“Of joys departed, never to return, How bitter the remembrance!”—Blair.
“Well, child,” said Mrs. Macpherson, “do you choose to take anything?” “I thank you, madam,” replied Amanda, “I should like a little tea.” “Oh! as to tea, I have just taken my own, and the things are all washed and put by; but, if you like a glass of spirits and water, and a crust of bread, you may have it.” Amanda said she did not. “Oh! very well,” cried[Pg 394] Mrs. Macpherson, “I shall not press you, for supper will soon be ready.” She then desired Amanda to draw a chair near hers, and began torturing her with a variety of minute and trifling questions relative to herself, the nuns, and the neighborhood of St. Catherine’s.
Amanda briefly said, “her father had been in the army, that many disappointments and losses had prevented his making any provision for her, and that on his death, which happened in the neighborhood of the convent, the nuns had taken her out of compassion, till she procured an establishment for herself.” “Ay, and a comfortable one you have procured yourself, I promise you,” said Mrs. Macpherson, “if it is not your own fault.” She then told Amanda, “she would amuse her by showing her her house and other concerns.” This indeed was easily done, as it consisted but of the parlor, two closets adjoining it, and the kitchen, on the opposite side of the entry; the other concerns were a small garden, planted with kail, and the field covered with thistles. “A good, comfortable tenement this,” cried Mrs. Macpherson, shaking her head with much satisfaction, as she leaned upon her ebony-headed cane, and cast her eyes around. She bid Amanda admire the fine prospect before the door, and, calling to a red-haired and bare-legged girl, desired her to cut some thistles to put into the fire, and hasten the boiling of the kail. On returning to the parlor she unlocked a press, and took out a pair of coarse, brown sheets to air for Amanda. She herself slept in one closet, and in the other was a bed for Amanda, laid on a half-decayed bedstead, without curtains, and covered with a blue-stuff quilt. The closet was lighted by one small window, which looked into the garden, and its furniture consisted of a broken chair, and a piece of looking-glass stuck to the wall.
The promised supper was at length served. It consisted of a few heads of kail, some oaten bread, a jug of water, and a small phial half full of spirits, which Amanda would not taste, and the old lady herself took but sparingly. They were lighted by a small candle, which, on retiring to their closets, Mrs. Macpherson cut between them.
Amanda felt relieved by being alone. She could now without restraint indulge her tears and her reflections; that she could never enjoy any satisfaction with a being so ungracious in her manners and so contracted in her notions, she foresaw; but, disagreeable as her situation must be, she felt inclined to continue in it, from the idea of its giving her more opportunities of hearing from Mrs. Dermot than she could have in almost[Pg 395] any other place, and by these opportunities alone could she expect to hear of Lord Mortimer; and to hear of him, even the most trifling circumstance, though divided, forever divided from him, would be a source of exquisite though melancholy pleasure.
To think she should hear of him, at once soothed and fed her melancholy. It lessened the violence of sorrow, yet without abating its intenseness; it gave a delicious sadness to her soul she thought would be ill exchanged for any feelings short of those she must have experienced, if her wishes had been accomplished. She enjoyed the pensive luxury of virtuous grief, which mitigates the sharp
“With gracious drops
Of cordial pleasure,”
and which Akenside so beautifully describes; nor can I forbear quoting the lines he has written to illustrate the truth—
“Ask the faithful youth
Why the cold urn of her, whom long he loved
So often fills his arms, so often draws
His lonely footsteps at the silent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
O, he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne’er seduce his bosom to forego
That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes
With virtue’s kindest looks his aching heart,
And turns his tears to rapture.”
Fatigued by the contending emotions she experienced, as well as the sickness she went through at sea, Amanda soon retired to her flock bed, and fell into a profound slumber, in which she continued till roused in the morning by the shrill voice of Mrs. Macpherson, exclaiming, as she rapped at the door, “Come, come, Frances, it is time to rise.”
Amanda started from her sleep, forgetting both the name she had adopted and the place where she was; but Mrs. Macpherson again calling her to rise, restored her to her recollection. She replied she would attend her directly, and, hurrying on her clothes, was with her in a few minutes. She found the old lady seated at the breakfast-table, who, instead of returning her salutation, said, “that on account of her fatigue she excused her lying so long in bed this morning, for it was now eight o’clock; but in future she would expect her to rise before six in summer, and seven in winter, adding, as there was no clock, she would rap at her door for that purpose every morning.”
[Pg 396]Amanda assured her “she was fond of rising early, and always accustomed to it.” The tea was now poured out; it was of the worst kind, and sweetened with coarse brown sugar; the bread was oaten, and there was no butter. Amanda, unused to such unpalatable fare, swallowed a little of it with difficulty, and then, with some hesitation, said “she would prefer milk to tea.” Mrs. Macpherson frowned exceedingly at this, and, after continuing silent a few minutes, said, “she had really made tea for two people, and she could not think of having it wasted; besides, she added, the economy of her house was so settled she could not infringe it for any one.” She kept no cow herself, and only took in as much milk as served her tea and an old tabby-cat.
Amanda replied, “it was of no consequence,” and Mrs. Macpherson said, indeed she supposed so, and muttered something of people giving themselves airs they had no pretensions to. The tea-table was removed before nine, when the school began; it consisted of about thirty girls, most of them daughters of farmers in the neighborhood. Amanda and they being introduced to each other (and she being previously informed what they were taught), was desired to commence the task of instructing them entirely herself that day, as Mrs. Macpherson wanted to observe her manner—a most unpleasant task indeed for poor Amanda, whose mind and body were both harassed by anxiety and fatigue. As she had undertaken it, however, she resolved to go through it with as much cheerfulness and alacrity as possible. She accordingly acquitted herself to the satisfaction of Mrs. Macpherson, who only found fault with her too great gentleness, saying, the children would never fear her. At two the school broke up, and Amanda, almost as delighted as the children to be at liberty, was running into the garden to try if the air would be of use to a very violent headache; when she was called back to put the forms and other things in order. She colored, and stood motionless, till recollecting that if she refused to obey Mrs. Macpherson a quarrel would probably ensue, which, circumstanced as she was, without knowing where to go to, would be dreadful, she silently performed what she had been desired to do. Dinner was then brought in; it was as simple and as sparing as a Braman could desire it to be. When over, Mrs. Macpherson composed herself to take a nap in the large chair, without making any kind of apology to Amanda.
Left at liberty, Amanda would now have walked out; but it had just begun to rain, and everything looked dreary and[Pg 397] desolate. From the window in which she pensively sat she had a view of the sea; it looked black and tempestuous, and she could distinguish its awful and melancholy roaring as it dashed against the rocks. The little servant-girl, as she cleaned the kitchen, sung a dismal Scotch ditty, so that all conspired to oppress the spirits of Amanda with a dejection greater than she had before ever experienced; all hope was now extinct, the social ties of life seemed broken, never more to be reunited. She had now no father, no friend, no lover, as heretofore, to soothe her feelings, or alleviate her sorrows. Like the poor Belvidera she might have said,
“There was a time
Her cries and sorrows
Were not despised, when, if she chanced to sigh,
Or but look sad, a friend or parent
Would have taken her in their arms,
Eased her declining head upon their breasts,
And never left her till they found the cause;
But now let her weep seas,
Cry till she rend the earth, sigh till she burst
Her heart asunder, she is disregarded.”
Like a tender sapling, transplanted from its native soil, she seemed to stand alone, exposed to every adverse blast. Her tears gushed forth, and fell in showers down her pale cheeks. She sighed forth the name of her father: “Oh! dear and most benignant of men,” she exclaimed, “my father and my friend; were you living, I should not be so wretched; pity and consolation would then be mine. Oh! my father, one of the dreariest caverns in yonder rocks would be an asylum of comfort were you with me; but I am selfish in these regrets, certain as I am that you exchanged this life of wretchedness for one of eternal peace, for one where you were again united to your Malvina.”
Her thoughts adverted to what Lord Mortimer, in all probability, now thought of her; but this was too dreadful to dwell upon, convinced as she was, that, from appearances, he must think most unfavorably of her. His picture was hung in her bosom, she drew it out. She gazed with agonizing tenderness upon it. She pressed it to her lips, and prayed for its original. From this indulgence of sorrow she was disturbed by the waking of Mrs. Macpherson. She hastily wiped away her tears, and hid the beloved picture. The evening passed most disagreeably. Mrs. Macpherson was tedious and inquisitive in her discourse, and it was almost as painful to listen as to answer her. Amanda was happy when the hour for retiring to bed[Pg 398] arrived, and relieved her from what might be called a kind of mental bondage.
Such was the first day Amanda passed in her new habitation, and a week elapsed in the same manner without any variation, except that on Sunday she had a cessation from her labors, and went to the kirk with Mrs. Macpherson. At the end of the week she found herself so extremely ill from the fatigue and confinement she endured, as Mrs. Macpherson would not let her walk out, saying, “gadders were good for nothing"—that she told her, except allowed to go out every evening, she must leave her, as she could not bear so sedentary a life. Mrs. Macpherson looked disconcerted, and grumbled a good deal; but as Amanda spoke in a resolute manner, she was frightened lest she should put her threats into execution, she was so extremely useful in the school; and at last told her she might take as much exercise as she pleased every day after dinner.
Amanda gladly availed herself of this permission. She explored all the romantic paths about the house; but the one she chiefly delighted to take was that which led to the sea. She loved to ramble about the beach; when fatigued to sit down upon the fragment of a rock and look towards the opposite shore. Vainly then would she try to discover some of the objects she knew so well. Castle Carberry was utterly undistinguishable, but she knew the spot on which it stood, and derived a melancholy pleasure from looking that way. In these retired rambles she would freely indulge her tears, and gaze upon the picture of Lord Mortimer. She feared no observation; the rocks formed a kind of recess about her, and in going to them she seldom met a creature.
A fortnight passed in this way, and she began to feel surprise and uneasiness at not hearing from Mrs. Dermot. If much longer silent, she resolved on writing, feeling it impossible to endure much longer the agony her ignorance of Lord Mortimer’s proceedings gave her. The very morning previous to the one she had fixed for writing she saw a sailor coming to the house, and believing he was the bearer of a letter to her, she forgot everything but her feelings at the moment, and starting from her seat ran from the room. She met him a few yards from the house, and then perceived he was one of the sailors of the vessel she had come over in. “You have a letter for me, I hope?” said Amanda. The man nodded, and fumbling in his bosom for a moment, pulled out a large packet, which Amanda snatched with eager transport from him; and[Pg 399] knowing she could not attempt to bring him into the house for refreshment, gave him a crown to procure it elsewhere, which he received with thankfulness, and departed. She then returned to the parlor, and was hastening to her closet to read the letter, when Mrs. Macpherson stopped her. “Hey-day,” cried she, “what is the matter?—what is all this fuss about? Why, one would think that was a love letter, you are so very eager to read it.” “It is not, then, I can assure you" said Amanda. “Well, well; and who is it from?” Amanda reflected that if she said from Mrs. Dermot a number of impertinent questions would be asked her. She therefore replied: “From a very particular friend.” “From a very particular friend! Well, I suppose there is nothing about life or death in it, so you may wait till after dinner to read it; and pray sit down now, and hear the children their spelling lessons.” This was a tantalizing moment to Amanda. She stood hesitating whether she should obey, till reflecting that if she went now to read the packet, she should most probably be interrupted ere she had got through half the contents, she resolved on putting it up till after dinner. The moment at last came for Mrs. Macpherson’s usual nap, and Amanda instantly hastened to a recess amongst the rocks, where seating herself, she broke the seal. The envelope contained two letters. The first she cast her eyes upon was directed in Lord Cherbury’s hand. She trembled, tore it open, and read as follows:—
TO MISS FITZALAN.
In vain, my dear madam, do you say you never will receive pecuniary favors from me. It is not you, but I, should lie under obligations from their acceptance. I should deem myself the most ungrateful of mankind if I did not insist on carrying this point. I am but just returned to London, and shall immediately order my lawyer to draw up a deed entitling you to three hundred pounds a year, which, when completed, I shall transmit to the prioress (as I have this letter) to send to you. I am sensible, indeed, that I never can recompense the sacrifice you have made me. The feelings it has excited I shall not attempt to express, because language could never do them justice; but you may conceive what I must feel for the being who has preserved me from dishonor and destruction. I am informed Lord Mortimer has left Ireland, and therefore daily expect him in town. I have now not only every hope, but every prospect, of his complying with my wishes. This, I imagine, will be rather pleasing to you to hear, that you may know the sacrifice you have made is not made in vain, but will be attended with all the good consequences I expected to derive from it. I should again enjoy a tolerable degree of peace, were I assured you were happy; but this is an assurance I will hope soon to receive; for if you are not happy, who has a right to expect being so?—you whose virtue is so pure, whose generosity is so noble, so heroic, so far superior to any I have ever met with!
[Pg 400] That in this world, as well as the next, you may be rewarded for it, is, dear madam, the sincere wish of him who has the honor to subscribe himself your most grateful, most obliged, and most obedient, humble servant,
Cherbury.
“Unfeeling man!” exclaimed Amanda, “how little is your heart interested in what you write, and how slight do you make of the sacrifice I have made you; how cruelly mention your hopes, which are derived from the destruction of mi............