Amanda looked up as they moved from her, and saw Lord Mortimer’s head half turned back; but the instant she perceived him he averted it, and took no further notice of her. When the set was finished, Miss Macqueen returned to Amanda, and was followed by some of her brothers and sisters. Some of the gentlemen also approached Amanda, and requested the honor of her hand, but she was steady in refusing all. Rich wines, sweetmeats, and warm lemonade, were now handed about in profusion, and the strains of the violin were succeeded by those of the bagpipe, played by the family musician, venerable in his appearance, and habited in the ancient Highland dress. With as much satisfaction to himself as to his Scotch auditors, he played a lively Scotch reel, which in a moment brought two of the Miss Macqueens and two gentlemen forward, and they continued the dance till politeness induced them to stop, that one might be begun in which the rest of the party could join. Dancing continued in this manner with little intermission, but whenever there was an interval, the young Macqueens paid every attention to Amanda; and on her expressing her admiration of the Scotch music, made it a point that she should mention some favorite airs that they might be played for her; but these airs, the lively dances, the animated conversation, and the friendly attentions paid her, could not remove her dejection, and with truth they might have said—
“That nothing could a charm impart To soothe the stranger’s woe.”
The entrance of Mrs. Macqueen was the signal for the dance being ended. She made the young people sit down to refresh themselves before supper, and apologized to Amanda for not returning to her; but said Lady Martha Dormer had engaged her in a conversation which she could not interrupt. At last they were summoned to supper, which, on Mr. Macqueen’s account, was laid out in a room on the same floor. Thither without ceremony whoever was next the door first proceeded. Mr. Macqueen was already seated at the table in his arm-chair, and Lady Martha Dormer on his right hand. The eldest son was deputed to do the honors of the foot of the table. The company was checkered, and Amanda found herself between Lord Mortimer and Mr. Colin Macqueen; and in conversing with the latter, Amanda sought to avoid noticing, or being noticed by Lord Mortimer; and his lordship, by the particular attention which he paid Miss Macqueen, who sat on the other side, appeared actuated by the same wish. The sports of the morning had furnished the table with a variety of the choicest wild fowl, and the plenty and beauty of the confectionery denoted at once the hospitable spirit and elegant taste of the mistress of the feast. Gayety presided at the board, and there was scarcely a tongue, except Amanda’s, which did not utter some lively sally. The piper sat in the lobby, and if his strains were not melodious, they were at least cheerful. In the course of supper, Lord Mortimer was compelled to follow the universal example in drinking Amanda’s health. Obliged to turn her looks to him, oh! how did her heart shrink at the glance, the expressive glance of his eye, as he pronounced Miss Donald. Unconscious whether she had noticed in the usual manner his distressing compliment, she abruptly turned to young Macqueen, and addressed some scarcely articulate question to him. The supper things removed, the strains of the piper were silenced, and songs, toasts, and sentiments succeeded. Old Mr. Macqueen set the example by a favorite Scotch air, and then called upon his next neighbor. Between the songs, toasts were called for. At last it came to Lord Mortimer’s turn. Amanda suddenly ceased speaking to young Macqueen. She saw the glass of Lord Mortimer filled, and in the next moment heard the name of Lady Euphrasia Sutherland. A feeling like wounded pride stole into the soul of Amanda. She did not decline her head as before, and she felt a faint glow upon her cheek. The eyes of Lady Martha and Lady Araminta she thought directed to her with an expressive meaning. “They think,” cried she, “to witness mortification and disappointment in my looks, but they shall not (if, indeed, they are capable of enjoying such a triumph) have it.”
At length she was called upon for a song. She declined the call; but Mr. Macqueen declared, except assured she could not sing, she should not be excused. This assurance, without a breach of truth, she could not give. She did not wish to appear ungrateful to her kind entertainers, or unsocial in the midst of mirth, by refusing what she was told would be pleasing to them and their company. She also wished, from a sudden impulse of pride, to appear cheerful in those eyes she knew were attentively observing her, and therefore, after a little hesitation, consented to sing. The first song which occurred to her was a little simple, but pathetic air, which her father used to delight in, and which Lord Mortimer more than once had heard from her; but indeed she could recollect no song which at some time or other she had not sung for him. The simple air she had chosen seemed perfectly adapted to her soft voice, whose modulations were inexpressibly affecting. She had proceeded through half the second verse, when her voice began to falter. The attention of the company became, if possible, more fixed; but it was a vain attention; no rich strain of melody repaid it, for the voice of the songstress had suddenly ceased. Mrs. Macqueen, with the delicacy of a susceptible mind, feared increasing her emotion by noticing it, and, with a glance of her expressive eye, directed her company to silence. Amanda’s eyes were bent to the ground. Suddenly a glass of water was presented to her by a trembling hand—by the hand of Mortimer himself. She declined it with a motion of hers, and, reviving a little, raised her head. Young Macqueen then gave her an entreating whisper to finish the song. She thought it would look like affectation to require farther solicitation, and, faintly smiling, again began in strains of liquid melody, strains that seemed to breathe the very spirit of sensibility, and came over each attentive ear,
“Like a sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets Stealing and giving odor.”
The plaudits she received from her singing gave to her cheeks such a faint tinge of red as is seen in the bosom of the wild rose. She was now authorized to call for a song, and, as if doomed to experience cause for agitation, Lord Mortimer was the person from whom, in the rotation of the table, she was to claim it. Thrice she was requested to do this ere she could obey. At last she raised her eyes to his face, which was now turned towards her, and she saw in it a confusion equal to that she herself trembled under. Pale and red by turns, he appeared to her to wait in painful agitation for the sound of her voice. Her lips moved, but she could not articulate a word. Lord Mortimer bowed, as if he had heard what they would have said, and then turning abruptly to Miss Macqueen, began speaking to her.
“Come, come, my lord,” said Mr. Macqueen, “we must not be put off in this manner.”
Lord Mortimer laughed, and attempted to rally the old gentleman; but he seemed unequal to the attempt, for, with a sudden seriousness, he declared his inability of complying with the present demand. All farther solicitation on the subject was immediately dropped. In the round of toasts, they forgot not to call upon Amanda for one. If she had listened attentively when Lord Mortimer was about giving one, no less attentively did he now listen to her. She hesitated a moment, and then gave Sir Charles Bingley. After the toast had passed, “Sir Charles Bingley,” repeated Miss Macqueen, leaning forward, and speaking across Lord Mortimer. “Oh! I recollect him very well. His regiment was quartered about two years ago at a little fort some distance from this—and I remember his coming with a shooting party to the mountains, and sleeping one night here. We had a delightful dance that evening, and all thought him a charming young man. Pray, are you well acquainted with him?” “Yes—No,” replied Amanda.
“Ah! I believe you are, sly girl,” cried Miss Macqueen, laughing. “Pray, my lord, does not that blush declare Miss Donald guilty?” “We are not always to judge from the countenance,” said he, darting a penetrating yet quickly-withdrawn glance at Amanda. “Experience,” continued he, “daily proves how little dependence is to be placed on it.” Amanda turned hastily away, and pretended, by speaking to young Macqueen, not to notice a speech she knew directly pointed at her; for often had Lord Mortimer declared that, “in the lineaments of the human face divine, each passion of the soul might be well traced.”
Miss Macqueen laughed, and said she always judged of the countenance, and that her likings and dislikings were always the effects of first sight.