Chapter 18

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 farther—to the end of the lane only”—so we walked on, and he talked about her forgetting him, and she said something 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 everything, 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 everybody else—and have wicked thoughts too—and I hate you and everybody—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 or 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 clew 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 visiter: 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.