Chapter 33

On arriving in London from Hastings, Neville had repaired, as usual, to his father’s house; which, as was to be supposed at that season of the year, he found empty. On the second day, Sir Boyvill presented himself unexpectedly. He looked cold and stern as ever. The father and son met as they were wont: the latter anticipating rebuke and angry, unjust commands; the other assuming the lofty tone of legitimate authority, indignant at being disputed. “I hear from Sophia,” said Sir Boyvill, “that you are on the point of sailing for America, and this without deigning to acquaint me with your purpose. Is this fair? Common acquaintances act with more ceremony towards each other.”

“I feared your disapproval, sir,” replied Neville.

“And thought it less faulty to act without than against a father’s consent: such is the vulgar notion; but a very erroneous one. It doubles the injury, both to disobey me, and to keep me in the dark with regard to my danger.”

“But if the danger be only imaginary?” observed his son.

Sir Boyvill replied, “I am not come to argue with you, nor to dissuade, nor to issue commands. I come with the more humble intention of being instructed. Sophy, though she evidently regrets your purposed journey, yet avers that it is not so wild and aimless as your expeditions have hitherto been; that the letters from Lancaster did lead to some unlooked-for disclosure. You little know me if you are not aware that I have the question, which you debate in so rash and boyish a manner, as deeply and more sorely at heart than you. Let me then hear the tale you have heard.”

Surprised, and even touched to find his father unbend so far as to listen to him, Neville related the American’s story, and the information that it seemed probable that Osborne could afford. Sir Boyvill listened attentively, and then observed, “It will be matter of triumph to you, Gerard, to learn that your strange perseverance has a little overcome me. You are no longer a mere lad; and though inexperienced and headstrong, you have shown talents and decision; and I am willing to believe, though perhaps I am wrong, that you are guided by conviction, and not by a blind wish to disobey. Your conduct has been consistent throughout, and so far is entitled to respect. But you are, as I have said (and forgive a father for saying so), inexperienced—a mere child in the world’s ways. You go straightforward to your object, reckless of the remark that you excite, and the gall and wormwood that such remark imparts. Why will you not in some degree be swayed by me? Our views, if you would deign to inquire into mine, are not so dissimilar.”

Neville knew not what to answer, for every reply and explanation were likely to offend. “Hitherto,” continued Sir Boyvill, “in disgust at your wilfulness, I have only issued disregarded commands. But I am willing to treat my son as my friend, if he will let me; but it must be on one condition. I exact one promise.”

“I am ready, sir,” replied Neville, “to enter into any engagement that does not defeat my purpose.”

“It is simply,” said Sir Boyvill, “that you shall do nothing without consulting me. I, on the other hand, will promise not to interfere by issuing orders which you will not obey. But if there is any sense in your pursuit, my counsels may assist. I ask no more than to offer advice, and to have opportunity afforded me to express my opinion. Will you not allow that so much is due to me? Will you not engage to communicate your projects, and to acquaint me unreservedly with every circumstance that falls to your knowledge? This is the limit of my exactions.”

“Most willingly I make this promise,” exclaimed Neville. “It will indeed be my pride to have your participation in my sacred task.”

“How far I can afford that,” replied Sir Boyvill, “depends on the conduct you will pursue. With regard to this Osborne, I consent at once that his story should be sifted; nay, that you should go to America for that purpose, while you are ready to engage that you will not act on any information you may gather, without my knowledge.”

“You may depend,” said Gerard, “that I will keep to the letter of my promise; and I pledge my honour, gladly and unreservedly, to tell you everything, to learn your wishes, and to endeavour throughout to act with your approbation.”

This concession made on both sides, the father and son conversed on more unreserved and kinder terms than they had ever before done. They passed the evening together, and though the arrogance, the wounded pride, the irritated feelings, and unredeemed selfishness of Sir Boyvill betrayed themselves at every moment, Gerard saw with surprise the weakness masked by so imposing an exterior. His angry commands and insulting blame had been used as batteries to defend the accessible part. He still loved and regretted Alithea; he pined to be assured of her truth; but he despised himself for these emotions—calling them feebleness and credulity. He felt assured that his worst suspicions would be proved true. She might now be dead; he thought it probable, that ere this her faults and sorrows were hushed in the grave: but had she remained voluntarily one half hour in the power of the man who had carried her from her home, no subsequent repentance, no remorse, no suffering could exculpate her. What he feared, was the revival of a story so full of dishonour—the dragging a mangled half-formed tale again before the public, which would jeer his credulity, and make merry over the new gloss of a time-worn subject. When such a notion occupied his brain, his heart swelled with uncontrollable emotions of pride and indignation.