After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well.
Treason has done his worst: nor steel nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
Can touch him farther.
SHAKESPEARE.
ON the edge of Reedwood-forest, and about seven-and-twenty miles from the residence of Sir Maynard Ellesmere, lived in a small freehold of an hundred and fifty pounds a year, his younger brother, who had changed his name to that of Caverly, for an estate of which he had long since parted with the greater proportion—but he still retained enough to live comfortably, for he had the half pay of a lieutenant added to his farm, which he occupied himself. His domestic arrangements were not unlike those of Columella; but with so many oddities about him as to acquire the name of a humourist, he had an excellent heart; and though he professed himself a misantrope, much of his time, and all the money he could spare, were given to the distresses of his neighbours, by whom he was extremely beloved. Though Sir Maynard and Captain Caverly were always on the most friendly terms, he seldom went to Eddisbury-hall. He hated the forms he was expected to observe there; and though he did not express it very openly, he was disgusted by the unwarrantable partiality Sir Maynard showed to his eldest son in preference to his other children, all of whom he thought as deserving, and Edward who was his favourite, infinitely more so. When his niece Elizabeth lost her lover, the honest Captain was so much concerned for her, that her offered to mortgage fifty pounds a year of his own little property to assist in raising the sum that was demanded by the father of the young man; and he was continually endeavouring to represent the cruelty of sacrificing a whole family to its elder branch. It was owing to his encouragement that Edward Ellesmere assumed courage enough to declare his dislike to the law; and he had assisted him to the utmost of his power during his travels. To such an uncle it was natural for Edward to wish to pay his respects as soon as he could, after his return into Staffordshire, and at the end of ten days he set out on horseback, with D'Alonville, and at the hour of Captain Caverly's dinner, they arrived at Fernyhurst, which was the name of the farm where the honest veteran resided.
Captain Caverly was half a mile from his house, in a field that looked into the hight road, watching the arrival of his nephew; and he no sooner saw him approaching, than he got over the style that was between them, as fast as some remains of his last fit of the gout, and half a dozen greyhounds and pointers would let him—and greeting young Ellesmere by the name of "dear Ned," he cordially shook him by the hand as he sprung off his horse, and bade him heartily welcome—then with an equal show of good humour, made his rough but honest compliments to D'Alonville; apologized for not being able to speak to him in his own language—" but tell him," said he to Ellesmere,—"tell him, will you, that I am a rusticated old fellow now, though a few years ago I was as militaire as the best of us; and I have seen his country-men in the field with other guess looks, though I am heartily glad to see him here now, with such as I have." Ellesmere set the Captain's heart much at ease, by assuring him, that his foreign friend knew English enough to be sensible of his civilities without an interpreter; and they went into the house together; D'Alonville feeling himself already relieved in having escaped a while from the formal splendors of Eddisbury-hall, and already prejudiced in favor of the Captain from the bonhommie —that he appeared to possess.
Their dinner, though very simple, was so well dressed and so neatly served, that the superintendance of some women well versed in domestic arrangements was very evident. The Captain was so gay and good humoured, that both his guests were delighted with him; and the evening passed in his hearing the account of Ellesmere's tour, in which it seemed that his uncle, who had once made it himself, took great interest. He spoke, in his turn, on the affairs of France, like a man of sense; and expressed his wishes that he could go out against the cursed fellows, who were base enough to use a woman, and pretty woman too, as they had treated the Queen of France. "But this wound in my neck," said he, "which plagues me cursedly once or twice a year; and the gout which hinders my marching, will compel me, I fear, to send thee, my dear Ned, as my substitute. Why what is the old Baronet, my worthy elder brother, about, that he does not get thee provided for in the army?" Ellesmere informed his uncle of all that had passed on this subject since he come home; and the discourse took another turn.
When they retired for the night, the Captain showed them into their respective rooms, which were furnished with such simple neatness that D'Alonville could not but remark it. Beyond that designed for him, was a large light closet full of books, many of which were in his own language. "This is your apartment," said Captain Caverly, "as long as you will, my good Sir, and remember that nobody in my house is to be under the least restraint, whenever we talk too much, or drink too much for you, come up here for as long as you will.—Apropos, Ned and I are going a hunting to-morrow with Lord Aberdore's hounds. The weather to-night promises well;—Ned says your horses will do it well enough—if not, I will manage to mount ye both—what say you?—Have ye a mind to see how we " allez a la chasse dans Angleterre ; "—D'Alonville expressed his readiness to be of the party, and nine the next morning was named as the hour of their setting forth.
The morning was favourable, and the sport, they said, good; D'Alonville, however, did not enjoy it, for besides that the fox-hunting in England is altogether different from that in France, to which he had been accustomed, his heart was unusually heavy. The echoes among the woods, however, when the fox broke cover were very fine, and at any other time might have animated him to some degree of that enjoyment which seemed to be felt by the people around him. Several gentlemen passed, who understanding him to be an emigrant, a friend of Edward Ellesmere's touched their hats with civility enough, but none of them spoke to him; the grooms hearing he was a Frenchman stared at him, and longed to see how he would sit his horse when they should have a sharp burst, being very sure that a Frenchman could not ride.
D'Alonville, however, gave them no opportunity to criticise his horsemanship;—he followed the hounds for some time at a distance; then losing the sound, and finding himself in the forest whence he knew nothing of his way out, he slackened his peace, and forgetting for what purpose he was there, began one of his usual meditations on France. The wood he was in brought to his mind those of his native country; and insensibly along the winding paths, his horse, from a gentle trot began to walk, and at length hardly moving, began to brouze on the vegetables that a mild winter had left under the shelter of the luxuriant hollies, which serve as guides to the forester in his way through these wild-wood walks; D'Alonville musing, let him do almost as he would—till he found it grew late, and not knowing how far he was from the house of Captain Caverly, he thought it time to endeavoured to find his way back. He stopped his horse, and listened; for it was possible that the cry of the hounds might yet come from at a distance to guide him to his friends; but no sounds were heard save the melancholy chirping of the birds, whose winter notes seemed rather to solicit food than express pleasure, and the sullen sighing of the wind among the leafless branches. It seemed to have changed its quarter since the morning, and to have got round to the north, giving to the sky that cold gloomy appearance which precedes snow. After listening at several intervals, D'Alonville hearing nothing that could direct him on his way, touched the idle old hunter, to make him move somewhat faster in the tract they were in; and soon found himself out of the forest, and in a green lane, which he conjectured, from the traces of horses and carts with which it was worn, led to at least some large farm, if not to a village; and he meditated on the English sentence it would be necessary for him to utter, to obtain from whoever he should meet, the information he wanted to direct him to the abode of Captain Caverly, which could not, he thought, be more than seven or eight miles distant.
His conjectures were just, as to the road he took; it led him to a village where several cottages were scattered in groups along a sort of a common, with two or three farm houses. He looked around for some face which might encourage his enquiry, but the inhabitants of the hamlet were most of them out at their work—he rode up to a group of boys playing near a pool of water; and having arranged his expressions as well as he could, asked them how he could find the road to Fernyhurst; for he had a memorandum of the name in his pocket-book. The boys ceased their play, and approached him: but though he had repeated his enquiry in every form he could imagine, it was totally fruitless. The eldest of the boys stared at him, scratched his head, and cried. "Anan?"—an expression which D'Alonville understood as little, as they did his question. Baffled in this first attempt, he went towards a farm, where in a barn was a thresher, who supposing him to be of the hunt, had suspended his labour to answer him; but here D'Alonville's unfortunate accent occasioned his disappointment. The churl either did not, or would not understand his enquiry; and muttering to himself—"humph, a Frenchman!—I wonder what he does here!" began to thump on the threshing floor, without affording him any farther attention. D'Alonville flattered himself that from the softer sex he might obtain a more favourable hearing—and returning back to what might be called the village street; he accosted an old woman, the only woman he saw; and taking off his hat, endeavoured to the utmost of his power, to make her understand his question. The woman stopped, and fixed her eyes upon him, set down a bucket she was carrying and appeared by her countenance, to wish to understand him—Encouraged by her attention he redoubled his endeavours, but still it did not appear that he gained ground. At length she came close to his horse, and putting back her hat and cap, cried, in a very shrill and distinct voice, "Speak louder, your Honor, I am hard of hearing." D'Alonville comprehended she was deaf, and cantered away towards a young man who was mounted on a cart-horse, and driving two others before him. "How must I do," said he, speaking slowly, and, as he supposed extremely plain, "how must I do, to go to Fernyhurst?" the man stopped his horses—D'Alonville in the same words repeated his question—"How must you do?' repeated the clown; "why as well as you can;"—"But which way must I go?" said D'Alonville, putting his enquiry into another form—"Follow your nose," replied the brutal rustic—"and that will be to the devil, I hope; for I wish all Frenchmen there with all my soul, and be cursed to them—for 'tis they that be the cause of our taxes, and our being drawn for the militia." D'Alonville, though far from entering into the spirit of this reply, comprehended it to be abusive; and at the same moment perceiving a little farther on an house or two of better figure than those he had passed, he pushed on his horse towards them. He soon reached the door of a brick mansion, of neat appearance—it had three windows in front, a little bow at one end; the door, to which led a short walk, paved with brick through a turfed court, was painted, as well as the paling before it, of a bright green; the knocker was large, and of resplendent brass; and over the door a morter, gilt more resplendently, confirmed the information given by certain singularly-shaped and lettered vases in one of the windows, that from hence the blessings of Esculapius were dispensed to the surrounding country—which indeed D'Alonville might, on a near inspection, have read over the door, where the name of Sanderson and the three branches of the profession in which Mr. Sanderson practised, were displayed also in green and gold.
Here then, thought D'Alonville, is a house where perhaps I may make myself understood, for it seems to be inhabited by some of the decent Bourgeoises. He left his horse fastened to a hook evidently placed for such purposes on the rails, and entering the court, rapped gently at the door; a red-headed boy of fifteen or sixteen, with an apron on, opened it, and seeing a young and genteel looking man, invited him in, and asked what he pleased to want. Once more D'Alonville enquired the way to Captain Caverly's—to a place called Fernyhurst. The lad, who seemed to have his ideas occupied by the drugs he was mixing, understood no more than the rest had done what D'Alonville wanted; but in a loud voice bidding him sit down and wait a moment, and he would call miss, he went out of the shop, and shut the door after him. D'Alonville sat down, as he was bid, near another door which was a jar, and from whence he heard indistinct noise of sobs and deep sighs, as of a person distressed, or in pain—and with some surprise he heard another person endeavouring to appease the anguish of the sufferer in language which persuaded him it was that of a woman of his own country. His attention was now deeply engaged; he eagerly listened, and heard a dialogue which convinced him both the speakers were French women, and both suffering under some terrible and recent misfortune. He was tempted, by an almost irresistible impulse, to break through common forms, and seek the room where they were, so powerfully was his sympathy and his affections awakened; the agitation of his mind was visible in his countenance, when his attention was called off to a figure, who now addressed him from the other side of the counter—gay as showy printed cotton a scarlet sattin sash, and a blue bonnet put over one ear could make her. Miss Sanderson, the sister of the gentleman whose name the door exhibited, appeared, and gratefully courtseying and sweetly smiling, desired, in soft tones, the honor of the gentleman's commands.
So many roses adorned the dimpled cheeks of this rural Belle, and so insinuating was her address intended to be, that at any other time D'Alonville would have been amused, and for a moment engaged by her; but now he hardly knew to whom he spoke, or recollected what he wanted to ask. So indistinctly indeed did he repeat the question of "which was the way to the house of Captain Caverly" that it was not at all surprising his fair auditor did not understand him. The Lady, however, was not one of those who trust to personal attractions only. She had attended to the embellishment of her mind, and had cultivated as much as her opportunities allowed her, the knowledge of the French tongue, which she acquired at a boarding school; of this knowledge she was not a little proud, and being delighted with every occasion of showing it, she said, " Monsieur j'apprereoive que vous ate un etraunger—Put ater que vous ate un parang de les dames qui loge dans notre maison ." D'Alonville seizing at once an opportunity so favorable to his wishes of discovering who these ladies were,—replied (in rather better French), that "he was not a relation, but a person much interested in the fate of those ladies." He hesitated, considering a moment what he should say to obtain an introduction to them; and fearful of discovering that he had no right to it than what he could claim as their countryman;—when the good-natured young country woman, who was afraid he might suspect what was really the fact, that she did not understand him, was determined to convince him she did; and therefore, without waiting for any farther explanation, she cried; "Oui, Monsieur, c'est bain verrai—cette un chose bian terrible—tout le monde est en dessespair?" D'Alonville on the rack, and knowing that if she continued to speak French, he should never know what she meant, acquired recollection and English enough to say, that though he was a native of France he was fortunate enough to understand a little English; and begged she would have the goodness to flatter his predilection for that language, so far as to converse with him in it. The lady who could not have gone on in any other, obligingly condescended to his request, and—"So Sir," said she," as I was saying, the ladies, our lodgers, are as may be supposed, in the greatest affliction; and I am sure, though I did not hear them say they expected you, that they will be heartily rejoiced to see you. I will tell them if you please that you are here—Who shall I say Sir, is the gentleman that desires to see them?"
D'Alonville recollected that it would be better to write than to trust to a message, which strange in itself, might be yet more strangely delivered; he therefore took a pencil and wrote in his own language—"The Chevalier D'Alonville, younger son of the deceased Viscount de Fayolles, hearing by accident that some ladies of his country are in this house, entreats the honor of being allowed to offer them his respects." The obliging Miss Sanderson took the note when he had folded it up, and after an absence, which D'Alonville's impatience made him think would be eternal, she came back with another small folded note, to this effect:—
"The ladies who inhabit this house, though they have not the honor of knowing the Chevalier D'Alonville, yet recollecting the name, and having no doubt of his having quitted France from the same unfortunate cause as drove them from it, cannot decline receiving the favor he offers them; it being some consolation in the present moment of their affliction to mingle their sorrows with those of one of their countrymen, whom they can yet call so." The style of this note redoubled the impatient solicitude of D'Alonville, who with sensations as if he were sure of being introduced to two of the most interesting women he had ever seen, followed Miss Sanderson into a small parlour, where he found a woman of between fifty and sixty, in whose faded face there was an uncommon expression of penetration and sense, not unmingled with an air of haughty superiority. Her form and manners were such as instantly impressed the idea of her being a person of high fashion—she stood to receive D'Alonville, who made a speech he hardly knew what, expressive, however, of his gratitude for being permitted to "offer her his homage." She answered him with perfect ease, though in a tone of voice the most mournful he had ever heard; and turning to a lady who sat near the fire, her head leaning against the wainscot, while a bonnet with a deep veil concealed her face, she said—"You will pardon, Sir, my daughter's rising to receive you—she is too ill—the news of to-day has too much over-powered her." A very deep convulsive sigh from the daughter was all that intimated, on her part, her having heard what the elder lady said. D'Alonville expressed extreme concern, and added, that he was almost afraid to enquire whether the painful news of which Madame spoke, was of a public or private nature.
"Is it possible, Sir," said the elder lady, by whom D'Alonville was now seated, "that you cannot have heard it?" She then related, in terms which forcibly expressed all the sorrow and indignation she felt, the fatal event of the 21st of January.
D'Alonville was struck with horror and consternation, which, for a moment, deprived him of words; while the younger lady, by a burst of tears and sobs that seemed to shake her delicate frame (for eminently delicate it seemed to be attracted the attention of her mother to soothe and console her. It would be difficult to relate the whole conversation that now passed. On the part of the elder lady the desire of vengeance continued to weep, and D'Alonville attempted in vain to offer to them that consolation he himself wanted.—He no longer knew how time passed, and had no recollection of the reason of his first entering into the house. Nor would the conversation, vague as it was, have been soon interrupted, if a female French servant had not entered the room, holding in her arms a beautiful boy about seven months old; at the sight of him different passions seemed anew to agitate both the ladies. The grandmother, with her eyes animated with all the energy of her character, expressed a wish that he was old enough to draw a sword, that he might assist in extirpating the banditti who had disgraced his country for ever, by so foul a crime; while the younger lady, his mother, then first lifting up the lace that had before concealed it, showed a very lovely, though pale countenance, and eyes dimmed by tears—the infant held out to her his little hands—she took him, and pressing him fondly to her bosom, a tear fell on his cheek, as she whispered, "O mon petit emigre que deviendra tu ?" Never in his life had D'Alonville felt himself so affected; he could not determine to go; he wanted to enquire if his new friends were as comfortably placed as there circumstances admitted, though he saw they had been accustomed to situations very different. He wanted to be of some use to them—he wished to make them friends among the English ladies of fashion with whom he was acquainted, the mother and sisters of his friend Ellesmere.
But if he became thus warmly interested for them, while he only knew them as women, who were, like him, unhappy in being torn from their connections, and compelled to wander helpless and desolate in a foreign country, his zeal to serve, befriend, and protect them to the utmost of his power was redoubled, when he learned that he had been conversing with the mother and the wife of de Touranges, a man for whom, though he could not love him, he felt the tenderest compassion; and who was entitled to every office of friendship; though it were only on the account of the Abbé de St. Remi. The rest of the day after this interesting discovery was passed in his relating to the elder Marchioness (while the younger retired overcome with the violence of her emotions) what he knew of her son; yet even to her, strong as her mind appeared to be, he did not then venture to disclose the purport of the last letter he had received from the Abbé.—It was a conversation which neither party were disposed to end. Madame de Touranges had a thousand questions to ask; and D'Alonville had no longer any recollection of the necessity of going back to the house from whence he came; but when it was settled that D'Alonville should see the ladies again the following day, it occurred to him, that it was then night; and that if he could not find his road to Fernyhurst in the light, it was somewhat improbable he should do it in the dark. This consideration compelled him to have recourse for advice to the fair Miss Sanderson (for her brother was not yet returned;) she seemed to have conceived the most flattering opinion of him. Indeed he was so very handsome a figure, and had a countenance so well corresponding with it, that Miss Sanderson, who was deeply read in novels, and who called herself Suzette, for unhappily her name was Susannah, (and it was impossible to make any thing of it in English,) really fancied him the subject of some famous story—Tancard of Normandy, or some chivalrous knight sung by the Troubadours. She had read, and even translated, some of the tales of D. Florian, and there was not one of the heroes to whom she did not compare the adventurer, who now, with more humble pretensions, solicited her to find for him, in the village, a man who could serve him as a guide to the habitation of Captain Caverly. This, as all the inhabitants were gone to bed, was by no means easy; and was the perplexity of the fair and generous Suzette; who did not dare send out her brother's apprentice, or the horse which always stood in the stable ready to carry him out on those nocturnal visits to which he was so frequently summoned—but after a long prequisition, a man was found, who, for a crown D'Alonville readily promised him, mounted a cart horse, and led the way through many intricate windings and cross roads to Fernyhurst, at the distance of near six miles. D'Alonville did not arrive there till past eleven o'clock; but by his arrival he communicated great satisfaction both to Ellesmere and the honest Captain, who having in vain hunted for him in the woods till it was dark, had returned home in hopes that he might have got thither before them; but not finding him, they became uneasy, and had sent out people in search of him, who just before he came back had returned, without any tidings of him. On his appearance, their apprehensions being at an end, the Captain began to rally him on his long absence—but Ellesmere easily perceived that gaiety was misplaced. At that moment he recollected the melancholy news which their newspapers had only that day informed them of; and apologising to D'Alonville for his uncle's ill-timed levity, he was disposed to mingle his tears with those which he perceived in the eyes of his friend.