Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works

by Charlotte Smith

  When, at length, Rosalie was once more alone in her own parlour, all of the events of the day revived in painful confusion to her memory; but the death of her mother swallowed up every other sorrow, and, with a flood of tears, she accused herself of insensibility, for having, at such a time, suffered any other consideration to call off her thoughts a moment from that object of just and endless regret. Of the two ladies she had seen, she thought no more than to determine upon not continuing their acquaintance, and rather to quit the place than to associate frequently with people so utterly disagreeable. — Her heart heavy with regret, and her head aching from having wept so much during the day, she drank a glass of water and hastened to her bed, where the most tormenting reflections, on the cruel fate of her beloved mother, long prevented her tasting any repose. At length wearied nature gave her up to momentary forgetfulness; but she had hardly slept an hour, when she was awakened by one of the most violent storms of thunder, lightning, wind, and hail, that she had ever recollected to have heard. For herself she was unconscious of apprehension, but clasping to her palpitating heart its only certain possession, her lovely child, she shrunk from the slashing fires which made their way through her window shutters; she endeavoured, however, to appease the fears of Claudine, who crept into her room half dead with terror, but suddenly, as she was reasoning with her maid, she recollected that, from the time which had passed since Walsingham set out, it was impossible he could have reached Hastings. Her apprehensions, lest any evil might befall him, and the idea that she was the innocent cause of his being exposed, became extremely painful to her bosom; she yielded to those gloomy thoughts which too frequently aggravated sorrow — and exclaimed, “Alas! I am so unfortunate, that it seems as if I communicated calamity to all who are interested about me......Born the child of proscription, I destroyed the peace of my mother, and on my account it probably was, that my unhappy father was driven into exile! — Should he have survived long years of calamity, I shall never behold him, never have an opportunity of expressing for him the filial tenderness I should feel, or of weeping with him over the memory of my dear, dear mother. Again proscribed in my marriage, I have, perhaps, undone Montalbert, and loaded him with the malediction of his mother......Perhaps — oh! thought too terrible to be dwelt upon! —— perhaps his tenderness for me may have cost him his life, and he may have perished amid the sulphurous gulphs and unwholesome exhalations at Messina. — No, I will not encourage such an idea. The precautions of his cruel mother counteracted it, and, by doing so, made my imprisonment and persecution favours. — Alas! I have present evil enough without dwelling on the past. — The noble-minded, the disinterested Walsingham, seems to be infected with my unhappiness; perhaps, even now, is the victim of his generous attention to me! — and you, dear little unconscious companion of my woes, sole sweetener of my sorrowful existence, may not you one day lament that you were ever born?”

  This reflection was too distressing — and an ardent prayer to Heaven, that she alone might suffer, and that her boy might be as happy as she was miserable, ended the sad soliloquy. — The violence of the tempest abated, but not till morning broke.

  Rosalie, after a short interval of rest, arose; she heard from her maid, as well as from her other servant and the people of the house, melancholy details of the mischief occasioned by the lightning; of which some particulars were true, but the greater part much exaggerated, or wholly groundless.

  Rosalie, still depressed by the idea of Walsingham’s possible danger, and by the effects of a sleepless night, tried to shake off both her mental and personal uneasiness by a walk. It was an hour when she hoped that she might venture to the sea side without meeting either of the ladies whom she so much desired to avoid. In this, however, she was disappointed: — they joined her as she returned home; talked over the circumstance of the storm — Lady Llancarrick declaring that she enjoyed its sublime horrors, and Miss Gillman tempering the same sentiment, with delicately expressing concern for the fate of those who might have suffered in it.

  “Apropos, (said Lady Llancarrick) — my dear Mrs. Sheffield, do you know it came into our heads, as Gillman and I sat together looking at the lightning over the sea, that our agreeable acquaintance, Mr. Walsingham, could hardly have reached whatever place he was going to before the tempest came on: — he resides, I think, at some distance?”

  As she said this, she fixed on Rosalie her fierce inquiring eyes. Rosalie, though no human being could be more void of offence, blushed deeply, and, before she could form a reply, Walsingham’s groom came up to her, and delivered a packet with his master’s compliments, and he had orders to wait for an answer.

  Rosalie now saw, in the countenance of the two ladies, an expression which added, for a moment, to her pain and confusion. Relieved, however, from the uneasiness she had been in about Walsingham, she felt all the dignity of conscious innocence, and resolved to disregard censure, which, whatever appearances might say, she knew herself incapable of deserving; she recovered her composure, and telling the servant she would return home and write an answer, which he might call for in a quarter of an hour, she slightly wished the two ladies a good morning, and left them.

  Their curiosity, which was strongly excited on many accounts, they scrupled not to attempt gratifying by questioning the servant; from whom, however, they obtained but little additional information. While these ladies were thus unworthily employed, Rosalie read the following letter from Walsingham ——

  LETTER.

  “I was compelled to leave you, dear Madam, last night in an uneasy state of mind — for how could I be otherwise, when I saw you in such depressed spirits; and I fear your new acquaintances are not of that description of women, with whom, either in the hour of sadness or gaiety, you would wish to associate. — I hope, that if you find them too much disposed to trespass upon you, you will not suffer the fear of violating the common forms of society to force you into the most uneasy of all restrains, keeping up a show of regard to conceal dislike and disgust. I believe neither of them to be worthy of the friendship of Mrs. Montalbert. You know, I hope, that if this or any other circumstance renders your present abode less agreeable to you, my services shall be exerted to find one more eligible — but favour me with your commands immediately, as I shall go to-morrow to London, to plead with an old acquaintance of my father’s on behalf of an unfortunate son, who, having two years ago married a young woman, whose only fault was her being a destitute fortune, and, having been brought up to no profession, is in a very distressed situation, with a wife and two sweet little children. I met him a few days before I had last the honour of seeing you, as he is here with his family; I bade him consider what I could do to serve him, and he has desired me to see his father on his behalf: persuaded that I should succeed in restoring him to comfort and his father. Without having very high ideas of my powers of persuasion, especially when the hard-cold heart of avarice is to be moved, I will, however, make the attempt, and, unless there is any thing in which I can first have the pleasure of being employed for you, Madam, I shall begin my journey to-morrow early. My friend’s father lives in Nottinghamshire.

  “May the bearer of this bring me as favourable an account of your health and spirits as can be expected after the just concern you have so recently felt: — I hope you were not terrified by the tempest of last night. It overtook me on a place so wild and dreary, that I cold have supposed it the scene where Shakespeare imagined the meeting between Macbeth and the Weird Sisters. The spot I allude to is a wide down; in some places scattered over with short furze, in others barren even of turf, and the uncloathed chalk presenting the idea of cold desolation: — on the left is a ruined chapel, or small parish church, in which service is performed only once in six weeks; on the right are, in some places, marshes that extend to the sea — in others a broad spit of sand and stones, where nature seems to refuse sustenance even to the half-marine plants, which, in most places, are thinly sprinkled among the saltpetre of the beach.

  “The hollow
murmur of the distant sea, on which the lightning faintly flashed, foretold the coming storm some time before I reached this heath — there it overtook me; but as there are times when outward accidents make little or no impression on me, I quickened not my pace; and shall I own it without incurring the charge of affected eccentricity; that I found a melancholy species of pleasure of surveying the gloomy horrors of the scene —— in fancying I was the only human being abroad, within the circuit of many miles — in cherishing the same spirit with which Young says in his Night Thoughts —

  “Throughout the vast glove’s wide circumference

  “No being wakes but me.”

  Yet I was more moderate, and more philosophical in my somber enjoyment; and, when I came to my lodgings, I wrote what follows, which I beg you will put into the fire when you have read —— .

  “Swift fleet the billowy clouds along the sky,

  “Earth seems to shudder at the storm aghast;

  “While only beings, as forlorn as I.

  “Court the chill horrors of the howling blast.

  “Even round yon crumbling walls, in search of food,

  “The ravenous owl forgoes his evening flight;

  “And in his cave, within the deepest wood,

  “The fox eludes the tempest of the night: —

  “But

  “But, to my heart, congenial is the gloom

  “Which hides me from a world I wish to shun —

  “That scene, where ruin saps the moulding tomb,

  “Suits with the sadness of a wretch undone;

  “Nor is the darkest shade, the keenest air,

  “Black as my fate — or cold as my despair.”

  CHAPTER 34

  THE pensive, or rather gloomy disposition in which Walsingham wrote, was but too congenial to the feelings of his unhappy correspondent, who passed the rest of the day in her house, indulging melancholy reflections. She was glad, however, that he was gone an excursion likely to divert his thoughts, and knew that nothing so effectually won him from himself as such a generous service as he was now engaged in. The following day arose, and found her in the same dejected state of mind; left alone, without even the expectation of seeing Walsingham, or of hearing any intelligence, which, he assured her, he would not fail to attempt collecting as to Montalbert, or Charles Vyvian, she had nothing to look forward to but the answer she yet hoped to receive from Mrs. Lessington; and she reckoned daily when the course of the post might give her, at least, this melancholy satisfaction.

  A mind, thus preying on itself, agitated by hopes and fears, and wearied by conjectures, could only be relieved, at last, for a few hours by books of amusement. She had sent to the only library in the place for two or three of these sort of books, but finding them only pages of inanity, which could not a moment arrest her attention, she determined, notwithstanding her fears of again meeting Lady Llancarrick and Miss Gillman, to go to the shop, and endeavour to please herself better. In doing so, she was under the necessity of passing through that part of the village most frequented. Congratulating herself, however, on not having met any body, she was returning, with her books in her hand, when her former persecutors, suddenly advancing from their lodgings, joined her, and, with their usual careless ease, entered into discourse with her, asking several questions, and, when to evade these, she turned the conversation on the books she had been in search of, the elder lady delivered her opinion of several celebrated and new productions, with a fluency which astonished Rosalie, so much did it resemble a dissertation learned by heart, and remind Rosalie of Jenkinson in the Vicar of Wakefield, who, whenever he met a stranger, began with —

  “Sir, the cosmogony, or creation of the world,” &c. &c.

  Rosalie, however, better content to be a hearer than a speaker, listened, or appeared to listen, with perfect resignation, internally resolving, however, to take her leave as soon as she arrived at the turning which led to her own lodgings, whether the harangeu was finished or not; she walked, in the mean time, quietly along between the two ladies, (Miss Gillman having taken her arm), and gazing on the ground, as if she was counting the pepples, when two persons hastily approached, and in a voice exclaimed— “It is she! — it is my wife! —— By Heaven it is herself!” —— the voice was Montalbert’s — Rosalie raised her eyes — it was Montalbert himself.

  Almost unconscious of what she did, she sprang forward, and would have thrown herself into his arms, but he retired from her, with rage and resentment in his countenance, which suddenly changing into an expression of pity, he cried— “Lovely lost creature! — art thou, indeed, lost to me? —— Yes — for ever lost! — and here — too well convinced that all I have heard is true — here we part for ever!”

  Rosalie, who had advance towards him, heard all this with a surprise and terror that deprived her of the power of utterance. She tried, however, to say, “For mercy’s sake, Montalbert, hear me!” — but seeing that he still retreated from her, and that seizing the arm of the person with him, he even walked hastily away; she made a vain attempt to quicken her pace and follow him, but her trembling limbs refused to second her will — her head grew giddy, her heart ceased for a moment to beat, and she would have fallen, had not Miss Gillman, who, with Lady Llancarrick, beheld this scene with wonder, stepped forward and supported her.

  In another moment she recovered her senses, and, looking wildly round her, exclaimed, “Where is he? —— Where is Montalbert? —— Lead me, if you have pity — lead me to him!....Let me follow him — for God’s sake let me!” —— Miss Gillman, with the common phrase used on such occasions, besought her to be composed; Lady Llancarrick began to reason, and to prove very logically that nobody ought to give way to such violent emotions. Her eyes, however, had followed Montalbert till he disappeared; — though when Rosalie eagerly inquired which way he went, it was a piece of intelligence she did not choose to communicate.

  Rosalie, when her sense and recollection returned, desired to go to her lodging, but, as it was evident she was incapable of walking thither without assistance, the two ladies of course attended her. — Miss Gillman, in the few intervals allowed her, spoke most sentimentally and pathetically, while the lady of superior talents affected to argue on the impropriety of yielding to extravagant expressions of grief or joy — not without some hints, that she could not comprehend how the gentleman they had seen could be the husband of Mrs. Sheffield, and yet be called Montalbert. Rosalie attended to neither of her new friends; she hardly knew who was with her; but, having formed a confused conjecture that Montalbert might be at her house, her eager eyes were inquiring for him the moment she came in sight of it. Claudine met her with the little boy; but Montalbert had not been there. In beholding her child, he recalled to her startled senses the conduct of his father, with his wild behaviour and strange expressions, and all the agitation of her spirits returned; but she was relieved by a flood of tears, and sobbed violently — while such comfort or remonstrance, as the ladies thought might either console or determine her to bear her distress with fortitude, were alternately administered. — Rosalie had nothing to answer. She wished, thought she could not propose it, that they would leave her as the only kindness they could do her; and at length, the one having exhausted all her sentiment, and the other all her reasoning, they went away, promising to call in the evening to see how she did. Rosalie assured them she should be very well, and begged they would not trouble themselves; she affected a momentary tranquility, to escape from a repetition of attentions, which, as they appeared to be well meant, she could not rudely refuse.

  When they were gone, the astonished and stunned mind of Rosalie returned to a new contemplation of the scene that had passed; when she recalled the countenance, the words, and the attitude, of Montalbert, it appeared, but too certain, that her actions had been misrepresented, and that jealousy and anger possessed him. How could she find — how appease him? — Whither was he gone? — He had come in search of her; was he then so prejudiced against her, that he would n
ot even hear her, that he would not even see the child whom he had so passionately loved? — These reflections, pressing with painful violence on her mind, deprived her for some time of the calmness that might have enabled her to determine what [must] be done. She sometimes thought [of going] out to inquire for Montalbert, then found herself unequal to the dread of meeting him, whom she had so long sough and so tenderly beloved, only to have her heart pierced by sounds of anger and reproach, from a voice in which she had been used to listen to the fondest language of adoring love. — She had no servant who either knew the person of Montalbert, or had sufficient steadiness and sense to perform so delicate a commission as that which she wished to have executed. The woman of the house, though older and graver than Claudine, was very ignorant, and to her it would be impossible to explain such a history as hers, and equally impossible to make her comprehend it. To her ever generous, considerate, and sensible friend, Walsingham, the thoughts of Rosalie naturally turned; but had he been still at Hastings, she could not have ventured to have asked his meditation. It was too evident, from the few incohe[rent w]ords Montalbert had uttered, that h[is col]dness and violence originated in jea[lousy,] and of whom, besides Walsingham, could he have conceived such injurious ideas?

  Amidst these fluctuating thoughts one occurred to her, which compelled her to take some immediate resolution. If she could see Montalbert, when she was less under the influence of surprise, she thought she could talk to him calmly, and should be able to convince him that she had never, even in idea, swerved from the faithful tenderness she owed him: but to avail herself of this hope no time was to be lost. Montalbert might have left the village; and where was she then to seek him, that he might hear her justification. Impressed then with a conviction that she ought to find him instantly, she was hastening to leave the house, when the following note was delivered to her ——