Falkner: A Novel

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

"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 no more; he darted at the questioner a look of fury, and rushed away. "Poor fellow!" cried Miss Jervis, "he is wilder than ever—he 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 afterward 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 afterward 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 everything 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."