“I take thy word,And trust thy honest offered courtesy,For in a placeLess warranted than this, or less secureI cannot be, that I should fear to change it:Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trialTo my proportioned strength.”
“I take thy word,And trust thy honest offered courtesy,For in a placeLess warranted than this, or less secureI cannot be, that I should fear to change it:Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trialTo my proportioned strength.”
To take refuge in this manner, in any one’s house, was truly repugnant to the feelings of Amanda; but sad necessity conquered her scrupulous delicacy, and she asked the maid at what hour in the morning she should be ready for her.
“I shall come to you, ma’am,” answered she, “as soon as I think there is a carriage on the stand, and then we can go together to get one. But I protest, ma’am, you look sadly. I wish you would allow me to assist in undressing you, for I am sure you want a little rest. I dare say, for all my mistress said, if you choose it, I could get a little wine from her to make whey for you.” Amanda refused this, but accepted her offer of assistance, for she was so overpowered by the scenes of the day, as to be almost unequal to any exertion. The maid retired after she had seen her to bed. Amanda entreated her to be punctual to an early hour, and also requested her to give her most affectionate love to Miss Rushbrook, and her sincere thanks for the kind solicitude she had expressed about her. Her rest was now, as on the preceding night, broken, and disturbed by frightful visions. She arose pale, trembling, and unrefreshed. The maid came to her soon after she was dressed, and she immediately accompanied her down stairs, trembling as she went, lest Belgrave should suddenly make his appearance, and either prevent her departure, or follow her to her new residence. She left the house, however, without meeting any creature, and soon obtained the shelter of a carriage.
As they proceeded, Amanda besought the maid, who seemed perfectly acquainted with everything relative to Belgrave, to tell Miss Rushbrook to believe her assertions against him if she wished to save herself from destruction. The maid assured her she would, and declared she always suspected Mr. Sipthorpe was not as good as he should be. Amanda soon found herself at the end of her little journey. The house was elegant and spacious, with a short avenue before it planted with chestnuts. The maid’s sister was an elderly-looking woman, who received Amanda with every appearance of respect, and conducted her into a handsome parlor, where a neat breakfast was laid out. “I took care, ma’am,” said the maid, smiling, “to apprise my sister last night of the honor she was to have thismorning: and I am sure she will do everything in her power to oblige you.” “I thank you both,” cried Amanda, with her usual sweetness, but while she spoke a struggling tear stole down her lovely cheek at the idea of that forlorn situation which had thus cast her upon the kindness of strangers—strangers who were themselves the children of poverty and dependence. “I hope, however, I shall not long be a trouble to either, as it is my intention immediately to look out for a lodging amongst the cottages in this neighborhood, till I can settle my affairs to return to my friends. In the mean time, I must insist on making some recompense for the attention I have received, and the expense I have put you to.” She accordingly forced a present upon each, for both the women appeared unwilling to accept them, and Mrs. Deborah, the maid’s sister, said it was quite unnecessary at present to think of leaving the house, as the family would not return to it for six weeks. Amanda, however, was resolved on doing what she had said, as she could not conquer her repugnance to continue in a stranger’s house. Mrs. Connel’s maid departed in a few minutes. Of the breakfast prepared for her, Amanda could only take some tea. Her head ached violently, and her whole frame felt disordered. Mrs. Deborah, seeing her dejection, proposed showing her the house and garden, which were very fine, to amuse her, but Amanda declined the proposal at present, saying she thought if she lay down she should be better. She was immediately conducted to an elegant chamber, where Mrs. Deborah left her, saying she would prepare some little nice thing for her dinner, which she hoped would tempt her to eat. Amanda now tried to compose her spirits by reflecting she was in a place of security; but their agitation was not to be subdued from the sleep into which mere fatigue threw her. She was continually starting in inexpressible terrors. Mrs. Deborah came up two or three times to know how she was, and at last appeared with dinner. She laid a small table by the bedside, and besought Amanda to rise and try to eat. There was a friendliness in her manner which recalled to Amanda’s recollection her faithful nurse Edwin, and she sighed to think that the shelter of her humble cottage she could no more enjoy (should such a shelter be required) from its vicinity to Tudor Hall, near which every feeling of propriety and tenderness must forbid her residing; the sad remembrance of which, now reviving in her mind, drew tears from her, and rendered her unable to eat. She thanked Mrs. Deborah for her attention, but, anxious to be alone, said she would no longer detain her; yet no sooner was she alonethan she found solitude insupportable. She could not sleep, the anguish of her mind was so great, and arose with the idea that a walk in the garden might be of use to her. As she was descending the stairs, she heard, notwithstanding the door was shut, a man’s voice from a front parlor. She started, for she thought it was a voice familiar to her ear. With a light foot and a throbbing heart she turned into a parlor at the foot of the stairs which communicated with the other. Here she listened, and soon had her fears confirmed by recollecting the voice to be that of Belgrave’s servant, whom she had often seen in Devonshire. She listened with that kind of horror which the trembling wretch may be supposed to feel when about hearing a sentence he expects to be dreadful.
“Ay, I assure you,” cried the man, “we are blown up at Mrs. Connel’s, but that is of little consequence to us; the colonel thinks the game now in view better than that he has lost, so to-night you may expect him in a chaise and four to carry off your fair guest.” “I declare, I am glad of it,” said Mrs. Deborah, “for I think she will die soon.” “Die soon!” repeated he. “Oh! yes, indeed, great danger of that—" and he added something else, which, being delivered with a violent burst of laughter, Amanda could not hear. She thought she heard them moving towards the door; she instantly slipped from the parlor, and, ascending the stairs in breathless haste, stopped outside the chamber door to listen. In a few minutes she heard them coming into the hall, and the man softly let out by Mrs. Deborah. Amanda now entered the chamber and closed the door, and knowing a guilty conscience is easily alarmed, she threw herself on the bed, lest Mrs. Deborah, if she found her up, should have her suspicions awakened. Her desperate situation inspired her with strength and courage, and she trusted by presence of mind to be able to extricate herself from it. It was her intention, if she effected her escape, to proceed directly to London, though the idea of entering it, without a certain place to go to, was shocking to her imagination; yet she thought it a more secure place for her than any of the neighboring cottages, which she thought might be searched. Mrs. Deborah, as she expected, soon came up to her. Amanda involuntarily shuddered at her appearance, but knowing her safety depended on the concealment of her feelings, she forced herself to converse with the treacherous creature. She at last arose from the bed, declaring she had indulged her languor too much, and, after a few turns about the room, went to the window, and pretended to be engrossed in admiring thegarden. “There is a great deal of fruit in the garden,” said she, turning to Mrs. Deborah; “if I did not think it encroached too much on your kindness, I should ask for a nectarine or two.” “Dear ma’am,” replied Miss Deborah, “you are heartily welcome. I declare I should have offered them to you, only I thought you would like a turn in the garden and pull them yourself.” “No,” said Amanda, “I cannot at present.” Mrs. Deborah went off, and Amanda watched at the window till she saw her at the very end of the garden; she then snatched up her hat, and tied it on with a handkerchief, the better to conceal her face, then hastily descended the stairs, and locked the back door to prevent any immediate pursuit. She ran down the avenue, nor flagged in her course till she had got some paces from it; she was then compelled to do so, as much from weakness as from fear of attracting notice, if she went on in such a wild manner. She started at the sound of every carriage, and hastily averted her head as they passed; but she reached London without any alarm but what her own fears gave her. The hour was now late and gloomy, and warned Amanda of the necessity there was for exertions to procure a lodgings. Some poor women she saw retiring from their little fruit-stand drew a shower of tears from her, to think her situation was more wretched than theirs, whom but a few days before she should have considered as objects of compassion. She knew at such an hour she would only be received into houses of an inferior description, and looked for one in which she could think there might be a chance of gaining admittance. She at last came to a small, mean-looking house. “This humble roof, I think,” cried she, “will not disdain to shelter an unhappy wanderer!” She turned into the shop, where butter and cheese were displayed, and where an elderly woman sat knitting behind the counter. She arose immediately, as if from surprise and respect at Amanda’s appearance, who in universal agitation leaned against the door for support, unable for some minutes to speak. At last, in faltering accents, whilst over her pale face a crimson blush was diffused, she said, “I should be glad to know if you have any lodgings to let?”
The woman instantly dropped into her seat, and looked steadfastly at Amanda. “This is a strange hour,” cried she, “for any decent body to come looking for lodgings!” “I am as sensible of that as you can be,” said Amanda, “but peculiar circumstances have obliged me to it; if you can accommodate me, I can assure you you will not have reason to repent doing so.” “Oh! I do not know how that may be,” cried she; “itis natural for a body to speak a good word for themselves; however, if I do let you a room, for I have only one to spare, I shall expect to be paid for it beforehand.” “You shall, indeed,” said Amanda. “Well, I will show it you,” said she. She accordingly called a little girl to watch the shop, and, taking a candle, went up, before Amanda, a narrow, winding flight of stairs, and conducted her into a room, whose dirty, miserable appearance made her involuntarily shrink back, as if from the den of wretchedness itself. She tried to subdue the disgust it inspired her with, by reflecting that, after the imminent danger she had escaped, she should be happy to procure any asylum she could consider safe. She also tried to reconcile herself to it, by reflecting that in the morning she should quit it.
“Well, ma’am,” said the woman, “the price of the room is neither more nor less than one guinea per week, and if you do not like it, you are very welcome not to stay.” “I have no objection to the price,” replied Amanda; “but I hope you have quiet people in the house.” “I flatter myself, ma’am,” said the woman, drawing up her head, “there is never a house in the parish can boast a better name than mine.” “I am glad to hear it,” answered Amanda; “and I hope you are not offended by the inquiry.” She now put her hand in her pocket for the purse, to give the expected guinea, but the purse was not there. She sat down on the side of the bed, and searched the other, but with as little success. She pulled out the contents of both, but no purse was to be found. “Now—now,” cried she, clasping her hands together, in an agony which precluded reflection, “now—now, I am lost indeed! My purse is stolen,” she continued, “and I cannot give you the promised guinea.” “No, nor never could, I suppose,” exclaimed the woman. “Ah! I suspected all along what you were;—and so you was glad my house had a good name? I shall take care it does not lose that name by lodging you.” “I conjure you,” cried Amanda, starting up, and laying her hand on the woman’s, “I conjure you to let me stay this night; you will not—you shall not lose by doing so. I have things of value in a trunk in town, for which I will this instant give you a direction.” “Your trunk!” replied the woman in a scornful tone. “Oh! yes, you have a trunk with things of value in it, as much as you have a purse in your pocket. A pretty story, indeed. But I know too much of the ways of the world to be deceived nowadays—so march directly.”
Amanda again began to entreat, but the woman interrupted her, and declared, if she did not depart directly, she would besorry for it. Amanda instantly ceased her importunities, and in trembling silence followed her down stairs. Oppressed with weakness, she involuntarily hesitated in the shop, which the woman perceiving, she rudely seized her, and pushing her from it, shut the door. Amanda could not now, as in former exigencies, consider what was to be done. Alas! if even capable of reflection, she could have suggested no plan which there was a hope of accomplishing. The powers of her mind were overwhelmed with horror and anguish. She moved mechanically along, nor stopped, till from weakness, she sunk upon the step of a door, against which she leaned her head in a kind of lethargy; but from this she was suddenly aroused by two men who stopped before her. Death alone could have conquered her terrors of Belgrave. She instantly concluded these to be him and his man. She started up, uttered a faint scream, and calling upon Heaven to defend her, was springing past them, when her hand was suddenly caught. She made a feeble but unsuccessful effort to disengage it, and overcome by terror and weakness fell, though not fainting, unable to support herself, upon the bosom of him who had arrested her course. “Gracious Heaven!” cried he, “I have heard that voice before.”
Amanda raised her head. “Sir Charles Bingley!” she exclaimed. The feelings of joy, surprise, and shame, that pervaded her whole soul, and thrilled through her frame, were, in its present weak state, too much for it, and she again sunk upon his shoulder. The joy of unexpected protection—for protection she was convinced she should receive from Sir Charles Bingley—was conquered by reflecting on the injurious ideas her present situation must excite in his mind—ideas she feared she should never be able to remove, so strongly were appearances against her.
“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed Sir Charles, “is this Miss Fitzalan? Oh, this,” he cried, in a tone of deep dejection, “is indeed a meeting of horror!” A deep convulsive sob from Amanda alone proclaimed her sensibility; for she lay motionless in his arms—arms which involuntarily encircled and enfolded her to a heart that throbbed with intolerable anguish on her account. His friend stood all this time a spectator of the scene, the raillery which he had been on the point of uttering at seeing Amanda, as he thought, so premeditatedly fell into the arms of his companion, was stopped by the sudden exclamation of Sir Charles. Though the face of Amanda was concealed, the glimmering of a lamp over their heads gave him a view of her fine form, and the countenance of Sir Charles as he bent overher, full of sorrow and dismay. “Miss Fitzalan,” cried Sir Charles, after the silence of a minute, “you are ill; allow me to have the pleasure of seeing you home.” “Home!” repeated Amanda, in the slow and hollow voice of despair, and raising her languid head, “alas! I have no home to go to.”
Every surmise of horror which Sir Charles had formed from seeing her in her present situation was now confirmed. He groaned, he shuddered, and scarcely able to stand, was obliged to lean with the lovely burden he supported against the rails. He besought his friend either to procure a chair or coach in which he might have her conveyed to a house where he knew he could gain her admittance. Touched by his distress, and the powerful impulse of humanity, his friend instantly went to comply with his request.
The silence of Amanda Sir Charles imputed to shame and illness, and grief and delicacy forbade him to notice it. His friend returned in a few minutes with a coach, and Sir Charles then found that Amanda’s silence did not altogether proceed from the motives he had ascribed it to; for she had fainted on his bosom. She was lifted into the carriage, and he again received her in his arms. On the carriage stopping, he committed her to the care of his friend, whilst he stepped into the house to procure a reception. In a few minutes he returned with a maid, who assisted him in carrying her up stairs. But on entering the drawing-room, how great was his amazement, when a voice suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, merciful Powers! this is Miss Donald!” It was indeed to Mrs. Connel’s house, and to the care of the Rushbrooks, whom his bounty had released from prison, he had brought her. He had previously informed them of the situation in which he found her, little suspecting, at the time, she was the Miss Donald they mentioned being under such obligations to.
“It is I, it is I,” cried Mrs. Rushbrook, gazing on her with mingled horror and anguish, “it is I have been the occasion of her distress, and never shall I forgive myself for it.” “Oh, my preserver, my friend, my benefactress!” said Emily, clasping her in an agony of tears to her bosom, “is it thus your Emily beholds you?” Amanda was laid upon a couch, and her hat being removed, displayed a face which, with the paleness of death, had all the wildness of despair—a wildness that denoted more expressively than language could have done, the conflicts her spirit had endured; heavy sighs announced her having recovered from her fainting fit; but her eyes still continued closed, and her head, too weak to be self-supported, rested against thearm of the couch. Mrs. Rushbrook and her daughter hung over her in inexpressible agonies. If they were thus affected, oh! how was Sir Charles Bingley distressed—oh! how was his heart, which loved her with the most impassionate tenderness, agonized! As he bent over the couch, the big tear trickled down his manly cheek, and fell upon the cold, pale face he contemplated. He softly asked himself, Is this Amanda? Is this she, whom but a short time ago I beheld moving with unequalled elegance, adorned with unrivalled beauty, whom my heart worshipped as the first of women, and sought to unite its destiny to, as the surest means of rendering that destiny happy? Oh! what a change is here! How feeble is that form! how hollow is that cheek! how heavy are those eyes whose languid glance speak incurable anguish of the soul! Oh, Amanda, was the being present who first led you into error, what horror and remorse must seize his soul at seeing the consequence of that error! “Has this unhappy young creature,” asked Rushbrook, who had approached the couch and viewed her with the truest pity, “no connections that could be prevailed on to save her?” “None that I know of,” replied Sir Charles; “her parents are both dead.” “Happy are the parents,” resumed Rushbrook, “who, shrouded in the dust, cannot see the misfortunes of their children—the fall of such a child as this!” glancing his tearful eyes as he spoke on his daughters.
“And pray, sir,” said Mrs. Connel, who was chafing her temples with lavender, “if she recovers, what is to become of her?” “It shall be my care,” cried Sir Charles, “to procure her an asylum. Yes, madam,” he continued, looking at her with an expression of mingled tenderness and grief, “he that must forever mourn thy fate, will try to mitigate it; but does she not want medical assistance?” “I think not,” replied Mrs. Connel; “it is want of nourishment and rest has thrown her into her present situation.” “Want of nourishment and rest!” repeated Sir Charles. “Good Heavens!” continued he, in the sudden agony of his soul, and walking from the couch, “is it possible that Amanda was a wanderer in the streets, without food, or a place to lay her head in? Oh, this is dreadful! Oh! my friends,” he proceeded, looking around him, whilst his eyes beamed the divine compassion of his soul, “be kind, be careful of this poor creature; but it is unnecessary to exhort you to this, and excuse me for having done so. Yes, I know you will delight in binding up a broken heart, and drying the tears of a wretched outcast. A short time ago, and she appeared——" he stopped, overcome by his emotions, and turned away his head to wipeaway his tears. “A short time ago,” he resumed, “and she appeared all that the heart of man could desire, all that a woman should wish and ought to be. Now she is fallen, indeed, lost to herself and to the world!” “No,” cried Emily, with generous warmth, starting from the side of the couch, at which she had been kneeling, “I am confident she never was guilty of an error.” “I am inclined, indeed, to be of Emily’s opinion,” said Mrs. Rushbrook. “I think the monster, who spread such a snare for her destruction, traduced Miss Donald in order to drive her from those who would protect her from his schemes.” “Would to Heaven the truth of your conjecture could be proved,” exclaimed Sir Charles. Again he approached the couch. Amanda remained in the same attitude, but seeing her eyes open, he took her cold hand, and in a soothing voice assured her she was safe; but the assurance had no effect upon her. Hers, like the “dull, cold ear of death,” was insensible of sound. A faint spark of life seemed only quivering through her woe-worn frame. “She is gone!” cried Sir Charles, pressing her hand between his; “she is gone, indeed! Oh! sweet Amanda, the mortal bounds that enclose thy afflicted spirit will soon be broken!” “I trust not, sir,” exclaimed Captain Rushbrook. His wife and daughter were unable to speak. “In my opinion she had better be removed to bed.”
Amanda was accordingly carried to a chamber, and Sir Charles remained in the drawing-room till Mrs. Rushbrook had returned to it. She informed him Miss Donald continued in the same state. He desired a physician might be sent for, and departed in inexpressible dejection.
“Love, gratitude, and pity wept at once.”—Thomson.
“Love, gratitude, and pity wept at once.”—Thomson.
We shall now account for the incidents in the last chapter. Amanda’s letter to the Rushbrooks filled them with surprise and consternation. Mrs. Rushbrook directly repaired to Mrs. Connel, who, without hesitation, gave it as her opinion that the whole was a fabrication, invented by malice to ruin Sipthorpe in their opinion, or else by envy to prevent their enjoying the good fortune which he offered to their acceptance. Mrs. Rushbrook was inclined to be of the same opinion. Her mind wassensibly affected by the favors Sipthorpe had conferred on her family, and, yielding to its gratitude, she resolved to be guided implicitly by her friend, who advised her to show the letter to him. She considered this the best measure she could pursue. If innocent, he would be pleased by the confidence reposed in his honor; if guilty, his confusion must betray him. But Belgrave was guarded against detection. His servant had seen Amanda as she was alighting from the coach the evening she arrived in town. He inquired from the maid concerning her, and learned that she was to lodge in the house, and go by her assumed name. These circumstances he related to his master the moment he returned home, who was transported at the intelligence. From her change of name, he supposed her not only in deep distress, but removed from the protection of her friends, and he determined not to lose so favorable an opportunity as the present for securing her in his power. He instantly resolved to relinquish his designs on Emily—designs which her beautiful simplicity and destitute condition had suggested, and to turn all his thoughts on Amanda, who had ever been the first object of his wishes. His pride, as well as love, was interested in again ensnaring her, as he had been deeply mortified by her so successfully baffling his former stratagems; he knew not of the manner she had left the house. Half distracted at what he supposed her escape from it, he had followed her to Ireland, and remained incognito near the convent, till the appearance of Lord Mortimer convinced him any schemes he formed against her must prove abortive; but to concert a plan for securing her required some deliberation. Ere he could devise one he was summoned to Mrs. Connel’s parlor to peruse the letter, and from the hand as well as purport, instantly knew Amanda to be its author. With the daring effrontery of vice, he directly declared she was a discarded mistress of his, who from jealousy had taken this step, to prevent, if possible, his union. He assured them her real name was not Donald, bid them tax her with that deceit, and judge from her confusion whether she was not guilty of that, as well as everything else he alleged against her. His unembarrassed manner had the appearance of innocence to his too credulous auditors, prejudiced as they were already in his favor, and in their minds he was now fully acquitted of his imputed crimes. He was now careless whether Amanda saw him or not (for he had before stolen into the house), being well convinced nothing she could allege against him would be credited. When night approached without bringing her, he grew alarmed lest he had lost her again.At last her return relieved him from this fear. The conversation which passed in the parlor he heard through the means of his servant, who had listened to it. The mention of Amanda’s removal in the morning made him immediately consult his servant about measures for securing her, and he, with the assistance of the maid, contrived the scheme which has been already related, having forged a letter in Emily’s name. But how inadequate is language to describe the rage that took possession of his soul, when, going at the appointed hour to carry Amanda off, he found her already gone. He raved, cursed, stamped, and accused the woman and his servant of being privy to her escape. In vain Mrs. Deborah told him of the trick she had played on her, and how she had been obliged to get into the house through the window. He continued his accusations, which so provoked his servant, conscious of their unjustness, that he at last replied to them with insolence. This, in the present state of Belgrave’s mind, was not to be borne, and he immediately struck him over the forehead with his sword, and with a violence which felled him to the earth. Scarcely had he obeyed ere he repented his impulse of passion, which seemed attended with fatal consequences, for the man gave no symptoms of existence. Consideration for his own safety was more prevalent in his mind than any feelings of humanity, and he instantly rushed from the house, ere the woman was sufficiently recovered from her horror and amazement to be able to call to the other servants, as she afterwards did, to stop him. He fled to town, and hastened to an hotel in Pall Mall, from whence he determined to hire a carriage for Dover, and thence embark for the continent. Ascending the stairs he met a man, of all others he would have wished to avoid, namely, Sir Charles Bingley. He started, but it was too late to retreat. He then endeavored to shake off his embarrassment, from a faint hope that Sir Charles had not heard of his villanous design upon Miss Rushbrook; but this hope vanished the moment Sir Charles addressed him, who with coldness and contempt said he would be glad to speak to him for a few minutes. But ere we relate their conversation, it is necessary to relate a few particulars of the Rushbrooks.
Captain Rushbrook, from knowing more of the deceits of mankind than his wife, was less credulous. The more he reflected on the letter the more he felt doubts obtruding on his mind, and he resolved sooner to forfeit the friendship of Sipthorpe than permit any further intercourse between him and his daughter till those doubts were removed. He sent his son toSir Charles’s agent, and had the satisfaction of hearing he was then in town, and lodged at an hotel in Pall Mall. He immediately wrote to Sir Charles, and requested to see him whenever he was at leisure; adding, he was well convinced his benevolence would excuse the liberty he had taken, when informed of the purpose for which his visit was requested. Sir Charles was fortunately within, and directly attended little Rushbrook to the prison. The letter had filled him with surprise, but that surprise gave way, the moment he entered the wretched apartment of Rushbrook, to the powerful emotions of pity. A scene more distressing he had never seen, or could not have conceived. He saw the emaciated form of the soldier, for such his dress announced him, seated beside a dying fire, his little children surrounding him, whose faded countenances denoted their keen participation of his grief, and the sad partner of his misery bending her eyes upon those children with mingled love and sorrow.
Rushbrook was unable to speak for a few minutes after his entrance. When he recovered his voice, he thanked him for the kind attention he had paid his request, briefly informed him of the motives for that request, and ended by putting Amanda’s letter into his hand. Sir Charles perused it with horror and amazement. “Gracious Heaven!” he exclaimed, “what a monster! I know not the lady who has referred you to me, but I can testify the truth of her allegations. I am shocked to think such a monster as Belgrave exists.”
Shocked at the idea of the destruction she was so near devoting her daughter to, disappointed in the hopes she entertained of having her family liberated from prison, and struck with remorse for her conduct to Amanda, Mrs. Rushbrook fell fainting to the floor, overpowered by her painful emotions. Sir Charles aided in raising her from it, for the trembling hand of Rushbrook refused its assistance. “Unhappy woman!” he exclaimed, “the disappointment of her hopes is too much for her feeble frame.” Water, the only restorative in the room, being sprinkled on her face, she slowly revived, and the first object she beheld was the pale and weeping Emily, whom her father had insisted on being brought to the prison. “Oh, my child,” she cried, clasping her to her bosom, “can you forgive the mother who was so near devoting you to destruction? Oh! my children, for your sake, how near was I sacrificing this dear, this precious girl! I blush! I shudder! when I reflect on my conduct to the unhappy young creature, who, like a guardian angel, interposed between my child and ruin. But these drearywalls,” she continued, bursting into an agony of tears, “which now we must never hope to pass, will hide my shame and sorrows together!” “Do not despair, my dear madam,” said Sir Charles, in the soft accent of benevolence, “nor do you,” continued he, turning to Rushbrook, “deem me impertinent in inquiring into those sorrows.” His accent, his manner, were so soothing, that these children of misery, who had long been strangers to the voice of kindness, gave him, with tears, and sighs, a short relation of their sorrows. He heard them with deep attention, and, when he departed, gave them such a smile as, we may suppose, would beam from an angel, if sent by Heaven to pour the balm of comfort and mercy over the sorrows of a bursting heart.
He returned early in the morning. How bright, how animated was his countenance! Oh, ye sons of riot and extravagance! ye children of dissipation! never did ye experience a pleasure equal to his, when he entered the apartment of Rushbrook to inform him he was free; when, in the impassioned, yet faltering accents of sensibility, he communicated the joyful tidings, and heard the little children repeat his words, while their parents gazed on each other with surprise and rapture.
Rushbrook at length attempted to pour out the fulness of his heart, but Sir Charles stopped him. “Blessed with a fortune,” cried he, “beyond my wants, to what nobler purpose could superfluous wealth be devoted, than to the enlargement of a man who has served his country, and who has a family which he may bring up to act as he has done? May the restoration of liberty be productive of every happiness! Your prison gates, I rejoice to repeat, are open. May the friendship which commenced within these walls be lasting as our lives!” To dwell longer on this subject is unnecessary. The transported family were conveyed to Mrs. Connel’s, where he had been the preceding night to order everything for their reception. He then inquired about Sipthorpe, or rather Belgrave, whom he meant to upbraid for his cruel designs against Miss Rushbrook; but Belgrave, as soon as his plan was settled about Amanda, had quitted Mrs. Connel’s. The joy of the Rushbrooks was greatly damped the next morning on hearing of the secret departure of Amanda. What Belgrave had said against her they never would have credited, but for the appearance of mystery which enveloped her. Still, her amiable attention to them merited their truest gratitude; they wished to have expressed that gratitude to her, and offer her their services. Much as appearances were against Amanda, yet from the verymoment Mrs. Rushbrook declared it her idea that Belgrave had traduced her for the purpose of depriving her of protection, a similar idea started in Sir Charles’s mind, and he resolved to seek Belgrave, and never rest till he had discovered whether there was any truth in his assertions against Amanda. Their meeting at the hotel was considered as fortunate as unexpected by him; yet could he not disguise for a moment the contempt his character inspired him with. He reproached him as soon as they entered an apartment, for his base designs against Miss Rushbrook; designs in every respect degrading to his character, since he knew the blow he levelled at the peace of her father, could not, from the unfortunate situation of that father, be resented. “You are,” continued Sir Charles, “not only the violator, but the defamer of female innocence. I am well convinced from reflection on past and present circumstances, that your allegations against Miss Fitzalan were as false as vile.” “You may doubt them, Sir Charles,” replied Belgrave, “if it is agreeable to you; but yet, as a friend, I advise you not to let every one know you are her champion.” “Oh, Belgrave!” cried Sir Charles, “can you think without remorse, of having destroyed not only the reputation, but the existence of an amiable young creature?” “The existence!” repeated Belgrave, starting, and with a kind of horror in his look. “What do you mean?” “I mean that Amanda Fitzalan, involved through your means in a variety of wretchedness she was unable to support, is now on her death-bed!” Belgrave changed color, trembled, and in an agitated voice, demanded an explanation of Sir Charles’s words.
Sir Charles saw his feelings were touched, and trusting they would produce the discovery he wished, briefly gave him the particulars he asked for.
Amanda was the only woman that had ever really touched the heart of Belgrave. His mind, filled with horror and enervated with fear at the idea of the crime he had recently committed, could make no opposition to the grief he experienced on hearing of her situation—a grief heightened almost to distraction, by reflecting that he was accessory to it. “Dying!” he repeated, “Amanda Fitzalan dying! but she will be happy! Hers will be a pure and ministering spirit in heaven, when mine lies howling. The angels are not purer in mind and person than she is!” “Then you are an execrable villain,” cried Sir Charles, laying his hand on his sword. “Strike,” exclaimed Belgrave, with an air of wildness; “death will rid me of horrors. Death from you will be better than the ignominious onewhich now stares me in the face; for I have, oh, horrible! this night I have committed murder!”
Astonished and dismayed, Sir Charles gazed on him with earnestness. “It is true!” continued he, in the same wild manner, “it is true! therefore strike! but against you I will not raise my hand; it were impious to touch a life like yours, consecrated to the purposes of virtue. No, I would not deprive the wretched of their friend.” Sir Charles, still shuddering at his words, demanded an explanation of them; and the tortured soul of Belgrave, as if happy to meet any one it could confide in, after a little hesitation, divulged at once its crimes and horrors. “No,” cried Sir Charles, when he had concluded, “to raise a hand against him over whom the arm of justice is uplifted, were cruel as well as cowardly. Go, then, and may repentance, not punishment, overtake you.” To describe the raptures Sir Charles experienced at the acquittal of Amanda, is impossible. Not a fond father rejoicing over the restored fame of a darling child, could experience more exquisite delight. The next morning, as soon as he thought it possible he could gain admittance, he hastened to Mrs. Connel’s, and had the satisfaction of hearing from Mrs. Rushbrook that Amanda was then in a sweet sleep, from which the most salutary consequences might be expected. With almost trembling impatience he communicated the transports of his heart, and his auditors rejoiced as much at these transports on Amanda’s account as on his. Mrs. Rushbrook and Emily had sat up with her the preceding night, which she passed in a most restless manner, without any perception of surrounding objects. Towards morning she fell into a profound sleep, which they trusted would recruit her exhausted frame. Mrs. Rushbrook then withdrew to her husband. It was past noon ere Amanda awoke. At first a pleasing languor was diffused through her frame, which prevented her from having an idea of her situation; but gradually her recollection returned, and with it anxiety to know where she was. She remembered, too, the moment she had met Sir Charles, but no further. She gently opened the curtain, and beheld—oh! how great the pleasure of that moment—Emily sitting by the bedside, who, instantly rising, kissed her cheek in a transport of affection, and inquired how she did. Oh! how delightful, how soothing was that gentle voice to the ears of Amanda! The softest music could not have been more grateful. Her heart vibrated to it with an exquisite degree of pleasure, and her eyes feasted on the rays of benevolence which streamed from those of Emily. At last, ina faint voice, she said: “I am sure I am safe, since I am with Emily.”
Mrs. Rushbrook entered at that instant. Her delight at the restored faculties of Amanda was equal to her daughter’s ; yet the recollection of her own conduct made her almost reluctant to approach her. At last, advancing, “I blush, yet I rejoice—oh! how truly rejoice—to behold you,” she exclaimed; “that I could be tempted to harbor a doubt against you fills me with regret; and the vindication of your innocence can scarcely yield you more pleasure than it yields me.” “The vindication of my innocence!” repeated Amanda, raising her head from the pillow. “Oh, gracious Heaven! is it then vindicated? Tell me, I conjure you, how, and by what means.”
Mrs. Rushbrook hastened to obey her, and related all she had heard from Sir Charles. The restoration of her fame seemed to reanimate the soul of Amanda, yet tears burst from her, and she trembled with emotion. Mrs. Rushbrook was alarmed, and endeavored to compose her. “Do not be uneasy,” said Amanda, “those tears will never injure me. It is long, it is very long, since I have shed tears of joy!” She implored Heaven’s choicest blessings on Sir Charles for his generosity to her, his benevolence to the Rushbrooks. Her heart, relieved of a heavy burden of anxiety on her own account, now grew more anxious than ever to learn something of her poor Oscar; and notwithstanding Mrs. Rushbrook’s entreaties to the contrary, who feared she was exerting herself beyond her strength, she arose in the afternoon for the purpose of going to the drawing-room, determined, as Sir Charles’s generous conduct merited her confidence, to relate to him as well as to Mrs. Rushbrook the motives which had brought her to town; the particulars of her life necessary to be known; and to request their assistance in trying to learn intelligence of her brother. Emily helped her to dress, and supported her to the drawing-room. Sir Charles had continued in the house the whole day, and met her as she entered with mingled love and pity; for in her feeble form, her faded cheek, he witnessed the ravages of grief and sickness. His eyes more than his tongue expressed his feelings, yet in the softest accent of tenderness did he pour forth those feelings, whilst his hand trembled as it pressed hers to his bosom. “My feelings, Sir Charles,” said she, “cannot be expressed; but my gratitude to you will cease but with my existence.”
Sir Charles besought her to be silent on such a subject.“He was selfish,” he said, “in everything he did for her, for on her happiness his depended.”
Rushbrook approached to offer his congratulations. He spoke of her kindness, but, like Sir Charles, the subject was painful to her, and dropped at her request. The idea of being safe, the soothing attentions she experienced, gave to her mind a tranquillity it had long been a stranger to, and she looked back on her past dangers but to enjoy more truly her present security. As she witnessed the happiness of the Rushbrooks, she could scarcely forbear applauding aloud the author of that happiness; but she judged of his heart by her own, and therefore checked herself by believing he would prefer the silent plaudits of that heart to any praise whatsoever. After tea, when only Sir Charles, Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook, and Emily, were present, she entered upon the affairs she wished to communicate. They heard her with deep attention, wonder, and pity, and, when she concluded, both Sir Charles and Rushbrook declared their readiness to serve her. The latter, who had betrayed strong emotions during her narrative, assured her he doubted not, nay, he was almost convinced, he should soon be able to procure her intelligence of her brother.
This was a sweet assurance to the heart of Amanda, and, cheered by it, she soon retired to bed. Her strength being exhausted by speaking, she sunk into a tranquil slumber, and next morning she arose for breakfast. “Well,” said Rushbrook to her as they sat at it, “I told you last night I should soon be able to procure you intelligence of your brother, and I was not mistaken.” “Oh, heavens!” cried Amanda, in trembling emotion, “have you really heard anything of him?” “Be composed, my dear girl,” said he, taking her hand in the most soothing, most affectionate manner, “I have heard of him, but——" “But what?” interrupted Amanda, with increased emotion. “Why, that he has experienced some of the trials of life. But let the reflection that these trials are over, prevent your suffering pain by hearing of them.” “Oh! tell me, I entreat,” said Amanda, “where he is! Tell me, I conjure you; shall I see him?” “Yes,” replied Rushbrook, “you shall see him, to keep you no longer in suspense. In that dreary prison, from which I have just been released, he has languished for many months.” “Oh, my brother!” exclaimed Amanda, while tears gushed from her.
“I knew not,” continued Rushbrook, “from the concealment of your name, that he was your brother, till last night. I then told Sir Charles, and he is gone this morning to him; butyou must expect to see him somewhat altered. The restoration of liberty, and the possession of fortune, will no doubt soon re-establish his health. Hark! I think I hear a voice on the stairs.”
Amanda started, arose, attempted to move, but sunk again upon her chair. The door opened, and Sir Charles entered, followed by Oscar. Though prepared for an alteration in his looks, she was not by any means prepared for an alteration which struck her the moment she beheld him. Pale and thin, even to a degree of emaciation, he was dressed, or rather wrapped, in an old regimental great-coat, his fine hair wildly dishevelled. As he approached her, Amanda rose. “Amanda, my sister!” said he, in a faint voice. She tottered forward, and falling upon his bosom, gave way in tears to the mingled joy and anguish of the moment. Oscar pressed her to his heart. He gazed on her with the fondest rapture—yet a rapture suddenly checked, by surveying the alteration in her appearance, which was as striking to him, as his was to her. Her pale and woe-worn countenance, her sable dress, at once declared her sufferings, and brought most painfully to recollection the irreparable loss they had sustained since their last meeting.
“Oh, my father!” groaned Oscar, unable to control the strong emotions of his mind—"Oh, my father! when last we met we were blessed with your presence.” He clasped Amanda closer to his heart as he spoke, as if doubly endeared to him by her desolate situation.
“To avoid regretting him is indeed impossible,” said Amanda; “yet, had he lived, what tortures would have wrung his heart in witnessing the unhappiness of his children, when he had not the power of removing it!” “Come,” cried Captain Rushbrook, whose eyes, like those of every person present, confessed his sympathetic feelings, “let us not cloud present blessings by the retrospection of past misfortunes. In this life we must all expect to meet with such losses as you lament.” As soon as Oscar and Amanda grew composed, they were left to themselves, and Oscar then satisfied the anxious and impatient heart of his sister, by informing her of all that had befallen him. He began with his attachment for Adela, and the disappointment of that attachment; but as this part of his story is already known, we Shall pass it over in silence, and merely relate the occasion of his quarrel with Belgrave.