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 THE
HISTORY OF
VENEZUELA
 ADVISORY BOARD

John T. Alexander
Professor of History and Russian and European Studies,
University of Kansas
Robert A. Divine
George W. Littlefield Professor in American History Emeritus,
University of Texas at Austin
John V. Lombardi
Professor of History,
University of Florida
 THE
HISTORY OF
VENEZUELA
Second Edition

H. Micheal Tarver
with
Alfredo Angulo Rivas
and Julia C. Frederick

The Greenwood Histories of the Modern Nations

Frank W. Thackeray and John E. Findling, Series Editors
Copyright © 2018 by ABC-CLIO, LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without
prior permission in writing from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Tarver Denova, Hollis Micheal, author. | Frederick, Julia C., author.
| Angulo Rivas, Alfredo, 1955- author.
Title: The history of Venezuela / H. Micheal Tarver, with Alfredo Angulo
Rivas and Julia C. Frederick.
Description: Second edition. | Santa Barbara, CA : Greenwood, [2018] |
Series: Greenwood histories of the modern nations | Includes
bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018025069 (print) | LCCN 2018026336 (ebook) |
ISBN 9781440857744 (ebook) | ISBN 9781440857737 (alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Venezuela—History.
Classification: LCC F2321 (ebook) | LCC F2321 .T24 2018 (print) |
DDC 987—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018025069

ISBN: 978-1-4408-5773-7 (print)

978-1-4408-5774-4 (ebook)

22 21 20 19 18   1 2 3 4 5

This book is also available as an eBook.

Greenwood
An Imprint of ABC-CLIO, LLC

ABC-CLIO, LLC
130 Cremona Drive, P.O. Box 1911
Santa Barbara, California 93116–1911
www.abc-clio.com

This book is printed on acid-free paper

Manufactured in the United States of America

All maps courtesy of Joseph Swain.

To Oscar
This page is intentionally left blank
 Contents

Series Foreword ix
by Frank W. Thackeray and John E. Findling

Preface xiii

Acknowledgmentsxv

Timeline of Historical Events xvii

1 A Petroleum Republic 1

2 Venezuela to 1600 21

3 The Colonial Era to 1810 33

4 Movements toward Independence, 1810–1830 53

5 The Age of Caudillismo, 1830–1898 65

6 Restoration and Rehabilitation, 1899–1935 81

7 The Emergence of Modern Venezuela, 1935–1958 91

viiiContents

8 The Return of Democracy, 1959–1963 109

9 The Institutionalization of Democracy, 1964–1973 123

10 Venezuelan Boom and Bust, 1974–1988 131

11 Chaos, Futility, and Incompetence, 1989–1998 147

12 The Age of Chavismo, 1999–2013 163

13 The Socialist Collapse, 2013–2018 181

14 An Uncertain Future 195

Notable People in the History of Venezuela 205

Glossary of Selected Terms 219

Bibliographic Essay 227

Index 233
 Series Foreword

The Greenwood Histories of the Modern Nations series is intended to

provide students and interested laypeople with up-to-date, concise,
and analytical histories of many of the nations of the contemporary
world. Not since the 1960s has there been a systematic attempt to pub-
lish a series of national histories, and as series editors, we believe that
this series will prove to be a valuable contribution to our understand-
ing of other countries in our increasingly interdependent world.
At the end of the 1960s, the Cold War was an accepted reality of
global politics. The process of decolonization was still in progress, the
idea of a unified Europe with a single currency was unheard of, the
United States was mired in a war in Vietnam, and the economic boom
in Asia was still years in the future. Richard Nixon was president of
the United States, Mao Tse-tung (not yet Mao Zedong) ruled China,
Leonid Brezhnev guided the Soviet Union, and Harold Wilson was
prime minister of the United Kingdom. Authoritarian dictators still
controlled most of Latin America, the Middle East was reeling in the
wake of the Six-Day War, and Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi was at
the height of his power in Iran.
Since then, the Cold War has ended, the Soviet Union has van-
ished, leaving 15 independent republics in its wake, the advent of the
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x Series Foreword

computer age has radically transformed global communications, the

rising demand for oil makes the Middle East still a dangerous flash-
point, and the rise of new economic powers like the People’s Republic
of China and India threatens to bring about a new world order. All of
these developments have had a dramatic impact on the recent history
of every nation of the world.
For this series, which was launched in 1998, we first selected nations
whose political, economic, and socio-cultural affairs marked them as
among the most important of our time. For each nation, we found an
author who was recognized as a specialist in the history of that nation.
These authors worked cooperatively with us and with Greenwood
Press to produce volumes that reflected current research on their na-
tions and that are interesting and informative to their readers. In the
first decade of the series, close to 50 volumes were published, and
some have now moved into second editions.
The success of the series has encouraged us to broaden our scope to
include additional nations, whose histories have had significant effects
on their regions, if not on the entire world. In addition, geopolitical
changes have elevated other nations into positions of greater impor-
tance in world affairs and, so, we have chosen to include them in this
series as well. The importance of a series such as this cannot be under-
estimated. As a superpower whose influence is felt all over the world,
the United States can claim a “special” relationship with almost every
other nation. Yet many Americans know very little about the histories
of nations with which the United States relates. How did they get to be
the way they are? What kind of political systems have evolved there?
What kind of influence do they have on their own regions? What are
the dominant political, religious, and cultural forces that move their
leaders? These and many other questions are answered in the volumes
of this series.
The authors who contribute to this series write comprehensive his-
tories of their nations, dating back, in some instances, to prehistoric
times. Each of them, however, has devoted a significant portion of
their book to events of the past 40 years because the modern era has
contributed the most to contemporary issues that have an impact on
U.S. policy. Authors make every effort to be as up-to-date as possi-
ble so that readers can benefit from discussion and analysis of recent
events.
In addition to the historical narrative, each volume contains an in-
troductory chapter giving an overview of that country’s geography,
political institutions, economic structure, and cultural attributes. This
is meant to give readers a snapshot of the nation as it exists in the
Series Forewordxi

contemporary world. Each history also includes supplementary in-

formation following the narrative, which may include a timeline that
represents a succinct chronology of the nation’s historical evolution,
biographical sketches of the nation’s most important historical fig-
ures, and a glossary of important terms or concepts that are usually
expressed in a foreign language. Finally, each author prepares a com-
prehensive bibliography for readers who wish to pursue the subject
further.
Readers of these volumes will find them fascinating and well writ-
ten. More importantly, they will come away with a better understand-
ing of the contemporary world and the nations that comprise it. As
series editors, we hope that this series will contribute to a heightened
sense of global understanding as we move through the early years of
the twenty-first century.

Frank W. Thackeray and John E. Findling

Indiana University Southeast
This page is intentionally left blank
 Preface

The Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela has changed dramatically since

this book was first published in 2005. Over the course of the past
13 years, the nation has undergone significant political turmoil and
economic ebbs and flows. The founder of the Bolivarian Republic,
Hugo Chávez Frías, died in 2013 after a two-year battle with cancer
and secondary illnesses. Since Chávez’s death, Nicolás Maduro has
continued to steer the ship of socialism in the South American country,
albeit in constant stormy waters.
In addition to revising the text, two additional chapters have been
added to ensure that the narrative is as current as possible. A few er-
rors in the text of the first edition have also been corrected. The bib-
liographic essay has been expanded to include works published since
2005, especially those works dealing with the Chávez and Maduro
administrations. The timeline, biographical summaries, and glossary
have all been expanded to include additional events, individuals, and
terms that have become significant over the past 13 years.
The final chapter of this revised edition contains up-to-date informa-
tion culled from various news outlets and organizations and presents
the realities of the current situation in Venezuela. Unfortunately, the
chapter deals with issues such as hyperinflation, food shortages and
malnutrition, the lack of adequate medicines and medical supplies,
xivPreface

and alleged human rights abuses by the government. One can only
hope that by the time this book is read, these critical issues will have
been resolved and the Venezuelan people are back on the road to
health, peace, and prosperity.
 Acknowledgments

This work would not have been possible without the support and
assistance of several individuals, including Joseph Swain (Arkansas
Tech University), Diane Gleason (Gleason Historical Studies), and Olie
Justice (Arkansas Tech University). The author and contributors also
wish to thank Carlos Márquez for his incalculable assistance with this
project. This book could not have been completed without his hard
work and tireless efforts, and we are indebted to him for his gracious
contributions.
This page is intentionally left blank
 Timeline of Historical Events

1492 Spanish reconquest of Granada. First voyage of Cris-

tóbal Colón (Christopher Columbus) to the New
World.
1493 Columbus’s second voyage.
1494 Treaty of Tordesillas is signed between Spain and
Portugal.
1498 Columbus’s third voyage. Columbus discovers Tierra
Firme and names it Tierra de Gracia; the area corre-
sponds to the territory today known as Venezuela.
1500 World map of Juan de la Cosa, first known map show-
ing New World.
1501–1502 East coast of South America surveyed by Amerigo
Vespucci.
1502–1504 Columbus’s fourth voyage.
1503 Royal license issued allowing for the enslave-
ment of Carib Indians. Establishment of the Casa de
Contratación.
1504 Death of Queen Isabel of Castile and León, “the Catholic.”
xviii Timeline of Historical Events

1506 Death of Columbus.

1507 World map of Martin Waldseemüller, first known map
using the name “America.”
1509 From Española (Hispaniola), Alonso de Hojeda (Ojeda)
leads an expedition to the Venezuelan and Colombian
coast.
1510–1540 Initial period of exploration and colonization.
1510–1567 Founding of cities begins.
1510–1810 Colonial period.
Leyes de Burgos, the first code regulating Spanish treat-
1512 
ment of Indians. Franciscan and Dominican missionar-
ies reach Tierra Firme, on eastern coast of Venezuela.
1512–1515 Original exploration and settlement off Venezue-
la’s eastern coast, especially on pearl-rich island of
Cubagua.
1516 Death of King Fernando V of Castile and León, “the
Catholic.” Accession of Carlos I to the Spanish throne
(Carlos V of the Holy Roman Empire after 1519).
1519–1595 Decimation of indigenous population.
1522 Papal Bull Omnimoda entrusts the evangelization of
New World Indians to regular clergy.
1524 Creation of the Consejo de Indias.
1525 Introduction of African slaves into Venezuela.
1526 Founding of settlement of Nueva Cádiz on island of
Cubagua, the first settlement on what would eventu-
ally become Venezuela.
1527 Founding of city of Coro, the first permanent settle-
ment on Tierra Firme, by Juan de Ampíes.
1528–1556 Venezuela ruled by Welser governors.
1528 King Carlos I authorizes the establishment of the first
cabildo in what is now Venezuela, on the island of
Cubagua.
1529 Founding of the pueblo de Maracaibo, the first settle-
ment on the shores of Lake Maracaibo, by Ambrosio de
Alfinger. This settlement was later reestablished under
the name of Nueva Zamora Laguna de Maracaibo by
Pedro Maldonado in 1574.
Timeline of Historical Eventsxix

1531 First bishopric of colonial Venezuela is established in

Coro.
1532 Encomienda system is established in colonial Venezuela.
1538 Founding of Santa Fe de Bogotá.
1542 Promulgation of the Nuevas Leyes de Indias, which re-
formed Spanish government in the New World and
modified the encomienda system.
1549 Royal ban on the use of Indians in encomiendas for
labor.
1556 Abdication of King Carlos I. Accession of Felipe II to
the Spanish throne.
1559 Sale of notarial offices begins in Spanish America, with
the approval of the Crown.
1567 Founding of city of Caracas by Diego de Losada.
1580–1640 Spanish and Portuguese empires united under Felipe II.
1588 Defeat of Spanish Armada.
1598 Death of King Felipe II.
1628 First Jesuit college is established in Venezuela, in city
of Mérida.
1636 King Felipe IV approves the transfer of the Bishopric
of the province of Venezuela, from Coro to Caracas; al-
though this transfer would not become official until 1656.
1641 Founding of the Real Seminario de Santa Rosa de
Caracas.
1681 Recopilación de las Leyes de los Reinos de la Indias (Compila-
tion of the Laws of the Kingdoms of the Indies) is published.
1687 Encomienda system is abolished in Venezuela.
1700 Death of Carlos II, last of the Hapsburg rulers of Spain.
1701–1714 War of the Spanish Succession.
1701 Accession of Felipe V to the Spanish throne, establish-
ing the House of Borbón in the Spanish empire.
1721 Founding of the Real Universidad de Caracas and
made pontifical by papal bull in 1722.
1728 Founding of Compañía Guipuzcoana de Caracas.
1739 Establishment of viceroyalty of Nueva Granada.
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xx Timeline of Historical Events

1746 Death of King Felipe V. Accession of Fernando VI to

the Spanish throne.
1750 Birth of Francisco de Miranda, the precursor.
1759 Death of King Fernando VI. Accession of Carlos III to
the Spanish throne.
1764 American ports open to single ship trade.
1767 Jesuits expelled from Spanish dominions.
1776 Establishment of the Intendencia de Ejército y Real Ha-
cienda in Caracas.
1777 Establishment of the Capitanía General of the United
Provinces of Venezuela.
1778 Spain’s Free Trade Act is promulgated, allowing for
free trade among Spanish colonies.
1781 Comuneros del Socorro rebellion in Nueva Granada.
1783 Birth of Simón Bolívar, el Libertador.
1786 Establishment of the Real Audiencia de Caracas.
1788 Death of King Carlos III. Accession of Carlos IV to the
Spanish throne.
1790 Birth of José Antonio Páez, first president of Venezuela.
1795 José Leonardo Chirino–led uprising breaks out in
Coro.
1797 Spain is forced to allow its colonies to trade with neu-
tral countries. La Guaira uprising breaks out, led by
Manuel Gual and José María España.
1803 Creation of the Archbishopric of Caracas.
1806 Francisco de Miranda attempts but fails to incite rebel-
lion in Venezuela.
1808 Abdication of King Carlos IV. Accession, exile, and ab-
dication of King Fernando VII. Napoleonic occupation
of Spain. José Bonaparte is installed on the Spanish
throne as José I by his brother Napoleon. First printing
press arrives in Venezuela.
1810 Caracas cabildo breaks relations with Spanish govern-
ment and establishes itself as the proper Venezuelan
government on April 19, until Fernando VII is returned
to the Spanish throne.
Timeline of Historical Eventsxxi

1811–1812 First Republic or Patria Boba.

1811 Declaration of Venezuelan independence from Spain
on July 5. Two days later, the Act of Independence is
approved.
1812 Constitution of Cádiz.
1813–1814 Second Republic. Campaña Admirable. War to the death.
Bolívar’s entry into Caracas. Bolívar proclaimed “el
Libertador.”
1813 Napoleon expelled from Spain.
1816–1819 Third Republic.
1819 Congress of Angostura. Battle of Boyacá. Creation of
República de Colombia or Gran Colombia.
1820–1830 Attainment of independence.
1821 Battle of Carabobo.
1823 Proclamation of the Monroe Doctrine by the United States.
1825 End of Spanish rule in South America.
1830 Dissolution of Gran Colombia. Death of Simón Bolívar.
1830–1835 First presidency of General José Antonio Páez.
1830–1848 Period of Conservative Oligarchy presided over by
General José Antonio Páez.
1835–1836 Revolución de las Reformas.
1839–1843 Second presidency of General José Antonio Páez.
1847–1851 First presidency of General José Tadeo Monagas.
1851–1855 Presidency of General José Gregorio Monagas.
1855–1858 Second presidency of José Tadeo Monagas.
1858 President José Tadeo Monagas is overthrown.
1859–1863 Federal War.
1861–1863 Dictatorship of General José Antonio Páez.
1864–1865 Provisional presidency of General Juan Crisóstomo
Falcón.
1868 Revolución Azul overthrows General Falcón.
1870–1877 Septenio, first presidency of General Antonio Guzmán
Blanco.
xxii Timeline of Historical Events

1879–1884 Quinquenio, second presidency of General Guzmán

Blanco.
1884–1886 First presidency of General Joaquín Crespo.
1886–1888 Bienio or Aclamación, third presidency of General
Guzmán Blanco.
1892–1897 Second presidency of Joaquín Crespo.
1899–1908 Dictatorship of General Cipriano Castro.
1902 Anglo-German-Italian blockade of Venezuelan coastline.
1908–1935 Dictatorship of General Juan Vicente Gómez.
1914–1918 World War I; Venezuela remains neutral.
1914 Mene Grande oil field discovered in Venezuela with
the drilling of the Zumaque-1 oil well.
1918 Massive oil exploitation begins.
1926 Oil becomes Venezuela’s number one export.
1928 Students rise up against Gómez at Universidad Cen-
tral de Venezuela (UCV) campus.
1935–1941 Presidency of General Eleazar López Contreras.
1936 Appearance of first contemporary political parties in
Venezuela.
1939–1945 World War II.
1941–1945 Presidency of Isaías Medina Angarita.
1945–1948 Trienio.
1947 In December, Rómulo Gallegos is elected president in
the first universal, direct, and secret elections held in
Venezuela.
1948 Presidency of Rómulo Gallegos.
1948–1952 Junta Militar de Gobierno.
1952–1958 Dictatorship of Marcos Pérez Jiménez.
Revolución del 23 de enero. Pérez Jiménez is overthrown.
1958 
Junta de Gobierno is established. Rómulo Betancourt is
elected constitutional president.
1959–1964 Presidency of Rómulo Betancourt.
1964–1969 Presidency of Raúl Leoni.
Timeline of Historical Eventsxxiii

1969–1974 First presidency of Rafael Caldera.

1973 Venezuela benefits from oil boom and its currency
peaks against the U.S. dollar.
1974–1979 First presidency of Carlos Andrés Pérez.
1975 Steel industry is nationalized.
1976 Petroleum industry is nationalized.
1979–1984 Presidency of Luis Herrera Campins.
1983–1984 Oil prices fall, mandating cuts in state spending.
1984–1989 Presidency of Jaime Lusinchi.
1989–1993 Second presidency of Carlos Andrés Pérez. Adminis-
tration is hampered by economic depression, which
mandated an austerity program under the direction of
the International Monetary Fund.
1989 Social and political upheaval against the government’s
spending cuts, including deadly riots, the declaration
of martial law, and general strikes.
1992 Two golpe attempts against President Pérez. The Feb-
ruary attempt was led by Lieutenant Colonel Hugo
Chávez Frías. The November uprising is led by a small
number of general-staff officers in the navy and army.
Chávez is jailed for two years before being pardoned.
1993 President Carlos Andrés Pérez is impeached and re-
moved from office on charges of corruption. Ramón
José Velásquez becomes interim president.
1994–1999 Second presidency of Rafael Caldera.
1994 President Caldera pardons Hugo Chávez.
1996 Carlos Andrés Pérez is imprisoned after being found
guilty of embezzlement and corruption.
1998 Hugo Chávez is elected president.
1999 New constitution is drafted and promulgated.
2000 Hugo Chávez becomes first foreign head of state to visit
Iraq since 1991 Gulf War, in defiance of the United States.
2001–2007 Second presidency of Hugo Chávez.
2001 Government introduces 49 reform laws, including
land and oil reforms, which do not require approval
from the National Assembly.
xxiv Timeline of Historical Events

2002 Trade unions and the Fedecámaras business associa-

tion declare general strike to oppose the 49 reforms.
Some 150,000 people rally in support of strike. Pro-
Chávez gunmen clash with protestors causing more
than 10 deaths and over 100 injuries.
2002 Short-lived golpe against President Hugo Chávez.
Pedro Carmona is installed as president of Venezuela
after the military coup. Thirty-six hours later Chávez
returns to power effectively ending the shortest-lived
government in Venezuelan history.
2003 Petition containing an estimated 3.4 million signatures
is delivered demanding a referendum on the rule of
Hugo Chávez.
2004 Hugo Chávez wins referendum that asked Venezue-
lans whether he should serve out the remaining two-
and-a-half years of his term.
2005 President Chávez signs decree aimed to eliminate Ven-
ezuela’s large estates. Ranchers view move as an attack
on private property.
2007–2013 Third presidency of Hugo Chávez.
2007 Government takes control of oil projects in the Orinoco
delta and announces that energy and telecommunica-
tions companies will be nationalized.
2008 President Chávez mobilizes troops on Venezuelan-
Colombian border as diplomatic crisis with Colombia
ensues.
2008 Russian warplanes visit Venezuela marking the first
return of Russian military to the Americas since the
Cold War. Venezuela expels U.S. ambassador and
signs an accord with Russia on joint civilian nuclear
cooperation.
2009 Voters approve a referendum to abolish the limit on the
number of terms an elected official can serve, allowing
President Chávez to stand for reelection when his term
expires in 2012.
2010 Parliament grants President Chávez special powers
in the aftermath of devastating floods. Critics claim
that Chávez’s new powers will turn the country into a
near-dictatorship.
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content Scribd suggests to you:
“Do, my dear,” said Mrs. Macqueen, “try one dance; my girls will tell
you dancing is a sovereign remedy for everything.” It was painful to
Amanda to refuse; but, scarcely able to stand, she was utterly
unable to dance; had even her strength permitted her so to do, she
could not have supported the idea of mingling in the set with Lord
Mortimer, the glance of whose eye she never caught without a throb
in her heart, which shook her whole frame. One of the Miss
Macqueens ran into the room, exclaiming: “Lord, Colin, what are you
about? Lord Mortimer and my sister have already led off; do, pray,
make haste and join us,” and away she ran again.
“Let me no longer detain you,” said Amanda, withdrawing her hand.
Young Macqueen finding her inflexible, at length went off to seek a
partner. He was as fond of dancing as his sisters, and feared he
should not procure one; but luckily there were fewer gentlemen than
ladies present, and a lady having stood up with his youngest sister,
he easily prevailed on her to change her partner.
“We will go into the dancing room, if you please,” said Mrs.
Macqueen to Amanda; “that will amuse without fatiguing you.”
Amanda would rather not have gone, but she could not say no; and
they proceeded to it. Lord Mortimer had just concluded the dance,
and was standing near the door in a pensive attitude, Miss
Macqueen being too much engrossed by something she was saying
to the young lady next to her, to mind him. The moment he
perceived Amanda enter, he again approached his partner, and
began chatting in a lively manner to her. Amanda and Mrs.
Macqueen sat down together, and in listening to the conversation of
that lady, Amanda found herself insensibly drawn from a too painful
attention to surrounding objects. On expressing the pleasure which a
mind of sensibility must feel on witnessing such family happiness as
Mrs. Macqueen possessed, that lady said she had reason indeed to
be grateful to Heaven, and was truly so for her domestic comforts.
“You see us now,” she continued, “in our gayest season, because of
my sons’ company; but we are seldom dull. Though summer is
delightful, we never think the winter tedious. Yet though we love
amusement, I assure you we dislike dissipation. The mornings are
appropriated to business, and the evenings to recreation. All the
work of the family goes through the hands of my daughters, and
they wear nothing ornamental which they do not make themselves.
Assisted by their good neighbors, they are enabled to diversify their
amusements: the dance succeeds the concert; sometimes small
plays, and now and then little dramatic entertainments. About two
years ago they performed the Winter’s Tale; their poor father was
not then in his present situation.” Mrs. Macqueen sighed, paused a
minute, and then proceeded—"Time must take something from us:
but I should and do bless, with heartfelt gratitude, the power which
only, by its stealing hand, has made me feel the lot of human
nature. Mr. Macqueen,” continued she, “at the time I mentioned, was
full of spirits, and performed the part of Autolycus. They made me
take the character of the good Paulina. By thus mixing in the
amusements of our children, we have added to their love and
reverence perfect confidence and esteem, and find, when our
presence is wanting, the diversion, let it be what it may, wants
something to render it complete. They are now about acting the
Gentle Shepherd. Several rehearsals have already taken place in our
great barn, which is the theatre. On these occasions one of my sons
leads the band, another paints the scenes, and Colin, your rejected
partner, acts the part of prompter.” Here this conversation, so
pleasing to Amanda, and interesting to Mrs. Macqueen, was
interrupted by a message from the drawing-room, to inform the
latter the rubber was over, and a new set wanted to cut in.
“I will return as soon as possible,” said Mrs. Macqueen, as she was
quitting her seat. If Amanda had not dreaded the looks of Lady
Martha almost as much as those of Lord Mortimer or Lady Araminta,
she would have followed her to the drawing-room. As this was the
case, she resolved on remaining in her present situation. It was
some time ere she was observed by the young Macqueens. At last
Miss Macqueen came over to her—"I declare,” said she, “you look so
sad and solitary, I wish you could be prevailed on to dance. Do try
this; it is a very fine lively one, and take Flora for your partner, who,
you see, has sat in a corner quite discomposed since she lost her
partner, and by the next set Colin will be disengaged.”
Amanda declared she could not dance, and Miss Macqueen being
called to her place at the instant, she was again left to herself. Miss
Macqueen, however, continued to come and chat with her whenever
she could do so without losing any part of the dance. At last Lord
Mortimer followed her. The eyes of Amanda were involuntarily bent
to the ground when she saw him approach:—"You are an absolute
runaway,” cried he to Miss Macqueen; “how do you suppose I will
excuse your frequent desertions?”
“Why, Miss Donald is so lonely,” said she.
“See,” cried he, with quickness, “your sister beckons you to her.
Suffer me (taking her hand) to lead you to her.”
Amanda looked up as they moved from her, and saw Lord Mortimer’s
head half turned back; but the instant she perceived him he averted
it, and took no further notice of her. When the set was finished, Miss
Macqueen returned to Amanda, and was followed by some of her
brothers and sisters. Some of the gentlemen also approached
Amanda, and requested the honor of her hand, but she was steady
in refusing all. Rich wines, sweetmeats, and warm lemonade, were
now handed about in profusion, and the strains of the violin were
succeeded by those of the bagpipe, played by the family musician,
venerable in his appearance, and habited in the ancient Highland
dress. With as much satisfaction to himself as to his Scotch auditors,
he played a lively Scotch reel, which in a moment brought two of the
Miss Macqueens and two gentlemen forward, and they continued the
dance till politeness induced them to stop, that one might be begun
in which the rest of the party could join. Dancing continued in this
manner with little intermission, but whenever there was an interval,
the young Macqueens paid every attention to Amanda; and on her
expressing her admiration of the Scotch music, made it a point that
she should mention some favorite airs that they might be played for
her; but these airs, the lively dances, the animated conversation,
and the friendly attentions paid her, could not remove her dejection,
and with truth they might have said—

“That nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the stranger’s woe.”

The entrance of Mrs. Macqueen was the signal for the dance being
ended. She made the young people sit down to refresh themselves
before supper, and apologized to Amanda for not returning to her;
but said Lady Martha Dormer had engaged her in a conversation
which she could not interrupt. At last they were summoned to
supper, which, on Mr. Macqueen’s account, was laid out in a room on
the same floor. Thither without ceremony whoever was next the
door first proceeded. Mr. Macqueen was already seated at the table
in his arm-chair, and Lady Martha Dormer on his right hand. The
eldest son was deputed to do the honors of the foot of the table.
The company was checkered, and Amanda found herself between
Lord Mortimer and Mr. Colin Macqueen; and in conversing with the
latter, Amanda sought to avoid noticing, or being noticed by Lord
Mortimer; and his lordship, by the particular attention which he paid
Miss Macqueen, who sat on the other side, appeared actuated by
the same wish. The sports of the morning had furnished the table
with a variety of the choicest wild fowl, and the plenty and beauty of
the confectionery denoted at once the hospitable spirit and elegant
taste of the mistress of the feast. Gayety presided at the board, and
there was scarcely a tongue, except Amanda’s, which did not utter
some lively sally. The piper sat in the lobby, and if his strains were
not melodious, they were at least cheerful. In the course of supper,
Lord Mortimer was compelled to follow the universal example in
drinking Amanda’s health. Obliged to turn her looks to him, oh! how
did her heart shrink at the glance, the expressive glance of his eye,
as he pronounced Miss Donald. Unconscious whether she had
noticed in the usual manner his distressing compliment, she abruptly
turned to young Macqueen, and addressed some scarcely articulate
question to him. The supper things removed, the strains of the piper
were silenced, and songs, toasts, and sentiments succeeded. Old Mr.
Macqueen set the example by a favorite Scotch air, and then called
upon his next neighbor. Between the songs, toasts were called for. At
last it came to Lord Mortimer’s turn. Amanda suddenly ceased
speaking to young Macqueen. She saw the glass of Lord Mortimer
filled, and in the next moment heard the name of Lady Euphrasia
Sutherland. A feeling like wounded pride stole into the soul of
Amanda. She did not decline her head as before, and she felt a faint
glow upon her cheek. The eyes of Lady Martha and Lady Araminta
she thought directed to her with an expressive meaning. “They
think,” cried she, “to witness mortification and disappointment in my
looks, but they shall not (if, indeed, they are capable of enjoying
such a triumph) have it.”
At length she was called upon for a song. She declined the call; but
Mr. Macqueen declared, except assured she could not sing, she
should not be excused. This assurance, without a breach of truth,
she could not give. She did not wish to appear ungrateful to her kind
entertainers, or unsocial in the midst of mirth, by refusing what she
was told would be pleasing to them and their company. She also
wished, from a sudden impulse of pride, to appear cheerful in those
eyes she knew were attentively observing her, and therefore, after a
little hesitation, consented to sing. The first song which occurred to
her was a little simple, but pathetic air, which her father used to
delight in, and which Lord Mortimer more than once had heard from
her; but indeed she could recollect no song which at some time or
other she had not sung for him. The simple air she had chosen
seemed perfectly adapted to her soft voice, whose modulations were
inexpressibly affecting. She had proceeded through half the second
verse, when her voice began to falter. The attention of the company
became, if possible, more fixed; but it was a vain attention; no rich
strain of melody repaid it, for the voice of the songstress had
suddenly ceased. Mrs. Macqueen, with the delicacy of a susceptible
mind, feared increasing her emotion by noticing it, and, with a
glance of her expressive eye, directed her company to silence.
Amanda’s eyes were bent to the ground. Suddenly a glass of water
was presented to her by a trembling hand—by the hand of Mortimer
himself. She declined it with a motion of hers, and, reviving a little,
raised her head. Young Macqueen then gave her an entreating
whisper to finish the song. She thought it would look like affectation
to require farther solicitation, and, faintly smiling, again began in
strains of liquid melody, strains that seemed to breathe the very
spirit of sensibility, and came over each attentive ear,

“Like a sweet sound

That breathes upon a bank of violets
Stealing and giving odor.”

The plaudits she received from her singing gave to her cheeks such
a faint tinge of red as is seen in the bosom of the wild rose. She was
now authorized to call for a song, and, as if doomed to experience
cause for agitation, Lord Mortimer was the person from whom, in
the rotation of the table, she was to claim it. Thrice she was
requested to do this ere she could obey. At last she raised her eyes
to his face, which was now turned towards her, and she saw in it a
confusion equal to that she herself trembled under. Pale and red by
turns, he appeared to her to wait in painful agitation for the sound
of her voice. Her lips moved, but she could not articulate a word.
Lord Mortimer bowed, as if he had heard what they would have said,
and then turning abruptly to Miss Macqueen, began speaking to her.
“Come, come, my lord,” said Mr. Macqueen, “we must not be put off
in this manner.”
Lord Mortimer laughed, and attempted to rally the old gentleman;
but he seemed unequal to the attempt, for, with a sudden
seriousness, he declared his inability of complying with the present
demand. All farther solicitation on the subject was immediately
dropped. In the round of toasts, they forgot not to call upon Amanda
for one. If she had listened attentively when Lord Mortimer was
about giving one, no less attentively did he now listen to her. She
hesitated a moment, and then gave Sir Charles Bingley. After the
toast had passed, “Sir Charles Bingley,” repeated Miss Macqueen,
leaning forward, and speaking across Lord Mortimer. “Oh! I recollect
him very well. His regiment was quartered about two years ago at a
little fort some distance from this—and I remember his coming with
a shooting party to the mountains, and sleeping one night here. We
had a delightful dance that evening, and all thought him a charming
young man. Pray, are you well acquainted with him?” “Yes—No,”
replied Amanda.
“Ah! I believe you are, sly girl,” cried Miss Macqueen, laughing.
“Pray, my lord, does not that blush declare Miss Donald guilty?” “We
are not always to judge from the countenance,” said he, darting a
penetrating yet quickly-withdrawn glance at Amanda. “Experience,”
continued he, “daily proves how little dependence is to be placed on
it.” Amanda turned hastily away, and pretended, by speaking to
young Macqueen, not to notice a speech she knew directly pointed
at her; for often had Lord Mortimer declared that, “in the lineaments
of the human face divine, each passion of the soul might be well
traced.”
Miss Macqueen laughed, and said she always judged of the
countenance, and that her likings and dislikings were always the
effects of first sight.
The company broke up soon after this, and much earlier than their
usual hour, on account of the travellers. All but those then
immediately belonging to the family having departed, some maids of
the house appeared, to show the ladies to their respective
chambers. Lady Martha and Lady Araminta retired first. Amanda was
following them, when Mrs. Macqueen detained her, to try and prevail
on her to stay two or three days along with them. The Miss
Macqueens joined their mother; but Amanda assured them she could
not comply with their request, though she felt with gratitude its
friendly warmth. Old Mr. Macqueen had had his chair turned to the
fire, and his sons and Lord Mortimer were surrounding it. “Well,
well,” said he, calling Amanda to him, and taking her hand, “if you
will not stay with us now, remember, on your return, we shall lay an
embargo on you. In the mean time, I shall not lose the privilege
which my being an old married man gives me.” So saying, he gently
pulled Amanda to him, and kissed her cheek. She could only smile at
this innocent freedom but she attempted to withdraw her hand to
retire. “Now,” said Mr. Macqueen, still detaining it, “are all these
young men half mad with envy?” The young Macqueens joined in
their father’s gallantry, and not a tongue was silent except Lord
Mortimer’s. His head rested on his hand, and the cornice of the
chimney supported his arm. His hair, from which the dancing had
almost shaken all the powder, hung negligently about his face, and
added to its paleness and sudden dejection. One of the young
Macqueens, turning from his brothers, who were yet continuing their
mirth with their father, addressed some question to his lordship, but
received no answer. Again he repeated it. Lord Mortimer then
suddenly started, as if from a profound reverie, and apologized for
his absence.
“Ay, ah, my lord,” exclaimed old Mr. Macqueen, jocosely, "we may all
guess where your lordship was then travelling in idea—a little
beyond the mountains, I fancy. Ay, we all know where your heart
and your treasure now lie.” “Do you?” said Lord Mortimer, with a
tone of deep dejection, and a heavy sigh, with an air, also, which
seemed to declare him scarcely conscious of what he said. He
recollected himself, however, at the instant, and began rallying
himself, as the surest means of preventing others doing so. The
scene was too painful to Amanda. She hastily withdrew her hand,
and, faintly wishing the party a good-night, went out to the maid,
who was waiting for her in the lobby, and was conducted to her
room. She dismissed the servant at the door, and, throwing herself
into a chair, availed herself of solitude to give vent to the tears
whose painful suppression had so long tortured her heart. She had
not sat long in this situation when she heard a gentle tap at the
door. She started, and believing it to be one of the Miss Macqueens,
hastily wiped away her tears, and opened the door. A female
stranger appeared at it, who curtseying, respectfully said, “Lady
Martha Dormer, her lady, desired to see Miss Donald for a few
minutes, if not inconvenient to her.” “See me!” repeated Amanda,
with the utmost surprise; “can it be possible?” She suddenly checked
herself, and said she would attend her ladyship immediately. She
accordingly followed the maid, a variety of strange ideas crowding
upon her mind. Her conductress retired as she shut the door of the
room into which she showed Amanda. It was a small ante-chamber
adjoining the apartment Lady Martha was to lie in. Here, with
increasing surprise, she beheld Lord Mortimer pacing the room in an
agitated manner. His back was to the door as she entered, but he
turned round with quickness, approached, looked on her a few
moments, then, striking his hand suddenly against his forehead,
turned from her with an air of distraction.
Lady Martha, who was sitting at the head of the room, and only
bowed as Amanda entered it, motioned for her to take a chair; a
motion Amanda gladly obeyed, for her trembling limbs could scarcely
support her.
All was silent for a few minutes. Lady Martha then spoke in a grave
voice:—"I should not, madam, have taken the liberty of sending for
you at this hour, but that I believe so favorable an opportunity would
not again have occurred of speaking to you on a subject particularly
interesting to me—an opportunity which has so unexpectedly saved
me the trouble of trying to find you out, and the necessity of writing
to you.”
Lady Martha paused, and her silence was not interrupted by
Amanda. “Last summer,” continued Lady Martha—again she paused.
The throbbings of Amanda’s heart became more violent. “Last
summer,” she said again, “there were some little gifts presented to
you by Lord Mortimer. From the events which followed their
acceptance, I must presume they are valueless to you: from the
events about taking place, they are of importance elsewhere.” She
ceased, but Amanda could make no reply.
“You cannot be ignorant,” said Lady Martha, with something of
severity in her accent, as if offended by the silence of Amanda,
—"you cannot be ignorant, I suppose, that it is the picture and ring I
allude to. The latter, from being a family one of particular value, I
always destined for the wife of Lord Mortimer; I therefore claim it in
my own name. The picture, I have his lordship’s approbation and
authority to demand; and to convince you I have,—indeed, if such a
conviction be necessary,—have prevailed on him to be present at
this conversation.” "No, madam, such a conviction was not
necessary,” cried Amanda. “I should——" She could utter no more at
the moment, yet tried to suppress the agonizing feeling that
tumultuously heaved her bosom.
“If not convenient to restore them immediately,” said Lady Martha, “I
will give you a direction where they may be left in London, to which
place Mrs. Macqueen has informed me you are going.” “It is perfectly
convenient now to restore them, madam,” replied Amanda, with a
voice perfectly recovered, animated with conscious innocence and
offended pride, which always gave her strength. “I shall return,”
continued she, moving to the door, “with them immediately to your
ladyship.”
The picture was suspended from her neck, and the ring in its case
lay in her pocket; but by the manner in which they had been asked,
or rather demanded from her, she felt amidst the anguish of her soul
a sudden emotion of pleasure that she could directly give them back.
Yet, when in her own room she hastily untied the picture from her
neck, pulled the black ribbon from it, and laid it in its case, her grief
overcame every other feeling, and a shower of tears fell from her.
“Oh, Mortimer! dear Mortimer!” she sighed, “must I part even with
this little shadow! must I retain no vestige of happier hours! Yet,
why—why should I wish to retain it, when the original will so soon
be another’s ? Yes, if I behold Mortimer again, it will be as the
husband of Lady Euphrasia.”
She recollected she was staying beyond the expected time, and
wiped away her tears. Yet, still she lingered a few minutes in the
chamber, to try to calm her agitation. She called her pride to her aid;
it inspired her with fortitude, and she proceeded to Lady Martha,
determined that lady should see nothing in her manner which she
could possibly construe into weakness or meanness. Never did she
appear more interesting than at the moment she re-entered the
apartment. The passion she had called to her aid gave a bright glow
to her cheeks, and the traces of the tears she had been shedding
appeared upon those glowing cheeks like dew on the silken leaves of
the rose ere the sunbeams of the morning have exhaled it. Those
tears left an humble lustre in her eyes, even more interesting than
their wonted brilliancy. Her hair hung in rich and unrestrained
luxuriance—for she had thrown off her hat on first going to her
chamber—and gave to the beauty of her face, and the elegance of
her form, a complete finishing.
“Here, madam, is the ring,” cried she, presenting it to Lady Martha,
“and here is the picture,” she would have added, but her voice
faltered, and a tear started from her eye. Determined to conceal, if
possible, her feelings, she hastily dashed away the pearly fugitive.
Lady Martha was again extending her hand when Lord Mortimer
suddenly started from a couch on which he had thrown himself, and
snatching the picture from the trembling hand that held it, pulled it
from its case, and flinging it on the floor, trampled it beneath his
feet. “Thus perish,” exclaimed he, “every memento of my
attachment to Amanda! Oh, wretched, wretched girl!” cried he,
suddenly grasping her hand, and as suddenly relinquishing it, “Oh,
wretched, wretched girl! you have undone yourself and me!” He
turned abruptly away, and instantly quitted the room. Shocked by his
words, and terrified by his manner, Amanda had just power to gain a
chair. Lady Martha seemed also thunderstruck; but, from the musing
attitude in which she stood, the deep convulsive suffocating sobs of
Amanda soon called her. She went to her, and finding her unable to
help herself, loosened her cravat, bathed her temples with lavender,
and gave her water to drink. These attentions, and the tears she
shed, revived Amanda. She raised herself in her chair, on which she
had fallen back, but was yet too much agitated to stand.
“Poor, unhappy young creature!” said Lady Martha, “I pity you from
my soul! Ah! if your mind resembled your person, what a perfect
creature had you been! How happy had then been my poor
Mortimer!”
Now, now was the test, the shining test of Amanda’s virtue,
agonized by knowing she had lost the good opinion of those whom
she loved with such ardor, esteemed with such reverence. She knew
by a few words she could explain the appearances which had
deprived her of his good opinion, and fully regain it—regain, by a
few words, the love, the esteem of her valued, her inestimable
Mortimer—the affection, the protection, of his amiable aunt and
sister. She leaned her head upon her hand, the weight on her bosom
became less oppressive; she raised her head. “Of my innocence I
can give such proofs,” cried she. Her lips closed, a mortal paleness
overspread her face; the sound of suicide seemed piercing through
her ear; she trembled; the solemn, the dreadful declaration Lord
Cherbury had made of not surviving the disclosure of his secret, her
promise of inviolably keeping it, both rushed upon her mind. She
beheld herself on the very verge of a tremendous precipice, and
about plunging herself and a fellow-creature into it, from whence, at
the tribunal of her God, she would have to answer for accelerating
the death of that fellow-creature. “And is it by a breach of faith?”
she asked herself, “I hope to be reestablished in the opinion of Lord
Mortimer and his relations. Ah! mistaken idea, and how great is the
delusion passion spreads before our eyes, even if their esteem could
be thus regained? Oh! what were that, or what the esteem, the
plaudits of the world, if those of my own heart were gone forever!
Oh! never!” cried she, still to herself, and raising her eyes to Heaven.
“Oh! never may the pang of self-reproach be added to those which
now oppress me!” Her heart at the moment formed a solemn vow
never, by any wilful act, to merit such a pang. “And, oh, my God!”
she cried, “forgive thy weak creature who, assailed by strong
temptation, thought for a moment of wandering from the path of
truth and integrity, which can alone conduct her to the region where
peace and immortal glory will be hers.”
Amanda, amidst her powerful emotions, forgot she was observed,
except by that Being to whom she applied for pardon and future
strength. Lady Martha had been a silent spectator of her emotions,
and, thinking as she did of Amanda, could only hope that they
proceeded from contrition for her past conduct, forcibly awakened
by reflecting on the deprivations it had caused her.
When she again saw Amanda able to pay attention, she addressed
her: “I said I was sorry for witnessing your distress; I shall not
repent the expression, thinking as I now do; I hope that it is
occasioned by regret for past errors: the tears of repentance wash
away the stains of guilt, and that heart must indeed be callous which
the sigh of remorse will not melt to pity.” Amanda turned her eyes
with earnestness on Lady Martha as she spoke, and her cheeks were
again tinged with a faint glow.
“Perhaps I speak too plainly,” cried Lady Martha, witnessing this
glow, and imputing it to resentment; “but I have ever liked the
undisguised language of sincerity. It gave me pleasure,” she
continued, “to hear you had been in employment at Mrs. Duncan’s,
but that pleasure was destroyed by hearing you were going to
London, though to seek your brother; Mrs. Duncan has informed
Mrs. Macqueen. If this were indeed the motive, there are means of
inquiring without taking so imprudent a step.” “Imprudent!” repeated
Amanda, involuntarily. “Yes,” cried Lady Martha, “a journey so long,
without a protector, to a young, I must add, a lovely woman, teems
with danger, from which a mind of delicacy would shrink appalled. If,
indeed, you go to seek your brother, and he regards you as he
should, he would rather have you neglect him (though that you need
not have done by staying with Mrs. Duncan), than run into the way
of insults. No emergency in life should lead us to do an improper
thing; as trying to produce good by evil is impious, so trying to
produce pleasure by imprudence is folly; they are trials, however
flatteringly they may commence, which are sure to end in sorrow
and disappointment.
“You will,” continued Lady Martha, “if indeed anxious to escape from
any farther censure than what has already fallen upon you, return to
Mrs. Duncan, when I inform you (if indeed you are already ignorant
of it) that Colonel Belgrave passed this road about a month ago, on
his way from a remote part of Scotland to London, where he now is.”
“I cannot help,” said Amanda, “the misconstructions which may be
put on my actions; I can only support myself under the pain they
inflict by conscious rectitude. I am shocked, indeed, at the surmises
entertained about me, and a wretch whom my soul abhorred from
the moment I knew his real principles.”
“If,” said Lady Martha, “your journey is really not prompted by the
intention of seeing your brother, you heighten every other by
duplicity.” “You are severe, madam,” exclaimed Amanda, in whose
soul the pride of injured innocence was again reviving.
“If I probe the wound,” cried Lady Martha. “I would also wish to heal
it. It is the wish I feel of saving a young creature from further error,
of serving a being once so valued by him who possesses my first
regard, that makes me speak as I now do. Return to Mrs. Duncan’s,
prove in one instance at least you do not deserve suspicion. She is
your friend, and in your situation a friend is too precious a treasure
to run the risk of losing it with her; as she lives retired, there will be
little danger of your history or real name being discovered, which I
am sorry you dropped, let your motive for doing so be what it may,
for the detection of one deception makes us suspect every other.
Return, I repeat, to Mrs. Duncan’s, and if you want any inquiries
made about your brother, dictate them, and I will take care they
shall be made, and that you shall know their result.”
Had Amanda’s motive for a journey to London been only to seek her
brother, she would gladly have accepted this offer, thus avoiding the
imputation of travelling after Belgrave, or of going to join him, the
hazard of encountering him in London, and the dangers of so long a
journey; but the affair of the will required expedition, and her own
immediate presence—an affair the injunction of Lady Dunreath had
prohibited her disclosing to any one who could not immediately
forward it, and which, if such an injunction never existed, she could
not with propriety have divulged to Lady Martha, who was so soon
to be connected with a family so materially concerned in it, and in
whose favor, on account of her nephew’s connection with them, it
was probable she might be biased.
Amanda hoped and believed that in a place so large as London, and
with her assumed name (which she now resolved not to drop till in a
more secure situation), she should escape Belgrave. As to meeting
him on the road she had not the smallest apprehension concerning
that, naturally concluding that he never would have taken so long a
journey as he had lately done, if he could have stayed but a few
weeks away. Time, she trusted, would prove the falsity of the
inference, which she already was informed would be drawn from her
persevering in her journey. She told Lady Martha “that she thanked
her for her kind offer, but must decline it, as the line of conduct she
had marked out for herself rendered it unnecessary whose
innocence would yet be justified,” she added. Lady Martha shook her
head; the consciousness of having excited suspicions which she
could not justify, had indeed given to the looks of Amanda a
confusion when she spoke which confirmed them in Lady Martha’s
breast. “I am sorry for your determination,” said she, “but
notwithstanding it is so contrary to my ideas of what is right, I
cannot let you depart without telling you that, should you at any
time want or require services, which you would, or could not, ask
from strangers, or perhaps expect them to perform, acquaint me,
and command mine; yet, in doing justice to my own feelings, I must
not do injustice to the noble ones of Lord Mortimer. It is by his
desire, as well as my own inclination, I now speak to you in this
manner, though past events, and the situation he is about entering
into, must forever preclude his personal interference in your affairs.
He could never hear the daughter of Captain Fitzalan suffered
inconveniency of any kind, without wishing, without having her,
indeed, if possible, extricated from it.” “Oh! madam,” cried Amanda,
unable to repress her gushing tears, “I am already well acquainted
with the noble feelings of Lord Mortimer, already oppressed with a
weight of obligations.” Lady Martha was affected by her energy; her
eyes grew humid, and her voice softened. “Error in you will be more
inexcusable than in others,” cried Lady Martha, “because, like too
many unhappy creatures, you cannot plead the desertion of all the
world. To regret past errors, be they what they may, is to insure my
assistance and protection, if both, or either, are at any time required
by you. Was I even gone, I should take care to leave a substitute
behind me who should fulfil my intentions towards you, and by so
doing at once soothe and gratify the feelings of Lord Mortimer.” “I
thank you, madam,” cried Amanda, rising from her chair, and, as she
wiped away her tears, summoning all her fortitude to her aid, “for
the interest you express about me; the time may yet come, perhaps,
when I shall prove I never was unworthy of exciting it—when the
notice now offered from compassion may be tendered from esteem
—then,” continued Amanda, who could not forbear this justice to
herself, “the pity of Lady Martha Dormer will not humble but exalt
me, because then I shall know that it proceeded from that generous
sympathy which one virtuous mind feels for another in distress.” She
moved to the door. “How lamentable,” said Lady Martha, “to have
such talents misapplied!” “Ah! madam,” cried Amanda, stopping, and
turning mournfully to her, “I find you are inflexible.”
Lady Martha shook her head, and Amanda had laid her hand upon
the lock, when Lady Martha said suddenly, “There were letters
passed between you and Lord Mortimer.” Amanda bowed. “They had
better be mutually returned,” said Lady Martha. “Do you seal up his
and send them to Lord Cherbury’s house in London, directed to me,
and I will pledge myself to have yours returned.” “You shall be
obeyed, madam,” replied Amanda, in a low, broken voice, after the
pause of a moment. Lady Martha then said she would no longer
encroach upon her rest, and she retired.
In her chamber, the feelings she had so long, so painfully tried to
suppress, broke forth without again meeting opposition. The pride
which had given her transient animation was no more; for, as past
circumstances arose to recollection, she could not wonder at her
being condemned from them. She no longer accused Lady Martha in
her mind of severity—no longer felt offended with her; but, oh!
Mortimer, the bitter tears she shed fell not for herself alone; she
wept to think thy destiny, though more prosperous, was not less
unhappy than her own; for in thy broken accents, thy altered looks,
she perceived a passion strong and sincere as ever for her, and well
she knew Lady Euphrasia not calculated to soothe a sad heart, or
steal an image from it which corroded its felicity. Rest, after the
incidents of the evening, was not to be thought of, but nature was
exhausted, and insensibly Amanda sunk upon the bed in a deep
sleep—so insensibly, that when she awoke, which was not till the
morning was pretty far advanced, she felt surprised at her situation.
She felt cold and unrefreshed from having lain in her clothes all
night, and when she went to adjust her dress at the glass, was
surprised at the pallidness of her looks. Anxious to escape a second
painful meeting, she went to the window to see if the chaise was
come, but was disappointed on finding that she had slept at the
back of the house. She heard no noise, and concluded the family
had not yet risen after the amusements of the preceding night, sat
down by the window which looked into a spacious garden, above
which rose romantic hills that formed a screen for some young and
beautiful plantations that lay between them and the garden; but the
misty tops of the hills, the varied trees which autumn spread over
the plantations, nor the neat appearance of the garden, had power
to amuse the imagination of Amanda. Her patience was exhausted
after sitting some time, and going to the door she softly opened it,
to try if she could hear any one stirring. She had not stood long,
when the sound of footsteps and voices rose from below. She
instantly quitted her room, and descended the stairs into a small
hall, across which was a folding-door; this she gently opened, and
found it divided the hall she stood in from the one that was spacious
and lofty, and which her passing through the preceding night before
it was lighted up had prevented her taking notice of. Here, at a long
table, were the men servants belonging to the family, and the guests
assembled at breakfast, the piper at the head, like the king of the
feast. Amanda stepped back the moment she perceived them, well
knowing Lord Mortimer’s servants would recollect her, and was
ascending the stairs to her room to ring for one of the maids, when
a servant hastily followed her, and said the family were already in
the breakfast-room. At the same moment, Mr. Colin Macqueen came
from a parlor which opened into the little hall, and paying Amanda,
in a lively and affectionate manner, the compliments of the morning,
he led her to the parlor, where not only all the family guests who
had lain in the house, but several gentlemen, who had been with
them the preceding night, were assembled. Doctor Johnson has
already celebrated a Scotch breakfast, nor was the one at which
Mrs. Macqueen and her fair daughters presided inferior to any he
had seen. Beside chocolate, tea, and coffee, with the usual
appendages, there were rich cakes, choice sweetmeats, and a
variety of cold pastry, with ham and chickens, to which several of the
gentlemen did honor. The dishes were ornamented with sweet herbs
and wild flowers, gathered about the feet of the mountains and in
the valley, and by every guest was placed a fine bouquet from the
green-house, with little French mottoes on love and friendship about
them, which, being opened and read, added to the mirth of the
company.
“I was just going to send one of the girls for you,” said Mrs.
Macqueen, when Amanda had taken a place at the table, “and would
have done so before, but wished you to get as much rest as
possible, after your fatiguing journey.” “I assure you, madam,” said
Amanda, “I have been up this long time, expecting every moment a
summons to the chaise.” “I took care of that last night,” said Mrs.
Macqueen, “for I was determined you should not depart, at least
without breakfasting.” Amanda was seated between Mr. Colin
Macqueen and his eldest sister, and sought, by conversing with the
former, for the latter was too much engrossed by the general gayety
to pay much attention to any one, to avoid the looks she dreaded to
see. Yet the sound of Lord Mortimer’s voice affected her as much
almost as his looks.
“Pray, Lady Martha,” said the second Miss Macqueen, a lively,
thoughtless girl, “will your ladyship be so good as to guarantee a
promise Lord Mortimer has just made me, or rather that I have
extorted from him, which is the cause of this application?” “You must
first, my dear,” answered Lady Martha, “let me know what the
promise is.” “Why, gloves and bridal favors; but most unwillingly
granted, I can assure your ladyship.” Amanda was obliged to set
down the cup she was raising to her lips, and a glance stole
involuntarily from her towards Lord Mortimer—a glance instantly
withdrawn when she saw his eyes in the same direction. “I declare,”
continued Miss Phœbe Macqueen, “I should do the favor all due
honor.” “I am sure,” cried Lord Mortimer, attempting to speak
cheerfully, “your acceptance of it will do honor to the presenter.”
“And your lordship may be sure, too,” said one of her brothers, “it is
a favor she would wish with all her heart to have an opportunity of
returning.” “Oh! in that she would not be singular,” said a gentleman.
“What do you think, Miss Donald,” cried Colin Macqueen, turning to
Amanda, “do you imagine she would not?” Amanda could scarcely
speak. She tried, however, to hide her agitation, and, forcing a faint
smile, with a voice nearly as faint, said, “that was not a fair
question.” The Miss Macqueens took upon themselves to answer it,
and Amanda, through their means, was relieved from farther
embarrassment.
Breakfast over, Amanda was anxious to depart, and yet wanted
courage to be the first to move. A charm seemed to bind her to the
spot where, for the last time, she should behold Lord Mortimer, at
least the last time she ever expected to see him unmarried.
Her dread of being late on the road—and she heard the destined
stage for the night was at a great distance—at last conquered her
reluctance to move, and she said to Mr. Colin Macqueen it was time
for her to go. At that moment Lord Mortimer rose, and proposed to
the young Macqueens going with them to see the new plantations
behind the house, which old Mr. Macqueen had expressed a desire
his lordship should give his opinion of.
All the young gentlemen, as well as the Macqueens, Colin excepted,
attended his lordship; nor did they depart without wishing Amanda a
pleasant journey.
Silent and sad, she continued in her chair for some minutes after
they quitted the room, forgetful of her situation, till the loud laugh of
the Miss Macqueens restored her to a recollection of it. She blushed,
and, rising hastily, was proceeding to pay her farewell compliments,
when Mrs. Macqueen, rising, drew her to the window, and in a low
voice repeated her request for Amanda’s company a few days. This
Amanda again declined, but gratefully expressed her thanks for it,
and the hospitality she had experienced. Mrs. Macqueen said, on her
return to Scotland, she hoped to be more successful. She also
added, that some of her boys and girls would gladly have
accompanied Amanda a few miles on her way, had not they all
agreed, ere her arrival, to escort Lord Mortimer’s party to an inn at
no great distance, and take an early dinner, with them. She should
write that day, she said, to Mrs. Duncan, and thank her for having
introduced to her family a person whose acquaintance was an
acquisition. Amanda, having received the affectionate adieus of this
amiable woman and her daughters, curtseyed, though with
downcast looks, to Lady Martha and Lady Araminta, who returned
her salutation with coolness.
Followed by two of the Miss Macqueens, she hurried through the
hall, from which the servants and the breakfast things were already
removed, but how was she distressed when the first object she saw
outside the door was Lord Mortimer, by whom stood Colin Macqueen
—who had left the parlor to see if the chaise was ready—and one of
his brothers. Hastily would she have stepped forward to the chaise,
had not the gallantry of the young men impeded her way. They
expressed sorrow at her not staying longer among them, and hopes
on her return she would.
“Pray, my lord,” cried the Miss Macqueens, while their brothers were
thus addressing Amanda, “pray, my lord,” almost in the same breath,
“what have you done with the gentlemen?” “You should ask your
brother,” he replied; “he has locked them up in the plantation.” A
frolic was at all times pleasing to the light-hearted Macqueens, and
to enjoy the present one off they ran directly, followed by their
brothers, all calling, as they ran, to Amanda not to stir till they came
back, which would be in a few minutes; but Amanda, from the
awkward, the agitating situation in which they had left her, would
instantly have relieved herself, could she have made the postilion
hear her; but, as if enjoying the race, he had gone to some distance
to view it, and none of the servants of the house were near.
Conscious of her own emotions, she feared betraying them, and
stepped a few yards from the door, pretending to be engrossed by
the Macqueens. A heavy sigh suddenly pierced her ears. “Amanda,”
in the next moment said a voice to which her heart vibrated. She
turned with involuntary quickness and saw Lord Mortimer close by
her. “Amanda,” he repeated; then suddenly clasping his hands
together, exclaimed, with an agonized expression, while he turned
abruptly from her, “Gracious Heaven! what a situation! Amanda,”
said he, again looking at her, “the scene which happened last night
was distressing. I am now sorry on your account that it took place.
Notwithstanding past events, I bear you no ill-will. The knowledge of
your uneasiness would give me pain. From my heart I forgive you all
that you have caused—that you have entailed upon me. At this
moment I could take you to my arms, and weep over you—like the
fond mother over the last darling of her hopes—tears of pity and
forgiveness.”
Amanda, unutterably affected, covered her face to hide the tears
which bedewed it.
“Let me have the pleasure of hearing,” continued Lord Mortimer,
“that you forgive the uneasiness and pain I might have occasioned
you last night.” “Forgive!” repeated Amanda. “Oh, my lord,” and her
voice sunk in the sobs which heaved her bosom. “Could I think you
were, you would be happy—" Lord Mortimer stopped, overcome by
strong emotions.
“Happy!” repeated Amanda! “oh! never—never!” continued she,
raising her streaming eyes to heaven; “oh, never—never in this
world!”
At this moment the Macqueens were not only heard but seen
running back, followed by the gentlemen whom they had been
prevailed on to liberate. Shocked at the idea of being seen in such a
situation, Amanda would have called the postilion, but he was too
far off to hear her weak voice, had she then even been able to exert
that voice. She looked towards him, however, with an expression
which denoted the feelings of her soul. Lord Mortimer, sensible of
those feelings, hastily pulled open the door of the chaise, and taking
the cold and trembling hand of Amanda with one equally cold and
trembling, assisted her into the chaise, then pressing the hand he
held between both his, he suddenly let it drop from him, and closing
the door without again looking at Amanda, called to the driver, who
instantly obeyed the call, and had mounted ere the Macqueens
arrived. Oh, what a contrast did their looks, blooming with health
and exercise, their gayety, their protected situation, form to the wan,
dejected, desolate Amanda! With looks of surprise they were going
up to the chaise, when Lord Mortimer, still standing by it, and
anxious to save his unhappy, lost Amanda the pain of being noticed
in such agitation, gave the man a signal to drive off, which was
instantly obeyed.
Thus did Amanda leave the mansion of the Macqueens, where
sorrow had scarcely ever before entered without meeting alleviation,
a mansion, where the stranger, the wayfaring man, and the needy,
were sure of a welcome, cordial as benevolence and hospitality
themselves could give; and where happiness, as pure as in this
sublunary state can be experienced, was enjoyed. As she drove from
the door, she saw the splendid equipages of Lord Mortimer and Lady
Martha driving to it. She turned from them with a sigh, at reflecting
they would soon grace the bridal pomp of Lady Euphrasia. She
pursued the remainder of her journey without meeting anything
worthy of relation. It was in the evening she reached London. The
moment she stopped at the hotel she sent for a carriage, and
proceeded in it to Mrs. Connel’s, in Bond Street.
 CHAPTER L.

“Dissembling hope, her cloudy front she clears,

And a false vigor in her eyes appears.”—Dryden.

She alighted from the carriage when it stopped at the door, and
entered the shop, where, to her inexpressible satisfaction, the first
object she beheld was Miss Rushbrook, sitting pensively at one of
the counters. The moment she saw Amanda she recollected her,
and, starting up, exclaimed, as she took her hand, “Ah! dear
madam, this is indeed a joyful surprise! Ah! how often have I wished
to meet you again to express my gratitude.” The affectionate
reception she met, and the unexpected sight of Miss Rushbrook,
seemed to promise Amanda that her wishes relative to Rushbrook
would not only be accelerated, but crowned with success. She
returned the fervent pressure of Miss Rushbrook’s hand, and
inquired after her parents—the inquiry appeared distressing, and she
was answered, with hesitation, that they were indifferent. The
evident embarrassment her question excited prevented her renewing
it at this time. The mistress of the house was not present, and
Amanda requested, if she was within, she might see her directly.
Miss Rushbrook immediately stepped to a parlor behind the shop,
and almost instantly returned, followed by the lady herself, who was
a little fat Irish woman, past her prime, but not past her relish for
the good things of this life. “Dear madam,” said she, curtseying to
Amanda, “you are very welcome. I protest I am very glad to see
you, though I never had that pleasure but once before; but it is no
wonder I should be so, for I have heard your praises every day
since, I am sure, from that young lady,” looking at Miss Rushbrook.
Amanda bowed, but her heart was too full of the purpose of this visit
to allow her to speak about anything else. She was just come from
the country, she told Mrs. Connel, where (she sighed as she spoke)
she had left her friends, and, being unwilling to go amongst total
strangers, she had come to her house in hopes of being able to
procure lodgings in it.
“Dear ma’am,” said Mrs. Connel, “I protest I should have been happy
to have accommodated you, but at present my house is quite full.”
The disappointment this speech gave Amanda rendered her silent for
a moment, and she was then going to ask Mrs. Connel if she could
recommend her to a lodging, when she perceived Miss Rushbrook
whispering her. “Why, madam,” cried the former, who, by a nod of
her head, seemed to approve of what the latter had been saying,
“since you dislike so much going among strangers, which, indeed,
shows your prudence, considering what queer kind of people are in
the world, Miss Emily says, that if you condescend to accept of part
of her little bed, till you can settle yourself more comfortably in
town, you shall be extremely welcome to it; and I can assure you,
madam, I shall do everything in my power to render my house
agreeable to you.” “Oh, most joyfully, most thankfully, do I accept
the offer,” said Amanda, whose heart had sunk at the idea of going
amongst strangers. “Any place,” she continued, speaking in the
fulness of that agitated heart, “beneath so reputable a roof, would
be an asylum of comfort I should prefer to a palace, if utterly
unacquainted with the people who inhabited it.” Her trunk was now
brought in, and the carriage discharged. “I suppose, ma’am,” said
Mrs. Connel, looking at the trunk on which her assumed name was
marked, “you are Scotch by your name, though, indeed, you have
not much of the accent about you.” “I declare,” cried Emily, also
looking at it, “till this moment I was ignorant of your name.”
Amanda was pleased to hear this, and resolved not to disclose her
real one, except convinced Rushbrook would interest himself in her
affairs. She was conducted into the parlor, which was neatly
furnished, and opened into the shop by a glass door. Mrs. Connel
stirred a declining fire into a cheerful blaze, and desired to know if
Amanda would choose anything for dinner. “Speak the word only, my
dear,” said she, “and I think I can procure you a cold bone in the
house. If you had come two hours sooner, I could have given you a
bit of nice veal for your dinner.” Amanda assured her she did not
wish to take anything till tea-time.
“Well, well,” cried Mrs. Connel, “you shall have a snug cup of tea by
and by, and a hot muffin with it. I am very fond of tea myself,
though poor Mr. Connel, who is dead and gone, used often and
often to say, ‘I that was so nervous should never touch tea;’ ‘but,
Biddy,’ he would say, and he would laugh so, poor clear man, ‘you
and all your sex are like your mother Eve, unable to resist
temptation.’”
Emily retired soon after Amanda entered; but returned in a few
minutes with her hat and cloak on, and said, nothing but a visit she
must pay her parents should have induced her to forego, for the first
evening, at least, the pleasure of Miss Donald’s society. Amanda
thanked her for her politeness, but assured her if considered as a
restraint she should be unhappy.
“I assure you,” said Mrs. Connel, as Emily departed, “she is very fond
of you.” “I am happy to hear it,” replied Amanda, “for I think her a
most amiable girl.” “Indeed she is,” cried the other; “all the fault I
find with her is being too grave for her time of life. Poor thing, one
cannot wonder at that, however, considering the situation of her
parents.” “I hope,” interrupted Amanda, “it is not so bad as it was.”
“Bad! Lord! it cannot be worse; the poor captain has been in jail
above a year.” “I am sorry,” said Amanda, “to hear this. Has any
application been made to Lady Greystock since his confinement?”
“To Lady Greystock! why, Lord! one might as well apply to one of the
wild beasts in the Tower! Ah! poor gentleman, if he was never to get
nothing but what she gave him, I believe he would not long be a
trouble to any one. It is now about fourteen years since my
acquaintance with him first commenced. My poor husband, that is
no more, and I kept a shop in Dublin, where the captain’s regiment
was quartered, and he being only a lieutenant had not room enough
for his family in the barracks, so he took lodgings at our house,
where Mrs. Rushbrook lay in, and I being with her now and then
during her confinement, a kind of friendship grew up amongst us.
They had not left us long to go to America, when a relation of my
husband, who owned this house and shop, having lost his wife, and
being lonesome, without either chick or child, invited us to come and
live with him, promising us if we did, to settle us in his business, and
leave us everything he had. Well, such offers do not come every
day; so, to be sure, we took him at his word; and here we had not
long been when the poor man bid adieu to all mortal care, and was
soon followed by Mr. Connel. Well, to be sure, I was sad and solitary
enough; but when I thought how irreligious it was to break one’s
heart with grief, I plucked up my spirits and began to hold up my
head again. So, to make a short story of a long one, about six years
ago Mrs. Rushbrook and Miss Emily came one day into the shop to
buy something, little thinking they should see an old friend. It was,
to be sure, a meeting of joy and sorrow, as one may say. We told all
our griefs to each other, and I found things were very bad with the
poor captain. Indeed I have a great regard for him and his family,
and when he was confined, I took Emily home as an assistant in my
business. The money she earned was to go to her parents, and I
agreed to give her her clothes gratis; but that would have gone but
a little way in feeding so many mouths, had I not procured plain
work for Mrs. Rushbrook and her daughters. Emily is a very good
girl, indeed, and it is to see her parents she is now gone. But while I
am gabbling away I am sure the kettle is boiling.” So saying, she
started up, and ringing the bell, took the tea-things from a beaufet
where they were kept. The maid having obeyed the well-known
summons, then retired; and as soon as the tea was made, and the
muffins buttered, Mrs. Connel made Amanda draw her chair close to
the table, that she might, as she said, look snug, and drink her tea
comfortably.
“I assure you, madam,” cried she, “it was a lucky hour for Miss Emily
when she entered my house.” “I have no doubt of that,” said
Amanda. “You must know, madam,” proceeded Mrs. Connel, “about
a month ago a gentleman came to lodge with me, who I soon found
was making speeches to Miss Emily. He was one of those wild
looking sparks, who, like Ranger in the play, looked as if they would
be popping through every one’s doors and windows, and playing
such tricks as made poor Mr. Strickland so jealous of his wife. Well, I
took my gentleman to task one day unawares. ‘So, Mr. Sipthorpe,’
says I, ‘I am told you have cast a sheep’s eye upon one of my girls;
but I must tell you she is a girl of virtue and family, so if you do not
mean to deal honorably with her, you must either decamp from this,
or speak to her no more.’ Upon this he made me a speech as long as
a member of parliament’s upon a new tax. ‘Lord, Mr. Sipthorpe,’ said
I, ‘there is no occasion for all this oratory, a few words will settle the
business between us.’ Well, this was coming close to the point, you
will say, and he told me then he always meant to deal honorably by
Miss Emily, and told me all about his circumstances; and I found he
had a fine fortune, which indeed I partly guessed before from the
appearance he made, and he said he would not only marry Miss
Emily, but take her parents out of prison, and provide for the whole
family. Well, now comes the provoking part of the story. A young
clergyman had been kind at the beginning of their distress to them,
and he and Miss Emily took it into their heads to fall in love with
each other. Well, her parents gave their consent to their being
married, which to be sure I thought a very foolish thing, knowing the
young man’s inability to serve them. To be sure he promised fair
enough; but, Lord! what could a poor curate do for them,
particularly when he got a wife and a house full of children of his
own? I thought; so I supposed they would be quite glad to be off
with him, and to give her to Mr. Sipthorpe; but no such thing I
assure you. When I mentioned it to them, one talked of honor, and
another of gratitude, and as to Miss Emily, she fairly went into fits.
Well, I thought I would serve them in spite of themselves, so,
knowing the curate to be a romantic young follow, I writes off to
him, and tells him what a cruel thing it would be, if, for his own
gratification, he kept Miss Emily to her word, and made her lose a
match which would free her family from all their difficulties; and, in
short, I touched upon his passion not a little, I assure you, and, as I
hoped, a letter came from him, in which he told her he gave her up.
Well, to be sure there was sad work when it came—with her, I mean,
for the captain and his wife were glad enough of it, I believe, in their
hearts; so at last everything was settled for her marriage with Mr.
Sipthorpe, and he made a number of handsome presents to her, I
assure you, and they are to be married in a few days. He is only
waiting for his rents in the country to take the captain out of prison;
but here is Miss Emily, instead of being quite merry and joyful, is as
dull and as melancholy as if she was going to be married to a
frightful old man.” “Consider,” said Amanda, “you have just said her
heart was pre-engaged.” “Lord!” cried Mrs. Connel, “a girl at her
time of life can change her love as easily as her cap.” “I sincerely
hope,” exclaimed Amanda, “that she either has, or may soon be able
to transfer hers.” “And now, pray, madam,” said Mrs. Connel, with a
look which seemed to say Amanda should be as communicative as
she had been, “may I ask from whence you have travelled?” “From a
remote part of Scotland.” “Dear, what a long journey!—Lord! they
say that is a very desolate place, without never a tree or a bush in
it.” “I assure you it wants neither shade nor verdure,” replied
Amanda. “Really; well, Lord, what lies some people tell! Pray,
ma’am, may I ask what countrywoman you are?” “Welsh,” said
Amanda. “Really; well, I suppose, ma’am, you have had many a
scramble up the mountains, after the goats, which they say are
marvellous plenty in that part of the world.” “No, indeed,” replied
Amanda, “Are you come to make any long stay in London, ma’am?”
“I have not determined.” “I suppose you have come about a little
business, ma’am?” resumed Mrs. Connel. “Yes,” replied Amanda. “To
be sure, not an affair of great consequence, or so young a lady
would not have undertaken it.” Amanda smiled, but made no reply,
and was at length relieved from these tiresome and inquisitive
questions by Mrs. Connel’s calling in her girls to tea; after which she
washed the tea-things, put them into the beaufet, and left the room
to order something comfortable for supper. Left to herself, Amanda
reflected that at the present juncture of Rushbrook’s affairs, when
his attention and time were engrossed by the approaching
settlement of his daughter, an application to him, on her own
account, would be not only impertinent, but unavailing; she
therefore determined to wait till the hurry and agitation produced by
such an event had subsided, and most sincerely did she hope that it
might be productive of felicity to all. Mrs. Connel was not long
absent, and Emily returned almost at the moment she re-entered
the room. “Well, miss,” said Mrs. Connel, addressing her ere she had
time to speak to Amanda, “I have been telling your good friend here
all about your affairs.”
“Have you, ma’am?” cried Emily, with a faint smile, and a dejected
voice. Amanda looked earnestly in her face, and saw an expression
of the deepest sadness in it. From her own heart she readily
imagined what her feelings must be at such a disappointment as
Mrs. Connel had mentioned, and felt the sincerest pity for her. Mrs.
Connel’s volubility tormented them both; supper happily terminated
it, as she was then much better employed, in her own opinion, than
she could possibly have been in talking. Amanda pleaded fatigue for
retiring early. Mrs. Connel advised her to try a few glasses of wine as
a restorative, but she begged to be excused, and was allowed to
retire with Emily. The chamber was small but neat, and enlivened by
a good fire, to which Amanda and Emily sat down while undressing.
The latter eagerly availed herself of this opportunity to express the
gratitude of her heart. Amanda tried to change the discourse, but
could not succeed. “Long, madam,” continued Emily, “have we
wished to return our thanks for a benefaction so delicately conveyed
as yours, and happy were my parents to-night when I informed
them I could now express their grateful feelings.” “Though interested
exceedingly in your affairs,” said Amanda, making another effort to
change the discourse, “be assured I never should have taken the
liberty of inquiring minutely into them, and I mention this, lest you
might suppose from what Mrs. Connel said, that I had done so.” “No,
madam,” replied Emily, “I had no such idea, and an inquiry from you
would be rather pleasing than otherwise, because I should then
flatter myself you might be induced to listen to griefs which have
long wanted the consolation of sympathy—such, I am sure, as they
would receive from you.” “Happy should I be,” cried Amanda, “had I
the power of alleviating them.” “Oh! madam, you have the power,”
said Emily, “for you would commiserate them, and commiseration
from you would be balm to my heart; you would strengthen me in
my duties—you would instruct me in resignation; but I am selfish in
desiring to intrude them on you.” “No,” replied Amanda, taking her
hand, “you flatter me by such a desire.” “Then, madam, whilst you
are undressing, I will give myself the melancholy indulgence of
relating my little story.”