"And why should such, within herself, she cried,
Lock the lost wealth, a thousand want beside."--PARNELL.
Amanda was sitting alone in the drawing-room one morning, when a
gentleman was shown into it, to wait for Lady Greystock. The stranger
was about the middle period of life; his dress announced him a military
man, and his threadbare coat seemed to declare that whatever laurels he
had gathered, they were barren ones. His form and face were interesting;
infirmity appeared to press upon one, and sorrow had deeply marked the
other, yet without despoiling it of a certain expression which indicated
the hilarity nature had once stamped upon it. His temples were sunk, and
his cheek faded to a sickly hue. Amanda felt immediate respect and
sensibility for the interesting figure before her. The feelings of her
soul, the early lessons of her youth, had taught her to reverence
distress; and never, perhaps, did she think it so peculiarly affecting,
as when in a military garb.
The day was uncommonly severe, and the stranger shivered with the cold.
"I declare, young lady," cried he, as he took the chair which Amanda had
placed for him by the fire, "I think I should not tremble more before an
enemy, than I do before this day. I don't know but what it is as
essential for a subaltern officer to stand cold as well as fire."
Amanda smiled, and resumed her work. She was busily employed making a
trimming of artificial flowers for Lady Greystock, to present to a young
lady, from whose family she had received some obligations. This was a
cheap mode of returning them, as Amanda's materials were used.
"Your employment is an entertaining one," said the stranger, "and your
roses literally without thorns; such, no doubt, as you expect to gather
in your path through life."
"No," replied Amanda, "I have no such expectation."
"And yet," said he, "how few at your time of life, particularly if
possessed of your advantages, could make such a declaration."
"Whoever had reflection undoubtedly would," replied Amanda.
"That I allow," cried he; "but how few do we find with reflection?--from
the young it is banished, as the rigid tyrant that would forbid the
enjoyment of the pleasures they pant after;--and from the old it is too
often expelled, as an enemy to that forgetfulness which can alone insure
their tranquillity."
"But in both, I trust," said Amanda, "you will allow there are
exceptions."
"Perhaps there are; yet often, when conscience has no reason to dread,
sensibility has cause to fear reflection, which not only revives the
recollection of happy hours, but inspires such a regret for their loss,
as almost unfits the soul for any exertions; 'tis indeed beautifully
described in these lines--
"Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever
And turning all the past to pain."
Amanda attentively watched him, and thought what he said appeared
particularly applicable to himself, as his countenance assumed a more
dejected expression. He revived, however, in a few moments.
"I have, my dear young lady," continued he, smiling, "beguiled you most
soberly, as Lady Grace says, into conversation. I have, however, given
you an opportunity of amusing your fancy by drawing a comparison between
an old veteran and a young soldier; but though you may allow him more
animation, I trust you will not do me so much injustice as to allow him
more taste: while he merely extolled the lustre of your eyes, I should
admire the mildness which tempered that lustre; while he praised the
glow of your cheek, I should adore that sensibility which had power, in
a moment, to augment or diminish it."
At this instant Lady Greystock entered the room--she entered it with the
swell of importance, and a haughty expression of contempt in her
features.
The stranger rose from his chair, and his paleness increased.
"So, Mr. Rushbrook," at last drawled out her ladyship. "So, sir: but
pray be seated," waving her hand at the same time.
Amanda now retired: she had lingered a few moments in the room, under
the pretence of putting her work out of her ladyship's way, to discover
who the stranger was.
Rushbrook had been represented to her as artful, treacherous, and
contemptible. His appearance was almost a sufficient refutation of those
charges, and she began to think they never would have been laid against
him by any other being than Lady Greystock, from a desire of
depreciating her adversary. In her ladyship she had seen much to dislike
since she resided with her; she saw that the temper, like the person, is
often allowed to be in dishabille at home.
She felt even warmly interested about Rushbrook; she had heard of his
large family; and, from his appearance, she conjectured they must be in
distress. There was a kind of humorous sadness in his manner which
affected her even more than a settled melancholy perhaps would have
done, as it implied the efforts of a noble heart to repel sorrow; and if
there cannot be a more noble, neither, surely, can there be a more
affecting sight, than that of a good and brave man struggling with
adversity.
As she leaned pensively against the window, reflecting on the various
inequalities of fortune, yet still believing they were designed by a
wise Providence, like hill and valley, mutually to benefit each other,
she saw Rushbrook cross the street; his walk was the slow and lingering
walk of dejection and disappointment. He raised his hand to his eyes,
Amanda supposed to wipe away his tears, and her own fell at the
supposition. The severity of the day had increased; a heavy shower of
snow was falling, against which poor Rushbrook had no shelter but his
threadbare coat. Amanda was unutterably affected; and when he
disappeared from her sight, she fell into a sentimental soliloquy,
something in the style of Yorick.
"Was I mistress," exclaimed she, as she beheld the splendid carriages
passing and repassing,----"was I mistress of one of those carriages, an
old soldier like Rushbrook should not be exposed to the inclemency of a
wintry sky; neither should his coat be threadbare, or his heart
oppressed with anguish! If I saw a tear upon his cheek I would say it
had no business there, for comfort was about revisiting him." As she
spoke, the idea of Lord Mortimer occurred. Her tears were suspended, and
her cheek began to glow.
"Yes, poor Rushbrook!" she exclaimed, "perhaps the period is not far
distant when a bounteous Providence, through the hands of Amanda, may
relieve thy wants; when Mortimer himself may be her assistant in the
office of benevolence!"
Lady Greystock's woman now appeared, to desire she would come down to
her lady. She immediately obeyed the summons, with a secret hope of
hearing something of the conference. Her ladyship received her with an
exulting laugh.
"I have good news to tell you, my dear," exclaimed she; "that poor
wretch, Rushbrook, has lost the friend who was to have supported him in
the lawsuit; and the lawyers, finding the sheet-anchor gone, have
steered off, and left him to shift for himself. The miserable creature
and his family must certainly starve. Only think of his assurance. He
came to say, indeed, he would now be satisfied with a compromise."
"Well, madam?" said Amanda.
"Well, madam," repeated her ladyship, mimicking her manner; "I told him
I must be a fool indeed, if ever I consented to such a thing, after his
effrontery in attempting to litigate the will of his much-abused uncle,
my dear, good Sir Geoffry. No, no; I bid him proceed in the suit, as all
my lawyers were prepared; and, after so much trouble on both sides, it
would be a pity the thing came to nothing." "As your ladyship, however,
knows his extreme distress, no doubt you will relieve it." "Why, pray,"
said her ladyship, smartly, "do you think he has any claim upon me?"
"Yes," replied Amanda, "if not upon your justice, at least upon your
humanity." "So you would advise me to fling away my money upon him?"
"Yes," replied Amanda, smiling, "I would. And, as your ladyship likes
the expression, have you fling it away profusely." "Well, well,"
answered she, "when you arrive at my age, you will know the real value
of wealth." "I trust madam," said Amanda, with spirit, "I know its real
value already. We only estimate it differently."
"And pray," asked her ladyship, with a sneer, "how may you estimate it?"
"As the means, madam, of dispensing happiness around us. Of giving
shelter to the houseless child of want, and joy to the afflicted heart;
as a sacred deposit intrusted to us by an Almighty Power for those
purposes, which, if so applied, will nourish placid and delightful
reflections, that, like soothing friends, will crowd around us in the
bed of sickness or death, alleviating the pains of one, and the terrors
of the other."
"Upon my word," exclaimed Lady Greystock, "a fine flowery speech, and
well calculated for a sentimental novel or a moral treatise for the
improvement of youth. But I advise you, my dear, in future, to keep your
queer and romantic notions to yourself, or else it will be suspected you
have made romances your study; for you have just spoken as one of their
heroines would have done."
Amanda made no reply; yet as she beheld her ladyship seated in an
easy-chair, by a blazing fire, with a large bowl of rich soup before
her, which she took every morning, she could not forbear secretly
exclaiming: "Hard-hearted woman! engrossed by your own gratifications,
no ray of compassion can soften your nature for the misfortunes of
others. Sheltered yourself from the tempests, you see it falling,
without pity, on the head of wretchedness; and while you feast on
luxuries, think without emotion of those who want even common
necessaries."
In the evening they went to a large party at the marchioness's, but
though the scene was gay and brilliant, it could not remove the
pensiveness of Amanda's spirits. The emaciated form of Rushbrook,
returning to his desolate family, dwelt upon her mind. A little, she
thought, as she surveyed the magnificence of the apartments, and the
splendor of the company which crowded them, a little from this parade of
vanity and wealth, would give relief to many a child of indigence. Never
had the truth of the following lines so forcibly struck her
imagination:--
"Ah, little think the gay, licentious crowd
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;
Ah, little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the sad variety of pain.
How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery, sore pierced by wintry winds?
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty?"
From such reflections as these she was disturbed by the entrance of Sir
Charles Bingley. As usual, he took his station by her, and in a few
minutes after him Lord Mortimer appeared. A party for vingt-un was
formed, in which Amanda joined, from a wish of avoiding the assiduities
of Sir Charles; but he took care to secure a seat next hers, and Lord
Mortimer sat opposite to them.
"Bingley," said a gentleman, after they had been some time at the table,
"you are certainly the most changeable fellow in the world. About three
weeks ago you were hurrying everything for a journey to Ireland, as if
life and death depended on your expedition, and here I still find you
loitering about the town."
"I deny the imputation of changeableness," replied the baronet; "all my
actions are regulated," and he glanced at Amanda, "by one source, one
object."
Amanda blushed, and caught, at that moment, a penetrating look from Lord
Mortimer. Her situation was extremely disagreeable. She dreaded his
attentions would be imputed to encouragement from her; she had often
tried to suppress them, and she resolved her next efforts should be more
resolute.
Sir Charles reached Pall Mall the next morning just as Lady Greystock
was stepping into her chariot, to acquaint her lawyer of Rushbrook's
visit. She informed him that Miss Fitzalan was in the drawing-room, and
he flew up to her.
"You find," said he, "by what you heard last night, that my conduct has
excited some surprise. I assure you my friends think I must absolutely
be deranged, to relinquish so suddenly a journey I appeared so anxious
to take. Suffer me," continued he, taking her hand, "to assign the true
reason for this apparent change." "Sir Charles," replied Amanda, "'tis
time to terminate this trifling."
"Oh, let it then be terminated," said he, with eagerness, "by your
consenting to my happiness, by your accepting a hand, tendered to you
with the most ardent affections of my heart."
With equal delicacy and tenderness, he then urged her acceptance of
proposals which were as disinterested as the most romantic generosity
could desire them to be.
Amanda felt really concerned that he had made them; the grateful
sensibility of her nature was hurt at the idea of giving him pain.
"Believe me, Sir Charles," said she, "I am truly sensible of the honor
of your addresses; but I should deem myself unworthy of the favorable
opinion which excited them, if I delayed a moment assuring you that
friendship was the only return in my power to make for them."
The impetuous passions of Sir Charles were now all in commotion. He
started from his chair and traversed the apartment in breathless
agitation. "I will not, Miss Fitzalan," said he, resuming his seat
again, "believe you inflexible. I will not believe that you can think I
shall so easily resign an idea which I have so long cherished with
rapture."
"Surely, Sir Charles," somewhat alarmed, "you cannot accuse me of having
encouraged that idea?"
"Oh, no," sighed he passionately, "to me you were always uniformly
cold." "And from whence then proceeded such an idea?"
"From the natural propensity we all have to deceive ourselves, and to
believe that whatever we wish will be accomplished. Ah! Miss Fitzalan,
deprive me not of so sweet a belief. I will not at present urge you to
any material step to which you are averse; I will only entreat for
permission to hope that time, perseverance, unremitted attention, may
make some impression on you, and at last produce a change in my favor."
"Never, Sir Charles, will I give rise to a hope which I think cannot be
realized. A little reflection will convince you you should not be
displeased at my being so explicit. We are, at this moment, both
perhaps, too much discomposed to render a longer conference desirable.
Pardon me, therefore, if I now terminate it, and, be assured, I shall
never lose a grateful remembrance of the honor you intended me, or
forget the friendship I professed for Sir Charles Bingley."
She then withdrew, without any obstruction from him. Regret and
disappointment seemed to have suspended his faculties; but it was a
momentary suspension, and on recovering them he quitted the house.
His pride, at first, urged him to give up Amanda forever; but his
tenderness soon opposed this resolution. He had, as he himself
acknowledged, a propensity to believe, that whatever he wished was easy
to accomplish; this propensity proceeded from the easiness with which
his inclinations had hitherto been gratified. Flattering himself that
the coldness of Amanda proceeded more from natural reserve than
particular indifference to him, he still hoped she might be induced to
favor him. She was so superior, in his opinion, to every woman he had
seen, so truly calculated to render him happy, that, as the violence of
offended pride abated, he resolved, without another effort, not to give
her up. Without knowing it, he had rambled to St. James's Square, and
having heard of the friendship subsisting between Lord Cherbury and
Fitzalan, he deemed his lordship a proper person to apply to on the
present occasion, thinking, that if he interested himself in his favor,
he might yet be successful. He accordingly repaired to his house, and
was shown into an apartment where the earl and Lord Mortimer were
sitting together. After paying the usual compliments, "I am come, my
lord," said he, somewhat abruptly, "to entreat your interest in an
affair which materially concerns my happiness, and trust your lordship
will excuse my entreaty, when I inform you it relates to Miss Fitzalan."
The earl, with much politeness, assured him, "He should feel happy in an
opportunity of serving him," and said, "he did him but justice in
supposing him particularly interested about Miss Fitzalan, not only as
the daughter of his old friend, but from her own great merit."
Sir Charles then acquainted him with the proposals he had just made
her, and her absolute rejection of them; and expressed his hope that
Lord Cherbury would try to influence her in his favor.
"'Tis very extraordinary, indeed," cried his lordship, "that Miss
Fitzalan should decline such an honorable, such an advantageous
proposal. Are you sure, Sir Charles, there is no prior attachment in the
case?"
"I never heard of one, my lord, and I believe none exists." Lord
Mortimer's countenance lowered at this, but, happily, its gloom was
unperceived.
"I will write to-day," said the earl, "to Mr. Fitzalan, and mention your
proposal to him in the terms it deserves. Except authorized by him, you
must, Sir Charles, excuse my personal interference in the affair. I have
no doubt, indeed, but he will approve of your addresses, and you may
then depend on my seconding them with all my interest."
This promise satisfied Sir Charles, and he soon after withdrew. Lord
Mortimer was now pretty well convinced of the state of Amanda's heart.
Under this conviction, he delayed not many minutes, after Sir Charles's
departure, going to Pall Mall; and having particularly inquired whether
Lady Greystock was out, and being answered in the affirmative, he
ascended to the drawing-room, to which Amanda had again returned.