Chapter XXXVIII
"Lo! I am here to answer to your vows, And be the meeting fortunate! I come With joyful tidings; we shall part no more."--AKENSIDE.
But a shock more severe than those she had lately experienced was yet in store for our hapless heroine. About a fortnight after the visit of the Kilcorbans and the priest, as she was rambling one evening according to custom amongst the solitary ruins of St. Catherine's, indulging the pensive meditations of her soul, the figure of a man suddenly darted from under a broken arch, and discovered to her view the features of the hated Belgrave. Amanda gave a faint cry, and in unutterable dismay tottered back a few paces against a wall. "Cruel Amanda!" exclaimed Belgrave, while his look seemed to imply he would take advantage of her situation. His look, his voice, operated like a charm to rouse her from the kind of stupefaction into which she had fallen at first sight of him, and as he attempted to lay hold of her she sprang past him, and, with a swiftness which mocked his speed, flew through the intricate windings of the place till she reached the convent. Her pale and distracted look, as she rushed into the prioress's apartment, terrified the good old lady, who hastily interrogated her as to the cause of her disorder; but Amanda was unable to speak. The appearance of Belgrave she thought an omen of every ill to her. Her blood ran cold through her veins at his sight, and terror totally subdued her powers. The prioress summoned Sister Mary to her relief; drops and water were administered, and the overloaded heart of the trembling Amanda was relieved by tears. The prioress again asked the cause of her agitation, but perceiving Amanda did not like to speak before Sister Mary, she immediately pretended to think it proceeded from fatigue, and Mary, who was simplicity itself, readily credited the idea. The prioress soon sent her upon some pretext from the room, and then, in the gentlest terms, begged to know what had so cruelly alarmed her young friend. Amanda had already confided to the prioress the events of her life, so that the good lady, on hearing Belgrave now mentioned, no longer wondered at the agitation of Amanda; yet, as her fears she saw were too powerful for her reason, she endeavored to convince her they were unnecessary. She called to her remembrance the singular protection she had already experienced from Heaven, and the protection which, while she was innocent, she would still have a right to expect. She also mentioned the security of her present situation--encompassed by friends whose integrity could not be warped, and whose utmost zeal would be manifested in defeating any stratagems which might be laid against her.
Amanda grew composed as she listened to the prioress. She was cheered by the voice of piety and friendship, and her heart again felt firm and elevated. She acknowledged that after the singular, nay, almost miraculous interpositions of Providence she had experienced in her favor, to give way to terror or despair was sinful, since it showed a distrust of the Power who has promised with guardian care to watch the footsteps of the innocent. It was, however, agreed that Amanda should venture no more from the convent, but confine her rambles to the garden, which was enclosed with a high wall, and had no places of concealment. Five weeks yet remained of the period Lord Mortimer had requested her to stay at St. Catherine's. Before it was expired she trusted and believed Belgrave would be weary of watching her, and would decamp; if, then, she neither saw nor heard from Lord Mortimer, she resolved to relinquish all hope concerning him, and immediately think upon some plan which should put her in a way of procuring subsistence.
Her paintings and embroidery still went on. She had executed some elegant pictures in both, which, if obliged to dispose of, she was sure would bring a good price; yet, whenever compelled by reflection to this idea, the tear of tender melancholy would fall upon her lovely cheek--a tear which was ever hastily wiped away, while she endeavored to fortify her mind with pious resignation to whatever should be her future fate.
Three weeks more elapsed without any event to discompose their tranquillity; but as the termination of the destined period approached, the agitation of Amanda, in spite of all her efforts to the contrary, increased. She deemed the awful crisis of her fate at hand, and she trembled at the reflection. She now for the first time avoided solitude. She wanted to fly from herself, and sat constantly with the prioress, who had nothing of the gloomy recluse, save the habit, about her.
They were chatting together one evening after tea when Sister Mary entered the room, bearing a large packet, which she rather tossed than presented to Amanda, exclaiming, "From Lord Mortimer; I wish the troublesome fellow had not come back again; here we shall have him frisking or storming continually, and again plaguing us out of our lives." "From Lord Mortimer!" exclaimed Amanda, starting from her chair, and clasping the letter between her hands, "Oh, gracious Heaven!" She said no more, but flew from the room to her chamber. She tore open the seal. The envelope contained two letters. The first was directed in a hand unknown to her. Her heart sickened as she dropped it on the ground. The other was the superscription of Lord Mortimer. She opened it with revived spirits, and read a follows:--
TO MISS FITZALAN.
I am returned--returned to tell my Amanda that nothing but the awful fiat of Heaven shall part us more. Yes, my love, a sweet reward for all our difficulties, our trials--let me add, our persevering constancy--is at hand; and one name, one interest, one fate, I trust, will soon be ours.
Tears of joy gushed from Amanda as she exclaimed, "Can this, can this be true? Is Lord Mortimer, so long, so hopelessly beloved, indeed returned to tell me we shall part no more? 'Tis true, 'tis true, and never can my grateful heart sufficiently acknowledge the goodness it experiences; but how was this event brought about?" She wiped away her tears, and resumed the letter.
Your solemn refusal to unite yourself to me threw me into agonies; but true love, like true courage, will never despair, will never yield to difficulties, without first trying every effort to conquer them. I soon, therefore, roused myself from the heavy weight which oppressed my spirits at your resolution, and ere long conceived a project so feasible, so almost certain of success, that my impatience to realize it cannot be described; yet you may conceive some idea of it from the abrupt manner in which I quitted Castle Carberry, without desiring to bid you adieu; but ere it could be accomplished I plainly saw I had many difficulties to encounter, difficulties which it was absolutely essential to overcome, that I might prove to the world I was not the dupe of love, but the friend, the lover, and the vindicator of real innocence and virtue. From what I have said, you may suppose the difficulties I allude to were such as I expected to encounter in my attempt to unravel the whole of the deep and execrable plot which involved you in a situation so distressing to your feelings, and injurious to your character; and, oh! with what mingled pride and pleasure did I meditate on being your champion, clearing your fame from each dark aspersion, and proving, clearly proving, that your mind was as lovely, as angelic, as your person!
I was happy, on my arrival in London, to find Lady Martha Dormer still at Lord Cherbury's house. I have already told you that I left town on pretence of a visit to my sister, in Wales. My father, I soon perceived, suspected that had not been the real motive of my departure: but I also perceived he did not desire to reveal his suspicions, as he asked some questions concerning Lady Araminta, which, you may be sure, I answered awkwardly enough, and, had a comic writer been present, he might have taken the hint of a good blundering scene from us both.
The Marquis of Roslin and his family, I learned, continued at his villa. Their absence from town rejoiced me, as it not only exempted me from society I abhorred, but, as it gave me an opportunity of interrogating their household, amongst whom, I was convinced, I should discover the trusty agents the amiable marchioness had made use of in her scheme against you. The morning after my arrival, I accordingly set off to Portman Square. The man who opened the door knew me not, which I considered a lucky circumstance, for, not being able to mention my name to the housekeeper, whom I desired him to send to me, she was not as much on her guard as she would otherwise have been. She started as she entered the parlor, and lifted up her hands and eyes with unfeigned astonishment. Soon, however, recovering herself, she addressed me in the most obsequious manner, and spoke as if she supposed I was come purposely to inquire after her lord and lady, an artful way of trying to terminate her own suspense by learning the nature of my visit. I soon gave her to understand it was not of the most amicable kind to her. I came, I said, to demand either the letter, or an account of the letter, which I had intrusted to her care for Miss Fitzalan, which contained a note of large value, and which, I found, had never been received by that young lady. Her countenance in a moment condemned her--it spoke stronger than a thousand tongues against her. She first grew deadly pale, then fiery red; trembled, faltered, and hung her head, to avoid my eyes. Her looks, I told her, confirmed the suspicions I was forced to entertain of her integrity, yet, shocking as the action was which she had committed, being not only a breach of trust, but humanity, I was willing to come to an easy and private accommodation about it, provided she would truly and fully confess the part she had taken, or knew others to have taken, in injuring Miss Fitzalan, while she resided in the marquis's house, by bringing Colonel Belgrave into it. I paused for her reply. She appeared as if considering how she should act. I thought I saw something yielding in her face, and, eager to take advantage of it, I proceeded: "What I have already said I am going again to repeat, that is, if you confess all you know relative to the plot which was contrived, and carried into execution, in this house, against Miss Fitzalan, I will settle everything relative to the letter and its contents in a manner pleasing to you. Her innocence is unquestioned by me; but it is essential to her peace that it should also be so to the rest of her friends, and they who regard her welfare will liberally reward those whose allegations shall justify her."
Upon this she turned to me, with a countenance of the utmost effrontery, and said she would not tell a lie to please any one. I will not shock you by repeating all she said. She ended, by saying, as to the letter she set me at defiance; true, I had given her one for Miss Fitzalan, but I might remember Miss Fitzalan was in a fit on the ground at the time, and she had called in other servants to her assistance, she said, and in the hurry and bustle which ensued, she knew not what became of it; others might as well be called upon as her. I could no longer command my temper. I told her she was a wretch, and only fit for the diabolical service in which she was employed. The note, which I enclosed in the letter I had given her for you, I had received from my father's agent in the country: as a post-note I had endorsed it, and taken the number in my pocket-book. I therefore left Portman Square, with a resolution of going to the bank, and, if not already received, stopping payment. I stepped into the first hackney-coach I met, and had the satisfaction of finding it had not been offered at the bank. I suspected she would be glad to exchange it for cash as soon as possible, and therefore left my direction, as well as a request for the detention of any person who should present it.
In consequence of this, a clerk came the following morning to inform me a woman had presented the note at the bank, and was, agreeably to my request, detained till I appeared. I immediately returned with him, and had the satisfaction of seeing the housekeeper caught in the snare. She burst into tears at my appearance, and coming up to me, in a low voice said, "If I would have mercy upon her, she would in return make a full confession of all she knew about the affair I had mentioned to her yesterday." I told her, though she deserved no mercy, yet, as I had promised on such condition to show her lenity, I would not violate my word. I received the note, sent for a coach, and handing the lady into it, soon conveyed her to Portman Square. She no sooner entered the parlor than she fell on her knees and besought my forgiveness. I bade her rise, and lose no time in revealing all she knew concerning the scheme against you. She then confessed that both she and Mrs. Jane, the attendant who had been placed about your person, were acquainted and concerned in all the contrivances the marchioness had laid against you, who scrupled not in acknowledging to them the inveterate hatred she bore you. Their scruples--for they pretended to have some in abetting her schemes--were overruled, by knowing how much it was in her power to injure them in any future establishment, had they disobliged her, and by her liberal promises of reward, which the housekeeper added she had never kept. But this brief and uncircumstantial account was by no means satisfactory to me. I called for materials for writing, and insisted she should, to the best of her recollection, relate every word or circumstance which had ever passed between her and the marchioness and their other associates relative to you. She hesitated at this. On those terms only I said I would grant her my forgiveness; and by her complying with them, not only that, but a liberal recompense should be hers. This last promise had the desired effect. She laid open, indeed, a scene of complicated iniquity; related the manner in which Colonel Belgrave was brought into the house by her and Mrs. Jane; how they had stationed themselves in a place of concealment to listen, by which means they knew what passed between you, which she now, in almost the very same words you made use of, repeated to me. As she spoke I wrote it, and made her sign the paper under a paragraph, purporting that it was a true confession of the part she had taken, and knew others to have taken, in attempting to injure Miss Fitzalan.
I now mentioned Mrs. Jane, whose evidence I wished for to corroborate hers. This she assured me I might procure by promising a reward, as Mrs. Jane was much dissatisfied with the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia, neither of whom had recompensed her as she expected for her faithful services to them. She was now at the villa; but the housekeeper added that she would strike out some expedient to bring her to town in the course of the week, and would inform me immediately of her arrival. I told her the affair of the note should be no more mentioned, and gave a bill for fifty pounds, as the reward I had promised, and she eagerly expected. I told her she might promise a similar one in my name to Mrs. Jane, provided she also told truth. I also told her I would take care she should suffer no distress by quitting the marquis's family, which she lamented would be the consequence of what she had done.
Mrs. Jane did not come to town as soon as I expected. But on receiving a summons to inform me of her arrival, I hastened to the house like an inquisitor-general with my scroll, prepared to take the confession of the fair culprit, which exactly corresponded with the housekeeper's, and I had the felicity of seeing her subscribe her name to it. I gave her the promised recompense most cheerfully, as I had not half so much trouble in making her tell truth as I had with the housekeeper. Mrs. Jennings, your old landlady, and Lady Greystock's faithful friend, was the next and last person whose malice I wanted to refute. I made my servant inquire her character in the neighborhood, and learned it was considered a very suspicious one. I went to her one morning in my carriage, well knowing that the appearance of rank and splendor would have greater weight in influencing a being like her to justice than any plea of conscience. She appeared lost in astonishment and confusion at my visit, and I saw waited with trembling expectation to have the reason of it revealed. I kept her not long in suspense; I was the friend, I told her, of a young lady, whose character she had vilely and falsely aspersed. Her conscience, I believed, would whisper to her heart the name of this lady, and send its crimson current to her face at the mention of Miss Fitzalan.
The wretch seemed ready to sink to the earth. I repeated to her all she had said concerning you to Lady Greystock. I told her of the consequences of defamation, and declared she might expect the utmost rigor of the law, except she confessed her assertions were infamous falsehoods, and the motives which instigated her to them. She trembled with terror, and supplicated mercy. I desired her to deserve it by her confession. She then acknowledged she had grossly and cruelly wronged you by what she had said to Lady Greystock, and that she had many opportunities of being convinced, while you resided in her house, that your virtue and innocence were of the purest nature; but that she was provoked to speak maliciously against you from resentment at losing all the rich gifts Colonel Belgrave had promised her if she brought you to comply with his wishes. She related all the stratagems they had mutually concerted for your destruction, and she brought me some letters which I have kept, from him to you, and which she pretended you had received, lest she should lose the money he always gave when she was successful in delivering one. I bid her beware how she ever attempted to vilify innocence, lest the friends of those at whom she levelled the arrows of defamation should not be as merciful to her as Miss Fitzalan's had been; and was the tale of the slanderer thus ever to be minutely investigated, the evil might die away by degrees, and many hapless victims escape, who are daily sacrificed to malice, revenge, or envy.
Oh! my Amanda, I cannot express the transports I felt when I found the difficulties, which I dreaded as intervening between me and happiness, thus removed. I felt myself the happiest of men; my heart acknowledged your worth, I was convinced of your love, and in my hands I held the refutation of falsehood, and the confirmation of your innocence.
The period for mentioning my project was now arrived. I desired, the morning after my visit to Mrs. Jennings, to be indulged in a tete-à-tete in Lady Martha's dressing-room. I believed she half guessed what the subject of it would be; she saw by my countenance there was joyful news at hand. I shall not recapitulate our conversation; suffice it to say, that her excellent feeling heart participated largely in my satisfaction; it did more than participate, it wished to increase it, and ere I could mention my project, she declared my Amanda should henceforth be considered as her adopted daughter, and should from her receive such a fortune as such a title claimed. Yes, my Amanda, the fortune she ever destined for me, she said she should now consecrate to the purpose of procuring me a treasure the most valuable Heaven could bestow;--the richest--the most valuable indeed--a treasure dearer, far dearer to my soul for all the dangers it has encountered. I fell at Lady Martha's feet in a transport of gratitude, and acknowledged that she had anticipated what I was going to say, as I had been determined to throw myself on her generosity from the time I was convinced of your inflexible resolution, not to unite yourself to me without you brought a fortune.
It was now agreed we should keep Lord Cherbury a little longer ignorant of our intentions. We proposed taking the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia by surprise, and hoped, by so doing, to be able to remove from his eyes the mist which partially had hitherto spread before them, to obscure the defects of the above-mentioned ladies.
He had hinted more than once his wishes for my paying my compliments at the marquis's villa. I now proposed going thither myself the ensuing day. He looked equally surprised and pleased at this proposal: Lady Martha agreed to accompany me, and his lordship, you may be sure, determined to be one of the party, that he might supply the deficiencies of his son, which he had heretofore found pretty manifest in such society.
We had the happiness to find all the family at home when we reached the villa. The ladies all expressed themselves delighted at my unexpected appearance, and quite charmed by my recovered looks. The marquis, with his usual sang froid, declared himself glad to see me. Ye smiling deceivers, I cried to myself, as I surveyed the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia, your triumph over innocence and beauty will soon be over. After passing half an hour in uninteresting chitchat, I took the opportunity of one of those pauses in conversation, which so frequently happen, to commence my attack. It would be as painful to you as to me to recapitulate all which ensued in consequence of it. Rage, guilt, and confusion, were conspicuous in the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia. The marquis and Lady Greystock looked with astonishment, and my father seemed overwhelmed with surprise and consternation.
I said (addressing the marchioness), I now trusted the resentment her ladyship had entertained against her unoffending niece was sufficiently appeased by what she had made her suffer, and that she would rather rejoice than regret the opportunity which presented itself of vindicating her fame. I wished, I said, as much as possible, to spare her ladyship's feelings, and provided she would clear Miss Fitzalan from the obloquy which the transactions in her house cast upon her, I was willing to conceal the share her ladyship had in them.
In a voice of smothered rage, and with a look into which she threw as much contempt as possible, she replied, "She thanked me for the attention I professed myself inclined to pay her feelings; but she fancied I had overlooked all inclination of this kind when I undertook to bribe her servants to asperse her character, that Miss Fitzalan's might be cleared. She was sorry," she said, "to find I could be capable of such complicated baseness and weakness. Miss Fitzalan, she perceived, had made me her dupe again; but this was not surprising, as she was the professed pupil of art. Too late I should behold her in her native colors, and find the disgrace, which, by artifice, I now attempted to remove from her character, thrown back upon her, perhaps, to overwhelm me also by its weight."
"She has infatuated him," said Lord Cherbury; "she will be the bane of his life, the destruction of my hopes." "Not Miss Fitzalan," cried I, assuming as much coolness as possible, though, like the marchioness, I found it a difficult task; "not Miss Fitzalan, but the enemies of Miss Fitzalan deceived me. I own I was the dupe of the scheme contrived against her. Anything so horrid, so monstrous, so execrable, I did not think could have entered into the minds of those who were bound by the united ties of kindred and hospitality to protect her, and I rather believed I owed my misery to the frailty than to the turpitude of human nature." "You see, my lord," exclaimed the marchioness, turning to Lord Cherbury, "Lord Mortimer acknowledges his passion for this wretched girl." "I do," cried I, "I glory in confessing it. In loving Miss Fitzalan, I love virtue itself. In acknowledging a passion for her, I violate no faith, I break no engagement; my heart ever resisted entering into any which it could not fulfil." "Unfortunate prepossession," said Lord Cherbury, sternly. "But why, why, when you believed her guilty, were you so infatuated as to follow her to Ireland? Why not calmly resign her to the infamy she merited?" "I followed her my lord," I replied, "in hope to withdraw her from her seducer's arms, and place her in her father's. I hoped, I trusted, I should be able also to alleviate the bitter destiny of poor Fitzalan. Alas! not in the arms of a gay, successful seducer, but apparently in the arms of death, did I find Amanda. I saw her at the solemn hour which consigned her parent to his grave, and to have doubted her protestations of innocence then would have been almost impious. Gracious Heaven! how impossible to disbelieve her truth at the very moment her gentle spirit seemed about to take its flight to heaven! From that period she has stood acquitted in my mind, and from that period I determined to develop, to the utmost of my power, the machinations which had made me doubt her innocence. My success in their development has been beyond my expectations; but Providence is on the side of suffering virtue, and assists those who stand up in its support." Contrary to my first intention, my dear Amanda, I have given you a sketch of part of our conversation. For the remainder, it shall suffice to say, that the marchioness persevered in declaring I had bribed her servants to blacken her character, in order to clear Miss Fitzalan's, an attempt, she repeatedly assured me, I would find unsuccessful.
The marquis talked in high terms of the dignity of his house, and how impossible it was the marchioness should ever have disgraced it by such actions as I accused her of committing. I answered him in a manner equally warm, that my accusations were too well grounded and supported to dread refutation. That it was not only due to injured innocence, but essential to my own honor, which would soon be materially concerned in whatever related to Miss Fitzalan, to have those accusations made public, if her ladyship refused to contradict the aspersions which might be thrown upon Miss Fitzalan, in consequence of the scene which passed at his lordship's house.
This the marchioness, with mingled rage and contempt, refused doing, and Lady Euphrasia, after the hint I gave of soon being united to you, left the room in convulsive agitation.
Lord Cherbury, I perceived, suspected foul play, by some speeches which dropped from him, such as, if there had been any misunderstanding between her ladyship and Miss Fitzalan, it was better surely to have it done away, or certainly, if any mistake was proved relative to the affair which happened in her ladyship's house, it was but justice to the young lady to have it cleared up.
Yet, notwithstanding the interest he felt in the cause of suffering innocence, it was obvious to me that he dreaded a rupture with the marquis's family, and appeared shocked at the unequivocal declaration I had made of never being allied to it.
Lady Martha Dormer took up the cause. The testimony Lord Mortimer had received, she said, of Miss Fitzalan's innocence was incontrovertible, and exempted him alike from being stigmatized either as the dupe of art or love. Humanity, she was convinced, exclusive of every warmer feeling, would have influenced him to have undertaken Miss Fitzalan's cause; it was the cause of innocence and virtue--a cause in which every detester of scandal and treachery should join, since not only the defenceless orphan, but the protected child of rank and prosperity, was vulnerable to their shafts.
I again repeated the evidence of her servants, and the refutation of Mrs. Jennings to her former story. I produced, to strengthen it, the unopened letters of Colonel Belgrave--thus continuing to put proof upon proof of your innocence, as Sancho Panza says, upon the shoulders of demonstration.
The passions of the marchioness rose at last to frantic violence. She persisted in alleging her integrity, and vilifying yours; but with a countenance so legibly impressed with guilt and confusion, that a doubt of her falsehood could not be entertained even by those who wished to doubt it.
The scene of violence we now became witness to was painful to me, and shocking to Lady Martha. I therefore ordered the horses immediately to her ladyship's chariot, in which, accompanied by me, she had preceded Lord Cherbury's coach, from the idea that our continuance at the villa might not be quite so long as his lordship's.
As we expected, his lordship stayed behind, with the hope, I perceived, of being able to calm the perturbations of the marchioness, and lessen the breach between us. He returned the next day to town. I have so long dwelt upon disagreeable scenes, that to go over any others would be dreadful; nor should I hint to you that I had such scenes to encounter, was it not to excuse and account to you for my absence from Castle Carberry. Our difficulties (you see I already unite your interests with mine) began to decrease, and are at last happily overcome. Lady Martha made me write her intentions relative to you, and his lordship was quite satisfied with them. He authorizes me to assure you he longs to receive you into his family, at once a boast and acquisition to it, and he says, he shall consider himself under obligations to you, if you hasten, as much as possible, the period of becoming one of its members, thus giving him an opportunity of making early amends, by attention to the daughter, for the injustice he did the father.
Lady Martha Dormer's intentions I have only hinted to you; in the letter, which I have the pleasure of enclosing, she is more explicit concerning them. I have given you this long narrative on paper, that when we meet our conversation may be unembittered by any painful retrospect, and that we may enjoy uninterrupted the bright prospect which now lies before us.
But ere I close my letter, I must inform you that, knowing you could never be selfishly wrapped up in your own enjoyments, I made every possible inquiry relative to your brother, and was at length referred by the agent of his late regiment to an officer in it; with some difficulty I found he had quitted his quarters on leave of absence. I wrote immediately to his family residence, and after waiting long and impatiently for an answer to my letter, I dispatched a special messenger to learn whether he was there or not. The courier returned with a polite note from the officer's father, informing me his son was gone on an excursion of pleasure with some friends, and that if he knew where to find him, he would have transmitted my letter, which I might depend on being answered the moment he returned. I have no doubt but we shall receive intelligence from him concerning Mr. Fitzalan. It shall then be our business, if his situation is not already pleasing, to change it, or render it as much so as possible to him. Keep up your spirits, therefore, about him, for by the time we arrive in England I expect a letter from his friend, and let me not be any more pained by seeing your countenance clouded with care or anxiety. As a reward for reining in my impatience to see you this evening, be propitious to my request for early admission to-morrow. If charitable, you will allow me to breakfast with you, for I shall take none except with you; and without an express command to the contrary, shall take it for granted I am expected. 'Tis said that contrast heightens pleasure, and I believe the saying--I believe that, without having felt pain in all its acuteness, as I have done, I never should have felt such pleasure as I now enjoy. After so often giving you up, so often lamenting you as lost forever, to think I shall soon call you mine, is a source of transport which words cannot express. Mine, I may say, is the resurrection of happiness, for has it not been revived from the very grave of despair? But I forgot that you have Lady Martha Dormer's letter still to peruse. I acknowledge that, for old friendship's sake, I supposed you would give mine the preference; but in all reason it is time I should resign my place to her ladyship. But ere I bid you adieu, I must tell you that Araminta is a sincere participator in our happiness. She arrived from Wales but a few minutes previous to my leaving London, and I would not allow her time, as she wished, to write to you. I almost forgot to tell you that the marquis's family, amongst whom Lady Greystock is still numbered, instead of returning to town, set out for Brighthelmstone. I have learned, contrary to my and their expectations, that neither the housekeeper nor Mrs. Jane have been dismissed, but both sent to a distant seat of the marquis's. As we know the marchioness's revengeful disposition, it is plain she has some secret motive for not gratifying it immediately by their dismission; but what it is can be of little consequence for us to learn, since we are both too well guarded to suffer from any future plot of hers. Like every other which was formed against my dear Amanda, I trust they will ever prove abortive. I was disturbed within a few miles of Castle Carberry by a gentleman passing on horseback, who either strongly resembled, or was Colonel Belgrave. My blood boiled in my veins at his sight. I left the carriage, mounted one of my servant's horses, and endeavored to overtake him. He certainly avoided me by taking some cross-road, as his speed could not have outstripped mine. My efforts to discover his habitation were equally unsuccessful. As to your personal security I had no apprehensions, having heard constantly from my good friend the doctor about you; but I dreaded the wretch, if it were really him, might disturb your tranquillity, either by forcing into your presence, or writing. Thank Heaven, from all intrusions or dangers of this kind my Amanda will now be guarded. But again am I trespassing on the time you should devote to Lady Martha's letter. Adieu, and do not disappoint my hopes of being allowed to visit you early.
MORTIMER.
Amanda perused this letter with emotions which can be better conceived than described. She could scarcely have parted with it without a second reading, had not Lady Martha's demanded her attention. She snatched it hastily from the ground where it hitherto lay neglected, and read to the following purpose:--
That I warmly and sincerely congratulate my dear and amiable Miss Fitzalan on the happy revolution in her affairs, she will readily believe, persuaded as she must be of the deep interest I take in whatever concerns a person on whom the happiness of him whom I have loved from childhood so materially--so entirely, I may say--depends.
Yet do not suppose me, my dear Miss Fitzalan, so selfish as not to be able to rejoice at your happiness on your own account, exclusive of every consideration relative to Lord Mortimer. Long since I was taught by description to esteem and admire you, and even when the hope of being connected with you became extinct, I could not so totally forego that admiration as to feel uninterested about you. Oh I how truly do I rejoice at the revival of the hope I have just mentioned, and at its revival with every prospect of its being speedily realized! I shall consider Lord Mortimer as one of the most fortunate of men in calling you his, and to think I have been able to promote his happiness gives me a satisfaction which never was, nor ever will be, equalled by any circumstance in my life.
Though I cannot give my adopted daughter a fortune by any means equal to that which Lady Euphrasia Sutherland will possess, Lord Cherbury is fully sensible that her perfections will abundantly make up for any deficiency in this respect. Ten thousand pounds, and one thousand a year, is at present to be her portion, and the reversion of the remainder of my fortune is to be secured to her and Lord Mortimer; the final adjustment of all affairs is to take place at my house in the country, whither I propose going immediately, accompanied by Lady Araminta, and where we shall both most impatiently expect your arrival, which, we mutually entreat, may be hastened as much as possible, consistent with your health and convenience. Lord Cherbury has promised to follow us in a few days, so that I suppose he will also be at Thornbury to receive you. Would to Heaven, my dear Miss Fitzalan, injured virtue and innocence may always meet with such champions to vindicate them as Lord Mortimer. Was that the case, we should see many lovely victims of scorn and reproach raising their heads with triumph and satisfaction. But pardon my involuntarily adverting to past scenes, though, at the same time, I think you have reason to rejoice at your trials, which served as so many tests and proofs of the estimable qualities you possess. Farewell, my dear Miss Fitzalan. I have been brief in my letter, because I know I should not be pardoned by a certain person, if I engrossed too much of your time. I told him I would give you a hint of the impetuosity of his disposition; but he told me, perhaps to prevent this, that you were already acquainted with it. In one instance I shall commend him for displaying it: that is, in hastening you to Thornbury, to the arms of your sincere and affectionate friend,
MARTHA DORMER.
Amanda's happiness was now almost as great as it could be in this world; almost I say, for it received alloy from the melancholy consideration that her father, that faithful and affectionate friend who had shared her troubles, could not be a partaker of her joys; but the sigh of unavailing regret which rose in her mind she checked, by reflecting, that happiness all perfect was more than humanity could either support or expect, and with pious gratitude she bent to the Power who had changed the discolored prospect, by which she had been so long surrounded, into one of cheerfulness and beauty.
If her pride was wounded by the hint, though so delicately conveyed, which Lord Mortimer had given of the difficulties he encountered in gaining Lord Cherbury's approbation, it was instantly relieved by the flattering commendations of Lady Martha Dormer, and to be connected with her and Lady Araminta, she looked upon amongst the most valuable blessings she could enjoy.
To express what she felt for Lord Mortimer would be impossible--language could not do justice to her feelings--she felt love, gratitude, and admiration for him, all in the fullest extent, and all united, and she wept in the fulness of her heart over the joyful assurance of being his. With the two letters in her hand, she repaired to the prioress's apartment, whom she found alone. The good old lady saw the traces of tears on Amanda's face, and exclaimed, in a voice which evinced her sympathy in her concerns, "Oh! I fear, my child, something has happened to disturb you!" Amanda presented her the letters, and bid her judge from them whether she had not reason to be agitated. As the prioress read, her sudden and broken exclamations manifested her surprise and pleasure, and frequently were her spectacles removed to wipe from off them the tears of joy by which they were bedewed. When she finished the welcome packet, she turned to Amanda, who had been attentively watching the various turns in her countenance, and gave her a congratulatory embrace. "Lord Mortimer is worthy of you, my child," said the prioress, "and that is the highest eulogium I can pass on him." After commenting upon different parts of the letter, she asked Amanda a little archly, "whether she intended sending an express command to his lordship against coming early in the morning?" Amanda honestly confessed she had no such intention, and expressed her wish to behold him. The prioress said she would have breakfast prepared for them in the garden parlor, and that she would take care they should not be interrupted. She also promised to keep everything secret till matters were arranged for Amanda's removal from St. Catherine's.
Chapter XXXIX
"Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign; And shall we never--never part, Oh! thou my all that's mine."--GOLDSMITH.
Joy is as great an enemy to repose as anxiety. Amanda passed an almost sleepless night, but her thoughts were too agreeably employed to allow her to suffer from want of rest; early as she arose in the morning, she was but a short time in the parlor before Lord Mortimer arrived. He appeared with all the transports of his soul beaming from his eyes, and was received by Amanda with tender and trembling emotion. He caught her to his heart as a treasure restored to him by the immediate hand of Heaven. He pressed her to it with silent ecstasy. Both for a few moments were unable to speak; but the tears which burst from Amanda, and those that stopped on the glowing cheeks of Lord Mortimer, expressed their feelings more forcibly than any language could have done.
Amanda at length found utterance, and began to thank his lordship for all the difficulties he had gone through in vindicating her fame. He hastily stopped those effusions of gratitude, by bidding her ask her heart whether he had not been serving himself as well as her by what he had done.
From the soft confusion into which his transports threw her, Amanda endeavored to recover herself by repairing to the breakfast table, on which the good sisters had spread all the niceties (adapted for a morning repast) which the convent could produce: but her hand was unsteady, she spilt the tea in pouring it out, and committed twenty blunders in helping Lord Mortimer. He laughed a little archly at her embarrassment, and insisted on doing the honors of the table himself, to which Amanda, with a deep blush, consented; but breakfast was little attended to. Amanda's hand was detained in Lord Mortimer's, while his eyes were continually turning towards her, as if to assure his heart that, in the lovely evidence of his happiness, there was no deception; and the tenderness Amanda had no longer reason to restrain beamed from her looks, which also evinced her perfect sensibility of her present felicity--a felicity heightened by her approving conscience testifying she had merited it. The pure, the delightful satisfaction resulting from this reflection gave such radiance to her complexion, that Lord Mortimer repeatedly declared her residence at St. Catherine's had made her more beautiful than ever. Twelve o'clock struck, and found them still loitering over the breakfast table. "The nuns will think we have made a tolerable feast," cried Lord Mortimer, smiling, while Amanda rose with precipitation. "I need not," continued he, following her, "like Sterne, ask nature what has made the meal so delicious; I need only ask my own heart, and it will inform me, love and tenderness." Amanda blushed, and they went together into the garden. She would have walked before the windows of the convent, but Lord Mortimer forced her gently into a dark, sequestered alley. Here their conversation became more connected than it had been hitherto. The generous intentions of Lady Martha Dormer, and the arrangements she had made for the reception and nuptials of Amanda, were talked over. The marriage was to take place at Thornbury, Lady Martha's seat; they were to continue there for a month after its solemnization, and from thence to go to an estate of Lord Cherbury's for the remainder of the summer; a house in one of the squares was to be taken and prepared for their residence in winter, and Lady Martha Dormer had promised, whenever she came to town, which was but seldom, she would make their house her home, provided they would promise to spend every Christmas, and three months at least in summer, with her at Thornbury. Lord Mortimer said he had his choice of any of the earl's seats, but chose none, from an idea of the Hall being more agreeable to Amanda. She assured him it was, and he proceeded to mention the presents which Lady Martha had prepared for her, also the carriages and retinue he had provided, and expected to find at Thornbury against she reached it, still asking if the arrangements he had made met her approbation.
Amanda was affected even to tears by the solicitude he showed to please her; and he, perceiving her emotions, changed the discourse to talk about her removal from St. Catherine's. He entreated her not to delay it longer than was absolutely necessary to adjust matters for it. She promised compliance to this entreaty, acknowledging that she but obeyed her inclinations in doing so, as she longed to be presented to her generous patroness, Lady Martha, and to her amiable and beloved Lady Araminta. Lord Mortimer, delicately considerate about all which concerned her, begged she would speak to the prioress to procure a decent female, who should be a proper attendant for her in her journey. They should travel together in one chaise, and he would follow them in another. Amanda promised she would lose no time in making this request, which, she had no doubt, would be successful.
Lord Mortimer presented her with a very beautiful embroidered purse, containing notes to the amount of five hundred pounds. Amanda blushed deeply, and felt her feelings a little hurt at the idea of being obliged to Lord Mortimer for everything. He pressed her hand, and in a voice of soothing tenderness, told her he should be offended if she did not, from this moment, consider her interest inseparable from his. The notes, he said, of right belonged to her, as they amounted to but the individual sum he had already devoted to her use. He requested she would not curb in the least her generous spirit, but fulfil, to the utmost extent, all the claims which gratitude had upon her. The benevolent sisters of St. Catherine's were the foremost in the list of those who had conferred obligations upon her, and he desired she would not only reward them liberally at present, but promise them an annual stipend of fifty pounds.
Amanda was truly delighted at this. To be able to contribute to the comfort of those who had so largely promoted hers, was a source of exquisite felicity. Lord Mortimer presented her with his picture, which he had drawn in London for that purpose. It was a striking likeness, and most elegantly set with brilliants, which formed, a cipher upon a plait of hair at the back. This was indeed a precious present to Amanda, and she acknowledged it was such. Lord Mortimer said, that "in return for it he should expect hers at some future time;" but added, smiling, "I shall not heed the shadow till I procure the substance." He also gave her a very beautiful ring, with an emblematical device, and adorned in the same manner as his picture, which Lady Martha had sent as a pledge of future friendship; and he now informed her, "that her ladyship, accompanied by Lady Araminta, intended meeting them at Holyhead, that all due honor and attention might be paid to her adopted daughter."
In the midst of their conversation the dinner-bell rang from the convent. Amanda started, and declared she had not supposed it half so late. The arch smile which this speech occasioned in Lord Mortimer, instantly made her perceive it had been a tacit confession of the pleasure she enjoyed in their tete-à-tete.
She blushed, and telling him she could not stay another moment, was hurrying away. He hastily caught her, and holding both her hands, declared she should not depart, neither would he to his solitary dinner, till she promised he might return to her early in the evening. To this she consented, provided he allowed her to have the prioress and Sister Mary at least at tea. This was a condition Lord Mortimer by no means liked to agree to, and he endeavored to prevail on her to drop it; but finding her inflexible, he said she was a provoking girl, and asked her if she was not afraid that, when he had the power, he would retaliate upon her for all the trials she put his patience to. But since she would have it so, why, it must be so to be sure, he said; but he hoped the good ladies would have too much conscience to sit out the whole evening with them. That was all chance, Amanda said. The bell again rang, and he was forced to depart.
She took the opportunity of being alone with the prioress for a few minutes, to speak to her about procuring a female to attend her in her journey. The prioress said she doubted not but she could procure her an eligible person from the neighboring town, and promised to write there that very evening, to a family who would be able to assist her inquiries.
Both she and Sister Mary were much pleased by being invited to drink tea with Lord Mortimer. He came even earlier than was expected. Poor Amanda was terrified, lest her companions should overhear him repeatedly asking her, whether they would not retire immediately after tea. Though not overheard, the prioress had too much sagacity not to know her departure was desired; she, therefore, under pretence of business, retired and took Mary along with her.
Amanda and Lord Mortimer went into the garden. He thanked her for not losing time in speaking to the prioress about her servant, and said that he hoped, at the end of the week at farthest, she would be ready to begin her journey. Amanda readily promised to use all possible dispatch. They passed some delightful hours in rambling about the garden, and talking over their felicity.
The prioress's expectation was answered relative to a servant. In the course of two days she produced one in every respect agreeable to Amanda, and things were now in such forwardness for her departure, that she expected it would take place as soon as Lord Mortimer had mentioned. His time was passed almost continually at St. Catherine's, never leaving it except at dinner-time, when he went to Castle Carberry. His residence there was soon known, and visitors and invitations without number came to the castle, but he found means of avoiding them.
Amanda, laughing, would often tell him he retarded the preparations for her journey by being always with her; this, he said, was only a pretext to drive him away, for that he rather forwarded them by letting her lose no time.
Lord Mortimer, on coming to Amanda one evening as usual, appeared uncommonly discomposed, his face was flushed, and his whole manner betrayed agitation. He scarcely noticed Amanda; but seating himself, placed his arm upon a table, and leaned his head dejectedly upon it. Amanda was inexpressibly shocked--her heart panted with apprehension of ill; but she felt too timid to make any inquiry. He suddenly knit his brows, and muttered between his teeth, "Curse on the wretch!"
Amanda could no longer keep silence. "What wretch," she exclaimed, "or what is the meaning of this disorder?" "First tell me, Amanda," said he, looking very steadfastly at her, "have you seen any stranger here lately?" "Good Heaven!" replied she, "what can you mean by such a question? But I solemnly assure you I have not." "Enough," said he, "such an assurance restores me to quiet; but, my dear Amanda," coming over to her, and taking her hands in his, "since you have perceived my agitation, I must account to you for it. I have just seen Belgrave; he was but a few yards from me on the Common when I saw him; but the mean despicable wretch, loaded as he is with conscious guilt, durst not face me. He got out of my way by leaping over the hedge which divides the Common from a lane with many intricate windings. I endeavored, but without success, to discover the one he had retreated through." "I see," said Amanda, pale and trembling, "he is destined to make me wretched. I had hoped indeed that Lord Mortimer would no more have suffered his quiet to be interrupted by him; it implies such a doubt," said she, weeping, "as shocks my soul! If suspicion is thus continually to be revived, we had better separate at once, for misery must be the consequence of a union without mutual confidence." "Gracious Heaven!" said Lord Mortimer, "how unfortunate I am to give you pain. You mistake entirely, indeed, my dearest Amanda, the cause of my uneasiness. I swear by all that is sacred, no doubt, no suspicion of your worth, has arisen in my mind. No man can think more highly of a woman than I do of you; but I was disturbed lest the wretch should have forced himself into your presence, and lest you, through apprehension for me, concealed it from me."
This explanation calmed the perturbation of Amanda. As an atonement for the uneasiness he had given her, she wanted Lord Mortimer to promise he would not endeavor to discover Belgrave. This promise he avoided giving, and Amanda was afraid of pressing it, lest the spark of jealousy, which she was convinced existed in the disposition of Lord Mortimer, should be blown into a flame. That Belgrave would studiously avoid him she trusted, and she resolved that if the things that she had deemed it necessary to order from the neighboring town were not finished, to wait no longer for them, as she longed now more than ever to quit a place she thought dangerous to Lord Mortimer. The ensuing morning, instead of seeing his lordship at breakfast, a note was brought to her couched in these words:
TO MISS FITZALAN.
I am unavoidably prevented from waiting on my dear Amanda this morning, but in the course of the day she may depend on either seeing or hearing from me again. She can have no excuse now on my account about not hastening the preparations for her journey, and when we meet, if I find that her time has not been employed for this purpose, she may expect a severe chiding from her faithful
MORTIMER.
This note filled Amanda with the most alarming disquiet. It was evident to her that he was gone in pursuit of Belgrave. She ran into the hall to inquire of the messenger about his master, but he was gone. She then hastened to the prioress and communicated her apprehensions to her.
The prioress endeavored to calm them, by assuring her she might be convinced that Belgrave had taken too many precautions to be discovered.
Amanda's breakfast, however, remained untouched, and her things unpacked, and she continued the whole morning the picture of anxiety, impatiently expecting the promised visit or letter. Neither came, and she resolved to send, after dinner, the old gardener to Castle Carberry to inquire about Lord Mortimer. While she was speaking to him for that purpose, the maid followed her into the garden, and told her there was a messenger in the parlor from Lord Mortimer. She flew thither, but what words can express her surprise when the supposed messenger, raising a large hat, which shadowed his face, and removing a handkerchief, which he had hitherto held up to it, discovered to her view the features of Lord Cherbury? She could only exclaim, "Gracious Heaven! has anything happened to Lord Mortimer?" ere she sunk into a chair in breathless agitation.
Chapter XL
"My heavy heart The prophetess of woe, foretells some ill At hand."
Lord Cherbury hastened to support and calm her agitation, by assuring her Lord Mortimer was in perfect safety. Recovering a little by this assertion, she asked him "how he was assured of this?" He answered, "because he had seen him, though without being perceived by him, about an hour ago." Amanda, restored to her faculties by being assured he was uninjured, began to reflect on the suddenness of Lord Cherbury's visit. She would have flattered herself he came to introduce her to his family himself, had not his looks almost forbid such an idea. They were gloomy and disordered; his eyes were fastened on her, yet he appeared unwilling to speak.
Amanda felt herself in too awkward and embarrassing a situation to break the unpleasant silence. At last Lord Cherbury suddenly exclaimed, "Lord Mortimer does not, nor must not, know of my being here." "Must not!" repeated Amanda, in inconceivable astonishment.
"Gracious Heaven!" said Lord Cherbury, starting from the chair on which he had thrown himself opposite her, "how shall I begin, how shall I tell her! Oh! Miss Fitzalan," he continued, approaching her, "I have much to say, and you have much to hear which will shock you. I believed I could better in an interview have informed you of particulars, but I find I was mistaken. I will write to you." "My lord," cried Amanda, rising, all pale and trembling, "tell me now; to leave me in suspense, after receiving such dreadful hints, would be cruelty. Oh! surely, if Lord Mortimer be safe--if Lady Martha Dormer--if Lady Araminta is well--I can have nothing so very shocking to hear." "Alas!" replied he, mournfully shaking his head, "you are mistaken. Be satisfied, however, that the friends you have mentioned are all well. I have said I would write to you. Can you meet me this evening amongst the ruins?" Amanda gave an assenting bow. "I shall then," pursued he, "have a letter ready to deliver you. In the mean time, I must inform you no person in the world knows of my visit here but yourself, and of all beings Lord Mortimer is the last I should wish to know it. Remember, then, Miss Fitzalan," taking her hand, which he grasped with violence, as if to impress his words upon her heart, "remember that upon your secrecy everything most estimable in life, even life itself, perhaps, depends."
With these dreadful and mysterious words he departed, leaving Amanda a picture of horror and surprise. It was many minutes ere she moved from the attitude in which he left her, and when she did, it was only to walk in a disordered manner about the room, repeating his dreadful words. He was come, perhaps, to part her and Lord Mortimer, and yet, after consenting to their union, surely Lord Cherbury could not be guilty of such treachery and deceit. Yet, if this was not the case, why conceal his coming to Ireland from Lord Mortimer? Why let it be known only to her? And what could be the secrets of dreadful import he had to communicate?
From these self-interrogations, in which her reason was almost bewildered, the entrance of the prioress drew her.
She started at seeing the pale and distracted looks of Amanda, and asked, "if she had heard any bad tidings of Lord Mortimer?"
Amanda sighed heavily at this question, and said, "No." The secrecy she had been enjoined to she durst not violate, by mentioning the mysterious visit to her friend. Unable, however, to converse on any other subject, she resolved to retire to her chamber. She placed her illness and agitation to the account of Lord Mortimer, and said a little rest was absolutely necessary for her, and begged, if his lordship came in the course of the evening, he might be told she was too ill to see him.
The prioress pressed her to stay for tea. She refused, and, as she retired from the room, desired nothing might be said of the person who had just seen her to Lord Mortimer, saying, with a faint smile, "she would not make him vain by letting him know of her anxiety about him." She retired to her chamber, and endeavored to control her perturbations, that she might be the better enabled to support what she had so much reason to apprehend. Neither the prioress nor the nuns, in obedience to her injunctions, intruded upon her, and at the appointed hour she softly opened the chamber door, and, every place being clear, stole softly from the convent.
She found Lord Cherbury waiting for her amidst the solitary ruins. He had a letter in his hand, which he presented to her the moment she appeared.
"In this letter, Miss Fitzalan," said he, "I have opened to you my whole heart. I have disburdened it of secrets which have long oppressed it. I have intrusted my honor to your care. From what I have said, that its contents are of a sacred nature, you may believe, should they be considered in any other light by you, the consequence may, nay, must be fatal." He said this with a sternness that made Amanda shrink. "Meditate well on the contents of that letter, Miss Fitzalan," continued he, with a voice of deep solemnity, "for it is a letter which will fix your destiny and mine. Even should the request contained in it be refused, let me be the first acquainted with the refusal. Then indeed I shall urge you no more to secrecy, for what will follow, in consequence of such a refusal, must divulge all." "Oh! tell me, tell me," said Amanda, catching hold of his arm, "tell me what is the request or what it is I am to fear. Oh! tell me all at once, and rid me of the torturing suspense I endure." "I cannot," he cried, "indeed, I cannot. To-morrow night I shall expect your answer here at the same hour."
At this moment Lord Mortimer's voice calling upon Amanda was heard. Lord Cherbury dropped her hand, which he had taken, and instantly retired amongst the windings of the pile, from whence Lord Mortimer soon appeared, giving Amanda only time to hide the fatal letter.
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed he, "what could have brought you hither, and who was the person who just departed from you?" It was well for Amanda that the twilight gave but an imperfect view of her face. She felt her color come and go; a cold dew overspread her forehead; she leaned against a rude fragment of the building, and faintly exclaimed, "the person----" "Yes," said Lord Mortimer, "I am sure I heard retreating footsteps." "You are mistaken," repeated Amanda, in the same faint accent. "Well," said he, "though you may dispute the evidence of my ears, you cannot the evidence of my eyes. I see you here, and I am astonished at it." "I came here for air," said Amanda. "For air!" repeated Lord Mortimer; "I own I should have thought the garden better adapted for such a purpose; but why come hither in a clandestine manner? Why, if you have the fears you would persuade me you have, expose yourself to danger from the wretch who haunts the place, by coming here alone. When I went to the convent I was told you were indisposed, and could not be disturbed. I could not depart, however, without making an effort to see you; but you can easier imagine than I describe the consternation I felt when you could not be found. It was wrong, indeed, Amanda, it was wrong to come here alone, and affect concealment." "Gracious Heaven!" said Amanda, raising her hands and eyes, and bursting into tears, "how wretched am I!"
She was indeed at this moment superlatively wretched. Her heart was oppressed by the dread of evil, and she perceived suspicions in Lord Mortimer which she could not attempt to remove, lest an intimation of the secret she was so awfully enjoined to keep should escape.
"Ah! Amanda," said Lord Mortimer, losing in a moment the asperity with which he had addressed her at first, "ah! Amanda, like the rest of your sex, you know too well the power of your tears not to use them. Forget, or at least forgive, all I have said. I was disappointed in not seeing you the moment I expected, and that put me out of temper. I know I am too impetuous, but you will in time subdue every unruly passion. I put myself into your hands, and you shall make me what you please."
He now pressed her to his bosom, and finding her tremble universally, again implored her forgiveness, as he imputed the agitation she betrayed entirely to the uneasiness he had given her. She assured him, with a faltering voice, he had not offended her. Her spirits were affected, she said, by all she had suffered during the day. Lord Mortimer placing, as she wished, those sufferings to his own account, declared her anxiety at once pained and pleased him; adding, he would truly confess what detained him from her during the day as soon as they returned to the convent.
Their return to it relieved the sisterhood, who had also been seeking Amanda, from many apprehensions. The prioress and Sister Mary followed them into the parlor, where Lord Mortimer begged "they would have compassion on him, and give him something for his supper, as he had scarcely eaten anything the whole day." Sister Mary instantly replied, "he should be gratified, as Amanda was in the same predicament, and she hoped he would be now able to prevail on her to eat." The cloth was accordingly laid, and a few trifles placed upon it. Sister Mary would gladly have stayed, but the prioress had understanding enough to think the supper would be more palatable if they were absent, and accordingly retired.
Lord Mortimer now, with the most soothing tenderness, tried to cheer his fair companion, and make her take some refreshment; but his efforts for either of those purposes were unsuccessful, and she besought him not to think her obstinate, if she could not in a moment recover her spirits. To divert his attention a little from himself, she asked him to perform his promise, by relating what had kept him the whole day from St. Catherine's.
He now acknowledged "he had been in search of Belgrave; but the precautions he had taken to conceal himself baffled all inquiries, which convinces me," continued Lord Mortimer, "if I wanted conviction about such a matter, that he has not yet dropped his villanous designs upon you; but the wretch cannot always escape the vengeance he merits." "May he never," cried Amanda, fervently yet involuntarily, "meet it from your hands." "We will drop that part of the subject," said Lord Mortimer, "if you please. You must know," continued he, "after scouring the whole neighborhood, I fell in, about four miles hence, with a gentleman who had visited at the Marquis of Roslin's last summer. He immediately asked me to accompany him home to dinner. From his residence in the country I thought it probable he might be able to give some account of Belgrave, and therefore accepted the invitation; but my inquiries were as fruitless here as elsewhere. When I found it so, I was on thorns to depart, particularly as all the gentlemen were set in for drinking, and feared I might be thrown into an improper situation to visit my Amanda. I was on the watch, however, and, to use their sporting term, literally stole away." "Thank Heaven!" said Amanda, "your inquiries proved fruitless. Oh! never, never repeat them. Think no more about a wretch so despicable." "Well," cried Lord Mortimer, "why don't you hurry me from the neighborhood? Fix the day, the moment for our departure. I have been here already five days. Lady Martha's patience is, I dare say, quite exhausted by this time, and should we delay much longer, I suppose, she will think we have both become converts to the holy rites of this convent, and that I, instead of taking the vows which should make me a joyful bridegroom, am about taking those which shall doom me to celibacy. Seriously, what but want of inclination can longer detain you?" "Ah!" said Amanda, "you know too well that my departure cannot be retarded by want of inclination." "Then why not decide immediately upon the day?" Amanda was silent; her situation was agonizing; how could she fix upon a day, uncertain whether she did not possess a letter which would prevent her ever taking the projected journey!
"Well," said Lord Mortimer, after allowing her some time to speak, "I see I must fix the day myself; this is Tuesday--let it be Thursday." "Let us drop the subject this night, my lord," said Amanda; "I am really ill, and only wait for your departure to retire to rest." Lord Mortimer obeyed her, but with reluctance, and soon after retired.
Chapter XLI
"As one condemned to leap a precipice, Who sees before his eyes the depths below, Stops short, and looks about for some kind shrub To break his dreadful fall."--DRYDEN.
Amanda went to her chamber the moment Lord Mortimer departed: the nuns were already retired to rest, so that the stillness which reigned through the house added to the awfulness of her feelings, as she sat down to peruse a letter which she had been previously informed would fix her fate.
TO MISS FITZALAN.
To destroy a prospect of felicity, at the very moment its enveloping glooms are dispersed, is indeed the source of pangs most dreadful; yet such are the horrors of my destiny, that nothing but intervening between you, Mortimer and happiness, can save me from perdition. Appalled at this dreadful assertion, the letter drops from your trembling hands; but oh! dear Miss Fitzalan, cast it not utterly aside till you peruse the rest of the contents, and fix the destiny of the most wretched of mankind, wretched in thinking he shall interrupt not only your peace, but the peace of a son so noble, so gracious, so idolized as Mortimer is by him; but I will not longer torture your feelings by keeping you in suspense; the preface I have already given is sufficient, and I will be explicit: gambling, that bane of fame and fortune, has been my ruin; but whilst I indulged, so well did I conceal my propensity for it, that even those I called my friends were ignorant of it. With shame I confess I was ever foremost to rail against this vice, which was continually drawing sums in secret from me, that would have given comfort and affluence to many a child in want. For some time my good and bad fortune were so equal, that my income suffered no considerable diminution. About five years ago a Mr. Freelove, a particular friend of mine, died, and left to my care his only son, whom, I dare say, you may recollect having seen at my house last winter. This young man's property was consigned to my care, to manage as much for his advantage as I could; it consisted of a large estate and fifty thousand pounds. At the period Freelove became my ward, I had had a constant run of ill-luck for many months. The ardor of gaming (unlike every other passion) is rather increased than diminished by disappointment. Without being warned, therefore, by ill-success, I still went on, till all I could touch of my own property was gone. Did I then retire, ashamed of my folly? No. I could not bear to do so, without another effort to recover my losses, and in that effort risked something more precious than I had ever yet done--namely, my honor, by using the money which lay in my hands belonging to Freelove; the long period which was to elapse ere he came of age, emboldened me to this. Ere that period I trusted I should have retrieved my losses, and be enabled not only to discharge the principal, but whatever interest it would have brought, if applied to another purpose. I followed the bent of my evil genius, sum after sum taken up, and all alike buried in the accursed vortex which had already swallowed so much from me! But when I found all was gone, oh, Miss Fitzalan! I still tremble at the distraction of that moment.
All, as I have said before, that I could touch of my property was gone; the remainder was so settled I had no power over it, except joined by my son. Great as was the injury that he would sustain by mortgaging it, I was confident he never would hesitate doing so if acquainted with my distress; but to let him know it was worse than a death of torture could be to me; his early excellence, the nobleness of his principles, mingled in the love I felt for him a degree of awe; to confess myself a villain to such a character, to acknowledge my life had been a scene of deceit; to be abashed, confounded in the presence of my son--to meet his piercing eye--to see the blush of shame mantle his cheeks for his father's crimes--Oh, horrible!--most horrible! I raved at the idea, and resolved, if driven by necessity to tell him of my baseness, not to survive the confession. At this critical juncture the Marquis of Roslin came from Scotland to reside in London. An intimacy which had been dormant for years between our families was then revived, and I soon found that an alliance between them would be pleasing. The prospect of it raised me from the very depth of despair. But my transports were of short continuance, for Mortimer not only showed but expressed the strongest repugnance to such a connection. Time and daily experience, I trusted, would so forcibly convince him of the advantages of it, as at last to conquer this repugnance. Nor did the hope of an alliance taking place entirely forsake my heart, till informed that his was already bestowed upon another object. My feelings at this information I shall not attempt to describe. All hope of saving myself from dishonor was now cut off; for though dutiful and attentive to me in the highest degree, I could not flatter myself that Mortimer would blindly sacrifice his reason and inclination to my will. The most fatal intentions again took possession of my mind; but the uncertainties he suffered on your account kept me in horrible suspense as to their execution. After some months of torture, I began again to revive, by learning that you and Mortimer were inevitably separated. And such is the selfish nature of vice; so abandoned is it to all feelings of humanity, that I rather rejoiced at, than lamented the supposed disgrace of the daughter of my friend. But the persevering constancy of Mortimer--rather let me say the immediate interposition of Providence--soon gave her reason to triumph over the arts of her enemies, and I was again reduced to despair. Mortimer, I dare say, from motives of delicacy, has concealed from you the opposition I gave to his wishes after your innocence was cleared, and the intentions of Lady Martha Dormer relative to you were made known. At last I found I must either seem to acquiesce in these wishes and intentions, or divulge my real motive for opposing them; or else quarrel with my son and sister, and appear in their eyes the most selfish of human beings. I, therefore, to appearance acquiesced, but resolved in reality to throw myself upon your mercy, believing that a character so tender, so perfect, so heroic-like as yours has been, through every scene of distress, would have compassion on a fallen fellow-creature. Was my situation otherwise than it now is--were you even portionless--I should rejoice at having you united to my family, from your own intrinsic merit. Situated as I now am, the fortune Lady Martha Dormer proposes giving you can be of no consequence to me. The projected match between you and Mortimer is yet a secret from the public--of course it has not lessened his interest with the Roslin family. I have already been so fortunate as to adjust the unlucky difference which took place between them, and remove any resentment they entertained against him; and I am confident the first overture he should make for a union with Lady Euphrasia would be successful. The fortune which would immediately be received with her is sixty thousand pounds, and five thousand a-year. The first would be given up to me in place of the settlement I should make on Lord Mortimer; so that you see, my dear Miss Fitzalan, his marriage with Lady Euphrasia would at once extricate me from all my difficulties. Freelove in a few months will be of age, and the smallest delay in settling with him, after he attains that period, must brand me with dishonor. I stand upon the verge of a dreadful abyss, and it is in your power only to preserve me from plunging into it--you who, like an angel of mercy, may bid me live, and save me from destruction. Yet think not in resigning Lord Mortimer, if, indeed, such a resignation should take place, you sacrifice your own interest. No; it shall be my grateful care to secure to you independence; and I am confident, among the many men you must meet, sensible of your worth, and enraptured with your charms, you may yet select one as calculated to render you happy as Mortimer; while he, disappointed of the object of his affections, will, I have no doubt, without longer hesitation, accept the one I shall again propose to him. But should you determine on giving him up, you ask how, and by what means, you can break with him after what has passed, without revealing your real motive for doing so to him. That is indeed a difficulty; but after going so far, I must not hesitate in telling you how it can be removed. You must retire secretly from his knowledge, and leave no clue behind by which you can be traced. If you comply with the first of my requests, but stop short here, you will defeat all that your mercy, your pity, your compassion, would do to save me, since the consequence of any hesitation must be a full explanation, and I have already said it, and now repeat it in the most solemn manner, that I will not survive the divulgement of my secret--for never, no, never will I live humbled in the eyes of my son. If, then, you comply, comply not in part. Pardon me, dear Miss Fitzalan, if you think there is anything arbitrary in my style. I would have softened, if I could, all I had to say, but the time, the danger, the necessity, urged me to be explicit. I have now to you, as to a superior Being, opened my whole heart. It rests with you whether I shall live to atone for my follies, or by one desperate action terminate them. Should you show me mercy, unworthy as I am of it--should you in compassion to poor Mortimer, comply with a request which can only save him from the pangs he would feel at a father's quitting life unbidden, my gratitude, my admiration, my protection whilst I live, will be yours, and the first act of my restored life will be to secure you a competence. I shall wait with trembling anxiety for your appearance tomorrow night. Till then, believe me
Your sincere, though most unhappy friend,
CHERBURY.
The fatal letter fell from Amanda. A mist overspread her eyes, and she sunk senseless on her chair; but the privation of her misery was of short duration, and she recovered as if from a dreadful dream. She felt cold, trembling, and terrified. She looked round the room with an eye of apprehension and dismay, bewildered as to the cause of her wretchedness and terror, till the letter at her feet again struck her sight.
"Was there no way," she asked herself, as she again examined the contents, "was there no way by which the dreadful sacrifice it doomed her to could be avoided?" Lady Martha and Lord Mortimer would unite their efforts to save the honor of their wretched relative; they would soothe his feelings; they would compassionate his failings; they would----; but she started in the midst of these ideas--started as from ideas fraught with guilt and horror, as those fatal words rushed upon her mind--"I will not survive the divulgement of my secret;" and she found that to save the father she must resign the son. How unworthy of such a sacrifice! engaged as she was to Lord Mortimer, she began to doubt whether she had a right to make it. What a doubt! She shuddered for having conceived it, and reproached herself for yielding a moment to the suggestions of tenderness which had given rise to it. She resolved without a farther struggle to submit to reason and to virtue, convinced that, if accessory to Lord Cherbury's death, nothing could assuage her wretchedness, and that the unhappiness Lord Mortimer would suffer at losing her would be trifling compared to that he would feel if he lost his father by an act of suicide.
"In my fate," exclaimed she, in the low and broken accent of despair, "there is no alternative. I submit to it without a farther struggle; I dare not call upon one being to advise me. I resign him, therefore," she continued, as if Lord Cherbury was really present to hear her resignation; "I resign Lord Mortimer, but, oh, my God!" raising her hands with agony to heaven, "give me fortitude to bear the horrors of my situation! Oh, Mortimer! dear, invaluable Mortimer! the hand of fate is against our union, and we must part, never, never more to meet! From the imputation of ingratitude and guilt I shall not be allowed to vindicate myself. No, I am completely the victim of Lord Cherbury--the cruel, perfidious Cherbury, whose treachery, whose seeming acquiescence in the wishes of his son, has given me joy but to render my misery more acute!"
That Lord Mortimer would impute withdrawing herself from him to an attachment for Belgrave she was convinced, and that her fame as well as peace should be sacrificed to Lord Cherbury, caused such a whirl of contending passions in her mind, that reason and reflection for a few minutes yielded to their violence, and she resolved to vindicate herself to Lord Mortimer. This resolution, however, was of short continuance. As her subsiding passions again gave her power to reflect, she was convinced that by trying to clear herself of an imaginary crime, she should commit a real one--since to save her own character Lord Cherbury's must be stigmatized; and the consequence of such an act he had already declared--so that not only by the world, but by her own conscience, she should forever be accused of accelerating his death.
"It must, it must be made!" she wildly cried; "the sacrifice must be made, and Mortimer is lost to me forever." She flung herself on the bed, and passed the hours till morning in agonies too great for description. From a kind of stupefaction rather than sleep, into which she had gradually sunk towards morning, she was roused by a gentle tap at her chamber door, and the voice of Sister Mary informing her that Lord Mortimer was below, and impatient for his breakfast.
Amanda started from the bed, and bid her tell his lordship she would attend him immediately. She then adjusted her dress, tried to calm her spirits, and, with uplifted hands and eyes, besought Heaven to support her through the trials of the day.
Weak and trembling she descended to the parlor. The moment she entered it, Lord Mortimer, shocked and surprised by her altered looks, exclaimed, "Gracious Heaven! what is the matter?" Then feeling the feverish heat of her hands, continued, "Why, why, Amanda, had you the cruelty to conceal your illness? Proper assistance might have prevented its increasing to such a degree." With unutterable tenderness he folded his arms about her, and, while her drooping head sunk on his bosom, declared he would immediately send for the physician who had before attended her.
"Do not," said Amanda, while tears trickled down her cheeks, "do not," continued she, in a broken voice, "for he could do me no good." "No good!" repeated Lord Mortimer, in a terrified accent. "I mean," cried she, "he would find it unnecessary to prescribe anything for me, as my illness only proceeds from the agitation I suffered yesterday. It made me pass an indifferent night, but quietness to-day will recover me."
Lord Mortimer was with difficulty persuaded to give up his intention; nor would he relinquish it till she had promised, if not better before the evening, to inform him, and let the physician be sent for.
They now sat down to breakfast, at which Amanda was unable either to preside or eat. When over, she told Lord Mortimer she must retire to her chamber, as rest was essential for her; but between nine and ten in the evening she would be happy to see him. He tried to persuade her that she might rest as well upon the sofa in the parlor as in her chamber, and that he might then be allowed to sit with her; but she could not be persuaded to this, she said, and begged he would excuse seeing her till the time she had already mentioned.
He at last retired with great reluctance, but not till she had several times desired him to do so.
Amanda now repaired to her chamber, but not to indulge in the supineness of grief, though her heart felt bursting, but to settle upon some plan for her future conduct. In the first place, she immediately meant to write to Lord Cherbury, as the best method she could take of acquainting him with her compliance, and preventing any conversation between them, which would now have been insupportable to her.
In the next place, she designed acquainting the prioress with the sudden alteration in her affairs, only concealing the occasion of that alteration, and, as but one day intervened between the present and the one fixed for her journey, meant to beseech her to think of some place to which she might retire from Lord Mortimer.
Yet such was the opinion she knew the prioress entertained of Lord Mortimer, that she almost dreaded she would impute her resignation of him to some criminal motive, and abandon her entirely. If this should be the case (and scarcely could she be surprised if it was), she resolved without delay to go privately to the neighboring town, and from thence proceed immediately to Dublin. How she should act there, or what would become of her, never entered her thoughts; they were wholly engrossed about the manner in which she should leave St. Catherine's.
But she hoped, much as appearances were against her, she should not be deserted by the prioress. Providence, she trusted, would be so compassionate to her misery, as to preserve her this one friend, who could not only assist but advise her.
As soon as she had settled the line of conduct she should pursue, she sat down to pen her renunciation of Lord Mortimer, which she did in the following words:--
TO THE EARL OF CHERBURY.
MY LORD,--To your wishes I resign my happiness; my happiness, I repeat, for it is due to Lord Mortimer to declare that a union with such a character as his must have produced the highest felicity. It is also due to my own to declare, that it was neither his rank nor his fortune, but his virtues, which influenced my inclination in his favor.
Happy had it been for us all, my lord, but particularly for me, had you continued steady in opposing the wishes of your son. My reverence for paternal authority is too great ever to have allowed me to act in opposition to it. I should not then, by your seeming acquiescence to them, have been tempted to think my trials all over.
But I will not do away any little merit your lordship may perhaps ascribe to my immediate compliance with your request, by dwelling upon the sufferings it entails on me. May the renunciation of my hopes be the means of realizing your lordship's, and may superior fortune bring superior happiness to Lord Mortimer!
I thank your lordship for your intentions relative to me; but whilst I do so, must assure you, both now and forever, I shall decline having them executed for me.
I shall not disguise the truth. It would not be in your lordship's power to recompense the sacrifice I have made you; and, besides, pecuniary obligations can never sit easy upon a feeling mind, except they are conferred by those we know value us, and whom we value ourselves. I have the honor to be, your lordship's obedient servant,
AMANDA FITZALAN.
The tears she had with difficulty restrained while writing, now burst forth. She rose and walked to the window, to try if the air would remove the faintness which oppressed her. From it she perceived Lord Mortimer and the prioress in deep conversation, at a little distance from the convent. She conjectured she was their subject; for, as Lord Mortimer retired, the prioress, whom she had not seen that day before, came into her chamber. After the usual salutations--"Lord Mortimer has been telling me you were ill," said she. "I trusted a lover's fears had magnified the danger; but truly, my dear child, I am sorry to say that this is not the case. Tell me, my dear, what is the matter? Surely now, more than ever, you should be careful of your health." "Oh, no!" said Amanda, with a convulsive sob. "Oh, no" wringing her hands, "you are sadly mistaken." The prioress grew alarmed, her limbs began to tremble, she was unable to stand, and, dropping on the nearest chair, besought Amanda, in a voice expressive of her feelings, "to explain the reason of her distress."
Amanda knelt before her, she took her hands, she pressed them to her burning forehead and lips, and bedewed them with her tears, while she exclaimed, "she was wretched." "Wretched!" repeated the prioress. "For Heaven's sake be explicit--keep me no longer in suspense--you sicken my very heart by your agitation--it foretells something dreadful!"
"It does indeed," said Amanda. "It foretells that Lord Mortimer and I shall never be united!"
The prioress started, and surveyed Amanda with A look which seemed to say, "she believed she had lost her senses;" then, with assumed composure, begged "she would defer any farther explanation of her distress till her spirits were in a calmer state." "I will not rise," cried Amanda, taking the prioress's hand, which, in her surprise, she had involuntarily withdrawn. "I will not rise till you say that, notwithstanding the mysterious situation in which I am involved, you will continue to be my friend. Oh! such an assurance would assuage the sorrows of my heart."
The prioress now perceived that it was grief alone which disordered Amanda; but how she had met with any cause for grief, or what could occasion it, were matters of astonishment to her. "Surely my dear child," cried she, "should know me too well to desire such an assurance; but, however mysterious her situation may appear to others, she will not, I trust and believe, let it appear so to me. I wait with impatience for an explanation." "It is one of my greatest sorrows," exclaimed Amanda, "that I cannot give such an explanation. No, no," she continued in an agony, "a death-bed confession would not authorize my telling you the occasion of Lord Mortimer's separation and mine." The prioress now insisted on her taking a chair, and then begged, as far as she could, without farther delay, she would let her into her situation.
Amanda immediately complied. "An unexpected obstacle to her union with Lord Mortimer," she said, "had arisen, an obstacle which, while compelled to submit to it, she was bound most solemnly to conceal." It was expedient, therefore, she should retire from Lord Mortimer, without giving him the smallest intimation of such an intention, lest, if he suspected it, he should inquire too minutely, and by so doing, plunge not only her but himself into irremediable distress. To avoid this, it was necessary all but the prioress should be ignorant of her scheme: and by her means she hoped she should be put in away of finding such a place of secrecy and security as she should require. She besought the prioress, with streaming eyes, not to impute her resignation of Lord Mortimer to any unworthy motive; to that Heaven, which could alone console her for his loss, she appealed for her innocence. She besought her to believe her sincere; to pity, but not condemn her; to continue her friend now, when her friendship was most needful in this her deep distress, and she assured her, if it was withdrawn, she believed she could no longer struggle with her sorrows.
The prioress remained silent for a few minutes, and then addressed her in a solemn voice. "I own, Miss Fitzalan, your conduct appears so inexplicable, so astonishing, that nothing but the opinion I have formed of your character, from seeing the manner in which you have acted since left to yourself, could prevent my esteem from being diminished; but I am persuaded you cannot act from a bad motive, therefore, till that persuasion ceases, my esteem can know no diminution. From this declaration you maybe convinced that, to the utmost of my power, I will serve you; yet, ere you finally determine and require such service, weigh well what you are about; consider in the eyes of the world you are about acting a dishonorable part, in breaking your engagement with Lord Mortimer without assigning some reason for doing so. Nothing short of a point of conscience should influence you to this." "Nothing short of it has," replied Amanda; "therefore pity, and do not aggravate my feelings, by pointing out the consequences which will attend the sacrifice I am compelled to make; only promise (taking the prioress's hand),--only promise, in this great and sad emergency, to be my friend."
Her looks, her words, her agonies, stopped short all the prioress was going to say. She thought it would be barbarity any longer to dwell upon the ill consequences of an action, which she was now convinced some fatal necessity compelled her to; she therefore gave her all the consolation now in her power, by assuring her she would immediately think about some place for her to retire to, and would keep all that had passed between them a profound secret. She then insisted on Amanda's lying down, and trying to compose herself; she brought her drops to take, and drawing the curtains about her, retired from the room. In two hours she returned. Though she entered the chamber softly, Amanda immediately drew back the curtain, and appeared much more composed than when the prioress had left her. The good woman would not let her rise, but sat down on the bed to tell her what she had contrived for her.
"She had a relation in Scotland," she said, "who, from reduced circumstances, had kept a school for many years. But as the infirmities of age came on, she was not able to pay so much attention to her pupils as their friends thought requisite, and she had only been able to retain them by promising to get a person to assist her. As she thought her cousin (the prioress) more in the way of procuring such a one than herself, she had written to her for that purpose. A clever, well-behaved young woman, who would be satisfied with a small salary, was what she wanted. I should not mention such a place to you," said the prioress, "but that the necessity there is for your immediately retiring from Lord Mortimer leaves me no time to look out for another. But do not imagine I wish you to continue there. No, indeed; I should think it a pity such talents as you possess should be buried in such obscurity. What I think is, that you can stay there till you grow more composed, and can look out for a better establishment." "Do not mention my talents," said Amanda; "my mind is so enervated by grief, that it will be long before I can make any great exertion, and the place you have mentioned is, from its obscurity, just such a one as I desire to go to." "There is, besides, another inducement," said the prioress, "namely, its being but a few miles from Port-Patrick, to which place a fair wind will bring you in a few hours from this. I know the master of a little wherry, which is perpetually going backwards and forwards. He lives in this neighborhood, and both he and his wife consider themselves under obligations to me, and will rejoice, I am sure, at an opportunity of obliging me. I shall therefore send for him this evening, informing him of the time you wish to go, and desire his care till he leaves you himself at Mrs. Macpherson's."
Amanda thanked the prioress, who proceeded to say, "that on the presumption of her going to her cousin's, she had already written a letter for her to take; but wished to know whether she would be mentioned by her own or a fictitious name."
Amanda replied, "By a fictitious one," and, after a little consideration, fixed on that of Frances Donald, which the prioress accordingly inserted, and then read the letter:--
TO MRS. MACPHERSON.
DEAR COUSIN,--The bearer of this letter, Frances Donald, is the young person I have procured you for an assistant in your school. I have known her some time, and can vouch for her cleverness and discretion. She is well born, and well educated, and has seen better days: but the wheel of fortune is continually turning, and she bears her misfortunes with a patience that to me is the best proof she could give of a real good disposition. I have told her you give but ten pounds a-year. Her going proves she is not dissatisfied with the salary. I am sorry to hear you are troubled with rheumatic pains, and hope, when you have more time to take care of yourself, you will grow better. And all the sisters join me in thanking you for your kind inquiries after them. We do tolerably well in the little school we keep, and trust our gratitude to Heaven for its present goodness will obtain a continuance of it. I beg to hear from you soon; and am, my dear cousin, your sincere friend and affectionate kinswoman,
ELIZABETH DERMOT.
St. Catherine's.
"I have not said as much as you deserve," said the prioress; "but if the letter does not meet your approbation, I will make any alteration you please in it." Amanda assured her it did, and the prioress then said, "that Lord Mortimer had been again at the convent to inquire after her, and was told she was better." Amanda said, "she would not see him till the hour she had appointed for his coming to supper." The prioress agreed, that as things were changed, she was right in being in his company as little as possible, and, to prevent her being in his way, she should have her dinner and tea in her own room. The cloth was accordingly laid in it, nor would the good-natured prioress depart till she saw Amanda eat something. Sister Mary, she said, was quite anxious to come in, and perform the part of an attendant, but was prevented by her.
The distraction of Amanda's thoughts was now abated, from having everything adjusted relative to her future conduct, and the company of the prioress, who returned to her as soon as she had dined, prevented her losing the little composure she had with such difficulty acquired.
She besought the prioress not to delay writing after her departure, and to relate faithfully everything which happened in consequence of her flight. She entreated her not to let a mistaken compassion for her feelings influence her to conceal anything, as anything like the appearance of concealment in her letter would only torture her with anxiety and suspense.
The prioress solemnly promised she would obey her request, and Amanda, with tears, regretted that she was now unable to recompense the kindness of the prioress and the sisterhood, as she had lately intended doing by Lord Mortimer's desire, as well as her own inclination. The prioress begged her not to indulge any regret on that account, as they considered themselves already liberally recompensed, and had, besides, quite sufficient to satisfy their humble desires.
Amanda said she meant to leave a letter on the dressing-table for Lord Mortimer, with the notes which he had given her enclosed in it. "The pictures and the ring," said she, with a falling tear, "I cannot part with;" for the things which she had ordered from the neighboring town, she told the prioress she would leave money in her hands, also a present for the woman, who had been engaged to attend her to England, as some small recompense for her disappointment. She meant only to take some linen and her mourning to Scotland; the rest of her things, including her music and books, at some future and better period might be sent after her.
Amanda was in debt to the sisterhood for three months' board and lodging, which was ten guineas. Of the two hundred pounds which Lord Mortimer had given her on leaving Castle Carberry, one hundred and twenty pounds remained, so that though unable to answer the claims of gratitude, she thanked Heaven she was able to fulfil those of justice. This she told the prioress, who instantly declared, "that, in the name of the whole sisterhood, she would take upon her to refuse anything from her." Amanda did not contest the point, being secretly determined how to act. The prioress drank tea with her. When over, Amanda said she would lie down, in order to try and be composed against Lord Mortimer come. The prioress accordingly withdrew, saying, "she should not be disturbed till then."
By this means Amanda was enabled to be in readiness for delivering her letter to Lord Cherbury at the proper hour. Her heart beat with apprehension as it approached. She dreaded Lord Mortimer again surprising her amongst the ruins, or some of the nuns following her to them. At last the clock gave the signal for keeping her appointment. She arose, trembling, from the bed, and opened the door. She listened, and no noise announced any one's being near. The moments were precious. She glided through the gallery, and had the good fortune to find the hall-door open. She hastened to the ruins, and found Lord Cherbury already waiting there. She presented him the letter in silence. He received it in the same manner; but when he saw her turning away to depart, he snatched her hand, and, in a voice that denoted the most violent agitation, exclaimed: "Tell me, tell me, Miss Fitzalan, is this letter propitious?" "It is," replied she, in a faltering voice. "Then may Heaven eternally bless you," cried he, falling at her feet, and wrapping his arms about her. His posture shocked Amanda, and his detention terrified her.
"Let me go, my lord," said she. "In pity to me, in mercy to yourself, let me go; for one moment longer and we may be discovered."
Lord Cherbury started up--"From whom," cried he, "can I hear about you?" "From the prioress of St. Catherine's," replied Amanda, in a trembling voice; "she only will know the secret of my retreat."
He again snatched her hand and kissed it with vehemence. "Farewell, thou angel of a woman!" he exclaimed, and disappeared amongst the ruins. Amanda hurried back, dreading every moment to meet Lord Mortimer; but she neither met him nor any other person. She had scarcely gained her chamber ere the prioress came to inform her his lordship was in the parlor. She instantly repaired to it. The air had a little changed the deadly hue of her complexion, so that from her looks he supposed her better, and her words strengthened the supposition. She talked with him, forced herself to eat some supper, and checked the tears from falling, which sprang to her eyes, whenever he mentioned the happiness they must experience when united, the pleasure they should enjoy at Thornbury, and the delight Lady Martha and Lady Araminta would experience whenever they met.
Amanda desired him not to come to breakfast the next morning, nor to the convent till after dinner, as she should be so busy preparing for her journey she would have no time to devote to him. He wanted to convince her he should not retard her preparations by coming, but she would not allow this.
Amanda passed another wretched night. She breakfasted in the morning with the nuns, who expressed their regret at losing her--a regret, however, mitigated by the hope of shortly seeing her again, as Lord Mortimer had promised to bring her to Castle Carberry as soon as she had visited his friends in England. This was a trying moment for Amanda. She could scarcely conceal her emotions, or keep herself from weeping aloud, at the mention of a promise never to be fulfilled. She swallowed her breakfast in haste, and withdrew to her chamber on pretence of settling her things. Here she was immediately followed by the nuns, entreating they might severally be employed in assisting her. She thanked them with her usual sweetness, but assured them no assistance was necessary, as she had but few things to pack, never having unlocked the chests which had come from Castle Carberry. They retired on receiving this assurance, and Amanda, fearful of another interruption, instantly sat down to write her farewell letter to Lord Mortimer.
TO LORD MORTIMER.
MY LORD,--A destiny, which neither of us can control, forbids our union. In vain were obstacles encountered and apparently overcome; one has arisen to oppose it which we never could have thought of, and, yielding to it, as I am compelled by dire necessity to do, I find myself separated from you, without the remotest hope of our ever meeting again--without being allowed to justify my conduct, or offer one excuse which might, in some degree, palliate the abominable ingratitude and deceit I may appear guilty of; appear, I say, for in reality my heart is a stranger to either, and is now agonized at the sacrifice it is compelled to make; but I will not hurt your lordship's feelings by dwelling on my own sufferings. Already have I caused you too much pain, but never again shall I cross your path to disturb your peace, and shade your prospect of felicity; no, my lord, removed to a tedious distance, the name I love no more will sink upon my ear, the delusive form of happiness no more will mock me.
Had everything turned out according to my wishes, perhaps happiness, so great, so unexpected, might have produced a dangerous revolution in my sentiments, and withdrawn my thoughts too much from heaven to earth: if so, oh! blessed be the power that snatched from my lips the cup of joy, though at the very moment I was tasting the delightful beverage.
I cannot bid you pity me, though I know myself deserving of compassion; I cannot bid you forbear condemning me, though I know myself undeserving of censure. In this letter I enclose the notes I received from your lordship; the picture and the ring I have retained; they will soon be my only vestiges of former happiness. Farewell, Lord Mortimer, dear and invaluable friend, farewell forever. May that peace, that happiness you so truly deserve to possess, be yours, and may they never again meet with such interruptions as they have received from the unfortunate
AMANDA M. FITZALAN.
This letter was blistered with her tears; she laid it in a drawer till evening, and then proceeded to pack whatever she meant to take with her in a little trunk. In the midst of this business the prioress came in to inform her she had seen the master of the wherry, and settled everything with him. He not only promised to be secret, but to sail the following morning at four o'clock, and conduct her himself to Mrs. Macpherson's. About three he was to come to the convent for her; he had also promised to provide everything necessary on board for her.
Matters being thus arranged, Amanda told the prioress, to avoid suspicion, she would leave the money she intended for the woman who had been engaged to accompany her to England on her dressing-table, with a few lines purporting who it was for. The prioress approved of her doing so, as it would prevent any one from suspecting she was privy to her departure. She was obliged to leave her directly, and Amanda took the opportunity of putting up fifteen guineas in a paper--five for the woman, and ten for the nuns. She wished to do more for them, but feared to obey the dictates of generosity, while her own prospect of provision was so uncertain. She wrote as follows to the prioress:--
TO MRS. DERMOT.
DEAR MADAM,--Was my situation otherwise than it now is, be assured I never should have offered the trifle you will find in this paper as any way adequate to the discharge of my debt; to you and your amiable companions, I regret my inability (more than I express) of proving my gratitude to you and them for all your kindness--never will they be obliterated from my remembrance; and He who has promised to regard those that befriend the orphan, will reward you for them. I have also left five guineas for the woman you were so good as to engage to attend me to England. I trust she will think them a sufficient recompense for any trouble or disappointment I may have occasioned her.
Farewell, dear Mrs. Dermot, dear and amiable inhabitants of St. Catherine's farewell. As Amanda will never forget you in hers, so let her never be forgotten in your orisons, and never cease to believe her.
Grateful, sincere, and affectionate,
A. M. FITZALAN.
By this time she was summoned to dinner. Her spirits were sunk in the lowest dejection at the idea of leaving the amiable women who had been so kind to her, and above all at the idea of the last sad evening she was to pass with Lord Mortimer.
His lordship came early to the convent. The dejected looks of Amanda immediately struck him, and renewed all his apprehensions about her health. She answered his tender inquiries by saying she was fatigued.
"Perhaps," said he, "you would like to rest one day, and not commence your journey to-morrow!"
"No, no," cried Amanda, "it shall not be deferred. To-morrow," continued she, with a smile of anguish, "I will commence it."
Lord Mortimer thanked her for a resolution, he imagined, dictated by an ardent desire to please him; but at the same time again expressed his fears that she was ill.
Amanda perceived that if she did not exert herself her dejection would lead him to inquiries she would find it difficult to evade; but as to exert herself was impossible, in order to withdraw his attention in some degree from herself, she proposed that, as this was the last evening they would be at the convent, they should invite the nuns to drink tea with them. Lord Mortimer immediately acquiesced in the proposal, and the invitation being sent was accepted.
But the conversation of the whole party was of a melancholy kind. Amanda was so much beloved among them, that the prospect of losing her filled them with a regret which even the idea of seeing her soon again could not banish. About nine, which was their hour for prayers, they rose to retire, and would have taken leave of Lord Mortimer, had he not informed them, that on Miss Fitzalan's account, he would not commence the journey next day till ten o'clock, at which time he would again have the pleasure of seeing them.
When they withdrew he endeavored to cheer Amanda, and besought her to exert her spirits. Of his own accord, he said, he would leave her early, that she might get as much rest as possible against the ensuing day. He accordingly rose to depart. What an agonizing moment for Amanda; to hear, to behold the man, so tenderly beloved, for the last time; to think that ere that hour the next night she should be far, far away from him, considered as a treacherous and ungrateful creature, despised, perhaps execrated, as a source of perpetual disquiet and sorrow to him! Her heart swelled at those ideas with feelings she thought would burst it: and when he folded her to his bosom, and bid her be cheerful against the next morning, she involuntarily returned the pressure, by straining him to her heart in convulsive agitation, whilst a shower of tears burst from her. Lord Mortimer, shocked and surprised at these tears and emotions, reseated her, for her agitation was contagious, and he trembled so much he could not support her; then throwing himself at her feet, "My Amanda! my beloved girl!" cried he, "what is the matter? Is any wish of your heart yet unfulfilled? If so, let no mistaken notion of delicacy influence you to conceal it--on your happiness you know mine depends; tell me, therefore, I entreat, I conjure you, tell me, is there anything I can do to restore you to cheerfulness?" "Oh, no!" said Amanda, "all that a mortal could do to serve me you have already done, and my gratitude, the fervent sense I have of the obligations I lie under to you, I cannot fully express. May Heaven," raising her streaming eyes,--"may Heaven recompense your goodness by bestowing the choicest of its blessings on you!" "That," said Lord Mortimer, half smiling, "it has already done in giving you to me, for you are the choicest blessing it could bestow; but tell me, what has dejected you in this manner! something more than fatigue, I am sure."
Amanda assured him "he was mistaken;" and, fearful of his further inquiries, told him, "she only waited for his departure to retire to rest, which she was convinced would do her good."
Lord Mortimer instantly rose from his kneeling posture: "Farewell, then, my dear Amanda," cried he, "farewell, and be well and cheerful against the morning."
She pressed his hand between hers, and laying her cold wet cheek upon it: "Farewell," said she; "when we next meet I shall, I trust, be well and cheerful; for in heaven alone (thought she at that moment) we shall ever meet again."
On the spot in which he left her Amanda stood motionless, till she heard the hall-door close after him; all composure then forsook her, and, in an agony of tears and sobs, she threw herself on the seat he had occupied. The good prioress, guessing what her feelings at this moment must be, was at hand, and came in with drops and water, which she forced her to take, and mingled the tears of sympathy with hers.
Her soothing attentions in a little time had the effect she desired. They revived in some degree her unhappy young friend, who exclaimed, "that the severest trial she could ever possibly experience was now over." "And will, I trust and believe," replied the prioress, "even in this life be yet rewarded."
It was agreed that Amanda should put on her habit, and be prepared against the man came for her. The prioress promised, as soon as the house was at rest, to follow her to her chamber. Amanda accordingly went to her apartment and put on her travelling dress. She was soon followed by the prioress, who brought in bread, wine, and cold chicken; but the full heart of Amanda would not allow her to partake of them, and her tears, in spite of her efforts to restrain them, again burst forth. "She was sure," she said, "the prioress would immediately let her know if any intelligence arrived of her brother, and she again besought her to write as soon as possible after her departure, and to be minute."
She left the letters--one for Lord Mortimer and the other for the prioress--on the table, and then with a kind of melancholy impatience waited for the man, who was punctual to the appointed hour of three, and announced his arrival by a tap at the window. She instantly rose and embraced the prioress in silence, who, almost as much affected as herself, had only power to say, "God bless you, my dear child, and make you as happy as you deserve to be."
Amanda shook her head mournfully, as if to say she expected no happiness, and then, softly stepping along the gallery, opened the hall-door, where she found the man waiting. Her little trunk was already lying in the hall. She pointed it out to him, and as soon as he had taken it they departed.
Never did any being feel more forlorn than Amanda now did. What she suffered when quitting the marchioness's was comparatively happiness to what she now endured. She then looked forward to the protection, comfort, and support of a tender parent; now she had nothing in view which could in the least cheer or alleviate her feelings. She cast her mournful eyes around, and the objects she beheld heightened, if possible, her anguish. She beheld the old trees which shaded the grave of her father waving in the morning breeze, and oh! how fervently at that moment did she wish that by his side she was laid beneath their shelter!
She turned from them with a heart-rending sigh, which reached the ear of the man who trudged before her. He instantly turned, and seeing her pale and trembling, told her he had an arm at her service, which she gladly accepted, being scarcely able to support herself. A small boat was waiting for them about half a mile above Castle Carberry. It conveyed them in a few moments to the vessel, which the master previously told her would be under weigh directly. She was pleased to find his wife on board, who conducted Amanda to the cabin, where she found breakfast laid out with neatness for her. She took some tea and a little bread, being almost exhausted with fatigue. Her companion, imputing her dejection to fears of crossing the sea, assured her the passage would be very short, and bid her observe how plainly they could see the Scottish hills, now partially gilded by the beams of the rising sun; but, beautiful as they appeared, Amanda's eyes were turned from them to a more interesting object,--Castle Carberry. She asked the woman if she thought the castle could be seen from the opposite coast? and she replied in the negative.
"I am sorry for it," said Amanda, mournfully. She continued at the window for the melancholy pleasure of contemplating it, till compelled by sickness to lie down on the bed. The woman attended her with the most assiduous care, and about four o'clock in the afternoon informed her they had reached Port-Patrick. Amanda arose, and sending for the master, told him, as she did not wish to go to an inn, she would thank him to hire a chaise to carry her directly to Mrs. Macpherson's. He said she should be obeyed; and Amanda having settled with him for her passage, he went on shore for that purpose, and soon returned to inform her a carriage was ready. Amanda, having thanked his wife for her kind attention, stepped into the boat, and entered the chaise the moment she landed. Her companion told her he was well acquainted with Mrs. Macpherson, having frequently carried packets from Mrs. Dermot to her. She lived about five miles from Port-Patrick, he said, and near the sea-coast. They accordingly soon reached her habitation. It was a small, low house, of a grayish color, situated in a field almost covered with thistles, and divided from the road by a rugged-looking wall. The sea lay at a little distance from it. The coast hereabouts was extremely rocky, and the prospect on every side wild and dreary in the extreme.
Amanda's companion, by her desire, went first into the house to prepare Mrs. Macpherson for her reception. He returned in a few minutes, and telling her she was happy at her arrival, conducted her into the house. From a narrow passage, they turned into a small, gloomy-looking parlor, with a clay floor. Mrs. Macpherson was sitting in an old-fashioned arm-chair--her face was sharp and meagre--her stature low, and, like Otway's ancient Beldame, doubled with age; her gown was gray stuff, and, though she was so low, it was not long enough to reach her ankle; her black-silk apron was curtailed in the same manner, and over a little mob-cap she wore a handkerchief tied under the chin. She just nodded to Amanda on her entrance, and, putting on a pair of large spectacles, surveyed her without speaking. Amanda presented Mrs. Dermot's introductory letter, and then, though unbidden, seated herself on the window-seat till she had perused it. Her trunk, in the mean time, was brought in, and she paid for the carriage, requesting at the same time the master of the vessel to wait till she had heard what Mrs. Macpherson would say. At length the old lady broke silence, and her voice was quite as sharp as her face.
"So, child," said she, again surveying Amanda, and then elevating her spectacles to have a better opportunity of speaking, "why, to be sure I did desire my cousin to get me a young person, but not one so young, so very young, as you appear to be." "Lord bless you!" said the man, "if that is a fault, why, it is one will mend every day." "Ay, ay," cried the old dame, "but it will mend a little too slow for me. However, child, as you are so well recommended, I will try you. My cousin says something of your being well born, and having seen better days. However, child, I tell you beforehand, I shall not consider what you have been, but what you are now. I shall therefore expect you to be mild, regular, and attentive--no flaunting, no gadding, no chattering, but staid, sober, and modest." "Bless your heart," said the man, "if you look in her face you will see she'll be all you desire." "Ay, ay, so you may say; but I should be very sorry to depend upon the promise of a face--like the heart, it is often treacherous and deceitful; so pray, young woman, tell me, and remember I expect a conscientious answer, whether you think you will be able to do as I wish?" "Yes, madam," replied Amanda, in a voice almost choked by the variety of painful emotions she experienced.
"Well, then, we are agreed, as you know the salary I give." The master of the vessel now took his leave, never having been asked by Mrs. Macpherson to take any refreshment.
The heart of Amanda sunk within her from the moment she entered Mrs. Macpherson's door. She shuddered at being left with so unsocial a being in a place so wild and dreary. A hovel near St. Catherine's she would have thought a palace in point of real comfort to her present habitation, as she then could have enjoyed the soothing society of the tender and amiable nuns. The presence of the master of the vessel, from the pity and concern he manifested for her, had something consolatory in it, and when he left the room she burst into tears, as if then, and not till then, she had been utterly abandoned. She hastily followed him out. "Give my love, my best love," said she, sobbing violently, and laying her trembling hand on his, "to Mrs. Dermot, and tell her, oh! tell her to write directly, and give me some comfort."
"You may depend on my doing so," replied he, "but cheer up, my dear young lady; what though the old dame in the parlor is a little cranky, she will mend, no doubt; so Heaven bless you, and make you as happy as you deserve to be."
Sad and silent, Amanda returned to the parlor, and seating herself in the window, strained her eyes after the carriage which had brought her to this dismal spot.
Chapter XLII
"Of joys departed, never to return, How bitter the remembrance!"--BLAIR.
"Well, child," said Mrs. Macpherson, "do you choose to take anything?" "I thank you, madam," replied Amanda, "I should like a little tea." "Oh! as to tea, I have just taken my own, and the things are all washed and put by; but, if you like a glass of spirits and water, and a crust of bread, you may have it." Amanda said she did not. "Oh! very well," cried Mrs. Macpherson, "I shall not press you, for supper will soon be ready." She then desired Amanda to draw a chair near hers, and began torturing her with a variety of minute and trifling questions relative to herself, the nuns, and the neighborhood of St. Catherine's.
Amanda briefly said, "her father had been in the army, that many disappointments and losses had prevented his making any provision for her, and that on his death, which happened in the neighborhood of the convent, the nuns had taken her out of compassion, till she procured an establishment for herself." "Ay, and a comfortable one you have procured yourself, I promise you," said Mrs. Macpherson, "if it is not your own fault." She then told Amanda, "she would amuse her by showing her her house and other concerns." This indeed was easily done, as it consisted but of the parlor, two closets adjoining it, and the kitchen, on the opposite side of the entry; the other concerns were a small garden, planted with kail, and the field covered with thistles. "A good, comfortable tenement this," cried Mrs. Macpherson, shaking her head with much satisfaction, as she leaned upon her ebony-headed cane, and cast her eyes around. She bid Amanda admire the fine prospect before the door, and, calling to a red-haired and bare-legged girl, desired her to cut some thistles to put into the fire, and hasten the boiling of the kail. On returning to the parlor she unlocked a press, and took out a pair of coarse, brown sheets to air for Amanda. She herself slept in one closet, and in the other was a bed for Amanda, laid on a half-decayed bedstead, without curtains, and covered with a blue-stuff quilt. The closet was lighted by one small window, which looked into the garden, and its furniture consisted of a broken chair, and a piece of looking-glass stuck to the wall.
The promised supper was at length served. It consisted of a few heads of kail, some oaten bread, a jug of water, and a small phial half full of spirits, which Amanda would not taste, and the old lady herself took but sparingly. They were lighted by a small candle, which, on retiring to their closets, Mrs. Macpherson cut between them.
Amanda felt relieved by being alone. She could now without restraint indulge her tears and her reflections; that she could never enjoy any satisfaction with a being so ungracious in her manners and so contracted in her notions, she foresaw; but, disagreeable as her situation must be, she felt inclined to continue in it, from the idea of its giving her more opportunities of hearing from Mrs. Dermot than she could have in almost any other place, and by these opportunities alone could she expect to hear of Lord Mortimer; and to hear of him, even the most trifling circumstance, though divided, forever divided from him, would be a source of exquisite though melancholy pleasure.
To think she should hear of him, at once soothed and fed her melancholy. It lessened the violence of sorrow, yet without abating its intenseness; it gave a delicious sadness to her soul she thought would be ill exchanged for any feelings short of those she must have experienced, if her wishes had been accomplished. She enjoyed the pensive luxury of virtuous grief, which mitigates the sharp
"With gracious drops Of cordial pleasure,"
and which Akenside so beautifully describes; nor can I forbear quoting the lines he has written to illustrate the truth--
"Ask the faithful youth Why the cold urn of her, whom long he loved So often fills his arms, so often draws His lonely footsteps at the silent hour, To pay the mournful tribute of his tears? O, he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes With virtue's kindest looks his aching heart, And turns his tears to rapture."
Fatigued by the contending emotions she experienced, as well as the sickness she went through at sea, Amanda soon retired to her flock bed, and fell into a profound slumber, in which she continued till roused in the morning by the shrill voice of Mrs. Macpherson, exclaiming, as she rapped at the door, "Come, come, Frances, it is time to rise."
Amanda started from her sleep, forgetting both the name she had adopted and the place where she was; but Mrs. Macpherson again calling her to rise, restored her to her recollection. She replied she would attend her directly, and, hurrying on her clothes, was with her in a few minutes. She found the old lady seated at the breakfast-table, who, instead of returning her salutation, said, "that on account of her fatigue she excused her lying so long in bed this morning, for it was now eight o'clock; but in future she would expect her to rise before six in summer, and seven in winter, adding, as there was no clock, she would rap at her door for that purpose every morning."
Amanda assured her "she was fond of rising early, and always accustomed to it." The tea was now poured out; it was of the worst kind, and sweetened with coarse brown sugar; the bread was oaten, and there was no butter. Amanda, unused to such unpalatable fare, swallowed a little of it with difficulty, and then, with some hesitation, said "she would prefer milk to tea." Mrs. Macpherson frowned exceedingly at this, and, after continuing silent a few minutes, said, "she had really made tea for two people, and she could not think of having it wasted; besides, she added, the economy of her house was so settled she could not infringe it for any one." She kept no cow herself, and only took in as much milk as served her tea and an old tabby-cat.
Amanda replied, "it was of no consequence," and Mrs. Macpherson said, indeed she supposed so, and muttered something of people giving themselves airs they had no pretensions to. The tea-table was removed before nine, when the school began; it consisted of about thirty girls, most of them daughters of farmers in the neighborhood. Amanda and they being introduced to each other (and she being previously informed what they were taught), was desired to commence the task of instructing them entirely herself that day, as Mrs. Macpherson wanted to observe her manner--a most unpleasant task indeed for poor Amanda, whose mind and body were both harassed by anxiety and fatigue. As she had undertaken it, however, she resolved to go through it with as much cheerfulness and alacrity as possible. She accordingly acquitted herself to the satisfaction of Mrs. Macpherson, who only found fault with her too great gentleness, saying, the children would never fear her. At two the school broke up, and Amanda, almost as delighted as the children to be at liberty, was running into the garden to try if the air would be of use to a very violent headache; when she was called back to put the forms and other things in order. She colored, and stood motionless, till recollecting that if she refused to obey Mrs. Macpherson a quarrel would probably ensue, which, circumstanced as she was, without knowing where to go to, would be dreadful, she silently performed what she had been desired to do. Dinner was then brought in; it was as simple and as sparing as a Braman could desire it to be. When over, Mrs. Macpherson composed herself to take a nap in the large chair, without making any kind of apology to Amanda.
Left at liberty, Amanda would now have walked out; but it had just begun to rain, and everything looked dreary and desolate. From the window in which she pensively sat she had a view of the sea; it looked black and tempestuous, and she could distinguish its awful and melancholy roaring as it dashed against the rocks. The little servant-girl, as she cleaned the kitchen, sung a dismal Scotch ditty, so that all conspired to oppress the spirits of Amanda with a dejection greater than she had before ever experienced; all hope was now extinct, the social ties of life seemed broken, never more to be reunited. She had now no father, no friend, no lover, as heretofore, to soothe her feelings, or alleviate her sorrows. Like the poor Belvidera she might have said,
"There was a time Her cries and sorrows Were not despised, when, if she chanced to sigh, Or but look sad, a friend or parent Would have taken her in their arms, Eased her declining head upon their breasts, And never left her till they found the cause; But now let her weep seas, Cry till she rend the earth, sigh till she burst Her heart asunder, she is disregarded."
Like a tender sapling, transplanted from its native soil, she seemed to stand alone, exposed to every adverse blast. Her tears gushed forth, and fell in showers down her pale cheeks. She sighed forth the name of her father: "Oh! dear and most benignant of men," she exclaimed, "my father and my friend; were you living, I should not be so wretched; pity and consolation would then be mine. Oh! my father, one of the dreariest caverns in yonder rocks would be an asylum of comfort were you with me; but I am selfish in these regrets, certain as I am that you exchanged this life of wretchedness for one of eternal peace, for one where you were again united to your Malvina."
Her thoughts adverted to what Lord Mortimer, in all probability, now thought of her; but this was too dreadful to dwell upon, convinced as she was, that, from appearances, he must think most unfavorably of her. His picture was hung in her bosom, she drew it out. She gazed with agonizing tenderness upon it. She pressed it to her lips, and prayed for its original. From this indulgence of sorrow she was disturbed by the waking of Mrs. Macpherson. She hastily wiped away her tears, and hid the beloved picture. The evening passed most disagreeably. Mrs. Macpherson was tedious and inquisitive in her discourse, and it was almost as painful to listen as to answer her. Amanda was happy when the hour for retiring to bed arrived, and relieved her from what might be called a kind of mental bondage.
Such was the first day Amanda passed in her new habitation, and a week elapsed in the same manner without any variation, except that on Sunday she had a cessation from her labors, and went to the kirk with Mrs. Macpherson. At the end of the week she found herself so extremely ill from the fatigue and confinement she endured, as Mrs. Macpherson would not let her walk out, saying, "gadders were good for nothing"--that she told her, except allowed to go out every evening, she must leave her, as she could not bear so sedentary a life. Mrs. Macpherson looked disconcerted, and grumbled a good deal; but as Amanda spoke in a resolute manner, she was frightened lest she should put her threats into execution, she was so extremely useful in the school; and at last told her she might take as much exercise as she pleased every day after dinner.
Amanda gladly availed herself of this permission. She explored all the romantic paths about the house; but the one she chiefly delighted to take was that which led to the sea. She loved to ramble about the beach; when fatigued to sit down upon the fragment of a rock and look towards the opposite shore. Vainly then would she try to discover some of the objects she knew so well. Castle Carberry was utterly undistinguishable, but she knew the spot on which it stood, and derived a melancholy pleasure from looking that way. In these retired rambles she would freely indulge her tears, and gaze upon the picture of Lord Mortimer. She feared no observation; the rocks formed a kind of recess about her, and in going to them she seldom met a creature.
A fortnight passed in this way, and she began to feel surprise and uneasiness at not hearing from Mrs. Dermot. If much longer silent, she resolved on writing, feeling it impossible to endure much longer the agony her ignorance of Lord Mortimer's proceedings gave her. The very morning previous to the one she had fixed for writing she saw a sailor coming to the house, and believing he was the bearer of a letter to her, she forgot everything but her feelings at the moment, and starting from her seat ran from the room. She met him a few yards from the house, and then perceived he was one of the sailors of the vessel she had come over in. "You have a letter for me, I hope?" said Amanda. The man nodded, and fumbling in his bosom for a moment, pulled out a large packet, which Amanda snatched with eager transport from him; and knowing she could not attempt to bring him into the house for refreshment, gave him a crown to procure it elsewhere, which he received with thankfulness, and departed. She then returned to the parlor, and was hastening to her closet to read the letter, when Mrs. Macpherson stopped her. "Hey-day," cried she, "what is the matter?--what is all this fuss about? Why, one would think that was a love letter, you are so very eager to read it." "It is not, then, I can assure you" said Amanda. "Well, well; and who is it from?" Amanda reflected that if she said from Mrs. Dermot a number of impertinent questions would be asked her. She therefore replied: "From a very particular friend." "From a very particular friend! Well, I suppose there is nothing about life or death in it, so you may wait till after dinner to read it; and pray sit down now, and hear the children their spelling lessons." This was a tantalizing moment to Amanda. She stood hesitating whether she should obey, till reflecting that if she went now to read the packet, she should most probably be interrupted ere she had got through half the contents, she resolved on putting it up till after dinner. The moment at last came for Mrs. Macpherson's usual nap, and Amanda instantly hastened to a recess amongst the rocks, where seating herself, she broke the seal. The envelope contained two letters. The first she cast her eyes upon was directed in Lord Cherbury's hand. She trembled, tore it open, and read as follows:--
TO MISS FITZALAN.
In vain, my dear madam, do you say you never will receive pecuniary favors from me. It is not you, but I, should lie under obligations from their acceptance. I should deem myself the most ungrateful of mankind if I did not insist on carrying this point. I am but just returned to London, and shall immediately order my lawyer to draw up a deed entitling you to three hundred pounds a year, which, when completed, I shall transmit to the prioress (as I have this letter) to send to you. I am sensible, indeed, that I never can recompense the sacrifice you have made me. The feelings it has excited I shall not attempt to express, because language could never do them justice; but you may conceive what I must feel for the being who has preserved me from dishonor and destruction. I am informed Lord Mortimer has left Ireland, and therefore daily expect him in town. I have now not only every hope, but every prospect, of his complying with my wishes. This, I imagine, will be rather pleasing to you to hear, that you may know the sacrifice you have made is not made in vain, but will be attended with all the good consequences I expected to derive from it. I should again enjoy a tolerable degree of peace, were I assured you were happy; but this is an assurance I will hope soon to receive; for if you are not happy, who has a right to expect being so?--you whose virtue is so pure, whose generosity is so noble, so heroic, so far superior to any I have ever met with!
That in this world, as well as the next, you may be rewarded for it, is, dear madam, the sincere wish of him who has the honor to subscribe himself your most grateful, most obliged, and most obedient, humble servant,
CHERBURY.
"Unfeeling man!" exclaimed Amanda, "how little is your heart interested in what you write, and how slight do you make of the sacrifice I have made you; how cruelly mention your hopes, which are derived from the destruction of mine! No, sooner would I wander from door to door for charity, than be indebted to your ostentatious gratitude for support--you, whose treachery and vile deceit have ruined my happiness." She closed the letter, and committing it to her pocket, took up the other, which she saw by the direction was from her dear Mrs. Dermot.
TO MISS DONALD.
Ah! my dear child, why extort a promise from me of being minute in relating everything which happened in consequence of your departure--a promise so solemnly given that I dare not recede from it; yet most unwillingly do I keep it, sensible as I am that the intelligence I have to communicate will but aggravate your sorrows. Methinks I hear you exclaim at this: "Surely, my dear Mrs. Dermot, you who know my disposition and temper so well, might suppose I would receive such intelligence with a fortitude and patience that would prevent its materially injuring me." Well, my dear, hoping this will be the case, I begin, without further delay, to communicate particulars. You left me, you may remember, about three o'clock. I then went to bed, but so fatigued and oppressed I could scarcely sleep, and was quite unrefreshed by what I did get. After prayers I repaired to the parlor, where the assiduous care of Sister Mary had already prepared everything for your breakfast and Lord Mortimer's. I told the sisters not to appear till they were sent for. I had not been long alone when Lord Mortimer came in--cheerful, blooming, animated. Never did I see happiness so strongly impressed in any countenance as in his. He looked, indeed, the lover about receiving the precious reward of constancy. He asked me had I seen you? I answered, No. He soon grew impatient, said you were a lazy girl, and feared you would make a bad traveller. He then rang the bell, and desired the maid to go and call you. Oh! my dear girl, my heart almost died within me at this moment. I averted my head, and pretended to be looking at the garden to conceal my confusion. The maid returned in a few minutes, and said you were not above. "Well," said Lord Mortimer, "she is in some other apartment; pray search, and hasten her hither." In a few minutes after she departed, Sister Mary, all pale and breathless, rushed into the room. "Oh, heavens!" cried she, "Miss Fitzalan cannot be found; but here are two letters I found on her dressing-table--one for you, madam, and one for Lord Mortimer." I know not how he looked at this instant, for a guilty consciousness came over my mind, which prevented my raising my eyes to his. I took the letter in silence, opened, but had no power to read it. Sister Mary stood by me, wringing her hands and weeping, as she exclaimed, "What--what does she say to you?" I could neither answer her nor move, till a deep sigh, or rather groan, from Lord Mortimer roused me. I started from my seat, and perceive him pale and motionless, the letter open in his hand, upon which his eyes were riveted. I threw open the garden door to give him air. This a little revived him. "Be comforted, my lord," said I. He shook his head mournfully, and waving his hand for me neither to speak nor follow him, passed into the garden. "Blessed Heaven!" said Sister Mary again, "what does she say to you!" I gave her your letter, and desired her to read it aloud, for the tears which flowed at the affecting situation of Lord Mortimer quite obscured my sight. And here, my dear child, I must declare that you have been too generous, and also, that the sum you betrayed us into taking is but considered as a loan by us. But, to return to my first subject. The alarm concerning you now became general, and the nuns crowded into the room--grief and consternation in every countenance. In about half an hour I saw Lord Mortimer returning to the parlor, and I then dismissed them. He had been endeavoring to compose himself, but his efforts for doing so were ineffectual. He trembled, was pale as death, and spoke with a faltering voice. He gave me your letter to read, and I put mine into his hand. "Well, my lord," said I, on perusing it, "we must rather pity than condemn her." "From my soul," cried he, "I pity her--I pity such a being as Amanda Fitzalan, for being the slave, the prey of vice. But she has been cruel to me; she has deceived, inhumanly deceived me, and blasted my peace for ever!" "Ah, my lord!" I replied, "though appearances are against her, I can never believe her guilty. She, who performed all the duties of a child, as Amanda Fitzalan did, and who, to my certain knowledge, was preparing herself for a life of poverty, can never be a victim to vice." "Mention her no more," cried he; "her name is like a dagger to my heart. The suspicions which, but a few nights ago, I could have killed myself for entertaining, are now confirmed. They intruded on my mind from seeing Belgrave haunting this place, and from finding her secreted amidst the ruins at a late hour. Ah, heavens! when I noticed her confusion, how easily did she exculpate herself to a heart prepossessed like mine in her favor! Unhappy, unfortunate girl! sad and pitiable is thy fate! but may an early repentance snatch thee from the villain who now triumphs in thy ruin; and may we, since thus separated, never meet again. So well," continued he, "am I convinced of the cause of her flight, that I shall not make one inquiry after her." I again attempted to speak in your justification, but he silenced me. I begged he would allow me to get him breakfast. He could touch nothing, and said he must return directly to Castle Carberry, but promised, in the course of the day, to see me again. I followed him into the hall. At the sight of your corded boxes, he started, and shrunk back, with that kind of melancholy horror which we involuntarily feel when viewing anything that belonged to a dear, lost friend. I saw his emotions were agonizing. He hid his face with his handkerchief, and, with a hasty step, ascended to his carriage, which, with a travelling chaise, was waiting at the door.
I own I was often tempted, in the course of conversation, to tell him all I knew about you; but the promise I had given you still rose to my view, and I felt, without your permission, I could not break it; yet, my dear, it is shocking to me to have such imputations cast on you. We cannot blame Lord Mortimer for them. Situated as you were with him, your conduct has naturally excited the most injurious suspicions. Surely, my child, though not allowed to solve the mystery which has separated you from him, you may be allowed to vindicate your conduct. The sacrifice of fame and happiness is too much. Consider and weigh well what I say, and, if possible, authorize me to inform Lord Mortimer that I know of your retreat, and that you have retired neither to a lover nor a friend; but to indigence and obscurity, led thither by a fatal necessity which you are bound to conceal, and feel more severely from that circumstance. He would, I am confident, credit my words; and then, instead of condemning, would join me in pitying you. The more I reflect on your unaccountable separation, the more am I bewildered in conjectures relative to it, and convinced more strongly than ever of the frailty of human joy, which, like a summer cloud, is bright, but transitory in its splendor. Lord Mortimer had left the convent about two hours, when his man arrived to dismiss the travelling chaise and attendants. I went out and inquired after his lord. "He is very bad, madam," said he, "and this has been a sad morning for us all." Never, my dear Miss Fitzalan, did I, or the sisterhood, pass so melancholy a day. About five in the afternoon, I received another visit from Lord Mortimer. I was alone in the parlor, which he entered with an appearance of the deepest melancholy; one of his arms was in a sling. I was terrified, lest he and Belgrave had met. He conjectured, I fancy, the occasion of the terror my countenance expressed, for he immediately said he had been ill on returning to Castle Carberry, and was bled. He was setting off directly for Dublin, he said, from whence he intended to embark for England. "But I could not depart, my dear, good friend," continued he, "without bidding you farewell; besides, I wanted to assure you, that any promise which the unfortunate girl made you in my name I shall hold sacred." I knew he alluded to the fifty pounds which he had desired you to tell me should be annually remitted to our house. I instantly, therefore, replied, that we had already been rewarded beyond our expectation or desires for any little attention we showed Miss Fitzalan; but his generous resolution was not to be shaken. He looked weak and exhausted. I begged permission to make tea for him ere he commenced his journey. He consented. I went out of the room to order in the things. When I returned, he was standing at the window which looked into the garden, so absorbed in meditation that he did not hear me. I heard him say, "Cruel Amanda! is it thus you have rewarded my sufferings?" I retreated, lest he should be confused by supposing himself overheard, and did not return till the maid brought in the tea things.
When he arose to depart, he looked wavering and agitated, as if there was something on his mind he wanted courage to say. At last, in a faltering voice, while the deadly paleness of his complexion gave way to a deep crimson, he said, "I left Miss Fitzalan's letter with you." Ah, my dear! never did man love woman better than he did, than he now loves you. I took the letter from my pocket, and presented it to him. He put it in his bosom, with an emotion that shook his whole frame. I hailed this as a favorable opportunity for again speaking in your favor. I bid him retrospect your past actions, and judge from them whether you could be guilty of a crime----. He stopped me short. He begged me to drop a subject he was unable to bear. Had he been less credulous, he said, he should now have been much happier; then wringing my hand, he bid me farewell, in a voice, and with a look, that drew tears from me. "Ah, my dear madam!" cried he, "when this day commenced, how differently did I think it would have terminated!"
I attended him to his carriage. He was obliged to lean upon his man as he ascended to it, and his looks and agitation proclaimed the deepest distress. I have sent repeatedly to Castle Carberry since his departure to inquire about him, and have been informed, that they expect to hear nothing of him till Lord Cherbury's agent comes into the country, which will not be these three months.
I have heard much of the good he did in the neighborhood. He has a bounteous and benevolent spirit indeed. To our community he has been a liberal benefactor, and our prayers are daily offered up for his restoration to health and tranquillity. Amongst his other actions, when in Dublin, about three months ago, he ordered a monument to the memory of Captain Fitzalan, which has been brought down since your departure, and put up in the parish church, where he is interred. I sent Sister Mary and another of the nuns the other evening to see it, and they brought me a description of it. It is a white marble urn, ornamented with a foliage of laurel, and standing upon a pedestal of gray, on which the name of the deceased, and words to the following effect, are inscribed, namely: "That he whose memory it perpetuates, performed the duties of a Christian and a soldier, with a fidelity and zeal that now warrants his enjoying a blessed recompense for both."
I know this proof of respect to your father will deeply affect you; but I would not omit telling it, because, though it will affect, I am confident it will also please you. The late events have cast a gloom over all our spirits. Sister Mary now prays more than ever; and you know I have often told her she was only fit for a religious vocation. It is a bad world, she says, we live in, and she is glad she has so little to say to it.
I am longing to hear from you. Pray tell me how you like Mrs. Macpherson. I have not seen her since her youth, and years often produce as great a change in the temper as the face. At any rate, your present situation is too obscure for you to continue in, and, as soon as your thoughts are collected and composed, you must look out for another. I hope you will be constant in writing; but I tell you beforehand, you must not expect me to be punctual in my answers--I have been so long disused to writing, and my eyes are grown so weak. This letter has been the work of many days; besides, I have really nothing interesting to communicate: whenever I have, you may be assured I shall not lose a moment in informing you.
The woman was extremely thankful for the five guineas you left her. Lord Mortimer sent her five more by his man; so that she thinks herself well rewarded for any trouble or disappointment she experienced. If you wish to have any of your things sent to you, acquaint me; you know I shall never want an opportunity by the master of the vessel. He speaks largely of your generosity to him, and expresses much pity at seeing so young a person in such melancholy. May Heaven, if it does not remove the source, at least lessen this melancholy.
If possible, allow me to write to Lord Mortimer, and vindicate you from the unworthy suspicions he entertains of you. I know he would believe me, and I should do it without discovering your retreat. Farewell, my dear girl. I recommend you constantly to the care of Heaven, and beg you to believe you will ever be dear and interesting to the heart of
ELIZABETH DERMOT.
St. Catherine's.
Poor Amanda wept over this letter. "I have ruined the health, the peace of Lord Mortimer," she exclaimed, "and he now execrates me as the source of his unhappiness. Oh! Lord Cherbury, how severely do I suffer for your crime!" She began to think her virtue had been too heroic in the sacrifice she had made. But this was a transient idea, for when she reflected on the disposition of Lord Cherbury, she was convinced the divulgement of his secret would have been followed by his death; and, great as was her present wretchedness, she felt it light compared to the horrors she knew she would experience could she accuse herself of being accessory to such an event. She now drank deeply of the cup of misery, but conscious rectitude, in some degree, lessened its noxious bitterness. She resolved to caution Mrs. Dermot against mentioning her in any manner to Lord Mortimer. She was well convinced he would believe no asseveration of her innocence. And even if he did, what end could it answer? Their union was opposed by an obstacle not to be surmounted, and if he sought and discovered her retreat, it would only lead to new sorrows, perhaps occasion some dreadful catastrophe. "We are separated," cried she, folding her hands together, "forever separated in this world, but in Heaven we shall again be reunited."
Absorbed in the reflections and sorrow this letter gave rise to, she remained in her seat till Mrs. Macpherson's little girl suddenly appeared before her, and said her mistress had made tea, and was wondering what kept her out so long.
Amanda instantly arose, and carefully putting up the letter, returned to the house, where she found Mrs. Macpherson in a very bad humor. She grumbled exceedingly at Amanda's staying out so long, and taking notice of her eyes being red and swelled, said, "indeed, she believed she was right in supposing she had got a love-letter." Amanda made no reply, and the evening passed away in peevishness on one side and silence on the other.
The charm which had hitherto rendered Amanda's situation tolerable was now dissolved, as Mrs. Dermot had said she could write but seldom, and scarcely expected to have anything interesting to relate. She would gladly, therefore, have left Mrs. Macpherson immediately, but she knew not where to go. She resolved, however, ere winter had entirely set in, to request Mrs. Dermot to look out for some other place for her: as she had connections in Scotland, she thought she might recommend her to them as a governess, or a fit person to do fine works for a lady. She rose long before her usual hour the next morning, and wrote a letter expressive of her wishes and intentions to Mrs. Dermot, which she sent by a poor man, who lived near the house, to the post-town, rewarding him liberally for his trouble.
Chapter XLIII
"Who knows the joys of friendship, The trust, security and mutual tenderness, The double joys, where each is glad for both; Friendship, our only wealth, our last retreat and strength, Secure against ill-fortune and the world?"--ROWE.
Among Mrs. Macpherson's pupils were two little girls, who pleased and interested Amanda greatly. Their father, for whom they were in mourning, had perished in a violent storm, and their mother had pined in health and spirits ever since the fatal accident. The kindness with which Amanda treated them, they repaid with gratitude and attention. It had a double effect upon their little hearts, from being contrasted with the sour austerity of Mrs. Macpherson. They told Amanda, in a whisper, one morning, that their mamma was coming to see their dear, good Frances Donald.
Accordingly, in the course of the day, Mrs. Duncan came. She was young and pleasing in her appearance; her weeds and deep dejection rendered her a most interesting object. She sat by Amanda, and took an opportunity, while Mrs. Macpherson was engaged with some of the children, to tell her, in a low voice, "she was truly obliged to her for the great attention and kindness she showed her little girls, so unlike their former treatment at the school." "The task of instructing them was hers," she said, "till her declining health and spirits rendered her no longer able to bear it." Amanda assured her, "it was a pleasure to instruct minds so docile and sweet tempered as theirs." Mrs. Duncan, as she rose to depart, asked her and Mrs. Macpherson to tea that evening, which invitation was instantly accepted by Mrs. Macpherson, who was extremely fond of being sociable everywhere but in her own house. Mrs. Duncan lived at but a little distance, and everything in and about her house was neat and comfortable. She had an old neighbor in the parlor, who kept Mrs. Macpherson in chat, and gave her an opportunity of conversing freely with Amanda. She remarked the delicacy of her looks, and said "She believed she was ill-qualified to endure so fatiguing a life as her present one." She mentioned her own lonely and melancholy life, and the happiness she would derive from having such a companion, and expressed her hopes of often enjoying her society. Amanda said this would be impossible without disobliging Mrs. Macpherson; and Mrs. Duncan, on reflection, allowed it would be so. She then inquired if she ever walked? Amanda replied she did; and was asked where she generally rambled? By the sea-side, she answered. Mrs. Duncan sighed deeply, and her eyes filled with tears. "It is there I generally ramble too," said she. This led to the mention of her late loss. "Mr. Duncan had been the kindest, best of husbands," she said; "the first years of their marriage were attended with difficulties, which were just removed, when he was lost on a party of pleasure, with several others. It was some consolation, however," continued Mrs. Duncan, "that the body was cast upon the shore, and I had the power of paying the last rites of decency and respect to him." In short, between her and Amanda there appeared a mutual sympathy, which rendered them truly interesting to each other. From this period they generally met every evening, and passed many hours on the "sea-beat shore," talking, and often weeping, over joys departed, never to return! Mrs. Duncan was too delicate to inquire into Amanda's former situation; but was well convinced it had been very different from her present one. Amanda, however, of her own accord, told her what she had told Mrs. Macpherson respecting herself. Mrs. Duncan lamented her misfortunes; but since she had met them, blessed the happy chance which conducted her near her habitation.
A month passed in this manner, when one evening, at the usual place of meeting, Mrs. Duncan told her, "that she believed she should soon be quitting that part of the country." Amanda started, and turned pale at this disagreeable intelligence. She had received no answer to her letter from Mrs. Dermot, consequently dreaded that necessity would compel her to remain in her present situation, and on Mrs. Duncan's society she had depended for rendering it bearable to her.
"I have been invited, my dear girl," said Mrs. Duncan, leaning on her arm as they walked up and down the beach, "to reside with an aunt, who has always been kind, and particularly so to me in my distress. She lives about ten miles from this, at an old place called Dunreath Abbey, of which she is housekeeper. Have you ever heard of it?" Amanda's agitation at hearing her mother's native habitation mentioned, is not to be described. Her heart palpitated; she felt her color change, and said Yes and No to Mrs. Duncan, without knowing what she answered. Then recollecting herself, she replied, "she had heard of it." "Well, then, my dear," continued Mrs. Duncan, "my aunt, as I have already told you, is housekeeper there. She lives in great grandeur, for it is a magnificent old seat, and has the absolute command of everything, as none of the family have resided at it since the Earl of Dunreath's decease. My aunt is lately grown weary of the profound solitude in which she lives, and has asked me, in a letter which I received this morning, to go immediately and take up my residence with her, promising, if I do, she will leave everything she is worth to me and my children; and as her salary is very good, I know she must have saved a good deal. This is a very tempting offer, and I am only withheld from accepting it directly by the fear of depriving my children of the advantages of education." "Why," said Amanda, "what they learn at Mrs. Macpherson's they could easily learn anywhere else." "But I intended, when they were a little older," replied Mrs. Duncan, "to go to some one of the neighboring towns with them. If I once go to my aunt, I must entirely relinquish such an idea, and to a boarding-school I could not send them, for I have not fortitude to bear a separation from them. What I wish, therefore, is to procure a person who would be at once a pleasing companion for me, and an eligible governess for them. With such a person, the solitude of Dunreath Abbey would be rather agreeable than irksome to me."
She looked earnestly at Amanda as she spoke, and Amanda's heart began to throb with hope and agitation. "In short, my dear girl," continued she, "you of all others, to be explicit, are the person I would choose to bring along with me. Your sweet society would alleviate my sorrows, and your elegant accomplishments give to my children all the advantages I desire them to possess." "I am not only flattered, but happy by your prepossession in my favor," replied Amanda.
"I am pleased we agree in point of inclination," said Mrs. Duncan; "but I must now inform you that my aunt has always been averse to admit any strangers to the Abbey. Why, I know not, except it is by the commands of the family; and she tells me in her letter, that if I accept her invitation, I must not on any account let it be known where I am removing to. I dare not, therefore, bring you with me without her permission; but I shall write immediately and request it. In the course of a day or two I may expect an answer. In the mean time, give Mrs. Macpherson no intimation of our present intentions, lest they should be defeated." Amanda promised she would not, and they separated.
She was now in a state of the greatest agitation, at the probability there was that she might visit the seat of her ancestors. She dreaded a disappointment, and felt that, if she went there as the companion of Mrs. Duncan, she should be better situated than a few hours before she had ever expected to be again. Two evenings after her conversation with Mrs. Duncan, on going to the beach to meet her, she saw her approaching with an open letter in her hand, and a smile on her face, which informed her its contents were pleasing. They were so indeed, as they gave permission to have Amanda brought to the Abbey, provided she promised inviolable secrecy as to where she was going. This Amanda cheerfully did, and Mrs. Duncan said she had some affairs to settle, which would prevent their departure for a few days. At whatever time she appointed, her aunt was to send a carriage for then, and it was now agreed that Mrs. Macpherson should be informed Mrs. Duncan was leaving that part of the country, and had engaged Amanda as a governess to her children.
Mrs. Duncan then mentioned her own terms. Amanda assured her an idea of them had never entered her thoughts. Mrs. Duncan said she was sure of that, but at the same time thought between the most intimate friends exactness should be preserved. Everything being settled to their mutual satisfaction, they separated, and the following day, after school broke up, Amanda informed Mrs. Macpherson of her intended departure. The old dame was thunderstruck, and for some time unable to speak; but when she recovered the use of her tongue, she expressed the utmost rage and indignation against Amanda, Mrs. Duncan, and the prioress. Against the first for thinking of leaving her, the second for inveigling her away, and the third for recommending a person who could serve her in such a manner. When she stopped, exhausted by her violence, Amanda took the opportunity of assuring her that she had no reason to condemn any of them; as for her part, previous to Mrs. Duncan's offer, she intended to leave her, being unable to bear a life of such fatigue; that as her removal would not be immediate, Mrs. Macpherson could suffer no inconvenience by it, there being time enough to look out for another person ere it took place. But the truth now broke from Mrs. Macpherson; angry as she was with Amanda, she could not help confessing, that she never again expected to meet with a person so well qualified to please her, and a torrent of bitter reproaches again burst forth for her quitting her.
Amanda resented them not, but did all in her power to mollify her; as the most effectual method of doing so, she declared she meant to take no recompense for the time she had been with her, and added, if she had her permission, she would write that evening to Mrs. Dermot about a woman she had seen at the convent, whom she thought well qualified to be an assistant in her school. This was the woman who had been engaged to attend her to England. Mrs. Macpherson at last consented she should write for her, as her wrath had gradually subsided from the moment Amanda declared she would take no payment. Amanda accordingly wrote to Mrs. Dermot, and informed her of the agreeable change there was about taking place in her situation; also of Mrs. Macpherson's displeasure, and her own wish that a person might immediately be procured to fill the place she was resigning. She mentioned the woman already spoken of as a proper person, but requested, if she consented to come, she might not be allowed to do so till she had left Mrs. Macpherson's, else who she really was would be betrayed. She now thought little of the tedious and disagreeable days she spent, as the eagerness with which she saw Mrs. Duncan preparing for their departure promised so speedily to change them. She received an answer from Ireland even sooner than she expected. Mrs. Dermot congratulated her on having met with so amiable a friend as Mrs. Duncan, said the woman accepted the offer made in Mrs. Macpherson's name, but should not depart till she had written for that purpose, and concluded her letter by saying, there was no intelligence yet of Lord Mortimer. Mrs. Macpherson was pleased to find she should not be long without a companion, and two days after the receipt of the letter Mrs. Duncan told Amanda their journey was fixed for the ensuing day, and begged Amanda to sleep at her house that night, to which she gladly consented; accordingly, after dinner she took leave of Mrs. Macpherson, who grumbled out a farewell, and a hope that she might not have reason to repent quitting her, for the old lady was so incensed to have the place Mrs. Duncan was going to concealed from her that all her ill-humor had returned. Amanda with a pleasure she could scarcely conceal, quitted her inhospitable mansion, and, attended by a man who carried her trunk, soon found herself at Mrs. Duncan's, where she was received with every demonstration of joy. The evening passed sociably away; they rose early in the morning, and had just breakfasted when the expected carriage from Dunreath Abbey arrived. It was a heavy, old-fashioned chaise, on whose faded panels the arms of the Dunreath family were still visible. Mrs. Duncan's luggage had been sent off the preceding day, so that there was nothing now to delay them. Mrs. Duncan made Amanda and the children go into the chaise before her, but, detained by an emotion of the most painful nature, she lingered sometime after them upon the threshold. She could not indeed depart from the habitation where she had experienced so many happy days with the man of her tenderest affections without a flood of tears, which spoke the bitterness of her feelings. Amanda knew too well the nature of those feelings to attempt restraining them; but the little children, impatient to begin their journey, called out to their mamma to come into the carriage. She started when they spoke, but instantly complied with their desire: and when they expressed their grief at seeing her cheeks wet with tears, kissed them both, and said she would soon recover her spirits. She accordingly exerted herself for that purpose, and was soon in a condition to converse with Amanda. The day was fine and serene; they travelled leisurely, for the horses had long outlived their mettlesome days, and gave them an opportunity of attentively viewing the prospects on each side, which were various, romantic, and beautiful; the novelty of the scenes, the disagreeable place she had left, and the idea of the one she was going to, helped a little to enliven the pensive soul of Amanda, and she enjoyed a greater degree of tranquillity than she had before experienced since her separation from Lord Mortimer.
Chapter XLIV
"My listening powers Were awed, and every thought in silence hung And wondering expectation."--AKENSIDE.
"My dear Fanny," said Mrs. Duncan, addressing our heroine by her borrowed name, "if at all inclined to superstition, you are now going to a place which will call it forth. Dunreath Abbey is gothic and gloomy in the extreme, and recalls to one's mind all the stories they ever heard of haunted houses and apparitions. The desertion of the native inhabitants has hastened the depredations of time, whose ravages are unrepaired, except in the part immediately occupied by the domestics. Yet what is the change in the building compared to the revolution which took place in the fortunes of her who once beheld a prospect of being its mistress. The earl of Dunreath's eldest daughter, as I have often heard from many, was a celebrated beauty, and as good as she was handsome, but a malignant step-mother thwarted her happiness, and forced her to take shelter in the arms of a man who had everything but fortune to recommend him--but, in wanting that, he wanted everything to please her family. After some years of distress, she found means to soften the heart of her father; but here the invidious step-mother again interfered, and prevented her experiencing any good effects from his returning tenderness, and, it was rumored, by a deep and iniquitous scheme, deprived her of her birthright. Like other rumors, however, it gradually died away; perhaps from Lady Malvina and her husband never hearing of it, and none but them had a right to inquire into its truth. But if such a scheme was really contrived, woe be to its fabricator; the pride and pomp of wealth can neither alleviate nor recompense the stings of conscience. Much rather," continued Mrs. Duncan, laying her hands upon her children's heads as they sat at her feet,--"much rather would I have my babes wander from door to door, to beg the dole of charity, than live upon the birthright of the orphan. If Lady Dunreath, in reality, committed the crime she was accused of, she met, in some degree, a punishment for it. Soon after the Earl's death she betrayed a partiality for a man every way inferior to her, which partiality, people have not scrupled to say, commenced and was indulged to a criminal degree during the lifetime of her husband. She would have married him, had not her daughter the Marchioness of Roslin, interfered. Proud and ambitious, her rage at the prospect of such an alliance, knew no bounds, and, seconded by the marquis, whose disposition was congenial to her own, they got the unfortunate mother into their power, and hurried her off to a convent in France. I know not whether she is yet living; indeed, I believe there are few either know or care, she was so much disliked for her haughty disposition. I have sometimes asked my aunt about her, but she would never gratify my curiosity. She has been brought up in the family, and no doubt thinks herself bound to conceal whatever they choose. She lives in ease and plenty, and is absolute mistress of the few domestics that reside at the Abbey. But of those domestics I caution you in time, or they will be apt to fill your head with frightful stories of the Abbey, which sometimes, if one's spirits are weak, in spite of reason, will make an impression on the mind. They pretend that the Earl of Dunreath's first wife haunts the Abbey, venting the most piteous moans, which they ascribe to grief for the unfortunate fate of her daughter, and that daughter's children being deprived of their rightful patrimony. I honestly confess, when at the Abbey a few years ago, during some distresses of my husband, I heard strange noises one evening at twilight as I walked in a gallery. I told my aunt of them, and she was quite angry at the involuntary terror I expressed, and said it was nothing but the wind whistling through some adjoining galleries which I heard. But this, my dear Fanny," said Mrs. Duncan, who on account of her children had continued the latter part of her discourse in a low voice, "is all between ourselves; for my aunt declared she would never pardon my mentioning my ridiculous fears, or the yet more ridiculous fears of the servants, to any human being."
Amanda listened in silence to Mrs. Duncan's discourse, fearful that if she spoke she should betray the emotions it excited.
They at last entered between the mountains that enclosed the valley on which the Abbey stood. The scene was solemn and solitary. Every prospect, except one of the sea, seen through an aperture in one of the mountains, was excluded. Some of these mountains were bare, craggy, and projecting. Others were skirted with trees, robed with vivid green, and crowned with white and yellow furze. Some were all a wood of intermingled shades, and others covered with long and purple heath. Various streams flowed from them into the valley. Some stole gently down their sides in silver rills, giving beauty and vigor wherever they meandered. Others tumbled from fragment to fragment, with a noise not undelightful to the ear, and formed for themselves a deep bed in the valley, over which trees, that appeared coeval with the building, bent their old and leafy heads.
At the foot of what to the rest was called a gently swelling hill lay the remains of the extensive gardens which had once given the luxuries of the vegetable world to the banquets of the Abbey; but the buildings which had nursed those luxuries were all gone to decay, and the gay plantations were overrun with the progeny of neglect and sloth.
The Abbey was one of the most venerable looking buildings Amanda had ever beheld; but it was in melancholy grandeur she now saw it--in the wane of its days, when its glory was passed away, and the whole pile proclaimed desertion and decay. She saw it when, to use the beautiful language of Hutchinson, its pride was brought low, when its magnificence was sinking in the dust, when tribulation had taken the seat of hospitality, and solitude reigned, where once the jocund guest had laughed over the sparkling bowl, whilst the owls sang nightly their strains of melancholy to the moonshine that slept upon its mouldering battlements.
The heart of Amanda was full of the fond idea of her parents, and the sigh of tender remembrance stole from it. "How little room," thought she, "should there be in the human heart for the worldly pride which so often dilates it, liable as all things are to change! the distress in which the descendants of noble families are so often seen, the decline of such families themselves, should check the arrogant presumption with which so many look forward to having their greatness and prosperity perpetuated through every branch of their posterity.
"The proud possessors of this Abbey, surrounded with affluence, and living in its full enjoyment, never perhaps admitted the idea as at all probable, that one of their descendants should ever approach the seat of her ancestors without that pomp and elegance which heretofore distinguished its daughters. Alas! one now approaches it neither to display nor contemplate the pageantry of wealth, but meek and lowly; not to receive the smile of love, or the embrace of relatives, but afflicted and unknown, glad to find a shelter, and procure the bread of dependence, beneath its decaying roof."
Mrs. Duncan happily marked not Amanda's emotion as she gazed upon the Abbey. She was busily employed in answering her children's questions, who wanted to know whether she thought they would be able to climb up the great big hills they saw.
The carriage at last stopped before the Abbey. Mrs. Bruce was already at the door to receive them. She was a little, smart old woman, and welcomed her niece and the children with an appearance of the greatest pleasure. On Amanda's being presented to her, she gazed steadfastly in her face a few minutes, and then exclaimed, "Well, this is very strange; though I know I could never have seen this young lady before, her face is quite familiar to me."
The hall into which they entered was large and gloomy, paved with black marble, and supported by pillars, through which the arched doors that led to various apartments were seen. Rude implements, such as the Caledonians had formerly used in war and hunting, were ranged along the walls. Mrs. Bruce conducted them into a spacious parlor, terminated by an elegant saloon. This, she told them, had once been the banquetingroom. The furniture, though faded, was still magnificent, and the windows, though still in the gothic style, from being enlarged considerably beyond their original dimensions, afforded a most delightful view of the domain.
"Do you know," said Mrs. Duncan, "this apartment, though one of the pleasantest in the Abbey in point of situation, always makes me melancholy. The moment I enter it I think of the entertainments once given in it, and then its present vacancy and stillness almost instantly reminds me that those who partook of these entertainments are now almost all humbled with the dust!" Her aunt laughed, and said, "she was very romantic."
The solemnity of the Abbey was well calculated to heighten the awe which stole upon the spirit of Amanda from her first view of it. No noise was heard throughout it, except the hoarse creaking of the massy doors, as the servants passed from one room to another, adjusting Mrs. Duncan's things, and preparing for dinner. Mrs. Duncan was drawn into a corner of the room by her aunt, to converse, in a low voice, about family affairs, and the children were rambling about the hall, wondering and inquiring about everything they saw.
Thus left to herself, a soft languor gradually stole over the mind of Amanda, which was almost exhausted from the emotions it had experienced. The murmuring sound of waterfalls, and the buzzing of the flies that basked in the sunny rays which darted through the casements, lulled her into a kind of pensive tranquillity.
"Am I really," she asked herself, "in the seat of my ancestors? Am I really in the habitation where my mother was born--where her irrevocable vows were plighted to my father? I am; and oh! within it may I at last find an asylum from the vices and dangers of the world; within it may my sorrowing spirit lose its agitation, and subdue, if not its affections, at least its murmurs, at the disappointment of those affections."
The appearance of dinner interrupted her. She made exertions to overcome any appearance of dejection, and the conversation, if not lively, was at least cheerful. After dinner Mrs. Duncan, who had been informed by Amanda of her predilection for old buildings, asked her aunt's permission to show her the Abbey. Mrs. Bruce immediately arose, and said she would have that pleasure herself. She accordingly led the way. Many of the apartments yet displayed the sumptuous taste of those who had furnished them. "It is astonishing to me," said Mrs. Duncan, "that so magnificent a pile as this should be abandoned, as I may say, by its possessors." "The Marquis of Roslin's castle is a more modern structure than this," said Mrs. Bruce, "and preferred by them on that account." "So, like the family monument," rejoined Mrs. Duncan, "they are merely satisfied with permitting this to stand, as it may help to transmit the marchioness's name to posterity." "How far does the marquis live from this?" asked Amanda. "About twelve miles," replied Mrs. Bruce, who did not appear pleased with her niece's conversation, and led the way to a long gallery ornamented with portraits of the family. This gallery Amanda knew well by description. This was the gallery in which her father had stopped to contemplate the picture of her mother, and her heart throbbed with impatience and anxiety to see that picture.
Mrs. Bruce, as she went before her, told her the names of the different portraits. She suddenly stopped before one. "That," cried she, "is the Marchioness of Roslin's, drawn for her when Lady Augusta Dunreath." Amanda cast her eyes upon it, and perceived in the countenance the same haughtiness as still distinguished the marchioness. She looked at the next panel, and found it empty.
"The picture of Lady Malvina Dunreath hung there," said Mrs. Bruce; "but after her unfortunate marriage it was taken down." "And destroyed," exclaimed Amanda mournfully. "No; but it was thrown into the old chapel, where, with the rest of the lumber (the soul of Amanda was struck at these words), it has been locked up for years." "And is it impossible to see it?" asked Amanda. "Impossible, indeed," replied Mrs. Bruce. "The chapel, and the whole eastern part of the Abbey, have long been in a ruinous situation, on which account it has been locked up." "This is the gallery," whispered Mrs. Duncan, "in which I heard the strange noises; but not a word of them to my aunt." Amanda could scarcely conceal the disappointment she felt at finding she could not see her mother's picture. She would have entreated the chapel might be opened for that purpose, had she not feared exciting suspicions by doing so.
They returned from the gallery to the parlor; and in the course of conversation Amanda heard many interesting anecdotes of her ancestors from Mrs. Bruce. Her mother was also mentioned, and Mrs. Bruce, by dwelling on her worth, made amends, in some degree, to Amanda for having called her picture lumber. She retired to her chamber with her mind at once softened and elevated by hearing of her mother's virtues. She called upon her father's spirit, upon them whose kindred souls were reunited in heaven, to bless their child, to strengthen, to support her in the thorny path marked out for her to take; nor to cease their tutelary care till she was joined to them by Providence.
Chapter XLV
"Such on the ground the fading rose we see, By some rude blast torn from the parent tree! The daffodil so leans his languid head, Newly mown down upon his grassy bed!"--LEE.
Experience convinced Amanda that the change in her situation was, if possible, more pleasing than she expected it would be. Mrs. Duncan was the kindest and most attentive of friends. Mrs. Bruce was civil and obliging, and her little pupils were docile and affectionate. Could she have avoided retrospection, she would have been happy; but the remembrance of past events was too deeply impressed upon her mind to be erased; it mingled in the visions of the night, in the avocations of the day, and in the meditations of her lonely hours, forcing from her heart the sighs of regret and tenderness. Her mornings were devoted to her pupils, and in the evenings she sometimes walked with Mrs. Duncan, sometimes read aloud whilst she and her aunt were working; but whenever they were engaged in chatting about family affairs, or at a game of piquet (which was often the case), as Mrs. Bruce neither loved walking nor working, she always took that opportunity of retiring from the room, and either rambled through the dark and intricate windings of the Abbey, or about the grounds contiguous to it. She sighed whenever she passed the chapel which contained the picture of her mother; it was in a ruinous condition, but a thick foliage of ivy partly hid while it proclaimed its decay; the windows were broken in many places, but all too high to admit the possibility of her gaining admittance through them, and the door was strongly secured by massy bars of iron, as was every door which had a communication with the eastern part of the Abbey. A fortnight passed away at the Abbey without anything happening to disturb the tranquillity which reigned in it. No one approached it, except a few of the wandering children of poverty, and its inhabitants seemed perfectly content with their seclusion from the world. Amanda, by Mrs. Duncan's desire, had told Mrs. Dermot to direct her letters to a town about five miles from the Abbey; thither a man went every day, but constantly returned without one for her.
"Why," she asked herself, "this anxiety for a letter, this disappointment at not receiving one, when I neither expect to hear anything interesting or agreeable? Mrs. Dermot has already said she had no means of hearing about Lord Mortimer; and, even if she had, why should I desire such intelligence, torn as I am from him forever?"
At the expiration of another week an incident happened, which again destroyed the composure of our heroine. Mrs. Bruce one morning hastily entered the room, where she and Mrs. Duncan were sitting with the little girls, and begged they would not stir from it till she had told them to do so, as the Marquis of Roslin's steward was below stairs, and if he knew of their residence at the Abbey, she was confident he would reveal it to his lord, which she had no doubt would occasion her own dismission from it. The ladies assured her they would not leave the apartment, and she retired, leaving them astonished at the agitation she betrayed.
In about two hours she returned, and said she came to release them from confinement, as the steward had departed. "He has brought unexpected intelligence," said she; "the marquis and his family are coming down to the castle. The season is so far advanced, I did not suppose they would visit it till next summer; I must, therefore," continued she, addressing her niece, "send to the neighboring town to procure lodgings for you till the family leave the country, as no doubt some of them will come to the Abbey, and to find you in it would, I can assure you, be attended with unpleasant consequences to me."
Mrs. Duncan begged she would not suffer the least uneasiness on her account, and proposed that very day leaving the Abbey. "No," Mrs. Bruce replied, "there is no necessity for quitting it for a few days longer; the family," continued she, "are coming down upon a joyful occasion, to celebrate the nuptials of the marquis's daughter, Lady Euphrasia Sutherland." "Lady Euphrasia's nuptials!" exclaimed Amanda, in an agitated voice, and forgetting her own situation. "To whom is she going to be married?" "To Lord Mortimer," Mrs. Bruce replied, "the Earl of Cherbury's only son; a very fine young man. I am told the affair has been long talked of; but----" Here she was interrupted by a deep sigh, or rather groan, from the unfortunate Amanda, who at the same moment fell back in her chair, pale and without motion. Mrs. Duncan screamed, and flew to her assistance. Mrs. Bruce, equally frightened, though less affected, ran for restoratives, and the children clasped her knees and wept. From her pensive look and manner, Mrs. Duncan suspected, from their first acquaintance, that her heart had experienced a disappointment of the tenderest nature. Her little girls, too, had told her that they had seen Miss Donald crying over a picture. Her suspicions concerning such a disappointment were now confirmed by the sudden emotion and illness of Amanda. But she had all the delicacy which belongs to true sensibility, and determined never to let Amanda know she conjectured the source of her sorrows, certain as she was that they had never originated from any misconduct.
Mrs. Bruce's drops restored Amanda's senses; but she felt weak and trembling, and begged she might be supported to her room, to lie down on the bed. Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Duncan accordingly led her to it. The former almost immediately retired, and the tears of Amanda now burst forth. She wept a long time without intermission; and as soon as her sobs would permit her to speak, begged Mrs. Duncan to leave her to herself. Mrs. Duncan knew too well the luxury of secret grief to deny her the enjoyment of so melancholy a feast, and directly withdrew.
The wretched Amanda then asked herself, "if she had not known before that the sacrifice she made Lord Cherbury would lead to the event she now regretted?" It was true she did know it. But whenever an idea of its taking place occurred, she had so sedulously driven it from her mind, that she at last almost ceased to think about it. Were he to be united to any other woman than Lady Euphrasia, she thought she would not be so wretched. "Oh, Mortimer! beloved of my soul!" she cried, "were you going to be united to a woman sensible of your worth, and worthy of your noble heart, in the knowledge of your happiness my misery would be lessened. But what a union of misery must minds so uncongenial as yours and Lady Euphrasia's form! Alas! am I not wretched enough in contemplating my own prospect of unhappiness, but that yours, also, must be obtruded upon me? Yet perhaps," she continued, "the evils that I dread on Lord Mortimer's account may be averted. Oh, that they may!" said she, with fervor, and raising her hands and eyes. "Soften, gracious Heaven! soften the flinty nature of Lady Euphrasia. Oh, render her sensible of the blessing you bestow in giving her Lord Mortimer! and render her not only capable of inspiring, but of feeling tenderness. May she prove to him the tender friend, the faithful, the affectionate companion the unfortunate Amanda would have been! Oh, may she build her happiness on his! and may his be great as his virtues--extensive as his charities! and may the knowledge of it soothe my afflicted heart!"
Her spirits were a little elevated by the fervency of her language. But it was a transient elevation. The flush it spread over her cheeks soon died away, and her tears again began to flow. "Alas!" she cried, "in a few days it will be criminal to think of Lord Mortimer as I have hitherto done; and I shall blush," continued she, gazing at his picture, "to contemplate this dear shadow, when I reflect its original is the husband of Lady Euphrasia."
The dinner-bell now sounded through the Abbey, and almost at the same minute she heard a tap at her door. She started, and reflected for the first time that her deep dejection would naturally excite suspicions as to its source, if longer indulged. Shocked at the idea of incurring them, she hastily wiped away her tears, and opening the door, found her friend Mrs. Duncan at it, who begged she would come down to dinner. Amanda did not refuse, but was obliged to use the supporting arm of her friend to reach the parlor. She could not eat. With difficulty could she restrain her tears, or answer the inquiries Mrs. Bruce made, after what she supposed a mere bodily indisposition. She forced herself, however, to continue in the parlor till after tea, when cards being produced, she had an opportunity of going out, and indulging her anguish without fear of interruption. Unable, however, to walk far, she repaired to the old chapel, and sitting down by it, leaned her head against its decayed and ivy-covered walls. She had scarcely sat in this manner a minute, when the stones gave way, with a noise which terrified her, and she would have fallen backwards had she not caught at some projecting wood. She hastily rose, and found that the ivy entirely concealed the breach. She examined it, however, and perceived it large enough to admit her into the chapel. A sudden pleasure pervaded her heart at the idea of being able to enter it, and examine the picture she had so long wished to behold. There was nothing to oppose her entrance but the ivy. This she parted with difficulty, but so as not to strip it from the wall, and after stepping over the fallen rubbish, she found herself in the body of the chapel. The silent hour of twilight was now advanced, but the moonbeams that darted through the broken roof prevented the chapel from being involved in utter darkness. Already had the owls begun their strains of melancholy on its mouldering pillars, while the ravens croaked amongst the luxuriant trees that rustled round it. Dusty and moth-eaten banners were suspended from the walls, and rusty casques, shields, and spears were promiscuously heaped together, the useless armor of those over whose remains Amanda now trod with a light and trembling foot. She looked for the picture, and perceived one reclined against the wall near the altar. She wiped away the dust, and perceived this was indeed the one she sought, the one her father had so often described to her. The light was too imperfect for her to distinguish the features, and she resolved, if possible, to come at an earlier hour the ensuing evening. She felt impressed with reverential awe as she stood before it. She recollected the pathetic manner in which her father had mentioned his emotions as he gazed upon it, and her tears began to flow for the disastrous fate of her parents and her own. She sunk in an agony of grief, which mournful remembrances and present calamities excited, upon the steps of that altar, where Fitzalan and Malvina had plighted their irrevocable vows. She leaned her arm on the rails, but her face was turned to the picture, as if it could see and would pity her distress. She remained in this situation till the striking of the Abbey clock warned her to depart. In going towards the entrance she perceived a small arched door at the opposite side. As the apartments Lady Malvina had occupied were in this part of the building, she resolved on visiting them before she left the Abbey, lest the breach in the wall should be discovered ere she returned to it. She returned to the parlor ere the ladies had finished their game of piquet, and the next evening, immediately after tea, repaired to the chapel, leaving them engaged as usual at cards. She stood a few minutes before it, to see if any one was near; but perceiving no object she again entered it. She had now sufficient light to examine the picture; though faded by the damp, it yet retained that loveliness for which its original was so admired, and which Amanda had so often heard eloquently described by her father. She contemplated it with awe and pity. Her heart swelled with the emotions it excited, and gave way to its feelings in tears. To weep before the shade of her mother, seemed to assuage the bitterness of those feelings. She pronounced the name of her parents, she called herself their wretched orphan, a stranger, and a dependant in the mansion of her ancestors. She pronounced the name of Lord Mortimer in the impassioned accents of tenderness and distress. As she thus indulged the sorrows of her soul in tears and lamentations, she suddenly heard a faint noise, like an advancing footstep near her. She started up, for she had been kneeling before her mother's picture, terrified lest her visit to the chapel had been discovered, which she knew, if the case, would mortally disoblige Mrs. Bruce, though why she should be so averse to any one's visiting it she could not conceive. She listened in trembling anxiety a few minutes. All again was still, and she returned to the parlor, where she found the ladies as she had left them, determined, notwithstanding her late fright, to return the next evening to the chapel, and visit the apartments that were her mother's.
Chapter XLVI
"What beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade, Invites my steps?"--POPE.
The next evening Amanda's patience was put to the test; for after tea Mrs. Duncan proposed a walk, which seemed to cut off her hopes of visiting the chapel that evening; but after strolling some time about the valley, complaisance for her aunt made Mrs. Duncan return to the parlor, where she was expected to take her usual hand at piquet. The hour was late, and the sky so gloomy, that the moon, though at its full, could scarcely penetrate the darkness; notwithstanding all this, Amanda resolved on going to the chapel, considering this, in all probability, the only opportunity she would have of visiting the apartments her mother had occupied (which she had an irrepressible desire to enter), as in two days she was to accompany Mrs. Duncan to lodgings in the neighboring town; she accordingly said she had a mind to walk a little longer. Mrs. Bruce bade her beware of catching cold, and Mrs. Duncan said she was too fond of solitary rambles; but no opposition being made to her intention, she hurried to the chapel, and, entering the little arched door, found herself in a lofty hall, in the centre of which was a grand staircase, the whole enlightened by a large gothic window at the head of the stairs. She ascended them with trepidation, for her footsteps produced a hollow echo, which added something awful to the gloom that enveloped her. On gaining the top of the stairs she saw two large folding doors on either side, both closed. She knew the direction to take, and, by a small exertion of strength, pulled the one on the left side open, and perceived a long gallery, which she knew was terminated by the apartments she wanted to visit. Its almost total darkness, however, nearly conquered her wish, and shook her resolution of proceeding; but ashamed, even to herself, to give way to superstitious fears, or turn back without gratifying her inclination after going so far, she advanced into the gallery, though with a trembling step, and as she let the door out of her hand, it shut to with a violence that shook the whole building. The gallery on one side had a row of arched doors, and on the other an equal number of windows; but so small, and placed so high, as scarcely to admit a ray of light. Amanda's heart began to beat with unusual quickness, and she thought she should never reach the end of the gallery. She at last came to a door, it was closed, not fastened; she pushed it gently open, and could just discern a spacious room. This, she supposed, had been her mother's dressing-room. The moonbeams, as if to aid her wish of examining it, suddenly darted through the casements. Cheered by the unexpected light, she advanced into the room: at the upper end of it something in white attracted her notice. She concluded it to be the portrait of Lady Malvina's mother, which she had been informed hung in this room. She went up to examine it; but her horror may be better conceived than described, when she found herself not by a picture, but by the real form of a woman, with a death-like countenance! She screamed wildly at the terrifying spectre, for such she believed it to be, and quick as lightning flew from the room. Again was the moon obscured by a cloud, and she involved in utter darkness. She ran with such violence, that, as she reached the door at the end of the gallery, she fell against it. Extremely hurt, she had not power to move for a few minutes; but while she involuntarily paused, she heard approaching footsteps. Wild with terror, she instantly recovered her faculties, and attempted opening it; but it resisted all her efforts. "Protect me, Heaven!" she exclaimed, and at the moment felt an icy hand upon hers! Her senses instantly receded, and she sunk to the floor. When she recovered from her insensibility she perceived a glimmering light around her. She opened her eyes with fearfulness, but no object appeared, and to her great joy she saw the door standing open, and found that the light proceeded from the large window. She instantly rose, and descended the staircase with as much haste as her trembling limbs could make; but again, what was her horror when, on entering the chapel, the first object she beheld was the same that had already alarmed her so much! She made a spring to escape through the entrance, but the apparition, with a rapidity equal to her own, glided before her, and with a hollow voice, as she waved an emaciated hand, exclaimed, "Forbear to go."
A deadly faintness again came over Amanda; she sunk upon a broken seat, and put her hand over her eyes to shut out the frightful vision.
"Lose," continued the figure, in a hollow voice, "lose your superstitious fears, and in me behold not an airy inhabitant of the other world, but a sinful, sorrowing, and repentant woman."
The terrors of Amanda gave way to this unexpected address; but her surprise was equal to what these terrors had been; she withdrew her hand, and gazed attentively on the form before her.
"If my eye, if my ear deceives me not," it continued, "you are a descendant of the Dunreath family. I heard you last night, when you imagined no being near, call yourself the unfortunate orphan of Lady Malvina Fitzalan." "I am indeed her child," replied Amanda. "Tell me, then, by what means you have been brought hither. You called yourself a stranger, and a dependant in the house of your ancestors." "I am both," said Amanda; "my real name is concealed, from circumstances peculiarly distressing, and I have been brought to the Abbey as an instructress to two children related to the person who takes care of it." "My prayers at length," exclaimed the ghastly figure, raising her hollow eyes and emaciated hands,--"my prayers have reached the Throne of Mercy, and, as a proof that my repentance is accepted, power is given me to make reparation for the injuries I have committed. Oh! thou," she cried, turning to Amanda, "whose form revives in my remembrance the youth and beauty blasted by my means, if thy mind as well as face, resembles Lady Malvina's, thou wilt, in pity to my sufferings, forbear to reproach my crimes. In me," she continued, "you behold the guilty but contrite widow of the Earl of Dunreath."
Amanda started. "Oh, gracious Heaven!" she exclaimed, "can this be possible?" "Have you not been taught to execrate my name?" asked the unhappy woman. "Oh! no," replied Amanda. "No," replied Lady Dunreath, "because your mother was an angel. But did she not leave a son?" "Yes," said Amanda. "And does he live?" "Alas! I do not know," replied Amanda, melting into tears; "distress separated us, and he is not more ignorant of my destiny than I am of his." "It is I," exclaimed Lady Dunreath, "have been the cause of this distress. It is I, sweet and sainted Malvina, have been the cause of calamity to your children; but, blessed be the wonder-working hand of Providence," she continued, "which has given me an opportunity of making some amends for my cruelty and injustice. But," she proceeded, "as I know the chance which led you to the chapel, I dread to detain you longer, lest it should lead to a discovery. Was it known that you saw me, all my intentions would be defeated. Be secret, then, I conjure you, more on your account than my own, and let not Mrs. Bruce have the smallest intimation of what has passed; but return to-morrow night, and you shall receive from me a sacred deposit, which will, if affluence can do it, render you completely happy. In the mean time, do you throw upon paper a brief account of your life, that I may know the incidents which so providentially brought you to the Abbey." Amanda promised to obey her in every respect, and the unfortunate woman, unable longer to speak, kissed her hand, and retired through the little arched door. Amanda left the chapel, and, full of wonder, pity, and expectation, moved mechanically to the parlor. Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Duncan had just risen from cards, and both were instantly struck with her pallid and disordered looks. They inquired if she was ill. Their inquiries roused her from a deep reverie. She recollected the danger of exciting suspicions, and replied, "she was only fatigued with walking, and begged leave to retire to her chamber." Mrs. Duncan attended her to it, and would have sat with her till she saw her in bed, had Amanda allowed; but it was not her intention, indeed, to go to bed for some time. When left to herself, the surprising and interesting discovery she had made had so agitated her that she could scarcely compose herself enough to take up a pen to narrate the particulars of her life, as Lady Dunreath had requested. She sketched them in a brief yet hasty manner, sufficiently strong, however, to interest the feelings of a sympathetic heart; the tender and peculiar sorrows of her own she omitted; her life was represented sufficiently calamitous, without mentioning the incurable sorrow which disappointed love had entailed upon it. She was glad she had executed her task with haste, as Mrs. Duncan called upon her in the course of the next day to assist in packing for their removal to the neighboring town. The evening was far advanced ere she had an opportunity of repairing to the chapel, where she found the unfortunate Lady Dunreath resting in an attitude of deep despondence, against the rails of the altar.
Her pale and woe-worn countenance--her emaciated form--her solitary situation--all inspired Amanda with the tenderest compassion, and she dropped a tear upon the cold and withered hand which was extended to hers, as she approached. "I merit not the tear of pity," said the unhappy woman, "yet it casts a gleam of comfort on my heart to meet with a being who feels for its sorrows. But the moments are precious." She then led Amanda to the altar, and, stooping down, desired her assistance in removing a small marble flag beneath it. This being effected, with difficulty, Amanda perceived an iron box, which she also assisted in raising. Lady Dunreath then took a key from her bosom, with which she opened it, and took from thence a sealed paper. "Receive," said she, presenting it to Amanda, "receive the will of your grandfather, a sacred deposit, intrusted to your care for your brother, the rightful heir of the Earl of Dunreath. Oh! may its restoration, and my sincere repentance, atone for its long detention and concealment. Oh! may the fortune it will bestow upon you, as well as your brother, be productive to both of the purest happiness." Trembling with joyful surprise, Amanda received the paper. "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed she, "is it possible? Do I really hold the will of my grandfather--a will which will entitle my brother to affluence? Oh! Providence, how mysterious are thy ways! Oh! Oscar, beloved of my heart," she continued, forgetting at that moment every consideration of self, "could thy sister have possibly foreseen her sorrows would have led to such a discovery, half their bitterness would have been allayed. Yes, my father, one of thy children may at least be happy, and in witnessing that happiness the other will find a mitigation of misery." Tears burst from her as she spoke, and relieved the strong emotions that swelled her heart, almost to bursting.
"Oh! talk not of your misery," said Lady Dunreath, with a convulsive sigh, "lest you drive me to despair. Forever must I accuse myself of being the real source of calamity to Lady Malvina and her children." "Excuse me," cried Amanda, wiping her eyes, "I should be ungrateful to Heaven and to you if I dwelt upon my sorrows; but let me not neglect this opportunity," she continued, "of inquiring if there is any way in which I can possibly serve you. Is there no friend to whom I could apply in your name, to have you released from this cruel and unjustifiable confinement?" "No," said Lady Dunreath, "no such friend exists. When I had the power to do so, I never conciliated friendship; and if I am still remembered in the world, it is only with contempt and abhorrence. The laws of my country would certainly liberate me at once; but if things turn out as I expect, there will be no occasion for an application to them, and any step of that kind at present might be attended with the most unpleasant consequences. Your future prosperity, my present safety, all depend on secrecy for a short period. In this paper (drawing one from her pocket and presenting it to Amanda) I have explained my reason for desiring such secrecy." Amanda put it with the will into her bosom, and gave in return the little narrative she had sketched. They both assisted in replacing the box and flag, and then seated themselves on the steps of the altar. Amanda informed Lady Dunreath of her intended departure the next day from the Abbey, and the occasion of it. Lady Dunreath expressed the utmost impatience to have everything put in a proper train for the avowal of the will, declaring that the sight of the rightful heir in possession of the Abbey would calm the agitations of a spirit which, she believed, would soon forsake its earthly habitation. Tears of compassion fell from Amanda at these words, and she shuddered to think that the unfortunate woman might die abandoned, and bereft of comfort. Again she urged her to think of some expedient for procuring immediate liberty, and again Lady Dunreath assured her it was impossible. Absorbed in a kind of sympathetic melancholy, they forgot the danger of delay till the Abbey clock chimed half an hour past ten--which was later than Mrs. Bruce's usual hour of supper--startled and alarmed them both. "Go! go!" cried Lady Dunreath, with a wild expression of fear; "go! or we are undone!" Amanda pressed her hand in silence, and, trembling, departed from the chapel. She stopped at the outside to listen; for by her ear alone could she now receive any intimation of danger, as the night was too dark to permit any object to be discerned; but the breeze sighing amongst the trees of the valley, and the melancholy murmur of waterfalls, were the only sounds she heard. She groped along the walls of the chapel to keep in the path, which wound from it to the entrance of the Abbey, and in doing so passed her hand over the cold face of a human being. Terrified, an involuntary scream burst from her, and she faintly articulated: "Defend me, Heaven!" In the next moment she was seized round the waist, and her senses were receding, when Mrs. Duncan's voice recalled them. She apologized to Amanda for giving her such a fright; but said, "that her uneasiness was so great at her long absence that, attended by a servant, she had come in quest of her."
Mrs. Duncan's voice relieved Amanda from the horror of thinking she had met with a person who would insult her; but it had given rise to a new alarm. She feared she had been traced to the chapel, that her discourse with Lady Dunreath had been overheard, and of course the secret of the will discovered, and that Mrs. Duncan, amiable as she was, might sacrifice friendship to interest and consanguinity. This idea overwhelmed her with anguish; her deep and heavy sighs, her violent trembling, alarmed Mrs. Duncan, who hastily called the servant to assist her in supporting Amanda home; drops were then administered, but they would have wanted their usual efficacy with the poor night wanderer had she not soon been convinced by Mrs. Duncan's manner she had not made the dreaded discovery.
Amanda would have retired to her chamber before supper, but that she feared distressing Mrs. Duncan by doing so, who would have imputed her indisposition to her fright. She accordingly remained in the parlor, but with a mind so occupied by the interesting events of the evening, that she soon forgot the purpose for which she sat down to table, and neither heeded what was doing or saying. From this reverie she was suddenly roused by the sound of a name forever dear and precious, which in a moment had power to recall her wandering ideas. She raised her eyes, and with a sad intenseness fixed them on Mrs. Bruce, who continued to talk of the approaching nuptials of Lord Mortimer. Tears now fell from Amanda in spite of her efforts to restrain them, and while drooping her head to wipe them away, she caught the eyes of Mrs. Duncan fastened on her with an expression of mingled pity and curiosity. A deep crimson suffused the face of Amanda, at the consciousness of having betrayed the secret of her heart; but her confusion was inferior to her grief, and the rich suffusion of the one soon gave place to the deadly hue of the other. "Ah!" thought she, "what is now the acquisition of wealth, when happiness is beyond my reach!" Yet scarcely had she conceived the thought ere she wished it buried in oblivion. "Is the comfort of independence, the power of dispensing happiness to others, nothing?" she asked herself. "Do they not merit gratitude of the most pure thankfulness, of the most fervent nature to Providence? They do," she cried, and paid them at the moment in the silence of her heart. It was late ere the ladies separated for the night, and as soon as Amanda had secured the door of her chamber, she drew from her bosom the papers so carefully deposited there, and sat down to peruse the narrative of Lady Dunreath.