Poor Miss Milsington, who had been obliged to return to the parlour, where she had left the women of the family, could not avoid relating that D’Alonville was not in his room — was not to be found! And Paunceford, who was sure that such a circumstance would operate as the strongest proof that all he had related to Lord Aberdore was true, was in the midst of his triumph, and even hinting in no very doubtful terms that a foreign spy was very likely to be also an incendiary, when Lord Aberdore returned, and checked this charitable exultation, by coldly assuring Mr. Paunceford, that, though it was very true that D’Alonville was not in his room, it was as true, that nobody had at last been so active and successful in extinguishing the fire. He then ordered every body to retire to their respective rooms, and postponed till the following morning any enquiry, either as to the cause of the fire, or of D’Alonville’s absence from his room during the night, which, though he did not think quite the same of it as the worthy divine, seemed to be a matter that on many accounts merited investigation.
CHAPTER XXII.
Some angry god pursues thee still,
Nor grants thee safety or repose.
SOPHOCLES.
THE fatigue and affright of the preceding evening seemed to have disabled the whole family from appearing at the usual hour, which was never a very early one. The breakfast table had not been visited at two o’clock, every body remaining in their own apartments, except Lord Aberdore, who had gone to the usual time into his study, where he had begun an enquiry into the cause of the accident that had happened; and by the interposition of the house-steward, had learned with some difficulty the truth — which was, that the laundry maids being extremely fatigued with an heavy day’s work, preparatory to the departure of their lady, had been obliged to sit up to complete their business, till one of them, quite exhausted, had fallen asleep, and while the other went to a remote part of the house, a dog, which had found its way into the laundry, had thrown a large horse covered with linen into the fire; and the linen into the fire; and the linen, as well as the frame on which it hung, was in a blaze before the sleeping servant, half suffocated, awoke. Instead of taking any rational means to put it out, she ran away frantic with fear, and left all the doors open through which she fled; by which means the current of air encreased the violence of the fire, and the deal tables, baskets, and linen in the room were in a moment in flames.
The poor women avowed their error and were forgiven. The loss in linen was very considerable, but the injury to the house extended no farther than to the laundry, a room over it, and that corner of the principal building where D’Alonville’s apartments were situated. Lord Aberdore having given proper directions to have the damage repaired as speedily as possible, now sent a message to the Chevalier D’Alonville, requesting to speak to him. After the servant who went on this message had remained absent much longer than appeared necessary, he returned and informed his Lord, that after a long search Monsieur D’Alonville was no where to be found. Lord Aberdore though he was as far as ever from believing the charge laid by Paunceford, yet was convinced, from his being now missing, as well as from his extraordinary absence, and sudden appearance the preceding evening, that he had some connection in the neighbourhood, which, though he did not believe it would endanger the state, might he thought have ill effects on the morals of the young men with whose education he was partly entrusted; he determined therefore immediately to demand an explanation. — It was already at hand.
A servant breathless and staring ran into the room— “My Lord! — your Lordship is wanted — An accident has happened — The French gentleman—”
“What of him?” cried Lord Aberdore.
“O! my Lord! We fear, my Lord, that he has killed Mr. Brymore!
“Killed him! How? In what manner? Where?” —
“I don’t know indeed, my Lord — but my Lord Aurevalle this moment—”
“Where is Aurevalle?” exclaimed Lord Aberdore with great agitation and impatience— “What is all this?”
“My Lord Aurevalle, my Lord, came in this moment into the hall, and sent me to call your Lordship. — He said, my Lord, how Squire Brymore and Monseer had fit, and that the Squire was badly wounded, and he was afear’d kill’d outright — and how he laid out in the park, under them there walnut trees up at Glendow’s seat — and bid some of us run for a surgeon, while another comed to acquaint your Lordship of the news.”
“And where is Aurevalle? Give me my hat and shew me the place — But cannot you tell me where Aurevalle is?”
“Gone back, I believe my Lord, to the poor wounded gentleman. Bless his precious heart, he seemed so concerned that he ran away as ‘twere like an arrow from a bow!”
“Is any body gone for a surgeon?” said Lord Aberdore, as he hastily went out.
“Yes, my Lord — Peter and Harry are both gone different ways; Monseer sent them hisself.”
A few minutes brought Lord Aberdore to the place. — He saw at a distance a group of persons, whom, on his approaching, he found surrounded Brymore, who lay on the ground, apparently dying in great pain. — To his surprize D’Alonville, with an handkerchief wrapped round his left hand, was the most busied about the wounded man, and appeared the most concerned, while Lord Aurevalle earnestly watching his countenance, was dispatching other messengers to the house.
Lord Aberdore addressed himself immediately to D’Alonville— “I am shocked and amazed, Sir,” said he, “at this scene. What does it mean? and why have you abused my confidence in destroying a person who was my guest, and ought to have been respected as such?”
At this moment Miss Milsington arrived, pale and breathless, but just in time to hear D’Alonville’s answer.
“This circumstance, Sir,” said he, “which I deplore, while I assure you, that were I to act again it would be in the same way, is occasioned by Mr. Brymore’s having insulted my wife.”
“Your wife!” cried Lord Aberdore.
“Wife!” repeated Miss Milsington, faintly.
“Yes, Sir, my wife. I do not, I cannot repent having chastised the man who insulted her.”
“Chastised!” exclaimed Paunceford— “you mean assassinated. Poor gentleman!” added he, affecting great compassion— “unfortunate Mr. Brymore!”
D’Alonville cast a look of contempt at Paunceford. “An assassin, Sir,” said he, “would attempt to escape; I await the orders of Lord Aberdore; and if I have offended the laws of this country, I am ready to surrender to its justice.”
“I believe, Sir,” said Lord Aberdore, “you must submit to be guarded by my servants till the event of this very disagreeable besiness business is know, or till the circumstances of it are enquired into.”
“I resign myself to your disposal, my Lord,”
“Lead Monsieur D’Alonville to the house,” said Lord Aberdore, “and do not lose sight of him.”
“Entrust him to me, my Lord,” cried Lord Aurevalle; “I know I may depend on his honour.”
“Don’t presume to interfere, Sir,” replied his father angrily; “you have already offended me.”
Two of the inferior servants now approached, and were leading D’Alonville away, when he turned to Lord Aberdore and said, “My Lord, before Mr. Brymore is moved, do me the justice to ask him if I have behaved dishonourably? I will venture to rest my defence on his testimony.” He then walked away with the men into whose charge he was given; but he had not proceeded above ten yards, when a young person, flying as if in a fit of frenzy down the sloping ground above the place, threw herself into his arms, and, unable to speak or weep, would have sunk senseless to the ground, had he not supported her. Some of the people who had been about Brymore now gathered round her, while D’Alonville most earnestly implored their succour. Miss Milsington, and one of the maid-servants, (for the whole household was by this time assembled in the park) now approached the apparently dying Angelina. Miss Milsington, who did not want humanity, took out her salts, and would have applied them; but whether it was the sight of the blood that
now streamed from his hand, or his agonized countenance as he gazed on that of his wife; or whether the tender appellations he gave her in attempting to recall her to life, (appellations to which the French language lends peculiar softness,) affected the sensibility of Miss Milsington, certain it is, that she could not fulfil her charitable purpose; but incoherently bidding the maid to assist “the young person,” she gave her the smelling-bottle, and hurried herself into the house. Angelina in a few moments opened her eyes— “Oh! D’Alonville,” said she, in a tremulous voice “you have destroyed me — how could you be so cruel?” He endeavoured to soothe and reassure her. “I am not wounded,” said he, “at least not materially.”
“But that unhappy wretch, he is dead, is he not?”
“No, upon my honour, he is not.”
Nor likely to die?”
“I cannot answer for that,” said D’Alonville; “I hope he will not.”
“Oh, God!” exclaimed Angelina — how horrible to have occasioned the death of a human creature — and its dreadful consequences to you!”
“I fear no consequences,” answered he, “for myself, because I have done nothing dishonourable; but I fear for you, Angelina — I fear for your mother. How will you return home, my love? I am to be kept within the sight of these two servants, and therefore I cannot go with you.”
“You are to be sent to prison.” said she— “I know that is what they intend. Nothing shall prevent my accompanying you. Where is Lord Aberdore?” added she,— “they told me he was here. I will speak to him. I will insist on going with you: they may have a right to imprison you, but they can have none to tear me from you. I will speak to Lord Aberdore. Be so good, Sir,” addressing herself to one of the men, “to tell me where I can find him?” As the surgeon was not yet arrived, and Lord Aberdore saw no use in waiting where he was, he had by this time turned to go towards the house, when the voice of Angelina enquiring for him induced him to approach. Amidst the confusion she was in, she knew him though it was two or three years since she had seen him. Timid, and even reserved as she naturally was, she had now no recollection of forms. “My Lord,” said she, “whither has your Lordship directed these your servants to conduct my husband? May not I accompany him? Is he to be sent to a prison, my Lord, for having resented insults offered to me? and may I not share it with him?”
Lord Aberdore, amazed at her manner, and trying to recollect himself, hesitated— “I think, Madam,” said he— “yet I must be mistaken — I think — surely I have seen you before?”
“My name was Denzil,” replied she. “I was once, at least my family were, once well known to your Lordship. But I mean not to ask any favour on that account; I make no claim to your indulgence farther than to be permitted to attend my husband whither forever you may intend to send him.”
“And is this gentleman your husband, Madam?” said he. “Pray where is Mrs. Denzil, your mother?”
“At a cottage, Sir, in the village of Aberlynth, half distracted at what has happened, and prevented only by indisposition from coming hither herself.”
“This is all very extraordinary. I understand nothing of these romantic flights. I am very sorry indeed, Madam, very sorry; but I know not what I can do to alleviate the inconveniences this young man’s rashness, and, I must add, your own indiscretion, has brought you into. If you chuse to accompany Monsieur D’Alonville to my house — yet you must excuse me if I say, that you would do better to return to your mother. In regard to Monsieur D’Alonville, his situation must depend on the events. I fear they cannot but be unfavourable — to a person circumstanced as he is, particularly unfavourable. He will probably be soon removed, for of Mr. Brymore’s life there appears to me to be very little hope; and then you will of course act as discretion shall dictate in regard to following him.” Lord Aberdore then slightly touched his hat and passed on.
Angelina, though careless of his disapprobation, was shocked at the opinion he had given as to the danger of Brymore, and the fatal consequences to D’Alonville; — she was terrified too at the countenances of the people around, which seemed to menace him, as if his being a foreigner had rendered culpable in him what would have been glorious in a man of their own country— “What will become of us” said she, in French— “what will our fate do with us?”
“Be not so apprehensive,” my Angelina,” replied he— “am I not in England? — is not my life guarded by its laws, if I only acted, as it will be found I have, in my own defence? My only apprehensions are for you. For heaven’s sake consider the anguish of mind in which you have left your mother! — consider yourself; or, if you will not, consider what I suffer in seeing you thus distressed, and exposed to the gaze of all these people. Let me prevail upon you to return to your mother. Some person will accompany you, I hope. You are unable, I fear, to walk without assistance.”
“I will return with Madame D’Alonville,” said Lord Aurevalle, “if she will allow me.”
“Indeed you will not, my Lord,” cried Paunceford. “ You return with this person, my Lord! I hope you don’t think of such a thing.”
“Indeed I do, Mr. Paunceford; and I will certainly do as I please.”
“Not while you are under my care, Sir; and I suppose Monseer does not now assume any right to dictate here, not while you are under my care, and your father Lord Aberdore at hand?”
“We shall see that,” interrupted Aurevalle. “Come, Madam, let me assist you. My dear Chevalier, be not so uneasy; all may terminate better than you expect; — you shall not suffer injustice. Come, Madam.” Angelina appeared ready to faint, yet endeavored to obey D’Alonville’s wishes in returning to Aberlynth.
Paunceford, irritated beyond all bounds, now ventured to take the arm of Lord Aurevalle. “I insist upon it, my Lord, that you do not degrade yourself in this manner: though it is true we now know what Monseer here is. how do we know this young woman, and among what sort of people such a one may lead you? We know nothing favourable, I am sure of this gentlewoman.”
“Don’t I know, Sir,” replied the young man, “that she is a relation of my mother’s — of my own mother’s; and shall you , Sir, dare to prevent me shewing her civility, common civility, when she is distressed? No, Sir, no pendant on earth shall retrain me.”
“My dear Lord” said D’Alonville, “I beg that your generosity to my Angelina and me, may not be the means of giving offence to your father. As to this person, I owe him no deference; but your kindness in the present instance only adds to my distress. Angelina, recover your presence of mind, my love; — recollect, that if the wretched man’s wound is not dangerous, I shall be immediately released; if it is, I shall be sent to the next prison, for I do not expect, not do I mean, to ask any favour. In the first case, I shall be with you immediately; in the second, you can be near me in a few hours; why , therefore, give way to these agonies? Lord Aurevalle, will you have so much consideration for me, as not to risk any displeasure on the part of your father by going yourself to Aberlynth; but will you speak for me to one of the female servants, and engage her to accompany my wife will she is safe in the presence of her mother?”
Curiosity, and other motives, as well as the intercession of their young master, immediately engaged two of the women of the house. Angelina trembled, and reluctantly was led away.
D’Alonville, guarded by two men, proceeded towards the house, Lord Aurevalle walking with him, to the great displeasure of Paunceford, who hearing Angelina acknowledged as a relation of the late Lady Aberdore’s, began to fancy, that unless Brymore died, (which he most heartily hoped he might) all his hopes of seeing D’Alonville dismissed in disgrace, would end in his being established in the family more firmly than himself.
He had not penetration enough to have discovered in the time he had lived among the great, that nothing was less likely to recommend any one to their favour, than the circumstance of being an indigent relation; — and if D’Alonville’s other offences were cleared up, this alone would be sufficient to induce Lord Aberdore to
dissolve the connection as soon as possible.
The surgeons from two small neighbouring towns now arrived nearly at the same time. They were not likely to agree in the case of Brymore, when they had never yet agreed in their lives. They both however seemed to believe him in great danger. He was removed into the house, and a messenger dispatched for a more eminent surgeon; for Brymore, who had now recovered his senses, would not submit in his side, till the third operator arrived; and the fate of D’Alonville still was in suspense.
At length the surgeon from a town ten miles distant appeared. The ball was extracted with less difficulty than had been apprehended. There was every reason to believe Brymore would do well; and Lord Aberdore, to avoid the perplexity that might attend detaining D’Alonville, rather than from tenderness to his situation, gave him leave to go to Aberlynth, on receiving his parole, that he would appear if the event should be such as was at first apprehended.
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