Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works

by Charlotte Smith

  At this moment Godolphin entered; and with looks of uneasiness apologized for his long stay. ‘I have an awkward embarrassment,’ said he, ‘on my hands: a poor young woman, who is wholly a stranger in this country, and whom I have undertaken to conduct to London; but she is so ill that I am afraid she is unfit to go on. — Yet how to leave her here I know not.’

  ‘Pray, Sir,’ said Emmeline, ‘do not let us be any restraint to you. If your presence is necessary to the lady, you had surely better continue with her, than put her to any inconvenience to go on.’

  Godolphin, who was at once pleased and pained by the quickness with which she spoke, said— ‘I will tell you, my dear Miss Mowbray, very ingenuously, that if I were quite sure the character of this unhappy young woman is such as may entitle her to your’s and Mrs. Stafford’s protection, I should without scruple have asked it. I know,’ continued he, looking distressed, ‘how compassionate and good you both are; but I ought not therefore to hazard improperly taxing such generosity and sensibility.’

  ‘Who is this young person, Sir?’ asked Mrs. Stafford.

  ‘If it will not tire you I will tell you. On my arrival at Calais this day se’nnight, I found all the pacquet boats on the other side, and was obliged to wait with my friend Cleveland a whole day. As I was sauntering about the streets after dinner, I passed by an Englishman whose face I thought I recollected. The man looked confused, and took off his hat; and I then perfectly remembered him to have been one of the best sailors I had on board in the West Indies, where he received a dangerous wound in the arm.

  ‘I stopped, and asked him by what accident he came to Calais, and why his appearance was no better; for his honest hard features seemed pinched with want, his dress was shabby, his person meagre, and his look dejected.

  ‘“I am ashamed to tell you, Captain,” said he, “how I came hither; but in short because I could not live at home. You know I got prize money when I served under your honour. Mayhap I might have managed it better; but howsomdever ’tis gone, and there’s an end on’t. So as we are all turned a drift in the world, some of my ship mates advised me to try a little matter of smuggling with them, and come over here. I have lived among these Frenchmen now these two months, and can, to be sure, just live; but rot ‘em, if I could get any thing to do at home, I wouldn’t stay another hour, for I hates ’em all, as your honour very well knows. A lucky voyage or two will put some money mayhap in my way, with this smuggling trade; and then I reckons to cross over home once for all, and so go down to Liverpool to my friends, if any on um be alive yet.”

  ‘I reproved my acquaintance severely for his proceeding, and told him, that to enable him to go to his friends, I would supply him with money to buy him cloaths, which I found he principally wanted; being ashamed to appear among his relations so ill equipped, after having received a considerable sum in prize money.

  ‘The poor fellow appeared to be very grateful, and assured me that to prove his sincerity he would embark in the same pacquet boat. “But Lord, Captain,” added he, “I be’nt the only Englishman who stays in this rascally country agin their will — your honour remembers Lieutenant Stornaway, on board your honour’s ship?”

  ‘Aye, to be sure I do.’

  ‘“Well; he, poor lad, is got into prison here for debt, and there I reckon he’ll die; for nobody that ever gets into one of their confounded jails in this country, ever gets out again.”

  ‘As I perfectly remembered Stornaway, a gallant and spirited young Scotsman, I was much hurt at this account, and asked if I could be admitted to see him. I found it attended with infinite difficulty, and that I must apply to so many different persons before I could be allowed to see my unfortunate countryman, that the pacquet boat of the next day must sail without me. Cleveland therefore departed; and I, with long attendance on the Commandant and other officers, was at length introduced into the prison. I will not shock you with a description of it, nor with the condition in which I found the poor young man; who seemed to me likely to escape, by death, from the damp and miserable dungeon where he lay, without necessary food, without air, and without hope of relief. He related to me his sorrowful and simple tale. He was brought up to the sea; had no friends able to assist him; and on being discharged, after the peace, had gone, with what money he received, and on half pay, to France, in hopes of being able to live at less expence than in England, and to learn, at the same time, a language so necessary in his profession.

  ‘“And for some time,” said he, “I did pretty well; till going with one of my countrymen to see a relation of his, who was (tho’ born of Scots parents) brought up as a pensioner in a convent, and a Catholic, I was no longer my own master, and tho’ I knew that it was almost impossible for me to support a wife, I yet rashly married, and have made one of the loveliest young creatures in the world a beggar.

  ‘“She was totally destitute of fortune; and was afraid her friends, who were but distant relations, and people of rank in Scotland, would insist on her taking the veil, as the most certain and easiest means of providing for her. She had a decided aversion to a monastic life; and poor as I was, (for I did not attempt to deceive her,) hesitated not to quit her convent with me, which it was easy enough to do by the management of her relation, with whom she was allowed to go out. We set out, therefore, together for England. I had about twenty Louis in my pocket, which would have carried us thither comfortably: but calamity overtook us by the way. We travelled in stages and diligences, as we found cheapest; in one of which I imagine my poor girl caught the infection of the small pox, with which she fell ill at Amiens. I attended her with all the agonizing fear of a wretch who sees his only earthly good on the point of being torn from him for ever; and very, very ill she was for many days and nights. Yet her lovely face was spared; and in a month I saw her quite out of danger, but still too weak to travel. As I spared nothing that could contribute to her ease or her recovery, my money was dreadfully diminished, and I had barely enough left to carry me alone to England. But as our credit was yet good, I purposed our living on it till her strength was somewhat re-established, and that I would then go to England, get a supply of money, and return to pay my debts and fetch my wife.

  ‘“This was the only expedient,” said poor Stornaway, “that I could think of, and perhaps was the very worst I could have adopted; since by this means we insensibly got into debt, and to creditors the most inexorable.

  ‘“At the end of three weeks, my wife was tolerably well. I divided with her the money I had left, and went off in the night to Calais, flattering myself I should return to her within a fortnight. But so vigilant were those to whom I owed money, and so active the maréchaussés, that I was pursued, and thrown, without hesitation and without appeal, into this prison; where my little remaining money, being all exhausted in fees, to save me from even worse treatment, I have now lain near six weeks in the situation in which you see me. As to myself,” continued the poor young man, “my life has been a life of hardship, and I have learned to hold it as nothing; but when I reflect on what must have been the condition of my Isabel, I own to you, dear Sir, that my fortitude forsakes me, and the blackest despair takes possession of my soul.”

  ‘I had but little occasion to deliberate,’ said Godolphin, continuing his narrative— ‘I had but little occasion to deliberate. I enquired into the debt. It was a trifle. I blushed to think, that while Englishmen were daily passing thro’ the place in pursuit of pleasure, a gentleman, an officer of their nation, languished for such a sum in the horrors of a confinement so dreadful. The debt was easily discharged; and I took the unhappy Stornaway to my lodgings, from whence he was eagerly flying to Amiens, when I was called aside by one of the maréchaussé, who desired to speak to me.

  ‘“Sir,” said the man, “you have been generous to me, and I will hazard telling you a secret. Orders are coming to stop your friend, whom you have released from prison, for stealing a pensioner out of a convent. Get him off to England immediately, or he will be taken, and perhaps con
fined for life.”

  ‘I hastened Stornaway instantly into a boat, and sent him after a pacquet which had just sailed, and which I saw him overtake. He conjured me, in an agony of despair, to enquire for his wife, without whom he said he could not live, and that rather than attempt it, he would return and perish in prison. I promised all he desired; and as soon as I was sure he was safe, I set out post for Amiens, where I found the poor young woman in a situation to which no words can do justice. She had parted with almost every thing for her support; and was overwhelmed by the weight of misfortunes, which, young and inexperienced as she was, she had neither the means to soften or the fortitude to bear. I brought her away to Calais, and embarked with her yesterday, having only staid long enough to furnish her with cloaths, and to recruit her enfeebled frame after her journey. But sea sickness, added to her former ill state of health, has reduced her to a condition of deplorable weakness. She speaks so little English that she is unable to travel alone; and I was in hopes that by her chaise keeping up with the coach, I might have assisted her on the road; but she is now so extremely ill that I am afraid she must remain here.’

  During the first part of this short account, Emmeline, charmed more than ever with Godolphin, and ashamed of having for a moment entertained a suspicion to the disadvantage of such a man, sat silent; but at the conclusion of it, her eyes overflowed with tears; she felt something that told her she ought to apologize to him for the error she had been guilty of — tho’ of that error he knew nothing; and impelled by an involuntary impulse, she held out her hand to him. — Dear, generous, noble-minded Godolphin! was uttered by her heart, but her lips only echoed, the last word.

  ‘Godolphin!’ said she, ‘let us go to this poor young creature — let us see her ourselves.’

  ‘Certainly we will,’ cried Mrs. Stafford; ‘and indeed, Sir, you ought to have told us before, that we might sooner have offered all the assistance in our power.’

  ‘I was afraid,’ answered he. ‘I knew not whether I might not be deceived in the character of Mrs. Stornaway; and dared not intrude upon you, lest it should be found that the object merited not your good offices.’

  ‘But she is in distress!’ said Emmeline— ‘she is a stranger! — and shall we hesitate?—’

  Godolphin, who found in the tenderness of her address to him, and in the approbation her eyes expressed, a reward as sweet as that which the consciousness of doing good afforded from his own heart; kissed the hand she had given him, in silence, and then went to enquire if the poor young woman could see the ladies. She expressed her joy at being so favoured, and Mrs. Stafford and Emmeline were introduced.

  The compassion they expressed, and the assurances they gave her that she would meet her husband in London, and that she should stay with them ‘till she did, calmed and composed her; and as her illness was merely owing to fatigue and anxiety, they believed a few hours rest, now her mind was easier, would restore her. Tho’ they were impatient to get on to London, they yet hesitated not to remain at Canterbury all night, on the account of this poor stranger. Godolphin, on hearing their determination, warmly thanked them: the heart of Emmeline was at once eased of its inquietude, and impressed with a deeper sense than ever of Godolphin’s worth: she gave way, almost for the first time, to her tenderness and esteem, without attempting to check or conceal her sentiments; while Mrs. Stafford, who ardently wished to see her in possession of her estate and married to Godolphin, rejoiced in observing her to be less reserved; and Godolphin himself, hardly believing the happiness he possessed real, forgot all his fears of her attachment to Lord Delamere, and dared again entertain the hopes he had discarded at Besançon — as he thought, for ever.

  The next day Mrs. Stornaway was so much recovered that they proceeded in their journey, taking her into the coach with them and directing Madelon to travel in the chaise, accompanied by her father. They arrived early in town; and Godolphin, leaving them at an hotel, went in search of lodgings. He soon found apartments to accommodate them in Bond street; and thither they immediately went; Mrs. Stafford taking upon herself the protection of the poor forlorn stranger ‘till Godolphin could find her husband, on whose behalf he immediately intended to apply for a berth on board some ship in commission. He had given him a direction to his banker, and bid him there leave an address where he might be found in London. The next day he brought the transported Stornaway to his wife; and the gratitude these poor young people expressed to their benefactor, convinced the fair friends that they had deserved his kindness, and that there was no deception in the story the Lieutenant had told them about his wife. Godolphin took a lodging for them in Oxford street; and gave them money for their support till he could get the young man employed, which his interest and indefatigable friendship soon accomplished.

  In the mean time he saw Emmeline every day, and every day he rose in her esteem. Yet still she hesitated to discover to him all she thought of him; and at times was so reserved and so guarded, that Godolphin knew not what to believe. He knew she was above the paltry artifice of coquetry; yet she fearfully avoided being alone with him, and never allowed him an opportunity of asking whether he had any thing to hope from time and assiduity.

  ‘Is he not one of the best creatures in the world?’ said Mrs. Stafford, after he left the room, on the second day of their arrival, to go out in the service of the Stornaways.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes! and is that all the praise you allow to such a man? Is he not a perfect character?’

  ‘As perfect, I suppose, as any of them are.’

  ‘Ah! Emmeline, you are a little hypocrite. It is impossible you can be insensible of the merit of Godolphin; and I wonder you are not in more haste to convince him that you think of him as he deserves.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Marry him.’

  ‘Before I am sure he desires it?’ smilingly asked Emmeline.

  ‘You cannot doubt that, tho’ you so anxiously repress every attempt he makes to explain himself. Shall I tell you what he has said to me? Shall I tell you what motive carried him to St. Alpin?’

  ‘No — I had rather not hear any thing about it.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘Because it is better, for some time, if not for ever, that Godolphin should be ignorant of those favourable thoughts I may have had of him — better that I should cease to entertain them.’

  ‘Why so, pray?’

  ‘Because I dread the mortified pride and furious jealousy of Lord Delamere on one hand; and on the other the authority of my uncle, who, ‘till I am of age, will probably neither restore my fortune nor consent to my carrying it out of his family.’

  ‘For those very reasons you should immediately marry Godolphin. When you are actually married, Delamere will reconcile himself to the loss of you. To an inevitable evil, even his haughty and self-willed spirit must submit. And should Lord Montreville give you any trouble about your fortune, who can so easily, so properly oblige him to do you justice, as a man of spirit, of honour, of understanding, who will have a right to insist upon it.’

  It was impossible to deny so evident a truth. Yet still Emmeline apprehended the consequence of Delamere’s rage and disappointment; and thought that there would be an indelicacy and an impropriety in withdrawing herself from the protection of her own family almost as soon as she could claim it, and that her uncle might make such a step a pretence for new contention and longer wrath. The result, therefore, of all her deliberations ended in a determination neither to engage herself or to marry ‘till she was of age; and, ‘till then, not even to encourage any lover whatever. By that time, she hoped that Lord Delamere, wearied by an hopeless passion, and convinced of her fixed indifference, would engage in some more successful pursuit. She knew that by that time all affairs between her and Lord Montreville must be adjusted. If the affection of Godolphin was, as she hoped, fixed, and founded on his esteem for her character, he would not love her less at the end of that period, when she should have the pow
er of giving him her estate unincumbered with difficulties and unembarrassed by law suits; and should, she hoped, escape the misery of seeing Delamere’s anguish and despair, on which she could not bear to reflect.

  She ingenuously explained to Mrs. Stafford her reasons for refusing to receive Godolphin’s proposals; in which her friend, tho’ she allowed them to be plausible, by no means acquiesced; still insisting upon it, that the kindest thing she could do towards Lord Delamere, as well as the properest in regard to the settlement of her estate, was immediately to accept Godolphin. But Emmeline was not to be convinced; and all she could obtain from Mrs. Stafford was an extorted promise, reluctantly given, that she would not give any advice or encouragement to Godolphin immediately to press his suit. Emmeline, tho’ convinced she was right, yet doubted whether she had fortitude enough to persist in the conduct she wished to adopt; if exposed at once to the solicitations of a woman of whose understanding she had an high opinion, and to the ardent supplications of the man she loved.

  The day after her arrival in London, she had sent to Berkley-Square, and was informed that Lord Montreville and his family were in Norfolk.

  Thither therefore she wrote, and enclosed the letter she had brought from Lord Westhaven. Her own was couched in the most modest and dutiful terms, and that of Lord Westhaven was equally mild and reasonable. But they gave only disquiet and concern to the ambitious and avaricious bosom of Lord Montreville. Tho’ already tortured by Delamere’s absence and illness, and uncertain whether the object of his long solicitude would live to reap the advantage of his accumulated fortunes, he could not think but with pain and reluctance of giving up so large a portion of his annual income: still more unwilling did he feel to refund the produce of the estates for so long a period; and in the immediate emotion of his vexation at receiving Lord Westhaven’s first letter, he had sent for Sir Richard Crofts, who, having at the time of Mr. Mowbray’s death been entrusted with all the papers and deeds which belonged to him, was the most likely to know whether any were among them that bore testimony to the marriage of Mr. Mowbray and Miss Stavordale.