by Mary Shelley
“Gerard, removed from the bar, and carried home, recovered his composure — but he was silent — revolving the consequences which he expected would ensure from disobedience. His father had menaced to turn him out of doors, and he did not doubt but that this threat would be put into execution, so that he was somewhat surprised that he was taken home at all; perhaps they meant to send him to a place of exile of their own choosing, perhaps to make the expulsion public and ignominious. The powers of grown-up people appear so illimitable in a child’s eyes, who have no data whereby to discover the probable from the improbable. At length the fear of confinement became paramount; he revolted from it; his notion was to go and seek his mother — and his mind was quickly made up to forestall their violence, and to run away.
“He was ordered to confine himself to his own room — his food was brought to him — this looked like the confirmation of his fears. His heart swelled high: ‘They think to treat me like a child, but I will show myself independent — wherever my mother is, she is better than they all — if she is imprisoned, I will free her, or I will remain with her; how glad she will be to see me — how happy shall we be again together! My father may have all the rest of the world to himself, when I am with my mother, in a cavern or a dungeon, I care not where.’
“Night came on — he went to bed — he even slept, and awoke terrified to think that the opportune hour might be overpast — daylight was dawning faintly in the east; the clocks of London struck four — he was still in time — every one in the house slept; he rose and dressed — he had nearly ten guineas of his own, this was all his possession, he had counted them the night before — he opened the door of his chamber — daylight was struggling with darkness, and all was very still — he stepped out, he descended the stairs, he got into the hall — every accustomed object seemed new and strange at that early hour, and he looked with some dismay at the bars and bolts of the house door — he feared making a noise, and rousing some servant, still the thing must be attempted; slowly and cautiously he pushed back the bolts, he lifted up the chain — it fell from his hands with terrific clatter on the stone pavement — his heart was in his mouth — he did not fear punishment, but he feared ill success; he listened as well as his throbbing pulses permitted — all was still — the key of the door was in the lock, it turned easily at his touch, and in another moment the door was open; the fresh air blew upon his cheeks — the deserted treet was before him. He closed the door after him, and with a sort of extra caution locked it on the outside and then took to his heels, throwing the key down a neighbouring street. When out of sight of his home, he walked more slowly, and began to think seriously of the course to pursue. To find his mother! — all the world had been trying to find her, and had not succeeded — but he believed that by some means she would hear of his escape and come to him — but whither go in the first instance? — his heart replied, to Cumberland, to Dromore — there he had lived with his mother — there had he lost her — he felt assured that in its neighbourhood he should again be restored to her.
“Travelling had given him some idea of distance, and of the modes of getting from one place to another — he felt that it would be a task of too great difficulty to attempt walking across England — he had no carriage, he knew of no ship to take him, some conveyance he must get, so he applied to a hackney coach. It was standing solitary in the middle of the street, the driver asleep on the steps — the skeleton horses hanging down their heads — with the peculiarly disconsolate look these poor hacked animals have. Gerard, as the son of a wealthy man, was accustomed to consider that he had a right to command those whom he could pay — yet fear of discovery and being sent back to his father, filled him with unusual fears; he looked at the horses and the man — he advanced nearer, but he was afraid to take the decisive step, till the driver awaking, started up and shook himself, stared at the boy, and seeing him well dressed — and he looked too, older than his years, from being tall — he asked, ‘Do you want me, sir?’
“‘Yes,’ said Gerard, ‘I want you to drive me.’
“‘Get in then. Where are you going?’
“‘I am going a long way — to Dromore, that is in Cumberland—’
“The boy hesitated; it struck him that those miserable horses could not carry him far. ‘Then you want me to take you to the stage,’ said the man. ‘It goes from Piccadilly — at five — we have no time to lose.’
“Gerard got in — on they jumbled — and arriving at the coach office, saw some half dozen stages ready to start. The name of Liverpool on one struck the boy, by the familiar name. If he could get to Liverpool, it were easy afterwards even to walk to Dromore; so getting out of the hackney coach, he went up to the coachman, who was mounting his box, and asked, ‘Will you take me to Liverpool?’
“‘Yes, my fine fellow, if you can pay the fare.’
“‘How much is it?’ drawing out his purse.
“‘Inside or outside?’
“From the moment he had addressed these men, and they began to talk of money, Gerard, calling to mind the vast disbursements of gold coin he had seen made by his father and the courier on their travels, began to fear that his little stock would ill suffice to carry him so far; and the first suggestion of prudence the little fellow ever experienced made him now answer, ‘Whichever costs least.’
“‘Outside then.’
“‘Oh I have that — I can pay you.’
“‘Jump up then, my lad — lend me your hand — here, by me — that’s right — all’s well, you’re just in the nick, we are off directly.’
“He cracked his whip, and away they flew; and as they went, Gerard felt free, and going to his mother.
“Such in these civilized times are the facilities offered to the execution of our wildest wishes! the consequences, the moral consequences, are still the same, still require the same exertions to overcome them; but we have no longer to fight with physical impediments. If Gerard had begun his expedition from any other town, curiosity had perhaps been excited; but in the vast, busy metropolis each one takes care of himself, and few scrutinize the motives or means of others. Perched up on the coach-box, Gerard had a few questions to answer — Was he going home? did he live in Liverpool? but the name of Dromore was a sufficing answer. The coachman had never heard of such a place; but it was a gentleman’s seat, and it was Gerard’s home, and that was enough.
“Some day you must ask Gerard to relate to you his adventures during this journey. They will come warmly and vividly from him; while mine, as a mere reflex, must be tame. It is his mind I would describe; and I will not pause to narrate the tantalizing cross questioning that he underwent from a Scotchman — nor the heart-heavings with which he heard allusions made to the divorce case before the Lords. A newspaper describing his own conduct was in the hands of one of the passengers; he heard his mother lightly alluded to. He would have leaped from the coach; but that was to give up all. He pressed his hands to his ears — he scowled on those around — his heart was on fire. Yet he had one consolation. He was free. He was going to her — he resolved never to mingle with his fellow creatures more. Buried in some rural retreat with his mother, it mattered little what the vulgar and the indifferent said about either.
“Some qualms did assail him. Should he find his dear mother? Where was she? his childish imagination refused to paint her distant from Dromore — his own removal from that mansion so soon after losing her, associated her indelibly with the mountains, the ravines, the brawling streams, and clustering woods of his natal county. She must be there. He would drive away the man of violence who took her from him, and they would be happy together.
“A day and a night brought him to Liver-pool, and the coachman hearing whither he wished to go, deposited him in the stage for Lancaster on his arrival. He went inside this time, and slept all the way. At Lancaster he was recognized by several persons, and they wondered to see him alone. He was annoyed at their recognition and questionings; and though it was night when he arrived, ins
tantly set off to walk to Dromore.
“For two months from this time he lived wandering from cottage to cottage, seeking his mother. The journey from Lancaster to Dromore he performed as speedily as he well could. He did not enter the house — that would be delivering himself up as a prisoner. By night he clambered the park railings, and entered like a thief the demesnes where he had spent his childhood. Each path was known to him, and almost every tree. Here he sat with his mother; there they found the first violet of spring. His pilgrimage was achieved; but where was she? His heart beat as he reached the little gate whence they had issued on that fatal night. All the grounds bore marks of neglect and the master’s absence; and the lock of this gate was spoiled; a sort of rough bolt had been substituted. Gerard pushed it back. The rank grass had gathered thick on the threshold; but it was the same spot. How well he remembered it!
“Two years only had since passed, he was still a child; yet to his own fancy how much taller, how much more of a man he had become! Besides, he now fancied himself master of his own actions — he had escaped from his father; and he — who had threatened to turn him out of doors — would not seek to possess himself of him again. He belonged to no one — he was cared for by no one — by none but her whom he sought with firm, yet anxious expectation. There he had seen her last — he stepped forward; he followed the course of the lane — he came to where the road crossed it — where the carriage drove up, where she had been torn from him.
“It was day-break — a June morning; all was golden and still — a few birds twittered, but the breeze was hushed, and he looked out on the extent of country commanded from the spot where he stood, and saw only nature, the rugged hills, the green corn-fields, the flowery meads, and the umbrageous trees in deep repose. How different from the wild, tempestuous night, when she whom he sought was torn away; he could then see only a few yards before him, now he could mark the devious windings of the road, and, afar off, distinguish the hazy line of the ocean. He sat down to reflect — what was he to do? in what nook of the wide expanse was his mother hid? that some portion of the landscape he viewed, harboured her, was his fixed belief; a belief founded in inexperience and fancy, but not the less deep-rooted. He meditated for some time, and then walked forward — he remembered when he ran panting and screaming along that road; he was a mere child then, and what was he now? a boy of eleven, yet he looked back with disdain to the endeavours of two years before.
“He walked along in the same direction that he had at that time pursued, and soon found that he reached the turnpike road to Lancaster. He turned off, and went by the cross road that leads to the wild and dreary plains that form the coast. The inner range of picturesque hills, on the declivity of which Dromore is situated, is not more than five miles from the sea; but the shore itself is singularly blank and uninteresting, varied only by sandhills thrown up to the height of thirty or forty feet, intersected by rivers, which at low water are fordable even on foot; but which, when the tide is up, are dangerous to those who do not know the right track, from the holes and ruts which render the bed of the river uneven. In winter, indeed, at the period of spring tides, or in stormy weather, with a west wind which drives the ocean towards the shore, the passage is often exceedingly dangerous, and, except under the direction of an experienced guide, fatal accidents occur.
“Gerard reached the borders of the ocean, near one of these streams; behind him rose his native mountains, range above range, divided by tremendous gulfs, varied by the shadows of the clouds, and the gleams of sunlight; close to him was the waste sea shore; the ebbing tide gave a dreary sluggish appearance to the ocean, and the river — a shallow, rapid stream — emptied its slender pittance of mountain water noiselessly into the lazy deep. It was a scene of singular desolation. On the other side of the river, not far from the mouth, was a rude hut, unroofed, and fallen to decay — erected, perhaps, as the abode of a guide; near it grew a stunted tree, withered, moss-covered, spectre-like — the sand hills lay scattered around — the sea gull screamed above, and skimmed over the waste. Gerard sat down and wept — motherless — escaped from his angry father; even to his young imagination, his fate seemed as drear and gloomy as the scene around.
CHAPTER III.
“I donot know why I have dwelt on these circumstances so long. Let me hasten to finish. For two months Gerard wandered in the neighbourhood of Dromore. If he saw a lone cottage, embowered in trees, hidden in some green recess of the hills, sequestered and peaceful, he thought, Perhaps my mother is there! and he clambered towards it, finding it at last, probably, a mere shepherd’s hut, poverty stricken, and tenanted by a noisy family. His money was exhausted — he made a journey to Lancaster to sell his watch, and then returned to Cumberland — his clothes, his shoes were worn out — often he slept in the open air — ewes’ milk cheese and black bread were his fare — his hope was to find his mother — his fear, to fall again into his father’s hands. But as the first sentiment failed, his friendless condition grew more sad; he began to feel that he was indeed a feeble helpless boy — abandoned by all — he thought nothing was left for him, but to lie down and die.
“Meanwhile he was noticed, and at last recognized, by some of the tenants; and information reached his father of where he was. Unfortunately the circumstance of his disappearance became public. It was put into the newspapers as a mysterious occurrence; and the proud Sir Boyvill found himself not only pitied on account of his wife’s conduct, but suspected of cruelty towards his only child. At first he was himself frightened and miserable; but when he heard where Gerard was, and that he could be recovered at any time, these softer feelings were replaced by fury. He sent the tutor to possess himself of his son’s person. He was seized with the help of a constable; treated more like a criminal than an unfortunate erring child; carried back to Buckinghamshire; shut up in a barricadoed room; debarred from air and exercise; lectured; menaced; treated with indignity. The boy, hitherto accustomed to more than usual indulgence and freedom, was at first astonished, and then wildly indignant at the treatment he suffered. He was told that he should not be set free till he submitted. He believed that to mean, until he should give testimony against his mother. He resolved rather to die. Several times he endeavoured to escape, and was brought back and treated with fresh barbarity — his hands bound, and stripes inflicted by menials; till driven to despair, he at one time determined to starve himself, and at another, tried to bribe a servant to bring him poison. The trusting piety inculcated by his gentle mother, was destroyed by the ill-judged cruelty of his father and his doltish substitute. It is painful to dwell on such circumstances; to think of a sensitive, helpless child treated with the brutality exercised towards a galleyslave. Under this restraint, Gerard grew such as you saw him at Baden — sullen, ferocious, plunged in melancholy, delivered up to despair.
“It was some time before he discovered that the submission demanded of him was, not to run away again. On learning this, he wrote to his father. He spoke with horror of the personal indignities he had endured; of his imprisonment; of the conduct of Mr. Carter. He did not mean it as such; but his letter grew into an affecting, irresistible appeal, that even moved Sir Boyvill. His stupid pride prevented him from showing the regret he felt. He still used the language of reproof and conditional pardon; but the tutor was dismissed, and Gerard restored to liberty. Had his father been generous or just enough to show his regret, he might probably have obliterated the effects of his harshness; as it was, Gerard gave no thanks for a boon which saved his life, but restored him to none of its social blessings. He was still friendless; still orphaned in his affections; still the memory of intolerable tyranny, the recurrence of which was threatened, if he made an ill use of the freedom accorded him, clung like the shirt of Nessus; and his noble, ardent nature was lacerated by the intolerable recollection of slavish terrors.
“You saw him at Baden; and it was at Baden that I also first knew him. You had left the baths when my mother and I arrived. We became acquainted with Sir Boyv
ill. He was still handsome; he was rich; and those qualities of mind which ill agreed with Alithea’s finer nature, did not displease a fashionable woman of the world. Such was my mother. Something that was called an attachment sprang up, and they married. She preferred the situation of wife to that of widow; and he, having been accustomed to the social comforts of a domestic circle, despite his disasters, disliked his bachelor state. They married; and I, just then eighteen — just out, as it is called — became the sister of my beloved Gerard.
“I feel pride when I think of the services that I have rendered him. He had another fall from his horse not long after, or rather again urging the animal down a precipice, it fell. He was underneath, and his leg was broken. During the long confinement that ensued, I was his faithful nurse and companion. Naturally lively, yet I could sympathise in his sorrows. By degrees I won his confidence. He told me all his story; all his feelings. He grew mild and soft under my influence. He grew to regret that he had been vanquished by adversity, so as to become almost what he was accused of being, a frantic idiot. As he talked of his mother, and the care she bestowed on his early years, he wept to think how unlike he was to the creature she had wished him to become. A desire to reform, to repair past faults, to school himself, grew out of such talk. He threw off his sullenness and gloom. He became studious at the same time that he grew gentle. His education, which had proceeded but badly, while he refused to lend his mind to improvement, was now the object of his own thoughts and exertions. Instead of careering wildly over the hills, or being thrown under some tree, delivered up to miserable reverie, he asked for masters, and was continually seen with a book in his hands.
