# The Banished Man/Volume 2/Chapter 14

To thee the day-spring and the blaze of noon The purple evening, the resplendent moon, The stars, that sprinkled o'er the vault of night Seems drops descending in a shower of light, Shine not: or un-desir'd and hated shine, Seen thro' the medium of a cloud like thine.
COWPER.
THE satisfaction Ellesmere expressed when D'Alonville related what had passed, could only be exceeded by that of which he was sensible when Carlowitz and Alexina visited him. The predilection he had been conscious of, the first hour he saw Alexina, soon became a violent passion, when he had a daily opportunity of conversing with her; and he no longer endeavoured to repress it. His situation was at this period so changed, that reason and prudence no longer opposed his inclinations; for he was now heir to a fortune, which, though not large for a man who was ambitious would be enough to make him happy with the woman he loved.
Sir Maynard, who, while his eldest son and grandson were living, had considered the dangers of that profession into which his second son had entered, as being matters of course to a younger brother; now expressed the most painful apprehensions for his safety, and since such fears had been entertained of his recovery, in consequence of his wounds, had shown great anxiety to have him return to England the moment he could do so with safely, and to have him quit the army entirely. Notwithstanding this encrease of Sir Maynard's paternal affection, Ellesmere knew him too well to imagine he would easily consent to his union with Alexina; and he loved and respected him too much, to think of marrying contrary to his wishes; but he flattered himself, that time, and the earnest desire Sir Maynard had to see successors to his family name, might at length obviate his objections, especially if he could become acquainted with the merit of Alexina, whom Ellesmere fondly believed must by all eyes be seen with as much admiration as by his. He now recovered very fast; Alexina, who could not be insensible of an attachment so generous and tender, became his nurse; while Carlowitz passed much of his time in reading to him; and expressed, by every means in his power, his gratitude to him and to D'Alonville.
On every subject Alexina heard Ellesmere with pleasure; but when he spoke to her of his love, she refused to listen, declaring to him, that fortune had put an insuperable bar between them, when it had reduced her to indigence; and that she was too proud to enter into a family, where she must expect to be considered as a foreign beggar. To this she adhered with a resolution that at length became alarming to Ellesmere, who fancied that some prepossession fatal to his happiness must be the occasion of her refusal, even to give him a promise of becoming his, if the acquiescence of Sir Maynard could be obtained. But Carlowitz, to whom he expressed these fears, assured him that Alexina had never been sensible of the least degree of partiality. "Believe me," said he, "my daughter is of too reserved a disposition to think of any man, however great his merit, who should not first have shown her marked preference; and how few are there, who, with honourable views, think of giving such preference to a young person situated as Alexina has long been! Her person, which happens to please you, has probably nothing striking to the common observer.—An hundred men would admire a fine complexion, with ordinary features, who would pass the peculiar character of Alexina's countenance without notice: her figure, graceful as I allow it to be, has never had the aid of ornament to set it off; and how few are judges of simple grace!—As to her understandings, which has so many charms in your opinion, I am convinced there is nothing that is so repulsive to the generality of men, as the appearance of unusual strength of intellect in a women.—Men who have talents are afraid of finding a rival in a mistress: and weak men, conscious of their own inferiority, dread lest they should make themselves liable to be governed or despised.—Thus the advantages that Alexina has in your eyes are, I am persuaded, disadvantages in the eyes of others; and you may rely upon my assurances, that had my daughter's heart been prepossessed in favour of another, she would herself have told you so.
These assurances on the part of Carlowitz satisfied Ellesmere, that it was not owing to the influence of a rival that Alexina answered him in a way which his fears construed into coldness; but in fact her resolution to refuse his hand cost her many tears when she was alone, though in his presence she appeared to have made this sacrifice to her pride, and her real attention to his welfare, with stoical tranquility.
Her father did not appear to see Ellesmere's offers in the same light she did.—He had long accustomed his mind to dwell on the dignity of virtue, and on those axioms, which teach that worth alone is true nobility and true honour; and, conscious of the value of his daughter, he did not think that any man, whatever might be his rank or fortune, could do her honour by marrying her.—As to the mere goods of fortune, though he owned that the want of them subjected a man in the present state of society to many inconveniences; he held them to be advantages on which a wise man would never value himself, and for which an honest man should never sacrifice on principle of his integrity.—This language, which is so unusual among men of the world, (though it is sometimes the cant of the designing,) was the real sentiments of Carlowitz; who, amidst all the difficulties and distresses to which he had been exposed, suffered only for his daughter; and never on his own account repented the part he had taken.—Successless as it had hitherto been, his zeal in the cause of his country was still indefatigable, and he now proposed to try what could be done in London to interest the humanity and awaken the spirit of freedom in a nation celebrated for both; and should he be fortunate enough to receive any encouragement, he intended to return into Poland, and once more attempt to rouse the dormant or timid virtue of his country. D'Alonville and Carlowitz had on this subject ideas so different, that it was impossible to bring them to agree on any one point.—They argued, however, with the perfect good humour that arose from their esteem of each other as individuals, and Ellesmere was admirably fitted for an umpire in their friendly political disputes; for, while he adhered to that system of government as the best, under which his won country had become the cost flourishing in the world, he seldom thought the bold assertions of Carlowitz were carried too far. These dialogues, which frequently happened amused the mind of Ellesmere during his tedious convalescence, while the softer, but not less sensible conversation of Alexina, soothed his heart, and made even hours of pain and languor, in so disagreeable a place as a sick room at Ostend, appear the most delicious he had ever passed.
To D'Alonville they were less delightful; for though Ellesmere had dictated two letters to Mrs. Denzil, which he had written, and to which he had added postscripts, soliciting permission to correspond with her himself, no answer had been received; and imagining every thing fatal to his love, that could possibly happen, his impatience to revisit England became almost insupportable, and could have been checked only by the gratitude he owed Ellesmere, and the sincere affection he had for him.
At length the surgeons, under whose care Ellesmere was, declared their opinion, so long anxiously solicited; they though he might go to England without danger of a relapse—if after he landed he avoided all fatigue, and moved by very short journies into Staffordshire, where he had by this time learned that Sir Maynard himself, in a very precarious state of heath, expected him with the greatest solicitude.—It was settled, then, between Ellesmere and Carlowitz, that they should not proceed together; for delightful as the company of Alexina was to him, Ellesmere would not expose her to the observations of other officers, who would, he knew, be travelling to England at the same time; nor would he risque any suspicions that might arise on the part of his own family. Carlowitz and Alexina therefore, accompanied by a German servant of Ellesmere's whom he had hired on purpose, set out four days earlier than that he had fixed for his departure with D'Alonville; and being furnished with proper passports, arrived in London without any other adventure than that of being now and then abused for being natives of France; honest John, seldom making any distinction, and concluding that whoever is not an Englishman, a Scotchman, or an Irishman, must of course be a Frenchman.
October 1793, now drew towards its conclusion; and two days before that, on which Ellesmere and D'Alonville were to leave Ostend, intelligence was received there of the execution of the Queen of France—intelligence that gave to every heart the most poignant sensations of regret and indignation—concern for the long-sufferings of this unhappy woman, so lately the admiration of the world.—The desire of avenging a deed so infamous, and shame that it should have been perpetrated by Frenchmen, had together such an effect on D'Alonville, that it now became Ellesmere's turn to console; and it was many hours before he could prevail on his friend to speak of it with composure, while he himself could not but acknowledge that such an act of injustice and cruelty was a national disgrace, which could for ever stigmatize the country where it had been committed.
The preparations for their journey, and the attention necessary to his friend, whole wounds made the slightest exertion painful and dangerous, served to give to the thoughts of D'Alonville, a seasonable relief. They embarked with every appearance of having a quick passage, but about half channel over the wind became contrary, and they were driven to the eastward of Dover; so that it was not till after being five and thirty hours at sea that they made good their landing; Ellesmere being so fatigued and harassed by so rough a voyage, that he found himself extremely ill on arriving at Dover, and was compelled to remain there two days. On the third he got as far as Canterbury, and on the fourth to Rochester.
At this place a servant of Sir Maynard's had married, and was now settled in an inn, which, though not the most capital in the town, was of course frequented by the friends of his former master.—Ellesmere and D'Alonville arrived there about three o'clock; and as Henshaw, the host had been apprized of the arrival of a son of his old master, for whom he had also a great respect on his own account, every thing was prepared in the best manner for his reception.
Ellesmere however was so much indisposed, that he went almost immediately to bed; but at soon as he was a little refreshed by rest, he sent for his old acquaintance Henshaw, and with his usual good humour entered into conversation with him on his trade and his family; while Henshaw expressed in the usual terms of condolence, his concern for the death of his honour's elder brother, "Squire Ellesmere, and lamented the great grief it must be to Sir Maynard and my good Lady."
"I see, Sir," said he, when these matters were discussed, "I see, your honour have brought the same French gentleman back, as went along with you to the army. Ah! well, he have had better luck than you have had, Sir—for he seems safe and sound—while it is a sad thing, to be sure, to see your honour so wounded and mangled as t'were,—but some folks know better than brave Englishmen, how to keep in a whole skin."
"Hey day!" cried Ellesmere, "what is all this Richard? why, are you thus become an Antigallican, and exclaim against your good customers the French, who are, I have heard you say, your best customers in time of peace? besides, you should not find fault with my friend, for not having been wounded—all that, you know, is the mere chance of war, and by no means dependant on bravery;—I assure you, my friend was close by me when I received these wounds, and got a considerable injury himself in carrying me off the field."
"Ah! well," replied the landlord, "every ball, to be sure, has its billet, as I have heard say; but for my part, I think that the life of one Englishman, especially such a young gentleman as your honour, who now, as one may say, is the chiefest stay of such a great family, is worth all the Mounseers that ever drew breath—for, to tell you the truth, Sir, I don't like 'em in no shape—not never did—we've got one of them here now, "we've got one on 'em here, that I don't know what to make of; I have had a mind once or twice to go to the magistrates about 'em, for my mind misgives me, that if he should turn out a Jackybin, I should get into trouble;—my wife she takes pity on un, and says she's sure he's only a little craz'd by his misfortunes, especially within these two or three days, since this last bad news from France, when, to be sure, he have seemed like one rift of his wits."
"Poor man!" said Ellesmere, "he is probably some unhappy emigrant; I hope Henshaw, you have not treated him with unkindness—who can tell what grief he may be struggling against, in a strange country too, and perhaps without money?"
"I treated him with unkindness," cried the man—"lord bless your honour! no, not upon no account—To be sure, after the elderly man had left him, I say to my wife, says I"—"What, he had a companion with him then?" enquired Ellesmere.
"Yes, Sir, a grave, elderly, mild spoken man, that I took to be one of the Romish clergymen, as we have seen so many of; he went off to London two days ago; and told me he was going about business for his friend, and should be back within a week, or there away; and though, to be sure, he paid when he went away, and left me cash enough to answer t'others expences till he comes back, I can't say but what I should be glad to have my house clear on un; for somehow my mind misgives me, that this here man is either a mad man, or a spy for the Jackybins." "In truth, they are characters not entirely inconsistent, Master Henshaw," said Ellesmere, "but I do not apprehend your guest to be either. If you think this unfortunate foreigner will not be offended, I will send a message and request to speak to him; and I dare say I shall be able to relieve your fears of having harboured a mad Jacobin—if you desire the Chevalier D'Alonville, my friend, to come to me, I believe we shall soon clear up this matter."
The host withdrew, with many acknowledgments to "his honour," and on D'Alonville's entering his room, related what Henshaw had been telling him; "I fear," said he, "this is an emigrant who labours under some peculiar distress; do, my dear Chevalier, see him yourself; and enquire if we can be of any use to him."
D'Alonville readily undertook this humane commission, and going immediately down stairs, enquired of the landlord where he could speak to the French gentleman—the man bade one of the waiters see if he was in his room, who returning in a moment, said, rudely, "he ben't there—I reckon he's out upon one of his rambles."—"and where," said D'Alonville, "is he usually to be found when he is out on these rambles,"—"Ah!" replied the man, "sometimes in one place, and sometimes in another, but chiefest, I think, by the river side about a mile off—as he've been taken for a spy there two or three times."—D'Alonville procured a direction, and set out to see if he could discover the unhappy man, who, probably from derangement of his intellects in consequence of misfortune, was become the subject of illiberal suspicion, and vulgar curiosity.
It was a sullen gloomy autumnal evening; and as D'Alonville walked the way he had been directed, he took out his pocket-book, and saw from the memorandums he had made in it, that it was the anniversary of that evening, on which he had been compelled, with his expiring father, to take shelter in the then hospitable castle of Rosenheim. The cruel remembrance of that scene returned once more to his mind, and he sighed deeply—"perhaps," said he, " the poor wanderer whom I now seek, may be as desolate and wretched as I was then."—His mind thus recalled to the object of his search; he looked round, but saw nobody.—Close to the river a row of pollard willows crowded along the shelving bank, which formed a causeway; on the other side of which was an osier ground—its marshy surface concealed by withered flags, with here and there an old above it; the evening wind sighed round their almost leafless branches, and the small remains of their grey and faded foliage, fell before slowly in the breeze; the surface of the water was black and troubled; and D'Alonville, as he surveyed the dreary scene, thought it but too fit a place for a miserable being, such as his countryman had been described, to indulge the darkest despair—perhaps even projects of suicide, to which too many of the victims of the revolution had been already driven. This idea urged him to continue his search, though he began to fear it might be fruitless;—he advanced slowly, and at length, a few paces before him, thought he saw a man stretched on the ground, under a pollard-tree, which served as a support to him. D'Alonville approached him—and gazed upon him a moment in silence;vhe was convinced by the great-coat in which he was wrapped, that this was the person he sought, but he could not distinguish his face, which was concealed by his hat and his arm. D'Alonville going close up to him, spoke to him in French, "Sir," said he, "I fear you are not well by your being here at such a time—can I assist you to your lodgings? or can I be otherwise of use to you?"
The stranger raised himself upon his elbow, and fixed his eyes sternly on D'Alonville, who instantly uttered an exclamation of surprise and satisfaction. "It is De Touranges!" cried he, eagerly—"my dear friend, how fortunate is this meeting!"
De Touranges still gazed on him, as if he did not perfectly recollect him; after a moment however, he held out his hand, and said, slowly and languidly—"The Chevalier D'Alonville, is it not?"
"Have you any doubts, De Touranges, of my identity?" cried D'Alonville,—"and how does D'Alonville deserve to be received thus coldly by his friend, of whom he has been so long in search?"
De Touranges had now risen from the ground, and leant against the tree, still looking on D'Alonville with an air of incredulity.—To D'Alonville's last question however, he replied in a slow and solemn tone, "I do not receive you coldly, my friend—but in very truth it is so long since I have seen any being I wished to see; it is so long since I have beheld the face of a friend, that I questioned the information of my senses, when they told me it was you." He paused a moment and then leaning on D'Alonville's arm, the memory of all he had suffered, and all he had feared, rushed upon his mind at once, and seemed again to overwhelm him—deep groans burst from his heart. "Oh! my friend," said he, "to what a condition are we reduced : in what a state of wretchedness, of hopeless disgrace is France, our ruined country,—this last infamous murder!—my brain burns when I think of it: I curse the hour of my birth—I call upon the powers of vengeance, to sweep the nation guilty of such an atrocity from the earth." There was so much wildness in the manner of saying all this, and still more in the look and gesture with which it was accompanied; that it but too well justified the opinion that had been formed of his state of mind.
D'Alonville thought it better to let this agonizing burst of passion pass off, before he attempted to soothe or to console him;—he supposed that De Touranges knew not that his wife, his mother, and his child were in safety in England, and that individual misery added redoubled poignancy to his keen sense of natural calamity. He led him slowly back the way he had passed,—considering how he might the most safely disclose what he knew of Madame de Touranges.
"Where is the Abbé St. Remi?" enquired D'Alonville,—"he has not, I am sure, left you?"
"No," answered De Touranges, he is gone to London, and gone on my account; but on a research how hopeless! A vague notion that we gathered in Brittany, that my wife and mother had taken shelter in England, induced me, as a last effort of despair, to yield to St. Remi's entreaties, and to come to this country in search of them,—but no! they are not here—they are lost for ever;—the delicate frame of my poor Gabrielle has sunk under trials so severe—she and my infant perished together, and my mother—my dear, my tender mother! she perhaps lives, but in some situation, that to a woman of her high spirit, must be worse than a thousand deaths."
D'Alonville, who thought this a favourable opportunity to begin revealing some of the intelligence, which would be so welcome to the wounded mind of De Touranges, yet was not to be abruptly told, now said, "but you are too hasty in concluding that all this evil has befallen you—perhaps, the good Abbé may bring you more satisfactory intelligence. Perhaps."—
"Tell me not of perhaps, and perhaps," cried the Marquis, impatiently; "you know that it is but trifling with my miseries. No, no! all is lost for me!—my wife, my child, my mother, my friends, my country, my fortune! I am a desolate and wretched being—my existence is painful to myself, and burthensome to others—I have nothing left to do, but to die—and I feel it to be meanness and cowardice that I have lived so long."
"But what," said D'Alonville, "if these connexions so deservedly dear to you still exist?—It would be surely throwing away the blessings you may still enjoy, and which I am persuaded are still reserved for you, were you to yield to this wild and desperate impulse of impatient passion."
He was going on, when De Touranges stopped him; and holding his arm, looked steadily in his face, repeating in a hollow tone—"these connections may still exist; these blessings you may still enjoy, and which I am persuaded are reserved for you! Hah! D'Alonville, did you not say all this?—but have a care, my friend—do not, by way of healing the wounds of my heart, cause them to mortify—I am sensible," continued he, putting his hand to his forehead, "that my reason has often been on the point of leaving me! what do you mean by holding out to me these hopes? never speak, I beseech you, in this way—it kills me."
"But if I know any thing favourable," said D'Alonville, "would you have me conceal it from you? or am I to suppose my friend so weakened by suffering, that he can neither bear evil nor good?—hear with calmness, what I believe; that your Gabrielle, with her infant, a lovely and promising boy, are both safe in the neighbourhood of London, under the protection of your mother; and, though it be true, that in common with every emigrant from France they have suffered some inconveniences, yet, that their greatest affliction has been in not knowing what was your fate."
As during this discourse they had entered the town, and were now at the door of the inn, De Touranges suffered his friend to lead him into a room, where he sat down unable to speak; in a few moments, however, he was so far recovered, as to listen, with some degree of composure, to the abridged narrative D'Alonville gave him of all that had befallen himself since they parted; and then, seeing De Touranges tolerably tranquil, though he could not yet converse, D'Alonville left him to inform Ellesmere, that in the person of the unhappy stranger for whom his humanity had been awakened, they had discovered, and probably rescued from the fatal effects of his despair, their old acquaintance De Touranges.—Ellesmere expressed the sincerest pleasure at this account. He would not, however, see De Touranges that night, but commissioned D'Alonville to settle with him that they should all proceed towards London together the next morning. To this De Touranges most readily assented. The gloom that had darkened his mind now gave place to vehement impatience.—He asked a thousand questions of D'Alonville, and made him again and again, relate the minutest circumstance relative to his wife, his child, and his mother; now besought him to say if he was sure they were still at the same place as when Mrs. Denzil mentioned them; and now calculated how many hours it would be before it was probable he should see them. D'Alonville, besides his own solicitude to see Angelina, was uneasy lest the impatience of De Touranges should still occasion some painful scenes; he wished to have St. Remi with them before this interview took place; but De Touranges would not listen to any idea of delay even on account of his excellent friend, by observed, when D'Alonville said that it was possible they might miss him, that they should certainly meet him on the road; or if not, that he could not fail finding him at a coffee-house in London, where he lodged.—Thither, therefore, D'Alonville proposed that they should go immediately on their arrival in London; for which place the whole party set out before noon the next day; Ellesmere in better health and spirits than he had known since he received his wound; he was sure of meeting in London, the woman who was most dear to him, and though he proposed paying his duty to his father at Eddisbury, as soon as he was able to bear the fatigue of another journey, he had no fears of losing sight of the object of his passion, while De Touranges was tormented with a thousand fearful apprehensions of disappointment, and D'Alonville, far from being able to appease them, could not quiet those fears with which he was himself agitated, lest, in the long interval since Ellesmere had heard of the Denzil family, something should have happened fatal to his hopes.
CHAP.