Chapter 19

“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 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 him, 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 skulking 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 channels. 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 anything 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 baseborn 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!’