Chapter 42

Elizabeth arrived at the moment of the first painful crisis of Falkner’s fate. The assizes came on—busy faces crowded into his cell, and various consultations took place as to the method of his defence; and here began a series of cares, mortifications, and worse anxieties, which brought home to the hearts of the sufferers the horrors of their position.

The details of crime and its punishment are so alien to the individuals placed in the upper classes of society, that they read them as tales of another and a distant land. And it is like being cast away on a strange and barbarous country to find such become a part of our own lives. The list of criminals—the quality of their offences—the position Falkner held among them, were all discussed by the men of law; and Falkner listened, impassive in seeming apathy—his eagle eye bent on vacancy—his noble brow showing no trace of the rush of agonizing thought that flowed through his brain; it was not till he saw his child’s earnest, searching eyes bent on him that he smiled, so to soften the keenness of her lively sympathy. She listened too, her cheek alternately flushed and pale, and her eyes brimming over with tears, as she drew nearer to her unfortunate friend’s side, as if her innocence and love might stand between him and the worst.

The decision of the grand jury was the first point to be considered. There existed no doubt but that would go against the accused. The lawyers averred this, but still Elizabeth hoped; men could not be so blind, or some unforeseen enlightenment might dawn on their understandings. The witnesses against him were Sir Boyvill and his son; the latter, she well knew, abhorred the course pursued; and if some touch could reach Sir Boyvill’s heart, and show him the unworthiness and falsehood of his proceedings, through the mode in which their evidence might be given, all would alter—the scales would drop from men’s eyes, the fetters from Falkner’s limbs, and this strange and horrible entanglement be dissipated like morning mist. She brooded for ever on these thoughts; sometimes she pondered on writing to Neville—sometimes on seeing his father; but his assertion was recollected that nothing now could alter the course of events, and that drove her back upon despair.

For ever thinking on these things and hearing them discussed, it was yet a severe blow to both when, in the technical language of the craft, it was announced that a true bill was found against Rupert Falkner.

Such is the nature of the mind, that hitherto Falkner had never looked on the coming time in its true proportions or colours. The decision of the preliminary jury, which might be in his favour, had stood as a screen between him and the future. Knowing himself to be innocent, abhorring the very image of the crime of which he was accused, how could twelve impartial, educated men agree that any construction put upon his actions should cast the accusation on him? The lawyers had told him that so it would be—he had read the fearful expectation in Elizabeth’s eyes—but it could not! Justice was not a mere word—innocence bore a stamp not to be mistaken; the vulgar and senseless malice of Sir Boyvill would be scouted and reprobated; such was his intimate conviction, though he had never expressed it; but this was all changed now. The tale of horror was admitted, registered as a probability, and had become a rule for future acts. The ignominy of a public trial would assuredly be his. And going, as is usual, from one extreme to the other, the belief entered his soul that he should be found guilty and die the death. A dark veil fell over life and nature. Ofttimes he felt glad even to escape thus from a hideous system of wrong and suffering; but the innate pride of the heart rebelled, and his soul struggled as in the toils.

Elizabeth heard the decision with even more dismay; her head swam, and she grew sick at heart. Would his trial come on in a few days? would all soon, so soon, be decided? was the very moment near at hand to make or mar existence, and turn this earth from a scene of hope into a very hell of torture and despair? for such to her it must be if the worst befell Falkner. The worst! oh, what a worst! how hideous, squalid, unredeemed! There was madness in the thought, and she hurried to his cell to see him and hear him speak, so to dissipate the horror of her thoughts; her presence of mind, her equanimity, all deserted her; she looked bewildered—her heart beat as if it would burst her bosom—her face grew ashy pale—her limbs unstrung of every strength—and her efforts to conceal her weakness from Falkner’s eyes but served the more to confuse.