“The breezy call of incense-breathing morn; The swallow twittering from its straw built shed;
The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse him from his lowly bed.”—Gray.
The weakness which Amanda felt in consequence of her late illness, and the excessive sickness she always suffered at sea, made her retire to bed immediately on entering the packet, where she continued till the evening of the second day, when, about five o’clock, she was landed at the marine hotel. She directly requested the waiter to procure her a messenger to go into town, which being done, she sent to engage a place in the northern mail-coach, that went within a few miles of Castle Carberry. If a place could not be procured, she ordered a chaise might be hired, that would immediately set out with her, as the nights were moonlight; but to her great joy the man speedily returned and informed her he had secured a seat in the coach, which she thought a much safer mode of travelling for her than in a hired carriage without any attendant. She took some slight refreshment, and then proceeded to the mail hotel, from whence, at eleven o’clock, she set out in company with an old gentleman, who very composedly put on a large woollen nightcap, buttoned up his great coat, and fell into a profound sleep. He was, perhaps, just such a kind of companion as Amanda desired, as he neither teased her with insipid conversation or impertinent questions, but left her undisturbed to indulge her meditations during the journey. The second evening, about eight o’clock, she arrived at the nearest town to Castle Carberry, for which she directly procured a chaise and set off. Her spirits were painfully agitated. She dreaded the shock her father would receive from hearing of her sufferings, which it would be impossible to conceal from him. She trembled at what they would both feel on the approaching interview. Sometimes she feared he had already heard of her distress, and a gloomy presage rose in her mind of the anguish she should find him in on that account. Yet again, when she reflected on the fortitude he had hitherto displayed in his trials, under the present, she trusted, he would not lose it; and that he would not only support himself, but her, and[Pg 302] bind up those wounds in her heart which perfidy, cruelty, and ingratitude had made. And oh! thought she to herself, when I find myself again in his arms, no temptation shall allure me from them—allure me into a world where my peace and fame have already suffered such a wreck. Thus alternately fluctuating between hope and fear, Amanda pursued the road to Castle Carberry; but the latter sensation was predominant in her mind.
The uncommon gloominess of the evening added to her dejection—the dark and lowering clouds threatened a violent storm—already a shower of sleet and rain was falling, and everything looked cold and cheerless. Amanda thought the cabins infinitely more wretched than when she had first seen them. Many of their miserable inhabitants were now gathering their little flocks together, and driving them under shelter from the coming storm. The laborers were seen hastening to their respective homes, whilst the ploughboy, with a low and melancholy whistle, drove his slow and wearied team along. The sea looked rough and black, and as Amanda drew nearer to it, she heard it breaking with fury against the rocks. She felt herself extremely ill. She had left the hamlet ere her fever was subdued, and fatigue, joined to want of rest, now brought it back with all its former violence. She longed for rest and quiet, and trusted and believed these would conquer her malady.
The chaise stopped at the entrance of the lawn, as she wished to have her father prepared for her arrival by one of the servants. On alighting from it, it returned to town, and she struck into the grove, and by a winding path reached the castle. Her limbs trembled, and she knocked with an unsteady hand at the door. The sound was awfully reverberated through the building. Some minutes elapsed and no being appeared, neither could she perceive a ray of light from any of the windows. The wind blew the rain directly in her face, and her weakness increased, so that she could scarcely stand. She recollected a small door at the back of the castle, which led to the apartments appropriated to the domestics. She walked feebly to this, to try and gain admittance, and found it open. She proceeded through a long dark passage, on each side of which were small rooms, till she came to the kitchen. Here she found the old woman sitting (to whom the care of the castle was usually consigned), before a large turf fire. On hearing a footstep, she looked behind, and when she saw Amanda, started, screamed, and betrayed symptoms of the utmost terror.
“Are you frightened at seeing me, my good Kate!” cried[Pg 303] Amanda. “Oh, holy Virgin!” replied Kate, crossing her breast, “one could not help being frightened, to have a body steal unawares upon them.”
“My father is well, I hope?” said Amanda.
“Alack-a-day,” cried Kate, “the poor dear captain has gone through a sea of troubles since you went away.” “Is he ill?” exclaimed Amanda. “Ill, ay, and the Lord knows he has reason enough to be ill. But, my dear jewel, do you know nothing at all of what has happened at the castle since you went away?” “No, nothing in the world.” “Heaven help you, then,” said Kate; “but, my dear soul, sit down upon this little stool, and warm yourself before the fire, for you look pale and cold, and I will tell you all about it. You must know, about three weeks ago, my Johnaten brought the captain a letter from the post-office; he knew by the mark it was a letter from England, and so, when he comes into the kitchen to me, ‘Katie,’ says he, ‘the captain has got something now to cheer his spirits, for he has heard from miss, I am sure.’ So, to be sure, I said I was glad of it, for, you must know, my dear, he was low in spirits, and peaking, as one may say, for a few days before. Well, it was always my custom, when he got a letter from England, to go to him as soon as I thought he had read it, and ask about you; so I put on a clean apron, and up I goes to the parlor, and I opened the door, and walked in. Well, sir, says I, I hope there is good news from miss?”
“The captain was sitting with the letter open before him on a table; he had a handkerchief to his eyes, but when I spoke he took it down, and I saw his face, which generally looked so pale, now quite flushed.
“‘This letter, my good Kate,’ says he, ‘is not from my daughter, but I am glad you are come, for I wanted to speak to you. I am going to leave the castle, and I want you to look over all the things, and see they are in the same state as when I came to it. I shall then settle with the servants I hired, and discharge them.’ I was struck all of a heap. The Lord forbid you should be going to leave us, sir, says I.”
“The captain got up—he walked to the window—he sighed heavily, and I saw a tear upon his cheek. He spoke to me again, and begged I would do as he had desired me. So, with a heavy heart, I went and told my Johnaten the sad tidings, who was as sorry as myself, for he loved the captain dearly, not only from his being so mild a gentleman, but because he was a soldier, as he himself had been in his youth—and a soldier has always a love for one of his cloth. And Johnaten[Pg 304] had often said he knew the captain in America, and that he was a brave officer and a real gentleman.
“Well, the captain came out to us, and said he was to be Lord Cherbury’s agent no longer. And being a good penman, he settled all his own accounts and the servants in the course of the day, and discharged them, giving them both characters, which I warrant will soon get them good places again. Well, he said he must set off for England the next day. So everything was got ready; but in the middle of the night he was seized with spasms in his stomach. He thought himself dying, and at last rung the bell; and as good luck would have it, my Johnaten heard it, and went up to him directly. Had he been without relief much longer, I think he would have died. Johnaten called me up. I had a choice bottle of old brandy lying by me, so I soon blew up a fire, and heating a cup of it, gave it to him directly. He grew a little easier, but was too bad in the morning to think of going on his journey, which grieved him sadly. He got up, however, and wrote a large packet, which he sent by Johnaten to the post-office; packed up some things in a trunk, and put his seal upon his desk. He said he would not stay in the castle on any account, so he went out as soon as Johnaten came back from the post-office, leaning upon his arm, and got a little lodging at Thady Byrne’s cabin.” “Merciful heaven!” exclaimed the agonized and almost fainting Amanda, “support and strengthen me in this trying hour! enable me to comfort my unfortunate father: preserve me from sinking, that I may endeavor to assist him.” Tears accompanied this fervent ejaculation, and her voice was lost in sobs.
“Alack-a-day,” said the good-natured Kate, “now don’t take it so sadly to heart, my jewel; all is not lost that is in danger, and there is as good fish in the sea as ever were caught; and what though this is a stormy night, to-morrow may be a fine day. Why, the very first sight of you will do the captain good. Come, cheer up; I will give you some nice hot potatoes for your supper, for you see the pot is just boiling, and some fresh-churned buttermilk; and by the time you have eaten it, Johnaten perhaps may come back—he is gone to town to get some beef for our Sunday dinner—and then I will go with you to Thady’s myself.”
“No, no,” cried Amanda, “every minute I now stay from my father seems an age. Too long has he been neglected—too long without a friend to soothe or attend him. Oh grant, gracious Heaven! grant,” raising her clasped hands, “that I may not have returned too late to be of use to him!”
[Pg 305]
Kate pressed her to stay for Johnaten’s return; but the agony of suspense she endured till she saw her father, made her regardless of walking alone, though the hour was late, dark, and tempestuous. Kate, finding her entreaties vain, attended her to the door, and assured her, if Johnaten returned soon, she would go over herself to the cabin, and see if she could do anything for her. Amanda pressed her hand, but was unable to speak. Ill, weak, and dispirited, she had flattered herself, on returning to her father, she would receive relief, support, and consolation; instead of which, heart-broken as she was, she now found she must give, or at least attempt giving them herself. She had before experienced distress, but the actual pressure of poverty she had never yet felt. Heretofore she had always a comfortable asylum to repair to, but now she not only found herself deprived of that, but of all means of procuring one, or even the necessaries of life. But if she mourned for herself, how much more severely did she mourn for her adored father! Could she have procured him comfort, could she in any degree have alleviated his situation, the horrors of her own would have been lessened; but of this she had not the slightest means or prospect. Her father, she knew, possessed the agency too short a time to be enabled to save any money, particularly as he was indebted to Lord Cherbury ere he obtained it. She knew of no being to whom she could apply in his behalf. Lord Cherbury was the only person on whom he depended in his former misfortunes for relief. His friendship, it was evident, by depriving her father of the agency, was totally lost; and to the disconsolate Amanda no way appeared of escaping “want, worldly want, that hungry meagre fiend, who was already close at their heels, and followed them in view.”
The violence of the storm had increased, but it was slight in comparison of that which agitated the bosom of Amanda. The waves dashed with a dreadful noise against the rocks, and the angry spirit of the waters roared. The rain fell heavily, and soon soaked through the thin clothing of Amanda. She had about half a mile to walk, through a rugged road, bounded on one side by rocks, and on the other by wild and dreary fields. She knew the people with whom her father lodged; they were of the lowest order, and on her first arrival at Castle Carberry, in extreme distress, from which she had relieved them. She recollected their cabin was more decent than many others she had seen, yet still a most miserable dwelling. Wretched as it was, she was glad when she reached it, for the violence of the storm, and the loneliness of the road, had terrified her. The[Pg 306] cabin was but a few yards from the beach. There were two windows in front. On one side a pile of turf, and on the other a shed for the pigs, in which they now lay grunting. The shutters were fastened on the windows, to prevent their being shaken by the wind; but through the crevices Amanda saw a light, which convinced her the inhabitants were not yet retired to repose. She feared her suddenly appearing before her father, in his present weak state, might have a dangerous effect upon him, and she stood before the cabin, considering how she should have her arrival broke to him. She at last tapped gently at the door, and then retreated a few steps from it, shivering with the wet and cold. In the beautiful language of Solomon, she might have said, “Her head was filled with dew, and her locks with the drops of the night.” As she expected, the door was almost instantly opened. A boy appeared, whom she knew to be the son of the poor people. She held up her handkerchief, and beckoned him to her. He hesitated, as if afraid to advance, till she called him softly by his name. This assured him. He approached, and expressed astonishment at finding she was the person who called him. She inquired for her father, and heard he was ill, and then asleep. She desired the boy to enter the cabin before her, and caution his parents against making any noise that might disturb him. He obeyed her, and she followed him.
She found the father of the family blowing a turf fire, to hasten the boiling of a large pot of potatoes. Three ragged children were sitting before it, watching impatiently for their supper. Their mother was spinning, and their old grandmother making bread. The place was small and crowded. Half the family slept below, and the other half upon a loft, to which they ascended by a ladder, and upon which a number of fowls were now familiarly roosting, cackling at every noise made below. Fitzalan’s room was divided from the rest of the cabin by a thin partition of wood plastered with pictures of saints and crosses.
“Save you kindly, madam,” said the mistress of the mansion to Amanda, on entering it.
Byrne got up, and, with many scrapes, offered her his little stool before the fire. She thanked him, and accepted it. His wife, notwithstanding the obligations she lay under to her, seemed to think as much respect was not due to her as when mistress of the castle, and therefore never left her seat, or quitted her spinning, on her entrance.
“My poor father is very ill,” said Amanda. “Why, indeed, the captain has had a bad time of it,” answered Mrs.[Pg 307] Byrne, jogging her wheel. “To be sure he has suffered some little change; but your great folks, as well as your simple folks, must look to that in this world; and I don’t know why they should not, for they are not better than the others, I believe.”
“Arrah, Norah, now,” said Byrne, “I wonder you are not shy of speaking so to the poor young lady.”
Amanda’s heart was surcharged with grief—she felt suffocating. She arose, unlatched the door, and the keen, cold air a little revived her. Tears burst forth, she indulged them freely, and they lightened the load on her heart. She asked for a glass of water. A glass was not readily to be procured. Byrne told her she had better take a noggin of buttermilk. This she refused, and he brought her one of water.
She now conquered the reluctance she felt to speak to the uncouth Mrs. Byrne, and consulted her on the best method of mentioning her arrival to her father. Mrs. Byrne said he had been in bed some time, but his sleep was often interrupted, and she would now step into the chamber, and try if he was awake. She accordingly did so, but returned in a moment, and said he still slept.
Amanda wished to see him in his present situation, to judge how far his illness had affected him: she stepped softly into the room. It was small and low, lighted by a glimmering rush-light, and a declining fire. The furniture was poor and scanty; in one corner stood a wooden bedstead, without curtains or any shade, and on this, under miserable bedclothes, lay poor Fitzalan. Amanda shuddered, as she looked round this chamber of wretchedness. “Oh! my father,” she cried to herself, "is this the only refuge you could find?” She went to the bed, she leaned over it, and beheld his face. It was deadly pale and emaciated; he moaned in his sleep, as if his mind was dreadfully oppressed. Suddenly he began to move; he sighed, “Amanda, my dearest child, shall I never more behold you?”
Amanda was obliged to hasten from the room, to give vent to her emotions. She sobbed, she wrung her hands, and in the bitterness of her soul exclaimed, “Alas! alas! I have returned too late to save him.”
They soon after heard him stir. She requested Mrs. Byrne to go in, and cautiously inform him she was come. She complied, and in a moment Amanda heard him say, “Thank Heaven! my darling is returned.” “You may now go in, miss,” said Mrs. Byrne, coming from the room. Amanda went in. Her father was raised in the bed; his arms were extended to receive her. She threw herself into them. Language was[Pg 308] denied them both, but tears, even more expressive than words, evinced their feelings. Fitzalan first recovered his voice. “My prayer,” said he, “is granted. Heaven has restored my child to smooth the pillow of sickness, and soothe the last moments of existence.” “Oh, my father!” cried Amanda, “have pity on me, and mention not those moments. Exert yourself for your child; who in this wide world has she but thee to comfort, support and befriend her?” “Indeed,” said he, “for your sake I wish they may be far distant.” He held her at a little distance from him; he surveyed her face, her form, her altered complexion. Her fallen features appeared to shock him. He clasped her again to his bosom, “The world, my child, I fear,” cried he, “has used thee most unkindly.” “Oh, most cruelly,” sobbed Amanda. “Then, my girl, let the reflection of that world, where innocence and virtue will meet a proper reward, console you. Here they are often permitted to be tried; but as gold is tried and purified by fire, so are they by adversity. ‘Those whom God loves, He chastises.’ Let this idea give you patience and fortitude under every trial. Never forego your dependence on Him, though calamity should pursue you to the very brink of the grave; but be comforted by the assurance He has given, that those who meekly bear the cross He lays upon them, shall be rewarded; that He will wipe away all tears from their eyes, and swallow up death in victory. Though a soldier from my youth, and accustomed to all the licentiousness of camps, I never forgot my Creator; and I now find the benefit of not having done so. Now, when my friends desert, the world frowns upon me, when sickness and sorrow have overwhelmed me, religion stands me in good stead; consoles me for what I lost, and softens the remembrance of the past, by presenting prospects of future brightness.”
So spoke Fitzalan the pious sentiments of his soul, and they calmed the agitations of Amanda. He found her clothes were wet, and insisted on her changing them directly. In the bundle the good Eleanor gave her, was a change of linen, and a cotton wrapper, which she now put on, in a small closet, or rather shed adjoining her father’s room. A good fire was made up, a better light brought in, and some bread and wine from a small cupboard in the room, which contained Fitzalan’s things, set before her, of which he made her immediately partake. He took a glass of wine himself from her, and tried to cheer her spirits. “He had been daily expecting her arrival,” he said, “and had had a pallet and bedclothes kept airing for her. He[Pg 309] hoped she would not be dissatisfied with sleeping in the closet.” “Ah! my father,” she cried, “can you ask your daughter such a question?” She expressed her fears of injuring him, by having disturbed his repose. “No,” he said, “it was a delightfu............