Thesehad been hours of sunshine for the prisoner and his child, such as seldom visit the precincts of a gaol, 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 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-tost 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 the 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 woe 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 gaiety in the rest of the town, but which was so mournful and fearful in the gaol. 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 out-speed 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 for 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 dyes — 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 recognizing them as the redeeming points of a faulty nature; he despised himself for feeling them, until he was on his death-bed.
“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.”