Falkner: A Novel

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

"Thus do you pray, heedless Elizabeth! May the true criminal feel the height of evil; may he—whom you have saved from death—endure tortures compared to which a thousand deaths were nothing! Be it so! you shall have your wish!"

Impetuous as fire, Falkner did not pause: something, some emotion devouring as fire, was lighted up in his heart—there must be no delay!—never had he seen the effects of his crime in so vivid a light; avoiding the name of Neville, he had never heard that of his victim coupled with shame—she was unfortunate, but he persuaded himself that she was not thought guilty; dear injured saint! had then her sacred name been bandied about by the vulgar—she pronounced unworthy by the judges of her acts—ignominy heaped upon the grave he had dug for her? Was her beloved son the victim of his belief in her goodness? Had his youthful life been blighted by his cowardly concealments? Oh, rather a thousand deaths than such a weight of sin upon his soul! He would declare all; offer his life in expiation—what more could be demanded?

And again—this might be thought a more sordid motive; and yet it was not—Gerard was vowed to the discovery of the true criminal; he would discover him—earth would render up her secrets, Heaven lead the son to the very point—by slow degrees his crime would be unveiled—Elizabeth called upon to doubt and to believe. His vehement disposition was not calculated to bear the slow process of such discoveries; he would meet them, avow all—let the worst fall on him: it was happiness to know and feel the worst.

Lost for ever, he would deliver himself up to reprobation and the punishment of his guilt. Too long he had delayed—now all his motives for concealment melted away like snow overspread by volcanic fire. Fierce, hurrying destiny seized him by the hair of his head—crying aloud, "Murderer, offer up thy blood—shade of Alithea, take thy victim!"

He wrote instantly to Elizabeth to meet him at their home at Wimbledon, and proceeded thither himself. Unfortunately, the tumult of his thoughts acted on his health; after he had proceeded a few miles, he was taken ill—for three days he was confined to his bed, in a high fever. He thought he was about to die—his secret untold. Copious bleeding, however, subdued the violence of the attack—and weak and faint, he, despite his physician's advice, proceeded homeward; weak and faint, an altered man—life had no charms, no calls, but one duty. Hitherto he had lived in contempt of the chain of effects which ever links pain to evil and of the Providence which will not let the innocent be for ever traduced. It had fallen on him; now his punishment had begun, not as he, in the happier vehemence of passion, had determined, not by sudden, self-inflicted, or glorious death—but the slow grinding of the iron wheels of destiny, as they passed over him, crushing him in the dust.

Yet his heart, despite its sufferings, warmed with something like pleasure when, after a tedious journey of three days, he drew near his home, where he hoped to find Elizabeth. He had misgivings; he had asked her to return, but she might have written to request a delay—no! she was there; she had been there two days, anxiously expecting him. It is so sweet a thing to hear the voice of one we love welcoming us on our return home! It seems to assure us of a double existence; not only in our own identity—which we bear perpetually about with us—but in the heart we leave behind, which has thought of us—lived for us, and now beats with warm pleasure on beholding the expected one. On the whole earth Falkner loved none but Elizabeth. He hated himself; the past—the present—the future, as they appertained to him, were all detestable; remorse, grief, and loathsome anticipation made up the sum of feelings with which he regarded them: but here, bright and beautiful; without taint; all affection and innocence—a monument of his own good feelings, a lasting rock to which to moor his every hope, stood before him the child of his adoption; his heart felt bursting when he thought of all she was to him.

Yet a doubt entered to mar his satisfaction—was she changed? If love had insinuated itself into her heart, he was rejected; at least the plenteous, abundant fountain, that gave from its own source, would be changed to the still waters that neither received increase nor bestowed any overflowing. Worse than this—she loved Gerard Neville, the son of his victim, he whose life was devastated by him, who would regard him with abhorrence. He would teach Elizabeth to partake this feeling. The blood stood chilled in Falkner's heart when he thought of thus losing the only being he loved on earth.

He mastered these feelings when he saw her. The first moment, indeed, when she flew to his arms, and expressed with eager fondness her delight in seeing him again, was all happiness. She perceived the traces of suffering on his brow, and chided herself for having remained away so long; she promised never to absent herself thus again. Every remembered look and tone of her dear face and voice, now brought palpably before him, was a medicine to Falkner. He repressed his uneasiness, he banished his fears; for a few hours he made happiness his own again.

The evening was passed in calm and cheering conversation. No word was said of the friends whom Elizabeth had left. She had forgotten them, during the first few hours she spent with her father; and when she did allude to her visit, Falkner said, "We will talk of these things to-morrow; to-night let us only think of ourselves." Elizabeth felt a little mortified; the past weeks, the fortunes of her friends, and the sentiments they excited, had become a part of herself; and she was pained that so much of disjunction existed between her and Falkner, as to make that which was so vivid and present to her vacant of interest to him; but she checked her disappointment: soon he would know her new friend, sympathize in his devotion towards his injured mother, enter as warmly as she did into the result of his endeavours for her exculpation. Meanwhile she yielded to his wish, and they talked of scenes and countries they had visited together, and all the feelings and opinions engendered by the past; as they were wont to do in days gone by, before a stranger influence had disturbed a world in which they lived for each other only—father and daughter—without an interest beyond.

Nothing could be more pure and entire than their affection, and there was between them that mingling of hearts which words cannot describe; but which, whenever it is experienced, in whatever relation in life, is unalloyed happiness. There was a total absence of disguise, of covert censure, of mutual diffidence; perfect confidence gave rise to the fearless utterance of every idea, and there was a repose, and yet an enjoyment in the sense of sympathy and truth, which filled and satisfied. Falkner was surprised at the balmy sense of joy that, despite everything, stole over him; and he kissed and blessed his child, as she retired for the night, with more grateful affection, a fuller sense of her merits, and a more fervent desire of preserving her always near him, than he had ever before been conscious of experiencing.