Falkner: A Novel

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

With such talk they tried to baffle this fierce visitation of adversity. Falkner told her that on that day it would be decided whether the trial should take place at once, or time be given to send for Osborne from America. The turn Neville had given to his evidence had been so favourable to the accused as to shake the prejudice against him, and it was believed that the judges would at once admit the necessity of waiting for so material a witness; and yet their first and dearest hope had been destroyed, so they feared to give way to a new one.

As they conversed, the solicitor entered with good tidings. The trial was put off till the ensuing assizes in March, to give time for the arrival of Osborne. The hard dealing of destiny and man relented a little, and despair receded from their hearts, leaving space to breathe, to pray, to hope. No time was to be lost in sending for Osborne. Would he come? It could not be doubted. A free pardon was to be extended to him; and he would save a fellow-creature, and his former benefactor, without any risk of injury to himself.

The day closed, therefore, more cheeringly than it had begun. Falkner conquered himself, even to a show of cheerfulness; and recalled the colour to his tremulous companion's cheeks, and half a smile to her lips, by his encouragement. He turned her thoughts from the immediate subject, narrating the events of his first acquaintance with Osborne, and describing the man; a poltron, but kindly hearted—fearful of his own skin to a contemptible extent, but looking up with awe to his superiors, and easily led by one richer and of higher station to any line of conduct; an inborn slave, but with many of a slave's good qualities. Falkner did not doubt that he would put himself eagerly forward on the present occasion; and whatever his evidence were good for, it would readily be produced.

There was no reason, then, for despair. While the shock they had undergone took the sting from the present—fearing an immediate and horrible catastrophe—the wretchedness of their actual state was forgotten—it acquired comfort and security by the contrast—each tried to cheer the other, and they separated for the night with apparent composure. Yet that night Elizabeth's pillow, despite her earnest endeavours to place reliance on Providence, was watered by the bitterest tears that ever such young eyes shed; and Falkner told each hour of the livelong night, as his memory retraced past scenes, and his spirit writhed and bled to feel that, in the wantonness and rebellion of youth, he had been the author of so wide-spreading, so dark a web of misery.

From this time their days were spent in that sort of monotony which has a peculiar charm to the children of adversity. The recurrence of one day after the other, none being marked by disaster, or indeed any event, imparted a satisfaction, gloomy indeed, and sad, but grateful to the heart wearied by many blows, and by the excitement of mortal hopes and fears. The mind adapted itself to the new state of things, and enjoyments sprung up in the very home of desolation—circumstances that, in happier days, were but the regular routine of life, grew into blessings from Heaven; and the thought, "Come what will, this hour is safe," made precious the mere passage of time—months were placed between them and the dreaded crisis—and so are we made, that when once this is an established, acknowledged fact, we can play on the eve of danger almost like the unconscious animal destined to bleed.

Their time was regularly divided, and occupations succeeded one to another. Elizabeth rented apartments not far from the prison. She gave the early morning hours to exercise, and the rest of the day was spent in Falkner's prison. He read to her as she worked at the tapestry frame, or she took the book while he drew or sketched; nor was music wanting, such as suited the subdued tone of their minds, and elevated it to reverence and resignation; and sweet still hours were spent near their fire; for their hearth gleamed cheerfully, despite surrounding horrors—gayety was absent, but neither was the voice of discontent heard; all repinings were hidden in the recesses of their hearts; their talk was calm, abstracted from matters of daily life, but gifted with the interest that talent can bestow on all it touches. Falkner exerted himself chiefly to vary their topics, and to enliven them by the keenness of his observations, the beauty of his descriptions, and the vividness of his narrations. He spoke of India, they read various travels, and compared the manners of different countries—they forgot the bars that checkered the sunlight on the floor of the cell—they forgot the cheerless gloom of each surrounding object. Did they also forget the bars and bolts between them and freedom? the thoughtful tenderness which had become the habitual expression of Elizabeth's face—the subdued manner and calm tones of Falkner were a demonstration that they did not. Something they were conscious of at each minute, that checked the free pulsations of their hearts; a word in a book, brought by some association home to her feelings, would cause Elizabeth's eyes to fill with unbidden tears—and proud scorn would now and then dilate the breast of Falkner, as he read some story of oppression, and felt, "I also am persecuted, and must endure."

In this position they each grew unutterably dear to the other—every moment, every thought, was full to both of the image of either. There is something inexpressibly winning in beauty and grace—it is a sweet blessing when our household companion charms our senses by the loveliness of her person, and makes the eye gladly turn to her, to be gratified by such a form and look as we would travel miles to see depicted on canvass. It soothed many a spasm of pain, and turned many an hour of suffering into placid content, when Falkner watched the movements of his youthful friend. You might look in her face for days, and still read something new, something sublime in the holy calm of her brow, in her serious, yet intelligent eyes; while all a woman's softness dwelt in the moulding of her cheeks and her dimpled mouth. Each word she said, and all she did, so became her, that it appeared the thing best to be said and done—and was accompanied by a fascination, both for eye and heart, which emanated from her purity and truth. Falkner grew to worship the very thought of her. She had not the wild spirits and trembling sensibility of her he had destroyed, but in her kind she was no way inferior.

Yet though each, as it were, enjoyed the respite given by fortune to their worst fears, yet this very sense of transitory security was in its essence morbid and unnatural. A fever preyed nightly on Falkner, and there were ghastly streaks upon his brow that bespoke internal suffering and decay. Elizabeth grew paler and thinner—her step lost its elasticity, her voice became low-toned—her eyes were acquainted with frequent tears, and the lids grew heavy and dark. Both lived for ever in the presence of misery—they feared to move or speak, lest they should awaken the monster, then for a space torpid; but they spent their days under its shadow—the air they drew was chilled by its icy influence—no wholesome light-hearted mood of mind was ever theirs—they might pray and resign themselves, they might congratulate themselves on the safety of the passing moment; but each sand that flowed from the hourglass was weighed—each thought that passed through the brain was examined—every word uttered was pondered over. They were exhausted by the very vividness of their unsleeping endeavours to blunt their sensations.

The hours were very sad that they spent apart. The door closed on Elizabeth, and love, and hope, and all the pride of life vanished with her. Falkner was again a prisoner, an accused felon—a man over whom impended the most hideous fate—whom the dogs of law barked round, and looked on as their prey. His high heart often quailed. He laid his head on his pillow, desiring never again to raise it—despair kept his lids open the livelong nights, while naught but palpable darkness brooded over his eyeballs; he rose languid—dispirited—revolving thoughts of death; till at last she came who by degrees dispelled the gloom, and shed over his benighted soul the rays of her pure spirit.

She also was miserable in solitude; the silent evening hours spent apart from him were melancholy and drear. Nothing interrupted their stillness. She felt deserted by every human being, and was indeed reduced to the extremity of loneliness. In the town and neighbourhood many pitied, many admired her, and some offered their services; but none visited or tried to cheer the solitary hours of the devoted daughter. As the child of a man accused of murder, there was a barrier between her and the world. The English are generous to their friends, but they are never kind to strangers; the tie of brotherhood, which Christ taught as uniting all mankind, is unacknowledged by them. They so fear that their sullen fireside should be unduly invaded, and so expect to be ill-treated, that each man makes a Martello tower of his home, and keeps watch against the gentler charities of life, as from an invading enemy. Hour after hour, therefore, Elizabeth spent—thought her only companion.