"Mine eyes were half closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine
ear; it was like the rising breeze, that whirls at first, the
thistle's beard, that flies, dark shadowy over the
grass."--OSSIAN.
Amanda went every morning to the hall, where she alternately played and
read: in the evening she again returned to it: but instead of staying in
the library, generally took a book from thence, and read at the foot of
some old moss-covered tree, delighted to hear its branches gently
rustling over her head, and myriads of summer flies buzzing in the sunny
ray, from which she was sheltered. When she could no longer see to read,
she deposited her book in the place she had taken it from, and rambled
to the deepest recesses of the grove: this was the time she loved to
saunter carelessly along, while all the jarring passions that obtruding
care excited were hushed to peace by the solemnity and silence of the
hour, and the soul felt at once composed and elevated: this was the time
she loved to think on days departed, and sketch those scenes of felicity
which, she trusted, the days to come would realize. Sometimes she gave
way to all the enthusiasm of a young and romantic fancy, and pictured to
herself the time when the shades she wandered beneath were
----the haunts of meditation,
The scenes, where ancient bards the inspiring breath
Ecstatic felt, and, from this world retired,
Conversed with angels, and immortal forms,
On gracious errands bent; to save the fall
Of Virtue struggling on the brink of Vice.--THOMSON.
Her health gradually grew better, as the tranquillity of her mind
increased: a faint blush again began to tinge her cheek, and her lovely
eyes beamed a placid lustre, through their long silken lashes.
She returned one evening from her usual ramble, with one of those
unaccountable depressions on her spirits to which, in a greater or
lesser degree, almost every one is subject. When she retired to bed, her
sleeping thoughts took the tincture of her waking ones, and images of
the most affecting nature arose in her mind: she went through the whole
story of her mother's sufferings, and suddenly dreamt she beheld her
expiring under the greatest torture; and that while she wept her fate
the clouds opened, and discovered her adorned with seraphic beauty,
bending with a benignant look towards her child, as if to assure her of
her present happiness. From this dream Amanda was roused by the softest,
sweetest strains of music she had ever heard: she started with
amazement; she opened her eyes, and saw a light around her, far
exceeding that of twilight. Her dream had made a deep impression on her,
and a solemn awe diffused itself over her mind; she trembled
universally; but soon did the emotion of awe give way to that of
surprise, when she heard on the outside of the window the following
lines from Cowley, sung in a manly and exquisitely melodious voice, the
music which awoke her being only a symphony to them:--
Awake, awake, my lyre,
And tell thy silent master's humble tale
In sounds that may prevail;
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire.
Though so exalted she,
And I so lowly be,
Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony.
Hark, how the strings awake,
And though the moving hand approach not near
Themselves with awful fear,
A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try,
Now all thy charms apply,
Revenge upon her ear the conquest of her eye.
Weak lyre, thy virtue sure
Is useless here, since thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound,
And she to wound, but not to cure.
Too weak, too, wilt thou prove
My passion to remove.
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
Sleep, sleep again, my lyre,
For thou canst never tell my humble tale,
In sounds that will prevail,
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire.
All thy vain mirth lay by,
Bid thy strings silent lie,
Sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die.
Ere the voice ceased, Amanda had quite shaken off the effects of her
dream; and when all again was silent, she drew back the curtain, and saw
it was the moon, then at the full, which, beaming through the calico
window-curtains, cast such a light around her. The remainder of the
night was passed in ruminating on this strange incident; it was evident
the serenade was addressed to her; but she had not seen any one since
her arrival in the neighborhood from whom she could have expected such a
compliment, or, indeed, believed capable of paying it; that the person
who paid it was one of no mean accomplishments, from his performance,
she could not doubt. She resolved to conceal the incident, but to make
such inquiries the next morning as might possibly lead to a discovery.
From the answers those inquiries received, the clergyman was the only
person whom, with any degree of probability, she could fix on. She had
never seen him, and was at a loss to conceive how he knew anything of
her, till it occurred he might have seen her going to Tudor Hall, or
rambling about it.
From the moment this idea arose, Amanda deemed it imprudent to go to the
hall; yet, so great was the pleasure she experienced there, she could
not think of relinquishing it without the greatest reluctance. She at
last considered, if she had a companion, it would remove any appearance
of impropriety. Ellen was generally employed at knitting; Amanda
therefore saw, that going to the hall could not interfere with her
employment, and accordingly asked her attendance thither, which the
other joyfully agreed to.
"While you look over the books," said Ellen, as they entered the
library, "I will just step away about a little business." "I beg you may
not be long absent," cried Amanda. Ellen assured her that she would not,
and flew off directly. She had in truth seen, in an enclosure near the
hall, Tim Chip, the carpenter, at work, who was the rural Adonis of
these shades. He had long selected Ellen for the fair nymph of his
affection, which distinction excited not a little jealousy among the
village girls, and considerably increased the vanity of Ellen, who
triumphed in a conquest that at once gratified her love, and exalted her
above her companions.
Amanda entered the music-room. The melodious strains she had heard the
preceding night dwelt upon her memory, and she sat down to the piano and
attempted them; her ear soon informed her the attempt was successful;
and her voice (as the words were familiar to her) then accompanied the
instrument--"Heavenly sounds!" exclaimed some one behind her, as she
concluded singing. Amanda started in terror and confusion from the
chair, and beheld a tall and elegant young man standing by it. "Good
heaven!" cried she, blushing and hastily moving to the door, scarcely
knowing what she said, "where can Ellen be?" "And do you think," said
the stranger, springing forward and intercepting her passage, "I shall
let you escape in this manner? No; really, my charming girl, I should be
the most insensible of beings if I did not avail myself of the happy
opportunity chance afforded of entreating leave to be introduced to
you." As he spoke, he gently seized her hand and carried it to his lips.
"Be assured, sir," said Amanda, "the chance, as you call it, which
brought us together, is to me most unpleasant, as I fear it has exposed
me to greater freedom than I have been accustomed to." "And is it
possible," said he, "you really feel an emotion of anger? Well, I will
relinquish my lovely captive if she condescendingly promises to continue
here a few minutes longer, and grants me permission to attend her home."
"I insist on being immediately released," exclaimed Amanda. "I obey,"
cried he, softly pressing her hand, and then resigning it--"you are
free; would to Heaven I could say the same!"
Amanda hurried to the grove, but in her confusion took the wrong path,
and vainly cast her eyes around in search of Ellen. The stranger
followed, and his eyes wandered with hers in every direction they took.
"And why," cried he, "so unpropitious to my wish of introduction?--a
wish it was impossible not to feel from the moment you were seen."
Amanda made no reply, but still hurried on, and her fatigue and
agitation were soon too much for her present weak state of health, and,
quite overpowered, she was at last compelled to stop, and lean against a
tree for support. Exercise had diffused its softest bloom over her
cheek; her hair fluttered in the breeze that played around her, and her
eyes, with the beautiful embarrassment of modesty, were bent to the
ground to avoid the stranger's ardent gaze. He watched her with looks of
the most impassioned admiration, and softly exclaimed, as if the
involuntary exclamation of rapture, "Good heavens, what an angel!
Fatigue has made you ill," he said; "and 'tis your haste to avoid me
has occasioned this disorder. Could you look into my heart, you would
then find there was no reason to fly me; the emotions that lovely face
excites in a soul of sensibility could never be inimical to your
safety."
At this moment Amanda perceived Ellen leaping over a style; she had at
last left Mr. Chip, after promising to meet him in the evening at the
cottage, where the blind harper was to attend to give them a dance. She
ran forward, but, on seeing the stranger, started back in the utmost
amazement. "Bless me!" said Amanda, "I thought you would never come."
"You go, then," said the stranger, "and give me no hope of a second
interview. Oh say," taking her hand, "will you not allow me to wait upon
you?" "It is utterly impossible," replied Amanda, "and I shall be quite
distressed if longer detained." "See, then," said he, opening a gate
which led from the grove into the road, "how like a courteous knight I
release you from painful captivity. But think not, thou beautiful though
cruel fair one," he continued gayly, "I shall resign my hopes of yet
conquering thy obduracy."
"Oh, Lord!" cried Ellen, as they quitted the grove, "how did you meet
with Lord Mortimer?" "Lord Mortimer?" repeated Amanda, "Yes, himself,
inteed," said Ellen; "and I think in all my porn days I was never more
surprised than when I saw him with you, looking so soft and so sweet
upon you; to be sure he is a beautiful man, and besides that, the young
Lort of Tudor Hall." Amanda's spirits were greatly flurried when she
heard he was the master of the mansion, where he had found her seated
with as much composure as if possessor of it.
As they were entering the cottage, Ellen, twitching Amanda's sleeve,
cried, "Look! look!" Amanda, hastily turning round, perceived Lord
Mortimer, who had slowly followed them half way down the lane. On being
observed, he smiled, and kissing his hand, retired.
Nurse was quite delighted at her child being seen by Lord Mortimer
(which Ellen informed her of): her beauty, she was convinced, had
excited his warmest admiration; and admiration might lead (she did not
doubt) to something more important. Amanda's heart fluttered with an
agreeable sensation, as Ellen described to her mother the tender looks
with which Lord Mortimer regarded her. She was at first inclined to
believe, that in his lordship she had found the person whose melody so
agreeably disturbed her slumbers; but a minute's reflection convinced
her this belief must be erroneous: it was evident (or she would have
heard of it) that Lord Mortimer had only arrived that day at Tudor Hall:
and even had he seen her before, upon consideration she thought it
improbable that he should have taken the trouble of coming in such a
manner to a person in a station, to all appearance, so infinitely
beneath his own. Yes, it was plain, chance alone had led him to the
apartment where she sat; and the commonplace gallantry fashionable men
are accustomed to, had dictated the language he addressed to her. She
half sighed, as she settled the matter thus in her mind, and again fixed
on the curate as her serenader. Well, she was determined, if ever he
came in her way, and dropped a hint of an attachment, she would
immediately crush any hope she might have the vanity to entertain!