# The Banished Man/Volume 2/Chapter 16

"Wants of their own demand their care." How few "Feel their own wants and succour others too."
CRABBE.
EVERY place where the oppressed heart has received the additional load of sorrow, becomes hateful to the unhappy sufferer: and change of situation seems for a while to afford relief. Mrs. Denzil was now eager to quit her lodgings at Wandsworth, and go farther into the country; but the season of the year, as it was mid-winter, was unfavourable to her removal; and while she positively refused any assistance from D'Alonville, she felt how impossible it was to remove such a family, unless she could procure justice from those of whom she had a right to demand it.—Nor could she resolve to abandon her unfortunate French friends, for though the arrival of De Touranges had relieved his mother and his wife from the most severe and insupportable of their sorrow, Mrs. Denzil understood that he had exhausted all his pecuniary resources, and that their situation was rendered more distressing, rather than relieved by his arrival; for it was probable, that even indigence itself would fail of subduing the high and imperious spirit of the Marquis, who, accustomed from his earliest infancy to every luxury and indulgence that illustrious birth and high affluence gave him a right to enjoy, had not yet learned, nor seemed ever likely to learn, the hard lesson of humbling his spirit to his fortune; nor could he think, without feeling all the torments of mortified pride, that his mother and wife were reduced in a foreign country to avail themselves of talents acquired as matters of amusement of pleasure, to procure a subsistence for themselves and for his child, the sole remaining branch of a family so noble, and heir to a fortune which was equal to that of the proudest British peer, whose bounty or caprice might contribute to their existence.
These reflections empoisoned the happiness De Touranges ought to have enjoyed from being restored so unexpectedly to his family; and the prejudice he had from his earliest days imbibed against the English nation, had rather acquired force by the cruel necessity he was under of being obliged to it.
But Mrs. Denzil, herself a veteran in calamity, and who had gone through, and not without many severe struggles, the hard task of learning to submit to adversity, and all its train of humiliation, was only impressed with a deeper sense of compassion for the unfortunate family of De Touranges, and grew more solicitous to serve and assist them though her power to do so became every day less.
The generous attention shown them be D'Alonville, greatly raised him in her esteem—from his hands De Touranges did not scruple to receive assistance, while the Abbé de St. Remi, divided between his admiration of D'Alonville's generosity, and his fears that it might incommode himself, would accept of nothing, but went to reside in the most economical manner, with two other Catholic priests, who inhabited a very small lodging in the neighbourhood of Hampstead. D'Alonville, young as he was, and unaccustomed to the affairs of the world, was neither thoughtless or improvident.—As the object on which the whole happiness of his life depended, was his union with Angelina Denzil, he determined to observe as to himself the strictest economy, that he might neither lose sight of that object, or deny himself the gratification of assisting his unfortunate countrymen, who, in escaping from death, had not reserved the means of life.—Soon after his arrival in London, Ellesmere had accompanied Sir Maynard to Eddisbury, very much against his own inclination, who not only regretted this separation from D'Alonville, but could ill submit to relinquish the company of Alexina and Carlowitz; his passion for the former had daily augmented since his return to England, and though he had the dissatisfaction of finding that the views of his father were entirely opposite to his wishes, his resolution to unite his fate with that of Alexina, acquired strength every day. He could not, however, refuse to go to Eddisbury, where his mother and his eldest sister received him with as much affection as they were capable of feeling, and where Sir Maynard seemed by demonstrations of present affection to endeavour to obliterate the remembrance of the little regard he had formerly shown him.
But however disappointed in his views of aggrandizing his family Sir Maynard had been, the same project still occupied his mind they were indeed become in some measure more necessary than ever, if the splendour of his family was to suffer no diminution; for the jointures of Lady Ellesmere and Lady Sophia, together with the five daughters of the latter, who were to be provided for out of the family estate, could not fail to render a rich alliance necessary in the eyes of even a prudent father, and Sir Maynard was more than prudent, he was ambitious.
Discourse therefore on this topic was what he took every opportunity of entering upon with Mr. Ellesmere, who heard him with respect, but without any marks of acquiescence.—Ellesmere indeed could not bear to put an end too abruptly to the visions with which his father seemed to amuse the languor of disappointment, and the depression of pain and sickness, which had of late so frequently attacked him that it seemed very probable a few months forbearance might save Ellesmere from the painful necessity of counter acting the wishes of his father, by giving him a daughter in law to whom he would have such objections, as her being a native of another country and entirely destitute of fortune.
But whatever prudence and duty might dictate, was strongly opposed by inclination, and by the fear of losing Alexina, he was not of a disposition to await the reluctant and haughty acquiescence of her lover's family. This apprehension, added to the teizing solicitude of Sir Maynard, the wearisome insipidity of Lady Ellesmere, and the extreme dislike he had to the ostentatious parade at Darnly Park, where his family were frequently making visits, were altogether so uneasy to Ellesmere, that far from regaining health at Eddisbury, he became languid and emaciated, and Sir Maynard, without at all guessing at the cause, saw with extreme inquietude his health daily decline.
He had been near three weeks at Eddisbury, thus doing penance, when he received from D'Alonville, a letter, of which this is the translation:
"Accustomed as I am to confide to you every thought of my heart, and to rely on your advice as my best guide, I shall make no apology, my dear Ellesmere, for now troubling you with a long letter. I need not give you a detail either of my present circumstances, or my past sentiments; you are perfectly acquainted with both; but I rely much on your opinion as to my future conduct.
The sum of money which I possess in consequence of the death of my unfortunate brother is something more, you know than four thousand five hundred pounds sterling, after deducting from it the sum I have had occasion for since my arrival in England. This, in the advantageous manner in which you have placed it, will produce for me annually about two hundred and twenty pounds a year; a sum which would be adequate to all my wants and wishes, did I consider only myself; but as life is not worth having if I cannot pass it with Angelina, I wish so to encrease this little income as to be enabled to afford her at least the decencies of life.
The property that belongs to her family is, as far as I can understand, so entangled, so embarrassed, that I believe little is to be expected from it; and if we wait till the persons who have possession of it give it up, or till it is taken out of their hands by the tedious process of English law, we may waste the best of our days in vain and fruitless expectation.—This is a sacrifice that I am neither disposed to make myself, or to ask of Angelina.—Youth is too rapidly passed to suffer any of its years to be lost in waiting till lawyers grow honest. It is better to attempt myself to remedy the narrowness of our fortune. However, I merely communicate to you, my dear Ellesmere, my thoughts on this subject, without meaning to adopt any plan till it has had your approbation.
Yesterday I hired an horse to go down to Wandsworth, and in passing along near the gate at Hyde Park, a lady in a coach suddenly stopped it, and called to me by my name.—I approached and immediately recollected Miss Milsington, who did me the honor to express her pleasure at meeting me, and said many obliging things.—which I know not how I have deserved.—She enquired (with more zeal, I think, than delicacy, as there were two ladies with her) into my present situation—and as I could not then enter into any account of it, she seems to believe I am returned to England in circumstances as destitute and unfortunate as the greater part of my countrymen. I consequently owe her great obligations, for being so unlike the generality of the world, as to appear desirous of cultivating my acquaintance. She insisted upon my visiting her, and gave me a card—I have therefore been to the house of a Lord Aberdore, with whom she is at present a visitor—and I am just returned from paying my respects to her.—I did not think it necessary to relate to her the little history of my adventures since I left England; and she remains in the belief, that I am under the necessity of seeking some means of subsistence.—I shall of course undeceive her; but the obliging interest she takes in my destiny, has already produced the letter I enclose, in which I equally admire the spontaneous kindness of the lady, and the correctness with which she writes a foreign language.
I cannot tell you, my dear friend, that I should commence with pleasure the career Miss Milsington proposes for me, but I think I could execute the task it assigns to me with integrity—Urged by the motives I have mentioned to you, I can conquer my pride and obey the voice of prudence, which says
"Oublie une gloire importune "Ce triste abaissement, convient a ta fortune."
I wait only for your opinion to give my answer.—Let me add, though it is a subject I touch upon with pain, that my unfortunate friend, De Touranges and his family, excite my compassion, and I cannot determine to abandon them, if I can alleviate calamities they share in common with us all; for he is disqualified by habit, by temper, and by prejudice, from making any of those exertions, that may soften, to those who belong to him, the miseries of poverty and exile; and towards whom can they look for this alleviation, but towards those of their own country, who have been by accident more fortunate?—Your nation has already done more than any other could, or would have done, to succour the unfortunate exiles who have taken shelter among them. Such as can provide for themselves, should assist others who have been entirely deprived of the means of existence. It seems to me that we owe this to ourselves, as well as to you.
I have seen Alexina for a moment this morning—Carlowitz seems impatient to return to Poland, though he is dissuaded from it by such of his friends here, as have more prudence than patriotism.—Alexina, to whom I took occasion to mention you, spoke of you as she always does, with affection and esteem; but I thought I observed to day more tenderness than usual in her voice and manner, while we talked of our beloved friend at Eddisbury.—Oh! Ellesmere, how I envy you the power of uniting your destiny with that of the woman you love; of raising her in this country to the rank from which she has fallen in her own; while I, degraded myself, must descend yet a step lower to enable me to provide in humble life for an object at whose feet the riches of empires should be lavished.
Write to me, dear Ellesmere, by an early post, and think with your usual kindness of your devoted friend, LE CHEVALIER D'ALONVILLE."
The letter enclosed from Miss Milsington was to the following purport—
The interest, Sir, that every one who knows you must take in your welfare, must be my excuse for intruding on you with offers of service. Allow me to say, that should I be fortunate enough to be of any service to one for whom I have so high an esteem, I shall consider it as a circumstance singularly fortunate for me.
The cruel events that have desolated France, and driven her most illustrious families to exile, must sensibly affect every person bien ns—I have most exquisitely participated the general concern, but alas! I can do little more than bear my part in a universal sentiment. I really wish, Sir, to continue this exordium longer, merely because I feel how difficult it is to arrive with delicacy and propriety at the point I have in view.
Suffer me to make a slight sketch of the family I am now with, the better to explain my meaning:
The earl of Aberdore, whose present lady is a relation of my late father's, General Milsington, has by a first wife three sons and two daughter.—These young people are from sixteen to seven years of age. My relation, the present Lady Aberdore, is a very young woman, and beautiful as the fabled Houri—of course fond of admiration, and the gaieties of court, where from her rank and loveliness she is much noticed. With the best dispositions in the world, it is not in her power to attend to the education of her husband's children. The young ladies are growing up; the eldest is near twelve years old; the boys are two of them older; they have all been educated hitherto at the town or country houses where Lord A. has happened to reside, under the care of tutors, governesses, and masters; but some objections have lately arisen to their residing in London, where they are unavoidably introduced into some degree of dissipation inimical to their studies; and Lord A. has determined that they shall reside altogether at one of his distant seats—the young men under the care of a gentleman from Oxford, newly recommended to him in place of their late tutor, (to whom his lordship has given a considerable living): the ladies, Tryphena and Louisa, attended by their French and English governesses: but as this plan of necessity excludes them from the advantages of having masters in many branches of education, which the metropolis alone possesses, Lord Aberdore has been prevailed upon to think of engaging some foreigner of merit and talents, who may be qualified to supply this deficiency, and instruct Lord Aurevalle, and his brothers, in the French and Italian languages; in fencing, drawing, and tactics; who has some knowledge of music, and has an elegant taste for poetry and the fine arts.—I have named you, Sir, as a gentleman, in whom this assemblage of accomplishments is united with infinite suavity of manners, and an excellent disposition. Lord Aberdore does me the honor to attend to my opinion—I have assured him that your birth is illustrious, and your English connections highly respectable, and his lordship seems perfectly convinced of the propriety of my recommendation. It only remains for me to ask, Sir, whether you shall judge such a situation eligible during your enforced stay in England; I need hardly add that the conditions with which it will be attended, though they cannot be equal to your merit, are such as will be accompanied with no descent from the real dignity which you have a right to maintain. In expectation of your early answer, and of your pardon, if I have taken too great a liberty, I have the honour to be, Sir, Your obedient And very humble Servant, JEMIMA MILSINGTON."
In the due course of the post from Eddisbury Hall, D'Alonville received from Ellesmere the following answer:
"You are an enviable and fortunate fellow, D'Alonville:—What! to have the most accomplished woman in England the fair, the amiable Jemima Milsington interest herself in your destiny, and place you in the family of her relation, more beautiful than fabled Hours! to superintend the education of two young graces, "who are growing up," and who, I apprehend, approach too nearly in appearance and charms to this rival of Mahomet's nymphs to be suffered to remain longer near their Belle Mere, amid "the dissipations of London."—Really the prudent Jemima has chosen an admirable Mentor for this hopeful family; but trifling apart, for, alas! I trifle not from gaieté de cœur; I entirely acquiesce in all the observations you make in your letter; they are worthy of your heart and understanding; yet, believe me, D'Alonville, was I independent, had I an house and a fortune, my friend should not seek in any other family, that home which it would be my pride and delight to offer him. In regard to your accepting the situation proposed to you by Miss Milsington, you must yourself judge how far it may be such as agrees with your habits and inclination; if you marry Angelina immediately, and I am epicurean enough to advise you to do so, can you determine to quit her? If you can, I am quite disposed to believe, my dear Chevalier, that your tenderness for her, your natural retnue, that sobriety of character which has often made me say you resemble us cold phlegmatic Englishmen, will together be a sufficient defence against the dangers of such a situation as Miss Milsington has recommended to you.—To a less attached or less sedate man of one and twenty, I own I should think it somewhat hazardous; or rather I should accuse of extreme imprudence, the father who should introduce into his family, the Chevalier D'Alonville; had the Chevalier D'Alonville less discretion, or less love for another object, Abelard and St. Preux, would be names that would continually recur to me.
La Belle Mere, too! I have not time to give you a sketch of her character; but her person though the Houri's is not in so much danger of being but second best, as the energetic Jemima seems to apprehend, her person is certainly beautiful, according to the common acceptation of the word; and, to what nature has done for her, she fails not to add every embellishment of art. In a more easy temper of mind I could give you a little history of this family, that would serve, perhaps, as a cart du pais, but I will postpone doing so till I see you, for my heart is too heavy to allow me to do the drawing justice; it does not grow lighter when I reflect on the lengthening penance I am condemned to here, where I know you will not come; but I find I cannot quit Eddisbury, unless I could prevail upon myself to become indifferent to the uneasiness I should inflict on Sir Maynard, who cannot hear the remotest hint of my leaving him, even for a few days, and seems now so solicitous for my health, that I am even distressed by his kindness; this I could bear, wearisome as it is, if I was not compelled to listen to plans in which I never can engage, and often punished by the long visits to Darnly, in which I am expected to accompany the family. Poor Theodora puts me in mind of Leonora in the Padlock: "Fine feathers make fine birds; but I am sure they don't make happy ones." I frequently see her amidst all the splendours that surround her, endeavouring to be really as happy as people tell her she is; but though she is not a young woman who has been accustomed to think much, or to make companions who can show her the difference between real and imaginary good, I can plainly perceive that her heart refuses to acquiesce in the assertion, that she is "A most fortunate woman;" and I dread lest her youth and simplicity should expose her to the too successful designs of the sort of people who are continually collected round her, and who seem necessary to assure Mr. Darnly that he too is happy. This man can never live a moment alone; and as there is nothing attractive about him but his money, and the luxuries his house affords, you may imagine what is the description of people who are assembled there—captains of Indiaman retired; men who have dealings or connections with the company, and are something, however, to be entirely the former without success;—others who have acquired to aspire to rank, in a country where money does every thing, but who being originally of mean extraction, and having acquired their fortunes by the basest means, add to the gross manners of the vulgar the insolent presumption of the prosperous, and unite the vices of both.
None of these, perhaps, are very dangerous inmates, though they flatter Theodora till she believes herself a little goddess; but there are another set of people often about her, who are, in my opinion, more the subjects of alarm.—These are idle young men of fashion, who frequent Darnly's house, because " it is a monstrous good lounge, and because he gives devilish good dinners." There are seldom less than two or three of these honest gentlemen, who condescend to pass, with their horses and servants, a fortnight or a week together at Darnly; and in Hanover square they are, I understand, more constant visitors. As these rank among the pretty men of the day, of whom every body talk, and whose amours and intrigues are the usual theme of the women, I expect nothing less than that some of them, and particularly one who is more assiduous than the rest, will think it a monstrous good joke to steal from "the little Nabob," the person of his wife, who certainly is young enough to be his daughter, and who, I think, must make comparisons between these "adorables," and her "dingy dear," not much to the advantage of the latter.
Perhaps these suspicions, should they be realized, are not such as ought to add, in the world we live in, one thorn to those that render uneasy the pillow of your friend.
But do you really think me a man to be envied, D'Alonville, because I am at liberty to marry the woman I love? Ah! my dear Chevalier, your premises are false, and of course your conclusion; I cannot marry the woman I love, unless I would hazard for the rest of my life hearing from my own heart the secret reproaches of having accelerated my father's death, a reproach that would be heard even in the very bosom of happiness, and embitter those hours which ought to be so delicious; for I adore Alexina; every other woman I see serves only as a foil to her; and though I fear—yes, my friend, I greatly fear that her regard for me is not strong enough to induce her to sacrifice to my circumstances that proper pride which inimical as it is to my happiness, I do not consider as the least of her perfections, yet I shall adore her to the last hour of my life, and certainly I shall never marry any other woman.—Speak to her, D'Alonville; prevail upon her for a few months only to lay aside her intentions of returning to Poland—tell her, who is herself so good, so affectionate a daughter, that I will fly to renew what surely she cannot doubt, vows of everlasting attachment, the moment I can leave a father who places the only remaining happiness of his life in my remaining with him; I know he is a little unreasonable in the sacrifices he asks; but after all, he is my father; and were I capable of forgetting what I owe him, I think I should be unworthy of aspiring to the affections of Alexina.
An hundred minor miseries, which are not worth complaining of, yet are teazing enough, contribute to make me long to quite Eddisbury; besides my detestation of Darnly, and his set of friends; my mother collects such an assortment of twaddlers about her, that I am wearied to death—some of these good women ask me an account of "my battles"—"Lord, Mr. Edward, do tell us how it was, and so you go wounded?—Well, 'tis a mercy 'twas no worse;" and then the Misses declare "it must be a very terrible fight to be sure;" ad some, I fancy, very sincerely deplore that so many smart officers are killed, when there is such a scarcity of husbands; yet there is such pretty sights at camps in summer, and recruiting parties, and even militia do so enliven their towns in the winter, that the dear creatures cannot but acknowledge that "war time was something very animating in it." Two or three gentle nymphs of this neighbourhood, who, while "Mr. Edward" was a younger brother, liked well enough to dance with him at the public meetings, because he belonged to the genteel set; not make much more decided attempts to be noticed by him, for "Mr. Edward" is heir to a title—but they may spare themselves their flattering solicitudes—and to do my mother justice, she takes every possible precaution to secure from any fatal partiality to her son, the hearts of Miss Grimes and Miss Pawson, two fair and sentimental damsels from a neighbouring provincial town, who are very much at Eddisbury, by telling them that is is absolutely necessary for Edward to marry a woman of large fortune. Miss Grimes reads novels, and is very much distressed at not having yet found in real life a hero who answers to "her ideas." Miss Pawson has a stronger mind, and "cannot read love stories;" she likes the debates of the House, a smart political pamphlet, or a polemical quarrel between two learned divines, of which she understands not a word; but being tolerably certain of not meeting any body in the circle she lives in, who understands more, she ventures to speak upon these abstruse subjects, if she can procure an hearer, and is reckoned "a young woman of very great understanding."
Such are the people with whom I am condemned to waste hours that ought to be dedicated to love and friendship—to Alexina and D'Alonville! Ah! my friend, when shall I be at liberty, without any breach of duty, to assure you personally of that affection with which I ever shall be, Truly your's, EDWARD ELLESMERE?"
CHAP.