Chapter 51

It was one of those days which do sometimes occur in March—warm and balmy, and enlivening as spring always is. The birds were busy among the leafless boughs; and if the carriage stopped for a moment, the gushing song of the skylark attracted the eye to his blue ethereal bower; a joyous welcome was breathed by nature to every heart, and none answered it so fervently as Falkner. Sentiments of pleasure possessed all three travellers. Mrs. Raby experienced that exultation natural to all human beings when performing a generous action. Elizabeth felt that in going to Belleforest she drew nearer Neville—for there was no reason why he should not enter her grandfather’s doors; but Falkner was happier than either. It was not the vulgar joy of having escaped danger; partly it was gladness to see Elizabeth restored to her family, where only, as things were, she could find happiness, and yet not divided from him. Partly it arose from the relief he felt, as the burden of heavy, long-endured care was lifted from his soul. But there was something more, which was incomprehensible even to himself. “His bosom’s lord sat lightly on its throne”—he no longer turned a saddened, reproachful eye on nature, nor any more banished soft emotions, nourishing remorse as a duty. He was reconciled to himself and the world; the very circumstances of his prison and his trial being over, took with them the more galling portion of his retrospections—health again filled his veins. At the moment when he had first accused himself, Neville saw in him a man about to die. It was evident now that the seeds of disease were destroyed—his person grew erect—his eye clear and animated. Elizabeth had never, since they left Greece, seen him so free from suffering; during all her intercourse with him, she never remembered him so bland and cheerful in his mood. It was the reward of much suffering—the gift of Heaven to one who had endured patiently—opening his heart to the affections instead of cherishing pride and despair. It was the natural result of a noble disposition, which could raise itself above even its own errors—throwing off former evil as alien to its nature—embracing good as its indefeasible right.

They entered the majestic avenues and imbowered glades of Belleforest—where cedar, larch, and pine diversified the bare woods with a show of foliage—the turf was covered with early flowers—the buds were green and bursting on the boughs. Falkner remembered his visit the preceding summer. How little had he then foreseen impending events; and how far from his heart had then been the peace that at present so unaccountably possessed it. Then the wide demesne and stately mansion had appeared the abode of gloom and bigotry; now it was changed to a happy valley, where love and cheerfulness reigned.

Mrs. Raby was welcomed by her children—two elegant girls of fifteen and sixteen, and a spirited boy of twelve. They adored their mother, and saw in their new cousin an occasion for rejoicing. Their sparkling looks and gay voices dispelled the last remnant of melancholy from the venerable mansion. Old Oswi Raby himself—too much sunk in dotage to understand what was going on—yet smiled and looked glad on the merry faces about him. He could not exactly make out who Elizabeth was—he was sure that it was a relation, and he treated her with an obsequious respect, which, considering his former impertinent tone, was exceedingly amusing.

What was wanting to complete the universal happiness? Elizabeth’s spirits rose to unwonted gayety in the society of her young relations—and her cousin Edwin in particular found her the most delightful companion in the world—for she was as fearless on horseback as himself, and was unwearied in amusing him by accounts of the foreign countries she had seen—and adventures, ridiculous or fearful, that she had encountered. In Mrs. Raby she found a beloved friend for serious hours; and Falkner’s recovered health and spirits were a source of exhaustless congratulation.

Yet where was Gerard Neville? Where the looks of love and rapturous sense of sympathy, before which all the other joys of life fade into dimness? Love causes us to get more rid of our haunting identity, and to give ourselves more entirely away than any other emotion; it is the most complete, the most without veil or shadow to mar its beauty. Every other human passion occupies but a distinct portion of our being. This assimilates with all, and turns the whole into bliss or misery. Elizabeth did not fear that Gerard would forget her. He had remembered through the dark hours gone by—and now his shadow walked with her beneath the avenues of Belleforest, and the recollection of his love impregnated the balmy airs of spring with a sweetness unfelt before. Elizabeth had now leisure to love—and many an hour she spent in solitary yet blissful dreams—almost wondering that such happiness was to be found on earth. What a change—what a contrast between the deathgirt prison of Carlisle and the love-adorned glades of her ancestral park! Not long ago the sky appeared to bend over one universe of tears and wo—and now, in the midst, a piece of heaven had dropped down upon earth, and she had entered the enchanted ground.