While they were conversing, quick footsteps were heard in the street
below. Mrs. Raby had succeeded in making the time pass more lightly than
could be hoped; it was three o'clock--there was a knock at the door of
the house. Elizabeth, breaking off abruptly, turned ashy pale, and
clasped her hands in the agony of expectation. Osborne rushed into the
room. "It is all over!" he exclaimed; "all is well!" Tears streamed from
his eyes as he spoke and ran up to shake hands with Elizabeth, and
congratulate her, with an ardour and joy that contrasted strangely with
the frightened-looking being he had always before shown himself.
"Mr. Falkner is acquitted--he is free--he will soon be here! No one
could doubt his innocence that saw him--no one did doubt it--the jury
did not even retire." Thus Osborne ran on, relating the events of the
trial. Falkner's mere appearance had prepossessed every one. The
frankness of his open brow, his dignified, unembarrassed manner, his
voice, whose clear tones were the very echo of truth, vouched for him.
The barrister who conducted the prosecution narrated the facts rather as
a mystery to be inquired into than as a crime to be detected. Gerard
Neville's testimony was entirely favourable to the prisoner; he showed
how Falkner, wholly unsuspected, safe from the shadow of accusation, had
spontaneously related the unhappy part he took in his unfortunate
mother's death, for the sake of restoring her reputation and relieving
the minds of her relatives. The narrative written in Greece, and left as
explanation in case of his death, was further proof of the truth of his
account. Gerard declared himself satisfied of his innocence; and when he
stated his father's dying words, his desire, at the last hour on the bed
of death, to record his belief in Falkner's being guiltless of the
charge brought against him--words spoken as it were yesterday, for he
who uttered them still lay unburied--the surprise seemed to be that he
should have suffered a long imprisonment and the degradation of a trial.
Osborne's own evidence was clear and satisfactory. At last Falkner
himself was asked what defence he had to make. As he rose every eye
turned on him, every voice and breath were hushed--a solemn silence
reigned. His words were few, spoken calmly and impressively; he rested
his innocence on the very evidence brought against him. He had been the
cause of the lady's death, and asked for no mercy; but for her sake, and
the sake of that heroic feeling that led her to encounter death amid the
waves, he asked for justice, and he did not for a moment doubt that it
would be rendered him.
"Nor could you doubt it as you heard him," continued Osborne. "Never
were truth and innocence written so clearly on human countenance as on
his as he looked upon the jury with his eagle eyes, addressing them
without pride, but with infinite majesty, as if he could rule their
souls through the power of a clear conscience and a just cause; they did
not hesitate--the jury did not hesitate a moment; I rushed here the
moment I heard the words, and now--he is come."
Many steps were again heard in the street below, and one, which
Elizabeth could not mistake, upon the stairs. Falkner entered--she flew
to his arms, and he pressed her to his bosom, wrapping her in a fond,
long embrace, while neither uttered a word.
A few moments of trembling almost to agony, a few agitated tears, and
the natural gladness of the hour assumed its genuine aspect. Falkner,
commanding himself, could shake hands with Osborne, and thank him, and
Elizabeth presented him to Mrs. Raby. He at once comprehended the
kindness of her visit, and acknowledged it with a heartfelt thankfulness
that showed how much he had suffered while picturing Elizabeth's
abandonment. Soon various other persons poured into the room, and it was
necessary to pass through many congratulations, and to thank, and, what
was really painful, to listen to the outpouring talk of those persons
who had been present at the trial. Yet, at such a moment, the heart,
warmed and open, acknowledges few distinctions. Among those whose
evident joy in the result filled Elizabeth with gratitude, she and
Falkner felt touched by none so much as the visit of a turnkey, who was
ashamed to show himself, yet who, hearing they were immediately to quit
Carlisle, begged permission to see them once again. The poor fellow, who
looked on Elizabeth as an angel and Falkner as a demigod--for, not
forgetting others in their adversity, they had discovered and assisted
his necessities--the poor fellow seemed out of his mind with
joy--ecstasy was painted on his face--there was no mistaking the clear
language of a full and grateful heart.
At length the hurry and tumult subsided--all departed. Falkner and his
beloved companion were left alone, and for a few short hours enjoyed a
satisfaction so perfect that angels might have envied them. Falkner was
humbled, it is true, and looked to the past with the same remorse; but
in vain did he think that his pride ought to feel deeply wounded by the
scene of that day; in vain did he tell himself that, after such a trial,
the purity of his honour was tarnished--his heart told another tale. Its
emphatic emotions banished every conventional or sophisticated regret.
He was honestly though calmly glad, and acknowledged the homely feeling
with the sincerity of a man who had never been nourished in false
refinements or factitious woes.
In the evening, when it was dusk, said Falkner, "Let us, love, take a
walk." The words made Elizabeth both laugh and cry for joy; he put on
his hat, and, with her on his arm, they got quickly out of the town, and
strolled down a neighbouring lane. The wind that waved the heads of the
still leafless trees, the aspect of the starry sky, the wide-spread
fields, were felt as blessings from Heaven by the liberated prisoner.
"They all seem," he said, "created purely for my enjoyment. How sweet is
nature--how divine a thing is liberty! Oh, my God! I dare not be so
happy as I would--there is one thought to chill the genial glow; but for
the image of lost, dead Alithea, I should enjoy a felicity too pure for
frail humanity."
As they returned into the town, a carriage with four posters passed
them; Elizabeth recognised at once Gerard Neville within--a pang shot
through her heart to remember that they did not share their feelings,
but were separated, perhaps for ever, at this very hour. On her return,
worn out with fatigue and oppressed with this reflection, she bade
good-night to Falkner; and he, happy in the idea that the same roof
would cover them, kissed and embraced her. On entering her room she
found a letter on her toilet--and smiles again dimpled her face--it was
a letter from Neville. It contained a few words, a very few, of
congratulation, reminding her that he must hurry back to town for the
melancholy task of his father's funeral, and imploring that neither she
nor Falkner would determine on any immediate step. "I cannot penetrate
the cloud in which we are enveloped," he said; "but I know that I ought
not, that I cannot lose you. A little time, a little reflection may show
us how to accord our various duties with the great necessity of our not
being separated. Be not rash, therefore, my own Elizabeth, nor let your
friend be rash. Surely the worst is over, and we may be permitted at
last to hate no more, and to be happy."
Elizabeth kissed the letter, and placed it beneath her pillow. That
night she slept sweetly and well.
Early in the morning Mrs. Raby called on them. The same prepossession
which Gerard had felt in her favour as soon as he saw her, had taken
place in her on seeing Falkner. There is a sort of magnetism that draws
like to like, and causes minds of fine and lofty tone to recognise each
other when brought in contact. Mrs. Raby saw and acknowledged at once
Falkner's superiority; whatever his faults had been, they were winnowed
away by adversity, and he was become at once the noblest and gentlest of
human beings. Mrs. Raby had that touch of generosity in her own
character that never permitted her to see merit without openly
acknowledging and endeavouring to reward it. The first thought of the
plan she now entertained she had cast away as impracticable, but it
returned; the desire to give and to benefit, a natural growth in her
heart, made her look on it with complacency--by degrees she dismissed
the objections that presented themselves, and resolved to act upon it.
"We complain," she thought, "of the barrenness of life, and the
tediousness and faults of our fellow-creatures; and when Providence
brings before us two selected from the world as endowed with every
admirable quality, we allow a thousand unworthy considerations, which
assume the voice of prudence, to exile us from them. Where can I find a
man like Falkner, full of honour, sensibility, and talent? where a girl
like Elizabeth, who has proved herself to be the very type of virtuous
fidelity? Such companions will teach my children better than volumes of
moral treatises, the existence and loveliness of human goodness."
Mrs. Raby passed a sleepless night, revolving these thoughts. In the
morning she called on her new friends; and then, with all the grace that
was her peculiar charm, she invited them to accompany her to
Belleforest, and to take up their residence there for the next few
months.
Elizabeth's eyes sparkled with delight. Falkner at once accepted the
invitation for her, and declined it for himself. "You hear him, my dear
aunt," cried Elizabeth; "but you will not accept his refusal--you will
not permit this perversity."
"You forget many things when you speak thus," said Falkner; "but Mrs.
Raby remembers them all. I thank her for her kindness; but I am sure she
will admit of the propriety of my declining her invitation."
"You imagine then," replied Mrs. Raby, "that I made it for form's
sake--intending it should be refused. You mistake. I know what you mean,
and all you would covertly suggest--let us cast aside the ceremonies of
mere acquaintanceship--let us be friends, and speak with the openness
natural to us--do you consent to this?"
"You are good, very good," said Falkner; "except this dear girl, who
will deign to be my friend?"
"If I thought," replied Mrs. Raby, "that your heart was so narrowed by
the disasters and injustice you have suffered, that you must hereafter
shut yourself up with the remembrance of them, I should feel inclined to
retract my offer, for friendship is a mutual feeling; and he who feels
only for himself can be no one's friend. But this is not the case with
you. You have a heart true to every touch of sympathy, as Elizabeth can
testify--since you determined to live for her sake, when driven to die
by the agony of your sufferings. Let us, then, at once dismiss notions
which I must consider as unworthy of us. When we turn to the page of
history, and read of men visited by adversity--what do we say to those
of their fellow-creatures who fall off from them on account of their
misfortunes? Do we not call them little-minded, and visit them with our
contempt? Do not class me with such. I might pass you carelessly by if
you had always been prosperous. It is your misfortunes that inspire me
with friendship--that render me eager to cultivate an intimacy with one
who has risen above the most frightful calamity that could befall a man,
and shown himself at once repentant and courageous.
"You will understand what I mean without long explanation--we shall have
time for that hereafter. I honour you. What my heart feels, my voice and
actions will ever be ready to proclaim. For Elizabeth's sake, you must
not permit the world to think that he who adopted and brought her up is
unworthy of regard and esteem. Come with us to Belleforest--you must not
refuse; I long to introduce my girls to their matchless cousin--I long
to win her heart by my affection and kindness; and if you will permit me
the enviable task, how proud and glad I shall be to repay a portion of
what we owe you on her account, by endeavouring to compensate, by a few
months of tranquillity and friendship, for the misery you have
undergone."
Mrs. Raby spoke with sincerity and earnestness, and Elizabeth's eyes
pleaded her cause yet more eloquently. "Where you go," she said to
Falkner, "there also I shall be--I shall not repine however you
decide--but we shall be very happy at Belleforest."
It was real modesty, and no false pride, that actuated Falkner. He felt
happy, yet when he looked outward he fancied that hereafter he must be
shut out from society--a branded man. He intimately felt the injustice
of this. He accepted it as a punishment for the past, but he did not the
less proudly rise above it. It was a real pleasure to find one
entertaining the generous sentiments which Mrs. Raby expressed, and
capable of acting on them. He felt worthy of her regard, and
acknowledged that none but conventional reasons placed any barrier to
his accepting her kind offers. Why then should he reject them? He did
not; frankly, and with sincere thanks, he suffered himself to be
overruled; and on the following day they were on their road to
Belleforest.