“The clouds which are formed by mists and exhalations, return to the places from whence they were drawn in fertilizing showers and refreshing dews, and almost every plant enriches the soil from which it sprung. Nature, indeed, in all her works, is a glorious precedent to man; but while enslaved by dissipation, he cannot follow her example, and what exquisite sources of enjoyment does he lose—to enlighten the toils of labor, to cheer the child of poverty, to raise the drooping head of merit—oh! how superior to the revels of dissipation, or the ostentation of wealth.
“Real happiness is forsaken for a gaudy phantom called pleasure; she is seldom grasped but for a moment—yet in that moment has power to fix envenomed stings within the breast. The heart which delights in domestic joys, which rises in pious gratitude to heaven, which melts at human woe, can alone experience true pleasure. The fortitude with which the peasants bear their sufferings should cure discontent of its murmurs; they support adversity without complaining, and those who possess a pile of turf against the severity of the winter, a small strip of ground planted with cabbage and potatoes, a cow, a pig, and some poultry, think themselves completely happy, though one wretched hovel shelters all alike.”
Oh! how rapturous! thought Amanda—the idea of Lord Mortimer’s feeling recurring to her mind—to change such scenes; to see the clay-built hovel vanish, and a dwelling of neatness and convenience rise in its stead; to wander, continued she, with him whose soul is fraught with sensibility, and view the projects of benevolence realized by the hand of charity; see the faded cheek of misery regain the glow of health,
“The desert blossom as the rose,”
and content and cheerfulness sport beneath its shades.
From such an ecstatic reverie as this, Amanda was roused one morning by the entrance of the Kilcorbans and Lady Greystock into the dressing-room where she was working. “Oh! my dear!” cried the eldest of the young ladies, “we have such enchanting news to tell you. Only think, who is coming down here immediately—your uncle and aunt and cousin. An express came this morning from Dublin, where they now are, to the steward at Ulster Lodge, to have everything prepared against next week for them.” “I declare,” said Miss Alicia, “I shall quite envy you the delightful amusement you will have with them.” Amanda blushed, and felt a little confused. “You will have no reason, then, I fancy,” replied she, “for I really do not know them.” “Oh, Lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Kilcorban, “well, that is very comical, not to know your own relations; but perhaps they always lived in Scotland, and you were afraid to cross the sea to pay them a visit.” “If that was the only fear she had,” said Lady Greystock, with a satirical smile, “she could easily have surmounted it: besides, would it not have held good with respect to one place as well as another?” “Well, I never thought of that,” cried Mrs. Kilcorban: “but pray, miss, may I ask the reason why you do not know them by letter?” “It can be of very little consequence to you, madam,” replied Amanda, coolly, “to hear it.” “They say Lady Euphrasia Sutherland is very accomplished,” exclaimed Miss Kilcorban; “so a correspondence with her would have been delightful. I dare say you write sweetly yourself; so if ever you leave Castle Carberry, I beg you will favor me with letters, for of all things, I doat on a sentimental correspondence.” “No wonder,” said Lady Greystock, “you are so particularly well qualified to support one.” “But, my dear!” resumed Miss Kilcorban, “we are to give the most enchanting ball that ever was given in this world! Papa says we shall have full liberty to do as we please respecting it.” “It will be a troublesome affair, I am afraid,” said Mrs. Kilcorban. “We are to have confectioners and French cooks from Dublin,” continued her daughter, without minding this interruption. “Everything is to be quite in style and prepared against the third night of the marquis and marchioness’s arrival; so, my dear, you and your papa will hold yourselves in readiness for our summons.” Amanda bowed. “My sister and I are to have dancing dresses from town, but I will not give you an idea of the manner in which we have ordered them to be made. I assure you, you will be absolutely surprised and charmed when you see them. All the elegant men in the country will be at our entertainment. I dare say you will be vastly busy preparing for it.” “Nature,” said Lady Greystock, “has been too bounteous to Miss Fitzalan, to render such preparations necessary.” “Oh, Lord!” cried the young ladies, with a toss of their heads, “Miss Fitzalan is not such a fool, I suppose, as to wish to appear unlike every one else in her dress, but,” rising with their mamma, and saluting her much more formally than they had done at their entrance, “she is the best judge of that.”
Fitzalan had never seen the marchioness since his marriage, nor did he ever again wish to behold her. The inhumanity with which she had treated her lovely sister—the malice with which she had augmented her father’s resentment against the poor sufferer, had so strongly prepossessed his mind with ideas of the selfishness and implacability of hers, as to excite sentiments of distaste and aversion for her. He considered her as the usurper of his children’s rights—as accessory to the death of his adored Malvina, and consequently the author of the agonies he endured—agonies which time, aided by religion, could scarcely conquer.