“Love reigns a very tyrant in my heart,Attended on his throne by all his guardOf furious wishes, fears, and nice suspicions.”—Otway.
“Love reigns a very tyrant in my heart,Attended on his throne by all his guardOf furious wishes, fears, and nice suspicions.”—Otway.
The next morning brought Sir Charles Bingley to Castle Carberry. Fitzalan was out, but Amanda received him in her dressing-room. He told her, with evident concern, he was on the point of setting off for the metropolis, to embark from thence immediately for England, having received letters that morning, which recalled him there. He regretted that their intimacy, or rather friendship, as with insinuating softness he entreated permission to call it, was interrupted at its very commencement—declared it gave him more pain than she could imagine, or he express—and that his return to Ireland would be expedited, for the purpose of renewing it, and requested he might be flattered with an assurance of not being totally forgotten during his absence. Amanda answered him as if she supposed mere politeness had dictated the request. Her father, she said, she was sure, would be happy to see him, if he returned again to their neighborhood. At his entrance, hesaid he could stay but a few minutes, yet he remained about two hours, and when he arose to depart, declared he had reason to think the castle an enchanted one. He found it difficult to get from it; “yet, unlike the knights of old,” continued he, “I wish not to break the spell which detained me in it.”
Day after day elapsed, and no Lord Mortimer appeared. Amanda, indeed, heard frequently of him, and always as the admirer of Lady Euphrasia. Frequently, too, she heard about the family at Ulster Lodge, their superb entertainments, and those given in the neighborhood to them. The Kilcorbans seemed to have given her up entirely. Lady Greystock was the only one of the family who continued to pay her any attention. She called once or twice at Castle Carberry to see whether her apron was finished, and tell all the news she had picked up, to Amanda. The resolution which Amanda had formed of concealing her melancholy from her father, she supported tolerably well, but she only indulged it more freely in solitude. The idea of Lord Mortimer’s union with Lady Euphrasia haunted her imagination and embittered every moment. “Yes,” she would exclaim (as she wandered through the garden, which had been converted from a rude wilderness into a scene of beauty by her superintending care), “I have planted flowers, but another shall enjoy their sweets. I have planted roses for Mortimer to strew in the path of Lady Euphrasia;—I have adorned the landscape, and she shall enjoy its beauty!”
About three weeks after the ball, as she sat at work one morning in the dressing-room, beguiling her thoughts with a little plaintive song, she heard the door softly open behind her: she supposed it to be Ellen; but not finding any one advance, turned round and perceived not Ellen indeed, but Lord Mortimer himself. She started from her chair:—the work dropped from her hands, and she had neither power to speak or move.
“I fear I have surprised and alarmed you,” said Lord Mortimer. “I ask pardon for my intrusion, but I was informed I should find Mr. Fitzalan here.”
“He is in the study, I believe, my lord,” replied Amanda, coolly, and with restored composure. “I will go and inform him your lordship wishes to see him.”
“No,” exclaimed he, “I will not suffer you to have so much trouble: my business is not so urgent as to require my seeing him immediately.” He reseated Amanda, and drew a chair near her.
She pretended to be busy with her work, whilst the eyes ofLord Mortimer were cast round the room, as if viewing well-known objects, which at once pleased and pained his sensibility, by awakening the memory of past delightful days. “This room,” said he, softly sighing, “I well remember; it was the favorite retirement of one of the most amiable of women.”
“So I have heard,” replied Amanda, “the virtues of Lady Cherbury are remembered with the truest gratitude by many in the vicinity of the castle.”
“I think,” cried Lord Mortimer, gazing upon Amanda with the softest tenderness, “the apartment is still occupied by a kindred spirit.”
Amanda’s eyes were instantly bent on the ground, and a gentle sigh heaved her bosom; but it was rather the sigh of regret than pleasure; with such an accent as this Lord Mortimer was wont to address her at Tudor Hall, but she had now reason to think it only assumed, for the purpose of discovering whether she yet retained any sensibility for him. Had he not treated her with the most pointed neglect? was he not the declared admirer of Lady Euphrasia? had he not confessed, on entering the room, he came to seek not her, but her father? These ideas rushing through her mind, determined her to continue no longer with him; delicacy, as well as pride, urged her to this, for she feared, if she longer listened to his insinuating language, it might lead her to betray the feelings of her heart; she therefore arose, and said she would acquaint her father his lordship waited for him.
“Cold, insensible Amanda,” cried he, snatching her hand, to prevent her departing, “is it thus you leave me? when we parted in Wales, I could not have believed we should ever have had such a meeting as this.”
“Perhaps not, my lord,” replied she, somewhat haughtily, “but we have both thought more prudently since that period.”
“Then why,” said he, “did not prudence teach you to shun a conduct which could create suspicion?”
“Suspicion, my lord!” repeated Amanda, with a kind of horror in her look.
“Pardon me,” cried he, “the word is disagreeable; but, Miss Fitzalan, when you reflect on the manner in which you have acted to me;—your precipitate, your clandestine departure, at the very period when a mutual acknowledgment of reciprocal feelings should have been attended with the most explicit candor on both sides, you cannot wonder at unpleasant conjectures and tormenting doubts obtruding on my mind.”
“Is it possible, my lord,” said Amanda, “you never conceived the reason of my departure? Is it possible reflection never pointed it out?”
“Never, I solemnly assure you; nor shall I be happy till I know it.” He paused, as if for a reply; but Amanda, agitated by his words, had not power to speak. Whilst he stood silent, trembling, and apparently embarrassed, she heard her father’s voice, as he ascended the stairs. This instantly restored hers. “I must go, my lord,” cried she, starting, and struggling to withdraw her hand. “Promise then to meet me,” he said, “this evening at St. Catherine’s, by seven, or I will not let you go. My soul will be in tortures till I have your actions explained.” “I do promise,” said Amanda. Lord Mortimer released her, and she retired into her chamber just time enough to avoid her father.
Again her hopes began to revive. Again she believed she was not mistaken in supposing Lord Mortimer had come into Ireland on her account. His being mentioned as the admirer of Lady Euphrasia, she supposed owing to his being a resident in the house with her. About herself, had he been indifferent, he never could have betrayed such emotions. His looks, as well as language, expressed the feelings of a heart tenderly attached and truly distressed. Lest any circumstance had happened, which would prevent a renewal of that attachment, she felt as much impatience as he manifested, to give the desired explanation of her conduct.
His lordship was scarcely gone, ere Lady Greystock made her appearance. Amanda supposed, as usual, she only came to pay a flying visit: how great then was her mortification and surprise, when her ladyship told her she was come to spend the day quite in the family way with her, as the ladies of Grangeville were so busy preparing for a splendid entertainment they were to be at the ensuing day, that they had excluded all visitors, and rendered the house quite disagreeable.
Amanda endeavored to appear pleased, but to converse she found almost impossible, her thoughts were so engrossed by an absent object. Happily her ladyship was so very loquacious herself, as at all times to require a listener more than a speaker. She was, therefore, well satisfied with the taciturnity of her fair companion. Amanda tried to derive some comfort from the hope that her ladyship would depart early in the evening, to which she flattered herself she would be induced by the idea of a comfortable whist party at home. But six o’clock struck, and she manifested no inclination to move. Amanda was in agony.Her cheek was flushed with agitation. She rose and walked to the window, to conceal her emotion, whilst her father and Lady Greystock were conversing. The former at last said, he had some letters to write, and begged her ladyship to excuse his absence for a few minutes. This she most graciously promised to do, and pulling out her knitting, requested Amanda to read to her till tea-time. Amanda took up a book, but was so confused, she scarcely knew what, or how she read.
“Softly, softly, my dear child,” at last exclaimed her ladyship, whose attention could by no means keep pace with the rapid manner in which she read. “I protest you post on with as much expedition as my Lady Blerner’s poneys on the circular.” Amanda blushed, and began to read slowly; but when the clock struck seven her feelings could be no longer repressed. "Good Heaven!” cried she, letting the book drop from her hand, and starting from her chair, “this is too much.” “Bless me! my dear!” said Lady Greystock, staring at her, “what is the matter?” “Only a slight headache, madam,” answered Amanda, continuing to walk about the room.
Her busy fancy represented Lord Mortimer, now impatiently waiting for her—thinking in every sound which echoed among the desolate ruins of St. Catherine’s he heard her footsteps; his soul melting with tenderness at the idea of a perfect reconciliation, which an unsatisfied doubt only retarded. What would he infer from her not keeping an appointment so ardently desired, so solemnly promised, but that she was unable to remove that doubt to his satisfaction. Perhaps he would not credit the reason she could assign for breaking her engagement. Perhaps piqued at her doing so, he would not afford her an opportunity of accounting for it, or the apparent mystery of her late conduct. To retain his doubts would be to lose his tenderness, and, at last, perhaps, expel her from his heart. She thought of sending Ellen to acquaint him with the occasion of her detention at home; but this idea existed but for a moment. An appointment she concealed from her father she could not bear to divulge to any other person; it would be a breach of duty and delicacy, she thought. “No,” said she to herself, “I will not, from the thoughtlessness and impetuosity which lead so many of my sex astray, overstep the bounds of propriety, and to reinstate myself in the esteem of one person lose that of others; and, above all, that of my own heart. If Lord Mortimer refuses to hear my justification, he will act neither agreeably to candor or justice, and pride must aid in repelling my regret.” “You look strangely, indeed, my dear,” said Lady Greystock,who was attentively watching her, whilst those ideas were rising in her mind. Amanda recollected the remarks which might be made on her behavior; and apologizing for the manner in which she had acted, took her seat with some degree of composure. Fitzalan soon after entered the room, and tea was made; when over, Lady Greystock declared they were a snug party for three-handed whist. Amanda would gladly have excused herself from being of the party, but politeness made her conceal her reluctance; but extreme dejection was noticed both by Fitzalan and her ladyship. The latter imputed it to regret, at not being permitted by her father to accept an invitation she had received for a ball the ensuing evening.
“Don’t fret about it, my dear creature,” said she, laying down her cards, to administer the consolation she supposed Amanda required; “’tis not by frequenting balls and public places a girl always stands the best chance of being provided for; I, for my part, have been married three times, yet never made a conquest of any one of my husbands in a public place. No, it was the privacy of my life partly obtained for me so many proofs of good fortune.” Fitzalan and Amanda laughed. “I shall never be dissatisfied with staying at home,” said the latter, “though without either expecting or desiring to have my retirement recompensed as your ladyship’s was.” “One prize will satisfy you then,” said Fitzalan. “Ah!” cried Lady Greystock, “it is Lady Euphrasia Sutherland will obtain the capital one. I don’t know where such another young man as Lord Mortimer is to be found.” “Then your ladyship supposes,” said Fitzalan, “there is some truth in the reports circulated, relative to him and Lady Euphrasia.” “I assure you there is,” said she; “and I think the connection will be a very eligible one. Their births, their fortunes, are equal.” But ah, thought Amanda, how unlike their dispositions. “I dare say,” proceeded her ladyship, “Lady Euphrasia will have changed her title before this time next year.”
Fitzalan glanced at Amanda: her face was deadly pale, and she put him and Lady Greystock out in the game by the errors she committed. At last the carriage from Grangeville arrived, and broke up a party Amanda could not much longer have supported. Her father perceived the painful efforts she made to conceal her distress. He pitied her from his soul, and, pretending to think she was only indisposed, entreated her to retire to her chamber. Amanda gladly complied with this entreaty, and began to meditate on what Lady Greystock had said. Was there not a probability of its being true? Mightnot the indifference Lord Mortimer had manifested on his first arrival in the neighborhood have really originated from a change of affections? Might not the tenderness he displayed in the morning have been concerted with the hope of its inducing her to gratify his curiosity, by relating the reason of her journey from Wales, or please his vanity by tempting her to give some proof of attachment? But she soon receded from this idea. Lady Greystock was not infallible in her judgment. Reports of approaching nuptials, Amanda knew, had often been raised without any foundation for them. The present report, relative to Lord Mortimer and Lady Euphrasia, might be one of that nature. She could not believe him so egregiously vain, or so deliberately base, as to counterfeit tenderness merely for the purpose of having his curiosity or vanity gratified. She felt, however, truly unhappy, and could derive no consolation but from the hope that her suspense, at least, would soon be terminated.
She passed a restless night; nor was her morning more composed. She could not settle to any of her usual avocations. Every step she heard, she started in expectation of instantly seeing Lord Mortimer; but he did not appear. After dinner she walked out alone, and took the road to St. Catherine’s. When she reached the ruins, she felt fatigued, and sat down upon a flag in the chapel to rest herself. “Here,” said she, pensively leaning her head upon her hand, “Mortimer waited for me; perhaps with tender impatience. Here, too, he perhaps accused me of neglect or deceit.” She heard a rustling behind her, and turning, perceived Sister Mary.
“You are welcome, my dear soul,” cried the good-natured nun, running forward, and sitting down by her; “but why did you not come in to see us?” continued she, affectionately kissing her. Amanda said, “such was her intention, but feeling a little indisposed, she had remained in the air, in hopes of growing better.” “Oh, Jesu!” cried the sister, “you do indeed look ill, I must go and get you a cordial from our prioress, who is quite a doctress, I assure you.”
Amanda caught her gown as she was running away, and assured her she was better.
“Well, then,” said she, resuming her seat, “I must tell you of an odd thing which happened here last night. I came out to walk about the ruins between the lights—that is, as one may say, when it is neither dark or light. As the air was cold, I wrapped my veil about me, and had just turned the cloisters, when I heard a quick foot pacing after me. Well, I, supposingit to be one of the sisters, walked slowly, that she might easily overtake me. But you may guess my surprise when I was overtaken, not by one of them indeed, but by one of the finest and most beautiful young men I ever beheld. Lord, how he did start when he saw me, just for all the world as if I was a ghost; he looked quite wild, and flew off muttering something to himself. Well, I thought all this strange, and was making all the haste I could to the convent, when he appeared again coming from under that broken arch; and he bowed and smiled so sweetly, and held his hat in his hand so respectfully, whilst he begged my pardon for the alarm he had given me; and then he blushed and strove to hide his confusion with his handkerchief, while he asked me if I had seen here a young lady about the ruins that evening, as a particular friend had informed him she would be there, and desired him to escort her home. ‘Why, my dear sir,’ says I, ‘I have been about this place the whole evening, and there has neither been man, woman, nor child, but you and myself; so the young lady changed her mind, and took another ramble.’ ‘So I suppose,’ said he, and he looked so pale, and so melancholy, I could not help thinking it was a sweetheart he had been seeking; so by way of giving him a bit of comfort, ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘if you will leave any marks of the young lady you were seeking with me, I will watch here myself a little longer for her; and if she comes I will tell her how uneasy you were at not finding her, and be sure to dispatch her after you.’ ‘No, he thanked me,’ he said, ‘but it was of very little consequence his not meeting her, or indeed whether he ever met her again,’ and went away.” “Did he?” said Amanda. “Bless me!” exclaimed the nun, “you are worse, instead of better.”
Amanda acknowledged she was, and rising, requested she would excuse her not paying her compliments that evening at the nunnery.
Sister Mary pressed her to drink tea with the prioress, or at least take some of her excellent cordial; but Amanda refused both requests, and the affectionate nun saw her depart with reluctance.
Scarcely had she regained the road, ere a coach and six, preceded and followed by a number of attendants, approached with such quickness that she was obliged to step aside to avoid it. Looking in at the window as it passed, she saw Lord Mortimer and Lady Euphrasia seated in it, opposite to each other; she saw they both perceived her, and that Lady Euphrasia laughed, and put her head forward to stare impertinently at her. Amanda was mortified that they had seen her:there was something at that moment humiliating in the contrast between their situation and hers—she, dejected and solitary, they adorned and attended with all the advantages of fortune. But in the estimation of a liberal mind, cried she, the want of such advantage can never lessen me—such a mind as I flatter myself Lord Mortimer possesses. Ah! if he thinks as I do, he would prefer a lonely ramble in the desolate spot I have just quitted, to all the parade and magnificence he is about witnessing. The night passed heavily away. The idea of Lord Mortimer’s devoting all his attention to Lady Euphrasia, could not be driven from her mind.
The next morning, the first object she saw, on going to the window, was a large frigate lying at anchor near the castle. Ellen entered her chamber, and sighing heavily, as she always did, indeed, at the sight of a ship, said, “she wished it contained her wandering sailor.” Amanda indulged a hope that Lord Mortimer would appear in the course of the day, but she was disappointed. She retired, after tea, in the evening to her dressing-room, and seated in the window, enjoyed a calm and beautiful scene. Not a cloud concealed the bright azure of the firmament; the moon spread a line of silvery radiance over the waves, that stole with a melancholy murmur upon the shore; and the silence which reigned around was only interrupted by the faint noise of the mariners on board the frigate, and their evening drum. At last Amanda heard the paddling of oars, and perceived a large boat coming from the ship, rowed by sailors in white shirts and trousers, their voices keeping time to their oars. The appearance they made was picturesque, and Amanda watched them till the boat disappeared among the rocks. The supper-bell soon after summoned her from the window; but scarcely had she retired to her chamber for the night, ere Ellen, smiling, trembling, and apparently overcome with joy, appeared.
“I have seen him,” cried she, hastily; “oh, madam, I have seen poor Chip himself, and he is as kind and as true-hearted as ever. I went this evening to the village to see old Norah, to whom you sent the linen, for she is a pleasing kind of poty, and does not laugh like the rest at one for their Welsh tongue; so when I was returning home, and at a goot tistance from her cabin, I saw a great number of men coming towards me, all dressed in white. To pe sure, as I heerd a great teal apout the white poys, I thought these were nothing else, and I did so quake and tremble, for there was neither hole, or bush, or tree on the spot, that would have sheltered one of the little tinyfairies of Penmaenmawr. Well, they came on, shouting and laughing, and merrier than I thought such rogues ought to be; and the moment they espied me, they gathered round me, and began pulling me about; so I gave a great scream, and tirectly a voice (Lort, how my heart jumped at it) cried out, ‘that is Ellen;’ and to pe sure poor Chip soon had me in his arms; and then I heard they were sailors from the frigate, come to get fresh provisions at the village; so I turned pack with them, and they had a great bowl of whiskey punch, and a whole sight of cakes, and Chip told me all his adventures; and he was so glad when he heard I lived with you, pecause he said you were a sweet, mild young laty, and he was sure you would sometimes remind me of him; and he hopes soon to get his tischarge, and then—” “You are to be married,” said Amanda, interpreting the blushes and hesitation of Ellen. “Yes, matam, and I assure you Chip is not altered for the worse py a seafaring life. His voice, inteed, is a little of the roughest, but he told me that was owing to his learning the poatswain’s whistle. Poor fellow, he sails to-morrow night. The ship is on the Irish station, and they are to coast it to Dublin.”
“Happy Ellen!” said Amanda, as she retired from her chamber, “thy perturbations and disquietudes are over; assured of the affection of thy village swain, peace and cheerfulness will resume their empire in thy breast.”
The next evening at twilight, Amanda went down to the beach with her father to see the fishermen drawing their seines on shore, on which their hopes, and the comfort of their families, depended. Whilst Fitzalan conversed with them, Amanda seated herself on a low rock to observe their motions. In the murmur of the waves there was a gentle melancholy, in unison with her present feelings. From a pensive meditation, which had gradually rendered her inattentive to the scene before her, she was suddenly roused by voices behind her. She started from her seat, for in one of them she imagined she distinguished the accent of Lord Mortimer. Nor was she mistaken. He was descending a winding path near her, accompanied by a naval officer. To pass without seeing her was impossible; and as he approached her, he stopped, apparently hesitating whether or not he should address her. In a few minutes his hesitation ended, with waving his handkerchief, as if to bid her adieu, whilst he proceeded to a small boat which had been for some time lying in a creek among the rocks, and which, on receiving him and his companion, immediately rowed to the frigate. Amanda trembled. Her heart beat violently. Ellen had informed her the frigate was to sail that night; and what could induce Lord Mortimer to visit it at such an hour, except an intention of departing in it.
Uncertainty is dreadful. She grew sick with anxiety before her father returned to the castle. On entering it, she immediately repaired to her chamber, and calling Ellen hastily, demanded if Chip’s intelligence was true?
“Alas! yes,” said Ellen, weeping violently; “and I know the reason you inquire. You saw Lord Mortimer going to the ship. I saw him myself, as I stood on the beech talking to Chip, who was one of the sailors that came in the boat for his lortship and the captain; and to be sure the sight left my eyes when I saw my lort departing, pecause I knew he was going away in anger at the treatment he supposed he received from you.”
“From me?” exclaimed Amanda.
“Oh! you will never forgive me for acting so padly as I have done by you,” sobbed Ellen; “put inteed the sight of poor Chip drove everything from my memory put himself. Last night, as I was going to Norah’s, I overtook Lort Mortimer on the road, who was walking quite sorrowfully, as I may say, py himself; so to pe sure I thought I could do no less in good manners than drop him a curtsey as I passed; so up he came to me directly: ‘And, my good girl, how are you?’ said he; and he smiled so sweetly, and looked so handsome; and then he took my hand, and to pe sure his hand was as soft as any velvet. ‘And pray, Ellen,’ said he, ‘is Miss Fitzalan at home, and disengaged?’ I told him you was, and Cot knows, my Lort, said I, and melancholy enough, too. I left her in the tressing-room window, looking out at the waves, and listening to the winds. ‘Well, hasten home,’ cried he, ‘and tell her she will oblige me greatly py meeting me immediately at the rocks peyond the castle.’ I promised him I would, and he put, nay, inteed, forced five guineas into my hand, and turned off another road, charging me not to forget; put as I was so near Norah’s, I thought I might just step in to see how she did, and when I left her, I met poor Chip, and Lort knows I am afraid he would have made me forget my own tear father and mother.”
“Oh, Ellen!” cried Amanda, “how could you serve me so?” “Oh, tear!” said Ellen, redoubling her tears, “I am certainly one of the most unfortunate girls in the world; put, Lort, now, Miss Amanda, why should you be so sorrowful; for certain my lort loves you too well to pe always angry. There is poor Chip now, though he thought I loved Parson Howel, he never forgot me.”
Ellen’s efforts at consolation were not successful, and Amanda dismissed her, that, unnoticed and unrestrained, she might indulge the tears which flowed at the idea of a long, a lasting separation, perhaps, from Lord Mortimer. Offended, justly offended, as she supposed, with her, the probability was she would be banished from his thoughts, or, if remembered, at least without esteem or tenderness: thus might his heart soon be qualified for making another choice. She walked to the window, and saw the ship already under weigh. She saw the white sails fluttering in the breeze, and heard the shouts of the mariners. “Oh, Mortimer!” cried she, “is it thus we part? is it thus the expectations you raised in my heart are disappointed? You go hence, and deem Amanda unworthy a farewell. You gaze, perhaps, at this moment on Castle Carberry, without breathing one sigh for its inhabitants. Ah, had you loved sincerely, never would the impulse of resentment have conquered the emotion of tenderness. No, Mortimer, you deceived me, and perhaps yourself, in saying I was dear to you. Had I been so, never could you have acted in this manner.” Her eyes followed the course of the vessel, till it appeared like a speck in the horizon. “He is gone,” said she, weeping afresh, and withdrawing herself from the window; “he is gone, and if ever I meet him again, it will probably be as the husband of Lady Euphrasia.”
“Think’s t thou I’ll make a life of jealousy,To follow still the changes of the moonWith fresh surmises? No; to be once in doubtIs to be resolved. But yetI’ll see before I doubt: when I doubt, prove,And on the proof there is no more but this—Away at once with love or jealousy.”—Shakspeare.
“Think’s t thou I’ll make a life of jealousy,To follow still the changes of the moonWith fresh surmises? No; to be once in doubtIs to be resolved. But yetI’ll see before I doubt: when I doubt, prove,And on the proof there is no more but this—Away at once with love or jealousy.”—Shakspeare.
Lord Mortimer had, in reality, departed with sentiments very unfavorable to Amanda. He had waited impatiently at St. Catherine’s, in the fond expectation of having all his doubts removed by a candid explanation of the motives which caused her precipitate journey from Wales. His soul sighed for a reconciliation: his tenderness was redoubled by being so long restrained. The idea of folding his beloved Amanda to his bosom, and hearing that she deserved all the tenderness andsensibility which glowed in that bosom for her, gave him the highest pleasure; but when the appointed hour passed, and no Amanda appeared, language cannot express his disappointment. Almost distracted by it, he ventured to inquire concerning her from Sister Mary; and, long after the friendly nun had retired to the convent, continued to wander about the ruins, till the shadows of night had enveloped every object from his view. “She fears to come, then,” exclaimed he, quitting the desolate spot, oppressed with the keenest anguish; “she fears to come, because she cannot satisfy my doubts. I witnessed her agitation, her embarrassment, this morning, when I hinted at them. The mystery which separated us will not be explained, and it is in vain to think we shall ever meet, as I once flattered myself we should.”
This thought seemed to strike at all his hopes. The distress and disorder of his mind was depicted on his countenance, and escaped not the observation and raillery of the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia; but their raillery was in vain, and unanswered by him; he was absorbed in a train of pensive reflections, which they had neither power to remove or disturb.
Most unwillingly he accompanied them the ensuing day to a splendid entertainment given purposely for them in the neighborhood. The unexpected sight of Amanda, as she stood on a little elevated bank, to avoid the carriage, caused a sudden emotion of surprise and delight in his bosom. The utmost powers of eloquence could not have pleaded her cause so successfully as her own appearance at that minute did. The languor of her face, its mild and seraphic expression, her pensive attitude, and the timid modesty with which she seemed shrinking from observation, all touched the sensibility of Lord Mortimer, awakened his softest feelings, revived his hopes, and made him resolve to seek another opportunity of demanding an explanation from her. The sudden color which flushed his cheeks, and the sparkling of his eyes, as he looked from the carriage, attracted the notice of his companions. They smiled maliciously at each other, and Lady Euphrasia declared, “She supposed the girl was stationed there to try and attract admiration, which, perhaps, her silly old father had told her she merited—or else to meet with adventures.” Lord Mortimer drew in his head, and the contrast between her ladyship and the fair being he had been looking at, never struck him so forcibly as at that moment, and lessened one as much as it elevated the other in his estimation.
He wandered near the castle the next evening, in hopes ofmeeting Amanda. His disappointment was diminished by seeing Ellen, who he was confident, would be faithful to the message intrusted to her. With this confidence he hastened to the rocks, every moment expecting the appearance of Amanda. Her image, as it appeared to him the preceding day, dwelt upon his imagination, and he forcibly felt how essential to his peace was a reconciliation with her. An hour elapsed, and his tenderness again began to give way to resentment. It was not Ellen, but Amanda he doubted. He traversed the beach in an agony of impatience and anxiety; a feverish heat pervaded his frame, and he trembled with agitation. At length he heard the distant sound of the supper-bell at Ulster Lodge, which never rang till a late hour. All hopes of seeing Amanda were now given up, and every intention of meeting her at a future period relinquished. She avoided him designedly, it was evident. He would have cursed himself for betraying such anxiety about her, and his wounded pride revolted from the idea of seeking another interview. “No! Amanda!” he exclaimed, as he passed the castle, “you can no longer have any claim upon me. Mysterious appearances in the most candid mind will raise suspicions. In giving you an opportunity for accounting for such appearances, I did all that candor, tenderness, sensibility, and honor could dictate; and, instead of again making efforts to converse with you, I must now make others, which, I trust, will be more successful, entirely to forget you.”
The next morning he accompanied the marquis in his barge to the frigate, where he was agreeably surprised to find in the commander an old friend of his, Captain Somerville, who returned to Ulster Lodge with his visitors, and there, in a half jesting, half serious manner, asked Lord Mortimer to accompany him on his intended cruise. This his lordship instantly promised he would, with pleasure. He was completely tired of the Roslin family, and was, besides, glad of an opportunity of convincing Amanda he was not quite so fascinated to her as she perhaps believed, by his quitting the neighborhood ere their departure. As he descended to the boat, the sight of Amanda shook his resolution. She seemed destined to cross his path, merely to give him disquietude. An ardent wish sprung in his heart to address her, but it was instantly suppressed, by reflecting how premeditately she had avoided him; pride, therefore, prompted him to pass her in silence; yet, as the boat receded from the shore, his eyes were riveted to the spot on which she stood, and when he could no longer see her white gown fluttering in the wind, he gave a sigh to the remembrance of the happy days he had passed with her at Tudor Hall; and another to the idea, that such hours would never more be enjoyed by him.
The family at Ulster Lodge were both mortified and disappointed by his departure, though he, perceiving their displeasure, had endeavored to lessen it, by promising to wait their arrival in Dublin, and return with them to England. His departure seemed a tacit intimation that he was not as much attached to Lady Euphrasia as they wished him to be. A suspicion of this nature had, indeed, for some time pervaded their minds, and also that his affections were elsewhere disposed of: they had reason to believe that the person who possessed them dwelt in the vicinity of the lodge, from the great alteration which took place in his manner, immediately after his arrival at it. In hopes of discovering who this was, they watched him critically at all the parties he frequented with them, but soon found it was not the present, but the absent objects had the power of exciting emotions in him. At the name of Amanda Fitzalan or her father they observed him color, and frequently saw him contemplate Castle Carberry, as if it contained a being infinitely dear to him; to Amanda, therefore, they feared he was attached, and supposed the attachment commenced at the Kilcorbans’ ball, where they had noticed his impassioned glances at this hated, because too lovely relation. The most unbounded rage took possession of their souls; they regretted ever having come to Ireland, where they supposed Lord Mortimer had first seen Amanda, as Lord Cherbury had mentioned the children of Fitzalan being strangers to him or his family. They knew the passions of Lord Cherbury were impetuous, and that ambition was the leading principle of his soul. Anxious for an alliance between his family and theirs, they knew he would ill brook any obstacle which should be thrown in the way of its completion, and therefore resolved, if Lord Mortimer, at their next meeting, appeared averse to the wishes of his father, to acquaint the earl with the occasion of his son’s disinclination, and represent Fitzalan and his daughter as aiding and abetting each other, in an insidious scheme to entangle the affections of Lord Mortimer, and draw him into a marriage; a scheme which, to a man of the world (as they knew Lord Cherbury to be), would appear so very probable as to gain implicit credit. This they knew would convert the esteem he felt for Fitzalan into hatred and contempt; his favor would consequently be withdrawn, and the father and child again sunk into indigent obscurity. To think that Amanda, by dire necessity, should be reduced to servitude;to think the elegance of her form should be disguised by the garb of poverty, and the charms of her face faded by misery, were ideas so grateful, so ecstatic to their hearts, that to have them realized, they felt they could with pleasure relinquish the attentions of Lord Mortimer, to have a pretext for injuring Fitzalan with his father: though not quite assured their suspicions were well founded, they would never have hesitated communicating them as such to Lord Cherbury; but for their own satisfaction they wished to know what reason they had to entertain them. Lady Greystock was the only person they observed on a footing of intimacy with Amanda, and through her means flattered themselves they might make the desired discovery. They therefore began to unbend from their haughtiness, and make overtures for an intimacy with her; overtures which she received with delight, and in their present attention forgot their past neglect, which had given her such disgust. As they became intimate with her, they were much amused by a shrewd manner she possessed of telling stories, and placing the foibles and imperfections of their visitors in the most conspicuous and ludicrous light; particularly of such visitors as were not agreeable to them. With the foibles of human nature she was well acquainted, also with the art of turning those foibles to her own advantage. She perceived the egregious vanity of the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia, and by administering large portions of what Sterne styles the delicious essence of the soul, to them, soon became an immense favorite. After an injunction of secrecy, the marchioness communicated her fears relative to Lord Mortimer and Amanda, which, she pretended, regard for one and pity for the other, had excited; as an attachment either of an honorable or dishonorable nature, she knew Lord Cherbury would never pardon. To know, therefore, how far matters had proceeded between them, would be some satisfaction, and might, perhaps, be the means of preventing the ill consequences she dreaded. Lady Greystock was not to be imposed on; she perceived it was not pity for Amanda, but envy and jealousy, which had excited the fears of the marchioness. If Lord Mortimer was attached to Amanda, from his sentiments and manner, she was convinced it was an attachment of the purest nature. She carefully concealed her thoughts, however, affected to enter into all the alarms of the marchioness, and, as she saw she was expected to do, promised all in her power should be done for discovering what attachment subsisted between his lordship and Miss Fitzalan. For this purpose she began to grow constant in her visits at Castle Carberry, oftenspending whole days in the most familiar manner with Amanda, and endeavoring, by various methods, to beguile her of the secrets of her heart. Sometimes she rallied her on her melancholy; sometimes expressed pity for it in strains of the most soothing tenderness; would frequently relate little fictitious and embellished anecdotes of her own youth, in which she said she had suffered the most exquisite misery, from an unfortunate entanglement; would then advert to Lord Mortimer; express her wonder at his precipitate departure, and her admiration of his virtues, declaring if ever Lady Euphrasia gained his heart, which she much doubted, she must be considered as one of the most fortunate of women.
Delicacy sealed the lips of Amanda and guarded her secret. She believed her passion to be hopeless, and felt that to be offered consolation on such a subject, would, to her feelings, be truly humiliating. But though she could command her words, she could not her feelings, and they were visibly expressed in her countenance. She blushed whenever Lord Mortimer was mentioned; looked shocked if a union between him and Lady Euphrasia was hinted at; and smiled if a probability was suggested of its never taking place. Lady Greystock, at last, relinquished her attempts at betraying Amanda into a confession of her sentiments; indeed, she thought such a confession not very requisite, as her countenance pretty clearly developed what they were; and she deemed herself authorized to inform the marchioness that she was sure something had passed between Lord Mortimer and Amanda, though what she could not discover, from the circumspection of the latter. The marchioness was enraged, and more determined than ever on involving Amanda in destruction, if Lord Mortimer hesitated a moment in obeying the wishes of his father, by uniting himself to Lady Euphrasia.
“And to be plain, ’tis not your personMy stomach’s set so sharp and fierce on:But ’tis your better part, your riches.That my enamored heart bewitches.”—Hudibras.
“And to be plain, ’tis not your personMy stomach’s set so sharp and fierce on:But ’tis your better part, your riches.That my enamored heart bewitches.”—Hudibras.
A month after the departure of Lord Mortimer the Roslin family left Ulster Lodge. Amanda sighed, as she saw them pass, at the idea of the approaching meeting, which might, perhaps, soon be followed by an event that would render her fond remembrance of Lord Mortimer improper. Many of the families about the castle were already gone to town for the winter. Those who remained in the country till after Christmas, among whom were the Kilcorbans, had so entirely neglected Amanda, from the time the marchioness arrived in the neighborhood, that they could not think of renewing their visits, confident as they were, from the proper dignity of her and Fitzalan’s manner, that they would be unwelcome.
The weather was now often too severe to permit Amanda to take her usual rambles; and the solitude of the castle was heightened by her own melancholy ideas, as well as by the dreariness of the season. No more the magic hand of hope sketched scenes of flattering brightness, to dissipate the gloominess of the present ones. The prospects of Amanda’s heart were as dreary, as desolate, as those she viewed from the windows of the castle. Her usual avocations no longer yielded delight. Every idea, every occupation, was embittered by the reflection of being lessened in the estimation of Lord Mortimer. Her health declined with her peace, and again Fitzalan had the anguish of seeing sorrow nipping his lovely blossom. The rose forsook her cheek, and her form assumed a fragile delicacy, which threatened the demolition of his earthly happiness. He was not ignorant of the cause of her dejection, but he would not shock her feelings by hinting it. Every effort which tenderness could suggest, he essayed to cheer her, but without any durable effect; for though she smiled when he expressed a wish to see her cheerful, it was a smile transient as the gleamings of a wintry sun, and which only rendered the succeeding gloom more conspicuous.
At this period of distress, Lady Greystock, who continuedher visits at the castle, made a proposal, which Fitzalan eagerly embraced. This was to take Amanda with her to London, whither she was obliged to go directly, about a lawsuit carrying on between her and the nephew of her late husband.
Change of scene, Fitzalan trusted, would remove from Amanda’s mind the dejection which oppressed it, and consequently aid the restoration of her health. Of Lord Mortimer’s renewing his addresses, he had not the slightest apprehension, as he neglected the opportunities he might have had in the country for such a purpose. Fitzalan, it may be remembered knew not that his lordship had ever deviated from his indifference, and he believed it occasioned by a transfer of his affections to Lady Euphrasia. He was also ignorant of the great intimacy between the Roslin family and Lady Greystock, and consequently of the probability there was, from such an intimacy, of Amanda’s being often in the way of Lord Mortimer. If she met him, he was confident it would be as the husband or favored lover of Lady Euphrasia; and, in either of these characters, he was certain, from the rectitude and purity of her principles, she would be more than ever impressed with the necessity of conquering her attachment; whilst the pain attending such a conviction would be lessened, and probably soon removed by surrounding objects, and the gay scenes she must engage in from being the companion of Lady Greystock, who had a numerous and elegant acquaintance in London.
Her ladyship appeared to him, as she did to many others, a pleasing, rational woman—one to whose care his heart’s best treasure might safely be consigned. He was induced to accept her protection for his Amanda, not only on account of her present but future welfare. His own health was extremely delicate. He deemed his life very precarious, and flattered himself Lady Greystock, by having his beloved girl under her care, would grow so attached to her, as to prove a friend if he should be snatched away ere his newly-obtained independence enabled him to make a provision for her. In indulging this hope, his heart could not reproach him for anything mean or selfish. Her ladyship had frequently assured him all her relations were very distant ones, and in affluent circumstances, so that if his Amanda received any proof of kindness from her, she could neither injure nor encroach on the rights of others.
This, however, was not the case, though carefully concealed from him, as well as many others, by her ladyship. Her education had either given birth to, or strengthened, the artful propensities of her disposition. She had been one of thenumerous offspring of a gentleman in the southern part of Ireland, whose wife, a complete housewife, knowing his inability of giving his daughters fortunes, determined to bring them up so as to save one for their future husbands.
At the age of nineteen, Miss Bridget, by her reputation for domestic cleverness, attracted the notice of a man of easy independence in the neighborhood, who, being a perfect Nimrod, wanted somebody to manage those concerns at home, which he neglected for the field and kennel; and in obtaining Miss Bridget, he procured this valuable acquisition. His love of sport, with his life, was fatally terminated the second year of his marriage, by his attempting to leap a five-bar gate. A good jointure devolved to his widow, and the office of consoling her to the rector of the parish, a little fat elderly man, who might have sat very well for the picture of Boniface. So successful were his arguments, that he not only expelled sorrow from her heart, but introduced himself into it, and had the felicity of receiving her hand as soon as her weeds were laid aside. Four years they lived in uninterrupted peace, but too free an enjoyment of the good things of this life undermined the constitution of the rector. He was ordered to Bath, where his mortal career was shortly terminated, and his whole fortune was left to his wife.
In the house where she lodged was an ancient baronet, who had never been married. His fortune was considerable, but his manner so strange and whimsical, that he appeared incapable of enjoying the advantages it would have afforded to others. Notwithstanding his oddities, he was compassionate; and as the fair relict was unaccompanied by a friend, he waited on her for the purpose of offering consolation, and any service in his power. This attention instantly inspired her with an idea of trying to make him feel tenderer sentiments than those of pity for her. His title and fortune were so attractive, that neither his capricious disposition, nor the disparity of their ages, he being sixty, and she only eight-and-twenty, could prevent her ardently desiring a connection between them. Her efforts to effect this were long unsuccessful; but perseverance will almost work miracles. Her constant good-humor, and unremitted solicitude about him, who was in general an invalid, at last made an impression on his flinty heart, and in a fit of sudden gratitude he offered her his hand, which was eagerly accepted.
The presumptive heir to the baronet’s large possessions was the son and only child of a deceased sister. At the periodthis unexpected alliance took place, he was about twenty, pleasing in his person, and engaging in his manner, and tenderly beloved by his uncle. This love, Lady Greystock saw, if it continued, would frustrate her wish of possessing the baronet’s whole property. Various schemes fluctuated in her mind relative to the manner in which she should lay the foundation for Rushbrook’s ruin. Ere she could determine on one, chance discovered a secret which completely aided her intentions.
In the neighborhood of the baronet’s country residence, Rushbrook had formed an attachment for the daughter of a man against whom his uncle entertained the most inveterate enmity. A union with this girl, she was well convinced, would ruin him. She therefore gave him to understand she knew of his attachment, and sincerely pitied his situation, encouraging his love by the most flattering eulogiums on his adored Emily; declared her regret that hearts so congenial should be separated; and at last intimated that if they wished to unite, she was convinced she would soon be able to obtain Sir Geoffry’s forgiveness for such a step. Her artful insinuations hurried the unsuspicious pair into the snare she had spread for them. The consequence of this was what she expected.
Sir Geoffry’s rage was unappeasable, and he solemnly vowed never more to behold his nephew. Lady Greystock wished to preserve, if possible, appearances to the world, and prevailed on him to give her five hundred pounds for Rushbrook, to which she added five of her own, and presented the notes to him, with an assurance of pleading his cause whenever she found a favorable opportunity for doing so.
He purchased an ensigncy in a regiment on the point of embarking for America, where he felt he would rather encounter distress than among those who had known him in affluence.
Her ladyship now redoubled her attention to Sir Geoffry, and at last prepossessed him so strongly with the idea of her affection for him, that he made a will, bequeathing her his whole fortune, which she flattered herself with soon enjoying. But the constitution of Sir Geoffry was stronger than she imagined, and policy obliged her to adhere to a conduct which had gained his favor, as she knew the least alteration of it would, to his capricious temper, be sufficient to make him crush all her hopes.
Fifteen years passed in this manner, when a friend of Rushbrook’s advised him no longer to be deluded by the promises Lady Greystock still continued to make, of interceding in his favor, but to write himself to his uncle for forgiveness, whichthe duty he owed his family, and the distress of his situation, should prompt him to immediately. Rushbrook accordingly wrote a most pathetic letter, and his friend, as he had promised, delivered it himself to the baronet. The contents of the letter, and the remonstrance of his visitor, produced a great change in the sentiments of the baronet. Tenderness for a nephew he had adopted as his heir from his infancy began to revive, and he seriously reflected, that by leaving his fortune to Lady Greystock, he should enrich a family unconnected with him, whilst the last branch of his own was left to obscurity and wretchedness. Pride recoiled from such an idea, and he told the gentleman he would consider about a reconciliation with his nephew.
The conversation between them, which Lady Greystock had contrived to overhear, filled her with dismay; but this was increased almost to distraction, when an attorney being sent for, she repaired again to her hiding-place, and heard a new will dictated entirely in Rushbrook’s favor.
Sir Geoffry was soon prevailed on to see his nephew, but Mrs. Rushbrook and the children were not suffered to appear before him. They were, however, supplied with everything requisite for making a genteel appearance, and accompanying the regiment (again ordered abroad) with comfort.
Soon after their departure, Sir Geoffry sunk into a sudden state of insensibility, from which no hopes of his ever recovering could be entertained. The situation was propitious to the designs of Lady Greystock; none but creatures of her own were admitted to his chamber. An attorney was sent for, who had often transacted business for her, relative to her affairs in Ireland; and a good bribe easily prevailed on him to draw up a will she dictated, similar to that before made in her favor. The baronet was raised in her arms, whilst the attorney guided his almost lifeless hand in signing it; and two clerks set their names as witnesses. Sir Geoffry expired almost immediately after this scheme was executed.
Rushbrook’s friend, who had been appointed to act for him, if this event took place whilst he was abroad, now appeared. A will found in Sir Geoffry’s cabinet was read, by which it appeared Mr. Rushbrook was his sole heir. The exultation of the peruser, however, was of short continuance; her ladyship’s attorney appeared, and declared the will was rendered null by one of later date, which he had drawn up in Sir Geoffry’s last moments, by his express desire. Consternation and surprise pervaded the mind of Rushbrook’s friend; he saw the will was too well attested for him to dispute it, yet he suspected foulplay, and lost no time in communicating his suspicion to Rushbrook.
Her ladyship settled her affairs most expeditiously and returned with delight to her native country, after a very long absence from it. Most of her near relations were dead, but she had many distant ones, who, prompted by the knowledge of her large fortune, eagerly reminded her of their affinity, and vied with each other in paying her attention. This was extremely pleasing to her ladyship, who was fond of pleasure at other people’s expense. For herself she had laid down rules of the most rigid economy, which she strictly adhered to. From the many invitations she received she was seldom a resident in her own house; she judged of others by herself, and ascribed the attentions she received to their real source, self-interest, which she laughed secretly to think she should disappoint.
She was remarkable (as Miss Kilcorban informed Amanda) for asking young people to do little matters for her, such as making her millinery, working ruffles, aprons, and handkerchiefs.
The tranquillity she enjoyed for two years after Sir Geoffry’s death was a little interrupted by his nephew’s arrival from America, and commencing a suit directly against her by the advice of his friends and some eminent lawyers, on the supposition that the will by which she inherited had been made when his uncle was in a state of imbecility.
Lady Greystock, however, received but a trifling shock from this; she knew he had no money to carry on such an affair, and that his advocates would lose their zeal in his cause, when convinced of the state of his finances. On being obliged to go to London to attend the suit, it immediately occurred that Amanda would be a most pleasing companion to take along with her, as she would not only enliven the hours she must sometimes pass at home, but do a number of little things in the way of dress, which would save a great deal of expense.
Amanda, on the first proposal of accompanying her, warmly opposed it; she felt unutterable reluctance to leave her father, and assured him she would, by exerting herself, prove that a change of scene was not requisite for restoring her cheerfulness. Fitzalan knew her sincerity in making this promise, but he also knew her inability of performing it; his happiness, he declared, depended on her complying with this request: he even said his own health would probably be established by it, as during her absence he would partake of the amusements of the country, which he had hitherto declined on her account. This assertion prevailed on her to consent, and immediate preparations were made for her journey, as the invitation had not been given till within a few days of her ladyship’s intended departure. As she went by Holyhead, Fitzalan determined on sending Ellen to her parents till Amanda returned from England, which determination pleased Ellen exceedingly, as she longed to see her family, and tell them particulars of Chip. As the hour approached for quitting her father, the regret and reluctance of Amanda increased; nor were his feelings less oppressive, though better concealed: but when the moment of parting came, they could no longer be suppressed; he held her with a trembling grasp to his heart, as if life would forsake it. On her departure, the gloom on his mind seemed like a presentiment of evil; he repented forcing her from him, and scarcely could he refrain from saying they must not part.
Lady Greystock, who in every scene and every situation preserved her composure, hinted to him the injury he was doing his daughter by such emotions; and mentioned how short their separation would be, and what benefit would accrue to Amanda from it.
This last consideration recalled to his mind instantly composed him, and he handed them to her ladyship’s chariot, which was followed by a hired chaise containing her woman and Ellen; he then sighed her a last adieu, returned to his solitary habitation to pray, and in spite of all his efforts, weep for his darling child.
Amanda’s tears streamed down her pale cheek, and never did she experience a pang of such sorrow as that she felt, when, the chaise descending a hill, she caught the last glimpse of Castle Carberry.
She perceived, however, that her ladyship had no relish for a gloomy companion, and therefore endeavored to recover her spirits, and enter into conversation.
Lady Greystock had a number of friends in that part of Ireland, and therefore never stopped at an inn.
“I always, my dear,” said she to Amanda, “make use of the friendship professed for me, and thus endeavor to render the great road of life delightful.”
They arrived the third day in Sackville Street, where her ladyship had a house, and two days after embarked for England. They slept the first night they landed at Holyhead, and the next morning pursued their journey.