"----Thy grave shall with fresh flowers be dressed,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast;
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow."--POPE.
A gentle noise in her chamber roused Amanda from a light, refreshing
slumber, and she beheld her nurse standing by her bedside with a bowl of
goat's whey. Amanda took the salubrious draught with a smile, and
instantly starting up, was dressed in a few minutes. She felt more
composed than she had done for some time past; the transition from a
narrow dark street to a fine open country, would have excited a lively
transport in her mind, but for the idea of her father still remaining in
the gloomy situation she had quitted.
On going out, she found the family all busily employed; Edwin and his
sons were mowing in a meadow near the house, the nurse was churning,
Ellen washing the milk-pails by the stream in the valley, and Betsey
turning a cake for her breakfast. The tea-table was laid by a window,
through which a woodbine crept, diffusing a delightful fragrance; the
bees feasted on its sweetness, and the gaudy butterflies fluttered
around it; the refulgent sun gladdened the face of nature; the morning
breeze tempered its heat, and bore upon its dewy wings the sweets of
opening flowers; birds carolled their matins almost on every spray; and
scattered peasants, busied in their various labors, enlivened the
extensive prospect.
Amanda was delighted with all she saw, and wrote to her father that his
presence was only wanting to complete her pleasure. The young man who
had attended her, on receiving her letter, set out for the village, from
whence he was to return in a stage-coach to London.
The morning was passed by Amanda in arranging her little affairs,
walking about the cottage, and conversing with the nurse relative to
past times and present avocations. When the hour for dinner came, by her
desire it was carried out into the recess in the garden, where the balmy
air, the lovely scene which surrounded her, rendered it doubly
delicious.
In the evening she asked Ellen to take a walk with her, to which she
joyfully consented. "And pray, Miss," said Ellen, after she had
smartened herself up with a clean white apron, her Sunday cap, and a hat
loaded with poppy-colored ribbons, smiling as she spoke, at the pretty
image her glass reflected, "where shall we go?" "To the church-yard,"
replied Amanda. "Oh, Lord, Miss won't that be rather a dismal place to
go to?" "Indulge me, my dear Ellen," said Amanda, "in showing me the way
thither; there is one spot in it my heart wants to visit."
The church-yard lay at the entrance of the little village; the church
was a small structure, whose gothic appearance proclaimed its ancient
date; it was rendered more venerable by the lofty elms and yews which
surrounded it, apparently coeval with itself, and which cast dark shades
upon the spots where the "rude forefathers of the hamlet slept," which,
"With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implored the passing tribute of a sigh."
And it was a tribute Amanda paid, as she proceeded to the grave of Lady
Malvina; which Ellen pointed out; it was over grown with grass, and the
flag, which bore her name, green from time and damp. Amanda
involuntarily sunk on her knees, and kissed the hallowed earth; her eyes
caught the melancholy inscription. "Sweet spirit," she said, "heaven now
rewards your sufferings. Oh, my mother! if departed spirits are ever
allowed to review this world, with love ineffable you may now be
regarding your child. Oh, if she is doomed to tread a path as thorny as
the one you trod, may the same sweetness and patience that distinguished
you, support her through it! with the same pious awe, the same meek
submission, may she bow to the designations of her Creator!"
The affecting apostrophe drew tears from the tender-hearted Ellen, who
besought her not to continue longer in such a dismal place. Amanda now
arose weeping--her spirits were entirely overcome; the busy objects of
day had amused her mind, and prevented it from meditating on its sorrow;
but, in the calm solitude of the evening, they gradually revived in her
remembrance. Her father's ill-health, she feared, would increase for
want of her tender attentions; and when she thought of his distress, his
confinement, his dejection, she felt agony at their separation.
Her melancholy was noticed at the cottage. Ellen informed the nurse of
the dismal walk they had taken, which at once accounted for it; and the
good woman exerted herself to enliven her dear child, but Amanda, though
she faintly smiled, was not to be cheered, and soon retired to
bed--pale, languid, and unhappy.
Returning light, in some degree, dispelled her melancholy; she felt,
however, for the first time, that her hours would hang heavy on her
hands, deprived as she was of those delightful resources which had
hitherto diversified them. To pass her time in listless inaction, or
idle saunters about the house, was insupportable; and besides, she found
her presence in the morning was a restraint on her humble friends, who
did not deem it good manners to work before her; and to them, who, like
the bees, were obliged to lay up their wintry hoard in summer, the loss
of time was irreparable.
In the distraction of her father's affairs, she had lost her books,
implements for drawing, and musical instruments; and in the cottage she
could only find a Bible, a family prayer-book, and a torn volume of old
ballads.
"Tear heart, now I think on't," said the nurse, "you may go to the
library at Tudor Hall, where there are books enough to keep you a-going,
if you lived to the age of Methusalem himself; and very pretty reading
to be sure amongst them, or our Parson Howel would not have been going
there as often as he did to study, till he got a library of his own. The
family are all away; and as the door is open every fine day to air the
room, you will not be noticed by nopoty going into it; though, for that
matter, poor old Mrs. Abergwilly would make you welcome enough, if you
promised to take none of the books away with you. But as I know you to
be a little bashful or so, I will, if you choose, step over and ask her
leave for you to go." "It you please," said Amanda; "I should not like
to go without it." "Well, I sha'n't be long," continued the nurse, "and
Ellen shall show you the way to-day; it will be a pretty pit of a walk
for you to take every morning."
The nurse was as good as her word; she returned soon, with Mrs.
Abergwilly's permission for Amanda to read in the library whenever she
pleased. In consequence of this, she immediately proceeded to the Hall,
whose white turrets were seen from the cottage: it was a large and
antique building, embosomed in a grove; the library was on the
ground-floor, and entered by a spacious folding-door. As soon as she had
reached it, Ellen left her, and returned to the cottage; and Amanda
began with pleasure to examine the apartment, whose elegance and
simplicity struck her with immediate admiration.
On one side was a row of large windows, arched quite in the gothic
style; opposite to them were corresponding arches, in whose recesses the
bookcases were placed; round these arches were festoons of laurel,
elegantly executed in stucco-work; and above them medallions of some of
the most celebrated poets: the chimney-piece, of the finest Italian
marble, was beautifully inlaid and ornamented; the paintings on the
ceiling were all highly finished, and of the allegorical kind; and it
was difficult to determine whether the taste that designed, or the hand
that executed them, merited most praise; upon marble pedestals stood a
celestial and terrestrial globe, and one recess was entirely hung with
maps. It was a room, from its situation and appearance, peculiarly
adopted for study and contemplation; all around was solitude and
silence, save the rustling of the trees, whose dark foliage cast a
solemn shade upon the windows.
Opposite the entrance was another folding-door, which being a little
opened, Amanda could not resist the desire she felt of seeing what was
beyond it. She entered a large vaulted apartment, whose airy lightness
formed a pleasing contrast to the gloomy one she had left. The manner in
which it was fitted up, and the musical instruments, declared this to be
a music-room. It was hung with pale green damask, spotted with silver,
and bordered with festoons of roses, intermingled with light silver
sprays; the seats corresponded to the hangings; the tables were of fine
inlaid wood; and superb lustres were suspended from the ceiling, which
represented, in a masterly style, scenes from some of the pastoral
poets; the orchestra, about the centre of the room, was enclosed with a
light balustrading of white marble, elevated by a few steps.
The windows of this room commanded a pleasing prospect of a deep
romantic dale; the hills through which it wound, displaying a beautiful
diversity of woody scenery, interspersed with green pastures and barren
points of rocks: a fine fall of water fell from one of the highest of
the hills, which, broken by intervening roots and branches of trees, ran
a hundred different ways, sparkling in the sunbeams as they emerged from
the shade.
Amanda stood long at a window, enjoying this delightful prospect, and
admiring the taste which had chosen this room for amusement; thus at
once gratifying the eye and ear. On looking over the instruments, she
saw a pianoforte unlocked; she gently raised the lid, and touching the
keys, found them in tolerable order. Amanda adored music; her genius for
it was great, and had received every advantage her father could
possibly give it; in cultivating it he had laid up a fund of delight for
himself, for "his soul was a stream that flowed at pleasant sounds."
Amanda could not resist the present opportunity of gratifying her
favorite inclination. "Harmony and I," cried she, "have long been
strangers to each other." She sat down and played a little tender air:
those her father loved, recurred to her recollection, and she played a
few of them with even more than usual elegance. "Ah, dear and valued
object," she mournfully sighed, "why are you not here to share, my
pleasure?" She wiped away a starting tear of tender remembrance, and
began a simple air--
Ah gentle Hope, shall I no more
Thy cheerful influence share?
Oh must I still thy loss deplore,
And be the slave of care?
The gloom which now obscures my days
At thy approach would fly,
And glowing fancy would display
A bright unclouded sky.
Night's dreary shadows fleet away
Before the orient beam
So sorrow melts before thy sway,
Thou nymph of cheerful mien.
Ah! seek again my lonely breast,
Dislodge each painful fear;
Be once again my heavenly guest,
And stay each falling tear.
Amanda saw a number of music-books lying about; she examined a few, and
found they contained compositions of some of the most eminent masters.
They tempted her to continue a little longer at the instrument: when she
rose from it, she returned to the library, and began looking over the
books, which she found were a collection of the best that past or
present times had produced. She soon selected one for perusal, and
seated herself in the recess of a window, that she might enjoy the cool
breeze, which sighed amongst the trees. Here, delighted with her
employment, she forgot the progress of time; nor thought of moving, till
Ellen appeared with a request from the nurse, for her immediate return,
as her dinner was ready, and she was uneasy at her fasting so long.
Amanda did not hesitate to comply with the request; but she resolved
henceforth to be a constant visitor to the hall, which contained such
pleasing sources of amusement: she also settled in her own mind often
to ramble amidst its shades, which were perfectly adapted to her taste.
These resolutions she put in practice; and a week passed in this manner,
during which she heard from her father, who informed her, that,
suspecting the woman with whom he lodged to be in Colonel Belgrave's
interest, he proposed changing his abode; he desired her therefore not
to write till she heard from him again, and added, "Lord Cherbury was
daily expected."