Complete Poetical Works of Charlotte Smith

by Charlotte Smith

  When Mr Somerive had appeased the distress into which his wife was thrown by the intelligence she had so abruptly received about Orlando, and had prevailed upon her to compose herself and appear at dinner, he returned back to his friend, whom he found in conversation with Orlando; and he determined that he would, over their wine, relate to him what had passed between Sir John Belgrave and his son (who had put Sir John’s last letter into his hands), and take the General’s opinion as to what was fit to be done.

  Dinner was announced, and the ladies of the family appeared; – the mother, with swollen eyes, which she could not a moment keep from Orlando; and the daughters appearing to sympathize with her, particularly Selina, who was fondly attached to Orlando, and who, from the terror in which she saw her mother, having caught redoubled apprehension, could hardly command her tears; and though the General failed not to compliment her on her beauty, which even exceeded that of her sister, and to speak in the warmest terms to Mr and Mrs Somerive of their lovely family, Selina heeded him not. He observed that Isabella was less insensible of his studied eulogiums, and from thence drew a favourable omen. Emma, the youngest of the girls, was only between twelve and thirteen.

  As soon as the table-cloth was removed, Mrs Somerive, under pretence of being a good deal fatigued with her journey, and somewhat indisposed, withdrew with her daughters: Mr Somerive soon after gave Orlando a hint to go also; and then he opened to General Tracy the affair which lay so heavy on his heart, and entreated his advice how to act.

  ‘I am glad,’ answered the General, ‘to learn the cause of Mrs Somerive’s concern, which was so evident at dinner, as well as that of her amiable daughters, that I was afraid some very disagreeable incident had happened in the family.’

  ‘And is not,’ said Mr Somerive, ‘what I have related disagreeable enough?’

  ‘No, upon my honour! I see nothing in it but what is rather a matter of exultation. Your son is one of the finest and most spirited young men I ever saw. If he was a son of my own, I should rejoice that he had acted so properly, and be very proud of him.’

  ‘But you would not risk his life, surely?’ said Mr Somerive.

  ‘Why, as to that,’ replied the General, ‘in these cases there is some little risk, to be sure; but I should never check a lad of spirit. I know Belgrave,’ added he, smiling.

  ‘And what is his reputation for courage?’ enquired Mr Somerive.

  ‘Oh! he is quite the fine man of the day,’ answered the General carelessly. – ‘He will fight, if he must – but I believe is quite as willing to let it alone.’

  ‘It will break my wife’s heart,’ said Mr Somerive dejectedly, and amazed at the different light in which two people, from their different modes of life, consider the same object; ‘it will certainly break my wife’s heart, if any evil befalls Orlando.’

  General Tracy now saw that an opportunity offered by which he might confer an obligation on the family, which must secure their endless gratitude, and he resolved to embrace it.

  ‘If it makes you all so uneasy,’ replied he, after a moment’s pause, ‘and especially if her fears make Mrs Somerive so very wretched, suppose we try what can be done to put an end to the affair without a meeting. I dare say Belgrave will easily be induced, on the slightest apology, to drop the affair entirely.’

  ‘But even the slightest apology Orlando will not be persuaded to make,’ said Mr Somerive.

  ‘He is right,’ answered the General; ‘and I honour him for his resolution. It is a thousand pities,’ continued he, again pausing, ‘that such a gloriously spirited young fellow should waste his life in seclusion, waiting on the caprices of an old woman – What do you intend to do with him?’

  ‘That,’ said Somerive, ‘is what I have long been in doubt about. I had thoughts once of putting him into trade; but to that project Mrs Rayland’s objections, and Orlando’s little inclination to follow it, put an end.’

  ‘I am glad they did; for it would have been a sad sacrifice, I think, to have set so fine a young man down to a compting-house desk for the rest of his life.’

  ‘And at other times,’ re-assumed Mr Somerive, ‘I have thought of the church. Mrs Rayland has very considerable patronage; but though I have hinted very frequently to her my wishes on this subject, she never would understand me, to give me any assurance that she would secure him a living; or made any offer of assistance to support him at the university, which she knows that it is quite impossible for me, circumstanced as I am at present, to do.’

  ‘She was in the right of it,’ cried the General. ‘The old lady has more sagacity than I suspected, and knows that it would be absolutely a sin to make him a parson, and bury all that sense and spirit in a country vicarage. Why, my good friend, do you not put your son into the army? – that seems to be the profession for which nature has designed him.’

  ‘Because,’ answered Somerive, ‘I have, in the first place, no money to buy him a commission; and, if I had, there are two great objections to it: – it would half kill his mother, and take him out of the way of Mrs Rayland, which appears to be very impolitic.’

  ‘What if a commission were found for him,’ said General Tracy, ‘do you think the other objections ought to weigh much? Consider of it, my good friend; and if you think such a plan would be eligible, and the young man himself likes it, perhaps it may be in my power to be of some use to you.’

  Mr Somerive warmly expressed his gratitude for the interest that his friend seemed to take in the welfare of his Orlando; and then, after a short silence, said: ‘But, my dear General, we forget, while we are planning schemes for the future life of Orlando, it may be terminated to-morrow.’

  ‘Well,’ replied he, ‘since I see you cannot conquer your alarm about this matter, and as I am still more concerned for Mrs Somerive, I will go over early in the morning to Belgrave, who has wisely appointed the meeting at twelve o’clock, and somehow or other we will get it settled. – If I say to the doughty baronet, that his honour will suffer nothing by dropping it, I am pretty well assured that he will be content to let it go no farther. Make yourself easy therefore, and go tell your wife that I will take care of her little boy, while I pay my respects to the young ladies whom I see walking in the garden.’

  Somerive, whose heart was agonized by the distress of his wife, hastened to relieve her; and the General went off at a quick march to overtake the three Miss Somerives, to whom he related some part of the conversation that had passed between him and their father, and the task he had undertaken of settling the affair with Sir John Belgrave.

  The sensible hearts of these charming girls were filled with the liveliest emotions towards the General, who, if he could save their brother from danger, which their timidity had dreadfully magnified, they believed would be entitled to their everlasting gratitude. The brilliant eyes of Isabella sparkled with pleasure, while the softer blue eyes of Selina were turned towards him filled with tears of pleasure; and little Emma longed to embrace him, as she used to do her father when he had granted any of her infantine requests. While every one alternately expressed her thanks, Tracy whispered to Isabella, by whose side he was walking: ‘To give the slightest pleasure to my lovely Isabella, I would do infinitely more; and, rather than she should be alarmed, take myself the chance of Sir John Belgrave’s fire.’

  Isabella, too ignorant of the ways of the world to be either offended or alarmed by such a speech, and naturally pleased by flattery and admiration, smiled on the enamoured General in a manner so fascinating as overpaid him for all the trouble he had taken or proposed to take: and while he meditated against his old friend the greatest injury he could commit, he reconciled himself to it, by determining to do such services to the other part of the family, as would more than compensate for the inroads he might make on its peace by carrying off Isabella; for to carry her off he was resolved, if his art could effect it. His eagerness, however, to serve Orlando, had another motive than this of retribution. He forsaw that so spirited a young man might prevent, or,
not being able to do that, would very seriously resent his designs upon a sister: the character of the elder brother, of which he had by this time formed a pretty clear idea, left him little to apprehend from him; but the fiery and impetuous Orlando would, he thought, be much better out of the way.

  His conversation with the Miss Somerives now took a gayer turn; and so happy did he feel himself with three such nymphs around him, that he regretted the summons which called them in to attend the tea-table.

  Mrs Somerive who had now been long in conference with her husband, and afterwards with Orlando, appeared much more cheerful than at dinner, and surveyed the General with those looks of complacency which expressed how much she was obliged to him for the interference he had promised. The evening passed off pleasantly. Orlando staid to supper; but then told his father, that he had some business to do for Mrs Rayland early the next day (which was true), and therefore he would return to the Hall that evening. Mr Somerive, who still felt a dread which he could not conquer, entreated him to give his word of honour, that he would not throw himself in the way of Sir John Belgrave till the hour of that gentleman’s appointment. This Orlando (who was ignorant of the plans in agitation to prevent that appointment from taking place at all) thought himself obliged to comply with: on which condition his father, though reluctantly, suffered him at midnight to mount his horse and return to Rayland Hall, where he had desired Betty to sit up for him; fearful of entering through the chapel, lest his doing so should lead to those suspicions he was so desirous of avoiding. As soon as he left his father’s door, he put his horse into a gallop, impatient to be with Monimia; and as he crossed the park, he saw a light in her turret, and pleased himself with the idea of her fondly expecting his arrival.

  CHAPTER II

  ORLANDO, on his entering the servants’ hall, found Betty waiting for him as she had promised. ‘Lord, Sir,’ cried she as soon as he appeared, ‘I thoft as you’d never come! Why it’s almost half past one o’clock, and I be frighted out of my seven senses sitting up so all alone.’ ‘I beg your pardon, dear Betty!’ replied he; ‘but I could not get away sooner. I’ll never detain you so long again; and now suffer me to make you what amends I can, by desiring your acceptance of this.’ He presented her with a crown, which she looked at a moment, and then, archly leering at him, said, ‘Humph! if you give folks a crown for sitting up for you in the kitchen, I suppose they as bides with you in your study have double price.’

  ‘Come, come, Betty,’ said Orlando, impatient to escape from her troublesome enquiries, ‘let me hear no more of such nonsense. I have nobody ever in my study, as you know very well. It is very late – I wish you a good night.’

  He then, without attending to her farther, as she seemed still disposed to talk, took his candle and went to his own apartment; where after waiting about a quarter of an hour, till he thought her retired and the whole house quiet, he took his way to the turret.

  Monimia had long expected him, and now received him with joy chastised by the fear which she felt on enquiring into the events of the day. Orlando related to her all that he thought would give her pleasure, and endeavoured that she should understand the affair of the next day settled, for he would not violate truth by positively asserting it: and Monimia, apprehensive of teasing him by her enquiries, stifled as much as she could the pain she endured from this uncertainty. This she found it better to do, as she observed Orlando to be restless and dissatisfied: he complained of the misery he underwent in his frequent absences, and of the unworthy excuses he was compelled to make. He expressed impatiently the long unhappiness he had in prospect, if he could never see her but thus clandestinely, and risking every moment her fame and her peace. Monimia, however, soothed him, by bidding him remember how lately it was that they both thought themselves too happy to meet upon any terms; and would very fain have inspired him with hopes that they might soon look forward to fairer prospects, hopes which he had often tried to give her. But, alas! she could not communicate what she did not feel; and whichever way they cast their eyes, all was despair as to their ever being united with the consent of those friends on whom they were totally dependent.

  Orlando, most solicitous for the peace of Monimia, had never been betrayed before into these murmurings in her presence; forgetting the threatening aspect of the future, while he enjoyed the happiness that was present. But all that had passed during the day, had assisted in making him discontented. His mother’s tears and distress, the tender fears of his sisters, and the less evident but more heavy anxiety which he saw oppressed his father, all contributed to convince him that, in being of so much consequence to his family, he lost the privilege of pleasing himself; that his duty and his inclination must be for ever at variance; and that, if he could resign the hopes of being settled in affluence by Mrs Rayland, he still could not marry Monimia without making his family unhappy – unless indeed he had the means of providing for her, of which at present there appeared not the least probability. Mrs Rayland seemed likely to live for many years; or, if she died, it was very uncertain whether she would give him more than a trifling legacy. When he reflected on his situation, he became ashamed of thus spending his life, of wasting the best of his days in the hope of that which might never happen; while Monimia, almost a prisoner in her little apartment, passed the day in servitude, and divided the night between uneasy expectation, hazardous conference, and fruitless tears.

  It was these thoughts that gave to Orlando that air of impatience and anxiety, which even in the presence of Monimia he could not so far conquer but that she observed it, before he broke through the restraint he had hitherto imposed on himself, and indulged those fears which he had so often entreated her to check.

  At length, however, the hope she affected to feel, the charm of finding himself so fondly beloved, and that his Monimia was prepared to meet any destiny with him, restored him to that temper which he was in when he proposed to brave the discovery of their attachment. With difficulty she persuaded him to leave her about three o’clock. He glided softly down stairs; and when he came out of the lower room of the turret, he found the night so very dark that he could not see his hand. He knew the way, however, so well, that he walked slowly but fearlessly on, and had nearly reached the chapel-door when he found his feet suddenly entangled; and before he could either disengage himself, or discover what it was that thus impeded his way, somebody ran against him, whom he sized, and loudly demanded to know who it was.

  ‘And who are you?’ replied a deep surly voice: ‘let me go, or it shall be the worst day’s work you ever did in your life.’

  Orlando, now convinced that he had taken the fellow who had so insolently intruded upon him, and so cruelly alarmed Monimia, felt himself provoked to punish him for his past insolence, and deter him from repeating it: he therefore firmly grasped his prisoner, who seemed a very stout fellow, and who struggled violently for his release – so violently indeed that Orlando, exerting all his strength, threw him down; but in doing so, the rope which he had at first trod upon being in the way, he fell also: still however he held his antagonist fast, and, kneeling upon him, said resolutely, ‘Whoever you are, I will detain you here till day light, unless you instantly tell me your name and business.’

  ‘Curse your strength!’ replied the fallen foe; ‘if I was not a little boozy, I’d be d – d before you should have the better of me.’

  ‘Who are you?’ again repeated Orlando.

  ‘Why, who the plague should I be,’ cried the man, ‘but Jonas Wilkins? – Ah! Master Orlando, I knows you too now well enough – Come, Sir, let a body go: I know you’d scorn to do a poor man no harm.’

  ‘Jonas Wilkins!’ exclaimed Orlando, who knew that to be the name of an outlawed smuggler, famous for his resolution, and the fears in which he was held by the custom-house officers – ‘Jonas Wilkins! And pray,’ enquired Orlando, releasing him, ‘what may have brought you here, Mr Jonas Wilkins?’

  ‘Why, I’ll tell you,’ replied the fellow, ‘for I knows you to b
e a kind-hearted gentleman, and won’t hurt me. The truth of the matter then is this – The butler of this here house, Master Pattenson, is engaged a little matter in our business; and when we gets a cargo, he stows it in Madam’s cellars, which lays along-side the house, and he have the means to open that door there in the wall, under that there old figtree, which nobody knows nothing about. So here we brings our goods till such time as we can carry it safely up the country, and we comes on dark nights to take it away.’

  ‘And you were here on Monday night, were you not? and came into my room through the chapel?’