Perhaps, at this moment, public contempt could not have humbled the marquis more than such generosity, when he drew a comparison between himself and the person he had so long injured. The striking contrast wounded his very soul, and he groaned at the degradation he suffered in his own eyes. He told Oscar, as soon as the last sad duties were performed to his daughter, he would settle everything with him, and then perhaps be able to introduce him to the marchioness. He desired he might take up his residence in the Castle, and expressed a wish that he would attend the funeral of Lady Euphrasia as one of the chief mourners. Oscar declined the former, but promised, with a faltering voice, to comply with the latter request. He then retired, and the marquis, who had been roused from the indulgence of his grief by a wish of preserving his character, again relapsed into its wretchedness. He desired Oscar to make no secret of his now being heir to the Earl of Dunreath, and said he would mention it himself in his family. Through this medium, therefore, did this surprising intelligence reach Lord Mortimer, and his heart dilated with sudden joy at the idea of his Amanda and her brother at last enjoying independence and prosperity.
In a few hours after this the sufferings of Lord Cherbury were terminated. His last faltering accents pronounced blessings on his son. Oh! how sweet were those blessings! How different were the feelings of Lord Mortimer from the callous sons of dissipation, who seem to watch with impatience the last struggles of a parent, that they may have more extensive means of gratifying their inordinate desires. The feelings of Lord Mortimer were soothed by reflecting he had done everything in his power for restoring the tranquillity of his father, and his regret was lessened by the conviction that Lord Cherbury, after the discovery of his conduct, could never more in this life have experienced happiness. He therefore, with tender piety, resigned him to his God; humbly trusting that his penitence had atoned for his frailties, and insured him felicity.
He now bade adieu to the Castle and its wretched owners, and accompanied Lady Martha and his sister to Thornbury, at which the burying-place of the family lay. Here he continued till the remains of his father arrived, and were interred. He then proceeded to London to put into execution the plan he had projected for his father. He immediately advertised the Tudor estate. A step of this kind could not be concealed from Lady Martha; but the mortgages on the other estates he resolved carefully to guard from her knowledge, lest suspicions prejudicial to the memory of his father should arise in her mind. But, during this period, the idea of Amanda was not absent from his soul. Neither grief nor business could banish it a moment; and, again, a thousand fond and flattering hopes concerning her had revived, when a sudden blow dispersed them all, and plunged him, if possible, into greater wretchedness than he had ever before experienced. He heard it confidently reported that the Earl of Dunreath’s sister (for Oscar by this time had claimed, and been allowed to take the title of his grandfather) was to be married to Sir Charles Bingley. The friendship which he knew subsisted between the earl and Sir Charles rendered this too probable. But if a doubt concerning it still lingered in his mind, it was destroyed when Sir Charles waited on him to treat about the purchase of Tudor Hall; it instantly occurred to him that this purchase was made by the desire of Amanda. Unable to command his feelings, he referred Sir Charles to his agent, and abruptly retired. He called her cruel and ungrateful. After all his sufferings on her account, did he deserve so soon to be banished from her remembrance—so soon supplanted in her affections by another—by one, too, who never had, who never would have, an opportunity of giving such proofs as he had done of constancy and love. She is lost, then he sighed; she is lost forever! Oh! what avails the vindication of her fame? Is it not an augmentation of my misery? Oh! my father, of what a treasure did you despoil me! But let me not disturb the sacred ashes of the dead—rest, rest in peace, thou venerable author of my being! and may the involuntary expression of heart-rending anguish be forgiven! Amanda, then, he continued, after a pause, will indeed be mistress of Tudor Hall; but never will a sigh for him who once was its owner heave her bosom. She will wander beneath those shades where so often she has heard my vows of unalterable love—vows which, alas! my heart has too fully observed—and listen to similar ones from Sir Charles: well, this is the last stroke fate can level at my peace.
Lord Mortimer (or, as in future we must style him, Lord Cherbury) had indeed imagined that the affections of Amanda, like his own, were unalterable; he had therefore indulged the rapturous idea, that, by again seeking an union with her, she should promote the happiness of both. It is true he knew she would possess a fortune infinitely superior to what he had now a right to expect; but after the proofs he had given of disinterested attachment, not only she, but the world, he was convinced, would acquit him of any selfish motives in the renewal of his addresses. His hopes destroyed—his prospect blasted by what he had heard, he resolved, as soon as affairs were settled, to go abroad. The death of his father had rendered his entering the army unnecessary, and his spirits were too much broken, his health too much impaired, for him voluntarily now to embrace that destiny.
On the purchase of Tudor Hall being completed by Sir Charles, it was necessary for Lord Cherbury to see his steward. He preferred going to sending for him, prompted indeed by a melancholy wish of paying a last visit to Tudor Hall, endeared to his heart by a thousand fond remembrances. On his arrival he took up his abode at the steward’s for a day or two. After a strict injunction to him of concealing his being there, it was after a ramble through every spot about the demesne which he had ever trodden with Amanda, that he repaired to the library and discovered her. He was ignorant of her being in the country. Oh! then, how great was her surprise—how exquisite his emotions, at seeing her in such unexpected circumstances!
I shall not attempt to go over the scene I have already tried to describe; suffice it to say, that the desire she betrayed of hastening from him he imputed to the alteration of her sentiments with respect to him and Sir Charles. When undeceived in this respect, his rapture was as great as ever it had before been at the idea of her love, and, like Amanda, he declared his suffering was now amply rewarded.
[CHAPTER LVII.]
“No, never from this hour to part, We’ll live and love so true; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy lover’s too.”