Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works

by Charlotte Smith

  When it seemed better to leave her than to make any farther attempts to console her, D’Alonville and Ellesmere took leave; but both were too much occupied with their new acquaintance, to have the power of thinking of any think else. “What can be done, my dear friend?” said Ellesmere, as he rode away from the door— “how can we relieve the anguish of this charming woman?” “I do not know, indeed,” answered D’Alonville, if she is determined to give herself up to despair. Her project of going to France is wildness and insanity, and must not be listened to; but all circumstances considered, though these poor women cannot go, I know who can.” “Aye, indeed!” answered Ellesmere, who did not comprehend him;— “do you know any one whose going will be of use to them?”

  “Yes,” replied he, “I believe I do — I think my going will be of use to them; and in a few, a very few days, I shall take leave of you, my dear Ellesmere, and of this hospitable island.” “But how,” cried his friend, “on what plan? In what character would you go?”

  “Do not ask me yet,” said D’Alonville, “for yet, I hardly know myself — but I find it impossible not to go.”

  “And I,” answered Ellesmere, “shall find it as impossible to stay inactive in England. We will cross the water together, Chevalier — and should you go to France, which, however, I hope you will not do; — I will go as a volunteer into the army on the Continent, if I do not procure a commission in our own troops.

  On their return to Fernyhurst, Ellesmere, who could speak and think of nothing else; with the permission of D’Alonville related to his uncle the little melancholy romance of their two ladies, Captain Caverly, who retained gallant and eccentric ideas enough to have revived the age of chivalry, if its world; was, as his nephew had foreseen, immediately seized with the most ardent zeal to serve and protect these interesting strangers; and it was with some difficulty that Ellesmere could prevent his setting out immediately, to offer them an asylum in his house. “You are very good,” said he, “my dear uncle — but I am afraid our friends could not with propriety accept your generosity;” “And why not, pray,” answered he, “propriety! — non-sense! — will they hear the remarks that are made by the wife gentlemen of the neighbourhood, or have they not so much sense as not to care for them if they did; what is propriety in this country, to women of another; and pr’y thee tell me, dear Ned, whether any of the prudes who might find out this want of propriety would have the generosity to prevent its neccessity, by receiving these unhappy women themselves, or even shewing them the least countenance? not they indeed — illiberal-minded, selfish, odious cats, half of them — yet it is to such that one is expected to make all kinds of sacrifices.”

  Ellesmere knew there was a great deal of truth in what Captain Caverly said; but he knew also, that there were other insuperable objections to which the warm-hearted veteran, in his first ardour to succour the ladies in distress, had not sufficiently attended. Ellesmere gently hinted at these, and Caverly immediately seemed to retreat into himself, and soon after turned the conversation, which he no more renewed on the same footing; but he still professed so much inclination to befriend the Mesdames de Touranges, that the two young men were extremely happy to find they had secured them a warm advocate and protector; for it seemed to be agreed, in their short consultation hitherto, that the two ladies could no where be better situated than where they were, will some intelligence could be obtained of the Marquis de Touranges, or some favorable event restore them to their country. Alas! such events seemed more distant than ever.

  CHAPTER XX.

  “Ricca sol di se steffa

  “E delle grazie di natura adorna.

  GUARINI.

  IT was now become impossible for the two friends to find any enjoyment in hunting, or any other of those amusements which they meant to have engaged in during their stay with Captain Caverly. No pretence was necessary to excuse their repeating their visit to the house of Mr. Sanderson; for the elder lady had declared that nothing gave her so much satisfaction as to see them; and besides that general invitation, it was merely a matter of common civility to enquire after her daughter-in-law, whom they had seen the day before so much indisposed. They set out together, therefore, about ten o’clock; having persuaded Captain Caverly to postpone, till another opportunity, the introduction he was so desirous of obtaining; not only because they believed Madame de Touranges was too ill, not to be incommoded by the presence of another stranger, but because he had complained the evening before of some symptoms of the gout, which early in spring generally attacked him with great severity. But though he could not now pay his respects to the foreigners for whom he felt so generously interested, he charged his nephew and D’Alonville to offer them, on his part, all manner of service, and sent them, from his own garden, some of the productions of his hot-beds, on which he greatly prided himself.

  He was not happier in thus exercising his benevolence, than his nephew was in being its messenger; and D’Alonville, though far enough from happiness, felt at this moment that it was yet worth while to live; yet the satisfaction he felt in the certainty of being of service to his new friends, was at present as disinterested in regard to the one as the other of them.

  On their reaching the village, Ellesmere stopped to speak to a tenate of Sir Maynard’s whom he met in the road; and D’Alonville entering the house of Sanderson alone, was shewn by the apprentice immediately into the parlour, where he saw the younger Madame de Touranges, with her little boy sleeping on her lap; and by her sat a young person who appeared to be about seventeen, and who was employed in some kind of work for her friend. She was in a very simple morning dress. The little powder that had been scattered in her hair, had almost been blown away in a windy walk — a black beaver hat, which alone had confined it, lay in a chair by her; but the disorder of her head-dress lent peculiar charms to a face, which though not perfectly handsome, D’Alonville thought the most interesting he had ever seen. Madame de Touranges, who already considered him as an old friend, held out her hand to him, and with a melancholy smile, bade him welcome, — she bade him to thank her for introducing him to her fair young friend, Miss Denzil; who was come, she said, to pass the morning with her — D’Alonville made one of those speeches which are usually made on such occasions; and when Madame de Touranges enquired for his companion, enquired in his turn for the Marquise who by this time appeared; and soon, as was usual with her, engrossed the conversation. Soon after Ellesmere joined them, and yet it did not become more general for some time; the younger Madame de Touranges (whom for distinction sake we must henceforth call Gabrielle,) being accustomed to let her mother-in-law, for whom she felt an awe almost approaching to fear, take the lead in all companies. Ellesmere was engaged in listening to her; and the eyes and thought of D’Alonville were entirely engrossed by the young stranger. He suffered Ellesmere to say what he would of his projects and intentions; and to acquaint Madame de Touranges of his resolution of the night before, to set out for France; — a resolution which she highly approved. D’Alonville heeded not, though he heard their discourse, and considered at this moment nothing but how he might induce Miss Denzil to enter into conversation with him. He had hardly heard the sound of her voice, before he wanted to know if she spoke French fluently, and whether her understanding corresponded with the intelligent sweetness of her countenance. Madame de Touranges, though she had no longer any claim to the attraction of youth and beauty, was one of those women, who, from being long accustomed to adulation, expect it equally every where — and believe that the influence of superior understanding ought to continue to them the ascendancy which time may have diminished, in robbing them of their personal charms. While she lived in a court, she had too much interest to feel the decline of those attractions that she had eminently possessed in the morning and noon of life; and now, amidst the sad reverse of fortune, and after all the calamities she had experienced, the habit she had acquired of demanding attention, did not forsake her; — D’Alonville’s evident distraction, therefore, when she ad
dressed herself to him, did not please her; — he listened to her, indeed, and assented to all she said; but there was no longer that respectful deference, that marked attention, and that ready acquiescence, which the day before had so enchanted her in her young compatriot — taking, however, for a settled resolution, the scheme of his returning to France; she laid down, what was in her opinion, the safest plan for him to pursue; though of that it was impossible she could be a judge; and offered him letters to a friend of her’s in London, who being one of the last men of consideration who had emigrated, and who had lately passed through Britanny, could give him better information than almost any other person on the present state of that province. D’Alonville accepted of her offer, without however, feeling much inclination to be introduced to a person who had lately emigrated; for such he had learned to consider as persons who had been too much connected with the men and measures of the first revolution.

  Near an hour had passed thus: Miss Denzil engaged by the work she was about hardly looked from it, unless to speak in a low voice, to Gabrielle. — D’Alonville listened with the most eager attention; but the sharp and loud tones of Madame de Touranges, who sat immediately close to him, prevented his distinguishing what she said. — At length it seemed as if Miss Denzil had enquired the hour of the day; for she arose in some haste, and putting on her hat, she took from a work-basket a large gauze handkerchief, with which she carelessly tied it under her chin, and then asking if she might borrow Agatha to go over the common with her, she kissed the baby which still remained sleeping in its mother’s arms; and tenderly pressing the hand of Gabrielle, said, “Jusqu à demain ma chere amie, adieu!” She then courtsey’d with grave respect to Madame de Touranges, and, with the distant civility one owes to a new acquaintance, to Ellesmere and D’Alonville; and Agatha (who was Madame Touranges’s French maid) appearing ready at the door of the room, she was quitting it; when D’Alonville found it impossible to part with her thus, without knowing whether he should ever see her again; and ventured to say, “You are going, then, Mademoiselle? — Is it not permitted me to wait on you part of the way?” A transient blush arose on the fair cheek of the beautiful stranger, while she answered that she should be sorry to give him so much trouble, and could not think of taking him from his friends. — D’Alonville, unwilling to take this as a refusal, turned to Madame de Touranges, and requested her permission to see Mademoiselle to her home— “You have my permission,” answered the lady, “but my woman must go with her also. — Her mother entrusted her to come hither with a servant, who, being obliged to go another way, could not stay to escort her back. I promised to let some person see her over the common, which brings her within sight of her mother’s residence. As I was not aware of your gallantry, and am not at all sure that my friend, Madame Denzil, will approve of it, I must, whether you go or no, Chevalier, still perform my engagement, and send Agatha with her.” “I will, however,” said D’Alonville, “accept of the honor of waiting on the young lady on any conditions you shall annex.” Madame de Touranges ordered her maid to attend Miss Denzil; and nodding to D’Alonville, in a way that said “you may go with her if you will,” — he hastened away to overtake her, followed by Agatha.

  Miss Denzil had already crossed the village street; and passing a low style, had taken a path that led through some cottage garden to the heath, over which her way lay, when D’Alonville overtook her. Though the quickness with which she had awaked, and some surprise at the perseverance in attending her, from a young man with whom she had not exchanged half a dozen words, had raised the lovely glow of her cheeks, D’Alonville flattered himself that he read in her beautiful blue eyes no displeasure. — He found that she spoke French imperfectly, and with extreme dissidence but there was even in this defect a nameless enchantment; and her voice was so sweet, that whatever she said acquired a thousand charms only from the tone in which it was spoken. The walk, though really of near three miles, almost two of which were over a dreary common, appeared to him but as a quarter of a mile; and his countenance, had it been examined, would have betrayed what he felt, when his beautiful companion said, “I am now Sir, only a few paces from my home; and I should be sorry to give you the trouble of coming any farther, unless, indeed, you will do my mother the favor of walking in.” D’Alonville hesitated a moment. This might perhaps be the only opportunity he might ever have to make up acquaintance in a family to which this charming girl belonged; but how might he be received? Her mother might be displeased, or alarmed, at his introduction. — She might be prudish, she might be proud or ignorant; and the very means he took to obtain some farther acquaintance, might possibly shut the doors of her house against him for ever. It was better not to venture it. He therefore told Miss Denzil, that, “he could not take so great a liberty as that of intruding on Madame Sa Mere, without her permission.” Yet he could not determine to bid adieu to Mademoiselle sa fille, without eagerly enquiring when he might hope to see her again.— “Oh!” replied she, with the ease of unsuspecting innocence, “I am continually with my friend, the Ladies de Touranges; and my mother, when her health permits, almost as often as I am. — You do not live far off,” added she. “I live!” replied he, “Alas! Mademeiselle Mademoiselle , I live no where! I had once,” continued he, with a deep sigh, “ home and a country! but now I am, as well as the ladies for whom you are so generously interested, a wanderer upon the earth. Ah! if you knew how infinitely amiable you appear, as the friend of these strangers! But — I beg pardon for detaining you. — Do you think I shall, indeed, be so happy as to see you once again, before I leave England; never, in all probability, to return?

  Miss Denzil seemed hurt by the evident melancholy and dejection with which he said this, and embarrassed how to answer it. — Her natural candid simplicity, however, got the better of any artificial reserve, which would, perhaps, have taught her to conceal the concern she felt— “I hope we shall meet again,” said she, “I am sure I wish it, and I hope if you do leave England, Sir, it will not be to return to France; for such a journey must be attended with danger, which one is shocked even to think of.” “Wherever I go,” replied D’Alonville, “whatever becomes of me, it is flattering to believe that you will deign to recollect me.” He was conscious that he was going too far. They were at a gate which opened into a little shrubbery that surrounded her mother’s house. It was time to tear himself away. — He felt that the longer he continued this dangerous parley, the greater would become the difficulty of ending it; he therefore repeated his hopes of seeing her again, his acknowledgments for the honor she had done him in permitting him to attend her home; and then, as she went in at the gate, he left her, Agatha waiting on her into the house.

  D’Alonville returned hastily by the path he came. On a rising ground, two or three hundred yards from the gate, he turned to see in there was yet a glimpse, at the door, of the fascinating figure he had just parted with; but she had disappeared. — He surveyed the house. — It was an irregular and low house, half concealed by the trees which crowded round it, and did not seem to have been originally intended for the residence of a gentleman’s family; an involuntary sigh escaped him as he lost sight of it, and almost mechanically he followed the path which led back to the house where he had left his friends.

  He found Ellesmere as attentively listening to Madame de Touranges as when he had left him; she had never given him time to consider how time passed, or that his uncle expected them back to a late dinner; nor did the appearance of D’Alonville rouse to recollection either the narrator of the listener. — Madame de Touranges, indeed, was giving Mr. Ellesmere a very circumstantial account of the scenes she had passed through at Paris the preceding September, and they were too extraordinary not to engage his attention. Gabrielle appeared to shudder with terror, and to wonder how her mother could speak with so much firmness, of what she had seen and suffered, even at this distance of time. — D’Alonville thought it want of consideration in Madame de Touranges to dwell so minutely on such descriptions before her
daughter, whose health was visibly affected by the sad recollection. — He sat down near her, and began with her some conversation on topics less melancholy: — he mentioned her young friend, who was indeed the subject most immediately in his mind. “Is she not a very charming girl?” said Gabrielle. “Indeed the whole family are very amiable; and we are infinitely obliged to them for a number of little kindnesses, that have made much more commodious than it would otherwise have been, this retreat, which, when my health made my stay in London impossible, Mrs. Denzil herself found for us.” D’Alonville longed to ask an hundred questions about them, and would have hazarded some, but Ellesmere at this moment recollected that it was more than time to return to Fernhust Fernyhurst; he reminded D’Alonville of it, and they departed; Ellesmere having first obtained permission to introduce his uncle in a day or two. They left Madame de Touranges in better spirits than she had been for many months. She had not only made friends, from whom she hoped to receive considerable assistance and protection during the involuntary residence of herself and her daughter in England, but she had somebody to talk to, who seemed willing to allow her the quality of a woman of superior understanding; a claim which, among the generality of the English, she was in great danger of losing. — Besides these consolations, she formed the most sanguine expectations from the voyage proposed to be taken by D’Alonville, whom she had no doubt would procure for them intelligence of de Touranges, and restore to her a son for whose fate her pride was as much interested as her love. He was the last of his family, save only the infant whom he had never seen, and whose life had begun amidst the dispersion and ruin of his family: on these two lives, one of which was exposed to such imminent peril, and the other to all the diseases which in early infancy beset a human creature, depended that happiness to which Madame de Touranges looked forward from amidst the depression of exile — that of seeing the house of de Touranges restored to its original splendor, and trampling in the dust the party to whom it owed its being eclipsed.