Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith

by Charlotte Smith

  “Near a quarter of a mile above the rest, where there are great scars of rock now visible, though I imagine they are in summer concealed by the woods, an house appears, which I thought seemed entirely unlike the straw-built sheds we were among, though it is still no more than a large cottage; I saw there was a winding road that led thither, and I made a pretence of wishing to see from this spot the park and the house at Rock-March; for I observed that we had time to go so far, though not to ascend the mountain that frowned over it.

  “My young companion assented, and we went up. — The church, a very humble structure, covered with thatch, and half hid in a sort of recess of the rocky hill, as if to shelter it from the mountain storms, made me believe that the house I had been might belong to the village curate; but his habitation, I found, by a peasant to whom Lord Aurevalle spoke, was a very little cottage, almost adjoining to it. — At length we reached the object of my search: it has been a farm-house, I believe, for it is much larger than those below but it is now inhabited by a labourer and his family; one end of it was whitened, and has windows of a better appearance than the rest. A perpendicular mass of the hill rises abruptly near it, forming an immense wall of yellow rock to a part of the little garden that adjoins this end of the house. I made an excuse of Lord Aurevalle to enter it: the other part only was inhabited: I bade him observe how different the house appeared from what we usually see; for though it would be far from remark any where else, here it seems distinguished merely by having been once the habitation of persons, one degree perhaps above the peasants, whose cottages are hung about the precipices of this wild country.

  “It was not without great difficulty, and many detours, that I at last discovered the person to whom this house belonged to be an officer’s widow, who, being a native of this country, and her family having once possessed considerable property in it, still retained that partiality to it was her native place, which through life has its power over some minds; having lost her husband and being in easy though not affluent circumstances, with a daughter who had delicate health, she had sitted up this farm-house which belonged to her, and put some plain furniture in it, to have the benefit of this air for her daughter for three or four months in the year: but the young lady was now married in Norfolk; and the mother residing near her, had not been here for two years, but was willing to let the house, if (which was not very probable) any person could be found who wished to inhabit so remote and solitary a spot.

  “Lord Aurevalle had never heard that such a woman existed. He had not been much in this country; and if he had, it is improbable he would have been allowed to notice neighbours so obscure. There was nothing in the story we heard to excite curiosity, and it was difficult to find an excuse for desiring to go over the house. I managed it however, and found, that as near as I can form an idea of what your mother wishes for, this place may be approved of. I have learnt by means of a servant how to apply to the person it belongs to. I enclose a direction for your mother.

  “And is it here I am to see my Angelina? — Shall these rough crags, and wild woods, conceal in their rugged bosom the loveliest woman that England, (so justly boasting of its beauties) has produced? — Do you know, Angelina, that I sometimes doubt my own happiness — I doubt if I ought to expect it to continue! — and when I think that you are related to the possessor of the great house from which I now write — when I think that from your birth, your education, and above all your merit and your beauty, every one who sees you must wish to see you continually, I enquired of myself how I can expect that Angelina will on my account give up all her friends; for, alas! my sweet friend, when our union is known, they will perhaps be irritated against us both, and then will not Angelina regret the advantage she may have lost by it? — Yes, my love, I imagine what may be your sensations, if your relations disclaim you; and I ask it the words of the poet, whom you have taught me tolerably to comprehend, whether you can without regret relinquish

  “These seats whence long excluded thou must mourn,

  “These gates for ever barred to thy return?”

  and whether

  “thou wilt not then, bewail ill-fated love,

  “And hate “A banish’d Man,” condemn’d in woods to rove?”

  Ah! no, loveliest of beings, I injure the purity of your heart by such a supposition — I wrote to De Touranges and St. Remi — the former seems determined to leave England, and to seek, with his family, an asylum in the Tirole. Unless I could offer him any better plan, I have no right to oppose this. He has heard of some of his friends at Verona, who intend going thither for the summer, and the scheme seems to have seized with great force on his imagination — all that I can do to assist him, he may command; for while I reflect on my own felicity, I feel that I should not deserve it did I forget that others are miserable.

  “With what extreme impatience I shall await your mother’s answer; but I dare not dwell on this, for I shall miss the post if I do not immediately conclude my letter. — In compliance with the custom of your country for I have now no country that I can call mine,) I sign, (with what delight!) the name of

  Your adoring husband,

  ARMAND D’ALONVILLE.”

  To this Angelina by an early post returned the following answer:

  “My dear friend, we have secured the house you speak of — my mother’s impatience will not allow her to make any difficulties; she has written to the people to whom it belongs, has had an answer, and not willing that you should be know to be interested in it, has, with that activity of spirit which always marks her conduct where her heart is in a cause, taken such measures as will enable us to go thither in the course of next week. — Ah! D’Alonville! is it possible you can do me so much injustice as to suppose even for a moment that any splendours from which I am excluded by my marriage, (admitting it to be true that I were excluded for that reason only) could give me a moment’s regret? — You do not yet know the heart that is all your own, or you would not have wounded it, by suffering such an idea to dwell on your mind. Young as I am, D’Alonville, I have seen enough to estimate perfectly the value of what is called superior life. — I have yawned in societies of very fine people, and languished for “liberty and fresh air,” in very superb apartments, that seemed to give no other pleasure to their possessors, than as they excited the admiration or envy of others. I have been equally wearied by the dullness of some of the parties to which, in our more prosperous days, we used to be admitted, and disgusted with the attempts at wit I have often heard among those, who, when first my mother appeared as an authoress, affected to patronize her. At Lord Aberdore’s we used to look about for conversation; for from his circle even politics were excluded, lest any thing should be said that “had offence in it.” At another house we were amazingly witty with riddles, puzzles, and charades; and had it not been for these resources, it would have been impossible to have proceeded beyond a reply and a rejoinder, after we had observed, that it was cold or hot; that the house sat late; that such a one made his expected motion; that the report of Mr. B — and Lady D — became every day stronger — or things of equal import. Yet people find fault with cards, as if it were possible for those who have not two dozen of ideas to exist without them. And you, D’Alonville, you talk of my regretting the sullen magnificence of Rock-March. Heavens! my dear friend, I am tempted to reproach you for such a suspicion, and to tell you that you thought just then of your Angelina, as you would of a fine lady of Paris, or London, till all taste of nature and simplicity was lost; but I have seen just enough of that mode of life, to say with your favourite English poet —

  “Ye lying vanities of life,

  “Where are you now, and what is your amount

  ?”

  Never, my friend, will they cost me a sigh. But I am an enthusiast as to our present plan of retirement. — Once more I shall enjoy the spring in a wild romantic country, far from any great town — again I shall mark the tender hues that the downy bloom of the sallows, the catkins of the hazel, spread slowly o
ver the distant copses, while the sheltered hedges become partially green from the opening leaves of the elder and the hawthorn, and gradually the woods assume the verdant livery of spring. — Is there, D’Alonville, from the rock where you describe our future residence, is there a spot, that as you seemed once to intimate, overlooks that part of the country where Rock-march is situated? Shall I, in my mountain rambles discern at a distance the house you inhabit? — It will be the charm of my early walks, and, if the trees, as their leaves unfold, conceal your abode from me, I shall still be able to mark the spot, “in my mind’s eye,” and to say, “There is my lover, my friend, my husband, engaged in occupations foreign to his former mode of life for his Angelina.”

  “Judge whether I am not interested, most anxiously interested, in our immediate removal, when to the satisfaction of being near you (for we much not often meet, D’Alonville), is added the hope of seeing my mother’s health re-established. — Yes, I shall see her again chearful, if not happy, enjoying the beauties of nature, and forgetting, or at least losing the poignant recollection of her sufferings.

  “As my mother writes to you herself, I have only to add that we begin our journey so soon, that it will probably be in person I shall next assure my dear friend of the tender affection of his

  A. D’A —

  “My mother has just informed me that she finds she shall be too late for the post to-day; but that in consequence of an invitation from an old friend to meet her at Bristol, and of the advice of her physicians, who think that the longer the journey is, the more it will be serviceable to her, she has conquered all other difficulties, and intends, instead of taking the more direct road through Shrewsbury, &c. &c. to go round by Bath and Bristol into Wales: this will make a difference of a week or ten days; but I know when you reflect that it will be the probable means of restoring that dear parent to health, on which depends the happiness of your friend, you will not repine at this delay.”

  To the delay arising from such a cause, D’Alonville could not but submit with more patience than he could have exerted, had it arisen from any other. He felt it, however, severely, and the more so as the stay of Lord Aberdore, his lady, and Miss Milsington, was prolonged another fortnight; and a thousand unpleasant circumstances rendered it irksome to him. They were circumstances that would become much more so, if they should remain at Rock-March, after the arrival of Mrs.. Denzil and her family at “the Cottage of the Cliffs,” a romantic appellation Angelina had already give to their nameless abode on their rocky eminence of Aberlynth.

  Nothing would have been more difficult than to have persuaded Lady Aberdore to have made so long a stay at Rock-March, if the death of her father had not compelled her to wear deep mourning, to which she had a particular aversion, and in which she hated even to appear, though she spared no study to make it as becoming as possible

  . As for the event itself, which obliged her to put it on, she though it necessary to look grave about it, a day or two; but she was thoroughly a woman of fashion to have very keen feelings. — The poor man, her father, after a life passed in the very first world, in which he had dissipated all he could touch of a large paternal fortune, had become of late years one of those adventurers of fashion, who live nobody knows how — who are known to have nothing, and yet continue to appear with more expence than those who have a great deal. He was, however, within a few past months, become gouty and infirm; as he had never shewn any tenderness to his children at the beginning of their lives, they did not feel themselves bound to sacrifice one hour of their pleasures to his declining years. — Mr. Escott, his son, who now succeeded to the fortune in which the father had only a life interest, (and that life interest sold,) thought it “rather a good move that the old gentleman was off to kingdom come.” Lady Aberdore received about five thousand pounds, which was settled on younger children; a sum which in her present style of living and thinking, hardly paid her for the “horrible bore” of a six months’ mourning, when she looked (as she chose to fancy) so very hideous in black, that she hated to shew herself.

  Mr. Escott, her brother, and a friend of his, of the name of Brymore, kindly came to stay a fortnight or three weeks at Rock-March, to enjoy the close of the shooting season. Some other persons, who were honoured with the notice of the Aberdore family, were also in the house; for though the fair possessor of it always had earnestly entreated of her lord, not to “let the natives come down upon her ,” (by which she meant the few families of country gentleman who were within five-and-twenty miles,) yet some political reasons had induced lord Aberdore to prevail on her to receive then during the present stay of the family in Wales; which stay, some views of his own, more than any thing else, contributed to prolong.

  D’Alonville, appearing as a dependant among people who were only the equals of those with whom he had been accustomed to associate, could not but consider himself as out of place; and the extreme partiality of Miss Milsington, which, while it made her very ridiculous, was dreadfully oppressive to to him, was by no means calculated to render him more satisfied. — Mr. Escott, who was one of those fine men about town, who are continually the heroes of the day, was extremely vain of some of his accomplishments, — particularly his beauty, his knowledge of the world, and his knowledge of good eating. He was one of those fashionable bon-vivants, who know how the most piquant sauces are made; who criticize the tables of their friends, and will throw down two or three guineas with a careless air for any early production at a fruit-shop, wonder how plebeians exist upon beef and pudding, and cannot themselves dine without game gravy

  .

  It was not certainly in this science that he feared the rivalry of D’Alonville; but like another Alexander, he was never happy while he had any conquests to make; and though he had been accustomed for years to ridiculed Miss Milsington, and would never have given a straw for her good opinion, he was now piqued to hear her speak so warmly as she sometimes did, when neither lord or lady Aberdore were present, of D’Alonville’s beauty. He denied that there was any thing uncommon in his person — said he was a coxcomb like almost all his countrymen, and supposed he was only an adventurer. This was the way immediately to provoke his zealous patroness on a warm defence, which ended in a very tart dialogue; some sarcasm of the part of the gentleman as to Miss Milsington’s discernment; while she reflected obliquely on his “trap en bon point,” and advised him, if he would continue to be an Adonis, to give up his growing passion for the culinary sagacity of an alderman, for that one was entirely incompatible with the other. Mr. Brymore, who had been brought up to the law, but now was also a man in a certain style of life, neither emulated the personal or mental qualities of his friend, but valued himself on having talents which rendered personal attractions of no avail. In regard to his influence on woman, to the conquest of whom, in every rank of life, from the dutchess to the dairy-maid, he gave his whole time and thoughts, Mr. Brymore believed himself unequalled; and many were the damsels in humble life who had deplored their credulity: many the nymphs in more elevated stations, who had reason to reproach him with his broken vows. He had occasioned two divorces; had fought three duels, and he bore some marks of these latter encounters, the honour of which, in his opinion, compensated for the pain and danger. It seemed as if the ladies were of the same opinion, for with them he was almost universal favourite; and lady Aberdore herself had occasionally called him an “agreeable good-for-nothing creature.” Her lord however seemed to have no apprehension that he should endeavor with her to

  “Make the worser seem the better reason;

  but saw, or affected to see, with the most perfect indifference, this dangerous man in his house. Occupied in engagements of his own, he took no more notice of any of the party than formal hospitality required. D’Alonville saw with great concern this party daily fluctuating, but not at all likely to break up. Almost his only pleasure was to wander early in a morning, before his pupils were ready for their lessons, to “the Cottage of the Cliffs,” and to mark the progress of the
little preparations that were making for the reception of Mrs. Denzil and her family, in which, however, he did not dare to appear to take any part. He generally returned before Mr. Paunceford, who was by no means an early riser, had dismissed the young men from his instructions; and it was always with pleasure that they left those lessons for drawing, modern languages, and fencing; nor could D’Alonville always repress with becoming gravity, though he very sincerely tried at it, that boyish, but cutting ridicule which they delighted to throw out against Paunceford, whom they all hated, and never named but by some ridiculous appellation.

  If Paunceford had taken a dislike to D’Alonville the moment he saw him, it had been rapidly encreasing every hour since. He not only felt the most cruel mortification in observing the preference his pupils, particularly lord Aurevalle, gave to this stranger, but he bore still more impatiently the visible predilection in his favour shewn by the women of the women of the family. Before the unfortunate circumstance of his introduction, the two governesses had, he thought, been much more attentive to him; Miss Ballandyne, a woman of good family, who had taken the care of lady Tryphena and lady Louisa before the death of their mother, was now one or two and thirty, but had an elegant person and manners, with great good sense; — that she therefore should take such a fancy to “a young French coxcomb,” seemed astonishing to the profound Mr. Paunceford; though that such a little insignificant butterfly as his country-woman, Madame D’Olbreuse, should prefer “frivolity and gay nothingness,” like her own, was much less astonishing; but the misery was, that ever since they had been in the country, Paunceford had anxiously watched for an opportunity of discovering in the conduct of D’Alonville some error or impropriety — but nothing could be found which the most vigilant malice could wrest to his disadvantage. He was never missing when his pupils were ready for him; and the progress they had made already with which Lord Aberdore declared himself highly satisfied, was the best proof how well he knew what he had undertaken to communicate.