"Why, thou poor mourner, in what baleful corner
Hast thou been talking with that witch, the night?
On what cold stone hast thou been stretched along,
Gathering the grumbling winds about thy head,
To mix with theirs the accents of thy woes?"--OTWAY.
Amanda had not reached the parlor when the door opened, and Mrs. Connel
came from it. "Oh! oh! miss," cried she, "so you are returned. I protest
I was beginning to think you had stolen a march upon us." There was a
rude bluntness in this speech which confounded Amanda; and her mind
misgave her that all was not right. "Come," continued Mrs. Connel, "come
in, miss, I assure you I have been very impatient for your return."
Amanda's fears increased. She followed Mrs. Connel in silence into the
parlor, where she beheld an elderly woman, of a pleasing but emaciated
appearance, who seemed in great agitation and distress. How she could
possibly have anything to say to this woman, she could not conjecture,
and yet an idea that she had, instantly darted into her mind; she sat
down, trembling in every limb, and waited with impatience for an
explanation of this scene. After a general silence of a few minutes, the
stranger, looking at Amanda, said, "My daughter, madam, has informed me
we are indebted to your bounty; I am therefore happy at an opportunity
of discharging the debt." These words announced Mrs. Rushbrook, but
Amanda was confounded at her manner; its coolness and formality were
more expressive of dislike and severity than of gentleness or gratitude.
Mrs. Rushbrook rose as she spoke, and offered a note to her. Speechless
from astonishment, Amanda had not power either to decline or accept it,
and it was laid on a table before her.
"Allow me, madam," said Mrs. Rushbrook, as she resumed her seat, "to ask
if your real name is Donald?" Amanda's presentiment of underhand doings
was now verified; it was evident to her that their author was Belgrave,
and that he had been too successful in contriving them.
Amanda now appeared to have reached the crisis of her fate. In all the
various trials she had hitherto experienced, she had still some stay,
some hope, to support her weakness, and soothe her sorrows. When
groaning under the injuries her character sustained by the success of an
execrable plot, she had the consolation to think an idolizing father
would shelter her from further insult. When deprived of that father,
tender friends stepped forward, who mingled tears of sympathy with hers,
and poured the balm of pity on her sorrowing heart. When torn from the
beloved object enshrined within that heart, while her sick soul
languished under the heavy burden of existence, again did the voice of
friendship penetrate its gloom, and, though it could not remove,
alleviated its sufferings. Now helpless, unprotected, she saw a dreadful
storm ready to burst over her devoted head, without one hope to cheer,
one stretched-out arm to shield her from its violence. Surrounded by
strangers prejudiced against her, she could not think that her plain,
unvarnished tale would gain their credence, or prevail on them to
protect her from the wretch whose machinations had ruined her in their
estimation. The horrors of her situation all at once assailed her mind,
overpowered its faculties; a kind of mental sickness seized her, she
leaned her throbbing head upon her hand, and a deep groan burst from her
agonizing heart.
"You see," said Mrs. Connel, after a long silence, "she cannot brave
this discovery."
Amanda raised her head at these words; she had grown a little more
composed. "The Being in whom I trust," she said to herself, "and whom I
never wilfully offended, will still, I doubt not, as heretofore, protect
me from danger." Mrs. Rushbrook's unanswered question still sounded in
her ear. "Allow me, madam," she cried, turning to her, "to ask your
reason for inquiring whether my real name is Donald?" "Oh, Lord! my
dear!" said Mrs. Connel, addressing Mrs. Rushbrook, "you need not pester
yourself or her with any more questions about the matter; her question
is an answer in itself." "I am of your opinion, indeed," exclaimed Mrs.
Rushbrook, "and think any farther inquiry needless." "I acknowledge,
madam," said Amanda, whose voice grew firmer from the consciousness of
never having acted improperly, "that my name is not Donald. I must also
do myself the justice to declare (let me be credited or not) that my
real one was not concealed from any motive which could deserve reproach
or censure. My situation is peculiarly distressing. My only consolation
amidst my difficulties is the idea of never having drawn them upon
myself by imprudence." "I do not want, madam," replied Mrs. Rushbrook,
"to inquire into your situation; you have been candid in one instance, I
hope you will be equally so in another. Pray, madam," handing to Amanda
the letter she had written to Rushbrook, "Is this your writing?" "Yes,
madam," answered Amanda, whose pride was roused by the contempt she met,
"it is my writing." "And pray," said Mrs. Rushbrook, looking steadfastly
at her, while her voice grew more severe, "what was your motive for
writing this letter?" "I think, madam," cried Amanda, "the letter
explains that." "A pretty explanation, truly!" exclaimed Mrs. Connel;
"and so you will try to vilify the poor gentleman's character; but,
miss, we have had an explanation you little dream of; ay, we found you
out, notwithstanding your slyness in writing, like one of the madams in
a novel, a bit of a letter without ever a name to it. Mr. Sipthorpe knew
directly who it came from. Ah! poor gentleman, he allowed you wit
enough; a pity there is not more goodness with it; he knows you very
well to his cost." "Yes," said Amanda, "he knows I am a being whose
happiness he disturbed, but whose innocence he never triumphed over. He
knows that like an evil genius, he has pursued my wandering footsteps,
heaping sorrow upon sorrow on me by his machinations; but he also knows,
when encompassed with those sorrows, perplexed with those machinations,
I rose superior to them all, and with uniform contempt and abhorrence
rejected his offers." "Depend upon it," cried Mrs. Connel, "she has been
an actress." "Yes, madam," said Amanda, whose struggling voice confessed
the anguish of her soul, "upon a stage where I have seen a sad variety
of scenes." "Come, come," exclaimed Mrs. Connel, "confess all about
yourself and Sipthorpe; full confession will entitle you to pardon." "It
behooves me, indeed," said Amanda, "to be explicit; my character
requires it, and my wish," she continued, turning to Mrs. Rushbrook, "to
save you from a fatal blow demands it." She then proceeded to relate
everything she knew concerning Belgrave; but she had the mortification
to find her short and simple story received with every mark of
incredulity. "Beware, madam," said she to Mrs. Rushbrook, "of this
infatuation; I adjure you beware of the consequences of it. Oh! doom not
your innocent, your reluctant Emily to destruction; draw not upon your
own head by such a deed horrible and excruciating anguish. Why does not
Mr. Sipthorpe, If I must call him so, appear, and in my presence support
his allegations?" "I asked him to do so," replied Mrs. Rushbrook; "but
he has feeling, and he wished not to see your distress, however merited
it might be." "No, madam," cried Amanda, "he refused, because he knew
that without shrinking he could not behold the innocent he has so
abused; because he knew the conscious coloring of his cheek would betray
the guilty feelings of his soul. Again, I repeat, he is not what he
appears to be. I refer you for the truth of my words to Sir Charles
Bingley. I feel for you, though you have not felt for me. I know, from
false representations, you think me a poor misguided creature; but was I
even so, my too evident anguish might surely have excited pity. Pardon
me, madam, if I say your conduct to me has been most unkind. The gentle
virtues are surely those best fitting a female breast. She that shows
leniency to a fallen fellow-creature, fulfils the Divine precept. The
tear she sheds over her frailties is consecrated in the sight of Heaven,
and her compassion draws a blessing on her own head. Oh! madam, I once
looked forward to a meeting with you, far, far different from the
present one. I once flattered myself, that from the generous friendship
of Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook, I should derive support and consolation; but
this, like every other hope, is disappointed." Amanda's voice faltered
at these last words, and tears again trickled down her lovely cheeks. A
faint glow tinged the pale cheek of Mrs. Rushbrook at Amanda's
accusation of unkindness. She bent her eyes to the ground as if
conscious it was merited, and it was many minutes ere she could again
look on the trembling creature before her. "Perhaps," said she, at last,
"I may have spoken too severely, but it must be allowed I had great
provocation. Friendship and gratitude could not avoid resenting such
shocking charges as yours against Sipthorpe." "For my part, I wonder you
spoke so mildly to her," exclaimed Mrs. Connel; "I protest in future I
shall be guarded who I admit into my house. I declare she seemed so
distressed at the idea of going amongst strangers, that, sooner than let
her do so, I believe, if Miss Emily had not, I should have offered her
part of my bed; but this distress was all a pretext to get into the
house with Mr. Sipthorpe, that she might try to entangle him in her
snares again. Well, I am determined she shall not stay another night
under my roof. Ay, you may stare as you please, miss, but you shall
march directly. You are not so ignorant about London, I dare say, as you
pretend to be."
Mrs. Connel rose as she spoke, and approached her with a look which
seemed to say she would put her threat into execution. It was Amanda's
intention to quit the house the next morning, but to be turned from it
at such an hour, a wanderer in the Street, the idea was replete with
horror! She started up, and retreating a few paces, looked at Mrs.
Connel with a kind of melancholy wildness. "Yes," repeated Mrs. Connel,
"I say you shall march directly." The wretched Amanda's head grew giddy,
her sight failed, her limbs refused to support her, and she would have
fallen to the ground had not Mrs. Rushbrook, who perceived her
situation, timely caught her. She was replaced in a chair, and water
sprinkled on her face. "Be composed, my dear," said Mrs. Rushbrook,
whose softened voice proclaimed the return of her compassion, "you shall
not leave this house to-night, I promise, in the name of Mrs. Connel.
She is a good-natured woman, and would not aggravate your distress."
"Ay, Lord knows, good-nature is my foible," exclaimed Mrs. Connel. "So,
miss, as Mrs. Rushbrook has promised, you may stay here to-night."
Amanda, opening her languid eyes, and raising her head from Mrs.
Rushbrook's bosom, said in a low, tremulous voice, "To-morrow, madam, I
shall depart. Oh! would to Heaven," cried she, clasping her hands
together, and bursting into an agony of tears, "before to-morrow I could
be rid of the heavy burden that oppresses me!" "Well, we have had
wailing and weeping enough to-night," said Mrs. Connel, "so, miss, you
may take one of the candles off the table, and go to your chamber if you
choose."
Amanda did not require to have this permission repeated. She arose, and
taking the light, left the parlor. With feeble steps she ascended to the
little chamber; but here all was dark, and solitary, no cheerful fire
sent forth an animating blaze; no gentle Emily, like the mild genius of
benevolence, appeared to offer with undissembled kindness her little
attentions. Forsaken, faint, the pale child of misery laid down the
candle, and seating herself at the foot of the bed, gave way to deep and
agonizing sorrow.
"Was I ever," she asked herself, "blessed with friends who valued my
existence as their own, who called me the beloved of their hearts? Oh!
yes," she groaned, "once such friends were mine, and the sad remembrance
of them aggravates my present misery. Oh! happy is our ignorance of
futurity. Oh! my father, had you been permitted to read the awful volume
of fate, the page marked with your Amanda's destiny would have rendered
your existence miserable, and made you wish a thousand times the
termination of hers.
"Oh, Oscar! from another hand than mine must you receive the deed which
shall entitle you to independence. My trials sink me to the grave, to
that grave where, but for the sweet hope of again seeing you, I should
long since have wished myself." The chamber door opened. She turned her
eyes to it in expectation of seeing Emily, but was disappointed on
perceiving only the maid of the house. "Oh! dear ma'am," cried she,
going up to Amanda, "I declare it quite grieves me to see you in such a
situation. Poor Miss Emily is just in as bad a plight. Well, it is no
matter, but I think both the old ladies will be punished for plaguing
you in this manner. Madam Rushbrook will be sorry enough, when, after
giving her daughter to Mr. Sipthorpe, she finds he is not what he seems
to be." Amanda shrunk with horror from the idea of Emily's destruction,
and by a motion of her hand, signified to the maid her dislike to the
subject. "Well, ma'am," she continued, "Miss Emily, as I was saying, is
quite in as bad a plight as yourself. They have clapped her into my
mistress's chamber, which she durst not leave without running the risk
of bringing their tongues upon her. However, she contrived to see me,
and sent you this note." Amanda took it and read as follows:--
"I hope my dear Miss Donald will not doubt my sincerity when I
declare that all my sorrows are heightened by knowing I have
been the occasion of trouble to her. I have heard of the
unworthy treatment she has received in this house, and her
intention of quitting it to-morrow. Knowing her averseness to
lodge in a place she is unacquainted with, I have been speaking
to the maid about her, and had the satisfaction to hear, that,
through her means, my dear Miss Donald might be safely
accommodated for a short time; long enough, however, to permit
her to look out for an eligible situation. I refer her for
particulars of the conversation to the maid, whose fidelity may
be relied on. To think it may be useful to my dear Miss Donald,
affords me the only pleasure I am now capable of enjoying. In
her esteem may I ever retain the place of a sincere and
affectionate friend.
E. R."
"And where is the place I can be lodged in?" eagerly asked Amanda. "Why,
ma'am," said the maid, "I have a sister who is housemaid, at a very
grand place, on the Richmond Road. All the family are now gone to
Brighton, and she is left alone in the house, where you would be very
welcome to take up your residence till you could get one to your mind.
My sister is a sage, sober body, and would do everything in her power to
please and oblige you, and you would be as snug and secure with her as
in a house of your own; and poor Miss Emily begged you would go to her,
till you could get lodgings with people whose characters you know. And,
indeed, ma'am, it is my humble opinion, it would be safe and pleasant
for you to do so; and, if you consent, I will conduct you there
to-morrow morning; and I am sure, ma'am, I shall be happy if I have the
power of serving you." Like the Lady in Comus, Amanda might have said--
"I take thy word,
And trust thy honest offered courtesy,
For in a place
Less warranted than this, or less secure
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it:
Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial
To my proportioned strength."
To take refuge in this manner, in any one's house, was truly repugnant
to the feelings of Amanda; but sad necessity conquered her scrupulous
delicacy, and she asked the maid at what hour in the morning she should
be ready for her.
"I shall come to you, ma'am," answered she, "as soon as I think there is
a carriage on the stand, and then we can go together to get one. But I
protest, ma'am, you look sadly. I wish you would allow me to assist in
undressing you, for I am sure you want a little rest. I dare say, for
all my mistress said, if you choose it, I could get a little wine from
her to make whey for you." Amanda refused this, but accepted her offer
of assistance, for she was so overpowered by the scenes of the day, as
to be almost unequal to any exertion. The maid retired after she had
seen her to bed. Amanda entreated her to be punctual to an early hour,
and also requested her to give her most affectionate love to Miss
Rushbrook, and her sincere thanks for the kind solicitude she had
expressed about her. Her rest was now, as on the preceding night,
broken, and disturbed by frightful visions. She arose pale, trembling,
and unrefreshed. The maid came to her soon after she was dressed, and
she immediately accompanied her down stairs, trembling as she went, lest
Belgrave should suddenly make his appearance, and either prevent her
departure, or follow her to her new residence. She left the house,
however, without meeting any creature, and soon obtained the shelter of
a carriage.
As they proceeded, Amanda besought the maid, who seemed perfectly
acquainted with everything relative to Belgrave, to tell Miss Rushbrook
to believe her assertions against him if she wished to save herself from
destruction. The maid assured her she would, and declared she always
suspected Mr. Sipthorpe was not as good as he should be. Amanda soon
found herself at the end of her little journey. The house was elegant
and spacious, with a short avenue before it planted with chestnuts. The
maid's sister was an elderly-looking woman, who received Amanda with
every appearance of respect, and conducted her into a handsome parlor,
where a neat breakfast was laid out. "I took care, ma'am," said the
maid, smiling, "to apprise my sister last night of the honor she was to
have this morning: and I am sure she will do everything in her power to
oblige you." "I thank you both," cried Amanda, with her usual sweetness,
but while she spoke a struggling tear stole down her lovely cheek at the
idea of that forlorn situation which had thus cast her upon the kindness
of strangers--strangers who were themselves the children of poverty and
dependence. "I hope, however, I shall not long be a trouble to either,
as it is my intention immediately to look out for a lodging amongst the
cottages in this neighborhood, till I can settle my affairs to return to
my friends. In the mean time, I must insist on making some recompense
for the attention I have received, and the expense I have put you to."
She accordingly forced a present upon each, for both the women appeared
unwilling to accept them, and Mrs. Deborah, the maid's sister, said it
was quite unnecessary at present to think of leaving the house, as the
family would not return to it for six weeks. Amanda, however, was
resolved on doing what she had said, as she could not conquer her
repugnance to continue in a stranger's house. Mrs. Connel's maid
departed in a few minutes. Of the breakfast prepared for her, Amanda
could only take some tea. Her head ached violently, and her whole frame
felt disordered. Mrs. Deborah, seeing her dejection, proposed showing
her the house and garden, which were very fine, to amuse her, but Amanda
declined the proposal at present, saying she thought if she lay down she
should be better. She was immediately conducted to an elegant chamber,
where Mrs. Deborah left her, saying she would prepare some little nice
thing for her dinner, which she hoped would tempt her to eat. Amanda now
tried to compose her spirits by reflecting she was in a place of
security; but their agitation was not to be subdued from the sleep into
which mere fatigue threw her. She was continually starting in
inexpressible terrors. Mrs. Deborah came up two or three times to know
how she was, and at last appeared with dinner. She laid a small table by
the bedside, and besought Amanda to rise and try to eat. There was a
friendliness in her manner which recalled to Amanda's recollection her
faithful nurse Edwin, and she sighed to think that the shelter of her
humble cottage she could no more enjoy (should such a shelter be
required) from its vicinity to Tudor Hall, near which every feeling of
propriety and tenderness must forbid her residing; the sad remembrance
of which, now reviving in her mind, drew tears from her, and rendered
her unable to eat. She thanked Mrs. Deborah for her attention, but,
anxious to be alone, said she would no longer detain her; yet no sooner
was she alone than she found solitude insupportable. She could not
sleep, the anguish of her mind was so great, and arose with the idea
that a walk in the garden might be of use to her. As she was descending
the stairs, she heard, notwithstanding the door was shut, a man's voice
from a front parlor. She started, for she thought it was a voice
familiar to her ear. With a light foot and a throbbing heart she turned
into a parlor at the foot of the stairs which communicated with the
other. Here she listened, and soon had her fears confirmed by
recollecting the voice to be that of Belgrave's servant, whom she had
often seen in Devonshire. She listened with that kind of horror which
the trembling wretch may be supposed to feel when about hearing a
sentence he expects to be dreadful.
"Ay, I assure you," cried the man, "we are blown up at Mrs. Connel's,
but that is of little consequence to us; the colonel thinks the game now
in view better than that he has lost, so to-night you may expect him in
a chaise and four to carry off your fair guest." "I declare, I am glad
of it," said Mrs. Deborah, "for I think she will die soon." "Die soon!"
repeated he. "Oh! yes, indeed, great danger of that--" and he added
something else, which, being delivered with a violent burst of laughter,
Amanda could not hear. She thought she heard them moving towards the
door; she instantly slipped from the parlor, and, ascending the stairs
in breathless haste, stopped outside the chamber door to listen. In a
few minutes she heard them coming into the hall, and the man softly let
out by Mrs. Deborah. Amanda now entered the chamber and closed the door,
and knowing a guilty conscience is easily alarmed, she threw herself on
the bed, lest Mrs. Deborah, if she found her up, should have her
suspicions awakened. Her desperate situation inspired her with strength
and courage, and she trusted by presence of mind to be able to extricate
herself from it. It was her intention, if she effected her escape, to
proceed directly to London, though the idea of entering it, without a
certain place to go to, was shocking to her imagination; yet she thought
it a more secure place for her than any of the neighboring cottages,
which she thought might be searched. Mrs. Deborah, as she expected, soon
came up to her. Amanda involuntarily shuddered at her appearance, but
knowing her safety depended on the concealment of her feelings, she
forced herself to converse with the treacherous creature. She at last
arose from the bed, declaring she had indulged her languor too much,
and, after a few turns about the room, went to the window, and pretended
to be engrossed in admiring the garden. "There is a great deal of fruit
in the garden," said she, turning to Mrs. Deborah; "if I did not think
it encroached too much on your kindness, I should ask for a nectarine or
two." "Dear ma'am," replied Miss Deborah, "you are heartily welcome. I
declare I should have offered them to you, only I thought you would like
a turn in the garden and pull them yourself." "No," said Amanda, "I
cannot at present." Mrs. Deborah went off, and Amanda watched at the
window till she saw her at the very end of the garden; she then snatched
up her hat, and tied it on with a handkerchief, the better to conceal
her face, then hastily descended the stairs, and locked the back door to
prevent any immediate pursuit. She ran down the avenue, nor flagged in
her course till she had got some paces from it; she was then compelled
to do so, as much from weakness as from fear of attracting notice, if
she went on in such a wild manner. She started at the sound of every
carriage, and hastily averted her head as they passed; but she reached
London without any alarm but what her own fears gave her. The hour was
now late and gloomy, and warned Amanda of the necessity there was for
exertions to procure a lodgings. Some poor women she saw retiring from
their little fruit-stand drew a shower of tears from her, to think her
situation was more wretched than theirs, whom but a few days before she
should have considered as objects of compassion. She knew at such an
hour she would only be received into houses of an inferior description,
and looked for one in which she could think there might be a chance of
gaining admittance. She at last came to a small, mean-looking house.
"This humble roof, I think," cried she, "will not disdain to shelter an
unhappy wanderer!" She turned into the shop, where butter and cheese
were displayed, and where an elderly woman sat knitting behind the
counter. She arose immediately, as if from surprise and respect at
Amanda's appearance, who in universal agitation leaned against the door
for support, unable for some minutes to speak. At last, in faltering
accents, whilst over her pale face a crimson blush was diffused, she
said, "I should be glad to know if you have any lodgings to let?"
The woman instantly dropped into her seat, and looked steadfastly at
Amanda. "This is a strange hour," cried she, "for any decent body to
come looking for lodgings!" "I am as sensible of that as you can be,"
said Amanda, "but peculiar circumstances have obliged me to it; if you
can accommodate me, I can assure you you will not have reason to repent
doing so." "Oh! I do not know how that may be," cried she; "it is
natural for a body to speak a good word for themselves; however, if I do
let you a room, for I have only one to spare, I shall expect to be paid
for it beforehand." "You shall, indeed," said Amanda. "Well, I will show
it you," said she. She accordingly called a little girl to watch the
shop, and, taking a candle, went up, before Amanda, a narrow, winding
flight of stairs, and conducted her into a room, whose dirty, miserable
appearance made her involuntarily shrink back, as if from the den of
wretchedness itself. She tried to subdue the disgust it inspired her
with, by reflecting that, after the imminent danger she had escaped, she
should be happy to procure any asylum she could consider safe. She also
tried to reconcile herself to it, by reflecting that in the morning she
should quit it.
"Well, ma'am," said the woman, "the price of the room is neither more
nor less than one guinea per week, and if you do not like it, you are
very welcome not to stay." "I have no objection to the price," replied
Amanda; "but I hope you have quiet people in the house." "I flatter
myself, ma'am," said the woman, drawing up her head, "there is never a
house in the parish can boast a better name than mine." "I am glad to
hear it," answered Amanda; "and I hope you are not offended by the
inquiry." She now put her hand in her pocket for the purse, to give the
expected guinea, but the purse was not there. She sat down on the side
of the bed, and searched the other, but with as little success. She
pulled out the contents of both, but no purse was to be found.
"Now--now," cried she, clasping her hands together, in an agony which
precluded reflection, "now--now, I am lost indeed! My purse is stolen,"
she continued, "and I cannot give you the promised guinea." "No, nor
never could, I suppose," exclaimed the woman. "Ah! I suspected all along
what you were;--and so you was glad my house had a good name? I shall
take care it does not lose that name by lodging you." "I conjure you,"
cried Amanda, starting up, and laying her hand on the woman's, "I
conjure you to let me stay this night; you will not--you shall not lose
by doing so. I have things of value in a trunk in town, for which I will
this instant give you a direction." "Your trunk!" replied the woman in a
scornful tone. "Oh! yes, you have a trunk with things of value in it, as
much as you have a purse in your pocket. A pretty story, indeed. But I
know too much of the ways of the world to be deceived nowadays--so march
directly."
Amanda again began to entreat, but the woman interrupted her, and
declared, if she did not depart directly, she would be sorry for it.
Amanda instantly ceased her importunities, and in trembling silence
followed her down stairs. Oppressed with weakness, she involuntarily
hesitated in the shop, which the woman perceiving, she rudely seized
her, and pushing her from it, shut the door. Amanda could not now, as in
former exigencies, consider what was to be done. Alas! if even capable
of reflection, she could have suggested no plan which there was a hope
of accomplishing. The powers of her mind were overwhelmed with horror
and anguish. She moved mechanically along, nor stopped, till from
weakness, she sunk upon the step of a door, against which she leaned her
head in a kind of lethargy; but from this she was suddenly aroused by
two men who stopped before her. Death alone could have conquered her
terrors of Belgrave. She instantly concluded these to be him and his
man. She started up, uttered a faint scream, and calling upon Heaven to
defend her, was springing past them, when her hand was suddenly caught.
She made a feeble but unsuccessful effort to disengage it, and overcome
by terror and weakness fell, though not fainting, unable to support
herself, upon the bosom of him who had arrested her course. "Gracious
Heaven!" cried he, "I have heard that voice before."
Amanda raised her head. "Sir Charles Bingley!" she exclaimed. The
feelings of joy, surprise, and shame, that pervaded her whole soul, and
thrilled through her frame, were, in its present weak state, too much
for it, and she again sunk upon his shoulder. The joy of unexpected
protection--for protection she was convinced she should receive from Sir
Charles Bingley--was conquered by reflecting on the injurious ideas her
present situation must excite in his mind--ideas she feared she should
never be able to remove, so strongly were appearances against her.
"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed Sir Charles, "is this Miss Fitzalan? Oh,
this," he cried, in a tone of deep dejection, "is indeed a meeting of
horror!" A deep convulsive sob from Amanda alone proclaimed her
sensibility; for she lay motionless in his arms--arms which
involuntarily encircled and enfolded her to a heart that throbbed with
intolerable anguish on her account. His friend stood all this time a
spectator of the scene, the raillery which he had been on the point of
uttering at seeing Amanda, as he thought, so premeditatedly fell into
the arms of his companion, was stopped by the sudden exclamation of Sir
Charles. Though the face of Amanda was concealed, the glimmering of a
lamp over their heads gave him a view of her fine form, and the
countenance of Sir Charles as he bent over her, full of sorrow and
dismay. "Miss Fitzalan," cried Sir Charles, after the silence of a
minute, "you are ill; allow me to have the pleasure of seeing you home."
"Home!" repeated Amanda, in the slow and hollow voice of despair, and
raising her languid head, "alas! I have no home to go to."
Every surmise of horror which Sir Charles had formed from seeing her in
her present situation was now confirmed. He groaned, he shuddered, and
scarcely able to stand, was obliged to lean with the lovely burden he
supported against the rails. He besought his friend either to procure a
chair or coach in which he might have her conveyed to a house where he
knew he could gain her admittance. Touched by his distress, and the
powerful impulse of humanity, his friend instantly went to comply with
his request.
The silence of Amanda Sir Charles imputed to shame and illness, and
grief and delicacy forbade him to notice it. His friend returned in a
few minutes with a coach, and Sir Charles then found that Amanda's
silence did not altogether proceed from the motives he had ascribed it
to; for she had fainted on his bosom. She was lifted into the carriage,
and he again received her in his arms. On the carriage stopping, he
committed her to the care of his friend, whilst he stepped into the
house to procure a reception. In a few minutes he returned with a maid,
who assisted him in carrying her up stairs. But on entering the
drawing-room, how great was his amazement, when a voice suddenly
exclaimed, "Oh, merciful Powers! this is Miss Donald!" It was indeed to
Mrs. Connel's house, and to the care of the Rushbrooks, whom his bounty
had released from prison, he had brought her. He had previously informed
them of the situation in which he found her, little suspecting, at the
time, she was the Miss Donald they mentioned being under such
obligations to.
"It is I, it is I," cried Mrs. Rushbrook, gazing on her with mingled
horror and anguish, "it is I have been the occasion of her distress, and
never shall I forgive myself for it." "Oh, my preserver, my friend, my
benefactress!" said Emily, clasping her in an agony of tears to her
bosom, "is it thus your Emily beholds you?" Amanda was laid upon a
couch, and her hat being removed, displayed a face which, with the
paleness of death, had all the wildness of despair--a wildness that
denoted more expressively than language could have done, the conflicts
her spirit had endured; heavy sighs announced her having recovered from
her fainting fit; but her eyes still continued closed, and her head, too
weak to be self-supported, rested against the arm of the couch. Mrs.
Rushbrook and her daughter hung over her in inexpressible agonies. If
they were thus affected, oh! how was Sir Charles Bingley distressed--oh!
how was his heart, which loved her with the most impassionate
tenderness, agonized! As he bent over the couch, the big tear trickled
down his manly cheek, and fell upon the cold, pale face he contemplated.
He softly asked himself, Is this Amanda? Is this she, whom but a short
time ago I beheld moving with unequalled elegance, adorned with
unrivalled beauty, whom my heart worshipped as the first of women, and
sought to unite its destiny to, as the surest means of rendering that
destiny happy? Oh! what a change is here! How feeble is that form! how
hollow is that cheek! how heavy are those eyes whose languid glance
speak incurable anguish of the soul! Oh, Amanda, was the being present
who first led you into error, what horror and remorse must seize his
soul at seeing the consequence of that error! "Has this unhappy young
creature," asked Rushbrook, who had approached the couch and viewed her
with the truest pity, "no connections that could be prevailed on to save
her?" "None that I know of," replied Sir Charles; "her parents are both
dead." "Happy are the parents," resumed Rushbrook, "who, shrouded in the
dust, cannot see the misfortunes of their children--the fall of such a
child as this!" glancing his tearful eyes as he spoke on his daughters.
"And pray, sir," said Mrs. Connel, who was chafing her temples with
lavender, "if she recovers, what is to become of her?" "It shall be my
care," cried Sir Charles, "to procure her an asylum. Yes, madam," he
continued, looking at her with an expression of mingled tenderness and
grief, "he that must forever mourn thy fate, will try to mitigate it;
but does she not want medical assistance?" "I think not," replied Mrs.
Connel; "it is want of nourishment and rest has thrown her into her
present situation." "Want of nourishment and rest!" repeated Sir
Charles. "Good Heavens!" continued he, in the sudden agony of his soul,
and walking from the couch, "is it possible that Amanda was a wanderer
in the streets, without food, or a place to lay her head in? Oh, this is
dreadful! Oh! my friends," he proceeded, looking around him, whilst his
eyes beamed the divine compassion of his soul, "be kind, be careful of
this poor creature; but it is unnecessary to exhort you to this, and
excuse me for having done so. Yes, I know you will delight in binding up
a broken heart, and drying the tears of a wretched outcast. A short time
ago, and she appeared----" he stopped, overcome by his emotions, and
turned away his head to wipe away his tears. "A short time ago," he
resumed, "and she appeared all that the heart of man could desire, all
that a woman should wish and ought to be. Now she is fallen, indeed,
lost to herself and to the world!" "No," cried Emily, with generous
warmth, starting from the side of the couch, at which she had been
kneeling, "I am confident she never was guilty of an error." "I am
inclined, indeed, to be of Emily's opinion," said Mrs. Rushbrook. "I
think the monster, who spread such a snare for her destruction, traduced
Miss Donald in order to drive her from those who would protect her from
his schemes." "Would to Heaven the truth of your conjecture could be
proved," exclaimed Sir Charles. Again he approached the couch. Amanda
remained in the same attitude, but seeing her eyes open, he took her
cold hand, and in a soothing voice assured her she was safe; but the
assurance had no effect upon her. Hers, like the "dull, cold ear of
death," was insensible of sound. A faint spark of life seemed only
quivering through her woe-worn frame. "She is gone!" cried Sir Charles,
pressing her hand between his; "she is gone, indeed! Oh! sweet Amanda,
the mortal bounds that enclose thy afflicted spirit will soon be
broken!" "I trust not, sir," exclaimed Captain Rushbrook. His wife and
daughter were unable to speak. "In my opinion she had better be removed
to bed."
Amanda was accordingly carried to a chamber, and Sir Charles remained in
the drawing-room till Mrs. Rushbrook had returned to it. She informed
him Miss Donald continued in the same state. He desired a physician
might be sent for, and departed in inexpressible dejection.