
overwhelmed; then the elastic spirit rises; it tries to shape misery in
its own way; it adapts itself to it; it finds unknown consolations arise
out of circumstances which, in moments of prosperity, were unregarded.
But this temper of mind is not formed for endurance. As a sick person
finds comfort in a new posture at first, but after a time the posture
becomes restrained and wearisome; thus, after mustering fortitude,
patience, the calm spirit of philosophy, and the tender one of piety,
and finding relief, suddenly the heart rebels, its old desires and old
habits recur, and we are the more dissatisfied from being disappointed
in those modes of support in which we trusted.
There was a perpetual struggle in Falkner's heart. Hatred of life,
pride, a yearning for liberty, and a sore, quick spirit of impatience
for all the bars and forms that stood between him and it, swelled like a
tide in his soul. He hated himself for having brought himself thus low;
he was angry that he had exposed Elizabeth to such a scene; he reviled
his enemies in his heart; he accused destiny. Then, again, if he but
shut his eyes--the stormy river, the desolate sands, and the one fair
being dead at his feet, presented themselves, and remorse, like a wind,
drove back the flood. He felt that he had deserved it all, that he had
himself woven the chain of circumstances which he called his fate, while
his innocence of the crime brought against him imparted a lofty spirit
of fortitude, and even of repose.
Elizabeth, with an angel's love, watched the changes of his temper. Her
sensibility was often wounded by his sufferings; but her benign
disposition was so fertile of compassion and forbearance, that her own
mood was never irritated by finding her attempts to console fruitless.
She listened meekly when his overladen heart spent itself in invectives
against the whole system of life; or, catching a favourable moment, she
strove to raise his mind to nobler and purer thoughts--unobtrusive, but
never weary--eagerly gathering all good tidings, banishing the ill; her
smiles, her tears, her cheerfulness, or calm sadness, by turns relieved
and comforted him.
Winter came upon them. It was wild and drear. Their abode, far in the
north of the island, was cold beyond their experience, the dark
prison-walls were whitened by snow, the bars of their windows were
laden; Falkner looked out, the snow drifted against his face, one peep
at the dusky sky was all that was allowed him; he thought of the wide
steppes of Russia, the swift sledges, and how he longed for freedom!
Elizabeth, as she walked home through the frost and sleet, gave a sigh
for the soft seasons of Greece, and felt that a double winter gathered
round her steps.
Day by day, time passed on. Each evening returning to her solitary
fireside, she thought, "Another is gone, the time draws near;" she
shuddered, despite her conviction that the trial would be the signal for
the liberation of Falkner; she saw the barriers time had placed between
him and fate fall off one by one with terror; January and February
passed, March had come--the first of March, the very month when all was
to be decided, arrived. Poor tempest-tossed voyagers! would the
wished-for port be gained--should they ever exchange the uncertain
element of danger for the firm land of security?
It was on the first of March that, returning home in the evening, she
found a letter on her table from Neville. Poor Elizabeth! she loved with
tenderness and passion--and yet how few of the fairy thoughts and
visions of love had been hers--love with her was mingled with so dire a
tragedy, such real oppressive griefs, that its charms seemed crimes
against her benefactor; yet now, as she looked on the letter, and
thought, "_from him_," the rapture of love stole over her, her eyes were
dimmed by the agitation of delight, and the knowledge that she was loved
suspended every pain, filling her with soft triumph, and thrilling,
though vague expectation.
She broke the seal--there was an inner envelope directed to Miss
Raby--and she smiled at the mere thought of the pleasure Gerard must
have felt in tracing that name--the seal, as he regarded it, of their
future union; but when she unfolded the sheet, and glanced down the
page, her attention was riveted by other emotions. Thus Neville wrote:--
"My own sweet Elizabeth, I write in haste, but doubt is so painful, and
tidings fly so quickly, that I hope you will hear first by means of
these lines the new blow fate has prepared for us. My father lies
dangerously ill. This, I fear, will again delay the trial--occasion
prolonged imprisonment--and keep you still a martyr to those duties you
so courageously fulfil. We must have patience. We are impotent to turn
aside irrevocable decrees, yet when we think how much hangs on the
present moment of time, the heart--my weak heart at least--is wrung by
anguish.
"I cannot tell whether Sir Boyvill is aware of his situation--he is too
much oppressed by illness for conversation; the sole desire he testifies
is to have me near him. Once or twice he has pressed my hand, and looked
on me with affection. I never remember to have received before such
testimonials of paternal love. Such is the force of the natural tie
between us, that I am deeply moved, and would not leave him for the
whole world. My poor father!--he has no friend, no relative but me; and
now, after so much haughtiness and disdain, he, in his need, is like a
little child, reduced to feel his only support in natural affections.
His unwonted gentleness subdues my soul. Oh, who would rule by power,
when so much more absolute a tyranny is established through love!
"Sophia is very kind--but she is not his child. The hour approaches when
we should be at Carlisle. What will be the result of our absence--what
the event of this illness? I am perplexed and agitated beyond measure;
in a day or two all will be decided: if Sir Boyvill becomes
convalescent, still it may be long before he can undertake so distant a
journey.
"Do not fear that for a moment I shall neglect your interests; they are
my own. For months I have lived only on the expectation of the hour when
you should be liberated from the horrors of your present position; and
the anticipation of another delay is torture. Even your courage must
sink, your patience have an end. Yet a little longer, my Elizabeth,
support yourself, let not your noble heart fail at this last hour, this
last attack of adversity. Be all that you have ever been, firm,
resigned, and generous; in your excellence I place all my trust. I will
write again very speedily, and if you can imagine any service that I can
do you, command me to the utmost. I write by my father's bedside; he
does not sleep, but he is still. Farewell--I love you; in those words is
summed a life of weal or wo for me and for you also, my Elizabeth! Do
not call me selfish for feeling thus--even here."
"Yes, yes," thought Elizabeth; "busy fingers are weaving--the web of
destiny is unrolling fast--we may not think, nor hope, nor scarcely
breathe--we must await the hour--death is doing his work--what victim
will he select?"
The intelligence in this letter, communicated on the morrow to all
concerned in the coming trial, filled each with anxiety. In a very few
days the assizes would commence; Falkner's name stood first on the
list--delay was bitter, yet he must prepare for delay, and arm himself
anew with resolution. Several anxious days passed--Elizabeth received no
other letter--she felt that Sir Boyvill's danger was protracted, that
Gerard was still in uncertainty--the post hour now became a moment of
hope and dread--it was a sort of harassing inquietude hard to endure; at
length a few lines from Lady Cecil arrived--they brought no comfort--all
remained in the same state.
The assizes began--on the morrow the judges were expected in
Carlisle--and already all that bustle commenced that bore the semblance
of gayety in the rest of the town, but which was so mournful and fearful
in the jail. There were several capital cases; as Elizabeth heard them
discussed, her blood ran cold--she hated life, and all its adjuncts: to
know of misery she could not alleviate was always saddening; but to feel
the squalid, mortal misery of such a place and hour brought home to her
own heart, was a wretchedness beyond all expression, poignant and
hideous.
The day that the judges arrived, Elizabeth presented herself in
Falkner's cell--a letter in her hand--her first words announced good
tidings; yet she was agitated, tearful--something strange and awful had
surely betided. It was a letter from Neville that she held, and gave to
Falkner to read.
"I shall soon be in Carlisle, my dearest friend, but this letter will
outspeed me, and bring you the first intelligence of my poor father's
death. Thank God, I did my duty by him to the last--thank God, he died
in peace--in peace with me and the whole world. The uneasiness of pain
yielded at first to torpor, and thus we feared he would die; but before
his death he recovered himself an hour or two, and though languid and
feeble, his mind was clear. How little, dear Elizabeth, do we know of
our fellow-creatures--each shrouded in the cloak of manner--that cloak
of various dies--displays little of the naked man within. We thought my
father vain, selfish, and cruel--he was all this, but he was something
else that we knew not of--he was generous, humane, humble--these
qualities he hid as if they had been vices--he struggled with
them--pride prevented him from recognising them as the redeeming points
of a faulty nature; he despised himself for feeling them, until he was
on his deathbed.
"Then, in broken accents, he asked me, his only son, to pardon his
mistakes and cruelties--he asked me to forgive him, in my dear mother's
name--he acknowledged his injustices towards her. 'Would that I might
live,' he said; 'for my awakened conscience urges me to repair a portion
of the evils I have caused--but it is too late. Strange that I should
never have given ear to the whisperings of justice--though they were
often audible--till now, when there is no help! Yet is it so? cannot
some reparation be made? There is one'--and as he spoke he half raised
himself, and some of the wonted fire flashed from his glazed eye--but he
sunk back again, saying, in a low but distinct voice, 'Falkner--Rupert
Falkner--he is innocent, I know and feel his innocence--yet I have
striven to bring him to the death. Let me record my belief that his tale
is true, and that Alithea died the victim of her own heroism, not by his
hand. Gerard, remember, report these words--save him--his sufferings
have been great--promise me--that I may feel that God and Alithea will
forgive me, as I forgive him; I act now as your mother would have had me
act; I act to please her.'
"I speak it without shame, my eyes ran over with tears, and this
softening of a proud heart before the remembered excellence of one so
long dead, so long thought of with harshness and resentment, was the
very triumph of the good spirit of the world; yet tears were all the
thanks I could give for several minutes. He saw that I was moved--but
his strength was fast leaving him, and pressing my hand and murmuring,
'My last duty is now performed--I will sleep,' he turned away his head;
he never spoke more, except to articulate my name, and once or twice, as
his lips moved, and I bent down to listen, I heard the name of my mother
breathed at the latest hour.
"I cannot write more--the trial will take place, I am told,
immediately--before the funeral. I shall be in Carlisle--all will go
well, dear Elizabeth--and when we meet again, happier feelings will be
ours. God bless you now and always, as you deserve."