"Take heed, take heed, thou lovely maid,
Nor be by glittering ills betrayed."
To open our hearts to those we know will commiserate our sorrows is the
sweetest consolation those sorrows can receive; to you, then, madam, I
divulge mine, sure at least of pity. At the time I first had the
happiness of seeing you, the little credit my father had was exhausted,
and his inability to pay being well known, he was arrested one evening
as he sat by the bedside of my almost expiring mother! I will not pain
your gentle nature by dwelling on the horrors of that moment, on the
agonies of a parent, and a husband torn from a family so situated as was
my father's. Feeble, emaciated, without even sufficient clothing to
guard him from the inclemency of the weather, he leaned upon the arm of
one of the bailiffs, as he turned his eyes from that wife he never more
expected to behold. She fainted at the moment he left the room, and it
was many minutes ere I had power to approach her. The long continuance
of her fit at length recalled my distracted thoughts; but I had no
restoratives to apply, no assistance to recover her, for my eldest
brother had followed my father, and the rest of the children, terrified
by the scene they had witnessed, wept together in a corner of the room.
I at last recollected a lady who lived nearly opposite to us, and from
whom I hoped to procure some relief for her. Nothing but the present
emergency could have made me apply to her, for the attention she had
paid us on first coming to Mr. Heathfield's was entirely withdrawn after
his death. Pride, however, was forgotten at the present moment, and I
flew to her house. The servant showed me into a parlor, where she, her
daughters, and a young clergyman I had never before seen, were sitting
at tea. I could not bring myself to mention my distress before a
stranger, and accordingly begged to speak to her in another room; but
she told me in a blunt manner I might speak there. In a low and
faltering voice, which sighs and tears often impeded, I acquainted her
of what had happened, the situation of my mother, and requested a
cordial for her. How great was my confusion when she declared aloud all
I had told her, and turning to her daughter, bid her give me part of a
bottle of wine. 'Ay, ay,' cried she, 'I always thought things would turn
out so. It was really very foolish of Mr. Heathfield to bring you to his
house, and lead you all into such expenses!' I listened to no more, but
taking the wine with a silent pang, retired.
"I had not been many minutes returned, and was kneeling by the bedside
of my mother, who began to show some symptoms of returning life, when a
gentle knock came to the hall-door. I supposed it my brother, and bade
one of the children fly to open it. What was my surprise when in a few
minutes she returned, followed by the young clergyman I had just seen. I
started from my kneeling posture, and my looks expressed my wonder. He
approached, and in the soft accent of benevolence, apologized for his
intrusion; but said he came with a hope and a wish that he might be
serviceable. Oh! how soothing was his voice! Oh! how painfully pleasing
the voice of tenderness to the wretched! The tears which pride and
indignation had suspended but a few moments before again began flowing.
"But I will not dwell upon my feelings; suffice it to say, that every
attention which could mitigate my wretchedness he paid, and that his
efforts, aided by mine, soon restored my mother. His looks, his manner,
his profession, all conspired to calm her spirits, and she blessed the
power which so unexpectedly had given us a friend. My brother returned
from my father merely to inquire how we were, and to go back to him
directly. The stranger requested permission to accompany him; a request
most pleasing to us, as we trusted his soothing attention would have
the same effect upon his sorrowing heart as it had upon ours. Scarcely
were they gone ere a man arrived from a neighboring hotel with a basket
loaded with wine and provisions. But to enumerate every instance of this
young man's goodness would be encroaching upon your patience. In short,
by his care, my mother in a few days was able to be carried to my
father's prison. Mrs. Connel, who, on the first intimation of our
distress, had come to us, took me into the house at a stated salary,
which was to be given to my parents, and the rest of the children were
to continue with them. My mother desired me one evening to take a walk
with the children to Kensington, as she thought them injured by constant
confinement. Our friend attended us, and in our way thither, informed me
that he must soon leave town, as he was but a country curate, and his
leave of absence from his rector was expired. It was above a month since
we had known him, during which time his attentions were unremitting, and
he was a source of comfort to us all. A sudden chill came over my heart
as he spoke, and every sorrow at that moment seemed aggravated. On
entering Kensington gardens, I seated myself on a little rising mount,
for I felt trembling and fatigued, and he sat beside me. Never had I
before felt so oppressed, and my tears gushed forth in spite of my
efforts to restrain them. Something I said of their being occasioned by
the recollection of the period when my parents enjoyed the charming
scene I now contemplated along with him. 'Would to Heaven,' cried he, 'I
could restore them again to the enjoyment of it.'
"'Ah,' said I, 'they already lie under unreturnable obligations to you.
In losing you,' added I, involuntarily, 'they would lose their only
comfort.' 'Since then,' cried he, 'you flatter me by saying it is in my
power to give them comfort, oh! let them have a constant claim upon me
for it! Oh! Emily!' he continued, taking my hand, 'let them be my
parents as well as yours; then will their too scrupulous delicacy be
conquered, and they will receive as a right what they now consider as a
favor.' I felt my cheeks glow with blushes, but still did not perfectly
conceive his meaning. 'My destiny is humble,' he continued; 'was it
otherwise, I should long since have entreated you to share it with me.
Could you be prevailed on to do so, you would give it pleasures it never
yet experienced.' He paused for a reply, but I was unable to give one.
"Ah! madam, how little necessity either was there for one; my looks, my
confusion, betrayed my feelings. He urged me to speak, and at last I
acknowledged I should not hesitate to share his destiny, but for my
parents, who, by such a measure, would lose my assistance. 'Oh! do not
think,' cried he, 'I would ever wish to tempt you into any situation
which should make you neglect them.' He then proceeded to say that,
though unable at present to liberate them, yet he trusted that if they
consented to our union, he should by economy be enabled to contribute
more essentially to their support than I could do, and also be able in a
short time to discharge their debts. His proposals were made known to
them, and met their warmest approbation. The pleasure they derived from
them was more on my account than their own, as the idea of having me so
settled removed a weight of anxiety from their minds; some of my
brothers and sisters should live with us, he said, and promised my time
should be chiefly spent in doing fine works, which should be sent to
Mrs. Connel to dispose of for my parents; and also that, from time to
time, I should visit them till I had the power of bringing them to my
cottage, for such he described his residence.
"He was compelled to go to the country, but it was settled he should
return in a short time, and have everything finally settled. In about a
week after his departure, as I was returning one morning from a lady's,
where I had been on a message from Mrs. Connel, a gentleman joined me in
the street, and with a rude familiarity endeavored to enter into
conversation with me. I endeavored to shake him off, but could not
succeed, and hastened home with the utmost expedition, whither I saw he
followed me. I thought no more of the incident till about two days after
I saw him enter the shop, and heard him inquire of Mrs. Connel about her
lodgings, which to my great mortification he immediately took, for I
could not help suspecting he had some improper motive for taking them. I
resolved, however, if such a motive really existed, to disappoint it by
keeping out of his way; but all my vigilance was unavailing; he was
continually on the watch for me, and I could not go up or down stairs
without being insulted by him. I at length informed Mrs. Connel of his
conduct, and entreated her to fulfil the sacred trust her friends
reposed in her, when they gave me to her care, by terminating the
insults of Mr. Sipthorpe. Alas! could I have possibly foreseen the
consequences that would have followed my application to her, I should
have borne these insults in silence. She has already informed you of
them. Oh! madam! when the letter came which dissolved a promise so
cheerfully, so fondly given, every prospect of felicity was in a moment
overshadowed! For a long time I resisted every effort that was made to
prevail on me to marry Sipthorpe; but when at last my mother said she
was sorry to find my feelings less than his, who had so generously
resigned me, that my father might be extricated from his difficulties, I
shrunk with agony at the rebuke. I wondered, I was shocked, how I could
have so long hesitated to open the prison gates of my father, and
determined from that moment to sacrifice myself for him; for oh! Miss
Donald, it is a sacrifice of the most dreadful nature I am about making.
Sipthorpe is a man I never could have liked, had my heart even been
disengaged."
Amanda felt the truest pity for her young friend, who ended her
narrative in tears; but she did not, by yielding entirely to that pity
(as too many girls with tender hearts, but weak heads, might have done),
heighten the sorrow of Miss Rushbrook. She proved her friendship and
sympathy more sincerely than she could have done by mere expressions of
condolement, which feed the grief they commiserate, in trying to
reconcile her to a destiny that seemed irrevocable. She pointed out the
claims a parent had upon a child, and dwelt upon the delight a child
experienced when conscious of fulfilling those claims. She spoke of the
rapture attending the triumph of reason and humanity over self and
passion, and mentioned the silent plaudits of the heart as superior to
all gratification or external advantages. She spoke from the real
feelings of her soul. She recollected the period at which, to a father's
admonition, she had resigned a lover, and had that father been in
Captain Rushbrook's situation, and the same sacrifice been demanded from
her as from Emily, she felt, without hesitation, she would have made it.
She was indeed a monitress that had practised, and would practise (was
there a necessity for so doing) the lessons she gave, not as poor
Ophelia says--
"Like some ungracious pastors,
Who show the steep and thorny path to heaven,
But take the primrose one themselves."
The sweet consciousness of this gave energy, gave more than usual
eloquence to her language; but whilst she wished to inspirit her young
friend, she felt from the tenderness of her nature, and the sad
situation of her own heart, what that friend must feel from disappointed
affection and a reluctant union. Scarcely could she refrain from weeping
over a fate so wretched, and which she was tempted to think as dreadful
as her own; but a little reflection soon convinced her she had the sad
pre-eminence of misery; for in her fate there were none of those
alleviations as in Emily's, which she was convinced must, in some
degree, reconcile her to it. Her sufferings, unlike Emily's, would not
be rewarded by knowing that they contributed to the comfort of those
dearest to her heart.
"Your words, my dear madam," said Emily, "have calmed my spirits;
henceforth I will be more resolute in trying to banish regrets from my
mind. But I have been inconsiderate to a degree in keeping you so long
from rest, after your fatiguing journey." Amanda indeed appeared at this
moment nearly exhausted, and gladly hastened to bed. Her slumbers were
short and unrefreshing; the cares which clung to her heart when waking
were equally oppressive while sleeping. Lord Mortimer mingled in the
meditations of the morning, in the visions of the night, and when she
awoke she found her pillow wet with the tears she had shed on his
account. Emily was already up, but on Amanda's drawing back the curtain
she laid down the book she was reading, and came to her. She saw she
looked extremely ill, and, imputing this to fatigue, requested she would
breakfast in bed; but Amanda, who knew her illness proceeded from a
cause which neither rest nor assiduous care could cure, refused
complying with this request, and immediately dressed herself.
As she stood at the toilet, Emily suddenly exclaimed, "If you have a
mind to see Sipthorpe, I will show him to you now, for he is just going
out." Amanda went to the window, which Emily gently opened; but, oh!
what was the shock of that moment, when in Sipthorpe she recognized the
insidious Belgrave! A shivering horror ran through her veins, and
recoiling a few paces she sunk half fainting on a chair. Emily,
terrified by her appearance, was flying to the bell to ring for
assistance, when, by a faint motion of her hand, Amanda prevented her.
"I shall soon be better," said she, speaking with difficulty; "but I
will lie down on the bed for a few minutes, and I beg you may go to your
breakfast." Emily refused to go, and entreated, that instead of leaving
her, she might have breakfast brought up for them both. Amanda assured
her she could take nothing at present, and wished for quiet. Emily
therefore reluctantly left her. Amanda now endeavored to compose her
distracted thoughts, and quiet the throbbings of her agonizing heart,
that she might be able to arrange some plan for extricating herself from
her present situation, which appeared replete with every danger to her
imagination; for, from the libertine principles of Belgrave, she could
not hope that a new object of pursuit would detach him from her, when he
found her so unexpectedly thrown in his way. Unprotected as she was, she
could not think of openly avowing her knowledge of Belgrave. To discover
his baseness, required therefore caution and deliberation, lest in
saving Emily from the snare spread for her destruction, she should
entangle herself in it. To declare at once his real character, must
betray her to him; and though she might banish him from the house, yet,
unsupported as she was by her friends or kindred--unable to procure the
protection of Rushbrook, in his present situation, however willing he
might be to extend it--she trembled to think of the dangers to which, by
thus discovering, she might expose herself--dangers which the deep
treachery and daring effrontery of Belgrave would, in all probability,
prevent her escaping. As the safest measure, she resolved on quitting
the house in the course of the day; but without giving any intimation
that she meant not to return to it. She recollected a place where there
was a probability of her getting lodgings which would be at once secret
and secure; and by an anonymous letter to Captain Rushbrook, she
intended to acquaint him of his daughter's danger, and refer him to Sir
Charles Bingley, at whose agent's he could receive intelligence of him
for the truth of what she said. Her plan concerted, she grew more
composed, and was able, when Emily entered the room with her breakfast,
to ask, in a seemingly careless manner, when Mr. Sipthorpe was expected
back.
"It is very uncertain, indeed," answered she.
"I must go out in the course of the day," said Amanda, "about particular
business; I may therefore as well prepare myself at once for it." She
accordingly put on her habit, and requested materials for writing from
Emily, which were immediately brought, and Emily then retired till she
had written her letter. Amanda, left to herself, hastily unlocked her
little trunk, and taking from it two changes of linen, and the will and
narrative of Lady Dunreath, she deposited the two former in her pocket,
and the two latter in her bosom, then sat down and wrote the following
letter to Captain Rushbrook:--
A person who esteems the character of Captain Rushbrook, and the
amiable simplicity of his daughter, cautions him to guard that
simplicity against the danger which now threatens it, from a
wretch who, under the sacred semblance of virtue, designs to fix
a sharper sting in the bosom of affliction than adversity ever
yet implanted. The worth of Sipthorpe is not more fictitious
than his name. His real one is Belgrave. His hand is already
another's, and his character for many years past marked with
instances of deceit, if not equal, at least little inferior to
the present. For the truth of these assertions, the writer of
the letter refers Captain Rushbrook to Sir Charles Bingley, of
---- regiment, from whose agent a direction may be procured to
him, certain, from his honor and sensibility, he will eagerly
step forward to save worth and innocence from woe and
destruction.
Amanda's anxiety about Emily being equal to what she felt for herself,
she resolved to leave this letter at Rushbrook's prison, lest any
accident should happen if it went by any other hands. She was anxious to
be gone, but thought it better to wait till towards evening, when there
would be the least chance of meeting Belgrave, who at that time would
probably be fixed in some place for the remainder of the day. Emily
returned in about an hour, and finding Amanda disengaged, requested
permission to sit with her. Amanda, in her present agitation, would have
preferred solitude, but could not decline the company of the
affectionate girl, who, in conversing with her, sought to forget the
heavy cares which the dreadful idea of a union with Sipthorpe had drawn
upon her. Amanda listened with a beating heart to every sound, but no
intimation of Belgrave's return reached her ear. At length they were
summoned to dinner; but Amanda could not think of going to it, lest she
should be seen by him. To avoid this risk, and also the particularity of
a refusal, she determined immediately to go out, and, having told Emily
her intention, they both descended the stairs together. Emily pressed
her exceedingly to stay for dinner, but she positively refused, and left
the house with a beating heart, without having answered Emily's
question, who desired to know if she would not soon return. Thus
perpetually threatened with danger, like a frighted bird again was she
to seek a shelter for her innocent head. She walked with quickness to
Oxford Street, where she directly procured a carriage, but was so weak
and agitated the coachman was almost obliged to lift her into it. She
directed it to the prison, and on reaching it sent for one of the
turnkeys, to whom she gave her letter for Rushbrook, with a particular
charge to deliver it immediately to him. She then ordered the carriage
to Pall Mall, Where it may be remembered she had once lodged with Lady
Greystock. This was the only lodging-house in London she knew, and in it
she expected no satisfaction but what would be derived from thinking
herself safe, as its mistress was a woman of a most unpleasant temper.
She had once been in affluent circumstances, and the remembrance of
those circumstances soured her temper, and rendered her, if not
incapable of enjoying, at least unwilling to acknowledge, the blessings
she yet possessed. On any one in her power she vented her spleen. Her
chief pursuit was the gratification of a most insatiate curiosity, and
her first delight relating the affairs, good or bad, which that
curiosity dived into. Amanda, finding she was within, dismissed the
coach, and was shown by the maid into the back parlor, where she sat.
"Oh dear!" cried she, with a supercilious smile, the moment Amanda
entered, without rising from her chair to return her salute, "When did
you return to London?--and pray, may I ask what brought you back to it?"
Amanda was convinced from Mrs. Hansard's altered manner, who had once
been servile to a degree to her, that she was perfectly acquainted with
her destitute condition, and a heavy sigh burst from her heart at the
idea of associating with a woman who had the meanness to treat her ill
because of that condition. A chillness crept through her frame when she
reflected her sad situation might long compel her to this. Sick, weak,
exhausted, she sunk upon a chair, which she had neither been offered nor
desired to take. "Well, miss, and pray what is your business in town?"
again asked Mrs. Hansard, with an increased degree of pertness.
"My business, madam," replied Amanda, "can be of no consequence to a
person not connected with me. My business with you is to know whether
you can accommodate me with lodgings?" "Really. Well, you might have
paid me the compliment of saying you would have called at any rate to
know how I did. You may guess how greatly flattered an humble being like
me would be by the notice of so amiable a young lady."
These words were pronounced with a kind of sneer that, by rousing the
pride of Amanda, a little revived her spirits. "I should be glad,
madam," said she, with a composed voice, while a faint glow stole over
her cheek, "to know whether you can, or choose, to accommodate me with
lodgings?" "Lord, my dear," replied Mrs. Hansard, "do not be in such a
wondrous hurry--take a cup of tea with me, and then we will settle about
that business." These words implied that she would comply with the wish
of Amanda; and, however disagreeable the asylum, yet to have secured one
cheered her sinking heart. Tea was soon made, which to Amanda, who had
touched nothing since breakfast--and but little then--would have been a
pleasant refreshment, had she not been tormented and fatigued by the
questions of Mrs. Hansard, who laid a thousand baits to betray her into
a full confession of what had brought her to London. Amanda, though a
stranger in herself to every species of art, from fatal experience was
aware of it in others, and therefore guarded her secret. Mrs. Hansard,
who loved what she called a gossipping cup of tea, sat a tedious time
over the tea-table. Amanda, at last mortified and alarmed by some
expressions which dropped from her, again ventured to ask if she could
be lodged under her roof.
"Are you really serious in that question?" said Mrs. Hansard. There was
a certain expression of contempt in her features as she spoke, which
shocked Amanda so much that she had not power to reply; "because if you
are, my dear," continued Mrs. Hansard, "you have more assurance than I
thought you were possessed of, though I always gave you credit for a
pretty large share. Do you think I would ruin my house, which lodges
people of the first rank and character, by admitting you into it? you,
who, it is well known, obtained Lady Greystock's protection from
charity, and lost it through misconduct. Poor lady--I had the whole
story from her own mouth. She suffered well from having anything to say
to you. I always guessed how it would be. Notwithstanding your demure
look, I saw well enough how you would turn out. I assure you, to use
your own words, if I could accommodate you in my house, it would not
answer you at all, for there are no convenient closets in it in which a
lady of your disposition might now and then want to hide a smart young
fellow. I advise you, if you have had a tiff with any of your friends,
to make up the difference; though, indeed, if you do not, in such a
place as London, you can never be at a loss for such friends. Perhaps
you are now beginning to repent of your evil courses, and, if I took you
into my house, I should suffer as much in my pocket, I suppose, as in my
character."
The terrified and distressed look with which Amanda listened to this
speech, would have stopped Mrs. Hansard in the middle of it, had she
possessed a spark of humanity, even if she believed her (which was not
the case) guilty. But lost to the noble, the gentle feelings of
humanity, she exulted in the triumph of malice, and rejoiced to have an
opportunity of piercing the panting heart of helpless innocence with the
sharp darts of insult and unmerited reproach. Amidst the various shocks
Amanda had experienced in the short but eventful course of her life, one
greater than the present she had never felt. Petrified by Mrs. Hansard's
words, it was some time ere she had power to speak. "Gracious Heaven!"
exclaimed she, at last, looking up to that Heaven she addressed, and
which she now considered her only refuge from evil, "to what trials am I
continually exposed! Persecuted, insulted, shocked! Oh! what happiness
to lay my feeble frame, my woe-struck heart, within that low asylum
where malice could no more annoy, deceit no more betray me! I am happy,"
she continued, starting up, and looking at Mrs. Hansard, "that the
accommodation I desired in this house you refused me, for I am now well
convinced, from the knowledge of your disposition, that the security my
situation requires I should not have found within it." She hastily
quitted the room; but on entering the hall her spirits entirely forsook
her, at the dreadful idea of having no home to go to. Overcome with
horror, she sunk in a flood of tears upon one of the hall chairs. A
maid, who had probably been listening to her mistress's conversation,
now came from a front parlor, and as Mrs. Hansard had shut the door
after Amanda, addressed her without fear of being overheard. "Bless me,
miss," said she, "are you crying? Why, Lord! surely you would not mind
what old Blouzy in the parlor says? I promise you, if we minded her, we
should have red eyes here every day in the week. Do, pray, miss, tell me
if I can be of any service to you?"
Amanda, in a voice scarcely articulate, thanked her, and said in a few
minutes she should be better able to speak. To seek lodgings at this
late hour was not to be thought of, except she wished to run into the
very dangers she had wanted to avoid, and Mrs. Connel's house returned
to her recollection, as the impossibility of procuring a refuge in any
other was confirmed in her mind. She began to think it could not be so
dangerous as her fears in the morning had represented it to be. Ere this
she thought Belgrave (for since the delivery of the letter there had
been time enough for such a proceeding) might be banished from it; if
not, she had a chance of concealing herself, and, even if discovered,
she believed Mrs. Connel would protect her from his open insults, whilst
she trusted her own precautions would, under Heaven, defeat his secret
schemes, should he again contrive any. She therefore resolved, or rather
necessity compelled her--for could she have avoided it she would not
have done so--to return to Mrs. Connel's; she accordingly requested the
maid to procure her a carriage, and rewarded her for her trouble. As she
was returning to Mrs. Connel's, she endeavored to calm her spirits, and
quell her apprehensions. When the carriage stopped, and the maid
appeared, she could scarcely prevent herself ere she alighted from
inquiring whether any one but the family was within; conscious,
however, that such a question might create suspicions, and that
suspicions would naturally excite inquiries, she checked herself, and
re-entered, though with trembling limbs, that house from whence in the
morning she had fled with such terror.