"Canst thou bear cold and hunger? Can these limbs,
Framed for the tender offices of love,
Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty?
When in a bed of straw we shrink together,
And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads,
Wilt thou talk to me thus,
Thus hush my cares, and shelter me with love?"--OTWAY.
Fitzalan, the father of Amanda, was the descendant of an ancient Irish
family, which had, however, unfortunately attained the summit of its
prosperity long before his entrance into life; so that little more than
a name, once dignified by illustrious actions, was left to its
posterity. The parents of Fitzalan were supported by an employment under
government, which enabled them to save a small sum for their son and
only child, who at an early period became its sole master, by their
dying within a short period of each other. As soon as he had in some
degree recovered the shock of such calamities, he laid out his little
pittance in the purchase of a commission, as a profession best suiting
his inclinations and finances.
The war between America and France had then just commenced; and
Fitzalan's regiment was amongst the first forces sent to the aid of the
former. The scenes of war, though dreadfully affecting to a soul of
exquisite sensibility, such as he possessed, had not power to damp the
ardor of his spirit; for, with the name, he inherited the hardy
resolution of his progenitors.
He had once the good fortune to save the life of a British soldier; he
was one of a small party, who, by the treachery of their guides, were
suddenly surprised in a wood, through which they were obliged to pass
to join another detachment of the army. Their only way in this alarming
exigence was to retreat to the fort from whence they had but lately
issued: encompassed as they were by the enemy, this was not achieved
without the greatest difficulty. Just as they had reached it, Fitzalan
saw far behind them, a poor soldier, who had been wounded at the first
onset, just overtaken by two Indians. Yielding to the impulse of
compassion in which all idea of self was lost, Fitzalan hastily turned
to his assistance, and flinging himself between the pursued and the
pursuers, he kept them at bay till the poor creature had reached a place
of safety. This action, performed at the imminent hazard of his life,
secured him the lasting gratitude of the soldier, whose name was Edwin;
the same that now afforded an asylum to his daughter.
Edwin had committed some juvenile indiscretions, which highly incensed
his parents; in despair at incurring their resentment, he enlisted with
a recruiting party in their neighborhood: but, accustomed all his life
to peace and plenty, he did not by any means relish his new situation.
His gratitude to Fitzalan was unbounded; he considered him as the
preserver of his life; and, on the man's being dismissed, who had
hitherto attended him as a servant, entreated he might be taken in his
place. This entreaty Fitzalan complied with; he was pleased with Edwin's
manner; and, having heard the little history of his misfortunes,
promised, on their return to Europe, to intercede with his friends for
him.
During his stay abroad, Fitzalan was promoted to a captain-lieutenancy;
his pay was his only support, which, of necessity, checked the
benevolence of a spirit "open as day to melting charity."
On the regiment's return to Europe, he obtained Edwin's discharge, who
longed to re-enter upon his former mode of life. He accompanied the
penitent himself into Wales, where he was received with the truest
rapture.
In grief for his loss, his parents had forgotten all resentment for his
errors, which, indeed, had never been very great: they had lost their
two remaining children during his absence, and now received him as the
sole comfort and hope of their age.
His youthful protector was blest with the warmest gratitude: tears
filled his fine eyes, as he beheld the pleasure of his parents, and the
contrition of the son; and he departed with that heartfelt pleasure,
which ever attends and rewards an action of humanity.
He now accompanied his regiment into Scotland; they were quartered at a
fort in a remote part of that kingdom.
Near the fort was a fine old abbey, belonging to the family of Dunreath;
the high hills which nearly encompassed it, were almost all covered with
trees, whose dark shades gave an appearance of gloomy solitude to the
building.
The present possessor, the Earl of Dunreath, was now far advanced in
life; twice had he married, in expectation of a male heir to his large
estates, and twice he had been disappointed. His first lady had expired
immediately after the birth of a daughter. She had taken under her
protection a young female, who, by unexpected vicissitudes in her
family, was left destitute of support. On the demise of her patroness,
she retired from the Abbey to the house of a kinswoman in its vicinity;
the Earl of Dunreath, accustomed to her society, felt his solitude
doubly augmented by her absence. He had ever followed the dictates of
inclination, and would not disobey them now: ere the term of mourning
was expired, he offered her his hand, and was accepted.
The fair orphan, now triumphant mistress of the Abbey, found there was
no longer occasion to check her natural propensities. Her soul was vain,
unfeeling, and ambitious; and her sudden elevation broke down all the
barriers which prudence had hitherto opposed to her passions.
She soon gained an absolute ascendancy over her lord--she knew how to
assume the smile of complacency, and the accent of sensibility.
Forgetful of the kindness of her late patroness, she treated the infant
she had left with the most cruel neglect; a neglect which was, if
possible, increased, on the birth of her own daughter, as she could not
bear that Augusta (instead of possessing the whole) should only share
the affection and estates of her father. She contrived by degrees to
alienate the former from the innocent Malvina; and she trusted, she
should find means to deprive her of the latter.
Terrified by violence, and depressed by severity, the child looked
dejected and unhappy; and this appearance, Lady Dunreath made the Earl
believe, proceeded from sulkiness and natural ill-humor. Her own child,
unrestrained in any wish of her heart, was, from her playful gayety, a
constant source of amusement to the Earl; her mother had taken care to
instruct her in all the little endearments which, when united with
infantine sweetness, allure almost imperceptibly the affections.
Malvina, ere she knew the meaning of sorrow, thus became its prey; but
in spite of envy or ill treatment, she grew up with all the graces of
mind and form that had distinguished her mother; her air was at once
elegant and commanding; her face replete with sweetness; and her fine
eyes had a mixture of sensibility and languor in them, which spoke to
the feeling soul.
Augusta was also a fine figure; but unpossessed of the winning graces of
elegance and modesty which adorned her sister, her form always appeared
decorated with the most studied art, and her large eyes had a confident
assurance in them, that seemed to expect and demand universal homage.
The warriors of the fort were welcome visitants at the Abbey, which Lady
Dunreath contrived to render a scene of almost constant gayety, by
keeping up a continual intercourse with all the adjacent families, and
entertaining all the strangers who came into its neighborhood.
Lord Dunreath had long been a prey to infirmities, which at this period
generally confined him to his room; but though his body was debilitated,
his mind retained all its active powers.
The first appearance of the officers at the Abbey was at a ball given by
Lady Dunreath, in consequence of their arrival near it; the gothic
apartments were decorated, and lighted up with a splendor that at once
displayed taste and magnificence; the lights, the music, the brilliancy,
and unusual gayety of the company, all gave to the spirits of Malvina an
agreeable flutter they had never before experienced; and a brighter
bloom than usual stole over her lovely cheek.
The young co-heiresses were extremely admired by the military heroes.
Malvina, as the eldest, opened the ball with the colonel; her form had
attracted the eyes of Fitzalan, and vainly he attempted to withdraw
them, till the lively conversation of Augusta, who honored him with her
hand, forced him to restrain his glances, and pay her the sprightly
attentions so generally expected--when he came to turn Malvina, he
involuntarily detained her hand for a moment: she blushed, and the timid
beam that stole from her half-averted eyes, agitated his whole soul.
Partners were changed in the course of the evening, and he seized the
first opportunity that offered for engaging her; the softness of her
voice, the simplicity yet elegance of her language, now captivated his
heart, as much as her form had charmed his eyes.
Never had he before seen an object he thought half so lovely or
engaging; with her he could not support that lively strain of
conversation he had done with her sister. Where the heart is much
interested, it will not admit of trifling.
Fitzalan was now in the meridian of manhood; his stature was above the
common size, and elegance and dignity were conspicuous in it; his
features were regularly handsome, and the fairness of his forehead
proved what his complexion had been, till change of climate and hardship
had embrowned it; the expression of his countenance was somewhat
plaintive: his eyes had a sweetness in them that spoke a soul of the
tenderest feelings; and the smile that played around his mouth, would
have adorned a face of female beauty.
When the dance with Lady Malvina was over, Lady Augusta took care for
the remainder of the evening to engross all his attention. She thought
him by far the handsomest man in the room, and gave him no opportunity
of avoiding her; gallantry obliged him to return her assiduities, and he
was by his brother officers set down in the list of her adorers. This
mistake he encouraged: he could bear raillery on an indifferent subject;
and joined in the mirth, which the idea of his laying siege to the young
heiress occasioned.
He deluded himself with no false hopes relative to the real object of
his passion; he knew the obstacles between them were insuperable; but
his heart was too proud to complain of fate; he shook off all appearance
of melancholy, and seemed more animated than ever.
His visits at the Abbey became constant; Lady Augusta took them to
herself, and encouraged his attentions: as her mother rendered her
perfect mistress of her own actions, she had generally a levee of
redcoats every morning in her dressing-room. Lady Malvina seldom
appeared; she was at those times almost always employed in reading to
her father; when that was not the case, her own favorite avocations
often detained her in her room; or else she wandered out, about the
romantic rocks on the sea-shore; she delighted in solitary rambles, and
loved to visit the old peasants, who told her tales of her departed
mother's goodness, drawing tears of sorrow from her eyes, at the
irreparable loss she had sustained by her death.
Fitzalan went one morning as usual to the Abbey to pay his customary
visit; as he went through the gallery which led to Lady Augusta's
dressing-room, his eyes were caught by two beautiful portraits of the
Earl's daughters; an artist, by his express desire, had come to the
Abbey to draw them; they were but just finished, and that morning placed
in the gallery.
Lady Augusta appeared negligently reclined upon a sofa, in a verdant
alcove; the flowing drapery of the loose robe in which she was habited,
set off her fine figure; little Cupids were seen fanning aside her
dark-brown hair, and strewing roses on her pillow.
Lady Malvina was represented in the simple attire of a peasant girl,
leaning on a little grassy hillock, whose foot was washed by a clear
stream, while her flocks browsed around, and her dog rested beneath the
shade of an old tree, that waved its branches over her head, and seemed
sheltering her from the beams of a meridian sun.
"Beautiful portrait!" cried Fitzalan, "sweet resemblance of a seraphic
form!"
He heard a soft sigh behind him; he started, turned, and perceived Lady
Malvina; in the utmost confusion he faltered out his admiration of the
pictures; and not knowing what he did, fixed his eyes on Lady Augusta's,
exclaiming, "How beautiful!" "'Tis very handsome indeed," said Malvina,
with a more pensive voice than usual, and led the way to her sister's
drawing-room.
Lady Augusta was spangling some ribbon; but at Fitzalan's entrance she
threw it aside, and asked him if he had been admiring her
picture?--"Yes," he said, "'twas that alone had prevented his before
paying his homage to the original." He proceeded in a strain of
compliments, which had more gallantry than sincerity in them. In the
course of their trifling he snatched a knot of the spangled ribbon, and
pinning it next his heart, declared it should remain there as a talisman
against all future impressions.
He stole a glance at Lady Malvina; she held a book in her hand; but her
eyes were turned towards him, and a deadly paleness overspread her
countenance.
Fitzalan's spirits vanished; he started up, and declared he must be gone
immediately. The dejection of Lady Malvina dwelt upon his heart; it
flattered his fondness, but pained its sensibility. He left the fort in
the evening, immediately after he had retired from the mess; he strolled
to the sea-side, and rambled a considerable way among the rocks. The
scene was wild and solemn; the shadows of evening were beginning to
descend; the waves stole with low murmurs upon the shore, and a soft
breeze gently agitated the marine plants that grew amongst the crevices
of the rocks; already were the sea-fowl, with harsh and melancholy
cries, flocking to their nests, some lightly skimming over the water,
while others were seen, like dark clouds arising from the long heath on
the neighboring hills. Fitzalan pursued his way in deep and melancholy
meditation, from which a plaintive Scotch air, sung by the melting voice
of harmony itself, roused him. He looked towards the spot from whence
the sound proceeded, and beheld Lady Malvina standing on a low rock, a
projection of it affording her support. Nothing could be more
picturesque than her appearance: she looked like one of the beautiful
forms which Ossian so often describes: her white dress fluttered in the
wind, and her dark hair hung dishevelled around her. Fitzalan moved
softly, and stopped behind her; she wept as she sung, and wiped away her
tears as she ceased singing; she sighed heavily. "Ah! my mother," she
exclaimed, "why was Malvina left behind you?"--"To bless and improve
mankind," cried Fitzalan. She screamed, and would have fallen, had he
not caught her in his arms; he prevailed on her to sit down upon the
rock, and allow him to support her till her agitation had subsided. "And
why," cried he, "should Lady Malvina give way to melancholy, blest as
she is with all that can render life desirable? Why seek its indulgence,
by rambling about those dreary rocks; fit haunts alone, he might have
added, for wretchedness and me? Can I help wondering at your dejection
(he continued), when to all appearance (at least) I see you possessed of
everything requisite to constitute felicity?"
"Appearances are often deceitful," said Malvina, forgetting in that
moment the caution she had hitherto inviolably observed, of never
hinting at the ill treatment she received from the Countess of Dunreath
and her daughter. "Appearances are often deceitful," she said, "as I,
alas! too fatally experience. The glare, the ostentation of wealth, a
soul of sensibility would willingly resign for privacy and plainness if
they were to be attended with real friendship and sympathy."
"And how few," cried Fitzalan, turning his expressive eyes upon her
face, "can know Lady Malvina without feeling friendship for her virtues,
and sympathy for her sorrows!" As he spoke, he pressed her hand against
his heart, and she felt the knot of ribbon he had snatched from her
sister: she instantly withdrew her hand, and darting a haughty glance at
him, "Captain Fitzalan," said she, "you were going, I believe, to Lady
Augusta; let me not detain you."
Fitzalan's passions were no longer under the dominion of reason; he tore
the ribbon from his breast and flung it into the sea. "Going to Lady
Augusta!" he exclaimed, "and is her lovely sister then really deceived?
Ah! Lady Malvina, I now gaze on the dear attraction that drew me to the
Abbey. The feelings of a real, a hopeless passion could ill support
raillery or observation: I hid my passion within the recesses of my
heart, and gladly allowed my visits to be placed to the account of an
object truly indifferent, that I might have opportunities of seeing an
object I adored." Malvina blushed and trembled: "Fitzalan," cried she
after a pause, "I detest deceit."
"I abhor it too, Lady Malvina," said he; "but why should I now endeavor
to prove my sincerity, when I know it is so immaterial? Excuse me for
what I have already uttered, and believe that though susceptible, I am
not aspiring." He then presented his hand to Malvina; she descended from
her seat, and they walked towards the Abbey. Lady Malvina's pace was
slow, and her blushes, had Fitzalan looked at her, would have expressed
more pleasure than resentment: she seemed to expect a still further
declaration; but Fitzalan was too confused to speak; nor indeed was it
his intention again to indulge himself on the dangerous subject. They
proceeded in silence; at the Abbey gate they stopped, and he wished her
good-night. "Shall we not soon see you at the Abbey?" exclaimed Lady
Malvina in a flurried voice, which seemed to say she thought his adieu
rather a hasty one. "No, my lovely friend," cried Fitzalan, pausing,
while he looked upon her with the most impassioned tenderness,--"in
future I shall confine myself chiefly to the fort." "Do you dread an
invasion?" asked she, smiling, while a stolen glance of her eyes gave
peculiar meaning to her words. "I long dreaded that," cried he in the
same strain, "and my fears were well founded; but I must now muster all
my powers to dislodge the enemy." He kissed her hand, and precipitately
retired.
Lady Malvina repaired to her chamber, in such a tumult of pleasure as
she had never before experienced. She admired Fitzalan from the first
evening she beheld him; though his attentions were directed to her
sister, the language of his eyes, to her, contradicted any attachment
these attentions might have intimated; his gentleness and sensibility
seemed congenial to her own. Hitherto she had been the slave of tyranny
and caprice; and now, for the first time, experienced that soothing
tenderness her wounded feelings had so long sighed for. She was agitated
and delighted; she overlooked every obstacle to her wishes; and waited
impatiently a further explanation of Fitzalan's sentiments.
Far different were his feelings from hers: to know he was beloved, could
scarcely yield him pleasure, when he reflected on his hopeless
situation, which forbad his availing himself of any advantage that
knowledge might have afforded. Of a union indeed he did not dare to
think, since its consequences, he knew, must be destruction; for rigid
and austere as the Earl was represented, he could not flatter himself he
would ever pardon such a step; and the means of supporting Lady Malvina,
in any degree of comfort, he did not possess himself. He determined, as
much as possible, to avoid her presence, and regretted continually
having yielded to the impulse of his heart and revealed his love, since
he believed it had augmented hers.
By degrees he discontinued his visits at the Abbey; but he often met
Lady Malvina at parties in the neighborhood: caution, however, always
sealed his lips, and every appearance of particularity was avoided. The
time now approached for the departure of the regiment from Scotland, and
Lady Malvina, instead of the explanation she so fondly expected, so
ardently desired, saw Fitzalan studious to avoid her.
The disappointment this conduct gave rise to, was too much for the
tender and romantic heart of Malvina to bear without secretly repining.
Society grew irksome; she became more than ever attached to solitary
rambles, which gave opportunities of indulging her sorrows without
restraint: sorrows, pride often reproached her for experiencing.
It was within a week of the change of garrison, when Malvina repaired
one evening to the rock where Fitzalan had disclosed his tenderness; a
similarity of feeling had led him thither; he saw his danger, but he had
no power to retreat; he sat down by Malvina, and they conversed for some
time on indifferent subjects; at last, after a pause of a minute,
Malvina exclaimed, "You go then, Fitzalan, never, never, I suppose, to
return here again!" "'Tis probable I may not indeed," said he. "Then we
shall never meet again," cried she, while a trickling tear stole down
her lovely cheek, which, tinged as it was with the flush of agitation,
looked now like a half-blown rose moistened with the dews of early
morning.
"Yes, my lovely friend," said he, "we shall meet again--we shall meet in
a better place; in that heaven," continued he, sighing, and laying his
cold, trembling hand upon hers, "which will recompense all our
sufferings." "You are melancholy to-night, Fitzalan," cried Lady
Malvina, in a voice scarcely articulate.
"Oh! can you wonder at it?" exclaimed he, overcome by her emotion, and
forgetting in a moment all his resolutions--"Oh! can you wonder at my
melancholy, when I know not but that this is the last time I shall see
the only woman I ever loved--when I know, that in bidding her adieu I
resign all the pleasure, the happiness of my life."
Malvina could no longer restrain her feelings; she sunk upon his
shoulder and wept. "Good heavens!" cried Fitzalan, almost trembling
beneath the lovely burden he supported--"What a cruel situation is mine!
But, Malvina, I will not, cannot plunge you in destruction. Led by
necessity, as well as choice, to embrace the profession of a soldier, I
have no income but what is derived from that profession; though my own
distresses I could bear with fortitude, yours would totally unman me;
nor would my honor be less injured than my peace, were you involved in
difficulties on my account. Our separation is therefore, alas!
inevitable."
"Oh! no," exclaimed Malvina, "the difficulties you have mentioned will
vanish. My father's affections were early alienated from me; and my fate
is of little consequence to him--nay, I have reason to believe he will
be glad of an excuse for leaving his large possessions to Augusta; and
oh! how little shall I envy her those possessions, if the happy destiny
I now look forward to is mine." As she spoke, her mild eyes rested on
the face of Fitzalan, who clasped her to his bosom in a sudden transport
of tenderness. "But though my father is partial to Augusta," she
continued, "I am sure he will not be unnatural to me; and though he may
withhold affluence, he will, I am confident, allow me a competence; nay,
Lady Dunreath, I believe, in pleasure at my removal from the Abbey,
would, if he hesitated in that respect, become my intercessor."
The energy with which Malvina spoke convinced Fitzalan of the strength
of her affection. An ecstasy never before felt pervaded his soul at the
idea of being so beloved; vainly did prudence whisper, that Malvina
might be deluding herself with false hopes, the suggestions of love
triumphed over every consideration; and again folding the fair being he
held in his arms to his heart, he softly asked, would she, at all
events, unite her destiny with his.
Lady Malvina, who firmly believed what she had said to him would really
happen, and who deemed a separation from him the greatest misfortune
which could possibly befall her, blushed, and faltering yielded a
willing consent.
The means of accomplishing their wishes now occupied their thoughts.
Fitzalan's imagination was too fertile not soon to suggest a scheme
which had a probability of success; he resolved to intrust the chaplain
of the regiment with the affair, and request his attendance the ensuing
night in the chapel of the Abbey, where Lady Malvina promised to meet
them with her maid, on whose secrecy she thought she could rely.
It was settled that Fitzalan should pay a visit the next morning at the
Abbey, and give Malvina a certain sign, if he succeeded with the
chaplain.
The increasing darkness at length reminded them of the lateness of the
hour. Fitzalan conducted Malvina to the Abbey gate, where they
separated, each involved in a tumult of hopes, fears, and wishes.
The next morning Lady Malvina brought her work into her sister's
dressing-room; at last Fitzalan entered; he was attacked by Augusta for
his long absence, which he excused by pleading regimental business.
After trifling some time with her, he prevailed on her to sit down to
the harpsichord; and then glancing to Malvina, he gave her the promised
signal.
Her conscious eyes were instantly bent to the ground; a crimson glow was
suddenly succeeded by a deadly paleness; her head sunk upon her bosom;
and her agitation must have excited suspicions had it been perceived;
but Fitzalan purposely bent over her sister, and thus gave her an
opportunity of retiring unnoticed from the room. As soon as she had
regained a little composure, she called her maid, and, after receiving
many promises of secrecy, unfolded to her the whole affair. It was long
past the midnight hour ere Malvina would attempt repairing to the
chapel; when she at last rose for that purpose she trembled universally;
a kind of horror chilled her heart; she began to fear she was about
doing wrong, and hesitated; but when she reflected on the noble
generosity of Fitzalan, and that she herself had precipitated him into
the measure they were about taking, her hesitation was over; and leaning
on her maid, she stole through the winding galleries, and lightly
descending the stairs, entered the long hall, which terminated in a dark
arched passage, that opened into the chapel.
This was a wild and gloomy structure, retaining everywhere vestiges of
that monkish superstition which had erected it; beneath were the vaults
which contained the ancestors of the Earl of Dunreath, whose deeds and
titles were enumerated on gothic monuments; their dust-covered banners
waving around in sullen dignity to the rude gale, which found admittance
through the broken windows.
The light, which the maid held, produced deep shadows, that heightened
the solemnity of the place.
"They are not here," said Malvina, casting her fearful eyes around. She
went to the door, which opened into a thick wood; but here she only
heard the breeze rustling amongst the trees; she turned from it, and
sinking upon the steps of the altar, gave way to an agony of tears and
lamentations. A low murmur reached her ear; she started up; the chapel
door was gently pushed open, and Fitzalan entered with the chaplain;
they had been watching in the wood for the appearance of light. Malvina
was supported to the altar, and a few minutes made her the wife of
Fitzalan.
She had not the courage, till within a day or two previous to the
regiment's departure from Scotland, to acquaint the Earl with her
marriage; the Countess already knew it, through the means of Malvina's
woman, who was a creature of her own. Lady Dunreath exulted at the
prospect of Malvina's ruin; it at once gratified the malevolence of her
soul, and the avaricious desire she had of increasing her own daughter's
fortune; she had, besides, another reason to rejoice at it; this was,
the attachment Lady Augusta had formed for Fitzalan, which, her mother
feared, would have precipitated her into a step as imprudent as her
sister's, had she not been beforehand with her.
This fear the impetuous passions of Lady Augusta naturally excited. She
really loved Fitzalan; a degree of frantic rage possessed her at his
marriage; she cursed her sister in the bitterness of her heart, and
joined with Lady Dunreath in working up the Earl's naturally austere and
violent passions into such a paroxysm of fury and resentment, that he at
last solemnly refused forgiveness to Malvina, and bid her never more
appear in his presence.
She now began to tread the thorny path of life; and though her guide was
tender and affectionate, nothing could allay her anguish for having
involved him in difficulties, which his noble spirit could ill brook or
struggle against. The first year of their union she had a son, who was
called after her father, Oscar Dunreath; the four years that succeeded
his birth were passed in wretchedness that baffles description. At the
expiration of this period their debts were so increased, Fitzalan was
compelled to sell out on half-pay. Lady Malvina now expected an addition
to her family; her situation, she hoped, would move her father's heart,
and resolved to essay everything, which afforded the smallest prospect
of obtaining comfort for her husband and his babes; she prevailed on
him, therefore, to carry her to Scotland.
They lodged at a peasant's in the neighborhood of the Abbey; he
informed them the Earl's infirmities were daily increasing; and that
Lady Dunreath had just celebrated her daughter's marriage with the
Marquis of Roseline. This nobleman had passionately admired Lady
Malvina; an admiration the Countess always wished transferred to her
daughter. On the marriage of Malvina he went abroad; his passion was
conquered ere he returned to Scotland, and he disdained not the
overtures made for his alliance from the Abbey. His favorite
propensities, avarice and pride, were indeed gratified by the possession
of the Earl of Dunreath's sole heiress.
The day after her arrival Lady Malvina sent little Oscar, with the old
peasant, to the Abbey; Oscar was a perfect cherubim--
"The bloom of opening flowers, unsullied beauty,
Softness and sweetest innocence he wore,
And looked like nature in the world's first spring."
Lady Malvina gave him a letter for the Earl, in which, after
pathetically describing her situation, she besought him to let the
uplifted hands of innocence plead her cause. The peasant watched till
the hour came for Lady Dunreath to go out in her carriage, as was her
daily custom: he then desired to be conducted to the Earl, and was
accordingly ushered into his presence: he found him alone, and briefly
informed him of his errand. The Earl frowned and looked agitated; but
did not by any means express that displeasure which the peasant had
expected; feeling for himself, indeed, had lately softened his heart; he
was unhappy; his wife and daughter had attained the completion of their
wishes, and no longer paid him the attention his age required. He
refused, however, to accept the letter: little Oscar, who had been
gazing on him from the moment he entered the apartment, now ran forward;
gently stroking his hand, he smiled in his face, and exclaimed, "Ah! do
pray take poor mamma's letter." The Earl involuntarily took it; as he
read, the muscles of his face began to work, and a tear dropped from
him. "Poor mamma cries too," said Oscar, upon whose hand the tear fell.
"Why did your mamma send you to me?" said the Earl. "Because she said,"
cried. Oscar, "that you were my grandpapa--and she bids me love you, and
teaches me every day to pray for you." "Heaven bless you, my lovely
prattler!" exclaimed the Earl, with sudden emotion, patting his head as
he spoke. At this moment Lady Dunreath rushed into the apartment: one of
her favorites had followed her, to relate the scene that was going
forward within it: and she had returned, with all possible expedition,
to counteract any dangerous impression that might be made upon the
Earl's mind. Rage inflamed her countenance: the Earl knew the violence
of her temper; he was unequal to contention, and hastily motioned for
the peasant to retire with the child. The account of his reception
excited the most flattering hopes in the bosom of his mother: she
counted the tedious hours, in expectation of a kind summons to the
Abbey; but no such summons came. The next morning the child was sent to
it; but the porter refused him admittance, by the express command of the
Earl, he said. Frightened at his rudeness, the child returned weeping to
his mother, whose blasted expectations wrung her heart with agony, and
tears and lamentations broke from her. The evening was far advanced,
when suddenly her features brightened: "I will go," cried she, starting
up--"I will again try to melt his obduracy. Oh! with what lowliness
should a child bend before an offended parent! Oh! with what fortitude,
what patience, should a wife, a mother, try to overcome difficulties
which she is conscious of having precipitated the objects of her
tenderest affections into!"
The night was dark and tempestuous; she would not suffer Fitzalan to
attend her; but proceeded to the Abbey, leaning on the peasant's arm.
She would not be repulsed at the door, but forced her way into the hall:
here Lady Dunreath met her, and with mingled pride and cruelty, refused
her access to her father, declaring it was by his desire she did so.
"Let me see him but for a moment," said the lovely suppliant, clasping
her white and emaciated hands together--"by all that is tender in
humanity, I beseech you to grant my request."
"Turn this frantic woman from the Abbey," said the implacable Lady
Dunreath, trembling with passion--"at your peril suffer her to continue
here. The peace of your lord is too precious to be disturbed by her
exclamations."
The imperious order was instantly obeyed, though, as Cordelia says, "it
was a night when one would not have turned an enemy's dog from the
door." The rain poured in torrents; the sea roared with awful violence;
and the wind roared through the wood, as if it would tear up the trees
by their roots. The peasant charitably flung his plaid over Malvina: she
moved mechanically along; her senses appeared quite stupefied. Fitzalan
watched for her at the door: she rushed into his extended arms, and
fainted; it was long ere she showed any symptoms of returning life.
Fitzalan wept over her in the anguish and distraction of his soul; and
scarcely could he forbear execrating the being who had so grievously
afflicted her gentle spirit: by degrees she revived; and, as she pressed
him feebly to her breast, exclaimed, "The final stroke is given--I have
been turned from my father's door."
The cottage in which they lodged afforded but few of the necessaries,
and none of the comforts of life; such, at least, as they had been
accustomed to. In Malvina's present situation, Fitzalan dreaded the loss
of her life, should they continue in their present abode; but whither
could he take her wanderer, as he was upon the face of the earth? At
length the faithful Edwin occurred to his recollection: his house, he
was confident, would afford them a comfortable asylum, where Lady
Malvina would experience all that tenderness and care her situation
demanded.
He immediately set about procuring a conveyance, and the following
morning Malvina bid a last adieu to Scotland.
Lady Dunreath, in the mean time, suffered torture: after she had seen
Malvina turned from the Abbey, she returned to her apartment: it was
furnished with the most luxurious elegance, yet could she not rest
within it. Conscience already told her, if Malvina died, she must
consider herself her murderer; her pale and woe-worn image seemed still
before her; a cold terror oppressed her heart, which the horrors of the
night augmented; the tempest shook the battlements of the Abbey; and the
winds, which howled through the galleries, seemed like the last moans of
some wandering spirit of the pile, bewailing the fate of one of its
fairest daughters. To cruelty and ingratitude Lady Dunreath had added
deceit: her lord was yielding to the solicitations of his child, when
she counteracted his intentions by a tale of falsehood. The visions of
the night were also dreadful; Malvina appeared expiring before her, and
the late Lady Dunreath, by her bedside, reproaching her barbarity. "Oh
cruel!" the ghastly figure seemed to say, "is it you, whom I fostered in
my bosom, that have done this deed--driven forth my child, a forlorn and
wretched wanderer?"
Oh, conscience, how awful are thy terrors! thou art the vicegerent of
Heaven, and dost anticipate its vengeance, ere the final hour of
retribution arrives. Guilt may be triumphant, but never, never can be
happy: it finds no shield against thy stings and arrows. The heart thou
smitest bleeds in every pore, and sighs amidst gayety and splendor.
The unfortunate travellers were welcomed with the truest hospitality by
the grateful Edwin; he had married, soon after his return from America,
a young girl, to whom, from his earliest youth, he was attached. His
parents died soon after his union, and the whole of their little
patrimony devolved to him. Soothed and attended with the utmost
tenderness and respect, Fitzalan hoped Lady Malvina would here regain
her health and peace: he intended, after her recovery, to endeavor to be
put on full pay; and trusted he should prevail on her to continue at the
farm.
At length the hour came, in which she gave a daughter to his arms. From
the beginning of her illness the people about her were alarmed; too soon
was it proved their alarms were well founded: she lived after the birth
of her infant but a few minutes, and died embracing her husband, and
blessing his children.
Fitzalan's feelings cannot well be described: they were at first too
much for reason, and he continued some time in perfect stupefaction.
When he regained his sensibility, his grief was not outrageous; it was
that deep, still sorrow, which fastens on the heart, and cannot vent
itself in tears or lamentations: he sat with calmness by the bed, where
the beautiful remains of Malvina lay; he gazed without shrinking on her
pale face, which death, as if in pity to his feelings, had not
disfigured; he kissed her cold lips, continually exclaiming, "Oh! had we
never met, she might still have been living." His language was something
like that of a poet of her own country:--
"Wee, modest crimson-tipped flower,
I met thee in a luckless hour."
It was when he saw them about removing her that all the tempest of his
grief broke forth. Oh! how impossible to describe the anguish of the
poor widower's heart, when he returned from seeing his Malvina laid in
her last receptacle: he shut himself up in the room where she had
expired, and ordered no one to approach him; he threw himself upon the
bed; he laid his cheek upon her pillow, he grasped it to his bosom, he
wetted it with tears, because she had breathed upon it. Oh, how still,
how dreary, how desolate, did all appear around him! "And shall this
desolation never more be enlightened," he exclaimed, "by the soft music
of Malvina's voice? Shall these eyes never more be cheered by beholding
her angelic face?" Exhausted by his feelings, he sunk into a slumber: he
dreamt of Malvina, and thought she lay beside him: he awoke with sudden
ecstasy, and under the strong impression of the dream, stretched out his
arms to enfold her. Alas! all was empty void: he started up--he groaned
in the bitterness of his soul he traversed the room with a distracted
pace--he sat him down in a little window, from whence he could view the
spire of the church (now glistening in the moonbeams) by which she was
interred. "Deep, still, and profound," cried he, "is now the sleep of my
Malvina--the voice of love cannot awake her from it; nor does she now
dream of her midnight mourner."
The cold breeze of night blew upon his forehead, but he heeded it not;
his whole soul was full of Malvina, whom torturing fancy presented to
his view, in the habiliments of the grave. "And is this emaciated form,
this pale face," he exclaimed, as if he had really seen her, "all that
remain of elegance and beauty, once unequalled!"
A native sense of religion alone checked the transports of his grief;
that sweet, that sacred power, which pours balm upon the wounds of
sorrow, and saves its children from despair; that power whispered to his
heart, a patient submission to the will of heaven was the surest means
he could attain of again rejoining his Malvina.
She was interred in the village church-yard: at the head of her grave a
stone was placed, on which was rudely cut,
MALVINA FITZALAN,
ALIKE LOVELY AND UNFORTUNATE.
Fitzalan would not permit her empty title to be on it: "She is buried,"
he said, "as the wife of a wretched soldier, not as the daughter of a
wealthy peer."
She had requested her infant might be called after her own mother; her
request was sacred to Fitzalan, and it was baptized by the united names
of Amanda Malvina. Mrs. Edwin was then nursing her first girl; but she
sent it out, and took the infant of Fitzalan in its place to her bosom.
The money, which Fitzalan had procured by disposing of his commission,
was now nearly exhausted; but his mind was too enervated to allow him to
think of any project for future support. Lady Malvina was deceased two
months, when a nobleman came into the neighborhood, with whom Fitzalan
had once been intimately acquainted: the acquaintance was now renewed;
and Fitzalan's appearance, with the little history of his misfortunes,
so much affected and interested his friend, that, without solicitation,
he procured him a company in a regiment, then stationed in England. Thus
did Fitzalan again enter into active life; but his spirits were broken,
and his constitution injured. Four years he continued in the army; when,
pining to have his children (all that now remained of a woman he adored)
under his own care, he obtained, through the interest of his friend,
leave to sell out. Oscar was then eight, and Amanda four; the delighted
father, as he held them to his heart, wept over them tears of mingled
pain and pleasure.
He had seen in Devonshire, where he was quartered for some time, a
little romantic solitude, quite adapted to his taste and finances; he
proposed for it, and soon became its proprietor. Hither he carried his
children, much against the inclinations of the Edwins, who loved them as
their own: two excellent schools in the neighborhood gave them the usual
advantages of genteel education; but as they were only day scholars, the
improvement, or rather forming of their morals, was the pleasing task of
their father. To his assiduous care too they were indebted for the rapid
progress they made in their studies, and for the graceful simplicity of
their manners: they rewarded his care, and grew up as amiable and lovely
as his fondest wishes could desire. As Oscar advanced in life, his
father began to experience new cares; for he had not the power of
putting him in the way of making any provision for himself. A military
life was what Oscar appeared anxious for: he had early conceived a
predilection for it, from hearing his father speak of the services he
had seen; but though he possessed quite the spirit of a hero, he had the
truest tenderness, the most engaging softness of disposition; his temper
was, indeed, at once mild, artless, and affectionate. He was about
eighteen, when the proprietor of the estate, on which his father held
his farm, died, and his heir, a colonel in the army, immediately came
down from London to take formal possession: he soon became acquainted
with Fitzalan, who, in the course of conversation, one day expressed the
anxiety he suffered on his son's account. The Colonel said he was a fine
youth, and it was a pity he was not provided for. He left Devonshire,
however, shortly after this, without appearing in the least interested
about him.
Fitzalan's heart was oppressed with anxiety; he could not purchase for
his son, without depriving himself of support. With the nobleman who had
formerly served him so essentially, he had kept up no intercourse, since
he quitted the army; but he frequently heard of him, and was told he had
become quite a man of the world, which was an implication of his having
lost all feeling: an application to him, therefore, he feared, would be
unavailing, and he felt too proud to subject himself to a repulse.
From this disquietude he was unexpectedly relieved by a letter from the
Earl of Cherbury, his yet kind friend, informing him he had procured an
ensigncy for Oscar, in Colonel Belgrave's regiment, which he considered
a very fortunate circumstance, as the colonel, he was confident, from
personally knowing the young gentleman, would render him every service
in his power. The Earl chided Fitzalan for never having kept up a
correspondence with him, assured him he had never forgotten the
friendship of their earlier years; and that he had gladly seized the
first opportunity which offered, of serving him in the person of his
son; which opportunity he was indebted to Colonel Belgrave for.
Fitzalan's soul was filled with gratitude and rapture; he immediately
wrote to the Earl, and the Colonel, in terms expressive of his feelings.
Colonel Belgrave received his thanks as if he had really deserved them;
but this was not by any means the case: he was a man devoid of
sensibility, and had never once thought of serving Fitzalan or his son;
his mentioning them was merely accidental.
In a large company, of which the Earl of Cherbury was one, the discourse
happened to turn on the Dunreath family, and by degrees led to Fitzalan,
who was severally blamed and pitied for his connection with it; the
subject was, in the opinion of Colonel Belgrave, so apropos, he could
not forbear describing his present situation, and inquietude about his
son, who, he said he fancied, must, like a second Cincinnatus, take the
plough-share instead of the sword.
Lord Cherbury lost no part of his discourse; though immersed in
politics, and other intricate concerns, he yet retained, and was ready
to obey, the dictates of humanity, particularly when they did not
interfere with his own interests; he therefore directly conceived the
design of serving his old friend.
Oscar soon quitted Devonshire after his appointment, and brought a
letter from his father to the Colonel, in which he was strongly
recommended to his protection, as one unskilled in the ways of men.
And now all Fitzalan's care devolved upon Amanda; and most amply did she
recompense it. To the improvement of her genius, the cultivation of her
talents, the promotion of her father's happiness, seemed her first
incentive; without him no amusement was enjoyed, without him no study
entered upon; he was her friend, guardian, and protector; and no
language can express, no heart (except a paternal one) conceive, the
rapture he felt, at seeing a creature grow under
his forming hand.
----So fair
That what seemed fair in all the world, seemed now
Mean, or in her contained.
Some years had elapsed since Oscar's departure, ere Colonel Belgrave
returned into their neighborhood; he came soon after his nuptials had
been celebrated in Ireland, with a lady of that country, whom Oscar's
letters described as possessing every mental and personal charm which
could please or captivate the heart. Colonel Belgrave came unaccompanied
by his fair bride. Fitzalan, who believed him his benefactor, and
consequently regarded him as a friend (still thinking it was through his
means Lord Cherbury had served him), immediately waited upon him, and
invited him to his house. The invitation, after some time, was accepted;
but had he imagined what an attraction the house contained, he would not
have long hesitated about entering it: he was a man, indeed, of the most
depraved principles; and an object he admired, no tie or situation,
however sacred, could guard from his pursuit.
Amanda was too much a child, when he was last in the country, to attract
his observation; he had, therefore, no idea that the blossom he then so
carelessly overlooked, had since expanded into such beauty. How great,
then, was his rapture and surprise, when Fitzalan led into the room
where he had received him, a tall, elegantly-formed girl, whose rosy
cheeks were dimpled with the softest smile of complacence, and whose
fine blue eyes beamed with modesty and gratitude upon him! He instantly
marked her for his prey; and blessed his lucky stars which had inspired
Fitzalan with the idea of his being his benefactor, since that would
give him an easier access to the house than he could otherwise have
hoped for.
From this time he became almost an inmate of it, except when he chose to
contrive little parties at his own for Amanda. He took every opportunity
that offered, without observation, to try to ingratiate himself in her
favor: those opportunities the unsuspecting temper of Fitzalan allowed
to be frequent--he would as soon have trusted Amanda to the care of
Belgrave, as to that of her brother; and never, therefore, prevented her
walking out with him, when he desired it, or receiving him in the
morning, while he himself was absent about the affairs of his
farm--delighted to think the conversation or talents of his daughter
(for Amanda frequently sung and played for the Colonel) could
contribute to the amusement of his friend. Amanda innocently increased
his flame, by the attention she paid which she considered but a just
tribute of gratitude for his services: she delighted in talking to him
of her dear Oscar, and often mentioned his lady; but was surprised to
find he always waived the latter subject.
Belgrave could not long restrain the impetuosity of his passions: the
situation of Fitzalan (which he knew to be a distressed one) would, he
fancied, forward his designs on his daughter; and what those designs
were, he, by degrees, in a retired walk one day, unfolded to Amanda. At
first she did not perfectly understand him; but when, with increased
audacity, he explained himself more fully, horror, indignation, and
surprise took possession of her breast; and, yielding to their feelings,
she turned and fled to the house, as if from a monster. Belgrave was
provoked and mortified; the softness of her manners had tempted him to
believe he was not indifferent to her, and that she would prove an easy
conquest.
Poor Amanda would not appear in the presence of her father, till she
had, in some degree, regained composure, as she feared the smallest
intimation of the affair might occasion fatal consequences. As she sat
with him, a letter was brought her; she could not think Belgrave would
have the effrontery to write, and opened it, supposing it came from some
acquaintance in the neighborhood. How great was the shock she sustained,
on finding it from him! Having thrown off the mask, he determined no
longer to assume any disguise. Her paleness and confusion alarmed her
father, and he instantly demanded the cause of her agitation. She found
longer concealment was impossible; and, throwing herself at her father's
feet, besought him, as she put the letter into his hands, to restrain
his passion. When he perused it, he raised her up, and commanded her, as
she valued his love or happiness, to inform him of every particular
relative to the insult she had received. She obeyed, though terrified to
behold her father trembling with emotion. When she concluded, he
tenderly embraced her; and, bidding her confine herself to the house,
rose, and took down his hat. It was easy to guess whither he was going;
her terror increased; and, in a voice scarcely articulate, she besought
him not to risk his safety. He commanded her silence, with a sternness
never before assumed. His manner awed her; but, when she saw him leaving
the room, her feelings could no longer be controlled--she rushed after
him, and flinging her arms round his neck, fainted on it. In this
situation the unhappy father was compelled to leave her to the care of
a maid, lest her pathetic remonstrances should delay the vengeance he
resolved to take on a wretch who had meditated a deed of such atrocity
against his peace; but Belgrave was not to be found.
Scarcely, however, had Fitzalan returned to his half-distracted daughter
ere a letter was brought him from the wretch, in which he made the most
degrading proposals; and bade Fitzalan beware how he answered them, as
his situation had put him entirely into his power. This was a fatal
truth: Fitzalan had been tempted to make a large addition to his farm,
from an idea of turning the little money he possessed to advantage: but
he was more ignorant of agriculture than he had imagined; and this
ignorance, joined to his own integrity of heart, rendered him the dupe
of some designing wretches in his neighborhood: his whole stock dwindled
away in unprofitable experiments, and he was now considerably in arrears
with Belgrave. The ungenerous advantage he strove to take of his
situation, increased, if possible, his indignation; and again he sought
him, but still without success.
Belgrave soon found no temptation of prosperity would prevail on the
father or daughter to accede to his wishes; he therefore resolved to try
whether the pressure of adversity would render them more complying, and
left the country, having first ordered his steward to proceed directly
against Fitzalan.
The consequence of this order was an immediate execution on his effects;
and, but for the assistance of a good-natured farmer, he would have been
arrested. By his means, and under favor of night, he and Amanda set out
for London; they arrived there in safety, and retired to obscure
lodgings. In this hour of distress, Fitzalan conquered all false pride,
and wrote to Lord Cherbury, entreating him to procure some employment
which would relieve his present distressing situation. He cautiously
concealed everything relative to Belgrave--he could not bear that it
should be known that he had ever been degraded by his infamous
proposals. Oscar's safety, too, he knew depended on his secrecy; as he
was well convinced no idea of danger, or elevation of rank, would secure
the wretch from his fury, who had meditated so great an injury against
his sister.
He had the mortification of having the letter he sent to Lord Cherbury
returned, as his lordship was then absent from town; nor was he expected
for some months, having gone on an excursion of pleasure to France. Some
of these months had lingered away in all the horrors of anxiety and
distress, when Fitzalan formed the resolution of sending Amanda into
Wales, whose health had considerably suffered, from the complicated
uneasiness and terror she experienced on her own and her father's
account.
Belgrave had traced the fugitives; and though Fitzalan was guarded
against all the stratagems he used to have him arrested, he found means
to have letters conveyed to Amanda, full of base solicitations and
insolent declarations, that the rigor he treated her father with was
quite against his feelings, and should instantly be withdrawn, if she
acceded to the proposals he made for her.
But though Fitzalan had determined to send Amanda into Wales, with whom
could he trust his heart's best treasure? At last the son of the worthy
farmer who had assisted him in his journey to London, occurred to his
remembrance; he came often to town, and always called on Fitzalan. The
young man, the moment it was proposed, expressed the greatest readiness
to attend Miss Fitzalan. As every precaution was necessary, her father
made her take the name of Dunford, and travel in the mail-coach, for the
greater security. He divided the contents of his purse with her; and
recommending this lovely and most beloved child to the protection of
heaven, saw her depart, with mingled pain and pleasure; promising to
give her the earliest intelligence of Lord Cherbury's arrival in town,
which, he supposed, would fix his future destiny. Previous to her
departure, he wrote to the Edwins, informing them of her intended visit,
and also her change of name for the present. This latter circumstance,
which was not satisfactorily accounted for, excited their warmest
curiosity; and not thinking it proper to ask Amanda to gratify it, they,
to use their own words, sifted her companion, who hesitated not to
inform them of the indignities she had suffered from Colonel Belgrave,
which were well known about his neighborhood.