Miss Ellesmere was, it is true, very much in love; but she was a woman of sense; and women of sense at seven and twenty, are competent to the control of weaknesses that run away with them at seventeen. So, as her lover had failed in one material point, that of determining to marry before he had got a benefice, or possessed his fortune, (which a man very much in love ought at least to have offered,) Miss Ellesmere affecting to feel a proper contest in her gentle besom bosom, between the fatal affection so long nourished there, and her duty towards her family, consented to hear Mr. Darnly, if Mr. Darnly desired to be heard, and prepared for conquest, influenced perhaps a little by another motive than those she imagined she had yielded to — the mortification she had felt at seeing her sister marry so well married before her. “The pensive Nun,” (for such was the character of countenance and dress that Miss Ellesmere had assumed since she had been “crossed in love,”) now adorned her face with smiles, and her person with the most fashionable habiliments sent down by Lady Sophia in honour of Miss Mary’s marriage. Anxious that every part of the family might appear to the best advantage, she overlooked, that morning, the simple dress of Theodora, who, though now admitted into company at the earnest request of her brother Edward, was still considered as a child, especially by her elder sister.
“Do, Dora,” said she, “tie your sash better, my dear; you look quite a squab, I declare, and never mind how your things are put on — and then your hair — I never saw such hair.”
“Dear sister,” cried Dora, “what would you have me do with it? I cannot make it look any better; you know mamma won’t let me have it dressed and powdered.”
“Dressed and powdered!” exclaimed the eldest sister, “no, I think no, indeed! a pretty idea it would be to put powder in the hair a child!”
“No such child, neither,” murmured Dora, as she submitted her beautiful hair to the direction of Miss Ellesmere’s maid; “though, to be sure,” added she in a still lower key, “to be sure I am not almost thirty.”
Very vain are the projects of weak-sighted mortals — Mr. Darnly came, and saw, and was conquered, but not by the maturer beauties of the elder sister — the little wild Theodora, with her light flaxen hair half hiding her very fair face: — her childish manners and innocent simplicity made, at the first interview, a slave of the Nabob of Darnly park. There was not much above five-and-twenty years difference in their ages, though there appeared perhaps a little more, “because fair people always look younger than they are; and Mr. Darnly had lived so long in a hot climate, that he seemed older than he really was.” Mr. Darnly knew, that though it was so long since Sir Maynard had retired from it, that he was still a man of the world; he therefore made his proposals for Miss Theodora without hesitation; they were accepted, not only without hesitation, but with satisfaction greater than is usually felt even on these satisfactory occasions. Immediate preparations were made for celebrating these nuptials in a style of even greater splendour than those of Mrs. Melton. Theodora, when she looked in the face of her lover, was almost ready to cry; but when she tried on the jewels he gave her, and contemplated the carriages, the servants, the houses she was to be mistress of, she could not help shewing her childish joy, together with a degree of triumph over her eldest sister, which Miss Ellesmere affected not to feel, while she took every opportunity of declaring how happy she was made by the singular good fortune of her dear little Dora; adding, that she hoped the amiable child would enjoy great felicity; for though, to be sure, Mr. Darnly had the character of being a sad libertine, yet that now being married to such a lovely young creature, he would undoubtedly reform, and, for her part, she should dedicate her whole life to her beloved and venerable parents, since she was the only daughter they had left, and to the pensive regret inspired by recollections of the promises of early life, wishing her sisters all happiness but not feeling any degree of envy at the difference of their destinies.
This part, however hard to sustain, she went through with great courage. Theodora became mistress of Darnly-hall; and the delightful news of the completion of this marriage was sent to Edward Ellesmere, before he had even heard that such an event was likely to happen.
CHAPTER XIII.
Down many a weary step to dungeons dank
Where anguish wails aloud, and fetters clank;
To caves bestrew’d with many a mouldering bone,
And cells, whose echoes only learn to groan;
Where no kind bars a whispering friend disclose;
No sun beam enters, and no zephyr blows.
DARWIN.
THE fortunate events that followed each other so quickly in the Ellesmere family, had hardly ceased to occupy the good sort of middle-aged women and amiable young ladies in the neighbourhood of Eddisbury-hall; the very visits were but just over; and the remarks not yet finished of— “Dear, how lucky some people are! well, there are people born to be fortunate, and it is better to be fortunate than rich,” when a very heavy calamity clouded the satisfaction of Sir Maynard and his eldest son; this was the death of his only grandson, who had never been a strong child, and whose feeble health had been injured by the extreme care that had been given to its preservation. Mr. Ellesmere had five daughters; but this boy was the hope of his family, he was, therefore, extremely afflicted by his death, and whether the fatigues of his place (for he had now a place of fifteen hundred a year), or the deep thought on political matters, to which he gave himself up’ whether it was that his frame was calculated only to last a certain number of years, or that its decay was accelerated by sorrow, certain it is, that he was immediately attacked by a lurking fever, which undermined his constitution; and the wasting atrophy seized him so quickly, that in five weeks he followed his son to the grave.
This news was of course communicated to his brother, now heir to the title, and the greater part of the estate of the Ellesmere family. It fell, however, to D’Alonville’s lot to open these dispatches; for when they arrived at Ostend, where, by this time, both he and his friend were, Edward Ellesmere was not in a condition to read them.
To account for this, the transactions of the last six or eight weeks must be recollected. Ellesmere and D’Alonville were in the victorious army that entered Valenciennes in July. They were then ordered to Dunkirk; and, on the fifth of September, in sustaining the ustrians Austrians, the regiment in which Ellesmere was, suffered extremely. The impetuosity of the men was not to be restrained. Ellesmere, in endeavoring to form his troop, who were dismounted, and to lead them up to the walls, whither they were confusedly running, received a musket shot through his shoulder, while another broke his arm. He fell with the violence of the last blow, and was left bleeding on the ground; when D’Alonville, who was about an hundred yards from him, heard a soldier, as he ran by, exclaim that Captain Ellesmere was killed, and the Austrians already stripping him — It was impossible for his to leave his post, insensible of his own danger; the loss of a friend so deservedly beloved, was more painful at that moment than death itself. In an instant, however, the retreat became general; and D’Alonville, without further consideration, ran towards the spot where he thought he should find his dying friend. — he saw him a little father sitting on the ground, and leaning against a soldier — he was sensible, but either so stunned by the blow, or so weak form the loss of blood, that he could not speak — He smiled, however, when he saw D’Alonville, and held out his other hand. “He must be moved instantly,” cried D’Alonville, in his imperfect English. “Aye, that you may say, my dear boy,” answered the Irish soldier, who supported him. “For, by Jafus! now there’s a party of French horse coming down pell mell upon us, and we shall make work for their broad swords; and for you, honey, I think you’d best take to your hells.” “ You may,” cried D’Alonville, “if you chuse it; but I shall not leave Captain Ellesmere. My dear friend, can you walk,” added he; “let us try to lead you away; I trust you are not wounded more than I perceive.” Ellesmere assented, by a nod, to try to walk; and the Irishman, who was a very strong fellow
, assisted by D’Alonville, lifted him upon his legs, and led him for near an hundred paces, when he fainted away.
“This is unfortunate,” cried D’Alonville. “Come, my friend, we must carry him between us — can you get no other assistance?” Two or three other soldiers now ran up; but at the same moment the body of French horse, which had sallied from the town, came thundering upon them, and endeavoured to him down. D’Alonville while he continued to support Ellesmere with one hand, till he was taken from him by a soldier, defended himself with the other; and with his pistol shot the first assailant through the body; but the second aimed a stroke of a sabre with so much success, that he cut him deeply in the neck; and the attack of a third would perhaps have been more fatal, but that a party of Austrian horse having rallied, came galloping up, and the French, inferior in numbers, were glad to relinquish their vengeance, and secure their own safety, by scampering back to the town as fast as they could.
D’Alonville, though he lost a good deal of blood, was sure that the wound he had received was of no great consequence — He hung over his friend who he feared was dead, in the greatest agitation of mind. At length, Ellesmere was placed upon a table in the place appropriated for an hospital; and a surgeon attending, D’Alonville had the satisfaction of knowing, that his arm need not be amputated, but that the wound in the shoulder, seemed of a more alarming nature, as their first efforts to extract the bullets failed, and Ellesmere, so faint, that they were for that time compelled to desist from the attempt. In a few hours they expected to be more successful, as Ellesmere would then be more able to bear the extreme anguish that it must occasion; but before this period arrived, a general retreat became necessary, and the wounded, in whatever condition they might be, were removed — first to Turnes, and then to Ostend; where, after many perils and sever suffering on the part of Ellesmere, he was at length placed out of immediate danger of being massacred by the enemy, as was but too probable, had ne fallen into their hands; and D’Alonville, being a volunteer, was at liberty on obtaining permission, to attend him, which he did with fraternal affection. The wound he had received himself soon healed, and even during its cure, his youth and good constitution enabled him to give his whole attention to the situation of his friend; which continued very precarious, from the extreme difficulty the surgeons found in extracting the balls, that had carried with them pieces of the cloth of his coat — a circumstance that rendered his final cure long doubtful, and extremely tedious. His fever ran very high for more than three weeks; and it was much longer before D’Alonville was convinced he was out of danger; while he still suffered from the fever, the intelligence arrived of the unexpected death of his elder brother; and it was some days before he was in a condition to be told of it, though such news is not usually accounted among the afflictions of modern young men.
When Edward Ellesmere was informed of what had happened, he did not affect what he did not feel — immeasurable concern for the loss of a brother he could not love. He felt, however, for his father, to whom he knew that was a cruel blow; but for the rest of the parties concerned he made himself easy, by recollecting, that his mother would relieve herself by talking about it to Mrs. Gregson the lawyer’s wife, and Mrs. Perks the lady of the apothecary at the neighbouring town; while Lady Sophia would assuage or suspend her grief, by consultations with Miss Milsington on the best shops to purchase the various articles for family mourning, and finally, how to adjust her own in the most becoming manner.
Not long after the news of this event, D’Alonville, finding Ellesmere so much recovered that he could leave him, took the opportunity of going to Bruges, where he had business with some of his countrymen, and where he was to meet the commander of his corps in which he had been a volunteer, meaning to take a temporary dismission in order to attend Ellesmere to England, whither he now proposed to go as soon as he was in a condition to undertake the journey, and whither he earnestly pressed his friend to accompany him.
Having settled what he came about, he sauntered round the town with one of his acquaintance, waiting the departure of the boat that was to carry him back to Ostend — when passing through an obscure street, he heard a hollow mournful voice repeat his name, in that kind of dejected tone which is used when we speak without a hope of being attended to. — The words seemed to come from beneath the ground — D’Alonville started, and looked about him for the person that spoke he again heard himself called; and at length at a window, of which only about two feet appeared above the earth, and which was so closely barred, that hardly any light entered at it, he would have entered at it; he would have stretched out his hand, but the bars denied that, and he could only faintly repeat the name of D’Alonville — adding, a moment afterwards, in a still fainter tone— “Have you forgot Carlowitz, your acquaintance from Poland, who was once so much obliged to you?”
“No, indeed, I have not,” replied D’Alonville; “though, indeed, I am much concerned to see you in such a place; I hardly dare to ask what I am to call it.”
“A prison,” answered the unhappy Carlowitz, “where I have now been confined many weeks.” I tremble to ask after your amiable daughter.” said D’Alonville; “is she at Bruges?” “Ah! my poor Alexina!” replied Carlowitz, in a tremulous voice— “She is indeed at Bruges, but in what a situation, She is not, however, with you in the prison?” enquired D’Alonville— “No, . . . but I fear . . . indeed I know but too well, that her situation is as deplorable as my own; though when she comes to weep at this grate, she tries to conceal her sufferings.” D’Alonville now wished to ask at once many questions, how he could immediately relieve Carlowitz; where he could see Alexina; and what he could do for them both? He sent away his two friends, requesting of them to go and give up the place he had taken in the boat; and determining not to leave Bruges till he had alleviated, if he could not entirely relieve, the present calamities of Carlowitz and his daughter; he entered into this generous design with all the enthusiasm of his character.
The story he heard from Carlowitz, to whom, with great difficulty he got admission, was very simple; “I found,” said he, “my reception at Vienna extremely cold; my wife’s relations offered to take Alexina indeed, but I found it would be only to treat her as an humble dependant; Alexina thought she could bear any hardship she might encounter with me, better than this humiliating situation. To live upon the charity of people of whom she knew nothing, but that their principles and ideas were altogether different from those in which she had been educated; while on those I professed, and which had been the occasion of my abandoning my country, they looked with abhorrence. We accepted nothing from them but what they appeared even desirous of giving us; a small sum of money to carry us to Paris, where I thought I should have found in the new land of freedom, persons in whom I should meet congenial sentiments, and be admitted to serve the cause in which my whole soul was engaged; but how cruelly I was disappointed, you may imagine, when I tell you that I quitted almost immediately a place where I saw and heard actions and language more inimical to the cause of the real liberty and happiness of mankind, than could have proceeded from the united efforts of every despot that had ever insulted the patience of the world. — I then, with my poor girl, crossed the kingdom of France, and arrived here, in the intention of going to England. — I will not describe to you all the inconveniences to which my Alexina was exposed; but she bore them with heroic fortitude; and when she saw me distressed and affected by beholding her reduced to the condition of a miserable wanderer; she smiled, and declared herself a thousand times happier than she could have been by remaining at Vienna. When we arrived here, I was compelled to incur debts — and I found myself treated as a spy and a disaffected person. The poor have no friends; I was arrested and thrown into this dungeon about five weeks ago. — The people here are too much engaged at this time to attend to the administration of civil justice, and I believe the reasons of my imprisonment have never been even enquired into. There are two other unhappy men confined with me in these unwholesome dunge
ons, who have been here for many months; one of them is dying in that dark cavern, and the other agreed with me to watch alternately at the window (if window it may be called), in hopes of exciting the pity of some passenger; when I had the good fortune to see and recollect you.” — D’Alonville shuddered at this relation, and at the wretched appearance of the unfortunate Carlowitz. — He assured him that he would not quit Bruges till he had effected his relief; bade him rely with confidence on Ellesmere’s friendship, and who had perhaps more power than he had; and having taken a direction where to find Alexina, and done what he could to make the condition of Carlowitz more tolerable for the night, he quitted him to go in search of his daughter.
Alexina had interested in her behalf a sisterhood of Beguins; who, touched with her filial piety and dignified resignation to destiny so deplorable, had employed her in this convent in such works as she could perform; but since the town had been full of sick and wounded prisoners, she had attended one of these charitable nuns in administering to the wretched victims of war: and when this pious task was over, in which she had but too near a view of every species of human misery, the evening closed with a visit at the grate of her father’s prison.
It was there that her fortitude sometimes forsook her for a moment, when she saw his pallid countenance and emaciated figure — and when in a tremulous voice he assured her he was well, and suffered nothing when he could look on her; she could with difficulty stifle the groans of anguish that were ready to burst from her heart; “Is this,” would she have said, “is this the reward of years of unblemished virtue and integrity? Is this dungeon, where, to draw breath is to inhale disease, to be the last scene of a life passed in acts of beneficence, and now sarcificed sacrificed to public virtue? — while so many profligate and worthless men be enjoying the favours of fortune, my father perishes unheard, unpitied, and unknown — without any other crimes than poverty, and the love of his unhappy country.” — such were the melancholy reflections that depressed the heart of Alexina — but she endeavoured to disguise the anguish of that heart, and spoke of hope and comfort she was far from feeling. — she sometimes had made interest with a good priest who had promised his endeavours to release her father; and sometimes had engaged the Beguine, to whom she had attached herself, to apply to the superior of her order on his behalf, that his situation might be made known to the magistrates. — Carlowitz heard her relate these projects with mingled admiration and concern, he did not discourage them, since they seemed to amuse her sorrow, but he well knew that from such expedients he had nothing to hope. — All the little earnings of Alexina were expended in procuring for her father such comforts as they could purchase, which every evening she carried to him herself — without this alleviation he would probably have perished long before the period when D’Alonville fortunately discovered him. — When D’Alonville was introduced to this unfortunate but admirable woman, he found her extremely changed in her person, but her understanding seemed to have acquired strength, from misfortunes which would have overwhelmed a less elevated spirit; in contemplating her tall but slender form, he thought with wonder on the fortitude of mind which had supported so delicate a frame, through a long series of such hardships as she had encountered; and while his zeal in her service, and that of her father, was redoubled by the conversation he had with her, he was delighted to think that his exertions, should they be successful, would gratify his friend Ellesmere, who, though he had never any expectation of seeing Alexina again, had frequently mentioned her to Ellesmere as a woman for whose welfare, short as his acquaintance had been with her, he should ever feel the liveliest interest — and sometimes, when the beauty or merit of women to whom he occasionally was introduced, became the subject of their conversation, Ellesmere had compared their persons and manners with those of the interesting Polonese, to whom he had always given the preference.
Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works Page 193