"Love, gratitude, and pity wept at once."--THOMSON.
We shall now account for the incidents in the last chapter. Amanda's
letter to the Rushbrooks filled them with surprise and consternation.
Mrs. Rushbrook directly repaired to Mrs. Connel, who, without
hesitation, gave it as her opinion that the whole was a fabrication,
invented by malice to ruin Sipthorpe in their opinion, or else by envy
to prevent their enjoying the good fortune which he offered to their
acceptance. Mrs. Rushbrook was inclined to be of the same opinion. Her
mind was sensibly affected by the favors Sipthorpe had conferred on her
family, and, yielding to its gratitude, she resolved to be guided
implicitly by her friend, who advised her to show the letter to him. She
considered this the best measure she could pursue. If innocent, he would
be pleased by the confidence reposed in his honor; if guilty, his
confusion must betray him. But Belgrave was guarded against detection.
His servant had seen Amanda as she was alighting from the coach the
evening she arrived in town. He inquired from the maid concerning her,
and learned that she was to lodge in the house, and go by her assumed
name. These circumstances he related to his master the moment he
returned home, who was transported at the intelligence. From her change
of name, he supposed her not only in deep distress, but removed from the
protection of her friends, and he determined not to lose so favorable an
opportunity as the present for securing her in his power. He instantly
resolved to relinquish his designs on Emily--designs which her beautiful
simplicity and destitute condition had suggested, and to turn all his
thoughts on Amanda, who had ever been the first object of his wishes.
His pride, as well as love, was interested in again ensnaring her, as he
had been deeply mortified by her so successfully baffling his former
stratagems; he knew not of the manner she had left the house. Half
distracted at what he supposed her escape from it, he had followed her
to Ireland, and remained incognito near the convent, till the appearance
of Lord Mortimer convinced him any schemes he formed against her must
prove abortive; but to concert a plan for securing her required some
deliberation. Ere he could devise one he was summoned to Mrs. Connel's
parlor to peruse the letter, and from the hand as well as purport,
instantly knew Amanda to be its author. With the daring effrontery of
vice, he directly declared she was a discarded mistress of his, who from
jealousy had taken this step, to prevent, if possible, his union. He
assured them her real name was not Donald, bid them tax her with that
deceit, and judge from her confusion whether she was not guilty of that,
as well as everything else he alleged against her. His unembarrassed
manner had the appearance of innocence to his too credulous auditors,
prejudiced as they were already in his favor, and in their minds he was
now fully acquitted of his imputed crimes. He was now careless whether
Amanda saw him or not (for he had before stolen into the house), being
well convinced nothing she could allege against him would be credited.
When night approached without bringing her, he grew alarmed lest he had
lost her again. At last her return relieved him from this fear. The
conversation which passed in the parlor he heard through the means of
his servant, who had listened to it. The mention of Amanda's removal in
the morning made him immediately consult his servant about measures for
securing her, and he, with the assistance of the maid, contrived the
scheme which has been already related, having forged a letter in Emily's
name. But how inadequate is language to describe the rage that took
possession of his soul, when, going at the appointed hour to carry
Amanda off, he found her already gone. He raved, cursed, stamped, and
accused the woman and his servant of being privy to her escape. In vain
Mrs. Deborah told him of the trick she had played on her, and how she
had been obliged to get into the house through the window. He continued
his accusations, which so provoked his servant, conscious of their
unjustness, that he at last replied to them with insolence. This, in the
present state of Belgrave's mind, was not to be borne, and he
immediately struck him over the forehead with his sword, and with a
violence which felled him to the earth. Scarcely had he obeyed ere he
repented his impulse of passion, which seemed attended with fatal
consequences, for the man gave no symptoms of existence. Consideration
for his own safety was more prevalent in his mind than any feelings of
humanity, and he instantly rushed from the house, ere the woman was
sufficiently recovered from her horror and amazement to be able to call
to the other servants, as she afterwards did, to stop him. He fled to
town, and hastened to an hotel in Pall Mall, from whence he determined
to hire a carriage for Dover, and thence embark for the continent.
Ascending the stairs he met a man, of all others he would have wished to
avoid, namely, Sir Charles Bingley. He started, but it was too late to
retreat. He then endeavored to shake off his embarrassment, from a faint
hope that Sir Charles had not heard of his villanous design upon Miss
Rushbrook; but this hope vanished the moment Sir Charles addressed him,
who with coldness and contempt said he would be glad to speak to him for
a few minutes. But ere we relate their conversation, it is necessary to
relate a few particulars of the Rushbrooks.
Captain Rushbrook, from knowing more of the deceits of mankind than his
wife, was less credulous. The more he reflected on the letter the more
he felt doubts obtruding on his mind, and he resolved sooner to forfeit
the friendship of Sipthorpe than permit any further intercourse between
him and his daughter till those doubts were removed. He sent his son to
Sir Charles's agent, and had the satisfaction of hearing he was then in
town, and lodged at an hotel in Pall Mall. He immediately wrote to Sir
Charles, and requested to see him whenever he was at leisure; adding, he
was well convinced his benevolence would excuse the liberty he had
taken, when informed of the purpose for which his visit was requested.
Sir Charles was fortunately within, and directly attended little
Rushbrook to the prison. The letter had filled him with surprise, but
that surprise gave way, the moment he entered the wretched apartment of
Rushbrook, to the powerful emotions of pity. A scene more distressing he
had never seen, or could not have conceived. He saw the emaciated form
of the soldier, for such his dress announced him, seated beside a dying
fire, his little children surrounding him, whose faded countenances
denoted their keen participation of his grief, and the sad partner of
his misery bending her eyes upon those children with mingled love and
sorrow.
Rushbrook was unable to speak for a few minutes after his entrance. When
he recovered his voice, he thanked him for the kind attention he had
paid his request, briefly informed him of the motives for that request,
and ended by putting Amanda's letter into his hand. Sir Charles perused
it with horror and amazement. "Gracious Heaven!" he exclaimed, "what a
monster! I know not the lady who has referred you to me, but I can
testify the truth of her allegations. I am shocked to think such a
monster as Belgrave exists."
Shocked at the idea of the destruction she was so near devoting her
daughter to, disappointed in the hopes she entertained of having her
family liberated from prison, and struck with remorse for her conduct to
Amanda, Mrs. Rushbrook fell fainting to the floor, overpowered by her
painful emotions. Sir Charles aided in raising her from it, for the
trembling hand of Rushbrook refused its assistance. "Unhappy woman!" he
exclaimed, "the disappointment of her hopes is too much for her feeble
frame." Water, the only restorative in the room, being sprinkled on her
face, she slowly revived, and the first object she beheld was the pale
and weeping Emily, whom her father had insisted on being brought to the
prison. "Oh, my child," she cried, clasping her to her bosom, "can you
forgive the mother who was so near devoting you to destruction? Oh! my
children, for your sake, how near was I sacrificing this dear, this
precious girl! I blush! I shudder! when I reflect on my conduct to the
unhappy young creature, who, like a guardian angel, interposed between
my child and ruin. But these dreary walls," she continued, bursting
into an agony of tears, "which now we must never hope to pass, will hide
my shame and sorrows together!" "Do not despair, my dear madam," said
Sir Charles, in the soft accent of benevolence, "nor do you," continued
he, turning to Rushbrook, "deem me impertinent in inquiring into those
sorrows." His accent, his manner, were so soothing, that these children
of misery, who had long been strangers to the voice of kindness, gave
him, with tears, and sighs, a short relation of their sorrows. He heard
them with deep attention, and, when he departed, gave them such a smile
as, we may suppose, would beam from an angel, if sent by Heaven to pour
the balm of comfort and mercy over the sorrows of a bursting heart.
He returned early in the morning. How bright, how animated was his
countenance! Oh, ye sons of riot and extravagance! ye children of
dissipation! never did ye experience a pleasure equal to his, when he
entered the apartment of Rushbrook to inform him he was free; when, in
the impassioned, yet faltering accents of sensibility, he communicated
the joyful tidings, and heard the little children repeat his words,
while their parents gazed on each other with surprise and rapture.
Rushbrook at length attempted to pour out the fulness of his heart, but
Sir Charles stopped him. "Blessed with a fortune," cried he, "beyond my
wants, to what nobler purpose could superfluous wealth be devoted, than
to the enlargement of a man who has served his country, and who has a
family which he may bring up to act as he has done? May the restoration
of liberty be productive of every happiness! Your prison gates, I
rejoice to repeat, are open. May the friendship which commenced within
these walls be lasting as our lives!" To dwell longer on this subject is
unnecessary. The transported family were conveyed to Mrs. Connel's,
where he had been the preceding night to order everything for their
reception. He then inquired about Sipthorpe, or rather Belgrave, whom he
meant to upbraid for his cruel designs against Miss Rushbrook; but
Belgrave, as soon as his plan was settled about Amanda, had quitted Mrs.
Connel's. The joy of the Rushbrooks was greatly damped the next morning
on hearing of the secret departure of Amanda. What Belgrave had said
against her they never would have credited, but for the appearance of
mystery which enveloped her. Still, her amiable attention to them
merited their truest gratitude; they wished to have expressed that
gratitude to her, and offer her their services. Much as appearances were
against Amanda, yet from the very moment Mrs. Rushbrook declared it her
idea that Belgrave had traduced her for the purpose of depriving her of
protection, a similar idea started in Sir Charles's mind, and he
resolved to seek Belgrave, and never rest till he had discovered whether
there was any truth in his assertions against Amanda. Their meeting at
the hotel was considered as fortunate as unexpected by him; yet could he
not disguise for a moment the contempt his character inspired him with.
He reproached him as soon as they entered an apartment, for his base
designs against Miss Rushbrook; designs in every respect degrading to
his character, since he knew the blow he levelled at the peace of her
father, could not, from the unfortunate situation of that father, be
resented. "You are," continued Sir Charles, "not only the violator, but
the defamer of female innocence. I am well convinced from reflection on
past and present circumstances, that your allegations against Miss
Fitzalan were as false as vile." "You may doubt them, Sir Charles,"
replied Belgrave, "if it is agreeable to you; but yet, as a friend, I
advise you not to let every one know you are her champion." "Oh,
Belgrave!" cried Sir Charles, "can you think without remorse, of having
destroyed not only the reputation, but the existence of an amiable young
creature?" "The existence!" repeated Belgrave, starting, and with a kind
of horror in his look. "What do you mean?" "I mean that Amanda Fitzalan,
involved through your means in a variety of wretchedness she was unable
to support, is now on her death-bed!" Belgrave changed color, trembled,
and in an agitated voice, demanded an explanation of Sir Charles's
words.
Sir Charles saw his feelings were touched, and trusting they would
produce the discovery he wished, briefly gave him the particulars he
asked for.
Amanda was the only woman that had ever really touched the heart of
Belgrave. His mind, filled with horror and enervated with fear at the
idea of the crime he had recently committed, could make no opposition to
the grief he experienced on hearing of her situation--a grief heightened
almost to distraction, by reflecting that he was accessory to it.
"Dying!" he repeated, "Amanda Fitzalan dying! but she will be happy!
Hers will be a pure and ministering spirit in heaven, when mine lies
howling. The angels are not purer in mind and person than she is!" "Then
you are an execrable villain," cried Sir Charles, laying his hand on his
sword. "Strike," exclaimed Belgrave, with an air of wildness; "death
will rid me of horrors. Death from you will be better than the
ignominious one which now stares me in the face; for I have, oh,
horrible! this night I have committed murder!"
Astonished and dismayed, Sir Charles gazed on him with earnestness. "It
is true!" continued he, in the same wild manner, "it is true! therefore
strike! but against you I will not raise my hand; it were impious to
touch a life like yours, consecrated to the purposes of virtue. No, I
would not deprive the wretched of their friend." Sir Charles, still
shuddering at his words, demanded an explanation of them; and the
tortured soul of Belgrave, as if happy to meet any one it could confide
in, after a little hesitation, divulged at once its crimes and horrors.
"No," cried Sir Charles, when he had concluded, "to raise a hand against
him over whom the arm of justice is uplifted, were cruel as well as
cowardly. Go, then, and may repentance, not punishment, overtake you."
To describe the raptures Sir Charles experienced at the acquittal of
Amanda, is impossible. Not a fond father rejoicing over the restored
fame of a darling child, could experience more exquisite delight. The
next morning, as soon as he thought it possible he could gain
admittance, he hastened to Mrs. Connel's, and had the satisfaction of
hearing from Mrs. Rushbrook that Amanda was then in a sweet sleep, from
which the most salutary consequences might be expected. With almost
trembling impatience he communicated the transports of his heart, and
his auditors rejoiced as much at these transports on Amanda's account as
on his. Mrs. Rushbrook and Emily had sat up with her the preceding
night, which she passed in a most restless manner, without any
perception of surrounding objects. Towards morning she fell into a
profound sleep, which they trusted would recruit her exhausted frame.
Mrs. Rushbrook then withdrew to her husband. It was past noon ere Amanda
awoke. At first a pleasing languor was diffused through her frame, which
prevented her from having an idea of her situation; but gradually her
recollection returned, and with it anxiety to know where she was. She
remembered, too, the moment she had met Sir Charles, but no further. She
gently opened the curtain, and beheld--oh! how great the pleasure of
that moment--Emily sitting by the bedside, who, instantly rising, kissed
her cheek in a transport of affection, and inquired how she did. Oh! how
delightful, how soothing was that gentle voice to the ears of Amanda!
The softest music could not have been more grateful. Her heart vibrated
to it with an exquisite degree of pleasure, and her eyes feasted on the
rays of benevolence which streamed from those of Emily. At last, in a
faint voice, she said: "I am sure I am safe, since I am with Emily."
Mrs. Rushbrook entered at that instant. Her delight at the restored
faculties of Amanda was equal to her daughter's; yet the recollection of
her own conduct made her almost reluctant to approach her. At last,
advancing, "I blush, yet I rejoice--oh! how truly rejoice--to behold
you," she exclaimed; "that I could be tempted to harbor a doubt against
you fills me with regret; and the vindication of your innocence can
scarcely yield you more pleasure than it yields me." "The vindication of
my innocence!" repeated Amanda, raising her head from the pillow. "Oh,
gracious Heaven! is it then vindicated? Tell me, I conjure you, how, and
by what means."
Mrs. Rushbrook hastened to obey her, and related all she had heard from
Sir Charles. The restoration of her fame seemed to reanimate the soul of
Amanda, yet tears burst from her, and she trembled with emotion. Mrs.
Rushbrook was alarmed, and endeavored to compose her. "Do not be
uneasy," said Amanda, "those tears will never injure me. It is long, it
is very long, since I have shed tears of joy!" She implored Heaven's
choicest blessings on Sir Charles for his generosity to her, his
benevolence to the Rushbrooks. Her heart, relieved of a heavy burden of
anxiety on her own account, now grew more anxious than ever to learn
something of her poor Oscar; and notwithstanding Mrs. Rushbrook's
entreaties to the contrary, who feared she was exerting herself beyond
her strength, she arose in the afternoon for the purpose of going to the
drawing-room, determined, as Sir Charles's generous conduct merited her
confidence, to relate to him as well as to Mrs. Rushbrook the motives
which had brought her to town; the particulars of her life necessary to
be known; and to request their assistance in trying to learn
intelligence of her brother. Emily helped her to dress, and supported
her to the drawing-room. Sir Charles had continued in the house the
whole day, and met her as she entered with mingled love and pity; for in
her feeble form, her faded cheek, he witnessed the ravages of grief and
sickness. His eyes more than his tongue expressed his feelings, yet in
the softest accent of tenderness did he pour forth those feelings,
whilst his hand trembled as it pressed hers to his bosom. "My feelings,
Sir Charles," said she, "cannot be expressed; but my gratitude to you
will cease but with my existence."
Sir Charles besought her to be silent on such a subject. "He was
selfish," he said, "in everything he did for her, for on her happiness
his depended."
Rushbrook approached to offer his congratulations. He spoke of her
kindness, but, like Sir Charles, the subject was painful to her, and
dropped at her request. The idea of being safe, the soothing attentions
she experienced, gave to her mind a tranquillity it had long been a
stranger to, and she looked back on her past dangers but to enjoy more
truly her present security. As she witnessed the happiness of the
Rushbrooks, she could scarcely forbear applauding aloud the author of
that happiness; but she judged of his heart by her own, and therefore
checked herself by believing he would prefer the silent plaudits of that
heart to any praise whatsoever. After tea, when only Sir Charles, Mr.
and Mrs. Rushbrook, and Emily, were present, she entered upon the
affairs she wished to communicate. They heard her with deep attention,
wonder, and pity, and, when she concluded, both Sir Charles and
Rushbrook declared their readiness to serve her. The latter, who had
betrayed strong emotions during her narrative, assured her he doubted
not, nay, he was almost convinced, he should soon be able to procure her
intelligence of her brother.
This was a sweet assurance to the heart of Amanda, and, cheered by it,
she soon retired to bed. Her strength being exhausted by speaking, she
sunk into a tranquil slumber, and next morning she arose for breakfast.
"Well," said Rushbrook to her as they sat at it, "I told you last night
I should soon be able to procure you intelligence of your brother, and I
was not mistaken." "Oh, heavens!" cried Amanda, in trembling emotion,
"have you really heard anything of him?" "Be composed, my dear girl,"
said he, taking her hand in the most soothing, most affectionate manner,
"I have heard of him, but----" "But what?" interrupted Amanda, with
increased emotion. "Why, that he has experienced some of the trials of
life. But let the reflection that these trials are over, prevent your
suffering pain by hearing of them." "Oh! tell me, I entreat," said
Amanda, "where he is! Tell me, I conjure you; shall I see him?" "Yes,"
replied Rushbrook, "you shall see him, to keep you no longer in
suspense. In that dreary prison, from which I have just been released,
he has languished for many months." "Oh, my brother!" exclaimed Amanda,
while tears gushed from her.
"I knew not," continued Rushbrook, "from the concealment of your name,
that he was your brother, till last night. I then told Sir Charles, and
he is gone this morning to him; but you must expect to see him somewhat
altered. The restoration of liberty, and the possession of fortune, will
no doubt soon re-establish his health. Hark! I think I hear a voice on
the stairs."
Amanda started, arose, attempted to move, but sunk again upon her chair.
The door opened, and Sir Charles entered, followed by Oscar. Though
prepared for an alteration in his looks, she was not by any means
prepared for an alteration which struck her the moment she beheld him.
Pale and thin, even to a degree of emaciation, he was dressed, or rather
wrapped, in an old regimental great-coat, his fine hair wildly
dishevelled. As he approached her, Amanda rose. "Amanda, my sister!"
said he, in a faint voice. She tottered forward, and falling upon his
bosom, gave way in tears to the mingled joy and anguish of the moment.
Oscar pressed her to his heart. He gazed on her with the fondest
rapture--yet a rapture suddenly checked, by surveying the alteration in
her appearance, which was as striking to him, as his was to her. Her
pale and woe-worn countenance, her sable dress, at once declared her
sufferings, and brought most painfully to recollection the irreparable
loss they had sustained since their last meeting.
"Oh, my father!" groaned Oscar, unable to control the strong emotions of
his mind--"Oh, my father! when last we met we were blessed with your
presence." He clasped Amanda closer to his heart as he spoke, as if
doubly endeared to him by her desolate situation.
"To avoid regretting him is indeed impossible," said Amanda; "yet, had
he lived, what tortures would have wrung his heart in witnessing the
unhappiness of his children, when he had not the power of removing it!"
"Come," cried Captain Rushbrook, whose eyes, like those of every person
present, confessed his sympathetic feelings, "let us not cloud present
blessings by the retrospection of past misfortunes. In this life we must
all expect to meet with such losses as you lament." As soon as Oscar and
Amanda grew composed, they were left to themselves, and Oscar then
satisfied the anxious and impatient heart of his sister, by informing
her of all that had befallen him. He began with his attachment for
Adela, and the disappointment of that attachment; but as this part of
his story is already known, we Shall pass it over in silence, and merely
relate the occasion of his quarrel with Belgrave.