It was one of those days which do sometimes occur in March--warm and
balmy, and enlivening as spring always is. The birds were busy among the
leafless boughs; and if the carriage stopped for a moment, the gushing
song of the skylark attracted the eye to his blue ethereal bower; a
joyous welcome was breathed by nature to every heart, and none answered
it so fervently as Falkner. Sentiments of pleasure possessed all three
travellers. Mrs. Raby experienced that exultation natural to all human
beings when performing a generous action. Elizabeth felt that in going
to Belleforest she drew nearer Neville--for there was no reason why he
should not enter her grandfather's doors; but Falkner was happier than
either. It was not the vulgar joy of having escaped danger; partly it
was gladness to see Elizabeth restored to her family, where only, as
things were, she could find happiness, and yet not divided from him.
Partly it arose from the relief he felt, as the burden of heavy,
long-endured care was lifted from his soul. But there was something
more, which was incomprehensible even to himself. "His bosom's lord sat
lightly on its throne"--he no longer turned a saddened, reproachful eye
on nature, nor any more banished soft emotions, nourishing remorse as a
duty. He was reconciled to himself and the world; the very circumstances
of his prison and his trial being over, took with them the more galling
portion of his retrospections--health again filled his veins. At the
moment when he had first accused himself, Neville saw in him a man about
to die. It was evident now that the seeds of disease were destroyed--his
person grew erect--his eye clear and animated. Elizabeth had never,
since they left Greece, seen him so free from suffering; during all her
intercourse with him, she never remembered him so bland and cheerful in
his mood. It was the reward of much suffering--the gift of Heaven to one
who had endured patiently--opening his heart to the affections instead
of cherishing pride and despair. It was the natural result of a noble
disposition, which could raise itself above even its own
errors--throwing off former evil as alien to its nature--embracing good
as its indefeasible right.
They entered the majestic avenues and imbowered glades of
Belleforest--where cedar, larch, and pine diversified the bare woods
with a show of foliage--the turf was covered with early flowers--the
buds were green and bursting on the boughs. Falkner remembered his visit
the preceding summer. How little had he then foreseen impending events;
and how far from his heart had then been the peace that at present so
unaccountably possessed it. Then the wide demesne and stately mansion
had appeared the abode of gloom and bigotry; now it was changed to a
happy valley, where love and cheerfulness reigned.
Mrs. Raby was welcomed by her children--two elegant girls of fifteen and
sixteen, and a spirited boy of twelve. They adored their mother, and saw
in their new cousin an occasion for rejoicing. Their sparkling looks and
gay voices dispelled the last remnant of melancholy from the venerable
mansion. Old Oswi Raby himself--too much sunk in dotage to understand
what was going on--yet smiled and looked glad on the merry faces about
him. He could not exactly make out who Elizabeth was--he was sure that
it was a relation, and he treated her with an obsequious respect, which,
considering his former impertinent tone, was exceedingly amusing.
What was wanting to complete the universal happiness? Elizabeth's
spirits rose to unwonted gayety in the society of her young
relations--and her cousin Edwin in particular found her the most
delightful companion in the world--for she was as fearless on horseback
as himself, and was unwearied in amusing him by accounts of the foreign
countries she had seen--and adventures, ridiculous or fearful, that she
had encountered. In Mrs. Raby she found a beloved friend for serious
hours; and Falkner's recovered health and spirits were a source of
exhaustless congratulation.
Yet where was Gerard Neville? Where the looks of love and rapturous
sense of sympathy, before which all the other joys of life fade into
dimness? Love causes us to get more rid of our haunting identity, and to
give ourselves more entirely away than any other emotion; it is the most
complete, the most without veil or shadow to mar its beauty. Every other
human passion occupies but a distinct portion of our being. This
assimilates with all, and turns the whole into bliss or misery.
Elizabeth did not fear that Gerard would forget her. He had remembered
through the dark hours gone by--and now his shadow walked with her
beneath the avenues of Belleforest, and the recollection of his love
impregnated the balmy airs of spring with a sweetness unfelt before.
Elizabeth had now leisure to love--and many an hour she spent in
solitary yet blissful dreams--almost wondering that such happiness was
to be found on earth. What a change--what a contrast between the
deathgirt prison of Carlisle and the love-adorned glades of her
ancestral park! Not long ago the sky appeared to bend over one universe
of tears and wo--and now, in the midst, a piece of heaven had dropped
down upon earth, and she had entered the enchanted ground.
Yet as weeks sped on, some thoughts troubled her repose. Gerard neither
came nor wrote. At length she got a letter from Lady Cecil,
congratulating her on Falkner's acquittal, and the kindness of her aunt;
her letter was amiable, yet it was constrained; and Elizabeth, reading
it again and again, and pondering on every expression, became aware that
her friends felt less satisfaction than she did in the turn of fortune
that placed her and Falkner together under her paternal roof. She had
believed that, as Elizabeth Raby, Neville would at once claim her; but
she was forced to recollect that Falkner was still at her side; and what
intercourse could there be between him and his mother's destroyer?
Thus anxiety and sadness penetrated poor Elizabeth's new-found paradise.
She strove to appear the same, but she stole away, when she could, to
meditate alone on her strange lot. It doubled her regret to think that
Neville also was unhappy. She figured the struggles he underwent. She
almost thought that, if he were happy, she could bear all. She
remembered him as she last saw him, agitated and wretched--she alone,
she felt sure, could calm--she alone minister happiness--and were they
never more to meet?
Falkner, who watched Elizabeth with all the jealousy of excessive
affection, soon perceived the change. At first, her gayety had been
spontaneous, her step free, her voice and laugh the very echo of joy:
now, the forced smile, the frequent abstraction, the eagerness with
which she watched for opportunities to steal into solitude, while her
attentions to him became even more sedulous and tender; as if she wished
to prove how ready she was to make every sacrifice for his sake--all
these appearances he saw, and his heart ached to think how the effects
of his errors still spread poison over his own life and that of one so
dear.
He felt sure that Mrs. Raby shared his uneasiness. She and her niece
were much less together than before. Elizabeth could not speak of the
thoughts that occupied her; and she could not feign with her dear, wise
friend, whose eyes read her soul, and whose counsels or consolations she
alike feared. Falkner saw Mrs. Raby's regards fix anxiously on her young
relative; he penetrated her thoughts, and again he was forced to abhor
himself as the destroyer of the happiness of all who came within his
sphere.
It was evident that some communication must take place between some one
of the individuals thus misplaced and wretched. Elizabeth alone was
resigned, and therefore silent. Falkner longed to act rather than to
speak; to depart, to disappear for ever; he also, therefore, brooded
mutely over the state of things. Mrs. Raby, seeing the wretchedness that
was creeping over the hearts of those whose happiness she most desired,
was the first to enter on the subject. One day, being alone with
Falkner, she began: "The more I see and admire my dearest niece," she
said, "the greater I feel our obligation to be to you, Mr. Falkner, for
having made her what she is. Her natural disposition is full of
excellence, but it is the care and the education you bestowed which give
her character so high a tone. Had she come to us in her childhood, it is
more than probable she would have been placed in a convent--and what
nature, however perfect, but would be injured by the system that reigns
in those places? To you we owe our fairest flower, and if gratitude
could repay you, you would be repaid by mine; to prove it, and to serve
you, must always be the most pleasing duty of my life."
"I should be much happier," said Falkner, "if I could regard my
interference as you do; I fear I have injured irreparably my beloved
girl, and that, through me, she is suffering pangs which she is too good
to acknowledge, but which, in the end, may destroy her. Had I restored
her to you, had she been brought up here, she and Gerard Neville would
not now be separated."
"But they might never have met," replied Mrs. Raby. "It is indeed vain
thus to regard the past; not only is it unalterable, but each link of
the chain, producing the one that followed, seems, in our instance, to
have been formed and riveted by a superior power for peculiar purposes.
The whole order of events is inscrutable; one little change, and none of
us would be as we are now. Except as a lesson or a warning, we ought not
to contemplate the past, but the future certainly demands our attention.
It is impossible to see Gerard Neville and not to feel an intense
interest in him; he is worthy of our Elizabeth, and he is ardently
attached to her, and has, besides, made a deep impression on her young
heart, which I would not have erased or lessened; for I am sure that her
happiness, as far as mortals can be happy, will be ensured by their
marriage."
"I stand in the way of this union; of that I am well aware," said
Falkner; "but be assured I will not continue to be an obstacle to the
welfare of my angel girl. It is for this that I would consult you: how
are contradictions to be reconciled, or rather, how can we contrive my
absence so as to remove every impediment, and yet not to awaken
Elizabeth's suspicions?"
"I dislike contrivances," replied Mrs. Raby, "and I hate all
mystery--suffer me, therefore, to speak frankly to you--I have often
conversed with Elizabeth; she is firm not to marry, so as to be wholly
divided from you. She reasons calmly, but she never wavers: she will
not, she says, commence new duties by, in the first place, betraying her
old ones; she should be for ever miserable if she did, and therefore
those who love her must not ask it. Sir Gerard entertains similar
sentiments with regard to himself, though less resolute, and, I believe,
less just than hers. I received a letter from him this morning. I was
pondering whether to show it to you or to my niece; it seems to me best
that you should read it, if it will not annoy you."
"Give it me," said Falkner; "and permit me also to answer it--it is not
in my nature to dally with evils--I shall meet those that now present
themselves, and bring the best remedy I can, at whatever cost."
Neville's letter was that of a man whose wishes were at war with his
principles; and yet who was not convinced of the justice of the
application of those principles. It began by deeply regretting the
estrangement of Elizabeth from his family, by asking Mrs. Raby if she
thought that she could not be induced to pay another visit to Lady
Cecil. He said that lady was eager to see her, and only delayed asking
her till she ascertained whether her friendship, which was warm and
lively as ever, would prove as acceptable as formerly.
"I will at once be frank with you," the letter continued; "for your
excellent understanding may direct us, and will suggest excuses for our
doubts. You may easily divine the cause of our perplexities, though you
can scarcely comprehend the extremely painful nature of mine. Permit me
to treat you as a friend--be the judge of my cause--I have faith in the
purity and uprightness of a woman's heart, when she is endowed with
gifts such as you possess. I had once thought to refer myself to Miss
Raby herself, but I dread the generous devotedness of her disposition.
Will you, who love her, take therefore the task of decision on
yourself?"
Neville went on to express, in few but forcible words, his attachment to
Elizabeth, his conviction that it could never change, and his persuasion
that she returned it. "It is not therefore my cause merely that I
plead," he said, "but hers also. Do not call me presumptuous for thus
expressing myself. A mutual attachment alone can justify extraordinary
conduct; but where it is mutual, every minor consideration ought to give
way before it; the happiness of both our lives depends upon our not
trifling with feelings which I am sure can never change. They may be the
source of perpetual felicity--if not, they will, they must be pregnant
with misery to the end of our lives. But why this sort of explanation,
when the meaning that I desire to convey is, that _if_--that _as_, may I
not say--we love each other--no earthly power shall deprive me of
her--sooner or later she must, she shall be mine; and meanwhile this
continued separation is painful beyond my fortitude to bear.
"Can I take my mother's destroyer by the hand, and live with him on
terms of intimacy and friendship? Such is the price I must pay for
Elizabeth--can I--may I--so far forget the world's censure, and, I may
say, the instigations of nature, as unreservedly to forgive?
"I will confess to you, dear Mrs. Raby, that when I saw Falkner in the
most degrading situation in which a man can be placed, manacled, and as
a felon, his dignity of mien, his majestic superiority to all the race
of common mortals around, the grandeur of his calm yet piercing eye, and
the sensibility of his voice--won my admiration; with such is peopled
that heaven where the noble penitent is more welcome than the dull
follower of a narrow code of morals, who never erred, because he never
felt. I pardon him, then, from my heart, in my mother's name. These
sentiments, the entire forgiveness of the injury done me, and the sense
of his merits, still continue: but may I act on them? would not you
despise me if I did? say but that you would, and my sentence is
pronounced--I lose Elizabeth--I quit England for ever--it matters little
where I go.
"Yet, before you decide, consider that this man possesses virtues of the
highest order. He honoured as much as he loved my mother, and if his act
was criminal, dearly has he paid the result. I persuade myself that
there is more real sympathy between me and my mother's childhood's
friend--who loved her so long and truly--whose very crime was a mad
excess of love--than one who knew nothing of her--to whom her name
conjures up no memories, no regret.
"I feel that I could lament with Falkner the miserable catastrophe, and
yet not curse him for bringing it about. Nay--as with such a man there
can be no half sentiments--I feel that if we are thrown together, his
noble qualities will win ardent sentiments of friendship; were not his
victim my mother, there does not exist a man whose good opinion I should
so eagerly seek and highly prize as that of Rupert Falkner. It is that
fatal name which forms the barrier between me and charity--shutting me
out, at the same time, from hope and love.
"Thus incoherently I put down my thoughts as they rise--a tangled maze
which I ask you to unravel. I will endeavour to abide by your decision,
whatever it may be; yet I again ask you to pause. Is Elizabeth's
happiness as deeply implicated as mine? if it be, can I abide by any
sentence that shall condemn her to a wretchedness similar to that which
has so long been an inmate of my struggling heart? no; sooner than
inflict one pang on her, I will fly from the world. _We three_ will seek
some far obscure retreat and be happy, despite the world's censure, and
even your condemnation."
Falkner's heart swelled within him as he read. He could not but admire
Neville's candour--and he was touched by the feelings he expressed
towards himself; but pride was stronger than regret, and prompted an
instant and decisive reply. He rebelled against the idea that Gerard and
Elizabeth should suffer through him, and thus he wrote:--
"You have appealed to Mrs. Raby; will you suffer me to answer that
appeal, and to decide? I have a better right; for kind as she is, I have
Elizabeth's welfare yet more warmly at heart.
"The affection that she feels for you will endure to the end of her
life--for her faithful heart is incapable of change; on you therefore
depends her happiness, and you are called upon to make some sacrifice to
ensure it. Come here, take her at my hand--it is all I ask--from that
hour you shall never see me more--the injured and the injurer will
separate; my fortunes are of my own earning, and I can bear them. You
must compensate to my dear child for my loss--you must be father as well
as husband--and speak kindly of me to her, or her heart will break.
"We must be secret in our proceedings--mystery and deception are
contrary to my nature--but I willingly adopt them for her sake. Mrs.
Raby must not be trusted; but you and I love Elizabeth sufficiently even
to sacrifice a portion of our integrity to secure her happiness. For her
own sake we must blindfold her. She need never learn that we deceived
her. She will naturally be separated from me for a short time--the
period will be indefinitely prolonged--till new duties arise wholly to
wean her from me--and I shall be forgotten.
"Come then at once--endure the sight of the guilty Falkner for a few
short days--till you thus earn his dearest treasure--and do not fear
that I shall intrude one moment longer than is absolutely necessary for
our success; be assured that when once Elizabeth is irrevocably yours,
wide seas shall roll between us. Nor will your condescension to my wish
bring any stigma on yourself or your bride, for Miss Raby does not bear
my tainted name. All I ask is, that you will not delay. It is difficult
for me to cloak my feelings to one so dear--let my task of deception be
abridged as much as possible.
"I shall give my Elizabeth to you with confidence and pleasure. You
deserve her. Your generous disposition will enable you to endure her
affection for me, and even her grief at my departure. Never speak
unkindly of me to her. When you see me no more, you will find less
difficulty in forgetting the injury I have done you; you must endeavour
to remember only the benefit you receive in gaining Elizabeth."