Falkner: A Novel

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

She broke the seal—there was an inner envelope directed to Miss Raby—and she smiled at the mere thought of the pleasure Gerard must have felt in tracing that name—the seal, as he regarded it, of their future union; but when she unfolded the sheet, and glanced down the page, her attention was riveted by other emotions. Thus Neville wrote:—

"My own sweet Elizabeth, I write in haste, but doubt is so painful, and tidings fly so quickly, that I hope you will hear first by means of these lines the new blow fate has prepared for us. My father lies dangerously ill. This, I fear, will again delay the trial—occasion prolonged imprisonment—and keep you still a martyr to those duties you so courageously fulfil. We must have patience. We are impotent to turn aside irrevocable decrees, yet when we think how much hangs on the present moment of time, the heart—my weak heart at least—is wrung by anguish.

"I cannot tell whether Sir Boyvill is aware of his situation—he is too much oppressed by illness for conversation; the sole desire he testifies is to have me near him. Once or twice he has pressed my hand, and looked on me with affection. I never remember to have received before such testimonials of paternal love. Such is the force of the natural tie between us, that I am deeply moved, and would not leave him for the whole world. My poor father!—he has no friend, no relative but me; and now, after so much haughtiness and disdain, he, in his need, is like a little child, reduced to feel his only support in natural affections. His unwonted gentleness subdues my soul. Oh, who would rule by power, when so much more absolute a tyranny is established through love!

"Sophia is very kind—but she is not his child. The hour approaches when we should be at Carlisle. What will be the result of our absence—what the event of this illness? I am perplexed and agitated beyond measure; in a day or two all will be decided: if Sir Boyvill becomes convalescent, still it may be long before he can undertake so distant a journey.

"Do not fear that for a moment I shall neglect your interests; they are my own. For months I have lived only on the expectation of the hour when you should be liberated from the horrors of your present position; and the anticipation of another delay is torture. Even your courage must sink, your patience have an end. Yet a little longer, my Elizabeth, support yourself, let not your noble heart fail at this last hour, this last attack of adversity. Be all that you have ever been, firm, resigned, and generous; in your excellence I place all my trust. I will write again very speedily, and if you can imagine any service that I can do you, command me to the utmost. I write by my father's bedside; he does not sleep, but he is still. Farewell—I love you; in those words is summed a life of weal or wo for me and for you also, my Elizabeth! Do not call me selfish for feeling thus—even here."

"Yes, yes," thought Elizabeth; "busy fingers are weaving—the web of destiny is unrolling fast—we may not think, nor hope, nor scarcely breathe—we must await the hour—death is doing his work—what victim will he select?"

The intelligence in this letter, communicated on the morrow to all concerned in the coming trial, filled each with anxiety. In a very few days the assizes would commence; Falkner's name stood first on the list—delay was bitter, yet he must prepare for delay, and arm himself anew with resolution. Several anxious days passed—Elizabeth received no other letter—she felt that Sir Boyvill's danger was protracted, that Gerard was still in uncertainty—the post hour now became a moment of hope and dread—it was a sort of harassing inquietude hard to endure; at length a few lines from Lady Cecil arrived—they brought no comfort—all remained in the same state.

The assizes began—on the morrow the judges were expected in Carlisle—and already all that bustle commenced that bore the semblance of gayety in the rest of the town, but which was so mournful and fearful in the jail. There were several capital cases; as Elizabeth heard them discussed, her blood ran cold—she hated life, and all its adjuncts: to know of misery she could not alleviate was always saddening; but to feel the squalid, mortal misery of such a place and hour brought home to her own heart, was a wretchedness beyond all expression, poignant and hideous.

The day that the judges arrived, Elizabeth presented herself in Falkner's cell—a letter in her hand—her first words announced good tidings; yet she was agitated, tearful—something strange and awful had surely betided. It was a letter from Neville that she held, and gave to Falkner to read.

"I shall soon be in Carlisle, my dearest friend, but this letter will outspeed me, and bring you the first intelligence of my poor father's death. Thank God, I did my duty by him to the last—thank God, he died in peace—in peace with me and the whole world. The uneasiness of pain yielded at first to torpor, and thus we feared he would die; but before his death he recovered himself an hour or two, and though languid and feeble, his mind was clear. How little, dear Elizabeth, do we know of our fellow-creatures—each shrouded in the cloak of manner—that cloak of various dies—displays little of the naked man within. We thought my father vain, selfish, and cruel—he was all this, but he was something else that we knew not of—he was generous, humane, humble—these qualities he hid as if they had been vices—he struggled with them—pride prevented him from recognising them as the redeeming points of a faulty nature; he despised himself for feeling them, until he was on his deathbed.