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 motion — 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 brooding 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.
“There was nothing reprehensible in this step; self-defence, as well as revenge, suggested its expediency. Besides this, it may be said, that he was glad of the publicity that would ensue, that he might be proved blameless to all the world. He accused his wife of a fault so great as tarnished irrecoverably her golden name. He accused her of being a false wife and an unnatural mother, under circumstances of no common delinquency. But he might be mistaken; he might view his injuries with the eye of passion, and others, more disinterested, might pronounce that she was unfortunate, but not guilty. By means of the bill for divorce, the truth would be investigated and judged by several hundreds of the best born and best educated of his countrymen. The publicity also might induce discovery. It was fair and just; and though his pride rebelled against becoming the tale of the day, he saw no alternative. Indeed it was reported to him by some officious friend, that many had observed that it was strange that he had not sought this remedy before. Something of wonder, or blame, or both, was attached to his passiveness. Such hints galled him to the quick, and he pursued his purpose with all the obstinacy and imperious haste peculiar to him.
“When every other preliminary had been gone through, it was deemed necessary that Gerard should give his evidence at the bar of the House of Lords. Sir Boyvill looked upon his lost wife as a criminal, so steeped in deserved infamy, so odious, and so justly condemned, that none could hesitate in siding with him to free him from the bondage of those laws, which, while she bore his name, might be productive of incalculable injury. His honour too was wounded. His honour, which he would have sacrificed his life to have preserved untainted, he had intrusted to Alithea, and loved her the more fervently that she regarded the trust with reverence. She had foully betrayed it; and must not all who respected the world’s customs, and the laws of social life; above all, must not any who loved him — be forward to cast her out from any inheritance of good that could reach her through him?
“Above all, must not their son — his son, share his indignation, and assist his revenge? Gerard was but a boy; but his mother’s tenderness, his own quick nature, and lastly, the sufferings he had endured through her flight, had early developed a knowledge of the realities of life, and so keen a sense of right and justice, as made his father regard him as capable of forming opinions, and acting from such motives, as usually are little understood by one so young. And true it was that Gerard fostered sentiments independent of any teaching; and cherished ideas the more obstinately, because they were confined to his single breast. He understood the pity with which his father was regarded — the stigma cast upon his mother — the suppressed voice — the wink of the eye — the covert hint. He understood it all; and, like the poet, longed for a word, sharp as a sword, to pierce the falsehood through and through.
“For many months he and his father had seen little of each other. Sir Boyvill had not a mind that takes pleasure in watching the ingenuous sallies of childhood, or the development of the youthful mind; the idea of making a friend of his child, which had been Alithea’s fond and earnest aim, could never occur to his self-engrossed heart. Since his illness Gerard had been weakly, or he would have been sent to school. As it was, a tutor resided in the house. This person was written to by Sir Boyvill’s man of business, and directed to break the matter to his pupil; to explain the formalities, to soothe and encourage any timidity he might show, and to incite him, if need were, to a desire to assist in a measure, whose operation was to yrender justice to his father.
“The first allusion to his mother made by Mr. Carter, caused the blood to rush from the boy’s heart and to dye crimson his cheeks, his temples, his throat; then he grew deadly pale, and without uttering a word, listened to his preceptor, till suddenly taking in the nature of the task assigned to him, every limb shook, and he answered by a simple request to be left alone, and he would consider. No more was thought by the unapprehensive people about, than that he was shy of being spoken to on the subject — that he would make up his mind in his own way — and Mr. Carter at once yielded to his request; the reserve which had shrouded him since he lost his mother, had accustomed those about him to habitual silence. None — no one watchful, attached, intelligent eye marked the struggles which shook his delicate frame, blanched his cheek, took the flesh from his bones, and quickened his pulse into fever. None marked him as he lay in bed the livelong night, with open eyes and beating heart, a prey to contending emotion. He was passed carelessly by as he lay on the dewy grass from morn to evening, his soul torn by grief — uttering his mother’s name in accents of despair, and shedding floods of tears.
“I said that these signs of intense feeling were not remarked — and yet they were, in a vulgar way, by the menials, who said it would be well when the affair was over, Master Neville took it so to heart, and was sadly frightened. Frightened! such a coarse, undistinguishing name was given to the sacred terror of doing his still loved mother injury, which heaved his breast with convulsive sobs and filled his veins with fire.
“The thought of what he was called upon to do haunted him day and night with agony. He, her nursling, her idol, her child — he who could not think of her name without tears, and dreamed often that she kissed him in his sleep, and woke to weep over the delusion — he was to accuse her before an assembled multitude — to give support to the most infamous falsehoods — to lend his voice to stigmatise her name; and wherever she was, kept from him by some irresistible power, but innocent as an angel, and still loving him, she was to hear of him as her enemy, and receive a last wound from his hand. Such appeared the task assigned to him in his eyes, for his blunt-witted tutor had spoken of the justice to be rendered his father, by freeing him from his fugitive wife, without regarding the inner heart of his pupil, or being aware that his mother sat throned there an angel of light and goodness, — the victim of ill, but doing none.
“Soon after Mrs. Neville’s flight, the family had abandoned the seat in Cumberland, and inhabited a house taken near the Thames, in Buckinghamshire. Here Gerard resided, while his father was in town, watching the progress of the bill. At last the day drew near when Gerard’s presence was required. The peers showed a disposition, either from curiosity or a love of justice, to sift the affair to the uttermost, and the boy’s testimony was declared absolutely necessary. Mr. Carter told Gerard that on the following morning they were to proceed to London, in pursuance of the circumstances which he had explained to him a few days before.
“‘Is it then true,’ said the boy, ‘that I am to be called upon to give evidence, as you call it, against my mother?’
“‘You are called upon by every feeling of duty,’ replied the sapient preceptor, ‘to speak the truth to those whose decision will render justice to your father. If the truth injure Mrs. Neville, that is her affair.’
“Again Gerard’s cheeks burned with blushes, and his eyes, dimmed as they were with tears, flashed fire. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I beg to see my father.’
“‘You will see him when in town,’ replied Mr. Carter. ‘Come, Neville, you must not take the matter in this girlish style; show yourself a man. Your mother is unworthy—’
“‘If you please, sir,’ said Gerrard, half choked, yet restraining himself, ‘I will speak to my father; I do not like any one else to talk to me about these things.’
“‘As you please, sir,’ said Mr. Carter, much offended.
“No more was said — it was evening. The next morning they set out for London. The poor boy had lain awake the whole night; but no one knew or cared for his painful vigils.”