Falkner: a Novel
Copyright© 2025 by Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley
Chapter 46
The prisoner and his faithful companion knew nothing of these momentous changes. Day by day Elizabeth withdrew from the fire to the only window in her father’s room; moving her embroidery table close to it, her eyes turned, however, to the sky, instead of to the flowers she was working; and leaning her cheek upon her hand, she perpetually watched the clouds. Gerard was already, she fancied, on the waste of waters; yet the clouds did not change their direction—they all sped one way, and that contrary to his destination. Thus she passed her mornings; and when she returned to her own abode, where her heart could more entirely spend its thoughts on her lover and his voyage, her lonely room was no longer lonely, nor the gloomy season any longer gloomy. More than happy—a breathless rapture quickened the beatings of her heart, as she told over again and again Neville’s virtues, and, dearer than all, his claims on her gratitude.
Falkner saw with pleasure the natural effects of love and hope add to the cheerfulness of his beloved child, diffuse a soft charm over her person, her motions, and her voice, and impart a playful tenderness to her before rather serious manners. Youth, love, and happiness are so very beautiful in their conjunction. “God grant,” he thought, “I do not mar this fair creature’s life—may she be happier than Alithea; if man can be worthy of her, Gerard Neville surely is.” As he turned his eyes silently from the book that apparently occupied him, and contemplated her pensive countenance, whose expression showed that she was wrapped in, yet enjoying her thoughts, retrospect made him sad. He went over his own life, its clouded morning, the glad beams that broke out to dissipate those clouds, and the final setting amid tempests and wreck. Was all life like this, must all be disappointed hope, baffled desires, lofty imaginations engendering fatal acts, and bringing the proud thus low? would she at his age view life as he did—a weary wilderness—a tangled, endless labyrinth, leading by one rough path or another to a bitter end? He hoped not, her innocence must receive other reward from Heaven.
It was on a day as they were thus occupied—Falkner refrained from interrupting Elizabeth’s revery, which he felt was sweeter to her than any converse—and appeared absorbed in reading; suddenly she exclaimed, “The wind has changed, dear father; indeed it has changed, it is favourable now. Do you not feel how much colder it is? the wind has got to the north, there is a little east in it; his voyage will not be a long one if this change only lasts!”
Falkner answered her by a smile; but it was humiliating to think of the object of that voyage, and her cheerful voice announcing that it was to be prosperous struck, he knew not why, a saddening chord. At this moment he heard the bolts of the chamber-door pushed back, and the key turn in the lock—the turnkey entered, followed by another man, who hesitated as he came forward, and then, as he glanced at the inhabitants of the room, drew back, saying, “There is some mistake; Mr. Falkner is not here.”
But for his habitual self-command, Falkner had started up, and made an exclamation—so surprised was he to behold the person who entered—for he recognised his visitant on the instant—he himself was far more changed by the course of years; time, sickness, and remorse had used other than Praxitilean art, and had defaced the lines of grace and power which had marked him many years ago, before his hands had dug Alithea’s grave. He was indeed surprised to see who entered; but he showed no sign of wonder, only saying with a calm smile, “No, there is no mistake, I am the man you seek.”
The other now apparently recognised him, and advanced timidly, and in confusion—the turnkey left them, and Falkner then said, “Osborne, you deserve my thanks for this, but I did believe that it would come to this.”
“No,” said Osborne, “I do not deserve thanks—I—” and he looked confused, and glanced towards Elizabeth. Falkner followed his eye, and understanding his look, said, “You do not fear being betrayed by a lady, Osborne; you are safe here as in America. I see how it is, you are here under a false name; no one is aware that you are the man who a few weeks ago refused to appear to save a fellow-creature from death.”
“I see no way to do that now,” replied Osborne, hesitatingly; “I do not come for that, I come—I could not stay away—I thought something might be done.”
“Elizabeth, my love,” said Falkner, “you at least will thank Mr. Osborne for his spontaneous services—you are watching the clouds which were to bear along the vessel towards him, and beyond our hopes he is already here.”
Elizabeth listened breathlessly—she feared to utter a word, lest it should prove a dream—now, gathering Falkner’s meaning, she came forward, and with all a woman’s grace addressed the trembling man, who already looked at the door as if he longed to be on the other side, fearful that he was caught in his own toils; for, as Hoskins said, the fascinated prey had wheeled yet nearer to his fate involuntarily—he had been unable to resist his desire to see Falkner, and learn how it was with him; but he still resolved not to risk anything; he had represented himself to the magistrates as coming from Osborne, showing false papers, and a declaration drawn up by him at Washington, and attested before official men there, setting forth Falkner’s innocence; he had brought this over to see if it would serve his benefactor, and had thus got access to him: such was his reliance on the honour of his patron, that he had not hesitated in placing himself in his power, well aware that he should not be detained by him against his will; for still his heart quailed, and his soul shrunk from rendering him the service that would save his life.
His manner revealed his thoughts to the observant Falkner; but Elizabeth, less well read in men’s hearts, younger and more sanguine, saw in his arrival the completion of her hopes; and she thanked him with so much warmth, and with such heartfelt praises of his kindness and generosity, that Osborne began to think that his greatest difficulty would be in resisting her fascination and disappointing her wishes. He stammered out at last some lame excuses. All he could do consistently with safety, they might command; he had shown this by coming over—more could not be asked, could not be expected—he himself, God knew, was innocent, so was Mr. Falkner, of the crime he was charged with. But he had no hand whatever in the transaction; he was not in his confidence; he had not known even who the lady was; his testimony, after all, must be worth nothing, for he had nothing to tell, and for this he was to expose himself to disgrace and death.
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