Chapter XXIX
"But yet I say, If imputation and strong circumstances, Which lead directly to the door of truth, Will give you satisfaction, you may have it."--SHAKSPEARE.
From that evening, to the day destined for the ball, nothing material happened. On the morning of that day, as Amanda was sitting in the drawing-room with the ladies, Lord Mortimer entered. Lady Euphrasia could talk of nothing else but the approaching entertainment, which, she said, was expected to be the most brilliant thing that had been given that winter.
"I hope your ladyship," said Amanda, who had not yet declared her intention of staying at home, "will be able to-morrow to give me a good description of it." "Why, I suppose," cried Lady Euphrasia, "you do not intend going without being able to see and hear yourself?" "Certainly," replied Amanda, "I should not, but I do not intend going." "Not going to the ball to-night?" exclaimed Lady Euphrasia. "Bless me child," said Lady Greystock, "what whim has entered your head to prevent your going?" "Dear Lady Greystock," said Lady Euphrasia, in a tone of unusual good-humor, internally delighted at Amanda's resolution, "don't tease Miss Fitzalan with questions." "And you really do not go?" exclaimed Lord Mortimer, in an accent expressive of surprise and disappointment. "I really do not, my lord." "I declare," said the marchioness, even more delighted than her daughter at Amanda's resolution, as it favored a scheme she had long been projecting, "I wish Euphrasia was as indifferent about amusement as Miss Fitzalan: here she has been complaining of indisposition the whole morning, yet I cannot prevail on her to give up the ball."
Lady Euphrasia, who never felt in better health and spirits, would have contradicted the marchioness, had not an expressive glance assured her there was an important motive for this assertion.
"May we not hope, Miss Fitzalan," said Lord Mortimer, "that a resolution so suddenly adopted as yours may be as suddenly changed?" "No, indeed, my lord, nor is it so suddenly formed as you seem to suppose."
Lord Mortimer shuddered as he endeavored to account for it in his own mind; his agony became almost insupportable; he arose and walked to the window where she sat.
"Amanda," said he, in a low voice, "I fear you forget your engagement to me."
Amanda, supposing this alluded to her engagement for the ball, replied, "she had not forgotten it." "For your inability or disinclination to fulfil it, then," said he, "will you not account?" "Most willingly, my lord." "When?" asked Lord Mortimer, impatiently, for, unable longer to support his torturing suspense, he determined, contrary to his first intention, to come to an immediate explanation relative to Belgrave. "To-morrow, my lord," replied Amanda, "since you desire it, I will account for not keeping my engagement, and I trust," a modest blush mantling her cheeks as she spoke, "that your lordship will not disapprove of my reasons for declining it."
The peculiar earnestness of his words, Lord Mortimer imagined, had conveyed their real meaning to Amanda.
"Till to-morrow, then," sighed he, heavily, "I must bear disquietude."
His regret, Amanda supposed, proceeded from disappointment at not having her company at the ball: she was flattered by it, and pleased at the idea of telling him her real motive for not going, certain it would meet his approbation, and open another source of benevolence to poor Rushbrook.
In the evening, at Lady Euphrasia's particular request, she attended at her toilet, and assisted in ornamenting her ladyship. At ten she saw the party depart, without the smallest regret for not accompanying them: happy in self-approbation, a delightful calm was diffused over her mind: a treacherous calm, indeed, which, lulling her senses into security, made the approaching storm burst with redoubled violence on her head; it was such a calm as Shakspeare beautifully describes:--
"We often see against some storm A silence in the heavens; the rack stand still, The bold winds speechless, and the orb below As hush as death."
She continued in Lady Euphrasia's dressing-room, and took up the beautiful and affecting story of Paul and Mary, to amuse herself. Her whole attention was soon engrossed by it; and, with the unfortunate Paul, she was shedding a deluge of tears over the fate of his lovely Mary, when a sudden noise made her hastily turn her head, and with equal horror and surprise, she beheld Colonel Belgrave coming forward. She started up, and was springing to the door, when, rushing between her and it, he caught her in his arms, and forcing her back to the sofa, rudely stopped her mouth.
"Neither cries or struggles, Amanda," said he, "will be availing; without the assistance of a friend, you may be convinced, I could not have entered this house, and the same friend will, you may depend on it, take care that our tete-à-tete is not interrupted."
Amanda shuddered at the idea of treachery; and being convinced, from what he said, she could not expect assistance, endeavored to recover her fainting spirits, and exert all her resolution.
"Your scheme, Colonel Belgrave," said she, "is equally vile and futile. Though treachery may have brought you hither, you must be convinced that, under the Marquis of Roslin's roof, who, by relationship, as well as hospitality, is bound to protect me, you dare not, with impunity, offer me any insult. The marquis will be at home immediately; if, therefore, you wish to preserve the semblance of honor, retire without further delay." "Not to retire so easily," exclaimed Belgrave, "did I take such pains, or watch so anxiously for this interview. Fear not any insult; but, till I have revealed the purpose of my soul, I will not be forced from you. My love, or rather adoration, has known no abatement by your long concealment; and now that chance has so happily thrown you in my way, I will not neglect using any opportunity it may offer." "Gracious heaven!" said Amanda, while her eyes flashed with indignation, "how can you have the effrontery to avow your insolent intentions--intentions which long since you must have known would ever prove abortive?" "And why, my Amanda," said he, again attempting to strain her to his breast, while she shrunk from his grasp, "why should they prove abortive? why should you be obstinate in refusing wealth, happiness, the sincere, the ardent affection of a man, who, in promoting your felicity, would constitute his own? My life, my fortune, would be at your command; my eternal gratitude would be yours for any trifling sacrifice the world might think you made me. Hesitate no longer about raising yourself to affluence, which, to a benevolent spirit like yours, must be so peculiarly pleasing. Hesitate not to secure independence to your father, promotion to your brother; and, be assured, if the connection I formed in an ill-fated hour, deceived by a specious appearance of perfection, should ever be dissolved, my hand, like my heart, shall be yours." "Monster!" exclaimed Amanda, beholding him with horror, "your hand, was it at your disposal, like your other offers, I should spurn with contempt. Cease to torment me," she continued, "lest, in my own defence, I call upon those who have power, as well as inclination, to chastise your insolence. Let this consideration, joined to the certainty that your pursuit must ever prove unavailing, influence your future actions; for, be assured, you are in every respect an object of abhorrence to my soul."
As she spoke, exerting all her strength, she burst from him, and attempted to gain the door. He flung himself between her and it, his face inflamed with passion, and darting the most malignant glances at her.
Terrified by his looks, Amanda tried to avoid him; and when he caught her again in his arms, she screamed aloud. No one appeared; her terror increased.
"Oh, Belgrave!" cried she, trembling, "if you have one principle of honor, one feeling of humanity remaining, retire. I will pardon and conceal what is past, if you comply with my request." "I distress you, Amanda," said he, assuming a softened accent, "and it wounds me to the soul to do so, though you, cruel and inexorable, care not what pain you occasion me. Hear me calmly, and be assured I shall attempt no action which can offend you."
He led her again to the sofa, and thus continued:--
"Misled by false views, you shun and detest the only man who has had sufficient sincerity to declare openly his intentions; inexperience and credulity have already made you a dupe to artifice. You imagined Sir Charles Bingley was a fervent admirer of yours, when, be assured, in following you he only obeyed the dictates of an egregious vanity, which flattered him with the hope of gaining your regard, and being distinguished by it. Nothing was farther from his thoughts, as he himself confessed to me, than seriously paying his addresses to you; and had you appeared willing, at last, to accept them, be assured he would soon have contrived some scheme to disengage himself from you. The attentions of Lord Mortimer are prompted by a motive much more dangerous than that which instigated Sir Charles. He really admires you, and would have you believe his views are honorable; but beware of his duplicity. He seeks to take advantage of the too great confidence you repose in him. His purpose once accomplished, he would sacrifice you to Lady Euphrasia; and I know enough of her malevolent disposition to be convinced she would enjoy her triumph over so lovely a victim. Ah, my dear Amanda, even beauty and elegance like yours would not, on the generality of mankind, have power to make them forego the advantages annexed to wealth--on Lord Mortimer, particularly, they would fail of that effect. His ambition and avarice are equal to his father's; and though his heart and soul, I am confident, revolt from the mind and person of Lady Euphrasia, he will unite himself to her, for the sake of possessing her fortune, and thus increasing his own power of procuring the gratifications he delights in. As my situation is known, I cannot be accused of deception, and whatever I promise, will be strictly fulfilled. Deliberate therefore no longer, my Amanda, on the course you shall pursue." "No," cried she, "I shall, indeed, no longer deliberate about it."
As she spoke she started from her seat. Belgrave again seized her hand. At this moment a knocking was heard at the hall door, which echoed through the house. Amanda trembled, and Belgrave paused in a speech he had begun. She supposed the marquis had returned. It was improbable he would come to that room; and even if he did, from his distrustful and malignant temper, she knew not whether she should have reason to rejoice at or regret his presence. But how great was her confusion when, instead of his voice, she heard those of the marchioness and her party! In a moment the dreadful consequences which might ensue from her present situation rushed upon her mind. By the forced attentions of the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia, she was not long deceived, and had reason to believe, from the inveterate dislike they bore her, that they would rejoice at an opportunity like the present for traducing her fame; and with horror she saw that appearances, even in the eyes of candor, would be against her. She had positively, and unexpectedly, refused going to the ball. She had expressed delight at the idea of staying at home. Alas! would not all these circumstances be dwelt upon? What ideas might they not excite in Lord Mortimer, who already showed a tendency to jealousy? Half wild at the idea, she clasped her hands together and exclaimed, in a voice trembling with anguish, "Merciful heaven, I am ruined forever!"
"No, no," cried Belgrave, flinging himself at her feet, "pardon me, Amanda, and I never more will molest you. I see your principles are invincible. I admire, I revere your purity, and never more will I attempt to injure it. I was on the point of declaring so when that cursed knock came to the door. Compose yourself, and consider what can be done in the present emergency. You will be ruined if I am seen with you. The malicious devils you live with would never believe our united asseverations of your innocence. Conceal me, therefore, if possible, till the family are settled; the person who let me in will then secure my retreat, and I swear solemnly never more to trouble you."
Amanda hesitated between the confidence her innocence inspired, and the dread of the unpleasant construction malice might put on her situation. She heard the party ascending the stairs. Fear conquered her reluctance to concealment, and she motioned to Belgrave to retire to a closet adjoining the dressing-room. He obeyed the motion, and closed the door softly after him.
Amanda, snatching up her book, endeavored to compose herself; but the effort was ineffectual--she trembled universally--nor was her agitation diminished when, from the outside of the door, Lady Euphrasia called to her to open it. She tottered to it, and almost fainted on finding it locked--with difficulty she opened it, and the whole party, followed by the marquis, entered.
"Upon my word, Miss Fitzalan," said the marchioness, "you were determined no one should disturb your meditations. I fear we have surprised you; but poor Euphrasia was taken ill at the ball, and we were obliged to return with her." "Miss Fitzalan has not been much better, I believe," said Lady Euphrasia, regarding her attentively. "Good Lord, child!" cried Lady Greystock, "what is the matter with you? why, you look as pale as if you had seen a ghost." "Miss Fitzalan is fond of solitude," exclaimed the marquis, preventing her replying to Lady Greystock. "When I returned home about an hour ago, I sent to request her company in the parlor, which honor, I assure you, I was refused."
The message, indeed, had been sent, but never delivered to Amanda.
"I assure you, my lord," said she, "I heard of no such request." "And pray, child, how have you been employed all this time?" asked Lady Greystock. "In reading, madam," faltered out Amanda, while her death-like paleness was succeeded by a deep blush. "You are certainly ill," said Lord Mortimer, who sat beside her, in a voice expressive of regret at the conviction. "You have been indulging melancholy ideas, I fear," continued he softly, and taking her hand, "for surely--surely to-night you are uncommonly affected."
Amanda attempted to speak. The contending emotions of her mind prevented her utterance, and the tears trickled silently down her cheeks. Lord Mortimer saw she wished to avoid notice, yet scarcely could he forbear requesting some assistance for her.
Lady Euphrasia now complained of a violent headache. The marchioness wanted to ring for remedies. This Lady Euphrasia opposed; at last, as if suddenly recollecting it, she said, "in the closet there was a bottle of eau-de-luce, which she was certain would be of service to her."
At the mention of the closet, the blood ran cold through the veins of Amanda; but when she saw Lady Euphrasia rise to enter it, had death, in its most frightful form, stared her in the face, she could not have betrayed more horror. She looked towards it with a countenance as expressive of wild affright as Macbeth's, when viewing the chair on which the spectre of the murdered Banquo sat. Lord Mortimer observing the disorder of her looks, began to tremble. He grasped her hand with a convulsive motion, and exclaimed:
"Amanda, what means this agitation?"
A loud scream from Lady Euphrasia broke upon their ears, and she rushed from the closet, followed by Belgrave.
"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Lord Mortimer, dropping Amanda's hand, and rising precipitately.
Amanda looked around--she beheld every eye fastened on her with amazement and contempt. The shock was too much for her to support. A confused idea started into her mind that a deep-laid plot had been concerted to ruin her; she faintly exclaimed, "I am betrayed," and sunk back upon the sofa.
Lord Mortimer started at her exclamation. "Oh Heavens!" cried he, as he looked towards her; unable to support the scene that would ensue in consequence of this discovery, he struck his forehead in agony, and rushed out of the room. In the hall he was stopped by Mrs. Jane, the maid appointed by the marchioness to attend Amanda.
"Alack-a-day, my lord," said she, in a whimpering voice, "something dreadful, I am afraid, has happened above stairs. Oh dear! what people suffer sometimes by their good nature. I am sure, if I thought any harm would come of granting Miss Fitzalan's request, she might have begged and prayed long enough, before I would have obliged her." "Did she desire you to bring Colonel Belgrave to this house?" asked Lord Mortimer. "Oh, to be sure she did, my lord, or how should I ever have thought of such a thing? She has been begging and praying long enough for me to contrive some way of bringing him here; and she told me a piteous story, which would have softened a stone, of his being a sweetheart of hers before he was married." "Merciful powers!" cried Lord Mortimer, clasping his hands together, "how have I been deceived."
He was hurrying away, when Mrs. Jane caught his coat. "I shall lose my place," said she, sobbing, "that I shall, most certainly; for my lord and lady never will forgive my bringing any one in such a way into the house. I am sure, I thought no great harm in it, and did it quite from good nature; for, indeed, how could one resist the poor, dear young lady; she cried, and said she only wanted to bid farewell to her dear Belgrave."
Lord Mortimer could hear no more. He shook her from him, and hurried from the house.
Amanda's faculties suffered but a momentary suspension; as she opened her eyes, her composure and fortitude returned.
"I am convinced," said she, rising and advancing to the marquis, "it will shock your lordship to hear, that it is the treachery of some person under your roof has involved me in my present embarrassing situation. For my own justification, 'tis necessary to acknowledge that I have long been the object of a pursuit from Colonel Belgrave, as degrading to his character as insulting to mine. When he broke so unexpectedly upon me to-night, he declared, even with effrontery declared, he had a friend in this house who gave him access to it. As your guest, my lord, I may expect your lordship's protection; also that an immediate inquiry be made for the abettor in this scheme against me, and a full discovery of it extorted--that should the affair be mentioned, it may be explained, and my fame cleared of every imputation." "That, madam," said the marquis, with a malicious sneer, "would not be quite so easy a matter as you may perhaps suppose. Neither the world nor I am so credulous as you imagine. Your story, madam, by no means hangs well together. There is no person in my house would have dared to commit the act you accuse them of, as they must know the consequence of it would be immediate dismission from my service. Had not Colonel Belgrave been voluntarily admitted, he never would have been concealed;--no, madam, you would have rejoiced at the opportunity our presence gave you of punishing his temerity. Innocence is bold; 'tis guilt alone is timorous."
The truth of part of his speech struck forcibly on Amanda; but how could she explain her conduct?--how declare it was her dread of the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia's malice which had made her consent to conceal him.
"Oh, I see," said she, in the agony of her soul--"I see I am the dupe of complicated artifice." "I never in my life," cried the marchioness, "met with such assurance--to desire the marquis to be her champion." "As she was intrusted to my care, however," exclaimed Lady Greystock, "I think it necessary to inquire into the affair. Pray, sir," turning to the colonel, "by what means did you come here?"
The colonel, with undiminished assurance, had hitherto stood near the fatal closet leaning on a chair.
"That, madam," replied he, "I must be excused revealing. Let me, however, assure your ladyship 'tis not on my own account I affect concealment." Here he glanced at Amanda. "Those parts of my conduct, however, which I choose to conceal, I shall always be ready to defend." "Sir," cried the marquis haughtily, "no explanation or defence of your conduct is here required; I have neither right nor inclination to interfere in Miss Fitzalan's concerns."
The colonel bowed to the circle, and was retiring, when Amanda flew to him and caught his arm. "Surely, surely," said she, almost gasping for breath, "you cannot be so inhuman as to retire without explaining this whole affair. Oh, Belgrave, leave me not a prey to slander. By all your hopes of mercy and forgiveness hereafter, I conjure you to clear my fame."
"My dear creature," said he, in a low voice, yet low enough to be heard by the whole party, "anything I could say would be unavailing. You find they are determined not to see things in the light we wish them viewed. Compose yourself, I beseech you, and be assured, while I exist, you never shall want comfort or affluence."
He gently disengaged himself as he spoke, and quitted the room, leaving her riveted to the floor in amazement at his insolence and perfidy.
"I am sure," said Lady Greystock, "I shall regret all my life the hour in which I took her under my protection; though, indeed, from what I heard soon after my arrival in London, I should have dispatched her back to her father, but I felt a foolish pity for her. I was in hopes, indeed, the society I had introduced her to would have produced a reformation, and that I might be the means of saving a young creature from entire destruction." "From what I have already suffered by her family, nothing should have tempted me to take her under my roof," exclaimed the marchioness. "Was she my relation," cried the marquis, "I should long since have come to a determination about her; as yours, madam," turning to the marchioness, "I shall not attempt forming one; I deem it, however, absolutely necessary to remove Lady Euphrasia Sutherland from the house till the young lady chooses to quit it. I shall therefore order the carriage to be ready at an early hour for the villa."
"I shall certainly accompany your lordship," cried the marchioness, "for I cannot endure her sight; and though she deserves it, it shall not be said that we turned her from the house." "The only measure she should pursue," exclaimed Lady Greystock, "is to set off as soon as possible for Ireland; when she returns to obscurity the affair may die away." "It may, however," said Amanda, "be yet revived to cover with confusion its contrivers. To Heaven I leave the vindication of my innocence. Its justice is sure, though sometimes slow, and the hour of retribution often arrives when least expected. Much as I have suffered--much as I may still suffer, I think my own situation preferable to theirs who have set their snares around me. The injurer must ever feel greater pangs than the injured--the pangs of guilt and remorse. I shall return to my obscurity, happy in the consciousness that it is not a shelter from shame, but a refuge from cruelty I seek. But can I be surprised at meeting cruelty from those who have long since waived the ties of kindred?--from those," and she glanced at Lady Greystock, "who have set aside the claims of justice and humanity?"
The marchioness trembled with rage at this speech, and as Amanda retired from the room, exclaimed, "intolerable assurance."
Amanda repaired immediately to her chamber. She tottered as she walked, and the housekeeper and Mrs. Jane, who, with some other servants, had assembled out of curiosity near the door, followed her thither.
The emotions she had so painfully suppressed now burst forth with violence. She fell into an agony of tears and sobs which impeded her breathing. The housekeeper and Jane loosened her clothes and supported her to the bed. In a short time she was sufficiently recovered to be able to speak, and requested they would engage a carriage for her against the next day, at an early hour, that she might commence her journey to Ireland. This they promised, and at her desire retired.
Success, but not happiness, had crowned the marchioness's scheme. She triumphed in the disgrace she had drawn upon Amanda, but feared that disgrace was only temporary. She had entangled her in a snare, but she dreaded not having secured her in it. She distrusted those who had assisted her designs--for the guilty will ever suspect each other. They might betray her, or Colonel Belgrave might repent; but such evils, if they did ever arrive, were probably far distant. In the interim, all she desired to accomplish might be effected. Long had she been meditating on some plan which should ruin Amanda forever--not only in the opinion of Lord Mortimer, but in the estimation of the world. With the profligacy of Colonel Belgrave she was well acquainted, and inclined from it to believe that he would readily join in any scheme which could give him a chance of possessing Amanda. On discovering her residence, he had ordered his valet, who was a trusty agent in all his villanies, to endeavor to gain access to the house, that he might discover whether there was a chance of introducing him there. The valet obeyed his orders, and soon attached himself to Mrs. Jane, whom the marchioness had placed about Amanda, from knowing she was capable of any deceitful part. She was introduced to Belgrave, and a handsome present secured her in his interest.
She communicated to the marchioness the particulars of their interview. From that period they had been seeking to bring about such a scene as was at last acted; for the conduct of Amanda had hitherto defeated their intentions. Her staying from the ball at last gave the wished-for opportunity.
Lady Euphrasia was apprised of the whole plot, and the hint of her indisposition was given in the morning, that no suspicion might be entertained in the evening, when mentioned as a plea for returning home earlier than was intended.
Colonel Belgrave was introduced into the closet by Mrs. Jane, through a door that opened from the lobby; and whilst Amanda sat pensively reading, he stole out, and secured the other door, as already mentioned.
When Lady Euphrasia declared she was too ill to continue at the ball, Lord Mortimer offered to attend her home. Had he not done so, the marchioness intended to have asked him.
The marquis was persuaded that Amanda was an artful and dangerous rival to his daughter, and he hated her from that consideration. The laws of hospitality obliged him to treat her with politeness, but he gladly seized the first opportunity that offered for expressing his dislike.
Lady Greystock saw through the plot, but she professed her belief of Amanda's guilt, which was all the marchioness required.
The marquis left the ladies together, while he went to give orders about his early journey. Soon after his departure a loud knocking was heard, which announced a visitor; and from the lateness of the hour, they conjectured, and were right in doing so, that it must be Lord Mortimer.
After traversing several streets, in an agony no language could describe, he returned to Portman Square. His fancy presented Amanda to his view, overwhelmed with shame, and sinking beneath the keen reproaches levelled at her. In the idea of her sufferings, all resentment for the supposed perfidy was forgotten. Human nature was liable to err, and the noblest efforts that nature could make, was to pardon such errors. To speak comfort to this fallen angel, he felt would relieve the weight which pressed upon his own breast. Pale and disordered he entered the room, and found the ladies apparently much affected.
"My dear lord," said the marchioness, "I am glad you are come back. As a friend of the family, you may perhaps honor us with your advice on the present occasion." "Indeed," exclaimed Lady Greystock, "I suppose his lordship is at as great a loss to know what can be done as we are. Was the colonel in a situation to make any reparation--but a married man, only think, how horrible!" "Execrable monster!" cried Lord Mortimer, starting from his seat, and traversing the room, "it were a deed of kindness to mankind to extirpate him from the earth: but say," continued he, and his voice faltered as he spoke, "where is the unfortunate----," he could not pronounce the name of Amanda. "In her own room," replied the marchioness. "I assure you, she behaved with not a little insolence, on Lady Greystock advising her to return home. For my part, I shall let her act as she pleases."
She then proceeded to mention the marquis's resolution of leaving the house till she had quitted it, and that he insisted on their accompanying him.
"To return to her father is certainly the only eligible plan she can pursue," said Lord Mortimer; "but allow me," continued he, "to request that your ladyship will not impute to insolence any expression which dropped from her. Pity her wounded feelings, and soften her sorrows." "I declare," cried Lady Euphrasia, "I thought I should have fainted from the pity I felt for her." "You pitied her, then," said Lord Mortimer, sitting down by her ladyship, "you pitied and soothed her afflictions?" "Yes, indeed," replied she.
If ever Lady Euphrasia appeared pleasing in the eyes of Lord Mortimer, it was at this moment, when he was credulous enough to believe she had shed the tear of pity over his lost Amanda. He took her hand. "Ah! my dear Lady Euphrasia," said he, in an accent of melting softness, "perhaps even now she needs consolation. A gentle female friend would be a comfort to her wounded heart."
Lady Euphrasia immediately took the hint, and said she would go to her.
He led her to the door. "You are going," cried he, "to perform the office of an angel--to console the afflicted. Ah! well does it become the young and gentle of your sex to pity such misfortunes."
Her ladyship retired, but not indeed to the chamber of the forlorn Amanda. In her own she vented the rage of her soul in something little short of execrations against Lord Mortimer, for the affection she saw he still retained for Amanda.
On her ladyship's retiring, Lady Greystock mentioned every particular she had heard from Mrs. Jennings, and bitterly lamented her having ever taken Amanda under her protection. The subject was too painful to be long endured by Lord Mortimer. He had heard of the early hour fixed for their journey, and saying he would no longer keep the ladies from repose, precipitately retired. He gave his man directions to watch their motions, and inform him when they left town.
Exhausted by the violence of her emotions, a temporary forgetfulness stole over the senses of Amanda, on her being left to solitude. In this state she continued till roused by a bustle in the house. She started, listened, and heard the sound of a carriage. Supposing it to be the one she had ordered for her departure, she sprang from the bed, and, going to the window, saw, instead of one for her, the marquis's, into which he was handing the ladies. As soon as it drove from the door, she rang the bell, and the housekeeper immediately appeared, as Mrs. Jane had attended the marchioness to the villa. Amanda inquired "whether a carriage, as she directed, had been engaged for her."
The housekeeper replied, "the hour in which she spoke was too late for such a purpose, but she had now sent about one."
Amanda endeavored to exert herself, and was packing up her clothes, when a maid entered the chamber, and said, "Lord Mortimer was below, and wished to speak to her."
Tumultuous joy pervaded the mind of Amanda. She had believed it probable she should not see him again before her departure for Ireland, from whence she had determined writing to him the particulars of the affair. His visit seemed to announce he thought not unfavorably of her. She supposed he came to assure her that his opinion of her integrity was unshaken--"and I shall yet triumph," cried she, in the transport of the idea, "over malice and treachery."
She sprung past the maid; her feet scarce touched the ground, and in a moment she found herself in the arms of Lord Mortimer, which involuntarily opened to receive her, for, trembling weak, and disordered, she would else, on seeing him, have sunk to the floor. He supported her to a sofa. In a little time she raised her head from his shoulder, and exclaimed, "Oh! you are come! I know you are come, to comfort me." "Would to Heaven," he answered, "I were capable of either giving or receiving comfort. The period, however, I trust, may yet arrive when we shall both at least be more composed. To mitigate your sorrows would lessen my own; for never, oh, never! can my heart forget the love and esteem it once bore Amanda." "Once bore her!" repeated Amanda. "Once bore her, Lord Mortimer! do you say? Then you wish to imply they no longer exist?"
The tone of anguish in which she spoke, pierced the heart of Lord Mortimer. Unable to speak, he arose, and walked to the window, to hide his emotion. His words, his silence, all conveyed a fatal truth to Amanda. She saw a dreadful and eternal separation effected between her and Lord Mortimer. She beheld herself deprived of reputation, loaded with calumny, and no longer an object of love, but of detestation and contempt. Her anguish was almost too great to bear, yet the pride of injured innocence made her wish to conceal it; and, as Lord Mortimer stood at the window, she determined to try and leave the room without his knowledge, but ere she gained the door her head grew giddy, her strength failed, she staggered, faintly screamed on finding herself falling, and sunk upon the floor.
Lord Mortimer wildly called for assistance. He raised and carried her back to the sofa; he strained her to his bosom, kissed her pale lips, and wept over her.
"I have wounded your gentle soul, my Amanda," cried he, "but I have tortured my own by doing so. Ah! still dearest of women, did the world compassionate your errors as I compassionate them, neither contempt nor calumny would ever be your portion. How pale she looks!" said he, raising his head to gaze upon her face; "how like a lovely flower untimely faded! Yet were it happiness for her never to revive; a soul like hers, originally noble, must be wretched under the pressure of scorn. Execrable Belgrave! the fairest work of Heaven is destroyed by you. Oh! my Amanda, my distress is surely severe--though anguish rives my heart for your loss, I must conceal it--the sad luxury of grief will be denied me, for the world would smile if I could say I now lamented you."
Such were the effusions of sorrow which broke from Lord Mortimer over the insensible Amanda. The housekeeper, who had been listening all this time, now appeared, as if in obedience to his call, and offered her assistance in recovering Amanda. Heavy sighs at length gave hopes of her restoration. Lord Mortimer, unable to support her pathetic lamentations, determined to depart ere she was perfectly sensible.
"Miss Fitzalan," said he to the housekeeper, "will wish, I am convinced, to quit this house immediately. I shall take upon myself to procure her a carriage, also a proper attendant, for her journey, which, I flatter myself, she will be able to commence in a few hours. Be kind, be gentle to her, my good woman, and depend on my eternal gratitude. When she is recovered, deliver her this letter."
The housekeeper promised to observe his injunctions, and he departed.
To Ireland, with Amanda, he intended sending an old female servant, who had formerly been an attendant of his mother's, and his own man. He was shocked at the conduct of the marchioness and Lady Greystock, and thought them guilty of the highest inhumanity in thus deserting Amanda. The letter he had put into the housekeeper's hands excited her curiosity so strongly that she was tempted to gratify it. Amanda was not in a situation to perceive what she did, the letter could easily be sealed again, and, in short, without longer hesitation, she opened it. How great was her amazement, on finding it contained a bank-note for five hundred pounds. The words were as follows:--
Consider me, Amanda, in the light of a brother; as such accept my services; to serve you, in any manner, will be a source of consolation, which, I flatter myself, you will be happy to allow me. 'Tis necessary you should return immediately to your father; hesitate not, then, about using the enclosed. Your complying with my request will prove that you yet retain a friendship for
MORTIMER.
"What a sum," cried the housekeeper, as she examined the note; "what a nice little independency would this, in addition to what I have already saved, be for an honest woman! What a pity it is such a creature as it is designed for should possess it!" The housekeeper, like her lady, was fertile in invention: to be sure there was some danger in her present scheme, but for such a prize it was worth her while to run some risk. Could she but get Amanda off ere the carriage from Lord Mortimer arrived, she believed all would succeed as she could wish. Amanda, ignorant as she was of Lord Mortimer's intentions, would not, consequently, be influenced by them, to oppose anything she could do. Full of this idea, she ran out, and calling a footman, high in her favor, desired him immediately to procure a travelling chaise for Miss Fitzalan. She then returned to Amanda, who was just beginning to move.
"Come, come," cried she, going to her, and roughly shaking her shoulder, "have done with those tragedy airs, and prepare yourself against the carriage you ordered, comes: it will be at the door in a few minutes."
Amanda looked round the room. "Is Lord Mortimer gone, then?" said she. "Lord, to be sure he is," cried the housekeeper; "he left you on the floor, and, as he went out, he said you should never have another opportunity of deceiving him."
A sudden frenzy seemed to seize Amanda; she wrung her hands, called upon Lord Mortimer in the impassioned language of despair, and flung herself on the ground, exclaiming, "This last stroke is more than I can bear."
The housekeeper grew alarmed, lest her agitation should retard her departure; she raised her forcibly from the ground, and said, "she must compose herself to begin her journey, which was unavoidable, as the marchioness had given absolute orders to have her sent from the house early in the morning."
"Accursed house!" said Amanda, whose reason was restored by the strenuous remonstrances of the housekeeper: "Oh, that I had never entered it!" She then told her companion, "if she would assist her, as she was almost too weak to do anything for herself, she would be ready against the carriage came." The housekeeper and maid accordingly attended her to her chamber; the former brought her drops, and the latter assisted in putting on her habit, and packing up her clothes. Amanda having secured her trunks, desired they might be sent, by the first opportunity, to Castle Carberry; she had left a great many clothes there, so took nothing at present with her but a small quantity of linen. She had but a few guineas in her purse; her watch, however, was valuable; and if she had money enough to carry her to Dublin, she knew there she might procure a sufficient sum on it to carry her home.
At last the carriage came; with a trembling frame, and half-broken heart, Amanda entered it. She saw Nicholas, the footman, who had procured it, ready mounted to attend her. She told him it was unnecessary to do so; but he declared he could not think of letting so young a lady travel unprotected. She was pleased at his attention: she had shuddered at the idea of her forlorn situation, and now dropped a tear of sweet sensibility at finding she was not utterly deserted by every human being. The carriage took the road to Parkgate, as Amanda chose to embark from thence, the journey being so much nearer to it than to Holyhead, It was now about eight o'clock; after travelling four hours, the chaise stopped at a small house on the roadside, which appeared to be a common ale-house. Amanda was unwilling to enter it; but the horses were here to be changed; and she was shown into a dirty parlor, where, almost sinking with weakness, she ordered tea to be immediately brought in. She was much astonished, as she sat at the tea-table, to see Nicholas enter the room with a familiar air, and seat himself by her. She stared at him at first, supposing him intoxicated; but perceiving no signs of this in his countenance, began to fear that the insults she had received at the marquis's made him think himself authorized to treat her with this insolence. She arose abruptly, and, summoning all her resolution to her aid, desired him to retire, adding, "If his attendance was requisite she would ring for him."
Nicholas also quitted his seat, and following her, caught her in his arms, exclaiming, "Bless us, how hoity toity you are grown."
Amanda shrieked, and stamped on the floor in an agony of terror and indignation.
"Why, now really," said he, "after what happened at home, I think you need not be so coy with me." "Oh, save me, Heaven, from this wretch!" was all the affrighted Amanda could articulate.
The door opened. A waiter appeared, and told Nicholas he was wanted without. Nicholas released Amanda, and ran directly from the room. Amanda sunk upon a chair, and her head turned giddy at the idea of the dangers with which she was surrounded. She saw herself in the power of a wretch--perhaps wretches, for the house seemed a proper place for scenes of villany--without the means of delivering herself. She walked to the window. A confused idea of getting through it, and running from the house, darted into her mind, but she turned from it in agony at seeing a number of countrymen drinking before it. She now could only raise her feeble hands to heaven to supplicate its protection.
She passed some minutes in this manner, when the lock turned and made her shudder, but it was the landlady alone who entered. She came, she said, with Nicholas's respectful duty, and she was sorry he was obliged to go back to town without seeing her safe to her journey's end.
"Is he really gone?" asked Amanda, with all the eagerness of joy. "Yes," the woman said; "a person had followed him from London on purpose to bring him back." "Is the carriage ready?" cried Amanda. She was informed it was. "Let me fly, then." The landlady impeded her progress to tell her the bill was not yet settled. Amanda pulled out her purse, and besought her not to detain her. This the woman had no desire to do. Things were therefore settled without delay between them, and Amanda was driven with as much expedition as she could desire from the terrifying mansion. The chaise had proceeded about two miles, when, in the middle of a solitary road, or rather lane, by the side of a wood, it suddenly stopped. Amanda, alarmed at every incident, hastily looked out, and inquired what was the matter; but how impossible to describe her terror when she beheld Colonel Belgrave, and Nicholas standing by him! She shrunk back, and entreated the postilion to drive on; but he heeded not her entreaty. Nicholas opened the door, and Belgrave sprang into the carriage. Amanda attempted to burst open the door at the opposite side; but he caught her to his bosom, and the horses set off at full speed. Colonel Belgrave's valet had been secreted by Mrs. Jane the preceding night in the house, that he might be able to give his master intelligence of all that passed within it, in consequence of his being discovered in the closet. On hearing the family were gone to the Marquis's villa, Belgrave believed he could easily prevail on the domestics to deliver up Amanda to him. Elated with this hope, he reached the house, attended by his valet, just after she had quitted it. The housekeeper hesitated to inform him of the road she had taken till she had procured what she knew would be the consequence of her hesitation--a large bribe. Horses were then immediately procured, and Belgrave and his servant set off in pursuit of Amanda. The sight of a travelling chaise at the little inn already mentioned, prompted their inquiries; and on finding the chaise waited for Amanda, the colonel retired to a private room, sent for Nicholas, and secured him in his interest. It was settled they should repair to the wood, by which the postilion was bribed to pass, and from thence proceed to a country-house of the colonel's. Their scheme accomplished, Nicholas, happy in the service he had done, or rather the reward he had obtained for that service, again turned his face towards London.
The carriage and attendants Lord Mortimer procured for Amanda arrived even earlier than the housekeeper had expected, and she blessed her lucky stars for the precipitancy with which she had hurried off Amanda. They were followed by his lordship himself, whose wretched heart could not support the idea of letting Amanda depart without once more beholding her. Great was his dismay, his astonishment, when the housekeeper informed him she was gone.
"Gone!" he repeated, changing color.
The housekeeper said that, without her knowledge, Miss Fitzalan had a chaise hired, and the moment it came to the door stepped into it, notwithstanding she was told his lordship meant to provide everything proper for her journey himself. "But she said, my lord," cried the housekeeper, "she wanted none of your care, and that she could never get fast enough from a house, or from people, where and by whom she had been so ill treated."
Lord Mortimer asked if she had any attendant, and whether she took the letter.
The housekeeper answered both these questions in the affirmative. "Truly, my lord," she continued, "I believe your lordship said something in that letter which pleased her, for she smiled on opening it, and said, 'Well, well, this is something like comfort.'" "And was she really so mean?" he was on the point of asking, but he timely checked a question which was springing from a heart that sickened at finding the object of its tenderest affections unworthy in every respect of possessing them. Every idea of this kind soon gave way to anxiety on her account. His heart misgave him at her undertaking so long a journey under the protection of a common servant; and, unable to endure his apprehensions, he determined instantly to pursue and see her safe himself to the destined port.
The woman, who had hitherto sat in the chaise, was ordered to return home. He entered it with eagerness, and promised liberally to reward the postilions if they used expedition. They had changed horses but once when Lord Mortimer saw Nicholas approaching, whom, at the first glance, he knew. He stopped the carriage, and called out, "Where have you left Miss Fitzalan?" "Faith, my lord," cried Nicholas, instantly stopping and taking off his hat, "in very good company. I left her with Colonel Belgrave, who was waiting, by appointment, on the road for her." "Oh! horrible infatuation!" said Lord Mortimer, "that nothing can snatch her from the arms of infamy."
The postilion desired to know whether he should return to London.
Lord Mortimer hesitated, and at last desired him to go on according to his first directions. He resolved to proceed to Parkgate and discover whether Amanda had returned to Ireland. They had not proceeded far when they overtook a travelling chaise. As Lord Mortimer passed, he looked into it, and beheld Amanda reclined on the bosom of Belgrave. He trembled universally, closed his eyes, and sighed out the name of the perfidious Amanda. When they had got some way before the other chaise, he desired the postilion to strike off into another road, which, by a circuit of a few miles, would bring them back to London. Amanda, it was evident, had put herself under the protection of Belgrave, and to know whether she went to Ireland was now of little consequence to him, as he supposed her unreclaimable. But how impossible to describe his distress and confusion when almost the first object he beheld, on alighting in St. James's Square, was his aunt, Lady Martha Dormer, who, in compliance with his urgent request, had hastened to London. Had a spectre crossed his sight he could not have been more shocked.
"Well, my dear Frederick," said her ladyship, "you see I lost no time in obeying your wishes. I have flown hither, I may indeed say, on the wings of love. But where is this little divinity of thine? I long to have a peep at her goddess-ship."
Lord Mortimer, inexpressibly shocked, turned to the window.
"I shall see, to be sure," cried her ladyship, "quite a little paragon. Positively, Frederick, I will be introduced this very evening." "My dear aunt, my dear Lady Martha," said Lord Mortimer, impatiently, "for Heaven's sake spare me!" "But tell me," she continued, "when I shall commence this attack upon your father's heart?" "Never! never!" sighed Mortimer, half distracted. "What! you suppose he will prove inflexible? But I do not despair of convincing you to the contrary. Tell me, Frederick, when the little charmer is to be seen?" "Oh, God!" cried Mortimer, striking his forehead, "she is lost," said he, "she is lost forever!"
Lady Martha was alarmed. She now, for the first time, noticed the wild and pallid looks of her nephew. "Gracious Heaven!" she exclaimed, "what is the matter?"
The dreadful explanation Lord Mortimer now found himself under a necessity of giving. The shame of acknowledging he was so deceived, the agony he suffered from that deception, joined to the excessive agitation and fatigue he had suffered the preceding night, and the present day, so powerfully assailed him at this moment, that his senses suddenly gave way, and he actually fainted on the floor.
What a sight for the tender Lady Martha! She saw something dreadful had happened, and what this was Lord Mortimer, as soon as recovered, informed her.
He then retired to his chamber. He could neither converse nor bear to be conversed with. His fondest hopes were blasted, nor could he forego the sad indulgence of mourning over them in solitude. He felt almost convinced that the hold Amanda had on his affections could not be withdrawn; he had considered her as scarcely less than his wife, and had she been really such, her present conduct could not have given him more anguish. Had she been snatched from him by the hand of death; had she been wedded to a worthy character, he could have summoned fortitude to his aid; but to find her the prey of a villain, was a stroke too horrible to bear, at least for a long period, with patience.
Chapter XXX
"And let a maid thy pity share, * * * * Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way."--GOLDSMITH.
Amanda had fainted soon after Colonel Belgrave entered the carriage, and she was reclining on his bosom in a state of insensibility when Lord Mortimer passed. In this situation she continued till they had gained a solitary road, when the carriage stopped, and water, procured from an adjacent cottage, being sprinkled on her face, she recovered; but either by arguments or actions she was now unable to oppose Belgrave. She felt a weakness through her whole frame, which she believed the forerunner of death, and a languor on her mind that almost deprived it of the perception of misery.
The refreshments offered to her she could only refuse by a motion of her hand; and in this manner they proceeded till about nine o'clock at night, when they entered an extensive wood, in the very centre of which stood Colonel Belgrave's mansion. He carried Amanda himself into it, and laid her upon a sofa in a large parlor. Some female domestics appeared with drops and cordials, to try and recover her from the almost lifeless state in which she lay. One of them presented a letter to the colonel, which excited no little perturbation in his mind. It came express to inform him that his uncle, whose estate and title he was heir to, lay at the point of death, and that his presence was immediately required.
The colonel was not so absolutely engrossed by love as to be incapable of attending to his interest. An addition of fortune was extremely agreeable, as his affairs were somewhat deranged; and, as Amanda was not in a situation at present to comply with any overtures he should make, his resolution was immediately formed to set off without delay, and against his return he trusted Amanda would be not only recovered, but willing to accede to his wishes.
He dismissed the woman who had brought her a little to herself, and taking her hand informed her of the painful necessity he was under of departing for a short time. He also mentioned his hopes, that on his return he should have no obstacle thrown in the way of his happiness by her. "You must be sensible, my dear Amanda," said he, with coolness, "that your reputation is as much gone as if you had complied with my wishes; since it is sacrificed, why not enjoy the advantages that may, that will certainly attend the reality of that sacrifice?" "Monster!" cried Amanda, "your arts may have destroyed my fame, but my innocence bids defiance to your power." "Conquer your obstinacy, Amanda," replied he, "against I return, or I shall not promise but what I may be at last irritated. As you will have no occasion for money here, you must excuse me, my dear creature, if I take your purse into my own keeping. My domestics may be faithful, when they have no inducement to the contrary; but no bribery, no corruption, you know." He then very deliberately took Amanda's purse and watch from her pocket, and deposited them in his own. He had already given directions to his servants concerning their treatment of Amanda, and now ordered them to carry her to a chamber, and make her take some refreshment.
"Reflect, Amanda," said he, ere she retired, "on your present situation, and timely estimate the advantages I offer to your acceptance; wealth, pleasure, the attentions of a man who adores you, are not to be despised. Upon my soul it grieves me to leave you, but the joys of meeting will, I trust, pay the pangs of absence."
As he spoke, he attempted to embrace her, but she faintly shrieked, and shrunk from his grasp. He looked provoked; but as he had no time to lose, he reserved a declaration of his anger for another opportunity, and directly set off for his uncle's.
Amanda was supported to a chamber, and lay down in her clothes on a bed. They offered her bread and wine, but she was too sick to touch any. To remonstrate with the insolent looking creatures who surrounded her she knew would be unavailing, and she turned her face on the pillow to stifle her sobs, as she believed they would exult in her distress. Death she thought approaching, and the idea of being separated from the dear objects who would have soothed its last pangs, was dreadful. Her father in agony, and Oscar, her beloved brother, bewailing her with tears of sorrow, were the images fancy presented to her view.
"Dear objects of my love," she softly exclaimed, "Amanda shall no more behold you, but her last sigh will be breathed for you. Ah! why, why," she cried, "did I suffer myself to be separated from my father?"
A young woman leaned over Amanda, and surveyed her with the most malignant scrutiny. She was daughter to Belgrave's steward, and neither she nor her father possessed sufficient virtue to make them reject the offers Belgrave made them on her account. His attachment to her was violent, but transient, and in the height of it he made her mistress of the mansion she now occupied, which character she maintained with tyrannic sway over the rest of the domestics. Belgrave was really ignorant of the violence of her temper, and had no idea she would dare dispute his inclinations, or disobey his orders. He believed she would be subservient to both, and from this belief, gave Amanda particularly into her charge.
But scarcely had he departed, ere she swore, "that let the consequence be what it would, the vile wretch he had brought into the house to insult her should never remain in it. She shall tramp," cried she, "though I follow her myself when he returns; for such a little hussey shall never triumph over me."
The servants, ignorant and timorous, did not attempt to oppose her.
"Come, madam," said she, suddenly seizing Amanda's arm, and pulling her from the pillow, "have done with these languishing airs, and march." "What do you mean?" cried Amanda, trembling at her inflamed countenance. "Why, I mean you shall quit this house directly; and I wonder Colonel Belgrave could have the assurance to bring such a creature as you into it." "You mistake, indeed," said Amanda; "treachery, not inclination, brought me into it, and I am not what you suppose. If, as you say, you will allow me to depart, I shall ever regard you as my friend; and in every prayer I offer up to Heaven for myself, you shall be remembered." "Oh, dear! but you shall not impose upon me so easily. Come," continued she, turning to a maid, "and help me to conduct this fine lady to the hall door." "Gracious Heaven!" said Amanda, who by this time was taken, or rather dragged from the bed, "what are you about doing with me? Though I rejoice to quit the house, yet surely, surely," she cried, and her soul recoiled at the idea, "without a guide at this hour of the night, you will not turn me from it."
She then mentioned Colonel Belgrave's having deprived her of her purse and watch, and besought the woman in the most pathetic terms, to supply her with a small sum, which she solemnly assured her should be returned as soon as she reached her friends; and ended with saying, she should depart with gratitude and joy if she complied with her request, and allowed some one to guide her to a place where she might procure a carriage.
"Such madams as you," replied the imperious woman, "are never at a loss for means of procuring money, or a place to go to. I see through your art well enough; you want me to pity you, that I may let you stay till your colonel returns. But who would be fool then, I wonder? The tables, I warrant, would soon be turned upon me. No, no; out you go this moment." So saying, she rudely seized Amanda, and assisted by another woman, hurried her down stairs, and out of the house directly: they carried her to an intricate part of wood, and then ran back, leaving the helpless mourner leaning against a tree.
Amanda looked around her. Dark and awful were the shades of the wood. No light appeared but what came from a few wandering stars, which only served to render darkness visible. "Have mercy upon me, Heaven!" groaned Amanda, as she felt herself sinking to the earth. The cold acted as a kind of restorative, and almost immediately revived her. She rested her head against a little bank, and as she thus reclined, tender sadness pervaded her soul the idea of her father's sorrow when he heard of her fate. "When he hears," cried she, "that I was driven from the house, as unworthy of pity or protection from any being, that his Amanda, whom he cherished in his bosom, as the darling of his age, was denied the pity he would have shown the greatest wretch that crawls upon the earth, and that she perished without shelter, it will break his heart entirely. Poor Oscar, too--alas! I shall be a source of wretchedness to both. Will Lord Mortimer lament when he hears of my fate? Alas! I cannot believe that he will. He that could leave me in the arms of insensibility, and so readily believe ill of me, must have a heart steeled against compassion for my sufferings. But my unhappy father and brother will never doubt my innocence, and by them I shall be tenderly and truly mourned."
The idea of their sufferings at last recalled her wandering thoughts, and pity for those sufferings made her endeavor to support her own, that she might be able to make some efforts for preserving a life so precious to them. Besides, as she reflected, she could not but attribute her expulsion from the house of infamy to the immediate interposition of Providence in her favor: and whilst her heart swelled with gratitude at the idea, her fortitude gradually returned. She arose, but the vigor of her nerves was not equal to the ardor of her intentions. She walked on, and as she proceeded, the gloom grew more profound, the paths were intricate, and her progress was often impeded by the roots of trees, and the branches that grew about them. After wandering about a considerable time, she at last began to think that, instead of gaining the skirts, she had penetrated into the very centre of the wood, and that to quit it till morning would be impossible. Yielding to this idea, or rather to her excessive weariness, she was seeking for a place to sit down on, when a faint light glimmered before her. She instantly darted through the path from whence it gleamed, and found herself at the extremity of the wood, and that the light proceeded from a small hamlet contiguous to it. Thither she walked, as fast as her trembling limbs would carry her. A profound stillness reigned around, only interrupted by the hoarse and hollow barking of some distant dogs, which, in such an hour, had something particularly solemn in it. The stillness, and sudden disappearance of lights from various windows, convinced Amanda that every cottage was closed for the night; "and were they open," said she, "I perhaps should be denied access to any, deprived as I am of the means of rewarding kindness." She shuddered at the idea of passing a night unsheltered. "It is now, indeed," said she, "I really know what it is to feel for the houseless children of want." She moved softly along. The echo of her own steps alarmed her. She had neatly reached the end of the hamlet when, before a neat cottage, divided from the others by a clump of old trees, she saw a venerable man, who might well have passed for an ancient hermit. His gray locks thinly shaded his forehead; an expression of deep and pensive thought was visible in his countenance; his arms were folded on his breast, and his eyes were raised with a tender melancholy to heaven, as if that heaven he contemplated was now the abode of some kindred and lamented spirit. Surely such a being, thought she, will pity me. She approached him--stood close to him, yet was unnoticed. Thrice she attempted to speak, and thrice her heart failed her. At last she summoned all her courage to her aid, and faintly articulated, "Pity----," she could add no more, but fainted at his feet. The stranger's mind was fraught with all the benevolence his countenance depictured. The transient glance he had caught of Amanda interested every tender feeling. He called to his servant, an elderly woman, his only companion in the cottage, to assist him in conveying her in. This woman's heart was as tender as her master's, and the youth, the beauty, and forlorn situation of Amanda, equally excited their wonder and pity. It was many minutes ere she opened her eyes, and when she did, her senses were quite bewildered. "And my father! alas! my father, I shall never more behold him," was all she could articulate.
She was supported to a small chamber; the old woman undressed her, put her to bed, and sat up with her the remainder of the night. Amanda often started; she raved continually of Belgrave, the author of her woes, and betrayed the strongest horror. "The wound he had inflicted on her heart," she said, "the hand of death could only heal." She mentioned the cruelty of the marchioness, called upon her father to save her from destruction, and reproached Mortimer for aiding to overwhelm her in disgrace. She continued in this situation three days, during which the old man and his faithful servant watched her with unremitted attention. A neighboring apothecary was summoned to her aid, and a girl from one of the cottages procured to sit up with her at night. The old man frequently knelt by the bedside, watching with anxiety for a favorable symptom. Her incoherent expressions pierced him to the heart: he felt, from mournful sympathy, for the father she so pathetically mentioned, and invoked Heaven to restore her to him.
The afternoon of the third day, Amanda, after a long slumber, awoke, perfectly restored to her senses; it was many minutes, however, after her awaking, ere she recollected all the circumstances that had caused her present situation. She at last opened the curtain, and perceived the old woman, whom we shall hereafter call Eleanor, seated by the bedside.
"I fear," said she, with a languid smile, "I have been the occasion of a great deal of trouble." "No, no," replied the kind Eleanor, delighted to hear her speak so calmly, and drawing back a little of the curtain at the same time to observe her looks.
Amanda inquired how long she had been ill. Eleanor informed her, and added, "Heaven, my dear child, was kind to you, in throwing you in my master's way, who delights in befriending the helpless." "Heaven will reward him," exclaimed Amanda.
The chamber was gloomy; she requested one of the shutters might be opened. Eleanor complied with her desire, and a ray of the declining sun darting through the casement, cheered her pensive heart. She perfectly remembered the venerable figure she had beheld on the threshold of the cottage, and was impatient to express her gratitude to him. The next day, she trusted, would give her an opportunity of doing so, as she then resolved, if possible, to rise. The wish of her soul was to be with her father ere he could receive any intimation of what had happened. She resolved to communicate to her benevolent host the incidents which had placed her in such a situation; and she flattered herself, on hearing them, he would accommodate her with the means of returning to Ireland: if unable (unwilling she could not think she should find him) to do this, she then intended writing to her father. This measure, however, she fervently trusted, she should have no occasion to take, as she well knew the shock such a letter would give him.
Contrary to the inclination of Eleanor, she rose the next day, and, as soon as she was dressed, sent to request Mr. Howel's company. Eleanor had informed her of her master's name. The chamber was on a ground floor: before the windows were a row of neat white cottages, and behind them rose a range of lofty hills, covered to the very summit with trees, now just bursting into verdure. Before the cottage ran a clear murmuring rivulet, at which some young girls were washing clothes, whilst others spread them upon hedges, and all beguiled their labor with singing, chatting, and laughing together.
"Ah! happy creatures!" cried Amanda, "screened by your native hills, you know nothing of the vices or miseries of the great world; no snares lurk beneath the flowery paths you tread, to wring your hearts with anguish, and nip the early blossoms of your youth."
The old man appeared, and interrupted her meditations. When he beheld the pale face of Amanda, beaming with angelic sweetness; when he saw her emaciated hand extended towards him, while her soft voice uttered her grateful acknowledgments, his emotions could not be suppressed: he pressed her hand between his: tears rolled down the furrows of his face, and he exclaimed, "I thank the Almighty for reviving this sweet flower."
A deep sob from Amanda proved how much he had affected her feelings.
He was alarmed, and hastily endeavored to compose his own, out of regard to hers.
When a little composed, with grateful sweetness she continued to thank him for his kindness. "Pity," said she, "is a sweet emotion to excite; yet from you, without esteem, it would be humiliating; and esteem I cannot flatter myself with obtaining, till I have accounted for being a wretched wanderer." She then gave a brief account of her father and the events of her life.
"Ah! my dear," cried the old man, as she finished her narrative, "you have reason, indeed, to regret your knowledge of Belgrave; but the sorrow he has occasioned you, I believe and trust, will be but transient. That which he has given me will be lasting as my life. You look astonished. Alas! but for him, I might now have been blessed with a daughter as lovely and as amiable as Fitzalan's. I see you are too delicate to express the curiosity my words have inspired, but I shall not hesitate to gratify it. My relation will draw the tear of pity from your eye; but the sorrows of others often reconcile us to our own."
Chapter XXXI
"And oft as ease and health retire, To breezy lawn or forest-deep, The friend shall view yon whitening spire, And 'mid the varied landscape weep; But thou who own'st that earthy bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail?"
COLLINS'S ODE ON THOMSON.
Many years are now elapsed since I took up my residence in this sequestered hamlet. I retired to it in distaste with a world whose vices had robbed me of the dearest treasure of my heart. Two children cheered my solitude, and in training them up to virtue, I lost the remembrance of half my cares. My son, when qualified, was sent to Oxford, as a friend had promised to provide for him in the church; but my daughter was destined to retirement, not only from the narrowness of my income, but from a thorough conviction it was best calculated to insure her felicity. Juliana was the child of innocence and content. She knew of no greater happiness than that of promoting mine, of no pleasures but what the hamlet could afford, and was one of the gayest, as well as the loveliest, of its daughters. One fatal evening I suffered her to go, with some of her young companions, to a rustic ball, given by the parents of Belgrave to their tenants, on coming down to Woodhouse, from which they had been long absent. The graces of my child immediately attracted the notice of their son. Though young in years, he was already a professed libertine. The conduct of his father had set him an example of dissipation which the volatility of his own disposition too readily inclined him to follow. His heart immediately conceived the basest schemes against Juliana, which the obscurity of her situation prompted him to think might readily be accomplished. From this period he took every opportunity of throwing himself in her way. My suspicions, or rather my fears, were soon excited; for I knew not then the real depravity of Belgrave; but I knew that an attachment between him and my daughter would prove a source of uneasiness to both, from the disparity fortune had placed between them. My task in convincing Juliana of the impropriety of encouraging such an attachment was not a difficult one. But, alas! I saw the conviction was attended with a pang of anguish, which pierced me to the soul.
Belgrave, from the assumed softness and delicacy of his manners, had made an impression on her heart which was not to be erased. Every effort, however, which prudence could suggest, she resolved to make, and, in compliance with my wishes, avoided Belgrave. This conduct soon convinced him it would be a difficult matter to lull my caution, or betray her innocence. And finding all his attempts to see, or convey a letter to her, ineffectual, he departed with his parents from Woodhouse.
Juliana heard of his departure with a forced smile; but a starting tear, and a colorless cheek, too clearly denoted to me the state of her mind. I shall not attempt to describe my sufferings on witnessing hers. With my pity was mixed a degree of veneration for that virtue which, in so young a mind, could make such exertions against a passion disapproved of by a parent. The evening of his departure, no longer under any restraint, she walked out alone, and instinctively, perhaps, took the road to Woodhouse. She wandered to its deepest glooms, and there gave way to emotions which, from her efforts to suppress them, were become almost too painful to support. The gloom of the wood was heightened by the shades of evening, and a solemn stillness reigned around, well calculated to inspire pensive tenderness. She sighed the name of Belgrave in tremulous accents, and lamented their ever having met. A sudden rustling among the trees startled her, and the next moment she beheld him at her feet, exclaiming, "We have met, my Juliana, never more to part."
Surprise and confusion so overpowered her senses, as to render her for some time unable to attend to his raptures. When she grew composed, he told her he was returned to make her honorably his, but to effect this intention, a journey from the hamlet was requisite. She turned pale at these words, and declared she never would consent to a clandestine measure. This declaration did not discourage Belgrave; he knew the interest he had in her heart, and this knowledge gave an energy to his arguments, which gradually undermined the resolution of Juliana. Already, he said, she had made a sufficient sacrifice to filial duty; surely something was now due to love like his, which, on her account, would cheerfully submit to innumerable difficulties. As he was under age, a journey to Scotland was unavoidable, he said, and he would have made me his confidant on the occasion, but that he feared my scrupulous delicacy would have opposed his intentions, as contrary to parental authority. He promised Juliana to bring her back to the hamlet immediately after the ceremony; in short, the plausibility of his arguments, the tenderness of his persuasions, at last produced the effect he wished, and he received a promise from her to put herself under his protection that very night.
But oh! how impossible to describe my agonies the ensuing morning when, instead of my child, I found a letter in her room informing me of her elopement; they were such as a fond parent, trembling for the fame and happiness of his child, may conceive. My senses must have sunk beneath them had they long continued; but Belgrave, according to his promise, hastened back my child; and as I sat solitary and pensive in the apartment she so often had enlivened, I suddenly beheld her at my feet, supported by Belgrave, as his wife. So great a transition from despair to comfort was almost too powerful for me to support. I asked my heart was its present happiness real; I knelt, I received my child in my arms: in those feeble arms I seemed to raise her with my heart to Heaven in pious gratitude for her returning unsullied. Yet, when my first transports were abated, I could not help regretting her ever having consented to a clandestine union. I entreated Belgrave to write, in the most submissive terms, to his father. He promised to comply with my entreaty, yet hinted his fears that his compliance would be unattended with the success I hoped. He requested, if this should be the case, I would allow his wife to reside in the cottage till he was of age. Oh, how pleasing a request to my heart! a month passed away in happiness, only allayed by not hearing from his father. At the expiration of that time he declared he must depart, having received orders to join his regiment, but promised to return as soon as possible; he also promised to write, but a fortnight elapsed and no letter arrived.
Juliana and I grew alarmed, but it was an alarm that only proceeded from fears of his being ill. We were sitting one morning at breakfast, when the stopping of a carriage drew us from the table.
"He is come!" said Juliana, "he is come!" and she flew to open the door; when, instead of her expected Belgrave, she beheld his father, whose dark and haughty visage proclaimed that he came on no charitable intent. Alas! the occasion of his visit was too soon explained; he came to have the ties which bound his son to Juliana broken. My child, on hearing this, with firmness declared, that she was convinced any scheme his cruelty might devise to separate them, the integrity, as well as the tenderness of his son, would render abortive.
"Be not too confident of that, young lady," cried he, smiling maliciously. He then proceeded to inform her that Belgrave, so beloved, and in whose integrity she so much confided, had himself authorized his intentions, being determined to avail himself of non-age, to have the marriage broke.
Juliana could hear no more; she sunk fainting on the bosom of her wretched father. Oh, what a situation was mine, when, as I clasped her wildly to my heart and called upon her to revive, that heart whispered me it was cruelty to wish she should! Alas! too soon she did, to a keen perception of misery. The marriage was dissolved, and health and happiness fled from her together; yet, from compassion to me, I saw she struggled to support the burden of existence. Every remedy which had a chance of prolonging it, I administered. But, alas! sorrow was rooted in her heart, and it was only its removal, which was impossible, that could have effected her recovery. Oh! how often have I stolen from my bed to the door of her apartment, trembling, lest I should hear the last groan escape her lips! How often have I then heard her deep convulsive sobs, and reproached myself for selfishness at the moment for wishing the continuance of her being, which was only wishing the continuance of her misery! Yes, I have then said, I resign her, my Creator, unto thee. I resign her from a certainty, that only with thee she can enjoy felicity. But, alas! in a moment frail nature has triumphed over such a resignation, and, prostrate on the ground, I have implored heaven, either to spare the child, or take the father along with her.
She saw me unusually depressed one day, and proposed a walk, with a hope that any exertion from her might recruit my spirits. But when I saw my child, in the very bloom of life, unable to sustain her feeble frame; when I felt her leaning on my almost nerveless arm for support, oh! how intolerable was the anguish that rived my heart!--in vain, by soft endearments, she strove to mitigate it. I averted my face and wept. She motioned to go towards Woodhouse; we had got within sight of the wood, when she complained of fatigue, and sat down. She had not been many minutes in this situation, when she beheld, coming from the wood, Belgrave, and a young girl whom she knew to be the steward's daughter. The familiar manner in which they appeared conversing, left little room to doubt of the footing on which they were. The hectic glow of Juliana's complexion gave place to a deadly paleness. She arose and returned to the cottage with me in silence, from whence, in less than a week, she was borne to her grave.
Eight years, continued he, after a pause of some minutes, have elapsed since her death, yet is her worth, her beauty, and her sufferings still fresh in the remembrance of the inhabitants of the hamlet. In mine, oh! Miss Fitzalan! how painfully, how pleasingly, do they still exist! No noisome weed is allowed to intermingle in the high grass which has overgrown her grave, at the head of which some kind hand has planted a rose-tree, whose roses blossom, bloom, and die upon the sacred spot. My child is gone before me to that earthly bed, to which I hoped she would have smoothed my passage. Every spot in and about the cottage continually recall her to my view. The ornaments of this little room were all the work of that hand, long since mouldered into dust. In that bed--he stopped, he groaned, and tears burst from him--in that bed, resumed he (in a few minutes, though with a broken voice), she breathed her last sigh; in that spot I knelt and received the last pressure of her clay-cold lips! Of a calm night, when all is hushed to repose, I love to contemplate that heaven, to which I have given an angel--an angel to whom, I hope, shortly to be reunited; without such a hope, surely of all men breathing, I should be the most wretched! Oh! how cruel is it then, in those, who, by raising doubts of an hereafter, attempt to destroy such a hope! Ye sons of error, hide the impious doubts within your hearts; nor with wanton barbarity endeavor to deprive the miserable of their last comfort. When this world presents nothing but a dreary prospect, how cheering to the afflicted to reflect on that future one, where all will be bright and happy! When we mourn over the lost friends of our tenderest affections, oh! how consolatory to think we shall be reunited to them again! How often has this thought suspended my tears and stopped my sighs! Inspired by it with sudden joy, often have I risen from the cold bed where Juliana lies, and exclaimed: "Oh death! where is thy sting! Oh grave! where is thy victory!" both lost in the certainty of again beholding my child.
Amanda shed tears of soft compassion for the fate of Juliana, and the sorrows of her father, and felt, if possible, her gratitude to Heaven increased, for preserving her from the snares of such a monster of deceit and barbarity as Belgrave.
Howel relieved the anxiety she labored under about the means of returning home, by assuring her he would not only supply her with a sum sufficient for that purpose, but see her to Parkgate himself.
His name struck Amanda--it recalled to remembrance her Welsh friend. She inquired, and heard that the young and tender curate was indeed the son of her benefactor. "The softness of Henry's disposition," said his father, "particularly qualifies him for the sacred function, which prevents his having occasion to mingle in the concerns of the great world. He writes me word that he is the simple shepherd of a simple flock."
One day was all Amanda would devote to the purpose of recruiting her strength. Nothing could prevail on her longer to defer her journey. A chaise was accordingly procured, into which, at the first dawn of day, she and Howel stepped, followed by the blessings of the affectionate Eleanor, who, from her own wardrobe, had supplied Amanda with a few necessaries to take along with her. The church-yard lay about a quarter of a mile from the hamlet. It was only divided from the road by a low and broken wall. Old trees shaded the grass-grown grave, and gave a kind of solemn gloominess to the place.
"See," said Howel, suddenly taking Amanda's hand, and letting down the glass, "see the bed where Juliana reposes."
The grave was distinguished by the rose-tree at its head. The morning breeze gently agitated the high and luxuriant grass which covered it. Amanda gazed on it with inexpressible sadness, but the emotions it excited in her breast she endeavored to check, in pity to the wretched father, who exclaimed, while tears trickled down his pale and furrowed cheeks, "There lies my treasure."
She tried to divert him from his sorrows by talking of his son. She described his little residence, which he had never seen. Thus, by recalling to his recollection the blessings he yet possessed, checking his anguish for those he had lost.
The weakness of Amanda would not allow them to travel expeditiously. They slept one night on the road, and the next day, to her great joy, arrived at Parkgate, as she had all along dreaded a pursuit from Belgrave. A packet was to sail about four o'clock in the afternoon. She partook of a slight repast with her benevolent friend, who attended her to the boat, and with starting tears gave and received an adieu. She promised to write as soon as she reached home, and assured him his kindness would never be obliterated from her heart. He watched her till she entered the ship, then returned to the inn, and immediately set off for the hamlet, with a mind somewhat cheered by the consciousness of having served a fellow-creature.
Chapter XXXII
"The breezy call of incense-breathing morn; The swallow twittering from its straw built shed; The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse him from his lowly bed."--GRAY.
The weakness which Amanda felt in consequence of her late illness, and the excessive sickness she always suffered at sea, made her retire to bed immediately on entering the packet, where she continued till the evening of the second day, when, about five o'clock, she was landed at the marine hotel. She directly requested the waiter to procure her a messenger to go into town, which being done, she sent to engage a place in the northern mail-coach, that went within a few miles of Castle Carberry. If a place could not be procured, she ordered a chaise might be hired, that would immediately set out with her, as the nights were moonlight; but to her great joy the man speedily returned and informed her he had secured a seat in the coach, which she thought a much safer mode of travelling for her than in a hired carriage without any attendant. She took some slight refreshment, and then proceeded to the mail hotel, from whence, at eleven o'clock, she set out in company with an old gentleman, who very composedly put on a large woollen nightcap, buttoned up his great coat, and fell into a profound sleep. He was, perhaps, just such a kind of companion as Amanda desired, as he neither teased her with insipid conversation or impertinent questions, but left her undisturbed to indulge her meditations during the journey. The second evening, about eight o'clock, she arrived at the nearest town to Castle Carberry, for which she directly procured a chaise and set off. Her spirits were painfully agitated. She dreaded the shock her father would receive from hearing of her sufferings, which it would be impossible to conceal from him. She trembled at what they would both feel on the approaching interview. Sometimes she feared he had already heard of her distress, and a gloomy presage rose in her mind of the anguish she should find him in on that account. Yet again, when she reflected on the fortitude he had hitherto displayed in his trials, under the present, she trusted, he would not lose it; and that he would not only support himself, but her, and bind up those wounds in her heart which perfidy, cruelty, and ingratitude had made. And oh! thought she to herself, when I find myself again in his arms, no temptation shall allure me from them--allure me into a world where my peace and fame have already suffered such a wreck. Thus alternately fluctuating between hope and fear, Amanda pursued the road to Castle Carberry; but the latter sensation was predominant in her mind.
The uncommon gloominess of the evening added to her dejection--the dark and lowering clouds threatened a violent storm--already a shower of sleet and rain was falling, and everything looked cold and cheerless. Amanda thought the cabins infinitely more wretched than when she had first seen them. Many of their miserable inhabitants were now gathering their little flocks together, and driving them under shelter from the coming storm. The laborers were seen hastening to their respective homes, whilst the ploughboy, with a low and melancholy whistle, drove his slow and wearied team along. The sea looked rough and black, and as Amanda drew nearer to it, she heard it breaking with fury against the rocks. She felt herself extremely ill. She had left the hamlet ere her fever was subdued, and fatigue, joined to want of rest, now brought it back with all its former violence. She longed for rest and quiet, and trusted and believed these would conquer her malady.
The chaise stopped at the entrance of the lawn, as she wished to have her father prepared for her arrival by one of the servants. On alighting from it, it returned to town, and she struck into the grove, and by a winding path reached the castle. Her limbs trembled, and she knocked with an unsteady hand at the door. The sound was awfully reverberated through the building. Some minutes elapsed and no being appeared, neither could she perceive a ray of light from any of the windows. The wind blew the rain directly in her face, and her weakness increased, so that she could scarcely stand. She recollected a small door at the back of the castle, which led to the apartments appropriated to the domestics. She walked feebly to this, to try and gain admittance, and found it open. She proceeded through a long dark passage, on each side of which were small rooms, till she came to the kitchen. Here she found the old woman sitting (to whom the care of the castle was usually consigned), before a large turf fire. On hearing a footstep, she looked behind, and when she saw Amanda, started, screamed, and betrayed symptoms of the utmost terror.
"Are you frightened at seeing me, my good Kate!" cried Amanda. "Oh, holy Virgin!" replied Kate, crossing her breast, "one could not help being frightened, to have a body steal unawares upon them."
"My father is well, I hope?" said Amanda.
"Alack-a-day," cried Kate, "the poor dear captain has gone through a sea of troubles since you went away." "Is he ill?" exclaimed Amanda. "Ill, ay, and the Lord knows he has reason enough to be ill. But, my dear jewel, do you know nothing at all of what has happened at the castle since you went away?" "No, nothing in the world." "Heaven help you, then," said Kate; "but, my dear soul, sit down upon this little stool, and warm yourself before the fire, for you look pale and cold, and I will tell you all about it. You must know, about three weeks ago, my Johnaten brought the captain a letter from the post-office; he knew by the mark it was a letter from England, and so, when he comes into the kitchen to me, 'Katie,' says he, 'the captain has got something now to cheer his spirits, for he has heard from miss, I am sure.' So, to be sure, I said I was glad of it, for, you must know, my dear, he was low in spirits, and peaking, as one may say, for a few days before. Well, it was always my custom, when he got a letter from England, to go to him as soon as I thought he had read it, and ask about you; so I put on a clean apron, and up I goes to the parlor, and I opened the door, and walked in. Well, sir, says I, I hope there is good news from miss?"
"The captain was sitting with the letter open before him on a table; he had a handkerchief to his eyes, but when I spoke he took it down, and I saw his face, which generally looked so pale, now quite flushed.
"'This letter, my good Kate,' says he, 'is not from my daughter, but I am glad you are come, for I wanted to speak to you. I am going to leave the castle, and I want you to look over all the things, and see they are in the same state as when I came to it. I shall then settle with the servants I hired, and discharge them.' I was struck all of a heap. The Lord forbid you should be going to leave us, sir, says I."
"The captain got up--he walked to the window--he sighed heavily, and I saw a tear upon his cheek. He spoke to me again, and begged I would do as he had desired me. So, with a heavy heart, I went and told my Johnaten the sad tidings, who was as sorry as myself, for he loved the captain dearly, not only from his being so mild a gentleman, but because he was a soldier, as he himself had been in his youth--and a soldier has always a love for one of his cloth. And Johnaten had often said he knew the captain in America, and that he was a brave officer and a real gentleman.
"Well, the captain came out to us, and said he was to be Lord Cherbury's agent no longer. And being a good penman, he settled all his own accounts and the servants in the course of the day, and discharged them, giving them both characters, which I warrant will soon get them good places again. Well, he said he must set off for England the next day. So everything was got ready; but in the middle of the night he was seized with spasms in his stomach. He thought himself dying, and at last rung the bell; and as good luck would have it, my Johnaten heard it, and went up to him directly. Had he been without relief much longer, I think he would have died. Johnaten called me up. I had a choice bottle of old brandy lying by me, so I soon blew up a fire, and heating a cup of it, gave it to him directly. He grew a little easier, but was too bad in the morning to think of going on his journey, which grieved him sadly. He got up, however, and wrote a large packet, which he sent by Johnaten to the post-office; packed up some things in a trunk, and put his seal upon his desk. He said he would not stay in the castle on any account, so he went out as soon as Johnaten came back from the post-office, leaning upon his arm, and got a little lodging at Thady Byrne's cabin." "Merciful heaven!" exclaimed the agonized and almost fainting Amanda, "support and strengthen me in this trying hour! enable me to comfort my unfortunate father: preserve me from sinking, that I may endeavor to assist him." Tears accompanied this fervent ejaculation, and her voice was lost in sobs.
"Alack-a-day," said the good-natured Kate, "now don't take it so sadly to heart, my jewel; all is not lost that is in danger, and there is as good fish in the sea as ever were caught; and what though this is a stormy night, to-morrow may be a fine day. Why, the very first sight of you will do the captain good. Come, cheer up; I will give you some nice hot potatoes for your supper, for you see the pot is just boiling, and some fresh-churned buttermilk; and by the time you have eaten it, Johnaten perhaps may come back--he is gone to town to get some beef for our Sunday dinner--and then I will go with you to Thady's myself."
"No, no," cried Amanda, "every minute I now stay from my father seems an age. Too long has he been neglected--too long without a friend to soothe or attend him. Oh grant, gracious Heaven! grant," raising her clasped hands, "that I may not have returned too late to be of use to him!"
Kate pressed her to stay for Johnaten's return; but the agony of suspense she endured till she saw her father, made her regardless of walking alone, though the hour was late, dark, and tempestuous. Kate, finding her entreaties vain, attended her to the door, and assured her, if Johnaten returned soon, she would go over herself to the cabin, and see if she could do anything for her. Amanda pressed her hand, but was unable to speak. Ill, weak, and dispirited, she had flattered herself, on returning to her father, she would receive relief, support, and consolation; instead of which, heart-broken as she was, she now found she must give, or at least attempt giving them herself. She had before experienced distress, but the actual pressure of poverty she had never yet felt. Heretofore she had always a comfortable asylum to repair to, but now she not only found herself deprived of that, but of all means of procuring one, or even the necessaries of life. But if she mourned for herself, how much more severely did she mourn for her adored father! Could she have procured him comfort, could she in any degree have alleviated his situation, the horrors of her own would have been lessened; but of this she had not the slightest means or prospect. Her father, she knew, possessed the agency too short a time to be enabled to save any money, particularly as he was indebted to Lord Cherbury ere he obtained it. She knew of no being to whom she could apply in his behalf. Lord Cherbury was the only person on whom he depended in his former misfortunes for relief. His friendship, it was evident, by depriving her father of the agency, was totally lost; and to the disconsolate Amanda no way appeared of escaping "want, worldly want, that hungry meagre fiend, who was already close at their heels, and followed them in view."
The violence of the storm had increased, but it was slight in comparison of that which agitated the bosom of Amanda. The waves dashed with a dreadful noise against the rocks, and the angry spirit of the waters roared. The rain fell heavily, and soon soaked through the thin clothing of Amanda. She had about half a mile to walk, through a rugged road, bounded on one side by rocks, and on the other by wild and dreary fields. She knew the people with whom her father lodged; they were of the lowest order, and on her first arrival at Castle Carberry, in extreme distress, from which she had relieved them. She recollected their cabin was more decent than many others she had seen, yet still a most miserable dwelling. Wretched as it was, she was glad when she reached it, for the violence of the storm, and the loneliness of the road, had terrified her. The cabin was but a few yards from the beach. There were two windows in front. On one side a pile of turf, and on the other a shed for the pigs, in which they now lay grunting. The shutters were fastened on the windows, to prevent their being shaken by the wind; but through the crevices Amanda saw a light, which convinced her the inhabitants were not yet retired to repose. She feared her suddenly appearing before her father, in his present weak state, might have a dangerous effect upon him, and she stood before the cabin, considering how she should have her arrival broke to him. She at last tapped gently at the door, and then retreated a few steps from it, shivering with the wet and cold. In the beautiful language of Solomon, she might have said, "Her head was filled with dew, and her locks with the drops of the night." As she expected, the door was almost instantly opened. A boy appeared, whom she knew to be the son of the poor people. She held up her handkerchief, and beckoned him to her. He hesitated, as if afraid to advance, till she called him softly by his name. This assured him. He approached, and expressed astonishment at finding she was the person who called him. She inquired for her father, and heard he was ill, and then asleep. She desired the boy to enter the cabin before her, and caution his parents against making any noise that might disturb him. He obeyed her, and she followed him.
She found the father of the family blowing a turf fire, to hasten the boiling of a large pot of potatoes. Three ragged children were sitting before it, watching impatiently for their supper. Their mother was spinning, and their old grandmother making bread. The place was small and crowded. Half the family slept below, and the other half upon a loft, to which they ascended by a ladder, and upon which a number of fowls were now familiarly roosting, cackling at every noise made below. Fitzalan's room was divided from the rest of the cabin by a thin partition of wood plastered with pictures of saints and crosses.
"Save you kindly, madam," said the mistress of the mansion to Amanda, on entering it.
Byrne got up, and, with many scrapes, offered her his little stool before the fire. She thanked him, and accepted it. His wife, notwithstanding the obligations she lay under to her, seemed to think as much respect was not due to her as when mistress of the castle, and therefore never left her seat, or quitted her spinning, on her entrance.
"My poor father is very ill," said Amanda. "Why, indeed, the captain has had a bad time of it," answered Mrs. Byrne, jogging her wheel. "To be sure he has suffered some little change; but your great folks, as well as your simple folks, must look to that in this world; and I don't know why they should not, for they are not better than the others, I believe."
"Arrah, Norah, now," said Byrne, "I wonder you are not shy of speaking so to the poor young lady."
Amanda's heart was surcharged with grief--she felt suffocating. She arose, unlatched the door, and the keen, cold air a little revived her. Tears burst forth, she indulged them freely, and they lightened the load on her heart. She asked for a glass of water. A glass was not readily to be procured. Byrne told her she had better take a noggin of buttermilk. This she refused, and he brought her one of water.
She now conquered the reluctance she felt to speak to the uncouth Mrs. Byrne, and consulted her on the best method of mentioning her arrival to her father. Mrs. Byrne said he had been in bed some time, but his sleep was often interrupted, and she would now step into the chamber, and try if he was awake. She accordingly did so, but returned in a moment, and said he still slept.
Amanda wished to see him in his present situation, to judge how far his illness had affected him: she stepped softly into the room. It was small and low, lighted by a glimmering rush-light, and a declining fire. The furniture was poor and scanty; in one corner stood a wooden bedstead, without curtains or any shade, and on this, under miserable bedclothes, lay poor Fitzalan. Amanda shuddered, as she looked round this chamber of wretchedness. "Oh! my father," she cried to herself, "is this the only refuge you could find?" She went to the bed, she leaned over it, and beheld his face. It was deadly pale and emaciated; he moaned in his sleep, as if his mind was dreadfully oppressed. Suddenly he began to move; he sighed, "Amanda, my dearest child, shall I never more behold you?"
Amanda was obliged to hasten from the room, to give vent to her emotions. She sobbed, she wrung her hands, and in the bitterness of her soul exclaimed, "Alas! alas! I have returned too late to save him."
They soon after heard him stir. She requested Mrs. Byrne to go in, and cautiously inform him she was come. She complied, and in a moment Amanda heard him say, "Thank Heaven! my darling is returned." "You may now go in, miss," said Mrs. Byrne, coming from the room. Amanda went in. Her father was raised in the bed; his arms were extended to receive her. She threw herself into them. Language was denied them both, but tears, even more expressive than words, evinced their feelings. Fitzalan first recovered his voice. "My prayer," said he, "is granted. Heaven has restored my child to smooth the pillow of sickness, and soothe the last moments of existence." "Oh, my father!" cried Amanda, "have pity on me, and mention not those moments. Exert yourself for your child; who in this wide world has she but thee to comfort, support and befriend her?" "Indeed," said he, "for your sake I wish they may be far distant." He held her at a little distance from him; he surveyed her face, her form, her altered complexion. Her fallen features appeared to shock him. He clasped her again to his bosom, "The world, my child, I fear," cried he, "has used thee most unkindly." "Oh, most cruelly," sobbed Amanda. "Then, my girl, let the reflection of that world, where innocence and virtue will meet a proper reward, console you. Here they are often permitted to be tried; but as gold is tried and purified by fire, so are they by adversity. 'Those whom God loves, He chastises.' Let this idea give you patience and fortitude under every trial. Never forego your dependence on Him, though calamity should pursue you to the very brink of the grave; but be comforted by the assurance He has given, that those who meekly bear the cross He lays upon them, shall be rewarded; that He will wipe away all tears from their eyes, and swallow up death in victory. Though a soldier from my youth, and accustomed to all the licentiousness of camps, I never forgot my Creator; and I now find the benefit of not having done so. Now, when my friends desert, the world frowns upon me, when sickness and sorrow have overwhelmed me, religion stands me in good stead; consoles me for what I lost, and softens the remembrance of the past, by presenting prospects of future brightness."
So spoke Fitzalan the pious sentiments of his soul, and they calmed the agitations of Amanda. He found her clothes were wet, and insisted on her changing them directly. In the bundle the good Eleanor gave her, was a change of linen, and a cotton wrapper, which she now put on, in a small closet, or rather shed adjoining her father's room. A good fire was made up, a better light brought in, and some bread and wine from a small cupboard in the room, which contained Fitzalan's things, set before her, of which he made her immediately partake. He took a glass of wine himself from her, and tried to cheer her spirits. "He had been daily expecting her arrival," he said, "and had had a pallet and bedclothes kept airing for her. He hoped she would not be dissatisfied with sleeping in the closet." "Ah! my father," she cried, "can you ask your daughter such a question?" She expressed her fears of injuring him, by having disturbed his repose. "No," he said, "it was a delightful interruption. It was a relief from pain and anxiety."
Lord Cherbury, he informed her, had written him a letter, which pierced him to the soul. "He accused me," said he, "of endeavoring to promote a marriage between you and Lord Mortimer; of treacherously trying to counteract his views, and take advantage of his unsuspecting friendship. I was shocked at these accusations. But how excruciating would my anguish have been had I really deserved them. I soon determined upon the conduct I should adopt, which was to deny the justice of his charges, and resign his agency--for any further dealings with a man who could think me capable of meanness or duplicity, was not to be thought of. My accounts were always in a state to allow me to resign at a moment's warning. It was my intention to go to England, put them into Lord Cherbury's hands, and take my Amanda from a place where she might meet with indignities as little merited by her as those her father had received were by him. A sudden and dreadful disorder, which I am convinced the agitation of my mind brought on, prevented my executing this intention. I wrote, however, to his lordship, acquainting him with my resignation of his agency, and transmitting my accounts and arrears. I sent a letter to you at the same time, with a small remittance for your immediate return, and then retired from the castle; for I felt a longer continuance in it would degrade me to the character of a mean dependant, and intimate a hope of being reinstated in my former station; which, should Lord Cherbury now offer, I should reject, for ignoble must be the mind which could accept of favors from those who doubted its integrity. Against such conduct my feelings revolt. Poverty, to me, is more welcome than independence, when purchased with the loss of esteem."
Amanda perceived her father knew nothing of her sufferings, but supposed her return occasioned by his letter. She therefore resolved, if possible, not to undeceive him, at least till his health was better. The night was far advanced, and her father, who saw her ill, and almost sinking with fatigue, requested her to retire to rest. She accordingly did. Her bed was made up in the little closet. Mrs. Byrne assisted her to undress, and brought her a bowl of whey, which, she trusted, with a comfortable sleep, would carry off her feverish symptoms, and enable her to be her father's nurse. Her rest, however, was far from being comfortable. It was broken by horrid dreams, in which she beheld the pale and emaciated figure of her father suffering the most exquisite tortures; and when she started from these dreams, she heard his deep moans, which were like daggers going through her heart. She arose once or twice, supposing him in pain, but when she went to his bed she found him asleep, and was convinced, from that circumstance, his pain was more of the mental than the bodily kind. She felt extremely ill. Her bones were sore from the violent motion of the carriage, and she fancied rest would do her good: but when, towards morning, she was inclined to take some, she was completely prevented by the noise the children made on rising. Fearful of neglecting her father, she arose soon after herself, but was scarcely able to put on her clothes from excessive weakness. She found him in bed, but awake. He welcomed her with a languid smile, and extending his hand, which was reduced to mere skin and bone, said, "that joy was a greater enemy to repose than grief, and had broken his earlier than usual that morning." He made her sit down by him. He gazed on her with unutterable tenderness. "In Divine language," cried he, "I may say--'Let me see thy countenance; let me hear thy voice, but sweet is thy voice, and thy countenance is comely and my soul has pleasure in gazing on it.'" The kettle was already boiling. He had procured a few necessaries for himself, such as tea-things and glasses. Amanda placed the tea-table by the bed-side, and gave him his breakfast. Whilst receiving it from her, his eyes were raised to Heaven, as if in thankful gratitude for the inestimable blessing he still possessed in such a child. After breakfast, he said he would rise, and Amanda retired into the garden till he was dressed, if that could deserve the appellation, which was only a slip of ground planted with cabbages and potatoes, and enclosed with loose stones and blackberry bushes. The spring was already advanced. The day was fine. The light and fleecy clouds were gradually dispersing, and the sky, almost as far as the eye could reach, was of a clear blue. The dusky green of the blackberry bushes was enlivened by the pale purple of their blossoms. Tufts of primroses grew beneath their shelter. The fields, which rose with a gentle swell above the garden, were covered with a vivid green, spangled with daisies, buttercups, and wild honeysuckles, and the birds, as they fluttered from spray to spray, with notes of gladness hailed the genial season.
But neither the season nor its charms could now, as heretofore, delight Amanda. She felt forlorn and disconsolate; deprived of the comforts of life, and no longer interested in the objects about her, she sat down upon a stone at the end of the garden, and she thought the fresh breeze from the sea cooled the feverish heat of her blood. "Alas!" she said to herself, "at this season last year, how different was my situation from the present!" Though not in affluence, neither was she then in absolute distress; and she had besides the comfortable hope of having her father's difficulties removed. Like Burns' mountain daisy, she had then cheerfully glinted forth amidst the storm, because, she thought that storm would be soon overblown; but now, she saw herself on the point of being finally crushed beneath the rude pressure of poverty.
She recollected the words which had escaped her when she last saw Tudor Hall, and she thought they were dictated by something like a prophetic spirit. She had then said, as she leaned upon a little gate which looked into the domain: "When these woods again glow with vegetation; when every shade resounds with harmony, and the flowers and the blossoms spread their foliage to the sun, ah! where will Amanda be! far distant, in all probability, from these delightful shades; perhaps deserted and forgotten by their master."
She was indeed far distant from them; deserted, and if not forgotten, at least only remembered with contempt by their master--remembered with contempt by Lord Mortimer. It was an idea of intolerable anguish. His name was no more repeated as a charm to soothe her grief; his idea increased her misery.
She continued indulging her melancholy meditations, till informed by one of the children the captain was ready to receive her. She hastened in, and found him in an old high-backed chair, and the ravages of care and sickness were now more visible to her than they had been the night before. He was reduced to a mere skeleton. "The original brightness of his form" was quite gone, and he seemed already on the very brink of the grave. The agony of Amanda's feelings was expressed on her countenance--he perceived and guessed its source. He endeavored to compose and comfort her. She mentioned a physician; he tried to dissuade her from the idea of bringing one, but she besought him in compassion to her to consent, and overcome by her earnestness, he at last promised the ensuing day she should do as she wished.
It was now Sunday, and he desired the service of the day to be read. A small Bible lay on the table before him, and Amanda complied with his desire.
In the first lesson were these words: "Leave thy fatherless children to me, and I will be their father." The tears gushed from Fitzalan; he laid his hand, which appeared convulsed with agitation, on the book. "Oh! what words of comfort!" cried he, "are these; what transport do they convey to the heart of a parent burdened with anxiety! Yes, merciful Power, I will, with grateful joy, commit my children to thy care, for thou art the friend who will never forsake them." He desired Amanda to proceed; her voice was weak and broken, and the tears, in spite of her efforts to restrain them, stole down her cheeks.
When she had concluded, her father drew her towards him, and inquired into all that had passed during her stay in London. She related to him, without reserve, the various incidents she had met with previous to her going to the marchioness's; acknowledged the hopes and fears she experienced on Lord Mortimer's account, and the argument he had made use of to induce her to a clandestine union, with her positive refusal to such a step.
A beam of pleasure illumined the pallid face of Fitzalan. "You acted," said he, "as I expected; and I glory in my child, and feel more indignation than ever against Lord Cherbury for his mean suspicions." Amanda was convinced those suspicions had been infused into his mind by those who had struck at her peace and fame. This idea, however, as well as their injuries to her, she meant if possible to conceal. When her father, therefore, desired her to proceed in her narrative, her voice began to falter, her mind became disturbed, and her countenance betrayed her agitation. The remembrance of the dreadful scenes she had gone through at the marchioness's made her involuntarily shudder, and she wished to conceal them forever from her father, but found it impossible to evade his minute and earnest inquiries.
"Gracious Heaven!" said he, on hearing them, "what complicated cruelty and deceit; inhuman monsters! to have no pity on one so young, so innocent, so helpless. The hand of sorrow has indeed pressed heavy on thee, my child; but, after the marchioness's former conduct, I cannot be surprised at any action of hers."
He gave her a note to discharge her debt to Howel, and begged she would immediately write and return his grateful acknowledgments for his benevolence. She feared he inconvenienced himself by parting with the note; but he assured her he could spare it extremely well, as he had been an economist, and had still sufficient money to support them a few months longer in their present situation.
Amanda now inquired when he had heard from her brother. She said he had not answered her last letter, and that his silence had made her very uneasy.
"Alas! poor Oscar!" exclaimed Fitzalan, "he has not been exempt from his portion of distress."
He took a letter, as he spoke, from his pocket-book, and presented it to Amanda. She opened it with a trembling hand, and read as follows:--
MY DEAR FATHER,--Particular circumstances prevented my answering your last letter as soon as I could have wished; and, indeed, the intelligence I have to communicate makes me almost averse to write at all. As my situation, however, must sooner or later be known to you, I think it better to inform you of it myself, as I can, at the same time, reconcile you, I trust, in some degree to it, by assuring you I bear it patiently, and that it has not been caused by any action which can degrade my character as a man or a soldier. I have long, indeed, had a powerful enemy to cope with, and, it will no doubt surprise you to hear, that that enemy is Colonel Belgrave. An interference in the cause of humanity provoked his insolence and malignity. Neither his words nor looks were bearable, and I was irritated by them to send him a challenge. Had I reflected, the probable consequences of such a step must have occurred and prevented my taking it; but passion blinded my reason, and in yielding to its dictates do I hold myself alone culpable throughout the whole affair. I gave him the opportunity his malicious heart had long desired, of working my ruin. I was, by his order, put under an immediate arrest. A court-martial was held, and I was broke for disrespect to a superior officer; but it was imagined by the whole corps I should have been restored. I, however, knew too much of Belgrave's disposition to believe this would be the case; but never shall he triumph in the distress he has caused by witnessing it. I have already settled on the course I shall pursue, and ere this letter reaches you I shall have quitted my native kingdom. Forgive me, my dear sir, for not consulting you relative to my conduct. But I feared, if I did, your tenderness would interfere to prevent it, or lead you to distress yourself on my account; and to think that you and my dear sister were deprived of the smallest comfort, by my means, would be a source of intolerable anguish to me. Blessed as I am with youth, health, and fortitude, I have no doubt but I shall make my way through the rugged path of life extremely well. A parting visit I avoided, from the certainty of its being painful to us both. I shall write as soon as I reach my place of destination. I rejoice to hear Amanda is so happily situated with Lady Greystock: may your suffering and her merit be rewarded as they deserve! Suffer not, I entreat, too tender an anxiety for my interest to disturb your repose. I again repeat I have no doubt but what I shall do well. That Providence, in which I trust, will, I humbly hope, support me through every difficulty, and again unite me to the friends so valuable to my heart. Farewell, my dear father, and, be assured, with unabated respect and gratitude, I subjoin myself your affectionate son,
OSCAR FITZALAN.
This letter was a cruel shock to Amanda. She hoped to have procured her brother's company, and that her father's melancholy and her own would have been alleviated by it. Sensible of the difficulties Oscar must undergo, without friends or fortune, the tears stole down her cheeks, and she almost dreaded she could no more behold him.
Her father besought her to spare him the misery of seeing those tears. He leaned upon her for comfort and support, he said, and bid her not disappoint him. She hastily wiped away her tears; and though she could not conquer, tried to suppress her anguish.
Johnaten and Kate called, in the course of the day, to know if they could be of any service to Fitzalan. Amanda engaged Johnaten to go to town the next morning for a physician, and gave Kate the key of a wardrobe where she had left some things, which she desired her to pack up and send to the cabin in the evening. Mrs. Byrne gave them one of her fowls for dinner, and Fitzalan assumed an appearance of cheerfulness, and the evening wore away somewhat better than the preceding part of the day had done.
Johnaten was punctual in obeying Amanda's commands, and brought a physician the next morning to the cabin. Fitzalan appeared much worse, and Amanda rejoiced that she had been resolute in procuring him advice.
She withdrew from the room soon after the physician had entered it, and waited without in trembling anxiety for his appearance. When he came out she asked, with a faltering voice, his opinion, and besought him not to deceive her from pity to her feelings.
He shook his head, and assured her he would not deviate from truth for the world. The captain was indeed in a ticklish situation, he said, but the medicines he had ordered, and sea bathing, he doubted not, would set all to rights; it was fortunate, he added, she delayed no longer sending for him; mentioned twenty miraculous cures he had performed; admired the immense fine prospect before the door, and wished her good-morning, with what he thought quite a degagee and irresistible air.
She was willing to believe his assurance of her father's recovery; as the drowning wretch will grasp at every straw, she eagerly embraced the shadow of comfort, and in the recovery of her father, looked forward to consolation for all her sorrows. She struggled against her own illness, that no assiduous attention might be wanting to him; and would have sat up with him at night, had he not positively insisted on her going to bed.
The medicines he was ordered he received from her hands, but with a look which seemed to express his conviction of their inefficacy. All, however, she wished him to do, he did, and often raised his eyes to Heaven, as if to implore it to reward her care, and yet a little longer spare him to this beloved child, whose happiness so much depended on the prolongation of his existence.
Four days passed heavily away, and the assurances of the physician, who was punctual in his attendance, lost their effect upon Amanda. Her father was considerably altered for the worse, and unable to rise, except for a few minutes in the evening, to have his bed made. He complained of no pain or sickness, but seemed sinking beneath an easy and gradual decay. It was only at intervals he could converse with his daughter. His conversation was then calculated to strengthen her fortitude and resignation, and prepare her for an approaching melancholy event. Whenever she received a hint of it, her agony was inexpressible; but pity for her feelings could not prevent her father from using every opportunity that occurred for laying down rules and precepts which might be serviceable to her when without a guide or protector. Sometimes he adverted to the past, but this was only done to make her more cautious in the future.
He charged her to avoid any further intimacy with Lord Mortimer, as an essential measure for the restoration of her peace, the preservation of her fame, and the removal of Lord Cherbury's unjust suspicions, "who will find at last," continued he, "how much he wronged me and may, perhaps, feel compunction when beyond his power to make reparation."
To all he desired, Amanda promised a religious observance; she thought it unnecessary in him, indeed, to desire her to avoid Lord Mortimer, convinced as she was that he had utterly abandoned her; but the grief this desertion occasioned, she believed she should soon overcome was her father once restored to health, for then she would have no time for useless regrets or retrospections, but be obliged to pass every hour in active exertions for his support and comfort.
A week passed away in this manner at the cabin--a week of wretchedness to Amanda, who perceived her father growing weaker and weaker. She assisted him, as usual, to rise one evening for a few minutes; when dressed, he complained of an oppression in his breathing, and desired to be supported to the air. Amanda with difficulty led him to the window, which she opened, and seated him by it, then knelt before him, and putting her arms round his waist, fastened her eyes with anxious tenderness upon his face.
The evening was serenely fine; the sun was setting in all its glory, and the sea, illumined by its parting beams, looked like a sheet of burnished silver.
"What a lovely scene!" cried Fitzalan faintly; "with what majesty does the sun retire from the world! the calmness which attends its departure is such, I think, as must attend the exit of a good man." He paused for a few minutes, then raising his eyes to heaven, exclaimed--"Merciful Power! had it pleased thee, I could have wished yet a little longer to have been spared to this young creature; but thy will, not mine, be done! Confiding in thy mercy, I leave her with some degree of fortitude."
Amanda's tears began to flow as he spoke. He raised his hand, on which they fell, and, kissing them off, exclaimed--"Precious drops! My Amanda, weep not too bitterly for me--like a weary traveller, think that rest must now be acceptable to me."
She interrupted him, and conjured him to change the discourse. He shook his head mournfully, pressed her hands between his, and said:--
"Yet a little longer, my child, bear with it;" then bade her assure her brother, whenever they met, which he trusted and believed would be soon, he had his father's blessing,--"the only legacy," he cried, "I can leave him, but one, I am confident, he merits, and will value. To you, my girl, I have no doubt he will prove a friend and guardian. You may both, perhaps, be amply recompensed for all your sorrows. Providence is just in all its dealings, and may yet render the lovely offspring of my Malvina truly happy."
He appeared exhausted by speaking, and Amanda assisted him to lie down, entreating him, at the same time, to take some drops. He consented, and while she was pouring them out at a little table, her back to the bed, she heard a deep groan. The bottle dropped from her hand, she sprang to the bed, and perceived her father lying senseless on the pillow. She imagined he had fainted, and screamed out for assistance. The woman of the cabin, her husband, and mother, all rushed into the room. He was raised up, his temples and hands chafed, and every remedy within the house applied for his recovery, but in vain--his spirit had forsaken its tenement of clay forever.
Amanda, when convinced of this, wrung her hands together; then, suddenly opening them, she clasped the lifeless body to her breast, and sunk fainting beside it.
Chapter XXXIII
She remained a considerable time in a state of insensibility, and, when recovered, she found herself in a bed laid upon the floor in a corner of the outside room. Her senses were at first confused--she felt as if waking from a disagreeable dream, but in a few minutes a perfect recollection of what had passed returned. She saw some one sitting by the bed--she raised herself a little, and perceived Sister Mary. "This is, indeed, a charitable visit," cried she, extending her hand, and speaking in a low broken voice. The good-natured nun jumped from her seat on hearing her speak, and embraced her most tenderly. Her caresses affected Amanda inexpressibly--she dropped her head upon her breast, and wept with a vehemence which relieved the oppression of her heart.
Sister Mary said she had never heard of her return to the country, till Mrs. Byrne came to St. Catherine's for a few sprigs of rosemary to strew over the poor captain. She had returned with her then to the cabin, to try if she could be of any service, and to invite her, in the name of the prioress and the whole sisterhood, to the convent.
Amanda thanked her for her kind invitation, which, she said, she must decline accepting for a few days, till she had performed all her duties, which, in a voice half stifled by sobs, she added, "the grave would soon terminate." She was sorry, she said, that they had undressed her, and requested Sister Mary to assist her in putting on her clothes. The sister tried to dissuade her from this, but soon found she was determined to spend the remainder of the night in her father's apartment. She accordingly dressed her--for Amanda's trembling hands refused their accustomed office--and made her take a glass of wine and water, ere she suffered her to move towards the door. Amanda was astonished, as she approached it, to hear a violent noise, like the mingled sounds of laughing and singing. Her soul recoiled at the tumult, and she asked Sister Mary, with a countenance of terror, "what it meant?" She replied, "it was only some friends and neighbors doing honor to the captain." Amanda hastily opened the door, anxious to terminate the suspense these words occasioned, but, how great was her horror, when she perceived a set of the meanest rustics assembled round the bed, with every appearance of inebriety, laughing, shouting, and smoking. What a savage scene for a child, whose heart was bursting with grief! She shrieked with horror, and, flinging herself into the arms of Sister Mary, conjured her to have the room cleared.
Sister Mary, from being accustomed to such scenes, felt neither horror nor disgust: she complied, however, with the request of Amanda, and besought them to depart, saying: "that Miss Fitzalan was a stranger to their customs, and besides, poor thing, quite beside herself with grief." They began to grumble at the proposal of removing; they had made preparations for spending a merry night, and Mrs. Byrne said, "if she had thought things would have turned out in this way, the captain might have found some other place to die in--for the least one could have, after his giving them so much trouble, was a little enjoyment with one's neighbors at the latter end." Johnaten and Kate, who were among the party, joined their entreaties to Sister Mary's, and she, to tempt them to compliance, said, "that in all probability they would soon have another and a better opportunity for making merry than the present." They at length retired, and Sister Mary and Amanda were left alone in the chamber of death. The dim light which remained cast a glimmering shade upon the face of Fitzalan, that added to its ghastliness. Amanda now indulged in all the luxury of grief, and found in Sister Mary a truly sympathetic friend, for the good nun was famed throughout the little circle of her acquaintance for weeping with those that wept, and rejoicing with those that rejoiced. She obtained a promise from Amanda of accompanying her to St. Catherine's as soon as her father was interred; and in return for this she gave an assurance of continuing with her till the last melancholy offices were over, and also that, with the assistance of Johnaten, she would see everything proper provided. This was some comfort to Amanda, who felt herself at present unequal to any exertion; yet, notwithstanding her fatigue and illness, she persevered in her resolution of sitting up with her father every night, dreading that, if she retired to bed, a scene of riot would again ensue, which, in her opinion, was sacrilege to the dead. She went to bed every morning and was nursed with the most tender attention by Sister Mary, who also insisted on being her companion at night. This, however, was but a mere matter of form, for the good sister was totally unable to keep her eyes open, and slept as comfortably upon the earthen floor, with her gown made into a pillow for her head, as if laid upon down: then was poor Amanda left to her own reflections, and the melancholy contemplation of her beloved father's remains. The evening of the fourth day after his decease was fixed upon for his interment; with streaming eyes and a breaking heart, Amanda beheld him put into the coffin, and in that moment felt as if he had again died before her. A small procession attended, consisting of the people of the house, Johnaten and Kate, and a few respectable farmers, to whom Fitzalan had endeared himself during his short abode at Castle Carberry; the men had scarfs and hat-bands, and the women hoods.
Johnaten, who had been a soldier in his youth, resolved to pay him some military honors, and placed his hat and sword upon the coffin. Amanda, by the most painful efforts, supported the preparations for his removal; but when she saw the coffin actually raised to be taken out, she could no longer restrain her feelings; she shrieked in the agony of her soul, a sickness, almost deadly, seized her and she fell fainting upon Sister Mary's bosom.
Chapter XXXIV
"Oh, let me unlade my breast, Pour out the fulness of my soul before you, Show every tender, every grateful thought, This wondrous goodness stirs. But 'tis impossible, And utterance all is vile; since I can only Swear you reign here, but never tell how much."--ROWE.
Sister Mary recovered her with difficulty, but found it impossible to remove her from the cabin till she was more composed. In about two hours its inhabitants returned, and the car having arrived which she had ordered to convey Amanda to St. Catherine's, she was placed upon it in a state scarcely animate, and, supported by Sister Mary, was conveyed to that peaceful asylum. On arriving at it she was carried immediately into the prioress's apartment, who received and welcomed her with the most tender affection and sensibility--a tenderness which roused Amanda from the stupefaction into which she appeared sinking, and made her weep violently. She felt relieved from doing so, and, as some return for the kindness she received, endeavored to appear benefited by it. She therefore declined going to bed, but lay down upon a little matted couch in the prioress's room. The tea-table was close by it. As she refused any other refreshment, she obtained this by a promise of eating something with it. None of the sisterhood--Sister Mary excepted--were admitted; and Amanda felt this delicate attention and respect to her sorrows with gratitude. She arrived on the eve of their patron saint at the convent, which was always celebrated with solemnity. After tea, therefore, the prioress and Sister Mary were compelled to repair to the chapel; but she removed the reluctance they felt to leave her alone by complaining of being drowsy. A pillow being laid under her head by Sister Mary, soon after they quitted her she fell into a profound slumber, in which she continued till awoke by distant music, so soft, so clear, so harmonious, that the delightful sensations it gave her she could only compare to those which she imagined a distressed and pensive soul would feel when, springing from the shackles of mortality, it first heard the heavenly sounds that welcomed it to the realms of bliss. The chapel from which those celestial sounds proceeded was at the extremity of the house, so that they sometimes swelled upon her ear, sometimes faintly sunk upon it. The pauses in the organ, which was finely played, were filled up by the sweet, though less powerful strains of the sisterhood, who sung a hymn in honor of their saint.
"No one was here exempt, No voice but well could join melodious part."
'Tis a foretaste of heaven, thought Amanda. She heard a deep sigh behind her. She turned her head hastily, and perceived a figure standing near, which bore a strong resemblance to Lord Mortimer. She was alarmed. She could not believe it was him. The light which the small and heavy-arched window admitted was imperfect, and she rose from the couch to be better assured it was or was not him. A second glance convinced her. She might have believed her eyes at first. Trembling and astonished, she sunk upon a seat, exclaiming, "Gracious heaven! what can have brought Lord Mortimer hither?"
He made no reply, but, kneeling before her, took her hands in his, pressed them to his forehead and lips, and laid his head upon them.
"Why," cried Amanda, unutterably affected by the emotions he betrayed, "why, my lord, are you come hither?" "To try," he replied, in a voice scarcely articulate, "whether Miss Fitzalan will yet consider me as her friend." "That, my lord," said she, "depends upon circumstances; but while your lordship remains in your present position, what they are I cannot explain."
Lord Mortimer instantly rose and seated himself beside her. "Now, tell me," said he, "what those circumstances are." "The first, my lord, is to exculpate my father in the opinion of Lord Cherbury, and, by declaring the commencement and progress of our acquaintance, eradicate from his lordship's mind the injurious suspicions he entertained against him. This, perhaps, you will say is useless, considering those suspicions can no longer wound him; but, my lord, I deem it an incumbent duty on me to remove from his memory the obloquy on my account cast on it." "I promise you most solemnly," said Lord Mortimer, "you shall be obeyed. This is a debt of justice, which I had resolved to pay ere I received your injunction for doing so. It is but lately I heard of the unjust charges made against him, nor do I know now what fiend gave rise to them." "The same, perhaps," cried Amanda, "who spread such complicated snares for my destruction, and involved me in every horror but that which proceeds from conscious guilt. Oh, my lord! the second circumstance I allude to is, if you should hear my name treated with scorn and contempt by those few--those very few--whom I had reason to esteem, and to believe esteemed me, that you would kindly interpose in my justification, and say I merited not the aspersions cast upon me. Believe me innocent, and you will easily persuade others I am so. You shake your head, as much as to say you cannot think me so, after the proofs you have seen to the contrary. Ah, my lord! the proofs were contrived by malice and treachery, to ruin me in the estimation of my friends, and by perfidy, to force me into a crime, of which I already bear the appearance and the stigma. Surely, in this solemn hour, which has seen my beloved father consigned to his kindred earth, when, with a mind harassed by sorrow, and a body worn out with fatigue, I feel as if standing on the verge of the grave, I should be the most abandoned of wretches, if I could assert my innocence without the consciousness of really possessing it. No, my lord; by such a falsehood I should be not only wicked, but foolish, in depriving myself of that happiness hereafter which will so fully recompense my present miseries." "Oh, Amanda!" cried Lord Mortimer, who had been walking backward and forward in an agitated manner while she spoke, "you would almost convince me against the evidence of my own senses." "Almost," she repeated. "Then I see, my lord, you are determined to disbelieve me. But why, since so prejudiced against me, have you come hither? Was it merely to be assured of my wretchedness? to hear me say that I stand alone in the world, without one being interested about my welfare; that my present asylum is bestowed by charity; and that, if my life be prolonged, it must be spent in struggling against constitution, sorrow, and ill-fame, to procure a subsistence?" "No, no," exclaimed Lord Mortimer, flinging himself at her feet; "never shall you suffer such misery. Were you even the being I was tempted to think you some time ago, never would Mortimer suffer the woman his heart doated on to feel such calamity. I do not, I cannot believe you would deceive me. There is an irresistible eloquence in your words that convinces me you have been the victim of treachery, and I its dupe. I cannot give you a more convincing proof of my confidence in you, than by again renewing my entreaties to have one fame, one fate, one fortune ours."
The resolution which Amanda had forced to support her through the painful scene she guessed would ensue the moment she saw Lord Mortimer, now vanished, and she burst into a flood of tears. She saw his conduct in the most generous, the most exalted light. Notwithstanding appearances were so much against her, he was willing to rely solely on her own asseveration of innocence, and to run every risk on her account, that by a union he might shelter her from the distress of her present situation. But while her sensibility was affected by his expressions, her pride was alarmed lest he should impute her ardent desire of vindicating herself to the expectation of having his addresses renewed. In broken accents she endeavored to remove such an idea, if it had arisen, and to convince him that all further intimacy between them must now be terminated. Lord Mortimer ascribed the latter part of her speech to the resentment she felt against him for ever entertaining doubts of her worth. She desired him to rise, but he refused till he was forgiven. "My forgiveness is yours indeed, my lord," she said, "though your suspicions wounded me to the soul. I can scarcely wonder at your entertaining them, when I reflect on the different situations in which I was found, which, if your lordship can spare a little longer time, or deem it worth devoting to such a purpose, as well as I am able I will account for being involved in." Lord Mortimer declared his ardent desire to hear those particulars, which nothing but a fear of fatiguing or agitating her could have prevented his before expressing. He then seated himself by her, and taking her cold and emaciated hand in his, listened to her little narrative.
She briefly informed him of her father's residing in Devonshire after the death of her mother, of the manner in which they became acquainted with Colonel Belgrave, of his having ingratiated himself into their friendship, by pretending to be Oscar's friend, and then plunging them in distress, when he found they not only resisted but resented his villanous designs. She related the artful manner in which Lady Greystock had drawn her from her father's protection, and the cold and insolent reception she met from the marchioness and her daughter, when introduced by the above-mentioned lady, the enmity the marchioness bore her father, the sudden alteration in her behavior, the invitation to her house so unexpected and unnecessary, all tended to inspire a belief that she was concerned in contriving Colonel Belgrave's admittance to the house, and had also given Lord Cherbury reason to suspect the integrity of her father.
Lord Mortimer here interrupted Amanda, to mention the conversation which passed between him and Mrs. Jane in the hall.
She raised her hands and eyes to heaven with astonishment at such wickedness, and said, "Though she always suspected the girl's integrity, from a certain sycophant air, she never imagined she could be capable of such baseness."
Lord Mortimer again interrupted her, to mention what Lady Greystock had told him concerning Mrs. Jennings, as also what the housekeeper had said of the note he gave her for Amanda.
"Good God!" said Amanda, "when I hear of all the enemies I had, I almost wonder I escaped so well." She then resumed her narrative, accounted for the dislike Mrs. Jennings had to her, and explained the way in which she was entrapped into Colonel Belgrave's power, the almost miraculous manner in which she was freed from his house, the friendship she received from Howel, and the situation in which she arrived at Castle Carberry, and found her father. The closing scene she could not describe, for sighs and sobs impeded her utterance. Lord Mortimer gently folded her to his breast. He called her his dear, his unfortunate, his lovely girl, more precious than ever to his heart, and declared he never again would quit her till she had given him a right to espouse her quarrels, and secure her from the machinations of her enemies. Her warm tears wet his cheek as she exclaimed, "that could never be."
"My promise is already past," cried she. "That which was given to the living shall not be forfeited to the dead; and this, my lord, by design, is the last time we must ever meet." "What promise?" exclaimed Lord Mortimer. "Surely no one could be so inhuman as to extort a promise from you to give me up?" "It was not inhumanity extorted it," replied Amanda, "but honor, rectitude, and discretion; without forfeiting those never can I violate it. There is but one event could make me acquiesce in your wishes, that is, having a fortune adequate to yours to bring you, because then Lord Cherbury could ascribe no selfish motive to my conduct; but as such an event is utterly improbable, I might almost say impossible, it is certain we shall never be united. Any further intercourse between us, you must therefore be convinced, would injure me. Disturb not, therefore, my lord, my retirement; but ere you depart, allow me to assure you you have lightened the weight on my heart by crediting what I have said. Should I not recover from the illness which now preys upon me, it will cheer my departing spirit to know you think me innocent; and, if I live, it will support me through many difficulties, and often, perhaps, after the toils of a busy day, shall I comfort myself by reflecting that those I esteem, if they think of me, it is with their wonted regard."
Lord Mortimer was affected by the manner in which she spoke, his eyes began to glisten, and he was again declaring he would not suffer her to sacrifice happiness at the shrine of a too scrupulous and romantic generosity, when the door opened, and the prioress and Sister Mary (who had been detained in the chapel by a long discourse from the priest) entered, bearing lights.
Lord Mortimer started in much confusion, retreated to one of the windows, and drew out his handkerchief to conceal the emotions Amanda had excited. She was unable to speak to the prioress and Sister Mary, who stared round them, and then at each other, not certain whether they should advance or retreat. Lord Mortimer in a few moments recovered his composure, and advancing to the prioress, apologized for his intrusion into her apartment; but said he had the honor of being a friend of Miss Fitzalan's, and could not resist his wish of inquiring in person after her health as soon as he arrived in the country.
The prioress, who had once seen a good deal of the polite world, received his address with ease and complaisance. Sister Mary went over to Amanda, and found her weak, trembling, and weeping. She expressed the utmost concern at seeing her in such a situation, and immediately procured her a glass of wine, which she insisted on her taking. The lights now gave Lord Mortimer an opportunity of contemplating the depredations which grief and sickness had made upon her. Her pale and sallow complexion, her heavy and sunken eyes, struck him with horror. He could not conceal his feelings. "Gracious Heaven!" cried he, going to the couch, and taking her hand, "I fear you are very ill."
She looked mournfully in his face without speaking; but this look was sufficient to assure him he was not mistaken. The efforts she had made to converse with him, and the yet greater efforts she made to banish him forever from her, quite exhausted her; after the various miseries she had gone through, how soothing to her soul would have been the attentions of Lord Mortimer, how pleasing, how delightful, the asylum she should have found in his arms! But no temptation, no distress, she resolved, should ever make her disobey the injunction of her adored father.
"She is very bad indeed," said Sister Mary, "and we must get her to bed as soon as possible." "She requires rest and repose indeed," said Lord Mortimer; "but tell me, my dear Miss Fitzalan (taking her hand), if I have those good ladies' permission for calling here to-morrow, will you, if able to rise, see me?" "I cannot, indeed," said Amanda; "I have already declared this must be our last interview, and I shall not retract from what I have said." "Then," exclaimed Lord Mortimer, regardless, or rather forgetful, of those who heard him, from the agitation and warmth of his feelings, "I shall, in one respect at least, accuse you of dissimulation, that of feigning a regard for me you never felt." "Such an accusation is now of little consequence," replied Amanda; "perhaps you had better think it just." "Cruel, inexorable girl, to refuse seeing me, to wish to have the anxiety which now preys upon my heart prolonged!"
"Young man," said the prioress, in an accent of displeasure, seeing the tears streaming down Amanda's cheeks, "respect her sorrows."
"Respect them, madam," repeated he; "Oh! Heaven, I respect, I venerate them; but will you, my dear lady, when Miss Fitzalan is able, prevail on her to communicate the particulars of our acquaintance; and will you then become my advocate, and persuade her to receive my visits?" "Impossible sir," said the prioress, "I shall never attempt to desire a larger share of confidence from Miss Fitzalan than she desires to bestow upon me. From my knowledge of her I am convinced her conduct will be always guided by discretion; she has greatly obliged me by choosing this humble retreat for her residence; she has put herself under my protection, and I shall endeavor to fulfil that sacred trust by securing her from any molestation." "Well, madam," said Lord Mortimer, "I flatter myself Miss Fitzalan will do me justice in declaring my visits proceeded from wishes, which, though she may disappoint, she cannot disapprove. I shall no longer intrude upon your time or hers, but will still hope I shall find you both less inflexible."
He took up his hat, he approached the door; but when he glanced at Amanda, he could not depart without speaking to her, and again went to the couch.
He entreated her to compose and exert herself; he desired her forgiveness for any warmth he had betrayed, and he whispered to her that all his earthly happiness depended on her restoration to health, and her becoming his. He insisted on her now giving him her hand as a pledge of amity between them. She complied; but when presuming on this he again asked her consent to repeat his visits, he found her inexorable as ever, and retired, if not with a displeased, a disappointed countenance. Sister Mary attended him from the apartment. At the door of the convent he requested her to walk a few paces from it with him, saying he wanted to speak to her. She consented, and remembering he was the person who frightened her one evening amongst the ruins, determined now, if she had a good opportunity, to ask what had then brought him thither?
Lord Mortimer knew the poverty of the convent, and feared Amanda might want many things, or its inhabitants be distressed to procure them for her; he therefore pulled out a purse and presenting it to Sister Mary, requested she would apply it for Miss Fitzalan's use, without mentioning anything about it to her. Sister Mary shook the purse. "Oh! Jesu Maria," exclaimed she, "how heavy it is!"
Lord Mortimer was retiring, when, catching hold of him, she cried, "Stay, stay, I have a word or two to say to you. I wonder how much there is in this purse?"
Lord Mortimer smiled, "If not enough for the present emergencies," said he, "it shall soon be replenished."
Sister Mary sat down on a tombstone, and very deliberately counted the money into her lap. "Oh! mercy," said she, "I never saw so many guineas together before in all my life!"
Again Lord Mortimer smiled, and was retiring; but again stopping him, she returned the gold into the purse, and declared, "she neither would nor durst keep it."
Lord Mortimer was provoked at this declaration, and, without replying to it, walked on. She ran nimbly after him, and dropping the purse at his feet, was out of sight in a moment. When she returned to the prioress's apartment, she related the incident, and took much merit to herself for acting so prudently. The prioress commended her very much, and poor Amanda, with a faint voice, said, "she had acted quite right."
A little room inside the prioress's chamber was prepared for Amanda, into which she was now conveyed, and the good-natured Sister Mary brought her own bed, and laid it beside hers.
Chapter XXXV
"With dirges due, and sad array, Slow through the church-way path I saw him borne."
It will now be necessary to account for the sudden appearance of Lord Mortimer at the convent. Our reader may recollect that we left him in London, in the deepest affliction for the supposed perfidy of Amanda--an affliction which knew no diminution from time; neither the tenderness of his aunt, Lady Martha Dormer, nor the kind consideration his father showed for him, who, for the present, ceased to importune him about Lady Euphrasia, could have any lenient effect upon him--he pined in thought, and felt a distaste to all society. He at last began to think, that though Amanda had been unhappily led astray, she might, ere this, have repented of her error, and forsaken Colonel Belgrave. To know whether she had done so, or whether she could be prevailed upon to give him up, he believed, would be an alleviation of his sorrows. No sooner had he persuaded himself of this, than he determined on going to Ireland, without delay, to visit Captain Fitzalan, and, if she was not returned to his protection, advise with him about some method of restoring her to it.
He told Lord Cherbury he thought an excursion into Wales would be of service to him. His lordship agreed in thinking it might, and, secretly delighted that all danger relative to Amanda was over, gladly concurred in whatever could please his son, flattering himself that, on his return to London, he would no lodger raise any objections to an alliance with the fair Scotch heiress.
Lord Mortimer travelled with as much expedition to Holyhead as if certain that perfect happiness, not a small alleviation of misery, would be the recompense of his journey. He concealed from his aunt the real motives which actuated him to it, blushing, even to himself, at the weakness which he still felt relative to Amanda. When he crossed the water he again set off post, attended on horseback only by his own man. Within one mile of Castle Carberry he met the little mournful procession approaching, which was attending poor Fitzalan to his last home. The carriage stopped to let them pass, and in the last of the group he perceived Johnaten, who, at the same moment, recognized him. Johnaten, with much surprise in his countenance, stepped up to the carriage, and, after bowing, and humbly hoping his lordship was well, with a melancholy shake of his head informed him whose remains he was following.
"Captain Fitzalan dead!" repeated Lord Mortimer, with a face as pale as death, and a faltering voice, while his heart sunk within him at the idea that his father was, in some degree, accessory to the fatal event; for, just before he left London, Lord Cherbury had informed him of the letter he wrote to Fitzalan, and this, he believed, joined to his own immediate family misfortunes, had precipitated him from the world. "Captain Fitzalan dead!" he exclaimed. "Yes, and please you, my lord," said Johnaten, wiping away a tear, "and he has not left a better or a braver man behind him. Poor gentleman, the world pressed hard upon him." "Had he no tender friend about him?" asked Lord Mortimer. "Were neither of his children with him?" "Oh! yes my lord, poor Miss Amanda." "She was with him!" said Lord Mortimer, in an eager accent. "Yes, my lord, she returned here about ten days ago, but so sadly altered, I think she won't stay long behind him. Poor thing, she is going fast, indeed, and the more's the pity, for she is a sweet creature."
Lord Mortimer was inexpressibly shocked. He wished to hide his emotions, and waved his hand to Johnaten to depart; but Johnaten either did not, or would not, understand the motion, and he was obliged, in broken accents, to say, "he would no longer detain him."
The return of Amanda was to him a conviction that she had seen her error in its true light. He pictured to himself the affecting scene which must have ensued between a dying father and a penitent daughter, so loved, so valued, as was Amanda; her situation, when she received his forgiveness and benediction; he represented her to himself as at once bewailing the loss of her father, and her offences, endeavoring, by prayers, by tears, by sighs, to obliterate them in the sight of Heaven, and render herself fit to receive its awful fiat.
He heard she was dying; his soul recoiled at the idea of seeing her shrouded in her native clay, and yet he could not help believing this the only peaceful asylum she could find, to be freed from the shafts of contempt and malice of the world. He trembled lest he should not behold the lovely penitent while she was capable of observing him; to receive a last adieu, though dreadful, would yet, he thought, lighten the horrors of an eternal separation, and perhaps, too, it would be some comfort to her departing spirit to know from him he had pardoned her; and conscious, surely, he thought to himself, she must be of needing pardon from him, whom she had so long imposed on by a specious pretext of virtue. He had heard from Lord Cherbury that Captain Fitzalan had quitted the castle; he knew not, therefore, at present, where to find Amanda, nor did he choose to make any inquiries till he again saw Johnaten.
As soon as the procession was out of sight, he alighted from the carriage, and ordering his man to discharge it, on arriving at Castle Carberry, he took a path across the fields, which brought him to the side of the church-yard where Fitzalan was to be interred.
He reached it just as the coffin was lowering into the earth. A yew-tree, growing by the wall against which he leaned, hid him from observation. He heard many of the rustics mentioning the merits of the deceased in terms of warm, though artless, commendation, and he saw Johnaten receiving the hat and sword (which, as military trophies, he had laid upon the coffin), with a flood of tears.
When the church-yard was cleared, he stepped across the broken wall to the silent mansion of Fitzalan. The scene was wild and dreary, and a lowering evening seemed in unison with the sad objects around. Lord Mortimer was sunk in the deepest despondence. He felt awfully convinced of the instability of human attainments, and the vanity of human pursuits, not only from the ceremony he had just witnessed, but his own situation. The fond hopes of his heart, the gay expectations of his youth, and the hilarity of his soul, were blasted, never, he feared, to revive. Virtue, rank, and fortune, advantages so highly prized by mankind, were unable to give him comfort, to remove the malady of his heart, to administer one oblivious antidote to a mind diseased.
"Peace to thy shade, thou unfortunate soldier," exclaimed he, after standing some time by the grave with folded arms. "Peace to thy shade--peace which shall reward thee for a life of toil and trouble. Happy should I have deemed myself, had it been my lot to have lightened thy grief, or cheered thy closing hours. But those who were dearer to thee than existence I may yet serve, and thus make the only atonement now in my power for the injustice, I fear, was done thee. Thy Amanda, and thy gallant son, shall be my care, and his path, I trust, it will be in my power to smooth through life."
A tear fell from Lord Mortimer upon the grave, and he turned mournfully from it towards Castle Carberry. Here Johnaten was arrived before him, and had already a large fire lighted in the dressing-room poor Amanda, on coming to the castle, had chosen for herself. Johnaten fixed on this for Lord Mortimer, as the parlors had been shut up ever since Captain Fitzalan's departure, and could not be put in any order till the next day; but it was the worst place Lord Mortimer could have entered, as not only itself but everything in it reminded him of Amanda; and the grief it excited at his first entrance was so violent as to alarm not only his man (who was spreading a table with refreshments), but Johnaten, who was assisting him. He soon checked it, however; but when he again looked round the room, and beheld it ornamented with works done by Amanda, he could scarcely prevent another burst of grief as violent as the first.
He now learned Amanda's residence; and so great was his impatience to see her that, apprehensive the convent would soon be closed, he set off, fatigued as he was, without recruiting himself with any refreshment. He intended to ask for one of the ladies of St. Catherine's, and entreat her, if Amanda was then in a situation to be seen, to announce his arrival to her; but after rapping repeatedly with a rattan against the door, the only person who appeared to him was a servant girl. From her he learned the ladies were all in the chapel, and that Miss Fitzalan was in the prioress's apartment. He asked, "Was she too ill to be seen?" The girl replied, "No"--for having only entered the room to leave the kettle in it, at a time when Amanda was composed, she imagined she was very well. Lord Mortimer then told her his name, and desired her to go up to Miss Fitzalan and inquire whether she would see him. The girl attempted not to move. She was in reality so struck of a heap by hearing that she had been talking to a lord, that she knew not whether she was standing on her head or her heels. Lord Mortimer imputing her silence to disinclination to comply with his request, put a guinea into her hand, and entreated her to be expeditious. This restored her to animation, but ere she reached the room she forgot his title, and being ashamed to deliver a blundering message to Miss Fitzalan, or to appear stupid to Lord Mortimer, she returned to him, pretending she had delivered his message, and that he might go up. She showed him the door, and when he entered he imputed the silence of Amanda, and her not moving, to the effects of her grief. He advanced to the couch, and was not a little shocked on seeing her eyes closed--concluding from this that she had fainted, but her easy respiration soon convinced him that this was a mistake, and he immediately concluded that the girl had deceived him. He leaned over her till she began to stir, and then retreated behind her, lest his presence, on her first awaking, should alarm her.
What took place in the interview between them has already been related. Notwithstanding appearances were so much against her, and no explanation had ensued relative to them, from the moment she asserted her innocence with solemnity he could no longer doubt it; and yielding at once to its conviction, to his love, to his pity for her, he again renewed his overtures for a union. Hearing of the stratagems laid for her destruction, the dangers she had escaped, the distresses she had experienced, made him more anxious than ever for completing it, that by his constant protection he might secure her from similar trials, and by his tenderness and care restore her to health, peace, and happiness. He longed for the period of her triumphing over the perfidious marchioness, and the detestable Lady Euphrasia, by being raised to that station they had so long attempted to prevent her attaining, and thus proving to them that virtue, sooner or later, will counteract the designs of vice. He felt a degree of rapture at the idea of his being no longer obliged to regret the ardent, the unabated affection he felt for her. His transports were somewhat checked when she solemnly declared a union between them impossible, and forbade his seeing her again. He was piqued by the steadiness with which she repeated this resolution, but her present weak state prevented his betraying any resentment, and he flattered himself he would be able to conquer her obstinacy. He could not now, indeed, despair of any event after the unexpected restoration of Amanda to his esteem, and the revival of those hopes of felicity, which in the certainty of having lost her had faded away. He returned, as Johnaten said, an altered man, to the castle. He no longer experienced horror at entering the dressing-room which displayed so many vestiges of his Amanda's taste.
He resolved on an immediate union as the surest proof he could give her of his perfect confidence in her sincerity, not allowing himself to suppose she would continue firm in the resolution she had recently avowed to him. He then intended setting off for London, and sparing neither time, trouble nor expense, to obtain from the inferior agents in the plot laid against her, a full avowal of the part they had themselves acted in it, and all they knew relative to those performed by others. This was not designed for his own satisfaction. He wanted no confirmation of what Amanda asserted, as his proposal to marry her immediately demonstrated; it was to cover with confusion those who had meditated her destruction, and add to the horrors they would experience when they found her emerging from obscurity--not as Miss Fitzalan, but as Lady Mortimer. Such proofs of her innocence would also prevent malice from saying he was the dupe of art, and he was convinced, for both their sakes, it was requisite to procure them. He would then avow his marriage, return for his wife, introduce her to his friends, and, if his father kept up any resentment against them longer than he expected, he knew in Lady Martha Dormer's house, and at Tudor Hall, he would find not only an eligible, but pleasant residence. Those delightful schemes kept him awake half the night, and when he fell asleep it was only to dream of happiness and Amanda.
In the morning, notwithstanding the prohibition he had received to the contrary, he went to inquire how she was, and to try and see her. The girl who had answered his repeated knocks the preceding evening, appeared, and told him Miss Fitzalan was very bad. He began to think that this must be a pretext to avoid seeing him, and to come at the truth was slipping a bribe into her hand, when Sister Mary, who had been watching them from an adjoining room, appeared, and stopped this measure. She repeated what the girl had just said, and, in addition to it, declared that even if Miss Fitzalan was up she would not see him, and that he must come no more to St. Catherine's, as both Miss Fitzalan and the prioress would resent such conduct exceedingly; and that, if he wanted to inquire after the health of the former, he might easily send a servant, and it would be much better done than to come frisking over there every moment.
Lord Mortimer was seriously displeased with this unceremonious speech. "So, I suppose," cried he, "you want to make a real nun of Miss Fitzalan, and to keep her from all conversation." "And a happy creature she would be were she to become one of us," replied Sister Mary; "and as to keeping her from conversation, she might have as much as she pleased with any one. Indeed, I believe the poor thing likes you well enough; the more's her misfortune for doing so." "I thank you, madam," cried Lord Mortimer; "I suppose it one of your vows to speak truth; if so, I must acknowledge you keep it religiously." "I have just heard her," proceeded Sister Mary, without minding what he had said, "tell the prioress a long story about you and herself, by which I find it was her father's desire she should have nothing more to say to you, and I dare say the poor gentleman had good reasons for doing so. I beg, my lord, you will come no more here, and, indeed, I think it was a shame for you to give money to the simpleton who answered you. Why, it is enough to turn the girl's head, and set her mad after one fal-lal or other."
Lord Mortimer could not depart without an effort to win Sister Mary over to his favor, and engage her to try and persuade Miss Fitzalan to permit his visits, but she was inflexible; he then entreated to know if Amanda was so ill as to be unable to rise. She assured him she was, and, as some little consolation to the distress she perceived this assurance gave him, said he might send when he pleased to inquire after her health, and she would take care to answer the messenger herself.
Lord Mortimer began now to be seriously alarmed lest Captain Fitzalan had prevailed on his daughter to make a solemn renunciation of him. If this was the case, he knew nothing could prevail on her to break her promise. He was half distracted with doubt and anxiety, which were scarcely supportable, when he reflected that they could not for some time be satisfied, since, even if he wrote to her for that purpose, she could not at present be able to answer his letter; again he felt convinced of the instability of earthly happiness, and the close connection there has ever been between pleasure and pain.
Chapter XXXVI
"Thy presence only 'tis can make me blest, Heal my unquiet mind, and tune my soul."--OTWAY.
The fatigue, distress, and agitation of Amanda could no longer be struggled with; she sunk beneath their violence, and for a week was confined to her bed by the fever which had seized her in England, and ever since lurked in her veins. The whole sisterhood, who took it in turn to attend her, vied with each other in kindness and care to the poor invalid. Their efforts for her recovery were aided by a skilful physician from the next town, who called, without being sent for, at the convent. He said he had known Captain Fitzalan, and that, hearing that Miss Fitzalan was indisposed, he had come in hopes he might be of service to the daughter of a man he so much esteemed. He would accept of no fee, and the prioress, who was a woman of sagacity, suspected, as well as Amanda, that he came by the direction of Lord Mortimer. Nor were they mistaken, for, distracted by apprehensions about her, he had taken this method of lightening his fears, flattering himself, by the excellent advice he had procured, her recovery would be much expedited, and, of course, his suspense at least terminated. The doctor did not withdraw his visits when Amanda was able to rise; he attended her punctually, and often paid her long visits, which were of infinite service to her spirits, as he was a man of much information and cheerfulness. In a few days she was removed from her chamber into a pleasant room below stairs, which opened into the garden, where, leaning on the friendly doctor's arm, or one of the nuns', she walked at different times a few minutes each day. Lord Mortimer, on hearing this, thought he might now solicit an interview, and accordingly wrote for that purpose:--
TO MISS FITZALAN.
Lord Mortimer presents his compliments to Miss Fitzalan, flatters himself she will allow him personally to express the sincere happiness her restoration to health has afforded him. He cannot think she will refuse so reasonable a request. He is almost convinced she would not hesitate a moment in granting it, could she form an idea of the misery he has experienced on her account, and the anxiety he feels, and must continue to feel, till some expressions in the last interview are explained.
Castle Carberry, 10th May.
This letter greatly distressed Amanda. She had hoped the pain of again rejecting his visits and requests would have been spared her. She guessed at the expressions he alluded to in his letter; they were those she had dropped relative to her promise to her father, and from the impetuous and tender feelings of Lord Mortimer she easily conceived the agony he would experience when he found this promise inviolable. She felt more for his distress than her own. Her heart, seasoned in the school of adversity, could bear its sorrows with calmness; but this was not his case, and she paid the tribute of tears to a love so fervent, so faithful, and so hopeless.
She then requested Sister Mary to acquaint his messenger that she received no visits; that, as she was tolerably recovered, she entreated his lordship would not take the trouble of continuing his inquiries about her health, or to send her any more written messages, as she was unable to answer them. The prioress, who was present when she received the letter, commended her exceedingly for the fortitude and discretion she had manifested. Amanda had deemed it necessary to inform her, after the conversation she heard between her and Lord Mortimer, of the terms on which they stood with each other; and the prioress, who doubted whether his lordship was in reality as honorable as he professed himself, thought Amanda on the sure side in declining his visits.
The next morning the doctor called as usual. He told Amanda he had brought her an entertaining book, for no such thing could be procured at St. Catherine's, and, as she had expressed her regret at this, from the time she had been able to read he had supplied her from his library, which was extensive and well chosen.
He did not present it to her till he was retiring, and then said, with a significant smile, she would find it contained something worthy of her particular attention. Amanda was alone, and immediately opened it. Great was her astonishment when a letter dropped from it into her lap. She snatched it up, and, perceiving the direction in Lord Mortimer's hand, she hesitated whether she should open a letter conveyed in this manner; but to return it unopened was surely a slight Lord Mortimer merited not, and she broke the seal with a trembling hand and a palpitating heart:--
Unkind Amanda, to compel me to use stratagems in writing to you, and destroy the delightful hopes which had sprung in my soul, at the prospect of being about to receive a reward for my sufferings. Am I ever to be involved in doubts and perplexity on your account? Am I ever to see difficulty succeeded by difficulty, and hope by disappointment?
You must be sensible of the anxiety I shall feel, until your ambiguous expressions are fully explained, and yet you refuse this explanation! But you have no pity for my feelings. Would it not be more generous in you to permit an interview than to keep me in suspense? To know the worst is some degree of ease; besides, I should then have an opportunity of perhaps convincing you that virtue, unlike vice, has its bounds, and that we may sometimes carry our notions of honor and generosity too far, and sacrifice our real happiness to chimerical ideas of them. Surely I shall not be too presumptuous in saying that, if the regard Amanda once flattered me with is undiminished, she will, by rejecting a union with me, leave me not the only sufferer.
Oh! do not, my dear and too scrupulous girl, think a moment longer of persevering in a resolution so prejudicial to your welfare. Your situation requires particular protection: young, innocent, and beautiful; already the object of licentious pursuits; your nearest relations your greatest enemies; your brother, from his unsettled line of life, unable to be near you. Oh! my Amanda, from such a situation what evils may accrue? Avoid them, by taking refuge in his arms, who will be to you a tender friend and faithful guardian. Before such evils, the obligation for keeping a promise to reject me, fades away, particularly when the motives which led to such a promise are considered. Captain Fitzalan, hurt by the unfortunate letter he received from my father, extended his resentment to his son, and called upon you without reflecting on the consequences of such a measure to give me up. This is the only reason I can conceive for his desiring such a promise, and had I but arrived while he could have listened to my arguments, I am firmly convinced, instead of opposing, he would have sanctioned our union, and given his beloved girl to a man who, in every instance, would study to evince his gratitude for such a gift, and to supply his loss.
Happiness, my dear Amanda, is in long arrears with us. She is now ready to make up for past deficiencies, if it is not our own faults; let us not frighten her from performing her good intentions, but hand in hand receive the lovely and long absent guest to our bosoms.
You will not, cannot, must not, be inflexible; I shall expect, as soon as you read this, a summons to St. Catherine's to receive the ratification of my hopes. In everything respecting our union I will be guided by you, except delaying it; what we have both suffered already from deceit makes me doubly anxious to secure you mine, lest another vile scheme should be formed to effect our separation.
Oh! Amanda, the faintest prospect of calling you mine gives to my heart a felicity no language can express. Refuse not being mine except you bring me an addition of fortune; already rich in every virtue, I shall, in obtaining you, obtain a treasure which the wealthiest, the proudest, and the vainest of the sons of men may envy me the possession of, and which the good, the sensible, and elegant, must esteem the kindest gift indulgent heaven could bestow on me. Banish all uneasy doubts and scruples, my Amanda, from your mind, nor think a promise, which was demanded without reflecting on the consequences that must attend it, can be binding. The ingenuous soul of your father would have cancelled it in a moment, had those consequences been represented to him; and now, when our own reason convinces us of them, I make no doubt, if departed souls are permitted to view the transactions of this world, his spirit would behold our union with approbation. Yes, my Amanda, I repeat your father's approving spirit will smile upon an act which gives to his lovely and beloved orphan a faithful friend and steady protector, in her adoring
MORTIMER.
Castle Carberry, 11th May.
This letter deeply affected the sensibility, but could not shake the resolution of Amanda. She would not have answered it, as she considered any correspondence an infringement on the promises she had given her father to decline any further intimacy with him; but from the warmth and agitation displayed in his letter, it was evident to her that, if he did not receive an immediate answer to it, he would come to St. Catherine's and insist on seeing her; and she felt assured, that she could much better deliver her sentiments upon paper than to him; she accordingly wrote as follows:--
TO LORD MORTIMER.
MY LORD,--You cannot change my resolution; surely, when I solemnly declare to you it is unalterable, you will spare me any further importunity on so painful a subject. In vain, my lord, would you, by sophistry, cloaked with tenderness for that purpose, try to influence me. The arguments you have made use of, I am convinced, you never would have adopted, had you not been mistaken in regard to those motives which prompted my father to ask a promise from me of declining any farther connection with you. It was not from resentment, my lord; no, his death was then fast approaching, and he, in charity for all mankind, forgave those who had wounded him by unjust reproach and accusation; it was a proper respect for his own character, and not resentment, which influenced his conduct, as he was convinced if I consented to an alliance with you, Lord Cherbury would be confirmed in all the suspicions he entertained of his having entangled you with me, and consequently load his memory with contempt. Tenderness also for me actuated him; he was acquainted with the proud heart of Lord Cherbury, and knew that if, poor and reduced as I was, I entered his family I should be considered and treated as a mean intruder. So thoroughly am I convinced that he did not err in this idea, that, whenever reason is predominant in my mind, I think, even if a promise did not exist for such a purpose, I should decline your addresses; for, though I could submit with cheerfulness to many inconveniences for your sake, I never could support indignities. We must part, my lord; Providence has appointed different paths for us to pursue in life: yours smooth and flowery, if by useless regrets you do not frustrate the intentions of the benevolent Donor; mine rough and thorny; but both, though so different, will lead to the same goal, where we shall again meet to be no more separated.
Let not your lordship deem me either unkind or ungrateful; my heart disavows the justice of such accusations, and is but too sensible of your tenderness and generosity. Yes, my lord, I will confess that no pangs can be more pungent than those which now rend it, at being obliged to act against its feelings; but the greater the sacrifice the greater the merit of submitting to it, and a ray of self-approbation is perhaps the only sunshine of the soul which will brighten my future days.
Never, my lord, should I enjoy this, if my promise to my father was violated. There is but one circumstance which could set it aside, that is, having a fortune, that even Lord Cherbury might deem equivalent to your own to bring you; for then my father has often said he would approve our union; but this is amongst the improbabilities of this life, and we must endeavor to reconcile ourselves to the destiny which separates us.
I hope your lordship will not attempt to see me again; you must be sensible that your visits would be highly injurious to me. Even the holy and solitary asylum which I have found would not protect me from the malice which has already been so busy with my peace and fame. Alas! I now need the utmost vigilance--deprived as I am of those on whom I had claim of protection, it behooves me to exert the utmost circumspection in my conduct; he in whom I expected to have found a guardian, Oscar, my dear unfortunate brother, is gone, I know not whither, persecuted and afflicted by the perfidious monster who has been such a source of misery to me! Oh, my lord, when I think what his sufferings may now be, my heart sinks within me. Oh! had I been the only sufferer I should not have felt so great a degree of agony as I now endure; but I will not despair about my dear Oscar. The Providence which has been so kind to his sister, which so unexpectedly raised her friends at the moment she deemed herself deprived of all earthly comfort, may to him have been equally merciful. I have trespassed a long time upon your lordship's attention, but I wished to be explicit, to avoid the necessity of any further correspondence between us. You now know my resolves; you also know my feelings; in pity to them spare me any further conflicts. May the tranquil happiness you so truly deserve soon be yours! Do not, my lord, because disappointed in one wish, lose your sense of the many valuable blessings with which you are surrounded, in fulfilling the claims which your friends, your country, have upon you; show how truly you merit those blessings, and banish all useless regrets from your heart. Adieu, my lord!--suffer no uneasiness on my account. If Heaven prolongs my life, I have no doubt but I shall find a little comfortable shelter from the world, where, conscious I have acted according to my principles of right, I shall enjoy the serenity which ever attends self-approbation--a serenity which no changes or chances in this life will, I trust, ever wrest from
AMANDA FITZALAN.
St. Catherine's, May 12th.
She dispatched this by an old man who was employed in the garden at St. Catherine's; but her spirits were so much affected by writing it, she was obliged to go up and lie on the bed. She considered herself as having taken a final adieu of Lord Mortimer, and the idea was too painful to be supported with fortitude. Tender and fervent as his attachment was now to her, she believed the hurry and bustle of the world, in which he must be engaged, would soon eradicate it. A transfer of his affections, to one equal to himself in rank and fortune, was a probable event, and of course a total expulsion of her from his memory would follow. A deadly coldness stole upon her heart at the idea of being forgotten by him, and produced a flood of tears. She then began to accuse herself of inconsistency. She had often thought, if Lord Mortimer was restored to happiness, she should feel more tranquil. And now, when the means of effecting this restoration occurred, she trembled and lamented as if it would increase her misery. "I am selfish," said she to herself, "in desiring the prolongation of an affection which must ever be hopeless. I am weak in regretting the probability of its transfer, as I can never return it."
To conquer those feelings, she found she must banish Lord Mortimer from her thoughts. Except she succeeded in some degree in this, she felt she never should be able to exert the fortitude her present situation demanded. She now saw a probability of her existence being prolonged, and the bread of idleness or dependence could never be sweet to Amanda Fitzalan.
She had lain about an hour on the bed, and was about rising and returning to the parlor, when Sister Mary entered the chamber, and delivered her a letter. Ere Amanda looked at the superscription, her agitated heart foretold her whom it came from. She was not mistaken in her conjecture; but as she held it in her hand, she hesitated whether she should open it or not. "Yet," said she to herself, "it can be no great harm. He cannot, after what I have declared, suppose my resolution to be shaken. He writes to assure me of his perfect acquiescence to it." Sister Mary left her at the instant her deliberations ended, by opening the letter.
TO MISS FITZALAN.
Inexorable Amanda! but I will spare both you and myself the pain of farther importunity. All I now request is, that for three months longer at least, you will continue at St. Catherine's; or that, if you find a much longer residence there unpleasant, you will, on quitting it, leave directions where to be found. Ere half the above-mentioned period be elapsed, I trust I shall be able satisfactorily to account for such a request. I am quitting Castle Carberry immediately. I shall leave it with a degree of tranquillity that would perhaps surprise you, after what has so lately passed, if in this one instance you will oblige your ever faithful
MORTIMER.
This laconic letter astonished Amanda. By its style it was evident Lord Mortimer had recovered his cheerfulness--recovered it not from a determination of giving her up, but from a hope of their again meeting, as they could both wish. A sudden transport rushed upon her heart at such an idea, but quickly died away when she reflected it was almost beyond the possibility of things to bring about a pleasing interview between them. She knew Lord Mortimer had a sanguine temper, and though it might mislead him, she resolved it should not mislead her. She could not form the most distant surmise of what he had now in agitation; but whatever it was, she firmly believed it would end in disappointment. To refuse every request of his was painful; but propriety demanded she should not accede to the last, for one step, she wisely considered, from the line of prudence she had marked out for herself to take, might plunge her in difficulties from which she would find it impossible to extricate herself. With an unsteady hand she returned the following answer:--
TO LORD MORTIMER.
MY LORD,--I cannot comply with your request. You may, if you please, repeat inexorable Amanda. I had rather incur the imputation of obstinacy than imprudence, and think it much better to meet your accusation, than deserve my own. How long I may reside at St. Catherine's is to myself unknown. When I quit it, I certainly will not promise to leave any directions where you may find me.
The obstacles which have rendered our separation necessary, are, I am convinced, beyond your lordship's power to conquer. Except they were removed, any farther interviews between us would be foolish and imprudent in the extreme. I rejoice to hear you are leaving the castle. I also rejoice, but am not surprised, to hear of your tranquillity. From your good sense I expected you would make exertions against useless regrets, and those exertions I knew would be attended with success; but, as some return for the sincere pleasure I feel for your restoration to tranquillity, seek not to disturb again that of
AMANDA FITZALAN.
St. Catherine's, May 12th.
Scarcely had she sealed this letter when she was called to dinner; but though she obeyed the summons she could not eat. The exertions her writing to Lord Mortimer required, and the agitation his letter had thrown her into, quite exhausted her strength and spirits. The nuns withdrew soon after dinner, and left her alone with the prioress. In a few minutes after their departure, the old gardener returned from Castle Carberry, where he had been delivering her letter. After informing her he had put it safely into his lordship's hands, he added, with a look which seemed to indicate a fear lest she should be distressed, that he had received neither letter nor message from him, though he waited a long time in expectation of receiving either one or the other; but he supposed, he said, his lordship was in too great a hurry just then to give any answer, as a chaise and four was waiting to carry him to Dublin.
Amanda burst into tears as the man retired from the room. She saw she had written to Lord Mortimer for the last time, and she could not suppress this tribute of regret. She was firmly convinced, indeed, she should behold him no more. The idea of visiting her she was sure, nay, she hoped, he would relinquish, when he found, which she supposed would soon be the case, the schemes or hopes which now buoyed up his spirits impossible to be realized.
The prioress sympathized in her sorrow; though not from her own experience, yet from the experience of others, she knew how dangerous and bewitching a creature man is, and how difficult it is to remove the chains which he twines around the female heart. To remove those which lay so heavy upon the delicate and susceptible heart of her young friend, without leaving a corrosive wound, was her sincere wish, and by strengthening her resolution, she hoped success would crown their endeavors.
Two hours were elapsed since her messenger's return from the castle, when Sister Mary entered the room with a large packet, which she put into Amanda's hands, saying, it was given her by Lord Mortimer's servant, who rode off the moment he delivered it.
Sister Mary made no scruple of saying, she should like to know what such a weighty packet contained. The prioress chide her in a laughing manner for her curiosity, and drew her into the garden, to give Amanda an opportunity of examining the contents.
She was surprised, on breaking the seal, to perceive a very handsome pocket-book in a blank cover, and found unsealed, a letter to this effect:--
TO MISS FITZALAN.
I have put it out of your power to return this, by departing long ere you receive it. Surely, if you have the laudable pride you profess, you will not hesitate to use the contents of the pocket-book, as the only means of avoiding a weight of obligations from strangers. Though discarded as a lover, surely I may be esteemed as a friend, and with such a title I will be contented till I can lay claim to a tenderer one. You start at this last expression, and I have no doubt you will call me a romantic visionary, for entertaining hopes which you have so positively assured me can never be realized; but ere I resign them, I must have something more powerful than this assurance, my sweet Amanda, to convince me of their fallacy. I was inexpressibly shocked this morning to learn by your letter, that your brother had met with misfortune. My blood boils with indignation against the monster who has, to use your emphatical expression, been such a source of misery to you both. I shall make it my particular care to try and discover the place to which Mr. Fitzalan is gone, and in what situation. By means of the agents, or some of the officers belonging to the regiment, I flatter myself with being able to gain some intelligence of him. I need not add, that, to the utmost extent of my power I will serve him. My success in this affair, as well as in that which concerns a much dearer being, you may be convinced you shall soon hear. Adieu, my Amanda; I cannot say, like Hamlet, "Go, get you to a nunnery;" but I can say, "Stay there, I charge you." Seriously, I could wish, except you find your present situation very unpleasant and inconvenient, not to change it for a short time. I think, for a temporary abode, you could not find a more eligible one; and, as I shall be all impatience when I return to Ireland to see you, a search after you would be truly insupportable. You have already refused to inform me of your determination relative to this matter; surely I may venture to request it may be as I wish, when I assure you, that, except I can see you in a manner pleasing to both, I never will force into your presence him, who, let things turn out as they may, must ever continue Your faithful
MORTIMER.
"Gracious Heaven!" said Amanda to herself, "what can he mean? What scheme can he have in agitation which will remove the obstacles to our union? He here seems to speak of a certainty of success. Oh, grant, merciful Power!" she continued, raising her meek eyes to heaven, while a rosy blush stole upon her cheeks, "grant that indeed he may be successful. He talks of returning to Ireland; still," proceeded she, reading over the letter, "of requiring something more powerful than my assurance to convince him of the fallacy of his hopes. Surely, Lord Mortimer would not be so cruel as to raise expectations in my bosom without those in his own were well founded. No, dear Mortimer, I will not call you a romantic visionary, but the most amiable, the most generous of men, who for poor Amanda encounters difficulties and sacrifices every splendid expectation." She rejoiced at the intention he had declared of seeking out Oscar. She looked forward either to a speedy interview, or speedy intelligence of this beloved brother, as she knew Lord Mortimer would seek him with the persevering spirit of benevolence, and leave no means untried to restore him to her.
She now examined the contents of the pocket-book. It contained a number of small bills, to the amount of two hundred pounds,--a large present, but one so delicately presented, that even her ideas of propriety could scarcely raise a scruple against her accepting it. They did, however, suggest one. Uncertain how matters would yet terminate between her and Lord Mortimer, she was unwilling to receive pecuniary obligations from him. But when she reflected on his noble and feeling heart, she knew she should severely wound it by returning his present; she therefore resolved on keeping it, making a kind of compromise with her feelings about the matter, by determining that, except entitled to receive them, she would never more accept favors of this nature from his lordship. The present one, indeed, was a most seasonable relief, and removed from her heart a load of anxiety which had weighed on it. After paying her father's funeral expenses, the people with whom he lodged, and the apothecary who had attended him, she found herself mistress of but twenty guineas in the whole world, and more than half of this she considered as already due to the benevolent sisters of St. Catherine's, who were ill able to afford any additional expense.
She had resolved to force them to accept, what indeed she deemed a poor return for their kindness to her, and she then intended to retire to some obscure hovel in the neighborhood, as better suited to the state of her finances, and continue there till her health was sufficiently restored to enable her to make exertions for her livelihood. But she shuddered at the idea of leaving St. Catherine's and residing amongst a set of boors. She felt sensations something similar to those we may suppose a person would feel who was about being committed to a tempestuous ocean without any means of security.
Lord Mortimer had prevented the necessity which had prompted her to think of a removal, and she now resolved to reside, at least for the time he had mentioned, in the convent, during which she supposed her uncertainties relative to him would be over, and that, if it was not her fate to be his, she should, by the perfect re-establishment of her health, be enabled to use her abilities in the manner her situation required. Tears of heartfelt gratitude and sensibility flowed down her cheeks for him who had lightened her mind of the care which had so oppressed it.
She at length recollected the prioress had retired into the garden from complaisance to her, and yet continued in it, waiting no doubt to be summoned back to her. She hastily wiped away her tears, and folding up the precious letter which was bedewed with them, repaired to the garden, resolving not to communicate its contents, as the divulgement of expectations (considering how liable all human ones are to be disappointed) she ever considered a piece of folly.
She found the prioress and Sister Mary seated under a broken and ivy-covered arch. "Jesu! my dear," said the latter, "I thought you would never come to us. Our good mother has been keeping me here in spite of my teeth, though I told her the sweet cakes I made for tea would be burned by this time, and that, supposing you were reading a letter from Lord Mortimer, there could be no harm in my seeing you." Amanda relieved the impatient Mary, and she took her seat. The prioress cast her piercing eyes upon her. She perceived she had been weeping, and that joy rather than sorrow caused her tears. She was too delicate to inquire into its source; but she took Amanda's hand, and gave it a pressure, which seemed to say, "I see, my dear child, you have met with something which pleases you, and my heart sympathizes as much in your happiness as in your grief."
Amanda returned the affectionate pressure with one equally tender and a starting tear. They were soon called by Sister Mary to partake of her hot cakes, which she had made indeed in hopes of tempting Amanda to eat after her bad dinner. The whole community were assembled at tea when the doctor entered the parlor. Amanda blushed and looked grave at his first entrance; but he soon rallied her out of her gravity. And when the prioress and the nuns, according to custom, had withdrawn to evening vespers, he said, with a significant smile, "he feared she had not attended as much as he wished she should to the contents of the book he had last brought her." She saw by his manner he was acquainted with her situation relative to Lord Mortimer, and therefore replied by saying, "that perhaps, if he knew the motives which influenced her conduct, he would not think her wrong in disregarding what he had just mentioned." She also said, "she detested all kinds of stratagem, and was really displeased with him for practising one upon her." "In a good cause," he said, "he should never hesitate using one. Lord Mortimer was the finest young fellow he had ever seen, and had won his favor, and the best wishes of his heart, from the first moment that he beheld him. He made me contrive," continued the doctor, "a story to gain admission to your ladyship, and when I found him so dreadfully anxious about you, I gave you credit (as I had then no opportunity of judging for myself) for all the virtues and graces he ascribed to you, and which I have since perceived you to possess. You smile, and look as if you would call me a flatterer; seriously, I assure you I am not one. I really think you worthy of Lord Mortimer, and I assure you that is as great a compliment as could be paid any woman. His mind was troubled with grief; he revealed his troubles and perplexities to me, and after hearing them, no good Christian ever prayed more devoutly for another than I prayed for your recovery, that all your sorrows, like a novel, might terminate in marriage." "You are obliging in your wishes," said Amanda, smiling. "Faith, I am sincere in them," exclaimed he, "and do not know when I have been so disconcerted as at things not turning out smoothly between you and his lordship; but I will not despair. In all my troubles, and Heaven has given me my share, I ever looked to the bright side of things, and shall always do so for my friends. I yet expect to see you settled at Castle Carberry, and to be appointed myself physician-general to your ladyship's household." The mention of an event yet so uncertain greatly agitated Amanda; she blushed and turned pale alternately, and convinced her good-natured but loquacious friend, he had touched a chord which could not bear vibration. He hastily changed the discourse, and as soon as he saw her composed, rose to take his leave. Amanda detained him for a minute, to try and prevail on him to take a ten-guinea note; but he was inflexible, and said with some archness, "till the disorder which preyed upon Lord Mortimer's heart was in some degree alleviated, he would receive no recompense for his visits, which he assured Amanda, from time to time, he would continue to pay her, adding, a certain person had enjoined him now and then to take a peep within the holy walls of St. Catherine's."
The next morning Amanda set about a temporary arrangement of her affairs. She presented thirty guineas to the sisterhood, which, with much difficulty, she forced them to accept, though, in reality, it was much required by them. But when she came to speak of paying for a continuance, they positively declared they would agree to no such thing, as she had already so liberally rewarded them for any expense they had incurred on her account. She told them that if they would not agree to be paid for lodging and board, she would certainly leave them, though such a step was contrary to her inclinations; she assured them also she was at present well able to pay.
At last it was settled she should give them at the rate of forty pounds a-year--a salary they thought extremely ample, considering the plain manner in which they lived. She then had all the things which belonged to her father and herself brought to the convent, and had the former, with whatever she did not immediately want, nailed up in a large chest, that on a short notice they might be removed. Her harp and guitar she had, in her distress, proposed sending back to the person in Dublin from whom they were purchased, to sell for her; but she now determined to keep those presents of her beloved father, except again urged by necessity to part with them. She had a variety of materials for painting and working, and proposed employing herself in executing pieces in each way, not only as a means of amusing her time, but as a resource on an evil day; thus wisely making use of the present sunshine, lest another storm should arise which she should not be so well able to struggle against.
Chapter XXXVII
"In struggling with misfortunes Lies the proof of virtue,"--SHAKSPEARE.
The turbulence of grief, and the agitation of suspense, gradually lessened in the mind of Amanda, and were succeeded by a soft and pleasing melancholy, which sprang from the consciousness of having always, to the best of her abilities, performed the duties imposed upon her, and supported her misfortunes with placid resignation. She loved to think on her father, for amidst her sighs for his loss were mingled the delightful ideas of having ever been a source of comfort to him, and she believed, if departed spirits were allowed to review this world, his would look down upon her with delight and approbation at beholding her undeviating in the path he had marked out for her to take. The calm derived from such meditations she considered as a recompense for many sorrows; it was such, indeed, as nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, and what the good must experience, though "amidst the wreck of matter and the crush of worlds."
She tried to prevent her thoughts from wandering to Lord Mortimer, as the surest means of retaining her composure, which fled whenever she reflected on the doubtful balance in which her fate yet hung concerning him.
The solitude of St. Catherine's was well adapted to her present situation and frame of mind. She was neither teased with impertinent or unmeaning ceremony, but perfect mistress of her own time and actions, read, worked, and walked, as most agreeable to herself. She did not extend her walks beyond the convent, as the scenes around it would awaken remembrances she had not sufficient fortitude to bear; but the space it covered was ample enough to afford her many different and extensive rambles. And of a still evening, when nothing but the lowing of the cattle, or the buzzing of the summer flies, was to be heard, she loved to wander through the solemn and romantic ruins, sometimes accompanied by a nun, but much oftener alone.
A fortnight had elapsed in this manner since Lord Mortimer's departure, when, one morning, a carriage was heard driving across the common and stopping at the outer gate of St. Catherine's. Amanda, who was sitting at work in the parlor with the prioress, started in a universal trepidation at the sound. It may be easily imagined the idea of Lord Mortimer was uppermost in her thoughts. The door opened in a few minutes, and, to her great astonishment, Mrs. Kilcorban and her two daughters made their appearance.
Agitation and surprise prevented Amanda from speaking; she curtseyed, and motioned them to be seated. The young ladies saluted her with an icy civility, and the mother treated her with a rude familiarity, which she thought herself authorized in using to one so reduced in circumstances as Amanda. "Dear me," cried she, "you can't think, child, how shocked we have all been to hear of your misfortunes. We only returned to the country yesterday, for we have been in town the whole winter, and to be sure a most delightful winter we have had of it--such balls, such routs, such racketings; but, as I was going to say, as soon as we came home I began, according to my old custom, to inquire after all my neighbors; and to be sure the very first thing I heard of was the poor captain's death. Don't cry, my dear, we must all go one time or another; those are things, of course, as the doctor says in his sermon; so, when I heard of your father's death and your distress, I began to cast about in my brains some plan for helping you; and at last I hit upon one which, says I to the girls, will delight the poor soul, as it will give her an opportunity of earning decent bread for herself. You must know, my dear, the tutoress we brought to town would not come back with us--a dirty trollop, by the bye, and I think her place would be quite the thing for you. You will have the four young girls to learn French and work too, and I will expect you, as you have a good taste, to assist the eldest Miss Kilcorbans in making up their things and dressing. I give twenty guineas a-year. When we have no company, the tutoress always sits at the table, and gets, besides this, the best of treatment in every respect."
A blush of indignation had gradually conquered Amanda's paleness during Mrs. Kilcorban's long and eloquent speech. "Your intentions may be friendly, madam," cried she, "but I must decline your proposal." "Bless me, and why must you decline it? perhaps you think yourself not qualified to instruct; indeed, this may be the case, for people often get credit for accomplishments they do not possess. Well, if this is so, I am still content to take you, as you were always a decent behaved young body. Indeed, you cannot expect I should give you twenty guineas a-year. No, no, I must make some abatement in the salary, if I am forced to get masters to help you in learning the girls." "Miss Fitzalan, madam," exclaimed the prioress, who had hitherto continued silent, "never got credit for accomplishments which she did not possess; her modesty has rather obscured than blazoned forth her perfections; she does not, therefore, madam, decline your offer from a consciousness of inability to undertake the office of an instructor, but from a conviction she never could support impertinence and folly; should her situation ever require her to exert her talents for subsistence, I trust she will never experience the mortification of associating with those who are insensible of her worth, or unwilling to pay her the respect she merits." "Hoity, toity," cried Mrs. Kilcorban, "what assurance! Why, madam, many a better man's child would be glad to jump at such an offer." "Dear madam," said Miss Kilcorban, "perhaps the young lady has a better settlement in view. We forget Lord Mortimer has been lately at Castle Carberry, and we all know his lordship is a friend to Captain Fitzalan's daughter." "Or perhaps," cried Miss Alicia, in a giggling tone, "she means to be a nun." "Indeed, I suppose she means to be nothing good," rejoined Mrs. Kilcorban; "and I suppose it was by some impertinence or other she had a tiff with Lady Greystock. Lord! (looking round the room), only see her music-books--her harp--her guitar--as if she had nothing to do but sing and thrum away the whole day. Well, miss (rising from her chair), you may yet be sorry your friend said so much about you. I did not come merely to offer to take you into my house, but to offer you also a good sum for your harp and guitar, supposing you had no business with such things nowadays; but I dare say you would have refused this offer." "I certainly should, madam," said Amanda; "it must be strong necessity which compels me to part with my beloved father's presents." "Well, well, child, I wish this pride of thine may not yet be humbled." So saying, she flounced out of the room, followed by her daughters, who, under an affectation of contempt, evidently showed they were chagrined by the reception they had met.
The prioress indulged herself in a long fit of laughter at the passion into which she had thrown Mrs. Kilcorban; and Amanda, who considered the lady and her daughters as the most insignificant of beings, soon recovered from the discomposure their visit had occasioned. In the course of the evening a letter was delivered her by the servant, who said the messenger who brought it waited for an answer. Amanda, in a universal trepidation, broke the seal; but, instead of Lord Mortimer's as she expected, a hand, to her entirely new, struck her view:--
TO MISS FITZALAN.
MY DEAR CREATURE,--I think I never was so diverted in my life as at the account my mother and sisters gave of the reception they met with from you to-day at St. Catherine's. I vow to God it was excellent. Nor can I help still wondering at their absurdity, in thinking such a devilish fine girl as you are would sacrifice your time in instructing a parcel of chits, when it can be devoted to so much better a purpose! To be brief, my dear girl, I will take you immediately under my protection, if not your own fault, bring you to Dublin, settle you in elegant lodgings with a handsome allowance, and not only make you, but declare you to be, the grand Sultana of my affection; a situation which, I can assure you, you will not be a little envied enjoying. In your answer to this, I shall expect to hear when I may have the felicity of bringing you from obscurity, to the brilliant scene you were formed to ornament. Adieu, my dear. Believe me your devoted,
B. KILCORBAN.
The indignation which filled Amanda's breast at reading this scrawl cannot be expressed. Her blood seemed to boil in her veins. It was some time ere she could sufficiently compose herself to acquaint the prioress with the cause of her agitation. It was then agreed that the letter should be returned with the following lines written on it:--
The author of this effusion of ignorance and impertinence has already inspired all the contempt he merits. Should he repeat his insolence, something even more mortifying than contempt--chastisement--must ensue.
That a repetition of this kind would be the case, she did not believe. From Kilcorban she had no reason to suspect either the perseverance or designs of Belgrave. One was a libertine from principle, the other she believed from fashion; and that to pique his pride would be a sure method of getting rid of him.
But the calm she had for some time experienced was destined to be interrupted. The next morning brought Father O'Gallaghan, the little fat priest (of whom we have made mention before in our pages), to the convent. He was not the officiating priest; but notwithstanding this, paid many visits to the sisterhood, with whom he was a great favorite; he had been much concerned about Amanda's illness. She was sitting alone in the parlor, drawing, when he entered it. He seated himself by her, and the expression of his countenance seemed to declare his heart was brimful of something pleasant.
"You won't be offended now, my dear sowl," said he, smirking up in her face, "with a body for asking you how you would like to leave this dismal solitude and have a comfortable home of your own, where you might see your own friends, and have everything warm and cosy about you?" "Why," said Amanda, "though I do not consider this a dismal solitude, yet, to be sure, I should have no objection to a pleasant settled habitation." "Ay, I always thought you a sensible young body. Well, and what would you say to the person then who could point out such a habitation? Ay, you little rogue, who could say they had just such a one in their eye for you." Amanda stared at him with astonishment. She had at first believed him jesting, but now found him serious.
"Ay, faith, my dear creature," cried he, continuing his discourse with a look of the most perfect satisfaction, "I have an offer to make you, which, I believe, would make many girls jump out of their skins with joy to hear. You remember the O'Flannaghans, I am sure, where you took tea last summer. Well, the eldest of the sons (as honest a lad as ever broke bread) cast a sheep's eye upon you then. But what with your going from the country, and some other matters, he thought there was no use then in revealing his flame; but now, when you are come plump in his way again, faith he plucked up his courage, and told his father all about it. Old Flannaghan is a good-natured sowl, and is very willing the match should take place. They have everything snug about them. The old man will give everything into your spouse's hands. The youngest son will live in the house till he gets married, and goes off to a farm of his own. The eldest daughter is married; the second will live with her, and the youngest will be a little handy assistant to you. So you see, you will not be tormented with a large family. There is one little matter which, to be sure, they are a little uneasy about, and that is your being of different persuasions; but says I to them, when this was started, faith, says I, you need not give yourself any trouble about it, for I know the young woman to be a discreet sowl, and I am sure she will make no hesitation about going to chapel instead of church, when she knows, too, it is for her own interest. So, my dear sowl, I hope soon to give you the nuptial benediction, and to be also your spiritual director."
Amanda had listened to this speech in silent amazement. She now rose, and would have quitted the room without speaking, to evince her contempt, had not an idea darted into her mind that such conduct perhaps might not be construed by the ignorant priest in the manner she wished. She therefore stopped, and turning to him said; "He could not wonder at her being offended at his pretending to answer so freely for her in matters so important as religion; but to prove how presumptuous he was in everything he said about her, she must assure him his embassy to her was equally fruitless and disagreeable; and that if Mr. O'Flannaghan consulted his own happiness, he would seek to unite himself with a woman brought up in his own sphere of life." So saying, she quitted the room with a look of dignity which quite confounded the poor priest, who snatched up his hat in a great hurry, and waddled away to the farm, to communicate the ill-success of his visit, which had quite crushed his expectations of wedding presents and pudding feasts, which he had contemplated in idea with delight.
It was some time ere Amanda recovered from the discomposure into which the impertinence of the Kilcorbans and the priest had thrown her. From what she suffered in consequence of it, she was forcibly convinced how ill-qualified she was to struggle with a world where she would be continually liable to such shocks. She had yet a hope of escaping them--a hope of being guarded by the tutelary care of Lord Mortimer, and of being one of the happiest of her sex.