Chapter 50

While they were conversing, quick footsteps were heard in the street below. Mrs. Raby had succeeded in making the time pass more lightly than could be hoped; it was three o’clock—there was a knock at the door of the house. Elizabeth, breaking off abruptly, turned ashy pale, and clasped her hands in the agony of expectation. Osborne rushed into the room. “It is all over!” he exclaimed; “all is well!” Tears streamed from his eyes as he spoke and ran up to shake hands with Elizabeth, and congratulate her, with an ardour and joy that contrasted strangely with the frightened-looking being he had always before shown himself.

“Mr. Falkner is acquitted—he is free—he will soon be here! No one could doubt his innocence that saw him—no one did doubt it—the jury did not even retire.” Thus Osborne ran on, relating the events of the trial. Falkner’s mere appearance had prepossessed every one. The frankness of his open brow, his dignified, unembarrassed manner, his voice, whose clear tones were the very echo of truth, vouched for him. The barrister who conducted the prosecution narrated the facts rather as a mystery to be inquired into than as a crime to be detected. Gerard Neville’s testimony was entirely favourable to the prisoner; he showed how Falkner, wholly unsuspected, safe from the shadow of accusation, had spontaneously related the unhappy part he took in his unfortunate mother’s death, for the sake of restoring her reputation and relieving the minds of her relatives. The narrative written in Greece, and left as explanation in case of his death, was further proof of the truth of his account. Gerard declared himself satisfied of his innocence; and when he stated his father’s dying words, his desire, at the last hour on the bed of death, to record his belief in Falkner’s being guiltless of the charge brought against him—words spoken as it were yesterday, for he who uttered them still lay unburied—the surprise seemed to be that he should have suffered a long imprisonment and the degradation of a trial. Osborne’s own evidence was clear and satisfactory. At last Falkner himself was asked what defence he had to make. As he rose every eye turned on him, every voice and breath were hushed—a solemn silence reigned. His words were few, spoken calmly and impressively; he rested his innocence on the very evidence brought against him. He had been the cause of the lady’s death, and asked for no mercy; but for her sake, and the sake of that heroic feeling that led her to encounter death amid the waves, he asked for justice, and he did not for a moment doubt that it would be rendered him.

“Nor could you doubt it as you heard him,” continued Osborne. “Never were truth and innocence written so clearly on human countenance as on his as he looked upon the jury with his eagle eyes, addressing them without pride, but with infinite majesty, as if he could rule their souls through the power of a clear conscience and a just cause; they did not hesitate—the jury did not hesitate a moment; I rushed here the moment I heard the words, and now—he is come.”

Many steps were again heard in the street below, and one, which Elizabeth could not mistake, upon the stairs. Falkner entered—she flew to his arms, and he pressed her to his bosom, wrapping her in a fond, long embrace, while neither uttered a word.

A few moments of trembling almost to agony, a few agitated tears, and the natural gladness of the hour assumed its genuine aspect. Falkner, commanding himself, could shake hands with Osborne, and thank him, and Elizabeth presented him to Mrs. Raby. He at once comprehended the kindness of her visit, and acknowledged it with a heartfelt thankfulness that showed how much he had suffered while picturing Elizabeth’s abandonment. Soon various other persons poured into the room, and it was necessary to pass through many congratulations, and to thank, and, what was really painful, to listen to the outpouring talk of those persons who had been present at the trial. Yet, at such a moment, the heart, warmed and open, acknowledges few distinctions. Among those whose evident joy in the result filled Elizabeth with gratitude, she and Falkner felt touched by none so much as the visit of a turnkey, who was ashamed to show himself, yet who, hearing they were immediately to quit Carlisle, begged permission to see them once again. The poor fellow, who looked on Elizabeth as an angel and Falkner as a demigod—for, not forgetting others in their adversity, they had discovered and assisted his necessities—the poor fellow seemed out of his mind with joy—ecstasy was painted on his face—there was no mistaking the clear language of a full and grateful heart.