Falkner: A Novel

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

"But they might never have met," replied Mrs. Raby. "It is indeed vain thus to regard the past; not only is it unalterable, but each link of the chain, producing the one that followed, seems, in our instance, to have been formed and riveted by a superior power for peculiar purposes. The whole order of events is inscrutable; one little change, and none of us would be as we are now. Except as a lesson or a warning, we ought not to contemplate the past, but the future certainly demands our attention. It is impossible to see Gerard Neville and not to feel an intense interest in him; he is worthy of our Elizabeth, and he is ardently attached to her, and has, besides, made a deep impression on her young heart, which I would not have erased or lessened; for I am sure that her happiness, as far as mortals can be happy, will be ensured by their marriage."

"I stand in the way of this union; of that I am well aware," said Falkner; "but be assured I will not continue to be an obstacle to the welfare of my angel girl. It is for this that I would consult you: how are contradictions to be reconciled, or rather, how can we contrive my absence so as to remove every impediment, and yet not to awaken Elizabeth's suspicions?"

"I dislike contrivances," replied Mrs. Raby, "and I hate all mystery—suffer me, therefore, to speak frankly to you—I have often conversed with Elizabeth; she is firm not to marry, so as to be wholly divided from you. She reasons calmly, but she never wavers: she will not, she says, commence new duties by, in the first place, betraying her old ones; she should be for ever miserable if she did, and therefore those who love her must not ask it. Sir Gerard entertains similar sentiments with regard to himself, though less resolute, and, I believe, less just than hers. I received a letter from him this morning. I was pondering whether to show it to you or to my niece; it seems to me best that you should read it, if it will not annoy you."

"Give it me," said Falkner; "and permit me also to answer it—it is not in my nature to dally with evils—I shall meet those that now present themselves, and bring the best remedy I can, at whatever cost."

Neville's letter was that of a man whose wishes were at war with his principles; and yet who was not convinced of the justice of the application of those principles. It began by deeply regretting the estrangement of Elizabeth from his family, by asking Mrs. Raby if she thought that she could not be induced to pay another visit to Lady Cecil. He said that lady was eager to see her, and only delayed asking her till she ascertained whether her friendship, which was warm and lively as ever, would prove as acceptable as formerly.

"I will at once be frank with you," the letter continued; "for your excellent understanding may direct us, and will suggest excuses for our doubts. You may easily divine the cause of our perplexities, though you can scarcely comprehend the extremely painful nature of mine. Permit me to treat you as a friend—be the judge of my cause—I have faith in the purity and uprightness of a woman's heart, when she is endowed with gifts such as you possess. I had once thought to refer myself to Miss Raby herself, but I dread the generous devotedness of her disposition. Will you, who love her, take therefore the task of decision on yourself?"

Neville went on to express, in few but forcible words, his attachment to Elizabeth, his conviction that it could never change, and his persuasion that she returned it. "It is not therefore my cause merely that I plead," he said, "but hers also. Do not call me presumptuous for thus expressing myself. A mutual attachment alone can justify extraordinary conduct; but where it is mutual, every minor consideration ought to give way before it; the happiness of both our lives depends upon our not trifling with feelings which I am sure can never change. They may be the source of perpetual felicity—if not, they will, they must be pregnant with misery to the end of our lives. But why this sort of explanation, when the meaning that I desire to convey is, that if—that as, may I not say—we love each other—no earthly power shall deprive me of her—sooner or later she must, she shall be mine; and meanwhile this continued separation is painful beyond my fortitude to bear.

"Can I take my mother's destroyer by the hand, and live with him on terms of intimacy and friendship? Such is the price I must pay for Elizabeth—can I—may I—so far forget the world's censure, and, I may say, the instigations of nature, as unreservedly to forgive?

"I will confess to you, dear Mrs. Raby, that when I saw Falkner in the most degrading situation in which a man can be placed, manacled, and as a felon, his dignity of mien, his majestic superiority to all the race of common mortals around, the grandeur of his calm yet piercing eye, and the sensibility of his voice—won my admiration; with such is peopled that heaven where the noble penitent is more welcome than the dull follower of a narrow code of morals, who never erred, because he never felt. I pardon him, then, from my heart, in my mother's name. These sentiments, the entire forgiveness of the injury done me, and the sense of his merits, still continue: but may I act on them? would not you despise me if I did? say but that you would, and my sentence is pronounced—I lose Elizabeth—I quit England for ever—it matters little where I go.

"Yet, before you decide, consider that this man possesses virtues of the highest order. He honoured as much as he loved my mother, and if his act was criminal, dearly has he paid the result. I persuade myself that there is more real sympathy between me and my mother's childhood's friend—who loved her so long and truly—whose very crime was a mad excess of love—than one who knew nothing of her—to whom her name conjures up no memories, no regret.