“Why, thou poor mourner, in what baleful corner
Hast thou been talking with that witch, the night?
On what cold stone hast thou been stretched along,
Amanda had not reached the parlor4 when the door opened, and Mrs. Connel came from it. “Oh! oh! miss,” cried she, “so you are returned. I protest I was beginning to think you had stolen a march upon us.” There was a rude bluntness in this speech which confounded Amanda; and her mind misgave5 her that all was not right. “Come,” continued Mrs. Connel, “come in, miss, I assure you I have been very impatient for your return.” Amanda’s fears increased. She followed Mrs. Connel in silence into the parlor, where she beheld6 an elderly woman, of a pleasing but emaciated7 appearance, who seemed in great agitation8 and distress9. How she could possibly have anything to say to this woman, she could not conjecture10, and yet an idea that she had, instantly darted11 into her mind; she sat down, trembling in every limb, and waited with impatience12 for an explanation of this scene. After a general silence of a few minutes, the stranger, looking at Amanda, said, “My daughter, madam, has informed me we are indebted to your bounty13; I am therefore happy at an opportunity of discharging the debt.” These words announced Mrs. Rushbrook, but Amanda was confounded at her manner; its coolness and formality were more expressive14 of dislike and severity than of gentleness or gratitude15. Mrs. Rushbrook rose as she spoke16, and offered a note to her. Speechless from astonishment17, Amanda had not power either to decline or accept it, and it was laid on a table before her.
“Allow me, madam,” said Mrs. Rushbrook, as she resumed her seat, “to ask if your real name is Donald?” Amanda’s presentiment18 of underhand doings was now verified; it was evident to her that their author was Belgrave, and that he had been too successful in contriving20 them.
[Pg 492] Amanda now appeared to have reached the crisis of her fate. In all the various trials she had hitherto experienced, she had still some stay, some hope, to support her weakness, and soothe21 her sorrows. When groaning23 under the injuries her character sustained by the success of an execrable plot, she had the consolation24 to think an idolizing father would shelter her from further insult. When deprived of that father, tender friends stepped forward, who mingled25 tears of sympathy with hers, and poured the balm of pity on her sorrowing heart. When torn from the beloved object enshrined within that heart, while her sick soul languished26 under the heavy burden of existence, again did the voice of friendship penetrate28 its gloom, and, though it could not remove, alleviated29 its sufferings. Now helpless, unprotected, she saw a dreadful storm ready to burst over her devoted30 head, without one hope to cheer, one stretched-out arm to shield her from its violence. Surrounded by strangers prejudiced against her, she could not think that her plain, unvarnished tale would gain their credence31, or prevail on them to protect her from the wretch32 whose machinations had ruined her in their estimation. The horrors of her situation all at once assailed33 her mind, overpowered its faculties34; a kind of mental sickness seized her, she leaned her throbbing35 head upon her hand, and a deep groan22 burst from her agonizing36 heart.
“You see,” said Mrs. Connel, after a long silence, “she cannot brave this discovery.”
Amanda raised her head at these words; she had grown a little more composed. “The Being in whom I trust,” she said to herself, “and whom I never wilfully37 offended, will still, I doubt not, as heretofore, protect me from danger.” Mrs. Rushbrook’s unanswered question still sounded in her ear. “Allow me, madam,” she cried, turning to her, “to ask your reason for inquiring whether my real name is Donald?” “Oh, Lord! my dear!” said Mrs. Connel, addressing Mrs. Rushbrook, “you need not pester38 yourself or her with any more questions about the matter; her question is an answer in itself.” “I am of your opinion, indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Rushbrook, “and think any farther inquiry39 needless.” “I acknowledge, madam,” said Amanda, whose voice grew firmer from the consciousness of never having acted improperly40, “that my name is not Donald. I must also do myself the justice to declare (let me be credited or not) that my real one was not concealed41 from any motive43 which could deserve reproach or censure44. My situation is peculiarly distressing46. My only consolation[Pg 493] amidst my difficulties is the idea of never having drawn47 them upon myself by imprudence.” “I do not want, madam,” replied Mrs. Rushbrook, “to inquire into your situation; you have been candid48 in one instance, I hope you will be equally so in another. Pray, madam,” handing to Amanda the letter she had written to Rushbrook, “Is this your writing?” “Yes, madam,” answered Amanda, whose pride was roused by the contempt she met, “it is my writing.” “And pray,” said Mrs. Rushbrook, looking steadfastly50 at her, while her voice grew more severe, “what was your motive for writing this letter?” “I think, madam,” cried Amanda, “the letter explains that.” “A pretty explanation, truly!” exclaimed Mrs. Connel; “and so you will try to vilify51 the poor gentleman’s character; but, miss, we have had an explanation you little dream of; ay, we found you out, notwithstanding your slyness in writing, like one of the madams in a novel, a bit of a letter without ever a name to it. Mr. Sipthorpe knew directly who it came from. Ah! poor gentleman, he allowed you wit enough; a pity there is not more goodness with it; he knows you very well to his cost.” “Yes,” said Amanda, “he knows I am a being whose happiness he disturbed, but whose innocence52 he never triumphed over. He knows that like an evil genius, he has pursued my wandering footsteps, heaping sorrow upon sorrow on me by his machinations; but he also knows, when encompassed53 with those sorrows, perplexed54 with those machinations, I rose superior to them all, and with uniform contempt and abhorrence55 rejected his offers.” “Depend upon it,” cried Mrs. Connel, “she has been an actress.” “Yes, madam,” said Amanda, whose struggling voice confessed the anguish27 of her soul, “upon a stage where I have seen a sad variety of scenes.” “Come, come,” exclaimed Mrs. Connel, “confess all about yourself and Sipthorpe; full confession56 will entitle you to pardon.” “It behooves57 me, indeed,” said Amanda, “to be explicit58; my character requires it, and my wish,” she continued, turning to Mrs. Rushbrook, “to save you from a fatal blow demands it.” She then proceeded to relate everything she knew concerning Belgrave; but she had the mortification59 to find her short and simple story received with every mark of incredulity. “Beware, madam,” said she to Mrs. Rushbrook, “of this infatuation; I adjure60 you beware of the consequences of it. Oh! doom61 not your innocent, your reluctant Emily to destruction; draw not upon your own head by such a deed horrible and excruciating anguish. Why does not Mr. Sipthorpe, If I must call him so, appear, and in my presence support his allegations?” “I asked him to do so,” replied Mrs. Rushbrook; “but he has[Pg 494] feeling, and he wished not to see your distress, however merited it might be.” “No, madam,” cried Amanda, “he refused, because he knew that without shrinking he could not behold62 the innocent he has so abused; because he knew the conscious coloring of his cheek would betray the guilty feelings of his soul. Again, I repeat, he is not what he appears to be. I refer you for the truth of my words to Sir Charles Bingley. I feel for you, though you have not felt for me. I know, from false representations, you think me a poor misguided creature; but was I even so, my too evident anguish might surely have excited pity. Pardon me, madam, if I say your conduct to me has been most unkind. The gentle virtues63 are surely those best fitting a female breast. She that shows leniency64 to a fallen fellow-creature, fulfils the Divine precept65. The tear she sheds over her frailties66 is consecrated67 in the sight of Heaven, and her compassion68 draws a blessing69 on her own head. Oh! madam, I once looked forward to a meeting with you, far, far different from the present one. I once flattered myself, that from the generous friendship of Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook, I should derive70 support and consolation; but this, like every other hope, is disappointed.” Amanda’s voice faltered71 at these last words, and tears again trickled72 down her lovely cheeks. A faint glow tinged73 the pale cheek of Mrs. Rushbrook at Amanda’s accusation74 of unkindness. She bent75 her eyes to the ground as if conscious it was merited, and it was many minutes ere she could again look on the trembling creature before her. “Perhaps,” said she, at last, “I may have spoken too severely76, but it must be allowed I had great provocation77. Friendship and gratitude could not avoid resenting such shocking charges as yours against Sipthorpe.” “For my part, I wonder you spoke so mildly to her,” exclaimed Mrs. Connel; “I protest in future I shall be guarded who I admit into my house. I declare she seemed so distressed78 at the idea of going amongst strangers, that, sooner than let her do so, I believe, if Miss Emily had not, I should have offered her part of my bed; but this distress was all a pretext79 to get into the house with Mr. Sipthorpe, that she might try to entangle80 him in her snares81 again. Well, I am determined83 she shall not stay another night under my roof. Ay, you may stare as you please, miss, but you shall march directly. You are not so ignorant about London, I dare say, as you pretend to be.”
Mrs. Connel rose as she spoke, and approached her with a look which seemed to say she would put her threat into execution. It was Amanda’s intention to quit the house the next morning, but to be turned from it at such an hour, a wanderer in the Street, the idea was replete84 with horror! She started up, and[Pg 495] retreating a few paces, looked at Mrs. Connel with a kind of melancholy85 wildness. “Yes,” repeated Mrs. Connel, “I say you shall march directly.” The wretched Amanda’s head grew giddy, her sight failed, her limbs refused to support her, and she would have fallen to the ground had not Mrs. Rushbrook, who perceived her situation, timely caught her. She was replaced in a chair, and water sprinkled on her face. “Be composed, my dear,” said Mrs. Rushbrook, whose softened86 voice proclaimed the return of her compassion, “you shall not leave this house to-night, I promise, in the name of Mrs. Connel. She is a good-natured woman, and would not aggravate87 your distress.” “Ay, Lord knows, good-nature is my foible,” exclaimed Mrs. Connel. “So, miss, as Mrs. Rushbrook has promised, you may stay here to-night.” Amanda, opening her languid eyes, and raising her head from Mrs. Rushbrook’s bosom88, said in a low, tremulous voice, “To-morrow, madam, I shall depart. Oh! would to Heaven,” cried she, clasping her hands together, and bursting into an agony of tears, “before to-morrow I could be rid of the heavy burden that oppresses me!” “Well, we have had wailing89 and weeping enough to-night,” said Mrs. Connel, “so, miss, you may take one of the candles off the table, and go to your chamber90 if you choose.”
Amanda did not require to have this permission repeated. She arose, and taking the light, left the parlor. With feeble steps she ascended91 to the little chamber; but here all was dark, and solitary92, no cheerful fire sent forth93 an animating94 blaze; no gentle Emily, like the mild genius of benevolence95, appeared to offer with undissembled kindness her little attentions. Forsaken96, faint, the pale child of misery97 laid down the candle, and seating herself at the foot of the bed, gave way to deep and agonizing sorrow.
“Was I ever,” she asked herself, “blessed with friends who valued my existence as their own, who called me the beloved of their hearts? Oh! yes,” she groaned98, “once such friends were mine, and the sad remembrance of them aggravates99 my present misery. Oh! happy is our ignorance of futurity. Oh! my father, had you been permitted to read the awful volume of fate, the page marked with your Amanda’s destiny would have rendered your existence miserable100, and made you wish a thousand times the termination of hers.
“Oh, Oscar! from another hand than mine must you receive the deed which shall entitle you to independence. My trials sink me to the grave, to that grave where, but for the sweet hope of again seeing you, I should long since have wished my[Pg 496]self.” The chamber door opened. She turned her eyes to it in expectation of seeing Emily, but was disappointed on perceiving only the maid of the house. “Oh! dear ma’am,” cried she, going up to Amanda, “I declare it quite grieves me to see you in such a situation. Poor Miss Emily is just in as bad a plight102. Well, it is no matter, but I think both the old ladies will be punished for plaguing you in this manner. Madam Rushbrook will be sorry enough, when, after giving her daughter to Mr. Sipthorpe, she finds he is not what he seems to be.” Amanda shrunk with horror from the idea of Emily’s destruction, and by a motion of her hand, signified to the maid her dislike to the subject. “Well, ma’am,” she continued, “Miss Emily, as I was saying, is quite in as bad a plight as yourself. They have clapped her into my mistress’s chamber, which she durst not leave without running the risk of bringing their tongues upon her. However, she contrived103 to see me, and sent you this note.” Amanda took it and read as follows:—
“I hope my dear Miss Donald will not doubt my sincerity104 when I declare that all my sorrows are heightened by knowing I have been the occasion of trouble to her. I have heard of the unworthy treatment she has received in this house, and her intention of quitting it to-morrow. Knowing her averseness to lodge105 in a place she is unacquainted with, I have been speaking to the maid about her, and had the satisfaction to hear, that, through her means, my dear Miss Donald might be safely accommodated for a short time; long enough, however, to permit her to look out for an eligible106 situation. I refer her for particulars of the conversation to the maid, whose fidelity107 may be relied on. To think it may be useful to my dear Miss Donald, affords me the only pleasure I am now capable of enjoying. In her esteem108 may I ever retain the place of a sincere and affectionate friend.
E. R.”
“And where is the place I can be lodged109 in?” eagerly asked Amanda. “Why, ma’am,” said the maid, “I have a sister who is housemaid, at a very grand place, on the Richmond Road. All the family are now gone to Brighton, and she is left alone in the house, where you would be very welcome to take up your residence till you could get one to your mind. My sister is a sage110, sober body, and would do everything in her power to please and oblige you, and you would be as snug112 and secure with her as in a house of your own; and poor Miss Emily begged you would go to her, till you could get lodgings114 with people whose characters you know. And, indeed, ma’am, it is my humble115 opinion, it would be safe and pleasant for you to do so; and, if you consent, I will conduct you there to-morrow morning; and I am sure, ma’am, I shall be happy if I have the power of serving you.” Like the Lady in Comus, Amanda might have said[Pg 497]—
“I take thy word,
And trust thy honest offered courtesy,
For in a place
Less warranted than this, or less secure
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it:
Eye me, blest Providence116, and square my trial
To my proportioned strength.”
To take refuge in this manner, in any one’s house, was truly repugnant to the feelings of Amanda; but sad necessity conquered her scrupulous117 delicacy118, and she asked the maid at what hour in the morning she should be ready for her.
“I shall come to you, ma’am,” answered she, “as soon as I think there is a carriage on the stand, and then we can go together to get one. But I protest, ma’am, you look sadly. I wish you would allow me to assist in undressing you, for I am sure you want a little rest. I dare say, for all my mistress said, if you choose it, I could get a little wine from her to make whey for you.” Amanda refused this, but accepted her offer of assistance, for she was so overpowered by the scenes of the day, as to be almost unequal to any exertion119. The maid retired120 after she had seen her to bed. Amanda entreated122 her to be punctual to an early hour, and also requested her to give her most affectionate love to Miss Rushbrook, and her sincere thanks for the kind solicitude123 she had expressed about her. Her rest was now, as on the preceding night, broken, and disturbed by frightful124 visions. She arose pale, trembling, and unrefreshed. The maid came to her soon after she was dressed, and she immediately accompanied her down stairs, trembling as she went, lest Belgrave should suddenly make his appearance, and either prevent her departure, or follow her to her new residence. She left the house, however, without meeting any creature, and soon obtained the shelter of a carriage.
As they proceeded, Amanda besought126 the maid, who seemed perfectly127 acquainted with everything relative to Belgrave, to tell Miss Rushbrook to believe her assertions against him if she wished to save herself from destruction. The maid assured her she would, and declared she always suspected Mr. Sipthorpe was not as good as he should be. Amanda soon found herself at the end of her little journey. The house was elegant and spacious128, with a short avenue before it planted with chestnuts129. The maid’s sister was an elderly-looking woman, who received Amanda with every appearance of respect, and conducted her into a handsome parlor, where a neat breakfast was laid out. “I took care, ma’am,” said the maid, smiling, “to apprise130 my sister last night of the honor she was to have this[Pg 498] morning: and I am sure she will do everything in her power to oblige you.” “I thank you both,” cried Amanda, with her usual sweetness, but while she spoke a struggling tear stole down her lovely cheek at the idea of that forlorn situation which had thus cast her upon the kindness of strangers—strangers who were themselves the children of poverty and dependence101. “I hope, however, I shall not long be a trouble to either, as it is my intention immediately to look out for a lodging113 amongst the cottages in this neighborhood, till I can settle my affairs to return to my friends. In the mean time, I must insist on making some recompense for the attention I have received, and the expense I have put you to.” She accordingly forced a present upon each, for both the women appeared unwilling131 to accept them, and Mrs. Deborah, the maid’s sister, said it was quite unnecessary at present to think of leaving the house, as the family would not return to it for six weeks. Amanda, however, was resolved on doing what she had said, as she could not conquer her repugnance132 to continue in a stranger’s house. Mrs. Connel’s maid departed in a few minutes. Of the breakfast prepared for her, Amanda could only take some tea. Her head ached violently, and her whole frame felt disordered. Mrs. Deborah, seeing her dejection, proposed showing her the house and garden, which were very fine, to amuse her, but Amanda declined the proposal at present, saying she thought if she lay down she should be better. She was immediately conducted to an elegant chamber, where Mrs. Deborah left her, saying she would prepare some little nice thing for her dinner, which she hoped would tempt49 her to eat. Amanda now tried to compose her spirits by reflecting she was in a place of security; but their agitation was not to be subdued134 from the sleep into which mere135 fatigue136 threw her. She was continually starting in inexpressible terrors. Mrs. Deborah came up two or three times to know how she was, and at last appeared with dinner. She laid a small table by the bedside, and besought Amanda to rise and try to eat. There was a friendliness137 in her manner which recalled to Amanda’s recollection her faithful nurse Edwin, and she sighed to think that the shelter of her humble cottage she could no more enjoy (should such a shelter be required) from its vicinity to Tudor Hall, near which every feeling of propriety138 and tenderness must forbid her residing; the sad remembrance of which, now reviving in her mind, drew tears from her, and rendered her unable to eat. She thanked Mrs. Deborah for her attention, but, anxious to be alone, said she would no longer detain her; yet no sooner was she alone[Pg 499] than she found solitude139 insupportable. She could not sleep, the anguish of her mind was so great, and arose with the idea that a walk in the garden might be of use to her. As she was descending140 the stairs, she heard, notwithstanding the door was shut, a man’s voice from a front parlor. She started, for she thought it was a voice familiar to her ear. With a light foot and a throbbing heart she turned into a parlor at the foot of the stairs which communicated with the other. Here she listened, and soon had her fears confirmed by recollecting141 the voice to be that of Belgrave’s servant, whom she had often seen in Devonshire. She listened with that kind of horror which the trembling wretch may be supposed to feel when about hearing a sentence he expects to be dreadful.
“Ay, I assure you,” cried the man, “we are blown up at Mrs. Connel’s, but that is of little consequence to us; the colonel thinks the game now in view better than that he has lost, so to-night you may expect him in a chaise and four to carry off your fair guest.” “I declare, I am glad of it,” said Mrs. Deborah, “for I think she will die soon.” “Die soon!” repeated he. “Oh! yes, indeed, great danger of that—" and he added something else, which, being delivered with a violent burst of laughter, Amanda could not hear. She thought she heard them moving towards the door; she instantly slipped from the parlor, and, ascending142 the stairs in breathless haste, stopped outside the chamber door to listen. In a few minutes she heard them coming into the hall, and the man softly let out by Mrs. Deborah. Amanda now entered the chamber and closed the door, and knowing a guilty conscience is easily alarmed, she threw herself on the bed, lest Mrs. Deborah, if she found her up, should have her suspicions awakened143. Her desperate situation inspired her with strength and courage, and she trusted by presence of mind to be able to extricate144 herself from it. It was her intention, if she effected her escape, to proceed directly to London, though the idea of entering it, without a certain place to go to, was shocking to her imagination; yet she thought it a more secure place for her than any of the neighboring cottages, which she thought might be searched. Mrs. Deborah, as she expected, soon came up to her. Amanda involuntarily shuddered145 at her appearance, but knowing her safety depended on the concealment146 of her feelings, she forced herself to converse147 with the treacherous148 creature. She at last arose from the bed, declaring she had indulged her languor149 too much, and, after a few turns about the room, went to the window, and pretended to be engrossed150 in admiring the[Pg 500] garden. “There is a great deal of fruit in the garden,” said she, turning to Mrs. Deborah; “if I did not think it encroached too much on your kindness, I should ask for a nectarine or two.” “Dear ma’am,” replied Miss Deborah, “you are heartily151 welcome. I declare I should have offered them to you, only I thought you would like a turn in the garden and pull them yourself.” “No,” said Amanda, “I cannot at present.” Mrs. Deborah went off, and Amanda watched at the window till she saw her at the very end of the garden; she then snatched up her hat, and tied it on with a handkerchief, the better to conceal42 her face, then hastily descended152 the stairs, and locked the back door to prevent any immediate125 pursuit. She ran down the avenue, nor flagged in her course till she had got some paces from it; she was then compelled to do so, as much from weakness as from fear of attracting notice, if she went on in such a wild manner. She started at the sound of every carriage, and hastily averted153 her head as they passed; but she reached London without any alarm but what her own fears gave her. The hour was now late and gloomy, and warned Amanda of the necessity there was for exertions154 to procure155 a lodgings. Some poor women she saw retiring from their little fruit-stand drew a shower of tears from her, to think her situation was more wretched than theirs, whom but a few days before she should have considered as objects of compassion. She knew at such an hour she would only be received into houses of an inferior description, and looked for one in which she could think there might be a chance of gaining admittance. She at last came to a small, mean-looking house. “This humble roof, I think,” cried she, “will not disdain156 to shelter an unhappy wanderer!” She turned into the shop, where butter and cheese were displayed, and where an elderly woman sat knitting behind the counter. She arose immediately, as if from surprise and respect at Amanda’s appearance, who in universal agitation leaned against the door for support, unable for some minutes to speak. At last, in faltering157 accents, whilst over her pale face a crimson158 blush was diffused159, she said, “I should be glad to know if you have any lodgings to let?”
The woman instantly dropped into her seat, and looked steadfastly at Amanda. “This is a strange hour,” cried she, “for any decent body to come looking for lodgings!” “I am as sensible of that as you can be,” said Amanda, “but peculiar45 circumstances have obliged me to it; if you can accommodate me, I can assure you you will not have reason to repent160 doing so.” “Oh! I do not know how that may be,” cried she; “it[Pg 501] is natural for a body to speak a good word for themselves; however, if I do let you a room, for I have only one to spare, I shall expect to be paid for it beforehand.” “You shall, indeed,” said Amanda. “Well, I will show it you,” said she. She accordingly called a little girl to watch the shop, and, taking a candle, went up, before Amanda, a narrow, winding161 flight of stairs, and conducted her into a room, whose dirty, miserable appearance made her involuntarily shrink back, as if from the den19 of wretchedness itself. She tried to subdue133 the disgust it inspired her with, by reflecting that, after the imminent162 danger she had escaped, she should be happy to procure any asylum163 she could consider safe. She also tried to reconcile herself to it, by reflecting that in the morning she should quit it.
“Well, ma’am,” said the woman, “the price of the room is neither more nor less than one guinea per week, and if you do not like it, you are very welcome not to stay.” “I have no objection to the price,” replied Amanda; “but I hope you have quiet people in the house.” “I flatter myself, ma’am,” said the woman, drawing up her head, “there is never a house in the parish can boast a better name than mine.” “I am glad to hear it,” answered Amanda; “and I hope you are not offended by the inquiry.” She now put her hand in her pocket for the purse, to give the expected guinea, but the purse was not there. She sat down on the side of the bed, and searched the other, but with as little success. She pulled out the contents of both, but no purse was to be found. “Now—now,” cried she, clasping her hands together, in an agony which precluded164 reflection, “now—now, I am lost indeed! My purse is stolen,” she continued, “and I cannot give you the promised guinea.” “No, nor never could, I suppose,” exclaimed the woman. “Ah! I suspected all along what you were;—and so you was glad my house had a good name? I shall take care it does not lose that name by lodging you.” “I conjure165 you,” cried Amanda, starting up, and laying her hand on the woman’s, “I conjure you to let me stay this night; you will not—you shall not lose by doing so. I have things of value in a trunk in town, for which I will this instant give you a direction.” “Your trunk!” replied the woman in a scornful tone. “Oh! yes, you have a trunk with things of value in it, as much as you have a purse in your pocket. A pretty story, indeed. But I know too much of the ways of the world to be deceived nowadays—so march directly.”
Amanda again began to entreat121, but the woman interrupted her, and declared, if she did not depart directly, she would be[Pg 502] sorry for it. Amanda instantly ceased her importunities, and in trembling silence followed her down stairs. Oppressed with weakness, she involuntarily hesitated in the shop, which the woman perceiving, she rudely seized her, and pushing her from it, shut the door. Amanda could not now, as in former exigencies166, consider what was to be done. Alas167! if even capable of reflection, she could have suggested no plan which there was a hope of accomplishing. The powers of her mind were overwhelmed with horror and anguish. She moved mechanically along, nor stopped, till from weakness, she sunk upon the step of a door, against which she leaned her head in a kind of lethargy; but from this she was suddenly aroused by two men who stopped before her. Death alone could have conquered her terrors of Belgrave. She instantly concluded these to be him and his man. She started up, uttered a faint scream, and calling upon Heaven to defend her, was springing past them, when her hand was suddenly caught. She made a feeble but unsuccessful effort to disengage it, and overcome by terror and weakness fell, though not fainting, unable to support herself, upon the bosom of him who had arrested her course. “Gracious Heaven!” cried he, “I have heard that voice before.”
Amanda raised her head. “Sir Charles Bingley!” she exclaimed. The feelings of joy, surprise, and shame, that pervaded168 her whole soul, and thrilled through her frame, were, in its present weak state, too much for it, and she again sunk upon his shoulder. The joy of unexpected protection—for protection she was convinced she should receive from Sir Charles Bingley—was conquered by reflecting on the injurious ideas her present situation must excite in his mind—ideas she feared she should never be able to remove, so strongly were appearances against her.
“Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed Sir Charles, “is this Miss Fitzalan? Oh, this,” he cried, in a tone of deep dejection, “is indeed a meeting of horror!” A deep convulsive sob111 from Amanda alone proclaimed her sensibility; for she lay motionless in his arms—arms which involuntarily encircled and enfolded her to a heart that throbbed169 with intolerable anguish on her account. His friend stood all this time a spectator of the scene, the raillery which he had been on the point of uttering at seeing Amanda, as he thought, so premeditatedly fell into the arms of his companion, was stopped by the sudden exclamation170 of Sir Charles. Though the face of Amanda was concealed, the glimmering171 of a lamp over their heads gave him a view of her fine form, and the countenance172 of Sir Charles as he bent over[Pg 503] her, full of sorrow and dismay. “Miss Fitzalan,” cried Sir Charles, after the silence of a minute, “you are ill; allow me to have the pleasure of seeing you home.” “Home!” repeated Amanda, in the slow and hollow voice of despair, and raising her languid head, “alas! I have no home to go to.”
Every surmise173 of horror which Sir Charles had formed from seeing her in her present situation was now confirmed. He groaned, he shuddered, and scarcely able to stand, was obliged to lean with the lovely burden he supported against the rails. He besought his friend either to procure a chair or coach in which he might have her conveyed to a house where he knew he could gain her admittance. Touched by his distress, and the powerful impulse of humanity, his friend instantly went to comply with his request.
The silence of Amanda Sir Charles imputed174 to shame and illness, and grief and delicacy forbade him to notice it. His friend returned in a few minutes with a coach, and Sir Charles then found that Amanda’s silence did not altogether proceed from the motives175 he had ascribed it to; for she had fainted on his bosom. She was lifted into the carriage, and he again received her in his arms. On the carriage stopping, he committed her to the care of his friend, whilst he stepped into the house to procure a reception. In a few minutes he returned with a maid, who assisted him in carrying her up stairs. But on entering the drawing-room, how great was his amazement176, when a voice suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, merciful Powers! this is Miss Donald!” It was indeed to Mrs. Connel’s house, and to the care of the Rushbrooks, whom his bounty had released from prison, he had brought her. He had previously177 informed them of the situation in which he found her, little suspecting, at the time, she was the Miss Donald they mentioned being under such obligations to.
“It is I, it is I,” cried Mrs. Rushbrook, gazing on her with mingled horror and anguish, “it is I have been the occasion of her distress, and never shall I forgive myself for it.” “Oh, my preserver, my friend, my benefactress!” said Emily, clasping her in an agony of tears to her bosom, “is it thus your Emily beholds178 you?” Amanda was laid upon a couch, and her hat being removed, displayed a face which, with the paleness of death, had all the wildness of despair—a wildness that denoted more expressively179 than language could have done, the conflicts her spirit had endured; heavy sighs announced her having recovered from her fainting fit; but her eyes still continued closed, and her head, too weak to be self-supported, rested against the[Pg 504] arm of the couch. Mrs. Rushbrook and her daughter hung over her in inexpressible agonies. If they were thus affected180, oh! how was Sir Charles Bingley distressed—oh! how was his heart, which loved her with the most impassionate tenderness, agonized181! As he bent over the couch, the big tear trickled down his manly182 cheek, and fell upon the cold, pale face he contemplated183. He softly asked himself, Is this Amanda? Is this she, whom but a short time ago I beheld moving with unequalled elegance184, adorned185 with unrivalled beauty, whom my heart worshipped as the first of women, and sought to unite its destiny to, as the surest means of rendering186 that destiny happy? Oh! what a change is here! How feeble is that form! how hollow is that cheek! how heavy are those eyes whose languid glance speak incurable187 anguish of the soul! Oh, Amanda, was the being present who first led you into error, what horror and remorse188 must seize his soul at seeing the consequence of that error! “Has this unhappy young creature,” asked Rushbrook, who had approached the couch and viewed her with the truest pity, “no connections that could be prevailed on to save her?” “None that I know of,” replied Sir Charles; “her parents are both dead.” “Happy are the parents,” resumed Rushbrook, “who, shrouded189 in the dust, cannot see the misfortunes of their children—the fall of such a child as this!” glancing his tearful eyes as he spoke on his daughters.
“And pray, sir,” said Mrs. Connel, who was chafing190 her temples with lavender, “if she recovers, what is to become of her?” “It shall be my care,” cried Sir Charles, “to procure her an asylum. Yes, madam,” he continued, looking at her with an expression of mingled tenderness and grief, “he that must forever mourn thy fate, will try to mitigate191 it; but does she not want medical assistance?” “I think not,” replied Mrs. Connel; “it is want of nourishment192 and rest has thrown her into her present situation.” “Want of nourishment and rest!” repeated Sir Charles. “Good Heavens!” continued he, in the sudden agony of his soul, and walking from the couch, “is it possible that Amanda was a wanderer in the streets, without food, or a place to lay her head in? Oh, this is dreadful! Oh! my friends,” he proceeded, looking around him, whilst his eyes beamed the divine compassion of his soul, “be kind, be careful of this poor creature; but it is unnecessary to exhort193 you to this, and excuse me for having done so. Yes, I know you will delight in binding194 up a broken heart, and drying the tears of a wretched outcast. A short time ago, and she appeared——" he stopped, overcome by his emotions, and turned away his head to wipe[Pg 505] away his tears. “A short time ago,” he resumed, “and she appeared all that the heart of man could desire, all that a woman should wish and ought to be. Now she is fallen, indeed, lost to herself and to the world!” “No,” cried Emily, with generous warmth, starting from the side of the couch, at which she had been kneeling, “I am confident she never was guilty of an error.” “I am inclined, indeed, to be of Emily’s opinion,” said Mrs. Rushbrook. “I think the monster, who spread such a snare82 for her destruction, traduced195 Miss Donald in order to drive her from those who would protect her from his schemes.” “Would to Heaven the truth of your conjecture could be proved,” exclaimed Sir Charles. Again he approached the couch. Amanda remained in the same attitude, but seeing her eyes open, he took her cold hand, and in a soothing196 voice assured her she was safe; but the assurance had no effect upon her. Hers, like the “dull, cold ear of death,” was insensible of sound. A faint spark of life seemed only quivering through her woe-worn frame. “She is gone!” cried Sir Charles, pressing her hand between his; “she is gone, indeed! Oh! sweet Amanda, the mortal bounds that enclose thy afflicted197 spirit will soon be broken!” “I trust not, sir,” exclaimed Captain Rushbrook. His wife and daughter were unable to speak. “In my opinion she had better be removed to bed.”
Amanda was accordingly carried to a chamber, and Sir Charles remained in the drawing-room till Mrs. Rushbrook had returned to it. She informed him Miss Donald continued in the same state. He desired a physician might be sent for, and departed in inexpressible dejection.
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1
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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woes
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| 困境( woe的名词复数 )； 悲伤； 我好苦哇； 某人就要倒霉 | |
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parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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misgave
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| v.使（某人的情绪、精神等）疑虑，担忧，害怕( misgive的过去式 ) | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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13
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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15
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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16
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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17
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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18
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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19
den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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21
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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22
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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23
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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24
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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25
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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26
languished
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| 长期受苦( languish的过去式和过去分词 )； 受折磨； 变得（越来越）衰弱； 因渴望而变得憔悴或闷闷不乐 | |
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27
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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28
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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29
alleviated
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| 减轻，缓解，缓和( alleviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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31
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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32
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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33
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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34
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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35
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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36
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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37
wilfully
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| adv.任性固执地；蓄意地 | |
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38
pester
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| v.纠缠，强求 | |
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39
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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40
improperly
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| 不正确地，不适当地 | |
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41
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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42
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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43
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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44
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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45
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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46
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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47
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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48
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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49
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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50
steadfastly
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| adv.踏实地，不变地；岿然；坚定不渝 | |
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51
vilify
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| v.诽谤，中伤 | |
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52
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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53
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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54
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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55
abhorrence
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| n.憎恶；可憎恶的事 | |
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56
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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57
behooves
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| n.利益，好处( behoof的名词复数 )v.适宜( behoove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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59
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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60
adjure
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| v.郑重敦促(恳请) | |
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61
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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62
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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63
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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64
leniency
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| n.宽大（不严厉） | |
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65
precept
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| n.戒律；格言 | |
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66
frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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67
consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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68
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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69
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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70
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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71
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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72
trickled
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| v.滴( trickle的过去式和过去分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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73
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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75
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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76
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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77
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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80
entangle
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| vt.缠住，套住；卷入，连累 | |
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81
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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82
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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83
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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84
replete
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| adj.饱满的，塞满的；n.贮蜜蚁 | |
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85
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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86
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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87
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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88
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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89
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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90
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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91
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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92
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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93
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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94
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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95
benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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96
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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97
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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98
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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99
aggravates
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| 使恶化( aggravate的第三人称单数 )； 使更严重； 激怒； 使恼火 | |
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100
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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101
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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102
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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103
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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104
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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105
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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106
eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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107
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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108
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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109
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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110
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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111
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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112
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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113
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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114
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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115
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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116
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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117
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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118
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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119
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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120
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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121
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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122
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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124
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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125
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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126
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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127
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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128
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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129
chestnuts
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| n.栗子( chestnut的名词复数 )；栗色；栗树；栗色马 | |
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130
apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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131
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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132
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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133
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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134
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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135
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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136
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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137
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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138
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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139
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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140
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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141
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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142
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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143
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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144
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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145
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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146
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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147
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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148
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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149
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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150
engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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151
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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152
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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153
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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154
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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155
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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156
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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157
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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158
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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159
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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160
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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161
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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162
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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163
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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164
precluded
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| v.阻止( preclude的过去式和过去分词 )；排除；妨碍；使…行不通 | |
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165
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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166
exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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167
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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168
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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170
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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171
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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172
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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173
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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174
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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175
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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176
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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177
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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178
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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179
expressively
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| ad.表示(某事物)地；表达地 | |
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180
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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181
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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182
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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183
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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184
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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185
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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186
rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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187
incurable
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| adj.不能医治的，不能矫正的，无救的；n.不治的病人，无救的人 | |
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188
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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189
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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190
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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191
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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192
nourishment
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| n.食物，营养品；营养情况 | |
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193
exhort
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| v.规劝，告诫 | |
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194
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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195
traduced
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| v.诋毁( traduce的过去式和过去分词 )；诽谤；违反；背叛 | |
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196
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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197
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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