"Cease, then, ah! cease, fond mortal to repine
At laws, which Nature wisely did ordain;
Pleasure, what is it? rightly to define,
'Tis but a short-lived interval from pain:
Or rather alternately renewed
Gives to our lives a sweet vicissitude."--BROWN.
The emotions Amanda experienced from reading this narrative deeply
affected but gradually subsided from her mind, leaving it only occupied
by pity for the penitent Lady Dunreath, and pleasure at the prospect of
Oscar's independence--a pleasure so pure, so fervent, that it had power
to steal her from her sorrows; and when the recollection of them again
returned, she endeavored to banish it by thinking of the necessity there
was for immediately adopting some plan for the disclosure of the will
Lady Dunreath had advised her to put into the hands of a friend of
integrity and abilities.
"But where," cried the desolate Amanda, "can I find such a friend?" The
few, the very few whom she had reason to think regarded her, had neither
power nor ability to assist her in what would probably be an arduous
demand for restitution. After sitting a considerable time in deep
meditation, the idea of Rushbrook suddenly occurred, and she started, as
if in joyful surprise at the remembrance. She considered that, though
almost a stranger to him, an application of such a nature must rather be
regarded as a compliment than a liberty, from the great opinion it would
prove she had of his honor by intrusting him with such a secret. From
his looks and manner, she was well convinced he would not only deeply
feel for the injured, but ably advise how those injuries should be
redressed. From his years and situation there could be no impropriety in
addressing him, and she already in imagination beheld him her friend,
advocate and adviser. He also, she trusted, would be able to put her in
a way of making inquiries after Oscar. Oh! how delightful the prospect
of discovering that brother--of discovering, but to put him in
possession of even a splendid independence! Ah! how sweet the idea of
being again folded to a heart interested in her welfare, after being so
long a solitary mourner treading the rugged path of life, and bending as
she went beneath its adverse storm! Ah! how sweet again to meet an eye
which should beam with tenderness on hers, an ear which should listen
with attentive rapture to her accents, and a voice that would soothe
with softest sympathy her sorrows! It is only those who, like her, have
known the social ties of life in all their sweetness; who, like her,
have mourned their loss with all the bitterness of anguish, that can
possibly conceive her feelings as these ideas occurred to her mind. "Oh,
Oscar! oh, my brother!" she exclaimed, while tears wet her pale cheeks,
"how rapturous the moment which restores you to me! How delightful to
think your youth will no more experience the chill of poverty--your
benevolence no longer suffer restraints! Now will your virtues shine
forth with full lustre, dignifying the house from which you have
descended, doing service to your country, and spreading diffusive
happiness around."
The morning surprised Amanda in the midst of her meditations. She opened
the shutters, and hailed its first glories in the eastern hemisphere;
the sunbeams, exhaling the mists of the valley, displayed its smiling
verdure, forming a fine contrast to the deep shadows that yet partially
enveloped the surrounding mountains. The morning breeze gently agitated
the old trees, from whose bending heads unnumbered birds arose, and in
their matin notes seemed to consecrate the first return of day to the
Great Author of life and light!
Spontaneous praise burst from the lips of Amanda, and she felt all that
calm and sweet delight which ever pervades a mind of religion and
sensibility on viewing the rural beauties of nature. She left the
charming scene to try and get a little rest, but she thought not of
undressing; she soon sunk into a gentle sleep, and awoke with renovated
spirits near the breakfast hour.
Mrs. Bruce expressed the utmost regret at the necessity there was for
parting with her guests; but added, that "she believed, as well as
hoped, their absence from her would be but short, as she was sure the
marquis's family would leave Scotland almost immediately after Lady
Euphrasia's nuptials." In vain did Amanda struggle for fortitude to
support the mention of those nuptials; her frame trembled, her heart
sickened, whenever they were talked of; the spirits she had endeavored
to collect from the idea, that they would all be requisite in the
important affair she must undertake, fleeted away at Mrs. Bruce's words,
and a heavy languor took possession of her.
They did not leave the Abbey till after tea in the evening, and the idea
that she might soon behold her brother the acknowledged heir of that
Abbey, cast again a gleam of pleasure on the sad heart of Amanda; a
gleam, I say, for it faded before the almost instantaneous recollection,
that ere that period Lord Mortimer and Lady Euphrasia would be united.
Sunk in a profound melancholy, she forgot her situation, heeded not the
progress of the carriage, or remarked any object. A sudden jolt roused
her from her reverie, and she blushed as she thought of the suspicions
it might give rise to in the mind of Mrs. Duncan, whose intelligent eye
on the preceding night had more than half confessed her knowledge of
Amanda's feelings. She now, though with some embarrassment, attempted to
enter into conversation, and Mrs. Duncan, who with deep attention had
marked her pensive companion, with much cheerfulness rendered the
attempt a successful one. The chaise was now turning from the valley,
and Amanda leaned from her window to take another view of Dunreath
Abbey. The sun was already sunk below the horizon, but a track of glory
still remained that marked the spot in which its daily course was
finished; a dubious lustre yet played around the spires of the Abbey,
and while it displayed its vast magnificence by contrast added to its
gloom--a gloom heightened by the dreary solitude of its situation, for
the valley was entirely overshaded by the dark projection of the
mountains, on whose summits a few bright and lingering beams yet
remained, that showed the wild shrubs waving in the evening breeze. A
pensive spirit seemed now to have taken possession of Mrs. Duncan, a
spirit congenial to the scene; and the rest of the little journey was
passed almost in silence. Their lodgings were at the entrance of the
town, and Mrs. Bruce had taken care they should find every requisite
refreshment within them. The woman of the house had already prepared a
comfortable supper for them, which was served up soon after their
arrival. When over, Mrs. Duncan, assisted by Amanda, put the children to
bed, as she knew, till accustomed to her, they would not like the
attendance of the maid of the house. Neither she nor Amanda felt sleepy;
it was a fine moonlight night, and they were tempted to walk out upon a
terrace, to which a glass door from the room opened. The terrace
overhung a deep valley which stretched to the sea, and the rocky
promontory that terminated it was crowned with the ruins of an ancient
castle; the moonbeams seemed to sleep upon its broken battlements, and
the waves that stole murmuring to the shore cast a silvery spray around
it. A pensive pleasure pervaded the hearts of Mrs. Duncan and Amanda,
and conversing on the charms of the scene they walked up and down, when
suddenly upon the floating air they distinguished the sound of a distant
drum beating the tattoo. Both stopped, and leaned upon a fragment of a
parapet wall, which had once stretched along the terrace; and Mrs.
Duncan, who knew the situation of the country, said that the sounds they
heard proceeded from a fort near the town. They ceased in a short time,
but were almost immediately succeeded by martial music; and Amanda soon
distinguished an admired march of her father's. Ah! how affectingly did
it remind her of him! She recalled the moments in which she had played
it for him, whilst he hung over her chair with delight and tenderness;
she wept at the tender remembrance it excited--wept at listening to the
sounds which had so often given to his pale cheek the flush of ardor.
They did not return to the house till convinced by a long interval of
silence that the music had ceased for the night.
Amanda having formed a plan relative to the will, determined not to
delay executing it. She had often mentioned to Mrs. Duncan her
uneasiness concerning her brother, as an excuse for the melancholy that
lady, in a half-serious, half-jesting manner, so often rallied her
about; and she now intended to assign her journey to London (which she
was resolved should immediately take place) to her anxious wish of
discovering, or at least inquiring about him. The next morning she
accordingly mentioned her intention. Mrs. Duncan was not only surprised,
but concerned, and endeavored to dissuade her from it by representing,
in the most forcible manner, the dangers she might experience in so long
a journey without a protector.
Amanda assured her she was already aware of these, but the apprehensions
they excited were less painful than the anxiety she suffered on her
brother's account, and ended by declaring her resolution unalterable.
Mrs. Duncan, who, in her heart, could not blame Amanda for such a
resolution, now expressed her hopes that she would not make a longer
stay in London than was absolutely necessary, declaring that her society
would be a loss she could scarcely support.
Amanda thanked her for her tenderness, and said, "she hoped they should
yet enjoy many happy days together." She proposed travelling in a chaise
to the borders of England, and then pursuing the remainder of the
journey in a stage-coach. The woman of the house was sent for, and
requested to engage a carriage for her against the morning, which she
promised to do; and the intervening time was almost entirely passed by
Mrs. Duncan in lamenting the approaching loss of Amanda's society, and
in entreaties for her to return as soon as possible. Till this period
she did not know, nor did Amanda conceive, the strength of her
friendship. She presented her purse to our heroine, and in the
impassioned language of sincerity, entreated her to consider it as the
purse of a sister, and take from it whatever was necessary for her long
journey and uncertain stay.
Amanda, who never wished to lie under obligations, when she could
possibly avoid them, declined the offer; but with the warmest
expressions of gratitude and sensibility, declaring (what she thought
indeed would be the case), that she had more than sufficient for all her
purposes; all, therefore, she would accept was what Mrs. Duncan owed
her.
Mrs. Duncan begged her to take a letter from her to a family, near whose
house her first day's journey would terminate. They were relations of
Mr. Duncan's, she said, and had been extremely kind to him and her. She
had kept up a correspondence with them till her removal to Dunreath
Abbey, when she dropped it, lest her residence there should be
discovered; but such an opportunity of writing to them, by a person who
would answer all their inquiries concerning her, she could not neglect;
besides, she continued, they were the most agreeable and hospitable
people she had ever known, and she was convinced would not suffer Amanda
to sleep at an inn, but would probably keep her a few days at their
house, and then escort her part of the way.
Averse to the society of strangers, in her present frame of mind, Amanda
said she would certainly take the letter, but could not possibly present
it herself. She thanked Mrs. Duncan for her solicitous care about her;
but added, whether she lodged at an inn or private house for one night
was of little consequence; and as to her journey being retarded, it was
what she never could allow.
Mrs. Duncan declared she was too fond of solitude, but did not argue the
point with her. She wrote the letter, however.
They took leave of each other at night, as the chaise was ordered at an
early hour. As Mrs. Duncan folded Amanda to her heart, she again
besought her to hasten back, declaring that neither she nor her little
girls would be themselves till she returned.
At an early hour Amanda entered the chaise; and, as she stepped into it,
could not forbear casting a sad and lingering look upon a distant
prospect, where, the foregoing evening, a dusky grove of firs had been
pointed out to her, as encompassing the Marquis of Roslin's Castle. Ah!
how did her heart sicken at the idea of the event which either had or
was soon to take place in that Castle! Ah! how did she tremble at the
idea of her long and lonesome journey, and the difficulties she might
encounter on its termination! How sad, how solitary, did she feel
herself! Her mournful eyes filled with tears as she saw the rustic
families hastening to their daily labors; for her mind involuntarily
drew a comparison between their situation and her own. And, ah! how
sweet would their labor be to her, she thought, if she, like them, was
encompassed with the social ties of life. Fears, before unthought of,
rose in her mind, from which her timid nature shrunk appalled. Should
Rushbrook be absent from London, or should he not answer her
expectations; but, "I deserve disappointment," cried she, "if I thus
anticipate it. Oh! let me not be over-exquisite
'To cast the fashion of uncertain evils,'
oppressed as I already am with real ones." She endeavored to exert her
spirits. She tried to amuse them by attending to the objects she passed,
and gradually they lost somewhat of their heaviness. On arriving in
London, she designed going to the haberdasher's, where, it may be
remembered, she had once met Miss Rushbrook; here she hoped to procure
lodgings, also a direction to Rushbrook. It was about five when she
stopped for the night, as the shortened days of autumn would not permit
a longer journey, had the tired horses, which was not the case, been
able to proceed. They stopped at the inn, which Mrs. Duncan had taken
care to know would be the last stage of the first day's journey; a
small, but neat and comfortable house, romantically situated at the foot
of a steep hill, planted with ancient firs, and crowned with the
straggling remains of what appeared to have been a religious house, from
a small cross which yet stood over a broken gateway. A stream trickled
from the hill, though its murmurs through the thick underwood alone
denoted its rising there, and winding round the inn, flowed in meanders
through a spacious vale, of which the inn was not the lone inhabitant,
for cottages appeared on either side, and one large mansion stood in the
centre, whose superior size and neat plantations proclaimed it master of
the whole. This was really the case, for immediately on entering the inn
Amanda had inquired about the Macqueen family, to whom Mrs. Duncan's
letter was directed, and learned that they inhabited this house, and
owned the grounds to a large extent surrounding it. Amanda gave Mrs.
Duncan's letter to the landlady, and begged she would send it directly
to Mrs. Macqueen. The inn was without company; and its quiet retirement,
together with the appearance of the owners, an elderly pair, soothed the
agitated spirits of Amanda. Her little dinner was soon served up; but
when over, and she was left to herself, all the painful ideas she had
sedulously, and with some degree of success, attempted to banish from
her mind in the morning, by attending to the objects she passed, now
returned with full, or rather aggravated, force. Books, those pleasing,
and, in affliction, alleviating resources, she had forgotten to bring
along with her, and all that the inn contained she had been shown on a
shelf in the apartment she occupied, but without finding one that could
possibly fix her attention or change her melancholy ideas; a ramble,
though the evening was uninviting, she preferred to the passive
indulgence of her sorrow; and having ordered tea against her return, and
invited the landlady to it, she was conducted to the garden of the inn,
from whence she ascended the hill by a winding path. She made her way
with difficulty through a path, which, seldom trodden, was half-choked
with weeds and brambles; the wind blew cold and sharp around her, and
the gloom of closing day was heightened by thick and lowering clouds
that involved the distant mountains in one dark shade. Near those
mountains she knew the domain of Roslin lay; and from the bleak summit
of the hill she surveyed them as a lone mourner would survey the sad
spot in which the pleasure of his heart was buried. Forgetting the
purpose for which she had walked out, she leaned in melancholy reverie
against a fragment of the ruined building, nor heard approaching
footsteps till the voice of her host suddenly broke upon her ear. She
started, and perceived him accompanied by two ladies, who he directly
informed her were Mrs. and Miss Macqueen. They both went up to Amanda,
and after the usual compliments of introduction were over, Mrs. Macqueen
took her hand, and with a smile of cordial good-nature, invited her to
her house for the night, declaring that the pleasure she received from
Mrs. Duncan's letter was heightened by being introduced through its
means to a person that lady mentioned as her particular friend. Miss
Macqueen seconded her mother's invitation, and said, "the moment they
had read the letter they had come out for the purpose of bringing her
back with them." "Ay, ay," said the host, good-humoredly (who was
himself descended from one of the inferior branches of the Macqueens),
"this is the way, ladies, you always rob me of my guests. In good faith,
I think I must soon change my dwelling, and go higher up the valley."
Conscious from her utter dejection that she would be unable, as she
wished, to participate in the pleasures of conversation, Amanda declined
the invitation, alleging, as an excuse for doing so, her intention of
proceeding on her journey the next morning by dawn of day.
Mrs. Macqueen declared that she should act as she pleased in that
respect, and both she and her daughter renewed their entreaties for her
company with such earnestness, that Amanda could no longer refuse them;
and they returned to the inn, where Amanda begged they would excuse her
absence a few minutes; and retired to pay her entertainers, and repeat
her charges to the postilion to be at the house as soon as he should
think any of the family stirring. She then returned to the ladies, and
attended them to their mansion, which might well be termed the seat of
hospitality. The family consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Macqueen, four sons,
and six daughters, now all past childhood, and united to one another by
the strictest ties of duty and affection. After residing a few years at
Edinburgh, for the improvement of the young people, Mr. and Mrs.
Macqueen returned to their mansion in the valley, where a large fortune
was spent in the enjoyment of agreeable society, and acts of
benevolence. Mrs. Macqueen informed Amanda, during the walk, that all
her family were now assembled together, as her sons, who were already
engaged in different professions and businesses in various parts of the
kingdom, made it a constant rule to pay a visit every autumn to their
friends. It was quite dark before the ladies reached the house, and the
wind was sharp and cold, so that Amanda found the light and warmth of
the drawing-room, to which she was conducted, extremely agreeable. The
thick window curtains and carpeting, and the enlivening fire, bid
defiance to the sharpness of the mountain blast which howled without,
and rendered the comforts within more delectable by the effect of
contrast. In the drawing-room were assembled Mr. Macqueen, two of his
daughters, and half a dozen ladies and gentlemen, to whom Amanda was
presented, and they in return to her. In the countenance of Mr.
Macqueen, Amanda perceived a benevolence equal to that which irradiated
his wife's. Both were past the prime of life; but in him only was its
decline visible. He was lately grown so infirm as to be unable to remove
without assistance. Yet was his relish for society undiminished; and in
his arm-chair, his legs muffled in flannel, and supported by pillows, he
promoted as much as ever the mirth of his family, and saw with delight
the dance go on in which he had once mixed with his children. Mrs.
Macqueen appeared but as the eldest sister of her daughters; and between
them all Amanda perceived a strong family likeness. They were tall,
well, but not delicately made; handsome, yet more indebted to the
animation of their countenances than to regularity of features for
beauty, which was rendered luxuriant by a quantity of rich auburn hair,
that, unrestrained by superfluous ornaments, fell in long ringlets on
their shoulders, and curled with a sweet simplicity on their white
polished foreheads.
"So the boys and girls are not yet returned," said Mrs. Macqueen,
addressing one of her daughters. "I am afraid they have taken their
friends too far." She had scarcely spoken, when a party was heard under
the windows laughing and talking, who ascended the stairs immediately in
a kind of gay tumult. The drawing-room door opened, and a lady entered
(of a most prepossessing appearance, though advanced in life), and was
followed by a number of young people.
But, oh! what were the powerful emotions of Amanda's soul, when amongst
them she beheld Lady Araminta Dormer and Lord Mortimer! Shocked,
confused, confounded, she strained an eye of agony upon them, as if with
the hope of detecting an illusion, then dropped her head, anxious to
conceal herself, though she was fatally convinced she could be but a few
minutes unobserved by them. Never, amidst the many trying moments of her
life, had she experienced one more dreadful. To behold Lord Mortimer,
when she knew his esteem for her was lost, at a period, too, when he was
hastening to be united to another woman, oh! it was agony, torture in
the extreme! Vainly did she reflect she deserved not to lose his esteem.
This consciousness could not at present inspire her with fortitude. Her
heart throbbed as if it would burst; her bosom, her frame trembled, and
she alternately experienced the glow of confusion and the chill of
dismay--dismay at the idea of meeting the silent but expressive reproach
of Lord Mortimer's eye for her imaginary errors--dismay at the idea of
meeting the contempt of his aunt (who was the lady that first entered
the room) and sister.