Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works

by Charlotte Smith

  While the whole family were dining, one of those pauses which frequently happened in the conversation, gave occasion for Mr. Escott, who sat at the other end of the table to say to his sister in his indolent way— “Lady Aberdore, do you know I have made a discovery to-day?”

  “Indeed!” answered the lady, “pray in what? in philosophy or mathematics?”

  “In something much better than either,” answered he; “I have found out that you have got some new neighbours not above a mile and a half from the park.”

  “Neighbours!” exclaimed she, “neighbours for me! — my dear Thomas, do for heaven sake spare yourself the fatigue of such discoveries for the future; and if unluckily you make any such by chance, do in pity keep them to yourself.

  “Upon my honour though,” cried Escott, “I am not in joke. Damn me if I ever saw a genteeler, handsomer girl in my life! I took some pains to find out who she was — but the cursed Welsh boobies know nothing of the matter — however I intend to try again.

  “On my account I dare say,” said Lady Aberdore, laughing sarcastically, “Oh! what a kind brother I have to seek eligible acquaintance to amuse me in the country! — Bless me, Jemima,” added she, addressing herself to Miss Milsington, “why one would think it was some acquaintance of yours that Thomas has put up — dear child, how you look!”

  It was very true, that the countenance of the lady to whom she spoke expressed unusual emotion, but it was from the reflection of that of D’Alonville; who as he sat opposite to her, betrayed such extraordinary agitation, that the truth immediately flashed on the mind of Miss Milsington — the unwelcome truth; — and she saw that the heart of D’Alonville was give to this “handsome and genteel girl,” who ever she was. The sarcasm thus uttered by Lady Aberdore, restored her, however, to her recollection and she answered coldly, “How can it affect me, Lady Aberdore? You know, I believe, that I can have no acquaintance in this country; certainly none for whom I feel the slightest degree of interest.”

  “And where,” cried Brymore significantly, “is this miracle to be seen? — Pray let me into the secret.”

  “No faith, Jemmy,” replied Escott, “that will never do. If Lady Aberdore disclaims her for an acquaintance, I shall try to make and acquaintance with her myself. Don’t you think I’m right, my Lord?”

  “Upon my honour I do know, (said Lord Aberdore, who frequently affected absence of mind,) I do not know exactly of whom you have been talking — but I think Mr. Escott may easily find acquaintance which would undoubtedly, and very properly too, be declined by Lady Aberdore.” The conversation was then suffered to drop; and the young men soon after retiring from table, D’Alonville was released from a situation which he could not have supported much longer. He hastened up stairs, while Brymore sallied forth on an expedition, which had D’Alonville suspected, it would have rendered him frantic, and have sent him immediately, and at every risk, to the cottage of Angelina.

  Paunceford, who had observed with scrutinizing eyes the confusion of D’Alonville, now believed he had discovered the whole train; — that D’Alonville was a spy, and this young person a mistress whom he had brought down, who was to convey to the enemy the intelligence he had obtained. A paper he had picked up in the billiard-room that morning, which he could make nothing of, seemed to strengthen the other circumstances; and he determined to hesitate no longer, but to discharge his duty to his dear country, by declaring all he knew, and all he supposed, to Lord Aberdore that very evening. When tea was over, therefore, Paunceford gravely advanced to Lord Aberdore, and with an air of importance requested to be allowed the honour of five minutes conversation with “his lordship in his lordship’s library.”

  Supposing he had something to communicate relative to the boys, Lord Aberdore bade him come to the library in half an hour, as he was engaged till then in giving directions relative to repairs before his departure, which was fixed for the next day but one. Paunceford employed the intermediate time in considering how he should most eloquently enforce what he had to say; and when the time of his attendance arrived, with head elate from a consciousness of his own importance, he strutted into the library.

  “So, Mr. Paunceford,” said Lord Aberdore, as he entered, “nothing is wrong, I hope, in regard to Aurevalle, or the rest?”

  “No, my Lord, nothing in regard to my Lord Aurevalle, or to the Mr. Viponts — no youths can give more early promise of emulating, my Lord, your Lordship’s eminent virtues. Born to aspire to the important characters of British legislators, they do indeed give hope of — .”

  “Well, well,” said Lord Aurevalle, coldly, “all this is very well. Excuse me, Mr. Paunceford, I have really hardly a moment to spare this evening; be brief, therefore, as to your present business.”

  “I will, my Lord; I will be brief — as brief as the nature of the affair I have to communicate will allow; but — but your Lordship must allow me to premise, that nothing but a sense of duty I owe to your Lordship’s family in particular, to society in general, and to my country as a Briton, could induce me to undertake a task for which I am free to own myself unfit, and which, I feel, might, under any other circumstances, appear invidious.”

  “I have not the least notion, Sir,” said Lord Aberdore, half peevishly, “of the tendency of this discourse.”

  “I will explain, my Lord. — What would your Lordship think of me, if — I say, what opinion could you, or ought you to form of me, if, instead of giving you this trouble, I should suffer a traitor, a spy, an enemy to my country, to remain unreproved, unpunished, unmarked, in a family so illustrious — and that your Lordship’s unsuspecting generosity has engaged you to harbour such a man, I am fatally but too certain.”

  “Aye, indeed!” cried Lord Aberdore, without, however, testifying any marks of surprise; “and where, Sir, have you discovered this traitor and spy?”

  Paunceford then declaring how very unwilling he was to appear as an accuser, and again making a long parade about the love of his dear country, and his abhorrence of treachery, declared that D’Alonville was the person to whom he alluded.

  “It may be so, Sir,” said Lord Aberdore, in his usual reserved manner; “but you must give me proofs stronger than you have yet mentioned, before I make such a charge against Monsieur D’Alonville. As to the French letter or note you have produced, it is, as far as I can make it out, (which the singularity of the hand renders rather difficult) nothing more than a letter from one friend to another, relating merely to private concerns.”

  “But, my Lord,” said Paunceford, “can your Lordship doubt of the facts I have stated? — The young woman of whom Mr. Escott spoke at dinner — you may depend upon it, my Lord — she is the mistress of Monseer, some kept woman from London, whom he has engaged to convey intelligence.”

  “It is mere conjecture,” answered Lord Aberdore. “You do not even know that she is connected, or even known to Monsieur D’Alonville; and you might remark, that a situation at this distance from London, is by no means that which would be chosen by a judicious spy.”

  “Your Lordship, then, gives no credit to my relation; — you see nothing in the observations I have made?”

  “Pardon me, Mr. Paunceford — I see a great deal to admire in you sagacity; but I cannot, whatever may be my respect for your talents that way, venture to charge a person with crimes of so dark a nature, unless quite sure of his guilt.”

  “Well, my Lord,” said Paunceford, extremely mortified, “will your Lordship then do me the justice to believe it, if I prove to you, beyond a doubt, that every evening, at a certain hour, this foreigner goes to a rendezvous at some place not far off, where I am very sure your Lordship will find there is an agent, or agents, who are employed in the very iniquitous business of obtaining intelligence from Monseer D’Alonville, to convey to the enemy. — would your Lordship condescend to appoint any person to follow with me and detect him?”

  “Oh, as to that,” answered Lord Aberdore, “I hold the charge of such grave import; and to harbour a pers
on carrying on such practices might be of so ill consequence to me, Mr. Paunceford, that though I am neither fond of adventures, or of detections, and have long since left all night excursions, I will follow you myself, rather than that such a traitor should escape.”

  “Well, my Lord, I thank your Lordship for your condescension — and this very night I engage that I shall track Monseer to the place of his machinations.”

  “This very night then, Mr. Paunceford, I will follow you.”

  Highly elated thus to have gained his point, and nothing doubting but that the detested D’Alonville would be detected and driven away with disgrace, perhaps with punishment, Paunceford could not conceal his satisfaction; his plump countenance and rosy gills glistened with delight; and after another long parading speech he took his leave, promising to watch the culprit so narrowly, that he should not escape to his evening conspiration without being followed. Lord Aberdore promised to be ready on the signal that should be given for his detection.

  Unluckily for the very discerning Mr. Paunceford, D’Alonville put off his evening walk. Supper passed. The spy, who was supposed to have so much mischief in his head, and who had been observed very busy over a list of shipping that afternoon, went through the evening with unusual composure, and never made any attempt to absent himself. At a later hour than usual the whole family separated for the night; and D’Alonville, who was watched, was seen to enter his own apartment, and lock the door; after which Paunceford took the pains to go round to that side of the park on which the windows of his chamber looked. There was no light. He returned to the house, stepped as lightly as his weight of flesh would give him leave along the passages that led to D’Alonville’s room, and listened at the door. There was no noise. Baffled and vexed, Paunceford was compelled to own that he was this evening disappointed; but he imputed it only to accident. Lord Aberdore, who had had the complaisance to wait till after midnight, now told Mr. Paunceford, with a contemptuous smile, that either his zeal for his country, for his too officious informers, had certainly overheated his imagination — and retired himself evidently displeased; while the sapient Paunceford slunk to his own room, lamenting the strange predilection of the nobility of England for foreigners, and meditating schemes of detection for the morrow; for of D’Alonville’s guilt he had no more doubt than of his own existence, or of his own importance — matters of which he was equally well assured.

  Miss Milsington had been languid and gently dejected the whole day: — she would have escaped the enquiries her reason once more made, — what she meant by being thus violently, and, what was worse, visibly affected when any thing was said which might relate to D’Alonville; and why she suffered such changes of countenance as befall her when she observed the alterations in his? Unable to satisfy herself, she escaped from reflections so little satisfactory, and had recourse to an Ariosto which lay on her dressing table.

  She read Italian perfectly well; and between musing on the world she was in, and its inhabitants, and reading of the very strange regions into which the poet introduced her, she passed some hours. At length she heard the clock over the great stables strike three, and was preparing to go to her bed, when she was alarmed by a violent knocking at her door, and a female voice that, half shrieking and half sobbing, entreated her to open it and make her escape, if she would avoid being burnt in her bed. Miss Milsington, who had not undrest, but had her night-cap and dressing-gown on, obeyed, as soon as possible, this alarming summons. The person who had given it was already gone. No light appeared either in the gallery into which her dressing-room opened, or in the arched passage which led to the back stairs communicating with the bed-chambers on this side of the house; but Miss Milsington fancied she smelt fire. She was not one of those nervous ladies who, on the slightest alarm lose their presence of mind. She considered, however, that where there is not great share of youth and beauty, elegance and refinement may supply their place; — and as she might probably have occasion to exhibit herself before the whole family in her night-clothes, she just stepped back to her glass, adjusted the bow of rose-coloured ribbon that shaded her face in the centre of a nice laced cap, puffed up the muslin trimming of her dressing-gown, that it might adorn as well as conceal her throat; and then taking the candle in her hand, she courageously marched along the passage. She listened, but heard no noise in that part of the house; she then descended the stairs — but here her resolution forsook her; a long window which was on this stair case looked towards that part of the house where the offices formed one side of a large court; she saw the fire blaze from the windows of the laundry, and she recollected that D’Alonville’s apartment was very near it. In a moment her sang froid was converted into excessive terror; she flew down stairs, and finding nobody in the vestibule, she ran into the anti-room and attempted, but in vain, to open a door that led across the court. By this time Lord Aberdore, who had been some time awakened, met the affrighted lady, and to her eager enquiries if every body was safe, answered, that Lady Aberdore, the children, and the female servants were all safe, and assembled in a room on the other side of the house, very far from the place where the fire had broke out, which the men were in hopes of being soon able to extinguish, as they had engines and water. He invited her to join the party, and telling her what room Lady Aberdore was in, went himself to give father orders for extinguishing the fire.

  Miss Milsington, not daring to enquire of him, now hurried into the room he pointed out. She found Lady Aberdore, Lady Tryphena, and Lady Louisa, with their governesses, none of them much alarmed; and the Lady indeed seemed to think that if the old house was burnt down, it would save her the misery of ever passing another month in it, and would rather be a good thing; Miss Bellandyne, the English governess, looked very grave; Madame talked and fluttered about the room, ran to the windows, and seemed to wish she could see what was going forward, even though it was mischief; the young ladies exclaimed, “Dear, how shocking! la! how frightful! I hope papa won’t be hurt;” while another groupe was much more animated: — it was Paunceford, with a white night-cap, (fortunate contrast to his circular red face!) with a quivering chin and staring eyes, endeavouring to prevent the fire was raging, while the spirited boy insisted on being allowed to go where every other person but the women of the house were assembled. “Keep my brothers with you, Sir, if you please,” cried the lad, “but I tell you I will go — I am sure my father will not object to it.”— “let us all go,” cried the youngest— “I know papa would not wish us to shirk from such a thing like so many milksops. If Mr. Paunceford’s afraid, why he may stay with the women; but the Chevalier is there, I dare say, and he will take care of us.”

  “The Chevalier!” exclaimed Lord Aurevalle— “Good God! his room is just close by the fire — I never saw him,” added he, “among the people who were running about; — suppose nobody has called him — he will be burnt to death.”

  “He will be burnt to death!” repeated Miss Milsington, in a tremulous voice.

  “He shall not,” cried Lord Aurevalle, eagerly— “Mr. Paunceford, I will not be detained.” He then broke from Paunceford who in vain attempted to argue with him, and ran with his utmost speed towards that quarter of the house that was on fire. Paunceford, who felt not the least inclination to go himself, where the burning beams and melting lead might hazard his own person, for which he had the tenderest respect, contented himself with protesting against the rashness of Lord Aurevalle, and detaining by force the other boys over whom, as they were younger, he could exert more decided authority.

  Some of the female servants, whose curiosity had conquered their fear, so as to have induced them to go near the burning building, now returned to say, with great appearance of terror and affright, that the fire gained ground, and in spite of all that could be done, had seized the east wing of the house itself. In the mean time Lord Aurevalle had run among the crowd who were attempting to extinguish it, and had enquired eagerly and called aloud for D’Alonville. D’Alonville was no where to be found; nobody h
ad seen him. The generous boy flew to his father— “My Lord,” said he, with extreme vehemence, “Have you seen D’Alonville? He is not here — he is still in his room — the fire gains on that quarter of the house.”

  “Let somebody go up thither,” said Lord Aberdore; “it is fit he should be told of his danger, if it be possible that all this noise can have been made so near without rousing him.” Nobody offered to stir. It was a service of some danger, for the beams and the rafters over the apartment of D’Alonville were already in flames. Lord Aurevalle saw them hesitate, and instantly understood the reason; and though Escott, who stood looking on with perfect sang froid, opposed his going more resolutely than his father, he ran from them both, and crossing the court, made his way to the door of D’Alonville’s room, Lord Aberdore himself, Escott, and two or three female servants following him.

  At the door, entreating that it might be opened, knocking and calling with all their force, stood Miss Milsington and the French governess. One implored in English, the other insisted in French — both in vain — the door was locked, and no answer was returned. Lord Aberdore called aloud and thundered with a window bar: — still no answer. He then directed that the door should be forced open — Lord Aurevalle had not strength to atchieve it, and Escott was too indolent to try; but the former ran away with amazing swiftness, and brought away the porter, and one of the grooms, who with one violent effort forced open the door. All the persons who were waiting at it burst into the room; but not only found no D’Alonville, but his bed, it was evident, had not been disturbed since it was last made. They looked at one another! A thousand conjectures, very much to the disadvantage of the object of them, darted into the mind of Lord Aberdore; as many melancholy presages into that of Miss Milsington; the young man was amazed and confounded; but none of them disclosed their thought, nor was there time for indulging conjectures, for it was more necessary to check the progress of the flames which already crackled round this corner. they descended therefore more hastily than they had mounted, but on the gentleman’s arrival at the place where the engines were playing, they saw, to their utter astonishment, D’Alonville in his shirt, mounted near one of them, directing the stream of water; and in another instant he leaped from thence, and threw himself into a small reservoir or fountain in the court, whence the water came, and where there was some obstruction to its rising from the aukwardness of the men who managed the pumps. The authority of Lord Aberdore was now almost insufficient to prevent his son from undertaking the same task; but before he could speak to his active tutor, D’Alonville was again amidst the fire, which now however began to be subdued. In a few minutes more, by unremitting exertion on all sides, it was almost entirely conquered, and by day-break there was no longer any flames; but the engines were sill directed to play. D’Alonville now having a moment’s respite, entreated Lord Aberdore and Aurevalle to retire, assuring them he would remain with the people till every appearance of danger from the fire’s breaking out again was removed. The father being extremely apprehensive of his health, was glad to withdraw, and his positive command only compelled the spirited boy to follow him.