Three or four days passed in great tranquillity; and Lady Cecil rejoiced
that the great medicine acted so well on the rankling malady of her
brother's soul. It was the leafy month of June, and nature was as
beautiful as these lovely beings themselves, who enjoyed her sweets with
enthusiastic and new-sprung delight. They sailed on the sunny sea--or
lingered by the summer brooks, and among the rich woodlands--ignorant
why all appeared robed in a brightness which before they had never
observed. Elizabeth had little thought beyond the present hour--except
to wish for the time when Falkner was to join them. Neville rebelled
somewhat against the new law he obeyed, but it was a slothful
rebellion--till on the day he was awakened from his dream of peace.
One morning, Elizabeth, on entering the breakfast-room, found Lady Cecil
leaning discontentedly by the window, resting her cheek on her hand, and
her brow overcast.
"He is gone," she exclaimed; "it is too provoking! Gerard is gone! A
letter came, and I could not detain him--it will take him probably to
the other end of the kingdom--and who knows when we shall see him
again!"
They sat down to breakfast, but Lady Cecil was full of discontent. "It
is not only that he is gone," she continued, "but the cause of his going
is full of pain and care--and, unfortunately, you cannot sympathize with
me, for I have not obtained his consent to confide his hapless story to
you. Would that I might!--you would feel for him--for us all."
"He has been unhappy since childhood," observed Elizabeth.
"He has, it is true; but how did you learn that? has he ever told you
anything?"
"I saw him, many years ago, at Baden. How wild, how sullen he
was--unlike his present self! for then there was a violence and a
savageness in his gloom, which has vanished."
"Poor boy!" said Lady Cecil; "I remember well--and it is a pleasure to
think that I am, to a great degree, the cause of the change. He had no
friend at that time--none to love--to listen to him, and foster hopes
which, however vain, diminish his torments, and are all the cure he can
obtain, till he forgets them. But what can this mean?" she continued,
starting up; "what can bring him back? It is Gerard returned!"
She threw open the glass door, and went out to meet him as he rode up
the avenue--he threw himself from his horse, and advanced, exclaiming,
"Is my father here?"
"Sir Boyvill? No; is he coming?"
"Oh yes! we shall see him soon. I met a servant with a letter sent
express--the post was too slow--he will be here soon; he left London
last night--you know with what speed he travels."
"But why this sudden visit?"
"Can you not guess? He received a letter from the same
person--containing the same account; he knew I was here--he comes to
balk my purpose, to forbid, to storm, to reproach; to do all that he has
done a thousand times before, with the same success."
Neville looked flushed and disturbed; his face, usually "more in sorrow
than in anger," now expressed the latter emotion, mingled with scorn and
resolution; he gave the letter he had received to Lady Cecil. "I am
wrong, perhaps, in returning at his bidding, since I do not mean
ultimately to obey--yet he charges me on my duty to hear him once again;
so I am come to hear--to listen to the old war of his vanity with what
he calls my pride--his vindictiveness with my sense of duty--his
vituperation of her I worship--and I must bear this!"
Lady Cecil read the letter, and Neville pressed Elizabeth's hand, and
besought her excuse, while she, much bewildered, was desirous to leave
the room. At this moment the noise of a carriage was heard on the
gravel. "He is here," said Neville; "see him first, Sophia, tell him how
resolved I am--how right in my resolves. Try to prevent a struggle, as
disgraceful as vain; and most so to my father, since he must suffer
defeat."
With a look of much distress, Lady Cecil left the room to receive her
new guest; while Elizabeth stole out by another door into the grove, and
mused under the shady covert on what had passed. She felt curious, yet
saddened. Concord, affection, and sympathy are so delightful, that all
that disturbs the harmony is eminently distasteful. Family contentions
are worst of all. Yet she would not prejudge Neville. He felt, in its
full bitterness, the pain of disobeying his parent; and whatever motive
led to such a mode of action, it hung like an eclipse over his life.
What it might be she could not guess; but it was no ignoble,
self-centred passion. Hope and joy were sacrificed to it. She remembered
him as she first saw him, a boy driven to wildness by a sense of injury;
she remembered him when reason and his better nature had subdued the
selfish portion of his feeling--grown kind as a woman--active, friendly,
and sympathizing, as few men are; she recollected him by Falkner's sick
couch, and when he took leave of her, auguring that they should meet in
a happier hour. That hour had not yet come, and she confessed to herself
that she longed to know the cause of his unhappiness; and wondered
whether, by counsel or sympathy, she could bring any cure.
She was plunged in revery, walking slowly beneath the forest trees, when
she heard a quick step brushing the dead leaves and fern, and Neville
joined her. "I have escaped," he cried, "and left poor Sophy to bear the
scoldings of an unjust and angry man. I could not stay--it was not
cowardice--but I have recollections joined to such contests, that make
my heart sick. Besides, I should reply--and I would not willingly forget
that he is my father."
"It must be indeed painful," said Elizabeth, "to quarrel with, to
disobey a parent."
"Yet there are motives that might, that must excuse it. Do you remember
the character of Hamlet, Miss Falkner?"
"Perfectly--it is the imbodying of the most refined, the most genuine,
and yet the most harrowing feelings and situation, that the imagination
ever conceived."
"I have read that play," said Neville, "till each word seems instinct
with a message direct to my heart--as if my own emotions gave a
conscious soul to every line. Hamlet was called upon to avenge a
father--in execution of his task he did not spare a dearer, a far more
sacred name--if he used no daggers with his mother, he spoke them; nor
winced, though she writhed beneath his hand. Mine is a lighter, yet a
holier duty. I would vindicate a mother--without judging my
father--without any accusation against him, I would establish her
innocence. Is this blameable? What would you do, Miss Falkner, if your
father were accused of a crime?"
"My father and a crime! Impossible!" exclaimed Elizabeth; for, strange
to say, all the self-accusations of Falkner fell empty on her ear. It
was a virtue in him to be conscience-stricken for an error; of any real
guilt she would have pledged her life that he was free.
"Yes--impossible!" cried Neville--"doubtless it is so; but did you hear
his name stigmatized--shame attend your very kindred to him--what would
you do?--defend him--prove his innocence--would you not?"
"A life were well sacrificed to such a duty."
"And to that very duty mine is devoted. In childhood I rebelled against
the accusation with vain, but earnest indignation; now I am calmer
because I am more resolved; but I will yield to no impediment--be
stopped by no difficulty--not even by my father's blind commands. My
mother! dear name--dearer for the ills attached to it--my angel mother
shall find an unfaltering champion in her son.
"You must not be angry," he continued, in reply to her look of wonder,
"that I mention circumstances which it is customary to slur over and
conceal. It is shame for me to speak--for you to hear--my mother's name.
That very thought gives a keener edge to my purpose. God knows what
miserable truth is hidden by the veils which vanity, revenge, and
selfishness have drawn around my mother's fate; but that truth--though
it be a bleeding one--shall be disclosed, and her innocence be made as
clear as the sun now shining above us.
"It is dreadful, very dreadful, to be told--to be persuaded that the
idol of one's thoughts is corrupt and vile. It is no new story, it is
true--wives have been false to their husbands ere now, and some have
found excuses, and sometimes been justified; it is the manner makes the
thing. That my mother should have left her happy home--which, under her
guardian eye, was paradise--have deserted me, her child, whom she so
fondly loved--and who, even in that unconscious age, adored her--and her
poor little girl, who died neglected--that year after year she has never
inquired after us--nor sent nor sought a word--while following a
stranger's fortune through the world! That she whose nightly sleep was
broken by her tender cares--whose voice so often lulled me, and whose
every thought and act was pure as an angel's--that she, tempted by the
arch fiend, strayed from hell for her destruction, should leave us all
to misery, and her own name to obloquy. No! no! The earth is yet
sheltered by heaven, and sweet and good things abide in it--and she was,
and is, among them sweetest and best!"
Neville was carried away by his feelings--while Elizabeth, overpowered
by his vehemence--astonished by the wild, strange tale he disclosed,
listened in silence, yet an eloquent silence--for her eyes filled with
tears--and her heart burned in her bosom with a desire to show how
entirely she shared his deep emotion.
"I have made a vow," he continued--"it is registered in heaven; and each
night as I lay my head on my pillow I renew it; and beside you--the best
of earthly things now that my dear mother is gone, I repeat--that I
devote my life to vindicate her who gave me life; and my selfish,
revengeful father is here to impede--to forbid--but I trample on such
obstacles, as on these dead leaves beneath our feet. You do not speak,
Miss Falkner--did you ever hear of Mrs. Neville?"
"I have spent all my life out of England," replied Elizabeth, "yet I
have some recollection."
"I do not doubt it--to the ends of the earth the base-minded love to
carry the tale of slander and crime. You have heard of Mrs. Neville,
who, for the sake of a stranger, deserted her home, her husband, her
helpless children--and has never been heard of since; who, unheard and
undefended, was divorced from her husband--whose miserable son was
brought to witness against her. It is a story well fitted to raise
vulgar wonder--vulgar abhorrence; do you wonder that I, who since I was
nine years old have slept and waked on the thought, should have been
filled with hate, rancour, and every evil passion, till the blessed
thought dawned on my soul, that I would prove her innocence, and that
she should be avenged--for this I live.
"And now I must leave you. I received yesterday a letter which promises
a clew to guide me through this labyrinth; wherever it leads, there I
follow. My father has come to impede me--but I have, after using
unavailing remonstrance, told him that I will obey a sense of duty
independent of parental authority. I do not mean to see him again--I now
go--but I could not resist the temptation of seeing you before I went,
and proving to you the justice of my resolves. If you wish for further
explanation, ask Sophia--tell her that she may relate all; there is not
a thought or act of my life with which I would have you unacquainted, if
you will deign to listen."
"Thank you for this permission," said Elizabeth; "Lady Cecil is
desirous, I know, of telling me the cause of a melancholy which, good
and kind as you are, you ought not to suffer. Alas! this is a miserable
world: and when I hear of your sorrows, and remember my dear father's, I
think that I must be stone to feel no more than I do; and yet, I would
give my life to assist you in your task."
"I know well how generous you are, though I cannot now express how my
heart thanks you. I will return before you leave my sister; wherever
fate and duty drives me, I will see you again."
They returned towards the house, and he left her; his horse was already
saddled, and standing at the door; he was on it, and gone in a moment.
Elizabeth felt herself as in a dream when he was gone, yet her heart and
wishes went with him; for she believed the truth of all he said, and
revered the enthusiasm of affection that impelled his actions. There was
something wild and proud in his manner, which forcibly reminded her of
the boy of sixteen, who had so much interested her girlish mind; and his
expressions, indignant and passionate as they were, yet vouched, by the
very sentiment they conveyed, for the justice of his cause. "Gallant,
noble-hearted being! God assist your endeavours! God and every good
spirit that animates this world." Thus her soul spoke as she saw him
ride off; and, turning into the house, a half involuntary feeling made
her take up the volume of Shakspeare containing Hamlet; and she was soon
buried, not only in the interest of the drama itself, but in the various
emotions it excited by the association it now bore to one she loved more
even than she knew. It was nothing strange that Neville, essentially a
dreamer and a poet, should have identified himself with the Prince of
Denmark; while the very idea that he took to himself, and acted on
sentiments thus high-souled and pure, adorned him yet more in her eyes,
endowing him in ample measure with that ideality which the young and
noble love to bestow on the objects of their attachment.
After a short time, she was interrupted by Lady Cecil, who looked
disturbed and vexed. She said little, except to repine at Gerard's going
and Sir Boyvill's stay--he also was to depart the following morning: but
Sir Boyvill was a man who made his presence felt disagreeably, even when
it was limited to a few hours. Strangers acknowledged this; no one liked
the scornful, morose old man; and a near connexion, who was open to so
many attacks, and sincerely loved one whom Sir Boyvill pretended most to
depreciate, was even more susceptible to the painful feelings he always
contrived to spread round him. To despise everybody, to contradict
everybody with marks of sarcasm and contempt, to set himself up for an
idol, and yet to scorn his worshippers; these were the prominent traits
of his character, added to a galled and sore spirit, which was for ever
taking offence, which discerned an attack in every word, and was on the
alert to repay these fancied injuries with real and undoubted insult. He
had been a man of fashion, and retained as much good breeding as was
compatible with a techy and revengeful temper; this was his only merit.
He was nearly seventy years of age, remarkably well preserved, but with
strongly-marked features, and a countenance deeply lined, set off by a
young-looking wig, which took all venerableness from his appearance,
without bestowing juvenility; his lips were twisted into a sneer, and
there was something in his evident vanity that might have provoked
ridicule, but that traces of a violent, unforgiving temper prevented him
from being merely despicable, while they destroyed every particle of
compassion with which he might have been regarded; for he was a forlorn
old man, separating himself from those allied to him by blood or
connexion, excellent as they were. His only pleasure had been in
society; secluding himself from that, or presenting himself only in
crowds, where he writhed to find that he went for nothing, he was
miserable, yet not to be comforted, for the torments he endured were
integral portions of his own nature.
He looked surprised to see Elizabeth, and was at first very civil to
her, with a sort of oldfashioned gallantry which, had it been
good-humoured, might have amused, but, as it was, appeared forced,
misplaced, and rendered its object very uncomfortable. Whatever Lady
Cecil said, he contradicted. He made disagreeable remarks about her
children, prophesying in them so much future torment; and when not
personally impertinent, amused them by recapitulating all the most
scandalous stories rife in London of unfaithful wives and divided
families, absolutely gloating with delight, when he narrated anything
peculiarly disgraceful. After half an hour, Elizabeth quite hated him;
and he extended the same sentiment to her on her bestowing a meed of
praise on his son. "Yes," he said, in reply, "Gerard is a very pleasant
person; if I said he was half madman, half fool, I should certainly say
too much, and appear an unkind father; but the sort of imbecility that
characterizes his understanding is, I think, only equalled by his
self-willed defiance of all laws which society has established; in
conduct he very much resembles a lunatic armed with a weapon of offence,
which he does not fear himself, and deals about on those unfortunately
connected with him, with the same indifference to wounds."
On this speech, Lady Cecil coloured and rose from the table, and her
friend gladly followed, leaving Sir Boyvill to his solitary wine. Never
had Elizabeth experienced before the intolerable weight of an odious
person's society--she was stunned. "We have but one resource," said Lady
Cecil; "you must sit down to the piano. Sir Boyvill is too polite not to
entreat you to play on, and too weary not to fall asleep; he is worse
than ever."
"But he is your father!" cried Elizabeth, astonished.
"No, thank Heaven!" said Lady Cecil. "What could have put that into your
head? Oh, I see--I call Gerard my brother. Sir Boyvill married my poor
mother, who is since dead. We are only connected--I am happy to
say--there is no drop of his blood in my veins. But I hear him coming.
Do play something of Herz. The noise will drown every other sound, and
even astonish my father-in-law."
The evening was quickly over, for Sir Boyvill retired early; the next
morning he was gone, and the ladies breathed freely again. It is
impossible to attempt to describe the sort of moral nightmare the
presence of such a man produces. "Do you remember in Madame de
Sévigné's Letters," said Lady Cecil, "where she observes that
disagreeable society is better than good--because one is so pleased to
get rid of it? In this sense, Sir Boyvill is the best company in the
whole world. We will take a long drive to-day, to get rid of the last
symptoms of the Sir Boyvill fever."
"And you will tell me what all this mystery means," said Elizabeth. "Mr.
Neville gave some hints yesterday; but referred me to you. You may tell
me all."
"Yes; I am aware," replied Lady Cecil. "This one good, at least, I have
reaped from Sir Boyvill's angry visit. I am permitted to explain to you
the causes of our discord, and of dear Gerard's sadness. I shall win
your sympathy for him, and exculpate us both. It is a mournful
tale--full of unexplainable mystery--shame--and dreaded ill. It fills me
perpetually with wonder and regret; nor do I see any happy termination,
except in the oblivion, in which I wish that it was buried. Here is the
carriage. We will not take any of the children with us, that we may
suffer no interruption."
Elizabeth's interest was deeply excited, and she was as eager to listen
as her friend to tell. The story outlasted a long drive. It was ended in
the dusky twilight--as they sat after dinner, looking out on the summer
woods--while the stars came out twinkling amid the foliage of the
trees--and the deer kept close to graze. The hour was still--and was
rendered solemn by a tale as full of heartfelt sorrow and generous
enthusiasm as ever won maiden's attention, and bespoke her favour for
him who loved and suffered.