Chapter XLII

"Of joys departed, never to return,
How bitter the remembrance!"--BLAIR.

"Well, child," said Mrs. Macpherson, "do you choose to take anything?" "I thank you, madam," replied Amanda, "I should like a little tea." "Oh! as to tea, I have just taken my own, and the things are all washed and put by; but, if you like a glass of spirits and water, and a crust of bread, you may have it." Amanda said she did not. "Oh! very well," cried Mrs. Macpherson, "I shall not press you, for supper will soon be ready." She then desired Amanda to draw a chair near hers, and began torturing her with a variety of minute and trifling questions relative to herself, the nuns, and the neighborhood of St. Catherine's.

Amanda briefly said, "her father had been in the army, that many disappointments and losses had prevented his making any provision for her, and that on his death, which happened in the neighborhood of the convent, the nuns had taken her out of compassion, till she procured an establishment for herself." "Ay, and a comfortable one you have procured yourself, I promise you," said Mrs. Macpherson, "if it is not your own fault." She then told Amanda, "she would amuse her by showing her her house and other concerns." This indeed was easily done, as it consisted but of the parlor, two closets adjoining it, and the kitchen, on the opposite side of the entry; the other concerns were a small garden, planted with kail, and the field covered with thistles. "A good, comfortable tenement this," cried Mrs. Macpherson, shaking her head with much satisfaction, as she leaned upon her ebony-headed cane, and cast her eyes around. She bid Amanda admire the fine prospect before the door, and, calling to a red-haired and bare-legged girl, desired her to cut some thistles to put into the fire, and hasten the boiling of the kail. On returning to the parlor she unlocked a press, and took out a pair of coarse, brown sheets to air for Amanda. She herself slept in one closet, and in the other was a bed for Amanda, laid on a half-decayed bedstead, without curtains, and covered with a blue-stuff quilt. The closet was lighted by one small window, which looked into the garden, and its furniture consisted of a broken chair, and a piece of looking-glass stuck to the wall.

The promised supper was at length served. It consisted of a few heads of kail, some oaten bread, a jug of water, and a small phial half full of spirits, which Amanda would not taste, and the old lady herself took but sparingly. They were lighted by a small candle, which, on retiring to their closets, Mrs. Macpherson cut between them.

Amanda felt relieved by being alone. She could now without restraint indulge her tears and her reflections; that she could never enjoy any satisfaction with a being so ungracious in her manners and so contracted in her notions, she foresaw; but, disagreeable as her situation must be, she felt inclined to continue in it, from the idea of its giving her more opportunities of hearing from Mrs. Dermot than she could have in almost any other place, and by these opportunities alone could she expect to hear of Lord Mortimer; and to hear of him, even the most trifling circumstance, though divided, forever divided from him, would be a source of exquisite though melancholy pleasure.

To think she should hear of him, at once soothed and fed her melancholy. It lessened the violence of sorrow, yet without abating its intenseness; it gave a delicious sadness to her soul she thought would be ill exchanged for any feelings short of those she must have experienced, if her wishes had been accomplished. She enjoyed the pensive luxury of virtuous grief, which mitigates the sharp

"With gracious drops
Of cordial pleasure,"

and which Akenside so beautifully describes; nor can I forbear quoting the lines he has written to illustrate the truth--

"Ask the faithful youth
Why the cold urn of her, whom long he loved
So often fills his arms, so often draws
His lonely footsteps at the silent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears?
O, he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego
That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes
With virtue's kindest looks his aching heart,
And turns his tears to rapture."

Fatigued by the contending emotions she experienced, as well as the sickness she went through at sea, Amanda soon retired to her flock bed, and fell into a profound slumber, in which she continued till roused in the morning by the shrill voice of Mrs. Macpherson, exclaiming, as she rapped at the door, "Come, come, Frances, it is time to rise."

Amanda started from her sleep, forgetting both the name she had adopted and the place where she was; but Mrs. Macpherson again calling her to rise, restored her to her recollection. She replied she would attend her directly, and, hurrying on her clothes, was with her in a few minutes. She found the old lady seated at the breakfast-table, who, instead of returning her salutation, said, "that on account of her fatigue she excused her lying so long in bed this morning, for it was now eight o'clock; but in future she would expect her to rise before six in summer, and seven in winter, adding, as there was no clock, she would rap at her door for that purpose every morning."

Amanda assured her "she was fond of rising early, and always accustomed to it." The tea was now poured out; it was of the worst kind, and sweetened with coarse brown sugar; the bread was oaten, and there was no butter. Amanda, unused to such unpalatable fare, swallowed a little of it with difficulty, and then, with some hesitation, said "she would prefer milk to tea." Mrs. Macpherson frowned exceedingly at this, and, after continuing silent a few minutes, said, "she had really made tea for two people, and she could not think of having it wasted; besides, she added, the economy of her house was so settled she could not infringe it for any one." She kept no cow herself, and only took in as much milk as served her tea and an old tabby-cat.

Amanda replied, "it was of no consequence," and Mrs. Macpherson said, indeed she supposed so, and muttered something of people giving themselves airs they had no pretensions to. The tea-table was removed before nine, when the school began; it consisted of about thirty girls, most of them daughters of farmers in the neighborhood. Amanda and they being introduced to each other (and she being previously informed what they were taught), was desired to commence the task of instructing them entirely herself that day, as Mrs. Macpherson wanted to observe her manner--a most unpleasant task indeed for poor Amanda, whose mind and body were both harassed by anxiety and fatigue. As she had undertaken it, however, she resolved to go through it with as much cheerfulness and alacrity as possible. She accordingly acquitted herself to the satisfaction of Mrs. Macpherson, who only found fault with her too great gentleness, saying, the children would never fear her. At two the school broke up, and Amanda, almost as delighted as the children to be at liberty, was running into the garden to try if the air would be of use to a very violent headache; when she was called back to put the forms and other things in order. She colored, and stood motionless, till recollecting that if she refused to obey Mrs. Macpherson a quarrel would probably ensue, which, circumstanced as she was, without knowing where to go to, would be dreadful, she silently performed what she had been desired to do. Dinner was then brought in; it was as simple and as sparing as a Braman could desire it to be. When over, Mrs. Macpherson composed herself to take a nap in the large chair, without making any kind of apology to Amanda.

Left at liberty, Amanda would now have walked out; but it had just begun to rain, and everything looked dreary and desolate. From the window in which she pensively sat she had a view of the sea; it looked black and tempestuous, and she could distinguish its awful and melancholy roaring as it dashed against the rocks. The little servant-girl, as she cleaned the kitchen, sung a dismal Scotch ditty, so that all conspired to oppress the spirits of Amanda with a dejection greater than she had before ever experienced; all hope was now extinct, the social ties of life seemed broken, never more to be reunited. She had now no father, no friend, no lover, as heretofore, to soothe her feelings, or alleviate her sorrows. Like the poor Belvidera she might have said,

"There was a time
Her cries and sorrows
Were not despised, when, if she chanced to sigh,
Or but look sad, a friend or parent
Would have taken her in their arms,
Eased her declining head upon their breasts,
And never left her till they found the cause;
But now let her weep seas,
Cry till she rend the earth, sigh till she burst
Her heart asunder, she is disregarded."

Like a tender sapling, transplanted from its native soil, she seemed to stand alone, exposed to every adverse blast. Her tears gushed forth, and fell in showers down her pale cheeks. She sighed forth the name of her father: "Oh! dear and most benignant of men," she exclaimed, "my father and my friend; were you living, I should not be so wretched; pity and consolation would then be mine. Oh! my father, one of the dreariest caverns in yonder rocks would be an asylum of comfort were you with me; but I am selfish in these regrets, certain as I am that you exchanged this life of wretchedness for one of eternal peace, for one where you were again united to your Malvina."

Her thoughts adverted to what Lord Mortimer, in all probability, now thought of her; but this was too dreadful to dwell upon, convinced as she was, that, from appearances, he must think most unfavorably of her. His picture was hung in her bosom, she drew it out. She gazed with agonizing tenderness upon it. She pressed it to her lips, and prayed for its original. From this indulgence of sorrow she was disturbed by the waking of Mrs. Macpherson. She hastily wiped away her tears, and hid the beloved picture. The evening passed most disagreeably. Mrs. Macpherson was tedious and inquisitive in her discourse, and it was almost as painful to listen as to answer her. Amanda was happy when the hour for retiring to bed arrived, and relieved her from what might be called a kind of mental bondage.

Such was the first day Amanda passed in her new habitation, and a week elapsed in the same manner without any variation, except that on Sunday she had a cessation from her labors, and went to the kirk with Mrs. Macpherson. At the end of the week she found herself so extremely ill from the fatigue and confinement she endured, as Mrs. Macpherson would not let her walk out, saying, "gadders were good for nothing"--that she told her, except allowed to go out every evening, she must leave her, as she could not bear so sedentary a life. Mrs. Macpherson looked disconcerted, and grumbled a good deal; but as Amanda spoke in a resolute manner, she was frightened lest she should put her threats into execution, she was so extremely useful in the school; and at last told her she might take as much exercise as she pleased every day after dinner.

Amanda gladly availed herself of this permission. She explored all the romantic paths about the house; but the one she chiefly delighted to take was that which led to the sea. She loved to ramble about the beach; when fatigued to sit down upon the fragment of a rock and look towards the opposite shore. Vainly then would she try to discover some of the objects she knew so well. Castle Carberry was utterly undistinguishable, but she knew the spot on which it stood, and derived a melancholy pleasure from looking that way. In these retired rambles she would freely indulge her tears, and gaze upon the picture of Lord Mortimer. She feared no observation; the rocks formed a kind of recess about her, and in going to them she seldom met a creature.

A fortnight passed in this way, and she began to feel surprise and uneasiness at not hearing from Mrs. Dermot. If much longer silent, she resolved on writing, feeling it impossible to endure much longer the agony her ignorance of Lord Mortimer's proceedings gave her. The very morning previous to the one she had fixed for writing she saw a sailor coming to the house, and believing he was the bearer of a letter to her, she forgot everything but her feelings at the moment, and starting from her seat ran from the room. She met him a few yards from the house, and then perceived he was one of the sailors of the vessel she had come over in. "You have a letter for me, I hope?" said Amanda. The man nodded, and fumbling in his bosom for a moment, pulled out a large packet, which Amanda snatched with eager transport from him; and knowing she could not attempt to bring him into the house for refreshment, gave him a crown to procure it elsewhere, which he received with thankfulness, and departed. She then returned to the parlor, and was hastening to her closet to read the letter, when Mrs. Macpherson stopped her. "Hey-day," cried she, "what is the matter?--what is all this fuss about? Why, one would think that was a love letter, you are so very eager to read it." "It is not, then, I can assure you" said Amanda. "Well, well; and who is it from?" Amanda reflected that if she said from Mrs. Dermot a number of impertinent questions would be asked her. She therefore replied: "From a very particular friend." "From a very particular friend! Well, I suppose there is nothing about life or death in it, so you may wait till after dinner to read it; and pray sit down now, and hear the children their spelling lessons." This was a tantalizing moment to Amanda. She stood hesitating whether she should obey, till reflecting that if she went now to read the packet, she should most probably be interrupted ere she had got through half the contents, she resolved on putting it up till after dinner. The moment at last came for Mrs. Macpherson's usual nap, and Amanda instantly hastened to a recess amongst the rocks, where seating herself, she broke the seal. The envelope contained two letters. The first she cast her eyes upon was directed in Lord Cherbury's hand. She trembled, tore it open, and read as follows:--

TO MISS FITZALAN.

In vain, my dear madam, do you say you never will receive
pecuniary favors from me. It is not you, but I, should lie under
obligations from their acceptance. I should deem myself the most
ungrateful of mankind if I did not insist on carrying this
point. I am but just returned to London, and shall immediately
order my lawyer to draw up a deed entitling you to three hundred
pounds a year, which, when completed, I shall transmit to the
prioress (as I have this letter) to send to you. I am sensible,
indeed, that I never can recompense the sacrifice you have made
me. The feelings it has excited I shall not attempt to express,
because language could never do them justice; but you may
conceive what I must feel for the being who has preserved me
from dishonor and destruction. I am informed Lord Mortimer has
left Ireland, and therefore daily expect him in town. I have now
not only every hope, but every prospect, of his complying with
my wishes. This, I imagine, will be rather pleasing to you to
hear, that you may know the sacrifice you have made is not made
in vain, but will be attended with all the good consequences I
expected to derive from it. I should again enjoy a tolerable
degree of peace, were I assured you were happy; but this is an
assurance I will hope soon to receive; for if you are not happy,
who has a right to expect being so?--you whose virtue is so
pure, whose generosity is so noble, so heroic, so far superior
to any I have ever met with!

That in this world, as well as the next, you may be rewarded for
it, is, dear madam, the sincere wish of him who has the honor to
subscribe himself your most grateful, most obliged, and most
obedient, humble servant,

CHERBURY.

"Unfeeling man!" exclaimed Amanda, "how little is your heart interested in what you write, and how slight do you make of the sacrifice I have made you; how cruelly mention your hopes, which are derived from the destruction of mine! No, sooner would I wander from door to door for charity, than be indebted to your ostentatious gratitude for support--you, whose treachery and vile deceit have ruined my happiness." She closed the letter, and committing it to her pocket, took up the other, which she saw by the direction was from her dear Mrs. Dermot.

TO MISS DONALD.

Ah! my dear child, why extort a promise from me of being minute
in relating everything which happened in consequence of your
departure--a promise so solemnly given that I dare not recede
from it; yet most unwillingly do I keep it, sensible as I am
that the intelligence I have to communicate will but aggravate
your sorrows. Methinks I hear you exclaim at this: "Surely, my
dear Mrs. Dermot, you who know my disposition and temper so
well, might suppose I would receive such intelligence with a
fortitude and patience that would prevent its materially
injuring me." Well, my dear, hoping this will be the case, I
begin, without further delay, to communicate particulars. You
left me, you may remember, about three o'clock. I then went to
bed, but so fatigued and oppressed I could scarcely sleep, and
was quite unrefreshed by what I did get. After prayers I
repaired to the parlor, where the assiduous care of Sister Mary
had already prepared everything for your breakfast and Lord
Mortimer's. I told the sisters not to appear till they were sent
for. I had not been long alone when Lord Mortimer came
in--cheerful, blooming, animated. Never did I see happiness so
strongly impressed in any countenance as in his. He looked,
indeed, the lover about receiving the precious reward of
constancy. He asked me had I seen you? I answered, No. He soon
grew impatient, said you were a lazy girl, and feared you would
make a bad traveller. He then rang the bell, and desired the
maid to go and call you. Oh! my dear girl, my heart almost died
within me at this moment. I averted my head, and pretended to be
looking at the garden to conceal my confusion. The maid returned
in a few minutes, and said you were not above. "Well," said Lord
Mortimer, "she is in some other apartment; pray search, and
hasten her hither." In a few minutes after she departed, Sister
Mary, all pale and breathless, rushed into the room. "Oh,
heavens!" cried she, "Miss Fitzalan cannot be found; but here
are two letters I found on her dressing-table--one for you,
madam, and one for Lord Mortimer." I know not how he looked at
this instant, for a guilty consciousness came over my mind,
which prevented my raising my eyes to his. I took the letter in
silence, opened, but had no power to read it. Sister Mary stood
by me, wringing her hands and weeping, as she exclaimed,
"What--what does she say to you?" I could neither answer her nor
move, till a deep sigh, or rather groan, from Lord Mortimer
roused me. I started from my seat, and perceive him pale and
motionless, the letter open in his hand, upon which his eyes
were riveted. I threw open the garden door to give him air. This
a little revived him. "Be comforted, my lord," said I. He shook
his head mournfully, and waving his hand for me neither to speak
nor follow him, passed into the garden. "Blessed Heaven!" said
Sister Mary again, "what does she say to you!" I gave her your
letter, and desired her to read it aloud, for the tears which
flowed at the affecting situation of Lord Mortimer quite
obscured my sight. And here, my dear child, I must declare that
you have been too generous, and also, that the sum you betrayed
us into taking is but considered as a loan by us. But, to return
to my first subject. The alarm concerning you now became
general, and the nuns crowded into the room--grief and
consternation in every countenance. In about half an hour I saw
Lord Mortimer returning to the parlor, and I then dismissed
them. He had been endeavoring to compose himself, but his
efforts for doing so were ineffectual. He trembled, was pale as
death, and spoke with a faltering voice. He gave me your letter
to read, and I put mine into his hand. "Well, my lord," said I,
on perusing it, "we must rather pity than condemn her." "From my
soul," cried he, "I pity her--I pity such a being as Amanda
Fitzalan, for being the slave, the prey of vice. But she has
been cruel to me; she has deceived, inhumanly deceived me, and
blasted my peace for ever!" "Ah, my lord!" I replied, "though
appearances are against her, I can never believe her guilty.
She, who performed all the duties of a child, as Amanda Fitzalan
did, and who, to my certain knowledge, was preparing herself for
a life of poverty, can never be a victim to vice." "Mention her
no more," cried he; "her name is like a dagger to my heart. The
suspicions which, but a few nights ago, I could have killed
myself for entertaining, are now confirmed. They intruded on my
mind from seeing Belgrave haunting this place, and from finding
her secreted amidst the ruins at a late hour. Ah, heavens! when
I noticed her confusion, how easily did she exculpate herself to
a heart prepossessed like mine in her favor! Unhappy,
unfortunate girl! sad and pitiable is thy fate! but may an early
repentance snatch thee from the villain who now triumphs in thy
ruin; and may we, since thus separated, never meet again. So
well," continued he, "am I convinced of the cause of her flight,
that I shall not make one inquiry after her." I again attempted
to speak in your justification, but he silenced me. I begged he
would allow me to get him breakfast. He could touch nothing, and
said he must return directly to Castle Carberry, but promised,
in the course of the day, to see me again. I followed him into
the hall. At the sight of your corded boxes, he started, and
shrunk back, with that kind of melancholy horror which we
involuntarily feel when viewing anything that belonged to a
dear, lost friend. I saw his emotions were agonizing. He hid his
face with his handkerchief, and, with a hasty step, ascended to
his carriage, which, with a travelling chaise, was waiting at
the door.

I own I was often tempted, in the course of conversation, to
tell him all I knew about you; but the promise I had given you
still rose to my view, and I felt, without your permission, I
could not break it; yet, my dear, it is shocking to me to have
such imputations cast on you. We cannot blame Lord Mortimer for
them. Situated as you were with him, your conduct has naturally
excited the most injurious suspicions. Surely, my child, though
not allowed to solve the mystery which has separated you from
him, you may be allowed to vindicate your conduct. The sacrifice
of fame and happiness is too much. Consider and weigh well what
I say, and, if possible, authorize me to inform Lord Mortimer
that I know of your retreat, and that you have retired neither
to a lover nor a friend; but to indigence and obscurity, led
thither by a fatal necessity which you are bound to conceal, and
feel more severely from that circumstance. He would, I am
confident, credit my words; and then, instead of condemning,
would join me in pitying you. The more I reflect on your
unaccountable separation, the more am I bewildered in
conjectures relative to it, and convinced more strongly than
ever of the frailty of human joy, which, like a summer cloud, is
bright, but transitory in its splendor. Lord Mortimer had left
the convent about two hours, when his man arrived to dismiss the
travelling chaise and attendants. I went out and inquired after
his lord. "He is very bad, madam," said he, "and this has been a
sad morning for us all." Never, my dear Miss Fitzalan, did I, or
the sisterhood, pass so melancholy a day. About five in the
afternoon, I received another visit from Lord Mortimer. I was
alone in the parlor, which he entered with an appearance of the
deepest melancholy; one of his arms was in a sling. I was
terrified, lest he and Belgrave had met. He conjectured, I
fancy, the occasion of the terror my countenance expressed, for
he immediately said he had been ill on returning to Castle
Carberry, and was bled. He was setting off directly for Dublin,
he said, from whence he intended to embark for England. "But I
could not depart, my dear, good friend," continued he, "without
bidding you farewell; besides, I wanted to assure you, that any
promise which the unfortunate girl made you in my name I shall
hold sacred." I knew he alluded to the fifty pounds which he had
desired you to tell me should be annually remitted to our house.
I instantly, therefore, replied, that we had already been
rewarded beyond our expectation or desires for any little
attention we showed Miss Fitzalan; but his generous resolution
was not to be shaken. He looked weak and exhausted. I begged
permission to make tea for him ere he commenced his journey. He
consented. I went out of the room to order in the things. When I
returned, he was standing at the window which looked into the
garden, so absorbed in meditation that he did not hear me. I
heard him say, "Cruel Amanda! is it thus you have rewarded my
sufferings?" I retreated, lest he should be confused by
supposing himself overheard, and did not return till the maid
brought in the tea things.

When he arose to depart, he looked wavering and agitated, as if
there was something on his mind he wanted courage to say. At
last, in a faltering voice, while the deadly paleness of his
complexion gave way to a deep crimson, he said, "I left Miss
Fitzalan's letter with you." Ah, my dear! never did man love
woman better than he did, than he now loves you. I took the
letter from my pocket, and presented it to him. He put it in his
bosom, with an emotion that shook his whole frame. I hailed this
as a favorable opportunity for again speaking in your favor. I
bid him retrospect your past actions, and judge from them
whether you could be guilty of a crime----. He stopped me short.
He begged me to drop a subject he was unable to bear. Had he
been less credulous, he said, he should now have been much
happier; then wringing my hand, he bid me farewell, in a voice,
and with a look, that drew tears from me. "Ah, my dear madam!"
cried he, "when this day commenced, how differently did I think
it would have terminated!"

I attended him to his carriage. He was obliged to lean upon his
man as he ascended to it, and his looks and agitation proclaimed
the deepest distress. I have sent repeatedly to Castle Carberry
since his departure to inquire about him, and have been
informed, that they expect to hear nothing of him till Lord
Cherbury's agent comes into the country, which will not be these
three months.

I have heard much of the good he did in the neighborhood. He has
a bounteous and benevolent spirit indeed. To our community he
has been a liberal benefactor, and our prayers are daily
offered up for his restoration to health and tranquillity.
Amongst his other actions, when in Dublin, about three months
ago, he ordered a monument to the memory of Captain Fitzalan,
which has been brought down since your departure, and put up in
the parish church, where he is interred. I sent Sister Mary and
another of the nuns the other evening to see it, and they
brought me a description of it. It is a white marble urn,
ornamented with a foliage of laurel, and standing upon a
pedestal of gray, on which the name of the deceased, and words
to the following effect, are inscribed, namely: "That he whose
memory it perpetuates, performed the duties of a Christian and a
soldier, with a fidelity and zeal that now warrants his enjoying
a blessed recompense for both."

I know this proof of respect to your father will deeply affect
you; but I would not omit telling it, because, though it will
affect, I am confident it will also please you. The late events
have cast a gloom over all our spirits. Sister Mary now prays
more than ever; and you know I have often told her she was only
fit for a religious vocation. It is a bad world, she says, we
live in, and she is glad she has so little to say to it.

I am longing to hear from you. Pray tell me how you like Mrs.
Macpherson. I have not seen her since her youth, and years often
produce as great a change in the temper as the face. At any
rate, your present situation is too obscure for you to continue
in, and, as soon as your thoughts are collected and composed,
you must look out for another. I hope you will be constant in
writing; but I tell you beforehand, you must not expect me to be
punctual in my answers--I have been so long disused to writing,
and my eyes are grown so weak. This letter has been the work of
many days; besides, I have really nothing interesting to
communicate: whenever I have, you may be assured I shall not
lose a moment in informing you.

The woman was extremely thankful for the five guineas you left
her. Lord Mortimer sent her five more by his man; so that she
thinks herself well rewarded for any trouble or disappointment
she experienced. If you wish to have any of your things sent to
you, acquaint me; you know I shall never want an opportunity by
the master of the vessel. He speaks largely of your generosity
to him, and expresses much pity at seeing so young a person in
such melancholy. May Heaven, if it does not remove the source,
at least lessen this melancholy.

If possible, allow me to write to Lord Mortimer, and vindicate
you from the unworthy suspicions he entertains of you. I know he
would believe me, and I should do it without discovering your
retreat. Farewell, my dear girl. I recommend you constantly to
the care of Heaven, and beg you to believe you will ever be dear
and interesting to the heart of

ELIZABETH DERMOT.

St. Catherine's.

Poor Amanda wept over this letter. "I have ruined the health, the peace of Lord Mortimer," she exclaimed, "and he now execrates me as the source of his unhappiness. Oh! Lord Cherbury, how severely do I suffer for your crime!" She began to think her virtue had been too heroic in the sacrifice she had made. But this was a transient idea, for when she reflected on the disposition of Lord Cherbury, she was convinced the divulgement of his secret would have been followed by his death; and, great as was her present wretchedness, she felt it light compared to the horrors she knew she would experience could she accuse herself of being accessory to such an event. She now drank deeply of the cup of misery, but conscious rectitude, in some degree, lessened its noxious bitterness. She resolved to caution Mrs. Dermot against mentioning her in any manner to Lord Mortimer. She was well convinced he would believe no asseveration of her innocence. And even if he did, what end could it answer? Their union was opposed by an obstacle not to be surmounted, and if he sought and discovered her retreat, it would only lead to new sorrows, perhaps occasion some dreadful catastrophe. "We are separated," cried she, folding her hands together, "forever separated in this world, but in Heaven we shall again be reunited."

Absorbed in the reflections and sorrow this letter gave rise to, she remained in her seat till Mrs. Macpherson's little girl suddenly appeared before her, and said her mistress had made tea, and was wondering what kept her out so long.

Amanda instantly arose, and carefully putting up the letter, returned to the house, where she found Mrs. Macpherson in a very bad humor. She grumbled exceedingly at Amanda's staying out so long, and taking notice of her eyes being red and swelled, said, "indeed, she believed she was right in supposing she had got a love-letter." Amanda made no reply, and the evening passed away in peevishness on one side and silence on the other.

The charm which had hitherto rendered Amanda's situation tolerable was now dissolved, as Mrs. Dermot had said she could write but seldom, and scarcely expected to have anything interesting to relate. She would gladly, therefore, have left Mrs. Macpherson immediately, but she knew not where to go. She resolved, however, ere winter had entirely set in, to request Mrs. Dermot to look out for some other place for her: as she had connections in Scotland, she thought she might recommend her to them as a governess, or a fit person to do fine works for a lady. She rose long before her usual hour the next morning, and wrote a letter expressive of her wishes and intentions to Mrs. Dermot, which she sent by a poor man, who lived near the house, to the post-town, rewarding him liberally for his trouble.