"No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart,
Shall break thy lover's too."
"But, my love," cried Lord Cherbury, as he wiped away the tears which
pity and horror at the fate of Lady Euphrasia had caused Amanda to shed,
"will your brother, think you, sanction our happiness? Will he, who
might aspire so high for a sister thus at once possessed of beauty and
fortune, bestow her on one whose title may now almost be considered an
empty one?" "Oh! do not wrong his noble nature by such a doubt,"
exclaimed Amanda. "Yes, with pride, with pleasure, with delight, will he
bestow his sister upon the esteemed, the beloved of her heart; upon him,
who, unwarped by narrow prejudice or selfish interest, sought her in the
low shade of obscurity, to lay, all friendless and forlorn as she was,
his fortune at her feet. Could he indeed be ungrateful to such kindness,
could he attempt to influence me to another choice, my heart would at
once repulse the effort, and avow its fixed determination; but he is
incapable of such conduct; my Oscar is all that is generous and feeling:
need I say more, than that a spirit congenial to yours animates his
breast."
Lord Cherbury clasped her to his heart. "Dearest, loveliest of human
beings," he exclaimed, "shall I at length call you mine? After all my
sorrows, my difficulties, shall I indeed receive so precious a reward?
Oh! wonder not, my Amanda, if I doubt the reality of so sudden a reverse
of situation; I feel as if under the influence of a happy dream; but,
good Heaven! a dream from which I never wish to be awakened."
Amanda now recollected that if she stayed much longer from the cottage
she would have some one coming in quest of her. She informed Lord
Cherbury of this, and rose to depart; but he would not suffer her to
depart alone, neither did she desire it. The nurse and her daughter
Betsey were in the cottage at her return to it. To describe the surprise
of the former at the appearance of Lord Cherbury is impossible--a
surprise mingled with indignation, at the idea of his falsehood to her
darling child; but when undeceived in that respect, her transports were
of the most extravagant nature.
"Well, she thanked Heaven," she said, "she should now see her dear child
hold up her head again, and look as handsome as ever. Ay, she had always
doubted," she said, "that his lortship was not one of the false-hearted
men she had so often heard her old grandmother talk of." "My good
nurse," said Lord Cherbury, smiling, "you will then give me your dear
child with all your heart?" "Ay, that I will, my lort," she replied,
"and this very moment too, if I could." "Well," cried Amanda, "his
lordship will be satisfied at present with getting his dinner from you."
She then desired the things to be brought to the little arbor, already
described at the beginning of this book, and proceeded to it with Lord
Cherbury. The mention of dinner threw nurse and her daughter into
universal commotion.
"Good lack! how unfortunate it was she had nothing hot or nice to lay
pefore his lortship! How could she think he could dine upon cold lamb
and salad! Well, this was all Miss Amanda's fault, who would never let
her do as she wished." With the utmost difficulty she was persuaded he
could dine upon these things. The cloth was laid upon the flowery turf,
beneath the spreading branches of the arbor. The delicacies of the dairy
were added to their repast, and Betsey provided a dessert of new
filberts.
Never had Lord Cherbury partaken of so delicious a meal--never had he
and Amanda experienced such happiness. The pleasure, the tenderness of
their souls, beamed in expressive glances from their eyes, and they were
now more convinced than ever that the humble scenes of life were best
calculated for the promotion of felicity. Lord Cherbury felt more
reconciled than he had been before to the diminution of his fortune; he
yet retained sufficient for the comforts, and many of the elegancies of
life. The splendor he lost was insignificant in his eyes; his present
situation proved happiness could be enjoyed without it, and he knew it
was equally disregarded by Amanda. He asked himself,
"------What was the world to them--
Its pomps, its pleasures, and its nonsense all,
Who in each other clasp, whatever fair
High fancy forms, or lavish hearts can wish?"
All nature looked gay and smiling around him. He inhaled the balmy
breath of opening flowers, and through the verdant canopy be sat
beneath, he saw the bright azure of the heavens, and felt the benignant
influence of the sun, whose potent beams heightened to glowing
luxuriance the beauties of the surrounding landscape. He expressed his
feelings to Amanda; he heard her declare the similarity of hers; heard
her with all the sweet enthusiasm of a refined and animated mind,
expatiate on the lovely scene around them. Oh! what tender remembrances
did it awaken, and what delightful plans of felicity did they sketch!
Lord Cherbury would hear from Amanda all she had suffered since their
separation; and could his love and esteem have been increased, her
patient endurance of the sorrows she related would have increased them.
They did not leave the garden till a dusky hue had overspread the
landscape. Oh! with what emotions did Amanda watch the setting sun,
whose rising beams she had beheld with eyes obscured by tears of sorrow!
As they sat at tea in the room, she could not avoid noticing the
alteration in the nurse's dress who attended. She had put on all her
holiday finery; and, to evince her wish of amusing her guests, had sent
for the blind harper, whom she stationed outside the cottage. His music
drew a number of the neighboring cottagers about him, and they would
soon have led up a dance in the vale, had not the nurse prevented them,
lest they should disturb her guests. Lord Cherbury, however, insisted on
their being gratified, and, sending for his servant, ordered him to
provide refreshments for them, and to reward the harper. He would not
leave Amanda till he had her permission to come early next morning, as
soon as he could hope to see her. Accordingly the first voice she heard
on rising was his chatting to the nurse. We may believe she did not
spend many minutes at her toilet. The neat simplicity of her dress never
required she should do so, and in a very short time she joined him. They
walked out till breakfast was ready.
"Together trod the morning dews, and gathered
In their prime fresh blooming sweets."
Amanda, in hourly expectation of her brother's arrival, wished, ere he
came, to inform the inhabitants of the cottage of the alteration of his
fortune. This, with the assistance of Lord Cherbury, she took an
opportunity of doing in the course of the day to the nurse. Had she been
sole relator, she feared she should have been overwhelmed with
questions. Joy and wonder were excited in an extreme degree by this
relation, and nothing but the nurse's hurry and impatience to
communicate it to her family, could have prevented her from asking again
and again a repetition of it.
Lord Cherbury now, as on the foregoing day, dined with Amanda. Her
expectations relative to the speedy arrival of her brother were not
disappointed. While sitting after dinner with Lord Cherbury in the
garden, the nurse, half breathless, came running to tell them that a
superb coach and four, which to be sure must be my Lort Dunreath's, was
coming down the road.
Lord Cherbury colored with emotion. Amanda did not wish he and her
brother should meet, till she had explained everything relative to him.
By her desire he retired to the valley, to which a winding path from the
garden descended, whilst she hurried to the cottage to receive and
welcome her beloved brother. Their meeting was at once tender and
affecting. The faithful Edwins surrounded Oscar with delight and
rapture, pouring forth, in their simple style, congratulations on his
happy fortune, and their wishes for his long enjoying it. He thanked
them with a starting tear of sensibility. He assured them that their
attentions to his dear sister, his lamented parents, his infant years,
entitled them to a lasting gratitude. As soon as he and Amanda could
disengage themselves from the good creatures, without wounding their
feelings, they retired to her room, where Oscar related, as we have
already done, all that passed between him and the Marquis of Roslin.
As soon as the funeral of Lady Euphrasia was over, the marquis settled
everything with him, and put him into formal possession of Dunreath
Abbey. By the marquis's desire, he then waited upon Lady Dunreath, to
inform her she was at liberty, and to request she would not contradict
the assertion of having been abroad. Mrs. Bruce had previously informed
her of the revolution of affairs. "I own," continued Oscar, "from the
cruelty to my mother, and the depravity of her conduct, I was strongly
prejudiced against her, attributing, I acknowledge, her doing justice to
us, in some degree, to her resentment against the marquis; but the
moment I entered her apartment this prejudice vanished, giving place to
the softer emotions of pity and tenderness, while a thorough conviction
of her sincere repentance broke upon my soul. Though prepared to see a
form reduced by affliction and confinement, I was not by any means
prepared to see a form so emaciated, so death-like--a faint motion of
her head, as I entered, alone proved her existence. Had the world been
given me to do so, I think I could not have broken a silence so awful.
At length she spoke, and in language that pierced my heart, implored my
forgiveness for the sufferings she had caused me to endure. Repeatedly I
assured her of it; but this rather heightened than diminished her
agitation, and tears and sobs spoke the anguish of her soul. 'I have
lived,' she cried, 'to justify the ways of Providence to men, and prove
that, however calamity may oppress the virtuous, they or their
descendants shall at last flourish. I have lived to see my contrite wish
accomplished, and the last summons will now be a welcome release.' She
expressed an ardent desire to see her daughter. 'The pitying tears of a
mother,' she exclaimed, 'may be as balm to her wounded heart. Oh! my
prophetic words, how often have I prayed that the punishment I then
denounced against her might be averted!'
"I signified her desire," continued Oscar, "to the marquis. I found the
marchioness at first reluctant to it, from a secret dread, I suppose, of
seeing an object so injured; but she at last consented, and I was
requested to bring Lady Dunreath from the Abbey, and conduct her to the
marchioness's room. I will not attempt to describe the scene which
passed between affection on the one hand, and penitence on the other.
The marchioness indeed seemed truly penitent: remorse and horror were
visible in her countenance, as she gazed upon her injured parent. I
begged Lady Dunreath, if agreeable to her, still to consider the Abbey
as her residence. This, however, she declined, and it was determined she
should continue with her daughter. Her last moments may, perhaps, be
soothed by closing in the presence of her child; but till then, I think,
her wretchedness must be aggravated by beholding that of the marquis and
his wife. Theirs is that situation where comfort can neither be offered
nor suggested--hopeless and incurable is their sorrow--for, to use the
beautiful and emphatic words of a late celebrated writer, 'The gates of
death are shut upon their prospects.'"
Amanda now, after a little hesitation, proceeded to inform Oscar of her
real situation, and entreated him to believe that she never would have
had a concealment from him, but for the fear of giving him uneasiness.
He folded her to his bosom as she ceased speaking, declaring he rejoiced
and congratulated her on having found an object so well qualified to
make her happy.
"But where is this dear creature?" cried Oscar, with some gayety; "am I
to search for him, like a favorite sylph, in your bouquet; or, with more
probability of success, seek him amongst the shades of the garden?
Come," said he, "your looks confess our search will not be troublesome."
He led her to the garden. Lord Cherbury, who had lingered near it, saw
them approaching. Amanda motioned him to meet them. He sprang forward,
and was instantly introduced by her to Lord Dunreath. The reception he
met was the most flattering proof he could receive of his Amanda's
affections; for what but the most animated expressions in his favor
could have made Lord Dunreath, at the first introduction, address him
with all the fervency of friendship? Extremes of joy and sorrow are
difficult to describe. I shall, therefore, as perfectly conscious of my
inability to do justice to the scene which followed this introduction,
pass it over in silence. Lord Dunreath had ordered his equipage and
attendants to the village inn, where he himself intended to lodge. But
this was prevented by Lord Cherbury, who informed him he could be
accommodated at his steward's. It was here, when they had retired for
the night, that, Lord Cherbury having intimated his wishes for an
immediate union with Amanda, all the necessary preliminaries were talked
over and adjusted; and it was agreed that the marriage should take place
at the cottage, from whence they should immediately proceed to Lady
Martha's, and that to procure a license, they should both depart the
next morning. At breakfast, therefore, Amanda was apprised of their
plan, and though the glow of modesty overspread her face, she did not
with affectation object to it.
With greater expedition than Amanda expected, the travellers returned
from the journey they had been obliged to take, and at their earnest and
united request, without any affectation of modesty, though with its real
feelings, Amanda consented that the marriage should take place the day
but one after their return. Howel was sent for, and informed of the hour
his services would be required. His mild eyes evinced to Amanda his
sincere joy at the termination of her sorrows.
On the destined morning, Lord Dunreath and his friend went over to the
cottage, and in a few minutes were joined by Amanda, the perfect model
of innocence and beauty. She looked, indeed, the child of sweet
simplicity, arrayed with the unstudied elegance of a village maid; she
had no ornaments but those which could never decay, namely, modesty and
meekness.
Language was inadequate to express the feelings of Lord Cherbury. His
fine eyes alone could do them justice--alone reveal what might be the
sacred triumph of his soul at gaining such a woman. A soft shade of
melancholy stole over the fine features of Lord Dunreath, as he
witnessed the happiness of Lord Cherbury; for as his happiness, so might
his own have been, but for the blackest perfidy.
As Lord Cherbury took the trembling hand of Amanda, to lead her from
the cottage, she gave a farewell sigh to a place where, it might be
said, her happiness had commenced and was completed. They walked to the
church, followed by the nurse and her family. Some kind hand had strewed
Lady Malvina's grave with the gayest flowers, and when Amanda reached it
she paused involuntarily for a moment, to invoke the spirits of her
parents to bless her union.
Howel was already in the church, waiting to receive them, and the
ceremony was begun without delay. With the truest pleasure did Lord
Dunreath give his lovely sister to Lord Cherbury, and with the liveliest
transport did he receive her as the choicest gift Heaven could bestow.
Tears of sweet sensibility fell from Amanda, as Lord Cherbury folded her
to his bosom as his own Amanda. Nor was he less affected; joy of the
most rapturous kind agitated his whole soul at the completion of an
event so earnestly desired, but so long despaired of. He wiped away her
tears, and, when she had received the congratulations of her brother,
presented her to the rest of the little group. Their delight,
particularly the nurse's, was almost too great for expression.
"Well," she said, sobbing, "thank Cot her wish was fulfilled. It had
been her prayer, night, noon, and morn, to see the taughter of her tear,
tear Captain Fitzalan greatly married." Poor Ellen wept--"Well, now she
should be happy," she said, "since she knew her tear young laty was so."
Amanda, affected by the artless testimonies of affection she received,
could only smile upon the faithful creatures.
Lord Cherbury, seeing her unable to speak, took her hand, and
said--"Lord Cherbury never would forget the obligations conferred upon
Miss Fitzalan." Bridal favors and presents had already been distributed
among the Edwins. Howel was handsomely complimented on the occasion, and
received some valuable presents from Lord Cherbury, as proofs of his
sincere friendship; also money to distribute among the indigent
villagers. His lordship then handed Amanda into his coach, already
prepared for its journey to Thornbury, and the little bridal party were
followed by the most ardent blessings. After proceeding a quarter of a
mile, they reached Tudor Hall.
"I wish, my lord," cried Oscar, as they were driving round the wood,
"you would permit me to stop and view the Hall, and also accompany me to
it." Lord Cherbury looked a little embarrassed. He felt a strong
reluctance to visit it, when no longer his, yet he could not think of
refusing the earl. Amanda knew his feelings, and wished her brother had
not made such a request. No opposition, however, being shown to it,
they stopped at the great gate which opened into the avenue, and
alighted. This was a long, beautiful walk, cut through the wood, and in
a direct line with the house. On either side were little grassy banks,
now covered with a profusion of gay flowers, and a thick row of trees,
which, waving their old fantastic branches on high, formed a most
delightful shade. Honey-suckles twined around many of the trunks,
forming in some places luxuriant canopies, and with a variety of
aromatic shrubs quite perfumed the air. It was yet an early hour; the
dew, therefore, still sparkled upon the grass, and everything looked in
the highest verdure. Through vistas in the wood, a fine clear river was
seen, along whose sides beautiful green slopes were stretched, scattered
over with flocks, that spread their swelling treasures to the sun. The
birds sung sweetly in the embowering recesses of the woods, and so calm,
so lovely did the place appear, that Lord Cherbury could not refrain a
sigh for its loss. "How delighted," cried he, casting his fine eyes
around, "should I have been still to have cherished those old trees,
beneath whose shades some of my happiest hours were passed." They
entered the hall, whose folding door they found open. It was large and
gothic; a row of arched windows were on either side, whose recesses were
filled with myrtles, roses, and geraniums, which emitted a delicious
perfume, and, contrasted with the white walls, gave an appearance of the
greatest gayety to the place.
Oscar led the way to a spacious parlor at the end of the hall. But how
impossible to describe the surprise and pleasure of Lord and Lady
Cherbury, on entering it, at beholding Lady Martha and Lady Araminta
Dormer! Lord Cherbury stood transfixed like a statue. The caresses of
his aunt and his sister, which were shared between him and his bride,
restored him to animation; but while he returned them, he cast his eyes
upon Oscar, and demanded an explanation of the scene. "I shall give no
explanation, my lord," cried Oscar, "till you welcome your friends to
your house."
"My house!" repeated Lord Cherbury, staring at him. Lord Dunreath
approached. Never had he appeared so engaging. The benignant expression
his countenance assumed was such as we may suppose an angel sent from
heaven, on benevolent purposes to man, would wear.
"Excuse me, my dear Cherbury," said he, "for suffering you to feel any
uneasiness which I could remove. I only did so from an idea of
increasing your pleasure hereafter. In Scotland I was informed of your
predilection for my sister by Lady Greystock, whom, I fancy, you have
both some reason to remember, in consequence of which, on seeing Tudor
Hall advertised, I begged Sir Charles Bingley to purchase it for me, in
his own name, from a presentiment I had, that the event I now rejoice at
would take place; and from my wish of having a nuptial present for my
sister worthy of her acceptance. Let me," continued he, taking a hand of
each and joining them together, "let me, in this respected mansion, and
in the dear presence of those you love, again wish you a continuance of
every blessing. May this seat, as heretofore, be the scene of domestic
happiness; may it ever be a pleasing abode to the prosperous, and an
asylum of comfort to the afflicted."
Lord Cherbury's heart was too full for words. He turned aside to wipe
away his starting tears. At last, though in a broken voice, he said, "I
cannot speak my feelings." "Pain me not," cried Oscar, "by attempting to
do so. From this moment forget that Tudor Hall was ever out of your
possession; or, if you must remember it, think it restored to you with
an encumbrance, which half the fashionable men in England would give an
estate to get rid of, and this will conquer your too refined feelings."
Lord Cherbury smiled as he looked at the lovely encumbrance which Oscar
alluded to. "And what shall I say to my brother?" cried Amanda, throwing
herself into his arms. "Why, that you will compose your spirits, and
endeavor to give a proper welcome to your friends." He presented her to
Lady Martha and Lady Araminta, who again embraced and congratulated her.
He then led her to the head of the breakfast table, which was elegantly
laid out. The timid bride was assisted in doing the honors by her
brother and Lord Cherbury. Lady Martha beheld the youthful pair with the
truest delight. Never had she before seen two, from equal merit and
loveliness, so justly formed to make each other happy; never had she
seen either to such advantage. The beautiful coloring of health and
modesty tinged the soft cheeks of Amanda, and her eyes, through their
long lashes, emitted mild beams of pleasure; its brightest glow mantled
the cheeks of Lord Cherbury, and his eyes were again illumined with all
their wonted radiancy.
Oscar was requested to tell particularly how he had arranged his plan;
which he accordingly did. He had written to the ladies at Thornbury,
informing them of his scheme, and requesting their presence, and on the
preceding night they had arrived at the Hall. Lord Dunreath also added,
that from a certainty of its being agreeable to Lord Cherbury, he had
directed the steward to reinstate the old servants in their former
stations, and also to invite the tenants to a nuptial feast. Lord
Cherbury assured him he had done what was truly grateful to his
feelings. A ramble about the garden and shrubberies was proposed, and
agreed to, after breakfast. In the hall and avenue the servants and
tenants were already assembled. Lord Cherbury went among them all, and
the grateful joy they expressed at having him again for a master and a
landlord deeply affected his feelings. He thanked them for their regard,
and received their congratulations on his present happiness with that
sweetness and affability which ever distinguished his manners. The
ramble was delightful. When the sun had attained its meridian, they
sought the cool shade, and retired to little romantic arbors,
over-canopied with woodbines, where, as if by the hand of enchantment,
they found refreshments laid out. They did not return to the house till
they received a summons to dinner, and had then the pleasure of seeing
the tenants seated at long tables in the wood, enjoying with unbounded
mirth the profusion with which they were covered, and Lord Cherbury
begged Amanda to observe her nurse seated at the head of one of these
tables, with an air of the greatest self-importance. The pride and
vanity of this good woman (and she always possessed a large share of
both) had been considerably increased from the time her cottage was
honored with such noble guests. When she received an invitation from the
steward to accompany the rest of the tenants to the Hall to celebrate
its restoration to Lord Cherbury, her joy and exultation knew no bounds;
she took care to walk with the wives of some of the most respectable
tenants, describing to them all that had passed at the ceremony, and how
the earl had first fallen in love with his bride at her cottage, and
what trials they had undergone, no doubt, to prove their constancy. "Cot
pless their hearts," she said to her eager auditors; "she could tell
them of such tangers and tifficulties, and tribulations, as would
surprise the very souls in their poties. Well, well, it is now her tear
child's turn to hold up her head with the highest in the land, and to pe
sure she might now say, without telling a lie, that her tear latyship
would now make somepoty of herself, and, please Cot, she hoped and
pelieved, she would not tisgrace or tisparage a petter situation." When
she came near the countess, she took care to press forward for a
gracious look; but this was not all; she had always envied the
consequence of Mrs. Abergwilly in having so great a house as the Hall
entirely under her management, and she now determined, upon the
strength of her favor with Lady Cherbury, to having something to say to
it, and, of course, increase her consequence among her neighbors. There
was nothing on earth she so much delighted in as bustle, and the present
scene was quite adapted to her taste, for all within and without the
house was joyous confusion. The first specimen she gave of her intention
was, in helping to distribute refreshments among the tenants; she then
proceeded to the dinner-parlor, to give her opinion, and assistance, and
direction about laying out the table. Mrs. Abergwilly, like the
generality of those accustomed to absolute power, could not tamely
submit to any innovation on it. She curbed her resentment, however, and
civilly told Mrs. Edwin she wanted no assistance; "thank Cot," she said,
"she was not come to this time of tay without peing able give proper
tirections about laying out a table." Mrs. Edwin said, "To be sure Mrs.
Abergwilly might have a very pretty taste, but then another person might
have as good a one." The day was intensely hot; she pinned back her
gown, which was a rich silk that had belonged to Lady Malvina, and,
without further ceremony, began altering the dishes, saying, she knew
the taste of her tear laty, the countess, better that any one else, and
that she would take an early opportunity of going through the
apartments, and telling Mrs. Abergwilly how to arrange the furniture.
The Welsh blood of the housekeeper could bear no more, and she began
abusing Mrs. Edwin, though in terms scarcely articulate, to which she
replied with interest. In the midst of this fracas, old Edwin entered.
"For the love of Cot," he asked, "and the mercy of Heaven, could they
choose no other time or tay than the present to pegin to fight, and
scold, and abuse each other like a couple of Welsh witches? What would
the noble earl and the countess say? Oh, Lord! oh, Lord! he felt himself
blushing all over for their misdemeanors." His remonstrance had an
immediate effect; they were both ashamed of their conduct; their rage
abated; they became friends, and Mrs. Edwin resigned the direction of
the dinner-table to Mrs. Abergwilly, satisfied with being allowed to
preside among the tenants.
The bridal party found Howel in the dining parlor, and his company
increased their pleasure. After dinner the rustics commenced dancing in
the avenue, to the strains of the harp, and afforded a delightful scene
of innocent gayety to their benevolent entertainers, who smiled to see
"The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down:
The bashful virgin's side-long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove."
After tea the party went out amongst them, and the gentlemen, for a
short time, mingled in the dance. Long it could not detain Lord Cherbury
from his Amanda. Oh! with what ecstasy did he listen to the soft accents
of her voice, while his fond heart assured him she was now his! The
remembrance of past difficulties but increased his present felicity. In
the course of the week all the neighboring families came to pay their
congratulations at Tudor Hall; invitations were given and received, and
it again became the seat of pleasure and hospitality; but Amanda did not
suffer the possession of happiness to obliterate one grateful
remembrance from her mind. She was not one of those selfish beings, who,
on being what is termed settled for life, immediately contract
themselves within the narrow sphere of their own enjoyments; still was
her heart as sensible as ever to the glow of friendship and compassion.
She wrote to all the friends she had ever received kindness from, in
terms of the warmest gratitude, and her letters were accompanied by
presents sufficiently valuable to prove her sincerity. She sent an
invitation to Emily Rushbrook, which was immediately accepted. And now a
discovery took place which infinitely surprised and pleased Amanda,
namely, that Howel was the young clergyman Emily was attached to. He had
gone to London on a visit to the gentleman who patronized him. Her
youth, her simplicity, above all, her distress, affected his heart; and
in the hope of mitigating that distress (which he was shocked to see had
been aggravated by the ladies she came to), he had followed her. To
soothe the wretched, to relieve the distressed, was not considered more
a duty than a pleasure by Howel. And the little favors he conferred upon
the Rushbrooks afforded, if possible, more pleasure to him than they did
to them; so sweet are the feelings of benevolence and virtue. But
compassion was not long the sole motive of his interest in their
affairs--the amiable manners, the gentle conversation of Emily,
completely subdued his unfortunate passion for Amanda, and, in stealing
her image from his heart she implanted her own in its place. He
described, in a romantic manner, the little rural cottage he invited her
to share; he anticipated the happy period when it should become an
asylum to her parents; when he, like a second father, should assist
their children through the devious paths of life. These fond hopes and
expectations vanished the moment he received Mrs. Connel's letter. He
could not think of sacrificing the interest of Rushbrook to the
consideration of his own happiness, and therefore generously, but with
the most agonizing conflicts, resigned his Emily to a more prosperous
rival. His joy at finding her disengaged, still his own unaltered Emily,
can better be conceived than described. He pointed out the little
sheltered cottage which again he hoped she would share, and blessed,
with her, the hand that had opened her father's prison gates. Lord and
Lady Cherbury were delighted to think they could contribute to the
felicity of two such amiable beings; and the latter wrote to Captain and
Mrs. Rushbrook on the subject, who immediately replied to her letter,
declaring that their fondest wish would be gratified in bestowing their
daughter on Howel. They were accordingly invited to the Hall, and in the
same spot where a month before he ratified the vows of Lord Cherbury and
Amanda, did Howel plight his own to Emily, who from the hand of Lady
Cherbury received a nuptial present sufficient to procure every
enjoyment her humble and unassuming spirit aspired to. Her parents,
after passing a few days in her cottage, departed, rejoicing at the
happiness of their beloved child, and truly grateful to those who had
contributed to it.
And now did the grateful children of Fitzalan amply reward the Edwins
for their past kindnesses to their parents and themselves. An annual
stipend was settled on Edwin by Lord Dunreath, and the possessions of
Ellen were enlarged by Amanda. Now was realized every scheme of domestic
happiness she had ever formed; but even that happiness could not
alleviate her feelings on Oscar's account, whose faded cheek, whose
languid eye, whose total abstraction in the midst of company, evidently
proved the state of his heart; and the tear of regret, which had so
often fallen for her own sorrows, was now shed for his. He had written
to Mrs. Marlowe a particular account of everything which had befallen
him since their separation. She answered his letter immediately, and,
after congratulating him in the warmest terms on the change in his
situation, informed him that Adela was then at one of Belgrave's seats
in England, and that he was gone to the continent. Her style was
melancholy, and she concluded her letter in these words: "No longer, my
dear Oscar, is my fireside enlivened by gayety or friendship; sad and
solitary I sit within my cottage till my heart sickens at the
remembrance of past scenes, and if I wander from it, the objects
without, if possible, add to the bitterness of that remembrance. The
closed windows, the grass-grown paths, the dejected servants of
Woodlawn, all recall to my mind those hours when it was the mansion of
hospitality and pleasure. I often linger by the grave of the general; my
tears fall upon it, and I think of that period when, like him, I shall
drop into it. But my last hours will not close like his; no tender child
will bend over my pillow, to catch my last sigh; to soothe my last pang.
In vain my closing eyes will look for the pious drops of nature, or of
friendship. Unfriended I shall die, with the sad consciousness of doing
so through my own means; but I shall not be quite unmourned. You, and my
Adela, the sweet daughter of my care, will regret the being whose
affection, whose sympathy for you both, can only be obliterated with
life."