by Mary Shelley
The only annoyance she suffered, arose from the great influx of visitors. Having lived a life disjoined from the crowd, she soon began to conceive the hermitess delight in loneliness, and the vexation of being intruded upon by the frivolous and indifferent. She found that she loved friends, but hated acquaintance. Nor was this strange. Her mind was quite empty of conventional frivolities. She had not been at a ball twice in her life, and then only when a mere child; yet all had been interest and occupation. To unbend with her was to converse with a friend — to play with children — or to enjoy the scenes of nature with one who felt their beauties with her. “It was hard labour,” she often said, “to talk with people with whom she had not one pursuit — one taste in common.” Often when a barouche, crowded with gay bonnets, appeared, she stole away. Lady Cecil could not understand this. Brought up in the thick of fashionable life, no person of her clique was a stranger; and if any odd people called on her — still they were in some way entertaining; or if bores — bores are an integral portion of life, not to be shaken off with impunity, for as oysters they often retain the fairest pearls in close conjunction. “You are wrong,” said Lady Cecil. “You must not be savage — I cannot have mercy on you; this little jagged point in your character must be worn off — you must be as smooth and glossy in exterior, as you are incalculably precious in the substance of your mind.”
Elizabeth smiled; but not the less when a sleek, self-satisfied dowager, all smiles to those she knew — all impertinent scrutiny to the unknown — and a train of ugly old women in embryo — called, for the present, misses — followed, each honouring her with an insolent stare. “There was a spirit in her feet,” and she could not stay, but hurried out into the woodland dells, and with a book, her own reveries, and the beautiful objects around her, as her companions; and feeling ecstatically happy, both at what she possessed, and what she had escaped from.
Thus it was one day that she deserted Lady Cecil, who was smiling sweetly on a red-faced gouty ‘squire, and listening placidly to his angry wife, who was complaining that her name had been put too low down in some charity list. She stole out from the glassdoor that opened on the lawn, and, delighted that her escape was secure, hurried to join the little group of children whom she saw speeding beyond into the park.
“Without a bonnet, Miss Falkner!” cried Miss Jervis.
“Yes; and the sun is warm. You are not using your parasol, Miss Jervis; lend it me, and let us go into the shade.” Then, taking her favourite child by the hand, she said, “Come, let us pay visits. Mamma has got some visitors; so we will go and seek for some. There is my Lord Deer, and pretty Lady Doe. Ah! pretty Miss Fawn, what a nice dappled frock you have on!”
The child was enchanted; and they wandered on through the glades, among the fern, into a shady dell, quite at the other side of the park, and sat down beneath a spreading oak tree. By this time they had got into a serious talk of where the clouds were going, and where the first tree came from, when a gentleman, who had entered the park gates unperceived, rode by, and pulling up his horse suddenly, with a start, and an exclamation of surprise, he and Elizabeth recognized each other.
“Mr. Neville!” she cried, and her heart was full in a moment of a thousand recollections — of the gratitude she owed — their parting scene — and the many conjectures she had formed about him since they separated. He looked more than pleased; and the expression of gloomy abstraction which his face too often wore, was lit up by a smile that went straight to the heart. He sprung from his horse, gave the rein to his groom, and joining Elizabeth and her little companion, walked towards the house.
Explanations and surprise followed. He was the praised, expected brother of Lady Cecil. How strange that Elizabeth had not discovered this relationship at Marseilles! and yet, at that time, she had scarcely a thought to spare beyond Falkner. His recovery surprised Neville, and he expressed the warmest pleasure. He looked with tenderness and admiration at the soft and beautiful creature beside him, whose courage and unwearied assiduity had preserved her father’s life. It was a bewitching contrast to remember her face shadowed by fear — her vigilant, anxious eyes fixed on her father’s wan countenance — her thoughts filled with one sad fear; and now to see it beaming in youthful beauty, animated by the happy, generous feelings which were her nature. Yet this very circumstance had a sad reaction upon Neville. His heart still bore the burthen of its sorrow, and he felt more sure of the sympathy of the afflicted mourner, than of one who looked untouched by any adversity. The sentiment was transitory, for Elizabeth, with that delicate tact which is natural to a feeling mind, soon gave such a subdued tone to their conversation as made it accord with the mysterious unhappiness of her companion.
When near the house, they were met by Lady Cecil, who smiled at what she deemed a sudden intimacy naturally sprung between two who had so many qualities in common. Lady Cecil really believed them made for each other, and had been anxious to bring them together; for being passionately attached to her brother, and grieving at the melancholy that darkened his existence, she thought she had found a cure in her new friend; and that the many charms of Elizabeth would cause him to forget the misfortunes on which he so vainly brooded. She was still more pleased when an explanation was given, and she found that they were already intimate — already acquainted with the claims each possessed to the other’s admiration and interest; and each naturally drawn to seek in the other that mirror of their better nature, that touch of kindred soul, which showed that they were formed to share existence, or, separated, to pine eternally for a reunion.
Lady Cecil, with playful curiosity, questioned why they had concealed their being acquainted. Elizabeth could not well tell; she had thought much of Neville, but first the prohibition of Falkner, and then the excessive praises Lady Cecil bestowed upon her brother, chained her tongue. The one had accustomed her to preserve silence on a subject deeply interesting to her; the other jarred with any confidence, for there would have been a comparing Neville with the Gerard which was indeed himself; and Elizabeth neither wished to have her friend depreciated, nor to struggle against the enthusiasm felt by the lady for her brother. The forced silence of to-day on such a subject, renders the silence of to-morrow almost a matter of necessity; and she was ashamed to mention one she had not already named. It may be remarked that this sort of shame arises in all dispositions; it is the seal and symbol of love. Shame of any kind was not akin to the sincere and ingenuous nature of Elizabeth; but love, though young and unacknowledged, will tyrannise from the first, and produce emotions never felt before.
Neville hoarded yet more avariciously the name of Elizabeth. There was delight in the very thought of her; but he shrunk from being questioned. He had resolved to avoid her; for, till his purpose was achieved, and the aim of his existence fulfilled, he would not yield to the charms of love, which he felt hovered round the beautiful Elizabeth. Sworn to a sacred duty, no self-centred or self-prodigal passion should come between him and its accomplishment. But, meeting her thus unawares, he could not continue guarded; his very soul drank in gladness at the sight of her. He remarked with joy the cheerfulness that had replaced her cares; he looked upon her open brow, her eyes of mingled tenderness and fire, her figure free and graceful in every motion, and felt that she realised every idea he had formed of feminine beauty. He fancied indeed that he looked upon her as a picture; that his heart was too absorbed by its own griefs to catch a thought beyond; he was unmindful, while he gazed, of that emanation, that shadow of the shape, which the Latin poet tells us flows from every object, that impalpable impress of her form and being, which the air took and then folded round him, so that all he saw entered, as it were, into his own substance, and became mingled up for evermore with his identity.
CHAPTER XV.
Three or four days passed in great tranquillity; and Lady Cecil rejoiced that the great medicine acted so well on the rankling malady of her brother’s soul. It was the leafy month of June, and nature was as beautiful as these lovely beings
themselves, who enjoyed her sweets with enthusiastic and new-sprung delight. They sailed on the sunny sea — or lingered by the summer brooks, and among the rich woodlands — ignorant, why all appeared robed in a brightness, which before they had never observed. Elizabeth had little thought beyond the present hour — except to wish for the time when Falkner was to join them. Neville rebelled somewhat against the new law he obeyed, but it was a slothful rebellion — till on a day, he was awakened from his dream of peace.
One morning Elizabeth, on entering the breakfast room, found Lady Cecil leaning discontentedly by the window, resting her cheek on her hand, and her brow overcast.
“He is gone,” she exclaimed; “it is too provoking! Gerard is gone! A letter came, and I could not detain him — it will take him probably to the other end of the kingdom — and who knows when we shall see him again!”
They sat down to breakfast, but Lady Cecil was full of discontent. “It is not only that he is gone,” she continued; “but the cause of his going is full of pain, and care — and unfortunately, you cannot sympathize with me, for I have not obtained his consent to confide his hapless story to you. Would that I might! — you would feel for him — for us all.”
“He has been unhappy since childhood,” observed Elizabeth.
“He has, it is true; but how did you learn that? has he ever told you any thing?”
“I saw him many years ago at Baden. How wild, how sullen he was — unlike his present self! for then there was a violence, and a savageness in his gloom, which has vanished.”
“Poor boy!” said Lady Cecil, “I remember well — and it is a pleasure to think that I am, to a great degree, the cause of the change. He had no friend at that time — none to love — to listen to him, and foster hopes which, however vain, diminish his torments, and are all the cure he can obtain, till he forgets them. But what can this mean?” she continued, starting up; “what can bring him back? It is Gerard returned!”
She threw open the glass-door, and went out to meet him as he rode up the avenue — he threw himself from his horse, and advanced exclaiming, “Is my father here?”
“Sir Boyvill? No; is he coming?”
“O yes! we shall see him soon. I met a servant with a letter sent express — the post was too slow — he will be here soon; he left London last night — you know with what speed he travels.”
“But why this sudden visit?”
“Can you not guess? He received a letter from the same person — containing the same account; he knew I was here — he comes to balk my purpose, to forbid, to storm, to reproach; to do all that he has done a thousand times before, with the same success.”
Neville looked flushed, and disturbed; his face, usually, “more in sorrow than in anger,” now expressed the latter emotion, mingled with scorn and resolution; he gave the letter he had received to Lady Cecil. “I am wrong, perhaps, in returning at his bidding, since I do not mean ultimately to obey — yet he charges me on my duty to hear him once again; so I am come to hear — to listen to the old war of his vanity, with what he calls my pride — his vindictiveness with my sense of duty — his vituperation of her I worship — and I must bear this!”
Lady Cecil read the letter, and Neville pressed Elizabeth’s hand, and besought her excuse, while she, much bewildered, was desirous to leave the room. At this moment the noise of a carriage was heard on the gravel. “He is here,” said Neville; “see him first, Sophia, tell him how resolved I am — how right in my resolves. Try to prevent a struggle, as disgraceful as vain; and most so to my father, since he must suffer defeat.”
With a look of much distress, Lady Cecil left the room to receive her new guest; while Elizabeth stole out by another door into the grove, and mused under the shady covert on what had passed. She felt curious, yet saddened. Concord, affection, and sympathy, are so delightful, that all that disturbs the harmony is eminently distasteful. Family contentions are worst of all. Yet she would not prejudge Neville. He felt, in its full bitterness, the pain of disobeying his parent; and whatever motive led to such a mode of action, it hung like an eclipse over his life. What it might be, she could not guess; but it was no ignoble, self-centred passion. Hope, and joy were sacrificed to it. She remembered him as she first saw him, a boy driven to wildness by a sense of injury; she remembered him when reason, and his better nature, had subdued the selfish portion of his feeling — grown kind as a woman — active, friendly, and sympathizing, as few men are; she recollected him by Falkner’s sick couch, and when he took leave of her, auguring that they should meet in a happier hour. That hour had not yet come, and she confessed to herself that she longed to know the cause of his unhappiness; and wondered whether, by counsel or sympathy, she could bring any cure.
She was plunged in reverie, walking slowly beneath the forest trees, when she heard a quick step brushing the dead leaves and fern, and Neville joined her. “I have escaped,” he cried, “and left poor Sophy to bear the scoldings of an unjust and angry man. I could not stay — it was not cowardice — but I have recollections joined to such contests, that make my heart sick. Besides, I should reply — and I would not willingly forget that he is my father.”
“It must be indeed painful,” said Elizabeth, “to quarrel with, to disobey a parent.”
“Yet there are motives that might, that must excuse it. Do you remember the character of Hamlet, Miss Falkner?”
“Perfectly — it is the embodying of the most refined, the most genuine, and yet the most harrowing feelings and situation, that the imagination ever conceived.”
“I have read that play,” said Neville, “till each word seems instinct with a message direct to my heart — as if my own emotions gave a conscious soul to every line. Hamlet was called upon to avenge a father — in execution of his task he did not spare a dearer, a far more sacred name — if he used no daggers with his mother, he spoke them; nor winced though she writhed beneath his hand. Mine is a lighter — yet a holier duty. I would vindicate a mother — without judging my father — without any accusation against him, I would establish her innocence. Is this blameable? What would you do, Miss Falkner, if your father were accused of a crime?”
“My father and a crime! Impossible!” exclaimed Elizabeth; for, strange to say, all the self-accusations of Falkner fell empty on her ear. It was a virtue in him to be conscience-stricken for an error; of any real guilt she would have pledged her life that he was free.
“Yes — impossible!” cried Neville—”doubtless it is so; but did you hear his name stigmatized — shame attend your very kindred to him — What would you do? — defend him — prove his innocence — Would you not?”
“A life were well sacrificed to such a duty.”
“And to that very duty mine is devoted. In childhood I rebelled against the accusation with vain, but earnest indignation; now I am calmer because I am more resolved; but I will yield to no impediment — be stopped by no difficulty — not even by my father’s blind commands. My mother! dear name — dearer for the ills attached to it — my angel mother shall find an unfaltering champion in her son.”
“You must not be angry,” he continued, in reply to her look of wonder, “that I mention circumstances which it is customary to slur over and conceal. It is shame for me to speak — for you to hear — my mother’s name. That very thought gives a keener edge to my purpose. God knows what miserable truth is hidden by the veils which vanity, revenge and selfishness have drawn around my mother’s fate; but that truth — though it be a bleeding one — shall be disclosed, and her innocence be made as clear as the sun now shining above us.
“It is dreadful, very dreadful, to be told — to be persuaded that the idol of one’s thoughts is corrupt and vile. It is no new story, it is true — wives have been false to their husbands ere now, and some have found excuses, and sometimes been justified; it is the manner makes the thing. That my mother should have left her happy home — which, under her guardian eye, was Paradise — have deserted me, her child, whom she so fondly loved
— and who even in that unconscious age adored her — and her poor little girl, who died neglected — that year after year she has never inquired after us — nor sent nor sought a word — while following a stranger’s fortune through the world! That she whose nightly sleep was broken by her tender cares — whose voice so often lulled me, and whose every thought and act was pure as an angel’s — that she, tempted by the arch fiend, strayed from hell for her destruction, should leave us all to misery, and her own name to obloquy. No! no! The earth is yet sheltered by heaven, and sweet, and good things abide in it — and she was, and is, among them sweetest and best!”
Neville was carried away by his feelings — while Elizabeth, overpowered by his vehemence — astonished by the wild, strange tale he disclosed, listened in silence, yet an eloquent silence — for her eyes filled with tears — and her heart burned in her bosom with a desire to show how entirely she shared his deep emotion.
“I have made a vow,” he continued—”it is registered in heaven; and each night as I lay my head on my pillow I renew it; and beside you — the best of earthly things now that my dear mother is gone. I repeat — that I devote my life to vindicate her who gave me life; and my selfish, revengeful father is here to impede — to forbid — but I trample on such obstacles, as on these dead leaves beneath our feet. You do not speak, Miss Falkner — did you ever hear of Mrs. Neville?”
“I have spent all my life out of England,” replied Elizabeth, “yet I have some recollection.”
