“———I solitary court The inspiring breeze.”—Thomson.
The ensuing morning, Oscar, Amanda, and Sir Charles began their journey. The Rushbrooks, who regarded Amanda as the cause of their present happiness, took leave of her with a tender sorrow that deeply affected her heart. The journey to Wales was pleasant and expeditious, the weather being fine, and relays of horses being provided at every stage. On the evening of the third day they arrived about sunset at the village which lay contiguous to Edwin’s abode; from whence, as soon as they had taken some refreshment, Amanda set off, attended by her brother, for the cottage, having ordered her luggage to be brought after her. She would not permit the attendance of Sir Charles, and almost regretted having travelled with him, as she could not help thinking his passion seemed increased by her having done so. “How dearly,” cried he, as he handed her down stairs, “shall I pay for a few short hours of pleasure, by the unceasing regret their remembrance will entail upon me.”
Amanda withdrew her hand, and, bidding him farewell, hurried on. Oscar proceeded no farther than the lane, which led to the cottage, with his sister. He had no time to answer the interrogations which its inhabitants might deem themselves privileged to make. Neither did he wish his present situation to be known to any others than those already acquainted with it. Amanda therefore meant to say she had taken the opportunity of travelling so far with two particular friends who were going to Ireland. Oscar promised to write to her immediately from thence, and from Scotland, as soon as he had seen the marquis. He gave her a thousand charges concerning her health, and took a tender farewell. From his too visible dejection, Amanda, rejoiced she had not revealed her own sorrows to him. She trusted it would be in her power, by soothing attentions, by the thousand little nameless offices of friendship, to alleviate his. To pluck the thorn from his heart which rankled within it was beyond her hopes. In their dispositions, as well as fates, there was too great a similitude to expect this.
Amanda lingered in the walk as he departed. She was now[Pg 525] in the very spot that recalled a thousand fond and tender remembrances. It was here she had given a farewell look to Tudor Hall; it was here her father had taken a last look at the spire of the church where his beloved wife was interred; it was here Lord Mortimer used so often to meet her. Her soul sunk in the heaviest sadness. Sighs burst from her overcharged heart, and with difficulty she prevented her tears from falling. All around was serene and beautiful; but neither the serenity nor the beauty of the scene could she now enjoy. The plaintive bleating of the cattle that rambled about the adjacent hills only heightened her melancholy, and the appearance of autumn, which was now far advanced, only made her look back to the happy period when admiring its luxuriance had given her delight. The parting sunbeams yet glittered on the windows of Tudor Hall. She paused involuntarily to contemplate it. Hours could she have continued in the same situation, had not the idea that she might be observed from the cottage made her at last hasten to it.
The door lay open. She entered, and found only the nurse within, employed at knitting. Her astonishment at the appearance of Amanda is not to be described. She started, screamed, surveyed her a minute, as if doubting the evidence of her eyes, then, running to her, flung her arms about her neck, and clasped her to her bosom. “Good gracious!” cried she; “well, to pe sure, who ever would have thought such a thing? Well, to pe sure, you are as welcome as the flowers in May. Here we have peen in such a peck of troubles about you. Many and many a time has my good man said, that if he knew where you were, he would go to you.” Amanda returned the embraces of her faithful nurse, and they both sat down together.
“Ah! I fear,” said the nurse, looking tenderly at her for a few minutes, “you have been in a sad way since I last saw you. The poor tear captain, alack! little did I think when he took you away from us, I should never see him more.” Amanda’s tears could no longer be suppressed; they gushed in torrents from her, and deep sobs spoke the bitterness of her feelings. “Ay,” said the nurse, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron, “gentle or simple, sooner or later, we must all go the same way; so, my tear chilt, don’t take it so much to heart. Well, to pe sure, long pefore this I thought I should have seen or heard of your being greatly married; put I pelieve it is true enough, that men are like the wind—always changing. Any one that had seen Lord Mortimer after you went away, would never have thought he could prove fickle. He was in such[Pg 526] grief, my very heart and soul pitied him. To pe sure, if I had known where you were, I should have told him. I comforted myself, however, by thinking he would certainly find you out, when, Lort! instead of looking for you, here he’s going to be married to a great lady, with such a long, hard name—a Scotch heiress, I think they call her. Ay, golt is everything in these days. Well, all the harm I wish him is, that she may plague his life out.”
This discourse was too painful to Amanda. Her tears had subsided, and she endeavored to change it, by asking after the nurse’s family. The nurse, in a hasty manner, said they were well, and thus proceeded: “Then there is Parson Howel. I am sure one would have thought him as steady as Penmaenmawr, but no such thing. I am sure he has changed, for he does not come to the cottage half so often to ask about you as he used to do.”
Amanda, notwithstanding her dejection, smiled at the nurse’s anger about the curate, and again requested to hear particulars of her family. The nurse no longer hesitated to comply with her request. She informed her they were all well, and then at a little distance at the mill in the valley. She also added, that Ellen was married to her faithful Chip; had a comfortable cottage, and a fine little girl she was nursing, and to whom, from her love to her tear young laty, she would have given the name of Amanda, but that she feared people would deem her conceited, to give it so fine a one. The nurse said she often regretted having left her young lady, and then even Chip himself could not console her for having done so. Tears again started in Amanda’s eyes, at hearing of the unabated attachment of her poor Ellen. She longed to see and congratulate her on her present happiness. The nurse, in her turn, inquired of all that had befallen Amanda since their separation, and shed tears at hearing of her dear child’s sufferings since that period. She asked about Oscar, and was briefly informed he was well. The family soon returned from the dance; and it would be difficult to say whether surprise or joy was most predominant at seeing Amanda. One of the young men ran over for Ellen, and returned in a few minutes with her, followed by her husband, carrying his little child. She looked wild with delight. She clasped Amanda in her arms, as if she would never let her depart from them, and wept in the fulness of her heart. “Now, now,” cried she, “I shall be quite happy; but oh! why, my dear young laty, did you not come amongst us before? you know all in our power we would have done to ren[Pg 527]der you happy.” She now recollected herself, and modestly retired to a little distance. She took her child and brought it to Amanda, who delighted her extremely by the notice she took of it and Chip. If Amanda had had less cause for grief, the attentions of these affectionate cottagers would have soothed her mind; but at present nothing could diminish her dejection. Her luggage was by this time arrived. She had brought presents for all the family, and now distributed them. She tried to converse about their domestic affairs, but found herself unequal to the effort, and begged to be shown to her chamber. The nurse would not suffer her to retire till she had tasted her new cheese and Welsh ale. When alone within it, she found fresh objects to remind her of Lord Mortimer, and consequently to augment her grief. Here lay the book-case he had sent her. She opened it with trembling impatience; but scarcely a volume did she examine in which select passages were not marked, by his hand, for her particular perusal. Oh! what mementoes were those volumes of the happy hours she had passed at the cottage! The night waned away, and still she continued weeping over them. She could with difficulty bring herself to close the book-case; and when she retired to rest her slumbers were short and unrefreshing. The next morning as she sat at breakfast, assiduously attended by the nurse and her daughters (for Ellen had come over early to inquire after her health), Howel entered to pay her a visit. The previous intimation she had received of the alteration in his sentiments rendered his visit more pleasing than it would otherwise have been to her. His pleasure was great at seeing her, but it was not the wild and extravagant delight of a lover, but the soft and placid joy of a friend. After his departure, which was not soon, she accompanied Ellen to view her cottage, and was infinitely pleased by its neatness and romantic situation. It lay on the side of a hill which commanded a beautiful prospect of Tudor Hall. Everything she beheld reminded Amanda of Lord Mortimer, even the balmy air she breathed, on which his voice had so often floated.
The sad indulgence of wandering through the shades of Tudor Hall, which she had so eagerly desired, and fondly anticipated, she could not longer deny herself. The second evening after her arrival at the cottage, she turned her solitary steps to them; their deep embowering glens, their solitude, their silence, suited the pensive turn of her feelings. Here, undisturbed and unobserved, she could indulge the sorrows of her heart; and oh! how did recollection augment those sor[Pg 528]rows by retracing the happy hours she had spent within those shades. A cold, a death-like melancholy pervaded her feelings, and seemed repelling the movements of life. Her trembling limbs were unable to support her, and she threw herself on the ground. For some minutes she could scarcely breathe. Tears at length relieved her painful oppression, she raised her languid head, she looked around, and wept with increasing violence at beholding what might be termed mementoes of former happiness. She repeated in soft and tremulous accents the name of Mortimer; but as the beloved name vibrated on her ear, how did she start at recollecting that she was then calling upon the husband of Lady Euphrasia. She felt a momentary glow upon her cheeks. She arose, and sighed deeply. “I will strive to do right,” she cried; “I will try to wean my soul from remembrances no longer proper to be indulged.” Yet still she lingered in the wood. The increasing gloom of evening rendered it, if possible, more pleasing to her feelings, whilst the breeze sighed mournfully through the trees, and the droning bat fluttered upon the air, upon which the wild music of a harp, from one of the neighboring cottages, softly floated.
Amanda drew nearer to it. It looked dark and melancholy. She sighed—she involuntarily exclaimed, “Oh, how soon will it be enlivened by bridal pomp and festivity!” She now recollected the uneasiness her long absence might create at the cottage, and as soon as the idea occurred, hastened to it. She met Edwin in the lane, who had been dispatched by his wife in quest of her. The good woman expressed her fears, that such late rambles would injure the health of Amanda; “it was a sad thing,” she said, “to see young people giving way to dismal fancies.”
Amanda did not confine her rambles entirely to Tudor Hall; she visited all the spots where she and Mortimer used to ramble together. She went to the humble spot where her mother lay interred. Her feelings were now infinitely more painful than when she had first seen it. It recalled to her mind, in the most agonizing manner, all the vicissitudes she had experienced since that period. It recalled to view the calamitous closure of her father’s life—the sorrows, the distresses of that life, and she felt overwhelmed with grief. Scarcely could she prevent herself from falling on the grave, and giving way in tears and lamentations to that grief. Deprived of the dearest connections of life, blasted in hopes and expectations—"Oh! well had it been for me,” she cried, “had this spot at once received the mother and child; and yet,” she exclaimed, after a minute’s [Pg 529] reflection; “oh! what, my God, am I, that I should dare to murmur or repine at thy decrees? Oh! pardon the involuntary expressions of a woe-worn heart, of a heart that feels the purest gratitude for thy protection through past dangers. Oh! how presumptuous,” she continued, “to repine at the common lot of humanity, as the lot of her,” she continued, casting her tearful eyes upon the grave, where the last flowers of autumn were now withering, “who reposes in this earthly bed; who, in life’s meridian, in beauty’s prime, sunk, the sad victim of sorrow, into the arms of death! Oh, my parents, how calamitous were your destinies! even your ashes were not permitted to moulder together, but in a happier region, your kindred spirits are now united. Blessed spirits, your child will strive to imitate your example; in patient resignation to the will of Heaven, she will endeavor to support life. She will strive to live, though not from an idea of enjoying happiness, but from an humble hope of being able to dispense it to others.”
Such were the words of Amanda at the grave of her mother, from which she turned like a pale and drooping lily, surcharged with tears. At the end of a week, she heard from Oscar, who told her in the course of a few days he expected to embark for Scotland. Amanda had brought materials for drawing with her, and she felt a passionate desire of taking views of Tudor Hall; views which, she believed, would yield her a melancholy pleasure when she should be far and forever distant from the spots they represented.
This desire, however, she could not gratify without the assistance of her nurse, for she meant to take her views from the library, and she feared if she went there without apprising the housekeeper, she should be liable to interruption. She, therefore, requested her nurse to ask permission for her to go there. The nurse shook her head, as if she suspected Amanda had a motive for the request she did not divulge. She was, however, too anxious to gratify her dear child to refuse complying with it, and accordingly lost no time in asking the desired permission, which Mrs. Abergwilly readily gave, saying—"Miss Fitzalan was welcome to go to the library whenever she pleased, and should not be interrupted.”
Amanda did not delay availing herself of this permission, but it was some time after she entered the library, ere she could compose herself sufficiently for the purpose which had brought her to it. In vain did nature appear from the windows, displaying the most beautiful and romantic scenery to her view, as if to tempt her to take up the pencil. Her eyes were dimmed[Pg 530] with tears as she looked upon this scenery, and reflected that he who had once pointed out its various beauties was lost to her forever. By degrees, however, her feelings grew composed, and every morning she repaired to the library, feeling, whilst engaged with it, a temporary alleviation of sorrow.
Three weeks passed in this manner, and at the expiration of that period, she received a letter from Oscar. She trembled in the most violent agitation as she broke the seal, for she saw by the post-mark he was in Scotland; but how great was her surprise and joy at the contents of this letter, which informed her everything relative to the important affair so lately in agitation, was settled in the most amicable manner; that the avowal of his claim occasioned not the smallest litigation; that he was then in full possession of the fortune bequeathed him by the earl, and had already received the congratulations of the neighboring families on his accession, or rather restoration to it. He had not time, he said, to enumerate the many particulars which rendered the adjustment of affairs so easy, and hoped the pleasing intelligence his letter communicated would atone for his brevity; he added, he was then preparing to set off for London with Sir Charles Bingley, of whose friendship he spoke in the highest terms, to settle some affairs relative to his new possessions, and particularly about the revival of the Dunreath title, which not from any ostentatious pride, he desired to obtain, as he was sure she would suppose, but from gratitude and respect to the wishes of his grandfather, who in his will had expressed his desire that the honors of his family should be supported by his heir. When everything was finally settled, he proceeded to say, he would hasten on the wings of love and impatience to her, for in her sweet society alone he found any balm for the sorrows of his heart, sorrows which could not be eradicated from it, though fortune had been so unexpectedly propitious; and he hoped, he said, he should find her then gay as the birds, blooming as the flowerets of spring, and ready to accompany him to the venerable mansion of their ancestors.
The joyful intelligence this letter communicated she had not spirits at present to mention to the inhabitants of this cottage; the pleasure it afforded was only damped by reflecting on what Lord Mortimer must feel from a discovery which could not fail of casting a dark shade of obloquy upon his new connections. She was now doubly anxious to finish her landscapes, from the prospect there was of her quitting Wales so soon. Every visit she now paid the library was paid with the sad idea of its being the last. As she was preparing for going there one morning,[Pg 531] immediately after breakfast, the nurse, who had been out some time previous to her rising, entered the room with a look of breathless impatience, which seemed to declare she had something wonderful to communicate. “Goot lack-a-taisy,”............