Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works

by Charlotte Smith

  “THE father of the unfortunate child know by the name of Henry Montalbert, requires to have him immediately delivered to the two persons who attend for that purpose, and who will conduct him to

  H. MONTALBERT.”

  Rosalie read this cruel order: she stood for a moment like the statue of despair — her blood circulated no longer; she was choaked by the convulsive struggles of her heart — but she could not weep, she could not even speak. The two persons, who were sent for her child, appeared at the door of the parlour into which she had returned, and, at the same moment, by another door, Claudine entered with the little boy. Rosalie started up, and eagerly seizing him in her arms, uttered a few incoherent words— “They shall not take you from me, my child (said she); let them rather kill me at once!” — Then, turning toward the man and woman, who approached without any apparent feeling for her inexpressible distress, she cried, her voice half stifled by sobs, “For mercy’s sake, whoever you are, lead me to Montalbert! — Do not, oh! as you hope for Heaven — do not execute his cruel order, but let me find him — I will carry my child to him myself!”

  The man, who had a countenance which seemed made on purpose to execute such a commissions, answered, with sullen coldness, “Madam, we can say nothing to all this — we must obey the order of our employer — we act legally, and cannot enter into any discussion....Come, Mrs. Jacklin, we have no time to lose.”

  So saying, he approached with his companion as if to take the child. Rosalie could only press her boy more closely to her breast, and, uttering a faint shriek, sunk with him upon her knees— “Have mercy! — oh! have pity on me!” —— was all she could utter. The unfeeling man, regardless of her agonies, or of the tears and shrieks of Claudine, who wept, implored, and menaced, forced the child from the convulsive grasp of its apparently dying mother, and putting it into the arms of the woman, they hastened from the house.

  Rosalie, who had sunk upon the floor, seemed, as if by a miracle, to recover herself. She rose, and, with wild looks and swift steps, pursued the cruel wretches who had thus torn her child from her; but they were already out of sight; her streaming eyes sought them in vain; her head became giddy; her senses forsook her, and she would have fallen had not Claudine caught her in her arms, and supported her till the woman of the house coming to her assistance, they carried her between them into the house, insensible and apparently dead.

  She was now placed on her bed, and the remedies usual in such cases were administered; she opened her eyes, and, eagerly fixing them on the face of Claudine, inquired for her child. Claudine could answer only by her tears. The miserable mother then seized the hand of the woman of the house, conjuring her to go in search of him: but recollecting how little such a person could be interested, she attempted to rise herself, and again follow him. The woman refused to suffer her, and endeavoured to appease her by promises of going themselves; but her impatience became greater, and she raved, entreated, and wept, till the violence of her emotions exhausted her, and she sunk in total depression. A few moments sufficed to recover her to a sense of her misery, and then the same sad scene was renewed.

  At length the woman of the house agreed to go out on inquiry, and something like hope suspended for a while the agonies Rosalie had suffered; but when the good woman came back, and related, though in the most cautious way she could, that the child had been carried away in a post chaise by the two persons who had fetched him from his mother — the unhappy Rosalie relapsed into all the horrors of despair. The whole night passed in incoherent ravings, in calling wildly for her child, or imploring the mercy of its father, while Claudine stood weeping on one side of the bed, and the landlady remonstrating and praying on the other. Before morning her senses seemed to have forsaken the wretched sufferer: yet her strength was so little impaired, that she again insisted on being suffered to follow her child. She directed Claudine to get her a post chaise; then attempted to rise and dress herself, till, giddy and sick, she sunk again on the bed. Thither the woman of the house had by this time summoned an apothecary, who began gravely to inquire into the cause of the agitation in which he saw his patient. Claudine could not explain it, and the good woman knew not how, so that, from what she said, the apothecary, concluding she had lost a child by death, commenced a grave harangue on submission and acquiescence, which served only to add to the tortures of the unfortunate young woman: nor was this gentleman, who really meant well, her only tormenter. Her landlady had sent for Lady Llancarrick and Miss Gillman, who, taking each their station on the opposite sides of her bed, began to administer consolation, such as is usually doled forth in set phrases, with some difference, however, arising from character; for the lady spoke like a philosopher; “the Muse” like a sentimentalist — while Rosalie, unable to answer either, repeated to herself in the anguish of her heart ——

  “She talks to me who never had a son.” So totally unqualified were all these parties for the delicate office of comforting the afflicted, or so unfit was the mind of Rosalie for receiving consolation, that, before evening, her spirits were agitated to a fearful degree; her reason was evidently wavering; and, no longer conscious of the inutility of her exclamations, she called incessantly for her child; then implored her husband to pity her; and from thence her thoughts made a sudden transition to the scenes she had passed through Sicily and at Formiscusa; till, at length, all she said appeared so innocent, and was so little understood by those who heard her, that they became convinced her senses were totally deranged, and, that these wild and incoherent appeals to persons, as well as her descriptive ravings about places, were the effects of a disordered imagination.

  Lady Llancarrick, who was writing for the stage, contemplated this sad spectacle with the sang froid of an amateur, who hoped to add some strong touches to her performance; while her more gentle friend with her attempts at showing sensibility, was considering how such an incident might weave into a novel; but neither felt any true sympathy for the unhappy object, who, in the early bloom of youth, was thus the prey of anguish, which was reducing her to insanity or death.

  The woman of the house, however, and the apothecary of the village, began, after the third and fourth day, to be seriously alarmed for the unfortunate patient, instead of recovering her recollection, continued to fluctuate between violent ravings and fits of gloomy stupidity, while an alarming fever continually preyed upon her. — The ladies, who had at first appeared to attend her with patience and humanity, now slackened their good offices: Lady Llancarrick found that neither Walsingham nor Montalbert appeared; that she had no chance of making an interesting or profitable acquaintance by her affected humanity, and that she might, perhaps, be involved in trouble, and even in expence; to both of which, but particularly the latter, she had a decided aversion. As to Miss Gillman, she had no will of her own, but contented herself with gentle repetitions of the words, “Poor dear creature! — Sweet unfortunate! —— alas! how pitiable!” —— While she occasionally addressed to her patroness eulogiums on her benevolence— “How good your ladyship is! — oh! what a heart, my dear friend, is yours! — what amiable sympathy for the distressed!” —— These sentences were continually sighed forth from the delicate sensibilities of the sentimental Muse, and received by the lady as if she had really deserved them.

  Ah! little could the consolations of such people avail towards healing the wounds of a broken heart. The unfortunate Rosalie every day became worse and worse. Claudine could not act for her; a stranger herself, and naturally helpless, she could only sit and weep by the bedside of her mistress; or, when she appeared to have an interval of sense, ask directions of her, which Rosalie was unable to give, or which, if given, were incoherent and impracticable.

  The apothecary now consulted Lady Llancarrick on the propriety of sending for a physician. Uncertain how far the finances of the sufferer might answer such an expence, and fearful of being called upon herself to supply any deficiency, Lady Llancarrick would give no advice; the landlady doubted how far enough remained, in
case her lodger died, to discharge the arrears that would be due, and to pay the expences which might be incurred; while Claudine, who had not the smallest idea of the mercenary principles on which these people acted, was continually imploring Lady Llancarrick to send for other advice, till, from this sort of importunity, she gradually withdrew; while Miss Gillman gravely held forth an opinion, that, perhaps, after all, this pretty young creature, for whom they had been interesting themselves, and whose adventures appeared to have something so extraordinary in them, might be merely a girl in inferior life, to whom some man of fashion had attached himself, and, finding her unworthy of any long or serious partiality, had taken his child from her for very proper reasons. While these two good ladies were thus prudently settling that they ought to decline any farther interference, the illness of the wretched Rosalie increased to such a degree, that the apothecary believed, and her female attendants were convinced, she had not many hours to live.

  CHAPTER 35

  FIVE days had now passed, five melancholy days, since the sad victim of unjust suspicion had found no relief from anguish, but in her moments of insensibility. Her lovely face was quite faded and changed; her form emaciated and enfeebled, so that she could hardly support herself in her bed; sometimes she wildly started up, looked round her, and inquired for her child, until some degree of recollection sunk her again into the torpor of despair.

  It was on the evening of the last of these days that three gentlemen, attended by servants, stopped in a post chaise at the door of the house, and inquired for Mrs. Montalbert. The landlady, who hoped that their arrival would put an end to her apprehensions of pecuniary loss, eagerly assured them that the lady was there; she was very ill to be sure— “But I will call Mam’selle, her maid, (added the good woman); and, for certain, Madam, will be glad to see her friends.”

  The three strangers, on this information, left their coach, and entered the parlour. One of them appeared to suffer from ill health; he was pale and sallow, and, though yet in the middle of life, seemed to have been the victim of sorrow or disease. The second had the habit and air of a clergyman; and the last was a young man, apparently of fashion, who might have been taken for the son of the one, and the pupil of the other.

  Claudine, who, amidst all her solicitude for her mistress, never lost sight of little personal vanity, stayed to adjust her cap at the glass, to put a little powder in her hair, and a nicer fichu on her shoulders; and then expecting certainly to see Mr. Walsingham, whom she concluded, in some measure, as her master, she fluttered down into the room, where, in his place, she beheld three gentlemen who were entirely strangers to her.

  The elder of them began to question her on the situation of her lady; but finding she understood little English, the younger, who spoke like a native of France, took up the inquiry, and heard, with great apparent concern, the sad account of Rosalie’s health, which even the warmth and earnestness of Claudine’s manner could but little exaggerate. Each of her auditors seemed almost equally affected, and each inquired whether she could conduct them to her mistress. Claudine, not knowing what to do, and having no idea of who these people could be, answered, in visible alarm, that she would go and inquire; forgetting, at that moment, that her poor mistress was probably incapable of attending to any question she might put to her, and certainly incapable of conversing with strangers.

  It was in vain she spoke to Rosalie; she attended not to her. At length Claudine thought of a stratagem she had before used with some success, when it was necessary to rouse her unhappy mistress to temporary exertion — she spoke of her child; and Rosalie, who had appeared totally insensible for some moments, raised her languid head on her arm, and fixing her dim eyes on Claudine, faintly bad her repeat what she had been saying.

  Claudine then told her, that three gentlemen were below, who, she was sure, were her friends, and who certainly came to tell her some good news about the dear little boy. Rosalie, catching eagerly at the hope these words offered, seemd to make an effort to recall her dissipated and confused senses to a point worthy her attention. Claudine saw that she had gained her notice, and repeated all she had said, enforcing, with her utmost power, the idea that the three gentlemen in question were certainly sent by Montalbert to treat of a reconciliation, and restore her child.

  Rosalie by degrees acquired so much power over her scattered and enfeebled spirits, as to attempt recollecting what friends were most likely to be charged with such a commission; but her intellects were not equal to the research; bewildered and confused, she put her hand to her head, and sighing deeply, she appeared to give up the inquiry in despair. There were no friends of hers who answered the minute description Claudine had given of the strangers; nor did she know of any friends of Montalbert’s, who were either acquainted with his marriage, or likely to be in his confidence. Hope, however, enabled her to re-assume her powers of reflection, and she became conscious, that, whoever the persons might be who thus interested themselves in her affairs, she ought to see them, if they were Montalbert’s friends, on his account; if they were her friends, on their own.

  But when it was necessary to make the exertion, which her returning reason told her was necessary, her strength so failed her, that it was more than an hour before she was seated, by the assistance of the landlady, in an arm chair, and half an hour longer before she had, by the aid of hawthorn and water, obtained resolution enough to let Claudine go down with a message, that any one of the gentlemen who were most disposed to take the trouble of visiting a sick room, was desired to walk up.

  An interval of some moments passed before a foot was heard on the stairs; but Rosalie, so far from finding her courage strengthened by delay, had become almost senseless and breathless, when the door was opened by Claudine, and the figure which appeared at it she just distinguished to be Charles Vyvian, before her sight and consciousness totally forsook her, and she fell back in the chair, towards which he eagerly flew to support her.

  “My sister! (cried he) — my dear, dear Rosalie! — But is it, indeed, my Rosalie! — Good God! how changed! — how altered! —— Where is Montalbert? — what has happened? — and why are you reduced to this situation?”

  Rosalie heard him not; but Claudine, amidst her efforts to recover her mistress, related all she knew. It appeared from the surprize Vyvian expressed, that, so far from knowing any reason for the conduct of Montalbert, he was not certain of his being in England, and that all the intelligence he had gained, as to the residence of Rosalie, came from Mrs. Lessington.

  Claudine, who saw her mistress incapable of listening to this discourse, renewed her lamentations; while Vyvian, eager and impatient, and not considering the consequences, bade her call up the gentlemen below: an injunction which Claudine, as inconsiderate as himself, immediately obeyed.

  Rosalie, therefore, hardly opened her eyes after so unexpected an appearance as that of Charles Vyvian, before they were struck with the figure of William Lessington, who, though greatly altered since she saw him last, she immediately knew: but the suddenness of his appearance, the distress visible in his countenance, and still more in that of the stranger who stood by him, with clasped hands, and an expression of mingled terror, pity, and affection, silently gazing on her, amazed her so much, that she was incapable of asking either who he was, or why he seemed to interested in her fate? — She was incapable, indeed, of speaking at all, but held out her hand to Mr. Lessington, in a manner which forcibly expressed— “Oh! friend and guide of my youth! why have you so long deserted your unhappy Rosalie?”

  Lessington now spoke to her.— “My dearest friend! (said he), my sweet Rosalie, you are ill! — you are unhappy!”

  “I am, indeed,” she would have answered, but she could not articulate the words. Her attempt, however, had something so affecting in it, that the stranger could no longer restraint the emotions which arose in his breast; he burst into an agony of tears, and, turning from her, exclaimed —

  “She too is destroyed — destroyed as her mother was, by t
he accursed house of Montalbert! —— Yes! — the nephew resembles the uncle — he has murdered my daughter!”

  These strange exclamations served entirely to overcome the feeble spirits of Rosalie; she no longer comprehended, and but indistinctly heard, what passed. — Lessington hung over her with the tenderest concern, while Vyvian walked about the room in great agitation; yet attempted to appease that of the stranger, and now and then spoke a broken sentence to Rosalie. It was evident, that far from relieving the sweet sufferer, for whom they were all interested, by a continuation of this scene, they did but increase her anguish, yet none of them had sufficient presence of mind to remark this; and there was no woman about her, who had sense or observation enough, to advise them to withdraw till she could acquire more composure.

  The agitation of the stranger became more violent. It was Ormsby, the unfortunate father of Rosalie, who, having returned with an ample fortune from India, had been informed, on his first inquiries, that Mrs. Vyvian was dead. From Mrs. Lessington he had learned, that young Vyvian, her son, was, by a paper she wrote to him before her death, acquainted with the real relationship in which Rosalie stood to him, and with the circumstances that had rendered her marriage with his father a source of continual unhappiness.

  Charles Vyvian, who had always loved his mother much better than his father, whose sole attachment to him originated in family pride, no sooner knew this history, than, with every attention that delicacy and duty required towards the character and memory of his mother, he sought, as soon has he returned to England, the family of Lessington. The eldest son, who was settled near Oxford, was more easily applied to than any other part of it. To him, therefore, Vyvian addressed himself, and thither also Mr. Ormsby was directed, when, on application to Mrs. Lessington, he found she was herself settled in the north. After an explanation between these gentlemen, they determined to seek Rosalie together; and set out for Eastbourne, without suspecting that she was suffering under any other unhappiness than that which arose from a temporary separation from her husband; they arrived at Eastbourne, and found her emaciated by illness, injured in intellects by grief, and incapable of feeling that portion of happiness and prosperity, which, they hoped, it would have been in their power to offer her.