I believe your ear is very correct, said Cecilia; it is my nephew’s step; but go out, my dear, and see: perhaps he wishes you to walk with him this fine day. Mrs. Jennings and I will finish what we are about, and postpone our walk till by-and-bye.
Amelia did not long delay to obey so pleasant an injunction. She sallied from the room as quick as thought—I guessed that it was you, she cried, as she went up to him, and held out her hand. Your aunt, who is all kindness, sent me to you. If you like a walk, I am ready, ’Tis a charming day.
Yes, and that voice is charming, he replied; that sweet inviting smile enchants a heart, that fondly doats upon you: but we won’t walk, Amelia; at least not yet; for I have news from Lisbon, from my father, not of a pleasant sort I must confess: and if you will trust yourself with me in this room, which is my study, and where nobody will interrupt us, I wish to discourse with you upon it in private—They immediately entered the room, and, being seated, John began as follows—
Amelia, it is my unhappy lot to have a father, who brings shame upon me, and seems to feel none for himself; in whom, with sorrow I am forced to say, I cannot trace one spark of manly resolution, or the sense of what becomes a gentleman to feel. You, on the contrary, amongst the many excellencies you possess, and I am wanting in, have the advantage also to be born of parents, though now no more, of whom you may be justly proud. Judge therefore, my Amelia, how incumbent it must be on me, whose greatest ambition is to approve myself not quite unworthy of your esteem, to support, as far as I am able, the credit of a name, which I am presumptuous enough to hope you will one day condescend to share. My father calls on me for my assistance; he conjures me to come and extricate him from a disgraceful contract, fraudulent upon the face of it, with those Ap Owens; which if I fail to do, he marries that detested villain’s mother, insults the memory of your newly-buried friend, and blasts a name, that never yet was stained.
Married! she cried; your father, and the son of that good man, whom every one reveres, married so hastily, so rashly, so unworthily! It must not be.
True, my Amelia. Look upon this relick, which gives the image of your gallant father, and to which your piety allots that envied station nearest to your heart; then, tell me, what would that brave hero say, if I, aspiring to his daughter’s love, should scruple to obey the call of honour: Would he not bid me go and save a father?
He was the friend, that upon such an errand would not have suffered you to go forth alone.
And such a friend I have in Edward Wilson; he is resolved to bear me company. Devereux returns with me, and in his house I find a family of friends: Nay, my good fortune seems resolved to give me a host of friends, for Henry, our old Colonel’s eldest son, whom in himself I may account a host, is now upon his way to join his regiment in Lisbon, and goes with us. Thus am I trebly furnished with companions. What has my dear Amelia now to fear, if thus befriended, thus accompanied, and sanctioned not by the consent alone, but the command of my good grandfather, I go where duty calls me? Now, my angel!—And, saying this, he clasped her in his arms. Where can thy gentle spirit apprehend one distant chance of danger to alarm it? What can my lovely, my betrothed Amelia, oppose to the necessity, painful although it is, of a short absence from her?
Nothing; for the decree is absolute, and what am I but a devoted creature whose heart is wholly your’s? Nothing remains for me to do, but to return you my unbounded thanks for all your goodness, and especially for condescending to impart these tidings, sad as they are, in this considerate manner to me, who in your absence can expect to live but in the hope that we shall meet again. I see, I know, I feel that we must part.
Here her voice failing for a while she seemed quite overcome by sorrow, till her tears relieved her; and at length, turning a look upon her anxious lover, that spoke a conscious dignity of mind, she rose and said—I am ashamed of this unworthy weakness. I know I ought not to bewail, but greet, the opportunity, that does you honour. To deserve a hero I must not show the softness of a child—Come, let us walk. I feel assurance of a happy issue. When you go forth upon the summons of a helpless father, I trust that Providence will be your guard: It were a sin to doubt it—This said, she gave her hand to him, and smiled: He pressed it to his heart, and thus, endeared each to the other in the purest sense of virtue’s chaste affection, forth they went—