Chapter 20

“I do not know why I have dwelt on these circumstances so long. Let me hasten to finish. For two months Gerard wandered in the neighbourhood of Dromore. If he saw a lone cottage, imbowered in trees, hidden in some green recess of the hills, sequestered and peaceful, he thought, Perhaps my mother is there! and he clambered towards it, finding it at last, probably, a mere shepherd’s hut, poverty-stricken, and tenanted by a noisy family. His money was exhausted—he made a journey to Lancaster to sell his watch, and then returned to Cumberland—his clothes, his shoes were worn out—often he slept in the open air—ewes’ milk cheese and black bread were his fare—his hope was to find his mother—his fear to fall again into his father’s hands. But as the first sentiment failed, his friendless condition grew more sad; he began to feel that he was indeed a feeble, helpless boy—abandoned by all—he thought nothing was left for him but to lie down and die.

“Meanwhile he was noticed, and at last recognised, by some of the tenants; and information reached his father of where he was. Unfortunately, the circumstance of his disappearance became public. It was put into the newspapers as a mysterious occurrence; and the proud Sir Boyvill found himself not only pitied on account of his wife’s conduct, but suspected of cruelty towards his only child. At first he was himself frightened and miserable; but when he heard where Gerard was, and that he could be recovered at any time, these softer feelings were replaced by fury. He sent the tutor to possess himself of his son’s person. He was seized with the help of a constable; treated more like a criminal than an unfortunate, erring child; carried back to Buckinghamshire; shut up in a barricadoed room; debarred from air and exercise; lectured; menaced; treated with indignity. The boy, hitherto accustomed to more than usual indulgence and freedom, was at first astonished, and then wildly indignant at the treatment he suffered. He was told that he should not be set free till he submitted. He believed that to mean, until he could give testimony against his mother. He resolved rather to die. Several times he endeavoured to escape, and was brought back and treated with fresh barbarity—his hands bound, and stripes inflicted by menials; till, driven to despair, he at one time determined to starve himself, and at another tried to bribe a servant to bring him poison. The trusting piety inculcated by his gentle mother was destroyed by the ill-judged cruelty of his father and his doltish substitute. It is painful to dwell on such circumstances; to think of a sensitive, helpless child treated with the brutality exercised towards a galley-slave. Under this restraint, Gerard grew such as you saw him at Baden—sullen, ferocious, plunged in melancholy, delivered up to despair.

“It was some time before he discovered that the submission demanded of him was not to run away again. On learning this, he wrote to his father. He spoke with horror of the personal indignities he had endured; of his imprisonment; of the conduct of Mr. Carter. He did not mean it as such, but his letter grew into an affecting, irresistible appeal that even moved Sir Boyvill. His stupid pride prevented him from showing the regret he felt. He still used the language of reproof and conditional pardon; but the tutor was dismissed, and Gerard restored to liberty. Had his father been generous or just enough to show his regret, he might probably have obliterated the effects of his harshness; as it was, Gerard gave no thanks for a boon which saved his life, but restored him to none of its social blessings. He was still friendless—still orphaned in his affections—still the memory of intolerable tyranny, the recurrence of which was threatened if he made an ill use of the freedom accorded him, clung like the shirt of Nessus—and his noble, ardent nature was lacerated by the intolerable recollection of slavish terrors.