Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith

by Charlotte Smith

  Her sickened soul, where indeed rested the cause of all her complaints, so far affected her enfeebled frame, that, when she would have explained to Lessington the nature of the papers she put into his hands, by relating her situation at the various times on which they had been written, she could hardly finish even a sentence — but, putting the packets into his hands, she faintly bade him read them in the order in which they were tied. — — “You, and my poor father, (said she, in a faint voice), will find that your unhappy Rosalie had done nothing which ought to make you ashamed of the affection you have felt for her.....Vindicate my honour, William! — rescue my memory from reproach! — and, for the sake of my dear, dear boy, convince his father that I die innocent of all reproach, and that even in death I bless and love him.” - - - - - - - - She would have said more, but put her hand to her forehead, and signified that she could not.

  Lessington, affected even to tears and sobs, could not command himself sufficiently to speak. The sight of his emotion added fresh pangs to what she endured, when, waving her hand, she seemed to entreat him to leave her, and he silently obeyed.

  It was some time before he could recover himself enough to read aloud the melancholy narrative thus entrusted to him, to which Mr. Ormsby listened with anxious yet gloomy attention. When they had arrived at that part of the journal, written on board the ship which brought her to England, they saw far enough into her story to be convinced that the meeting of Rosalie with Walsingham was entirely accidental; that she could not have acted otherwise than she did, and that the conduct of Walsingham had been that of the most generous and disinterested of friends: little, therefore, remained necessary for the entire vindication of both parties, but to remove the false impressions given by Lady Llancarrick and her friend, that they had resided together at Eastbourne, which, though those amiable ladies had not asserted, they had spoken of in such a manner as to leave little doubt of the fact.

  Jealous for the honour of his daughter, which her own artless narrative had nearly cleared, (so powerful is simple truth), Ormsby now pressed eagerly to have all remaining doubts satisfied. Though Claudine could not keep up a regular dialogue, she could make herself understood when plain questions only were put to her. Ormsby, with that trembling apprehension which is felt by those who dread the result of an inquiry which they are yet determined to make, called her into the room, and, with the assistance of Lessington, had already convinced himself, that Mr. Walsingham had acted with the utmost delicacy and propriety in regard to Rosalie, when a post chaise and four, the horses extremely fatigued, drove up to the door, and a gentleman, unknown to both Ormsby and Lessington, entered the room.

  Pale, his hair in disorder, his eyes wild, and his whole person expressive of haste and distress, he uttered something, in a manner so incoherent, that neither of them understood him. He saw they did not; and, throwing himself into a chair, he said, “I suppose I speak to Mr. Ormsby and Mr. Lessington.....I imagine, Sir, (addressing himself to the former) — I imagine your daughter is here?”

  Ormsby, alarmed and amazed, hesitated a moment, hardly knowing what to say. The stranger, without waiting for his answer, continued to speak ——

  “I known not whether you see before you the most injured, or the most guilty, of men —— I only know that I am the most wretched!”

  “It is Mr. Montalbert, I believe, to whom I speak! (said Lessington). — It is long, very long, since I saw you last, Sir — and I fear - - - - - - - -”

  “You fear, and with but too much reason, (said Montalbert, interrupting him), that our meeting now can only be productive of pain........Vyvian has told me - - - - -”

  “You have seen Vyvian then?” inquired Lessington.

  “I saw him, but not till it was too late. He is gone in search of another man of the same name as him whom I most unfortunately met — and - - - - - - - -”

  “Good God! (exclaimed Ormsby) — you have met then with that Walsingham, to whom Rosalie owes her safety, perhaps her life, and you have had the cruelty, the rashness - - - - - - -”

  “To kill him!” cried Montalbert with fierceness, and in a tone that re-echoed through the house.

  Claudine, on the first appearance of Montalbert, whom she had never seen before, had listened at the door of the room, which was left half open; she heard this terrible speech, and, shrieking aloud, ran up stairs, but before she reached the door of her lady’s room, she fell down in a sort of fit, sobbing and screaming aloud. This was not wanting to terrify the unhappy Rosalie; for tremblingly alive to every alarm since her child had been torn from her, there was seldom any thing passed in the house to which she did not listen. She heard the stopping of a carriage, the entrance of a person into the parlour, and soon after the voice of Montalbert, uttering the dreadful sentence— “I have killed him!” — struck her ears; then the shrieks of Claudine, who seemed to be immediately at her door — desperation lent her strength.

  She had on a loose dressing gown, when throwing herself out of the bed, and holding by the furniture, for she was unable to move without such help, she reached the door of her apartment. Claudine weak, and at that moment incapable of exercising the very little judgment she ever possessed, continued to intercept the way, having thrown herself down on the stairs. Rosalie, leaning against the door-case, attempted, but in vain, to obtain an answer; and her increasing terrors threatened every instant to deprive her of the little strength she had thus collected, when Lessington, aware of the sad effect that such a noise in the house must have, suddenly quitted Montalbert, without staying to hear all he had to relate, and hastened up stairs, in hopes of appeasing the foolish maid, and accounting to Rosalie for the alarm in some way which might not destroy her at once; to his utter astonishment he found her out of her bed, looking more dead than alive, and just sinking to the ground as he sprang forward, and caught her in his arms, then carrying her into her room, he placed her in a chair, and rang for assistance, for he believed her dying, and forgot, in that moment, every thing else.

  The consequence of his violence, however, was that the father and husband of Rosalie rushed also into the room, where Lessington, supporting her head, and chafing her hands, continued to implore that assistance which none had the presence of mind to give. Some person, however, had by this time fetched the apothecary, and the usual remedies being administered, Rosalie seemed to be recovering. It was then, at the earnest entreaties of Lessington, that Montalbert and Ormsby were prevailed upon to go out of the room, and Lessington soon after followed them, declaring that his sister (for so he always called her) was much better, and, if left to the women for a little while, would soon be entirely recovered. It was, however, easy to see he did not think so; for, incapable of following advice he was so solicitous to give, he could not forbear listening at the door, going half-way up the stairs, and showing many symptoms of extreme inquietude. He dreaded, indeed, even the restoration of Rosalie’s senses, when he was assured she would immediately ask questions; to which the folly of Claudine, or the matter of fact of the woman of the house, would give answers that might occasion the most dangerous relapse. These uneasy apprehensions were not appeased by the appearance of the apothecary, who expressed himself under the greatest alarm for the event, entreated that the lady might be kept quiet, and that the next visit of the physician might be hastened. — Montalbert heard all this in a state of mind it is impossible to describe. He knew, indeed, that Rosalie was ill from a report of Vyvian; but he knew not how ill, having seen him only for a moment.

  Now all her dangers appeared to him with redoubled terrors. From the little explanation, which his passion would admit of during his short and unfortunate interview with Walsingham, he began to doubt whether he had not been guilty at once of ingratitude and cruelty, and whether he should not now be punished with eternal remorse, as well as by losing Rosalie for ever. Still ardent and impetuous, he inquired why he could not go or send for the physician instantly — then not listening to any reasons that were given him, why it would be ine
ffectual, he started up, demanded of Mr. Greenwood, the apothecary, his positive opinion as to the state of the lady above the stairs, and insisted upon being allowed himself to see her. Against this, however, Lessington remonstrated warmly, and Ormsby even angrily; while Mr. Greenwood protested to him, that, if she was subjected to any farther alarms, he would not answer for her life till morning. He said that he had already been compelled to quiet her harrassed spirits by a medicine for that purpose; and if its effects were countered, such was the weakness of her frame, and such the nature of the fever which continually seized her, that the most fatal effects would very probably follow: he then took his leave.

  Montalbert threw himself into a chair; and gave himself up to the most dreadful apprehensions. Ormsby walked about the room in a state but little better, while Lessington, ever useful and composed, ascended softly to the chamber of the poor patient, whom he found sometimes uttering a few incoherent words in a low voice, then, with a deep sigh, sinking into silence. At length she seemed to become quite tranquil; and Lessington having insisted on Claudine’s leaving the room, and engaged the woman of the house, with one of her maids, to remain there, returned himself to Ormsby and Montalbert, whom he was not very willing to leave long together.

  The instant his immediate fears for Rosalie subsided, the idea that Montalbert had destroyed the unfortunate Walsingham recurred to the mind of Lessington. He shuddered, and, at once pitying and condemning him, recollected that his person was not safe; and if the event of his meeting with Walsingham had been as fatal as he represented it, he ought to hasten from a country where he was liable to be seized as a murderer.

  Montalbert sat immovable; he seemed regardless of any danger that might threaten himself, but listened to every noise in the house; and if he fancied any one stirred in Rosalie’s chamber, he started, and eagerly asked Lessington if he thought she was awake and sensible?

  Ormsby, overcome with fatigue and anxiety, had now been persuaded to retire, and Lessington remained alone with Montalbert.

  It appeared to the former to be absolutely necessary that Montalbert should be reminded of his danger, or at least that its extent might be known; taking occasion then when he made some sudden inquiry about his wife, Lessington said, “Allow me to remark to you, Mr. Montalbert, that your real tenderness for our poor unfortunate Rosalie, of whose innocence I am sure you will once day be perfectly convinced, cannot be so well shown as by your recovering your presence of mind in the present sad conjecture; and if the fatal event has happened, which you spoke of when you first arrived, you surely ought to think of your own safety, on which, I am sure, the life of Rosalie must depend.”

  “Walsingham was not dead when I left him, (answered he mournfully); but I fear his wounds are mortal!”

  “Good God! (exclaimed Lessington); and you remain here regardless of the event?”

  “Quite so, (replied he), as far as relates to myself. — What have I left, that should make me wish to preserve my life?”

  “Pray, (interrupted Lessington, who feared from his manner that he might relapse into violence) — pray relate to me what has passed since you were separated from my sister?”

  Montalbert pushed his hand to his head, as if almost unable to undertake the painful task; but Lessington, who had many reasons for wishing to engage him in it, urging him again, he said —

  “I conclude you know the circumstances that so strangely divided me from Rosalie. — I was returning to rejoin her in Sicily; having left my mother so extremely displeased at my positive refusal to marry the lady she had chosen for me, that I intended merely to consult my wife before I declared our marriage, determining to return to England, and to live in the humble and obscure way our fortune demanded, till I became possessed of the property, however small, that must be mine after my mother’s decease.

  “There were reasons that rendered our residence in Sicily unpleasant to me, even when we were together; the frequent absences, which our fear of my mother’s displeasure had obliged me to submit to, became daily more insupportable, and I was forming schemes of retired happiness when I had thrown off this cruel restraint, and dared to be poor and independent. Judge then how horrible were my feelings, when, awaking from this dream of felicity, I found Messina in ruins, and the country for many miles around it convulsed by an earthquake, which had, two days before we made the coast, buried half its inhabitants.

  “I cannot tell you what were my sensations after I had with much difficulty landed, for I have never since been able to define them; nor do I know from whence sprang the resolution with which I explored the place where the villa of Alozzi had stood, of which no other vestige remained than some pieces of black and half-burnt ruins: yet I looked with tearless eyes into the dark chasms in which it was sunk, though I thought they but too surely contained all I had loved — my Rosalie and her child!

  “The first evening that I arrived at this melancholy spot, where I had so lately left the lovely treasures of my heart in apparent safety, there was none near it — I was undisturbed in my gloomy contemplation, and remained lingering about the place, till my servant, who had followed me at a distance according to my direction, came to me at night fall, and led me to a cottage not far off, inhabited by a woman and her daughter, who had lost the rest of their family. Of these my servant made some inquiries, as they were tenants of Count Alozzi. He heard that the Count was seen after the first great shock, and had hired a vessel to take himself and some of his dependents to Naples; but whether he escaped the second, or whether he was drowned with many others on the sudden reflux of the sea, these women had no means of knowing. — Here then was a glimpse, and but a glimpse of hope, that my wife and child might exist; but, on farther inquiry the next evening, I thought even this faint hope vanished. I knew that when I left Sicily, Alozzi was gone to Agrigentum, and was to stay there some time longer than I proposed remaining at Naples. It was not now, however, a time to consider much the cause of his unexpected return. All my thoughts were bent on trying to recover from the ruins of his villa the sad remains of my lost family; and with this dreary sort of satisfaction I occupied my mind, repairing the next day to the place, where I found three or four stout peasants already at work.

  “I inquired of them by whom they were employed? — they answered, in no very mild manner, by themselves, and for their own purposes and profit. I saw that they feared I was disposed, if not authorised, to impede their designs; but by the most infalliable of all arguments, (for I emptied my purse), and soon satisfied them that they should not be interrupted in the possession of whatever valuable effects they might recover, since my sole purpose was to search for the mangled relics of a wife and child. I offered them more money if they would procure farther assistance to expedite this search, and, explaining to them who I was, promised farther reward if they could procure any certain intelligence of Count Alozzi. They agreed that he had been seen after the first violent concussions of the earth; but all believed, or affected to believe, he perished in the second.

  “It was now nine days, since the fatal catastrophe, three of which I stood by the yawning cavern that had swallowed the villa of Alozzi. Little was discovered by the men who went down among the ruins; they were, indeed, more intent on their own purposes than on mine. On the evening of the third day I went down myself, and I thought that by the remains of wainscoting, or furniture, I should be led to the ruins of that part of the house Rosalie inhabited. Desperate, I tore away, at some risk to myself, the door cases, broken or scorched pieces of building, and at length found the room where Rosalie usually sat. I could certainly distinguish that there were no remains of human bodies in it; two only had been found, and they were known to be servants; but though another day’s search satisfied that no more persons were buried in the ruins, yet even this circumstance afforded no proof, that those my sickening soul inquired after were living.

  “With an anxious and hopeless heart I left the peasants busily employed in labour, which had already amply repaid them, and
now sat out to wander over the country, asking questions of the unhappy persons who were yet scattered about it, though their answers only irritated my misery, or confirmed my despair.

  Most of them were too much occupied by the wants and woes of their own condition, to give much attention to me. After some days were thus vainly wasted, I crossed over to the other side of the island, and went among such relations and friends of Alozzi as had escaped any immediate share of the misfortune by being at a distance from that part where its violence had fallen. Among them I learned that Alozzi had quitted Agrigentum four or five days before the earthquake, and had gone, as they believed, to Messina, where they had no doubt of his having perished, as they had never heard of him since. There was hardly one of those families who had not some relation or friend of lament; and I only quitted one house of mourning to enter another.

  To me, all appeared equally desolate and wretched; the image of my lost happiness continually haunted me, and I returned more unhappy than ever to the place where once stood the villa of Alozzi.

  “By this time some peasants who had been dispersed, had come back to that neighbourhood also; among them I met two or three Sbirri, who were, I thought, likely persons to have seen Alozzi, if he had indeed escaped, for they were daring and active, and were probably busy wherever pay or plunder were likely to be had from the rich that survived the earthquake. I entered into conversation with them, and heard that they had passed the night, after the first violent shock, at a house belonging to the Count, where they had seen him with a lady and her child, and a Neapolitan servant. That they knew the lady was an Heretic from the woman of the house, who, as well as those to whom she had given shelter during the horrors of that night, had expressed their fears of remaining under the same roof with a person of that description, and that some of the women had actually left it, lest she should draw Divine vengeance on the house.