Complete Works of Mary Shelley

by Mary Shelley

  “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.”

  CHAPTER II.

  “On the following day the journey was performed; and it had been arranged that Gerard should rest on the subsequent one; the third being fixed for his attendance in the House of Lords. Sir Boyvill had been informed how sullenly (that was the word they used) the boy had received the information conveyed to him by his tutor. He would rather have been excused saying a word himself to his son on the subject; but this account, and the boy’s request to see h
im, forced him to change his purpose. He did not expect opposition; but he wished to give a right turn to Gerard’s expressions. The sort of cold distance that separation and variance of feeling produced, rendered their intercourse little like the tender interchange of parental and filial love.

  “‘Gerard, my boy,’ Sir Boyvill began, we are both sufferers; and you, like me, are not of a race tamely to endure injury. I would willingly have risked my life to revenge the ruin brought on us; so I believe would you, child as you are; but the sculking villain is safe from my arm. The laws of his country cannot even pursue him; yet, what reparation is left, I must endeavour to get.’

  “Sir Boyvill showed tact in thus, bringing forward only that party, whose act none could do other than reprobate, and who was the object of Gerard’s liveliest hatred. His face lightened up with something of pleasure — his eye flashed fire; to prove to the world the guilt and violence of the wretch who had torn his mother from him, was indeed a task of duty and justice. A little more forbearance on his father’s part had wound him easily to his will; but the policy Sir Boyvill displayed was involuntary, and his next words overturned all. ‘Your miserable mother,’ he continued, ‘must bear her share of infamy; and if she be not wholly hardened, it will prove a sufficient punishment. When the events of to-morrow reach her, she will begin to taste of the bitter cup she has dealt out so largely to others. It were folly to pretend to regret that — I own that I rejoice.’

  Every idea now suffered revulsion, and the stream of feeling flowed again in its old channel. What right had his father to speak thus of the beloved and honoured parent, he had so cruelly lost? His blood boiled within him, and, despite childish fear and reverence, he said, ‘If my mother will grieve or be injured by my appearing to-morrow, I will not go — I cannot.’

  “‘You are a fool to speak thus,’ said his father, ‘a galless animal, without sense of pride or duty. Come, sir, no more of this. You owe me obedience, and you must pay it on this occasion. You are only bid speak the truth, and that you must speak. I had thought, notwithstanding your youth, higher and more generous motives might be urged — a father’s honour vindicated — a mother’s vileness punished.’

  “‘My mother is not vile!’ cried Gerard, and there stopped; for a thousand things restrain a child’s tongue; inexperience, reverence, ignorance of the effect his words may produce, terror at the mightiness of the power with which he has to contend. After a pause, he muttered, ‘I honour my mother; I will tell the whole world that she deserves honour.’

  “‘Now, Gerard, on my soul,’ cried Sir Boyvill, roused to anger, as parents too easily are against their offspring, when they show any will of their own, while they expect to move them like puppets; ‘On my soul, my fine fellow, I could find it in my heart to knock you down. Enough of this; I don’t want to terrify you: be a good boy to-morrow, and I will forgive all.’

  “‘Forgive me now, father,’ cried the youth, bursting into tears; ‘forgive me and spare me! I cannot obey you, I cannot do any thing that will grieve my mother; she loved me so much — I am sure she loves me still — that I cannot do her a harm. I will not go to-morrow.’

  “‘This is most extraordinary,’ said Sir Boyvill, controlling, as well as he could, the rage swelling within him. ‘And are you such an idiot as not to know that your wretched mother has forfeited all claim to your affection? and am I of so little worth in your eyes, I, your father, who have a right to your obedience from the justice of my cause, not to speak of parental authority, am I nothing? to receive no duty, expect no service? I was, indeed, mistaken; I thought you were older than your years, and had that touch of gentlemanly pride about you, that would have made you eager to avenge my injuries, to stand by me as a friend and ally, compensating, as well as you could, for the wrongs done me by your mother. I thought I had a son in whose veins my own blood flowed, who would be ready to prove his true birth by siding with me. Are you stone — or a base-born thing, that you cannot even conceive what thing honour is?’

  “Gerard listened, he wept; the tears poured in torrents from his eyes; but as his father continued, and heaped many an opprobrious epithet on him, a proud and sullen spirit was indeed awakened; he longed to say — Abuse me, strike me, but I will not yield! Yet he did not speak; he dried his eyes, and stood in silence before his parent, his face darkening, and something ferocious gleaming in eyes, hitherto so soft and sorrowing. Sir Boyvill saw that he was far from making the impression he desired; but he wished to avoid reiterated refusals to obey, and he summed up at last with vague but violent threats of what would ensue — exile from his home, penury; nay, starvation, the abhorrence of the world, his own malediction; and, after having worked himself up into a towering rage, and real detestation of the shivering, feeble, yet determined child before him, he left him to consider, and to be vanquished.

  “Far other thoughts occupied Gerard. ‘I had thought,’ he has told me, ‘once or twice to throw myself into his arms, and pray for mercy; to kneel at his feet and implore him to spare me; one kind word had made the struggle intolerable, but no kind word did he say; and while he stormed, it seemed to me as if my dear mother were singing as she was used, while I gathered flowers and played beside her in the park, and I thought of her, not of him; the words kick me out of doors, suggested but the idea I shall be free, and I will find my mother. I feel intensely now; but surely a boy’s feelings are far wilder, far more vehement than a man’s; for I cannot now, violent as you think me, call up one sensation so whirlwind-like as those that possessed me while my father spoke!’

  “Thus has Gerard described his emotions; his father ordered him to quit the room, and he went to brood upon the fate impending over him. On the morrow early, he was bid prepare to attend the House of Lords. His father did not appear; he thought that the boy was terrified, and would make no further resistance. Gerard, indeed, obeyed in silence. He disdained to argue with strangers and hirelings; he had an idea that if he openly rebelled, he might be carried by force, and his proud heart swelled at the idea of compulsion. He got into the carriage, and, as he went, Mr. Carter, who was with him, thought it advisable to explain the forms, and give some instructions. Gerard listened with composure, nay, asked a question or two concerning the preliminaries; he was told of the oath that would be administered; and how the words he spoke after taking that oath would be implicitly believed, and that he must be careful to say nothing that was not strictly true. The colour, not an indignant blush, but a suffusion as of pleasure, mantled over his cheeks as this was explained.

  “They arrived; they were conducted into some outer room to await the call of the peers. What tortures the boy felt as strangers came up, some to speak, and others to gaze; all of indignation, resolution, grief, and more than manhood’s struggles that tore his bosom during the annoying delays that always protract these sort of scenes, none cared to scan. He was there unresisting, apparently composed; if now his cheek flushed, and now his lips withered into paleness, if now the sense of suffocation rose in his throat, and now tears rushed into his eyes, as the image of his sweet mother passed across his memory, none regarded, none cared. When I have thought of the spasms and throes which his tender and high-wrought soul endured during this interval, I often wonder his heart-strings did not crack, or his reason for ever unsettle; as it is, he has not yet escaped the influence of that hour; it shadows his life with eclipse, it comes whispering agony to him, when otherwise he might forget. Some author has described the effect of misfortune on the virtuous, as the crushing of perfumes, so to force them to give forth their fragrance. Gerard is all nobleness, all virtue, all tenderness; do we owe any part of his excellence to this hour of anguish? If so, I may be consoled; but I can never think of it without pain. He says himself, ‘Yes! without these sharp goadings, I had not devoted my whole life to clearing my mother’s fame.’ Is this devotion a good? As yet no apparent benefit has sprung from it.

  “At length he was addressed: ‘Young gentleman, are you ready?’ and he was led in
to that stately chamber, fit for solemn and high debate — thronged with the judges of his mother’s cause. There was a dimness in his eye — a tumult in his heart that confused him, while on his appearance there was first a murmur — then a general hush. Each regarded him with compassion as they discerned the marks of suffering in his countenance. A few moments passed before he was addressed; and when it was supposed that he had had time to collect himself, the proper officer administered the oath, and then the barrister asked him some slight questions, not to startle, but to lead back his memory by insensible degrees to the necessary facts. The boy looked at him with scorn — he tried to be calm, to elevate his voice; twice it faltered — the third time he spoke slowly but distinctly: ‘I have sworn to speak the truth, and I am to be believed. My mother is innocent.’

  “‘But this is not the point, young gentleman,’ interrupted his interrogator, ‘I only asked if you remembered your father’s house in Cumberland.’

  “The boy replied more loudly, but with broken accents—’I have said all I mean to say — you may murder me, but I will say no more — how dare you entice me into injuring my mother?’

  “At the word, uncontrollable tears burst forth, pouring in torrents down his burning cheeks. He told me that he well remembers the feeling that rose to his tongue, instigating him to cry shame on all present — but his voice failed, his purpose was too mighty for his young heart; he sobbed and wept; the more he tried to control the impulse, the more hysterical the fit grew — he was taken from the bar, and the peers, moved by his distress, came to a resolve that they would dispense with his attendance, and be satisfied by hearing his account of the transaction, from those persons to whom he made it, at the period when it occurred. I will now mention, that the result of this judicial inquiry was a decree of divorce in Sir Boyvill’s favour.