Elizabeth rose on the following morning, her bosom glowing with a sensation of acknowledged happiness. So much of young love brooded in her heart, as quickened its pulsations, and gave lightness and joy to her thoughts. She had no doubts, nor fears, nor even hopes: she was not aware that love was the real cause of the grateful sense of happiness, with which she avowed, to Heaven and herself, that all was peace. She was glad to be reunited to Falkner, for whom she felt an attachment at once so respectful, and yet, on account of his illness and melancholy, so watchful and tender, as never allowed her to be wholly free from solicitude, when absent from him. Also she expected on that morning to see Gerard Neville. When Falkner’s letter came to hasten her departure from Oakly, she felt grieved at the recall, at the moment when she was expecting him to join her, so to fill up the measure of her enjoyments; with all this, she was eager to obey, and anxious to be with him again. Lady Cecil deputed Miss Jervis to accompany her. On the very morning of their departure, Neville asked for a seat in the carriage; they travelled to town together, and when they separated, Neville told her of his intention of immediately securing a passage to America, and since then, had written a note to mention that he should ride over to Wimbledon on that morning.
The deep interest that Elizabeth took in his enterprise, made her solicitous to know whether he had procured any further information; but her paramount desire was to introduce him to Falkner, to inspire him with her sentiments of friendship; and to see two persons, whom she considered superior to the rest of the world, bound to each other by a mutual attachment; she wanted to impart to her father a pity for Alithea’s wrongs, and an admiration for her devoted son. She walked in the shrubbery before breakfast, enjoying nature with the enthusiasm of love; she gathered the last roses of the departing season, and mingling them with a few carnations, hung, with a new sense of rapture, over these fairest children of nature; for it is the property of love to enhance all our enjoyments, “to paint the lily, and add a perfume to the rose.” When she returned to the house, she was told that Falkner still slept, and had begged not to be disturbed. She breakfasted, therefore, by herself, sitting by the open casement, and looking on the waving trees, her flowers shedding a sweet atmosphere around; sometimes turning to her open book, where she read of
“The heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb,”
and sometimes leaning her cheek upon her hand, in one of those reveries where we rather feel than think, and every articulation of the frame thrills with a living bliss.
The quick canter of a horse, the stopping at the gate, the ringing of the bell, and the entrance of Neville, made her heart beat, and her eyes light up with gladness. He entered with a lighter step, a more cheerful and animated mien, than usual. He was aware that he loved. He was assured that Elizabeth was the being selected from the whole world who could make him happy; while he regarded her with all the admiration, the worship, due to her virtues. He had never loved before. The gloom that had absorbed him, the shyness inspired by his extreme sensitiveness, had hitherto made him avoid the society of women, their pleasures, their gaiety, their light, airy converse, were a blank to him; it was Elizabeth’s sufferings that first led him to remark her: the clearness of her understanding, her simplicity, tenderness, and dignity of soul won him; and lastly, the unbounded, undisguised sympathy she felt for his endeavours, which all else regarded as futile and insane, riveted him to her indissolubly.
Events were about to separate them, but her thoughts would accompany him across the Atlantic — stand suspended while his success was dubious, and hail his triumph with a joy equal to his own. The very thought gave fresh ardour to his desire to fulfil his task; he had no doubt of success, and, though the idea of his mother’s fate was still a cloud in the prospect, it only mellowed, without defacing, the glowing tints shed over it by love.
They met with undisguised pleasure; he sat near her, and gazed with such delight as, to one less inexperienced than Elizabeth, would have at once betrayed the secret of his heart. He told her that he had found a vessel about to sail for New York, and that he had engaged a passage on board. He was restless and uneasy, he feared a thousand chances; he felt as if he were neglecting his most sacred duty by any delay; there was something in him urging him on, telling him that the crisis was at hand; and yet, that any neglect on his part might cause the moment to slip by for ever. When arrived at New York, he should proceed with all speed to Washington, and then, if Osborne had not arrived, he should set forward to meet him. So much might intervene to balk his hopes! Osborne might die, and his secret die with him. Every moment’s delay was crime. The vessel was to drop down the river that very night, and to-morrow he was to join her at Sheerness. He had come to say farewell.
This sudden departure led to a thousand topics of interest; to his hopes — his certainty, that all would soon be revealed, and he rewarded for his long suffering. Such ideas led him to speak of the virtues of his mother, which were the foundation of his hopes. He spoke of her as he remembered her; he described her watchful tenderness, her playful but well-regulated treatment of himself. Still in his dreams, he said, he sometimes felt pressed in her arms, and kissed with all the passionate affection of her maternal heart; in such sweet visions her cry of agony would mingle; it seemed the last shriek of woe and death. “Can you wonder,” continued Neville, “can my father, can Sophia wonder, that, recollecting all these things, I will not bear without a struggle that my mother’s name should be clouded, her fate encompassed by mystery and blame; her very warm, kind feelings and enchanting sensibility turned into accusations against her. I do indeed hope and believe, that I shall learn the truth whither I am going, and that the unfortunate victim of lawless violence, of whom Osborne spoke, is my lost mother; but, if I am disappointed in this expectation, I shall not for that give up my pursuit; it will only whet my purpose to seek the truth elsewhere.”
“And that truth may be less sad than you anticipate,” said Elizabeth, “yet I cannot help fearing that the miserable tragedy which you have heard, is connected with your mother’s fate.”
“That it is a tragedy may well dash my eagerness,” replied Neville; “for, right or wrong, I cannot help feeling that to see her again — to console her for her sufferings — to show that she is remembered, loved, idolized, by her son, would be a dearer reward to me, than triumph over the barbarous condemnation of the world, if that triumph is to be purchased by having lost her for ever. This is not an heroic feeling, I confess—”
“If it be heroism,” said Elizabeth, “to find our chief good in serving others; if compassion, sympathy, and generosity, be greater virtues, as I believe, than cold self-absorbed severity, then is your feeling founded on the purest portion of our nature.”
While they were thus talking, seated near each other, Elizabeth’s face beaming with celestial benignity, and Neville, in the warmth of his gratitude for her approval, had taken her hand and pressed it to his lips, the door opened, and Falkner slowly entered. He had not heard of the arrival of the stranger; but seeing a guest with Elizabeth, he divined in a moment who it was. The thought ran through his frame like an ice-bolt — his knees trembled under him — cold dew gathered on his brow — for a moment he leaned against the door-way, unable to support himself; while Elizabeth, perceiving his entrance, blushing she knew not why, and now frightened by the ghastly pallor of his face, started up, exclaiming, “My father! Are you ill?—”
Falkner struggled a moment longer, and then recovered his self-possession. The disordered expression of his countenance was replaced by a cold and stern look, which, aided by the marble paleness that settled over it, looked more like the chiselling of a statue than mortal endurance. A lofty resolve, to bear unflinchingly, was the spirit that moulded his features into an appearance of calm. From this moment he acquired strength of body, as well as of mind, to meet the destiny before him. The energy of his soul did not again fail. Every instant — every word, seemed to add to his courage — to nerve him to the utmost height of endurance; to make him ready to leap, without one tremor, into the abyss which he had so long and so fearfully avoided.
The likeness of Neville to his mother had shaken him more than all. His voice, whose tones were the same with hers, was another shock. His very name jarred upon his sense, but he betrayed no token of suffering. “Mr. Neville,” said Elizabeth, “is come to take leave of me. To-morrow he sails to America.”
“To America! Wherefore?” asked Falkner.
“I wrote to you,” she replied; “I explained the motives of this voyage. You know—”
“I know all,” said Falkner; “and this voyage to America is superfluous.”
Neville echoed the word with surprise, while Elizabeth exclaimed, “Do you think so? You must have good reasons for this opinion. Tell them to Mr. Neville. Your counsels, I am sure, will be of use to him. I have often wished that you had been with us. I am so glad that he sees you before he goes — if he does go. You say his voyage is superfluous; tell him wherefore; advise him. Your advice will, I am sure, be good. I would give the world that he did the exact thing that is best — that is most likely to succeed.”
Neville looked gratefully at her as she spoke thus eagerly; while Falkner, still standing, his eyes fixed on, and scanning the person of the son of his victim, marble pale, but displaying feeling by no other outward sign, scarcely heard what she said, till her last words drew his attention. He smiled, as in scorn, and said, “Oh, yes, I can advise; and he shall succeed — and he will not go.”
“I shall be happy,” said Neville, with surprise. “I am willing to be advised — that is, if your advice coincides with my wishes.”
“It shall do so,” interrupted Falkner.
“Then,” exclaimed Neville, impetuously, “the moments that I linger here will appear to you too many. You will desire that I should be on board already — already under sail — already arrived. You will wish the man whom I seek should be waiting on the sands when I reach the shore!”
“He is much nearer,” said Falkner, calmly; “he is before you. I am he!”
Neville started; “You! What mean you? You are not Osborne.”
“I am Rupert Falkner; your mother’s destroyer.”
Neville glanced at Elizabeth — his eye met hers — their thought was the same, that this declaration proceeded from insanity. The fire that flashed from Falkner’s eye as he spoke — the sudden crimson that dyed his cheeks — the hollow, though subdued, tone of his voice, gave warrant for such a suspicion.
Elizabeth gazed on him with painful solicitude.
“I will not stay one moment longer,” continued Falkner, “to pain you by the sight of one so accursed as I. You will hear more from me this very evening. You will hear enough to arrest your voyage; and remember that I shall remain ready to answer any call — to make any reparation — any atonement you may require.”
He was gone — the door closed; it was as if a dread spectre had vanished, and Neville and Elizabeth looked at each other to read in the face of either, whether both were conscious of having been visited by the same vision.
“What does he mean? Can you tell me what to think?” cried Neville, almost gasping for breath.
“I will tell you in a few hours,” said Elizabeth. “I must go to him now; I fear he is very ill. This is madness. When your mother died, Mr. Neville, my father and I were travelling together in Russia or Poland. I remember dates — I am sure that it was so. This is too dreadful. Farewell. You sail to-morrow — you shall hear from me to-night.”
“Be sure that I do,” said Neville; “for there is a method in his speech — a dignity and a composure in his manner, that enforces a sort of belief. What can he mean?”
“Do you imagine,” cried Elizabeth, “that there is any truth in these unhappy ravings? That my father, who would not tread upon a worm — whose compassionate disposition and disinterestedness have been known to me since early childhood — the noblest, and yet the gentlest, of human beings — do you imagine that he is a murderer? Dear Mr. Neville, he never could have seen your mother!”
“Is it indeed so?” said Neville; “yet he said one word — did you not remark? — he called himself Rupert. But I will not distress you. You will write; or rather, as my time will be occupied in preparations for my voyage, and I scarcely know where the day will be spent, I will call here this evening at nine. If you cannot see me, send me a note to the gate, containing some information, either to expedite or delay my journey. Even if this strange scene be the work of insanity, how can I leave you in distress? and if it be true what he says — if he be the man I saw tear my mother from me — how altered! how turned to age and decrepitude! Yet, if he be that man, then I have a new and horrible course to take.”
“Is it so!” cried Elizabeth, with indignation; “and can a man so cloud his fair fame, so destroy his very existence, by the wild words of delirium — that my dear father should be accused of being the most odious criminal!”
“Nay,” replied Neville, “I make no accusation. Do not part from me in anger. You are right, I do not doubt; and I am unjust. I will call to-night.”
“Do so without fail. Do not lose your passage. I little knew that personal feeling would add to my eagerness to learn the truth. Do not stay for my sake. Come to-night and learn how false and wild my father’s words were; and then hasten to depart — to see Osborne — to learn all! Farewell till this evening.”
She hurried away to Falkner’s room, while stunned — doubting — forced, by Elizabeth, to entertain doubts, and yet convinced in his heart; for the name of Rupert brought conviction home — Neville left the house. He had entered it fostering the sweetest dreams of happiness, and now he dared not look at the reverse.
Elizabeth, filled with the most poignant inquietude with regard to his health, hastened to the sitting-room which Falkner usually occupied. She found him seated at the table, with a small box — a box she well remembered — open before him. He was looking over the papers it contained. His manner was perfectly composed — the natural hue had returned to his cheeks — his look was sedate. He was, indeed, very different from the man who, thirteen years before, had landed in Cornwall. He was then in the prime of life; and if passion defaced his features, still youth, and health, and power, animated his frame. Long years of grief and remorse, with sickness superadded, had made him old before his time. The hair had receded from the temples, and what remained was sprinkled with grey; his figure was bent and attenuated; his face care-worn; yet, at this moment, he had regained a portion of his former self. There was an expression on his face of satisfaction, almost of triumph; and when he saw Elizabeth, the old, sweet smile, she knew and loved so well, lighted up his countenance. He held out his hand; she took it. There was no fever in the palm — his pulse was equable; and when he spoke, his voice did not falter. He said, “This blow has fallen heavily on you, my dear girl; yet all will be well soon, I trust. Meanwhile it cannot be quite unexpected.”
Elizabeth looked her astonishment — he continued:—”You have long known that a heavy crime weighs on my conscience. It renders me unfit to live; yet, I have not been permitted to die. I sought death, but we are seldom allowed to direct our fate. I do not, however, complain; I am well content with the end which will speedily terminate all.”
“My dearest father,” cried Elizabeth, “I cannot guess what you mean. I thought — but no — you are not ill — you are not—”
“Not mad, dearest? was that your thought? It is a madness, at least, that has lasted long — since first you staid my hand on your mother’s grave. You are too good, too affectionate, to regret having saved me, even when you hear who I am. You are too resigned to Providence not to acquiesce in the way chosen, to bring all things to their destined end.”
Elizabeth put her arm round his neck, and kissed him. “Thank you,” said Falkner, “and God bless you for this kindness. I shall indeed be glad if you, from your heart, pardon and excuse me. Meanwhile, my love, there is something to be done. These papers contain an account of the miserable past; you must read them, and then let Mr. Neville have them without delay.”
“Nay,” said Elizabeth, “spare me this one thing — do not ask me to read the history of any one error of yours. In my eyes you must ever be the first, and best of human beings — if it has ever been otherwise, I will not hear of it. You shall never be accused of guilt before me, even by yourself.”
“Call it, then, my justification,” said Falkner. “But do not refuse my request — it is necessary. If it be pain, pardon me for inflicting it; but bear it for my sake — I wrote this narrative when I believed myself about to die in Greece, for the chief purpose of disclosing the truth to you. I have told my story truly and simply, you can have it from no one else, for no human being breathes who knows the truth except myself. Yield then — you have ever been yielding to me — yield, I beseech you, to my solemn request; do not shrink from hearing of my crimes, I hope soon to atone them. And then perform one other duty: send these papers to your friend — you know where he is.”
“He will call here this evening at nine.”
“By that time you will have finished; I am going to town now, but shall return to-night. Mr. Neville will be come and gone before then, and you will know all. I do not doubt but that you will pity me — such is your generosity, that perhaps you may love me still — but you will be shocked and wretched, and I the cause. Alas! how many weapons do our errors wield, and how surely does retribution aim at our defenceless side! To know that I am the cause of unhappiness to you, my sweet girl, inflicts a pang I cannot endure with any fortitude. But there is a remedy, and all will be well in the end.”
Elizabeth hung over him as he spoke, and he felt a tear warm on his cheek, fallen from her eye — he was subdued by this testimony of her sympathy — he strained her to his heart; but in a moment after he reassumed his self-command, and kissing her, bade her farewell, and then left her to the task of sorrow he had assigned.
She knew not what to think, what image to conjure up. His words were free from all incoherence; before her also were the papers that would tell all — she turned from them with disgust; and then again she thought of Neville, his departure, his promised return, and what she could say to him. It was a hideous dream, but there was no awakening; she sat down, she took out the papers: the number of pages written in her father’s hand seemed a reprieve — she should not hear all the dreadful truth in a few, short, piercing words — there was preparation. For a moment she paused to gather her thoughts — to pray for fortitude — to hope that the worst was not there, but in its stead some venial error, that looked like crime to his sensitive mind — and then — She began to read.