It was agreed that Amanda should put on her habit, and be prepared against the man came for her. The prioress promised, as soon as the house was at rest, to follow her to her chamber. Amanda accordingly went to her apartment and put on her travelling dress. She was soon followed by the prioress, who brought in bread, wine, and cold chicken; but the full heart of Amanda would not allow her to partake of them, and her tears, in spite of her efforts to restrain them, again burst forth. “She was sure,” she said, “the prioress would immediately let her know if any intelligence arrived of her brother, and she again besought her to write as soon as possible after her departure, and to be minute.”
She left the letters—one for Lord Mortimer and the other for the prioress—on the table, and then with a kind of melancholy impatience waited for the man, who was punctual to the appointed hour of three, and announced his arrival by a tap at the window. She instantly rose and embraced the prioress in silence, who, almost as much affected as herself, had only power to say, “God bless you, my dear child, and make you as happy as you deserve to be.”
Amanda shook her head mournfully, as if to say she expected no happiness, and then, softly stepping along the gallery, opened the hall-door, where she found the man waiting. Her little trunk was already lying in the hall. She pointed it out to him, and as soon as he had taken it they departed.
Never did any being feel more forlorn than Amanda now did. What she suffered when quitting the marchioness’s was comparatively happiness to what she now endured. She then looked forward to the protection, comfort, and support of a tenderparent; now she had nothing in view which could in the least cheer or alleviate her feelings. She cast her mournful eyes around, and the objects she beheld heightened, if possible, her anguish. She beheld the old trees which shaded the grave of her father waving in the morning breeze, and oh! how fervently at that moment did she wish that by his side she was laid beneath their shelter!
She turned from them with a heart-rending sigh, which reached the ear of the man who trudged before her. He instantly turned, and seeing her pale and trembling, told her he had an arm at her service, which she gladly accepted, being scarcely able to support herself. A small boat was waiting for them about half a mile above Castle Carberry. It conveyed them in a few moments to the vessel, which the master previously told her would be under weigh directly. She was pleased to find his wife on board, who conducted Amanda to the cabin, where she found breakfast laid out with neatness for her. She took some tea and a little bread, being almost exhausted with fatigue. Her companion, imputing her dejection to fears of crossing the sea, assured her the passage would be very short, and bid her observe how plainly they could see the Scottish hills, now partially gilded by the beams of the rising sun; but, beautiful as they appeared, Amanda’s eyes were turned from them to a more interesting object,—Castle Carberry. She asked the woman if she thought the castle could be seen from the opposite coast? and she replied in the negative.
“I am sorry for it,” said Amanda, mournfully. She continued at the window for the melancholy pleasure of contemplating it, till compelled by sickness to lie down on the bed. The woman attended her with the most assiduous care, and about four o’clock in the afternoon informed her they had reached Port-Patrick. Amanda arose, and sending for the master, told him, as she did not wish to go to an inn, she would thank him to hire a chaise to carry her directly to Mrs. Macpherson’s. He said she should be obeyed; and Amanda having settled with him for her passage, he went on shore for that purpose, and soon returned to inform her a carriage was ready. Amanda, having thanked his wife for her kind attention, stepped into the boat, and entered the chaise the moment she landed. Her companion told her he was well acquainted with Mrs. Macpherson, having frequently carried packets from Mrs. Dermot to her. She lived about five miles from Port-Patrick, he said, and near the sea-coast. They accordingly soonreached her habitation. It was a small, low house, of a grayish color, situated in a field almost covered with thistles, and divided from the road by a rugged-looking wall. The sea lay at a little distance from it. The coast hereabouts was extremely rocky, and the prospect on every side wild and dreary in the extreme.
Amanda’s companion, by her desire, went first into the house to prepare Mrs. Macpherson for her reception. He returned in a few minutes, and telling her she was happy at her arrival, conducted her into the house. From a narrow passage, they turned into a small, gloomy-looking parlor, with a clay floor. Mrs. Macpherson was sitting in an old-fashioned arm-chair—her face was sharp and meagre—her stature low, and, like Otway’s ancient Beldame, doubled with age; her gown was gray stuff, and, though she was so low, it was not long enough to reach her ankle; her black-silk apron was curtailed in the same manner, and over a little mob-cap she wore a handkerchief tied under the chin. She just nodded to Amanda on her entrance, and, putting on a pair of large spectacles, surveyed her without speaking. Amanda presented Mrs. Dermot’s introductory letter, and then, though unbidden, seated herself on the window-seat till she had perused it. Her trunk, in the mean time, was brought in, and she paid for the carriage, requesting at the same time the master of the vessel to wait till she had heard what Mrs. Macpherson would say. At length the old lady broke silence, and her voice was quite as sharp as her face.
“So, child,” said she, again surveying Amanda, and then elevating her spectacles to have a better opportunity of speaking, “why, to be sure I did desire my cousin to get me a young person, but not one so young, so very young, as you appear to be.” “Lord bless you!” said the man, “if that is a fault, why, it is one will mend every day.” “Ay, ay,” cried the old dame, “but it will mend a little too slow for me. However, child, as you are so well recommended, I will try you. My cousin says something of your being well born, and having seen better days. However, child, I tell you beforehand, I shall not consider what you have been, but what you are now. I shall therefore expect you to be mild, regular, and attentive—no flaunting, no gadding, no chattering, but staid, sober, and modest.” “Bless your heart,” said the man, “if you look in her face you will see she’ll be all you desire.” “Ay, ay, so you may say; but I should be very sorry to depend upon the promise of a face—like the heart, it is often treacherous anddeceitful; so pray, young woman, tell me, and remember I expect a conscientious answer, whether you think you will be able to do as I wish?” “Yes, madam,” replied Amanda, in a voice almost choked by the variety of painful emotions she experienced.
“Well, then, we are agreed, as you know the salary I give.” The master of the vessel now took his leave, never having been asked by Mrs. Macpherson to take any refreshment.
The heart of Amanda sunk within her from the moment she entered Mrs. Macpherson’s door. She shuddered at being left with so unsocial a being in a place so wild and dreary. A hovel near St. Catherine’s she would have thought a palace in point of real comfort to her present habitation, as she then could have enjoyed the soothing society of the tender and amiable nuns. The presence of the master of the vessel, from the pity and concern he manifested for her, had something consolatory in it, and when he left the room she burst into tears, as if then, and not till then, she had been utterly abandoned. She hastily followed him out. “Give my love, my best love,” said she, sobbing violently, and laying her trembling hand on his, “to Mrs. Dermot, and tell her, oh! tell her to write directly, and give me some comfort.”
“You may depend on my doing so,” replied he, “but cheer up, my dear young lady; what though the old dame in the parlor is a little cranky, she will mend, no doubt; so Heaven bless you, and make you as happy as you deserve to be.”
Sad and silent, Amanda returned to the parlor, and seating herself in the window, strained her eyes after the carriage which had brought her to this dismal spot.
“Of joys departed, never to return,How bitter the remembrance!”—Blair.
“Of joys departed, never to return,How bitter the remembrance!”—Blair.
“Well, child,” said Mrs. Macpherson, “do you choose to take anything?” “I thank you, madam,” replied Amanda, “I should like a little tea.” “Oh! as to tea, I have just taken my own, and the things are all washed and put by; but, if you like a glass of spirits and water, and a crust of bread, you may have it.” Amanda said she did not. “Oh! very well,” criedMrs. Macpherson, “I shall not press you, for supper will soon be ready.” She then desired Amanda to draw a chair near hers, and began torturing her with a variety of minute and trifling questions relative to herself, the nuns, and the neighborhood of St. Catherine’s.
Amanda briefly said, “her father had been in the army, that many disappointments and losses had prevented his making any provision for her, and that on his death, which happened in the neighborhood of the convent, the nuns had taken her out of compassion, till she procured an establishment for herself.” “Ay, and a comfortable one you have procured yourself, I promise you,” said Mrs. Macpherson, “if it is not your own fault.” She then told Amanda, “she would amuse her by showing her her house and other concerns.” This indeed was easily done, as it consisted but of the parlor, two closets adjoining it, and the kitchen, on the opposite side of the entry; the other concerns were a small garden, planted with kail, and the field covered with thistles. “A good, comfortable tenement this,” cried Mrs. Macpherson, shaking her head with much satisfaction, as she leaned upon her ebony-headed cane, and cast her eyes around. She bid Amanda admire the fine prospect before the door, and, calling to a red-haired and bare-legged girl, desired her to cut some thistles to put into the fire, and hasten the boiling of the kail. On returning to the parlor she unlocked a press, and took out a pair of coarse, brown sheets to air for Amanda. She herself slept in one closet, and in the other was a bed for Amanda, laid on a half-decayed bedstead, without curtains, and covered with a blue-stuff quilt. The closet was lighted by one small window, which looked into the garden, and its furniture consisted of a broken chair, and a piece of looking-glass stuck to the wall.
The promised supper was at length served. It consisted of a few heads of kail, some oaten bread, a jug of water, and a small phial half full of spirits, which Amanda would not taste, and the old lady herself took but sparingly. They were lighted by a small candle, which, on retiring to their closets, Mrs. Macpherson cut between them.
Amanda felt relieved by being alone. She could now without restraint indulge her tears and her reflections; that she could never enjoy any satisfaction with a being so ungracious in her manners and so contracted in her notions, she foresaw; but, disagreeable as her situation must be, she felt inclined to continue in it, from the idea of its giving her more opportunities of hearing from Mrs. Dermot than she could have in almostany other place, and by these opportunities alone could she expect to hear of Lord Mortimer; and to hear of him, even the most trifling circumstance, though divided, forever divided from him, would be a source of exquisite though melancholy pleasure.
To think she should hear of him, at once soothed and fed her melancholy. It lessened the violence of sorrow, yet without abating its intenseness; it gave a delicious sadness to her soul she thought would be ill exchanged for any feelings short of those she must have experienced, if her wishes had been accomplished. She enjoyed the pensive luxury of virtuous grief, which mitigates the sharp
“With gracious dropsOf cordial pleasure,”
“With gracious dropsOf cordial pleasure,”
and which Akenside so beautifully describes; nor can I forbear quoting the lines he has written to illustrate the truth—
“Ask the faithful youthWhy the cold urn of her, whom long he lovedSo often fills his arms, so often drawsHis lonely footsteps at the silent hour,To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?O, he will tell thee, that the wealth of worldsShould ne’er seduce his bosom to foregoThat sacred hour, when, stealing from the noiseOf care and envy, sweet remembrance soothesWith virtue’s kindest looks his aching heart,And turns his tears to rapture.”
“Ask the faithful youthWhy the cold urn of her, whom long he lovedSo often fills his arms, so often drawsHis lonely footsteps at the silent hour,To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?O, he will tell thee, that the wealth of worldsShould ne’er seduce his bosom to foregoThat sacred hour, when, stealing from the noiseOf care and envy, sweet remembrance soothesWith virtue’s kindest looks his aching heart,And turns his tears to rapture.”
Fatigued by the contending emotions she experienced, as well as the sickness she went through at sea, Amanda soon retired to her flock bed, and fell into a profound slumber, in which she continued till roused in the morning by the shrill voice of Mrs. Macpherson, exclaiming, as she rapped at the door, “Come, come, Frances, it is time to rise.”
Amanda started from her sleep, forgetting both the name she had adopted and the place where she was; but Mrs. Macpherson again calling her to rise, restored her to her recollection. She replied she would attend her directly, and, hurrying on her clothes, was with her in a few minutes. She found the old lady seated at the breakfast-table, who, instead of returning her salutation, said, “that on account of her fatigue she excused her lying so long in bed this morning, for it was now eight o’clock; but in future she would expect her to rise before six in summer, and seven in winter, adding, as there was no clock, she would rap at her door for that purpose every morning.”
Amanda assured her “she was fond of rising early, and always accustomed to it.” The tea was now poured out; it was of the worst kind, and sweetened with coarse brown sugar; the bread was oaten, and there was no butter. Amanda, unused to such unpalatable fare, swallowed a little of it with difficulty, and then, with some hesitation, said “she would prefer milk to tea.” Mrs. Macpherson frowned exceedingly at this, and, after continuing silent a few minutes, said, “she had really made tea for two people, and she could not think of having it wasted; besides, she added, the economy of her house was so settled she could not infringe it for any one.” She kept no cow herself, and only took in as much milk as served her tea and an old tabby-cat.
Amanda replied, “it was of no consequence,” and Mrs. Macpherson said, indeed she supposed so, and muttered something of people giving themselves airs they had no pretensions to. The tea-table was removed before nine, when the school began; it consisted of about thirty girls, most of them daughters of farmers in the neighborhood. Amanda and they being introduced to each other (and she being previously informed what they were taught), was desired to commence the task of instructing them entirely herself that day, as Mrs. Macpherson wanted to observe her manner—a most unpleasant task indeed for poor Amanda, whose mind and body were both harassed by anxiety and fatigue. As she had undertaken it, however, she resolved to go through it with as much cheerfulness and alacrity as possible. She accordingly acquitted herself to the satisfaction of Mrs. Macpherson, who only found fault with her too great gentleness, saying, the children would never fear her. At two the school broke up, and Amanda, almost as delighted as the children to be at liberty, was running into the garden to try if the air would be of use to a very violent headache; when she was called back to put the forms and other things in order. She colored, and stood motionless, till recollecting that if she refused to obey Mrs. Macpherson a quarrel would probably ensue, which, circumstanced as she was, without knowing where to go to, would be dreadful, she silently performed what she had been desired to do. Dinner was then brought in; it was as simple and as sparing as a Braman could desire it to be. When over, Mrs. Macpherson composed herself to take a nap in the large chair, without making any kind of apology to Amanda.
Left at liberty, Amanda would now have walked out; but it had just begun to rain, and everything looked dreary anddesolate. From the window in which she pensively sat she had a view of the sea; it looked black and tempestuous, and she could distinguish its awful and melancholy roaring as it dashed against the rocks. The little servant-girl, as she cleaned the kitchen, sung a dismal Scotch ditty, so that all conspired to oppress the spirits of Amanda with a dejection greater than she had before ever experienced; all hope was now extinct, the social ties of life seemed broken, never more to be reunited. She had now no father, no friend, no lover, as heretofore, to soothe her feelings, or alleviate her sorrows. Like the poor Belvidera she might have said,
“There was a timeHer cries and sorrowsWere not despised, when, if she chanced to sigh,Or but look sad, a friend or parentWould have taken her in their arms,Eased her declining head upon their breasts,And never left her till they found the cause;But now let her weep seas,Cry till she rend the earth, sigh till she burstHer heart asunder, she is disregarded.”
“There was a timeHer cries and sorrowsWere not despised, when, if she chanced to sigh,Or but look sad, a friend or parentWould have taken her in their arms,Eased her declining head upon their breasts,And never left her till they found the cause;But now let her weep seas,Cry till she rend the earth, sigh till she burstHer heart asunder, she is disregarded.”
Like a tender sapling, transplanted from its native soil, she seemed to stand alone, exposed to every adverse blast. Her tears gushed forth, and fell in showers down her pale cheeks. She sighed forth the name of her father: “Oh! dear and most benignant of men,” she exclaimed, “my father and my friend; were you living, I should not be so wretched; pity and consolation would then be mine. Oh! my father, one of the dreariest caverns in yonder rocks would be an asylum of comfort were you with me; but I am selfish in these regrets, certain as I am that you exchanged this life of wretchedness for one of eternal peace, for one where you were again united to your Malvina.”
Her thoughts adverted to what Lord Mortimer, in all probability, now thought of her; but this was too dreadful to dwell upon, convinced as she was, that, from appearances, he must think most unfavorably of her. His picture was hung in her bosom, she drew it out. She gazed with agonizing tenderness upon it. She pressed it to her lips, and prayed for its original. From this indulgence of sorrow she was disturbed by the waking of Mrs. Macpherson. She hastily wiped away her tears, and hid the beloved picture. The evening passed most disagreeably. Mrs. Macpherson was tedious and inquisitive in her discourse, and it was almost as painful to listen as to answer her. Amanda was happy when the hour for retiring to bedarrived, and relieved her from what might be called a kind of mental bondage.
Such was the first day Amanda passed in her new habitation, and a week elapsed in the same manner without any variation, except that on Sunday she had a cessation from her labors, and went to the kirk with Mrs. Macpherson. At the end of the week she found herself so extremely ill from the fatigue and confinement she endured, as Mrs. Macpherson would not let her walk out, saying, “gadders were good for nothing"—that she told her, except allowed to go out every evening, she must leave her, as she could not bear so sedentary a life. Mrs. Macpherson looked disconcerted, and grumbled a good deal; but as Amanda spoke in a resolute manner, she was frightened lest she should put her threats into execution, she was so extremely useful in the school; and at last told her she might take as much exercise as she pleased every day after dinner.
Amanda gladly availed herself of this permission. She explored all the romantic paths about the house; but the one she chiefly delighted to take was that which led to the sea. She loved to ramble about the beach; when fatigued to sit down upon the fragment of a rock and look towards the opposite shore. Vainly then would she try to discover some of the objects she knew so well. Castle Carberry was utterly undistinguishable, but she knew the spot on which it stood, and derived a melancholy pleasure from looking that way. In these retired rambles she would freely indulge her tears, and gaze upon the picture of Lord Mortimer. She feared no observation; the rocks formed a kind of recess about her, and in going to them she seldom met a creature.
A fortnight passed in this way, and she began to feel surprise and uneasiness at not hearing from Mrs. Dermot. If much longer silent, she resolved on writing, feeling it impossible to endure much longer the agony her ignorance of Lord Mortimer’s proceedings gave her. The very morning previous to the one she had fixed for writing she saw a sailor coming to the house, and believing he was the bearer of a letter to her, she forgot everything but her feelings at the moment, and starting from her seat ran from the room. She met him a few yards from the house, and then perceived he was one of the sailors of the vessel she had come over in. “You have a letter for me, I hope?” said Amanda. The man nodded, and fumbling in his bosom for a moment, pulled out a large packet, which Amanda snatched with eager transport from him; andknowing she could not attempt to bring him into the house for refreshment, gave him a crown to procure it elsewhere, which he received with thankfulness, and departed. She then returned to the parlor, and was hastening to her closet to read the letter, when Mrs. Macpherson stopped her. “Hey-day,” cried she, “what is the matter?—what is all this fuss about? Why, one would think that was a love letter, you are so very eager to read it.” “It is not, then, I can assure you" said Amanda. “Well, well; and who is it from?” Amanda reflected that if she said from Mrs. Dermot a number of impertinent questions would be asked her. She therefore replied: “From a very particular friend.” “From a very particular friend! Well, I suppose there is nothing about life or death in it, so you may wait till after dinner to read it; and pray sit down now, and hear the children their spelling lessons.” This was a tantalizing moment to Amanda. She stood hesitating whether she should obey, till reflecting that if she went now to read the packet, she should most probably be interrupted ere she had got through half the contents, she resolved on putting it up till after dinner. The moment at last came for Mrs. Macpherson’s usual nap, and Amanda instantly hastened to a recess amongst the rocks, where seating herself, she broke the seal. The envelope contained two letters. The first she cast her eyes upon was directed in Lord Cherbury’s hand. She trembled, tore it open, and read as follows:—
TO MISS FITZALAN.In vain, my dear madam, do you say you never will receive pecuniary favors from me. It is not you, but I, should lie under obligations from their acceptance. I should deem myself the most ungrateful of mankind if I did not insist on carrying this point. I am but just returned to London, and shall immediately order my lawyer to draw up a deed entitling you to three hundred pounds a year, which, when completed, I shall transmit to the prioress (as I have this letter) to send to you. I am sensible, indeed, that I never can recompense the sacrifice you have made me. The feelings it has excited I shall not attempt to express, because language could never do them justice; but you may conceive what I must feel for the being who has preserved me from dishonor and destruction. I am informed Lord Mortimer has left Ireland, and therefore daily expect him in town. I have now not only every hope, but every prospect, of his complying with my wishes. This, I imagine, will be rather pleasing to you to hear, that you may know the sacrifice you have made is not made in vain, but will be attended with all the good consequences I expected to derive from it. I should again enjoy a tolerable degree of peace, were I assured you were happy; but this is an assurance I will hope soon to receive; for if you are not happy, who has a right to expect being so?—you whose virtue is so pure, whose generosity is so noble, so heroic, so far superior to any I have ever met with!That in this world, as well as the next, you may be rewarded for it, is, dear madam, the sincere wish of him who has the honor to subscribe himself your most grateful, most obliged, and most obedient, humble servant,Cherbury.
TO MISS FITZALAN.
In vain, my dear madam, do you say you never will receive pecuniary favors from me. It is not you, but I, should lie under obligations from their acceptance. I should deem myself the most ungrateful of mankind if I did not insist on carrying this point. I am but just returned to London, and shall immediately order my lawyer to draw up a deed entitling you to three hundred pounds a year, which, when completed, I shall transmit to the prioress (as I have this letter) to send to you. I am sensible, indeed, that I never can recompense the sacrifice you have made me. The feelings it has excited I shall not attempt to express, because language could never do them justice; but you may conceive what I must feel for the being who has preserved me from dishonor and destruction. I am informed Lord Mortimer has left Ireland, and therefore daily expect him in town. I have now not only every hope, but every prospect, of his complying with my wishes. This, I imagine, will be rather pleasing to you to hear, that you may know the sacrifice you have made is not made in vain, but will be attended with all the good consequences I expected to derive from it. I should again enjoy a tolerable degree of peace, were I assured you were happy; but this is an assurance I will hope soon to receive; for if you are not happy, who has a right to expect being so?—you whose virtue is so pure, whose generosity is so noble, so heroic, so far superior to any I have ever met with!
That in this world, as well as the next, you may be rewarded for it, is, dear madam, the sincere wish of him who has the honor to subscribe himself your most grateful, most obliged, and most obedient, humble servant,
Cherbury.
“Unfeeling man!” exclaimed Amanda, “how little is your heart interested in what you write, and how slight do you make of the sacrifice I have made you; how cruelly mention your hopes, which are derived from the destruction of mine! No, sooner would I wander from door to door for charity, than be indebted to your ostentatious gratitude for support—you, whose treachery and vile deceit have ruined my happiness.” She closed the letter, and committing it to her pocket, took up the other, which she saw by the direction was from her dear Mrs. Dermot.
TO MISS DONALD.Ah! my dear child, why extort a promise from me of being minute in relating everything which happened in consequence of your departure—a promise so solemnly given that I dare not recede from it; yet most unwillingly do I keep it, sensible as I am that the intelligence I have to communicate will but aggravate your sorrows. Methinks I hear you exclaim at this: “Surely, my dear Mrs. Dermot, you who know my disposition and temper so well, might suppose I would receive such intelligence with a fortitude and patience that would prevent its materially injuring me.” Well, my dear, hoping this will be the case, I begin, without further delay, to communicate particulars. You left me, you may remember, about three o’clock. I then went to bed, but so fatigued and oppressed I could scarcely sleep, and was quite unrefreshed by what I did get. After prayers I repaired to the parlor, where the assiduous care of Sister Mary had already prepared everything for your breakfast and Lord Mortimer’s. I told the sisters not to appear till they were sent for. I had not been long alone when Lord Mortimer came in—cheerful, blooming, animated. Never did I see happiness so strongly impressed in any countenance as in his. He looked, indeed, the lover about receiving the precious reward of constancy. He asked me had I seen you? I answered, No. He soon grew impatient, said you were a lazy girl, and feared you would make a bad traveller. He then rang the bell, and desired the maid to go and call you. Oh! my dear girl, my heart almost died within me at this moment. I averted my head, and pretended to be looking at the garden to conceal my confusion. The maid returned in a few minutes, and said you were not above. “Well,” said Lord Mortimer, “she is in some other apartment; pray search, and hasten her hither.” In a few minutes after she departed, Sister Mary, all pale and breathless, rushed into the room. “Oh, heavens!” cried she, “Miss Fitzalan cannot be found; but here are two letters I found on her dressing-table—one for you, madam, and one for Lord Mortimer.” I know not how he looked at this instant, for a guilty consciousness came over my mind, which prevented my raising my eyes to his. I took the letter in silence, opened, but had no power to read it. Sister Mary stood by me, wringing her hands and weeping, as she exclaimed, “What—what does she say to you?” I could neither answer her nor move, till a deep sigh, or rather groan, from Lord Mortimer roused me. I started from my seat, and perceive him paleand motionless, the letter open in his hand, upon which his eyes were riveted. I threw open the garden door to give him air. This a little revived him. “Be comforted, my lord,” said I. He shook his head mournfully, and waving his hand for me neither to speak nor follow him, passed into the garden. “Blessed Heaven!” said Sister Mary again, “what does she say to you!” I gave her your letter, and desired her to read it aloud, for the tears which flowed at the affecting situation of Lord Mortimer quite obscured my sight. And here, my dear child, I must declare that you have been too generous, and also, that the sum you betrayed us into taking is but considered as a loan by us. But, to return to my first subject. The alarm concerning you now became general, and the nuns crowded into the room—grief and consternation in every countenance. In about half an hour I saw Lord Mortimer returning to the parlor, and I then dismissed them. He had been endeavoring to compose himself, but his efforts for doing so were ineffectual. He trembled, was pale as death, and spoke with a faltering voice. He gave me your letter to read, and I put mine into his hand. “Well, my lord,” said I, on perusing it, “we must rather pity than condemn her.” “From my soul,” cried he, “I pity her—I pity such a being as Amanda Fitzalan, for being the slave, the prey of vice. But she has been cruel to me; she has deceived, inhumanly deceived me, and blasted my peace for ever!” “Ah, my lord!” I replied, “though appearances are against her, I can never believe her guilty. She, who performed all the duties of a child, as Amanda Fitzalan did, and who, to my certain knowledge, was preparing herself for a life of poverty, can never be a victim to vice.” “Mention her no more,” cried he; “her name is like a dagger to my heart. The suspicions which, but a few nights ago, I could have killed myself for entertaining, are now confirmed. They intruded on my mind from seeing Belgrave haunting this place, and from finding her secreted amidst the ruins at a late hour. Ah, heavens! when I noticed her confusion, how easily did she exculpate herself to a heart prepossessed like mine in her favor! Unhappy, unfortunate girl! sad and pitiable is thy fate! but may an early repentance snatch thee from the villain who now triumphs in thy ruin; and may we, since thus separated, never meet again. So well,” continued he, “am I convinced of the cause of her flight, that I shall not make one inquiry after her.” I again attempted to speak in your justification, but he silenced me. I begged he would allow me to get him breakfast. He could touch nothing, and said he must return directly to Castle Carberry, but promised, in the course of the day, to see me again. I followed him into the hall. At the sight of your corded boxes, he started, and shrunk back, with that kind of melancholy horror which we involuntarily feel when viewing anything that belonged to a dear, lost friend. I saw his emotions were agonizing. He hid his face with his handkerchief, and, with a hasty step, ascended to his carriage, which, with a travelling chaise, was waiting at the door.I own I was often tempted, in the course of conversation, to tell him all I knew about you; but the promise I had given you still rose to my view, and I felt, without your permission, I could not break it; yet, my dear, it is shocking to me to have such imputations cast on you. We cannot blame Lord Mortimer for them. Situated as you were with him, your conduct has naturally excited the most injurious suspicions. Surely, my child, though not allowed to solve the mystery which has separated you from him, you may be allowed to vindicate your conduct. The sacrifice of fame and happiness is too much. Consider and weigh well what I say, and, if possible, authorize me to inform Lord Mortimer that I know of your retreat, and that you have retired neither to a lover nor a friend; but to indigence andobscurity, led thither by a fatal necessity which you are bound to conceal, and feel more severely from that circumstance. He would, I am confident, credit my words; and then, instead of condemning, would join me in pitying you. The more I reflect on your unaccountable separation, the more am I bewildered in conjectures relative to it, and convinced more strongly than ever of the frailty of human joy, which, like a summer cloud, is bright, but transitory in its splendor. Lord Mortimer had left the convent about two hours, when his man arrived to dismiss the travelling chaise and attendants. I went out and inquired after his lord. “He is very bad, madam,” said he, “and this has been a sad morning for us all.” Never, my dear Miss Fitzalan, did I, or the sisterhood, pass so melancholy a day. About five in the afternoon, I received another visit from Lord Mortimer. I was alone in the parlor, which he entered with an appearance of the deepest melancholy; one of his arms was in a sling. I was terrified, lest he and Belgrave had met. He conjectured, I fancy, the occasion of the terror my countenance expressed, for he immediately said he had been ill on returning to Castle Carberry, and was bled. He was setting off directly for Dublin, he said, from whence he intended to embark for England. “But I could not depart, my dear, good friend,” continued he, “without bidding you farewell; besides, I wanted to assure you, that any promise which the unfortunate girl made you in my name I shall hold sacred.” I knew he alluded to the fifty pounds which he had desired you to tell me should be annually remitted to our house. I instantly, therefore, replied, that we had already been rewarded beyond our expectation or desires for any little attention we showed Miss Fitzalan; but his generous resolution was not to be shaken. He looked weak and exhausted. I begged permission to make tea for him ere he commenced his journey. He consented. I went out of the room to order in the things. When I returned, he was standing at the window which looked into the garden, so absorbed in meditation that he did not hear me. I heard him say, “Cruel Amanda! is it thus you have rewarded my sufferings?” I retreated, lest he should be confused by supposing himself overheard, and did not return till the maid brought in the tea things.When he arose to depart, he looked wavering and agitated, as if there was something on his mind he wanted courage to say. At last, in a faltering voice, while the deadly paleness of his complexion gave way to a deep crimson, he said, “I left Miss Fitzalan’s letter with you.” Ah, my dear! never did man love woman better than he did, than he now loves you. I took the letter from my pocket, and presented it to him. He put it in his bosom, with an emotion that shook his whole frame. I hailed this as a favorable opportunity for again speaking in your favor. I bid him retrospect your past actions, and judge from them whether you could be guilty of a crime——. He stopped me short. He begged me to drop a subject he was unable to bear. Had he been less credulous, he said, he should now have been much happier; then wringing my hand, he bid me farewell, in a voice, and with a look, that drew tears from me. “Ah, my dear madam!” cried he, “when this day commenced, how differently did I think it would have terminated!”I attended him to his carriage. He was obliged to lean upon his man as he ascended to it, and his looks and agitation proclaimed the deepest distress. I have sent repeatedly to Castle Carberry since his departure to inquire about him, and have been informed, that they expect to hear nothing of him till Lord Cherbury’s agent comes into the country, which will not be these three months.I have heard much of the good he did in the neighborhood. He has a bounteous and benevolent spirit indeed. To our community he has been aliberal benefactor, and our prayers are daily offered up for his restoration to health and tranquillity. Amongst his other actions, when in Dublin, about three months ago, he ordered a monument to the memory of Captain Fitzalan, which has been brought down since your departure, and put up in the parish church, where he is interred. I sent Sister Mary and another of the nuns the other evening to see it, and they brought me a description of it. It is a white marble urn, ornamented with a foliage of laurel, and standing upon a pedestal of gray, on which the name of the deceased, and words to the following effect, are inscribed, namely: “That he whose memory it perpetuates, performed the duties of a Christian and a soldier, with a fidelity and zeal that now warrants his enjoying a blessed recompense for both.”I know this proof of respect to your father will deeply affect you; but I would not omit telling it, because, though it will affect, I am confident it will also please you. The late events have cast a gloom over all our spirits. Sister Mary now prays more than ever; and you know I have often told her she was only fit for a religious vocation. It is a bad world, she says, we live in, and she is glad she has so little to say to it.I am longing to hear from you. Pray tell me how you like Mrs. Macpherson. I have not seen her since her youth, and years often produce as great a change in the temper as the face. At any rate, your present situation is too obscure for you to continue in, and, as soon as your thoughts are collected and composed, you must look out for another. I hope you will be constant in writing; but I tell you beforehand, you must not expect me to be punctual in my answers—I have been so long disused to writing, and my eyes are grown so weak. This letter has been the work of many days; besides, I have really nothing interesting to communicate: whenever I have, you may be assured I shall not lose a moment in informing you.The woman was extremely thankful for the five guineas you left her. Lord Mortimer sent her five more by his man; so that she thinks herself well rewarded for any trouble or disappointment she experienced. If you wish to have any of your things sent to you, acquaint me; you know I shall never want an opportunity by the master of the vessel. He speaks largely of your generosity to him, and expresses much pity at seeing so young a person in such melancholy. May Heaven, if it does not remove the source, at least lessen this melancholy.If possible, allow me to write to Lord Mortimer, and vindicate you from the unworthy suspicions he entertains of you. I know he would believe me, and I should do it without discovering your retreat. Farewell, my dear girl. I recommend you constantly to the care of Heaven, and beg you to believe you will ever be dear and interesting to the heart ofElizabeth Dermot.St. Catherine’s.
TO MISS DONALD.
Ah! my dear child, why extort a promise from me of being minute in relating everything which happened in consequence of your departure—a promise so solemnly given that I dare not recede from it; yet most unwillingly do I keep it, sensible as I am that the intelligence I have to communicate will but aggravate your sorrows. Methinks I hear you exclaim at this: “Surely, my dear Mrs. Dermot, you who know my disposition and temper so well, might suppose I would receive such intelligence with a fortitude and patience that would prevent its materially injuring me.” Well, my dear, hoping this will be the case, I begin, without further delay, to communicate particulars. You left me, you may remember, about three o’clock. I then went to bed, but so fatigued and oppressed I could scarcely sleep, and was quite unrefreshed by what I did get. After prayers I repaired to the parlor, where the assiduous care of Sister Mary had already prepared everything for your breakfast and Lord Mortimer’s. I told the sisters not to appear till they were sent for. I had not been long alone when Lord Mortimer came in—cheerful, blooming, animated. Never did I see happiness so strongly impressed in any countenance as in his. He looked, indeed, the lover about receiving the precious reward of constancy. He asked me had I seen you? I answered, No. He soon grew impatient, said you were a lazy girl, and feared you would make a bad traveller. He then rang the bell, and desired the maid to go and call you. Oh! my dear girl, my heart almost died within me at this moment. I averted my head, and pretended to be looking at the garden to conceal my confusion. The maid returned in a few minutes, and said you were not above. “Well,” said Lord Mortimer, “she is in some other apartment; pray search, and hasten her hither.” In a few minutes after she departed, Sister Mary, all pale and breathless, rushed into the room. “Oh, heavens!” cried she, “Miss Fitzalan cannot be found; but here are two letters I found on her dressing-table—one for you, madam, and one for Lord Mortimer.” I know not how he looked at this instant, for a guilty consciousness came over my mind, which prevented my raising my eyes to his. I took the letter in silence, opened, but had no power to read it. Sister Mary stood by me, wringing her hands and weeping, as she exclaimed, “What—what does she say to you?” I could neither answer her nor move, till a deep sigh, or rather groan, from Lord Mortimer roused me. I started from my seat, and perceive him paleand motionless, the letter open in his hand, upon which his eyes were riveted. I threw open the garden door to give him air. This a little revived him. “Be comforted, my lord,” said I. He shook his head mournfully, and waving his hand for me neither to speak nor follow him, passed into the garden. “Blessed Heaven!” said Sister Mary again, “what does she say to you!” I gave her your letter, and desired her to read it aloud, for the tears which flowed at the affecting situation of Lord Mortimer quite obscured my sight. And here, my dear child, I must declare that you have been too generous, and also, that the sum you betrayed us into taking is but considered as a loan by us. But, to return to my first subject. The alarm concerning you now became general, and the nuns crowded into the room—grief and consternation in every countenance. In about half an hour I saw Lord Mortimer returning to the parlor, and I then dismissed them. He had been endeavoring to compose himself, but his efforts for doing so were ineffectual. He trembled, was pale as death, and spoke with a faltering voice. He gave me your letter to read, and I put mine into his hand. “Well, my lord,” said I, on perusing it, “we must rather pity than condemn her.” “From my soul,” cried he, “I pity her—I pity such a being as Amanda Fitzalan, for being the slave, the prey of vice. But she has been cruel to me; she has deceived, inhumanly deceived me, and blasted my peace for ever!” “Ah, my lord!” I replied, “though appearances are against her, I can never believe her guilty. She, who performed all the duties of a child, as Amanda Fitzalan did, and who, to my certain knowledge, was preparing herself for a life of poverty, can never be a victim to vice.” “Mention her no more,” cried he; “her name is like a dagger to my heart. The suspicions which, but a few nights ago, I could have killed myself for entertaining, are now confirmed. They intruded on my mind from seeing Belgrave haunting this place, and from finding her secreted amidst the ruins at a late hour. Ah, heavens! when I noticed her confusion, how easily did she exculpate herself to a heart prepossessed like mine in her favor! Unhappy, unfortunate girl! sad and pitiable is thy fate! but may an early repentance snatch thee from the villain who now triumphs in thy ruin; and may we, since thus separated, never meet again. So well,” continued he, “am I convinced of the cause of her flight, that I shall not make one inquiry after her.” I again attempted to speak in your justification, but he silenced me. I begged he would allow me to get him breakfast. He could touch nothing, and said he must return directly to Castle Carberry, but promised, in the course of the day, to see me again. I followed him into the hall. At the sight of your corded boxes, he started, and shrunk back, with that kind of melancholy horror which we involuntarily feel when viewing anything that belonged to a dear, lost friend. I saw his emotions were agonizing. He hid his face with his handkerchief, and, with a hasty step, ascended to his carriage, which, with a travelling chaise, was waiting at the door.
I own I was often tempted, in the course of conversation, to tell him all I knew about you; but the promise I had given you still rose to my view, and I felt, without your permission, I could not break it; yet, my dear, it is shocking to me to have such imputations cast on you. We cannot blame Lord Mortimer for them. Situated as you were with him, your conduct has naturally excited the most injurious suspicions. Surely, my child, though not allowed to solve the mystery which has separated you from him, you may be allowed to vindicate your conduct. The sacrifice of fame and happiness is too much. Consider and weigh well what I say, and, if possible, authorize me to inform Lord Mortimer that I know of your retreat, and that you have retired neither to a lover nor a friend; but to indigence andobscurity, led thither by a fatal necessity which you are bound to conceal, and feel more severely from that circumstance. He would, I am confident, credit my words; and then, instead of condemning, would join me in pitying you. The more I reflect on your unaccountable separation, the more am I bewildered in conjectures relative to it, and convinced more strongly than ever of the frailty of human joy, which, like a summer cloud, is bright, but transitory in its splendor. Lord Mortimer had left the convent about two hours, when his man arrived to dismiss the travelling chaise and attendants. I went out and inquired after his lord. “He is very bad, madam,” said he, “and this has been a sad morning for us all.” Never, my dear Miss Fitzalan, did I, or the sisterhood, pass so melancholy a day. About five in the afternoon, I received another visit from Lord Mortimer. I was alone in the parlor, which he entered with an appearance of the deepest melancholy; one of his arms was in a sling. I was terrified, lest he and Belgrave had met. He conjectured, I fancy, the occasion of the terror my countenance expressed, for he immediately said he had been ill on returning to Castle Carberry, and was bled. He was setting off directly for Dublin, he said, from whence he intended to embark for England. “But I could not depart, my dear, good friend,” continued he, “without bidding you farewell; besides, I wanted to assure you, that any promise which the unfortunate girl made you in my name I shall hold sacred.” I knew he alluded to the fifty pounds which he had desired you to tell me should be annually remitted to our house. I instantly, therefore, replied, that we had already been rewarded beyond our expectation or desires for any little attention we showed Miss Fitzalan; but his generous resolution was not to be shaken. He looked weak and exhausted. I begged permission to make tea for him ere he commenced his journey. He consented. I went out of the room to order in the things. When I returned, he was standing at the window which looked into the garden, so absorbed in meditation that he did not hear me. I heard him say, “Cruel Amanda! is it thus you have rewarded my sufferings?” I retreated, lest he should be confused by supposing himself overheard, and did not return till the maid brought in the tea things.
When he arose to depart, he looked wavering and agitated, as if there was something on his mind he wanted courage to say. At last, in a faltering voice, while the deadly paleness of his complexion gave way to a deep crimson, he said, “I left Miss Fitzalan’s letter with you.” Ah, my dear! never did man love woman better than he did, than he now loves you. I took the letter from my pocket, and presented it to him. He put it in his bosom, with an emotion that shook his whole frame. I hailed this as a favorable opportunity for again speaking in your favor. I bid him retrospect your past actions, and judge from them whether you could be guilty of a crime——. He stopped me short. He begged me to drop a subject he was unable to bear. Had he been less credulous, he said, he should now have been much happier; then wringing my hand, he bid me farewell, in a voice, and with a look, that drew tears from me. “Ah, my dear madam!” cried he, “when this day commenced, how differently did I think it would have terminated!”
I attended him to his carriage. He was obliged to lean upon his man as he ascended to it, and his looks and agitation proclaimed the deepest distress. I have sent repeatedly to Castle Carberry since his departure to inquire about him, and have been informed, that they expect to hear nothing of him till Lord Cherbury’s agent comes into the country, which will not be these three months.
I have heard much of the good he did in the neighborhood. He has a bounteous and benevolent spirit indeed. To our community he has been aliberal benefactor, and our prayers are daily offered up for his restoration to health and tranquillity. Amongst his other actions, when in Dublin, about three months ago, he ordered a monument to the memory of Captain Fitzalan, which has been brought down since your departure, and put up in the parish church, where he is interred. I sent Sister Mary and another of the nuns the other evening to see it, and they brought me a description of it. It is a white marble urn, ornamented with a foliage of laurel, and standing upon a pedestal of gray, on which the name of the deceased, and words to the following effect, are inscribed, namely: “That he whose memory it perpetuates, performed the duties of a Christian and a soldier, with a fidelity and zeal that now warrants his enjoying a blessed recompense for both.”
I know this proof of respect to your father will deeply affect you; but I would not omit telling it, because, though it will affect, I am confident it will also please you. The late events have cast a gloom over all our spirits. Sister Mary now prays more than ever; and you know I have often told her she was only fit for a religious vocation. It is a bad world, she says, we live in, and she is glad she has so little to say to it.
I am longing to hear from you. Pray tell me how you like Mrs. Macpherson. I have not seen her since her youth, and years often produce as great a change in the temper as the face. At any rate, your present situation is too obscure for you to continue in, and, as soon as your thoughts are collected and composed, you must look out for another. I hope you will be constant in writing; but I tell you beforehand, you must not expect me to be punctual in my answers—I have been so long disused to writing, and my eyes are grown so weak. This letter has been the work of many days; besides, I have really nothing interesting to communicate: whenever I have, you may be assured I shall not lose a moment in informing you.
The woman was extremely thankful for the five guineas you left her. Lord Mortimer sent her five more by his man; so that she thinks herself well rewarded for any trouble or disappointment she experienced. If you wish to have any of your things sent to you, acquaint me; you know I shall never want an opportunity by the master of the vessel. He speaks largely of your generosity to him, and expresses much pity at seeing so young a person in such melancholy. May Heaven, if it does not remove the source, at least lessen this melancholy.
If possible, allow me to write to Lord Mortimer, and vindicate you from the unworthy suspicions he entertains of you. I know he would believe me, and I should do it without discovering your retreat. Farewell, my dear girl. I recommend you constantly to the care of Heaven, and beg you to believe you will ever be dear and interesting to the heart of
Elizabeth Dermot.
St. Catherine’s.
Poor Amanda wept over this letter. “I have ruined the health, the peace of Lord Mortimer,” she exclaimed, “and he now execrates me as the source of his unhappiness. Oh! Lord Cherbury, how severely do I suffer for your crime!” She began to think her virtue had been too heroic in the sacrifice she had made. But this was a transient idea, for when she reflected on the disposition of Lord Cherbury, she was convinced the divulgement of his secret would have been followed by his death; and, great as was her present wretchedness, she felt it light compared to the horrors she knew shewould experience could she accuse herself of being accessory to such an event. She now drank deeply of the cup of misery, but conscious rectitude, in some degree, lessened its noxious bitterness. She resolved to caution Mrs. Dermot against mentioning her in any manner to Lord Mortimer. She was well convinced he would believe no asseveration of her innocence. And even if he did, what end could it answer? Their union was opposed by an obstacle not to be surmounted, and if he sought and discovered her retreat, it would only lead to new sorrows, perhaps occasion some dreadful catastrophe. “We are separated,” cried she, folding her hands together, “forever separated in this world, but in Heaven we shall again be reunited.”
Absorbed in the reflections and sorrow this letter gave rise to, she remained in her seat till Mrs. Macpherson’s little girl suddenly appeared before her, and said her mistress had made tea, and was wondering what kept her out so long.
Amanda instantly arose, and carefully putting up the letter, returned to the house, where she found Mrs. Macpherson in a very bad humor. She grumbled exceedingly at Amanda’s staying out so long, and taking notice of her eyes being red and swelled, said, “indeed, she believed she was right in supposing she had got a love-letter.” Amanda made no reply, and the evening passed away in peevishness on one side and silence on the other.
The charm which had hitherto rendered Amanda’s situation tolerable was now dissolved, as Mrs. Dermot had said she could write but seldom, and scarcely expected to have anything interesting to relate. She would gladly, therefore, have left Mrs. Macpherson immediately, but she knew not where to go. She resolved, however, ere winter had entirely set in, to request Mrs. Dermot to look out for some other place for her: as she had connections in Scotland, she thought she might recommend her to them as a governess, or a fit person to do fine works for a lady. She rose long before her usual hour the next morning, and wrote a letter expressive of her wishes and intentions to Mrs. Dermot, which she sent by a poor man, who lived near the house, to the post-town, rewarding him liberally for his trouble.
“Who knows the joys of friendship,The trust, security and mutual tenderness,The double joys, where each is glad for both;Friendship, our only wealth, our last retreat and strength,Secure against ill-fortune and the world?”—Rowe.
“Who knows the joys of friendship,The trust, security and mutual tenderness,The double joys, where each is glad for both;Friendship, our only wealth, our last retreat and strength,Secure against ill-fortune and the world?”—Rowe.
Among Mrs. Macpherson’s pupils were two little girls, who pleased and interested Amanda greatly. Their father, for whom they were in mourning, had perished in a violent storm, and their mother had pined in health and spirits ever since the fatal accident. The kindness with which Amanda treated them, they repaid with gratitude and attention. It had a double effect upon their little hearts, from being contrasted with the sour austerity of Mrs. Macpherson. They told Amanda, in a whisper, one morning, that their mamma was coming to see their dear, good Frances Donald.
Accordingly, in the course of the day, Mrs. Duncan came. She was young and pleasing in her appearance; her weeds and deep dejection rendered her a most interesting object. She sat by Amanda, and took an opportunity, while Mrs. Macpherson was engaged with some of the children, to tell her, in a low voice, “she was truly obliged to her for the great attention and kindness she showed her little girls, so unlike their former treatment at the school.” “The task of instructing them was hers,” she said, “till her declining health and spirits rendered her no longer able to bear it.” Amanda assured her, “it was a pleasure to instruct minds so docile and sweet tempered as theirs.” Mrs. Duncan, as she rose to depart, asked her and Mrs. Macpherson to tea that evening, which invitation was instantly accepted by Mrs. Macpherson, who was extremely fond of being sociable everywhere but in her own house. Mrs. Duncan lived at but a little distance, and everything in and about her house was neat and comfortable. She had an old neighbor in the parlor, who kept Mrs. Macpherson in chat, and gave her an opportunity of conversing freely with Amanda. She remarked the delicacy of her looks, and said “She believed she was ill-qualified to endure so fatiguing a life as her present one.” She mentioned her own lonely and melancholy life, and the happiness she would derive from having such a companion, and expressed her hopes of often enjoying hersociety. Amanda said this would be impossible without disobliging Mrs. Macpherson; and Mrs. Duncan, on reflection, allowed it would be so. She then inquired if she ever walked? Amanda replied she did; and was asked where she generally rambled? By the sea-side, she answered. Mrs. Duncan sighed deeply, and her eyes filled with tears. “It is there I generally ramble too,” said she. This led to the mention of her late loss. “Mr. Duncan had been the kindest, best of husbands,” she said; “the first years of their marriage were attended with difficulties, which were just removed, when he was lost on a party of pleasure, with several others. It was some consolation, however,” continued Mrs. Duncan, “that the body was cast upon the shore, and I had the power of paying the last rites of decency and respect to him.” In short, between her and Amanda there appeared a mutual sympathy, which rendered them truly interesting to each other. From this period they generally met every evening, and passed many hours on the “sea-beat shore,” talking, and often weeping, over joys departed, never to return! Mrs. Duncan was too delicate to inquire into Amanda’s former situation; but was well convinced it had been very different from her present one. Amanda, however, of her own accord, told her what she had told Mrs. Macpherson respecting herself. Mrs. Duncan lamented her misfortunes; but since she had met them, blessed the happy chance which conducted her near her habitation.
A month passed in this manner, when one evening, at the usual place of meeting, Mrs. Duncan told her, “that she believed she should soon be quitting that part of the country.” Amanda started, and turned pale at this disagreeable intelligence. She had received no answer to her letter from Mrs. Dermot, consequently dreaded that necessity would compel her to remain in her present situation, and on Mrs. Duncan’s society she had depended for rendering it bearable to her.
“I have been invited, my dear girl,” said Mrs. Duncan, leaning on her arm as they walked up and down the beach, “to reside with an aunt, who has always been kind, and particularly so to me in my distress. She lives about ten miles from this, at an old place called Dunreath Abbey, of which she is housekeeper. Have you ever heard of it?” Amanda’s agitation at hearing her mother’s native habitation mentioned, is not to be described. Her heart palpitated; she felt her color change, and said Yes and No to Mrs. Duncan, without knowing what she answered. Then recollecting herself, she replied, “she had heard of it.” “Well, then, my dear,” continued Mrs.Duncan, “my aunt, as I have already told you, is housekeeper there. She lives in great grandeur, for it is a magnificent old seat, and has the absolute command of everything, as none of the family have resided at it since the Earl of Dunreath’s decease. My aunt is lately grown weary of the profound solitude in which she lives, and has asked me, in a letter which I received this morning, to go immediately and take up my residence with her, promising, if I do, she will leave everything she is worth to me and my children; and as her salary is very good, I know she must have saved a good deal. This is a very tempting offer, and I am only withheld from accepting it directly by the fear of depriving my children of the advantages of education.” “Why,” said Amanda, “what they learn at Mrs. Macpherson’s they could easily learn anywhere else.” “But I intended, when they were a little older,” replied Mrs. Duncan, “to go to some one of the neighboring towns with them. If I once go to my aunt, I must entirely relinquish such an idea, and to a boarding-school I could not send them, for I have not fortitude to bear a separation from them. What I wish, therefore, is to procure a person who would be at once a pleasing companion for me, and an eligible governess for them. With such a person, the solitude of Dunreath Abbey would be rather agreeable than irksome to me.”
She looked earnestly at Amanda as she spoke, and Amanda’s heart began to throb with hope and agitation. “In short, my dear girl,” continued she, “you of all others, to be explicit, are the person I would choose to bring along with me. Your sweet society would alleviate my sorrows, and your elegant accomplishments give to my children all the advantages I desire them to possess.” “I am not only flattered, but happy by your prepossession in my favor,” replied Amanda.
“I am pleased we agree in point of inclination,” said Mrs. Duncan; “but I must now inform you that my aunt has always been averse to admit any strangers to the Abbey. Why, I know not, except it is by the commands of the family; and she tells me in her letter, that if I accept her invitation, I must not on any account let it be known where I am removing to. I dare not, therefore, bring you with me without her permission; but I shall write immediately and request it. In the course of a day or two I may expect an answer. In the mean time, give Mrs. Macpherson no intimation of our present intentions, lest they should be defeated.” Amanda promised she would not, and they separated.
She was now in a state of the greatest agitation, at the probability there was that she might visit the seat of her ancestors. She dreaded a disappointment, and felt that, if she went there as the companion of Mrs. Duncan, she should be better situated than a few hours before she had ever expected to be again. Two evenings after her conversation with Mrs. Duncan, on going to the beach to meet her, she saw her approaching with an open letter in her hand, and a smile on her face, which informed her its contents were pleasing. They were so indeed, as they gave permission to have Amanda brought to the Abbey, provided she promised inviolable secrecy as to where she was going. This Amanda cheerfully did, and Mrs. Duncan said she had some affairs to settle, which would prevent their departure for a few days. At whatever time she appointed, her aunt was to send a carriage for then, and it was now agreed that Mrs. Macpherson should be informed Mrs. Duncan was leaving that part of the country, and had engaged Amanda as a governess to her children.
Mrs. Duncan then mentioned her own terms. Amanda assured her an idea of them had never entered her thoughts. Mrs. Duncan said she was sure of that, but at the same time thought between the most intimate friends exactness should be preserved. Everything being settled to their mutual satisfaction, they separated, and the following day, after school broke up, Amanda informed Mrs. Macpherson of her intended departure. The old dame was thunderstruck, and for some time unable to speak; but when she recovered the use of her tongue, she expressed the utmost rage and indignation against Amanda, Mrs. Duncan, and the prioress. Against the first for thinking of leaving her, the second for inveigling her away, and the third for recommending a person who could serve her in such a manner. When she stopped, exhausted by her violence, Amanda took the opportunity of assuring her that she had no reason to condemn any of them; as for her part, previous to Mrs. Duncan’s offer, she intended to leave her, being unable to bear a life of such fatigue; that as her removal would not be immediate, Mrs. Macpherson could suffer no inconvenience by it, there being time enough to look out for another person ere it took place. But the truth now broke from Mrs. Macpherson; angry as she was with Amanda, she could not help confessing, that she never again expected to meet with a person so well qualified to please her, and a torrent of bitter reproaches again burst forth for her quitting her.
Amanda resented them not, but did all in her power to mollify her; as the most effectual method of doing so, she declaredshe meant to take no recompense for the time she had been with her, and added, if she had her permission, she would write that evening to Mrs. Dermot about a woman she had seen at the convent, whom she thought well qualified to be an assistant in her school. This was the woman who had been engaged to attend her to England. Mrs. Macpherson at last consented she should write for her, as her wrath had gradually subsided from the moment Amanda declared she would take no payment. Amanda accordingly wrote to Mrs. Dermot, and informed her of the agreeable change there was about taking place in her situation; also of Mrs. Macpherson’s displeasure, and her own wish that a person might immediately be procured to fill the place she was resigning. She mentioned the woman already spoken of as a proper person, but requested, if she consented to come, she might not be allowed to do so till she had left Mrs. Macpherson’s, else who she really was would be betrayed. She now thought little of the tedious and disagreeable days she spent, as the eagerness with which she saw Mrs. Duncan preparing for their departure promised so speedily to change them. She received an answer from Ireland even sooner than she expected. Mrs. Dermot congratulated her on having met with so amiable a friend as Mrs. Duncan, said the woman accepted the offer made in Mrs. Macpherson’s name, but should not depart till she had written for that purpose, and concluded her letter by saying, there was no intelligence yet of Lord Mortimer. Mrs. Macpherson was pleased to find she should not be long without a companion, and two days after the receipt of the letter Mrs. Duncan told Amanda their journey was fixed for the ensuing day, and begged Amanda to sleep at her house that night, to which she gladly consented; accordingly, after dinner she took leave of Mrs. Macpherson, who grumbled out a farewell, and a hope that she might not have reason to repent quitting her, for the old lady was so incensed to have the place Mrs. Duncan was going to concealed from her that all her ill-humor had returned. Amanda with a pleasure she could scarcely conceal, quitted her inhospitable mansion, and, attended by a man who carried her trunk, soon found herself at Mrs. Duncan’s, where she was received with every demonstration of joy. The evening passed sociably away; they rose early in the morning, and had just breakfasted when the expected carriage from Dunreath Abbey arrived. It was a heavy, old-fashioned chaise, on whose faded panels the arms of the Dunreath family were still visible. Mrs. Duncan’s luggage had been sent off the preceding day, so that there wasnothing now to delay them. Mrs. Duncan made Amanda and the children go into the chaise before her, but, detained by an emotion of the most painful nature, she lingered sometime after them upon the threshold. She could not indeed depart from the habitation where she had experienced so many happy days with the man of her tenderest affections without a flood of tears, which spoke the bitterness of her feelings. Amanda knew too well the nature of those feelings to attempt restraining them; but the little children, impatient to begin their journey, called out to their mamma to come into the carriage. She started when they spoke, but instantly complied with their desire: and when they expressed their grief at seeing her cheeks wet with tears, kissed them both, and said she would soon recover her spirits. She accordingly exerted herself for that purpose, and was soon in a condition to converse with Amanda. The day was fine and serene; they travelled leisurely, for the horses had long outlived their mettlesome days, and gave them an opportunity of attentively viewing the prospects on each side, which were various, romantic, and beautiful; the novelty of the scenes, the disagreeable place she had left, and the idea of the one she was going to, helped a little to enliven the pensive soul of Amanda, and she enjoyed a greater degree of tranquillity than she had before experienced since her separation from Lord Mortimer.