Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works

by Charlotte Smith

  She returned to her child, whom she hoped would sleep till her departure, kissed him, and, imploring for him to the protection of Heaven, tried to regain her courage; but as the dread of being left in utter darkness, which the rising wind gave her great reason to fear, was still the predominant idea, she endeavoured to take such precautions as occurred to her against it, and surrounded the candle, she was to carry, with a skreen of paper, lighting at the same time the lamp that hung in the room: then looking at the watch, and finding it past midnight, she once more summoned all her resolution, and softly opening the door that the force of the gust might be less suddenly felt, she advance along the passage that went from her room to the place where another branched from it, leading to the narrow winding stairs. She looked fearfully along these black and apparent endless avenues: the half-obscured light, lent by her shaded candle, served, indeed, to make “darkness visible.” She feared to look long on the dreary vacuity, lest her imagination should embody forms of its own creation; she reached the staircase, and a stronger blast of wind, gathering here as in a funnel, threatened to extinguish her light, which she even held with difficulty. She found herself, however on the next floor, in a sort of landing place, from whence other passages led off she knew not whither, and she stopped a moment to regain her breath, of which fear had nearly deprived her.

  In this pause, however prone her fancy was to imaginary sounds as well as sights of horror, she heard nothing but the loud gusts of wind that collected beneath from various openings in the walls, and being confined among narrow-vaulted passages, groaned in loud gusts, then sunk into sullen murmurs. Still Rosalie knew it was but the wind, the same wind that would probably in a few hours lend its friendly assistance to waft her to the place from whence she might procure a passage to England. This thought animated her courage; she raised her eyes, and assured herself that she saw nothing which could give her the least alarm; bare and broken walls, and dark avenues, which she had no business to explore, surrounded her: she determined then to pursue her way slowly and cautiously, for the steps of the second flight of stairs were broken and decayed; she advanced, when she was suddenly stopped by a sound, which she thought was that of human voices speaking low — she listened with a beating heart. A gust of wind, more violent than she had yet heard, impeded for a moment her distinguishing any other noise; but, as it died away, she was convinced she heard talking, and that there were two or more voices. — What should this mean? — With a trembling hand she once more took the watch, Walsingham had given her, from her pocket. It was not yet half an hour after twelve, and the appointment was not till two. This noise then could not be occasioned by Walsingham and his people waiting for admittance. — What then should it be? — but that their project was by some accident discovered, and that the agents of Signora Belcastro were waiting to entrap those on whom she depended for her deliverance, and that they would afterwards punish her for attempting to escape; probably by tearing her child from her, and confining her to some dungeon beneath the castle. These terrific ideas deprived her, for a moment, of the power of moving from the place where she stood; but she had gained recollection enough to resolve on returning up stairs, and shutting her door, before these her cruel pursuers should arrive at it, when a loud and violent crush confirmed all her fears; she turned, and, as hastily as her trembling limbs would carry her, she ascended the stairs, treading lightly. Almost immediately she heard the footsteps of some person following her. Her resolution would now have failed entirely if the greater fear had not conquered the less; for she imagined, that while she was thus absent, her little infant, whom she had left sleeping in its bed, might be carried away; and that idea was so much more dreadful than any thing that could befal herself only, that she sprang forward with unusual swiftness — her candle was exstinguished, and she had no light to guide her, yet continued to make her way, where, at another time, she would have found it difficult even by day. — The steps behind were heard more near, and she thought the man that followed was but a very little way from her when she reached the top of the stairs; the door of her room, which she had left open, was so still, and the lamp that remained burning afforded her light to guide her to it. She ran forward to the bed; her boy was calmly sleeping as she had left him; she threw her arms round him, and sunk quite exhausted with fear, by his side — still sensible, but in terror too great to be supported.

  The man who had so alarmed her, guided by the same light, followed her into the room, and approached her. Determined to die, rather than part with her child, she shrieked faintly, and implored inarticulately his mercy......But it was Walsingham himself that spoke to her, conjuring her, in the strongest, yet most respectful terms, to recollect herself, protesting that she had nothing to fear, unless from delay; since, from the noise he had been obliged to make, it was possible the people in the castle might be alarmed. He briefly accounted for coming so much before his time, by telling her, that the wind rising, the Chevalier de Montagny was afraid that the least increase might compel him to put out to sea; in which case she would have lost the chance of escaping, as he could not have returned while it blew from the same quarter, which it sometimes did for many weeks; and that they had, therefore, agreed that if would be better for them to force the door, in which they had found no difficulty, and rather to hazard alarming her for a moment, than not ensure her future safety.

  Rosalie, restored to herself by this reasonable account, now exerted herself to fly for ever from this place of dread under the guidance of her generous protector, who told her two men were below that only waited his signal to fetch her baggage. This he immediately gave; and Rosalie, having only to wrap her little boy in the same coverings as had served them before, during their long journey, was instantly ready with him in her arms.

  Walsingham conducted her carefully down with her sleeping charge, the two men following with the trunks. Some little difficulty occurred in her mounting the broken fossé on the other side; but she was light, and naturally alert, and though she still trembled from her late terror, the certainty of being released from her cruel confinement, of which there now seemed no doubt, lent her strength, with the assistance of Walsingham’s servant, (for she would trust her child only to Walsingham himself), to conquer this impediment. Her deliverer then followed, and restored his charge to her, and offering her his arm, which she readily accepted, they hastened as much as her strength would admit, and, after about an hour’s walking, found themselves on the shore, where the boat waited that was to carry them on board the Maltese galley.

  CHAPTER 28

  THOUGH, on account of the tide, the embarkation was troublesome, and though the surge ran high, as the boat made its way to the ship, yet Rosalie, who now no longer doubted of her escape, was unconscious of inconveniences, which, at another time, would have alarmed her. The moment they were safely on board the Maltese vessel, Walsingham expressed his satisfaction in a manner that gave Rosalie the most favourable impressions of the goodness of his heart, and the sincerity of his professions; while the Chevalier de Montagny welcomed her with all the politeness and urbanity, for which military men of a certain age, and of his nation, were once so justly esteemed. He entreated her to consider herself as mistress of the ship, and assured her, that whatever merit there might be in the original purpose of his voyage, there was infinitely more in being instrumental to the deliverance of so fair a captive from imprisonment; and in answer to the mingled thanks and apologies which she attempted to utter, he said that he only did his duty when he lent what assistance he could to his English friend, for that he was bound, by his military and religious oath, to succour the injured and distressed in every part of the world. The Chevalier then led her into a small state cabin, extremely commodious for the size of the ship, and assured her it was hers till she was landed wherever Mr. Walsingham should direct, and about which they were then going to consult; that he would only direct some refreshment to be brought to her, and then leave her to repose.

  Rosalie, who, by the q
uick succession of fear and hope, had hardly had time to recollect her scattered senses during the last few hours, now looked round her, and saw herself in comparative security. Delivered from the power of the unrelenting Signora Belcastro, in the protection, as she believed, of men of honour, and in a way of returning to her country, where she assured herself she should meet her husband, she now offered up her acknowledgements to that Power who had miraculously interposed to save her; her full heart, relieved by prayer and tears, beat less tumultuously, and, notwithstanding the rolling of the ship, for the wind still continued high, she suffered less than she had ever done at sea before; and even slept many hours, awaking much refreshed in the morning, and able to go upon deck, where, as the sea was now calm, the sails only gently swelled with a summer breeze.

  Mr. Walsingham and the Chevalier de Montagny both attended her, and she very soon learned to consider the one as a father, the other as a brother; for the former was nearly fifty years of age. Walsingham no longer made those speeches expressive of admiration which had given her some pain on their first meeting; he seemed no more to consider her as a beautiful young woman, to whom such compliments might be acceptable, but as a wife, whom he was restoring to her husband; as a mother, whom he had preserved for her child. Since he knew she was married, she was to him but as a sister; and, indeed, he now repeated, that all his affections were buried with the amiable Leonora he had lost, and whose death he yet deplored in terms so pathetic, that, as she listened to him, the soft eyes of Rosalie were frequently filled with tears.

  The second day after they were on board, and as soon as Rosalie seemed quite recovered from the fright and fatigue that she had suffered the night she quitted Formiscusa, Walsingham took occasion to tell her, that he had consulted with the Chevalier de Montagny, who submitted to him at what port in the Mediterranean they would be landed; and that he had settled it should be at Marseilles, whither they were now making their way with a favourable wind. To this Rosalie had nothing to object. Wherever there seemed the greatest certainty of an immediate passage to England appeared to her the most eligible; and she heard with pleasure, such as she had long been stranger to, that, if the wind continued as favourable as it now seemed to promise, they should be at Marseilles in two or three days.

  In the mean time, though the dread of having been too sanguine as to the fate of Montalbert, sometimes obtruded itself upon her mind, she endeavoured to appease these fears; and when she had once found courage to relate to her two new friends the circumstances under which they had been separated, she received consolation in hearing their opinions that Montalbert was safe; and when doubts and apprehensions, as to where he might be, tormented her, Walsingham bade her recollect how easily she might from Marseilles make inquiry at Naples, and, if he was in Italy, inform him of her health and residence. What was to become of her till all this could be done made now no part of her uneasiness; for she hoped and believed the dear mother she had left in England was ready, if not to acknowledge her as her daughter, to receive her as her niece, for her marriage with Montalbert could no longer be a secret. To Charles Vyvian also, and to William Lessington, she thought it might now be told; and to the former she believed the knowledge of it would render her as dear as if their nearer relationship was known.

  While these hopes soothed the solitary hours of Rosalie, her conversations with Walsingham impressed her every moment with greater respect for his character, and pity for the dejection he frequently seemed to feel. He seldom spoke of himself; but she found, from his general conversation, that, in the possession of an affluent fortune, he had no other satisfaction than as it afforded him the means of bestowing individual benefits on his friends, or assisting, with general benevolence, the unfortunate of every description. While he was thus engaged, the heavy pressure, which early disappointment had laid on his heart, seemed to be lightened. When neither of these objects happened to be immediately within his reach, his spirits were extremely unequal; sometimes he was apparently careless and gay, talked of the pursuits which usually occupy men of his age with indifference; threw some degree of ridicule on the importance so frequently affixed to them; and declared himself a philosopher, a citizen of the world, who never meant to fix himself to any country, or any plan of life; and Rosalie observed with concern, that, after these efforts, of what she could not but consider as forced and artificial spirits, he sometimes sunk into the deepest dejection; when silent, absent, and with a countenance where melancholy and regret were strongly expressed, he appeared rather to suffer life than to enjoy it. He had general and brilliant talents, a mind highly cultivate, and a taste elegant and correct. There was no science to which he was a stranger, and every European language was familiar to him. Young as he was, he had seen a great deal of the world; and he had not merely seen it as it appears to a man of fortune, for his devolved to him by the death of an uncle and an elder brother; but was perfectly qualified to judge of the different receptions given by that world to a young man who has his way to make in it, or one who possesses a large independent fortune. This knowledge had matured his judgment, without narrowing his heart. The variety of countries he had visited, and the characters he had studied, rendered his conversation extremely entertaining; for, when his spirits were really good, it was enlivened by flashes of wit, or by anecdotes well told. In his most melancholy hours he would seek the company of Rosalie, and engage her insensibly in conversation, which naturally turned on Montalbert. Of an evening, as they sat on the deck together, this sort of discourse sometimes continued till Rosalie melted into tears, and till, her fears awakened and encouraged by thus recounting them, she deplored Montalbert as if certain of his death, while Walsingham, instead of attempting, as he had often done, to dissipate her apprehensions, wept too. The tears slowly stealing down his cheeks, till suddenly starting, he would seem to recollect the weakness, and indeed cruelty, towards Rosalie, of indulging and encouraging such emotions, and hastily bidding her good night, would hurry to the cabin of De Montagny.

  This respectable man, who had conceived a sincere affection for his English friend, had, when Rosalie was first mentioned to him, imagined, that Walsingham had met with some fair adventurer, and was, according to the usual morality of his country, extremely willing to assist him in taking advantage of such a meeting; but when he saw Rosalie, and had conversed with her, he was convinced that he had formed a wrong opinion, and began to be apprehensive lest such an acquaintance should have serious consequences for his friend. When he did not make a third in their conversations, he judged of what had passed by the manner of Walsingham after them. The third or fourth day of their voyage, which, for want of wind, was lengthened beyond what he had expected, he took occasion to ask Walsingham, very seriously, what he meant to do with his fair countrywoman?

  “What I mean to do with her? (replied Walsingham).....Nay, but, my dear Sir, what a question is that? — To restore her certainly to her friends in England! — to this happy Montalbert, if he be living!”

  “If you do so, my friend, (said De Montagny), let your name be enrolled by the side of Scipio’s, for assuredly your merit will be as great.”

  “Not at all! — Scipio was enchanted by the beauty of his captive, or there would have been no merit in restoring her to her lover. Now I am not enchanted with the beauty of Mrs. Montalbert, superior as I acknowledge it to be to that of most women I have seen; therefore I shall have no merit in acting by her, as I ought, indeed, to act, even if I were enamoured of her. But you know, Chevalier, that to me the most lovely women are become mere objects of admiration, like the pictures and statues of Italy.”

  “Indeed I do not know, nor can I believe any such thing, my friend. — For example, I know not how to imagine, that, if this lady had been an antiquity, such as you professed to search for among the ruins of Formiscusa, that you would have stormed the castle for her relief.”

  “It would not have been necessary; but in fact it is begging the question, for had not the lady been young and handsome, she wou
ld never have been imprisoned there. However, Chevalier, I trust that any woman in distress would have commanded my services, as I am sure she would yours, merely because she was a distressed woman.”

  “My services are dedicated, you know, to the distressed of every description; but to damsels in trouble I can be considered of little more importance than their confessors when once my service is ended, for I am but a kind of military monk: but you, my good friend, at the age of three or four and twenty, are, perhaps, a protector for a very young and very pretty woman, who might be less exceptionable in Italy, than among Messieurs les Anglais.”

  “You do not suppose then (said Walsingham) that Montalbert can be such a fool, or such a brute, as to be displeased that his wife has put herself under my protection to escape from the tyranny of his mother?”

  “Oh, no! — (replied De Montagny); I suppose nothing......I only fear, that being continually with such a woman as Madame de Montalbert; hearing from those beautiful lips, professions of gratitude, and gazing on those charming eyes, filled with tears of tenderness, it may prove, at last, a very severe trial to my friend’s fortitude, when the hour shall come in which he must give her back to this happy Montalbert.”

  “Would to Heaven that were to happen to-morrow, (answered Walsingham, clasping his hands, and speaking with warmth) — would to Heaven it might be to-morrow that I could see her happy!”