"I feel that I could lament with Falkner the miserable catastrophe, and yet not curse him for bringing it about. Nay—as with such a man there can be no half sentiments—I feel that if we are thrown together, his noble qualities will win ardent sentiments of friendship; were not his victim my mother, there does not exist a man whose good opinion I should so eagerly seek and highly prize as that of Rupert Falkner. It is that fatal name which forms the barrier between me and charity—shutting me out, at the same time, from hope and love.
"Thus incoherently I put down my thoughts as they rise—a tangled maze which I ask you to unravel. I will endeavour to abide by your decision, whatever it may be; yet I again ask you to pause. Is Elizabeth's happiness as deeply implicated as mine? if it be, can I abide by any sentence that shall condemn her to a wretchedness similar to that which has so long been an inmate of my struggling heart? no; sooner than inflict one pang on her, I will fly from the world. We three will seek some far obscure retreat and be happy, despite the world's censure, and even your condemnation."
Falkner's heart swelled within him as he read. He could not but admire Neville's candour—and he was touched by the feelings he expressed towards himself; but pride was stronger than regret, and prompted an instant and decisive reply. He rebelled against the idea that Gerard and Elizabeth should suffer through him, and thus he wrote:—
"You have appealed to Mrs. Raby; will you suffer me to answer that appeal, and to decide? I have a better right; for kind as she is, I have Elizabeth's welfare yet more warmly at heart.
"The affection that she feels for you will endure to the end of her life—for her faithful heart is incapable of change; on you therefore depends her happiness, and you are called upon to make some sacrifice to ensure it. Come here, take her at my hand—it is all I ask—from that hour you shall never see me more—the injured and the injurer will separate; my fortunes are of my own earning, and I can bear them. You must compensate to my dear child for my loss—you must be father as well as husband—and speak kindly of me to her, or her heart will break.
"We must be secret in our proceedings—mystery and deception are contrary to my nature—but I willingly adopt them for her sake. Mrs. Raby must not be trusted; but you and I love Elizabeth sufficiently even to sacrifice a portion of our integrity to secure her happiness. For her own sake we must blindfold her. She need never learn that we deceived her. She will naturally be separated from me for a short time—the period will be indefinitely prolonged—till new duties arise wholly to wean her from me—and I shall be forgotten.
"Come then at once—endure the sight of the guilty Falkner for a few short days—till you thus earn his dearest treasure—and do not fear that I shall intrude one moment longer than is absolutely necessary for our success; be assured that when once Elizabeth is irrevocably yours, wide seas shall roll between us. Nor will your condescension to my wish bring any stigma on yourself or your bride, for Miss Raby does not bear my tainted name. All I ask is, that you will not delay. It is difficult for me to cloak my feelings to one so dear—let my task of deception be abridged as much as possible.
"I shall give my Elizabeth to you with confidence and pleasure. You deserve her. Your generous disposition will enable you to endure her affection for me, and even her grief at my departure. Never speak unkindly of me to her. When you see me no more, you will find less difficulty in forgetting the injury I have done you; you must endeavour to remember only the benefit you receive in gaining Elizabeth."
[CHAPTER LII]
The beautiful month of May had arrived, with her light budding foliage, which seems to hang over the hoar branches of the trees like a green aerial mist—the nightingales sung through the moonlight night, and every other feathered chorister took up the note at early dawn. The sweetest flowers in the year embroidered the fields; and the verdant corn-fields were spread like a lake, now glittering in the sun, now covered over by the shadows of the clouds. It appeared impossible not to hope—not to enjoy; yet a seriousness had again gathered over Falkner's countenance that denoted the return of care. He avoided the society even of Elizabeth—his rides were solitary—his evenings passed in the seclusion of his own room. Elizabeth, for the first time in her life, grew a little discontented. "I sacrificed all to him," she thought, "yet I cannot make him happy. Love alone possesses the sceptre and arbitrary power to rule; every other affection admits a parliament of thoughts—and debate and divisions ensue, which may make us wiser, but which sadly derogates from the throned state of what we fancy a master sentiment. I cannot make Falkner happy; yet Neville is miserable through my endeavours—and to such struggle there is no end—my promised faith is inviolable, nor do I even wish to break it."