"With dirges due, and sad array,
Slow through the church-way path I saw him borne."
It will now be necessary to account for the sudden appearance of Lord
Mortimer at the convent. Our reader may recollect that we left him in
London, in the deepest affliction for the supposed perfidy of Amanda--an
affliction which knew no diminution from time; neither the tenderness of
his aunt, Lady Martha Dormer, nor the kind consideration his father
showed for him, who, for the present, ceased to importune him about Lady
Euphrasia, could have any lenient effect upon him--he pined in thought,
and felt a distaste to all society. He at last began to think, that
though Amanda had been unhappily led astray, she might, ere this, have
repented of her error, and forsaken Colonel Belgrave. To know whether
she had done so, or whether she could be prevailed upon to give him up,
he believed, would be an alleviation of his sorrows. No sooner had he
persuaded himself of this, than he determined on going to Ireland,
without delay, to visit Captain Fitzalan, and, if she was not returned
to his protection, advise with him about some method of restoring her to
it.
He told Lord Cherbury he thought an excursion into Wales would be of
service to him. His lordship agreed in thinking it might, and, secretly
delighted that all danger relative to Amanda was over, gladly concurred
in whatever could please his son, flattering himself that, on his return
to London, he would no lodger raise any objections to an alliance with
the fair Scotch heiress.
Lord Mortimer travelled with as much expedition to Holyhead as if
certain that perfect happiness, not a small alleviation of misery, would
be the recompense of his journey. He concealed from his aunt the real
motives which actuated him to it, blushing, even to himself, at the
weakness which he still felt relative to Amanda. When he crossed the
water he again set off post, attended on horseback only by his own man.
Within one mile of Castle Carberry he met the little mournful procession
approaching, which was attending poor Fitzalan to his last home. The
carriage stopped to let them pass, and in the last of the group he
perceived Johnaten, who, at the same moment, recognized him. Johnaten,
with much surprise in his countenance, stepped up to the carriage, and,
after bowing, and humbly hoping his lordship was well, with a melancholy
shake of his head informed him whose remains he was following.
"Captain Fitzalan dead!" repeated Lord Mortimer, with a face as pale as
death, and a faltering voice, while his heart sunk within him at the
idea that his father was, in some degree, accessory to the fatal event;
for, just before he left London, Lord Cherbury had informed him of the
letter he wrote to Fitzalan, and this, he believed, joined to his own
immediate family misfortunes, had precipitated him from the world.
"Captain Fitzalan dead!" he exclaimed. "Yes, and please you, my lord,"
said Johnaten, wiping away a tear, "and he has not left a better or a
braver man behind him. Poor gentleman, the world pressed hard upon him."
"Had he no tender friend about him?" asked Lord Mortimer. "Were neither
of his children with him?" "Oh! yes my lord, poor Miss Amanda." "She was
with him!" said Lord Mortimer, in an eager accent. "Yes, my lord, she
returned here about ten days ago, but so sadly altered, I think she
won't stay long behind him. Poor thing, she is going fast, indeed, and
the more's the pity, for she is a sweet creature."
Lord Mortimer was inexpressibly shocked. He wished to hide his emotions,
and waved his hand to Johnaten to depart; but Johnaten either did not,
or would not, understand the motion, and he was obliged, in broken
accents, to say, "he would no longer detain him."
The return of Amanda was to him a conviction that she had seen her error
in its true light. He pictured to himself the affecting scene which must
have ensued between a dying father and a penitent daughter, so loved, so
valued, as was Amanda; her situation, when she received his forgiveness
and benediction; he represented her to himself as at once bewailing the
loss of her father, and her offences, endeavoring, by prayers, by tears,
by sighs, to obliterate them in the sight of Heaven, and render herself
fit to receive its awful fiat.
He heard she was dying; his soul recoiled at the idea of seeing her
shrouded in her native clay, and yet he could not help believing this
the only peaceful asylum she could find, to be freed from the shafts of
contempt and malice of the world. He trembled lest he should not behold
the lovely penitent while she was capable of observing him; to receive a
last adieu, though dreadful, would yet, he thought, lighten the horrors
of an eternal separation, and perhaps, too, it would be some comfort to
her departing spirit to know from him he had pardoned her; and
conscious, surely, he thought to himself, she must be of needing pardon
from him, whom she had so long imposed on by a specious pretext of
virtue. He had heard from Lord Cherbury that Captain Fitzalan had
quitted the castle; he knew not, therefore, at present, where to find
Amanda, nor did he choose to make any inquiries till he again saw
Johnaten.
As soon as the procession was out of sight, he alighted from the
carriage, and ordering his man to discharge it, on arriving at Castle
Carberry, he took a path across the fields, which brought him to the
side of the church-yard where Fitzalan was to be interred.
He reached it just as the coffin was lowering into the earth. A
yew-tree, growing by the wall against which he leaned, hid him from
observation. He heard many of the rustics mentioning the merits of the
deceased in terms of warm, though artless, commendation, and he saw
Johnaten receiving the hat and sword (which, as military trophies, he
had laid upon the coffin), with a flood of tears.
When the church-yard was cleared, he stepped across the broken wall to
the silent mansion of Fitzalan. The scene was wild and dreary, and a
lowering evening seemed in unison with the sad objects around. Lord
Mortimer was sunk in the deepest despondence. He felt awfully convinced
of the instability of human attainments, and the vanity of human
pursuits, not only from the ceremony he had just witnessed, but his own
situation. The fond hopes of his heart, the gay expectations of his
youth, and the hilarity of his soul, were blasted, never, he feared, to
revive. Virtue, rank, and fortune, advantages so highly prized by
mankind, were unable to give him comfort, to remove the malady of his
heart, to administer one oblivious antidote to a mind diseased.
"Peace to thy shade, thou unfortunate soldier," exclaimed he, after
standing some time by the grave with folded arms. "Peace to thy
shade--peace which shall reward thee for a life of toil and trouble.
Happy should I have deemed myself, had it been my lot to have lightened
thy grief, or cheered thy closing hours. But those who were dearer to
thee than existence I may yet serve, and thus make the only atonement
now in my power for the injustice, I fear, was done thee. Thy Amanda,
and thy gallant son, shall be my care, and his path, I trust, it will be
in my power to smooth through life."
A tear fell from Lord Mortimer upon the grave, and he turned mournfully
from it towards Castle Carberry. Here Johnaten was arrived before him,
and had already a large fire lighted in the dressing-room poor Amanda,
on coming to the castle, had chosen for herself. Johnaten fixed on this
for Lord Mortimer, as the parlors had been shut up ever since Captain
Fitzalan's departure, and could not be put in any order till the next
day; but it was the worst place Lord Mortimer could have entered, as not
only itself but everything in it reminded him of Amanda; and the grief
it excited at his first entrance was so violent as to alarm not only his
man (who was spreading a table with refreshments), but Johnaten, who was
assisting him. He soon checked it, however; but when he again looked
round the room, and beheld it ornamented with works done by Amanda, he
could scarcely prevent another burst of grief as violent as the first.
He now learned Amanda's residence; and so great was his impatience to
see her that, apprehensive the convent would soon be closed, he set off,
fatigued as he was, without recruiting himself with any refreshment. He
intended to ask for one of the ladies of St. Catherine's, and entreat
her, if Amanda was then in a situation to be seen, to announce his
arrival to her; but after rapping repeatedly with a rattan against the
door, the only person who appeared to him was a servant girl. From her
he learned the ladies were all in the chapel, and that Miss Fitzalan was
in the prioress's apartment. He asked, "Was she too ill to be seen?" The
girl replied, "No"--for having only entered the room to leave the kettle
in it, at a time when Amanda was composed, she imagined she was very
well. Lord Mortimer then told her his name, and desired her to go up to
Miss Fitzalan and inquire whether she would see him. The girl attempted
not to move. She was in reality so struck of a heap by hearing that she
had been talking to a lord, that she knew not whether she was standing
on her head or her heels. Lord Mortimer imputing her silence to
disinclination to comply with his request, put a guinea into her hand,
and entreated her to be expeditious. This restored her to animation, but
ere she reached the room she forgot his title, and being ashamed to
deliver a blundering message to Miss Fitzalan, or to appear stupid to
Lord Mortimer, she returned to him, pretending she had delivered his
message, and that he might go up. She showed him the door, and when he
entered he imputed the silence of Amanda, and her not moving, to the
effects of her grief. He advanced to the couch, and was not a little
shocked on seeing her eyes closed--concluding from this that she had
fainted, but her easy respiration soon convinced him that this was a
mistake, and he immediately concluded that the girl had deceived him. He
leaned over her till she began to stir, and then retreated behind her,
lest his presence, on her first awaking, should alarm her.
What took place in the interview between them has already been related.
Notwithstanding appearances were so much against her, and no explanation
had ensued relative to them, from the moment she asserted her innocence
with solemnity he could no longer doubt it; and yielding at once to its
conviction, to his love, to his pity for her, he again renewed his
overtures for a union. Hearing of the stratagems laid for her
destruction, the dangers she had escaped, the distresses she had
experienced, made him more anxious than ever for completing it, that by
his constant protection he might secure her from similar trials, and by
his tenderness and care restore her to health, peace, and happiness. He
longed for the period of her triumphing over the perfidious marchioness,
and the detestable Lady Euphrasia, by being raised to that station they
had so long attempted to prevent her attaining, and thus proving to them
that virtue, sooner or later, will counteract the designs of vice. He
felt a degree of rapture at the idea of his being no longer obliged to
regret the ardent, the unabated affection he felt for her. His
transports were somewhat checked when she solemnly declared a union
between them impossible, and forbade his seeing her again. He was piqued
by the steadiness with which she repeated this resolution, but her
present weak state prevented his betraying any resentment, and he
flattered himself he would be able to conquer her obstinacy. He could
not now, indeed, despair of any event after the unexpected restoration
of Amanda to his esteem, and the revival of those hopes of felicity,
which in the certainty of having lost her had faded away. He returned,
as Johnaten said, an altered man, to the castle. He no longer
experienced horror at entering the dressing-room which displayed so many
vestiges of his Amanda's taste.
He resolved on an immediate union as the surest proof he could give her
of his perfect confidence in her sincerity, not allowing himself to
suppose she would continue firm in the resolution she had recently
avowed to him. He then intended setting off for London, and sparing
neither time, trouble nor expense, to obtain from the inferior agents in
the plot laid against her, a full avowal of the part they had themselves
acted in it, and all they knew relative to those performed by others.
This was not designed for his own satisfaction. He wanted no
confirmation of what Amanda asserted, as his proposal to marry her
immediately demonstrated; it was to cover with confusion those who had
meditated her destruction, and add to the horrors they would experience
when they found her emerging from obscurity--not as Miss Fitzalan, but
as Lady Mortimer. Such proofs of her innocence would also prevent malice
from saying he was the dupe of art, and he was convinced, for both their
sakes, it was requisite to procure them. He would then avow his
marriage, return for his wife, introduce her to his friends, and, if his
father kept up any resentment against them longer than he expected, he
knew in Lady Martha Dormer's house, and at Tudor Hall, he would find not
only an eligible, but pleasant residence. Those delightful schemes kept
him awake half the night, and when he fell asleep it was only to dream
of happiness and Amanda.
In the morning, notwithstanding the prohibition he had received to the
contrary, he went to inquire how she was, and to try and see her. The
girl who had answered his repeated knocks the preceding evening,
appeared, and told him Miss Fitzalan was very bad. He began to think
that this must be a pretext to avoid seeing him, and to come at the
truth was slipping a bribe into her hand, when Sister Mary, who had been
watching them from an adjoining room, appeared, and stopped this
measure. She repeated what the girl had just said, and, in addition to
it, declared that even if Miss Fitzalan was up she would not see him,
and that he must come no more to St. Catherine's, as both Miss Fitzalan
and the prioress would resent such conduct exceedingly; and that, if he
wanted to inquire after the health of the former, he might easily send a
servant, and it would be much better done than to come frisking over
there every moment.
Lord Mortimer was seriously displeased with this unceremonious speech.
"So, I suppose," cried he, "you want to make a real nun of Miss
Fitzalan, and to keep her from all conversation." "And a happy creature
she would be were she to become one of us," replied Sister Mary; "and as
to keeping her from conversation, she might have as much as she pleased
with any one. Indeed, I believe the poor thing likes you well enough;
the more's her misfortune for doing so." "I thank you, madam," cried
Lord Mortimer; "I suppose it one of your vows to speak truth; if so, I
must acknowledge you keep it religiously." "I have just heard her,"
proceeded Sister Mary, without minding what he had said, "tell the
prioress a long story about you and herself, by which I find it was her
father's desire she should have nothing more to say to you, and I dare
say the poor gentleman had good reasons for doing so. I beg, my lord,
you will come no more here, and, indeed, I think it was a shame for you
to give money to the simpleton who answered you. Why, it is enough to
turn the girl's head, and set her mad after one fal-lal or other."
Lord Mortimer could not depart without an effort to win Sister Mary over
to his favor, and engage her to try and persuade Miss Fitzalan to permit
his visits, but she was inflexible; he then entreated to know if Amanda
was so ill as to be unable to rise. She assured him she was, and, as
some little consolation to the distress she perceived this assurance
gave him, said he might send when he pleased to inquire after her
health, and she would take care to answer the messenger herself.
Lord Mortimer began now to be seriously alarmed lest Captain Fitzalan
had prevailed on his daughter to make a solemn renunciation of him. If
this was the case, he knew nothing could prevail on her to break her
promise. He was half distracted with doubt and anxiety, which were
scarcely supportable, when he reflected that they could not for some
time be satisfied, since, even if he wrote to her for that purpose, she
could not at present be able to answer his letter; again he felt
convinced of the instability of earthly happiness, and the close
connection there has ever been between pleasure and pain.