Falkner: a Novel
Copyright© 2025 by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
Chapter 34
Neville returned home—he paused at the drawing-room door—a slight noise indicated that his father was within—his hand was on the lock, but he retreated; he would not intrude uncalled for—he wandered through the dark, empty rooms, till a bell rang. Sir Boyvill inquired for him—he hurried into his presence—he devoured the expression of his countenance with his eyes, trying to read the thought within. Sir Boyvill’s face was usually stamped with an unvarying expression of cold self-possession, mingled with sarcasm. These feelings were now at their height—his aged countenance, withered and deep lined, was admirably calculated to depict the concentrated, disdain that sat upon his lips and elevated his brows. He pointed to the papers before him, and said in a composed, yet hollow voice, “Take these away—read, for it is necessary you should—the amplified confession of the murderer.”
Gerard’s blood ran cold. “Yet why call it a confession,” continued Sir Boyvill, his assumed contempt rising into angry scorn; “from the beginning to the end it is a lie. He would varnish over his unparalleled guilt—he would shelter himself from its punishment, but in vain. Read, Gerard—read and be satisfied. I have wronged your mother—she was innocent—murdered. Be assured that her vindication shall be heard as loudly as her accusation, and that her destroyer shall die to expiate her death.”
“Be that my task,” said Gerard, trembling and pale from the conflict of passion; “I take the office of vengeance on myself—I will meet Mr. Falkner.”
“Ha! you think of a duel!” cried his father. “Remember your promise, young man—I hold you strictly to it—you do nothing without first communicating with me. You must read these papers before you decide; I have decided—be not afraid, I shall not forestall your purpose, I will not challenge the murderer: but, in return for this pledge, give me your word that you have no communication with the villain till you see me again. I will not balk you of your revenge, be sure of that; but you must see me first.”
“I promise,” said Gerard.
“And one word more,” continued Sir Boyvill; “is there any possibility of this man’s escape? Is he wrapped in the security which his lie affords, or has he even now fled beyond our vengeance?”
“Be his crimes what they may,” replied Neville, “I believe him to entertain a delicate sense of worldly honour. He has promised to remain in his home till he hears from me. He doubtless expects to be challenged, and I verily believe desires to die. I feel convinced that the idea of flight has not crossed his mind.”
“Enough; good-night. We are now one, Gerard; united by our love and honour for your wronged mother’s memory, and by our revenge; dissimilar only in this, that my desire to repair her injuries is more vehement even than yours.” Sir Boyvill pressed his son’s hand, and left him. A few minutes afterward, it would seem, he quitted the house.
“Now to my task,” thought Neville; “and O, thou God, who watchest over the innocent, and yet gavest the innocent into the hands of the destroyer, rule thou the throbbings of my heart; that neither mad hate nor hunger for revenge take away my human nature, and turn me into a fiend!”
He took up the manuscript; at first the words seemed written in fire, but he grew calmer as he found how far back the narration went; and curiosity succeeding to devouring impatience, he became attentive.
He read and pitied. All that awoke Sir Boyvill’s ire; Falkner’s presumption in daring to love, and his long-cherished constancy, excited his compassion. When he came to the account of the meeting of the forsaken lover and happy husband, he found, in the epithets so liberally bestowed in the contemptuous description of his father, a cause for his augmented desire for vengeance. When he read that his mother herself repined, herself spoke disparagingly of her husband, he wondered at the mildness of Sir Boyvill’s expressions with regard to her, and began to suspect that some strange and appalling design must be working in his head to produce this unnatural composure. The rest was madness, madness and misery, thus to take a wife and mother from her home, to gratify the insane desire to exert for one half hour a power he had lost for ever; the vain hope of turning her from her duties, which at least, as far as her children were concerned, were the dearest part of herself; her terror, her incapacity of mastering her alarm, the night of insensibility which she passed in the hut—with a start, Gerard felt sure that he had seen and marked that very spot; all wrought him up to the height of breathless interest; till, when he read the sad end of all, cold dew gathered on his brow, the tears that filled his eyes changed to convulsive sobbings, and, despite his manhood, he wept with the agony of a child.
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