"------I solitary court
The inspiring breeze."--THOMSON.
The ensuing morning, Oscar, Amanda, and Sir Charles began their journey.
The Rushbrooks, who regarded Amanda as the cause of their present
happiness, took leave of her with a tender sorrow that deeply affected
her heart. The journey to Wales was pleasant and expeditious, the
weather being fine, and relays of horses being provided at every stage.
On the evening of the third day they arrived about sunset at the village
which lay contiguous to Edwin's abode; from whence, as soon as they had
taken some refreshment, Amanda set off, attended by her brother, for the
cottage, having ordered her luggage to be brought after her. She would
not permit the attendance of Sir Charles, and almost regretted having
travelled with him, as she could not help thinking his passion seemed
increased by her having done so. "How dearly," cried he, as he handed
her down stairs, "shall I pay for a few short hours of pleasure, by the
unceasing regret their remembrance will entail upon me."
Amanda withdrew her hand, and, bidding him farewell, hurried on. Oscar
proceeded no farther than the lane, which led to the cottage, with his
sister. He had no time to answer the interrogations which its
inhabitants might deem themselves privileged to make. Neither did he
wish his present situation to be known to any others than those already
acquainted with it. Amanda therefore meant to say she had taken the
opportunity of travelling so far with two particular friends who were
going to Ireland. Oscar promised to write to her immediately from
thence, and from Scotland, as soon as he had seen the marquis. He gave
her a thousand charges concerning her health, and took a tender
farewell. From his too visible dejection, Amanda, rejoiced she had not
revealed her own sorrows to him. She trusted it would be in her power,
by soothing attentions, by the thousand little nameless offices of
friendship, to alleviate his. To pluck the thorn from his heart which
rankled within it was beyond her hopes. In their dispositions, as well
as fates, there was too great a similitude to expect this.
Amanda lingered in the walk as he departed. She was now in the very
spot that recalled a thousand fond and tender remembrances. It was here
she had given a farewell look to Tudor Hall; it was here her father had
taken a last look at the spire of the church where his beloved wife was
interred; it was here Lord Mortimer used so often to meet her. Her soul
sunk in the heaviest sadness. Sighs burst from her overcharged heart,
and with difficulty she prevented her tears from falling. All around was
serene and beautiful; but neither the serenity nor the beauty of the
scene could she now enjoy. The plaintive bleating of the cattle that
rambled about the adjacent hills only heightened her melancholy, and the
appearance of autumn, which was now far advanced, only made her look
back to the happy period when admiring its luxuriance had given her
delight. The parting sunbeams yet glittered on the windows of Tudor
Hall. She paused involuntarily to contemplate it. Hours could she have
continued in the same situation, had not the idea that she might be
observed from the cottage made her at last hasten to it.
The door lay open. She entered, and found only the nurse within,
employed at knitting. Her astonishment at the appearance of Amanda is
not to be described. She started, screamed, surveyed her a minute, as if
doubting the evidence of her eyes, then, running to her, flung her arms
about her neck, and clasped her to her bosom. "Good gracious!" cried
she; "well, to pe sure, who ever would have thought such a thing? Well,
to pe sure, you are as welcome as the flowers in May. Here we have peen
in such a peck of troubles about you. Many and many a time has my good
man said, that if he knew where you were, he would go to you." Amanda
returned the embraces of her faithful nurse, and they both sat down
together.
"Ah! I fear," said the nurse, looking tenderly at her for a few minutes,
"you have been in a sad way since I last saw you. The poor tear captain,
alack! little did I think when he took you away from us, I should never
see him more." Amanda's tears could no longer be suppressed; they gushed
in torrents from her, and deep sobs spoke the bitterness of her
feelings. "Ay," said the nurse, wiping her eyes with the corner of her
apron, "gentle or simple, sooner or later, we must all go the same way;
so, my tear chilt, don't take it so much to heart. Well, to pe sure,
long pefore this I thought I should have seen or heard of your being
greatly married; put I pelieve it is true enough, that men are like the
wind--always changing. Any one that had seen Lord Mortimer after you
went away, would never have thought he could prove fickle. He was in
such grief, my very heart and soul pitied him. To pe sure, if I had
known where you were, I should have told him. I comforted myself,
however, by thinking he would certainly find you out, when, Lort!
instead of looking for you, here he's going to be married to a great
lady, with such a long, hard name--a Scotch heiress, I think they call
her. Ay, golt is everything in these days. Well, all the harm I wish him
is, that she may plague his life out."
This discourse was too painful to Amanda. Her tears had subsided, and
she endeavored to change it, by asking after the nurse's family. The
nurse, in a hasty manner, said they were well, and thus proceeded: "Then
there is Parson Howel. I am sure one would have thought him as steady as
Penmaenmawr, but no such thing. I am sure he has changed, for he does
not come to the cottage half so often to ask about you as he used to
do."
Amanda, notwithstanding her dejection, smiled at the nurse's anger about
the curate, and again requested to hear particulars of her family. The
nurse no longer hesitated to comply with her request. She informed her
they were all well, and then at a little distance at the mill in the
valley. She also added, that Ellen was married to her faithful Chip; had
a comfortable cottage, and a fine little girl she was nursing, and to
whom, from her love to her tear young laty, she would have given the
name of Amanda, but that she feared people would deem her conceited, to
give it so fine a one. The nurse said she often regretted having left
her young lady, and then even Chip himself could not console her for
having done so. Tears again started in Amanda's eyes, at hearing of the
unabated attachment of her poor Ellen. She longed to see and
congratulate her on her present happiness. The nurse, in her turn,
inquired of all that had befallen Amanda since their separation, and
shed tears at hearing of her dear child's sufferings since that period.
She asked about Oscar, and was briefly informed he was well. The family
soon returned from the dance; and it would be difficult to say whether
surprise or joy was most predominant at seeing Amanda. One of the young
men ran over for Ellen, and returned in a few minutes with her, followed
by her husband, carrying his little child. She looked wild with delight.
She clasped Amanda in her arms, as if she would never let her depart
from them, and wept in the fulness of her heart. "Now, now," cried she,
"I shall be quite happy; but oh! why, my dear young laty, did you not
come amongst us before? you know all in our power we would have done to
render you happy." She now recollected herself, and modestly retired to
a little distance. She took her child and brought it to Amanda, who
delighted her extremely by the notice she took of it and Chip. If Amanda
had had less cause for grief, the attentions of these affectionate
cottagers would have soothed her mind; but at present nothing could
diminish her dejection. Her luggage was by this time arrived. She had
brought presents for all the family, and now distributed them. She tried
to converse about their domestic affairs, but found herself unequal to
the effort, and begged to be shown to her chamber. The nurse would not
suffer her to retire till she had tasted her new cheese and Welsh ale.
When alone within it, she found fresh objects to remind her of Lord
Mortimer, and consequently to augment her grief. Here lay the book-case
he had sent her. She opened it with trembling impatience; but scarcely a
volume did she examine in which select passages were not marked, by his
hand, for her particular perusal. Oh! what mementoes were those volumes
of the happy hours she had passed at the cottage! The night waned away,
and still she continued weeping over them. She could with difficulty
bring herself to close the book-case; and when she retired to rest her
slumbers were short and unrefreshing. The next morning as she sat at
breakfast, assiduously attended by the nurse and her daughters (for
Ellen had come over early to inquire after her health), Howel entered to
pay her a visit. The previous intimation she had received of the
alteration in his sentiments rendered his visit more pleasing than it
would otherwise have been to her. His pleasure was great at seeing her,
but it was not the wild and extravagant delight of a lover, but the soft
and placid joy of a friend. After his departure, which was not soon, she
accompanied Ellen to view her cottage, and was infinitely pleased by its
neatness and romantic situation. It lay on the side of a hill which
commanded a beautiful prospect of Tudor Hall. Everything she beheld
reminded Amanda of Lord Mortimer, even the balmy air she breathed, on
which his voice had so often floated.
The sad indulgence of wandering through the shades of Tudor Hall, which
she had so eagerly desired, and fondly anticipated, she could not longer
deny herself. The second evening after her arrival at the cottage, she
turned her solitary steps to them; their deep embowering glens, their
solitude, their silence, suited the pensive turn of her feelings. Here,
undisturbed and unobserved, she could indulge the sorrows of her heart;
and oh! how did recollection augment those sorrows by retracing the
happy hours she had spent within those shades. A cold, a death-like
melancholy pervaded her feelings, and seemed repelling the movements of
life. Her trembling limbs were unable to support her, and she threw
herself on the ground. For some minutes she could scarcely breathe.
Tears at length relieved her painful oppression, she raised her languid
head, she looked around, and wept with increasing violence at beholding
what might be termed mementoes of former happiness. She repeated in soft
and tremulous accents the name of Mortimer; but as the beloved name
vibrated on her ear, how did she start at recollecting that she was then
calling upon the husband of Lady Euphrasia. She felt a momentary glow
upon her cheeks. She arose, and sighed deeply. "I will strive to do
right," she cried; "I will try to wean my soul from remembrances no
longer proper to be indulged." Yet still she lingered in the wood. The
increasing gloom of evening rendered it, if possible, more pleasing to
her feelings, whilst the breeze sighed mournfully through the trees, and
the droning bat fluttered upon the air, upon which the wild music of a
harp, from one of the neighboring cottages, softly floated.
Amanda drew nearer to it. It looked dark and melancholy. She sighed--she
involuntarily exclaimed, "Oh, how soon will it be enlivened by bridal
pomp and festivity!" She now recollected the uneasiness her long absence
might create at the cottage, and as soon as the idea occurred, hastened
to it. She met Edwin in the lane, who had been dispatched by his wife in
quest of her. The good woman expressed her fears, that such late rambles
would injure the health of Amanda; "it was a sad thing," she said, "to
see young people giving way to dismal fancies."
Amanda did not confine her rambles entirely to Tudor Hall; she visited
all the spots where she and Mortimer used to ramble together. She went
to the humble spot where her mother lay interred. Her feelings were now
infinitely more painful than when she had first seen it. It recalled to
her mind, in the most agonizing manner, all the vicissitudes she had
experienced since that period. It recalled to view the calamitous
closure of her father's life--the sorrows, the distresses of that life,
and she felt overwhelmed with grief. Scarcely could she prevent herself
from falling on the grave, and giving way in tears and lamentations to
that grief. Deprived of the dearest connections of life, blasted in
hopes and expectations--"Oh! well had it been for me," she cried, "had
this spot at once received the mother and child; and yet," she
exclaimed, after a minute's reflection; "oh! what, my God, am I, that I
should dare to murmur or repine at thy decrees? Oh! pardon the
involuntary expressions of a woe-worn heart, of a heart that feels the
purest gratitude for thy protection through past dangers. Oh! how
presumptuous," she continued, "to repine at the common lot of humanity,
as the lot of her," she continued, casting her tearful eyes upon the
grave, where the last flowers of autumn were now withering, "who reposes
in this earthly bed; who, in life's meridian, in beauty's prime, sunk,
the sad victim of sorrow, into the arms of death! Oh, my parents, how
calamitous were your destinies! even your ashes were not permitted to
moulder together, but in a happier region, your kindred spirits are now
united. Blessed spirits, your child will strive to imitate your example;
in patient resignation to the will of Heaven, she will endeavor to
support life. She will strive to live, though not from an idea of
enjoying happiness, but from an humble hope of being able to dispense it
to others."
Such were the words of Amanda at the grave of her mother, from which she
turned like a pale and drooping lily, surcharged with tears. At the end
of a week, she heard from Oscar, who told her in the course of a few
days he expected to embark for Scotland. Amanda had brought materials
for drawing with her, and she felt a passionate desire of taking views
of Tudor Hall; views which, she believed, would yield her a melancholy
pleasure when she should be far and forever distant from the spots they
represented.
This desire, however, she could not gratify without the assistance of
her nurse, for she meant to take her views from the library, and she
feared if she went there without apprising the housekeeper, she should
be liable to interruption. She, therefore, requested her nurse to ask
permission for her to go there. The nurse shook her head, as if she
suspected Amanda had a motive for the request she did not divulge. She
was, however, too anxious to gratify her dear child to refuse complying
with it, and accordingly lost no time in asking the desired permission,
which Mrs. Abergwilly readily gave, saying--"Miss Fitzalan was welcome
to go to the library whenever she pleased, and should not be
interrupted."
Amanda did not delay availing herself of this permission, but it was
some time after she entered the library, ere she could compose herself
sufficiently for the purpose which had brought her to it. In vain did
nature appear from the windows, displaying the most beautiful and
romantic scenery to her view, as if to tempt her to take up the pencil.
Her eyes were dimmed with tears as she looked upon this scenery, and
reflected that he who had once pointed out its various beauties was lost
to her forever. By degrees, however, her feelings grew composed, and
every morning she repaired to the library, feeling, whilst engaged with
it, a temporary alleviation of sorrow.
Three weeks passed in this manner, and at the expiration of that period,
she received a letter from Oscar. She trembled in the most violent
agitation as she broke the seal, for she saw by the post-mark he was in
Scotland; but how great was her surprise and joy at the contents of this
letter, which informed her everything relative to the important affair
so lately in agitation, was settled in the most amicable manner; that
the avowal of his claim occasioned not the smallest litigation; that he
was then in full possession of the fortune bequeathed him by the earl,
and had already received the congratulations of the neighboring families
on his accession, or rather restoration to it. He had not time, he said,
to enumerate the many particulars which rendered the adjustment of
affairs so easy, and hoped the pleasing intelligence his letter
communicated would atone for his brevity; he added, he was then
preparing to set off for London with Sir Charles Bingley, of whose
friendship he spoke in the highest terms, to settle some affairs
relative to his new possessions, and particularly about the revival of
the Dunreath title, which not from any ostentatious pride, he desired to
obtain, as he was sure she would suppose, but from gratitude and respect
to the wishes of his grandfather, who in his will had expressed his
desire that the honors of his family should be supported by his heir.
When everything was finally settled, he proceeded to say, he would
hasten on the wings of love and impatience to her, for in her sweet
society alone he found any balm for the sorrows of his heart, sorrows
which could not be eradicated from it, though fortune had been so
unexpectedly propitious; and he hoped, he said, he should find her then
gay as the birds, blooming as the flowerets of spring, and ready to
accompany him to the venerable mansion of their ancestors.
The joyful intelligence this letter communicated she had not spirits at
present to mention to the inhabitants of this cottage; the pleasure it
afforded was only damped by reflecting on what Lord Mortimer must feel
from a discovery which could not fail of casting a dark shade of obloquy
upon his new connections. She was now doubly anxious to finish her
landscapes, from the prospect there was of her quitting Wales so soon.
Every visit she now paid the library was paid with the sad idea of its
being the last. As she was preparing for going there one morning,
immediately after breakfast, the nurse, who had been out some time
previous to her rising, entered the room with a look of breathless
impatience, which seemed to declare she had something wonderful to
communicate. "Goot lack-a-taisy," cried she, as soon as she had
recovered her breath, lifting up her head from the back of the chair on
which she had thrown herself, "goot lack-a-taisy, well, to pe sure there
is nothing but wonderful things happening in this world! Here, old Dame
Abergwilly sent in such a hurry for me this morning; to pe sure I was
surprised, but what was that to the surprise I felt when I heard what
she had sent to me for." It was now Amanda's turn to feel breathless
impatience. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "what did she tell you?" "Ay,
I knew," cried the nurse, "the commotion you would be in when I told you
the news; if you were guessing from this time till this time tomorrow
you would never stumble over what it is." "I dare say I should not,"
cried Amanda, "so do be brief." "Why, you must know,--but Lort, my tear
child, I am afraid you made but a bad breakfast, for you look very pale;
inteed I made no great one myself, for I was in such a hurry-flurry with
what Mrs. Abergwilly told me, that though she made some nice green tea,
and we had a slim cake, I could scarcely touch anything." "Well," said
Amanda, tortured with anxiety and impatience, "what did she tell you?"
"Why, my tear child, down came a special messenger from London last
night, to let them know that Lort Cherbury was tead, and that Lort
Mortimer had sold Tudor Hall; and the steward is ordered to pay all the
servants off, and to discharge them; and to have everything in readiness
against the new lantlort comes down to take possession. Oh! Lort, there
is such weeping and wailing at the Hall; the poor creatures who had
grown old in service, hoped to have finished their tays in it; it is not
that they are in any fear of want--the young lort has taken care of
that, for he has settled something yearly upon them all--but that they
are sorry to quit the family. Poor Mrs. Abergwilly, nothing can comfort
the old soul; she has neither chick nor child, and she told me she loved
the very chairs and tables, to which, to pe sure, her hand has given
many a polishing rub. She says she thinks she will come and lodge with
me; put if she does, she says I must not put her into a room from whence
she can have a view of Tudor Hall; for she says she will never be able
to look at it when once it gets a new master. So this, my tear child, is
the sum totem of what I have heard."
Amanda was equally astonished and affected by what she heard. She
wished to know if the nurse had received any intelligence of Lord
Mortimer's marriage, but she could not bring herself to ask the
question. Besides, upon reflection, she was convinced she should have
heard it had it been the case. With Lord Cherbury died all hopes of the
restoration of her fame in the opinion of his son. "Yet why," she asked
herself, "should I regret this? since thus separated, it is better,
perhaps, he had ceased to esteem me, as undoubtedly it must lessen his
feelings on my account." Why he should part with Tudor Hall she could
not conceive, except it was to humor some caprice of Lady Euphrasia's,
who, it was probable, she imagined, knew that the attachment between
Lord Mortimer and her had there commenced.
"Ah!" cried Amanda, "she never could have relished its
beauties--beauties which, if Lord Mortimer thinks as I do would, if
reviewed, only have augmented his sorrows--sorrows which propriety now
demands his repelling." She hastened to the hall, but was some time
there ere she could commence her employment, so much had she been
agitated. The landscape she was finishing was taken from the little
valley which lay beneath the windows of the music-room. The romantic
ruins of an old castle overhung an eminence at its extremity; and of the
whole scene she had taken a most accurate copy; it wanted but one charm
to please her, and that charm was the figure of Lord Mortimer, with whom
she had often wandered round the ruins. Her hand was ready in obeying
the impulse of her heart, and she soon beheld, sketched in the most
striking manner, the elegant features of him so ardently beloved. She
gazed with rapture upon them, but it was a short-lived rapture. She
started, as if conscious she had committed a crime, when she reflected
on the situation in which he now stood with another woman; her trembling
hand hastened to atone for its error, by expunging the dangerous
likeness, and the warm involuntary tear she shed at the moment, aided
her design. "Oh! how unnecessary," she cried, as she made this sacrifice
to delicacy, "to sketch features which are indelibly engraven on my
heart." As she spoke, a deep and long-drawn sigh reached her ear.
Alarmed, confounded at the idea of being overheard, and, of course, the
feelings of her heart discovered, she started with precipitation from
her seat, and looked round her with a kind of wild confusion. But,
gracious Heavens! who can describe the emotions of her soul when the
original of the picture so fondly sketched, so hastily obliterated, met
her eye. Amazed, unable to speak, to move, almost to breathe, she stood
motionless and aghast, the pale statue of surprise, as if she neither
durst nor could believe the evidence of her eyes. Well, indeed, might
she have doubted them, for in the pale countenance of Lord Mortimer
scarce a vestige of his former self (except in the benignancy of his
looks) remained. His faded complexion, the disorder of his hair, his
mourning habit, all heightened the sad expression of his features--an
expression which declared that he and happiness were never so disunited
as at the present moment. The first violence of Amanda's feelings in a
little time abated, she somewhat recovered the use of her faculties, and
hastily snatching up her drawings, moved with weak and trembling steps
to the door. She had nearly reached it, when the soft, the tremulous
voice of Lord Mortimer arrested her course. "You go, then, Miss
Fitzalan," cried he, "without one adieu. You go, and we never more shall
meet." The agonizing manner in which these words were pronounced, struck
a death-like chill upon the heart of Amanda. She stopped, and turned
around involuntarily, as if to receive that last, that sad adieu, which
she was half reproached for avoiding. Lord Mortimer approached her, he
attempted to speak, but his voice was inarticulate; a gust of sorrow
burst from his eyes, and he hastily covered his face with a
handkerchief, and walked to a window.
Amanda, unutterably affected, was unable to stand; she sunk upon a
chair, and watched with a bursting heart the emotions of Lord Mortimer.
Oh! with what difficulty at this moment did she confine herself within
the cold, the rigid rules of propriety; with what difficulty did she
prevent herself from flying to Lord Mortimer; from mingling tears with
his, and lamenting the cruel destiny which had disunited them forever.
Lord Mortimer in a few minutes was sufficiently recovered again to
approach her. "I have long wished for an opportunity of seeing you,"
said he, "but I had not courage to desire an interview. How little did I
imagine this morning, when, like a sad exile, I came to take a last
farewell of a favorite residence, that I should behold you! Fate, in
granting this interview, has for once befriended me. To express my
horror--my remorse--my anguish--not only for the error a combination of
events led me into concerning you, but for the conduct that error
influenced me to adopt, will, I think, a little lighten my heart. To
receive your pardon will be a sweet, a sad consolation; yet," continued
he, after a moment's pause, "why do I say it will be a consolation?
Alas! the sweetness that may lead you to accord it will only heighten my
wretchedness at our eternal separation." Here he paused. Amanda was
unable to speak. His words seemed to imply he was acquainted with the
injuries she had sustained through his father's means, and she waited in
trembling expectation for an explanation of them. "The purity of your
character," exclaimed Lord Mortimer, "was at length fully revealed to
me. Good Heaven! under what afflicting circumstances? by that being, to
whom you so generously made a sacrifice of what then you might have
considered your happiness." "Did Lord Cherbury, then," said Amanda, with
inexpressible eagerness, "did he then, at last, justify me?" "Yes,"
cried Lord Mortimer, "he proved you were indeed the most excellent, the
most injured of human beings; that you were all which my fond heart had
once believed you to be; but oh! what were the dreadful emotions of that
heart to know his justification came too late to restore its peace. Once
there was a happy period, when, after a similar error being removed, I
had hoped, by a life forever devoted to you, to have made some
reparation, some atonement, for my involuntary injustice; but alas! no
reparation, no atonement can now be made."
Amanda wept. She raised her streaming eyes to heaven, and again cast
them to the earth.
"You weep," cried Lord Mortimer, in a tone expressive of surprise, after
surveying her some minutes in silence. "My love, my Amanda," continued
he, suddenly seizing her hand, while he surveyed her with a most
rapturous fondness, a crimson glow mantling his cheek and a beam of
wonted brilliancy darting from his eye, "What am I to imagine from those
tears? are you, then, indeed, unaltered?"
Amanda started. She feared the emotions she betrayed had convinced Lord
Mortimer of the continuance, the unabated strength of her affection. She
felt shocked at her imprudence, which had alone, she was convinced,
tempted Lord Mortimer to address her in such a manner. "I know not, my
lord," cried she, "in what sense you ask whether I am unchanged; but of
this be assured, a total alteration must have taken place in my
sentiments, if I could remain a moment longer with a person who seems at
once forgetful of what is due to his own situation and mine." "Go, then,
madam," exclaimed Lord Mortimer, in an accent of displeasure, "and
pardon my having thus detained you--pardon my involuntary
offence--excuse my having disturbed your retirement, and obtruded my
sorrows on you."
Amanda had now reached the door. Her heart recoiled at the idea of
parting in such a manner from Lord Mortimer, but prudence bade her
hasten as fast as possible from him. Yet slow and lingering she pursued
her way. Ere she had gone many yards she was overtaken by Lord Mortimer.
His pride was inferior to his tenderness, which drove him to despair at
the idea of parting in displeasure from her. "Oh! my Amanda," cried he,
seizing her hand, and almost breathless with emotion, "add not, by your
anger, to the bitterness of this sad hour. Since we must part, oh! let
us part in amity, as friends that regard each other. You have not yet
(if, indeed, it is possible for you to do so) pronounced your
forgiveness of the persecutions you underwent on my account. You have
not granted your pardon for the harshness, the cruelty with which a
dreadful error tempted me to treat you." "Oh! my lord," said Amanda,
again yielding to the softness of her soul, while tears trickled down
her cheeks, "why torture me by speaking in this manner? How can I
pronounce forgiveness when I never was offended? When wretched and
deserted, I appeared to stand upon the great theatre of life, without
one hand to offer me assistance, your ready friendship came to my
relief, and poured the balm of comfort over the sorrows of my heart!
when deprived by deceit and cruelty of your good opinion, even then your
attention and solicitude pursued my wandering footsteps, and strove to
make a path of comfort for me to take! these, these are the obligations
that never can be forgotten, that demand, that possess, my eternal
gratitude, my----." A warmer expression rose to her lips, but was again
buried in her heart. She sighed, and after a pause of a minute, thus
went on:--"For your happiness, my warmest, purest prayers are daily
offered up; oh! may it yet be equal to your virtues; greater I cannot
wish it."
Lord Mortimer groaned in the excruciating agony of his soul. "Oh!
Amanda," he said, "where, where can I receive consolation for your loss?
Never, never in the world!" He took her hands within his, he raised them
to Heaven, as if supplicating its choicest blessings on her head. "For
my happiness you pray; ah! my love, how unavailing is the prayer!"
Amanda now saw more than ever the necessity of hastening away. She
gently withdrew her hands, and hurried on as fast as her trembling limbs
could carry her. Still Lord Mortimer attended her. "Yet, Amanda," cried
he, "a little moment. Tell me," he continued, again seizing her hand,
"do not these shades remind you of departed hours? Oh! what blissful
ones have we not passed beneath their foliage, that foliage which I
shall never more behold expanding to the breath of spring."
Amanda trembled. This involuntary but sad declaration of the loss of a
seat so valued by him, overpowered her. Her respiration grew faint, she
could not support herself, and made a motion to sit down upon the grass,
but Lord Mortimer eagerly caught her to his bosom. She had not strength
to resist the effort, and her head reclined upon his shoulder. But who
can speak her feelings as she felt the beating heart of Mortimer, which,
from its violent palpitations, seemed as if it would burst his bosom to
find a passage to her feet. In a few minutes she was a little recovered,
and, sensible of the impropriety of her situation, was now resolutely
determined to quit Lord Mortimer. "We must part, my lord," cried she,
disengaging herself from his arms, notwithstanding a gentle effort he
made to retain her. "We must part, my lord," she repeated, "and part
forever." "Tell me, then," he exclaimed, still impeding her course,
"tell me whether I may hope to live in your remembrance; whether I may
hope not to be obliterated from your memory by the happiness which will
shortly surround you? Promise I shall at times be thought of with your
wonted, though, alas! unavailing wishes for my happiness, and the
promise will, perhaps, afford me consolation in the solitary exile I
have doomed myself to." "Oh! my lord," said Amanda, unable to repress
her feelings, "why do I hear you speak in this manner? In mentioning
exile, do you not declare your intentions of leaving unfulfilled the
claims which situation, family, and society have upon you? Oh! my lord,
you shock--shall I say more--you disappoint me! Yes, I repeat it,
disappoint the idea I had formed of the virtue and fortitude of him,
who, as a friend, I shall ever regard. To yield thus to sorrow, to
neglect the incumbent duties of life, to abandon a woman to whom so
lately you plighted your solemn vows of love and protection. Oh! my
lord, what will her friends, what will Lady Euphrasia herself say to
such cruel, such unjustifiable conduct?" "Lady Euphrasia!" repeated Lord
Mortimer, recoiling a few paces. "Lady Euphrasia!" he again exclaimed,
in tremulous accents, regarding Amanda with an expression of mingled
horror and wildness. "Gracious Heaven! is it, can it be possible you are
ignorant of the circumstances which lately happened? Yes, your words,
your looks, declare you are so."
It was now Amanda's turn to repeat his words. She demanded, with a
wildness of countenance equal to that he just displayed, what were the
circumstances he alluded to?
"First tell me," cried he, "was the alteration in your manner produced
by your supposing me the husband of Lady Euphrasia?" "Supposing you her
husband?" repeated Amanda, unable to answer his question in a moment of
such torturing suspense. "And are you not so?" "No," replied Lord
Mortimer; "I never had the misfortune to offer vows which my heart could
not ratify. Lady Euphrasia made another choice. She was your enemy; but
I know your gentle spirit will mourn her sad and sudden fate." He
ceased, for Amanda had no longer power to listen. She sunk, beneath
surprise and joy, into the expanded arms of her beloved Mortimer. It is
ye alone, who, like her, have stood upon the very brink of despair--who,
like her, have been restored, unexpectedly restored to hope, to
happiness, that can form any judgment of her feelings at the present
moment. At the moment when recovering from her insensibility, the soft
accent of Lord Mortimer saluted her ear, and made her heart, without one
censure from propriety, respond to rapture, as he held her to his bosom.
As he gazed on her with tears of impassioned tenderness, he repeated his
question, whether the alteration in her manner was produced alone by the
supposition of his marriage; but he repeated it with a sweet, a happy
consciousness of having it answered according to his wishes.
"These tears, these emotions, oh! Mortimer, what do they declare?"
exclaimed Amanda. "Ah! do they not say my heart never knew a diminution
of tenderness, that it never could have forgotten you? Yes," she
continued, raising her eyes, streaming with tears of rapture, to heaven,
"I am now recompensed for all my sufferings. Yes, in this blissful
moment, I meet a full reward for them." Lord Mortimer now led her back
to the library, to give an explanation of the events which had produced
so great a reverse of situation; but it was long ere he could
sufficiently compose himself to commence his narrative. Alternately he
fell at the feet of Amanda, alternately he folded her to his bosom, and
asked his heart if its present happiness was real. A thousand times he
questioned her whether she was indeed unaltered--as often implored her
forgiveness for one moment doubting her constancy. Amanda exerted her
spirits to calm her own agitation, that she might be enabled to soothe
him into tranquillity. At length she succeeded, and he terminated her
anxious impatience by giving her the promised relation.