And so they ran away.

Shelley’s father instanced this as another proof of depravity and said, “Let ’em go!” The couple went to Scotland.  In a few months they came back from Scotland, because no one can really be happy away from home.  Besides they were out of money—­and neither one had ever earned any money—­and as the Westbrooks were willing to forgive, even if the Shelleys were not, they came back.  But the Westbrooks were only willing to forgive in consideration of Percy and Harriet being properly married by a clergyman of the Church of England.  Now, Shelley had not wavered in his Godwin-Wollstonecraft theories, but he was chivalrous and Harriet was tearful, and so he gracefully waived all private considerations and they were duly married.  It was a quiet wedding.

In a short time a baby was born.

Harriet was amiable, being healthy and having very moderate sensibilities.  She had no opinion on any subject, and in no degree sympathized with Shelley’s wild aspirations.  She thought a title would be nice, and urged that her husband make peace by renouncing his “infidelity.”  Literature was silly business anyway, and folks should do as other folks did.  If they didn’t, lawks-a-daisy! there was trouble!!

And so, with income cut off, banished from home, from school, out of employment, with a wife who had no sympathy with him—­who could not understand him—­whose pitiful weakness stung him and wrung him, he thought of Godwin, the philosopher:  for at the last philosophy is the cure for all our ills.

Godwin was glad to see Shelley—­Godwin was glad to see any one.  Godwin was fifty-five, bald, had a Socratic forehead, was smooth-cheeked, shabby and genteel.  Yes, Godwin was the author of “Political Justice”—­but that was written quite a while before, twenty years!

One of the girls was sent out for a quart of half-and-half, and the pale visitor cast his eyes around this family room, which served for dining-room, library and parlor.  Godwin had married again—­Shelley had heard that, but he was a bit shocked to find that the great man who was once mate to Mary Wollstonecraft had married a shrew.  The sound of her high-pitched voice convinced the visitor at once that she was a very commonplace person.

There were three girls and a boy in the room, busy at sewing or reading.  None of them was introduced, but the air of the place was Bohemian, and the conversation soon became general.  All talked except one of the girls:  she sat reading, and several times when the young man glanced over her way she was looking at him.  Shelley stayed an hour, spending a very pleasant time, but as he had no opportunity of stating his case to the philosopher he made an engagement to call again.

As he groped his way downstairs and walked homewards he mused.  The widow Clairmont, whom Godwin had married, was a worldling, that was sure; her daughter Jane was good-looking and clever, but both she and Charles, the boy, were the children of their mother—­he had picked them out intuitively.  The little young woman with brown eyes and merry ways was Fanny Godwin, the first child of Mary Wollstonecraft and adopted daughter of Godwin.  The tall slender girl who was so very quiet was the daughter of Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft.