Falkner: A Novel

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

Elizabeth began to speak almost sportively, but the mention of America brought to her recollection the cause of his going and the circumstances that prevented him; and the tears gushed from her eyes as she continued, in a voice broken by emotion, "Oh, Mr. Neville, I smile while my heart is breaking—my dear, dear father! What misery is this that you have brought on him—and now, while he treated you with unreserve, have you falsely—you must know—accused him of crime, and pursued your vengeance in a vindictive and ignominious manner? It is not well done!"

"I pardon your injustice," said Neville, "though it is very great. One of my reasons for coming was to explain the exact state of things, though I believed that your knowledge of me would have caused you to reject the idea of my being a party to my father's feelings of revenge."

Neville then related all that had passed; the discovery of his mother's remains in the very spot Falkner had indicated, and Sir Boyvill's resolve to bring the whole train of events before the public. "Perhaps," he continued, "my father believes in the justice of his accusation—he never saw Mr. Falkner, and cannot be impressed as I am by the tokens of a noble mind, which, despite his errors, are indelibly imprinted on his brow. At all events, he is filled with a sense of his own injuries—stung by the disdain heaped on him in that narration, and angry that he had been led to wrong a wife, the memory of whose virtues and beauty now revives bitterly to reproach him. I cannot wonder at his conduct, even while I deplore it: I do deplore it on your account; for Mr. Falkner, God knows I would have visited his crime in another mode; yet all he suffers he has brought on himself—he must feel it due—and must bear it as best he may: forgive me if I seem harsh—I compassionate him through you—I cannot for his own sake."

"How falsely do you reason," cried Elizabeth; "and you also are swayed and perverted by passion. He is innocent of the hideous crime laid to his charge—you know and feel that he is innocent; and were he guilty—I have heard you lament that crime is so hardly visited by the laws of society. I have heard you say, that even where guilt is joined to the hardness of habitual vice, that it ought to be treated with the indulgence of a correcting father, not by the cruel vengeance of the law. And now, when one whose very substance and flesh are corroded by remorse—one whose conscience acts as a perpetual scourge—one who has expiated his fault by many years spent in acts of benevolence and heroism; this man, because his error has injured you, you, forgetting your own philosophy, would make over to a fate which, considering who and what he is, is the most calamitous human imagination can conceive."

Neville could not hear this appeal without the deepest pain. "Let us forget," he at last said, "these things for a few minutes. They did not arise through me, nor can I prevent them; indeed, they are now beyond all human control. Falkner could as easily restore my mother, whose remains we found mouldering in the grave which he dug for them; he could as easily bring her back to the life and happiness of which he deprived her, as I, my father, or any one, free him from the course of law to which he is made over. We must all abide by the issue—there is no remedy. But you—I would speak of you—"

"I cannot speak, cannot think of myself," replied Elizabeth, "except in one way—to think all delays tedious that keep me from my father's side, and prevent me from sharing his wretchedness."

"And yet you must not go to him," said Neville; "yours is the scheme of inexperience—but it must not be. How can you share Mr. Falkner's sorrows? you will scarcely be admitted to see him. And how unfit for you is such a scene! You cannot guess what these things are; believe me, they are most unfit for one of your sex and age. I grieve to say in what execration the supposed murderer of my mother is held. You would be subjected to insult, you are alone and unprotected—even your high spirit would be broken by the evils that will gather round you."

"I think not," replied Elizabeth; "I cannot believe that my spirit can be broken by injustice, or that it can quail while I perform a duty. It would indeed—spirit and heart would both break—were my conscience burdened with the sin of deserting my father. In prison—amid the hootings of the mob—if for such I am reserved—I shall be safe and well guarded by the approbation of my own mind."

"Would that an angel from heaven would descend to guard you!" cried Neville, passionately; "but in this inexplicable world, guilt and innocence are so mingled, that the one reaps the blessings deserved by the other; and the latter sinks beneath the punishment incurred by the former. Else why, removed by birth, space, and time from all natural connexion with the cause of all this misery, are you cast on this evil hour? Were you his daughter, my heart would not rebel—blood calls to blood, and a child's duty is paramount. But you are no child of his; you spring from another race—honour, affection, prosperity await you in your proper sphere. What have you to do with that unhappy man?

"Yet another word," he continued, seeing Elizabeth about to reply with eagerness; "and yet how vain are words to persuade. Could I but take you to a tower, and show you, spread below, the course of events, and the fatal results of your present resolves, you would suffer me to lead you from the dangerous path you are treading. If once you reach Cumberland, and appear publicly as Falkner's daughter, the name of Raby is lost to you for ever; and if the worst should come, where will you turn for support? Where fly for refuge? Unable to convince, I would substitute entreaty, and implore you to spare yourself these evils. You know not, indeed you do not know, what you are about to do."