“In struggling with misfortunes Lies the proof of virtue,”—Shakspeare.
The turbulence of grief, and the agitation of suspense, gradually lessened in the mind of Amanda, and were succeeded by a soft and pleasing melancholy, which sprang from the consciousness of having always, to the best of her abilities, performed the duties imposed upon her, and supported her misfortunes with placid resignation. She loved to think on her father, for amidst her sighs for his loss were mingled the delightful ideas of having ever been a source of comfort to him, and she believed, if departed spirits were allowed to review this world, his would look down upon her with delight and approbation at beholding her undeviating in the path he had marked out for her to take. The calm derived from such meditations she considered as a recompense for many sorrows; it was such, indeed, as nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, and what the good must experience, though “amidst the wreck of matter and the crush of worlds.”
She tried to prevent her thoughts from wandering to Lord Mortimer, as the surest means of retaining her composure, which fled whenever she reflected on the doubtful balance in which her fate yet hung concerning him.
The solitude of St. Catherine’s was well adapted to her present situation and frame of mind. She was neither teased with impertinent or unmeaning ceremony, but perfect mistress of her own time and actions, read, worked, and walked, as most agreeable to herself. She did not extend her walks beyond the convent, as the scenes around it would awaken remembrances she had not sufficient fortitude to bear; but the space it covered was ample enough to afford her many different and extensive rambles. And of a still evening, when nothing but the lowing of the cattle, or the buzzing of the summer flies, was to be heard, she loved to wander through the solemn and romantic ruins, sometimes accompanied by a nun, but much oftener alone.
A fortnight had elapsed in this manner since Lord Mortimer’s departure, when, one morning, a carriage was heard driving across the common and stopping at the outer gate of[Pg 347] St. Catherine’s. Amanda, who was sitting at work in the parlor with the prioress, started in a universal trepidation at the sound. It may be easily imagined the idea of Lord Mortimer was uppermost in her thoughts. The door opened in a few minutes, and, to her great astonishment, Mrs. Kilcorban and her two daughters made their appearance.
Agitation and surprise prevented Amanda from speaking; she curtseyed, and motioned them to be seated. The young ladies saluted her with an icy civility, and the mother treated her with a rude familiarity, which she thought herself authorized in using to one so reduced in circumstances as Amanda. “Dear me,” cried she, “you can’t think, child, how shocked we have all been to hear of your misfortunes. We only returned to the country yesterday, for we have been in town the whole winter, and to be sure a most delightful winter we have had of it—such balls, such routs, such racketings; but, as I was going to say, as soon as we came home I began, according to my old custom, to inquire after all my neighbors; and to be sure the very first thing I heard of was the poor captain’s death. Don’t cry, my dear, we must all go one time or another; those are things, of course, as the doctor says in his sermon; so, when I heard of your father’s death and your distress, I began to cast about in my brains some plan for helping you; and at last I hit upon one which, says I to the girls, will delight the poor soul, as it will give her an opportunity of earning decent bread for herself. You must know, my dear, the tutoress we brought to town would not come back with us—a dirty trollop, by the bye, and I think her place would be quite the thing for you. You will have the four young girls to learn French and work too, and I will expect you, as you have a good taste, to assist the eldest Miss Kilcorbans in making up their things and dressing. I give twenty guineas a-year. When we have no company, the tutoress always sits at the table, and gets, besides this, the best of treatment in every respect.”
A blush of indignation had gradually conquered Amanda’s paleness during Mrs. Kilcorban’s long and eloquent speech. “Your intentions may be friendly, madam,” cried she, “but I must decline your proposal.” “Bless me, and why must you decline it? perhaps you think yourself not qualified to instruct; indeed, this may be the case, for people often get credit for accomplishments they do not possess. Well, if this is so, I am still content to take you, as you were always a decent behaved young body. Indeed, you cannot expect I should give you twenty guineas a-year. No, no, I must make some abatement[Pg 348] in the salary, if I am forced to get masters to help you in learning the girls.” “Miss Fitzalan, madam,” exclaimed the prioress, who had hitherto continued silent, “never got credit for accomplishments which she did not possess; her modesty has rather obscured than blazoned forth her perfections; she does not, therefore, madam, decline your offer from a consciousness of inability to undertake the office of an instructor, but from a conviction she never could support impertinence and folly; should her situation ever require her to exert her talents for subsistence, I trust she will never experience the mortification of associating with those who are insensible of her worth, or unwilling to pay her the respect she merits.” “Hoity, toity,” cried Mrs. Kilcorban, “what assurance! Why, madam, many a better man’s child would be glad to jump at such an offer.” “Dear madam,” said Miss Kilcorban, “perhaps the young lady has a better settlement in view. We forget Lord Mortimer has been lately at Castle Carberry, and we all know his lordship is a friend to Captain Fitzalan’s daughter.” “Or perhaps,” cried Miss Alicia, in a giggling tone, “she means to be a nun.” “Indeed, I suppose she means to be nothing good,” rejoined Mrs. Kilcorban; “and I suppose it was by some impertinence or other she had a tiff with Lady Greystock. Lord! (looking round the room), only see her music-books—her harp—her guitar—as if she had nothing to do but sing and thrum away the whole day. Well, miss (rising from her chair), you may yet be sorry your friend said so much about you. I did not come merely to offer to take you into my house, but to offer you also a good sum for your harp and guitar, supposing you had no business with such things nowadays; but I dare say you would have refused this offer.” “I certainly should, madam,” said Amanda; “it must be strong necessity which compels me to part with my beloved father’s presents.” “Well, well, child, I wish this pride of thine may not yet be humbled.” So saying, she flounced out of the room, followed by her daughters, who, under an affectation of contem............