Falkner By Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

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Falkner

Mary Shelley

Published: 1837

Categorie(s): Fiction, Literary

Source: http://gutenberg.net.au About Shelley:

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (30 August 1797 – 1 February 1851) was an English romantic/gothic novelist and the author of Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus. She was married to the Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. Source: Wikipedia

Also available on Feedbooks Shelley:

- Frankenstein (1818)

- The Last Man (1826)

- On Ghosts (1824)

- The Invisible Girl (1820)

- Mathilda (1820)

- The Mortal Immortal (1910)

- The Fortunes of Perkin Warbeck (1830)

- The Dream (1832)

- Lodore (1835)

- The Heir of Mondolfo (1877)

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> "there stood

>

> In record of a sweet sad story,

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> An altar, and a temple bright,

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> Circled by steps, and o'er the gate

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> Was sculptured, 'To Fidelity!'"

>

> —Shelley.

Part 1

Chapter 1

The opening scene of this tale took place in a little village on the southern coast of Cornwall. Treby (by that name we choose to designate a spot, whose true one, for several reasons, will not be given,) was, indeed, rather a hamlet than a village, although, being at the sea-side, there were two or three houses which, by dint of green paint and chintz curtains, pretended to give the accommodation of "Apartments Furnished" to the few bathers who, having heard of its cheapness, seclusion, and beauty, now and then resorted thither from the neighbouring towns.

This part of Cornwall shares much of the peculiar and exquisite beauty which every Englishman knows adorns "the sweet shire of Devon." The hedges near Treby, like those round Dawlish and Torquay, are redolent with a thousand flowers: the neighbouring fields are prankt with all the colours of Flora,—its soft air,—the picturesque bay in which it stood, as it were, enshrined,—its red cliffs, and verdure reaching to the very verge of the tide,—all breathe the same festive and genial atmosphere. The cottages give the same promise of comfort, and are adorned by nature with more luxurious loveliness than the villas of the rich in a less happy climate.

Treby was almost unknown; yet, whoever visited it might well prefer its sequestered beauties to many more renowned competitors. Situated in the depths of a little bay, it was sheltered on all sides by the cliffs. Just behind the hamlet the cliff made a break, forming a little ravine, in the depth of which ran a clear stream, on whose banks were spread the orchards of the villagers, whence they derived their chief wealth. Tangled bushes and luxuriant herbage diversified the cliffs, some of which were crowned by woods; and in "every nook and coign of 'vantage" were to be seen and scented the glory of that coast—its exhaustless store of flowers. The village was, as has been said, in the depth of a bay; towards the east the coast rounded off with a broad sweep, forming a varied line of bay and headland: to the west a little promontory shot out abruptly, and at once closed in the view. This point of land was the peculiarity of Treby. The cliff that gave it its picturesque appearance was not high, but was remarkable for being crowned by the village church, with its slender spire.

Long may it be before the village church-yard ceases to be in England a favoured spot—the home of rural and holy seclusion. At Treby it derived a new beauty, from its distance from the village, and the eminence on which it was placed, overlooking the wide ocean, the sands, the village itself, with its gardens, orchards, and gaily painted fields. From the church a straggling, steep, yet not impracticable path, led down to the sands; by way of the beach; indeed, the distance from the village to the church was scarcely more than half a mile; but no vehicle could approach, except by the higher road, which, following the line of coast, measured nearly two miles. The edifice itself, picturesque in its rustic simplicity, seemed at the distance to be embosomed in a neighbouring grove. There was no house, nor even cottage, near. The contiguous church-yard contained about two acres; a light, white paling surrounded it on three sides; on the fourth was a high wall, clothed thickly with ivy: the trees of the near wood overhung both wall and paling, except on the side of the cliff: the waving of their branches, the murmur of the tide, and the occasional scream of sea-fowl, were all the sounds that disturbed, or rather harmonized with, the repose and solitude of the spot.

On Sunday, the inhabitants of several hamlets congregated here to attend divine service. Those of Treby usually approached by the beach, and the path of the cliff, the old and infirm only taking the longer, but more easy road. On every other day of the week, all was quiet, except when the hallowed precincts were visited by happy parents with a new-born babe, by bride and bridegroom hastening all gladly to enter on the joys and cares of life—or by the train of mourners who attended relation or friend to the last repose of the dead.

The poor are not sentimental—and, except on Sunday, after evening service, when a mother might linger for a few moments near the fresh grave of a lately lost child—or, loitering among the rustic tombs, some of the elder peasants told tales of the feats of the dead companions of their youth, a race unequalled, so they said, by the generation around them. Save on that day, none ever visited or wandered among the graves, with the one exception of a child, who had early learned to mourn, yet whose infantine mind could scarcely understand the extent of the cause she had for tears. A little girl, unnoticed and alone, was wont, each evening, to trip over the sands—to scale, with light steps, the cliff, which was of no gigantic height, and then, unlatching the low, white gate, of the church-yard, to repair to one corner, where the boughs of the near trees shadowed over two graves—two graves, of which one only was distinguished by a simple head-stone, to commemorate the name of him who mouldered beneath. This tomb was inscribed to the memory of Edwin Raby, but the neighbouring and less honoured grave claimed more of the child's attention—for her mother lay beneath the unrecorded turf.

Beside this grassy hillock she would sit and talk to herself, and play, till, warned home by the twilight, she knelt and said her little prayer, and, with a "Good night, mamma," took leave of a spot with which was associated the being whose caresses and love she called to mind, hoping that one day she might again enjoy them. Her appearance had much in it to invite remark, had there been any who cared to notice a poor little orphan. Her dress, in some of its parts, betokened that she belonged to the better classes of society; but she had no stockings, and her little feet peeped from the holes of her well-worn shoes. Her straw bonnet was dyed dark with sun and sea spray, and its blue ribbon faded. The child herself would, in any other spot, have attracted more attention than the incongruities of her attire. There is an expression of face which we name angelic, from its purity, its tenderness, and, so to speak, plaintive serenity, which we oftener see in young children than in persons of a more advanced age. And such was hers: her hair, of a light golden brown, was parted over a brow, fair and open as day: her eyes, deep set and earnest, were full of thought and tenderness: her complexion was pure and stainless, except by the roses that glowed in her cheek, while each vein could be traced on her temples, and you could almost mark the flow of the violet-coloured blood beneath: her mouth was the very nest of love: her serious look was at once fond and imploring; but when she smiled, it was as if sunshine broke out at once, warm and unclouded: her figure had the plumpness of infancy; but her tiny hands and feet, and tapering waist, denoted the faultless perfection of her form. She was about six years old—a friendless orphan, cast, thus young, pennyless on a thorny, stony-hearted world.

Nearly two years previous, a gentleman, with his wife and little daughter, arrived at Treby, and took up his abode at one of the moderate priced lodging-houses before mentioned. The occasion of their visit was but too evident. The husband, Mr. Raby, was dying of a consumption. The family had migrated early in September, so to receive the full benefit of a mild winter in this favoured spot. It did not appear to those about him that he could live to see that winter. He was wasted to a shadow—the hectic in his cheek, the brightness of his eyes and the debility apparent in every movement, showed that disease was triumphing over the principles of life. Yet, contrary to every prognostic, he lived on from week to week, from month to month. Now he was said to be better—now worse—and thus a winter of extraordinary mildness was passed. But with the east winds of spring a great deterioration was visible. His invalid walks in the sun grew shorter, and then were exchanged for a few minutes passed sitting in his garden. Soon he was confined to his room—then to his bed. During the first week of a bleak, ungenial May, he died.

The extreme affection that subsisted between the pair rendered his widow an object of interest even to the villagers. They were both young, and she was beautiful; and more beautiful was their offspring—the little girl we have mentioned—who, watched over and attended on by her mother, attracted admiration as well as interest, by the peculiar style of her childish, yet perfect loveliness. Every one wondered what the bereaved lady would do; and she, poor soul, wondered herself, and would sit watching the gambols of her child in an attitude of unutterable despondency, till the little girl, remarking the sadness of her mother, gave over playing to caress, and kiss her, and to bid her smile. At such a word the tears fell fast from the widow's eyes, and the frightened child joined her sobs and cries to hers.

Whatever might be the sorrows and difficulties of the unhappy lady, it was soon evident to all but herself, that her own life was a fragile tenure. She had attended on her husband with unwearied assiduity, and, added to bodily fatigue, was mental suffering; partly arising from anxiety and grief, and partly from the very virtues of the sufferer. He knew that he was dying, and tried to reconcile his wife to her anticipated loss. But his words, breathing the most passionate love and purest piety, seemed almost to call her also from the desolation to which he was leaving her, and to dissolve the ties that held her to earth. When he was gone, life possessed no one attraction except their child. Often while her father, with pathetic eloquence, tried to pour the balm of resignation, and hopes of eternal reunion, into his wife's heart, she had sat on her mother's knee, or on a little stool at her feet, and looked up, with her cherub face, a little perplexed, a little fearful, till, at some words of too plain and too dread an import, she sprung into her father's arms, and clinging to his neck, amidst tears and sobs, cried out, "You must not leave us, papa! you must stay—you shall not go away!"

Consumption, in all countries except our own, is considered a contagious disorder, and it too often proves such here. During her close attendance, Mrs. Raby had imbibed the seeds of the fatal malady, and grief, and a delicate texture of nerves, caused them to d'evelop with alarming rapidity. Every one perceived this except herself. She thought that her indisposition sprung from over-fatigue and grief, but that repose would soon restore her; and each day, as her flesh wasted and her blood flowed more rapidly, she said, "I shall be better to-morrow." There was no one at Treby to advise or assist her. She was not one of those who make friends and intimates of all who fall in their way. She was gentle, considerate, courteous—but her refined mind shrunk from displaying its deep wounds to the vulgar and unfeeling.

After her husband's death she had written several letters, which she carefully put into the post-office herself—going on purpose to the nearest post town, three miles distant. She had received one in answer, and it had the effect of increasing every fatal symptom, through the anguish and excessive agitation it excited. Sometimes she talked of leaving Treby, but she delayed till she should be better; which time, the villagers plainly saw, would never come, but they were not aware how awfully near the crisis really was.

One morning—her husband had now been dead about four months—she called up the woman of the house in which she lodged; there was a smile on her face, and a pink spot burnt brightly in either cheek, while her brow was ashy pale; there was something ghastly in the very gladness her countenance expressed; yet she felt nothing of all this, but said, "The newspaper you lent me had good news in it, Mrs. Baker. It tells me that a dear friend of mine is arrived in England, whom I thought still on the Continent. I am going to write to her. Will you let your daughter take my little girl a walk while I write?"

Mrs. Baker consented. The child was equipped and sent out, while her mother sat down to write. In about an hour she came out of her parlour; Mrs. Baker saw her going towards the garden; she tottered as she walked, so the woman hastened to her. "Thank you," she said; "I feel strangely faint—I had much to say, and that letter had unhinged me—I must finish it to-morrow—now the air will restore me—I can scarcely breathe."

Mrs. Baker offered her arm. The sufferer walked faintly and feebly to a little bench, and, sitting down, supported herself by her companion. Her breath grew shorter; she murmured some words; Mrs. Baker bent down, but could catch only the name of her child, which was the last sound that hovered on the mother's lips. With one sigh her heart ceased to beat, and life quitted her exhausted frame. The poor woman screamed loudly for help, as she felt her press heavily against her; and then, sliding from her seat, sink lifeless on the ground.

Chapter 2

It was to Mrs. Baker's credit that she did not attempt to investigate the affairs of her hapless lodger till after the funeral. A purse, containing twelve guineas, which she found on her table, served, indeed, to satisfy her that she would be no immediate loser. However, as soon as the sod covered the gentle form of the unfortunate lady, she proceeded to examine her papers. The first that presented itself was the unfinished letter which Mrs. Raby was engaged in writing at the time of her death. This promised information, and Mrs. Baker read it with eagerness. It was as follows:—

"My dearest Friend,

"A newspaper has just informed me that you are returned to England, while I still believed you to be, I know not where, on the Continent. Dearest girl, it is long since I have written, for I have been too sad, too uncertain about your movements, and too unwilling to cloud your happiness, by forcing you to remember one so miserable. My beloved friend, my schoolfellow, my benefactress; you will grieve to hear of my misfortunes, and it is selfish in me, even now, to intrude upon you with the tale; but, under heaven, I have no hope, except in my generous, my warm-hearted Alithea. Perhaps you have already heard of my disaster, and are aware that death has robbed me of the happiness which, under your kind fosterage, I had acquired and enjoyed. He is dead who was my all in this world, and but for one tie I should bless the day when I might be permitted to rest for ever beside him.

"I often wonder, dear Alithea, at the heedlessness and want of foresight with which I entered life. Doomed, through poverty and my orphan state, to earn my bread as a governess, my entrance on that irksome task was only delayed by my visit to you: then under your dear roof I saw and was beloved by Edwin; and his entreaties, and your encouragement, permitted my trembling heart to dream of—to possess happiness. Timidity of character made me shrink from my career: diffidence never allowed me to suppose that any one would interest themselves enough in me to raise the poor trembler from the ground, to shelter and protect her; and this kind of despondency rendered Edwin's love a new, glorious, and divine joy. Yet, when I thought of his parents, I trembled—I could not bear to enter a family where I was to be regarded as an unwelcome intruder; yet Edwin was already an outcast—already father and brothers, every relation, had disowned him—and he, like I, was alone. And you, Alithea, how fondly, how sweetly did you encourage me—making that appear my duty which was the fulfilment of my wildest dreams of joy. Surely no being ever felt friendship as you have done—sympathizing even in the untold secrets of a timid heart—enjoying the happiness that you conferred with an ardour few can feel, even for themselves. Your transports of delight when you saw me, through your means, blest, touched me with a gratitude that can never die. And do I show this by asking now for your pity, and saddening you by my grief? Pardon me, sweet friend, and do not wonder that this thought has long delayed my letter.

"We were happy—poor, but content. Poverty was no evil to me, and Edwin supported every privation as if he had never been accustomed to luxury. The spirit that had caused him to shake off the shackles his bigoted family threw over him, animated him to exertions beyond his strength. He had chosen for himself—he wished to prove that his choice was good. I do not allude to our marriage, but to his desertion of the family religion, and determination to follow a career not permitted by the policy of his relations to any younger son. He was called to the bar—he toiled incessantly—he was ambitious, and his talents gave every promise of success. He is gone—gone for ever! I have lost the noblest, wisest friend that ever breathed, the most devoted lover, and truest husband that ever blessed woman!

"I write incoherently. You know what our life in London was—obscure but happy—the scanty pittance allowed him seemed to me amply to suffice for all our wants; I only then knew of the wants of youth and health, which were love and sympathy. I had all this, crowning to the brim my cup of life—the birth of our sweet child filled it to overflowing. Our dingy lodgings, near the courts of law, were a palace to me; I should have despised myself heartily could I have desired any thing beyond what I possessed. I never did—nor did I fear its loss. I was grateful to Heaven, and thus, I fancied, that I paid the debt of my unmeasured prosperity.

"Can I say what I felt when I marked Edwin's restless nights, flushed cheek, and the cough that would not go away? these things I dare not dwell upon—my tears overflow—my heart beats to bursting—the fatal truth was at last declared; the fatal word, consumption, spoken: change of air was all the hope held out—we came here; the church-yard near holds now all earthly that remains of him—would that my dust were mingling with his!

"Yet I have a child, my Alithea; and you, who are incomparable as a mother, will feel that I ought not to grieve so bitterly while this dear angel remains to me. I know, indeed, that without her, life would at once suspend all its functions; why, then, is it, that while she is with me I am not stronger, more heroic? for, to keep her with me, I must leave the indolence of my present life—I must earn the bread of both. I should not repine at this—I shall not, when I am better; but I am very ill and weak; and though each day I rise, resolving to exert myself, before the morning has past away I lie down exhausted, trembling, and faint.

"When I lost Edwin, I wrote to Mr. Raby, acquainting him with the sad intelligence, and asking for a maintenance for myself and my child. The family solicitor answered my letter. Edwin's conduct had, I was told, estranged his family from him; and they could only regard me as one encouraging his disobedience and apostacy. I had no claim on them. If my child were sent to them, and I would promise to abstain from all intercourse with her, she should be brought up with her cousins, and treated in all respects like one of the family. I answered this letter hastily and proudly. I declined their barbarous offer, and haughtily, and in few words, relinquished every claim on their bounty, declaring my intention to support and bring up my child myself. This was foolishly done, I fear; but I cannot regret it even now.

"I cannot regret the impulse that made me disdain these unnatural and cruel relatives, or that led me to take my poor orphan to my heart with pride, as being all my own. What had they done to merit such a treasure? How did they show themselves capable of replacing a fond and anxious mother? How many blooming girls have they sacrificed to their peculiar views! With what careless eyes they regard the sweetest emotions of nature!—never shall my adored girl be made the victim of that loveless race. Do you remember our sweet child? She was lovely from her birth; and surely, if ever angel assumed an earthly vesture, it took a form like my darling: her loveliness expresses only the beauty of her disposition; so young, yet so full of sensibility; her temper is without a flaw, and her intelligence transcends her age. You will not laugh at me for my maternal enthusiasm, nor will you wonder at it; her endearing caresses, her cherub smiles, the silver accents of her infantine voice, fill me with trembling rapture. Is she not too good for this bad world? I fear it, I fear to lose her; I fear to die and to leave her; yet if I should, will you not cherish, will you not be a mother to her? I may be presumptuous; but if I were to die, even now, I should die in the belief that I left my child another mother in you—".

The letter broke off here, and these were the last words of the unfortunate writer. It contained a sad, but too common story of the hardheartedness of the wealthy, and the misery endured by the children of the high-born. Blood is not water, it is said, but gold with them is dearer far than the ties of nature; to keep and augment their possessions being the aim and end of their lives, the existence, and, more especially, the happiness of their children, appears to them a consideration at once trivial and impertinent, when it would compete with family views and family greatness. To this common and iniquitous feeling these luckless beings were sacrificed; they had endured the worst, and could be injured no more; but their orphan child was a living victim, less thought of than the progeny of the meanest animal which might serve to augment their possessions.

Mrs. Baker felt some complacency on reading this letter; with the common English respect for wealth and rank, she was glad to find that her humble roof had sheltered a man who was the son—she did not exactly know of whom, but of somebody, who had younger sons and elder sons, and possessed, through wealth, the power of behaving frightfully ill to a vast number of persons. There was a grandeur and dignity in the very idea; but the good woman felt less satisfaction as she proceeded in her operations—no other letter or paper appeared to inform or to direct. Every letter had been destroyed, and the young pair had brought no papers or documents with them. She could not guess to whom the unfinished letter she held was addressed, all was darkness and ignorance. She was aghast—there was none to whom to apply—none to whom to send the orphan. In a more busy part of the world, an advertisement in the newspapers would have presented itself as a resource; but Treby was too much cut off from the rest of the world, for its inhabitants to conceive so daring an idea; and Mrs. Baker, repining much at the burthen fallen upon her, and fearful of the future, could imagine no means by which to discover the relations of the little orphan; and her only notion was to wait, in hopes that some among them would at last make inquiries concerning her.

Nearly a year had passed away, and no one had appeared. The unfortunate lady's purse was soon emptied—and her watch, with one or two trinkets of slight value, disposed of. The child was of small cost, but still her sordid protectress harped perpetually on her ill luck:—she had a family of her own, and plenty of mouths to feed. Missy was but little, but she would get bigger—though for that matter it was worse now, as she wanted more taking care of—besides, she was getting quite a disgrace—her bonnet was so shabby, and her shoes worn out—and how could she afford to buy others for one who was not a bit of her flesh and blood, to the evident hurt of her own children? It was bad enough now, but, by and by, she saw nothing but the parish; though Missy was born for better than that, and her poor mamma would turn in her grave at the name of such a thing. For her part she was to blame, she feared, and too generous—but she would wait yet a little longer before it came to that—for who could tell—and here Mrs. Baker's prudence dammed up the stream of her eloquence—to no living ear did she dare trust her dream of the coach and six that might one day come for her little charge—and the remuneration and presents that would be heaped upon her;—she actually saved the child's best frock, though she had quite outgrown it, that on such a day her appearance might do her honour. But this was a secret—she hid these vague but splendid images deep in her heart, lest some neighbour might be seized with a noble emulation—and through some artifice share in her dreamy gains. It was these anticipations that prevented Mrs. Baker from taking any decisive step injurious to her charge—but they did not shed any rosy hues over her diurnal complaints—they grew more peevish and frequent, as time passed away, and her visions attained no realization.

The little orphan grew meanwhile as a garden rose, that accident has thrown amidst briers and weeds—blooming with alien beauty, and unfolding its soft petals—and shedding its ambrosial odour beneath the airs of heaven, unharmed by its strange position. Lovely as a day of paradise, which by some strange chance visits this nether world to gladden every heart, she charmed even her selfish protectress, and, despite her shabby attire, her cherub smiles—the free and noble steps which her tiny feet could take even now, and the music of her voice, rendered her the object of respect and admiration, as well as love, to the whole village.

The loss of her father had acquainted the poor child with death. Her mother had explained the awful mystery as well as she could to her infantine intellects, and, indulging in her own womanish and tender fancies, had often spoken of the dead as hovering over and watching around his loved ones, even in the new state of existence to which he had been called. Yet she wept as she spoke: "He is happy," she exclaimed, "but he is not here! Why did he leave us? Ah, why desert those who loved him so well, who need him so dearly. How forlorn and cast away are we without him!"

These scenes made a deep impression upon the sensitive child—and when her mother died too, and was carried away and placed in the cold earth, beside her husband, the orphan would sit for hours by the graves, now fancying that her mother must soon return, now exclaiming, "Why are you gone away? Come, dear mamma, come back—come quickly!" Young as she was, it was no wonder that such thoughts were familiar to her. The minds of children are often as intelligent as those of persons of maturer age—and differ only by containing fewer ideas—but these had so often been presented to her—and she so fixed her little heart on the idea that her mother was watching over her, that at last it became a part of her religion to visit, every evening, the two graves, and saying her prayers near them, to believe that her mother's spirit, which was obscurely associated with her mortal remains reposing below, listened to and blest her on that spot.

At other times, neglected as she was, and left to wander at will, she conned her lesson, as she had been accustomed at her mother's feet, beside her grave. She took her picture-books there—and even her playthings. The villagers were affected by her childish notion of being "with mamma;" and Missy became something of an angel in their eyes, so that no one interfered with her visits, or tried to explain away her fancies. She was the nursling of love and nature: but the human hearts which could have felt the greatest tenderness for her, beat no longer, and had become clods of the soil,—

Borne round in earth's diurnal course

With rocks, and stones, and trees.

There was no knee on which she could playfully climb—no neck round which she could fondly hang—no parent's cheek on which to print her happy kisses—these two graves were all of relationship she knew upon the earth—and she would kiss the ground and the flowers, not one of which she plucked—as she sat embracing the sod. "Mamma" was everywhere around. "Mamma" was there beneath, and still she could love and feel herself beloved.

At other times she played gaily with her young companions in the village—and sometimes she fancied that she loved some one among them—she made them presents of books and toys, the relics of happier days; for the desire to benefit, which springs up so naturally in a loving heart, was strong within her, even in that early age. But she never took any one with her in her church-yard visits—she needed none while she was with mamma. Once indeed a favourite kitten was carried to the sacred spot, and the little animal played amidst the grass and flowers, and the child joined in its frolics—her solitary gay laugh might be heard among the tombs—she did not think it solitary; mamma was there to smile on her, as she sported with her tiny favourite.

Chapter 3

Towards the end of a hot, calm day of June, a stranger arrived at Treby. The variations of calm and wind are always remarkable at the sea-side, and are more particularly to be noticed on this occasion; since it was the stillness of the elements that caused the arrival of the stranger. During the whole day several vessels had been observed in the offing, lying to for a wind, or making small way under press of sail. As evening came on, the water beyond the bay lay calmer than ever; but a slight breeze blew from shore, and these vessels, principally colliers, bore down close under it, endeavouring by short tacks to procure a long one, and at last to gain sea-room to make the eastern headland of the bay. The fishermen on shore watched the manoeuvres of the different craft; and even interchanged shouts with the sailors, as they lay lazily on the beach. At length they were put in motion by a hail for a boat from a small merchantman—the call was obeyed—the boat neared the vessel—a gentleman descended into it—his portmanteau was handed after him—a few strokes of the oar drove the boat on the beach, and the stranger leapt out upon the sands.

The new comer gave a brief order, directing his slight luggage to be carried to the best inn, and, paying the boatmen liberally, strolled away to a more solitary part of the beach. "A gentleman," all the spectators decided him to be—and such a designation served for a full description of the new arrival to the villagers of Treby. But it were better to say a few words to draw him from among a vast multitude who might be similarly named, and to bestow individuality on the person in question. It would be best so to present his appearance and manner to the "mind's eye" of the reader, that if any met him by chance, he might exclaim, "That is the man!" Yet there is no task more difficult, than to convey to another, by mere words, an image, however distinctly it is impressed on our own minds. The individual expression, and peculiar traits, which cause a man to be recognized among ten thousand of his fellow men, by one who has known him, though so palpable to the eye, escape when we would find words whereby to delineate them.

There was something in the stranger that at once arrested attention—a freedom, and a command of manner—self-possession joined to energy. It might be difficult to guess his age, for his face had been exposed to the bronzing influence of a tropical climate, and the smoothness of youth was exchanged for the deeper lines of maturity, without anything being as yet taken from the vigour of the limbs, or the perfection of those portions of the frame and face, which so soon show marks of decay. He might have reached the verge of thirty, but he could not be older—and might be younger. His figure was active, sinewy and strong—upright as a soldier (indeed a military air was diffused all over his person); he was tall, and, to a certain degree, handsome; his dark grey eyes were piercing as an eagle's, and his forehead high and expansive, though somewhat distorted by various lines that spoke more of passion than thought; yet his face was eminently intelligent; his mouth, rather too large in its proportions, yet grew into beauty when he smiled—indeed, the remarkable trait of his physiognomy was its great variation—restless, and even fierce, the expression was often that of passionate and unquiet thoughts; while at other times it was almost bland from the apparent smoothness and graceful undulation of the lines. It was singular, that when communing only with himself, storms appeared to shake his muscles, and disfigure the harmony of his countenance—and that when he addressed others, all was composed—full of meaning, and yet of repose. His complexion, naturally of an olive tint, had grown red and adust under the influence of climate—and often flushed from the inroads of vehement feeling. You could not doubt at the instant of seeing him, that many singular, perhaps tragical, incidents were attached to his history—but, conviction was enforced that he reversed the line of Shakspeare, and was less sinned against, than sinning—or, at least, that he had been the active machinator of his fate, not the passive recipient of disappointment and sorrow. When he believed himself to be unobserved, his face worked with a thousand contending emotions, fiery glances shot from his eyes—he appeared to wince from sudden anguish—to be transported by a rage that changed his beauty into utter deformity: was he spoken to, all these tokens vanished on the instant—dignified—calm, and even courteous, though cold, he would persuade those whom he addressed that he was one of themselves—and not a being transported by his own passions and actions into a sphere which every other human being would have trembled to approach. A superficial observer had pronounced him a good fellow, though a little too stately—a wise man had been pleased by the intelligence and information he displayed—the variety of his powers, and the ease with which he brought forward the stores of his intellect to enlighten any topic of discourse. An independent and a gallant spirit he surely had—what, then, had touched it with destruction—shaken it to ruin, and made him, while yet so young, abhorrent even to himself?

Such is an outline of the stranger of Treby; and his actions were in conformity with the incongruities of his appearance—outwardly unemployed and tranquil; inwardly torn by throes of the most tempestuous and agonizing feelings. After landing he had strolled away, and was soon out of sight; nor did he return till night, when he looked fatigued and depressed. For form's sake,—or for the sake of the bill at the inn,—he allowed food to be placed before him; but he neither ate nor drank—soon he hurried to the solitude of his chamber—not to bed—he paced the room for some hours; but as soon as all was still—when his watch and the quiet stars told him that it was midnight, he left the house—he wandered down to the beach—he threw himself upon the sands—and then again he started up and strode along the verge of the tide—and then sitting down, covering his face with his hands, remained motionless: early dawn found him thus—but, on the first appearance of a fisherman, he left the neighbourhood of the village, nor returned till the afternoon—and now when food was placed before him, he ate like one half famished; but after the keen sensation of extreme hunger was satisfied, he left the table and retired to his own room.

Taking a case of pistols from his portmanteau, he examined the weapons with care, and, putting them in his pocket, walked out upon the sands. The sun was fast descending in the sky, and he looked, with varying glances, at it, and at the blue sea, which slumbered peacefully, giving forth scarcely any sound, as it receded from the shore. Now he seemed wistful—now impatient—now struck by bitterer pangs, that caused drops of agony to gather on his brow. He spoke no word; but these were the thoughts that hovered, though unexpressed, upon his lips: "Another day! Another sun! Oh, never, never more for me shall day or sun exist. Coward! Why fear to die! And do I fear? No! no! I fear nothing but this pain—this unutterable anguish—this image of fell despair! If I could feel secure that memory would cease when my brain lies scattered on the earth, I should again feel joy before I die. Yet that is false. While I live, and memory lives, and the knowledge of my crime still creeps through every particle of my frame, I have a hell around me, even to the last pulsation! For ever and for ever I see her, lost and dead at my feet—I the cause—the murderer! My death shall atone. And yet even in death the curse is on me—I cannot give back the breath of life to her sweet pale lips! O fool! O villain! Haste to the last act; linger no more, lest you grow mad, and fetters and stripes become your fitter punishment than the death you covet!"

"Yet,"—after a pause, his thoughts thus continued:—"not here, nor now: there must be darkness on the earth before the deed is done! Hasten and hide thyself, O sun! Thou wilt never be cursed by the sight of my living form again!"

Thus did the transport of passion embrace the universe in its grasp; and the very sunlight seemed to have a pulse responsive to his own. The bright orb sunk lower; and the little western promontory, with its crowning spire, was thrown into bold relief against the glowing sky. As if some new idea were awakened, the stranger proceeded along the sands, towards the extremity of the headland. A short time before, unobserved by him, the little orphan had tripped along, and, scaling the cliff, had seated herself, as usual, beside her mother's grave.

The stranger proceeded slowly, and with irregular steps. He was waiting till darkness should blind the eyes of day, which now appeared to gaze on him with intolerable scrutiny, and to read his very soul, that sickened and writhed with its burthen of sin and sorrow. When out of the immediate neighbourhood of the village, he threw himself upon a fragment of rock, and—he could not be said to meditate—for that supposes some sort of voluntary action of the mind—while to him might be applied the figure of the poet, who represented himself as hunted by his own thoughts—pursued by memory, and torn to pieces, as Actæon by his own hounds. A troop of horrid recollections assailed his soul: there was no shelter, no escape! various passions, by turns, fastened themselves upon him—jealousy, disappointed love, rage, fear, and last and worst, remorse and despair. No bodily torture, invented by revengeful tyrant, could produce agony equal to that which he had worked out for his own mind. His better nature, and the powers of his intellect, served but to sharpen and strike deeper the pangs of unavailing regret. Fool! He had foreseen nothing of all this! He had fancied that he could bend the course of fate to his own will; and that to desire with energy was to insure success. And to what had the immutable resolve to accomplish his ends brought him? She was dead—the loveliest and best of created beings: torn from the affections and the pleasures of life! from her home, her child! He had seen her stretched dead at his feet: he had heaped the earth upon her clay-cold form;—and he the cause! he the murderer!

Stung to intolerable anguish by these ideas, he felt hastily for his pistols, and rising, pursued his way. Evening was closing in; yet he could distinguish the winding path of the cliff: he ascended, opened the little gate, and entered the church-yard. Oh! how he envied the dead!—the guiltless dead, who had closed their eyes on this mortal scene, surrounded by weeping friends, cheered by religious hope. All that imaged innocence and repose, appeared in his eyes so beautiful and desirable: and how could he, the criminal, hope to rest like one of these? A star or two came out in the heavens above, and the church spire seemed almost to reach them, as it pointed upwards. The dim, silent sea was spread beneath: the dead slept around: scarcely did the tall grass bend its head to the summer air. Soft, balmy peace possessed the scene. With what thrilling sensations of self-enjoyment and gratitude to the Creator, might the mind at ease drink in the tranquil loveliness of such an hour. The stranger felt every nerve wakened to fresh anguish. His brow contracted convulsively. "Shall I ever die!" he cried; "Will not the dead reject me!"

He looked round with the natural instinct that leads a human being, at the moment of dissolution, to withdraw into a cave or corner, where least to offend the eyes of the living by the loathsome form of death. The ivyed wall and paling, overhung by trees, formed a nook, whose shadow at that hour was becoming deep. He approached the spot; for a moment he stood looking afar: he knew not at what; and drew forth his pistol, cocked it, and, throwing himself on the grassy mound, raised the mouth of the fatal instrument to his forehead. "Oh go away! go away from mamma!" were words that might have met his ear, but that every sense was absorbed. As he drew the trigger, his arm was pulled; the ball whizzed harmlessly by his ear: but the shock of the sound, the unconsciousness that he had been touched at that moment—the belief that the mortal wound was given, made him fall back; and, as he himself said afterwards, he fancied that he had uttered the scream he heard, which had, indeed, proceeded from other lips.

In a few seconds he recovered himself. Yet so had he worked up his mind to die; so impossible did it appear that his aim should fail him, that in those few seconds, the earth and all belonging to it had passed away—and his first exclamation, as he started up, was, "Where am I!" Something caught his gaze; a little white figure, which lay but a few paces distant, and two eyes that gleamed on him—the horrible thought darted into his head—had another instead of himself been the victim? and he exclaimed in agony, "Gracious God! who are you?—speak! What have I done!" Still more was he horror-struck when he saw that it was a little child who lay before him—he raised her—but her eyes had glared with terror, not death; she did not speak; but she was not wounded, and he endeavoured to comfort and re-assure her, till she, a little restored, began to cry bitterly, and he felt, thankfully, that her tears were a pledge that the worst consequences of her fright had passed away. He lifted her from the ground, while she, in the midst of her tears, tried to get him away from the grave he desecrated. The twilight scarcely showed her features; but her surpassing fairness—her lovely countenance and silken hair, so betokened a child of love and care, that he was the more surprised to find her alone, at that hour, in the solitary church-yard.

He soothed her gently, and asked, "How came you here? what could you be doing so late, so far from home?"

"I came to see mamma."

"To see mamma! Where? how? Your mother is not here."

"Yes, she is; mamma is there;" and she pointed with her little finger to the grave.

The stranger started up—there was something awful in this childish simplicity and affection: he tried to read the inscription on the stone near—he could just make out the name of Edwin Raby. "That is not your mother's grave," he said.

"No; papa is there—mamma is here, next to him."

The man, just bent on self-destruction, with a conscience burning him to the heart's core—all concentrated in the omnipotence of his own sensations—shuddered at the tale of dereliction and misery these words conveyed; he looked earnestly on the child, and was fascinated by her angel look; she spoke with a pretty seriousness, shaking her head, her lips trembling—her large eyes shining in brimming tears. "My poor child," he said, "your name is Raby, then?"

"Mamma used to call me Baby," she replied; "they call me Missy at home—my name is Elizabeth."

"Well, dear Elizabeth, let me take you home; you cannot stay all night with mamma."

"O no; I was just going home, when you frightened me."

"You must forget that; I will buy you a doll to make it up again, and all sorts of toys;—see, here is a pretty thing for you!" and he took the chain of his watch, and threw it over her head; he wanted so to distract her attention, as to make her forget what had passed, and not to tell a shocking story when she got home.

"But," she said, looking up into his face, "you will not be so naughty again, and sit down where mamma is lying."

The stranger promised, and kissed her, and, taking her hand, they walked together to the village; she prattled as she went, and he sometimes listened to her stories of mamma, and answered, and sometimes thought with wonder that he still lived—that the ocean's tide still broke at his feet—and the stars still shone above; he felt angry and impatient at the delay, as if it betokened a failing of purpose. They walked along the sands, and stopped at last at Mrs. Baker's door. She was standing at it, and exclaimed, "Here you are, Missy, at last! What have you been doing with yourself? I declare I was quite frightened—it is long past your bed-time."

"You must not scold her," said the stranger; "I detained her. But why do you let her go out alone? it is not right."

"Lord, sir," she replied, "there is none hereabouts to do her a harm—and she would not thank me if I kept her from going to see her mamma, as she calls it. I have no one to spare to go with her; it's hard enough on me to keep her on charity, as I do. But,"—and her voice changed, as a thought flashed across her,—"I beg your pardon, sir, perhaps you come for Missy, and know all about her. I am sure I have done all I can; it's a long time since her mamma died; and, but for me, she must have gone to the parish. I hope you will judge that I have done my duty toward her."

"You mistake," said the stranger; "I know nothing of this young lady, nor of her parents, who, it would seem, are both dead. Of course she has other relations?"

"That she has, and rich ones too," replied Mrs. Baker, "if one could but find them out. It's hard upon me, who am a widow woman, with four children of my own, to have other people's upon me—very-hard, sir, as you must allow; and often I think that I cannot answer it to myself, taking the bread from my own children and grandchildren, to feed a stranger. But, to be sure, Missy has rich relations, and some day they will inquire for her; though come the tenth of next August, and it's a year since her mother died, and no one has come to ask good or bad about her, or Missy."

"Her father died also in this village?" asked the stranger.

"True enough," said the woman; "both father and mother died in this very house, and lie up in the church-yard yonder. Come, Missy, don't cry; that's an old story now, and it's no use fretting."

The poor child, who had hitherto listened in simple ignorance, began to sob at this mention of her parents; and the stranger, shocked by the woman's unfeeling tone, said, "I should like to hear more of this sad story. Pray let the poor dear child be put to bed, and then if you will relate what you know of her parents, I dare say I can give you some advice, to enable you to discover her relations, and relieve you from the burthen of her maintenance."

"These are the first comfortable words I have heard a long time," said Mrs. Baker. "Come, Missy, Nancy shall put you to bed; it's far past your hour. Don't cry, dear; this kind gentleman will take you along with him, to a fine house, among grand folks, and all our troubles will be over. Be pleased, sir, to step into the parlour, and I will show you a letter of the lady, and tell you all I know. I dare say, if you are going to London, you will find out that Missy ought to be riding in her coach at this very moment."

This was a golden idea of Mrs. Baker, and, in truth, went a little beyond her anticipations; but she had got tired of her first dreams of greatness, and feared that, in sad truth, the little orphan's relations would entirely disown her; but it struck her that if she could persuade this strange gentleman that all she said was true, he might be induced to take the little girl with him, when he went away, and undertake the task of restoring her to her father's family, by which means she at least would be released from all further care on her account:—"Upon this hint she spake."

She related how Mr. and Mrs. Raby had arrived with their almost infant child—death already streaked the brow of the dying man; each day threatened to be his last; yet he lived on. His sufferings were great; and night and day his wife was at his side, waiting on him, watching each turn of his eye, each change of complexion, or of pulse. They were poor, and had only one servant, hired at the village soon after their arrival, when Mrs. Raby found herself unable to bestow adequate attention on both husband and child; yet she did so much as evidently to cause her to sink beneath her too great exertions. She was delicate and fragile in appearance; but she never owned to being fatigued, or relaxed in her attentions. Her voice was always attuned to cheerfulness, her eyes beaming with tenderness; she, doubtless, wept in secret; but when conversing with her husband, or playing with her child, a natural vivacity animated her, that looked like hope; indeed, it was certain that, in spite of every fatal symptom, she did not wholly despair. When her husband declared himself better, and resumed for a day his task of instructor to his little girl, she believed that his disorder had taken a favourable turn, and would say, "O, Mrs. Baker, please God, he is really better; doctors are not infallible; he may live!" And as she spoke, her eyes swam in tears, while a smile lay like a sunbeam on her features. She did not sink till her husband died, and even then struggled, both with her grief and the wasting malady already at work within her, with a fortitude a mother only could practise; for all her exertions were for her dear child; and she could smile on her, a wintry smile—yet sweet as if warmed by seraphic faith and love. She lingered thus, hovering on the very limits of life and death; her heart warm and affectionate, and hoping, and full of fire to the end, for her child's sake, while she herself pined for the freedom of the grave, and to soar from the cares and sorrows of a sordid world, to the heaven already open to receive her. In homely phrase, Mrs. Baker dwelt upon this touching mixture of maternal tenderness and soft languor, that would not mourn for him she was so soon to join. The woman then described her sudden death, and placed the fragment of her last letter before her auditor.

Deeply interested, the stranger began to read, when suddenly he became ghastly pale, and, trembling all over, he asked, "To whom was this letter addressed?"

"Ah, sir," replied Mrs. Baker, "would that I could tell, and all my troubles would be over. Read on, sir, and you will see that Mrs. Raby feels sure that the lady would have been a mother to poor Missy; but who, or where she is, is past all my guessing."

The stranger strove to read on, but violent emotion, and the struggle to hide what he felt, hindered him from taking in the meaning of a single word. At length he told Mrs. Baker, that, with her leave, he would take the letter away, and read it at his leisure. He promised her his aid in discovering Miss Raby's relatives, and assured her that there would be small difficulty in so doing. He then retired, and Mrs. Baker exclaimed, "Please God, this will prove a good day's work."

A voice from the grave had spoken to the stranger. It was not the dead mother's voice—she, whatever her merits and sufferings had been, was to him an image of the mind only—he had never known her. But her benefactress, her hope and trust, who and where was she? Alithea! the warm-hearted friend—the incomparable mother! She to whom all hearts in distress turned, sure of relief—who went before the desires of the necessitous; whose generous and free spirit made her empress of all hearts; who, while she lived, spread, as does the sun, radiance and warmth around—her pulses were stilled; her powers cribbed up in the grave. She was nothing now; and he had reduced to this nothing the living frame of this glorious being.

The stranger read the letter again and again; again he writhed, as her name appeared, traced by her friend's delicate hand, and the concluding hope seemed the acme of his despair. She would indeed have been a mother to the orphan—he remembered expressions that told him that she was making diligent inquiry for her friend, whose luckless fate had not reached her. Yes, it was his Alithea; he could not doubt. His? Fatal mistake—his she had never been; and the wild resolve to make her such, had ended in death and ruin.

The stranger had taken the letter to his inn—but any roof seemed to imprison and oppress him—again he sought relief in the open air, and wandered far along the sands, with the speed of a misery that strove to escape from itself. The whole night he spent thus—sometimes climbing the jagged cliffs, then descending to the beach, and throwing himself his length upon the sands. The tide ebbed and flowed—the roar of ocean filled the lone night with sound—the owl flapped down from its home in the rock, and hooted. Hour after hour passed,—and, driven by a thousand thoughts—tormented by the direst pangs of memory—still the stranger hurried along the winding shores. Morning found him many miles from Treby. He did not stop till the appearance of another village put a limit to solitude, and he returned upon his steps.

Those who could guess his crime, could alone divine the combat of life and death waging in his heart. He had, through accident and forgetfulness, left his pistols on the table of his chamber at the inn, or, in some of the wildest of the paroxysms of despair, they had ended all. To die, he fondly hoped, was to destroy memory and to defeat remorse; and yet there arose within his mind that feeling, mysterious and inexplicable to common reason, which generates a desire to expiate and to atone. Should he be the cause of good to the friendless orphan, bequeathed so vainly to his victim, would not that, in some sort, compensate for his crime? Would it not double it to have destroyed her, and also the good of which she would have been the author? The very finger of God pointed to this act, since the child's little hand had arrested his arm at the fatal moment when he believed that no interval of a second's duration intervened between him and the grave. Then to aid those dim religious misgivings, came the manly wish to protect the oppressed, and assist the helpless. The struggle was long and terrible. Now he made up his mind that it was cowardice to postpone his resolve—that to live was to stamp himself poltroon and traitor. And now again, he felt that the true cowardice was to die—to fly from the consequences of his actions, and the burthen of existence. He gazed upon the dim waste of waters, as if from its misty skirt some vision would arise to guide or to command. He cast his eyes upward to interrogate the silent stars—the roaring of the tide appeared to assume an inorganic voice, and to murmur hoarsely, "Live! miserable wretch! Dare you hope for the repose which your victim enjoys? Know that the guilty are unworthy to die—that is the reward of innocence!"

The cool air of morning chilled his brow; and the broad sun arose from the eastern sea, as, pale and haggard, he re-trod many a weary step towards Treby. He was faint and weary. He had resolved to live yet a little longer—till he had fulfilled some portion of his duty towards the lovely orphan. So resolving, he felt as if he paid a part of the penalty due. A soothing feeling, which resembled repentance, stole over his heart, already rewarding him. How swiftly and audibly does the inner voice of our nature speak, telling us when we do right. Besides, he believed that to live was to suffer; to live, therefore, was in him a virtue; and the exultation, the balmy intoxication which always follows our first attempt to execute a virtuous resolve, crept over him, and elevated his spirits, though body and soul were alike weary. Arriving at Treby, he sought his bed. He slept peacefully; and it was the first slumber he had enjoyed since he had torn himself from the spot where she lay, whom he had loved so truly, even to the death to which he had brought her.

Chapter 4

Two days after, the stranger and the orphan had departed for London. When it came to the point of decision, Mrs. Baker's conscience began to reproach her; and she doubted the propriety of intrusting her innocent charge to one totally unknown. But the stranger satisfied her doubts; he showed her papers betokening his name and station, as John Falkner, Captain in the Native Cavalry of the East India Company, and moreover possessed of such an independence as looked like wealth in the eyes of Mrs. Baker, and at once commanded her respect.

His own care was to collect every testimony and relic that might prove the identity of the little Elizabeth. Her unfortunate mother's unfinished letter—her Bible and prayer-book—in the first of which was recorded the birth of her child—and a seal, (which Mrs. Baker's prudence had saved, when her avarice caused her to sell the watch,) with Mr. Raby's coat of arms and crest engraved—a small desk, containing a few immaterial papers, and letters from strangers, addressed to Edwin Raby—such was Elizabeth's inheritance. In looking over the desk, Mr. Falkner found a little foreign almanac, embellished with prints, and fancifully bound—on the first page of which was written, in a woman's elegant hand, To dearest Isabella—from her A. R.

Had Falkner wanted proof as to the reality of his suspicions with regard to the friend of Mrs. Raby, here was conviction; he was about to press the dear hand-writing to his lips, when, feeling his own unworthiness, he shuddered through every limb, and thrusting the book into his bosom, he, by a strong effort, prevented every outward mark of the thrilling agony which the sight of his victim's writing occasioned. It gave, at the same time, fresh firmness to his resolve to do all that was requisite to restore the orphan daughter of her friend to her place in society. She was, as a bequest, left him by her whom he last saw pale and senseless at his feet—who had been the dream of his life from boyhood, and was now the phantom to haunt him with remorse to his latest hour. To replace the dead to the lovely child was impossible. He knew the incomparable virtues of her to whom her mother bequeathed her, while every thought that tended to recall her to his memory was armed with a double sting—regret at having lost—horror at the fate he had brought upon her.

By what strange, incalculable, and yet sure enchainment of events had he been brought to supply her place! She was dead—through his accursed machinations she no longer formed a portion of the breathing world—how marvellous that he, flying from memory and conscience, resolved to expiate his half involuntary guilt by his own death, should have landed at Treby! Still more wondrous were the motives—hair-slight in appearance, yet on which so vast a weight of circumstance hung—that led him to the twilight church-yard, and had made Mrs. Raby's grave the scene of the projected tragedy—which had brought the orphan to guard that grave from pollution, caused her to stay his upraised hand, and gained for herself a protector by the very act.

Whoever has been the victim of a tragic event—whoever has experienced life and hope—the past and the future wrecked by one fatal catastrophe, must be at once dismayed and awestruck to trace the secret agency of a thousand foregone, disregarded, and trivial events, which all led to the deplored end, and served, as it were, as invisible meshes to envelop the victim in the fatal net. Had the meanest among these been turned aside, the progress of the destroying destiny had been stopped; but there is no voice to cry "Hold!" no prophesying eye to discern the unborn event—and the future inherits its whole portion of woe.

Awed by the mysteries that encompassed and directed his steps, which used no agency except the unseen, but not unfelt, power which surrounds us with motive, as with an atmosphere, Falkner yielded his hitherto unbending mind to control. He was satisfied to be led, and not to command; his impatient spirit wondered at this new docility, while yet he felt some slight self-satisfaction steal over him; and the prospect of being useful to the helpless little being who stood before him, weak in all except her irresistible claim to his aid, imparted such pleasure as he was surprised to feel.

Once again he visited the church-yard of Treby, accompanied by the orphan. She was loath to quit the spot—she could with difficulty consent to leave mamma. But Mrs. Baker had made free use of a grown-up person's much abused privilege of deceit, and told her lies in abundance; sometimes promising that she should soon return; sometimes assuring that she would find her mother alive and well at the grand place whither she was going: yet, despite the fallacious hopes, she cried and sobbed bitterly during her last visits to her parents' graves. Falkner tried to soothe her, saying, "We must leave papa and mamma, dearest; God has taken them from you; but I will be a new papa to you."

The child raised her head, which she had buried in his breast, and in infantine dialect and accent, said, "Will you be good to her, and love Baby, as papa did?"

"Yes, dearest child, I promise always to love you: will you love me, and call me your papa?"

"Papa, dear papa," she cried, clinging round his neck—"My new, good papa!" And then whispering in his ear, she softly, but seriously, added, "I can't have a new mamma—I won't have any but my own mamma."

"No, pretty one," said Falkner, with a sigh, "you will never have another mamma; she is gone who would have been a second mother, and you are wholly orphaned."

An hour after they were on the road to London, and, full of engrossing and torturing thoughts as Falkner was, still he was called out of himself and forced to admire the winning ways, the enchanting innocence, and loveliness of his little charge. We human beings are so unlike one to the other, that it is often difficult to make one person understand that there is any force in an impulse which is omnipotent with another. Children, to some, are mere animals, unendued with instinct, troublesome, and unsightly—with others they possess a charm that reaches to the heart's core, and stirs the purest and most generous portions of our nature. Falkner had always loved children. In the Indian wilds, which for many years he had inhabited, the sight of a young native mother, with her babe, had moved him to envious tears. The fair, fragile offspring of European women, with blooming faces and golden hair, had often attracted him to bestow kind offices on parents, whom otherwise he would have disregarded; the fiery passions of his own heart caused him to feel a soothing repose, while watching the innocent gambols of childhood, while his natural energy, which scarcely ever found sufficient scope for exercise, led him to delight in protecting the distressed. If the mere chance spectacle of infant helplessness was wont to excite his sympathy, this sentiment, by the natural workings of the human heart, became far more lively when so beautiful and perfect a creature as Elizabeth Raby was thrown upon his protection. No one could have regarded her unmoved; her silver-toned laugh went to the heart; her alternately serious or gay looks, each emanating from the spirit of love; her caresses, her little words of endearment; the soft pressure of her tiny hand and warm, rosy lips,—were all as charming as beauty, and the absence of guile, could make them. And he, the miserable man, was charmed, and pitied the mother who had been forced to desert so sweet a flower—leaving to the bleak elements a blossom which it had been paradise for her to have cherished and sheltered in her own bosom for ever.

At each moment Falkner became more enchanted with his companion. Sometimes they got out of the chaise to walk up a hill; then taking the child in his arms, he plucked flowers for her from the hedges, or she ran on before and gathered them for herself—now pulling ineffectually at some stubborn parasite—now pricking herself with briar, when his help was necessary to assist and make all well again. When again in the carriage she climbed on his knee and stuck the flowers in his hair "to make papa fine;" and as trifles affect the mind when rendered sensitive by suffering, so was he moved by her trying to remove the thorns of the wild roses before she decorated him with them; at other times she twisted them among her own ringlets, and laughed to see herself mirrored in the front glasses of the chaise. Sometimes her mood changed, and she prattled seriously about "mamma." Asked if he did not think that she was sorry at Baby's going so far—far away—or, remembering the fanciful talk of her mother, when her father died, she asked, whether she were not following them through the air. As evening closed in, she looked out to see whether she could not perceive her; "I cannot hear her; she does not speak to me," she said; "perhaps she is a long way off, in that tiny star; but then she can see us—Are you there, mamma?"

Artlessness and beauty are more truly imaged on the canvass than in the written page. Were we to see the lovely orphan thus pictured (and Italian artists, and our own Reynolds, have painted such), with uplifted finger; her large earnest eyes looking inquiringly and tenderly for the shadowy form of her mother, as she might fancy it descending towards her from the little star her childish fancy singled out, a half smile on her lips, contrasted with the seriousness of her baby brow—if we could see such visibly presented on the canvass, the world would crowd round to admire. This pen but feebly traces the living grace of the little angel; but it was before Falkner; it stirred him to pity first, and then to deeper regret: he strained the child to his breast, thinking, "O, yes, I might have been a better and a happy man! False Alithea! why, through your inconstancy, are such joys buried for ever in your grave!"

A few minutes after and the little girl fell asleep, nestled in his arms. Her attitude had all the inartificial grace of childhood; her face hushed to repose, yet breathed of affection. Falkner turned his eyes from her to the starry sky. His heart swelled impatiently—his past life lay as a map unrolled before him. He had desired a peaceful happiness—the happiness of love. His fond aspirations had been snakes to destroy others, and to sting his own soul to torture. He writhed under the consciousness of the remorse and horror which were henceforth to track his path of life. Yet, even while he shuddered, he felt that a revolution was operating within himself—he no longer contemplated suicide. That which had so lately appeared a mark of courage, wore now the guise of cowardice. And yet, if he were to live, where and how should his life be passed? He recoiled from the solitude of the heart which had marked his early years—and yet he felt that he could never more link himself in love or friendship to any.

He looked upon the sleeping child, and began to conjecture whether he might not find in her the solace he needed. Should he not adopt her, mould her heart to affection, teach her to lean on him only, be all the world to her, while her gentleness and caresses would give life a charm—without which it were vain to attempt to endure existence?

He reflected what Elizabeth's probable fate would be if he restored her to her father's family. Personal experience had given him a horror for the forbidding; ostentatious kindness of distant relations. That hers resembled such as he had known, and were imperious and cold-hearted, their conduct not only to Mrs. Raby, but previously to a meritorious son, did not permit him to doubt. If he made the orphan over to them, their luxuries and station would ill stand instead of affection and heart-felt kindness. Soft, delicate, and fond, she would pine and die. With him, on the contrary, she would be happy—he would devote himself to her—every wish gratified—her gentle disposition carefully cultivated—no rebuke, no harshness; his arms ever open to receive her in grief—his hand to support her in danger. Was not this a fate her mother would have preferred? In bequeathing her to her friend, she showed how little she wished that her sweet girl should pass into the hands of her husband's relations. Could he not replace that friend of whom he had cruelly robbed her—whose loss was to be attributed to him alone?

We all are apt to think that when we discard a motive we cure a fault, and foster the same error from a new cause with a safe conscience. Thus, even now, aching and sore from the tortures of remorse for past faults, Falkner indulged in the same propensity, which, apparently innocent in its commencement, had led to fatal results. He meditated doing rather what he wished, than what was strictly just. He did not look forward to the evils his own course involved, while he saw in disproportionate magnitude those to be brought about if he gave up his favourite project. What ills might arise to the orphan from his interweaving her fate with his—he, a criminal, in act, if not in intention—who might be called upon hereafter to answer for his deeds, and who at least must fly and hide himself—of this he thought not; while he determined, that, fostered and guarded by him, Elizabeth must be happy—and; under the tutelage of her relations, she would become the victim of hardhearted neglect. These ideas floated somewhat indistinctly in his mind—and it was half unconsciously that he was building from them a fabric for the future, as deceitful as it was alluring.

After several days' travelling, Falkner found himself with his young charge in London, and then he began to wonder wherefore he had repaired thither, and to consider that he must form some settled scheme for the future. He had in England neither relation nor friend whom he cared for. Orphaned at an early age, neglected by those who supported him, at least as far as the affections were concerned, he had, even in boyhood, known intimately, and loved but one person only—she who had ruled his fate to this hour—and was now among the dead. Sent to India in early youth, he had there to make his way in defiance of poverty, of want of connexion, of his own overbearing disposition—and the sense of wrong early awakened, that made him proud and reserved. At last, most unexpectedly, the death of several relations caused the family estate to devolve upon him—and he had sold his commission in India and hastened home—with his heart so set upon one object, that he scarcely reflected, or reflected only to congratulate himself, on how alone he stood. And now that his impetuosity and ill-regulated passions had driven the dear object of all his thoughts to destruction—still he was glad that there were none to question him—none to wonder at his resolves; to advise or to reproach.

Still a plan was necessary. The very act of his life which had been so big with ruin and remorse enjoined some forethought. It was probable that he was already suspected, if not known. Detection and punishment in a shape most loathsome would overtake him, did he not shape his measures with prudence; and, as hate as well as love had mixed strongly in his motives, he was in no humour to give his enemies the triumph of visiting his crime on him.

What is written in glaring character in our own consciousness, we believe to be visible to the whole world; and Falkner, after arriving in London, after leaving Elizabeth at an hotel, and walking into the streets, felt as if discovery was already on him, when he was accosted by an acquaintance, who asked him where he had been—what he had been doing—and why he was looking so deucedly ill? He stammered some reply, and was hastening away, when his friend, passing his arm through his, said, "I must tell you of the strangest occurrence I ever heard of—I have just parted from a man—do you remember a Mr. Neville, whom you dined with at my house, when last in town?"

Falkner, at this moment, exercised with success the wonderful mastery which he possessed over feature and voice, and coldly replied that he did remember.

"And do you remember our conversation after he left us?" said his friend, "and my praises of his wife, who I exalted as the pattern of virtue? Who can know women! I could have bet any sum that she would have preserved her good name to the end—and she has eloped."

"Well!" said Falkner, "is that all?—is that the most wonderful circumstance ever heard?"

"Had you known Mrs. Neville," replied his companion, "you would be as astonished as I: with all her charms—all her vivacity—never had the breath of scandal reached her—she seemed one of those whose hearts, though warm, are proof against the attacks of love; and with ardent affections yet turn away from passion, superior and unharmed. Yet she has eloped with a lover—there is no doubt of that fact, for he was seen—they were seen going off together, and she has not been heard of since."

"Did Mr. Neville pursue them?" asked Falkner.

"He is even now in full pursuit—vowing vengeance—more enraged than I ever beheld man. Unfortunately he does not know who the seducer is; nor have the fugitives yet been traced. The whole affair is the most mysterious—a lover dropped from the clouds—an angel of virtue subdued, almost before she is sought. Still they must be found out—they cannot hide themselves for ever."

"And then there will be a duel to the death?" asked Falkner, in the same icy accents.

"No," replied the other, "Mrs. Neville has no brother to fight for her, and her husband breathes law only. Whatever vengeance the law will afford, that he will use to the utmost—he is too angry to fight."

"The poltroon!" exclaimed Falkner, "and thus he loses his sole chance of revenge."

"I know not that," replied his companion; "he has formed a thousand schemes of chastisement for both offenders, more dread than the field of honour—there is, to be sure, a mean as well as an indignant spirit in him, that revels rather in the thought of inflicting infamy than death. He utters a thousand mysterious threats—I do not see exactly what he can do—but when he discovers his injurer, as he must some day—and I believe there are letters that afford a clue,—he will wreak all that a savage, and yet a sordid desire of vengeance can suggest.—Poor Mrs. Neville!—after all, she must have lived a sad life with such a fellow!"

"And here we part," said Falkner; "I am going another way. You have told me a strange story—it will be curious to mark the end. Farewell!"

Brave to rashness as Falkner was, yet there was much in what he had just heard that made him recoil, and almost tremble. What the vengeance was that Mr. Neville could take—he too well knew—and he resolved to defeat it. His plans, before vague, were formed on the instant. His lip curled with a disdainful smile when he recollected what his friend had said of the mystery that hung over the late occurrences—he would steep them all in tenfold obscurity. To grieve for the past was futile, or rather, nothing he could do, would prevent or alleviate the piercing regret that tortured him—but that need not influence his conduct. To leave his arch enemy writhing from injury, yet powerless to revenge himself—blindly cursing he knew not who, and removing the object of his curses from all danger of being hurt by them, was an image not devoid of satisfaction. Acting in conformity with these ideas, the next morning saw him on the road to Dover—Elizabeth still his companion, resolved to seek oblivion in foreign countries and far climes—and happy, at the same time, to have her with him, whose infantine caresses already poured balm upon his rankling wounds.

Chapter 5

Paris was the next, but transient, resting-place of the travellers. Here Falkner made such arrangements with regard to remittances, as he believed would best insure his scheme of concealment. He laid the map of Europe before him, and traced a course with his pencil, somewhat erratic, yet not without a plan. Paris, Hamburgh, Stockholm, St. Petersburgh, Moscow, Odessa, Constantinople, through Hungary to Vienna. How many thousand miles! miles—which while he traversed, he could possess his soul in freedom—fear no scrutiny—be asked no insidious questions. He could look each man in the face, and none trace his crime in his own.

It was a wild scheme to make so young a child as Elizabeth the companion of these devious and long wanderings; yet it was her idea that shed golden rays on the boundless prospect he contemplated. He could not have undertaken this long journey alone—memory and remorse his only companions. He was not one of those, unfortunately, whom a bright eye and kindly smile can light at once into a flame—soon burnt out, it is true, but warming and cheering, and yet harmless while it lasted. He could not among strangers at once discern the points to admire, and make himself the companion of the intelligent and good, through a sort of freemasonry some spirits possess. This was a great defect of character. He was proud and reserved. His esteem must be won—long habits of intimacy formed—his fastidious taste never wounded—his imagination never baulked—without this, he was silent and wrapt in himself. All his life he had cherished a secret and ardent passion, beyond whose bounds every thing was sterile—this had changed from the hopes of love to the gnawing pangs of remorse—but still his heart fed on itself—and unless that was interested, and by the force of affection he were called out of himself, he must be miserable. To arrive unwelcomed at an inn—to wander through unknown streets and cities, without any stimulus of interest or curiosity—to traverse vast tracts of country, useless to others, a burthen to himself—alone, this would have been intolerable. But Elizabeth was the cure; she was the animating soul of his project: her smiles—her caresses—the knowledge that he benefited her, was the life-blood of his design. He indulged with a sort of rapture in the feeling, that he loved, and was beloved by an angel of innocence, who grew, each day, into a creature endowed with intelligence, sympathies, hopes, fears, and affections—all individually her own, and yet all modelled by him—centred in him—to whom he was necessary—who would be his: not like the vain love of his youth, only in imagination, but in every thought and sensation, to the end of time.

Nor did he intend to pursue his journey in such a way as to overtask her strength, or injure her health. He cared not how much time elapsed before its completion. It would certainly employ years; it mattered not how many. When winter rendered travelling painful, he could take up his abode in a metropolis abounding in luxuries. During the summer heats he might fix himself in some villa, where the season would be mitigated to pleasantness. If impelled by a capricious predilection, he could stay for months in any chance selected spot: but his home was, with Elizabeth beside him, in his travelling carriage. Perpetual change would baffle pursuit, if any were set on foot; while the restlessness of his life, the petty annoyances and fleeting pleasures of a traveller's existence, would serve to occupy his mind, and prevent its being mastered by those passions to which one victim had been immolated, and which rendered the remnant of his days loathsome to himself. "I have determined to live," he thought, "and I must therefore insure the means of life. I must adopt a method by which I can secure for each day that stock of patrence which is necessary to lead me to the end of it. In the plan I have laid down, every day will have a task to be fulfilled; and, while I employ myself in executing it, I need look neither before nor behind; and each day added thus, one by one, to one another, will form months and years, and I shall grow old, travelling post over Europe."

His resolution made, he was eager to enter on his travels, which, singular to say, he performed even in the very manner he had determined; for the slight changes in the exact route, introduced afterwards, from motives of convenience or pleasure, might be deemed rather as in accordance with, than deviating from, his original project.

Falkner was not a man ordinarily met with. He possessed wild and fierce passions, joined to extreme sensibility, beneficence, and generosity. His boyhood had been rendered miserable by the violence of a temper roused to anger, even from trifles. Collision with his fellow-creatures, a sense of dignity with his equals, and of justice towards his inferiors, had subdued this; still his blood was apt to boil when roused by any impediment to his designs, or the sight of injury towards others; and it was with great difficulty that he kept down the outward marks of indignation or contempt. To tame the vehemence of his disposition, he had endeavoured to shackle his imagination, and to cultivate his reason—and perhaps he fancied that he succeeded best, when, in fact, he entirely failed. As now, when he took the little orphan with him away from all the ties of blood—the manners and customs of her country—from the discipline of regular education, and the society of others of her sex—had not Elizabeth been the creature she was, with a character not to be disharmonized by any circumstances, this had been a fearful experiment.

Yet he fondly hoped to derive happiness from it. Traversing long tracts of country with vast speed, cut off from intercourse with every one but her, and she endearing herself more, daily, by extreme sweetness of disposition, he began almost to forget the worm gnawing at his bosom; and, feeling himself free, to fancy himself happy. Unfortunately, it was not so: he had passed the fatal Rubicon, placed by conscience between innocence and crime; and however much he might for a time deaden the stings of feeling, or baffle the inevitable punishment, hereafter to arise from the consequences of his guilt, still there was a burthen on his soul that took all real zest from life, and made his attempts at enjoyment more like the experiments of a physician to dissipate sickness, than the buoyant sensations of one in health.

But then he thought not of himself—he did not live in himself, but in the joyous being at his side. Her happiness was exuberant. She might be compared to an exotic, lately pinched, and drooping from the effects of the wintry air, transported back in the first opening of a balmy southern spring, to its native clime. The young and tender green leaves unfolded themselves in the pleasant air; blossoms appeared among the foliage, and sweet fruit might be anticipated. Nor was it only the kindness of her protector that endeared him to her: much of the warm sentiment of affection arose from their singular modes of life. Had they continued at a fixed residence, in town or country, in a civilized land, Elizabeth had seen her guardian at stated periods; have now and then taken a walk with him, or gambolled in the garden at his side; while, for the chief part, their occupation and pursuits being different, they had been little together. As it was, they were never apart: side by side in a travelling carriage—now arriving, now departing; now visiting the objects worthy of observation in various cities. They shared in all the pleasures and pains of travel, and each incident called forth her sense of dependence, and his desire to protect; or, changing places, even at that early age, she soothed his impatience, while he was beguiled of his irritability by her cheerful voice and smiling face. In all this, Elizabeth felt most strongly the tie that bound them. Sometimes benighted; sometimes delayed by swollen rivers; reduced to bear together the miseries of a bad inn, or, at times, of no inn at all;—sometimes in danger—often worn by fatigue—Elizabeth found in her adopted parent a shelter, a support, and a preserver. Creeping close to him, her little hand clasped in his, or carried in his arms, she feared nothing, because he was there. During storms at sea, he had placed his own person between her and the bitter violence of the wind, and had often exposed himself to the inclemency of the weather to cover her, and save her from wet and cold. At all times he was on the alert to assist, and his assistance was like the coming of a superior being, sufficient to save her from harm, and inspire her with courage. Such circumstances had, perhaps, made a slight impression on many children; but Elizabeth had senses and sensibilities so delicately strung, as to be true to the slightest touch of harmony.

She had not forgotten the time when, neglected, and almost in rags, she only heard the voice of complaint or chiding; when she crept alone over the sands to her mother's grave, and, did a tempest overtake her, there was none to shield or be of comfort; she remembered little accidents that had at times befallen her, which, to her infantine feelings, seemed mighty dangers. But there had been none, as now, to pluck her from peril, and insure her safety. She recollected when, on one occasion, a thunder-storm had overtaken her in the church-yard; when, hurrying home, her foot slipped, as she attempted to descend the wet path of the cliff—frightened, she clambered up again, and, returning home by the upper road, had lost her way, and found night darkening round her—wet, tired, and shivering with fear and cold; and then, on her return, her welcome had been a scolding—well meant, perhaps, but vulgar, loud, and painful: and now the contrast! Her wishes guessed—her thoughts divined—ready succour and perpetual vigilance were for ever close at hand; and all this accompanied by a gentleness, kindness, and even by a respect, which the ardent, yet refined feelings of her protector readily bestowed. Thus a physical gratitude—so to speak—sprung up in her child's heart, a precursor to the sense of moral obligation, to be developed in after years. Every hour added strength to her affection, and habit generated fidelity, and an attachment, not to be shaken by any circumstances.

Nor was kindness from him the only tie between them. Elizabeth discerned his sadness, and tried to cheer his gloom. Now and then the fierceness of his temper broke forth towards others; but she was never terrified, and grieved for the object of his indignation; or if she felt it to be unjust, she pleaded the cause of the injured, and, by her caresses, brought him back to himself. She early learnt the power she had over him, and loved him the more fondly on that account. Thus there existed a perpetual interchange of benefit—of watchful care—of mutual forbearance—of tender pity and thankfulness. If all this seems beyond the orphan's years, it must be remembered that peculiar circumstances develop peculiar faculties; and that, besides, what is latent does not the less exist on that account. Elizabeth could not have expressed, and was, indeed, unconscious of the train of feeling here narrated. It was the microcosm of a plant, folded up in its germ. Sometimes looking at a green, unformed bud, we wonder why a particular texture of leaves must inevitably spring from it, and why another sort of plant should not shoot out from the dark stem: but, as the tiny leaflet uncloses, it is there in all its peculiarity, and endowed with all the especial qualities of its kind. Thus with Elizabeth, however, in the thoughtlessness and inexperience of childhood, small outward show was made of the inner sense; yet in her heart tenderness, fidelity, and unshaken truth, were folded up, to be developed as her mind gained ideas, and sensation gradually verged into sentiment.

The course of years, also, is included in this sketch. She was six years old when she left Paris—she was nearly ten when, after many wanderings, and a vast tract of country over-passed, they arrived at Odessa. There had always been a singular mixture of childishness and reflection in her, and this continued even now. As far as her own pleasures were concerned, she might be thought behind her age: to chase a butterfly—to hunt for a flower—to play with a favourite animal—to listen with eagerness to the wildest fairy tales,—such were her pleasures; but there was something more as she watched the turns of countenance in him she named her father—adapted herself to his gloomy or communicative mood—pressed near him when she thought he was annoyed—and restrained every appearance of discomfort, when he was distressed by her being exposed to fatigue or the inclement sky.

When at St. Petersburgh he fell ill, she never left his bed-side; and, remembering the death of her parents, she wasted away with terror and grief. At another time, in a wild district of Russia, she sickened of the measles. They were obliged to take refuge in a miserable hovel; and, despite all his care, the want of medical assistance endangered her life; while her convalescence was rendered tedious and painful by the absence of every comfort. Her sweet eyes grew dim; her little head drooped. No mother could have attended on her more assiduously than Falkner; and she long after remembered his sitting by her in the night to give her drink—her pillow smoothed by him—and, when she grew a little better, his carrying her in his arms under a shady grove, so to give her the benefit of the air, in a manner that would least incommode her. These incidents were never forgotten. They were as the colour and fragrance to the rose—the very beauty and delight of both their lives. Falkner felt a half remorse at the too great pleasure he derived from her society; while hers was a sort of rapturous, thrilling adoration, that dreamt not of the necessity of a check, and luxuriated in its boundless excess.

Chapter 6

It was late in the autumn when the travellers arrived at Odessa, whence they were to embark for Constantinople; in the neighbourhood of which city they intended to pass the winter.

It must not be supposed that Falkner journeyed in the luxurious and troublesome style of a Milord Anglais. A calèche was his only carriage. He had no attendant for himself, and was often obliged to change the woman hired for the service of Elizabeth. The Parisian, with whom they commenced their journey, was reduced to despair by the time they arrived at Hamburgh. The German who replaced her, was dismissed at Stockholm. The Swede next hired, became homesick at Moscow, and they arrived at Odessa without any servant. Falkner scarcely knew what to do, being quite tired of the exactions, caprices, and repinings of each expatriated menial—yet it was necessary that Elizabeth should have a female attendant; and, on his arrival at Odessa, he immediately set on foot various inquiries to procure one. Several presented themselves, who proved wholly unfit; and Falkner was made angry by their extortionate demands, and total incapacity.

At length a person was ushered into him, who looked, who was, English. She was below the middle stature—spare, and upright in figure, with a composed countenance, and an appearance of tidiness and quiet that was quite novel, and by no means unpleasing, contrasted with the animated gestures, loud voices, and exaggerated protestations of the foreigners.

"I hear, sir," she began, "that you are inquiring for an attendant to wait on Miss Falkner, during your journey to Vienna: I should be very glad if you would accept my services."

"Are you a lady's maid, in any English family here?" asked Falkner.

"I beg your pardon, sir," continued the little woman, primly, "I am a governess. I lived many years with a Russian lady, at St. Petersburgh; she brought me here, and is gone and left me."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Falkner; "that seems a very unjust proceeding—how did it happen?"

"On our arrival at Odessa, sir, the lady, who had no such notion before, insisted on converting me to her church; and because I refused, she used me, I may say, very ill; and, hiring a Greek girl, left me here quite destitute."

"It seems that you have the spirit of a martyr," observed Falkner, smiling.

"I do not pretend to that," she replied; "but I was born and brought up a Protestant—and I did not like to pretend to believe what I could not."

Falkner was pleased with the answer, and looked more scrutinizingly on the applicant. She was not ugly—but slightly pitted with the small-pox—and with insignificant features; her mouth looked obstinate—and her light grey eyes, though very quick and intelligent, yet from their smallness, and the lids and brows being injured by the traces of the malady, did not redeem her countenance from an entirely common-place appearance, which might not disgust, but could not attract.

"Do you understand," asked Falkner, "that I need a servant, and not a governess. I have no other attendant for my daughter; and you must not be above waiting on her as she has been accustomed."

"I can make no objection," she replied; "my first wish is to get away from this place, free from expense. At Vienna I can find a situation such as I have been accustomed to—now I shall be very glad to reach Germany safely in any creditable capacity—and I shall be grateful to you, sir, if you do not consider my being destitute against me, but be willing to help a countrywoman in distress."

There was a simplicity, though a hardness in her manner, and an entire want of pretension or affectation that pleased Falkner. He inquired concerning her abilities as a governess, and began to feel that in that capacity also, she might be useful to Elizabeth. He had been accustomed, on all convenient occasions, to hire a profusion of masters; but this desultory sort of teaching did not inculcate those habits of industry and daily application which it is the best aim of education to promote. At the same time he much feared an improper female companion for the child, and had suffered a good deal of anxiety on account of the many changes he had been forced to make. He observed the lady before him narrowly—there was nothing prepossessing, but all seemed plain and unassuming; though formal, she was direct—her words few—her voice quiet and low, without being soft or constrained. He asked her what remuneration she would expect—she said that her present aim was to get to Vienna free of expense, and she did not expect much beyond—she had been accustomed to receive eighty pounds a year as governess, but as she was to serve Miss Falkner as maid, she would only ask twenty.

"But as I wish you to act as both," said Falkner, "we must join the two sums, and I will pay you a hundred."

A ray of pleasure actually for a second illuminated the little woman's face; while with an unaltered tone of voice she replied: "I shall be very thankful, sir, if you think proper."

"You must, however, understand our conditions," said Falkner. "I talk of Vienna—but I travel for my pleasure, with no fixed bourn or time. I am not going direct to Germany—I spend the winter at Constantinople. It may be that I shall linger in those parts—it may be that from Greece I shall cross to Italy. You must not insist on my taking you to Vienna: it is enough for your purpose, I suppose, if you reach a civilized part of the world, and are comfortably situated, till you find some other family going whither you desire."

She was acquiescent. She insisted, however, with much formality, that he should make inquiries concerning her from several respectable families at Odessa; otherwise, she said, he could not fitly recommend her to any other situation. Falkner complied. Every one spoke of her in high terms, lauding her integrity and kindness of heart. "Miss Jervis is the best creature in the world," said the wife of the French Consul; "only she is English to the core—so precise, and formal, and silent, and quiet, and cold. Nothing can persuade her to do what she does not think right. After being so shamefully deserted, she might have lived in my house, or four or five others, doing nothing; but she chose to have pupils, and to earn money by teaching. This might have been merely for the sake of paying for her journey; but, besides this, we discovered that she supports some poor relation in England, and, while cast away here, she still remembered and sent remittances to one whom she thought in want. She has a heart of gold, though it does not shine."

Pleased with this testimony, Falkner thought himself fortunate in securing her services, at the same time that he feared he should find her presence a considerable encumbrance. A servant was a cipher, but a governess must receive attention—she was an equal, who would perpetually form a third with him and Elizabeth. His reserve, his love of independence, and his regard for the feelings of another, would be perpetually at war. To be obliged to talk, when he wished to be silent; to listen to, and answer frivolous remarks; to know that at all times a stranger was there—all this seemed to him a gigantic evil; but it vanished after a few days' trial of their new companion's qualities. Whatever Miss Jervis's latent virtues might be, she thought that the chief among them was to be

Content to dwell in decencies for ever—

her ambition was to be unimpeachably correct in conduct. It a little jarred with her notions to be in the house of a single gentleman—but her desolate situation at Odessa allowed her no choice; and she tried to counterbalance the evil by seeing as little of her employer as possible. Brought up from childhood to her present occupation, she was moulded to its very form; and her thoughts never strayed beyond her theory of a good governess. Her methods were all straight forward—pointing steadily to one undisguised aim—no freak of imagination ever led her out of one hard, defined, unerratic line. She had no pretension, even in the innermost recess of her heart, beyond her station. To be diligent and conscientious in her task of teaching, was the sole virtue to which she pretended; and, possessed of much good sense, great integrity, and untiring industry, she succeeded beyond what could have been expected from one apparently so insignificant and taciturn.

She was, at the beginning, limited very narrowly in the exercise of any authority over her pupil. She was obliged, therefore, to exert herself in winning influence, instead of controlling by reprimands. She took great pains to excite Elizabeth to learn; and once having gained her consent to apply to any particular study, she kept her to it with patience and perseverance; and the very zeal and diligence she displayed in teaching, made Elizabeth ashamed to repay her with an inattention that looked like ingratitude. Soon, also, curiosity, and a love of knowledge, developed itself. Elizabeth's mind was of that high order which soon found something congenial in study. The acquirement of new ideas—the sense of order, and afterwards of power—awoke a desire for improvement. Falkner was a man of no common intellect; but his education had been desultory; and he had never lived with the learned and well-informed. His mind was strong in its own elements, but these lay scattered, and somewhat chaotic. His observation was keen, and his imagination fervid; but it was inborn, uncultivated, and unenriched by any vast stores of reading. He was the very opposite of a pedant. Miss Jervis was much of the latter; but the two served to form Elizabeth to something better than either. She learned from Falkner the uses of learning: from Miss Jervis she acquired the thoughts and experience of other men. Like all young and ardent minds, which are capable of enthusiasm, she found infinite delight in the pages of ancient history: she read biography, and speedily found models for herself, whereby she measured her own thoughts and conduct, rectifying her defects, and aiming at that honour and generosity which made her heart beat, and cheeks glow, when narrated of others.

There was another very prominent distinction between Falkner and the governess: it made a part of the system of the latter never to praise. All that she tasked her pupil to do, was a duty—when not done it was a deplorable fault—when executed, the duty was fulfilled, and she need not reproach herself,—that was all. Falkner, on the contrary, fond and eager, soon looked upon her as a prodigy; and though reserved, as far as his own emotions were concerned, he made no secret of his almost adoration of Elizabeth. His praise was enthusiastic—it brought tears into her eyes—and yet, strange to say, it is doubtful whether she ever strived so eagerly, or felt so satisfied with it, as for the parsimonious expressions of bare satisfaction from Miss Jervis. They excited two distinct sensations. She loved her protector the more for his fervid approbation—it was the crown of all his gifts—she wept sometimes only to remember his ardent expressions of approbation; but Miss Jervis inspired self-diffidence, and with it a stronger desire for improvement. Thus the sensibility of her nature was cultivated, while her conceit was checked; to feel that to be meritorious with Miss Jervis was impossible,—not to be faulty was an ambitious aim. She easily discovered that affection rather than discernment dictated the approbation of Falkner; and loved him better, but did not prize herself the more.

He, indeed, was transported by the progress she made. Like most self-educated, or uneducated men, he had a prodigious respect for learning, and was easily deceived into thinking much of what was little: he felt elated when he found Elizabeth eager to recite the wonders recorded in history, and to delineate the characters of ancient heroes—narrating their achievements, and quoting their sayings. His imagination and keen spirit of observation were, at the same time, of the utmost use. He analyzed with discrimination the actions of her favourites—brought the experience of a mind full of passion and reflection to comment upon every subject, and taught her to refer each maxim and boasted virtue to her own sentiments and situation; thus to form a store of principle by which to direct her future life.

Nor were these more masculine studies the only lessons of Miss Jervis—needlework entered into her plan of education, as well as the careful inculcation of habits of neatness and order; and thus Elizabeth escaped for ever the danger she had hitherto run of wanting those feminine qualities without which every woman must be unhappy—and, to a certain degree, unsexed. The governess, meanwhile, was the most unobtrusive of human beings. She never showed any propensity to incommode her employer by making him feel her presence. Seated in a corner of the carriage, with a book in her hand, she adopted the ghostly rule of never speaking, except when spoken to. When stopping at inns, or when, on arriving at Constantinople, they became stationary, she was even less obtrusive. At first Falkner had deemed it proper to ask her to accompany them in their excursions and drives; but she was so alive to the impropriety of being seen with a gentleman, with only a young child for their companion, that she always preferred staying at home. After ranging a beautiful landscape, after enjoying the breezes of heaven and the sight of the finest views in the world, when Elizabeth returned, she always found her governess sitting in the same place, away from the window, (because, when in London, she had been told that it was not proper to look out of window,) even though the sublimest objects of nature were spread for her view; and employed on needlework, or the study of some language that might hereafter serve to raise her in the class of governesses. She had travelled over half the habitable globe, and part of the uninhabited—but she had never diverged from the prejudices and habits of home—no gleam of imagination shed its golden hue over her drab-coloured mind: whatever of sensibility existed to soften or dulcify, she sedulously hid; yet such was her serenity, her justice, her trustworthiness, and total absence of pretension, that it was impossible not to esteem, and almost to like her.

The trio, thus diverse in disposition, yet, by the force of a secret harmony, never fell into discord. Miss Jervis was valued, and by Elizabeth obeyed in all that concerned her vocation—she therefore was satisfied. Falkner felt her use, and gladly marked the good effects of application and knowledge on the character of his beloved ward—it was the moulding of a block of Parian marble into a Muse; all corners—all superfluous surface—all roughness departed—the intelligent, noble brow—the serious, inquiring eye—the mouth—seat of sensibility—all these were developed with new beauty, as animated by the aspiring soul within. Her gentleness and sweetness increased with the cultivation of her mind. To be wise and good was her ambition—partly to please her beloved father—partly because her young mind perceived the uses and beauty of knowledge.

If any thing could have cured the rankling wounds of Falkner's mind, it was the excellence of the young Elizabeth. Again and again he repeated to himself, that, brought up among the worldly and cold, her noblest qualities would either have been destroyed, or produced misery. In contributing to her happiness and goodness, he hoped to make some atonement for the past. There were many periods when remorse, and regret, and self-abhorrence held powerful sway over him: he was, indeed, during the larger portion of his time, in the fullest sense of the word—miserable. Yet there were gleams of sunshine he had never hoped to experience again—and he readily gave way to this relief; while he hoped that the worst of his pains were over.

In this idea he was egregiously mistaken. He was allowed to repose for a few years. But the cry of blood was yet unanswered—the evil he had committed unatoned; though they did not approach him, the consequences of his crime were full of venom and bitterness to others—and, unawares and unexpectedly, he was brought to view and feel the wretchedness of which he was the sole author.

Chapter 7

Three more years passed thus over the head of the young Elizabeth; when, during the warm summer months, the wanderers established themselves for a season at Baden. They had hitherto lived in great seclusion—and Falkner continued to do so; but he was not sorry to find his adopted child noticed and courted by various noble ladies, who were charmed by the pure complexion—the golden hair, and spirited, though gentle, manners of the young English girl.

Elizabeth's characteristic was an enthusiastic affectionateness—every little act of kindness that she received excited her gratitude: she felt as if she never could—though she would constantly endeavour—repay the vast debt she owed her benefactor. She loved to repass in her mind those sad days when, under the care of the sordid Mrs. Baker, she ran every hazard of incurring the worst evils of poverty; ignorance, and blunted sensibility. She had preserved her little well-worn shoes, full of holes, and slipping from her feet, as a sort of record of her neglected situation. She remembered how her hours had been spent loitering on the beach—sometimes with her little book, from which her mother had taught her—oftener in constructing sand castles, decorated with pebbles and broken shells. She recollected how she had thus built an imitation of the church and church-yard, with its shady corner, and single stone, marking two graves: she remembered the vulgar, loud voice that called her from her employment, with, "Come, Missy, come to your dinner! The Lord help me! I wonder when any body else will give you a dinner." She called to mind the boasts of Mrs. Baker's children, contrasting their Sunday frock with hers—the smallest portion of cake given to her last, and with a taunt that made her little heart swell, and her throat feel choked, so that she could not eat it, but scattered it to the birds—on which she was beat for being wasteful; all this was contrasted with the vigilance, the tenderness, the respect of her protector. She brooded over these thoughts till he became sacred in her eyes; and, young as she was, her heart yearned and sickened for an occasion to demonstrate the deep and unutterable thankfulness that possessed her soul.

She was not aware of the services she rendered him in her turn. The very sight of her was the dearest—almost the only joy of his life. Devoured by disappointment, gloom, and remorse, he found no relief except in her artless prattle, or the consciousness of the good he did her. She perceived this, and was ever on the alert to watch his mood, and to try by every art to awaken complacent feelings. She did not know, it is true, the cause of his sufferings—the fatal memories that haunted him in the silence of night—and threw a dusky veil over the radiance of day. She did not see the fair, reproachful figure, that was often before him to startle and appal—she did not hear the shrieks that rung in his ears—nor behold her floating away, lifeless, on the turbid waves—who, but a little before, had stood in all the glow of life and beauty before him. All these agonizing images haunted silently his miserable soul, and Elizabeth could only see the shadow they cast over him, and strive to dissipate it. When she could perceive the dark hour passing off, chased away by her endeavours, she felt proud and happy. And when he told her that she had saved his life, and was his only tie to it—that she alone prevented his perishing miserably, or lingering in anguish and despair, her fond heart swelled with rapture; and what soul-felt vows she made to remain for ever beside him, and pay back to the last the incalculable debt she owed! If it be true that the most perfect love subsists between unequals—no more entire attachment ever existed, than that between this man of sorrows, and the happy innocent child. He, worn by passion, oppressed by a sense of guilt, his brow trenched by the struggles of many years—she, stepping pure and free into life, innocent as an angel—animated only by the most disinterested feelings. The link between them of mutual benefit and mutual interest had been cemented by time and habit—by each waking thought, and nightly dream. What is so often a slothful, unapparent sense of parental and filial duty, was with them a living, active spirit, for ever manifesting itself in some new form. It woke with them, went abroad with them—attuned the voice, and shone brightly in the eyes.

It is a singular law of human life, that the past, which apparently no longer forms a portion of our existence, never dies; new shoots, as it were, spring up at different intervals and places, all bearing the indelible characteristics of the parent stalk; the circular emblem of eternity is suggested by this meeting and recurrence of the broken ends of our life. Falkner had been many years absent from England. He had quitted it to get rid of the consequences of an act which he deeply deplored, but which he did not wish his enemies to have the triumph of avenging. So completely during this interval had he been cut off from any, even allusion to the past, that he often tried to deceive himself into thinking it a dream;—often into the persuasion, that, tragical as was the catastrophe he had brought about, it was in its result for the best. The remembrance of the young and lovely victim lying dead at his feet, prevented his ever being really the dupe of these fond deceits—but still, memory and imagination alone ministered to remorse—it was brought home to him by none of the effects from which he had separated himself by a vast extent of sea and land.

The sight of the English at Baden was exceedingly painful to him. They seemed so many accusers and judges; he sedulously avoided their resorts, and turned away when he saw any approach. Yet he permitted Elizabeth to visit among them, and heard her accounts of what she saw and heard even with pleasure; for every word showed the favourable impression she made, and the simplicity of her own tastes and feelings. It was a new world to her, to find herself talked to, praised and caressed, by decrepit, painted, but courteous old princesses, dowagers, and all the tribe of German nobility and English fashionable wanderers. She was much amused, and her lively descriptions often made Falkner smile, and pleased him by proving that her firm and unsophisticated heart was not to be deluded by adulation.

Soon, however, she became more interested by a strange tale she brought home, of a solitary boy. He was English—handsome, and well born—but savage, and secluded to a degree that admitted of no attention being paid him. She heard him spoken of at first, at the house of some foreigners. They entered on a dissertation on the peculiar melancholy of the English, that could develop itself in a lad scarcely sixteen. He was a misanthrope. He was seen rambling the country, either on foot, or on a pony—but he would accept no invitations—shunned the very aspect of his fellows—never appearing, by any chance, in the frequented walks about the baths. Was he deaf and dumb? Some replied in the affirmative, and yet this opinion gained no general belief. Elizabeth once saw him at a little distance, seated under a wide-spreading tree in a little dell—to her he seemed more handsome than any thing she had ever seen, and more sad. One day she was in company with a gentleman, who she was told was his father; a man somewhat advanced in years—of a stern, saturnine aspect—whose smile was a sneer, and who spoke of his only child, calling him that "unhappy boy," in a tone that bespoke rather contempt than commiseration. It soon became rumoured that he was somewhat alienated in mind through the ill-treatment of his parent—and Elizabeth could almost believe this—she was so struck by the unfeeling and disagreeable appearance of the stranger.

All this she related to Falkner with peculiar earnestness—"If you could only see him," she said, "if we could only get him here—we would cure his misery, and his wicked father should no longer torment him. If he is deranged, he is harmless, and I am sure he would love us.—It is too sad to see one so gentle and so beautiful pining away without any to love him."

Falkner smiled at the desire to cure every evil that crossed her path, which is one of the sweetest illusions of youth, and asked, "Has he no mother?"

"No," replied Elizabeth, "he is an orphan like me, and his father is worse than dead, as he is so inhuman. Oh! how I wish you would save him as you saved me."

"That, I am afraid, would be out of my power," said Falkner; "yet, if you can make any acquaintance with him, and can bring him here, perhaps we may discover some method of serving him."

For Falkner had, with all his sufferings and his faults, much of the Don Quixote about him, and never heard a story of oppression without forming a scheme to relieve the victim. On this permission, Elizabeth watched for some opportunity to become acquainted with the poor boy. But it was vain. Sometimes she saw him at a distance; but if walking in the same path, he turned off as soon as he saw her; or, if sitting down, he got up, and disappeared, as if by magic. Miss Jervis thought her endeavours by no means proper, and would give her no assistance. "If any lady introduced him to you," she said, "it would be very well; but, to run after a young gentleman, only because he looks unhappy, is very odd, and even wrong."

Still Elizabeth persisted; she argued, that she did not want to know him herself, but that her father should be acquainted with him—and either induce his father to treat him better, or take him home to live with them.

They lived at some distance from the baths, in a shady dell, whose sides, a little further on, were broken and abrupt. One afternoon, they were lingering not far from their house, when they heard a noise among the underwood and shrubs above them, as if some one was breaking his way through. "It is he,—look!" cried Elizabeth; and there emerged from the covert, on to a more open, but still more precipitous path, the youth they had remarked: he was urging his horse, with wilful blindness to danger, down a declivity which the animal was unwilling to attempt. Falkner saw the danger, and was sure that the boy was unaware of how steep the path grew at the foot of the hill. He called out to him, but the lad did not heed his voice—in another minute the horse's feet slipped, the rider was thrown over his head, and the animal himself rolled over. With a scream, Elizabeth sprang to the side of the fallen youth, but he rose without any appearance of great injury—or any complaint—evidently displeased at being observed: his sullen look merged into one of anxiety as he approached his fallen horse, whom, together with Falkner, he assisted to rise—the poor thing had fallen on a sharp point of a rock, and his side was cut and bleeding. The lad was now all activity, he rushed to the stream that watered the little dell, to procure water, which he brought in his hat to wash the wound; and as he did so, Elizabeth remarked to her father that he used only one hand, and that the other arm was surely hurt. Meanwhile Falkner had gazed on the boy with a mixture of admiration and pain. He was wondrously handsome; large, deep-set hazel eyes, shaded by long dark lashes—full at once of fire, and softness; a brow of extreme beauty, over which clustered a profusion of chesnut-coloured hair; an oval face; a person, light and graceful as a sculptured image—all this, added to an expression of gloom that amounted to sullenness, with which, despite the extreme refinement of his features, a certain fierceness even was mingled, formed a study a painter would have selected for a kind of ideal poetic sort of bandit stripling; but, besides this, there was resemblance, strange, and thrilling, that struck Falkner, and made him eye him with a painful curiosity. The lad spoke with fondness to his horse, and accepted the offer made that it should be taken to Falkner's stable, and looked to by his groom.

"And you, too," said Elizabeth, "you are in pain, you are hurt."

"That is nothing," said the youth; "let me see that I have not killed this poor fellow—and I am not hurt to signify."

Elizabeth felt by no means sure of this. And while the horse was carefully led home, and his wound visited, she sent a servant off for a surgeon, believing, in her own mind, that the stranger had broken his arm. She was not far wrong—he had dislocated his wrist. "It were better had it been my neck," he muttered, as he yielded his hand to the gripe of the surgeon, nor did he seem to wince during the painful operation; far more annoyed was he by the eyes fixed upon him, and the questions asked—his manner, which had become mollified as he waited on his poor horse, resumed all its former repulsiveness; he looked like a young savage, surrounded by enemies whom he suspects, yet is unwilling to assail: and when his hand was bandaged, and his horse again and again recommended to the groom, he was about to take leave, with thanks that almost seemed reproaches, for having an obligation thrust on him, when Miss Jervis exclaimed, "Surely I am not mistaken—are you not Master Neville?"

Falkner started as if a snake had glided across his path, while the youth, colouring to the very roots of his hair, and looking at her with a sort of rage at being thus in a matter detected, replied, "My name is Neville."

"I thought so," said the other; "I used to see you at Lady Glenfell's. How is your father, Sir Boyvill?"

But the youth would answer to more; he darted at the questioner a look of fury, and rushed away. "Poor fellow!" cried Miss Jervis, "he is wilder than ever—his is a very sad case. His mother was the Mrs. Neville talked of so much once—she deserted him, and his father hates him. The young gentleman is half crazed, by ill treatment and neglect."

"Dearest father, are you ill?" cried Elizabeth—for Falkner had turned ashy pale—but he commanded his voice to say that he was well, and left the room; a few minutes afterwards he had left the house, and, seeking the most secluded pathways, walked quickly on as if to escape from himself. It would not do—the form of her son was before him—a ghost to haunt him to madness. Her son, whom she had loved with passion inexpressible, crazed by neglect and unkindness. Crazed he was not—every word he spoke showed a perfect possession of acute faculties—but it was almost worse to see so much misery in one so young. In person, he was a model of beauty and grace—his mind seemed formed with equal perfection; a quick apprehension, a sensibility, all alive to every touch; but these were nursed in anguish and wrong, and strained from their true conclusions into resentment, suspicion, and a fierce disdain of all who injured, which seemed to his morbid feelings all who named or approached him. Falkner knew that he was the cause of this evil. How different a life he had led, if his mother had lived! The tenderness of her disposition, joined to her great talents and sweetness, rendered her unparalleled in the attention she paid to his happiness and education. No mother ever equalled her—for no woman ever possessed at once equal virtues and equal capacities. How tenderly she had reared him, how devotedly fond she was, Falkner too well knew; and tones and looks, half forgotten, were recalled vividly to his mind at the sight of this poor boy, wretched and desolate through his rashness. What availed it to hate, to curse the father!—he had never been delivered over to this father, had never been hated by him, had his mother survived. All these thoughts crowded into Falkner's mind, and awoke an anguish, which time had rendered, to a certain degree, torpid. He regarded himself with bitter contempt and abhorrence—he feared, with a kind of insane terror, to see the youth again, whose eyes, so like hers, he had robbed of all expression of happiness, and clouded by eternal sorrow. He wandered on—shrouded himself in the deepest thickets, and clambered abrupt hills, so that, by breathless fatigue of body, he might cheat his soul of its agony.

Night came on, and he did not return home. Elizabeth grew uneasy—till at last, on making more minute inquiry, she found that he had come back, and was retired to his room.

It was the custom of Falkner to ride every morning with his daughter soon after sunrise; and on the morrow, Elizabeth had just equipped herself, her thoughts full of the handsome boy—whose humanity to his horse, combined with fortitude in enduring great personal pain, rendered far more interesting than ever. She felt sure that, having once commenced, their acquaintance would go on, and that his savage shyness would be conquered by her father's kindness. To alleviate the sorrows of his lot—to win his confidence by affection, and to render him happy, was a project that was occupying her delightfully—when the tramp of a horse attracted her attention—and, looking from the window, she saw Falkner ride off at a quick pace. A few minutes afterwards a note was brought to her from him. It said:—

"Dear Elizabeth,

"Some intelligence which I received yesterday obliges me unexpectedly to leave Baden. You will find me at Mayence. Request Miss Jervis to have every thing packed up as speedily as possible; and to send for the landlord, and give up the possession of our house. The rent is paid. Come in the carriage. I shall expect you this evening.

"Yours, dearest,

"J. Falkner."

Nothing could be more disappointing than this note. Her first fairy dream beyond the limits of her home, to be thus brushed away at once. No word of young Neville—no hope held out of return! For a moment an emotion ruffled her mind, very like ill humour. She read the note again—it seemed yet more unsatisfactory—but in turning the page, she found a postscript. "Pardon me," it said, "for not seeing you last night; I was not well—nor am I now."

These few words instantly gave a new direction to her thoughts—her father not well, and she absent, was very painful—then she recurred to the beginning of the note. "Intelligence received yesterday,"—some evil news, surely—since the result was to make him ill—at such a word the recollection of his sufferings rushed upon her, and she thought no more of the unhappy boy, but, hurrying to Miss Jervis, entreated her to use the utmost expedition that they might depart speedily. Once she visited Neville's horse; it was doing well, and she ordered it to be led carefully and slowly to Sir Boyvill's stables.

So great was her impatience, that by noon they were in the carriage—and in a few hours they joined Falkner at Mayence. Elizabeth gazed anxiously on him. He was an altered man—there was something wild and haggard in his looks, that bespoke a sleepless night, and a struggle of painful emotion by which the very elements of his being were convulsed—"You are ill, dear father," cried Elizabeth; "you have heard some news that afflicts you very much."

"I have," he replied; "but do not regard me: I shall recover the shock soon, and then all will be as it was before. Do not ask questions—but we must return to England immediately."

To England! such a word Falkner had never before spoken—Miss Jervis looked almost surprised, and really pleased. A return to her native country, so long deserted, and almost forgotten, was an event to excite Elizabeth even to agitation—the very name was full of so many associations. Were they hereafter to reside there? Should they visit Treby? What was about to happen? She was bid ask no questions, and she obeyed—but her thoughts were the more busy. She remembered also that Neville was English, and she looked forward to meeting him, and renewing her projects for his welfare.

Chapter 8

In the human heart—and if observation does not err—more particularly in the heart of man, the passions exert their influence fitfully. With some analogy to the laws which govern the elements—they now sleep in calm, and now arise with the violence of furious winds. Falkner had latterly attained a state of feeling approaching to equanimity. He displayed more cheerfulness—a readier interest in the daily course of events—a power to give himself up to any topic discussed in his presence; but this had now vanished. Gloom sat on his brow—he was inattentive even to Elizabeth. Sunk back in the carriage—his eyes bent on vacancy, he was the prey of thoughts, each of which had the power to wound.

It was a melancholy journey. And when they arrived in London, Falkner became still more absorbed and wretched. The action of remorse, which had been for some time suspended, renewed its attacks, and made him look upon himself as a creature at once hateful and accursed. We are such weak beings that the senses have power to impress us with a vividness, which no mere mental operation can produce. Falkner had been at various time haunted by the probable consequences of his guilt on the child of his victim. He recollected the selfish and arrogant character of his father; and conscience had led him to reproach himself with the conviction, that whatever virtues young Neville derived from his mother, or had been implanted by her care, must have been rooted out by the neglect or evil example of his surviving parent. The actual effect of her loss he had not anticipated. There was something heart-breaking to see a youth, nobly gifted by nature and fortune, delivered over to a sullen resentment for unmerited wrongs—to dejection, if not to despair. An uninterested observer must deeply compassionate him; Elizabeth had done so, child as she was—with a pity almost painful from its excess—what then must he feel who knew himself to be the cause of all his woe?

Falkner was not a man to sit quietly under these emotions. In their first onset they had driven him to suicide; preserved, as by a miracle, he had exerted strong self-command, and, by dint of resolution, forced himself to live. Year after year had passed, and he abided by the sentence of life he had passed on himself—and, like the galley slave, the iron which had eaten into the flesh, galled less than when newly applied. But he was brought back from the patience engendered by custom, at the sight of the unfortunate boy. He felt himself accursed—God-reprobated—mankind (though they knew it not) abhorred him. He would no longer live—for he deserved to die. He would not again raise his hand against himself—but there are many gates to the tomb; he found no difficulty on selecting one by which to enter. He resolved to enter upon a scene of desperate warfare in a distant country, and to seek a deliverance from the pains of life by the bullet or the sword on the field of battle. Above all, he resolved that Elizabeth's innocence should no longer be associated with his guilt. The catastrophe he meditated must be sought alone; and she, whom he had lived to protect and foster, must be guarded from the hardships and perils to which he was about to deliver himself up.

Meditation on this new course absorbed him for some days. At first he had been sunk in despondency; as the prospect opened before him of activity allied to peril, and sought for the sake of the destruction to which it unavoidably led, his spirits rose; like a war-horse dreaming of the sound of a trumpet, his heart beat high in the hope of forgetting the consciousness of remorse in all the turbulence of battle, or the last forgetfulness of the grave. Still it was a difficult task to impart his plan to the orphan, and to prepare her for a separation. Several times he had tried to commence the subject, and felt his courage fail him. At length, being together one day, some weeks after their arrival in London—when, indeed, many steps had been already taken by him in furtherance of his project; at twilight, as they sat together near the window which looked upon one of the London squares—and they had been comparing this metropolis with many foreign cities—Falkner abruptly, fearful if he lost this occasion, of not finding another so appropriate, said, "I must bid you good-by, to-night, Elizabeth—to-morrow, early, I set out for the north of England."

"You mean to leave me behind?" she asked; "but you will not be away long?"

"I am going to visit your relations," he replied; "to disclose to them that you are under my care, and to prepare them to receive you. I hope soon to return, either to conduct you to them, or to bring one among them to welcome you here."

Elizabeth was startled. Many years had elapsed since Falkner had alluded to her alien parentage. She went by his name, she called him father; and the appellation scarcely seemed a fiction—he had been the kindest, fondest parent to her—nor had he ever hinted that he meant to forego the claim his adoption had given him, and to make her over to those who were worse than strangers in her eyes. If ever they had recurred to her real situation, he had not been chary of expressions of indignation against the Raby family. He had described with warm resentment the selfishness, the hardness of heart, and disdain of the well-being of those allied to them by blood, which too often subsists in aristocratic English families, when the first bond has been broken by any act of disobedience. He grew angry as he spoke of the indignity with which her mother had been treated—and the barbarous proposition of separating her from her only child; and he had fondly assured her that it was his dearest pride to render her independent of these unworthy and inhuman relations. Why were his intentions changed? His voice and look were ominous. Elizabeth was hurt—she did not like to object; she was silent—but Falkner deciphered her wounded feelings in her ingenuous countenance, and he too was pained; he could not bear that she should think him ungrateful—mindless of her affection, her filial attentions, and endearing virtues: he felt that he must, to a certain degree, explain his views—difficult as it was to make a segment of his feelings in any way take a definite or satisfactory shape.

"Do not think hardly of me, my own dear girl," he began; "for wishing that we should separate. God knows that it is a blow that will visit me far more severely than you. You will find relations and friends, who will be proud of you—whose affections you will win;—wherever you are, you will meet with love and admiration—and your sweet disposition and excellent qualities will make life happy. I depart alone. You are my only tie—my only friend—I break it and leave you—never can I find another. Henceforth, alone—I shall wander into distant and uncivilized countries, enter on a new and perilous career, during which I may perish miserably. You cannot share these dangers with me."

"But why do you seek them?" exclaimed Elizabeth, alarmed by this sudden prophecy of ill.

"Do you remember the day when we first met?" replied Falkner; "when my hand was raised against my own life, because I knew myself unworthy to exist. It is the same now. It is cowardly to live, feeling that I have forfeited every right to enjoy the blessings of life. I go that I may die—not by my own hand—but where I can meet death by the hand of others."

Strangely and frightfully did these words fall on the ear of his appalled listener; he went on rapidly—for having once begun, the words he uttered relieved, in some degree, the misery that burthened his soul.

"This idea cannot astonish you, my love; you have seen too much of the secret of my heart; you have witnessed my fits of distress and anguish, and are not now told, for the first time, that grief and remorse weigh intolerably on me. I can endure the infliction no longer. May God forgive me in another world—the light of this I will see no more!"

Falkner saw the sort of astonished distress her countenance depicted; and, angry with himself for being its cause, was going on in a voice changed to one less expressive of misery, but Elizabeth, seized with dismay—the unbidden tears pouring from her eyes; her young—her child's heart bursting with a new sense of horror—cast herself at his feet and, embracing his knees as he sat, exclaimed, "My dear, dear father!—my more than father, and only friend—you break my heart by speaking thus. If you are miserable, the more need that your child—the creature you preserved, and taught to love you—should be at your side to comfort—I had almost said to help you. You must not cast me off! Were you happy, you might desert me; but if you are miserable, I cannot leave you—you must not ask me—it kills me to think of it!"

The youthful, who have no experience of the changes of life, regard the present with far more awe and terror than those who have seen one turn in the hour-glass suffice to change, and change again, the colour of their lives. To be divided from Falkner, was to have the pillars of the earth shaken under her—and she clung to him, and looked up imploringly in his face, as if the next word he spoke were to decide all; he kissed her, and, seating her on his knee, said, "Let us talk of this more calmly, dearest—I was wrong to agitate you—or to mix the miserable thoughts forced on me by my wretchedness—with the prudent consideration of your future destiny. I feel it to be unjust to keep you from your relations. They are rich. We are ignorant of what changes and losses may have taken place among them, to soften their hearts—which, after all, were never shut against you. You may have become of importance in their eyes. Raby is a proud name, and we must not heedlessly forego the advantages that may belong to your right to it."

"My dear father," replied Elizabeth, "this talk is not for me. I have no wish to claim the kindness of those who treated my true parents ill. You are every thing to me. I am little more than a child, and cannot find words to express all I mean; but my truest meaning is, to show my gratitude to you till my dying day; to remain with you for ever, while you love me; and to be the most miserable creature in the world if you drive me from you. Have we not lived together since I was a little thing, no higher than your knee? And all the time you have been kinder than any father. When we have been exposed to storms, you have wrapped me round in your arms so that no drop could fall on my head. Do you remember that dreadful evening, when our carriage broke down in the wide, dark steppe; and you, covering me up, carried me in your arms, while the wind howled, and the freezing rain drove against you? You could hardly bear up; and when we arrived at the post-house, you, strong man as you are, fainted from exhaustion; while I, sheltered in your arms, was as warm and well as if it had been a summer's day. You have earned me—you have bought me by all this kindness, and you must not cast me away!"

She clung round his neck—her face bathed in tears, sobbing and speaking in broken accents. As she saw him soften, she implored him yet more earnestly, till his heart was quite subdued; and, clasping her to his heart, he showered kisses on her head and neck; while, to his surprise, forgotten tears sprung to his own eyes. "For worlds I would not desert you," he cried. "It is not casting you away that we should separate for a short time; for where I go, indeed, dearest, you cannot accompany me. I cannot go on living as I have done. For many years now my life has been spent in pleasantness and peace—I have no right to this—hardship and toil, and death, I ought to repay. I abhor myself for a coward, when I think of what others suffer through my deeds—while I am scathless. You can scarcely remember the hour when the touch of your little hand saved my life. My heart is not changed since then—I am unworthy to exist. Dear Elizabeth, you may one day hate me, when you know the misery I have caused to those who deserved better at my hands. The cry of my victim rings in my ears, and I am base to survive my crime. Let me, dearest, make my own the praise, that nothing graced my life more than the leaving it. To live a coward and a drone, suits vilely with my former acts of violence and ill. Let me gain peace of mind by exposing my life to danger. By advocating a just cause I may bring a blessing down upon my endeavours. I shall go to Greece. Theirs is a good cause—that of liberty and Christianity against tyranny and an evil faith. Let me die for it; and when it is known, as it will one day be, that the innocent perished through me, it will be added, that I died in the defence of the suffering and the brave. But you cannot go with me to Greece, dearest; you must await my return in this country."

"You go to die!" she exclaimed, "and I am to be far away. No, dear father, I am a little girl, but no harm can happen to me. The Ionian Isles are under the English government—there, at least, I may go. Athens too, I dare say, is safe. Dear Athens—we spent a happy winter there before the revolution began. You forget what a traveller I am—how accustomed to find my home among strangers in foreign and savage lands. No, dear father, you will not leave me behind. I am not unreasonable—I do not ask to follow you to the camp—but you must let me be near—in the same country as yourself."

"You force me to yield against my better reason," said Falkner. "This is not right—I feel that it is not so—one of your sex, and so young, ought not to be exposed to all I am about to encounter;—and if I should die, and leave you there desolate?"

"There are good Christians everywhere to protect the orphan," persisted Elizabeth. "As if you could die when I am with you! And if you died while I was far, what would become of me? Am I to be left, like a poor sailor's wife—to get a shocking, black-sealed letter, to tell me that, while I was enjoying myself, and hoping that you had long been—? It is wicked to speak of these things—but I shall go with my own dear, dear father, and he shall not die!"

Falkner yielded to her tears, her caresses, and persuasions. He was not convinced, but he could not withstand the excess of grief she displayed at the thought of parting. It was agreed that she should accompany him to the Ionian Isles, and take up her residence there while he joined the patriot band in Greece. This point being decided upon, he was anxious that their departure should not be delayed a single hour, for most earnest was he to go, to throw off the sense of the present—to forget its pangs in anticipated danger.

Falkner played no false part with himself. He longed to die; nor did the tenderness and fidelity of Elizabeth disarm his purpose. He was convinced that she must be happier and more prosperous when he was removed. His tortured mind found relief when he thought of sacrificing his life, and quitting it honourably on the field of battle. It was only by the prospect of such a fate that he shut his eyes to sterner duties. In his secret heart, he knew that the course demanded of him by honour and conscience, was to stand forth, declare his crime, and reveal the mysterious tragedy, of which he was the occasion, to the world; but he dared not accuse himself, and live. It was this that urged him to the thoughts of death. "When I am no more," he told himself, "let all be declared—let my name be loaded with curses—but let it be added, that I died to expiate my guilt. I cannot be called upon to live with a brand upon my name; soon it will be all over, and then let them heap obloquy, pyramid-high, upon my grave! Poor Elizabeth will become a Raby; and, once cold beneath the sod, no more misery will spring from acts of mine!"

Actuated by these thoughts, Falkner drew up two narratives—both short. The tenor of one need not be mentioned in this place. The other stated how he had found Elizabeth, and adopted her. He sealed up with this the few documents that proved her birth. He also made his will—dividing his property between his heir at law and adopted child—and smiled proudly to think, that, dowered thus by him, she would be gladly received into her father's family.

Every other arrangement for their voyage was quickly made, and it remained only to determine whether Miss Jervis should accompany them. Elizabeth's mind was divided. She was averse to parting with an unoffending and kind companion, and to forego her instructions—though, in truth, she had got beyond them. But she feared that the governess might hereafter shackle her conduct. Every word Falkner had let fall concerning his desire to die, she remembered and pondered upon. To watch over and to serve him was her aim in going with him. Child as she was, a thousand combinations of danger presented themselves to her imagination, when her resolution and fearlessness might bring safety. The narrow views and timid disposition of Miss Jervis might impede her grievously.

The governess herself was perplexed. She was startled when she heard of the new scheme. She was pleased to find herself once again in England, and repugnant to the idea of leaving so soon again for so distant a region, where a thousand perils of war and pestilence would beset every step. She was sorry to part with Elizabeth, but some day that time must come; and others, dearer from ties of relationship, lived in England from whom she had been too long divided. Weighing these things, she showed a degree of hesitation that caused Falkner to decide as his heart inclined, and to determine that she should not accompany him. She went with them as far as Plymouth, where they embarked. Elizabeth, so long a wanderer, felt no regret in leaving England. She was to remain with one who was far more than country—who was indeed her all. Falkner felt a load taken from his heart when his feet touched the deck of the vessel that was to bear them away—half his duty was accomplished—the course begun which would lead to the catastrophe he coveted. The sun shone brightly on the ocean, the breeze was fresh and favourable. Miss Jervis saw them push from shore with smiles and happy looks—she saw them on the deck of the vessel, which, with sails unfurled, had already begun its course over the sea. Elizabeth waved her handkerchief—all grew confused; the vessel itself was sinking beneath the horizon, and long before night no portion of her canvass could be perceived.

"I wonder," thought Miss Jervis, "whether I shall ever see them again!"

Chapter 9

Three years from this time, Elizabeth found herself in the position she had vaguely anticipated at the outset, but which every day spent in Greece showed her as probable, if not inevitable. These three years brought Falkner to the verge of the death he had gone out to seek. He lay wounded, a prey of the Greek fever, to all appearance about to die; while she watched over him, striving, not only to avert the fatal consequences of disease, but also to combat the desire to die which destroyed him.

In describing Elizabeth's conduct during these three years, it may be thought that the type is presented of ideal and almost unnatural perfection. She was, it is true, a remarkable creature; and unless she had possessed rare and exalted qualities, her history had not afforded a topic for these pages. She was intelligent, warm-hearted, courageous, and sincere. Her lively sense of duty was perhaps her chief peculiarity. It was that which strung to such sweet harmony the other portions of her character. This had been fostered by the circumstances of her life. Her earliest recollection was of her dying parents. Their mutual consolations, the bereaved widow's lament, and her talk of another and better world, where all would meet again who fulfilled their part virtuously in this world. She had been taught to remember her parents as inheriting the immortal life promised to the just, and to aspire to the same. She had learnt, from her mother's example, that there is nothing so beautiful and praiseworthy as the sacrifice of life to the good and happiness of one beloved. She never forgot her debt to Falkner. She felt herself bound to him by stronger than filial ties. A father performs an imperious duty in cherishing his child; but all had been spontaneous benevolence in Falkner. His very faults and passions made his sacrifice the greater, and his generosity the more conspicuous. Elizabeth believed that she could never adequately repay the vast obligation which she was under to him.

Miss Jervis also had conduced to perfectionize her mind by adding to its harmony and justness. Miss Jervis, it is true, might be compared to the rough-handed gardener, whose labours are without elegance, and yet to whose waterings and vigilance the fragrant carnation owes its peculiar tint, and the waxlike camellia its especial variety. It was through her that she had methodized her mind—through her that she had learnt to concentrate and prolong her attention, and to devote it to study. She had taught her order and industry—and, without knowing it, she had done more—she had inspired ardour for knowledge, delight in its acquisition, and a glad sense of self-approbation when difficulties were conquered by perseverance; and, when by dint of resolution, ignorance was exchanged for a clear perception of any portion of learning.

It has been said that every clever person is, to a certain degree, mad. By which it is to be understood, that every person whose mind soars above the vulgar, has some exalted and disinterested object in view to which they are ready to sacrifice the common blessings of life. Thus, from the moment that Elizabeth had brought Falkner to consent to her accompanying him to Greece, she had devoted herself to the task, first of saving his life, if it should be in danger; and, secondly, of reconciling him in the end to prolonged existence. There were many difficulties which presented themselves, since she was unaware of the circumstances that drove him to seek death as a remedy and an atonement; nor had she any desire to pry into her benefactor's secrets: in her own heart, she suspected an overstrained delicacy or generosity of feeling, which exaggerated error, and gave the sting to remorse. But whatever was the occasion of his sufferings, she dedicated herself to their relief; and resolved to educate herself so as to fulfil the task of reconciling him to life, to the best of her ability.

Left at Zante, while he proceeded to join the patriot bands of Greece, she boarded in the house of a respectable family, but lived in the most retired manner possible. Her chief time was spent in study. She read to store her mind—to confirm its fortitude—to elevate its tone. She read also to acquire such precepts of philosophy and religion as might best apply to her peculiar task, and to learn those secrets of life and death which Falkner's desire to die had brought so home to her juvenile imagination.

If a time is to be named when the human heart is nearest moral perfection, most alive and yet most innocent, aspiring to good, without a knowledge of evil, the period at which Elizabeth had arrived,—from thirteen to sixteen,—is it. Vague forebodings are awakened; a sense of the opening drama of life, unaccompanied with any longing to enter on it—that feeling is reserved for the years that follow; but at fourteen and fifteen we only feel that we are emerging from childhood, and we rejoice, having yet a sense that as yet it is not fitting that we should make one of the real actors on the world's stage. A dreamy delicious period, when all is unknown; and yet we feel that all is soon to be unveiled. The first pang has not been felt; for we consider childhood's woes (real and frightful as those sometimes are,) as puerile, and no longer belonging to us. We look upon the menaced evils of life as a fiction. How can care touch the soul which places its desires beyond lowminded thought! Ingratitude, deceit, treason—these have not yet engendered distrust of others, nor have our own weaknesses and errors planted the thorn of self-disapprobation and regret. Solitude is no evil, for the thoughts are rife with busy visions; and the shadows that flit around and people our reveries, have almost the substance and vitality of the actual world.

Elizabeth was no dreamer. Though brought up abstracted from common worldly pursuits, there was something singularly practical about her. She aimed at being useful in all her reveries. This desire was rendered still more fervent by her affection for Falkner—by her fears on his account—by her ardent wish to make life dear to him. All her employments, all her pleasures, referred themselves, as it were, to this primary motive, and were entirely ruled by it.

She portioned out the hours of each day, and adhered steadily to her self-imposed rules. To the early morning's ride, succeeded her various studies, of which music, for which she developed a true ear and delicate taste, formed one; one occupation relieved the other; from her dear books she had recourse to her needle, and, bending over her embroidery frame, she meditated on what she read; or, occupied by many conjectures and many airy dreams concerning Falkner, she became absorbed in reverie. Sometimes, from the immediate object of these, her memory reverted to the melancholy boy she had seen at Baden. His wild eyes—his haughty glance—his lively solicitude about the animal he had hurt, and uncomplaining fortitude with which he had endured bodily pain, were often present to her. She wished that they had not quitted Baden so suddenly: if they had remained but a few days longer, he might have learnt to love them; and even now he might be with Falkner, sharing his dangers, it is true, but also each guarding the other from that rash contempt of life in which they both indulged.

Her whole mind being filled by duties and affection, each day seemed short, yet each was varied. At dawn she rose lightly from her bed, and looked out over the blue sea and rocky shore; she prayed, as she gazed, for the safety of her benefactor; and her thoughts, soaring to her mother in heaven, asked her blessing to descend upon her child. Morning was not so fresh as her, as she met its first sweet breath; and, cantering along the beach, she thought of Falkner—his absence, his toils and dangers—with resignation, mingled with a hope that warmed into an ardent desire to see him again. Surely there is no object so sweet as the young in solitude. In after years—when death has bereaved us of the dearest—when cares, and regrets, and fears, and passions, evil either in their nature or their results, have stained our lives with black, solitude is too sadly peopled to be pleasing; and when we see one of mature years alone, we believe that sadness must be the companion. But the solitary thoughts of the young are glorious dreams,—

—their state,

Like to a lark at break of day arising

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate.

To behold this young and lovely girl wandering by the lonely shore,

her thoughts her only companions; love for her benefactor her only passion, no touch of earth and its sordid woes about her, it was as if a new Eve, watched over by angels, had been placed in the desecrated land, and the very ground she trod grew into paradise.

Sometimes the day was sadly chequered by bad news brought from the continent of Greece. Sometimes it was rendered joyous by the arrival of a letter from her adored father. Sometimes he was with her, and he, animated by the sense of danger, and the knowledge of his usefulness to the cause he espoused, was eloquent in his narrations, overflowing in his affection to her, and almost happy in the belief that he was atoning for the past. The idea that he should fall in the fields of Greece, and wash out with his heart's blood the dark blot on his name, gave an elevation to his thoughts, a strained and eager courage and fortitude that accorded with his fiery character. He was born to be a soldier; not the military man of modern days, but the hero who exposed his life without fear, and found joy in battle and hard-earned victory, when these were sought and won for a good cause, from the cruel oppressor.

Chapter 10

During Falkner's visits to Zante, Elizabeth had been led to remark the faithful attentions of his chief follower, an Albanian Greek. This man had complained to his young mistress of the recklessness with which Falkner exposed himself—of the incredible fatigue he underwent—and his belief that he must ere long fall a victim to his disdain of safety and repose; which, while it augmented the admiration his courage excited, was yet not called for by the circumstances of the times. He would have been termed rash and fool-hardy, but that he maintained a dignified composure throughout, joined to military skill and fertility of resource; and while contempt of life led him invariably to select the post of danger for himself, he was sedulous to preserve the lives of those under his command. His early life had familiarized him with the practices of war. He was a valuable officer; kind to his men, and careful to supply their wants, while he contended for no vain distinctions; and was ready, on all occasions, to undertake such duties as others shrunk from, as leading to certain death.

Elizabeth listened to Vasili's account of his hair-breadth escapes, his toils, and desperate valour, with tearful eyes and an aching heart. "Oh! that I could attach him to life!" she thought. She never complained to him, nor persuaded him to alter his desperate purpose, but redoubled her affectionate attentions. When he left her, after a hurried visit, she did not beseech him to preserve himself; but her tearful eyes, the agony with which she returned his parting embrace, her despondent attitude as his bark left the shore; and when he returned, her eager joy—her eye lighted up with thankful love—all bespoke emotions that needed no other interpreter, and which often made him half shrink from acting up to the belief he had arrived at, that he ought to die, and that he could only escape worse and ignominious evils, by a present and honourable death.

As time passed on—as by the arrival of the forces from Egypt the warfare grew more keen and perilous—as Vasili renewed the sad tale of his perils at each visit, with some added story of lately and narrowly escaped peril—fear began to make too large and engrossing a portion of her daily thoughts. She ceased to take in the ideas as she read—her needle dropped from her hand—and, as she played, the music brought streams of tears from her eyes, to think of the scene of desolation and suffering in which she felt that she should soon be called upon to take a part. There was no help or hope, and she must early learn the woman's first and hardest lesson, to bear in silence the advance of an evil, which might be avoided, but for the unconquerable will of another. Almost she could have called her father cruel, had not the remembrance of the misery that drove him to desperation, inspired pity, instead of selfish resentment.

He had passed a few days with her, and the intercourse they held, had been more intimate and more affectionate than ever. As she grew older, her mind enriched by cultivation, and developed by the ardour of her attachment, grew more on an equality with his experienced one, than could have been the case in mere childhood. They did not take the usual position of father and child,—the instructor and instructed—the commander and the obedient—They talked with open heart, and tongue

Affectionate and true,

A pair of friends.—

And the inequality which made her depend on him, and caused him to regard her as the creature who was to prolong his existence, as it were, beyond the grave, into which he believed himself to be descending, gave a touch of something melancholy to their sympathy, without which, in this shadowy world, nothing seems beautiful and enduring.

He left her; and his little bark, under press of sail, sped merrily through the waves. She stood to watch—her heart warmed by the recollection of his fervent affection—his attentive kindness. He had ever been brave and generous; but now he had become so sympathising and gentle, that she hoped that the time was not far off when moral courage would spring from that personal hardihood which is at once so glorious and so fearful. "God shield you, my father!" she thought, "God preserve you, my more than father, for happier thoughts and better days! For the full enjoyment of, and control over, those splendid qualities with which nature has gifted you!"

Such was the tenor of her thoughts. Enthusiasm mingled with fond solicitude—and thus she continued her anxious watchings. By every opportunity she received brief letters, breathing affection, yet containing no word of self. Sometimes a phrase occurred directing her what to do if any thing fatal occurred to him, which startled and pained her; but there was nothing else that spoke of death—nor any allusion to his distaste for life. Autumn was far advanced—the sounds of war were somewhat lulled; and, except in small skirmishing parties, that met and fought under cover of the ravines and woods, all was quiet. Elizabeth felt less fearful than usual. She wrote to ask when Falkner would again visit her; and he, in reply, promised so to do, immediately after a meditated attack on a small fortress, the carrying of which was of the first import to the safe quartering of his little troop during the winter. She read this with delight—she solaced herself with the prospect of a speedier and longer visit than usual; with childish thoughtlessness she forgot that the attack on the town was a work of war, and might bring with it the fatal results of mortal struggle.

A few days after, a small, ill-looking letter was put into her hands—it was written in Romaic, and the meaning of its illegible ciphers could only be guessed at by a Greek. It was from Vasili—to tell her, in few words, that Falkner was lying in a small village, not far from the sea coast, opposite Zante. It mentioned that he had been long suffering from the Greek fever; and having been badly wounded in the late attack, the combined effects of wound and malady left little hopes of recovery; while the fatal moment was hastened by the absence of all medical assistance—the miserable state of the village where he was lying—and the bad air of the country around.

Elizabeth read as if in a dream—the moment then had come, the fatal moment which she had often contemplated with terror, and prayed Heaven to avert—she grew pale and trembling; but again in a moment she recalled her presence of mind, and summoned all the resolution she had endeavoured to store up to assist her at this extremity. She went herself to the chief English authority in the island—and obtained an order for a vessel to bring him off—instantly she embarked. She neither wept nor spoke; but sitting on the deck, tearless and pale, she prayed for speed, and that she might not find him dead. A few hours brought her to the desired port. Here a thousand difficulties awaited her—but she was not to be intimidated by all the threatened dangers—and only besought the people about her to admit of no excuses for delay. She was accompanied by an English surgeon and a few attendants. She longed to outspeed them all, and yet she commanded herself to direct every thing that was done; nor did her heart quail when a few shot, and the cry of the men about her, spoke of the neighbourhood of the enemy. It proved a false alarm—the shots came from a straggling party of Greeks—salutations were exchanged, and still she pushed on—her only thought was:—"Let me but find him alive—and then surely he will live!"

As she passed along, the sallow countenances and wasted figures of the peasants spoke of the frightful ravages of the epidemic by which Falkner was attacked—and the squalidness of the cabins and the filth of the villages were sights to make her heart ache; at length they drew near one which the guide told her was that named by Vasili. On inquiring they were directed down a sort of lane to a wretched dilapidated dwelling—in the court-yard of which were a party of armed Greeks, gathered together in a sort of ominous silence. This was the abode of Falkner; she alighted—and in a few minutes Vasili presented himself—his face painted with every mark of apprehension and sorrow—he led her on. The house was desolate beyond expression—there was no furniture—no glass in the windows—no token of human habitation beyond the weather-stained walls. She entered the room where her father lay—some mattrasses placed on the divan were all his bed—and there was nothing else in the room except a brazier to heat his food. Elizabeth drew near—and gazed in awe and grief. Already he was so changed that she could scarcely know him—his eyes sunk—his cheeks fallen, his brow streaked with pallid hues—a ghastly shadow lay upon his face, the apparent forerunner of death. He had scarcely strength sufficient to raise his hand—and his voice was hollow—yet he smiled when he saw her—and that smile, the last refuge of the soul that informs our clay, and even sometimes survives it, was all his own; it struck her to the heart—and her eyes were dimmed with tears while Vasili cast a wistful glance on her—as much as to say, "I have lost hope!"

"Thank you for coming—yet you ought not to be here," hoarsely murmured the sick man.—Elizabeth kissed his hand and brow in answer—and despite of all her endeavours the tears fell from her eyes on his sunken cheek; again he smiled. "It is not so bad," he said—"do not weep, I am willing to die! I do not suffer very much—though I am weary of life."—

The surgeon was now admitted. He examined the wound, which was of a musket ball, in his side. He dressed it, and administered some potion, from which the patient received instant relief; and then joined the anxious girl, who had retired to another room.

"He is in a very dangerous state," the surgeon remarked, in reply to her anxious looks. "Nothing certain can be pronounced yet. But our first care must be to remove him from this pestiferous place—the fever and wound combined, must destroy him.—Change of air may produce an amelioration in the former."

With all the energy, which was her prominent characteristic, Elizabeth caused a litter to be prepared—horses hired and every thing arranged so that their journey might be commenced at day-break. Every one went early to rest, to enjoy some repose before the morrow's journey, except Elizabeth; she spent the livelong night watching beside Falkner, marking each change, tortured by the groans that escaped him in sleep, or the suppressed complaints that fell from his lips—by the restlessness and fever that rendered each moment full of fate. The glimmering and dreary light of the lamp increased even the squalid and bare appearance of the wretched chamber in which he lay—Elizabeth gazed for a moment from the casement to see how moved the stars—and there, without—nature asserted herself—and it was the lovely land of Greece that met her eyes; the southern night reigned in all its beauty—the stars hung refulgent lamps in the transparent ether—the fire-flies darted and wheeled among the olive groves or rested in the myrtle hedges, flashing intermittingly, and filling for an instant a small space around them with fairy brightness; each form of tree, of rocky fragment, and broken upland, lay in calm and beautiful repose; she turned to the low couch on which lay all her hope—her idolized father—the streaked brow—the nerveless hand—half open eye, and hard breathing, betokened a frightful stage of weakness and suffering.

The scene brought unsought into her mind the lines of the English poet, which so touchingly describes the desolation of Greece,— blending the idea of mortal suffering with the long drawn calamities of that oppressed country. The words, the lines, crowded on her memory; and a chord was struck in her heart, as she ejaculated, "No! no, not so! Not the first day of death—not now, or ever!" As she spoke, she dissolved in tears—and weeping long and bitterly, she became afterwards calmer—the rest of her watch passed more peacefully. Even the patient suffered less as night verged into morning.

At an early hour all was ready. Falkner was placed in the litter; and the little party, gladly leaving the precincts of the miserable village, proceeded slowly towards the sea shore. Every step was replete with pain and danger. Elizabeth was again all herself. Self-possessed and vigilant—she seemed at once to attain years of experience. No one could remember that it was a girl of sixteen who directed them. Hovering round the litter of the wounded man, and pointing out how best to carry him, so that he might suffer least—as the inequalities of the ground, the heights to climb, and the ravines to cross, made it a task of difficulty. Now and then the report of a musket was heard, sometimes a Greek cap—not unoften mistaken for a turban, peered above the precipice that overlooked the road—frequent alarms were given—but she was frightened by none. Her large eyes dilated and darkened as she looked towards the danger pointed out—and she drew nearer the litter, as a lonely mother might to the cradle of her child, when in the stillness of night some ravenous beast intruded on a savage solitude; but she never spoke, except to point out the mistakes she was the first to perceive—or to order the men to proceed lightly, but without fear—nor to allow their progress to be checked by vain alarms.

At length the sea shore was gained—and Falkner at last placed on the deck of the vessel—reposing after the torture which, despite every care, the journey had inflicted. Already Elizabeth believed that he was saved—and yet, one glance at his wan face, and emaciated figure re-awakened every fear He looked—and all around believed him to be—a dying man.

Chapter 11

Arrived at Zante, placed in a cool and pleasant chamber, attended by a skilful surgeon—and watched over by the unsleeping vigilance of Elizabeth, Falkner slowly receded from the shadow of death—whose livid hue had sat upon his countenance. Still health was far. His wound was attended by bad symptoms—and the fever eluded every attempt to dislodge it from his frame. He was but half saved from the grave; emaciated and feeble, his disorder even tried to vanquish his mind; but that resisted with more energy than his prostrate body. The death he had gone out to seek—he awaited with courage—yet he no longer expressed an impatience of existence, but struggled to support with manly fortitude at once the inroads of disease, and the long nourished sickness of his soul.

It had been a hard trial to Elizabeth to watch over him, while each day the surgeon's serious face gave no token of hope. But she would not despond, and in the end his recovery was attributed to her careful nursing. She never quitted his apartment, except for a few hours sleep; and even then, her bed was placed in the chamber adjoining his. If he moved, she was roused, and at his side, divining the cause of his uneasiness, and alleviating it. There were other nurses about him, and Vasili the most faithful of all—but she directed them, and brought that discernment and tact of which a woman only is capable. Her little soft hand smoothed his pillow, or placed upon his brow, cooled and refreshed him. She scarcely seemed to feel the effects of sleepless nights and watchful days—every minor sensation was merged in the hope and resolution to preserve him.

Several months were passed in a state of the utmost solicitude. At last he grew a little better—the fever intermitted—and the wound gave signs of healing. On the first day that he was moved to an open alcove, and felt some enjoyment from the soft air of evening, all that Elizabeth had gone through was repaid. She sat on a low cushion near; and his thin fingers now resting on her head, now playing with the ringlets of her hair, gave token by that caress, that though he was silent and his look abstracted, his thoughts were occupied upon her. At length he said:—"Elizabeth, you have again saved my life."

She looked up with a quick, glad look, and her eyes brightened with pleasure.

"You have saved my life twice," he continued; "and through you, it seems, I am destined to live. I will not quarrel again with existence, since it is your gift; I will hope, prolonged as it has been by you, that it will prove beneficial to you. I have but one desire now—it is to be the source of happiness to you."

"Live! dear father, live! and I must be happy!" she exclaimed.

"God grant that it prove so!" he replied, pressing her hand to his lips. "The prayers of such as I, too often turn to curses. But you, my own dearest, must be blest; and as my life is preserved, I must hope that this is done for your sake, and that you will derive some advantage from it."

"Can you doubt it?" said Elizabeth. "Could I ever be consoled if I lost you? I have no other tie on earth—no other friend—nor do I wish for any. Only put aside your cruel thoughts of leaving me for ever, and every blessing is mine."

"Dear, generous, faithful girl! Yet the time will come when I shall not be all in all to you; and then, will not my name—my adoption—prove a stumbling-block to your wishes?"

"How could that happen?" she said. "But do not, dear father, perplex yourself with looking either forward or backward—repose on the present, which has nothing in it to annoy you; or rather, your gallantry—your devotion to the cause of an injured people, must inspire you with feelings of self-gratulation, and speak peace to your troubles. Let the rest of your life pass away as a dream; banish quite those thoughts that have hitherto made you wretched. Your life is saved, despite yourself. Accept existence as an immediate gift from heaven; and begin life, from this moment, with new hopes, new resolves. Whatever your error was, which you so bitterly repent, it belonged to another state of being. Your remorse, your resignation, has effaced it; or if any evil results remain, you will rather exert yourself to repair them—than uselessly to lament.

"To repair my error—my crime!" cried Falkner, in an altered voice, while a cloud gathered over his face, "No! no! that is impossible! never till we meet in another life, can I offer reparation to the dead! But I must not think of this now; it is too ungrateful to you to dwell upon thoughts which would deliver me over to the tomb. Yet one thing I would say. I left a short detail in England of the miserable event that must at last destroy me, but it is brief and unsatisfactory. During my midnight watchings in Greece, I prepared a longer account. You know that little rosewood box, which, even when dying, I asked for; it is now close to my bed; the key is here attached to my watch-chain. That box contains the narrative of my crime; when I die, you will read it and judge me."

"Never! never!" exclaimed Elizabeth, earnestly. "Dear father, how cruelly you have tormented yourself by dwelling on and writing about the past! and do you think that I would ever read accusations against you, the guardian angel of my life, even though written by yourself? Let me bring the box—let me burn the papers—let no word remain to tell of misery you repent, and have atoned for."

Falkner detained her, as she would have gone to execute her purpose. "Not alone for you, my child," he said, "did I write, though hereafter, when you hear me accused, it may be satisfactory to learn the truth from my own hand. But there are others to satisfy—an injured angel to be vindicated—a frightful mystery to be unveiled to the world. I have waited till I should die to fulfil this duty, and still, for your sake, I will wait; for while you love me and bear my name, I will not cover it with obloquy. But if I die, this secret must not die with me. I will say no more now, nor ask any promises: when the time comes, you will understand and submit to the necessity that urged me to disclosure."

"You shall be obeyed, I promise you," she replied. "I will never set my reason above yours, except in asking you to live for the sake of the poor little thing you have preserved."

"Have I preserved you, dearest? I often fear I did wrong in not restoring you to your natural relations. In making you mine, and linking you to my blighted fortunes, I may have prepared unnumbered ills for you. Oh, how sad a riddle is life! we hear of the straight and narrow path of right in youth, and we disdain the precept; and now would I were sitting among the nameless crowd on the common road-side, instead of wandering blindly in this dark desolation; and you—I have brought you with me into the wilderness of error and suffering; it was wrong—it was mere selfishness; yet who could foresee?"

"Talk not of foreseeing," said Elizabeth, soothingly, as she pressed his thin hand to her warm young lips, "think only of the present; you have made me yours for ever—you cannot cast me off without inflicting real pangs of misery, instead of those dreamy ills you speak of. I am happy with you, attending on, being of use to you. What would you more?"

"Perhaps it is so," replied Falkner, "and your good and grateful heart will repay itself for all its sacrifices. I never can. Henceforth I will be guided by you, my Elizabeth. I will no longer think of what I have done, and what yet must be suffered, but wrap up my existence in you; live in your smiles, your hopes, your affections."

This interchange of heart-felt emotions did good to both. Perplexed, nay, tormented by conflicting duties, Falkner was led by her entreaties to dismiss the most painful of his thoughts, and to repose at last on those more healing. The evil and the good of the day, he resolved should henceforth be sufficient; his duty towards Elizabeth was a primary one, and he would restrict himself to the performing it.

There is a magic in sympathy, and the heart's overflowing, that we feel as bliss, though we cannot explain it. This sort of joy Elizabeth felt after this conversation with her father. Their hearts had united; they had mingled thought and sensation, and the intimacy of affection that resulted was an ample reward to her for every suffering. She loved her benefactor with inexpressible truth and devotedness, and their entire and full interchange of confidence gave a vivacity to this sentiment which of itself was happiness.

Chapter 12

Though saved from immediate death, Falkner could hardly be called convalescent. His wound did not heal healthily, and the intermitting fever, returning again and again, laid him prostrate after he had acquired a little strength. After a winter full of danger, it was pronounced that the heats of a southern summer would probably prove fatal to him, and that he must be removed without delay to the bracing air of his native country.

Towards the end of the month of April, they took their passage to Leghorn. It was a sad departure; the more so that they were obliged to part with their Greek servant, on whose attachment Elizabeth so much depended. Vasili had entered into Falkner's service at the instigation of the Protokleft, or chief of his clan; when the Englishman was obliged to abandon the cause of Greece, and return to his own country, Vasili, though lothe and weeping, went back to his native master. The young girl, being left without any attendant on whom she could wholly rely, felt singularly desolate; for as her father lay on the deck, weak from the exertion of being removed, she felt that his life hung by a very slender thread, and she shrank half affrighted from what might ensue to her, friendless and alone.

Her presence of mind and apparent cheerfulness was never, however, diminished by these secret misgivings; and she sat by her father's low couch, and placed her hands in his, speaking encouragingly, while her eyes filled with tears as the rocky shores of Zante became indistinct and vanished.

Their voyage was without any ill accident, except that the warm south-east wind, which favoured their navigation, sensibly weakened the patient; and Elizabeth grew more and more eager to proceed northward. At Leghorn they were detained by a long and vexatious quarantine. The summer had commenced early, with great heats; and the detention of several weeks in the lazaretto nearly brought about what they had left Greece to escape. Falkner grew worse. The sea breezes a little mitigated his sufferings; but life was worn away by repeated struggles, and the most frightful debility threatened his frame with speedy dissolution. How could it be otherwise? He had wished to die. He sought death where it lurked insidiously in the balmy airs of Greece, or met it openly armed against him on the field of battle. Death wielded many weapons; and he was struck by many, and the most dangerous. Elizabeth hoped, in spite of despair; yet, if called away from him, her heart throbbed wildly as she re-entered his apartment; there was no moment when the fear did not assail her, that she might, on a sudden, hear and see that all was over.

An incident happened at this period, to which Elizabeth paid little attention at the time, engrossed as she was by mortal fears. They had been in quarantine about a fortnight, when, one day, there entered the gloomy precincts of the lazaretto, a tribe of English people. Such a horde of men, women, and children, as gives foreigners a lively belief that we islanders are all mad, to migrate in this way, with the young and helpless, from comfortable homes, in search of the dangerous and comfortless. This roving band consisted of the eldest son of an English nobleman and his wife—four children, the eldest being six years old—a governess—three nursery-maids, two lady's maids, and a sufficient appendage of men-servants. They had all just arrived from viewing the pyramids of Egypt. The noise and bustle—the servants insisting on making every body comfortable, where comfort was not—the spreading out of all their own camp apparatus—joined to the seeming indifference of the parties chiefly concerned, and the unconstrained astonishment of the Italians—was very amusing. Lord Cecil, a tall, thin, plain, quiet, aristocratic-looking man, of middle age, dropped into the first chair—called for his writing-case—began a letter, and saw and heard nothing that was going on. Lady Cecil—who was not pretty, but lively and elegant—was surrounded by her children—they seemed so many little angels, with blooming cheeks and golden hair—the youngest cherub slept profoundly amidst the din; the others were looking eagerly out for their dinner.

Elizabeth had seen their entrance—she saw them walking in the garden of the lazaretto—one figure, the governess, though disguised by a green shade over her eyes, she recognized—it was Miss Jervis. Desolate and sad as the poor girl was, a familiar face and voice was a cordial drop to comfort her; and Miss Jervis was infinitely delighted to meet her former pupil. She usually looked on those intrusted to her care as a part of the machinery that supported her life; but Elizabeth had become dear to her from the irresistible attraction that hovered round her—arising from her carelessness of self, and her touching sensibility to the sufferings of all around. She had often regretted having quitted her, and she now expressed this, and even her silence grew into something like talkativeness upon the unexpected meeting. "I am very unlucky," she said; "I would rather, if I could with propriety, live in the meanest lodging in London, than in the grandest tumble-down palace of the East, which people are pleased to call so fine—I am sure they are always dirty and out of order. Lady Glenfell recommended me to Lady Cecil—and, certainly, a more generous and sweet-tempered woman does not exist—and I was very comfortable, living at the Earl of G—'s seat in Hampshire, and having almost all my time to myself. One day, to my misfortune, Lady Cecil made a scheme to travel—to get out of her father-in-law's way, I believe—he is rather a tiresome old man. Lord Cecil does any thing she likes. All was arranged, and I really thought I should leave them—I so hated the idea of going abroad again, but Lady Cecil said that I should be quite a treasure, having been everywhere, and knowing so many languages, and that she should have never thought of going, but from my being with her; so, in short, she was very generous, and I could not say no: accordingly we set out on our travels, and went first to Portugal—where I had never been—and do not know a word of Portuguese; and then through Spain—and Spanish is Greek to me—and worse—for I do know a good deal of Romaic. I am sure I do not know scarcely where we went—but our last journey was to see the pyramids of Egypt—only, unfortunately, I caught the ophthalmia the moment we got to Alexandria, and could never bear to see a ray of light the whole time we were in that country."

As they talked, Lady Cecil came to join her children. She was struck by Elizabeth's beaming and noble countenance, which bore the impress of high thought, and elevated sentiments. Her figure, too, had sprung up into womanhood—tall and graceful—there was an elasticity joined to much majesty in all her appearance; not the majesty of assumption, but the stamp of natural grandeur of soul, refined by education, and softened by sympathetic kindness for the meanest thing that breathed. Her dignity did not spring in the slightest degree from self-worship, but simply from a reliance on her own powers, and a forgetfulness of every triviality which haunts the petty-minded. No one could chance to see her, without stopping to gaze; and her peculiar circumstances—the affectionate and anxious daughter of a dying man—without friend or support, except her own courage and patience—never daunted, yet always fearfully alive to his danger—rendered her infinitely interesting to one of her own sex. Lady Cecil was introduced to her by Miss Jervis, and was eager to show her kindness. She offered that they should travel together; but as Elizabeth's quarantine was out long before that of the new comers, and she was anxious to reach a more temperate climate, she refused; yet she was thankful, and charmed by the sweetness and cordiality of her new acquaintance.

Lady Cecil was not handsome, but there was something, not exactly amounting to fascination, but infinitely taking in her manner and appearance.—Her cheerfulness, good-nature, and high breeding, diffused a grace and a pleasurable easiness over her manners, that charmed every body; good sense and vivacity, never loud nor ever dull, rendered her spirits agreeable. She was apparently the same to every body; but she well knew how to regulate the inner spirit of her attentions while their surface looked so equal: no one ventured to go beyond her wishes,—and where she wished, any one was astonished to find how far they could depend on her sincerity and friendliness. Had Elizabeth's spirit been more free, she had been delighted; as it was, she felt thankful, merely for a kindness that availed her nothing.

Lady Cecil viewed the dying Falkner and his devoted, affectionate daughter with the sincerest compassion; dying she thought him, for he was wasted to a shadow, his cheeks colourless, his hands yellow and thin—he could not stand upright—and when, in the cool of evening, he was carried into the open air, he seemed scarcely able to speak from very feebleness. Elizabeth's face bespoke continual anxiety; her vigilance, her patience, her grief, and her resignation, formed a touching picture which it was impossible to contemplate without admiration. Lady Cecil often tried to win her away from her father's couch, and to give herself a little repose from perpetual attendance; she yielded but for a minute; while she conversed, she assumed cheerfulness—but in a moment after, she had glided back and taken her accustomed place at her father's pillow.

At length their prison-gates were opened, and Falkner was borne on board a felucca, bound for Genoa. Elizabeth took leave of her new friend, and promised to write, but while she spoke, she forgot what she said—for, dreading at each moment the death of her benefactor, she did not dare look forward, and had little heart to go beyond the circle of her immediate, though dreary sensations. A fair wind bore them to Genoa, and Falkner sustained the journey very well: at Genoa they transferred themselves to another vessel, and each mile they gained towards France lightened the fears of Elizabeth. But this portion of their voyage was not destined to be so prosperous. They had embarked at night, and had made some way during the first hours; but by noon on the following day they were becalmed; the small vessel—the burning sun—the shocking smells—the want of all comfortable accommodation, combined to bring on a relapse—and again Falkner seemed dying. The very crew were struck with pity; while Elizabeth, wild almost with terror, and the impotent wish to save, preserved an outward calm, more shocking almost than shrieks and cries. At evening she caused him to be carried on the deck, and placed on a couch, with a little sort of shed prepared for him there; he was too much debilitated to feel any great degree of relief—there was a ghastly hue settled on his face that seemed gradually sinking into death. Elizabeth's courage almost gave way; there was no physician, no friend; the servants were frightened, the crew pitying, but none could help.

As this sense of desertion grew strong, a despair she had never felt before invaded her; and it was as she thus hung over Falkner's couch, the tears fast gathering in her eyes, and striving to check the convulsive throb that rose in her throat, that a gentle voice said, "Let me place this pillow under your father's head, he will rest more quietly." The voice came as from a guardian angel; she looked up thankfully, the pillow was placed, some drink administered, a sail extended, so as to shield him from the evening sun, and a variety of little attentions paid, which evidently solaced the invalid; and the evening breeze rising as the sun went down, the air grew cool, and he sunk at last into a profound sleep. When night came on, the stranger conjured Elizabeth to take some repose, promising to watch by Falkner. She could not resist the entreaty, which was urged with sincere earnestness; going down, she found a couch had been prepared for her with almost a woman's care by the stranger; and before she slept, he knocked at her door to tell her—Falkner having awoke, expressed himself as much easier, and very glad to hear that Elizabeth had retired to rest; after this he had dropped asleep again.

It was a new and pleasant sensation to the lone girl to feel that there was one sharing her task, on whom she might rely. She had scarcely looked at or attended to the stranger while on deck; she only perceived that he was English, and that he was young; but now, in the quiet that preceded her falling asleep, his low, melodious voice sounded sweetly in her ears, and the melancholy and earnest expression of his handsome countenance reminded her of some one she had seen before, probably a Greek; for there was something almost foreign in his olive complexion, his soft, dark eyes, and the air of sentiment, mingled with a sort of poetic fervour, that characterized his countenance. With these thoughts Elizabeth fell asleep, and when early in the morning she rose, and made what haste she could to visit the little sort of hut erected for her father on deck, the first person she saw was the stranger, leaning on the bulwark, and looking on the sea with an air of softness and sadness that excited her sympathy. He greeted her with extreme kindness. "Your father is awake, and has inquired for you;" he said. Elizabeth, after thanking him, took her accustomed post beside Falkner. He might be better, but he was too weak to make much sign, and one glance at his colourless face renewed all her half-forgotten terrors.

Meanwhile the breeze freshened, and the vessel scudded through the blue sparkling waves. The heats of noon, though tempered by the gale, still had a bad effect on Falkner; and when, at about five in the evening—often in the south the hottest portion of the day, the air being thoroughly penetrated by the sun's rays—they arrived at Marseilles, it became a task of some difficulty to remove him. Elizabeth and the stranger had interchanged little talk during the day; but he now came forward to assist in removing him to the boat—acting, without question, as if he had been her brother, guessing, as if by instinct, the best thing to be done, and performing all with activity and zeal. Poor Elizabeth, cast on these difficult circumstances, without relation or friend, looked on him as a guardian angel, consulted him freely, and witnessed his exertions in her behalf in a transport of gratitude. He did every thing for her, and would sit for hours in the room at the hotel, next to that in which Falkner lay, waiting to hear how he was, and if there was any thing to be done. Elizabeth joined him now and then; they were in a manner already intimate, though strangers; he took a lively interest in her anxieties, and she looked towards him for advice and help, relied on his counsels, and was encouraged by his consolations. It was the first time she had felt any friendship or confidence, except in Falkner; but it was impossible not to be won by her new friend's gentleness, and almost feminine delicacy of attention, joined to all a man's activity and readiness to do the thing that was necessary to be done. "I have an adopted father," thought Elizabeth, "and this seems a brother dropped from the clouds." He was of an age to be her brother, but few years older; in all the ardour and grace of early manhood, when developed in one of happy nature, unsoiled by the world.

Elizabeth, however, remained but a few days at Marseilles—it was of the first necessity to escape the southern heats, and Falkner was pronounced able to bear the voyage up the Rhone. The stranger showed some sadness at the idea of being left behind. In truth, if Elizabeth was gladdened and comforted by her new friend—he felt double pleasure in the contemplation of her beauty and admirable qualities. No word of self ever passed her lips. All thought, all care, was spent on him she called her father—and the stranger was deeply touched by her demonstrations of filial affection—her total abnegation of every feeling that did not centre in his comfort and recovery. He had been present one evening—though standing apart, when Falkner, awakening from sleep, spoke with regret of the fatigue Elizabeth endured, and the worthlessness of his life compared with all that she went through for his sake. Elizabeth replied at once with such energy of affection, such touching representation of the comfort she derived from his returning health, and such earnest entreaties for him to love life, that the stranger listened as if an angel spoke. Falkner answered, but the remorse that burthened his heart gave something of bitterness to his reply. And her eloquent, though gentle solicitations, that he would look on life in a better and nobler light—not rashly to leave its duties here, to encounter those he knew not of, in an existence beyond; and kind intimations, which exalting his repentance into a virtue, might reconcile him to himself—all this won the listener to a deep and wondering admiration. Not in human form had he ever seen embodied so much wisdom, and so much strong, yet tender emotion—none but woman could feel thus, but it was beyond woman to speak and to endure as she did. She spoke only just so openly, remembering the stranger's presence, as to cast a veil over her actual relationship to Falkner, whom she called and wished to have believed to be her true father.

The fever of the sufferer being abated, a day was fixed for their departure from Marseilles. Their new friend appeared to show some inclination to accompany them in their river navigation as far as Lyons. Elizabeth thanked him with her gladdened eyes; she had felt the want of support, or rather she had experienced the inestimable benefit of being supported, during the sad crisis now and then brought about by Falkner's changeful illness; there was something, too, in the stranger very attractive, not the less so for the melancholy which often quenched the latent fire of his nature. That his disposition was really ardent, and even vivacious, many little incidents, when he appeared to forget himself, evinced—nay, sometimes his very gloom merged into sullen savageness, that showed that coldness was not the secret of his frequent fits of abstraction. Once or twice, on these occasions, Elizabeth was reminded, she knew not of whom—but some one she had seen before—till one day it flashed across her; could it be the sullen, solitary boy of Baden! Singularly enough, she did not even know her new friend's name; to those accustomed to foreign servants this will not appear strange; he was their only visitor, and "le monsieur" was sufficient announcement when he arrived—but Elizabeth remembered well that the youth's name was Neville—and, on inquiry, she learnt that this also was the appellation of her new acquaintance.

She now regarded him with greater interest. She recalled her girlish wish that he should reside with them, and benefit by the kindness of Falkner—hoping that his sullenness would be softened, and his gloom dissipated, by the affectionate attentions he would receive. She wished to discover in what degree time and other circumstances had operated to bring about the amelioration she had wished to be an instrument in achieving. He was altered—he was no longer fierce nor sullen—yet he was still melancholy, and still unhappy—and she could discern that as his former mood had been produced by the vehemence of his character fretting against the misfortunes of his lot; so it was by subduing every violence of temper that the change was operated—and she suspected that the causes that originally produced his unhappiness still remained. Yet violence of temper is not a right word to use; his temper was eminently sweet—he had a boiling ardour within—a fervent and a warm heart, which might produce vehemence of feeling, but never asperity of temper. All this Elizabeth remarked—and, as before, she longed to dissipate the melancholy that so evidently clouded his mind; and again she indulged fancies, that if he accompanied them, and was drawn near them, the affection he would receive must dissipate a sadness created by unfortunate circumstances in early youth—but not the growth of a saturnine disposition. She pitied him intensely, for she saw that he was often speechlessly wretched; but she reverenced his self-control, and the manner in which he threw off all his own engrossing feelings to sympathize with, and assist her.

They were now soon to depart, and Elizabeth was not quite sure whether Neville was to accompany them—he had gone to the boat to look after some arrangements made for the patient's comfort—and she sat with the invalid, expecting his return. Falkner reclined near a window, clasping her hand, looking on her with fondness, and speaking of all he owed her; and how he would endeavour to repay, by living, and making life a blessing to her. "I shall live," he said; "I feel that this malady will pass away, and I shall live to devote myself to rewarding you for all your anxieties, to dissipating the cloud with which I have so cruelly overshadowed your young life, and to making all the rest sunshine. I will think only of you; all the rest, all that grieves me, and all that I repent, I cast even now into oblivion."

At this moment the stranger entered and drew near. Elizabeth saw him and said: "And here, dearest father, is another to whom you owe more than you can guess—for kindness to me and the help to you. I do not think I should have preserved you without Mr. Neville."

The young man was standing near the couch, looking on the invalid, and rejoicing in the change for the better that appeared. Falkner turned his eyes on him as Elizabeth spoke, a tremor ran through all his limbs, he grew ghastly pale, and fainted.

An evil change from this time appeared in his state—and the physician was afraid of the journey, attributing his fainting to his inability to bear any excitement; while Falkner, who was before passive, grew eager to depart. "Change of scene and moving will do me good," he said, "so that no one comes near me, no one speaks to me but Elizabeth."

At one time the idea of Neville's accompanying them was alluded to—he was greatly disturbed—and seriously implored Elizabeth not to allow it. It was rather hard on the poor girl, who found so much support and solace in her new friend's society—but Falkner's slightest wish was with her a law, and she submitted without a murmur. "Do not let me even see him before we go," said Falkner. "Act on this wish, dearest, without hurting his feelings—without betraying to him that I have formed it—it would be an ungracious return for the services he has rendered you—for which I would fain show gratitude; but that cannot be—you alone can repay—do so, as you best may, with thanks—but do not let me see him more."

Elizabeth wondered—and as a last effort to vanquish his dislike, she said: "Do you know that he is the same boy, who interested us so much at Baden?—he is no longer savage as he was then—but I fear that he is as unhappy as ever."

"Too well do I know it"—replied Falkner—"do not question me—do not speak to me again of him." He spoke in disjointed sentences—a cold dew stood on his brow—and Elizabeth, who knew that a mysterious wound rankled in his heart, more painful than any physical injury, was eager to calm him. Something, she might wonder; but she thought more of sparing Falkner pain, than of satisfying her curiosity—and she mentally resolved never to mention the name of Neville again.

They were to embark at sunrise—in the evening her new friend came to take leave—she having evaded the notion of his accompanying them, and insisted that he should not join them in the morning to assist at their departure. Though she had done this with sweetness, and so much cordiality of manner as prevented his feeling any sort of slight; yet in some sort he guessed that they wished to dismiss him, and this notion added to his melancholy, while some latent feeling made him readily acquiesce in it. Elizabeth was told that he had come, and left Falkner to join him. It was painful to her to take leave—to feel that she should see him no more—and to know that their separation was not merely casual, but occasioned by her father's choice, which hereafter might again and again interfere to separate them. As she entered the room, he was leaning against the casement, and looking on the sea which glanced before their windows, still as a lake, blue as the twilight sky that bent over it. It was a July evening—soft, genial, and soothing; but no portion of the gladness of nature was reflected in the countenance of Neville. His large dark eyes seemed two wells of unfathomable sadness. The drooping lids gave them an expression of irresistible softness, which added interest to their melancholy earnestness. His complexion was olive, but so clear that each vein could be discerned. His full, and finely shaped lips bespoke the ardour and sensibility of his disposition; while his slim, youthful form appeared half bending with a weight of thought and sorrow. Elizabeth's heart beat as she came near and stood beside him. Neither spoke; but he took her hand—and they both felt that each regretted the moment of parting too deeply for the mere ceremony of thanks and leave-taking.

"I have grieved," said Neville, as if answering her, though no word had been said, "very much grieved at the idea of seeing you no more; and yet it is for the best, I feel—and am sure. You do not know the usual unhappy tenor of my thoughts, nor the cause I have to look on life as an unwelcome burthen. This is no new sentiment—it has been my companion since I was nine years old. At one time, before I knew how to rein and manage it, it was more intolerable than now; as a boy, it drove me to solitude—to abhorrence of the sight of man—to anger against God for creating me. These feelings have passed away; nay, more—I live for a purpose—a sacred purpose, that shall be fulfilled despite of every obstacle—every seeming impossibility. Too often indeed the difficulties in my way have made me fear that I should never succeed, and I have desponded; but never, till I saw you, did I know pleasure unconnected with my ultimate object. With you I have been at times taken out of myself; and I have almost forgotten—this must not be. I must resume my burthen, nor form one thought beyond the resolution I have made to die, if need be, to secure success."

"You must not speak thus," said Elizabeth, looking at once with pity and admiration on a face expressive of so much sensitive pride and sadness springing from a sense of injury. "If your purpose is a good one, as I must believe that it is—you will either succeed, or receive a compensation from your endeavours equivalent to success. We shall meet again, and I shall see you happier."

"When I am happier," he said, with more than his usual earnestness, "we shall indeed meet—for I will seek you at the furthest end of the globe. Till then, I shrink from seeing any one who interests me—or from renewing sentiments of friendship which had better end here. You are too good and kind not to be made unhappy by the sight of suffering, and I must suffer till my end is accomplished. Even now I regret that I ever saw you—though that feeling springs from a foolish pride. For hereafter you will hear my name—and if you already do not know—you will learn the miserable tale that hangs upon it—you will hear me commiserated; you will learn why—and share the feeling. I would even avoid your pity—judge then how loathsome it is to receive that of others, and yet I must bear it, or fly them as I do. This will change. I have the fullest confidence that one day I may throw back on others the slur now cast upon me. This confidence, this full and sanguine trust, has altered me from what I once was; it has changed the impatience, the almost ferocity I felt as a boy, into fortitude and resolution."

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "I remember once I saw you a long time since, when I was a mere girl, at Baden. Were you not there about four years ago? Do you not remember falling with your horse and dislocating your wrist?"

A tracery of strange wild thought came over the countenance of Neville. "Do I remember?" he cried—"Yes—and I remember a beautiful girl—and I thought such would have been my sister, and I had not been alone—if fate, if cruel, inexorable, horrible destiny had not deprived me of her as well as all—all that made my childish existence Paradise. It is so—and I see you again, whom then my heart called sister—it is strange."

"Did you give me that name?" said Elizabeth. "Ah, if you knew the strange ideas I then had of giving you my father for your friend, instead of one spoken harshly—perhaps unjustly of—"

As she spoke—he grew gloomy again—his eyes drooped, and the expression of his face became at first despondent, then proud, and even fierce; it reminded her more forcibly than it had ever done before of the Boy of Baden—"It is better as it is," he continued, "much better that you do not share the evil that pursues me; you ought not to be humiliated, pressed down—goaded to hatred and contempt.

"Farewell—I grieve to leave you—yet I feel deeply how it is for the best. Hereafter you will acknowledge your acquaintance with me, when we meet in a happier hour. God preserve you and your dear father, as he will for your sake! Twice we have met—the third time, if sibyls' tales are true, is the test of good or evil in our friendship—till then, farewell."

Thus they parted. Had Elizabeth been free from care with regard to Falkner—she had regretted the separation more; and pondered more over the mysterious wretchedness that darkened the lives of the only two beings, the inner emotions of whose souls had been opened to her. As it was, she returned to watch and fear beside her father's couch—and scarcely to remember that a few minutes before she had been interested by another—so entirely were her feelings absorbed by her affection and solicitude for him.

Chapter 13

From this time their homeward journey was more prosperous. They arrived safely at Lyons, and thence proceeded to Basle—to take advantage again of river, navigation; the motion of a carriage being so inimical to the invalid. They proceeded down the Rhine to Rotterdam, and crossing the sea, returned at last to England, after an absence of four years.

This journey, though at first begun in terror and danger, grew less hazardous at each mile they traversed towards the North; and while going down the Rhine, Falkner and his adopted daughter spent several tranquil and happy hours—comparing the scenery they saw to other and distant landscapes—and recalling incidents that had occurred many years ago. Falkner exerted himself for Elizabeth's sake—she had suffered so much, and he had inflicted so much anguish upon her while endeavouring to free himself from the burthen of life, that he felt remorse at having thus trifled with the deepest emotions of her heart—and anxious to recal the more pleasurable sensations adapted to her age. The listless, yet pleasing feelings attendant on convalescence influenced his mind also—and he enjoyed a peace to which he had long been a stranger.

Elizabeth, it is true, had another source of reverie beside that ministered to her by her father. She often thought of Neville; and, though he was sad, the remembrance of him was full of pleasure. He had been so kind, so sympathizing, so helpful; besides there was a poetry in his very gloom that added a charm to every thought spent upon him. She did not only recall his conversation, but conjectured the causes of his sorrow, and felt deeply interested by the mystery that hung about him. So young and so unhappy! And he had been long so—he was more miserable when they saw him roving wildly among the Alsatian hills. What could it mean?—She strove to recollect what Miss Jervis mentioned at that time; she remembered only that he had no mother, and that his father was severe and unkind.

Yet why, when nature is so full of joyousness, when, at the summer season, vegetation basks in beauty and delight, and the very clouds seemed to enjoy their aerial abode in upper sky, why should misery find a home in the mind of man? a misery which balmy winds will not lull, nor the verdant landscape and its winding river dissipate? She thought thus as she saw Falkner reclining apart, a cloud gathered on his brow, his piercing eyes fixed in vacancy, as if it beheld there a heart-moving tragedy; but she was accustomed to his melancholy, she had ever known him as a man of sorrows; he had lived long before she knew him, and the bygone years were filled by events pregnant with wretchedness, nay, if he spoke truth, with guilt. But Neville, the young, the innocent, who had been struck in boyhood through no fault of his own, nor any act in which he bore a part; was there no remedy for him? and would not friendship, and kindness, and the elastic spirit of youth, suffice to cure his wound? She remembered that he declared that he had an aim in view, in which he resolved to succeed, and, succeeding, he should be happy: a noble aim, doubtless; for his soft eyes lighted joyously up, and his face expressed a glad pride when he prognosticated ultimate triumph. Her heart went with him in his efforts; she prayed earnestly for his success, and was as sure as he, that Heaven would favour an object which she felt certain was generous and pure.

A sigh, a half groan from Falkner, called her to his side, while she meditated on these things. Both suffer, she thought; would that some link united them, so that both might find relief in the accomplishment of the same resolves! Little did she think of the real link that existed, mysterious, yet adamantine; that to pray for the success of one, was to solicit destruction for the other. A dark veil was before her eyes, totally impervious; nor did she know that the withdrawing it, as was soon to be, would deliver her over to conflicting duties, sad struggles of feeling, and stain her life with the dark hues that now, missing her, blotted the existence of the two upon earth, for whom she was most interested.

They arrived in London. Falkner's fever was gone, but his wound was rankling, painful, and even dangerous. The bullet had grazed the bone, and this, at first neglected, and afterwards improperly treated, now betrayed symptoms of exfoliation; his sufferings were great—he bore them patiently; he looked on them as an atonement. He had gone out in his remorse to die—he was yet to live, broken and destroyed; and if suffered to live, was it not for Elizabeth's sake? and having bound her fate to his, what right had he to die? The air of London being injurious, and yet it being necessary to continue in the vicinity of the most celebrated surgeons, they took a pleasant villa on Wimbledon Common, situated in the midst of a garden, and presenting to the eye that mixture of neatness, seclusion and comfort, that renders some of our smaller English country houses so delightful. Elizabeth, despite her wanderings, had a true feminine love of home. She busied herself in adding elegance to their dwelling, by a thousand little arts, which seem nothing, and are every thing in giving grace and cheerfulness to an abode.

Their life became tranquil, and a confidence and friendship existed between them, the source of a thousand pleasant conversations, and happy hours. One subject, it is true, was forbidden, the name of Neville was never mentioned; perhaps, on that very account, it assumed more power over Elizabeth's imagination. A casual intercourse with one, however interesting, might have faded into the common light of day, had not the silence enjoined, kept him in that indistinct mysterious darkness so favourable to the processes of the imagination. On every other subject, the so called father and daughter talked with open heart, and Falkner was totally unaware of a secret growth of unspoken interest, which had taken root in separation and secrecy.

Elizabeth, accustomed to fear death for one dearest to her, and to contemplate its near approaches so often, had something holy and solemn kneaded into the very elements of her mind, that gave sublimity to her thoughts, resignation to her disposition, and a stirring inquiring spirit to her conversation, which, separated as they were from the busy and trivial duties of life, took from the monotony and stillness of their existence, by bringing thoughts beyond the world to people the commonplace of each day's routine. Falkner had not much of this; but he had a spirit of observation, a ready memory, and a liveliness of expression and description which corrected her wilder flights, and gave the interest of flesh and blood to her fairy dreams. When they read of the heroes of old, or the creations of the poets, she dwelt on the moral to be deduced, the theories of life and death, religion and virtue, therein displayed; while he compared them to his own experience, criticised their truth, and gave pictures of real human nature, either contrasting with, or resembling, those presented on the written page.

Their lives, thus spent, would have been equable and pleasant, but for the sufferings of Falkner; and as those diminished, another evil arose, in his eyes of far more awful magnitude. They had resided at Wimbledon about a year, when Elizabeth fell ill. Her medical advisers explained her malady as the effect of the extreme nervous excitement she had gone through during the last years, which, borne with a patience and fortitude almost superhuman, had meanwhile undermined her physical strength. This was a mortal blow to Falkner; while with self-absorbed, and, he now felt, criminal pertinacity, he had sought death, he had forgotten the results such acts of his might have on one so dear, and innocent. He had thought that when she lost him, Elizabeth would feel a transitory sorrow; while new scenes, another family, and the absence of his griefs, would soon bring comfort. But he lived, and the consequences of his resolve to die fell upon her—she was his victim! there was something maddening in the thought. He looked at her dear face, grown so pale—viewed her wasting form—watched her loss of appetite, and nervous tremours, with an impatient agony that irritated his wound, and brought back malady on himself.

All that the physicians could order for Elizabeth, was change of air—added to an intimation that an entirely new scene, and a short separation from her father, would be of the utmost benefit. Where could she go? it was not now that she drooped—and trembled at every sound, that he could restore her to her father's family. No time ought to be lost, he was told, and the word consumption mentioned; the deaths of her parents gave a sting to that word, which filled him with terror. Something must be done immediately—what he knew not; and he gazed on his darling, whom he felt that by his own act he had destroyed, with an ardour to save that he felt was impotent, and he writhed beneath the thought.

One morning, while Falkner was brooding over these miserable ideas—and Elizabeth was vainly trying to assume a look of cheerfulness and health, which her languid step and pale cheek belied—a carriage entered their quiet grounds, and a visitor was announced. It was Lady Cecil. Elizabeth had nearly forgotten, nor ever expected to see her again—but that lady, whose mind was at ease at the period of their acquaintance, and who had been charmed by the beauty and virtues of the devoted daughter, had never ceased to determine at some time to seek her, and renew their acquaintance. She, indeed, never expected to see Falkner again, and she often wondered what would be his daughter's fate when he died; she and her family had remained abroad till the present spring, when being in London, she, by Miss Jervis's assistance, learned that he still lived, and that they were both at Wimbledon.

Lady Cecil was a welcome visitor wherever she went, for there was an atmosphere of cheerful and kindly warmth around her, that never failed to communicate pleasure. Falkner, who had not seen her at Leghorn, and had scarcely heard her name mentioned, was won at once; and when she spoke with ardent praise of Elizabeth, and looked upon her altered appearance with undisguised distress, his heart warmed towards her, and he was ready to ask her assistance in his dilemma. That was offered, however, before it was asked—she heard that change of air was recommended—she guessed that too great anxiety for her father had produced her illness—she felt sure that her own pleasant residence, and cheerful family, was the best remedy that could be administered.

"I will not be denied," she said, after having made her invitation, that both father and daughter should pay her a visit. "You must come to me: Lord Cecil is gone to Ireland for two months, to look after his estate there; and our little Julius being weakly, I could not accompany him. I have taken a house near Hastings—the air is salubrious, the place beautiful—I lead a domestic, quiet life, and I am sure Miss Falkner will soon be well with me."

As her invitation was urged with warmth and sincerity, Falkner did not hesitate to accept it. To a certain degree, he modified it, by begging that Elizabeth should accompany Lady Cecil, in the first place, alone. As the visit was to be for two months, he promised after the first was elapsed to join them. He alleged various reasons for this arrangement; his real one being, that he had gathered from the physicians, that they considered a short separation from him as essential to the invalid's recovery. She acceded, for she was anxious to get well, and hoped that the change would restore her. Every thing was therefore soon agreed upon; and, two days afterwards, the two ladies were on their road to Hastings, where Lady Cecil's family already was—she having come to town with her husband only, who by this time had set out on his Irish tour.

"I feel convinced that three days of my nursing will make you quite well," said Lady Cecil, as they were together in her travelling carriage; "I wish you to look as you did in Italy. One so young, and naturally so healthy, will soon recover strength. You overtasked yourself—and your energetic mind is too strong for your body; but repose, and my care, will restore you. I am sure we shall be very happy—my children are dear little angels, and will entertain you when you like, and never be in your way. I shall be your head nurse—and Miss Jervis, dear odd soul! will act under my orders. The situation of my house is enchanting; and, to add to our family circle, I expect my brother Gerard, whom I am sure you will like. Did I ever mention him to you? perhaps not—but you must like Gerard—and you will delight him. He is serious—nay, to say the truth, sad—but it is a sadness a thousand times more interesting than the gaiety of common-place worldly men. It is a seriousness full of noble thoughts, and affectionate feelings. I never knew, I never dreamt, that there was a creature resembling, or to be compared to him in the world, till I saw you. You have the same freedom from worldliness—the same noble and elevated ideas—feeling for others, and thinking not of the petty circle of ideas that encompasses and presses down every other mind, so that they cannot see or feel beyond their Lilliputian selves.

"In one thing you do not resemble Gerard. You, though quiet, are cheerful; while he, naturally more vivacious, is melancholy. You look an inquiry, but I cannot tell you the cause of my brother's unhappiness; for his friendship for me, which I highly prize, depends upon my keeping sacredly the promise I have given never to make his sorrows a topic of conversation. All I can say is, that they result from a sensibility, and a delicate pride, which is overstrained, yet which makes me love him ten thousand times more dearly. He is better now than he used to be, and I hope that time and reason will altogether dissipate the vain regrets that embitter his life. Some new—some strong feeling may one day spring up, and scatter the clouds. I pray for this; for though I love him tenderly, and sympathize in his grief, yet I think it excessive and deplorable; and, alas! never to be remedied, though it may be forgotten."

Elizabeth listened with some surprise to hear of another so highly praised, and yet unhappy; while in her heart she thought "Though this sound like one to be compared to Neville, yet, when I see him, how I shall scorn the very thought of finding another as high-minded, kind, and interesting as he?" She gave no utterance however to this reflection, and merely asked, "Is your brother older than you?"

"No, younger—he is only two-and-twenty; but passion and grief, endured almost since infancy, prevented him when a child from being childish; and now he has all that is beautiful in youth, with none of its follies. Pardon my enthusiasm; but you will grow enthusiastic also when you see Gerard."

"I doubt that," thought Elizabeth—"my enthusiasm is spent—and I should hate myself if I could think of another as of Neville." This latent thought made the excessive praises which Lady Cecil bestowed on her brother sound almost distastefully. Her thoughts flew back to Marseilles; to his sedulous attentions—their parting interview—and fixed at last upon the strange emotion Falkner had displayed when seeing him; and his desire that his name even should not be mentioned. Again she wondered what this meant, and her thoughts became abstracted; Lady Cecil conjectured that she was tired, and permitted her to indulge in her silent reveries.

Chapter 14

Lady Cecil's house was situated on the heights that overlook Fairlight Bay, near Hastings. Any one who has visited that coast, knows the peculiar beauty of the rocks, downs, and groves of Fairlight. The oak, which clothes each dell, and, in a dwarf and clipped state, forms the hedges, imparts a richness not only to the wide landscape, but to each broken nook of ground and sequestered corner; the fern, which grows only in contiguity to the oak, giving a wild forest appearance to the glades. The mansion itself was large, convenient, and cheerful. The grounds were extensive; and from points of view you could see the wide sea—the more picturesque bay—and the undulating varied shore that curves in towards Winchelsea. It was impossible to conceive a scene more adapted to revive the spirits, and give variety and amusement to the thoughts.

Elizabeth grew better, as by a miracle, the very day after her arrival; and within a week a sensible change had taken place in her appearance, as well as her health. The roses bloomed in her cheeks—her step regained its elasticity—her spirits rose even to gaiety. All was new and animating. Lady Cecil's beautiful and spirited children delighted her. It was a domestic scene, adorned by elegance, and warmed by affection. Elizabeth had, despite her attachment to her father, often felt the weight of loneliness when left by him at Zante; or when his illness threw her back entirely on herself. Now on each side there were sweet, kind faces—playful, tender caresses—and a laughing mirth, cheering in its perfect innocence.

The only annoyance she suffered, arose from the great influx of visitors. Having lived a life disjoined from the crowd, she soon began to conceive the hermitess delight in loneliness, and the vexation of being intruded upon by the frivolous and indifferent. She found that she loved friends, but hated acquaintance. Nor was this strange. Her mind was quite empty of conventional frivolities. She had not been at a ball twice in her life, and then only when a mere child; yet all had been interest and occupation. To unbend with her was to converse with a friend—to play with children—or to enjoy the scenes of nature with one who felt their beauties with her. "It was hard labour," she often said, "to talk with people with whom she had not one pursuit—one taste in common." Often when a barouche, crowded with gay bonnets, appeared, she stole away. Lady Cecil could not understand this. Brought up in the thick of fashionable life, no person of her clique was a stranger; and if any odd people called on her—still they were in some way entertaining; or if bores—bores are an integral portion of life, not to be shaken off with impunity, for as oysters they often retain the fairest pearls in close conjunction. "You are wrong," said Lady Cecil. "You must not be savage—I cannot have mercy on you; this little jagged point in your character must be worn off—you must be as smooth and glossy in exterior, as you are incalculably precious in the substance of your mind."

Elizabeth smiled; but not the less when a sleek, self-satisfied dowager, all smiles to those she knew—all impertinent scrutiny to the unknown—and a train of ugly old women in embryo—called, for the present, misses—followed, each honouring her with an insolent stare. "There was a spirit in her feet," and she could not stay, but hurried out into the woodland dells, and with a book, her own reveries, and the beautiful objects around her, as her companions; and feeling ecstatically happy, both at what she possessed, and what she had escaped from.

Thus it was one day that she deserted Lady Cecil, who was smiling sweetly on a red-faced gouty 'squire, and listening placidly to his angry wife, who was complaining that her name had been put too low down in some charity list. She stole out from the glassdoor that opened on the lawn, and, delighted that her escape was secure, hurried to join the little group of children whom she saw speeding beyond into the park.

"Without a bonnet, Miss Falkner!" cried Miss Jervis.

"Yes; and the sun is warm. You are not using your parasol, Miss Jervis; lend it me, and let us go into the shade." Then, taking her favourite child by the hand, she said, "Come, let us pay visits. Mamma has got some visitors; so we will go and seek for some. There is my Lord Deer, and pretty Lady Doe. Ah! pretty Miss Fawn, what a nice dappled frock you have on!"

The child was enchanted; and they wandered on through the glades, among the fern, into a shady dell, quite at the other side of the park, and sat down beneath a spreading oak tree. By this time they had got into a serious talk of where the clouds were going, and where the first tree came from, when a gentleman, who had entered the park gates unperceived, rode by, and pulling up his horse suddenly, with a start, and an exclamation of surprise, he and Elizabeth recognized each other.

"Mr. Neville!" she cried, and her heart was full in a moment of a thousand recollections—of the gratitude she owed—their parting scene—and the many conjectures she had formed about him since they separated. He looked more than pleased; and the expression of gloomy abstraction which his face too often wore, was lit up by a smile that went straight to the heart. He sprung from his horse, gave the rein to his groom, and joining Elizabeth and her little companion, walked towards the house.

Explanations and surprise followed. He was the praised, expected brother of Lady Cecil. How strange that Elizabeth had not discovered this relationship at Marseilles! and yet, at that time, she had scarcely a thought to spare beyond Falkner. His recovery surprised Neville, and he expressed the warmest pleasure. He looked with tenderness and admiration at the soft and beautiful creature beside him, whose courage and unwearied assiduity had preserved her father's life. It was a bewitching contrast to remember her face shadowed by fear—her vigilant, anxious eyes fixed on her father's wan countenance—her thoughts filled with one sad fear; and now to see it beaming in youthful beauty, animated by the happy, generous feelings which were her nature. Yet this very circumstance had a sad reaction upon Neville. His heart still bore the burthen of its sorrow, and he felt more sure of the sympathy of the afflicted mourner, than of one who looked untouched by any adversity. The sentiment was transitory, for Elizabeth, with that delicate tact which is natural to a feeling mind, soon gave such a subdued tone to their conversation as made it accord with the mysterious unhappiness of her companion.

When near the house, they were met by Lady Cecil, who smiled at what she deemed a sudden intimacy naturally sprung between two who had so many qualities in common. Lady Cecil really believed them made for each other, and had been anxious to bring them together; for being passionately attached to her brother, and grieving at the melancholy that darkened his existence, she thought she had found a cure in her new friend; and that the many charms of Elizabeth would cause him to forget the misfortunes on which he so vainly brooded. She was still more pleased when an explanation was given, and she found that they were already intimate—already acquainted with the claims each possessed to the other's admiration and interest; and each naturally drawn to seek in the other that mirror of their better nature, that touch of kindred soul, which showed that they were formed to share existence, or, separated, to pine eternally for a reunion.

Lady Cecil, with playful curiosity, questioned why they had concealed their being acquainted. Elizabeth could not well tell; she had thought much of Neville, but first the prohibition of Falkner, and then the excessive praises Lady Cecil bestowed upon her brother, chained her tongue. The one had accustomed her to preserve silence on a subject deeply interesting to her; the other jarred with any confidence, for there would have been a comparing Neville with the Gerard which was indeed himself; and Elizabeth neither wished to have her friend depreciated, nor to struggle against the enthusiasm felt by the lady for her brother. The forced silence of to-day on such a subject, renders the silence of to-morrow almost a matter of necessity; and she was ashamed to mention one she had not already named. It may be remarked that this sort of shame arises in all dispositions; it is the seal and symbol of love. Shame of any kind was not akin to the sincere and ingenuous nature of Elizabeth; but love, though young and unacknowledged, will tyrannise from the first, and produce emotions never felt before.

Neville hoarded yet more avariciously the name of Elizabeth. There was delight in the very thought of her; but he shrunk from being questioned. He had resolved to avoid her; for, till his purpose was achieved, and the aim of his existence fulfilled, he would not yield to the charms of love, which he felt hovered round the beautiful Elizabeth. Sworn to a sacred duty, no self-centred or self-prodigal passion should come between him and its accomplishment. But, meeting her thus unawares, he could not continue guarded; his very soul drank in gladness at the sight of her. He remarked with joy the cheerfulness that had replaced her cares; he looked upon her open brow, her eyes of mingled tenderness and fire, her figure free and graceful in every motion, and felt that she realised every idea he had formed of feminine beauty. He fancied indeed that he looked upon her as a picture; that his heart was too absorbed by its own griefs to catch a thought beyond; he was unmindful, while he gazed, of that emanation, that shadow of the shape, which the Latin poet tells us flows from every object, that impalpable impress of her form and being, which the air took and then folded round him, so that all he saw entered, as it were, into his own substance, and became mingled up for evermore with his identity.

Chapter 15

Three or four days passed in great tranquillity; and Lady Cecil rejoiced that the great medicine acted so well on the rankling malady of her brother's soul. It was the leafy month of June, and nature was as beautiful as these lovely beings themselves, who enjoyed her sweets with enthusiastic and new-sprung delight. They sailed on the sunny sea—or lingered by the summer brooks, and among the rich woodlands—ignorant, why all appeared robed in a brightness, which before they had never observed. Elizabeth had little thought beyond the present hour—except to wish for the time when Falkner was to join them. Neville rebelled somewhat against the new law he obeyed, but it was a slothful rebellion—till on a day, he was awakened from his dream of peace.

One morning Elizabeth, on entering the breakfast room, found Lady Cecil leaning discontentedly by the window, resting her cheek on her hand, and her brow overcast.

"He is gone," she exclaimed; "it is too provoking! Gerard is gone! A letter came, and I could not detain him—it will take him probably to the other end of the kingdom—and who knows when we shall see him again!"

They sat down to breakfast, but Lady Cecil was full of discontent. "It is not only that he is gone," she continued; "but the cause of his going is full of pain, and care—and unfortunately, you cannot sympathize with me, for I have not obtained his consent to confide his hapless story to you. Would that I might!—you would feel for him—for us all."

"He has been unhappy since childhood," observed Elizabeth.

"He has, it is true; but how did you learn that? has he ever told you any thing?"

"I saw him many years ago at Baden. How wild, how sullen he was—unlike his present self! for then there was a violence, and a savageness in his gloom, which has vanished."

"Poor boy!" said Lady Cecil, "I remember well—and it is a pleasure to think that I am, to a great degree, the cause of the change. He had no friend at that time—none to love—to listen to him, and foster hopes which, however vain, diminish his torments, and are all the cure he can obtain, till he forgets them. But what can this mean?" she continued, starting up; "what can bring him back? It is Gerard returned!"

She threw open the glass-door, and went out to meet him as he rode up the avenue—he threw himself from his horse, and advanced exclaiming, "Is my father here?"

"Sir Boyvill? No; is he coming?"

"O yes! we shall see him soon. I met a servant with a letter sent express—the post was too slow—he will be here soon; he left London last night—you know with what speed he travels."

"But why this sudden visit?"

"Can you not guess? He received a letter from the same person—containing the same account; he knew I was here—he comes to balk my purpose, to forbid, to storm, to reproach; to do all that he has done a thousand times before, with the same success."

Neville looked flushed, and disturbed; his face, usually, "more in sorrow than in anger," now expressed the latter emotion, mingled with scorn and resolution; he gave the letter he had received to Lady Cecil. "I am wrong, perhaps, in returning at his bidding, since I do not mean ultimately to obey—yet he charges me on my duty to hear him once again; so I am come to hear—to listen to the old war of his vanity, with what he calls my pride—his vindictiveness with my sense of duty—his vituperation of her I worship—and I must bear this!"

Lady Cecil read the letter, and Neville pressed Elizabeth's hand, and besought her excuse, while she, much bewildered, was desirous to leave the room. At this moment the noise of a carriage was heard on the gravel. "He is here," said Neville; "see him first, Sophia, tell him how resolved I am—how right in my resolves. Try to prevent a struggle, as disgraceful as vain; and most so to my father, since he must suffer defeat."

With a look of much distress, Lady Cecil left the room to receive her new guest; while Elizabeth stole out by another door into the grove, and mused under the shady covert on what had passed. She felt curious, yet saddened. Concord, affection, and sympathy, are so delightful, that all that disturbs the harmony is eminently distasteful. Family contentions are worst of all. Yet she would not prejudge Neville. He felt, in its full bitterness, the pain of disobeying his parent; and whatever motive led to such a mode of action, it hung like an eclipse over his life. What it might be, she could not guess; but it was no ignoble, self-centred passion. Hope, and joy were sacrificed to it. She remembered him as she first saw him, a boy driven to wildness by a sense of injury; she remembered him when reason, and his better nature, had subdued the selfish portion of his feeling—grown kind as a woman—active, friendly, and sympathizing, as few men are; she recollected him by Falkner's sick couch, and when he took leave of her, auguring that they should meet in a happier hour. That hour had not yet come, and she confessed to herself that she longed to know the cause of his unhappiness; and wondered whether, by counsel or sympathy, she could bring any cure.

She was plunged in reverie, walking slowly beneath the forest trees, when she heard a quick step brushing the dead leaves and fern, and Neville joined her. "I have escaped," he cried, "and left poor Sophy to bear the scoldings of an unjust and angry man. I could not stay—it was not cowardice—but I have recollections joined to such contests, that make my heart sick. Besides, I should reply—and I would not willingly forget that he is my father."

"It must be indeed painful," said Elizabeth, "to quarrel with, to disobey a parent."

"Yet there are motives that might, that must excuse it. Do you remember the character of Hamlet, Miss Falkner?"

"Perfectly—it is the embodying of the most refined, the most genuine, and yet the most harrowing feelings and situation, that the imagination ever conceived."

"I have read that play," said Neville, "till each word seems instinct with a message direct to my heart—as if my own emotions gave a conscious soul to every line. Hamlet was called upon to avenge a father—in execution of his task he did not spare a dearer, a far more sacred name—if he used no daggers with his mother, he spoke them; nor winced though she writhed beneath his hand. Mine is a lighter—yet a holier duty. I would vindicate a mother—without judging my father—without any accusation against him, I would establish her innocence. Is this blameable? What would you do, Miss Falkner, if your father were accused of a crime?"

"My father and a crime! Impossible!" exclaimed Elizabeth; for, strange to say, all the self-accusations of Falkner fell empty on her ear. It was a virtue in him to be conscience-stricken for an error; of any real guilt she would have pledged her life that he was free.

"Yes—impossible!" cried Neville—"doubtless it is so; but did you hear his name stigmatized—shame attend your very kindred to him—What would you do?—defend him—prove his innocence—Would you not?"

"A life were well sacrificed to such a duty."

"And to that very duty mine is devoted. In childhood I rebelled against the accusation with vain, but earnest indignation; now I am calmer because I am more resolved; but I will yield to no impediment—be stopped by no difficulty—not even by my father's blind commands. My mother! dear name—dearer for the ills attached to it—my angel mother shall find an unfaltering champion in her son."

"You must not be angry," he continued, in reply to her look of wonder, "that I mention circumstances which it is customary to slur over and conceal. It is shame for me to speak—for you to hear—my mother's name. That very thought gives a keener edge to my purpose. God knows what miserable truth is hidden by the veils which vanity, revenge and selfishness have drawn around my mother's fate; but that truth—though it be a bleeding one—shall be disclosed, and her innocence be made as clear as the sun now shining above us.

"It is dreadful, very dreadful, to be told—to be persuaded that the idol of one's thoughts is corrupt and vile. It is no new story, it is true—wives have been false to their husbands ere now, and some have found excuses, and sometimes been justified; it is the manner makes the thing. That my mother should have left her happy home—which, under her guardian eye, was Paradise—have deserted me, her child, whom she so fondly loved—and who even in that unconscious age adored her—and her poor little girl, who died neglected—that year after year she has never inquired after us—nor sent nor sought a word—while following a stranger's fortune through the world! That she whose nightly sleep was broken by her tender cares—whose voice so often lulled me, and whose every thought and act was pure as an angel's—that she, tempted by the arch fiend, strayed from hell for her destruction, should leave us all to misery, and her own name to obloquy. No! no! The earth is yet sheltered by heaven, and sweet, and good things abide in it—and she was, and is, among them sweetest and best!"

Neville was carried away by his feelings—while Elizabeth, overpowered by his vehemence—astonished by the wild, strange tale he disclosed, listened in silence, yet an eloquent silence—for her eyes filled with tears—and her heart burned in her bosom with a desire to show how entirely she shared his deep emotion.