“The bloom of opening flowers, unsullied beauty,Softness and sweetest innocence he wore,And looked like nature in the world’s first spring.”
“The bloom of opening flowers, unsullied beauty,Softness and sweetest innocence he wore,And looked like nature in the world’s first spring.”
Lady Malvina gave him a letter for the Earl, in which, after pathetically describing her situation, she besought him to let the uplifted hands of innocence plead her cause. The peasant watched till the hour came for Lady Dunreath to go out in her carriage, as was her daily custom: he then desired to be conducted to the Earl, and was accordingly ushered into his presence: he found him alone, and briefly informed him of his errand. The Earl frowned and looked agitated; but did not by any means express that displeasure which the peasant had expected; feeling for himself, indeed, had lately softened his heart; he was unhappy; his wife and daughter had attained the completion of their wishes, and no longer paid him the attention his age required. He refused, however, to accept the letter: little Oscar, who had been gazing on him from the moment he entered the apartment, now ran forward; gently stroking his hand, he smiled in his face, and exclaimed, “Ah! do pray take poor mamma’s letter.” The Earl involuntarily took it; as he read, the muscles of his face began to work, and a tear dropped from him. “Poor mamma cries too,” said Oscar, upon whose hand the tear fell. “Why did your mamma send you to me?” said the Earl. “Because she said,” cried. Oscar, “that you were my grandpapa—and she bids me love you, and teaches me every day to pray for you.” “Heaven bless you, my lovely prattler!” exclaimed the Earl, with sudden emotion, patting his head as he spoke. At this moment Lady Dunreath rushed into the apartment: one of her favorites had followed her, to relate the scene that was going forwardwithin it: and she had returned, with all possible expedition, to counteract any dangerous impression that might be made upon the Earl’s mind. Rage inflamed her countenance: the Earl knew the violence of her temper; he was unequal to contention, and hastily motioned for the peasant to retire with the child. The account of his reception excited the most flattering hopes in the bosom of his mother: she counted the tedious hours, in expectation of a kind summons to the Abbey; but no such summons came. The next morning the child was sent to it; but the porter refused him admittance, by the express command of the Earl, he said. Frightened at his rudeness, the child returned weeping to his mother, whose blasted expectations wrung her heart with agony, and tears and lamentations broke from her. The evening was far advanced, when suddenly her features brightened: “I will go,” cried she, starting up—“I will again try to melt his obduracy. Oh! with what lowliness should a child bend before an offended parent! Oh! with what fortitude, what patience, should a wife, a mother, try to overcome difficulties which she is conscious of having precipitated the objects of her tenderest affections into!”
The night was dark and tempestuous; she would not suffer Fitzalan to attend her; but proceeded to the Abbey, leaning on the peasant’s arm. She would not be repulsed at the door, but forced her way into the hall: here Lady Dunreath met her, and with mingled pride and cruelty, refused her access to her father, declaring it was by his desire she did so. “Let me see him but for a moment,” said the lovely suppliant, clasping her white and emaciated hands together—“by all that is tender in humanity, I beseech you to grant my request.”
“Turn this frantic woman from the Abbey,” said the implacable Lady Dunreath, trembling with passion—“at your peril suffer her to continue here. The peace of your lord is too precious to be disturbed by her exclamations.”
The imperious order was instantly obeyed, though, as Cordelia says, “it was a night when one would not have turned an enemy’s dog from the door.” The rain poured in torrents; the sea roared with awful violence; and the wind roared through the wood, as if it would tear up the trees by their roots. The peasant charitably flung his plaid over Malvina: she moved mechanically along; her senses appeared quite stupefied. Fitzalan watched for her at the door: she rushed into his extended arms, and fainted; it was long ere she showed any symptoms of returning life. Fitzalan wept over her in the anguish and distraction of his soul; and scarcely could he forbear execrating the being who had so grievously afflicted her gentle spirit: by degrees she revived; and, as she pressed him feebly to her breast, exclaimed, “The final stroke is given—I have been turned from my father’s door.”
The cottage in which they lodged afforded but few of the necessaries, and none of the comforts of life; such, at least, as they had been accustomed to. In Malvina’s present situation, Fitzalan dreaded the loss of her life, should they continue in their present abode; but whither could he take her wanderer, as he was upon the face of the earth? At length the faithful Edwin occurred to his recollection: his house, he was confident, would afford them a comfortable asylum, where Lady Malvina would experience all that tenderness and care her situation demanded.
He immediately set about procuring a conveyance, and the following morning Malvina bid a last adieu to Scotland.
Lady Dunreath, in the mean time, suffered torture: after she had seen Malvina turned from the Abbey, she returned to her apartment: it was furnished with the most luxurious elegance, yet could she not rest within it. Conscience already told her, if Malvina died, she must consider herself her murderer; her pale and woe-worn image seemed still before her; a cold terror oppressed her heart, which the horrors of the night augmented; the tempest shook the battlements of the Abbey; and the winds, which howled through the galleries, seemed like the last moans of some wandering spirit of the pile, bewailing the fate of one of its fairest daughters. To cruelty and ingratitude Lady Dunreath had added deceit: her lord was yielding to the solicitations of his child, when she counteracted his intentions by a tale of falsehood. The visions of the night were also dreadful; Malvina appeared expiring before her, and the late Lady Dunreath, by her bedside, reproaching her barbarity. “Oh cruel!” the ghastly figure seemed to say, “is it you, whom I fostered in my bosom, that have done this deed—driven forth my child, a forlorn and wretched wanderer?”
Oh, conscience, how awful are thy terrors! thou art the vicegerent of Heaven, and dost anticipate its vengeance, ere the final hour of retribution arrives. Guilt may be triumphant, but never, never can be happy: it finds no shield against thy stings and arrows. The heart thou smitest bleeds in every pore, and sighs amidst gayety and splendor.
The unfortunate travellers were welcomed with the truest hospitality by the grateful Edwin; he had married, soon after his return from America, a young girl, to whom, from his earliest youth, he was attached. His parents died soon after his union, and the whole of their little patrimony devolved to him. Soothed and attended with the utmost tenderness and respect, Fitzalan hoped Lady Malvina would here regain her health and peace: he intended, after her recovery, to endeavor to be put on full pay; and trusted he should prevail on her to continue at the farm.
At length the hour came, in which she gave a daughter to his arms. From the beginning of her illness the people about her were alarmed; too soon was it proved their alarms were well founded: she lived after the birth of her infant but a few minutes, and died embracing her husband, and blessing his children.
Fitzalan’s feelings cannot well be described: they were at first too much for reason, and he continued some time in perfect stupefaction. When he regained his sensibility, his grief was not outrageous; it was that deep, still sorrow, which fastens on the heart, and cannot vent itself in tears or lamentations: he sat with calmness by the bed, where the beautiful remains of Malvina lay; he gazed without shrinking on her pale face, which death, as if in pity to his feelings, had not disfigured; he kissed her cold lips, continually exclaiming, “Oh! had we never met, she might still have been living.” His language was something like that of a poet of her own country:—
“Wee, modest crimson-tipped flower,I met thee in a luckless hour.”
“Wee, modest crimson-tipped flower,I met thee in a luckless hour.”
It was when he saw them about removing her that all the tempest of his grief broke forth. Oh! how impossible to describe the anguish of the poor widower’s heart, when he returned from seeing his Malvina laid in her last receptacle: he shut himself up in the room where she had expired, and ordered no one to approach him; he threw himself upon the bed; he laid his cheek upon her pillow, he grasped it to his bosom, he wetted it with tears, because she had breathed upon it. Oh, how still, how dreary, how desolate, did all appear around him! “And shall this desolation never more be enlightened,” he exclaimed, “by the soft music of Malvina’s voice? Shall these eyes never more be cheered by beholding her angelic face?” Exhausted by his feelings, he sunk into a slumber: he dreamt of Malvina, and thought she lay beside him: he awoke with sudden ecstasy, and under the strong impression of the dream, stretched out his arms to enfold her. Alas! all was empty void: he started up—he groaned in the bitterness of hissoul he traversed the room with a distracted pace—he sat him down in a little window, from whence he could view the spire of the church (now glistening in the moonbeams) by which she was interred. “Deep, still, and profound,” cried he, “is now the sleep of my Malvina—the voice of love cannot awake her from it; nor does she now dream of her midnight mourner.”
The cold breeze of night blew upon his forehead, but he heeded it not; his whole soul was full of Malvina, whom torturing fancy presented to his view, in the habiliments of the grave. “And is this emaciated form, this pale face,” he exclaimed, as if he had really seen her, “all that remain of elegance and beauty, once unequalled!”
A native sense of religion alone checked the transports of his grief; that sweet, that sacred power, which pours balm upon the wounds of sorrow, and saves its children from despair; that power whispered to his heart, a patient submission to the will of heaven was the surest means he could attain of again rejoining his Malvina.
She was interred in the village church-yard: at the head of her grave a stone was placed, on which was rudely cut,
MALVINA FITZALAN,ALIKE LOVELY AND UNFORTUNATE.
Fitzalan would not permit her empty title to be on it: “She is buried,” he said, “as the wife of a wretched soldier, not as the daughter of a wealthy peer.”
She had requested her infant might be called after her own mother; her request was sacred to Fitzalan, and it was baptized by the united names of Amanda Malvina. Mrs. Edwin was then nursing her first girl; but she sent it out, and took the infant of Fitzalan in its place to her bosom.
The money, which Fitzalan had procured by disposing of his commission, was now nearly exhausted; but his mind was too enervated to allow him to think of any project for future support. Lady Malvina was deceased two months, when a nobleman came into the neighborhood, with whom Fitzalan had once been intimately acquainted: the acquaintance was now renewed; and Fitzalan’s appearance, with the little history of his misfortunes, so much affected and interested his friend, that, without solicitation, he procured him a company in a regiment, then stationed in England. Thus did Fitzalan again enter intoactive life; but his spirits were broken, and his constitution injured. Four years he continued in the army; when, pining to have his children (all that now remained of a woman he adored) under his own care, he obtained, through the interest of his friend, leave to sell out. Oscar was then eight, and Amanda four; the delighted father, as he held them to his heart, wept over them tears of mingled pain and pleasure.
He had seen in Devonshire, where he was quartered for some time, a little romantic solitude, quite adapted to his taste and finances; he proposed for it, and soon became its proprietor. Hither he carried his children, much against the inclinations of the Edwins, who loved them as their own: two excellent schools in the neighborhood gave them the usual advantages of genteel education; but as they were only day scholars, the improvement, or rather forming of their morals, was the pleasing task of their father. To his assiduous care too they were indebted for the rapid progress they made in their studies, and for the graceful simplicity of their manners: they rewarded his care, and grew up as amiable and lovely as his fondest wishes could desire. As Oscar advanced in life, his father began to experience new cares; for he had not the power of putting him in the way of making any provision for himself. A military life was what Oscar appeared anxious for: he had early conceived a predilection for it, from hearing his father speak of the services he had seen; but though he possessed quite the spirit of a hero, he had the truest tenderness, the most engaging softness of disposition; his temper was, indeed, at once mild, artless, and affectionate. He was about eighteen, when the proprietor of the estate, on which his father held his farm, died, and his heir, a colonel in the army, immediately came down from London to take formal possession: he soon became acquainted with Fitzalan, who, in the course of conversation, one day expressed the anxiety he suffered on his son’s account. The Colonel said he was a fine youth, and it was a pity he was not provided for. He left Devonshire, however, shortly after this, without appearing in the least interested about him.
Fitzalan’s heart was oppressed with anxiety; he could not purchase for his son, without depriving himself of support. With the nobleman who had formerly served him so essentially, he had kept up no intercourse, since he quitted the army; but he frequently heard of him, and was told he had become quite a man of the world, which was an implication of his having lost all feeling: an application to him, therefore, he feared, wouldbe unavailing, and he felt too proud to subject himself to a repulse.
From this disquietude he was unexpectedly relieved by a letter from the Earl of Cherbury, his yet kind friend, informing him he had procured an ensigncy for Oscar, in Colonel Belgrave’s regiment, which he considered a very fortunate circumstance, as the colonel, he was confident, from personally knowing the young gentleman, would render him every service in his power. The Earl chided Fitzalan for never having kept up a correspondence with him, assured him he had never forgotten the friendship of their earlier years; and that he had gladly seized the first opportunity which offered, of serving him in the person of his son; which opportunity he was indebted to Colonel Belgrave for.
Fitzalan’s soul was filled with gratitude and rapture; he immediately wrote to the Earl, and the Colonel, in terms expressive of his feelings. Colonel Belgrave received his thanks as if he had really deserved them; but this was not by any means the case: he was a man devoid of sensibility, and had never once thought of serving Fitzalan or his son; his mentioning them was merely accidental.
In a large company, of which the Earl of Cherbury was one, the discourse happened to turn on the Dunreath family, and by degrees led to Fitzalan, who was severally blamed and pitied for his connection with it; the subject was, in the opinion of Colonel Belgrave, so apropos, he could not forbear describing his present situation, and inquietude about his son, who, he said he fancied, must, like a second Cincinnatus, take the plough-share instead of the sword.
Lord Cherbury lost no part of his discourse; though immersed in politics, and other intricate concerns, he yet retained, and was ready to obey, the dictates of humanity, particularly when they did not interfere with his own interests; he therefore directly conceived the design of serving his old friend.
Oscar soon quitted Devonshire after his appointment, and brought a letter from his father to the Colonel, in which he was strongly recommended to his protection, as one unskilled in the ways of men.
And now all Fitzalan’s care devolved upon Amanda; and most amply did she recompense it. To the improvement of her genius, the cultivation of her talents, the promotion of her father’s happiness, seemed her first incentive; without him no amusement was enjoyed, without him no study entered upon; he was her friend, guardian, and protector; and no languagecan express, no heart (except a paternal one) conceive, the rapture he felt, at seeing a creature grow under
his forming hand.—————So fairThat what seemed fair in all the world, seemed nowMean, or in her contained.
his forming hand.—————So fairThat what seemed fair in all the world, seemed nowMean, or in her contained.
Some years had elapsed since Oscar’s departure, ere Colonel Belgrave returned into their neighborhood; he came soon after his nuptials had been celebrated in Ireland, with a lady of that country, whom Oscar’s letters described as possessing every mental and personal charm which could please or captivate the heart. Colonel Belgrave came unaccompanied by his fair bride. Fitzalan, who believed him his benefactor, and consequently regarded him as a friend (still thinking it was through his means Lord Cherbury had served him), immediately waited upon him, and invited him to his house. The invitation, after some time, was accepted; but had he imagined what an attraction the house contained, he would not have long hesitated about entering it: he was a man, indeed, of the most depraved principles; and an object he admired, no tie or situation, however sacred, could guard from his pursuit.
Amanda was too much a child, when he was last in the country, to attract his observation; he had, therefore, no idea that the blossom he then so carelessly overlooked, had since expanded into such beauty. How great, then, was his rapture and surprise, when Fitzalan led into the room where he had received him, a tall, elegantly-formed girl, whose rosy cheeks were dimpled with the softest smile of complacence, and whose fine blue eyes beamed with modesty and gratitude upon him! He instantly marked her for his prey; and blessed his lucky stars which had inspired Fitzalan with the idea of his being his benefactor, since that would give him an easier access to the house than he could otherwise have hoped for.
From this time he became almost an inmate of it, except when he chose to contrive little parties at his own for Amanda. He took every opportunity that offered, without observation, to try to ingratiate himself in her favor: those opportunities the unsuspecting temper of Fitzalan allowed to be frequent—he would as soon have trusted Amanda to the care of Belgrave, as to that of her brother; and never, therefore, prevented her walking out with him, when he desired it, or receiving him in the morning, while he himself was absent about the affairs of his farm—delighted to think the conversation or talents of his daughter (for Amanda frequently sung and played for theColonel) could contribute to the amusement of his friend. Amanda innocently increased his flame, by the attention she paid which she considered but a just tribute of gratitude for his services: she delighted in talking to him of her dear Oscar, and often mentioned his lady; but was surprised to find he always waived the latter subject.
Belgrave could not long restrain the impetuosity of his passions: the situation of Fitzalan (which he knew to be a distressed one) would, he fancied, forward his designs on his daughter; and what those designs were, he, by degrees, in a retired walk one day, unfolded to Amanda. At first she did not perfectly understand him; but when, with increased audacity, he explained himself more fully, horror, indignation, and surprise took possession of her breast; and, yielding to their feelings, she turned and fled to the house, as if from a monster. Belgrave was provoked and mortified; the softness of her manners had tempted him to believe he was not indifferent to her, and that she would prove an easy conquest.
Poor Amanda would not appear in the presence of her father, till she had, in some degree, regained composure, as she feared the smallest intimation of the affair might occasion fatal consequences. As she sat with him, a letter was brought her; she could not think Belgrave would have the effrontery to write, and opened it, supposing it came from some acquaintance in the neighborhood. How great was the shock she sustained, on finding it from him! Having thrown off the mask, he determined no longer to assume any disguise. Her paleness and confusion alarmed her father, and he instantly demanded the cause of her agitation. She found longer concealment was impossible; and, throwing herself at her father’s feet, besought him, as she put the letter into his hands, to restrain his passion. When he perused it, he raised her up, and commanded her, as she valued his love or happiness, to inform him of every particular relative to the insult she had received. She obeyed, though terrified to behold her father trembling with emotion. When she concluded, he tenderly embraced her; and, bidding her confine herself to the house, rose, and took down his hat. It was easy to guess whither he was going; her terror increased; and, in a voice scarcely articulate, she besought him not to risk his safety. He commanded her silence, with a sternness never before assumed. His manner awed her; but, when she saw him leaving the room, her feelings could no longer be controlled—she rushed after him, and flinging her arms round his neck, fainted on it. In this situation the unhappy father was compelled to leave her to the care of a maid, lest her pathetic remonstrances should delay the vengeance he resolved to take on a wretch who had meditated a deed of such atrocity against his peace; but Belgrave was not to be found.
Scarcely, however, had Fitzalan returned to his half-distracted daughter ere a letter was brought him from the wretch, in which he made the most degrading proposals; and bade Fitzalan beware how he answered them, as his situation had put him entirely into his power. This was a fatal truth: Fitzalan had been tempted to make a large addition to his farm, from an idea of turning the little money he possessed to advantage: but he was more ignorant of agriculture than he had imagined; and this ignorance, joined to his own integrity of heart, rendered him the dupe of some designing wretches in his neighborhood: his whole stock dwindled away in unprofitable experiments, and he was now considerably in arrears with Belgrave. The ungenerous advantage he strove to take of his situation, increased, if possible, his indignation; and again he sought him, but still without success.
Belgrave soon found no temptation of prosperity would prevail on the father or daughter to accede to his wishes; he therefore resolved to try whether the pressure of adversity would render them more complying, and left the country, having first ordered his steward to proceed directly against Fitzalan.
The consequence of this order was an immediate execution on his effects; and, but for the assistance of a good-natured farmer, he would have been arrested. By his means, and under favor of night, he and Amanda set out for London; they arrived there in safety, and retired to obscure lodgings. In this hour of distress, Fitzalan conquered all false pride, and wrote to Lord Cherbury, entreating him to procure some employment which would relieve his present distressing situation. He cautiously concealed everything relative to Belgrave—he could not bear that it should be known that he had ever been degraded by his infamous proposals. Oscar’s safety, too, he knew depended on his secrecy; as he was well convinced no idea of danger, or elevation of rank, would secure the wretch from his fury, who had meditated so great an injury against his sister.
He had the mortification of having the letter he sent to Lord Cherbury returned, as his lordship was then absent from town; nor was he expected for some months, having gone on an excursion of pleasure to France. Some of these months had lingered away in all the horrors of anxiety and distress, when Fitzalan formed the resolution of sending Amanda intoWales, whose health had considerably suffered, from the complicated uneasiness and terror she experienced on her own and her father’s account.
Belgrave had traced the fugitives; and though Fitzalan was guarded against all the stratagems he used to have him arrested, he found means to have letters conveyed to Amanda, full of base solicitations and insolent declarations, that the rigor he treated her father with was quite against his feelings, and should instantly be withdrawn, if she acceded to the proposals he made for her.
But though Fitzalan had determined to send Amanda into Wales, with whom could he trust his heart’s best treasure? At last the son of the worthy farmer who had assisted him in his journey to London, occurred to his remembrance; he came often to town, and always called on Fitzalan. The young man, the moment it was proposed, expressed the greatest readiness to attend Miss Fitzalan. As every precaution was necessary, her father made her take the name of Dunford, and travel in the mail-coach, for the greater security. He divided the contents of his purse with her; and recommending this lovely and most beloved child to the protection of heaven, saw her depart, with mingled pain and pleasure; promising to give her the earliest intelligence of Lord Cherbury’s arrival in town, which, he supposed, would fix his future destiny. Previous to her departure, he wrote to the Edwins, informing them of her intended visit, and also her change of name for the present. This latter circumstance, which was not satisfactorily accounted for, excited their warmest curiosity; and not thinking it proper to ask Amanda to gratify it, they, to use their own words, sifted her companion, who hesitated not to inform them of the indignities she had suffered from Colonel Belgrave, which were well known about his neighborhood.
“——Thy grave shall with fresh flowers be dressed,And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast;There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,There the first roses of the year shall blow.”—Pope.
“——Thy grave shall with fresh flowers be dressed,And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast;There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,There the first roses of the year shall blow.”—Pope.
A gentle noise in her chamber roused Amanda from a light, refreshing slumber, and she beheld her nurse standing by her bedside with a bowl of goat’s whey. Amanda took the salubrious draught with a smile, and instantly starting up, was dressed in a few minutes. She felt more composed than she had done for some time past; the transition from a narrow dark street to a fine open country, would have excited a lively transport in her mind, but for the idea of her father still remaining in the gloomy situation she had quitted.
On going out, she found the family all busily employed; Edwin and his sons were mowing in a meadow near the house, the nurse was churning, Ellen washing the milk-pails by the stream in the valley, and Betsey turning a cake for her breakfast. The tea-table was laid by a window, through which a woodbine crept, diffusing a delightful fragrance; the bees feasted on its sweetness, and the gaudy butterflies fluttered around it; the refulgent sun gladdened the face of nature; the morning breeze tempered its heat, and bore upon its dewy wings the sweets of opening flowers; birds carolled their matins almost on every spray; and scattered peasants, busied in their various labors, enlivened the extensive prospect.
Amanda was delighted with all she saw, and wrote to her father that his presence was only wanting to complete her pleasure. The young man who had attended her, on receiving her letter, set out for the village, from whence he was to return in a stage-coach to London.
The morning was passed by Amanda in arranging her little affairs, walking about the cottage, and conversing with the nurse relative to past times and present avocations. When the hour for dinner came, by her desire it was carried out into the recess in the garden, where the balmy air, the lovely scene which surrounded her, rendered it doubly delicious.
In the evening she asked Ellen to take a walk with her, to which she joyfully consented. “And pray, Miss,” said Ellen,after she had smartened herself up with a clean white apron, her Sunday cap, and a hat loaded with poppy-colored ribbons, smiling as she spoke, at the pretty image her glass reflected, “where shall we go?” “To the church-yard,” replied Amanda. “Oh, Lord, Miss won’t that be rather a dismal place to go to?” “Indulge me, my dear Ellen,” said Amanda, “in showing me the way thither; there is one spot in it my heart wants to visit.”
The church-yard lay at the entrance of the little village; the church was a small structure, whose gothic appearance proclaimed its ancient date; it was rendered more venerable by the lofty elms and yews which surrounded it, apparently coeval with itself, and which cast dark shades upon the spots where the “rude forefathers of the hamlet slept,” which,
“With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,Implored the passing tribute of a sigh.“
“With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,Implored the passing tribute of a sigh.“
And it was a tribute Amanda paid, as she proceeded to the grave of Lady Malvina; which Ellen pointed out; it was over grown with grass, and the flag, which bore her name, green from time and damp. Amanda involuntarily sunk on her knees, and kissed the hallowed earth; her eyes caught the melancholy inscription. “Sweet spirit,” she said, “heaven now rewards your sufferings. Oh, my mother! if departed spirits are ever allowed to review this world, with love ineffable you may now be regarding your child. Oh, if she is doomed to tread a path as thorny as the one you trod, may the same sweetness and patience that distinguished you, support her through it! with the same pious awe, the same meek submission, may she bow to the designations of her Creator!”
The affecting apostrophe drew tears from the tender-hearted Ellen, who besought her not to continue longer in such a dismal place. Amanda now arose weeping—her spirits were entirely overcome; the busy objects of day had amused her mind, and prevented it from meditating on its sorrow; but, in the calm solitude of the evening, they gradually revived in her remembrance. Her father’s ill-health, she feared, would increase for want of her tender attentions; and when she thought of his distress, his confinement, his dejection, she felt agony at their separation.
Her melancholy was noticed at the cottage. Ellen informed the nurse of the dismal walk they had taken, which at once accounted for it; and the good woman exerted herself to enliven her dear child, but Amanda, though she faintly smiled,was not to be cheered, and soon retired to bed—pale, languid, and unhappy.
Returning light, in some degree, dispelled her melancholy; she felt, however, for the first time, that her hours would hang heavy on her hands, deprived as she was of those delightful resources which had hitherto diversified them. To pass her time in listless inaction, or idle saunters about the house, was insupportable; and besides, she found her presence in the morning was a restraint on her humble friends, who did not deem it good manners to work before her; and to them, who, like the bees, were obliged to lay up their wintry hoard in summer, the loss of time was irreparable.
In the distraction of her father’s affairs, she had lost her books, implements for drawing, and musical instruments; and in the cottage she could only find a Bible, a family prayer-book, and a torn volume of old ballads.
“Tear heart, now I think on’t,” said the nurse, “you may go to the library at Tudor Hall, where there are books enough to keep you a-going, if you lived to the age of Methusalem himself; and very pretty reading to be sure amongst them, or our Parson Howel would not have been going there as often as he did to study, till he got a library of his own. The family are all away; and as the door is open every fine day to air the room, you will not be noticed by nopoty going into it; though, for that matter, poor old Mrs. Abergwilly would make you welcome enough, if you promised to take none of the books away with you. But as I know you to be a little bashful or so, I will, if you choose, step over and ask her leave for you to go.” “It you please,” said Amanda; “I should not like to go without it.” “Well, I sha’n’t be long,” continued the nurse, “and Ellen shall show you the way to-day; it will be a pretty pit of a walk for you to take every morning.”
The nurse was as good as her word; she returned soon, with Mrs. Abergwilly’s permission for Amanda to read in the library whenever she pleased. In consequence of this, she immediately proceeded to the Hall, whose white turrets were seen from the cottage: it was a large and antique building, embosomed in a grove; the library was on the ground-floor, and entered by a spacious folding-door. As soon as she had reached it, Ellen left her, and returned to the cottage; and Amanda began with pleasure to examine the apartment, whose elegance and simplicity struck her with immediate admiration.
On one side was a row of large windows, arched quite in thegothic style; opposite to them were corresponding arches, in whose recesses the bookcases were placed; round these arches were festoons of laurel, elegantly executed in stucco-work; and above them medallions of some of the most celebrated poets: the chimney-piece, of the finest Italian marble, was beautifully inlaid and ornamented; the paintings on the ceiling were all highly finished, and of the allegorical kind; and it was difficult to determine whether the taste that designed, or the hand that executed them, merited most praise; upon marble pedestals stood a celestial and terrestrial globe, and one recess was entirely hung with maps. It was a room, from its situation and appearance, peculiarly adopted for study and contemplation; all around was solitude and silence, save the rustling of the trees, whose dark foliage cast a solemn shade upon the windows.
Opposite the entrance was another folding-door, which being a little opened, Amanda could not resist the desire she felt of seeing what was beyond it. She entered a large vaulted apartment, whose airy lightness formed a pleasing contrast to the gloomy one she had left. The manner in which it was fitted up, and the musical instruments, declared this to be a music-room. It was hung with pale green damask, spotted with silver, and bordered with festoons of roses, intermingled with light silver sprays; the seats corresponded to the hangings; the tables were of fine inlaid wood; and superb lustres were suspended from the ceiling, which represented, in a masterly style, scenes from some of the pastoral poets; the orchestra, about the centre of the room, was enclosed with a light balustrading of white marble, elevated by a few steps.
The windows of this room commanded a pleasing prospect of a deep romantic dale; the hills through which it wound, displaying a beautiful diversity of woody scenery, interspersed with green pastures and barren points of rocks: a fine fall of water fell from one of the highest of the hills, which, broken by intervening roots and branches of trees, ran a hundred different ways, sparkling in the sunbeams as they emerged from the shade.
Amanda stood long at a window, enjoying this delightful prospect, and admiring the taste which had chosen this room for amusement; thus at once gratifying the eye and ear. On looking over the instruments, she saw a pianoforte unlocked; she gently raised the lid, and touching the keys, found them in tolerable order. Amanda adored music; her genius for it was great, and had received every advantage her father couldpossibly give it; in cultivating it he had laid up a fund of delight for himself, for “his soul was a stream that flowed at pleasant sounds.”
Amanda could not resist the present opportunity of gratifying her favorite inclination. “Harmony and I,” cried she, “have long been strangers to each other.” She sat down and played a little tender air: those her father loved, recurred to her recollection, and she played a few of them with even more than usual elegance. “Ah, dear and valued object,” she mournfully sighed, “why are you not here to share, my pleasure?” She wiped away a starting tear of tender remembrance, and began a simple air—
Ah gentle Hope, shall I no moreThy cheerful influence share?Oh must I still thy loss deplore,And be the slave of care?The gloom which now obscures my daysAt thy approach would fly,And glowing fancy would displayA bright unclouded sky.Night’s dreary shadows fleet awayBefore the orient beamSo sorrow melts before thy sway,Thou nymph of cheerful mien.Ah! seek again my lonely breast,Dislodge each painful fear;Be once again my heavenly guest,And stay each falling tear.
Ah gentle Hope, shall I no moreThy cheerful influence share?Oh must I still thy loss deplore,And be the slave of care?The gloom which now obscures my daysAt thy approach would fly,And glowing fancy would displayA bright unclouded sky.Night’s dreary shadows fleet awayBefore the orient beamSo sorrow melts before thy sway,Thou nymph of cheerful mien.Ah! seek again my lonely breast,Dislodge each painful fear;Be once again my heavenly guest,And stay each falling tear.
Ah gentle Hope, shall I no moreThy cheerful influence share?Oh must I still thy loss deplore,And be the slave of care?
The gloom which now obscures my daysAt thy approach would fly,And glowing fancy would displayA bright unclouded sky.
Night’s dreary shadows fleet awayBefore the orient beamSo sorrow melts before thy sway,Thou nymph of cheerful mien.
Ah! seek again my lonely breast,Dislodge each painful fear;Be once again my heavenly guest,And stay each falling tear.
Amanda saw a number of music-books lying about; she examined a few, and found they contained compositions of some of the most eminent masters. They tempted her to continue a little longer at the instrument: when she rose from it, she returned to the library, and began looking over the books, which she found were a collection of the best that past or present times had produced. She soon selected one for perusal, and seated herself in the recess of a window, that she might enjoy the cool breeze, which sighed amongst the trees. Here, delighted with her employment, she forgot the progress of time; nor thought of moving, till Ellen appeared with a request from the nurse, for her immediate return, as her dinner was ready, and she was uneasy at her fasting so long. Amanda did not hesitate to comply with the request; but she resolved henceforth to be a constant visitor to the hall, which contained such pleasing sources of amusement: she also settled in herown mind often to ramble amidst its shades, which were perfectly adapted to her taste. These resolutions she put in practice; and a week passed in this manner, during which she heard from her father, who informed her, that, suspecting the woman with whom he lodged to be in Colonel Belgrave’s interest, he proposed changing his abode; he desired her therefore not to write till she heard from him again, and added, “Lord Cherbury was daily expected.”
“Mine eyes were half closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine ear; it was like the rising breeze, that whirls at first, the thistle’s beard, that flies, dark shadowy over the grass.”—Ossian.
“Mine eyes were half closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine ear; it was like the rising breeze, that whirls at first, the thistle’s beard, that flies, dark shadowy over the grass.”—Ossian.
Amanda went every morning to the hall, where she alternately played and read: in the evening she again returned to it: but instead of staying in the library, generally took a book from thence, and read at the foot of some old moss-covered tree, delighted to hear its branches gently rustling over her head, and myriads of summer flies buzzing in the sunny ray, from which she was sheltered. When she could no longer see to read, she deposited her book in the place she had taken it from, and rambled to the deepest recesses of the grove: this was the time she loved to saunter carelessly along, while all the jarring passions that obtruding care excited were hushed to peace by the solemnity and silence of the hour, and the soul felt at once composed and elevated: this was the time she loved to think on days departed, and sketch those scenes of felicity which, she trusted, the days to come would realize. Sometimes she gave way to all the enthusiasm of a young and romantic fancy, and pictured to herself the time when the shades she wandered beneath were
——the haunts of meditation,The scenes, where ancient bards the inspiring breathEcstatic felt, and, from this world retired,Conversed with angels, and immortal forms,On gracious errands bent; to save the fallOf Virtue struggling on the brink of Vice.—Thomson.
——the haunts of meditation,The scenes, where ancient bards the inspiring breathEcstatic felt, and, from this world retired,Conversed with angels, and immortal forms,On gracious errands bent; to save the fallOf Virtue struggling on the brink of Vice.—Thomson.
Her health gradually grew better, as the tranquillity of hermind increased: a faint blush again began to tinge her cheek, and her lovely eyes beamed a placid lustre, through their long silken lashes.
She returned one evening from her usual ramble, with one of those unaccountable depressions on her spirits to which, in a greater or lesser degree, almost every one is subject. When she retired to bed, her sleeping thoughts took the tincture of her waking ones, and images of the most affecting nature arose in her mind: she went through the whole story of her mother’s sufferings, and suddenly dreamt she beheld her expiring under the greatest torture; and that while she wept her fate the clouds opened, and discovered her adorned with seraphic beauty, bending with a benignant look towards her child, as if to assure her of her present happiness. From this dream Amanda was roused by the softest, sweetest strains of music she had ever heard: she started with amazement; she opened her eyes, and saw a light around her, far exceeding that of twilight. Her dream had made a deep impression on her, and a solemn awe diffused itself over her mind; she trembled universally; but soon did the emotion of awe give way to that of surprise, when she heard on the outside of the window the following lines from Cowley, sung in a manly and exquisitely melodious voice, the music which awoke her being only a symphony to them:—
Awake, awake, my lyre,And tell thy silent master’s humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire.Though so exalted she,And I so lowly be,Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony.Hark, how the strings awake,And though the moving hand approach not nearThemselves with awful fear,A kind of numerous trembling make.Now all thy forces try,Now all thy charms apply,Revenge upon her ear the conquest of her eye.Weak lyre, thy virtue sureIs useless here, since thou art only foundTo cure, but not to wound,And she to wound, but not to cure.Too weak, too, wilt thou proveMy passion to remove.Physic to other ills, thou’rt nourishment to love.Sleep, sleep again, my lyre,For thou canst never tell my humble tale,In sounds that will prevail,Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire.All thy vain mirth lay by,Bid thy strings silent lie,Sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die.
Awake, awake, my lyre,And tell thy silent master’s humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire.Though so exalted she,And I so lowly be,Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony.Hark, how the strings awake,And though the moving hand approach not nearThemselves with awful fear,A kind of numerous trembling make.Now all thy forces try,Now all thy charms apply,Revenge upon her ear the conquest of her eye.Weak lyre, thy virtue sureIs useless here, since thou art only foundTo cure, but not to wound,And she to wound, but not to cure.Too weak, too, wilt thou proveMy passion to remove.Physic to other ills, thou’rt nourishment to love.Sleep, sleep again, my lyre,For thou canst never tell my humble tale,In sounds that will prevail,Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire.All thy vain mirth lay by,Bid thy strings silent lie,Sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die.
Awake, awake, my lyre,And tell thy silent master’s humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire.Though so exalted she,And I so lowly be,Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony.
Hark, how the strings awake,And though the moving hand approach not nearThemselves with awful fear,A kind of numerous trembling make.Now all thy forces try,Now all thy charms apply,Revenge upon her ear the conquest of her eye.
Weak lyre, thy virtue sureIs useless here, since thou art only foundTo cure, but not to wound,And she to wound, but not to cure.Too weak, too, wilt thou proveMy passion to remove.Physic to other ills, thou’rt nourishment to love.
Sleep, sleep again, my lyre,For thou canst never tell my humble tale,In sounds that will prevail,Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire.All thy vain mirth lay by,Bid thy strings silent lie,Sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die.
Ere the voice ceased, Amanda had quite shaken off the effects of her dream; and when all again was silent, she drew back the curtain, and saw it was the moon, then at the full, which, beaming through the calico window-curtains, cast such a light around her. The remainder of the night was passed in ruminating on this strange incident; it was evident the serenade was addressed to her; but she had not seen any one since her arrival in the neighborhood from whom she could have expected such a compliment, or, indeed, believed capable of paying it; that the person who paid it was one of no mean accomplishments, from his performance, she could not doubt. She resolved to conceal the incident, but to make such inquiries the next morning as might possibly lead to a discovery. From the answers those inquiries received, the clergyman was the only person whom, with any degree of probability, she could fix on. She had never seen him, and was at a loss to conceive how he knew anything of her, till it occurred he might have seen her going to Tudor Hall, or rambling about it.
From the moment this idea arose, Amanda deemed it imprudent to go to the hall; yet, so great was the pleasure she experienced there, she could not think of relinquishing it without the greatest reluctance. She at last considered, if she had a companion, it would remove any appearance of impropriety. Ellen was generally employed at knitting; Amanda therefore saw, that going to the hall could not interfere with her employment, and accordingly asked her attendance thither, which the other joyfully agreed to.
“While you look over the books,” said Ellen, as they entered the library, “I will just step away about a little business.” “I beg you may not be long absent,” cried Amanda. Ellen assured her that she would not, and flew off directly. She had in truth seen, in an enclosure near the hall, Tim Chip, the carpenter, at work, who was the rural Adonis of these shades. He had long selected Ellen for the fair nymph of his affection, which distinction excited not a little jealousy among the village girls, and considerably increased the vanity of Ellen, who triumphed in a conquest that at once gratified her love, and exalted her above her companions.
Amanda entered the music-room. The melodious strains she had heard the preceding night dwelt upon her memory, and she sat down to the piano and attempted them; her ear soon informed her the attempt was successful; and her voice (as the words were familiar to her) then accompanied the instrument—“Heavenly sounds!” exclaimed some one behind her, as she concluded singing. Amanda started in terror and confusion from the chair, and beheld a tall and elegant young man standing by it. “Good heaven!” cried she, blushing and hastily moving to the door, scarcely knowing what she said, “where can Ellen be?” “And do you think,” said the stranger, springing forward and intercepting her passage, “I shall let you escape in this manner? No; really, my charming girl, I should be the most insensible of beings if I did not avail myself of the happy opportunity chance afforded of entreating leave to be introduced to you.” As he spoke, he gently seized her hand and carried it to his lips. “Be assured, sir,” said Amanda, “the chance, as you call it, which brought us together, is to me most unpleasant, as I fear it has exposed me to greater freedom than I have been accustomed to.” “And is it possible,” said he, “you really feel an emotion of anger? Well, I will relinquish my lovely captive if she condescendingly promises to continue here a few minutes longer, and grants me permission to attend her home.” “I insist on being immediately released,” exclaimed Amanda. “I obey,” cried he, softly pressing her hand, and then resigning it—“you are free; would to Heaven I could say the same!”
Amanda hurried to the grove, but in her confusion took the wrong path, and vainly cast her eyes around in search of Ellen. The stranger followed, and his eyes wandered with hers in every direction they took. “And why,” cried he, “so unpropitious to my wish of introduction?—a wish it was impossible not to feel from the moment you were seen.” Amanda made no reply, but still hurried on, and her fatigue and agitation were soon too much for her present weak state of health, and, quite overpowered, she was at last compelled to stop, and lean against a tree for support. Exercise had diffused its softest bloom over her cheek; her hair fluttered in the breeze that played around her, and her eyes, with the beautiful embarrassment of modesty, were bent to the ground to avoid the stranger’s ardent gaze. He watched her with looks of the most impassioned admiration, and softly exclaimed, as if the involuntary exclamation of rapture, “Good heavens, what an angel! Fatigue has made you ill,” he said; “and ’tis your haste to avoid me hasoccasioned this disorder. Could you look into my heart, you would then find there was no reason to fly me; the emotions that lovely face excites in a soul of sensibility could never be inimical to your safety.”
At this moment Amanda perceived Ellen leaping over a style; she had at last left Mr. Chip, after promising to meet him in the evening at the cottage, where the blind harper was to attend to give them a dance. She ran forward, but, on seeing the stranger, started back in the utmost amazement. “Bless me!” said Amanda, “I thought you would never come.” “You go, then,” said the stranger, “and give me no hope of a second interview. Oh say,” taking her hand, “will you not allow me to wait upon you?” “It is utterly impossible,” replied Amanda, “and I shall be quite distressed if longer detained.” “See, then,” said he, opening a gate which led from the grove into the road, “how like a courteous knight I release you from painful captivity. But think not, thou beautiful though cruel fair one,” he continued gayly, “I shall resign my hopes of yet conquering thy obduracy.”
“Oh, Lord!” cried Ellen, as they quitted the grove, “how did you meet with Lord Mortimer?” “Lord Mortimer?” repeated Amanda, “Yes, himself, inteed,” said Ellen; “and I think in all my porn days I was never more surprised than when I saw him with you, looking so soft and so sweet upon you; to be sure he is a beautiful man, and besides that, the young Lort of Tudor Hall.” Amanda’s spirits were greatly flurried when she heard he was the master of the mansion, where he had found her seated with as much composure as if possessor of it.
As they were entering the cottage, Ellen, twitching Amanda’s sleeve, cried, “Look! look!” Amanda, hastily turning round, perceived Lord Mortimer, who had slowly followed them half way down the lane. On being observed, he smiled, and kissing his hand, retired.
Nurse was quite delighted at her child being seen by Lord Mortimer (which Ellen informed her of): her beauty, she was convinced, had excited his warmest admiration; and admiration might lead (she did not doubt) to something more important. Amanda’s heart fluttered with an agreeable sensation, as Ellen described to her mother the tender looks with which Lord Mortimer regarded her. She was at first inclined to believe, that in his lordship she had found the person whose melody so agreeably disturbed her slumbers; but a minute’s reflection convinced her this belief must be erroneous: it wasevident (or she would have heard of it) that Lord Mortimer had only arrived that day at Tudor Hall: and even had he seen her before, upon consideration she thought it improbable that he should have taken the trouble of coming in such a manner to a person in a station, to all appearance, so infinitely beneath his own. Yes, it was plain, chance alone had led him to the apartment where she sat; and the commonplace gallantry fashionable men are accustomed to, had dictated the language he addressed to her. She half sighed, as she settled the matter thus in her mind, and again fixed on the curate as her serenader. Well, she was determined, if ever he came in her way, and dropped a hint of an attachment, she would immediately crush any hope she might have the vanity to entertain!