by Mary Shelley
“Soon, very soon, had doubts of his wife’s allegiance, and a suspicion of her connivance, insinuated themselves. Like all evilly inclined persons, he jumped at once into a belief of the worst; her taking her son with her was a mere contrivance, or worse, since her design had probably been to carry him with her — a design frustrated by accident, and the lukewarmness of her lover on that point; the letter left behind, he looked on as a fabrication left there to gloss over her conduct. He forgot her patient goodness — her purity of soul — her devoted attachment to her children — her truth; and attributed at once the basest artifice — the grossest want of feeling. Want of feeling in her! She whose pulses quickened, and whose blushes were, called up at a word; she who idolized her child even to a fault, and whose tender sympathy was alive to every call; but these demonstrations of sensibility grew into accusations. Her very goodness and guarded propriety were against her. Why appear so perfect, except to blind? Why seclude herself, except from fears, which real virtue need never entertain? Why foster the morbid sensibility of her child, except from a craving for that excitement which is a token of depravity? In this bad world we are apt to consider every deviation from stony apathy as tending at last to the indulgence of passions against which society has declared a ban; and thus with poor Alithea, all could see, it was said, that a nature so sensitive must end in ill at last; and that, if tempted, she must yield to an influence, which few, even of the coldest natures, can resist.
“While Sir Boyvill revolved these thoughts, he grew gloomy and sullen. At first his increased unhappiness was attributed to sorrow; but a little word betrayed the real source — a little word that named his wife with scorn. That word turned the tide of public feeling; and she, who had been pitied and wept as dead, was now regarded as a voluntary deserter from her home. Her virtues were remembered against her; and surmises, which before would have been reprobated almost as blasphemy, became current as undoubted truths.
“It was long before Gerard became aware of this altered feeling. The minds of children are such a mystery to us! They are so blank, yet so susceptible of impression, that the point where ignorance ends and knowledge is perfected, is an enigma often impossible to solve. From the time that he rose from his sick bed, the boy was perpetually on the watch for intelligence — eagerly inquiring what discoveries were made — what means were used for, what hopes entertained of, his mother’s rescue. He had asked his father, whether he should not be justified in shooting the villain who had stolen her, if ever he met him? He had shed tears of sorrow and pity, until indignation swallowed up each softer feeling, and a desire to succour and to avenge became paramount. His dear, dear mother! that she should be away — kept from him by force — that he could not find — not get at her, were ideas to incense his young heart to its very height of impatience and rage. Every one seemed too tame — too devoid of expedients and energy. It appeared an easy thing to measure the whole earth, step by step, and inch by inch, leaving no portion uninspected, till she was found and liberated. He longed to set off on such an expedition; it was his dream by night and day; and he communicated these bursting feelings to every one, with an overflowing eloquence, inexpressibly touching from its truth and earnestness.
“Suddenly he felt the change. Perhaps some officious domestic suggested the idea. He says himself, it came on him as infection may be caught by one who enters an hospital. He saw it in the eyes — he felt it in the air and manner of all: his mother was believed to be a voluntary fugitive; of her own accord she went, and never would return. At the thought his heart grew sick within him:
“‘To see his nobleness!
Conceiving the dishonour of his mother,
He straight declined upon’t, drooped, took it deeply;
Fastened and fixed the shame on’t in himself;
Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep,
And downright languished.’
“He refused food, and turned in disgust from every former pursuit. Hitherto he had ardently longed for the return of his mother; and it seemed to him that give his limbs but a manlier growth, let a few years go over, and he should find and bring her back in triumph. But that contumely and disgrace should fall on that dear mother’s head; how could he avert that? The evil was remediless, and death was slight in comparison. One day he walked up to his father, and fixing his clear young eyes upon him, said: ‘I know what you think, but it is not true. Mamma would come back if she could. When I am a man I will find and bring her back, and you will be sorry then!’
“What more he would have said was lost in sobs. His heart had beat impetuously as he had worked on himself to address his father, and assert his mother’s truth; but the consciousness that she was indeed gone, and that for years there was no hope of seeing her, broke in — his throat swelled, he felt suffocated, and fell down in a fit.”
VOLUME II.
CHAPTER I.
Lady Cecil had broken off her tale on their return from their morning drive. She resumed it in the evening, as she and Elizabeth sat looking on the summer woods; and the soft but dim twilight better accorded with her melancholy story.
“Poor Gerard! His young heart was almost broken by struggling passions, and the want of tenderness in those about him. After this scene with his father his life was again in the greatest danger for some days, but at last health of body returned. He lay on his little couch, pale and wasted, an altered child — but his heart was the same, and he adhered tenaciously to one idea. ‘Nurse,’ he said one day, to the woman who had attended him from his birth, ‘I wish you would take pen and paper, and write down what I am going to say. Or if that is too much trouble, I wish you would remember every word and repeat it to my father. I cannot speak to him. He does not love mamma as he used; he is unjust, and I cannot speak to him — but I wish to tell every little thing that happened, that people may see that what I say is true — and be as sure as I am that mamma never meant to go away.
“‘When we met the strange gentleman first, we walked along the lane, and I ran about gathering flowers — yet I remember I kept thinking, why is mamma offended with that gentleman? — what right has he to displease her? and I came back with it in my mind to tell him that he should not say anything to annoy mamma; but when I took her hand, she seemed no longer angry, but very, very sorry. I remember she said—”I grieve deeply for you, Rupert” — and then she added—”My good wishes are all I have to give” — I remember the words, for they made me fancy, in a most childish manner, mamma must have left her purse at home — and I began to think of my own — but seeing him so well dressed, I felt a few shillings would do him no good. Mamma talked on very softly — looking up in the stranger’s face; he was tall — taller, younger — and better looking than papa: and I ran on again, for I did not know what they were talking about. At one time mamma called me and said she would go back, and I was very glad, for it was growing late and I felt hungry — but the stranger said: “Only a little further — to the end of the lane only,” so we walked on and he talked about her forgetting him, and she said something that that was best — and he ought to forget her. On this he burst forth very angrily, and I grew angry too — but he changed, and asked her to forgive him — and so we reached the end of the lane.
“‘We stopped there, and mamma held out her hand and said — Farewell! — and something more — when suddenly we heard the sound of wheels, and a carriage came at full speed round from a turn in the road; it stopped close to us — her hand trembled which held mine — and the stranger said—”You see I said true — I am going — and shall soon be far distant; I ask but for one half hour — sit in the carriage, it is getting cold.” — Mamma said: “No, no — it is late — farewell;” but as she spoke, the stranger as it were led her forward, and in a moment lifted her up; he seemed stronger than any two men — and put her in the carriage — and got in himself, crying to me to jump after, which I would have done, but the postillion whipped the horses. I was thrown almost under the wheel by the sudden mot
ion — I heard mamma scream, but when I got up the carriage was already a long way off — and though I called as loud as I could — and ran after it — it never stopped, and the horses were going at full gallop. I ran on — thinking it would stop or turn back — and I cried out on mamma — while I ran so fast that I was soon breathless — and she was out of hearing — and then I shrieked and cried, and threw myself on the ground — till I thought I heard wheels, and I got up and ran again — but it was only the thunder — and that pealed, and the wind roared, and the rain came down — and I could keep my feet no longer, but fell on the ground and forgot every thing, except that mamma must come back and I was watching for her. And this, nurse, is my story — Every word is true — and is it not plain that mamma was carried away by force?’
“‘Yes,’ said the woman, ‘no one doubts that, Master Gerard — but why does she not come back? — no man could keep her against her will in a Christian country like this.’
“‘Because she is dead or in prison,’ cried the boy, bursting into tears—’but I see you are as wicked as every body else — and have wicked thoughts too — and I hate you and every body — except mamma.’
“From that time Gerard was entirely altered; his boyish spirit was dashed — he brooded perpetually over the wrong done his mother — and was irritated to madness, by feeling that by a look and a word he could not make others share his belief in her spotless innocence. He became sullen, shy — shut up in himself — above all, he shunned his father. Months passed away: — requisitions, set on foot at first from a desire to succour, were continued from a resolve to revenge; no pains nor expense were spared to discover the fugitives, and all in vain. The opinion took root that they had fled to America — and who on that vast continent could find two beings resolved on concealment? Inquiries were made at New York and other principal towns: but all in vain.
“The strangest, and most baffling circumstance in this mystery was, that no guess could be formed as to who the stranger was. Though he seemed to have dropped from the clouds, he had evidently been known long before to Mrs. Neville. His name, it appeared, was Rupert — no one knew of any bearing that name. Had Alithea loved before her marriage? such a circumstance must have been carefully hidden, for her husband had never suspected it. Her childhood had been spent with her mother, her father being mostly at sea. When sixteen, she lost her mother, and after a short interval resided with her father, then retired from service. He had assured Sir Boyvill that his daughter had never loved; and the husband, jealous as he was, had never seen cause to doubt the truth of this statement. Had she formed any attachment during the first years of her married life? Was it to escape the temptation so held out, that she secluded herself in the country? Rupert was probably a feigned name; and Sir Boyvill tried to recollect who her favourites were, so to find a clue by their actions to her disappearance. It was in vain that he called to mind every minute circumstance, and pondered over the name of each visitor: he could remember nothing that helped discovery. Yet the idea that she had, several years ago, conceived a partiality for some man, who, as it proved, loved her to distraction, became fixed in Sir Boyvill’s mind. The thought poured venom on the time gone by. It might have been a virtue in her to banish him she loved and to seclude herself: but this mystery, where all seemed so frank and open, this defalcation of the heart, this inward thought which made no sign, yet ruled every action, was gall and wormwood to her proud, susceptible husband. That in her secret soul she loved this other, was manifest — for though it might be admitted that he used art and violence to tear her from her home — yet in the end she was vanquished; and even maternal duties and affections sacrificed to irresistible passion.
“Can you wonder that such a man as Sir Boyvill, ever engrossed by the mighty idea of self — yet fearful that that self should receive the minutest wound; proud of his wife — because, being so lovely and so admired, she was all his — grateful to her, for being so glorious and enviable a possession — can you wonder that this vain, but sensitive man, should be wound up to the height of jealous rage, by the loss of such a good, accompanied by circumstances of deception and dishonour? He had been fond of his wife in return for her affection, while she in reality loved another; he had respected the perfection of her truth, and there was falsehood at the core. Had she avowed the traitor passion; declared her struggles, and, laying bare her heart, confessed that, while she preferred his honour and happiness, yet in the weakness of her nature, another had stolen a portion of that sentiment which she desired to consecrate to him — then with what tenderness he had forgiven her — with what soothing forbearance he had borne her fault — how magnanimous and merciful he had shown himself! But she had acted the generous part; thanks had come from him — the shows of obligation from her. He fancied that he held a flower in his hand, from which the sweetest perfume alone could be extracted — but the germ was blighted, and the very core turned to bitter ashes and dust.
“Such a theme is painful; howsoever we view it, it is scarcely possible to imagine any event in life more desolating. To be happy, is to attain one’s wishes, and to look forward to the lastingness of their possession. Sir Boyvill had long been sceptical and distrusting — but at last he was brought to believe that he had drawn the fortunate ticket; that his wife’s faith was a pure and perfect chrysolite — and if in his heart he deemed that she did not regard him with all the reverence that was his due; if she did not nurture all the pride of place, and disdain of her fellow-creatures which he thought that his wife ought to feel — yet her many charms and virtues left him no room for complain. Her sensibility, her vivacity, her wit, her accomplishments — her exceeding loveliness — they were all undeniably his — and all made her a piece of enchantment. This merit was laid low — deprived of its crown — her fidelity to him; and the selfish, the heartless, and the cold, whom she reproved and disliked, were lifted to the eminence of virtue, while she lay fallen, degraded, worthless.
“Sir Boyvill was, in his own conceit, for ever placed on a pedestal; and he loved to imagine that he could say, ‘Look at me, you can see no defect! I am a wealthy, and a well-born man. I have a wife the envy of all — children, who promise to inherit all our virtues. I am prosperous — no harm can reach me — look at me!’ He was still on his pedestal, but had become a mark for scorn, for pity! Oh, how he loathed himself — how he abhorred her who had brought him to this pass! He had, in her best days, often fancied that he loved her too well, yielded too often his pride-nurtured schemes to her soft persuasions. He had indeed believed that Providence had created this exquisite and most beautiful being, that life might be made perfect to him. Besides, his months, and days, and hours, had been replete with her image; her very admirable qualities, accompanied as they were by the trembling delicacy, that droops at a touch, and then revives at a word; her quickness, not of temper, but of feeling, which received such sudden and powerful impression, formed her to be at once admired and cherished with the care a sweet exotic needs, when transplanted from its sunny, native clime, to the ungenial temperature of a northern land. It was madness to recollect all the fears he had wasted on her. He had foregone the dignity of manhood to wait on her — he had often feared to pursue his projects, lest they should jar some delicate chord in her frame; to his own recollection it seemed, that he had become but the lackey to her behests — and all for the sake of a love, which she bestowed on another — to preserve that honour, which she blasted without pity.
“It were in vain to attempt to delineate the full force of jealousy; — natural sorrow at losing a thing so sweet and dear was blended with anger, that he should be thrown off by her; the misery of knowing that he should never see her more, was mingled with a ferocious desire to learn that every disaster was heaped on one whom hitherto he had, as well as he could, guarded from every ill. To this we may add, commiseration for his deserted children. His son, late so animated, so free-spirited and joyous, a more promising child had never blessed a father’s hopes, was changed into a broo
ding grief-struck, blighted visionary. His little girl, the fairy thing he loved best of all, she was taken from him; the carelessness of a nurse during a childish illness caused her death, within a year after her mother’s flight. Had that mother remained, such carelessness had been impossible. Sir Boyvill felt that all good fell from him — the only remaining golden fruit dropped from the tree — calamity encompassed him; with his whole soul he abhorred and desired to wreak vengeance on her who caused the ill.
“After two years were past, and no tidings were received of the fugitives, it seemed plain that there could be but one solution to the mystery. No doubt she and her lover concealed themselves in some far land, under a feigned name. If indeed it were — if it be so, it might move any heart to imagine poor Alithea’s misery — the obloquy that mantles over her remembrance at home, while she broods over the desolation of the hearth she so long adorned, and the pining, impatient anguish of her beloved boy. What could or can keep her away, is matter of fearful conjecture; but this much is certain, that, at that time at least, and now, if she survives, she must be miserable. Sir Boyvill, if he deigned to recollect these things, enjoyed the idea of her anguish. But, without adverting to her state and feelings, he was desirous of obtaining what reparation he could; and to dispossess her of his name. Endeavours to find the fugitives in America, and false hopes held out, had delayed the process. He at last entered on it with eagerness. A thousand obvious reasons rendered a divorce desirable; and to him, with all his pride, then only would his pillow be without a thorn, when she lost his name, and every right, or tie, that bound them together. Under the singular circumstances of the case, he could only obtain a divorce by a bill in parliament, and to this measure he resorted.
