by Mary Shelley
“The passion of his soul still subsisted, modulated by his new feelings. He continued to believe in the innocence of his mother, though he often doubted her existence. He longed inexpressibly to unveil the mystery that shrouded her fate. He devoted himself in his heart to discovering the truth. He resolved to occupy his whole life in the dear task of reinstating her in that cloudless purity of reputation which he intimately felt she had never deserved to forfeit. He considered the promise exacted from him by his father as preventing him from following up his design, and as binding him till he was twenty-one. Till then he deferred his endeavours. No young spendthrift ever aspired for the attainment of the age of freedom, and the possession of an estate, as vehemently as did Gerard for the hour which was to permit him to deliver himself wholly up to this task.
“Before that time arrived, I married. I wished to take him abroad with us; but the unfounded (as I believe) notion, that the secret of his mother’s fate is linked to the English shores, made him dislike to leave his native country. It was only on our return that he consented to come as far as Marseilles to meet us.
“When he had reached the age of twenty-one, he announced to his father his resolve to discover his mother’s fate. Sir Boyvill was highly indignant. The only circumstance that at all mitigated the disgrace of his wife’s flight, was the oblivion into which she and all concerning her had sunk. To have new inquiries set on foot, and the forgotten shame recalled to the memories of men, appeared not less wicked than insane. He remonstrated, he grew angry, he stormed, he forbade; but Gerard considered that time had set a limit to his authority, and only withdrew in silence, not the less determined to pursue his own course.
“I need not say that he met with no success; a mystery, so impenetrable at first, does not acquire clearness, after time has obscured the little ever known. Whatever were the real circumstances, and feelings, that occasioned her flight, however innocent she might then be, time has cemented his mother’s union with another, and made her forget those she left behind. Or may I not say, what I am inclined to believe, that though the violence of another was the cause, at last, of guilt in her, yet she pined for those she deserted, that her heart was soon broken, that the sod has long since covered her form; while the miserable man who caused all this evil, is but too eager to observe a silence, which prevents his name from being loaded with the execrations he deserves? I cannot help, therefore, regretting that Gerard insists upon discovering the obscure grave of his miserable mother — while he, who, whether living or dead, believes her to have been always innocent, is to be dissuaded by no arguments, still less by the angry denunciations of Sir Boyvill, whose conduct throughout he looks on as being the primal cause of his mother’s misfortunes.
“I have told you the tale, as nearly as I can, in the spirit in which Gerard himself would have communicated it — such was my tacit pledge to him — nor do I wish by my suspicions, or conjectures, to deprive him of your sympathy, and the belief he wishes you to entertain of his mother’s innocence; but truth will force its way, and who can think her wholly guiltless? would to God! Oh, how often, and how fervently have I prayed that Gerard were cured of the madness which renders his life a wild, unprofitable dream; and looking soberly on the past, consent to bury in oblivion misfortunes and errors which are beyond all cure, and which it is worse than vain to remember.”
CHAPTER IV.
There was to Elizabeth a fascinating interest in the story related by Lady Cecil. Elizabeth had no wild fairy-like imagination. Her talents, which were remarkable, her serious, thoughtful mind, was warmed by the vital heat emanating from her affections — whatever regarded these, moved her deeply.
Here was a tale full of human interest, of love, error, of filial tenderness, and deep rooted, uneradicable fidelity. Elizabeth, who knew little of life, except through such experience as she gathered from the emotions of her own heart, and the struggling passions of Falkner, could not regard the story in the same worldly light as Lady Cecil. There was an unfathomable mystery; but, was there guilt as far as regarded Mrs. Neville? Elizabeth could not believe it. She believed, that in a nature as finely formed as hers was described to have been, maternal love, and love for such a child as Gerard, must have risen paramount to every other feeling. Philosophers have said that the most exalted natures are endowed with the strongest and deepest-seated passions. It is by combating, and purifying them, that the human being rises into excellence; and the combat is assisted by setting the good in opposition to the evil. Perhaps, Mrs. Neville had loved — though, even that seemed strange — but her devoted affection to her child must have been more powerful than a love, which, did it exist, appeared unaccompanied by one sanctifying or extenuating circumstance.
Thus thought Elizabeth. Gerard appeared in a beautiful, and heroic light, bent on his holy mission of redeeming his mother’s name from the stigma accumulated on it. Her heart warmed within her at the thought, that such a task assimilated to hers. She was endeavouring to reconcile her benefactor to life, and to remove from his existence the stings of unavailing remorse. She tried to fancy that some secret tie existed between their two distinct tasks; and that a united happy end would spring up for both.
After musing for some time in silence, at length she said, “But you do not tell me whither Mr. Neville is now gone, and what it is that has so newly awakened his hopes.”
“You remind me,” replied Lady Cecil, “of what I had nearly forgotten. It is a provoking and painful circumstance; the artifice of cupidity to dupe enthusiasm. You must know that Gerard, in furtherance of his wild project, has left an intimation among the cottages and villages near Dromore, and in Lancaster itself, that he will give two hundred pounds to any one who shall bring any information that will conduce to the discovery of Mrs. Neville’s fate. This is a large bribe to falsehood, and yet, until now, no one has pretended to have any thing to tell. But the other day he received a letter, and the person who wrote it was so earnest, that he sent a duplicate to Sir Boyvill. This letter stated that the writer, Gregory Hoskins, believed himself to be in possession of some facts connected with Mrs. Neville of Dromore, and on the two hundred pounds being properly secured to him by a written bond, he would communicate them. This letter was dated Lancaster — thither Gerard is gone.”
“Does it speak of Mrs. Neville as still alive?” asked Elizabeth.
“It says barely the words which I have repeated,” Lady Cecil replied. “Sir Boyvill, knowing his son’s impetuosity, hurried down here, to stop, if he could, his reviving, through such means, the recollection of his unfortunate lady, — with what success you have seen; Gerard is gone, nor can any one guess what tale will be trumped up to deceive and rob him.”
Elizabeth could not feel as secure as her friend, that nothing would come of the promised information. This was not strange; besides the different view taken by a worldly and an inexperienced person, the tale, with all its mystery, was an old one to Lady Cecil; while, to her friend, it bore the freshness of novelty: to the one, it was a story of the dead and the forgotten, to the other, it was replete with living interest; the enthusiasm of Gerard communicated itself to her, and she felt that his present journey was full of event, the first step in a discovery of all that hitherto had been inscrutable.
A few days brought a letter from Gerard. Lady Cecil read it, and then gave it to her young friend to peruse. It was dated Lancaster; it said, “My journey has hitherto been fruitless; this man Hoskins has gone from Lancaster, leaving word that I should find him in London, but in so negligent a way as to lower my hopes considerably. His chief aim must be to earn the promised reward, and I feel sure that he would take more pains to obtain it, did he think that it was really within his grasp.
“He arrived but a few weeks since, it seems, from America, whither he migrated, some twenty years ago, from Ravenglass. How can he bring news of her I seek from across the Atlantic? The very idea fills me with disturbance. Has he seen her? Great God! does she yet live? Did she commission him to make inq
uiries concerning her abandoned child? No, Sophia, my life on it, it is not so; she is dead! My heart too truly reveals the sad truth to me.
“Can I then wish to hear that she is no more? My dear, dear mother! Were all the accusations true which are brought against you, still would I seek your retreat, endeavour to assuage your sorrows; wherever, whatever you are, you are of more worth to me — methinks that you must still be more worthy of affection, than all else that the earth contains! But it is not so. I feel it — I know it — she is dead. Yet when, where, how? Oh, my father’s vain commands! I would walk barefoot to the summit of the Andes to have these questions answered. The interval that must elapse before I reach London, and see this man, is hard to bear. What will he tell? Nothing! often, in my lucid intervals, as my father would call them, in my hours of despondency, I fear — nothing!
“You have not played me false, dearest Sophy? In telling your lovely friend the strange story of my woes, you have taught her to mourn my mother’s fate, not to suspect her goodness? I am half angry with myself for devolving the task upon you. For, despite your kind endeavours, I read your heart, my worldly-wise sister, and know its unbelief. I forgive you, for you never saw my mother’s face, nor heard her voice. Had you ever beheld the purity and integrity that sat upon her brow, and listened to her sweet tones, she would visit your dreams by day and night, as she does mine, in the guise of an angel robed in perfect innocence. I cannot forgive my father for his accusations; his own heart must be bad, or he could not credit that any evil inhabited hers. For how many years that guileless heart was laid bare to him! and if it was not so fond and admiring towards himself as he could have wished, still there was no concealment, no tortuosity; he saw it all, though now he discredits the evidence of his senses — shuts his eyes,
“And hooting at the glorious sun in heaven,
Cries out, ‘Where is it?’
For truth was her attribute; the open heart, which made the brow, the eyes, the cheerful mien, the sweet, loving smile and thrilling voice, all transcripts of its pure emotions. It was this that rendered her the adorable being, which all who knew her acknowledge that she was.
“I am solicitous beyond measure that Miss Falkner should receive no false impression. Her image is before me, when I saw her first, pale in the agony of fear, bending over her dying father; by day and by night she forgot herself to attend on him. She, who loves a parent so well, can understand me better than any other. She, I am convinced, will form a true judgment. She will approve my perseverance and share my doubts and fears; will she not? ask her — or am I too vain, too credulous? Is there in the whole world one creature, who will join with me in my faith and my labours? You do not, Sophia; that I have long known, and the feeling of disappointment is already blunted; but it will revive, it will be barbed with a new sting, if I am deceived in my belief that Elizabeth Falkner shares my convictions, and appreciates the utility, the necessity of my endeavours. I do not desire her pity, that you give me; but at this moment I am blest by the hope that she feels with me. I cannot tell you the good that this idea does me. It spurs me to double energy in my pursuit, and it sustains me during the uncertainty that attends it; it makes me inexpressibly more anxious to clear my mother’s name in her eyes; since she deigns to partake my griefs, I desire that she should hereafter share in the triumph of my success.
“My success! the word throws me ten thousand fathoms deep, from the thoughts of innocence and goodness, to those of wrongs, death, or living misery. Farewell, dearest Sophia. This letter is written at night; to-morrow, early, I set out by a fast coach to London. I shall write again, or you will see me soon. Keep Miss Falkner with you till I return, and write me a few words of encouragement.”
Not a line in this letter but interested and gratified Elizabeth — and Lady Cecil saw the blush of pleasure mantle over her speaking countenance; she was half glad — half sorry — she looked on Elizabeth as she who could cure Gerard of his Quixotic devotion, by inspiring him with feelings which, while they had all the enthusiasm natural to his disposition, would detach him from his vain endeavours, and centre his views and happiness in the living instead of the dead. Lady Cecil knew that Gerard already loved her friend — he had never loved before — and the tenderness of his manner, and the admiration that lighted up his eyes whenever he looked on her, revealed the birth of passion. Elizabeth, less quick to feel, or at least more tranquil in the display of feeling, yet sympathised too warmly with him — felt too deeply interested in all he said and did, not to betray that she was touched by the divine fire that smooths the ruggedness of life, and fills with peace and smiles a darkling, stormy world. But instead of weaning Gerard from his madness, she encouraged him in it — as she well knew; for when she wrote to Gerard, she asked Elizabeth to add a few lines, and thus she wrote:
“I thank you for the confidence you repose in me, and more than that, I must express how deeply I feel for you — the more that I think that justice and truth are on your side. Whether you succeed or not, I confess that I think you are right in your endeavours — your aim is a noble and a sacred one — and like you, I cherish the hope that it will end in the exculpation of one deeply injured — and your being rewarded for your fidelity to her memory. God bless you with all the happiness you deserve.”
No subsequent letter arrived from Gerard. Lady Cecil wondered and conjectured, and expected impatiently. She and her friend could talk of nothing else. The strange fact that a traveller from America proclaimed that he had tidings of the lost one, offered a fertile field for suppositions. Had Mrs. Neville been carried across the Atlantic? How impossible was this, against her own consent! No pirate’s bark was there, with a crew experienced in crime, ready to acquiesce in a deed of violence; no fortalice existed, in whose impenetrable walls she could have been immured; yet so much of strange and fearful must belong to her fate, which the imagination mourned to think of! Love, though in these days it carries on its tragedies more covertly — and kills by the slow, untold pang — by the worm in the bosom — and exerts its influence rather by teaching deceit, than instigating to acts of violence, yet love reigns in the hearts of men as tyrannically and fiercely — and causes as much evil, as much ruin and as many tears, as when, in the younger world, hecatombs were slain in his honour. In former days mortals wasted rather life than feeling, and every blow was a physical one; now the heart dies, though the body lives — and a miserable existence is dragged out, after hope and joy have ceased to adorn it; yet love is still, despite the school-master and the legislator, the prime law of human life, and Alithea Neville was well fitted to inspire an ardent passion. She had a sensibility which, while it gave strength to her affections, yet diffused a certain weakness over the mechanism of her being, that made those around her tremble; she had genius which added lustre to her eye, and shed around her a fascination of manner, which no man could witness without desiring to dedicate himself to her service. She seemed the very object whom Sheridan addressed when he said —
“For friends in every age you’ll meet,
And lovers in the young.”
That she should be loved to desperation could excite no wonder — but what had been the effects of this love? a distant home across the ocean — a home of privation and sorrow — the yearning for her lost children — the slow breaking of the contrite heart; a life dragged on despite the pangs of memory — or a nameless grave. Such were the conjectures caused by the letter of the American.
At length Neville returned. Each turned her eye on his face, to read the intelligence he had acquired in his speaking countenance. It was sad. “She lives and is lost,” thought Lady Cecil; “He mourns her dead!” was the supposition of the single-minded Elizabeth. At first he avoided the subject of his inquiry, and his companions did not question him; till at last he suddenly exclaimed, “Do you not wish to learn something, Sophia? — Have you forgotten the object of my journey?”
“Dear Gerard,” replied Lady Cecil, “these walls and woods, had they a voice, coul
d tell you that we have thought and spoken of nothing else.”
“She is dead!” he answered abruptly.
A start — an exclamation was the reply. He continued: “If there be any truth in the tale I have heard, my dear injured mother is dead; that is, if what I have heard concern her — mean any thing, or is not a mere fabrication. You shall hear all by and by; I will relate all I have been told. It is a sad story if it be hers, if it be a true story at all.”
These disjointed expressions raised the curiosity and interest of his auditors to their height. It was evening; instead of going on with his account, he passed into the adjoining room, opened the glass door, and stepped out into the open air. It was dark, scarcely could you see the dim outline of the woods — yet, far on the horizon where sky and sea met, there was a streak of light. Sophia and Elizabeth followed to the room whence he had gone, and drew their chairs near the open window and pressed each other’s hands.
“What can it all mean?” at length said Lady Cecil. “Hush!” whispered Elizabeth—”he is here, I saw him cross the streak of light.”
“True,” said Gerard’s voice — his person they could not distinguish, for they were in darkness; “I am here, and I will tell you now all I have heard. I will sit at your feet: give me your hand, Sophy, that I may feel that you are really present — it is too dark to see any thing.”
He did not ask for Elizabeth’s hand, but he took it, and placing it on Lady Cecil’s, gently clasped both: “I cannot see either of you — but indulge my wayward humour; so much of coarse and commonplace has been thrown on the most sacred subject in the world — that I want to bathe my soul in darkness — a darkness as profound as that which wraps my mother’s fate. Now for my story.”
