“By suffering well, our torture we subdue, Fly when she frowns, and when she calls pursue.”
Overwhelmed with grief and disappointment at the supposed perfidy of Amanda, Lord Mortimer had returned to England, acquainting Lord Cherbury and Lady Martha of the unhappy cause of his returning alone; entreating them, in pity to his wounded feelings, never to mention the distressing subject before him. His dejection was unconquerable; all his schemes of felicity were overthrown, and the destruction of his hopes was the destruction of his peace. It was not in these first transports of bitter sorrow that Lord Cherbury ventured to speak his wishes to his son. He waited till, by slow degrees, he saw a greater degree of composure in his manner, though it was a composure attended with no abatement of melancholy. At first he only hinted those wishes—hints, however, which Lord Mortimer appeared designedly insensible of. At last the earl spoke plainer. He mentioned his deep regret at beholding a son, whom he had ever considered the pride of his house, and the solace of his days, wasting his youth in wretchedness, for an ungrateful woman, who had long triumphed in the infatuation which bound him to her. “It filled his soul with anguish,” he said, “to behold him lost to himself, his family, and the world, thus disappointing all the hopes and expectations which the fair promise of his early youth had given rise to in the bosom of his friends concerning the meridian of his day.”
Lord Mortimer was unutterably affected by what his father said. The earl beheld his emotions, and blessed it as a happy omen. His pride, as well as sensibility, he continued, were deeply wounded at the idea of having Lord Mortimer still considered the slave of a passion which had met so base a return. “Oh! I let not the world,” added he, with increasing energy, “triumph in your weakness; try to shake it off, ere the finger of scorn and ridicule is pointed at you as the dupe of a deceitful woman’s art.”
Lord Mortimer was inexpressibly shocked. His pride had frequently represented as weakness the regret he felt for Amanda; and the earl now stimulating that pride, he felt at[Pg 539] the moment as if he could make any sacrifice which should prove his having triumphed over his unfortunate attachment. But when his father called on him to make such a sacrifice, by uniting himself to Lady Euphrasia, he shrunk back, and acknowledged he could not give so fatal a proof of fortitude. He declared his total repugnance at present to any alliance. Time, and the efforts of reason, he trusted, would subdue his ill-placed attachment, and enable him to comply with the wishes of his friends.
Lord Cherbury would not, could not drop the subject next his heart—a subject so important, so infinitely interesting to him. He exerted all his eloquence, he entreated, he implored his son not forever to disappoint his wishes. He mentioned the compliance he had so recently shown to his, though against his better judgment, in the useless consent he had given to his marriage with Miss Fitzalan.
Lord Mortimer, persecuted by his arguments, at length declared that, was the object he pointed out for his alliance any other than Lady Euphrasia Sutherland, he would not perhaps be so reluctant to comply with his wishes; but she was a woman he could never esteem, and must consequently forever refuse. She had given such specimens of cruelty and deceit, in the schemes she had entered into with the marchioness against (he blushed, he faltered, as he pronounced her name) Miss Fitzalan, that his heart felt unutterable dislike to her.
The earl was prepared for this; he had the barbarity to declare, in the most unhesitating manner, he was sorry to find him still blinded by the art of that wretched girl. He bade him reflect on her conduct, and then consider whether any credence was to be given to her declaration of Belgrave’s being admitted to the house without her knowledge.
Lord Mortimer was startled. Her conduct, indeed, as his father said, might well make him doubt her veracity. But still the evidence of the servants; they acknowledged having been instruments in forwarding the scheme which she said was laid against her. He mentioned this circumstance. The earl was also prepared for it; the servants, he declared, had been examined in his presence, when with shame and contrition they confessed, that seeing the strong anxiety of Lord Mortimer for the restoration of Miss Fitzalan’s fame, and tempted by the large bribes he offered, if they could or would say anything in her justification, they had at last made the allegation so pleasing to him.
[Pg 540]
Lord Mortimer sighed deeply. “On every side,” cried he, “I find I have been the dupe of art; but it was only the deceit of one could agonize my soul.” Still, however, he was inexorable to all his father could say relative to Lady Euphrasia.
Lady Martha was at last called in as an auxiliary; she was now as strenuous for the connection as ever Lord Cherbury had been. A longer indulgence of Lord Mortimer’s grief, she feared, would completely undermine his health, and either render him a burden to himself, or precipitate him to an early grave. Whilst he continued single, she knew he would not consider any vigorous exertions for overcoming that grief necessary; but if once united, she was convinced, from the rectitude and sensibility of his disposition, he would struggle against his feelings, in order to fulfil the incumbent duties he had imposed upon himself. Thus did she deem a union requisite to rouse him to exertion; to restore his peace, and in all probability to save his life. She joined in her brother’s arguments and entreaties, with tears she joined in them, and besought Mortimer to accede to their wishes. She called him the last hope of their house. He had long, she said, been the pride, the delight of their days; their comfort, their existence were interwoven in his; if he sunk, they sunk with him.
The yielding soul of Mortimer could not resist such tenderness, and he gave a promise of acting as they wished. He imagined he could not be more wretched; but scarcely had this promise passed his lips, ere he felt an augmentation of misery. To enter into new engagements, to resign the sweet though melancholy privilege of indulging his feelings, to fetter at once both soul and body, were ideas that filled him with unutterable anguish. A thousand times was he on the point of retracting his regretted and reluctant promise, had not honor interposed, and showed the inability of doing so, without an infringement on its principles. Thus entangled, Mortimer endeavored to collect his scattered thoughts, and in order to try and gain some composure, he altered his former plan of acting, and mingled as much as possible in society. He strove to fly from himself, that by so doing he might fly from the corrosive remembrances which embittered his life. But who shall paint his agonies at the unexpected sight of Amanda at the Macqueens? The exertions he had for some time before compelled himself to make, had a little abated the pain of his feelings; but that pain returned with redoubled violence at her presence, and every idea of present composure, or of future tranquillity, vanished. He[Pg 541] felt with regret, anguish, that she was as dear as ever to his soul, and his destined union became more hateful than ever to him. He tried, by recollecting her conduct, to awaken his resentment; but, alas! softness, in spite of all his efforts to the contrary, was the predominant feeling of his soul. Her pallid cheek, her deep dejection, seemed to say she was the child of sorrow and repentance. To soothe that sorrow, to strengthen that repentance, oh! how delightful unto him; but either he durst not do, situated as he then was.
With the utmost difficulty Lady Martha Dormer prevailed on him to be present when she demanded the picture from Amanda. That scene has already been described; also his parting one with her; but to describe the anguish he endured after this period is impossible. He beheld Lady Euphrasia with a degree of horror; his faltering voice refused even to pay her the accustomed compliments of meeting; he loathed the society he met at the castle, and, regardless of what would be thought of him, regardless of health, or the bleakness of the season, wandered for hours together in the most unfrequented parts of the domain, the veriest son of wretchedness and despair.
The day, the dreaded day, at length arrived which was to complete his misery. The company were all assembled in the great hall of the castle, from whence they were to proceed to the chapel, and every moment expected the appearance of the bride. The marquis, surprised at her long delay, sent a messenger to request her immediate presence, who returned in a few minutes with a letter, which he presented to the marquis, who broke the seal in visible trepidation, and found it from Lady Euphrasia.
She had taken a step, she said, which she must depend on the kind indulgence of her parents to excuse; a step which nothing but a firm conviction that happiness could not be experienced in a union with Lord Mortimer, should have tempted her to. His uniform indifference had at last convinced her that motives of the most interested nature influenced his addresses to her; and if her parents inquired into his, or, at least, Lord Cherbury’s conduct, they would find her assertion true, and would, consequently, she trusted, excuse her for not submitting to be sacrificed at the shrine of interest. In selecting Mr. Freelove for her choice, she had selected a man whose addresses were not prompted by selfish views, but by a sincere affection, which he would openly have avowed, had he not been assured, in the present situation of affairs, it would have met with opposition. To avoid, therefore, a positive act of disobedience,[Pg 542] she had consented to a private union. To Lord Mortimer and Lord Cherbury, she said, she deemed no apology necessary for her conduct, as their hearts, at least Lord Cherbury’s, would at once exculpate her, from his own consciousness of not having acted either generously or honorably to her.
The violent transports of passion the marquis experienced are not to be described. The marchioness hastily perused the letter, and her feelings were not inferior in violence to his. Its contents were soon known, and amazement sat on every countenance. But, oh! what joy did they inspire in the soul of Lord Mortimer; not a respite, or rather a full pardon to the condemned wretch, at the very moment when preparing for death, could have yielded more exquisite delight; but to Lord Cherbury, what a disappointment! It was, indeed, a death-stroke to his hopes. The hints in Lady Euphrasia’s letter concerning him plainly declared her knowledge of his conduct; he foresaw an immediate demand from Freelove; foresaw the disgrace he should experience when his inability to discharge that demand was known. His soul was shaken in its inmost recesses, and the excruciating anguish of his feelings was indeed as severe a punishment as he could suffer. Pale, speechless, aghast, the most horrid ideas took possession of his mind, yet he sought not to repel them, for anything was preferable to the shame he saw awaiting him.
Lord Mortimer’s indignation was excited by the aspersions cast upon his father, aspersions he imputed entirely to the malice of Lady Euphrasia, and which, from the character of Lord Cherbury, he deemed it unnecessary to attempt refuting. But alas! what a shock did his noble, his unsuspicious nature receive, when, in a short time after the perusal of her letter, one from Freelove was brought him, which fully proved the truth of her assertions. Freelove, in his little, trifling manner, expressed his hopes that there would be no difference between his lordship and him, for whom he expressed the most entire friendship, on account of the fair lady who had honored him with her regard; declared her partiality was quite irresistible; and, moreover, that in love, as in war, every advantage was allowable; begged to trouble his lordship with his compliments to Lord Cherbury, and a request that everything might be prepared to settle matters between them, on his return from his matrimonial expedition. An immediate compliance with this request, he was convinced, could not be in the least distressing; and it was absolutely essential to him, from the eclat with which he designed Lady Euphrasia Freelove should make her bridal[Pg 543] entry into public. As to the report, he said, which he had heard relative to Lord Cherbury’s losing the fortune which was intrusted to his care for him at the gaming-table, he quite disbelieved it.
The most distressing, the most mortifying sensations took possession of Lord Mortimer at this part of the letter. It explained the reasons of Lord Cherbury’s strong anxiety for an alliance with the Roslin family, which Lord Mortimer, indeed, had often wondered at, and he at once pitied, condemned, and blushed for him. He stole a glance at his father, and his deep, despairing look filled him with horror. He resolved, the first opportunity, to declare his knowledge of the fatal secret which oppressed him, and his resolution of making any sacrifice which could possibly remove or lessen his inquietude.
Lord Cherbury was anxious to fly from the now hated castle, ere further confusion overtook him. He mentioned his intention of immediately departing—an intention opposed by the marquis, but in which he was steady, and also supported by his son.
Everything was ready for their departure, when Lord Cherbury, overwhelmed by the dreadful agitation he experienced, was seized with a fit of the most violent and alarming nature. He was carried to a chamber, and recourse was obliged to be had to a physician, ere the restoration of his senses was effected; but he was then so weak that the physician declared if not kept quiet, a return of his disorder might be expected. Lord Mortimer, tenderly impatient to lighten the burden on his father’s mind, dismissed the attendants as soon as he possibly could, and then, in the most delicate terms, declared his knowledge of his situation.
Lord Cherbury at this started up in the most violent paroxysm of anguish, and vowed he would never survive the discovery of his being a villain. With difficulty could Lord Mortimer compose him; but it was long ere he could prevail on him to hear what he wished to say.
Few there were, he said, who at some period of their lives, he believed, were not led into actions which, upon reflection, they had reason to regret. He thought not, he meant not, to speak slightly of human nature, he only wished to prove that, liable as we all are to frailty—a frailty intended no doubt to check the arrogance of pride and presumption, we should not suffer the remembrance of error, when once sincerely repented of, to plunge us into despair, particularly when, as far as in our[Pg 544] power, we meant to atone for it. Thus did Lord Mortimer attempt to calm the dreadful conflicts of his father’s mind, who still continued to inveigh against himself.
The sale of Tudor Hall, Lord Mortimer proceeded, and mortgages upon Lord Cherbury’s estates, would enable his father to discharge his debt to Mr. Freelove. He knew, he said, it was tenderness to him which had prevented him ere this from adopting such a plan; but he besought him to let no further consideration on his account make him delay fulfilling immediately the claims of honor and justice. He besought him to believe his tranquillity was more precious to him than anything in life; that the restoration of his peace was far more estimable to him than the possession of the most brilliant fortune—"a possession which,” continued Lord Mortimer deeply sighing, “I am well convinced will not alone yield happiness. I have long,” said he, “looked with an eye of cool indifference on the pomps, the pageantries of life. Disappointed in my tenderest hopes and expectations, wealth, merely on my own account, has been long valueless to me. Its loss, I make no doubt—nay, I am convinced—I shall have reason to consider as a blessing. It will compel me to make those exertions which its possession would have rendered unnecessary, and by so doing, in all probability, remove from my heart that sadness which has so long clung about it, and enervated all its powers. A profession lies open to receive me, which, had I been permitted at a much earlier period, I should have embraced; for a military life was always my passion. At the post of danger, I may perhaps have the happiness of performing services for my country, which, while loitering supinely in the shade of prosperity, I never could have done. Thus, my dear father,” he continued, “you see how erroneous we are in opinions we often form of things, since what we often consider as the bitterest evil leads to the most supreme good. We will, as soon as possible, hasten everything to be prepared for Freelove, and thus I make no doubt, disappoint the little malice of his soul.
“My aunt, my sister, are unacquainted with your uneasiness, nor shall an intimation of it from me ever transpire to them. Of fortune, sufficient will remain to allow, though not the splendors, the comforts and elegancies of life. As for me, the deprivation of what is considered, and falsely termed, my accustomed indulgences, will be the most salutary and efficacious thing that could possibly happen to me. In short, I believe that the realization of my plan will render me happy, since, with truth I can assure you, its anticipation has already[Pg 545] given more pleasure to my soul than I thought it would ever have again enjoyed.”
Lord Cherbury, overcome by the tenderness, the virtue of his son, by the sacrifice he so willingly offered, so strenuously insisted on making, of his paternal fortune, could not for some minutes speak. At length the struggling emotions of his soul found utterance.
“Oh! Virtue,” he exclaimed, while tears of love, of gratitude, of contrition, flowed from his eyes, and fell upon the hand of his son, clasped within his—"Oh! Virtue, I cannot say, like Brutus, thou art but a shade; no, here, in this invaluable son, thou art personified—this son, whom I so cruelly deceived, so bitterly distressed! Oh! gracious powers, would not that heroic, that heaven-born disposition, which now leads him to sign away his paternal fortune for my sake have also led him to a still greater resignation, the sacrifice of his Amanda, had I entrusted him with my wretched situation. Oh! had I confided in him, what an act of baseness should I have avoided! What pangs, what tortures, should I have prevented his experiencing! But, to save my own guilty confusion, I drew wretchedness upon his head. I wrung every fibre of his heart with agony, by making him believe its dearest, its most valuable object unworthy of its regards.”
Mortimer started; he gasped—he repeated, in faltering accents, these last words. His soul seemed as if it would burst its mortal bounds, and soar to another region to hear an avowal of his Amanda’s purity.
“Oh! Mortimer,” cried the earl, in the deep, desponding tone of anguish, “how shall I dare to lift my eyes to thine after the avowal of the injustice I have done one of the most amiable and loveliest of human beings?” “Oh! tell me,” cried Mortimer, in breathless, trembling agitation, “tell me if, indeed, she is all my fond heart once believed her to be? In mercy, in pity, delay not to inform me.”
Slowly, in consequence of his weakness, but with all the willingness of a contrite spirit, anxious to do justice to the injured, did Lord Cherbury reveal all that had passed between him and Amanda. “Poor Fitzalan,” cried he, as he finished his relation, “poor, unhappy friend! From thy cold grave, couldst thou have known the transactions of this world, how must thy good and feeling spirit have reproached me for my barbarity to thy orphan in robbing her of the only stipend thy adverse fortune had power to leave her—a pure and spotless fame?”
[Pg 546]
Lord Mortimer groaned with anguish. Every reproachful word he had uttered to Amanda darted upon his remembrance, and were like so many daggers to his heart. It was his father that oppressed her. This knowledge aggravated his feelings, but stifled his reproaches; it was a father contrite, perhaps at that very moment stretched upon a death-bed, therefore he forgave him. He cast his eyes around, as if in that moment he had hoped to behold her, have an opportunity of falling prostrate at her feet and imploring her forgiveness. He cast his eyes around, as if imagining he should see her, and be allowed to fold her to his beating heart, and ask her soft voice to pronounce his pardon.
“Oh! thou lovely mourner,” he exclaimed to himself, while a gush of sorrow burst from his eyes. “Oh! thou lovely mourner, when I censured, reviled, upbraided you, even at that very period your heart was suffering the most excruciating anguish. Yes, Amanda, he who would willingly have laid down life to yield thee peace, even he was led to aggravate thy woes. With what gentleness, what unexampled patience didst thou bear my reproaches! No sudden ray of indignation for purity so insulted, innocence so arraigned, flashed from thy eyes; the beams of meekness and resignation alone stole from underneath their tearful lids.
“No sweet hope of being able to atone, no delightful idea of being able to make reparation for my injustice, now alleviates the poignancy of my feelings; since fate interposed between us in the hour of prosperity, I cannot, in the bleak and chilling period of adversity, seek to unite your destiny with mine. Now almost the child of want myself, a soldier of fortune, obliged by the sword to earn my bread, I cannot think of leading you into difficulties and dangers greater than you ever before experienced. Oh! my Amanda, may the calm shade of security be forever thine; thy Mortimer, thy ever-faithful, ever-adoring Mortimer, will not, from any selfish consideration, seek to lead thee from it. If thy loss be agonizing, oh! how much more agonizing to possess but to see thee in danger or distress. I will go, then, into new scenes of life with only thy dear, thy sweet, and worshipped idea to cheer and support me—an idea I shall lose but with life, and which to know I may cherish, indulge, adore, without a reproach from reason for weakness in so doing, is a sweet and soothing consolation.”
The indulgence of feelings such as his language expressed, he was obliged to forego, in order to fulfil the wish he felt of[Pg 547] alleviating the situation of his father; but his attention was unable to lighten the anguish which oppressed the mind of Lord Cherbury; remorse for his past conduct, mortification at being lessened in the estimation of his son, sorrow for the injury he was compelled to do him, to be extricated from the power of Freelove, all preyed upon his mind, and produced the most violent agitations, and an alarming repetition of fits.
Things remained in this situation for a few days, during which time no intelligence had been received of Euphrasia, when one morning, as Lord Mortimer was sitting for a few minutes with the marquis and marchioness, a servant entered the apartment, and informed his lord that a gentleman had just arrived at the castle, who requested to be introduced to his presence. The marquis and marchioness instantly concluded this was some person sent as an intercessor from Lady Euphrasia, and they instantly admitted him, in order to have an opportunity of assuring her ladyship, through his means, it must be some time (if indeed at all) ere they could possibly forgive her disrespect and disobedience. Lord Mortimer would have retired, but was requested to stay, and complied, prompted indeed by curiosity to hear what kind of apology or message Lady Euphrasia had sent. A man of a most pleasing appearance entered, and was received with the most frigid politeness. He looked embarrassed, agitated, even distressed. He attempted several times to speak, but the words still died away undistinguished. At length the marchioness, yielding to the natural impetuosity of her soul, hastily desired he would reveal what had procured them the honor of his visit.
“A circumstance of the most unhappy nature, madam,” he replied in a hesitating voice. “I came with the hope, the expectation of being able to break it by degrees, so as not totally to overpower; but I find myself unequal to the distressing task.” “I fancy, sir,” cried the marchioness, “both the marquis and I are already aware of the circumstance you allude to.” “Alas! madam,” said the stranger, fixing his eyes with a mournful earnestness on her face, “I cannot think so. If you were, it would not be in human, in parent nature to appear as you now do.” He stopped, he turned pale, he trembled, his emotions became contagious.
“Tell me,” said the marquis, in a voice scarcely articulate, “I beseech you, without delay, the meaning of your words.”
The stranger essayed to speak, but could not; words indeed were scarcely necessary to declare that he had something shocking to reveal. His auditors, like old Northumberland, might[Pg 548] have said, “The paleness on thy cheek is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand.” “Something dreadful has happened to my child,” said the marchioness, forgetting in that agonizing moment all displeasure. “Alas! madam,” cried the stranger, while a trickling tear denoted his sensibility for the sorrows he was about giving rise to. “Alas! madam, your fears are too well founded; to torture you with longer suspense would be barbarity. Something dreadful has happened, indeed—Lady Euphrasia in this world will never more be sensible of your kindness.” A wild, a piercing, agonizing shriek burst from the lips of the marchioness, as she dropped senseless from her seat. The marquis was sinking from his, had not Lord Mortimer, who sat by him, timely started up, and, though trembling himself with horror, caught him in his arms. The servants were summoned, the still insensible marchioness was carried to her chamber; the wretched marquis, reviving in a few minutes—if that could be called reviving, which was only a keener perception of misery—demanded, in a tone of anguish, the whole particulars of the sad event. Yet scarcely had the stranger begun to comply with his request, ere, with all the wild inconsistency of grief, he bade him forbear, and, shuddering, declared he could not listen to the dreadful particulars. But it were needless, as well as impossible, to describe the feelings of the wretched parents, who in one moment beheld their hopes, their wishes, their expectations finally destroyed. Oh! what an awful lesson did they inculcate of the instability of human happiness, of the insufficiency of rank or riches to retain it. This was one of the events which Providence, in its infinite wisdom, makes use of to arrest the thoughtless in their career of dissipation, and check the arrogance of pride and vanity. When we behold the proud, the wealthy, the illustrious, suddenly surprised by calamity, and sinking beneath its stroke, we naturally reflect on the frail tenure of earthly possessions, and, from the reflection, consider how we may best attain that happiness which cannot change. The human heart is in general so formed as to require something great and striking to interest and affect it. Thus a similar misfortune happening to a person in a conspicuous, and to one in an obscure situation, would not, in all probability, equally affect or call home the wandering thoughts to sadness and reflection. The humble floweret, trampled to the dust, is passed with an eye of careless indifference; but the proud oak torn from the earth, and levelled by the storm, is viewed with wonder and affright. The horrors of the blow which overwhelmed the marquis and marchioness, were augmented by the secret whis[Pg 549]pers of conscience, that seemed to say it was a blow of retribution from a Being all righteous an............