# Montalbert/Chapter 37

CLAUDINE went down by the direction of her mistress, who requested to see Mr. Lessington. On his entering the room, he found her raised in the bed by pillars; her countenance was very much changed for the worse since he was with her last, and her pale hands trembled while she sorted some packets of paper tied with ribands, which she took out of two boxes that were before her.
She looked at him, but did not speak. It, therefore, immediately occurred to Lessington, that Claudine had informed her of Walsingham's arrival and departure; and he felt confused and distressed, not knowing how he could avoid giving the sorrowful information she would seek.—Rosalie, on her part, not only feared to ask any questions, but dreaded to hear what had passed—for she was now possessed of recollection enough to advert to all that Lessington had said, and knew that Walsingham was an object of suspicion to him and Mr. Ormsby: nor could she doubt but that the conduct of her husband had been occasioned by the same mistrust.—The appearance, therefore, of Walsingham, must undoubtedly have deepened all these ill impressions, and Rosalie could not think upon them without the most acute pain, since it was but too probable that the generous and disinterested friendship of Walsingham had brought upon him treatment he little deserved, and which she thought him very unlikely to bear patiently. If these fears and conjectures were almost insupportable, what would she have suffered, had she known how much of the evil she apprehended was already realized; while Walsingham, unweared in generosity, was more than ever entitled to her gratitude and regard.
Her sickened soul, where indeed rested the cause of all her complaints, so far affected her enfeebled frame, that, when she would have explained to Lessington the nature of the papers she put into his hands, by relating her situation at the various times on which they had been written, she could hardly finish even a sentence—but, putting the packets into his hands, she faintly bade him read them in the order in which they were tied.——"You, and my poor father, (said she, in a faint voice), will find that your unhappy Rosalie had done nothing which ought to make you ashamed of the affection you have felt for her.....Vindicate my honour, William!—rescue my memory from reproach!—and, for the sake of my dear, dear boy, convince his father that I die innocent of all reproach, and that even in death I bless and love him." - - - - - - - - She would have said more, but put her hand to her forehead, and signified that she could not.
Lessington, affected even to tears and sobs, could not command himself sufficiently to speak. The sight of his emotion added fresh pangs to what she endured, when, waving her hand, she seemed to entreat him to leave her, and he silently obeyed.
It was some time before he could recover himself enough to read aloud the melancholy narrative thus entrusted to him, to which Mr. Ormsby listened with anxious yet gloomy attention. When they had arrived at that part of the journal, written on board the ship which brought her to England, they saw far enough into her story to be convinced that the meeting of Rosalie with Walsingham was entirely accidental; that she could not have acted otherwise than she did, and that the conduct of Walsingham had been that of the most generous and disinterested of friends: little, therefore, remained necessary for the entire vindication of both parties, but to remove the false impressions given by Lady Llancarrick and her friend, that they had resided together at Eastbourne, which, though those amiable ladies had not asserted, they had spoken of in such a manner as to leave little doubt of the fact.
Jealous for the honour of his daughter, which her own artless narrative had nearly cleared, (so powerful is simple truth), Ormsby now pressed eagerly to have all remaining doubts satisfied. Though Claudine could not keep up a regular dialogue, she could make herself understood when plain questions only were put to her. Ormsby, with that trembling apprehension which is felt by those who dread the result of an inquiry which they are yet determined to make, called her into the room, and, with the assistance of Lessington, had already convinced himself, that Mr. Walsingham had acted with the utmost delicacy and propriety in regard to Rosalie, when a post chaise and four, the horses extremely fatigued, drove up to the door, and a gentleman, unknown to both Ormsby and Lessington, entered the room.
Pale, his hair in disorder, his eyes wild, and his whole person expressive of haste and distress, he uttered something, in a manner so incoherent, that neither of them understood him. He saw they did not; and, throwing himself into a chair, he said, "I suppose I speak to Mr. Ormsby and Mr. Lessington.....I imagine, Sir, (addressing himself to the former)—I imagine your daughter is here?"
Ormsby, alarmed and amazed, hesitated a moment, hardly knowing what to say. The stranger, without waiting for his answer, continued to speak——
"I known not whether you see before you the most injured, or the most guilty, of men——I only know that I am the most wretched!"
"It is Mr. Montalbert, I believe, to whom I speak! (said Lessington).—It is long, very long, since I saw you last, Sir—and I fear - - - - - - - -"
"You fear, and with but too much reason, (said Montalbert, interrupting him), that our meeting now can only be productive of pain........Vyvian has told me - - - - -"
"You have seen Vyvian then?" inquired Lessington.
"I saw him, but not till it was too late. He is gone in search of another man of the same name as him whom I most unfortunately met—and - - - - - - - -"
"Good God! (exclaimed Ormsby)—you have met then with that Walsingham, to whom Rosalie owes her safety, perhaps her life, and you have had the cruelty, the rashness - - - - - - -"
"To kill him!" cried Montalbert with fierceness, and in a tone that re-echoed through the house.
Claudine, on the first appearance of Montalbert, whom she had never seen before, had listened at the door of the room, which was left half open; she heard this terrible speech, and, shrieking aloud, ran up stairs, but before she reached the door of her lady's room, she fell down in a sort of fit, sobbing and screaming aloud. This was not wanting to terrify the unhappy Rosalie; for tremblingly alive to every alarm since her child had been torn from her, there was seldom any thing passed in the house to which she did not listen. She heard the stopping of a carriage, the entrance of a person into the parlour, and soon after the voice of Montalbert, uttering the dreadful sentence—"I have killed him!"—struck her ears; then the shrieks of Claudine, who seemed to be immediately at her door—desperation lent her strength.
She had on a loose dressing gown, when throwing herself out of the bed, and holding by the furniture, for she was unable to move without such help, she reached the door of her apartment. Claudine weak, and at that moment incapable of exercising the very little judgment she ever possessed, continued to intercept the way, having thrown herself down on the stairs. Rosalie, leaning against the door-case, attempted, but in vain, to obtain an answer; and her increasing terrors threatened every instant to deprive her of the little strength she had thus collected, when Lessington, aware of the sad effect that such a noise in the house must have, suddenly quitted Montalbert, without staying to hear all he had to relate, and hastened up stairs, in hopes of appeasing the foolish maid, and accounting to Rosalie for the alarm in some way which might not destroy her at once; to his utter astonishment he found her out of her bed, looking more dead than alive, and just sinking to the ground as he sprang forward, and caught her in his arms, then carrying her into her room, he placed her in a chair, and rang for assistance, for he believed her dying, and forgot, in that moment, every thing else.
The consequence of his violence, however, was that the father and husband of Rosalie rushed also into the room, where Lessington, supporting her head, and chafing her hands, continued to implore that assistance which none had the presence of mind to give. Some person, however, had by this time fetched the apothecary, and the usual remedies being administered, Rosalie seemed to be recovering. It was then, at the earnest entreaties of Lessington, that Montalbert and Ormsby were prevailed upon to go out of the room, and Lessington soon after followed them, declaring that his sister (for so he always called her) was much better, and, if left to the women for a little while, would soon be entirely recovered. It was, however, easy to see he did not think so; for, incapable of following advice he was so solicitous to give, he could not forbear listening at the door, going half-way up the stairs, and showing many symptoms of extreme inquietude. He dreaded, indeed, even the restoration of Rosalie's senses, when he was assured she would immediately ask questions; to which the folly of Claudine, or the matter of fact of the woman of the house, would give answers that might occasion the most dangerous relapse. These uneasy apprehensions were not appeased by the appearance of the apothecary, who expressed himself under the greatest alarm for the event, entreated that the lady might be kept quiet, and that the next visit of the physician might be hastened.—Montalbert heard all this in a state of mind it is impossible to describe. He knew, indeed, that Rosalie was ill from a report of Vyvian; but he knew not how ill, having seen him only for a moment.
Now all her dangers appeared to him with redoubled terrors. From the little explanation, which his passion would admit of during his short and unfortunate interview with Walsingham, he began to doubt whether he had not been guilty at once of ingratitude and cruelty, and whether he should not now be punished with eternal remorse, as well as by losing Rosalie for ever. Still ardent and impetuous, he inquired why he could not go or send for the physician instantly—then not listening to any reasons that were given him, why it would be ineffectual, he started up, demanded of Mr. Greenwood, the apothecary, his positive opinion as to the state of the lady above the stairs, and insisted upon being allowed himself to see her. Against this, however, Lessington remonstrated warmly, and Ormsby even angrily; while Mr. Greenwood protested to him, that, if she was subjected to any farther alarms, he would not answer for her life till morning. He said that he had already been compelled to quiet her harrassed spirits by a medicine for that purpose; and if its effects were countered, such was the weakness of her frame, and such the nature of the fever which continually seized her, that the most fatal effects would very probably follow: he then took his leave.
Montalbert threw himself into a chair; and gave himself up to the most dreadful apprehensions. Ormsby walked about the room in a state but little better, while Lessington, ever useful and composed, ascended softly to the chamber of the poor patient, whom he found sometimes uttering a few incoherent words in a low voice, then, with a deep sigh, sinking into silence. At length she seemed to become quite tranquil; and Lessington having insisted on Claudine's leaving the room, and engaged the woman of the house, with one of her maids, to remain there, returned himself to Ormsby and Montalbert, whom he was not very willing to leave long together.
The instant his immediate fears for Rosalie subsided, the idea that Montalbert had destroyed the unfortunate Walsingham recurred to the mind of Lessington. He shuddered, and, at once pitying and condemning him, recollected that his person was not safe; and if the event of his meeting with Walsingham had been as fatal as he represented it, he ought to hasten from a country where he was liable to be seized as a murderer.
Montalbert sat immovable; he seemed regardless of any danger that might threaten himself, but listened to every noise in the house; and if he fancied any one stirred in Rosalie's chamber, he started, and eagerly asked Lessington if he thought she was awake and sensible?
Ormsby, overcome with fatigue and anxiety, had now been persuaded to retire, and Lessington remained alone with Montalbert.
It appeared to the former to be absolutely necessary that Montalbert should be reminded of his danger, or at least that its extent might be known; taking occasion then when he made some sudden inquiry about his wife, Lessington said, "Allow me to remark to you, Mr. Montalbert, that your real tenderness for our poor unfortunate Rosalie, of whose innocence I am sure you will once day be perfectly convinced, cannot be so well shown as by your recovering your presence of mind in the present sad conjecture; and if the fatal event has happened, which you spoke of when you first arrived, you surely ought to think of your own safety, on which, I am sure, the life of Rosalie must depend."
"Walsingham was not dead when I left him, (answered he mournfully); but I fear his wounds are mortal!"
"Good God! (exclaimed Lessington); and you remain here regardless of the event?"
"Quite so, (replied he), as far as relates to myself.—What have I left, that should make me wish to preserve my life?"
"Pray, (interrupted Lessington, who feared from his manner that he might relapse into violence)—pray relate to me what has passed since you were separated from my sister?"
Montalbert pushed his hand to his head, as if almost unable to undertake the painful task; but Lessington, who had many reasons for wishing to engage him in it, urging him again, he said—
"I conclude you know the circumstances that so strangely divided me from Rosalie.—I was returning to rejoin her in Sicily; having left my mother so extremely displeased at my positive refusal to marry the lady she had chosen for me, that I intended merely to consult my wife before I declared our marriage, determining to return to England, and to live in the humble and obscure way our fortune demanded, till I became possessed of the property, however small, that must be mine after my mother's decease.
"There were reasons that rendered our residence in Sicily unpleasant to me, even when we were together; the frequent absences, which our fear of my mother's displeasure had obliged me to submit to, became daily more insupportable, and I was forming schemes of retired happiness when I had thrown off this cruel restraint, and dared to be poor and independent. Judge then how horrible were my feelings, when, awaking from this dream of felicity, I found Messina in ruins, and the country for many miles around it convulsed by an earthquake, which had, two days before we made the coast, buried half its inhabitants.
"I cannot tell you what were my sensations after I had with much difficulty landed, for I have never since been able to define them; nor do I know from whence sprang the resolution with which I explored the place where the villa of Alozzi had stood, of which no other vestige remained than some pieces of black and half-burnt ruins: yet I looked with tearless eyes into the dark chasms in which it was sunk, though I thought they but too surely contained all I had loved—my Rosalie and her child!
"The first evening that I arrived at this melancholy spot, where I had so lately left the lovely treasures of my heart in apparent safety, there was none near it—I was undisturbed in my gloomy contemplation, and remained lingering about the place, till my servant, who had followed me at a distance according to my direction, came to me at night fall, and led me to a cottage not far off, inhabited by a woman and her daughter, who had lost the rest of their family. Of these my servant made some inquiries, as they were tenants of Count Alozzi. He heard that the Count was seen after the first great shock, and had hired a vessel to take himself and some of his dependents to Naples; but whether he escaped the second, or whether he was drowned with many others on the sudden reflux of the sea, these women had no means of knowing.—Here then was a glimpse, and but a glimpse of hope, that my wife and child might exist; but, on farther inquiry the next evening, I thought even this faint hope vanished. I knew that when I left Sicily, Alozzi was gone to Agrigentum, and was to stay there some time longer than I proposed remaining at Naples. It was not now, however, a time to consider much the cause of his unexpected return. All my thoughts were bent on trying to recover from the ruins of his villa the sad remains of my lost family; and with this dreary sort of satisfaction I occupied my mind, repairing the next day to the place, where I found three or four stout peasants already at work.
"I inquired of them by whom they were employed?—they answered, in no very mild manner, by themselves, and for their own purposes and profit. I saw that they feared I was disposed, if not authorised, to impede their designs; but by the most infalliable of all arguments, (for I emptied my purse), and soon satisfied them that they should not be interrupted in the possession of whatever valuable effects they might recover, since my sole purpose was to search for the mangled relics of a wife and child. I offered them more money if they would procure farther assistance to expedite this search, and, explaining to them who I was, promised farther reward if they could procure any certain intelligence of Count Alozzi. They agreed that he had been seen after the first violent concussions of the earth; but all believed, or affected to believe, he perished in the second.
"It was now nine days, since the fatal catastrophe, three of which I stood by the yawning cavern that had swallowed the villa of Alozzi. Little was discovered by the men who went down among the ruins; they were, indeed, more intent on their own purposes than on mine. On the evening of the third day I went down myself, and I thought that by the remains of wainscoting, or furniture, I should be led to the ruins of that part of the house Rosalie inhabited. Desperate, I tore away, at some risk to myself, the door cases, broken or scorched pieces of building, and at length found the room where Rosalie usually sat. I could certainly distinguish that there were no remains of human bodies in it; two only had been found, and they were known to be servants; but though another day's search satisfied that no more persons were buried in the ruins, yet even this circumstance afforded no proof, that those my sickening soul inquired after were living.
"With an anxious and hopeless heart I left the peasants busily employed in labour, which had already amply repaid them, and now sat out to wander over the country, asking questions of the unhappy persons who were yet scattered about it, though their answers only irritated my misery, or confirmed my despair.
Most of them were too much occupied by the wants and woes of their own condition, to give much attention to me. After some days were thus vainly wasted, I crossed over to the other side of the island, and went among such relations and friends of Alozzi as had escaped any immediate share of the misfortune by being at a distance from that part where its violence had fallen. Among them I learned that Alozzi had quitted Agrigentum four or five days before the earthquake, and had gone, as they believed, to Messina, where they had no doubt of his having perished, as they had never heard of him since. There was hardly one of those families who had not some relation or friend of lament; and I only quitted one house of mourning to enter another.
To me, all appeared equally desolate and wretched; the image of my lost happiness continually haunted me, and I returned more unhappy than ever to the place where once stood the villa of Alozzi.
"By this time some peasants who had been dispersed, had come back to that neighbourhood also; among them I met two or three Sbirri, who were, I thought, likely persons to have seen Alozzi, if he had indeed escaped, for they were daring and active, and were probably busy wherever pay or plunder were likely to be had from the rich that survived the earthquake. I entered into conversation with them, and heard that they had passed the night, after the first violent shock, at a house belonging to the Count, where they had seen him with a lady and her child, and a Neapolitan servant. That they knew the lady was an Heretic from the woman of the house, who, as well as those to whom she had given shelter during the horrors of that night, had expressed their fears of remaining under the same roof with a person of that description, and that some of the women had actually left it, lest she should draw Divine vengeance on the house.
This ascertained, beyond a doubt, that it was my wife who accompanied Alozzi, I now endeavoured to trace her farther, with an eagerness which those only can imagine, who, amidst the darkest despair, are suddenly dazzled with a ray of hope. I inquired of every body—I offered money for the slightest information, and sometimes paid it for accounts which I knew to be false. At length a man was brought to me, who assured me that he had conversed with Zulietta, the Neapolitan girl, whom he exactly described, and who had told him that her mistress and Count Alozzi were gone to Naples, and she was only by accident left behind. He named the time when, and place where, he had seen Zulietta: I bade him lead me thither, but learned that this young woman was gone to Catanca, with a person who had promised to find a passage for her to her home. To Cantanca I followed her; she had left it a few days before with a family, who had taken her into their service, and was gone to Italy, but whether to Naples or not I could not learn. To Naples, however, I resolved to go, in order to pursue the clue, which I hoped would lead me to the recovery of all I held most dear upon earth.
"I had, however, lost above five weeks in Sicily, and on the voyage, which proved unusually tedious. At length I reached Naples, and, concealing myself with every possible precaution from all who were likely to know me, I hastened to the house of Alozzi.
"The porter knew and admitted me. He told me that the Count had escaped from Sicily, and had even remained a month afterwards at Naples, which he had left but a few days since at a moment's notice, and without saying whither he was gone, or when he should return. As this was not unusual with him, there appeared nothing extraordinary in it to the servant, who, when I questioned him as to any lady who had with her a child, and who accompanied his master, he assured me he knew of none, with such an air of simplicity, that I could not but believe he at least knew nothing of the arrival of my wife and his master. A thousand fears, and of various sorts, now assailed me. I trembled at once for my Rosalie's safety, and even for her fidelity, if she lived........All the symptoms which I thought I had formerly remarked of Alozzi's admiration, if not attachment, recurred to me: he had not brought her to his own house publicly as the wife of his friend, whom he had assisted to escape from destruction. This indeed might be accounted for my situation in regard to my mother; but why was she so carefully concealed from old and confidential servants? I closely questioned them all, and could not discover that one of them had the least knowledge of the Count's having rescued my wife and child. They all declared themselves equally ignorant whither he was gone; he had taken only his valet with him. On farther minute inquiry, however, I discovered that, for two or three days before his departure, he had appeared very uneasy and restless; was frequently shut up with his own man for a considerable time after he had been running about on business, which, though it was a profound secret, seemed by his manner to be of great importance. I passed a whole day in these examinations, and, in attempting to trace the road Alozzi had taken, determined to follow and overtake him. I found that he was gone towards Florence, and thither I impatiently hastened.
"I arrived at the house, whither I with difficulty had followed his track, the very moment he was stepping into his carriage, about which his baggage announced his being on a journey; when I advanced and spoke to him—he changed colour, hesitated, and trembled; I begged of him to go back with me for a moment, and, without farther preface, asked him what was become of my wife?
'What is become of her, Montalbert! (said he, still more agitated);—do you know nothing of her?'
'I know (said I) that she left Sicily with you—that you have since concealed her somewhere.'
'I hope (added he, in a hasty and faltering voice) that you also know, then, for which of your English friends she chose to quit such protection as I was able to offer her, and in which she might undoubtedly have remained safe till your return.' - - - - - - - -
'My English friends! (cried I)—what English friend?—How could she meet them?—and - - - - - - - -'
"But I should never conclude what I have to relate to you, Mr. Lessington, were I to repeat the long discourse that passed. Alozzi told me a very plausible story of his sudden return to Messina; of his having sought and saved Rosalie and her child; and of his having afterwards placed her in a retired lodging, where, after a stay of near a month, during which he had done every thing in his power to tranquillize and sooth her with the hopes of my return, she became extremely discontented; insisted on his trying to interest for her some Englishmen at Naples, with whom she might return to her own country; and, on my refusing to do so, (said Alozzi), she attempted, as I found afterwards, to bribe the servants I had placed about her, to deliver letters for her to any English gentlemen they could hear of. These people have protested to me, that they resisted every attempt she made to engage them in this research:—nor could I ever discover by what means Mrs. Montalbert contrived to find the person with whom she concerted her measures so well, as to escape during the night, and to leave no trace by which I have since been able to discover wither she is gone; though I have hardly slept since, my dear friend, so anxious have I been to recover, if possible, this lovely misguided wanderer, and to restore her to you, as a precious deposit of which I was not an unworthy guardian!'
"I then inquired of Alozzi, if he had come to Florence on any hope of finding her there. He told me he had, but that all his inquiries being baffled, he was departing for Rome, still on the same search. This was not enough for me; I insisted on his particularizing the reasons he had to believe my wife had gone to Florence; this he appeared ready to do, and I thought them so plausible, that I resolved to go among my countrymen, who were then numerous at Florence, in hopes of learning something of my poor fugitive. This inquiry, which detained me a great while, and which it was extremely painful to make on so delicate a subject, ended only in convincing me that she was not at Florence; and though, from repeated conversations with Alozzi, I was far from being satisfied that Rosalie had not very different reasons for withdrawing herself from his protection, that those he had given, yet her impatience to be in England, or among persons of her own country, if not a paritality to some individual of it, made me only waver between doubt and despair, and happiness seemed certainly fled for ever."
Montalbert appeared so exhausted, that Lessington intreated him to take some refreshment; after which, all remaining quiet in the house, he thus continued his narrative.
CHAP.