FALKNER. Мэри Шелли

wretched chamber in which he lay—Elizabeth gazed for a moment from the casement to see how moved the stars—and there, without—nature asserted herself—and it was the lovely land of Greece that met her eyes; the southern night reigned in all its beauty—the stars hung refulgent lamps in the transparent ether—the fire-flies darted and wheeled among the olive groves or rested in the myrtle hedges, flashing intermittingly, and filling for an instant a small space around them with fairy brightness; each form of tree, of rocky fragment, and broken upland, lay in calm and beautiful repose; she turned to the low couch on which lay all her hope—her idolized father—the streaked brow—the nerveless hand—half open eye, and hard breathing, betokened a frightful stage of weakness and suffering.

      The scene brought unsought into her mind the lines of the English poet, which so touchingly describes the desolation of Greece,— blending the idea of mortal suffering with the long drawn calamities of that oppressed country. The words, the lines, crowded on her memory; and a chord was struck in her heart, as she ejaculated, "No! no, not so! Not the first day of death—not now, or ever!" As she spoke, she dissolved in tears—and weeping long and bitterly, she became afterwards calmer—the rest of her watch passed more peacefully. Even the patient suffered less as night verged into morning.

      At an early hour all was ready. Falkner was placed in the litter; and the little party, gladly leaving the precincts of the miserable village, proceeded slowly towards the sea shore. Every step was replete with pain and danger. Elizabeth was again all herself. Self-possessed and vigilant—she seemed at once to attain years of experience. No one could remember that it was a girl of sixteen who directed them. Hovering round the litter of the wounded man, and pointing out how best to carry him, so that he might suffer least—as the inequalities of the ground, the heights to climb, and the ravines to cross, made it a task of difficulty. Now and then the report of a musket was heard, sometimes a Greek cap—not unoften mistaken for a turban, peered above the precipice that overlooked the road—frequent alarms were given—but she was frightened by none. Her large eyes dilated and darkened as she looked towards the danger pointed out—and she drew nearer the litter, as a lonely mother might to the cradle of her child, when in the stillness of night some ravenous beast intruded on a savage solitude; but she never spoke, except to point out the mistakes she was the first to perceive—or to order the men to proceed lightly, but without fear—nor to allow their progress to be checked by vain alarms.

      At length the sea shore was gained—and Falkner at last placed on the deck of the vessel—reposing after the torture which, despite every care, the journey had inflicted. Already Elizabeth believed that he was saved—and yet, one glance at his wan face, and emaciated figure re-awakened every fear He looked—and all around believed him to be—a dying man.

      Chapter XI.

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      Arrived at Zante, placed in a cool and pleasant chamber, attended by a skilful surgeon—and watched over by the unsleeping vigilance of Elizabeth, Falkner slowly receded from the shadow of death—whose livid hue had sat upon his countenance. Still health was far. His wound was attended by bad symptoms—and the fever eluded every attempt to dislodge it from his frame. He was but half saved from the grave; emaciated and feeble, his disorder even tried to vanquish his mind; but that resisted with more energy than his prostrate body. The death he had gone out to seek—he awaited with courage—yet he no longer expressed an impatience of existence, but struggled to support with manly fortitude at once the inroads of disease, and the long nourished sickness of his soul.

      It had been a hard trial to Elizabeth to watch over him, while each day the surgeon's serious face gave no token of hope. But she would not despond, and in the end his recovery was attributed to her careful nursing. She never quitted his apartment, except for a few hours sleep; and even then, her bed was placed in the chamber adjoining his. If he moved, she was roused, and at his side, divining the cause of his uneasiness, and alleviating it. There were other nurses about him, and Vasili the most faithful of all—but she directed them, and brought that discernment and tact of which a woman only is capable. Her little soft hand smoothed his pillow, or placed upon his brow, cooled and refreshed him. She scarcely seemed to feel the effects of sleepless nights and watchful days—every minor sensation was merged in the hope and resolution to preserve him.

      Several months were passed in a state of the utmost solicitude. At last he grew a little better—the fever intermitted—and the wound gave signs of healing. On the first day that he was moved to an open alcove, and felt some enjoyment from the soft air of evening, all that Elizabeth had gone through was repaid. She sat on a low cushion near; and his thin fingers now resting on her head, now playing with the ringlets of her hair, gave token by that caress, that though he was silent and his look abstracted, his thoughts were occupied upon her. At length he said:—"Elizabeth, you have again saved my life."

      She looked up with a quick, glad look, and her eyes brightened with pleasure.

      "You have saved my life twice," he continued; "and through you, it seems, I am destined to live. I will not quarrel again with existence, since it is your gift; I will hope, prolonged as it has been by you, that it will prove beneficial to you. I have but one desire now—it is to be the source of happiness to you."

      "Live! dear father, live! and I must be happy!" she exclaimed.

      "God grant that it prove so!" he replied, pressing her hand to his lips. "The prayers of such as I, too often turn to curses. But you, my own dearest, must be blest; and as my life is preserved, I must hope that this is done for your sake, and that you will derive some advantage from it."

      "Can you doubt it?" said Elizabeth. "Could I ever be consoled if I lost you? I have no other tie on earth—no other friend—nor do I wish for any. Only put aside your cruel thoughts of leaving me for ever, and every blessing is mine."

      "Dear, generous, faithful girl! Yet the time will come when I shall not be all in all to you; and then, will not my name—my adoption—prove a stumbling-block to your wishes?"

      "How could that happen?" she said. "But do not, dear father, perplex yourself with looking either forward or backward—repose on the present, which has nothing in it to annoy you; or rather, your gallantry—your devotion to the cause of an injured people, must inspire you with feelings of self-gratulation, and speak peace to your troubles. Let the rest of your life pass away as a dream; banish quite those thoughts that have hitherto made you wretched. Your life is saved, despite yourself. Accept existence as an immediate gift from heaven; and begin life, from this moment, with new hopes, new resolves. Whatever your error was, which you so bitterly repent, it belonged to another state of being. Your remorse, your resignation, has effaced it; or if any evil results remain, you will rather exert yourself to repair them—than uselessly to lament.

      "To repair my error—my crime!" cried Falkner, in an altered voice, while a cloud gathered over his face, "No! no! that is impossible! never till we meet in another life, can I offer reparation to the dead! But I must not think of this now; it is too ungrateful to you to dwell upon thoughts which would deliver me over to the tomb. Yet one thing I would say. I left a short detail in England of the miserable event that must at last destroy me, but it is brief and unsatisfactory. During my midnight watchings in Greece, I prepared a longer account. You know that little rosewood box, which, even when dying, I asked for; it is now close to my bed; the key is here attached to my watch-chain. That box contains the narrative of my crime; when I die, you will read it and judge me."

      "Never! never!" exclaimed Elizabeth, earnestly. "Dear father, how cruelly you have tormented yourself by dwelling on and writing about the past! and do you think that I would ever read accusations against you, the guardian angel of my life, even though written by yourself? Let me bring the box—let me burn the papers—let no word remain to tell of misery you repent, and have atoned for."

      Falkner detained her, as she would have gone to execute her purpose. "Not alone for you, my child," he said, "did I write, though hereafter, when you hear me accused, it may be satisfactory to learn the truth from my own hand. But there are others to satisfy—an injured angel to be