FALKNER. Мэри Шелли

the agony with which she returned his parting embrace, her despondent attitude as his bark left the shore; and when he returned, her eager joy—her eye lighted up with thankful love—all bespoke emotions that needed no other interpreter, and which often made him half shrink from acting up to the belief he had arrived at, that he ought to die, and that he could only escape worse and ignominious evils, by a present and honourable death.

      As time passed on—as by the arrival of the forces from Egypt the warfare grew more keen and perilous—as Vasili renewed the sad tale of his perils at each visit, with some added story of lately and narrowly escaped peril—fear began to make too large and engrossing a portion of her daily thoughts. She ceased to take in the ideas as she read—her needle dropped from her hand—and, as she played, the music brought streams of tears from her eyes, to think of the scene of desolation and suffering in which she felt that she should soon be called upon to take a part. There was no help or hope, and she must early learn the woman's first and hardest lesson, to bear in silence the advance of an evil, which might be avoided, but for the unconquerable will of another. Almost she could have called her father cruel, had not the remembrance of the misery that drove him to desperation, inspired pity, instead of selfish resentment.

      He had passed a few days with her, and the intercourse they held, had been more intimate and more affectionate than ever. As she grew older, her mind enriched by cultivation, and developed by the ardour of her attachment, grew more on an equality with his experienced one, than could have been the case in mere childhood. They did not take the usual position of father and child,—the instructor and instructed—the commander and the obedient—They talked with open heart, and tongue

      Affectionate and true,

      A pair of friends.—

      And the inequality which made her depend on him, and caused him to regard her as the creature who was to prolong his existence, as it were, beyond the grave, into which he believed himself to be descending, gave a touch of something melancholy to their sympathy, without which, in this shadowy world, nothing seems beautiful and enduring.

      He left her; and his little bark, under press of sail, sped merrily through the waves. She stood to watch—her heart warmed by the recollection of his fervent affection—his attentive kindness. He had ever been brave and generous; but now he had become so sympathising and gentle, that she hoped that the time was not far off when moral courage would spring from that personal hardihood which is at once so glorious and so fearful. "God shield you, my father!" she thought, "God preserve you, my more than father, for happier thoughts and better days! For the full enjoyment of, and control over, those splendid qualities with which nature has gifted you!"

      Such was the tenor of her thoughts. Enthusiasm mingled with fond solicitude—and thus she continued her anxious watchings. By every opportunity she received brief letters, breathing affection, yet containing no word of self. Sometimes a phrase occurred directing her what to do if any thing fatal occurred to him, which startled and pained her; but there was nothing else that spoke of death—nor any allusion to his distaste for life. Autumn was far advanced—the sounds of war were somewhat lulled; and, except in small skirmishing parties, that met and fought under cover of the ravines and woods, all was quiet. Elizabeth felt less fearful than usual. She wrote to ask when Falkner would again visit her; and he, in reply, promised so to do, immediately after a meditated attack on a small fortress, the carrying of which was of the first import to the safe quartering of his little troop during the winter. She read this with delight—she solaced herself with the prospect of a speedier and longer visit than usual; with childish thoughtlessness she forgot that the attack on the town was a work of war, and might bring with it the fatal results of mortal struggle.

      A few days after, a small, ill-looking letter was put into her hands—it was written in Romaic, and the meaning of its illegible ciphers could only be guessed at by a Greek. It was from Vasili—to tell her, in few words, that Falkner was lying in a small village, not far from the sea coast, opposite Zante. It mentioned that he had been long suffering from the Greek fever; and having been badly wounded in the late attack, the combined effects of wound and malady left little hopes of recovery; while the fatal moment was hastened by the absence of all medical assistance—the miserable state of the village where he was lying—and the bad air of the country around.

      Elizabeth read as if in a dream—the moment then had come, the fatal moment which she had often contemplated with terror, and prayed Heaven to avert—she grew pale and trembling; but again in a moment she recalled her presence of mind, and summoned all the resolution she had endeavoured to store up to assist her at this extremity. She went herself to the chief English authority in the island—and obtained an order for a vessel to bring him off—instantly she embarked. She neither wept nor spoke; but sitting on the deck, tearless and pale, she prayed for speed, and that she might not find him dead. A few hours brought her to the desired port. Here a thousand difficulties awaited her—but she was not to be intimidated by all the threatened dangers—and only besought the people about her to admit of no excuses for delay. She was accompanied by an English surgeon and a few attendants. She longed to outspeed them all, and yet she commanded herself to direct every thing that was done; nor did her heart quail when a few shot, and the cry of the men about her, spoke of the neighbourhood of the enemy. It proved a false alarm—the shots came from a straggling party of Greeks—salutations were exchanged, and still she pushed on—her only thought was:—"Let me but find him alive—and then surely he will live!"

      As she passed along, the sallow countenances and wasted figures of the peasants spoke of the frightful ravages of the epidemic by which Falkner was attacked—and the squalidness of the cabins and the filth of the villages were sights to make her heart ache; at length they drew near one which the guide told her was that named by Vasili. On inquiring they were directed down a sort of lane to a wretched dilapidated dwelling—in the court-yard of which were a party of armed Greeks, gathered together in a sort of ominous silence. This was the abode of Falkner; she alighted—and in a few minutes Vasili presented himself—his face painted with every mark of apprehension and sorrow—he led her on. The house was desolate beyond expression—there was no furniture—no glass in the windows—no token of human habitation beyond the weather-stained walls. She entered the room where her father lay—some mattrasses placed on the divan were all his bed—and there was nothing else in the room except a brazier to heat his food. Elizabeth drew near—and gazed in awe and grief. Already he was so changed that she could scarcely know him—his eyes sunk—his cheeks fallen, his brow streaked with pallid hues—a ghastly shadow lay upon his face, the apparent forerunner of death. He had scarcely strength sufficient to raise his hand—and his voice was hollow—yet he smiled when he saw her—and that smile, the last refuge of the soul that informs our clay, and even sometimes survives it, was all his own; it struck her to the heart—and her eyes were dimmed with tears while Vasili cast a wistful glance on her—as much as to say, "I have lost hope!"

      "Thank you for coming—yet you ought not to be here," hoarsely murmured the sick man.—Elizabeth kissed his hand and brow in answer—and despite of all her endeavours the tears fell from her eyes on his sunken cheek; again he smiled. "It is not so bad," he said—"do not weep, I am willing to die! I do not suffer very much—though I am weary of life."—

      The surgeon was now admitted. He examined the wound, which was of a musket ball, in his side. He dressed it, and administered some potion, from which the patient received instant relief; and then joined the anxious girl, who had retired to another room.

      "He is in a very dangerous state," the surgeon remarked, in reply to her anxious looks. "Nothing certain can be pronounced yet. But our first care must be to remove him from this pestiferous place—the fever and wound combined, must destroy him.—Change of air may produce an amelioration in the former."

      With all the energy, which was her prominent characteristic, Elizabeth caused a litter to be prepared—horses hired and every thing arranged so that their journey might be commenced at day-break. Every one went early to rest, to enjoy some repose before the morrow's journey, except Elizabeth; she spent the livelong night watching beside Falkner, marking each change, tortured by the groans that escaped him in sleep, or the suppressed complaints that fell from his lips—by the restlessness and fever that rendered each moment full of fate.