# The Banished Man/Volume 2/Chapter 22

Some angry god pursues thee still, Nor grants thee safety or repose.
SOPHOCLES.
THE fatigue and affright of the preceding evening seemed to have disabled the whole family from appearing at the usual hour, which was never a very early one. The breakfast table had not been visited at two o'clock, every body remaining in their own apartments, except Lord Aberdore, who had gone to the usual time into his study, where he had begun an enquiry into the cause of the accident that had happened; and by the interposition of the house-steward, had learned with some difficulty the truth—which was, that the laundry maids being extremely fatigued with an heavy day's work, preparatory to the departure of their lady, had been obliged to sit up to complete their business, till one of them, quite exhausted, had fallen asleep, and while the other went to a remote part of the house, a dog, which had found its way into the laundry, had thrown a large horse covered with linen into the fire; and the linen into the fire; and the linen, as well as the frame on which it hung, was in a blaze before the sleeping servant, half suffocated, awoke. Instead of taking any rational means to put it out, she ran away frantic with fear, and left all the doors open through which she fled; by which means the current of air encreased the violence of the fire, and the deal tables, baskets, and linen in the room were in a moment in flames.
The poor women avowed their error and were forgiven. The loss in linen was very considerable, but the injury to the house extended no farther than to the laundry, a room over it, and that corner of the principal building where D'Alonville's apartments were situated. Lord Aberdore having given proper directions to have the damage repaired as speedily as possible, now sent a message to the Chevalier D'Alonville, requesting to speak to him. After the servant who went on this message had remained absent much longer than appeared necessary, he returned and informed his Lord, that after a long search Monsieur D'Alonville was no where to be found. Lord Aberdore though he was as far as ever from believing the charge laid by Paunceford, yet was convinced, from his being now missing, as well as from his extraordinary absence, and sudden appearance the preceding evening, that he had some connection in the neighbourhood, which, though he did not believe it would endanger the state, might he thought have ill effects on the morals of the young men with whose education he was partly entrusted; he determined therefore immediately to demand an explanation.—It was already at hand.
A servant breathless and staring ran into the room—"My Lord!—your Lordship is wanted—An accident has happened—The French gentleman—"
"What of him?" cried Lord Aberdore.
"O! my Lord! We fear, my Lord, that he has killed Mr. Brymore!
"Killed him! How? In what manner? Where?"—
"I don't know indeed, my Lord—but my Lord Aurevalle this moment—"
"Where is Aurevalle?" exclaimed Lord Aberdore with great agitation and impatience—"What is all this?"
"My Lord Aurevalle, my Lord, came in this moment into the hall, and sent me to call your Lordship.—He said, my Lord, how Squire Brymore and Monseer had fit, and that the Squire was badly wounded, and he was afear'd kill'd outright—and how he laid out in the park, under them there walnut trees up at Glendow's seat—and bid some of us run for a surgeon, while another comed to acquaint your Lordship of the news."
"And where is Aurevalle? Give me my hat and show me the place—But cannot you tell me where Aurevalle is?"
"Gone back, I believe my Lord, to the poor wounded gentleman. Bless his precious heart, he seemed so concerned that he ran away as 'twere like an arrow from a bow!"
"Is any body gone for a surgeon?" said Lord Aberdore, as he hastily went out.
"Yes, my Lord—Peter and Harry are both gone different ways; Monseer sent them hisself."
A few minutes brought Lord Aberdore to the place.—He saw at a distance a group of persons, whom, on his approaching, he found surrounded Brymore, who lay on the ground, apparently dying in great pain.—To his surprize D'Alonville, with an handkerchief wrapped round his left hand, was the most busied about the wounded man, and appeared the most concerned, while Lord Aurevalle earnestly watching his countenance, was dispatching other messengers to the house.
Lord Aberdore addressed himself immediately to D'Alonville—"I am shocked and amazed, Sir," said he, "at this scene. What does it mean? and why have you abused my confidence in destroying a person who was my guest, and ought to have been respected as such?"
At this moment Miss Milsington arrived, pale and breathless, but just in time to hear D'Alonville's answer.
"This circumstance, Sir," said he, "which I deplore, while I assure you, that were I to act again it would be in the same way, is occasioned by Mr. Brymore's having insulted my wife."
"Your wife!" cried Lord Aberdore.
"Wife!" repeated Miss Milsington, faintly.
"Yes, Sir, my wife. I do not, I cannot repent having chastised the man who insulted her."
"Chastised!" exclaimed Paunceford—"you mean assassinated. Poor gentleman!" added he, affecting great compassion—"unfortunate Mr. Brymore!"
D'Alonville cast a look of contempt at Paunceford. "An assassin, Sir," said he, "would attempt to escape; I await the orders of Lord Aberdore; and if I have offended the laws of this country, I am ready to surrender to its justice."
"I believe, Sir," said Lord Aberdore, "you must submit to be guarded by my servants till the event of this very disagreeable business is know, or till the circumstances of it are enquired into."
"I resign myself to your disposal, my Lord,"
"Lead Monsieur D'Alonville to the house," said Lord Aberdore, "and do not lose sight of him."
"Entrust him to me, my Lord," cried Lord Aurevalle; "I know I may depend on his honour."
"Don't presume to interfere, Sir," replied his father angrily; "you have already offended me."
Two of the inferior servants now approached, and were leading D'Alonville away, when he turned to Lord Aberdore and said, "My Lord, before Mr. Brymore is moved, do me the justice to ask him if I have behaved dishonourably? I will venture to rest my defence on his testimony." He then walked away with the men into whose charge he was given; but he had not proceeded above ten yards, when a young person, flying as if in a fit of frenzy down the sloping ground above the place, threw herself into his arms, and, unable to speak or weep, would have sunk senseless to the ground, had he not supported her. Some of the people who had been about Brymore now gathered round her, while D'Alonville most earnestly implored their succour. Miss Milsington, and one of the maid-servants, (for the whole household was by this time assembled in the park) now approached the apparently dying Angelina. Miss Milsington, who did not want humanity, took out her salts, and would have applied them; but whether it was the sight of the blood that now streamed from his hand, or his agonized countenance as he gazed on that of his wife; or whether the tender appellations he gave her in attempting to recall her to life, (appellations to which the French language lends peculiar softness,) affected the sensibility of Miss Milsington, certain it is, that she could not fulfill her charitable purpose; but incoherently bidding the maid to assist "the young person," she gave her the smelling-bottle, and hurried herself into the house. Angelina in a few moments opened her eyes—"Oh! D'Alonville," said she, in a tremulous voice "you have destroyed me—how could you be so cruel?" He endeavoured to soothe and reassure her. "I am not wounded," said he, "at least not materially."
"But that unhappy wretch, he is dead, is he not?"
"No, upon my honour, he is not."
Nor likely to die?"
"I cannot answer for that," said D'Alonville; "I hope he will not."
"Oh, God!" exclaimed Angelina—how horrible to have occasioned the death of a human creature—and its dreadful consequences to you!"
"I fear no consequences," answered he, "for myself, because I have done nothing dishonourable; but I fear for you, Angelina—I fear for your mother. How will you return home, my love? I am to be kept within the sight of these two servants, and therefore I cannot go with you."
"You are to be sent to prison." said she—"I know that is what they intend. Nothing shall prevent my accompanying you. Where is Lord Aberdore?" added she,—"they told me he was here. I will speak to him. I will insist on going with you: they may have a right to imprison you, but they can have none to tear me from you. I will speak to Lord Aberdore. Be so good, Sir," addressing herself to one of the men, "to tell me where I can find him?" As the surgeon was not yet arrived, and Lord Aberdore saw no use in waiting where he was, he had by this time turned to go towards the house, when the voice of Angelina enquiring for him induced him to approach. Amidst the confusion she was in, she knew him though it was two or three years since she had seen him. Timid, and even reserved as she naturally was, she had now no recollection of forms. "My Lord," said she, "whither has your Lordship directed these your servants to conduct my husband? May not I accompany him? Is he to be sent to a prison, my Lord, for having resented insults offered to me? and may I not share it with him?"
Lord Aberdore, amazed at her manner, and trying to recollect himself, hesitated—"I think, Madam," said he—"yet I must be mistaken—I think—surely I have seen you before?"
"My name was Denzil," replied she. "I was once, at least my family were, once well known to your Lordship. But I mean not to ask any favour on that account; I make no claim to your indulgence farther than to be permitted to attend my husband whither forever you may intend to send him."
"And is this gentleman your husband, Madam?" said he. "Pray where is Mrs. Denzil, your mother?"
"At a cottage, Sir, in the village of Aberlynth, half distracted at what has happened, and prevented only by indisposition from coming hither herself."
"This is all very extraordinary. I understand nothing of these romantic flights. I am very sorry indeed, Madam, very sorry; but I know not what I can do to alleviate the inconveniences this young man's rashness, and, I must add, your own indiscretion, has brought you into. If you choose to accompany Monsieur D'Alonville to my house—yet you must excuse me if I say, that you would do better to return to your mother. In regard to Monsieur D'Alonville, his situation must depend on the events. I fear they cannot but be unfavourable—to a person circumstanced as he is, particularly unfavourable. He will probably be soon removed, for of Mr. Brymore's life there appears to me to be very little hope; and then you will of course act as discretion shall dictate in regard to following him." Lord Aberdore then slightly touched his hat and passed on.
Angelina, though careless of his disapprobation, was shocked at the opinion he had given as to the danger of Brymore, and the fatal consequences to D'Alonville;—she was terrified too at the countenances of the people around, which seemed to menace him, as if his being a foreigner had rendered culpable in him what would have been glorious in a man of their own country—"What will become of us" said she, in French—"what will our fate do with us?"
"Be not so apprehensive," my Angelina," replied he—"am I not in England?—is not my life guarded by its laws, if I only acted, as it will be found I have, in my own defence? My only apprehensions are for you. For heaven's sake consider the anguish of mind in which you have left your mother!—consider yourself; or, if you will not, consider what I suffer in seeing you thus distressed, and exposed to the gaze of all these people. Let me prevail upon you to return to your mother. Some person will accompany you, I hope. You are unable, I fear, to walk without assistance."
"I will return with Madame D'Alonville," said Lord Aurevalle, "if she will allow me."
"Indeed you will not, my Lord," cried Paunceford. "You return with this person, my Lord! I hope you don't think of such a thing."
"Indeed I do, Mr. Paunceford; and I will certainly do as I please."
"Not while you are under my care, Sir; and I suppose Monseer does not now assume any right to dictate here, not while you are under my care, and your father Lord Aberdore at hand?"
"We shall see that," interrupted Aurevalle. "Come, Madam, let me assist you. My dear Chevalier, be not so uneasy; all may terminate better than you expect;—you shall not suffer injustice. Come, Madam." Angelina appeared ready to faint, yet endeavored to obey D'Alonville's wishes in returning to Aberlynth.
Paunceford, irritated beyond all bounds, now ventured to take the arm of Lord Aurevalle. "I insist upon it, my Lord, that you do not degrade yourself in this manner: though it is true we now know what Monseer here is. how do we know this young woman, and among what sort of people such a one may lead you? We know nothing favourable, I am sure of this gentlewoman."
"Don't I know, Sir," replied the young man, "that she is a relation of my mother's—of my own mother's; and shall you, Sir, dare to prevent me showing her civility, common civility, when she is distressed? No, Sir, no pendant on earth shall retrain me."
"My dear Lord" said D'Alonville, "I beg that your generosity to my Angelina and me, may not be the means of giving offence to your father. As to this person, I owe him no deference; but your kindness in the present instance only adds to my distress. Angelina, recover your presence of mind, my love;—recollect, that if the wretched man's wound is not dangerous, I shall be immediately released; if it is, I shall be sent to the next prison, for I do not expect, not do I mean, to ask any favour. In the first case, I shall be with you immediately; in the second, you can be near me in a few hours; why, therefore, give way to these agonies? Lord Aurevalle, will you have so much consideration for me, as not to risk any displeasure on the part of your father by going yourself to Aberlynth; but will you speak for me to one of the female servants, and engage her to accompany my wife will she is safe in the presence of her mother?"
Curiosity, and other motives, as well as the intercession of their young master, immediately engaged two of the women of the house. Angelina trembled, and reluctantly was led away.
D'Alonville, guarded by two men, proceeded towards the house, Lord Aurevalle walking with him, to the great displeasure of Paunceford, who hearing Angelina acknowledged as a relation of the late Lady Aberdore's, began to fancy, that unless Brymore died, (which he most heartily hoped he might) all his hopes of seeing D'Alonville dismissed in disgrace, would end in his being established in the family more firmly than himself.
He had not penetration enough to have discovered in the time he had lived among the great, that nothing was less likely to recommend any one to their favour, than the circumstance of being an indigent relation;—and if D'Alonville's other offences were cleared up, this alone would be sufficient to induce Lord Aberdore to dissolve the connection as soon as possible.
The surgeons from two small neighbouring towns now arrived nearly at the same time. They were not likely to agree in the case of Brymore, when they had never yet agreed in their lives. They both however seemed to believe him in great danger. He was removed into the house, and a messenger dispatched for a more eminent surgeon; for Brymore, who had now recovered his senses, would not submit in his side, till the third operator arrived; and the fate of D'Alonville still was in suspense.
At length the surgeon from a town ten miles distant appeared. The ball was extracted with less difficulty than had been apprehended. There was every reason to believe Brymore would do well; and Lord Aberdore, to avoid the perplexity that might attend detaining D'Alonville, rather than from tenderness to his situation, gave him leave to go to Aberlynth, on receiving his parole, that he would appear if the event should be such as was at first apprehended.
The sufferings of Mrs. Denzil during this day had been terrible. She appeared to be sinking under them, when D'Alonville arrived to re-assure and comfort her: but Angelina, while she concealed her own apprehension, hung over her mother with a look of such tender solicitude, and spoke to her with so much sweetness, that D'Alonville thought he had never yet seen her so lovely:—even the lively affection she had shown for him a few hours before, did not render her more dear to him than the filial duty and gratitude which now, mingled with fear, beamed from her expressive eyes.
"How hard," cried Mrs. Denzil—"how singularly cruel is the destiny that pursues me! Even in this remote corner of the world, where peace at least seemed to await me, am I again exposed to insult, and to the terror which resentment of that insult inflicts. Ah, D'Alonville! I cannot blame, however I may lament the vengeance you have taken. But if the wretched man dies, I own it will be a shock I shall not easily recover; and it will be a great and heavy addition to the sorrows I already sustain with difficulty:—like all those sorrows, I shall owe it to the cruelty, to the injustice of the men who have plunged us into poverty;—for had we not been poor and apparently unprotected, would such a man as Mr. Brymore have dared to have intruded himself into my house, and have affronted my ears with his infamous proposals? Ah! no;—it is our supposed indigence that has made us liable to these indignities; and that has perhaps involved you, my dear friend, in their fatal consequences. This is an evil that will pursue us wheresoever we go—but perhaps it is an evil more supportable any where than in our native land. D'Alonville, I find it impossible to stay in any part of England. I will instantly quit it. If my life is to be rendered tolerable for the little time I yet live, it must be in a country where the memory of so many years of misery is not continually renewed."
"Let us go, then," said D'Alonville.—"Wherever Angelina is—where you are, is now my country; (alas! what other have I?) but I must be released from my parole before I can leave this place."
"Undoubtedly," answered Mrs. Denzil. "However eagerly I wish to go, your honour is dearest to me than ever other consideration. And believe me, my dear friends,—"
She was going on, when a servant girl, who was hired occasionally from the village, came, breathless and staring, into the room and exclaimed, "Oh! Lord, Ma'am! Oh! Lord, Sir! here—here is—"
"Here is what?" cried D'Alonville, impatiently.
"Brymore is dead," said Mrs. Denzil, in a low and faint voice, "and somebody is come to tell us of it."
A death like paleness overspread the countenance of Angelina, as she stood behind her mother's chair waiting for the entrance of this messenger of ill news; when the girl, who had before alarmed them, and who had gone down a few steps of the stairs, returned and said, in a still more hurried way, "'tis my Lord—my Lord, his own—own self. Oh! gracious me!" She then shuffled away; and the door remaining open, a gentleman entered in whom Mrs. Denzil immediately recognized Lord Aberdore.
Still impressed with the idea that Brymore was dead, (and not considering how improbable it was that the noble Lord should himself take the pains to announce it) the countenance of Mrs. Denzil had on it an expression which Lord Aberdore imputed to veneration, awe, and apprehension. He loved, like many other great men, to excite these sensations; and with more than ordinary dignity and stateliness he marched up to Mrs. Denzil, bowed to her, and desired to have a few moments conversation with her.
"Whatever you Lordship has to say," replied Mrs. Denzil, collecting all the courage she could, "I am prepared to hear; and my daughter and the Chevalier D'Alonville are, I hope, equally so.—Mr. Brymore, I suppose is dead?"
"No, Madam, he is not. They even tell me there is less danger than was at first apprehended. But with you, Madam, it is necessary that I speak apart." Angelina and D'Alonville, both relieved by this intelligence, willingly withdrew; and after some hesitation, Lord Aberdore began a very long speech, in which he enumerated what he thought the errors of Mrs. Denzil's conduct; but dwelt with particular energy on the wrong step she had suffered Angelina to take in marrying an emigrant. "I cannot but lament, that so fine a young woman, so well connected, who might have done so much better—"
"Give me leave, my Lord, to spare you the trouble of any farther remonstrance, by bringing to your recollection the circumstances of my family. As to their respectable connections, on which you now do me the honour to dwell, I beseech you to remember, how little people of a certain rank care for even their nearest relations: (I speak in general terms, for there may be, there are exceptions;) and I had surely no right to suppose that the distant relationship of my children should give them any future claim to the kindness of persons, who, at present, never enquired whether they existed. Except an house, which your Lordship lent me for a few months, what favour have I to acknowledge? As to fortune, my Lord, you know that my children have been robbed of so much of theirs, that what little I had of my own, and which will be divided among them at my death, seems to be all that they can depend upon; while Mr. Ramsay, and Mr. Shrimpshire, by detaining the affairs for so many years in their hands, have compelled me to have recourse to expedients for the support of these children, that have impressed every body with an idea that they are destitute of any fortune whatever: and who, my Lord, will marry young women, whatever may be their merit or their beauty, who are without fortune? while, on the other hand, if they remain single, how are they to be supported when, worn out with many years of trouble, (and the period, my Lord, is not very remote) I shall leave them?
"My sons are men; and wheresoever fortune "May place them, cannot want the means of life*."
But, my daughters!—alas, my Lord! I have found even that degree of dependance to which I have been obliged to submit, extremely difficult to bear. The compliments that have been made to the few talents I possess, have seldom paid me for the evident superiority assumed by persons once my equals, from the consciousness they seemed to have of the necessity I was under to exert those talents. And can I bear, my Lord, who know what it is to suffer from the humiliating compassion of a world, which too often mingles scorn with pity—can I bear to think that my daughters shall be exposed to become dependents, humble cousins! if any of their relations would receive them? I have seen, I have felt how few persons there are, who know how to confer an obligation. I have been compelled to know, how many insult while they oblige. In short, my Lord, these and other considerations induced me to give my daughter Angelina to the man she loved, who is a foreigner, it si true, but certainly a gentleman; and who, whatever may be the unhappy circumstances of the generality of his countrymen, is not so absolutely destitute as you seem to suppose. He is a man of honour, a man of sense; and, as your Lordship may be convinced, by the charge he has undertaken in your family, has proper pride enough to counteract every degree of false pride, and to endeavour to use those accomplishments acquired in happier times, to maintain his wife, and his independence."
She then proceeded to relate the circumstances that had enabled D'Alonville to preserve a small income from the wreck of the considerable property of his family; and as she proceeded, she observed the features of Lord Aberdore gradually relax. He found that Mrs. Denzil had been so far from settling near Rock-March, with a view to obtain any advantages from that neighbourhood, that she had intended studiously to conceal her abode from him. He found that D'Alonville was not the humble dependent, whom he had kept at a distance, lest, if he had admitted him to any degree of confidence or familiarity, he should find it more difficult to shake him off, but possessed a certain, though small property; and that none of the family, whose settlement at Aberlynth had so much disturbed him as to induce him to such a condescension as that of visiting himself the cottage they inhabited, were likely to give him any trouble, or put him to any expence. Still, however, there were reasons why he wished them any where else; and therefore he heard with great satisfaction, from Mrs. Denzil, that she had only taken the cottage conditionally, and that in consequence of what had happened, and of other consideration which she did not think it necessary to explain, she had determined, to quit not only Wales, but Great Britain, for some part of the continent of Europe, where her family might yet remain unmolested; and that as soon as Mr. Brymore was out of danger, so that D'Alonville could depart, they should return to London, and in a very few days quit England.
Lord Aberdore seemed so well pleased with this intelligence, that he seemed half tempted to accelerate the execution of a plan which appeared so desirable, as that of having the sea between him and a family whom he could not consider otherwise than as indigent relations—a sort of persons who may be troublesome, and can never be creditable; but as he could not, when it came to the point, determine to part with money, he checked this impulse.
The recovery of Brymore now became an object to him, and as it was impossible to prevail on Lady Aberdore to put off her departure another day, he left strict orders with the housekeeper and persons about the wounded man, to take every possible care of him. He had not time to make any new regulations as to the young men, who, by D'Alonville's secession, would be left without a French tutor; but Lady Aberdore, apprehensive lest this vacancy should occasion a total change in the plan she had so long laboured to confirm, represented to him that it would be easy to find in London some foreigner, equally qualified, who would be rejoiced to find such an establishment, and who might not have the same troublesome and alarming entanglements as D'Alonville. She then turned to Miss Milsington, and said, "But perhaps our friend Jemima here has another Count, or Marquis, or Chevalier, in petto, whom she can recommend to replace this married man —who fights duels and kills the visitors, instead of tutoring the children."—Miss Milsington had no spirits to reply; she dared not enquire of her heart what it had expected, or why it should feel so strangely depressed, since the discovery of D'Alonville's marriage. He could never have been more to her than an acquaintance; yet the certainty of his being the husband of another, was so uneasy, that ashamed of feeling so much pain, and not daring to acknowledge it, she endeavoured, if she could not conquer, to disguise it, by busying herself in preparations for their departure; and irritating by her own impatience, that which Lady Aberdore felt, to be gone. As to Escott, he had already taken leave. Though he lived in what are called habits of the closest friendship (Oh! abuse of terms) with Brymore, he could not prevail upon himself to endure for one day the complaint of a sick man, or the confinement of a sick room. He could do no good, he said. If Brymore lived, he would soon be well enough to come by slow journies to London; and if his friend died, why should he be bored with the horrors of a funeral, to make himself low-spirited for a month? besides, he was absolutely engaged in London, and ought to have been there a week before had he not stayed to oblige his sister. He took a gay leave of his wounded friend, and laughing, bade him look more carefully about him another time, and before he attacked another pretty wench, be sure she had no drawcansir of a husband laying perdue to shoot him through the head. "But come," added he, "cheer up they spirit, Jemmy—I warrant you'll do well enough, and all this will tell well among the women in London.—'Faith, twill make a pretty romantic story, to the best advantage." Brymore, who suffered great pain, and believed that the danger was not less than the anguish, answered only by a deep groan, followed by a volley of curses, levelled first against the French nation, then against D'Alonville as an individual of it, and lastly against himself for not taking a better aim. "I refused," said he, "fighting with swords, for I know those damned fellows have with them the advantage, and are half of them qualified for fencing masters; but when I could not get rid of the French son of a w—without fighting, and got a brace of pistols, I thought I was sure of bringing him down, and be cursed to him." Escott, rather from curiosity than from any interest he took in the matter, had before learned the particulars of the quarrel.
The evening preceding the fire D'Alonville, finding himself watched by Paunceford, had determined not to leave the house till the whole family were retired. A little after one o'clock he had locked his door, and taking the key in his pocket, had softly found his way out of the house and across the park: when he arrived at the cottage, he found Mrs. Denzil impatiently waiting to relate to him the extraordinary circumstance of a visit from a person residing at Rock-March; who, under pretence of having lost his way, had followed Angelina home, and behaved with great impertinence on Mrs. Denzil's resenting his rude intrusion, and insisting on his quitting her house: nor could she escape from the insults till she had sent for some of the neighbouring peasants, before whose arrival he departed, assuring her, that he was too much struck with the beauty of her daughter to give up the acquaintance he had made, and that he should be with her the next morning to renew offers which he was assured she was not in a situation to refuse, and which on cooler reflection she would think herself too happy to accept.
It was then that Mrs. Denzil once more felt all the bitterness of poverty, and that her indignation so far got the better of her prudence, as to induce her to sit up for D'Alonville: and notwithstanding the tears and entreaties of Angelina, who trembled for his safety, to relate to him the affront they had received. Angelina endeavoured in vain to soften the resentment that fired the breast of D'Alonville on this recital; and Mrs. Denzil, when she saw how much he was affected, repented that she had been so rashly communicative, and had listened rather to anger than discretion; and while both she and her daughter were endeavouring to appease him, they saw the flames that had by this time arisen at Rock-March. D'Alonville hastened to assist in extinguishing the fire; he returned fatigued, covered with smoke, and his clothes in many places burnt and singed, to await at Aberlynth the threatened visit of Mr. Brymore, who made it, as he had declared he would, before eleven o'clock.
His reception was by no means pleasant. D'Alonville, fiery and vindictive, could not be prevented from insisting on satisfaction; and Brymore, who held him in contempt, as a boy, an inferior, and a stranger, was under the disagreeable necessity of choosing either to beg his pardon, and that of the ladies he had offended, or to fight; an operation to which he was very little disposed, but was however at length compelled to undertake, as more honourable, and not much less hazardous, than receiving a sound beating which D'Alonville was disposed to give him. They went together into a retired part of the park with a pair of pistols belonging to D'Alonville, of which Brymore had his choice.—The event has been already related.
CHAP.