by Mary Shelley
“I do not doubt it — to the ends of the earth the base-minded love to carry the tale of slander and crime. You have heard of Mrs. Neville, who for the sake of a stranger deserted her home, her husband, her helpless children — and has never been heard of since; who, unheard and undefended, was divorced from her husband — whose miserable son was brought to witness against her. It is a story well fitted to raise vulgar wonder — vulgar abhorrence; do you wonder that I, who since I was nine years old have slept and waked on the thought, should have been filled with hate, rancour, and every evil passion, till the blessed thought dawned on my soul, that I would prove her innocence, and that she should be avenged — for this I live.”
“And now I must leave you. I received yesterday a letter which promises a clue to guide me through this labyrinth; wherever it leads, there I follow. My father has come to impede me — but I have, after using unvailing remonstrance, told him that I will obey a sense of duty independent of parental authority. I do not mean to see him again — I now go — but I could not resist the temptation of seeing you before I went, and proving to you the justice of my resolves. If you wish for further explanation, ask Sophia — tell her that she may relate all; there is not a thought or act of my life with which I would have you unacquainted, if you will deign to listen.”
“Thank you for this permission,” said Elizabeth; “Lady Cecil is desirous, I know, of telling me the cause of a melancholy which, good and kind as you are, you ought not to suffer. Alas! this is a miserable world: and when I hear of your sorrows, and remember my dear father’s, I think that I must be stone to feel no more than I do; and yet, I would give my life to assist you in your task.”
“I know well how generous you are, though I cannot now express how my heart thanks you. I will return before you leave my sister; wherever fate and duty drives me, I will see you again.”
They returned towards the house, and he left her; his horse was already saddled, and standing at the door; he was on it, and gone in a moment.
Elizabeth felt herself as in a dream when he was gone, yet her heart and wishes went with him; for she believed the truth of all he said, and revered the enthusiasm of affection that impelled his actions. There was something wild and proud in his manner, which forcibly reminded her of the boy of sixteen, who had so much interested her girlish mind; and his expressions, indignant and passionate as they were, yet vouched, by the very sentiment they conveyed, for the justice of his cause. “Gallant, noble-hearted being! God assist your endeavours! God and every good spirit that animates this world!” Thus her soul spoke as she saw him ride off; and, turning into the house, a half involuntary feeling made her take up the volume of Shakspeare containing Hamlet; and she was soon buried, not only in the interest of the drama itself, but in the various emotions it excited by the association it now bore to one she loved more even than she knew. It was nothing strange that Neville, essentially a dreamer and a poet, should have identified himself with the Prince of Denmark; while the very idea that he took to himself, and acted on sentiments thus high-souled and pure, adorned him yet more in her eyes, endowing him in ample measue with that ideality which the young and noble love to bestow on the objects of their attachment.
After a short time, she was interrupted by Lady Cecil, who looked disturbed and vexed. She said little, except to repine at Gerard’s going, and Sir Boyvill’s stay — he also was to depart the following morning: but Sir Boyvill was a man who made his presence felt disagreeably, even when it was limited to a few hours. Strangers acknowledged this; no one liked the scornful, morose old man; and a near connexion, who was open to so many attacks, and sincerely loved one whom Sir Boyvill pretended most to depreciate, was even more susceptible to the painful feelings he always contrived to spread round him. To despise every body, to contradict every body with marks of sarcasm and contempt, to set himself up for an idol, and yet to scorn his worshippers; these were the prominent traits of his character, added to a galled and sore spirit, which was for ever taking offence, which discerned an attack in every word, and was on the alert to repay these fancied injuries with real and undoubted insult. He had been a man of fashion, and retained as much good breeding as was compatible with a tetchy and revengeful temper; this was his only merit.
He was nearly seventy years of age, remarkably well preserved, but with strongly marked features, and a countenance deeply lined, set off by a young looking wig, which took all venerableness from his appearance, without bestowing juvenility; his lips were twisted into a sneer, and there was something in his evident vanity that might have provoked ridicule, but that traces of a violent, unforgiving temper prevented him from being merely despicable, while they destroyed every particle of compassion with which he might have been regarded; for he was a forlorn old man, separating himself from those allied to him by blood or connexion, excellent as they were. His only pleasure had been in society; secluding himself from that, or presenting himself only in crowds, where he writhed to find that he went for nothing, he was miserable, yet not to be comforted, for the torments he endured were integral portions of his own nature.
He looked surprised to see Elizabeth, and was at first very civil to her, with a sort of old-fashioned gallantry which, had it been good-humoured, might have amused, but, as it was, appeared forced, misplaced, and rendered its object very uncomfortable. Whatever Lady Cecil said, he contradicted. He made disagreeable remarks about her children, prophesying in them so much future torment; and when not personally impertinent, amused them by recapitulating all the most scandalous stories rife in London of unfaithful wives and divided families, absolutely gloating with delight, when he narrated any thing peculiarly disgraceful. After half an hour, Elizabeth quite hated him; and he extended the same sentiment to her on her bestowing a meed of praise on his son. “Yes,” he said, in reply, “Gerard is a very pleasant person; if I said he was half madman, half fool, I should certainly say too much, and appear an unkind father; but the sort of imbecility that characterizes his understanding is, I think, only equalled by his self-willed defiance of all laws which society has established; in conduct he very much resembles a lunatic armed with a weapon of offence, which he does not fear himself, and deals about on those unfortunately connected with him, with the same indifference to wounds.”
On this speech, Lady Cecil coloured and rose from the table, and her friend gladly followed; leaving Sir Boyvill to his solitary wine. Never had Elizabeth experienced before the intolerable weight of an odious person’s society — she was stunned. “We have but one resource,” said Lady Cecil; “you must sit down to the piano. Sir Boyvill is too polite not to entreat you to play on, and too weary not to fall asleep; he is worse than ever.”
“But he is your father!” cried Elizabeth, astonished.
“No, thank heaven!” said Lady Cecil.—”What could have put that into your head? Oh, I see — I call Gerard my brother. Sir Boyvill married my poor mother, who is since dead. We are only connected — I am happy to say — there is no drop of his blood in my veins. But I hear him coming. Do play something of Herz. The noise will drown every other sound, and even astonish my father-in-law.”
The evening was quickly over, for Sir Boyvill retired early; the next morning he was gone, and the ladies breathed freely again. It is impossible to attempt to describe the sort of moral nightmare the presence of such a man produces. “Do you remember in Madame de Sévigné’s Letters,” said Lady Cecil, “where she observes that disagreeable society is better than good — because one is so pleased to get rid of it? In this sense, Sir Boyvill is the best company in the whole world. We will take a long drive to-day, to get rid of the last symptoms of the Sir Boyvill fever.”
“And you will tell me what all this mystery means,” said Elizabeth. “Mr. Neville gave some hints yesterday; but referred me to you. You may tell me all.”
“Yes; I am aware,” replied Lady Cecil. “This one good, at least, I have reaped from Sir Boyvill’s angry visit. I am permitted to explain to you the causes o
f our discord, and of dear Gerard’s sadness. I shall win your sympathy for him, and exculpate us both. It is a mournful tale — full of unexplainable mystery — shame — and dreaded ill. It fills me perpetually with wonder and regret; nor do I see any happy termination, except in the oblivion, in which I wish that it was buried. Here is the carriage. We will not take any of the children with us, that we may suffer no interruption.”
Elizabeth’s interest was deeply excited, and she was as eager to listen as her friend to tell. The story outlasted a long drive. It was ended in the dusky twilight — as they sat after dinner, looking out on the summer woods — while the stars came out twinkling amidst the foliage of the trees — and the deer crept close to graze. The hour was still — and was rendered solemn by a tale as full of heartfelt sorrow, and generous enthusiasm, as ever won maiden’s attention, and bespoke her favour for him who loved and suffered.
CHAPTER XVI.
Lady Cecil began: —
“I have already told you that though I call Gerard my brother, and he possesses my sisterly affection, we are only connexions by marriage, and not the least related in blood. His father married my mother; but Gerard is the offspring of a former marriage, as I am also. Sir Boyvill’s first wife is the unfortunate lady who is the heroine of my tale.
“Sir Boyvill, then Mr. Neville, for he inherited his baronetcy only a few years ago, had advanced beyond middle age when he first married. He was a man of the world, and of pleasure; and being also clever, handsome, and rich, had great success in the circles of fashion. He was often involved in liaisons with ladies, whose names were rife among the last generation for loving notoriety and amusement better than duty and honour. As he made a considerable figure, he conceived that he had a right to entertain a high opinion of himself, and not without some foundation; his good sayings were repeated; his songs were set to music, and sung with enthusiasm in his own set — he was courted and feared. Favoured by women, imitated by men, he reached the zenith of a system, any connection with which is considered as enviable.
“He was some five-and-forty when he fell in love, and married. Like many dissipated men, he had a mean idea of female virtue — and especially disbelieved that any portion of it was to be found in London; so he married a country girl, without fortune, but with beauty and attractions sufficient to justify his choice. I never saw his lady; but several of her early friends have described her to me. She was something like Gerard — yet how unlike! In the colour of the eyes and hair, and the formation of the features, they resembled; but the expression was wholly different. Her clear complexion was tinged by a pure blood, that ebbed and flowed rapidly in her veins, driven by the pulsations of her soul, rather than of her body. Her large dark eyes were irresistibly brilliant; and opened their lids on the spectator, with an effect such as the sun has, when it drops majestically below a heavy cloud, and dazzles the beholder with its unexpected beams. She was vivacious — nay wild of spirit; but though raised far above the dull monotony of common life by her exuberant joyousness of soul, yet every thought and act was ruled by a pure, unsullied heart. Her impulses were keen and imperative; her sensibility, true to the touch of nature, was tremblingly alive; but their more dangerous tendencies were guarded by excellent principles, and a truth never shadowed by a cloud. Her generous and confiding heart might be duped — might spring forward too eagerly — and she might be imprudent; but she was never false. An ingenuous confession of error, if ever she fell into it, purged away all suspicion that any thing mysterious or forbidden lurked in her most thoughtless acts. Other women, who like her are keenly sensitive, and who are driven by ungovernable spirits to do what they afterwards repent, and are endowed, as she was, with an aptitude to shame when rebuked, guard their dignity or their fears by falsehood; and while their conduct is essentially innocent, immesh themselves in such a web of deceit, as not only renders them absolutely criminal in the eyes of those who detect them, but in the end hardens and perverts their better nature. Alithea Neville never sheltered herself from the consequences of her faults; rather she met them too eagerly, acknowledged a venial error with too much contrition, and never rested till she had laid her heart bare to her friend and judge, and vindicated its every impulse. To this admirable frankness, soft tenderness, and heart-cheering gaiety, was added a great store of common sense. Her fault, if fault it could be called, was a too earnest craving for the sympathy and affection of those she loved; to obtain this, she was unwearied, nay prodigal, in her endeavours to please and serve. Her generosity was a ready prompter, while her sensibility enlightened her. She sought love, and not applause; and she obtained both from all who knew her. To sum up all with the mention of a defect — though she could feel the dignity which an adherence to the dictates of duty imparts, yet sometimes going wrong — sometimes wounded by censure, and always keenly alive to blame, she had a good deal of timidity in her character. She was so susceptible to pain, that she feared it too much, too agonizingly; and this terror of meeting any thing harsh or grating in her path, rendered her too diffident of herself — too submissive to authority — too miserable, and too yielding, when any thing disturbed the harmony with which she desired to be surrounded.
“It was these last qualities probably that led her to accept Mr. Neville’s offer. Her father wished it, and she obeyed. He was a retired lieutenant in the navy. Sir Boyvill got him raised to the rank of post captain; and what naval officer but would feel unbounded gratitude for such a favour! He was appointed to a ship — sailed — and fell in an engagement not many months after his daughter’s marriage — grateful, even in his last moments, that he died commanding the deck of a man-of-war. Meanwhile his daughter bore the effects of his promotion in a less gratifying way. Yet, at first, she loved and esteemed her husband. He was not then what he is now. He was handsome; and his good-breeding had the polish of the day. He was popular, through a sort of liveliness which passes for wit, though it was rather a conventional ease in conversation than the sparkle of real intellect. Besides, he loved her to idolatry. Whatever he is now, still vehemence of passion forms his characteristic; and though the selfishness of his disposition gave an evil bias even to his love, yet it was there, and for a time it shed its delusions over his real character. While her artless and sweet caresses could create smiles — while he played the slave at her feet, or folded her in his arms with genuine and undisguised transport, even his darker nature was adorned by the, to him, alien and transitory magic of love.
“But marriage too soon changed Sir Boyvill for the worse. Close intimacy disclosed the distortions of his character. He was a vain and a selfish man. Both qualities rendered him exacting in the extreme; and the first give birth to the most outrageous jealousy. Alithea was too ingenuous for him to be able to entertain suspicions; but his jealousy was nourished by the difference of their age and temper. She was nineteen — in the first bloom of loveliness — in the freshest spring of youthful spirits — too innocent to suspect his doubts — too kind in her most joyous hour to fancy that she could offend. He was a man of the world — a thousand times had seen men duped and women deceive. He did not know of the existence of a truth as spotless and uncompromising as existed in Alithea’s bosom. He imagined that he was marked out as the old husband of a young wife; he feared that she would learn that she might have married more happily; and, desirous of engrossing her all to himself, a smile spent on another was treason to the absolute nature of his rights. At first she was blind to his bad qualities. A thousand times he frowned when she was gay — a thousand times ill humour and cutting reproofs were the results of her appearing charming to others, before she discovered the selfish and contemptible nature of his passion, and became aware that, to please him, she must blight and uproot all her accomplishments, all her fascinations; that she must for ever curb her wish to spread happiness around; that she, the very soul of generous unsuspecting goodness, must become cramped in a sort of bed of Procrustes, now having one portion lopped off, and then another, till the maimed, and ha
lf-alive remnant should resemble the soulless niggard tyrant, whose every thought and feeling centred in his Lilliputian self. That she did at last make this discovery, cannot be doubted; though she never disclosed her disappointment, nor complained of the tyranny from which she suffered. She grew heedful not to displease, guarded in her behaviour to others, and so accommodated her manner to his wishes, as showed that she feared, but concealed that she no longer esteemed him. A new reserve sprang up in her character, which after all was not reserve; for it was only the result of her fear to give pain, and of her unalterable principles. Had she spoken of her husband’s faults, it would have been to himself — but she had no spirit of governing — and quarrelling and contention were the antipodes of her nature. If, indeed, this silent yielding to her husband’s despotism was contrary to her original frankness, it was a sacrifice made to what she esteemed her duty, and never went beyond the silence which best becomes the injured.
“It cannot be doubted that she was alive to her husband’s faults. Generous, she was restrained by his selfishness; enthusiastic, she was chilled by his worldly wisdom; sympathetic, she was rebuked by a jealousy that demanded every feeling. She was like a poor bird, that with untired wing would mount gaily to the skies, when on each side the wires of the aviary impede its flight. Still it was her principle that we ought not to endeavour to form a destiny for ourselves, but to act well our part on the scene where Providence has placed us. She reflected seriously, and perhaps sadly, for the first time in her life; and she formed a system for herself, which would give the largest extent to the exercise of her natural benevolence, and yet obviate the suspicions, and cure the fears, of her narrowminded, self-engrossed husband.
“In pursuance of her scheme, she made it her request that they should take up their residence entirely at their seat in the north of England; giving up London society, and transforming herself altogether into a country lady. In her benevolent schemes, in the good she could there do, and in the few friends she could gather round her, against whom her husband could form no possible objection, she felt certain of possessing a considerable share of rational happiness — exempt from the hurry and excitement of town, for which her sensitive and ardent mind rendered her very unfit, under the guidance of a man who at once desired that she should hold a foremost place, and was yet disturbed by the admiration which she elicited. Sir Boyvill complied with seeming reluctance, but real exultation. He possesses a delightful seat in the southern part of Cumberland. Here, amidst a simple-hearted peasantry, and in a neighbourhood where she could cultivate many social pleasures, she gave herself up to a life which would have been one of extreme happiness, had not the exactions, the selfishness, the uncongenial mind of Sir Boyvill, debarred her from the dearest blessing of all — sympathy and friendship with the partner of her life.
