Falkner: A Novel

by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley

"The boy replied more loudly, but with broken accents—'I have said all I mean to say—you may murder me, but I will say no more—how dare you entice me into injuring my mother?'

"At the word, uncontrollable tears burst forth, pouring in torrents down his burning cheeks. He told me that he well remembers the feeling that rose to his tongue, instigating him to cry shame on all present—but his voice failed, his purpose was too mighty for his young heart; he sobbed and wept; the more he tried to control the impulse, the more hysterical the fit grew—he was taken from the bar, and the peers, moved by his distress, came to a resolve that they would dispense with his attendance, and be satisfied by hearing his account of the transaction from those persons to whom he made it at the period when it occurred. I will now mention, that the result of this judicial inquiry was, a decree of divorce in Sir Boyvill's favour.

"Gerard, removed from the bar, and carried home, recovered his composure—but he was silent—revolving the consequences which he expected would ensue from disobedience. His father had menaced to turn him out of doors, and he did not doubt but that this threat would be put into execution, so that he was somewhat surprised that he was taken home at all; perhaps they meant to send him to a place of exile of their own choosing, perhaps to make the expulsion public and ignominious. The powers of grown-up people appear so illimitable in a child's eyes, who have no data whereby to discover the probable from the improbable. At length the fear of confinement became paramount; he revolted from it; his notion was to go and seek his mother—and his mind was quickly made up to forestall their violence, and to run away.

"He was ordered to confine himself to his own room—his food was brought to him—this looked like the confirmation of his fears. His heart swelled high: 'They think to treat me like a child, but I will show myself independent—wherever my mother is, she is better than they all—if she is imprisoned, I will free her, or I will remain with her; how glad she will be to see me—how happy shall we be again together! My father may have all the rest of the world to himself, when I am with my mother, in a cavern or a dungeon, I care not where.'

"Night came on—he went to bed—he even slept, and awoke terrified to think that the opportune hour might be overpassed—daylight was dawning faintly in the east; the clocks of London struck four—he was still in time—every one in the house slept; he rose and dressed—he had nearly ten guineas of his own, this was all his possession, he had counted them the night before—he opened the door of his chamber—daylight was struggling with darkness, and all was very still—he stepped out, he descended the stairs, he got into the hall—every accustomed object seemed new and strange at that early hour, and he looked with some dismay at the bars and bolts of the house door—he feared making a noise, and rousing some servant, still the thing must be attempted; slowly and cautiously he pushed back the bolts, he lifted up the chain—it fell from his hands with terrific clatter on the stone pavement—his heart was in his mouth—he did not fear punishment, but he feared ill success; he listened as well as his throbbing pulses permitted—all was still—the key of the door was in the lock, it turned easily at his touch, and in another moment the door was open; the fresh air blew upon his cheeks—the deserted street was before him. He closed the door after him, and with a sort of extra caution locked it on the outside, and then took to his heels, throwing the key down a neighbouring street. When out of sight of his home, he walked more slowly, and began to think seriously of the course to pursue. To find his mother!—all the world had been trying to find her, and had not succeeded—but he believed that by some means she would hear of his escape and come to him—but whither go in the first instance?—his heart replied, to Cumberland, to Dromore—there he had lived with his mother—there had he lost her—he felt assured that in its neighbourhood he should again be restored to her.

"Travelling had given him some idea of distance, and of the modes of getting from one place to another—he felt that it would be a task of too great difficulty to attempt walking across England—he had no carriage, he knew of no ship to take him, some conveyance he must get, so he applied to a hackney coach. It was standing solitary in the middle of the street, the driver asleep on the steps—the skeleton horses hanging down their heads—with the peculiarly disconsolate look these poor hacked animals have. Gerard, as the son of a wealthy man, was accustomed to consider that he had a right to command those whom he could pay—yet fear of discovery and being sent back to his father filled him with unusual fears; he looked at the horses and the man—he advanced nearer, but he was afraid to take the decisive step, till the driver awaking, started up and shook himself, stared at the boy, and seeing him well dressed—and he looked, too, older than his years, from being tall—he asked, 'Do you want me, sir?'

"'Yes,' said Gerard, 'I want you to drive me.'

"'Get in, then. Where are you going?'

"'I am going a long way—to Dromore, that is in Cumberland—'

"The boy hesitated; it struck him that those miserable horses could not carry him far. 'Then you want me to take you to the stage,' said the man. 'It goes from Piccadilly—at five—we have no time to lose.'