Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith

by Charlotte Smith

  Amazement and indignation were pictured in his countenance when he beheld a stranger walking close to Monimia, and seeming to have his arm round her waist. Thrown totally off his guard by an appearance so sudden and so extraordinary, he cried, ‘Pray, who is this gentleman? – Pray, what does this mean?’ Betty, who had been detained some paces behind, now approached; and Orlando, recollecting himself, took no other notice of Monimia, who would, had she dared, have flown to him for protection: but, slightly touching his hat, he advanced to Sir John, and said, ‘I suppose, Sir, you have Mrs Rayland’s permission to shoot in these preserved grounds?’

  ‘I always shoot, Sir,’ answered Sir John haughtily, ‘in all grounds that happen to suit me, whether they are preserved or no, and take no trouble to ask leave of any body.’

  ‘Then, Sir,’ said Orlando with quickness, ‘you must allow me to say that you do a very unhandsome thing.’

  ‘And I,’ rejoined the other, ‘say, whether you allow it or no, that you are a very impertinent fellow.’

  The blood rushed into the face of Orlando; and even the pale and terrified countenance of Monimia, who caught hold of Betty for support, did not deter him from resenting this insolence. ‘Who are you,’ cried he, seizing Sir John by the collar, ‘that thus dare to insult me?’

  ‘And who are you, scoundrel,’ answered his antagonist, endeavouring to disengage himself, ‘who dare to behave with such confounded impudence to a man of my consequence?’

  ‘Curse on your consequence!’ exclaimed the enraged Orlando, throwing him violently from him: ‘If you are a gentleman, which I doubt, give me an opportunity of telling you properly who I am.’

  ‘If I am a gentleman?’ cried the other. ‘Am I questioned by a park-keeper? or by some dirty valet?’

  Sir John, who was quite the modern man of fashion, did not much approve of the specimen Orlando had given him of athletic powers: – he like him still less when he replied – ‘My name is Somerive – my usual residence at West Wolverton, or Rayland Hall. Now, Sir, as you speak neither to a park-keeper nor a valet, you must tell me from whom I have received this brutal insult.’

  ‘My servant will tell you,’ replied he; ‘and, if you are likely to forget his information, you shall hear it properly from me to-morrow. In the mean time, my dear girl,’ added he, turning familiarly to Monimia, ‘let us leave this fierce drawcansir to watch the old lady’s pheasants; and as you seem much alarmed by his ridiculous fury, let me have the pleasure of seeing you safe home.’

  He would then have taken the arm of the trembling Monimia within his; but she shrunk from him, and would have passed on. He still insisted, however, on being permitted to attend her home; when Orlando, quite unable to command himself, sprung forward, and, seizing the arm of Monimia, cried, ‘This young lady, being under the protection of Mrs Rayland, is under mine; and I insist on her not being troubled with your impertinent familiarity. Come, Madam, if you will give me leave, I will conduct you to your aunt.’ He then, without waiting for any farther reply, walked hastily away; while Sir John, filled with rage and contempt, bade his servant follow him, and inform him that the person whom he had thus grossly affronted was Sir John Berkely Belgrave, baronet, of Belgrave Park in Suffolk, brother-in-law to the Earl of Glenlyon of Scotland, and member of parliament. Orlando heard this list of dignities with contemptuous coolness; and then, as he continued to walk on, bade the servant tell his master, Sir John Berkely Belgrave, of Belgrave Park in Suffolk, brother-in-law to the Earl of Glenlyon of Scotland, and member of parliament, that he expected to hear from him.

  They were no sooner out of sight, than Orlando, addressing himself to Betty (for Monimia was quite unable to answer him), said: ‘Where did you meet this man? and how came you to be with him?’

  ‘Lord,’ said Betty, pertly, ‘how could we help it? and pray where was the harm? For my part, I always speak to gentlefolks that speak to me; I’ve no notion of sitting mum chance, when gentlemen are so civil as to speak genteel to one. Here’s a fuss, indeed, about nothing! And so you’ve gone and made a fine piece of work, and had a mind for to have fit that baron knight – I suppose there will be a pretty to do!’

  ‘But where did you meet him?’ repeated Orlando impatiently.

  ‘Don’t bite one’s nose off,’ said Betty: ‘Gemini! what a passion you puts yourself into – Met him! – why we met him, and two more very obliging civil gentlemen as I ever wish to see; your brother was one of them, and what then? I’m sure it’s was ridiculous to quarrel and fall out about a few nasty pheasants, with all the gentlefolks about. That’s the reason that Mistress never has nobody come to see her at the Hall; and one may as well live in a prison. I’m quite sick of it, for my share.’

  As nothing but muttering were to be obtained from Betty, Orlando no longer questioned her; but as his first emotion of something like anger mingled with vexation towards Monimia had now subsided, he said to her, in a low and mournful voice, ‘This is all very disagreeable; would to God you had never gone this unlucky walk!’

  ‘Would to God I never had! for now I see nothing but misery will arise from it. But let us part here:’ (they were now in the park) ‘it is quite enough for me to have gone through what has passed within this hour; there is no occasion to add to my terror, by letting my aunt see us together. I thought I should suffer enough by being so late home; but, good God! what is that fear in comparison of what I suffer now about this quarrel?’

  ‘The quarrel, as you call it, will be of no consequence, Monimia: I shall probably hear no more of it; – or, if I do, Mrs Rayland will not be displeased at my having spoken to those men, who have so long impertinently trespassed on her manors.’

  ‘But who,’ said Monimia, ‘who shall ensure your safety, Orlando, if you do hear more of it?’

  ‘I must take my chance about that. Do not, my Monimia,’ whispered he, ‘make yourself uneasy about it: I shall see you at night; and now, perhaps, it will be better to part.’ He then said aloud, that Betty might hear, who was a few paces behind, ‘Since you seem now to be delivered from the persecution of this impertinent stranger, I wish you a good morning.’ Orlando then walked another way, as if pursuing his diversion of shooting; and Betty joining Monimia, they proceeded together towards the house.

  As they went, Betty, who was very much displeased with Orlando, because he seemed to have given all that attention to Monimia which she had herself a great inclination to monopolize, began again to exclaim against the folly of his having driven away and quarrelled with a baron knight, as she emphatically termed it. ‘Why one would have thof,’ cried she, ‘actually that the gentlemen, who is in my mind a pretty gentleman, had done some great harm. If Mr Orlando had been your sweetheart, Miss, he couldn’t have been brustled up in a greater passion.’

  ‘My sweetheart!’ said Monimia faintly; ‘how can he be my sweetheart, when you know, Betty, I have hardly exchanged ten words with him in my whole life?’

  ‘Well, Miss, you nid not colour so about it – Lord, I suppose people have had sweethearts before now; and the better’s their luck: – not that I say Mr Orlando is yours, for I knows to the contrary.’

  ‘I believe,’ said Monimia, making an effort to command herself, ‘I believe, Betty, it will be as well, on many accounts, not to say any thing about all this at home. If this unlucky quarrel should go any farther, which I hope it will not, it will make my aunt very angry if she knows we were present at it; – and, upon the whole, I wish you would make a resolution not to speak of it.’

  ‘Not I,’ answered Betty, ‘I shan’t speak of it, not I. – I’m none of your blabs – and scorn to say any thing to make mischief; – besides, we shall have anger enough for staying so much later than we were bid to stay. Yes; we shall have a fine rattle; and there stands Madam Lennard at the window, watching for us.’ They were now near the house, and poor Monimia, looking up, saw her aunt indeed watching their return. She trembled so much, that she could hardly find strength to get into the house; where as soon as Be
tty arrived, she was hastening to the kitchen; but Monimia finding it impossible to meet, alone, the first rage of her aunt, entreated her to go up stairs.

  ‘Do not leave me, dear Betty,’ said the timid Monimia; ‘I am in such terror already, that if my aunt is very violent against me, I really believe I shall die on the spot. You have more courage than I have – for Heaven’s sake, do not leave me.’

  ‘I don’t know any good I can do,’ replied Betty; ‘but however, if I must go, I must.’ They then ascended the stairs together, and entered the room where Mrs Lennard waited for them in the disposition of an hungry tigress who has long been disappointed of her prey. She scolded with such vehemence for near half an hour, that she absolutely exhausted every form of invective and reproach which her very fertile genius, and the vocabulary of Billingsgate, could furnish her with; and then taking Monimia rudely by the arm, she led her to the turret, and locked her in, protesting that, so far from ever suffering her to go junketing out again to the village, she would not leave her room for a week. With this threat she left her weeping niece, and turned the key upon her: but Monimia, somewhat relieved by her departure, felt with secret delight that it was not in her power to confine her – and that at night she could see Orlando. Yet the danger he had run into recurred to her with redoubled force; and never did she pass such miserable hours as those that intervened between her aunt’s fierce remonstrance, and that when she expected the signal from Orlando.

  CHAPTER X

  THE unfortunate rencontre which promised to produce so much uneasiness, was occasioned by the impatience of Orlando at Monimia’s long absence. He had gone early in the morning to his father’s, as he had the preceding evening proposed: and returning about ten o’clock, anxious to know if Monimia was come back from her walk, he enquired among the servants for Betty; and was told that she was not yet come home from the village, whither Mrs Lennard had sent her early in the morning. ‘What do you want with Betty, sir?’ said Pattenson, who heard the enquiry. ‘To make the fire up in my room,’ replied Orlando. ‘Any other of the maids can do that as well, I suppose,’ answered the butler, sullenly: and then, from his manner, Orlando was first struck with the idea, that Pattenson, being an admirer of Betty, was apprehensive of his acquiring too much of her favour. This observation was a great relief to him, and dissipated the fears he had long entertained, that the old butler suspected his stolen interviews with Monimia.

  Uneasy, however, at her staying so much later than the hour when he knew she was ordered to return, he could not forbear making a circuit round the wood-walks of the park, where he could not be observed, and passing towards the preserved pheasant-grounds, through which her path lay; where he had not waited long before the appearance of Monimia, attended by Sir John Belgrave, produced the alarming conversation which the last chapter related.

  When Orlando parted from Monimia, and began coolly to consider what had happened, he felt no other uneasiness than that which arose from his apprehension that her name might be brought in question; for he was a stranger to all personal fear, and was totally indifferent to the resentment of Sir John Belgrave, which he thought it probable he might think it wise to lay aside; for he did not appear to be one of those who are eager to acquire fame by personal danger. However that might be, Orlando’s principal concern was, how to appease the fears of Monimia; and as early as it was safe to go to the turret, he repaired thither; but this happened almost an hour later than usual. Pattenson had visitors, some tradesman from a neighbouring town, to sup with him; and Orlando, who was upon the watch, had the mortification to hear them singing in the butler’s room at half after eleven, and to find it near one o’clock when they betook themselves to their horses, and departed. It was yet near half an hour longer before the lights about the house were extinguished, and all was quiet.

  The night, dark and tempestuous, added to the gloomy appearance of all that surrounded Monimia; while her imagination, filed with images of horror, represented to her, that his delay was owing to the consequences of his morning’s adventure: and these apprehensions, added to the fatigue and anxiety she had gone through during the day, almost overcame her, before the well known, long wished for signal was heard.

  At length Orlando had safely placed her by the fire, and began to speak as cheerfully as he could of what had passed; but he saw her pale, dejected, and ready to sink – her eyes swollen with weeping – and her whole frame languid, depressed by the uneasy circumstances of the day, and the uneasy suspense of the night. For the latter he easily accounted; and he endeavoured to dissipate her dread as to the consequences of the former. ‘This fine gentleman,’ said he, ‘who could persecute with his insulting attentions a young and defenceless woman, my Monimia, can never have much proper and steady courage; or, if he has, he will, if he has a shadow of understanding, be ashamed of exerting it in such a cause. Besides, after all the applications that have with great civility been made to Mr Stockton, entreating him to forbear, either by himself, his friends or servants, trespassing on those woods, where Mrs Rayland is so fond of preserving the game, nothing can be more ungentleman-like than to persist in it: it looks like taking advantage of Mrs Rayland’s being without any man about her who has a right to enforce her wishes, which, whether capricious and absurd or no, should surely be respected. I feel myself perfectly justified for having spoken as I did, and only regret that you were present. Relate to me, Monimia, what passed before I met you. Did not Betty say, that my brother was one of the people who were with this Sir John Belgrave?

  Monimia then related all that had passed, as well as the alarm she had been in had allowed her to observe it; and in the behaviour of his brother, particularly in the speech he had made to Monimia as he passed her, Orlando found more cause of vexation than in any other circumstance of the morning. He foresaw that the beauty of Monimia, which had hitherto been quite unobserved, would now become the topic of common conversation; his father and his family would be alarmed, and his stay at the Hall imputed to motives very different from his love of solitude and study. Hitherto Monimia had seemed a beautiful and unique gem, of which none but himself had discovered the concealment, or knew the value. He had visited it with fonder idolatry, from alone possessing the knowledge where it was hid. But now half his happiness seemed to be destroyed, since his treasure was discovered, particularly by his brother, who was so loose in his principles, and so unfeeling in his conduct. As these painful reflections passed through his mind, he sat a while silent and dejected, till, being awakened from his mournful reverie by a deep sigh from Monimia, he saw her face bathed in tears. ‘Ah! Orlando,’ said she, in a tremulous voice, ‘I see that you feel as I do. All our little happiness is destroyed; perhaps this is the last night we shall ever meet: something tells me, that the consequences of this luckless day will be our eternal separation.’ The sobs that swelled her bosom as she said this impeded her utterance. Orlando, with more than usual tenderness, endeavoured to sooth and re-assure her – when suddenly, as he hung fondly over her, speaking to her in a low voice, she started, and said, in a whisper, ‘Hush, hush – for heaven’s sake – I hear a noise in the chapel.’ Orlando listened a moment. ‘No – it is only the wind, which is very high to-night.’ But listening again a moment, he thought, as she did, that it was something more; and before he had time to imagine what it might be, the old heavy lock of the study door, that opened from the passage to the chapel, was moved slowly; the door as slowly opened, and at it a human face just appeared. Starting up, Orlando, whose fears were ever alive for Monimia, blew out the single candle which stood at some distance from them; and then springing towards the door he demanded fiercely who was there. Monimia, whose terror almost annihilated her faculties, would have thrown herself into his arms, and there have waited the discovery which appeared more dreadful than death: but he was instantly gone, and pursued through the chapel a man, whom however he could not overtake, and who seemed at the door to vanish – though the night was so dark, that it was impossible to distingui
sh any object whatever. Through the chapel he had heard the sound of feet; but when he go to the porch, and from thence listened for the same sound to direct his pursuing along the flag-stones, it was heard no more. All was profoundly silent, unless the stillness was interrupted by the howling of the wind round the old buildings.

  Orlando, after a moment’s pause, was disposed to fasten the chapel door before he returned; but he recollected that perhaps he might enclose an enemy within it, or impede the escape of his Monimia to her turret. Uncertain therefore what to do, but too certain of the agonizing fears to which he had left her exposed, he went hastily back; and securing that door which led from the chapel to the passage as well as he could (for there was no key to it, and only a small rusty bar), and then fastening the door of the study, he approached, by the light of the wood fire which was nearly extinguished, the fainting Monimia, who, unable to support herself, had sunk to the ground, and rested her head on the old tapestry chair on which she had been sitting.

  Orlando found her cold, and almost insensible; and it was some moments before he could restore her speech. Terror had deprived her of the power of shedding tears; nor had she strength to sit up: but when he had placed her in her chair, he was compelled to support her, while he endeavoured to make light of a circumstance that overwhelmed him with alarm for her, and with vexation beyond what he had ever yet experienced.