Elizabeth meanwhile might envy the resolution that bore him through
these appalling scenes. On the night after leaving him, she had not even
attempted to rest. Wrapped in a shawl, she threw herself on a sofa, and
told each hour during the livelong night; her reveries were wild, vague,
and exquisitely painful. In the morning she tried to recall her
faculties--she remembered her conviction that on that day Falkner would
be liberated, and she dressed herself with care, that she might welcome
him with the appearances of rejoicing. She expected with unconquerable
trepidation the hour when the court would meet. Before that hour, there
was a knock at her door, and a visiter was announced; it was Mrs. Raby.
It was indeed a solace to see a friendly face of her own sex--she had
been so long deprived of this natural support. Lady Cecil had now and
then written to her--her letters were always affectionate, but she
seemed stunned by the magnitude of the blow that had fallen on her
friend, and unable to proffer consolation. With kindness of heart,
sweetness of temper, and much good sense, still Lady Cecil was
commonplace and worldly. Mrs. Raby was of a higher order of being. She
saw things too exclusively through one medium--and thus the scope of her
exertions was narrowed; but that medium was a pure and elevated one. In
visiting Elizabeth, on this occasion, she soared beyond it.
Long and heavily had her desertion of the generous girl weighed on her
conscience. She could sympathize in her heroism, and warmly approve--it
was in her nature to praise and to reward merit, and she had withheld
all tribute from her abandoned niece. The interests of her religion,
blended with those of family, actuated her, and while resisting a
natural impulse of generosity she fancied that she was doing right. She
had spoken concerning her with no one but Lady Cecil; and she, while she
praised her young friend, forgot to speak of Falkner, and there lay the
stumbling-block to every motion in her favour.
When Elizabeth repaired to Carlisle, Mrs. Raby returned to Belleforest.
She scarcely knew how to introduce the subject to her father-in-law; and
when she did, he, verging into dotage, only said, "Act as you please, my
dear, I rely on you; act for the honour and welfare of yourself and your
children." The old man day by day lost his powers of memory and reason;
by the time of the trial he had become a mere cipher. Every
responsibility fell on Mrs. Raby; and she, eager to do right and fearful
to do wrong, struggled with her better nature--wavered, repented, and
yet remained inactive.
Neville strongly reprobated the conduct of every one towards Elizabeth.
He had never seen Mrs. Raby, but she in particular he regarded with the
strongest disapprobation. It so happened, that, the very day after his
father's death, he was at Lady Cecil's when Mrs. Raby called, and, by an
exception in the general orders--made for Elizabeth's sake--she was let
come up. Gerard was alone in the drawing-room when she was announced--he
rose hastily, meaning to withdraw, when the lady's appearance changed
his entire mind. We ridicule the minutiæ of the science of
physiognomy--but who is not open to first impressions? Neville was
prepossessed favourably by Mrs. Raby's countenance; her open, thoughtful
brow, her large, dark, melancholy eyes, her dignity of manner, joined to
evident marks of strong feeling, at once showed him that he saw a woman
capable of generous sentiments and heroic sacrifice. He felt that there
must have been some grievous error in Sophia's proceedings not to have
awakened more active interest in her mind. While he was forming these
conclusions, Mrs. Raby was struck by him in an equally favourable
manner. No one could see Gerard Neville without feeling that something
angelic--something nobly disinterested--unearthly in its purity, yet,
beyond the usual nature of man, sympathetic, animated a countenance that
was all sensibility, genius, and love. In a minute they were intimate
friends. Lady Cecil, hearing that they were together, would not
interrupt them; and their conversation was long. Neville related his
first acquaintance with Elizabeth Raby--he sketched the history of
Falkner--he described him--and the scene when he denounced himself as
the destroyer of Alithea. He declared his conviction of his
innocence--he narrated Sir Boyvill's dying words. Then they both dwelt
on his long imprisonment, Elizabeth's faithful affection, and all that
they must have undergone--enough to move the stoniest heart. Tears
rushed into Gerard's eyes while he spoke--while he described her
innocence, her integrity, her total forgetfulness of self. "And I have
deserted her," exclaimed Mrs. Raby; "we have all deserted her--this must
not continue. You go to Carlisle to-morrow for the trial; the moment it
is over, and Mr. Falkner acquitted--when they have left that town, where
all is so full of their name and story, I will see her, and try to make
up for my past neglect."
"It will be too late," said Gerard; "you may then please yourself by
admiring one so superior to every human being; but you will not benefit
her--Falkner acquitted, she will have risen above all need of your
support. Now is the hour to be of use. The very hour of the trial, when
this unfortunate, heroic girl is thrown entirely on herself--wounded by
her absolute friendlessness, yet disdaining to complain. I could almost
wish that Sophia would disregard appearances, and hasten to her side;
although her connexion with our family would render that too strange.
But you, Mrs. Raby, what should stop you? she is your niece--how vain to
attempt to conceal this from the world--it must be known--through me, I
fondly trust, it will be known--who shall claim her as Miss Raby--when,
as Elizabeth Falkner, I could never see her more. And, when it is known,
will not your desertion be censured? Be wise, be generous--win that
noblest and gentlest heart by your kindness now, and the very act will
be your reward. Hasten to Carlisle; be with her in the saddest hour that
ever one so young and innocent passed through."
Mrs. Raby was moved--she was persuaded; she felt a veil fall from before
her eyes; she saw her duty, and she keenly felt the littleness of her
past desertion; she did not hesitate; and now that she perceived how
gladly her niece welcomed her in this hour of affliction, and how
gratefully she appreciated her kindness, she found in the approval of
her own heart the sweetest recompense for her disinterestedness.
Elizabeth's swollen eyes, and timid, hurried manner, betrayed how she
had passed the night, and how she was possessed by the most agitating
fears. Still she spoke of the acquittal of her father, as she took pride
in calling him at this crisis, as certain; and Mrs. Raby, taking
advantage of this, endeavoured to draw her mind from the torture of
representing to herself the progress of the scene then acting at so
short a distance from them, by speaking of the future. Elizabeth
mentioned Falkner's determination to quit England, and her own to
accompany him; the hinted dissuasion of Mrs. Raby she disregarded. "He
has been a father to me--I am his child. What would you say to a
daughter who deserted her father in adversity and sickness? And, dear
Mrs. Raby, you must remember that my father is, in spite of all his
courage, struck by disease; accustomed to my attentions, he would die if
left to hirelings. Deserted by me, he would sink into apathy or
despair."
Mrs. Raby listened--she admired the enthusiasm, and yet the softness,
the sensibility, and firmness of her young kinswoman; but she was
pained: many ideas assailed her, but she would not entertain them--they
were too wild and dangerous; and yet her heart, formed for generosity,
was tempted to trample upon the suggestions of prudence and the qualms
of bigotry. To give diversion to her thoughts, she mentioned Gerard
Neville. A blush of pleasure, a smile shown more in the eyes than on the
lips, mantled over her niece's countenance. She spoke of him as of a
being scarcely earthly in his excellence. His devotion to his mother
first, and lately his generosity towards her--his resolution to go to
America, to seek Osborne, for her sake and the sake of justice, were
themes for eloquence; she spoke with warmth and truth. "Yet, if you
follow Mr. Falkner's fortunes," said Mrs. Raby, "you will see him no
more."
"I cannot believe that," replied Elizabeth; "yet, if it must be so, I am
resigned. He will never forget me, and I shall feel that I am worthy of
him, though separated; better that, than to remain at the sacrifice of
all I hold honourable and good; he would despise me, and that were worse
absence, an absence of the heart ten thousand times more galling, than
mere distance of place--one would be eternal and irremediable, the other
easily obviated when our duties should no longer clash. I go with my
father because he is suffering; Neville may join us because he is
innocent--he will not, I feel and know, either forget me or stay away
for ever."