“Your words, my dear madam,” said Emily, “have calmed my spirits; henceforth I will be more resolute in trying to banish regrets from my mind. But I have been inconsiderate to a degree in keeping you so long from rest, after your fatiguing journey.” Amanda indeed appeared at this moment nearly exhausted, and gladly hastened to bed. Her slumbers were short and unrefreshing; the cares which clung to her heart when waking were equally oppressive while sleeping. Lord Mortimer mingled in the meditations of the morning, in the visions of the night, and when she awoke she found her pillow wet with the tears she had shed on his account. Emily was already up, but on Amanda’s drawing back the curtain she laid down the book she was reading, and came to her. She saw she looked extremely ill, and, imputing this to fatigue, requested she would breakfast in bed; but Amanda, who knew her illness proceeded from a cause which neither rest nor assiduous care could cure, refused complying with this request, and immediately dressed herself.
As she stood at the toilet, Emily suddenly exclaimed, “If you have a mind to see Sipthorpe, I will show him to you now, for he is just going out.” Amanda went to the window, which Emily gently opened; but, oh! what was the shock of that moment, when in Sipthorpe she recognized the insidious Belgrave! A shivering horror ran through her veins, and recoiling a few paces she sunk half fainting on a chair. Emily, terrified by her appearance, was flying to the bell to ring for assistance, when, by a faint motion of her hand, Amanda prevented her. “I shall soon be better,” said she, speaking with difficulty; “but I will lie down on the bed for a few minutes, and I beg you may go to your breakfast.” Emily refused to go, and entreated, that instead of leaving her, she might have breakfast brought up for them both. Amanda assured her she could take nothing at present, and wished for quiet. Emily therefore reluctantly left her. Amanda now endeavored to compose her distracted thoughts, and quiet the throbbings of her agonizing heart, that she might be able to arrange some plan for extricating herself from her present situation, which appeared replete with every danger to her imagination; for, from the libertine principles of Belgrave, she could not hope that a new object of pursuit would detach him from her, when he found her so unexpectedly thrown in his way. Unprotected as she was, she could not think of openly avowing her knowledge of Belgrave. To discover his baseness, required therefore caution and deliberation, lest in saving Emily from the snare spread for her destruction, she should entangle herself in it. To declare at once his real character, must betray her to him; and though she might banish him from the house, yet, unsupported as she was by her friends or kindred—unable to procure the protection of Rushbrook, in his present situation, however willing he might be to extend it—she trembled to think of the dangers to which, by thus discovering, she might expose herself—dangers which the deep treachery and daring effrontery of Belgrave would, in all probability, prevent her escaping. As the safest measure, she resolved on quitting the house in the course of the day; but without giving any intimation that she meant not to return to it. She recollected a place where there was a probability of her getting lodgings which would be at once secret and secure; and by an anonymous letter to Captain Rushbrook, she intended to acquaint him of his daughter’s danger, and refer him to Sir Charles Bingley, at whose agent’s he could receive intelligence of him for the truth of what she said. Her plan concerted, she grew more composed, and was able, when Emily entered the room with her breakfast, to ask, in a seemingly careless manner, when Mr. Sipthorpe was expected back.
“It is very uncertain, indeed,” answered she.
“I must go out in the course of the day,” said Amanda, “about particular business; I may therefore as well prepare myself at once for it.” She accordingly put on her habit, and requested materials for writing from Emily, which were immediately brought, and Emily then retired till she had written her letter. Amanda, left to herself, hastily unlocked her little trunk, and taking from it two changes of linen, and the will and narrative of Lady Dunreath, she deposited the two former in her pocket, and the two latter in her bosom, then sat down and wrote the following letter to Captain Rushbrook:—
A person who esteems the character of Captain Rushbrook, and the amiable simplicity of his daughter, cautions him to guard that simplicity against the danger which now threatens it, from a wretch who, under the sacred semblance of virtue, designs to fix a sharper sting in the bosom of affliction than adversity ever yet implanted. The worth of Sipthorpe is not more fictitious than his name. His real one is Belgrave. His hand is already another’s, and his character for many years past marked with instances of deceit, if not equal, at least little inferior to the present. For the truth of these assertions, the writer of the letter refers Captain Rushbrook to Sir Charles Bingley, of —— regiment, from whose agent a direction may be procured to him, certain, from his honor and sensibility, he will eagerly step forward to save worth and innocence from woe and destruction.
Amanda’s anxiety about Emily being equal to what she felt for herself, she resolved to leave this letter at Rushbrook’s prison, lest any accident should happen if it went by any other hands. She was anxious to be gone, but thought it better to wait till towards evening, when there would be the least chance of meeting Belgrave, who at that time would probably be fixed in some place for the remainder of the day. Emily returned in about an hour, and finding Amanda disengaged, requested permission to sit with her. Amanda, in her present agitation, would have preferred solitude, but could not decline the company of the affectionate girl, who, in conversing with her, sought to forget the heavy cares which the dreadful idea of a union with Sipthorpe had drawn upon her. Amanda listened with a beating heart to every sound, but no intimation of Belgrave’s return reached her ear. At length they were summoned to dinner; but Amanda could not think of going to it, lest she should be seen by him. To avoid this risk, and also the particularity of a refusal, she determined immediately to go out, and, having told Emily her intention, they both descended the stairs together. Emily pressed her exceedingly to stay for dinner, but she positively refused, and left the house with a beating heart, without having answered Emily’s question, who desired to know if she would not soon return. Thus perpetually threatened with danger, like a frighted bird again was she to seek a shelter for her innocent head. She walked with quickness to Oxford Street, where she directly procured a carriage, but was so weak and agitated the coachman was almost obliged to lift her into it. She directed it to the prison, and on reaching it sent for one of the turnkeys, to whom she gave her letter for Rushbrook, with a particular charge to deliver it immediately to him. She then ordered the carriage to Pall Mall, Where it may be remembered she had once lodged with Lady Greystock. This was the only lodging-house in London she knew, and in it she expected no satisfaction but what would be derived from thinking herself safe, as its mistress was a woman of a most unpleasant temper. She had once been in affluent circumstances, and the remembrance of those circumstances soured her temper, and rendered her, if not incapable of enjoying, at least unwilling to acknowledge, the blessings she yet possessed. On any one in her power she vented her spleen. Her chief pursuit was the gratification of a most insatiate curiosity, and her first delight relating the affairs, good or bad, which that curiosity dived into. Amanda, finding she was within, dismissed the coach, and was shown by the maid into the back parlor, where she sat. “Oh dear!” cried she, with a supercilious smile, the moment Amanda entered, without rising from her chair to return her salute, “When did you return to London?—and pray, may I ask what brought you back to it?”
Amanda was convinced from Mrs. Hansard’s altered manner, who had once been servile to a degree to her, that she was perfectly acquainted with her destitute condition, and a heavy sigh burst from her heart at the idea of associating with a woman who had the meanness to treat her ill because of that condition. A chillness crept through her frame when she reflected her sad situation might long compel her to this. Sick, weak, exhausted, she sunk upon a chair, which she had neither been offered nor desired to take. “Well, miss, and pray what is your business in town?” again asked Mrs. Hansard, with an increased degree of pertness.
“My business, madam,” replied Amanda, “can be of no consequence to a person not connected with me. My business with you is to know whether you can accommodate me with lodgings?” “Really. Well, you might have paid me the compliment of saying you would have called at any rate to know how I did. You may guess how greatly flattered an humble being like me would be by the notice of so amiable a young lady.”
These words were pronounced with a kind of sneer that, by rousing the pride of Amanda, a little revived her spirits. “I should be glad, madam,” said she, with a composed voice, while a faint glow stole over her cheek, “to know whether you can, or choose, to accommodate me with lodgings?” “Lord, my dear,” replied Mrs. Hansard, “do not be in such a wondrous hurry—take a cup of tea with me, and then we will settle about that business.” These words implied that she would comply with the wish of Amanda; and, however disagreeable the asylum, yet to have secured one cheered her sinking heart. Tea was soon made, which to Amanda, who had touched nothing since breakfast—and but little then—would have been a pleasant refreshment, had she not been tormented and fatigued by the questions of Mrs. Hansard, who laid a thousand baits to betray her into a full confession of what had brought her to London. Amanda, though a stranger in herself to every species of art, from fatal experience was aware of it in others, and therefore guarded her secret. Mrs. Hansard, who loved what she called a gossipping cup of tea, sat a tedious time over the tea-table. Amanda, at last mortified and alarmed by some expressions which dropped from her, again ventured to ask if she could be lodged under her roof.
“Are you really serious in that question?” said Mrs. Hansard. There was a certain expression of contempt in her features as she spoke, which shocked Amanda so much that she had not power to reply; “because if you are, my dear,” continued Mrs. Hansard, “you have more assurance than I thought you were possessed of, though I always gave you credit for a pretty large share. Do you think I would ruin my house, which lodges people of the first rank and character, by admitting you into it? you, who, it is well known, obtained Lady Greystock’s protection from charity, and lost it through misconduct. Poor lady—I had the whole story from her own mouth. She suffered well from having anything to say to you. I always guessed how it would be. Notwithstanding your demure look, I saw well enough how you would turn out. I assure you, to use your own words, if I could accommodate you in my house, it would not answer you at all, for there are no convenient closets in it in which a lady of your disposition might now and then want to hide a smart young fellow. I advise you, if you have had a tiff with any of your friends, to make up the difference; though, indeed, if you do not, in such a place as London, you can never be at a loss for such friends. Perhaps you are now beginning to repent of your evil courses, and, if I took you into my house, I should suffer as much in my pocket, I suppose, as in my character.”