The inspiring breeze.”—Thomson.
The ensuing morning, Oscar, Amanda, and Sir Charles began their journey. The Rushbrooks, who regarded Amanda as the cause of their present happiness, took leave of her with a tender sorrow that deeply affected2 her heart. The journey to Wales was pleasant and expeditious3, the weather being fine, and relays of horses being provided at every stage. On the evening of the third day they arrived about sunset at the village which lay contiguous to Edwin’s abode4; from whence, as soon as they had taken some refreshment5, Amanda set off, attended by her brother, for the cottage, having ordered her luggage to be brought after her. She would not permit the attendance of Sir Charles, and almost regretted having travelled with him, as she could not help thinking his passion seemed increased by her having done so. “How dearly,” cried he, as he handed her down stairs, “shall I pay for a few short hours of pleasure, by the unceasing regret their remembrance will entail6 upon me.”
Amanda withdrew her hand, and, bidding him farewell, hurried on. Oscar proceeded no farther than the lane, which led to the cottage, with his sister. He had no time to answer the interrogations which its inhabitants might deem themselves privileged to make. Neither did he wish his present situation to be known to any others than those already acquainted with it. Amanda therefore meant to say she had taken the opportunity of travelling so far with two particular friends who were going to Ireland. Oscar promised to write to her immediately from thence, and from Scotland, as soon as he had seen the marquis. He gave her a thousand charges concerning her health, and took a tender farewell. From his too visible dejection, Amanda, rejoiced she had not revealed her own sorrows to him. She trusted it would be in her power, by soothing7 attentions, by the thousand little nameless offices of friendship, to alleviate8 his. To pluck the thorn from his heart which rankled9 within it was beyond her hopes. In their dispositions10, as well as fates, there was too great a similitude to expect this.
Amanda lingered in the walk as he departed. She was now[Pg 525] in the very spot that recalled a thousand fond and tender remembrances. It was here she had given a farewell look to Tudor Hall; it was here her father had taken a last look at the spire11 of the church where his beloved wife was interred12; it was here Lord Mortimer used so often to meet her. Her soul sunk in the heaviest sadness. Sighs burst from her overcharged heart, and with difficulty she prevented her tears from falling. All around was serene13 and beautiful; but neither the serenity14 nor the beauty of the scene could she now enjoy. The plaintive15 bleating16 of the cattle that rambled18 about the adjacent hills only heightened her melancholy19, and the appearance of autumn, which was now far advanced, only made her look back to the happy period when admiring its luxuriance had given her delight. The parting sunbeams yet glittered on the windows of Tudor Hall. She paused involuntarily to contemplate20 it. Hours could she have continued in the same situation, had not the idea that she might be observed from the cottage made her at last hasten to it.
The door lay open. She entered, and found only the nurse within, employed at knitting. Her astonishment21 at the appearance of Amanda is not to be described. She started, screamed, surveyed her a minute, as if doubting the evidence of her eyes, then, running to her, flung her arms about her neck, and clasped her to her bosom22. “Good gracious!” cried she; “well, to pe sure, who ever would have thought such a thing? Well, to pe sure, you are as welcome as the flowers in May. Here we have peen in such a peck of troubles about you. Many and many a time has my good man said, that if he knew where you were, he would go to you.” Amanda returned the embraces of her faithful nurse, and they both sat down together.
“Ah! I fear,” said the nurse, looking tenderly at her for a few minutes, “you have been in a sad way since I last saw you. The poor tear captain, alack! little did I think when he took you away from us, I should never see him more.” Amanda’s tears could no longer be suppressed; they gushed23 in torrents24 from her, and deep sobs25 spoke26 the bitterness of her feelings. “Ay,” said the nurse, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron27, “gentle or simple, sooner or later, we must all go the same way; so, my tear chilt, don’t take it so much to heart. Well, to pe sure, long pefore this I thought I should have seen or heard of your being greatly married; put I pelieve it is true enough, that men are like the wind—always changing. Any one that had seen Lord Mortimer after you went away, would never have thought he could prove fickle28. He was in such[Pg 526] grief, my very heart and soul pitied him. To pe sure, if I had known where you were, I should have told him. I comforted myself, however, by thinking he would certainly find you out, when, Lort! instead of looking for you, here he’s going to be married to a great lady, with such a long, hard name—a Scotch29 heiress, I think they call her. Ay, golt is everything in these days. Well, all the harm I wish him is, that she may plague his life out.”
This discourse30 was too painful to Amanda. Her tears had subsided31, and she endeavored to change it, by asking after the nurse’s family. The nurse, in a hasty manner, said they were well, and thus proceeded: “Then there is Parson Howel. I am sure one would have thought him as steady as Penmaenmawr, but no such thing. I am sure he has changed, for he does not come to the cottage half so often to ask about you as he used to do.”
Amanda, notwithstanding her dejection, smiled at the nurse’s anger about the curate, and again requested to hear particulars of her family. The nurse no longer hesitated to comply with her request. She informed her they were all well, and then at a little distance at the mill in the valley. She also added, that Ellen was married to her faithful Chip; had a comfortable cottage, and a fine little girl she was nursing, and to whom, from her love to her tear young laty, she would have given the name of Amanda, but that she feared people would deem her conceited32, to give it so fine a one. The nurse said she often regretted having left her young lady, and then even Chip himself could not console her for having done so. Tears again started in Amanda’s eyes, at hearing of the unabated attachment34 of her poor Ellen. She longed to see and congratulate her on her present happiness. The nurse, in her turn, inquired of all that had befallen Amanda since their separation, and shed tears at hearing of her dear child’s sufferings since that period. She asked about Oscar, and was briefly35 informed he was well. The family soon returned from the dance; and it would be difficult to say whether surprise or joy was most predominant at seeing Amanda. One of the young men ran over for Ellen, and returned in a few minutes with her, followed by her husband, carrying his little child. She looked wild with delight. She clasped Amanda in her arms, as if she would never let her depart from them, and wept in the fulness of her heart. “Now, now,” cried she, “I shall be quite happy; but oh! why, my dear young laty, did you not come amongst us before? you know all in our power we would have done to ren[Pg 527]der you happy.” She now recollected36 herself, and modestly retired37 to a little distance. She took her child and brought it to Amanda, who delighted her extremely by the notice she took of it and Chip. If Amanda had had less cause for grief, the attentions of these affectionate cottagers would have soothed38 her mind; but at present nothing could diminish her dejection. Her luggage was by this time arrived. She had brought presents for all the family, and now distributed them. She tried to converse40 about their domestic affairs, but found herself unequal to the effort, and begged to be shown to her chamber41. The nurse would not suffer her to retire till she had tasted her new cheese and Welsh ale. When alone within it, she found fresh objects to remind her of Lord Mortimer, and consequently to augment42 her grief. Here lay the book-case he had sent her. She opened it with trembling impatience43; but scarcely a volume did she examine in which select passages were not marked, by his hand, for her particular perusal44. Oh! what mementoes were those volumes of the happy hours she had passed at the cottage! The night waned45 away, and still she continued weeping over them. She could with difficulty bring herself to close the book-case; and when she retired to rest her slumbers46 were short and unrefreshing. The next morning as she sat at breakfast, assiduously attended by the nurse and her daughters (for Ellen had come over early to inquire after her health), Howel entered to pay her a visit. The previous intimation she had received of the alteration47 in his sentiments rendered his visit more pleasing than it would otherwise have been to her. His pleasure was great at seeing her, but it was not the wild and extravagant48 delight of a lover, but the soft and placid49 joy of a friend. After his departure, which was not soon, she accompanied Ellen to view her cottage, and was infinitely50 pleased by its neatness and romantic situation. It lay on the side of a hill which commanded a beautiful prospect51 of Tudor Hall. Everything she beheld52 reminded Amanda of Lord Mortimer, even the balmy air she breathed, on which his voice had so often floated.
The sad indulgence of wandering through the shades of Tudor Hall, which she had so eagerly desired, and fondly anticipated, she could not longer deny herself. The second evening after her arrival at the cottage, she turned her solitary steps to them; their deep embowering glens, their solitude53, their silence, suited the pensive54 turn of her feelings. Here, undisturbed and unobserved, she could indulge the sorrows of her heart; and oh! how did recollection augment those sor[Pg 528]rows by retracing55 the happy hours she had spent within those shades. A cold, a death-like melancholy pervaded56 her feelings, and seemed repelling57 the movements of life. Her trembling limbs were unable to support her, and she threw herself on the ground. For some minutes she could scarcely breathe. Tears at length relieved her painful oppression, she raised her languid head, she looked around, and wept with increasing violence at beholding59 what might be termed mementoes of former happiness. She repeated in soft and tremulous accents the name of Mortimer; but as the beloved name vibrated on her ear, how did she start at recollecting60 that she was then calling upon the husband of Lady Euphrasia. She felt a momentary61 glow upon her cheeks. She arose, and sighed deeply. “I will strive to do right,” she cried; “I will try to wean my soul from remembrances no longer proper to be indulged.” Yet still she lingered in the wood. The increasing gloom of evening rendered it, if possible, more pleasing to her feelings, whilst the breeze sighed mournfully through the trees, and the droning bat fluttered upon the air, upon which the wild music of a harp63, from one of the neighboring cottages, softly floated.
Amanda drew nearer to it. It looked dark and melancholy. She sighed—she involuntarily exclaimed, “Oh, how soon will it be enlivened by bridal pomp and festivity!” She now recollected the uneasiness her long absence might create at the cottage, and as soon as the idea occurred, hastened to it. She met Edwin in the lane, who had been dispatched by his wife in quest of her. The good woman expressed her fears, that such late rambles64 would injure the health of Amanda; “it was a sad thing,” she said, “to see young people giving way to dismal65 fancies.”
Amanda did not confine her rambles entirely66 to Tudor Hall; she visited all the spots where she and Mortimer used to ramble17 together. She went to the humble67 spot where her mother lay interred. Her feelings were now infinitely more painful than when she had first seen it. It recalled to her mind, in the most agonizing68 manner, all the vicissitudes69 she had experienced since that period. It recalled to view the calamitous70 closure of her father’s life—the sorrows, the distresses71 of that life, and she felt overwhelmed with grief. Scarcely could she prevent herself from falling on the grave, and giving way in tears and lamentations to that grief. Deprived of the dearest connections of life, blasted in hopes and expectations—"Oh! well had it been for me,” she cried, “had this spot at once received the mother and child; and yet,” she exclaimed, after a minute’s [Pg 529] reflection; “oh! what, my God, am I, that I should dare to murmur72 or repine at thy decrees? Oh! pardon the involuntary expressions of a woe-worn heart, of a heart that feels the purest gratitude73 for thy protection through past dangers. Oh! how presumptuous,” she continued, “to repine at the common lot of humanity, as the lot of her,” she continued, casting her tearful eyes upon the grave, where the last flowers of autumn were now withering74, “who reposes75 in this earthly bed; who, in life’s meridian76, in beauty’s prime, sunk, the sad victim of sorrow, into the arms of death! Oh, my parents, how calamitous were your destinies! even your ashes were not permitted to moulder77 together, but in a happier region, your kindred spirits are now united. Blessed spirits, your child will strive to imitate your example; in patient resignation to the will of Heaven, she will endeavor to support life. She will strive to live, though not from an idea of enjoying happiness, but from an humble hope of being able to dispense78 it to others.”
Such were the words of Amanda at the grave of her mother, from which she turned like a pale and drooping79 lily, surcharged with tears. At the end of a week, she heard from Oscar, who told her in the course of a few days he expected to embark80 for Scotland. Amanda had brought materials for drawing with her, and she felt a passionate81 desire of taking views of Tudor Hall; views which, she believed, would yield her a melancholy pleasure when she should be far and forever distant from the spots they represented.
This desire, however, she could not gratify without the assistance of her nurse, for she meant to take her views from the library, and she feared if she went there without apprising83 the housekeeper84, she should be liable to interruption. She, therefore, requested her nurse to ask permission for her to go there. The nurse shook her head, as if she suspected Amanda had a motive85 for the request she did not divulge86. She was, however, too anxious to gratify her dear child to refuse complying with it, and accordingly lost no time in asking the desired permission, which Mrs. Abergwilly readily gave, saying—"Miss Fitzalan was welcome to go to the library whenever she pleased, and should not be interrupted.”
Amanda did not delay availing herself of this permission, but it was some time after she entered the library, ere she could compose herself sufficiently87 for the purpose which had brought her to it. In vain did nature appear from the windows, displaying the most beautiful and romantic scenery to her view, as if to tempt88 her to take up the pencil. Her eyes were dimmed[Pg 530] with tears as she looked upon this scenery, and reflected that he who had once pointed89 out its various beauties was lost to her forever. By degrees, however, her feelings grew composed, and every morning she repaired to the library, feeling, whilst engaged with it, a temporary alleviation90 of sorrow.
Three weeks passed in this manner, and at the expiration91 of that period, she received a letter from Oscar. She trembled in the most violent agitation92 as she broke the seal, for she saw by the post-mark he was in Scotland; but how great was her surprise and joy at the contents of this letter, which informed her everything relative to the important affair so lately in agitation, was settled in the most amicable93 manner; that the avowal94 of his claim occasioned not the smallest litigation; that he was then in full possession of the fortune bequeathed him by the earl, and had already received the congratulations of the neighboring families on his accession, or rather restoration to it. He had not time, he said, to enumerate95 the many particulars which rendered the adjustment of affairs so easy, and hoped the pleasing intelligence his letter communicated would atone96 for his brevity; he added, he was then preparing to set off for London with Sir Charles Bingley, of whose friendship he spoke in the highest terms, to settle some affairs relative to his new possessions, and particularly about the revival97 of the Dunreath title, which not from any ostentatious pride, he desired to obtain, as he was sure she would suppose, but from gratitude and respect to the wishes of his grandfather, who in his will had expressed his desire that the honors of his family should be supported by his heir. When everything was finally settled, he proceeded to say, he would hasten on the wings of love and impatience to her, for in her sweet society alone he found any balm for the sorrows of his heart, sorrows which could not be eradicated98 from it, though fortune had been so unexpectedly propitious99; and he hoped, he said, he should find her then gay as the birds, blooming as the flowerets of spring, and ready to accompany him to the venerable mansion100 of their ancestors.
The joyful101 intelligence this letter communicated she had not spirits at present to mention to the inhabitants of this cottage; the pleasure it afforded was only damped by reflecting on what Lord Mortimer must feel from a discovery which could not fail of casting a dark shade of obloquy102 upon his new connections. She was now doubly anxious to finish her landscapes, from the prospect there was of her quitting Wales so soon. Every visit she now paid the library was paid with the sad idea of its being the last. As she was preparing for going there one morning,[Pg 531] immediately after breakfast, the nurse, who had been out some time previous to her rising, entered the room with a look of breathless impatience, which seemed to declare she had something wonderful to communicate. “Goot lack-a-taisy,” cried she, as soon as she had recovered her breath, lifting up her head from the back of the chair on which she had thrown herself, “goot lack-a-taisy, well, to pe sure there is nothing but wonderful things happening in this world! Here, old Dame103 Abergwilly sent in such a hurry for me this morning; to pe sure I was surprised, but what was that to the surprise I felt when I heard what she had sent to me for.” It was now Amanda’s turn to feel breathless impatience. “Good heavens!” she exclaimed, “what did she tell you?” “Ay, I knew,” cried the nurse, “the commotion104 you would be in when I told you the news; if you were guessing from this time till this time tomorrow you would never stumble over what it is.” “I dare say I should not,” cried Amanda, “so do be brief.” “Why, you must know,—but Lort, my tear child, I am afraid you made but a bad breakfast, for you look very pale; inteed I made no great one myself, for I was in such a hurry-flurry with what Mrs. Abergwilly told me, that though she made some nice green tea, and we had a slim cake, I could scarcely touch anything.” “Well,” said Amanda, tortured with anxiety and impatience, “what did she tell you?” “Why, my tear child, down came a special messenger from London last night, to let them know that Lort Cherbury was tead, and that Lort Mortimer had sold Tudor Hall; and the steward105 is ordered to pay all the servants off, and to discharge them; and to have everything in readiness against the new lantlort comes down to take possession. Oh! Lort, there is such weeping and wailing106 at the Hall; the poor creatures who had grown old in service, hoped to have finished their tays in it; it is not that they are in any fear of want—the young lort has taken care of that, for he has settled something yearly upon them all—but that they are sorry to quit the family. Poor Mrs. Abergwilly, nothing can comfort the old soul; she has neither chick nor child, and she told me she loved the very chairs and tables, to which, to pe sure, her hand has given many a polishing rub. She says she thinks she will come and lodge107 with me; put if she does, she says I must not put her into a room from whence she can have a view of Tudor Hall; for she says she will never be able to look at it when once it gets a new master. So this, my tear child, is the sum totem of what I have heard.”
Amanda was equally astonished and affected by what she[Pg 532] heard. She wished to know if the nurse had received any intelligence of Lord Mortimer’s marriage, but she could not bring herself to ask the question. Besides, upon reflection, she was convinced she should have heard it had it been the case. With Lord Cherbury died all hopes of the restoration of her fame in the opinion of his son. “Yet why,” she asked herself, “should I regret this? since thus separated, it is better, perhaps, he had ceased to esteem108 me, as undoubtedly109 it must lessen110 his feelings on my account.” Why he should part with Tudor Hall she could not conceive, except it was to humor some caprice of Lady Euphrasia’s, who, it was probable, she imagined, knew that the attachment between Lord Mortimer and her had there commenced.
“Ah!” cried Amanda, “she never could have relished111 its beauties—beauties which, if Lord Mortimer thinks as I do would, if reviewed, only have augmented112 his sorrows—sorrows which propriety113 now demands his repelling.” She hastened to the hall, but was some time there ere she could commence her employment, so much had she been agitated114. The landscape she was finishing was taken from the little valley which lay beneath the windows of the music-room. The romantic ruins of an old castle overhung an eminence115 at its extremity116; and of the whole scene she had taken a most accurate copy; it wanted but one charm to please her, and that charm was the figure of Lord Mortimer, with whom she had often wandered round the ruins. Her hand was ready in obeying the impulse of her heart, and she soon beheld, sketched118 in the most striking manner, the elegant features of him so ardently119 beloved. She gazed with rapture120 upon them, but it was a short-lived rapture. She started, as if conscious she had committed a crime, when she reflected on the situation in which he now stood with another woman; her trembling hand hastened to atone for its error, by expunging121 the dangerous likeness122, and the warm involuntary tear she shed at the moment, aided her design. “Oh! how unnecessary,” she cried, as she made this sacrifice to delicacy123, “to sketch117 features which are indelibly engraven on my heart.” As she spoke, a deep and long-drawn sigh reached her ear. Alarmed, confounded at the idea of being overheard, and, of course, the feelings of her heart discovered, she started with precipitation from her seat, and looked round her with a kind of wild confusion. But, gracious Heavens! who can describe the emotions of her soul when the original of the picture so fondly sketched, so hastily obliterated124, met her eye. Amazed, unable to speak, to move, almost[Pg 533] to breathe, she stood motionless and aghast, the pale statue of surprise, as if she neither durst nor could believe the evidence of her eyes. Well, indeed, might she have doubted them, for in the pale countenance125 of Lord Mortimer scarce a vestige126 of his former self (except in the benignancy of his looks) remained. His faded complexion127, the disorder128 of his hair, his mourning habit, all heightened the sad expression of his features—an expression which declared that he and happiness were never so disunited as at the present moment. The first violence of Amanda’s feelings in a little time abated33, she somewhat recovered the use of her faculties129, and hastily snatching up her drawings, moved with weak and trembling steps to the door. She had nearly reached it, when the soft, the tremulous voice of Lord Mortimer arrested her course. “You go, then, Miss Fitzalan,” cried he, “without one adieu. You go, and we never more shall meet.” The agonizing manner in which these words were pronounced, struck a death-like chill upon the heart of Amanda. She stopped, and turned around involuntarily, as if to receive that last, that sad adieu, which she was half reproached for avoiding. Lord Mortimer approached her, he attempted to speak, but his voice was inarticulate; a gust131 of sorrow burst from his eyes, and he hastily covered his face with a handkerchief, and walked to a window.
Amanda, unutterably affected, was unable to stand; she sunk upon a chair, and watched with a bursting heart the emotions of Lord Mortimer. Oh! with what difficulty at this moment did she confine herself within the cold, the rigid132 rules of propriety; with what difficulty did she prevent herself from flying to Lord Mortimer; from mingling133 tears with his, and lamenting134 the cruel destiny which had disunited them forever. Lord Mortimer in a few minutes was sufficiently recovered again to approach her. “I have long wished for an opportunity of seeing you,” said he, “but I had not courage to desire an interview. How little did I imagine this morning, when, like a sad exile, I came to take a last farewell of a favorite residence, that I should behold58 you! Fate, in granting this interview, has for once befriended me. To express my horror—my remorse—my anguish—not only for the error a combination of events led me into concerning you, but for the conduct that error influenced me to adopt, will, I think, a little lighten my heart. To receive your pardon will be a sweet, a sad consolation135; yet,” continued he, after a moment’s pause, “why do I say it will be a consolation? Alas136! the sweetness that may lead you to accord it will only heighten my wretchedness at[Pg 534] our eternal separation.” Here he paused. Amanda was unable to speak. His words seemed to imply he was acquainted with the injuries she had sustained through his father’s means, and she waited in trembling expectation for an explanation of them. “The purity of your character,” exclaimed Lord Mortimer, “was at length fully62 revealed to me. Good Heaven! under what afflicting137 circumstances? by that being, to whom you so generously made a sacrifice of what then you might have considered your happiness.” “Did Lord Cherbury, then,” said Amanda, with inexpressible eagerness, “did he then, at last, justify138 me?” “Yes,” cried Lord Mortimer, “he proved you were indeed the most excellent, the most injured of human beings; that you were all which my fond heart had once believed you to be; but oh! what were the dreadful emotions of that heart to know his justification139 came too late to restore its peace. Once there was a happy period, when, after a similar error being removed, I had hoped, by a life forever devoted140 to you, to have made some reparation, some atonement, for my involuntary injustice141; but alas! no reparation, no atonement can now be made.”
Amanda wept. She raised her streaming eyes to heaven, and again cast them to the earth.
“You weep,” cried Lord Mortimer, in a tone expressive142 of surprise, after surveying her some minutes in silence. “My love, my Amanda,” continued he, suddenly seizing her hand, while he surveyed her with a most rapturous fondness, a crimson143 glow mantling144 his cheek and a beam of wonted brilliancy darting145 from his eye, “What am I to imagine from those tears? are you, then, indeed, unaltered?”
Amanda started. She feared the emotions she betrayed had convinced Lord Mortimer of the continuance, the unabated strength of her affection. She felt shocked at her imprudence, which had alone, she was convinced, tempted130 Lord Mortimer to address her in such a manner. “I know not, my lord,” cried she, “in what sense you ask whether I am unchanged; but of this be assured, a total alteration must have taken place in my sentiments, if I could remain a moment longer with a person who seems at once forgetful of what is due to his own situation and mine.” “Go, then, madam,” exclaimed Lord Mortimer, in an accent of displeasure, “and pardon my having thus detained you—pardon my involuntary offence—excuse my having disturbed your retirement147, and obtruded148 my sorrows on you.”
Amanda had now reached the door. Her heart recoiled149 at[Pg 535] the idea of parting in such a manner from Lord Mortimer, but prudence146 bade her hasten as fast as possible from him. Yet slow and lingering she pursued her way. Ere she had gone many yards she was overtaken by Lord Mortimer. His pride was inferior to his tenderness, which drove him to despair at the idea of parting in displeasure from her. “Oh! my Amanda,” cried he, seizing her hand, and almost breathless with emotion, “add not, by your anger, to the bitterness of this sad hour. Since we must part, oh! let us part in amity150, as friends that regard each other. You have not yet (if, indeed, it is possible for you to do so) pronounced your forgiveness of the persecutions you underwent on my account. You have not granted your pardon for the harshness, the cruelty with which a dreadful error tempted me to treat you.” “Oh! my lord,” said Amanda, again yielding to the softness of her soul, while tears trickled151 down her cheeks, “why torture me by speaking in this manner? How can I pronounce forgiveness when I never was offended? When wretched and deserted152, I appeared to stand upon the great theatre of life, without one hand to offer me assistance, your ready friendship came to my relief, and poured the balm of comfort over the sorrows of my heart! when deprived by deceit and cruelty of your good opinion, even then your attention and solicitude153 pursued my wandering footsteps, and strove to make a path of comfort for me to take! these, these are the obligations that never can be forgotten, that demand, that possess, my eternal gratitude, my——.” A warmer expression rose to her lips, but was again buried in her heart. She sighed, and after a pause of a minute, thus went on:—"For your happiness, my warmest, purest prayers are daily offered up; oh! may it yet be equal to your virtues154; greater I cannot wish it.”
Lord Mortimer groaned156 in the excruciating agony of his soul. “Oh! Amanda,” he said, “where, where can I receive consolation for your loss? Never, never in the world!” He took her hands within his, he raised them to Heaven, as if supplicating157 its choicest blessings158 on her head. “For my happiness you pray; ah! my love, how unavailing is the prayer!”
Amanda now saw more than ever the necessity of hastening away. She gently withdrew her hands, and hurried on as fast as her trembling limbs could carry her. Still Lord Mortimer attended her. “Yet, Amanda,” cried he, “a little moment. Tell me,” he continued, again seizing her hand, “do not these shades remind you of departed hours? Oh! what blissful ones have we not passed beneath their foliage159, that[Pg 536] foliage which I shall never more behold expanding to the breath of spring.”
Amanda trembled. This involuntary but sad declaration of the loss of a seat so valued by him, overpowered her. Her respiration160 grew faint, she could not support herself, and made a motion to sit down upon the grass, but Lord Mortimer eagerly caught her to his bosom. She had not strength to resist the effort, and her head reclined upon his shoulder. But who can speak her feelings as she felt the beating heart of Mortimer, which, from its violent palpitations, seemed as if it would burst his bosom to find a passage to her feet. In a few minutes she was a little recovered, and, sensible of the impropriety of her situation, was now resolutely161 determined162 to quit Lord Mortimer. “We must part, my lord,” cried she, disengaging herself from his arms, notwithstanding a gentle effort he made to retain her. “We must part, my lord,” she repeated, “and part forever.” “Tell me, then,” he exclaimed, still impeding163 her course, “tell me whether I may hope to live in your remembrance; whether I may hope not to be obliterated from your memory by the happiness which will shortly surround you? Promise I shall at times be thought of with your wonted, though, alas! unavailing wishes for my happiness, and the promise will, perhaps, afford me consolation in the solitary exile I have doomed164 myself to.” “Oh! my lord,” said Amanda, unable to repress her feelings, “why do I hear you speak in this manner? In mentioning exile, do you not declare your intentions of leaving unfulfilled the claims which situation, family, and society have upon you? Oh! my lord, you shock—shall I say more—you disappoint me! Yes, I repeat it, disappoint the idea I had formed of the virtue155 and fortitude165 of him, who, as a friend, I shall ever regard. To yield thus to sorrow, to neglect the incumbent166 duties of life, to abandon a woman to whom so lately you plighted167 your solemn vows168 of love and protection. Oh! my lord, what will her friends, what will Lady Euphrasia herself say to such cruel, such unjustifiable conduct?” “Lady Euphrasia!” repeated Lord Mortimer, recoiling169 a few paces. “Lady Euphrasia!” he again exclaimed, in tremulous accents, regarding Amanda with an expression of mingled170 horror and wildness. “Gracious Heaven! is it, can it be possible you are ignorant of the circumstances which lately happened? Yes, your words, your looks, declare you are so.”
It was now Amanda’s turn to repeat his words. She demanded, with a wildness of countenance equal to that he just displayed, what were the circumstances he alluded171 to?
[Pg 537]
“First tell me,” cried he, “was the alteration in your manner produced by your supposing me the husband of Lady Euphrasia?” “Supposing you her husband?” repeated Amanda, unable to answer his question in a moment of such torturing suspense172. “And are you not so?” “No,” replied Lord Mortimer; “I never had the misfortune to offer vows which my heart could not ratify82. Lady Euphrasia made another choice. She was your enemy; but I know your gentle spirit will mourn her sad and sudden fate.” He ceased, for Amanda had no longer power to listen. She sunk, beneath surprise and joy, into the expanded arms of her beloved Mortimer. It is ye alone, who, like her, have stood upon the very brink173 of despair—who, like her, have been restored, unexpectedly restored to hope, to happiness, that can form any judgment174 of her feelings at the present moment. At the moment when recovering from her insensibility, the soft accent of Lord Mortimer saluted175 her ear, and made her heart, without one censure176 from propriety, respond to rapture, as he held her to his bosom. As he gazed on her with tears of impassioned tenderness, he repeated his question, whether the alteration in her manner was produced alone by the supposition of his marriage; but he repeated it with a sweet, a happy consciousness of having it answered according to his wishes.
“These tears, these emotions, oh! Mortimer, what do they declare?” exclaimed Amanda. “Ah! do they not say my heart never knew a diminution177 of tenderness, that it never could have forgotten you? Yes,” she continued, raising her eyes, streaming with tears of rapture, to heaven, “I am now recompensed for all my sufferings. Yes, in this blissful moment, I meet a full reward for them.” Lord Mortimer now led her back to the library, to give an explanation of the events which had produced so great a reverse of situation; but it was long ere he could sufficiently compose himself to commence his narrative178. Alternately he fell at the feet of Amanda, alternately he folded her to his bosom, and asked his heart if its present happiness was real. A thousand times he questioned her whether she was indeed unaltered—as often implored179 her forgiveness for one moment doubting her constancy. Amanda exerted her spirits to calm her own agitation, that she might be enabled to soothe39 him into tranquillity180. At length she succeeded, and he terminated her anxious impatience by giving her the promised relation.
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收听单词发音
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1
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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2
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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3
expeditious
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| adj.迅速的，敏捷的 | |
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4
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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5
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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6
entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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7
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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8
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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9
rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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11
spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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12
interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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14
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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15
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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16
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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17
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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18
rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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19
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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20
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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21
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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22
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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23
gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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24
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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25
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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26
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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27
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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28
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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29
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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30
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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31
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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32
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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33
abated
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| 减少( abate的过去式和过去分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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34
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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35
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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36
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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38
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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39
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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40
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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41
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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42
augment
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| vt.(使)增大，增加，增长，扩张 | |
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43
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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44
perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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45
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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46
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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47
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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48
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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49
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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50
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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51
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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52
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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53
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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54
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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55
retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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56
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
repelling
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| v.击退( repel的现在分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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58
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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59
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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60
recollecting
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| v.记起，想起( recollect的现在分词 ) | |
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61
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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62
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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63
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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64
rambles
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的第三人称单数 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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65
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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66
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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67
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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68
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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69
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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70
calamitous
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| adj.灾难的，悲惨的；多灾多难；惨重 | |
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71
distresses
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| n.悲痛( distress的名词复数 )；痛苦；贫困；危险 | |
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72
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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73
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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74
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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75
reposes
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的第三人称单数 ) | |
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76
meridian
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| adj.子午线的；全盛期的 | |
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77
moulder
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| v.腐朽，崩碎 | |
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78
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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79
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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80
embark
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| vi.乘船，着手，从事，上飞机 | |
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81
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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82
ratify
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| v.批准，认可，追认 | |
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83
apprising
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| v.告知，通知( apprise的现在分词 )；评价 | |
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84
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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85
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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86
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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87
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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88
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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89
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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90
alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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91
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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92
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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93
amicable
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| adj.和平的，友好的；友善的 | |
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94
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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95
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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96
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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97
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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98
eradicated
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| 画着根的 | |
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99
propitious
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| adj.吉利的；顺利的 | |
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100
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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101
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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102
obloquy
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| n.斥责，大骂 | |
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103
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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104
commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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105
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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106
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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107
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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108
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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109
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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110
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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111
relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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112
Augmented
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| adj.增音的 动词augment的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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113
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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114
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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115
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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116
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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117
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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118
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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120
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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121
expunging
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| v.擦掉( expunge的现在分词 )；除去；删去；消除 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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125
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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127
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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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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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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136
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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138
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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140
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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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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143
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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144
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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150
amity
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| n.友好关系 | |
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151
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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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154
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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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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supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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respiration
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| n.呼吸作用；一次呼吸；植物光合作用 | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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impeding
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| a.(尤指坏事)即将发生的，临近的 | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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165
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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166
incumbent
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| adj.成为责任的，有义务的；现任的，在职的 | |
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plighted
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| vt.保证，约定（plight的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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168
vows
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| 誓言( vow的名词复数 )； 郑重宣布，许愿 | |
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169
recoiling
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| v.畏缩( recoil的现在分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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170
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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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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172
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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173
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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174
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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175
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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176
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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177
diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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178
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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179
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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180
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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