CHAPTER IV.
On either side my thoughts incessant turn
Forward I dread, and looking back I mourn.
POPE’s Odyssey.
THE heavy loaden German coach proceeded very slowly, in a country where to proceed fast is never possible; and which was rendered now more difficult to travel in, by the long continued rains that had laid many leagues of the country, on the banks of the Moselle, under water. D’Alonville, to whom a pair of pistols and a sabre had been give on his leaving the castle, rode pensively after the carriage, having no inclination to converse with Heurthofen, who, from time to time, cast towards him glances sufficiently expressive of the little goodwill he bore him. Dislike is usually reciprocal; and though in the agitated and distressed state of mind in which D’Alonville had lately been, he had given but little heed to the ungracious manners of the almoner towards him, the want of humanity and feeling towards his father, which Heurthofen had evidently betrayed, had not escaped him, and the sight of him now raised only uneasy recollections. No conversation, therefore, arose to call off, even for a moment, the thought of D’Alonville from his own situation; — a situation that appeared insupportable the moment he began to think of it steadily. Hither to solicitude for his father, his faint hopes, his destracting fears, had absorbed every consideration for himself: but now he had lost this object of his anxiety, and all the horrors of his destiny rushed upon his mind.
“What am I, and whither am I going! What will become of me; and what right have I to the friendship of these strangers! How long ought I to receive obligations which I know not that I can ever repay, even if they are willing and able to continue them!” Such were the reflections that crouded on his mind; and the pain they inflickted was so acute that he was almost unconscious of what passed; but drooping under the weight of his sorrows he went mechanically on, because he had once set out. The weather, which in the morning seemed to clear up, darkened again as the sun declined. A tempest of rain and wind made their progress so tedious, that it became impossible for the coach to proceed to the place where Madam de Rosenheim had intended to dine; nine miles beyond a very large wood, which they were now in, and in which, towards is extremity, a miserable hovel, with a sign that announced it entertained travelers offered them an asylum against the furiously driving storm that had threatened, for some moments, to tear up by the roots the trees under which they had been passing, and had even scattered many large branches around them. Madame D’Alberg was alarmed for the safety of her children who were fatigued and restless, and the horses were unable to proceed without some rest. Into this humble cabin then it was determined by the ladies to go, and to take there some refreshments which they had brought with them; while the horses in a shed near it, were placed to take the food and rest of which they were too evidently in need. There was only one place in this wretched hovel that could be called a room, below stairs, and another above; into this upper room the ladies, the children, and the female servants, retired; while D’Alonville, Heurthofen, and the men, assembled in the other but Madame D’Alberg, who had not only goodness of heart which always makes misfortune interesting, but that delicate of mind which tries to blunt the arrows of affliction so acutely felt by those who have been in superior life, no sooner saw her mother and her children a little recovered from the fatigue of being shut up so many hours in a coach in rugged and tedious roads, than she descended the something between steps and a ladder which went to the lower room, and enquired for the Chevalier D’Alonville.
The Chevalier D’Alonville, though his clothes were wet through, and though he certainly needed refreshment as much as any of the party, had been so little forward to ask it, that the men, each eager to take care of himself, had failed to recollect his, but were assembled round Heurthofen, eating, drinking, and asking his opinion of what would happen in the village of Rosenheim, and what he thought would be their own destination, for it was not yet known among them that Madame de Rosenheim had determined to go to Coblentz for immediate safety, and from thence to Vienna, if, as was but too probable, she could not return to the castle. Neglected by Heurthofen, the only person from whom he had a right to expect the civility that one gentleman usually shews another; D’Alonville, with his back against a hole in the mud-wall which was intended for a window, and through which the rain beat, though he seemed not sensible of it, with folded arms, and eyes fixed, was meditating on his deplorable destiny, or rather seemed to meditate; for his mind was in reality in a kind of pasty. He started, however, at the sound of his name and to the enquiries of Madame D’Alberg he answered, that he was doing well.
“Doing well!” exclaimed she “I fear not. Have you had any refreshment? or,” added she supposing he might be hurt if she seemed to group him with her servants, “perhaps you had rather partake of the less substantial meal which we women are going to make above. Come, Monsieur Heurthofen, we have room for the Chevalier and you above. You will come up and share our repast.” “I believe,” answered Heurthofen, very evidently displeased, “I believe there will be but little time to think any more of repasts, unless you intend, Madam, to sleep as well as eat here.” “If we do,” replied Madame D’Alberg, “I suppose the inconveniences of the place, whatever they may be, will not be greater for you, Sir, than for us.” Then turning from him without attempting to conceal her disgust, she again addressed herself to D’Alonville, and, in the voice of friendship and kindness, invited him to share their apartments, such as it was. D’Alonville, afraid of intruding upon her kindness, would have excused himself; he tried to speak, but he could not articulate; and the soothing manner in which Madame D’Alberg spoke to him, roused him from the dreary torpor of despair, but to feel his fate more acutely, and to a sense of something like adoration for the lovely woman who took so generous interest in that fate. “Come, come,” said Madame D’Alberg, forcing an appearance of cheerfulness which she was far from feeling; “Come, my young friend, consider me as your elder sister, my mother as your’s; and let us in those characters have a right to preach to you a little. Follow me,” continued she, giving him her hand “and we will lecture you into a little more fortitude.” D’Alonville in the most respectful manner lifted to his lips the hand she gave him and followed her in silence.
Madame de Rosenheim received him with that kindness which she had shewn from his first introduction to her; she invited him to partake of the repast they were going hastily to eat; and spoke cheerfully, though in fact her disquiet was extreme; and it was only by the utmost effort of resolution, that she concealed from her daughter and attendants the real situation of her mind. D’Alonville, unwilling to appear insensible of her civilities, yet unable to answer them, could only testify by his looks the impression her kindness made upon him; he drank the wine she poured out for him, and endeavoured to swallow the food she put before him. In turning his eyes on her countenance, and remarking the looks with which she surveyed her daughter and little ones, he perceived the uneasiness she felt for them, and was sensible of all the value of that real goodness of heart, which, at such a time, extended itself towards a stranger, who had no other recommendation than his misfortune.
D’Alonville had not been many minutes in the room before Heurthofen, though he seemed to have declined the invitation Madame D’Alberg gave him, stalked up; and while he did more justice than D’Alonville to the provisions on the table, he remonstrated with Madame de Rosenheim on their stay, though it had yet been little more than a quarter of an hour. “I merely stay” said Madame de Rosenheim, “Till the violence of the storm is abated, and till the men and horses are a little refreshed.” “As to the storm,” answered Heurthofen, with less civility than he had ever ventured to use towards Madame de Rosenheim, “there is little chance of staying it out, for you see it is more violent than ever; — and as to the people and the horses, they are as well able to go on now as they will be half an hour hence: Unless, therefore, you or Madame D’Alberg have any reasons for wishing to pass the night here, it is my humble opinion t
hat you cannot too soon give directions for departing. Night is almost come. If we do not hasten on, what place can we reach before it is quite dark; where we have any chance either of getting beds, or of procuring horses that may carry us on?”
There was something in the manner rather than in the matter of this speech, which Madame de Rosenheim thought very extraordinary; but the present was not a time to repress the impertinence of Heurthofen, which she had sometimes been compelled, on other occasions, to do. He might now be necessary; and his ill-humour would contribute to the discomforts of a journey already disagreeable enough; and his ill-humour would contribute to the discomforts of a journey already disagreeable enough; there was besides the appearance of truth in what he said; and therefore, however she felt hurt at the little respect with which he said it, she contented herself with coldly desiring him to hasten the people, as she and her daughter were ready. — Heurthofen, casting a malignant look towards D’Alonville, which did not escape the observation of Madame de Alberg, then left the room; and notwithstanding the rain was as violent as ever, the horses were harnessed, and they left the miserable cabin in the same order as they had entered it; but before they had gone on a mile it was so dreary dark, that Madame de Rosenheim almost repented not having stayed under the shelter it had afforded, wretched as it was; she knew the road they had to pass was yet worse than what they had passed already; and that with horses so fatigued, it was impossible for them to reach the place where, at their first setting our they had proposed to dine, before it would be quite dark. — No remedy however appeared; and the only hope she had was, that as the night advanced the clouds might break away and that the moon, which she found rose about eight o’clock, might afford them light enough to guide them to this place, without their meeting with other inconveniencies than those of roads, tedious and rough, but not dangerous while they could discern their way.
The quantity of water and mud which, from the violent floods, covered these roads, had so unusually fatigued the horses that drew the coach that ever step they took seemed to be the last that they could take. Heavily, heavily, they moved on; then their drivers were compelled to stop; again proceed half a quarter of a mile, and then stop again. — Thus, they hardly went a mile in an hour; and half their weary way was not made, when they were stopped by the overflowing of a small river, or rather brook (for in summer it is no more) that empties itself into the Moselle. The extent of the flood appeared, as far as they could discern, to be much greater than any they had yet passed; but the men seemed to think they could safely go through it; and Heurthofen, who rode forward to the coach-window, assured Madame de Rosenheim that he had passed the place often when the waters were equally high, and that there was no danger. Madame de Rosenheim, however, could with difficulty be persuaded of this, and the alarm of Madame D’Alberg was still greater. The former said it would be better to wait till the moon, which now appear faintly, should afford them light to see the marks which, in such places, are generally made to direct travellers through the floods. To this the men, and particularly Heurthofen, reluctantly consented but as the wind and rain seemed to contend which should render their stay the most comfortless, they soon became impatient, and again represented the possibility of passing in perfect security. Madame D’Alberg by the light of the moon, half-obscured by dark clouds, looked across the troubled extent of water, which the wind drove up against the wheels of the coach, and trembling at the idea of trusting her children to it, entreated her mother rather to remain where they were than to venture across it. D’Alonville, who saw her extreme distress, now advanced, entreated that Madame de Rosenheim would give him leave to ride through it first. “If I arrive on the other side without danger, I can return and guide the coach; if not, I shall have given up in your service a life which to me is merely a burthen.” “No, Sir,” cried Heurthofen rudely, “you know there is no danger, — you see by the appearance of the water that it is not deep; — your knight errantry therefore is perfectly useless, and can answer no other purpose than to waste time and encrease our difficulties. — Go on, positillions; and encrease our difficulties; I am sure it is perfectly safe.” “No, no,” cried Madame D’Alberg, :”do not go on; I will not pass the water unless I am more convinced that we can pass it in security than I am by the positive assertations of Monsieur Heurthofen.” “Since you are so very clear as to its being safe, Heurthofen,” said Madame de Rosenheim, “I have no scruple in desiring you to go through it first, to satisfy my daughter’s fears; you have a tall horse, and you say you are perfectly aquainted with the road; you can, therefore, have no objection to going forward; and being once secure that the passage is safe, you can holloo to us to follow you, when you reach the place where the water ceases to be deep.
To this Heurthofen, after a pause which shewed how little he approved of the proposal, answered, that he would go: to be sure he would go: that is, if he thought it necessary; but he could now discern the posts set to mark the height of the water, and he was perfectly sure that the coach might, without the least risk, go across. “Well,” answered Madame de Rosenheim, “however, Heurthofen, if my daughter consents to go, do you go on first with two of the servants, and the Chevalier D’Alonville, with the two others, will keep close to the carriage behind.” Madame D’Alberg still expressed extreme apprehension; yet as the moon by this time afforded considerable light, and as not only Heurthofen, but the positillions and one of the men declared they now knew the way perfectly, she at length, though reluctantly, consented, Heurthofen with two servants went on first and for a considerable way the coach proceeded along a fort of causeway raised about a foot above the low marshy ground, which extended on each side of the rivulet for near a quarter of a mile. Heurthofen now nearly at the end of this causeway, and believing that he had a right to triumph in the propriety of his advice, and in the prowess he had shewn, spurred his weary horse to gain at once dry land, when he plunged in and disappeared — too late, however, to obviate the danger to the coach, which he had been sent forward to prevent; the two leading horses instantly fell into the same gulph; and as there was neither time nor thought enough to cut the traces the other two almost as immediately followed, and the coach was overturned in the water.
It was at this moment of extreme peril that D’Alonville seemed to recover at once his resolution and presence of mind; regardless of any danger to himself, he threw himself from his horse, and cut with his sabre the leather of the carraige, which was not quite half under water; he then seized the first object he found: it was the infant son of Madame D’Alberg — he gave the child instantly to one of the men, who, seeing him in the water, had dismounted also — D’Alonville then snatched out another of the children — The nurse, with the third in her arms was dragged out by the men; and while they carried them to the shore, D’Alonville endeavoured to extricate the Baroness and Madame D’Alberg; another servant was still in the coach, who, as the first law of nature operated strongly upon her, scuffled so well for herself, that the disengaged herself, and sprang into the stream, whence she walked to the bank but the two ladies were more than half dead when with the assistance of all the men about them, except Heurthofen, who did not appear, they were both carried on shore the deepest part of the place into which the coach had fallen, not being over their shoulders. The extremity of the danger to which his benefactresses were exposed, had lent to D’Alonville spirits and strench, that threatened to forsake him when he thought these exertions useless, and that they were lost — Without any means of assisting them, he gave himself up to despair, and ran about for a moment like a mad man. The Baroness’s woman, who had suffered the least, seeing, herself in safety, began to think of her mistress; and while the woman who had the care of the children was busied in recovering the only one who had swallowed much water, the servant of the Baroness endeavoured to render her lady and Madame D’Alberg such assistance as occurred to her. Madame de Rosenheim was the first restored to her senses, but was yet unconscious of her situation; and believing herself
still struggling amidst the current, she faintly cried, “Save my daughter and her children:” As soon as her woman heard her speak, she renewed her efforts to restore her to her senses, and exhorted her to recollect herself, assuring her Madame D’Alberg and the children were safe. She soon was more restored; but when she saw her daughter lying by her apparently dead, her reason, feebly returning, threatened again to forsake her; roused, however, after a moment; by the danger of beings so dear to her, she began herself to attempt assisting her daughter, and the little creatures, who, though saved from the immediate danger of drowning, were likely to perish with cold. “Gracious God!” exclaimed she, “what will become of us. — Where shall we obtain help. — Is there no house near!” The moon now high lent her light in vain. Madame de Rosenheim beheld a dreary moor where no human habitation appeared. Madame D’Alberg continued insensible, though the breathed; and her mother alternately pressing the children to her agonized heart, believed the death of them all inevitable, and that she had only seen them snatched from the water to perish more miserably on shore. At this moment the cast her melancholy eyes across the marsh, and beheld a light moving at a distance — it soon approached nearer; and D’Alonville, with five peasants, three men and two women appeared; they brought with them what such people in such a place could collect. The hands and temples of Madame D’Alberg were chased with brandy; and one of the men collected together some pieces of rotten wood, to which he set fire; and the warmth had an almost immediate effect on the child for whom they were most apprehensive; Madame D’Alberg too became suddenly sensible. — She started — attempted to speak, but could not; while her mother, re-animated with hope, renewed those exertions which had effected this change; and not doubting now but that she should save her daughter if she could be place in some house, she eagerly enquired whether there was any kind of shelter near. The female peasants, impressed with high notions of the rank and consequence of the ladies who it was their good fortune to succour, answered that their cottage was about a mile distant, concealed behind a small rise. The question was, how to convey thither Madame D’Alberg, who was certainly unable to walk; however, as there were six peasants and D’Alonville present, their deliberations were soon ended, by the declaration of one of the men, that they could without difficulty carry Madame D’Alberg among them. This they immediately executed, and Madame de Rosenheim, though from her faintness and the weight of her clothes drenched with water, she proceeded slowly, yet exerted herself so well that she arrived at the cottage, though not till after her daughter, who was already placed before a fire, had recovered her senses, and was now embracing her children, and now eagerly asking for her mother, of whose safety she could not be convinced, till she appeared. Tears relieved them both; the mother and daughter wept a moment in each others arms; the former then regaining her usual serenity, began to contrive how they might pass the night; and with the assistance of the women, dry clothes, and a mattrass for the children, spread before the fire, was immediately obtained. When they were provided for, the Baroness and Madame D’Alberg, instead of attending to themselves, enquired for their people, some of whom they feared might be lost; but they learned that all the domestics had appeared; and the women servants, began to be very eloquent in praise of D’Alonville, to whom they declared the preservation of the family had been entirely owing; describing, as well as the confusion they were in at the time, had allowed them to remark, how he had saved them all. “It was dear little master he took first, as I held him up as high as I could,” said the nurse. Madame D’Alberg kissed her son, and involuntarily blessed his preserver. “Excellent young man!” cried her mother; “how infinite are our obligations to him; but where is he? It would ease my over burthened heart to thank him!” The men had retired from the room, but one of the women informed her, that when the Chevalier D’Alonville had seen them all safe in the house, and likely to do well, he had gone back to assist the men in getting up the coach, which was not an easy task, as from the struggles of the horses to disengage themselves, it had been dragged farther, and was more entangled than when they quitted it.
Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works Page 160