"And let a maid thy pity share,
* * * *
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way."--GOLDSMITH.
Amanda had fainted soon after Colonel Belgrave entered the carriage, and
she was reclining on his bosom in a state of insensibility when Lord
Mortimer passed. In this situation she continued till they had gained a
solitary road, when the carriage stopped, and water, procured from an
adjacent cottage, being sprinkled on her face, she recovered; but either
by arguments or actions she was now unable to oppose Belgrave. She felt
a weakness through her whole frame, which she believed the forerunner
of death, and a languor on her mind that almost deprived it of the
perception of misery.
The refreshments offered to her she could only refuse by a motion of her
hand; and in this manner they proceeded till about nine o'clock at
night, when they entered an extensive wood, in the very centre of which
stood Colonel Belgrave's mansion. He carried Amanda himself into it, and
laid her upon a sofa in a large parlor. Some female domestics appeared
with drops and cordials, to try and recover her from the almost lifeless
state in which she lay. One of them presented a letter to the colonel,
which excited no little perturbation in his mind. It came express to
inform him that his uncle, whose estate and title he was heir to, lay at
the point of death, and that his presence was immediately required.
The colonel was not so absolutely engrossed by love as to be incapable
of attending to his interest. An addition of fortune was extremely
agreeable, as his affairs were somewhat deranged; and, as Amanda was not
in a situation at present to comply with any overtures he should make,
his resolution was immediately formed to set off without delay, and
against his return he trusted Amanda would be not only recovered, but
willing to accede to his wishes.
He dismissed the woman who had brought her a little to herself, and
taking her hand informed her of the painful necessity he was under of
departing for a short time. He also mentioned his hopes, that on his
return he should have no obstacle thrown in the way of his happiness by
her. "You must be sensible, my dear Amanda," said he, with coolness,
"that your reputation is as much gone as if you had complied with my
wishes; since it is sacrificed, why not enjoy the advantages that may,
that will certainly attend the reality of that sacrifice?" "Monster!"
cried Amanda, "your arts may have destroyed my fame, but my innocence
bids defiance to your power." "Conquer your obstinacy, Amanda," replied
he, "against I return, or I shall not promise but what I may be at last
irritated. As you will have no occasion for money here, you must excuse
me, my dear creature, if I take your purse into my own keeping. My
domestics may be faithful, when they have no inducement to the contrary;
but no bribery, no corruption, you know." He then very deliberately took
Amanda's purse and watch from her pocket, and deposited them in his own.
He had already given directions to his servants concerning their
treatment of Amanda, and now ordered them to carry her to a chamber, and
make her take some refreshment.
"Reflect, Amanda," said he, ere she retired, "on your present situation,
and timely estimate the advantages I offer to your acceptance; wealth,
pleasure, the attentions of a man who adores you, are not to be
despised. Upon my soul it grieves me to leave you, but the joys of
meeting will, I trust, pay the pangs of absence."
As he spoke, he attempted to embrace her, but she faintly shrieked, and
shrunk from his grasp. He looked provoked; but as he had no time to
lose, he reserved a declaration of his anger for another opportunity,
and directly set off for his uncle's.
Amanda was supported to a chamber, and lay down in her clothes on a bed.
They offered her bread and wine, but she was too sick to touch any. To
remonstrate with the insolent looking creatures who surrounded her she
knew would be unavailing, and she turned her face on the pillow to
stifle her sobs, as she believed they would exult in her distress. Death
she thought approaching, and the idea of being separated from the dear
objects who would have soothed its last pangs, was dreadful. Her father
in agony, and Oscar, her beloved brother, bewailing her with tears of
sorrow, were the images fancy presented to her view.
"Dear objects of my love," she softly exclaimed, "Amanda shall no more
behold you, but her last sigh will be breathed for you. Ah! why, why,"
she cried, "did I suffer myself to be separated from my father?"
A young woman leaned over Amanda, and surveyed her with the most
malignant scrutiny. She was daughter to Belgrave's steward, and neither
she nor her father possessed sufficient virtue to make them reject the
offers Belgrave made them on her account. His attachment to her was
violent, but transient, and in the height of it he made her mistress of
the mansion she now occupied, which character she maintained with
tyrannic sway over the rest of the domestics. Belgrave was really
ignorant of the violence of her temper, and had no idea she would dare
dispute his inclinations, or disobey his orders. He believed she would
be subservient to both, and from this belief, gave Amanda particularly
into her charge.
But scarcely had he departed, ere she swore, "that let the consequence
be what it would, the vile wretch he had brought into the house to
insult her should never remain in it. She shall tramp," cried she,
"though I follow her myself when he returns; for such a little hussey
shall never triumph over me."
The servants, ignorant and timorous, did not attempt to oppose her.
"Come, madam," said she, suddenly seizing Amanda's arm, and pulling her
from the pillow, "have done with these languishing airs, and march."
"What do you mean?" cried Amanda, trembling at her inflamed countenance.
"Why, I mean you shall quit this house directly; and I wonder Colonel
Belgrave could have the assurance to bring such a creature as you into
it." "You mistake, indeed," said Amanda; "treachery, not inclination,
brought me into it, and I am not what you suppose. If, as you say, you
will allow me to depart, I shall ever regard you as my friend; and in
every prayer I offer up to Heaven for myself, you shall be remembered."
"Oh, dear! but you shall not impose upon me so easily. Come," continued
she, turning to a maid, "and help me to conduct this fine lady to the
hall door." "Gracious Heaven!" said Amanda, who by this time was taken,
or rather dragged from the bed, "what are you about doing with me?
Though I rejoice to quit the house, yet surely, surely," she cried, and
her soul recoiled at the idea, "without a guide at this hour of the
night, you will not turn me from it."
She then mentioned Colonel Belgrave's having deprived her of her purse
and watch, and besought the woman in the most pathetic terms, to supply
her with a small sum, which she solemnly assured her should be returned
as soon as she reached her friends; and ended with saying, she should
depart with gratitude and joy if she complied with her request, and
allowed some one to guide her to a place where she might procure a
carriage.
"Such madams as you," replied the imperious woman, "are never at a loss
for means of procuring money, or a place to go to. I see through your
art well enough; you want me to pity you, that I may let you stay till
your colonel returns. But who would be fool then, I wonder? The tables,
I warrant, would soon be turned upon me. No, no; out you go this
moment." So saying, she rudely seized Amanda, and assisted by another
woman, hurried her down stairs, and out of the house directly: they
carried her to an intricate part of wood, and then ran back, leaving the
helpless mourner leaning against a tree.
Amanda looked around her. Dark and awful were the shades of the wood. No
light appeared but what came from a few wandering stars, which only
served to render darkness visible. "Have mercy upon me, Heaven!" groaned
Amanda, as she felt herself sinking to the earth. The cold acted as a
kind of restorative, and almost immediately revived her. She rested her
head against a little bank, and as she thus reclined, tender sadness
pervaded her soul the idea of her father's sorrow when he heard of her
fate. "When he hears," cried she, "that I was driven from the house, as
unworthy of pity or protection from any being, that his Amanda, whom he
cherished in his bosom, as the darling of his age, was denied the pity
he would have shown the greatest wretch that crawls upon the earth, and
that she perished without shelter, it will break his heart entirely.
Poor Oscar, too--alas! I shall be a source of wretchedness to both. Will
Lord Mortimer lament when he hears of my fate? Alas! I cannot believe
that he will. He that could leave me in the arms of insensibility, and
so readily believe ill of me, must have a heart steeled against
compassion for my sufferings. But my unhappy father and brother will
never doubt my innocence, and by them I shall be tenderly and truly
mourned."
The idea of their sufferings at last recalled her wandering thoughts,
and pity for those sufferings made her endeavor to support her own, that
she might be able to make some efforts for preserving a life so precious
to them. Besides, as she reflected, she could not but attribute her
expulsion from the house of infamy to the immediate interposition of
Providence in her favor: and whilst her heart swelled with gratitude at
the idea, her fortitude gradually returned. She arose, but the vigor of
her nerves was not equal to the ardor of her intentions. She walked on,
and as she proceeded, the gloom grew more profound, the paths were
intricate, and her progress was often impeded by the roots of trees, and
the branches that grew about them. After wandering about a considerable
time, she at last began to think that, instead of gaining the skirts,
she had penetrated into the very centre of the wood, and that to quit it
till morning would be impossible. Yielding to this idea, or rather to
her excessive weariness, she was seeking for a place to sit down on,
when a faint light glimmered before her. She instantly darted through
the path from whence it gleamed, and found herself at the extremity of
the wood, and that the light proceeded from a small hamlet contiguous to
it. Thither she walked, as fast as her trembling limbs would carry her.
A profound stillness reigned around, only interrupted by the hoarse and
hollow barking of some distant dogs, which, in such an hour, had
something particularly solemn in it. The stillness, and sudden
disappearance of lights from various windows, convinced Amanda that
every cottage was closed for the night; "and were they open," said she,
"I perhaps should be denied access to any, deprived as I am of the means
of rewarding kindness." She shuddered at the idea of passing a night
unsheltered. "It is now, indeed," said she, "I really know what it is to
feel for the houseless children of want." She moved softly along. The
echo of her own steps alarmed her. She had neatly reached the end of the
hamlet when, before a neat cottage, divided from the others by a clump
of old trees, she saw a venerable man, who might well have passed for an
ancient hermit. His gray locks thinly shaded his forehead; an expression
of deep and pensive thought was visible in his countenance; his arms
were folded on his breast, and his eyes were raised with a tender
melancholy to heaven, as if that heaven he contemplated was now the
abode of some kindred and lamented spirit. Surely such a being, thought
she, will pity me. She approached him--stood close to him, yet was
unnoticed. Thrice she attempted to speak, and thrice her heart failed
her. At last she summoned all her courage to her aid, and faintly
articulated, "Pity----," she could add no more, but fainted at his feet.
The stranger's mind was fraught with all the benevolence his countenance
depictured. The transient glance he had caught of Amanda interested
every tender feeling. He called to his servant, an elderly woman, his
only companion in the cottage, to assist him in conveying her in. This
woman's heart was as tender as her master's, and the youth, the beauty,
and forlorn situation of Amanda, equally excited their wonder and pity.
It was many minutes ere she opened her eyes, and when she did, her
senses were quite bewildered. "And my father! alas! my father, I shall
never more behold him," was all she could articulate.
She was supported to a small chamber; the old woman undressed her, put
her to bed, and sat up with her the remainder of the night. Amanda often
started; she raved continually of Belgrave, the author of her woes, and
betrayed the strongest horror. "The wound he had inflicted on her
heart," she said, "the hand of death could only heal." She mentioned the
cruelty of the marchioness, called upon her father to save her from
destruction, and reproached Mortimer for aiding to overwhelm her in
disgrace. She continued in this situation three days, during which the
old man and his faithful servant watched her with unremitted attention.
A neighboring apothecary was summoned to her aid, and a girl from one of
the cottages procured to sit up with her at night. The old man
frequently knelt by the bedside, watching with anxiety for a favorable
symptom. Her incoherent expressions pierced him to the heart: he felt,
from mournful sympathy, for the father she so pathetically mentioned,
and invoked Heaven to restore her to him.
The afternoon of the third day, Amanda, after a long slumber, awoke,
perfectly restored to her senses; it was many minutes, however, after
her awaking, ere she recollected all the circumstances that had caused
her present situation. She at last opened the curtain, and perceived the
old woman, whom we shall hereafter call Eleanor, seated by the bedside.
"I fear," said she, with a languid smile, "I have been the occasion of a
great deal of trouble." "No, no," replied the kind Eleanor, delighted to
hear her speak so calmly, and drawing back a little of the curtain at
the same time to observe her looks.
Amanda inquired how long she had been ill. Eleanor informed her, and
added, "Heaven, my dear child, was kind to you, in throwing you in my
master's way, who delights in befriending the helpless." "Heaven will
reward him," exclaimed Amanda.
The chamber was gloomy; she requested one of the shutters might be
opened. Eleanor complied with her desire, and a ray of the declining sun
darting through the casement, cheered her pensive heart. She perfectly
remembered the venerable figure she had beheld on the threshold of the
cottage, and was impatient to express her gratitude to him. The next
day, she trusted, would give her an opportunity of doing so, as she then
resolved, if possible, to rise. The wish of her soul was to be with her
father ere he could receive any intimation of what had happened. She
resolved to communicate to her benevolent host the incidents which had
placed her in such a situation; and she flattered herself, on hearing
them, he would accommodate her with the means of returning to Ireland:
if unable (unwilling she could not think she should find him) to do
this, she then intended writing to her father. This measure, however,
she fervently trusted, she should have no occasion to take, as she well
knew the shock such a letter would give him.
Contrary to the inclination of Eleanor, she rose the next day, and, as
soon as she was dressed, sent to request Mr. Howel's company. Eleanor
had informed her of her master's name. The chamber was on a ground
floor: before the windows were a row of neat white cottages, and behind
them rose a range of lofty hills, covered to the very summit with trees,
now just bursting into verdure. Before the cottage ran a clear murmuring
rivulet, at which some young girls were washing clothes, whilst others
spread them upon hedges, and all beguiled their labor with singing,
chatting, and laughing together.
"Ah! happy creatures!" cried Amanda, "screened by your native hills, you
know nothing of the vices or miseries of the great world; no snares lurk
beneath the flowery paths you tread, to wring your hearts with anguish,
and nip the early blossoms of your youth."
The old man appeared, and interrupted her meditations. When he beheld
the pale face of Amanda, beaming with angelic sweetness; when he saw her
emaciated hand extended towards him, while her soft voice uttered her
grateful acknowledgments, his emotions could not be suppressed: he
pressed her hand between his: tears rolled down the furrows of his face,
and he exclaimed, "I thank the Almighty for reviving this sweet flower."
A deep sob from Amanda proved how much he had affected her feelings.
He was alarmed, and hastily endeavored to compose his own, out of regard
to hers.
When a little composed, with grateful sweetness she continued to thank
him for his kindness. "Pity," said she, "is a sweet emotion to excite;
yet from you, without esteem, it would be humiliating; and esteem I
cannot flatter myself with obtaining, till I have accounted for being a
wretched wanderer." She then gave a brief account of her father and the
events of her life.
"Ah! my dear," cried the old man, as she finished her narrative, "you
have reason, indeed, to regret your knowledge of Belgrave; but the
sorrow he has occasioned you, I believe and trust, will be but
transient. That which he has given me will be lasting as my life. You
look astonished. Alas! but for him, I might now have been blessed with a
daughter as lovely and as amiable as Fitzalan's. I see you are too
delicate to express the curiosity my words have inspired, but I shall
not hesitate to gratify it. My relation will draw the tear of pity from
your eye; but the sorrows of others often reconcile us to our own."