Montalbert/Chapter 32

THREE of these sad days were passed without any change in the situation of Rosalie; early on the morning of the fourth Walsingham appeared.

The moment he approached her she was struck with the expression of his countenance, where despair rather than dejection was marked; and, as intelligence relative to Montalbert was ever present to her mind, she was struck with the idea that Walsingham had learned, and was come to communicate, some evil that had befallen her husband. Without giving herself time to consider the probability of this, she advanced hastily towards him, and, with extreme emotion, inquired what sad tidings he brought her?&mdash;&mdash;Walsingham, who perhaps rather expected a gentle reproach, for his long absence, than this sudden interrogatory, answered, dejectedly and somewhat coldly&mdash;"What have I to tell you, my dear Madam?&mdash;Alas! I have nothing new to tell you!"

Rosalie, checked and hurt by his manner and his answer, and not able immediately to recover herself from the emotion which she had felt, could only say faintly, "I beg your pardon; I thought&mdash;I fancied&mdash;I am so unhappy, (said she), that every thing alarms me."

She sat down, and Walsingham, moved by the sight of her distress, advanced towards her, and said, "If I had learnt any good news, my amiable friend, I should not have been absent so long, for I should have been eager to have communicated whatever might give you pleasure; if bad news that related to you, so unwilling am I to give you pain, that I fear, at this time, my spirits would shrink from so cruel, though, perhaps, so necessary an exertion of friendship."

"Have you yourself any new cause of uneasiness? (inquired Rosalie in a low and faltering voice)&mdash;I hope not!"

"Ah! Mrs. Montalbert, (replied Walsingham), does there then need any new cause?&mdash;Does, indeed, my unhappiness admit of addition?"

Rosalie, still doubting whether some calamity was not known to Walsingham which he had not the courage to tell her, related, in a few words, the circumstances that occurred since they last met; of her having the letter returned that she had sent to Mrs. Lessington, and the unsatisfactory answers she had received from Mr. Blagham and Mr. Grierson.&mdash;Walsingham read the two letters, and then said, "But what, my dear Madam, could you expect from these sort of people&mdash;I am sorry you applied to them."&mdash;Then thinking that he had spoken too contemptuously of Rosalie's relations, he added, "I only mean to say, that, from the slight sketches you have given me of these gentlemen in our desultory conversations on your affairs, it appears as if they were of an order of beings so different from her to whom I have the honour to speak, that nothing more than common civility could be expected of them."

"Their letters, I think, (said Rosalie, forcing a smile), hardly amount to that; but perceiving I had only to repair, as expeditiously as I could, the delay that has arisen, I have written to Mrs. Lessington according to the direction I obtained."

Walsingham then turned the conversation on indifferent subjects; but his thoughts appeared to be distracted, and his heart heavy. The morning was well calculated for exercise, for the sun, which was at that season too powerful at an early hour, was obscured by clouds, though without any immediate appearance of rain or storm&mdash;Rosalie, therefore, proposed to Walsingham a walk on the Downs, flattering herself that the gloom on his spirits might be dissipated by the pleasure he usually took in pointing out, with a degree of enthusiasm peculiar to himself, the various appearances of the sea, or the changing shadows of the landscape. Walsingham of course declared himself ready to wait on her, and they were just leaving the house, followed as usual by Claudine, when a smug pert figure came up to them, who looked as if he took great pains to appear like a gentleman, with very little success. To Walsingham he was unknown; but Rosalie immediately recognized Mr. Blagham, who, not at all abashed by seeing a stranger with her, pranced up to her, exclaiming, "Ah! my sweet sister-in-law, I have met you then at last! Long-parted friends, you know, (continued he, familiarly saluting her)&mdash;with this gentleman's leave, who, I suppose, is your spouse."&mdash;Rosalie, covered with blushes, answered coldly, "No, Sir&mdash;that is not Mr. Montalbert;" and then asking after Mrs. Blagham, she invited him in, though heartily wishing that he might not accept in the invitation.

"But you were going on a walk, (said he)&mdash;I beg I mayn't be any hindrance. I can't stay a moment&mdash;my head is full of business; a great number of causes I assure you....You know my way?&mdash;&mdash;Vastly anxious always&mdash;eh!&mdash;&mdash;and have hardly time to turn myself about. Well! but you look purely, my fair Rose!&mdash;I can't help remembering your former name, you see: you look charmingly&mdash;still as killing as ever&mdash;lilies and roses!&mdash;When shall we see Mr. Montalbert in England?"

"That is uncertain," replied Rosalie, who saw that, as Blagham was speaking, he turned his eyes inquisitively on Walsingham, with a look, as if to say&mdash;Ah! ah! Sir, who are you?"

Walsingham, suspecting that he might be the object of impertinent curiosity, and feeling already a decided aversion to Blagham, thought he should at once relieve Rosalie and himself by leaving her; he therefore said, that, as she was engaged, he would not now detain her, but would take his walk. Rosalie did not know, and yet dared not ask, whether she should see him again before he returned to Hastings, for she had yet many things to consult him upon. She saw him go without regret, and it was not without an effort that she concealed from Blagham what she suffered by this interruption.&mdash;Forcing, however, an appearance of tranquility she was far from feeling, and recollecting that she had now an opportunity of learning the particulars she so much wished to know in regard to the Vyvian family, she affected to listen with interest to the long detail Mr. Blagham gave her of his own affairs, which, he said, were very prosperous and flourishing; "and (then adding) you don't know all I have had to do with your poor quondam lover, little Hughson.......Egad! the poor fellow was over head in ears&mdash;in love&mdash;and, faith, in debt too. I had a fine time on't with Old Squaretoes his daddy, to make him down with the needful; but at last we got it all settled, and I patched up his pocket, poor rogue, though his heart was in a cruel plight for a long time!"

"If he had no other grievances, (said Rosalie), I think your friendship would have been put to no severe test; but pray tell me how and where are the Vyvians; I have been so circumstances since I have been abroad as to have had no opportunity of hearing of them."

"Why, I can give you as to those personages but little information: for since the young lady came down to Holmwood, they have never once been there, and it seems she took such a dislike to it, that, as the family were never likely to inhabit it, the Old Magnifico was trying to sell it."

"What young lady? (asked Rosalie); I don't comprehend who you mean?"

"Why, the fine lady that he married&mdash;Miss - - - - - - - Miss - - - - - - - - the Honourable Miss - - - - - - -;&mdash;Well! I have a vile memory for names. However, she was young enough to be his daughter, and belonged to a Lord's family, the lady he married."

"Who married?" cried Rosalie faintly.

"Why Old Vyvian....He married in less than half a year&mdash;&mdash;faith, I think they said it was not above three months after the death of his wife."

"Gracious God! (exclaimed Rosalie, thrown quite off her guard by this shocking intelligence);&mdash;&mdash;Dead!&mdash;my dear, dear benefactress&mdash;my best friend - - - - - -" Stunned, by a blow so cruel and unexpected, she became extremely giddy, a cold dew covered her face, and she leaned against the side of the window on the seat of which she was sitting. Blagham, who fancied she was going to be faint, began to call for help, and to ring the bell. Claudine was out with the child, Rosalie having sent her when she returned herself with Blagham; but Mrs. Hammond, the landlady, and her maid appeared, and the former, terrified at the pale countenance of her lodger, bestirred herself notably for salts, hartshorn, and water, exclaiming, at the same time, "Dear Madam, how ill you are!&mdash;Pray let me send for somebody.&mdash;Bless me I wish the gentleman was here&mdash;shall I send Jane to call him?"&mdash;"Oh!&mdash;no, no!"&mdash;was all Rosalie could say; but Jane, judging that nothing is so great a cordial as a friend, and having a very high opinion of Walsingham, from the liberality she had experienced from him, ran away without any farther orders, and Rosalie had not recovered from the first shock her senses had received, before Walsingham, who had not been far from the house, came in, and, agitated as much as the half-dead mourner before him, inquired, regardless of the presence of Blagham, what had been said to alarm her thus; then, turning in evident displeasure to Blagham, he cried, "Surely, Sir, this is very extraordinary!"

"I'm sure I think so, Sir, (answered the attorney, who did not half like the looks of Walsingham); for I had no notion that Mrs. Vyvian's death could have affected Miss Rose&mdash;&mdash;that is Mrs. - - - - -Mrs. Montalbert I mean, in such a manner, or I should have spoke on't more cautiously; but some people are so nervous.&mdash;Come, dear Ma'am, cheer up:&mdash;why have a little more philosophy&mdash;we must all die....The poor lady, you know, had been for a long time in a declining way!"

Rosalie, to whom every word was as a dagger, now arose, and saying she felt herself too ill to remain below, wished Blagham a good morning, and tried to add her love to his wife, with some other of these common-place sayings, that express much and mean nothing; but finding herself unable to articulate, she leaned on Mrs. Hammond's arm, and retired to her own room.

Blagham in the mean time had his curiosity awakened, which he was determined to justify. Many doubts arose as to the reality of Rosalie's marriage. He found her with a gentleman, whom she acknowledged not to be her husband: he saw that he took a deep interest in whatever concerned her....Who was he then, and in what situation was this young woman?&mdash;Why be directed to in one name, and yet acknowledge another?

Blagham now attempted to enter into conversation with Walsingham, who, disliking him too much to take the trouble of being civil at any rate, and now half-distracted by his fears for Rosalie, hardly gave himself the trouble to answer him, but walked out of the house, in hopes, that when he was gone, Blagham would quit it also.

But this was ill-judged, inasmuch, as under the pretence of inquiring after the health of the lady, Blagham now obtained an opportunity of making several questions to the maid as to the gentleman&mdash;who, he learned, came with her, took the lodgings for her, and often visited her; he heard too, that his name was Walsingham, and that he was, in the simple phrase of Jane, "A vastly rich gentleman, quite as rich as a nobleman, and prodigious fond of both Madam and little Master, though he wa'nt no near relation, only a cousin, or the like of that - - - - -."

Jane would have told more had she known it, but her intelligence went no farther beyond this, than that "Madam came from foreign parts;" for Waters, who was both sensible and faithful, had adhered punctiliously to his master's strict injunctions, and had never mentioned more of him than his name and his fortune.

Blagham, however, had gathered much for malignant conjecture, and, as the people, with whom he was travelling East Grinstead, were by this time ready for their early dinner, he now quitted the lodgings of Rosalie, leaving his compliments and a message, that he hoped to hear that she was better.

Poor Walsingham was in the mean time walking up and down a little sheltered lane near the house. He had never till this happened been so suddenly alarmed for Rosalie, and he now felt the full and painful conviction how much his affection for her had exceeded the bounds he had at first prescribed, and thought he should ever have prescribed to it in his bosom. The death of Mrs. Vyvian, on whom alone, he knew, she relied for protection, though he knew not all the claims she had to it, seemed to have thrown her more than ever into his power, and made her more than before the object of his solicitude and friendship; and he was shocked at being compelled to acknowledge to himself, that this friendship was no long disinterested. He had long been conscious, that, while he talked of his eternal attachment to the memory of another woman, he could have found consolation for every loss, if Rosalie had lived only for him; and this consciousness was the true reason why he had absented himself so long, in the hope that he might, by degrees, wean himself from the indulgence of a passion, which, if Montalbert still lived, was at once dishonourable and desperate. The ill success of this experiment had given him that look of melancholy, and of unusual depression, which had so much alarmed Rosalie when she first saw him in the morning.

Walsingham, from a rising ground, where he was not himself perceived, marked the departure of Blagham, and returned to the house.

Rosalie had, on the sight of her child, been relieved by a flood of tears, and her oppressed heart now sought still farther ease in the consoling voice of a friend, himself acquainted with sorrow: every prudish scruple vanished from the real distress of her mind; she wanted somebody to whom she might talk of her lost benefactress, and whose sympathy would sooth her still bursting heart.

Instead, however, of hearing from him such sentences of consolation as are usually administered, instead of being advised to have fortitude and patience, and recommended to submit to inevitable evils, Walsingham sat down and wept with her, and, without trying to check a sensibility, which most men would have blushed at as a weakness, he seemed to seize the opportunity of deploring anew his own misfortunes; though unconscious that Rosalie lamented the death of a mother, he thought the loss of the friend of her early youth was a calamity great enough to justify the sorrow she expressed. Violent paroxysms of grief are seldom mitigated by common-place arguments. Walsingham therefore acted, perhaps, more kindly, in yielding to, rather than in resisting, the first expressions of agonising sorrow. They subsided, and, though the tears stole slowly down her cheeks as she spoke, yet Rosalie was sufficiently composed to consult with Walsingham on the steps she had to take.

No possible channel of hearing from Montalbert occurred to her; she knew not whither to address herself to Charles Vyvian, or whether he was in England; and if the Abbê Hayward yet lived, he was also out of her reach: the changes that had taken place in the Vyvian family, since the new connection formed by its master, had probably dismissed all the old servants from Holmwood. Thither, however, Walsingham offered either to go himself, or send his servant; as nothing better occurred to him than to attempt gaining some intelligence of young Vyvian, while Rosalie, who still thought Mrs. Lessington her only sure means of information, determined to wait an answer to the letter, which, when she was able to write, he advised her sending to Carlisle.

A silent and melancholy dinner, to which Walsingham stayed without being invited, was soon over. He then asked Rosalie if air would not relieve the oppression, of which, though she did not complain of, it was easy to see hung over her.&mdash;"If you wish to be alone, (said he), I will go; but, if you will suffer me to walk with you, I will not intrude on your sorrows&mdash;I respect them too much."

"I believe (answered Rosalie) I should be better in the air; but I dread meeting any one&mdash;indeed I am quite unfit to be seen!"

"You need not be seen, (said he); for by a path about a mile off, with which I am well acquainted by my former rambles along this coast, we may go without any hazardous descent down the rock quite to the sea beach, and from thence along under the cliff called Beachy Head, where I think you may be assured we shall meet no one."&mdash;&mdash;Rosalie faintly objected to this; for, as she never went out unattended by Claudine carrying the child, she thought the walk might, in his account, be rugged and dangerous. Walsingham, however, assured her that the path he spoke of led down to the shore by a descent of hardly ten yards, and that not steep; he added, with a forced and faint smile, "I undertake for the safe conduct of little Harry, and you may recollect that it is not the first time I have had the honour of being entrusted with your boy."&mdash;These few words brought instantly to the mind of Rosalie the scene of her departure from Formiscusa, and all her obligations to Walsingham; his active generosity the, his unwearied friendship since, arose sensibly to her recollection.&mdash;"Ah! when&mdash;(thought she)&mdash;when will Montalbert arrive to acknowledge our weight of obligation, and to repay as much as gratitude and attachment can repay this invaluable friend!....When will my husband assist me in the task I cannot execute alone, of soothing his incurable sorrows!&mdash;when, indeed!&mdash;&mdash;Montalbert!&mdash;where are you?&mdash;&mdash;what has happened to you?&mdash;&mdash;why seek you not the unfortunate Rosalie?&mdash;&mdash;She is now, alas! deprived of all succour but that of a stranger.......Oh! come then&mdash;console with her the generous friend she has found&mdash;&mdash;mourn with her the mother she has lost!"

This melancholy soliloquy silently passed without Rosalie's answering, or seemed to attend to, what Walsingham had said, though she slowly followed the way which he led.

They hardly spoke during their walk, except that Rosalie, observing the heavy cloud that hung over the sun, now sinking westward, inquired of Walsingham, if he did not think there would be a thunder storm?&mdash;He answered, certainly not; and they proceeded still silently, for neither were disposed for conversation.

About half a mile to the eastward of their descent they reached that stupendous sea mark, the high cliff called Beachy Head, which is seen half channel over, and is the first land made in crossing from the opposite coast. On looking up towards its summit, Walsingham seemed to be struck with some painful recollection; he paused a moment, and said, sighing, "Ah! how long it is since the sight of this head-land made my heart bound with transport&mdash;since the cry of Beachy! Beachy! by the sailors, after a night passed in struggling against faint and contrary winds, announced the joyful appearance of an old friend&mdash;but now all local attachments are at an end!&mdash;England is still my country, but I am more wretched, I think, in it than ever, much more wretched than when I am wandering about."

Rosalie, by a deep sigh, showed that she sympathised in his unhappiness, and another long pause.

"In this cavern, (continued Walsingham, turning towards a deep excavation in the rock), Tradition says, a solitary being, of the name of Darby, took up his abode....There are times when I am disposed to try some such experiment myself. I think I should enjoy the horrors of a storm, in a cave under Beachy Head. I can imagine the raging of the elements; the swelling and foaming of the mountain billows dashing on the rock; and the isolated hermit patiently awaiting the surge that should overwhelm him....I could fancy, even now fancy, the sullen waves, which we actually hear breaking regularly and monotonously on the shore, to be the hollow murmur of the subsiding storm. The solitary man having escaped the tempest, ventures forth from his cave!&mdash;he heard, amid the whirlwinds of the night, the cries of the wretch driven on the inhospitable coast, then he could not save them!&mdash;but he now looks along the beach for their said remains; he tries with his feeble hands to bury them....He sees a drowned man, which, another wave will cast at his feet, he steps forward&mdash;-."

"In God's sake, Mr. Walsingham, (cried Rosalie shuddering), forbear to draw such images of horror!"&mdash;"I will forbear, (answered he), if they distress you, Mrs. Montalbert, but to me they present not images of horror........Ah! no&mdash;at this moment I envy those who are dead; I almost wish I were so!"

Rosalie had often heard him talk in a desponding style, but now there was in his manner dejection mixed with something of wildness, that made her tremble. Stunned as her mind was by its recent loss, every vague idea had force to torment her, and she now again apprehended that Walsingham might know something of Montalbert, which the agitation she expressed at their meeting in the morning, might have deprived him of courage to tell her; and that he was, by this unusual style of conversation, preparing her for it; but a moment's reflection served to dissipate this fear. Had it been necessary to inflict another wound on her heart, it was not to a scene so remote as that which they were now in, that he would have led her; for he had seen in the morning how ill she could bear such intelligence as Blagham had abruptly given her.

Walsingham then was unhappy, more than usually unhappy, and from some cause which did not personally concern Rosalie. The gratitude she owed him, and the friendship she felt for him, now called upon her to rouse herself and appear less depressed, in hopes that he might become more calm. She tried, therefore, but evidently with effort, to speak on common and uninteresting subjects. In their former conversations, Walsingham had frequently given her easy lessons on botany, which, with almost every other science, he understood, she now, with a view to detach his mind from the subjects that so painfully engaged it, gathered a branch of the sea poppy, and another of the eryngium, that grew among the stones of the beach, and began to talk of marine plants, and of those of structure more singular which lived under the waves; she remarked that these inhabiting the immediate margin of the sea, apparently formed the link between marine and terraqueous vegetables, and was proceeding thus, when, looking at her with an expression of countenance, which said, as plainly as if he had spoken it&mdash;"Ah! you would not now have found spirits to talk on such subjects, if you did not exert those spirits for me!"&mdash;he said&mdash;&mdash;

"I am a miserable being to-night, and fit for nothing that belongs to science, or perhaps to reason. But as there are cold unfeeling mortals, who say, and perhaps truly, that poetry has nothing to do with either, I may possible be the better disposed to read to you what I once wrote, not many miles from this part of the coast of Suffex. It was soon after my return from the continent, when I thought all my fondest hopes of happiness would be realized, but when I found them vanished from my grasp for ever!&mdash;a friend, who loved me, would not suffer me to remain brooding over my sorrows, at a house I had taken, (ah! how fruitlessly taken), in London; but though it was late in the year, not far, indeed, from mid-winter, he was going to pass a month at Brighthelmstone, and he took me with him, careless of whither I went, and only in desiring not to be molested by condolence or inquiries........For some time (continued Walsingham sighing) the vigilant kindness of my friend would hardly suffer me out of his sight. At length convinced that I had courage to live, he allowed me to do as I would, and the use I made of my liberty was to wander of a night along the beach, or on the cliffs, on which the sea is continually encroaching. After a long succession of stormy weather, with heavy rains, great fragments of rock fell on the belt of stones beneath: the crash of their separation and fall echoed along the shore, like thunder intermingled with the incessant roar of the wintry waves....My gloomy disposition was gratified in describing the effect of this, and thus assimulating outward circumstances to my own sad sensations&mdash;&mdash;

"'The night flood rakes upon the stony shore, 'Along the rugged cliffs, and chalky caves, 'Mourns the hoarse Ocean, seeming to deplore 'All that lie buried in his restless waves.&mdash; 'Mined, by corrosive tides, the hollow rock 'Falls prone; and, rushing from its turfy height, 'Shakes the board beach, with long resounding shock 'Loud thundering on the ear of sullen night.&mdash; 'Above the desolate and stormy deep, 'Gleams the wan moon by floating mists oppress'd, 'Yet here, while youth, and health, and labour, sleep, 'Alone I wander;&mdash;calm untroubled rest, 'Nature's soft nurse,' deserts the sigh-swollen breast, 'And flies the wretch, who only 'wakes to weep!'"

CHAP.