Falkner: A Novel

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

"'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.

"Can you wonder that such a man as Sir Boyvill, ever engrossed by the mighty idea of self—yet fearful that that self should receive the minutest wound; proud of his wife—because, being so lovely and so admired, she was all his—grateful to her, for being so glorious and enviable a possession—can you wonder that this vain but sensitive man should be wound up to the height of jealous rage by the loss of such a good, accompanied by circumstances of deception and dishonour? He had been fond of his wife in return for her affection, while she in reality loved another; he had respected the perfection of her truth, and there was falsehood at the core. Had she avowed the traitor passion; declared her struggles, and, laying bare her heart, confessed that, while she preferred his honour and happiness, yet in the weakness of her nature another had stolen a portion of that sentiment which she desired to consecrate to him—then with what tenderness he had forgiven her—with what soothing forbearance he had borne her fault—how magnanimous and merciful he had shown himself! But she had acted the generous part; thanks had come from him—the shows of obligation from her. He fancied that he held a flower in his hand, from which the sweetest perfume alone could be extracted—but the germe was blighted, and the very core turned to bitter ashes and dust.

"Such a theme is painful; howsoever we view it, it is scarcely possible to imagine any event in life more desolating. To be happy is to attain one's wishes, and to look forward to the lastingness of their possession. Sir Boyvill had long been skeptical and distrusting; but at last he was brought to believe that he had drawn the fortunate ticket; that his wife's faith was a pure and perfect chrysolite—and if in his heart he deemed that she did not regard him with all the reverence that was his due; if she did not nurture all the pride of place, and disdain of her fellow-creatures which he thought that his wife ought to feel—yet her many charms and virtues left him no room for complaint. Her sensibility, her vivacity, her wit, her accomplishments, her exceeding loveliness—they were all undeniably his—and all made her a piece of enchantment. This merit was laid low—deprived of its crown—her fidelity to him; and the selfish, the heartless, and the cold whom she reproved and disliked, were lifted to the eminence of virtue, while she lay fallen, degraded, worthless.

"Sir Boyvill was, in his own conceit, for ever placed on a pedestal; and he loved to imagine that he could say, 'Look at me, you can see no defect! I am a wealthy and a well-born man. I have a wife the envy of all—children who promise to inherit all our virtues. I am prosperous—no harm can reach me—look at me!' He was still on his pedestal, but had become a mark for scorn, for pity! Oh, how he loathed himself—how he abhorred her who had brought him to this pass! He had, in her best days, often fancied that he loved her too well, yielded too often his pride—nurtured schemes to her soft persuasions. He had indeed believed that Providence had created this exquisite and most beautiful being, that life might be made perfect to him. Besides, his months, and days, and hours had been replete with her image; her very admirable qualities, accompanied as they were by the trembling delicacy that droops at a touch, and then revives at a word; her quickness, not of temper, but of feeling, which received such sudden and powerful impression, formed her to be at once admired and cherished with the care a sweet exotic needs, when transplanted from its sunny, native clime, to the ungenial temperature of a northern land. It was madness to recollect all the fears he had wasted on her. He had foregone the dignity of manhood to wait on her—he had often feared to pursue his projects, lest they should jar some delicate chord in her frame; to his own recollection, it seemed that he had become but the lackey to her behests—and all for the sake of a love which she bestowed on another—to preserve that honour which she blasted without pity.

"It were in vain to attempt to delineate the full force of jealousy; natural sorrow at losing a thing so sweet and dear was blended with anger that he should be thrown off by her; the misery of knowing that he should never see her more was mingled with a ferocious desire to learn that every disaster was heaped on one whom, hitherto, he had, as well as he could, guarded from every ill. To this we may add, commiseration for his deserted children. His son, late so animated, so free—spirited and joyous, a more promising child had never blessed a father's hopes, was changed into a brooding, grief-struck, blighted visionary. His little girl, the fairy thing he loved best of all, she was taken from him; the carelessness of a nurse during a childish illness caused her death, within a year after her mother's flight. Had that mother remained, such carelessness had been impossible. Sir Boyvill felt that all good fell from him—the only remaining golden fruit dropped from the tree—calamity encompassed him; with his whole soul he abhorred and desired to wreak vengeance on her who caused the ill.

"After two years were passed, and no tidings were received of the fugitives, it seemed plain that there could be but one solution to the mystery. No doubt she and her lover concealed themselves in some far land, under a feigned name. If, indeed, it were—if it be so, it might move any heart to imagine poor Alithea's misery—the obloquy that mantles over her remembrance at home, while she broods over the desolation of the hearth she so long adorned, and the pining, impatient anguish of her beloved boy. What could or can keep her away, is matter of fearful conjecture; but this much is certain, that, at that time at least, and now, if she survives, she must be miserable. Sir Boyvill, if he deigned to recollect these things, enjoyed the idea of her anguish. But, without adverting to her state and feelings, he was desirous of obtaining what reparation he could, and to dispossess her of his name. Endeavours to find the fugitives in America, and false hopes held out, had delayed the process. He at last entered on it with eagerness. A thousand obvious reasons rendered a divorce desirable; and to him, with all his pride, then only would his pillow be without a thorn, when she lost his name, and every right or tie that bound them together. Under the singular circumstances of the case, he could only obtain a divorce by a bill in parliament, and to this measure he resorted.

"There was nothing reprehensible in this step; self-defence, as well as revenge, suggested its expediency. Besides this, it may be said, that he was glad of the publicity that would ensue, that he might be proved blameless to all the world. He accused his wife of a fault so great as tarnished irrecoverably her golden name. He accused her of being a false wife and an unnatural mother, under circumstances of no common delinquency. But he might be mistaken; he might view his injuries with the eye of passion, and others, more disinterested, might pronounce that she was unfortunate, but not guilty. By means of the bill for divorce, the truth would be investigated and judged by several hundred of the best born and best educated of his countrymen. The publicity, also, might induce discovery. It was fair and just; and though his pride rebelled against becoming the tale of the day, he saw no alternative. Indeed, it was reported to him by some officious friend that many had observed that it was strange that he had not sought this remedy before. Something of wonder, or blame, or both, was attached to his passiveness. Such hints galled him to the quick, and he pursued his purpose with all the obstinacy and imperious haste peculiar to him.