“The blossoms opening to the day,The dews of heaven refined,Could nought of purity displayTo emulate his mind.”—Goldsmith.
“The blossoms opening to the day,The dews of heaven refined,Could nought of purity displayTo emulate his mind.”—Goldsmith.
After tea Amanda asked little Betsey to accompany her in a walk; for Ellen (dressed in all her rural finery) had gone earlier in the evening to the dance. But Amanda did not begin her walk with her usual alacrity: her bonnet was so heavy, and then it made her look so ill, that she could not go out till she had made some alterations in it; still it would not do; a hat was tried on; she liked it better, and at last set out; but not as usual did she pause, whenever a new or lovely feature in the landscape struck her view, to express her admiration: she was often indeed so absorbed in thought, as to start when Betsey addressed her, which was often the case: for little Betsey delighted to have Miss Amanda to trace figures for her in the clouds, and assist her in gathering wild flowers. Scarcely knowing which way they went, Amanda rambled to the village; and feeling herself fatigued, turned into the church-yard to rest upon one of the raised flags.
The graves were ornamented with garlands of cut paper, interwoven with flowers: tributes of love from the village maids to the memory of their departed friends.
As Amanda rested herself, she twined a garland of the wild flowers she had gathered with Betsey, and hung it over thegrave of Lady Malvina: her fine eyes raised to heaven, as if invoking at that moment the spirit of her mother, to regard the vernal offering of her child; while her white hands were folded on her heart, and she softly exclaimed, “Alas, is this the only tribute for me to pay!”
A low murmur, as if from voices near, startled her at the instant; she turned with quickness, and saw Lord Mortimer, with a young clergyman, half hid by some trees, attentively observing her. Blushing and confused, she drew her hat over her face, and catching Betsey’s hand, hastened to the cottage.
Lord Mortimer had wandered about the skirts of the cottage, in hopes of meeting her in the evening; on seeing the direction she had taken from it, he followed her, and just as she entered the church-yard, unexpectedly met the curate. His company, at a moment so propitious for joining Amanda, he could well have dispensed with; for he was more anxious than he chose to acknowledge to himself, to become acquainted with her.
Lord Mortimer was now in the glowing prime of life: his person was strikingly elegant, and his manners insinuatingly pleasing; seducing sweetness dwelt in his smile, and, as he pleased, his expressive eyes could sparkle with intelligence, or beam with sensibility; and to the eloquence of his language, the harmony of his voice imparted a charm that seldom failed of being irresistible; his soul was naturally the seat of every virtue; but an elevated rank, and splendid fortune, had placed him in a situation somewhat inimical to their interests, for he had not always strength to resist the strong temptations which surrounded him; but though he sometimes wandered from the boundaries of virtue, he had never yet entered upon the confines of vice—never really injured innocence, or done a deed which could wound the bosom of a friend: his heart was alive to every noble propensity of nature; compassion was one of its strongest feelings, and never did his hand refuse obedience to the generous impulse. Among the various accomplishments he possessed, was an exquisite taste for music, which, with every other talent, had been cultivated to the highest degree of possible perfection; his spending many years abroad had given him every requisite advantage for improving it. The soft, melodious voice of Amanda would of itself almost have made a conquest of his heart; but aided by the charms of her face and person, altogether were irresistible.
He had come into Wales on purpose to pay a visit to an old friend in the Isle of Anglesey: he did not mean to stop at Tudor Hall; but within a few miles of it the phaeton, in whichhe travelled (from the fineness of the weather), was overturned, and he severely hurt. He procured a hired carriage, and proceeded to the hall, to put himself into the hands of the good old housekeeper, Mrs. Abergwilly; who, possessing as great a stock of medical knowledge as Lady Bountiful herself, he believed would cure his bruises with as much, or rather more expedition, than any country surgeon whatever. He gave strict orders that his being at the hall should not be mentioned, as he did not choose, the few days he hoped and believed he should continue there, to be disturbed by visits which he knew would be paid if an intimation of his being there was received. From an apartment adjoining the music-room he had discovered Amanda. Though scarcely able to move, at the first sound of her voice he stole to the door, which being a little open, gave him an opportunity of seeing her perfectly; and nothing but his situation prevented his immediately appearing before her, and expressing the admiration she had inspired him with. As soon as she departed he sent for the housekeeper, to inquire who the beautiful stranger was. Mrs. Abergwilly only knew she was a young lady lately come from London, to lodge at David Edwin’s cottage, whose wife had entreated permission for her to read in the library, which, she added, she had given, seeing that his lordship read in his dressing-room; but, if he pleased, she would send Miss Dunford word not to come again—“By no means,” his lordship said. Amanda therefore continued her visits as usual, little thinking with what critical regard and fond admiration she was observed. Lord Mortimer daily grew better; but the purpose for which he had come into Wales seemed utterly forgotten; he had a tincture of romance in his disposition, and availed himself of his recovery to gratify it, by taking a lute and serenading his lovely cottage girl. He could no longer restrain his impatience to be known to her; and the next day, stealing from his retirement, surprised her as already related.
As he could not, without an utter violation of good manners, shake off Howel, he contented himself with following Amanda into the church-yard, where, shaded by trees, he and his companion stood watching her unnoticed, till an involuntary exclamation of rapture from his lordship discovered their situation. When she departed, he read the inscription on the tombstone; but, from the difference of names, this gave no insight into any connection between her and the person it mentioned. Howel could give no information of either; he was but a young man, lately appointed to the parsonage, and had never seen Amanda till that evening.
Lord Mortimer was solicitous, even to a degree of anxiety, to learn the real situation of Amanda. As Howel, in his pastoral function, had free access to the houses of his parishioners, it occurred to him that he would be an excellent person to discover it; he therefore, as if from curiosity alone, expressed his wish of knowing who she was, and requested Howel, if convenient, to follow her directly to Edwin’s cottage (where, he said, by chance, he heard she lodged), and endeavor to find out from the good people everything about her. This request Howel readily complied with; the face, the figure, the melancholy, and, above all, the employment of Amanda, had interested his sensibility and excited his curiosity.
He arrived soon after her at the cottage, and found her laughing at her nurse, who was telling her she was certain she should see her a great lady. Amanda rose to retire at his entrance; but he, perceiving her intention, declared if he disturbed her, he would immediately depart; she accordingly reseated herself, secretly pleased at doing so, as she thought, either from some look or word of the curate’s, she might discover if he really was the person who had serenaded her; from this idea she showed no aversion to enter into conversation with him.
The whole family, nurse excepted, had followed Ellen to the dance; and that good woman thought she could do no less, for the honor of Howel’s visit, than prepare a little comfortable supper for him. The benevolence of his disposition, and innocent gayety of his temper, had rendered him a great favorite amongst his rustic neighbors, whom he frequently amused with simple ballads and pleasant tales. Amanda and he were lefttete-��-tetewhile the nurse was busied in preparing her entertainment; and she was soon as much pleased with the elegance and simplicity of his manners, as he was with the innocence and sweetness of hers. The objects about them naturally led to rural subjects, and from them to what might almost be termed a dissertation on poetry: this was a theme peculiarly agreeable to Howel, who wooed the pensive muse beneath the sylvan shade; nor was it less so to Amanda—she was a zealous worshipper of the muses, though diffidence made her conceal her invocations to them. She was led to point out the beauties of her favorite authors, and the soft sensibility of her voice raised a kind of tender enthusiasm in Howel’s soul; he gazed and listened, as if his eye could never be satisfied with seeing, or his ear with hearing. At his particular request, Amanda recited the pathetic description of the curate and his lovely daughter from the “Deserted Village"—a tear stole down her cheek asshe proceeded. Howel softly laid his hand on hers, and exclaimed, “Good heavens, what an angel!”
“Come, come,” said Amanda, smiling at the energy with which he spoke, “you, at least, should have nothing to do with flattery.”
“Flattery!” repeated he, emphatically; “Oh heavens! did you but know my sincerity——”
“Well, well,” cried she, wishing to change the subject, “utter no expression in future which shall make me doubt it.”
“To flatter you,” said he, “would be impossible, since the highest eulogium must be inadequate to your merits.”
“Again!” said Amanda.
“Believe me,” he replied, “flattery is a meanness I abhor; the expressions you denominate as such proceed from emotions I should contemn myself for want of sensibility if I did not experience.”
The nurse’s duck and green peas were now set upon the table, but in vain did she press Howel to eat; his eyes were too well feasted to allow him to attend to his palate. Finding her entreaties ineffectual in one respect, she tried them in another, and begged he would sing a favorite old ballad; this he at first hesitated to do, till Amanda (from a secret motive of her own) joined in the entreaty; and the moment she heard his voice, she was convinced he was not the person who had been at the outside of her window. After his complaisance to her, she could not refuse him one song. The melodious sounds sunk into his heart; he seemed fascinated to the spot, nor thought of moving till the nurse gave him a hint for that purpose, being afraid of Amanda sitting up too late.
He sighed as he entered his humble dwelling; it was perhaps the first sigh he had ever heaved for the narrowness of his fortune. “Yet,” cried he, casting his eyes around, “in this abode, low and humble as it is, a soul like Amanda’s might enjoy felicity.”
The purpose for which Lord Mortimer sent him to the cottage, and Lord Mortimer himself, were forgotten. His lordship had engaged Howel to sup with him after the performance of his embassy, and impatiently awaited his arrival: he felt displeased, as the hours wore away without bringing him; and, unable at last to restrain the impetuosity of his feelings, proceeded to the parsonage; which he entered a few minutes after Howel. He asked, with no great complacency, the reason he had not fulfilled his engagement. Absorbed in one idea, Howel felt confused, agitated, and unable to frame any excuse; hetherefore simply said, what in reality was true, “that he had utterly forgotten it.”
“I suppose, then,” exclaimed Lord Mortimer, in a ruffled voice, “you have been very agreeably entertained?”
“Delightfully,” said Howel.
Lord Mortimer grew more displeased, but his anger was now levelled against himself as well as Howel. He repented and regretted the folly which had thrown Howel in the way of such temptation, and had perhaps raised a rival to himself.
“Well,” cried he, after a few hasty paces about the room, “and pray, what do you know about Miss Dunford?”
“About her!” repeated Howel, as if starting from a reverie; “why—nothing.”
“Nothing!” re-echoed his lordship.
“No,” replied Howel, “except that she is an angel.”
Lord Mortimer was now thoroughly convinced all was over with the poor parson; and resolved, in consequence of this conviction, to lose no time himself. He could not depart without inquiring how the evening had been spent, and envied Howel the happy minutes he had so eloquently described.
“———— Hither turnThy graceful footsteps; hither, gentle maid,Incline thy polished forehead. Let thy eyesEffuse the mildness of their azure dawn;And may the fanning breezes waft asideThy radiant locks, disclosing, as it bendsWith airy softness from the marble neck,The cheek fair-blooming, and the rosy lip,Where winning smiles, and pleasure sweet as loveWith sanctity and wisdom, tempering blendTheir soft allurements.”—Akenside.
“———— Hither turnThy graceful footsteps; hither, gentle maid,Incline thy polished forehead. Let thy eyesEffuse the mildness of their azure dawn;And may the fanning breezes waft asideThy radiant locks, disclosing, as it bendsWith airy softness from the marble neck,The cheek fair-blooming, and the rosy lip,Where winning smiles, and pleasure sweet as loveWith sanctity and wisdom, tempering blendTheir soft allurements.”—Akenside.
While Amanda was at breakfast the next morning, Betsey brought a letter to her; expecting to hear from her father, she eagerly opened it, and, to her great surprise, perused the following lines:—
TO MISS DUNFORD.Lord Mortimer begs leave to assure Miss Dunford he shall remain dissatisfied with himself till he has an opportunity of personally apologizing for his intrusion yesterday. If the sweetness of her disposition fulfils thepromise her face has given of it, he flatters himself his pardon will speedily be accorded: yet never shall he think himself entirely forgiven, if her visits to the library are discontinued. Happy and honored shall Lord Mortimer consider himself, if Tudor Hall contains anything which can amuse or merit the attention of Miss Dunford.July 17th.
TO MISS DUNFORD.
Lord Mortimer begs leave to assure Miss Dunford he shall remain dissatisfied with himself till he has an opportunity of personally apologizing for his intrusion yesterday. If the sweetness of her disposition fulfils thepromise her face has given of it, he flatters himself his pardon will speedily be accorded: yet never shall he think himself entirely forgiven, if her visits to the library are discontinued. Happy and honored shall Lord Mortimer consider himself, if Tudor Hall contains anything which can amuse or merit the attention of Miss Dunford.
July 17th.
“From Lord Mortimer!” said Amanda, with involuntary emotion. “Well, this really has astonished me.” “Oh Lort, my tear!” cried the nurse in rapture.
Amanda waved her hand to silence her, as the servant stood in the outside room. She called Betsey: “Tell the servant,” said she——
“Lort!” cried the nurse softly, and twitching her sleeve, “write his lortship a little pit of a note, just to let him see what a pretty scribe you are.”
Amanda could not refrain smiling; but disengaging herself from the good woman, she arose, and going to the servant, desired him to tell his lord, she thanked him for his polite attention; but that in future it would not be in her power to go to the library. When she returned to the room, the nurse bitterly lamented her not writing. “Great matters,” she said, “had often arisen from small beginnings.” She could not conceive why his lortship should be treated in such a manner: it was not the way she had ever served her Edwin. Lort, she remembered if she got but the scrawl of a pen from him, she used to sit up to answer it. Amanda tried to persuade her it was neither necessary or proper for her to write. An hour passed in arguments between them, when two servants came from Tudor Hall to the cottage with a small bookcase, which they sent in to Amanda, and their lord’s compliments, that in a few minutes he would have the honor of paying his respects to her.
Amanda felt agitated by this message; but it was the agitation of involuntary pleasure. Her room was always perfectly neat, yet did the nurse and her two daughters now busy themselves with trying, if possible, to put it into nicer order: the garden was ransacked for the choicest flowers to ornament it; nor would they depart till they saw Lord Mortimer approaching. Amanda, who had opened the bookcase, then snatched up a book, to avoid the appearance of sitting in expectation of his coming.
He entered with an air at once easy and respectful, and taking her hand, besought forgiveness for his intrusion the preceding day. Amanda blushed, and faltered out something of theconfusion she had experienced from being so surprised; he reseated her, and drawing a chair close to hers, said he had taken the liberty of sending her a few books to amuse her, till she again condescended to visit the library, which he entreated her to do; promising that, if she pleased, both it and the music-room should be sacred to her alone. She thanked him for his politeness; but declared she must be excused from going. Lord Mortimer regarded her with a degree of tender admiration; an admiration heightened by the contrast he drew in his mind between her and the generality of fashionable women he had seen, whom he often secretly censured for sacrificing too largely at the shrine of art and fashion. The pale and varied blush which mantled the cheek of Amanda at once announced itself to be an involuntary suffusion; and her dress was only remarkable for its simplicity; she wore a plain robe of dimity, and an abbey cap of thin muslin, that shaded, without concealing, her face, and gave to it the soft expression of a Madonna; her beautiful hair fell in long ringlets down her back, and curled upon her forehead.
“Good heaven!” cried Mortimer, “how has your idea dwelt upon my mind since last night: if in the morning I was charmed, in the evening I was enraptured. Your looks, your attitude, were then beyond all that imagination could conceive of loveliness and grace; you appeared as a being on another world mourning over a kindred spirit. I felt
“Awe-struck, and as I passed, I worshipped.”
“Awe-struck, and as I passed, I worshipped.”
Confused by the energy of his words, and the ardent glances he directed towards her, Amanda, scarcely knowing what she did, turned over the leaves of the book she still held in her hand; in doing so, she saw written on the title-page, the Earl of Cherbury. “Cherbury?” repeated she, in astonishment.
“Do you know him?” asked Lord Mortimer.
“Not personally; but I revere, I esteem him; he is one of the best, the truest friends, my father ever had.”
“Oh, how happy,” exclaimed Lord Mortimer, “would his son be, were he capable of inspiring you with such sentiments as you avow for him.”
“His son!” repeated Amanda, in a tone of surprise, and looking at Lord Mortimer.
“Yes,” replied he. “Is it then possible,” he continued, “that you are really ignorant of his being my father?”
Surprise kept her silent a few minutes; for her father hadnever given her any account of the earl’s family, till about the period he thought of applying to him; and her mind was so distracted at that time on his own account, that she scarcely understood a word he uttered. In the country she had never heard Lord Cherbury mentioned; for Tudor Hall belonged not to him, but to Lord Mortimer, to whom an uncle had bequeathed it.
“I thought, indeed, my lord,” said Amanda, as soon as she recovered her voice, “that your lordship’s title was familiar to me; though why, from the hurry and perplexity in which particular circumstances involved me, I could not tell.”
“Oh, suffer,” cried Lord Mortimer, with one of his most insinuating smiles, “the friendship which our parents feel to be continued to their children; let this,” taking her soft hand, and pressing his lips to it, “be the pledge of amity between us.” He now inquired when the intimacy between her father and his had commenced, and where the former was. But from those inquiries Amanda shrunk. She reflected, that, without her father’s permission, she had no right to answer them; and that, in a situation like his and hers, too much caution could not be observed. Besides, both pride and delicacy made her solicitous at present to conceal her father’s real situation from Lord Mortimer: she could not bear to think it should be known his sole dependence was on Lord Cherbury, uncertain as it was, whether that nobleman would ever answer his expectations. She repented having ever dropped a hint of the intimacy subsisting between them, which surprise alone had made her do, and tried to waive the subject. In this design Lord Mortimer assisted her; for he had too much penetration not instantly to perceive it confused and distressed her. He requested permission to renew his visit, but Amanda, though well inclined to grant his request, yielded to prudence instead of inclination, and begged he would excuse her; the seeming disparity (she could not help saying) in their situations, would render it very imprudent in her to receive such visits; she blushed, half sighed, and bent her eyes to the ground as she spoke. Lord Mortimer continued to entreat, but she was steady in refusing; he would not depart, however, till he had obtained permission to attend her in the evening to a part of Tudor Grove which she had never yet seen, and he described as particularly beautiful. He wanted to call for her at the appointed hour, but she would not suffer this, and he was compelled to be contented with leave to meet her near the cottage when it came.
With a beating heart she kept her appointment, and found his lordship not many yards distant from the cottage, impatiently waiting her approach. A brighter bloom than usual glowed upon her cheek as she listened to his ardent expressions of admiration; yet not to such expressions, which would soon have sated an ear of delicacy like Amanda’s, did Lord Mortimer confine himself; he conversed on various subjects; and the eloquence of his language, the liveliness of his imagination, and the justness of his remarks, equally amused and interested his fair companion. There was, indeed, in the disposition and manners of Lord Mortimer that happy mixture of animation and softness which at once amuses the fancy and attracts the heart; and never had Amanda experienced such minutes as she now passed with him, so delightful in their progress, so rapid in their course. On entering the walk he had mentioned to her, she saw he had not exaggerated its beauties. After passing through many long and shaded alleys, they came to a smooth green lawn, about which the trees rose in the form of an amphitheatre, and their dark, luxuriant, and checkered shades proclaimed that amongst them
“The rude axe, with heaved stroke,Was never heard, the nymphs to daunt,Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.”—Milton
“The rude axe, with heaved stroke,Was never heard, the nymphs to daunt,Or fright them from their hallowed haunt.”—Milton
The lawn gently sloped to a winding stream, so clear as perfectly to reflect the beautiful scenery of heaven, now glowing with the gold and purple of the setting sun; from the opposite bank of the stream rose a stupendous mountain, diversified with little verdant hills and dales, and skirted with a wild shrubbery, whose blossoms perfumed the air with the most balmy fragrance. Lord Mortimer prevailed on Amanda to sit down upon a rustic bench, beneath the spreading branches of an oak, enwreathed with ivy; here they had not sat long, ere the silence, which reigned around, was suddenly interrupted by strains, at once low, solemn, and melodious, that seemed to creep along the water, till they had reached the place where they sat; and then, as if a Naiad of the stream had left her rushy couch to do them homage, they swelled by degrees into full melody, which the mountain echoes alternately revived and heightened. It appeared like enchantment to Amanda; and her eyes, turned to Lord Mortimer, seemed to say, it was to his magic it was owing. After enjoying her surprise some minutes, he acknowledged the music proceeded from two servants of his, who played on the clarinet and French horn,and were stationed in a dell of the opposite mountain. Notwithstanding all her former thoughts to the contrary, Amanda now conceived a strong suspicion that Lord Mortimer was really the person who had serenaded her; that she conceived pleasure from the idea, is scarcely necessary to say; she had reason soon to find she was not mistaken. Lord Mortimer solicited her for the Lady’s song in Comus, saying the present situation was peculiarly adapted to it; on her hesitating, he told her she had no plea to offer for not complying, as he himself had heard her enchanting powers in it. Amanda started, and eagerly inquired when or by what means. It was too late for his lordship to recede; and he not only confessed his concealment near the music-room, but his visit to her window. A soft confusion, intermingled with pleasure, pervaded the soul of Amanda at this confession: and it was some time ere she was sufficiently composed to comply with Lord Mortimer’s solicitations for her to sing; she at last allowed him to lead her to the centre of a little rustic bridge thrown over the stream, from whence her voice could be sufficiently distinguished for the music to keep time to it, as Lord Mortimer had directed. Her plaintive and harmonious invocation, answered by the low breathing of the clarinet, which appeared like the softest echo of the mountain, had the finest effect imaginable, and “took the imprisoned soul, and wrapped it in Elysium.”
Lord Mortimer, for the first time in his life, found himself at a loss to express what he felt: he conducted her back to the seat, where, to her astonishment, she beheld fruits, ices, and creams, laid out, as if by the hand of magic, for no mortal appeared near the spot. Dusky twilight now warned her to return home; but Lord Mortimer would not suffer her to depart till she had partaken of this collation.
He was not by any means satisfied with the idea of only beholding her for an hour or two of an evening; and when they came near the cottage, desired to know whether it was to chance alone he was in future to be indebted for seeing her. Again he entreated permission to visit her sometimes of a morning, promising he would never disturb her avocations, but would be satisfied merely to sit and read to her, whenever she chose to work, and felt herself inclined for that amusement: Amanda’s refusals grew fainter; and at last she said, on the above-mentioned conditions, he might sometimes come. That he availed himself of this permission, is scarcely necessary to say; and from this time few hours passed without their seeing each other.
The cold reserve of Amanda by degrees wore away; from her knowledge of his family she considered him as more than a new or common acquaintance. The emotions she felt for him, she thought sanctioned by that knowledge, and the gratitude she felt for Lord Cherbury for his former conduct to her father, which claimed, she thought, her respect and esteem for so near and valuable a connection of his; the worth, too, she could not avoid acknowledging to herself, of Lord Mortimer, would, of itself alone, have authorized them. Her heart felt he was one of the most amiable, most pleasing of men; she could scarcely disguise, in any degree, the lively pleasure she experienced in his society; nay, she scarcely thought it necessary to disguise it, for it resulted as much from innocence as sensibility, and was placed to the account of friendship. But Lord Mortimer was too penetrating not soon to perceive he might ascribe it to a softer impulse; with the most delicate attention, the most tender regard, he daily, nay, hourly, insinuated himself into her heart, and secured for himself an interest in it, ere she was aware, which the efforts of subsequent resolution could not overcome. He was the companion of her rambles, the alleviator of her griefs; the care which so often saddened her brow always vanished at his presence, and in conversing with him she forgot every cause of sorrow.
He once or twice delicately hinted at those circumstances which at his first visit she had mentioned, as sufficiently distressing to bewilder her recollection. Amanda, with blushes, always shrunk from the subject, sickening at the idea of his knowing that her father depended on his for future support. If he ever addressed her seriously on the subject of the regard he professed for her (which, from his attentions, she could not help sometimes flattering herself would be the case), then, indeed, there would be no longer room for concealment; but, except such a circumstance took place, she could not bring herself to make any humiliating discovery.
Tudor Grove was the favorite scene of their rambles; sometimes she allowed him to lead her to the music-room; but as these visits were not frequent, a lute was brought from it to the cottage, and in the recess in the garden she often sung and played for the enraptured Mortimer; there, too, he frequently read for her, always selecting some elegant and pathetic piece of poetry, to which the harmony of his voice gave additional charms; a voice, which sunk into the heart of Amanda, and interested her sensibility even more than the subject he perused.
Often straying to the valley’s verge, as they contemplatedthe lovely prospect around, only bounded by distant and stupendous mountains, Lord Mortimer, in strains of eloquence would describe the beautiful scenes and extensive landscapes beyond them; and, whenever Amanda expressed a wish (as she sometimes would from thoughtless innocence) of viewing them, he would softly sigh, and wish he was to be her guide to them; as to point out beauties to a refined and cultivated mind like hers, would be to him the greatest pleasure he could possibly experience. Seated sometimes on the brow of a shrubby hill, as they viewed the scattered hamlets beneath, he would expatiate on the pleasure he conceived there must be in passing a tranquil life with one lovely and beloved object: his insidious eyes, turned towards Amanda, at these minutes, seemed to say, she was the being who could realize all the ideas he entertained of such a life; and when he asked her opinion of his sentiments, her disordered blushes, and faltering accents, too plainly betrayed her conscious feelings. Every delicacy which Tudor Hall contained, was daily sent to the cottage, notwithstanding Amanda’s prohibition to the contrary; and sometimes Lord Mortimer was permitted to dine with her in the recess. Three weeks spent in this familiar manner, endeared and attached them to each other more than months would have done, passed in situations liable to interruption.
“—————— She aloneHeard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought,Fills every sense, and pants in every vein.Books are but formal dulness, tedious friends,And sad amid the social band he sits,Lonely and unattentive. From his tongueThe unfinished period falls, while, bore awayOn swelling thoughts his wafted spirit fliesTo the vain bosom of his distant fair.”—Thomson.
“—————— She aloneHeard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought,Fills every sense, and pants in every vein.Books are but formal dulness, tedious friends,And sad amid the social band he sits,Lonely and unattentive. From his tongueThe unfinished period falls, while, bore awayOn swelling thoughts his wafted spirit fliesTo the vain bosom of his distant fair.”—Thomson.
Howel was no stranger to the manner in which hours rolled away at the cottage; he hovered round it, and seized every interval of Lord Mortimer’s absence to present himself before Amanda; his emotions betrayed his feelings, and Amanda effected reserve towards him, in hopes of suppressing his passion; a passion, she now began to think, when hopeless, must be dreadful.
Howel was a prey to melancholy; but not for himself alone did he mourn; fears for the safety and happiness of Amanda added to his dejection; he dreaded that Lord Mortimer, perhaps, like too many of the fashionable men, might make no scruple of availing himself of any advantage which could be derived from a predilection in his favor.
He knew him, it is true, to be amiable; but in opposition to that, he knew him to be volatile, and sometimes wild, and trembled for the unsuspecting credulity of Amanda. “Though lost to me,” exclaimed the unhappy young man, “oh never, sweetest Amanda, mayest thou be lost to thyself!”
He had received many proofs of esteem and friendship from Lord Mortimer; he therefore studied how he might admonish without offending, and save Amanda without injuring himself. It at last occurred to him that the pulpit would be the surest way of effecting his wishes, where the subject, addressed to all, might particularly strike one for whom it was intended, without appearing as if designed for that purpose; and timely convince him, if, indeed, he meditated any injurious design against Amanda, of its flagrance.
On the following Sunday, as he expected, Lord Mortimer and Amanda attended service; his lordship’s pew was opposite the one she sat in, and we fear his eyes too often wondered in that direction.
The youthful monitor at last ascended the pulpit; his text was from Jeremiah, and to the following effect:—
“She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks; among all her lovers she hath none to comfort her; all her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they are become her enemies.”
“She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks; among all her lovers she hath none to comfort her; all her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they are become her enemies.”
After a slight introduction, in which he regretted that the declension of moral principles demanded such an exhortation as he was about to give, he commenced his subject; he described a young female, adorned with beauty and innocence, walking forward in the path of integrity, which a virtuous education had early marked for her to take, and rejoicing as she went with all around her; when, in the midst of happiness, unexpected calamity suddenly surprised and precipitated her from prosperity into the deepest distress: he described the benefits she derived in this trying period from early implanted virtue and religion; taught by them (he proceeded) the lovely mourner turns not to the world for consolation—no, she looks up to her Creator for comfort, whose supporting aid is so particularly promised to afflicted worth. Cheered by them, she isable to exert her little talents of genius and taste, and draw upon industry for her future support; her active virtues, he thinks the best proof of submission she can give to the will of Heaven; and in the laudable exertions she finds a conscious peace, which the mere possession of fortune could never bestow. While thus employed, a son of perfidy sees and marks her for his prey, because she is at once lovely and helpless: her unsuspecting credulity lays her open to his arts, and his blandishments by degrees allure her heart. The snare which he has spread at last involves her; with the inconstancy of libertinism he soon deserts her; and again is she plunged into distress. But mark the difference of her first and second fall: conscience no longer lends its opposing aid to stem her sorrow, despair instead of hope arises; without one friend to soothe the pangs of death, one pitying soul to whisper peace to her departing spirit; insulted, too, perhaps, by some unfeeling being, whom want of similar temptations alone, perhaps, saved from similar imprudences, she sinks an early victim to wretchedness.
Howel paused; the fulness of his heart mounted to his eyes, which involuntarily turned and rested upon Amanda. Interested by his simple and pathetic eloquence, she had risen, and leaned over the pew, her head resting on her hand, and her eyes fastened on his face. Lord Mortimer had also risen, and alternately gazed upon Howel and Amanda, particularly watching the latter, to see how the subject would affect her. He at last saw the tears trickling down her cheeks: the distresses of her own situation, and the stratagems of Belgrave, made her, in some respect, perceive a resemblance between herself and the picture Howel had drawn. Lord Mortimer was unutterably affected by her tears, a faint sickness seized him, he sunk upon the seat, and covered his face with his handkerchief, to hide his emotion; but by the time service was over it was pretty well dissipated: Amanda returned home, and his lordship waited for Howel’s coming out of church. “What the devil, Howel,” said he, “did you mean by giving us such an exhortation? Have you discovered any affair going on between any of your rustic neighbors?” The parson colored, but remained silent; Lord Mortimer rallied him a little more, and then departed; but his gayety was only assumed.
On his first acquaintance with Amanda, in consequence of what he heard from Mrs. Abergwilly, and observed himself, he had been tempted to think she was involved in mystery: and what, but impropriety, he thought, could occasion mystery. Tosee so young, so lovely, so elegant a creature an inmate of a sequestered cottage, associating with people (in manners at least) so infinitely beneath her; to see her trembling and blushing, if a word was dropped that seemed tending to inquire into her motives for retirement; all these circumstances, I say, considered, naturally excited a suspicion injurious to her in the mind of Lord Mortimer; and he was tempted to think some deviation from prudence had, by depriving her of the favor of her friends, made her retire to obscurity; and that she would not dislike an opportunity of emerging from it, he could not help thinking. In consequence of these ideas, he could not think himself very culpable in encouraging the wishes her loveliness gave rise to; besides, he had some reason to suspect she desired to inspire him with these wishes; for Mrs. Abergwilly told him she had informed Mrs. Edwin of his arrival; an information he could not doubt her having immediately communicated to Amanda; therefore her continuing to come to the hall seemed as if she wished to throw herself in his way. Mrs. Edwin had indeed been told of his arrival, but concealed it from Amanda, that she should not be disappointed of going to the hall, which she knew, if once informed of it, she would not go to.
’Tis true, Lord Mortimer saw Amanda wore (at least) the semblance of innocence: but this could not remove his suspicions, so often had he seen it assumed to hide the artful stratagems of a depraved heart.
Ah! why will the lovely female, adorned with all that heaven and earth can bestow to render her amiable, overleap the modesty of nature, and by levity and boldness lose all pretensions to the esteem which would otherwise be an involuntary tribute.
Nor is it herself alone she injures; she hurts each child of purity, helps to point the sting of ridicule, and weave the web of art.
We shun the blazing sun, but court his tempered beams; the rose, which glares upon the day, is never so much sought as the bud enwrapt in the foliage; and, to use the expression of a late much-admired author, “The retiring graces have ever been reckoned the most beautiful.”
He had never heard the earl mention a person of the name of Dunford; and he knew not, or rather suspected, little credit was to be given to her assertion of an intimacy between them, particularly as he saw her, whenever the subject was mentioned, shrinking from it in the greatest confusion.
Her reserve he imputed to pretence; and flattering himself it would soon wear off, determined for the present at least to humor her affectation.
With such ideas, such sentiments, had Lord Mortimer’s first visits to Amanda commenced: but they experienced an immediate change as the decreasing reserve of her manners gave him greater and more frequent opportunities of discovering her mental perfections; the strength of her understanding, the justness of her remarks, the liveliness of her fancy, above all, the purity which mingled in every sentiment, and the modesty which accompanied every word, filled him with delight and amazement; his doubts gradually lessened, and at last vanished, and with them every design, which they alone had ever given rise to. Esteem was now united to love, and real respect to admiration: in her society he only was happy, and thought not, or rather would not suffer himself to think, on the consequences of such an attachment. It might be said, he was entranced in pleasure, from which Howel completely roused him, and made him seriously ask his heart, what were his intentions relative to Amanda. Of such views as he perceived Howel suspected him of harboring, his conscience entirely acquitted him; yet so great were the obstacles he knew in the way of an union between him and Amanda, that he almost regretted (as every one does, who acts against their better judgment,) that he had not fled at the first intimation of his danger. So truly formidable indeed did these obstacles appear, that he at times resolved to break with Amanda, if he could fix upon any plan for doing so, without injuring his honor, after the great attention he had paid her.
Ere he came to any final determination, however, he resolved to try and discover her real situation: if he even left her, it would be a satisfaction to his heart to know whether his friendship could be serviceable: and if an opposite measure was his plan, it could never be put in execution without the desired information. He accordingly wrote to his sister, Lady Araminta Dormer, who was then in the country with Lord Cherbury, requesting she would inquire from his father whether he knew a person of the name of Dunford; and if he did, what his situation and family were. Lord Mortimer begged her ladyship not to mention the inquiries being dictated by him, and promised at some future period to explain the reason of them. He still continued his assiduities to Amanda, and at the expected time received an answer to his letter; but how was he shocked and alarmed, when informed, Lord Cherbury neverknew a person of the name of Dunford! His doubts began to revive; but before he yielded entirely to them, he resolved to go to Amanda, and inquire from her, in the most explicit terms, how, and at what time, her father and the Earl had become acquainted; determined, if she answered him without embarrassment, to mention to his sister whatever circumstances she related, lest a forgetfulness of them alone had made the Earl deny his knowledge of Dunford. Just as he was quitting the grove with this intent, he espied Edwin and his wife coming down a cross-road from the village, where they had been with poultry and vegetables. It instantly occurred to him that these people, in the simplicity of their hearts, might unfold the real situation of Amanda, and save him the painful necessity of making inquiries, which she, perhaps, would not answer, without his real motives for making them were assigned, which was what he could not think of doing.
Instead, therefore, of proceeding, he stopped till they came up to him, and then with the most engaging affability addressed them, inquiring whether they had been successful in the disposal of their goods. They answered bowing and curtseying, and he then insisted that, as they appeared tired, they should repair to the hall, and rest themselves. This was too great an honor to be refused; and they followed their noble conductor, who hastened forward to order refreshment into a parlor for them. The nurse, who in her own way was a cunning woman, instantly suspected, from the great and uncommon attention of Lord Mortimer, that he wanted to inquire into the situation of Amanda. As soon as she saw him at some distance, “David,” cried she, “as sure as eggs are eggs,” (unpinning her white apron, and smoothing it nicely down as she spoke,) “this young lort wants to have our company, that he may find out something apout Miss Amanda. Ah, pless her pretty face, I thought how it would be; but we must be as cunning as foxes, and not tell too much nor too little, because if we told too much it would offend her, and she would ask us how we got all our intelligence, and would not think us over and above genteel, when she heard we had sifted Jemmy Hawthorn for it, when he came down from London with her. All we must do is just to drop some hints, as it were, of her situation, and then his lortship, to be sure, will make his advantage of them, and ask her everything apout herself, and then she will tell him of her own accord: so, David, mind what you say, I charge you.” “Ay, ay,” cried David, “leave me alone; I’ll warrant you you’ll always find an old soldier ’cute enough for anypoty.”
When they reached the hall, they were shown into a parlor, where Lord Mortimer was expecting them: with difficulty he made them sit down at the table, where meat and wine were laid out for them. After they had partaken of them, Lord Mortimer began with asking Edwin some questions about his farm (for he was a tenant on the Tudor estate), and whether there was anything wanting to render it more comfortable. “No,” Edwin replied, with a low bow, thanking his honorable lordship for his inquiry. Lord Mortimer spoke of his family. “Ay, Cot pless the poor things,” Edwin said, “they were, to be sure, a fine thriving set of children.” Still Lord Mortimer had not touched on the subject nearest his heart. He felt embarrassed and agitated. At last, with as much composure as he could assume, he asked how long they imagined Miss Dunford would stay with them. Now was the nurse’s time to speak. She had hitherto sat simpering and bowing. “That depended on circumstances,” she said. “Poor tear young laty, though their little cottage was so obscure, and so unlike anything she had before been accustomed to, she made herself quite happy with it.” “Her father must miss her society very much,” exclaimed Lord Mortimer. “Tear heart, to be sure he does,” cried nurse. “Well, strange things happen every tay; but still I never thought what did happen would have happened, to make the poor old gentleman and his daughter part.” “What happened?” exclaimed Lord Mortimer, starting and suddenly stopping in the middle of the room, for hitherto he had been walking backwards and forwards. “’Twas not her business,” the nurse replied, “by no manner of means, to be speaking about the affairs of her petters; put for all that she could not help saying, because, she thought it a pity his lortship, who was so good and so affable, should remain in ignorance of everything; that Miss Amanda was not what she appeared to be; no, if the truth was told, not the person she passed for at all; but, Lort, she would never forgive me,” cried the nurse, “if your lortship told her it was from me your lortship heard this. Poor tear thing, she is very unwilling to have her situation known, though she is not the first poty who has met with a pad man; and shame and sorrow be upon him who tistrest herself and her father.”
Lord Mortimer had heard enough: every doubt, every suspicion was realized; and he was equally unable and unwilling to inquire further. It was plain Amanda was unworthy of his esteem; and to inquire into the circumstances which occasioned that unworthiness, would only have tortured him.He rung the bell abruptly, and ordering Mrs. Abergwilly to attend the Edwins, withdrew immediately to another room. Now there was an opportunity for Lord Mortimer to break with Amanda, without the smallest imputation on his honor. Did it give him pleasure? No: it filled him with sorrow, disappointment, and anguish: the softness of her manners, even more than the beauty of her person, had fascinated his soul, and made him determine, if he found her worthy (of which indeed he had then but little doubt) to cease not, till every obstacle which could impede their union should be overcome. He was inspired with indignation at the idea of the snare he imagined she had spread for him; thinking her modesty all a pretext to draw him into making honorable proposals. As she sunk in his esteem, her charms lessened in his fancy; and he thought it would be a proper punishment for her, and a noble triumph over himself, if he conquered, or at least resisted his passion, and forsook her entirely. Full of this idea, and influenced by resentment for her supposed deceit, he resolved, without longer delay, to fulfil the purpose which had brought him into Wales, namely, visiting his friend; but how frail is resolution and resentment when opposed to tenderness! Without suffering himself to believe there was the least abatement of either in his mind, he forbid the carriage, in a few minutes after he had ordered it, merely, he persuaded himself, for the purpose of yet more severely mortifying Amanda: as his continuing a little longer in the neighborhood, without noticing her, might, perhaps, convince her, she was not quite so fascinating as she believed herself to be. From the time his residence at Tudor Hall was known, he had received constant invitations from the surrounding families, which, on Amanda’s account, he uniformly declined. This he resolved should no longer be the case: some, were yet unanswered, and these he meant to accept, as means indeed of keeping him steady in his resolution of not seeing her, and banishing her in some degree from his thoughts. But he could not have fixed on worse methods than these for effecting either of his purposes: the society he now mixed among was so different from that he had lately been accustomed to, that he was continually employed in drawing comparisons between them. He grew restless; his unhappiness increased; and he at last felt, that if he desired to experience any comfort, he must no longer absent himself from Amanda; and also that, if she refused to accede to the only proposals now in his power to make her, he would be miserable; so essential did he deem her society to his happiness; so much was he attached fromthe softness and sweetness of her manners. At the time he finally determined to see her again, he was in a large party at a Welsh baronet’s where he had dined; and on the rack of impatience to put his determination in practice, he retired early, and took the road to the cottage.
Poor Amanda, during this time, was a prey to disquietude: the first day of Lord Mortimer’s absence, she felt a little uneasiness, but strove to dissipate it, by thinking business had detained him. The next morning she remained entirely at home, every moment expecting to behold him; but this expectation was totally destroyed, when from the outside room she heard one of the nurse’s sons tell of all the company he had met going to Sir Lewis ap Shenkin’s, and amongst the rest Lord Mortimer, whose servants had told him, the day before their lord dined at Mr. Jones’s, where there was a deal of company, and a grand ball in the evening. Amanda’s heart almost died within her at these words; pleasure then, not business, had prevented Lord Mortimer from coming to her; these amusements which he had so often declared were tasteless to him, from the superior delight he experienced in her society. Either he was insincere in such expressions, or had now grown indifferent. She condemned herself for ever having permitted his visits, or received his assiduities; she reproached him for ever having paid those assiduities, knowing, as he must, the insincerity or inconstancy of his nature. In spite of wounded pride, tears of sorrow and disappointment burst from her; and her only consolation was, that no one observed her. Her hours passed heavily away; she could not attend to anything; and in the evening walked out to indulge, in a lonely ramble, the dejection of her heart: she turned from Tudor Hall, and took (without knowing it indeed) the very road which led to the house where Lord Mortimer had dined. With slow and pensive steps she pursued her way, regardless of all around her, till an approaching footstep made her raise her eyes, and she beheld, with equal surprise and confusion, the very object who was then employing her thoughts. Obeying the impulse of pride, she hastily turned away; till, recollecting that her precipitately avoiding him would at once betray her sentiments, she paused to listen to his passionate inquiries after her health; having answered them with involuntary coldness, she again moved on; but her progress was soon stopped by Lord Mortimer; snatching her hand, he insisted on knowing why she appeared so desirous to avoid him. Amanda made no reply to this, but desired he would let her go. “Never,” he exclaimed,“till you wear another face to me. Oh! did you know the pain I have suffered since last we met, you would from pity, I am sure, treat me with less coldness.” Amanda’s heart throbbed with sudden pleasure; but she soon silenced its emotion, by reflecting that a declaration of uneasiness, at the very time he was entering into gayety, had something too inconsistent in it to merit credit. Hurt by supposing he wanted to impose on her, she made yet more violent efforts to disengage her hand; but Lord Mortimer held it too firmly for her to be successful; he saw she was offended, and it gave him flattering ideas of the estimation in which he stood with her, since to resent his neglect was the most convincing proof he could receive of the value she set upon his attention. Without hurting her feelings by a hint, that he believed the alteration in her manner occasioned his absence, in indirect terms he apologized for it, saying what indeed was partly true, that a letter lately received had so ruffled his mind he was quite unfit for her society, and had therefore availed himself of those hours of chagrin and uneasiness to accept invitations, which at some time or other he must have done, to avoid giving offence; and by acting as he had done, he reserved the precious moments of returning tranquillity for her he adored. Ah! how readily do we receive any apology, do we admit of any excuse, that comes from a beloved object! Amanda felt as if a weight was suddenly removed from her heart; her eyes were no longer bent to the earth, her cheek no longer pale; and a smile, the smile of innocence and love, enlivened all her features. She seemed suddenly to forget her hand was detained by Lord Mortimer, for no longer did she attempt to free it; she suffered him gently to draw it within his, and lead her to the favorite haunt in Tudor Grove.
Pleased, yet blushing and confused, she heard Lord Mortimer, with more energy than he had ever yet expressed himself with, declare the pain he suffered the days he saw her not. From his ardent, his passionate expressions, what could the innocent Amanda infer, but that he intended, by uniting his destiny to hers, to secure to himself a society he so highly valued; what could she infer, but that he meant immediately to speak in explicit terms? The idea was too pleasing to be received in tranquillity, and her whole soul felt agitated. While they pursued their way through Tudor Grove, the sky, which had been lowering the whole day, became suddenly more darkened, and by its increasing gloom foretold an approaching storm. Lord Mortimer no longer opposed Amanda’s returning home; butscarcely had they turned for that purpose, ere the vivid lightning flashed across their path, and the thunder awfully reverberated amongst the hills. The hall was much nearer than the cottage, and Lord Mortimer, throwing his arm round Amanda’s waist, hurried her to it; but ere they reached the library, whose door was the first they came to, the rain began pouring with violence. Lord Mortimer snatched off Amanda’s wet hat and cloak; the rest of her clothes were quite dry; and immediately ordered tea and coffee, as she refused any other refreshments: he dismissed the attendants, that he might, without observation or restraint, enjoy her society. As she presided at the tea-table, his eyes, with the fondest rapture, were fastened on her face, which never had appeared more lovely; exercise had heightened the pale tint of her cheek, over which her glossy hair curled in beautiful disorder; the unusual glow gave a greater radiance to her eyes, whose soft confusion denoted the pleasure she experienced from the attention of Lord Mortimer. He restrained not, he could not restrain, the feelings of his soul. “Oh, what happiness!” he exclaimed. “No wonder I found all society tasteless, after having experienced yours. Where could I find such softness, yet such sensibility; such sweetness, yet such animation; such beauty, yet such apparent unconsciousness of it? Oh, my Amanda, smoothly must that life glide on, whose destiny you shall share!”
Amanda endeavored to check these transports, yet secretly they filled her with delight, for she considered them as the sincere effusions of honorable love. Present happiness, however, could not render her forgetful of propriety: by the time tea was over, the evening began to clear, and she protested she must depart. Lord Mortimer protested against this for some time longer, and at last brought her to the window, to convince her there was still a slight rain falling. He promised to see her home as soon as it was over, and entreated, in the mean time, she would gratify him with a song. Amanda did not refuse; but the raptures he expressed, while she sung, she thought too violent, and rose from the piano when she had concluded, in spite of his entreaties to the contrary. She insisted on getting her hat and cloak, which had been sent to Mrs. Abergwilly to dry: Lord Mortimer at last reluctantly went out to obey her.
Amanda walked to the window: the prospect from it was lovely; the evening was now perfectly serene; a few light clouds alone floated in the sky, their lucid skirts tinged with purple rays from the declining sun; the trees wore a brightergreen, and the dewdrop that had heightened their verdure, yet glittered on their sprays; across a distant valley was extended a beautiful rainbow, the sacred record of Heaven’s covenant with man. All nature appeared revived and animated; the birds now warbled their closing lays, and the bleating of the cattle was heard from the neighboring hills. “Oh! how sweet, how lovely is the dewy landscape!” exclaimed Amanda, with that delight which scenes of calm and vernal nature never fail of raising in minds of piety and tenderness.
“’Tis lovely, indeed!” repeated Lord Mortimer, who returned at the moment, assuring her the things would be sent in directly. “I admire the prospect,” continued he, “because you gaze upon it with me; were you absent, like every other charm, it would lose its beauty, and become tasteless to me. Tell me,” cried he, gently encircling her waist, “why this hurry, why this wish to leave me? Do you expect elsewhere to meet with a being who will value your society more highly than I do? Do you expect to meet with a heart more fondly, more firmly attached to you than mine? Oh, my Amanda, if you do, how mistaken are such expectations!”
Amanda blushed, and averted her head, unable to speak.
“Ah, why,” continued he, pursuing her averted eyes with his, “should we create uneasiness to ourselves, by again separating?”
Amanda looked up at these words with involuntary surprise in her countenance. Lord Mortimer understood it: he saw she had hitherto deluded herself with thinking his intentions towards her very different from what they really were; to suffer her longer to deceive herself would, he thought, be cruelty. Straining her to his beating heart, he imprinted a kiss on her tremulous lips, and softly told her, that the life, which without her would lose half its charms, should be devoted to her service; and that his fortune, like his heart, should be in her possession. Trembling while she struggled to free herself from his arms, Amanda demanded what he meant: her manner somewhat surprised and confused him; but recollecting this was the moment for explanation, he, though with half-averted eyes, declared his hopes—his wishes and intentions. Surprise—horror—and indignation, for a few minutes overpowered Amanda; but suddenly recovering her scattered senses, with a strength greater than she had ever before felt, she burst from him, and attempted to rush from the room. Lord Mortimer caught hold of her. “Whither are you going, Amanda?” exclaimed he, affrighted by her manner.
“From the basest of men,” cried she, struggling to disengage herself.
He shut the door, and forced her back to a chair: he was shocked—amazed—and confounded by her looks: no art could have assumed such a semblance of sorrow as she now wore; no feelings but those of the most delicate nature, have expressed such emotion as she now betrayed: the enlivening bloom of her cheeks was fled, and succeeded by a deadly paleness; and her soft eyes, robbed of their lustre, were bent to the ground with the deepest expression of woe. Lord Mortimer began to think he had mistaken, if not her character, her disposition; and the idea of having insulted either purity or penitence, was like a dagger to his heart. “Oh, my love!” he exclaimed, laying his hand on her trembling one, “what do you mean by departing so abruptly?”
“My meaning, my lord,” cried she, rising and shaking his hand from hers, “is now as obvious as your own—I seek, forever, to quit a man who, under the appearance of delicate attention, meditated so base a scheme against me. My credulity may have yielded you amusement, but it has afforded you no triumph: the tenderness which I know you think, which I shall not deny your having inspired me with, as it was excited by imaginary virtues, so it vanished with the illusion which gave it birth; what then was innocent, would now be guilty. Oh, heavens!” continued Amanda, clasping her hands together in a sudden agony of tears, “is it me, the helpless child of sorrow, Lord Mortimer sought as a victim to illicit love! Is it the son of Lord Cherbury destined such a blow against the unfortunate Fitzalan?”
Lord Mortimer started. “Fitzalan!” repeated he. “Oh! Amanda, why did you conceal your real name? And what am I to infer from your having done so?”
“What you please, my lord,” cried she. “The opinion of a person I despise can be of little consequence to me, yet,” continued she, as if suddenly recollecting herself, “that you have no plea for extenuating your conduct, know that my name was concealed by the desire of my father, who, involved in unexpected distress, wished me to adopt another, till his affairs were settled.”
“This concealment has undone me,” exclaimed Lord Mortimer: “it has led me into an error, I shall never cease repenting. Oh! Amanda, deign to listen to the circumstances which occasioned this error; and you will then, I am sure, think me at least less culpable than I now appear to be; you will then, perhaps, allow me to make some atonement.”
“No, my lord,” cried Amanda, “willingly I will not allow myself to be deceived: for without deceit, I am convinced you could mention no circumstance which could possibly palliate your conduct, or what you so gently term an error. Had I, my lord, by art or coquetry, sought to attract your notice, your crime would have been palliated; but when you pursued, I retired; and the knowledge of your being Lord Cherbury’s son first induced me to receive your visits. I suffered their continuance, because I thought you amiable: sad mistake! Oh! cruel, ungenerous Mortimer, how have you abused my unsuspecting confidence!”
As she ended these words, she moved towards the door. Awed by her manner, confounded by her reproaches, tortured by remorse and half offended at her refusing to hear his vindication, he no longer attempted to prevent her quitting the apartment; he followed her, however, from it. “What do you mean, my lord,” asked she, “by coming after me?”
“I mean to see you safely home,” replied he, in a tone of proud sullenness.
“And is it Lord Mortimer,” cried she, looking steadfastly in his face, “pretends to see me safe?”
He stamped, struck his hand violently against his forehead, and exclaimed, “I see—I see—I am despicable in your eyes; but, Amanda, I cannot endure your reproaches. Pause for a few minutes, and you will find I am not so deserving of them as you imagine.”
She made no reply, but quickened her pace: within a few yards of the cottage Lord Mortimer caught her, with a distracted air. “Amanda,” said he, “I cannot bear to part with you in this manner: you think me the veriest villain on earth; you will drive me from your heart; I shall become abhorrent to you.”
“Most assuredly, my lord,” replied she, in a solemn voice.
“Cannot compunction then extenuate my error?”
“’Tis not compunction, ’tis regret you feel, for finding your designs unsuccessful.”
“No: by all that is sacred, ’tis remorse for ever having meditated such an injury. Yet I again repeat, if you listen to me, you will find I am not so culpable as you believe. Oh! let me beseech you to do so; let me hope that my life may be devoted to you alone, and that I may thus have opportunities of apologizing for my conduct. Oh! dearest Amanda,” kneeling before her, “drive me not from you in the hour of penitence.”
“You plead in vain, my lord,” cried she, breaking from him.
He started in an agony from the ground, and again seized her. “Is it thus,” he exclaimed, “with such unfeeling coldness I am abandoned by Amanda? I will leave you, if you only say I am not detested by you; if you only say the remembrance of the sweet hours we have spent together will not become hateful to you.”
He was pale and trembled; and a tear wet his cheek. Amanda’s began to flow: she averted her head, to hide her emotion; but he had perceived it. “You weep, my Amanda,” said he, “and you feel the influence of pity!”
“No, no,” cried she, in a voice scarcely articulate: “I will acknowledge,” continued she, “I believe you possessed of sensibility; and an anticipation of the painful feelings it will excite on the reflection of your conduct to me, now stops my further reproaches. Ah! my lord, timely profit by mental correction, nor ever again encourage a passion which virtue cannot sanction or reason justify.”