“You weep,” cried Lord Mortimer, in a tone expressive 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 crimson glow mantling his cheek and a beam of wonted brilliancy darting 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, tempted 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 retirement, and obtruded my sorrows on you.”
Amanda had now reached the door. Her heart recoiled at the idea of parting in such a manner from Lord Mortimer, but prudence 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 amity, 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 trickled down her cheeks, “why torture me by speaking in this manner? How can I pronounce forgiveness when I never was offended? When wretched and deserted, 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 solicitude 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 virtues; greater I cannot wish it.”
Lord Mortimer groaned 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 supplicating its choicest blessings 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 foliage, that 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 respiration 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 resolutely determined 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 impeding 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 doomed 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 virtue and fortitude of him, who, as a friend, I shall ever regard. To yield thus to sorrow, to neglect the incumbent duties of life, to abandon a woman to whom so lately you plighted your solemn vows 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, recoiling a few paces. “Lady Euphrasia!” he again exclaimed, in tremulous accents, regarding Amanda with an expression of mingled 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 alluded to?
“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 suspense. “And are you not so?” “No,” replied Lord Mortimer; “I never had the misfortune to offer vows which my heart could not ratify. 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 brink of despair—who, like her, have been restored, unexpectedly restored to hope, to happiness, that can form any judgment of her feelings at the present moment. At the moment when recovering from her insensibility, the soft accent of Lord Mortimer saluted her ear, and made her heart, without one censure 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 diminution 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 narrative. 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 implored her forgiveness for one moment doubting her constancy. Amanda exerted her spirits to calm her own agitation, that she might be enabled to soothe him into tranquillity. At length she succeeded, and he terminated her anxious impatience by giving her the promised relation.