The unhappy Gabrielle, immured almost always in her solitary chamber,
worn out, and nearly heart-broken with ceaseless suffering and
disappointment, felt that with her intellectual energy so long upheld,
(but now rapidly sinking) her physical strength was decaying likewise,
and that long thus she could not continue to exist. The few who,
attracted by her singular worth and merits, had _made it a point_ to
call themselves her friends, captivated more by the desire of appearing
liberal and high minded than from any real admiration they were capable
of feeling, she had from the humiliating dereliction of Angelo refused
to see, for they had been his friends before they had professed
themselves hers; and her genuine sense of delicacy and honour shrunk
from the impropriety of hearing animadversions passed upon him on her
account, or from the contemptible meanness of seeking to inspire pity by
the gentle resignation with which she endured insults, that she could
have wished unknown for ever to any but herself.
Thus, she was almost isolated. Angelo she scarcely ever saw, and Felix
when in her presence appeared not employed by any thought so much as
that of escaping from it. Now, of beholding even him sometimes, she
suddenly found herself deprived; where could he be? A dreadful idea
glanced across her mind, he must be with his father--should she
condescend to inquire of the servants if he had returned and departed
again alone?--No, to no eye could she voluntarily betray her grief, and
mortifying ignorance of the movements of those so near to her. She
determined then to preserve silence, but vigilantly to watch for the
moment when Felix should make his appearance, and question himself as to
whither he had been.
But in vain she was silent, in vain she watched. Felix appeared no more.
The anguish of her mind became intense, she felt almost certain _where_
he lingered, and had half determined to address Angelo by letter upon
this dreadful subject, when with his usual constrained air he suddenly
appeared before her.
“Angelo,” exclaimed she, starting up, the moment she beheld him,
incapable of restraining her emotion, while he cooly bowed; “Angelo, oh!
let us wave all idle ceremonies for the present, I am too sick to attend
to them, tell me, and tell me truly I beseech you, where is my
son?--_your_ son--?”
“Really, Gabrielle, this is such an extraordinary salute that--that
I,”--he stopped embarrassed.
“Oh! Angelo,” cried the distracted Gabrielle, seizing him by the
arm--“away with this mockery, and answer me at once--This suspense is
worse than the most dreadful certainty; tell me what have you done with
Felix?”
“This conduct is so singular, madam, that really--”
“Oh God!” interrupted Gabrielle, clasping her hands, and bursting into
tears “is it thus then that you treat me, Angelo!--But no matter,” she
pursued, endeavouring to throw firmness into her voice, and to collect
herself; “inform me only of my son--I claim a _right_, sir, to be
informed upon that subject.”
Angelo was awed, and shrank into himself; he felt that Gabrielle had
justice on her side, and that he had not. Like a culprit summoned before
a judge, comes to defend a bad cause, and seeing his accuser before him
is struck dumb by the power of conscience--so Angelo, when he raised his
eyes to the accusing form of the injured Gabrielle, felt how truly
guilty he was, and remained silent. Gabrielle, uttered no reproach; she
determined not to utter any, for she felt their inutility, since he who
is not just from inclination, will never be rendered so by the voice of
reproof; but finding that he still preserved a confused silence, she in
a firm voice repeated her question.
“He is under my care,” at length stammered Angelo.
“Not at present,” observed Gabrielle.
“He is safe,” said Angelo.
“Convince me,” answered Gabrielle.--
“My word is surely sufficient.”
“Not in the present case; you will not, my lord, lay your hand upon your
heart, and say that you consider him at _this_ moment where he ought to
be.”
Angelo was silent; he looked aside. Gabrielle fixed on his varying
countenance her sad, yet searching eyes, and uttered in a voice of
solemn anguish,
“He is with _Milborough_.”
Angelo started, as if in horror that it _should_ be so--so true is
conscience. He made no reply.
“Your silence is sufficient confirmation,” pursued she in the same
impressive tone: “now then, Angelo, ere it be too late, return him to
me.”
“That cannot be,” said Angelo.
“Cannot be!--cannot be!” shrieked Gabrielle, again overpowered by the
violence of her feelings--“Oh Angelo, Angelo,” she continued, falling on
her knees, and raising her clasped hands towards him, “I conjure you,
not by your present love, but by the love you once had for me,--I
conjure you for the future welfare and happiness of your child,--if you
consider aught that is most valuable to _him_ in existence--I implore, I
beseech you, let him not remain with _that_ woman:--destruction, yes
eternal destruction must ensue, not only of present but of future
life--his _soul_ will be sacrificed. Angelo, I implore you listen to my
prayer, return him to me ere he be lost beyond redemption.”
The heart of Angelo throbbed violently--he was affected by her solemn
adjuration, but he desired not that she should perceive it; he looked at
Gabrielle for a moment, he durst not longer,--he endeavoured to raise
her from the ground as with averted face he said, “In aught else
command me, Gabrielle; but the boy must remain where he is.”
“Then!” cried Gabrielle, springing from her knees with a countenance of
fire, and looking sternly upon Angelo, “_Then his destruction be upon
your head_; remember, that at a _future_ day, you will _curse_ yourself
for this!--remember--remember--that _he_ will curse you likewise!”
“Frantic woman!” cried Angelo, roused to a consciousness of guilt, and
therefore of rage, at her awful prophecy, “Frantic woman! he is my
son--I have a right to do with him as I will, and who dare dispute my
pleasure?”
“His _mother_,” answered Gabrielle in a firm voice, “_she_ dares--sir,
he is _my_ son as well as yours, and I have as dear an interest in
him!”
“Yes,” interrupted Angelo, with a bitter, smile, “more than _he_ has in
you!”
“The more my misfortune! the more my misfortune!” cried the wretched
Gabrielle in a voice of anguish, and bursting into tears, “Cruel Angelo,
I little expected this reproach from _you_; but still I will spare you.”
Angelo, shocked at the observation that had escaped him, detesting
himself for his unworthy cruelty, found his feelings of bitterness
increased by his self-contempt, and hastily cried, “Well, madam, this
scene is unnecessarily prolonged, I have other avocations.”
“Ah yes, too well do I know that you have; but hear me a moment,” she
pursued, endeavouring to subdue her suffocating emotion, “hear me but a
moment. Since I may not be permitted to claim my son, to be considered
as the mother of my child, grant me but this, for surely you will not
deny me all. Suffer me once more to behold him, let me take of him a
last farewell, it may enable me to exist a little longer under this most
cruel misery.”
“Well,” said Angelo, who though he had not been generous enough to
concede for his past unfeeling insinuation, yet desired to make some
amends. “Well, be it so then; I will bring him to you presently.”
“Let me see him alone.”
“Promise me then that you will not attempt to tamper with the boy.”
“I _tamper_ with him!”
“That you will not offer to detain him then.”
“I _promise_,” said Gabrielle, while a tear struggling from its
confinement, fell hastily down her cheek, “I promise that he shall do
nothing unwillingly.”
“Well, that conditional promise will do,” observed Angelo, while the
inconsiderate remark conveyed an added pang to the lacerated heart of
the mother. Angelo prepared to depart; she sought not to detain him, and
he left the room, promising that she should presently behold her son.
Slight was the hope which Gabrielle ventured to cherish from this
promised interview; her sole dependance was on the power she might
possess of working on the feelings of the youth; though he loved her
not, she determined to leave no means untried to snatch him from
destruction; the cruel remarks of Angelo, indeed, left no room for
sanguine reliance, and while her conscience proudly whispered to her,
that she had done every thing to deserve the fondest affection of Felix,
she felt that even the consciousness of virtue abates not the pang which
is inflicted on the heart of a mother by a child’s ingratitude.
The slavish and degenerate Angelo, returning to Milborough, almost
feared to inform her of the promise into which he had entered; but at
length he found courage carelessly to insinuate that Felix must return
home with him immediately. No sooner had he spoke than he beheld all
the fury gathering in the countenance of Milborough; she repeated the
word “home” contemptuously, and vowed that the youth should not be
suffered to quit her presence, even for an instant.
But the word of Angelo was pledged, and subject as he was, he resolved
to abide by it, and for once even to assert himself; he therefore
retorted upon Milborough, expressing that his pleasure should be obeyed,
who had immediate recourse to her usual violence upon all occasions when
Angelo presumed to oppose her. In a passion of rage he exclaimed, that
as she had obtained possession of the boy by fraud and artifice, she
should not be permitted to detain him by presumption and violence, and
that if she persisted in her present opposition, he would not only
depart with him immediately, but she should never behold him more.
No sooner had Angelo spoken thus, than the fury sunk into tame
submission; she wept, and attributed her warmth, as she termed it, to
the ardent affection which she bore the youth, and her fears of trusting
him out of her presence, lest by some unforeseen event she should be
deprived of him for ever; she concluded by imploring of Angelo, that if
he determined to fulfil his purpose, he would first suffer her to be a
few minutes alone with her beloved Felix. To this the imprudent Angelo
readily assented. The youth, who had witnessed the altercation
respecting him, and who secretly hoped that Milborough would prove
triumphant, accompanied her with alacrity from the room.
She employed the moments allowed her by Angelo in steeling him to the
dreaded influence of his mother, and exhorting him not to be seduced by
her pretended fondness and eloquent speeches; for the wretched
Milborough was well aware of her own vulgar incapacity, and that every
triumph she gained over the heart of Felix was obtained by means most
vile and reprehensible. “Do not, my dear lovely Felix,” added she in her
illiterate jargon, “let yourself be prevailed upon by fair promises and
fine acting to live again with your mother, for you know well how she
used to damp your spirits, and check you, my dear boy, till my heart
bled for you, and she could never bear to see you happy. It would be all
the same again in a little time, and you would wish yourself in your
grave before the end of a month. Nobody, my dearest Felix, loves you as
I do, and _nobody never_ can, not even your father;--all my happiness is
to see you happy.” She pursued in a faltering voice, and calling in the
aid of tears, which she suffered to trickle down her cheeks, that their
effect might not be lost upon the youth, “and I am certain if you do not
return to me, I shall die of grief; I feel it.”
The youth embraced her with an affection due only to a mother, and vowed
that he would return to her, loving her as he did a thousand times
better than his natural parent: indeed his sentiments were too much in
unison with those of his infamous adviser; she had taught him to
consider his mother, not only with the utmost disrespect, but as a
severe and implacable judge, from whom it was requisite to conceal the
innocent indulgences which she bestowed upon him; as a harsh overseer
of every pleasure, which as requiring none herself, she thought
unnecessary for youth; he was taught, in short, to regard her as an
enemy, rather than a friend, and a capricious tyrant, rather than an
anxious mother. Above all, the vile Milborough failed not to impress
upon his mind, what she had so often laboured to effect, that his mother
was no more entitled to his veneration, from the purity of her conduct,
or her esteemed rank in society, than she was to his affection, for her
kindness or indulgence; adding, that she was now far inferior, even to
herself, inasmuch as the Count D’Albini no longer considered her as his
wife. Thus prepared with hypocritical caresses, and manifestations of
regret, she suffered him to depart with Angelo, who had begun to grow
impatient, purely from the desire of getting rid of an affair, in which
he now regretted to have involved himself. He accompanied the youth to
the door of his insulted mother, without making to him any other
observation than that when she permitted him to depart, he should expect
to see him again, where of late he had resided. To this remark, Felix
promised acquiescence, with an eagerness that embarrassed and somewhat
shocked even Angelo: then, faithful to his agreement, of not being
present at the interview, when the door opened he waved his hand, and
left him.
Felix walked leisurely up stairs, forgetting, in the indifference or
rather reluctance with which he performed his task, the animation so
natural to youth. Gabrielle who had been passing the intermediate space
in the most painful anxiety, had heard his arrival, and heard his
subsequent slow step upon the stairs, which struck upon her ear as the
knell of death, and nearly deprived her of the slight portion of hope
and firmness which she had been endeavouring to acquire.
The door opened, the youth bowed slightly and advanced. Gabrielle half
rose from her chair, to meet him, but his cool and settled countenance,
his unaffectionate air, checked her instantly, and again she sank down,
merely stretching forth to him her trembling hand, which partaking the
agitation of her whole frame, was covered with a cold dew. Felix
approached, and took her hand; he retained it for a moment; he neither
pressed nor carried it to his lips, but remained standing beside her,
though with an air embarrassed, yet devoid of the least symptom of
tenderness or sensibility.
The anguished mother fixed her eyes upon his youthful countenance, so
youthful yet so hard to her,--upon that countenance on which so often
she had gazed with fond delight, so fair, so health blooming, surrounded
in graceful luxuriance by bright auburn curls, while her’s, sad
contrast, was pale as death itself; an unwiped tear rested upon her
frozen cheek, she resembled a broken down lily upon which some remains
of the torrent that bowed it to the earth still hangs. Her son raised
his eyes to that face in which sadness and despair were so vividly
depicted; he raised his eyes, but cast them down again slowly--his
_heart_ was unmoved.
“Felix, my dear child,” said the anguished mother, in a low voice, for
she durst not grant it its usual latitude, “will you not speak to me?”
“I thought it was you, who desired to speak with me,” returned Felix.
“But, my dear love, after so long an absence, have you not any thing to
say to me?”
“Not so _very_ long an absence,” returned the youth with an insensible
smile, which was answered by a deep-drawn sigh from the heart of the
mother, she endeavoured to command herself, however and said--
“Have you been happy then, my dear Felix, since the time appears so
short to you?”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” replied Felix, his vivacity returning, “I was never
so happy before.”
“And could you not be equally happy with me?”
Felix was silent.
“Could you not be happy, my child, with a mother who tenderly loves
you?”
“You are always so melancholy.”
“But I would endeavour to be cheerful,” answered Gabrielle, waving, in
her anxiety to detach her son from his present ruinous situation, his
unfeeling remarks upon herself.
“Ah! but,” said Felix, “Milborough,”--he stopped, confused, having
involuntarily uttered her name, which a certain feeling convinced him he
ought not to have done.
“Well, what of her?” said Gabrielle in an irregular voice, yet affecting
not to notice his confusion.
“Why she,” answered Felix, venturing to look up, “--she is always so
kind.”
“She was a kind nurse to you, my child, but she has not those claims
upon you that I have. Do you not remember, before you even knew her,
when you were extremely young, how fond you were of me? the care I took
of you, how I studied your happiness, your pleasure?” Tears hindered her
from proceeding, for at that moment she remembered the bleak wintry
night when, wandering about with him in her arms, famishing herself
that he might be sustained, supporting him from the wet ground when
having scarcely strength to support herself, how he smiled upon her, and
caressed her as in fond gratitude for her kindness, now to look upon her
so changed! so insensible! turning aside from her, who had endured so
much for him--him who had been her primary care, her object in every
movement. Scarce could she persuade herself that she beheld before her
this cherished darling son, disputing for his love with a hired
mercenary wretch, whom unblushingly he acknowledged to prefer to _her_!
The thought was agony, was horror, and she wept aloud.
Felix observed her intense anguish, but he made no effort to allay it;
so estranged was his heart from her, that he knew not _how_, nor did he
feel a sensation sufficiently strong to induce him to make the attempt;
he experienced impatience only, at witnessing a grief by which he was
unaffected, and which cast a gloom over moments that might have been
more pleasingly employed.
“Great God!” cried Gabrielle, as she gazed on him through her tears, and
marked his stubborn averted countenance, and eye which roved around,
“great God! how has the heart of this child become thus hardened towards
his mother?--what fiend-like influence can have corrupted him thus in so
short a time? for no human power could have worked a change so rapid and
prodigious.”
Unhappy Gabrielle! she knew not that this had been no work of a moment,
nor that his love, respect, and filial feelings towards her had been
for years undermining by the base intrigues of a remorseless destroyer.
Grief, anguish, compassion, were the predominant sensations of her mind;
she felt not anger, but acute regret at witnessing the unyielding
insensibility of the youth, and as he still stood beside her, she threw
her arms around him, and shed over him _tears too bitter_ to be the
portion of a _mother_! Felix did not struggle to withdraw himself from
her embrace, neither did he return it--she looked at him, but his eyes
were tearless, while on his cheek, wet only with those _she_ had shed,
mantled a faint conscious blush.
Gabrielle now felt the full hopelessness of her struggle, she relaxed in
despair her fond embrace, for she perceived by his faint blush that
though he was sensible to his conduct, he still persevered in it: yet
suddenly she exclaimed, “Yes, you must; you shall remain with me, Felix!
it is for your good that you should, it is my duty to command it, it is
yours to obey. This cruel reserve, this insensibility towards a mother
will subside: my anxious care, my love, shall make it! My dearest child,
say you will remain with me; you shall have no cause to repent.”
“But you say it is my duty,” observed Felix, the poison of Milborough’s
base principles fermenting in his mind: “it is not my _duty_.”
“Well then, my love, forget the term, be it inclination,” cried
Gabrielle, regarding him with tearful eyes, willing upon any terms to
save him from compleat destruction.
“But it is not my _duty_,” pursued the unhappy child, “more to remain
with you, than with Milborough.”
“Certainly, my child, more with me; she was only your nurse, I am your
mother; she is not wedded to your father, she is not”----
“Neither are _you_!--she says,”--cried Felix interrupting her.
This was too much; the heart-stricken Gabrielle, uttering a faint
exclamation, sprang up, her pale cheek glowing with the deepest crimson;
her soul shook within her, and though scarcely had she the power to
stand, with a desperate effort she summoned her receding strength and
rushed half frantic from the room. Scarce had she gained her own
apartment ere she fell prostrate on the floor, and kind insensibility
gave a temporary relief to nature from pangs which with life it could
not long have borne.
Felix, whose feelings were not refined either by nature or education,
did not conceive, when he saw his mother rush from the room, that what
he had last uttered could have produced such an effect. His stubborn
silence had been now broken, and he rather expected from her some reply;
for a short time he remained in the apartment she had so abruptly
quitted, supposing that she would speedily return, and fearing to go
unbidden lest he should be again subject to a future similar interview.
When however he found that she neither returned, nor sent any one to
him, he considered himself at liberty to depart, and without further
hesitation running down the stairs, though he had only walked up, he
felt, when from beneath the roof of his injured mother, his constraint
vanishing, and his vivacity returning; while the joy with which he
rushed into the house of Milborough, formed a forcible contrast to the
reluctant step with which he had entered hers.
The abandoned Milborough received him with an exultation that she could
not disguise; he related to her the issue of his visit, and all that had
passed during its continuance; for the conduct he described himself to
have pursued, he received from her profuse caresses, and unbounded
expressions of gratitude, for preferring her to his mother, and for
having so faithfully kept his promise of returning to her.