The sufferings of Mrs. Denzil during this day had been terrible. She appeared to be sinking under them, when D’Alonville arrived to re-assure and comfort her: but Angelina, while she concealed her own apprehension, hung over her mother with a look of such tender solicitude, and spoke to her with so much sweetness, that D’Alonville thought he had never yet seen her so lovely: — even the lively affection she had shewn for him a few hours before, did not render her more dear to him than the filial duty and gratitude which now, mingled with fear, beamed from her expressive eyes.
“How hard,” cried Mrs. Denzil— “how singularly cruel is the destiny that pursues me! Even in this remote corner of the world, where peace at least seemed to await me, am I again exposed to insult, and to the terror which resentment of that insult inflicts. Ah, D’Alonville! I cannot blame, however I may lament the vengeance you have taken. But if the wretched man dies, I own it will be a shock I shall not easily recover; and it will be a great and heavy addition to the sorrows I already sustain with difficulty: — like all those sorrows, I shall owe it to the cruelty, to the injustice of the men who have plunged us into poverty; — for had we not been poor and apparently unprotected, would such a man as Mr. Brymore have dared to have intruded himself into my house, and have affronted my ears with his infamous proposals? Ah! no; — it is our supposed indigence that has made us liable to these indignities; and that has perhaps involved you, my dear friend, in their fatal consequences. This is an evil that will pursue us wheresoever we go — but perhaps it is an evil more supportable any where than in our native land. D’Alonville, I find it impossible to stay in any part of England. I will instantly quit it. If my life is to be rendered tolerable for the little time I yet live, it must be in a country where the memory of so many years of misery is not continually renewed.”
“Let us go, then,” said D’Alonville.— “Wherever Angelina is — where you are, is now my country; (alas! what other have I?) but I must be released from my parole before I can leave this place.”
“Undoubtedly,” answered Mrs. Denzil. “However eagerly I wish to go, your honour is dearest to me than ever other consideration. And believe me, my dear friends,—”
She was going on, when a servant girl, who was hired occasionally from the village, came, breathless and staring, into the room and exclaimed, “Oh! Lord, Ma’am! Oh! Lord, Sir! here — here is—”
“Here is what?” cried D’Alonville, impatiently.
“Brymore is dead,” said Mrs. Denzil, in a low and faint voice, “and somebody is come to tell us of it.”
A death like paleness overspread the countenance of Angelina, as she stood behind her mother’s chair waiting for the entrance of this messenger of ill news; when the girl, who had before alarmed them, and who had gone down a few steps of the stairs, returned and said, in a still more hurried way, “’tis my Lord — my Lord, his own — own self. Oh! gracious me!” She then shuffled away; and the door remaining open, a gentleman entered in whom Mrs. Denzil immediately recognized Lord Aberdore.
Still impressed with the idea that Brymore was dead, (and not considering how improbable it was that the noble Lord should himself take the pains to announce it) the countenance of Mrs. Denzil had on it an expression which Lord Aberdore imputed to veneration, awe, and apprehension. He loved, like many other great men, to excite these sensations; and with more than ordinary dignity and stateliness he marched up to Mrs. Denzil, bowed to her, and desired to have a few moments conversation with her.
“Whatever you Lordship has to say,” replied Mrs. Denzil, collecting all the courage she could, “I am prepared to hear; and my daughter and the Chevalier D’Alonville are, I hope, equally so. — Mr. Brymore, I suppose is dead?”
“No, Madam, he is not. They even tell me there is less danger than was at first apprehended. But with you, Madam, it is necessary that I speak apart.” Angelina and D’Alonville, both relieved by this intelligence, willingly withdrew; and after some hesitation, Lord Aberdore began a very long speech, in which he enumerated what he thought the errors of Mrs. Denzil’s conduct; but dwelt with particular energy on the wrong step she had suffered Angelina to take in marrying an emigrant. “I cannot but lament, that so fine a young woman, so well connected, who might have done so much better—”
“Give me leave, my Lord, to spare you the trouble of any farther remonstrance, by bringing to your recollection the circumstances of my family. As to their respectable connections, on which you now do me the honour to dwell, I beseech you to remember, how little people of a certain rank care for even their nearest relations: (I speak in general terms, for there may be, there are exceptions;) and I had surely no right to suppose that the distant relationship of my children should give them any future claim to the kindness of persons, who, at present, never enquired whether they existed. Except an house, which your Lordship lent me for a few months, what favour have I to acknowledge? As to fortune, my Lord, you know that my children have been robbed of so much of theirs, that what little I had of my own, and which will be divided among them at my death, seems to be all that they can depend upon; while Mr. Ramsay, and Mr. Shrimpshire, by detaining the affairs for so many years in their hands, have compelled me to have recourse to expedients for the support of these children, that have impressed every body with an idea that they are destitute of any fortune whatever: and who, my Lord, will marry young women, whatever may be their merit or their beauty, who are without fortune? while, on the other hand, if they remain single, how are they to be supported when, worn out with many years of trouble, (and the period, my Lord, is not very remote) I shall leave them?
“My sons are men; and wheresoever fortune
“May place them, cannot want the means of life
.”
But, my daughters! — alas, my Lord! I have found even that degree of dependance to which I have been obliged to submit, extremely difficult to bear. The compliments that have been made to the few talents I possess, have seldom paid me for the evident superiority assumed by persons once my equals, from the consciousness they seemed to have of the necessity I was under to exert those talents. And can I bear, my Lord, who know what it is to suffer from the humiliating compassion of a world, which too often mingles scorn with pity — can I bear to think that my daughters shall be exposed to become dependents, humble cousins! if any of their relations would receive them? I have seen, I have felt how few persons there are, who know how to confer an obligation. I have been compelled to know , how many insult while they oblige. In short, my Lord, these and other considerations induced me to give my daughter Angelina to the man she loved, who is a foreigner, it si true, but certainly a gentleman; and who, whatever may be the unhappy circumstances of the generality of his countrymen, is not so absolutely destitute as you seem to suppose. He is a man of honour, a man of sense; and, as your Lordship may be convinced, by the charge he has undertaken in your family, has proper pride enough to counteract every degree of false pride, and to endeavour to use those accomplishments acquired in happier times, to maintain his wife, and his independence.”
She then proceeded to relate the circumstances that had enabled D’Alonville to preserve a small income from the wreck of the considerable property of his family; and as she proceeded, she observed the features of Lord Aberdore gradually relax. He found that Mrs. Denzil had been so far from settling near Rock-March, with a view to obtain any advantages from that neighbourhood, that she had intended studiously to conceal her abode from him. He found that D’Alonville was not the humble dependent, whom he had kept at a distance, lest, if he had admitted him to any degree of confidence or familiarity, he should find it more difficult to shake him off, but possessed a certain, though small property; and that none of the family, whose settlement at Aberlynth had so much disturbed him as to induce him to such a condescension as that of visiting himself the cottage they inhabited, were likely to give him any trouble, or put him to any expence. Still, however, there were reasons why he wished them any where else; and therefore
he heard with great satisfaction, from Mrs. Denzil, that she had only taken the cottage conditionally, and that in consequence of what had happened, and of other consideration which she did not think it necessary to explain, she had determined, to quit not only Wales, but Great Britain, for some part of the continent of Europe, where her family might yet remain unmolested; and that as soon as Mr. Brymore was out of danger, so that D’Alonville could depart, they should return to London, and in a very few days quit England.
Lord Aberdore seemed so well pleased with this intelligence, that he seemed half tempted to accelerate the execution of a plan which appeared so desirable, as that of having the sea between him and a family whom he could not consider otherwise than as indigent relations — a sort of persons who may be troublesome, and can never be creditable; but as he could not, when it came to the point, determine to part with money, he checked this impulse.
The recovery of Brymore now became an object to him, and as it was impossible to prevail on Lady Aberdore to put off her departure another day, he left strict orders with the housekeeper and persons about the wounded man, to take every possible care of him. He had not time to make any new regulations as to the young men, who, by D’Alonville’s secession, would be left without a French tutor; but Lady Aberdore, apprehensive lest this vacancy should occasion a total change in the plan she had so long laboured to confirm, represented to him that it would be easy to find in London some foreigner, equally qualified, who would be rejoiced to find such an establishment, and who might not have the same troublesome and alarming entanglements as D’Alonville. She then turned to Miss Milsington, and said, “But perhaps our friend Jemima here has another Count, or Marquis, or Chevalier, in petto, whom she can recommend to replace this married man — who fights duels and kills the visitors, instead of tutoring the children.” — Miss Milsington had no spirits to reply; she dared not enquire of her heart what it had expected, or why it should feel so strangely depressed, since the discovery of D’Alonville’e D’Alonville’s marriage. He could never have been more to her than an acquaintance; yet the certainty of his being the husband of another, was so uneasy, that ashamed of feeling so much pain, and not daring to acknowledge it, she endeavoured, if she could not conquer, to disguise it, by busying herself in preparations for their departure; and irritating by her own impatience, that which Lady Aberdore felt, to be gone. As to Escott, he had already taken leave. Though he lived in what are called habits of the closest friendship (Oh! abuse of terms) with Brymore, he could not prevail upon himself to endure for one day the complaint of a sick man, or the confinement of a sick room. He could do no good, he said. If Brymore lived, he would soon be well enough to come by slow journies to London; and if his friend died, why should he be bored with the horrors of a funeral, to make himself low-spirited for a month? besides, he was absolutely engaged in London, and ought to have been there a week before had he not staid to oblige his sister. He took a gay leave of his wounded friend, and laughing, bade him look more carefully about him another time, and before he attacked another pretty wench, be sure she had no drawcansir of a husband laying perdue to shoot him through the head. “But come,” added he, “cheer up they spirit, Jemmy — I warrant you’ll do well enough, and all this will tell well among the women in London.— ‘Faith, twill make a pretty romantic story, to the best advantage.” Brymore, who suffered great pain, and believed that the danger was not less than the anguish, answered only by a deep groan, followed by a volley of curses, levelled first against the French nation, then against D’Alonville as an individual of it, and lastly against himself for not taking a better aim. “I refused,” said he, “fighting with swords, for I know those damned fellows have with them the advantage, and are half of them qualified for fencing masters; but when I could not get rid of the French son of a w — without fighting, and got a brace of pistols, I thought I was sure of bringing him down, and be cursed to him.” Escott, rather from curiosity than from any interest he took in the matter, had before learned the particulars of the quarrel.
The evening preceding the fire D’Alonville, finding himself watched by Paunceford, had determined not to leave the house till the whole family were retired. A little after one o’clock he had locked his door, and taking the key in his pocket, had softly found his way out of the house and across the park: when he arrived at the cottage, he found Mrs. Denzil impatiently waiting to relate to him the extraordinary circumstance of a visit from a person residing at Rock-March; who, under pretence of having lost his way, had followed Angelina home, and behaved with great impertinence on Mrs. Denzil’s resenting his rude intrusion, and insisting on his quitting her house: nor could she escape from the insults till she had sent for some of the neighbouring peasants, before whose arrival he departed, assuring her, that he was too much struck with the beauty of her daughter to give up the acquaintance he had made, and that he should be with her the next morning to renew offers which he was assured she was not in a situation to refuse, and which on cooler reflection she would think herself too happy to accept.
It was then that Mrs. Denzil once more felt all the bitterness of poverty, and that her indignation so far got the better of her prudence, as to induce her to sit up for D’Alonville: and notwithstanding the tears and entreaties of Angelina, who trembled for his safety, to relate to him the affront they had received. Angelina endeavoured in vain to soften the resentment that fired the breast of D’Alonville on this recital; and Mrs. Denzil, when she saw how much he was affected, repented that she had been so rashly communicative, and had listened rather to anger than discretion; and while both she and her daughter were endeavouring to appease him, they saw the flames that had by this time arisen at Rock-March. D’Alonville hastened to assist in extinguishing the fire; he returned fatigued, covered witn with smoke, and his clothes in many places burnt and singed, to await at Aberlynth the threatened visit of Mr. Brymore, who made it, as he had declared he would, before eleven o’clock.
His reception was by no means pleasant. D’Alonville, fiery and vindictive, could not be prevented from insisting on satisfaction; and Brymore, who held him in contempt, as a boy, an inferior, and a stranger, was under the disagreeable necessity of choosing either to beg his pardon, and that of the ladies he had offended, or to fight; an operation to which he was very little disposed, but was however at length compelled to undertake, as more honourable, and not much less hazardous, than receiving a sound beating which D’Alonville was disposed to give him. They went together into a retired part of the park with a pair of pistols belonging to D’Alonville, of which Brymore had his choice. — The event has been already related.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Ponce me pigris ubi nulla campis
Arbor activa receatur aura,
Quod latus mundi nebulæ, malufque
Jupiter urget.
Pone, sub curru nimium propinqui
Solis in terra domibus negata;
Dulce ridentem Lalgen amabo,
Dulce loquentera.
THE subsequent events will be explained in the following letters.
To the Chevalier D’Alonville at Verona.
“Holles-street, Cavendish-square, May 30, 1793.
“Your letter, my dear friend, informing you were got so far and so well on your journey, gave to me and Alexina infinite pleasure. This will, I trust, find you at Verona, as you then expected, and will meet you disengaged from every trouble, and free from every apprehension of the accidents that might render so long a journey hazardous or painful to the beloved Angelina and her mother. I need hardly to say, after what passed between us on that subject in our frequent conferences in England, that I am entirely of their opinion in regard to your resisting of their opinion in regard to your resisting the frequent impulses you feel to return to the emigrant army. Till your king or his representative call upon you — till you are convinced your arm is demanded for the restoration of law and order, or of some form of legal government in your country, I think as your Angelina does, that you shoul
d not leave her. The hour when you will thus be called upon does not seem to be at hand; and indeed, my dear Chevalier, the turn that affairs seem to take in France, makes it impossible to conjecture whether such a period will ever arrive. I hardly dare trust myself to write to you on this subject. We differ still as to the commencement of a revolution, which in its progress has baffled all the reasoning which we could derive from analogy, in reflecting on the past events of the world — alll all the speculative opinions we could from thence build on the future. You think, that even in its first germinations it threatened to become the monster we now see, desolating and devouring France. I still think, that originating from the acknowledged faults of your former government, the first design, aiming only at the correction of those faults, at a limited monarchy and a mixed government, was the most sublime and most worthy of a great people that ever was recorded in the annals of mankind. But wide as our sentiments are as to their origin, I believe we perfectly agree in our opinions of the position of affairs at this moment. You, as a Frenchman, execrate the misery and devastation it has brought on the finest kingdom of Europe. You lament as an individual the death of your dearest friends, the disposition of your family, the ruin and beggary of many to whom you were attached. — I, as an Englishman, deplore the injury done to the cause of rational liberty throughout the world. I deplore, as a citizen of that world, the general devastation, the blood that has been shed in the field or on the scaffold, and the stupendous destruction that has overwhelmed a great nation. — While I can yet contemplate the minutiæ to feel the distresses of many amiable individuals — from these may you, my dear friend, have now escaped; with the consoling reflection, that the heavy share you have had in them, you have so well and honourably sustained.
Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works Page 206
