Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith

by Charlotte Smith

“Now,” cried Lord Aurevalle, as they went off at half speed over the turf, “we’ll have a good gallop; do you know, Chevalier, I have not been upon the back of this mare for above twelve months, and she’s my favourite, and the very best little thing in all England.” Such was the kind of discourse to which D’Alonville found his pupils most disposed; at length, however, the higher grounds of the park obliged them to go more slowly, and gave D’Alonville an opportunity of surveying the country from an eminence that commanded it as far as the sea, at the distance of near twelve miles; or that rather afforded glimpses of the Bay of Cardigan, between the hills, which, though not so high as those to the North, were frequent between Rock-March and the sea.

  But there could not be a greater contrast than between smoothly ornamented grounds of the park, and the rude country in the midst of which it was situated. D’Alonville once more looked round for those chearful habitations of humble like that he dared not ask for, lest his young companions should should wonder at is enquiry; all he could distinguish in the distance seemed to be the meanest cottages of clay and thatch; but the oppressive gloom that involved every object soon put an end to his observations, and a tempest of wind and rain drove them back to the house, where they had hardly got in, and changed their clothes, when Lord and Lady Aberdore, Miss Milsington, and the Lady Viponts arrived.

  The female part of the groupe retired to their apartments, and the owner of the house to his study. — The boys, after waiting on their father for a few moments, returned to the amusements that pleased him, and D’Alonville was again left alone.

  He now traversed the long range of uninhabited apartments — not without reflecting on the strange inequality of conditions. “The lord of this palace,” said he, “has not only here, but in his other houses, six times as much room as he occupies, even when surrounded by his family and his friends, while the family of my Angelina, have not a cottage that they can call their own — hardly the means of obtaining temporary residence! Alas! it is not a palace I wish for to place her in, but some quiet asylum where she might watch the declining health of her mother, nor dread such alarms and inconveniences as she has already undergone. Oh, Angelina! could I obtain this for thee, this gloomy magnificence which now chills and depresses me, would be surveyed with content, and the pendant with whom I am associated, would appear less insupportable.” As he finished this monologue, he turned to walk again through the rooms, when he saw majestically approaching through the vista formed by the corresponding doors of the long suite of appartments, apartments, the amiable Miss Milsington. Every grace of her sublime figure seemed to be called forth as he advanced towards her; yet was

  “Her lion port and awe commanding face,

  “Attempter’d sweet to virgin grace.”

  As she held towards him her fair hand, exclaiming, “Heaven be praised, my dear Chevalier, we meet at last! and I shall have an undisturbed hour before dinner to give you the cart du pais I promised you.”

  D’Alonville expressed his acknowledgment in proper terms; and then, as they made several turns in this range of rooms, Miss Milsington softening her voice, and throwing as much gentle languor as possible into her eyes, began to give him her opinion of the people he was to live among, and the means of rendering his situation comfortable. There was good sense and real friendship in her observations and her advice; and D’Alonville, though he saw with concern that her manner betrayed a disposition towards sentiments, it was not in his power to return, could not help feeling himself really obliged to her.

  At dinner he saw for the first time the “rival of the Houri,” and acknowledged that indefatigable art can do much towards rendering what is called beautiful, a fair face with regular unmeaning features — art certainly was not spared; but D’Alonville observed, that if the real charachter of Lady Aberdore was to be guessed at from her countenance, it would be pronounced totally unlike what it really was; for neither her features or her manner intimated that rage for admiration, or that resolution to govern, which her conduct clearly evinced. — Her conversation was rather affectedly soft; and she lamented that she had been careless enough to lose her knowledge of French, with that pretence to ignorance, which many women (and men encourage them in it), seem to think renders them more amiable than knowledge. She was to-day in one of her languid humours, fatigued to death by such an horrible journey, and wondering at Milsington for being so robust. To D’Alonville she was just civil, but still appeared to recollect that he was a tutor; while Paunceford she treated as a dependent — bade him open the door for her dog, or ring the bell, and gave him orders as to what she would have done about her aviary, and her ponies. Lord Aberdore, who brought with him into the country his political schemes to adjust and arrange, said no more to any body than was absolutely necessary; and the two governesses were not considered as being part of the company, and of course sat as mute as the young ladies their pupils; so that the little conversation there was, passed only between Lady Aberdore and Miss Milsington, and D’Alonville thought he had never in his life seen so much wearisome magnificence; for though the family were alone, all was in the most solemn splendour; the servants who waited at the table were more numerous than the party who surrounded it, and the same form and ceremony was observed as on days of state.

  Tired and desponding, in despite of the gentle attentions and kind looks of Miss Milsington, D’Alonville was glad to be dismissed to his room, where he was soon called from the recollection of frigid grandeur and unwieldy pomp, to the perusal of the following letter:

  “The days seem so tedious, my dear fried, and we are all in such sad spirits since you left us, and my mother’s health again so visibly declines, that we are all impatience to hear that you have succeeded in finding for us some remote cottage at the foot of a Welsh mountain; yet I know how unreasonable it is in us to expect this, when it is hardly possible you have yet had time to look round you. — And know too, that your impatience to have us in the country, is not less than ours to be there. Already I see, in the morning walks I have taken with my little sister and brother, the crocuses peeping faintly forth in the little gardens on the road toward Islington; discoloured as they are from the smoke of this stifling town, they yet call forth ideas of pleasure, from the recollection of spring, and I remember how delighted I used to be, when a child, at the appearance of the crocus and snow-drop, in a little piece of ground I called my own garden, before we were driven from our house in Dorsetshire — how anxiously I watched in my fairy borders the earliest hypatica, or the unfolding of the winter rose, and with what a gay heart, saw the mezereon reddening on its leafless branches.

  “Alas! how chearful and happy I was then! — how little did I at that time suppose, that a storm was gathering which should wreck us all on the cold bleak shore of poverty! — but do not believe, my dear friend, that I now complain of my fate. — Ah! no, did not fears for my mother, and my younger brothers and sisters disturb me, I should be happy — too happy, to share any destiny with you!

  “I shall watch the arrival of the post with anxious solicitude, for it is the first day on which I can reasonably expect to hear from you. — How many questions I should have to ask you, D’Alonville, if I were to see you! — Is Miss Milsington of your party to charm you with delectable music? Ah! you will never attend with indulgence to the humble attempts of your Angelina, whose uncultivated voice has received no advantage from scientific knowledge, if you listen much to this Syren! I am impatient, too, to hear your opinion of Lady Aberdore; but above all, I desire to hear of you.

  “Why must I ever tell you of disagreeable and painful circumstances? De Touranges, since your presence is no longer a check upon his impetuosity, is as impatient and as ungovernable as ever, and I fear he will hardly be restrained from going again to Flanders, and I am sure that if he does it will destroy my unfortunate friend. St. Remi entreats you to write to him — every time I see and hear that excellent and respectable man, his character becomes higher in my esteem; and I could say to him, when I b
ehold his patient, yet manly resignation, his piety, and his fortitude, “Thou almost persuadest me to be a Catholic.” I have often read, that a great man struggling with adversity is a sight in which heaven delights, (I believe I do not copy the sentence with exactness, nor do I indeed know where to look for it — but you know what I mean). The Abbé de St. Remi seems to me to be truly great. — Ah! what a contrast to some great men, of whom unfortunately we know too much — men, who would have been so far from resigning their own fortunes with courage, had they been called upon by such rigid destiny as has pursued the higher ranks in France, that they cannot even determine to restore money or estates that happen to fall into their hands belonging to other people, when even a plausible pretence for keeping them sound. I once gave you a slight sketch of an interview I had with these people. That I might save my mother from the vexation these irksome visits always give her, vexation that has more than once thrown her into a fit of illness, I went myself yesterday to enquire what prospect this opening year affords us, the eleventh of those in which we have, on various pretences, been deprived of all the provision my grandfather made for us.

  “It was the fourth or fifth journey I had made in the hopes of seeing Mr. Ramsey. — His servants, as if shocked at the unfeeling conduct of their master, not let me in contrary to his orders, as I guess the severe reproof I heard him give one of them as I went up stairs; when he found the matter without remedy, he bustled towards the door, and would have descended the stairs to convince me he was going out, but as he is not very alert, I entered his drawing-room before he could leave it — without giving me time to speak, he said, “I am sorry, Miss Denzil, you had the trouble of coming, I am this moment going out — Frazer! (to his servant) bring me my sword — I am obliged to go, Miss Denzil, I am going to the levée.”

  “The great man fancied that I should shrink into more than my original insignificance, at the mention of such sublime business as the necessity of going to court, and that I should withdraw my impertinent pretensions; but there are cases which animate the most timid — I had my mother, I had D’Alonville in my thoughts, and I persisted to demand a few moments of his precious time — mustering all my courage, “I shall not detain you long, Sir,” said I, with all the spirit I could; “but it is absolutely necessary for me to know whether this year is to pass as the last did — as so many, indeed more than half my life, has passed before.” I found my foolish heart trembling in a moment, rather, however, with anger than fear; when Mr. Ramsay interrupted me, “Well, well, Madam! it has not been nor it is not, nor will be my fault; I tell you, Madam, as I have explained to you before, over and over again, and also to you mother, that if any legal, proper, and just mode can be found, and chalked out, and discovered, that I am ready, and willing, and desirous to acquiesce, and agree, and consent to an arrangement, and settlement, and decision — I am sorry I again repeat, that I am engaged, and cannot possibly stay now.”

  “Sir,” said I, “whatever may be your haste, I should imagine nothing could be more pressing to an honest and good mind, than to execute a trust on which the very existence of a family of orphans depends. Where are we to apply for these legal and proper methods to be chalked out? Already several lawyers have been consulted; but by no one of their opinions would you ever abide, even after you had in the most solemn manner engaged to do so, after you had involved my mother in infinite trouble in journies, writing, and explanations, and put her to very great expence.”

  “Well, Madam, I cannot help it — I cannot act illegally, as I told you before, not, being only one trustee, I cannot act alone; I must refer you to my co-trustee, Mr. Shrimpshire.” “And he, Sir, refers me back to you; he tells me he has nothing to do with it, but acts by your orders, which, as he is your attorney, does, to be sure, seem highly probable — and thus, Sir, months and years have passed away, and are still passing, in which my mother has, with the utmost difficulty, found us all in the mere necessaries of life by her own labour. — Is this to last for ever? Is it even to last much longer? If it is, Sir, I am persuaded the best thing we can do is to go to service.”

  “Indeed, Madam, I think it is — your humble servant, Madam.

  Frazer! order up the chariot.”

  The great man disappeared to pay his court, and I, taking my little brother by the hand, descended humbly after him at an awful distance; and with tears ready to start from my eyes, and an heavy heart, took my weary way to Mr. Shrimpshire’s, the co-trustee, in one of the Inns of Court, who acts in a double capacity, and is at once attorney to Mr. Ramsay and trustee to us, (by his appointment); so that the mockery of referring us to a man, who, if he were disposed to act with integrity, could only do what his employer dictates, is adding insult to injustice. I was going to give you a sketch of my interview with the old attorney, who is said to lose the little sense he ever possessed, in drinking; as to his integrity, or the sentiments of a gentleman, or a man, if ever he had such, they are long since forgotten in the iniquity of professional baseness. But if Lavater’s judgement on the human countenance is at all to be relied on, he never ought to have been trusted; yet on these men has my poor mother been waiting for a long series of years, and now that she is disabled by the ill health anxiety has brought upon her, it seems that the same degrading attendance, the same disappointments, and the same insults, descend to us in hereditary succession.

  “Let me relieve you and myself, D’Alonville, from this hopeless, this irksome subject — indeed I know not how I have been betrayed into it, unless it be that the mind will assume its colour from the objects around it; and I have been brought up amidst the oppressions exercised with impunity on my family — amidst the complaints those oppressions occasioned — amidst struggles against poverty, and efforts, unavailing efforts, to restore us to the comforts that have been torn from us. — Wonder not, therefore, if even in writing to you, to whom I would communicate nothing but satisfaction, I am led almost insensibly into the weakness of repining. — Ah! pardon your poor Angelina, and do not, as you have sometimes done, though half sportively, do not accuse her of being too much disposed to dark and gloomy apprehension. Alas! if you knew how much my mother is changed within these two years, of which you cannot judge, you would not blame me for my fears; but I will not indulge them, my friend — no, I will believe, if it be but for a moment, that moment — if it be only that I may not infect you with my sombre presages, I will believe that we shall yet be happy, and it is certain that my mother thinks of our removal into Wales, with more pleasure than I have seen her express for a very long time; her imagination is flattered by the idea of bidding a long adieu to the neighbourhood of London; of losing sight of the men who have oppressed, and the friends who have slighted her, and of finding, amidst the bold features of the British Alps, novelty to amuse, and quiet to soothe her harassed mind.

  “I need not add that on her health and peace depends that of your friend, to urge you to enquiries after a proper situation for us. — My foolish heart swells with a variety of mingled sensations, and my eyes overflow, as I sign, for the first time, to a letter, the name of

  ANGELINA D’ALONVILLE.”

  There wanted not this letter to animate D’Alonville to new exertions; but his heart sunk when he reflected how long it might be before he could succeed in what he so earnestly wished; the anxiety he carried to his pillow, was but too likely to be renewed the next day; for hitherto he had been able to discover nothing like the habitation he sought for, and it was very uncertain how far the occupations he had undertaken might impede his enquiries the next day, of how far, when he could make them they might be successful.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  O chere et precieuse moitié de mon ame! hatons-nous d’ajouter a ces ernements du printems, la presence de deux amans fideles

  J. J. ROUSSEAU.

  A NARRATIVE cannot so well explain as will the following letter, D’Alonville’s sentiments and situation. — It was written about ten days after his arrival at Rock-March.

  “My
last letter, my beloved Angelina, was so little satisfactory, that I lose not a moment in forwarding one that may be more welcome; at length I have most unexpectedly found, at the distance of about three miles from the park wall, a little quiet asylum, hidden among rocks and woods, which may answer the expectation of your dear mother. — It is not, indeed, such a place as ought to receive her, or my Angelina; but of them what palace would in my opinion be worthy? I send your mother a description of it as an abode; to you I would give one of the country in which it is situated — I would make such sketches at St. Preux is made to give of the Pa|[iuml ]|s de Vaud, in the hope of recommending this hermitage to my Angelina — and does not hope embellish every scene on which her warm radiance is cast? The delicious expectation of seeing here the beloved of my soul, already lends to every object the charm of spring; I look forward to what these rocky wilds, so diversified, so romantic, will appear, when they shall conceal my Angelina beneath the luxuriance of their summer shade, and they seem to me a future Paradise.

  “As I would not engage Lord Aurevalle in any thing that might look like making him a party in clandestine schemes, I forbore to inform him of my real intentions. — He evidently, and without affecting to conceal it, prefers my conversation to that of Mr. Paunceford, which you may believe does not greatly serve to recommend me to the favour of that gentleman; but that embarrasses neither of us. As the frost for these last two days has prevented our riding, I expressed a wish, as we were rambling about the park early yesterday morning, to visit the mountainous line of country that arose about four miles from the house, which is composed of hills, that though not the highest within our view, are the most grotesque in their forms, and resemble most at this distance those Alpine heights which I had once seen, and but once, in the south of France. Lord Aurevalle complied, and we soon reached a village at the foot of these hills, if a few very low cabins scattered along their rugged terminations could be called so. —