FALKNER. Мэри Шелли

is even now in full pursuit—vowing vengeance—more enraged than I ever beheld man. Unfortunately he does not know who the seducer is; nor have the fugitives yet been traced. The whole affair is the most mysterious—a lover dropped from the clouds—an angel of virtue subdued, almost before she is sought. Still they must be found out—they cannot hide themselves for ever."

      "And then there will be a duel to the death?" asked Falkner, in the same icy accents.

      "No," replied the other, "Mrs. Neville has no brother to fight for her, and her husband breathes law only. Whatever vengeance the law will afford, that he will use to the utmost—he is too angry to fight."

      "The poltroon!" exclaimed Falkner, "and thus he loses his sole chance of revenge."

      "I know not that," replied his companion; "he has formed a thousand schemes of chastisement for both offenders, more dread than the field of honour—there is, to be sure, a mean as well as an indignant spirit in him, that revels rather in the thought of inflicting infamy than death. He utters a thousand mysterious threats—I do not see exactly what he can do—but when he discovers his injurer, as he must some day—and I believe there are letters that afford a clue,—he will wreak all that a savage, and yet a sordid desire of vengeance can suggest.—Poor Mrs. Neville!—after all, she must have lived a sad life with such a fellow!"

      "And here we part," said Falkner; "I am going another way. You have told me a strange story—it will be curious to mark the end. Farewell!"

      Brave to rashness as Falkner was, yet there was much in what he had just heard that made him recoil, and almost tremble. What the vengeance was that Mr. Neville could take—he too well knew—and he resolved to defeat it. His plans, before vague, were formed on the instant. His lip curled with a disdainful smile when he recollected what his friend had said of the mystery that hung over the late occurrences—he would steep them all in tenfold obscurity. To grieve for the past was futile, or rather, nothing he could do, would prevent or alleviate the piercing regret that tortured him—but that need not influence his conduct. To leave his arch enemy writhing from injury, yet powerless to revenge himself—blindly cursing he knew not who, and removing the object of his curses from all danger of being hurt by them, was an image not devoid of satisfaction. Acting in conformity with these ideas, the next morning saw him on the road to Dover—Elizabeth still his companion, resolved to seek oblivion in foreign countries and far climes—and happy, at the same time, to have her with him, whose infantine caresses already poured balm upon his rankling wounds.

      Chapter V.

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      Paris was the next, but transient, resting-place of the travellers. Here Falkner made such arrangements with regard to remittances, as he believed would best insure his scheme of concealment. He laid the map of Europe before him, and traced a course with his pencil, somewhat erratic, yet not without a plan. Paris, Hamburgh, Stockholm, St. Petersburgh, Moscow, Odessa, Constantinople, through Hungary to Vienna. How many thousand miles! miles—which while he traversed, he could possess his soul in freedom—fear no scrutiny—be asked no insidious questions. He could look each man in the face, and none trace his crime in his own.

      It was a wild scheme to make so young a child as Elizabeth the companion of these devious and long wanderings; yet it was her idea that shed golden rays on the boundless prospect he contemplated. He could not have undertaken this long journey alone—memory and remorse his only companions. He was not one of those, unfortunately, whom a bright eye and kindly smile can light at once into a flame—soon burnt out, it is true, but warming and cheering, and yet harmless while it lasted. He could not among strangers at once discern the points to admire, and make himself the companion of the intelligent and good, through a sort of freemasonry some spirits possess. This was a great defect of character. He was proud and reserved. His esteem must be won—long habits of intimacy formed—his fastidious taste never wounded—his imagination never baulked—without this, he was silent and wrapt in himself. All his life he had cherished a secret and ardent passion, beyond whose bounds every thing was sterile—this had changed from the hopes of love to the gnawing pangs of remorse—but still his heart fed on itself—and unless that was interested, and by the force of affection he were called out of himself, he must be miserable. To arrive unwelcomed at an inn—to wander through unknown streets and cities, without any stimulus of interest or curiosity—to traverse vast tracts of country, useless to others, a burthen to himself—alone, this would have been intolerable. But Elizabeth was the cure; she was the animating soul of his project: her smiles—her caresses—the knowledge that he benefited her, was the life-blood of his design. He indulged with a sort of rapture in the feeling, that he loved, and was beloved by an angel of innocence, who grew, each day, into a creature endowed with intelligence, sympathies, hopes, fears, and affections—all individually her own, and yet all modelled by him—centred in him—to whom he was necessary—who would be his: not like the vain love of his youth, only in imagination, but in every thought and sensation, to the end of time.

      Nor did he intend to pursue his journey in such a way as to overtask her strength, or injure her health. He cared not how much time elapsed before its completion. It would certainly employ years; it mattered not how many. When winter rendered travelling painful, he could take up his abode in a metropolis abounding in luxuries. During the summer heats he might fix himself in some villa, where the season would be mitigated to pleasantness. If impelled by a capricious predilection, he could stay for months in any chance selected spot: but his home was, with Elizabeth beside him, in his travelling carriage. Perpetual change would baffle pursuit, if any were set on foot; while the restlessness of his life, the petty annoyances and fleeting pleasures of a traveller's existence, would serve to occupy his mind, and prevent its being mastered by those passions to which one victim had been immolated, and which rendered the remnant of his days loathsome to himself. "I have determined to live," he thought, "and I must therefore insure the means of life. I must adopt a method by which I can secure for each day that stock of patrence which is necessary to lead me to the end of it. In the plan I have laid down, every day will have a task to be fulfilled; and, while I employ myself in executing it, I need look neither before nor behind; and each day added thus, one by one, to one another, will form months and years, and I shall grow old, travelling post over Europe."

      His resolution made, he was eager to enter on his travels, which, singular to say, he performed even in the very manner he had determined; for the slight changes in the exact route, introduced afterwards, from motives of convenience or pleasure, might be deemed rather as in accordance with, than deviating from, his original project.

      Falkner was not a man ordinarily met with. He possessed wild and fierce passions, joined to extreme sensibility, beneficence, and generosity. His boyhood had been rendered miserable by the violence of a temper roused to anger, even from trifles. Collision with his fellow-creatures, a sense of dignity with his equals, and of justice towards his inferiors, had subdued this; still his blood was apt to boil when roused by any impediment to his designs, or the sight of injury towards others; and it was with great difficulty that he kept down the outward marks of indignation or contempt. To tame the vehemence of his disposition, he had endeavoured to shackle his imagination, and to cultivate his reason—and perhaps he fancied that he succeeded best, when, in fact, he entirely failed. As now, when he took the little orphan with him away from all the ties of blood—the manners and customs of her country—from the discipline of regular education, and the society of others of her sex—had not Elizabeth been the creature she was, with a character not to be disharmonized by any circumstances, this had been a fearful experiment.

      Yet he fondly hoped to derive happiness from it. Traversing long tracts of country with vast speed, cut off from intercourse with every one but her, and she endearing herself more, daily, by extreme sweetness of disposition, he began almost to forget the worm gnawing at his bosom; and, feeling himself free, to fancy himself happy. Unfortunately, it was not so: he had passed the fatal Rubicon, placed by conscience between innocence and crime; and however much he might for a time deaden the stings of feeling, or baffle the inevitable punishment, hereafter to arise from the consequences of his guilt, still there was a burthen