"By suffering well, our torture we subdue,
Fly when she frowns, and when she calls pursue."
Overwhelmed with grief and disappointment at the supposed perfidy of
Amanda, Lord Mortimer had returned to England, acquainting Lord Cherbury
and Lady Martha of the unhappy cause of his returning alone; entreating
them, in pity to his wounded feelings, never to mention the distressing
subject before him. His dejection was unconquerable; all his schemes of
felicity were overthrown, and the destruction of his hopes was the
destruction of his peace. It was not in these first transports of bitter
sorrow that Lord Cherbury ventured to speak his wishes to his son. He
waited till, by slow degrees, he saw a greater degree of composure in
his manner, though it was a composure attended with no abatement of
melancholy. At first he only hinted those wishes--hints, however, which
Lord Mortimer appeared designedly insensible of. At last the earl spoke
plainer. He mentioned his deep regret at beholding a son, whom he had
ever considered the pride of his house, and the solace of his days,
wasting his youth in wretchedness, for an ungrateful woman, who had long
triumphed in the infatuation which bound him to her. "It filled his soul
with anguish," he said, "to behold him lost to himself, his family, and
the world, thus disappointing all the hopes and expectations which the
fair promise of his early youth had given rise to in the bosom of his
friends concerning the meridian of his day."
Lord Mortimer was unutterably affected by what his father said. The earl
beheld his emotions, and blessed it as a happy omen. His pride, as well
as sensibility, he continued, were deeply wounded at the idea of having
Lord Mortimer still considered the slave of a passion which had met so
base a return. "Oh! I let not the world," added he, with increasing
energy, "triumph in your weakness; try to shake it off, ere the finger
of scorn and ridicule is pointed at you as the dupe of a deceitful
woman's art."
Lord Mortimer was inexpressibly shocked. His pride had frequently
represented as weakness the regret he felt for Amanda; and the earl now
stimulating that pride, he felt at the moment as if he could make any
sacrifice which should prove his having triumphed over his unfortunate
attachment. But when his father called on him to make such a sacrifice,
by uniting himself to Lady Euphrasia, he shrunk back, and acknowledged
he could not give so fatal a proof of fortitude. He declared his total
repugnance at present to any alliance. Time, and the efforts of reason,
he trusted, would subdue his ill-placed attachment, and enable him to
comply with the wishes of his friends.
Lord Cherbury would not, could not drop the subject next his heart--a
subject so important, so infinitely interesting to him. He exerted all
his eloquence, he entreated, he implored his son not forever to
disappoint his wishes. He mentioned the compliance he had so recently
shown to his, though against his better judgment, in the useless consent
he had given to his marriage with Miss Fitzalan.
Lord Mortimer, persecuted by his arguments, at length declared that, was
the object he pointed out for his alliance any other than Lady Euphrasia
Sutherland, he would not perhaps be so reluctant to comply with his
wishes; but she was a woman he could never esteem, and must consequently
forever refuse. She had given such specimens of cruelty and deceit, in
the schemes she had entered into with the marchioness against (he
blushed, he faltered, as he pronounced her name) Miss Fitzalan, that his
heart felt unutterable dislike to her.
The earl was prepared for this; he had the barbarity to declare, in the
most unhesitating manner, he was sorry to find him still blinded by the
art of that wretched girl. He bade him reflect on her conduct, and then
consider whether any credence was to be given to her declaration of
Belgrave's being admitted to the house without her knowledge.
Lord Mortimer was startled. Her conduct, indeed, as his father said,
might well make him doubt her veracity. But still the evidence of the
servants; they acknowledged having been instruments in forwarding the
scheme which she said was laid against her. He mentioned this
circumstance. The earl was also prepared for it; the servants, he
declared, had been examined in his presence, when with shame and
contrition they confessed, that seeing the strong anxiety of Lord
Mortimer for the restoration of Miss Fitzalan's fame, and tempted by the
large bribes he offered, if they could or would say anything in her
justification, they had at last made the allegation so pleasing to him.
Lord Mortimer sighed deeply. "On every side," cried he, "I find I have
been the dupe of art; but it was only the deceit of one could agonize my
soul." Still, however, he was inexorable to all his father could say
relative to Lady Euphrasia.
Lady Martha was at last called in as an auxiliary; she was now as
strenuous for the connection as ever Lord Cherbury had been. A longer
indulgence of Lord Mortimer's grief, she feared, would completely
undermine his health, and either render him a burden to himself, or
precipitate him to an early grave. Whilst he continued single, she knew
he would not consider any vigorous exertions for overcoming that grief
necessary; but if once united, she was convinced, from the rectitude and
sensibility of his disposition, he would struggle against his feelings,
in order to fulfil the incumbent duties he had imposed upon himself.
Thus did she deem a union requisite to rouse him to exertion; to restore
his peace, and in all probability to save his life. She joined in her
brother's arguments and entreaties, with tears she joined in them, and
besought Mortimer to accede to their wishes. She called him the last
hope of their house. He had long, she said, been the pride, the delight
of their days; their comfort, their existence were interwoven in his; if
he sunk, they sunk with him.
The yielding soul of Mortimer could not resist such tenderness, and he
gave a promise of acting as they wished. He imagined he could not be
more wretched; but scarcely had this promise passed his lips, ere he
felt an augmentation of misery. To enter into new engagements, to resign
the sweet though melancholy privilege of indulging his feelings, to
fetter at once both soul and body, were ideas that filled him with
unutterable anguish. A thousand times was he on the point of retracting
his regretted and reluctant promise, had not honor interposed, and
showed the inability of doing so, without an infringement on its
principles. Thus entangled, Mortimer endeavored to collect his scattered
thoughts, and in order to try and gain some composure, he altered his
former plan of acting, and mingled as much as possible in society. He
strove to fly from himself, that by so doing he might fly from the
corrosive remembrances which embittered his life. But who shall paint
his agonies at the unexpected sight of Amanda at the Macqueens? The
exertions he had for some time before compelled himself to make, had a
little abated the pain of his feelings; but that pain returned with
redoubled violence at her presence, and every idea of present composure,
or of future tranquillity, vanished. He felt with regret, anguish, that
she was as dear as ever to his soul, and his destined union became more
hateful than ever to him. He tried, by recollecting her conduct, to
awaken his resentment; but, alas! softness, in spite of all his efforts
to the contrary, was the predominant feeling of his soul. Her pallid
cheek, her deep dejection, seemed to say she was the child of sorrow and
repentance. To soothe that sorrow, to strengthen that repentance, oh!
how delightful unto him; but either he durst not do, situated as he then
was.
With the utmost difficulty Lady Martha Dormer prevailed on him to be
present when she demanded the picture from Amanda. That scene has
already been described; also his parting one with her; but to describe
the anguish he endured after this period is impossible. He beheld Lady
Euphrasia with a degree of horror; his faltering voice refused even to
pay her the accustomed compliments of meeting; he loathed the society he
met at the castle, and, regardless of what would be thought of him,
regardless of health, or the bleakness of the season, wandered for hours
together in the most unfrequented parts of the domain, the veriest son
of wretchedness and despair.
The day, the dreaded day, at length arrived which was to complete his
misery. The company were all assembled in the great hall of the castle,
from whence they were to proceed to the chapel, and every moment
expected the appearance of the bride. The marquis, surprised at her long
delay, sent a messenger to request her immediate presence, who returned
in a few minutes with a letter, which he presented to the marquis, who
broke the seal in visible trepidation, and found it from Lady Euphrasia.
She had taken a step, she said, which she must depend on the kind
indulgence of her parents to excuse; a step which nothing but a firm
conviction that happiness could not be experienced in a union with Lord
Mortimer, should have tempted her to. His uniform indifference had at
last convinced her that motives of the most interested nature influenced
his addresses to her; and if her parents inquired into his, or, at
least, Lord Cherbury's conduct, they would find her assertion true, and
would, consequently, she trusted, excuse her for not submitting to be
sacrificed at the shrine of interest. In selecting Mr. Freelove for her
choice, she had selected a man whose addresses were not prompted by
selfish views, but by a sincere affection, which he would openly have
avowed, had he not been assured, in the present situation of affairs, it
would have met with opposition. To avoid, therefore, a positive act of
disobedience, she had consented to a private union. To Lord Mortimer
and Lord Cherbury, she said, she deemed no apology necessary for her
conduct, as their hearts, at least Lord Cherbury's, would at once
exculpate her, from his own consciousness of not having acted either
generously or honorably to her.
The violent transports of passion the marquis experienced are not to be
described. The marchioness hastily perused the letter, and her feelings
were not inferior in violence to his. Its contents were soon known, and
amazement sat on every countenance. But, oh! what joy did they inspire
in the soul of Lord Mortimer; not a respite, or rather a full pardon to
the condemned wretch, at the very moment when preparing for death, could
have yielded more exquisite delight; but to Lord Cherbury, what a
disappointment! It was, indeed, a death-stroke to his hopes. The hints
in Lady Euphrasia's letter concerning him plainly declared her knowledge
of his conduct; he foresaw an immediate demand from Freelove; foresaw
the disgrace he should experience when his inability to discharge that
demand was known. His soul was shaken in its inmost recesses, and the
excruciating anguish of his feelings was indeed as severe a punishment
as he could suffer. Pale, speechless, aghast, the most horrid ideas took
possession of his mind, yet he sought not to repel them, for anything
was preferable to the shame he saw awaiting him.
Lord Mortimer's indignation was excited by the aspersions cast upon his
father, aspersions he imputed entirely to the malice of Lady Euphrasia,
and which, from the character of Lord Cherbury, he deemed it unnecessary
to attempt refuting. But alas! what a shock did his noble, his
unsuspicious nature receive, when, in a short time after the perusal of
her letter, one from Freelove was brought him, which fully proved the
truth of her assertions. Freelove, in his little, trifling manner,
expressed his hopes that there would be no difference between his
lordship and him, for whom he expressed the most entire friendship, on
account of the fair lady who had honored him with her regard; declared
her partiality was quite irresistible; and, moreover, that in love, as
in war, every advantage was allowable; begged to trouble his lordship
with his compliments to Lord Cherbury, and a request that everything
might be prepared to settle matters between them, on his return from his
matrimonial expedition. An immediate compliance with this request, he
was convinced, could not be in the least distressing; and it was
absolutely essential to him, from the eclat with which he designed Lady
Euphrasia Freelove should make her bridal entry into public. As to the
report, he said, which he had heard relative to Lord Cherbury's losing
the fortune which was intrusted to his care for him at the gaming-table,
he quite disbelieved it.
The most distressing, the most mortifying sensations took possession of
Lord Mortimer at this part of the letter. It explained the reasons of
Lord Cherbury's strong anxiety for an alliance with the Roslin family,
which Lord Mortimer, indeed, had often wondered at, and he at once
pitied, condemned, and blushed for him. He stole a glance at his father,
and his deep, despairing look filled him with horror. He resolved, the
first opportunity, to declare his knowledge of the fatal secret which
oppressed him, and his resolution of making any sacrifice which could
possibly remove or lessen his inquietude.
Lord Cherbury was anxious to fly from the now hated castle, ere further
confusion overtook him. He mentioned his intention of immediately
departing--an intention opposed by the marquis, but in which he was
steady, and also supported by his son.
Everything was ready for their departure, when Lord Cherbury,
overwhelmed by the dreadful agitation he experienced, was seized with a
fit of the most violent and alarming nature. He was carried to a
chamber, and recourse was obliged to be had to a physician, ere the
restoration of his senses was effected; but he was then so weak that the
physician declared if not kept quiet, a return of his disorder might be
expected. Lord Mortimer, tenderly impatient to lighten the burden on his
father's mind, dismissed the attendants as soon as he possibly could,
and then, in the most delicate terms, declared his knowledge of his
situation.
Lord Cherbury at this started up in the most violent paroxysm of
anguish, and vowed he would never survive the discovery of his being a
villain. With difficulty could Lord Mortimer compose him; but it was
long ere he could prevail on him to hear what he wished to say.
Few there were, he said, who at some period of their lives, he believed,
were not led into actions which, upon reflection, they had reason to
regret. He thought not, he meant not, to speak slightly of human nature,
he only wished to prove that, liable as we all are to frailty--a frailty
intended no doubt to check the arrogance of pride and presumption, we
should not suffer the remembrance of error, when once sincerely repented
of, to plunge us into despair, particularly when, as far as in our
power, we meant to atone for it. Thus did Lord Mortimer attempt to calm
the dreadful conflicts of his father's mind, who still continued to
inveigh against himself.
The sale of Tudor Hall, Lord Mortimer proceeded, and mortgages upon Lord
Cherbury's estates, would enable his father to discharge his debt to Mr.
Freelove. He knew, he said, it was tenderness to him which had prevented
him ere this from adopting such a plan; but he besought him to let no
further consideration on his account make him delay fulfilling
immediately the claims of honor and justice. He besought him to believe
his tranquillity was more precious to him than anything in life; that
the restoration of his peace was far more estimable to him than the
possession of the most brilliant fortune--"a possession which,"
continued Lord Mortimer deeply sighing, "I am well convinced will not
alone yield happiness. I have long," said he, "looked with an eye of
cool indifference on the pomps, the pageantries of life. Disappointed in
my tenderest hopes and expectations, wealth, merely on my own account,
has been long valueless to me. Its loss, I make no doubt--nay, I am
convinced--I shall have reason to consider as a blessing. It will compel
me to make those exertions which its possession would have rendered
unnecessary, and by so doing, in all probability, remove from my heart
that sadness which has so long clung about it, and enervated all its
powers. A profession lies open to receive me, which, had I been
permitted at a much earlier period, I should have embraced; for a
military life was always my passion. At the post of danger, I may
perhaps have the happiness of performing services for my country, which,
while loitering supinely in the shade of prosperity, I never could have
done. Thus, my dear father," he continued, "you see how erroneous we are
in opinions we often form of things, since what we often consider as the
bitterest evil leads to the most supreme good. We will, as soon as
possible, hasten everything to be prepared for Freelove, and thus I make
no doubt, disappoint the little malice of his soul.
"My aunt, my sister, are unacquainted with your uneasiness, nor shall an
intimation of it from me ever transpire to them. Of fortune, sufficient
will remain to allow, though not the splendors, the comforts and
elegancies of life. As for me, the deprivation of what is considered,
and falsely termed, my accustomed indulgences, will be the most salutary
and efficacious thing that could possibly happen to me. In short, I
believe that the realization of my plan will render me happy, since,
with truth I can assure you, its anticipation has already given more
pleasure to my soul than I thought it would ever have again enjoyed."
Lord Cherbury, overcome by the tenderness, the virtue of his son, by the
sacrifice he so willingly offered, so strenuously insisted on making, of
his paternal fortune, could not for some minutes speak. At length the
struggling emotions of his soul found utterance.
"Oh! Virtue," he exclaimed, while tears of love, of gratitude, of
contrition, flowed from his eyes, and fell upon the hand of his son,
clasped within his--"Oh! Virtue, I cannot say, like Brutus, thou art but
a shade; no, here, in this invaluable son, thou art personified--this
son, whom I so cruelly deceived, so bitterly distressed! Oh! gracious
powers, would not that heroic, that heaven-born disposition, which now
leads him to sign away his paternal fortune for my sake have also led
him to a still greater resignation, the sacrifice of his Amanda, had I
entrusted him with my wretched situation. Oh! had I confided in him,
what an act of baseness should I have avoided! What pangs, what
tortures, should I have prevented his experiencing! But, to save my own
guilty confusion, I drew wretchedness upon his head. I wrung every fibre
of his heart with agony, by making him believe its dearest, its most
valuable object unworthy of its regards."
Mortimer started; he gasped--he repeated, in faltering accents, these
last words. His soul seemed as if it would burst its mortal bounds, and
soar to another region to hear an avowal of his Amanda's purity.
"Oh! Mortimer," cried the earl, in the deep, desponding tone of anguish,
"how shall I dare to lift my eyes to thine after the avowal of the
injustice I have done one of the most amiable and loveliest of human
beings?" "Oh! tell me," cried Mortimer, in breathless, trembling
agitation, "tell me if, indeed, she is all my fond heart once believed
her to be? In mercy, in pity, delay not to inform me."
Slowly, in consequence of his weakness, but with all the willingness of
a contrite spirit, anxious to do justice to the injured, did Lord
Cherbury reveal all that had passed between him and Amanda. "Poor
Fitzalan," cried he, as he finished his relation, "poor, unhappy friend!
From thy cold grave, couldst thou have known the transactions of this
world, how must thy good and feeling spirit have reproached me for my
barbarity to thy orphan in robbing her of the only stipend thy adverse
fortune had power to leave her--a pure and spotless fame?"
Lord Mortimer groaned with anguish. Every reproachful word he had
uttered to Amanda darted upon his remembrance, and were like so many
daggers to his heart. It was his father that oppressed her. This
knowledge aggravated his feelings, but stifled his reproaches; it was a
father contrite, perhaps at that very moment stretched upon a death-bed,
therefore he forgave him. He cast his eyes around, as if in that moment
he had hoped to behold her, have an opportunity of falling prostrate at
her feet and imploring her forgiveness. He cast his eyes around, as if
imagining he should see her, and be allowed to fold her to his beating
heart, and ask her soft voice to pronounce his pardon.
"Oh! thou lovely mourner," he exclaimed to himself, while a gush of
sorrow burst from his eyes. "Oh! thou lovely mourner, when I censured,
reviled, upbraided you, even at that very period your heart was
suffering the most excruciating anguish. Yes, Amanda, he who would
willingly have laid down life to yield thee peace, even he was led to
aggravate thy woes. With what gentleness, what unexampled patience didst
thou bear my reproaches! No sudden ray of indignation for purity so
insulted, innocence so arraigned, flashed from thy eyes; the beams of
meekness and resignation alone stole from underneath their tearful lids.
"No sweet hope of being able to atone, no delightful idea of being able
to make reparation for my injustice, now alleviates the poignancy of my
feelings; since fate interposed between us in the hour of prosperity, I
cannot, in the bleak and chilling period of adversity, seek to unite
your destiny with mine. Now almost the child of want myself, a soldier
of fortune, obliged by the sword to earn my bread, I cannot think of
leading you into difficulties and dangers greater than you ever before
experienced. Oh! my Amanda, may the calm shade of security be forever
thine; thy Mortimer, thy ever-faithful, ever-adoring Mortimer, will not,
from any selfish consideration, seek to lead thee from it. If thy loss
be agonizing, oh! how much more agonizing to possess but to see thee in
danger or distress. I will go, then, into new scenes of life with only
thy dear, thy sweet, and worshipped idea to cheer and support me--an
idea I shall lose but with life, and which to know I may cherish,
indulge, adore, without a reproach from reason for weakness in so doing,
is a sweet and soothing consolation."
The indulgence of feelings such as his language expressed, he was
obliged to forego, in order to fulfil the wish he felt of alleviating
the situation of his father; but his attention was unable to lighten the
anguish which oppressed the mind of Lord Cherbury; remorse for his past
conduct, mortification at being lessened in the estimation of his son,
sorrow for the injury he was compelled to do him, to be extricated from
the power of Freelove, all preyed upon his mind, and produced the most
violent agitations, and an alarming repetition of fits.
Things remained in this situation for a few days, during which time no
intelligence had been received of Euphrasia, when one morning, as Lord
Mortimer was sitting for a few minutes with the marquis and marchioness,
a servant entered the apartment, and informed his lord that a gentleman
had just arrived at the castle, who requested to be introduced to his
presence. The marquis and marchioness instantly concluded this was some
person sent as an intercessor from Lady Euphrasia, and they instantly
admitted him, in order to have an opportunity of assuring her ladyship,
through his means, it must be some time (if indeed at all) ere they
could possibly forgive her disrespect and disobedience. Lord Mortimer
would have retired, but was requested to stay, and complied, prompted
indeed by curiosity to hear what kind of apology or message Lady
Euphrasia had sent. A man of a most pleasing appearance entered, and was
received with the most frigid politeness. He looked embarrassed,
agitated, even distressed. He attempted several times to speak, but the
words still died away undistinguished. At length the marchioness,
yielding to the natural impetuosity of her soul, hastily desired he
would reveal what had procured them the honor of his visit.
"A circumstance of the most unhappy nature, madam," he replied in a
hesitating voice. "I came with the hope, the expectation of being able
to break it by degrees, so as not totally to overpower; but I find
myself unequal to the distressing task." "I fancy, sir," cried the
marchioness, "both the marquis and I are already aware of the
circumstance you allude to." "Alas! madam," said the stranger, fixing
his eyes with a mournful earnestness on her face, "I cannot think so. If
you were, it would not be in human, in parent nature to appear as you
now do." He stopped, he turned pale, he trembled, his emotions became
contagious.
"Tell me," said the marquis, in a voice scarcely articulate, "I beseech
you, without delay, the meaning of your words."
The stranger essayed to speak, but could not; words indeed were scarcely
necessary to declare that he had something shocking to reveal. His
auditors, like old Northumberland, might have said, "The paleness on
thy cheek is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand." "Something
dreadful has happened to my child," said the marchioness, forgetting in
that agonizing moment all displeasure. "Alas! madam," cried the
stranger, while a trickling tear denoted his sensibility for the sorrows
he was about giving rise to. "Alas! madam, your fears are too well
founded; to torture you with longer suspense would be barbarity.
Something dreadful has happened, indeed--Lady Euphrasia in this world
will never more be sensible of your kindness." A wild, a piercing,
agonizing shriek burst from the lips of the marchioness, as she dropped
senseless from her seat. The marquis was sinking from his, had not Lord
Mortimer, who sat by him, timely started up, and, though trembling
himself with horror, caught him in his arms. The servants were summoned,
the still insensible marchioness was carried to her chamber; the
wretched marquis, reviving in a few minutes--if that could be called
reviving, which was only a keener perception of misery--demanded, in a
tone of anguish, the whole particulars of the sad event. Yet scarcely
had the stranger begun to comply with his request, ere, with all the
wild inconsistency of grief, he bade him forbear, and, shuddering,
declared he could not listen to the dreadful particulars. But it were
needless, as well as impossible, to describe the feelings of the
wretched parents, who in one moment beheld their hopes, their wishes,
their expectations finally destroyed. Oh! what an awful lesson did they
inculcate of the instability of human happiness, of the insufficiency of
rank or riches to retain it. This was one of the events which
Providence, in its infinite wisdom, makes use of to arrest the
thoughtless in their career of dissipation, and check the arrogance of
pride and vanity. When we behold the proud, the wealthy, the
illustrious, suddenly surprised by calamity, and sinking beneath its
stroke, we naturally reflect on the frail tenure of earthly possessions,
and, from the reflection, consider how we may best attain that happiness
which cannot change. The human heart is in general so formed as to
require something great and striking to interest and affect it. Thus a
similar misfortune happening to a person in a conspicuous, and to one in
an obscure situation, would not, in all probability, equally affect or
call home the wandering thoughts to sadness and reflection. The humble
floweret, trampled to the dust, is passed with an eye of careless
indifference; but the proud oak torn from the earth, and levelled by the
storm, is viewed with wonder and affright. The horrors of the blow which
overwhelmed the marquis and marchioness, were augmented by the secret
whispers of conscience, that seemed to say it was a blow of retribution
from a Being all righteous and all just, whose most sacred laws they had
violated, in oppressing the widow and defrauding the orphan. Oh! what an
augmentation of misery is it to think it merited! Remorse, like the
vengeance of Heaven, seemed now awakened to sleep no more. No longer
could they palliate their conduct, no longer avoid retrospection--a
retrospection which heightened the gloomy horrors of the future. In Lady
Euphrasia, all the hopes and affections of the marquis and marchioness
were centred. She alone had ever made them feel the tenderness of
humanity, yet she was not less the darling of their love than the idol
of their pride. In her they beheld the being who was to support the
honors of their house, and transmit their names to posterity. In her
they beheld the being who gave them an opportunity of gratifying the
malevolent, as well as the tender and ambitious passions of their souls.
The next heir to the marquis's title and fortune had irreconcilably
disobliged him. As a means, therefore, of disappointing him, if on no
other account, Lady Euphrasia would have been regarded by them. Though
she had disappointed and displeased them by her recent act of
disobedience, and though they had deemed it essential to their
consequence to display that displeasure, yet they secretly resolved not
long to withhold forgiveness from her, and also to take immediate steps
for ennobling Freelove.
For Lady Euphrasia they felt indeed a tenderness her heart for them was
totally a stranger to. It seemed, indeed, as if, cold and indifferent to
all mankind, their affections were stronger for being confined in one
channel. In the step she had taken, Lady Euphrasia only considered the
gratification of her revenge. Freelove, as the ward of Lord Cherbury, in
honor to him, had been invited to the nuptials. He accepted the
invitation, but, instead of accompanying, promised to follow the bridal
party to the castle. A day or two ere he intended setting out, by some
accidental chance, he got into company with the very person to whom Lord
Cherbury had lost so much, and on whose account he had committed an
action which had entailed the most excruciating remorse upon him. This
person was acquainted with the whole transaction. He had promised to
keep his knowledge a secret, but the promises of the worthless are of
little avail. A slight expression, which, in a moment of anxiety, had
involuntarily dropped from Lord Cherbury, had stung him to the soul,
because he knew too well its justice, and inspired him with the most
inveterate hatred and rancorous desire of revenge. His unexpectedly
meeting Freelove afforded him an opportunity of gratifying both these
propensities, and he scrupled not to avail himself of it. Freelove was
astonished, and, when the first violence of astonishment was over,
delighted.
To triumph over the proud soul of Lord Cherbury and his son, was indeed
an idea which afforded rapture. Both he had ever disliked, the latter
particularly. He disliked him from the superiority which he saw in every
respect he possessed over himself. A stranger to noble emulation, he
sought not, by study or imitation, to aspire to any of those graces or
perfections he beheld in Lord Mortimer. He sought alone to depreciate
them, and, when he found that impossible, beheld him with greater envy
and malignity than ever. To wound Lord Mortimer through the bosom of his
father, to overwhelm him with confusion, by publicly displaying the
error of that father, were ideas of the most exquisite delight--ideas
which the wealth of worlds would scarcely have tempted him to
forego,--so sweet is any triumph, however accidental or imaginary, over
a noble object, to an envious mind, which ever hates that excellence it
cannot reach. No fear of self-interest being injured checked his
pleasure. The fortune of Lord Cherbury he knew sufficient to answer for
his violated trust. Thus had he another source of triumph in the
prospect of having those so long considered as the proud rivals of his
wealth and splendor, cast into the shade. His pleasure, however, from
this idea, was short lived, when he reflected that Lord Mortimer's union
with Lady Euphrasia would totally exempt him from feeling any
inconvenience from his father's conduct. But could not this union be
prevented? Freelove asked himself. He still wanted a short period of
being of age, consequently had no right, at present, to demand a
settlement of his affairs from Lord Cherbury. He might, however,
privately inform Lady Euphrasia of the affair so recently communicated
to him. No sooner did he conceive this scheme, than he glowed with
impatience to put it into execution. He hastened to the marquis's,
whither, indeed, the extravagant and foppish preparations he had made
for the projected nuptials had before prevented his going, and took the
first opportunity which offered of revealing to Lady Euphrasia, as if
from the purest friendship, the conduct of Lord Cherbury, and the
derangement of his affairs.
Lady Euphrasia was at once surprised and incensed. The reason for a
union between her and his son being so ardently desired by Lord
Cherbury, was now fully explained, and she beheld herself as an object
addressed merely from a view of repairing a ruined fortune; but this
view she resolved to disappoint. Such was the implacable nature of her
disposition, that had this disappointment occasioned the destruction of
her own peace, it would not have made her relinquish it. But this was
not the case. In sacrificing all ideas of a union with Lord Mortimer to
her offended pride she sacrificed no wish or inclination of her soul.
Lord Mortimer, though the object of her admiration, had never been the
object of her love. She was, indeed, incapable of feeling that passion.
Her admiration had, however, long since given place to resentment, at
the cool indifference with which he regarded her. She would have opposed
a marriage with him, but for fear that he might, thus freed, attach
himself to Amanda. The moment, however, she knew a union with her was
necessary for the establishment of his fortune, fear, with every
consideration which could oppose it, vanished before the idea of
disappointing his views, and retaliating upon him that uneasiness he
had, from wounded pride, made her experience by his cold and unalterable
behavior to her.
She at first determined to acquaint the marquis of what she had heard,
but a little reflection made her drop this determination. He had always
professed a warm regard for Lord Cherbury, and she feared that regard
would still lead him to insist on the nuptials taking place. She was not
long in concerting a scheme to render such a measure impracticable, and
Freelove she resolved to make an instrument for forwarding, or rather
executing her revenge. She hesitated not to say she had always disliked
Lord Mortimer; that, in short, there was but one being she could ever
think, ever hope to be happy with. Her broken sentences, her looks, her
affected confusion, all revealed to Freelove that he was that object.
The rapture this discovery inspired he could not conceal. The flattering
expressions of Lady Euphrasia were repaid by the most extravagant
compliments, the warmest professions, the strongest assurances of
never-dying love. This soon led to what she desired, and, in a short
space, an elopement was agreed to, and everything relative to it
settled. Freelove's own servants and equipage were at the Castle, and
consequently but little difficulty attended the arrangement of their
plan. In Lady Euphrasia's eyes Freelove had no other value than what he
now merely derived from being an instrument in gratifying the haughty
and revengeful passions of her nature. She regarded him, indeed, with
sovereign contempt; his fortune, however, she knew would give him
consequence in the world, and she was convinced she should find him
quite that easy, convenient husband which a woman of fashion finds so
necessary; in short, she looked forward to being the uncontrolled
mistress of her own actions, and without a doubt but that she should
meet many objects as deserving of her admiration, and infinitely more
grateful for it, than ever Lord Mortimer had been.
Flushed with such a pleasing prospect, she quitted the Castle--that
castle she was destined never more to see. At the moment, the very
moment, she smiled with joy and expectation, the shaft, the unerring
shaft, was raised against her breast.
The marriage ceremony over, they hastened to the vicinity of the Castle,
in order to send an apologizing letter, as usual on such occasions. The
night was dark and dreary, the road rugged and dangerous; the postilions
ventured to say it would be better to halt for the night, but this was
opposed by Lady Euphrasia. They were within a few miles of the destined
termination of their journey, and, pursuant to her commands, they
proceeded. In a few minutes after this, the horses, startled by a sudden
light which gleamed across the path, began plunging in the most alarming
manner. A frightful precipice lay on one side, and the horses, in spite
of all the efforts of the postilions, continued to approach it.
Freelove, in this dreadful moment, lost all consideration but for
himself; he burst open the chariot door, and leaped into the road. His
companion was unable to follow his example; she had fainted at the first
intimation of danger. The postilions with difficulty dismounted. The
other servants came to their assistance, and endeavored to restrain the
horses; every effort was useless, they broke from their hold, and
plunged down the precipice. The servants had heard the chariot-door
open; they therefore concluded, for it was too dark to see, that both
their master and Lady Euphrasia were safe. But who can describe their
horror, when a loud shriek from him declared her situation? Some of them
immediately hastened, as fast as their trembling limbs could carry them,
to the house adjoining the road, from whence the fatal light had gleamed
which caused the sad catastrophe. They revealed it in a few words, and
implored immediate assistance. The master of the house was a man of the
greatest humanity. He was inexpressibly shocked at what he had heard,
and joined himself in giving the assistance that was desired. With
lanterns they proceeded down a winding path cut in the precipice, and
soon discovered the objects of their search. The horses were already
dead--the chariot was shattered to pieces. They took up some of the
fragments, and discovered beneath them the lifeless body of the
unfortunate Lady Euphrasia. The stranger burst into tears at the sight
of so much horror; and, in a voice scarcely audible, gave orders for her
being conveyed to his house. But when a better light gave a more perfect
view of the mangled remains, all acknowledged that, since so fatal an
accident had befallen her, Heaven was merciful in taking a life whose
continuance would have made her endure the most excruciating tortures.
Freelove was now inquired for. He had fainted on the road, but in a few
minutes after he was brought in, recovered his senses, and the first use
he made of them was to inquire whether he was dead or alive. Upon
receiving the comfortable assurance of the latter, he congratulated
himself, in a manner so warm, upon his escape, as plainly proved self
was his whole and sole consideration. No great preparations, on account
of his feelings, were requisite to inform him of the fate of Lady
Euphrasia. He shook his head on hearing it; said it was what he already
guessed, from the devilish plunge of the horses; declared it was a most
unfortunate affair, and expressed a kind of terror at what the marquis
might say to it, as if he could have been accused of being accessory to
it.
Mr. Murray, the gentleman whose house had received him, offered to
undertake the distressing task of breaking the affair to Lady
Euphrasia's family, an offer Freelove gladly accepted, declaring he felt
himself too much disordered in mind and body to be able to give any
directions relative to what was necessary to be done.
How Mr. Murray executed his task is already known; but it was long ere
the emotions of the marquis would suffer him to say he wished the
remains of Lady Euphrasia to be brought to the Castle, that all the
honors due to her birth should be paid them. This was accordingly done;
and the Castle, so lately ornamented for her nuptials, was hung with
black, and all the pageantries of death.
The marquis and marchioness confined themselves, in the deepest anguish,
to their apartments; their domestics, filled with terror and amazement,
glided about like pale spectres, and all was a scene of solemnity and
sadness. Every moment Lord Mortimer could spare from his father he
devoted to the marquis. Lady Euphrasia had ever been an object of
indifference, nay, of dislike to him; but the manner of her death,
notwithstanding, shocked him to the soul: his dislike was forgotten; he
thought of her only with pity and compassion, and the tears he mingled
with the marquis were the tears of unfeigned sympathy and regret.
Lady Martha and Lady Araminta were equally attentive to the marchioness;
the time not spent with Lord Cherbury was devoted to her. They used not
unavailing arguments to conquer a grief which nature, as her rightful
tribute, demands; but they soothed that grief by showing they sincerely
mourned its source.
Lord Cherbury had but short intervals of reason; those intervals were
employed by Lord Mortimer in trying to compose his mind; and by him in
blessing his son for those endeavors, and congratulating himself on the
prospect of approaching dissolution. His words unutterably affected Lord
Mortimer; he had reason to believe they were dictated by a prophetic
spirit; and the dismal peal which rung from morning till night for Lady
Euphrasia sounded in his ear as the knell of his expiring father.
Things were in this situation in the Castle when Oscar and his friend
Sir Charles Bingley arrived at it, and, without sending in their names,
requested immediate permission to the marquis's presence, upon business
of importance. Their request was complied with, from an idea that they
came from Freelove, to whom the marquis and marchioness, from respect
and affection to the memory of their daughter, had determined to pay
every attention.
The marquis knew, and was personally known to Sir Charles; he was
infinitely surprised by his appearance, but how much was that surprise
increased when Sir Charles, taking Oscar by the hand, presented him to
the marquis as the son of Lady Fitzalan, the rightful heir of the Earl
of Dunreath! The marquis was confounded; he trembled at these words; and
his confusion, had such a testimony been wanting, would have been
sufficient to prove his guilt. He at last, though with a faltering
voice, desired to know by what means Sir Charles could justify or
support his assertion.
Sir Charles, for Oscar was too much agitated to speak, as briefly as
possible related all the particulars which had led to the discovery of
the earl's will; and his friend, he added, with the generosity of a
noble mind, wished as much as possible to spare the feelings and save
the honor of those with whom he was connected; a wish, which nothing but
a hesitation in complying with his just and well-supported claim could
destroy.
The marquis's agitation increased; already was he stripped Of happiness,
and he now saw himself on the point of being stripped of honor. An hour
before he had imagined his wretchedness could not be augmented; he was
now convinced human misery cannot be complete without the loss of
reputation. In the idea of being esteemed, of being thought undeserving
our misfortunes, there is a sweet, a secret balm, which meliorates the
greatest sorrow. Of riches, in his own right, the marquis ever possessed
more than sufficient for all his expenses: those expenses would now,
comparatively speaking, be reduced within very narrow bounds; for the
vain pride which had led him to delight in pomp and ostentation died
with Lady Euphrasia. Since, therefore, of his fortune such a
superabundance would remain, it was unnecessary as well as unjust to
detain what he had no pretensions to; but he feared tamely acquiescing
to this unexpected claim, would be to acknowledge himself a villain.
'Tis true, indeed, that his newly-felt remorse had inspired him with a
wish of making reparation for his past injustice, but false shame
starting up, hitherto opposed it; and even now, when an opportunity
offered of accomplishing his wish, still continued to oppose it, lest
the scorn and contempt he dreaded should at length be his portion for
his long injustice.
Irresolute how to act, he sat for some time silent and embarrassed, till
at last, recollecting his manner was probably betraying what he wished
to conceal, namely, the knowledge of the will, he said, with some
sternness, "That, till he inspected into the affair so recently laid
before him, he could not, nor was it to be expected he should, say how
he would act; an inspection which, under present melancholy
circumstances, he could not possibly make for some time. Had Mr.
Fitzalan," he added, "possessed in reality that generosity Sir Charles's
partiality ascribed to him, he would not, at a period so distressing,
have appeared to make such a claim. To delicacy and sensibility the
privileges of grief were ever held sacred. Those privileges they had
both violated. They had intruded on his sorrows; they had even insulted
him by appearing on such a business before him, ere the last rites were
paid to his lamented child." Sir Charles and Oscar were inexpressibly
shocked. Both were totally ignorant of the recent event.
Oscar, as he recovered from the surprise the marquis's words had given
him, declared, in the impassioned language of a noble mind, hurt by
being thought destitute of sensibility, "That the marquis had arraigned
him unjustly. Had he known of his sorrows," he said, "nothing should
have tempted him to intrude upon them. He mourned, he respected them;
he besought him to believe him sincere in what he uttered." A tear, an
involuntary tear, as he spoke, starting into his eye, and trickling down
his cheek, denoted his sincerity. The marquis's heart smote him as he
beheld this tear; it reproached him more than the keenest words could
have done, and operated more in Oscar's favor than any arguments,
however eloquent. "Had this young man," thought he, "been really
illiberal when I reproached him for want of sensibility, how well might
he have retaliated upon me my more flagrant want of justice and
humanity; but no, he sees I am a son of sorrow, and he will not break
the reed which Heaven has already smitten." Tears gushed from his eyes.
He involuntarily extended his hand to Oscar. "I see," said he, "I see,
indeed, I have unjustly arraigned you; but I will endeavor to atone for
my error. At present, rest satisfied with an assurance, that whatever is
equitable shall be done; and that, let events turn out as they may, I
shall ever feel myself your friend." Oscar again expressed his regret
for having waited on him at such a period, and requested he would
dismiss for the present the subject they had been talking of from his
mind. The marquis, still more pleased with his manner, desired his
direction, and assured him he should hear from him sooner than he
expected.
As soon as they retired, his agitation decreased, and, of course, he was
better qualified to consider how he should act. That restitution his
conscience prompted, but his false ideas of shame had prevented, he now
found he should be compelled to make; how to make it, therefore, so as
to avoid total disgrace, was what he considered. At last he adopted a
scheme, which the sensibility of Oscar, he flattered himself, would
enable him to accomplish. This was to declare, that by the Earl of
Dunreath's will, Mr. Fitzalan was heir to his estates, in case of the
death of Lady Euphrasia; that in consequence, therefore, of this event,
he had come to take possession of them; that Lady Dunreath (whose
residence at Dunreath Abbey he could not now hope to conceal) was but
lately returned from a convent in France, where for many years she had
resided. To Oscar he intended saying, from her ill conduct he and the
marchioness had been tempted to sequester her from the world, in order
to save her from open shame and derision; and that her declaration of a
will they had always believed the mere fabrication of her brain, in
order, as he supposed, to give them uneasiness. This scheme once formed,
his heart felt a little relieved of the heavy burden of fear and
inquietude. He repaired to the marchioness's apartment, and broke the
affair gently to her, adding, at the same time, that, sensible as they
must now be of the vanities and pursuits of human life, it was time for
them to endeavor to make their peace with Heaven. Affliction had taught
penitence to the marchioness, as well as her husband. She approved of
his scheme, and thought, with him, that the sooner their intention of
making restitution was known the greater would be the probability of its
being accomplished. Oscar, therefore, the next day received a letter
from the marquis, specifying at once his wishes. With those wishes Oscar
generously complied. His noble soul was superior to a triumph over a
fallen enemy; and he had always wished rather to save from, than expose
the marquis to disgrace. He hastened as soon as possible to the castle,
agreeably to a request contained in the letter, to assure the marquis
his conduct throughout the whole affair would be regulated according to
his desire.
Perhaps, at this moment, public contempt could not have humbled the
marquis more than such generosity, when he drew a comparison between
himself and the person he had so long injured. The striking contrast
wounded his very soul, and he groaned at the degradation he suffered in
his own eyes. He told Oscar, as soon as the last sad duties were
performed to his daughter, he would settle everything with him, and then
perhaps be able to introduce him to the marchioness. He desired he might
take up his residence in the Castle, and expressed a wish that he would
attend the funeral of Lady Euphrasia as one of the chief mourners. Oscar
declined the former, but promised, with a faltering voice, to comply
with the latter request. He then retired, and the marquis, who had been
roused from the indulgence of his grief by a wish of preserving his
character, again relapsed into its wretchedness. He desired Oscar to
make no secret of his now being heir to the Earl of Dunreath, and said
he would mention it himself in his family. Through this medium,
therefore, did this surprising intelligence reach Lord Mortimer, and his
heart dilated with sudden joy at the idea of his Amanda and her brother
at last enjoying independence and prosperity.
In a few hours after this the sufferings of Lord Cherbury were
terminated. His last faltering accents pronounced blessings on his son.
Oh! how sweet were those blessings! How different were the feelings of
Lord Mortimer from the callous sons of dissipation, who seem to watch
with impatience the last struggles of a parent, that they may have more
extensive means of gratifying their inordinate desires. The feelings of
Lord Mortimer were soothed by reflecting he had done everything in his
power for restoring the tranquillity of his father, and his regret was
lessened by the conviction that Lord Cherbury, after the discovery of
his conduct, could never more in this life have experienced happiness.
He therefore, with tender piety, resigned him to his God; humbly
trusting that his penitence had atoned for his frailties, and insured
him felicity.
He now bade adieu to the Castle and its wretched owners, and accompanied
Lady Martha and his sister to Thornbury, at which the burying-place of
the family lay. Here he continued till the remains of his father
arrived, and were interred. He then proceeded to London to put into
execution the plan he had projected for his father. He immediately
advertised the Tudor estate. A step of this kind could not be concealed
from Lady Martha; but the mortgages on the other estates he resolved
carefully to guard from her knowledge, lest suspicions prejudicial to
the memory of his father should arise in her mind. But, during this
period, the idea of Amanda was not absent from his soul. Neither grief
nor business could banish it a moment; and, again, a thousand fond and
flattering hopes concerning her had revived, when a sudden blow
dispersed them all, and plunged him, if possible, into greater
wretchedness than he had ever before experienced. He heard it
confidently reported that the Earl of Dunreath's sister (for Oscar by
this time had claimed, and been allowed to take the title of his
grandfather) was to be married to Sir Charles Bingley. The friendship
which he knew subsisted between the earl and Sir Charles rendered this
too probable. But if a doubt concerning it still lingered in his mind,
it was destroyed when Sir Charles waited on him to treat about the
purchase of Tudor Hall; it instantly occurred to him that this purchase
was made by the desire of Amanda. Unable to command his feelings, he
referred Sir Charles to his agent, and abruptly retired. He called her
cruel and ungrateful. After all his sufferings on her account, did he
deserve so soon to be banished from her remembrance--so soon supplanted
in her affections by another--by one, too, who never had, who never
would have, an opportunity of giving such proofs as he had done of
constancy and love. She is lost, then he sighed; she is lost forever!
Oh! what avails the vindication of her fame? Is it not an augmentation
of my misery? Oh! my father, of what a treasure did you despoil me! But
let me not disturb the sacred ashes of the dead--rest, rest in peace,
thou venerable author of my being! and may the involuntary expression
of heart-rending anguish be forgiven! Amanda, then, he continued, after
a pause, will indeed be mistress of Tudor Hall; but never will a sigh
for him who once was its owner heave her bosom. She will wander beneath
those shades where so often she has heard my vows of unalterable
love--vows which, alas! my heart has too fully observed--and listen to
similar ones from Sir Charles: well, this is the last stroke fate can
level at my peace.
Lord Mortimer (or, as in future we must style him, Lord Cherbury) had
indeed imagined that the affections of Amanda, like his own, were
unalterable; he had therefore indulged the rapturous idea, that, by
again seeking an union with her, she should promote the happiness of
both. It is true he knew she would possess a fortune infinitely superior
to what he had now a right to expect; but after the proofs he had given
of disinterested attachment, not only she, but the world, he was
convinced, would acquit him of any selfish motives in the renewal of his
addresses. His hopes destroyed--his prospect blasted by what he had
heard, he resolved, as soon as affairs were settled, to go abroad. The
death of his father had rendered his entering the army unnecessary, and
his spirits were too much broken, his health too much impaired, for him
voluntarily now to embrace that destiny.
On the purchase of Tudor Hall being completed by Sir Charles, it was
necessary for Lord Cherbury to see his steward. He preferred going to
sending for him, prompted indeed by a melancholy wish of paying a last
visit to Tudor Hall, endeared to his heart by a thousand fond
remembrances. On his arrival he took up his abode at the steward's for a
day or two. After a strict injunction to him of concealing his being
there, it was after a ramble through every spot about the demesne which
he had ever trodden with Amanda, that he repaired to the library and
discovered her. He was ignorant of her being in the country. Oh! then,
how great was her surprise--how exquisite his emotions, at seeing her in
such unexpected circumstances!
I shall not attempt to go over the scene I have already tried to
describe; suffice it to say, that the desire she betrayed of hastening
from him he imputed to the alteration of her sentiments with respect to
him and Sir Charles. When undeceived in this respect, his rapture was as
great as ever it had before been at the idea of her love, and, like
Amanda, he declared his suffering was now amply rewarded.