Chapter XI
"From the loud camp retired and noisy court, In honorable ease and rural sport; The remnant of his days he safely passed, Nor found they lagged too slow nor flew too fast. He made his wish with his estate comply, Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die: One child he had--a daughter chaste and fair, His age's comfort, and his fortune's heir."--PRIOR.
Oscar's regiment, on his first joining it in Ireland, was quartered in Enniskillen, the corps was agreeable, and the inhabitants of the town hospitable and polite. He felt all the delight of a young and enterprising mind, at entering, what appeared to him, the road to glory and pleasure, many of his idle mornings were spent in rambling about the country, sometimes accompanied by a party of officers, and sometimes alone.
In one of his solitary excursions along the beautiful banks of Lough Erne, with a light fusee on his shoulder, as the woods, that almost descended to the very edge of the water, abounded in game; after proceeding a few miles he felt quite exhausted by the heat, which, as it was now the middle of summer, was intense; at a little distance he perceived an orchard, whose glowing apples promised a delightful repast; knowing that the fruit in many of the neighboring places was kept for sale, he resolved on trying if any was to be purchased here, and accordingly opened a small gate, and ascended through a grass-grown path in the orchard, to a very plain white cottage, which stood upon a gentle sloping lawn, surrounded by a rude paling, he knocked against the door with his fusee, and immediately a little rosy girl appeared; "tell me, my pretty lass," cried he, "whether I can purchase any of the fine apples I see here." "Anan!" exclaimed the girl with a foolish stare. Oscar glancing at that moment into the passage, saw, from a half-opened door, nearly opposite to the one at which he stood, a beautiful fair face peeping out; he involuntarily started, and pushing aside the girl, made a step into the passage; the room door directly opened, and an elderly woman, of a genteel figure and pleasing countenance, appeared. "Good Heaven!" cried Oscar, taking off his hat, and retreating, "I fear I have been guilty of the highest impertinence; the only apology I can offer for it is by saying it was not intentional. I am quite a stranger here, and having been informed most of the orchards hereabouts contained fruits for sale, I intruded under that idea." "Your mistake, sir," she replied with a benevolent smile, "is too trifling to require an apology; nor shall it be attended with any disappointment to you."
She then politely showed him into the parlor, where, with equal pleasure and admiration, he contemplated the fair being of whom before he had but a transient glance: she appeared to be scarcely seventeen, and was, both as to face and figure, what a painter would have chosen to copy for the portrait of a little playful Hebe; though below even the middle size, she was formed with the nicest symmetry; her skin was of a dazzling fairness, and so transparent, that the veins were clearly discernible; the softest blush of nature shaded her beautifully-rounded cheeks; her mouth was small and pouting, and whenever she smiled a thousand graces sported round it; her eyes were full and of a heavenly blue, soft, yet animated, giving, like the expression of her whole countenance, at once an idea of innocence, spirit, and sensibility; her hair, of the palest and most glossy brown, hung carelessly about her, and, though dressed in a loose morning-gown of muslin, she possessed an air of fashion and even consequence; the easy manner in which she bore the looks of Oscar, proclaimed her at once not unaccustomed to admiration, nor displeased with that she now received; for that Oscar admired her could not but be visible, and he sometimes fancied he saw an arch smile playing over her features, at the involuntary glances he directed towards her.
A fine basket of apples, and some delicious cider, was brought to Oscar, and he found his entertainer as hospitable in deposition as she was pleasing in conversation.
The beautiful interior of the cottage by no means corresponded with the plainness of the exterior; the furniture was elegantly neat, and the room ornamented with a variety of fine prints and landscapes; a large folding glass door opened from it into a pleasure-garden.
Adela, so was the charming young stranger called, chatted in the most lively and familiar terms, and at last running over to the basket, tossed the apples all about the table, and picking out the finest presented them to Oscar. It is scarcely necessary to say he received them with emotion: but how transient is all sublunary bliss! A cuckoo-clock, over Oscar's head, by striking three, reminded him that he had passed near two hours in the cottage. "Oh, Heavens!" cried he, starting, "I have made a most unconscionable intrusion; you see, my dear ladies," bowing respectfully to both, "the consequence of being too polite and too fascinating." He repeated his thanks in the most animated manner, and snatching up his hat, departed, yet not without casting
"One longing, lingering look behind."
The sound of footsteps after him in the lawn made him turn, and he perceived the ladies had followed him thither. He stopped again to speak to them, and extolled the lovely prospect they had from that eminence of the lake and its scattered islands. "I presume," said Adela, handling the fusee on which he leaned, "you were trying your success to-day in fowling?" "Yes; but, as you may perceive, I have been unsuccessful." "Then, I assure you," said she, with an arch smile, "there is choice game to be found in our woods." "Delicious game, indeed!" cried he, interpreting the archness of her look, and animated by it to touch her hand, "but only tantalizing to a keen sportsman, who sees it elevated above his reach." "Come, come," exclaimed the old lady, with a sudden gravity, "we are detaining the gentleman." She took her fair companion by the arm, and hastily turned to the cottage. Oscar gazed after them a moment, then, with a half-smothered sigh, descended to the road. He could not help thinking this incident of the morning very like the novel adventures he had sometimes read to his sister Amanda as she sat at work; and, to complete the resemblance, thought he, I must fall in love with the little heroine. Ah! Oscar, beware of such imprudence! guard your heart with all your care against tender impressions, till fortune has been more propitious to you! Thus would my father speak, mused Oscar, and set his own misfortunes in terrible array before me, were he now present: well, I must endeavor to act as if he were here to exhort me. Heigh ho! proceeded he, shouldering his fusee, glory for some time to come must be my mistress!
The next morning the fusee was again taken down, and he sallied out, carefully avoiding the officers, lest any of them should offer to accompany him; for he felt a strange reluctance to their participating in either the smiles of Adela or the apples of the old lady. Upon his arrival at the orchard, finding the gate open, he advanced a few steps up the path, and had a glimpse of the cottage, but no object was visible. Oscar was too modest to attempt entering it uninvited; he therefore turned back, yet often cast a look behind him; no one, however, was to be seen. He now began to feel the heat oppressive, and himself fatigued with his walk, and sat down upon a moss-covered stone, on the margin of the lake, at a little distance from the cottage, beneath the spreading branches of a hawthorn; his hat and fusee were laid at his feet, and a cool breeze from the water refreshed him; upon its smooth surface a number of boats and small sail-vessels were now gliding about in various directions, and enlivened the enchanting prospect which was spread upon the bosom of the lake; from contemplating it he was suddenly roused by the warble of a female voice; he started, turned, and beheld Adela just by him. "Bless me!" cried she, "who would have thought of seeing you here; why, you look quite fatigued, and, I believe, want apples to-day as much as you did yesterday?" Then, sitting down on the seat he had resigned, she tossed off her bonnet, declaring it was insupportably warm, and began rummaging a small work-bag she held on her arm. Oscar snatching the bonnet from the ground, Adela flung apples into it, observing it would make an excellent basket. He sat down at her feet, and never, perhaps, felt such a variety of emotions as at the present moment: his cheeks glowed with a brighter color, and his eyes were raised to hers with the most ardent admiration; yet not to them alone could he confine the expression of his feelings; they broke in half-formed sentences from his lips, which Adela heard with the most perfect composure, desiring him either to eat or pocket his apples quickly, as she wanted her bonnet, being in a great hurry to return to the cottage, from which she had made a kind of stolen march. The apples were instantly committed to his pocket, and he was permitted to tie on the bonnet. A depraved man might have misinterpreted the gayety of Adela, or at least endeavored to take advantage of it; but the sacred impression of virtue, which nature and education had stamped upon the heart of Oscar, was indelibly fixed, and he neither suspected, nor, for worlds, would have attempted injuring, the innocence of Adela: he beheld her (in what indeed was a true light) as a little playful nymph, whose actions were the offspring of innocence.
"I assure you," exclaimed she, rising, "I am very loath to quit this pleasant seat; but, if I make a much longer delay, I shall find the lady of the cottage in anxious expectation." "May I advance?" said Oscar, as he pushed open the gate for her. "If you do," replied she, "the least that will be said from seeing us together, is, that we were in search of each other the whole of the morning." "Well," cried Oscar, laughing at this careless speech, "and if they do say so, it would not be doing me injustice." "Adieu, adieu," said she, waving her hand, "not another word for a kingdom."
What a compound of beauty and giddiness it is! thought Oscar, watching her till she entered the cottage. As he returned from the sweet spot he met some laborers, from whom he inquired concerning its owner, and learned she was a respectable widow lady of the name of Marlowe.
On Oscar's return from Enniskillen, he heard from the officers that General Honeywood, an old veteran, who had a fine estate about fourteen miles from the town, was that morning to pay his compliments to them, and that cards had been left for a grand fête and ball, which he annually gave on the 1st of July, to commemorate one of the glorious victories of King William. Every person of any fashion in and about the neighborhood was on such occasions sure of an invitation; and the officers were pleased with theirs, as they had for some time wished for an opportunity of seeing the general's daughter, who was very much admired.
The general, like a true veteran, retained an enthusiastic attachment for the profession of arms, to which not only the morning, but the meridian of his life had been devoted, and which he had not quitted till compelled by a debilitated constitution. Seated in his paternal mansion he began to experience the want of a faithful companion, who would heighten the enjoyments of the tranquil hour, and soothe the infirmities of age: this want was soon supplied by his union with a young lady in the neighborhood, whose only dowry was innocence and beauty. From the great disparity of their ages it was concluded she had married for convenience; but the tenor of her conduct changed this opinion, by proving the general possessed her tenderest affections: a happier couple were not known; but this happiness was terminated as suddenly as fatally by her death, which happened two years after the birth of her daughter; all the general's love was then centred in her child. Many of the ladies in the neighborhood, induced by the well-known felicity his lady had enjoyed, or by the largeness of his fortune, made attempts to engage him again in matrimonial toils; but he fought shy of them all, solemnly declaring, he would never bring a stepmother over his dear girl. In her infancy, she was his plaything, and as she grew up his comfort; caressed, flattered, adored from her childhood, she scarcely knew the meaning of harshness and contradiction; a naturally sweet disposition, and the superintending care of an excellent woman, prevented any pernicious effect from such excessive indulgence as she received; to disguise or duplicity she was a perfect stranger; her own feelings were never concealed, and others she supposed equally sincere in revealing theirs: true, the open avowal of her regard or contempt often incurred the imputation of imprudence; but had she even heard it she would have only laughed at it--for the general declared whatever she said was right, and her own heart assured her of the innocence of her intentions. As she grew up the house again became the seat of gayety; the general, though very infirm, felt his convivial spirit revive; he delighted in the society of his friends, and could still
"Shoulder his crutch, and show how fields were won!"
Oscar, actuated by an impulse, which if he could, he, at least, did not strive to account for, continued daily to parade before the orchard, but without again seeing Adela.
At length the day for General Honeywood's entertainment arrived, and the officers, accompanied by a large party, set off early for Woodlawn, the name of the general's seat. It was situated on the borders of the lake, where they found barges waiting to convey them to a small island, which was the scene of the morning's amusement: the breakfast was laid out amidst the ruins of an ancient building, which, from the venerable remains of its gothic elegance, was most probably, in the days of religious enthusiasm, the seat of sacred piety: the old trees in groups formed a thick canopy overhead, and the ivy that crept along the walls filled up many of the niches where the windows had formerly been; those that still remained open, by descending to the ground, afforded a most enchanting prospect of the lake; the long succession of arches, which composed the body of the chapel, were in many places covered with creeping moss, and scattered over with wall-flowers, blue hair-bells, and other spontaneous productions of nature; while between them were placed seats and breakfast-tables, ornamented in a fanciful manner.
The officers experienced a most agreeable surprise on entering; but how inferior were their feelings to the sensations which Oscar felt, when, introduced with the party by the general to his daughter, he beheld in Miss Honeywood the lovely Adela! She seemed to enjoy his surprise, and Mrs. Marlowe, from the opposite side of the table, beckoned him to her with an arch look; he flew round, and she made room for him by herself: "Well, my friend," cried she, "do you think you shall find the general's fruit as tempting as mine?" "Ah!" exclaimed Oscar, half sighing, half smiling, "Hesperian fruit, I fear, which I can never hope to obtain." Adela's attention, during breakfast, was too much engrossed by the company to allow her to notice Oscar more than by a few hasty words and smiles. There being no dancing till the evening, the company, after breakfast, dispersed according to their various inclinations.
The island was diversified with little acclivities, and scattered over with wild shrubs, which embalmed the air; temporary arbors of laurel, intermingled with lilies, were erected and laid out with fruits, ices, and other refreshments; upon the edge of the water a marquee was pitched for the regimental band, which Colonel Belgrave had politely complimented the general with: a flag was hoisted on it, and upon a low eminence a few small field-pieces were mounted: attendants were everywhere dispersed, dressed in white streamers, ornamented with a profusion of orange-colored ribbons; the boatmen were dressed in the same livery; and the barges, in which several of the party were to visit the other islands, made a picturesque appearance with their gay streamers fluttering in the breeze; the music, now softly dying away upon the water, now gradually swelling on the breeze, and echoed back by the neighboring hills, added to the pleasures of the scene.
Oscar followed the footsteps of Adela; but at the very moment in which he saw her disengaged from a large party, the general hallooed to him from a shady bank on which he sat; Oscar could not refuse the summons; and, as he approached, the general, extending his hand, gave him a cordial squeeze, and welcomed him as the son of a brave man he had once intimately known. "I recollected the name of Fitzalan," said he, "the moment I heard it mentioned; and had the happiness of learning from Colonel Belgrave I was not mistaken in believing you to be the son of my old friend." He now made several inquiries concerning Fitzalan, and the affectionate manner in which he mentioned him was truly pleasing to Oscar. "He had once," he said, "saved his life at the imminent danger of his own, and it was an obligation, while that life remained, he could not forget."
Like Don Guzman in Gil Blas, the general delighted in fighting over his battles, and now proceeded to enumerate many incidents which happened during the American war, when he and Fitzalan served in the same regiment. Oscar could well have dispensed with such an enumeration; but the general, who had no idea that he was not as much delighted in listening as he was in speaking, still went on. Adela had been watching them some time; her patience at length, like Oscar's, being exhausted, she ran forward and told her father "he must not detain him another minute, for they were going upon the lake; and you know, papa," cried she, "against we come back, you can have all your battles arranged in proper form, though, by the bye, I don't think it is the business of an old soldier to intimidate a young one with such dreadful tales of iron wars." The general called her saucy baggage, kissed her with rapture, and saw her trip off with his young friend, who seized the favorable opportunity to engage her for the first set in the evening. About four the company assembled in the Abbey to dinner; the band played during the repast, the toasts were proclaimed by sound of trumpet, and answered by an immediate discharge from the Mount. At six the ladies returned to Woodlawn to change their dresses for the ball, and now
"Awful beauty put on all its charms."
Tea and coffee were served in the respective rooms, and by eleven the ballroom was completely crowded with company, at once brilliant and lively, particularly the gentlemen, who were not a little elevated by the general's potent libations to the glorious memory of him whose victory they were celebrating.
Adela, adorned in a style superior to what Oscar had yet seen, appeared more lovely than he had even at first thought her; her dress, which was of thin muslin, spangled, was so contrived as to give a kind of aerial lightness to her figure. Oscar reminded her of the promise of the morning, at the very moment the colonel approached for the purpose of engaging her. She instantly informed him of her engagement to Mr. Fitzalan. "Mr. Fitzalan!" repeated the colonel, with the haughty air of a man who thought he had reason to be offended: "he has been rather precipitate, indeed; but, though we may envy, who shall wonder at his anxiety to engage Miss Honeywood?"
Dancing now commenced, and the elegant figure of Adela never appeared to greater advantage; the transported general watched every movement, and, "incomparable, by Jove!--what a sweet angel she is!" were expressions of admiration which involuntarily broke from him in the pride and fondness of his heart. Oscar, too, whose figure was remarkably fine, shared his admiration, and he declared to Colonel Belgrave, he did not think the world could produce such another couple. This assertion was by no means pleasing to the Colonel; he possessed as much vanity, perhaps, as ever fell to the share of a young belle conscious of perfections, and detested the idea of having any competitor (at least such a powerful one as Oscar) in the good graces of the ladies. Adela, having concluded the dance, complained of fatigue, and retired to an alcove, whither Oscar followed her. The window commanded a view of the lake, the little island, and the ruined Abbey; the moon in full splendor cast her silvery light over all those objects, giving a softness to the landscape, even more pleasing than the glowing charms it had derived from the radiancy of day. Adela in dancing had dropped the bandeau from her hair; Oscar took it up, and still retained it. Adela now stretched forth her hand to take it. "Allow me," cried he, gently taking her hand, "to keep it; to-morrow you would cast it away as a trifle, but I would treasure it as a relic of inestimable value; let me have some memento of the charming hours I have passed to-day." "Oh, a truce," said Adela, "with such expressions (who did not, however, oppose his putting her bandeau in his bosom); they are quite commonplace, and have already been repeated to hundreds, and will again, I make no doubt." "This is your opinion?" "Yes, really." "Oh, would to Heaven," exclaimed Oscar, "I durst convince you how mistaken a one it is." Adela, laughing, assured him that would be a difficult matter. Oscar grew pensive. "I think," cried he, "if oppressed by misfortune, I should of all places on earth like a seclusion in the old Abbey." "Why, really," said Adela, "it is tolerably calculated for a hermitage; and if you take a solitary whim, I beg I may be apprised of it in time, as I should receive peculiar pleasure in preparing your mossy couch and frugal fare." "The reason for my liking it," replied he, "would be the prospect I should have from it of Woodlawn." "And does Woodlawn," asked Adela, "contain such particular charms, as to render a view of it so very delightful?"
At this moment they were summoned to call a new dance--a summons, perhaps, not agreeable to either, as it interrupted an interesting tete-à-tete. The colonel engaged Adela for the next set; and though Oscar had no longer an inclination to dance, to avoid particularity he stood up, and with a young lady who was esteemed extremely handsome. Adela, as if fatigued, no longer moved with animation, and suddenly interrupted the colonel in a gallant speech he was making to her, to inquire, if he thought Miss O'Neal (Oscar's partner) pretty--so very pretty as she was generally thought? The colonel was too keen not to discover at once the motive which suggested this inquiry. "Why, faith," cried he after examining Miss O'Neal some minutes through an opera glass, "the girl has charms, but so totally eclipsed," looking languishingly at Adela, "in my eyes, that I cannot do them the justice they may perhaps merit: Fitzalan, however, by the homage he pays her, seems as if he would make up for the deficiency of every other person." Adela turned pale, and took the first opportunity of demanding her bandeau from Oscar; he, smilingly, refused it, declaring it was a trophy of the happiness he had enjoyed that day, and that the general should have informed her a soldier never relinquished such a glorious memento. "Resign mine," replied Adela, "and procure one from Miss O'Neal."--"No!" cried he, "I would not pay her charms and my own sincerity so bad a compliment, as to ask what I should not in the least degree value." Adela's spirits revived, and she repeated her request no more.
The dancing continued after supper, with little intermission, till seven, when the company repaired to the saloon to breakfast, after which they dispersed. The general particularly and affectionately bid Oscar farewell, and charged him to consider Woodlawn as his head-quarters. "Be assured," said the good-natured old man, "the son of my brave, worthy, and long-respected friend, will ever be valuable to my heart and welcome to my home; and would to heaven, in the calm evening of life, your father and I had pitched our tents nearer each other."
From this period Oscar became almost an inmate of his house, and the general shortly grew so attached to him, that he felt unhappy if deprived of his society; the attentions he received from Oscar were such as an affectionate son would pay a tender father; he supported his venerable friend whenever he attempted to walk, attended him in all the excursions he made about his domain, read to him when he wanted to be lulled to sleep, and listened, without betraying any symptoms of fatigue, to his long and often truly tiresome stories of former battles and campaigns; in paying these attentions Oscar obeyed the dictates of gratitude and esteem, and also gratified a benevolent disposition, happy in being able
"To rock the cradle of declining age."
But his time was not so entirely engrossed by the general as to prevent his having many hours to devote to Adela; with her he alternately conversed, read, and sung, rambled with her through romantic paths, or rode along the beautiful borders of Lough Erne; was almost her constant escort to all the parties she went to in the neighborhood, and frequently accompanied her to the hovels of wretchedness, where the woes which extorted the soft tear of commiseration he saw amply relieved by her generous hand; admiring her as he did before, how impossible was it for Oscar, in these dangerous tete-à-tetes, to resist the progress of a tender passion--a passion, however, confined (as far at least as silence could confine it) to his own heart. The confidence which he thought the general reposed in him, by allowing such an intercourse with his daughter, was too sacred in his estimation to be abused; but though his honor resisted, his health yielded to his feelings.
Adela, from delighting in company, suddenly took a pensive turn; she declined the constant society she had hitherto kept up, and seemed in a solitary ramble with Oscar to enjoy more pleasure than the gayest party appeared to afford her; the favorite spot they visited almost every evening was a path on the margin of the lake, at the foot of a woody mountain; here often seated, they viewed the sun sinking behind the opposite hills; and while they enjoyed the benignancy of his departing beams, beheld him tinge the trembling waves with gold and purple; the low whistle of the ploughman returning to his humble cottage, the plaintive carol of birds from the adjacent grove, and the low bleating of cattle from pastures which swelled above the water, all these, by giving the softest and most pleasing charms of nature to the hour, contrived to touch, yet more sensibly, hearts already prepossessed in favor of each other. Adela would sometimes sing a little simple air, and carelessly leaning on the arm of Oscar, appear to enjoy perfect felicity. Not so poor Oscar: the feelings of his soul at these moments trembled on his lips, and to repress them was agony.
An incident soon occurred which endeared him yet more to the general. Driving one day in a low phaeton along a road cut over a mountain, the horses, frightened by a sudden firing from the lake, began rearing in the most frightful manner; the carriage stood near a tremendous precipice, and the servants, appalled by terror, had not power to move. Oscar saw that nothing but an effort of desperate resolution could keep them from destruction; he leaped out, and, rushing before the horses, seized their heads, at the eminent hazard of being tumbled down the precipice, on whose very verge he stood; the servants, a little relieved from their terror, hastened to his assistance; the traces were cut, and the poor general, whose infirmities had weakened his spirits, conveyed home in almost a state of insensibility. Adela, perceiving him from her dressing-room window, flew down, and learning his danger, fell upon his neck in an agony of mingled joy and terror; her caresses soon revived him, and as he returned them, his eyes eagerly sought his deliverer. Oscar stood near, with mingled tenderness and anxiety in his looks; the general took his hand, and whilst he pressed it along with Adela's to his bosom, tears fell on them. "You are both my children!" he exclaimed; "the children of my love, and from your felicity I must derive mine." This expression Oscar conceived to be a mere effusion of gratitude, little thinking what a project relative to him had entered the general's head, who had first, however, consulted and learned from his daughter it would be agreeable to her. This generous, some will say romantic, old man, felt for Oscar the most unbounded love and gratitude, and as the best proof of both, he resolved to bestow on this young soldier his rich and lovely heiress, who had acknowledged to her father her predilection for him. He knew his birth to be noble, his disposition amiable, and his spirit brave; besides, by this union he should secure the society of Adela. He wished her married, yet dreaded, whenever that event took place, he should be deprived of her; but Oscar, he supposed, bound to him by gratitude, would, unlike others, accede to his wishes of residing at Woodlawn during his lifetime. His project he resolved on communicating to Colonel Belgrave, whom, on Oscar's account, he regarded, as Oscar had said (what indeed he believed), that he was partly indebted to him for his commission.
What a thunder-stroke was this to Belgrave, who arrived at Woodlawn the morning after the resolution was finally settled, and was asked to accompany the general, about a little business, to the summer-house in the garden. Poor Oscar trembled; he felt a presentiment he should be the subject of discourse, and had no doubt but the general meant to complain to Colonel Belgrave, as a person who had some authority over him, about his great particularity to Miss Honeywood.
Rage, envy, and surprise, kept the colonel silent some minutes after the general had ended speaking; dissimulation then came to his aid, and he attempted, though in faltering accents, to express his admiration of such generosity; yet to bestow such a treasure, so inestimable, on such a man, when so many of equal rank and fortune sighed for its possession; upon a man, too, or rather a boy, from whose age it might be expected his affections would be variable. "Let me tell you, colonel," said the general, hastily interrupting him, and striking his stick upon the ground, as he rose to return to the house, "there can be little danger of his affections changing when such a girl as Adela is his wife; so touch no more upon that subject, I entreat you; but you must break the affair to the young fellow, for I should be in such a confounded flurry I should set all in confusion, and beat an alarm at the first onset."
The gloom and embarrassment which appeared in the countenance of the colonel, filled Oscar with alarms; he imagined them excited by friendship for him. After what the general had said, he sighed to hear particulars, and longed, for the first time, to quit Woodlawn. The colonel was indeed in a state of torture; he had long meditated the conquest of Adela, whose fortune and beauty rendered her a truly desirable object; to resign her without one effort of circumventing Oscar was not to be thought of. To blast his promised joys, even if it did not lead to the accomplishment of his own wishes, he felt would give him some comfort, and he resolved to leave no means untried for doing so.
They set off early in the morning for Enniskillen, and Belgrave sent his servant on before them, that there might be no restraint on the conversation he found Oscar inclined to begin.
Chapter XII
"Sincerity! Thou first of virtues, let no mortal leave Thy onward path, although the earth should gape, And from the gulf of hell destruction cry To take dissimulation's winding way."--DOUGLAS.
"Well, colonel," said Oscar, "I fancy I was not mistaken in thinking the general wanted to speak with you concerning me; I am convinced you will not conceal any particulars of a conversation it may be so essential to my honor to hear." "Why, faith," cried the colonel, delighted to commence his operations, "he was making a kind of complaint about you; he acknowledges you a brave lad, yet, hang him, he has not generosity enough to reward that bravery with his daughter, or any of his treasure." "Heaven is my witness!" exclaimed the unsuspicious Oscar, "I never aspired to either; I always knew my passion for his daughter as hopeless as fervent, and my esteem for him as disinterested as sincere; I would have sooner died than abused the confidence he reposed in me, by revealing my attachment; I see, however, in future, I must be an exile to Woodlawn." "Not so, neither," replied the colonel; "only avoid such particularity to the girl; I believe in my soul she has more pride than susceptibility in her nature; in your next visit, therefore, which, for that purpose, I would have you soon make, declare, in a cavalier manner, your affections being engaged previous to your coming to Ireland; this declaration will set all to rights with the general; he will no longer dread you on his daughter's account; you will be as welcome as ever to Woodlawn, and enjoy, during your continuance in the country, the society you have hitherto been accustomed to." "No," said Oscar, "I cannot assert so great a falsehood." "How ridiculous!" replied the colonel; "for heaven's sake, my dear boy, drop such romantic notions; I should be the last man in the world to desire you to invent a falsehood which could injure any one; but no priest in Christendom would blame you for this." "And suppose I venture it, what will it do but bind faster round my heart chains already too galling, and destroy in the end all remains of peace."
"Faith, Fitzalan," said the colonel, "by the time you have had a few more love affairs with some of the pretty girls of this kingdom, you will talk no more in this way; consider, and be not too scrupulous, how disagreeable it will be to resign the general's friendship, and the pleasing society you enjoyed at Woodlawn; besides, it will appear strange to those who knew your former intimacy: in honor, too, you are bound to do as I desire you, for should the girl have been imprudent enough to conceive an attachment for you, this will certainly remove it; for pride would not allow its continuance after hearing of a favorite rival; and the general will be essentially served." "My dear colonel," said Oscar, his eyes suddenly sparkling, "do you think she has been imprudent enough to conceive a partiality for me?" "I am sure," said the colonel, "that is a question I cannot possibly answer; but, to give my opinion, I think, from her gay, unembarrassed manner, she has not." "I suppose not, indeed," cried Oscar, mournfully sighing; "why then should I be guilty of a falsehood for a person who is already indifferent to me?" "I have told you my reason," replied the colonel, coldly; "do as you please." They were now both silent, but the conversation was soon renewed, and many arguments passed on both sides. Oscar's heart secretly favored the colonel's plan, as it promised the indulgence of Adela's society; to be an exile from Woodlawn was insupportable to his thoughts; reason yielded to the vehemence of passion, and he at last fell into the snare the perfidious Belgrave had spread, thus, by a deviation from truth, forfeiting the blessings a bounteous Providence had prepared for him.
Oh! never let the child of integrity be seduced from the plain and undeviating path of sincerity: oh! never let him hope by illicit means to attain a real pleasure; the hope of obtaining any good through such means will, like a meteor of the night, allure but to deceive.
Soon after his fatal promise to the colonel, a self-devoted victim, he accompanied him to Woodlawn; on their arrival, Miss Honeywood was in the garden, and Oscar, trembling, went to seek her; he found her sitting in a flower-woven arbor--
"Herself the fairest flower."
Never had she looked more lovely; the natural bloom of her cheeks was heightened by the heat, and glowed beneath the careless curls that fell over them; and her eyes, the moment she beheld Oscar, beamed with the softest tenderness, the most bewitching sensibility. "My dear, dear Fitzalan!" cried she, throwing aside the book she had been reading, and extending her hand, "I am glad to see you; I hope you are come to take up your residence for some time at Woodlawn." "You hope!" repeated Oscar, mournfully. "I do, indeed! but, bless me, what is the matter? You look so pale and thin, you look but the shadow of yourself, or rather like a despairing shepherd, ready to hang himself on the first willow tree he meets." "I am indeed unhappy!" cried Oscar; "nor will you wonder at my being so when I acknowledge I at this present time feel a passion which I must believe hopeless." "Hopeless! well, now, I insist on being your confidant, and then," smiling somewhat archly, "I shall see what reason you have to despair," "Agreed," exclaimed Oscar; "and now to my story:" then pausing a minute, he started up. "No," continued he, "I find it impossible to tell it----; let this dear, this estimable object," drawing a miniature of his sister from his bosom, "speak for me, and declare whether he who loves such a being can ever lose that love, or help being wretched at knowing it is without hope."
Adela snatched if hastily from him, and by a sudden start betrayed her surprise; words indeed are inadequate to express her heart-rending emotions as she contemplated the beautiful countenance of her imaginary rival: and was Oscar, then--that Oscar whom she adored--whose happiness she had hoped to constitute--whose fortune she delighted to think she should advance--really attached to another; alas! too true, he was--of the attachment she held a convincing proof in her hand; she examined it again and again, and in its mild beauties thought she beheld a striking proof of the superiority over the charms she herself possessed; the roses forsook her cheeks, a mist overspread her eyes, and with a shivering horror she dropped it from her hand. Oscar had quitted the arbor to conceal his agonies. "Well," said he, now returning with forced calmness, "is it not worthy of inspiring the passion I feel?" Unable to answer him, she could only point to the place where it lay, and hastened to the house. "Sweet image!" cried Oscar, taking it from the ground, "what an unworthy purpose have I made you answer!--alas! all is now over--Adela--my Adela!--is lost forever!--lost--ah, heavens! had I ever hopes of possessing her?--oh, no! to such happiness never did I dare to look forward."
Adela, on reaching the parlor which opened into the garden, found her father there. "Ah! you little baggage, do I not deserve a kiss for not disturbing your tete-à-tete? Where is that young rogue, Fitzalan?" "I beg, I entreat, sir," said Adela, whose tears could no longer be restrained, "you will never mention him again to me; too much has already been said about him." "Nay, pr'ythee, my little girl," exclaimed the general, regarding her with surprise, "cease thy sighs and tears, and tell me what's the matter." "I am hurt," replied she, in a voice scarcely articulate, "that so much has been said about Mr. Fitzalan, whom I can never regard in any other light than that of a common acquaintance." The colonel, who had purposely lingered about the wood, now entered. Adela started, and precipitately retreated through another door. "Faith, my dear colonel," said the general, "I am glad you are come; the boy and girl have had a little skirmish; but, like other love quarrels, I suppose it will soon be made up--so let me know how the lad bore the announcement of his good fortune." "It fills a rational mind with regret," exclaimed the colonel, seating himself gravely, and inwardly rejoicing at the success of his stratagem, "to find such a fatality prevalent among mankind as makes them reject a proffered good, and sigh for that which is unattainable; like wayward children, neglecting their sports to pursue a rainbow, and weeping as the airy pageant mocks their grasp." "Very true, indeed," said the general; "very excellent, upon my word; I doubt if the chaplain of a regiment ever delivered such a pretty piece of morality; but, dear colonel," laying his hand on his knee, "what did the boy say?" "I am sorry, sir," he replied, "that what I have just said is so applicable to him. He acknowledged the lady's merit, extolled her generosity--but pleaded a prior attachment against accepting your offer, which even one more exalted would not tempt him to forego, though he knows not whether he will ever succeed in it." "The devil he did!" exclaimed the general, as soon as rage and surprise would allow him to speak. "The little impertinent puppy! the ungrateful young dog! a prior attachment!--reject my girl--my Adela--who has had such suitors already; so, I suppose I shall have the whole affair blazed about the country; I shall hear from every quarter how my daughter was refused; and by whom?--why, by a little ensign, whose whole fortune lies in his sword-knot. A fine game I have played, truly; but if the jackanapes opens his lips about the matter, may powder be my poison if I do not trim his jacket for him!" "Dear general," said the colonel, "you may depend on his honor; but even supposing he did mention the affair, surely you should know it would not be in his power to injure Miss Honeywood--amiable--accomplished--in short, possessed, as she is, of every perfection. I know men, at least one man of consequence, both from birth and fortune, who has long sighed for her, and who would, if he received the least encouragement, openly avow his sentiments." "Well," cried the general, still panting for breath, "we will talk about him at some future time; for I am resolved on soon having my little girl married, and to her own liking, too."
Oscar and Adela did not appear till dinner time; both had been endeavoring to regain composure; but poor Oscar had been far less successful than Adela in the attempt; not that she loved less, for indeed her passion for him was of the tenderest nature, and she flattered herself with having inspired one equally ardent in his breast. Sanctioned by her father, she thought it would constitute the felicity of their lives, and looked forward with a generous delight to the period when she should render her beloved Fitzalan prosperous and independent. The disappointment she experienced, as the first she had ever met, sat heavy on her heart, and the gay visions of youth were in one moment clouded by melancholy; but her pride was as great as sensibility, and as its powerful impulse, pervaded her mind. She resolved to afford Oscar no triumph by letting him witness her dejection; she therefore wiped away all traces of tears from her eyes, checked the vain sigh that struggled at her heart, and dressed herself with as much attention as ever. Her heavy eyes, her colorless cheeks, however, denoted her feelings; she tried, as she sat at table, to appear cheerful, but in vain; and, on the removal of the cloth, immediately retired, as no ladies were present.
The general was a stranger to dissimulation, and as he no longer felt, he no longer treated Oscar with his usual kindness. When pale, trembling, and disordered, he appeared before him, he received him with a stern frown, and an air scarcely complaisant. This increased the agitation of Oscar: every feeling of his soul was in commotion; he was no longer the life of their company; their happiness and mirth formed a striking contrast to his misery and dejection; he felt a forlorn wretch--a mere child of sorrow and dependence; scalding tears dropped from him as he bent over his plate; he could have cursed himself for such weakness: fortunately it was unnoticed. In losing the general's attention, he seemed to lose that of his guests; his situation grew too irksome to be borne; he rose, unregarded, and a secret impulse led him to the drawing-room. Here Adela, oppressed by the dejection of her spirits, had flung! herself upon a couch, and gradually sunk into a slumber: Oscar stepped lightly forward, and gazed on her with a tenderness as exquisite as a mother would have felt in viewing her sleeping babe; her cheek, which rested on her fair hand, was tinged with a blush, by the reflection of a crimson curtain through which the sun darted, and the traces of a tear were yet discernible upon it. "Never!" cried Oscar, with folded hands; as he hung over the interesting figure, "never may any tear, except that of soft sensibility for the woes of others, bedew the cheek of Adela--perfect as her goodness be her felicity--may every blessing she now enjoys be rendered permanent by that Power who smiles benignly upon innocence like hers! Oh! Adela, he who now prays for your felicity never will lose your idea, he will cherish it in his heart, to ameliorate his sorrows, and, from the dreary path which may be appointed for him to tread, sometimes look back to happier scenes!" Adela began to stir; she murmured out some inarticulate words, and, suddenly rising from the couch, beheld the motionless form of Fitzalan: haughtily regarding him, she asked the meaning of such an intrusion. "I did not mean indeed to intrude," said he; "but when I came and found you, can you wonder at my being fascinated to the spot?" The plaintive tone of his voice sunk deep into Adela's heart; she sighed heavily, and turning away seated herself in a window. Oscar followed; he forgot the character he had assumed in the morning, and gently seizing her hand, pressed it to his bosom: at this critical minute, when mutual sympathy appeared on the point of triumphing over duplicity, the door opened, and Colonel Belgrave appeared; from the instant of Oscar's departure, he had been on thorns to follow him, fearful of the consequences of a tete-à-tete, which was attended by the rest of the gentlemen.
Oscar was determined on not staying another night at Woodlawn, and declared his intention by asking Colonel Belgrave if he had any commands for Enniskillen, whither he meant to return immediately. "Why, hang it, boy," cried the general, in a rough grumbling voice, "since you have stayed so long, you may as well stay the night; the clouds look heavy over the lake, and threaten a storm." "No, sir," said Oscar, coloring, and speaking in the agitation of his heart, "the raging of a tempest would not make me stay." Adela sighed, but pride prevented her speaking. Fitzalan approached her: "Miss Honeywood," said he--he stopped--his voice was quite stifled. Adela, equally unable to speak, could only encourage him to proceed by a cold glance. "Lest I should not," resumed he, "have the happiness of again visiting Woodlawn, I cannot neglect this opportunity of assuring you that the attention, the obligations I have received in it, never can be forgotten by me; and that the severest pang my heart could possibly experience would result from thinking I lost any part of the friendship you and the general honored me with." Adela bent her head, and Oscar, seeing that she either would not, or could not speak, bowed to the general, and hurried from the room; the tears he had painfully suppressed gushed forth, and at the bottom of the stairs he leaned against the banisters for support; while he cast his eyes around, as if bidding a melancholy farewell to the scene of former happiness, a hasty footstep advanced, he started, and was precipitately retreating, when the voice of the butler stopped him; this was an old veteran, much attached to Oscar, and his usual attendant in all his fowling and fishing parties. As he waited at tea, he heard Oscar's declaration of departing with surprise, and followed him for the purpose of expressing that and his concern. "Why, Lord now, Mr. Fitzalan," cried he, "what do you mean by leaving us so oddly? But if you are so positive about going to Enniskillen to-night, let me order Standard to be prepared for you." Oscar for some time had had the command of the stables; but knowing as he did that he had lost the general's favor, he could no longer think of taking those liberties which kindness had once invited him to: he wrung the hand of his humble friend, and snatching his hat from the hall table, darted out of the house: he ran till he came to the mountain path, on the margin of the lake. "Never," cried he, distractedly striking his breast, "shall I see her here again! oh, never, never, my beloved Adela! shall your unfortunate Fitzalan wander with you through those enchanting scenes: oh, how transient was this gleam of felicity!"
Exhausted by the violence of his feelings, he fell into a kind of torpid state against the side of the mountain; the shadows of night were thickened by a coming storm; a cool blast howled amongst the hills, and agitated the gloomy waters of the lake; the rain, accompanied by sleet, began to fall, but the tempest raged unregarded around the child of sorrow, the wanderer of the night. Adela alone,
"Heard, felt, or seen,"
pervaded every thought. Some fishermen approaching to secure their boats, drove him from this situation, and he flew to the woods which screened one side of the house: by the time he reached it the storm had abated, and the moon, with a watery lustre, breaking through the clouds, rendered, by her feeble rays, the surrounding and beloved scenes just visible.
Adela's chamber looked into the wood, and the light from it riveted Oscar to a spot exactly opposite the window. "My Adela," he exclaimed, extending his arms as if she could have heard and flown into them; then dejectedly dropping them, "she thinks not on such a forlorn wretch as me; oh, what comfort to lay my poor distracted head for one moment on her soft bosom, and hear her sweet voice speak pity to my tortured heart!" Sinking with weakness from the conflicts of his mind, he sought an old roofless root-house in the centre of the wood, where he and Adela had often sat. "Well," said he, as he flung himself upon the damp ground, "many a brave fellow has had a worse bed; but God particularly protects the unsheltered head of the soldier and the afflicted." The twittering of the birds roused him from an uneasy slumber, or rather lethargy, into which he had fallen; and starting up he hastened to the road, fearful, as day was beginning to dawn, of being seen by any of General Honeywood's workmen. It was late ere he arrived at Enniskillen, and before he gained his room he was met by some of the officers, who viewed him with evident astonishment; his regimentals were quite spoiled; his fine hair, from which the rain had washed all the powder, hung dishevelled about his shoulders; the feather of his hat was broken, and the disorder of his countenance was not less suspicious than that of his dress; to their inquiries he stammered out something of a fall, and extricated himself with difficulty from them.
In an obscure village, fifteen miles from Enniskillen, a detachment of the regiment lay; the officer who commanded it disliked his situation extremely; but company being irksome to Oscar, it was just such a one as he desired, and he obtained leave to relieve him: the agitation of his mind, aided by the effects of the storm he had been exposed to, was too much for his constitution: immediately on arriving at his new quarters he was seized with a violent fever; an officer was obliged to be sent to do duty in his place, and it was long ere any symptoms appeared which could flatter those who attended him with hopes of his recovery; when able to sit up he was ordered to return to Enniskillen, where he could be immediately under the care of the regimental surgeon.
Oscar's servant accompanied him in the carriage, and as it drove slowly along he was agreeably surprised by a view of Mrs. Marlowe's orchard; he could not resist the wish of seeing her, and making inquiries relative to the inhabitants of Woodlawn; for with Mrs. Marlowe, I should previously say, he had not only formed an intimacy, but a sincere friendship. She was a woman of the most pleasing manners, and to her superintending care Adela was indebted for many of the graces she possessed, and at her cottage passed many delightful hours with Oscar.
The evening was far advanced when Oscar reached the orchard, and leaning on his servant, slowly walked up the hill: had a spectre appeared before the old lady, she could not have seemed more shocked than she now did, at the unexpected and emaciated appearance of her young friend. With all the tenderness of a fond mother, she pressed his cold hands between her own, and seated him by the cheerful fire which blazed on her hearth, then procured him refreshments that, joined to her conversation, a little revived his spirits; yet, at this moment the recollection of the first interview he ever had with her, recurred with pain to his heart. "Our friends at Woodlawn, I hope," cried he--he paused--but his eye expressed the inquiry his tongue was unable to make. "They are well and happy," replied Mrs. Marlowe; "and you know, I suppose, of all that has lately happened there?" "No, I know nothing; I am as one awoke from the slumbers of the grave." "Ere I inform you, then," cried Mrs. Marlowe, "let me, my noble Oscar, express my approbation, my admiration of your conduct, of that disinterested nature which preferred the preservation of constancy to the splendid independency offered to your acceptance." "What splendid independency did I refuse?" asked Oscar, wildly staring at her. "That which the general offered." "The general!" "Yes, and appointed Colonel Belgrave to declare his intentions." "Oh Heavens!" exclaimed Oscar, starting from his chair; "did the general indeed form such intentions, and has Belgrave then deceived me? He told me my attentions to Miss Honeywood were noticed and disliked! he filled my soul with unutterable anguish, and persuaded me to a false-hood which has plunged me into despair!" "He is a monster!" cried Mrs. Marlowe, "and you are a victim to his treachery." "Oh no! I will fly to the general, and open my whole soul to him; at his feet I will declare the false ideas of honor which misled me; I shall obtain his forgiveness, and Adela will yet be mine." "Alas! my child," cried Mrs. Marlowe, stopping him as he was hurrying from the room, "it is now too late; Adela can never be yours; she is married, and married unto Belgrave." Oscar staggered back a few paces, uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless at her feet. Mrs. Marlowe's cries brought in his servant, as well as her own, to his assistance; he was laid upon a bed, but it was long ere he showed any signs of recovery; at length, opening his heavy eyes, he sighed deeply, and exclaimed, "she is lost to me forever!"
The servants were dismissed, and the tender-hearted Mrs. Marlowe knelt beside him. "Oh! my friend," said she, "my heart sympathizes in your sorrow; but it is from your own fortitude, more than my sympathy, you must now derive resources of support." "Oh, horrible! to know the cup of happiness was at my lips, and that it was my own hand dashed it from me." "Such, alas!" said Mrs. Marlowe, sighing, as if touched at the moment with a similar pang of self-regret, "is the way-wardness of mortals; too often do they deprive themselves of the blessings of a bounteous Providence by their own folly and imprudence--oh! my friend, born as you were with a noble ingenuity of soul, never let that soul again be sullied by the smallest deviation from sincerity." "Do not aggravate my sufferings," said Oscar, "by dwelling on my error." "No, I would sooner die than be guilty of such barbarity; but admonition never sinks so deeply on the heart as in the hour of trial. Young, amiable as you are, life teems, I doubt not, with various blessings to you--blessings which you will know how to value properly, for early disappointment is the nurse of wisdom." "Alas!" exclaimed he, "what blessings?" "These, at least," cried Mrs. Marlowe, "are in your own power--the peace, the happiness, which ever proceeds from a mind conscious of having discharged the incumbent duties of life, and patiently submitted to its trials." "But do you think I will calmly submit to his baseness?" said Oscar, interrupting her. "No; Belgrave shall never triumph over me with impunity!" He started from the bed, and, rushing into the outer room, snatched his sword from the table on which he had flung it at his entrance. Mrs. Marlowe caught his arm. "Rash young man!" exclaimed she, "whither would you go--is it to scatter ruin and desolation around you? Suppose your vengeance was gratified, would that restore your happiness? Think you that Adela, the child of virtue and propriety, would ever notice the murderer of her husband, how unworthy, soever, that husband might be? Or that the old general, who so fondly planned your felicity, would forgive, if he could survive, the evils of his house, occasioned by you?" The sword dropped from the hand of the trembling Oscar. "I have been blameable," cried he, "in allowing myself to be transported to such an effort of revenge; I forgot everything but that; and as to my own life, deprived of Adela, it appears so gloomy as to be scarcely worth preserving."
Mrs. Marlowe seized this moment of yielding softness to advise and reason with him; her tears mingled with his, as she listened to his relation of Belgrave's perfidy; tears augmented by reflecting that Adela, the darling of her care and affections, was also a victim to it. She convinced Oscar, however, that it would be prudent to confine the fatal secret to their own breasts; the agitation of his mind was too much for the weak state of his health; the fever returned, and he felt unable to quit the cottage; Mrs. Marlowe prepared a bed for him, trusting he would soon be able to remove, but she was disappointed; it was long ere Oscar could quit the bed of sickness; she watched over him with maternal tenderness, while he, like a blasted flower, seemed hastening to decay.
The general was stung to the soul by the rejection of his offer, which he thought would have inspired the soul of Oscar with rapture and gratitude; never had his pride been so severely wounded--never before had he felt humbled in his own eyes: his mortifying reflections the colonel soon found means to remove, by the most delicate flattery, and the most assiduous attention, assuring the general that his conduct merited not the censure, but the applause of the world. The sophistry which can reconcile us to ourselves is truly pleasing; the colonel gradually became a favorite, and when he insinuated his attachment for Adela, was assured he should have all the general's interest with her. He was now more anxious than ever to have her advantageously settled; there was something so humiliating in the idea of her being rejected, that it drove him at times almost to madness: the colonel possessed all the advantages of fortune; but these weighed little in his favor with the general (whose notions we have already proved very disinterested), and much less with his daughter; on the first overture about him she requested the subject might be entirely dropped; the mention of love was extremely painful to her. Wounded by her disappointment in the severest manner, her heart required time to heal it; her feelings delicacy confined to her own bosom; but her languid eyes, and faded cheeks, denoted their poignancy. She avoided company, and was perpetually wandering through the romantic and solitary paths which she and Oscar had trod together; here more than ever she thought of him, and feared she had treated her poor companion unkindly; she saw him oppressed with sadness, and yet she had driven him from her by the repulsive coldness of her manner--a manner, too, which, from its being so suddenly assumed, could not fail of conveying an idea of her disappointment; this hurt her delicacy as much as her tenderness, and she would have given worlds, had she possessed them, to recall the time when she could have afforded consolation to Oscar, and convinced him that solely as a friend she regarded him. The colonel was not discouraged by her coldness; he was in the habit of conquering difficulties, and doubted not that he should overcome any she threw in his way; he sometimes, as if by chance, contrived to meet her in her rambles; his conversation was always amusing, and confined within the limits she had prescribed; but his eyes, by the tenderest expression, declared the pain he suffered from this proscription, and secretly pleased Adela, as it convinced her of the implicit deference he paid to her will.
Some weeks had elapsed since Oscar's voluntary exile from Woodlawn, and sanguine as were the colonel's hopes, he found without a stratagem they would not be realized, at least as soon as he expected: fertile in invention, he was not long in concerting one. He followed Adela one morning into the garden, and found her reading in the arbor; she laid aside the book at his entrance, and they chatted for some time on indifferent subjects. The colonel's servant at last appeared with a large packet of letters, which he presented to his master, who, with a hesitating air, was about putting them into his pocket, when Adela prevented him:--"Make no ceremony, colonel," said she, "with me; I shall resume my book till you have perused your letters." The colonel bowed for her permission and began; her attention was soon drawn from her book by the sudden emotion he betrayed; he started, and exclaimed, "Oh heavens! what a wretch!" then, as if suddenly recollecting his situation, looked at Adela, appeared confused, stammered out a few inarticulate words, and resumed his letter; when finished, he seemed to put it into his pocket, but in reality dropped it at his feet for the basest purpose. He ran over the remainder of the letters, and rising, entreated Adela to excuse his leaving her so abruptly, to answer some of them. Soon after his departure, Adela perceived an open letter lying at her feet; she immediately took it up with an intention of returning to the house with it, when the sight of her own name, in capital letters, and in the well-known hand of Fitzalan, struck her sight; she threw the letter on the table; an universal tremor seized her; she would have given any consideration to know why she was mentioned in a correspondence between Belgrave and Fitzalan: her eye involuntarily glanced at the letter; she saw some words in it which excited still more strongly her curiosity; it could no longer be repressed; she snatched it up, and read as follows:--
TO COLONEL BELGRAVE.
You accuse me of insensibility to, what you call the matchless charms of Adela, an accusation I acknowledge I merit; but why, because I have been too susceptible to those of another, which in the fond estimation of a lover (at least), appear infinitely superior. The general's offer was certainly a most generous and flattering one, and has gratified every feeling of my soul, by giving me an opportunity of sacrificing, at the shrine of love, ambition and self-interest; my disinterested conduct has confirmed me in the affections of my dear girl, whose vanity I cannot help thinking a little elevated by the triumph I have told her she obtained over Adela; but this is excusable indeed when we consider the object I relinquished for her. Would to heaven the general was propitious to your wishes; it would yield me much happiness to see you, my first and best friend, in possession of a treasure you have long sighed for. I shall, no doubt, receive a long lecture from you for letting the affair relative to Adela be made known, but faith, I could not resist telling my charmer. Heaven grant discretion may seal her lips; if not, I suppose I shall be summoned to formidable combat with the old general. Adieu! and believe me,
Dear colonel, ever yours,
OSCAR FITZALAN.
"Wretch!" cried the agitated Adela, dropping the letter (which it is scarcely necessary to say was an infamous forgery) in an agony of grief and indignation, "is this the base return we meet for our wishes to raise you to prosperity? Oh! cruel Fitzalan, is it Adela--who thought you so amiable, and who never thoroughly valued wealth, till she believed it had given her the power of conducing to your felicity--whom you hold up as an object of ridicule for unfeeling vanity to triumph over?" Wounded pride and tenderness raised a whirl of contending passions in her breast; she sunk upon the bench, her head rested on her hand, and sighs and tears burst from her. She now resolved to inform Fitzalan she knew the baseness of his conduct, and sting his heart with keen reproaches: now resolved to pass it over in silent contempt. While thus fluctuating, the colonel softly advanced and stood before her: in the tumult of her mind she had quite forgot the probability of his returning, and involuntarily screamed and started at his appearance. By her confusion, she doubted not but he would suspect her of having perused the fatal letter. Oppressed by the idea, her head sunk on her bosom, and her face was covered with blushes. "What a careless fellow I am!" said the colonel, taking up the letter, which he then pretended to perceive; he glanced at Adela. "Curse it!" continued he, "I would rather have had all the letters read than this one." He suspects me, thought Adela; her blushes faded, and she fell back on her seat, unable to support the oppressive idea of having acted against the rules of propriety. Belgrave flew to support her: "Loveliest of women!" he exclaimed, and with all the softness he could assume, "what means this agitation?" "I have been suddenly affected," answered Adela, a little recovering, and, rising, she motioned to return to the house. "Thus," answered the colonel, "you always fly me; but go, Miss Honeywood; I have no right, no attraction, indeed, to detain you: yet, be assured," and he summoned a tear to his aid, while he pressed her hand to his bosom, "a heart more truly devoted to you than mine you can never meet; but I see the subject is painful, and again I resume the rigid silence you have imposed on me; go, then, most lovely and beloved, and since I dare not aspire to a higher, allow me, at least, the title of your friend." "Most willingly," said Adela, penetrated by his gentleness. She was now tolerably recovered, and he prevailed on her to walk instead of returning to the house; she felt soothed by his attention; his insidious tongue dropped manna; he gradually stole her thoughts from painful recollections; the implicit respect he paid her will flattered her wounded pride, and her gratitude was excited by knowing he resented the disrespectful mention of her name in Fitzalan's letter; in short, she felt esteem and respect for him--contempt and resentment for Oscar. The colonel was too penetrating not to discover her sentiments, and too artful not to take advantage of them. Had Adela, indeed, obeyed the real feelings of her heart, she would have declared against marrying; but pride urged her to a step which would prove to Fitzalan his conduct had not affected her. The general rejoiced at obtaining her consent, and received a promise that for some time she should not be separated from him. The most splendid preparations were made for the nuptials; but though Adela's resentment remained unabated, she soon began to wish she had not been so precipitate in obeying it; an involuntary repugnance rose in her mind against the connection she was about forming, and honor alone kept her from declining it forever: her beloved friend, Mrs. Marlowe, supported her throughout the trying occasion, and, in an inauspicious hour, Adela gave her hand to the perfidious Belgrave.
About a fortnight after her nuptials, she heard from some of the officers of Oscar's illness; she blushed at his name. "Faith," cried one of them, "Mrs. Marlowe is a charming woman; it is well he got into such snug quarters: I really believe elsewhere he would have given up the ghost." "Poor fellow," said Adela, sighing heavily, yet without being sensible of it. Belgrave rose, he caught her eye, a dark frown lowered on his brow, and he looked as if he would pierce into the recesses of her heart: she shuddered, and for the first time, felt the tyranny she had imposed upon herself. As Mrs. Marlowe chose to be silent on the subject, she resolved not to mention it to her; but she sent every day to invite her to Woodlawn, expecting by this to hear something of Oscar; but she was disappointed. At the end of a fortnight, Mrs. Marlowe made her appearance; she looked pale and thin. Adela gently reproved her for her long absence, trusting this would oblige her to allege the reason of it; but no such thing. Mrs. Marlowe began to converse on indifferent subjects; Adela suddenly grew peevish, and sullenly sat at her work.
In a few days after Mrs. Marlowe's visit, Adela, one evening immediately after dinner, ordered the carriage to the cottage; by this time she supposed Oscar had left it, and flattered herself, in the course of conversation, she should learn whether he was perfectly recovered ere he departed. Proposing to surprise her friend, she stole by a winding path to the cottage, and softly opened the parlor door; but what were her feelings, when she perceived Oscar sitting at the fireside with Mrs. Marlowe, engaged in a deep conversation! She stopped, unable to advance. Mrs. Marlowe embraced and led her forward. The emotions of Oscar were not inferior to Adela's. He attempted to rise, but could not. A glance from the expressive eyes of Mrs. Marlowe, which seemed to conjure him not to yield to a weakness which would betray his real sentiments to Adela, somewhat reanimated him. He rose, and tremblingly approached her. "Allow me, madam," cried he, "to----" The sentence died unfinished on his lips; he had not power to offer congratulations on an event which had probably destroyed the happiness of Adela, as well as his own. "Oh! a truce with compliments," said Mrs. Marlowe, forcing herself to assume a cheerful air; "prithee, good folks, let us be seated, and enjoy, this cold evening, the comforts of a good fire." She forced the trembling, the almost fainting, Adela to take some wine, and by degrees the flutter of her spirits and Oscar's abated, but the sadness of their countenances, the anguish of their souls, increased. The cold formality, the distant reserve they both assumed, filled each with sorrow and regret. So pale, so emaciated, so woe-begone did Fitzalan appear, so much the son of sorrow and despair, that had he half murdered Adela, she could not at that moment have felt for him any other sentiments than those of pity and compassion. Mrs. Marlowe, in a laughing way, told her of the troubles she had had with him: "for which, I assure you," said she, "he rewards me badly; for the moment he was enlarged from the nursery, he either forgot or neglected all the rules I had laid down for him. Pray do join your commands to mine, and charge him to take more care of himself." "I would, most willingly," cried Adela, "if I thought they would influence him to do so." "Influence!" repeated Oscar, emphatically; "oh, heavens!" then starting up, he hurried to the window, as if to hide and to indulge his melancholy. The scene he viewed from it was dreary and desolate. It was now the latter end of autumn; the evening was cold, a savage blast howled from the hills, and the sky was darkened by a coming storm. Mrs. Marlowe roused him from his deep reverie. "I am sure," said she, "the prospect you view from the window can have no great attractions at present." "And yet," cried he, "there is something sadly pleasing in it: the leafless trees, the fading flowers of autumn, excite in my bosom a kind of mournful sympathy; they are emblems to me of him whose tenderest hopes have been disappointed; but, unlike him, they, after a short period, shall again flourish with primeval beauty." "Nonsense," exclaimed Mrs. Marlowe; "your illness has affected your spirits; but this gloom will vanish long before my orchard reassumes its smiling appearance, and haply attracts another smart redcoat to visit an old woman." "Oh! with what an enthusiasm of tenderness," cried Oscar, "shall I ever remember the dear, though dangerous, moment I first entered this cottage!" "Now, no flattery, Oscar," said Mrs. Marlowe; "I know your fickle sex too well to believe I have made a lasting impression; why, the very first fine old woman you meet at your ensuing quarters, will, I dare say, have similar praise bestowed on her." "No," replied he, with a languid smile; "I can assure you, solemnly, the impression which has been made on my heart will never be effaced." He stole a look at Adela; her head sunk upon her bosom, and her heart began to beat violently. Mrs. Marlowe wished to change the subject entirely; she felt the truest compassion for the unhappy young couple, and had fervently desired their union; but since irrevocably separated, she wished to check any intimation of a mutual attachment, which now could answer no purpose but that of increasing their misery. She rung for tea, and endeavored by her conversation to enliven the tea-table; the effort however, was not seconded. "You have often," cried she, addressing Adela, as they again drew their chairs round the fire, "desired to hear the exact particulars of my life; unconquerable feelings of regret hitherto prevented my acquiescing in your desire; but, as nothing better now offers for passing away the hours, I will, if you please, relate them." "You will oblige me by so doing," cried Adela; "my curiosity, you know, has been long excited."
Chapter XIII
"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay; I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay."--GOLDSMITH.
To begin, then, as they say in a novel, without further preface, I was the only child of a country curate, in the southern part of England, who, like his wife, was of a good, but reduced family. Contented dispositions and an agreeable neighborhood, ready on every occasion to oblige them, rendered them, in their humble situations, completely happy. I was the idol of both their hearts; every one told my mother I should grow up a beauty, and she, poor simple woman, believed the flattering tale. Naturally ambitious, and somewhat romantic, she expected nothing less than my attaining, by my charms, an elevated situation; to fit me to it, therefore, according to her idea, she gave me all the showy, instead of solid, advantages of education. My father being a meek, or rather an indolent man, submitted entirely to her direction; thus, without knowing the grammatical part of my own language, I was taught to gabble bad French by myself; and, instead of mending or making my clothes, to flourish upon catgut and embroider satin. I was taught dancing by a man who kept a cheap school for that purpose in the village; music I could not aspire to, my mother's finances being insufficient to purchase an instrument; she was therefore obliged to content herself with my knowing the vocal part of that delightful science, and instructed me in singing a few old-fashioned airs, with a thousand graces, in her opinion at least.
To make me excel by my dress, as well as my accomplishments, all the misses of the village, the remains of her finery were cut and altered into every form which art or ingenuity could suggest; and, Heaven forgive me, but my chief inducement in going to church on a Sunday was to exhibit my flounced silk petticoat and painted chip hat.
When I attained my sixteenth year, my mother thought me, and supposed every one else must do the same, the most perfect creature in the world. I was lively, thoughtless, vain, and ambitious to an extravagant degree; yet, truly innocent in my disposition, and often, forgetting the appearance I had been taught to assume, indulged the natural gayety of my heart, and in a game of hide-and-go-seek, amongst the haycocks in a meadow, by moonlight, enjoyed perfect felicity.
Once a week, accompanied by my mother, I attended the dancing-master's school, to practise country dances. One evening we had just concluded a set, and were resting ourselves, when an elegant youth, in a fashionable riding dress, entered the room. His appearance at once excited admiration and surprise; never shall I forget the palpitation of my heart at his approach; every girl experienced the same, every cheek was flushed, and every eye sparkled with hope and expectation. He walked round the room, with an easy, unembarrassed air, as if to take a survey of the company; he stopped by a very pretty girl, the miller's daughter--good heavens! what were my agonies! My mother, too, who sat beside me, turned pale, and would actually, I believe, have fainted, had he taken any farther notice of her; fortunately he did not, but advanced. My eyes caught his; he again paused, looked surprised and pleased, and, after a moment, passed in seeming consideration, bowed with the utmost elegance, and requested the honor of my hand for the ensuing dance. My politeness had hitherto only been in theory; I arose, dropped him a profound curtsey, assured him the honor would be all on my side, and I was happy to grant his request. He smiled, I thought, a little archly, and coughed to avoid laughing; I blushed, and felt embarrassed; but he led me to the head of the room to call a dance, and my triumph over my companions so exhilarated my spirits, that I immediately lost all confusion.
I had been engaged to a young farmer, and he was enraged, not only at my breaking my engagement without his permission, but at the superior graces of my partner, who threatened to be a formidable rival to him. "By jingo!" said Clod, coming up to me in a surly manner, "I think, Miss Fanny, you have not used me quite genteelly; I don't see why this here fine spark should take the lead of us all." "Creature!" cried I, with an ineffable look of contempt, which he could not bear, and retired grumbling. My partner could no longer refrain from laughing; the simplicity of my manners, notwithstanding the airs I endeavored to assume, highly delighted him. "No wonder," cried he, "the poor swain should be mortified at losing the hand of his charming Fanny."
The dancing over, we rejoined my mother, who was on thorns to begin a conversation with the stranger, that she might let him know we were not to be ranked with the present company. "I am sure, sir," said she, "a gentleman of your elegant appearance must feel rather awkward in the present party; it is so with us, as, indeed, it must be with every person of fashion; but, in an obscure little village like this, we must not be too nice in our society, except, like a hermit, we could do without any." The stranger assented to whatever she said, and accepted an invitation to sup with us; my mother instantly sent an intimation of her will to my father, to have, not the fatted calf, indeed, but the fatted duck prepared; and he and the maid used such expedition, that, by the time we returned, a neat, comfortable supper was ready to lay on the table. Mr. Marlowe, the stranger's name, as he informed me, was all animation and affability: it is unnecessary to say, that my mother, father, and myself, were all complaisance, delight, and attention. On departing, he asked, and obtained, permission, of course, to renew his visit the next day; and my mother immediately set him down as her future son-in-law.
As everything is speedily communicated in such a small village as we resided in, we learned on the preceding evening he had stopped at the inn, and, hearing music, had inquired from whence it proceeded, and had gone out of curiosity to the dance. We also learned that his attendants reported him to be heir to a large fortune; this report, vain as I was, was almost enough of itself to engage my heart; judge, then, whether it was not an easy conquest to a person, who, besides the above-mentioned attraction, possessed those of a graceful figure and cultivated mind. He visited continually at our cottage; and I, uncultivated as I was, daily strengthened myself in his affections. In conversing with him, I forgot the precepts of vanity and affectation, and obeyed the dictates of nature and sensibility. He soon declared the motives of his visits to me--"to have immediately demanded my hand" he said, "would have gratified the tenderest wish of his soul; but, in his present situation, that was impossible--left, at an early age, destitute and distressed, by the death of his parents, an old whimsical uncle, married to a woman equally capricious, had adopted him as heir to their large possessions--he found it difficult," he said, "to submit to their ill-humor, and was confident, if he took any step against their inclinations, he should forever forfeit their favor; therefore, if my parents would allow a reciprocal promise to pass between us, binding each to each, the moment he became master of expected fortune, or obtained an independence, he would make me a partaker of it." They consented, and he enjoined us to the strictest secrecy, saying, one of his attendants was placed about him as a kind of spy. He had hitherto deceived him with respect to us, declaring my father was an intimate friend, and that his uncle knew he intended visiting him. But my unfortunate vanity betrayed the secret it was so material for me to keep. I was bound indeed not to reveal it. One morning a young girl who had been an intimate acquaintance of mine till I knew Marlowe, came to see me, "Why, Fanny," cried she, "you have given us all up for Mr. Marlowe; take care, my dear, he makes you amends for the loss of your other friends." "I shall take your advice," said I, with a smile and a conceited toss of my head. "Faith, for my part," continued she, "I think you were very foolish not to secure a good settlement for yourself with Clod." "With Clod!" repeated I, with the utmost haughtiness. "Lord, child, you forget who I am!" "Who are you?" exclaimed she, provoked at my insolence; "oh, yes, to be sure, I forget that you are the daughter of a poor country curate, with more pride in your head than money in your purse." "Neither do I forget," said I, "that your ignorance is equal to your impertinence; if I am the daughter of a poor country curate, I am the affianced wife of a rich man, and as much elevated by expectation, as spirit, above you."
Our conversation was repeated throughout the village, and reached the ears of Marlowe's attendant, who instantly developed the real motive which detained him so long in the village. He wrote to his uncle an account of the whole affair; the consequence of this was a letter to poor Marlowe, full of the bitterest reproaches, charging him, without delay, to return home. This was like a thunder-stroke to us all; but there was no alternative between obeying, or forfeiting his uncle's favor. "I fear, my dear Fanny," cried he, as he folded me to his bosom, a little before his departure, "it will be long ere we shall meet again; nay, I also fear I shall be obliged to promise not to write; if both these fears are realized, impute not either absence or silence to a want of the tenderest affection for you." He went, and with him all my happiness! My mother, shortly after his departure, was attacked by a nervous fever, which terminated her days; my father, naturally of weak spirits and delicate constitution, was so shocked by the sudden death of his beloved and faithful companion, that he sunk beneath his grief. The horrors of my mind I cannot describe; I seemed to stand alone in the world, without one friendly hand to prevent my sinking into the grave, which contained the dearest objects of my love. I did not know where Marlowe lived, and, even if I had, durst not venture an application, which might be the means of ruining him. The esteem of my neighbors I had forfeited by my conceit; they paid no attention but what common humanity dictated, merely to prevent my perishing; and that they made me sensibly feel. In this distress, I received an invitation from a school-fellow of mine, who had married a rich farmer about forty miles from our village, to take up my residence with her till I was sufficiently recovered to fix on some plan for subsistence. I gladly accepted the offer, and after paying a farewell visit to the grave of my regretted parents, I set off in the cheapest conveyance I could find to her habitation, with all my worldly treasure packed in a portmanteau.
With my friend I trusted I should enjoy a calm and happy asylum till Marlowe was able to fulfil his promise, and allow me to reward her kindness; but this idea she soon put to flight, by informing me, as my health returned, I must think of some method for supporting myself. I started, as at the utter annihilation of all my hopes; for, vain and ignorant of the world, I imagined Marlowe would never think of me if once disgraced by servitude. I told her I understood little of anything except fancy work. She was particularly glad, she said, to hear I knew that, as it would, in all probability, gain me admittance to the service of a rich old lady in the neighborhood, who had long been seeking for a person who could read agreeably and do fancy works, with which she delighted to ornament her house. She was a little whimsical, to be sure, she added, but well-timed flattery might turn those whims to advantage; and, if I regarded my reputation, I should not reject so respectable a protection. There was no alternative; I inquired more particularly about her, but how great was my emotion, when I learned she was the aunt of Marlowe. My heart throbbed with exquisite delight at the idea of being in the same house with him; besides, the service of his aunt would not, I flattered myself, degrade me as much in his eyes as that of another person's; it was necessary, however, my name should be concealed, and I requested my friend to comply with my wish in that respect. She rallied me about my pride, which she supposed had suggested the request, but promised to comply with it; she had no doubt but her recommendation would be sufficient to procure me immediate admittance, and, accordingly, taking some of my work with me, I proceeded to the habitation of Marlowe. It was an antique mansion, surrounded with neat-clipped hedges, level lawns, and formal plantations. Two statues, cast in the same mould, and resembling nothing either in heaven, earth, or sea, stood grinning horribly upon the pillars of a massy gate, as if to guard the entrance from impertinent intrusion. On knocking, an old porter appeared. I gave him my message, but he, like the statues, seemed stationary, and would not, I believe, have stirred from his situation to deliver an embassy from the king. He called, however, to a domestic, who, happening to be a little deaf, was full half an hour before he heard him; at last, I was ushered up stairs into an apartment, from the heat of which one might have conjectured it was under the torrid zone. Though in the middle of July, a heavy hot fire burned in the grate; a thick carpet, representing birds, beasts, and flowers, was spread on the floor, and the windows, closely screwed down, were heavy with woodwork, and darkened with dust. The master and mistress of the mansion, like Darby and Joan, sat in arm-chairs on each side of the fire; three dogs, and as many cats, slumbered at their feet. He was leaning on a spider-table, poring over a voluminous book, and she was stitching a counterpane. Sickness and ill-nature were visible in each countenance. "So!" said she, raising a huge pair of spectacles at my entrance, and examining me from head to foot, "you are come from Mrs. Wilson's; why, bless me, child, you are quite too young for any business; pray, what is your name, and where do you come from?" I was prepared for these questions, and told her the truth, only concealing my real name, and the place of my nativity. "Well, let me see those works of yours," cried she. I produced them, and the spectacles were again drawn down. "Why, they are neat enough, to be sure," said she, "but the design is bad--very bad, indeed: there is taste, there is execution!" directing me to some pictures, in heavy gilt frames, hung round the room. I told her, with sincerity, "I had never seen anything like them." "To be sure, child," exclaimed she, pleased at what she considered admiration in me, "it is running a great risk to take you; but if you think you can conform to the regulations of my house, I will, from compassion, and as you are recommended by Mrs. Wilson, venture to engage you; but, remember, I must have no gad-about, no fly-flapper, no chatterer, in my family. You must be decent in your dress and carriage, discreet in your words, industrious at your work, and satisfied with the indulgence of going to church on a Sunday." I saw I was about entering upon a painful servitude; but the idea of its being sweetened by the sympathy of Marlowe a little reconciled me to it.
On promising all she desired, everything was settled for my admission into her family, and she took care I should perform the promises I made her. I shall not recapitulate the various trials I underwent from her austerity and peevishness; suffice it to say, my patience, as well as taste, underwent a perfect martyrdom. I was continually seated at a frame, working pictures of her own invention, which were everything that was hideous in nature. I was never allowed to go out, except on a Sunday to church, or on a chance evening when it was too dark to distinguish colors.
Marlowe was absent on my entering the family, nor durst I ask when he was expected. My health and spirits gradually declined from my close confinement. When allowed, as I have before said, of a chance time to go out, instead of enjoying the fresh air, I have sat down to weep over scenes of former happiness. I dined constantly with the old housekeeper. She informed me, one day, that Mr. Marlowe, her master's young heir, who had been absent some time on a visit, was expected home on the ensuing day. Fortunately, the good dame was too busily employed to notice my agitation. I retired as soon as possible from the table, in a state of indescribable pleasure. Never shall I forget my emotions, when I heard the trampling of his horse's feet, and saw him enter the house! Vainly I endeavored to resume my work; my hands trembled, and I sunk back on my chair, to indulge the delightful idea of an interview with him, which I believed to be inevitable. My severe task-mistress soon awakened me from me delightful dream; she came to tell me: "I must confine myself to my own and the housekeeper's room, which, to a virtuous, discreet maiden, such as I appeared to be, she supposed would be no hardship, while her nephew, who was a young, perhaps rather a wild young man, remained in the house: when he again left it, which would soon be the case, I should regain my liberty." My heart sunk within me at her words, but, when the first shock was over; I consoled myself by thinking I should be able to elude her vigilance. I was, however, mistaken; she and the housekeeper were perfect Arguses. To be in the same house with Marlowe, yet without his knowing it, drove me almost distracted.
I at last thought of an expedient, which, I hoped, would effect the discovery I wanted. I had just finished a piece of work, which my mistress was delighted with. It was an enormous flower-basket, mounted on the back of a cat, which held beneath its paw a trembling mouse. The raptures the old lady expressed at seeing her own design so ably executed encouraged me to ask permission to embroider a picture of my own designing, for which I had the silks lying by me. She complied, and I set about it with alacrity. I copied my face and figure as exactly as I could, and, in mourning drapery and a pensive attitude, placed the little image by a rustic grave, in the church-yard of my native village, at the head of which, half embowered in trees, appeared the lovely cottage of my departed parents. These well-known objects, I thought, would revive, if indeed she was absent from it, the idea of poor Fanny in the mind of Marlowe. I presented the picture to my mistress, who was pleased with the present, and promised to have it framed. The next day while I sat at dinner, the door suddenly opened, and Marlowe entered the room. I thought I should have fainted. My companion dropped her knife and fork with great precipitation, and Marlowe told her he was very ill, and wanted a cordial from her. She rose with a dissatisfied air, to comply with his request. He, taking this opportunity of approaching a little nearer, darted a glance of pity and tenderness, and softly whispered--"To-night, at eleven o'clock, meet me in the front parlor."
You may conceive how tardily the hours passed till the appointed time came, when, stealing to the parlor, I found Marlowe expecting me. He folded me to his heart, and his tears mingled with mine, as I related my melancholy tale. "You are now, my Fanny!" he cried, "entirely mine; deprived of the protection of your tender parents I shall endeavor to fulfil the sacred trust they reposed in my honor, by securing mine to you, as far as lies in my power. I was not mistaken," continued he, "in the idea I had formed of the treatment I should receive from my flinty-hearted relations on leaving you. Had I not promised to drop all correspondence with you, I must have relinquished all hopes of their favor. Bitter, indeed," cried he, while a tear started in his eye, "is the bread of dependence. Ill could my soul submit to the indignities I received; but I consoled myself throughout them, by the idea of future happiness with my Fanny. Had I known her situation (which, indeed, it was impossible I should, as my uncle's spy attended me wherever I went), no dictate of prudence would have prevented my flying to her aid!" "Thank Heaven, then, you were ignorant of it," said I. "My aunt," he proceeded, "showed me your work, lavishing the highest encomiums on it. I glanced my eye carelessly upon it, but, in a moment, how was that careless eye attracted by the well known objects presented to it! this, I said to my heart, can only be Fanny's work. I tried to discover from my aunt whether my conjectures were wrong, but without success. When I retired to dress, I asked my servant if there had been any addition to the family during my absence; he said a young woman was hired to do fine works, but she never appeared among the servants."
Marlowe proceeded to say, "he could not bear I should longer continue in servitude, and that without delay he was resolved to unite his fate to mine." I opposed this resolution a little; but soon, too self-interested, I fear, acquiesced in it. It was agreed I should inform his aunt my health would no longer permit my continuing in her family, and that I should retire to a village six miles off, where Marlowe undertook to bring a young clergyman, a particular friend of his, to perform the ceremony. Our plan, as settled, was carried into execution, and I became the wife of Marlowe. I was now, you will suppose, elevated to the pinnacle of happiness; I was so, indeed, but my own folly precipitated me from it. The secrecy I was compelled to observe mortified me exceedingly, as I panted to emerge from the invidious cloud which had so long concealed my beauty and accomplishments from a world that I was confident, if seen, would pay them the homage they merited. The people with whom I lodged had been obliged by Marlowe, and, therefore, from interest and gratitude, obeyed the injunction he gave them, of keeping my residence at their house a secret; they believed, or affected to believe, I was an orphan committed to his care, whom his uncle would be displeased to know he had taken under his protection. Three or four times a week I received stolen visits from Marlowe, when, one day (after a month had elapsed in this manner) standing at the parlor window, I saw Mrs. Wilson walking down the village. I started back, but too late to escape her observation; she immediately bolted into the room with all the eagerness of curiosity. I bore her first interrogatories tolerably well, but when she upbraided me for leaving the excellent service she had procured for me, for duplicity in saying I was going to another, and for my indiscretion in respect to Marlowe, I lost all command of my temper, and, remembering the inhumanity with which she had forced me into servitude, I resolved to mortify her completely, by assuming all the airs I had heretofore so ridiculously aspired to. Lolling in my chair, with an air of the most careless indifference, I bid her no longer petrify me with her discourse. This raised all the violence of rage, and she plainly told me, "from my conduct with Marlowe, I was unworthy her notice." "Therefore," cried I, forgetting every dictate of prudence, "his wife will neither desire nor receive it in future." "His wife!" she repeated, with a look of scorn and incredulity. I produced the certificate of my marriage; thus, from an impulse of vanity and resentment, putting myself in the power of a woman, a stranger to every liberal feeling, and whose mind was inflamed with envy towards me. The hint I forced myself at parting to give her, to keep the affair secret, only determined her more strongly to reveal it. The day after her visit, Marlowe entered my apartment--pale, agitated, and breathless, he sunk into a chair. A pang, like conscious guilt, smote my heart, and I trembled as I approached him. He repulsed me when I attempted to touch his hand. "Cruel, inconsiderate woman!" he said, "to what dreadful lengths has your vanity hurried you; it has drawn destruction upon your own head as well as mine!" Shame and remorse tied my tongue; had I spoken, indeed, I could not have vindicated myself, and I turned aside and wept. Marlowe, mild, tender, and adoring, could not long retain resentment; he started from his chair, and clasped me to his bosom. "Oh, Fanny!" he cried, "though you have ruined me, you are still dear as ever to me."
This tenderness affected me even more than reproaches, and tears and sighs declared my penitence. His expectations relative to his uncle were finally destroyed, on being informed of our marriage, which Mrs. Wilson lost no time in telling him. He burned his will, and immediately made another in favor of a distant relation. On hearing this intelligence, I was almost distracted; I flung myself at my husband's feet, implored his pardon, yet declared I could never forgive myself. He grew more composed upon the increase of my agitation, as if purposely to soothe my spirits, assuring me, that, though his uncle's favor was lost, he had other friends on whom he greatly depended. We set off for London, and found his dependence was not ill-placed; for, soon after his arrival, he obtained a place of considerable emolument in one of the public offices. My husband delighted in gratifying me, though I was often both extravagant and whimsical, and almost ever on the wing for admiration and amusement. I was reckoned a pretty woman, and received with rapture the nonsense and adulation addressed to me. I became acquainted with a young widow, who concealed a depraved heart under a specious appearance of innocence and virtue, and by aiding the vices of others, procured the means of gratifying her own; yet so secret were all her transactions, that calumny had not yet attacked her, and her house was the rendezvous of the most fashionable people. My husband, who did not dislike her manner, encouraged our intimacy, and at her parties I was noticed by a young nobleman, then at the head of the ton. He declared I was one of the most charming objects he had ever beheld, and, for such a declaration, I thought him the most polite I had ever known. As Lord T. condescended to wear my chains, I must certainly, I thought, become quite the rage. My transports, however, were a little checked by the grave remonstrances of my husband, who assured me Lord T. was a famous, or rather an infamous libertine; and that, if I did not avoid his lordship's particular attentions, he must insist on my relinquishing the widow's society. This I thought cruel, but I saw him resolute, and promised to act as he desired--a promise I never adhered to, except when he was present. I was now in a situation to promise an increase of family, and Marlowe wished me to nurse the child. The tenderness of my heart seconding his wish, I resolved on obeying it; but when the widow heard my intention she laughed at it, and said it was absolutely ridiculous, for the sake of a squalling brat, to give up all the pleasures of life; besides, it would be much better taken care of in some of the villages about London. I denied this; still, however, she dwelt on the sacrifices I must make, the amusements I must give up, and at last completely conquered my resolution. I pretended to Marlowe my health was too delicate to allow me to bear such a fatigue and he immediately sacrificed his own inclinations to mine. I have often wondered at the kind of infatuation with which he complied with all my desires. My little girl, almost as soon as born, was sent from me; but, on being able to go out again, I received a considerable shock, from hearing my noble admirer was gone to the Continent, owing to a trifling derangement in his affairs. The vain pursuits of pleasure and dissipation were still continued. Three years passed in this manner, during which I had a son, and my little girl was brought home. I have since often felt astonished at the cold indifference with which I regarded my Marlowe, and our lovely babe, on whom he doted with all the enthusiasm of tenderness. Alas! vanity had then absorbed my heart, and deadened every feeling of nature and sensibility; it is the parent of self-love and apathy, and degrades those who harbor it below humanity.
Lord T. now returned from the Continent; he swore my idea had never been absent from his mind, and that I was more charming than ever; while I thought him, if possible, more polite and engaging. Again my husband remonstrated. Sometimes I seemed to regard these remonstrances, sometimes protested I would not submit to such unnecessary control. I knew, indeed, that my intentions were innocent, and I believed I might safely indulge my vanity, without endangering either my reputation or peace. About this time Marlowe received a summons to attend a dying friend four miles from London. Our little girl was then in a slight fever, which had alarmed her father, and confined me most unwillingly, I must confess, to the house. Marlowe, on the point of departing, pressed me to his breast: "My heart, my beloved Fanny!" said he, "feels unusually heavy. I trust the feeling is no presentiment of approaching ill. Oh! my Fanny! on you and my babe, I rest for happiness--take care of our little cherub, and above all (his meek eye encountering mine), take care of yourself, that, with my accustomed rapture, I may, on my return, receive you to my arms." There was something so solemn, and so tender, in this address, that my heart melted, and my tears mingled with those which trickled down his pale checks. For two days I attended my child assiduously, when the widow made her appearance. She assured me I should injure myself by such close confinement, and that my cheeks were already faded by it. She mentioned a delightful masquerade which was to be given that night, and for which Lord T. had presented her with tickets for me and herself; but she declared, except I would accompany her, she would not go. I had often wished to go to a masquerade; I now, however, declined this opportunity of gratifying my inclination, but so faintly, as to prompt a renewal of her solicitations, to which I at last yielded; and, committing my babe to the care of a servant, set off with the widow to a warehouse to choose dresses. Lord T. dined with us, and we were all in the highest spirits imaginable: about twelve we went in his chariot to the Haymarket, and I was absolutely intoxicated with his flattery, and the dazzling objects around me. At five we quitted this scene of gayety. The widow took a chair; I would have followed her example, but my Lord absolutely lifted me into his chariot, and there began talking in a strain which provoked my contempt, and excited my apprehensions. I expressed my displeasure in tears, which checked his boldness, and convinced him he had some difficulties yet to overcome ere he completed his designs. He made his apologies with so much humility, that I was soon appeased, and prevailed on to accept them. We arrived at the widow's house in as much harmony as we left it; the flags were wet, and Lord T. insisted on carrying me into the house. At the door I observed a man muffled up, but as no one noticed him, I thought no more about it. We sat down to supper in high spirits, and chatted for a considerable time about our past amusements. His lordship said: "After a little sleep we should recruit ourselves by a pleasant jaunt to Richmond, where he had a charming villa." We agreed to his proposal, and retired to rest. About noon we arose; and, while I was dressing myself for the projected excursion, a letter was brought in to me. "Good Lord! Halcot!" exclaimed I, turning to the widow, "if Marlowe is returned, what will become of me?" "Oh! read, my dear creature!" cried she impatiently, "and then we can think of excuses." "I have the letter here," continued Mrs. Marlowe, laying her hand to her breast, and drawing it forth after a short pause, "I laid it to my heart to guard it against future folly."
THE LETTER.
The presages of my heart were but too true--we parted never to meet again. Oh! Fanny, beloved of my soul, how are you lost to yourself and Marlowe! The independence, splendor, riches, which I gave up for your sake, were mean sacrifices, in my estimation, to the felicity I fondly expected to have enjoyed with you through life. Your beauty charmed my mind, but it was your simplicity captivated my heart. I took, as I thought, the perfect child of innocence and sincerity to my bosom; resolved, from duty, as well as from inclination, to shelter you in that bosom, to the utmost of my power, from every adverse storm. Whenever you were indisposed, what agonies did I endure! yet, what I then dreaded, could I have possibly foreseen, would have been comparative happiness to my present misery; for, oh! my Fanny, far preferable would it have been to behold you in the arms of death than infamy.
I returned immediately after witnessing the last pangs of my friend--oppressed with the awful scene of death, yet cheering my spirits by an anticipation of the consolation I should receive from my Fanny's sympathy. Good God! what was my horror, when I found my little babe, instead of being restored to health by a mother's care, nearly expiring through her neglect! The angel lay gasping on her bed, deserted by the mercenary wretch to whose care she was consigned. I inquired, and the fatal truth rushed upon my soul; yet, when the first tumult of passion had subsided, I felt that, without yet stronger proofs, I could not abandon you. Alas! too soon did I receive those proofs. I traced you, Fanny, through your giddy round, till I saw you borne in the arms of the vile Lord T. into the house of his vile paramour. You will wonder, perhaps, I did not tear you from his grasp. Could such a procedure have restored you to me, with all your unsullied innocence, I should not have hesitated; but that was impossible, and my eyes then gazed upon Fanny for the last time. I returned to my motherless babe, and, I am not ashamed to say, I wept over it with all the agonies of a fond and betrayed heart.
Ere I bid an irrevocable adieu, I would, if possible, endeavor to convince you that conscience cannot always be stifled--that illicit love is constantly attended by remorse and disappointment; for, when familiarity, or disease, has diminished the charms which excited it, the frail fetters of admiration are broken by him who looks only to an exterior for delight; if, indeed, your conscience should not be awakened till this hour of desertion comes, when it does arrive, you may, perhaps, think of Marlowe. Yes, Fanny, when your cheeks are faded by care, when your wit is enfeebled by despondency, you may think of him whose tenderness would have outlived both time and change, and supported you, without abatement, through every stage of life.
To stop short in the career of vice is, they say, the noblest effort of virtue. May such an effort be yours; and may you yet give joy to the angels of heaven, who, we are taught to believe, rejoice over them that truly repent! That want should strew no thorns in the path of penitence, all that I could take from my babe I have assigned to you. Oh! my dear culprit, remember the precepts of your early youth--of those who, sleeping in the dust, are spared the bitter tear of anguish, such as I now shed--and, ere too late, expiate your errors. In the solitude to which I am hastening, I shall continually pray for you; and when my child raises its spotless hands to Heaven, it shall implore its mercy for erring mortals; yet, think not it shall ever hear your story. Oh! never shall the blush of shame, for the frailties of one so dear, tinge its ingenuous countenance. May the sincerity of your repentance restore that peace and brightness to your life, which, at present, I think you must have forfeited, and support you with fortitude through its closing period! As a friend, once dear, you will ever exist in the memory of
MARLOWE.
As I concluded the letter, my spirits, which had been gradually receding, entirely forsook me, and I fell senseless on the floor. Mrs. Halcot and Lord T. took his opportunity of gratifying their curiosity by perusing the letter, and when I recovered, I found myself supported between them. "You see, my dear angel," cried Lord T., "your cruel husband has entirely abandoned you; but grieve not, for in my arms you shall find a kinder asylum than he ever afforded you." "True," said Mrs. Halcot; "for my part, I think she has reason to rejoice at his desertion."
I shall not attempt to repeat all I had said to them in the height of my distraction. Suffice it to say, I reproached them both as the authors of my shame and misery; and, while I spurned Lord T. indignantly from my feet, accused Mrs. Halcot of possessing neither delicacy nor feeling. Alas! accusation or reproach could not lighten the weight on my heart--I felt a dreadful consciousness of having occasioned my own misery. I seemed as if awaking from a disordered dream, which had confused my senses; and the more clearly my perception of what was right returned, the more bitterly I lamented my deviation from it. To be reinstated in the esteem and affection of my husband was all of felicity I could desire to possess. Full of the idea of being able to effect a reconciliation, I started up; but, ere I reached the door, sunk into an agony of tears: recollecting that ere this he was probably far distant from me. My base companions tried to assuage my grief, and make me in reality the wretch poor Marlowe supposed me to be. I heard them in silent contempt, unable to move, till a servant informed me a gentleman below stairs desired to see me. The idea of a relenting husband instantly occurred, and I flew down; but how great was my disappointment only to see a particular friend of his! Our meeting was painful in the extreme. I asked him if he knew anything of Marlowe, and he solemnly assured me he did not. When my confusion and distress had a little subsided, he informed me that in the morning he had received a letter from him, with an account of our separation, and the fatal cause of it. The letter contained a deed of settlement on me of a small paternal estate, and a bill of fifty pounds, which Marlowe requested his friend to present himself to me. He also added my clothes were sent to his house, as our lodgings had been discharged. I did not find it difficult to convince this gentleman of my innocence, and, putting myself under his protection, was immediately conveyed to lodgings in a retired part of the town. Here he consoled me with assurances of using every effort to discover the residence of my husband. All, alas! proved unsuccessful; and my health gradually declined. As time wore away, my hope yet left still undiminished my desire of seeing him. Change of air was at last deemed requisite to preserve my existence, and I went to Bristol. I had the good fortune to lodge in the house with an elderly Irish lady, whose sweet and benevolent manner soon gained my warmest esteem, and tempted me to divulge my melancholy tale, where so certain of obtaining pity. She had also suffered severely from the pressure of sorrow; but hers, as it proceeded not from imprudence, but the common vicissitudes of life, was borne without that degree of anguish mine occasioned. As the period approached for her return to her native country, I felt the deepest regret at the prospect of our separation, which she, however, removed, by asking me to reside entirely with her. Eight years had elapsed since the loss of my husband, and no latent hope of his return remained in my heart sufficiently strong to tempt me to forego the advantages of such society. Ere I departed, however, I wrote to several of his friends, informing them of the step I intended taking, and, if any tidings of Marlowe occurred, where I was to be found. Five years I passed with my valuable friend in retirement, and had the pleasure of thinking I contributed to the ease of her last moments. This cottage, with a few acres adjoining it, and four hundred pounds, was all her wealth, and to me she bequeathed it, having no relations whose wants gave them any claim upon her.
The events I have just related will, I hope, strengthen the moral so many wish to impress upon the minds of youth, namely--that, without a strict adherence to propriety, there can be no permanent pleasure; and that it is the actions of early life must give to old age either happiness and comfort, or sorrow and remorse. Had I attended to the admonitions of wisdom and experience, I should have checked my wanderings from prudence, and preserved my happiness from being sacrificed at the shrine of vanity; then, instead of being a solitary in the world, I might have had my little fireside enlivened by the partner of my heart, and, perhaps, my children's children sporting around; but suffering is the proper tax we pay for folly; the frailty of human nature, the prevalence of example, the allurements of the world, are mentioned by many as extenuations for misconduct. Though virtue, say they, is willing, she is often too weak to resist the wishes they excite. Mistaken idea! and blessed is that virtue which, opposing, ends them. With every temptation we have the means of escape; and woe be to us if we neglect those means, or hesitate to disentangle ourselves from the snare which vice or folly may have spread around us. Sorrow and disappointment are incident to mortality, and when not occasioned by any conscious imprudence, should be considered as temporary trials from Heaven to improve and correct us, and therefore cheerfully be borne. A sigh stole from Oscar as she spoke, and a tear trickled down the soft cheek of Adela. "I have," continued Mrs. Marlowe, "given you, like an old woman, a tedious tale; but that tediousness, with every other imperfection I have acknowledged, I rest upon your friendship and candor to excuse."
Chapter XIV
"Denied her sight, he often crept Beneath the hawthorn's shade; To mark the spot in which she wept-- In which she wept and prayed."--MALLET.
The night was waning fast, and Adela rose to depart as her friend concluded her story; yet it required an effort of resolution to retire. Mrs. Marlowe, however, was too well convinced of the expediency and propriety of this to press her longer stay, though the eyes of Oscar, suddenly turned to her, seemed to entreat she would do so. The night was dark and wet, which prevented Mrs. Marlowe from accompanying Adela to the carriage. Not so Oscar; he took the umbrella from the servant, who held it for his mistress, and bid him hasten on to have the carriage-door opened. "Oscar," cried Mrs. Marlowe, extremely unwilling to allow even this short tete-à-tete, "Mrs. Belgrave will dispense with your gallantry, for you are really too great an invalid to venture out such a night as this." Adela attempted to dissuade him from it, but her voice was so low and faltering as scarcely to be articulate. Oscar gently seized her hand, and pulled it under his arm; he felt it tremble as he did so. The touch became contagious; an universal tremor affected his frame, and never, perhaps, had he and Adela experienced a moment of greater unhappiness. Adela at last found herself obliged to speak, conscious that her silence must appear particular, and said, she feared he would be injured by his attentions to her. More fatally injured than he already was, he might have replied, he could not be; but he checked the words ready to burst from his lips, and only answered that he would be unfit for a soldier, if he could not endure the inclemency of the wintry blast. The light from the globes of the carriage gave him a view of her pale lovely cheeks, and he saw she was weeping. Confused at the idea of betraying her distress, she averted her head, and hastily ascended the steps; yet, for a moment, her trembling hand rested upon Oscar's, as if, in this manner, she would have given the adieu she had not the power of pronouncing. Lost in agony, he remained, like a statue, on the spot where she had left him, till roused by the friendly voice of Mrs. Marlowe, who, alarmed at his long absence, came to seek him. Soothed by her kind solicitude, he directly returned with her to the house, where his indignation against the perfidious Belgrave again broke forth. He execrated him, not only as the destroyer of his peace, but a peace infinitely more precious than his own--that of the charming Adela.
Mrs. Marlowe essayed every art of consolation, and, by sympathy and mildness, at last subdued the violence of his feelings; she acknowledged the loss he sustained in being deprived of Adela; but, since irrevocable, both virtue and reason required him to struggle against his grief, and conceal it. By their sacred dictates, she entreated him to avoid seeing Adela. He felt she was right in the entreaty, and solemnly promised to comply with it; her friendship was balm to his wounded heart, and her society the only pleasure he was capable of enjoying. Whenever he could absent himself from quarters he retired to her, and frequently spent three or four days at a time in her cottage. By discontinuing his visits in the gay neighborhood of Woodlawn, he avoided all opportunities of seeing Adela, yet often, on a clear frosty night, has he stole from the fireside of Mrs. Marlowe to the beloved and beautiful haunts about the lake, where he and Adela passed so many happy hours together. Here he indulged in all the luxury of woe; and such are the pleasures of virtuous melancholy, that Oscar would not have resigned them for any of the commonplace enjoyments of life.
Often did he wander to the grove from whence he had a view of Adela's chamber, and if a lucky chance gave him a glimpse of her, as she passed through it, a sudden ecstasy would pervade his bosom; he would pray for her felicity, and return to Mrs. Marlowe, as if his heart was lightened of an oppressive weight. That tender friend flattered herself, from youth and the natural gayety of his disposition, his attachment, no longer fed by hope, would gradually decline; but she was mistaken--the bloom of his youth was faded, and his gayety converted into deep despondency. Had he never been undeceived with regard to the general and Adela, pride, no doubt, would quickly have lessened the poignancy of his feelings; but when he reflected on the generous intentions of the one, on the sincere affection of the other, and the supreme happiness he might have enjoyed, he lost all fortitude. Thus, by perpetually brooding over the blessings once within his reach, losing all relish for those which were yet attainable, his sorrow, instead of being ameliorated, was increased by time. The horror and indignation with which he beheld Belgrave, after the first knowledge of his baseness, could scarcely be restrained. Though painful, he was pleased the effort had proved a successful one, as, exclusive of his sacred promise to Mrs. Marlowe, delicacy on Adela's account induced him to bear his wrongs in silence. He could not, however, be so great a hypocrite as to profess any longer esteem or respect for the colonel, and when they met, it was with cold politeness on both sides.
The unfortunate Adela pined in secret. Her interview with Oscar had destroyed the small remainder of her peace. His pale and emaciated figure haunted her imagination; in vain, by dwelling on his unkind letter, did she endeavor to lessen her tenderness. She felt the emotion of pity stronger than that of resentment, and that the friendship of Oscar would have been sweeter to her soul than the love or attention of any other object. By obeying the impulse of passion, she feared she had doomed herself to wretchedness. Belgrave was a man whom, upon mature deliberation, she never could have chosen. The softness of his manners gradually vanished when the purpose for which they had been assumed was completed. Unfeeling and depraved, the virtues of Adela could excite no esteem in his bosom, and the love (if it can merit that appellation) which he felt for her, quickly subsided after their marriage; but as the general retained the greatest part of his fortune in his own power, he continued tolerably guarded in his conduct. A slave, however, to the most violent passions, he was often unable to control them; and, forgetful of all prudential motives, delighted at those times in mortifying Adela by sly sarcasms on her attachment for Oscar. Though deeply wounded, she never complained; she had partly forged her chains, and resolved to bear them without repining. Tranquil in appearance, the poor general, who was not penetrating, thought his darling perfectly happy. Such, however, was not the opinion of those who visited at Woodlawn. The rose of health no longer spread its beautiful tints on the cheek of Adela, nor were her eyes irradiated by vivacity.
The colonel never went to Enniskillen except about military business, but he made frequent excursions to the metropolis and other parts of the kingdom in pursuit of pleasure. Adela felt relieved by his absence; and the general, satisfied at his not attempting to take her along with him, never murmured at it. The period now arrived for the departure of the regiment. Adela had not seen Oscar since the interview at Mrs. Marlowe's. She declined going to the reviews which preceded the change of garrison, and sincerely hoped no chance would again throw him in her way. Oscar sickened at the idea of quitting the country without seeing her. He knew she was not to accompany the colonel. The officers were going to pay a farewell visit to Woodlawn, and he could not resist being of the party. They were shown into the drawing-room, where Adela and the general sat. She was startled at the appearance of Oscar, but though a blush tinged her pale face, she soon recovered her composure, and entered into conversation. The general pressed them to stay to dinner, but they had many visits to pay and begged to be excused. "My dear Fitzalan," said the general, who had long dropped his displeasure, "I wish you happiness and success, and hope I shall soon hear of your being at the head of a company; remember, I say soon--for I am an old veteran, and should be sorry to drop into the trench till I had heard of the good fortune of my friends. Your father was a brave fellow, and, in the speedy advancement of his son, should receive a reward for his past services." Oscar pressed the general's hand to his breast. He cast his tearful eyes on Adela; she sighed, and bent hers to the ground. "Be assured, sir," he cried, "no gratitude can be more fervent than that your goodness has inspired me with; no wishes can be more sincere than mine for the happiness of the inhabitants of Woodlawn." "Ineffectual wishes," softly exclaimed Adela; "happiness, from one of its inhabitants at least, has, I fear, fled forever."
The general's wishes for the success of Oscar may be considered as mere words of course, since not enforced by more substantial proofs of regard; but, in reality, soon after his daughter's marriage, in his usual blunt manner, he had mentioned to the colonel his giving a thousand or two to help the promotion of Oscar. Belgrave, who could not bear that the man whom he had injured should have a chance of obtaining equal rank with himself, opposed this truly generous design, by saying, "Oscar was taken under the patronage of Lord Cherbury, and that the general's bounty might therefore, at some future period, be better applied in serving a person without his interest." To this the general assented, declaring that he never yet met with a brave soldier or his offspring in distress without feeling and answering the claim they had upon his heart.
Oscar obtained a ready promise from Mrs. Marlowe of corresponding with him. He blushed and faltered as he besought her sometimes to acquaint him with the health of their friends at Woodlawn. Change of scene produced no alteration in him. Still pining with regret, and languid from ill-health, his father and sister found him. The comforts of sympathy could not be his, as the anguish which preyed on his heart he considered of too sacred a nature to divulge. He hoarded up his grief, like a miser hoarding up his treasure, fearful that the eye of suspicion should glance at it, as he pressed his lovely sister to his heart. Had he imagined she was the object of Colonel Belgrave's licentious passion, the bounds he had hitherto prescribed to his resentment would in a moment have been overturned, and he would, had it been necessary, have pursued the monster round the world, to avenge the injury he had meditated, as well as the one he had committed.
We shall now bid adieu to Oscar for the present, and, drawing on our boots of seven leagues, step after Fitzalan and Amanda.
Chapter XV
"Confessed from yonder slow extinguished clouds, All ether softening, sober evening takes Her wonted station in the middle air; A thousand shadows at her back."--THOMSON.
Castle Carberry, to which our travellers were going, was a large gothic pile, erected in the rude and distant period when strength more than elegance was deemed necessary in a building. The depredations of war, as well as time, were discernible on its exterior; some of its lofty battlements were broken, and others mouldering to decay, while about its ancient towers
"The rank grass waved its head, And the moss whistled to the wind."
It stood upon a rocky eminence overhanging the sea, and commanding a delightful prospect of the opposite coast of Scotland; about it were yet to be traced irregular fortifications, a moat, and remains of a drawbridge, with a well, long since dry, which had been dug in the rock to supply the inhabitants in time of siege with water. On one side rose a stupendous hill, covered to the very summit with trees, and scattered over with relics of druidical antiquity; before it stretched an extensive and gently swelling lawn, sheltered on each side with groves of intermingled shade, and refreshed by a clear and meandering rivulet, that took its rise from the adjoining hill, and murmured over a bed of pebbles.
After a pleasant journey, on the evening of the fourth day, our travellers arrived at their destined habitation. An old man and woman, who had the care of it, were apprised of their coming, and on the first approach of the carriage, opened the massy door, and waited to receive them: they reached it when the sober gray of twilight had clad every object. Amanda viewed the dark and stupendous edifice, whose gloom was now heightened by the shadows of evening, with venerable awe. The solitude, the silence which reigned around, the melancholy murmur of the waves as they dashed against the foot of the rocks, all heightened the sadness of her mind; yet it was not quite an unpleasing sadness, for with it was now mingled a degree of that enthusiasm which plaintive and romantic spirits are so peculiarly subject to feel in viewing the venerable grandeur of an ancient fabric renowned in history. As she entered a spacious hall, curiously wainscoted with oak, ornamented with coats of arms, spears, lances, and old armor, she could not avoid casting a retrospective eye to former times, when, perhaps, in this very hall, bards sung the exploits of those heroes, whose useless arms now hung upon the walls. She wished, in the romance of the moment, some gray bard near her, to tell the deeds of other times--of kings renowned in our land--of chiefs we behold no more. In the niches in the hall were figures of chieftains, large as life, and rudely carved in oak. Their frowning countenances struck a sudden panic upon the heart of Ellen. "Cot pless their souls," she said, "what the tefil did they do there, except to frighten the people from going into the house."
They were shown into a large parlor, furnished in an old-fashioned manner, and found a comfortable supper prepared for them. Oppressed with fatigue, soon after they had partaken of it, they retired to rest. The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Amanda, attended by the old woman and Ellen, ranged over the castle. Its interior was quite as gothic as its exterior; the stairs were winding, the galleries intricate, the apartments numerous, and mostly hung with old tapestry, representing Irish battles, in which the chiefs of Castle Carberry were particularly distinguished. Their portraits, with those of their ladies, occupied a long gallery, whose arched windows cast a dim religious light upon them. This was terminated by a small apartment in the centre of one of the towers that flanked the building. The room was an octagon, and thus commanded a sea and land prospect, uniting at once the sublime and beautiful in it. The furniture was not only modern but elegant, and excited the particular attention and inquiries of Amanda. The old woman informed her this had been the dressing-room of the late Countess of Cherbury, both before and after her marriage: "one of the sweetest, kindest ladies," continued she, "I ever knew; the castle has been quite deserted since she died--alack-a-day! I thought my poor heart would have broke when I heard of her death. Ah! I remember the night I heard the Banshee crying so pitifully." "And pray what is that?" interrupted Amanda. "Why, a little woman, no higher than a yard, who wears a blue petticoat, a red cloak, and a handkerchief round her head; and when the head of any family, especially a great family, is to die, she is always heard, by some of the old followers, bemoaning herself." "Lort save us!" cried Ellen, "I hope his lortship, the earl, won't take it into his head to die while we are here, for I'd as lief see one of the fairies of Penmaenmawr, as such a little old witch." "Well, proceed," said Amanda. "So, as I was saying, I heard her crying dismally one night in a corner of the house. So, says I to my husband, Johnaten, says I, I am sure we shall hear something about my good lord or lady. And sure enough we did the next day, and ever since we have seen none of the family." "Did you ever see the young lord?" asked Amanda, with involuntary precipitation. "See him! aye, that I did, when he was about eight years old; there is his picture (pointing to one which hung over the chimney); my lady had it done by a fine English painter, and brought it over with her. It is the moral of what he then was." The eager eyes of Amanda were instantly turned to it, and she traced, or at least imagined she did so, a resemblance still between it and him. The painter seemed as if he had had the description of Pity in his mind when he drew the picture; for Lord Mortimer was portrayed, as she is represented in the beautiful allegory, sheltering a trembling dove in his bosom from a ferocious hawk. Oh! Mortimer! thought Amanda, thy feeling nature is here ably delineated! The distressed, or the helpless, to the utmost of your power, you would save from the gripe of cruelty and oppression. Her father had desired her to choose pleasant apartments for her own immediate use, and she accordingly fixed on this and the room adjoining it, which had been Lady Cherbury's chamber. Her things were brought hither, and her books, works, and implements for drawing, deposited in rich inlaid cabinets. Pleased with the arrangements she had made, she brought her father, as soon as he was at leisure, to view them. He was happy to find her spirits somewhat cheerful and composed, and declared in future he would call this Amanda's Tower. Accompanied by him, she ascended to the battlements of the castle, and was delighted with the extensive and variegated prospect she beheld from them. A spacious edifice, at some distance, embowered in a grove of venerable oaks, attracted her admiration. Her father told her that was Ulster Lodge, a seat belonging to the Marquis of Roslin, who was an Irish as well as a Scotch Peer, and had very extensive possessions in Ireland. Fitzalan added, he had been inquiring of the old man about the neighborhood, and learned from him that, at the expiration of every three or four years, the Marquis usually came over to Ulster Lodge, but had never yet been accompanied by the Marchioness, or Lady Euphrasia Sutherland, who was his only child.
The domestic economy of Castle Carberry was soon settled. A young man and woman were hired, as Johnaten and his wife, Kate, were considered little more than supernumeraries. Ellen was appointed to attend Amanda, and do whatever plain work was required. Fitzalan felt a pleasing serenity diffused over his mind, from the idea of being in some degree independent, and in the way of making some provision for his children. The first shock of a separation from Lord Mortimer being over, the cheerfulness of Amanda gradually returned, the visions of hope again revived in her mind, and she indulged a secret pleasure at living in the house he had once occupied. She considered her father as particularly connected with his family, and doubted not, from this circumstance, she should sometimes hear of him. She judged of his constancy by her own, and believed he would not readily forget her. She acknowledged her father's motives for separating them were equally just and delicate; but firmly believed, if Lord Mortimer (as she flattered herself he would) confessed a partiality in her favor to his father, that, influenced by tenderness for his son, friendship for her father, and the knowledge of her descent, he would immediately give up every idea of another connection, and sanction theirs with his approbation. No obstacle appeared to such an union but want of fortune, and that want she could never suppose would be considered as one by the liberal-minded Lord Cherbury, who had himself an income sufficient to gratify even luxurious wishes. Her time was agreeably diversified by the sources of amusements she drew from herself. Her father, whose supreme felicity consisted in contributing to her pleasure, purchased a delightful harp for her in Dublin, which arrived a few days after them, at Castle Carberry, and with its dulcet lays she often charmed, not only his spirit, but her own, from every mortal care. She loved to rise early, and catch the first beams of the sun, as she wandered over the dewy lawn, where the lowing cattle cropped the flowery herbage, and the milkmaid sung her plaintive ditty.
With her father she took long walks about the adjacent country. He had visited every scene before, and now pointed out whatever was worthy her attention: the spots where the heroes of former ages had fallen, where the mighty stones of their fame were raised, that the children of the North might hereafter know the places where their fathers fought; that the hunter, as he leaned upon a mossy tomb, might say, here fought the heroes of other years, and their fame shall last forever!
Amanda, too, often rambled by herself, particularly among the rocks, where were several natural grottos, strewed with shells and seaweeds. Here, of a mild day, she loved to read, and listen to the low murmurs of the tide. The opposite Scottish hills, among which her mother first drew breath, often attracted and fixed her attention, frequently drawing tears from her eyes, by awaking in her mind the recollection of that mother's sufferings.
On a morning, when she sat at work in her apartment, Ellen, who was considered more as a friend than a servant, sometimes sat with her; the conversation not unfrequently turned on nurse Edwin's cottage, from which Ellen, with an arch simplicity, would advert to Tudor Hall, thence naturally to Lord Mortimer, and conclude with poor Chip, exclaiming: "What a pity true love should ever be crossed!"
Chapter XVI
"Some take him for a tool That knaves do work with, called a fool; Fools are known by looking wise, As men find woodcocks by their eyes."--HUDIBRAS.
The solitude of Castle Carberry was interrupted in less than a fortnight by visits and invitations from the neighboring families. The first they accepted was to dinner at Mr. Kilcorban's. He was a man of large fortune, which, in the opinion of many, compensated for the want of polished manners, and a cultivated mind; but others, of a more liberal way of thinking, could not possibly excuse those deficiencies, which were more apparent from his pretending to every excellence; and more intolerable from his deeming himself authorized, by his wealth and consequence, to say and do almost whatever he pleased. His lady was, like himself, a compound of ignorance, pride, and vanity. Their offspring was numerous, and the three who were sufficiently old to make their appearance, were considered, by their parents and themselves, as the very models of elegance and perfection. The young heir had been sent to the University; but, permitted to be his own master, he had profited little by his residence there. Enough, however, perhaps he thought for a man of fortune, who wanted not professional knowledge. His face was coarse, his person inelegant, and his taste in adorning himself preposterously ridiculous. Fashion, Hoyle, and the looking-glass, were his chief studies, and, by his family and self, he was considered quite the thing.
The young ladies were supposed to be very accomplished, because they had instructors in almost every branch of education; but, in reality, they understood little more than the names of what they were attempted to be taught. Nature had not been lavish of her gifts. Of this, however, they were conscious, and patched, powdered, and painted in the very extremity of the mode. Their mornings were generally spent in rolling about in a coach and six with their mamma, collecting news and paying visits; their evenings were constantly devoted to company, without which they declared they could not exist. They sometimes affected languor and sentiment, talked of friendship, and professed for numbers, the most sincere; yet, to the very girls they pretended to regard, delighted in exhibiting their finery, if certain they could not purchase the same, and would feel mortified by seeing it.
Mr. Kilcorban had indulged his family in a trip to Bath one autumn, and, in so doing, had afforded a never-failing subject for conversation; upon every occasion this delightful excursion was mentioned--the novelties they saw, the admiration they excited, the elegant intimacies they formed, the amazing sum they expended, were all described and exaggerated.
Lady Greystock, an ancient widow, was at present on a visit to them. She had known Fitzalan in his youth, and now, with pleasure, renewed her intimacy with him; and the account she gave of his family and connections, prepossessed the neighborhood in his favor. She was a shrewd, sensible woman; the dignity of her person commanded respect, but the sarcastic expression of her countenance prevented her conciliating esteem.
An old chariot belonging to the Earl of Cherbury, which had been for years unemployed in the coach-house, was brought forth, for the purpose of conveying Fitzalan and his daughter on their visits. After a good deal of rubbing and washing, it was found tolerably decent, and they proceeded in it to Mr. Kilcorban's, which was about two miles from Castle Carberry. A numerous party was already assembled. While Amanda was paying her compliments to Mrs. Kilcorban and Lady Greystock, a general whisper relative to her took place among the younger part of the company, who had formed themselves into a group quite distant from the rest. One gentleman swore, "she was a devilish fine girl!" He was seconded in the remark by another, who extolled her complexion. "You are a simpleton," cried a young lady, who was reckoned a great wit; "I would engage for half a crown to get as fine a color in Dublin." Her companions laughed, and declared she only spoke truth in saying so. Mr. Bryan Kilcorban, who leaned on her chair, said, "A bill should be brought into the house to tax such complexions; for kill me," continued he, "the ladies are so irresistible from nature, it is quite unconscionable to call in art as an auxiliary." He then stalked over to Amanda, who sat by Lady Greystock; lolling over her chair, he declared, "he thought the tedious hours would never elapse till again blessed with her presence." "Of her," he said, "it was sufficient to have but one glimpse to make him pant for the second." A summons to dinner relieved her from this nonsense. Luxury and ostentation were conspicuous in the fare and decorations of the table, and Amanda never felt any hours so tedious as those she passed at it. When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, the Miss Kilcorbans, and their companions, began to examine and admire her dress. "What a pretty pattern this gown is worked in!" said one. "What a sweet, becoming cap this is," cried a second. "Well, certainly the English milliners have a great deal of taste, my dear," said Miss Kilcorban, whispering to Amanda. "I have a monstrous favor to ask of you," drawing her at the same instant to the window. "I am sure," said Amanda, "any in my power to grant I shall with pleasure." "Oh! really, then, it is in your power. It is only to refuse the pattern of your cap to any girls who may ask you for it, and to give it me and my sister. You cannot conceive how we dote on being the first in the fashion, one is so stared at, and so envied. I detest anything when it becomes common. You cannot think how we are teased every summer, when we return from Dublin, for fashions; but we always make it a point to refuse. I must tell you a delightful trick I played a friend of mine. She received a large present of the most beautiful muslins from India, which she laid by till I returned from town, supposing I would let her see my things, as I always told her I was extremely fond of her. Well, I lent her a gown, which was quite old-fashioned, but assured her it was the very newest mode. She accordingly had her beautiful muslins cut in imitation of it, and so spoiled them from making any other habit. Well, we met at an assize ball, where all the elegant people of the county were assembled, and, I declare, I never saw so ridiculous a figure as she made. When she found herself unlike every one in the room, I really thought she would have fainted, and that my poor sister and I should have expired with laughing. Poor thing! the tears absolutely trickled down her cheeks. Do not you think it was a charming trick?" "Very much so," said Amanda; "I think it gave a striking specimen of your humor." "Well, my dear," exclaimed Miss Kilcorban, without minding the marked emphasis of Amanda's last words, "if you allow us, my sister and I will call on you to-morrow to look over your things." "It would be giving yourselves a great deal of unnecessary trouble," replied Amanda, coolly, who did not by any means relish this forward proposal; "my things can boast of little but simplicity, and I am always my own milliner." "Really! well, I protest you have a great deal of taste; my maid, who is very handy, would, I think, be able to make up things in pretty much the same style, if you were obliging enough to give her patterns. If you do, perhaps you will add to the favor, and allow us to say they are the newest Bath fashions. Was you ever at Bath?" "No." "Oh! then I assure you, you have a monstrous pleasure to come; it is the sweetest place on earth--quite a paradise! I declare I thought I should have died with grief at leaving it. Papa has been inexorable ever since to our entreaties for a second trip. He says the first cost too much money. Indeed, it was an enormous sum; only think how much." "I am the worst person in the world," said Amanda, "for guessing," sick of her impertinent volubility, and moving from the window. The evening was fine, and the grounds about the house beautiful; she therefore proposed a walk. At this proposal, the young ladies, who had hitherto been in deep confab, looked at each other, and remained silent for some minutes. Miss Kilcorban, then, who had no notion of gratifying the inclination of her guest, by the sacrifice of her own, said, "it blew a little, and that her hair would be ruined, and the Marchelle powder blown from it by such a walk." Another young lady, looking down at her white satin slippers, vowed "she would not venture into the grass for worlds." A third declared, "when once dressed, she could not bear to be tumbled." Amanda had too much politeness to repeat her wish, and it was, therefore, unanimously agreed upon among the fair coterie, that they should continue in the drawing-room, to be in statu quo for the reappearance of the beaux.
Lady Greystock now beckoned to our heroine to take a seat by her. She gladly obeyed. "Well, my dear," said her ladyship, "I hope you have had enough of these country misses--those would-be misses of the ton." Amanda smiled assentingly. "Heaven defend me, or any one I like," continued her ladyship, "from their clack! The confusion of Babel was, I really believe, inferior to that their tongues create, yet some people have the absurdity to reckon these girls accomplished. Poor Mrs. Kilcorban torments one with the perfections of her daughters; against they are disposed of, which she imagines will be very soon, she has a new brood of graces training up to bring out. Mercy on me! what a set of hoydens. I would lay my life, at this very instant they are galloping about the nursery like a parcel of wild colts, tearing or tormenting an unfortunate French governess, who was formerly fille de chambre to a woman of quality, and does not understand even the grammatical part of her own language." "Mrs. Kilcorban's opinion of her children," said Amanda, "is natural, considering the partiality of a parent." "Yes; but not more bearable on that account," replied her ladyship; "and I should endeavor to open her eyes to her folly, if I thought her acquaintances would forgive my depriving them of such a fund of amusement."
Mr. Brian Kilcorban, with some gentlemen, now entered the room, and advanced to Amanda. "So," said he, "you have got by the dowager; hang me, but I would let my beard grow, if all women resembled her in their dispositions." "By the way of appearing sagacious, I suppose," said her ladyship, who was extremely quick, and had caught the last words. "Alas! poor youth, no embellishments on the exterior would ever be able to make us believe the tenement within well furnished." Her ladyship was now summoned to a whist-table, and Miss Kilcorban immediately took her vacant seat. "My dear creature!" said she, "are you not bored to death? Lady Greystock is a queer piece, I can assure you. I suppose she was asking some favor from you, such as to work her an apron or handkerchief. She is noted everywhere for requesting such little jobs, as she calls them; indeed, we should never put up with the trouble she gives us, but that she is vastly rich, and papa's relation, and has no one so nearly connected with her as we are." "All very good reasons for your complaisance," replied Amanda; "but should you not be more careful in concealing them?" "Oh, Lord! no; every one knows them as well as we do ourselves. She was here last summer, and took a fancy to the pattern of an apron of mine; and made me the reasonable request of working one like it for her. All this she pretended was to prevent my being idle. Well, I said I would, and wrote up to the Moravian House in Dublin, where I had got mine, for one exactly like it. In due time I received and presented it to the dowager, certain that, in return I should receive a few of her diamond pins, which she had often heard me admire. They are the prettiest I ever saw, and quite unfit for her, but she had the cruelty to disappoint me." "Upon my faith!" cried Mrs. Kilcorban, who had taken a chair at the other side of Amanda, and listened with evident pleasure to her daughter's voluble speech, "Lady Greystock is an odd being; I never met with any one like her in all my travels through England, Ireland, and Wales; but she is a great orator, and possesses the gift of the gab in a wonderful degree."
"Ah, indeed," thought Amanda; "and you and your fair daughters resemble her in that respect." After tea, she was prevailed on to sit down to commerce; but she soon grew as tired of the party as of the game, and lost on purpose to be released. She had hoped for a little more chat with Lady Greystock; but her ladyship was passionately fond of cards, and at all times would have preferred the pleasures of a card-table to the eloquence of a Cicero. Kilcorban, on finding her disengaged, tormented her with many absurd compliments. A challenge to a brag-table at length relieved her from his nonsense, and she loitered about the card-tables till they broke up for supper.
Amanda always expressed to her father her sentiments of any company she had been in; and those she now delivered, on quitting the party, perfectly coincided with his. He laughed at the account which the Kilcorbans had given of Lady Greystock, to whom he knew they paid the most extravagant flattery, in hopes of obtaining some of her large fortune.
Chapter XVII
"Remote from man, with God they passed their days, Prayer all their business, all their pleasure praise."--PARNELL.
The following evening they were engaged to spend at a farmer's. The invitation was given with such humility, yet pressed with such warmth, that they could not avoid accepting it, and accordingly, soon after dinner, walked to the house, which was about a mile from Castle Carberry. It was a low thatched building--every appendage to it bespoke neatness and comfort. It was situated in a beautiful meadow, enclosed from the road by a hawthorn hedge, and on the opposite side lay an extensive common, on which stood the stupendous and venerable ruins of an abbey, called St. Catherine's. They appeared a melancholy monument of the power of time over strength and grandeur; and while they attracted the observation of the curious, excited a sigh in the bosom of sensibility.
The farmer's family consisted of three daughters and two sons, who were now dressed in their best array. They had assembled a number of their neighbors, among whom was a little fat priest, called Father O'Gallaghan--considered the life of every party--and a blind piper. The room was small, and crowded with furniture as well as company. It was only divided from the kitchen by a short passage, and the steam of hot cakes, and the smoke of a turf fire, which issued thence, soon rendered it distressingly warm. Amanda got as near the window as possible, but still could not procure sufficient air; and as everything for tea was not quite ready, asked one of the Miss O'Flannaghans if she would accompany her to St. Catherine's. She answered in the affirmative. The priest, who had been smirking at her ever since her entrance, now shook his fat sides, and said he wished he could get her initiated there; "for it would do my soul good," cried he, "to confess such a pretty little creature as you are. Though faith, I believe I should find you like Paddy McDenough, who used to come to confession every Easter, though the devil a thing the poor man had to confess about at all at all. So, says I to him, Paddy, my jewel, says I, I believe I must make a saint of you, and lay you on the altar." "Oh! honey, father!" cried he, "not yet awhile, till I get a new suit of clothes on, which I shall by next Michaelmas." Amanda left them all laughing at this story, and her father engaged in conversation with some farmers, who were desiring his interest with Lord Cherbury, for new leases on moderate terms.
Amanda had about a quarter of a mile to walk across the common; the ground was marshy and uneven, and numerous stumps of trees denoted its having once been a noble forest, of which no memorial but these stumps, and a few tall trees immediately near the abbey, remained, that stretched their venerable arms around it, as if to shade that ruin whose progress they had witnessed, and which Amanda found well worthy of inspection. She was equally astonished at its elegance and extent; with sacred awe traversing the spacious cloisters, the former walks of holy meditation, she pursued her way through winding passages, where vestiges of cells were yet discernible, over whose mouldering arches the grass waved in rank luxuriance, and the creeping ivy spread its gloomy foliage, and viewed with reverence the graves of those who had once inhabited them; they surrounded that of the founder's, which was distinguished by a cross, and Miss O'Flannaghan related the traditions that were current concerning him. He was a holy monk who had the care of a pious lady's conscience; she, on her death-bed, had a remarkable dream, or vision, in which she thought an angel appeared, and charged her to bequeath her wealth to her confessor, who would, no doubt, make a much better use of it than those she designed it for. She obeyed the sacred injunction, and the good man immediately laid the foundation of this abbey, which he called after his benefactress, and to which he, and the community he belonged to, removed. The chapel was roofless, but still retained many relics of superstitious piety, which had escaped, in a tolerable degree, both time and weather. Saints and martyrs were curiously cut over the places where the altars and cisterns for holy water had once stood, to which Amanda passed through a long succession of elegant arches, among which were a number of tombstones, with curious devices, and unintelligible inscriptions. Half hid by grass and weeds, on a flag, which she perceived must have been lately placed there, she saw some faded flowers strewn, and looking at her companion, saw a tear dropping from her on them. She gently asked the cause of it, and heard a favorite brother was interred there. The girl moved from the spot, but Amanda, detained by an irrepressible emotion, stayed a minute longer to contemplate the awful scene. All was silent, sad, and solitary; the grass-grown aisles looked long untrodden by human foot, the green and mouldering walls appeared ready to crumble into atoms, and the wind, which howled through their crevices, sounded to the ear of fancy as sighs of sorrow for the desolation of the place. Full of moralizing melancholy, the young, the lovely Amanda, hung over the grave of her companion's youthful brother; and taking up the withered flower, wet with the tear of sisterly affection, dropped another on it, and cried, "Oh! how fit an emblem is this of life! how illustrative of these words--
'Man comes forth as a flower in the field, and is soon cut down.'"
Miss O'Flannaghan now led her through some more windings, when, suddenly emerging from them, she found herself, to her great surprise, in a large garden, entirely encompassed by the ruins, and in the centre of it stood a long low building, which her companion informed her was a convent; a folding door at the side opened into the chapel, which they entered, and found a nun praying.
Amanda drew back, fearful of disturbing her; but Miss O'Flannaghan accosted her without ceremony, and the nun returned the salutation with the most cordial good-humor. She was fifty, as Amanda afterwards heard, for she never could, from her appearance, have conceived her to be so much. Her skin was fair, and perfectly free from wrinkle; the bloom and down upon her cheeks as bright and as soft as that upon a peach; though her accent at one proclaimed her country, it was not unharmonious; and the cheerful obligingness of her manner amply compensated the want of elegance. She wore the religious habit of the house, which was a loose flannel dress, bound round her waist by a girdle, from which hung her beads and a cross; a veil of the same stuff descended to the ground, and a mob cap, and forehead cloth, quite concealed her hair.[A] Miss O'Flannaghan presented Amanda to her as a stranger, who wished to see everything curious in the chapel. "Ah! my honey," cried she, "I am sorry she has come at a time when she will see us all in the dismals, for you know we are in mourning for our prioress (the altar was hung in black): but, my dear (turning to Amanda), do you mean to come here next Sunday? for if you do, you will find us all bright again." Upon Amanda's answering in the negative, she continued, "Faith, and I am sorry for that, for I have taken a great fancy to you, and when I like a person, I always wish them as great a chance of happiness as I have myself." Amanda, smiling, said, she believed none could desire a greater, and the nun obligingly proceeded to show her all the relics and finery of the chapel; among the former was a head belonging to one of the eleven thousand virgin martyrs, and the latter, a chest full of rich silks, which pious ladies had given for the purpose of dressing the altar. Pulling a drawer from under it, she displayed a quantity of artificial flowers, which she said were made by the sisters and their scholars. Amanda wished to make a recompense for the trouble she had given, and finding they were to be sold, purchased a number, and having given some to Miss O'Flannaghan, whom she observed viewing them with a wishful eye, she left the rest with the nun, promising to call for them the next day. "Ay, do," said she, "and you may be sure of a sincere welcome. You will see a set of happy poor creatures, and none happier than myself. I entered the convent at ten; I took the vows at fifteen, and from that time to the present, which is a long stretch, I have passed a contented life, thanks be to our blessed lady!" raising her sparkling eyes to heaven. They ascended a few steps to the place where the community sat. It was divided from the body of the chapel by a slight railing. Here stood the organ. The nun sighed as she looked at it. "Poor sister Agatha," cried she, "we shall never get such another organist. She was always fit indeed for the heavenly choir. Oh! my dear," turning to Amanda, "had you known her, you would have loved her. She was our late prioress, and elected to that office at twenty-nine, which is reckoned an early age for it, on account of the cleverness it requires. She had held it but two years when she died, and we never were so comfortable as during her time, she managed so well. The mourning in the chapel, as I have already told you, will be over for her next Sunday; but that which is in our hearts will not be so speedily removed." Miss O'Flannaghan now reminded Amanda it was time to return, to which, with secret reluctance, she consented. The nun pressed her to stay to tea; but, on hearing of her engagement, only reminded her of the promised visit. In their walk back, her companion informed Amanda that the society consisted of twelve nuns. Their little fortunes, though sunk in one common fund, were insufficient to supply their necessities, which compelled them to keep a day-school, in which the neighboring children were instructed in reading, writing, plain-work, embroidery, and artificial flowers. She also added, that the nuns were allowed to go out, but few availed themselves of that liberty, and that, except in fasting, they were strangers to the austerities practised in foreign convents.
Footnote A: The Abbey and the Nun, which the Author has attempted to describe, were such as she really saw, but in a different part of Ireland from that which she has mentioned.
For such a society Amanda thought nothing could be better adapted than their present situation. Sheltered by the ruins, like the living entombed among the dead, their wishes, like their views, were bounded by the mouldering walls, as no object appeared beyond them which could tempt their wandering from their usual limits. The dreary common, which met their view, could not be more bleak and inhospitable than the world in general would have proved to these children of poverty and nature.
Father O'Gallaghan met the ladies at the door, and, familiarly taking Amanda's hand, said, "Why, you have stayed long enough to be made a nun of. Here," said he, "the cakes are buttered, the tea made, and we are all waiting for you. Ah! you little rogue," smirking in her face, "by the head of St. Patrick, those twinklers of yours were not given for the good of your soul. Here you are come to play pell-mell among the hearts of the honest Irish lads. Ah, the devil a doubt but you will have mischief enough to answer for by and by, and then I suppose you will be coming to me to confess and absolve you; but remember, my little honey, if you do, I must be paid beforehand." Amanda disengaged her hand, and entered the parlor, where the company, by a display of pocket-handkerchiefs on their laps, seemed prepared to make a downright meal of the good things before them. The Miss O'Flannaghans, from the toils of the tea-table, at last grew as red as the ribbon with which they were profusely ornamented. The table at length removed, the chairs arranged, and benches placed in the passage for the old folks, the signal for a dance was given by the piper's playing an Irish jig. The farmer's eldest son, habited in his sky-blue coat, his hair combed sleek on his forehead, and his complexion as bright as a full-blown poppy, advanced to our heroine, and begged, with much modesty, and many bows, she would do him the favor to stand up with him. She hesitated a little, when Father O'Gallaghan, giving her a tap, or rather slap, on the shoulder, made her start suddenly from her seat. He laughed heartily at this, declaring he liked to see a girl alive and merry. As he could not join in the dance, he consoled himself with being master of the ceremonies, and insisted on Amanda's dancing and leading off the priest in his boots. She felt little inclined to comply; but she was one of those who can sacrifice their own inclination to that of others. Being directed in the figure by the priest, she went down the dance, but the floor being an earthen one, by the time she had concluded it, she begged they would excuse her sitting the remainder of the evening, she felt so extremely fatigued. She and Fitzalan would gladly have declined staying supper, but this they found impossible, without either greatly mortifying, or absolutely offending their hospitable entertainers.
The table was covered with a profusion of good country fare, and none seemed to enjoy it more truly than the priest. In the intervals of eating, his jests flew about in every direction. The scope he gave to his vivacity exhilarated the rest, so that, like Falstaff, he was not only witty himself, but a promoter of wit in others. "Pray, father," said a young man to him, "what do you give in return for all the good cheer you get?" "My blessing, to be sure," replied he. "What better could I give?" "Ay, so you may think, but that is not the case with us all, I promise you. It is so pithy, I must tell you a story about that same thing called a priest's blessing. A poor man went one day to a priest, who had the name of being very rich and very charitable; but as all we hear is not gospel, so the poor man doubted a little the truth of the latter report, and resolved on trying him. 'Father,' says he, 'I have met with great losses. My cabin was burned, my pigs stolen, and my cow fell into a ditch and broke her neck; so I am come to ask your reverence, for the love of heaven, to lend me a crown.' 'A crown!' repeated the angry and astonished priest. 'O! you rogue, where do you think I could get money to lend, except, like yourself, I had pilfered and stolen?' 'O! that is neither here nor there,' replied the man. 'You know I cleared the score on my conscience with you long ago, so tell me, father, if you will lend me half a crown?' 'No, nor a shilling.' 'Well, a farthing, then; anything from such a good man as you.' 'No,' said the priest, 'not a mite.' 'Mayn't I have your blessing?' then asked the man. 'Oh! that you shall, and welcome,' replied he, smiling. 'Why, then, father,' returned the other, 'I would refuse it if you forced it upon me; for, do you see, had it been worth one farthing, you would have refused it to me.'"
"You have put me in mind of a very curious story," exclaimed another young man, as this one concluded his. "A young knight went into a chapel in Spain one morning, where he observed a monk standing in a supplicating attitude, with a box in his hand. He asked him what this was for, and learned, to collect money for praying the souls of fifty Christians out of purgatory, whom the Moors had murdered. The knight threw a piece of money into the box, and the monk, after repeating a short prayer, exclaimed, 'There is one soul redeemed.' The knight threw in a second, and the priest, after the same ceremony, cried, 'There is another free.' Thus they both went on, one giving, and the other praying, till, by the monk's account, all the souls were free. 'Are you sure of this?' inquired the knight. 'Ay,' replied the priest, 'they are all assembled together at the gate of heaven, which St. Peter gladly opened for them, and they are now joyfully seated in Paradise.' 'From whence they cannot be removed, I suppose,' said the knight. 'Removed!' repeated the astonished priest. 'No, the world itself might be easier moved.' 'Then, if you please, holy father, return me my ducats; they have accomplished the purpose for which they were given, and, as I am only a poor cavalier, without a chance of being as happily situated, at least for some years, as the souls we have mutually contributed to release, I stand in great need of them.'"
Fitzalan was surprised at the freedom with which they treated the priest; but he laughed as merrily as the rest at their stories, for he knew that, though they sometimes allowed themselves a little latitude, they neither wished nor attempted to shake off his power.
Fitzalan and Amanda withdrew as early as possible from the party, which, if it wanted every other charm, had that of novelty, at least to them. The next morning Amanda repaired to the convent, and inquired for Sister Mary, the good-natured nun she had seen the preceding evening. She immediately made her appearance, and was delighted at seeing Amanda. She conducted her to the school-room, where the rest of the nuns and the pupils were assembled; and Amanda was delighted with the content and regularity which appeared in the society, as well as the obliging eagerness they showed to gratify her curiosity. They led her through the house, which contained a number of apartments, every nun having one to herself, furnished with a bed, chair, table, and crucifix, and then to the parlor, where their new prioress sat. She was a woman far advanced in life. Had a painter wanted to personify benevolence, he might have chosen her for a model--so soft, so benignant was her countenance. Sorrow, as well as time, had marked it deeply; but the mild expression of her eyes announced the most perfect resignation to that sorrow. She received Amanda with the truest politeness and most friendly warmth; and Amanda felt impressed with real reverence for her, whilst she acknowledged in her mind there could not be a happier situation for her than her present. She thought it a pity the world had been deprived of a woman who would have proved such an ornament to it. Sister Mary disappeared, but returned in a few minutes with cake and currant-wine, which she forced Amanda to take. The good sister was enchanted with her young visitor, and having no idea of concealing her feelings, she openly expressed her admiration. "Dear mother," said she, addressing the prioress, "is she not a lovely creature? What pretty eyes she has got, and what sweet little hands! Oh, if our blessed lady would but touch her heart, and make her become one of us, I should be so happy." The prioress smiled; she was not so great an enthusiast as Sister Mary. "It would be a pity," said she, "so sweet a flower should be hid amidst the ruins of St. Catherine's."
Amanda made an addition to the flowers; she was thanked by the nuns, and entreated to favor them often with a visit. Just as she reached Castle Carberry, she saw the Kilcorbans' carriage stop at it, from which Lady Greystock and the young ladies alighted. They both spoke at once, and so extremely fast that Amanda scarcely understood what they said. They declared a thousand impertinent visitors had prevented their coming the preceding morning and looking at the things she had obligingly promised to show them. Amanda recollected no such promise, but would not contradict them, and permitted their taking what patterns they liked. Lady Greystock smiled sarcastically at her young kinswomen, and expressed a wish to see the castle. Amanda led her through it. Her ladyship was particularly pleased with the dressing-room. Here the young ladies, with rude and eager curiosity, examined everything; but her ladyship, who was full as curious as themselves, could not condemn freedoms she took herself. Observing a petticoat in a tambour-frame, she admired the pattern; and hearing it was designed by Amanda, extolled her fine taste, and declared she should of all things like to have one worked in the same. This hint was too plain to pass unnoticed. Amanda wished to oblige, particularly any one advanced in life, and told her ladyship she would work one for her. Lady Greystock smiled most graciously at this, and pressing her hand, declared she was a charming girl. The Miss Kilcorbans winked slyly, and, taking her hand in turn, assured her they had conceived a most ardent friendship for her, and hoped she would often favor them with her company. Amanda answered those insincere professions with cool civility, and the visitors departed.
Chapter XVIII
"Oh! fields, oh! woods, when, when, shall I be made The happy tenant of your shade!"--COWLEY.
Solitude to Amanda was a luxury, as it afforded her opportunities of indulging the ideas on which her heart delighted to dwell; she yet believed she should see Lord Mortimer, and that Lord Cherbury's sanctioning their attachment would remove the delicate scruples of her father. From soothing his passing hours, beguiling her own with the accomplishments she possessed, and indulging the tender suggestions of hope, a pleasure arose she thought ill exchanged for the trifling gayety of the parties she was frequently invited to; she was never at a loss for amusement within Castle Carberry, or about its domain; the garden became the object of her peculiar care; its situation was romantic, and long neglect had added to its natural wildness. Amanda in many places discovered vestiges of taste, and wished to restore all to primeval beauty. The fruit-trees were matted together, the alleys grass-grown, and the flowers choked with weeds; on one side lay a small wilderness, which surrounded a gothic temple, and on the other green slopes with masses of naked rock projecting through them; a flight of rugged steps, cut in the living rock, led to a cave on the summit of one of the highest, a cross rudely carved upon the wall, and the remains of a matted couch, denoted this having formerly been a hermitage; it overhung the sea, and all about it were tremendous crags, against which the waves beat with violence. Over a low-arched door was a smooth stone, with the following lines engraved upon it:--
"The pilgrim oft At dead of night, amid his orisons hears Aghast the voice of time--disparting towers Tumbling all precipitate down, dashed Rattling around, loud thundering to the moon."--DYER.
Under Amanda's superintending care, the garden soon lost its rude appearance, a new couch was procured for the hermitage, which she ornamented with shells and sea-weeds, rendering it a most delightful recess; the trees were pruned, the alleys cleared of opposing brambles, and over the wall of the gothic temple she hung the flowers she had purchased at St. Catherine's, in fanciful wreaths.
She often ascended the devious path of the mountain, which stretched beyond Castle Carberry, and beheld the waves glittering in the sunbeams, from which its foliage sheltered her. But no visionary pleasures, no delightful rambles, no domestic avocations made her forgetful to the calls of benevolence; she visited the haunts of poverty, and relieved its necessities to the utmost of her power; the wretchedness so often conspicuous among many of the lower rank, filled her not only with compassion, but surprise, as she had imagined that liberty and a fruitful soil were generally attended with comfort and prosperity. Her father, to whom she communicated this idea, informed her that the indigence of the peasants proceeded in a great degree from the emigration of their land-lords. "Their wealth," said he, "is spent in foreign lands, instead of enriching those from whence it was drawn; policy should sometimes induce them to visit their estates; the revenue of half a year spent on them would necessarily benefit the poor wretches whose labors have contributed to raise it; and by exciting their gratitude, add inclination to industry, and consequently augment their profits.
"The clouds which are formed by mists and exhalations, return to the places from whence they were drawn in fertilizing showers and refreshing dews, and almost every plant enriches the soil from which it sprung. Nature, indeed, in all her works, is a glorious precedent to man; but while enslaved by dissipation, he cannot follow her example, and what exquisite sources of enjoyment does he lose--to enlighten the toils of labor, to cheer the child of poverty, to raise the drooping head of merit--oh! how superior to the revels of dissipation, or the ostentation of wealth.
"Real happiness is forsaken for a gaudy phantom called pleasure; she is seldom grasped but for a moment--yet in that moment has power to fix envenomed stings within the breast. The heart which delights in domestic joys, which rises in pious gratitude to heaven, which melts at human woe, can alone experience true pleasure. The fortitude with which the peasants bear their sufferings should cure discontent of its murmurs; they support adversity without complaining, and those who possess a pile of turf against the severity of the winter, a small strip of ground planted with cabbage and potatoes, a cow, a pig, and some poultry, think themselves completely happy, though one wretched hovel shelters all alike."
Oh! how rapturous! thought Amanda--the idea of Lord Mortimer's feeling recurring to her mind--to change such scenes; to see the clay-built hovel vanish, and a dwelling of neatness and convenience rise in its stead; to wander, continued she, with him whose soul is fraught with sensibility, and view the projects of benevolence realized by the hand of charity; see the faded cheek of misery regain the glow of health,
"The desert blossom as the rose,"
and content and cheerfulness sport beneath its shades.
From such an ecstatic reverie as this, Amanda was roused one morning by the entrance of the Kilcorbans and Lady Greystock into the dressing-room where she was working. "Oh! my dear!" cried the eldest of the young ladies, "we have such enchanting news to tell you. Only think, who is coming down here immediately--your uncle and aunt and cousin. An express came this morning from Dublin, where they now are, to the steward at Ulster Lodge, to have everything prepared against next week for them." "I declare," said Miss Alicia, "I shall quite envy you the delightful amusement you will have with them." Amanda blushed, and felt a little confused. "You will have no reason, then, I fancy," replied she, "for I really do not know them." "Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Mrs. Kilcorban, "well, that is very comical, not to know your own relations; but perhaps they always lived in Scotland, and you were afraid to cross the sea to pay them a visit." "If that was the only fear she had," said Lady Greystock, with a satirical smile, "she could easily have surmounted it: besides, would it not have held good with respect to one place as well as another?" "Well, I never thought of that," cried Mrs. Kilcorban: "but pray, miss, may I ask the reason why you do not know them by letter?" "It can be of very little consequence to you, madam," replied Amanda, coolly, "to hear it." "They say Lady Euphrasia Sutherland is very accomplished," exclaimed Miss Kilcorban; "so a correspondence with her would have been delightful. I dare say you write sweetly yourself; so if ever you leave Castle Carberry, I beg you will favor me with letters, for of all things, I doat on a sentimental correspondence." "No wonder," said Lady Greystock, "you are so particularly well qualified to support one." "But, my dear!" resumed Miss Kilcorban, "we are to give the most enchanting ball that ever was given in this world! Papa says we shall have full liberty to do as we please respecting it." "It will be a troublesome affair, I am afraid," said Mrs. Kilcorban. "We are to have confectioners and French cooks from Dublin," continued her daughter, without minding this interruption. "Everything is to be quite in style and prepared against the third night of the marquis and marchioness's arrival; so, my dear, you and your papa will hold yourselves in readiness for our summons." Amanda bowed. "My sister and I are to have dancing dresses from town, but I will not give you an idea of the manner in which we have ordered them to be made. I assure you, you will be absolutely surprised and charmed when you see them. All the elegant men in the country will be at our entertainment. I dare say you will be vastly busy preparing for it." "Nature," said Lady Greystock, "has been too bounteous to Miss Fitzalan, to render such preparations necessary." "Oh, Lord!" cried the young ladies, with a toss of their heads, "Miss Fitzalan is not such a fool, I suppose, as to wish to appear unlike every one else in her dress, but," rising with their mamma, and saluting her much more formally than they had done at their entrance, "she is the best judge of that."
Fitzalan had never seen the marchioness since his marriage, nor did he ever again wish to behold her. The inhumanity with which she had treated her lovely sister--the malice with which she had augmented her father's resentment against the poor sufferer, had so strongly prepossessed his mind with ideas of the selfishness and implacability of hers, as to excite sentiments of distaste and aversion for her. He considered her as the usurper of his children's rights--as accessory to the death of his adored Malvina, and consequently the author of the agonies he endured--agonies which time, aided by religion, could scarcely conquer.
Chapter XIX
"Oh love, how are thy precious, sweetest minutes Thus ever crossed, thus vexed with disappointments; Now pride, now fickleness, fantastic quarrels, And sullen coldness give us pain by turns."--ROWE.
At the expected time, the marquis and his family arrived with great splendor at Ulster Lodge, which was immediately crowded with visitors of the first consequence in the county, among whom were the Kilcorbans, whose affluent fortune gave them great respectability. Mr. Kilcorban wished, indeed, to be first in paying his compliments to the marquis, who had a borough in his disposal he was desirous of being returned for. Disappointed the last time he set up as one of the candidates for the county, this was his only chance of entering that house he had long been ambitious for a seat in. He knew, indeed, his oratorical powers were not very great--often saying, he had not the gift of the gab like many of the honorable gentlemen; but then he could stamp and stare, and look up to the gods and goddesses[B] for their approbation, with the best of them; and, besides, his being a member of parliament would increase his consequence, at least in the country.
Footnote B: Ladies were admitted to the gallery of the Irish House of Commons.
The female part of his family went from Ulster Lodge to Castle Carberry, which they entered with a more consequential air than ever, as if they derived new consequence from the visit they had been paying. Instead of flying up to Amanda, as usual, the young ladies swam into the room, with what they imagined, a most bewitching elegance, and, making a sliding curtsey, flung themselves upon a sofa, exactly opposite a glass, and alternately viewed themselves, and pursued their remarks on Lady Euphrasia's dress. "Well, certainly, Alicia," said Miss Kilcorban, "I will have a morning gown made in imitation of her ladyship's: that frill of fine lace about the neck is the most becoming thing in nature; and the pale blue lining sweetly adapted for a delicate complexion." "I think, Charlotte," cried Miss Alicia, "I will have my tambour muslin in the same style, but lined with pink to set off the work."
"This aunt' of yours, my dear," exclaimed Mrs. Kilcorban, "is really a personable-looking woman enough, and her daughter a pretty little sort of body."
"Oh! they are charming creatures," cried both the young ladies; "so elegant, so irresistibly genteel."
"Your ideas and mine, then," said Lady Greystock, "differ widely about elegance and irresistibility, if you ascribe either to the ladies in question. Mr. Kilcorban," continued she, turning to Amanda, "feared, I believe, my Lord Marquis would fly across the sea in a few hours; and that he might catch him ere he took wing, never ceased tormenting us, from the time breakfast was over till we entered the carriage, to make haste, though he might have known it was quite too early for fine folks to be visible.
"Well, we posted off to Ulster Lodge, as if life and death depended on our dispatch. Mr. Kilcorban was ushered into the marquis's study, and we into an empty room, to amuse ourselves, if we pleased, with portraits of the marquis's ancestors; whilst bells in all quarters were tingling--maids and footmen running up and down stairs--and cats, dogs, monkeys, and parrots, which I found composed part of the travelling retinue, were scratching, barking, chattering, and screaming, in a room contiguous to the one we occupied. At length a fine, perfumed jessamy made his appearance, and saying the ladies were ready to have the honor of receiving us, skipped up stairs like a harlequin. The marchioness advanced about two steps from her couch to receive us, and Lady Euphrasia half rose from her seat, and after contemplating us for a minute, as if to know whether we were to be considered as human creatures or not, sunk back into her former attitude of elegant languor, and continued her conversation with a young nobleman who had accompanied them from England."
"Well, I hope you will allow he is a divine creature," exclaimed Miss Kilcorban, in an accent of rapture. "Oh! what eyes he has," cried her sister; "what an harmonious voice! I really never beheld any one so exquisitely handsome!"
"Lord Mortimer, indeed," said Lady Greystock--Amanda started, blushed, turned pale, panted as if for breath, and stared as if in amazement. "Bless me, Miss Fitzalan," asked her ladyship, "are you ill?" "No, madam," replied Amanda, in a trembling voice; "'tis only--'tis only a little palpitation of the heart I am subject to. I have interrupted your ladyship; pray proceed." "Well," continued Lady Greystock, "I was saying that Lord Mortimer was one of the most elegant and engaging young men I had ever beheld. His expressive eyes seemed to reprove the folly of his fair companion; and her neglect made him doubly assiduous, which to me was a most convincing proof of a noble mind."
How did the heart of Amanda swell with pleasure at this warm eulogium on Lord Mortimer! The tear of delight, of refined affection, sprung to her eye, and could scarcely be prevented falling.
"Lord, madam," cried Miss Kilcorban, whose pride was mortified at Amanda's hearing of the cool reception they had met with, "I can't conceive the reason you ascribe such rudeness and conceit to Lady Euphrasia; 'tis really quite a misconstruction of the etiquette necessary to be observed by people of rank."
"I am glad, my dear," replied Lady Greystock, "you are now beginning to profit by the many lessons I have given you on humility."
"I assure you, Miss," said Mrs. Kilcorban, "I did not forget to tell the marchioness she had a niece in the neighborhood. I thought, indeed, she seemed a little shy on the subject; so I suppose there has been a difference in the families, particularly as you don't visit her; but, at our ball, perhaps, everything may be settled." Amanda made no reply to this speech, and the ladies departed.
Her bosom, as may well be supposed, was agitated with the most violent perturbations on hearing of Lord Mortimer's being in the neighborhood. The pleasure she felt at the first intelligence gradually subsided on reflecting he was an inmate, probably a friend, of those relations who had contributed to the destruction of her mother; and who, from the character she had heard of them, it was not uncharitable to think, would feel no great regret, if her children experienced a destiny equally severe. Might they not infuse some prejudices against her into his bosom; to know she was the child of the unfortunate Malvina, would be enough to provoke their enmity; or, if they were silent, might not Lady Euphrasia, adorned with every advantage of rank and fortune, have won, or at least soon win, his affections?
Yet scarcely did these ideas obtrude, ere she reproached herself for them as injurious to Lord Mortimer, from whose noble nature she thought she might believe his constancy never would be shaken, except she herself gave him reason to relinquish it.
She now cheered her desponding spirits, by recalling the ideas she had long indulged with delight, as her residence was still a secret to the Edwins, whose letters to their daughter were, by Fitzalan's orders, constantly directed to a distant town from whence hers, in return, were sent. She concluded chance had informed Lord Mortimer of it, and flattered herself, that to avoid the suspicion which a solitary journey to Ireland might create in the mind of Lord Cherbury, he had availed himself of the Marquis's party, and come to try whether she was unchanged, and her father would sanction their attachment, ere he avowed it to the earl.
Whilst fluctuating between hope and fear, Ellen, all pale and breathless, ran into the room, exclaiming, "He is come! he is come! Lord Mortimer is come!"
"Oh, heavens!" sighed Amanda, sinking back in her chair and dropping her trembling hands before her. Ellen, alarmed, blamed herself for her precipitation, and, flying to a cabinet snatched a bottle of lavender water from it, which she plentifully sprinkled over her, and then assisted her to a window. "I was so flurried," cried the good-natured girl, as she saw her mistress recovering, "I did not know what I was about. Heaven knows, the sight of poor Chip himself could not have given me more pleasure. I was crossing the hall when I saw his lortship alighting; and to be sure, if one of the old warriors had stepped out of his niche--and the tefil take them all, I say, for they grin so horribly they frighten me out of my wits if I go through the hall of a dark evening--so if one of them old fellows, as I was saying, had jumped out, I could not have peen more startled, and pack I ran into the little parlor, and there I heard his lortship inquiring for my master; and to be sure the sound of his voice did my heart good, for he is an old friend, as one may say. So as soon as he went into the study, I stole up stairs; and one may guess what he and my master are talking about, I think."
The emotion of Amanda increased. She trembled so she could not stand. She felt as if her destiny, her future happiness, depended on this minute. In vain she endeavored to regain composure. Her spirits were wound up to the highest pitch of expectation, and the agitations inseparable from such a state were not to be repressed.
She continued near an hour in this situation, when the voice of Mortimer struck her ear. She started up, and, standing in the centre of the room, saw him walking down the lawn with her father, who left him when he had reached the gate, where his servants and horses were. The chill of disappointment pervaded the heart of Amanda, and a shower of tears fell from her. Ellen, who had remained in the room, was almost as much disappointed as her mistress. She muttered something about the inconstancy of men. They were all, for her part, she believed, alike; all like Mr. Chip--captious on every occasion. The dinner-bell now summoned Amanda. She dried her eyes, and tied on a little straw hat to conceal their redness. With much confusion she appeared before her father. His penetrating eye was instantly struck with her agitation and pallid looks, and he conjectured she knew of the visit he had received. On receiving that visit, he wondered not at the strength of her attachment. The noble and ingenuous air of Lord Mortimer had immediately prepossessed Fitzalan in his favor. He saw him adorned with all those perfections which are calculated to make a strong and permanent impression on a heart of sensibility, and he gave a sigh to the cruel necessity which compelled him to separate two beings of such congenial loveliness; but as that necessity neither was or could be overcome, he rejoiced that Lord Mortimer, instead of visiting him on account of his daughter, had merely come on affairs relative to the castle, and had inquired for her with a coolness which seemed to declare his love totally subdued. Not the smallest hint relative to the letter in which he had proposed for her dropped from him, and Fitzalan concluded his affections were transferred to some object more the favorite of fortune than his portionless Amanda.
This object, he was inclined to believe, was Lady Euphrasia Sutherland, from what Lord Cherbury had said concerning the splendid alliance he had in view for his son, and from Lord Mortimer's accompanying the Roslin family to Ireland.
He felt he had not fortitude to mention those conjectures to Amanda. He rather wished she should imbibe them from her own observation; and pride, he then trusted, would come to her aid, and stimulate her to overcome her attachment. Dinner passed in silence. When the servant was withdrawn, he resolved to relieve the anxiety which her looks informed him pressed upon her heart, by mentioning the visit of Lord Mortimer. He came, he told her, merely to see the state the castle was in, and thus proceeded: "Lord Mortimer is, indeed, an elegant and sensible young man, and will do honor to the house from which he is descended. He had long wished, he told me, to visit this estate, which was endeared to him by the remembrance of his juvenile days, but particularly by its being the place of his mother's nativity, and her favorite residence; and the opportunity of travelling with an agreeable party, had determined him no longer to defer gratifying this wish.
"He mentioned his mother in terms of the truest respect and tenderness; and his softened voice, his tearful eye, proclaimed his heart the mansion of sensibility. His virtues, like his praises, will do honor to her memory. He had been told the castle was in a very ruinous state, and was agreeably surprised to find it in as good order as could be expected from its ancient date. He desired to see the garden, which had been laid out under the direction of his mother. He expected not to have found a vestige of her taste remaining, and was consequently charmed to find himself mistaken. Every spot appeared to remind him of some happy hour, especially the gothic temple. 'How many happy minutes have I passed in this place,' said his lordship, after a silence for some time, 'with the best of women.'--Upon my word, Amanda," continued Fitzalan, "you have ornamented it in a very fanciful manner. I really thought his lordship would have stolen some of your lilies or roses, he examined them so accurately." Amanda blushed, and her father still perceiving expectation in her eyes, thus went on: "His lordship looked at some of the adjacent grounds; and as he has mentioned what improvements he thought necessary to be made in them, I fancy he will not repeat his visit, or stay much longer in the kingdom."
In a few minutes after this conversation Fitzalan repaired to his library, and Amanda to the garden. She hastened to the temple. Never had she before thought it so picturesque, or such an addition to the landscape. The silence of Lord Mortimer on entering it, she did not, like her father, believe proceeded altogether from retracing scenes of former happiness with his mother. "No," said she, "in this spot he also, perhaps, thought of Amanda."
True, he had mentioned her with indifference to her father, but that might (and she would flatter herself it did) proceed from resentment, excited by her precipitate flight from Wales, at a period when his received addresses gave him a right to information about all her actions, and by her total neglect of him since. Their first interview, she trusted, would effect a reconciliation, by producing an explanation. Her father then, she flattered herself, tender as he was, depending on her for happiness, and prepossessed in Lord Mortimer's favor, would no longer oppose their attachment, but allow Lord Cherbury to be informed of it, who she doubted not, would, in this as well as every other instance, prove himself truly feeling and disinterested.
Thus did Amanda, by encouraging ideas agreeable to her wishes, try to soften the disappointment she had experienced in the morning. Fitzalan, on meeting his daughter at tea, was not surprised to hear she had been in the gothic temple, but he was to see her wear so cheerful an appearance. He was no stranger to the human heart, and he was convinced some flattering illusion could alone have enabled her to shake off the sadness with which, but an hour before, she had been oppressed. The sooner such an illusion was removed, the better; and to allow her to see Lord Mortimer, he imagined would be the most effectual measure for such a purpose.
The more he reflected on that young nobleman's manner, and what he himself had heard from Lord Cherbury, the more he was convinced Lady Euphrasia Sutherland was not only the object destined for Lord Mortimer, but the one who now possessed his affections; and believed his visit to Castle Carberry had been purposely made, to announce the alteration of his sentiments by the coldness of his conduct, and check any hopes which his appearance in the neighborhood might have created.
He had hesitated about Amanda's accepting the invitation to the Kilcorban's ball; but he now determined she should go, impressed with the idea of her being there convinced of the change in Lord Mortimer's sentiments--a conviction he deemed necessary to produce one in her own.
Amanda impatiently longed for this night, which she believed would realize either her hopes or fears.
Chapter XX
"A crimson blush her beauteous face o'erspread, Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red; The driving colors, never at a stay, Run here and there, and flush and fade away; Delightful change! thus Indian ivory shows, With which the bordering paint of purple glows, Or lilies damasked by the neighboring rose."--DRYDEN.
The wished-for night at length arrived, and Amanda arrayed herself for it with a fluttering heart. The reflection of her mirror did not depress her spirits; hope had increased the brilliancy of her eyes, and given an additional glow to her complexion. Ellen, who delighted in the charms of her dear young lady, declared many of the Irish ladies would have reason to envy her that night; and Fitzalan when he entered the parlor was struck with her surpassing loveliness. He gazed on her with a rapture that brought tears into his eyes, and felt a secret pride at the idea of the marchioness beholding this sweet descendant of her neglected sister--
"Into such beauty spread and blown so fair, Though poverty's cold wind, and crushing rain, Beat keen and heavy on her tender years."
"No," said he to himself, "the titled Euphrasia, if she equals, cannot at least surpass my Amanda--meekness and innocence dwell upon the brow of my child; but the haughty marchioness will teach pride to lower upon Lady Euphrasia."
Amanda, on reaching Grangeville, found the avenue full of carriages. The lights dispersed through the house gave it quite the appearance of an illumination. It seemed, indeed, the mansion of gayety and splendor. Her knees trembled as she ascended the stairs. She wished for time to compose herself, but the door opened, her name was announced, and Mrs. Kilcorban came forward to receive her. The room, though spacious, was extremely crowded. It was decorated in a fanciful manner with festoons of flowers, intermingled with variegated lamps. Immediately over the entrance was the orchestra, and opposite to it sat the marchioness and her party. The heart of Amanda beat, if possible, with increased quickness on the approach of Mrs. Kilcorban, and her voice was lost in her emotions. Recollecting, however, that the scrutinizing eyes of Lord Mortimer, and her imperious relations, were now on her, she almost immediately recovered composure, and with her usual elegance walked up the room. Most of the company were strangers to her, and she heard a general buzz of "Who is she?" accompanied with expressions of admiration from the gentlemen, among whom were the officers of a garrison town near Grangeville. Confused by the notice she attracted, she hastened to the first seat she found vacant, which was near the marchioness.
Universal, indeed, was the admiration she had excited among the male part of the company, by her beauty, unaffected graces, and simplicity of dress.
She wore a robe of plain white lutestring, and a crape turban, ornamented with a plume of drooping feathers. She had no appearance of finery, except a chain of pearls about her bosom, from which hung her mother's picture, and a light wreath of embroidered laurel, intermingled with silver blossoms, round her petticoat. Her hair, in its own native and glossy hue, floated on her shoulders, and partly shaded a cheek where the purity of the lily was tinted with the softest bloom of the rose. On gaining a seat, her confusion subsided. She looked up, and the first eyes she met were those of Lord Mortimer (who leaned on Lady Euphrasia Sutherland's chair), fastened on her face with a scrutinizing earnestness, as if he wished to penetrate the recesses of her heart, and discover whether he yet retained a place in it. She blushed, and looking from him, perceived she was an object of critical attention to the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia. There was a malignant expression in their countenances, which absolutely shocked her; and she felt a sensation of horror at beholding the former, who had so largely contributed to the sorrows of her mother. "Can it be possible," said Lady Euphrasia, replying to a young and elegant officer who stood by her, in a tone of affectation, and with an impertinent sneer, "that you think her handsome?" "Handsome," exclaimed he with warmth, as if involuntarily repeating her ladyship's word, "I think her bewitchingly irresistible. They told me I was coming to the land of saints; but," glancing his sparkling eyes around, and fixing them on Amanda; "I find it is the land of goddesses."
The marchioness haughtily frowned--Lady Euphrasia smiled satirically, tossed her head, and played with her fan. The propensities to envy and ill-nature, which the marchioness had shown in her youth, were not less visible in age. As they were then excited on her own account, so were they now on her daughter's. To engross praise and admiration for her, she wished beauty blasted, and merit extirpated; nor did she ever fail, when in her power, to depreciate one, and cast an invidious cloud of calumny over the other. She beheld Amanda with envy and hatred. Notwithstanding her partiality to her daughter, she could not avoid seeing her vast inferiority, in point of personal charms, to her young relation. True, Lady Euphrasia possessed a fortune, which would always insure her attention; but it was that unimpassioned and studied attention selfishness dictates, the mere tribute of flattery. How different from the spontaneous attention which Amanda excited, who, though portionless and untitled, was beheld with admiration, followed with praise, and courted with assiduity!
Lady Euphrasia's mind was the counterpart of her mother's; but in figure she resembled her father. Her stature was low, her features contracted, and though of the same age as Amanda, their harsh expression made her appear much older. Though blessed with the abundant gifts of fortune, she was unhappy, if, from any one's manner, she conceived that they thought nature had not been quite so liberal to her. In the domestic circle, constant flattery kept her in good-humor; but when out, she was frequently chagrined at seeing women, infinitely below her in rank and fortune, more noticed than herself.
At the ball she supposed she should have appeared as little less, at least, than a demi-goddess. Art and fashion were exhausted in adorning her, and she entered the room with all the insolence of conscious rank and affectation of beauty. As she walked she appeared scarcely able to support her delicate frame, and her languishing eyes were half closed. She could, however, see there was a number of pretty women present, and felt disconcerted. The respect, however, which she was paid, a little revived her; and having contrived to detain Lord Mortimer by her chair and Sir Charles Bingley, the young officer already mentioned, who was colonel of a regiment quartered in an adjacent town, she soon felt her spirits uncommonly exhilarated by the attentions of two of the most elegant men in the room; and like a proud sultana in the midst of her slaves, was enjoying the compliments she extorted from them by her prefatory speeches, when the door opened, and Amanda, like an angel of light, appeared to dissolve the mists of vanity and self-importance. Lord Mortimer was silent, but his speaking eyes confessed his feelings. Sir Charles Bingley, who had no secret motive to conceal his, openly avowed his admiration, to which Lady Euphrasia replied as has been already mentioned.
All the rapture Sir Charles expressed Lord Mortimer felt. His soul seemed on the wing to fly to Amanda--to utter its feelings--to discover hers and chide her for her conduct. This first emotion of tenderness, however, quickly subsided, on recollecting what that conduct had been--how cruelly, how ungratefully she had used him. Fled in the very moment of hope and expectation, leaving him a prey to distrust, anxiety, and regret, he dreaded some fatal mystery--some improper attachment (experience had rendered him suspicious), which neither she nor her father could avow; for never did he imagine that the scrupulous delicacy of Fitzalan alone had effected their separation. He still adored Amanda; he neither could nor desired to drive her from his thoughts, except well assured she was unworthy of being harbored in them, and felt unutterable impatience to have her mysterious conduct explained. From Tudor Hall he had repaired to London, restless and unhappy. Soon after his arrival there, the marquis proposed his accompanying him to Ireland. This he declined, having reason to think Lord Cherbury meditated an alliance for him with his family. The earl expressed regret at his refusal. He said he wished he would join the marquis's party, as he wanted his opinion relative to the state of Castle Carberry, where a man of integrity then resided, who would have any alterations or repairs he might think necessary executed in the most eligible manner. He mentioned the name of Fitzalan. Lord Mortimer was surprised and agitated. He concealed his emotions, however, and with apparent carelessness, asked a few questions about him, and found that he was indeed the father of Amanda. She was not mentioned, nor did he dare to inquire concerning her; but he immediately declared that since his father wished it so much, he would accompany the marquis. This was extremely pleasing to that nobleman, and he and Lord Cherbury had in reality agreed upon a union between him and Lady Euphrasia, and meant soon openly to avow their intention. Lord Mortimer suspected, and Lady Euphrasia was already apprised of it; and from vanity, was pleased at the idea of being connected with a man so universally admired. Love was out of the question, for she had not sufficient sensibility to experience it.
He, cautious of creating hopes which he never meant to realize, treated her only with the attention which common politeness demanded, and on every occasion seemed to prefer the marchioness's conversation to hers, intending by this conduct to crush the projected scheme in embryo, and spare himself the mortification of openly rejecting it. Had his heart even been disengaged, Lady Euphrasia could never have been his choice. If Amanda in reality proved as amiable as he had once reason to believe her, he considered himself bound, by every tie of honor as well as love, to fulfil the engagement he had entered into with her. He resolved, however, to resist every plea of tenderness in her favor, except he was thoroughly convinced she still deserved it. He went to Castle Carberry purposely to make a display of indifference, and prevent any ideas being entertained of his having followed her to Ireland. He deemed himself justifiable in touching her sensibility (if, indeed, she possessed any for him) by an appearance of coldness and inattention; but determined, after a little retaliation of this kind on her, for the pain she had made him endure, to come to an explanation, and be guided by its result relative to his conduct in future to her.
The character of a perfect stranger was the one he was to support throughout the evening; but her loveliness, and the gallantry of Sir Charles Bingley, tempted him a thousand times to break through the restraint he had imposed on himself.
The marchioness and Lady Euphrasia were not the only persons displeased by the charms of Amanda. The Miss Kilcorbans saw, with evident mortification, the admiration she excited, which they had flattered themselves with chiefly engrossing; their disappointment was doubly severe, after the pain, trouble, and expense they had undergone in ornamenting their persons; after the suggestions of their vanity, and the flattering encomiums of their mamma, who presided herself at their toilet, every moment exclaiming, "Well, well, heaven help the men to-night, girls!"
They fluttered across the room to Amanda, sweeping at least two yards of painted tiffany after them; assured her they were extremely glad to see her, but were afraid she was unwell, as she never looked so ill. Amanda assured them she was conscious of no indisposition, and the harmony of her features remained undisturbed. Miss Kilcorban, in a half whisper, declared the marchioness had never smiled since she had entered the room, and feared her mamma had committed a great mistake in inviting them together. The rudeness of this speech shocked Amanda. An indignant swell heaved her bosom, and she was about replying to it as it deserved, when Miss Alicia stopped her by protesting she believed Lord Mortimer dying for Lady Euphrasia. Amanda involuntarily raised her eyes at this speech; but, instead of Lord Mortimer, beheld Sir Charles Bingley, who was standing behind the young ladies. "Am I pardonable," cried he, smiling, "for disturbing so charming a trio? but a soldier is taught never to neglect a good opportunity: and one so propitious as the present for the wish of my heart might not again offer." The Miss Kilcorbans bridled up at this speech; plied their fans and smiled most graciously on him, certainly concluding he meant to engage one or other for the first set. Passing gently between them, he bowed gracefully to Amanda, and requested the honor of her hand. She gave an assenting smile, and he seated himself beside her till the dancing commenced. The sisters cast a malignant glance over them, and swam off with a contemptuous indifference.
Lady Euphrasia had expected Sir Charles and Lord Mortimer would have been competitors for her hand, and was infinitely provoked by the desertion of the former to her lovely cousin. He was a fashionable and animated young man, whom she had often honored with her notice in England, and wished to enlist in the train of her supposed adorers. Lord Mortimer could scarcely restore her good-humor by engaging her. Almost immediately after him, young Kilcorban advanced for the same purpose, and Lord Mortimer sincerely regretted he had been beforehand with him. The little fop was quite chagrined at finding her ladyship engaged; but entreated the next set he might have the supreme honor and ecstatic felicity of her hand. This, with the most impertinent affectation, she promised, if able to endure the fatigue of another dance.
Amanda was next couple to Lady Euphrasia, and endeavored therefore to calm her spirits, which the rudeness of Miss Kilcorban had discomposed, and attend to the lively conversation of Sir Charles, who was extremely pleasing and entertaining. Lord Mortimer watched them with jealous attention. His wandering glances were soon noticed by Lady Euphrasia, and her frowns and sarcastic speeches evinced her displeasure at them. He tried to recollect himself, and act as politeness required. She, not satisfied with fixing his attention, endeavored to attract Sir Charles's. She spoke to him across Amanda; but all her efforts were here ineffectual. He spoke and laughed with her ladyship, but his eyes could not be withdrawn from the angelic countenance of his partner. Amanda's hand trembled as, in turning, she presented it to Lord Mortimer; but, though he extended his, he did not touch it. There was a slight in this which pierced Amanda's heart. She sighed, unconscious of doing so herself. Not so Sir Charles. He asked her, smiling, to where, or whom, that sigh was wafted. This made Amanda recall her wandering thoughts. She assumed an air of sprightliness, and went down the dance with much animation. When finished, Sir Charles led her to a seat near the one Lady Euphrasia and Lord Mortimer occupied. She saw the eyes of his lordship often directed towards her, and her heart fluttered at the pleasing probability of being asked to dance by him. Sir Charles regretted that the old-fashioned custom of not changing partners was over, and declared he could not leave her till she had promised him her hand for the third set. This she could not refuse, and he left her with reluctance, as the gentlemen were again standing up, to seek a partner. At the same moment Lord Mortimer quitted Lady Euphrasia. Oh! how the bosom of Amanda throbbed when she saw him approach and look at her. He paused. A faintishness came over her. He cast another glance on her, and passed on. Her eye followed him, and she saw him take out Miss Kilcorban. This, indeed, was a disappointment. Propriety, she thought, demanded his dancing the first set with Lady Euphrasia, but, if not totally indifferent, surely he would not have neglected engaging her for the second. "Yes," said she to herself, "he has totally forgotten me. Lady Euphrasia is now the object, and he only pays attention to those who can contribute to her amusement." Several gentlemen endeavored to prevail on her to dance, but she pleaded fatigue, and sat solitary on a window, apparently regarding the gay assembly, but in reality too much engrossed by painful thoughts to do so. The woods, silvered by the beams of the moon, recalled the venerable shades of Tudor Hall to memory, where she had so often rambled by the same pale beams, and heard vows of unchangeable regard--vows registered in her heart, yet now without the hope of having them fulfilled. The dancing over, the company repaired to another room for refreshments. Amanda, absorbed in thought, heeded not their almost total desertion, till young Kilcorban, capering up to her, declared she looked as lonesome as a hermit in his cell, and, laughing in her face, turned off with a careless impertinence. He had not noticed her before that night. He was indeed one of those little fluttering insects who bask in the rays of fortune, and court alone her favorites. Elated by an acquaintance with the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia, he particularly neglected Amanda, not only from deeming them more worthy of his attention, but from perceiving he could take no steps more certain of gaining their favor. His words made Amanda sensible of the singularity of her situation. She arose immediately, and went to the other room. Every seat was already occupied. Near the door sat Lady Euphrasia and the Miss Kilcorbans. Lord Mortimer leaned on the back of her ladyship's chair, and young Kilcorban occupied one by her side, which he never attempted offering to Amanda. She stood, therefore, most unpleasantly by the door, and was exceedingly confused at hearing a great many, in a whispering way, remarking the strangeness of her not being noticed by so near a relation as the Marchioness of Roslin. A general titter at her situation prevailed among Lady Euphrasia's party, Lord Mortimer excepted. "Upon my word," said young Kilcorban, looking at Amanda, "some ladies study attitudes which would be as well let alone." "For the study of propriety," replied her ladyship, who appeared to have unbended from her haughtiness, "she would do admirably for the figure of Hope." "If she had but an anchor to recline on," rejoined he. "Yes," answered her ladyship, "with her floating locks and die-away glances." "Or else, Patience on a monument," cried he. "Only she has no grief to smile at," returned Lady Euphrasia. "Pardon me there," said he; "she has the grief--not, indeed, that I believe she would smile at it--of being totally eclipsed by your ladyship." "Or, what do you think," cried Lord Mortimer, whose eyes sparkled with indignation during this dialogue, "of likening her to Wisdom, pitying the follies of human kind, and smiling to see the shafts of malice recoiling from the bosom of innocence and modesty, with contempt, on those who levelled them at it?"
Amanda heard not these words, which were delivered in rather a low voice. Her heart swelled with indignation at the impertinence directed to her, and she would have quitted the room but that the passage was too much crowded for her to pass. Sir Charles Bingley, occupied in attending the young lady with whom he had danced, observed not Amanda till the moment. He instantly flew to her. "Alone--and standing!" said he; "why did I not see you before?--you look fatigued." She was pale with emotion. "Kilcorban," continued he, "I must suppose you did not see Miss Fitzalan, or your seat would not have been kept." Then catching him by the arm, he raised him nimbly from his chair, and directly carried it to Amanda; and having procured her refreshments, seated himself at her feet, exclaiming, "this is my throne, let kings come bow to it." Her lovely and unaffected graces had excited Sir Charles's admiration; but it was the neglect with which he saw her treated, diffused such a soothing tenderness through his manner as he now displayed. It hurt his sensibility, and had she even been plain in her appearance, would have rendered her the peculiar object of his attention. He detested the marchioness and her daughter for their rancorous envy, as much as he despised the Kilcorbans for their mean insolence. The marchioness told him a long tale of the shocking conduct of Amanda's parents, whose ill qualities she declared her looks announced her to possess, and endeavored to depreciate her in his favor; but that was impossible.
"Lord!" said Lady Euphrasia, rising as she spoke, "let me pass; this scene is sickening." Lord Mortimer remained behind her. He loitered about the room, and his looks were often directed towards Amanda. Her hopes began to revive. The lustre rekindled in her eyes, and a soft blush again stole over her cheek. Though engaged to Sir Charles, she felt she should be pleased to have Lord Mortimer make an overture for her hand. The company were now returning to the ball-room, and Sir Charles took her hand to lead her after them. At that moment Lord Mortimer approached. Amanda paused as if to adjust some part of her dress. He passed on to a very beautiful girl, whom he immediately engaged, and led from the room. She followed them with her eyes, and continued without moving, till the fervent pressure Sir Charles gave her hand, restored her to recollection.
When the set with him was finished, she would have left the house directly, had her servant been there; but after putting up the horses, he had returned to Castle Carberry, and she did not expect him till a very late hour. She declared her resolution of dancing no more, and Sir Charles having avowed the same, they repaired to the card-room, as the least crowded place they could find. Lady Greystock was playing at the table, with the marquis and marchioness. She beckoned Amanda to her, and having had no opportunity of speaking before, expressed her pleasure at then seeing her. The marquis examined her through his spectacles. The marchioness frowned, and declared, "she would take care in future, to avoid parties subject to such disagreeable intruders." This speech was too pointed not to be remarked. Amanda wished to appear undisturbed, but her emotions grew too powerful to be suppressed, and she was obliged to move hastily from the table. Sir Charles followed her. "Cursed malignity," cried he, endeavoring to screen her from observation, while tears trickled down her cheeks; "but, my dear Miss Fitzalan, was your beauty and merit less conspicuous, you would have escaped it; 'tis the vice of little minds to hate that excellence they cannot reach." "It is cruel, it is shocking," said Amanda, "to suffer enmity to outlive the object who excited it, and to hate the offspring on account of the parent--the original of this picture," and she looked at her mother's, "merited not such conduct." Sir Charles gazed on it;--it was wet with the tears of Amanda. He wiped them off, and pressing the handkerchief to his lips, put it in his bosom.
At this instant Lord Mortimer appeared. He had, indeed, been for some time an unnoticed observer of the progress of this tete-à-tete. As soon as he perceived he had attracted their regard, he quitted the room.
"His lordship is like a troubled spirit to-night, wandering to and fro," said Sir Charles; "I really believe everything is not right between him and Lady Euphrasia." "Something, then," cried Amanda, "is in agitation between him and her ladyship?" "So says the world," replied Sir Charles, "but I do not always give implicit credit to its reports. I have known Lord Mortimer this long time; and from my knowledge of him, should never have supposed Lady Euphrasia Sutherland a woman capable of pleasing him; nay, to give my real opinion, I think him quite uninterested about her ladyship. I will not say so much as to all the other females present. I really imagined several times to-night, from his glances to you, he was on the point of requesting an introduction, which would not have pleased me perfectly. Mortimer possesses more graces than those which merely meet the eye, and is a rival I should by no means like to have."
Amanda, confused by this discourse, endeavored to change it, and at last succeeded. They conversed pleasantly together on different subjects, till they went to supper, when Sir Charles still continued his attention. Lord Mortimer was, or at least appeared to be, entirely engrossed with Lady Euphrasia, who from time to time tittered with the Miss Kilcorbans, and looked satirically at Amanda. On quitting the supper-room, she found her servant in the hall, and immediately desired him to have the carriage drawn up. Sir Charles, who held her hand, requested her to stay a little longer, yet acknowledged it was self alone which dictated the request, as he knew she would not promote her own pleasure by complying with it. As he handed her into the carriage, he told her he should soon follow her example in retiring, as the scene, so lately delightful, in losing her, would lose all its charms. He entreated, and obtained permission, to wait on her the next morning.
How different was now the appearance of Amanda, to what it had been at her departure from Castle Carberry! Pale, trembling, and languid, her father received her into his arms--for, till she returned, he could not think of going to rest--and instantly guessed the cause of her dejection. His heart mourned for the pangs inflicted on his child's. When she beheld him gazing on her with mingled woe and tenderness, she tried to recruit her spirits; and after relating a few particulars of the ball, answered the minute inquiries he made relative to the conduct of the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia. He appeared unutterably affected on hearing it. "Merciful power," exclaimed he, "what dispositions! But you are too lovely, too like your mother, my Amanda, in every perfection, to escape their malice. Oh! may it never injure you as it did her. May that Providence, whose protection I daily implore for the sweet child of my love, the source of earthly comfort, render every wish, every scheme which may be formed against her, abortive; and oh! may it yet bless me with the sight of her happiness."
Amanda retired to her chamber, inexpressibly affected by the language of her father. "Yes," cried she, her heart swelling with pity and gratitude to him, "my sorrow in future shall be concealed, to avoid exciting his. The pain inflicted by thy inconstancy, Mortimer, shall be hid within the recesses of my heart, and never shall the peace of my father be disturbed by knowing the loss of mine."
The gray dawn was now beginning to advance, but Amanda had no inclination for repose. As she stood at the window, she heard the solemn stillness of the scene frequently interrupted by the distant noise of carriages, carrying home the weary sons and daughters of dissipation. "But a few hours ago," said she, "and how gay, how animated was my soul; how dull, how cheerless now! Oh! Mortimer, but a few hours ago, and I believed myself the beloved of thine heart, but the flattering illusion is now over, and I no longer shall hope, or thou deceive." She changed her clothes, and, flinging herself on the bed, from mere fatigue, at length sunk into a slumber.