Roche_Children_of_the_Abbey.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
CHAPTER I.
" Yellow sheafs from rich Ceres the cottage had crownedi
Green rushes were strewed on the floor ;
The casements sweet woodbine crept wantonly round,
And decked the sod seats at the door," Cunningham.
Hail, sweet asylum of my infancy I Content and innocence
reside beneath your humble roof, and charity unboastful of the
good it renders. Hail, ye venerable trees I my happiest hours
of childish gayety were passed beneath your shelter then, care-
less .IS the birds that sung upon your boughs, I laughed the
hours away, nor knew of evil.
Here surely I shall be guarded from duplicity ; and if not
happy, at least in some degree tranquil. Here unmolested may
I wait, till the rude storm of sorrow is overblown, and my
father's arms are again expanded to receive me.
Such were the words of Amanda, as the chaise (which she
had hired at a neighboring village on quitting the mail) turned
down a little verdant lane, almost darkened by old trees, whose
interwoven branches allowed her scarcely a glimpse of her
nurse's cottage, till she had reached the door.
A number of tender recollections rushing upon her mind; ren-
dered her almost unable to alight; but the nurse and her
husband, who had been impatiently watching for the arrival of '
their fondling, assisted her, and the former, obeying the dictates
of nature and affection, half stifled her with caresses ; the latter
respectfully kissed her hand, and dropped a tear of unutterable
joy upon it. Lort, he said, he was surprised, to be sure, at the
4 Tim CnriDREN of the ABtiEV.
alteration a few years had made in lier person why, It seemed
to him as if it was only the other day since he had carried her
about in his arms, quite a little fairy. Then he begged to
know how his tear old captain was, and Mr, Oscar and
whether tjie latter was not grown a very fine youth, Amanda,
smiling through her tears, endeavored to answer his inquiries ;
but she was so much affected by her feelings, as to be scarcely
able to speak ; and when, by her desire, he went out to discharge
the chaise, and assist tlie young man (who had travelled with
her from London) to bring in her luggage, her head sunk upon
her nurse's bosom, whose arms encircled her waist. " My dear
faithful niirse," she sobbed, " your poor child is again returned
to peek an asylum from you." " And she is heartily welcome,"
replied the good creature, crying herself, " and I have taken
care to have everything so nice, and so tidy, and so comfort-
able, that I warrant you the greatest laly in the land need not
disdain your apartments ; and here are two little girls, as well
as myself, that will always be ready to attend, serve and obey
you. This is Ellen, your own foster-sister ; and this is Betsey,
the little thing I had in the cradle when you went away and I
have besides, though I say it myself that should not say it, two
as fine lads as you could wish to see ; they are now at work at
a farmer's hard by ; but they will be here presently. Thank
Cot, we are all happy, though obliged to earn our own bread j
but 'tis sweeter for that reason, since labor gives us health to
enjoy it, and contentment blesses us all." Amanda affection-
ately embraced the two girls, who were the pictures of health
and cheerfulness, and was then conducted into a little parlor,
which, with a small bedchamber adjoining it, was appropriated
to her use. The neatness of the room was truly pleasing ; the
floor was nicely sanded ; the hearth was dressed with " flowers
and fennel gay;" and the chimney-piece adorned with a range
of broken teacups, " wisely kept for show ; " a clock ticked
behind the door ; and an ebony cupboard displayed a profusion
of the showiest ware the country could produce. And now the
nurse, on " hospitable thought intent," hurried from Amanda
to prepare her dinner. The chicken, as she said herself, was
ready to pop down in a minute ; Ellen tied the asparagus ; and
Betsey laid the cloth ; Edwin drew his best cider, and, having
brought it in himself, retired to entertain his guest in the
kitchen (Amanda's travelling companion), before whom he had
already set some of his most substantial fare.
Dinner, in the opinion of Amanda, was served in a moment ;
but her heart was too full to eat, though pressed to do so with
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 5
the utmost tenderness, a tenderness which, in truth, was the
means of overcoming her.
When insulted by malice, or oppressed by cruelty, the heart
can assume a stern fortitude foreign to its nature \ but this seem-
ing apathy vanishes at the voice of kindness, as the rigid frost
of winter melts before the gentle influence of the sun, and tears,
gushing tears of gratitude and sensibility, express its yielding
feelings. Sacred are such tears ; they flow from the sweet
source of social affection ; the good alone can shed them.
Her nurse's sons soon returned from their labor ; two fine
nut-brown youths. They had been the companions of her
infant sports, and she spoke to them with the most engaging
affability.
Domestic bliss and rural felicity Amanda had always been
accustomed to, till within a short period ; her attachment to
them was still as strong as ever, and had her father been with
her, she would have been happy.
It was now about the middle of June, and the whole country
was glowing with luxuriant beauty. The cottage was in reality
a comfortable, commodious farm-house j it was situated in
North Wales, and the romantic scenery surrounding it was
highly pleasing to a disposition like Amanda's, which delighted
equally in the sublime and beautiful. Tiie front of the cottage
was almost covered with woodbine, intermingled with vines j
and the lane already mentioned formed a shady avenue up to the
very door ; one side overlooked a deep valley, winding amongst
hills clad in the liveliest verdure j a clear stream running
through it turned a mill in its course, and afforded a salutary
coolness to theherds which ruminated on its banks ; the other
side commanded a view of rich pastures, terminated by a thick
grove, whose natural vistas gave a view of cultivated farms, a
small irregular village, the spire of its church, and a fine old
castle, whose stately turrets rose above the trees surrounding
them.
The farm-yard, at the back of the cottage, was stocked with
poultry and all the implements of rural industry ;, the garden
was divided from it by a rude paling, interwoven with honey-
suckles and wild roses ; the part appropriated for vegetables
divided from the part sacred to Flora by rows of fruit-trees ; a
craggy precipice hung over it, covered with purple and yellow
flowers, thyme, and other odoriferous herbs, which afforded
browsage to three or four goats that skipped about in playful
gambols ; a silver stream trickled down the precipice, and
winding round a plantatioti of shrubs, fell witii a gentle murmy(r
6 rUE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
into the valley. Beneath a projecting fragment of the rock a
natural recess was formed, thickly lined with moss, and planted
round with a succession of beautiful flowers.
" Here, scattered wild, the lily of the vale
Its balmy essence breathes ; here cowslips hang
The dewy head, and purple violets lurk
With all the lowly children of the shade." Thomson.
Of those scenes Amanda had but an imperfect recollection ;
such a faint idea as we retain of a confused but agreeable dream,
which, though we cannot explain, leaves a pleasing impression
behind.
Peculiar circumstances had driven her from the shelter of a
parent's arms, to seek security in retirement at this abode of
simplicity and peace. Here the perturbation of fear subsided ;
but the soft melancholy of her soul at times was heightened,
when she reflected, that in this very place an unfortunate
mother had expired almost at the moment of giving her birth.
Amanda was now about nineteen ; a description of her face
and person would not do her justice, as it never could convey a
full idea of the ineffable sweetness and sensibility of the former,
or the striking elegance and beautiful proportion of the latter.
Sorrow had faded her vivid bloom ; for the distresses of her
father weighed heavy on her heart, and the blossom drooped
with the tree which supported it. Her agonized parent witness-
ing this sudden change, sent her into Wales, as much for health
as for security ; she was ordered goat's whey and gentle ex-
ercise ; but she firmly believed that consolation on her father's
account could alone effect a cure.
Though the rose upon her cheek was pale, and the lustre of
her eyes was fled, she was from those circumstances (if less
dazzling to the eye) more affecting to the heart. Cold and un-
feeling indeed must that one have been, which could see
her unmoved ; for hers was that interesting face and figure
which had power to fix the wandering eye and change the gaze
of admiration into the throb of sensibility : nor was her mind
inferior to the form that enshrined it.
She now exerted her spirits in gratitude to her humble but
benevolent friends. Her arrival had occasioned a little festival
at the cottage : the tea things, which were kept more for show
than use in the ebony cupboard, were now taken out and carried
by her desire to the recess in the garden ; whither Mrs. Edwin
followed the family witli a hot cake, Amanda thought large
enough to serve half the principality.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 7
The scene was delightful, and well calculated to banish all
sadness but despair ; Amanda was therefore cheered ; for she:
was too much the child of piety ever to have felt its baneful
influence. In the midst of her troubles she still looked up with
confidence to that Power who has promised never to forsake-
the righteous.
The harmless jest, the jocund laugh went round, and
Amanda enjoyed the innocent gayety ; for a benevolent mind
will ever derive pleasure from the happiness of others. The-
declining sun now gave softer beauties to the extensive scenery \
the lowing of the cattle was faintly echoed by the neighboring
hills ; the cheerful carol of the peasant floated on the evening
gale, that stole perfumes from the beds of flowers and wafted
them around ; the busy bees had now completed the delicious
labor of the day, and with incessant hummings sought their
various hives, while
" Every copse
Deep-tangled, tree irregular, and bush
Were prodigal of harmony." Thomson.
To complete the concert, a blind harper, who supported
himself by summer rambles through the country, strolled into
the garden ; and after a plentiful repast of bread and cheese,
and nut-brown ale, began playing.
The venerable appearance of the musician, the simple
melody of his harp, recalled to Amanda's recollection the tales
of other times, in which she had so often delighted : it sent her
soul back to the ages of old, to the days of other years, when
bards rehearsed the exploits of heroes, and sung the praises of
the dead. " While the ghosts of those they sung, came in their
rustling winds, and were seen to bend with joy towards the
sound of their praise." To proceed, in the beautiful language
of Ossian, "The sound was mournful and low, like the song of
the tomb ; " such as Fingal heard, when the crowded sighs of
his bosom rose ; and, " some of my heroes are low," said th?
gray-haired King of Morven : " I hear the sound of death on
the harp. Ossian, touch the trembling string. Bid the sorrow
rise, that their spirits may fly with joy to Morven's woody hills,
He touched the harp before the king : the sound was mournful
and low. Bend forwards from your clouds," he said, " ghosta
of my fathers, bend. Lay by the red terror of your course.
Receive the falling chief ; whether he comes from a distant
land, or rises from the rolling sea, let his robe of mist be near;
his spear, that is formed of a cloud ; place an biilf-extinguished
8 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBE Y.
meteor by his side, in the form of the hero's sword. And, oh I
let his countenance be lovely, that his friends may delight in
his presence. Bend from your clouds," he said, " ghosts of my
fathers, bend."
The sweet enthusiasm which arose in Amanda's mind, from
her present situation, her careful nurse soon put an end to, by
reminding her of the heavy dew then falling. Amanda could
have stayed for hours in the garden ; but resigning her incli-
nation to her nurse's, she immediately accompanied her into
the house. She soon felt inclined to retire to rest ; and, after
a slight supper of strawberries and cream (which was all they
could prevail on her to touch), she withdrew to her chamber,
attended by the nurse and her two daughters, who all thought
their services requisite ; and it was not without much difficulty
Amanda persuaded them to the contrary.
Left to solitude, a tender awe stole upon the mind of
Amanda, when she reflected that in this very room her mother
had expired. The recollection of her sufferings the sorrows
her father and self had experienced since the period of her
death the distresses they still felt and might yet go through
all raised a sudden agony in her soul, and tears burst forth.
She went to the bed, and knelt beside it ; " Oh ! my mother,"
she cried, " if thy departed spirit be permitted to look down
upon this world, hear and regard the supplications of thy child,
for thy protection amidst the snares which may be spread for
her. Yet," continued she, after a pause, " that Being, who has
taken thee to himself, will, if I continue innocent, extend his
guardian care : to Him, therefore, to Him be raised the fervent
prayer for rendering abortive every scheme of treachery."
She prayed with all the fervency of devotion ; her wander-
ing thoughts were all restrained, and her passions gradually
subsided into a calm.
Warmed by a pure and ardent piety, that sacred power
which comes with healing on its wings to the afflicted children
of humanity, she felt a placid hope spring in her heart, that
whispered to it, all would yet be well.
She arose tranquil and animated.' The inhabitants of the
cottage had retired to repose ; and she heard no sound save
the ticking of the clock from the outside room. She went to
the window, and raising the white calico curtain, looked down
the valley ; it was illumined by the beams of the moon, which
tipped the trees with a shadowy silver, and threw a line of
radiance on the clear rivulet. All was still, as if creation slept
upon the bosom of serenity. Here, while contemplating thfs
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 9
scene, a sudden flutter at the window startled her ; and she
saw in a moment after a bird flit across, and perch upon a tree
whose boughs shaded the casement ; a soft serenade was
immediately begun by the sweet and plaintive bird of night.
Amanda at length dropped the curtain, and sought repose j
it soon blessed her eyelids, and shed a sweet oblivion over all
her cares.
" Sleep on, sweet innocent I
And when a soul is found sincerely so,
A thousand liveried angels lacquey it,
Driving far off all thought of harm or sin." Milton.
CHAPTER II.
" Canst thou bear cold and hunger ? Can these Itmbs,
Framed tor the tender offices of love,
Endure the bitter gripes of smarting poverty ?
When in a bed of straw we shrink together.
And the bleak winds shall whistle round our heads.
Wilt thou talk to me thus.
Thus hush my cares, and shelter me with love ? " Otwav.
FiTZALAN, the father of Amanda, was the descendant of an
ancient Irish family, which had, however, unfortunately attained
the summit of its prosperity long before his entrance into life ;
so that little more than a name, once dignified by illustrious
actions, was left to its posterity. The parents of Fitzalan were
supported by an employment under government, which enabled
them to save a small sum for their son and only child, who at
an early period became its sole master, by their dying within a
short period of each other. As soon as he had in some degree
}-ecovered the shock of such calamities, he laid out his little
pittance in the purchase of a commission, as a profession best
puiting his inclinations and finances.
The war between America and France had then just com-
menced ; and Fitzalan's regiment was amongst the first forces
sent to the aid of the former. The scenes of war, though dread-
fully affecting to a soul of exquisite sensibility, such as he
possessed, had not power to damp the ardor of his spirit ; for,
with the name, he inherited the hardy resolution of his pro-
genitors.
He had once the good fortune to save the life of a British
soldier ; he was one of a small party, who, by the treachery
of their guides, were suddenly surprised in a wood, through
10 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY,
Which they were obliged to pass to join another detachment ol
the army. Their only way in this alarming exigence was to
retreat to the fort from whence they had but lately issued :
encompassed as they were by the enemy, this was not achieved
without the greatest difficulty. Just as they had reached it,
Fitzalan saw far behind them, a poor soldier, who had been
wounded at the first onset, just overtaken by two Indians.
Yielding to the impulse of compassion in which all idea of self
was lost, Fitzalan hastily turned to his assistance, and flinging
himself between the pursued and the pursuers, he kept them at
bay till the poor creature had reached a place of safety. This
action, performed at the imminent hazard of his life, secured
him the lasting gratitude of the soldier, whose name was Edwin ;
the same that now afforded an asylum to his daughter.
Edwin had committed some juvenile indiscretions, which
highly incensed his parents ; in despair at incurring their re-
sentment, he enlisted with a recruiting pariy in their neighbor-
hood : but, accustomed all his life to peace and plenty, he did
not by any means relish his new situation. His gratitude to
Fitzalan was unbounded ; he considered him as the preserver
of his life ; and, on the man's being dismissed, who had hitherto
attended him as a servant, entreated he might be taken in his
place. This entreaty Fitzalan complied with ; he was pleased
with Edwin's manner ; and, having heard the little history of
his misfortunes, promised, on their return to Europe, to inter-
cede with his friends for him.
During his stay abroad, Fitzalan was promoted to a captain-
lieutenancy ; his pay was his only support, which, of necessity,
checked the benevolence of a spirit " open as day to melting
charity."
On the regiment's return to Europe, he obtained Edwin's
discharge, who longed to re-enter upon his former mode of life.
He accompanied the penitent himself into Wales, where he was
received with the truest rapture.
In grief for his loss, his parents had forgotten all resent-
ment for his errors, which, indeed, had never been very great :
they had lost their two remaining children during his absence,
and now received him as the sole comfort and hope of their
age.
His youthful protector was blest with the warmest gratitude :
tears filled his fine eyes, as he beheld the pleasure of his
parents, and the contridon of the son ; and he departed with
that heartfelt pleasure, which ever attends and rewards an action
9f l)i)manity,
THE CI/ILDREN OF THE ABBEY. a
He now accompanied his regiment into Scotland ; they were
quartered at a fort in a remote part of that kingdom.
Near the fort was a fine old abbey, belonging to the family
of Dunreath ; the iiigh hills which nearly encompassed it, were
almost all covered with trees, whose dark shades gave an ap-
pearance of gloomy solitude to the building.
The present possessor, the Earl of Dunreath, was now far
advanced in life ; twice had he married, in expectation of a
male heir to his large estates, and twice he had been disappoint-
ed. His first lady had expired immediately after the birth of a
daughter. She had taken under her protection a young female,
who, by unexpected vicissitudes in her family, was left destitute
of support. On the demise of her patroness, she retired from
the Abbey to the house of a kinswoman in its vicinity ; the Eiarl
of Dunreath, accustomed to her society, felt his solitude doubly
augmented by her absence. He had ever followed the dictates
of inclination, and would not disobey them now ; ere Ihe term
of mourning was expired, he offered her his hand, and was '
accepted.
The fair orphan, now triumphant mistress of the Abbey,-
found there was no longer occasion to check her natural pro-
pensities. Her soul was vain, unfeeling, and ambitious ; and
her sudden elevation broke down all the barriers which pru-
dence had hitherto opposed to her passions.
She soon gained an absolute ascendancy over her lord she
knew how to assume the smile of complacency, and the accent
of sensibility.
Forgetful of the kindness of her late patroness, she treated
the infant she had left with the most cruel neglect ; a neglect
which was, if possible, increased, on the birth of her own daughter,
as she could not bear that Augusta (instead of possessing the
whole) should only share the affection and estates of her father.
She contrived by degrees to alienate the former from the inno-
cent Malvina ; and she trusted, she should find means to deprive
her of the latter.
Terrified by violence, and depressed by severity, the child
looked dejected and unhappy ; and this appearance. Lady
Dunreath made the Earl believe, proceeded from sulkiness and
natural ill-humor. Her own child, unrestrained in any wish
of her heart, was, from her playful gayety, a constant source
of amusement to the Earl ; her mother had taken care to
instruct her in all the little endearments which, when united
with infantine sweetness, allure almost imperceptibly the af-
fections,
12 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Malvina, ere she knew the meaning of sorrow, thus became
its prey ; but in spite of envy or ill treatment, she grew up with
all tlie graces of mind and form that had distinguished her
mother ; Iier air was at once elegant and commanding ; her
face replete with sweetness ; and her fine eyes had a mixture
of sensibility and languor in them, which spoke to the feeling
soul.
Augusta was also a fine figure ; but unpossessed of the
winning graces of elegance and modesty which adorned her
sister, her fbrm always appeared decorated with the most
studied art, and her large eyes had a conlident assurance in
them, that seemed to expect and demand universal homage.
The warriors of the fort were welcome visitants at the Abbey,
which Lady Dunreath contrived to render a scene of almost
constant gayety, by keeping up a continual intercourse with all
the adjacent families, and entertaining all the strangers who
came into its neighborhood.
Lord Dunreath had long been a prey to infirmities, which
at this period generally confined him to his room ; but though
his body was debilitated, his mind retained all its active powers.
The first appearance of the officers at the Abbey was at a
ball given by Lady Dunreath, in consequence of their arrival
near it ; the gothic apartments were decorated, and lighted up
with a splendor that at once displayed taste and magnificence ;
the lights, the music, the brilliancy, and unusual gayety of the
company, all gave to the spirits of Malvina an agreeable flutter
they had never before experienced ; and a brighter bloom than
usual stole over her lovely cheek.
The young co-heiresses were extremely admired by the mili-
tary heroes. Malvina, as the eldest, opened the ball with the
colonel ; her form had attracted the eyes of Fitzalan, and vainly
he attempted to withdraw them, till the lively conversation of
Augusta, who honored him with her hand, forced him to restrain
his glances, and pay her the sprightly attentions so generally
expected when he came to turn Malvina, he involuntarily
detained her hand for a moment : she blushed, and the timid
beam that stole from her half -averted eyes, agitated his whole
soul.
Partners were changed in the course of the evening, and
he seized the first opportunity that offered for engaging her ;
the softness of her voice, the simplicity yet elegance of her
language, now captivated his heart, as much as her form had
charmed his eyes.
Never h^d he before seen ^n object he thought hfdf S9
rnn cniTMRKN of tiiu abbry. 13
lovely or engaging ; with her he could not support that lively
strain of conversation he had done with her sister. Where the
heart is much interested, it will not admit of trifling.
Fitzalan was now in the meridian of manhood ; his stat-
ure was above the common size, and elegance and dignity were
conspicuous in it ; his features were regularly handsome, and
the fairness of his forehead proved what his complexion had
been, till change of climate and hardship had embrowned it ;
the expression of his countenance was somewhat plaintive : his
eyes had a sweetness in them that spoke a soul of the tenderest
feelings ; and the smile that played around his mouth, would
have adorned a face of female beauty.
When the dance with Lady Malvina was over, Lady Augusta
took care for the remainder of the evening \o engross all his
attention. She thought him by far the handsomest man in the
room, and gave him no opportunity of avoiding her ; gallantry
' obliged him to return her assiduities, and he was by his brother
officers set down in the list of her adorers. This mistake he
encouraged : he could bear raillery on an indifferent subject \
and joined in the mirth, which the idea of his laying siege to
the young heiress occasioned.
He deluded himself with no false hopes relative to the real
object of his passion j he knew the obstacles between them were
insuperable j but his heart was too proud to complain of fate j
he shook off all appearance of melancholy, and seemed more
animated than ever.
His visits at the Abbey became constant ; Lady Augusta
took them to herself, and encouraged his attentions : as her
mother rendered her perfect mistress of her own actions, she
had generally a levee of redcoats every morning in her dressing-
room. Lady Malvina seldom appeared ; she was at those times
almost always employed in reading to her father ; when that
was not the case, her own favorite avocations often detained
her in her room ; or else she wandered out, about the romantic
rocks on the sea-shore ; she delighted in solitary rambles, and
loved to visit the old peasants, who told her tales of her
departed mother's goodness, drawing tears of sorrow from her
eyes, at the irreparable loss she had sustained by her death.
Fitzalan went one morning as usual to the Abbey to pay his
customary visit ; as he went through the gallery which led to
Lady Augusta's dressing-room, his eyes were caught by two
beautiful portraits of the Earl's daughters ; an artist, by his
express desire, had come to the Abbey to draw them ; they
were but just finished, and that morning placed in the gallery.
14 'fH^ CHJLVkEA OF THE ABBEY.
Lady Augusta appeared negligently reclined upon a sofa, irt
a verdant alcove; the flowing drapery of the loose robe in
which she was habited, set off her fine figure ; little Cupids
were seen fanning aside her dark-brown hair, and strewing
roses on her pillow.
Lady Malvina was represented in the simple attire of a
peasant girl, leaning on a little grassy hillock, whose foot was
washed by a clear stream, while her flocks browsed around,
and her dog rested beneath the shade of an old tree, that
waved its branches over her head, and seemed sheltering her
from the beams of a meridian sun.
" Beautiful portrait ! " cried Fitzalan, " sweet resemblance
of a seraphic form ! "
He heard a soft sigh behind him ; he started, turned, and
perceived Lady Malvina ; in the utmost confusion he faltered
out his admiration of the pictures ; and not knowing what he
did, fixed his eyes on Lady Augusta's, exclaiming, " How
beautiful I " " 'Tis very handsome indeed," said Malvina,
with a more pensive voice than usual, and led the way to her
sister's drawing-room.
Lady Augusta was spangling some ribbon ; but at Fitzalan's
entrance she threw it aside, and asked him if he had been
admiring her picture ? " Yes," he said, " 'twas that alone had
prevented his before paying his homage to the original." He
proceeded in a 'strain of compliments, which had more gal-
lantry than sincerity in them. In the course of their trifling
he snatched a knot of the spangled ribbon, and pinning it
next his heart, declared it should remain there as a talisman
against all future impressions.
He stole a .glance at Lady Malvina ; she held a book in
her hand ; but her eyes were turned towards him, and a deadly
paleness overspread her countenance.
Fitzalan's spirits vanished ; he started up, and declared he
must be gone immediately. The dejection of Lady Malvina
dwelt upon his heart ; it flattered his fondness, but pained its
sensibility. He left the fort in the evening, immediately after
_he had retired from the mess ; he strolled to the sea-side, and
ramblqd a considerable way among the rocks. The scene was
wild and solemn ; the shadows of evening were beginning to
despend j the waves stole with low murmurs upon the shore,
and a soft breeze gently agitated the marine plants that grew
amongst the crevices of the rocks ; already were the sea-fowl,
with harsh and melancholy cries, flocking to their nests, some
lightly skimming over the water, while others were seen, like
THE CHILDRBN OF THE ABBEY. ig
dark clouds arising from the long heath on the neighboring
hills. Fitzalan pursued his way in deep and melancholy
meditation, from which a plaintive Scotch air, sung by the
melting voice of harmony itself, roused him. He looked towards
the spot from whence the sound proceeded, and beheld Lady
Malvina standing on a low rock, a projection of it affording
her support. Nothing could be more picturesque than her
"appearance : she looked like one of the beautiful forms which
Ossian so often describes: her white dress fluttered in the
wind, and her dark hair hung dishevelled around her. Fitzalan
moved softly, and stopped behind her ; she wept as she sung,
and wiped away her tears as she ceased singing ; she sighed
heavily. " Ah ! my mother," she exclaimed, " why was Malvina
left behind you ? " " To bless and improve mankind,'' cried
Fitzalan. She screamed, and would have fallen, had he not
caught her in his arms ; he prevailed on her to sit down upon
the rock, and allow him to support her tilf her agitation had
subsided. " And why," cried he, " should Lady Malvina give
way to melancholy, blest as she is with all that can render life
desirable ? Why seek its indulgence, by rambling about those
dreary rocks ; fit haunts alone, he might have added, for
wretchedness and me ? Can I help wondering at your dejec-
tion (he continued), when to all appearance (at least) I see you
possessed of everything requisite to constitute felicity? "
" Appearances are often deceitful," said Malvina, forgetting
in that moment the caution she had hitherto inviolably observed,
of never hinting at the ill treatment she received from the
Countess of Dunreath and her daughter. " Appearances are
often deceitful," she said, " as I, alas ! too fatally experience.
The glare, the ostentation of wealth, a sou2 of sensibility would
willingly resign for privacy and plainness if they were to be
attended with real friendship and sympathy."
" And how few," cried Fitzalan, turning his expressive eyes
upon her face, " can know Lady Malvina without feeling friend-
ship for her virtues, and sympathy for her sorrows ! " As he
spoke, he pressed her hand against his heart, and she felt the
knot of ribbon he had snatched from her sister : she instantly
withdrew her hand, and darting a haughty glance at him,
" Captain Fitzalan," said she, " you were going, I believe, to
Lady Augusta ; let me not detain you."
Fitzalan's passions were no longer unde^ the dominion of
reason ; he lore the ribbon from his breast and flung it into the
sea. " Going to Lady Augusta I " he exclaimed, " and is her
lovely sister then really deceived ? Ah I Lady Malvina, I now
1 6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
gaze on the dear attraction that drew me to the Abbey. Tha
feelings of a real, a hopeless passion could ill support raillery
or observation : I hid my passion within the recesses of my heart,
and gladly allowed my visits to be placed to the account of an
object truly indifferent, that I might have opportunities of
seeing an object I adored." Malvina blushed and trembled :
" Fitzalan," cried she after a pause, " I detest deceit."
" I abhor it too. Lady Malvina," said he ; "but why should
I now endeavor to prove my sincerity, when I know it is so
immaterial ? Excuse me for what I have already uttered, and
believe that though susteptible, 1 am not aspiring." He then
presented his hand to Malvina; she descended from her seat,
and they walked towards the Abbey. Lady Malvina's pace
was slow, and her blushes, had Fitzalan looked at her, would
have expressed more pleasure than resentment : she seemed to
expect a still further declaration ; but Fitzalan was too con-
fused to speak ; nor indeed was it his intention again to indulge
himself on tlie dangerous subject. They proceeded in silence ;
at the Abbey gate they stopped, and he wished her good-night.
" Shall we not soon see you at the Abbey ? " exclaimed Lady
Malvina in a flurried voice, which seemed to say she thought
his adieu rather a hasty one. " No, my lovely friend," cried
Fitzalan, pausing, while he looked upon her with the most
impassioned tenderness, " in future I shall confine myself
chiefly to the fort." " Do you dread an invasion ? " asked she,
smiling, while a stolen glance of her eyes gave peculiar mean-
ing to her words. " I long dreaded that," cried he in the same
strain, " and my fears were well founded ; but I must now
muster all my powers to dislodge the enemy." He kissed her
hand, and precipitately retired.
Lady Malvina repaired to her chamber, in such a tumult of
pleasure as she had never before experienced. She admired
Fitzalan from the first evening she beheld him ; though his
attentions were directed to her sister, the language of his eyes,
to her, contradicted any attachment these attentions might have
intimated ; his gentleness and sensibility seemed congenial to her
own. Hitherto she had been the slave of tyranny and caprice ;
and now, for the first time, experienced that soothing tender-
ness her wounded feelings had so long sighed for. She was
agitated and delighted ; she overlooked every obstacle to her
wishes ; and waited impatiently a further explanation of FitZ'
alan's sentiments.
Far different were his feelings from hers : to know he was
'beloved, could scarcely yield him pleasure, when he reflected
rilE CHILDREN OF rUF. APBEY. 17
on his hopeless situation, which forbad liis availing himself of
any advantage that knowledge might have afforded. Of a
union indeed he did not dare to think, since its consequences,
he knew, must be destruction ; for rigid and austere as the
Earl was represented, he could not flatter himself he would
ever pardon such a step ; and the means of supporting Lady
Malvina, in any degree of comfort, he did not possess himself.
He determined, as much as possible, to avoid her presence,
and regretted continually having yielded to the impulse of his
heart and revealed his love, since he believed it had augmented
hers.
By degrees he discontinued his visits at the Abbey ; but he
often met Lady Malvina at parties in the neighborhood : caution,
however, always sealed his lips, and every appearance of par-
ticularity was avoided. The time now approached for the
departure of the regiment from Scotland, and Lady Malvina,
instead of the explanation she so fondly expected, so ardently
desired, saw Fitzalan studious to avoid her.
The disappointment this conduct gave rise to, was too much
for the tender and romantic heart of Malvina to .bear without
secretly repining. Society grew irksome ; she bfecame more
than ever attached to solitary rambles, which gave opportuni-
ties of indulging her sorrows without restraint : sorrows, pride
often reproached her for experiencing.
It was within a week of the ciiange of garrison, when Mal-
vina repaired one evening to the rock where Fitzalan had dis-
closed his tenderness ; a similarity of feeling had led him
thither ; he saw his danger, but he had no power to retreAt ;
he sat down by Malvina, and they conversed for some time
on indifferent subjects; at last, after a pause of a minute,
Malvina exclaimed, "You go then, Fitzalan, never, never, I
suppose, to return here again ! " " 'Tis probable I may not
indeed," said he. " Then we shall never meet again," cried
she, while a trickling tear stole down her lovely cheek, which,
tinged as it was with the flush of agitation, looked now like
a half-blown rose moistened with the dews of early morning.
" Yes, my lovely friend," said he, " we shall meet again
we shall meet in a better place ; in that heaven," continued he,
sighing, and laying his cold, trembling hand upon hers, " which
will recompense all our sufferings." "You are melancholy
to-night, Fitzalan," cried Lady Malvina, in a voice scarcely
articulate.
" Oh I can you wonder at it ? " exclaimed he, overcome by
her emotion, and forgetting in a moment all his resolutions
l8 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
" Oh ! can you wonder at my melancholy, when I know not but
that this is the last time I shall see the only woman I ever
loved 'when I know, that in bidding her adieu I resign all the
pleasure, the happiness of my life."
Malvina could no longer restrain her feelings ; she sunk
upon his shoulder and wept. " Good heavens ! " cried Fitzalan,
' almost trembling beneath the lovely burden he supported
"What a cruel situation is mine ! But, Malvina, I will not, cannot
plunge you in destruction. Led by necessity, as well as choice,
to embrace the profession of a soldier, I have no income but
what is derived from that profession ; though my own distresses
I could bear with fortitude, yours would totally unman me ; nor
would my honor be less injured than my peace, were you in-
volved in difficulties on my account. Our separation is there-
fore, alas I inevitable."
" Oh I no," exclaimed Malvina, " the difficulties you have
mentioned will vanish. My father's affections were early alien-
ated from me ; and my fate is of little consequence to him
nay, I have reason to believe he will be glad of an excuse for
leaving his large possessions to Augusta ; and oh I how little
shall I envy her those possessions, if the happy destiny I now
look forward to is mine." As she spoke, her mild eyes rested on
the face of Fitzalan, who clasped her to his bosom in a sudden
transport of tenderness. "But though my father is partial to
Augusta," she continued, " I am sure he will not be unnatural
to me ; and though he may withhold affluence, he will, I am
confident, allow me a competence ; nay. Lady Dunreath, I be-
lieve, in pleasure at my removal from the Abbey, would, if he
hesitated in that respect, become my intercessor."
The energy with which Malvina spoke convinced Fitzalan
of the strength of her affection. An ecstasy never before felt
pervaded his soul at the idea of being so beloved ; vainly did
prudence whisper, that Malvina might be deluding herself with
false hopes, the suggestions of love triumphed over every con-
sideration ; and again folding the fair being he held in his arms
to his heart, he softly asked, would she, at all events, unite her
destiny with his.
Lady Malvina, who firmly believed what she had said to him
would really happen, and who deemed a separation from him
the greatest misfortune which could possibly befall her, blushed,
and faltering yielded a willing consent.
The means of accomplishing their wishes now occupied
their thoughts. Fitzalan's imagination was too fertile not soon
to suggest a scheme which had a probability of success \ he
TIlM CHILbkEN OP THE ABBRV. 19
resolved to intrust the chaplain of the regiment with the affair,
and request his attendance the ensuing night in the chapel of
the Abbey, ^here L&dy Malvina promised to meet them with
her maid, on whose Secrecy she thought she could rely.
It was settled that Fitzalatl should pay a visit the next
morning at the Abbey, ahd give Malvirlsl a certain sign, if he-
succeeded with the chaplain.
The increasing darkness at length reminded them of the '
lateness of the hour. . Fitznlart conducted Malvina to the Ab-
bey gate, where they separated, eich involved in a tumult of
hopes, fears, and wishes.
The next morning Lady Malvina brought her wOrk into her
sister's dressing-room ; at last Fitzalan entered ; he was at-
tacked by Augusta for his long absence, which he excused by
pleading regimental business. After trifling some time with
her, he prevailed on her to sit down to the harpsichord ; and
then glancing to Malvina, he gave her the promised signal.
Her conscious eyes were instantly bent to the ground ; a
crimson glow was suddenly succeeded by a deadly paleness j
her head sunk upon her bosom ; and her agitation must have
excited suspicions had it been perceived j but Fitzalan pur*
posely bent over her sister, and thus gave her an opportunity
of retiring unnoticed from the room. As soon as she had re-
gained a little composure, she called her maid, and, after re-
ceiving many promises of secrecy, unfolded to her the whole
affair. It was long past the midnight hour ere Malvina would
attempt repairing to the chapel ; when she at last rose for that
purpose she trembled universally ; a kind of horror chilled her
heart ; she began to fear she was about doing wrong, and hesi--
tated ; but when she reflected on the noble generosity of
Fitzalan, and that she herself had precipitated him into the
measure they were about taking, her hesitation was over ; and
leaning on her maid, she stole through the winding galleries, and
lightly descending the stairs, entered the long hall, which termi-
nated in a dark arched passage, that opened into the chapel.
This was a wild and gloomy structure, retaining everywhere
vestiges of that monkish superstition which had erected it ; be-
neath were the vaults which contained the ancestors of the Earl
of Dunreath, whose deeds and titles were enumerated on gothic
monumetits ; their dust-Covered banners waving around in sullen
dignity to the rude gale, which foUhd admittance through the
broken windows.
The light, which the maid held, produced deep shadows,
that heightened the solemnity of the place.
20 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBE}?.
" They are not here," said Malvina, casting her fearful 4 jj,o
around. Slie went to the door, which opened into a thick
wood j but here she only heard the breeze rustling amongst the
trees ; she turned from it, and sinking upon the steps of the
altar, gave way to an agony of tears and lamentations. A low
murmur reached her ear ; she started up ; the chapel door was
gently pushed open, and Fitzalan entered with the chaplain j
they had been watching in the wood for the appearance of
light. Malvina was supported to the altar, and a few minutes
made her the wife of Fitzalan.
She had not the courage, till within a day or two previous
to the regiment's departure from Scotland, to acquaint the Earl
with her marriage ; the Countess already knew it, through the
means of Malvina's woman, who was a creature of her own.
Lady Dunreath exulted at the prospect of Malvina's ruin ; it
at once gratified tlie malevolence of her soul, and the avari-
cious desire she had of increasing her own daughter's fortune ;
.she had, besides, anotlicr reason to rejoice at it ; this was, the
attachment Lady Augusta had formed for Fitzalan, which, her
mother feared, would have precipitated her into a step as im-
prudent as her sister's, had she not been beforehand with her.
This fear the impetuous passions of Lady Augusta natu-
rally excited. She really loved Fitzalan ; a degree of frantic
rage possessed her at his marriage ; she cursed her sister in
the bitterness of her heart, rind joined with Lady Dunreath in
working up the Earl's naturally austere and violent passions
into such a paroxysm of fury and resentment, that he at last
solemnly refused forgiveness to Malvina, and bid her never
more appear in his presence.
She now began to tread the thorny path of life ; and though
her guide was tender and affectionate, nothing could allay her
anguish for having involved him in difficulties, which his noble
spirit could ill brook or struggle against. The first year of
their union she had a son, who was called after her father, Oscar
Dunreath ; the four years that succeeded his birth were passed
in wretciiedness that baffles description. At the expiration of
this period their debts were so increased, Fitzalan was com-
pelled to sell out on half-pay. Lady Malvina now expected an
addition to her family ; her situation, she hoped, would move
her father's heart, and resolved to essay everything, which af-
forded the smallest prospect of obtaining comfort for her hus-
band and his babes ; she prevailed on him, therefore, to carry
her to Scotland.
They lodged at a peasant's in the neighborhood of the
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 21
Abbey ; he informed them the Earl's infirmities were daily in-
creasing; and that Lady Dunreath had just celebrated her
daughter's marriage with the Marquis of Roseline. This no-
bleman had passionately admired Lady Malvina ; an admira-'
tion the Countess always wished transferred to Iier daughter.
On the marriage of Malvina he went abroad ; his passion was
conquered ere he returned to Scotland, and he disdained not
the overtures made for his alliance from the Abbey. His
favorite propensities, avarice and pride, were indeed gratified
by the possession of the Earl of Dunreath's sole heiress.
The day after her arrival Lady Malvina sent little Oscar,
with the old peasant, to the Abbey ; Oscar was a perfect cher-
ubim
" The bloom of opening flowers, (insullied beauty,
Softness and sweetest innocence he wore,
And looked like nature in the world's first spring.''
Lady Malvina gave him a letter for the Earl, in which, after
pathetically describing her situation, she besought him to let
the uplifted hands of innocence plead her cause. The peasant
watched till the hour came for Lady Dunreath to go out in her
carriage, as was her daily custom : he then desired to be con-
ducted to the Earl, and was accordingly ushered into his pres-
ence : he found him alone, and briefly informed him of his
errand. The Earl frowned and looked agitated ; but did not
by any means express that displeasure which the peasant had
expected ; feeling for himself, indeed, had lately softened his
heart ; he was unhappy ; his wife and daughter had attained
the completion of their wishes, and no longer paid him the at-
tention his age required. He refused, however, to accept the
letter : little Oscar, who had been gazing on him from the
moment he entered the apartment, now ran forward ; gently
stroking his hand, he smiled in his face, and exclaimed, " Ah !
do pray take poor mamma's letter." The Earl involuntarily
took it ; as he read, the muscles of his face began to work,
and a tear dropped from him. " Poor mamma cries too," said
Oscar, upon whose hand the tear fell. " Why did your mamma
send you to me ? " said the Earl. " Because she said," cried,
Oscar, " that you were my grandpapa and she bids me love
you, and teaches me every day to pray for you." " Heaven
bless you, my lovely prattler ! " exclaimed the Earl, with sud-
den emotion, patting his head as he spoke. At this moment
Lady Dunreath rushed into the apartment : one of her favorites
had followed her, to relate the scene that was going forward
22 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
within it : and she had returned, with all possible expedition,
to counteract any dangerous impression that might be made
upon the Earl's' mind. Rage inflamed her countenance : the
Earl knew the violence of her temper ; he was unequal to con-
tention, and hastily motioned for the peasant to retire with the
child. The account of his reception excited the most flatter-
ing hopes in the bosom of his mother : she counted the tedious
hours, in expectation of a kind summons to the Abbey ; but no
such summons came. The next morning the child was sent to
' it ; but the porter refused him admittance, by the express com-
mand of the Earl, he said. Frightened at his rudeness, the
child returned weeping to his mother, whose blasted expectations
wrung her heart with agony, and tears and lamentations broke
from her. The evening was far advanced, when suddenly her
features brightened : " I will go," cried she, starting up " I
will again try to melt his obduracy. Oh ! with what lowliness
should a child bend before an offended parent ! Oh ! with
what fortitude, what patience, should a wife, a mother, try to
overcome difficulties which she is conscious of having precipi-
tated the objects of her tenderest affections into ! "
The night was dark and tempestuous ; she would not suffer
Fitzalan to attend her ; but proceeded to the Abbey, leaning on
the peasant's arm. She would not be repulsed at the door, but
forced her way into the hall : here Lady Dunreath met her,
and with mingled pride and cruelty, refused her access to her
father, declaring it was by his desire she did so. " Let me see
him but for a moment," said the lovely suppliant, clasping her
white and emaciated hands together " by all that is tender in
humanity, I beseech you to grant my request."
"Turn this frantic woman from the Abbey," said the im-
placable Lady Dunreath, trembling ' with passion " at your
peril suffer her to continue here. The peace of your lord is too
precious to be disturbed by her exclamations."
The imperious order was instantly obeyed, though, as Cor-
delia says, " it was a night when one would not have turned an
enemy's dog from the door." The rain poured in torrents ;
the sea roared with awful violence ; and the wind roared through
the wood, as if it would tear up the trees by their roots. The
peasant charitably flung his plaid over Malvina : she moved
mechanically along ; her senses appeared quite stupefied. Fitz-
alan watched for her at the door : she rushed into his extended
arms, and fainted ; it was long ere she showed any symptoms
of returning life. Fitzalan wept over her in the anguish and
distraction of his soul ; and scarcely could he forbear execra-
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. jj
ting the being who had so grievously aflfiicted her gentle spirit;
by degrees she revived ; and, as she pressed him feebly to her
breast, exclaimed, " The final stroke is given I have been
turned from my father's door."
The cottage in which they lodged afforded but few of the
necessaries, and none of the comforts of life ; such, at least, as
they had been accustomed to. In Malvina's present situation,
Fitzalan dreaded the loss of her life, should they continue in
their present abode ; but whither could he take her wanderer,
as he was upon the face of the earth ? At length the faithful
Edwin occurred to his recollection : his house, he was confi-
dent, would afford them a comfortable asylum, where Lady
Malvina would experience all that tenderness and care her
situation demanded.
He immediately set about procuring a conveyance, and the
following morning Malvina bid a last adieu to Scotland.
Lady Dunreath, in the mean time, suffered torture : after
she had seen Malvina turned from the Abbey, she returned to
her apartment : it was furnished with the most luxurious ele-
gance, yet could she not rest within it. Conscience already
told her, if Malvina died, she must consider herself her mur-
derer j her pale and woe-worn image seemed still before herj
a cold terror oppressed her heart, which the horrors of the night
augmented ; the temp^st'shook the battlements of the Abbey ;
and the winds, which h,owled through the galleries, seemed like
the last moans of some wandering spirit of the pile, bewailing
the fate of one of its fairest daughters. To cruelty and ingrat-
itude Lady Dunreath had added deceit : her lord was yielding
to the solicitations of his child, when she counteracted his in-
tentions by a tale of falsehood. The visions of the night were
also dreadful ; Malvina appeared expiring before her, and the
late Lady Dunreath, by her bedside, reproaching her barbarity.
\" Oh cruel ! " the ghastly figure seemed to say, " is it you, whom
I fostered in my bosom, that have done this deed driven
forth my child, a forlorn and wretched wanderer ? "
Oh, conscience, how awful are thy terrors I thou art the
vicegerent of Heaven, and dost anticipate its vengeance, ere
the final hour of retribution arrives. Guilt may be triumphant,
but never, never can be happy : it finds no shield against thy
stings and arrows. The heart thou smitest bleeds in every
pore, and sighs amidst gayety and splendor.
The unfortunate travellers were welcomed with the truest
hospitality by the grateful Edwin ; he had married, soon after
his return from America, a young girl, to whom, from his ear-
24
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
liest youth, he was attached. His parents died soon after his
union, and the whole of their little patrimony devolved to him.
Soothed and attended with the utmost tenderness and respect,
Fitzalan hoped Lady Malvina would here regain her health and
peace : he intended, after her recovery, to endeavor to be put
on full pay ; and trusted he should prevail on her to continue
at the farm.
At length the hour came, in which she gave a daughter to
his arms. From the beginning of her illness the people about
her were alarmed ; too soon was it proved their alarms were
well founded : she lived after the birth of her infant but a few
minutes, and died embracing her husband,*and blessing his
children.
Fitzalan's feelings cannot well be described : they were at
first too much for reason, and he continued some time in per-
fect stupefaction. When he regained his sensibility, his grief
was not outrageous ; it was that deep, still sorrow, which fas-
tens on the heart, and cannot vent itself in tears or lamenta-
tions : he sat with calmness by the bed, where the beautiful
remains of Malvina lay ; he gazed without shrinking on her
pale face, which death, as if in pity to his feelings, had n6t dis-
figured ; he kissed her cold lips, continually exclaiming, " Oh !
had we never met, she might still have been living." His lan-
guage was something like that of a poet of her own country ;
" Wee, modest crimson-tippid flower,
I met thee in a luckless hour."
It was when he saw them about removing her that all the
tempest of his grief broke forth. Oh ! how impossible to de-
scribe the anguish of the poor widower's heart, when he re-
turned from seeing his Malvina laid in her last receptacle : he
shut himself up in the room where she had expired, and order-
ed no one to approach him ; he threw himself upon the bed ;
he laid his cheek upon her pillow, he grasped it to his bosom,
he wetted it with tears, because she had breathed upon it.
Oh, how still, how dreary, how desolate, did all appear around
him I " And shall this desolation never more be enlightened," he
exclaimed, " by the soft music of Malvina's voice ? Shall these
eyes never more be cheered by beholding her angelic face ? "
Exhausted by his feelings, he sunk into a slumber : he dreamt
of Malvina, and thought she lay beside him : he awoke with
sudden ecstasy, and under the strong impression of the dream,
stretched out his arms to enfold her. Alas ! all was empty
void : he started up he groaned in the bitterness of his soul
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 45
he traversed the room with a distracted pace he sat him
down in a little window, from whence he could view the spire
of the church (now glistening in the moonbeams) by which
she was interred. " Deep, still, and profound," cried he;
" is now the sleep of my Malvina the voice of love cannot
awake her from it ; nor does she now dream of her midnight
mourner."
The cold breeze of night blew upon his forehead, but he
heeded it not ; his whole soul was full of Malvina, whom tortur-
ing fancy presented to his view, in the habiliments of the grave.
" And is this emaciated form, this pale face," he exclaimed, as
if he had really ^een her, " all that remain of elegance and
beauty, once unequalled ! "
A native sense of religion alone checked the transports of
his grief j that sweet, that sacred power, which pours balm
upon the wounds of sorrow, and saves its children from despair ;
that power whispered to his heart, a patient Submission to the
will of heaven was the surest means he could attain of again
rejoining his Malvina.
She was interred' in the village church-yard : at the head of
her grave a stone was placed, on which was rudely cut,
MALVINA FITZALAN,
ALIKE LOVKLY AND UNFORTUNATE.
Fitzalan would not permit her empty title to be on it : " She
is buried," he said, " as the wife of a wretched soldier, not as
the daughter of a wealthy peer."
She had requested her infant might be called after her own
mother ; her request was sacred to Fitzalan, and it was baptized
by the united names of Amanda Malvina. Mrs. Edwin was
then nursing her first girl ; but she sent it out, and took the
infant of Fitzalan in its place to her bosom.
The money, which Fitzalan had procured by disposing of
his commission, was now nearly exhausted ; but his mind was
too enervated to allow him to think of any project for future
support. Lady Malvina was deceased two months, when a
nobleman came into the neighborhood, with whom Fitzalan had
once been intimately acquainted : the acquaintance was now
renewed ; and Fitzalan's appearance, with the little history of
his misfortunes, so much affected and interested his friend, that,
without solicitation, he procured him a company in a regimentj
then stationed in England. Thus did Fitzalan again enter into
26 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
active life ; but his spirits were broken, and his constitution
injured. Four years he continued in tlie army ; wiien, pining
to have his children (all that now remained of a woman he
adored) under his own care, he obtained, through the interest
of his friend, leave to sell out. Oscar was then eight, and
Amanda four ; the delighted father, as he held them to his
heart, wept over them tears of mingled pain and pleasure.
He had seen in Devonshire, where he was quartered for
some time, a little romantic solitude, quite adapted to his taste
and finances ; he proposed for it, and soon became its proprie-
tor. Hither he carried his children, much against the inclina-
tions of the Edwins, who loved them as their own : two excellent
schools in the neighborhood gave them the usual advantages
of genteel education ; but as they were -only day scholars, the
improvement, or rather forming of their morals, was the pleas-
ing task of their father. To his assiduous care too they were
indebted for the rapid progress they made in their studies, and
for the graceful simplicity of their manners : they rewarded his
care, and grew up as amiable and lovely as his fondest wishes
could desire. As Oscar advanced in life,' his father began to
experience new cares ; for he had not the power of putting him
in the way of making any provision for himself. A military
life was what Oscar appeared anxious for : he had early con-
ceived a predilection for it, from hearing his father speak of the
services he had seen ; but though he possessed quite the spirit
of a hero, he had the truest tenderness, the most engaging soft-
ness of disposition; his temper was, indeed, at once mild,
artless, and affectionate. He was about eighteen, when the
proprietor of the estate, on which his father held his farm,
died, and his heir, a colonel in the, army, immediately came
down from London to take formal possession : he soon be-
came acquainted with Fitzalan, who, in the course of con-
versation, one day expressed the anxiety he suffered on his
son's account. The Colonel said he was a fine youth, and it
,was a pity he was not provided for. He left Devonshire, how-
ever, shortly after this, without appearing in the least inter-
ested about him.
Fitzalan's heart was oppressed with anxiety ; he could not
purchase for his son, without depriving himself of support.
With the nobleman who had formerly served him so essentially,
he had kept up no intercourse, since he quitted the army ; but
he frequently heard of him, and was told he had become quite
a man of the world, which was an implication of his having lost
aU f^pling : n application to him, therefore, he feared, would
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 27
be unavailing, and he felt too proud to subject himself to a
repulse.
From this disquietude he was unexpectedly relieved by a
letter from the Earl of Cherbury, his yet kind friend, informing
him he had procured an ensigncy for Oscar, in Colonel Bel-
grave's regiment, which he considered a very fortunate circum-
stance, as the colonel, he was confident, from personally
knowing the young gentleman, would render him every service
in his power. The Earl chided Fitzalan for never having kept
up a correspondence with him, assured him he had never for-
gotten the friendship of their earlier years ; and that he had
gladly seized the first opportunity which offered, of serving him
in the person of his son ; which opportunity he was indebted to
Colonel Belgrave for.
Fitzalan's soul was filled with gratitude and rapture ; he
immediately wrote to the Earl, and the Colonel, in terms ex-
pressive of his feelings. Colonel Belgrave received his thanks
as if he had really deserved them ; but this was not by any
means the case : he was a man devoid of sensibility, and had
never once thought of serving Fitzalan or his son j his mention-
ing them was merely accidental.
In a large company, of which the Earl of Cherbury was one,
the discourse happened to turn on the Dunreath family, and by
degrees led to Fitzalan, who was severally blamed and pitied
for his connection with it ; the subject was, in the opinion of
Colonel Belgrave, so apropos, he could not forbear describing
his present situation, and inquietude about his son, who, he said
he fancied, must, like a second Cincinnatus, take the plough-
share mstead of the sword. *
Lord Cherbury lost no part of his discourse ; though im-
mersed in politics, and other intricate concerns, he yet retained,
and was ready to obey, the dictates of humanity, particularly
when they did not interfere with his own interests ; he therefore
directly conceived the design of serving his old friend.
Oscar soon quitted Devonshire after his appointment, and
brought a letter from his father to the Colonel, in which he was
strongly recommended to his protection, as one unskilled in the
ways of men.
And now all Fitzalan's care devolved upon Amanda ; and
most amply did she recompense it. To the improvement of her
genius, the cultivation of her talents, the promotion of her
father's happiness, seemed her first incentive ; without him no
amusement was enjoyed, without him no study entered upon j
he was her friend, guardian, and protector ; and no language
28 THE CmLDREN OF THE ABBEY.
can express, no heart (except a paternal one) conceive, the rap-
ture he felt, at seeing a creature grow under
his forming hand.
-So fair
That what seemed fair in all the world, seemed now
Mean, or in her contained.
Some years had elapsed since Oscar's departure, ere Colonel
Belgrave returned into their neighborhood ; he came soon after
his nuptials had been celebrated in Ireland, with a lady of that
country, whom Oscar's letters described as possessing every
mental and personal charm which could please or captivate the
heart. Colonel Belgrave came unaccompanied by his fair bride.
Fitzalan, who believed him his benefactor, and consequently re-
garded him as a friend (still thinking it was through his means
Lord Cherbury had served him), immediately waited upon him,
and invited him to his house. The invitation, after some time,
was accepted ; but had he imagined what an attraction the
house contained, he would not have long hesitated about enter-
ing it : he was a man, indeed, of the most depraved principles ;
and an object he admired, no tie or situation, however sacred,
could guard from his pursuit.
Amanda was too much a child, when he was last in the coun-
try, to attract his observation ; he had, therefore, no idea that
the blossom he then so carelessly overlooked, had since ex-
panded into such beauty. How great, then, was his rapture
and surprise, when Fitzalan led into the room where he had re-
ceived him, a tall, elegantly-formed girl, whose rosy cheeks were
dimpled with the softest smile of complacence, and whose fine
blue eyes beamed with modesty and gratitude upon him ! He
instantly marked her for his prey ; and blessed his lucky stars
which had inspired Fitzalan with the idea of his being his bene-
factor, since that would give him an easier access to the house
than he could otherwise have hoped for.
From this time he became almost an inmate of it, except
when he chose to contrive little parties at his own for Amanda.
He took every opportunity that offered, without observation, to
try to ingratiate himself in her favor : those opportunities the
unsuspecting temper of Fitzalan allowed to be frequent he
would as soon have trusted Amanda to the care of Belgrave,
as to that of her brother ; and never, therefore, prevented her
walking out with him, when he desired it, or receiving him in
the morning, while he himself was absent about the affairs of
his farm deligh):ed to think the conversation or talents of his
daughter (for Amanda frequently sung and played for the
THE cirn.bRRh' OP run Annnv. 29
Colonel) could contribute to tlie amusement of his friend.
Amanda innocently increased his flame, by the attention she
paid which she considered but a just tribute of gratitude for
his services : she delighted in talking to him of her dear Oscar,
and often mentioned his lady ; but was surprised to find he
always waived the latter subject.
Belgrave could not long restrain the impetuosity of his pas-
sions : the situation of Fitzalan (which he knew to be a dis-
tressed one) would, he fancied, forward his designs on his
daughter ; and what those designs were, he, by degrees, in a
retired walk one day, unfolded to Amanda. At first she did
not perfectly understand him ; but when; with increased au-
dacity, he explained himself more fully, horror, indignation, and
surprise look possession of her breast ; and, yielding to their
feelings, she turned and fled to the house, as if from a monster,
Belgrave was provoked and mortified ; the softness of her man-
ners had tempted him to believe he was not indifferent to her,
and that she would prove an easy conquest.
Poor Amanda would not appear in the presence of her father,
till she had, in some degree, regained composure, as she feared
the smallest intimation of the affair might occasion fatal conse-
quences. As she sat with him, a letter was brought her ; she
could not think Belgrave would have the effrontery to write,
and opened it, supposing it came from some acquaintance in
the neighborhood. How great was the shock she sustained,
on finding it from him ! Having thrown off the mask, he de-
termined no longer to assume any disguise. Her paleness and
confusion alarmed her father, and he instantly demanded the
cause of her agitation. She found longer concealment was im-
possible ; and, throwing herself at her father's feet, besought
him, as she put the letter into his hands, to restrain his passion.
When he perused it, he raised her up, and commanded her, as
she valued his love or happiness, to inform him of every par-
ticular relative to the insult she had received. She obeyed,
though terrified to behold her father trembling with emotion.
When she concluded, he tenderly embraced her j and, bidding
her confine herself to the house, rose, and took down his hat.
It was easy to guess whither he was going ; her terror increased ;
and, in Et voice scarcely articulate, she besought him not to risk
his safety. He commanded her silence, with a sternness never
before assumed. His manner awed her; but, when she saw
him leaving the room, her feelings could no longer be controlled
she rushed after him, and flinging her arms round his neck,
fainted on it. In this situation the unhappy father was com
30
THE CHILDR&N OF THE ABBEY.
pelled to leave her to the care of a maid, lest her pathetic re-
monstrances sliould delay the vengeance he resolved to take on
a wretch who had meditated a deed of such atrocity against his
peace ; but Eelgrave was not to be found.
Scarcely, however, had Fitzalan returned to his half-dis-
tracted daughter ere a letter was brought him from the wretch,
in which he made the most degrading proposals ; and bade
Fitzalan beware how he answered them, as his situation had
put him entirely into his power. This was a fatal truth : Fitz-
alan had been tempted to make a large addition to his farm,
from an idea of turning the little money he possessed to ad-
vantage : but he was more ignorant of agriculture than he had
imagined ; and this ignorance, joined to his own integrity of
heart, rendered him the dupe of some designing wretches in
his neighborhood : his whole stock dwindled away in unprofit-
able experiments, and he was now considerably in arrears with
Belgrave. 'i'he ungenerous advantage he strove to take of his
situation, increased, if possible, his indignation ; and again Ije
sought him, but still without success.
Belgrave soon found no temptation of prosperity would pre-
vail on the father or daughter to accede to his wishes ; he there-
fore resolved to try whether the pressure of adversity would
render them more complying, and left the country, having first
ordered his steward to proceed directly against Fitzalan.
The consequence of this order was an immediate execution
on his effects ; and, but for the assistance of a good-natured
farmer, he would have been arrested. By his means, and under
favor of night, he and Amanda set out for London ; they ar-
rived there in safety, and retired to obscure lodgings. In this
hour of distress, Fitzalan conquered all false pride, and wrote
to Lord Cherbury, entreating him to procure some employment
which would relieve his present distressing situation. He cau-
tiously concealed everything relative to Belgrave he could not
bear that it should be known that he had ever been degraded
by his infamous proposals. Oscar's safety, loo, he knew de-
pended on his secrecy ; as he was well convinced no idea of
danger, or elevation of rank, would secure the wretch from his
fury, who had meditated so great an injury against his sister.
He had the mortification of having the letter he sent to
Lord Cherbury returned, as his lordship was then absent from
town ; nor was he expected for some months, having gone on
ari excursion of pleasure to France. Some of these months
had lingered away in all the horrors of anxiety and distress,
when Fitzalan formed the resolution of sending Amanda into
THE CHILDRkN OP THE ABSEV. ^i
Wales, whose health had considerably suffered, from the com-
plicated uneasiness and terror she experienced on her own and
her father's account.
Belgrave had traced the fugitives ; and though Fitzalan was
guarded against all the stratagems he used to have him arrested,
he found means to have letters conveyed to Amanda, full of
base solicitations and insolent declarations, that the rigor he
treated her father with was quite against his feelings, and should
instantly be withdrawn, if she acceded to the proposals he made
for her.
But though Fitzalan had determined to send Amanda into
Wales, with whom could he trust his heart's best treasure ? At
last the son of the worthy farmer who had assisted him in his
journey to London, occurred to his remembrance ; he came
often to town, and always called on Fitzalan. The young man,
the moment it was proposed, expressed the greatest readiness
to attend Miss Fitzalan. As every precaution was necessary,
her father made her take the nanle of Dunford, and travel m
the mail-coach, for the greater security. He divided the con-
tents of his purse with her ; and recommending this lovely and
most beloved child to the protection of heaven, saw her depart,
with mingled pain and pleasure ; promising to give her the earliest
intelligence of Lord Cherbury's arrival in town, which, he sup-
posed, would fix his future destiny. ' Previous to her departure,
he wrote to the Edwins, informing them of her intended visit,
and also her change of name for the present. This latter cir-
cumstance, which was not satisfactorily accounted for, excited
their warmest curiosity ; and not thinking it proper to ask
Amanda to gratify it, they, to use their own words, sifted her
companion, who hesitated not to inform them of the indignities
she had suffered from Colonel Belgrave, which were well known
about his neighborhood.
32 Tim cm/.DKEiv OF rim abbey.
CHAPTER III.
" Thy grave slinll with fresh ilowers be dressed^
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast ;
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow." Popb.
A GENTLE noise in her chamber roused Amanda from a light,
refreshing slumber, and she beheld her nurse standing by her
bedside with a bowl of goat's whey. Amanda took the salu-
brious draught with a smile, and instantly starting up, was
dressed in a few minutes. She felt more composed than she
had done for some time past ; the transition from a narrow
dark street to a fine open country, would have excited a lively
transport in her mind, but for the idea of her father still re-
maining in the gloomy situation she hud quilted.
On going out, she found the family all busily employed ;
Edwin and his sons were mowing in a meadow near the house,
the nurse was churning, Ellen washing the milk-pails by the
stream in the valley, and Betsey turning a cake for her break-
fast. The tea-table was laid by a window, through which a
woodbine crept, diffusing a delightful fragrance ; the bees
feasted on its sweetness, and the gaudy butterflies fluttered
around it ; the refulgent sun gladdened the face of nature ; the
morning breeze tempered its heat, and bore upon its dewy
wings the sweets of opening flowers ; birds carolled their matins
almost on every spray ; and scattered peasants, busied in their
various labors, enlivened the extensive prospect.
Amanda was delighted with all she saw, and wrote to her
father that his presence was only wanting to complete her
pleasure. The young man who had attended her, on receiving
her letter, set out for the village, from whence he was to return
in a stage-coach to London.
The morning was passed by Anianda in arranging her little
affairs, walking about the cottage, and conversing with the
nurse relative to past times and present avocations. When the
hour for dinner came, by her desire it was carried out into the
recess in the garden, where the balmy air, the lovely scene
which surrounded her, rendered it doubly delicious.
In the evening she asked Ellen to take a walk with her, to
which she joyfully consented. " And pray. Miss," said Ellen,
Tim ClriLDREN OF THE ABBEY. ^t^
after she liad smartened herself up with a clean white apron,
her Sunday cap, and a hat loaded with poppy-colored ribbons,
smiling as she spoke, at the pretty image her glass reflected,
" wliere shall we go ? " " To the church-yard," replied Amanda.
" Oh, Lord, Miss won't that be rather a dismal place to go
to ? " " Indulge me, my dear Ellen," said Amanda, " in show-
ing nic the way thither ; there is one spot in it my heart wants
to visit."
The church-yard lay at the entrance of the little village ; the
church was a small structure, whose gothic appearance pro-
claimed its ancient date ; it was rendered more venerable by the
lofty elms and yews which surrounded it, apparently coeval with
itself, and which cast dark shades upon the spots where the
" rude forefathers of the hamlet slept," which,
" With uncouth rhymes and shnpeless sculpture decked,
Implored the passing tribute of a sigh."
And it was a tribute Amanda paid, as she proceeded to the
grave of Lady Malvina; which Ellen pointed out ; it was over
grown with grass, and the flag, which bore her name, green
from time and damp. Amanda involuntarily sunk on her
knees, and kissed the hallowed earth ; her eyes caught the
melancholy inscription. " Sweet spirit," she said, " heaven now
rewards your suCfcrings. Oh, my mother ! if departed spirits
are ever allowed to review this world, with love ineffable you
may now be regarding your child. Oh, if she is doomed to
tread a path as thorny as the one you trod, may the same
sweetness and patience that distinguished you, support her
through it ! with the same pious awe, the same meek submission,
may she bow to the designations of her Creator ! "
The affecting apostrophe drew tears from the tender-
hearted Ellen, who besought her not to continue longer in such
a dismal place. Amanda now arose weeping her spirits were
entirely overcome ; the busy objects of day had amused her
mind, and prevented it from meditating on its sorrow ; but, in
the calm solitude of the evening, they gradually revived in her
remembrance. Her father's ill-health, she feared, would in-
crease for want of her tender attentions ; and when she thought
of his distress, his confinement, his dejection, she felt agony at
their separation.
Her melancholy was noticed at the cottage. Ellen informed
the nurse of the dismal walk they had taken, which at once
accounted for it j and the good woman exerted herself to en-
liven her dear child, but Amanda, though she faintly smiled,
34
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
was not to be cheered, and soon retired to bed pale, languid,
and unhappy.
Returning light, in some degree, dispelled her melancholy ;
she felt, however, for the first time, that her hours would hang
heavy on her hands, deprived as she was of those delightful re-
sources which had hitherto diversified them. To pass her time
in listless inaction, or idle saunters about the house, was insup-
portable ; and besides, she found her presence in the morning
was a restraint on her humble friends, who did not deem it
good manners to work before her ; and to them, who, like the
bees, were obliged to lay up their wintry hoard in summer, the
loss of time was irreparable.
In the distraction of her father's affairs, she had lost her
books, implements for drawing, and musical instruments ; and
in the cottage she could only find a Bible, a family prayer-book,
and a torn volume of old ballads.
"Tear heart, now I think on't," said the nurse, "you may
go to the library at Tudor Hall, where there arc books enough
to keep you a-going, if you lived to the age of Methusalem him-
self j and very pretty reading to be sure amongst them, or our
Parson Howel would not have been going there as often as he
did to study, till he got a library of his own. The family are
all away ; and as the door is open every fine day to air the room,
you will not be noticed by nopoty going into it ; though, for thai
matter, poor old Mrs. Abergwilly would make you welcomt
enough, if you promised to take none of the books away with
you. But as I know you to be a little bashful or so, I will, i|
you choose, step over and ask her leave for you to go." " It
you please," said Amanda ; " I should not like to go without
it." " Well, I sha'n't be long," continued the nurse, " and
Ellen shall show you the way to-day ; it will be a pretty pit of a
walk for you to take every morning."
The nurse was as good as her word ; she returned soon,
virith Mrs. Abergwilly's permission for Amanda to read in the
library whenever she pleased. In consequence of this, she
immediately proceeded to the Hall, whose white turrets were
seen from the cottage : it was a large and antique building,
embosomed in a grove ; the library was on the ground-fioor,
and entered by a spacious folding-door. As soop as she had
reached it, Ellen left her, and returned to the cottage ; and
Amanda began with pleasure to examine the apartment,
whose elegance and simplicity struck her with immediate
admiration.
On one side was a row of large windows, arched quite in the
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
35
gothic style ; opposite to them were corresponding arches, in
whose recesses the boolicases were placed ; round these arches
were festoons of laurel, elegantly executed in stucco-work ; and
above them medallions of some of the most celebrated poets :
the chimney-piece, of the finest Italian marble, was beautifully
inlaid and ornamented; the paintings on the' ceiling were all
highly finished, and of the allegorical kind ; and it was difHcult
to determine whether the taste that designed, or the hand that
executed them, merited most praise ; upon marble pedestals
stood a celestial and terrestrial globe, and one recess was
entirely hung with maps. It was a room, from its situation and
appearance, peculiarly adopted for study and contemplation j
all around was solitude and silence, save the rustling of
the trees, whose dark foliage cast a solemn shade upon the
windows.
Opposite the entrance was another folding-door, which being
a little opened, Amanda could not resist the desire she felt of
seeing what was beyond it. She entered a large vaulted apart-
ment, whose airy lightness formed a pleasing contrast to the
gloomy one she had left. The manner in which it was fitted
up, and the musical instruments, declared this to be a music-
room. It was hung with pale green damask, spotted with silver,
and bordered with festoons of roses, intermingled with' light
silver sprays ; the seats corresponded to the hangings ; the
tables were of fine inlaid wood; and superb lustres were
suspended from the ceiling, which represented, in a masterly
style, scenes from some of the pastoral poets ; the orchestra,
about the centre of the room, was enclosed with a light balus-
trarling of white marble, elevated by a few steps.
The windows of this room commanded a pleasing prospect
of a deep romantic dale ; the hills through which it wound,
displaying a beautiful diversity of woody scenery, interspersed
with green pastures and barren points of rocks : a finn fall of
water fell from one of the highest of the hills, which, broken by
intervening roots and branches of trees, ran a hundred differ-
ent ways, sparkling in the sunbeams as they emerged from the
shade.
Amanda stood long at a window, enjoying this delightful
prospect, and admiring the taste which had chosen this room
for amusement ; thus at once gratifying the eye and ear. On
looking over the instruments, she saw a pianoforte unlocked j
she gently raised the lid, and touching the keys, found them in
tolerable order. Amanda adored music ; her genius for it was
great, and had received every advantage her father could
36 "m^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
possibly give it; in cultivating it lie had laid up a fund of
deliglit for himself, for " his soul was a stream that flowed at
pleasant sounds."
' Amanda could not resist the present opportunity of grati-
fying her favorite inclination. "Harmony and I," cried she,
" have long been strangers to each other." She sat down and
played a little tender air ; those her father loved, recurred to
her recollection, and she played a few of them with even more
than usual elegance. " Ah, dear and valued object," she mourn-
fully sighed, " why are you not here to share my pleasure f "
She wiped away a starting tear of tender remembrance, and
began a simple air
Ah gentle Hope, shall I no more
Thy cheerful influence share ?
Oh must I still thy loss tleplore,
And be the slave of care ?
The (,'loom which now obscures my day8
At thy approach would /ly.
And glowing fancy would display
A bright unclouded sky.
Night's dreary shadows fleet away
Before the orient beam j
So sorrow melts before thy sway,
Thou nymph of cheerful mien.
Ah I seek again my lonely breast,
Dislodge each painful fear ;
Be once again my heavenly guest,
And stay each falling tear.
Amanda saw a number of music-books lying about j she
examined a few, and found they contained composilions of
some of the most eminent masters. They tempted her to con-
tinue a Utile longer at the instrument : when she rose from it,
she returned to the library, and began looking over the books,
which she fotuul were a collection of the best tliat past or
present times had produced. She soon selected one for peru-
sal, and seated herself in the recess of a window, that she
might enjoy the cool breeze, which sighed amongst the trees.
Here, delighted wilh her employment, she forgot the progress
of time ; nor thought of moving, till Ellen appeared with a re-
quest from the nurse, f ir her immediate return, as her dinner
was ready, and she was uneasy at her fasting so long. Amanda
did not hesitate to comply with the request ; but she resolved
henceforth to be a constant visitor to the hall, which contained
such pleasing sources of amusement : she also settled in lier
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 37'
own mind often to. ramble amidst its shades, which were per-
fectly adapted to her taste. These resolutions she put in
practice ; and a week passed in this manner, during which she
heard from her father, who informed her, that, suspecting the
woman with whom he lodged to be in Colonel Belg'rave's inter-
est, he proposed changing his abode ; he desired her therefore
not to write till she heard from him again, and added, " Lord
Cherbury was daily expected."
CHAPTER IV.
"Mine eyes were half closed in sleep. Soft music cimc to mine enr ; it was like the
rising hruczc, that whirls at' first, the thistle's beard, that flies, dark shadowy over thft ,
grass." OssiAH.
Amanda went every morning to the hall, where she alter-
nately played and read : in the evening she again returned to
it: but instead of staying in the library, generally took a book
from thence, and read at the foot of some old moss-covered
tree, delighted to hear its branches gently rustling over her
head, and myriads of summer flies buzzing in the sunny ray,
from which she was sheltered. When she could no longer see
to read, she deposited her book in the place she had taken it
from, and rambled to the deepest recesses of the grove : this
was the time she loved to saunter carelessly along, while all
the jarring passions that obtruding care excited were hushed
to peace by the solemnity and silence of the hour, and the soul
felt at once composed and elevated : this was the time she
loved to think on days departed, and sketch- those scenes of
felicity which, she trusted, the days to come would realize.
Sometimes she gave way to all the enthusiasm of a young and
romantic fancy, and pictured to herself the time when the
shades she wandered beneath were
-the haunts of meditation.
The scenes, where ancient bards the inspiring breath
Ecstatic felt, and, from this world retired,
Conversed with angels, .ind immortal forms,
On gracious erriincls bent; to save the fall
Of Virtue struggling on the brink of Vice. Thomson.
Her health gradually grew better, as the tranquillity of her
38 THE CHILDREN Of THE ABBEY.
mind increased : a faint blush again began to tinge her cheek,
and her lovely eyes beamed a placid lustre, through their long
silken lashes.
She returned one evening from her usual ramble, with one
of those unaccountable depressions on her spirits to which, in
a greater or lesser degree, almost every one is subject. When
she retired to bed, her sleeping thoughts took the tincture of
her waking ones, and images of the most affecting nature arose
in her mind : she went through the whole story of her mother's
sufferings, and suddenly dreamt she beheld her expiring under
the greatest torture ; and that while she wept her fate the
clouds opened, and discovered her adorned with seraphic
beauty, bending with a benignant look towards her child, as if
to assure her of her present happiness. From this dream
Amanda was roused by the softest, sweetest strains of music
she had ever heard : she started with amazement ; she opened
her eyes, and saw a light around her, far exceeding that of
twilight. Her dream had made a deep impression on her, and
a solemn awe diffused itself over her mind ; she trembled
universally ; but soon did the emotion of awe give way to that
of surprise, when she heard on the outside of the window the
following lines from Cowley, sung in a manly and exquisitely
melodious voice, the music which awoke her being only a
symphony to them :
Awake, awake, my lyre,
And tell thy silent master's humble tale
In sounds that may prevail j
Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire.
Though so exalted she.
And I so lowly be,
Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony.
Hark, how the strings awake,
And though the moving hand approach not near
Themselves with awful fear,
A kind of numerous trembling make.
Now all thy forces try,
Now all thy charms apply,
Revenge upon her ear the conquest of her eye.
Weak lyre, thy virtue sure
Is useless here, since thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound,
And .she to wound, but not to cure.
Too weak, too, wilt thou prove
My passion to remove.
Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 39
*
Sleep, sleep again, my lyre.
For thou canst never tell my humble tale,
In sounds that will prevail,
Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire.
All thy vain mirth lay by,
Bid thy strings silent lie.
Sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die.
Ere the voice ceased, Amanda had quite shaken off the
effects of her dream ; and when all again was silent, she drew;
back the curtain, and saw it was the moon, then at the full,
which, beaming through the calico window-curtains, Cast such
a light around her. The remainder of the night was passed in
ruminating on this strange incident ; it was evident the serenadfe
was addressed to her ; but she had not seen any one since her
arrival in the neighborhood from whom she could have expected
such a compliment, or, indeed, believed capable of paying it ;
that the person who paid it was one of no mean accomplish-
ments, from his performance, she could not doubt. She Re-
solved to conceal the incident, but to make such inquiries the
next morning as might possibly lead to a discovery. From the'
answers those inquiries received, the clergyman was the only
person whom, with any degree of probability, she could fix on.
She had never seen him, and was at a loss to conceive how he '
knew anything of her, till it occurred he might have seen her
going to Tudor Hall, or rambling about it.
From the moment this idea arose, Amanda deemed it irti-
prudent to go to the hall ; yet, so great was the pleasure she
experienced there, she could not think of relinquishing it with-
out the greatest reluctance. She at last considered, if she had
a companion, it would remove any appearance of impropriety.
Ellen was generally employed at knitting ; Amanda therefore
saw, that going to the hall could not interfere with her employ-
ment, and accordingly asked her attendance thither, which the
other joyfully agreed to.
" While you look over the books," said Ellen, as they entered
the library, " I will just step away about a little business."
" I beg you may not be long absent," cried Amanda. Ellen
assured her that she would not, and flew off directly. She had
in truth seen, in an enclosure near the hall, Tim Chip, the
carpenter, at work, who was the rural Adonis of these shades.
He had long selected Ellen for the fair nymph of his affection,
which distinction excited not a little jealousy among the village
girls, and considerably increased the vanity of Ellen, who
triumphed in a conquest that at once gratified her love, and
exalted her above her companions.
40 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Amanda entered the music-room. The melodious strains
she had heard the preceding night dwelt upon her memory,
and she sat down to the piano and attempted them ; her ear
soon informed her the attempt was successful j and her voice
(as the words were familiar to her) then accompanied the in-
strument " Heavenly sounds ! " exclaimed some one behind
her, as she concluded singing. Amanda started in terror and
confusion from the chair, and beheld a tall and elegant young
man standing by it. " Good heaven ! " cried she, blushing and
hastily moving to the door, scarcely knowing what she said,
" where can Ellen be ? " " And do you think," said the
stranger, springing forward and intercepting her passage, " I
shall let you escape in this manner ? No ; really, my charming
girl, I should be the most insensible of beings if I did not avail
myself of the happy opportunity chance afforded of entreating
leave to be introduced to you." As he spoke, he gently seized
her hand and carried it to his lips. " Be assured, sir," said
Amanda, " the chance, as you call it, which brought us together,
is to me most unpleasant, as I fear it has exposed me to greater
freedom than I have been accustomed to." " And is it pos-
sible," said he, " you really feel an emotion of anger ? Well, T
will relinquish my lovely captive if she condescendingly promises
to continue here a few minutes longer, and grants me permis-
sion to attend her home." " I insist on being immediately
released," exclaimed Amanda. " I obey," cried he, softly press-
ing her hand, and then resigning it " you are free j would to
Heaven I could say the same I "
Amanda hurried to the grove, but in her confusion took
the wrong path, and vainly cast her eyes around in search of
Ellen. The stranger followed, and his eyes wandered with hers
|n every direction they took. " And why," cried he, " so unpro-
pitious to my wish of introduction? a wish it was impossible
not to feel from the moment you were seen." Amanda made
nd reply, but still hurried on, and her fatigue and agitation were
.soon too much for her present weak state of health, and, quite
overpowered, she was at last compelled to stop, and lean against
a tree for support. Exercise had diffused its. softest bloom
over her cheek ; her hair fluttered in the breeze that played
around her, and her eyes, with the beautiful embarrassment of
modesty, were bent to the ground to avoid the stranger's ardent
gaze. He watched her with looks of the most impassioned
admiration, and softly exclaimed, as if the involuntary exclama-
tion of rapture, "Good heavens, what an angel !, Fatigue has
made you ill," he said j " and 'tis your haste to avoid me has
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY,
41
occasioned this disorder. Could you look into iny heart, you
would then find there was no reason to fly me ; the emotions
that lovely face excites in a soul of sensibility could never be
inimical to your safety."
At this moment Amanda perceived Ellen leaping over a
style J she had at last left Mr, Chip, after promising to meet him
in the evening at the cottage, where the blind harper was to
attend to give them a dance. She ran forward, but, on seeing
the stranger, started back in the utmost amazement. " Bless
me ! " said Amanda, " I thought you would never come."
" You go, then," said the stranger, " and give me no hope of a
second interview. Oh say," taking her hand, " will you not
allow me to wait upon you ? " " It is utterly impossible," replied
Amanda, "and I shall be quite distressed if longer detained."
" See, then," said he, opening a gate which led from the grove
into the road, " how like a courteous knight I release you from ,
painful captivity. But think not, thou beautiful though cruel
fair one," he continued gayly, " I shall resign my hopes of yet
conquering thy obduracy."
" Oh, Lord ! " cried Ellen, as they quitted the grove, " how
did you meet with Lord Mortimer ? " " Lord Mortimer ? " re-
peated Amanda, " Yes, himself, inteed," said Ellen ; " and I
think in all my porn days I was never more surprised than
when I saw him with you, looking so soft and so sweet upon
you ; to be sure he is a beautiful man, and besides that, the
young Lort of Tudor Hall." Amanda's spirits were greatly,
flurried when she heard he was the master of the mansion,
where he had found her seated with as much composure as if ,
possessor of it.
As they were entering the cottage, Ellen, twitching Aman-
da's sleeve, cried, " Look I look I " Amanda, hastily turning
round, perceived Lord Mortimer, who had slowly followed
them half way down the lane. On being observed, he smiled,
and kissing his hand, retired.
Nurse was quite delighted at her child being seen by Lord
Mortimer (which Ellen informed her of) : her beauty, she was
convinced, had excited his warmest admiration j and admira~
tion might lead (she did not doubt) to something more impor-
tant. Amanda's heart fluttered with an agreeable sensation,'
as Ellen described to her mother the tender looks with which
Lord Mortimer regarded her. She was at first inclined to be-
lieve, that in his lordship she had found the person whose
melody so agreeably disturbed her slumbers ; but a minute's
reflection convinced her this belief must be erroneous : it was
42
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
evident (or she would have heard of it) that Lord Mortimer
had only arrived that day at Tudor Hall : aud even had he
seen her before, upon consideration she thought it improbable
that he should have taken the trouble of Coming in such a man-
ner to a person in a station, to all appearance, so infinitely be-
neath his own. Yes, it was plain, chance alone had led him to
the apartment where she sat ; and the commonplace gallantry
fashionable men are accustomed to, had dictated the language he
addressed to her. She half sighed, as she settled the matter
thus in her mind, and again fixed on the curate as her sere-
nader. Well, she was determined, if ever he came in her way,
and dropped a hint of an attachment, she would immediately
crush any hope she might have the vanity to entertain I
CHAPTER V.
" The blossoms opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of puritv display
To emulate hismino." Goldsmith.
After tea Amanda asked little Betsey to accompany her in
a \yalk ; for Ellen (dressed in all her rural finery) had ITone earlier
in the evening to the dance. But Amanda did not begin her
: walk with her usual alacrity : her bonnet was so heavy, and then
it Miiade her look so ill, that she could not go out till she had
made some alterations in it; still it would not do ; a hat was
tried on ; she liked it better, and at last set out ; but not as
usual did she pause, whenever a new or lovely feature in the
landscape struck her view, to express her admiration : she was
often indeed so absorbed in thought, as to start when Betsey
addressed her, which was often the case : for little Betsey
delighted to have Miss Amanda to trace figures for her in the
clouds, and assist her in gathering wild flowers. Scarcely
knowing, which way they went, Amanda rambled to the village ;
and feeling herself fatigued, turned into the church-yard to rest
upon one of the raised flags.
The graves were ornamented with garlands of cut paper,
interwoven with flowers : tributes of love from the village maids
to the memory of their departed friends.
As Amanda rested herself, she twined a garland of the wild
flowers she had gathered with Betsey, and hung it over the
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 43
grave of Lady Malvina : her fine eyes raised to heaven, as if
invoking at that moment the spirit of her mother, to regard the
vernal offering of her child ; while her white hands were folded
on her heart, and she softly exclaimed, " Alas, is this the only
tribute fot me to pay I "
A low murmur, as if from voices near, startled her at the
instant j she turned with quickness, and saw Lord Mortimer,
with a young clergyman, half hid by some trees, attentively
observing her. Blushing and confused, she drew herhat over
her face, and catching Betsey's hand, hastened to the cottage.
Lord Mortimer had wandered about the skirts of the cottage,
in hopes of meeting her in the evening ; on seeing the direction
she had taken from it, he followed her, and just as she entered
the church-yard, unexpectedly met the curate. His company,'
at a moment so propitious for joining Amanda, he could well
have dispensed with ; for he was more anxious than he chose
to acknowledge to himself, to become acquainted with her.
Lord Mortimer was now in the glowing prime of life : his
person was strikingly elegant, and his manners insinuatingly
pleasing; seducing sweetness dwelt in his smile, and, as he;
pleased, his expressive eyes could sparkle with intelligence, or.
beam with sensibility ; and to the eloquence of his language,,
the harmony of his voice imparted a charm that seldom failed-
of being irresistible ; his soul was naturally the seat of every
virtue ; but an elevated rank, and splendid fortune, had placed'
him in a situation somewhat Inimical to their interests, for he '
had not always strength to resist the strong temptations which
surrounded him ; but though he sometimes wandered from the
boundaries of virtue, he had never yet entered upon the con-
fines of vice never really injured innocence, or done a dbed
which could wound the bosom of a friend : his heart was alive
to every noble propensity of nature ; compassion was one of
its strongest feelings, and never did his hand refuse obedience
to the generous impulse. Among the various accomplishments
he possessed^ was an exquisite taste for music, which, with''!
every other talent, had been cultivated to the highest degree of
possible perfection ; his spending many years abroad had given
him every requisite advantage for improving it. The soft, i^ielo-
dious voice of Amanda would of itself almost have made a con- '
quest of his heart ; but aided by the charms of her face and ,
person, altogether were irresistible.
He had come into Wales on purpose to pay a visit to an old
friend in the Isle of Anglesey: he did not mean to stop at
Tudor Hall ; but within a, few miles of it the phsetori, in which
44 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
he travelled (from the fineness of the weather), was overturned,
and he severely hurt. He procured a hired carriage, and pro-
ceeded to the hall, to put himself into the hands of the good
old housekeeper, Mrs. Abergwilly ; who, possessing as great a
stock of medical knowledge as Lady Bountiful herself, he be-
lieved would cure his bruises with as much, or rather more ex-
pedition, than any country surgeon whatever. He gave strict
orders that his being at the hall should not be mentioned, as he
did not choose, the few days he hoped and believed he should
' continue there, to be disturbed by visits which he knew would
be paid if an intimation of his being there was received. From
an apartment adjoining the music-room he had discovered
Amanda. Though scarcely able lo move, at the first sound of
her voice he stole to the door, which being a little open, gave
, him an opportunity of seeing her perfectly ; and nothing but hjs
situation prevented his immediately appearing before her, and
expressing the admiration she had inspired him with. As soon
as she departed he sent for the housekeepfer, to inquire who the
beautiful stranger was. Mrs. Abergwilly only knew she was a
young lady lately come from I^ondon, to lodge at David Edwin's
cottage, whose wife had entreated permission for her to read in
the library, which, she added, she had given, seeing that his
lordship read in his dressing-room ; but, if he pleased, she would
send Miss Dunford word not to come again " By no means,"
his lordship said. Amanda therefore continued her visits as
psual, little thinking with what critical regard and fond admira-
tion she was observed. Lord Mortimer daily grew better ; but
-the purpose for which he had come into Wales seemed utterly
forgotten ; he had a tincture of romance in his disposition, and
availed himself of his recovery to gratify it, by taking a lute
and serenading his lovely cottage girl. He could no longer
'restrain his impatience to be known to her ; and the next day,
stealing from his retirement, surprised her as already related.
. As he could not, without an utter violation of good manners,
shake off Howel, he contented himself with following Amanda
into the church-yard, where, shaded by trees, he and his com-
panion stood watching her unnoticed, till an involuntary excla-
-mation of rapture from his lordship discovered their situation.
When she departed, he read the inscription on the tombstone ;
but, from the difference of names, this gave no insight into any
connection between her and the person it mentioned. Howel
could give no information of either ; he was but a young man,
lately appointed to the parsonage, and had never seen Amanda
till that evening.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
45
Lord Mortimer was solicitous, even to a degree of anxiety,
to learn the real situation of Amanda. As Howel, in his pastoral
function, had free access to the houses of his parishioners, it
occurred to him that he would be an excellent person to dis-
cover it ; he tiierefore, as if from curiosity alone, expressed his
wish of knowing who she was, and requested Howel, if con-
venient, to follow her directly to Edwin's cottage (where, he
said, by chance, he heard she lodged), and endeavor to find out ,
from the good people everything about her. This request Howel
readily complied with ; the face, the figure, the melancholy, and,'
above all, the employment of Amanda, had interested his sen-
sibility and excited his curiosity.
He arrived soon after her at the cottage, and found her
laughing at her nurse, who was telling her she was certain she
should see her a great lady. Amanda rose to retire at his en- '
trance ; but he, perceiving her intention, declared if he disturbed
her, he would immediately depart; she accordingly reseated
herself, secretly pleased at doing so, as she thought, either from
some look or word of the curate's, she might discover if he
really was the person who had serenaded her ; from this idea
she showed no aversion to enter into conversation with him.
The whole family^ nurse excepted, had followed Ellen to the
dance ; and that good woman thought she could do no less, for
the honor of Howel's visit, than prepare a little comfortable
supper for him. The benevolence of his disposition, and in-
nocent gayety of his temper, had rendered him a great favorite
amongst his rustic neighbors, whom he frequently amused with
simple ballads and pleasant tales. Amanda and he were left
tete-d-tete while the nurse was busied in preparing her entertain-
ment j and she was soon as much pleased with the elegance dnd
simplicity of his manners, as he was with the innocence and
sweetness of hers. The objects about them naturally led to
rural subjects, and from them to what might almost be termed
a dissertation on poetry : this was a theme peculiarly agreeable
to Howel, who wooed the pensive muse beneath the sylvan
shade ; nor was it less so to Amanda she was a zealous wor-
shipper of the muses, though diffidence made her conceal hei"
invocations to them. She was led to point out the beauties of
her favorite authors, and the soft sensibility of her voice raised
a kind of tender enthusiasm in Howel's soul ; he gazed and
listened, as if his eye could never be satisfied with seeing, or ,
his ear with hearing. At his particular request, Amanda recited
the pathetic description of the curate and his lovely daughter
from the " Deserted Village " a tear stole down her cheek as
46 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
she proceeded. Howel softly laid his hand on hers, and ex-
claimed, " Good heavens, what an angel ! "
" Come, come," said Amanda, smiling at the energy with
which he spoke, " you, at least, should have nothing to do with
flattery." ,
" Flattery ! " repeated he, emphatically ; " Oh heavens f did
you but know my sincerity "
"Well, well," cried she, wishing to change the subject,
"utter no expression in future which shall make me doubt it."
"To flatter you," said he, "would be impossible, since the
highest eulogium must be inadequate to your merits."
" Again ! " said Amanda.
" Believe me," he replied, "flattery is a meanness I abhor ;
the expressions you denominate as such proceed from emotions
I should contemn myself for want of sensibility if I did not
experience."
The nurse's duck and green peas were now set upon the
table, but in vain did she press Howel to eat ; his eyes were too
well feasted to allow him to attend to his palate. Finding her
entreaties ineffectual in one respect, she tried them in another,
and begged he would sing a favorite old ballad ; this he at first
hesitated to do, till Amanda (from a secret motive of her own)
joined in the entreaty ; and the moment she heard his voice,
she was convinced he was not the person who had been at the
outside of her window. After his complaisance to her, she
could not refuse him one song. The melodious sounds sunk
into his heart ; he seemed fascinated to the spot, nor thought of
moving till the nurse gave him a hint for that purpose, being
afraid of Amanda sitting up too late.
He sighed as he entered his humble dwelling ; it was perhaps
the first sigh he had ever heaved for the narrowness of his for-
tune. " Yet," cried he, casting his eyes around, " in this abode,
low and humble as it is, a soul like Amanda's might enjoy
felicity."
The purpose for which Lord Mortimer sent him to the cot-
age, and Lord Mortimer himself, were forgotten. His lordship
had engaged Howel to sup with him after the performance of
his embassy, and impatiently awaited his arrival : he felt dis-"
.pleased, as the hours wore away without bringing him ; and,
unable at last to restrain the impetuosity of his feelings, pro-
' ceeded to the parsonage ; which he entered a few minutes after
Howel. He asked, with no great complacency, the reason he
had not fulfilled his engagement. Absorbed in one idea, Howel
felt confused, agitated, and unable to frame any excuse ; he
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 4^
therefore simply said, what in reality was true, " that he had
utterly forgotten it."
"I suppose, then,' exclaimed Lord Mortimer, in a ruffled
voice, " you have been very agreeably entertained ? "
" Delightfully," said Howel.
Lord Mortimer grew more displeased, but his anger was now
levelled against himself as well as Howel. He repented and
regretted the folly which had thrown Howel in the way of such
temptation, and had perhaps raised a rival to himself.
" Well," cried he, after a few hasty paces about the room,
" and pray, what do you know about Miss Dunford ? "
"About her ! " repeated Howel, as if starting from a reverie ;
" why nothing."
" Nothing ! " re-echoed his lordship.
" No," replied Howel, " except that she is an angel."
Lord Mortimer was now thoroughly convinced all was over
with the poor parson ; and resolved, in consequence of this
conviction, to lose no time himself. He . could not depart
without inquiring how the evening had been spent, and envied
Howel the happy minutes he had so eloquently described.
CHAPTER VI.
- Hither turn
Thy graceful footsteps ; hither, gentle maid.
Incline thy polished forehead. Let thy eyes
ffuse the mildness of their azure dawn;
And may the fanning breezes waft aside
Thy radiant locks, disclosing, as it bends
With airy softness from the marble ncck^
The cheek fnir-bloomtng, and the rosy hp,
Where winning smiles, and pleasure sweet as love
With snnctitv and wisdom, tempering blend
Their soft allurements." Aksnsidb.
While Amanda was at breakfast the next morning, Betsey
brought a letter to her ; expecting to hear from her father, she
eagerly opened it, and, to her great surprise, persued the fol- .
lowing lines :
TO MISS DUNFORD.
Lord Mortimer begs leave to assure Miss Dunford he shall remain dis-
satisfied with himself till he has an opportunity of personally apologizing
for his intrusion yesterday. If the sweetness of her disposition fulfils the
48 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
promise her face has given of it, he flatters himself his pardon will speedily
be accorded : yet never shall he thiiil; himself entirely forgiven, if her visits
to the library arc discontinued. Ifappy and honored shall I^ord Mortimer
consider himself, if Tudor Hall contains anything which can amuse or merit
the attention of Miss Dunford.
July 17th.
" From Lord Mortimer ! " said Amanda, witli involuntary
emotion. " Well, this really has astonished me." " Oh Lort,
my tear ! " cried the nurse in rapture.
Amanda waved her hand to silence her, as the servant
stood in the outside room. She called Betsey : " Tell the ser-
vant," said she
" Lort I " cried the nurse softly, and twitching her sleeve,
" write his lortship a little pit of a note, just to let him see
what a pretty scribe you are."
Amanda could not rcCrain smiling ; but disengaging her-
self from the good woman, site arose, and going to the servant,
desired him to toll his lord, she thanketl liini for his polite
attention ; but that in future it would not be in her power to
go to the library. When she returned to the room, the nurse
bitterly lamented her not writing. " Great matters," she said,
"had often arisen from small beginnings." She could not
conceive why his lortship should be treated in such a manner :
it was not the way she had ever served her Edwin. Lort, she
remembered if she got but the scrawl of a pen from him, she
used to sit up to answer it. Amanda tried to persuade her it
was neither necessary or proper for her to write. An hour
passed in arguments between them, when two servants came
from Tudor Hall to the cottage with a small bookcase, which
they sent in to Amanda, and their lord's compliments, that in a
few minutes he would have the honor of paying his respects
to her.
Amanda felt agitated by this message ; but it was the
agitation of involuntary pleasure. Her room was always per-
fectly neat, yet did the nurse and her two daughters now busy
themselves with trying, if possible, to put it into nicer order :
the garden was ransacked for the choicest flowers to ornament
it ; nor would they depart till they saw Lord Mortimer ap-
proaching. Amanda, who had opened the bookcase, then
snatched up a book, to avoid the appearance of sitting in
expectation of his coming.
He entered with an air at once easy and respectful, and
taking her hand, besought forgiveness for his intrusion the pre-
ceding day Amanda blushed, and faltered out something of the
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. , 49
confusion she had experienced from being so surprised ; he
reseated her, and drawing a chair close to hers, said he had
taken the liberty of sending her a few books to amuse her, till
she again condescended to visit the library, which he entreated
her to do j promising that, if she pleased, both it and the
music-room should be sacred to her alone. She thanked him
for his politeness; but declared she must be excused from
going. Lord Mortimer regarded her with a degree of tender
admiration ; an admiration heightened by the contrast he drew
in his mind between her and the generality of fashionable
women he had seen, whom he often secretly censured for sacri-
ficing too largely at the shrine of art and fashion. The pale
and varied blush which mantled the cheek of Amanda at once
announced itself to be an involuntary suffusion ; and her dress
was only remarkable for its simplicity ; she wore a plain robe
of dimity, and an abbey cap of thin muslin, that shaded, with-
out concealing, her face, and gave to it the soft expression of
a Madonna ; her beautiful hair fell in long ringlets down her
back, and curled upon her forehead.
" Good heaven 1 " cried Mortimer, " how has your idea
dwelt upon my mind since last night : if in the morning I was
charmed, in the evening I was enraptured. Your looks, your
attitude, were then beyond all that imagination could conceive
of loveliness and grace ; you appeared as a being c another
world mourning over a kindred spirit. I felt
" Awe-struck, and as I passed, I worshipped."
Confused by the energy of his words, and the ardent
glances he directed towards her, Amanda, scarcely knowing
what she did, turned over the leaves of the book she still held
in her hand ; in doing so, she saw written on the title-page,
the Earl of Cherbury. " Cherbury ? " repeated she, in astonish-
ment.
" Do you know him ? " asked Lord Mortimer.
" Not personally ; but I revere, I esteem him ; he is one of
the best, the truest friends, my father ever had."
" Oh, how happy," exclaimed Lord Mortimer, " would his
son be, were he capable of inspiring you with such sentiments
as you avow for him."
" His son I " repeated Amanda, in a tone of surprise, and
looking at Lord Mortimer.
" Yes," replied he. " Is it then possible," he continued,
" that you are really ignorant of his being my father ? "
Surprise kept her silent a few minutes ; for her father had
4
jQ THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
never given her any account of the earl's family, till about the
period he thought of applying to him ; and her mind was so
distracted at that time on his own account, that she scarcely
understood a word he uttered. In the country she had never
heard Lord Cherbury mentioned; for Tudor Hall belonged
not to him, but to Lord Mortimer, to whom an uncle had be-
queathed it.
" I thought, indeed, my lord," said Amanda, as soon as she
recovered her voice, " that your lordship's title was familiar to
me J though why, from the hurry and perplexity in which par-
ticular circumstances involved me, I could not tell."
" Oh, suffer," cried Lord Mortimer, with one of his most
insinuating smiles, " the friendship which our parents feel to
be continued to their children ; let this," taking her soft hand,
and pressing his lips to it, " be the pledge of amity between
us." He now inquired when the intimacy between her father
and his had commenced, and where the former was. But from
those inquiries Amanda shrunk. She reflected, that, without
her father's permission, she had no right to answer them ; and
that, in a situation like his and hers, too much caution could
not be observed. Besides, both pride and delicacy made her
solicitous at present to conceal her father's real situation from
Lord Mortimer : she could not bear to think it should be
known his sole dependence was on Lord Cherbury, uncertain
as it was, whether that nobleman would ever answer his ex-
pectations. She repented having ever dropped a hint of the
intimacy subsisting between them, which surprise alone had
made her do, and tried to waive the subject. In this design
Lord Mortimer assisted her ; for he had too much penetration
not instantly to perceive it confused and distressed her. He
requested .permission to renew his visit, but Amanda, though
well inclined to grant his request, yielded to prudence instead
of inclination, and begged he would excuse her ; the seeming
disparity (she could not help saying) in their situations, would
render it very imprudent in her to receive such visits ; she
blushed, half sighed, and bent her eyes to the ground as she
spoke. Lord Mortimer continued to entreat, but she was
steady in refusing ; he would not depart, however, till he had
obtained permission to attend her in the evening to a part of
Tudor Grove which she had never yet seen, and he described
as particularly beautiful. He wanted to call for her at the
appointed hour, but she would not suffer this, and he was com-
pelled to be contented with leave to meet tier near the cottage
when it came.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. jj .
Witlt a beating lieart she kept her appointment, and found his
?L.rtlship not many yards distant from tiic cottage, impatiently
waiting her approach, h brighter bloom than usual glowed
upon her cheek as she listened to his ardent expressions of
admiration ; yet not to such expressions, which would soon
have sated an ear of delicacy like Amanda's, did Lord Mortimer
confine himself ; he conversed on various subjects ; and the
eloquence of his language, the liveliness of his imagination, and
the justness of his remarks, equally amused and interested his
fair companion. There was, indeed, in the disposition and
manners of Lord Mortimer that happy mixture of animation and
softness which at once amuses the fancy and attracts the heart ;
and never had Amanda experienced such minutes as she now
passed with him, so delightful in their progress, so rapid in
their course. On entering the walk he had mentioned to her,
she saw he had not exaggerated its beauties. After passing
through many long and shaded alleys, they came to a smooth
green lawn, about which the trees rose in the form of an am-
phitheatre, and their dark, luxuriant, and checkered shades
proclaimed that amongst tliem
" The rude axe, with heaved stroke,
Was never heard, the nymphs to daunt,
Or tright them from their hallowed liaunt." Milton
The lawn gently sloped to a winding stream, so clear as per-
fectly to reflect the beautiful scenery of heaven, now glowing
with the gold and purple of the setting sun : from the opposite
bank of the stream rose a stupendous mountain, diversified
with little verdant hills and dales, and skirted with a wild shrub-
bery, whose blossoms perfumed the air with the most balmy
fragrance. Lord Mortimer prevailed on Amanda to sit down
upon a rustic bench, beneath the spreading branches of an oak,
enwreathed with ivy ; here they had not sat long, ere the
silence, which reigned around, was suddenly interrupted by
strains, at once low, solemn, and melodious, that seemed to
creep along the water, till they had reached the place where
they sat ; and then, as if a Naiad of the stream had left her
rushy couch to do them homage, they swelled by degrees into
full melody, which the mountain echoes alternately revived and
heightened. It appeared like enchantment to Amanda ; and
her eyes, turned to Lord Mortimer, seemed to say, it was
to his magic it was owing. After enjoying her surprise some
minutes, he acknowledged the music proceeded from two
servants of his, who played on the clarinet and French horn,
52
THE CHILDREN OF THE ADISEY.
and were stationed in a dell of the opposite mountain. Not-
withstanding all her former thoughts to the contrary, Amanda
now conceived a strong suspicion that Lord Mortimer was really
the person who had serenaded her j that she conceived pleasure
from the idea, is scarcely necessary to say ; she had reason soon
to find she was not mistaken. Lord Mortimer solicited her for
the Lady's song in Comus, saying the present situation was
peculiarly adapted to it ; on her hesitating, he told her she had
no plea to offer for not complying, as he himself had heard her
enchanting powers in it. Amanda started, and eagerly inquired
when or by what means. It was too late for his lordship to
recede ; and he not only confessed his concealment near the
music-room, but his visit to her window. A soft confusion,
intermingled with pleasure, pervaded the soul of Amanda at
this confession : and it was some tirne ere she was sufficiently
composed to comply with Lord Mortimer's solicitations for her
to sing ; she at last allowed him to. lead her to the centre of a
little rustic bridge thrown over the stream, from whence her
voice could be sufficiently distinguished for the music to keep
time to it, as Lord Mortimer had directed. Her plaintive and
harmonious invocation, answered by the low breathing of the
clarinet, which appeared like the softest echo of the mountain,
had the finest effect imaginable, and " took the imprisoned
soul, and wrapped it in Elysium."
Lord Mortimer, for the first time in his life, found himself
at a loss to express what he felt : he conducted her back to the
seat, where, to her astonishment, she beheld fruits, ices, and
cj-eams, laid out, as if by the hand of magic, for no mortal
appeared near the spot. Dusky twilight now warned her to
return home ; but Lord Mortimer would not suffer her to depart
till she had partaken of this collation.
He was not by any means satisfied with the idea of only
beholding her for an hour or two of an evening j and when they
came near the cottage, desired to know whether it was to
chance alone he was in future to be indebted for seeing her.
Again he entreated permission to visit her sometimes of a
morning, promising he would never disturb her avocations, but
would be satisfied merely to sit and read to her, whenever she
chose to work, and felt herself inclined for that amusement :
Amanda's refusals grew fainter ; and at last she said, on the
above-mentioned conditions, he might sometimes come. That
he availed himself of this permission, is scarcely necessary to
say ; and from this time few hours passed without their seeing
each other.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
^i
The cold reserve of Amanda by degrees wore away ; from
her knowledge of his family she considered him as more than a
new or common acquaintance. The emotions she felt for him,
she thought sanctioned by that knowledge, and the gratitude
she felt for Lord Cherbury for his former conduct to her father,
which claimed, she thought, her respect and esteem for so near ,
and valuable a connection of his ; the worth, too, she could not
avoid acknowledging to herself, of Lord Mortimer, would, of
itself alone, have authorized them. Her heart felt he was one
of the most amiable, most pleasing of men ; she could scarcely
disguise, in any degree, the lively pleasure she experienced in
his society ; nay, she scarcely thought it necessary to disguise
it, for it resulted as much from innocence as sensibility, and
was placed to the account of friendship. But Lord Mortimer
was too penetrating not soon to perceive he might ascribe it to
a softer impulse ; with the most delicate attention, the most
tender regard, he daily, nay, hourly, insinuated himself into
her heart, and secured for himself an interest in it, ere she
was aware, which the efforts of subsequent resolution could
not overcome. He was the companion of her rambles, the
alleviator of her griefs ; the care which so often saddened her
brow always vanished at his presence, and in conversing with
him she forgot every cause of sorrow.
Tie once or twice delicately hinted at those circumstances
which at his first visit she had mentioned, as sufliciently distress-
ing to bewilder her recollection. Amanda, with blushes, always
shrunk from the subject, sickening at the idea of his knowing
that her father depended on his for future support. If he ever
addressed her seriously on the subject of the regard he professed
for her (which, from his attentions, she could, not "lelp some-
times flattering herself would be the case), theti, rndeed, there
would be no longer room for concealment ; but, except such a
circumstance took place, she could not bring herself to make ,
any humiliating discovery.
Tudor Grove was the favorite scene of their rambles ; some-
times she allowed him to lead her to the music-room ; but as
these visits were not frequent, a lute was brought from it to the
cottage, and in the recess in the garden she often sung and
played for the enraptured Mortimer ; there, too, he frequently
read for her, always selecting some elegant and pathetic piece
of poetry, to which the harmony of his voice gave additional
charms ; a voice, which sunk into the heart of Amanda, an^
interested her sensibility even more than the subject he perused.
Often straying to the valley's verge, as they contemplated
54
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
the lovely prospect around, only bounded by distant and stu-
pendous mountains, Lord Mortimer, in strains of eloquence
would describe the beautiful scenes and extensive landscapes
beyond them ; and, whenever Amanda expressed a wish (as she
sometimes would from thoughtless innocence) of viewing them,
he would softly sigh, and wish he was to be her guide to them ;
as to point out beauties to a refined and cultivated mind like
hers, would be to him the greatest pleasure he could possibly
experience. Seated sometimes on the brow of a shrubby hill,
as they viewed the scattered hamlets beneath, he would expati-
ate on the pleasure he conceived there must be in passing a
tranquil life with one lovely and beloved object : his insidious
eyes, turned towards Amanda, at these minutes, seemed to say,
she was the being who could realize all the ideas he entertained
of such a life ; and when he asked her opinion of his senti-
ments, her disordered blushes, and faltering accents, too plainly
betrayed her conscious feelings. Every delicacy which Tudor
Hall contained, was daily sent to the cottage, notwithstanding
Amanda's prohibition to the contrary ; and sometimes Lord
Mortimer was permitted to dine with her in the recess. Three
weeks spent in this familiar manner, endeared and attached
them to each other more than months would have done, passed
in situations liable to interruption.
CHAPTER VII.
- She alone
Heaid, felt, and seen, possesses every thought,
Fills every sense, and pants in every vcni.
Hooks arc but formal dulness, tedious friends,
Aud sad amid the social band he sits,
Lonely and unattentive. From his tongue
The unfinished period falls, while, bore away
On swelling thoughts his wafted spirit (lies
To the vain bosom of his distant fair."-~TuoMSOM.
HowEL was no stranger to the manner in which hours rolled
away at the cottage \ he hovered round it, and seized every in-
terval of Lord Mortimer's absence to present himself before
Amanda ; his emotions betrayed his feelings, and Amanda
effected reserve towards him, in hopes of suppressing his pas-
sion \ a passion, she now began to think, when hopeless, must
be dreadful.
TtiE cmLDkMI^ OP Ttin AMMY. , 55
Howel was a prey to melancholy ; but not for himself alone
did he mourn ; fears for the safety and happiness of Amanda
added to his dejection ; he dreaded that Lord Mortimer, per-
haps, like too many of the fashionable men, might make no
scruple of availing himself of any advantage which could be
derived from a predilection in his favor.
He knew him, it is true, to be amiable ; but in opposition to
that, he knew him to be volatile, and sometimes wild, and
trembled for the unsuspecting credulity of Amanda. " Though
lost to me," exclaimed the unhappy young man, "oh never,
sweetest Amanda, mayest thou be lost to thyself ! "
He had received many proofs of esteem and friendship from
Lord Mortimer; he therefore studied how he mighi; admonish
without offending, and save Amanda without injuring himself.
It at last occurred to liim that the pulpit would be the surest
'way of effecting his wishes, where the subject, addressed to all,
might particularly strike one for whom it was intended, with-
out appearing as if designed for that purpose ; and timely con-
vince him, if, indeed, he meditated any irijurious design against
Amanda, of its flagrance.
On the following Sunday, as he expected. Lord Mortimer
and Amanda attended service ; his lordship's pew was opposite
the one she sat in, and we fear his eyes too often wondered in
that direction.
The youthful monitor at last ascended the pulpit ; his text
was from Jeremiah, and to the following effect :
" She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks ;
among all her lovers she hath none to comfort her ; all her friends have
dealt treacherously with her, they are become her enemies."
After a slight introduction, in which he regretted that the
declension of moral principles demanded such an exhortation
as he was about to give, he commenced his subject ; he de-
scribed a young female, adorned with beauty and innocence,
walking forward in the path of integrity, which a virtuous edu-
cation had early marked for her to take, and rejoicing as she
went with all around her ; when, in the midst of happiness, un-
expected calamity suddenly surprised and precipitated her from
prosperity into the deepest distress : he described the bene-;
iits she derived in this trying period from early implanted vir-
tue and religion ; taught by them (he proceeded) the lovely
mourner turns not to the world for consolation no, she looks
up to her Creator for comfort, whose supporting aid is so par-
ticularly promised ta afBicted worth. Cheered by them, she is
56 THE caiLDRRtf OP THE ABBEY.
able to exert her little talents of genius and taste, and draw
upon industry for her future support ; her active virtues, he
thinks the best proof of submission she can give to the will of
Heaven ; and in the laudable exertions she finds ^ conscious
peace, which the mere possession of fortune could never be-
stow. While thus employed, a son of perfidy sees and marks
her for his prey, because she is at once lovely and helpless :
her unsuspecting credulity lays her open to his arts, and his
blandishments by degrees allure her heart. The snare which _
he has spread at last involves her ; with the inconstancy of
libertinism he soon deserts her ; and again is she plunged into
distress. But mark the difference of her first and second fall :
conscience no longer lends its opposing aid to stem her sorrow,
despair instead of hope arises ; without one friend to soothe
the pangs of death, one pitying soul to whisper peace to her
departing spirit ; insulted, too, perhaps, by some unfeeling
being, whom want of similar temptations alone, perhaps, saved
from similar imprudences, she sinks an early victim to wretch-
edness.
Howel paused; the fulness of his heart mounted to his
eyes, which involuntarily turned and rested upon Amanda.
Interested by his simple and pathetic eloquence, she had risen,
and leaned over the pew, her head resting on her hand, and
her eyes fastened on his face. Lord Mortimer had also risen,
and alternately gazed upon Howel and Amanda, particularly
watching the latter, to see how the subject would affect her.
He at last saw the tears trickling down her cheeks : the dis-
tresses of her own situation, and the stratagems of Belgrave,
made her, in some respect, perceive a resemblance between her-
self and the picture Howel had drawn. Lord Mortimer was
unutterably affected by her tears, a faint sickness seized him,
he sunk upon the seat, and covered his face with his handker-
chief, to hide his emotion ; but by the time service was over it
was pretty well dissipated : Amanda returned home, and his
lordship waited for Howel's coming out of church. " What
the devil, Howel," said he, " did you mean by giving us such
an exhortation ? Have you discovered any affair going on be-
tween any of your rustic neighbors ? " The parson colored,
but remained silent ; Lord Mortimer rallied him a little more,
and then departed ; but his gayety was only assumed.
On his first acquaintance with Amanda, in consequence of
what he heard from Mrs. Abergwilly, and observed himself, he
had been tempted to think she was involved in mystery : and
what, but impropriety, he thought, could occasion mystery. To
Ttt& cmL)k&J\r OP TffE AbSbV. ^j
see so young, so lovely, so elegant a creature an inmate of a.
sequestered cottage, associating with people (in manners at
least) so infinitely beneath her ; to see her trembling and
blushing, if a word was dropped that seemed tending to in-
quire into her motives for retirement ; all these circumstances,
I say, considered, naturally excited a suspicion injurious to her
in the mind of Lord Mortimer ; and he was tempted to think
some deviation from prudence had, by depriving her of the
favor of her friends, made her retire to obscurity ; and that she
would not dislike an opportunity of emerging from it, he could
not help thinking. In consequence of these ideas, he could not
think himself very culpable in encouraging the wishes her love-
liness gave rise to ; besides, he had some reason to suspect she
desired to inspire him with these wishes ; for Mrs. Abergwilly
told him she had informed Mrs. Edwin of his arrival ; an in-
formation he could not doubt her having immediately commu-
nicated to Amanda ; therefore her continuing to come to the
hall seemed as if she wished to throw herself in his way. Mrs.
Edwin had indeed been told of his arrival, but concealed it
from Amanda, that she should not be disappointed of going to
the hall, which she knew, if once informed of it, she would not
go to.
'Tis true. Lord Mortimer saw Amanda wore (at least) the
semblance of innocence : but this could not remove his sus-
picions, so often had he seen it assumed to hide the artful
stratagems of a depraved heart.
Ah ! why will the lovely female, adorned with all that
heaven and earth can bestow to render her amiable, overleap
the modesty of nature, and by levity and boldness lose all
pretensions to the esteem which would otherwise be an involun-
tary tribute.
Nor is it herself alone she injures ; she hurts each child of
purity, helps to point the sting of ridicule, and weave the web '
of art.
We shun the blazing sun, but court his tempered beams ;
the rose, which glares upon the day, is never so much sought
as the bud enwrapt in the foliage ; and, to use the expression
of a late much-admired author, " The retiring graces have ever
been reckoned the most beautiful."
He had never heard the earl mention a person of the name
of Dunford ; and be knew not, or rather suspected, little credit
was to be given to her assertion of an intimacy between them,
particularly as he saw her, whenever the subject was mentioned,
shrinking from it in the greatest confusion.
' S8 " THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Her reserve he imputed to pretence ; and flattering himself
it would soon wear oil, determined for the present at least to
humor her affectation.
With such ideas, such sentiments, had Lord Mortimer's
first visits to Amanda commenced : but they experienced an
immediate change as the decreasing reserve of her manners
gave him greater and more frequent opportunities of discover-
ing her mental perfections ; the strength of her understanding,
the justness of her remarks, the liveliness of her fancy, above
all, the purity which mingled in every sentiment, and the mod-
esty which accompanied every word, filled him with delight and
amazement; his doubtsgradually lessened, and at last vanished,
and with them every design, which they alone had ever given
rise to. Esteem was now united to love, and real respect to
admiration : in her society he only was happy, and thought not,
or rather would not suffer himself to think, on the consequences
of such an attachment. It might be said, he was entranced
in pleasure, from which Howcl completely roused him, and
made him seriously ask his heart, what were his intentions rela-
tive to Amanda. Of such views as he perceived Howel sus-
pected him of harboring,, his conscience entirely acquitted him;
yet so great were the obstacles he knew in the way of an union
between him and Amanda, that he almost regretted (as every
one does, who acts against their better judgment,) that he had
not fled at the first intimation of his danger. So truly formi-
dable indeed did these obstacles appear, that he at times
resolved to break with Amanda, if he could fix upon any plan
for doing so, without injuring his honor, after the great atten-
tion he had paid her.
Ere he came to any final determination, however, he resolved
to try and discover her real situation : if he even left her, it
would be a satisfaction to his heart to know whether his friend-
ship could be serviceable : and if an opposite measure was his
plan, it could never be put in execution without the desired in-
formation. He accordingly wrote to his sister, Lady Araminta
Dormer, who was then in the country with Lord Cherbury,
requesting she would inquire from his father whether he knew
a person of the name of Dunford ; and if he did, what h\\
situation and family were. Lord Mortimer begged her lady,
ship not to mention the inquiries being dictated by him, and
promised at some future period to explain the reason of them.
He still continued his assiduities to Amanda, and at the
expected time received an answer to his letter ; but how was
be shocked and alarmed, when informed, Lord Cherbury never
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 59
knew a person of the name of Dunford ! His doubts began to
revive ; but before he yielded entirely to them, he resolved to
go to Amanda, and inquire from her, in the most explicit terms,
how, and at what time, her father and the Earl had become
acquainted ; determined, if she answered him without embar-
rassment, to mention to his sister whatever circumstances she
related, lest a forgetfulness of them alone had made the Earl
deny his knowledge of Dunford. Just as he was quitting the
grove with this intent, he espied Edwin and his wife coming
down a cross-road from the village, where they had been with
poultry and vegetables. It instantly occurred to him that these
people, in the simplicity of their hearts, might unfold the real
situation of Amanda, and save him the painful necessity of
making inquiries, which she, perhaps, would not answer, with-
out his real motives for making them were assigned, which was
what he could not think of doing.
Instead, therefore, of proceeding, he stopped till they came
up to him, and then with the most engaging affability addressed
them, inquiring whether they had been successful in the dis-
posal of their goods. They answered bowing and curtseying,
and he then insisted that, as they appeared tired, they should
repair to the hall, and rest themselves. This was too great an
honor to be refused ; and they followed their noble conductor,
who hastened forward to order refreshment into a parlor for
them. The nurse, who in her own way was a cunning woman,
instantly suspected, from the great and uncommon attention of
Lord Mortimer, that he wanted to inquire into the situation of
Amanda. As soon as she saw him at some distance, " David,"
cried she, " as sure as eggs are eggs," (unpinning her white
apron, and smoothing it nicely down as she spoke,) " this young
lort wants to have our company, that he may find out some-
thing apout Miss Amanda. Ah, pless her pretty face, I thought
how it would be ; but we must be as cunning as foxes, and not
tell tod much nor too little, because if we told too much it
would offend her, and she would ask us how we got all our in-
telligence, and would not think us over and above genteel, when
she heard we had sifted Jemmy Hawthorn for it, when he came
down from London with her. All we must do is just to drop
some hints, as it were, of her situation, and then his lortship,
to be sure, will make his advantage of them, and ask lier every-
thing apout herself, and then she will tell him of her own
accord : so, David, mind what you say, I charge you." " AV)
ay," cried David, " leave me alone ; I'll warrant you you 11
always find an old soldier 'cute enough for anypoty."
6o THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
When they reached the hall, they were shown into a parlor,
where Lord Mortimer was expecting them : with difficulty he
made them sit down at the table, where meat and wine were
laid out for them. After they had partaken of them, Lord
Mortimer began with asking Edwin some questions about his
farm (for he was a tenant on the Tudor estate), and \yhether
there was anything wanting to render it more comfortable.
" No," Edwin replied, with a low bow, thanking his honorable
lordship for his inquiry. Lord Mortimer spoke of his family.
" Ay, Cot pless the poor things," Edwin said, " they were, to
be sure, a fine thriving set of children." Still Lord Mortimer
had not touched on the subject nearest his heart. He felt
embarrassed and agitated. At last, with as much composure as
he could assume, he asked how long they imagined Miss Dun-
ford would stay with them. Now was the nurse's time to speak.
She had hitherto sat simpering and bowing. " That depended
on circumstances," she said. " Poor tear young laty, though
their little cottage was so obscure, and so unlike anything she
had before been accustomed to, she made herself quite happy
with it." " Her father must miss her society very much," ex-
claimed Lord Mortimer. "Tear heart, to be sure he does,"
cried nurse. " Well, strange things happen every tay ; but
still I never thought what did happen would have happened, to
make the poor old gentleman and his daughter part." " What
happened ? " exclaimed Lord Mortimer, starting and suddenly
stopping in the middle of the room, for hitherto he had been
walking backwards and forwards. " 'Twas not her business,"
the nurse replied, " by no manner of means, to be speaking
about the affairs of her petters ; put for all that she could not
help saying, because, she thought it a pity,his lortship, who was
so good and so affable, should remain in ignorance of every-
thing ; that Miss Amanda was not what she appeared to be ;
no, if the truth was told, not the person she passed for at all j
but, Lort, she would never forgive me," cried the nurse, " if
your lortship told her it was from me your lortship heard this.
Poor tear thing, she is very unwilling to have her situation
known, though she is not the first poty who has met with a pad
_man ; and shame and sorrow be upon! him who tistrest herself
and her father."
Lord Mortimer had heard enough : every doubt, every
suspicion was realized ; and he was equally unable and unwill-
ing to inquire further. It was plain Amanda was unworthy of
his esteem ; and to inquire into the circumstances which
occasioned that unworthiness, would only have tortured him.
77in CHILDREN OP THE ABI3EY. 6 1
He rung the bell abiuptly, and ordering Mrs. Abcrgwilly to
attend the Edwins, withdrew immediately to another room.
Now there was an opportunity for Lord Mortimer to break
with Amanda, without the smallest imputation on his honor.
Did it give him pleasure ? No : it filled him with sorrow, dis-
appointment, and anguish : the softness of her manners, even
more than the beauty of her person, had fascinated his soul,
and made him determine, if he found her worthy (of which
indeed he had then but little doubt) to cease not, till every
obstacle which could impede their union should be overcome.
He was inspired with indignation at the idea of the snare he
imagined she had spread for him ; thinking her modesty all a
pretext to draw him into making honorable proposals. As she
sunk in his esteem, her charms lessened in his fancy; and he
thought it would be a proper punishment for her, and a noble
triumph over himself, if he conquered, or at least resisted his
passion, and forsook her entirely. Full of this idea, and in-
fluenced by resentment for her supposed deceit, he resolved,
without longer delay, to fulfil the jjurpose which liad brought
him into Wales, namely, visiting his friend ; but how frail is
resolution and resentment when opposed to tenderness ! With-
out suffering himself to believe there was the least abatement
of either in his mind, he forbid the carriage, in a few minutes
after lie had ordered it, hicrely, he persuaded himself, for the
purpose of yet more severely mortifying Amanda : as his con-
tinuing a little longer in the neighborhood, without noticing her,
might, perhaps, convince her, she was not quite so fascinating
as she believed herself to be. From the time his residence at
Tudor Hall was known, he had received constant invitations
from the surrounding families, which, on Amanda's account, he
uniformly declined. This he resolved should no longer.be the
case : some, were yet unanswered, and these he meant to accept,
as means indeed of keeping him steady in his resolution of not
seeing her, and banishing her in some degree from his thoughts.
But he could not have fixed on worse methods than these for
effecting either of his purposes : the society he now mixed
among was so different from that he had lately been accustomed
to, that he was continually employed in drawing comparisons
between them. He grew restless ; his unhappiness increased ;
and he at last felt, that if he desired to experience any comfort,
he must no longer absent himself from Amanda; and also that,
if she refused to accede to the only proposals now in his power
to make her, he would be miserable ; so essential did he deem
her society to his happiness ; so much was he attached from
62 THE CHILDREN' OF THE ABBEY.
W
the softness and sweetness of her manners. At the time he
finally determined to see her again, he was in a large party at
a Welsh baronet's where he had dined ; and on the rack of
impatience to put his determination in practice, he retired early,
and took the road to the cottage.
Poor Amanda, during this time, was a prey to disquietude :
the first day of Lord Mortimer's absence, she felt a little un-
easiness, but strove to dissipate it, by thinking business had
detained him. The next morning she remained entirely at
home, every moment expecting to behold him ; but this expec-
tation was totally destroyed, when from the outside room she
heard one of the nurse's sons tell of all the company he had
met going to Sir Lewis ap Shenkin's, and amongst the rest
Lord Mortimer, whose servants had told him, the day before
their lord dined at Mr. Jones's, where there was a deal of com-
pany, and a grand bail in the evening. Amanda's heart almost
died within her at these words ; pleasure then, not business,
had prevented Lord Mortimer from coming to her ; these
amusements which he had so often declared were tasteless to
him, from the superior delight he experienced in her society.
Either he was insincere in such expressions, or had now grown
indifferent. She condemned herself for ever having permitted
his visits, or received his assiduities ; she reproached him for
ever having paid those assiduities, knowing, as he must, the
insincerity or inconstancy of his nature. In spite of wounded
pride, tears of sorrow and disappointment burst from her ; and
her only consolation was, that no one observed her. Her
hours passed heavily away ; she could not attend to anything ;
j|.nd in the evening walked out to indulge, in a lonely ramble,
the dejection of her heart : she turned from Tudor Hall, and
took (without knowing it indeed) the very road which led to the
house where Lord Mortimer had dined. With slow and pen-
sive steps she pursued her way, regardless of all around her,
till an approaching footstep made her raise her eyes, and she
beheld, with equal surprise and confusion, the very object who
was then employing her thoughts. Obeying the impulse of
pride, she hastily turned away ; till, recollecting that her pre-
cipitately avoiding him would at once betray her sentiments,
she paused to listen to his passionate inquiries after her health ;
having answered them with involuntary coldness, she again
moved on ; but her progress was soon stopped by Lord Morti-
mer.; snatching her hand, he insisted on knowing why she
appeared so desirous to avoid him. Amanda made no reply to
this, but desired he would let her go. " Never," he exclaimed,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 63
" till you wear another face to me. Oh I did you know the
pain I have suffered since last we met, you would from pity, I
am sure, treat me with less coldness." Amanda's heart throb-
bed with sudden pleasure ; but She soon silenced its emotion,
by reflecting that a declaration of uneasiness, at the very time
he was entering into gayety, had something too inconsistent in
it to merit credit. Hurt by supposing he wanted to impose on
her, she made yet more violent efforts to disengage her hand ;
but Lord Mortimer held it loo firmly for her to be successful j
he saw she was offended, and it gave him flattering ideas of
the estimation in which he stood with her, since to resent his
neglect was the most convincing proof he could receive of the
value she set upon his attention. Without hurting her feelings
by a hint, that he believed the alteration in her manner occa-
sioned his absence, in indirect terms he apologized for it, say-
ing what indeed was partly true, that a letter lately received
had so ruffled his mind he was quite unfit for her society, and
had therefore availed himself of those hours of chagrin and
uneasiness to accept invitations, which at some time or other
he must have done, to avoid giving offence ; and by acting as
he had done, he reserved the precious moipents of returning
tranquillity for her he adored. Ah! how readily do we receive
any apology, do we admit of any excuse, that comes from a
beloved object I Amanda felt as if a weight was suddenly re-
moved from her heart ; her eyes were no longer bent to the
earth, her cheek no longer pale j and a smile, the smile of in-
nocence and lovef, enlivened all her features. She seemed
suddenly to forget her hand was detained by Lord Mortimer, ,
for no longer did she attempt to free it; she suffered him
gently to draw it within his, and lead her to the favorite haunt
in Tudor Grove.
Pleased, yet blushing and confused, she heard Lord Morti-
mer, with more energy than he had ever yet expressed himself
with, declare the pain he suffered the days he saw her not.
From his ardent, his passionate expressions, what could the in-
nocent Amanda infer, but that he intended, by uniting his des-
tiny to hers, to secure to himself a society he so highly valued;
what could she infer, but that he meant immediately to speak
in explicit terms ? The idea was too pleasing to be received in
tranquillity, and her whole soul felt agitated. While they pur-
sued their way through Tudor Grove, the sky, whith had been
lowering the whole day, became suddenly more darkened, and
by its increasing gloom foretold an approaching storm. Lord
Mortimer no longer opposed Amanda's returning home ; but
6^ THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
scarcely had they turned for that purpose, ere the vivid light-
ning flashed across their path, and the tlumder awfully rever-
berated amongst tlie hills. The hall was much nearer than the
cottage, and Lord Mortimer, throwing his arm round Amanda's
waist, hurried her to it ; but ere they reached the library,
whose door was the first they came to, the rain began pouring
with violence. Lord Mortimer snatched off Amanda's wet hat
and cloak ; the rest of her clothes were quite dry ; and imme-
diately ordered tea and coffee, as she refused any other refresh-
ments : he dismissed the attendants, that he might, without
observation or restraint, enjoy her society. As she presided at
the tea-table, his eyes, with the fondest rapture, were fastened
on her face, which never had appeared more lovely ; exercise
had heightened the pale tint of her cheek, over which her
glossy hair curled in beautiful disorder ; the unusual glow gave
a greater radiance to her eyes, whose soft confusion denoted
the pleasure she exiDcrienced from the attention of Lord Morti-
mer. He restrained not, he could not restrain, the feelings of
Ills soul. " Oh, what happiness I " he exclaimed. " No won-
der I found all society tasteless, after having experienced yours.
Where could I find such softness, yet such sensibility ; such
sweetness, yet such animation j such beauty, yet such apparent
unconsciousness of it ? Oh, my Amanda, smoothly must that
life glide on, whose destiny you shall share I "
Amanda endeavored to check these transports, yet secretly
they filled her with delight, for she considered them as the sin-
cere effusions of honorable love. Present happiness, however,
could not render her forgetful of propriety : by the time tea
was over, the evening began to clear, and she protested
she must depart. Lord Mortimer protested against this
for some time longer, and at last brought her to the window,
to convince her there was still a slight rain falling. He
promised to see her home as soon as it was over, and entreated,
in the mean time, she would gratify him with a song. Amanda
did not refuse ; but the raptures he expressed, while she sung,
she thought too violent, and rose from the piano when she had
concluded, in spite of his entreaties to the contrr.ry. She in-
sisted on getting her hat and cloak, which had been sent to
Mrs. Abergwilly to dry : Lord Mortimer at last reluctantly
went out to obey her.
Amanda walked to the window : the prospect from it was
lovely J the evening was now perfectly serene ; a few light
clouds alone floated in the sky, their lucid skirts tinged with
purple rays from the declining sun ; the trees wore a brighter
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 65
green, and the dewdrop that had heightened tlieir verdure, yet
glittered on their sprays ; across a distant valley was extended
a beautiful rainbow, the sacred record of Heaven's covenant
with man. All nature appeared revived and animated ; the
birds now warbled their closing lays, and the bleating of the
cattle was heard from the neighboring hills. " Oh ! how sweet,
how lovely is the dewy landscape ! " exclaimed Amanda, with
that delight which scenes of calm and vernal nature never fail
of raising in minds of piety and tenderness.
" 'Tis lovely, indeed ! " repeated Lord Mortimer, who re-
turned at the moment, assuring her the things would be sent in
directly. " I admire the prospect," continued he, " because
you gaze upon it with me ; were you absent, like every other
charm, it would lose its beauty, and become tasteless to me.
Tell me," cried he, gently encircling her waist, " why this
hurry, why this wish to leave me .' Do you expect elsewhere to
meet with a being who will value your society more highly than
I do ? Do you expect to meet with a heart more fondly, more
firmly attached to you than mine ? Oh, my Amanda, if you do,
how mistaken are such expectations ! "
Amanda blushed, and averted her head, unable to speak.
" Ah, why," continued he, pursuing her averted eyes with
his, " should we create uneasiness to ourselves, by again sep-
arating? "
Amanda looked up at these words with involuntary surprise
in her countenance. Lord Mortimer understood it : he saw'
she had hitherto deluded herself with thinking his intentions
towards her very different from what they really were ; to suffer
her longer to deceive herself would, he thought, be cruelty.
Straining her to his beating heart, he imprinted a kiss on her
tremulous lips, and softly told her, that the life, which without
her would lose half its charms, should be devoted to her ser-
vice ; and that his fortune, like his heart, should be in her pos-
session. Trembling while she struggled to free herself from his
arms, Amanda demanded what he meant : her manner some-
what surprised and confused him ; but recollecting this was the
moment for explanation, he, though with half-averled eyes, de-
clared his hopes his wishes and intentions. Surprise horror
and indignation, for a few minutes overpowered Amanda ;
but suddenly recovering her scattered senses,' with a strength
greater than she had ever before felt, she burst from him, and
attempted to rush from the room. Lord Mortimer.caught hold
of her. " Whither are you going, Amanda ? " exclaimed he,
affrighted by her manner.
66 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
' From the basest of men," cried she, struggling to disen-
gage herself.
He shut the door, and forced her back to a chair : he was
shocked amazed and confounded by her looks : no art could
have assumed such a semblance of sorrow as she now wore ; no
feelings but those of the most delicate nature, have expressed
such emotion as she now betrayed : the enlivening bloom of
her cheeks was fled, and succeeded by a deadly paleness ; and
her soft eyes, robbed of tlieir lustre, were bent to the ground
with the deepest expression of woe. Lord Mortimer began to
think he had mistaken, if not her character, her disposition ; and
the idea of having insulted either purity or penitence, was like
' a dagger to his lieart. " Oh, my love ! " he exclaimed, laying
his hand on her trembling one, " what do you mean by depart-
ing so abruptly ? "
" My meaning, my lord," cried she, rising and shaking his
hand from hers, " is now as obvious as your own I seek, for-
ever, to quit a man who, under the appearance of delicate at-
tention, meditated so base a scheme against me. My credulity
may have yielded you amusement, but it has afforded you no
triumph : the tenderness which I know you think, which I shall
not deny your having inspired me with, as it was excited by
imaginary virtues, so it vanished with the illusion which gave it
birth ; what then was innocent, would now be guilty. Oh,
heavens ! " continued Amanda, clasping her hands together in
a sudden agony of tears, "is it me, the helpless child of sorrow.
Lord Mortimer sought as a victim to illicit, love ! Is it the son
of Lord Cherbury destined such a blow against the unfortunate
Fitzalan ? "
Lord Mortimer started. " Fitzalan ! " repeated he. " Oh 1
Amanda, why did you conceal your real name ? And what am
I to infer from your having done so ? "
" What you please, my lord," cried she. " The opinion of
a person 1 despise can be of little consequence to me , yet,"
continued she, as if suddenly recollecting herself, " that you
have no plea for extenuating your conduct, know that my name
, was concealed by the desire of my father, who, involved in un-
expected distress, wished me to 'adopt another, till his affairs
were settled."
" This concealment has undone me," exclaimed Lord Mor-
timer: "it has led me into an error, I shall never cease repent-
ing. Oh ! Amanda, deign to listen to the circumstances which
occasioned this error ; and you will then, I am sure, think me
at least less culpable than I now appear to be ; you will then,
perhaps, allow me to make some atonement."
THE CHILDREff OF THE ABBEY. 67
"No, my lord," cried Amanda, "willingly I will not allow
myselE to be deceived : for without deceit, I am convinced you
could mention no circumstance which could possibly palliate
your conduct, or what you so gently term an error. Had I, my
lord, by art or coquetry, sought to attract your 'notice, your
crime would have been palliated ; but when you pursued, I re-
tired ; and the knowledge of your being Lord Cherbury's son
first induced me to receive your visits. 1 suffered their contin-
uance, because I thought you amiable : sad mistake ! Oh I
cruel, ungenerous Mortimer, how have you abused my unsus-
pecting confidence ! "
As she ended these words, she moved towards the door.
Awed by her manner, confounded by her reproaches, tortured
I^ remorse and half offended at her eefusing to hear his vindi-
cation, he no longer attempted to prevent her quitting the
apartment ; he followed her, however, from it. " What do you
mean, my lord," asked she, " by coming after me ? "
" I mean to see you safely home," replied he, in a tone of
proud sullenness.
" And is it Lord Mortimer," cried she, looking steadfastly in
his face, " pretends to see me safe ? "
He stamped, struck his hand violently against his forehead,
and exclaimed, " I see I see I am despicable in your eyes j
but, Amanda, I cannot endure your reproaches. Pause for a
few minutes, and you will find I am not so deserving of them as
you imagine."
She made no reply, but quickened her pace : within a few
yards of the cottage Lord Mortimer caught her, with a dis-
tracted air. " Amanda," said he, " I cannot bear to part with
you in this manner ; you thmk me the veriest villain on earth ;
you will drive me from your heart ; I shall become abhorrent to
you."
" Most assurdly, my lord," replied she, in a solemn voice.
" Cannot compunction then extenuate my error? "
" 'Tis not compunction, 'tis regret you feel, for finding your
designs unsuccessful."
" No : by all that is sacred, 'tis remorse for ever having
meditated such an injury. Yet I again repeat, if you listen to
me, you will find I am not so culpable as you believe. Oh !
let me beseech you to do so ; let me hope that my life may be
devoted to you alone, and that I may thus have opportunities
of apologizing for my conduct. Oh ! dearest Amanda," kneel-
ing before her, " drive me not from you in the hour of pen-
itence."
6^ THE CHILDREN OF THE AbBEY.
"You plead in vain, my lord," cried she, breaking from
hinii
He started in an agony from the ground, and again seized
her. " Is it, thus," he exclaimed, " with such unfeeling coldness
I am abandoned by Amanda ? I will leave you, if you only say
I am not detested by you ; if you only say the remembrance of
the sweet hours we have spent together will not become hateful
to you."
He was pale and trembled ; and a tear wet his cheek.
Amanda's began to flow : she averted her head, to hide her
emotion ; but he had perceived it. "You weep, my Amanda,"
said he, " and you feel the influence of pity ! "
" No, no," cried she, in a voice scarcely articulate : " I will
acknowledge," continued* she, " I believe you possessed of seif-
sibility ; and an anticipation of the painful feelings it will ex-
cite on the reflection of your conduct to me, now stops my
, further reproaches. Ah 1 my lord, timely profit by mental
correction, nor ever again encourage a passion which virtue
cannot sanction or reason justify." *
" Thus spoke the angel ;
And the grave rebuke, severe in youthful beauty
Added grace invincible."
Amanda darted from Lord Mortimer ; and entering the cot-
tage, hastily closed the door. Her looks terrified the nurse,
who was the only one of the family up, and who, by means of
one of her sons, had discovered that Amanda had taken refuge
from the thunder-storm in Tudor Hall.
Amanda had neither hat nor cloak on ; her face was pale
as death ; her hair, blown by the wind, and wet from the rain,
hung dishevelled about her ; and to the inquiries of her nurse
she could only answer by sobs and tears. " Lack a tay," said
the nurse, " what ails my sweet chilt ? "
Relieved by tears, Amanda told her nurse she was not very
well, and that she had been reflecting on the great impropriety
there was in receiving Lord Mortimer's visits, whom she begged
her nurse, if he came again, not to admit.
The nurse shook her head, and said she supposed there had
been some quarrel between them ; but if Lord Mortimer had
done anything to vex her tear chilt, she would make him pay
for it. Amanda charged her never to address him on such a
subject J and having made her promise not to admit him, she
retired to her chamber faint, weary, and distressed. The in-
dignity offered her by Colonel Belgrave had insulted her purity
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 69
and offended her pride, but he had not wounded the softer
feelings of her soul ; it was Mortimer alone had power to work
them up to agony.
The charm which had soothed her sorrows was fled ; and
while she glowed with keen resentment, she wept from disap-
pointed tenderness. " Alas 1 my father," she cried, " is this
the secure retreat you fondly thought you had discovered for
me I Sad mistake ! Less had 1 to dread from the audacious
front of vice, than the insidious form of virtue : delicacy shrink-
ing from one, immediately announced the danger ; but inno-
cence inspired confidence in the other j and credulity, instead
of suspicion, occupied the mind. Am I doomed to be the vic-
tim of deception and, except thy honest tender heart,- my
father, find every other fraught with deceit and treachery to
me ? Alas ! if in the early season of youth, perpetual perfidy
makes us relinquish candor and hope, what charms can the
world retain ? The soul sickening, recoils within itself, and no
longer startles at dissolution. Belgrave aimed at my peace
but Mortimer alone had power to pierce ' the vital vulnerable
heart.' Oh, Mortimer! from you alone the blow is severe
you, who, in divine language I may say were my guide, my
companion, and my familiar friend."
Lord Mortimer was now a prey to all the pangs which an
ingenuous mind, oppressed with a consciousness of error, must
ever feel ; the most implacable vengeance could not devise a
greater punishment for him, than his own thoughts indicted ;
the empire of inordinate passion was overthrown, and honor
and reason regained their full and natural ascendancy over
them. When he reflected on the uniform appearance of inno-
cence Amanda had always worn, he wondered at his weakness
in ever having doubted its reality at his audacity, in ever hav-
ing insulted it ; when he reflected on her melancholy, he shud-
dered as if having aggravated it. "Your sorrows, as well as
purity, my Amanda," he cried, "should have rendered you a
sacred object to me."
A ray of consolation darted into his mind at the idea of
prevailing on her to listen to the circumstances which had led
him into a conduct so unworthy of her and himself ; such an
explanation, he trusted, would regain her love and confidence,
and make her accept, what he meant immediately to offer his
hand : for pride and ambition could raise no obstacles to oppose
this design of reparation ; his happiness depended on its being
accepted. Amanda was dearer to him than life, and hope could
sketch no prospect, in which she was not the foremost gbjeqt. ,
70
THE CHILDREN OP VHE ABBEY.
Impetuous in his passions, the laps e of the hours was insup-
portably tedious ; and the idea of waiting till the morning to de-
clare his penitence, his intention, and again implore her forgive-
ness, filled him with agony ; he went up to the cottage, and
laid his hand upon the latch ; he hesitated ; even from the rus-
tics he wished to conceal his shame and confusion. All within
and without the cottage was still ; the moonbeams seemed to
sleep upon the thatch, and the trees were unagitated by a
breeze.
'' Happy rustics ! " exclaimed Lord Mortimer. " Children
of content and undeviating integrity, sleep presses sweetly on
your eyelids. My Amanda too rests, for she is innocent."
He descended to the valley, and saw a light from her win-
dow : he advanced within a few yards of it, and saw her plainly
walk about with an agitated air her handkerchief raised to her
eyes, as if she wept. His feelings rose almost to frenzy at this
sight, and he execrated lumself for being the occasion of her
tears. The village clock struck one : good heavens ! how
many hours must intervene ere he could kneel before the lovely
mourner, implore her soft voice to accord his pardon, and (as
he flattered himself would be the case), in the fulness of recon-
ciliation, press her to his throbbing heart, as the sweet partner
of his future days. The light was at last extinguished ; but he
could not rest, and continued to wander about like a perturbed
spirit till the day began to dawn, and he saw some early peas-
ants coming to their labors.
CHAPTER VIII.
" Oh let me now, into a richer soil,
Transplant tliue safe, where vernal suns and showers
Diffuse their warmest, largest influence ; '
And of my garden be the pride and joy." Thomsom.
The moment he thought he could see Amanda, Mortimer
hastened to the cottage ; the nurse, as she had promised, would
not reproach him, though she strongly suspected his having
done something to offend her child ; that her sullen air declared
her dissatisfaction. " Miss Fitzalan.was too ill," she said, "to
see company;" (for Lord Mortimer had inquired for Amanda
by her real name, detesting the one of Dunford, to which, in z,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 71
great degree, he imputed his unfortunate conduct to her.) The
nurse spoke truth in saying Amanda was ill ; her agitation was
too much for her frame, and in the morning she felt so feverish
she could not rise ; she had not spirits, indeed, to attempt it.
Sunk to the lowest ebb of dejection, she felt solitude alone
congenial to her feelings. Hitherto the morning had been im-
patiently expected ; for, with Mortimer, she enjoyed its
' Cool, its fragrant, and its silent liour."
But no Mortimer was now desired. In the evening he
made another attemjit; and finding Ellen alone, sent in a sup-
plicatory message by her to Amanda. She was just risen, and
Mrs. Edwin was making tea for her ; a flush of indignation
overspread her pale face, on receiving his message. "Tell
him," said she, " I am astonished at his request, and never will
grant it. Let him seek elsewhere a heart more like his own,
and trouble my repose no more."
He heard her words, and in a fit of passion and disappoint-
ment flew out of the house. Howel entered soon after, and
heard from Ellen an account of the quarrel ; a secret hope
sprung in his heart at this intelligence, and he desired Ellen to
meet him in about half an hour in the valley, thinking by that
time he could dictate some message to send by her to Amanda.
As the parson had never paid Miss Fitzalan any of those
attentions which strike a vulgar eye, and had often laughed and
familiarly chatted with Ellen, she took it into her head he was
an admirer of hers ; and if being the object of Chip's admira-
tion excited the envy of her neighbors, how much would that
increase when the parson's predilection was known 1 She set
about adorning herself for her appointment ; and while thus
employed the honest, faithful Chip entered, attired in his holi-
day clothes, to escort her to a little dance. Ellen bridled
up at the first intimation of it ; and, delighted with the message
Amanda had sent to Lord Mortimer, which in her opinion was
extremely eloquent, she resolved now to imitate it.
"Timothy," said she, drawing back her head, "your request
is the most improperest that can be conceived, and it is by no
means convenient for nie to adhere to it. I tell you, Tim,"
cried she, waving the corner of her white apron, for white hand-
kerchief she had not, " I wonder at your presumptioness in
making it j cease your flattering expressions of love, look out
amongst the inferiority for a heart more like your own, and
trouble my pleasure no more."
Chip paused a moment, as if wanting to comprehend her
72
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
meaning. " The short and the long of it then, Nell," said he,
" is, that you and I are to have nothing more to say to each
other."
" True," cried his coquettish mistress.
" Well, well, Nell," said he, half crying, " the time may
come when you will repent having served a true-hearted lad in
this manner." So sa)ing, he ran from the house.
Ellen surveyed herself with great admiration, and expected
nothing less than an immediate offer of the parson's hand.
She found him punctual to his appointment, and after walking
some time about the valley, they sat down together upon a little
bank. " Ellen," said he, taking her hand, " do you think there
is any hope for me ? "
" Nay, now intead, Mr. Howel," cried she, with affected
coyness, " that is such a strange question."
"But the quarrel, perhaps," said he, "may be made up."
"No, I assure you," replied she, with quickness, "it was
entirely on your account it ever took place."
" Is it possible I " exclaimed he, pleasure sparkling in his
eyes ; "then I may re-urge my passion."
" Ah, tear now, Mr. Howel, you are so very pressing."
" Do you think," said he, " she is too ill to see me ? "
" Who too ill ? "
" Why, Miss Fitzalan." (For, the moment Ellen knew Lord
Mortiiner was acquainted with Amanda's name, she thought
there was no longer reason for concealing it from any one, and
had informed Howel of it.)
" Miss Fitzalan ! " repeated she, staring and changing
polor.
" Yes, Ellen, the dear, lovely Miss Fitzalan, whom I adore
more than language can express, or imagination conceive."
Adieu to Ellen's airy hopes : her chagrin could not be con-
cealed ; and tears burst from her. The curate tenderly in-
quired the cause of her eniotion ; though vain, she was not art-
ful, and could not disguise it. " Why, really, you made such
speeches, I thought and then you looked so. Uut it is no
matter : I pelieve all men are leccitful."
From her tears and disjointed sentences, he began to sus-
pect something, and his gentle mind was hurt at the idea of
giving her pain ; anxious, however, to receive his doom from
Amanda, he again asked, if she thought he could see her.
Ellen answered him snappishly, she could not tell ; and
hurried to the cottage, where a flood of tears soon relieved her
distress. To be dressed so charmingly, and for no purpose,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
73
was a pity ; she therefore resolved on going to the dance, con-
soling herself with the old saying of having more than one
string to her bow ; and that if Chip was not as genteel, he was
quite as personable a man as the curate. Walking down the
lane, she met a little boy, who gave her a letter from Chip ; full
of the idea of its containing some overtures for a reconciliation,
she hastily broke it open, and read to the following effect :
Ellen : After your cruelty, I could not bear to stay in the village, as
I never could work another stroke with a light heart ; and every tree and
meadow would remind me of the love my dear girl once bore her poor
Chip. So, before this conies to hand, I shall be on my way to enter one of
the King's ships, and Heaven knows whether we shall ever meet again ; but
this I know, I shall always love Ellen, though she was so cruel to her own
faithful Tim Chip.
Thus did the vanity of Ellen receive a speedy punishment.
Her distress for some days was unabated ; but at last yielded
to tlie mild arguments of Amanda, and the hopes she inspired
of seeing the wandering hero again.
Howel at last obtained an interview, and ventured to plead
his passion. Amanda thanked him for his regard, but declared
her inability of returning it as he wished ; assuring him, how-
ever, at the same time, of her sincere friendship.
" This then shall suffice," said he. " Neither sorrow nor
disappointment are new to me ; and when they oppress me, I
will turn to the idea of my angel friend, and forget, for some
moments at least, my heavy burden."'
Lord Mortimer made several attempts for again seeing
Amanda, but without success , he then wrote, but his letters
were not successful. In despair at finding neither letters nor
messages received by Amanda, he at last, by stratagem, effected
an interview. Meeting one of the young Edwins returning
from the post-town with a letter, he inquired, and heard it was
for Miss Fitzalan ; a little persuasion prevailed on the young
man to relinquish it, and Lord Mortimer flew directly to the
cottage. " Now," cried he, " the inexorable girl must appear, if
she wishes to receive her letter."
The nurse informed Amanda of it ; but she, suspecting it to
be a scheme, refused to appear. " By Heaven, I do not de-
ceive her I " exclaimed Lord Mortimer ; " nor will I give the let-
ter into any hands but hers." " This, my lord," said Amanda,
coming from her chamber, "is really cruel; but give me the '
letter," impatiently stretching out her hand for it. " Anothfer
condition remains to be complied with," cried he, seizing her
soft hand, which she, however, instantly withdrew ; " you must .
74
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
read it, Miss Fitzalan, in my presence." " Good Heavens, how
you torment me I " slie exclaimed. " Do you comply then ? "
" Yes," she replied, and leceived the letter from him. The
pity and compunction of his lordship increased as he gazed on
her pale face, while her e)'es eagerly ran over the contents of
the letter, which were as follows :
TO MISS FITZALAN.
To be able to communicate pleasure to my Amanda, rewards me for
tedious montlis of wretcliedness. Dry up your tears, sweet child of early
sorrow, for the source of grief exists no longer; Lord Clierbury has been
kind beyond my warmest exjjectations, and has given me the ineffable de-
light, as far as pecuniary matters can do, of rendering the future days of
Amanda happy. In my next I shall be more explicit; at present I have
not a moment I can call my own, which must excuse this laconic letter.
The faithful Edwins will rejoice in the renewed fortune of their dear
Amanda's affectionate father.
Jcrniyn Street. Auousrus Fitz.m,an.
The emotions of Amanda were irrepressible : the letter
dropped from her treinbling hands, and her streaming eyes
were raised to heaven. " Oh bless hiin ! " she exclaimed.
" Gracious Heaven, bless the benefactor of my father for this
good deed ! May sorrow or misfortune never come across his
path."
" And who, may 1 ask," said Lord Mortimer, " merits so
sweet a prayer from Amanda ? "
" See," cried she, presenting hiin the letter, as if happy at
the moment to have such a proof of the truth of what she had
alleged to him.
Lord Mortimer was affected by the letter : his eyes filled
with tears, and he turned aside to hide his emotion ; recovering
himself, he again approached her. " And while you so sweetly
pray for the felicity of the father," said he, " are you resolved
on dooining the son to despair ? If sincere penitence can ex-
tenuate error, and merit mercy, I deserve to be forgiven."
Amanda rose, as if with an intention of retiring, but Lord
Mortimer' caught her hand. " Think not," cried he, " I will
lose the present opportunity, which I have so long desired, and
with such difficulty obtained, of entering into a vindication of
my conduct : however it may be received by you, it is a justice
I owe my own character to make : for as I never wilfully in-
jured innocence, so I cannot bear to be considered as its violator.
Amidst the wildness, the extravagance of youth, which with
compunction I acknowledge being too often led into, my heart
THE CHILDRBN OF THE ABBEY. 75
Still acquitted me of ever committing an act which could entail
upon me the pangs of conscience. Sacred to me has virtue
ever been, how lowly soever in situation."
The idea of his being able to vindicate himself scarcely
afforded less pleasure to Amanda than it did to Lord Mortimer.
She suffered him to reseat her, while he related the circum-
stances which had led him astray in his opinion of her. Oh !
how fervent was the rapture that pervaded Amanda's heart,
when, as she listened to him, she found he was still the amiable,
the generous, the noble character her fancy had first conceived
him to be. Tears of pleasure, exquisite as those she had lately
shed, again fell from herj for oh! what delight is there in
knowing that an object we cannot help loving we may still es-
teem. " Thus," continued Lord Mortimer, " have I accounted
for my error: an error which, except on account of your dis-
pleasure, I know not whether I should regret, as it has con-
vinced nie, more forcibly tlian any other circumstance could
have done, of the perfections of your mind, and has, besides,
removed from mine prejudices which causelessly I did not en-
tertain against your sex. Was every woman in a similar situa-
tion to act like you,
Such numbers would not in vain,
Of broken vows and faithless men complain.
To call you mine is the height of my wishes ; on your decision
I rest for happiness. Oh ! my Amanda, let it be a favorable
decision, and suffer me to write to Mr. Fitzalan, and request
him to bestow on me the greatest treasure one being could pos-
sibly receive from another a woman lovely and educated as
you have been."
When he mentioned appealing to her father, Amanda could
no longer doubt the sincerity of his intentions. Her own heart
pleaded as powerfully as his solicitations did for pardoning him \
and if she did not absolutely extend her hand, she at least suf-
fered it to be taken without any reluctance. " I am forgiven,
then," said Lord Mortimer, pressing her to his bosom. "Oh,
my Amanda, years of tender attention can never make up for
this goodness ! "
When his transports were a little abated, he insisted on
writing immediately to Fitzalan. As he sealed the letter, he
told Amanda he had requested an expeditious answer, The
happiness of the youthful pair was communicated to the hon-
est rustics, whom Lord Mortimer liberally rewarded for their
fidelity to his Amanda, and whom she readily excused for their
y6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
ambiguous expressions to him, knowing they proceeded from
simplicity of heart, and a wish of serving her, yet witlioiit in-
juring themselves, by betraying the manner in which they had
procured their intelligence of her situation.
The day after the reconciliation, Lord Mortimer told
Amanda he was compelled, for a short time, to leave her ; with
that reluctance, he hoped, lie said, she could readily conceive ;
but the visit, which he had come into Wales for the purpose of
paying, had been so long deferred, his friend was growing im-
patient, and threatened to come to Tudor Hall to sec what
detained him there. To prevent such a measure, which he
knew would be a total interruption to the happiness he enjoyed
in her society, Lord Mortimer added he meant to pass a few
days with him, hoping by the time he returned there would be
a letter from Mr. Fitzalan, which would authorize his immedi-
ate preparations for their nuptials. Amanda wished, but could
not totally hide, the uneasiness she felt at the prospect of a
separation ; the idea, however, of his speedy return, rendered
it but transient, and he departed in a few hours after he had
mentioned his intention.
Amanda had never before experienced such happiness as
she now enjoyed. She now saw herself on the point of being
elevated to a situation, by a man, too, whom she adored, which
would give her ample opportunities of serving the dearest con-
nections of her heart, and of gratifying the benevolence of her
disposition, and the elegance of her taste. Oh, how delight-
ful to think she should be able to soothe the declining period
of her father's life, by providing for him all the requisite indul-
gences of age ! oh, how delightful to think she should be
' accessory to her dear Oscars promotion I how rapturous to
imagine at her approach the drooping children of misery would
brighten with pleasing presages of relief, which she should
amply realize I Such were Amanda's anticipations of what she
termed the blessings of an affluent fortune ; felicity, in her
opinion, was to be diffused to be enjoyed. Of Lord Cherbury's
sanction to the attachment of his son, she entertained not a
doubt ; her birth was little inferior to his, and fortune was
entirely out of the question for a liberal mind, she thought,
could never look to that, when on one side was already pos-
sessed more than sufficient for even the luxuries of life. Such
were the ideas of the innocent and romantic Amanda ideas
which made her seem to tread on air, and which she enter-
tained till subsequent experience convinced her of their fallacy.
THE GHJLDReN OF THS ABBEY.
77
CHAPTER IX.
" Alas I the story melts away my soul I
' That best of fatlicrs, how shall 1 discharge
The gratitude and duty which 1 owe him ?
By laying up his counsels in your heart." CaTo.
Amanda was sitting in tlie recess in tlie garden, the fourth
evening of Lord Mortimer's absence, when suddenly she heard
the rattling of a carriage. Her heart bounded, and she flew
into the house ; at the very moment a chaise stopped at the
door, from which, to her inexpressible amazement, her father
descended.
Transfixed to the spot, it was many minutes ere she had
power to bid him welcome, or return the fond caresses he be-
stowed upon her. " I am come, Amanda," said he, eagerly
interrupting the joyful speeches of the Edwins, " to take you
away with me ; and one hour is all I can give you to prepare
yourself." " Good Heaven ! " said Amanda, starting, " to take
me away immediately ? " " Immediately," he repeated. " And
as I know you are attached to this good girl," turning to Ellen,
" I shall be happy, if her parents permit, to procure her at-
tendance for you."
The Edwins, who would have followed themselves, or al-
lowed any of their family to follow Fitzalan and his daughter
round the world, gladly consented to her going ; and the girl,
exclusive of her attachment to Amanda, which was very great,
having pined ever since her lover's departure, rejoiced at the
idea of a change of scene.
Not so Amanda: it made her suffer agony ; to be torn from
Lord Mortimer in the hour of reconciliation and explanation,
was more than she could support with fortitude. Her father,
perhaps, had not received his letter ; it was but justice then to
him and Lord Mortimer to reveal her situation. She left her
trunk half-packed, and went out for that purpose ; but as she
stood before him with quivering lips and half-averted eyes, at a
loss to begin, he took her hand, and softly exclaimed : " My
love, let us for the present waive every subject ; the moments
are precious ; hasten to put on your habit, or we shall be too
late at the stage where I propose resting to-night." Amanda
turned in silence to her chamber to comply with his desire \
78 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
tears ran down her cheeks, and for the first time she conceived
the idea of being hurried away to avoid Lovd Mortimer; but
why, she could not thinic lionor as well as tenderness, she
thought, demanded her acquainting him with the cause of her
precipitate journey ; but, when she took up a pen for that pur
pose, her hand was unsteady, and she was so much disturbed
by the nurse and her daugliters, who ran backwards and for-
wards in all the bustle of preparation, that she 'could not write :
her father prevented a second effort, for he was continually
coming to her chamber-door urging her to be quick, and thus
prevented her delivering any message to the nurse for Lord
Mortimer ; so great was his eagerness to depart, he would not
suffer the horses to be taken from the chaise, or any refresh-
ment to be brought him by the Edwins, notwithstanding their
pressing entreaties : neither would he answer their interroga-
tories as to where he was going, saying they should know here-
after. The parting embrace was at last given and received
with a heavy heart Amanda was handed to the carriage
silence prevailed all the travellers were equally though diller-
ently affected ; the cottage and the spire of the village church
had awakened the most affecting remembrances in the mind
of Fitzalan, and tears fell from him to the memory of his un-
fortunate Malvina ; sighs burst from Amanda as she viewed
the white turrets of Tudor Hall, and Ellen sobbed on passing
the forsaken cottage of poor Chip. From all these affecting
and beloved objects the rapidity of the carriage soon conveyed
them ; but the impressions they left upon their minds were not
so easily eradicated. Fitzalan was the first to break the un-
social silence, and it seemed as if he did so for the purpose of
rousing the dejection of his daughter : a cross road from the
cottage shortly brought them to Conway Ferry, which they
were obligee) to pass, and here, had Amanda's mind been at
ease, she would have felt truly gratified by viewing the remains
of gothic magnificence which Castle Conway exhibited ; as it
was, she could not behold them unmoved, and, whilst she ad-
mired, gave the passing tribute of a sigh to grandeur and
decay. They only continued in Conway till a carriage was
provided for them, and soon came beneath the stupendous pro-
jections of Penmaenmawr ; this was a scene as new as awful
to Amanda : " Well, Cot in heaven pless their souls," Ellen
said, " what a tefil of a way they should be in if one of them
huge stones rolled down upon the carriage." They stopped
not again until they reached Bangor Ferry, where they were to
rest for the pight. Amanda's strength and spirits were now
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 79
SO entirely exhausted, that had not a glass of wine been imme-
diately procured her, she would have fainted from weakness ;
this a little revived her, and the tears she shed relieved in some
degree the oppression of her heart ; her rather left her and
Ellen together, while he went to give directions about the jour-
ney of the ensuing day.
Amanda went to the window and threw up the sash ; the
air from the mountains she thought refreshed her j the dark-
ness of the hour was opposed by a bright moon, which cast a
trembling radiance upon the water, and by its partial gleams
exhibited a beautiful scene of light and shade, tl at had Amanda
been in another frame of mind she would infinitely have ad-
mired ; the scene too was almost as still as it was lovely, for
no voice was heard except a low murmur from voices below
stairs : while she stood here in a deep reverie, the paddling of
oars suddenly roused her, and she beheld a boat on the oppo-
site shore, which in a few minutes gained the one where she
was, and she saw coming from it to the inn a large party of
gentlemen, whose air and attendants announced them to be
men of fashion ; they seemed by their discourse to be a con-
vivial party ; the light was too dim to allow their faces to be
discerned, but in the figure of one Amanda thought she per-
ceived a strong resemblance to Lord Mortimer; her heart
throbbed, she .eaned forward to endeavor to distinguish more
plainly, and at the moment heard his well-known voice order-
ing ills groom to have the horses ready at twelve o'clock, as he
would take the advantage of such fine weather to set off at
that hour for Tudor Hall ; the party were then ushered irtto- a
room contiguous to the one occupied by Amanda, while the
bustling of the waiters, and the clattering of knives, forks, and
plates, announced the preparations for a late dinner. Oh !
what were now th-* agitations of Amanda, to think that in one
moment sh' co Id Infv rm Lord Mortimer of her situation ; but
the transport the idea gave was relinquished almost as soon as
felt, as such a mtd,.ure shu thought might perhaps (or ever dis-
oblige her father. In th s tumult of doubt and perpl .;. it^ he
found her ; and by his conduct convinced her that he no: only
knew of Lord Mortimer's being ; . the house, but ..inhccl her
to avoid him ; for he instantly led her from the window, and,
shutting it down, darted, for the first lirv \- his life, a severe
frown at her ; a dagger : the breast 1 Amanda could scarcely
have given her more pain a cold horror . . through her veins,
and she was oppressed by as many fears as if she had been
conscious of offending him. The supper he had ordered was
8p THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
a little retarded by the late dinner of his gay neighbors ; he
would have had it in another room had another been disen-
gaged ; vainly did his timid companions try to eat Amanda
was sick, and Ellen frightened, though she knew not why ; the
waiter was dismissed, and the most unsocial silence prevailed.
Unbounded gayety reigned in the next apartment, from
which every sound could plainly be distinguished. Dinner
over, the exhilar:.ting juice went round, and bumper toasts were
called. Lord Mortimer at last was asked for a fair nymph.
" I will give you," exclaimed he, in a voice which denoted his
being uncommonly elevated, " an Angel ! " Amanda's heart
beat violentl , and her cheeks glowed. "A name for this
celestial beauty ! "' demanded one of the party : " Amanda,"
cried his lordship. " Oh, faith, Mortimer, that won't do ; said
another o, his companions ; " this angel shall not pass without
the rest of her name." " Miss Fitzalan, then," exclaimed his
lordship. " Oh ! oh ! " cried a new voice, with a loud laugh,
after due honor had been paid to the toast, " I being to unravel
a mystery ; upon my soul I could not conceive till tliis instant
what had kept you so long at the hall ; for I had seen the
maiden part of the household, and knew the metal there not
very attractive ; but this Amanda, I suppose, is the rosy daugh-
ter of some poor curate in its vicinity, who for " " Beware ! "
interrupted Lord Mortimer in an agitated voice, " of what you
say ; give me no reason to repent having introduced a name so
valued into this company the situation of Miss Fitzalan is not
exactly what you suppose : but let this suffice for you to know
it is such as secures her from every species of impertinence
and were it ^ven less protected, her own elegance and propriety
would elevate her above receiving any." The face of Fitzalan,
during this conversation, was crimsoned over, and he again
darted a frown at the trembling Amanda, which almost petrified
her, he told her that she and Ellen must retire immediately to
rest, as they ha., a long joui ey before them the ensuing day,
which would reqi.irc their rising 'ly. Amanda, for the first time
in her life, wished to be relieved from his presence, and gladly
rose to obey m ; he attended her himself to the room pre-
pared for her, which was directl over that where the gentlemen
sat ; to think of rest was impossible the severity of her father's
looks, and her precipitate journey she knew not whither but
evidently for the purpose of avoiding Lord Mortimer, filled the
thoughts of Amanda with confusion and distress : Ellen essayed
artless consolation : " What the tefil do you think," said she,
" if I was to go down to give his lortship an intimation of your
THE CHILDREN Of THE ABBEY. St
peing here ; you could easily contrive to see him in the garden,
or else we could pring him up here, and if the captain surprised
us, we could pop him in a moment behind the curtain." Amanda
motioned her to silence, unwilling to lose the smallest sound of
Lord Moi-timer's voice, and determined, anxious as she was to
see him, never to act in opposition to her father. At length
the horses were led from the stable, and the convivial party de-
scended to them. Amanda softly raised the window, and saw
Lord Mortimer eagerly vault upon the saddle ; he gave a hasty
adieu to the friendj, and galloped oHf ; they mounted at the ,
same time, but took a contrary direction. Amanda leaned out
till she could no longer hear the clattering of the horses' hoofs ;
her heart sunk as the sound dieci upon her ear ; she wept as she
retired from the window ; the idea of Mortimer's disappoint-
ment aggravated her grief ; she no longer opposed Ellen's efforts
to undress her ; exhausted by fatigue, sleep soon closed her eyes,
and fancy again transported her to Tudor Hall and Mortimer.
By the first dawn of day a knock at her chamber-door roused
her from this pleasing illusion, and she heard her father desir-
ing her to rise immediately. Drowsy as she was, she instantly
obeyed the summons, and awaking Ellen, they v/ere ready to
attend him in a few minutes ; a boat was already prepared, and
on gaining the opposite side they found a carriage in waiting.
Day was now just dawning ; a gray mist enveloped the moun-
tains, and cast a shade of obscurity upon all the inferior objects j
at length the atmosphere began to brighten the lucid clouds in
the east were tinged with golden radiance, and the sun in beau-
tiful and refulgent majesty arose, gladdening the face of nature
with its potent beams ; the trees, the shrubs, seemed waving
their dewy heads in sign of grateful homage, while their winged
inhabitants, as they soared in the air, poured forth the softest
notes of melody. Amanda, in .spite of sadness, beheld the
charming scene with admiration ; and Fitzalan contemplated it
with delight. "All nature," he exclaimed, "points out to man
the gratitude due to the Divine dispenser of good ; hardened
must that heart be against the feelings of sensibility, which the
harmony and fragrance of this early hour awakens not to a per-
fect sense of it ! " Amanda assented to his remark more by a
smile than words, for she was ill able to speak. They stopped not
till they reached Gwintey, where they breakfasted, and then pro-
ceeded, without resting again, to Holyhead, which place Fitzalan
announced as they entered it. And now, Amanda first con-
ceived the idea of being brought to another kingdom, which her
father soon confirmed her in for, as soon as they alighted, he
6
8^ THE CHILDREN OE THE ABBEY.
inquired wlien a packet would sail, and heard witli evident
pleasure about six in the afternoon. He directly desired three
passages lo be engaged ; and; having ordered an early dinner,
dismissed Ellen into another room ; and seating himself by
Amanda, he took her hand, and with a tender voice thus ad-
dressed her : " To give pain lo your gentle heart has inflicted
torture on mine ; but honor compelled me lo the conduct which
I, have adopted, and which, I trust and believe, Amanda will
excuse when she knows my motive for it, which in due order
she shall hear.
" On Lord Cherbury's arrival in town, I was immediately
informed of it, according to the promise of his domestics, and
directly sent him my letter ; scarcely had he read it, ere, with
all the ardor of true friendship, he came and brought me to his
house, where we might securely reflect on what was to be done.
His lordship soon formed a plan that at once inspired me with
gratitude and pleasure, as it promised me competence without
depriving nic of independence this was lo accept the agency of
a considerable cslale in the north of Ireland, which he i^ossessed
in right of his wife, the late Countess of Cherbury, who was an
Irish heiress. He proposed my residing in the mansion house,
offering to advance a sum sufficient to answer all demands and
exigencies ; and striving to lighten the obligations he conferred
upon me, by declaring he had long been seeking a man of well-
known probity, as his last agent had gone off considerably in
arrears to him. I accepted his generous offer, and soon freed
myself from the power of Belgrave. I now felt a tranquillity I
was long a stranger to, and was busied in preparing to come
down to you, when Lord IVJortimer's letter, like a clap of thun-
der, broke the happy calm I enjoyed. Gracious heaven ! I
shuddered to think, that at the very period Lord Cherbury was
building up my fortunes, the hopes he entertained for this dar-
ling son were in a way of being destroyed, through means of a
connection of mine ; he had hinted to me his having already
settled upon a splendid alliance for Lord Mortimer, which he
also hinted his heart was set en : this the infatuated young
man had himself some knowledge of ; for in his rash letter
he entreated my secrecy relative to his proposal for you till
beyond the reach of mortals to separate you : no doubt he
would never have asked my consent, had he thought he could
have procured you without it ; he took me, I suppose, for some
needy and ambitious creature, who would, though at the ex-
pense of integrity, grasp an opportunity of elevating a child to
rank and fortune ; but nevet was an erring mortal more mis-
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 83
taken, though dearer to me than the air I breathe though the
lovely child of my lost Malvina though a cherubim, whose in-
nocent endearments often raised in me, as Prospero says
An undergoing stomach to bear up
Against what should ensue.
I woirtd rather see you breathless at my feet, than, by consciovs
and apparent meanness, deserve and incur the malevolence of
calumny. I committed the letter to the flames, and requested
Lord Cherbury's final commands ; being desirous to commence
my journey without longer delay, as your delicate state of health,
I said, made me anxious to have you immediately under my ,
own care ; he complied with my request, and I travelled post,
resolved to separate you and Lord Mortimer even if prepared
for the altar : nor was I alone actuated to this by gratitude to '
Lord Cherbury, or consideration for my own honor no, with
these, a regard for your peace equally influenced me a soul of
sensibilit)' and refinement like yours could never, I know, be
happy if treated with repulsive coldness by the family of her
husband ; particularly if her conscience told her she merited
that coldness by entering it clandestinely. Could I bear to
think that of you so lovely in person so amiable in manners
so illustrious in descent should be called an artful and
necessitous contriver? an imputation, which, most undoubtedly,
your union with Lord Mortimer would have incurred. No, to
the God who gave you to my care, I hold myself responsible, as
far as in my power, for preserving your peace to the mother,
whose last words implored my tenderness for her offspring, I
hold myself accountable to me she still exists I think her
ever near and ere I act, always reflect whether such an action
would meet her approbation. Such is the respect virtue excites
it lives when the frail texture of mortality is dissolved. Your
attachment, when repelled by reason and fortitude, will soon
vanish ; as for Lord Mortimer, removed from the flame which
warmed his heart, he will soon forget it ever played around it
should he, however, be daring enough to persevere, he will
find my resolution unalterable. Honor is the only heredi-
tary possession that ever came to me uninjured ; to preserve-
it in the same state has been ever my unremitted study it
iradiated the gloomy morning of care, and I trust it will gild
the setting hours of existence."
Amanda's emotions deprived her of speech or acting she
sat a pale statue, listening to her father's firm and rapid lan-
guage, which announced the abolition of her hopes ; ignorant
84, THE CHILD It EN OF THE ABBEY.
of her inability to speak, he felt hurt at her silence ; and rising
abruptly, walked about the room with a disordered air. " I
see I see, cried he at last, looking mournfully upon her, " I
am destined to be unhappy ; the little treasure which remained
from the wreck of felicity, I had hoped (vain hope 1 ) would
have comforted and consoled me for what then was lost."
" Oh 1 my father I " exclaimed Amanda, suddenly starting and
sighing deeply, " how you pierce my heart I " His pale, ema-
ciated looks seemed to declare him sinking beneath a bur-
den of care j she started up, and flung herself into his arms.
" Dearest, best of fathers I " she exclaimed, in a voice broken
by sobs, " what is all the world to me in comparison of you ?
Shall I put Lord Mortimer, so lately a stranger, in competi-
' tion with your happiness ? Oh no ! I will henceforth try to
regulate every impulse of my heart according to your wishes."
Fitzalan burst into tears the enthusiasm of virtue warmed
them both hallowed are her raptures, and amply do they rec-
ompense the pain attendant on her sacrifices.
Dinner was brought in, to which they sat down in their
usual social manner'; and Amanda, happy in her father's
smiles, felt a ray of returning cheerfulness. The evening was
delightfully serene when they went on board, and the vessel,
with a gentle motion, glided over the glittering waves ; sick-
ness soon compelled Amanda and Ellen to retire from the
deck ; yet without a sigh, the former could not relinquish the
prospect of the Welsh mountains. By the dawn of next morn-
ing the vessel entered the bay of Dublin, and Fitzalan shortly
after brought Amanda from the cabin to contemplate a scene
which far surpassed all her ideas of sublimity and beauty, a
scene which the rising sun soon heightened to the most glow-
ing radiance ; they landed at the Marine Hotel, where they
breakfasted, and then proceeded in a carriage to a hotel in
Capel street, where they proposed staying a few days for the
purpose of enjoying Oscar's company, whose regiment was
quartered in Dublin, and making some requisite purchases for
their journey to the north. As the carriage drove down Capel
street; Amanda saw a young officer standing at the corner of
Mary's Abbey, whose air very much resembled Oscar's j her
heart palpitated ; she looked out and perceived the resem-
blance was a just one, for it was Oscar himself the carriage
passed too swiftly for him to recognize her face ; but he was
astonished to see a fair hand waving to him ; he walked down
, the street, and reached the hotel just as they were entering it.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 85
CHAPTER X.
" And whence, unhappy youth, lie cried,
. The sorrow of thy breast ? "Goldsmith.
The raptures of this meeting surpassed description: to
Oscar they were heightened by surprise ; he was unfortunately,
that day on guard at the Bank therefore could only pay them
a few short and stolen visits ; but the next morning, the moment
he was relieved, he came to them. Fitzalan had given Amanda
money to purchase whatever she deemed necessary for her
convenience and amusement, and Oscar attended her to the
most celebrated shops to make her purchases : having sup-
plied herself with a pretty fashionable assortment for her ward-
robe, she procured a small collection of books, sufficient, how-
ever, from their excellence, to form a little library in them-
selves, and every requisite for drawing ; nor did she forget the
little wants and vanities of Ellen ; they returned about dinner
time to the hotel, where they found their father, who had been
transacting business for Lord Cherbury in different parts of
the town. We may now suppose him in the possession of
happiness, blessed as he was in the society of his children, and
the certainty of a competence ; but, alas ! happiness has al- i
most ever an attendant drawback, and he now experienced one
of the most corroding kind from the alteration he witnessed in
his son. Oscar was improved in his person, but his eyes no
longer beamed with animation, and the rose upon his cheek
was pale ; his cheerfulness no longer appeared spontaneous,
but constrained, as if assumed for the purpose of veiling deep
and heartfelt sorrow.
Fitzalan, with all the anxiety and tenderness of a parent,
delicately expressed his wish of learning the source of his un-
easiness, that by so doing he might be better qualified to alle-
viate it, hinting at the same time, in indirect terms, that if
occasioned by any of the imprudences which youth is some-
times inadvertently led into, he would readily excuse them, from
a certainty that he who repented never would again commit
them. Oscar started from the remotest hint of divulging his un-
easiness : he begged his father, however, to believe (since he
had unfortunately perceived it) that it was not derived from
imprudence : he pretended to, say it was but a slight chagrin,
86 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
which would soon wear away of itself if not renewed by
inquiries. Fitzalan, however, was too much affected by tlie
subject to drop it as readily as Oscar wished. After regarding
him for a few minutes with an attention as mournful as fixed,
while they sat round the table after dinner, he suddenly ex-
claimed, "Alas ! my dear boy, I fear things are worse within
than you will allow." " Now, indeed, Oscar " cried Amanda,
sweetly smiling on him, anxious to relieve him from the embar-
rassment these words had involved him in, and to dissipate the
deep gloom of her father's brow, " though never in the wars, I
fancy you are not quite heart whole." He answered her with
affected gayety, but, as if wishing to change the discourse,
suddenly spoke of Colonel Belgrave, who, at present, he said,
was absent of the regiment ; occupied by his own feelings, he
observed not the glow which mantled the cheeks of his father
and sister at that name.
" You know Mrs. Belgrave," said Amanda, endeavoring to
regain her composure. " Know her I " repeated he, with an
involuntary sigh, "oh, yes I " Then, after the pause of a few
minutes, turning to his father, "I believe I have already informed
you, sir," he said, " that she is the daughter of your brave old
friend. General Honeywood, who, I assure you, paid me no
little attention on your account ; his house is quite the temple
of hospitality, and she the little presiding goddess." " She is
happy, I hope," said Amanda. " Oh, surely," replied Oscar,
little thinking of the secret motive his sister had for asking
such a question, " she possesses what the world thinks neces-
sary to constitute felicity."
Fitzalan had accounted to his son for leaving Devonshire,
' by saying the air had disagreed with Amanda ; he told him of
the friendship of Lord Cherbury, from which he said he trusted
shortly to be able to have him promoted. " Be assured, my
dear Oscar," he cried, " most willingly would I relinquish many
of the comforts of life to atain the ability of hastening your
advancement, or adding to your happiness." " My happiness ! "
Oscar mourrifully repeated ; tears filled his eyes ; he could no
longer restrain them ; and starting up, hurried to a window.
Amanda followed, unutterably affected at his emotion : " Oscar,
my dear Oscar," said she as she flung her arms round his neck,
" you distress me beyond example." He sat down, and lean-
ing his head on her bosom, as she stood before him, his tears
fell through her handkerchief. " Oh, heavens ! " exclaimed
Fitzalan, clasping his hands together, " what a sight is this !
Oh I my children, from your felicity alone could I ever derive
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 87
any ; if the hope I entertained of that felicity is disappointed,
the heart which cherished it must soon be silent." He arose
and went to them : " yet," continued he, " amidst the anguish
of this moment, I feel a ray of pleasure at perceiving an affection
so strong and tender between you ; it will be a mutual consola-
tion and support when the feeble help and protection I can
give is finally removed ; oh ! then, my Oscar," he proceeded,
while he folded their united hands in his, " become the soothing
friend and guardian of this dear, this amiable, this too lovely
girl let her not too severely feel too bitterly mourn the loss
of an unhappy father ! "
Amanda's tears began to stream, and Oscar's for a few
minutes were increased. " Excuse me," at last he said, making
an effort to exert himself, to his father, " and be assured, to the
utmost of my ability, I will ever obey your wishes, and fulfil
your expectations ; I am ashamed of the weakness I have
betrayed I will yield to it no more forget therefore- your
having seen it, or at least remember it with pain, as I solemnly
assure you, no effort on my part shall be untried to conquer it '
entirely .J and now let the short time we have to continue together
be devoted to cheerfulness."
Soon after this he mentioned Parker's performance in Marl-
borough Green, and proposed, as it was now the hour, taking
Amanda there ; the proposal was not objected to, and Ellen,
who they knew would particularly delight in such an amusement,
was committed to tlie care of Oscar's servant, a smart young
soldier, who escorted her with much gallantry ; the Green was
extremely crowded, particularly with officers, whose wandering
glances were soon attracted to Amanda, as one of the most
elegant girls present. Oscar was soon surrounded by them,
and compelled, not only to gratify their curiosity by discovering
who she was, but their gallantry by introducing them to her.
Their compliments soon diverted her attention from the ex-
hibition, and Ellen, who sat behind her on a bench, afforded
innocent mirth by her remarks. " Pless her soul and poty too,"
she said, " it was the most comical and wonderfulest sight
she had ever seen in her porn days." A string of redcoats
would have attended Amanda to the hotel had not Oscar pre- -
vented it.
The next day was devoted to visiting the public buildings,
the park, and a few of the most beautiful places in its vicinage.
On the ensuing morn Fitzalan and Amanda continued their
journey to the north, where Oscar assured them he expected
leave to visit them the following summer, after the reviews
88 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBE Y.
were over : as he helped his sister in the carriage she put a
pocliet-boolc into his hand (given by her father for that purpose),
which contained something to replenish his purse.
Ere we attend the travellers, or rather while they are jour-
neying along, we shall endeavor to account for the dejection of
Oscar.
CHAPTER XI.
'* From the loud camp retired and noisy court,
In honorable ease and rural sport ;
The remnant of his days he safely passed.
Nor found they lagged too slow nor flew too fast.
Ifu made his wish with his estate comply,
Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die :
One child he liad^a daughter chaste and fair,
,' . His agu's comfort, and his fortune's heir." Prior.
Oscar's regiment, on his first joining it in Ireland, was
quartered in Enniskillen, the corps was agreeable, and the in-
habitants of the town hospitable and polite, He felt all the
delight of a young and enterprising mind, at entering, what
appeared to him, the road to glory and pleasure , many of his
idle mornings were spent in rambhng about the country,
sometimes accompanied by a party of officers, and sometimes
alone.
In one of his solitary excursions along the beautiful banks
of Lough Erne, with a light fusee on his shoulder, as the woods,
that almost descended to the very edge of the water, abounded
in game ; after proceeding a few miles he felt quite exhausted
by the heat, which, as it was now the middle of summer, was
intense ; at a little distance he perceived an orchard, whose
glowing apples promised a delightful repast ; knowing that the
fruit in many of the neighboring places was kept for sale, he
resolved on trying if any was to be purchased here, and accord-
ingly opened a small gate, and ascended through a grass-grown
path in the orchard, to a very plain white cottage, which stood
upon a gentle sloping lawn, surrounded by a rude paling, he
knocked against the door with his fusee, and immediately a
little rosy girl appeared ; " tell me, my pretty lass," cried he,
"whether I can purchase any of the fine apples I see here."
" Anan ! " exclaimed the girl with a foolish stare. Oscar
glancing at that moment into the passage, saw, from a half-
opened door, nearly opposite to the one at which lie stood, a
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 89
beautiful fair face peeping out ; he involuntarily started, and
pushing aside the girl, made a step into the passage ; the room
door directly opened, and an elderly woman, of a genteel figure
and pleasing countenance, appeared. " Good Heaven I " cried
Oscar, taking off his hat, and retreating, " I fear I have been
guilty of the highest impertinence ; the only apology I can offer
for it is by saying it was not intentional. 1 am quite a stranger
here, and having been informed most of the orchards hereabouts
contained fruits for sale, I intruded under that idea." " Your
mistake, sir," she replied with a benevolent smile, " is too trifling
to require an apology ; nor shall it be attended with any dis-
appointment to you."
She then politely showed him into the parlor, where, with
equal pleasure and admiration, lie contemplated the fair being
of whom before he had but a transient glance : she appeared
to be scarcely seventeen, and was, both as to face and figure,
what a painter would have chosen to copy for the portrait of a
little playful Hebe ; though below even the middle size, she
was formed with the nicest symmetry ; her skin was of a dazzling
fairness, and so transparent, that the veins were clearly dis-
cernible ; the softest blush of nature shaded her beautifully-
rounded cheeks ; her mouth was small and pouting, and when-
ever she smiled a thousand graces sported round it ; her eyes
were full and of a heavenly blue, soft, yet animated, giving, like
the expression of her whole countenance, at once an idea of
innocence, spirit, and sensibility ; her hair, of the palest and
most glossy brown, hung carelessly about her, and, though
dressed in a loose morning-gown of muslin, she possessed an
air of fashion and even consequence ; the easy manner in which
she bore the looks of Oscar, proclaimed her at once not un-
accustomed to admiration, nor displeased with that she now
received ; for that Oscar admired her could not but be visible,
and he sometimes fancied he saw an arch smile playing over
her features, at the involuntary glances he directed towards her.
A fine basket of apples, and some delicious cider, was brought
to Oscar, and he found his entertainer as hospitable in dSposi-
tion as she was pleasing in conversation.
The beautiful interior of the cottage by no means corre-
sponded with the plainness of the exterior ; the furniture was
elegantly neat, ancl the room ornamented with a variety of fine
prints and landscapes ; a large folding glass door opened from
it into a pleasure-garden.
Adela, so was the charming young stranger called, chatted
in the most lively and familiar terms, and at last running ovei;
90
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
to the basket, tossed the apples all about the table, and picking
out the finest presented them to Oscar.. It is scarcely necessary
to say he received them with emotion ; but how transient is all
sublunary bliss ! A cuckoo-clock, over Oscar's head, by striking
three, reminded him that he had passed near two hours in the
cottage. " Oh, Heavens ! " cried he, starting, " I have made a
most unconscionable intrusion ; you see, my dear ladies," bow-
ing respectfully to both, " the consequence of being too polite
and too fascinating." He repeated his thanks in the most
animated manner, and snatching up his hat, departed, yet not
without casting
" One longing, lingering look behind."
The sound of footsteps after him in the lawn made him turn,
and he perceived the ladies had followed him thither. He
stopped again to speak to them, and extolled the lovely pros-
pect they had from that eminence of the lake and its scattered
islands. " I presume," said Adela, handling the fusee on which
he leaned, " you were trying your success to-day in fowling ? "
" Yes ; but, as you may perceive, I have been unsuccessful."
"Then, I assure you," said she, with an arch smile, "there is
choice game to be found in our woods." " Delicious game,
indeed ! " cried he, interpreting the archness of her look, and
animated by it to touch her hand, " but only tantalizing to
a keen sportsman, who sees it elevated above his reach."
" Come, come," exclaimed the old lady, with a sudden gravity,
"we are detaining the gentleman." She took her fair com-
panion by the arm, and hastily turned to the cottage. Oscar
gazed after them a moment, then, with a half-smothered sigh,
descended to the road. He could not help thinking this incident
of the morning very like the novel adventures he had sometimes
read to his sister Amanda as she sat at work ; and, to complete
the resemblance, thought he, I must fall in love with the little
heroine. Ah I Oscar, beware of such imprudence ! guard your
heart with all your care against tender impressions, till fortune
has been more propitious to you I Thus would my father speak,
mused Oscar, and set his own misfortunes in terrible array
before me, were he now present : well, I must endeavor to act
as if he were here to exhort me. Heigh ho ! proceeded he,
shouldering his fusee, glory for some time to come must be
my mistress !
The next morning the fusee was again taken down, and he
sallied out, carefully avoiding the officers, lest any of them
should offer to accompany him ; for he felt a strange reluctance
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 91
to their participating in either the smiles of Adela or the apples
of the old lady. Upon his arrival at tiie orchard, finding the
gate open, he advanced a few steps up the path, and had a
glimpse of the cottage, but no object was visible. Oscar was
too modest to attempt entering it uninvited ; he therefore
turned back, yet often cast a look behind him ; no one, how-
ever, was to be seen. He now began to feel the heat oppres-
sive, and himself fatigued with his walk, and sat down upon a
moss-covered stone, on the margin of the lake, at a little dis-
tance from the cottage, beneath the spreading branches of a
hawthorn ; his hat and fusee were laid at his feet, and a cool
breeze from the water refreshed him ; upon its smooth surface
a number of boats and small sail-vessels were now gliding about
in various directions, and enlivened the enchanting prospect
which was spread upon the bosom of the lake ; from contetn-
plating it he was suddenly roused by the warble of a female
voice; he started, turned, and beheld Adela just by him.
" Bless me ! " cried she, " who would have thought of seeing
you here ; why, you look quite fatigued, and, I believe, want
apples to-day as much as you did yesterday .? " Then, sitting
down on the seat he had resigned, she tossed off her bonnet,
declaring it was insupportably warm, and began rummaging a
small work-bag she held on her arm. Oscar snatching the
bonnet from the ground, Adela flung apples into it, observing
it would make an excellent basket. He sat down at her feet,
and never, perhaps, felt such a variety of emotions as at the
present moment : his cheeks glowed with a brighter color, and
his eyes were raised to hers with the most ardent admiration ;
yet not lo them alone could he confine the expression of his
feelings ; they broke in half-formed sentences from his lips,
which Adela heard with the most perfect composure, desiring
bim either to eat or pocket his apples quickly, as she wanted
her bonnet, being in a great hurry lo return to the cottage, from
which she bad made a kind of stolen march. The apples were
instantly committed to his pocket, and he was permitted to tie
on the bonnet. A depraved man might have misinterpreted
the gayety of Adela, or at least endeavored to take advantage
of it ; but the sacred impression of virtue, which nature and '
education had stamped upon the heart of Oscar, was indelibly
fixed, and he neither suspected, nor, for worlds, would have
attempted injuring, the innocence of Adela : he beheld her (in
what indeed was a true light) as a little playful nymph, whose
actions were the offspring of innocence.
" 1 assure you," exclaimed she, rising, " I am very loath to
92
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
quit this pleasant seat ; but, if I make a much longer delay, I
shall find the lady of the cottage in anxious expectation."
" May I advance ? " said Oscar, as he pushed open the gate for
her. " If you do," replied she, " the least that will be said
from seeing us together, is, that we were in search of each other
the whole of the morning." " Well," cried Oscar, laughing at
this careless speech, " and if they do say so, it would not be
doing me injustice." " Adieu, adieu," said she, waving her
hand, " not another word for a kingdom."
What a compound of beauty and giddiness it is I thought
Oscar, watching her till she entered the cottage. As he re-
turned from the sweet spot he met some laborers, from whom
he inquired concerning its owner, and learned she was a respect-
able widow lady of the name of Marlowe.
On Oscar's return from Enniskillen, he heard from the
officers that General lloneywood, an old veteran, who had a
fine estate about fourteen miles from the town, was that morn-
ing to pay his compliments to them, and that cards had been
left for a grandy'e/'i? and ball, which he annually gave on the ist
of July, to commemorate one of the glorious victories of King
William. Every person of any fashion in and about the neigh-
borhood was on such occasions sure of an invitation ; and
the officers were pleased with theirs, as they had for some time
wished for an opportunity of seeing the general's daughter, who
was very much admired.
The general, like a true veteran, retained an enthusiastic
attachment for the profession of arms, to which not only the
morning, but the meridian of his life had been devoted, and
which he had not quitted till compelled by a debilitated con-
stitution. Seated in his paternal mansion he began to experi-
ence the want of a faithful companion, who would heighten the
enjoyments of the tranquil hour, and soothe the infirmities
of age : this want was soon supplied by his union with a young
lady in the neighborhood, whose only dowry was innocence and
beauty. From the great disparity of their ages it was concluded
she had married for convenience ; but the tenor of her conduct
changed this opinion, by proving the general possessed her
tenderest affections : a happier couple were not known ; buv
this happiness was terminated as suddenly as fatally by her
death, which happened two years after the birth of her daughter ;
all the general's love was then centred in her child. Many of
the ladies in the neighborhood, induced by the well-known
felicity his lady had enjoyed, or by the largeness of his fortune,
made attempts to engage him again in matrimonial toils ; but
THE CHILDREN OF THE AtiBEY. 93
he fought shy of them all, solemnly declaring, he would never
bring a stepmother over his dear girl. In her infancy, she was
his plaything, and as she grew up his comfort ; caressed, flat-
tered, adored from her childhood, she scarcely knew the mean-
ing of harshness and contradiction ; a naturally sweet disposition,
and the superintending care of an excellent woman, prevented
any pernicious effect from such excessive indulgence as she re-
ceived ; to disguise or duplicity she was a perfect stranger ; her
own feelings were never concealed, and others she supposed
equally sincere in revealing theirs : true, the open avowal of her
regard or contempt often incurred the imputation of impru-
dence ; but had she even heard it she would have only laughed
at it for the general declared whatever she said was right, :ind
her own heart assured her of the innocence of her intentions.
As she grew up the house again became the seat of gayety ; the
general, though very infirm, felt his convivial .spirit revive ;
he delighted in the society of his friends, and could still
" Shoulder his crutch, and show how fields were won ! "
Oscar, actuated by an impulse, which if he could, he, at
least, did not strive to account for, continued daily to parade
before the orchard, but without again seeing Adela.
At length the day for General Honeywood's entertainment
arrived, and the officers, accompanied by a large party, set off
early for Woodlawn, the name of the general's seat. It was
situated on the borders of the lake, where they found barges
Waiting to convey them to a small island, which was the scene
of the morning's amusement : the breakfast was laid out amidst
the ruins of an ancient building, which, from the venerable re-
mains of its gothic elegance, was most probably, in the days of
religious enthusiasm, the seat of sacred piety : the old trees in
groups formed a thick canopy overhead, and the ivy that crept
along the walls filled up many of the niches where the windows
had formerly been ; those that still remained open, by descend-
ing to the ground, afforded a most enchanting prospect of the
lake ; the long succession of arches, which composed the body
of the chapel, were in many places covered with creeping moss,
and scattered over with wall-flowers, blue hair-bells, and other
spontaneous productions of nature ; while between them were
placed seats and breakfast-tables, ornamented in a fanciful
manner.
The ofl[icers experienced a most agreeable surprise on
entering ; but how inferior were their feelings to the sensations
which Oscar felt, when,' introduced with the party by the
94 'i'UE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
general to his daughter, he beheld in Miss Honeywood the
lovely Adela! She seemed to enjoy his surprise, and Mrs.
'Marlowe, from the opposite side of the table, beckoned him to
her with an arch look ; he flew round, and she made room for
him by herself : " Well, my friend," cried she, " do you think
you shall find the general's fruit as tempting as mine?"
" Ah ! " exclaimed Oscar, half sighing, half smiling, " Hesperian
fruit, I fear, which I can never hope to obtain." Adela's at-
tention, during breakfast, was too much engrossed- by Ihe com-
pany to allow her to notice Oscar more than by a few hasty
words and smiles. There being no dancing till the evening, the
company, after breakfast, dispersed according to their various
inclinations.
The island was diversified with little acclivities, and scat-
tered over with wild shrubs, which embalmed the air ; temporary
arbors of laurel, intermingled with lilies, v^fere erected and laid
out with fruits, ices, and other refreshments ; upon the edge of
the water a marquee was pitched for the regimental band, which
Colonel Belgrave had politely complimented the general with :
a flag was hoisted on it, and upon a low eminence a few small
field-pieces were mounted : attendants were everywhere dis-
persed, dressed in white streamers, ornamented with a profusion
of orange-colored ribbons ; the boatmen were dressed in the
same livery ; and the barges, in which several of the party were
to visit the other islands, made a picturesque appearance with
their gay streamers fluttering in the breeze ; the music, now
softly dying away upon the water, now gradually swelling on
the breeze, and echoed back by the neighboring hills, added to
the pleasures of the scene.
Oscar followed the footsteps of Adela ; but at the very
moment in which he saw her disengaged from a large party,
the general' hallooed to him from a shady bank on which he
sat ; Oscar could not refuse the summons ; and, as he ap-
proached, the general, extending his hand, gave him a cordial
squeeze, and welcomed him as the son of a brave man he had
once intimately known. " I recollected the name of Fitzalan,"
said he, "the moment I heard it mentioned ; and had the hap-
piness of learning from Colonel Belgrave I was not mistaken
in believing you to be the son of my old friend." He now
madi several inquiries concerning Fitzalan, and the affection-
ate manner in which he mentioned him was truly pleasing to
Oscar. " He had once," he said, " saved his life at the im-
minent danger of his own, and it was an obligation, while that
life remained, he could not forget."
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 95
Like Don Guzman in Gil Bias, the general delighted in
fighting over his battles, and now proceeded to enumerate many
incidents which happened during the American war, when he
and Fitzalan served in the same regiment. Oscar could well
have dispensed with such an enumeration ; but the general,
who had no idea that he was not as much delighted in listen-
ing as he was in speaking, still went on. Adela had been
watching them some lime ; her patience at length, like Oscar's,
being exhausted, she ran forward and told her fatlier " he must
not detain him another minute, for they were going upon the
lake ; and you know, papa," cried she, " against we come
back, you can have all your battles arranged in proper form,
though, by the bye, I don't think it is the business of an old
soldier to intimidate a young one with such dreadful tales pf
iron wars." The general called her saucy baggage, kissed her
with rapture, and saw her trip off with his young friend, who
seized the favorable opportunity to engage her for the first set
in the evening. About four the company assembled in the Ab-
bey to dinner ; the band played during the repast , the toasts
were proclaimed by sound of trumpet, and answered by an im-
mediate discharge from the Mount. At six the ladies returned
to Woodlawn to change their dresses for the ball, and now
" Awful beauty put on .ill its charms."
Tea and coffee were served in the respective rooms, and by
eleven the ballroom was completely crowded with company, at
once brilliant and lively, particularly the gentlemen, who were
not a little elevated by the general's potent libations to the
glorious memory of him whose victory they were celebrating.
Adela, adorned in a style superior to what Oscar had yet
seen, appeared more lovely than he had even at first thought
her ; her dress, which was of thin muslin, spangled, was so
contrived as to give a kind of aerial lightness to her figure,
Oscar reminded her of the promise of the morning, at the very
moment the colonel :.;5proached for the purpose of engaging
her. She instantly informed him of her engagement to Mr.
Fitzalan. " Mr. Fitzalan ! " repeated the colonel, with the
haughty air of a man who thought he had reason to be offended: ,
" he has been rather precipitate, indeed ; but, though we may
envy, who shall wonder at his anxiety to engage Miss Honey-
wood?"
Dancing now commenced, and the elegant figure of Adela
never appeared to greater advantage ; the transported general
watched every movement, and, " incomparable, by Jove I what
Cf6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
a sweet angel she is ! " were expressions of admiration which
involuntarily broke from him in the pride and fondness of his
heart. Oscar, too, whose figure was remarkably fine, shared
his admiration, and he declared to Colonel Belgrave, he did
not think the world could produce such another couple. This
assertion was by no means pleasing to the Colonel ; he pos-
sessed as much vanity, perhapsj as ever fell to the share of a
young belle conscious of perfections, and detested the idea of
having any competitor (at least such a powerful one as Oscar)
in the good graces of the ladies. Adela, having concluded the
dance, complained of fatigue, and retired to an alcove, whither
1 Oscar followed her. The window commanc^d a view of the
lake, the little island, and the ruined Abbey ; the moon in full
splendor cast her silvery light over all those objects, giving a
softness to the landscape, even more pleasing than the glowing
charms it had derived from the radiancy of day. Adela in
dancing had dropped the bandeau from her hair ; Oscar took
it up, and still retained it. Adela now stretched forth her
hand to lake it. " Allow me," cried he, gently taking her
hand, " to keep it ; to-morrow you would cast it away as a
trifle, but I would treasure it as a relic of inestimable value ;
let me have some memento of the charming hours I have
passed to-day." " Oh, a truce," said Adela, " with such ex-
pressions (who did not, however, oppose his putting her ban-
deau in his bosom) ; they are quite commonplace, and have
already been repeated to hundreds, and will again, I make no
doubt." " This is your opinion ? " " Yes, really." " Oh,
would to Heaven," 'exclaimed Oscar, "I durst convince you
how mistaken a one it is." Adela, laughing, assured him that
would be a difficult matter. Oscar grew pensive. " I think,"
cried he, " if oppressed by misfortune, I should of all places
on earth like a seclusion in the old Abbey." " Why, really,"
said Adela, " it is tolerably calculated for a hermitage ; and it
you take a solitary whim, I beg I may be apprised of it in time,
as I .should receive peculiar pleasure in preparing your mossy
couch and frugal fare." "The reason for my liking it," replied
he, " would be the prospect I should have from it of Woodlawn."
" And does Woodlawn," asked Adela, " contain such particu-
lar charms, as to render a view of it so very delightful ? "
At this moment they were summoned to call a new dance
a summons, perhaps, not agreeable to either, as it interrupted
an interesting tcte-d-tete. The colonel engaged Adela for the
next set ; and though Oscar had no longer an inclination to
dance, to avoid particularity he stood up, and with a young
The CHILDRkN OF THU ABBEV. ^1
lady who was esteemed extremely handsome. Adelaj as if
fatigued, no longer moved with animation, and suddenly inter-
rjjpted the colonel in a gallant speech he was making to her,
to inquire, if he thought Miss O'Neal (Oscar's partner) pretty
so very pretty as she was generally thought ? " The colonel
was too keen not to discover at once the motive which sug-
gested this inquiry. " Why, faith," cried he after examining
Miss O'Neal some minutes through an opera glass, " the girl
has Charms, but so totally eclipsed," looking languishingly at
Adela, " in my eyes, that I cannot do them the justice they
Way perhaps hiefit : Fitzalan, however, by the homage he pays
lief, seems as if he would make up for the deficiency of every
ether person." Adela turned pale, and took the first oppor-
tutiity of demanding her bandeau from Oscar ; he, smilingly,
refused it, declaring it was a trophy of the happiness he had
enjoyed that day, and that the general should have informed
her a soldier never relinquished such a glorious memento.
" Resign mine," replied Adela, " and procure one from Miss
O'Neal." " No ! " cried he, " I would not pay her charms
and my own sincerity so bad a compliment, as to ask what I
should not in the least degree value." Adela's spirits revived,
and she repeated her request no more.
The dancing continued after supper, with little intermission,
till seven, when the company repaired to the saloon to break-
fast, after which they dispersed. The general particularly and
affectionately bid Oscar farewell, and charged him to consider
Woodlawn as his head-quarters. " Be assured," said the good-
natured old man, " the son of my brave, worthy, and long-re-
spected friend, will ever be valuable to my heart and welcome
to my home ; and would to heaven, in the calm evening of life,
your father and I had pitched our tents nearer each other."
From this period Oscat became almost an inmate of his
house, and the general shortly grew so attached to him, that
he felt unhappy if deprived of his society ; the attentions he
received from Oscar were such as an affectionate son would
pay a tender father ; he supported his venerable friend when-
ever he attempted to walk, attended him in all the excursions
he made about his domain, read to him when he wanted to be
lulled to sleep, and listened, without betraying any symp-
toms of fatigue, to his long and often truly tiresome stories of
former battles and campaigns j in paying these attentions Oscar
obeyed the dictates of gratitude and esteem, and also gratified
a benevolent disposition, happy in being able
" To rock the cradle of declining age."
^8 THE CHILDREU OF THE ABBEY.
But his time was not so entirely engrossed by the general
as to prevent his having many hours to devote to Adela ; with
her he alternately conversed, read, and sung, rambled with her
through romantic paths, or rode along the beautiful borders of
Lough Erne ; was almost her constant escort to all the parties
she went to in the neighborhood, and frequently accompanied
her to the hovels of wretchedness, where tiie woes which ex-
torted the soft tear of commiseration he saw amply relieved by
her generous hand ; admiring her as he did before, how im-
possible was it for Oscar, in these dangerous tete-a-ietes, to
resist tiie progress of a tender passion a passion, however,
confined (as far at least as silence could confine it) to his own
heart. The confidence which he thought the general reposed
in him, by allowing such an intercourse with his daughter, was
too sacred in his estimation to be abused ; but though his honor
resisted, his health yielded to his feelings.
Adela, from delighting in company, suddenly took a pensive
turn ; she declined the constant society she had hitherto kept
up, and seemed in a solitary ramble with Oscar to enjoy more
pleasure than the gayest party appeared to afford her ; the
favorite spot they visited almost every evening was a path on
the margin of the lake, at the foot of a woody mountain ; here
often seated, they viewed the sun sinking behind the opposite
hills ; and while they enjoyed the benignancy of his departing
beams, beheld him tinge the trembling waves with gold and
purple ; tlie low whistle of the ploughman returning to his hum-
ble cottage, the plaintive carol of birds from the adjacent
grove, and the low bleating of cattle from pastures which
swelled above the water, all these, by giving the softest and
most pleasing charms of nature to the hour, contrived to touch,
yet more sensibly, hearts already prepossessed in favor of each
' other. Adela would sometimes sing a little simple air, and
carelessly leaning on the arm of Oscar, appear to enjoy perfect
felicity. Not so poor Oscar : the feelings of his soul at these
moments trembled on his lips, and to repress them was agony.
An incident soon occurred which endeared him yet more to
the general. Driving one day in a low phaeton along a road
cut over a mountain, the horses, frightened by a sudden firing
from the lake, began rearing in the most frightful manner; the
carriage stood near a tremendous precipice, and the servants,,
appalled by terror, had not power to move. Oscar saw that
nothing but an effort of desperate resolution could keep them
from destruction ; he leaped out, and, rushing before the horses^
seized their heads, at the eminent hazard of being tumbled
THE CHILD RUN OF THE ABBEY. 99
down the precipice, on whose very verge he stood ; the ser-
vants, a little relieved from their terror, hastened to his assist-
ance ; the traces were cut, and the poof general, whose infirm-
ities had weakened his spirits, conveyed home in almost a state
of insensibility. Adela, perceiving him from her dressing-room
window, flew down, and learning his danger, fell upon his neck
in an agony of mingled joy and terror ; her caresses soon re-
vived him, and as he returned them, his eyes eagerly sought his
deliverer. Oscar stood near, with mingled tenderness and
anxiety in his looks ; the general took his hand, and whilst he
pressed it along with Adela's to his bosom, tears fell on them.
" You are both my children ! " he exclaimed ; " the children of
my love, and from your felicity I must derive mine." This
expression Oscar conceived to be a mere effusion of gratitude,
little thinking what a project relative to him had entered the
general's head, who had first, however, consulted and learned
from his daughter it would be agreeable to her. This gener-
ous, some will say romantic, old man, felt for Oscar the mosti
unbounded love and gratitude, and as the best proof of both,
he resolved to bestow on this young soldier his rich and lovely
heiress, who had acknowledged to her father her predilection
for him. He knew his birth to be noble, his disposition ami-
able, and his spirit brave ; besides, by this union he should
secure the society of Adela. He wished her married, yet
dreaded, whenever that event took place, he should be deprived
of her ; but Oscar, he supposed, bound to him by gratitude,
would, unlike others, accede to his wishes of residing at Wood-
lawn during his lifetime. His project he resolved on communi-
cating to Colonel Belgrave, whom, on Oscar's account, he re-
garded, as Oscar had said (what indeed he believed), that he
was. partly indebted to him for his commission.
What a thunder-stroke was this to Belgrave, who arrived at
Woodlawn the morning after the resolution was finally settled,
and was asked to accompany the general, about a little busi-
ness, to the summer-house in the garden. Poor Oscar trem-
bled J he felt a presentiment he should be the subject of dis-
course, and had no doubt but the general meant to complain
to Colonel Belgrave, as a person who had some authority over
him, about his great particularity to Miss Honeywood.
Rage, envy, and surprise, kept the colonel silent some min-
utes after the general had ended speaking ; dissimulation then
came to his aid, and he attempted, though in faltering accents,
to express his admiration of such generosity ; yet to bestow
such a treasure, so inestimable, on such a man, when so many
ioo THE crifLDREN OF THE ABBEY.
of equal rank and fortune sighed for its possession ; upon a
man, too, or rather a boy, from whose age it might be expected
his affections would be variable, " Let me tell you, colonel,"
said the general, hastily interrupting him, and striking his stick
upon the ground, as he rose to return to the house, " there can
be little danger of his affections changing when such a girl as
Adela is his wife ; so touch no more upon that subject, I en-
treat you J but you must break the affair to the young fellow,
for I should be in such a confounded flurry I should set all in
confusion, and beat an alarm at the first onset."
The gloom and embarrassment which appeared in the coun-
tenance of the colonel, filled Oscar with alarms ; he imagined
them excited by friendship for him. After what the general
had said, he sighed to hear particulars, and longed, for the first
time,, to quit Woodlawn. The colonel was indeed in a state
of torture ; he had long meditated the conquest of Adela,
whose fortune and beauty rendered her a truly desirable object ;
to resign her without one effort of circumventing Oscar was not
to be thought of. To blast his promised joys, even if it did
not lead to the accomplishment of his own wishes, he felt would
give him some comfort, and he resolved to leave no means
untried for doing so.
They set off early in the morning for Enniskillen, and Bel-
grave sent his servant on before them, that there might be no
restraint on the conversation he found Oscar inclined to begin.
CHAPTER XII.
" Sincerity I
Thou first of virtues, let no mortal leave
Thy onward palh, although the earth should gape,
And from the gulf of hell destruction cry
To take dissimulatiou's winding way." Douulas.
" Well, colonel," said Oscar, " I fancy I was not mistaken
in thinking the general wanted to speak with you concerning
me ; I am convinced you will not conceal any particulars of a
conversation it may be so essential to my honor to hear."
" Why, faith," cried the colonel, delighted to commence his
operations, " he was making a kind of complaint about you ; he
acknowledges you a brave lad, yet, hang him, he has not gener-
osity enough to reward that bravery with his daughter, or any
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. loi
of his treasure." " Heaven is my witness ! " exclaimed the
unsuspicious Oscar, " I never aspited to either ; I always kti6w
my passion for his daughter as hopeless as fervent, and my es-
teem for him as disinterested as sincere ; I would have sooner
died than abused the confidence he reposed in me, by reveal-
ing my attachment ; I see, however, in future, I must be art
exile to Woodlawn." " Not so, neither," replied the colonel ;
" only avoid such particularity to the girl ; I believe in my sotil
she has more pride than susceptibility in her nature ; in your
next visit, therefore, which, for that purpose, I would have you
soon make, declare, in a cavalier manner, your affections being
engaged previous to your coming to Ireland ; this declaration
will set-all to rights with the general ; he will no longer dread
you on his daughter's account ; you will be as welcome as ever
to Woodlawn, and enjoy, during your continuance in the coun-
try, the society you have hitherto been accustomed to." " No,"
said Oscar, " I cannot assert so great a falsehood." " How
ridiculous ! " replied the colonel ; " for heaven's sake, my dear
boy, drop such romantic notions ; I should be the last man in
the world to desire you to invent a falsehood which could in-
jure any one ; but no priest in Christendom would blame you
for this." " And suppose I venture it, what will it do but bind
faster round my heart chains already too galling, and destroy
in the end all remains of peace."
" p-aith, Fitzalan," said the colonel, " by the time you have
had a few more love affairs with some of the pretty girls of this
kingdom, you will talk no more in this way ; consider, and be
not too scrupulous, how disagreeable it will be to resign the
general's friendship, and the pleasing society you enjoyed at
Woodlawn ; besides, it will appear strange to those who knew
your former intimacy : irt honor, too, you are bound to do as I
desire you, for should the girl have been imprudent enough to
conceive an attachment for you, this will certainly remove it ; '
for pride would not allow its continuance after hearing of a
favorite rival ; and the general will be essentially served,"
" My dear colonel," said Oscar, his eyes suddenly sparkling,
" do you think she has been imprudent enough to conceive ^
partiality for me.?" "I am sure," said the colonel, "that is a
question I cannot possibly answer ; but, to give my opinion, I
think, from her gay, unembarrassed manner, she has not."
" I suppose not, indeed," cried Oscar, mournfully sighing j
"why then should I be guilty of a falsehood for a person who.-,
is already indifferent to me." " I have told you my reasorij'*
pplied the colonel, coldly; "do as you please," They were
I02 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
now both silent, but the conversation was soon renewed, and
many arguments passed on both sides. Oscar's heart secretly
favored th. colonel's plan, as it promised the indulgence of
Adela's society ; to be an exile from Woodlawn was insupport-
able to his thoughts ; reason yielded to the vehemence of pas-
sion, and he at last fell into the snare the perfidious Belgrave
had spread, thus, by a deviation from truth, forfeiting the bless-
ings a bounteous Providence had prepared for him.
Oh ! never let the child of integrity be seduced from the
plain and undeviating path of sincerity : oh ! never let him hope
by illicit means to attain a real pleasure ; the hope of obtaining
any good through such means will, like a meteor of the night,
allure but to deceive.
Soon after his fatal promise to the colonel, a self-devoted
victim, he accompanied him to Woodlawn ; on their arrival.
Miss Honeywood was in the garden, and Oscar, trembling, went
,to seek h^r ; he found her sitting in a flower-woven arbor
" Herself the fairest flower."
Never had she looked more lovely ; the natural bloom of
her cheeks was heightened by the heat, and glowed beneath
the careless curls that fell over them ; and her eyes, the mo-
ment she beheld Oscar, beamed with the softest tenderness, the
most bewitching sensibility. " My dear, dear Fitzalan ! " cried
she, throwing aside the book she had been reading, and extend-
ing her hand, " I am glad to see you ; I hope you are come to
take up your residence for some time at Woodlawn." " You
hope ! " repeated Oscar, mournfully. " I do, indeed ! but,
bless me, what is the matter ? You look so pale and thin, you
look but the shadow of yourself, or rather like a despairing
shepherd, ready to hang himself on the first willow tree he
meets." " I am indeed unhappy ! " cried Oscar ; " nor will
you wonder at my bejng so when I acknowledge I at this pres-
ent tim^ feel a passion which I must believe hopeless." " Hope-
less I well, now, I insist on being your confidant, and then,"
smiling somewhat archly, " I shall see what reason you have to
despair," " Agreed," exclaimed Oscar ; " and now to my
story : " then pausing a minute, he started up. " No," con-
tinued he, " I find it impossible to tell it ; let this dear,
this estimable object," drawing a miniature of his sister from
his bosom, " speak for me, and declare whether he who loves
such a being can ever lose that lovp, or help being wretched at
jcnowing it is without hope."
^4ela snat:ehs4 it hastily f jom fiim, w,d, by a sudden st^rt
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
103
tetrayed her surprise ; words indeed are inadequate to express
her heart-rending emotions as she contemplated the beautiful
countenance of her imaginary rival : and was Oscar, then that
Oscar whom she adored whose happiness she had hoped to
constitute whose fortune she delighted to think she should ad-
vance really attached to another ; alas 1 too true, he was of
the attachment she held a convincing proof in her hand ; she
examined it again and again, and in its mild beauties thought
she beheld a striking proof of the superiority over the charms
she herself possessed ; the roses forsook her cheeks, a mist
overspread her eyes, and with a shivering horror she dropped
it from her hand. Oscar had quitted the arbor to conceal his
agonies. " Well," said he, now returning with forced calmness,
" is it not worthy 6f inspiring the passion I feel .' " Unable to
answer him, she could only point to the place where it lay, and
hastened to the house. " Sweet image ! " cried Oscar, taking
it from the ground, " what an unwortiiy purpose have I made you
answer ! alas 1 all is now over ^Adela my Adela ! is lost
forever I lost ah, heavens ! had I ever hopes of possessing
her? oh, no! to such happiness never did I dare to look
forward."
Adela, on reaching the parlor which opened into the garden,
found her father there. " Ah ! you little baggage, do I not de-
serve a kiss for not disturbing your ide-a-iete i Where is that
young rogue, Fitzalan ? " " I beg, I entreat, sir," said Adela,
whose tears could no longer be restrained, "you will never
mention him again to me ; too much has already been said
about him." " Nay, pr'ythee, my little girl," exclaimed the
general, regarding her with surprise, " cease thy sighs and tears,
and tell me what's the matter." " I am hurt," replied she, in a
voice scarcely articulate, " that so much has been said about
Mr. Fitzalan, whom I can never regard in any other light than
that of a common acquaintance." The colonel, who had pur-
posely lingered about the wood, now entered. Adela started,
and precipitately retreated through another door. " Faith, my
dear colonel," said the general, "I am glad you are come ; the
boy and girl have had a little skirmish ; but, like other love
quarrels, I suppose it will soon be made up so let me know
how the lad bore the announcement of his good fortune." " It
fills a rational mind with regret," exclaimed the colonel, seat-
ing himself gravely, and inwardly rejoicing at the success of his
stratagem, " to find such a fatality prevalent among mankind as
makes them reject a proffered good, and sigh for that which is
unattainable j like wayward children, neglecting their sports ^g
104 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
pursue a rainbow, and weeping as the airy pageant mocks their
grasp." " Very true, indeed," said the general ; " very excel-
lent, upon my word ; I doubt if the chaplain of a regiment ever
delivered such a pretty piece of morality ; but, dear colonel,"
laying his hand on his knee, " what did the boy say ? " " I am
sorry, sir," he replied, "that what I have just said is so appli-
cable to him. He acknowledged the lady's merit, extolled her
generosity but pleaded a prior attachment against accepting
your offer, which even one more exalted would not tempt him
to forego, though he knows not whether he will ever succeed in
it." " The devil he did ! " exclaimed the general, as soon as
rage and surprise would allow him to speak. " The little im-
pertinent puppy ! the ungrateful young dog I a prior attachment !
reject my girl my Adela who has had such suitors already ;
so, I suppose I shall have the whole affair blazed about the
country ; I shall hear from every quarter how my daughter was
refused ; and by whom ? why, by a little ensign, whose whole
fortune lies in his sword-knot. A fine game I have played,
truly ; but if the jackanapes opens his lips about tlie matter,
may powder be my poison if I do not trim his jacket for him I "
" Pear general," said the colonel, " you may depend on his
honor ; but even supposing he did mention the afifair, surely
you should know it would not be in his power to injure Miss
Honeywood amiable accomplished in short, possessed, as
she is, of every perfection. I know men, at least one man of
consequence, both from birth and fortune, who has long sighed
for her, and who would, if he received the least encouragement^
openly avow his sentiments." " Well," cried the general, still
panting for breath, " we will talk about him at some future
time ; for I am resolved on soon having my little girl married,,
and to her own liking, too."
Oscar and Adela did not appear till dinner time ; both had
been endeavoring to regain composure ; but poor Oscar had
been far less successful than Adela in the attempt ; not that she
loved less, for indeed her passion for him was of the tenderest
nature, and she flattered herself with having inspired one equally
ardent in his breast. Sanctioned by her father, she thought it
would constitute the felicity of their lives, and looked forward
with a generous delight to the period when she should render
her beloved Fitzalan prosperous and independent. The disap-
pointment she experienced, as the first she had ever met, sat
heavy on her heart, and the gay visions of youth were in one
moment clouded by melancholy ; but her pride was as great as
jl9f sensibility, and as its pQwerful iinpulse pervaded her mind..
THE cmLDREAT OF THE ABBEY. 105
she resolved to afford Oscar no triumph by letting him witness
her dejection ; she therefore wiped away all traces of tears frorh
her eyes, checked the vain sigh that struggled at her heart, and
dressed herself with as much attention as ever. Her heavy
eyes, her colorless cheeks, however, denoted her feelings ; she.
tried, as she sat at table, to appear cheerful, but in vain ; and,
on the removal of the cloth, immediately retired, as no ladies
were present.
The general was a stranger to dissimulation, and as he no
longer felt, he no longer treated Oscar with his usual kindness.
When pale, trembling, and disordered, he appeared before him,
he received him with a stern frown, and an air scarcely com-
plaisant. This increased the agitation of Oscar : every feeling
of his soul was in commotion ; he was no longer the life of their '
company ; their happiness and mirth formed a striking contrast '
to his misery and dejection ; he felt a forlorn wretch a mere
child of sorrow and (dependence ; scalding tears dropped from
him as he bent over his plate ; he could have cursed himself
for such weakness : fortunately it was unnoticed. In losing the
general's attention, he seemed to lose that of his guests ; his
situation grew too irksome to be borne ; he rose, unregarded,
and a secret impulse led him to the drawing-room. Here
Adela, oppressed by the dejection of her spirits, had flung! her-
self upon a couch, and gradually sunk into a slumber : Oscar
stepped lightly forward, and gazed on her with a tenderness as
exquisite as a mother would have felt in viewing her sleeping
babe ; her cheek, which rested on her fair hand, was tinged
with a blush, by the reflection of a crimson "curtain through
which the sun darted, and the traces of a tear were yet dis-
cernible upon it. " Never I " cried Oscar, with folded hands,'
as he hung ovei' the interesting figure, " never may any tear,
except that of soft sensibility for the woes of others, bedew the
cheek of Adela ^perfect as her goodness be her felicity may
every blessing she now enjoys be rendered permanent by that
Power who smiles benignly upon innocence like hers ! Oh !
Adela, he who now prays for your felicity never will lose your
idea, he will cherish it in his heart, to ameliorate his sorrows,
and, from the dreary path which may be appointed for him to
tread, sometimes look back to happier scenes ! '' Adela began
to stir ; she murmured out some inarticulate words, and, sud-
denly rising from the couch, beheld the motionless form of
Fitzalan : haughtily regarding him, she asked the meaning of
such an intrusion. " I did not mean indeed to intrude," said
Jip j "but when \ carne and found you, can you wonder at tny
Io6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
being fascinated to the spot ? " Tlie plaintive tone of his voice
sunk deep into Adela's heart ; she siglied heavily, and turning
away seated herself in a window. Oscar followed ; he forgot
the character he had assumed in the morning, and gently seiz-
ing her hand, pressed it to his bosom : at this critical minute,
when mutual sympathy appeared on the point of triumphing
over duplicity, the door opened, and Colonel Belgrave ap-
peared; from the instant of Oscar's departure, he had been on
thorns to follow him, fearful of the consequences of a tete-a-tete,
which was attended by the rest of the gentlemen.
Oscar was determined on not staying another night at
Woodlawn, and declared his intention by asking Colonel Bel-
grave if he had any commands for Enniskillen, whither he
meant to return immediately. " Wliy, hang it, boy," cried the
general, in a rough grumbling voice, " since you have stayed
so long, you may as well stay the night ; the clouds look heavy
over the lake, and threaten a storm." "No, sir," "said Oscar,
coloring, and speaking in the agitation of his heart, " the
raging of a tempest would not make me stay." Adela sighed,
but pride prevented her speaking. Fitzalan approached her :
" Miss Honeywood," said he he stopped his voice was quite
stifled. Adela, equally unable to speak, could only encourage
him to proceed by a cold glance. " Lest I should not," re-
sumed he, " have the happiness of again visiting Woodlawn, I
cannot neglect this opportunity of assuring you that the atten-
tion, the obligations I have received in it, never can be forgot-
ten by me ; and that the severest pang my heart could possibly
experience would result from thinking I lost any part of the
friendship you and the general honored me with." Adela bent
her head, and Oscar, seeing that she either would not, or could
not speak, bowed to the general, and hurried from the room ;
the tears he had painfully suppressed gushed forth, and at the
bottom of the stairs he leaned against the banisters for sup-
port ; while he cast his eyes around, as if bidding a melancholy
farewell to the scene of former happiness, a hasty footstep ad-
vanced, he started, and was precipitately retreating, when the
voice of the butler stopped him ; this was an old veteran, much
attached to Oscar, and his usual attendant in all his fowling
and fishing parties. As he waited at tea, he heard Oscar's
declaration of 'departing with surprise, and followed him for the
purpose of expressing that and his concern. " Why, Lord now,
Mr. Fitzalan," cried he, " what do you mean by leaving us so
oddly ? But if you are so positive about going to Enniskillen
to-night, let me ofdei: Standard to be prepared for you," Oscar
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
107
for some time had had the command of the stables ; but know-
ing as he did that he had lost the general's favor, he could no
longer think of taking those liberties which kindness had once
invited him to : he wrung the hand of his humble friend, and
snatching his hat from the hall table, darted out of the house :
he ran till he came to the mountain path, on the margin of the
lake. " Never," cried he, distractedly striking his breast,
" shall I see her here again ! oh, never, never, my beloved
Adela ! shall your unfortunate Fitzalan wander with you through
those enchanting scenes : oh, how transient was this gleam of
felicity ! "
Exhausted by the violence of his feelings, he fell into a kind
of torpid state against the side of the mountain ; the shadows
of night were thickened by a coming storm ; a cool blast howled
amongst the hills, and agitated the gloomy waters of the lake ;
the rain, accompanied by sleet, began to fall, but the tempest
raged unregarded around the child of sorrow, the wanderer of
the night. Adela alone,
," Heard, felt, or seen,"
pervaded every thought. Some fishermen approaching to se-
cure their boats, drove him from this situation, and he flew to
the woods which screened one side of the house : by the time
he reached it the storm had abated, and the moon, with a
watery lustre, breaking through the clouds, rendered, by her
feeble rays, the surrounding and beloved scenes just visible.
Adela's chamber looked into the wood, and the light from
it riveted Oscar to a spot exactly opposite the window. " My
Adela," he exclaimed, extending his arms as if she could have
heard and flown into them ; then dejectedly dropping them,
" she thinks not on such a forlorn wretch as me ; oh, what
comfort to lay my poor distracted head for one moment on her
soft bosom, and hear her sweet voice speak pity to my tortured
heart I " Sinking with weakness from the conflicts of his
mind, he sought an old roofless root-house in the centre of the
wood, where he and Adela had often sat. "Well," said he,
as he flung himself upon the damp ground, " many a brave
fellow has had a worse bed ; but God particularly protects the
unsheltered head of the soldier and the afflicted." The twitter-
ing of the birds roused him from an uneasy slumber, or rather
lethargy, into which he had fallen ; and starting up he hastened
to the road, fearful, as day was beginning to dawn, of being
seen by any of General Honeywood's workmen. It was late
ere he grrived at Ennjskillep, and befpr? hp gained his rpom'
io8 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
' he was met by some of the officers, who viewed him with evi-
dent astonishment ; his regimentals were quite spoiled ; his
fine hair, from which the rain had washed all the powder, hung
dishevelled about his shoulders ; the feather of his hat was
' broken, and the disorder of his countenance was not less suspi-
cious than that of his dress ; to their inquiries he stammered
out something of a fall, and extricated himself with difficulty
" from them.
In an obscure village, fifteen miles from Enniskillen, a dc"
tachment of the regiment lay j the officer who commanded it
disliked his situation extreinely ; but company being irksome
to Oscar, it was just such a one as he desired, and he obtained
leave to relieve him : the agitation of his mind, aided by the
effects of the storm he had been exposed to, was too much for
his constitution : immediately on arriving at his new quarters
. he was seized with a violent fever ; an officer was obliged to be
sent to do duty in his place, and it was long ere any symptoms
appeared which could flatter those who attended him with
hopes of his recoveiy ; when able to sit up he was ordered to
return to Enniskillen, where he could be immediately under
the care of the regimental surgeon.
Oscar's servant accompanied him in the carriage, and as it
drove slowly along h^ was agreeably surprised by a view of
Mrs. Marlowe's orchard ; he could not resist the wish of seeing
her, and making inquiries relative to the inhabitants of Wood-
lawn J for with Mrs. Marlowe, I should previously say, he had
hot only formed an intimacy, but a sincere friendship. She
was a woman of the most pleasing manners, and to her superin-
tending care Adela was indebted for many of the graces she
, possessed, and at her cottage passed many delightful hours
with Oscar.
The evening was far advanced when Oscar reached the
orchard, and leaning on his servant, slowly walked up the hill :
had a spectre appeared before the old lady, she could not have
' seemed more shocked than she now did, at the unexpected and
; emaciated appearance of her young friend. With all the ten-
derness of a fond mother, she pressed his cold hands between
her own, and seated him by the cheerful fire which blazed on
her hearth, then procured him refreshments that, joined to her
conversation, a little revived his spirits ; yet, at this moment the
- recollection of the first interview he ever had with her, recurred
with pain to his heart. " Our friends at Woodlawn, I hope,"
cried he he paused but his eye expressed the inquiry his
tongue was unable to inake. " They are well and happy," re-
Tim CHtLDli^N OF 7'fIE ABBEV: loi)
l)Iied Mrs. Marlowe ; " and you know, I suppose, of all that
has lately happened there ? " " No, I know nothing ; I am as
one awoke from the slumbers of the grave." " Ere I inform you,
then," cried Mrs. Marlowe, " let me, my noble Oscar, ej^ress
my approbation, my admiration of your conduct, of that disin-
terested nature which preferred the preservation of constancy
to the splendid independency offered to your acceptance."
" What splendid independency did I refuse ? " asked Oscar,
wildly staring at her. " That which the general offered." " The
general ! " " Yes, and appointed Colonel Belgrave to declare
his intentions." " Oh Heavens ! " exclaimed Oscar, starting
from his chair ; " did the general indeed form such intentions,
and has Belgrave then deceived me ? He told me my atten-
tions to Miss Honeywood were noticed and disliked ! he filled
my soul with unutterable anguish, and persuaded me to a false-
hood which has plunged me into despair ! " " He is a mon-
ster ! " cried Mrs. Marlowe, " and you are a victim to his
treachery." " Oh no ! I will fly to the general, and open my
whole soul to him ; at his feet I will declare, the false ideas of
honor which misled me ; I shall obtain his forgiveness, and
Adela will yet be mine." " Alas I my child," cried Mrs. Mar-
lowe, stopping him as he was hurrying from the room, " it is
now too late ; Adela can never be yours ; she is married, and
married unto IJelgravc." Oscar staggered back a few paces, '
uttered a deep groan, and fell senseless at her feet. Mrs.
Marlowe's cries brought in his servant, as well as her own, to
his assistance ; he was laid upon a bed, but it was' long ere he
showed any signs of recovery; at length, opening his heavy
eyes, he sighed deeply, and exclaimed, " she is lost to me for-
ever ! "
The servants were dismissed, and the tender-hearted Mrs.
Marlowe knelt beside him. " Oh I my friend," said she, " my
heart sympathizes in your sorrow ; but it is from your own for-
titude, more than my sympathy, you must now derive resources
of support." " Oh, horrible ! to know the cup of happiness ;
was at my lips, and that it was my own hand dashed it from
me." " Such, alas ! " said Mrs. Marlowe, sighing, as if touched
at the moment with a similar pang of self-regret, " is the way-
wardness of mortals ; too often do they deprive themselves of
the blessings of a bounteous Providence by their own folly and '
imprudence oh 1 my friend, born as you were with a noble in-
genuity of soul, never let that soul again be sullied by the
smallest deviation from sincerity." Do not aggravate my suf-
ferings," said Oscar, " by dwelling on my error." " No, I
110 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
would sooner die than be guilty of such barbarity ; but admo-
nition never sinks so deeply on the heart as in the hour of
trial. Young, amiable as you are, life teems, I doubt not, with
various blessings to you blessings which you will know how
to value properly, for early disappointment is the nurse of wis-
dom." "Alas! " exclaimed he, "what blessings?" "These,
at least," cried Mrs. Marlowe, " are in your own power the
peace, the happiness, which ever proceeds from a mind con-
scious of having discharged the incumbent duties of life, and
patiently submitted to its trials." " But do you'think I will
calmly submit to his baseness ? " said Oscar, interrupting her.
" No ; Belgrave shall never triumph over me with impunity I "
He started from the bed, and, rushing into the outer room,
snatched his sword from the table on which he had flung it at
his entrance. Mrs. Marlowe caught his arm. " Rash young
man I " exclaimed she, " whither would you go is it to scatter
ruin and desolation around you ? Suppose your vengeance
was gratified, would that restore your happiness ? Think you
that Adela, the child of virtue and propriety, would ever notice
the murderer of her husband, how unworthy, soever, that hus-
band might be ? Or that the old general, who so fondly
planned your felicity, would forgive, if he could survive, the
evils of his house, occasioned by you .' " The sword dropped
from the hand of the trembling Oscar. " I have been blame-
able," cried he, " in allowing myself to be transported to such
an effort of revenge ; I forgot everything but that ; and as to
my own life, deprived of Adela, it appears so gloomy as to be
scarcely worth preserving."
Mrs. Marlowe seized this moment of yielding softness to
advise and reason with him ; her tears mingled with his, as she
listened to his relation of Belgrave's perfidy ; tears augmented
by reflecting that Adela, the darling of her care and affections,
was also a victim to it. She convinced Oscar, however, that it
would be prudent to confine the fatal secret to their own breasts ;
the agitation of his mind was too much for the weak state of his
health ; the fever returned, and he felt unable to quit the cot-
tage ; Mrs. Marlowe prepared a bed for him, trusting he would
soon be able to remove, but she was disappointed ; it was long
ere O^car could quit the bed of sickness ; she watched over
him with maternal tenderness, while he, like a blasted flower,
seemed hastening to decay.
The general was stung to the soul by the rejection of his
ofler, which he thought would have inspired the soul of Oscar
with rapture and gratitude ; never had his pride been so se-
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. n i
/erely wounded never before had he felt humbled in his own
ayes : his mortifying reflections the colonel soon found means
to remove, by the most delicate flattery, and the most assiduous
attention, assuring the general that his conduct merited not
the censure, but the applause of the world. The sophistry
which can reconcile us to ourselves is truly pleasing ; the col-
onel gradually became a favorite, and when he insinuated his
attachment for Adela, was assured he should have all the gen-
eral's interest with her. He was now more anxious than ever
to have her advantageously settled ; there was something so
humiliating in the idea of her being rejected, that it drove him
at times almost to madness : the colonel possessed all the ad-
vantages of fortune ; but these weighed little in his favor with ,
the general (whose notions we have already proved very disin-
terested), and much less with his daughter ; on the first over-
ture about him she requested the subject might be entirely
dropped ; the mention of love was extremely painful to her.
Wounded by her disappointment in the severest manner, her
heart required time to heal it ; her feelings delicacy confined
to her own bosom ; but her languid eyes, and faded cheeks,
denoted their poignancy. She avoided company, and was per-
petually wandering through the romantic and solitary paths
which she and Oscar had trod together ; here more than ever
she thought of him, and feared she had treated her poor com-
panion unkindly; she saw him oppressed with sadness, and
yet she had driven him from her by the repulsive coldness of
her manner a manner, too, which, from its being so suddenly
assumed, could riot fail of conveying an idea of her disappoint-
ment ; this hurt her delicacy as much as her tenderness, and
she would have given worlds, had she possessed them, to recall
the time when she could have afforded consolation to Oscar, and
convinced him that solely as a friend she regarded him. The
colonel was not discouraged by her coldness ; he was in the
habit of conquering diflTiculties, and doubted not that he should
overcome any she threw in his way ; he sometimes, as if by
chance, contrived to meet her in her rambles j his conversation
was always amusing, and confined within the limits she had
prescribed ; but his eyes, by the tenderest expression, declared
the pain he suffered from this proscription, and secretly pleased
Adela, as it convinced her of the implicit deference he paid to'
her will.
Some weeks had elapsed since Oscar's voluntary exile from
Woodlawn, and sanguine as were the colonel's hopes, he found
without a stratagem they would not be realized, at least as
Il2 THE CHILDREN OP TtiP ABBEY.
soon as he expected : fertile in Invention, he was hot lotlg in
concerting one. He followed Adela one morning into the gar-
den, and found her reading in the arbor ; she laid aside the
book at his entrance, and they chatted for some time on indif-
ferent subjects. Thd colonel's servant at last appeared with
a. large packet of letters, which he presented to his master, who,
with 4 hesitating air^ was about putting them into his pocket,
when Adela prevented him : " Make no ceremony, colonel,"
said she, "with me; I shall resume my book till you have
perused your letters." The colonel bowed for her permission
and began ; her attention was soon drawn from her book by
the sudden emotion he betrayed ; he started, and exclaimed,
" Oh heavens 1 what a wretch ! " then, as if suddenly recollect-
ing his situation, looked at Adela, appeared confused, stam-
mered out a few inarticulate words, and resumed his letter ;
when fiuisliud, he seemed to put it 'into his pocket, but in real-
ity dropped it at his feet for the basest purpose. He ran over
the remainder of the letters, and rising, entreated Adela to ex-
cuse his leaving her so abruptly, to answer SiOme of them. Soon
after his departure, Adela perceived an open letter lying at her
feet ; she immediately took it up with an intention of returning
to the house with it, when the sight of her own name, in capital
letters, and in the well-known hand of Fitzalan, struck her
sight ; she threw the letter on the table ; an universal tremor
siezed her ; she would have given any consideration to know
why she was mentioned in a correspondence between Belgrave
'and Fitzalan : her eye involuntarily glanced at the letter ; she
saw some words in it which excited still more strongly her curi-
osity; it could no longer be repressed; she snatched it up,
and read as follows :
TO COLONEL BELGRAVE.
You accuse mc of insensibility to, wliat you call the m.itchless charms of
Adela, an accusation I acknowledge I merit ; but why, because I have
been too susceptible to those o another, which in the fond estimation of a
lover (at least), appear infinitely superior The general's offer was cer-
tainly a most generous and flattering one, and has gratified every feeling' of
my soul, by giving me an opportunity of sacrificing, at the shrine of love,,
ambition and self-interest ; my disinterested conduct has confirmed me in
the affections of my dear girl, whose vanity I cannot help thinking a little
elevated by the triumph I have told her she obtained over Adela ; but this
is excusable indeed when we consider the object I relinquished for her.
Would to heaven the general was propitious to your wishes ; it would yield
me much happiness to see you, my first and best friend, in possession of a
treasure you have long sighed for. I shall, no doubt, receive a long lecture
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 113
from you for letting the affair relative to Aclela be made known, but faith, I
could not resist telling my charmer. Heaven grant discretion may seal her
lips ; if not, I suppose I shall be summoned to formidable combat with the
old general. Adieu I and believe me.
Dear colonel, ever yours,
Oscar Fitzalan.
" Wretch ! " cried the agitated Adel.a, dropping the letter
(which it is scarcely necessary to say was an infamous forgery)
in an agony of grief and indignation, " is this the base return
we meet for our wishes to raise you to prosperity ? Oh I cruel
Fitzalan, is it Adela who thought you so amiable, and who
never thoroughly valued wealth, till she believed it had given
her the power of conducing to your felicity whom you hold up
as an object of ridicule for unfeeling vanity to triumph over?"
Wounded pride and tenderness raised a whirl of contending
passions in her breast ; she sunk upon the bench, her head
rested on her hand, and sighs and tears burst from her. She
now resolved to inform Fitzalan she knew the baseness of his
conduct, and sting his heart with keen reproaches : now resolved
to pass it over in silent contempt. While thus fluctuating, the
colonel softly advanced and stood before her : in the tumult
of her mind she had quite forgot the probability of his returning,
and involuntarily screamed and started at his appearance. By
her confusion, she doubted not but he would suspect her of
having perused the fatal letter. Oppressed by the idea, her
head sunk on her bosom, and her face was covered with blushes.
" What a careless fellow I am I " said tiic colonel, taking up
the letter, which he then pretended to perceive ; he glanced at
Adela. " Curse it ! " continued he, " I would rather have had
all the letters read than this one." He suspects me, thought
Adela ; her blushes faded, and she fell back on her seat, unable
to support the oppressive idea of having acted against the rules
of propriety. Belgrave flew to support her : " Loveliest of
women ! " he exclaimed, and with all the softness he could
assume, " what means this agitation ? " " I have been suddenly
affected," answered Adela, a little recovering, and, rising, she
motioned to return to the house. " Thus," answered the
colonel, "you always fly me ; but go, Miss Honey wood j I
have no right, no attraction, indeed, to detain you ; yet, be
assured," and he summoned a tear to his aid, while he pressed
her hand to his bosom, " a heart more truly devoted to you
than mine you can never meet; but I see the subject is painful,
and again I resume the rigid silence you have imposed on me j
go, then, most lovely and beloved, and since I dare not aspire
8 ^
tl4 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
to a higher, allow me, at least, the title of your friend." " Most
willingly," said Adela, penetrated by his gentleness. Sh'S was
now tolerably recovered, and he prevailed on her to walk
instead of returning to the house ; she felt soothed by his
attention ; his insidious tongue dropped manna ; he gradually
stole her thoughts from painful recollections ; the implicit re-
spect he paid her will- flattered her wounded pride, and her
gratitude was excited by knowing he resented the disrespectful
mention of her name in Fitzalan's letter ; in short, she felt
esteem and respect for him contempt and resentment for
Oscar. The colonel was too penetrating not to discover her
sentiments, and too artful not to take advantage of them. Had
' Adela, indeed, obeyed the real feelings of her heart, she would
have declared against marrying ; but pride urged her to a step
which would prove to Fitzalan his conduct had not affected her.
The general rejoiced at obtaining her consent, and received a
promise that for some time she should not be separated from
him. The most splendid preparations were made for the nup-
tials ; but though Adela's resentment remained unabated, she
soon began to wish she had not been so precipitate in obeying
it ; an involuntary repugnance rose in her mind against the
connection she was about forming, and honor alone kept her
from declining it forever : her beloved friend, Mrs. Marlowe,
supported her throughout the trying occasion, and, in an inau-
spicious hour, Adela gave her hand to the perfidious Belgrave.
About a fortnight after her nuptials, she heard from some
of the olificers of Oscar's illness ; she blushed at his name.
" Faith," cried one of them, " Mrs. Marlowe is a charming
woman ; it is well he got into such snug quarters : I really
believe elsewhere he would have given up the ghost." " Poor
fellow," said Adela, sighing heavily, yet without being sensible
of it. Belgrave rose, he caught her eye, a dark frown lowered
on his brow, and he looked as if he would pierce into the
recesses of her heart : she shuddered, and for the first time,
felt the tyranny she had imposed upon herself. As Mrs.
Marlowe chose to be silent on the subject, she resolved not to
mention it to her ; but she sent every day to invite her to
Woodlawn, expecting by this to hear something of Oscar ; but
she was disappointed. At the end of a fortnight, Mrs. Mar-
lowe made her appearance ; she looked pale and thin. Adela
gently reproved her for her long absence^ trusting this would
oblige her to allege the reason of it ; but no such thing. Mrs.
Marlowe began to converse on indifferent subjects ; Adela
suddenly grew peevish, and sullenly sat at her work.
THE CltlLDREN OF THE ABBEY. 115
In a few days aftdr Mrs. Marlowe's visit, Adela, one evening
immediately after dinner, ordered the carriage to the cottage j
by this time she supposed Oscar had left it, and flattered her-
self, in the course of conversation, she should learn whether he
was perfectly recovered ere he departed. Proposing to sur-
prise her friend, she stole by a winding path to the cottage, and
softly opened the parlor door ; but what were her feelings,
when she perceived Oscar sitting at the fireside with Mrs.
Marlowe, engaged in a deep conversation I She stopped,
unable to advance. Mrs. Marlowe embraced and led her
forward. The emotions of Oscar were not inferior to Adela's.
He attempted to rise, but could not. A glance from the ex-
pressive eyes of Mrs. Marlowe, which seemed to conjure him
not to yield to a weakness which would betray his real senti-
ments to Adela, somewhat reanimated him. He rose, and
tremblingly approached her. " Allow me, madam," cried he,
" to " The sentence died unfinished on his lips ; he had
not power to offer congratulations on an event which had
probably destroyed the happiness of Adela, as well as his own.
"Oh I a truce with compliments," said Mrs. Marlowe, forcing
herself to assume a cheerful air ; " prithee, good folks, let us be
seated, and enjoy, this cold evening, the comforts of a good
fire." She forced the trembling, the almost fainting, Adela to
take some wine, and by degrees the flutter of her spirits and
Oscar's abated, but the sadness of their countenances, the
anguish of their souls, increased. The cold formality, the
distant reserve they both assumed, filled each with sorrow and
regret. So pale, so emaciated, so woe-begone did Fitzalan
appear, so much the son of sorrow and despair, that had be
half murdered Adela, she could not at that moment have felt
for him any other sentiments than those of pity and compassion.
Mrs. Marlowe, in a laughing way, told her of the troubles she
had had with him : " for which, I assure you," said she, " he
rewards me badly ; for the moment he was enlarged from the
nursery, he either forgot or neglected all the rules I had laid
down for him. Pray do join your commands to mine, and
charge him to take more care of himself." " I would, most
willingly," cried Adela, " if I thought they would influence him
to do so." "Influence ! " repeated Oscar, emphatically ; "oh,
heavens ! " then starting up, he hurried to the window, as if to
hide and to indulge his melancholy. The scene he viewed
from it was dreary and desolate. It was now the latter end of
autumn ; the evening was cold, a savage blast howled from the
hills, and the sky was darkened by a coming storm. Mrs.
1 1 6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Marlowe roused him from his deep reverie. " I am sure, said
she, "the prospect you view from the window can have no
great attractions at present." "And yet," cried he, "there
is something sadly pleasing in it : the leafless trees, the
fading flowers of autumn, excite in my bosom a kind of
mournful sympathy ; they are emblems to me of him whose
tenderest hopes have been disappointed; but, unlike him,
they, after a short period, shall again flourish with primeval
beauty." "Nonsense," exclaimed Mrs. Marlowe ; "your ill-
ness has affected your spirits ; but this gloom will vanish long
before my orchard reassumes its smiling appearance, and haply
attracts another smart redcoat to visit an old woman." " Oh !
with what an enthusiasm of tenderness," cried Oscar, " shall I
ever remember the dear, though dangerous, moment I first
entered this cottage ! " " Now, no flattery, Oscar," said Mrs.
Marlowe ; " I know your fickle sex too well to believe I have
made a lasting impression j why, the very first fine old woman
you meet at your ensuing quarters, will, I dare say, have similar
praise bestowed on her." " No," replied he, with a languid
smile ; " I can assure you, solemnly, the impression which has
been made on my heart will never be effaced." He stole i,
look at Adela ; her head sunk upon her bosom, and her heart
began to beat violently. Mrs. Marlowe wished to change the
suljject entirely ; she felt the truest compassion for the unhappy
young couple, and had fervently desired their union ; but
since irrevocably separated, she wished to check any intima--
tion of a mutual attachment, which now could answer no pur-
pose but that of increasing their misery. She rung for tea,
and endeavored by her conversation to enliven the tea-table ;.
the effort however, was not seconded. " You have often,"
cried she, addressing Adela, as they again drew their chairs
round the fire, " desired to hear the exact particulars of my
life j unconquerable feelings of regret hitherto prevented my
acquiescing in your desire ; but, as nothing better now offers
for passing away the hours, I will, if you please, relate them."
" You will oblige me by so doing," cried Adela ; " my curiosity,
vou know, has been long excited."
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. nj
CHAPTER XIII.
But mine the sorroWi mine the faiilti
And well my life shall pay :
TMl seek the solitude he sougnt,
And stretch me where he lay." Goldsmith.
To begin, then, as they say in a novel, without further
preface, I was the only child of a country curate, in the southern
part of England, who, like his wife, was of a good, but reduced
family. Contented dispositions and an agreeable neighborhood,
ready on every occasion to oblige them, rendered them, in
their humble situations, completely happy. I was the idol of
both their hearts ; every one told my mother I should grow up
a beauty, and she, poor simple woman, believed the flattering
tale. Naturally ambitious, and somewhat romantic, she ex-
pected nothing less than my attaining, by my charms, an elevated
situation ; to fit me to it, therefore, according to her idea, she
gave me all the showy, instead of solid, advantages of educa-
tion. My father being a meek, or rather an indolent man,
submitted entirely to her direction ; thus, without knowing the
grammatical part of my own language, I was taught to gabble
bad French by myself; and, instead of mending or making my
clothes, to flourish upon catgut and embroider satin. I was
taught dancing by a man who kept a cheap school for that
purpose in the village ; music I could not aspire to, my mother's
finances being insufficient to purchase an instrument ; she was
therefore obliged to content herself with my knowing the vocal
part of that delightful science, and instructed me in singing a
few old-fashioned airs, with a thousand graces, in her opinion
at least.
To make me excel by my dress, as well as my accomplish-
ments, all the misses of the village, the remains of her finery
were cut and altered into every form which art or ingenuity
could suggest; and, Heaven forgive me, but my chief induce-
ment in going to church on a Sunday was to exhibit my flounced
silk petticoat and painted chip hat.
When I attained my sixteenth year, my mother thought me,
and supposed every one else must do the same, the most per-
fect creature in the world. I was lively, thoughtless, vain, and
ambitious to an extravagant degree ; yet, truly innocent in my
Ii8 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
disposition, and oflen, forgetting tlie appearance I had been
taught to assume, indulged the .natural gayety of my heart,
and in a game of hide-and-go-seek, amongst the haycocks in a
meadow, by moonlight, enjoyed perfect felicity.
Once a week, accompanied by my mother, I attended the
dancing-master's school, to practise country dances. One
evening we had just concluded a set, and were resting our-
selves, when an elegant youth, in a fashionable riding dress,
entered the room. His appearance at once excited admira-
. tion and surprise ; never shall I forget the palpitation of my
heart at his approach ; every girl experienced the same, every
cheek was flushed, and every eye sparkled with hope and
expectation. He walked round the room, with an easy, unem-
barrassed air, as if to take a survey of the company ; he
stopped by a very pretty girl, the miller's daughter good
heavens 1 what were my agonies ! My mother, too, who sat
beside me, turned pale, and would actually, I believe, have
fainted, had he taken any farther notice of her ; fortunately
he did not, but advanced. My eyes caught his; he again
paused, looked surprised and pleased, and, after a moment,
passed in seeming consideration, bowed with the utmost ele-
gance, and requested the honor of my hand for the ensuing
dance. My politeness had hitherto only been in theory; I
afose, dropped him a profound curtsey, assured him the
honor would be all on my side, and I was happy to grant his
request. He smiled, I thought, a little archly, and coughed to
avoid laughing ; I blushed, and felt embarrassed ; but he led
me to the head of the room to call a dance, and my triumph
over my companions so exhilarated my spirits, that I immedi-
ately lost all confusion.
I had been engaged to a young farmer, and he was enraged,
not only at my breaking my engagement without his permission,
but at the superior graces of my partner, who threatened to
be a formidable rival to him. " By jingo I " said Clod, coming
up to me in a surly manner, " I think. Miss Fanny, you have
not used me quite genteelly ; I don't see why this here fine
spark should take the lead of us all." " Creature I " cried I,
with an ineffable look of contempt, which he could not bear,
and retired grumbling. My partner could no longer refrain
from laughing ; the simplicity of my manners, notwithstanding
the airs I endeavored to assume, highly delighted him. "No
wonder," cried he, " the poor swain should be mortified at
losing the hand of his charming Fanny."
The dancing over, we rejoined my mother, who was on
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
119
thoriM to begin a conversation witli the stranger, that she
might Jet him know we were not to be ranked with the present
company. " I am sure, sir," said she, " a gentleman of your
elegant appearance must feel rather awkward in the present
party ; it is so with us, as, indeed, it must be with every person
of fashion ; but, in an obscure little village like this, we must
not be too nice in our society, except, like a hermit, we could
do without any." The stranger assented to whatever she
said, and accepted an invitation to sup with us; my 'mother
instantly sent an intimation of her will to my father, to have,
not the fatted calf, indeed, but the fatted duck prepared ; and
he and the maid used such expedition, that, by the time we
returned, a neat, comfortable supper was ready to lay on the
table. Mr. Marlowe, the stranger's name, as he informed me,
was all animation and affability : it is unnecessary to say, that
my mother, father, and myself, were all complaisance, delight,
and attention. On departing, he asked, and obtained, permis-
sion, of course, to renew his visit the next day; and my mother
immediately set him down as her future son-in-law.
As everything is speedily communicated in such a small
village as we resided in, we learned on the preceding evening
he had stopped at the inn, and, hearing music, had inquired
from whence it proceeded, and had gone out of curiosity to
the dance. Wc also learned that his attendants reported him
to be heir to a large fortune ; this report, vain as I was, was
almost enough of itself to engage my heart ; judge, then,
whether it was not an easy conquest to a person, who, besides
the above-mentioned attraction, possessed those of a graceful
figure and cultivated mind. He visited continually at our
cottage ; and I, uncultivated as I was, daily strengthened my-
self in his affections. In conversing with him, I forgot the
precepts of vanity and affectation, and obeyed the dictates of
nature and sensibility. He soon declared the motives of his
visits to me " to have immediately demanded my hand " he
said, "would have gratified the tenderest wish of his soul;
but, in his present situation, that was impossible left, at
an early age, destitute and distressed, by the death of his
parents, an old whimsical uncle, married to a woman equally
capricious, had adopted him as heir to their large possessions
he found it difficult," he said, " to submit to their ill-humor,
and was confident, if he took any step against their inclinations,
he should forever forfeit their favor ; therefore, if my parents '
would allow a reciprocal promise to pass between us, binding
each to each, the moment he became master of expected for-
rzo THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
tune, or obtained an independence, he would make me a partaker
of it." They consented, and he enjoined us to the strictest
secrecy, saying, " one of his attendants was placed about him
as a kind of spy. He had hitherto deceived him with respect
to us, declaring my father was an intimate friend, and that his
uncle knew he intended visiting him. But my unfortunate
vanity betrayed the secret it was so material for me to keep.
I was bound indeed not to reveal it. One morning a young
girl who had been an intimate acquaintance of mine till I knew
Marlowe, came to see me, " Why, Fanny," cried she, " you have
given us all up for Mr. Marlowe ; take care, my dear, he makes
you amends for the loss of your other friends." " I shall take
your advice," said I, with a smile and a conceited toss of my
head. " Faith, for my part," continued she, " I think you
were very foolish not to secure a good settlement for yourself
with Clod." " With Clod I " repeated I, with the utmost
haughtiness. " Lord, child, you forget who I am ! " " Who
are you ? " exclaimed she, provoked at my insolence ; " oh, yes,
to be sure, I forget tliat you are the daughter of a poor country
curate, with more pride in your head than money in your purse."
" Neither do I forget," said I, " that your ignorance is equal to
your impertinence ; if I am the daughter of a poor country
curate, I am the affianced wife of a rich man, and as much
elevated by expectation, as spirit, above you."
Our conversation was repeated throughout the village, and
reached the ears of Marlowe's attendant, who instantly devel-
oped the real motive which detained him so long in the village.
He wrote to his uncle an account of the whole affair ; the con-
sequence of this was a letter to poor Marlowe, full of the
bitterest reproaches, charging him, without delay, to return
home. This was like a thunder-stroke, to us all; but there
was no alternative between obeying, or forfeiting his uncle's
favor. " I fear, my dear Fanny," cried he, as he folded me to
his bosom, a little before his departure, " it will oe long ere we
shall meet again ; nay, I also fear I shall be obliged to promise
not to write ; if both these fears are realized, impute not either
absence or silence to a want of the tenderest affection for you."
He went, and with him all my happiness ! My mother, shortly
after his departure, was attacked by a nervous fever, which
terminated her days ; my father, naturally of weak spirits and
delicate constitution, was so shocked by the sudden death of his
beloved and faithful companion, that he sunk beneath hi$
grief. The horrors of my mind I cannot describe ; I seemed
to stand alone in the world, without one friendly hand to prevent
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 121
my sinking into the grave, wliicli contained tlic dearest objects
of my love. I did not Icnow wliere Marlowe lived, and, even
if I had, durst not venture an application,^ which might be the
means of ruining him. The esteem of my neiglibors I had
forfeited by my conceit they paid no attention but what com-
mon humanity dictated, merely to prevent my perishing ; and
that they made me sensibly feel. In this distress, I received
an invitation from a school-fellow of mine, who had married
a rich farmer about forty miles from our village, to take up my
residence with her till I was sufficiently recovered to fix on
some plan for subsistence. I gladly accepted the offer, and
after paying a farewell visit to the grave of my regretted parents,
I set off in the cheapest conveyance I could find to her habita-
tion, with all my worldly treasure packed in a portmanteau.
With my friend I trusted I should enjoy a calm and happy
asylum till Marlowe was able to fulfil his pi-omise, and allow
me to reward her kindness ; but this idea she soon put to flight,
by informing me, as my health returned, I must think of some
method for supporting myself. I started, as at the utter anni-
hilation of all my hopes ; for, vain and ignorant of the world, I
imagined Marlowe would never think of me if once disgraced
by servitude. I told her I understood little of anything except
fancy work. She was particularly glad, slie said, to hear I
knew that, as it would, in all probability, gain me admittance
to the service of a rich old lady in the neighborhood, who had
long been seeking for a person who could read agreeably and
do fancy works, with which she delighted to ornament her
house. She was a little whimsical, to be sure, she added, but
well-timed flattery might turn those whims to advantage ; and,
if I regarded my reputation, I should not reject so respectable
a protection. There was no alternative; I inquired more
particularly about her, but how great was my emotion, when I
learned she was the aunt of Marlowe. My heart throbbed with
exquisite delight at the idea of being in the same house with
him ; besides, the service of his aunt would not, I flattered my-
self, degrade me as much in his eyes as that of another person's ;
it was necessary, however, my name should be concealed, and
I requested my friend to comply with my wish in that respect.
She rallied me about my pride, which she supposed had sug-
gested the request, but promised to comply with it ; she had no
doubt but her recommendation would be sufficient to procure
me immediate admittance, and, accordingly, taking some of my
work with me, I proceeded to the habitation of Marlowe. It
was an antique mansion, surrounded with neat-clipped hedges,
122 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
level lawns, and formal plantations. Two statues, cast in the
same mould, and resembling nothing either in heaven, earth, or
sea, stood grinning l\prribly upon the pillars of a massy gate, 3.3
if to guard the entrance from impertinent intrusion. On knock-
ing, an old porter appeared. I gave him my message, but he,
like the statues, seemed stationary, and would not, I believe,
have stirred from his situation to deliver an embassy from the
king. He called, however, to a domestic, who, happening to
be a little deaf, was full half an hour before he heard him ; at
last, I was ushered up stairs into an apartment, from the heat
of which one might have conjectured it was under the torrid
zone. Though in the middle of July, a heavy hot fire burned
in the grate ; a thick carpet, representing birds, beasts, and
flowers, was spread on the floor, and the windows, closely
screwed down, were heavy with woodwork, and darkened with
dust. The master and mistress of the mansion, like Darby and
Joan, sat in arm-chairs on each side of the fire ; three dogs, and
as many cats, slumbered at their feet. He was leaning on a
spider-table, poring over a voluminous book, and slie was stitch-
ing a counterpane. Sickness and ill-nature were visible in each
countenance. " So ! " said she, raising a huge pair of spectacles
at my entrance, and examining me from head to foot, " you are
come from Mrs, Wilson's ; why, bless me, child, you are quite
too young for any business ; pray, what is your name, and
where do you come from ? " I was prepared for these questions,
and told her the truth, only concealing my real name, and the
place of my nativity. " Well, let me see those works of yours,"
cried she. I produced them, and the spectacles were again
drawn down. " Why, they are neat enough, to be sure," said
she, "but the design is bad very bad, indeed : there is taste,
there is execution ! " directing me to some pictures, in heavy
gilt frames, hung round the room. I told her, with sincerity,
" I had never seen anything like them." " To be sure, child,"
exclaimed she, pleased at what she considered admiration in me,
" it is running a great risk to take you ; but if you think you
can conform to the regulations of my house, I will, from com-
passion, and as you are recommended by Mrs. Wilson, venture
to engage you ; but, remember, I must have no gad-about, no
fly-flapper, no chatterer, in my family. You must be decent in
your dress and carriage, discreet in your words, industrious at
your work, and satisfied with the indulgence of going to church
on a Sunday." I saw I was about entering upon a painful ser-
vitude ; but the idea of its being sweetened by the sympathy of
Marlowe a little reconciled me to it.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 123
On promising all she desired, everything was settled for my
. admission into her family, and she took care I should perform
the promises I made her. I shall not recapitulate the various
trials I underwent from her austerity and peevishness ; suffice
it to say, my patience, as well as taste, underwent a perfect mar-
tyrdom. I was continually seated at a frame, working pictures
of her own invention, which werfe everything that was hideous
in nature. I was never allowed to go out, except on a Sunday
to church, or on a chance evening when it was too dark to dis-
tinguish colors.
Marlowe was absent on my entering the family, nor
durst I ask when he was expected. My health and spirits
gradually declined from my close confinement. When allowed,
as I have before said, of a chiince time to go out, instead of
enjoying the fresh air, I have sat down to weep over scenes
of former happiness. I dined constantly with the old house-
keeper. She informed me, one day, that Mr. Marlowe, her
master's young heir, who had been absent some time on a
visit, was expected home on the ensuing day. Fortunately,
the good dame was too busily employed to notice my agita-
tion. I retired as sooii as possible from the table, in a
state of indescribable pleasure. Never shall I forget my
emotions, when I heard the trampling of his horse's feet, and
saw him enter the house ! Vainly I endeavored to resume my
work j my hands trembled," and I sunk back on my chair, to
indulge the delightful idea of an interview with him, which I
believed to be inevitable. My severe task-mistress soon
awakened me from me delightful dream ; she came to tell me :
" I must confine myself to my own and the housekeeper's room,
which, to a virtuous, discreet maiden, such as I appeared to be,
she supposed would be no hardship, while her nephew, who was
a young, perhaps rather a wild young man, remained in the
house : when he again left it, which would soon be the case, I
should regain my liberty." My heart sunk within me at her
words, but, when the first shoclc was over; I consoled myself by
thinking I should be able to elude her vigilance. I was, how-
ever, mistaken ; she and the housekeeper were perfect Arguses.
To be in the same house with Marlowe, yet without his know-
ing it, drove me almost distracted.
I at last thought of an expedient, which, I hoped, would
effect the discovery I wanted. I had just finished a piece of
work, which my mistress was delighted with. It was an enor-
mous flower-basket, mounted on the back of a cat, which held
beneath its paw a trembling mouse. The raptures the ol4 lady
124
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
expressed at seeing her own design so ably executed encouraged
me to aslc permission to emi^roider a picture of my own design-^
ing, for wliicli I had the silks lying by me. She complied, and'
I set about it with alacrity. I copied my face and figure as
exactly as I could, and, in mourning drapery and a pensive
attitude, placed the little image by a rustic grave, in the church-
yard of my native village, at the head of which, half embowered
in trees, appeared the lovely cottage of my departed parents.
These well-known objects, I th.ought, would revive, if indeed
she was absent from it, the idea of poor Fanny in the mind of
Marlowe. I presented the picture to my mistress, who was
pleased with the present, and promised to have it framed. The
next day while I sat at dinner, the door suddenly opened, and
Marlowe entered the room. I thought I should have fainted.
My companion dropped her knife and fork with great precipita-
tion, and Marlowe told her he was very ill, and wanted a cordial
, from her. She rose with a dissatisfied air, to comply with his
request. He, taking this opportunity of approaching a little
nearer, darted a glance of pity and tenderness, and softly
whispered " To-night, at eleven o'clock, meet me in the front
parlor."
You may conceive how tardily the hours passed till the
appointed time came, when, stealing to the parlor, I found
Marlowe expecting me. He folded me to his heart, and his
tears mingled with mine, as I related my melancholy tale.
" You are now, my Fanny ! " he cried, " entirely mine ; deprived
of the protection of your tender parents I shall endeavor to
fulfil the sacred trust they reposed in my honor, by securing
mine to you, as far as lies in my power. I was not mistaken,"
continued he, " in the idea I had formed of the treatment I
should receive from my flinty-hearted relations on leaving you.
Had I not promised to drop all correspondence with you, I
must have relinquished all hopes of their favor. Bitter, indeed,"
cried he, while a tear started in his eye, " is the bread of depend-
ence. Ill could my soul submit to the indignities I received ;
but I consoled myself throughout them, by the idea of future
Jiappiness with my Fanny. Had I known her situation (which,
indeed, it was impossible I should, as my uncle's spy attended
me wherever I went), no dictate of prudence would have
prevented my flying to her aid ! " " Thank Heaven, then, you
were ignorant of it," said I. " My aunt," he proceeded,
" showed me your work, lavishing the highest encomiums on it.
I glanced my eye carelessly upon it, but, in a moment, how was
that careless eye attracted by the well known objects presented
TUE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 125
to it I this, I said to my heart, can only be Fanny's work. I
tried to discover from my aunt whether my conjectures were
wrong, but Without success. When I retired to dress, I asked
my servant if there had been any addition to the family during
my absence ; he said a young woman was hired to do fine works,
but she never appeared among the servants."
Marlowe proceeded to say, " he could not bear I should
longer continue in servitude, and that without delay he was
resolved to unite his fate to mine." I opposed this resolution
a little ; but soon, too self-interested, I fear, acquiesced in it.
It was agreed I should infotm his aunt my health would no
longer permit my continuing in her family, and that I should
retire to a village six miles off, where Marlowe undertook to
bring a young clergyman, a particular friend of his, to jjerform
the ceremony. Our plan, as settled, was carried into execution,
and I became the wife of Marlowe. I was now, you will sup-
pose, elevated to the pinnacle of happiness; I was so, indeed,
but my own folly precipitated me from it. The secrecy I was
compelled to observe mortified me exceedingly, as I panted to
emerge from the invidious cloud which had so long concealed
my beauty and accomplishments from a world that I was
confident, if seen, would pay them the homage they merited.
The people with whom I lodged had been obliged by Marlowe,
and, Ihcrcforc, from interest and gratitude, obeyed the injunc-
tion he gave them, of keeping my residence at their house
a secret; they believed, or affected to believe, I was an
orphan committed to his care, wliom his uncle would be dis-
pleased to knov/ he had taken under his protection. Three or
four times a week I received stolen visits from Marlowe, when,
one day (after a month had elapsed in this manner) standing at
the parlor window, I saw Mrs. Wilson walking down the village.
I started back, but too late to escape her observation ; she
immediately bolted into the room with all the eagerness of
curiosity. I bore her first interrogatories tolerably well, but
when she upbraided me for leaving the excellent service she
had procured for me, for duplicity in saying I was going to an-
other, and for my indiscretion in respect to Marlowe, I lost all
command of my temper, and, remembering the inhumanity
with which she had forced me into sen'itude, I resolved to
mortify her completely, by assuming all the airs I had heretofore
so ridiculously aspired to. Lolling in my chair, with an air of,'
the most careless indifference, I bid her no longer petrify me with
her discourse. This raised all the violence of rage, and she
plainly told me, "from my conduct with Marlowe, I was un-
126 THE CHILDREN/ OF THE ABBEY.
worthy her notice." "Therefore," cried I, forgetting every
dictate of prudence, " liis wife will neither desire nor receive it
in future." " His wife I " she repeated, with a look of scorn and
incredulity. I produced the certificate of my marriage ; thus,
from an imiDulse of vanity and resentment, putting myself in
the power of a woman, a stranger to every liberal feeling, and
whose mind was inflamed with envy towards me. The hint I
forced myself at parting to give her, to keep the affair secret,
only determined her more strongly to reveal it. The day after
her visit, Marlowe entered my apartment pale, agitated, and
breathless, he sunk into a chair. A pang, like conscious guilt,
smote my heart, and I trembled as I approached him. He
repulsed me when I attempted to touch his hand. " Cruel,
inconsiderate woman ! " he said, " to what dreadful lengths has
your vanity hurried you ; it has drawn destruction upon your
own head as well as mine ! " Shame and remorse tied my
tongue ; had I spoken, indeed, I could not have vindicated
myself, and I turned aside and wept. Marlowe, mild, tender,
and adoring, could not long retain'resentment; he startedfrom
his chair, and clasped me to his bosom. " Oh, Fanny ! " he
cried, " though you have ruined me, you are still dear as ever
to me."
This tenderness affected me even more than reproaches, and
tears and sighs declared my penitence. His expectations relative
to.his uncle were finally destroyed, on being informed of our mar-
riage, which Mrs. Wilson lost no time in telling him. He
burned his will, and immediately made another in favor of a
distant relation. On hearing this intelligence, I was almost dis-
tracted ; I flung myself at my husband's feet, implored his par-
don, yet declared I could never forgive myself. He grew more
composed upon .the increase of my agitation, as if purposely
to soothe my spirits, assuring me, that, though his uncle's
favor was lost, he had other friends on whom he greatly
depended. We set off for London, and found his dependence
was not ill-placed ; for, soon after his arrival, he obtained a
place of considerable emolument in one of the public offices.
My husband delighted in gratifying me, though I was often both
extravagant and whimsical, and almost ever on the wing for
admiration and amusement. I was reckoned a pretty woman, and
received with rapture the nonsense and adulation addressed to
me. I became acquainted with a young widow, who concealed a
depraved heart under a specious appearance of innocence and
virtue, and by aiding the vices of others, procured the means
of gratifying her own ; yet so secret were all her transactions,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABEEV. lajf
that calumny had not yet attacked her, and her house was
the rendezvous of the most fashionable people. My husband,
who did not dislike her manner, encouraged our intimacy, and
at her parties I was noticed by a young nobleman, then at the
head of the ton. He declared I was one of the most charming
objects he had ever beheld, and, for such a declaration, I thought
him the most polite I had ever known. As Lord T. condescended
to wear my chains, I must certainly, I thought, become quite
the rage. My transports, however, were a little checked by the
grave remonstrances of my husband, who assured me Lord T.
was a famous, or rather an infamous libertine ; and that, if I
did not avoid his lordship's particular attentions, he must insist
on my relinquishing the widow's society. This I thought cruel,
but I saw him resolute, and promised to act as he desired a
promise I never adhered to, except when he was present. I
was now in a situation to promise an increase of family, and
Marlowe wished me to nurse the child. The tenderness of my
heart seconding his wish, I resolved on obeying it ; but when
the widow heard my intention she laughed at it, and said it was
absolutely ridiculous, for the sake of a squalling brat, to give
up all the pleasures of life ; besides, it would be much better
taken care of in some of the villages about London. I denied
this ; still, however, she dwelt on the sacrifices I must make,
the amusements I must give up, and at last completely con-
quered my resolution. I pretended to Marlowe my health was
too delicate to allow me to bear such a fatigue and he imme-
diately sacrificed his own inclinations to mine. I have often
wondered at the kind of infatuation with which he complied
with all my desires. My little girl, almost as soon as born, was
sent from me ; but, on being able to go out again, I received a
considerable shock, from hearing my noble admirer was gone
to the Continent, owing to a trifling derangement in his affairs.
The vain pursuits of pleasure and dissipation were still con-
tinued. Three years passed in this manner, during which I
had a son, and my little girl was brought home. I have since
often felt astonished at the cold indifference with which I re-
garded my Marlowe, and our lovely babe, on whom he doated
with all the enthusiasm of tenderness. Alas ! vanity had then
absorbed my heart, and deadened every feeling of nature and
sensibility ; it is the parent of self-love and apathy, and degrades
those who harbor it below humanity.
Lord T. now returned from the Continent ; he swore my idea
had never been absent from his mind, and that I was more
charming than ever ; while I thought him, if possible, more
128 THE CHILD KEN OF THE ABBEY.
polite and engaging. Again my husband remonstrated. Some
times. I, seemed to regard tiiese remonstrances, sometimes pro-
tested I would not submit to such unnecessary control, I knew,
indeed, that my intentions were innocent, and I believed I might
safely indulge ray vanity, without endangering either my repu-
tation or peace. About this time Marlowe received a summons
to attend a dying friend four miles from London. Our little
girl was then in a slight fever, which had alarmed her father,
and confined me most unwillingly, I must confess, to the house.
Marlowe, on the point of departing, pressed me to his breast :
" My heart, my beloved Fanny 1 " said he, " feels unusually
heavy. I trust the feeling is no presentiment of approaching
ill. Oh ! my Fanny ! on you and my babe, I rest for happiness
take care of our little cherub, and above all (his meek eye
' encountering mine), take care of yourself, that, with my accus-
tomed rapture, I may, on my return, receive you to my arms."
There was something so solemn, and so tender, in this address,
thfit my heart melted, and my tears mingled with those which
trickled down his pale checks. For two days I attended my
child assiduously, when the widow made her appearance. She
assured me I should injure myself by such close confinement,
and that my cheeks were already faded by it. She mentioned
a delightful masquerade which was to be given that night, and
for which Lord T. had presented her with tickets for me and
herself ; but she declared, except I would accompany her, she
would not go. I had often wished to go to a masquerade ; I
now, however, declined this opportunity of gratifying my incli-
nation, but so faintly, as to prompt a renewal of her solicita-
tions, to which I at last yielded ; and, committing my babe to
the care of a servant, set off with the widow to a warehouse to
choose dresses. Lord T. dined with us, and we were all in the
highest spirits imaginable : about twelve we went in his chariot
to the Haymarket, and I was absolutely intoxicated with his
flattery, and the dazzling objects around me. At five we quitted
this scene of gaycty. Tiic widow took a chair ; I would have
followed her example, but my Lord absolutely lifted me into
his chariot, and there began talking in a strain which provoked
my contempt, and excited my apprehensions. I expressed my
displeasure in tears, which checked his boldness, and convinced
him he had some difficulties yet to overcome ere he completed
his designs. He made his apologies with so much humility, that
I was soon appeased, and prevailed on to accept them. We
arrived at the widow's house in as much harmony as we left it ;
the flags were wet, and Lord T. insisted on carrying m ito
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 129
the house. At the door I observed a man muffled up, but as
no one noticed him. I thought no more about it. We sat
down to supper in high spirits, and chatted for a considerable
time about our past amusements. His lordship said : " After
a little sleep we should recruit ourselves by a pleasant jaunt to
Richmond, where he had a charming villa." We agreed to his
proposal, and retired to rest. About noon we arose ; and, while
I was dressing myself for the projected excursion, a letter was
brought in to mc. " Good Lord I Halcot 1 " exclaimed I, turn-
ing to the widow, " if Marlowe is returned, what will become
of me ? " " Oh ! read, my dear creature ! " cried she impa-
tiently, " and then we can think of excuses." " I have the
letter here," continued Mrs. Marlowe, laying her hand to her
breast, and drawing it forth after a short pause, " I laid it to
my heart to guard it against future folly."
THE LETTER.
The presages of my heart were but too true ^vve parted never to meet again.
Oh I Fanny, beloved o my soul, how are you lost to yourself and Marlowe !
The independence, splendor, riches, which I gave up lor your sake, were
mean sacrifices, in my estimation, to the felicity I fondly expected to have
enjoyed with you through life. Your beauty charmed my mind, but it was
your simplicity captivated my heart. I took, as I thought, the perfect child
of innocence and sincerity to my bosom ; resolved, from duty, as well a^
from inclination, to shelter you in that bosom, lo the iitnio.st of my power,
from every adverse storm. Whenever you were indisposed, what agonies
did I endure 1 yet, what I then dreaded, could I have possibly foreseen,
would have been comparative happiness to my present misery ; for, oh I my
Fanny, far preferable would it have been to behold you in the arms of death
than infamy.
I returned immediately after witnessing the last pangs of my friend
oppressed with the awful scene of death, yet cheering my spirits by an anti-
cipation of the consolation I should receive from ny Fanny's sympathy.
Good God I what was my horror, when I found my little babe, instead of
being restored to health by a mother's care, nearly expiring through her
neglect I The angel lay gasping on her bed, deserted by the mercenary
wretch to whose care she was consigned. I inquired, and the fatal truth
rushed upon my soul ; yet, when the first tumult of p.-ission had subsided,
I felt that, without yet stronger proofs, I could not abandon you. Alas!
too soon did I receive those proofs. I traced you, Fanny, through your giddy
round, till I saw you borne m the arms of the vile Lord T. into the house
of his vile paramour. You will wonder, perhaps, I did not tear you from
his grasp. Could such a procedure have restored you to me, with all your
unsullied innocence, I should not have hesitated j but that was impossible,
and my eyes then gazed upon Fanny for the last time. I returned to my
motherless babe, and, I am not ashamed to say, I wept over it with all the
agonies of a fond and betrayed heart.
Ere I bid an irrevocable adieu, I would, if possible, endeavor to convince
you that conscience cannot always be stifled that illicit love is constantly
attended by remorse and disappointment ; for, when familiarity, or disease,
9
1^0 ^^/A- CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
has diminished the charms which excited it, the frail fetters of admiration
are broken by him who looks only to an exterior for delight ; if, indeed,
your conscience should not be awakened till this hour of desertion comes,
when it does arrive, you may, perhaps, think of Marlowe. Yes, Fanny,
when your cheeks are faded by care, when your wit is enfeebled by despond-
ency, you may think of him whose tenderness would have outlived both
time and change, and supported you, without abatement, through every
stage of life.
To stop short in the career of vice is, they say, the noblest effort of
virtue. May such an effort be yours; and may you yet give joy to the
angels of heaven, who, we are taught to believe, rejoice over them that
truly repent I That want should strew no thorns in the path of penitence,
all that I could take from my babe I have assigned to you. Oh ! my dear
culprit, remember the precepts of your early youth of those who, sleeping
in the dust, are spared the bitter tear of anguish, such as I now shed and,
ere too late, expiate your errors. In the solitude to which I am hastening,
I shall continually pray for you ; and when my child raises its spotless
hands to Heaven, it shall implore its mercy for erring mortals ; yet, think
not it shall ever hear your story. Oh I never shall the blush of shame, for
the frailties of one so dear, tinge its ingenuous countenance. May the sin-
cerity of your repentance restore that peace and brightness to your life,
which, at present, I think you must have forfeited, and support you with
fortitude through its closing. period I As a friend, once dear, you will ever
exist in the nieuiory of
Marlowe. ,
As I concluded the letter, my spirits, which had been gradu-
ally receding, entirely forsook me, and I fell senseless on the
floor. Mrs. Halcot and Lord T. took his opportunity of grati-
fying their curiosity by perusing the letter, and when I recovered,
I found myself supported between them. " You see, my dear
angel," cried Lord T., "your cruel husband has entirely aban-
doned you ; but grieve not, for in my arms you shall find a
kinder asylum than he ever afforded you." " True," said Mrs.
Halcot ; " for my part, I think she has reason to rejoice at his
desertion."
I shall not attempt to repeat all I had said to them in the
height of my distraction. Suffice it to say, I reproached them
both as the authors of my shame and misery ; and, while I
spurned Lord T. indignantly from my feet, accused Mrs. Hal-
cot of possessing neither delicacy nor feeling. Alas! accusation
or reproach could not lighten the weight on my Heart I felt a
dreadful consciousness of having occasioned my own misery.
I seemed as if awaking from a disordered dream, which had
confused my senses ; and the more clearly my perception of
what was right returned, the more bitterly I lamented my
deviation from it. To be reinstated in the esteem and affec-
tion of my husband was all of felicity I could desire to possess.
FuU of th^ idea of being able to eilec|: a reconciliation, I started
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBk K
131
up ; but, ere I reached the door, sunk into an agony of tears :
recollecting that ere this he was probably far distant from me.
My base companions tried to assuage my grief, and make me
in reality the wretch poor Marlowe supposed me to be. I
heard them in silent contempt, unable to move, till a servant
informed me a gentleman below stairs desired to see me. The
idea of a relenting husband instantly occurred, and I flew
down ; but how great was my disappointment only to see a
particular friend of his! Our meeting was painful in the
extreme. I asked him if he knew anything of Marlowe, and
he solemnly assured me he did not. When my confusion and
distress had a little subsided, he informed me that in the
morning he had received a letter from him, with an account of
our separation, and the fatal cause of it. The letter contained
a deed of settlement on me of a small paternal estate, and a
bill of fifty pounds, which Marlowe requested his friend to
present himself to me. He also added my clothes were sent
to his house, as our lodgings had been discharged. I did not
find it difficult to convince this gentleman of my innocence,
and, putting myself under his protection, was immediately
conveyed to lodgings in a retired part of tlie town. Here he
consoled me with assurances of using every effort to discover
the residence of my hu.sband. All, alas I proved unsuccessful j
and my health gradually declined. As time wore away, my
hope yet left still undiminished my desire of seeing him.'
Change of air was at last deemed requisite to preserve my
existence, and I went to Bristol. I had the good fortune to
lodge in the house with an elderly Irish lady, whose sweet and
benevolent manner soon gained my warmest esteem, and
tempted me to divulge my melancholy tale, where so certain
of obtaining pity. She had also suffered severely from the
pressure of sorrow..but hers, as it proceeded not from impru-
dence, but the common vicissitudes of life, was borne without
that degree of anguish mine occasioned. As the period ap-
proached for her return to her native country, I felt the detepest
regret at the prospect of our separation, which she, however, re-
moved, by asking me to reside entirely with her. Eight years
had elapsed since the loss of my husband, and no latent hope
of his return remained in my heart sufficiently strong to tempt
me to forego the advantages of such society. Ere I departed,
however, I wrote to several of his friends, informing them of
the step I intended taking, and, if any tidings of Marlowe
occurred, where I was to be found. Five years I passed with
my valuable friend jn retirement, and had the pleasure of
132
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
thinking 1 contributed to the ease of her last moments. This
cottage, with a few acres adjoining it, and four hundred pounds,
was all her wealth, and to me she bequeathed it, having no
relations whose wants gave them any claim upon her.
The events I have just related will, I hope, strengthen the
moral so many wish to impress upon the minds of youth,
namely that, without a strict adherence to propriety, there can
be no permanent pleasure ; and that it is the actions of early
life must give to old age either happiness and comfort, or
sorrow and remorse. Had I atlendcd to the admonitions of
wisdom and experience, I should have checked my wanderings
from prudence, and preserved my happiness from being sacri-
ficed at the shrine of vanity ; then, instead of being a solitary
in the world, I might have had my little fireside enlivened by
the partner of my heart, and, perhaps, my children's children
sporting around ; but suffering is the proper tax we pay for
fojly ; the frailty of human nature, the prevalence of example,
the allurements of liie world, are mentioned by many as ex-
tenuations for misconduct. Though virtue, say they, is willing,
she is often too weak to resist the wishes they excite. Mis-
taken idea ! and blessed is that virtue which, opposing, ends
them. With every temptation we have the means of escape ;
and woe be to us if we neglect those means, or hesitate to dis-
entangle ourselves from the snare which vice or folly may
have spread around us. Sorrow and disappointment are
incident to mortality, and when not occasioned by any con-
scious imprudence, should be considered as temporary trials
from Heaven to improve and correct us, and therefore cheer-
fully be borne. A sigh stole from Oscar as she spoke, and a
tear trickled down the soft cheek of Adela. " I have," con-
tinued Mrs. Marlowe, " given you, like an old woman, a tedious
tale ; but that tediousness, with every other imperfection I
have acknowledged, I rest upon your friendship and candor to
excuse."
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 133
CHAPTER XIV.
" Denied her sight, he often crept
l^eneath the liawthorn's shade ;
To mark the spot in which she wept
In which she wept and prayed. ^Mallet*
The night was waning fast, and Adela rose to depart as
her friend concluded her story ; yet it required an effort of
resolution to retire. Mrs. Marlowe, however, was too well
convinced of the expediency and propriety of this to press her
longer stay, though the eyes of Oscar, suddenly turned to her,
seemed to entreat she would do so. The night was dark and
wet, which prevented Mrs. Marlowe from accompanying Adela,
to the carriage. Not so Oscar ; he took the umbrella from the
servant, who held it for his mistress, and bid him hasten on to
have the carriage-door opened. " Oscar," cried Mrs. Marlowe,
extremely unwilling to allow even this short tete-a-iete, " Mrs,
Belgrave will dispense with your gallantry, for you are really
too great an invalid to venture out such a night as this." Adela
attempted to dissuade him froni it, but her voice was so low
and faltering as scarcely to be articulate. Oscar gently seized
her hand, and pulled it under his arm ; he felt it tremble as he
did so. The touch became contagious ; an universal tremor
affected his frame, and never, perhaps, had he and Adela ex-
perienced a moment of greater unhappiness. Adela at last
found herself obliged to speak, conscious that her silence must
appear particular, and said, she feared he would be injured by ,
his attentions to her. More fatally injured than he already
was, he might have replied, he could not be ; but he checked
the words ready to burst from his lips, and only answered that
he would be unfit for a soldier, if he could not endure the
inclemency of the wintry blast. The light from the globes of
the carriage gave him a view of her pale lovely cheeks, and he
saw she was weeping. Confused at the idea of betraying her
distress, she averted her head, and hastily ascended the steps ;
yet, for a moment, her trembling hand rested upon Oscar's, as
if, in this manner, she would have given the adieu she had not
the power of pronouncing. Lost in agony, he remained, like a
statue, on the spot where she had left him, till roused by the
friendly voice of Mrs. Marlowe, who, alarmed at his long
1^4 'I'^^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
absence, came to seek him. Soothed by lier kind solicitude,
he directly returned with her to the house, where his indigna-
tion against the perfidious Belgrave again broke forth. He
execrated him, not only as the destroyer of his peace, but a
peace infinitely more precious than his own that of the charm-
ing Adela.
Mrs. Marlowe essayed every art of consolation, and, by
sympathy and mildness, at last subdued the violence of his
feelings ; she acknowledged the loss he sustained in being
deprived of Adela ; but, since irrevocable, both virtue and
reason required him to struggle against his grief, and conceal
it. By their sacred dictates, she entreated him to avoid seeing
Adela. He felt she was right in the entreaty, and solemnly
promised to comply with it ; her friendship was balm to his
wounded heart, and her society the only pleasure he was
capable of enjoying. Whenever he could absent himself from
quarters he retired to her, and frequently spent three or four
days at a time in her cottage. By discontinuing his visits in
the gay neighborhood of Woodlawn, he avoided all opportuni-
ties of seeing Adela, yet often, on a clear frosty night, has he
stole from the fireside of Mrs. Marlowe to the beloved and
beautiful haunts about the lake, where he and Adela passed so
many happy hours together. Here he indulged in all the
luxury of woe ; and such are the pleasures of virtuous melan-
choly, that Oscar would not have resigned them for any of the
commonplace enjoyments of life.
Often did he wander to the grove from whence he had a
view of Adela's chamber, and if a lucky chance gave him a
glimpse of her, as she passed through it, a sudden ecstasy would
pervade his bosom ; he would pray for her felicity, and return
to Mrs. Marlowe, as if his heart was lightened of an oppressive
weight. That tender friend flattered herself, from youth and
the natural gayety of his disposition, his attachment, no longer
fed by hope, would gradually decline ; but she was mistaken
the bloom of his youth was faded, and his gayety converted
into deep despondency. Had he never been undeceived with
regard to the general and Adela, pride, no doubt, would quickly
have lessened the poignancy of his feelings ; but when he re-
flected on the generous intentions of the one, on the sincere
affection of the other, and the supreme happiness he might
have enjoyed, he lost all fortitude. Thus, by perpetually brood-
ing over the blessings once within his reach, losing all relish
for those which were yet attainable, his sorrow, instead of being
ameliorated, was increased by time. The horror and indigna-
THE CHILDREJSr OF THE ABBEV. 135
tion with which he beheld Belgrave, after the first knowledge of
his baseness, could scarcely be restrained. Though painful, he
was pleased the effort had proved a successful one, as, exclu-
sive of his sacred promise to Mrs. Marlowe, delicacy on Adela's
account induced him to bear his wrongs in silence. He could
not, however, be so great a hypocrite as to profess any longer
esteem or respect for the colonel, and when they met, it was
with cold politeness on both sides.
The unfortunate Adela pined in secret. Her interview with
Oscar had destroyed the small remainder of her peace. His
pale and emaciated figure haunted her imagination ; in vain,
by dwelling on his unkind letter, did she endc.ivor to lessen her
tenderness. She felt the emotion of pity stronger than that of
resentment, and that the friendship of Oscar would have been
sweeter to her soul than the love or attention of any other ob-
ject. By obeying the impulse of passion, she feared she had
doomed herself to wretchedness. Belgrave was a man whom,
upon mature deliberation,, she never could have chosen. The
softness of his manners gradually vanished when the purpose for
which they had been assumed was completed. Unfeeling and
depraved, the virtues of Adela could excite no esteem in his
bosom, and the love (if it can merit that appellation) which he
felt for her, quickly subsided after their marriage ; but as the
general retained the greatest part of his fortune in his own
power, he continued tolerably guarded in his conduct. A slave,
however, to the most violent passions, he was often unable to
control them j and, forgetful of all prudential motives, delighted
at those times in mortifying Adela by sly sarcasms on her" at-
tachment for Oscar. Though deeply wounded, she never com-
plained ; she had partly forged her chains, and resolved to bear
them v/ithout repining. Tranquil in appearance, the poor
general, who was not penetrating, thought his darling perfectly
happy. Such, however, was not the opinion of those who vis-
ited at Woodlawn. The rose of health no longer spread its
beautiful tints on the cheek of Adela, nor were her eyes irradi-
ated by vivacity.
The colonel never went to Enniskillen except about mili-
tary business, but he made frequent excursions to the metrop-
olis and other parts of the kingdom in pursuit of pleasure,
Adela felt relieved by his absence ; and the general, satisfied
at his not attempting to take her along with him, never mur?
mured at it. The period now arrived for the departure of the
regiment. Adela had not seen Oscar since the interview at
Mrs. Marlowe's. She declined going to the reviews which pre-
136 TTTE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
ceded the change of garrison, and sincerely hoped no cliance
would again throw him in her way. Oscar sickened at the idea
of quitting the countrj' without seeing her. He knew she was
not tp accompany the colonel. The officers were going to pay
a farewell visit to Woodlawn, ajid he could not resist being of
ithe party. They were shown' into the drawing-room, where
Aclela and the general sat. She was startled at tlie appear-
ance of Oscar, but though a blush tinged her pale face, she
soon recovered her composure, and entered into conversation.
The general pressed them to stay to dinner, but they had
many visits to pay and begged to be excused. " My dear Fitz-
alan," said the general, who had long dropped his displeasure,
" I wish you happiness and success, and hope I shall soon hear
of your being at the head of a company ; remember, I say soon
for I am an old veteran, and should be sorry to drop into
the trench till I had heard of the good fortune of my friends.
Your father was a brave fellow, and, in the speedy advance-
ment of his son, should receive a reward for his past services."
Oscar pressed the general's hand to his breast. He cast his
tearful eyes on Adela ; she sighed, and bent hers to the ground.
" Be assured, sij," he cried, " no gratitude can be more fervent
than that your goodness has inspired me with ; no wishes can
be more sincere than mine for the happiness of the inhabitants
of Woodlawn." " Ineffectual wishes," softly exclaimed Adela ;
" happiness, from one of its inhabitants at least, has, I fear,
fled forever."
The general's wishes for the success of Oscar may be con-
sidered as mere words of course, since not enforced by more
substantial proofs of regard ; but, in reality, soon after his
daughter's marriage, in his usual blunt manner, he had men-
tioned to the colonel his giving a thousand or two to help the
promotion of Oscar. Belgrave,,who could not bear that the
man whom he had injured should have a chance of obtaining
equal rank with himself, opposed this truly generous design,
by saying, "Oscar was taken under the patronage of Lord
Cherbury, and that the general's bounty might therefore, at
some future period, be better applied in serving a person with-
out his interest." To this the general assented, declaring that
he never yet met with a brave soldier or his offspring in dis-
tress without feeling and answering the claim they had upon
his heart.
Oscar obtained a ready promise from Mrs. Marlowe of cor-
responding with him. He blushed and faltered as he besought
her sometimes to acquaint him with the health of their friends
THE CHILDtiEN OF THE ABBEY. J37
at Woodlawn. Change of scene produced no alteration in him.
Still pining with regret, and languid from ill-health, his father
and sister found him. The comforts of sympathy could not
be his, as the anguish which preyed on his heart he considered
of too sacred a nature to divulge. He hoarded up his grief,
like a miser hoarding up Ills treasure, fearful that the eye of
suspicion should glance at it, as he pressed his lovely sister to
his heart. Had he imagined she was the object of Colonel
Belgrave's licentious passion, the bounds he had hitherto pre-
scribed to his resentment would in a moment have been over-
turned, and he would, had it been necessary, have pursued the
monster round the world, to avenge the injury he had meditated,
as well as the one he had committed.
We shall now bid adieu to Oscar for the present, and, draw-
ing on our boots of seven leagues, step after Fitzalan and
J^trianda.
CHAPTER XV.
" Confessed from yonder slow exlingutslied cloudf,
All ether softening, sober evening takes
Her wonted station in the middle air ;
A thousand shadows at her back." Thomson.
Castle Carberry, to which our travellers were going, was
a large gothic pile, erected in the rude and distant period when
strength more than elegance was deemed necessary in a build-
ing. The depredations of war, as well as time, were discernible
on its exterior ; some of its lofty battlements were broken, and
others mouldering to decay, while about its ancient towers
" The rank grass waved its head,
And the moss whistled to the wind."
It stood upon a rocky eminence overhanging the sea, and
commanding a delightful prospect of the opposite coast of
Scotland ; about it were yet to be traced irregular fortifications,
a moat, and remains of a drawbridge, with a well, long since
dry, which had been dug in the rock to supply the inhabitants
in time of siege with water. On one side rose a stupendous
hill, covered to the very summit with trees, and scattered over
with relics of druidical antiquity ; before it stretched an exten-
138 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
sive and gently swelling lawn, sheltered on each side with
groves of intermingled shade, and refreshed by a clear and
meandering rivulet, that took its rise from the adjoining hill,
and murmured over a bed of pebbles.
After a pleasant journey, on the evening of the fourth day,
our travellers arrived at their destined habitation. An old man
and woman, who had the care of it, were apprised of their
coming, and on the first approach of the carriage, opened the
, massy door, and waited to receive them : they reached it when
the sober gray of twilight had clad every object. Amanda
viewed the dark and stupendous edifice, whose gloom was
now heightened by the shadows of evening, with venerable
awe. The solitude, the silence which reigned around, the
melancholy murmur of the waves as they dashed against the
foot of the rocks, all heightened the sadness of her mind ; yet it
was not quite an unpleasing sadness, for with it was now mingled
a degree of that enthusiasm which plaintive and romantic spirits
are so peculiarly subject to feel in viewing the venerable gran-
deur of an ancient fabric renowned in history. As she entered
a spacious hall, curiously wainscoted with oak, ornamented
with coats of arms, spears, lances, and old armor, she could
not avoid casting a retrospective eye to former times, when,
perhaps, -in this very hall, bards sung the exploits of those
heroes, whose useless arms now hung upon the walls. She
wished, in the romance of the moment, some gray bard near
her, to tell the deeds of other times of kings renowned in our
land of chiefs we behold no more. In the niches in the hall
were figures of chieftains, large as life, and rudely carved in
oak. Their frowning countenances struck a sudden panic
upon the heart of Ellen. " Cot pless their souls," she said,
" what the tefil did they do there, except to frighten the peo-
ple from going into the house."
They were shown into a large parlor, furnished in an old-
fashioned manner, and found a comfortable supper prepared
for them. Oppressed with fatigue, soon after they had par-
taken of it, they retired to rest. The next morning, immedi-
ately after breakfast, Amanda, attended by the old woman and
Ellen, ranged over the castle. Its interior was quite as gothic
as its exterior ; the stairs were winding, the galleries intricate,
' the apartments numerous, and mostly hung with old tapestry,
representing Irish battles, in which the chiefs of Castle Car-
berry were particularly distinguished. Their portraits, with
those of their ladies, occupied a long gallery, whose arched
windows cast a dim religious light upon them. This was termi-
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 139
nated by a small apartment in the centre of one of the towers
that flanked the building. The room was an octagon, and thus
commanded a sea and land prospect, uniting at once the sub-
lime and beautiful in it. The furniture was not only modern
but elegant, and excited the particular attention and inquiries
of Amanda. The old woman informed her this had been the
dressing-room of the late Countess of Cherbury, both before
and after her marriage : " one of the sweetest, kindest ladies,"
continued she, " I ever knew ; the castle has been quite
deserted since she died alack-a-day I I thought my poor heart
would have broke when I heard of her death. Ah I I remem-
ber the night I heard the Banshee crying so pitifully." " And
pray what is that ? " interrupted Amanda. " Why, a little wo-
man, no higher than a yard, who wears a blue petticoat, a red
cloak, and a handkerchief round her head ; and when the head
of any family, especially a great family, is to die, she is always
heard, by some of the old followers, bemoaning herself." " Lort
save us ! " cried Ellen, " I hope his lortship, the earl, won't
take it into his head to die while we are here, for I'd as lief
see one of the fairies of Penmaenmawr, as such a little old
witch." " Well, proceed," said Amanda. " So, as I was say-
ing, I heard her crying dismally one night in a corner of the
house. So, says I to my husband, Johnaten, says I, I am
sure we shall hear something about my good lord or lady.
And sure enough we did the next day, and ever since we have
seen none of the family." " Did you ever see the young lord ?"
asked Amanda, with involuntary precipitation. " See hirri !
aye, that I did, when he was about eight years old ; there is
his picture (pointing to one which hung over the chimney) ;
my lady had it done by a fine English painter, and brought it
over with her. It is the moral of what he then was." The
eager eyes of Amanda were instantly turned to it, and she
traced, or at least imagined she did so, a resemblance still
between it and him. The painter seemed as if he had had the
description of Pity in his mind when he drew the picture ; for
Lord Mortimer was portrayed, as she is represented in the
beautiful allegory, sheltering a trembling dove in his bosom
from a ferocious hawk. Oh ! Mortimer ! thought Amanda,
thy feeling nature is here ably delineated I The distressed, or
the helpless, to the utmost of your power, you would save from
the gripe of cruelty and oppression. Her father had desired
her to choose pleasant apartments fc5r her own immediate
use, and she accordingly fixed on this and the room adjoining
it, which had been Lady Cherbury's chamber. Her things
140 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY.
were brought hither, and her books, works, and implements
for drawing, deposited in rich inlaid cabinets. Pleased with
the arrangements she had made, she brought her father, as
soon as he was at leisure, to view them. He was happy to
find her spirits somewhat cheerful and composed, and declared
in future he would call this Amanda's Tower. Accompanied
by him, she ascended to the battlements of the castle, and
was delighted with the extensive and variegated prospect she
beheld from them. A spacious edifice, at some distance, em-
bowered in a grove of venerable oaks, attracted her admiration.
Her father told her that was Ulster Lodge, a seat belonging
to the Marquis of Roslin, who was an Irish as well as a Scotch
Peer, and had very extensive possessions in Ireland. Fitzalan
added, he had been inquiring of the old man about the neigh-
borhood, and learned from him that, at the expiration of every
three or four years, the Marquis usually came over to Ulster
Lodge, but had never yet been accompanied by the Marchion-
ess, or Lady Euphrasia Sutherland, who was his only child.
The domestic economy of Castle Carberry was soon settled.
A young man and woman were hired, as Johnaten and his wife,
Kate, were considered little more than supernumeraries. Ellen
was iappointed to attend Amanda, and do whatever plain work
was required. Fitzalan felt a pleasing serenity diffused over
his mind, from the idea of being in some degree independent,
and in the way of making some provision for his children.
The first shock of a separation from Lord Mortimer being over,
the cheerfulness of Amanda gradually returned, the visions of
hope again revived in her mind, and she indulged a secret pleas-
ure at living in the house he had once occupied. She con-
sidered her father as particularly connected with his family,
and doubted not, from this circumstance, she should some-
times hear of him. She judged of his constancy by her own,
and believed he would not readily forget her. She acknowl-
edged her father's motives for separating them were equally
just and delicate ; but firmly believed, if Lord Mortimer (as
she flattered herself he would) confessed a partiality in her
favor to his father, that, influenced by tenderness for his son,
friendship for her father, and the knowledge of her descent, he
would immediately give up every idea of another connection,
and sanction theirs with his approbation. No obstacle ap-
peared to, such an union but want of fortune, and that want
she could never suppose would be considered as one by the
liberal-minded Lord Cherbury, who had himself an income
sufficient to gratify even luxurious wishes. Her time was
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. , 141
agreeably diversified by the sources of amusements she drew
from herself. Her father, whose supreme felicity consisted in
contributing to her pleasure, purchased a delightful harp for
her in Dublin, which arrived a few days after them, at Castle
Carberry, and with its dulcet lays she often charmed, not only
his spirit, but her own, from every mortal care. She loved to
rise early, and catch the first beams of the sun, as she wan-
dered over the dewy lawn, where the lowing cattle cropped the
flowery herbage, and the milkmaid sung her plaintive ditty.
With her father she took long walks about the adjacent
country. He had visited every scene before, and now pointed
out whatever was worthy her attention : the spots where the
heroes of former ages had fallen, where the mighty stones of
tlieir fame were raised, that the children of the North might
hereafter know the places where their fathers fought ; that the
hunter, as he leaned upon a mossy tomb, might say, here
fought the heroes of other years, and their fame shall last
forever I
Amanda, too, often rambled by herself, particularly among
the rocks, where were several natural grottos, strewed with
shells and seaweeds. Here, of a mild day, she loved to read,
and listen to the low murmurs of the tide. The opposite
Scottish hills, among which her mother first drew breath, often
attracted and fixed her attention, frequently drawing tears
from her eyes, by awaking in her mind the recollection of that
mother's sufferings.
On a morning, when she sat at work in her apartment,
llen, who was considered more as a friend than a servant,
sometimes sat with her ; the conversation not unfrequently
turned on nurse Edwin's cottage, from which Ellen, with an
arch simplicity, would advert to Tudor Hall, thence naturally
to Lord Mortimer, and conclude with poor Chip, exclaiming :
"What a pity true love should ever be crossed ! "
142
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
CHAPTER XVI.
" Some take him for a tool
That knaves do work with, called a fool ;
Fools are known by looking wise,
As men find woodcocks by their eyes." Hudiuras.
The solitude of Castle Carberry was interrupted in less
than a fortnight by visits and invitations from the neighboring
families. The first they accepted was to dinner at Mr. Kil-
corban's. He was a man of large fortune, which, in the opinion
of many, compensated for the want of polished manners, and a
cultivated mind ; but others, of a more liberal way of thinking,
could not possibly excuse those deficiencies, which were more
apparent from his pretending to every excellence ; and more
intolerable from his deeming himself authorized, by his wealth
and consequence, to say and do almost whatever he pleased.
His lady was, like himself, a compound of ignorance, pride,
and vanity. Their offspring was numerous, and the three who
were sufficiently old to make their appearance, were considered,
by their parents and themselves, as the very models of elegance
and perfection. The young heir had been sent to tlie Univer-
sity ; but, permitted to be his own master, he had profited little
by his residence tliere. Enough, however, perhaps he thought
for a man of fortune, who wanted not professional knowledge.
His face was coarse, his person inelegant, and his taste in
adorning himself preposterously ridiculous. Fashion, Hoyle,
and the looking-glass, were his chief studies, and, by his family
and self, he was considered quite the thing.
The young ladies were supposed to be very accomplished,
because they had instructors in almost every branch of edu-
cation ; but, in reality, they understood little more than the
names of what they were attempted to be taught. Nature had
not been lavish of her gifts. Of this, however, they were
copscious, and patched, powdered, and painted in the very
extremity of the mode. Their mornings were generally spent
in rolling about in a coach and six with their mamma, collect-
ing news and paying visits ; their evenings were constantly de-
voted to company, without which they declared they could not
exist. They sometimes affected languor and sentiment, talked
pf friendship, and professed Iqx numbers, the most sincere j yet,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 143
to the very girls they pretended to reglard, delighted in exhibit-
ing their finery, if certain they could not purchase the same, and
would feel mortified by seeing it. '
Mr. Kilcorban had indulged his family in a trip to Bath one
autumn, and, in so doing, had afforded a never-failing subject
for conversation ; upon every occasion this delightful excursion
was mentioned the novelties they saw, the admiration they
excited, the elegant intimacies they formed, the amazing sum
they expended, were all described and exaggerated.
Lady Greystock, an ancient widow, was at present on a visit
to them. She had known Fitzalan in his youth, and now, with
pleasure, renewed her intimacy with him ; and the account she
gave of his family and connections, prepossessed the neighbor-
liood in his favor. She was a shrewd, sensible woman j the
dignity of her person commanded respect, but the sarcastic
expression of her countenance prevented her conciliating es-
teem.
An old chariot belonging to the Earl of Cherbury, which
had been for years unemployed in the coach-house, was brought
forth, for the purpose of conveying Fitzalan and his daughter
on their visits. After a good deal of rubbing and washing, it
was found tolerably decent, and they proceeded in it to Mr.
Kilcorban's, wiiich was about two miles from Castle Carberry. ,
A numerous party was already assembled. While Amanda was
paying her compliments to Mrs. Kilcorban and Lady Greystock,
a general whisper relative to her took place among the younger
part of the company, who had formed themselves into a group
quite distant from the rest. One gentleman swore, " she was a
devilish fine girl ! " He was seconded in the remark by an^
other, who extolled her complexion. " You are a simpleton,"
cried a young lady, who was reckoned a great wit ; " I would
engage for half a crown to get as fine a color in Dublin." Her
companions laughed, and declared she only spoke truth in say-
ing so. Mr. Bryan Kilcorban, who leaned on her chair, said,
" A bill should be brought into the house to tax such com-
plexions J for kill me," continued he, " the ladies are so irre-
sistible from nature, it is quite unconscionable to call in art as
an auxiliary." He then stalked over to Amanda, who sat by
Lady Greystock ; lolling over her chair, he declared, " he thought
the tedious hours would never elapse till again blessed with her
presence. " Of her," he said, " it was sufficient to have but
one glimpse to make him pant for the second." A summons to
dinner relieved her from this nonsense. Luxury and ostentation
were conspicuous in the fare ^nd .decorations of the table, and
J44
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Amanda never felt any hours so'tedious as those she passed at
it. When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, the Miss
Kilcorbans, and their companions, began to examine and
admire her dress. " What a pretty pattern this gown is worked
in ! " said one. " What a sweet, becoming cap this is," cried a
second. " Well, certainly the English milliners have a great
deal of taste, my dear," said Miss Kilcorban, whispering to
Amanda. " I have a monstrous favor to ask of you," drawing
her at the same instant to the window. " I am sure," said
Amanda, " any in my power to grant I shall with pleasure."
" Oh 1 really, then, it is in your power. It is only to refuse the
pattern of your cap to any girls who may ask you for it, and to
give it me and my sister. You cannot conceive how we dote on
being the first in the fashion, one is so stared at, and so envied.
I detest anything when it becomes common. You cannot think
how we are teased every summer, when we return from Dublin,
for fashions ; but we always make it a point to refuse. I must
tell you a delightful trick I played a friend of mine. She
received a large present of the most beautiful muslins from
India, which she laid by till I returned from town, supposing I
would let her see my things, as I always told her I was
extremely fond of her. Well, I lent her a gown, which was
quite old-fashioned, but assured her it was the very newest
mode. She accordingly had her beautiful muslins cut in imita-
tion of it, and so spoiled them from making any other habit.
Well, we met at an assize ball, where all the elegant people of
the county were assembled, and, I declare, I never saw so
ridiculous a figure as she made. When she found herself unlike
every one in the room, I really thought she would have fainted,
and that my poor sister and I should have expired with laugh-
ing. Poor thing I the tears absolutely trickled down her
cheeks. Do not you think it was a charming trick ? " " Very
much so," said Amanda j " I think it gave a striking specimen
of your humor." " Well, my dear," exclaimed Miss Kilcorban,
without minding the marked emphasis of Amanda's last words,
" if you allow us, my sister and I will call on you to-morrow to
look over your things." "It would be giving yourselves a great
deal of unnecessary trouble," feplied Amanda, coolly, who did
not by any means relish this forward proposal ; " my things can
boast of little but simplicity, and I am always my own milliner."
" Really I well, I protest you have a great deal of taste ; my
maid, who is very handy, would, I think, be able to make up
things in pretty much the same style, if you were obliging
enough to give her patterns. ,If you do, perhaps you will add
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 145
to the favor, and allow us to say they are the newest Bath
fashions. Was you ever at Bath ? " "No." "Oh! then I as-
sure you, you have a monstrous pleasure to come ; it is the
sweetest place on earth quite a paradise ! I declare I thought
I should have died with grief at leaving it. Papa has been in-
exorable ever since to our entreaties for a second trip. He
says the first cost too much money. Indeed, it was an enor-
mous sum J only think hoyv much." " I am the worst person in
the world," said Amanda, "for guessing," sick of her impertinent
volubility, and moving from the window. The evening was
fine, and the grounds about the house beautiful ; she therefore
proposed a walk. At this proposal, the young ladies, who had
hitherto been in deep confab, looked at each other, and te-
mained silent for some minutes. Miss Kilcorban, then, who
had no notion of gratifying the inclination of her guest, by the
sacrifice of her own, said, " it blew a little, and that her hair
would be ruined, and the Marchelle powder blown from it by
such a walk." Another young lady, looking down at her white
satin slippers, vowed " she would not venture into the grass for
worlds." A third declared, " when once dressed, she could not
bear to be tumbled." Amanda had too much politeness to re-
peat her wish, and it was, therefore, unanimously agreed upon
among the fair coterie, that they should continue in the
drawing-room, to be in statu quo for the reappearance of the
beaux.
Lady Greystock now beckoned to our heroine to take a seat
by her. She gladly obeyed. " Well, my dear," said her lady-
ship, " I hope you have had enough of these country misses ^
those would-be misses of the ton." Amanda smiled assentingly.
" Heaven defend me, or any one I like," continued Ber ladyship,
" from t)ieir clack I The confusion of Babel was, I really
believe, inferior to that tlieir tongues create, yet some people
have the absurdity to reckon these girls accomplished. Poor
Mrs. Kilcorban torments one with the perfections of her daugh-
ters ; against they are disposed of, which she imagines will be
very soon, she has a new brood of graces training up to bring
out. Mercy on me ! what a set of hoydens. I would lay my
life, at this very instant they are galloping about the nursery
like a parcel of wild colts, tearing or tormenting an unfortunate
French governess, who was formerly fille de chambre to a
woman of quality, and does not understand even the gram-
matical part of her own language." " Mrs. Kilcorban's opinion
of her children," said Amanda, " is natural, considering the
partiality of a parent." " Yes j but not more bearable on that
10
146 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
account," replied her ladyship ; " and I should endeavor to
open her eyes to her folly, if I thought her acquaintances would
forgive my depriving them of such a fund of amusement."
Mr. Brian Kilcorban, with some gentlemen, now entered
the room, and advanced to Amanda. " So," said he, " you
have got by the dowager ; hang me, but I would let my beard
grow, if all women resembled her in their dispositions." " By
the way of appearing sagacious, I suppose," said her ladyship,
who was extremely quick, and had caught the last words.
" Alas I poor youth, no embellishments on the exterior would
ever be able to make us believe the tenement within well
furnished." Her ladyship was now summoned to a whist-table,
and Miss Kilcorban immediately took her vacant seat. " My
dear creature ! " said she, " are you not bored to death ? Lady
Greystock is a queer piece, I can assure you. I suppose she
was asking some favor from you, such as to work her an apron
or handkerchief. She is noted everywhere for requesting such
little jobs, as she calls them ; indeed, we should never put up
with the trouble she gives us, but that she is vastly rich, and
papa's relation, and has no one so nearly connected with her
as we are." " All very good reasons for your complaisance,"
replied Amanda ; " but should you not be more careful in con-
cealing them ? " " Oh, Lord ! no ; every one knows them as
well as we do ourselves. She was here last summer, and took
a fancy to the pattern of an apron of mine ; and made me the
reasonable request of working one like it for her. All this she
pretended was to prevent my being idle. Well, I said I would,
and wrote up to the Moravian House in Dublin, where I had
got mine, f(jr one exactly like it. In due time I received and
presented it to the dowager, certain that, in return I should
receive a few of her diamond pins, which she had often heard
me admire. They are the prettiest I ever saw, and quite unfit
for her, but she had the cruelty to disappoint me." " Upon
my faith I " cried Mrs. Kilcorban, who had taken a chair at the
other side of Amanda, and listened with evident pleasure to
her daughter's voluble speech, " Lady Greystock is an odd
being ; I never met with any one like her in all my travels
through England, Ireland, and Wales ; but she is a great
orator, and possesses the gift of the gab in a wonderful degree."
" Ah, indeed," thought Amanda ; " and you and your fair
daughters resemble her in that respect." After tea, she was
prevailed on to sit down to commerce j but she soon grew as
tired t)f the. party as of the game, and lost on purpose to be
released. She had hoped for a little more chat with Lady
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 147
Greystock ; but her ladyship was passionately fond of cards,
and at all times would have preferred the pleasures of a card-
table to the eloquence of a Cicero. Kilcorban, on finding her
disengaged, tormented her with many absurd compliments. A
challenge to a brag-table at length relieved her from his non-
sense, and she loitered about the card-tables till they broke up
for supper.
Amanda always expressed to her father her sentiments of
any company she had been in ; and those she now delivered,
on quitting the party, perfectly coincided with his. He laughed
at the account which the Kilcorbans had given of Lady Grey-
stock, to whom he knew they paid the most extravagant flattery,
in hopes of obtaining some of her large fortune.
CHAPTER XVII.
*' Remote from man, with God they passed their days,
Prayer all their business, all their pleasure praise." PARN'ttL.
The following evening they were engaged to spend at a
farmer's. The invitation was given with such humility, yet
pressed with such warmth, that they could not avoid accepting
it, and accordingly, soon after dinner, walked to the house,
which was about a mile from Castle Carberry. It was a low
thatched building every appendage to it bespoke neatness
and comfort. It was situated in a beautiful meadow, enclosed
from the road by a hawthorn hedge, and on the opposite side
lay an extensive common, on which stood the stupendous and
venerable ruins of an abbey, called St. Catherine's. They
appeared a melancholy monument of the power of time over
strength and grandeur ; and while they attracted the observation
of the curious, excited a sigh in the bosom of sensibility.
The farmer's family consisted of three daughters and two
sons, who were now dressed in their best array. They had
assembled a number of their neighbors, among whom was a
little fat priest, called Father O'Gallaghan considered the life
of every party and a blind piper. The room was small, and
crowded with furniture as well as company. It was only divided
from the kitchen by a short passage, and the steam of hot cakes,
and the smoke of a turf fire, which issued thence, soon rendered
148 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
it distressingly warm. Amanda got as near the window as
possible, but still could not procure sufficient air ; and as every-
thing for tea was not quite ready, asked one of the Miss O'Flan-
naghans if she would accompany her to St. Catherine's. She
answered in the affirmative. The priest, who had been smirking
at her ever since her entrance, now shook his fat sides, and
said he wished he could get her initiated there ; " for it would
do my soul good," cried he, " to confess such a pretty little
creature as you are. Though faith, I believe I should find you
like Paddy McDenough, who used to come to confession every
Easter, though the devil a thing the poor man had to confess
about at all at all. So, says I to him, Paddy, my jewel, says I,
I believe I must make a saint of you, and lay you on the altar."
" Oh I honey, father ! " cried he, " not yet awhile, till I get a
new suit pf clothes on, which I shall by next Michaelmas."
Amanda left them all laughing at this story, and her father
engaged in conversation with some farmerg, who were desiring
his interest with Lord Cherbury, for new leases on moderate
terms.
Amanda had about a quarter of a mile to walk across the
common ; the ground was marshy and uneven, and numerous
stumps of trees denoted its having once been a noble forest, of
which no memorial but these stumps, and a few tall trees imme-
diately near the abbey, remained, that stretched their venerable
arms around it, as if to shade that ruin whose progress they had
witnessed, and which Amanda found well worthy of inspection.
She was equally astonished at its elegance and extent ; with
sacred awe traversing the spacious cloisters, the former walks
of holy meditation, she pursued her way through winding pas-
sages, where vestiges of cells were yet discernible, over whose
mouldering arches the grass waved in rank luxuriance, and the
creeping ivy spread its gloomy foliage, and viewed with reverence
the graves of those who had once inhabited them ; they sur-
rounded that of the founder's, which was distinguished by a
cross, and Miss O'Flannaghan related the traditions that were
current concerning him. He was a holy monk who had the
care of a pious lady's conscience ; sh6, on her death-bed, had a
remarkable dream, or vision, in which she thought an angel
appeared, and charged her to bequeath her wealth to her con-
fessor, who would, no doubt, make a much better use of it than
those she designed it for. She obeyed the sacred injunction,
and the good man immediately laid the foundation of this abbey,
which he called after his benefactress, and to which he, and the
community he belonged to, removed. The chapel was roofless,
rtlE CttlLDRBlM OP THE ABBEY. 149
but still retained many relics of superstitious piety, which had
escaped, in a tolerable degree, both time and weather. Saints
and martyrs were curiously cut over the places where the altars
and cisterns for holy water had once stood, to which Amanda
passed through a long succession of elegant arches, among
which were a number of tombstones, with curious devices, arid
unintelligible inscriptions^ Half hid by grass and weeds, on a
flag, which she perceived must have been lately placed there,
she saw some faded flowers strewn, and looking at her com-
panion, saw a tear dropping from her on them; She gently
asked the cause of it, and heard A. favorite brother was interred
there. The girl moved from the spot, but Amanda, detained
by an irrepressible emotion, stayed A minute longer to contem^
plate the awful scene. All was silent, sad, and solitary j the
grass-grown aisles looked long untrodden by human foot, the
green and mouldering walls 'appeared ready to crumble into
atoms, and the wind, which howled through their crevices,
sounded to the ear of fancy as sighs of sorrow for the desolatiori
of the place. Full of moralizing melancholy, the young, the
lovely Amanda,'hung over the grave of her companion's youth-
ful brother ; and taking up the withered flower, wet with the
tear of sisterly affection, dropped another on it, and cried,
" Oh ! how fit an emblem is this of life I how illustrative of
these words
' Man comes forth as a flower in the field, and is soon cut down.' "
Miss O'Flannaghan now led her through some more wind-
ings, when, suddenly emerging from them, she found herself, to
her great surprise, in a large garden, entirely encompassed by
the ruins, and in the centre of it stood a long low building,
which her companion informed her was a convent j a folding
door at the side opened into the chapel, which they entered,
and found a nun praying.
Amanda drew back, fearful of disturbing her \ but Miss
O'Flannaghan accosted her without ceremony, and the nun re-
turned the salutation with the most cordial good-huiriofi She
Was fifty, as Amanda afterwards heard, foi" she never could,
from her appearance, have conceived her to be so mUch. Her
skin was fair, and perfectly free from wrinkle \ the bloom and
down upon her cheeks as bright and as soft as that Upon a
peach J though her accent at oiie proclaimed het country, it was
not unharmonious ; and the cheerful obligingness of hef man-
lier amply compensated the want of elegance. She wore the
religious habit of the house, which was a loose flannel dl:ess
ISO
THE CHILDREN' OF THE ABBEY.
bound round her waist by a girdle, from which hung her beads
and a cross ; a veil of the same stuff descended to the ground,
and a mob cap, and forehead cloth, quite concealed her hair.*
Miss O'Flannaghan presented Amanda to her as a stranger, who
wished to see everything curious in the chapel. " Ah ! my
honey," cried she, " I am sorry she has come at a time when
she will see us all in the dismals, for you know we are in mourn-
ing for our prioress (the altar was hung in black) : but, my dear
(turning to Amanda), do you mean to come here next Sunday ?
for if you do, you will find us all bright again." Upon Amanda's
answering in the negative, she continue^d, " Faith, and 1 am
sorry for that, for I have taken a great fancy to you, and when
i like a person, I always wish them as great a chance of happi-
' ness as I have myself." Amanda, smiling, said, she believed
none could desire a greater, and the nun obligingly proceeded
to show her all the relics and finfery of the chapel ; among the
former was a head belonging to one of the eleven thousand
virgin martyrs, and the latter, a chest full of rich silks, which
pious ladies had given for the purpose of dressing the altar,
Pulling a drawer from under it, she displayed aquantity of arti-
ficial flowers, which she said were made by the sisters and their
scholars. Amanda wished to make a recompense for the
trouble she had given, and finding they were to be sold, pur-
chased a number, and having given some to Miss O'Flannaghan,
whom she observed viewing them with a wishful eye, she left
the rest with the nun, promising to call for them the next day.
" Ay, do," said she, " and you may be sure of a sincere welcome.
You will see a set of happy poor creatures, and none happier
than myself. I entered the convent at ten ; I took the vows al
fifteen, and from that time to the present, which is a long stretch,
I have passed a contented life, thanks be to our blessed lady ! "
raising her sparkling eyes to heaven. They ascended a few steps
to the place where the community sat. It was divided from the
body of the chapel by a slight railing. Here stood the organ.
The nun sighed as she looked at it. " Poor sister Agatha,"
cried she, " we shall never get such another organist. She was
always fit indeed for the heavenly choir. Oh ! my dear," turn-
ing to Amanda, " had you known her, you would have loved
her. She was our late prioress, and elected to that office at
twenty-nine, which is reckoned an early age for it, on account of
the cleverness it requires. She had held it but two years when
she died, and we never were so comfortable as during her time,
* The Abbey .ind the Nun, wluch the Author lias .ittempted to dcBcribe, were such as
she really saw, but in a different part of Ireland from that wluch she has incntiened.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 151
ftlie managed so well. The mourning in the chapel, as I have
already told you, will be over for her next Sunday ; but that
which is in our hearts will not be so speedily removed." Miss
O'Flannaghan now reminded Amanda it was time to return, to
which, with secret reluctance, she consented. The nun pressed
her to stay to tea ; but, on hearing of her engagement, only re-
minded her of the promised visit. In their walk back, her com-
panion informed Amanda that the society consisted of twelve
nuns. Their little fortunes, though sunk in one common fund,
were insufficient to supply their necessities, which compelled
them to keep a day-school, in which the neighboring children
were instructed in reading, writing, plain-work, embroidery, and
artificial flowers. She also added, that the nuns were allowed ,
to go out, but few availed themselves of that liberty, and that,
except in fasting, they were strangers to the austerities prac-
tised in foreign convents.
For such a society Amanda thought nothing could be better
adapted than their present situation. Sheltered by the ruins,
like the living entombed among the dead, their wishes, like their
views, were bounded by the mouldering walls, as no object ap-
peared beyond them which could tempt their wandering from
their usual limits. The dreary common, which met their view,
could not be more bleak and inhospitable than the world in
general would have proved to these children of poverty and
nature.
Father O'Gallaghan met the ladies at the door, and, famil-
iarly taking Amanda's hand, said, " Why, you have stayed long
enough to be made a nun of. Here," said he, " the cakes are
buttered, the tea made, and we are all waiting for you. Ah !
you little rogue," smirking in her face, " by the head of St.
Patrick, those twinklers of yours were not given for the good of
your soul. Here you are come to play pell-mell among the
hearts of the honest Irish lads. Ah, the devil a doubt but you
will have mischief enough to answer for by and by, and then I
suppose you will be coming to me to confess and absolve you;
but remember, my little honey, it you do, I must be paid before-
hand." Amanda disengaged her hand, and entered the parlor,
where the company, by a display of pocket-handkerchiefs on
their laps, seemed prepared to make a downright meal of the
good things before them. The Miss O'Flannaghans, from the
toils of the tea-table, at last grew as red as the ribbon with which
they were profusely ornamented. The table at length removed,
the chairs arranged, and benches placed in the passage for the
old folks, the signal for a dance was given by the piper's playing
1S2
THE CltlLDREN OF THE ABBEY.
an Irish jig. The farmer's eldest son, habited in his sky-blue
coat, his hair combed sleek on his forehead, and his complexion
as bright as a full-blown poppy, advanced to our heroine, and
begged, with much modesty, and many bows, she would do him
the favor to stand up with him. She hesitated a little, when
Father O'Gallaglian, giving her a tap, or rather slap, on the
shoulder, made her start suddenly from her seat. He laughed
heartily at this, declaring he liked to see a girl alive and merry.
As he could not join in the dance, he consoled himself with being
master of the ceremonies, and insisted on Amanda's dancing
and leading off the priest in his boots. She felt little inclined
to comply ; but she was one of those who can sacrifice their
own indination to that of others. Being directed in the figure
by the priest, she went down the dance, but the floor being an
earthen one, by the time she had concluded it, she begged they
would excuse her sitting the remainder of the evening, she felt
so extremely fatigued. She and Fitzalan would gladly have
declined staying supper, but this they found impossible, without
either greatly mortifying, or absolutely offending their hospitable
entertainers.
The table was covered with a profusion of good country fare,
and none seemed to enjoy it more truly than the priest. In
the intervals of eating, his jests flew about in every direction.
The scope he gave to his vivacity exhilarated the rest, so that,
like Falstafl^, he was not only witty himself, but a promoter of
wit in others. " Pray, father," said a young man to him, " what
do you give in return for all ihe good cheer you get ? " " My
blessing, to be sure," replied he. " What better could I give ? "
" Ay, so you may think, but that is not the case with us all, I
promise you. It is so pithy, I must tell you a story about that
same thing called a priest's blessing. A poor man went one
day to a priest, who had the name of being very rich and very
charitable ; but as all we hear is not gospel, so the poor man
doubted a little the truth of the latter report, and resolved on
trying him. ' Father,' says he, ' I have met with great losses.
My cabin was burned, ray pigs stolen, and my cow fell into a
ditch and broke her neck ; so I am come to ask your reverence,
for the love of heaven, to lend me a crown.' ' A crown I ' re-
peated the angry and astonished priest. ' O ! you rogue, where
do you think I could get money to lend, except, like yourself, I
had pilfered and stolen ? ' ' O ! that is neither here nor there,'
replied the man. ' You know I cleared the score on my con-
science with you long ago, so tell me, father, if you will lend me
half a crown ? ' ' No, nor a shilling.' ' Well, ai farthing, then ;
Tim CHtLDREN OF TIfM ABBEV.
S3
anything from such a good man as you.' ' No,' said the priest,
' not a mite ' ' Mayn't I have your blessing ? ' then asked the
man. ' Oh !, that you shall, and welcome,' replied he, smiling.
' Why, then, father,' returned the other, ' I would refuse it if you
forced it upon me; for,do you see, had it been worth one farthing,
you would have refused it to me.' "
"You have put me in mind of a very curious story," ex-
claimed another young man, as this one concluded his. " A
young knight went into a chapel in Spain one morning, where
he observed a monk standing in a supplicating attitude, with a
box in his hand. He asked him what this was for, and learned,
to collect money for praying the souls of fifty Christians out of
purgatory, whom the Moors had murdered. The knight threw
a piece of money into the box, and the monk, after repeating a
short prayer, exclaimed, ' There is one soul redeemed.' The
knight threw in a second, and the priest, after the same , cere-
mony, cried, ' There is another free.' Thus they both went on,
one giving, and the other praying, till, by the monk's account,
all the souls were free. ' Are you sure of this ? ' inquired the
knight. ' Ay,' replied the priest, ' they are all assembled to-
gether at the gate of heaven, which St. Peter gladly opened for
them, and they are now joyfully seated in Paradise.' ' From
whence they cannot be removed, I suppose,' said the knight.
' Removed 1 ' repealed the astonished priest. ' No, the world
itself might be easier moved.' ' Then, if you please, holy father,
return me my ducats ; they have accomplished the purpose for
which they were given, and, as I am only a poor cavalier, with-
out a chance of being as happily situated, at least for some
years, as the souls we have mutually contributed to release, I
stand in great need of them.' "
Fitzalan was surprised at the freedom with which they treated
the priest ; but he laughed as merrily as the rest at their stories,
for he knew that, though they sometimes allowed themselves a
little latitude, they neither wished nor attempted to shake off
his power.
Fitzalan and Amanda withdrew as early as possible from
the party, which, if it wanted every other charm, had that of
novelty, at least to them. The next morning Amanda repaired
to the convent, and inquired for Sister Mary, the good-natured
nun she had seen the preceding evening. She immediately
made her appearance^ and was delighted at seeing Amanda.
She conducted her to the school-room, where the rest of the
nuns and the pupils were assembled ; and Amanda was delighted
with the content and regularity which appeared in the society,
154. THE ClitLDREN OF THE ABBEY.
as well as the obliging eagerness they showed to gratify her
curiosity. They led her through the house, which contained a
number of apartments, every nun having one to herself, fur-
nished with a bed, chair, table, and crucifix, and then to the
parlor, where their new prioress sat. She was a woman far ad-
vanced in life. Had a painter wanted to personify benevolence,
he might have chosen her for a model so soft, so benignant
was her countenance. Sorrow, as well as time, had marked it
deeply ; but the mild expression of her eyes announced the
most perfect resignation to that sorrow. She received Amanda
with the truest politeness and most friendly warmth; and
Amanda felt impressed with real reverence for her, whilst she
acknowledged in her mind there could not be a happier situa-
tion for her than her present. She thought it a pity the world
had been deprived of a woman who would have proved such
an ornament to it. Sister Mary disappeared, but returned in
a few minutes with cake and currant-wine, which she forced
Amanda lo take. The good sister was enchanted with her
young visitor, and having no idea of concealing her feelings,
she openly expressed her admiration. " Dear mother," said
she, addressing the prioress, " is she not a lovely creature ?
What pretty eyes she has got, and what sweet little hands !
Oh, if our blessed lady would but touch her heart, and make
her become one of us, I should be so happy." The prioress
smiled ; she was not so great an enthusiast as Sister Mary.
" It would be a pity," said she, " so sweet a flower should be
hid amidst the ruins of St. Catherine's."
Amanda made an addition to the flowers ; she was thanked
by the nuns, and entreated to favor them often with a visit.
Just as she reached Castle Carberry, she saw the Kilcorbans'
carriage stop at it, from which Lady Greystock and the young
ladies alighted. They both spoke at once, and so extremely fast
that Amanda scarcely understood what they said. They de-
clared a thousand impertinent visitors had prevented their com-
ing the preceding morning and looking at the things she had
obligingly promised to show them. Amanda recollected no
such promise, but would not contradict them, and permitted
their taking what patterns they liked. Lady Greystock smiled
sarcastically at her young kinswomen, and expressed a wish to
see the castle. Amanda led her through it. Her ladyship was
particularly pleased with the dressing-room. Here the young
ladies, with rude and eager curiosity, examined everything,)
but her ladyship, who was full as curious as themselves, could
not condemn freedoms she took herself. Observing a petticoat
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 155
in a tambour-frame, she admired the pattern ; and hearing it
Was designed by Amanda, extolled her fine taste, and declared
she should of all things like to have one worked in the same.
This hint was too plain to pass unnoticed. Amanda wished to
oblige, particularly any one advanced in life, and told her lady-
ship she would work one for her. Lady Greystock smiled most
graciously at this, and pressing her hand, declared she was a
charming girl. The Miss Kilcorbans winked slyly, and, taking
her hand in turn, assured her they had conceived a most ardent
friendship for her, and hoped she would often favor them with
her company. Amanda answered those insincere professions
with cool civility, and the visitors departed.
CHAPTER XVIIi:
" oh ! fields, oh ! woods, when, Vfhen, shall I be made
The happy tenant of your shade I *' Cowlky. ,
Solitude to Amanda was a luxury, as it afforded her oppor-
tunities of indulging the ideas on which her heart delighted to
dwell ; she yet believed she should see I^ord Mortimer, and
that Lord Cherbury's sanctioning their attachment would re-
move the delicate scruples of her father. From soothing his
passing hours, beguiling her own with the accomplishments she
possessed, and indulging the tender suggestions of hope, a
pleasure arose she thought ill exchanged for the trifling gayety
of the parties she was frequently invited to ; she Was never at
a loss for amusement within Castle Carberry, or about its do-
main J the garden became the object of her peculiar care ; its
situation was romantic, and long neglect had added to its
natural wildness. Amanda in many places discovered vestiges
of taste, and wished to restore all to primeval beauty. The
fruit-trees were matted together, the alleys grass-grown, and
the flowers choked with weeds ; on one side lay a small wilder-
ness, which surrounded a gothic temple, and on the other green
slopes with masses of naked rock projecting through them ;
a flight of rugged steps, cut in the living rock, led to a cave on
the summit of one of the highest, a cross rudely carved upon
the wall, and the remains of a matted couch, denoted this hav-
ing formerly been a hermitage ; it overhung the sea, and all
1^6 TltE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
about it were tremendous crags, against which the waves beat
with violence. Over a low-arched door was a smooth stone,
with the following lines engraved upon it :
" The pilgrim oft
At dead of night, amid his orisons hears
Aghast the voice of time disparting towers
Tumbling all precipitate down, dashed
Rattling around, loud thundering to the moon." Dyer.
Under Amanda's superintending care, the garden soon lost
its rude appearance, a new couch was procuted for the hermit-
age, which she ornamented with shells and sea-weeds, rendef^
ing it a most delightful recess j the trees were pruned, the
alleys cleared of opposing brambles, and over the wall of the
gothic temple she hung the flowers she had purchased at St.
Catherine's, in fanciful wreaths.
She often ascended the devious path of the mountain,
which stretched beyond Castle Carberry, and beheld the waves
glittering in the sunbeams, from which its foliage sheltered
her. But no visionary pleasures, no delightful rambles, no
domestic avocations made her forgetful to the calls of benevo-
lence ; she visited the haunts of poverty, and relieved its ne-
- cessities to the utmost of her power; the wretchedness so
often conspicuous among many of the lower rank, filled her
not only with compassion, but surprise, as she had imagined
that liberty and a fruitful soil were generally attended with
comfort and prosperity. Her father, to whom she communi-
cated this idea, informed her that the indigence of the peasants
proceeded in a great degree from the emigration of their land-
lords. " Their wealth," said he, " is spent in foreign lands,
instead of enriching those from whence it was drawn ; policy
should sometimes induce them to visit their estates j the rev-
enue of half a year spent on them would necessarily benefit
the poor wretches whose labors have contributed to raise it j
and by exciting their gratitude, add inclination to industry, and
consequently augment their profits.
" 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 cxquisile
sources of enjoyment does he lose to enlighten the toils of
labor, to cheer the child of poverty, to raise the drooping head
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 157
of merit oh I 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 withm 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 win-
ter, 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, contin-
ued 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 every-
thing 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!" ex-
claimed 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 Grey^
stock, with a satirical smile, " she could easily have surmounted
it : besides, would it not have held good with respect to one
plae as well as another ? " " Well, I never thought of that,"
158 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
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 j "so a correspond-
ence 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 1 " 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 gooks from Dublin," continued her daughter, with-
out 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 Fitz-
alan, to render such preparations necessary." " Oh, Lord ! "
cried the young ladies, with a toss of their heads, " Miss Fitz-
alan 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 senti-
ments 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.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 159
CHAPTER XIX.
" Oh love, how are thy precioust sweetest minutes
Thus ever crossed, thus vexed with disappointments ;
Nowpride, now iiclclenesS) fantastic quarrels,
And sullen coldness give us patn by turns.*' Rows.
At the expected time, the marquis and his family arrived
with great splendor at Ulster Lodge, which was immediately
crowded with visitors of the first consequence in the county,
among whom were the Kilcorbans, whose affluent fortune gave
them great respectability. Mr. Kilcorban wished, indeed, to
be first in paying his compliments to the marquis, who had a
borough in his disposal he was desirous of being returned for.
Disappointed the last time he set up as one oE the candidates
for the county, this was his only chance of entering that house
he had long been ambitious for a seat in. He knew, indeed,
his oratorical powers were not very great often saying, he
had not the gift of the gab like many of the honorable gentle-
men ; but then Jic could stamp and stare, and look up to the
gods and goddesses * for their approbation, with the best of
them ; and, besides, his being a member of parliament would
increase his consequence, at least in the country.
The female part of his family went from Ulster Lodge to
Castle Carberry, which they entered with a more consequential
air than ever, as if they derived new consequence from the
visit they had been paying. Instead of flying up to Amanda,
as usual, the young ladies swam into the room, with what they
imagined, a most bewitching elegance, and, making a sliding
curtsey, flung themselves upon a sofa, exactly opposite a
glass, and alternately viewed themselves, and pursued their
remarks on Lady Euphrasia's dress. " Well, certainly, Alicia,"
said Miss Kilcorban, " I will have a morning gown made in
imitation of her ladyship's : that frill of fine lace about the
neck is the most becoming thing in nature ; and the pale blue
lining sweetly adapted for a delicate complexion." " I think,
Charlotte," cried Miss Alicia, " I will have my tambour muslin
in the same style, but lined with pink to set off the work."
" This aunt* of yours, my dear," exclaimed Mrs. Kilcor-
Ladies were admitted to the gallery o the Irish House of Commons.
l6o THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
ban, "is really a personable-looking woman enough, and her
daughter a pretty little sort of body."
" Oh 1 they are charming creatures," cried both the young
ladies ; " so elegant, so irresistibly genteel."
" Your ideas and mine, then," said Lady Greystock, " differ
widely about elegance and irresistibility, if you ascribe either
to the ladies in question. Mr. Kilcorban," continued she,
turning to Amanda, " feared, I believe, my Lord Marquis would
fly across the sea in a few hours j and that he might catch him
ere he took wing, never ceased tormenting us, from the time
breakfast was over till we entered the carriage, to make haste,
though he might have known it was quite too early for fine
folks to be visible.
" Well, we posted off to Ulster Lodge, as if life and death
depended on our dispatch. Mr. Kilcorban was ushered into
the marquis's study, and we into an empty room, to amuse
ourselves, if we pleased, with portraits of the marquis's ances-
tors ; whilst bells in all quarters , were tingling maids and
footmen running up and down stairs and cats, dogs, monkeys,
and parrots, which I found composed part of the travelling
retinue, were scratching, barking, chattering, and screaming, in
a room contiguous to the one we occupied. At length a fine,
perfumed jessamy made his appearance, and saying the ladies
were ready to have the honor of receiving us, skipped up stairs
like a harlequin. The marchioness advanced about two steps
from her couch to receive us, and Lady Euphrasia half rose
from her seat, and after contemplating us for a minute, as if to
know whether we were to be considered as human creatures or
not, sunk back into her former attitude of elegant languor, and
continued her conversation with a young nobleman who had
accompanied them from England."
"Well, I hope you will allow he is a divine creature," ex-
claimed Miss Kilcorban, in an accent of rapture. " Oh ! what
eyes he has," cried her sister ; " what an harmonious voice !
I really never beheld any one so exquisitely handsome ! "
" Lord Mortimer, indeed," said Lady Greystock Amanda
started, blushed, turned pale, panted as if for breath, and
stared as if in amazement. " Bless me, MisS' Fitzalan," asked
her ladyship, " are you ill ? " " No, madam," replied Amanda,
in a trembling voice ; " 'tis only 'tis only a little palpitation of
the heart I am subject to. I have interrupted your ladyship j
pray proceed." " Well," continued Lady Greystock, " I was
saying that Lord Mortimer was one of the most elegant and
engaging young men I had ever beheld. His expressive eyes
Tim CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. i6i
seemed to reprove the folly of his fair companion ; and her
neglect made him doubly assiduous, which to me was a most
convincing proof of a noble mind."
How did the heart of Amanda swell with pleasure at this
warm eulogium on Lord Mortimer! The tear of delight, of
refined affection, sprung to her eye, and could scarcely be pre-
vented falling.
" Lord, madam," cried Miss Kilcorban, whose pride was
mortified at Amanda's hearing of the cool reception they had
met with, " I can't conceive the reason you ascribe such rude-
ness and conceit to Lady Euphrasia ; 'tis really quite a mis-
construction of the etiquette necessary to be observed by people
of rank."
"I am glad, my dear," replied Lady Greystock, "you are
now beginning to profit by the many lessons I have given you
on humility."
" I assure you. Miss," said Mrs. Kilcorban, " I did not
forget to tell the marchioness she had a niece in the neigh-
borhood. I thought, indeed, she seemed a little shy on the
subject ; so I suppose there has been a difference in the families,
particularly as you don't visit her ; but, at our ball, perhaps,
everything may be settled." Amanda made no reply to this
speech, and the ladies departed.
Her bosom, as may well be supposed, was agitated with the
most violent perturbations on hearing of Lord Mortimer's being
in the neighborhood. The pleasure she felt at the first intel-
ligence gradually subsided on reflecting he was an inmate,
probably a friend, of those relations who had contributed to
the destruction of her mother ; and who, from the character she
had heard of them, it was not uncharitable to think, would feel
no great regret, if her children experienced a destiny equally
severe. Might they not infuse some prejudices against her
into his bosom ; to know she was the child of the unfortunate
Malvina, would be enough to provoke their enmity ; or, if they
were silent, might not Lady Euphrasia, adorned with every
advantage of rank and fortune, have won, or at least soon win,
his affections ?
Yet scarcely did these ideas obtrude, ere she reproached
herself for them as injurious to Lord Mortimer, from whose
noble nature she thought she might believe his constancy never
would be shaken, except she herself gave him reason to relin-
quish it.
She now cheered her desponding spirits, by recalling the
ideas she had long indulged witl deljght, as her residence wai?
\\
.l62 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
still a secret to the Edwins, whose letters to their daughter
were, by Fitzalan's orders, constantly directed to a distant town
from whence hers, in return, were sent. She concluded chance
had informed Lord Mortimer of it, and flattered herself, that to
avoid the suspicion which a solitary journey to Ireland might
create in the mind of Lord Cherbury, he had availed himself of
the Marquis's party, and come to try whether she was un-
changed, and her father would sanction their attachment, ere
he avowed it to the earl.
Whilst fluctuating between hojje and fear, Ellen, all pa)**
and breathless, ran into the room, exclaiming, " He is ccme''
he is come I Lord Mortimer is come 1 "
" Oh, heavens ! " sighed Amanda, sinking back in herchau
and dropping her trembling hands before her. Ellen, alarmed
blamed herself for her precipitation, and, flying to a cabinel;
snatched a bottle of lavender water from it, which she plentifully
sprinkled over he'r, and then assisted her to a window. " I
was so flurried," cried the good-natured girl, as she Siiw her
mistress recovering, " I did not know what I was about.
Heaven knows, the sight of poor Chip himself could not have
given me more pleasure. I was crossing the hall when I saw
his lortship alighting ; and to be sure, if one of the old warriors
had stepped out of his niche and the tefil take them all, I say,
for they grin so horribly they frighten me out of my wits if I go
through the hall of a dairk evening so if one of them old
fellows, as I was saying, had jumped out, I could not havq
peen more startled, and pack I ran into the little parlor, and
there I heard his lortship inquiring for my master ; and to bo
sure the sound of his voice did my heart good, for he is an old
friend, as one may say. So as soon as he went into the study,
I stole up stairs ; and one may guess what he and my master
are talking about, I think."
The emotion of Amanda increased. She trembled so she
could not stand. She felt as if her destiny, her future happiness,
depended on this minute. In vain she endeavored to regain
composure. Her spirits were wound up to the highest pitch of
expectation, and the agitations inseparable from such a state
{ivere not to be repressed.
She continued near an hour in this situation, when the voice
,of Mortimer struck her ear. She started up, and, standing in
:the centre of the room, saw him walking down the lawn with
;her father, who left him when he had reached the gate, where
his servants and horses were. The chill of disappointment
pervaded the heart of Amanda, and a shower of tears fell from
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 163
her. Ellen, who had remained in the room, was almost as
much disappointed as her mistress. She muttered something
about the inconstancy of men. They were all, for her part, she
pelieved, alike ; all like Mr. Chip captious on every occasion.
The dinner-bell now summoned Amanda. She dried her eyes,
and tied on a little straw hat to conceal their redness. With
much confusion she appeared before her father. His penetra-
ting eye was instantly struck with her agitation and pallid looks,
and he conjectured she knew of the visit he had received. On
receiving that visit, he wondered not at the strength of her
attachment. The noble and ingenuous air of Lord Mortimer
had immediately prepossessed Fitzalan in his favor. He saw
him adorned with all those perfections which are calculated to
make a strong and permanent impression on a heart of sensi-
bility, and he gave a sigh to the cruel necessity which compelled
him to separate two beings of such congenial loveliness ; but
as that necessity neither was or could be overcome, he rejoiced
that Lord Mortimer, instead of visiting him on account of his
daughter, had merely come on affairs relative to the castle, and
had inquired for her with a coolness which seemed to declare
his love totally subdued. Not the smallest hint relative to the
letter in which he had proposed for her dropped from him, and
Fitzalan concluded his affections were transferred to some ob-
ject more the favorite of fortune than his portionless Amanda.
This object, he was inclined to believe, was Lady Euphrasia
Sutherland, from what Lord Cherbury had said concerning the
splendid alliance he had in view for his son, and from Lord
Mortimer's accompanying the Roslin family to Ireland.
He felt he had not fortitude to mention those conjectures
to Amanda. He rather wished she should imbibe them from
her own observation ; and pride, he then trusted, would come
to her aid, and stimulate, her to overcome her attachment.
Dinner passed in silence. When the servant was withdrawn,
he resolved to relieve the anxiety which her looks infornjM,
him pressed upon her heart, by mentioning the visit of Lord
Mortimer. He came, he told her, merely to see the state the
castle was in, and thus proceeded : " Lord Mortimer is, indeed,
an elegant and sensible young man, and will do honor to the
house from which he is descended. He had long wished, he
told me, to visit this estate, which was endeared to him by the
remembrance of his juvenile days, but particularly by its being
the place of his mother's nativity, and her favorite resiSence :
and the opportunity of travelling with an agreeable party, haq
determined him ho longer to defer gratifying this wish,
164 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
" He mentioned his mother in terms of the truest respect
and tenderness ; and his softened voice, his tearful eye, pro-
claimed his heart the mansion of sensibility. His virtues, like
his praises, will do honor to her memory. He had been told
the castle was in a very ruinous state, and was agreeably sur-
prised to find it in as good order as could be expected from
its ancient date. He desired to see the garden, which had
been laid out under the direction of his mother. He expected
not to have found a vestige of her taste remaining, and was
consequently charmed to find himself mistaken. Every spot
appeared to remind him of some hapjjy hour, especially the
gothic temple. " How many happy minutes have I passed in
this place,' said his lordship, after a silence for some time,
' with the best of women.' Upon my word, Amanda," con-
tinued Fitzalan, " you have ornamented it in a very fanciful
manner. I really thought his lordship would have stolen some
of your lilies or roses, he examined them so accurately."
Amanda blushed, and her father still perceiving expectation in
her eyes, thus went on : " His lordship looked at some of tiie
adjacent grounds ; and as he has mentioned what improve-
ments he thought necessary to be made in them, I fancy he
will not repeat his visit, or stay much longer in the kingdom."
In a few minutes after this conversation Fitzalan repaired
to his library, and Amanda to the garden. She hastened to
the temple. Never had she before thought it so picturesque,
or such an addition to the landscape. The silence of Lord
Mortimer on entering it, she did not, like her father, believe
proceeded altogether from retracing scenes of former happiness
with his mother. " No," said she, " in this spot he also, per-
haps, thought of Amanda."
True, he had mentioned her with indifference to her father,
but that might (and she would flatter herself it did) proceed
from resentment, excited by her precipitate flight from Wales,
at a period when his received addresses gave him a right to in^
formation about all her actions, and by her total neglect of him
since. Their first interview, she trusted, would effect a recon-
ciliation, by producing an explanation, Her father then, she
flattered herself, tender as he was, depending on her for hap-
piness, and prepossessed in Lord Mortimer's favor, would no
longer oppose their attachment, but allow Lord Cherbury to be
informed of it, whp she doubted not, would, in this as well as
every other instance, prove himself truly feeling and disinter-
ested.
fhu? did Anianda, by encouraging ideag agreeable to her
TITE CNTLDREI^ OF THE ABBEV. \^
wishes, try to soften the disappointment she had experienced
in the mbrning. Fitzalan, on meeting his daughter at tea, was
not surprised to hear she had been in the gothic temple, but he
was to see her wear so cheerful an appearance. He was no
stranger to the human heart, and he was convinced some flat-'
taring illusion could alone have enabled her to shake off the
sadness with which, but an hour before, she had been op-
pressed. The sooner such an illusion was removed, the bet-
ter ; and to allow her to see Lord Mortimer, he imagined would
be the most effectual measure for such a purpose.
The more he reflected on that young nobleman's mannerj
and what he himself had heard from Lord Cherbury, the more
he was convinced Lady Euphrasia Sutherland was not only the
object destined for Lord Mortimer, but the one who now pos-
sessed his affections ; and believed his visit to Castle Carberry
had been purposely made, to announce the alteration of his
sentiments by the coldness of his conduct, and check any
hopes which his appearance in the neighborhood might have
created.
He had hesitated about Amanda's accepting the invitation
to the Kilcorban's ball ; but he now determined she should go,
impressed with the idea of her being there convinced of the
change in Lord Mortimer's sentiments a conviction he deemed
necessary to produce one in her own.
Amanda impatiently longed for this night, which she be-
lieved would realize either her hopes or fears.
CHAPTER XX.
*^ A crimson blush her beauteous face overspread.
Varying her cheeks by turns with white and red ;
The driving colors, never at a stay.
Run here and there, and flush and fade away ;
Delightful change ! thus Indian ivory shows,
With which the Dordriring paint of purple glows,
Or lilies damasked by the neighboring rose." Drydeh.
The wished-for night at length arrived, and Amanda ar-
rayed herself for it with a fluttering heart. The reflection of
her mirror did not depress her spirits ; hope had increased the
brilliancy of her eyes, and given an additional glow to her
complexion. Ellen, who delighted in the charms of her dear
young lady, declared many of the Irish ladies would have
t66 Tim CHILDRkH OF THE ABBF.V,
reason to envy her that night ; and Fitzalan when he entered
the parlor was struck with her surpassing loveliness. He
gazed on her with a rapture that brought tears into his eyes,
and felt a secret pride at the idea of the marchioness behold-
ing this sweet descendant of her neglected sister
" Into such beauty spread and blown so fair,
Though poverty's cold wind, and crushing rain,
Deat keen and heavy on her tender years."
" No," said he to himself, " the titled Euphrasia, if she
equals, cannot at least surpass my Amanda meekness and
innocence dwell upon the brow of my child ; but the haughty
marchioness will teach pride to lower upon Lady Euphrasia."
Amanda, on reaching Grangeville, found the avenue full of
carriages. The lights dispersed through the house gave it
quite the appearance of an illumination. It seemed, indeed,
the mansion of gayety and splendor. Her knees trembled as
she ascended the stairs. She wished for time to compose her-
self, but the door opened, her name was announced, and Mrs.
Kilcorban came forward to receive her. The room, though
spacious, was extremely crowded. It was decorated in a fan-
ciful manner with festoons of flowers, intermingled with varie-
gated lamps. Immediately over the entrance was the orchestra,
and opposite to it sat the marchioness and her party. The
heart of Amanda beat, if possible, with increased quickness on
the approach of Mrs. Kilcorban, and her voice was lost in her
emotions. Recollecting, however, that the scrutinizing eyes of
Lord Mortimer, and her imperious relations, were now on her,
sne almost immediately recovered composure, and with her
usual elegance walked up the room. Most of the company
were strangers to her, and she heard a general buzz of " Who
is she ? " accompanied with expressions of admiration from the
gentlemen, among whom were the officers of a garrison town
near Grangeville. Confused by the notice she attracted, she
hastened to the first seat she found vacant, which was near the
marchioness.
Universal, indeed, was the admiration she had excited
among the male part of the company, by her beauty, unaffected
garaces, and simplicity of dress.
She wore a robe of plain white lutestring, and a crape tur-
ban, ornamented with a plume of drooping feathers. She had
no appearance of finery, except a chain of pearls about her
bosom, from which hung her mother's picture, and a light
wreath of embroidered laurel, intermingled with silver blossoms,
mn. cntLDREN op ttte AnnKV. 167
V
t'ounct her petticoat. Her hair, in its own native and glossy
hue, floated on her shoulders, and partly shaded a cheek where
the purity of the lily was tinted with the softest bloom of the
rose. On gaining a seat, her confusion subsided. She looked
up, and the first eyes she met were those of Lord Mortimer
(wlio leaned on Lady Euphrasia Sutherland's chair), fastened
on her face with a scrutinizing earnestness, as if he wished to
penetrate the recesses of her heart, and discover whether he
yet retained a place in it. She blushed, and looking from him,-
perceived she was an object of critical attention to the mSf--
chioness and Lady Euphrasia. There was a malignant expre's-"
sion in their countenances, which absolutely shocked her ; andi
she felt a sensation of horror at beholding the former, who had
so largely contributed to the sorrows of her mother. " Can it
be possible," said Lady Euphrasia, replying to a young and
elegant officer who stood by her, in a tone of affectation, and
witlj an impertinient sneer, " that you think her handsome ? "
" Handsome," exclaimed he with warmth, as if involuntarily
repeating her ladyship's word, " I think her bewitchingly irre-
sistible. They told me I was coming to the land of saints ; "
but, glancing his sparkling eyes around, and fixing them on
Amanda ; " I find it is the land of goddesses."
The marcliioness haughtily frowned Lady Euphrasia
smiled satirically, tossed her head, and played with her fan.
The propensities to envy and ill-nature, which the marchioness
had shown in her youth, were not less visible in age. As they
were then excited on her own account, so were they now orr,
her daughter's. To engross praise and admiration for her, she
wished beauty blasted, and merit extirpated ; nor did she ever -
fail, when in her power, to depreciate one, and cast an invidious
cloud of calumny over the other. She beheld Amanda with
envy and hfitred. Notwithstanding her partiality to her daugh-
ter, she could not avoid seeing her vast inferiority, in point of
personal charms, to her young relation. True, Lady Euphrasia
possessed a fortune, which would always insure her attention ;
but it was that unimpassioned and studied attention selfishness
dictates, the mere tribute of flattery. How different from the
spontaneous attention which Amanda excited, who, though
portionless and untitled, was beheld with admiration, followed
witii praise, and courted with assiduity I
Lady Euphrasia's mind was the counterpart of her mother's ;
but in figure she resembled her father. Her stature was low,
her features contracted, and though of the same age as Aman-
da, their harsh expression made her appear much older.
l68 Tim CHILDRRN^ OF THE ABBEY.
Though blessed with the abundant gifts of fortune, she was
unhappy, if, from any one's manner, she conceived that they
thought nature had not been quite so liberal to her. In the
domestic circle, constant flattery kept her in good-humor ; but
when out, she was frequently chagrined at seeing women, infi-
nitely below her in rank and fortune, more noticed than herself.
At the ball she supposed she should have appeared as little
less, at least, than a demi-goddess. Art and fashion were ex-
hausted in adorning her, and she entered the room with all the
insolence of conscious rank and affectation of beauty. As she
walked she appeared scarcely able to support her delicate frame,
and her languishing eyes were half closed. She could, how-
ever, see there was a number of pretty women present, and
felt disconcerted. The respect, however, which she was paid,
a little revived her ; and having contrived to detain Lord Morti-
mer by her chair and Sir Charles liingley, the young officer
already mentioned, who was colonel of a regiment quarteied
in an adjacent town, she soon felt her spirits uncommonly
exhilarated by the attentions of two of the most elegant men
in the room ; and like a proud sultana in the midst of her
slaves, was enjoying the compliments she extorted from them
by her prefatory speeches, when the door opened, and Amanda,
like an angel of light, appeared to dissolve the mists of vanity
and self-importance. Lord Mortimer was silent, but his speak-
ing eyes confessed his feelings. Sir Charles Bingley, who had
no secret motive to conceal his, openly avowed his admiration,
to which Lady Euphrasia replied as has been already men-
tioned.
All the rapture Sir Charles expressed Lord Mortimer felt.
His soul seemed on the wing to fly to Amanda to utter its
feelings to discover hers and chide her for her conduct. This
first emotion of tenderness, however, quickly subsided, on rec-
ollecting what that conduct had been how cruelly, how un-
gratefully she had used him. Fled in the very moment of hope
and expcctrtlion, leaving him a prey to distrust, anxiety, and
regret, he dreaded some fatal mystery some improper attach-
ment (experience had rendered him suspicious), which neither
she nor her father could avow ; for never did he imagine that
the scrupulous delicacy of Fitzalan alone had effected their
separation. He still adored Amanda ; he neither could nor
desired to drive her from his thoughts, except well assured she
was unworthy of being harbored in them, and felt unutterable
impatience to have her mysterious conduct explained. From
Tudor Hall he had repaired to London, restless and unhappy.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 169
Soon after liis arrival there, the marquis proposed his accom-
panying him to Ireland, This he declined, having reason to
think Lord Cherbury meditated an alliance for him with his
family. The earl expressed regret at his refusal. He said he
wished he would join the marquis's party,, as he wanted his
opinion relative to the state of Castle Carberry, where a man
of integrity then resided, who would have any alterations or
repairs he might think necessary executed in the most eligible
manner. He mentioned the name of Fitzalan. Lord Mortimer
was surprised and agitated. He concealed his emotions, how-
ever, and with apparent carelessness, asked a few questions
about him, and found that he was indeed the father of Amanda.
She was not mentioned, nor did he dare to inquire concerning
her ; but he immediately declared that since his father wished
it so much, he would accompany the marquis. This was ex-
tremely pleasing to that nobleman, and he and Lord Cherbury ,
had in reality agreed upon a union between him and Lady
Euphrasia, and meant soon openly to avow their intention.
Lord Mortimer suspected, and Lady Euphrasia was already
apprised of it ; and from vanity, was pleased at the idea of
being connected with a man so universally admired. Love was
out of the question, for she had not sufficient sensibility to ex-
perience it.
He, cautious of creating hopes which he never meant to
realize, treated her only with tiie attention which common
politeness demanded, and on every occasion seemed to prefer
the marchioness's conversation to hers, intending by this con-
duct to crush the projected scheme in embryo, and spare hini-
self the mortification of openly rejecting it. Had his heart
even been disengaged. Lady Euphrasia could never have been
his choice. If Amanda in reality proved as amiable as he had
once reason to believe her, he considered himself bound, by
every tie of honor as well as love, to fulfil the engagement he
had entered into with her. He resolved, however, to resist
every plea of tenderness in her favor, except he was thorough-
ly convinced she still deserved it. He went to Castle Carberry
purposely to make a display of indifference, and prevent any
ideas being entertained of his having followed her to Ireland.
He deemed himself justifiable in touching her sensibility (if,
indeed, she possessecl any for him) by an appearance of cold-
ness and inattention ; but determined, after a little retaliation
of this kind on her, for the pain she had made him endure, to
come to an explanation, and be guided by its result relative to
his conduct in future to her.
lyo THE Cf//U)REf/ OP THE ABBEV.
The character of a perfect stranger was the one he was to
support throughout the evening; but her loveliness, and the
gallantry of Sir Charles Bingley, tempted him a thousand times
to break through the restraint he had imposed on himself.
The marchioness and Lady Euphrasia were not the only
persons displeased by the charms of Amanda. I'he Mise Kil-
corbans saw, with evident mortification, the admiration she ex-
cited, which they had flattered themselves with chiefly engross-
ing ; their disappointment was doubly severe, after the pain,
trouble, and expense they had undergone in ornamenting their
persons ; after the suggestions of their vanity, and the flatter-
ing encomiums of their mamma, who presided herself at their
toilet, every moment exclaiming, " Well, well, heaven help the
men to-night, girls ! "
They fluttered across the room to Amanda, sweeping at
least two yards of painted tiffany after them ; assured her they
were extremely glad to see her, but were afraid she was unwell,
as she never looked so ill. Amanda assured them she was
conscious of no indisposition, and the harmony of her feature?
remained undisturbed. Miss Kilcorban, in a half whisper, de-
clared the marchioness had never smiled since she had entered
the room, and feared her mamma had committed a great mis-
take in inviting them together. The rudeness of this speech
shocked Amanda. An indignant swell heaved her bosom, and
she was about replying to it as it deserved, when Miss Alicia
stopped her by protesting she believed Lord Mortimer dying
for Lady Euphrasia. Amanda involuntarily raised her eyes at
' this speech ; but, instead of Lord Mortimer, beheld Sir Charles
Bingley. who was standing behind the young ladies. " Am I
pardonable," cried he, smiling, " for disturbing so charming a
trio ? but a soldier is taught never to neglect a good opportu-
nity : and one so propitious as the present for the wish of my
heart might not again offer." The Miss Kilcorbans bridled up
at this speech ;' plied their fans and smiled most graciously
on him, certainly concluding he meant to engage one or other
for the first set. Passing gently between them, he bowed grace-
fully to Amanda, and requested the honor of her hand. She
gave an assenting smile, and he seated himself beside her till
the dancing commenced. The sisters cast a malignant glanca
over them, and swam off with a contemptuous indifference.
Lady Euphrasia had expected Sir Charles and Lord
Mortimer would have been competitors for her hand, and was
infinitely provoked by the desertion of the former to her lovely
cousin. He was a fashionable and animated young man, whom
The ciTiLJOkEj^ of trrF: AS be V. t ^ t ;
she had often honored with her notice in England, ana wished
to enlist in the train of her supposed adorers. Lord Mortimer'
could scarcely restore her good-humor by erigaging her. Almost
immediately after him, young Kilcorban advanced for the same-
purpose, and Lord Mortimer sincerely regretted he had been
beforehand with him. The little fop was" quite chagrined at
fiiiding her ladyship engaged ; but entreated the next set he
might have the supreme honor and ecstatic felicity of her hand.
This, with the most impertinent affectation, she promised, if
able to endure the fatigue of another dance.
Amanda was next couple to Lady Euphrasia, and endeavored
therefore to calm her spirits, which the rudeness of Miss Kil-
corban had discomposed, and attend to the lively conversation
of Sir Charles, who was extremely pleasing and entertaining.
Lord Mortimer watched them with jealous attention. His
wandering glances were soon noticed by Lady Eiiphrasia, and
her frowns and sarcastic speeches evinced her displeasure at
them. He tried to recollect himself, and act as politeness
required. She, not satisfied with fixing his attention, endeavored
to attract Sir Charles's. She spoke to him across Amanda \
but all her efforts were here ineffectual. He spoke and laughed'
with her ladyship, but his eyes could not be withdrawn from the
angelic countenance of his partner. Amanda's haijd trembled
as, in turning, she presented it to Lord Mortimer j but, though
he extended his, he did not touch it. There was a slight in-
this which pierced Amanda's heart. She sighed, unconscious
of doing so herself. Not so Sir Charles. He asked her,
smiling, to where, or whom, that sigh was wafted. This made
Amanda recall her wandering thoughts. She assumed an air
of sprightliness, and went down the dance with much animation.
When finished, Sir Charles led her to a seat near the one Lady
Euphrasia and Lord Mortimer occupied. She saw the eyes of
his lordship often directed towards her, and her heart fluttered
at the pleasing probability of being asked to dance by him.
Sir Charles regretted that the old-fashioned custom of not
changing partners was over, and declared he could not leave
her till she had promised him her hand for the third set. This
she could not refuse, and he left her with reluctance, as the
gentlemen were again standing up, to seek a partner. At the
same moment Lord Mortimer quitted Lady Euphrasia. Oh 1 .
how the bosom of Amanda throbbed when she saw him ap-.
proach and look at her. He paused. A faintishness came
over her. He cast another glance on her, and passed on. Her
eye followed him, and she saw him take out Miss Kilcorban.
17*
THE CHILDREN OE THE ABBEY.
This, indeed, was a disappointment. Propriety, she thought,
demanded liis dancing the first set with Lady Euphrasia, but, if
not totally indifferent, surely he would not have neglected en-
g'aging her for the second. " Yes," said she to herself, " he
has 'totally forgotten me. Lady Euphrasia is now the object,
and he only pays attention to those who can contribute to her
amusement." Several gentlemen endeavored to prevail on her
to dance, but she pleaded fatigue, and sat solitary on a window,
apparently regarding the gay assembly, but in reality too much
engrogsed by painful thoughts to do so. The woods, silvered
by the beams of the moon, recalled the venerable shades of
Tudor Hall to memory, where she had so often rambled by the
same pale beams, and heard vows of unchangeable . regard
vows registered in her heart, yet now without the hope of
having them fulfilled. The dancing over, the company repaired
to another room for refreshments. Amanda, absorbed in thought,
heeded not their almost total desertion, till young Kilcorban,
capering up to her, declared she looked as lonesome as a
, hermit in his cell, and, laughing in her face, turned off with a
careless impertinence. He had not noticed lier before that
night. He was indeed one of those little fluttering insects who
bask ih the rays of fortune, and court alone her favorites. Elated
by an acquaintance with the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia,
he particularly neglected Amanda, not only from deeming them
more worthy of his attention, but from perceiving he could
take no steps more certain of gaining their favor. His words
made Amanda sensible of the singularity of her situation. She
arose immediately, and went to the other room. Every seat
was already occupied. Near the door sat Lady Euphrasia and
the Miss Kilcorbans. Lord Mortimer leaned on the back of
her ladyship's chair, and young Kilcorban occupied one by
her side, wliich he never attempted offering to Amanda. She
stood, therefore, most unpleasantly by the door, and was exceed-
ingly confused at hearing a great many, in a whispering way,
remarking the strangeness of her not being noticed by so near
a relation as the Marchioness of Roslin. A general titter at
her situation prevailed among Lady Euphrasia's party. Lord
Mortimer excepted. " Upon my word," said young Kilcorban,
' looking at Amanda, " some ladies study attitudes which would
be as well let alone." "For the study of propriety," replied
her ladyship, who appeared to have unbended from her haugh-
' tiness, " she would do admirably for the figure of Hope." " If
she had but an anchor to recline on," rejoined he. " Yes,"
answered her ladyship, " with her floating locks and die-away
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
'73
glances." "Or else, Patience on a monument," cried he.
" Only she has no grief to smile at," returned Lady Euphrasia.
" Pardon me there," said he ; " she has the grief not, indeed,
that I believe she would smile at it of being totally eclipsed
by your ladyship." "Or, what do you think," cried Lord
Mortimer, whose eyes sparkled with indignation during this
dialogue, " of likening her to Wisdom, pitying the follies of
human kind, and smiling to see the shafts of malice recoiling
from the bosom of innocence and modesty, with contempt, on
those who levelled them at it ? "
Amanda heard not these words, which were delivered in
rather a low voice. Her heart swelled with indignation at the
impertinence directed to her, and she would have quitted the
room but that the passage was too much crowded for her to pass.
Sir Charles Bingley, occupied in attending the young lady with
whom he had danced, observed not Amanda till the moment.
He instantly flew to her. "Alone and standing !" said he ;
" why did I not see you before ? you look fatigued." She was
pale with emotion. " Klilcorban," continued he, " I must sup-
pose you did not see Miss Fitzalan, or your seat would not have
been kept." Then catching him by the arm, he raised him
nimbly from his chair, and directly carried it to Amanda ; and
having procured her refreshments, seated himself at her feet,
exclaiming, " this is my throne, let kings come bow to it." Her
lovely and unaffected graces had excited Sir Charles's admira-
tion ; but it was the neglect with which he saw her treated, dif-
fused such a soothing tenderness through his manner as he now
displayed. It hurt his sensibility, and had she even been plain
in her appearance, would have rendered her the peculiar object
of his attention. He detested the marchioness and her daugh-
ter for their rancorous envy, as much as he despised the Kil-
corbans for their mean insolence. The marchioness told him
a long tale of the shocking conduct of Amanda's parents, whose
ill qualities she declared her looks announced her to possess,
and endeavored to depreciate her in his favor; but that was'
-impossible.
" Lord ! " said Lady Euphrasia, rising as she spoke, " let
me pass ; this scene is sickening." Lord Mortimer remained
behind her. He loitered about the room, and his looks were
often directed towards Amanda. Her hopes began to revive.
The lustre rekindled in her eyes, and a soft blush again stole
over her cheek. Though engaged to Sir Charles, she felt she
should be pleased to have Lord Mortimer make an overture for
her hand. The company wer? now returning to the b^lUroom,
74
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
and Sir Charles took her hand to lead her after them. At that
moment Lord Mortimer approached. Amanda paused as if to
adjust some part of her dress. He passed on to a very beauti-
ful girl, whom he immediately engaged, and led from the room.
She followed them with her eyes, and continued without moving,
till the fervent pressure Sir Charles gave her hand, restored her
to recollection.
When the set with him was finished, she would have left the
house directly, had her servant been there ; but after putting
up the horses, he liad returned to Castle Carberry, and she did
not expect him till a very late hour. She declared her resolu-
ition of dancing no more, and Sir Charles having avowed the
same, they repaired to the card-room, as the least crowded place
they could find. Lady Greystock was playing at the table, with
the marquis and marchioness. She beckoned Amanda to her,
and having had no opportunity of speaking before, expressed
her pleasure at then seeing her. The marquis examined
her through his spectacles. The marchioness frowned, and
declared, "she would take care in future, to avoid parties
subject to such disagreeable intruders." This speech was too
pointed not to be remarked. Amanda wished to appear undis-
turbed, but her emotions grew too powerful to be suppressed,
and she was obliged to move hastily from the table. Sir Charles
followed her. " Cursed malignity," cried he, endeavoring to
screen her from observation, while tears trickled down her cheeks ;
" but, my dear Miss Fitzalan, was your beauty and merit less
conspicuous, you would have escaped it ; .'tis the vice of little
minds to hate that excellence they cannot reach." " It is cruel,
it is shocking," said Amanda, " to suffer enmity to outlive the
object who excited it, and to hate the offspring on account of
the parent the original of this picture," and she looked at her
mother's, " merited not such conduct." Sir Charles gazed on
it ; it was wet with the tears of Amanda. He wiped them
off, and pressing the handkerchief to his lips, put it in his
bosom.
At this instant Lord Mortimer appeared. He had, indeed,
been for some time an unnoticed observer of the progress of this
tete-d-tete. As soon as he perceived he had attracted their re-
gard, he quitted the room.
" His lordship is like a troubled spirit to-night, wandering to
and fro," said Sir Charles ; " I really believe everything is not
right between him and Lady Euphrasia." "Something, then,"
cried Amanda, " is in agitation between him and her ladyship .' "
' 0 says the \voi:l4," replied Sjr Charles, " but I do pot always
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. ,175
give implicit credit to its reports. I liave Icnown Lord Mortimer
this long time ; and from my knowledge of him, should never
have supposed Lady Euphrasia Sutherland a woman capable of
pleasing him ; nay, to give my real opinion, I think him quite
uninterested about her ladyship. I will not say so much as to
all the other females present. I really imagined several times
to-night, from his glances to you, he was on the point of request-
ing an introduction, which would not have pleased me perfectly.
Mortimer possesses more graces than those which merely meet
the eye, and is a rival I should by no means like to have."
Amanda, confused by this discourse, endeavored to change
it, and at last succeeded. They conversed pleasantly together
on different subjects, till they went to supper, when Sir Charles
still continued his attention. Lord Mortimer was, or at least
appeared to be, entirely engrossed with Lady Euphrasia, who
from time to time tittered with the Miss Kilcorbans, and looked
satirically at Amanda. On quitting the supper-room, she found
her servant in the hall, and immediately desired him to have the
carriage drawn up. Sir Charles, who held her hand, requested
her to stay a little longer, yet acknowledged it was self alone
which dictated the request, as he knew she would not promote
her own pleasure by complying with it. As he handed her
into the carriage, he told her he should soon follow her example
in retiring, as the scene, so lately delightful, in losing her, would
lose all its charms. He entreated, and obtained permission, to
wait on her the next morning.
How different was now the appearance of Amanda, to what
it had been at her departure from Castle Carberry ! Pale,
trembling, and languid, her father received her into his atms
for, till she returned, he could not think of going to rest and
instantly guessed the cause of her dejection. His heart mourned,
for the pangs inflicted on his child's. When she beheld him
gazing on her with mingled woe and tenderness, she tried to
recruit her spirits ; and after relating a few particulars of the
ball, answered the minute inquiries lie made relative to the con-
duct of the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia. He appeared
unutterably affected on hearing it. " Merciful power," ex-,
claimed he, " what dispositions ! But you are too lovely, too
like your mother, my Amanda, in every perfection, to escape
their malice. Oh ! may it never injure you as it did her. May
that Providence, whose protection I daily implore for the sweet
child of my love, the source of earthly comfort, render every
wish, every scheme which may be formed against her, abortive \
and oh I may it yet bless me with the sight of her happiness,"
IjS THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Amanda retired to her chamber, inexpressibly affected by
the language of her father. " Yes," cried she, her heart swell-
ing with pity and gratitude to him, " my sorrow in future shall
be concealed, to avoid exciting his. The pain inflicted by thy
inconstancy, Mortimer, shall be hid within the recesses of my
heart, and never shall the peace of my father be disturbed by
knowing the loss of mine."
The gray dawn was now beginning to advance, but Amanda
had no inclination for repose. As she stood at the window,
she heard the solemn stillness of the scene frequently inter-
rupted by the distant noise of carriages, carrying home the weary
sons and daughters of dissipation. " But a few hours ago,"
said she, " and how gay, how animated was my soul ; how dull,
how cheerless now I Oh ! Mortimer, but a few hours ago, and
I believed myself the beloved of thine heart, but the flattering
illusion is now over, and I no longer shall hope, or thou deceive."
She changed her clothes, and, flinging herself on the bed, from
mere fatigue, at length sunk into a slumber.
CHAPTER XXI.
** Love reigns a very tyrant in ray heart,
Attended on his throne by all his guard
0 furious wishes, fears, and nice suspicions. Otway*
The next morning brought Sir Charles Bingley to Castle
Carberry. Fitzalan was out, but Amanda received him in her
dressing-room. He told her, with evident concern, he was on
the point of setting off for the metropolis, to embark from
thence immediately for England, having received letters that
morning, which recalled him there. He regretted that their
intimacy, or rather friendship, as with insinuating softness he
entreated permission to call it, was interrupted at its very com-
mencement declared it gave him more pain than she could
imagine, or he express and that his return to Ireland would
be expedited, for the purpose of renewing it, and requested he
might be flattered with an assurance of not being totally for-
gotten during his absence. Amanda answered him as if she
supposed mere politeness had dictated the request. Her
father, she said, she was sure, would be happy to see !-'m, if
h? returned again to their neighborhood, At his entrance, he
Tim CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 177
said he could stay but a few minutes, yet he remained about two
hours, and when he arose to depart, declared he had reason to
think the castle an enchanted one. He found it difficult to
get from it ; " yet, unlike the knights of old," continued he, " I
wish not to break the spell which detained me in it."
Day after day elapsed, and no Lord Mortimer appeared.
Amanda, indeed, heard frequently of him, and always as the
admirer of Lady Euphrasia. Frequently, too, she heard about
the family at Ulster Lodge, their superl) entertainments, and
those given in the neighborhood to them. The Kilcorbans
seemed to have given her up entirely. Lady Greystock was
the only one of the family who continued to pay her any atten-
tion. She called once or twice at Castle Carberry to see
whether her apron was finished, and tell all the news she had
picked up, to Amanda. The resolution which Amanda had
formed of concealing her melancholy from her father, she sup-
ported tolerably well, but she only indulged it more freely in
solitude. The idea of Lord Mortimer's union with Lady Eu-
phrasia haunted her imagination and embittered every moment.
" Yes," she would exclaim (as she wandered through the gar-
den, which had been converted from a rude wilderness into a
scene of beauty by her superintending care), " I have planted
flowers, but another shall enjoy their sweets. I have planted
roses for Mortimer to strew in the path of Lady Euphrasia;
I have adorned the landscape, and she shall enjoy its beauty I "
About three weeks after the ball, as she sat at work one
morning in the dressing-room, beguiling her thoughts with a
little plaintive song, she heard the door softly open behind
her : she supposed it to be Ellen j but not finding any one ad.
vance, turned round and perceived not Ellen indeed, but Lord
Mortimer himself. She started from her chair : the work
dropped from her hands, and she hd neither power to speak
or move.
" I fear I have surprised and alarmed you," said Lord Mor-
timer. "J. ask pardon for my intrusion, but I was informed I
should find Mr. Fitzalan here."
" He is in the study, I believe, my lord," replied Amanda,
coolly, and with restored composure. " I will go and inform
him your lordship wishes to see him."
" No," exclaimed he, " I will not suffer you to have so much
trouble : my business is not so urgent as to require my seeing
him immediately." He reseated Amanda, and drew a chair
near her.
She pretended to be busy with her work, whilst the eyes of
12
178 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Lord Mortimer were cast round the room, as if viewing well-
known objects, wliicli at once pleased and pained liis sensi-
bility, by awakening the memory of past delightful days.
" This room," said he, softly sighing, '* I well remember \ it
was the favorite retirement of one of the most amiable of
women."
" So I have heard," replied Amanda, " the virtues of Lady
Cherbury are remembered with the truest gratitude by many in
the vicinity of the castle."
"I think," cried Lord Mortimer, gazing upon Amanda with
the softest tenderness, " the apartment is still occupied by a
kindred spirit."
Amanda's eyes were instantly bent on the ground, and a
gentle sigh heaved her bosom ; but it was rather the sigh of
regret than pleasure j with such an accent as this Lord Morti-
mer was wont to address her at Tudor Hall, but she had now
reason to think it only assumed, for the purpose of discovering
whether she yet retained any sensibility for him. Had he not
treated her with the most pointed neglect t was he not the de-
clared admirer of Lady Euphrasia . had he not confessed, on
entering the room, he came to seek not her, but her father ?
These ideas rushing through her mind, determined her to con-
tinue no longer with him ; delicacy, as well as pride, urged her
to this, for she feared, if she longer listened to his insinuating
language, it might lead her to betray tlie feelings of her heart ;
she therefore arose, and said she would acquaint her father his
lordship waited for him.
" Cold, insensible Amanda," cried he, snatching her hand,
to prevent her departing, " is it thus you leave me ? when we
parted in Wales, I could not have believed we should ever have
had such a meeting as this."
" Perhaps not, my lord," replied she, somewhat haughtily,
" but we have both thought more prudently since that period."
" Then why," said he, " did not prudence teach you to shun
a conduct which could create suspicion ? "
" Suspicion, my lord ! " repeated Amanda, with a kind of
horror in her look.
'Pardon me," cried he, "the word is disagreeable; but.
Miss Fitzalan, when you reflect on the manner in which you
have acted to me ; your precipitate, your clandestine depart-
ure, at the very period when a mutual acknowledgment of re-
ciprocal feelings should have been attended with the most ex-
plicit candor on both sides, you cannot wonder at unpleasant
conjectures and tormenting doubts obtruding on my mind."
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 179
"Is it possible, itiy lord," said Amanda, "you never con-
ceived the reason of my departure ? Is it possible reflection
never pointed it out ? "
" Never, I solemnly assure you ; nor shall I be happy till I
know it." He paused, as if for a reply ; but Amanda, agitated
by his words, had not power to speak. Whilst he stood silent,
liembling, and apparently embarrassed, she heard her father's
voice, as he ascended the stairs. This instantly restored hers.
" I must go, my lord," cried she, starting, and struggling to
withdraw her hand. " Promise then to meet me,"' he said,
" this evening at St. Catherine's, by seven, or I will not let you
go. My soul will be in tortures till I have your actions ex-
plained." " I do promise," said Amanda. Lord Mortimer
released her, and she retired into her chamber just time enough
to avoid her father.
Again her hopes began to revive. Again she believed she
was not mistaken in supposing Lord Mortimer had come into
Ireland on her account. His being mentioned as the admirer
of Lady Euphrasia, she supposed owing to his being a resident
in the house with her. About herself, had he been indifferent,
he never could have betrayed such emotions. His looks, as
well as language, expressed the feelings of a heart tenderly at-
tached and truly distressed. Lest any circumstance had hap-
pened, which would prevent a renewal of that attachment, she
felt as much impatience as he manifested, to give the desired
explanation of her conduct.
His lordship was scarcely gone, ere Lady Greystock made
her appearance. Amanda supposed, as usual, she only came
to pay a flying visit : how great then was her mortification and
surprise, when her ladyship told her she was come to spend the
day quite in the family way with her, as the ladies of Grange-
ville were so busy preparing for a splendid entertainment they
were to be at the ensuing day, that they had excluded all vis-
itors, and rendered the house quite disagreeable.
Amanda endeavored to appear pleased, but to converse she
found almost impossible, her thoughts were so engrossed by an
absent object. Happily her ladyship was so very loquacious
herself, as at all times to require a listener more than a speaker.
She was, therefore, well satisfied with the taciturnity of her fair
companion. Amanda tried to derive some comfort from the
hope that her ladyship would depart early in the evening, to
which she flattered herself she would be induced by the idea of
a comfortable whist party at home. But six o'clock struck, and
she manifested no inclination to move. Amanda was in agony.
l8o THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Her cheek was flushed with agitation. She rose and walked to
the window, to conceal her emotion, whilst her father and Lady
Greystock were conversing. The former at last said, he had
some letters to write, and begged her ladyship to excuse his
absence for a few minutes. This she most graciously promised
to do, and pulling out her knitting, requested Amanda to read
to her till tea-time. Amanda took up a book, but was so con-
fused, she scarcely knew what, or how she read.
" Softly, softly, my dear child," at last exclaimed her lady
ship, whose attention could by no means keep pace with the
rapid manner in which she read. " I protest you post on with
as much expedition as my Lady Blerner's poneys on the circu-
lar." Amanda blushed, and began to read slowly ; but when
the clock struck seven her feelings could be no longer repressed.
" Good Heaven ! " cried she, letting the book drop from her
hand, and starting from her chair, " this is too much." " Bless
me I my dear ! " said Lady Greystock, staring at her, " what is
the mailer?" "Only a slight headache, madam," answered
Amanda, continuing to walk about the room.
Her busy fancy represented Lord Mortimer, now impatiently
waiting for her thinking in every sound which echoed among
the desolate ruins of St. Catherine's he heard her footsteps ;
his soul melting with tenderness at the idea of a perfect recon-
ciliation, which an xuisalisfied doubt only retarded. What would
he infer from her not keeping an appointment so ardently de-
sired, so solemnly promised, but that she was unable to remove
that doubt to his satisfaction. Perhaps he would not credit the
reason she could assign for breaking her engagement. Per-
haps piqued at her doing so, he would not afford her an oppor-
tunity of accounting for it, or the apparent mystery of her late
conduct. To retain his doubts would be to lose his tenderness,
and, at last, perhaps, expel her from his heart. She thought of
sending Ellen to acquaint him with the occasion of her deten-
tion at home , but this idea existed but for a moment. An ap-
pointment she concealed from her father she could not bear to
divulge to any other person ; it would be a breach of duty and
delicacy, she thought. " No," said she to herself, " I will not,
from the thoughtlessness and impetuosity which lead so many
of my sex astray, overstep the bounds of propriety, and to rein-
state myself in the esteem of one person lose that of others ;
and, above all, that of my own heart. If Lord Mortimer re-
fuses to hear my justification, he will act neither agreeably to
candor or justice, and pride must aid in repelling my regret."
"You look strangely, indeed, my dear," said Lady Greystock,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. i8l
who was attentively watcliing her, whilst those ideas were rising
in her mind. Amanda recollected the remarks which might be
made on her behavior ; and apologizing for the manner in which
she had acted, took her seat with some degree of composure.
Fitzalan soon after entered the room, and tea was made ; when
over, Lady Greystock declared they were a snug party for three-
handed whist. Amanda would gladly have excused herself from
being of the party, but politeness made her conceal her reluc-
tance ; but extreme dejection was noticed both by Fitzalan and'
her ladyship. The latter imputed it to regret, at not being jser-
mitted by her father to accept an invitation she had received
for a ball the ensuing evening.
" Don't fret about it, my dear creature," said she, laying
down her cards, to administer the consolation she supposed
Amanda required ; " 'tis not by frequenting balls and public
places a girl always stands the best chance of being provided
for ; I, for my part, have been married three times, yet never
made a conquest of any one of my husbands in a public place.
No, it was the privacy of my life partly obtained for me so
many proofs of good fortune." Fitzalan and Amanda laughed.
" I shall never be dissatisfied with staying at home," said the
latter, " though without either expecting or desiring to have my
retirement recompensed as your ladysliip's was." " One prize
will satisfy you then," said Fitzalan. " Ah I " cried Lady Grey-
stock, "it is Lady Euphrasia Sutherland will obtain the capital
one. I don't know where such another young man as Lord
Mortimer is to be found." " Then your ladyship supposes,"
said Fitzalan, " there is some truth in the reports circulated,
relative to him and Lady Euphrasia." " I assure you there is,"
said she ; "and I think the connection will be a very eligible
one. Their births, their fortunes, are equal." But ah, thought
Amanda, how unlike their di.spositions. " I dare say," pro-
ceeded her ladyship, " Lady Euphrasia will have changed her
title before this time next year."
Fitzalan glanced at Amanda : her face was deadly pale, and
she put him and Lady Greystock out in the game by the errors
she committed. At last the carriage from Grangeville arrived,
and broke up a party Amanda could not much longer have sup-
ported. Her father perceived the painful efforts she made to
conceal her distress. He pitied her from his soul, and, pre-
tending to think she was only indisposed, entreated her to re-
tire to her chamber. Amanda gladly complied with this
entreaty, and began to meditate on what Lady Greystock had
said. Was there not a probability of its being true ? Might
l82 TJIR CttlLDREM OF Tllk ABBKV.
not the indifference Lord Mortimer had manifested on liis first
arrival in the neighborhood have really originated from a change
pt . affections ? Might not the tenderness he displayed in the
iTlorning have been concerted with the hope of its inducing her
to gratify his curiosity, by relating the reason of her journey
from Wales, or please his vanity by tempting her to give some
ptroof of attachment? But she soon receded from this idea.
Lady Greystock was not infallible in her judgment. Reports
of approaching nuptials, Amanda knew, had often been raised
' without any foundation for them. The present report, relative
to Lord Mortimer and Lady Euphrasia, might be one of that
haturCi She could not believe him so egregiously vain, or so
deliberately base, as to counterfeit tenderness merely for the
purpose of having his curiosity or vanity gratified. She felt,
however, truly unhappy, and could derive no consolation but
from the hope that her suspense, at least, would soon be
terminated.
She passed a restless tiight; nor was her morning more
domposod. She could not settle to any of her usual avocations.
Every step she heard, she started in expectation of instantly
seeing Lord Mortimer; but he did not appear. After dinner
she walked out alone, and took the road to St. Catherine's.
When she reached the ruins, she felt fatigued, and sat down
upon a flag in the chapel to rest herself. " Here," said she,
pensively leaning her head upon her hand, " Mortimer waited
for me ; perhaps with tender impatience. Here, too, he per-
haps accused me of neglect or deceit." She heard a rustling
behind her, and turning, perceived Sister Mary.
" You are welcome, my dear soul," cried the good-natured
nun, running forward, and sitting down by her ; " but why did
you not come in to see us ? " continued she, affectionately kissing
her. Amanda said, " such was her intention, but feeling a little
indisposed, she had remained in the air, in hopes of growing
better." " Oh, Jesu 1 " cried the sister, you do indeed look ill,
I must go and get you a cordial from our prioress, who is quite
a doctress, I assure you."
Amanda caught her gown as she was running away, and as-
sured her she was better.
"Well, then," said she, resuming her seat, " I must tell you
of an odd thing which happened here last night. I came out
to walk about the ruins between the lights that is, as one may
say, when it is neither dark or light. As the air was cold, I
wrapped my veil about me, and had just turned the cloisters,
when I heard a quick foot pacing after me. Well, I, supposing
THE CHILD REN OF THE ABBEY.. tSj
it to be one of the sisters, walked slowly, that she might easily
overtake me. But you may guess my surprise wheii I was over-
taken, not by one of them indeed, but by one of the finest and
most beautiful young men I ever beheld. Lord, how he did start
when he saw me, just for all the world as if I was a ghost ; he
looked quite wild, and flew off muttering something to himself.
Well, I thought ail this strange, and was making all the haste I
could to the convent, when he appeared again coming from
under that broken arch ; and he bowed and smiled so sweetly,
and held his hat in his hand so respectfully, whilst he begged
my pardon for the alarm he had given me ; and then he blushed
and strove to hide his confusion with his handkerchief, while
he asked me if I had seen here a young lady about the ruins
that evening, as a particular friend had informed him she would
be there, and desired him to escort her home. ' Why, my dear
sir,' says I, ' I have been about this place the whole evening,
and there has neither been man, woman, nor child, but you and
myself ; so the young lady changed her mind, and took another
ramble.' ' So I suppose,' said he, and he looked so pale, and
so melancholy, I could not help thinking it was a sweetheart he
had been seeking ; so by way of giving him a bit of comfort,
' Sir,' says I, ' if you will leave any marks of the young lady you
were seeking with mc, I will watch here myiself a little longer
for her ; and if she comes I will tell her how uneasy you were
at not finding her, and be sure to dispatch her after you.' ' No,
he thanked me,' he said, 'but it was of very little consequence
his not meeting her, or indeed whether he ever met her again,'
and went away." " Did he ? " said Amanda. " Bless me ! "
exclaimed the nun, " you are worse, instead of better."
Amanda acknowledged she was, and rising, requested she
would excuse her not paying her compliments- that evening at
the nunnery.
Sister Mary pressed her to drink lea with the prioress, or at
least take some of her excellent cordial ; but Amanda refused
both requests, and the affectionate nun saw her depart with
reluctance.
Scarcely had she regained the road, ere a coach and six,
preceded and followed by a number of attendants, approached
with such quickness that she was obliged to step aside to avoid
it. Looking in at the window as it passed, she saw Lord
Mortimer and Lady Euphrasia seated in it, opposite to each
other j she saw they both perceived her, and that Lady
Euphrasia laughed, and put her head forward to stare imperti-
.\ently at her. Amanda was mortified that they had seen her !
184 - THE CItlLDREN OF THE ABBE V
there was something at that moment humiliating in the contrast
between their situation and hers she, dejected and solitary,
they adorned and attended with all the advantages of fortune.
But in the estimation of a liberal mind, cried she, the want of
such advantage can never lessen me such a mind as I flatter
myself Lord Moi timer possesses. Ah 1 if bethinks as I do, he
. would prefer a lonely ramble in the desolate spot I have just
quitted, to all the parade and magnificence he is about wit-
nessing. The night passed heavily away. The idea of Lord
Mortimer's dcvolTng all his attention to Lady ]iuphrasia, could
not be driven from her mind.
The next morning, the first object she saw, on going to the
window, was a large frigate lying at anchor near the castle.
Ellen-entered her chamber, and sighing heavily, as she always
did, indeed, at the sight of a ship, said, " she wished it contained
her wandering sailor." Amanda indulged a hope that Lord
Mortimer would appear in the course of the day, but she was
disappointed. She retired, after lea, in the evening to her
dressing-room, and seated in the window, enjoyed a calm and
beautiful scene. Not a cloud concealed the bright azure of the
firmament J the moon spread a line of silvery radiance over the
waves, that stole with a melancholy murmur upon the shore ;
and the silence which reigned around was only interrupted by
the faint noise of the mariners on board the frigate, and their
evening drum. At last Amanda heard the paddling of oars,
and perceived a large boat coming from the ship, rowed by
sailors in white shirts and trousers, their voices keeping time to
their oars. The appearance they made was picturesque, and
Amanda watched them till the boat disappeared among the
rocks. The supper-bell soon after summoned her from the
window ; but scarcely had she retired to her chamber for the
night, ere Ellen, smiling, trembling, and apparently overcome
with joy, appeared.
"I have seen him," cried she, hastily; "oh, madam, I have
seen poor Chip himself, and he is as kind and as true-hearted
as ever. I went this evening to the village to see old Norah, to
whom you sent the linen, for she is a pleasing kind of poty, and
does not laugh like the rest at one for their Welsh tongue ; so
when I was returning home, and at a goot tistance from her
cabin, I saw a great number of men coming towards me, all
dressed 'n white. To pe sure, as I heerd a great teal apoutthe
white poys, I thought these were nothing else, and I did so
quake and tremble, for there was neither hole, or bush, or tree
on the spot, that would have sheltered one of the little tiny
THE CtilLDREN OF TtlE ABBEV. 1S5
fairies o Penmaenmawr. Well, they came on, shouting and
laughing, and merrier than I thought such rogues ought t6 be ;
and the moment they espied me, they gathered round me, and
began pulling me about ; so I gave a great scream, and tirectly
a voice (Lort, how my heart jumped at it) cried out, 'that is
Ellen ; ' and to pe sure poor Chip soon had me in his arms ;
and then I heard they were sailors from the frigate, come to get
fresh provisions at the village ; so I tarned pack with them, and
they had a great bowl of whiskey punch, and a whole sight of
cakes, and Chip told me all his adventures ; and he was so glad
when he heard I lived with you, pecause he said you were a
sweet, mild young laly, and he was sure you would sometimes
remind me of him j and he hopes soon to get his tischarge, and
then " " You are to be married," said Amanda, interpreting
the blushes and hesitation of Ellen. " Yes, matam, and I as-
sure you Chip is not altered for the worse py a seafaring life.
His voice, inteed, is a little of the roughest, but he told me
that was owing to his learning the poatswain's whistle. Poor
fellow, he sails to-morrow night. The ship is on the Irish
station, and they are to coast it to Dublin."
" liappy Ellen ! " said Amanda, as she retired from her
chamber, " thy perturbations and disquietudes are over ; assured
of the affection of thy village swain, peace and cheerfulness
will resume their empire in thy breast."
The next evening at twilight, Amanda went down to the
beach with her father to see the fishermen drawing their seines
on shore, on which their hopes, and the comfort of their families,
depended. Whilst Fitzalan conversed with them, Amanda
seated herself on a low rock to observe their motions. In the
murmur of the waves there was a gentle melancholy, in unison
with her present feelings. From a pensive meditation, which
had gradually rendered her inattentive to the scene before her,
she was suddenly roused by voices behind her. She started
from her seat, for in one of them she imagined she distinguished
the accent of Lord Mortimer. Nor was she mistaken. He
was descending a winding path near her, accompanied by a
naval officer. To pass without seeing her was impossible ; and
as he approached her, he stopped, apparently hesitating whether
or not he should address her. In a few minutes his hesitation
ended, with waving his handkerchief, as if to bid her adieu,
whilst he proceeded to a small boat which had been for some
time lying in a creek among the rocks, and which, on receiving
him and his companion, immediately rowed to the frigate.
Amanda trembled. Her heart beat violently. Ellen had in-
tSG THE CHILDRElsr OF THE ABBEY.
formed her the frigate was to sail tlmt night \ and what could
induce Lord Mortimer to visit it at such an hour, except an in-
tention of departing in it.
Uncertainty is dreadful. She grew sick with anxiety before
her father returned to the castle. On entering it, she immedi-
ately repaired to her chamber, and calling Ellen hastily, de^
manded if Chip's intelligence was true .'
"Alas! yes," said Ellen, weeping violently ; "and I know
the reason you inquire. You saw Lord Mortimer going to the
ship. I saw him myself, as I stood on the beech talking to Chip,
who was one of the sailors that came in the boat for his lortship
and the captain ; and to be sure the sight left my eyes when I
saw my lort departing, pecause I knew he was going away in
anger at the treatment he supposed he received from you."
" From me ? " exclaimed Amanda.
" Oh I you will never forgive me for acting so padly as I
have done by you," sobbed Ellen; " put inteed the sight of poor
Chip drove cverylliing from my memory put himself. Last
night, as I was going to Noraii's, 1 overtook Lort Mortimer on
the road, who was walking quite sorrowfully, as I may say, py
himself ; so to pe sure I thought 1 could do no less in good
manners than drop him a curtsey as I passed ; so uji he came
to me directly : ' And, my good girl, how are you ? ' said he j
and he smiled so sweetly, and looked so handsome ; and then
he took my hand, and to pe sure his hand was as soft as any
velvet. ' And pray, Ellen,' said he, ' is Miss Fitzalan at
home, and disengaged ? ' I told him you was, and Cot knows,
my Lort, said I, and melancholy enough, too. I left her in the
tressing-room window, looking out at the waves, and listening
to the winds. ' Well, hasten home,' cried he, ' and tell her she
will oblige me greatly py meeting me immediately at the rocks
peyond the castle." I promised him I would, and he put, nay,
inteed, forced five guineas into my hand, and turned off another
road, charging me not to forget ; put as I was so near Norah's,
I thought I might just step in to see how she did, and when I
left her, I met poor Chip, and Lort knows I am afraid he would
have made me forget my own tear father and mother."
" Oh, Ellen ! " cried Amanda, " how could you serve me
so ? " " Oh, tear ! " said Ellen, redoubling her tears, " I am
certainly one of the most unfortunate girls in the world ; put,
Lort, now, Miss Amanda, why should you be so sorrowful ; for
certain my lort loves you too well to pe always angry, There
is poor Chip now, though he thought I loved Parson Howel,
he never forgot me."
tffk dmLME^i- oP t/fE ABBky. igy
Ellen's efforts at consolation were not successful, and
Amanda dismissed her, that, unnoticed and unrestrained, she
might indulge the tears which flowed at the idea of a long, a
lasting separation, perhaps, from Lord Mortimer. Offended, '
justly offended, as she supposed, with her, the probability was
she would be banished from his thoughts, or, if remembered,
at least without esteem or tenderness : thus might his heart
soon be .qualified for making another choice. She walked to
the window, and saw the ship already under weigh. She saw
the white sails fluttering in the breeze, and heard the shouts of
the mariners. " Oh, Mortimer ! " cried she, " is it thus we
part ". is it thus the expectations you raised in my heart are
disappointed ? You go hence, and deem Amanda unworthy a
farewell. You gaze, perhaps, at this moment on Castle Car-
berry, without breathing one sigh for its inhabitants. Ah, had
you loved sincerely, never would the impulse of resentment
have conquered the emotion of tenderness. No, Mortimer,
you deceived me, and perhaps yourself, in saying I was dear to
you. Had I been so, never could you have acted in this
manner." Her eyes followed the course of the vessel, till it
appeared like a speck in the horizon. " He is gone," said she,
weeping afresh, and withdrawing herself from the window ; " he
is gone, and if ever I meet him again, it will probably be as the
husband of Lady Euphrasia."
CHAPTER XXII.
" l^hink'st thou I'll make a life of jealousy,
To follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh surmises? No ; to be once in doubt
Is to be resolved. But yet
IMI see before 1 doubt ; when 1 doubt, prove,
And on the proof there is no more but tiiis
Away at once with love or jealousy." Shmcsi'icarBi
Lord Mortimer had, in reality, departed with sentiments
very unfavorable to Amanda. He had waited impatiently at
St. Catherine's, in the fond expectation of having all his doubts
removed by a candid explanation of the motives which caused
her precipitate journey from Wales. His soul sighed for a re-
Conciliation : his tenderness was redoubled by being so long re-
strained. The idea of folding his beloved Amanda to his
bosom, and hearing that she deserved all the tenderness and
I 8 ^HE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
sensibility which glowed in that bosom for her, gave him the
highest pleasure ; but when the appointed hour passed, and no
Amanda appeared, language cannot express his disappointment.
Almost distracted by it, he ventured to inquire concerning her
from Sister Mary ; and, long after the friendly nun had retired
to the convent, continued to wander about the ruins, till the
shadows of night had enveloped every object from his view.
" She fears to come, then," exclaimed he, quitting the desolate
spot, oppressed with the keenest anguish ; " she fears to come,
because she cannot satisfy my doubts. I witnessed her agita-
tion, her embarrassment, this morning, when I hinted at them.
The mystery which separated us will not be explained, and it is
in vain to think we shall ever meet, as I once flattered myself
we should."
This thought seemed to strike at all his hopes. The dis-
tress and disorder of his mind was depicted on his countenance,
and escaped not the observation and raillery of the marchioness
and Lady Euphrasia ; but their raillery was in vain, and unan-
swered by him ; he was absorbed in a train of pensive reflec-
tions, which they had neither power to remove or disturb.
Most unwillingly he accompanied them the ensuing day to
a splendid entertainment given purposely for them in the
neighborhood. The unexpected sight of Amanda, as she stood
on a little elevated bank, to avoid the carriage, caused a sudden
emotion of surprise and delight in his bosom. "^I'he utmost
powers of eloquence could not have pleaded her cause so suc-
cessfully as her own appearance at that minute did. The lan-
guor of her face, its mild and seraphic expression, her pensive
attitude, and the timid modesty with which she seemed shrink-
ing from observation, all touched the sensibility of Lord Morti-
mer, awakened his softest feelings, revived his hopes, and made
him resolve to seek another opportunity of demanding an ex-
planation from her. The sudden color which flushed his cheeks,
and the sparkling of his eyes, as he looked from the carriage,
attracted the notice of his companions. They smiled mali-
ciously, at each other, and Lady Euphrasia declared, "She
supposed the girl was stationed there to try and attract admira-
tion, which, perhaps, her silly old father had told her she mer-
ited or else to meet with adventures." Lord Mortimer drew
in his head, and the contrast between her ladyship and the fair
being he had been looking at, never struck him so forcibly as
at that moment, and lessened one as much as it elevated the
other in his estimation.
He wandered near the castle the next evening, in hopes of
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABEBY. 189
meeting Amanda. His disappointment was diminished by see-
ing Ellen, who he was confident, would be faithful to the mes-
sage intrusted to her. With this confidence he hastened to the
rocks, every moment expecting the appearance of Amanda.
Her image, as it appeared to him the preceding day, dwelt upon
his imagination, and he forcibly felt how essential to his peace
was a reconciliation with her. An hour elapsed, and his tender-
ness again began to give way to resentment. It was not Ellen,
but Amanda he doubted. He traversed the beach in an agony'
of impatience and anxiety ; a feverish heat pervaded his frame,
and he trembled with agitation. At length he heard the dis-
tant sound of the supper-bell at Ulster Lodge, which never rang
till a late hour. All hopes of seeing Amanda were now given
up, and every intention of meeting her at a future period relin- ,
quished. She avoided him designedly, it was evident. He
would have cursed himself for betraying such anxiety about her,
and his wounded pride revolted from the idea of seeking an-
other interview. " No ! Amanda ! " he exclaimed, as he passed
the castle, " you can no longer have any claim upon me. Mys-
terious appearances in the most candid mind will raise suspi-
cions. In giving you an opportunity for accounting for such
appearances, I did all that candor, tenderness, sensibility, and
honor could dictate ; and, instead of again making efforts to
converse with you, I must now make others, which, I trust, will
be more successful, entirely to forget you."
The next morning he accompanied the marquis in his barge
to the frigate, where he was agreeably surprised to find in the
commander an old friend of his, Captain Somerville, who re-
turned to Ulster Lodge with his visitors, and there, in a half
jesting, half serious manner, asked Lord Mortimer to accom-
pany him on his intended cruise. This his lordship instantly
promised he would, with pleasure. He was completely tired
of the Roslin family, and was, besides, glad of an opportunity
of convincing Amanda he was not quite so fascinated to her as
she perhaps believed, by his quitting the neighborhood ere ^
their departure. As he descended to the boat, the sight of ,
Amanda shook his resolution. She seemed destined to cross
his path, merely to give him disquietude. An ardent wish
sprung in his heart to address her, but it was instantly sup-
pressed, by reflecting how premeditately she had avoided him \
pride, therefore, prompted him to pass her in silence ; yet, as
the boat receded from the shore, his ^yes were riveted to the,
spot on which she stood, and when he could no longer see her
white gown fluttering in the wind, he gave a sigh to the remem-'
I go THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
branch of the happy days he had passed with her at Tudor
Hall ; and another to the idea, that such hours would never
more be enjoyed by him.
The family at Ulster Lodge were both mortified and disap-
pointed by his departure, though he, perceiving their displeasure,
had endeavored to lessen it, by promising to wait their arrival
in Dublin, and return with them to England. His departure
seemed a tacit intimation that he was not as much attached to
Lady Euphrasia as they wished him to be. A suspicion of this
nature had, indeed, for some time pervaded their minds, and
also that his affections were cLsewhcre disposed of ; tlicy had
reason to believe that the person who possessed them dwelt in
the vicinity of the lodge, from the great alteration which took
place in his manner, immediately after his arrival at it. In
hopes of discovering who this was, they watched him criti-
cally at all tlie parties he frequented with them, but soon found
it was not the present, but the absent objects had the power of
exciting -emotions in him. At the name of Amanda Fitzalan or
^her father they observed him color, and frequently saw him
contemplate Castle Carberry, as if it contained a being infinitely
dear to him ; to Amanda, therefore, they feared he was attached,
and supposed the attachment commenced at the Kilcorbans'
' ball, where they had noticed his impassioned glances at this
hated, because too lovely relation. The most unbounded rage
took possession of their souls j they regretted ever having come
to Ireland, where they supposed Lord Mortimer had first seen
Amanda, as Lord Cherbury had mentioned the children of
Fitzalan being strangers to him or his family. They knew the
passions of Lord Cherbury were impetuous, and that ambition
was the leading principle of his soul. Anxious for an alliance
between his family and theirs, they knew he would ill brook
any obstacle which should be thrown in the way of its comple-
tion, and therefore resolved, if Lord Mortimer, at their next
meeting, appeared averse to the wishes of his father, to acquaint
the earl with the occasion of his son's disinclination, and repre-
sent Fitzalan and his daughter as aiding and abetting each other,
in an insidious scheme to entangle the affections of Lord Morti-
mer, and draw him into a marriage ; a scheme which, to a man of
the world (as they knew Lord Cherbury to be), would appear so
very probable as to gain implicit credit. This they knew would
convert the esteem he felt for Fitzalan into hatred and con-
tempt ; his favor would consequently be withdrawn, and the
father and child again sunk into indigent obscurity. To think
that Amanda, by dire necessity, should be reduced to servitude ;
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 191
to think the elegance of her form should be disguised by the
garb of poverty, and the charms of her face faded by misery,
were ideas so grateful, so ecstatic to their hearts, that to have
them realized, they felt they could with pleasure relinquish the
attentions of Lord Mortimer, to have a pretext for injuring
Fitzalan with his father : though not quite assured their suspi-
cions were well founded, they would never have hesitated com-
municating them as such to Lord Cherbury ; but for their own
satisfaction they wished to know what reason they had to en-
tertain them. Lady Greystock was the only person they ob-
served on a footing of intimacy with Amanda, and through her
means flattered themselves they might make the desired discov-
ery. They therefore began to unbend from their haughtiness,
and make overtures for an intimacy with her ; overtures which
she received with delight, and in their present attention forgot
their past neglect, which had given her such disgust. As they
became intimate with her, they were much amused by a shrewd
manner she possessed of telling stories, and placing the foibles
and imperfections of their visitors in the most conspicuous
and ludicrous light ; particularly of such visitors as were not
agreeable to them. With the foibles of human nature she was
well acquainted, also with the art of turning those foibles to
her own advantage. She perceived the egregious vanity of
the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia, and by administering
large portions of what Sterne styles the delicious essence of the
soul, to them, soon became an immense favorite. After an in-
junction of secrecy, the marchioness communicated her fears
relative to Lord Mortimer and Amanda, which, she pretended,
regard for one and pity for the other, had excited ; as an attach-
ment either of an honorable or dishonorable nature, she knew
Lord Cherbury would never pardon. To know, therefore, how
far matters had proceeded between them, would be some satis-
faction, and might, perhaps, be the means of preventing the ill
consequences she dreaded. Lady Greystock was not to be im-
posed on ; she perceived it was not pity for Amanda, but envy
and jealousy, which had excited the fears of the marchioness.
If Lord Mortimer was attached to Amanda, from his sentiments
and manner, she was convinced it was an attachment of the
purest nature. She carefully concealed her thoughts, however,
affected to enter into all the alarms of the marchioness, and,
as she saw she was expected to do, promised all in her power
should be done for discovering what attachment subsisted be-
tween his lordship and Miss Fitzalan. For this purpose she
began to grow constant in her visits at Castle Carberry, often
192 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
spending whole days in the most familiar manner with Amanda,
and endeavoring, by various methods, to beguile her of the
secrets of her heart. Sometimes she rallied her on her melan-
choly ; sometimes expressed pity for it in strains of the most
soothing tenderness ; would frequently relate little fictitious and
embellished anecdotes of her own youth, in which she said she
had suffered the most exquisite misery, from an unfortunate en-
tanglement ; would then advert to Lord Mortimer ; express her
wonder at his precipitate departure, and her admiration of his
virtues, declaring if ever Lady Euphrasia gained his heart, which
she much doubted, she must be considered as one of the most
fortunate of women.
Delicacy sealed the lips of Amanda and guarded her secret.
She believed her passion to be hopeless, and felt that to be offered
consolation on such a subject, would, to her feelings, be truly
humiliating. But though she could command her words, she
could not her feelings, and tiiey were visibly expressed in her
countenance. She blushed whenever Lord Mortimer was men-
tioned; looked biiockcd if a union between him and Lady
Euphrasia was hinted at; and smiled if a probability wa3sug-
gested of its never taking place. Lady Greystock, at last,
relinquished her attempts at betraying Amanda into a confes-
sion of her sentiments ; indeed, she thought such a confession
not very requisite, as her countenance pretty clearly developed
what they were ; and she deemed herself authorized to inform
the marchioness that she was sure something had passed be-
tween Lord Mortimer and Amanda, though what she could not
discover, from the circumspection of thp latter. The mar-
chioness was enraged, and more determined than ever on in-
volving Amanda in destruction, if Lord Mortimer hesitated a
moment in obeying the wishes of his father, by uniting himself
to Lady Euphrasia. ,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 193
CHAPTER XXIII.
" And to be plain, *tis not .your person
My stomach's set so sharp ana fierce on :
But *tis your better part, your riches.
That my enamored heart bewitches. Hudibras*
A MONTH after the departure of Lord Mortimer the Roslin
family left Ulster Lodge. Amanda sighed, as she saw them
pass, at the idea of the approaching meeting, which might, per-
haps, soon be followed by an event that would render her fond
remembrance of Lord Mortimer improper. Many of the
families about the castle were already gone to town for the
winter. Those who remained in the country till after Christ-
mas, among whom were the Kilcorbans, had so entirely neg-
lected Amanda, from the time the marchioness arrived in the
neighborhood, that they could not think of renewing their visits,
confident as they were, from the proper dignity of her and
Fitzalan's manner, that they would be unwelcome.
The weather was now often too severe to permit Amanda
to take her usual rambles ; and the solituile of the castle was
heightened by her own melancholy ideas, as well as by the
dreariness of the season. No more the magic hand of hope
sketched scenes of flattering brightness, to dissipate the gloomi-
ness of the present, ones. The prospects of Amanda's heart
were as dreary, as desolate, as those she viewed from the win-
dows of the castle. Her usual avocations no longer yielded
delight. Every idea, every occupation, was embittered by the
reflection of being lessened in the estimation of Lord Mortimer.
Her health declined with her peace, and again Fitzalan had
the anguish of seeing sorrow nipping his lovely blossom. The
rose forsook her cheek, and her form assumed a fragile deli-
cacy, which threatened the demolition of his earthly happiness.
He was not ignorant of the cause of her dejection, but he
would not shock her feelings by hinting it. Every effort
which tenderness could suggest, he essayed to cheer her, but
without any durable effect ; for though she smiled when he ex-
pressed a wish to see her cheerful, it was a smile transient as
the gleamings of a wintry sun, and which only rendered the
succeeding gloom more conspicuous.
At this pcriocl of distress, Lady Grcystock, yvho continuecl
13
1^4 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
her visits at the castle, made a proposal, which Fitzalan eagerly
embraced. This was to take Amanda with her to London,
whither she was obliged to go directly, about a lawsuit carrying
on between her and the nephew of her late husband.
Change of scene, Fitzalan trusted, would remove from
Amanda's mind the dejection which oppressed it, and conse-
quently aid the restoration of her health. Of Lord Mortimer's
renewing his addresses, he had not the slightest apprehension,
as he neglected the opportunities he might have had in the
country for such a purpose. Fitzalan, it may be remembered
knew not that his lordship had ever deviated from his indiffer
ence, and he believed it occasioned by a transfer of his affec-
tions to Lady Euphrasia. He was also ignorant of the great
intimacy between the Roslin family and Lady Greystock, and
consequently of the probability there was, from such an in-
timacy, of Amanda's being often in the way of Lord Mortimer.
If she met him, he was confident it would be as the husband
or favored lover of Lady Euphrasia ; and, in either of these
characters, he was certain, from the rectitude and purity of her
principles, she would be more than ever impressed with the
necessity of conquering her attachment ; whilst the pain attend-
ing such a conviction would be lessened, and probably soon
removed by surrounding objects, and the gay scenes she must
engage in frohi being the companion of Lady Greystock, who
had a numerous and elegant acquaintance in London.
Her ladyship appeared to him, as she did to many others,
a pleasing, rational woman one to whose care his heart's best
treasure might safely be consigned. He was induced to ac-
cept her protection for his Amanda, not only on account of
her present but future welfare. His own health was extremely
delicate. He deemed his life very precarious, and flattered
himself Lady Greystock, by having his beloved girl under her
care, would grow so attached to her, as to prove a friend if he
should be snatched away ere his newly-obtained independence
enabled him to make a provision for her. In indulging thia
hope, his heart could not reproach him for anything mean oi
selfish. Her ladyship had frequently assured him all her rela-
tions were very distant ones, and in affluent circumstances, so
that if his Amanda received any proof of kindness from her,
she could neither injure nor encroach on the rights of others.
This, however, was not the case, though carefully concealed
from him, as well as many others, by her ladyship. Her
education^ had either given hiiili to, or strengthened, the artful
propensities of her disposition. She had been one of th^
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 195
numerous offspring of a gentleman in the southern part of Ire-
land, whose wife, a complete housewife, knowing his inability
of giving his daughters fortunes, determined to bring them up
so as to save one for their future husbands.
At the age of nineteen, Miss Bridget, by her reputation for
domestic cleverness, attracted the notice of a man of easy inde-
pendence in the neighborhood, who, being a perfect Nimrod,
wanted somebody to manage those concerns at home, which
he neglected for the field and kennel ; and in obtaining Miss
Bridget, he procured this valuable acquisition. His love of
sport, with his life, was fatally terminated the second year of
his marriage, by his attempting to leap a five-bar gate. A
good jointure devolved to his window, and the office of consol-
ing her to the rector of the' parish, a little fat elderly man, who
might have sat very well for the picture of Boniface. So suc-
cessful were his arguments, that he not only expelled sorrow
from her heart, but introduced himself into it, and had the
felicity of receiving her hand as soon as her weeds were laid
aside. Four years they lived in uninterrupted peace, but too
free an enjoyment of the good things of this life undermined
the constitution of the rector. He was ordered to Bath, where
his mortal career was shortly terminated, and his Whole fortune
was left to his wife.
In the house where she lodged was an ancient baronet, who
had never been married. His fortune was considerable, but
his manner so strange and whimsical, that he appeared inca-
pable of enjoying the advantages it would have afforded to
others. Notwithstanding his oddities, he was compassionate ;
and as the fair relict was unaccompanied by a friend, he waited
on her for the purpose of ofifering consolation, and any service
in his power. This attention instantly inspired her with an
idea of trying to make him feel tenderer sentiments than those
of pity for her. His title and fortune were so attractive, that
neither his capricious disposition, nor the disparity of their
ages, he being sixty, and she only eight-and-twenty, could pre-
vent her ardently desiring a connection between them. Her
efforts to effect this were long unsuccessful ; but perseverance
will almost work miracles. Her constant good-humor, and
unremitted solicitude about him, who was in general an invalid,
at last made an impression on his flinty heart, and in a fit of
sudden gratitude he offered her his hand, which wis eagerly
accepted.
The presumptive heir to the baronet's large possessions
vas the son and only chilt} of a deceased sister. At the perio4
196 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
this unexpected alliance took place, he was about twenty,
pleasing in his person, and engaging in his manner, and ten-
derly beloved by his uncle. This love. Lady Greystock saw,
if it continued, would frustrate her wish of possessing the
baronet's whole property. Various schemes fluctuated in her
mind relative to the manner in which she should lay the foun-
dation for Rushbrook's ruin. Ere she could ^determine on
one, chance discovered a secret which completely aided her
intentions.
In the neighborhood of the baronet's country residence,
Rushbrook had formed an attachment for the daughter of a
man against whom his uncle entertained the most inveterate
enmity. A union with this girl, she was well convinced, would
ruin him. She therefore gave him to understand she knew of
his attachment, and sincerely pitied his situation, encouraging
his love by the most flatlering eulogiums on his adored Emily ;
declared her regret that hearts so congenial should be sepa-
rated ; and at last intimated that if they wished to unite, she
was convinced she would soon be able to obtain Sir Geoffry's
forgiveness for such a step. Her artful insinuations hurried
the unsuspicious pair into the snare she had spread for them.
The consequence of this was what she expected.
Sir Geoffry's rage was unappeasable, and he solemnly vowed
never more to behold his nephew. Lady Greystock wished to
preserve, if possible, appearances to the world, and prevailed
on him to give her five hundred pounds for Rushbrook, to which
she added five of her own, and presented the notes to him, with
an assurance of pleading his cause whenever she found a favor-
able opportunity for doing so.
He purchased an ensigncy in a regiment on the point of
embarking for America, where he felt he would rather encounter
distress than among those who had known him in affluence.
Her ladyship now redoubled her attention to Sir Geoffry,
and at last prepossessed him so strongly with the idea of her
affection for him, that he made a will, bequeathing her his whole
fortune, which she flattered herself with soon enjoying. But tlie
constitution of Sir Geoffry was stronger than she imagined, and
policy obliged her to adhere to a conduct which had gained his
favor, as she knew the least alteration of it would, to his capri-
cious temper, be sufficient to make him crush all her hopes.
Fifteen years passed in this manner, when a friend of Rush-
brook's advised him no longer to be deluded by the promises
Lady Greystock still continued to make, pf interceding in his
fevor, but tp write himself tP his uncle for forgiveness, which
THH CI/TLDKEN- OF THE ABBEY. 197
the duty he owed his family, and the distress of his situation,
should prompt him to immediately. Rushbrook accordingly
wrote a most pathetic letter, and his friend, as he had promised,
delivered it himself to the baronet. The contents of the letter,
and the remonstrance oE his visitor, produced a great changei
in the sentiments of the baronet. Tenderness for a nephew he
had adopted as his heir from his infancy begtin to revive, and
he seriously reflected, that by leaving his fortune to Lady Grey-
stock, he should enrich a family unconnected with him, whilst
the last branch of his own was left to obscurity and wretched-'
ness. Pride recoiled from such an idea, and he told the gentle-
man he would consider about a reconciliation with his nephew.
The conversation between them, which Lady Greystock had
contrived to overhear, filled her with dismay ; but this was in-
creased almost to distraction, when an attorney being sent for,
she repaired again to her hiding-place, and heard a new will
dictated entirely in Rushbrook's favor.
Sir Geoffry was soon prevailed on to see his nephew, but
Mrs. Rushbrook and the children werenot suffered to appear
before him. They were, however, supplied with everything re-
quisite for making a genteel appearance, and accompanying the
regiment (again ordered abroad) with comfort.
Soon after their departure. Sir Geoffry sunk into a sudden
state of insensibility, from which no hopes of his ever recover-
ing could be entertained. The situation was propitious to the '
designs of Lady Greystock ; none but creatures of her own
were admitted to his chamber. An attorney was sent for, who
had often transacted business for her, relative to her affairs in
Ireland ; and a good bribe easily prevailed on him to draw up
a will she dictated, similar to that before made in her favor.
The baronet was raised in her arms, whilst the attorney guided
his almost lifeless hand in signing it ; and two clerks set their
names as witnesses. Sir Geoffry expired almost immediately
after this scheme was executed.
Rushbrook's friend, who had been appointed to act for him,
if this event took place whilst he was abroad, now appeared.
A will found in Sir Geoffry's cabinet was read, by which it apn
peared Mr. Rushbrook was his sole heir. The exultation of
the peruser, however, was of short continuance ; her ladyship's
attorney appeared, and declared the will was rendered null by
one of later date, which he had drawn up in Sir Geoffry's last
moments, by his express desire. Consternation an^ surprise
pervaded the mind of Rushbrook's friend ; he saw the will was
too well attested for him to dispute it, yet he suspected foul"
igS THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
play, and lost no time in communicating his suspicion to Rush-
brook.
Her ladyship settled her affairs most expeditiously and re-
turned with delight to her native country, after a'very long ab-
sence from it. Most of her near relations were dead, but she
had many distant ones, who, prompted by the knowledge of
her large fortune, eagerly reminded her of their affinity, and
vied with each other in paying her attention. This was ex-
tremely pleasing to her ladyship, who was fond of pleasure at
other people's expense. For herself she had laid down rules
of the most rigid economy, which she strictly adhered to.
From the many invitations she received she was seldom a resi-
dent in her own house ; she judged of others by herself, and
ascribed the attentions she received to their real source, self-
interest, which she laughed secretly to think she should dis-
appoint.
Slie was remarkable (as Miss Kilcorban informed Amanda)
for asking young people to do little matters for her, such as mak-
ing her millinery, working ruffles, aprons, and handkerchiefs.
The tranquillity she enjoyed for two years after Sir Geoffry's
death was a little interrupted by his nephew's arrival from
America, and commencing a suit directly against her by the
advice of his friends and some eminent lawyers, on the sup-
position that the will by which she iniierited had been made
when his uncle was in a state of imbecility.
, Lady Greystock, however, received but a trifling shock from
this ; she knew he had no money to carry on such an affair,
and that his advocates would lose their zeal in his cause, when
convinced of the state of his finances. On being obliged to
go to London to attend the suit, it immediately occurred that
Amanda would be a most pleasing companion to take along
with her, as she would not only enliven the hours she must some-
times pass at home, but do a number of little things in the
way of dress, which would save a great deal of expense.
Amanda, on the first proposal of accompanying her, warmly
opposed it ; she felt unutterable reluctance to leave her father, and
assured him she would, by exerting herself, prove that a change
of scene was not requisite for restoring her cheerfulness.
, Fitzalan knew her sincerity in making this promise, but he also
knew her inability of performing it ; his happiness, he declared,
depended on her complying with this request : he even said his
own health would probably be established by it, as during her
absence he would partake of the amusements of the country,
which he had hitherto declined on her account. This asser-
THE ClflLDREN OP TITF. AlWEr. 199
tion pfevailed on her to consent, and immediate preparations
were made for her journey, as the invitation had not been given
till within a few days of her ladyship's intended departure. As
she went by Holyhead, Fitzalan determined on sending Ellen
to her parents till Amanda returned from England, which de-
termination pleased Ellen exceedingly, as she longed to see her
family, and tell them particulars of Chip, As the hour ap-
proached for quitting her father, the regret and reluctance of
Amanda increased ; nor were his feelings less oppressive,
though better concealed : but when the moment ' of parting
came, they could no longer be suppressed ; he held her with a
trembling grasp to his heart, as if life would forsake it. On
her departure, the gloom on his mind seemed like a presenti-
ment of evil ; he repented forcing her from him, and scarcely
could he refrain from saying they must not part.
Lady Greystock, who in every scene and every situation
preserved her composure, hinted to him the injury he was doing
his daughter by such emotions ; and mentioned how short their
separation would be, and what benefit would accrue to Amanda ,
from it.
This last consideration recalled to his mind instantly com-
posed him, and he handed them to her ladyship's chariot, which
was followed by a hired chaise containing her woman and
Ellen ; he then sighed her a last adieu, returned to his solitary
habitation to pray, and in spite of all his efforts, weep for his
darling child.
Amanda's tears streamed down her pale cheek, and never
did she experience a pang of such sorrow as that she felt,
when, the chaise descending a hill, she caught the last glimpse
of Castle Carberry.
She perceived, however, that her ladyship had no relish for
a gloomy companion, and therefore endeavored to recover her
spirits, and enter into conversation.
Lady Greystock had a number of friends in that part of
Ireland, and therefore never stopped at an inn.
" I always, my dear," said she to Amanda, " make use of
the friendship professed for me, and thus endeavor to render
the great road of life delightful."
They arrived the third day in Sackville Street, where her
ladyship had a house, and two days after embarked for Eng-
land. They slept the first night they landed at Holyhead, and
the next morning pursued their journey.
200 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
CHAPTER XXIV.
'* A song, a flower, a name, at once restore
Those ion^-connected scenes when first they moved
The attention ." Akbnside.
The dejection of Amanda gradually declined, as the idea
of seeing Lord Mortimer again revived. It revived not, how-
ever, without hopes, fears, and agitations. Sometimes she im-
agined she should find him devoted to Lady Euphrasia ; then
again believed his honor and sincerity would not allow him to
give her up so suddenly, and that this apparent indifference
proceeded from resentment, which would vanish if an oppor-
tunity once oifered (and she trusted there would) for explain-
ing her conduct. She endeavored to calm the emotions these
ideas gave rise to, by reflecting that a short time now would
most probably terminate her suspense.
They stopped for the night, about five o'clock, at an inn
about a mile from Tudor Hall. After dinner, Amanda informed
Lady Greystock she wished to accompany Ellen to her parents.
To this her ladyship made no objection, on finding she did not
want the carriage. She charged her, however, not to forget
the hour of tea, by which time she would be refreshed by a nap,
and ready to engage her at a game of picquet.
They set out unattended, as Ellen refused the ostler's offer
of carrying her portmanteau, saying she would send for it the
next day. This she did by Amanda's desire, who wished, un-
observed, to pursue a walk, in which she promised herself a
melancholy indulgence, from reviewing the well-known scenes
endeared by tender recollections.
A mournful, yet not undelightful, sensation attends the con-
templation of scenes where we once enjoyed felicity departed
joys are ever remembered with an enthusiasm of tenderness
which soothes the sorrow we experience for their loss.
Such were the present feelings of Amanda ; while Ellep,
undisturbed by regrets for the past, pointed out, with pleasure,
the dwellings of her intimates and friends. Yet when she came
to Chip's deserted cottage, she stopped, and a tear stole from
her eye, accompanied at the same time by a smile, which seemed
to say, " though thou art now lonely and cheerless, the period
is approaching when comfort and gayety shall resume their sta-
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY 201
tions within thee ; when the blaze ' of thy fire and thy taper
shall not only diffuse cheerfulness within, but without, and give
a ray to the desolate or benighted traveller, to guide him to thy ,
hospitable shelter ! "
Amanda, leaning on Ellen's arm, proceeded slowly in her
walk. The evening was delightful. The blue vault of heaven
was spangled with stars, and the air, without being severely
cold, was clear and refreshing. Their road, on one side, was
skirted with the high woods of Tudor Hall. Amanda gazed
on them with emotion ; but when she came to the gate which
Lord Mortimer had opened for her departure at their first in-
terview, the softness of her heart, could no longer be resisted :
she stopped, leaned pensively upon it, and wept. The ever-
greens, with which the woods abounded, prevented their wear-
ing a desolate appearance. She wished to have pierced into
their most sequestered gloom, but she had no time to indulge
this wish ; nor did she, indeed believe her companion, who
was tinctured with superstitious fears, would have accom-
panied her. " When the glow of vegetation again revives,"
said she to herself ; " when the blossoms and the flowers again
spread their spangled foliage to the sun, and every shade
resounds with harmony, where, alas ! will Amanda be ? far
distant, in all probability, from these delightful scenes, perhaps
neglected and forgotten by their master 1 "
The awful murmurs of the wind rustling through the trees,
joined to the soleinn sound of a neighboring waterfall, began
to excite fears in Ellen's breast. She laid her trembling hand
on Amanda, and besought her, for the love of Cot, to hasten
to the cottage. The road still wound round the wood ; and
lights from a small village, which lay on its borders, cast vari-
ous shadows upon the trees ; whilst the hum of distant voices
floated upon the gale, and fancy pictured joyous groups of
rustics assembling round their fires, to enjoy refreshment after
the labors of the day. '
" Peaceful people," said Amanda, " when the wants of nature
are satisfied, no care or trouble obtrudes upon your minds.
Tired, but not exhausted with the toils of the day, with prepar-
ing the bosom of the earth for the ethereal mildness of the
spring, you seek and enjoy a calm repose."
In the lane which led to her nurse's cottage, Amanda
paused for a moment. Down this lane Lord Mortimer had
once pursued her. She looked towards the mansion of Tudor
Hall. She endeavored to discern the library, but all was dark
and dismal, except the wing, which Ellen informed her was
202 Tim CHILDREN OI" THE ABBEY.
occupied by the domestics. Through the window of Edwin's
cottage, they saw all the family seated round a blazing fire,
chatting and laughing. The transport of Ellen's heart over-
came every idea of caution. She hastily unlatched the door,
and flung herself into her parents' arms. Their surprise and
joy was unbounded, and Amanda was received and welcomed
with as much tenderness as their child, without ever asking the
reason of her sudden appearance. The first question was,
" Would she not stay with them .' " and her answer filled them
with regret and disappointment. Perceiving them about pro-
curing her refreshments, " she declared she had not a minute
to stay. The time allotted for her walk was already exceeded,
and she feared Lady Greystock would be offended at being left
so long at an inn by herself." She therefore hastily presented
some little presents she had brought for the family, and was
bidding them farewell, when poor Ellen, who, from so long
residing with her young lady, almost adored her, suddenly
flung herself iulo her arms, and clinging round her neck, as if
to prevent a separation, which, till the moment of its arrival,
she thought she could have supported, exclaimed :
" Oh, my tear young laty, we are going to part, and my
heart sinks within me at the idea. Even Chip himself, if he
was here, could not console me. I know you are not happy,
and that increases my sorrow. Your sweet cheek is pale, and
I have often seen you cry when you thought no poty was mind-
ing you. If you who are so goot are not happy, how can a
peing like me hope to be so ? Oh, may I soon pe plest with
seeing you return the mistress of Tudor Hall, married to the
sweetest, handsomest of noblemen, who, I know, in my soul,
loves you, as well inteed he may, for where would he see the
fellow of my young laty ? Then Chip and I will be so happy,
for I am sure you and my lort will shelter our humble cottage."
Amanda pressed the affectionate girl to her breast, and
mingled tears with hers, while she softly whispered to her not
to hint at such an event ; " but be assured, my dearest Ellen,"
continued she, " that I shall ever rejoice at your felicity, which,
to the utmost of my power, I would promote, and hope soon to
hear of your union with Chip."
" Alack-a-tay I " said her nurse ; " are you going away,
when I thought you come to stay among us ? and then, per-
haps, my lort would have come, and then there would have
peen such a happy meeting. Why, I verily thought he would
have gone distracted when he found you, as one may say, run
away; and to pe sure I did pity him, and should have made no
Trrn cnri.niiEM on ttte ah he v. auj
scruple to tell him where you were, had 1 known it myself,
which he suspected, for he offered me a sight of money if I
would discover. Then there is Parson Howel ; why he has
peen like unto nothing put a ghost since you went away ; and
he does so sigh, and he comes almost every tay to ask me
apout you, and whether I think or know Lord Mortimer is
with you. He will pe in such grief to think you were here
without his seeing you."
" Well," said Amanda, endeavoring to appear cheerful, " we
may all yet have a happy meeting."
She then repeated her farewell, and, leaning on the arm of
old Edwin, returned to the inn, where she again bid him adieu ;
and hastening to her ladyship, found her just awaking from a
comfortable slumber. They drank tea, and, after playing for
about an hour at picquet, retired to rest. Amanda, who en-
joyed but little repose, rose early in the morning, and, finding
her ladyship not quite ready, went down to the court to walk
about till she was ; where, to her great surprise, the first object
she perceived was Howel, leaning pensively against a gate
opposite the house. He flew over, and, catching her hand,
exclaimed, " You are, surprised, but, I trust, not displeased. I
could not resist such an opportunity of seeing you once more,
after all I have suffered from your precipitate journey, and the
probability of never more beholding you, I have been watch-
ing here, in expectation of this happiness, since the first dawn
of day."
" I am sorry," said Amanda, gravely, " your time was so ill
employed."
" How coldly you speak," cried he. " Ah ! could you read
my heart, you would see so little presumption in it, that 3'ou
would, I am confident, pity, though you could not relieve, its
feelings. Every spot you loved to frequent, I have haunted
since your departure. Your mother's grave has often been the
scene of pensive meditation. Nor has it wanted its vernal
offering ; the loveliest flowers of my garden I have wove into
wreaths, and hung them over it, in fond remembrance of her
angel daughter."
The plaintive sound of Howel's voice, the dejection of his
countenance, excited the softest feelings of sensibility in
Amanda's bosom. But she grew confused by the tenderness
of his expression, and, saying she was happy to see him, tried
to disengage her hand, that she might retire.
" Surely," exclaimed he, still detaining it a few moments,
" you might grant me without reluctance ^you, who are going
204
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
to enjoy every happiness and pleasure, going to meet the fa-
vored "
Amanda anticipated the name he was about uttering, and
her confusion redoubled. She attempted again, yet in vain, to
withdraw her hand, and turned to" se6 whether any one was
observing them. How great was her mortification, on perceiv-
ing Lady Greystock leaning ffom a window, exactly over their
heads ! She smiled significantly at Amanda, on being seen ;
and, the carriage being ready, said, " She would attend her
below stairs." Howe! now relinquished Amanda's hand. He
saw she tooked displeased ; and expressed such sorrow, accom-
panied with such submissive apologies for offending her, that
she could not avoid according him her pardon. He handed
both her and Lady Greystock into the carriage, and looked a
melancholy adieu as it drove off.
" Upon my word, a pretty smart young fellow I " said Lady
Greystock. " Though impatient tliis long time to set out, I
could not think of interrupting the interesting tete-a-tete I saw
between you and him. I suppose you have been a resident
in this part of the country before, from your seeming to know
this tender swain so well."
Amanda wished to avoid acknowledging this. If known,
she feared it would lead to a discovery, or at least excite a
suspicion of her intimacy with Lord Mortimer, which she was
desirious of concealing, while in this uncertainty concerning
him.
" Your ladyship has heard, I believe," replied she, " that
Ellen's mother nursed me ? " " Yes, my dear," answered her
ladyship, with some smartness ; " but if your acquaintance
even commenced with this youth in infancy, I fancy it has been
renewed since that period."
Amanda blushed deeply, and, to hide her confusion, pre-
tended to be looking at the prospect from the window. Lady
Greystock's eyes pursued hers. Tudor Hall was conspicuous
from the road, and Amanda involuntarily sighed as she viewed it.
" That is a fine domain," said Lady Greystock ; " I presume
you have visited it, and know its owner ? "
Amanda could not assert a falsehood, neither could she
evade the inquiries of Lady Greystock ; and therefore not only
confessed its being the estate of Lord Mortimer, but her own
residence near it the preceding summer. Her ladyship im-
mediately conjectured it was then the attachment between her
and Lord Mortimer had commenced ; and the blushes, the
hesitation, and the unwillingness of Amanda, in owning her
Tim CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 205
visit to Wales, all confirmed this conjecture. She tried, how-
ever, to insinuate herself into her full confidence, by warm ex-
pressions of esteem, and by hinting, that from the disposition
of Lord Mortimer, she could not believe he ever did, or ever
would, think seriously of Lady Euphrasia; this, she hoped,
would either induce or betray Amanda to open her whole
heart ; but she was disappointed. She flattered herself, how-
ever, with thinking she had discovered enough to satisfy the
marchioness, if she, as Lady Greystock. feared she would,
expressed any disapprobation at seeing Amanda her compan-
ion. She intended saying, that Fitzalan had absolutely forced
her under her protection.
They arrived late in the evening of the third day at Pall
Mall, where her ladyship's agent had previously taken lodgings
for them.
Lady Greystock, though immersed in business against the
approaching trial, neglected no means of amusement ; and, the
day after her arrival, sent a card of inquiry to the Roslin
family, as the most eligible mode of informing them of it. The
next morning, as she expected, she received a visit from them.
Amanda was sitting in the window when the carriage drove up
to the door. She instantly arose, and left the room, deter-
mined neither to expose herself to their impertinence, or ap-
pear solicitous for their notice, by staying in their company
uninvited. Lady Greystock soon informed them of Amanda's
having accompanied her to London ; and they, as she ex-
pected, expressed both surprise and displeasure at it. As she
had settled in her own mind, she, therefore, told them, "that
Fitzalan had urged her to take his daughter under her care,
with entreaties she could not resist. Entreaties," she added,
with a significant look, " she believed he had good reason for'
making." She then related all she suspected, or rather had
discovered, relative to the attachment between Lord Mortimer
and Amanda having commenced the preceding summer in
Wales.
The marchioness and Lady Euphrasia instantly concluded
she was sent to London for the purpose of having it completed
by a marriage. This, however, they determined to prevent.
The marchioness felt the most inveterate hatred against her ;
and also, that, to prevent her being advantageously settled,
even if that settlement threatened not to interfere with the one
she had projected for her daughter, she could undertake almost
any project. Though she abhorred the idea of nodcing her,
yet she was tempted now to do so, from the idea that it would
2o6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
better enable her to watch her actions. This idea she commu-
nicated in a hasty whisper to Lady Euphrasia, who, approving
it, she told Lady Greystock, " as Miss Fitzalan was her guest,
she would, on that account, permit her to be introduced to
them." Amanda was accordingly sent for. On entering the
room, Lady Greystock took her hand, and presented her to
the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia. The former, half rising,
with a coldness she could not conquer, said, " Whenever Lady
Greystock honored her with a visit, she should be happy to see
Miss Fitzalan along with her." The latter only noticed her
by a slight bow ; and when Amanda drew a chair near the
sofa on which she sat, or rather reclined, she continued staring
in her face, and alternately humming an Italian air, and caress-
ing a little dog she had brought with her. The unembarrassed
elegance of Amanda's air and manner surprised and mortified
them, as they expected to have seen her covered with confusion,
at an introduction so unexpected. To their haughty souls,
nothing was more delightful than the awe and deference which
vulgar and illiberal minds are so apt to pay to rank and fortune.
They were provoked to see, in Amanda, conscious dignity, in-
stead of trembling diffidence. As she sat by Lady Euphrasia,
the marchioness could not help secretly confessing she was a
dangerous rival to her daughter; for never did her lovely
features and ingenuous countenance appear to such advantage,
as when contrasted to Lady Euphrasia's. The Marchioness
withdrew soon after her entrance, unable longer to restrain the
malignant passions which envy had excited.
Both she and Lady Euphrasia were convinced that to com-
municate their suspicions at present to Lord Cherbury about
her and his son, would riot answer the end proposed, for it
could be of little consequence, they reflected, to withdraw the
esteem of the father, if that of the son continued, who, inde-
pendent in his notions, and certain of the fortunes of his ances-
tors, might not hesitate to gratify himself. The point, there-
fore, was, by some deep-laid scheme, to ruin Amanda in the
estimation of Lord Mortimer ; and if in the power of mortals to
contrive and execute such a scheme, they gave themselves
credit for being able to effect it.
The blow at her fond hopes, they resolved, should be fol-
lowed by one against the peace of Fitzalan, on whom they
knew, whenever they pleased, they could draw the resentment
of Lord Cherbury. Thus sliould they completely triumph over
the lovely Amanda plunge two beings they detested into
poverty and wretchedness destroy expectations which inter-
rJIE CHILDREN OP Tim ABBEY. 207
fered with their own, and secure an alliance with a man they
had long wished united to their family.
From the unaltered indifference of Lord Mortimer to Lady
Euphrasia, they were convinced of his predilection for another,
flattering themselves that nothing but a prior attachment could
have rendered him insensible to the attractions of her ladyship.
To render the object of this attachment contemptible in his
sight, they believed would produce the transfer of affections
they so long desired. The haughty soul of Lady Euphrasia
would never have permitted her to think of accepting Lord
Mortimer after his neglect of her, but by the opportunity she
should have by such an acceptance of triumphing over Amanda.
From this idea, she entered warmly into all her mother's plans.
Lord Cherbury had never yet spoken explicitly to his son
concerning the union he had projected for him, He often,
indeed, dropped hints about it, which he always found either
neglected, or purposely misunderstood ; and from these circum-
stances was pretty sensible of the disinclination Lord Mortimer
felt to his wishes. He knew he entertained high notions of the
independence which a rational mind has a right to maintain,
and that in an affair of such consequence, as Mortimer fre-
quently said he considered a matrimonial connection to be, he
would neither be controlled by the opinion of others or merely
allured by the advantages of fortune.
To avoid a disagreeable argument with a son he not only
loved, but respected, he sought rather, by indirect means, to
involve him in an entanglement with the Roslin family, than
come to an open explanation with him. For this purpose he
contrived parties as often as possible with them in public;
where, by Lord Mortimer's being seen with Lady Euphrasia,
reports might be raised of an intended alliance between them
reports which he himself propagated among some particular
friends, with a desire of having them circulated, but an injunc-
tion of secrecy as to their author. These reports would, he
trusted, on reaching Lord Mortimer, lead to a discussion of the
affair ; and then, he meant to say, as Lord Mortimer had
partly contributed to raise them himself by his attendance on
Lady Euphrasia, he could not possibly, with honor, recede
from realizing them ; yet often did his lordship fear his scheme
would prove abortive ^for he well knew the cool judgment and
keen penetration of his son. This fear always inspired him
with horror, for he had a motive for desiring the union which he
durst not avow.
Ijord Mortimer quickly indeed discerned what his father's
3o8 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
views were in promoting his attendance on Lady Euphrasia
He therefore avoided her society whenever it was possible to
do so without absolute rudeness, and contradicted the reports
he almost continually heard of an intended alliance between
them in the most solemn manner. He had always disliked her,
but latterly that dislike was converted into hatred, from the
malevolence of her conduct towards Amanda ; and he felt that,
even were his heart free, he never could devote it to her or
five his hand where it must be unaccompanied with esteem.
le wished to avoid a disagreeable conversation with Lord
Cherbury, and flattered himself his unaltered indifference to
her ladyship would at length convince his lorckhip of the im-
possibility of accomplishing his projected scheme ; and that
consequently it would be dropped ere openly avowed, and he
saved the painful necessity of absolutely rejecting a proposal of
his father's.
In the evening Lady Greystock and Amanda received
cards for dinner the next day at the Marquis of Roslin's.
Amanda made no objection to this invitation. Her father had
often declared, if the marchioness made an overture for an inti-
macy with his children, he would not reject it, as he always
deemed family quarrels highly prejudicial to both parties, with
regard to the opinion of the world. Besides, had she objected
to it, she should either have been a restraint on Lady Grey-
stock, or left to total solitude ; and the idea also stole upon
her mind that she should lose a chance of seeing Lord Mortimer,
whom she supposed a frequent guest of the marquis's. Her
heart fluttered at the idea of soon beholding him, and the bright
glow of animation which overspread her countenance in conse-
quence of this idea attracted the observation of Lady Greystock,
who congratulated her on the alteration that was already visi-
ble in her looks j and inferred from thence that she was so well
recovered of her fatigue as to be able to contrive a little trim-
ming for her against the next day. This Amanda cheerfully
undertook, and having a quick execution as well as an elegant
taste, soon made progress in it which delighted her ladyship,
who, to divert her while she worked, related some of the many
entertaining anecdotes with which her memory was stored.
Though Amanda submitted her beautiful hair to the hands
of a friseur, she departed not from the elegant simplicity
always conspicuous in her dress. Her little ornaments were
all arranged with taste, and an anxious wish of appearing to
advantage. So lovely, indeed, did she appear to Lady Grey-
stock, that her ladyship began seriously to fear she should not
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 209
be forgiven by the marchioness or Lady Euphrasia, for having
introduced such an object to their parties.
About six they reached Portman Square, and found a large
party assemblcfl in the dra^*ing-rooln. After the first compli-
ments were over and Amanda introduced to the marquis not,
indeed, as a near relation, but an utter stranger a gentleman
stepped up to the marchioness, and addressing her in a low
voice, was immediately presented by her to Amanda, as the
Earl of Cherbury.
" My dear young lady," said he, " allow me to express the
pleasure I feel at seeing the daughter of my worthy friend, Mr.
Fitzalan. Allow me also to increase that pleasure," continued
he, taking her hand, and leading her to a very lovely girl who
sat at some distance, " by presenting Miss Fitzalan to Lady
Araminta Dormer, and desiring their friendship for each other."
Surprised, confused, yet delighted by notice so little ex-
pected, the heart of Amanda heaved with emotion ; her cheeks
mantled with blushes, and the tear of sensibility trembled in
her eye. She was not, however, so embarrassed as to be in-,
capable of expressing her acknowledgments to his lordship for
his attention, and also to assure him she had early been taught,
and sensibly felt, the claims he had upon her gratitude and
respect. He bowed, as if to prevent a. further mention of ob-
ligations, and left her seated by' his daughter, who had ex-
pressed her pleasure at being introduced to her, not in the
supercilious style of Lady Euphrasia, but in the sweet accents
of affability and tenderness.
The conduct of Lord Cherbury had drawn all eyes upon
Amanda ; and the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia regarded
her with peculiar malignancy. The idea, however, that they
could, whenever they pleased, deprive her of his notice, a little
lessened the jealousy and mortification it had excited.
" Pray, who is this little creature," exclaimed Miss Mal-
colm (who was a relation of the Marquis's, and, from being
extremely ugly, extremely rich, and extremely ill-natured, was
an immense favorite of Lady Euphrasia's), " that puts one in
mind of a country miss, on her first appearance at a country
assembly, blushing and trembling at every eye she meets ? "
" Some kind of a far-off relation of my mother's," replied
Lady Euphrasia, " whom that old dowager. Lady Greystock,
picked up in the wilds of .Ireland, and has absolutely forced
upon our notice ; though I assure you, from compassion, we
should have taken the poor creature long ago under our pro-
tection, but for the shocking conduct of her family to the mar-
i4
310 the! children of the abbe y.
chioness, and the symptoms she has already betrayed of fol-
lowing their example. It is really ridiculous sending her to
London. I dare say her silly old father has exhausted all his
ways and means in trying to render her decent, comforting him-
self, no doubt, with the hope of her entrapping some young
fool of quality, who may supply his wants as well as hers."
" Ay, I suppose all the stock in the farm was sold to dress
her out," cried young Freelove, a little, trifling fop, who lean-
ed on the back of her ladyship's chair. He was a ward of
Lord Cherbury, and his fortune considerable ; but nature had
not been quite as bounteous to him as the blind goddess. Both
his mind and person were effeminate to a degree of insignifi-
cance. All he aimed at was being a man of fashion. His
manners, like his dress, were therefore regulated by it, and he
never attempted to approve of anything, or any creature,
till assured they were quite the ton. He had danced attend-
ance for some time on Lady Euphrasia, and she encouraged
his assiduities in hopes of effecting a change in Lord Morti-
mer's manner. IJut had his lordship even been a passionate
lover, poor Freelove was not calculated to inspire him with
jealousy. " I declare," continued he, surveying Amanda
through an opera-glass which dangled from his button-hole, " if
her father has nothing to support him but the hope of her
making a conquest of importance, he will be in a sad way,
for, 'pon my soul, I can see nothing the girl has to recom-
mend her, except novelty ; and that, you know, is a charm
which will lessen every day. All she can possibly expect, is
an establishment for a few months with some tasteless being
who may like the simplicity of her country look."
" And more than she merits," exclaimed Miss Malcolm ; " I
have no patience with such creatures forcing themselves inta
society quite above them."
" I assure you," said Lady Euphrasia, " you would be as-
tonished at her vanity and conceit, if you knew her. She con-
siders herself a first-rate beauty, though positively any one may
see she is quite the reverse, and pretends to the greatest gentle-
ness and simplicity. Then she has made some strange kind
of people (to be sure they must be) believe she is accom-
plished; though, I dare say, if she can read tolerably, and
scrawl out a decent letter, 'tis the utmost she can do."
" We will quiz her after dinner about her accomplishments,"
said Freelove, " and have a little fun with her."
" Ay, do," cried Miss Malcolm. " We will ask her to play
and sing," said her ladyship ; " for I assure you she pretends
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. m
to excel in both ; though, from her father's poverty, I am cer-
tain she can know little of either. I shall enjoy her confusion
of all things, when her ignorance is detected."
Whilst this conversation was passing, Amanda, in convers-
ing with Lady Araminta, experienced the purest pleasure. Her
ladyship was the " softened image " of Lord Mortimer. Her
voice was modulated to the same harmony as his, and Amanda
gazed and listened with rapture. On her confusion abating,
her eye had wandered round the room in quest of his lordship,
but he was not in it. At every stir, near the door, her heart
fluttered at the idea of seeing him ; nor was this idea relin-
quished till summoned to dinner. She fortunately procured a
seat next Lady Araminta, which prevented her thinking the
time spent at dinner tedious. In the evening the rooms were
crowded with company, but Lord Mortimer appeared not among
the brilliant assembly. Yet the pang of disappointment was
softened to Amanda by his absence, intimating that he was not
anxious for the society of Lady Euphrasia. True, business, or
a prior engagement, might have prevented his coming ; but she,
as is natural, fixed on the idea most flattering to herself.
Lady Euphrasia, in pursuance of the plan laid against Aman-
da, led the way to the music-room, attended by a large party ;
as Freelove had intimated to some of the beaux and belles, her
ladyship and he were going to quiz an ignorant Irish country
girl. Lady Euphrasia sat down to the harpsichord, that she
might have a better pretext for asking Amanda to play. Free-
love seated himself by the latter, and began a conversation
which, he thought, would effectually embarrass her j but it had
quite a contrary effect, rendering him so extremely ridiculous
as to excite a universal laugh at his expense.
Amanda soon perceived his intention in addressing her ;
and, also, that Lady Euphrasia and Miss Malcolm were privy
to it, having caught the significant looks which passed among
them. Though tremblingly alive to every feeling of modesty,
she had too much sense, and real nobleness of soul, to allow
the illiberal sallies of impertinence to divest her of composure.
" Have you seen any of the curiosities of London, my dear "
exclaimed Freelove, lolling back in his chair, and contemplating
the lustre of his buckles, unconscious of the ridicule he excited.
" I think I have," said Amanda, somewhat archly, and
glancing at him, " quite an original in its kind." Her look, as
well as the emphasis on her words, excited another laugh at his
expense, which threw him into a momentary confusion.
" I think," said he, as he recovered from it, " the Monu-
212 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
ment and the Tower would be. prodigious fine siglits to you, and
I malce it a particular request that I may be included in your
party whenever you visit them, particularly the last place."
"And why," replied Amanda, " should I take the trouble of
visiting wild beasts, when every day I may see animals equally
strange, and not half so mischievous ? "
Freelove, insensible as he was, could not mistake the mean'
ing of Amanda's words, and he left her with a . mortified air,
being, to use his own phrase, " completely done up."
Lady Euphrasia, now rising from the harpsichord, requested
Amanda to lake her place at it, saying, with an ironical air,
" her performance (which indeed was shocking) would make
hers appear to amazing advantage."
Diffident of her own abilities, Amanda begged to be excused.
But when Miss Malcolm, with an earnestness even oppressive,
joined her entreaties to Lady Euphrasia's she could no longer
refuse.
" I suppose," said her ladyship, following her to the instru-
ment, " these songs," presenting her some trifling ones, " will
answer you better than the Italian music before you ? "
Amanda made no reply, but turned over the leaves of the
book to a lesson much more difficult than that Lady Euphrasia
had played. Her touch at first was tremulous and weak, but
she was too susceptible of the powers of harmony not soon to
be inspired by it ; and gradually her style became so masterly
and elegant, as to excite universal admiration, except in the
bosoms of those who had hoped to place her in a ludicrous
situation. Their invidious scheme, instead of depressing, had
only served to render excellence conspicuous ; and that morti-
fication they destined for another, fell upon themselves. When
the lesson was concluded, some gentlemen who either were, or
pretended to be, musical connoisseurs, entreated her to sing.
She chose a plaintive Italian air, and the exquisite taste and
sweetness with which she sung, equally astonished and delighted.
Nor was admiration confined to the accomplishments she dis-
played. The soft expression of her countenance, which seemed
accordant to" the harmonious sounds that issued from her lips,
was viewed with pleasure, and praised with energy ; and she
rose from ,the harpsichord covered with blushes from the ap-
plause which stole around her. The gentlemen gathered around
Lady Euphrasia, to inquire who the beautiful stranger was, and
she gave them pretty much the same account she had already
done to Miss Malcolm.
The rage and disappointment of that young lady, and her
TTTE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 213
ladyship, could scarcely be concealed. " I declare, I never kneiv
anything so monstrously absurd," exclaimed Lady Euphrasia,
" as to let a girl in her situation learn such things, except, in^
deed, it was to qualify her for a governess, or an opera singer."
" Ay, I suppose," said Miss Malcolm, " we shall soon hear
her quavering away at one of the theatres j for no person of
fashion would really intrust her children to so confident a
creature."
The fair object of their disquietude gladly accompanied
. Lady Araminta into another room. Several gentlemen followed,
and crowded about her chair, offering that adulation which they
were accustomed to find acceptable at the shrine of beauty.
To Amanda, however, it was irksome, hot only from its absurd
extravagance, but as it interrupted her conversation with Lady
Aramintd. The marchioness, however, who critically watched
her iTiotlons, soon relieved her from the troublesome assiduities
of the beaux, by placing them at card-tables. Not, indeed,
from any good-natured motive, but she could not bear that
Amanda should have so much attention paid her, and flattered
herself she would be vexed by losing it.
In the course of conversation. Lady Araminta mentioned
Ireland. She had a faint remembrance of Castle Carberry, she
said, and had been half tempted to accompany the marquis and
his family in their lale excursion. Her brother, she added, had
almost made her promise to visit the castle with him the ensu-
ing summer. " You have seen Lord Mortimer, to be sure ? "
continued her ladyship.
" Yes, madam," faltered Amanda, while her face was over-
spread with a crimson hue. Her ladyship was too penetrating
not to perceive her confusion, and it gave rise to a conjecture
of something more than a slight acquaintance being between
his lordship and Amanda. The melancholy he had betrayed
on his return from Ireland had excited the raillery of her lady-
ship, till convinced, by the discomposure he showed whenever
she attempted to inquire into the occasion of it, that it proceeded
from a source truly interesting to his feelings. She knew of
the alliance her father had projected for him with the Roslin
family a project she never approved of, for Lady Euphrasia
was truly disagreeable to her ; and a soul like Mortimer's, ten-
der, liberal, and sincere, she knew could never experience the
sQiallest degree of happiness with a being so uncongenial in
every respect as was Lady Euphrasia to him. She loved her
brother with the truest tenderness, and secretly believed he was
attached in Ireland. She wished to gain his confidence, yet
would not solicit it, because she knew she had it not in her
214 THE CHILD RE If OF THE ABBEY.
power essentially to serve him. Her arguments, she was con-
vinced, would have little weight with Lord Clicrbury, who had
often expressed to her his anxiety for a connection with the
Roslin family. , With the loveliness of Amanda's person, with
the elegance of her manner, she was immediately charmed. As
she conversed with her, esteem was added to admiration, and
she believed that Mortimer would not have omitted mentioning
to her the beautiful daughter of his father's agent, had he not
feared betraying too much emotion at her name. She appeared
to Lady Araminta just the kind of woman he would adore ; just
the being that would answer all the ideas of perfection (roman-
tic ideas she had called them) which he had declared necessary
to captivate his heart. Lady Araminta already felt for, her un-
speakable tenderness. In the softness of her looks, in the
sweetness of her voice, there were resistless charms ; and she
felt, that if oppressed by sorrow, Amanda Fitzalan, above all
other beings, was the one she would select to give her consola-
tion. Tlie confusion she betrayed at the mention of Mortimer,
made lier ladyship suspect she was the cause of his dejection.
She involuntarily fastened her eyes upon her face, as if to pen-
etrate the recesses of her heart, yet with a tenderness which
seemed to say she would pity the secret she might then discover.
Lord Cherbury, at this moment of embarrassment to
Amanda, approached. He said, " He had just been making a
request, and an apology to Lady Greystock, and was now come
to repeat them to her. The former was, to meet the marquis's
family at his house the next day at dinner ; and the latter was,
to excuse so unceremonious an invitation, which he had been
induced to make on Lady Araminta's account, who was obliged
to leave town the day after the next, and had, therefore, no time
for the usual etiquette of visiting."
Amanda bowed. This invitation was more pleasing than
one of more form would have been. It seemed to indicate
friendship, and a desire to have the intimacy between her and
his daughter cultivated. It gave her also a hope of seeing Lord
Mortimer. All these suggestions inspired her with uncommon
animation, and she entered into a lively conversation with Lord
Clierbury, who had infinite vivacity in his look and manner.
Lady Araminta observed the attention he paid her with pleas-
ure. A prepossession in her favor, she trusted, might produce
pleasing consequences.
Lady Greystock at length rose to depart. Amanda received
an affectionate adieu from Lady Araminta ; and Lord Cherbury
attended the ladies to their carriage. On driving off. Lady
Greystock observed, what a charming polite man his lordship
THE CmLDREN OF TI-TE ABBEY,
2IS
Was ; and, in short, threw out such hints, and entered into such
a warm eulogiuin on his merits, that Amanda began to think he
would not find it very difficult to prevail on her ladyship to
enter once more the temple of Hymen,
Amanda retired to her chamber in a state of greater hap-
piness than for a long period before she had experienced ; but
it was a happiness which rather agitated than soothed the feel-
ings, particularly hers, which were so susceptible of every im-
pression, that
" They turned at the touch of joy or woe,
And turning trembled too."
Her present happiness was the offspring of hope, and there-
fore peculiarly liable to disappointment ; a hope derived from
the attention of Lord Cherbury, and the tenderness of Lady
Araminta, that the fond wishes of her heart might yet be
realized ; wishes, again believed from hearing of Lord Mor- /
timer's dejection, which his sister had touched upon, and from
his absenting himself from the marquis's, which were not un-
congenial to those he himself entertained. She sat down tO'
acquaint her father with the particulars of the day she had
passed : for her chief consolation in her absence from him, was,
in the idea of writing and hearing constantly. Her writing.'
finished, she sat by the fire, meditating on the interview she'
expected would take place on the ensuing day, till the hoarse
voice of the watchmen, proclaiming past three o'clock, roused
her from her reverie. She smiled at the abstraction of her
thoughts, and retired to bed to dream of felicity.
So calm were her slumbers so delightful her dreams that
Sol had long shot his timorous ray into her chamber ere she;
awoke. Her spirits still continued serene and animated. On:
descending to the drawing-room, she found Lady Greystock just
entering it. After breakfast, they went out in her ladyship's
carriage to different parts of the town. All was new to Amanda,
who, during her former residence in it, had been entirely con-
fined to lodgings in a retired street. She wondered at, and was
amused by, the crowds continually passing and repassing.
About four they returned to dress. Amanda began the labors
of the toilet with a beating heart ; nor were its quick pulsations
decreased on entering Lady Greystock's carriage, which in a
few minutes conveyed her to Lord Cherbury's house in St.
James's Square. She followed her ladyship with tottering steps ;
and the first object she saw on entering the drawing-room was
^'tortimer standing near the door.
2l6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABB^Y.
CHAPTER XXV.
" Begone iny cares ; I give you to the winds." Rowb.
In the drawing-room were already assembled the marquis,
marchioness, Lady Euphrasia, Miss Malcolm, and Freelove.
Lady Araminta perceived in the hesitating voice of Amanda
the emotions which agitated her, and which were not diminished
when Lord Cherbury, taking her trembling hand, said
" Mortimer, I presume you have already seen Miss Fitzalan
in Ireland ? "
" I have, my lord," replied Mortimer, bowing, and at the
same time approaching to pay his compliments.
" Every eye in the room, except Lord Cherbury's and Free-
love's, was now turned upon his lordsliip and Amanda, and
thought, in the expressive countenances of both, enough could
be read to confirm their suspicions of a mutual attachment sub-
sisting between them.
Amanda, when seated, endeavored to recover from her con-
fusion. Miss Malcolm, to prevent Lord Mortimer's taking a
seat by her, which she thought she perceived him inclined to
do, beckoned him to her, and contrived to engage him in tri-
fling chat, till they were summoned to dinner. On receiving his
hand, which he could not avoid offering, to lead her to the par-
lor, she cast a look of exultation at Amanda. Lady Araminta,
perceiving all the gentlemen engaged, good-humoredly put her
arm within Amanda's, and said she would be her chaperon on
the present occasion. Lord Mortimer quitted Miss Malcolm
the moment he had procured her a seat, though she desired
him to take one between her and Lady Euphrasia, and, passing
to the other side, placed himself by Amanda. This action
pleased her as much as it mortified them. It embarrassed her,
however, a little ; but perceiving the scrutinizing earnestness
with which the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia regarded her,
she exerted her spirits, and was soon able to join in the general
conversation which Lord Mortimer promoted.
The unexpected arrival of Amanda in London astonished,
and, notwithstandmg his resentment, delighted him. His sister,
when they were alone in the morning, had mentioned her with
all the fervency of praise. Her plaudits gave to him a sensa-
rim CltTLDREN OF THE ABBE}^. iij
tlon of satisfied pride, which, convinced liim he was not less
than ever interested about Amanda. Since his return from
Ireland, he had been distracted by incertitude and anxiety
about her. The innocence, the purity, the tenderness she had
displayed, were perpetually recurring to his memory. It was
impossible, he thought, they could be feigned, and he began to
think the apparent mystery of her conduct she could have sat-
isfactorily explained that designedly she had not avoided
him and that, but for the impetuosity of his own passions,
which had induced his precipitate departure, he might, ere this,
have had all his doubts removed. Tortured with incessant
regret for this departure, he would have returned immediately
to Ireland, but at this period found it impossible to do so, with-
out exciting inquiries from Lord Cherbury, which, at present,
he did not choose to answer. He had planned an excursion
thither the ensuing summer with Lady Araminta, determined
no longer to endure his suspense. He now almost believed
the peculiar interposition of Providence had brought Amanda
to town, thus affording him another fapportunity of having his
anxiety relieved, and the chief obstacle, perhaps to his, and he
flattered himself also, to her happiness, removed ; for, if as-
sured her precipitate journey from Wales was occasioned by no
motive she need blush to avow, he felt he should be better en-
abled to combat the difficulties he was convinced his father
would throw in the way of their union. Notwithstanding Lady
Araininta's endeavors to gain his implicit confidence, he resolved ,
to withhold it from her, lest she should incur ven the tempo-
ary displeasure of Lord Cherbury, by the warm interest he
knew she would take in his affairs, if once informed of them.
Amanda looked thinner and paler than when he had seen
her in Ireland yet, if possible, more interesting from these
circumstances ; and, from the soft glance she had involuntarily
directed towards him at her entrance, he was tempted to think
he had, in some degree, contributed to rob her lovely cheek of
its bloom ; and this idea rendered her dearer than ever to him.
Scarcely could he restrain the rapture he felt on seeing het
within the necessary bounds ; scarcely could he believe the
scene which had given rise to his happiness real. His heart,
at the moment 'melting with tenderness, sighed for the period
of explanation, which he trusted, which he hoped, would also
be the period of reconciliation.
The gentlemen joined the ladies about teatime, and as no
additional company was expected, Lady Euphrasia proposed a
party to the Pantheon. This was at once agreed to. Amanda
218 '^JfP' CHILD KEN OF THE A IS BEY.
was delighted at the proposal, as it not only promised to grat-
ify her curiosity, but to give Lord Mortimer an opportunity
of addressing her, as she saw he wished, but vainly attempted,
at home. The marquis and Lord Cherbury declined going.
Lady Greystock, who had not ordered her carriage till a much
later hour, accepted a place in the marchioness's.
Neither Lady Euphrasia nor Miss Malcolm could bear the
idea of Lord Mortimer and Amanda going in the same carriage,
as the presence of Lady Araminta, they were convinced, would
not prevent their using an opportunity so propitious for con-
versing as they wished. Lady Euphrasia, therefore, with sud-
den eagerness, declared she and Miss, Malcolm would resign
their seats in the marchioness's carriage to Miss Fitzalan and
Freelove for the pleasure of accompanying Lady Araminta in
hers. The marchioness, who conjectured her daughter's motive
for this new arrangement, seconded it, to the secret regret of
Amanda, and the visible chagrin of Lord Mortimer. Amanda,
however, consoled herself for this disappointment, by reflecting
on the pleasure siic should enjoy in a few minutes, when freed
from the disagreeable observation of the marchioness and Lady
Euphrasia ; her reflections were not in the least interrupted by
any conversation being addressed to her. The marchioness
and Lady Greystock chatted together, and Freelove amused
himself humming a song, as if for the purpose of mortifying
Amanda by his inattention. When the carriage stopped, he
assisted the former ladies out; but as if forgetting such a being
existed as Amanda, he went on with them. She was descend-
ing the steps when Lord Mortimer pressed forward, and
snatching her hand, softly exclaimed : " We have met again,
and neither envy nor malice shall again separate us." A
beautiful glow overspread the countenance of Amanda : her
hand trembled in his, and she felt, in that moment, recom-
pensed for her former disappointment, and elevated above the
little insolence of Freelove. Lord Mortimer handed her to his
sister, who was waiting to receive her, and they proceeded to
the room. Lady Euphrasia entered it with a temper unfitted for
enjoyment. She was convinced the whole soul of Mortimer
was devoted to Amanda, and she trembled from the violent and
malignant feelings that conviction excited. From the moment
he entered the carriage till he quitted it he had remained silent,
notwithstanding all her efforts and Miss Malcolm's to force
him into conversation. He left them as soon as they reached
the Pantheon to watch the marchioness's carriage, which fol-
lowed theirs, and on rejoining Amanda he attached himself en-
TttP. CHtLDRUN OP T/fM ABBEV.
2l9
tirely to her, without any longer appearing anxious to conceal
his predielction for her. He had, indeed, forgotten the necessity
there was for concealing it ; all his feelings, all his ideas, were
engrossed by ecstasy and tenderness. The novelty, the brilliancy
of the scene, excited surprise and pleasure in Amanda, and he
was delighted with the animated description she gave of the
effect it produced upon her mind. In her he found united, ex-
alted sense, lively fancy, and an uncorrupted taste : he forgot
that the eyes of jealousy and malevolence were on them ; he
forgot every object but herself.
But, alas ! poor Amanda was doomed to disappointment
this evening. Lady Greystock, according to a hint she had
received, after a few rounds, stepped up to her, and declared
she must accompany her to a seat, as she was convinced her
health was yet too weak to bear much fatigue. Amanda ae-
sured her she was not in tlie least fatigued, and that she would
prefer walking ; besides, she had half-promised Lord Mortimer
to dance with hira. This Lady Greystock absolutely declared
she would not consent to, though Lady Araminta, on whose
arm Amanda leaned, pleaded for her friend, assuring her lady-
ship " she would take care Miss Fitzalan should not injure
herself."
" Ah, you young people," suid Lady Greystock, " are so
carried away with spirits, you never relfect on consequences j
but I declare, as she is intrusted to my care, I could not
answer it to my conscience to let her run into any kind of
danger."
Lady Araminta remonstrated with her ladyship, and Aman-
da would have joined, but that she feared her real motive for
doing so would have been discovered. She perceived the party
were detained from proceeding on her account, and immedi-
ately offered her arm to Lady Greystock, and accompanied her
and the marchioness to a seat. Lady Euphrasia, catching
hold of Lady Araminta's arm, hurried her, at the same instant,
into the crowd ; and Miss Malcolm, as if by chance, laid her
hand on Lord Mortimer, and thus compelled him to attend her
party. She saw him, however, in the course of the round,
prepared to fly off ; but when they had completed it, to her
inexpressible joy, the situation of Amanda made him relin-
quish his intention, as to converse with her was utterly impos-
sible ; for the marchioness had placed her between Lady Grey-
stock and herself, and, under the pretence of frequently ad-
dressing her ladyship, was continually leaning across Amanda,
so as to exclude her almost from observation, thus rendering her
520 THE CltlLDREN OF THE ABBEY.
situation, exclusive of the regret at being separated from Lord
Mortimer and Lady Araminta, highly disagreeable. The
marchioness enjoyed a malicious joy in the uneasiness she saw
she gave Amanda. She deemed it but a slight retaliation for
the uneasiness she had given Lady Euphrasia a trifling pun-
ishment for the admiration she had excited.
Amanda, indeed, whilst surveying the scene around liei: with
wonder and delight, had herself been an object of critical at-
tention and inquiry. She was followed, iiniversally admired,
and allowed to be the finest girl that had appeared for a long
season.
Relieved of her presence, Lady Euphrasia's spirits began to
revive, and her good-humor to return. She laughed maliciously
with Miss Malcolm at the disappointment of Lord Mortimer
and Amanda. After a few rounds, Sir Charles Bingley, in
company with another gentleman, passed them. He was, to
use Miss Malcolm's own jihrase, " an immense favorite with
her," and she had long meditated and attempted the conquest
of ills heart. The attention which politeness obliged him to
show, and the compliments she sometimes compelled him to
pay, she flattered herself, were intimations of the success of her
scheme. Lady Euphrasia, notwithstanding her intentions rela-
tive to Lord Mortimer, and her professed friendship for Miss
Malcolm, felt an ardent desire to have Sir Charles enrolled in
th9 list of her admirers, and both ladies determined he should
not again pass without noticing them. They accordingly
watched his approach, and when they again met addressed him
in a manner that, to a man at all interested about either,
would have been truly flattering. As this, liowever, was not
the young baronet's case, after paying his compliments in a
general way to the whole party, he was making his parting bow,
when his companion, pulling him by the sleeve, bid him observe a
beautiful girl sitting opposite to them. They had stopped near
the marchioness's seat, and it was to Amanda Sir Charles's eyes
were directed.
" Gracious heaven ! " cried he, starting, while his cheek was
suffused with a glow of pleasure ; " can this be possible ? Can
this in reality," advancing to her seat, " be Miss Fitzalan .
This surely," continued he, " is a meeting as fortunate as unex-
pected. But for it, I should have been posting back to Ireland
in a day or two."
Amanda blushed deeply at his thus publicly declaring her
power of regulating his actions. Her confusion restored that
recollection his joyful surprise had deprived him of, and he
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 2i
addressed the marchioness and Lady Greystock. The former
haughtily bowed, without speaking ; and the latter, laughing
significantly, said, " she really imagined ecstasy on Miss
Fitzalan's account had made him forget any one else was pres-
ent." The situation of Amanda was tantalizing in an extreme
degree to Sir Charles. It precluded all conversation, and fre-
quently hid her from liis view, as the marchioness and Lady
Greystock still continued their pretended whispers. Sir Charles
had some knowledge of the marchioness's disposition, and
quickly perceived the motive of her present conduct.
" Your ladyship is kind," said he, " in trying to hide Miss
Fitzalan, as no doubt you are conscious 'tis not a slight heart-
ache she would give to some of the belles present this evening.
But why," continued he, turning to Amanda, " do you prefer
sitting to walking ? "
Amanda made no answer; but a glance from her expressive
eyes to the ladies informed him of the reason. ,
Lady Euphrasia and Miss Malcolm, provoked at the abrupt
departure of Sir Charles, had hurried on ; but scarcely had they
proceeded a few yards ere envy and curiosity induced them to
turn back. Lady Araminta perceived their chagrin, and secret-
ly enjoyed it. Sir Charles, who had been looking impatiently
for their approach, the moment he perceived them, entreated
Amanda to join them.
" Let me," cried he, presenting his hand, "be your knight
on the present occasion, and deliver you from what may be
called absolute captivity."
She hesitated not to accept his offer. The continual buzz
in the room, with the passing and repassing of tiie company,
had made her head giddy. She deemed no apology requisite
to her companions ; and, quitting her seat, hastened forward
to Lady Araminta, who had stopped for her. A crowd at
tliat moment, intervening between Ihcm, retarded her progress.
Sir Charles, pressing her hand with fervor, availed himself of
this opportunity to express his pleasure at their unexpected
meeting.
"Ah ! how little," cried he, " did I imagine there was such
happiness in store for me this evening." i
" Sir Charles," said Amanda, endeavoring, though in vain,
to withdraw her hand, " you have learned the art of flattering
since your return to England."
" I wish," cried he, " I had learned the art of expressing, as
I wish, the sentiments I feel."
Lord Mortimer, who had made way through the crowd for
223 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
the ladies, at this instant appeared. He seemed to recoil at
the situation of Amanda, whose hand was yet detained in Sir
Charles's, while the soft glow and confusion of her face gave at
least a suspicionof the language she was listening to.
On rejoining the party she hoped again to have been joined
by Lord Mortimer ; but, even if inclined for this. Sir Charles
totally prevented him. His lordship deserted them, yet almost
continually contrived to intercept the party, and his eyes were
always turned on Amanda and Sir Charles. He was really dis-
pleased with her. He thought she might as well have left her
seat before as after Sir Charles's appearance, and he resolved
to watch her closely. She was asked to dance by Sir Charles,
and several other gentlemen, but refused, and Lady Araminta,
on her account, followed her example. Lady Euphrasia and
' Miss Malcolm either were too much discomposed, or not asked
by gentlemen they liked, to join the festive group.
Amanda, from being disappointed, soon grew languid, and
endeavored to check, with more than usual seriousness, the
ardent expressions of Sir Charles, who repeatedly declared, " he
had hurried over the affairs which brought him to England
entirely on her account, as he thought every day an age until
they again met."
She was rejoiced when Lady Araminta proposed returning
home. Lady Euphrasia and Miss Malcolm had no longer a
desire to accompany her ladyship, as they believed Lord Mor-
timer already gone, and she and Amanda therefore returned
alone. Sir Charles was invited to supper, an invitation he joy-
fully accepted, and promised to follow her ladyship as soon as
he had apprised the party he came with of his intention.
Lady Araminta and Amanda arrived some time before the
rest of the party. Her ladyship said, " that her leaving town was
to attend the nuptials of a particular friend," and was express-
ing her hopes, that on her return, she should often be favored
with tlje company of Amanda, when the door suddenly opened
and Lord Mortimer entered. He looked pleased and surprised,
and taking a seat on the sofa between them, exclaimed, as he
regarded them with unutterable tenderness, " surely one moment
like this is worth whole hours such as we have lately spent.
May I," looking at Amanda, " say that chance is now as pro-
pitious to me as it was some time ago to Sir Charles Bingley ?
Tell me," continued he, " were you not agreeably surprised
to-night ? "
" By the Pantheon, undoubtedly, my lord."
And by Sir Charles Bingley ? "
THE CHILDREN OF THE: ABBEY. 223
" No. He is too slight an acquaintance either to give
pleasure by his presence or pain by his absence."
This was just what Lord Mortimer wanted to hear. The
looks of Amanda, and, above all, the manner in which she had
received the attentions of Sir Charles, evinced her sincerity. The
shadow of jealousy removed, Lord Mortimer recovered all his
animation. Never does the mind feel so light, so truly happy,
as when a painful doubt is banished froin it.
" Miss Fitzalan," said Lady Araminta, recurring to what
Amanda had just said, " can sfee few beings, like herself, capa-
ble of exciting immediate esteem. For my own part, I can-
not persuade myself that she is an acquaintance of but two
days, I feel such an interest in her welfare, such a sisterly
regard." She paused, and looked expressively on her brother
and Amanda. His fine eyes beamed the liveliest pleasure.
" Oh, my sister," cried he, " encourage that sisterly affection.
Who so worthy of possessing it as Miss Fitzalan ? and who but
Amanda," continued he, passing his arm round her waist, and
softly whispering to her, " shall have a right to claim it ? "
The stopping of the carriages now announced the return of
the party, and terminated a scene, which, if much longer pro-
tracted, might, by increasing their agitation, have produced a
full discovery of their feelings. The ladies were attended by
Sir Charles and Freelove. The marquis and Lord Cherbury
Jiad been out, but returned about this time ; and soon after
supper the company departed Lady Araminta tenderly bid-
ding Amanda farewell.
The cares which had so long pressed upon the heart of
Amanda, and disturbed its peace, were now vanished. The
whisper of Lord Mortimer had assured her that she was not
only the object of his tenderest a/Teclion, but most serious at-
tention. The regard of Lady Araminta flattered her pride, as
it implied a tacit approbation of her brother's choice.
The next morning, immediately after breakfast, Lady Grey-
stock went out to her lawyer, and Amanda was sitting at work
in the dressing-room, when Sir Charles Bingley was announced.
He now expressed, if possible, more pleasure at seeing her than
he had done the preceding night ; congratulated himself at find- ,
ing her alone, and repeatedly declared, from their first interview,
her image had never been absent from his mind. The par-
ticularity and ardor of his expressions Amanda wished, and
endeavored, to repress. She had not the ridiculous and unfeel-
in*g vanity to be delighted with an attachment she could not
return ; besides his attentions were unpleasing, as she believed,
224
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
they gave uneasiness to Lord Mortimer. She therefore answered
him with cold and studied caution, which, to his impetuous
feelings, was insupportable. Half resenting, half rallying it, he
snatched her hand, in spite of her efforts to prevent him, and
was declaring he could not bear it, when the door opened and
Lord Mortimer appeared. Had Amanda been encouraging the
regard of Sir Charle.s, she could not have betrayed more con-
fusion. Lord Mortimer retreated a few steps, in evident em-
barrassment ; then bowing coolly, again advanced and took a
seat. Sir Charles started up, with a look which seemed to say
he had been most unpleasantly interrupted, and walked about
the room. Amanda was the first who broke silence. She
asked, in a hesitating voice, " Whether Lady Araminta was yet
gone?" "No," his lordship gravely replied; "but in a few
minutes she proposed setting out, and he meant to accompany
her part of the way." " So, till her ladyship was ready," cried
Sir Charles, with quickness, " that no time might be lost, you
come to Miss Fitzalan ? "
Lord Morliiuer made no reply. He frowned, and rising
directly, slightly saluted Amanda, and retired.
Convinced, as she was, that Lord Mortimer had made the
visit for the purpose of speaking more explicitly than he had
yet done, she could not entirely conceal her chagrin, or regard
Sir Charles without some displeasure. It had not, however,
the effect of making him shorten his visit. He continued with
her till Lady Greystock's return, to whom he proposed a party
that evening for the opera, and obtained permission to wait
upon her ladyship at tea, with tickets, notwithstanding Amanda
declared her disinclination to going. She wished to avoid the
public, as well as private, attentions of Sir Charles ; but both
she found impossible to do. The impression which the charms
of her mind and form had made on him was of too ardent, too
permanent a nature, to be erased by her coldness. Generous
and exalted in his notions, affluent and independent in his for-
tune, he neither required any addition of wealth, nor was under
any control which could prevent his following his inclinations.
His heart was bent on a union with Amanda. Though hurt by
her indifference, he would not allow himself to be discouraged
by it. Time and perseverance, he trusted and believed, would
conquer it. Unaccustomed to disappointment, he could not, in
an affair which so materially concerned his happiness, bear the
idea of proving unsuccessful. Had Amanda's heart been dis-
engaged, he would probably have succeeded as he wished ; for
he was calculated to please, to inspire admiration and esteem ;
Tim CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 225
and Amanda felt a real friendship for him, and sincerely grieved
that his ardent regard could not be reduced to as temperate a
medium as hers.
Lady Greystock had a numerous and brilliant acquaintance
in London, amongst whom she was continually engaged. Sir-
Charles was well known to them, and therefore almost con-
stantly attended Amanda wherever she went. His unremitted
and particular attention excited universal observation ; and he
was publicly declared the prdfessed admirer of Lady Greystock's
beautiful companion. The appellation was generally bestowed
on her by the gentlemen ; as many of Lady Greystock's female
intimates declared, from the appearance of the girl, as well as
her distressed situation, they wondered Sir Charles Bingley
could ever think about her, for her ladyship had represented
her as a person in the most indigent circumstances, on which
account she had taken her under her protection. All that envy,
hatred, and malice could suggest against her, Miss Malcolm said.
The marchioness and Lady Euphrasia, judging of her by them-
selves, supposed that as she was not sure of Lord Mortimer she
would accept of Sir Charles ; and though this measure would re-
move all apprehensions relative to Lord Mortimer, yet the idea of
the wealth and consequence she would derive from it, almost dis-
tracted them. Thus docs envy sting the bosoms which harbor it.
Lord Mortimer again resumed his reserve. lie was fre-
quently in company with Amanda, but never even attempted to
pay her any attention ; yet his eyes, which she often caught
riveted on her, though the moment she perceived them they
were withdrawn, seemed to say that the alteration in his manner
was not produced by any diminution of tenderness. He was,
indeed, determined to regulate his conduct by hers to Sir
Charles. Though pained and irritated by his assiduities, he had
too much pride to declare a prior claim to her regard a woman
who could waver between two objects, he deemed unworthy of
either. He therefore resolved to leave Amanda free to act, and
put her constancy to a kind of test. Yet, notwithstanding all
his pride, we believe, if not pretty well convinced that this test
would have proved a source of triumph to himself, he never
would have submitted to it. The period for Lady Araminta's
return was now arrived, and Amsinda was anxiously expecting
her, when she heard from Lady Euphrasia that her ladyship had
been ill in the cbuntry, and would not therefore leave it for
some time. This was a severe disappointment to Amanda, who
had hoped, by her ladyship's means, to have seen less of Sir
Charles and more of Lord Mortimer.
226 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
CHAPTER XXVI.
"And why should such, within herself, she cried,
Lock the lost wealth, a thousand want beside." Parnbll.
Amanda was sitting alone in the drawing-room one morn-
ing, when a gentleman was shown into it, to wait for Lady
Greystock. The stranger was about the middle period of life ;
his dress announced him a military man, and his threadbare
coat seemed to declare that whatever laurels he had gathered,
they were barren ones. His form and face were interesting ;
infirmity appeared to press upon one, and sorrow had deeply
marked the other, yet without despoiling it of a certain expres-
sion which indicated the hilarity nature had once staniijed upon
it. His temples were sunk, and his cheek faded to a sickly
hue. Amanda felt immediate respect and sensibility for the
interesting figure before her. The feelings of her soul, the
early lessons of her youth, had taught her to reverence distress ;
and never, perhaps, did she think it so peculiarly affecting, as
when in a military garb.
The day was uncommonly severe, and the stranger shivered
with the cold.
" I declare, young lady," cried he, as he took the chair which
Amanda had placed for him by the fire, " I think I should not
tremble more before an enemy, than I do before this day. I
don't know but what it is as essential for a subaltern officer to
stand cold as well as fire."
Amanda smiled, and resumed her work. She was busily
employed making a trimming of artificial flowers for Lady
Greystock, to present to a young lady, from whose family shq
had received some obligations. This was a cheap mode of
returning them, as Amanda's materials were used.
"Your employment is an entertaining one," said the stranger,
" and your roses literally without thorns ; such, no doubt, as
you expect to gather in your path through life."
" No," replied Amanda, " I have no such expectation."
" And yet," said he, " how few at your time of life, particu-
larly if possessed of your advantages, could make such a
declaration."
"Whoever had reflection undoubtedly would," repliet^
Amanda.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 227
" That I allow," cried he ; " but how few do we find with
reflection ? from the young it is banished, as the rigid tyrant
that would forbid the enjoyment of the pleasures they pant
after ; and from the old it is too often expelled, as an" enemy ,
to that forgetfulness which can alone insure their tranquillity."
" But in both, I trust," said Amanda, " you will allow there
are exceptions."
" Perhaps there are ; yet often, when conscience has no
reason to dread, sensibility has cause to fear reflection, which
not only revives the recollection of happy hours, but inspires
such a regret for their loss, as almost unfits the soul for any
exertions ; 'tis indeed beautifully described in these lines
"Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever
And turning all the past to pain."
Amanda attentively watched him, and thought what he
said appeared particularly applicable to himself, as his coun-
tenance assumed a more dejected expression. He revived,
however, in a few moments.
" I have, my dear young lady," continued he, smiling, "be-
guiled you most soberly, as Lady Grace says, into conversa-
tion. I have, however, given you an opportunity of amusing
your fancy by drawing a comparison between an old veteran
and a young soldier ; but though you may allow him more
animation, I trust you will not do me so much injustice as to
allow him more taste : while he merely extolled the lustre of
your eyes, I should admire .the mildness which tempered that
lustre ; while he praised the glow of your cheek, I should
adore that sensibility which had power, in a moment, to aug-
ment or diminish it."
At this instant Lady Greystock entered the room she
entered it with the swell of importance, and a haughty ex-
pression of contempt in her features.
The stranger rose from his chair, and his paleness in-
creased.
" So, Mr. Rushbrook," at last drawled out her ladyship. " So,
sir : but pray be seated," waving her hand at the same time.
Amanda now retired : she had lingered a few moments in
the room, under the pretence of p'utting her work out of her
ladyship's way, to discover who the stranger was.
Rushbrook had been represented to her as artful, treacher-
ous, and contemptible. His appearance was almost a sufficient
refutation of those charges, and she began to think tliey never
228' THE CHILDREN Oi' THE ABBEY.
would have been laid against him by any other being than
Lady Greystock, from a desire of depreciating her adversary.
In her ladyship she had seen much to dislike since she resided
with her ; she saw that the temper, like the person, is often
allowed to be in dishabille at home.
She felt even warmly interested about Rushbrook ; she
had heard of his large family ; and, from his appearance, she
conjectured they must be in distress. There was a kind
of humorous sadness in his manner which affected her even
more than a settled melancholy perhaps would have done, as
it implied the efforts of a noble heart to repel sorrow; and if
there cannot be a more noble, neither, surely, can there be a
more affecting sight, than that of a good and brave man strug-
gling with adversity.
As she leaned pensively against the window, reflecting on
the various inequalities of rortune, yet still believing they were
designed by a wise Providence, like hill and valley, nnitually
to benefit each other, she saw Rushbrook cross the street ; his
walk was the slow and lingering walk of dejection and dis-
appointment, lie raised his hand to his eyes, Amanda sup-
posed to wipe away his tears, and her own fell at the supposi-
tion. The severity of the day had increased ; a heavy shower
of snow was falling, against which poor Rushbrook had no
shelter but his threadbare coat. Amanda was unutterably
affected ; and when he disappeared from her_ sight, she fell
into a sentimental soliloquy, something in the style of Yorick.
*' Was I mi.stress," exclaimed she, as she beheld the splendid
carriages passing and repassing, r" was I mistress of one of
those carriages, an old soldier like Rushbrook should not be
exposed to the inclemency of a wintry sky ; neither should
his coat be threadbare, or his heart opijressed with anguish !
If I saw a tear upon his cheek I would say it had no business
there, for comfort was about revisiting him." As she spoke,
the idea of Lord Mortimer occurred. Her tears were sus-
pended, and her cheek began to glow.
"Yes, poor Rushbrook I " she exclaimed, "perhaps the
period is not far distant when a bounteous Providence, through
the hands of Amanda, may relieve thy wants ; when Mortimer
himself may be her assistant in the office of benevolence ! "
Lady GreystQck's woman now appeared, to desire she would
come down to her lady. She immediately obeyed the sum-
mons, with a secret hope of hearing something of the confer-
ence. Her ladyship received her with an exulting laugh.
" I }iave good news to tell you, my dear," exclaimed she j
riTE CHILDREff OF THE ABBEY. 229
" that poor wretch, Ruslibrook, has lost the friend who waS
to have supported him in the lawsuit ; and tlie lawyers, finding
the sheet-anchor gone, have steered off, and left him to shift
for himself. The miserable creature and his family nlust cer-
tainly starve. Only think of his assurance. He came to say,
indeed, he would now be satisfied with a compromise." " Well,
madam ? " said Amanda.
" Well, madam, repeated her ladyship, mimicking her man-
ner ; " I told him I must be a fool indeed, if ever I consented
to such a thing, after his effrontery in attempting to litigate
the will of his much-abused uncle, my dear, good Sir Geoffry.
No, no ; I bid him proceed in the suit, as all my lawyers were
prepared ; and, after so much trouble oh both sides, it would
be a pity the thing came to nothing." " As your ladyship,
however, knows his extreme distress, no doubt you will relieve
it." " Why, pray," said her ladyship, smartly, " do you think
he has any claim upon me?" "Yes," replied Amanda, " if
not upon your justice, at least upon your humanity." " So
you would advise me to fling away my money upon him t "
"Yes," replied Amanda, smiling, "I would. And, as your
ladyship likes the expression, have you fling it away profusely."
" Well, well," answered she, " when you arrive at my age, you
will know the real value of wealth." " I trust madam," said
Amanda, with spirit, " I know its real value already. We only
estimate it differently."
"And pray," asked her ladyship, with a sneer, "how may
you estimate it .' "
"As the means, madam, of dispensing happiness around
us. Of giving shelter to the houseless child of want, and joy
to the afflicted heart ; as a sacred deposit intrusted to us by
an Almighty Power for those purposes, which, if so applied,
will nourish placid and delightful reflections, that, like soothing
friends, will crowd around us in the bed of sickness or death,
alleviating the pains of one, and the terrors of the other."
" Upon my word," exclaimed Lady Greystock, " a fine
flowery speech, and well calculated for a sentimental novel or
a moral treatise for the improvement of youth. But I advise
you, my dear, in future, to keep your queer and romantic
notions to yourself, or else it will be suspected you have made
romances your study ; for you have just spoken as one of their
heroines would have done."
Amanda made no reply ; yet as she beheld her ladyship
seated in an easy-chair, by a blazing fire, with a large bowl of
rich soup before her, which she took every morning, she could
230
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
not forbear secretly exclaiming : " Hard-hearted woman ! en-
grossed by your own gratifications, no ray of compassion can
soften your nature for the misfortunes of others. Sheltered
yourself from the tempests, you see it falling, without pity, on
the head of wretchedness ; and while you feast on luxuries,
think without emotion of those who want even common necer-
saries."
In the evening they went to a large party at the mar-
chioness's, but though the scene was gay and brilliant, it could
not remove the pensiveness of Amanda's spirits. The emaci-
ated form of Rushbrook, returning to his desolate family,
dwelt upon hei mind. A little, she thought, as she surveyed
the magnificence of the apartments, and the splendor of the
company which crowded them, a little from this parade of
vanity and wealth, would give relief to many a child of indi-
gence. Never had the truth of the following lines so forcibly
struck her imagination :
All, liltlo think tlie gay, licentious crowQ
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste ;
Ah, little think thejf, while they dance along.
How many feel, this very moment, death.
And all the sad variety of pain.
How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of misery, sore pierced by wintry winds f
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty ? "
From such reflections as these she was disturbed by the en-
trance of Sir Charles Bingley. As usual, he took his station
by her, and in a few minutes after him Lord Mortimer appeared.
A party for vingt-un was formed, in which Amanda joined, from
a wish of avoiding the assiduities of Sir Charles ; but he took
care to secure a seat next hers, and Lord Mortimer sat oppo-
site to them.
" Bingley," said a gentleman, after they had been some
time at the table, " you are certainly the most changeable fellow
in the world. About three weeks ag4D you were hurrying every-
thing for a journey to Ireland, as if life and death depended on
your expedition, and here I still find you loitering about the
town."
" I deny the imputation of changeableness," replied the
baronet ; " all my actions are regulated," and he glanced at
Anianda, " by one source, one object."
THE cmiMEI^ OP THE ASSEV. 23 1
Amanda blushed, and caught, at that moment, a penetrating
look from Lord Mortimer. Her situation was extremely dis-
agreeable. She dreaded his attentions would be imputed to
encouragement from her ; she had often tried to suppress them,
and she resolved her next efforts should be more resolute.
Sir Charles reached Pall Mall the next morning just as
Lady Greystock was stepping into her chariot, to acquaint her
lawyer of Rushbrook's visit. She informed him that Miss Fitz-
alan was in the drawing-room, and he flew up to her.
"You find," said he, "by what you heard last night, that
my conduct has excited some surprise. I assure you my friends
think I must absolutely be deranged, to relinquish so suddenly
a journey I appeared so anxious to take. Suffer me," continued
he, taking her hand, " to assign the true reason for this apparent
change." " Sir Charles," replied Amanda, " 'tis time to termi-
nate this trifling."
" Oh, let it then be terminated," said he, with eagerness,
" by your consenting to my happiness, by your accepting a hand,
tendered to you with the most ardent affections of my heart."
With equal delicacy and tenderness, he then urged her ac-
ceptance of proposals which were as disinterested as the most
romantic generosity could desire them to be.
Amanda felt resilly concerned that he had made them ; the
grateful sensibility of her nature was hurt at the idea of giving
him pain. " Believe me. Sir Charles," said she, " I am truly
sensible of the honor of your addresses ; but I should deem
myself unworthy of the favorable opinion which excited them, ,
if I delayed a moment assuring you that friendship was the only
return in my power to make for them."
The impetuous passions of Sir Charles were now all in
commotion. He started from his chair and traversed the apart-
ment in breathless agitation. " I will not. Miss Fitzalan," said
he, resuming his .seat again, believe you inflexible. I will not
believe that 3'ou can think I shall so easily resign an idea which
I have so long cherished with rapture."
"Surely, Sir Charles," somewhat alarmed, "you cannot
accuse me of having encouraged that idea ? "
" Oh, no," sighed he passionately, " to me you were always
uniformly cold." " And from whence then proceeded such an
idea ? "
" From the natural propensity we all have to deceive our-
selves, and to believe that whatever we wish will be accom-
plished. Ah J Miss Fitzalan, deprive me not of so sweet a be-
lief. I will not at present urge you to any material step tp.
232
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
which you are averse ; I will only entreat for permission to hope
that time, perseverance, unremitted attention, may make some
impression on you, and at last produce a change in my favor."
" Never, Sir Charles, will I give rise to a hope which I think
cannot be realized. A little reflection will convince you you
should not be displeased at my being so explicit. We are, at
this moment, both perhaps, too much discomposed to render a
longer conference desirable. Pardon me, therefore, if I now
terminate it, and, be assured, I shall never lose a grateful re-
membrance of the honor you intended me, or forget the friend-
ship I professed for Sir Charles Bingley."
She then withdrew, without any obstruction from him. Re-
gret and disappointment seemed to have suspended his facul-
ties ; but it was a momentary suspension, and on recovering
them he quitted the house.
His pride, at first, urged him to give up Amanda forever;
but his tenderness soon opposed this resolution. He had, as
he himself acknowledged, a propensity to believe, that what-
ever he wished was easy to accomplish ; this propensity pro-
ceeded from the easiness with which his inclinations had hither-
to been gratified. Flattering himself that the coldness of
Amanda proceeded more from natural reserve than particular
indifference to him, he still hoped she might be induced to favor
him. She was so superior, in his opinion, to every woman he
had seen, so truly calculated to render him happy, that, as the
violence of offended pride abated, he resolved, without another
effort, not to give her up. Without knowing it, he had rambled
to St. James's Square, and having heard of the friendship sub-
sisting between Lord Cherbury and Fitzalan, he deemed his lord-
ship a proper person to apply to on the present occasion, thinking,
that if he interested himself in his favor, he might yet be suc-
cessful. He accordingly repaired to his house, and was shown
into an apartment where the earl and Lord Mortimer v/ere sit-
ting together. After paying the usual compliments, "I am
come, my lord," said he, somewhat abruptly, " to entreat your
Interest in an affair which materially concerns my happiness,
and trust your lordship will excuse my entreaty, when I inform
you it relates to Miss Fitzalan."
The earl, with much politeness, assured him, " He should
feel happy in an opportunity of serving him," and said, " he did
him but justice in supposing him particularly interested about
-Miss Fitzalan, not only as the daughter of his old friend, but
from her own great merit."
Sir Charles then acquainted him with the proposals he had
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 233
just made her, and her absolute rejection of them ; and ex'
pressed his hope that Lord Cherbury would try to influence her
in his favor.
" 'Tis very extraordinary, indeed," cried his lordship, "that
Miss Fitzalan should decline such an honorable, such an advan-
tageous proposal. Are you sure, Sir Charles, there is no prior
attachment in the case ? "
" I never heard of one, my lord, and I believe none exists."
Lord Mortimer's countenance lowered at this, but, happily, its
gloom was unperceived.
" I will write to-day," said the earl, " to Mr. Fitzalan,
and mention your proposal to him in the terms it deserves.
Except authorized by him, you must, Sir Charles, excuse my
personal interference in the affair. I have no doubt, indeed,
but he will approve of your addresses, and you may then de-
pend on my seconding them with all my interest."
This promise satisfied Sir Charles, and he soon after with-
drew. Lord Mortimer was now pretty well convinced of the
state of Amanda's heart. Under this conviction, he delayed
not many minutes, after Sir Charles's departure, going to Pall
Mall ; and having particularly inquired whether Lady Greystock
was out, and being answered in the affirmative, he ascended to
the drawing-room, to which Amanda had again returned.
CHAPTER XXVIL
" Go bid tlio needle its dear north foniakc,
To which with trembling reverence it does bend !
Go bid the stones a journey upward malce :
Go bid the ambitious flame no more ascend ;
And when these false to their old motions prove,
Then will I cease thee, thee alone to love." Cowlbv.
In an emotion of surprise at so unexpected a visit, the book
she was reading dropped from Amanda, and she arose in visible
agitation.
" I fear," said his lordship, " I have intruded somewhat
abruptly upon you ; but my apology for doing so must be my
ardent wish of using an opportunity so propitious for a mutual
eclaircissement an opportunity I might, perhaps, vainly seek
again."
He took her trembling hand, led her to the sofa, and placed
234
THE cmi.DREN OF THE ABBEY.
himself by her. As a means of leading to the desired eclalr-
cissement, he related the agonies he had suffered at returning
to Tudor Hall, and finding her gone gone in a manner so in-
explicable, that the more he reflected on it the more wretched
he grew. He described the hopes and fears which alternately
fluctuated in his mind during his continuance in Ireland, and
which often drove him into a state nearly bordering on distrac-
tion. He mentioned the resolution, though painful in the ex-
treme, which he had adopted on the first appearance of Sir
Charles Bingley's particularity ; and finally concluded by as-
suring her, notwithstanding all his incertitude and anxiety, his
tenderness had never known diminution.
Encouraged by this assurance, Amanda, with restored com-
posure, informed him of the reason of her precipitate journey
from Wales, and the incidents which prevented her meeting him
in Ireland, as he had expected. Though delicacy forbade her
dwelling, like Lord Mortimer, on the wretchedness occasioned
by their separation, and mutual misapprehensions of each other,
she could not avoid touching upon it sufficiently, indeed, to con-
vince him she had been a sympathizing participator in all the
uneasiness he had suffered.
Restored to the confidence of Mortimer, Amanda appeared
dearer to his soul than ever. Pleasure beamed from his eyes
as he pressed her to his bosom, and exclaimed, " I may again
call you my own Amanda; again sketch scenes of felicity, and
call upon you to realize them." Yet, in the midst of this trans-
port, a sudden gloom clouded his countenance ; and after gaz-
ing on her some minutes, with pensive tenderness, he fervently
exclaimed, " Would to Heaven, in this hour of perfect recon-
ciliation, I could say that all obstacles to our future happiness
were removed." Amanda involuntarily shuddered, and con-
tinued silent.
" That my father will throw difficulties in the way of our
imion, I cannot deny my apprehension of," said Lord Mortimer ;
" though truly noble and generous in his nature, he is some-
times, like the rest of mankind, influenced by interested motives.
He has long, from such motives, set his heart on a connection
with the Marquis of Roslin's family. Though fully determined
in my intentions, I have hitherto forborne an explicit declara-
tion of them to him, trusting that some propitious chance would
yet second my wishes, and save me the painful necessity of dis-
turbing the harmony which has ever subsisted between us."
" Oh I my lord I " said Amanda, turning pale, and shrink-
ing from him, " let me not be the unfortunate cause of disturb-
Tfffi. CHtLDR&tf OF THE ABBEY. 235
Ing that harmony. Comply with the wishes of Lord Cherbury,
marry Lady Euphrasia, and let me be forgotten."
"Amanda," cried his lordship, "accuse not yourself of
being the cause of any disagreement between us. Had I never
seen you, with respect to Lady Euphrasia, I should have felt
the same inability to comply with his wishes. To me her per-
son is not more unpleasing than her mind. I have long been
convinced that wealth alone was insufficient to bestow felicity,
and have ever considered the man who could sacrifice his feel-
ings at the shrine of interest or ambition, degraded below the
standard of humanity ; that to marry, merely from selfish con-
siderations, was one of the most culpable, most contemptible
actions which could be committed. To enter into such a union,
I want the propensities which can alone ever occasion it, namely,
a violent passion for the enjoyments only atlainable through
the medium of wealth. Left at an early age uncontrolled mas-
ter of my own actions, I drank freely of the cup of pleasure,
but found it soon pall upon my taste. It was, indeed, unmixed
with any of those refined ingredients which can only please the
intellectual appetite, and might properly be termed the cup of
false instead of real pleasure. Thinking, therefore, as I do,
that a union without love is abhorrent to probity and sensibility,
and that the dissipated pleasures of life are not only prejudicial
but tiresome, I naturally wish to secure to myself domestic hap-
piness ; but never could it be experienced except united to a
woman whom my reason thoroughly approved, who should at
once possess my unbounded confidence and tenderest affection.
Who should be, not only the promoter of my joys, but the as-
suager of my cares. In you I have found such a woman, such
a being, as I candidly confess, some time ago, I thought it im-
possible to meet with. To you I at\i bound by a sentiment even
stronger than love by honor and with real gratitude acknowl-
edge my obligations in being permitted to atone, in some, de-
gree, for my errors relative to you. But I will not allow my
Amanda to suppose these errors proceeded from any settled
depravity of soul. Allowed to be, as I have before said, my
own master at an early period, from the natural thoughtlessness
of youth, I was led into scenes which the judgment of riper
years has since severely condemned. Here, too, often I met
with women whose manners, instead of checking, gave a lati-
tude to freedom; women, too, who, from their situations in life,
had every advantage that could be requisite for improving and
refining their minds. From conversing with them I grad-
ually imbibed a prejudice against the whole sex, and under that
236 THE CHILDRRSr OF THE ABBEY.
prejudice first beheld you, and feared either to doubt or to
believe the reality of the innocence you appeared to possess.
" Convinced at length, most fully, most happily convinced
of its reality, my prejudices no longer remained ; they vanished
like mists before the sun or rather like the illusions of false-
hood before the influence of truth. Were those, my dear
Amanda, of your sex, who, like you, had the resistless power
of pleasing, to use the faculties assigned them by a bounteous
Providence in the cause of virtue, they would soon check the
dissipation o the times. '
" 'Tis impossible to express the power a beautiful form has
over the human mind ; that power might be exerted for nobler
purposes. Purity speaking from love-inspiring lips would, like
the voice of Adam's heavenly guest, so sweetly breathe upon
the ear as insensibly to influence the heart ; the libertine it cor-
rected would, if not utterly hardened, reform ; no longer would
he glory in his vices, but touched and abashed, instead of de-
stroying, worship female virtue.
" But I wander from the purpose of my soul. Convinced
as I am of the dissimilarity between my father's inclinations
and mine, I think it better to give no intimation of my present
intentions, which, if permitted by you, I am unalterably deter-
mined on fulfilling, as I should consider it as highly insulting
to him to incur his prohibition, and then act in defiance of it,
though my heart Would glory in avowing its choice. The pecu-
liar circumstances I have just mentioned will, I trust, induce
my Amanda to excuse a temporary concealment of it, till be-
yond the power of mortals to separate us a private and imme-
diate union, the exigency of situation, and the security of felicity
demands. I shall feel a trembling apprehension till I call you
mine ; life is too short to permit the waste of time in idle
scruples and unmeaning ceremonies. The eye of suspicion has
long rested upon us, and would, I am convinced, effect a prema-
ture discovery, if we took not some measure to prevent it.
" Deem me not too precipitate, my Amanda," passing his
arm gently round her waist, " if I ask you to-morrow night, for
the last sweet proof of confidence you can give me, by putting
yourself under my protection. A journey to Scotland is un-
avoidable in the arrangements I shall make for it, all that is
due to delicacy I shall consider."
" Mention it no more, my lord," said Amanda, in a faltering
accent ; " no longer delude your imagination or mine with the
hopes of being united."
- Hitherto she had believed the approbation of Lord Cher-
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 237
bury to the wishes of his son would be obtained, the moment
he was convinced how essential their gratification was to his
felicity. She judged of him by her father, who, she was con-
vinced, if situations were reversed, would bestow her on Morti-
mer without hesitation. These ideas so nourished her attach-
ment, that, like the vital parts of existence, it at length became
painfully, almost fatally, susceptible of every shock. Her dream
of happiness was over the moment she heard Lord Cherbury's
consent was not to be asked, from a fear of its being refused.
'Twas misery to be separated from Lord Mortimer, but it was
guilt and misery to marry him clandestinely, after the solemn
injunction her father had given her against such a step. The
shock of disappointment could not be borne with composure ;
it pressed like a cold dead weight upon her heart. She trembled,
and, unable to support herself, sunk against the shoulder of
Lord Mortimer, while a shower of tears proclaimed her agony.
Alarmed by her emotion, Lord Mortimer hastily demanded its
source, and the reason of the words which had just escaped her.
" Because, my lord," replied she, " I cannot consent to a
clandestine measure, nor bear you should incur the displeasure
of Lord Cherbury on my account. Though Lady Euphrasia
Sutherland is not agreeable, there are many women who, with
equal rank and fortune, possess the perfections suited to your
taste. Seek for one of these choose from among them a
happy daughter of prosperity, and let Amanda, untitled, unpor-
tioned, and unpleasing to your father, return to an obscurity
which owes its comfort to his fostering bounty." " Does this
advice," asked Lord Mortimer, "proceed from Amanda's
heart ? " " No," replied she, hesitatingly, and smiling through
her tears, "not from her heart, but from a better counsellor,
her reason."
" And shall I not obey the dictates of reason," replied he,
" in uniting my destiny to yours ? Reason directs us to seek
happiness through virtuous means \ and what means are so
adapted for that purpose, as a union with a beloved and
amiable woman ? No, Amanda ; no titled daughter of pros-
perity, to use your own words, shall ever attract my affections
from you. ' Imagination cannot form a shape, besides your
own, to like of ; ' a shape which even if despoiled of its graces,
would enshrine a mind so transcendently lovely, as to secure
my admiration. In choosing you as the partner of my future
days, I do not infringe the moral obligation which exists be-
tween father and son ; for as, on one hand, it does not require
weak indulgence ; so, on the other, it does not demand impUcit
2^8 TIIE CHILDREN^OF THE ABBEY.
'J
obedience, if reason and happiness must be sacrificed by it.
Nothing would have tempted me to propose a private union but
the Iiope of escaping many disagreeable circumstances by it.
If you persist, however, in rejecting it, I shall openly avow my
intentions, for a long continuance of anxiety and suspense I
cannot support."
" Do you think, then," said Amanda, " I would enter your
family amidst confusion and altercation t No, my lord, rashly
or clandestinely I never will consent to enter it."
" Is this the happiness I promised myself would crown our
recouciliation? " exclaimed Lord Morliiucr, rising hastily and
traversing the apartment. " Is an obstinate adherence to rigid
punctilio the only proof of regard I shall receive from Aman-
da ? Will she make no trifling sacrifice to the man who adores
her, and whom she professes to esteem ? "
" Any sacrifice, my lord, compatible with virtue and filial
duty, most willingly would I make ; but beyond these limits I
must not, cannot, will not step. Cold, joyless, and unworthy of
your acceptance would be the hand you would receive if given
against my conviction of what was right. Oh, never may the
hour arrive in which I should blush to see my father ; in which
I should be accused of injuring the honor intrusted to my charge,
and feel oppressed with the consciousness of having planted
thorns in the breast that depended on me for happiness."
" Do not be too inflexible, my Amanda," cried Lord Morti-
mer, resuming his seat, " nor suffer too great a degree of refine-
ment to involve you in wretchedness ; felicity is seldom attained
without some pain ; a little resolution on your side would over-
come any difficulties that lay between us and it ; when the act
was past, my father would naturally lose his resentment, from
perceiving its inefficacy, and family concord would speedily be
restored. Araminta adores youj with rapture would she re-
ceive her dear and lovely sister to her bosom ; your father,
happy in your happiness, would be convinced his notions liere-
tofore were too scrupulous, and that in complying with my wishes
you had neither violated your own delicacy nor tarnished his
honor."
" Ah, my lord, your arguments have not the effect you de-
sire. I cannot be deluded by them, to view things in the light
you wish. To unite myself clandestinely to you would be to
fly in the face of parental authority ; to be proposed to Lord
Cherbury, when almost certain of a refusal, would not only
subject me to insult, but dissolve the friendship, which has
hitherto subsisted between his lordship and my father. Situ-
THE CJJILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 239
ated as we are, our only expedient is to separate ; 'tis absurd
to think longer of a connection against which there are such
obstacles ; the task of trying to forget will be easier to you, my
lord, than you now perhaps imagine ; the scenes you must be
engaged in are well calculated to expunge painful remembrances ;
in the retirement my destiny has doomed me to my efforts will
not be wanting to render me equally successful."
The tears trickled down Amanda's pale cheeks as slie spoke ;
she believed that they must part, and the belief was attended
with a pang of unutterable anguish : pleased and pained by her
sensibility, Lord Mortimer bent forward and looked into her face.
"Are these tears," said he, " to enforce me to the only ex-
pedient you say remains ? Ah, my Amanda," clasping her to
his breast, " the task of forgetting you could never be accom-
plished could never be attempted ; life would be tasteless if
not spent with you ; never will I relinquish the delightful hope
of a union yet taking place. A sudden thought," resumed he,
after pausing a few minutes, " has just occurred. I have an
aunt, the only remaining sister of Lord Cherbury, a generous,
tender, exalted woman ; I have ever been her particular favor-
ite ; my Amanda, I know, is the very kind of being she would
select, if the choice devolved on her, for my wife : she is now in
the country ; I will write immediately, inform her of our situation,
and entreat her to come up to town to use her influence with
my father in our favor. Her fortune is large, from the bequest
of a rich relation ; and from the generosity of her disposition
I have no doubt she would render the loss of Lady Euphrasia's
fortune very immaterial to her brother. This is the only
scheme I can possibly devise for the completion of our happi-
ness, according to your notions, and I hope it meets your appro-
bation."
It appeared indeed, a feasible one to Amanda ; and as it
could not possibly excite any ideas unfavorable to her father's
integrity, she gave her consent to its being tried.
Her heart felt relieved of an oppressive load, as the hope
revived that it might be accomplished. Lord Mortimer wiped
away her tears ; and the cloud which hung over them both be-
ing dispersed, they talked with pleasure of future days. Lord
Mortimer described the various schemes he had planned for
their mode of life. Amanda smiled at the easiness with which
he contrived them, and secretly wished he might find it as easy
to realize as to project.
"Though the retired path of life," said he, " might be more
agreeable to us than the frequented and public one, we must
240 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
make some little sacrifice of inclination to the community to
which we belong. On an elevated station and affluent fortune
there are clanns from subordinate ranks which cannot be avoid-
ed without injuring them. Neither should I wish to hide the
beautiful gem I shall possess in obscurity ; but, after a winter
of what I call moderate dissipation, we will hasten to the
sequestered shades of Tudor Hall." He dwelt with pleasure on
the calm and rational joys they should experience there ; nor
could forbear hinting at the period when new tendernesses, new
sympathies, would be awakened in their souls ; when little
prattling beings should frolic before them, and literally strew
roses in their paths. He expressed his wish of having Fitzalan
a constant resident with them ; and was proceeding to mention
some alterations he intended at Tudor Hall, when the return
of Lady Greystock's carriage effectually disturbed him. I^ord
Mortimer, however, had time to assure Amanda, ere she entered
the room, that he had no doubt but everything would be soon
settled according to their wishes, and that he would take every
opportunity her ladyship's absence gave him of visiting her.
" So, so," said Lady Greystock, coming into the room,
" this has been Miss Fitzalan's levee-day. Why, I declare, my
dear, now that \ know of the agreeable tete-a-tetes you can en-
joy, I shall feel no uneasiness at leaving you to yourself."
Amanda blushed deeply ; and Lord Mortimer thought in
this speech he perceived a degree of irony which seemed to say
all was not right in the speaker's heart towards Amanda, and
on this account felt more anxious than ever to have her under
his own protection. Animated by the idea that this would soon
be the case, he told her ladyship, smiling, "she should be
obliged to him or any other person who could relieve her mind
from uneasiness," and departed. This had been a busy and
interesting day to Amanda, and the variety of emotions it had
given rise to produced a languor in her mind and frame she
could not shake off.
Her expectations were not as sanguine us Lord Mortimer's.
Once severely disappointed, she dreaded again to give too
great a latitude to hope. Happiness was in view, but she
doubted much whether it would ever be within her reach ; yet
the pain of suspense she endeavored to alleviate by reflecting
that every event was under the direction of a superior Being,
who knew best what would constitute the felicity of His crea-
tures.
Lady Greystock learned from her maid the length of Lord
Mortimer's visit, and she was convinced from that circumstance
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
241
as well as from the look and absent manner of Amanda, that
something material had happened in the course of it. In the
evening they were engaged to a party, and ere they separated
after dinner to dress for it, a plain-looking woman was shown
into the room, whom Amanda instantly recollected to be the
person at whose house she and her fatlier had lodged on quitting
Devonshire to secrete themselves from Colonel iTelgrave. This
woman had been bribed to serve liim, and had forced several
letters upon Amanda, who, therefore, naturally abhorred the
sight of a person that had joined in so infamous a plot against
her; and to her exclamation of surprise and pleasure only re-
turned a cool bow, and directly left the room. She was vexed
at seeing this woman. The conduct of Colonel Belgrave had
hitherto been concealed, from motives of pride and delicacy ;
and to Lady Greystock, of all other beings, she wished it not
revealed. Her only hope of its not being so was that this
woman, on her own account, would not mention it, as she must
be conscious that her efforts to serve him were not undiscovered.
Mrs. Jennings had been housekeeper to Lady Greystock
during her residence in England, and so successfully ingratiated
herself into her favor that, though dismissed from her service,
she yet retained it. Lady Greystock was surprised to see she
and Amanda knew each other, and inquired minutely how the
acquaintance had commenced. The manner in which she men-
tioned Amanda convinced Mrs. Jennings she was not high in
her estimation, and from this conviction she thought she might
safely assert any falsehood she pleased against her. As she
knew enough of her lady's disposition to be assured she never
would contradict an assertion to the prejudice of a person she
disliked by what she designed saying, she trusted anything
Amanda might say against her would appear malicious, and
tliat she should also be revenged for the disdainful air with
which she had regarded her.
She told her ladyship, " that near a year back Miss Fitzalan
had been a lodger of hers, as also an old officer, she called her
father ; but had she known what kind of people they were, she
never would have admitted them into her house. Miss was
followed by such a set of gallants, she really thought the repu-
tation of her house would have been ruined. Among them was
a Colonel Belgrave, a sad rake, who, she believed, was the
favorite. She was determined on making them decamp, when
suddenly Miss went offj nobody knew where, but it might easily
be guessed. She did not travel alone, for the colonel disap-
peared at the same time."
16
242 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
The character of Fitzalan, and the uniform propriety of
Amanda's conduct, forbade Lady Greystock's giving implicit
credit to what Mrs. Jennings said. She perceived in it the
exaggerations of malice and falsehood, occasioned, she sup-
posed by disappointed avarice, or offended pride. She re-
solved, however, to relate all she heard to the marchioness,
without betraying the smallest doubt of its veracity.
It may appear strange that Lady Greystock, after taking
Amanda, unsolicited, under her protection, should, without any
cause for enmity, seek to injure her but Lady Greystock was
a woman devoid of principle. From selfish motives she had
taken Amanda, and from selfish motives she was ready to
sacrifice her. Her ladyship had enjoyed so much happiness
in her matrimonial connections, that she had no objection
again to enter the lists of Hymen, and Lord Cherbury was the
object at which her present wishes pointed. The marchioness
had hinted, in pretty plain terms, that if she counteracted Lord
Mortimer's intentions respecting Amanda, she would forward
hers relative to Lord Cherbury.
She thought what Mrs. Jennings had alleged would effectu-
ally forward their plans, as she knew, if called upon, she would
support it. The next morning she went to Portman Square,
to communicate her important intelligence to the marchioness
and Lady Euphrasia.
Joy and exultation sat upon their features at receiving this
interesting communication, which opened so charming a pros-
pect of separating Lord Mortimer from Amanda, by giving
them the power of injuring her character. This joy and exulta-
tion they deemed requisite for some time to conceal. They
considered their measures would be more successful for being
gradually brought about, and, therefore, resolved rather to
undermine, than directly strike at the peace of Amanda.
, Like Lady Greystock, they disbelieved Mrs. Jenning's tale ;
but, like her ladyship, confined this disbelief to their own
bosoms. In the manner, the appearance of Amanda, there was
an innocence, a mildness, that denoted something holy dwelt
within her breast, and forbade the entrance of any impure or
wayward passion ; besides, from a gentleman who had resided
in Devonshire, they learned the distress Fitzalan was reduced
to, by Belgrave's revenge for the virtue of his daughter. This
gentleman was now, however, on the continent, and they had
no fear of their allegations against Amanda being contradicted,
or their schemes against her being overthrown.
After some consultation, it wis .acrc^d- as a means of expo-
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 243
diting their plot, that Lady Greystock and Amanda should
immediately remove to the marchioness's house. By this
change of abode, too. Lord Mortimer would be prevented taking
any material step relative to Amanda, till the period arrived,
when his own inclination would, most probably, render any
further trouble on that account unnecessary.
Lady Greystock, on her return to Pall Mall, after a warm
eulogium on the friendship of the marchioness, mentioned the
invitation she had given them to her house, which she declared
she could not refuse, as it was made with an ardent desire of
enjoying more of their society than she had hitherto done,
during their short stay in London. She also told Amanda, that
both the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia had expressed a
tender regard for her, and a wish of proving to the world, that
any coolness which existed between their families was re-
moved, by her becoming their guest.
This projected removal was extremely disagreeable to
Amanda, as it not only terminated the morning interviews which
were to take place between her and Lord Mortimer, during the
absence of Lady Greystock with her lawyers, but threatened to
impose a restraint upon her looks, as well as actions, being
confident, from the views and suspicions of Lady Euphrasia,
she should be continually watched with the closest circumspec-
tion. Her part, however, was acquiescence. The lodgings
were discharged, and the next morning they took up their resi-
dence under the Marquis of Roslin's roof, to the infinite sur.:
prise and mortification of Lord Mortimer, who, like Amanda,
anticipated the disagreeable consequences which would result
from it.
The altered manners of the marchioness and Lady Euphra-
sia surprised Amanda. They received her not merely with
politeness, but affection ; recapitulated all Lady Greystock had
already said concerning their regard ; bade her consider her-
self entirely at home in their house, and appointed a maid
solely to attend her.
Notwithstanding their former cool, even contemptuous con-
duct, Amanda, the child of innocence and simplicity; could not
believe the alteration in their manners feigned \ she rather be-
lieved that her own patience and humility had at length con-
ciliated their regard. The idea pleased her, and like every
other, which she supposed could give her father satisfaction, it
was instantly communicated to him.
She found herself most agreeably mistaken relative to the
restraint she had feared. She was perfect mistress of her own,
244
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
time and actions ; and when she saw Lord Mortimer no low-
ering looks nor studied interference, as heretofore, from the
marchioness or Lady Euphrasia, prevented their frequently
conversing together. The marchioness made her several ele-
gant presents, and Lady Euphrasia frequently dropped the
formal appellation of Miss Fitzalan for the more familiar one
of Amanda.
Sir Charles Bingley, agreeable to his resolution of not re-
linquishing Amanda without another effort for her favor, still
persisted in his attentions, and visited constantly at the mar-
quis's.
Amanda had been about a fortnight in Portman Square,
when she went one night with the marchioness, Lady Euphrasia,
Miss Malcolm, and Lady Greystock to the Pantheon. Lord
Mortimer had told her, that if he could possibly leave a particu-
lar party he was engaged to, he would be there. She, there-
fore, on that account, wished to kutp herself disengaged ; but
immediately on her entrance slie was joined by Sir Charles
Bingley, and she found she must either dance with him as he
requested, or consent to listen to his usual conversation ; and
she chose the first, as being least particular. The dancing
over. Sir Charles was conducting her to get some refreshments,
when a gentleman, hastily stepping forward, saluted him by his
name. Amanda started at the sound of his voice ; she raised
her eyes, and with equal horror and surprise beheld Colonel
Belgrave.
She turned pale, trembled, and involuntarily exclaimed,
"Gracious Heaven ! " Her soul recoiled at his sight, as if an
evil genius had suddenly darted into her patii to blast her hopes
of happiness. Sickening with emotion, her head grew giddy,
and she caught Sir Charles's arm to prevent her falling.
Alarmed by her paleness and agitation, he hastily demanded
the cause of her disorder, willing to believe, notwithstanding
what he had seen, that it did not proceed from the sight of
Colonel Belgrave. " O take me, take me from this room ! "
was all, in faltering accents, Amanda could pronounce, still
leaning on him for support. Colonel Belgrave inquired tenderly
what he could do to serve her, and at the same time attempted
to take her hand. She shrunk from his touch with a look ex-
pressive of horror, and again besought Sir Charles to take her
from the room, and procure her a conveyance home. Her
agitation now became contagious. It was visible to Sir Charles
that it proceeded from seeing Colonel Belgrave, and he trem-
bled as he supported her.
THE CltlLDKEN OF THE ABBEY. 245
Belgrave offered his services in assisling to support her
from the room, but she motioned with her hand to repulse him.
At the door they met Lord Mortimer entering. Terrified
by the situation of Amanda, all caution, all reserve forsook
him, and his ftipid and impassioned inquiries betrayed the
tender interest she had in his heart. Unable to answer them
herself. Sir Charles replied for her, saying, " She had been
taken extremely ill after dancing," and added, " he would
resign her to his lordship's protection while he went to pro-
cure her a chair."
Lord Mortimer received the lovely trembler in his arms. He
softly called her his Amanda, the beloved of his soul, and she,
began to revive. His presence was at once a relief and com-
fort to her, and his language soothed the perturbations of her
mind ; but as she raised her head from his shoulder, she be^
held Colonel Belgrave standing near them. His invidious
eyes fastened on her. She averted her head, and, saying the
air would do her good. Lord Mortimer led her forward, and
took this opportunity of expressing his wishes for the period
when he should be at liberty lo walcli over her with guardian
care, soothe every weakness and soften every care.
In a few minutes Sir Charles returned, and told her he had
procured a chair. She thanked him with grateful sweetness
for his attention, and requested Lord Mortimer to acquaint
tJie ladies with the reason of her abrupt departure. His lord-
ship wished himself to have attended her to Portman Square,
but she thought it would appear too particular, and would not
suffer him. She retired to her room immediately on her return,
and endeavored, though unsuccessfully, to compose her spirits.
The distress she suffered from Belgrave's conduct had left
an impression on her mind which could not be erased. The
terror his presence inspired was too powerful for reason to
conquer, and raised the most gloomy presages in her mind.
She believed him capable of any villany. His looks had de-
claired a continuance of illicit love. She trembled at the idea
of his stratagems being renewed. Her apprehensions were
doubly painful from the necessity of concealment, lest those
dearer to her than existence should be involved in danger on
her account. To Heaven she looked up for protection, and the
terrors of her heart were somewhat lessened, conscious that
Heaven could render the aims of Belgrave against her peace as
abortive as those against her innocence had been.
Sir Charles Bingley parted from Lord Mortimer immedi-
ately after Amanda's departure, and returned arm in arm, with
i^6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
' Belgrave to the room. " Belgrave," said he abruptly, after
musing some minutes, " you know Miss Fitzalan ? "
Belgrave answered not hastily. He appeared as if deliber-
ating on the reply he should give. At last, ' I do know Miss
Fitzalan," cried he ; " her father was my tenant in Devonshire ;
she is one of the loveliest girls I ever knew." " Lovely, indeed,"
said Sir Charles, with a deep and involuntary sigh ; " but it is
somewhat extraordinary to me that, instead of noticing you as
a friend or acquaintance, she should look alarmed and agitated,
as if she had seen an enemy." " MydearBingley," exclaimed
Belgrave, " surely at this time of day you cannot be a stranger
to the unaccountable caprices of the female mind." " 'Tis
very extraordinary to me, I own," resumed Sir Charles, " that
Miss Fitzalan should behave as she did to you. Were you
and her family ever very intimate ? "
An invidious smile lurked on Belgrave's countenance at
this question.
" Belgrave," exclaimed Sir Charles, passionately, " your
manner appears so mysterious that it distracts me. If friend-
ship will not induce you to account for it, my intentions rela-
tive to Miss Fitzalan will compel me to insist on your doing
so." " Come, come, Bingley," replied the colonel, " this is
not a country for extorting confession. However, seriously,
you might depend on my honor, exclusive of my friendship, to
conceal nothing from you in which you were materially in-
terested." So saying, he snatched away his arm, rushed into
the crowd, and instantly disappeared.
This assurance, however, could not calm the disquietude of
Sir Charles. His soul was tortured with impatience and anx-
iety for an explanation of the mystery, which the agitation of
Amanda, and the evasive answers of Belgrave had betrayed.
He sought the latter through the room till convinced of his
departure, and resolved the next morning to entreat him to
deal candidly with him.
Agreeably to this resolution, he was preparing, after break-
fast, for his visit, when a letter was brought him which con-
tained the following lines :
" If Sir Charles Bingley has the least regard for his honor or tranquillity,
he will immediately relinquish his intentions relative to Miss Fitzalan. This
caution comes from a sincere friend from a person whom delicacy, not
want of veracity, urges to this secret mode of giving it."
Sir Charles perused and re-perused the letter, as if doubt-
ing the evidence of his eyes He at last flung it from him, and
TlTIi cniLDREN OF THE ABBEY, 247
clasping his hands together exclaimed : " This Is indeed a
horrible explanation." He took up the detested paper. Again
he examined the characters, and recognized the writing of
Colonel Belgrave. He hastily snatched up his hat, and with
the paper in his hand, flew directly to his house. The colonel
was alone.
" Belgrave," said Sir Charles, in almost breathless agitation,
" are you the author of this letter ? " presenting it to him.
Belgrave took it, read it, but continued silent.
" Oh I Belgrave I " exclaimed Sir Charles, in a voice trem-
bling with agony, "pity and relieve my suspense." " I am the
author of it," replied Belgrave, with solemnity ; " Miss Fitz-
alan and I were once tenderly attached. I trust I am no delib-
erate liberliiiej but, when a lovely, seducing girl was thrown
purposely in my way " " Oh, stop," said Sir Charles,
" to me any extenuation of your conduct is unnecessary ; 'tis
sufficient to know that Miss Fitzalan and I are forever separa-
ted." His emotion overpowered him. He leaned on a table,
and covered his face with a handkerchief.
" The shock I have received," said he, " almost unmans
me. Amanda was, alas 1 I must say is, dear, inexpressibly
dear to my soul. I thought her the most lovely, the most
estimable of women ; and the anguish I now feel, is more - on
her account than my own. I cannot bear the idea of the con-
tempt vvhich may fall upon her. Oh, Belgrave, 'tis melancholy
to behold a human being, so endowed by nature as she is, in-
sensible or unworthy of her blessings. Amanda," he continued,
after a pause, " never encouraged me ; I therefore cannot ac-
cuse her of intending deceit."
" She never encouraged you," replied Belgrave, " because
she was ambitious of a higher title. Amanda, beneath a
specious appearance of innocence, conceals a light disposition
and a designing heart. She aspires to Mortimer's hand, and
may probably succeed, for his language and attentions to her
last night were those of a tender lover."
" I shall return immediately to Ireland," said feir Charles,
" and endeavor to forget I have ever seen her. She has made
me indeed experience all the fervency of love, and bitterness
of disappointment. What I felt for her, I think I shall never
again feel for any woman.
-I'll lock up all the gates of love.
And on my eyelid^ shall conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,
And never more shall it be gracious."
248 'i^IlR cniLDRKH OF THE AH BEY.
Sir Charles Bingley and Colonel Belgrave, in early life, had
contracted a friendship for each other which time had strength-
ened in one, but reduced to a mere shadow in the other. On
meeting the colonel unexpectedly in town, Sir Charles had
informed him of his intentions relative to Amanda. His heart
throbbed at the mention of her name. He had long endeavored
to discover her. Pride, love, and revenge, were all concerned
In the accomplishment of his designs, which disappointment
had only stimulated. He was one of those determined charac-
ters which never relinquish a purpose, " though heaven and
earth that purpose crossed." The confidence Sir Charles re-,
posed in him, joined to his warm and unsuspicious temper,
convinced him he would be credulous enough to believe any
imputation he should cast on Amanda. He therefore lost no
time in contriving this execrable scheme, without the smallest
compunction, for destroying the reputation of an innocent girl,
or injurmg the happiness of an amiable man.
Removed from the protection of her father, he believed his
destined viclnu could not escape the snare he should spread
for her ; and as a means of expediting his success, under the
appearance of feeling, urged Sir Charles's return to Ireland.
The easy credit which Sir Charles gave to the vile allega-
tions of Belgrave, cannot be wondered at, when his long inti-
macy ?nd total ignorance of his real character are considered.
He knew Belgrave to be a gay man, but he never imagined him
to be a hardened libertine. Besides, he never could have sup-
posed any man would have been so audacious, or sufficiently
base, as to make such an assertion as Belgrave had done against
Amanda, without truth for his support.
The errors of his friend, though the source of unspeakable
anguish to him, were more pitied than condemned, as he rather
believed they proceeded from the impetuosity of passion, than
the deliberation of design, and that they were long since
sincerely repented of.
Amanda could not be forgotten ; the hold she had on his
heart could not easily be shaken off ; and like the recording
angel, he was often tempted to drop a tear over her faults, and
obliterate them forever from his memory. This, however, was
considered the mere suggestion of weakness, and he ordered
immediate preparations to be made for his return to Ireland.
TUB CinLDREN OF THE ABB&V. 24$
CHAPTER XXVIII.
" Oh how this tyrant doubt torments my breast ! _
My thoughts, like birds, who frighted !rom their rest,
Around the place where all was hushed before,
Flutter, and hardly settle any more.*' Otway.
Lord Mortimer, distressed by the indisposition of Amanda,
hastened, at an earlier hour than usual (for his morning visits),
to Portman Square, and was ushered into Lady Euphrasia's
dressing-room, wliere she and Miss Malcolm, who had con-
tinued' with her the preceding night, were sitting tete-a-tete at
breakfast. His lordship was a welcome visitor, but it was soon
obvious on whose account he had made his appearance, for
scarcely were the usual compliments over, ere he inquired
about Miss Fitzalan.
Lady Euphrasia said she was still unwell, and had not yet
left her apartment. " She has not recovered her surprise of
last night," exclaimed Miss Malcolm, with a malicious smile.
" What surprise ? " asked his lordship. " Dear me," replied
Miss Malcolm, " was not your lordship present at the time; she
met Colonel Belgrave ? " " No," said Lord Mortimer, changing
color, "I was not present. But what has Colonel Belgrave to
say to Miss Fitzalan ? ".asked he, in an agitated voice. "That
is a question your lordship must put to the young lady herself,"
answered Miss Malcolm. " Now, I declare," cried Lady
Euphrasia, addressing her friend, " 'tis very probable her illness
did not proceed from seeing Colonel Belgrave you know she
never mentioned being acquainted with him, though her father
was his tenant in Devonshire."
Lord Mortimer grew more disturbed, and rose abruptly.
Lady Euphrasia mentioned their intention of going that
evening to the play, and invited him to be of the party. He
accepted her invitation, and retired.
His visible distress was a source of infinite mirth to the
young ladies, which they indulged the moment he quitted the
room. The circumstance relative to Belgrave, the marchioness
had informed them of, as she and Lady Greystock were near
Amanda when she met him.
Lord Mortimer was unhappy. The mind which has once
harbored suspicion will, from the most trivial circumstance, be
250
THE, CHILD RFM OF THE ABBEY.
tempted again to give admission to tlie unpleasing guest nor
was it a trivial circumstance which discomposed the too sus-
ceptible heart of Mortimer. The sudden illness of Amanda,
her extraordinary agitation, her eagerness to quit the room, the
close, though silent attendance of Belgrave all these, I say,
when recalled to recollection, gave an air of probability to Miss
Malcolm's insinuation, that her disorder was occasioned by
seeing him. , From residing more constantly in England than
Sir Charles Bingley had done, he had had more opportunities
of learning Belgrave's real character, which he knew to be that
of a professed libertine. It was strange, he thought, that when
Amanda informed him she once resided in Devonshire, she
should conceal her father being the colonel's tenant. He began
to think her reluctance to a clandestine and immediate marriage
might have proceeded from some secret attachment, and not
' from the strict adherence to filial duty, which had exalted her
so much in his opinion.
Yet the idea was scarcely formed, ere he endeavored to
suppress it. He started, as if from an uneasy dream, and
wondered how he could have conceived this, or any other idea,
injurious to Amanda. He felt a degree of remorse at having
allowed her, for a moment, to be lessened in his opinion her
tenderness, her purity, he said to himself, could not be feigned ;
no, she was a treasure greater than he deserved to possess ; nor
would he, like a wayward son of error, fling away the hap-
piness he had so long desired to obtain.
The calm this resolution produced was but transient.
Doubts had been raised, and.doubt could not be banished ; he
was inclined to think them unjust, yet had not power to dispel
them. Vainly he applied to the ideas which had heretofore
been such consolatory resources of comfort to him namely,
that his father would consent to his union with Amanda,
through the interference of his aunt, and the felicity he should
enjoy in that union. An unusual heaviness clung to his heart,
which, like a gloomy sky, cast a shade of sadness over every
prospect. Thoughtful and pensive he reached home, just as
Sir Charles Bingley was entering the door, who informed him
he had just received a note from Lord Cherbury, desiring his
immediate presence.
Lord Mortimer attended him to the earl, who acquainted
him, that he had received a letter from Mr. Fitzalan, in which
he expressed a warm sense of the honor Sir Charles did his
family, by addressiig Miss Fitzalan ; and that to have her
united to a character so truly estimable, would give him the
THE CHtLbRrm 0/' THE ABBEY. 251
truest happiness, from the conviction that hers woukl be
secured by such a union. " He has written to his daughter ex-
pressing his sentiments," continued Lord Cherbury. " I have
therefore no doubt, Sir Charles, but that everything will succeed
as you wish." " I am sorry, my lord," cried Sir Charles, with
an agitated voice, and a cheek flushed with emotion, " that I
ever troubled your lordship in this affair, as I have now, and
forever, relinquished all ideas of a union with Miss Fitzalan."
" The resolution is really somewhat extraordinary and sudden,"
replied the earl, " after the conversation which so lately passed
between us." " Adopted, however, my lord, from a thorough
conviction that happiness could never be attained in a union
with that young lady." Sir Charles's tenderness for Amanda
was still undiminished ; he wished to preserve her from censure,
and thus proceeded ; " Your lordship must allow I could have
little chance of happiness in allying myself to a woman who has
resolutely and uniformly treated me with indifference. Passion
blinded my reason when I addressed your lordship relative to
Miss Fitzalan ; but its mists are now dispersed, and sober
reflection obliges me to relinquish a scheme, whose accomplish-
ment could not possibly give me satisfaction." " You are
certainly the best judge of your own actions. Sir Charles,"
replied the earl. " My acting in the affair proceeded from a
wish to serve you, as well as from my friendship tor Captain
Fitzalan. I must suppose your conduct will never disparage
your own honor, or cast a slight upon Miss Fitzalan." " That,
my lord, you may be assured of," said Sir Charles, with some
warmth ; " my actions and their motives have hitherto, and
will ever, I trust, bear the strictest investigation. I cannot
retire without thanking your lordship for the interest you took
in my favor. Had things succeeded as I then hoped and ex-
pected, I cannot deny but I should have been much happier
than I am at present." He then bowed and retired.
Lord Mortimer had listened with astonishment to Sir
Charles's relinquishment of Amanda. Like his father, he
thought it a sudden and extraordinary resolution. He was
before jealous of Amanda's love ; he was now jealous of her
honor. The agitation of Sir Charles seemed to imply even a
cause more powerful than her coldness for resigning her. He
recollected that the baronet and the colonel were intimate
friends. Distracted by apprehensions, he rushed out of the
house, and overtook Sir Charles ere he had quitted the square.
" Why, Bingley," cried he, with affected gayety, " I thought
you too valiant a knight to be easily overcome by despair ; and
252 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEV.
that without first trying every effort to win her favor, you never
would give up a fair lady you had set your heart on." " I leave
such efforts for your lordship," replied Sir Charles, " or those
who have equal patience." " But seriously, Bingley, I think
this sudden resignation of Miss Fitzalan somewhat strange.
Why, last night I could have sworn you were as much attached
to her as ever. From Lord Cherbury's friendship for Captain
Fitzalan, I think her, in some degree, under his protection and
mine. And as the particularity of your attention attracted
observation, I think your abruptly withdrawing them requires
explanation." "As Lord Cherbury was the person I applied
to relative to Miss Fitzalan," exclaimed Sir Charles, " and as
he was satisfied with the motive I assigned for my conduct, be
assured, my lord, I shall never give another to you." "Your
words," retorted Lord Mortimer, with warmth, " imply that
there was another motive for your conduct than the one you
avowed. What horrid inference may not be drawn from such
an insinuation ? Oh I Sir Charles ! reputation is a fragile
flower, which the slightest breath may injure." " My lord, if
Miss Fitzalan's reputation is never injured but by my means,
it will ever continue unsullied."
" I cannot, indeed," resumed Lord Mortimer, " style my-
self her guardian, but I consider myself her friend : and from
the feelings of friendship, shall ever evince my interest in her
welfare, and resent any conduct which can possibly render her
an object of censure to any being." " Allow me to ask your
lordship one question," cried Sir Charles, " and promise, on
your honor, to answer it." " I do promise," said Lord Morti-
mer. " Then, my lord, did you ever really wish I should suc-
ceeded with Miss Fitzalan ? "
Lord Mortimer colored. " You expect. Sir Charles, I shall
answer you on my honor? Then, really, I never did." " Your
passions and mine," continued Sir Charles, " are impetuous.
We had better check them in time, lest they lead us to lengths
we may hereafter repent of. Of Miss Fitzalan's fame, be
assured, no man can be more tenacious than I should. I love
her with the truest ardor. Her acceptance of my proposals
would have given me felicity. My suddenly withdrawing them
can never injure her, when I declare my motive for so doing
was her indifference. Lord Cherbury is satisfied with the
reason I have assigned for resigning her. He is conscious
that no man of sensibility could experience happiness with a
woman in whose heart he had no interest. This, I suppose, your
lordship will also allow." " Certainly," replied Lord Mortimer.
THE children: of the abbey. 253.
"Then, it strikes me, my lord, that it is your conduct, not
mine, which has a tendency to injure Miss P'itzalan. That it
is your words, not mine, which convey an insinuation against
her. You really appear as if conscious some other cause ex-
isted, which would have made me relinquish her, without the
one I have already assigned for doing so."
Lord Mortimer was instantly convicted of the justice of
what Sir Charles said. He began to fear his warmth would
really prove prejudicial to Amanda, betray the doubts that had
obtruded on his mind, and communicate them to those who
might not be equally influenced by tenderness and delicacy to
conceal them.
" You are right, Sir Charles," said he, "in what you have
said ; " passion, like a bad advocate, hurts the cause in which
it is engaged. From my knowledge of your character, I should
have been convinced your honor would have prevented any
improper conduct. You are going to Ireland. Permit me,
Sir Charles, to offer you my best wishes for your future happi-
ness."
Sir Charles took Lord Mortimer's extended hand. He
respected arid esteemed his lordship, and a mutual interchange
of good wishes took place between them, as this was the last
interview they expected for a long time.
The indisposition of Amanda was more of the mental than
the bodily kind, and on the first intimation of a party to the
play she agreed to join it, in hopes the amusement would re-
remove her dejection. Her father's letter, relative to Sir
Charles Bingley, had given, her some uneasiness ; but as he
left her free to act, she contented herself with using the
negative he allowed her, by a solemn resolution of never act-
ing contrary to his inclinations, and answered his letter to this
purpose.
Lord Mortimer and Freelove attended the ladies in the
evening to the play. His lordship found an opportunity of
tenderly inquiring after Amanda's health. When they were
seated in the house he perceived a lady in another box to
whom he wished to speak, and accordingly left his party. This
lady offered him a seat by herself, which he accepted. She
was a stranger to Amanda, young and extremely beautiful.
Amanda, however, had none of that foolish weakness which
could make her dread a rival in every new face, or feel uneasi-
ness at Lord Mortimer's attention to any woman but herself.
Assured that his affections for her were founded on the basis
of esteem, and that slie should retain them while wor^thy of
2S4 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY,
esteem, she could, without being discomposed by tire agreeable
conversation he appeared to be enjoying, fix her attention on
the stage \ so entirely, indeed, that she observed not from lime
to time, the glances Lord Mortimer directed towards her. Not
so his fair companion. She noticed the wanderings of his eyes,
and her own involuntarily pursued their course. She was
. speaking at the moment, but suddenly stopped, and Lord
Mortimer saw her change color. He turned pale himself, and
in a faltering voice, asked her, " if she knew the lady she had
been long looking at?" "Know her?" replied she; "oh,
heavens I but too well."
Lord Mortimer trembled universally, and was compelled to
have recourse to his handkerchief to hide his emotion.
It was by Adela, the lovely and neglected wife of Belgrave,
he was sitting. She had been a short time in London, and her
acquaintance with Lord Mortimer commenced at a ball, where
she had danced with him. He was not one of those kind of
men wlio, when in love, had neither eyes nor ears but for the
object of tjiat love. He could see perfections in other women
besides his Amanda, and was particularly pleased with Mrs.
Belgrave. He instantly perceived that she knew Amanda;
also, that that knowledge was attended with pain. The well-
known profligacy of her husband intruded on his memory, and
he shuddered at the dreadful thoughts which arose in his
mind.
Curiosity had directed the eyes of Adela to Amanda, but
admiration, and an idea of having somewhere seen her face,
riveted them upon her j at last the picture Oscar Fitzalan had
shown occurred to her recollection, and she was immediately
convinced it was no other than the original of that picture she
now saw. Shocked at the sight of a person who, as she thought
had stepped (though innocently) between her and felicity, and
distressed by the emotions which past scenes, thus recalled,
gave rise to, she entreated Lord Mortimer to conduct her from
the box, that she might return home.
He complied with her request, but stopped in the lobby,
and entreated her to tell him " where she had known the lady
she had so attentively regarded." Adela blushed, and would,
if possible, have evaded the question ; but the earnestness of
his lordship's manner compelled her to answer it. She said
" she had no personal knowledge of the lady, but recollected
her face, from having seen her picture with a gentleman."
"And who was the gentleman ? " asked Lord Mortimer, with
a forced smile and a faltering voice. " That," replied Adela,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 255
with involuntary quickness, "I will not tell." "I should
apologize, indeed," cried Lord Mortimer, recollecting himself,
" for a curiosity which may appear impertinent." He led her to a
chair, and deliberated whether he should not follow her ex-
ample in quitting the house.
Miss Malcolm had first inade him uneasy : uneasiness intro-
duced doubts which Sir Cliarles Uingley had increased, and
Mrs. Belgrave almost confirmed. He dreaded a horrid con-
firmation of his fears ; the picture, lilce Othello's handkerchief,
was a source of unspeakable anguish. The agitation that Mrs.
Belgrave had betrayed on mentioning it, joined to her conceal-
ment of the gentleman she had seen it with, tempted him to
believe he was no other than her husband.
Yet, that he might not be accused of yielding rashly to
jealousy, he resolved to confine his suspicions, like his pangs,
to his own bosom, except assured they were well founded. A
little time he supposed, would determine the opinion he should
form of Amanda. If he found she encouraged Belgrave, he
resolved to leave her without any explanation ; if, on the con-
trary, he saw that she avoided him, he meant to mention the
circumstance of the picture to her, yet so as not to hurt het
feelings, and be regulated by her answer relative to his future
conduct. He returned, at last, to the box, and procured a
scat behind her. lie had not occupied it long ere Colonel
Belgrave (who, from a retired part of the house where he sat
with some female friends, had observed Amanda) entered the
next box, and made his way to the pillar agamst which she
leaned. He endeavored to catch her eyes, but the noise he
made on entering put her on her guard, and she instantly
averted her face. Her embarrassment was visible to her party,
and they all, Lord Mortimer excepted, enjoyed it. Scarcely
could he refrain from chastising the audacity of Belgrave's
looks, who continued to gaze on Amanda, though he could not
see her face. Nothing but the discovery which such a step
would produce could have prevented his lordship, in his irritable
state of mind, from chastising what he deemed the height of
insolence.
At last the hour came for relieving Amanda from a situation
extremely painful to her. As Lord Mortimer sat next the mar-
chioness, he was compelled to offer her his hand. Freelove led
Lady Euphrasia ; Lady Greystock and Miss Malcolm followed
her, and Amanda was the last who quitted the box. A
crowd in the lobby impeded their progress. Amanda was close
behind the marchioness, when Belgrave forced his way to her,
256 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
and attempted to take her hand at the very moment Lord Mor-
timer turned to look at her, who heard him say, " Dear, though
unkind, Amanda, why this cruel change in your conduct? "
The eyes of Mortimer flashed fire. " Miss Fitzalan," said
he, in a voice trembling through passion, " if you will accept
my arm, I will make way for you, or at least secure you from
impertinence." Amanda, though trembling and confounded by
his looks, hesitated not to accept his offer. Belgrave knew his
words alluded to him. At present, however, he resolved not
to resent them, convinced, that if he did, his views on Amanda
would be defeated. From that moment her beauty was not
more powerful in stimulating his designs than his desire of re-
venge on Lord Mortimer. He saw he was fondly attached to
Amanda, and he believed' his proud heart would feel no event
so afflictive as that which should deprive him of her.
Lord Mortimer handed Amanda in silence to the carriage ;
he was pressed to return to supper, but refused. The ladies
found the marquis and Lord Cherbury together. Amanda re-
tired to her chamber immediately after supper; the presence of
Belgrave had increased the dejection which she hoped the
amusements of the theatre would have dissipated j she now in-
deed longed for the period when she should be entitled to the
protection of Lord Mortimer ; when she should no longer dread
the audacity or stratagems of Belgrave. Lord Cherbury, on
her retiring, expressed his regret at her coldness to Sir Charles
Bingley, by which she had lost a most honorable and advan-
tageous attachment.
This was an opportunity not to be neglected by the mar-
chioness, for commencing her operations against Fitzalan. A
glance to Lady Greystock was the signal to begin.
" To those," said Lady Greystock, " who are ignorant of
Miss Fitzalan's real motives for refusing Sir Charles, it must ap-
pear, no doubt, extraordinary ; but ambitious people are not
easily satisfied \ indeed, I cannot blame her so much for enter-
taining aspiring notions as those who instilled them into her
mind."
Lord Cherbury stared, and requested an explanation of her
words.
" Why, I declare, my lord," cried she, " I do not know but
that it will be more friendly to explain than conceal my mean-
ing. When once informed of the young lady's views, your lord-
ship may be able to convince her of that fallacy, and prevail
on her not to lose another good opportunity of settling herself
in consequence of (hem ; in short, my lond, Miss Fitzalan,
TITE cmLDREN OF THE ABBEY. 257
prompted by her father, has cast her eyes on Lord, Mortimer.
Presuming on your friendship, he thought a union between them
might easily be accomplished. I do not believe Lord Morti-
mer, at first, gave any encouragement to their designs j
but when the girl was continually thrown in his way, it was
impossible not to notice her at last. I really expressed a
thorough disapprobation to her coming to London, knowing
their motives for desiring the excursion, but her father never
ceased persecuting me till I consented to take her under
my protection."' " Upon my word," cried the marquis, who
was not of the ladies' privy council, though if he had it is
probable he would not have objected to their schemes,
" Captain Fitzalan must have had some such motive as this
Lady Greystock has mentioned for sending his daughter to
London, or else he would not have been so ridiculous as
to put himself at the expense of fitting her out for company
she has no right to enter." " I never thought," exclaimed
Lord Cherbury, whose mind was irritated to the most violent
degree of resentment against his injured friend, " that Captain
Fitzalan could have acted with such duplicity. He knew the
views I entertained for my son, and there is a mean treachery
in his attempting to counteract them." " Nay, my lord," said
Lady Greystock, " you are a father yourself, and must make
allowances for the anxiety of a parent to establish a child."
" No, madam," he replied ; " I can make no allowance for a
deviation from integrity, or for a sacrifice of honor and grati-
tude at the shrine of interest. The subject has discomposed
me, and I must beg to be excused for abruptly retiring ; noth-
ing, indeed, J believe, can wound one so severely as deceit,
where one reposed implicit confidence."
The ladies were enraptured at the success of their scheme.
The passion of Lord Cherbury could scarcely be smothered in
their presence. On the heacl of Fitzalan ifiey knew it would
burst with fuil violence. They did not mention Belgrave ; re-
lative to him they resolved to affect profound ignorance.
The passions of Lord Cherbury were impetuous. He had,
as I have already hinted, secret motives for desiring a connec-
tion between his family and the marquis's \ and the idea of
that desire being defeated drove him almost to distraction.
He knew his son's passions, though not so easily irritated as
his own were, when once irritated, equally violent. To remon-
strate with him concerning Miss Fitzalan, he believed, would
be unavailing ; he therefore resolved, if possible, to have her
removed out of his way ere he apprised him of the discovery
17
258 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
he had made of his attachment. He entertained not a doubt
of Lady Greystock's veracity ; from his general knowledge of
mankind, he believed self the predominant consideration in
every breast. His feelings were toj violent not to seek an im-
mediate vent, and ere he went to bed, he wrote a bitter and re-
proachful letter to Fitzalan, which concluded with an entreaty,
or rather a command, to send without delay for his daughter.
A dreadful stroke this for poor Fitzalan.
" After all his wanderings round this world of care
And all his griefs,"
He hoped he had at last found a spot where his latter days
might close in tranquillity.
The innocent Amanda was received the next morning with
smiles by those who were preparing a plot for her destruction.
Whilst at breakfast, a servant informed Lady Greystock a
young woman wanted to speak to her. " Who is she ? " asked
her ladyship ; " did siic not send up her name ? " " No, my
lady; but she said she had particular business with your lady-
ship."
The marchioness directed she might be shown up ; and a
girl about seventeen was accordingly ushered into the room.
Her figure was delicate, and her face interesting not only from
its innocence, but the strong expression of melancholy diffused
over it. She appeared trembling with confusion and timidity,
and the poverty of her apparel implied the source of her dejec-
tion.
" So, child," said Lady Greystock, after surveying her from
head to foot, " I am told you have business with me." " Yes,
madam," replied she, in an accent so low as scarcely to be
heard ; " my father. Captain Rushbrook, desired me to deliver
a letter to your ladyship."
She presented it, and endeavored to screen herself from the
scrutinizing and contemptuous glances of Lady Euphrasia by
pulling her hat over her face.
" I wonder, child," said Lady Greystock, as she opened the
lejtter, " what your father can wrile to me about. I don't sup-
pose it can be about tlie aff:ur iie mentioned the other day.
Why, really," continued she, after she had perused it, " I believe
he takes me for a fool. I ain astonished, after his insolent con-
duct, how he can possibly have the assurance to make applica-
tion to me for relief. No, no, child, he neglected the oispor-
tunity he had of securing me his friend. 'Twould really be a
gin to give him the power of bringing up his family in idleness,
r/Zfi CHILDREN 01'- THE ABBEY. 259
No, no, child, he must learn you and the other little dainty
misses he has, to do something for yourselves."
The poor girl blushed ; a tear trembled in her eye ; she
tried to suppress it, but it forced its way, and dropped into her
bosom. Amanda, inexpressibly shocked, could support the
scene no longer. She retired precipitately, and descended to
the parlor. Sympathy, as well as compassion, made her feel
for this daughter of affliction, for she herself knew what it was
to feel the " insolence of prosperity, the proud mans scorn,
and all those ills which patient merit of the unworthy takes."
In a few minutes Miss Rushbrook quitted the drawing-room,
and stopped in the hall to wipe away her tears. Amanda had
been watching for her, and now appeared. She started, and
was hurrying away, when Amanda caught her hand, and leading
her softly into the parlor, endeavored, with angelic sweetness,
to calm her emotion. Surprised at this unexpected attention,
and overcome by her feelings, the poor girl sunk" on her chair,
and dropping her head on Amanda's bosom, wet it with a
shower of tears, as she exclaimed : " Alas ! my unfortunate
parents, how can I return to behold your misery ? The grave
is the only refuge for you and your wretched children ! " " You
nuist not encourage such desponding thought.s," said Amanda.
" Providence, all bounteous and ail powerful, is able in a short
time to change the gloomiest scene into one ofbrightncss. Tell
me," she continued, after a pause," where do you reside ? " " At
Kensington." " Kensington ! " repeated Amanda. " Surely,
in your present situation, you are unable to take such a walk,"
" I must attempt it, however," replied Miss Rushbrook.
Amanda walked from her to the window, revolving aschemQ
which had just darted into her mind, " IE you know any
house," said she, " where you could stay for a short time, I
would call on you in a carriage, and leave you at home."
This offer was truly pleasing to the poor weak trembling
girl, but she modestly declined it, from the fear of giving trou-
ble. Amanda besought her not to waste time in such unneces-
sary scruples, but to give her the desired information. She
?iccordingly informed her there was a haberdasher's in Bond
Street, mentioning the name, where she could stay till called for.
This point settled, Amanda, fearful of being surprised, con-
ducted her softly to the hall-door, and immediately returned
to the drawing-room, where she found Lady Euphrasia just
beginning Rushbrook's letter, for her mother's amusement.
Its style evidently denoted the painful conflicts there were
between pride find distress, ere the formqr could bp sufliqicntly
36o THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
subdued, to allow an application for relief to the person who
occasioned the latter. The sight of a tender and beloved
wife, languishing in the arms of sickness, and surrounded by a
family, under the pressure of the severest want, had forced him
to a step, which, on his own account, no necessity could have
compelled him to take. He and his family, he said, had drank
of the cup of misery to the very dregs. He waived the daims
of justice ; he only asserted those of humanity, in his present
application to her ladyship ; and these, he flattered himself,
she would allow. He had sent a young petitioner in his behalf,
whose tearful eye, whose faded cheek, were sad evidences of
the misery he described.
The marchioness declared she was astonished at his inso-
lence in making such an application, and Lady Euphrasia pro-
tested the letter was the most ridiculous stuff she had ever read.
Amanda, in this, as well as in many other instances, differed
from her ladyship ; but her opinion, like a little project she
had in view about the Rushbrooks, was carefully concealed.
Out of the allowance her father made her for clothes and
other expenses about ten guineas remained, which she had
intended laying out in the purchase of some ornaments for
her appearance at a ball, to be given in the course of the en-
suing week by the Duchess of B , and, for which, at the
time of invitation. Lord Mortimer had engaged her for his
partner. To give up going to this ball, to consecrate to charity
the money devoted to vanity, was her project ; and most for-
tunate did she deem the application o Rushbook, ere her
purchase was made, and she consequently prevented from
giving her mite. Her soul revolted from the inhumanity of
the mardiioness, her daughter, and Lady Greystock, Exempt
from the calamities of want themselves, they forgot the pity
due to those calamities in qthers. If this coldness, this obdu-
racy, she cried, within herself, is the effect of prosperity ; if
thus it closes the avenues of benevolence and compassion, oh |
never may the dangerous visitor approach me-^for ill should I
think the glow of compassion and sensibility exchanged for all
its gaudy pleasures.
The ladies had mentioned their intention of going to an
auction, where, to use Lady Euphrasia's phrase, " they expected
to see all the world." Amanda excused herself from being of
the party, saying, " she wanted to make some purchases in the
city." Her excuse was readily admitted, and when they re-
tired to their respective toilets, she sent for a coach, and being
prepared against it cpme, innnediatply stepped into it, and was
Tim CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. afii
driven to Bond Street, where she found MiSs Rushbrook, with,
tremWing anxiety, waiting her arrival.
On their way to Kensington, the tenderness of Amanda at
once conciliated the affection, and gained the entire confidence
of her young companion. She related the little history of her
parents' sorrows. Her father, on returning from America,
with his wife and six children, had been advised by Mr. Heath-
field, the friend who had effected a reconciliation between him
and his uncle, to commence a suit against Lady Greystock, oil
the presumption that the will, by which she enjoyed Sir Geoffry's
fortune, was illegally executed. He offered him his purse to
carry on the suit, and his house for an habitation. Rushbrook
gratefully and gladly accepted both offers, and having disposed
of his commission, td discharge some present demands against
him, he and his family took up their residence under Mr.
Heathfield's hospitable roof. In the midst of the felicity
enjoyed beneath it , in the midst of the hopes their own san-
guine tempers, and the flattering suggestions of the lawyers
had excited, a violent fever carried off their benevofent friend,
ere a will was executed, in which he had promised largely to
consider Rushbrook. His heir, narrow and illiberal, had long
feared that his interest would be hurt by the affection he en-
tertained for Rushbrook ; and, as it in revenge for the ptLvn
this fear had given, the moment he had the power he showed
his malignant disposition, sold all the furniture of the house
at Kensington, and as a great favor told Rushbrook, he might
continue in it till the expiration of the half year, when it was
to be given up to the landlord. The lawyers understanding
the state of his finances, soon informed him he could no longer
expect their assistance. Tlius, almost in one moment, did all
his pleasing prospects vanish, and,
" Like the baseless fabric of a vision,
^ Left not a rack behind."
As a duty he owed his family, he tried whether Lady Grey-
stock would make a compromise between justice and avarice,
and afford him some means of support. Her insolence and
inhumanity shocked him to the soul ; and as he left her pres-
ence, he resolved never to enter it again, or to apply to her.
This last resolution, however, only continued till the distresses
of the family grew so great as to threaten their existence, par-
ticularly that of his wife, who, overpowered by grief, had sunk
into a languishing illness, which every day increased for want
of proper assistance.
262 'T'HE CHILDREN OF THE ABSEY.
In hopes of procuring her some, he was tempted again to
apply to Lady Greystock. The youth and innocence of his
daughter would, he thought, if anything could do it, soften her
flinty heart. Resides, he believed that pleasure, at finding his
pretensions to the fortune entirely withdrawn, would influence
her to administer from it to his wants.
" We have," said Miss Rushbrook, as she concluded her
simple narration, " tried, and been disappointed in our last
resource. What will become of us, I know not ; we have long
been strangers to the comforts, but even the necessaries of
life we cannot now procure." "Comfort," cried Amanda,
" often arrives when least expected. To despair, is to doubt
the goodness of a Being who has promised to protect all his
creatures."
The carriage had now reached Kensington, and within a
few yards of Rushbrook's habitation. Amanda stopped it.
She took Miss Rushbrook's hand, and as she slipped a ten-
pound note into it, exclaimed : " I trust the period is not far
distant, when the friendship we have conceived for each other
may be cultivated under more fortunate auspices."
Miss Rushbrook opened the folded paper. She started,
and " t'\e hectic of a moment flushed her cheek." " Oh !
madam!" she cried, " your goodness " tears impeded her
further utterance.
" Do not distress me," said Amanda, again taking her
hand, " by mentioning such a trifle ; was my ability equal to
my inclination, I should blush to offer it to your acceptance.
As it is, consider it as but the foretaste of the bounty which
heaven has, I doubt not, in store for )'ou."
She then desired the door to be opened, and told her com-
panion she would no longer detain her. Miss Rushbrook
affectionately kissed her hand, and exclaimed, " You look like
an angel, and your goodness is correspondent to your looks.
I will not, madam, refuse your bounty. I accept it with grati-
tude, for those dearer to me than myself. But ah ! may I not
indulge a hope of seeing you again. You are so kind, so
gentle, madam, that every care is lulled into forgetfulness
whilst conversing with you."
" I shall certainly see you again as soon as possible," re-
plied Amanda.
Miss Rushbrook then quitted the carriage, which Amanda
ordered back to town, and bid the coachman drive as fast as
possible. They had not proceeded far, when the traces sud-
denly gave way, and the man was obliged to dismount, and
THE. cmtDRSiN OF THE ABBEY. 263
[jfocure assistance from a public-house on the road, in repair-
ing them. This occasioned a delay, which greatly distressed
Amanda. She wished to get home before the ladies, lest, if
this was not the case, her long absence should make Lady
Greystock, Who was remarkably inquisitive, inquire the reasoii
of it ; and to tell her she had a strong objection, convinced,
ns she was, that her ladyship's knowing she relieved objects so
txlrenicly disagreeable to licr, would occasion a quarrel between
Ihem, which would either render a longer residence together
impossible or highly disagreeable. And to leave London at
the present crisis, when everything relative to Lord Mortimer
was drawing to a conclusion, was not to be thought of without
the greatest pain.
At length the coachman remounted his box, and the velo-
city with which he drove, flattered her with the hope of reach-
ing home as soon as she wished. Tranquillized by this hope,
she again indulged her imagination with ideas of the comfort
her little bounty had probably given Rushbrook and his de-
jected family. So sweet to her soul was the secret approbation
which crowned her charity; so preferable to any' pleasure she
could have experienced at a ball, that even the disappointment
she believed Lord Mortimer would feel from her declining it,
was overlooked in the satisfaction she felt from the action she
had performed. She was convinced he would inquire her reason
for not going, which she determined at present to conceal. It
would appear like ostentation, she thought, to say that the
money requisite for her appearance at the ball was expended
in charity, and perhaps excite his generosity in a manner which
delicacy at present forbade her allowing.
She asked the footman who handed her from the carriage
whether the ladies were relumed ; and on being answered in
the affirmative, inquired the hour, and learned it was just dinner
time. Flurried by this intelligence she hastened to her cham-
ber, followed by the maid appointed to attend her, who said
Lady Greystock had inquired for her as soon as she came home.
Amanda dressed herself with unusual expedition, and repaired
to the drawing-room, where, in addition to the family party, she
found Lord Mortimer, Freelove, Miss Malcolm, and some other
ladies and gentlemen assembled.
" Bless me, child," said Lady Greystock the moment she
entered the room, " where have you been the whole day ? " "I
declare. Miss Fitzallan," exclaimed Lady Euphrasia, " I be-
lieve you stole a march somewhere upon us this morning."
" Well," cried Miss Malcolm, laughing, " your ladyship must
264 I'HE CHILDREN' OF THE ABBEY.
know that people generally have some important reason fdr
stolen marches which they do not choose to divulge."
Amanda treated this malicious insinuation with the silent
contempt it merited ; and on Lady Greystock's again asking
her where she had been, said, in a low hesitating voice, " in
the city."
" In the city ! " repeated Lord Mortimer.
This sudden exclamation startled her. She looked at him,
and perceived him regarding her with the most scrutinizing
earnestness. She blushed deeply, as if detected in a falsehood,
and immediately bent her eyes to the ground.
The conversation now changed, but it was sometime ere
Amanda's confusion subsided.
Lord Mortimer, indeed, had a reason for his exclamation
she little thought ot. He had met the marchioness and her
companions, by appointment, at the auction, but soon grew
weary of his situation, which the presence of Amanda could
alone have rendered tolerable. I Ic pleaded business as an ex-
cuse for withdrawing, and hurrying home, ordered his phaeton,
and proceeded towards Kensington. As he passed the coach
in which Amanda sat, at the time the traces were mending, he
carelessly looked into it, and directly recognized her. Lady
Euphrasia had informed him she excused herself from their party
on account of some business in the city. He never heard of
her having any acquaintance in or about Kensington, and was
at once alarmed and surprised by discovering her. He drove
to some distance from the carriage, and as soon as it began tt
move, pursued it witli equal velocity till it reached town, and
then giving his phaeton in charge to the servant, followed it on
foot, till he saw Amanda alight from it at the Marc^is of Ros-
lin's. Amanda had escaped seeing his lordship by a profound
meditation in which she was engaged at the moment, as she
pensively leaned against the side of the coach. Lord Mortimer
walked back with increased disorder to meet his phaeton. As
he approached it, he saw Colonel Belgrave by it, on horseback,
admiring the horses, which were remarkably fine, and asking to
whom they belonged. His acquaintance with the colonel had
hitherto never exceeded more than a passing bow. Now
prompted by an irresistible impulse, he saluted him familiarly ;
inquired " whether he had had a pleasant ride that morning,
and how far he had been." " l^fo farther than Kensington,"
replied the colonel.
This answer was confirmation strong to all the fears of
Lord Mortimer. He turned pale, dropped the reins which he
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. afij
had taken, with an intention of remounting, and, without even
noticing the Colonel, flew from the place, and arrived at home
almost in a state of distraction. He was engaged to dine at the
Marquis's, but in the first violence of his feelings, resolved on
sending an apology. Ere the servant, however, summoned for
that purpose had entered his apartment, he changed his resolu-
tion. " I will go," said lie : " though appearances are against
her, she may, perhaps," (and he tried to derive some comfort
from the idea,) "be able satisfactorily to account for her being
at Kensington."
Tortured by conflicting passions, alternately hoping and
doubting, he arrived at Portman Square.
Lady GreyiStock and Lady Euphrasia dwelt with wonder on
the length of Amanda's morning excursion. When she entered
the room, he thought she appeared embarrassed ; and that, on
Lady Greystock's addressing her, this embarrassment increased.
But when she said she had been in the city, her duplicity, as he
termed it, appeared so monstrous to him, that he could not for-
bear an involuntary repetition of her words. So great, indeed,
was the indignation it excited in his breast, that he could
scarcely forbear reproaching her as the destroyer of his and her
own felicity. Her blush appeared to him, not the ingenuous
coloring cf innocence, but the glow of shame and guilt. It was
evident to him that she liad seen IJclgrave that morning; that
he was the occasion of all the mystery which had appeared in
her conduct, and that it was the knowledge of the improper in-
fluence he had over her heart which made Sir Charles Bingley
so suddenly resign her.
" Gracious Heaven ! " said he to himself, " who, that looked
upon Amanda, could ever suppose duplicity harbored in her
breast ? Yet that too surely it is, I have every reason to sup-
pose. Yet a little longer I will bear a torturing state of sus-
pense, nor reveal my doubts till thoroughly convinced they are
well founded."
He sat opposite to her at dinner, and his eyes were directed
towards her with that tender sadness which we feel on viewing
a beloved object we know ourselves on the point of losing for-
ever.
His melancholy was quickly perceived by the penetrating
marchioness and Lady Euphrasia. They saw, with delight,
that the poison of suspicion, infused into his mind, was already
beginning to operate. They anticipated the success of all
their schemes. Their spirits grew uncommonly elevated; and
Lady Euphrasia determined, whenever she had the power, to
266 THE CUILDREM OF THE AfiSEV.
revenge, on the susceptible nature of Mortimer, all the uneasi-
ness he had made her suffer, and to add, as far as malice could
add to it, to the misery about to be the lot of Amanda.
The dejection of Lord Mortimer was also observed by
Amanda. It excited her fears and affected her sensibility.
She dreaded that his aunt had refused complying with his re-
quest relative to her interference with his father, or that the
earl had been urging him to an immediate union with Lady
Euphrasia. Perhaps he now wavered between love and duty.
The thought struck a cold damp upon her heart. Yet no, cried
she, it cannot be ; if inclined to change, Lord Mortimer would
at once have informed me.
In the evening there was a large addition to the party ; but
Lord Mortimer sat pensively apart from the company.- Amanda,
by chance, procured a seat next his. His paleness alarmed
her, and she could not forbear hinting her fears that he was ill.
" I am ill, indeed," sighed he, heavily. He looked at her
as he spoke, and belield her regarding him with the most exqui-
site tenderness. But the period was past for receiving delight
from such an ajjpearance of allection : an affection, he had rea-
son to believe was never more than feigned for him ; and, also,
from his emotions when with her, that he should never cease
regretting the deception. His passions, exhausted by their
own violence, had sunk into a calm, and sadness was the pre-
dominant feeling of his soul. Though he so bitterly lamented,
he could not, at the moment, have reproached her perfidy, He
gazed on her with mournful tenderness, and to the involuntary
expression of regret, which dropped from her on hearing he
was ill, only replied, by saying, " Ah ! Amanda, the man that
really excites your tenderness must be happy."
Amanda, unconscious that any sinister meaning lurked
beneath these words, considered them as an acknowledgment
of the happiness he himself experienced from being convinced
of her regard, and her heart swelled with pleasure at the idea.
Any further conversation between them was interrupted by
Miss Malcolm, who, in a laughing manner, seated herself by
Lord Mortimer, to rally him, as she said, into good spirits.
The CHtLDREN OF rilE ABBEY. 267
CHAPTER XXIX.
'* But yet I say,
If imputation and strong circumstances,
Which lead directly to the door of truth, ^
Will give you satisfaction, you may have it."
Shakspbarb.
From that evening, to the day destined for the ball, noth-
ing material happened. On the morning of that day, as
Amanda was sitting in tiie drawing-room with the ladies, Lord
Mortimer entered. Lady Euphrasia could talk of nothing else
but the approaching entertainment, which, she said, was ex-
pected to be the most brilliant thing that had been given that
winter.
" I hope your ladyship,'' said Amanda, who had not yet
declared her intention of staying at home, " will be able to-
morrow to give me a good description of it." " Why, I sup-
pose," cried Lady Euphrasia, " you do not intend going with-
out being able to see and hear yourself t " " Certainly," replied
Amanda, " I should not, but I do not intend going," " Not
going to the ball to-night ? " exclaimed Lady Euphrasia.
' Bless me child," said Lady Greystock, " what whim has
entered your head to prevent your going ? " " Dear Lady '
Greystock," said Lady Euphrasia, in a tone of unusual good-
humor, internally delighted at Amanda's resolution, " don't
tease Miss Fitzalan with questions." "And you really do not
go ? " exclaimed Lord Mortimer, in an accent expressive of
surprise and disappointment. " I really do not, my lord."
" I declare," said the marchioness, even more delighted than
her daughter at Amanda's resolution, as it favored a scheme
she had long been projecting, " I wish Euphrasia was as in-
di/terent about amusement as Miss Fitzalan : here she has
been complaining of indisposition the whole morning, yet I
cannot prevail on her to give up the ball."
Lady Euphrasia, who never felt in better health and spirits,
would have contradicted the marchioness, had not an expres-
sive glance assured her there was an important motive for this
assertion.
" May we not hope, Miss Fitzalan," said Lord Mortimer,
" that a resolution so suddenly adopted as yours may be as
268 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
suddenly changed ? " " No, indeed, my lord, nor is it so sud
denly formed as you seem to suppose."
Lord Mortimer shuddered as he endeavored to account for
it in his own mind ; his agony became almost insupportable ;
he arose and walked to the window where she sat.
" Amanda," said he, in a low voice, " I fear you forget your
engagement to me."
Amanda, supposing this alluded to her engagement for the
ball, replied, " she had not forgotten it." " For your inability
or disinclination to fulfil it, then," said he, " will you not
account?" "Most willingly, my lord." "When?" asked
Lord Mortimer, impatiently, for, unable longer to support his
torturing suspense, he determined, contrary to his first inten-
tion, to come to an immediate explanation relative to Belgrave.
"To-morrow, my lord," replied Amanda, "since you desire it,
I will account for not keeping my engagement, and I trust," a
modest blush mantling her cheeks as she spoke, " that your
lordship will not disapprove of my reasons for declining it."
The peculiar earnestness of his words. Lord Mortimer
imagined, had conveyed their real meaning to Amanda.
" Till to-morrow, then," sighed he, heavily, " I must bear
disquietude."
His regret, Amanda supposed, proceeded from disappoint-
ment at not having her company at the ball : she was flattered
by it, and pleased at the idea of telling him her real motive for
'not going, certain it would meet his approbation, and open
another source of benevolence to poor Rushbrook.
In the evening, at Lady Euphrasia's particular request, she
attended at her toilet, and assisted in ornamenting her lady-
ship. At ten she saw the party depart, without the smallest
regret for not accompanying them : happy in self-approbation,
a delightful calm was diffused over her mind : a treacherous
calm, indeed, which, lulling her senses into security, made the
approaching storm burst with redoubled violence on her head j
it was such a calm as Shakspeare beautifully describes :
" Wc often see against some storm
A silence in tlie lieavens ; the rack stand still,
The bold winds speechless, and tiie orb below
As hush as death."
She continued in Lady Euphrasia's dressing-room, and took
up the beautiful and affecting story of Paul and Mary, to amuse
herself. Her whole attention was soon engrossed by it ; and,
with the unfortunate Paul, she was shedding a deluge of tears
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. jgg
over the fate of his lovely Mary, when a sudden noise made
her hastily turn her head, and with equal horror and surprise,
she beheld Colonel Belgrave coming forward. She started up,
and was springing to the door, when, rushing between her and
it, he caught her in his arms, and forcing her back to the sofa,
rudely stopped her mouth.
"Neither cries or struggles, Amanda," said he, "will be
availing; without the assistance of a fri6nd, you may be con-
vinced, I could not have entered this house, and the same
friend will, you may depend on it, take care that our tete-a-tete
is not interrupted."
Amanda shuddered at the idea of treachery ; and being
convinced, from what lie said, she could not expect assistance,
endeavored to recover her fainting spirits, and exert all her
resolution.
"Your scheme, Colonel Belgrve,'' said she, "is equally
vile ancl futile. Though treachery may have brought you
hither, you must be convinced that, under the Marquis of Ros-
lin's roof, who, by relationship, as well as hospitality, is bound
to protect me, you dare not, with impunity, offer me any insult.
The marquis will be at home immediately ; if, therefore, you
wish to preserve the semblance ef honor, retire without further
delay." "Not to retire so easily," exclaimed Belgrave, "did I
take such pains, or watch so anxiously for this interview. Fear
not any insult ; but, till I have revealed the purpose of my
soul, I will not be forced from you. My love, or rather adora-
tion, has known no abatement by your long concealment ; and
now that chance has so happily thrown you in my way, I will
not neglect using any opportunity it may offer." " Gracious
heaven ! " said Amanda, while her eyes flashed with indigna-
tion, " liow can you have the ertrontcry to avow your insolent
intentions intentions whicli long since you must have known
would ever jjrovc abortive ? " " And why, my Amanda," said
he, again attempting to strain her to his breast, while she
shrunk from his grasp, " why should they prove abortive ? why
should you be obstinate in refusing wealth, happiness, the sin-
cere, the ardent affection of a man, who, in promoting your
felicity, would constitute his own ? My life, my fortune, would
be at your command ; my eternal gratitude would be yours for
any trifling sacrifice the world might think you made me.
Hesitate no longer about raising yourself to affluence, which,
to a benevolent spirit like yours, must be so peculiarly pleas-
ing. Hesitate not to secure independence to your father, prq-
piotion to your brother ; and, bfc assured, if the connection J
2 JO THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
formed in an ill-fated hour, deceived by a specious appearance
of perfection, should ever be dissolved, my hand, like my heart,
shall be yours." " Monster 1 " exclaimed Amanda, beholding
him with horror, " your hand, was it at your disposal, like your
other offers, I should spurn with contempt. Cease to torment
me," she continued, "lest, in my own defence, I call upon
those who have power, as well as inclination, to chastise your
insolence. Let this consideration, joined to the certainty that
your pursuit must ever prove unavailing, influence your future
actions ; for, be assured, you are m every respect an object of
abhorrence to my soul."
As she spoke, exerting all her strength, she burst from him,
and attempted to gain the door. He flung himself between
her and it, his face inflamed with passion, and darting the
most malignant glances at her.
Terrified by his looks,* Amanda tried to avoid him; and
when he caught her again in his arms, she screamed aloud. No
one appeared ; her terror increased.
" Oh, Belgrave ! " cried she, trembling, " if you have one
principle of honor, one feeling of humanity remaining, retire.
I will pardon and conceal what is past, if you comply with my
request." "I distress you, Amanda," said he, assuming a
softened accent, "and it wounds me to the soul to do so,
though you, cruel and inexorable, care not what pain you
occasion me. Hear me calmly, and be assured I shall attempt
no action which can offend you."
He led her again to the sofa, and thus continued : :
" Misled by false views, you shun and detest the only man
who has had sufficient sincerity to declare openly his inten-
tions ; inexperience and credulity have already made you a
. dupe to artifice. You imagined Sir Charles Bingley was a fer-
vent admirer of yours, when, be assured, in following you he
only obeyed the dictates of an egregious vanity, which flattered
him with the hope of gaining your regard, and being distin-
guished by it. Nothing was farther from his thoughts, ^s ho
himself confessed to )iie, than seriously paying his addresses to
you \ and had you appeared willing, ^t last, to accept them, be
assured he would soon have contrived somp scheme to disen-
gage himself from you. The attention^ of J^qrd Mortimer are
prompted by a motive much more dangerous than that which
instigated Sir Charles. He really admires you, and would have
you believe his views are honorable ; but beware of his dupli-
city. He seeks to take advantage of the too great confidence
you repose in hjm. Hjs purpose onc accomplished, he would
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 27 1
sacrifice you to Lady Euphrasia ; and I know enough of her
malevolent disposition to be convinced she would enjoy her
triumph over so lovely a victim. Ah, my dear Amanda, even
beauty and elegance like yours would not, on the generality of
mankind, have power to make them foi-ego the advantages an-
nexed to wealth on Lord Mortimer, particularly, they would
fail of that effect. His ambition and avarice are equal to his
father's ; and though his heart and soul, I am confident, revolt
from the mind and person of Lady Euphrasia, he will unite
himself to her, for the sake of possessing her fortune, and thus
increasing his own power of procuring the gratifications he de-
lights in. As my situation is known, I cannot be accused of
deception, and whatever I promise, will be strictly fulfilled.
Deliberate therefore no longer, my Amanda, on the course you
shall pursue." " No," cried she, " I shall, indeed, no longer
deliberate about it."
As she spoke she started from her seat. Belgrave again
seized her hand. At this moment a knocking was heard at
the hall door, which echoed through the house. Amanda trem-
bled, and Belgrave paused in a speech he had begun. She
supposed the marquis had returned. It was improbable he
would come to that room ; and even if he did, from his dis-
trustful and malignant temper, she knew not whether she
should have reason to rejoice at or regret his presence. But
how great was her confusion when, instead of his voice, she
heard those of the marchioness and her party I In a moment
the dreadful consequences which might ensue from her present
situation rushed upon her mind. By the forced attentions of
the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia, she was not long de-
ceived, and had reason to believe, from the inveterate dislike
they bore her, that they would rejoice at an opportunity like
the present for traducing her fanie ; and with horror she saw
that appearances, even in the eyes of candor, would be against
her. She had positively, and unexpectedly, refused going to
the ball. She had expressed delight at the idea of staying at
home. Alas! would not all these circumstances be dwelt
upon ? What ideas might they not excite in Lord Mortimer,
who already showed a tendency to jealousy ? Half wild at the
idea, she clasped her hands together and exclaimed, in a voice
trembling with anguish, " Merciful heaven, I am rujnpd for-
ever!"
" No, no," cried Belgrave, flinging himself at her feet, " par-
don me, Amanda, and I never more will molest you, I see
your principles are jnvincible, I adiqire, I revere your purity,
2^2 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
and never more will I attempt to injure it. I was on the point
of declaring so when that cursed knock cdme to the door.
Compose yourself, and consider what can be done in the pres-
ent emergency. You will be ruined if I am seen with you.
The malicious devils you live with would never believe our
united asseverations of your innocence. Conceal me, there-
fore, if possible, till the family are settled ; the person who let
me in will then secure my retreat, and I swear solemnly never
more to trouble you."
Amanda hesitated between the confidence her innocence
inspired, and the dread of the unpleasant construction malice
might put on her situation. She heard the party ascending the
stairs. Fear conquered her reluctance to concealment, and
she motioned to Belgrave to retire to a closet adjoining the
dressing-room. He obeyed the motion, and closed the dooi
softly after him.
Amanda, snatching up her book, endeavored to compose
herself \ but the ellfort was ineffectual she trembled univer-
sally nor was her agitation diminished when, from the outside
of the door, Lady Euphrasia called to her to open it. She
tottered to it, and almost fainted on finding it locked with
difficulty she opened it, and the whole party, followed by the
marquis, entered.
" Upon my word. Miss Fitzalan," said the marchioness,
" you were determined no one should disturb your meditations.
I fear we have surprised you ; but poor Euphrasia was taken
ill at the ball, and we were obliged to return with Ijer." " Miss
Fitzalan has not been much better, I believe," said Lady Eu-
phrasia, regarding her attentively. " Good Lord, child I "
cried Lady Greystock, " what is the matter with you t why, you
look as pale as if you had seen a ghost." " Miss Fitzalan is
fond of solitude," exclaimed the marquis, preventing her re-
plying to Lady Greystock. " When I returned home about an
hour ago, I sent to request her company in the parlor, which
honor, I assure you, I was refused."
The message, indeed, had been sent, but never delivered
to Amanda.
"I assure you, my lord," said she, "I heard of no such re-
quest." " And pray, child, how have you been employed* all
this time ? " asked Lady Greystock. " In reading, madam,"
faltered out Amanda, while her death-like paleness was suc-
ceeded by a deep blush. " You are certainly ill," said Lord
Mortimer, who sat beside her, in a voice expressive of regret
at the conviction, "You have been indulging melancholy
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
273
ideas, I fear," continued he softly, and taking lier hand, " for
Burely surely to-night you are uncomnjonly affected."
Amanda attempted to speak. I'he contending emotions of
her mind prevented her utterance, and the tears trickled silent-
ly down her cheeks. Lord Mortimer saw she wished to avoid
notice, yet scarcely could he forbear requesting some assistance
for her.
Lady Euphrasia now complained of a violent headache.
The marchioness wanted to ring for remedies. This Lady
Euphrasia opposed ; at last, as if suddenly recollecting it, she
Said, " in the closet there was a bottle of eau-de-luce, which
she was certain would be of service to her."
At the mention of the closet, the blood ran cold through
the veins of Amanda ; but when she saw Lady Euphrasia rise
to enter it, had death, in its most frightful form, stared her in
the face, she could not have betrayed more horror. She looked
towards it with a countenance as expressive of wild affright as
Macbeth's, when viewing the chair on which the spectre of the
murdered Banquo sat. Lord Mortimer observing the disorder
of her looks, began to tremble. He grasped her hand with a
convulsive motion, and exclaimed :
" Amanda, what means this agitation ? "
A loud scream from Lady Euphrasia broke upon their ears,
and she rushed from tlic closet, followed by Belgrave.
" Gracious Heaven ! " exclaimed Lord Mortimer, dropping
Amanda's hand, and rising precipitately.
Amanda looked around she beheld every eye fastened on
her with amazement and contempt. The shock was too much
for her to support. A confused idea started into her mind that
a deep-laid plot had been concerted to ruin her ; she faintly
exclaimed, " I am betrayed," and sunk bjick upon the sofa.
Lord Morlimer started at her exclamation. " Oh Heavens I "
cried he, as he looked towards Iicr; unable to support the
scene that would ensue in consequence of this discovery, he
struck his forehead in agony, and rushed out of the room. In
the hall he was stopped by Mrs. Jane, the maid appointed by
the marchioness to attend Amanda.
" Alack-a-day, my lord," said she, in a whimpering voice,
"something dreadful, I am afraid, has happened above stairs.
Oh dear ! what people suffer sometimes by their good nature.
I am sure, if I thought any harm would come of granting Miss
Fitzalan's request, she might have begged and prayed long
enough, before I would have obliged her." Did she desire. you
to bring Colonel Belgrave to this house? " asked Lord Morti-
18
274 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
mer. " Oh, to be sure she did, my lord, or how should I ever
have thought of such a thing? She has been begging and
praying long enough for me to contrive some way of bringing
him here ; and she told me a piteous story, which would have
softened a stone, of Jiis being a sweetheart of hers before he
was married." " Merciful powers ! " cried Lord Mortimer,
clasping his hands together, "how have I been deceived."
He was hurrying away, when Mrs. Jane caught his coat.
" I shall lose my place," said she, sobbing, " that I shall, most
certainly ; for my lord and lady never will forgive my bring-
ing any one in such a way into the house. I am sure, I
thought no great harm in it, and did it quite from good nature ;
for, indeed, how could one resist the poor, dear young lady ;
she cried, and said she only wanted to bid farewell to her dear
Belgrave."
Lord Mortimer could hear no more. He shook her from
him, and hurried from the house.
Amanda's faculties suffered but a momentary suspension ;
as she opened her eyes, her composure and fortitude returned.
" I am convinced," said she, rising and advancing to the
marquis, " it will shock your lordship to hear, that it is the
treachery of some person under your roof has involved me in
my present embarrassing situation. For my own justification,
'tis necessary to acknowledge that I liave long been the object
of a pursuit from Colonel Iklgrave, as degrading to his char-
acter as insulting to mine. When he broke so unexpectedly
upon me to-night, he declared, even with effrontery declared,
he had a friend in this house who gave him access to it. As
your guest, my lord, I may expect your lordship's protection ;
also that an immediate inquiry be made for the abettor in this
scheme against me, and a full discovery of it extorted that
should the affair be mentioned, it may be explained, and my
fame cleared of every imputation." "That, madam," said the
marquis, with a malicious sneer, " would not be quite so easy a
matter as you may perhaps suppose. Neither the world not I
am so credulous as you imagine. Your story, madam, by no
means hangs well together. There is no person in my house
would have dared to commit the act you accuse them of, as they
must know the consequence of it would be immediate dismission
from my service. Had not Colonel Belgrave been voluntarily
admitted, he never would have been concealed ; no, madam,
you would have rejoiced at the opportunity our presence gave
you of punishing his temerity. Innocence is bold ; 'tis guilt
alone is timorous."
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBE Y. 275
The truth of part of his speech struck forcibly on Amanda ;
but how could she explain her conduct ? how declare it was
her dread of the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia's malice
which had made her consent to conceal him.
" Oh, I see," said she, in the agony of her soul " I see I
am the dupe of complicated artifice." " I never in my life,"
cried the marchioness, " met with such assurance to desire
the marquis to be her champion." "As she was intrusted to
my care, however," exclaimed Lady Greystock, " I think it
necessary to inquire into the affair. Pray, sir," turning to the
colonel, " by what means did you come here ? "
The colonel, with undiminished assurance, had hitherto
stood near the fatal closet leaning on a chair.
" That, madam," replied he, " I must be excused revealing.
Let me, however, assure your ladyship 'tis not on my own ac-
count I affect concealment." Here he glanced at Amanda.
" Those parts of my conduct, however, which I choose to con-
ceal, I shall always be ready to defend." " Sir," cried the
marquis haughtily, " no explanation or defence of your conduct
is here required ; I have neither right nor inclination to inter-
fere in Miss Fitzalan's concerns."
The colonel bowed to the circle, and was retiring; when
Amanda fiew to him and caught his arm. " Surely, surely,"
said she, almost gasping for breath, " you cannot be so
inhuman as to retire without explaining this whole affair. Oh, '
Belgrave, leave me not a prey to slander. By all your hopes
of mercy and forgiveness hereafter, I conjure you to clear my
fame."
" My dear creature," said he, in a low voice, yet low enough
to be heard by the whole party, " anything I could say would
be unavailing. You find they are determined not to see things
in the light we wish them viewed. Compose yourself, I beseech
you, and be assured, while I exist, you never shall want comfort
or affluence."
He gently disengaged himself as he spoke, and quitted the
room, leaving her riveted to the floor in amazement at his in*
solence and perfidy.
" I am sure," said Lady Greystock, " I shall regret all my
life the hour in which I took her under my protection ; though,
indeed, from what I heard soon after my arrival in London, I
should have dispatched her back to her father, but I felt a
foolish pity for her. I was in hopes, indeed, the society I had
introduced her to would have produced a reformation, and that
I might be the means of saving a young creature from entire
276 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
destruction." " From what I have ah-eady suffered by her
family, nothing should have tempted me to take her under my
roof," exclaimed the marchioness. " Was she my relation,"
cried the marquis, " I should long since have come to a deter-
mination about her ; as yours, madam," turning to the mar-
chioness, " I shall not attempt forming one ; I deem it, however,
absolutely necessary to remove Lady Euphrasia Sutherland from
the house till the young lady chooses to quit it. I shall there-
fore order the carriage to be ready at an early hour for the
villa."
" I shall certainly accompany your lordship," cried the
marchioness, "for I cannot endure her sight; and though she
deserves it, it shall not be said that we turned her from the
house." " The only measure she should pursue," exclaimed
Lady Greystock, " is to set off as soon as possible for Ireland ;
when she returns to obscurity the affair may die away." " It
may, however," said Amanda, " be yet revived to cover with
confusion its contrivers. To Heaven I leave the vindication of
my innocence. Its justice is sure, though sometimes slow, and
the hour of retribution often arrives when least expected.
Much as I have suffered much as I may still suffer, I think
my own situation preferable to theirs who have set their snares
around me. The injurer must ever feel greater pangs than the
injured the pangs of guilt and remorse. I shall return to my
obscurity, happy in the consciousness that it is not a shelter
from shame, but a refuge from cruelty I seek. But can I be
surprised at meeting cruelty from those who have long since
waived the ties of kindred? from those," and she glanced at
Lady Greystock, "who have set aside the claims of justice and
humanity ? "
The marchioness trembled with rage at this speech, and
as Amanda retired from the room, exclaimed, intolerable as-
surance."
Amanda repaired immediately to her chamber. She tottered
as she walked, and the housekeeper and Mrs. Jane, who, with
some other servants, had assembled out of curiosity near the
door, followed her thither.
The emotions she had so painfully suppressed now burst
forth with violence. She fell into an agony of tears and sobs
which impeded her breathing. The housekeeper and Jane
loosened her clothes and supported her to the bed. In a short
time she was sufficiently recovered to be able to speak, and
requested they would engage a carriage for her against the
next day, at an early hour, that she might commence her
THE CHILDREN OF THE ADBE\\ 277
journey lo Ireland. This they promised, and at her desire
retired.
Success, but not happiness, had crowned the marchioness's
scheme. She triumphed in the disgrace slate had drawn upon
Amanda, but feared that disgrace was only temporary. She
had entangled her in a snare, but she dreaded not having
secured her in it. She distrusted those who had assisted her
designs for tlie guilty will ever suspect each other. They
might betray her, or Colonel Belgrave might repent ; but such
evils, if they did ever arrive, were probably far distant. In the
interim, all she desired to accomplish might be effected. Long
had she been meditating on some plan which should ruin
Amanda forever not only in the opinion of Lord Mortimer,
but in tlie eslimation of the World. With the profligacy of
Colonel Belgrave she was well acquainted, and inclined from it
to believe that he would readily join in any scheme which could
give him a chance of possessing Amanda. On discovering her
residence, he had ord^d his valet; who was a trusty agent in
all his villanies, to endfeavor to gain access to the house, that
he might discover whether there was a chance of introducing
him there. The valet obeyed his orders, and soon attached
himself to Mrs. Jane, whom the marchioness had placed about
Amanda, from knowing she was capable of any deceitful part.
She was introduced to Belgrave, and a handsome present se-
cured her in his interest.
She communicated to the marchioness the particulars of
their interview. From that period they had been seeking to
bring about such a scene as was at last acted ; for the conduct
of Amanda had hitherto defeated their intentions. Her staying
from the ball at last gave the wished-for opportunity.
Lady !p;uphrasia was apprised of the whole plot, and ..the
hint of her indisposition was given in the morning, that no sus-
picion might be entertained in the evening, when mentioned as
a plea for returning home earlier than was intended.
Colonel Belgrave was introduced into the closet by Mrs.
Jane, through a door thjtt opened from the lobby; and whilst
Amanda sat pensively reading, he stole out, and secured the
other door, as already mentioned.
When Lady Euphrasia declared she was too ill to continue
at the ball. Lord Mortimer offered to attend her home. Had
he not done so, the marchioness intended to have asked him.
The marquis was persuaded that Amanda was an artful and
daBgerous rival to his daughter, and he hated her from that
Consideration. The laws of hospitality obliged him to treat her
278 THE cmibREN- OF THE ABBEY.
with politeness, but he gladly seized the first opportunity that
offered for expressing his dislike.
Lady Greystock saw through the plot, but she professed her
belief of Amanda's guilt, which was all the marchioness required.
The marquis left the ladies together, while he went to give
orders about his early journey. Soon after his departure a
ioud knocking was heard, which announced a visitor ; and
from the lateness of the hour, they conjectured, and were right
in doing so, that it must be Lord Mortimer.
After traversing several streets, in an agony no language could
describe, he returned to Tortman Square. His fancy presented
Amanda to his view, overwhelmed with shame, and sinking
beneath the keen reproacheis levelled at her, In the idea of her
sufferings, all resentment for the supposed perfidy was forgotten.
Human nature was liable to err, and the noblest efforts that
nature could make, was to pardon such errors* To speak com-
fort to this fallen angel, he felt would relieve the weight which
pressed upon his own breast. Pale and disordered he entered
the room, and found the ladies apparently much affected.
" My dear lord," said the marchioness, " I am glad you are
come back. As a friend of the family, you tnay perhaps honor
us with your advice on the present occasion." " Indeed," ex-
claimed Lady Greystock, " I suppose his lordship is at as great
a loss to know what can be done as we are. Was the colonel
in a situation to make any reparation but a married man, only
think, how horrible I " " Execrable monster I " cried Lord
Mortimer, starting from his seat, and traversing the room, " it
were a deed of kindness to mankind to extirpate him from the
earth : but say," continued he, and his voice faltered as he
spoke, " where is the unfortunate ," he could not pronounce
the name of Amanda. " In her own room," replied the mar-
chioness. " I assure you, she behaved with not a little inso-
lence, on Lady Greystock advising her to return home. For
my part, I shall let her act as she pleases."
She then proceeded to mention the marquis's resolution of
leaving the house till she had quitted it, and that he insisted on
their accompanying him.
" To return to her father is certainly the only eligible plan
she can pursue," said Lord Mortimer ; " but allow me," con-
tinued he, " to request that your ladyship will not impute to
insolence any expression which dropped from her. Pity her
wounded feelings, and soften her sorrows.'' " I declare," cried
Lady Euphrasia, " I thought I should have fainted from the
pity I felt for her." " You pitied her, then," said Lord Morti-
THE CnrLDliRN OF THE A 13 BEY. 279
timer, sitting down by her ladyship, " you pitied and sootliecl
her afflictions ? " " Yes, indeed," replied slie.
If ever Lady Euphrasia appeared pleasing in the eyes of
Lord Mortimer, it was at this moment, when he was credulous
enough to believe she had shed the tear of pity over his lost
Amanda. He took her hand. " Ah ! my dear Lady Euphra-
sia," said he, in an accent of melting softness, " perhaps even
now she needs consolation. A gentle female friend would be
a comfort to her wounded heart."
Lady Euphrasia immediately took the hint, and said she
would go to her.
He led her to the door. " You are going," cried he, " to
perform the office of an angel to console the afflicted. Ah !
well does it become the young and gentle of your sex to pity
such misfortunes."
Her ladyship retired, but not indeed to the chamber of the
forlorn Amanda. In her own she vented the rage of her soul
in something little short of execrations against Lord Mortimer,
for the affection she saw he still retained for Amanda.
On her ladyship's retiring. Lady Greystock mentioned every
particular she had heard from Mrs. Jennings, and bitterly
lamented her having ever taken Amanda under her protection.
The subject was too painful to be long endured by Lord Morti-
mer. He had heard of the early hour fixed for their journey,
and saying he would no longer kcejj the ladies from repose,
precipitately retired. He gave his man directions to watch
their motions, and inform him when they left town.
Exhausted by the violence of her emotions, a temporary
forgetfulness stole over the senses of Amanda, on her being left
to solitude. In this state she continued till roused by a bustle
in the house. She started, listened, and heard the sound of a
carriage. Supposing it to be the one she had ordered for her
departure, she sprang from the bed, and, going to the window,
saw, instead of one for her, the marquis's, into which he was
handing the ladies. As soon as it drove from the door, she
rang the bell, and the housekeeper immediately appeared, as
Mrs. Jane had attended the marchioness to the villa. Amanda
inquired " whether a carriage, as she directed,*had been en-
gaged for her."
The housekeeper replied, " the hour in which she spoke was
too late for such a purpose, but she had now sent about one."
Amanda endeavored to exert herself, and was packing up
her clothes, when a maid entered the chamber, and said, " Lord
Mortimer was below, and wished to speak to her."
28o THE CHILDREN^ OF THE ABBEY.
Tumultuous joy pervaded the mind of Amanda. She- 'ad
believed it probable she should not see him again before her
departure for Ireland, from whence she had determined writing
to him the particulars of the affair. His visit seemed to an-
nounce he thought not unfavorably of her. She supposed he
came to assure her that his opinion of her integrity was un-
shaken " and I shall yet triumph," cried she, in the transport
of the idea, " over malice and treachery."
She sprung past the maid ; her feet scarce touched the
ground, and in a (uoment she found herself in the arms of Lord
Mortimer, which involuntarily opened to receive her, for, trem-
bling weak, and disordered, she would else, on seeing him, have
sunk to the floor. He supported her to a sofa. In a little
time she raised her head from his shoulder, and exclaimed,
" Oh ! you are come ! I know you are come, to comfort me."
"Would to Heaven," he answered, " I were capable of either
giving or receiving comfort. The period, however, I trust, may
yet arrive when we shall both at least be more composed. To
mitigate your sorrows would lessen my own ; for never, oh,
never ! can my heart forget the love and esteem it once bore
Amanda." " Once bore her ! " repeated Amanda. " Once
bore her. Lord Mortimer ! do you say ? Then you wish to
imply they no longer exist ? "
The tone of anguish in which she spoke, pierced the heart
of Lord Mortimer. Unable to speak, he arose, and walked to
the window, to hide his emotion. His words, his silence, all
conveyed a fatal truth to Amanda. Siie saw a dreadful and
eternal separation effected between her and Lord Mortimer.
/ She beheld herself deprived of reputation, loaded with calumny,
and no longer an object of love, but of detestation and contempt.
Her anguish was almost too great to bear, yet the pride of in-
jured innocence made her wish to conceal it ; and, as Lord
Mortimer stood at the window, she determined to try and leave
the room without his knowledge, but ere she gained the door
her head grew giddy, her strength failed, she staggered, faintly
screamed on finding herself falling, and sunk upon the floor.
Lord Mortjmer wildly called for assistance. He raised and
carried her back to the sofa ; he strained her to his bosom,
kissed her pale lips, and wept over her.
" I have wounded your gentle soul, my Amanda," cried he,
" but I have tortured my own by doing so. Ah ! still dearest
of women, did the world compassionate your errors as I com-
passionate them, neither contempt nor calumny would ever be
your portion. How pale she looks ! " said he, raising his head
Tim ClJILDkEN OF THE AtiBEV. i%i
to gaze upon her face; "how like a lovely flower untimely
faded ! Yet were it happiness for her never to revive ; a soul
like hers, originally noble, must be wretched under the pressure
ofsccrn. Execrable Belgrave 1 the fairest work of Heaven is
destroyed by you. Oh ! my Amanda, my distress is surely
severe though anguish rives my heart for your loss, I must
conceal it the sad luxury of grief will be denied me, for the
world would smile if I could say I now lamented you."
Such were the effusions of sorrow which broke from Lord
Mortimer over the insensible Amanda. The housekeeper, who
had been listening all this time, now appeared, as if in obedi-
ence to his call, and offered her assistance in recovering Amanda.
Heavy sighs at length gave hopes of her restoration. Lord
Mortimer, unable to support her pathetic lamentations, deter-
mined to depart ere she was perfectly sensible.
" Miss Fitzalan," said he to the housekeeper, "will wish, I
am convinced, to quit this house immediately. I shall take
upon myself to procure her a carriage, also a proper attendant,
for her journey, which, I flatter myself, she will be able to com-
mence in a few hours. Be kind, be gentle to her, my good
woman, and depend on my eternal gratitude. When she is
recovered, deliver her this letter."
The housekeeper promised to observe his injunctions, and
M departed.
To Ireland, with Amanda, he intended sending an old
female servant, who had formerly been an attendant of his
mother's, and his own man. He was shocked at the conduct of
the marchioness and Lady Greystock, apd thought them guilty
of the highest inhumanity in thus deserting Amanda. The
letter he had put into the housekeeper's hands excited her
curiosity so strongly that she was tempted to gratify it.
Amanda was not in a situation to perceive what she dicf, the
letter could easily be sealed again, and, in short, without longer
hesitation, she opened it. How great was her amazement, on
finding it contained a bank-note for five hundred pounds. The
words werp as follows :
Consider me, Amanda, in the light of a brother ; as such accept my ser-
vices ; to serve you, in any manner, will be a source of consolation, which,
1 flatter myself, you will be happy to allow me. 'Tis necessary you should
return immediately to your father ; hesitate not, then, about using the
enclosed. Your complying with my request will prove that you yet retain
a friendship for
MOBTIMBR.
"What a sum," cried the housekeeper, as she examined the
282 THE cniLDREN OF THE AKBEY.
note ; " what a nice little independency would this, in addition
to what I have already saved, be for an honest woman 1 What
jj pity it is such a creature as it is designed for should possess
it ! " The housekeeper, like her lady, was fertile in invention !
to be sure there was some danger in her present scheme, but
far such a prize it was worth her while to run some risk. Could
she but get Amanda off ere the carriage from Lord Mortimet
arrived, she believed all would succeed as she could wish.
Amanda, ignorant as she was of Lord Mortimer's intentions,
would not, consequently, be influenced by them, to oppose any-
thing she could do. Full of this idea, she tan out, and calling
a footman, high in her favor, desired him immediately to procure
a travelling chaise for Miss Fitzalan. She then returned to
Amanda, who was just beginning to move.
" Come, come," cried she, going to her, and roughly shaking
her shoulder, "have done with tliose tragedy airs, and prepare
yourself against the carriage you ordered, comes : it will be at
the door in a few minutes."
Amanda looked round the room. " Is Lord Mortimer gone,
then ? " said she. " Lord, to be sure he is," cried the house-
keeper ; " he left you on the floor, and, as he went out, he said
you should never have {mother opportunity of deceiving him."
A sudden frenzy seemed to seize Amanda ; she wrung her
hands, called upon Lord Mortimer in the impassioned language
of despair, and flung herself on the ground, exclaiming, " This
last stroke is more than I can bear."
The housekeeper grew alarmed, lest her agitation should
retard her departure ; she raised her forcibly from the ground,
and said, " she must compose herself to begin her journey,
which was unavoidable, as the marchioness had given absolute
orders to have her sent from the house early in the morning."
"Accursed house I " said Amanda, whose reason was restored
by the strenuous remonstrances of the housekeeper : " Oh, that
I had never entered it I " She then told her companion, " if
she would assist her, as she was almost too weak to do anything
for herself, she would be ready against the carriage came."
The housekeeper and maid accordingly attended her to her
chamber j the former brought her drops, and the latter assisted
in putting on her habit, and packing Up hel: clothes. Amanda
having secured her trunks, desired they might be sent, by the
first opportunity, to Castle Carbef ry \ she had left a great many
clothes there, so took nothing at present with her but a small
quantity of linen. She had but a few guineas in hef purse j hel
watch, however, was valuable ; and if she had money enough to
THE cmiDRMM OF rim ABISMV. 283
carry her to Dublin, she knew there she might procure a suffi-
cient sum on it to carry her home.
At last the carriage came ; with a trembling frame, and
half-broken heart, Amanda entered it. She saw Nicholas, the
footman, who had procured it, ready mounted to attend her.
She told him it was unnecessary to do so \ but he declared he
could not think of letting sd yoiing a lady travel unprotected.
She was pleased at his attention : she had shuddered at the
idel of her forlorn situation, and nOw drojjped a tear of sweet
sensibility at finding she was hot Utterly deserted by every
nunian beings The Carriage took the road to Parkgate, as
Amanda chose td embark from thence, the journey being so
iiiuch nearer to it than to Holyhead. It was how about eight
o'clock j after travelling four hpurs, the chaise stopped at a
small house on the roadside, which appeared to be A commdrt
ale-hduse. Amanda was tinwilling td enter it ; but the hdrses
Vvere here to be changed ; and she was shown into a dirty parlor,
Jvhere, almost sinking with weakness, she ordered tea to be
immediately brought m. She was much astonished, as she sat
at the tea-table, to see Nicholas enter the room with a familiar
air, and seat himself by her. She stared at him at first, suppos-
ing him intoxicated ; but perceiving no sign^ of this in his
countenance, began to fear that the insults she had received at
the marquis's made him think himself autiiorized to treat her
with this insolence. She arose abruptly, and, summoning all
her resolution to her aid, desired him to retire, adding, " If his
attendance was requisite she would ring for him."
Nicholas also quitted his seat, and foljowing her, caught her
in his arms, exclaiming, " Bless us, how hoity toity you are
grown."
Amanda shrieked, and stamped on the floor in an agony" of
terror and indignation.
" Why, now really," said he, " after what happened at home,
I think you need not be so coy with me." " Oh, save me,
Heaven, from this wretch I " was all the affrighted Amanda
could articulate.
The door opened. A waiter appeared, and told Nicholas
he was wanted without, Nicholas released Amanda, and ran
directly from the room. Amanda sunk upon a chair, and her
head turned giddy at the idea of the dangers with which she
was surrounded. She saw herself in the power of a wretch-^
perhaps wretches, for the house seemed a proper place for
scenes of villany without the means of delivering herself.
She walked to the window. A confused idea of getting through
284 Til^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
'it, and running from the house, darted into her mind, but she
turned from it in agony at seeing a number of countrymen
drinking before it. Slie now could only raise her feeble hands
to heaven to supplicate its protection.
She passed some minutes in this manner, when the lock
turned and made her shudder, but it was the landlady alone who
egtered. She came, she said, with Nicholas's respectful duty,
and she was sorry he was obliged to go back to town without
seeing her safe to her journey's end.
"Is he really gone ? " asked Amanda, with all the eagerness
of joy. " Yes," the woman said ; " a person had followed him
from London on purpose to bring him back." " Is the carriage
ready ? " cried Amanda. She was informed it was. " Let me'
fiy, then." The landlady impeded her progress to tell her the
bill was not yet settled. Amanda pulled out her purse, and
besought her not to detain her. This the woman had no desire
to do. Things were therefore settled without delay between
them, and Amanda was driven with as much expedition as she
could desire from the terrifying mansion. The chaise had pro-
ceeded about two miles, when, in the middle of a solitary road,
or rather lane, by the side of a wood, it suddenly stopped.
Amanda, alarmed at every incident, hastily looked out, and
inquired what was the matter ; but how impossible to describe
her terror when she beheld Colonel Belgrave, and Nicholas
standing by him ! She shrunk back, and entreated the postilion
to drive on j but he heeded not her entreaty. Nicholas opened
the door, and Belgrave sprang into the carriage. Amanda
attempted to burst open the door at the opposite side j but he
caught her to his bosom, and the horses set off at full speed.
Colonel Belgrave's valet had been secreted by Mrs. Jane the
preceding night in the house, that he might be able to g-ive his
master intelligence of all that passed within it, in consequence
of his being discovered in the closet. On hearing the family
were gone to the Marquis's villa, Belgrave believed he could
easily prevail on the domestics to deliver up Amanda to him.
Elated with this hope, he reached the house, attended by his
valet, just after she had quitted it. The housekeeper hesitated
to inform him of the road she had taken till she had procured
what she knew would be the consequence of her hesitation a
large bribe. Horses were then immediately procured, and
Belgrave and his servant set off in pursuit of Amanda. The
sight of a travelling chaise at the little inn already mentioned,
prompted their inquiries ; and on finding the chaise waited
for Amanda, the colonel retired to a private room, sent for
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 285
Nicholas, and secured him in his interest. It was settled they
should repair to the wood, by which the postilion was bribed
to pass, and from thence proceed to a country-house of the
coloners. Their scheme accomplished, Nicholas, happy in the
service he had done, or rather the reward he had obtained for
that service, again turned his face towards London.
The carriage and attendants Lord Mortimer procured for
Amanda arrived even earlier than the housekeeper had ex-
pected, and she blessed her lucky stars for the precipitancy
vfith which she had hurried off Amanda. They were followed
by his lordship himself, whose wretched heart could not sup-
port the idea of letting Amanda depart without once more be-
holding her. Great was his dismay, his astonishment, when
the housekeeper informed lnim she was gone.
" Gone ! " he repeated, changing color.
The housekeeper said that, without her knowledge, Miss
Fitzalan had a chaise hired, and the moment it came to the
door stepped into it, notwithstanding she was told his lordship
meant to provide everything proper for her journey himself.
" But she said, my lord," gried the housekeeper, "she wanted
none of your care, and tliat she could never get fast enough
from a house, or from people, where and by whom she had
been so ill treated."
Lord Mortimer asked if she had any attendant, and whether
she took the letter.
The housekeeper answered both these questions in the
affirmative. " Truly, my lord," she continued, " I believe
your lordship said something in that letter which pleased her,
for she smiled on opening it, and said, ' Well, well, this is
something like comfort." " And was she really so mean ? "
he was on the point of asking, but he timely checked a ques-
tion which was springing from a heart t/iat sickened at finding
the object of its tenderest affections unworthy in every respect
of possessing them. Every idea of this kind soon gave way to
anxiety on her account. His heart misgave him at her under-
taking so long a journey under the protection of a common
servant ; and, unable to endure his apprehensions, he deter-
mined instantly to pursue and see her safe himself to the
destined port.
The woman, who had hitherto sat in the chaise, was ordered
to return home. He entered it with eagerness, and promised
liberally to reward the postilions if they used expedition. They
had changed horses but once when Lord Mortimer saw Nich-
olas approaching, whom, at the first glance, he knew, He
286 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
stopped the carriage, and called out, " Where have you left Miss
Fitzalan ? " " Faith, my lord," cried Nicholas, instantly stop-
ping and taking off his hat, " in very good company. I left
her with Colonel Belgrave, who was waiting, by appointment,
on the road for her." " Oh ! horrible infatuation I " said Lord
Mortimer, " that nothing can snatch her from the arms of in-
famy."
The postilion desired to know whether he should return to
London.
Lord Mortimer hesitated, and at last desired him to go on
according to his first directions. He resolved to proceed to Park-
gate and discover whether Amanda had returned to Ireland.
They had not proceeded far when they overtook a travelling
chaise. As Lord Mortimer passed, he looked into it, and be-
held Amanda reclined on the bosom of Belgrave. He trembled
universally, closed his eyes, and sighed out the name of the
perfidious Amanda. When they had got some way before the
other chaise, he desired the postilion to strike off into another
road, which, by a circuit of a few miles, would bring them back
to London. Amanda, it was evident, had put herself under the
protection of Belgrave, and to know whether she went to Ire-
land was now of little consequence to him, as he supjDOsed her
unreclaimable. But how impossible to describe his distress
and confusion when almost the first object he beheld, on alight-
ing in St. James's Square, was his aunt, Lady Martha Dormer,
who, in compliance with his urgent request, had hastened to
London. Had a spectre crossed his sight he could not have
been more shocked.
"Well, my dear Frederick," said her ladyship, "you see I
lost no time in obeying your wishes. I have flown hither, I
may indeed say, on the wings of love. But where is this little
divinity of thine ? I long to have a peep at her goddess-^ship."
Lord Mortimer, inexpressibly shocked, turned to the window.
" I shall see, to be sure," cried her ladyship, " quite a lit-
tle paragon. Positively, Frederick, I will be introduced this
very evening." " My dear aunt, my dear Lady Martha," said
Lord Mortimer, impatiently, " for Heaven's sake spare me I "
" But tell me," she continued, " when I shall commence this
attack upon your father's heart ? " " Never ! never I " sighed
Mortimer, half distracted. "What I you suppose he will prove
inflexible ? But I do not despair of convincing you to the con-
trary. Tell me, Frederick, when the little charmer is to be
seen ? " " Oh, God ! " cried Mortimer, striking his forehead,
" she is lost," said he, " she is lost forever 1 "
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 287
Lady Martha was alarmed. She now, for the first time,
noticed the wild and pallid looks of her nephew. "Gracious
Heaven ! " she exclaimed, " what is the matter ? "
The dreadful explanation Lord Mortimer now found him-
self under a necessity of giving. The shame of acknowledging
he was so deceived, the agony he suffered from that deception,
joined to the excessive agitation and fatigue he had suHfered
the preceding night, and the present day, so powerfully as-
sailed him at this moment, that his senses suddenly gave way,
and he actually fainted on the floor.
What a sight for the tender Lady Martha ! She saw some-
thing dreadful had happened, and what this was Lord Morti-
mer, as soon as recovered, informed her.
He then retired to his chamber. He could neither con-
verse nor bear to be conversed with. His fondest hopes were
blasted, nor could he forego the sad indulgence of mourning
over them in solitude. He felt almost convinced that the hold
Amanda had on his affections could not be withdrawn ; he had
considered her as scarcely less than his wife, and had she been
really such, her present conduct could not have given him more
anguish. Had she been snatched from him by the hand of
death ; had she been wedded to a worthy character, he could
have summoned fortitude to his aid ; but to find her the prey
of a villain, was a stroke too horrible to bear, at least for a
long period, with patience.
CHAPTE XXX.
' And let a maid thy pity share, \
^ WI10 seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.'* GoLDSMiiit,
Amanda had fainted soon after Colonel Belgrave enteied
the carriage, and she was reclining on his bosom in a slate of
insensibility when Lord Mortimer passed. In this situation '
she continued till they had gained a solitary road, when the
carriage stopped, and water, procured from an adjacent cottage,
being sprinkled on her face, she recovered ; but either by
arguments or actions she was- now unable to oppose Belgrd,ve.
She felt a weakness through her whole frame, which she be-
288 THE CHILDREN OF THE A'^BEY.
lieved the forerunner of death, and a languor on her mind that
almost deprived it of the perception of misery.
The refreshments offered to her she could only refuse by a
motion of her hand j and in this manner they proceeded till
about nine o'clock at night, when they entered an extensive
wood, in the very centre of which stood Colonel Belgrave's
mansion. He carried Amanda himself into it, and laid her
upon a sofa in a large parlor. Some female domestics ap-
peared with drops and cordials, to try and recover her from
the almost lifeless state in which she lay. One of them pre-
sented a letter to the colonel, which excited no little perturba-
tion in his mind. It came express to inform him that his uncle,
whose estate and title he was heir to, lay at the point of death,
and that his presence was immediately required.
The colonel was not so absolutely engrossed by love as to
be incapable of attending to his interest. An addition of for-
tune was extremely agreeable, as his affairs were somewhat
deranged ; and, as Amanda was not in a situation at present
to comply with any overtures he should make, his resolution
was immediately formed to set off without delay, and against
his return he trusted Amanda would be not only recovered,
but willing to accede to his wishes.
He dismissed the woman who had brought her a little to
herself, and taking her hand informed her of the painful neces-
sity he was under of departing for a short time. He also men-
tioned his hopes, that on his return he should have no obstacle
thrown in the way of his happiness by her. " You must be
sensible, my dear Amanda," said he, with coolness, " that
your reputation is as much gone as if you had complied with
my wishes ; since it is sacrificed, why not enjoy the advantages
that may, that will certainly attend the reality of that sacrifice ? "
" Monster ! " cried Amanda, " your arts may have destroyed
my fame, but my innocence bids defiance to your power."
"Conquer your obstinacy, Amanda," replied he, "against I
return, or I shall not promise but what I may be at last irritated.
As you will have no occasion for money here, you must
excuse me, my dear creature, if I take your purse into my
own keeping. My domestics may be faithful, when they have
no inducement to the contrary ; but no bribery, no corruption,
you know." He then very deliberately took Amanda's purse,
and watch from her pocket, and deposited them in his own.
He had already given directions to his servants concerning
their treatment of Amanda, and now ordered them to carry
her to a chamber, and make her take some refreshment.
THE CHILDREN OF TffE ABBEV. 289
"Reflect, Amanda," said he, ere she retired, "on your pres-
ent situation, and timely estimate the advantages I offer to your
acceptance; wealth, pleasure, the attentions of a man who
adores you, are not to be despised. Upon my soul it grieves
me to leave you, but the joys of meeting will, I trust, pay the
pangs of absence."
As he spoke, he attempted to embrace her, but she faintly
shrieked, and shrunk from his grasp. He looked provoked ;
but as he had no time to lose, he reserved a declaration of his
anger for another opportunity, and directly set off for his uncle's.
Amanda was supported to a chamber, and lay down in her
clothes on a bed. They offered her bread and wine, but she
was too sick to touch any. To remonstrate with the insolent
looking creatures who surrounded her she knew would be un-
availing, and she turned her face on the pillow to stifle her sobs,
as she believed they would exult in her distress. Death she
thought approaching, and the idea of being separated from the
dear objects who would have soothed its last pangs, was dread-
ful. Her father in agony, and Oscar, her beloved brother, be-
wailing her with tears of sorrow, were the images fancy pre-
sented to her view.
" Dear objects of my love," she softly exclaimed, " Amanda
shall no more behold you, but her last sigh will be breathed for
you. Ah ! why, why," she cried, " did I suffer myself to be
separated from my father "
A young woman leaned over Amanda, and surveyed her
with the most malignant scrutiny. She was daughter to Bel-
grave's steward, and neither she nor her father possessed suffi-
cient virtue to make them reject the offers Belgrave made them
on her account. His attachment to her was violent, but tran-
sient, and in the height of it he made her mistress of the man;
sion she now occupied, which character she maintained with
tyrannic sway over the rest of the domestics. Belgrave was
really ignorant of the violence of her temper, and had no idea
she would dare dispute his inclinations, or disobey his orders.
He believed she would be subservient to both, and from this
belief, gave Amanda particularly into her charge.
But scarcely had he departed, ere she swore, " that let the
consequence be what it would, the vile wretch he had brought
into the house to insult her should never remain in it. She
shall iramp," cried she, " though I follow her myself when he
returns ; for such a little hussey shall never triumph over me."
The servants, ignorant and timorous, did not attempt to op'
pose h?r,
19
290 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
" Come, madam," said she, suddenly seizing Amanda's arm,
and pulling her from the pillow, " have done with these languish^
ing airs, and march." " What do you mean ? " cried Amanda,
trembling at her inflamed countenance. " Why, I mean you
shall quit this house directly ; and I wonder Colonel Belgrave
could have the assurance to bring such a creature as you into it."
"You mistake, indeed," said Amanda; " treachery, not inclina-
tion, brought me into it, and I am not what you suppose. If,
as you say, you will allow me to depart, I shall ever regard you
as my friend ; and in every prayer I offer up to Heaven for my-
self, you shall be remembered." " Oh, dear ! but you shall not
impose upon me so easily. " Come," continued she, turning to
a maid, " and help me to conduct this fine lady to the hall door."
" Gracious Heaven ! " said Amanda, who by this time was
taken, or rather dragged from the bed, " whjt are you about
doing with me ? Though I rejoice to quit the house, yet surely,
surely," she cried, and her soul recoiled at the idea, " without
a guide at this hour of the night, you will not turn me from it."
She then mentioned Colonel Belgrave's having deprived her
of her purse and watch, and besought the woman in the most
pathetic terms, to supply her with a small sum, which she sol-
emnly assured her should be returned as soon as she reached
her friends ; and ended with saying, she should depart with
gratitude and joy if she complied with her request, and allowed
some one to guide her to a place where she might procure a
cai'riage."
" Such madams as you," replied the imperious woman, " are
never at a loss for means of procuring money, or a place to go
to. I see through your art well enough ; you want me to pity
you, that I may let you stay till your colonel returns. But who
yould be fool then, I wonder The tables, I warrant, would
soon be turned upon me. No, no ; out you go this moment."
So saying, she rudely seized Amanda, and assisted by another
woman, hurried her down stairs, and out of the house directly :
they carried her to an intricate part of wood, and then ran back,
leaving the helpless mourner leaning against a tree.
Amanda looked around her. Dark and awful were the
shades of the wood. No light appeared but what came from a
few wandering stars, which only served to render darkness
visible. " Have mercy upon me, Heaven ! " groaned Amanda,
as she felt herself sinking to the e^rth. The cold acted as a
kind of restorative, and almost immediately revived her., She
rested her head against a little bank, and as she thus reclined,
tender sadness pervaded, her soul ^t the idea of her father's
J HE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 291
sorrow when he heard of her fate. " When he hears," cried
she, " that I was driven from the house, as unworthy of pity or
protection from any being, that his Amanda, whom he cherished
in his bosom, as the darling of his age, was denied the pity he
would have shown the greatest wretch that crawls upon the
earth, and that she perished without shelter, it will break his
heart entirely. Poor Oscar, too alas ! I shall be a source of
wretchedness to both. Will Lord Mortimer lament when he
hears of my fate ? Alas ! I cannot believe that he will. He
that could leave me in the arms of insensibility, and so readily
believe ill of me, must have a heart steeled against compassion
for my sufferings. But my unhappy father and brother will
never doubt my innocence, and by them I shall be tenderly and
truly mourned."
The idea of their sufferings at last recalled her wandering
thoughts, and pity for those sufferings made her endeavor to
support her own, that she might be able to make some efforts
for preserving a life so precious to them. Besides, as she re-
flected, she could not but attribute her expulsion from the house
of infamy to the immediate interposition of Providence in her
favor : and whilst her heart swelled with gratitude at the idea, her
fortitude gradually returned. She arose, but the vigor of her
nerves was not equal to the ardor of her intentions. She walked
on, and as she proceeded, the gloom grew more profound, the
paths were intricate, and her progress was often impeded by
the roots of trees, and the branches that grqw about them.
After, wandering about a considerable time, she at last began
to think that, instead of gaining the skirts, she had penetrated
into the very centre of the wood, and that to quit it till morn-
ing would be impossible. Yielding to this idea, or rather to
her excessive weariness, she was seeking for a place to sit down
on, when a faint light glimmered before her. She instantly
darted through the path from wlience it gleamed, and found
herself at the extremity of the wood, and that the light pro-
ceeded from a small hamlet contiguous to it. Thither she
walked, as fast as her trembling limbs would carry her. A pro-
found stillness reigned around, only interrupted by the hoarse
and hollow barking of some distant dogs, which, in such an
hour, had something particularly solemn in it. The stillness,
and sudden disappearance of lights from various windows,
convinced Amanda that every cottage was . closed for the
night ; " and were they open," said she, " I perhaps should
be denied access to any, deprived as' I am of the means
pf rewarding kindness." She shuddered at the idea of pass-
252 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
ing zi night unsheltered. " It is now, indeed," said she, " I
really know what it is to feel for the houseless children of
want." She moved softly along. The echo of her own steps
alarmed her. She had nearly reached the end of the hamlet
when, before a neat cottage, divided from the others by a
clump of old trees, she saw a venerable man, who might well have
passed for an ancient hermit. His gray locks thinly shaded his
forehead ; an expression of deep and pensive thought was
visible in his countenance ; his arms were folded on his breast,
and his eyes yvere raised with a tender melancholy to heaven,
as if that heaven he contemplated was now the abode of some
kindred and lamented spirit. Surely such a being, thought she,
will pity me. She approached him stood close to him, yet was
unnoticed. Thrice she attempted to speak, and thrice her heart
failed her. At last she summoned all her courage to her aid,
and faintly articulated, "Pity ," she could add no more, but
fainted at his feet. The stranger's mind was fraught with all
the benevolence his countenance depictured. The transient
glance he had caught of Amanda interested every tender feel-
ing. He called to his servant, an elderly woman, his only
companion in the cottage, to assist him in conveying her in.
This woman's heart was as tender as her master's, and the
youth, the beauty, and forlorn situation of Amapda, equally
excited their wonder and pity. It was many minutes ere she
opened her eyes, and wiien she did, her senses were quite be-
wildered. " And my father ! alas i my father, I shall never more
behold him," was all she could articulate.
She was supported to a small chamber ; the old woman un-
dressed her, put her to bed, and sat up with her the remainder
of the night. Amanda often started ; she raved continually of
Belgrave, the author of her woes, and betrayed the strongest
horror. "The wound he had inflicted on her heart," she said,
" the hand of death could only heal." She mentioned the
cruelty of the marchioness, called upon her father to save her
from destruction, and reproached Mortimer for aiding to over-
whelm her in disgrace. She continued in this situation three
days, during which the old man and his faithful servant watched
,her with unremitted attention. A neighboring apothecary was
summoned to her aid, and a girl from one of the cottages pro-
cured to sit up with her at night. The old man frequently knelt
by the bedside, watching with anxiety for a favorable symptom.
Her incoherent expressions pierced him to the heart ; lie felt,
from mournful sympathy, for the fatlier she so pathetically
inentioned, Jiud invoked Heaven to restore her to him-
Tim cmLDREN OF THE ABBEY.
*9i
The afternoon of the third clay, Amanda, after a long slum-
ber, awoke, perfectly restored to her senses ; it was many
minutes, however, after her awaking, ere she recollected all the
circumstances that had caused her present situation. She at
last opened the curtain, and perceived the old woman, whom
we shall hereafter call Eleanor, seated by the bedside.
" I fear," said she, with a languid smile, " I have been the
occasion of a great deal of trouble." " No, no," replied the
kind Eleanor, delighted to hear her speak so calmly, and draw-
ing back a little of thrj curtain at the same time to observe her
looks.
Amanda inquired how long she had been ill. ' Eleanor in-
formed her, and added, " Heaven, my dear child, was kirid to
you, in throwing you in my master's way, who delights in be-
friending the helpless." " Heaven will reward him," exclaimed
Amanda.
The chamber was gloomy ; she requested one of the shutters
might be opened. Eleanor complied with her desire, and a ray
of the declining sun darting through the casement, cheered her
pensive heart. She perfectly remembered the venerable figure
she had beheld on the threshold of the cottage, and was im-
patient to express her gratitude to him. The next day, she
trusted, would give her an opportunity of doing so, as she then
resolved, if possible, to rise. The wisii of her soul was to be
with her father ere he could receive any intimation of what had
happened. She resolved to communicate to her benevolent
host the incidents which had placed her in such a situation ; an4
she flattered herself, on hearing them, he would accommodate
her with the means of returning to Ireland : if unable (unwilling
she could not think she should find him) to do this, she then
intended writing to her father. This measure, however, she
fervently trusted, she should have no occasion to take, as she
well knew the shock such a letter would give him.
Contrary to the inclination of Eleanor, she rose the next
day, and, as soon as she was dressed, sent to request Mr.
Howel's company. Eleanor had informed her of her master's
name. The chamber was on a ground floor : before the win-
dows were a row of neat white cottages, and behind them rose
a range of lofty hills, covered to the very summit with trees,
now just bursting into verdure. Before the cottage ran a clear .
murmuring rivulet, at which some young girls were washing
clothe's, whilst others spread them upon hedges, and all
beguiled their labor with singing, chatting, and laughing to*
gether.
594
The children of the abbuy.
"Ah! happy creatures!" cried Amanda, "screened I:
your native hills, you know nothing of the vices or miseries i
the great world : no snares lurk beneath the flowery paths yc
tread, to wring your hearts with anguish, and nip the ear
blossoms of your youth."
The old man appeared, and interrupted her meditation
When he beheld the pale face of Amanda, beaming with angel
sweetness ; when he saw her emaciated hand extended towar(
him, while her soft voice uttered her grateful acknowled
ments, liis emotions could not be suppressed : he pressed In
hand betweeij his : tears rolled down the furrows of his fac
and he exclaimed, " I thank the Almighty for reviving th
sweet flower."
A deep sob from Amanda proved how much he had affecte
her feelings.
He was alarmed, and hastily endeavored to compose h
own, out of regard to hers.
When a little composed, with grateful sweetness she co
tinued to thank him for his kindness. " Pity," said she, " is
sweet emotion to excite j yet from you, without esteem, it woul
be humiliating ; and esteem I cannot flatter myself with ol
taining, till I have accounted for being a wretched wanderer
She then gave a brief account of her father and the events i
her life.
"Ah! my dear," cried the old man, r.D rAc finished hi
narrative, " you have reason, indeed, to regret your knowledj
of Belgrave ; but the sorrow he has occasioned you, I belie^
and trust, will be but transient. That which he has given m
will be lasting r.s my life. You look astonished. Alas ! bi
for him, I might now have been blessed with a daughter \
lovely and as amiable as Fitzalan's. I see you are too delica
to express the curiosity my words have inspired, but I shall n
hesitate to gratify it. My relation will draw the tear of pi
from your eye ; but the sorrows of others often reconcile us
our own."
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 295
CHAPTER XXXI.
** And oft as ease and health retire.
To breezy lawn or forest-deep,
The friend shall view yon whitening spire,
And *mid the varied landscape weep ;
But thou who own'st that earthy bed,
Ah I what will every dirge avail ? "
CoLLiNs's Ode oh Thomsoh.
Many years are now elapsed since I took up my residence
in this sequestered hamlet. I retired to it in distaste with a
world whose vices had robbed me of the dearest treasure of my
heart. Two children cheered my solitude, and in training them
up to virtue, I lost the remembrance of half my cares. My
son, when qualified, was sent to Oxford, as a friend had
promised to provide for him in the church ; but my daughter
was destined to retirement, not only from the narrowness of my
income, but from a thorough conviction it was best calculated
to insure her felicity. Juliana was the child of innocence and
content. She knew of no greater happiness than that of pro-
moting mine, of no pleasures but what the hamlet could afford,
and was one of the gayest, as well as the loveliest, of its daugh-
ters. One fatal evening I suffered her to go, with some of her
young companions, to a rustic ball, given by the parents of Bel-
grave to their tenants, on coming down to Woodhouse, from '
which they had been long absent. The graces of my child
immediately attracted the notice of their son. Though young
in years, he was already a professed libertine. The conduct of
his father had set him an example of dissipation which the
volatility of his own disposition too readily inclined him to fol-
low. His heart immediately conceived the basest schemes
against Juliana, which the obscurity of her situation prompted
him to think might readily be accomplished, From this period
he took every opportunity of throwing himself in her way. My
suspicions, or rather my fears, were soon excited ; for I knew,
not then the real depravity of Belgrave ; but I knew that an at-
tachment between him and my daughter would prove a source
of uneasiness to both, from the disparity fortune had placed
between them. My task in convincing Juliana of the impro-
priety of encouraging such an attachment was not a difficult
one. But, alas ! I saw the conviction was attended with a pang
of anguish, which pierced me to the soul.
296 'NIB CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Belgrave, from the assumed softness and delicacy of his
manners, liad made an impression on her lieart whicli was not
to be erased. Every effort, however, which prudence could
suggest, she resolved to make, and, in compliance with my
wishes, avoided Belgrave. This conduct soon convinced him
it would be a difficult matter to lull my caution, or betray her
innocence. And finding all his attempts to see, or convey a
letter to her, ineffectual, he departed with his parents from
Woodhouse.
Juliana heard of his departure with a forced smile ; but a
starting tear, and a colorless cheek, too clearly denoted to me
the state of her mind. I shall not attempt to describe my
sufferings on witnessing hers. With my pity was mixed a de-
gree of veneration for that virtue which, in ^ young a mind,
could make such exertions against a passion disapproved of by
a parent. The evening of his departure, no longer under any
restraint, she walked out alone, and instinctively, perhaps, took
the road to Woodhouse. She wandered to its deepest glooms,
and there gave way to emotions which, from her efforts to sup-
press them, were become almost too painful to support. The
gloom of the wood was heightened by the shades of evening,
and a solemn stillness reigned around, well calculated to in-
spire pensive tenderness. She sighed the name of Belgrave in
tremulous accents, and lamented their ever having met. A
sudden rustling among the trees startled her, and the next mo-
ment she beheld him at her feet, exclaiming, " We have met,
my Juliana, never more to part."
Surprise and confusion so overpowered her senses, as to
render her for some time unable to attend to his raptures.
When she grew composed, he told her he was returned to make
her honorably his ; but to effect this intention, a journey from
the hamlet was requisite. She turned pale at these words, and
declared she never would consent ,to a clandestine measure.
This declaration did not discourage Belgrave ; he knew the in-
terest he had in her heart, and this knowledge gave an energy
to.his arguments, which gradually undermined the resolution of
Juliana. Already, he said, she had made a sufficient sacrifice
to filial duty ; surely something was now due to love like his,
which, on her account, would cheerfully submit to innumerable
difficulties. As he was under age, a journey to Scotland was
unavoidable, he said, and he would have,made me his confidant
on the occasion, but that he feared my scrupulous delicacy
would have opposed his intentions, as contrary to parental au-
thority. He promised Juliana to bring her back to the ham-
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 297 .
let immediately after the ceremony ; in short, the plausibility
of his arguments, the tenderness of his persuasions, at last
produced the effect he wished, and he received a promise from
her to put herself under his protection that very night.
But oh ! how impossible to describe my agonies the ensuing
morning when, instead of my child, I found a letter in her
room informing me of her elopement ; they were such as a fond
parent, trembling for the fame and happiness of his child, may
conceive;. My senses must have sunk beneath them had they
long continued ; but. Belgrave, according to his promise, has-
tened back my child ; and as I sal solitary and pensive in the
apartment she so often had enlivened, I suddenly beheld her
at my feet, supported by Belgrave, as his wife. So great a
transition from despair to comfort was almost too powerful for
me to support. I asked my heart was its present happiness
real ; I knelt, I received my child in my arms : in those feeble
arms I seemed to raise her with my heart to Heaven in pious
gratitude for her returning unsullied. Yet, when my first tran-
sports were abated, I could not help regretting her ever having
consented to a clandestine union. I entreated Belgrave to,
write, in the most submissive terms, to his father. He prom-
ised to comply with my entreaty, yet hinted his fears that his
compliance would be unattended with the success I hoped.
He requested, if this should be the case, I would allow his
wife to reside in the cottage till he was of age. Oh, how pleas-
ing a request to my heart ! a month passed away in happiness,
only allayed by not hearing from his father. At the expiration
of that time he declared he must depart, having received or-
ders to join his. regiment, but promised to return as soon as
possible ; he also promised to write, but a fortnight elapsed
and no letter arrived.
Juliana and I grew alarmed, but it was an alarm that only
proceeded from fears of his being ill. We were sitting one
morning at breakfast, when the stopping of a carriage drew us
from the table.
" He is come ! " said Juliana, " he is come ! " and she flew
to open the door ; when, instead of her expected Belgrave, she
beheld his father, whose dark and haughty visage proclaimed
that he came on no charitable intent. Alas I the occasion of
his visit was too soon explained ; he came to have the ties
which bound his son to Juliana broken. My child, on hearing
this, with firmness declared, that she was convinced any scheme
his cruelty might devise to separate them, the integrity, a^ well
as the tenderness of his son, would render abortive.
29S THE CniLDREN OF THE ABBF^Y.
" Be not too confident of that, young lady," cried he, smil-
ing maliciously. He then proceeded to inform her that Bel-
grave, so beloved, and in whose integrity she so much confided,
had himself authorized his intentions, being determined to
avail hiiTiself of non-age, to have the marriage.broke.
Juliana couM hear no more ; she sunk fainting on the bosom
of her wretched father. Oh, what a situation was mine, when,
as I clasped her wildly to my heart and called upon her to re-
revive, that heart whispered me it was cruelty to wish she
should I Alas ! too soon she did, to a keen perception of
misery. The marriage was dissolved, and health and happi-
ness fled from her together j yet, from compassion to me, I saw
she struggled to support the burden of existence. Every rem-
edy which had a chance of prolonging it, I administered. But,
alas ! sorrow was rooted in her heart, and it was only its re-
moval, which was impossible, that could have effected her re-
covery. Oh ! how often have I stolen from my bed to the door
of her apartment, trembling, lest I should hear the last groan
escape her lips 1 I low often have I then heard her deep con-
vulsive sobs, and reproached myself for selfishness at the mo-
ment for wishing the continuance of her being, which was only
wishing the continuance of her misery 1 Yes, I have then said,
I resign her, my Creator, unto thee. I resign her from a cer-
tainty, that only with thee she can enjoy felicity. But, alas !
in a moment frail nature has triumphed over such a resignation,
and, prostrate on the ground, I have implored heaven, either to
spare the child, or take the father along with her.
She saw me unusually depressed one day, and proposed a
walk, with a hope that any exertion from her might recruit my
spirits. But when I saw my child, in the very bloom of life,
unable to sustain her feeble frame ; when I felt her leaning on
my almost nerveless arm for support, oh ! how intolerable was
the anguish that rived my heart .* in vain, by soft endearments, '
she strove to mitigate it. I averted my face and wept. She
motioned to go towards Woodhouse ; we had got within sight
of the wood, when she complained of fatigue, and sat down.
She had not been many minutes in this situation, when she be-
held, coming from the wood, Belgrave, and a young girl whom
she knew to be the steward's daughter. The familiar manner
in which they^appeared conversing, left little room to doubt of
the footing on which they were. The hectic glow of Juliana's
complexion gave place to a deadly paleness. She arose and
returned to the cottage with me in silence, from whence, in less
than a week, she was borne to her grave.
THE, CHILDREN OF TUK AnDRY. 299
Eight years, continued he, after a pause of some minutes,
have elapsed since her death, yet is her worth, her beauty, and
her sufferings still fresh in the remembrance of the inhabitants ,
of the hamlet. In mine, oh ! Miss Fitzalan ! how painfully,
how pleasingly, do they still exist I No noisome weed is
allowed to intermingle in the high grass which has overgrown
her grave, at the head of which some kind hand has planted
'. rose-tree, whose loses blossom, bloom, and die upon the
sacred spot. My child is gone before me to that earthly bed,
to which I hoped she would have smoothed my passage. Every
spot in and about the cottage continually recall her to my view.
The ornaments of this little room were all the work of that
hand, long since mouldered into dust. In that bed he stop-
ped, he groaned, and tears burst from him in that bed, re-
sumed lie (in a few minutes, though with a broken voice), she
breathed her last sigh ; in that spot I knelt and received the
last pressure of her clay-cold lips! Of a calm night, when all
Is hushed to repose, I love to contemplate that heaven, to which
I have given an angel an angel to whom, I hope, shortly to
be reunited ; without such a hope, surely of all men breathing,
I should be the most wretched ! Oh ! how cruel is it then, in
those, who, by raising doubts of an hereafter, attempt to de-
stroy such a hope I Ye sons of error, hide the impious doubts
within your hearts ; nor with wanton barbarity endeavor to de-
prive the miserable of their last comfort. When this world
presents nothing but a dreary prospect, how cheering to the
afflicted to reflect on that future one, where all will be bright
and happy I When we mourn over the lost friends of our ten-
derest affections, oh ! how consolatory to think we shall be re-
united to them again ! How.often has this thought suspended
my tears and stopped my sighs ! Inspired by it with sudden
joy, often have I risen from the cold bed where Juliana lies,
and exclaimed : " Oh death ! where is thy sting 1 Oh grave I
where is thy victory ! " both lost in the certainty of again be-
holding my child.
Amanda shed tears of soft compassion for the fate of Juli-
ana, and the sorrows of her father, and felt, if possible, her
gratitude to Heaven increased, for preserving her from the
snares of such a monster of deceit and barbarity as Belgrave.
Howel relieved the iinxiety she labored under about the
means of returning home, by assuring her he would not only
supply her with a sum sufficient for that purpose, but see her
to Parkgate himself.
His name struck Amanda it recalled to remembrance her
300
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Welsh friend. She inquired, and heard that the young and
tender curate was indeed the son of her benefactor. "The
softness of Henry's disposition," said his father, " particularly
qualifies him for the sacred function, which prevents his having
occasion to mingle in the concerns of the great world. He
writes me word that he is the simple shepherd of a simple
flock."
One day was all Amanda would devote to the purpose of
recruiting her strength. Nothing could prevail on her longer
to deter her journey. A chaise was accordingly procured, into
which, at the first dawn of day, she and Howel stepped, fol-
lowed by the blessings of the affectionate Eleanor, Wfto, from
'her own wardrobe, had supplied Amanda with a few necessaries
to take along with her. The church-yard lay about a quarter
of a mile from the hamlet. It was only divided from the road
by a low and broken wall. Old trees shaded the grass-grown
grave, and gave a kind of solemn gloominess to the place.
"Sec," said Ilowcl, suddenly taking Amanda's hand, and
letting down tlie glas.s, " see the bed where Juliana reposes."
The grave was distinguished by the rose-tree at its head.
The morning breeze gently agitated the high and luxuriant
grass which covered it. Amanda gazed on it with inexpressi
ble sadness, but the emotions it excited in her breast she en-
deavored to check, in pity to the wretched father, who ex-
claimed, whHe tears trickled down his pale and furrowed cheeks,
"There lies my treasure."
She tried to divert him from his sorrows by talking of his
son. She described his little residence, which he had never
seen. Thus, by recalling to his recollection the blessings he
yet possessed, ;checking his anguish for those he had lost.
The weakness of Amanda would not allow them to travel
expeditiously. They slept one night on the road, and the next
day, to her great joy, arrived at Parkgate, as she had all along
dreaded a pursuit from Belgrave. A packet was to sail about
four o'clock in the afternoon. She partook of a slight repast
with her benevolent friend, who attended her to the boat, and
with starting tears gave and received an adieu. She promised
to write as soon as she reached home, and assured him his kind-
ness would never be obliterated from her heart. He watched
her till she entered the ship, then returned to the inn, and imme-
diately set off for the hamlet, with a mind somewhat cheered
by the consciousness of having served a fellow-creature.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 301
CHAPTER XXXII.
" Tlie breezy call of incense-brealliing morn J
The swallow twittering from its straw built shed ;
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse hnn from his lowly bed.'* GRA^
The weakness which Amanda felt in consequence of her
late illness, and the excessive sickness she always suffered
at sea, made her retire to bed immediately on entering the
packet, where she continued till the evening of the second day,
when, about five o'clock, she was landed at the marine hotel.
She directly requested the waiter to procure her a messenger
to go into town, which being done, she sent to engage a place
in the northern mail-coach, that went within a few miles of
Castle Carberry. If a place could not be procured, she order-
ed a chaise might be hired, that would immediately set out
with her, as the nights were moonlight ; but to her great joy
the man speedily returned and informed her he had secured a
seat in the coach, which she thought a much safer mode of
travelling for her than in a hired carriage without any attend-
ant. She took some slight refreshiiient, and then proceeded to
tlrfe mail hotel, from whence, at eleven o'clock, she set out in
company with an old gentleman, who very composedly put on
a large woollen nightcap, buttoned up his great coat, and fell
into a profound sleep. He was, perhaps, just such a kind
of companion as Amanda desired, as he neither teased her
with insipid conversation or impertinent questions, but left her^
undisturbed to indulge her meditations during the journey.
The second evening, about eight o'clock, she arrived at the
nearest town to Castle Carberry, for which she directly pro-
cured a chaise and set off. Her spirits were painfully agitated.
She dreaded the shock her father would receive from hearing
of her sufferings, which it would be impossible to conceal from
him. She trembled at what they would both feel on the ap-
proaching interview. Sometimes she feared he had already
heard of her di'stress, and a gloomy presage rose in her mind of
the anguish she should find him in on that account. Yet again,
when slie reflected on the fortitude he had hitherto displayed
in his trials, under the present, she trusted, he would not lose
it J and that he would not only support himself, but her, an^
302 THE CHILDREr^ OF THE ABBEY.
bind up those \younds in her heart which perfidy, cruelty, and
ingratitude had made. And oh ! thought she to herself, when
I find myself again in his arms, no temptation shall allure me
from them allure me into a world where my peace and fame
have already suffered such a wreck. Thus alternately fluctua-
ting between hope and fear, Amanda pursued the road to Castle
Carberry; but the latter sensation was predominant in her
mind.
The uncommon gloominess of the evening added to her de-
jection the dark and lowering clouds threatened a violent
storm already a shower of sleet and rain was falling, and
everything looked cold and cheerless. Amanda thought the
cabins infinitely more wretched than when she had first seen
them. Many of their miserable inhabitants were now gathering
their little flocks together, and driving them under shelter from
the coming storm. The laborers were seen hastening to their
respective homes, whilst the ploughboy, with a low and melan-
choly whistle, drove his slow and wearied team along. The
sea looked rough and black, and as Amanda drew nearer to it,
she heard it breaking with fury against the rocks. She felt
herself extremely ill. She had left the hamlet ere her tever
was subdued, and fatigue, joined to want of rest, now brought
it back with all its foriner violence. She longed for rest and
quiet, and trusted and believed these would conquer her malady.
The chaise stopped at the entrance of the lawn, as she wished
to have her father prepared for her arrival by one of the ser-
vants. On alighting from it, it returned to town, and she struck
into the grove, and by a winding patii reached the castle. Her
limbs trembled, and she knocked with an unsteady hand at the
door. The sound was awfully reverberfited through the build-
ing. Some minutes elapsed and no being appeared, neither
could she perceive a ray of light from any of the windows.
The wind blew the rain directly in her face, and her weakness
increased, so that she could scarcely stand. She recollected a
small ,door at the back of the castle, which led to the apart-
ments appropriated to the domestics. She walked feebly to
this, to try and gain admittance, and found it open. She pro-
ceeded through a long dark passage, on each side of which
were small rooms, till she came to the kitchen. Here she found
the old woman sitting (to whom the care of the castle was
usually consigned), before a large turf fire. On hearing a foot-
step, she looked behind, and when she saw Amanda, started,
screamed, and betrayed symptoms of the utmost terror.
'' Are you frightened at seeing me, my good Kate ! " cried
THE CHILD REN OF THE ABBEY.
303
Amanda. " Oh, holy Virgin I " replied Kate, crossing her
breast, " one could not help being frightened, to have a body
steal unawares upon them."
" My father is well, I hope ? " said Amanda.
" Alack-a-day," cried Kate, "the poor dear captain has
gone through a sea of troubles since you went away." '" Is he
ill ? " exclaimed Amanda. " 111, ay, and the Lord knows he
has reason enough to be ill. But, my dear jewel, do you know
nothing at all of what has happened at the castle since you
went away ? " " No, nothing in the world." " Heaven help
you, then," said Kate ; " but, my dear soul, sit down upon this
little stool, .and warm yourself before the fire, for you look pale
and cold, and I will tell you all about it. You must know,
about three weeks ago, my Johnaten brought the captain a
lej;ter from the post-office ; he knew by the mark it was a letter
from England, and so, when he comes into the kitchen to me,
' Katie,' says he, ' the captain has got something now to cheer
his spirits, for he has heard from miss, I am sure.' So, to be
sure, I said I was glad of it, for, you must know, my dear, he
was low in spirits, and peaking, as one may say, for a few days
before. Well, it was always my custom, when he got a letter
from England, to go to him as soon as I thought he had read
it, and ask about you ; so I put on a clean apron, and up I goes
to the parlor, ancf I opened the door, and walked in. Well, sir,
says I, I hope there is good news from miss ?
" The captain was sitting with the letter open before him
on a table ; he had a handkerchief to his eyes, but when I
spoke he took it down, and I saw his face, which generally
looked so pale, now quite flushed.
" ' This letter, my good Kate,' says he, ' is not from my
daughter, but I am glad you are come, for I wanted to speak to
you. I am going to leave the castle, and I want you to look over
all the things, and see they are in the same state as when I
came to it. I shall then settle with the servants I hired, and
discharge them.' I was struck all of a heap. The Lord forbid
you should be going to leave us, sir, says I.
" The captain got up he walked to the window he
sighed heavily, and I saw a tear upon his cheek. He spoke to
me again, and begged I would do as he had desired me. So,
with a heavy heart, I went and told my Johnaten the sad tid-'
ings, who was as sorry as myself, for he loved the captain
dearly, not only from his being so mild a gentleman, but be-
cause he was a soldier, as he himself had been in his youth and
a soldior has always a love for one of his cloth. And Johnateij
304 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
had often said he knew the , captain in America, and that he
was a brave officer and a real gentleman.
" Well, the captain came out to us, and said he was to be
Lord Cherbury's agent no longer. And being a good penman,
he settled all his own accounts and the servants in the course
of the day, and discharged them, giving them both characters,
which I warrant will soon get them good places again. Well,
he said he must set off for England the next day. So every-
thing was got ready ; but in the middle of the night he was
seized with spasms in his stomach. He thought himself dying,
and at last rung the bell ; and as good luck would have it, my
Johnaten heard it, and went up to him directly. Had he been
without relief much longer, I think he would have died. Jolin-
aten called me up. I had a choice bottle of old brandy lying
by me, so I smpn blew up a fire, and heating a cup of it, gave.it
to him directly. He grew a little easier, but was too bad in the
morning to think of going on his journey, which grieved him
sadly. He got up, however, and wrote a large packet, which
he sent by Johnaten to the post-office ; packed up some things
in a trunk, and put his seal upon his desk. He said he would
not stay in the castle on any account, so he went out as soon
as Johnaten came back from the post-office, leaning upon his
arm, and got a little lodging at Thady Byrne's cabin." " Mer-
ciful heaven I " exclaimed the agonized and almost fainting
Amanda, " support and strengthen me in this trying hour ! en-
able me to comfort my unfortunate father : preserve me from
sinking, that I may endeavor to assist him." Tears accompanied
this fervent ejaculation, and her voice was lost in sobs.
" Alack-a-day," said the good-natured Kate, '^ now don't
take it so sadly to heart, my jewel ; all is not lost that is in
danger, and there is as good fish in the s6a as ever were caught ;
and what though this is a stormy night, to-morrow may be a
fine day. Why, the very first sight of you will do the captain
good. Come, cheer up ; I will give you some nice hot potatoes
for your supper, for you see the pot is just boiling, and some
fresh-churned buttermilk ; and by the time you have eaten it,
Johnaten perhaps may come back he is ga'ne to tpwh to get
some beef for our Sunday dinner and then I will go with you
to Thady's myself."
" No, no," cried Amanda, " every minute I now stay from
my father seems an age. Too long has he been neglected too
long without a friend to soothe or attend him. Oh grant, gra-
cious Heaven I grant," raising her clasped hands, " that t may
not hEive returned too |at^ to he of iise lo him 1 "
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 305
Kate pressed her to stay for Johnaten's return ; but the
agony of suspense she endured till she saw her father, made
her regardless of walking alone, though the hour was late, dark,
and tempestuous. ' Kate, finding her entreaties vain, attended
her to the door, and assured her, if Johnaten returned soon,
she would go over herself to the cabin, and see if she could
do anything for her. Amanda pressed her hand, but was unable
to speak. Ill, weak, and dispirited, she had flattered herself,
on returning to her father, she would receive relief, support,
and consolation ; instead of which, heart-broken as she was,
she now found she must give, or at least attempt giving them
herself. She had before experienced distress, but the actual
pressure of poverty she had never yet felt. Heretofore she
had always a comfortable asylum to repair to, but now she not
only found herself deprived of that, but of all means of procur-
ing one, or even the necessaries of life. But if she mourned
for herself, how much more severely did she mourn for her
adored father ! Could she have ptocured him comfort, could
she in any degree have alleviated his situation, the horrors of
her own would have been lessened ; but of this she had not the
slightest means or prospect. Her father, she knew, possessed
the agency too short a time to be enabled to save any money,
particularly as he was indebted to Lord Cherbury ere he ob-
tained it. . She knew of no being to whom she could apply in
his behalf. Lord Cherbury was the only person on whom he
depended in his former misfortunes for relief. His friendship,
, it was evident, by depriving her father of the agency, was totally
lost ; and to the disconsolate Amanda no way appeared of es-
caping " want, worldly want, that hungry meagre fiend, who
was already close at their heels, and followed them in view."
The violence of the storm had increased, but it was slight
in comparison of that which agitated the bosom of Amanda.
The waves dashed with a dreadful noise against the rocks, and
the angry spirit of the waters roared. The rain fell heavily, and
soon soaked through the thin clothing of Amanda. She had
about half a mile to walk, through a rugged road, bounded on
one side by rocks, and on the other by wild and dreary fields.
She knew the people with whom her father lodged ; they were
of the lowest order, and on her first arrival at Castle Carberry,
in extreme distress, from which she had relieved them. She
recollected their cabin was more decent than many others she
had seen, yet still a most miserable dwelling. Wretched as it
was, she was glad when she reached it, for the violence of the
storm, and the loneliness of the road, had terrified her. The
20
3o6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
cabin was but a few yards from the beach. There were two
windows in front. On one side a pile of turf, and on the other
a shed for the pigs, in which they now lay grunting. The
shutters were fastened on the windows, to prevent their being
shaken by the .wind ; but through the crevices Amanda saw a
light, which convinced her the inhabitants were not yet retired
to repose. She feared her suddenly appearing before her
father, in his present weak state, might have a dangerous effect
upon him, and she stood before the cabin, considerinrr how she
should have her arrival broke to him. She at last tapped
gently at the door, and then retreated r, few steps from it,
shivering with the wet and cold. In the beautiful language of
Solomon, she might have said, " Her head was filled with dew,
and her locks with the drops of the night." As she expected,
the door was almost instantly opened. A boy appeared, whom
she knew to be the son of the poor people. She held up her
handkerchief, and beckoned him to her. He hesitated, as if
afraid to advance, till she called him softly by his name. This
assured liiin. JIu approached, and expressed astonishment at
finding she was the person who called him. She inquired for
her father, and heard he was ill, and then asleep. She desired
the boy to enter the cabin before her, and caution his parents
against'making any noise that might disturb him. He obeyed
her, and she followed him.
She found the father of the family blowing a turf fire, to
hasten the boiling of a large pot of potatoes. Three ragged
children were sitting before it, watching impatiently for their
supper. Their motTier was spinning, r.nd their old grandmother
making bread. The place was small and crowded. Half the
family slept below, and the other half upon a loft, to which they
ascended by a ladder, and upon which a number of fowls were
now familiarly roosting, cackling at every noise made below.
Fitzalan's room was divided from the rest of the cabin by a thin
partition of wood plastered with pictures of saints and crosses.
" Save you kindly, madam," said the mistress of the man-
sion to Amanda, on entering it.
Byrne got up, and, with many scrapes, offered her his little
stool before the fire. She thanked him, and accepted it.
His wife, notwithstanding the obligations she lay under to her,
seemed to think as much respect was not due to her as when
mistress of the castle, and therefore never left her seat, or
quitted her spinning, on her entrance.
" My poor father is very ill," said Amanda. " Why, in-
deedj the captain has had a bad time of it," answered Mrs.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 307
Byrne, jogging her wheel. " To be sure he has suffered some
little change ; but your great folks, as well as your simple folks,
must look to that in this world ; and I don't know why they
should not, for they are not better than the others, I believe."
" Arrah, Norah, now," said Byrne, " I wonder you are not
shy of speaking so to the poor young lady."
Amanda's heart was surcharged with grief she felt suffo-
cating. She arose, unlatched the door, and the keen, cold air
a little revived her. Tears burst forth, she indulged them
freely, and they .lightened the load on her heart. She asked
for & glass of water. A glass was not readily to be procured.
Byrne told her she had better take a noggin of buttermilk,
This she refused, and he brought her one of water.
She now conquered the reluctance she felt to speak to the
uncouth Mrs. Byrne, and consulted her on the best method of
mentioning her arrival to her father. Mrs. Byrne said he had
been in bed some time, but his sleep was often interrupted, and
she would now step into the chamber, and try if he was awake.
She accordingly did so, but returned in a moment, and said he
still slept.
Amanda wished to see him in his present situation, to judge
how far his illness had affected him : she stepped softly into
the room. It was small and low, lighted by a glimmering rush-
light, and a declining fire. The furniture was poor and scanty ;
in one corner stood a wooden bedstead, without curtains or
any shade, and on this, under miserable bedclothes, lay poor
Fitzalan. Amanda shuddered, as she looked round this cham-
ber of wretchedness. "Oh! my father," she cried to herself,
" is this the only refuge you could find ? " She went to the bed,
she leaned over it, and beheld his face. It was deadly pale
and emaciated ; he moaned in his sleep, as if his mind was
dreadfully oppressed. Suddenly he began to move ; he sighed,
" Amanda, my dearest child, shall I never more behold you ? "
Amanda was obliged to hasten from the room, to give vent
to her emotions. She sobbed, she wrung her hands, and in
the bitterness of her soul exclaimed, " Alas ! alas ! I have re- ,
turned too late to save him."
They soon after heard him stir. She requested Mrs. Byrne
to go in, and cautiously inform him she was come. She com-
plied, and in a moment Amanda heard him say, "Thank
Heaven I my darling is returned." " You may now go in,
miss," said Mrs. Byrne, coming from the room. Amanda went
in. Her father was raised in the bed ; his arms were extended
to receive her. She threw herself into them. Language was
3o8 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
denied them both, but tears, even more expressive than words,
evinced their feelings. Fitzalan first recovered his voice.
" My prayer," said he, " is granted. Heaven has restored my
child to smooth the pillow o sickness, and soothe the last
moments of existence." " Oh, my father ! " cried Amanda,
'' have pity on me, and mention not those moments. Exert
yourself for your child ; who in this wide world has she but
thee to comfort, support and befriend her ? " " Indeed," said
he, " for your sake I wish they may be far distant." He held
her at a little distance from him ; he surveyed her face, her
forin, her altered complexion. Her fallen features appeared
to shock him. He clasped her again to his bosom, " The
world, my child, I fear," cried he, " has used thee most un-
kindly." "Oh, most cruelly," sobbed Amanda. "Then, my
girl, let the reflection of that world, where innocence and vir-
tue will meet a proper reward, console you. Here they are
often permitted to be tried ; but as gold is tried and purified
by fire, so are they by adversity. ' Those whom God loves.
He chastises.' Let this idea give you patience and fortitude
under every trial. Never forego your dependence on Him,
though calamity should pursue you to the very brink of the
grave ; but be comforted by the assurance He has given, that
those who meekly bear the cross He lays upon them, shall be
rewarded \ that He will wipe away all tears from their eyes,
and swallow up death in victory. Though a soldier from my
youth, and accustomed to all the licentiousness of camps, I never
forgot my Creator ; and I now find the benefit of not having
done so. Now, when my friends desert, the world frowns upon
me, when sickness and sorrow have overwhelmed me, religion
stands me in good stead ; consoles me for what I lost, and
softens the remembrance of the past, by presenting prospects
of future brightness."
So spoke Fitzalan the pious sentiments of his soul, and they
calmed the agitations of Amanda. He found her clothes were
wet, and insisted on her changing them directly. In the bundle
the good Eleanor gave her, was a change of linen, and a cotton
wrapper, which she now put on, in a small closet, or rather
shed adjoining her father's room. A good fire was made up,
a better light brought in, and some bread and wine from a
small cupboard in the room, which contained Fitzalan's things,
set before her, of which he made her immediately partake. He
took a glass of wine himself from her, and tried to cheer her
spirits. "He had been daily expecting, her arrival," he said,
"and had had a pallet and bedclothes kept airing for her. He
The cmLDREN of the abbey. 30^
hoped she would not be dissatisfied with sleeping in tiie
closet." " Ah ! my father," she cried, " can you ask your
daughter such a question ? " She expressed her fears of in-
juring him, by having disturbed his , repose. " No," he said,
" it was a delightful interruption. It was a relief from pain
and anxiety."
Lord Cherbury, he informed her, had written him a letter,
which pierced him to the soul. "He accused me," said he,
" of endeavoring to promote a marriage between you and Lord
Mortimer ; of treacherously trying to counteract his views, and
take advantage of his unsuspecting friendship. I was shocked
at these accusations. But how excruciating would my anguish
have been had I really deserved them. I soon determined upon
. the conduct I should adopt, which was to deny the justice of
his charges, and resign his agency for any further dealings
with a man who could think me capable of meanness or dupli-
city, was not to be tliought of. My accounts were always in
a state to allow me to resign at a moment's warning. It was
my intention to go to England, put them into I/Ord Cherbury's
hands, and take my Amanda from a place where she might
meet with indignities as little merited by her as those her father
had received were by him. A sudden and dreadful disorder,
which I am convinced the agitation of my mind brought on,
prevented my executing this intention. 1 wrote, liowever, to
to his lordship, acquainting him with my resignation of his
agency, and transmitting my accounts and arrears. I sent a
letter to you at the same time, with a small remittance for your
immediate return, and then retired from the castle j for I felt a
longer continuance in it would degrade me to the character of
a mean dependant, and intimate a hope of being reinstated in
my former station ; which, should Lord Cherbury now offer, I
should reject, for ignoble must be the mind which could accept
of favors from those who doubted its integrity. Against such
conduct my feelings revolt. Poverty, to me, is more welcome
than independence, when purchased with the loss of esteem,"
Amanda perceived her father knew nothing of her suffer-
ings, but supposed her return occasioned by his letter. She
therefore resolved, if possible, not to undeceive him, at least
till his health was better. The night was far advanced, and
her father, who saw her ill, and almost sinking with fatigue, re-
quested her to retire to rest. She accordingly did. Her bed
was made up in the little closet. Mrs. Byrne assisted her to
undress, and brought her a bowl of whey, which, she trusted,
with a comfortable sleep, would carry off her feverish Bynilp-
310
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
toms, and enable her to be her father's nurse. Her rest, hov/-
ever, was far from being comfortable. It was broken by hor-
rid dreams, in which she beheld the pale and emaciated figure
of her father suffering the most exquisite tortures ; ai.d when
she started from these dreams, she heard his deep moans, which
were like daggers going through her heart. She arose once
or twice, supposing him in pain, but when she went to his bed
she found him asleep, and was convinced, from that circum-
stance, his pain was more of the mental than the bodily kind.
She felt cxlreinuly ill, ] for bones were sore from the violent
moliuii of the carriage, and she i'ancicil rest would do her good :
but when, towards morning, she was inclined to take some, she
was completely prevented by the noise the children made on
rising. Fearful of neglecting her father, she arose soon after
herself, but was scarcely able to put on her clothes from exces-
sive weakness. She found him in bed, but awake. He wel-
comed lier with a languid smile, and extending his hand, which
was reduced to mere skin and bone, said, " that joy was a
greater enemy to repose than grief, and had broken his earlier
than usual that morning." He made her sit down by him.
Ho gazed on her with unutterable tenderness. ' In Divine lan-
guage," cried he, " I may say ' Let me see thy countenance ;
let me hear thy voice . but sweet is thy voice, and thy counte-
nance is comely and my soul has pleasure in gazing on it.' "
The kettle was already boiling. He had procured a few neces-
saries for himself, such as tea-things and glasses. Amanda
placed the tea-table by the bed-side, and gave him his break-
fast. Whilst receiving it from her, his eyes were raised to
Heaven, as if in thankful gratitude for the inestimable bless-
ing he still possessed in such a child. After breakfast, he said
he would rise, and Amanda retired into the garden till he was
dressed, if that could deserve the appellation, which was only
a slip of ground planted with cabbages and potatoes, and en-
closed with loose stones and blackberry bushes. The spring
was already advanced. The day was fine. The light and
fleecy clouds were gradually dispersing, and the sky, almost as
far as the eye could reach, was of a clear blue. The dusky
green of the blackberry bushes was enlivened by the pale pur-
ple of their blossoms. Tufts of primroses grew beneath their
shelter. The fields, which rose with a gentle swell above the
garden, were covered with a vivid green, spangled with daisies,
buttercups, and wild honeysuckles, and the birds, as they flut-
ered from spray to spray, with notes of gladness hailed the
genial season.
frm CHILD REN OF THE ABUEY. 31 r.
But neither the season nor its charms could now, as hereto-
fore, delight Amanda. She felt forlorn and disconsolate ; de-
prived oE the comforts of life, and no longer interested in the
objects about her, she sat down upon a stone at the end of the
garden, and she thought the fresh breeze from the sea cooled
the feverish heat of her 'blood. "Alas! "she said to herself,
" at this season last year, how different was my situation from
the present ! " Though not in affluence, neither was she then
in absolute distress ; and she had besides the comfortable hope
of having her father's difficulties removed. Like Rums' moun-
tain daisy, she had then clieerfully glinted forth amidst the
storm, because, she thought that storm would be soon over-
blown ; but now, she saw herself on the point of being finally
crushed beneath the rude pressure of poverty.
She recollected the words which had escaped her when she
last saw Tudor Hall, and she thought they were dictated by
something like a prophetic spirit. She had then said, as she
leaned upon a little gate which looked into the domain : " When
these woods again glow with vegetation ; when every shade re-
sounds with harmony, and the flowers and the blossoms spread ,
their foliage to the sun, ah! where wil,l Amanda be I far distant,
in all probability, from these delightful shades ; perhaps de-
serted and forgotten by their master."
She was indeed far distant from them ; deserted, and if not
forgotten, at least only remembered with contempt by their
master remembered with contempt by Lord Mortimer. It
was an idea of intolerable anguish. His name was no more
repeated as a charm to soothe her grief ; his idea increased her
misery.
Slie continued indulging her melancholy meditations, till in-
formed by one of the children the captain was ready to receive
her. She hastened in, and found him in an old high-backed
chair, and the ravages of care and sickness were now more vis-
ible to her than they had been the night before. He was re-
duced to a mere skeleton. " The original brightness of his
form " was quite gone, and he seemed already on the very brink
of the grave. The agony of Amanda's feelings was expressed
on her countenance he perceived and guessed its source. He
endeavored to compose and comfort her. She mentioned a
physician ; he tried to dissuade her from the idea of bringing
one, but she besought him in compassion to her to consent, and
overcome by her earnestness, he at last promised the ensuing
day she should do as she wished.
It was now Sunday, and he desired the service of the day
312
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
to be read. A small Bible lay on the table before him, and
Amanda complied with his desire.
In the first lesson were these words : " Leave thy fatherless
children to me, and I will be their father." The tears gushfed
from Fitzalan ; he laid his hand, which appeared convulsed with
agitation; on the book. " Oh ! what words of comfort ! " cried
he, " are these ; what transport do they convey to the heart of
a parent burdened with anxiety ! YeSj merciful Power, I will,
with grateful joy, commit my childrert to thy care, for thou art
the friend who will never forsake them." He desired Amanda
to proceed ; her voice was weak and broken, and the tears, in
spite of her efforts to restrain them, stole down her cheeks.
When she had concluded, her father drew her towards him,
and inquired into all that had passed during her stay in Lon-
don. She related to him, without reserve, the various incidents
she had met with previous to her going to the marchioness's j
acknowledged the hopes and fears she experienced on Lord
Mortimer's account, and the argument he had made use of to
induce her to a clandestine unioji, with her positive refusal to
such a step.
A beam of pleasure illumined the pallid face of Fitzalan.
"You acted," said he, "as I expected; and I glory in my
child, and feel more indignation than ever against Lord Cher-
bury for his mean suspicions." Amanda was convinced those
suspicions had been infused into his mind by those who had
struck at her peace and fame. This idea, however, as well as
their injuries to her, she meant if possible to conceal. When
her father, therefore, desired her to proceed in her narrative,
her voice began to falter, her mind became disturbed, and her
countenance betrayed her agitation. The remembrance of the
dreadful scenes she had gone through at the marchioness's
made her involuntarily shudder, and she wished to conceal
them forever from her father, but found it impossible to evade
his minute and earnest inquiries.
"Gracious Heaven!" said he, on hearing them, "what
complicated cruelty and deceit ; inhuman monsters I to have
no pity on one so young, so innocent, so helpless. The hand
of sorrow has indeed pressed heavy on thee, my child ; but,
after the marchioness's former conduct, I cannot be surprised
at any action of hers."
He gave her a note to discharge her debt to Howel, and
begged she would immediately write and return his grateful
acknowledgments for his benevolence. She feared he incpn-
venienced himself by parting with the note ; but he assured her
Tim CfflLbk^N- OP THE AbSP:V. 313
lie could spare it extremely well, as lie had been an economist,
and had still sufficient money to support them a few months
longer in their present situation.
Amanda now inquired when be bad heard from her brother.
She said he had not ansAvered her last letter, and that his
silence had made her very uneasy.
" Alas ! poor Oscar I " exclaimed Fitzalan, " he has riot been
exempt from his portion of distress;"
He took a letter, as he spoke, from his pocket-bdok, and
Jjresented it to Amanda. She opened it with a tremblitig hand,
and read as follows :
My dear FATHER,-=-I'articular circumstances prevented my answering
yoiir last letter as soon as I could have wished ; and, indeed, the intelli-
gence I have to communicate makes mp almost, averse to write at all. As
my situation, however, must sooner or later be known to you, I think it
better to inform you or it myself, as I can, at the same time, reconcile you,
I trust, in some degree to it, by assuring you I bear it patiently, and that it
has not been caused by any action which can degrade my character as a
man or a soldier. I have long, indeed, had a powerful enemy to cope with,
and, it will no doubt surprise you to hear, tliat that enemy is Colonel Bel'
grave. An interference in the cause of humanity provoked his insolence
and malignity. Neither his words nor looks were bearable, and I was irri-
tated by them to send him a challenge. Had I reflected, the probable con-
sequences of such a step must have occurred and prevented my taking it ;
but passion blinded my reason, and in yielding to its dictates do I hold my-
Rclf alone culpable througlioiit the whole affair. I gave him the op])ortu-
nity his malicious heart had long desired, of working my ruin. I was, by hi
order, put under an immediate arrest A court-martial was held, and I was
broke for disrespect to a superior ofliccr; but it was imagined by the whole
corps I should ha /e been restored. I, however, knew too much of Bel-
grave's disposition to believe this would be the case ; but never shall he
triumph in the distress he has caused by witnessing it. I have already set-
tled on the course I shall pursue, and ere this letter reaches you I shall
have quitted my native kingdom. Forgive me, my dear sir, for not consult-
ing you relative to my conduct. But I feared, if I did, your twderness
would interfere to prevent it, or lead you to distress yourself on my qpcount;
and to think that you and my dear sister were deprived of the smal|kt com-
fort, by my means, would be a source of intolerable anguish to me. Blessed
as I am with youth, health, and fortitude, I have no doubt but I shall make
my way through the rugged path of life extremely w.ell. A parting visit I
avoided, from the certainty of its being painful to us both. 1 shall write as
soon as I reach my place of destination. I rejoice to hear Amanda is so
happily situated with Lady Greystock : may your suffering and her merit
be rewarded as they deserve I Suffer not, I entreat, too tender an anxiety
for my interest to disturb your repose. I again repeat I have no doubt but
what I shall do well. That Providence, in which I trust, will, I humbly
hope, support me through every difficulty, and again unite me to the friends
so valuable to my heart. Farewell, my dear father, and, be assured, with
unabated respect and gratitude, I subjoin myself your affectionate son,
Oscar Fitzalan.
,14 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
This letter was a cruel shock to Amanda. She hoped to
have procured her brother's company, and that her father's
melancholy and her own would have been alleviated by it. Sen-
sible of the difficulties Oscar must undergo, without friends or
fortune, the tears stole down her cheeks, and she almost dread-
ed she could no more behold him.
Her father besought her to spare him the misery of seeing
those tears. He leaned upon her for comfort and support, he
said, and bid her not disappoint him. She hastily wiped away
her tears ; and though she could not conquer, tried to suppress
her anguisli.
Johnaten and Kate called, in the course of the day, to know
if they could be of any service to Fitzalan. Amanda engaged
Johnaten to go to town the next morning for a physician, and
gave Kate the key of a wardrobe where she had left some
things, which she desired her to pack up and send to the cabin
in the evening. Mrs. Byrne gave them one of her fowls for
dinner, and Fitzalan assumed an appearance of cheerfulness,
and the evening wore away somewhat better than the preced-
ing part of the day had done.
Johnaten was punctual in obeying Amanda's commands,
and brought a physician the next morning to the cabin. Fitz-
alan appeared much worse, and Amanda rejoiced that she had
been resolute in procuring him advice.
She withdrew from the room soon after the physician had
entered it, and waited without in trembling anxiety for his ap-
pearance. When he came out she asked, with a faltering voice,
his opinion, and besought him not to deceive her from pity to
her feelings.
He shock his head, and assured her he would not deviate
from truth for the world. The captain was indeed in a tick-
lish situation, he said, but the medicines he had ordered, and
sea bathing, he doubted not, would set all to rights ; it was
fortunate, he added, she delayed no longer sending for him ;
mentioned twenty miraculous cures he had performed ; ad-
mired the immense fine prospect before the door, and wished
her good-morning, with what he thought quite a degagee and
irresistible air.
She was willing to believe his assurance of her father's re-
covery ; as the drowning wretch will grasp at every straw, she
eagerly embraced the shadow of comfort, and in the recovery
of her father, looked forward to consolation for all her sor-
rows. She struggled against her own illness, that no assidu-
TTIE CniLDREN OF TITE ABIiEY. 315
ous attention might be wanting to liiin; and would have sat
Up with him at night, had he not positively insisted on lier go--
ing to bed.
The medicines he was ordered he received from her hands,
but with a look which seemed to express his conviction of their
iliefficacy. All, however, she wished him to do, he did, and
often raised his eyes to Heaven, as if to implore it to reward hef
care, and yet a little longer spare him to this beloved child,
whose happiness so much depended on the prolongation of his
existence.
Four days passed heavily away, and the assurances of the
physician, who was punctual in his attendance, lost their effect
upon Amanda. Her father was considerably altered for the
worse, and unable to rise, except for a few minutes in the even-
ing, to have his bed made. He complained of no pain or sick-
ness, but seemed sinking beneath an easy and gradual decay.
It was only at intervals he could converse with his daughter.
His conversation was then calculated to strengthen her forti-
tude and resignation, and prepare her for an approaching mel-
ancholy event. Whenever she received a hint of it, her agony
was inexpressible ; but pity for her feelings could not prevent
her father from using every opportunity that occurred for lay-
ing down rules and precepts which might be serviceable to her
when without a guide or protector. Sometimes he adverted
to the past, but this was only done to make her more cautious
in the future.
He charged her to avoid any further intimacy with Lord
Mortimer, as an essential measure for the restoration of her
peace, the preservation of her fame, and the removal of Lord
Cherbury's unjust suspicions, " who will find at last," contin-
ued he, " how much he wronged me and may, perhaps, feel
compunction when beyond his power to make reparation."
To all he desired, Amanda promised a religious observance ;
she thought it unnecessary in him, indeed, to desire her to
avoid Lord Mortimer, convinced as she was that he had utter-
ly abandoned her ; but the grief this desertion occasioned, she
believed she should soon overcome was her father once re-
stored to health, for then she would have no time for useless
regrets or retrospecticns, but be obliged to pass every hour in
active exertions for his support and comfort.
A week passed away in this manner at the cabin a week
of wretchedness to Amanda, who perceived her father growing
weaker and weaker. She assisted him, as usual, to rise one
evening for a few minutes ; when dressed, he complained of an
3i6 TUB CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY,
oppression in his breatlilng, and desired to be supported to the
air. Amanda with difficulty led hiin to the window, which she
opened, and seated him by it, then knelt before him, and put-
ting her arms round his waist, fastened her eyes with anxious
tenderness upon his face.
The evening was serenely fine j the sun was Setting in all
its glory, and the sea, illumined by its parting beams, looked
like a sheet of burnished silver.
" What a lovely scene ! " cried Fitzalan faintly ; '' with what
majesty does the sun retire from the world ! Ihe calmness which
attends its departure is such, 1 think, as must attend the exit
of a good man." He paused for a few minutes, then raising
his eyes to heaven, exclaimed " Merciful Power ! had it
pleased thee, I could have wished yet a little longer to have
been spared to this young creature ; but thy will, not mine, be
done I Confiding in thy mercy, T leave her with some degree
of fortitude."
Amanda's tears began to /low as he spoke. ITc raised his
hand, on which they fell, and, kissing them off, exclaimed
" Precious drops I My Amanda, weep not too bitterly for me
like a weary traveller, think that rest must now be acceptable
to me."
She interrupted him, and conjured him to change the dis-
course. He shook his head mournfully, pressed her hands be-
tween his, and said :
" Yet a little longer, my child, bear with it ; then bade her
assure her brother, whenever they met, which he trusted and,
believed would be soon, he had his father's blessing, " the
, only legacy," he cried, " I can leave him, but one, I am con-
fident, he merits, and will value. To you, my girl, I have no
doubt he will prove a friend and guardian. You may both,
perhaps, be amply recompensed for all your sorrows. Provi-
dence is just in all its dealings, and may yet render the lovely
offspring of my Malvina truly liappy."
He appeared exhausted by speaking, and Amanda assisted
him to lie down, entreating him, at the same time, to take some
drops. He consented, and while she was pouring them out at
a little table, her back to the bed, she heard a deep groan.
The bottle dropped from her hand, she sprang to the bed, and
perceived her father lying senseless on the pillow. She im-
agined he had fainted, and screamed out for assistance. The
woman of the cabin, her husband, and mother, all rushed into
the room. He was raised up, his temples and hands chafed,
and every remedy within the house applied for his recovery,
. THE CHILDREN- OF THE ABBEY. 317
but in vain Iiis spirit had forsaken its tenement of clay
forever.
Amanda, wlien convinced of this, wrung her hands together ;
then, suddenly opening them, she clasped the lifeless body to
her breast, and sunk fainting beside it.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
She remained a considerable time in a state of insensibil-
ity, and, when recovered, she found herself in a bed laid upon
the floor in a corner of the outside room. Her senses were at
first confused she felt as if waking from a disagreeable dream,
but in a few minutes a perfect recollection of what had passed
returned. She saw some one sitting by the bed she raised
herself a little, and perceived Sister Mary. " This is, indeed,
a charitable visit," cried she, extending her hand, and speak-
ing in a low broken voice. The good-natured nun jumped from
her seat on hearing her speak, aiid embraced her most tender-
ly. Her caresses affected Amanda inexpressibly she dropped
her licad upon her breast, and wept with a vehemence which
relieved the oppression of her heart.
Sister Mary said she had never heard of her return to the
country, till Mrs. Byrne came to St. Catherine's for a few sprigs
of rosemary to strew over the poor captain. She had returned
with her then to the cabin, to try if she could be of any service,
and to invite her, in the name of the prioress and the whole
sisterhood, to the convent,
Amanda thanked her for her kind invitation, which, she
said, she must decline accepting for a few days, till she had
performed all her duties, which, in a voice half stifled by sobs,
she added, " the grave would soon terminate."' She was sorry,
she. said, that they had undressed her, and requested Sister
Mary to assist her in putting on her clothes. The sister
tried to dissuade her from this, but soon found she was deter-
mined to spend the remainder of the night in her father's apart-
ment. She accordingly dressed her-^ for Amanda's trembling
hands refused their accustomed office and made her take a
glass of wine and water, ere she suffered her to move towards
the door. Amanda was astonished, as she approached it, to
hear a violent noise, like (lie mingled sotmds of laughing and
3i8 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
singing. Her soul recoiled at the tumult, and she asked Sister
Mary, with a countenance of terror, " what it meant ? " She
replied, " it was only some friends and neighbors doing honor
to the captain." Amanda hastily opened the door, anxious to
terminate the suspense these words occasioned, but, how great
was her horror, when she perceived a set of the meanest rustics
assembled round the bed, with every appearance of inebriety,
laughing, shouting, and smoking. What a savage scene for a
child, whose heart was bursting with grief 1 She shrieked with
horror, and, flinging herself into the arms of Sister Mary, con-
jured her to have the room cleared.
Sister Mary, from being accustomed to such scenes, felt
neither horror nor disgust : she complied, however, with the re-
quest of Amanda, and besought them to depart, saying : " that
Miss Fitzalan was a stranger to their customs, and besides, poor
thing, quite beside herself with grief." They began to grumble
at the proposal of removing ; they had made preparation-s for
spending a merry night, and Mrs. Byrne said, " if she had
thoUjjht things would have turned out in this way, the captain
might have found some other place to die in for the least one
could have, after his giving them so much trouble, was a little
enjoyment with one's neighbors at the latter end." Johnaten
and Kate, who were among the party, joined their entreaties to
Sister Mary's, and she, to tempt them to compliance, said,
" that in all probability they would soon have another and a
better opportunity for making merry than the present." They
at length retired, and Sister Mary and Amanda were left alone
in the chamber of death. The dim light which remained cast a
glimmering shade upon the face of Fitzalan, that added to its
ghastliness. Amanda now indulged in all the luxury of grief,
and found in Sister Mary a truly sympathetic friend, for the
good nun was famed throughout the little circle of her acquaint-
ance for weeping with those that wept, and rejoicing with those
that rejoiced. She obtained a promise from Amanda of accom-
panying her to St. Catherine's as soon as her father was interred ;
and in return for this she gave an assurance of continuing with
her till the last melancholy offices were over, and also that, with
the assistance of Johnaten, she would see everythmg proper
provided. This was some comfort to Amanda, who felt herself
at pi-esent unequal to any exertion ; yet, notwithstanding her
fatigue and illness, she persevered in her resolution of sitting
up with her father every night, dreading that, if she retired to
bed, a scene of riot would again ensue, which, in her opinion,
was sacrilege to the dead. She went to bed every morning and
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 319
was nursed with the most tender attention by Sister Mary, who
also insisted on being her companion at night. This, liowever,
was but a mere matter of form, for the good sister was totally
unable to keep her eyes open, and slept as comfortably upon the
earthen floor, with her gown made into a pillow for her head,
as if laid upon down : then was poor Amanda left to her own
reflections, and the melancholy contemplation of her beloved
father's remains. The evening of the fourth day after his de-
cease was fixed upon for his interment ; with streaming eyes
and a breaking heart, Amanda beheld him put into' the coffin,
and in that moment felt as if he had again died before her. A
small procession attended, consisting of the people of the house,
Johnaten and Kate, and a few respectable farmers, to whom
Fitzalan had endeared himself during his short abode at Castle
Carberry ; the men had scarfs and hat-bands, and the women
hoods.
Johnaten, who jjad been a soldier in his youth, resolved to
pay him some military honors, and placed his hat and sword upon
the coffin. Amanda, by the most painful efforts, supported the
preparations for his removal ; but when she saw the coffin ac-
tually raised to be taken out, she could no longer restrain her
feelings \ she shrieked in the agony of her soul, a sickness,
almost deadly, seized her and she fell fainting upon Sister
Mary's bosom.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
*' Oh, let mc unlade my breast,
Pour out tlie fulness of my soul before you,
Sbow every tender, every grateful thought,
This wondrous goodness stirs. But His mipossibic,
And utterance all is vile ; since I can oi.ly
Swear you reign here, but never tell how muchl" Rowe.
Sister Mary recovered her with difficulty, but found it im-
possible to remove her from the cabin till she was more com-
posed. In about two hours its inhabitants returned, and the
car having arrived wliich- she had ordered to convey Amanda to
St. Catherine's, she was placed upon it in a state scarcely ani-
mate, and, supported by Sister Mary, waS conveyed to that
peaceful asylum. On arriving at it she was carried immediately
into the prioress's apartment, who received and welcomed he^
320 THE CHILDREN OF THE /{BBEY.
with the most tender afifection and sensibility a tenderness
which roused Amanda from the stupefaction into wiiich she ap-
peared sinking, and made her weep violently. She felt relieved
from doing so, and, as some return for the kindness she received,
endeavored to appear benefited by it, She therefore declined
going to bed, but lay down updn a little matted couch in the
prioress's room. The tea-table was close by it. As she refused
any other refreshment, she obtained this by a promise of eating
something with it. None of the sisterhood Sister Mary ex-
cepted were admitted \ and Amanda felt this delicate attention
and respect to her sorrows with gratitude. She arrived on the
eve of their patron siint at the convent, which was always
celebrated with solemnity. After tea, therefore, the prioress
and Sister Mary were compelled to repair to the chapel ; but
she removed the reluctance they felt to leave her alone by com-
plaining of being drowsy. A pillow being laid under her head
by Sister Mary, soon after they quitted her she fell into a pro-
found slumber, in which she continued till awoke by distant
music, so soft, so clear, so harmonious, that the delightful sen-
sations it gave her she could only compare to those which she
imagined a distressed and pensive soul would feel when, spring-
ing from the shackles of mortality, it first heard the heavenly
sounds that welcomed it to the realms of bliss. The chapel from
which those celestial sounds proceeded was at the extremity of
the house, so that they sometimes swelled upon her ear, some-
times faintly sunk upon it. The pauses in the organ, which was
finely played, were filled up by the sweet, though less powerful
strains of the sisterhood, who sung a hymn in honor of their
saint.
" No one was here exempt,
No voice but well could join melodious part."
'Tis a foretaste of heaven, thought Amanda. She heard a
deep sigh behind her. She turned her head hastily, and per-
ceived a figure standing near, which bore a strong resemblance
to Lord Mortimer. She was alarmed. She could not believe
it was him. The light which the small and heavy-arched window
admitted was imperfect, and she rose from the couch to be
better assured it was or was not him. A second glance con-
vinced her. She might have believed her eyes at first. Trem-
bling and astonished, she sunk upon a seat, exclaiming, " Gra-
cious heaven ! what can have brought Lord Mortimer hither ? "
He made no reply, but, kneeling before her, took her hands
in his, pressed them to his forehead and lips, and laid his head
upon them.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
321
" Why," cried Amanda, unutterably affected by the emo-
tions he betrayed, " why, my lord, are you come hither ? "
" To try," he replied, in a voice scarcely articulate, " whether
Miss Fitzalan will yet consider me as her friend." " That, my
lord," said she, " depends upon circumstances ; but while your
lordship remains in your present position, what they are I can-
not explain."
Lord Mortimer instantly rose and seated himself beside her. ,
" Now, tell mc," said he, " what those circumstances are."
" The first, my lord, is to exculpate my father in the opinion of
Lord Cherbury, and, by declaring the commencement and
progress of our acquaintance, eradicate from his lordship's mind
the injurious suspicions he entertained against him. This,
perhaps, you will say is useless, considering those suspicions
can no longer wound him ; but, my lord, I deem it an incum-
bent duty on me to remove from his memory the obloquy on
my account cast on it." " I promise you most solemnly,"
said Lord Mortimer, " you shall be obeyed. This is a debt of
justice, which I had resolved to pay ere I received your injunc-
tion for doing so. It is but lately I heard of the unjust charges
made against him, nor do I know now what fiend gave rise to
them." "The same, perhaps," cried Amanda, "who spread
such complicated snares for my destruction, and involved mc
in every horror but that which proceeds from conscious guilt,
Oh, my lord ! the second circumstance i allude to is, if you
should hear my name treated with scorn and contempt by those
few those very few whom I had reason to esteem, and to
believe esteemed me, that you would kindly interpose -in my
justification, and say I merited not the aspersions cast upon
me. Believe me innocent, and you will easily persuade others
I am so. You shake your head, as much as to say you cannot
think me so, after the proofs you have seen to the contrary.
Ah, my lord ! the proofs were contrived by malice and trcacherj',
to ruin me in the estimation of my friends, and by perfidy, to
force me into a crime, of which I already bear the appearance
and the stigma. Surely, in this solemn hour, which has seen
my beloved father consigned to his kindred earth, when, with
a. mind harassed by sorrow, and a body worn out with fatigue,
I feel as if standing on the verge of the grave, I should be the
most abandoned of wretches, if I could assert my innocence
without the consciousness of really possessing it. No, my
lord ; by such a falsehood I should be not only wicked, but
foolish, in depriving myself of that happiness hereafter which '
will so fully recompense my present miseries," " Oh, Amand^ | "
21
322
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
cried Lord Mortimer, vvlio had been walking backward and
forward in an agitated manner wliile slie spoke, " you would
almost convince nie against the evidence of my own senses."
" Almost," she repeated. " Then I see, my lord, you are
determined to disbelieve me. But why, since so prejudiced
against me, have you come hither ? Was it merely to be assured
of my wretchedness . to hear me say that I stand alone in the
world, witliout one being interested about my welfare ; that my
present asylum is bestowed by charity ; and that, if my life be
prolonged, it must be spent in struggling against constitution,
sorrow, and ill-fame, to procure a subsistence," " No, no,"
exclaimed Lord Mortiirer, flinging himself at her feet ; " never
shall you suffer such misery. Were you even the being I was
tempted to think you some time ago, never would Mortimer
suffer the woman his heart doated on to feel such calamity. I
do not, I cannot believe you would deceive me. There is an
irresistible eloquence in your words that convinces me you have
been the victim of treacliery, and I its dupe. I cannot give you
a more convincing jiroof of my confidence in you, than by again
renewing my entreaties to have one fame, one fate, one fortune
ours."
The resolution which Amanda had forced to support her
through the painful scene she guessed would ensue the moment
she saw Lord Mortimer, now vanished, and she burst into a
flood of tears. Slic saw his conduct in the most generous, the
most exalted light. Notwithstanding appearances were so much
against her, he was willing to rely solely on her own assever-
ation of innocence, and to run every risk on her account, that
by a union he might shelter her from the distress of her present
situation. But while her sensibility was affected by his ex-
pressions; her pride was alarmed lest he should impute her
ardent desire of vindicating herself to the expectation of having
his addresses renewed. In broken accents she endeavored to
remove such an idea, if it had arisen, and to convince him than
all further intimacy between them must now be terminated.
Lord Mortimer ascribed the latter part of her speech to the
resentment she felt against him for ever entertaining doubts of
hei worth. She desired him to rise, but he refused till he was
forgiven. My forgiveness is yours indeed, my lord," she said,
"though your suspicions wounded me to the soul. I can
scarcely wonder at your entertaining them, when I reflect on
the dilferent situations in which I was found, which, if your
lordship can spare a little longer time, or deem it worth devoting
to such a purpose^ as well as I am able I will account for being
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 323
involved in." Lord Mortimer declared his ardent desire to
hear those particulars, which nothing but a fear of fatiguing or
agitating her could have prevented his before expressing. He
then seated himself by her, and taking her cold and emaciated
hand in his, listened to her little narrative.
She briefly informed him of her father's residing in Devon-
shire after the death of her mother, of the manner in which
they became acquainted with Colonel Belgrave, of his having
ingratiated himself into their friendship, by pretending to be
Oscar's friend, and then plunging them in distress, when he
found they not only resisted but resented his villanous designs.
She related the artful manner in which Lady Greystock had
drawn her from her father's protection, and the cold and insolent
reception she met from the marchioness and her daughter,
when introduced by the above-mentioned lady, the enmity the
marchioness bore her father, the sudden alteration in her
behavior, the invitation to her house so unexpected and un-
necessary, all tended to inspire a belief that she was concerned
in contriving Colonel Belgrave's admittance to the house, and
had also given Lord Cherbury reason to suspect the integrity
of her father.
Lord Mortimer here interrupted Amanda, to mention the
conversation which passed between him and Mrs. Jane in the
hall.
She raised her hands and eyes to heaven with astonishment
at such wickedness, and said, " Though she always suspected
the girl's integrity, from a certain sycophant air, she never
imagined she could be capable of such baseness."
Lord Mortimer again interrupted her, to mention what Lady
Greystock had told him concerning Mrs. Jennings, as also
what the housekeeper had said of the note he gave her for
Amanda.
" Good God 1 " said Amanda, " when I hear of all the enemies
X had, I : Jmost wonder I escaped so well." She tlien resumed
her narrative, accounted for the dislike Mrs. Jennings had to
her, and explained the way in which she was entrapped into
Colonel Belgrave's power, the almost miraculous manner in
which she was freed from his house, the friendship she received
from Howel, and the situation in which she arrived at Castle
Carberry, and found her father. The closing scene she could
not describe, for sighs and sobs impeded her utterance. Lord
Mortimer gently folded her to his breast. He called her his
dear, his unfortunate, his lovely girl, more precious than ever
to his heart, and declared he never again would quit her till
324
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
she had given him a right to espouse her quarrels, and secure
her from the machinations of her enemies. Her warm tears
wet his cheek as she exclaimed, " that could never be."
" My promise is already past," cried she. " That whicii
was given to the livingshall not be forfeited to the dead; and
this, my lord, by -design, is the last time we must ever meet."
" What promise ? " exclaimed Lord Mortimer. " Surely no
one could be so inhuman as to extort a promise from you to
give me up?" "It was not inhumanity extorted it," replied
Amanda, "but honor, rectitude, and discretion; without for-
feiting those never can I violate it. There is but one event
could make me acquiesce in your wishes, that is, having a
fortune adequate to yours to bring you, because then Lord
Cherbury could ascribe no selfish motive to my conduct ; but
as such an event is utterly improbable, 1 might almost say im-
possible, it is certain we shall never be united. Any further
intercourse between us, you must therefore be convinced, would
injure me. Disturb not, therefore, my lord, my retirement ;
but ere you depart, allow me to assure you you have lightened
the weight on my heart by crediting what I have said. Should
I not recover from the illness which now preys upon me, it will
cheer my departing spirit to know you think me innocent ; and,
if I live, it will support me through many difficulties, and often,
perhaps, after the toils of a busy day, shall I comfort myself by
reflecting that those I esteem, if they think of me, it is with
their wonted regard."
Lord Mortimer was affected by the manner in which she
spoke, his eyes began to glisten, and he was again declaring he
would not suffer her to sacrifice happiness at the shrine of a
too scrupulous and romantic generosity, when the door opened,
and the prioress and Sister Mary (who had been detained in
the chapel by a long discourse from the priest) entered, bearing
lights.
Lord Mortimer started in much confusion, retreated to one
of the windows, and drew out his handkerchief to conceal the
emotions Amanda had excited. She was unable to speak to
the prioress and Sister Mary, who stared round them, and then
at each other, not certain whether they should advance or
retreat. Lord Mortimer in a few moments recovered his com-
posure, and advancing to the prioress, apologized for his in-
trusion into her apartment ; but said he had the honor of being
s. friend of Miss Fitzalan's, and could not resist his wish of
inquiring in person after her health as soon as he arrived in
tjie country.
THE CmLDREN OF THE ABBEY. 3*5
The prioress, who had once seen a good deal of the polite
world, received his address with ease and complaisance. Sister
Mary went over to Amanda, and found her weak, trembling,
and weeping. She expressed the utmost concern at seeing
her in such a situation, and immediately procured her a glass
of wine, which she insisted on her taking. The lights now
gave Lord Mortimer an opportunity of contemplating the dep-
redations which grief and sickness had made upon her. Her
pale and sallow complexion, her heavy and sunken eyes, struck
him with horror. He could not conceal his feelings. " Gracious
Heaven ! " cried he, going to the couch, and taking her hand,
" I fear you are very ill."
She looked mournfully in his face without speaking ; but
this look was sufficient to assure him he was not mistaken.
The efforts she had made to converse with him, and the yet
greater efforts she made to banish him forever from her, quite
exhausted her; after the various miseries she had gone through,
how soothing to her soul would have been the attentions of
of Lord Mortimer, how pleasing, how delightful, the asylum she
should have found in his arras ! But no temptation, no distress,
she resolved, should ever make her disobey the injunction of her
adored father.
' " She is very bad indeed," said Sister Mary, " and we must
get her to bed as soon as possible." " She requires rest and
repose indeed," said Lord Mortimer ; " but tell me, my dear
Miss Fitzalah (taking her hand), if I liave those good ladies'
permission for calling liere to-morrow, will you, if able to rise, see
me 'i " " I cannot, indeed," said Amanda ; " I have already
declared this must be our last interview, and I shall not retract
from what I have said." " Then," exclaimed Lord Mortimer,
regardless, or rather forgetful, of those who heard him, from
the agitation and warmth of his feelings, " I shall, in one re-
spect at least, accuse you of dissimulation, that of feigning a
regard for me you never felt." " Such an accusation is now of
little consequence," i-eplied Amanda ; " perhaps you had better
think it just." " Cruel, inexorable girl, to refuse seeing me, to
wish to have the anxiety which now preys npon my heart
prolonged ! " .
" Young man," said the prioress, in an accent of displeas-
ure, seeing the tears streaming down Amanda's' cheeks, " re-
spect her sotrows."
" Respect them, madam," repeated he ; " Oh I Heaven, I
respect, I venerate them ; but will you, my dear lady, when
Miss Fitzalan is able, prevail on her to communicate the par-
326 THE CHILDREI^ OF THE ABBEY.
ticulars of our acquaintance; and will you then become my
advocate, and persuade her to receive my visits? " " Impos-
sible sir,'' said the prioress, " I shall never attelnpt to desire a
larger share of confidence from Miss Fitzalan than she desires
to bestow upon me. From my knowledge of her I am con-
vinced her conduct will be always guided by discretion ; she
has greatly obliged me by choosing this humble retreat for her
l-esidence ; she has put herself under my protection, and I
shall endeavor to fulfil that sacred trust by securing her from
any molestation," " Well, madam," said Lord Mortimer, " I
flatter myself Miss Fitzalan will do me justice in declaring my
visits proceeded from wishes, which, though she may disappoint,
she cannot disapprove. I shall no longer intrude upon your
time or hers, but will still hope I shall find you both less in-
flexible."
He took up his hat, he approached the door ; but when he
glanced at Amanda, he could not depart without speaking to
her, and again went to the couch.
He entreated her to compose and exert herself; he desired
her forgiveness for any warmth he had betrayed, and he whis-
pered to her that all his earthly happiness depended on her res-
toration to health, and her becoming his. He insisted on her
now giving him her hand as a pledge of amity between them.
She complied ; but when presuming on this he again asked her
consent- to repeat his visits, he found her inexorable as ever,
and rfetired, if not with a displeased, a disappointed countenance.
Sister Mary attended him from the apartment. At the door
of the convent he requested her to walk a few paces from it
with him, saying he wanted to speak to her. She consented,
and remembering he was the person who frightened her one
evening amongst the ruins, determined now, if she had a good
opportunity, to ask what had then brought him thither?
Lord Mortimer knew the poverty of the convent, and feared
Amanda might want many things, or its inhabitants be distressed
to procure them for her ; he therefore pulled out a purse and
presenting it to Sister Mary, requested she would apply it for
Miss Fitzalan's use, without mentioning anything about it to
her. Sister Mary shook the purse. " Oh I Jesu Maria," ex-
claimed she, " how heavy it is ! "
Lord Mortimer was retiring, when, catching hold of him,
she cried, " Stay, stay, I have a word or two to say to you. I
wonder how much there is in this purso ? "
Lord Mortimer smiled, " If not enough for the present
emergencies," said he, " it shall soon be replenished."
TtlE CtilLhkEN of TtiE ABBEY.
327
Sister Mary sat down on a tombstone, and very deliberately
counted the money into her lap. " Oh ! mercy," said she, "I
never saw so many guineas together before in all my lie ! "
Again Lord Mortimer smiled, and was retiring ; but again
stopping him, she returned the gold into the purse, and de-
clared, "she neitiier would nor durst keep it."
Lord Mortimer was provoked at this declaration, and, with-
out replying to it, walked on. She ran nimbly after him, and
dropping the purse at his feet, was out of sight in a moment.
When she returned to the prioress's apartment, she related the
incident, and took much merit to herself far acting so prudently,
The prioress commended her very much, and poor Amanda,
with a faint voice, said, "she had acted quite right."
A little room inside the prioress's chamber was prepared for
Amanda, into which she was now conveyed, and the good-
natured Sister Mary brought her own bed, and laid it beside
hers.
CHAPTER XXXV.
" With dirges due, and sad array,
Slow through the church-way path I saw him borne.
It will now be necessary to account for the sudden appear-
ance of Lord Mortimer at the convent. Our reader may rec-
ollect that we left him in London, in the deepest affliction for
the supposed perfidy of Amanda an aflliction which knew no
diminution from time ; neither (he tenderness of his aunt. Lady
Martha Dormer, nor the kind consideration his father showed
for him, who, for the present, ceased to importune him about
Lady Euphrasia, could have any lenient effect upon him he
pined in thought, and felt a distaste to all society. He at last
began to think, that though Amanda had been unhappily led
astray, she might, ere this, have repented of her error, and for-
saken Colonel Belgrave. To know whether she had done so,
or whether she could be prevailed upon to give him up, he be-
lieved, would be an alleviation of his sorrows. No sooner had
he persuaded himself of this, than he determined on going to
Ireland, without delay, to visit Captain Fitzalan, and, if she was
not returned to his protection, advise with him about some
method of restoring her to it.
He told Lord Cherbury he thought an excursion into
328 ^-^^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Wales would be of service to him. His lordship agreed in
thinking it might, and, seciclly delighted that all danger rela-
tive to Amanda was over, gladly concurred in whatever could
please his son, flattering himself that, on his return to London,
he would no lodger raise any objections to an alliance with the
fair Scotch heiress.
Lord Mortimer travelled with as much expedition to Holy-
head as if certain that perfect happiness, not a small alleviation
of misery, would be the recompense of his journey. He con-
cealed from his aunt the real motives which actuated him to it,
blushing, even to himself, at the weakness which he still felt rel-
ative to Amanda. When he crossed the water he again set off
post, attended on horseback only by his own man. Within one
mile of Castle Carberry he met the little mournful procession
approaching, which was attending poor Fitzalan to his last
home. The carriage stopped to let them pass, and in tlie last
of the group he perceived Johnaten, who, at the same moment,
recognized him. Johnaten, with much surprise in his counte-
nance, stepped up to the carriage, and, after bowing, and
humbly hoping his lordship was well, with a melancholy shake
of his head informed him whose remains he was following.
" Captain Fitzalan dead I " repeated Lord Mortimer, with a
face as pale as death, and a faltering voice, while his heart
sunk within him at the idea that his father was, in some degree,
accessory to the fatal event j for, just before he left London,
Lord Cherbury had informed him of the letter he wrote to
Fitzalan, and this, he believed, joined to his own immediate
family misfortunes, had precipitated him from the world.
" Captain Fitzalan dead ! " he exclaimed. " Yes, and please
you, my lord," said Johnaten, wiping away a tear, " and he
has not left a better or a braver man behind him. Poor gen
tleman, the world pressed hard upon him." " Had he no
tender friend about him ? " asked Lord Mortimer. " Were
neither of his children with him ? " " Oh ! yes my lord, poor
Miss Amanda." " She was with him I " said Lord Mortimer,
in an eager accent. " Yes, my lord, she returned here about
ten days ago, but so sadly altered, I think she won't stay long
behind him. Poor thing, she is going fast, indeed, and the
more's the pity, for she is a sweet creature."
Lord Mortimer was inexpressibly shocked. He wished to
hide his emotions, and waved his hand to Johnaten to depart ;
but Johnaten either did not, or would not, understand the
motion, and he was obliged, in broken accents, to say, "he
would no longer detain him."
THE CHILDRRN OF tttH ABBEY. 349
The return of Amanda was to him a conviction that she
had seen her error in its true light. He pictured to himself
the affecting scene which must have ensued between a dying
father and a penitent daughter, so loved, so valued, as was
Amanda ; her situation, when she received his forgiveness and
benediction ; he represented her to himself as at once bewail-
ing the loss of her father, and her offences, endeavoring, by
prayers, by tears, by sighs, to obliterate them in the sight 6
Heaven, and render herself fit to receive its awful fiat.
He heard she was dying ; his soul recoiled at the idea of
seeing her shrouded in her native clay, and yet he could not
help believing this the only peaceful asylum she could find, to
be freed from the shafts of contempt and malice of the world.
He trembled lest he should not behold the lovely penitent
while she was capable of observing him ; to receive a last
adieu, though dreadful, would yet, he thought, lighten the
horrors of an eternal separation, and perhaps, too, it would be
some comfort to her departing spirit to know from him he had
pardoned her; and conscious, surelj', he thought' to himself,
she must be of needing pardon from him, whom she had so
long imposed on by a specious pretext of virtue. He had
heard from Lord Cherbury that Captain Fitzalan had quitted
the castle ; he knew not, therefore, at present, where to find
Amanda, nor did he choose to make any inquiries till he again
saw Johnaten.
As soon as the procession was out of sight, he alighted
from the carriage, and ordering his man to discharge it, on
arriving at Castle Carberry, he took a path across the fields,
which brought him to the side of the church-yard where Fitzalan
was to be interred.
He readied it just as the coffin was lowering into the earth.
A yew-tree, growing by the wall against which he leaned, hid
him from observation. He heard many of the rustics mentioning
the merits of the deceased in terms of warm, though artless,
commendation, and he saw Johnaten receiving the hat and
sword (which, as military trophies, he had laiof upon the
coffin), with a flood of tears.
When the church-yard was cleared, he stepped across the
broken wall to the silent mansion of Fitzalan. The scene was
wild and dreary, and a lowering evening seemed in unison with
the sad objects around. Lord Mortimer was sunk in the deep-
est despondence. He felt awfully convinced of the instability
of human attainments, and the vanity of human pursuits, not
only from the ceremony he had just witnessed; but his own
^20 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEV.
situation. Tlie fond hopes of his heart, the gay expectations
of his youth, and the hilarity of his soul, were blasted, never,
he feared, to revive. Virtue, rank, and fortune, advantages so
highly prized by mankind, were unable to give him comfort, to
remove the malady of his heart, to administer one oblivious
antidote to a mind diseased.
" Peace to thy shade, thou unfortunate soldier," exclaimed
he, after standing some time by the grave with folded arms.
" Peace to thy shade peace which shall reward thee for a life
of toil and trouble. Happy should I have deemed myself, had
it been my lot tc have lightened thy grief, or cheered thy
closing hours. But those who were dearer to thee than exist-
ence I may yet serve, and thus make the only atonement now
in my power for the injustice, I fear, was done thee. Thy
Amanda, and thy gallant son, shall be my care, and his path, I
trust, it will be in my power to smooth through life."
A tear fell from Lord Mortimer upon the grave, and he
turned mournfully from it towards Castle Carberry. Here
Johnaten was arrived before him, and had already a large fire
lighted in llie dressing-room poor Amanda, on coming to the
castle, had chosen for herself. Johnaten fixed on this for
Lord Mortimer, as the parlors had been shut up ever since
Captain Fitzalan's departure, and could not be put, in any
order till the next day ; but it was the worst place Lord Morti-
mer could have entered, as not only itself but everything in it
reminded him of Amanda ; and the grief it excited at his first
entrance was so violent as to alarm not only his man (who was
spreading a table with refreshments), but Johnaten, who was
assisting him. He soon checked it, however; but when he
again looked round the room, and beheld it ornamented with
works done by Amanda, he could scarcely prevent another
burst of grief as violent as fhe first.
He now learned Amanda's residence ; and so great was his
impatience to see her that, apprehensive the convent would
soon be closed, he set off, fatigued as he was, without recruit-
ing himself with any refreshment. He intended to ask for one
of the ladies of St. Catherine's, and entreat her, if Amanda
was then in a situation to be seen, to announce his arrival to
her ; but after rapping repeatedly with a rattan against the
door, the only person who appeared to him was a servant girl.
From her he learned the ladies were all in the chapel, and that
Miss Fitzalan was in the prioress's apartment. He asked,
" Was she too ill to be seen ? " The girl replied, " No "fa
having only entered the room to leave the kettle in it, at a
Tnu cniLDRkr^ op Trm AnnnV. 331
time when Amanda was composed, she imagined she wasivery
well. Lord Mortimer then told her his name, and desired her
to go up to Miss Fitzalan and inquire whether she would see
him. The girl attempted not to move. She was in reality so
struck of a heap by hearing that she had been talking to a
lord, that she knew not whether she was standing on her head
or her heels. Lord Mortimer imputing her silence to disin-
clination to comply with his request, put a guinea into her
hand, and entreated her to be expeditious. This restored her
to animation, but ere she reached the room she forgot his title,
and being ashamed to deliver a blundering message to Miss
Fitzalan, or to appear stupid to Lord Mortimer, she returned
to him, pretending she had delivered his message, and that he
night go tip. She showed him the door, and when he entered
he imputed the silence of Amanda, and her not movirig, to
the effects of her grief. He advanced to the couch, and was
not a little shocked on seeing her eyes closed concluding from
this that slie had fainted, but her easy respiration soon con-
vinced him that this was a mistake, and he immediately con-
cluded that the girl had deceived him. He leaned over her
till she began to stir, and.then retreated behind her, lest his
presence, on her first awaking, should alarm her.
What took place in the interview between them has already
been related. Notwithstanding appearances were so much
against her, and no explanation had ensued relative to them,
from the moment she asserted her innocence with solemnity
he could no longer doubt it ; and yielding at once to its con-
viction, to his love, to his pity for her, he again renewed his
overtures for a union. Hearing of the stratagems laid for her
destruction, the dangers she had escaped, the distresses she
had experienced, made him more anxious than ever for com-
pleting it, that by his constant protection he might secure her
from similar trials, and by his tenderness and care restore her
to health, peace, and happiness. He longed for the period of
her triumphing over the perfidious marchioness, and the detest-
able Lady Euphrasia, by being raised to that station they had
so long attempted to prevent her attaining, and thus proving
to them that virtue, sooner or later, will counteract the designs
of vice. He felt a degree of rapture at the idea of his being
no longer obliged to regret the ardent, the unabated affection
he felt for her. His transports were somewhat checked when
she solemnly declared a union between them impossible, and
forbade his seeing her again. He was piqued by the steadi-
ness with which she repeated this resolution, but her present
332
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
weak state prevented his betraying any resentment, and he
Jiattered himself he would be able to conquer her obstinacy.
He could not now, indeed, despair of any event after the un-
expected restoration of Amanda to his esteem, and the revival
of those hopes of felicity, which in the certainty of having
lost her had faded away. He returned, as Johnaten said, an
altered man, to the castle. He no longer experienced horror
at entering the dressing-room which displayed so many vestiges
of his Amanda's taste.
He resolved on an immediate union as the surest proof he
could give her of his perfect confidence in her sincerity, not
allowing himself to suppose she would continue firm in the
resolution she had recently avowed to him. He then intended
setting ojf for London, and sparing neither time, trouble nor
expense, to obtain from tlie inferior agents in the plot laid
against her, a full avowal of tlie part they had themselves acted
in it, and all they knew relative to those performed by others.
This was not designed for his own satisfaction. He wanted
no confirmation of what Amanda asserted, as his proposal to
marry her immediately demonstrated ; it was to cover with con-
fusion those who had meditated h^r destruction, and add to the
horrors they would experience when they found her emerging
from obscurity not as Miss Fitzalan, but as Lady Mortimer.
Such proofs of her innocence would also prevent malice from
saying he was the dupe of art, and he was convinced, for both
their sakes, it was requisite to procure them. He would then
avow his marriage, return for his wife, introduce her to his
friends, and, if his father kept up any resentment against them
longer than he expected, he knew in Lady Martha Dormer's
house, and at Tudor Hall, he would find not only an eligible,
but pleasant residence. Those delightful schemes kept him
awake half the night,- and when he fell asleep it was only to
dream of happiness and Amanda.
In the morning, notwithstanding the prohibition he had re-
ceived to the contrary, he went to inquire how she was, and to
try and see her. The girl who had answered his repeated knocks
the preceding evening, appeared, and told him Miss Fitzalan
was very bad. He began to think that this must be a'pretext
to avoid seeing him, and to come at the truth was slipping a
bribe into her hand, when Sister Mary, who had been watching
them from an adjoining room, appeared, and stopped this
measure. She repeated what the girl had just said, and, in
addition to it, declared that even if Miss Fitzalan was up she
would not see him, and that he must come no more to St.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 333
Catherine's, as both Miss Fitzalan and the prioress would re-
sent such conduct exceedingly ; and that, if he wanted to in-
quire after the health of the former, he might easily send a
servant, and it would be much better done than to come frisk-
ing over there every moment.
Lord Mortimer was seriously displeased with this uncere-
monious speech. " So, I suppose," cried he, " you want to
make a real nun of Miss Fitzalan, and to keep her from all
conversation." " And a happy creature she would be were she
to become one of us," replied Sister Mary ; " and as to keep--
ing her from conversation, she might have as much as she-
pleased with any one. Indeed, I believe the pool thing likes
you well enough ; the more's her misfortune for doing so."
" I thank you, madam," cried Lord Mortimer ; " I suppose it
one of your vows to speak truth j if so, I must acknowledge
you keep it religiously." " I have just heard her," proceeded
Sister Mary, without minding what he had said, " tell the pri-
oress a long story about you and herself, by which I find it was
her father's desire she should have nothing more to say to you,
and I dare say the poor gentleman had good reasons for doing
so. I beg, my lord, you will come no more here, and, indeed,
I think it was a shame for you to give money to the simple-
ton who answered you. Why, it is enough to turn the girl's
head, and set her mad after one fal-lal or other."
Lord Mortimer could not depart without an effort to win
Sister Mary over to his favor, and engage her to try and per-
suade Miss Fitzalan to permit his visits, but she was inflexible J
he then entreated to know if Amanda was so ill as to be unable
to rise. She assured him she was, and, as some little consola-
tion to the distress she perceived this assurance gave him, said
he might send when he pleased to inquire after her health, and
she would take care to answer the messenger herself.
Lord Mortimer began now to be seriously alarmed lest Cap-
tain Fitzalan had prevailed on his daughter to make a solemn
renunciation of him. If this was the case, he knew nothing
could prevail on her to break her promise. He was half dis-
tracted with doubt and anxiety, which were scarcely support-
able, when he reflected that they could not for some time be
satisfied, since, even if he wrote to her for that purpose, she
could not at present be able to answer his letter ; again he felt
convinced of the instability of earthly happiness, and the closq
9pnnectioii there has ever beeti between pleasure and paip,
334 ^-^^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
I " Thy presence only 'tis can make me blest,
Heal my unquiet mind, and tune my soul." Otway.
The fatigue, distress, and agitation of Amanda could no
longer be struggled with j she sunk beneath their violence, and
for a week was confined to her bed by the fever which had
seized her in England, and ever since lurked in her veins.
The. whole sisterhood, who took it in turn to attend her, vied
with each other in kindness and care to the poor invalid.
Their efforts for her recovery were aided by a skilful physician
from the next town, who called, without being sent for, at the
convent. He said he had known Captain Fitzalan, and that,
hearing that Miss Fitzalan was indisposed, he had come in
hopes he might be of service to the daughter of a man he so
much esteemed. He would accept of no fee, and the prioress,
who was a woman of sagacity, suspected, as well as Amanda,
that he came by the direction of Lord Mortimer. Nor were
they mistaken, for, distracted by apprehensions about her, he
had taken this method of lightening his fears, flattering himself,
by the excellent advice he had procured, her recovery would be
much expedited, and, of course, his suspense at least terminated.
The doctor did not withdraw his visits when Amanda was able
to rise ; he attended her punctually, and often paid her long
visits, which were of infinite service to her spirits, as he was
a man of much information and cheerfulness. In a few days
she was removed from her chamber into a pleasant room below
stairs, which opened into the garden, where, leaning on the
friendly doctor's arm, or one of the nuns', she walked at differ-
ent times a few minutes each day. Lord Mortimer, on hearing
this, thought he might now solicit an interview, and accordingly
wrote for that purpose :
TO MISS FITZALAN.
Lord Mortimer presents his compliments to Miss Kitzalan, flatters him.
self she will allow him personally to express the sincere happiness her res-
toration to health has afforded him. He cannot think she will refuse so
reasonable a request. He is almost convinced she would not hesitate a
moment in granting it, could she form an idea of the misery he has experi-
enced on her account, and the anxiety he feels, and must continue to feel,
till some expressions in the last interview are explained,
Castle Carberry, loth May.
THE CHILDREN OF 77IE ABBEY. 335
This letter greatly distressed Amanda. She had hoped the
pain of again rejecting his visits and requests would have been
spared her. She guessed at the expressions he alluded to in
his letter ; they were those she had dropped relative to her
promise to her father, and from the impetuous and tender feel-
ings of Lord Mortimer she easily conceived the agony he would
experience when he found this promise inviolable. She felt
more for his distress than her own. Her heart, seasoned in
the school of adversity, could bear its sorrows with calmness ;
but this was not his case, and she paid the tribute of tears to a
love so fervent, so faithful, and so hopeless.
She then requested Sister Mary to acquaint his messenger
that she received no visits; that, as she was tolerably recovered,
she entreated his lordship would not take the trouble of con-
tinuing his inquiries about her health, or to send her any more
written messages, as she was unable to answer them. The
prioress, who was present when she received the letter, com-
mended her exceedingly for the fortitude and discretion she
had manifested. Amanda had deemed it necessary to inform
her, after the conversation she heard between her and Lord
Mortimer, of the terms on which they stood with each other ;
and the prioress, who doubted whether his lordship was in
reality as honorable as he professed himself, thought Amanda
on the sure side in declining his visits.
The next morning the doctor called as usual. He told
Amanda he had brougiit her an entertaining book, for no such
thing could be procured at St. Catherine's, and, as she had ex-
pressed her regret at this, from the time she had been able to
read he had supplied her from his library, whicli was extensive
and well chosen.
He did not present it to her till he was retiring, and then
said, with a significant smile, she would find it contained some-
thing worthy of her particular attention. Amanda was alone,
and immediately opened it. Great was her astonishment when
a letter dropped from it into her lap. She snatched it up, and,
perceiving the direction in Lord Mortimer's hand, she hesitated
whether she should open a letter conveyed in this manner ;
but to return it unopened was surely a slight Lord Mortimer
merited not, and she broke the seal with a trembling hand and
a palpitating heart :
Unkind Amanda, to compel me to use stratagems in writing to you, and
destroy the delightful hopes which had Spriing in my soul, at the prospect of
licing about to receive a reward for my snftcring.i. Am I fiver to be involved
in doubts and perplexity on your account ? Am I ever to sec dilTiculty suc-
ceeded by difficulty, and hope by disappointment ?
336 THE CHILDREM OF THE ABBEY.
You must be sensible of the anxiety I shall feel, until your ambiguous
expressions are fully explained, and yet you refuse this explanation I But
you have no pity for my feelings. Would it not be more generous in you to
permit an interview than to keep me in suspense ? To know the worst is
some degree of ease ; besides, I should then have an opportunity of perhaps
convincing you that virtue, unlike vice, has its bounds, and that we may
sometimes carry our notions of honor and generosity too far, and sacrifice our
real happiness to chimerical ideas of them. Surely I shall not be too pre-
sumptuous in saying that, if the regard Amanda once flattered me with is
undiminished, she will, by rejecting a union with me, leave me not the only
sufferer.
Oh I do not, my dear and too scrupulous girl, think a moment longer of
persevering in a resolution so prejudicial to your welfare. Your situation re-
quires particular protection : young, innocent, and beautiful ; already the ob-
ject of licentious pursuits ; your nearest relations your greatest enemies ; your
brother, from his unsettled line of life, upjible to be near you. Oh I my
Amanda, from such a situation what evils may accrue? Avoid them, by
taking refuge in his arms, who will be to you a tender friend and faithful
guardian. Before such evils, the obligation for keeping a promise to reject
me,fadesaway, particularly when the motives which led to such a promise
are considered. Captain Fitzalan, hurt by the unfortunate letter he received
from my father, extended his resentment to his son, and called upon you
without reflecting on tlie consequences of such a measure to give me up.
This is the only reason I can conceive for his desiring such a promise, and
had I but arrived while he could have listened to my arguments, I am firmly
convinced, instead of opposing, he would have sanctioned our union, and
given his beloved girl to a man who, in every instance, would study to evince
his gratitude for such a gift, and to supply his toss.
Happiness, my dear Amanda, is in long arrears with iis. She is now
ready to make up for past deficiencies, if it is not our own faults ; let us not
frighten hdr from performing her good intentions, but hand in hand receive
the lovely and long absent guest to our bosoms.
You will not, cannot, must not, be inflexible ; I shall expect, as soon as
}rou read this, a summons to St. Catherine's to receive the ratification of my
lopes. In everything respecting our union I will be guided by you, except
delaying it ; what we have both suffered already from deceit makes me
doubly anxious to secure you mine, lest another vile scheme should be
formed to effect our separation.
Oh I Amanda, the faintest prospect of calling you mine gives to my
heart a felicity no language can express. Refuse not being mine except you
bring me an addition of fortune ; already rich in every virtue, I shall, in
obtaining you, obtain a treasure which the wealthiest, the proudest, and
the vainest of the sons of men may envy me the possession of, and which
the good, the sensible, and elegant, must esteem the kindest gift indulgent
heaven could bestow on me. Banish all uneasy doubts and scruples, my
Amanda, from your mind, nor think a promise, which was demanded with-
out reflecting on the consequences that must attend it, can be binding. The
ingenuous soul of your father would have cancelled it in a moment, had those
consequences been represented to him ; and now, when our own reason con-
vinces us of them, I make no doubt, if departed souls are permitted to view
the transactions of this world, his spirit would behold our union with appro-
bation. Yes, ray Amanda, I repeat your father's approving spirit will smile
upon an act which gives to his lovely and belpved orphan a faithful friend
and steady protector, in her adoring Moi^'fniER,
Castlp Carberry, iit^i May.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 337
This letter deeply affected the sensibility, but could not
shake the resolution of Amanda. Slie would not have answered
it, as she considered any correspondence an infringement on
the promises she had given her father to decline any further in-
timacy with him ; but from the warmth and agitation displayed
in his letter, it was evident to her that, if he did not receive an
immediate answer to it, he would come to St. Catherine's and
insist on, seeing her ; and she felt assured, that she could much
better deliver her sentiments upon paper than to him ; she ac-
cordingly wrote as follows :
TO LORD MORTIMER.
My Lord, You cannot change my resolution ; surely, when I solemnly
declare to you it is unalterable, you will spare me any further importunity
on so painful a subject. In vain, my lord, would you, by sophistry, cloaked
with tenderness for that purpose, try to influence me. The arguments you
have made use of, I am convinced, you never would have adopted, had you
not been mistaken in regard to those motives which prompted my father to
ask a promise from me of declining any farther connection with you. It was
not from resentment, my lord ; no, his death was then fast approaching, and
he, in charity for all mankind, forgave those who had wounded him by un-
just reproacn and accusation ; it was a proper respect for his own character,
and not resentment, which influenced his conduct, as he was convinced if t
consented to an alliance with you. Lord Cherbury would be confirmed in all
the suspicions he entertained of his having entangled you with me, and con-
sequently load his memory wilh contempt. Tenderness also for me actu-
ated him ; ho was .icquaintcd with the proud heart of Lord Cherbury, and
knew tliat it, poor and reduced as I was, I entered his family I should be
considered and treated as a mean intruder. ' So thoroughly am I convinced
that he did not err in this idea, that, whenever reason is predominant in my
mind, I think, even if a promise did not exist for such a purpose, I should
decline your addresses ; for, though I could submit with cheerfulness to
many inconveniences for your sake, I never could support indignities. We
must part, my lord ; Providence has appointed different paths for us to
pursue in life : yours smooth and flowery, it by useless regrets you do not
frustrate the intentions of the benevolent Donor; mine rough and thorny;
but both, though so different, will lead to the same goal, where we shall
again meet to be no more separated.
Let not your lordship deem me either unkind or ungrateful j my heart
disavows the justice of such accusations, and is but too sensible of your ten-
derness and generosity. Yes, my lord, I will confess that no pangs can be
more pungent than those wliich now rend it, at being obliged to act against
its feelings; but the greater the sacrifice the greater the merit of submitting
to it, and a ray of self-approbation is perhaps the only sunshine of the soul
which will brighten my future days.
Never, my lord, should I enjoy this, if my promise to my father was
violated. There is but one circumstance which could set it aside, that is,
having a fortune, that even Lord Cherbury might deem equivalent to your
own to bring you ; for then my father has often said he would approve our
union ; but this is amongst the improbabilities of this life, and we must en-
deavor to reconcile ourselves to the destiny which separates us.
1 hope your lordship will not attempt to see mc again; you must be sen-
22
338 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
sible that your visits would be highly injurious to me. Even the holy and
solitary asylum virhich I have found would not protect me from the malice
which has already been so busy with my peace and fame. Alas I I now
need the utmost vigilance deprived as. I am of those on whom I had claim
of protection, it behoves me to exert the utmost circumspection in my con-
duct ; he in whom I expected to have found a guardian, Oscar, my dear un-
fortunate brother, is gone, I know not whither, persecuted and afflicted by
the perfidious monster who has been such a source of misery to me I Oh,
my lord, when I think what his sufferings may now be, my heart sinks
within me. Oh ! had I been the only sufferer 1 should not have felt so great
a degree of agony as I now endure ; but I will not despair about my dear
Oscar. The Providence which has been so kind to his sister, which so un-
expectedly raised her friends at the moment she deemed herself deprived of
all earthly comfort, may to him have been equally merciful. I have tres-
passed a long time upon your lordship's attention, but I wished to be ex-
plicit, to avoid the necessity of any further correspondence between us. You
now know my resolves ; you also know my feelings ; in pity to them spare
me any further conflicts. May the tranquil happiness you so truly deserve
soon be yours ! Do not, my lord, because disappointed in one wish, lose
your sense of the many valuable blessings with which you are surrounded,
in fulfilling the claims which your friends, your country, have upon you ;
^how how truly you merit those blessings, and banish all useless regrets
from your heart. Adieu, my lord I suffer no uneasiness on my account.
If Heaven prolongs my lite, I have no doubt buj I shall find a little com-
fortable shelter from the world, where, conscious 'I have acted according to
my principles of right, I shall enjoy the serenity which ever attends self-ap-
probation a serenity which no changes or chances in this life will, I trust,
ever wrest from Amanda Fitzalan.
St. Catherine's, May 12th.
She dispatched this by an old man who was employed in
the garden at St. Catherine's ; but her spirits were so much af-
fected, by writing it, she was obliged to go up and lie on the
bed. She considered herself as having taken a final adieu of
Lord Mortimer, and the idea was too painful to be supported
with fortitude. Tender and fervent as his attachment was now
to her, she believed the hurry and bustle of the world, in which
he must be engaged, would soon eradicate it. A transfer of
his affections, to one equal to himself in rank and fortune, was
a probable event, and of course a total expulsion of her from
his memory would follow. A deadly coldness stole upon her
heart at the idea of being forgotten by him, and produced a
flood of tears. She then began to accuse herself of inconsist-
ency. She had often thought, if Lord Mortimer was restored
to happiness, she should feel more tranquil. And now, when
the means of effecting; this restoration occurred, she trembled
and lamented as if it would increase her misery. "I am self-
ish," said she to herself, " in desiring the prolongation of an
affection which must ever be hopeless. I am weak in regret-
ting the probability of its transfer, as I c:in never return it."
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 339
To conquer those feelings, she found she must banish Lord
Mortimer from her thoughts. Except she succeeded in some
degree in this, she felt she never should be able to exert the
fortitude her present situation demanded. She now saw a
probability of her existence being prolonged, and the bread of
idleness or dependence could never be sweet to Amanda
Fitzalan.
She had lain about an hour on the bed, and was about ris-
ing and returning to the parlor, when Sister Mary entered the
chamber, and delivered her a letter. Ere Amanda looked at
the superscription, her agitated heart foretold her whom it
came from. She was not mistaken in her conjecture ; but as
she held it in her hand, she hesitated whether she should open
it or not. " Yet," said she to herself, " it can be no great harm,
lie cannot, after what I have declared, suppose my resolution
to be shaken. He writes to assure me of his perfect acquies-
cence to it." Sister Mary left her at the instant her delibera-
tions ended, by opening the letter.
TO MISS FITZALAN.
Inexorable Amanda I but I will spare both you and myself the pain of
farther importunity. All I now request is, that for three months longer at
least, you will continue at St. Catherine's ; or that, if you find a much longer
residence there unpleasant, you will, on quitting it, leave directions where
to be found. Ere half the above-mentioned period be elapsed, I trust I
shall be able satisfactorily to account for such a request. I am quitting
Castle Carberry immediately. I shall leave it with a degree of tranquillity
that would perhaps surprise you, after what has so lately passed, if in this
Dne instance you will oblige your ever faithful Mortimer.
This laconic letter astonished Amanda. By its style it was
evident Lord Mortimer had recovered his cheerfulness re-
covered it not from a determination of giving her up, but from
a hope of their again meeting, as they could both wish. A
sudden transport rushed upon her heart at such an idea, but
quickly died away when she reflected it was almost beyond the
possibility of things to bring about a pleasing interview between
them. She knew Lord Mortimer had a sanguine temper, and
though it might mislead him, she resolved it should not mislead
her. She could not form the most distant surmise of what he
had now in agitation ; but whatever it was, she firmly believed
it would end in disappointment. To refuse every request of his
was painful ; but propriety demanded she should not accede to
the last, for one step, .she wisely considered, from the line of
inudenco she hnd marked out for l\crscU to take, might phingo
340 Tllli CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
her in difficulties frcni which she would find it impossible to
extricate herself. With an unsteady hand she returned the fol-
lowing answer :
' TO LORD MORTIMER.
My Lord, I cannot comply with your request. You maj', if you please,
repeal: inexorable Amanda. I had rather incur the imijulation of obstinacy
than imprudence, and think it much better to meet your accusation, than
deserve my own. How long I may reside at St. Catherine's is to myself
unknown. When I quit it, I certainly will not promise to leave any direc-
tions where you may find mc.
The obstacles which have rendered our separation necessary, are, I am
convinced, beyond your lordship's power to conquer. Except they were
removed, any farther interviews between us would be foolish and imprudent
in the extreme. I rejoice to hear you are leaving the castle. I also rejoice,
but am not surprised, to hear of your tranquillity. From your good sense
I expected you would make exertions against useless regrets, and those ex-
ertions I knew would be attended with success j but, as some return for the
sincere pleasure I feel for your restoration to tranquillity, seek not to disturb
again that of Amanda Fitzalan.
St. Catherine's, May I2th.
Scarcely had she sealed this letter when she was called to
dinner ; but though she obeyed the summons she could not
eat. The exertions her writing to Lord Mortimer required, and
the agitation his letter had thrown her into, quite exhausted
her strength and spirits. The nuns withdrew soon after dinner,
and left her alone with the prioress. In a few minutes after
their departure, the old gardener returned from Castle Car-
berry, where he had been delivering her iettcr. After informing
her he had put it safely into his lordship's hands, he added, with
a look \.'.iich seemed to indicate a fear lest she should be dis-
tressed, that he had received neither letter nor message from
him, though he waited a long time iri expectation of receiving
either one or the other ; but he supposed, he eaid, his lordship
v/as in too great a hurry just then to give any ansv/er, as a chaise
and four was waiting to carry hira to Dublin.
Amanda burst into tears as the man retired from the room.
She saw she had written to Lord Mortimer for the last time,
and she could not suppress this tribute of regret. She was
firmly convinced, indeed, she should behold him no more. The
idea of visiting her she was sure, nay, she hoped, he would re-
linquish, when he found, which she supposed would soon be the
case, the schemes or hopes which now buoyed up his spirits
impossible to be realized.
The prioress sympathized in her sorrow ; though not from
her own experience, yet from the experience of others, she
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABUKY. 341
knew how dangerous and bewitching a creature man is, and
how difficult it is to remove the chains which he twines around
the female heart. To remove those which lay so heavy upon
the delicate and susceptible heart of her young friend, without
leaving a corrosive wound, was her sincere wish, and by strength-
ening her resolution, she hoped success would crown their en-
deavors.
Two hours were elapsed since her messenger's return from
the castle, when Sister Mary entered the room with a large
packet, which she put into Amanda's hands, saying, it was
given her by Lord Mortimer's servant, who rode off the mo-
ment he delivered it.
Sister Mary made no scruple of saying, she should like to
know what such a weighty packet contained. The prioress
chid her in a laughing manner for her curiosity, and drew her
into the garden, to give Amanda an opportunity of examining
the contents.
She was surprised, on breaking the seal, to perceive a very
handsome pocket-book in a blank cover, and found unsealed,
a letter to this effect :
TO MISS FITZALAN.
I have put it out of your power to return this, by departing long ere you
receive it. Surely, if you liave tlio laucL-ible pride you profess, you will not
hesitate to use the contents of the pocket-book, as the only means of avoid-
ing a weight of obligations from strangers. Though discarded as a lover,
surely I may be esteemed as a friend, and with such a tittle I will be con-
tented till I c4n lay claim to a tenderer one. You start at this last expres-
sion, and I have no doubt you will call me a romantic visionary, for enter-
taining hopes which you have so positively assured me can never be real-
ized ; but ere I resign them, I must have something more powerful than
this assurance, my sweet Amanda, to convince me of their fallacy. I was
inexpressibly shocked this morning to learn by your letter, that your brother
had met with misfortune. My blood boils with indignation against the mon-
ster who has, to use your cmphatical expression, been such a source of
misery to you both. I shall make it my particular care to try and discover
the place to which Mr. Fitzalan is gone, and in what situation. By means
of the agents, or some of the odiccrs belonging to the regiment, I flatter
myself with being able to gain some intelligence of him. I need not add,
that, to the utmost extent of my power I will serve him. My success in this
affair, as well as in that which concerns a rhuch dearer being, you may be
convinced you shall soon hear. Adieu, my Amanda; I cannot say, like
llamlct, "Go, get you to a nunnery ; " but I can say, "Stay there, I charge
you." Seriously, I could wish, except you find your present situation very
unpleasant and inconvenient, not to change it for a short time. I tliink, for
a temporary abode, you could not find a more eligible one; and, as I shall
be all impatience when I return to Ireland to sec you, a search after you
would be truly insupportable." You have already refused to inform me of
342
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
your determination relative to this matter; surely I may venture to ra
iuest it may be as I wish, when I assure you, that, except I can see you ia
a manner pleasing to both, I never Will force into your presence him, who,
let things turn out as they may, must ever continue Your faithful
Mortimer.
" Gracious Heaven 1 " said Amanda to herself, " what can
he mean ? What scheme can he have in agitation whicli will
remove the obstacles to our Union ? He here seems to speak
of a certainly of success. Oh, grant, merciful Power I" she
continued, raising her meek eyes to heaven, while a rosy blush
stole upon her cheeks, " grant that indeed he may be successful.
He talks of returning to Ireland ; still," proceeded she, read-
ing over the letter, " of requiring something more powerful than
my assurance to convince him of the fallacy of his hopes.
Surely, Lord Mortimer would not be so cruel as to raise expec-
tations in my bosom without those in his own were well founded.
No, dear Mortimer, I will not call you a romantic visionary, but
the most amiable, the most generous of men, who for poor
Amanda encounters difficulties and sacrifices every splendid
expectation." She rejoiced at the intention he had declared of
seeking out Oscar. She looked forward either to a speedy
interview, or speedy intelligence of this beloved brother, as
she knew Lord Mortimer would seek him with the persevering
spirit of benevolence, and leave no means untried to restore him
to her.
She now examined the contents of the pocket-book. It con-
tained a number of small bills, to the amount of two hundred
pounds, a large present, but one so delicately presented, that
even her ideas of propriety could scarcely raise a scruple against
her accepting it. They did, however, suggest one. Uncertain
how matters would yet terminate between her and Lord Morti-
mer, she was unwilling to receive pecuniary obligations from
him. But when she reflected on his noble and feeling lieart,
she knew she should severely wound it by returning his present j
she therefore resolved on keeping it, making a kind of com-
promise with her feelings about the matter, by determining that,
except entitled to receive them, she would never more accept
favors of this nature from his lordship. The present one, in-
deed, was a most seasonable relief, and removed from her heart
a load of anxiety which had weighed on it. After paying her
father's funeral expenses, the people with whom he lodged, and
the apothecary who had attended him, she found herself mis-
tress of but twenty guineas in the whole world, and more than
half of this she considered as already due to the benevolent
THE CiriLDREN OF TH& ABBEV. 343
sistefS of St. Catherine's, who were ill able to afford any addi-
tional expense.
She had resolved to force them to accept, what indeed she
deemed a poor return for their kindness to her, and she then
intended to retire to some obscure hovel in the neighborhood,
as better suited to the state of her finances, and continue there
till her health was sufficiently restored to enable her to make
exertions for her livelihood. But she shuddered at the idea of
leaving St. Catherine's and residing amongst a set of boors,
She felt sensations something similar to those we may suppose
a person would feel who was al)out being committed to a tem-
pestuous ocean without any means of security.
Lord Mortimer had prevented the necessity which had
prompted her to think of a removal, and slie now resolved to
reside, at least for the time he had mentioned, in the convent,
during which she supposed her uncertainties relative to him
would be over, and tliat, if it was not her fate to be his, she
should, by the perfect re-establishment of her health, be enabled
to use her abilities in the manner her situation required. Tears
of heartfelt gratitude and sensibility flowed down her cheeks
for him who had lightened her mind of the care which had so
oppressed it. '
She at length recollected the prioress had retired into the
garden from complaisance to her, and yCt continued in it, wait-
ing no doubt to be summoned back to her. She hastily wiped
away her tears, and folding up the precious letter which was
bedewed with them, repaired to the garden, resolving not to
communicate its contents, as the divulgement of expectations
(considering how liable all human ones are to be disappointed)-
she ever considered a piece of folly.
She found the prioress and Sister Mavy seated under a
broken and ivy-covered arch. " Jesu 1 my dear," said tlie lat-
ter, " I thought you would never come to us. Our good mother
has been keeping me here in spite of my teeth, though I told
her the sweet cakes I made for tea would be burned by this
time, and that, supposing you were reading a letter from Lord
Mortimer, there could be no harm in my seeing you." Amanda
relieved tiie impatient Mary, and she took her seat. The
prioress cast her piercing eyes upon her. She perceived she
had been weeping, and that joy rather than sorrow caused her
tears. She was too delicate to inquire into its source ; but she
took Amanda's hand, and gave it a pressure, which seemed to
say, " I see, my dear child, you have met with, something which
plenfie't von, nnd my lipnrt fiynipnlhi?,es ns much in your hnppl-
ness as in your grief."
344
niE CmiDRMN OF THE ABHEY.
Amanda returned the affectionate pressure with one equally
tender and a starting tear. They were soon called by Sister
Mary to partake of her hot cakes, which she had made indeed
in hopes of tempting Amanda to eat after her bad dinner. The
whole community were assembled at tea when the doctor en-
tered the parlor. Amanda blushed and looked grave at his first
entrance ; but he soon rallied her out of her gravity. And when
the prioress and the nuns, according to custom, had withdrawn
to evening vespers, he said, with a significant smile, " he feared
she had not attended as much a? he wished she should to the
contents of the book he had last brought her." She saw by
his manner he was acquainted with her situation relative to
Lord Mortimer, and therefore replied by saying, " that perhaps,
if he knew the motives which influenced her conduct, he would
not think her wrong in disregarding what he had just men-
tioned." She also said, " she detested all kinds of stratagem,
and was really displeased with him for practising one upon
her." " In a good Ciuise," he said, "he should never hesitate
using one. Lord Mortimer was the finest young fellow he had
ever seen, and had won his favor, and the best wishes of his
heart, from the first moment that he beheld him. He made me
contrive," continued the doctor, "a story to gain admission to
your ladyship, and when I found him so dreadfully anxious
about you, I gave you credit (as I had then no opportunity of
judging for myself) for all the virtues and graces lie ascribed to
you, and which I have since perceived you to possess. You
smile, and look as if you would call me a flatterer ; seriously, I
assure you I am not one. I really think you worthy of Lord
Mortimer, and I assure you that is as great a compliment as
could be paid any woman. His mind was troubled with grief ;
he revealed his troubles and perplexities to me, and after hear-
ing them, no good Christian ever prayed more devoutly for
another than I prayed for your recovery, that all your sorrows,
like a novel, might terminate in marriage." " You are obliging
in your wishes," said Amanda, smiling. " Faith, I am sincere
in them," exclaimed he, " and do not know when I have been
so disconcerted as at things not turning out smoothly between
you and his lordship ; but I will not despair. In all my
troubles, and Heaven has given me my share, I ever looked to
the bright side of things, and shall always do so for my friends,
I yet expect to see you settled at Castle Carberry, and to be
appointed myself physician-general to your ladyship's house-
hold." The mention of an event yet so uncertain greatly agi-
tated Amanda ; she blushed and turned pale alternately, and
Tffk CBILbREN OF THE AJSBe^. ^^^
convinced Iier good-natured but loquacious friend, lie had
touched a chord which could not bear vibration. He hastily
changed the discourse, and as soon as he saw her composed,
rose to take his leave. Amanda detained hira for a minute, to
try and prevail on him to take a ten-guinea note ; but he was
inflexible, and said with some archness, " till the disorder which
preyed upon Lord Mortimer's heart was in some degree allevi-
r.ted, he would receive no recompense for his visits, which he
assured Amanda, from time to time, he would continue to pay
her, adding, a certain person had enjoined him now and then
to take a peep within the holy walls of St. Catherine's."
The next morning Amanda set about a temporary arrange-
ment of her affairs. She presented thirty guineas to the sis-
terhood, which, with much difficulty, she forced them to ac-
cept, though, in reality, it was much required by them, s But
when she came to speak of paying for a continuance, they
positively declared they would agree to no such thing, as she
had already so liberally rewarded them for any expense they
had incurred on her account. She told them that if they would
not agree to be paid for lodging and board, she would certainly
leave them, though such a step was contrary to her inclinations ;
she assured them also she was at present well able to pay.
At last it was settled she should give them at the rate of
forty pounds a-year a salary they thought extremely ample,
considering the plain manner in which they lived. She then
had all the things which belonged to her father and herself
brought to the convent, and had the former, with whatever she
did not immediately want, nailed up in a large chest, that on a
short notice they might be removed. Her harp and guitar she
had, in het distress, proposed sending back to the person in
Dublin from whom they were purchased, to sell for her ; but
she now determined to keep those presents of her beloved
father, except again urged by necessity to part with them. She
had a variety of materials for painting and working, and pro-
posed employing herself in executing pieces in each way, not
only as a means of amusing her time, but as a resource on
an evil day ; thus wisely making use of the present sunshine,
lest another storm should arise which she should not be so well
able to struggle against.
346 THE CHILDKEN OF THE ABBEY.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
" In strugglint^ with misfortunes
Lies the prooi of virtue," Siiakspcare.
The turbulence of grief, and the agitation of suspense,
gradually lessened in the mind of Amanda, and were succeeded
by a soft and pleasing melancholy, which sprang from the con-
sciousness of having always, to the best of her abilities, per-
formed the duties imposed upon her, and supported her mis-
fortunes with placid resignation. She loved to think on her
father, for amidst her sighs for his loss were mingled the de-
lightful ideas of having ever been a source of comfort to him,
and she believed, if departed spirits were allowed to review
this world, his would look down upon her with delight and ap-
probation at beholding her undcviating in the path he hafl
marked out for her to take. The calm derived from sucli med-
itations she considered as a recompense for many sorrows ; it
was such, indeed, as nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, and
what the good must experience, though " amidst the wreck of
matter and the crush of worlds."
She tried to prevent her thoughts from wandering to Lord
Mortimer, as the surest means of retaining her composure,
which fled whenever she reflected on the doubtful balance in
which her fate yet hung concerning him.
The solitude of St. Catherine's was well adapted to her
present situation and frame of mind. She was neither teased
with impertinent or unmeaning ceremony, but perfect mistress
of her own time and actions, read, worked, and walked, as most
agreeable to herself. She did not extend her walks beyond
the convent, as the scenes around it would awaken remem-
brances she had not sufficient fortitude to bear ; but the space
it covered was ample enough to afford her many different and
extensive rambles. And of a still evening, when nothing but
the lowing of the cattle, or the buzzing of the summer flies,
was to be heard, she loved to wander through the solemn and
romantic ruins, sometimes accompanied by a nun, but much
oftener alone.
A fortnight had elapsed in this manner since Lord Mor-
timer's departure, when, one morning, a carriage was heard
driving across the common and stopping at the outer gate of
THE cmLDRntf oif tjm abbey. 345^
St. Catherine's. Amanda, who was sitting at work in the parlor
with the prioress, started in a universal trepidation at the sound.
It may be easily imagined the idea of Lord Mortimer was
tippermost in her thoughts. The door opened in a few minutes,
and, to her great astonishment, Mrs. Kilcorban and her two
daughters made their appearance.
Agitation and surprise prevented Amanda from speaking ;
she curtseyed, and motioned them to be seated. The young
ladies saluted her with an icy civility, and the mother treated
her with a rude familiarity, which she thought herself authorized
in using to one- so reduced in circumstances as Amanda.
" Dear me," cried she, " you can't think, child, how shocked
we have all been to hear of your misfortunes. We only
returned to the country yesterday, for we have been in town
the whole winter, and to be sure a most delightful winter we
have had of it such balls, such routs, sucli racketings ; but,
as I was going to say, as soon as we came home I began,
according to my old custom, to inquire after all my neighbors ;
and to be sure the very first thing I heard of was the poor
captain's death. Don't cry, my dear, we must all go one time
or another; those are things, of course, as the doctor says in his
sermon ; so, when 1 heard of your father's death and your
distress, I began to cast about in my brains some plan for
helping you ; and at last I hit upon one which, says I to the
girls, will delight the poor soul, as it will give her an opportunity
of earning decent bread for herself. You must know, my dear,
the tutoress we brought to town would not come back with us
a dirty trollop, by the bye, and I think her place would be
quite the thing for you. You will have the four young girls to
learn French and work too, and I will expect you, as you have
a good taste, to assist the eldest Miss Kilcorbans in making
up their things and dressing. I give twenty guineas a-year.
When vi'e have no company, the tutoress always sits at tlie table,
and gets, besides this, the best of treatment in every respect."
A blush of indignation had gradually conquered Amanda's
p.tleness during Mrs. Kilcorban's long and eloquent speech.
" Your intentions may be friendly, madam," cried she, "but I
must decline your proposal." " Bless me, and why must you
decline it? perhaps you think yourself not qualified to instruct j
indeed, this may be the case, for people often get credit for
accomplishments they do not possess. Well, if this is so, I am
still content to take you, as you were always a decent behaved
young body. Indeed, you cannot expect I should give you
twenty guineas a-year. No, no, I must make some abatement
34$ THE CHILDREN OF THE ABliEV.
in the salary, if I am forced to get masters to help you in learn-
ingthe girls." " Miss Fitzalan, madam," exxlaimed the prioress,
who had hitherto continued silent, " never got credit for accom-
plishments which she did not possess ; her modesty has rather
obscured than blazoned forth her perfections j she does not,
therefore, madam, decline your offer from a consciousness of
inability to undertake the office of an instructor, but from a
conviction she never could support impertinence and folly ;
should her situation ever require her to exert her talents for
subsistence, I trust she will never experience the mortification
of associating with those who are insensible' of her worth, or
unwilling to payJier the respect she merits." " Hoity, toity,"
cried Mrs. Kilcorban, "what assurance ! Why, madam, many
a better man's child would be glad to jump at such an offer."
"Dear madam," said Miss Kilcorban, "perhaps the young
lady has a better settlement in view. We forget Lord Mortimer
has been lately at Castle Carberry, and we all know his lord-
ship is a fricncl to Captain l''itznlan's daughter." " Or perhaps,"
cried Miss Alicia, in a giggling tone, " she means to be a nun."
" Indeed, I suppose she means to be nothing good," rejoined
Mrs. Kilcorban ; " and I suppose it was by some impertinence
or other she had a tiff with Lady Greystock. Lord ! (looking
round the room), only see her music-books her harp her
guitar as if she had nothing to do but sing and thrum away
the whole day. Well, miss (rising from her chair), you may
yet be sorry your friend said so much about you. I did not
come merely to offer to take you into my house, but to offer
you also a good sum for your harp and guitar, supposing you
had no business with such things nowadays ; but I dare say
you would have refused this offer." " I certainly should,
madam," said Amanda ; " it must be strong necessity which
compels me to part with my beloved father's presents." " Well,
well, child, I wish this pride of thine may not yet be humbled."
So saying, she flounced out of the room, followed by her daugh-
ters, who, under an affectation of contempt, evidently showed
they were chagrined by the reception they had met.
The prioress indulged herself in a long fit of laughter at
the passion into which she had thrown Mrs. Kilcorban ; and
Amanda, who coisidered the lady and her daughters as the
most insignificant of beings, soon recovered from the discom-
posure their visit had occasioned. In the course of the evening
a letter was delivered her by the servant, who said the mes-
senger who brought it waited for an answer. Amanda, in a
universal trepidation, broke the seal j but, instead of Lord
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 349
Mortimer's as she expected, a hand, to her entirely new, struck
her view :
TO MISS FITZALAN.
My DEAR Creature, I think I never was so diverted in my life as a
tlie account my motlier and sisters gave of the reception they met with fron)
you to-day at St. Catherine's. I vow to God it was excellent. Nor can I
help still wondering at their absurdity, in thinking such a devilish fine girl
as you are would sacrifice your time in instructing a parcel of chits, when it
can be devoted to so nmch better a purpose I To be brief, my dear girl, I
will take you immediately under my protection, if not your own fault, bring
you to Dublin, settle you in elegant lodgings with a liandsome allowance,
and not only make you, but declare you to be, the grand Sultana of my
affection ; a situation which, I can assure you, you will not be a little envied
enjoying. In your answer to this, I shall expect to hear when I may have
the felicity of bringing you from obscurity, to the brilliant scene you were
formed to ornament. Adieu, my dear. Believe me your devoted,
B. KiLCORDAN.
The indignation which filled Amanda's breast at reading
this scrawl cannot be expressed. Her blood seemed to boil in
her veins. It was some time ere she could sufficiently com-
pose herself to acquaint the prioress with the cause of her
agitation. It was then agreed that the letter should be returned
with the following lines written on it:
The author of thi.'s effusion of ignorance and impertinence has already
inspired all the contempt he merits. Should he repeat his insolence, some-
thing even more mortifying than contempt chastisement must ensue.
That a repetition of this kind would be the case, she did
not believe. From Kilcorban she had no reason to suspect
either the perseverance or designs of Belgrave. One was a
libertine from principle, the other she believed from fashion ; and
that to pique his pride would be a sure method of getting rid
of him.
But the calm she had for some time experienced was
destined to be interrupted. The next morning brought Father
O'Gallag'han, the little fat priest (of whom we have made men-
tion before in our pages), to the convent. He was not the
officiating priest j but nolwitlislaii(liiig th'iH, paid many visits to
the sisterhood, with whom he was a great favorite ; he had
been much concerned about Amanda's illness. She was sitting
, alone in the parlor, drawing, when he entered it. He seated
himself by her, and the expression of his countenance seemed
to declare his heart was brimful of something pleasant.
"You won't be offended now, my dear sowl," said he^
smirking up in her face, " with a body for asking you how yon
3SQ THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
would like to leave this dismal solitude and have a comfortable
home of your own, where you might see your own friends, and
have everything warm and cosy about you ? " " Why," said
Amanda, " though I do not consider this a dismal solitude, yet,
to be sure, I should have no objection to r. pleasant settled
habitation." " Ay, I always thought you a sensible young body.
Well, and what would you say to the person then who could point
put such a habitation ? Ay, you little rogue, who could say
they had just such a one in their eye for you." Amanda stared
at him with astonishment. She had at first believed him jest-
ing, but flow found him serious.
" Ay, faith, my dear creature," cried he, continuing his dis-
course with a look of the most perfect satisfaction, " I have
an offer to make you, which, I believe, would make many girls
jump out of their skins with joy to hear. You remember the
O'Flannaghans, I am sure, where you took tea last summer.
Well, the eldest of the sons (as honest a lad as ever broke bread)
.cast a sheep's eye upon you then. But what with your going
from the country, and some other matters, he thought there
was no use then in revealing his flame ; but now, when you are
come plump in his way again, faith he plucked up his courage,
and told his father all about it. Old Flannaghan is a good-
natured sowl, and is very willing the match should take place.
They have everything snug about them. The old man will
giye everything into your spouse's hands. The youngest son
will live in the house till he gets married, and goes off to a
farm of his own. The eldest daughter is married ; the second
will live with her, and the youngest will be a little handy
, assistant to you. So you see, you will not be tormented with
a large family. There is one little matter which, to be sure,
they are a little uneasy about, and that is your being of different
persuasions ; but says I to them, when this was starfed, faith,
says I, you need not give yourself any trouble about it, for I
know the young woman to be a discreet sowl, and I am sure
she will make no hesitation about going to chapel instead of
church, when she knows, too, it is for her own interest. So,
my dear sowl, I hope soon to give you the nuptial benediction,
and to be also your spiritual director."
Amanda had listened to this speech in silent amazement.
She now rose, and Would have quitted the room without speak-
ing, to evince her contempt, had not an idea darted into her
mind that such conduct perhaps might not be construed by the
ignorant priest in the manner she wished. She therefore
stopped, and turning to him said ; " He could not wonder at
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABt}EY, 351
her being offended at his pretending to answer so freely for
her in matters so important as religion ; but to prove how pre-
sumptuous he was in everything he said about her, she must
assure him his embassy to her was equally fruitless and dis-
agreeable ; and that if Mr. O'Flannaglian consulted his own
happiness, he would seek to unite himself with a woman
brought up in his own sphere of life." So saying, she quitted
the room with a look of dignity which quite confounded the
poor priest, who snatched up his hat in a great hurry, and wad'
died away to the farm, to communicate the ill-success of his
visit, which had quite crushed his expectations of wedding
presents and pudding feasts, which he had contemplated in
idea with delight.
It was some time ere Amanda recovered from the discom-
posure into which the impertinence of the Kilcorbans and the
priest had thrown her. From what she suffered in conse-
quence of it, she was forcibly convinced how ill-qualified she
v/as to struggle with a world where she would be continually
liable to such shocks. She had yet a hope of escaping them
a hope of being guarded by the tutelary care of Lord Morti-
mer, and of being one of the liappiest of her sex.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
* Lo ! I am !iere to answer to your vows,
And be the meeting fortunate ! 1 come
With joyful tidings ; we shall part no more.'* Akenside.
But a shock more severe than those she had lately ex-
perienced was yet in store for our hapless heroine. About a
fortnight after the visit of the Kilcorbans and the priest, as she
was rambling one evening according to custom amongst the
solitary ruins of St. Catherine's, indulging the peJlsi^e medita-
tions of her soul, the figure of a man suddenly darted from
under a broken arch, and discovered lo her view the features
of the hated Belgrave. Amanda gave a faint cry, and in un-
utterable dismay tottered back a few paces against a wall.
" Cruel Amanda I " exclaimed Belgrave, while his look seemed
to imply he would take advantage of her situation. His look,
his voice, operated like a charm to rouse her from the kind of
stupefaction into which she had fallen at first sight of him, and
as he attempted to lay hold of her she sprang past him, and,
352 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
with a swiftness which mocked his speed, flew through the in-
tricate windings of the place till she reached the convent. Her
pale and distracted look, as she rushed into the prioress's
apartment, terrified the good old lady, who hastily interrogated
her as to the cause of her disorder; but Amanda was unable
to speak. The appearance of Belgrave she thought an omen
of every ill to her. Her blood ran cold through her veins at
his sight, and terror totally subdued her powers. The prioress
summoned Sister Mary to her relief ; drops and water were
administered, and the overloaded heart of the trembling
Amanda was relieved by tears. The prioress again asked the
cause of her agitation, but perceiving Amanda did not like to
speak before Sister Mary, she immediately pretended to think
it proceeded from fatigue, and Mary, who was simplicity itself,
readily credited the idea. The prioress soon sent her upon some
Eretext from the room, and then, in the gentlest terms, begged to
now what had so cruelly alarmed her young friend. Amanda
had already confided to the prioress the events of her life, so
that the good lady, on hearing IJclgrave now nicnlioned, no
longer wondered at the agitation of Amanda ; yet, as her fears
she saw were too powerful for her reason, she endeavored to
convince her they were unnecessary. She called to her re-
membrance the singular protection she had already experi-
enced from Heaven, and the protection which, while she was
innocent, she would still have a right to expect. She also
mentioned the security -rf her present situation encompassed
by friends whose integrity could not be warped, and whose
utmost zeal would be manifested in defeating any stn-itagcms
which might be laid against her.
Amanda grew composed as she listened to the prioress. She
was cheered by the voice of piety and friendship, and her heart
again felt firm and elevated. She acknowledged that after the
singular, nay, almost miraculous interpositions of Providence
she had experienced in her favor, to give way to terror or de-
spair was sinful, since it showed a distrust of the Power who
has promised with guardian care to watch the footsteps of the
innocent. It was, however, agreed that Amanda should ven-
ture no more from tl-ve convent, but confine her rambles to the
garden, which was enclosed with a high wall, and had no
places of concealment. Five weeks yet remained of the period
Lord Mortimer had requested her to stay at St. Catherine's.
Before it was expired she trusted and believed Belgrave would
be weary of watching her, and would decamp ; if, then, she
neither paw npr heard from Lord Mortimer, she resolved to
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABEBY. 353
Klinquish all hope concerning him, and immediately think
upon some plan which should put her in a way of procuring
subsistence.
Her paintings and embroidery still went on. She, had ex-
ecuted some elegant pictures in both, which, if obliged to dis-
pose of, she was sure would bring a good price; yet, whenever
compelled by reflection to tiiis idea, the tear of tender melan-
choly would fall upon her lovely cheek a tear which was ever
hastily wiped away, while she endeavored to fortify her mind
with pious resignation to whatever should be her future fate.
Three weeks more elapsed without any event to discompose
their tranquillity ; but as the termination of the destined period
approached, the agitation of Amanda, in spite of all her efforts
to the contrary, increased. She deemed the awful crisis of
her fate at hand, and she trembled at the reflection. She now
for the first time avoided solitude. She wanted to fly from
herself, and sat constantly with the prioress, who had nothing
of the gloomy recluse, save the habit, about her.
They were chatting together one evening after tea when
Sister Mary entered the room, bearing a large packet, which
she rather tossed than presented to Amanda, exclaiming,
" From Lord Mortimer ; I wish the troublesome fellow hacl
not come back again ; here we shall have him frisking or storm-
ing continually, and again plaguing us out of our lives." " From
Lord Mortimer! " exclaimed Amanda, starling from her chair,
and clasping the letter between her hands, "Oh, gracious
Heaven ! " She said no more, but flew from the room to her
chamber. She tore open the seal. The envelope contained
two letters. The first was directed in a hand unknown to her.
Her heart sickened as she dropped it on the ground. The
other was the superscription of Lord Mortimer. She opened
it with revived spirits, and read a follows :
TO MISS FITZALAN.
I am returned returned to tell my Amanda that nothing but the awful
fiat of Heaven shall part us more. Yes, my love, a sweet reward for all our
difficulties, our trials ^let me add, our persevering constancy is at hand ;
and one name, one interest, one fate, I trust, will soon be ours.
Tears of joy gushed from Amanda as she exclaimed, ".Can
this, can this be true ? Is Lord Mortimer, so long, so liope-
lessly beloved, indeed returned to tell me we shall part no
more ? 'Tis true, 'lis true, and never can my grateful heart
sufficiently acknowledge the goodness it experiences; butliQvy
3 %
354 ^-^-S CHILDREN- OF THE ABBEY.
was this event brought about ? " She wiped away her tears,
and resumed the letter.
Your solemn refusal to unite yourself to me threw me into agonies ; but
true love, like true courage, Will never despair, will never yield to difficul-
ties, without first trying every effort to conquer them. I soon, therefore,
roused myself from the heavy weight which oppressed my spirits at your
resolution, and ere long conceived a project so feasible, so almost certain of
success, that my impatience to realize it cannot be described ; yet you may
conceive some idea of it from the abrupt manner in which I quitted Castle
Carberry, without desiring to bid you adieu ; but ere it could be accom-
plished 1 plainly saw I had many difficulties to encounter, difficulties which
it was absolutely essential to overcome, that I might prove to the world I
was not the dupe of love, but the friend, the lover, and the vindicator of real
innocence and virtue. From what I have said, you may suppose the diffi-
culties I allude to were such as I expected to encounter in my attempt to
unravel the whole of the deep and execrable plot which involved you in a
situation so distressijig to your feelings, and injurious to your character ;
and, oh I with what mingled pride and pleasure did I meditate on being
your champion, clearing your fame from each dark aspersion, and proving,
clearly proving, that your mind was as lovely, as angelic, as your person I
I was happy, on my arrival in London, to find I.ady Martha Dormer still
at Lord Cheriniry's house. I have already told you that X left town on pre-
tence of a visit to my sister, in Wales. My father, I soon perceived, sus-
pected that had not been the real motive of my departure : but I also per-
ceived he did not desire to reveal his suspicions, as he asked some questions
concerning Lady Araminta, which, you may be sure, I answered awkwardly
enough, and, had a comic writer been present, he might have taken the hint
of a good blundering scene from us both.
The Manjuis of Uoslin and his family, I learned, continued at his villa.
Their absence from town rejoiced me, as it not only exempted me from so-
ciety I abhorred, but, as it gave me an opportunity of interrogating their
household, amongst whom, I was convinced, I should discover the trusty
agents the amiable marchioness had made use of in her scheme against you.
The morning after myarrival,! ijccordinglysctoff to Portman Square. The
man who opened the door knew me not, which I considered a lucky circum-
stance, for, not being able to mention my name to the housekeeper, whom I
desired him to send to me, she was not as much on her guard as she would
otherwise have been. She started as she entered the parlor, and lifted up
her hands and eyes with unfeigned astonishment. Soon, however, recover-
ing herself, she addressed me m the most obsequious manner, and spoke as
if shf supposed I was come purposely to inquire after her lord and lad)',
an artful way of trying to terminate her own suspense by learning the nature
of my visit. I soon gave her to understand it was not of the most amicable
kind to her. I came, I said, to demand either the letter, or an account of
the letter, which I had intrus ert to her care for Miss Fitzalan, which con-
tained a note of large value, and which, I found, had never been received
by that young lady. Her countenance in a moment condemned her it
spoke stronger than a thousand tongues against her. She first grew deadly
pale, *hen fiery red ; trembled, faltered, and hung her head, to avoid my
eyes. Her looks, I told her, confirmed the suspicions I was forced to enter-
tain of her integrity, yet, shocking as the action was which she had com-
mitted, being not only a breach of trust, but humanity, I w.-\s willing to
come to an easy and jjrivate accommodation about it, provided she would
trifly ^iid fully confess (he [)art she Itacl tiikcn, or knew others to have laUc(i,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 355
in injuring Miss Fitzalan, while slie resided in the marquis's hoVise, by,
bringing Colonel Belgrave into it. I paused for lier reply. She appeared
as if considering how she. should act. I thought I saw something yielding
in her face, and, eager to take advantage of it, I proceeded : " What I have
already said I am going again to repeat, that is, if you confess all you know
relative to the plot which was contrived, and carried into execution, in this
house, against Miss Fitzalan, I will settle everything relative to the letter
and its contents in a manner pleasing to you. Her innocence is unques-
tioned by roe ; but it is essential to her peace that it should also be so to the
rest of her friends, and they who regard her welfare will liberally reward
those whose allegations shall justify her."
Upon this she turned to me, with a countenance of the utmost effrontery,
and said she would not tell a lie to please any one. I will not shock you
by repeating all she said. She ended, by saying, as to the letter she set me
at defiance ; true, I had given her one for Miss Fitzalan, but I might remem-
ber Miss Fitzalan was in a fit on the ground at the time, and she had called
in other servants to her assistance, she said, and in the hurry and bustle which
ensued, she knew not what became of it ; others might as well be called
upon as her. I could no longer command my temper. I told her she was
a wretch, and only fit for the diabolical service in which she was employed.
The note, which I enclosed in the letter I had given her for you, I had
received from my father's agent in the country : as a post-note I had endorsed
it, and taken the number in my pocket-book. I therefore left Portman
Square, with a resolution of going to tlie bank, and, if not already received,
stopping payment. I stepped into the first hackney-coacli I met, and had
the satisfaction of finding it had not been offered at the bank. I suspected
she would be glad to exchange it for cash as soon as possible, and therefore
left my direction, as well as a request for the detention of any person who
should present it.
In consequence of this, a clerk came the following morning to inform me
a woman had presented the note at the bank, and was, agreeably to my
request, detained till I appeared. I immediately returned with him, and
had the satisfaction of seeing the housekeeper caught in the snare. She
burst into tears at my appearance, and coming up to me, in a low voice said,
" If I would have mercy upon her, she would in return make a full confes-
sion of all she knew about the affair I had mentioned to her yesterday." I
told her, though she deserved no mercy, yet, as I had promised on such con-
dition to show her lenity, I would not violate my word. I received the note,
sent for a coach, and handing the lady into it, soon conveyed her to Portman
Square. She no sooner entered the parlor than she fell on her knees and
besought my forgiveness. I bade her rise, and lose no time in revealing all
she knew concerning the scheme against you. She then confessed that both
she and Mrs. Jane, the attendant who had been placed about your person,
were acquainted and concerned in all the contrivances the marchioness had
laid against you, who scrupled not in acknowledging to them the inveterate
hatred she bore you. Their scruples for they pretended to have some in
abetting her schemes were overruled, by knowing how much it was in her
power to injure them in any future establishment, had they disobliged her,
and by her liberal promises of reward, which the housekeeper added she had
never kept. But this brief and uncircumstantial account was by no means
satisfactory to me. I called for materials for writing, and insisted she
should, to the best of her recollection, relate every word or circumstance
which had ever passed between her and the marchioness and their other
associates relative to you. She hesitated at this. On those terms only I said
I would grant her my forgiveness ; and by her complying with them, not
35,6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
only that, but a liberal recompense should be hers. This last promise had
the desired effect. She laid open, indeed, a scene of complicated iniquity ;
related the manner in which Colonel Belgrave was brought into the house
by her and Mrs. Jane ; how they had stationed theiAselves in a place of con-
cealment to listen, by which means they knew what passed between you,
which she now, in almost the very same words you made use of, repeated to
me. As she spoke I wrote it, and made her sign the paper under a para-
graph, purporting that it was a true confession of tlic part she had taken,
and knew others to have taken, in attempting to injure Miss Fitzalan.
I now mentioned Mrs. Jane, whose evidence I wished for to corroborate
hers. This she assured nie I might jirocure by promising a reward, as Mrs.
Jane was much dissatisfied with the marchioness and I.ady Euphrasia,
neither of whom liad recompensed her as she expected for her faithful ser-
vices to them. Slie was now at the villa ; but the housekeeper added that
she would strike out some expedient to bring her to town in the course of
the week, and would inform me immediately of her arrival. I told her the
affair of the note should be no more mentioned, and gave a bill for fifty
pounds, as the reward I had promised, and she eagerly expected. I told her
she might promise a similar one in my name to ^Mrs. Jane, provided she
also told truth. T also told her T would take care she should suffer no dis-
tress by quitting the marquis's family, which she lamented would be the
consequence of what she had done.
Mrs. Jane did not come to town as soon as I expected, liut on receiving
a summons to inform mo of her arrival, i hastened to the house like an
inquisitor-general with my scroll, prepared to take the confession of the fair
culprit, which exactly corresponded with the housekeeper's, and I had the
felicity of seeing her subscribe her name to it. I gave her the promised
recompense most cheerfully, as I had not half so much trouble in making
her tell truth as I had with the housekeeper. Mrs. Jennings, your old land-
lady, and Lady Greystock's faithful friend, was the next and last person
' whose malice I wanted to refute. I made my servant inquire her character
in the neighborhood, and learned it was considered a very suspicious one.
I went to her one morning in my carriage, well knowing that the appear-
ance of rank and S])lendor would have greater weight in influencing a being
like her to justice than any plea of conscience. She appeared lest in aston-
ishment and confusion at my visit, and I .saw wailed with trembling expecta-
tion to have the reason of it revealed. I kept her not long in suspense ; I
was the friend, I told her, of a young lady, whose character she had vilely
and falsely aspersed, iter conscience, I believed, would whisper to her
heart the name of this lady, and send its crimson current to her face at the
mention of Miss Fitzalan.
The wretch seemed ready to sink to the earth. I repeated to her all she
had said concerning you to Lady Greystock. I told her of the coi)sequences
of defamation, and declared she might expect the utmost rigor of the law, ex-
cept she confessed her assertions were infamous falsehoods, and the motives
which instigated her to them. She trembled with terror, and supplicated
mercy. I desired her to deserve it by her confession. She then acknowl-
edged she had grossly and cruelly wronged you by what she had said to
Lady Greystock, and that she had many opportunities of being convinced,
while you resided in her house, that your virtue and innocence were of the
purest nature ; but that she was provoked to speak maliciously against you
from resentment at losing all the rich gifts Colonel Belgrave had promised
her if she brought you to comply with liis wishes. She related all the strata-
gems they had mutually concerted for your destruction, and she brought me
some letters which I have kept, from him to you, and which she pretende4
The cliiLbREN 6f fttE ab^ev'. ^gy
you liact received, lest she should lose the money he always gave when she
was successful in delivering one. I bid her beware how she ever attempted
to vilify innocence, lest the friends of those at whom she levelled the arrows
of defamation should not be as merciful to her as Miss Fitzalan's had been j
and was the tale of the slanderer thus ever to be minutely investigated, the
evil might die away by degrees, and many hapless victims escape, who are
daily sacrificed to malice, revenge, or envy.
Oh I my Amanda, I cannot express the transports I felt when 1 found
the difficulties, which I dreaded as intervening between me and happiness,
thus removed. I felt myself the happiest of men j my heart acknowledged
your worth, I was convinced of your love, ajid in my hands I held the ref-
utation of falsehood, and the confirmation of your innocence.
The period for mentioning my project was now arrived. I desired, the
morning after my visit to Mrs. Jennings, to be indulged in a tke-h-tke in
Lady Martha's dressing-room. I believed she half guessed what the sub-
ject of it would be ; she saw by my countenance there was joyful news at
hand. I shall not recapitulate our conversation ; suffice it to say, that her
excellent feeling heart participated largely in my satisfaction ; it did more
than participate, it ^vished to increase it, and ere I could mention my pro-
ject, she declared my Amanda should henceforth be considered as her
adopted daughter, ana should from her receive such a fortune as such a title
claimed. Yes, my Amanda, the fortune she ever destined for me, she said
she should now consecrate to the purpose of procuring me a treasure the
most valuable Heaven could bestow; the richest the most valuable indeed
a treasure dearer, far dearer to my soul for all the dangers it has encoun-
tered. I fell at Lady Martha's feet in a transport of gratitude, and acknowl-
edged that she had anticipated what I was going to say, as I had been
determined to throw myself on her generosity from the time I was con-
.vinced of your inflexible resolution, not to unite yourself to me without you
brought a fortune.
It w.is now agreed wo should keep Lord Chcrbury a little longer igno-
rant of our intentions. We proposed taking the marchioness and Lady Eu-
phrasia by surprise, and hoped, by so doing, to be able to remove from his
eyes the mist which partially had hitherto spread before them, to obscure
the defects of the above-mentioned ladies.
He had hinted more than once his wishes for my paying ray compliments
at the marquis's villa. I now proposed going thither myself the ensuing
day. He looked equally surprised and pleased at this proposal : Lady
Martha agreed to accompany me, and his lordship, you may be sure, deter-
mined to be one of the party, that he might supply the deficiencies of his
son, which he had heretofore found pretty manifest in such society.
We had the happiness to find all the family at home when we reached
the viHa. The ladies all expressed themselves delighted at my unexpected
appearance, and quite charmed by my recovered looks. The marquis, with
his usual sang froid, declared himself glad to see me. Ye smiling deceivers,
I cried to myself, as I surveyed the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia, your
triumph over innocence and beauty will soon be over. After passing half
an hour in uninteresting chitchat, I took the opportunity of one of those
pauses in conversation, which So frequently happen, to commence my attack.
It would be as painful to you as to me to recapitulate all which ensued in
consequence or it. Rage, guilt, and confusion, were conspicuous in the
marchioness and Lady Euphrasia. Thfe mlrquis and Lady Greystock
looked with astonishment, and my father seemed overwhelmed with surprise
and consternation.
I said (addressing the marchioness), I now trusted the resentment her
358 TI-fE CHILDREN' OF TftE ABBF.Y.
ladyship had entertained against her unoffending niece was sufficiently ap-
peased by what slie had made her suffer, and that she would rather rejoice
than regret the opportunity which presented itself of vindicating her fame.
I wished, I said, as much as possible, to spare her ladyship's feelings, and
provided she would clear Miss Fitzalau from the obloquy which the trans-
actions in her house cast upon her, I was willing to conceal the share her
ladyship had in them.
In a voice of smothered rage, and with a look into which she threw as
much contempt as possible, she replied, " She thanked me for the attention
1 professed myself inclined to pay her feelings ; but she fancied I had over-
looked all inclination of this kind when I undertook to bribe her servants
to asperse her character, that Miss Fitzalan's might be cleared. She was
sorry," she said, " to find I could be capable of such complicated baseness
and weakness. Miss Fitzalan, she perceived, had made me her dupfe again j
but this was not surprising, as she was the professed pupil of art. Too late
I should behold her in her native colors, and find the disgrace, which, by
artifice, I now attempted to remove from her character, thrown back upon
her, perhaps, to everwhelm me also by its weight."
" She has infatuated him," said Lord Cherbury ; " she will be the
bane of his life, the destruction of my hopes." " Not Miss Fitzalari," cried
I, assuming as much coolness as possible, though, like the marchioness, I
found it a difficult task ; " not Miss Fitzalan, but the enemies of Miss Fitz-
alan deceived me. I own I was (lie dupe of the scheme contrived against
her. Anything so horrid, so monstrous, so execrable, I did not think could
have entered into the minds of those who were bound by the united ties of
kindred and hospitality to protect her, and I rather believed I owed my
misery to the frailty than to the turpitude of human nature." " You see,
niy lord," exclaimed the marchioness, turning to Lord Cherbury, " Lord
Mortimer acknowledges his passion for this wretched girl." " I do," cried
I, " I glory in confessing it. In loving Miss Fitzalan, I love virtue itself.
In acknowledging a passion for her, I violate no faith, I break no engage-
ment; my heart ever resisted entering into any which it could not fulfil."
" Unfortunate prepossession," said Lord Cherbury, sternly. " But why,
why, when you believed her guilty, were you so infatuated as to follow her
to Ireland ? Why not calmly resign her to the inf.imy she merited?" "I
followed her my lord," I replied, "in hope to withdraw her from her
seducer's arms, and place her in her father's. I hoped, I trusted, I should
be able also to alleviate the bitter destiny oE poor Fitzalan. Alas I not in
the arms of a gay, successful seducer, but apparently in the arms of death,
did I find Amanda. I saw her at the solemn hour which consigned her
parent to his grave, and to have doubted her protestations of innocence then
would have been almost impious. Gracious Heaven ! how impossible to
disbelieve her truth at the \ery moment her gentle spirit seemed about to
take its flight to heaven ! From that period she has stood acquitted in my
mind, and from that period I determined to develop, to the utmost of my
power, the machinations which had made me doubt her innocence. My
success in their development has been beyon^l my expectations j but Prov-
idence is on the side of suffering virtue, and assists those who stand up in
its support." Contrary to my first intention, my dear Amanda, I have
given you a sketch of part of our conversation. For the remainder, it shall
suffice to say, that the marchioness persevered in declaring I had bribed her
servants to blacken her character, in order to clear Miss Fitzalan's, an at-
tempt, she repeatedly assured me, I would find unsuccessful.
The marciuis talked in high terms of the dignity of his house, and how
impossible it was the marchioness should ever have disgraced it by such
rriE ClflLDREN OF THE ABBE K 359
actions as 1 accused her of committing. I answered him in a manner
equally warm, that my accusations were too well grounded and supported to
dread refutation. That it was not only due to injured innocence, but fissen-
tial to my own honor, which would soon be materially concerned in what-
ever related to Miss Fitzalan, to have those accusations made public, if her
ladyship refused to contradict the aspersions which might be thrown upon
Miss Fitzalan, in consequence of the scene which passed at his lordship's
house.
This the marchioness, with mingled rage and contempt, refused doing,
and Lady Euphrasia, after the hint I gave of soon being united to you, left
the room in convulsive agitation.
Lord Cherbury, I perceived, suspected foul play, by some speeches which
dropped from him, such as, if there had been any misunderstanding between
her ladyship and Miss Fitzalan, it was better surely to have it done away, or
certainly, if any mistake was proved relative to the affair which happened
in her ladyship's house, it was but justice to the young lady to have it
cleared up.
Yet, notwithstanding the interest he felt in the cause of suffering inno-
cence, it was obvious to me that he dreaded a rupture with the marquis's
family, and appeared shocked at the unequivocal declaration I had made of
never being allied to it.
Lady Martha Dormer took up the cause. The testimony Lord Mortimer
had received, she said, of Miss Fitzalan's innqcence was incontrovertible,
and exempted him alike from being stigmatized either as the dupe of art
or love. Humanity, she was convinced, exclusive of every warmer feel-
ing, would have influenced him to have undertaken Miss Fitzalan's cause ;
it was the cause of innocence and virtue a cause in which every detester
of scandal and treachery should join, since not only the defenceless orphan,
but the protected chilcl of rank and prosperity, was vulnerable to their
shafts.
i I again repeated the evidence of her servants, and the refutation of
Mrs. Jennings to her former story. I produced, to strengthen it, the un-
opened letters of Colonel Belgrave thus continuing to put proof upon
proof of your innocence, as Sancho Panza says, upon the shoulders of
demonstration.
The passions of the marchioness rose at last to frantic violence. She
persisted in alleging her integrity, and vilifying yours ; but with a countenance
so legibly impressed with guilt and confusion, that a doubt of her falsehood
could not be entertained even by those who wished to doubt it.
The scene of violence we now became witness to was painful to me, and
shocking to Lady Martha. I therefore ordered the horses immediately to
her ladyship's chariot, in which, accompanied by me, she had preceded Lord
Cherbury's coach, from the idea that our continuance at the villa might not
be quite so long as his lordshi])'5.
As we expected, his lordship stayed behind, with the hope, I perceived,
of being able to calm the perturbations of the marchioness, and lessen the
breach oetween us. He returned the next day to town. I have so long
dwelt upon disagreeable scenes, that to go over any others would be dread-
ful ; nor should I hint to you that I had such scenes to encounter, was it
not to excuse and account to you for my absence from Castle Cftrberry. Our
difHculties (you see I already unite your interests wijh mine) began to
decrease, and are at last happily overcome. Lady Martha made me write
her intentions relative to you, and his lordship was quite satisfied with
them. He authorizes mo to assure you he longs to receive you into his
{amity, at once a boast and acquisition to it, and he says, he shall consider
36o THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
himself under obligations to you, if you hasten, as much as possible, the
period of becoming one of its members, thus giving him an opportunity of
making early amends, by attention to the daughter, for the injustice he did
the father.
Lady Martha Dormer's intentions I have only hinted to you; in the let-
ter, which I have the pleasure of enclosing, she is more explicit concerning
them, I have given you this long narrative on paper, that when we meet
our conversation may be unembittered by any painful retrospect, and that
we may enjoy uninterrupted the bright prospect which now lies before us.
But ere I close my letter, I must inform ^ou that, knowing you could
never be selfishly wrapped up in your own enjoyments, I made every possi-
ble inquiry relative to your brother, and was at length referred by the agent
of his late regiment to an oificor in it; with some uirOcully I found he had
quitted his quarters on leave of absence. I wrote immediately to his family
residence, and after waitnig long and impatiently for an answer to my letter,
I dispatched a special messenger to learn whether he was there or not. The
courier returned with a polite note from the officer's father, informing me
his son was gone on an excursion of pleasure with some friends, and that
if he knew where to find him, he would have transmitted my letter, which I
might depend on being answered the moment he returned. I have no doubt
but we shall receive intelligence from him concerning Mr. Fitzalan. It
shall then be our business, if his situation is not already pleasing, to change
it, or render it as much so as possible to him. Keep up your spirits, there-
fore, about him, for by the time we arrive in England I expect a letter from
his friend, and let me not be any more pained by seeing your countenance
clouded with care or anxiety. As a reward for reining in my impatience to
see you this evening, be propitious to my request for early admission to-
morrow. If charitable, you will allow me to breakfast with you, for I shall
take none except with you ; and without an express command to the con-
trary, shall take it for granted I am expected. 'Tis said that contrast
heightens pleasure, and I believe the saying I believe that, without having
^elt pain in all its acuteness, as I have done, I never should have felt such
pleasure as I now enjoy. After so often giving you up, so often lamenting
you as lost forever, to think I shall soon call you mine, is a source of trans-
port which words cannot express. Mine, I n\ay say, is the resurrection of
happiness, for has it not been revived from the very grave of despair? But
I forgot that you have Lady Martha Dormer's letter still to peruse. I ac-
knowledge that, for old friendship's sake, I supposed you would give mine
the preference ; but in all reason it is time I should resign my place to her
ladyship. But ere I bid you adieu, I must tell you that Araminta is a sin-
cere participator in our happiness. She arrived from Wales but a few min-
utes previous to my leaving London, and I would not allow her time, as she
wished, to write to you. I almost forgot to tell you that the marquis's fam-
ily, amongst whom Lady Greystock is still numbered, instead of returning
to town, set out for Brighthelmstone. I have learned, contrary to my and
their expectations, that neither the housekeeper nor Mrs. Jane have been
dismissed, but both sent to a distant seat of the marquis's. As we know
the marchioness's revengeful disposition, it is plain she has some secret
motive for not gratifying it immediately by their dismission ; but what it is
can be of little consequence for ns to learn, since we are both too well
guarded to suffer from any future plot of hers. Like every other which was
formed against my dear Amanda, I trust they will ever prove abortive. I was
disturbed within a few miles of Castle Carberry bv a gentleman passing op'
horseback, who either strongly resembled, or was Colonel Belgrave. My
blood boiled in my veins at his sight. I left the carriage, mounted one of
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. ^(^i
tny servant's horses, and endeavored to overtake him. He certainly avoided
me by taking some cross-road, as his speed could not have outstripped
mine. My efforts to discover his habitation were equally unsuccessful. As
to your personal security I had no apprehensions, having heard constantly
from my good friend the doctor about you ; but I dreaded the wretch, if it
were really him, might disturb your tranquillity, either by forcing into your
presence, or writing. Thank Heaven, from all' intrusions or Hangers of this ^
kind my Amanda will now be guarded. But again am I trespassing on the
time you should devote to Lady IVIartha's letter. Adieu, ahd do not disap-
point my hopes of being allowed to visit you early.
Mortimer.
Amanda perused this letter with' emotions which can be
better conceived than described. She could scarcely have
parted with it without a second reading, had not Lady Martha's
demanded her attention. She snatched it hastily from the
ground where it hitherto lay neglected, and read to the follow-
ing purpose :
That I warmly and sincerely congratulate my dear and amiable Miss
Fitzalan on the happy revolution in her affairs, she will readily believe, per-
suaded as she must be of the deep interest I take in whatever concerns a
person on whom the happiness of him whom I have loved from childhood
so materially so entirely, I may say depends.
Yet do not suppose me, my dear Miss Fitzalan, so selfish as not to be
able to rejoice at your happiness on your own account, exclusive of every
consideration relative to Lord Mortimer. Long since I was taught by de-
scription to esteem and admire you, and even when the hope of being con-
nected with you became extinct, I could not so totally forego that admiration
as to feel uninterested about you. Oh I how truly do I rejoice at the re-
vival of the hope I have just mentioned, and at its revival with every pros-
pect of its being speedily realized I I shall consider Lord Mortimer as one
of the most fortunate of men in calling you his, and to think I have been
able to promote his happiness gives me a satisfaction which never was, nor
ever will be, equalled by any circumstance in my life.
Though I cannot give my adopted daughter a fortune by any means
equal to that which Lady Euphrasia Sutherland will possess. Lord Cherbury
is fully sensible that her perfections will abundantly make up for any de-
ficiency in this respect. Ten thousand pounds, and one thousand a year, is
at present to be her portion, and the reversion of the remainder of my for-
tune is to be secured to her and Lord Mortimer ; the final adjustment of
all affaitll is to take place at my house in the country, whither I propose
foing immediately, accompanied by Lady Araminta, and where we shall
oth most impatiently expect your arrival, Which, we mutually entreat, may
be hastened as much as possible, consistent with your health and conve-
nience. Lord Cherbury has promised to follow us in a few days, so that I
suppose he will also be at Thornbury to receive you. Would to Heaven,
my dear Miss Fitzalan, injured virtue and innocence may always meet with
such champions to vindicate them as Lord Mortimer. Was that the case,
we should see m.ijiy lovely victims of scorn and reproach raising their heads
with triumph and satisfaction. But pardon my involuntarily adverting to
past scenes, though, at the same time, I think you have reason to rejoice
at your trials, which served as so many tests arid proofs of the estimable-
362 THE CHILDREN OF TUB ABBEY.
qualities you possess. Farewell, my dear Miss Fitzalaii. I have been brief
in my letter, because I know I should not he pardoned by a certain person,
if I engrossed too much of your time. I told him I would give you a hint
of the impetuosity of his disposition ; but he told me, perhaps to prevent
this, that you were already acquainted with it. In one instance I shall
commend him for displaying it : that is, in hastening you to Thornbury, to
the arms of your sincere and affectionate friend,
Martha Dormer.
Amanda's happiness was now almost as great as it could
be in this world ; almost I say, for it received alloy from the
melancholy consideration that her father, that faithful and af-
fectionate friend who had shared her troubles, could not be a
partaJ^er of her joys ; but the sigh of unavailing regret which
rose in her mind she checked, by reflecting, that happiness all
perfect was more than humanity could either support or expect,
and with pious gratitude she bent to the Power who had
changed the discolored prospect, by which she had been so
long surrounded, into one of cheerfulness and beauty.
If her pride was wounded by the hint, though so delicately
conveyed, which Lord Mortimer had given of the difficulties he
encountered in gaining Lord Cherbury's approbation, it was
instantly relieved by the flattering commendations of Lady
Martha Dormer, and to be connected with her and Lady Ara-
minta, she looked upon amongst the most valuable blessings
she could enjoy.
To express what she felt, for Lord Mortimer would be im-
possible language could not do justice to her feelings she
felt love, gratitude, and admiration for him, all in the fullest
extent, and all united, and she wept in the fulness of her heart
over the joyful assurance of being his. With the two letters in
her hand, she repaired to the prioress's apartment, whom she
found alone. The good old lady saw the traces of tears on
Amanda's face, and exclaimed, in a voice v^hich evinced her
sympathy in her concerns, " Oh I I fear, my child, something
has happened to disturb you ! " Amanda presented her the
letters, and bid her judge from them whether she had not
reason to be agitated. As the prioress read, her sudden and
broken exclamations manifested her surprise and pleasure, and
frequently were her spectacles removed to wipe from off them
the tears of joy by which they were bedewed. When she fin-
ished the welcome packet, she turned to Amanda, who had
been attentively watching the various turns in her countenance,
and gave her a congratulatory embrace. " Lord Mortimer is
worthy of you, my child," said the prioress, " and that is the
highest eulogium I can pass on him." After commenting upon
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 363
different parts of the letter, she asked Amanda a little archly,
"whether she intended sending an express command to his
lordship against coming early in the morning ? " Amanda
honestly confessed she had no such intention, and expressed
her wish to behold him. The prioress said she would have
breakfast prepared for them in the garden parlor, and that she
would take care they should not be interrupted. She also
promised to keep everything secret till matters were arranged
for Amanda's removal from St. Catherine's.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
** Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And every care resign.;
And shall we never never part,
Oh I ihou my all that's mine.'* Goldsmith.
Jot is as great an enemy to repose as anxiety. Amanda
passed an almost Sleepless night, but her thoughts were too
agreeably employed to allow her to suffer from want of rest ;
early as she arose in the morning, she was but a short time in
the parlor before Lord Mortimer arrived, lie appeared with
all the transports of his soul beaming from his eyes, and was
received by Amanda with tender and trembling emotion. He
caught her to his heart as a treasure restored to him by the
immediate hand of Heaven. He pressed her to it with silent
ecstasy. Both for a few moments were unable to speak ; but
the tears which burst from Amanda, and those that stopped
on the glowing cheeks of Lord Mortimer, expressed their feel-
ings more forcibly than any language could have done.
Amanda at length found utterance, and began to thank his
lordship for all the difficulties he had gone through in vindica-
ting her fame. He hastily stopped ithose effusions of gratitude,
by bidding her ask her heart whether he had not been serving
himself as well as her by what he had done.
From the soft confusion into which his transports threw her,
Amanda endeavored to recover herself by repairing to the
breakfast table, on which the good sislers had spread all the
niceties (adapted for a morning repast) which the convent
could produce : but her hand was unsteady, she spilt the tea
I in pouring it out, and committed twenty blunders in helping
364 ^-^^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Lord Mortimer. He laughed a little archly at her embarrass-
ment, and insisted on doing the honors of the table himself, to
which Amanda, with a deep blush, consented ; but breakfast
was little attended to. Amanda's hand was detained in Lord
Mortimer's, while his eyes Wre continually turning towards
her, as if to assure his heart that, in the lovely evidence of his
happiness, there was no deception ; and the tenderness Amanda
had no longer reason to restrain beamed from her looks, which
also evinced her perfect sensibility of her present felicity a
felicity heightened by her approving conscience testifying she
had merited it. The pure, the delightful satisfaction resulting
from this reflection gave such radiance to her complexion,
that Lord Mortimer repeatedly declared her residence at St.
Catherine's had made her more beautiful than ever. Twelve
o'clock struck, and found them still loitering over the breakfast
table. " The nuns will think we have made a tolerable feast,"
cried Lord Mortimer, smiling, while Amanda rose with precipi-
tation. " I need not," continued he, following her, " like
Sterne, ask nature what has made the meal so delicious ; I
need only ask my own heart, and it will inform me, love and
tenderness." Amanda blushed, and they went together into the
garden. She would have walked before the windows of the
convent, but Lord Mortimer forced her gently into a dark,
sequestered alley. Here their conversation becama more con-
nected than it had been hitherto. The generous intentions of
Lady Martha Dormer, and the arrangements she had made for
the reception and nuptials of Amanda, were talked over. The
marriage was to take place at Thornbury, Lady Martha's seat ;
they were to continue there for a month after its solemnization,
and from thence to go to an estate of Lord Cherbury's for the
remainder of the summer ; a house in one of the squares was
to be taken and prepared for their residence in winter, and
Lady Martha Dormer had promised, whenever she came to
town, which was but seldom, she would make their house her
home, provided they would promise to spend every Christmas,
and three months at least in summer, with her at Thornbury,
Lord Mortimer said he had his choice of any of the earl's
seats, but chose none, from an idea of the Hall being more
agreeable to Amanda. She assured him it was, and he pro-
ceeded to mention the presents which Lady Martha had pre-
pared for her, also the carriages and retinue he had provided,
and expected to find at Thornbury against she reached it, still
asking if the arrangements he had made met her approbation.
Amanda was aflfected even to tears by the solicitude he
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 365
showed to please her; and he, perceiving her emotions,"
changed the discourse to talk about her removal from St.
Catherine's. He entreated her not to delay it longer than was
absolutely necessary to adjust matters for it. She promised
compliance to this entreaty, acknowledging that she but obeyed
her inclinations in doing so, as she longed to be presented to
her generous patroness. Lady Martha, and to her amiable and
beloved Lady Araminta. Lord Mortimer, delicately considerate
about all which concerned her, begged she would speak to the
prioress to procure a decent female, who should be a proper
attendant for her in her journey. They should travel together
in one chaise, and he would follow them in another. Amanda
promised she would lose no time in making this request, which,
she had no doubt, would be successful.
Lord Mortimer jsresented her with a very beautiful embroid-
ered purse, containing notes to the amount of five hundred
pounds. Amanda blushed deeply, and felt her feelings a little
hurt at the idea of being obliged to Lord Mortimer for every-
thing. He pressed her hand, and in a voice of soothing ten-
derness, told her he should be offended if she did not, from
this moment, consider her interest inseparable from his. The
notes, he said, of right belonged to her, as they amounted \o
but the individual sum he had already devoted to her use. He
requested she would not curb in the least her generous spirit,
but fulfil, to the utmost extent, all the claims which gratitude
had upon her. The benevolent sisters of St. Catherine's were
the foremost in the list of those who had conferred obligations
upon her, and he desired she would not only reward them
liberally at present, but promise them an annual stipend of
fifty pounds.
Amanda was truly delighted at this. To be able to con-
tribute to the comfort of those who had so largely promoted
hers, was a source of exquisite felicity. Lord Mortimer pre-
sented her with his picture, which he had drawn in London for
that purpose. It was a striking likeness, and most elegantly
set with brilliants, which formed, a cipher upon a plait of hair
at the back. This was indeed a precious present to Amanda,
and she acknowledged it was such. Lord Mortimer said, that
" in return for it hp should expect hers at some future time ; "
but added, smiling, " I shall not heed the shadow till I procure
the substance." He also gave her a very beautiful ring, with
an emblematical device, and adorned in the same manner as
his picture, which Lady Martha had sent as a pledge of future
friendship; and he now informed her, "that her ladyship,
366 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
accompanied by Lady Araminta, intended meeting tliem at
Holyliead, that all due honor and attention might be paid to
her adopted daughter."
In the midst of their conversation the dinner-bell rang
from the convent. Amanda started, and declared she had not
supposed it half so late. The arch smile which this speech
occasioned in Lord Mortimer, instantly made her perceive it
had been a tacit confession of the pleasure she enjoyed in
their tete-a-tete.
She blushed, and telling him she could not stay another
moment, was hurrying away. He hastily caught her, and hold-
ing both her hands, declared she should not depart, neither
would he to his solitary dinner, till she promised he might
return to her early in the evening. To this she consented,
provided he allowed her to have the prioress and Sister Mary
at least at tea. This was a condition Lord Mortimer by nc
means liked to agree to, and he endeavored to prevail on her
to drop it ; but Anding her inflexible, he said she was a pro-
voking girl, and asked her if she was not afraid that, when he
had the power, he would retaliate upon her for all the trials
she put his patience to. But since she would have it so, why,
it must be so to be sure, he said ; but he hoped the good ladies
would have too much conscience to sit out the whole evening
with them. That was all chance, Amanda said. The bell
again rang, and he was forced to depart.
She took the opportunity of being alone with the prioress
for a few minutes, to speak to her about procuring a female to
attend her in her journey. The prioress said she doubted not
but she could procure her an eligible person from the neigh-
boring town, and promised to write there that very evening, to
a family who would be able to assist her inquiries.
Both she and Sister Mary were much pleased by being in-
vited to drink tea with Lord Mortimer. He cai-rte even earlier
than was expected. Poor Amanda was terrified, lest her com-
panions should overhear him repeatedly asking her, whether
they would not retire immediately after tea. Though not over-
heard, the prioress had too much sagacity not to know her
departure was desired ; she, therefore, under pretence of busi-
ness, retired and took Mary along with her.
Amanda and Lord Mortimer went into the garden. He
thanked her for not losing time in speaking to the prioress
about her servant, and said that he hoped, at the end of the
week at farthest, she would be ready to begin her journey.
Amanda readily promised to use all possible dispatch. They
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 367
passed some delightful hours in rambling about the garden,
and talking over their felicity.
The prioress's expectation was answered relative to a ser-
vant. In the course of two days she produced one in every
respect agreeable to Amanda, and things were now in such
forwardness for her departure, that she expected it would take
place as soon as Lord Mortimer had mentioned. His time
was passed almost continually at St. Catherine's, never leaving
it except at dinner-time, when he went to Castle Carberry.
His residence there was soon known, and visitors and invita-
tions without number came to the castle, but he found means
of avoiding them.
Amanda, laughing, would often tell him he retarded the
preparations for her journey by being always with her; this,
he said, was only a pretext to drive him away, for that he rather
forwarded them by letting her lose no time.
Lord Mortimer, on coming to Amanda one evening as usual;
appeared uncommonly discomposed, his face was flushed, and
his whole manner betrayed agitation. He scarcely noticed
Amanda ; but seating himself, placed his arm upon a table,
and leaned his head dejectedly upon it. Amanda was inex-
pressibly shocked her heart panted with apprehension of ill ;
but she felt too timid to make any inquiry. He suddenly knit
his brows, and nuitlcrcd between lii.s Iccth, " Curse on the
wretch I "
Amanda could no longer keep silence. " What wretch," she
exclaimed, "or what is the meaning of this disorder? " " First
tell me, Amanda," said he, looking very steadfastly at her,
" have you seen any stranger here lately ? " " Good Heaven ! "
replied she, " what can you mean by such a question ? But I
solemnly assure you I have not." " Enough," said he, " such
an assurance restores me to quiet ; but, my dear Amanda,"
coming over to her, and taking her hands in his, " since you
have perceived my agitation, I must account to you for it. I
have just seen Belgrave ; he was but a few yards from me on
the Common when I saw him ; but the mean despicable wretch,
loaded as he is with conscious guilt, durst not face me. He
got out of my way by leaping over the hedge which divides the
Common from a lane with many intricate windings. I endeav-
ored, but without succes.s, to discover the one he had retreated
through." " I see," said Amanda, pale and trembling, " he is
destined to make me wretched. I had hoped indeed that Lord
Mortimer would no more have suffered his quiet to be inter-
rupted by him j it implies such ^ doubt," said she, weeping.
368 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
'" as shocks my soul ! If suspicion is thus continually to be re-
vived, we had better separate at once, for misery must be the
consequence of a union without mutual confidence." " Gracious
Heaven ! " said Lord Mortimer, " how unfortunate I am to give
you pain. You mistake entirely, indeed, my dearest Amanda,
the cause of my uneasiness. I swear by all that is sacred, no
doubt, no suspicion of your worth, has arisen in my mind. No
man can think more highly of a woman than I do of you ; but
I was disturbed lest the wretch should have forcxl himself into
your presence, and lest you, through apprehension for me, con-
cealed it from me." ^
This explanation calmed the perturbation of Amanda. As
an atonement for the uneasiness he had given her, she wanted
Lord Mortimer to promise he would not endeavor to discover
Belgrave. This promise he avoided giving, and Amanda was
afraid of pressing it, lest the spark of jealousy, which she was
convinced existed in the disposition of Lord Mortimer, should
be blown into a flame. That Belgrave would studiously avoid
him she trusted, and she resolved that if the things that she
had deemed it necessary to order from the neighboring town
were not finished, to wait no longer for them, as she longed
now more than ever to quit a place she thought dangerous to
Lord Mortimer. The ensuing morning, instead of seeing his
lordship at breakfast, a note was brought to her couched in
these words :
TO MISS riTZALAN.
I am unavoidably prevented from waiting on my dear Amanda this morn-
ing, but in the course of the day she may depend on either seehig or healing
from me again. She can have no e.YCuse now on my account about not
hastening the preparations for her journey, and when we meet, if I find that
her time has not been employed for this purpose, she may expect a severe
chiding from her faithful Mortimer.
This note filled Amanda with the most alarming disquiet.
It was evident to her that he was gone in pursuit of Bel-
grave. She ran into the hall to inquire of the messenger
about his master, but he was gone. She then hastened to
the prioress and communicated her apprehensions to her.
The prioress endeavored to calm them, by assuring her
she might be convinced that Belgrave had taken too many
precautions to be discovered.
Amanda's breakfast, however, remained untouched, and
her things unpacked, and she continued the whole morning
the picture of anxiety, impatiently expecting the promised
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. ,369
visit or letter. Neither came, and slie resolved to send, after
dinner, the old gardener to Castle Carberry to inquire about
Lord Mortimer. While she was speaking to him for that
purpose, the maid followed her into the garden, and told
her there was a messenger in the parlor from Lord Morti-
mer. She flew thither, but what words can express her sur-
prise when the supposed messenger, raising a large hat, which
shadowed his face, and removing a handkerchief, which he
had hitherto held up to it, discovered to her view the features
of Lord Cherbury ? She could only exclaim, " Gracious Heaven I
has anything happened to Lord Mortimer ? " ere she sunk into
a chair in breathless agitation.
CHAPTER XL.
" My heavy heart
The prophetess of woe, foretells some ill
At hand."
Lord Cherbury hastened to support and calm her agita-
tion, by assuring her Lord Mortimer was in perfect safety. Re-
covering a little by this assertion, she asked him " how he was
assured of this ? " He answered, " because he had seen him,
though without being perceived by him, about an hour ago."
Amanda, restored to her faculties by being assured he was un-
injured, began to reflect on the suddenness of Lord Cherbury's
visit. She would have flattered herself he came to introduce
her to his family himself, had not his looks almost forbid such
an idea. They were gloomy and disordered ; his eyes were
fastened on her, yet he appeared unwilling to speak.
Amanda felt herself in too awkward and embarrassing a
situation to break the unpleasant silence. At last Lord Cher-
bury suddenly exclaimed, " Lord Mortimer does not, nor must
not, know of my being here." " Must not ! " repeated Amanda,
in inconceivable astonishment.
" Gracious Heaven ! " said Lord Cherbury, starting from
the chair on which he had thrown himself opposite her, " how
shall I begin, how shall I tell her ! Oh 1 Miss Fitzalan," he
continued, approaching her, "I have much to say, and you have
much to hear which will shock you. I believed I could better
in an interview have informed you of particulars, but I find I
24
37
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
was mistaken. I will write to you." " My lord," cried Aman-
da, rising, all pale and trembling, "tell me now; to leave me
in suspense, after receiving such dreadful hints, would be
cruelty. Oh ! surely, if Lord Mortimer be safe if Lady Martha
Dormer if Lady Araminta is well I can have nothing so very
shocking to hear." " Alas I " replied he, mournfully shaking
his head, " you are mistaken. Be satisfied, however, that the
friends you have mentioned are all well. I have said I would
write to you. Can you meet me this evening amongst the
ruins ? " Amanda gave an assenting bow. " I shall then,"
pursued he, " have a letter ready to deliver you. In the mean
time, I must inform you no person in the world knows of my
visit here but yourself, and of all beings Lord Mortimer is the
last I should wish to know it. Remember, then. Miss Fitzalan,"
taking her hand, which he grasped with violence, as if to im-
press his words upon her heart, " remember that upon your
secrecy everything most estimable in life, even life itself, per-
haps, depends."
With these dreadful and mysterious words he departed,
leaving Amanda a picture of horror and surprise. It was
many minutes ere she moved from the attitude in which he left
her, and when she did, it was only to walk in a disordered man-
ner about the room, repeating his dreadful words. He was
come, perhaps, to part her and Lord Mortimer, and yet, after
consenting to their union, surely Lord Cherbury could not be
guilty of such treachery and deceit. Yet, if this was not the
case, why conceal his coming to Ireland from Lord Mortimer ?
Why let it be known only to her? And what could be the
secrets of dreadful import he had to communicate ?
From these self-interrogations, in which her reason was
almost bewildered, the entrance of the prioress drew her.
She started at seeing the pale and distracted looks of
Amanda, and asked, "if she had heard any bad tidings of
Lord Mortimer ? "
Amanda sighed heavily at this question, and said, "No."
The secrecy she had been enjoined to she durst not violate,
by mentioning the mysterious visit to her friend. Unable, how-
ever, to converse on any other subject, she resolved to retire to
hpr chamber. She placed her illness and agitation to the ac-
count of Lord Mortir.ier, and said a Httle rest was absolutely
necessary for her, and begged, if his lordship came in the
course of the evening, he might be told she was too ill to see
him.
The prioress pressed her to stay for tea. She refused, and,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
371
as she retired from the room, desired nothing might be said of
the person who had just seen her to Lord Mortimer, sa)'ing,
with a faint smile, "she would not make him vain by letting
him know of her anxiety about him." She retired to her cham-
ber, and endeavored to control her perturbations, that she might
be the better enabled to support what she had so much reason
to apprehend. Neither the prioress nor the nuns, in obedience
to her injunctions, intruded upon her, and at the^appointed
hour siie softly opened the chamber door, and, every place being
clear, stole softly from the convent.
_ She found Lord Cherbury waiting for her amidst the solitary
ruins. He had a letter in his hand, which he presented to her
the moment she appeared.
"In this letter, Miss Fitzalan," said he, "I have opened
to you my whole heart. I have disburdened it of secrets which
have long oppressed it. I have intrusted my honor to your care.
From what I have said, that its contents are of a sacred nature,
you may believe, should they be considered in any other light
by you, the consequence may, nay, must be fatal." He said
this with a sternness that made Amanda shrink. " Meditate
well on the contents of that letter, Miss Fitzalan," continued
he, with a voice of deep solemnity, "for it is a letter which will
fix your destiny and mine. Even should the request contained
in it be refused, let me be the first acquainted with the refusal.
I'hen indeed I shall urge you no more to secrecy, for what will
follow, in consequence of such a refusal, must divulge all."
" Oh ! tell me, tell me," said Amanda, catching hold of his aim,
" tell me what is the request or what it is I am to fear. Oh !
tell me all at once, and rid me of the torturing suspense I en-
dure." " I cannot," he cried, " indeed, I cannot. To-morrow
night I shall expect your answer here at the same hour."
At this moment Lord Mortimer's voice calling upon Amanda
was heard. Lord Cherbury dropped her hand, which he had
taken, and instantly retired amongst the windings of the pile,,
from whence Lord Mortimer soon appeared, giving Amanda
only time to hide the fatal letter.
" Good Heavens ! " exclaimed he, " what could have brought
you hither, and who was the person who just departed from
you ? " It was well for Amanda that the twilight gave but
an imperfect view of her face. She felt her color come and
go ; a cold dew overspread her forehead ; she leaned against a
rude fragment of the building, and faintly exclaimed, " the per-
son " " Yes," said Lord Mortimer, " I am sure I heard
retreating footsteps." " You are mistaken," repeated Amanda,
372 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
in the same faint accent. " Well," said he, " though you may
dispute the evidence of my ears, you cannot the evidence of my
eyes. I see you here, and I am astonished at it." " I came
here for air," said Amanda. " For air ! " repeated Lord Mor-
timer ; " I own 1 should have thought the garden better adapted
for such a pui-pose ; but why come hither in a clandestine
manner ? Why, if you have the fears you would persuade me
you have, expose yourself to danger from the wretch who
haunts the place, by coming here alone. When I went to the
convent I was told you were indisposed, and could not be dis-
turbed. I could not depart, however, without making an effort
to see you ; but you can easier imagine than I describe the
consternation I felt when you could not be found. It was
wrong, indeed, Amanda, it was wrong to come here alone, and
affect concealment," " Gracious Heaven ! " said Amanda, rais-
ing her hands and eyes, and bursting into tears, " how wretched
am n "
She was indeed at this moment superlatively wretched.
Her heart was oppressed by the dread of evil, and she perceived
suspicions in Lord Mortimer which she could not attempt to
remove, lest an intimation of the secret she was so awfully
enjoined to keep should escape.
"Ah! Amanda," said Lord Mortimer, losing in a moment
the asperity with which he had addressed her at first, " ah ! Aman-
da, like the rest of your sex, you know too well the power of
your tears not to use tliem. Forget, or at least forgive, all I
have said. I was disappointed in not seeing you the moment I
expected, and that put me out of temper. I know 1 am too
impetuous, but you will in time subdue every unruly passion.
I put myself into your hands, and you shall make me what you
please."
He now pressed her to his bosom, and finding her tremble
universally, again implored her forgiveness, as he imputed the
agitation she betrayed entirely to the uneasiness he had given
her. She assured him, with a faltering voice, he had not
offended her. Her spirits were affected, she said, by all she
had suffered during the day. Lord Mortimer placing, as she
wished, those sufferings to his own account, declared her anxiety
at once pained and pleased him ; adding, he would truly confess
what detained him from her during the day as soon as they
returned to the convent.
Their return to it relieved the sisterhood, who had also
been seeking Amanda, from many apprehensions. The prioress
and Sister Mary followed them into the parlor, where Lord
THE cmLDRBM Oh' 77/11 ASIJEV. 3^3
Mortimer begged " Uicy Would Iirive compassion on liiin, and
give him sometlilng for liis supper, as lie had scarcely eaten
anything the whole dily." Sister Mary instantly replied, " he
should be gratified, as Amanda was in the Same predicament,
and she hoped he would be now able to prevail on her to eat."
The cloth was accordingly laid, and a few trifles placed upon
iti Sister Mary would gladly have stayed, but the prioress
had ilnderstdnding enough to think the slipper would be more
palatable if they were feibsent, and accordingly retired.
Lord Mdrtimer how, with the most soothing tenderness, tried
to cheer his fair companion, land mike her take some refresh-
ment ; but his efforts for either of those purposes were linsuc^
Cessful, and she besought hiiri hot to think her obstinate, if she
could hot in it moment ^ccoverher .spirits. To divert his atten-
tion a little from himself, she iasked him to perform liis promi.se,
by relating what had kept him the whole day froni St. Cath=-
Grine'si
Me now acknowledged " he had been in search of Ilelgrave j
but the precautions he had taken to conceal himself bttfifled all
inquiries, which convinces me," continued Lord Mortimer, " if
I wanted conviction about such a matter, that he has not yet
dropped his villanous designs upon you ; but the wretch cannot
always escape the vengeance he tnerits." " May he never,"
cried Amanda, fervently yet involuntarily, " meet it from youf
hands." " We will drop that part of the subject," said Lord
Mortimer, "if you please. You must know," continued he,
" after scouring the whole neighborhood, I fell in, about four
miles hence, with a gentleman -who had visited at the Marquis
of Roslin's last summer. He immediately asked me to accom*
pany him home to dinner. From his residence in the country
I thought it probable he might be able to give some account of
Belgrave, and therefore accepted the invitation ; but my inqui-
ries were as fruitless here as elsewhere. When I found it so, I
was on thorns to depart, particularly as all the gentlemen were
set in for drinking, and feared I might be thrown into an im-
proper situation to visit my Amanda. I was on the watch,
however, and, to use their sporting term, literally stole away."
" Thank Heaven ! " said Amanda, "your inquiries proved fruit-
less. Oh I never, never repeat them. Think no more about a
wretch so despicable." "Well," cried Lord Mortimer, "why
don't you hurry me from the neighborhobd ? Fix the day, the
moment for our departure. I have been here already five days.
Lady Martha's patience is, I dare say, quite exhausted by this
time, and should we delay much longer, I suppose, she will
374
THE CHILD KEN OF THE ABBEY.
think we have both become converts to the holy rites of this
convent, and that I, instead of taking the vows which should
make me a joyful bridegroom, am about taking those which
shall doom me to celibacy. Seriously, what but want of incli-
nation can longer detain you ? " " Ah ! " said Amanda, " you
know too well that my departure cannot be retarded by want of
inclination." "Then why not decide immediately upon the
day ? " Amanda was silent ; her situation was agonizing ; how
could she fix upon a day, uncertain whether she did not possess
a letter which would prevent her ever taking the projected
journey !
" Well," said Lord Mortimer, after allowing her some time
to speak, " I see I must fix the day myself ; this is Tuesday
let it be Thursday." " Let us drop the subject this night,
my lord,", said Amanda ; " I am really ill, and only wait for
your departure to retire to rest." " Lord Mortimer obeyed
her, but with reluctance, and soon after rfitired.
CHAPTER XLI.
" As one condemned to ]cap a precipice.
Who sees before Ins eyes the depths below,
Stops shorty and looks nbout for some kiod shrub
To break his dreadful fall." Drydeh.
Amanda went to her chamber the nionieiit Lord Mortimer
departed : the nuns were already retired to rest, so that the
stillness which reigned through the house added to the awful-
ness of her feelings, as she sat down to peruse a letter which
she had been previously informed would fix her fate.
TO MISS KITZALAN.
To destroy a prospect of felicity, at the very moment its enveloping
glooms are dispersed, is indeed the source of pangs most dreadful ; yet
such are the horrors of my destiny, that nothing but intervening between
you, Mortimer and happiness, can save me from perdition. Appalled at
this dreadful assertion, the letter drops from your trembling hands ; but
oh ! dear Miss Fitzalan, cast it not utterly aside till you peruse the rest of
the contents, and fix the destiny of the most wretched of mankind, wretched
in thinking he shall interrupt not only your peace, but the peace of a
son so noble, so gracious, so idolized as Mortimer is by him ; but I will
not longer torture your feelings by keeping you in suspense ; the preface I
have already given is sufficient, and I will be explicit: gambling, that bane
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 3*5
of fame and fortune, lias been my ruin ; but whilst I inclulgcci, sd vell did
\ conceal my propensity for it, that even those I called my friends were
ignorant of it. With shame I confess I was ever foremost to rail against
this vice, which was continually drawing sums in secret from me, that would
have given comfort and afHuence to many a child in want. For some time
my goodand bad fortune were so equal, that my income suffered no consider-
able diminution. About five years ago a Mr.Freelove, a particular friend
of mine, died, and left to my care his only son, whom, I dare say, you may
recollect having seen at my house last winter. This young mans property
was consigned to my care, to manage as inucli for his arlvanlagc as Icould ;
it consisted of a large estate and fifty thousand pounds. At Iho period Free-
love became my ward, 1 had had a constant run of ill-luck for many months.
The ardor of gaming (unlike every other passion) is rather increased|than
diminished by disappointment. Without being warned, therefore, by ill-
success, I still went on, till all I could touch of my own property was gone.
Did I then retire, ashamed of my folly ? No. I could not bear to do so,
without another effort to recover my losses, and in that effort risked some,
thing more precious than I had ever yet done namely, my honor, by using
the money which lay in my hands belonging to Frcelovc ; the long pciiocl
which was to elapse ere he came of age, emboldened ine to this. Fre that
period I trusted I should have retrieved my losses, and be enabled not only
to discharge the principal, but whatever interest it would have brought, if
applied to another purpose. I followed the bent of my evil genius, sum after
sum taken up, and all alike buried in the accursed vortex which had already
swallowed so much from me ! But when I found all was gone, oh. Miss
Fitzalan I I still tremble at the distraction of that moment.
All, as I have said before, that I could touch of my property was gone ;
the remainder was so settled I had no power over it, except joined by my
son. Great as was the injury that he would sustain by mortgaging it, I was
confident he never would hesitate doing so if acquainted with my distress; but
to let him know it was worse than a death of torture could be to mc ; his
early excellence, the nobleness of hi.s. prii^ciples, mingled in the love I felt
for him a degree of awe ; to confess myself a villain to such a character, to
acknowledge my life had been a scene of deceit ; to be abashed, confounded
in the presence of my son to meet his piercing eye to sec the blush of
shame mantle his cheeks for his father's crimes Oh, horrible I most hor-
rible I I raved at the idea, and resolved, if driven by necessity to tell him
of my baseness, not to survive the confession. At this critical juncture the
Marquis of Roslin came from Scotland to reside in London. An intimacy
wliich had been dormant for years between our families was then revived,
and I soon found that an alliance between them would be pleasing. The
prospect of it raised mc from the very depth of despair. But my transports
were of short continuance, for Mortimer not only showed but expressed the
strongest repugnance to such a connection. Time and daily experience, I
trusted, would so forcibly convince him of the advantages of it, as at last to
conquer this repugnance. Nor did the hope of an alliance taking place
entirely forsake my heart, till informed that his was already bestowed upon
another object. My feelings at this information I shall not attempt to
describe. . All hope of saving myself from dishonor was now cut off ; for
though dutiful and attentive to me in the highest degree, I could not flatter
myself that Mortimer would blindly sacrifice his reason and inclination to
my will. The most fatal intentions again took possession of my mind ; but
the uncertainties he suffered on your account kept me in horrible suspense
as to their execution. After some months of torture, I began again to
revive, by learning that you and Mortimer were inevitably scparatedT And
37^
Tim CJtlLDkRM OF THE ABBEY.
such is the selfish iiat\ire of vice; so abandoned is it to all feelings of
humanity, that I rather rejoiced at, than lamented the supposed disgrace of
the daughter of my friend, llut the persevering coi\stancy of Mortimer
rather let me say the immediate interposition of Providence soon gave her
reason to triumph over the arts of her enemies, and I was again reduced to
despair. Mortimer, I dare say, from motives of delicacy, has concealed
from you the opposition I gave to his wishes after your innocence was
cleared, and the intentions of Lady Martha Dormer relative to you were made
known. At last I found I must either seem to acquiesce in these wishes and
intentions, or divulge my real motive for opposing them ; or else quarrel with
my son and sister, and appear in their eyes the most selfish of human beings.
I, therefore, to appearance acquiesced, but resolved in reality to throw my-
self upon your mercy, believing that a character so tender, so perfect, so
heroie-lilce as yours has been, through every scene of distress, would have
compassion on a fallen fellow-creature. Was my situation otherwise than
it now is were you even portionless I should rejoice at having you united
to my family, from your own intrinsic merit. Situated as I now am, the
fortune Lady Martha Dormer proposes giving you can be of no consequence
to me. The projected match between you and Mortimer is yet a secret from
the public of eciur.'ic it has not lcs.scned his interest with the Roslin family.
I have already been so fortunate as to adjust the unlucky difference which
took place between them, and remove any resentment they entertained
against him; and I am confident tlie first overture he should make for a
union with Lady luii)hrasia would be successful. The fortune which would
immediately be received with her is sixty thousand pounds, and five thou-
sand a-year. The first would be given up to me in jjlace of the settlement
I should make on Lord Mortimer ; so that you see, my dear Miss Fitzalan,
his marriage with Lady Euphrasia would at once extricate me from all my
difficulties. Frcelove in a few months will be of age, and the smallest delay
in settling with him, after he attains that period, must brand me will) dis-
honor. I stand upon the verge of a dreadful abyss, and it is in your ) o.ver
only to preserve me from pUlngiiig into it you who, like an angel of mercy,
may bid me live, and save me from destruction. Yet think not in resigning
Lord Mortimer, if.indeed, such a resignation should take place, you sacrifice
your own interest. No ; it shall be my grateful care to secure to you indepen-
dence ; and I am confident, among the many men you must meet, sensible
of your worth, and enraptured with your charms, you may yet select one as
calculated to render you happy as Mortimer ; while he, disappointed of the
object of his affections, will, I have no doubt, without longer hesitation,
accept the one I shall again propose to him. But should you determine on
giving him up, you ask how, and by what means, you can break with him
after what has passed, without revealing your real motive for doing so to
him. That is indeed a difiiculty ; but after going so far, I must not hesitate
in telling you how it can be removed. You must retire secretly from his
knowledge, and leave no clue behind by which you can be traced. If yon
comply with the first of my requests, but stop short here, you will defeat all
that your mercy, your pity, your compassion, would do to save me, since
the consequence of any hesitation must be a full explanation, and I have
already said it, and now repeat it in the most solemn manner, that I will
not survive the divulgement of my secret for never, no, never will I live
humbled in the eyes of my son. If, then, you comply, comply not in part.
Pardon me, dear Miss Fitzalan, if you think there is anything arbitrary in
my style. I would have softened, if I could, all I had to say, but the time,
the danger, the necessity, urged me to be explicit. I have now to you, as
to a superior Being, opened my whole heart. It rests with you whether I
Ttm ctiiLM/ij^ OP Ttttt Abbey. 377
Slialt live to atone for my follies, or by one despefite actioil terminate tliem.
Should yoil show me mercy, unworthy as I am of Itf^^hotlld yoii in com-
passion to poor Mortimer, comply with a request *hibh t:ail , Only save him
from the pangs he would feel at a' father's quitting life Unbidden) Wv grati-
tude, my admiration, tny protection whilst I live; will be ydllfs) and thfe first
act of my restored life will bd to secure yoit a tompetBrtcB. I Shill wait
with trembling anxiety for yoilr appeSrahcB to-morrow highti Till then,
believe me Your sincere, thoUgh tiiost (inhappy friend)
Crtfeiiiitjky.
The fatal letter fell from Amanda. A mist overspiread lier
eyes, and she sunk senseless on her chair ; but the privation of
her misery was of short duration, and she recovered as if from
a dreadful dream. She felt cold, trembling, and terrified. She
looked round the room virith an eye of apprehension and dis-
may, bewildered as to the cause of her wretchedness and terror,
till the letter at her feet again struck her sight.
"Was there no way," she asked herself, as she again exam-
ined the contents, " was there no way by which the' dreadful
sacrifice it doomed her to could be avoided ? " Lady Martha
and Lord Mortimer would unite their efforts to save the honor
of their wretched relative ; they would soothe liis feelings ; they
would compassionate his failings ; they would ; but she
started in the midst of these ideas started as from ideas
fraught with guilt and horror, as those fatal words rushed upon
her mind "I will not survive the divulgement of my secret ; "
and she found that to save the father she must resign the, soni
How unworthy of such a sacrifice ! engaged as she was to Lord
Mortimer, she began to doubt whether she had a right to make
it. What a doubt I She shuddered for having conceived it,
and reproached herself for yielding a moment to the suggestions
of tenderness which had given rise to it. She resolved without
a farther struggle to submit to reason and to virtue, convinced
that, if accessory to Lord Cherbury's death, nothing could as-
suage her wretchedness, and that the unhappiness Lord Morti-
mer would suffer at losing her would be trifling compared to
that he would feel if he lost his father by an act of suicide.
" In my fate," exclaimed she, in the low and broken accent
of despair, " there is no alternative. I submit to it without a
farther struggle ; I dare not call upon one being to advise me.
I resign him, therefore," she continued, as if Lord Cherbury
was really present to hear her resignation ; " I resign Lord
Mortimer, but, oh, my God I " raising her hands with agony to
heaven, " give me fortitude to bear the horrors of my situation I
Oh, Mortimer I dear, invaluable Mortimer I the hand of fate is
against our union, and we must part, never, never more to meet 1
378 TirE CHILD REU OF TUB ABBEY.
From the imputation of ingratitude and guilt I shall not be
allowed to vindicate myself. No, I am completely the victim
of Lord Cherbury the cruel, perfidous Cherbury, whose
treachery, whose seeming acquiescence in the wishes of his
son, has given me joy but to render my misery more acute ! "
That Lord Mortimer would impute withdrawing herself from
him to an attachment for Belgrave she was convinced, and that
her fame as well as peace should be sacrificed to Lord Cher-
bury, caused such a whirl of contending passions in her mind,
that reason and reflection for a few minutes yielded to their
violence, and she resolved to vindicate herself to Lord Morti-
mer. This resolution, however, was of short continuance. As
her subsiding passions again gave her power to reflect, she was
convinced that by trying to clear herself of an imaginary crime,
she should commit a real one since to save her own character
Lord Cherbury's must be stigmatized ; and the consequence
of such an act he had already declared so that not only by
the world, but by her own conscience, she should forever be
accused of accelerating his death.
" It must, it must be made ! " she wildly cried ; " the sacri-
fice must be made, and Mortimer is lost to me forever." She
flung herself on the bed, and passed the hours till morning in
agonies too great for description. From a kind of stupefaction
rather than sleep, into which she had gradually sunk towards
morning, she was roused by a gentle tap at her chamber door,
and the voice of Sister Mary informing her that Lord Mortimer
was below, and impatient for his breakfast.
Amanda started from the bed, and bid her tell his lordship
she would attend him immediately. She then adjusted her
dress, tried to calm her spirits, and, with uplifted hands and
eyes, besought Heaven to support her through the trials of
the day.
Weak and trembling she descended to the parlor. The
moment she entered it. Lord Mortimer, shocked and surprised
by her altered looks, exclaimed, " Gracious Heaven I what is
the matter ? " Then feeling the feverish heat of her hands,
continued, " Why, why, Amanda, had you the cruelty to conceal
your illness ? Proper assistance might have prevented its in-
creasing to such a degree." With unutterable tenderness he
folded his arms about her, and, while her drooping head sunk
on his bosom, declared he would immediately send for the phy-
sician who had before attended her.
" Do not," said Amanda, while tears trickled down her
cheeks, "do not," continued she, in a broken voice, "for he
THE ClULDnEff OP TUB ABBEV.
379
could do me no good." " No good I " repeated Lord Mortimer,
in a terrified accent. " I mean," cried she, " he would find it
unnecessary to prescribe anything for me, as my illness orily
proceeds from the agitation I suffered yesterday. It made me
pass an indifferent night,. but quietness to-day will recover me."
Lord Mortimer was with difficulty persuaded to give up his
intention j nor would he relinquish it till She had promised, if
not better before the evening, to inform him, and let the physi-
cian be sent for.
They now sat down to breakfast, at which Amanda was un-
able either to preside or eat. When over, she told Lord Morti-
mer she must retire to her chamber, as rest was essential for her ;
but between nine and ten in the evening she would be happy to
see him. He tried to persuade her that she might rest as well
upon the sofa in the parlor as in her chamber, and that he
might then be allowed to sit with her ; but she could not be
persuaded to this, she said, and begged he would excuse see-
ing her till the time she had already mentioned.
He at last retired with great reluctance, but not till she had
several times desired him to do so.
Amanda now ispaired to her chamber, but not to indulge
in the supineness of grief, though her heart felt bursting, but to
settle upon some plan for her future conduct. In the first
place, she immediately meant to write to Lord Cherbury, as
the best method she could take of acquainting him with her
compliance, and preventing any conversation between them,
which would now have been insupportable to her.
In the next place, she designed acquainting the prioress
with the sudden alteration in her affairs, only concealing the
occasion of that alteration, and, as but one day intervened be-
tween the present and the one fixed for her journey, meant to
beseech her to think of some place to which she might retire
from Lord Mortimer.
Yet such was the opinion she knew the prioress entertained
of Lord Mortimer, that she almost dreaded she would impute
her resignation of him to some criminal motive, and abandon
her entirely. If this should be the case (and scarcely cOuld
she be surprised if it was), she resolved without delay to go
privately to the neighboring town, and from thence proceed
immediately to Dublin. How she should act there, or what
would become of her, never entered her thoughts j they were
wholly engrossed about the manner in which she should leave
St. Catherine's.
But she hoped, much as appearances were against her; she
3^0 THE Cf/ILDREI^ OP THE ABBEY.
should not be deserted by the prioress. Providence, she
trusted, would be so compassionate to her misery, as to preserve
her this one friend, who could not only assist but advise her.
As soon as she had settled the line of conduct she should
pursue, she sat down to pen her renunciation of Lord Morti-
merj which she did in the following words :
TO THE EARL OF CHERBURY.
My Lord,^-To your Wishes I resign my happiness ; my happiness, I re-
peat, for it is due to Lord Mortimer to declare that a union with such a
character as his must hava produced the highest felicity. It is also due to
my own to declare, that it was neither his rank nor liis fortune, bilt his vir-
tues, which influenced my inclinalion in his favor.
Happy had it been for us all, my lord, but particularly for me, had you
continuecl steady in opposing the wishes of your son. My reverence for
paternal authority is too great ever to have allowed me to net in opposition
to it. I should \wi then, by your seeming acquiescence to them, have been
tempted to think my trials all over.
liut I will not do away any little merit your lordship may perhaps ascribe
to my immediate compliance with your request, by dwelling upon the suffer-
ings it entails on me. May the renunciation of my hopes be the means of
realizing your lordship's, and may superior fortune bring superior happiness
to Lord Mortimer I
I thank your lordship for your intentions relative to me ; but whilst I do
so, must assure you, both now and forever, I shall decline having them ex-
ecuted for me.
I shall not disguise the truth. It would not be in your lordship's power
to recompense the sacrifice I have made you ; and, besides, pecuniary obli-
gations can never sit easy upon a feeling mind, except they are conferred
by those we know value us, and whom we value ourselves. I have the
honor to be, your lordship's obedient servant,
Amanda Fitzalan.
The tears she had with difficulty restrained while writing,
now burst forth. She rose and walked to the window, to try if
the air would remove the faintness which oppressed her. From
it she perceived Lord Mortimer and the prioress in deep con-
versation, at a little distance from the convent. She conjec-
tured she was their subject ; for, as Lord Mortimer retired, the
prioress, whom she had not seen that day before, came ijito
her chamber. After the us^ial salutations " Lord Mortimer
has been telling me you were ill," said she. " I trusted a
lover's fears had magnified the danger; but truly, tny dear
child, I am sorry to say that this is not the case, Tell me, my
dear, what is the matter ? Surely now, more than ever, you
should be careful of your health." " Oh, no I " said Amanda,
with a convulsive sob, " Oh, no " wringing h'er hands, "you
are sadly mistaken." The prioress grew alarmed, her limbs
began to tremble, she was unable to stand, and, dropping on
THE CttllDREN OF THE ABBEY. 381
the nearest chair, besought Amanda, in a voice expressive of
her feelings, " to explain the reason of her distrass."
Amanda knelt before her, she took her hands, she pressed
them to her burning forehead and lips, and bedewed them with
her tears, while she exclaimed, "she was wretched."
" Wretched I '" repeated the prioress. " For Heaven's sake be
explicit keep me no longer in suspense you sicken my very
heart by your agitation it foretells something dreadful ! "
" It does indeed," said Amanda. " It foretells that Lord
Mortimer and. I shall never be united !"
The prioress started, and surveyed Amanda with t look
which seemed to say, " she believed she had lost her senses ; "
then, with assumed composure, begged " she would defer any
farther explanation of her distress till her spirits were in a
calmer state." " I will not rise," cried Amanda, taking the
prioress's hand, which, in her surprise, she had involuntarily
withdrawn. " I will not rise till you say that, notwithstanding
the mysterious situation in which I am involved, you will con-
tinue to be my friend. Oh ! such an assurance would assuage
the sorrows of my heart."
The prioress now perceived that it was grief alone which
disordered Amanda ; but how she had met with any cause for
grief, or what could occasion it, were matters of astonishment
to her. " Surely my dear child," cried she, " should know mo
too well to desire such an assurance ; but, however mysterious
her situation may appear to others, she will not, I trust and be-
lieve, let it appear so to me. I wait with impatience for an ex-
planation." " It is one of my greatest sorrows," exclaimed
Amanda, " that I cannot give such an explanation. No, no,"
slie continued in an agony, " a death-bed confession would not
authorize my telling you the occasion of Lord Mortimer's
separation and mine." The prioress now insisted on her taking
a chair, and then begged, as far as she could, -without f-arther
delay, she would let her into her situation.
Amanda immediately complied. " An unexpected obstacle
to her union with Lord Mortimer," she said, "had arisen, an
obstacle which, while compelled "to submit to it, she was bound '
most solemnly to conceal. It was expedient, therefore, she should
retire from Lord Mortimer, without giving him the smallest inti-
mation of such an intention, lest, if he suspected it, he should in-
quire too minutely, and by so doing, plunge not only her but him-
self into irremediable distress. To avoid this, it was necessary
all but the prioress should be ignorant of her scheme : and by
her means she hoped she should be put in away of finding sucn
332 THE CHIL DREWOP Tl^ ABBE Y.
a place of secrecy and security as she should required. She
besought the prioress, with streaming eyes, not to impute her
resignation of Lord Mortimer to any unworthy motive ; to that
Heaven, which could alone console her for his loss, she appealed
for her innocence. She besought her to believe her sincere ;
to pity, but not condemn her j to continue her friend now, when
her friendship was most needful in this her deep distress, and
she assured her, if it was withdrawn, she believed she could no
longer struggle with her sorrows.
The prioress remained silent for a few minutes, and then
addressed her in a solemn voice. "I own, Miss Fitzalan, your
conduct appears so inexplicable, so astonishing, that nothing
but the opinion I have formed of your character, from seeing
the manner in which you have acted since left to yourself, could
prevent my esteem from being diminished ; but I am persuaded
you cannot act from a bad motive, therefore, till that persua-
sion ceases, my esteem, can know no diminution. From this
declaration you maybe convinced that, to the utmost of my
power, I will serve you ; yet, ere you finally determine and re-
quire such service, weigh well what you are about ; consider
in the eyes of the world you are about acting a dishonorable
part, in breaking your engagement with Lord Mortimer without
assigning some reason for doing so. Nothing short of a point
of conscience should influence you to this." . " Nothing short
of it has," replied Amanda ; " therefore pity, and do not aggra-
vate my feelings, by pointing out the consequences which will
attend the sacrifice I am compelled ,lo make ; only promise
{taking the prioress's hand), only promise, in this great and
sad emergency, to be my friend."
Her looks, her words, her agonies, stopped short all the
prioress was going to say. She thought it would be barbarity any
longer to dwell upon the ill consequences of an action, which she
was now convinced some fatal necessity compelled her to ; she
therefore gave her all the consolation now in her power, by
assuring her she would immediately think about some place for
her to retire to, and would keep all that had passed bet\yeen
them a profound secret. She then insisted on Amanda's lying
down, and trying to compose herself ; she brought her drops to
take, and drawing the curtains about her, retired from the room.
In two hours she returned. Though she entered the chamber
softly, Amanda immediately drew back the curtain, and appeared
much more composed than when the prioress had left her. The
good woman would not let her rise, but sat down on the bed to
tell her what she had contrived for her.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 383
" She had a relation in Scotland," she said, "who, from re-
duced circumstances, had kept a school for many years. But
as the infirmities of age came on, she was not able to pay' so
much attention to her pupils as their friends thought requisite,
and she had only been able to retain them by promising to get
a person to assist her. As she thought her cousin (the prioress)
more in the way of procuring such a one than herself, she had
written to her for that purpose. A clever, well-behaved young
woman, who would be satisfied with a small salary, was what
she wanted. I should not mention such a place to you," said the
prioress, " but that the necessity there is for your immediately
retiring from Lord Mortimer leaves me no time to look out for
another. But do not imagine I wish you to continue there. No,
indeed ; I should think it a pity such talents as you possess
should be buried in such obscurity. What I think is, that you
can stay there till you grow more composed, and can look out
for a better establishment." " Do not mention my talents,"
said Amanda ; " my mind is so etiervated by grief, that it will
be long before I can make any great exertion, and the place you
have mentioned is, from its obscurity, just such a one as I de-
sire to go to." " There is, besides, another inducement," said
the prioress, " namely, its being but a few miles from Port-
Patrick, to which place a fair wind will bring you in a few hours
from this. I know the master of a little wherry, which is per-
petually going backwards and forwards. He lives in this neigh-
borhood, and both he and his wife consider themselves under
obligations to me, and will rejoice, I am sure, at an opportunity
of obliging me. I shall therefore send for him this evening, in-
forming him of the time you wish to go, and desire his care till
he leaves you himself at Mrs. Macpherson's."
Amanda thanked the prioress, who proceeded to say, " that
on the presumption of her going to her cousin's, she had already
written a letter for her to take ; but wished to know whether
she would be mentioned by her own or a fictitious name."
Amanda replied, " By a fictitious one," and, after a little
consideration, fixed on that of Frances Donald, which the
prioress accordingly inserted, and then read the letter :
TO MRS. MACPHERSON.
Dear Cousin, The bearer 6 this letter, Frances Donald, is the young
person I have procured you for an assistant in your school. I have known
her some time, and can vouch for her cleverness and discretion. She is
well born, and virell educated, and has seen better days : but the wheel of
fortune is continually turning, and she bears her misfortunes wfth a patience
that to me is the best proof she could give of a real good disposition. 1 have
384 UE. CHILD REN OP THE ABBEY.
told her you give but ten pounds a-year. Her going proves slie is not dis-
satisfied witii tiie salary. I am sorry to hear you are troubled v^ith rheumatic
pains, and hope, when you have more time to take care of yourself, you
virill grow better. And all the sisters join me in thanking you for your kind
inquiries after them. We do tolerably well in the little school we keep, and
trust our gratitude to Heaven for its present goodness will obtain a contin-
uance of it. I beg to hear from you soon ; and am, my dear cousin, your
sincere friend and affectionate kinswoman,
St. Catherine's. Elizabeth Dermot.
" I havq not said as much as you deserve," said the prioress j
"but if the letter does not meet your approbation, I will make
any alteration you please in it." Amanda assured her it did,
and the prioress then said, " that Lord Mortimer had been
again at the convent to inquire after her, and was told she was
, better." Amanda said, " she would not see him till the hour
she had appointed for his coming to supper." The prieress
agreed, that as things were changed, she was right in being in
his company as little as possible, and, to prevent her being
in his way, she should have her dinner and tea in her own
room. Tiie clolh was accordingly laid in it, nor would the good-
natured prioress depart till she saw Amanda eat something.
Sister Mary, she said, was quite anxious to come in, and per-
form the part of an attendant, but was prevented by her.
The distraction of Amanda's thoughts was now abated, from
having everything adjusted relative to her future conduct, and
the company of the prioress, who returned to her as soon as she
had dined, prevented her losing the little composure she had
with such difficulty acquired.
She besought the prioress not to delay writing after her de-
parture, and to relate faithfully everything which happened in
consequence of her flight. She entreated her not to let a mis-
taken' compassion for her feelings influence her to conceal any-
thing, as anything like the appearance of concealment in her
letter wotild only torture her with anxiety and suspense.
' The prioress solemnly promised she would obey her request,
and Amanda, with tears, regretted that she was now unable to
recompense the kindness of the prioress and the sisterhood, as
she had lately intended doing by Lord Mortimer's desire, as
well as her own inclination. The prioress begged her not to
indulge any regret on that account, as they considered them-
selves already liberally recompensed, ajid had, besides, quite
sufficient to satisfy their humble desires.
Amanda said she meant to leave a letter on the dressing-
table for Lord Mortimer, with the notes which he had given her
pnclpsed in it. "Tlie pictures and the ring," said she, with a
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 385
falling tear, " I cannot part with ; " for the things which she
had ordered from the neighboring town, she told the prioress
she would leave money in her hands, alsb a present for the
woman, who had been engaged to attend her to England, as
some small recompense for her disappointment. She meant
only to take some linen and her mourning to Scotland ; the
rest of her things, including her music and books, at some fu-
ture and better period might be sent after her.
Amanda was in debt to the sisterhood for three months'
board and lodging, which was ten guineas. Of the two hun-
dred pounds which Lord Mortimer had given her on leaving
Castle Carberry, one hundred and twenty pounds remained, so
that though unable to answer the claims of gratitude, she thanked
Heaven she was able to fulfil those of justice. This she told
the prioress, who instantly declared, " tliat, in the name of the
whole sisterhood, she would take upon her to refuse anything
from her." Amanda did not contest the point, being secretly de-
termined how to act. Tlie prioress drank tea with her. When
over, Amanda said she would lie down, in order to try and be
composed against Lord Mortimer come. The prioress Jiccord-
ingly withdrew, saying, " she should not be disturbed till then."
I3y this means Amanda was enabled to be in readiness for
delivering her letter to Lord Cherbury at the proper hour.
Her heart beat with apprehension as it approached. She
dreaded Lord Mortimer again surprising her amongst the ruins,
or some of the nuns following her to them. At last the clock
gave the signal for keeping her appointment. She arose, trem-
bling, from the bed, and opened the door. She listened, and no
noise announced any one's being near. The moments were
precious. She glided through the g.iUery, and had the good
fortune to find the hall-door open. She hastened to the ruins,
and found Lord Cherbury already waiting there. She presented
him the letter in silence. He received it in the same manner ;
but when he saw her turning away to depart, he snatched her
hand, and, in a voice that denoted the most violent agitation,
exclaimed : " Tell me, tell me. Miss Fitzalan, is this letter pro-
pitious ? " " It is," replied she, in a faltering voice. " Then
may Heaven eternally bless you," cried he, falling at her feet,
and wrapping his arms about her. His posture shocked Aman-
da, and his detention terrified her.
" Let me go, my lord," said she. " In pity to me, in mercy
to yourself, let me go ; for one moment longer and we may be
discovered."
Lord Cherbury started up " From whom," cried he, " cai]
i5
386 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
I hear about yoii ? " " From the prioress of St. Catherine's,"
replied Amanda, in a trembling voice j " she only will know
the secret of my retreat."
He again snatched her hand and kissed it with vehemence.
"Farewell, thou angel of a woman ! " he exclaimed, and dis-
appeared amongst the ruins. Amanda hurried back, dreading
every moment to meet Lord Mortimer ; but she neither met him
nor any other person. She had scarcely gained her chamber
ere the prioress came to inform her his lordship was in the par-
lor. She instantly repaired to it. The air had a little changed
the deadly hue of her complexion, so that from her looks he
supposed her better, and her words strengthened the supposition.
She talked with him, forced herself to eat some supper, and
checked the tears from falling, which sprang to her eyes, when-
ever he mentioned the happiness they must experience when
united, the pleasure they should enjoy at Thornbury, and the
delight Lady Martha and Lady Araminta would experience
whenever they met.
Amanda desired him not to come to breakfast the next
morning, nor to the convent till after dinner, as she should be
so busy preparing for her journey she would have no time to
devote to him. He wanted to convince her he should not re-
tard iier preparations by coming, but she would not allow this.
Amanda passed another wretched night. She breakfasted
in the morning with the nuns, who expressed their regret at
losing her a regret, however, mitigated by the hope of shortly
seeing her again, as Lord Mortimer had promised to bring her
to Castle Carberry as soon as she had visited his friends in
England. This was a trying moment for Amanda. She could
scarcely conceal her emotions, or keep herself from weeping
aloud, at the mention of a promise never to be fulfilled. She
swallowed her breakfast in haste, and withdrew to her chamber
on pretence of settling her things. Here she was immediately
followed by the nuns, entreating they might severally be em-
ployed in assisting her. She thanked them with her usual sweet-
ness, but assured them no assistance was necessary, as she had
but few things to pack, never having unlocked the chests which
had come from Castle Carberry. They retired on receiving this
assurance, and Amanda, fearful of another interruption, in-
stantly sat down to write her farewell letter to Lord Mortimer.
TO LORD MORTIMER.
My Lord, A destiny, which neither of us can control, forbids our
union. Jn vain weru obstacles encountered an4 apparently ovcrcorof ; on?
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 387
h arisen to oppose it which we never could have tliought of, and, yield-
ing to it, as I am compelled by dire necessity to do, I find myself separated
from you, without the remotest hope of our ever meeting again without
being allowed to justify my conduct, or offer one excuse which might, in
some degree, palliate the abominable .ingratitude and deceit I may appear
guilty of ; appear, I say, for in reality my heart is a stranger to either, and
is now agonized at the sacrifice it is compelled to make ; but I will hot
hurt your lordship's feelings by dwelling on my own sufferings. Already
have I caused you too much pain, but never again shall I cross your path
to disturb your peace, and shade your prospect of felicity; no, my lord,'
removed to a tedious distance, the name I love no more will sink upon my
car, the delusive form of happiness no more will mock me.
Had everything turned out according to my wishes, perhaps happiness,
so great, so unexpected, might have produced a dangerous revolution in my
sentiments, and withdrawn my thoughts too much from heaven to earth ; if so,
oh ! blessed be the power that snatched from my lips the cup of joy, though
at the very moment I was tasting the delightful beverage.
I cannot bid you pity me, though I know myself deservhig of compas-
sion ; I cannot bid you forbear condemning me, though I know myself un-
deserving of censure. In this letter I enclose the notes I received from
your lordship ; the picture and the ring I have retained ; they will soon be
my only vestiges of former happiness. Farewell, Lord Mortimer, dear and
invaluable friend, farewell forever. May that peace, that happiness you so
truly deserve to possess, be yours, and may they never again meet with such
interruptions as thev have received from the unfortunate
Amanda M. Fitzalan.
This letter was blistered with her tears ; she laid it in a
drawer till cvcninc;, aiifl (linn procnwled in pack wlialftvfir film
meant to lalcc willi licr in a Jilllo Iriink. In llio inld.Hl of tlil^
business the prioress came in lo infonn her she had seen the
master of the wherry, and settled eVerything with him. He
not only promised to be secret, but to sail the following morn-
ing at four o'clock, and conduct her himself to Mrs. Macpher-
son's. About three he was to come to the convent for her ;
he had also promised to provide everything necessary on board
for her.
Matters being thus arranged, Amanda told the prioress, to
avoid suspicion, she would leave the money she intended for
the woman who had been engaged to accompany her to Eng-
land on her dressing-table, with a few lines purporting who it
was for. The prioress approved, of her doing so, as it would
prevent any one from suspecting she was privy to her departure.
She was obliged to leave her directly, and Amanda took the
opportunity of putting up fifteen guineas in a paper five for
the woman, and ten for the nuns. She wished to do more for
them, but feared to obey the dictates of generosity, while her
own prospect of provision was so uncertain. She wrote as
follows to the prioress : S
388 TUli CHILDREN Ol' THE ADBEY.
TO MRS. DERMOT.
Dear Madam, Was my situation otherwise than it now is, be assured
I never should have offered the trifle you will find in this paper as any way
adequate to the discharge of my debt ; to you and your amiable com-
panions, I regret my inability (more than I express) of proving my gratitude
to you and them for all your kindness never will they be obliterated from
my remembrance ; and He who has promised to regard those that befriend
the orphan, will reward you for them. I have also left five guineas for the
woman you were so good as to engage to attend me to England. I trust she
.will think them a sufficient recompense for any trouble or disappointment
I may have occasioned her.
Farewell, dear Mrs. Dermot, dear and amiable inhabitants of St. Cathe-
rine's farewell. As Amanda will never forget you in hers, so let her never
be forgotten in your orisons, and never cease to believe her.
Grateful, sincere, and affectionate,
A. M. FiTZALAN.
By this time slie was siimmoned to dinner. Her spirits were
sunk in tlie lowest dejection at tiie idea of leaving the amiable
women who had been so kind to her, and above all at the idea
of the last sad evening she was to pa,ss with Lord Morlimer.
His lordship came early to the convent. The dejected
looks of Amanda immediately struck him, and renewed all his
apprehensions about her health. She answered his tender
inquiries by saying she was fatigued.
" Perhaps," said he, "you would like to rest one day, and
not commence your journey to-morrow I "
" No, no," cried Amanda, " it shall not be deferred. ' To-
morrow," continued she, with a smile of anguish, " I will com-
mence it,"
Lord Mortimer thanked her for a resolution, he imagined,
dictated by an ardent desire to please him ; but at the same
time again expressed his fears that she was ill.
Amanda perceived that if she did not exert herself her de-
jection would lead him to inquiries she would find it difliicult to
evade ; but as to exert herself was impossible, in order to with-
draw his attention in some degree from herself, she proposed
that, as this was the last evening they would be at the convent,
they should invite the nuns to drink tea with them. Lord
Mortimer iiiimediately acquiesced in the proposal, and the in-
vitation being sent was accepted.
But the conversation of the whole party was of a melancholy
Hind. Amanda was so much beloved among them, that the
prospect of losing her filled them with a regret which even the
idea of seeing her soon again could not banish. About nine,
which was their hour for prayers, they rose to retire, and would
}iave taken leaveof Lord Mortimer, had he not informed them,
THE tiJItLDREN^ OF TJ/M ABDEV. 389
that on Miss Fitzal.m's account, he would not commence the
journey next day till ten o'clock, at wkich time he \if0uld again
have the pleasure of seeing them.
When they withdrew he endeavored to cheer Amanda, and
besought her to exert her spirits. Of his own accord, he said,
he would leave her early, that she might get as much rest as
possible against the ensuing d^y. He accordingly rose to de-
part. What an agonizing moment for Amanda ; to hear, to
behold the man, so tenderly beloved, for the last time ; to think
that ere that hour the next night she should be far, far away
from him, considered as a treacherous and ungrateful creature,
despised, perhaps execrated, as a source of perpetual disquiet
and sorrow to him ! Her heart swelled at those ideas with feel- ,
ings she thought would burst it : and when he folded her to his
bosom, and bid her be cheerful against the next morning, she
involuntarily returned the pressure, by straining him to her
heart in convulsive agitation, whilst a shower of tears burst
from her. -Lord Mortimer, shocked and surprised at these
tears and emotions, reseated her, for her agitation was conta-
gious, and he trembled so much he could not support her ; then
throwing himself at her feet, " My Amanda ! my beloved girl ! "
cried he, " what is the matter ? Is any wish of your heart yet
unfulfilled ? If so, let no mistaken notion of delicacy influence
you to conceal it on your happiness you know mine depends ;
tell me, therefore, I entreat, I conjure you, tell me, is there any-
thing 1 can do to restore you to cheerfulness f " " Oh, no I "
said Amanda, " all that a mortal could do to serve me you have
alrejnJy done, and my gratitude, the fervent sense I have of the
obligations I lie under to you, I cannot fully express. May
Heaven," raising her streaming eyes, " may Heaven recom-
pense your goodness by bestowing the choicest of its blessings
on you ! " " That," said Lord Mortimer, half smiling, " it has
already done in giving you to me, for you are the choicest bless-
ing it could bestow ; but tell me, what has dejected you in this
manner ! something more than fatigue, I am sure."
Amanda assured him " he was mistaken ; " and, fearful of
his further inquiries, told him, "she only waited for his de-
parture to retire to rest, which she was convinced would do her
good."
Lord Mortimer tnstantly rose from his kneeling posture :
" Farewell, then, my dear Amanda," cried he, " farewell, and be
well and cheerful against the morning."
She pressed his hand between hers, and laying her cold wet
cheek upon it : " Farewell," said she ; " when we next meet I
39
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
shall, I trust, be well "and cheerful ; for in heaven alone (thought
she at that moment) we shall ever meet again."
On the spot in which he left her Amanda stood motionless,
till she heard the hall-door close after him ; all composure then
forsook her, and, in an agony of tears and sobs, she threw her-
self on the seat he had occupied. The good prioress, guessing
what her feelings at this moment must be, was at hand, and
came in with drops and water, which she forced her to take, and
mingled the tears of sympathy with hers.
Her soothing attentions in a little time had the effect she
desired. They revived in some degree her unhappy young
friend, who exclaimed, " that the severest trial she could ever
possibly experience was now over." "And will, I trust and
believe," replied the prioress, "even in this life be yet re-
warded."
It was agreed that Amanda should put on her habit, and be
prepared against the man came for her. The prioress promised,
as soon as the house was at rest, to follow her to her chamber.
Amanda accordingly went to her apartment and put on her
travelling dress. She was soon followed by the prioress, who
brought in bread, wine, and cold chicken ; but the full heart of
Amanda would not allow her to partake of them, and her tears,
in spite of her efforts to restrain them, again burst forth. " She
was sure," she said, " the prioress would immediately let her
know if any intelligence arrived of her brother, and she again
besought her to write as soon as possible after her departure,
and to be minute."
She left the letters one for Lord Mortimer and the 'other
for the prioress on the table, and then with a kind of melan-
choly impatience waited for the man, who was punctual to the
appointed hour of three, and announced his arrival by a tap at
the window. She instantly rose and embraced the prioress in
silence, who, almost as much affected as herself, had only power
to say, " God bless you, my dear child, and make you as happy
as you deserve to be."
Amanda shook her head mournfully, as if to say she expected
no happiness, and then, softly stepping along the gallery, opened
the hall-door, where she found the man waiting. Her little
trunk was already lying in the hall. She pointed it out to him,
and as soon as he had taken it they departed.
Never did any being feel more forlorn than Amanda now did.
What siie suffered when quitting the marchioness's was com-
paratively happiness to what she now endured. She then looked
forward to the protection, comfort, and support of a tender
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 391
parent ; now she had nothing in view which could in the least
cheer or alleviate her feelings. She cast her mournful eyes
around, and the objects she beheld heightened, if possible, her
anguish. She beheld the old trees which shaded the grave ot
her father waving in the morning breeze, and oh I how fervently
at that moment did she wish that by his side she was laid be-
neath their shelter !
She turned from them with a heart-rending sigh, which
reached the ear of the man who trudged before her. He in-
stantly turned, and seeing her pale and trembling, told her he
had an arm at her service, which she gladly accepted, being
scarcely able to support herself. A small boat was waiting for
them about halt a mile above Castle Carberry. It conveyed
them in a few moments to the vessel, which the master pre-
viously told her would be under weigh directly. She was
pleased to find his wife on board, who conducted Amanda to
the cabin, where she found breakfast laid out with neatness for
lier. She took some tea and a little bread, being almost
exhausted with fatigue. Her companion, impulfng her dejec-
tion to fears of crossing the sea, assured her the passage would
be very short, and bid her observe how plainly they could see
the Scottish liills, now partially gilded by the beams of the
rising sun ; but, beautiful as they appeared, Amanda's eyes
were turned from them to a more interesting object, Castle
Carberry. She asked the woman if she thought the castle
could be seen from the opposite coast ? and she replied in the
negative.
" I am sorry for it," said Amanda, mournfully. She con-
tinued at the window for the melancholy pleasure of contem-
plating it, till compelled by sickness to lie down on the bed.
The woman attended her with the most assiduous care, and
about four o'clock in the afternoon informed her they had
reached Port-Patrick. Amanda arose, and sending for the
master, told him, as she did not wish to go to an inn, she
would thank him to hire a chaise to carry her directly to Mrs.
Macpherson's. He said she should be obeyed ; and Amanda
having settled with him for her passage, he went on shore for
that purpose, and soon returned to inform her a carriage was
ready. Amanda, having thanked his wife for her kind atten-
tion, stepped into the boat, and entered the chaise the moment
she landed. Her companion told her he was well acquainted
with Mrs. Macpherson, having frequently carried packets from
Mrs. Dermot to her. She lived about five miles from Port-
Patrick, he said, and near the sea-coast. They accordingly soon
392
THE CHILDKEN OF THE ABBEY.
reached her habitation. It was a small, low house, of a grayish
color, situated in a field almost covered with thistles, and
divided from the road by a rugged-looking wall. The sea lay
at a little distance from it. The coast hereabouts was extremely
rocky, and the prospect on every side wild and dreary in the
extreme.
Amanda's companion, by her desire, went first into the
house to prepare Mrs. Macpherson for her reception. He re-
turned in a few minutes, and telling her she was happy at her
arrival, conducted her into the house. From a narrow passage,
they turned into a small, gloomy-looking parlor, with a clay
floori Mrs. Macpherson was sitting in an old-fashioned arm-
chair her face was sharp and meagre her stature low, and,
like Otway's ancient Beldame, doubled with age ; her gown
was gray stuff, and, though she was so low, it was not long
enough to reach her ankle ; her black-silk apron was curtailed
in the same manner, and over a little mob-cap she wore a hand-
kerchief tied ynder the chin. She just nod(led lo Amanda on
her entrance, and, putting on a i)air of large spectacles, sur-
veyed her without speaking. Amanda presented Mrs. Der-
mot's introductory letter, and then, though unbidden, seated
herself on the window-seat till she had perused it. Her trunk,
in the mean time, was brought in, and she paid for the carriage,
. requesting at the same time the master of the vessel to wait
till she had heard what Mrs. Macpherson would say. At length
the old lady broke silence, and her voice was quite as sharp as
her face.
" So, child," said she, again surveying Amanda, and then
elevating her spectacles to have a better opportunity of speak-
ing, " why, to be sure I did desire my cousin to get me a young
person, but not one so young, so very young, as you appear to
be." " Lord bless you ! " said the man, " if that is a fault,
why, it is one will mend every day." " Ay, ay," cried the old
dame, " but it will mend a little too slow for me. However,
child, as you are so well recommended, I will try you. My
cousin says something of your being well born, and having seen
better days. However, child, I tell you beforehand, I shall not
consider what you have been, but what you are now, I shall
therefore expect you to be mild, regular, and attentive no
flaunting, no gadding, no chattering, but staid, sober, and
modest." " Bless your heart," said the man, " if you look in
her face you will see she'll be all you desire." " Ay, ay, so you
may say ; but I should be very sorry to depend upon the
promise of a face like the heart, it is often treacherous and
THB CHILDREN OF THE ABHEY. 393
deceitful ; so pray, young woman, tell me, and remember I ex-
pect a conscientious answer, whether you think you will be able
to do as I wish ? " " Yes, madam," replied Amanda, in a
voice almost choked by the variety of painful emotions she
experienced.
" Well, then, we are agreed, as you know the salary I give."
The master of the vessel now took his leave, never having been
asked by Mrs. Macpherson to take any refreshment.
The heart of Amanda sunk within her from the moment she
entered Mrs; Macpherson's door. She shuddered at being left
with so unsocial a being in a place so wild and dreary. A
hovel near St. Catherine's she would have thought a palace in
point of real comfort to her present habitation, as she then
could have enjoyed' the soothing society of the tender and
amiable nuns. The presence of the master of the vessel, from
the fiity ancj concern he manifested for her, had something con-
solatory in it, and when he left the rodm she burst into tears, as
if then, and n6t till then, she had been utterly abandoned.
She hastily followed him out. " Give my love, my best love,"
said she, sobbing violently, and laying her trembling hand on
his, " to Mrs. Dermot, and tell her, oh ! tell her to write directly,
and give me some comfort."
" You may depend on my doing so," replied he, " but cheer
up, my dear young lady j what though tiic old dame in the
parlor is a little cranky, she will mend, no doubt j so Heaven
bless you, and make you as happy as you deserve to be."
Sad and silent, Amanda returned to the parlor, and seating
herself in the window, strained her eyes after the carriage which
had brought her to this dismal spot.
CHAPTER XLII.
** of joys departed, never to return,
How bitter the remembrance I " Blair.
" Well, child," said Mrs. Macpherson, " do you choose to
take anything?" " I thank you, madam," replied Amanda,
" I should like a little tea." " Oh ! as to tea, I have just taken
my own, and the things are all washed and put by ; but, if you
like a glass of spirits and water, and a crust of bread, you may
have it." Amanda said she did not. " Oh I very well," cried
394
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Mrs. Macpherson, " I shall not press you, for supper will soon
be ready." She then desired Amanda to draw a chair near
hers, and began torturing her with a variety of minute and
trifling questions relative to herself, the nuns, and the neighbor-
hood of St. Catherine's.
Amanda briefly said, " her father had been in the army, that
many disappointments and losses had prevented his making
any provision for her, and that on his death, which happened
in the neighborhood of the convent, the nuns had taken her
out of compassion, till she procured an establishment for her-
self." "Ay, and a comfortable one you have procured your-
self, I promise you," said Mrs. Macpherson, " if it is not your
own fault." She then told Amanda, " she would amuse her by
shewing her her house and other concerns." This indeed was
easily done, as it consisted but of the parlor, two closets adjoin-
ing it, and the kitchen, on the opposite side of the entry ; the
. other concerns were a small garden, planted with kail, and the
field covered with thistles. " A good, comfortable tenement
this," cried Mrs. Macpherson, shaking her head with much
. satisfaction, as she leaned upon her ebony-headed cane, and
cast her eyes around. She bid Amanda admire the fine pros-
pect before the door, and, calling to 'a red-haired and bare-
legged girl, desired her to cut some thistles to put into the fire,
and hasten the boiling of the kail. On returning to the parlor
. she unlocked a press, and took out a pair of coarse, brown
sheets to air for Amanda. She herself slept in one closet, and
in the other was a bed for Amanda, laid on a half-decayed bed-
, stead, without curtains, and covered with a blue-stuff quilt.
The closet was lighted by one small window, which looked into
the garden, and its furniture consisted of a broken chair, and a
piece of looking-glass stuck to the wall.
The promised supper was at length served. It consisted
of a few heads of kail, some oaten bread, a jug of water, and a
small phial half full of spirits, which Amanda would not taste,
and the old lady herself took but sparingly. They were lighted
by a small candle, which, on retiring to their closets, Mrs. Mac-
pherson cut between them.
Amanda felt relieved by being alone. She could now with-
out restraint indulge her tears and her reflections ; that she
could never enjoy any satisfaction with a being so ungracious
in her manners and so contracted in her notions, she foresaw ;
but, disagreeable as her situation must be, she felt inclined to
continue in it, from the idea of its giving her more opportuni-
ties of hearing from Mrs. Dermot than she could have in almost
nm CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
395
any other place, and by these opportunities alone could she ex-
pect to hear of Lord Mortimer ; and to hear of him, even the
most trifling circumstance, though divided, forever divided
from him, would be a source of exquisite though melancholy
pleasure.
To think she should hear of him, at once soothed and fed
her melancholy. It lessened the violence of sorrow, yet with-
out abating its intenseness ; it gave a delicious sadness to her
soul she thought would be ill exchanged for any feelings short
of those she must have experienced, if her wishes had been
accomplished. She enjoyed the pensive luxury of virtuous
grief, which mitigates the sharp
With gracious drops
Of cordial pleasure,"
and which Akenside so beautifully describes ; nor can I forbear
quoting the lines he has written to illustrate the tlruth
" Ask the faithful youth
Why the cold urn of her, whoin long he loved
So often fills his arms, so often draws
Ills lonely footsteps at the silent hour,
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears f
O, he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego
That sacred hour, when, stealing from the noise
(.)t care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes
With virtue's kindest looks his aching heart.
And turns his tears to rapture."
Fatigued by the contending emotions she experienced, as
well as the sickness she went through at sea, Amanda soon
retired to her flock bed, and fell into a profound slumber, in
which she continued till roused in the mornhig by the shrill
voice of Mrs. Macpherson, exclaiming, as she rapped at the
door, " Come, come, Frances, it is time to rise."
Amanda started from her sleep, forgetting both the name
she had adopted and the place where she was ; but Mrs. Mac-
pherson again calling her to rise, restored her to her recollec-
tion. She replyed she would attend her directly, and, hurrying
on her clothes, was with her in a few minutes. She found the
old lady seated at the breakfast-table, who, instead of return-
ing her salutation, said, " that on account of her fatigue she
excused her lying so long in bed this morning, for it was now
eight o'clock ; but in future she would expect her to rise be-
fore six in summer, and seven in winter, adding, as there was
no clock, she would rap at her door for that purpose every
morning."
3g6 \ 1'^IE CHlLlHiEN OF THE ABBEY.
Amanda assured her " she was fond of rising early, and
always accustomed to it." The tea was now poured out ; it
was of the worst kind, and sweetened with coarse brown sugar;
the bread was oaten, and there was no butter. Amanda, un-
used to such unpalatable fare, swallowed a little of it with diffi-
culty, and then, with some hesitation, said " she would prefer
milk to tea." Mrs. Macpherson frowned exceedingly at this,
and, after continuing silent a few minutes, said, " she had really
made tea for two people, and she could not think of having it
wasted ; besides, she added, the economy of her house was so
settled she could not infringe it for any one." She kept no cow
herself, and only took in as much milk as served her tea and
an old tabby-cat.
Amanda replied, " it was of no consequence," and Mrs.
Macpherson said, indeed she supposed so, and muttered some-
thing of people giving themselves airs they had no pretensions
to. The tea-table was removed before nine, when the school
began ; it consisted of about thirty girls, most of them daugh-
ters of farmers in the neighborhood. Amanda and they being in-
troduced to each other (and she being previously informed what
they were taught), was desired to commence the task of in-
structing them entirely herself that day,, as Mrs. Macpherson
wanted to observe her manner a most unpleasant task indeed
for poor Amanda, whose mind and body were both harassed by
anxiety and fatigue. As she had undertaken it, however, she
resolved to go through it with as much cheerfulness and alac-
rity as possible. She accordingly acquitted herself to the
satisfaction of Mrs. Macpherson, who only found fault with her
too great gentleness, saying, the children would never fear her.
At two the school broke up, and Amanda, almost as delighted
as the children to be at liberty, was running into the garden to
try if the air would be of use to a very violent headache ; when
she was called back to put the forms and other things in order.
She colored, and stood motionless, till recollecting that if she
refused to obey Mrs. Macpherson a quarrel would probably
ensue, which, circumstanced as she was, without knowing
where to go to, would be dreadful, she silently performed what
she had been desired to do. Dinner was then brought in ; it
was as simple and as'sparingasaBraman could desire it to be.
When over, Mrs. Macpherson composed herself to take a nap
in the large chair, without making any kind of apology to
Amanda.
Left at liberty, Amanda would now have walked out ; but
it had just begun to rain, and everything looked dreary and
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 397
desolate. From the window in which she pensively sat she had
a view of the sea ; it looked black and tempestuous, and she
could distinguish its awful and melancholy roaring as it daslujd
against the rocks. The little servant-girl, as she cleaned the
kitchen, sung a dismal Scotch ditty, so that all conspired to
oppress the spirits of Amanda with a dejeqtion greater than
she had before ever experienced ; all hope was now extinct,
the social ties of life seemed broken, never more to be reunited.
She had now no father, no friend, no lover, as heretofore, to
soothe her feelings, or alleviate her sorrows. Like the poor
Belvidera she might have said,
" There was a time
Her cries and sorrows
Were not despised, when, if she chanced to sigh,
Or but look sad, a friend or parent
Would have talcen her in their arms,
Eased her declining liead upon their breasts,
And never left her till they found the cause ;
But now let her weep seas,
Cry till she rend the earth, sigh till she burst
Her heart asunder, she is disregarded."
Like a tender sapling, transplanted from its native soil, she
seemed to stand alone, exposed to every adverse blast. Her
tears gushed forth, and fell in showers down her pale cheeks.
She sighed forth llie name of her father : " Oh I dear and most
benignant of men," she exclaimed, " my father and my friend j
were you living, 1 should not be so wretched ; pity and conso-
lation would then be mine. Oh I my father, one of the drear-
iest caverns in yonder rocks would be an asylum of comfort
were you with mc ; but I am selfish in these regrets, certain as
I am that you exchanged this life of wretchedness for one of
eternal peace, for one where you were again united to your
Malvina."
Her thoughts adverted to what Lord Mortimer, in all prob-
ability, now thought of her ; but this was too dreadful to dwell
upon, convinced as she was, that, from appearances, he must
think most unfavorably of her. His picture was hung in her
bosom, she drew it out. She gazed with agonizing tenderness
upon it. She pressed it to her lips, and prayed for its original.
From this indulgence of sorrow she was disturbed by the wak-
ing of Mrs. Macpherson. She hastily wiped away her tears,
and hid the beloved picture. The evening passed most dis-
agreeably. Mrs. Macpherson was tedious and inquisitive in her
discourse, and it was almost as painful to listen as to answer
her, Amanda was happy when the hour for retiring to be4
398 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
arrived, and relieved her from what might be called a kind of
mental bondage.
Such was the first day Amanda passed in her new habita-
tion, and a week elapsed in the same manner without any vari-
ation, except that on Sunday she had a cessation from her
labors, and went to the kirk with Mrs. Macpherson. At the
end of the week she found herself so extremely ill from the
fatigue and confinement she endured, as Mrs. Macpherson
would not let her walk out, saying, " gadders were good for
nothing" that she told her, except allowed to go out every
evening, she must leave her, as she could not bear so sedentary
a life. Mrs. Macpherson looked disconcerted, and grumbled
a good deal ; but as Amanda spoke in a resolute manner, she
was frightened lest she should put her threats into execution,
she was so extremely useful in the school ; and at last told her
she might take as much exercise as she pleased every day after
dinner.
Amanda glajdly availed herself of this permission. She ex-
plored all the romantic paths about the house ; but the one she
chiefly delighted to take was that which led to the sea. She
loved to ramble about the beach ; when fatigued to sit down
upon the fragment of a rock and look towards the opposite
shore. Vainly then would she try to discover some of the ob-
jects she knew so well. Castle Carberry was utterly undislin-
guishablc, but she knew the spot on which it stood, and de-
rived a melancholy pleasure from looking that way. In these
retired rambles she would freely indulge her tears, and gaze
upon the picture of Lord Mortimer. She feared no observa-
tion ; the rocks formed a kind of recess about her, and in
going to them she seldom met a creature.
A fortnight passed in this way, and she began to feel sur-
prise and uneasiness at not hearing from Mrs. Dermot. If
much longer silent, she resolved on writing, feeling it impos-
sible to endure much longer the agony her ignorance of Lord
Mortimer's proceedings gave her. The very morning previous
to the one she had fixed for writing she saw a sailor coming to
the house, and believing he was the bearer of a letter to her,
she forgot everything but her feelings at the moment, and
starting from her seat ran from the room. She met him a few
yards from the house, and then perceived he was one of the
sailors of the vessel she had come over in. " You have a
letter for me, I hope ,' " paid Amanda. The man nodded, and
fumbling in his bosom for a moment, pulled out a large packet,
which Amanda snatched with eager transport from him ; and
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 399
knowing she could not attempt to bring liim into the hoiisc for
refreshment, gave him a crown to procure it elsewhere, which he '
received with thankfulness, and departed. She then returned
to the parlor, and was hastening to her closet to read the letter,
when Mrs. Macpherson stopped her. " Hey-day," cried she,
" what is the matter ? what is all this fuss about ? Why, one
would think that was a love letter, you are so very eager to
read it." " It is not, then, I can assure you " said Anianda.
" Well, well ; and who is it from ? " Amanda reflected that if
she said from Mrs. Dermot a number of impertinent questions
would be asked her. She therefore replied : " From a very
particular friend." " From a very particular friend I Well, I
suppose there is nothing about life or death in it, so you may
wait till after dinner to read it ; and pray sit down now, and
hear the children their spelling lessons." This was a tanta-
lizing moment to Amanda. She stood hesitating whether she
should obey, till reflecting that if she went now to read the
packet, she should most probably be interrupted ere she had got
through half the contents, she resolved on putting it up till after
dinner. The moment at last came for Mrs. Macpherson's usual
oap, and Amanda instantly hastened to a recess amongst the .
rocks, where seating herself, she broke the seal. The envelope .
contained two letters. The first she cast her eyes upon was
(lirccted in Lord Cherbury's hand. She trembled, tore it open,
and read as follov/s :
TO MISS FITZALAN.
In vain, my dear madam, do ^ou say you never will receive pecuniary
favors from me. It is not you, but I, should lie under obligations from their
acceptance. I should deem myself the most ungrateful of mankind if I did
not insist on carrying this point. I am but just returned to 1/ondon, and
shall immediately order my lawyer to draw up a deed" entitling you to three
hundred pounds a year, which, when completed, I shall transmit to the
prioress (as I have this letter) to send to you. 1 am sensible, indeed, that
I never can recompense the sacrifice you have made me. The feelings it
has excited I shall not attempt to express, because language could never do
them justice ; but you may conceive what I must feel for the being who has
preserved me from dishonor and destruction. I am informed Lord Mor-
timer has left Ireland, and therefore daily expect him in town. I have
now not only every hope, but every prospect, of his complying with my
wishes. This, I imagine, will be rather pleasing to you tb hear, that you
may know the sacrifice you have made is not made in vain, but will be
attended with all the good consequences I expected to derive from it. I
should again enjoy a tolerable degree of peace, were I assured you wcrt
happy; but this is an assurance I will hope soon to receive; for if you are
not happy, who has a right to expect being so ? you whose virtue is so pure,
whose generosity is so noble, so heroic, so f^r superior to any I have ever
met with 1
400
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
That in this world, as well as the next, you may be rewarded for it, is,
dear madam, the sincere wish of him who has the honor to subscribe himself
your most grateful, most obliged, and most obedient, humble servant,
Cherbury.
" Unfeeling man ! " exclaimed Amanda, " how little is your
heart interested in what you write, and how slight do you make
of the sacrifice I have made you ; how cruelly mention your
hopes, which are derived from the destruction of mine ! No,
sooner would I wander from door to door for charity, than be
indebted to your ostentatious gratitude for support you, whose
treachery and vile deceit have ruined my happiness." She
closed the letter, and committing it to her pocket, took up the
other, which she saw by the direction was from her dear Mrs.
Dermot.
TO MISS DONALD.
Ah 1 my dear child, why extort a promise from me of being minute in
relating everything which happened in consequence of your departure a
promise so solenmly given that I dare not recede from it ; yet most unwill-
ingly do I keep it, sensible as I am that the intelligence I have to commu-
nicate will but aggravate your sorrows. Mcthinks I hear you exclaim at
this ! " Surely, my dear Mrs. Dermot, you who know my disposition and
temper so well, might suppose I would receive such intelligence with a for-
titude and patience that would prevent its materially injurmg me." Well,
my dear, hoping this will be the case, I begin, without further delay, to com-
municate particulars. You left me, you may remember, about three o'clock.
I then went to bed, but so fatigued and oppressed I could scarcely sleep,
and was quite unrcfrcshed by what I did ^et. After prayers I repaired to
the parlor, where the assiduous care of Sister Mary had already prepared
everything for your breakfast and Lord Mortimer's. I told the sisters not
to appear till they were sent for. I had not been long alone when Lord
Mortimer came in cheerful, blooming, animated. Never did I see happi-
ness so strongly impressed in any countenance as in his. lie looked, indeed,
the lover about receiving the precious reward of constancy. He asked me
had I seen you ? I answered, No. He soon grew impatient, said you were
a lazy girl, and feared you would make a bad traveller. He then rang the
bell, and desired the maid to go and call you. Oh ! my dear girl, my heart
almost died within me at this moment. I averted my head, and pretended
to be looking at the garden to conceal my confusion. The maid returned
in a few minutes, ancT said you were not above. " Well," said Lord Mor-
timer, " she Is in some other apartment ; pray search, and hasten her
hither." In a few minutes after she departed. Sister Mary, all pale and
breathless, rushed into the room. " Oh, heavens ! " cried she, " Miss Fitz-
alan cannot be found; but here are two letters I found on her dressing-table
one for you, madam, and one for Lord Mortimer." I know not how he
looked at this Instant, for a guilty consciousness came over my mind, which
prevented my raising my eyes to his. I took the letter in silence, opened,
but had no power to read it. Sister Mary stood by me, wringing her hands
and weeping, as she exclaimed, "What what does she say to you?" I
could neither answer her nor move, till a deep sigh, or rather groan, from
Lord Mortimer roused ne, X started from my seat, and perceiveci him pale
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. .401
and motionless, the letter open in his hand, upon which his eyes wtire
riveted. I threw open the garden door to give him air. This a little
revived him. " Be comforted, my lord," said I. He shook his head
mournfully, and waving his hand for me neither to speak nor follow him,
passed into the garden. " Blessed Heaven I " said Sister Mary again,
" what does she say to you I " I gave her your letter, and desired her to
read it aloud, for the tears which flowed at the affecting situation of Lord
Mortimer quite obscured my sight. And here, my dear child, I must declare
that you have been too generous, and also, that the sum you betrayed us
into taking is but considered as a loan by u.s. But, to return to my first
subject. The alarm concerning you now became general, and the nuns
crowded into the room grief and consternation in every countenance. In
about half an hour I saw Lord Mortimer returning to the parlor, and I then
dismissed them. He had been endeavoring to compose himself, but his
efforts for doing so were ineffectual. He trembled, was pale as death, and
spoke with a faltering voice. He gave me your letter to read, and I put
mine into his hand. " Well, my lord," said I, on perusing it, " we must
rather pity than condemn her." " From my soul," cried he, " I pity her
I pity sucn a being as Amanda Fitzalan, for being the slave, the prey of
vice. But she has been cruel to me ; she has deceived, inhumanlv deceived
me, and blasted my peace for ever I " " Ah, my lord I " I repliecf, " though
appearances are against her, I can never believe her guilty. She, who per-
formed all the duties of a child, as Amanda Fitzalan did, and who, to my
certain knowledge, was preparing herself for a life of poverty, can never be
a victim to vice." " Mention her no more," cried he ; " her name is like a
dagger to my heart. The suspicions which, but a few nights ago, I could
have killed myself for entertaining, are now confirmed. They intruded on
my mind from seeing Belgrave haunting this place, and from finding lier
secreted amidst the ruins at a late hour. Ah, heavens I when I noticed her
confusion, how easily did she exculpate herself to a heart prepossessed like
mine in her favor I Unhajjpy, unfortunate girl I sad and pitiable is thy fate I
but may an early repentance snatch thee from the villain who now triumphs
in thy ruin ; aiid may we, since thus separated, never meet again. So well,"
continued he, " am I convinced of the cause of her flight, that I shall not
make one inquiry after her." I again attempted to speak in your justifica-
tion, but he silenced me. I begged he would allow me to get him breakfast.
He could touch nothing, and said he must return directly to Castle Car-
berry, but promised, in the course of the day, to see me again. I followed
him into the hall. At the sight of your corded boxes, he started, and shrunk
back, with that kind of melancholy horror which we involuntarily feel when
viewing anything that belonged to a dear, lost friend. I saw his emotions
were agonizing. He hid his face with his handkerchief, and, with a hasty
step, ascended to his carriage, which, with a travelling chaise, was waiting
at the door
I own I was often tempted, in the course of conversation, to tell him all
I knew about you; but the promise I had given you still rose to my view,
and I felt, without your permission, I could not break it; yet, my dear, it is
shocking to me to have such imputations cast on you. We cannot blame
Lord Mortimer for them. Situated as you were with him, your conduct has
naturally excited the most injurious susijicion'i. Surely, my child, though
not allowed to solve the mystery which has separated you from him, you
may be allowed to vindicate your conduct. The sacrifice of fame and hajj-
piness is too much. Consider and weigh well what I say, and, if possible,
authorize me to inform Lord Mortimer that I know of your retreat, and that
you have retired neither to a lover nor a friend ; but to indigence and
26
402 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
obscurity, led thither by a fatal necessity which you are bound to conceal,
and feel more severely from that circumstauce. lie would, I am confident,
credit my words ; an(l tlicn, instead of condemning, would join me in pitt-
ing you. The more I reflect on your unaccountable separation, the more am
I bewildered in conjectures relative to it, and convinced more strongly than
ever of the frailty of human joy, which, like a summer cloud, is bright, but
transitory' in its splendor. Lord Mortimer had left the convent about two
hours, when his man arrived to di.smiss the travelling chaise and attendants.
I went out and inquired after his lord. " He is very bad, madam," said he,
"and this has been a sad morning for us all." Never, my dear Miss Fitz-
alan, did I, or the sisterhood, pass so melancholy a day. About five in the
afternoon, I received another visit from Lord Mortimer. I was alone in the
parlor, which he entered with an appearance of the deepest melancholy ;
one of his arms was in a sling. I was terrified, lest he and Belgrave had
met. He conjectured, I fancy, the occasion of the terror my countenance
expressed, for he immediately said he had been ill on returnmg to Castle
Carberry, and was bled. He was setting off directly for Dublin, he said,
, from whence he intended to embark for England. " But I could not depart,
my dear, good friend," continued he, " without bidding you farewell ; besides.
I wanted to assure you, that any promise whicli the unfortunate girl made
you in my name I shall hold sacred." I knew he alluded to the fifty pounds
which he had desired you to tell me should be annually remitted to our
house. I instantly, therefore, replied, that we had alread); been rewarded
beyond our expectation or desires for any little attention we showed
Miss I''itzalan ; but his generous resolution was not to be shaken. He
looked weak and exhausted. I begged permission to make tea for him
ere he commenced his journey. He consented. I went out of the room to
order in the things. When I returned, he was standing at the window
which looked into the garden, so absorbed in meditation that he did not
hear me. I heard him say, " Cruel Amanda I is it thus you have rewarded
my sufferings ?" I retreated, lest he .should be confused by suppo.sing him-
self overheard, and did not return till the maid brought in the tea things.
When he arose to depart, helooked wavering and agitated, as if there was
something on his mind be wanted courage to say. At last, in a faltering
voice, while the deadly paleness of his complexion gave way to a deep crim-
son, he said, "I left Miss Fitzahm's letter with you." Ah, my dear!
never did man love woman better than he did, than he now loves yon. I
took the letter from my pocket, and presented it to him. He put it in his
bosom, with an emotion that shook his whole frame. I hailed this as a
favorable opportunity for again speaking in your favor. I bid him retro-
spect your past actions, and judge from them whether you could be guilty
of a crime . He stopped me short. He begged me to drop a subject
he was unable to bear. Had he been less credulous, he said, he should now
have been much happier ; then wringin" my hand, he bid me farewell, in a
voice, arid wjth a look, that drew tears from me. " Ah, my dear madam I "
cried he, " when this day commenced, how differently did I think it would
have terminated ! "
I attended him to his carriage. He was obliged to lean upon his man
as he ascended to it, and his looks and agitation pi'oclaimed the deepest
distress. I have .sent repcaicdly to Castle Carberry since his departure to
inquire about liiui, and have been informed, that they expect to hear noth-
ing of him till Lord Cherbury's agent comes into the country, which will
not be these three months.
I have heard much of the good he did in the neighborhood. He has a
bounteous and benevolent spirit indeed. To our community he has been a
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 403
liberal benefactor, and our prayers are daily offered up for his restoration
to healtli and tranquillity. Amongst his other actions, when in Dublin,
about three months ago, he ordered a monument to the memory of Captain
Fitzalan, which has been brought down since your departure, and put up in
the parish church, where he is interred. I sent Sister Mary and another of
the nuns the other evening to see it, and they brought me a description of
it. It is a white marble urn, ornamented with a foliage of laurel, and stand-
ing upon a pedestal of gray, on which the name of the deceased, and words
to the following effect, are' inscribed, namely : " That he whose memory it
perpetuates, performed the dulies of a Christian and a soldier, with a fidelity
and zeal that now warrants his enjoying a blessed recompense for both."
I know this proof of respect to your father will deeply affect you ; but I
would not omit telling it, because, though it will affect, I am confident it
will also please you. The late events have cast a gloom over all our spirits.
Sister Mary now prays more than ever ; and you know I have often told
her she was only fit for a religious vocation. It is a bad world, she says,
we live in, and she is glad she has so little to say to it.
I am longing to hear from you. Pray tell me how you like Mrs. Mac-
pherson. I have not seen her since her youth, and years often produce as
great a change in the temper as the face. At any rate, your present situa-
tion is too obscure for you to continue in, and, as soon as your thoughts are
collected and composed, you must look out fpr another. I hope you will be
constant in writing ; but I tell you beforehand, you must not expect me to
be punctual in my answers I have been so long disused to writing, and my
eyes are grown so weak. This letter has been the work of many days; be-
sides, I have really nothing interesting to communicate : whenever I have,
you may be assured I shall not lose a moment in info, mi ig you.
The woman was extremely thankful for the five guineas you left her.
Lord Mortimer sent her five more by his man ; so that she thinks herself
well rewarded for any trouble or dl.iappointmcnt she experienced. If you
wish to have any of your things sent to you, acquahit me ; you know I shall
never want an opportunity by the master of the vessel. He speaks largely
of your generosity to him, and expresses much pity at seeing so young a
person in such melancholy. May Heaven, if it does not remove the source,
at least lessen this melancholy.
If possible, allow me to write to Lord Mortimer, and vindicate you from
the unworthy suspicions he entertains of you. I know he would believe me,
and I should do it without discovering your retreat. Farewell, my dear
girl. I recommend you constantly to the care of Heaven, and beg you to
believe you will ever be dear and interesting to the heart of
Elizabeth Dermot.
St. Catherine's.
Poor Amanda wept over this letter, " I have ruined the
healtli, the peace of Lord Mortimer," she exclaimed, " and he
now execrates me as the source of his unhappiness. Oh !
Lord Cherbury, how severely do I suffer for your crime I "
She began to think her virtue had been too heroic in the
sacrifice she had made. But this was a transient idea, for
when she reflected on the disposition of Lord Cherbury, she
was convinced the divulgement of his secret would have been
followed by his death ; and, great as was her present wretched-
ness, she felt it light compared to the horrors she knew she
404 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
would experience could she accuse herself of being accessory to
such an event. She now drank deeply of the cup of misery,
but conscious rectitude, in some degree, lessened its noxious
bitterness. She resolved to caution Mrs. Dermot against men-
tioning her in any manner to Lord Mortimer. She was well
convinced he would believe no assseveration of her innocence.
And even if he did, what end could it answer ? Their union
was opposed by an obstacle not to be surmounted, and if he
sought and discovered her retreat, it would only lead to new
sorrows, perhaps occasion some dreadful catastrophe. " We
are separated," cried she, folding her hands together, " for-
ever separated in this world, but in Heaven we shall again be
reunited."
Absorbed in the reflections and sorrow this letter gave rise
to, she remained in her seat till Mrs. Macpherson's little girl
suddenly appeared before her, and said her mistress had made
tea, and was wondering what kept her out so long.
Amanda instantly arose, and carefully putting up the letter,
returned to the house, where she foui.d Mrs. Macpherson in a
very bad humor. She grumbled exceedingly at Amanda's
staying out so long, and taking notice of her eyes being red
and swelled, said, " indeed, she believed she was right in sup-
posing she had got a love-letter." Amanda made no reply,
and the evening passed away in psevishness on one side and
silence on the other.
The charm which had hitherto rendered Amanda's situation
tolerable was now dissolved, as Mrs. Dermot had said she
could write but seldom, and scarcely expected to have anything
interesting to relate. She would gladly, therefore, have left
Mrs. Macpherson immediately, but she knew not where to go.
She resolved, however, ere winter had entirely set in, to request
Mrs. Dermot to look out for some other place for her : as she
had connections in Scotland, she thought she might recommend
her to them as a governess, or a fit person to do fine works for
a lady. She rose long before her usual hour the next morning,
and wrote a letter expressive of her wishes and intentions to
Mrs. Dermot, which she sent by a poor man, who lived near
the house, to the post-town, rewarding him liberally for his
trouble.
nm cmi.DREN of the abbey. 405
CHAPTER XUII.
" Who knows the joys of friendship,
The trust, security and mutual tenderness,
Tlie double joys, where each is glad for both ;
Friendship, our only wealth, our last retreat artd strength,
Secure against il:-fortune and the world? '* Rowo.
Among Mrs. Macpherson's pupils were two little girls, who
pleased and ' interested Amanda greatly. Their father, for
whom they were in mourning, had perished in a violent storm,
and their mother had pined in health and spirits ever since
the fatal accident. The kindness with which Amanda treated
them, they repaid with gratitude and attention. It had a
double effect upon their little hearts, from being contrasted
with the sour austerity of Mrs. Macpherson. They told
Amanda, in a whisper, one morning, that their mamma was
coming to see th?ir dear, good Frances Donald.
Accordingly, in the course of the day, Mrs. Duncan came.
She was young and pleasing in her appearance ; her weeds and
deep dejection rendered her a most interesting object. She
sat by Amanda, and took an opportunity, while Mrs. Macpher-
son was engaged with some of the children, to tell her, in a low
voice, " she was truly obliged to her for the great attejition and
kindness she showed her little girls, so unlike their former
treatment at the school." " The task of instructing them was
hers," she said, " till her declining health and spirits rendered
her no longer able to bear it." Amanda assured her, " it was
a pleasure to instruct minds so docile and sweet tempered as
theirs." Mrs. Duncan, as she rose to depart, asked her and
Mrs. Macpherson to tea that evening, which invitation was
instantly accepted by Mrs. Macpherson, who was extremely
fond of being sociable everywhere but in her own house. Mrs.
Duncan lived at but a little distance, and everything in and
about her house was neat and comfortable. She had an old
neighbor in the parlor; who kept Mrs. Macpherson in chat, and
gave her an opportunity of conversing freely with Amanda.
She remarked the delicacy of her looks, and said " She be-
lieved she was ill-qualified to endure so fatiguing a life as her
present one." She mentioned her own lonely and melancholy
life, and the happiness slie would derive from having such a
companion, and expressed her hopes of often enjoying her
4o6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
society. Amanda said this would be impossible without dis-
obliging Mrs. Macpherson ; and Mrs. Duncan, on reflection,
allowed it would be so. She then inquired if she ever walked ?
Amanda replied she did ; and was asked where she generally
rambled ? By the sea-side, she answered. Mrs. Duncan sighed
deeply, and her eyes filled with tears. " It is there I generally
ramble too," said she. This led to the mention of her late
loss. " Mr. Duncan' had been the kindest, best of husbands,"
she said; "the first years of their marriage were attended
with difficulties, which were just removed, when he was lost on
a party of pleasure, with several others. It was some consola-
tion, however," continued Mrs. Duncan, "that the body was
cast upon the shore, and I had the power of paying the last
rites of decency and respect to him." In short, between her
and Amanda there appeared a mutual sympathy, which ren-
dered them truly interestir.j; to each other. From this period
they generally met every evening, and passed many hours on
the " sea-beat shore," talking, and often weeping, over joys
departed, never to return I Mrs. Duncan was too delicate to
inquire into Amanda's former situation ; but was well convinced
it had been very different from her present one. Amanda,
however, of her own accord, told her what she had told Mrs.
Macpherson respecting herself. Mrs. Duncan lamented her
misfortunes ; but since she had met them, blessed the happy
chance which conducted her near her habitation.
A' month passed in this manner, when one evening, at the
usual place of meeting, Mrs. Duncan told her, " that she believed
she should soon be quitting that part of the country." Amanda
started, and turned pale at' this disagreeable intelligence. She
had received no answer to her letter from Mrs. Dermot, conse-
quently dreaded that necessity would compel her to remain in
her present situation, and on Mrs. Duncan's society she had
depended for rendering it bearable to her.
" I have been invited, my dear girl," said Mrs. Duncan,
leaning on her arm as they walked up and down the beach,
'' to reside with an aunt, who has always been kind, and partic-
ularly so to me in my distress. She lives about ten miles from
this, at an old place called Dunreath Abbey, of which she is
housekeeper. Have ypu' ever heard of it ? " Amanda's agita-
tion at hearing her mother's native habitation mentioned, is not
to be described. Her heart palpitated; she felt her color
change, and said Yes and No to Mrs. Duncan, without knowing
what she answered. Then recollecting herself, she replied,
" she had heard of it." " \Vell, then, my dear," continued Mrs,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
407
Duncan, " my aunt, as I liave already told you, is housekeeper;
there. She lives in great grandeur, for it is a magnificent old
seat, and has the absolute command of everything, as none of
the family have resided at it since the Earl of Dunreath's de^
cease. My aunt is lately grown weary of the profound solitude
in which she lives, and has asked me, in a letter which I received
this mornhig, to go immediately and take up my residence with,
her, promising, if I do, sli . will leave everything she is worth to
me and my children ; and as her salary is very good, I know she
must have saved a good deal. This is a very tempting offer,
and I am only withheld from accepting it directly by the fear
of depriving my children of the advantages of education."
" Why," said Amanda, " what they learn at Mrs. Macpherson's
they could easily learn anywhere else." " But I intended, when
they were a little older," replied Mrs. Duncan, "to go to some
one of the neighboring towns with them. If I once go to my
aunt, I must entirely relinquish such an idea, and to a board-
ing-school I could not send them, for I have not fortitude to
bear a separation from them. What I wish, therefore, is to
procure a person who would be at once a pleasing companion
lOr me, and an eligible governess for them. With such r. person,
the solitude of Dunreath Abbey would be rather agreeable than
irksome to me."
She looked earnestly at Amanda as she spolre, and Aman-
da's heart began to throb with hope and agitation. " In short,
my dear girl," continued she, "you of all others, to be explicit,
are the person I would choose to bring along with me. Your
sweet society would alleviate my sorrows, and your elegant ac-
complishments give to my children all the advantages I desire
them to possess." " I am not only flattered, but happy by your
prepossession in my favor," replied Amanda.
" I am pleased we agree in point of inclination," said Mrs.
Duncan ; " but I must now inform you that my aunt has always
been averse to admit any strangers to the Abbey. Why, I know,
not, except it is by the commands of the family ; and she tells
me in her letter, that if I accept her invitation, I must not on
any account let it be known where I am removing to. I dare
not, therefore, bring you with me without her permission ; but
I shall write immediately and request it. In the course of a
day ot two I may expect an answer. In the mean time, give
Mrs. Macpherson az. intimation of our preGcnt intentions, lest
they should be defeated." Amanda promised she would not,
and they separated.
She was now in a state of the greatest agitation, at the prob-
4o8 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEV.
ability there was that she might visit the seat of her ancestors.
She dreaded a disappointment, and felt that, if she went there
as the companion of Mrs. Duncan, she should be better situated
than a few hours before she had ever expected to be again.
Two evenings after her conversation Avith Mrs. Duncan, on go-
ing to the beach to meet her, she saw heir approachingwilh an
open letter in her hand, and a smile on her face, which informed
her its contents were pleasing. They were so indeed, as they
gave permission to have Amanda brought to the Abbey, pro-
vided she promised inviolable secrecy as to where she was going.
This Amanda cheerfully did, and Mrs. Duncan said she had
some affairs to settle, which would prevent their departure for
a few days. At whatever time she appointed, her aunt was to
send a carriage for then, and it was now agreed that Mrs.
Macpherson should be informed Mrs. Duncan was leaving that
part of the country, and had engaged Amanda as a governess to
her children.
Mrs. Duncan then mentioned her own terms. Amanda as-
sured her an idea of llicm had never entered her thoughts. Mrs.
Duncan said she was sure of that, but at the same time thought
between the most intimate friends exactness should be preserved.
Everything being settled to their mutual satisfaction, they sepa-
rated, and the following day, after school broke up, Amanda
informed Mrs.' Macpherson of her intended departure. The
old dame was thunderstruck, and for some time unable to speak ;
but when she recovered the use of her tongue, she expressed
the utmost rage and indignation against Amanda, Mrs. Duncan,
and the prioress. Against the first for thinking of leaving her,
the second for inveigling her away, and the third for recommend-
ing a person who could serve her in such a manner. When she
stopped, exhausted by her violence, Amanda took the opportu-
nity of assuring her that she had no reason to condemn any of
them ; as for her part, previous to Mrs. Duncan's offer, she in-
tended to leave her, being unable to bear a life of such fatigue ;
that as her removal would not be immediate, Mrs. Macpherson
could suffer no inconvenience by it, there being time enough to
look out for another person ere it took place. But the truth
now broke from Mrs. Macpherson ; angry as she was with
Amanda, she could not help confessing, that she never again ex-
pected to meet with a person so well qualified to please her,
and a torrent of bitter reproaches again burst forth for her
quitting her.
Amanda resented them not, but did all in her power to mol-
lify her J as the most effectual method of doing so, she declared
TtfE CtnlDREN OF THE AJiSEiK 46$
she meant to take no recompense for the time she had been
with her, and added, if she had her permission, she would write
that evening to Mrs. Dermot about a woman she had seen at
the convent, whom she thought well qualified to be an assistant
in her school. This was the woman who had been engaged to
attend her to England. Mrs. Macpherson at last consented
she should write for her, as her wrath had gradually subsided
from the moment Amanda declared she would take no payment.
Amanda accordingly wrote to Mrs. Dermot, and informed her
of the agreeable change there was about taking place in her
situation ; also of Mrs. Macpherson's displeasure, and her own
wish that a person might immediately be procured to fill the
place she was resigning. She mentioned tlie woman already
spoken of as a proper person, but requested, if she consented
to come, she might not be allowed to do so till she had left Mrs.
Macpherson's, else who she really was would be betrayed. She
now thought little of the tedious and disagreeable days she
spent, as the eagerness with which she saw Mrs. Duncan pre-
paring for their departure promised so speedily to change them.
She received an answer from Ireland even sooner than she ex-
pected. Mrs. Dermot congratulated her on having met with so
amiable a friend as Mrs. Duncan, said the woman accepted the
offer made in Mrs. Macpherson's name, but should not depart
till she had written for that purpose, and concluded her letter
by saying, there was no intelligence yet of Lord Mortimer,
Mrs. Macpherson was pleased to find she should not be long
without a companion, and two days after the receipt of the
letter Mrs. Duncan told Amanda their journey was fixed for the
ensuing day, and begged Amanda to sleep at her house that
night, to which she gladly consented ; accordingly after, dinner
she took leave of Mrs. Macpherson, who grumbled out a farewell,
and a hope that she might not have reason to repent quitting
her, for the old lady was so incensed to have the place Mrs.
Duncan was going to concealed from her that all her ill-
humor had returned. Amanda with a pleasure she could
scarcely conceal, quitted her inhospitable mansion, and, at-
tended by a man who carried her trunk, soon found herself
at Mrs. Duncan's, where she was received with every
demonstration of joy. The evening passed sociably away j
they rose early in the morning, and had just breakfasted when
the expected carriage from Dunreath Abbey arrived. It was a
heavy, old-fashioned chaise, on whose faded panels the arms
of the Dunreath family were still visible. Mrs. Duncan's lug-
gage had been sent off the preceding day, so that there was
4tO TtiE CHILDREN Oh' 7'// ABBEY.
nothing now to delay them. Mrs. Duncan made Amanda and
the children go into the chaise before her, but, detained by an
emotion of the most painful nature, she lingered sometime after
them upon the threshold. She could not indeed depart from
the habitation where she had experienced so many happy days
with the man of her tenderest affections without a flood of tears,
which spoke the bitterness of her feelings. Amanda knew too
well the nature of those feelings to attempt restraiijing them ;
but the little children, impatient to begin their journey, called
out to their mamma to come into the carriage. She started
when they spoke, but instantly complied with their desire : and
when they expressed their grief at seeing her cheeks wet with
tears, kissed them both, and said she would soon recover her
spirits. She accordingly exerted herself for that purpose, and
was soon in a condition to converse with Amanda. The day
was fine and serene ; they travelled leisurely, for the horses had
long outlived their mettlesome days, and gave them an oppor-
tunity of attentively viewing the prospects on each side, which
were various, romantic, and beautiful ; the novelty of the
scenes, the disagreeable place she had left, and the idea of the
one she was going to, helped a little to enliven the pensive soul
of Amanda, and she enjoyed a greater degree of tranquillity
than she had before experienced since her separation from
Lord Mortimer.
CHAPTER XLIV.
" My listening powers
Were awed, nnd every thought in silence hung
And wondering expectation." AKUNSinn.
_Mv dear Fanny," said Mrs. Duncan, addressing our
heroine by her borrowed name, " if at all inclined to supersti-
tion, you are now going to a place which will call it forth.
Dynreath Abbey is gothic and gloomy in the extreme, and re-
calls to one's mind all the stories they ever heard of haunted
houses and apparitions. The desertion of the native inhabitants
has hastened the depredaiioiis of time, whose ravages are un-
repaired, except in the part immediately occupied by the
domestics. Yet what is the change in the building compared
to the revolution which took place in the fortunes of her who
THE Ct:frLDJfltN OF THE AbBEV. 411
once beheld a prospect of being its tinlstress. The eatl of
Dunreath's eldest datighter, as I have often heard from many,
was a celebrated beaut}', and as good as she was handsome,
but a malignantstep-mothef thwarted her happiness, and forced
her to take shelter in the arms of a man who had everything
but fortune to recommend him^btit, in wanting that, he wanted
everything to please her family. After some years of distress,
she found means to soften the heart of her father; but here
the invidious step-mother again interfered, and prevented heir
experiencing any good effects from his teturnihg tenderness,
and, it was rumored, by i deep and iniquitous scheme, de-
prived her of her birthright. Like other rumors, however, it
gr.idually died away ; perhaps from Lady Malvina and her hus-
band never heanng of it, and none but thcni h.id a right to in-
quire into its truth. Ikit if such a scheme was really contrived,
woe be to its fabricator ; the pride and pomp of wealth can
neither alleviate nor recompense the stings of conscience. Much
rather," continued Mrs. Duncan, laying her hands upon her
children's heads as they sat at her feet, " much rather would
I have my babes wander from do6r to door, to beg the dole of
charity, than live upon the birthright of the orphan. If Lady
Dunreath, in reality, committed the crime she was accused of,
she met, in some degree, a punishment for it. Soon after the
Earl's death she betrayed a partiality for a man every way in-
ferior to her, which partiality, people have not scrupled to say,
commenced and was indulged to a criminal degree during the
lifetime of her husband. She would have m.-irried him, had not
her daughter the Marchioness of Roslin, interfered. Proud
and ambitious, her rage at the, prospect of such an alliance,
knew no bounds, and, seconded by the marquis, whose disposi-
tion was congenial to her own, they got the unfortunate mother
into their power, and hurried her off to a convent in France. I
know not whether she is yet living; indeed, I believe there dre
few either know or care, she was so much disliked for her
haughty disposition. I have sometimes asked my aunt about
her, but she would never gratify my curiosity. She has been
brought up in the family, and no doubt thinks herself bound to,
conceal whatever they choose. She lives in ease and plenty,
and is absolute mistress of the few domestics that reside cX the
Abbey, But of those domestics I caution you in time, or they
will be apt to fill your head with frightful storie? of the 'Abbey,
which sometnnes, if one's spirits are weak, in spite of reason, will
make an impression on the mind. They pretend that the Earl
of Dunreath's first wife haunts the Abbey, venting the most
412 F- children 6h- the AtlBEV.
piteous moans, which they ascribe to grief for the unfortunate
fate of her daugiiter, and that daughter's children being de-
prived of their rightful patrimony. I honestly confess, when at
the Abbey a few years ago, during some distresses of my hus-
band, I heard strange noises one evening at twilight as I walked
in a gallery. I told my aunt of them, and she was quite angry
at the involuntary terror I expressed, and said it was nothing
but the wind whistling through some adjoining galleries which
I heard. But this, my dear Fanny," said Mrs. Duncan, who
on account of her children had continued the latter part of her
discourse in a low voice, " is all between ourselves ; for my
aunt declared she would never pardon my mentioning my ridic-
ulous fears, or the yet more ridiculous fears of the servants, to
any human being. ''
Amanda listened in silence to Mrs. Duncan's discourse,
fearful that if she spoke she should betray the emotions it
excited.
They at last entered between the mountains that enclosed
the valley on which the Abbey stood. The scene was solemn
and solitary. Every prospect, except one of the sea, seen
through an aperture in one of the mountains, was excluded.
Some of these mountains were bare, craggy, and projecting.
Others were skirted with trees, robed with vivid green, and
crowned with white and yellow furze. Some were all a wood
of intermingled shades, and others covered with long and purple
heath. Various streams flowed from them into the valley.
Some stole gently down their sides in silver rills, giving beauty
and vigor wherever they meandered. Others tumbled from
fragment to fragment, with a noise not undelightful to the ear,
and formed for themselves a deep bed in the valley, over which
trees, that appeared coeval with the building, bent their old
and leafy heads.
At the foot of what to the rest was called a gently swelling
hill lay the remains of the extensive gardens which had once
given the luxuries of the vegetable world to the banquets of the
Abbey ; but the buildings whicl\ had nursed those luxuries
were all gone to decay, and the gay plantations were overrun
with the progeny of neglect and sloth.
The Abbey was one of the most venerable looking buildings
Amanda had ever beheld ; but it was in melancholy grandeur
she now saw it in the wane of its days, when its glory was
passed away, and the whole pile proclaimed desertion and de-
cay. She ' saw it when, to use the beautiful language of Hut-
chinson, it pride was brought low, when its magnificence was
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 413
sinking in tlie dust, when tribulation had taken the seat of
hospitality,. and solitude reigned, where once the jocund gu6st
had laughed over the sparkling bowl, whilst the owls sang
nightly their strains of melancholy to the moonshine that slept
upon its mouldering battlements.
The heart of Amanda was full of the fond idea of her parents,
and the sigh of tender remembrance stole from it. " How
little room," thought she, " should there be in the human heart
for the worldly pride which so often dilates it, liable as all things
are to change ! the distress in which the descendants of noble
families are so often seen, the decline of such families them-
selves, should check the arrogant presumption with which so
many look forward to having their greatness and prosperity
perpetuated through every branch of their poste.rity.
" The proud possessors of this Abbey, surrounded with af-
fluence, and livingin its full enjoyment, neverperhaps admitted
the idea as at all probable, that one of their descendants should
ever approach the seat of her ancestors without that pomp and
elegance which heretofore distinguished its daughters. Alas 1
one now approaches it neither to display nor contemplate the
pageantry of wealth, but meek and lowly ; not to receive the
smile of love, or the embrace of relatives, but afflicted and
unknown, glad to find a shelter, and procure the bread of
dependence, beneath its decaying roof."
Mrs. Duncan happily marked not Amanda's emotion as she
gazed ujion the Abbey. She was busily employed in answering
her cliildrcn's questions, who wanted to know whether she
thought they would be able to climb up the great big hills they
saw.
The carriage at last stopped before the Abbey. Mrs. Bruce
was already at the door to receive them. She was a little,
smart old woman, and welcomed her niece and the children
with an appearance of the greatest pleasure. On Amanda's
being presented to her, she gazed steadfastly in her face a few
minutes, and then exclaimed, " Well, this is very strange ;
though I know I could never have seen this young lady before,
her face is quite familiar to me."
The hall into which they entered was large and gloomy,
paved with black marble, and supported by pillars, through which
the arched doors that led to various apartments were seen.
Rude implements, such as the Caledonians had formerly used
in war and hunting, were ranged along the walls. Mrs, Bruce
conducted them into a spacious parlor, terminated by an ele-
gant saloon. This, she told them, had once been the banqueting-
414 THE CfllLDKEN OF THE ABBEY.
room. The furniture, though faded, was still magnificent, and
the windows, though still in the gotliic style, from being enlarged
considerably beyond their original dimensions, afforded a most
delightful view of the domain.
" Do you know," said Mrs. Duncan, " this apartment, though
one of the pleasantest in^the Abbey in point of situation, al-
ways makes me melancholy. The moment I enter it I think of
the entertainments once given in it, and then its present va-
cancy and stillness almost instantly reminds me that those who
partook of these entertainments are now almost all humbled
with the dust ! " Her aunt laughed, and said, " she was very
romantic."
The solemnity of the Abbey was well calculated to heighten
the awe which stole upon the spirit of Amanda from her first
view of it. No' noise was heard throughout it, except the hoarse
creaking of the massy doors, as the servants passed from one
room to another, adjusting Mrs. Duncan's things, and preparing
for dinner. Mrs. Duncan was drawn into a corner of the room
by her' aunt, to converse, in a low voice, about family affairs,
and the children were rambling about the hall, wondering and
inquiring about everything they saw.
Thus left to herself, a soft languor gradually stole over the
mind of Amanda, which was alm.ost exhausted from the emo-
tions it had experienced. The murmuring sound of water-
falls, and the buzzing of the flies that basked in the sunny rays
which darted through the casements, lulled her into a kind of
pensive tranquillity.
" Am I really," she asked herself, " in the seat of my ances-
tors? Am I really in the habitation where my mother was born
where her irrevocable vows were plighted to my father ? I
am ; and oh ! within it may I at last find an asylum from the
vices and dangers of the world ; within it may my sorrowing
spirit lose its agitation, and subdue, if not its affections, at least
its murmurs, at the disappointment of those affections."
The appearance of dinner interrupted her. She made exer-
tions to overcome any appearance of dejection, and the con-
versation, if not lively, was at least cheerful. After dinner
Mrs. Duncan, who had been informed by Amanda of her pre-
dilection for old buildings, asked her aunt's permission to show
her the Abbey. Mrs. Bruce immediatelyarose, and said she
would have that pleasure herself. She accordingly led the
way. Many of the apartments yet displayed the sumptuous
taste of those who had furnished them. " It is astonishing to
me," said Mrs. Duncan, " that so magnificent a pile as thi?
. TJtE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 415
should be abandoned, as I may say, by its possessors." " The
Marquis of Roslin's castle is a more modern structure than this,','
said Mrs. Bruce, " and preferred by them on that account."
" So, like the family monument," rejoined Mrs. Duncan, " they
are merely satisfied with permitting this to stand, as it may
help to transmit the marchioness's name to posterity." " How
far does the marquis live from this ? " asked Amanda. " About
twelve miles," replied Mrs. Bruce, who did not appear pleased
with her niece's conversation, and led the way to a long gal-
lery ornamented with portraits of the family. This gallery
Amanda knew well by. description. This was the gallery in
which her father had stopped to contemplate the picture of her
mother, and her heart throbbed with impatience and anxiety to
see that picture.
Mrs. Bruce, as she went before her, told her the names of the
different portraits. She suddenly sloped before one. "That,"
cried she, "is the Marchioness of Roslin's, drawn for her when
Lady Augusta Dunreath." Amanda cast her eyes upon it, and
perceived in the countenance the same haughtiness as still dis-
tinguished the marchioness. She looked at the next panel,
and found it empty.
"The picture of Lady Malvina Dunreath hung there," said
Mrs. Bruce ; " but after her unfortunate marriage it was taken
down." " And destroyed," exclaimed Amanda mournfully.
" No ; but it was thrown into the old chapel, where, with the
rest of the lumber (the soul of Amanda was struck at these
words), it has been locked up for years." " And is it impossi-
ble to see it ? " asked Amanda. " Impossible, indeed," replied
Mrs. Bruce. " 'J'lic chapel, and the wiiolc cnslorn part of the
Abbey, have long been in a ruinous situation, on which account
it has been locked up." " This is the gallery," whispered Mrs.
Duncan, " in which I heard the strange noises ; but not a word
of them to my aunt." Amanda could scarcely conceal the dis-
appointment she felt at finding she could not see her mother's
picture. She would have entreated the chapel might be opened
for that purpose, had she not feared exciting suspicions by
doing so.
They returned from the gallery to the parlor ; and in th6
course of conversation Amanda heard many interesting anec-
dotes of, her ancestors from Mrs. Bruce. Her mother was also
mentioned, and Mrs. Bruce, by dwelling on her worth, made
amends, in some degree, to Amanda for having called her pic-
ture lumber. She retired to her chamber with her mind at once
softened and elevated by hearing of her mother's virtues. She
41 6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
called upon her father's spirit, upon them whose kindred souls
were reunited in heaven, to bless their child, to strengthen,
to support her in the thorny path marked out for her to take j
nor to cease their tutelary care till she was joined to them by
Providence.
CHAPTER XLV.
' Such OH Lhe ground the fading rose we see,
By some rude blast torn from the parent treel
The daffodil so leans his languid head,
Newly niuwn down upon his grassy bed I " Lkb.
Experience convinced Amanda that the change in her sit-
uation was, if possible, more pleasing than slie expected it
would be. Mrs. Duncan was the kindest and most attentive of
friends. Mrs. Bruce was civil and obliging, and her little
pupils were docile and affectionate. Could she have avoided
retrospection, she would have been happy ; but the remem-
brance of past events was too deeply impressed upon her mind
to be erased ; it mingled in the visions of the night, in the avo-
cations of the day, and in the meditations of her lonely hours,
forcing from her heart the sighs of regret and tenderness. Her
mornings were devoted to her pupils, and in the evenings she
sometimes walked with Mrs. Duncan, sometimes read aloud
whilst she and her aunt were working ; but whenever they were
engaged in chatting about family affairs, or at a game of piquet
(which was often the case), as Mrs. Bruce neither loved walk-
ing nor working, she always took that opportunity of retiring
from the room, and either rambled through the dark and intri-
cate windings of the Abbey, or about the grounds contiguous
to it. She sighed whenever she passed the chapel which con-
tained the picture of her mother ; it was in a ruinous condi-
tion, but a thick foliage of ivy partly hid while it proclaimed
its decay ; the windows were broken in many places, but all too
high to admit the possibility of her gaining admittance through
them, and the door was strongly secured by massy bars of iron,
as was every door which had a communication with the eastern
part of the Abbey. A fortnight passed away at the Abbey without
anything happening to disturb the tranquillity which reigned in
it, J^Q pne approached it, except a few of the wandering chil-;
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 417
dren of poverty, and its inhabitants seemed perfectly content
with their seclusion from the world. Amanda, by Mrs. Dun-
can's desire, had told Mrs. Dermot to direct her letters to a
town about five miles from the Abbey ; thither a man went
every day, but constantly returned without one for her.
" Why," she asked herself, " this an.\iety for a letter, this
disappointment at not receiving one, when 1 neither expect to
hear anything interesting or agreeable ? Mrs. Dermot has
already said she had no means of bearing about Lord Morti-
mer ; and, even if she had, why should 1 desire such intelligence,
torn as I am from him forever ?"
At the expiration of another week an incident happened,
which again destroyed the composure of our heroine. Mrs.
Bruce one morning hastily entered the room, where she and Mrs.
Duncan were sitting with the little girls, and begged they would
not stir from it till she had told them to do so, as the Marquis
of Roslin's steward was below stairs, and if he knew of their
residence at the Abbey, she was confident he would reveal it to
his lord, which she had no doubt would occasion her own dis-
mission from it. The ladies assured her they would not leave
the apartment, and she retired, leaving them astonished at the
agitation she betrayed.
In about two hours she returned, and said she came to re-
lease them from confinement, as the steward had departed.
" He has brought unexpected inlelligcnce," said she ; " the
marquis and his family are coming down to the castle. The
season is so far advanced, I did not suppose they would visit it
till next sulnmer ; I must, therefore," continued she, addressinjg
her niece, " send to the neighboring town to procure lodgings
for you till the family leave the country, as no doubt some of
them will come to the Abbey, and to find you in it-would, I can
assure you, be attended with unpleasant consequences to me."
Mrs. Duncan begged she would not suffer the least uneasi-
ftess on her account, and proposed that very day leaving the
Abbey. " No," Mrs. Bruce replied, " there is no necessity for
quitting it for a few days longer ; the family," continued she,
" are coming down upon a joyful occasion, to celebrate the -
nuptials of the marquis's daughter, Lady Euphrasia Sutherland."
" Lady Euphrasia's nuptials ! " exclaimed Amanda, in an agi-
tated Voice, and forgetting her own situation. " To whom is
she going to be married ? " " To Lord Mortimer," Mrs. Bruce
replied, " the Earl of Cherbury's only son ; a very fine young
man. I am told the affair has been long talked of ; but "
Here she was interrupted by a deep sigh, or rather groan,
27
4i8 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
from the unfortunate Amanda, who at the same moment fell
back in her chair, pale and without motion. Mrs. Duncan
screamed, and flew to her assistance. Mrs. Bruce, equally-
frightened, though less affected, ran for restoratives, and the
children clasped her knees and wept. From her pensive
look and manner, Mrs. Duncan suspected, from their first ac-
quaintance, that her heart had experienced a disappointment of
the tenderest nature. Her little girls, too, had told her that
they had seen Miss Donald crying over a picture. Her suspi-
cions concerning such a disappointment were now confirmed by
the sudden emotion and illness of Amanda. But she had all
the delicacy which belongs to true sensibility, and determined
never to let Amanda know she conjectured the source of her
sorrosvs, certain as she was that they had never originated from
any misconduct.
Mrs. Bruce's drops restored Amanda's senses ; but she felt
weak and trembling, and begged she might be supported to her
room, to lie down on the bed. Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Duncan
accordin2;Iy led her to it. The former almost immediately re-
tired, and the tears of Amanda now burst forth. She wept a
long time without intermission ; and as soon as her sobs would
permit her lo speak, begged Mrs. Duncan to leave her to her-
self. Mrs. Duncan knew too well the luxury of secret grief to
deny her the enjoyment of so melancholy a feast, and directly
withdiew.
The wretched Amanda then asked herself, " if she had not
known before that the sacrifice she made Lord Cherbury would
lead to the event she now regretted?" It was true she did
know it. But whenever an idea of its taking place occurred,
she had so sedulously driven it from her mind, that she at last
almost ceased lo think about it. Were he to be united to any
other woman than Lady Euphrasia, she thought she would not
be so wretched, " Oh, Mortimer ! beloved of my soul ! " she
cried, " were you going to be united to a woman sensible of
your worth, and worthy of your noble heart, in the knowledge
of your happiness my misery would be lessened. But what a
union of misery must minds so uncongenial as yours and Lady
Euphrasia's form ! Alas I am I not wretched enough in con-
templating my own prospect of unhappiness, but that yours,
also, must be obtruded upon me ? Yet perhaps," she continued,
' the evils that I dread on Lord Mortimer's account may be
averted. Oh, that they may I " said she, with fervor, and rais-
ing her hands and eyes. " Soften, gracious Heaven I soften the
flinty nature of L^dy Euphrasia, Oh, render her sensible of
THE cmLDKEN OF THE ABBEY. 419
the blessing you bestow in giving her Lord Mortimer ! and ren-
der her not only capable of inspiring, but of feeling tenderness.
May she prove to him the tender friend, the faithful, the affec-
tionate companion the unfortunate Amanda would have been I
Oh, may she build her happiness on his ! and may his be
great as his virtues extensive as his charities I and may the
knowledge of it soothe my afflicted heart ! "
Her spirits were a little elevated by the fervency of her lan-
guage. But it was a transient elevation. The flush it spread
over her cheeks soon died away, and her tears again began to
flow. " Alas ! " she cried, " in a few days it will be criminal to
think of Lord Mortimer as I have hitherto done ; and I shall
blush," continued she, gazing at his picture, " to contemplate
this dear shadow, when I reflect its original, is the husband of
Lady Euphrasia."
The dinner-bell now sounded through the Abbey, and almost
at the same minute she heard a tap at her door. She started,
and reflected for the first time that her deep dejection would
naturally excite suspicions as to its source, if longer indulged.
Shocked at the idea of incurring them, she hastily wiped away
her tears, and opening the door, found her friend Mrs. Duncati
at it, who begged she would come down to dinner. Amanda
did not refuse, but was obliged to use the supporting arm of her
friend to reach the parlor; She could not eat. With difRculty
could she restrain her tears, or answer the inquiries Mrs. Bruce
made, after what she supposed a mere bodily indisposition.
She forced herself, however, to continue in the parlor till after
tea, when cards being produced, she had an opportunity of
going out, and indulging her anguish without fear of interrup-
tion. Unable, however, to walk far, she repaired to the old
chapel, and sitting down by it, leaned her head against its de-
cayed and ivy-covered walls. She had scarcely sat in this man-
ner a minute, when the stones gave way, with a noise which
terrified her, and she would have fallen backwards had she not
caught at some projecting wood. She hastily rose, and found
that the ivy entirely concealed the breach. She examined it,
however, and perceived it large enough to admit her into the
chapel. A sudden pleasure pervaded her heart at the idea of
being able to enter it, and examine the picture she had so long
wished to behold. There was nothing to oppose her entrance
but the ivy. This she parted with difficulty, but so as not to
strip it from the wall, and after stepping over the fallen rubbish,
she found herself in the body of the chapel. The silent hour
of twilight W5S now advanced, but the moonb?ani5 that darted
420 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
through the broken roof prevented the chapel from being in-
volved in utter darkness. Ah'eady had the owls begun their
strains of melancholy on its mouldering pillars, while the ravens
croaked amongst the luxuriant trees that rustled round it.
Dusty and moth-eaten banners were suspended from the walls,
and rusty casques, shields, and spears were promiscuously
heaped together, the useless armor of those over whose remains
Amanda now trod with a light and trembling foot. She l6oked
for the picture, and perceived one reclined against the wall
near Ihe altar. She wiped away the dust, and perceived this
was indeed the one she souglU, the one her father had so often
described to iier. The light was too imperfect for her to dis-
tinguish the features, and she resolved, if possible, to come at
an earlier hour the ensuing evening. She felt impressed with
reverential awe as she stood before it. She recollected the
pathetic manner in which her father had mentioned his emo-
tions as he gazed upon it, and her tears began to flow for the
disastrous fate of her parents and her own. She sunk in an
agony of grief, which mournful remembrances and present
calamities excited, upon the steps of that altar, where Fitz-
alan and Malvina had plighted their irrevocable vows. She
leaned her arm on the rails, but her face was turned to the pic-
ture, as if it could see and would pity her distress. She re-
mained in this situation till the striking of the Abbey clock
warned her to depart. In going towards the entrance she per-
ceived a small arched door at the opposite side. As the apart-
ments Lady Malvina had occupied were in this part of the
building, she resolved on visiting them before she left the
Abbey, lest the breach in the wall should be discovered ere she
returned to it. She returned to the parlor ere the ladies had
finished their game of piquet, and the next evening, immedi-
ately after tea, repaired to the chapel, leaving them engaged
as usual at cards. She stood a few minutes before it^ to see
if any one was near ; but perceiving no object she again
entered it. She had now sufficient light to examine the picture ;
though faded by the damp, it yet retained that loveliness for
which its original was so admired, and which Amanda had so
often heard eloquently described by her father. She con-
templated it with awe and pity. Her heart swelled with the
emotions it excited, and gave way to its feelings in tears. To
weep before the shade of her mother, seemed to assuage the
bitterness of those feelings. She pronounced the name of her
parents, she called herself their wretched orphan, a stranger,
^nd a dependant in the mansion of lier ancestors. She pro-
THE CHILDREN OP TH& ABBEY. 421
fiounced the name of Lord Mortimer in tlie impassioned accents
of tenderness and distress. As slie thus indulged the sorrows
of her soul in tears and lamentations, she suddenly heard a
faint noise, like an advancing footstep near her^ She started
up, for she had been kneeling before her mother's picture,
terrified lest her visit to the chapel had been discovered, which
she knew, if the case, would mortally disoblige Mrs; Bruce,
though why she should be so averse to any one's visiting it she
could not conceive. She listened in trembling anxiety a few
minutes. All igain was still, and she returned to the parlor,
where she found the ladies as she had left them, determined,
notwithstanding her late fright, to return the next evening
to the chapel, and visit the apartments that were her mother's.
CHAPTER XLVI.
" What beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade,
Invites my steps ? " Pope.
The next evening Amanda's patience was put to the test ;
for after tea Mrs. Duncan proposed a walk, which seemed to
cut off her hopes of visiting the chapel that evening ; but after
strolling some time about the valley, complaisance for her aunt
made Mrs. Duncan return to the parlor, where she was expected
to take her usual hand at piquet. The hour was late, and the
sky so gloomy, that the moon, though at its full, could scarcely
penetrate the darkness ; notwithstanding all this, Amanda
resolved on going to the cliapcl, considering this, in all prob-
ability, the only opportunity she would have of visiting the
apartments her mother had occupied (which she had an irrepres-
sible desire to enter), as in two days she was to accompany Mrs.
Duncan to lodgings in the neighboring town ; she accordingly
said she had a mind to walk a little longer. Mrs. Bruce bade
her beware of catching cold, and Mrs. Duncan said she was too
fond of solitary rambles ; but no opposition being made to her
intention, she hurried to the chapel, and, entering the little
arched door, found herself in a lofty hall, in the centre of which
was a grand staircase, the whole enlightened by a large gothic
window at the head of the stairs. She ascended them with
trepidation, for her footsteps produced a hollo\y echo, which
422 TIt CHILD RE l^ OF THE ABBEY.
added something awful to the gloom that enveloped her. On
gaining the top of the stairs she saw two large folding doors on
either side, both closed. She knew the direction to take, and,
by a small exertion of strength, pulled the one on the left side
open, and perceived a long gallery, which she knew was ter-
iiilnaled by the apartments she wanted lo visit. Its almost
total darkness, however, nearly conquered her wish, and shook
her resolution of proceeding ; but ashamed, even to herself, to
give way to superstitious fears, or turn back without gratifying
her inclination after going so far, she advanced into the gallery,
though with a trembling step, and as she let the door out of
her hand, it shut to with a violence that shook the whole building.
The gallery on one side had a row of arched doors, and on the
other an equal number of windows ; but so small, and placed
so high, as scarcely to admit a ray of light. Amanda's heart
began to beat with unusual quickness, and she thought she
should never reach the end of the gallery. She at last came to
a door, it was closed, not fastened ; she pushed it gently open,
and could just discern a spacious room. This, she supposed,
had been her mother's dressing-room. The moonbeams, as if
to aid her wish of examining it, suddenly darted through the
casements. Cheered by the unexpected light, she advanced
into the room : at the upper end of it something in white
attracted her notice. She concluded it to be the portrait of
Lady Malvina's mother, which she had been informed hung in
this room. She went up to examine it ; but her horror may be
better conceived than described, when she found herself not by
a picture, but by the real form of a woman, with a death-like
countenance ! She screamed wildly at the terrifying spectre,
for such she believed it to be, and quick as lightning flew from
the room. Again was the moon obscured by a cloud, and she
involved in utter darkness. She ran with such violence, that,
as she reached the door at the end of the gallery, she fell
against it. Extremely hurt, she had not power to move for a
few minutes ; but while she involuntarily paused, she heard
approaching footsteps. Wild with terror, she instantly recovered
her faculties, and attempted opening it ; but it resisted all her
efforts. " Protect me. Heaven ! " she exclaimed, and at the
moment felt an icy hand upon hers I Her senses instantly
receded, and she sunk to the floor. When she recovered from
her insensibility she perceived a glimmering light around her.
She opened her eyes with fearfulness, but no object appeared,
and to her great joy she saw the door standing open, and found
that the light proceeded from the large window. She instantly
THJi CHILDREN Ofi ttl ABBEY. 423
rose, and descended the staircase with as much haste as her
trembling limbs could make ; but again, what was her horror
when, on entering the chapel, the first object she beheld was
the same that had already alarmed her so much ! She made a
spring to escape through the entrance, but the apparition, with
a rapidity equal to her own, glided before her, and with a hollow
voice, as she waved an emaciated hand, exclaimed, " Forbear
to go."
A deadly faintness again came over Amanda ; she sunk
upon a broken seat, and put her hand over her eyes to shut out
the frightful vision.
" Lose," continued the figure, in a hollow voice, " lose your
superstitious fears, and in me behold not an airy inhabitant of
the other world, but a sinful, sorrowing, and repentant woman."
The terrors of Amanda gave way to this unexpected address ;
but her surprise was equal to what these terrors had been ;
she withdrew her hand, and gazed attentively on the form before
her.
" If my eye, if my ear deceives me not," it continued, "you
are a descendant of the Dunreath family. I heard you last
night, when you imagined no being near, call yourself the un-
fortunate orphan of Lady Malvina Fitzalan." " I am indeed
her child," replied Amanda. " Tell me, then, by what means
you have been brought hither. You called yourself a stranger,
and a dependant in the house of your ancestors." " I am both,"
said Amanda ; " my real name is concealed, from circumstances
peculiarly distressing, and I have been brought to the Abbey
as an instructress to two children related to the person who
takes care of it." " My prayers at length," exclaimed the
ghastly figure, raising her hollow eyes^and emaciated hands,
" my prayers have reached the Throne of Mercy, and, as a proof
that my repentance is accepted, power is given me to make
reparation for the injuries I have committed. Oh I thou," she
cried, turning to Amanda, " whose form revives in my remem-
brance the youth and beauty blasted by my means, if thy mind
as well as face, resembles Lady Malvina's, thou wilt, in pity to
my sufferings, forbear to reproach my crimes. In me," she
. continued, " you behold the guilty but contrite widow of the
Earl of Dunreath."
Amanda started. " Oh, gracious Heaven I " she exclaimed,
"can this be possible ? " "Have )'ou not been taught to ex-
ecrate my name?" asked the unhappy woman. " Oh I no,"
replied Amanda. " No," replied Lady Dunreath, " because your
mother was an angel. But did she not leave a son ? " " Yes,"
424 2W CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
said Amanda. " And does he live ? " " Alas ! I do not know,"
replied Amanda, melting into tears ; " distress separated us,
and he is not more ignorant of my destiny than I am of his."
" It is I," exclaimed Lady Dunreath, " have been the cause of
this distress. It is I, sweet and sainted Malvina, have been ,
the cause of calamity to your children ; but, blessed be the
wonder-working hand of Providence," she continued, "which
has given me an opportunity of making some amends for my
cruelty and injustice. But," she proceeded, " as I know the
chance which led you to the chapel, 1 dread to detain you longer,
lest it should lead to a discovery. Was it known that you saw
me, all my intentions would be defeated. Be secret, then, I
conjure you, more on your account than my own, and let not
Mrs. Bruce have the smallest intimation of what has passed ;
but return to-morrow night, and you shall receive from me
a sacred deposit, which will, if affluence can do it, render you
completely happy. In the mean time, do you throw upon
paper a brief account of your life, that I may know the
incidents which so providentially brought you to the
Abbey." Amanda promised to obey her in every respect, and
the unfortunate woman, unable longer to speak, kissed her
hand, and retired through the little arched door. Amanda
left the chapel, and, full of wonder, pity, and expectation,
moved mechanically to the parlor. Mrs; Bruce and Mrs.
Duncan had just risen from cards, and both were instantly
struck with her pallid and disordered looks. They inquired if
she was ill. Their inquiries roused her from a deep reverie.
She recollected the danger of exciting suspicions, and replied,
" she was only fatigued with walking, and begged leave to
retire to her chamber." Mrs. Duncan attended her to it, andi
would have sat with her till she saw her in bed, had Amanda
allowed ; but it was not her intention, indeed, to go to bed for
some time. When left to herself, the surprising and interest-
ing discovery she had made had so agitated her that she could
scarcely compose herself enough to take up a pen to narrate
the particulars of her life, as Lady Dunreath had requested.
She sketched them in a brief yet hasty manner, sufficiently
strong, however, to interest the feelings of a sympathetic heart ;
the tender and peculiar sorrows of her own she omitted j her
life was represented sufficiently calamitous, without mentioning
the incurable sorrow which disappointed love had entailed
upon it. Siie was glad she liad executed her task with haste,
as Mrs. Duncan called upon lier in the course of the next day
to assist in packing for their removal to the neighboring town.
THE cmWREN OF THE ABBEY. 425
The evening was far advanced ere she had an opportuuity of
repairing to tlie chapel, where she found the unfortunate Lady
Dunreath resting in an attitude of deep despondence, against
the rails of the altar.
Her pale and woe-worn countenance her emaciated form
her solitary situation all inspired Amanda with the tenderest
compassion, and she dropped a tear upon the cold and withered
hand which was extended to hers, as she approached. " I
merit not the tear of pity,'' said the unhappy woman, " yet it
casts a gleam of comfort on my heart to meet with a being who
feels for its sorrows. But the moments are precious." She
then led Amanda to the altar, and, stooping down, desired her
assistance in removing a small marble flag beneath it. This
being effected, with difficulty, Amanda perceived an iron box,
which she also assisted in raising. Lady Dunreath then took
a key from her bosom, with which she opened it, and took
from thence a sealed paper. " Receive," said she, presenting
it to Amanda, " receive the will of your grandfather, a sacred
deposit, intrusted to your care for your brother, the rightful
heir of the Earl of Dunreath. Oh ! may its restoration, and
my sincere repentance, atone for its long detention and con-
cealment. Oh ! may the fortune it will bestow upon you, as
well as your brother, be productive to both of the purest happi-
ness." Trembling with joyful surprise, Amanda received the
paper. " Gracious Heaven ! " exclaimed she, " is it possible ?
Do I really hold the will of my grandfather a will which will
entitle my brother to affluence .' Oh I Providence, how mys-
terious are thy ways ! Oh ! Oscar, beloved of my heart," she
continued, forgetting at that moment every consideration of
self, " could thy sister have possibly foreseen her sorrows would
have led to such a discovery, half their bitterness would have
been allayed. Yes, my father, one of thy children may at
least be happy, and in witnessing that happiness the other will
find a mitigation of misery." Tears burst from her as she
spoke, and relieved the strong emotions that swelled her heart,
almost to bursting.
" Oh I talk not of your misery," said Lady Dunreath, with
a convulsive sigh, " lest you drive me to despair. Forever
must I accuse myself of being the real source of calamity
to Lady Malvina and her children." " Excuse me," cried
Amanda, wiping her eyes, " I should be ungrateful to Heaven
and to you if I dwelt upon my sorrows ; but let me not neglect
this -opportunity," she continued, " of inquiring if there is any
way in which I can possibly serve you. Is there no frietid to
436 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
whom I could apply in your name, to have you released from
this cruel and unjustifiable confinement ? " " No," said Lady
Dunreath, " no such friend exists. When I had the power to
do so, I never conciliated friendship ; and if I am still remem-
bered in the world, it is only with contempt and abhorrence.
The laws of my country would certainly liberate me at once ;
but if things turn out as I expect, there will be no occasion for
an application to them, and any step of that kind at present
might be attended with the most unpleasant consequences.
Your future prosperity, my present safety, all depend on
secrecy for a short period. In this paper (drawing one from
her pocket and presenting it to Amanda) I have explained my
reason for desiring such secrecy." Amanda put it with the
will into lier bosom, and gave in return the little narrative she
had sketched. They both assisted in replacing the box and
flag, and then seated themselves on the slops of the altar.
Amanda informed Lady Dunreath of her intended departure
the next day from the Abbey, and the occasion of it. Lady
Dunreath expressed the utmost impatience to have everything
put in a proper train for the avowal of the will, declaring that
the sight of the rightful heir in possession of the Abbey would
calm the agitations of a spirit which, she believed, would soon
forsake its earthly habitation. Tears of compassion fell from
Amanda at these words, and she shuddered to think that the
unfortunate woman might die abandoned, and bereft of com-
fort. Again she urged her to think of some expedient for pro-
curing immediate liberty, and again Lady Dunreath assured
her it was impossible. Absorbed in a kind of sympathetic
melancholy, they forgot the danger of delay till the Abbey
clock chimed half an hour past ten which was later than Mrs.
Bruce's usual hour of supper startled and alarmed them both.
" Go ! go I " cried Lady Dunreath, with a wild expression of
fear ; " go ! or we are undone I " Amanda pressed her hand
in silence, and, trembling, departed from the chapel. She
stopped at the outside to listen ; for by her ear alone could
she now receive any intimation of danger, as the night was too
dark to permit any object to be discerned ; but the breeze
sighing amongst the trees of the valley, and the melancholy
murmur of waterfalls, were the only sounds she heard. She
groped along the walls of the chapel to keep in the path, which
wound from it to the entrance of the Abbey, and in doing so
passed her hand over the cold face of a human being. Ter-
rified, an involuntary scream burst from her, and she faintly
articulated : " Defend me, Heaven ! " In the next moment
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 427
she Was seized round the waist, and her senses were receding,
when Mrs. Duncan's voice recalled them. She apologized to
Amanda forgiving her such a fright; but said, "that her un-
easiness was so great at her long absence that, attended by a
servant, she had come in quest of her."
Mrs. Duncan's voice relieved Amanda from the horror of
thinking she had met with a person who would insult her ; but
it had given rise to a new alarm. She feared she had been
traced to the chapel, that her discourse with Lady Dunreath
had been overheard, and of course the secret of the will dis-
covered, and that Mrs. Duncan, amiable as she was, might
sacrifice friendship to interest and consanguinity. This idea
overwhelmed her with anguish ; her deep and heavy sighs, her
violent trembling, alarmed Mrs. Duncan, who hastily called the
servant to assist her in supporting Amanda home ; drops were
then administered, but they would have wanted their usual
efficacy with the poor night wanderer had she not soon been
convinced by Mrs. Duncan's manner she had not made the
dreaded discovery.
Amanda would have retired to her chamber before supper,
but that she feared distressing Mrs. Duncan by doing so, who
would have imputed her indisposition to her fright. She ac-
cordingly remained in the parlor, but with a mind so occupied
by the interesting events of the evening, that she soon forgot
the purpose for which she sat down to table, and neither heeded
what was doing or saying. From this reverie she was suddenly
roused by the sound of a name forever dear and precious,
which in a moment had power to recall her wandering ideas.
She raised her eyes, and with a sad intenseness fixed them on
Mrs. Bruce, who continued to talk of the approaching nuptials
of Lord Mortimer. Tears now fell from Amanda in spite of
her efforts to restrain them, and while drooping her head to
wipe them away, she caught the eyes of Mrs. Duncan fastened
on her with an expression of mingled pity and curiosity. A
deep crimson suffused the face of Amanda, at the conscious-
ness of having betrayed the secret of her heart ; but her con-
fusion was inferior to her grief, and the rich suffusion of the
one soon gave place to the deadly hue of the other. '.' Ah I "
thought she, "what is now the acquisition of wealth, when
happiness is beyond my reach ! " Yet scarcely had she con-
ceived the thought ere she wished it buried in oblivion. " Is
the comfort of independence, the power of dispensing happi-
ness to others, nothing?" she asked herself. "Do they not
merit gratitude of the most pure thankfulness, of the most fer-
'428 THE CttlLDREN OF THE ABBEY.
vent nature to Providence ? They do," she cried, and paid
them at the moment in the silence of lier heart. It was late
ere the ladies separated for the night, and as soon as Amanda
had secured the door of her chamber, she drew from her bosom
the papers so carefully deposited there, and sat down to peiuse
the narrative of Lady Dunreath.
CHAPTER XLVII.
" For true repentance never comes too late ;
As soon as Dorn she makes ]icrself a shroud,
The weeping mantle of a fleecy cloud,
And swift as thought her airy journey takes,
Her hand Heaven's azure gate with trembling strikes.
The stars do with amazement on her look :
She tells her story In so sad a tone,
That angels start from bliss, and give a groan." Lbb*
Narrative of Lady Dunreath.
Adoring the Power who has given me means of making
restitution for my injustice, I take up my pen to disclose to
your view, oh I lovely orphan of the injured Malvina, the frail-
ties of a heart which has long been tortured with the retrospect
of past and the pressure of present evil. Convinced, as I have
already said, that if your mind, as well as form, resembles your
mother's, you will, while you condemn the sinner, commiserate
the penitent, and, touched by that penitence, offer up a prayer
to Heaven (and the prayers of innocence are ever availing)
for its forgiveness unto me. Many years are now elapsed
since the commencement of my conlinement, years which
diminished my hope of being able to make reparation for the
injustice and cruelty I had done Lady Malvina Fitzalan, but
left unabated my desire of doing so.
Ah ! sweet Malvina ! from thy soft voice I was doomed
never to hear my pardon pronounced ; but from thy child I
may, perhaps, have it accorded j if so, from that blissful abode
where thou now enjoyest felicity, if the departed souls of the
happy are allowed to view the transactions of this world, thine,
I am convinced, will behold, with benignancy and compassion,
the wretch who covers herself with shame to atone for her in-
juries to thee. But I must restrain these effusions of my heart,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
429
lest I encroach too much upon the limited lime allotted to
make what I may call my confession, and inform you of par-
ticulars necessary to be known.
My cruelty and insolence to Lady Malvina you no doubt
already know. In my conduct to her I forgot the obligations ,
her mother had conferred upon me, whose patronage and kind
protection laid the foundation of my prosperity. I rejoiced at
her marriage with Captain Fitzalan, as a step that would de-
prive her of her father's favor, and place her in that state of
poverty which would conceal charms I detested for being su-
perior to my daughter's. The earl's resentment was violent at
first ; but with equal surprise and concern I soon perceived it
gradually subsiding. The irrevocableness of the deed, the
knowledge that he wanted no acquisition of fortune, above all,
Fitzalan's noble descent, and the graces and virtues he pos-
sessed, worthy of the highest station, dwelt upon the earl's
imagination, and pleaded strongly in extenuation of his daugh-
ter. Alarmed lest my schemes against her should be rendered
abortive, like an evil spirit, I contrived to rekindle, by means
of my agents, the earl's resentment. They represented the
flagrant, the daring contempt Lady Malvina had shown to
paternal authority, and that too easy a forgiveness of it might
influence her sister to similar conduct with a person perhaps
less worthy, and more needy, if possible, than Fitzalan. This
last suggestion had the desired effect, and Lady Malvina he
declared in future should be considered as an alien to his
family.
I now hoped my ambitious views, relative to my daughter,
would be accomplished. I had long wished her united to the
Marquis of Roslin ; but he had for years been Lady Malvina's
admirer, and was so much attached to her, that on her marriage
he went abroad. My arts were then tried to prevail on the
earl to make a will in Lady Augusta's favor ; but (his was a
point I could not accomplish, and I lived in continual appre-
hension lest his dying intestate should give Lady Malvina the
fortune I wanted to deprive her of. Anxious, however, to pro-
cure a .splendid establishment for my daughter, I everywhere
said there was no doubt but she would be sole heiress to the
earl. At the expiration of three years the marquis returned
to his native country. His unfortunate passion was subdued ;
he heard and believed the reports I circulated, and stimulated
by avarice, his leading propensity, offered his hand to my
daughter and was accepted. The earl gave her a large por-
tion in ready money ; but notwithstanding all my endeavors,
430 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
would not make a settlement of any of his estates upon her.
I, however, still hoped, and the marquis, from what I said,
believed that she would possess all his fortune. My daugh-
ter's nuptials added to my natural haughtiness. They also in-
creased my love of pleasure, by affording me more amply the
means of gratifying it at the sumptuous entertainments at the
marquis's castle. Engaged continually in them, the earl,
whose infirmities confined him to the Abbey, was left to soli-
tude and the care of his domestics. My neglect, you will say,
was impolitic whilst I had any point to carry with him ; but
Providence has so wisely ordained it that vice should still de-
feat itself. Had I always acted in uniformity with the tender-
ness I once showed the earl, I have little doubt but what at
last I should have prevailed on him to act as I pleased ; but,
infatuated by pleasure, my prudence, no it deserves not
such an appellation forsook me. Though the earl's body
was a prey to the infirmities of age, his mind knew none
of its imbecilities, and he sensibly felt and secretly resented
my neglect. The more he reflected on it, the more he con-
trasted it with the attention he was accustomed to receive
from his banished Malvina, and the resentment I had hitherto
kept alive in his mind against her gradually subsided, so that
he was well prepared to give a favorable reception to the little
innocent advocate she sent to plead her cause. My terror, my
dismay, when I surprised the little Oscar at the knee of his
grandfather, are not to be described. The tears which the
agitated parent shed upon the infant's lovely cheek seemed to
express affection for its motlier, and regret for his rigor to her.
Yet amidst those tears I thought I perceived an exulting joy
as he gazed upon the child, which seemed to say, "Thou wilt
yet be the pride, the prop, the ornament, of my ancient house."
After circumstances proved I was right in my interpretation of
his looks. I drove the little Oscar from the room with frantic
rage. The earl was extremely affected. He knew the vio-
lence of my temper, and felt too weak to enter into any alter-
cation with me. He therefore reserved his little remaining
strength and spirits to arrange his affairs, and by passiveness
seemed yielding to my sway ; but I soon found, though silent,
he was resolute.
My preventing your brother from again gaining access to
his grandfather, and my repulsing your mother when she re-
quested an interview with the earl, I suppose you already
know. Gracious Heaven ! my heart sickens, even at this re-
mote period, when I reflept on the night I turned her from her
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 431
paternal home from that mansion under whose roof her be-
nevolent mother had sheltered my tender years from the rude
storms of adverse life. Oh, black and base ingratitude ! dire
return for the benefits I had received ; yet, almost at the very
instant I committed so cruel an action she was avenged.
No language can describe my horrors, as conscience repre-
sented to me the barbarity of my conduct. I trembled with
involuntary fears. Sounds had power to terrify. Every blast
which shook the Abbey (atjd dreadful was the tempest of that
night), made me shrink as if about to meet with an instanta-
neous punishment.
" I trembled at my undivulged crimes
Unwhipped of justice "
I knew the earl expected either to see or hear from your
mother. He was ignorant of the reception she had met from
me, and I was determined, if possible, he should continue so.
As soon as certified of Lady Malviiia's departure from the
neighborhood of the Abbey, I contrived a letter in Captain
Fitzalan's name to the earl, filled with the most cutting arid
insolent reproaches to him for his conduct to his daughter, and
imputing her precipitate departure from Scotland to it. These
unjust reproaches, I trusted, would irritate the earl, and work
another revolution in his mind ; but I was disappointed.
He either believed the letter a forgery, or else resolved the
children should not suffer for the fault of the parent. He ac-
cordingly sent for his agent, an eminent lawyer in one of the
neighboring towns. This man was lately deceased, but his
son, bred to his profession, obeyed the summons to the Abbey.
I dreaded his coming ; but scarcely had I seen him, ere this
dread was lost in emotions, till then unknown. A soft, a ten-
der, an ardent pission took possession of my heart, on be-
holding a man, in the very prime of life, adorned with every
natural and acquired grace that could please the eye and ear.
Married at an early period, possessed of all the advantages of
art, said and believing myself to be handsome, I flattered my-
self I might on his heart make an impression equal to that he
had done on mine. If so, I thought how easily could the earl's
intentions in favor of his daughter be defeated, for that love will
readily make sacrifices I had often heard. A will was made, but
my new ideas and schemes divested me of uneasiness about it.
Melross continued at the Abbey much longer than he nfeed
have done, and when he left it, his absence was of shoj-t con-
tinuance. The earl's, business was his pretext his long and
43^
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
frequent visits. But the real motive of them he soon discovered
to me, encouraged, no doubt, by the partiality I betrayed.
I shall not dwell upon this part of my story ; but I completed
my crime by violating my conjugal fidelity, and we entered into
an engagement to be united whenever I was at liberty, which,
from the infirm state of the earl, I now believed would shortly
be the case. In consequence of this, Melross agreed to put
into my hands the earl's will, which had been intrusted to his
care, and, he acknowledged, drawn up entirely in favor of Lady
Malvina Fitzalan and her offspring. It was witnessed by friends
of his, whom he had no doubt of bribing to silence. You may
wonder that the will was not destroyed as soon as I had it in
my possession. But to do so never was my intention. By
keeping it in my hands, I trusted I should have a power over
my daughter, which duty and affection had never yet given me.
Violent and imperious in her disposition, I doubted not but she
and the marquis, who nearly resembled her in these particulars,
would endeavor to prevent, from pride and selfishness, my
union with Melross. But to know they were in my power would
crush all opposition, I supposed, and obtain their most flattering
notice for him a notice, from my pride, I found essential to
my tranquillity. The earl requested Melross to inquire about
Lady Malvina, which he promised to do, but, it is almost un-
necessary to say, never fulfilled such a promise.
In about a year after the commencement of my attachment
for Melross the earl expired, and the marchioness inherited his
possessions by means of a forged will executed by Melross.
Ignorant, indeed, at the time, that it was by iniquity she
obtained them, though her conduct since that period has
proved she would not have suffered any compunction from
such a knowledge,. I removed from the Abbey to an estate
about fifteen miles from it, which the earf had left me, and
here, much sooner than decency would have warranted, avowed
my intention of marrying Melross, to the marquis and mar-
chioness of Roslin. The consequences of this avowal were
pretty much what I expected. The marquis, more by looks
thkn words expressed his contempt ; but the marchioness
openly declared her indignation. To think of uniting myself
to a being so low in life and fortune, she said, as Melross, was
an insult to the memory of her father, and a degradation to his
illustrious house ; it would also be a confirmation of the scan-
dalous reports which had already been circulated to the pre-
judice of my character about him. Her words roused all the
violence of my soul. I upbraided her with ingratitude to a
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 433
parent, who had stepped beyond the bounds bf rigid propriety
to give lier an increase of fortune. My words alarmed her and
the marquis. They hastily demanded an explanation of them.
I did not hesitate in giving one, protesting at the same time
that I would no longer hurt my feelings on their account, as I
found no complaisance to my wishes, but immediately avow
Lady Malvina Fitzalan the lawful heiress of the Earl of Dun-
reath. The marquis and marchioness changed color ; I, saw
they trembled lest I should put my threats into execution, though
with consummate art they pretended to disbelieve that such a
will as I mentioned existed.
" Beware," cried I, rising from my chair to quit the room,
" lest I give you too convincing a proof of its reality ; except I
meet with the attention and complaisance I have a right to ex-
pect, I shall no longer act contrary to the dictates of my con-
science by concealing it. Unlimited mistress of my own actions,
what but affection for my daughter could make me consult her
upon any of them ? Her disapprobation proceeds alone from
selfishness, since an alliance with Melross, from his profession,
accomplishments, and birth, would not disgrace a house even
more illustrious than the one she is descended from or con-
nected to."
I retired to my chamber, secretly exulting at the idea of
having conquered all, opposition, for I plainly perceived by the
marquis and marchioness's manner, they were convinced it was
in my power to deprive them of their newly-acquired possessions,
which, to secure, I doubted not their sacrificing their pride to
my wishes. 1 exulted in the idea of having my nuptials with
Melross celebrated with that splendor I always delighted in,
and the prospect of having love and vanity gratified, filled me
with a kind of intoxicating happiness.
In a few hours after I had retired to my room, the mar-
chioness sent to request an interview with me, which I readily
granted. She entered the apartment with a respectful air, very
unusual to her, and immediately made an apology for her late
conduct. She acknowledged I had reason to be offended, but
a little reflection had convinced her of her error, and both she
and the marquis thanked me for consulting them about the
change I was about making in my situation, and would pay
every attention in their power to the man I had honored with
my choice. That I did not think the marchioness sincere in
her professions you may believe, but complaisance was all I
required. I accompanied her to the niarquis; a general recoij-
ciliation ensued, and Melross was presented to them. In about
28
434
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
two days after this the marchioness came into my dressing-room
one morning, and told me she had a proposal to make, which
she hoped would be agreeable to me to comply with. It was the
marquis's intention and hers to go immediately to the conti-
nent, and they had been thinking, if Melross and I would favor
them with our company, that we had better defer our nuptials
till we reached Paris, wliich was the first place they intended
visiting, as their solemnization in Scotland so soon after the
earl's decease might displease his friends, by whom we were
surrounded, and, on their return, which would be soon, they
would introduce Melross to their connections as a man every
way worthy of their notice. After a little hesitation I agreed
to this plan, for where it interfered not with my own inclinations
I wished to preserve an appearance of propriety to the world,
and I could not avoid thinking my marrying so soon after the
earl's death would draw censure upon me, which I should
avoid by the projected tour, as the certain time of my nuptials
could not then be ascertained. Melross submitted cheerfully
to our new arrangements, and it was settled farther, to preserve
appearances, that he should go before us to Paris. I supplied
him with everything requisite for making an elegant appearance
and he departed in high spirits at the prospect of his splendid
establishment for life.
I counted the moments with impatience for rejoining him,
and as had been settled, we commenced our journey a month
after his departure. It was now the middle of winter, and ere
we stopped for the night, darkness, almost impenetrable, had
veiled the earth. Fatigued, and almost exhausted by the cold,
I followed the marquis through a long passage, lighted by a
glimmering lamp, to a parlor which was well lighted and had a
comfortable fire. I started with amazement on entering it at
finding myself in a place I thought familiar to me ; my sur-
prise however, was but for an instant, yet I could not help ex-
pressing it to the marquis. " Your eyes, madam," cried he,
with a cruel solemnity, " have not deceived you, for you are now
in Dunreath Abbey ! " " Dunreath Abbey ! " I repeated :
"Gracious Heaven I what can be the meaning of this ? " "To
hide your folly, your imprudence, your deceit from the world,"
he exclaimed ; " to prevent your executing the wild projects of
a depraved and distempered mind, by entering into a union at
once contemptible and preposterous, and to save those, from
whom alone you derive your consequence by your connection
with them, farther mortification on your account."
To describe fully the effect of this speech upon a heart like
mine is impossible ; the fury which pervaded my soul would, I
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
43S
believe, have hurried me into a deed of dire revenge, had I had
the power of executing it ; my quivering lips could not express
my strong indignation.
"And do you then, in a country like this," I cried, " dare
to think you can deprive me of my liberty ? " " Yes," replied
he, with insulting coolness, when it is known you are incapable
of making a proper use of that liberty. You should thank me,"
he continued, " for palliating your late conduct, by imputing it
rather to an intellectual derangement than to total depravity.
From what other source than the former could you have asserted
that there was a will in Lady Malvina Fitzalan's favor ? "
These words at once developed the cause of his unjustifiable
conduct, and proved that there is no real faith between the
guilty. From my disposition the marquis was convinced that
1 would assume a haughty sway over him, in consequence of
the secret of the will. He also dreaded that passion or caprice
might one day induce me to betray that secret, and wrest from
him his unlawful possessions. Thus pride and avarice tempted
and determined him, by confining me, to rid himself of these
fears. " Oh ! would to Heaven," cried I, replying to the last
part of his speech, " I had proved my assertion ; had I done
justice to others, I should not have been entangled in the snare
of treachery." " Prove the assertion now," said he, " by show-
ing me the will, and you may, perhaps," he continued, in a
hesitating accent, " find your doing so attended with pleasing
consequences."
Rage and scorn flashed from my eyes at these words.
"No," cried I, "had you the power of torturing, you should
not tear it from me. I will keep it to atone for my sins, and
expose yours to view by restoring it to the right owner." I
demanded my liberty, I threatened, supplicated, but ail in vain.
The marquis told me I might as well compose myself, for my
fate was decided. " You know," cried he, with a malicious look,
" you have no friends to inquire or interfere about you, and,
even if you had, when I told them what I believe to be the case,
that your senses were disordered, they would never desire to
have you released from this confinement." I called for my
daughter. " You will see her no more ; " he replied, " the pas-
sions she has so long blushed to behold she will no more wit-
ness.'' " Rather say," I exclaimed, " that she dare not behold
her injured parent ; but let not the wretch who has severed the
ties of nature hope to escape unpunished. No, my sufferings
will draw a dreadful weight upon her head, and may, when least
expected, torture her heart with anguish."
436' '^^^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Convinced that I was entirely in the marquis's power ; con-
vinced that I had nothing to hope from him or my daughter,
rage, horror, and agony, at their unjust and audacious treatment,
kindled in my breast a sudden frenzy, which strong convulsions
only terminated. When I recovered from them I found myself
on a- bed in z; room which, at the first glance, I knew to be the
one the late Lady Dunreath had occupied, to whose honors I
so unworthily succeeded. Mrs. Bruce, who had been house-
keeper at the Abbey before my marriage, sat beside me ; I
hesitated a few minutes whether I should address her as a sup-
pliant or a superior ; the latter, however, being most agreeable
to my inclinations, I bid her, with a haughty air, which 1 hoped
would awe her into obedience, assist me in rising, and procure
sonic conveyance from the Abbey without delay. The marquis
entered the chamber as I spoke. " Compose yourself, madam,"
said he, "your destiny, 1 repeat, is irrevocable; this Abbey is
your future residence, and bless those who have afforded your
follies such an asylum. It behooves both the marchioness and
mo inclectl to seclude a woman who might cast imputations on
our characters, which those unacquainted with them might
believe." I started from the bed, in the loose dress in which
they had placed me on it, and stamping round the room,
demanded my liberty. The marquis heard my demand with
contemptuous silence, and quitted the room. I attempted to
rush after liim, but he pushed me back with violence, and
closed the door. My feelings again brought on convulsions,
which terminated in a delirium and fever. In this situation
the marquis and marchioness abandoned me, hoping, no doubt,
that my disorder would soon lay me in a prison even more
secure than the one they had devoted me to. Many weeks
elapsed ere I showed any symptom of recovery. On regaining
my senses, I seemed as if awaking from a tedious sleep, in
which I had been tortured with frightful visions. The first
object my eyes beheld, now blessed with the powers of clear
perception, was Mrs. Bruce bending over my pillow, with a look
of anxiety and grief, which implied a wish, yet a doubt, of my
recovery.
"Tell me," said I faintly, " am I really in Dunreath Abbey
am I really confined within its walls by order of my child ? "
Mrs. Bruce sighed. " Do not disturb yourself with ques-
tions now," said she ; " the reason Heaven has so mercifully
restored would be ill employed in vain murmurs." "Vain
murmurs ! " I repeated, and a deep, desponding sigh burst from
my heart, I lay silent a long time after this. The gloom which
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEV. 437
encompassed me at length grew too dreary to be bome, and I
desired Mrs. Bruce to draw back the curtains of the bed and
windows. She obeyed, and the bright beams of the sun, dart-
ing into the room, displayed to my view an object I could not
behold without shuddering this was the portrait of Lady Dun-
reath, exactly opposite the bed. My mind was softened by
illness, and 1 felt in that moment as if her sainted spirit stood
before me to awaken my conscience to remorse and my heart tft
repentance. The benevolence which had irradiated the coun-
tenance of the original with a celestial expression was powerfully
expressed upon the canvas, and recalled, oh ! how aflectingly
to my memory, the period in which this most amiable of women
gave me a refuge in her house, in her arms, from the storms of
life ; and yet her child, I groaned, her child, I was accessory in
destroying. Oh I how excruciating were my feelings at this
period of awakened conscience ! 1 no longer inveighed against
my sufferings; I considered them in the light of retribution,
and felt an awful resignation take possession of my souh Yes,
groaned I to myself, it is fit that in the very spot in which I
triumphed in deceit and cruelty I should meet the punishment
due to my misdeeds.
The change in my disposition produced i. similar one in my*
temper, so that Mrs. Bruce found the task of attending me
easier than she had imagined it would be ; yet I did not submit
to confinement without many efforts to liberate myself liirough
lier means ; but her fulelily to her unnatural employers was not
to be shaken. Blusliing, however, at my past enormities, I
should rather have shrunk from than .solicited admission again
into the world, had not my ardent desire of making reparation
to the descendants of Lady Dunreath, influenced me to desire
my freedom. Oh I never did that desire cease never did a
morning dawn, an evening cIo.se, without entreating Heaven to
allow me means of restoring to the injured their inheritance.
Mrs. Bruce, though steady, was not cruel, and nursed me with
the tenderest attention till my health was re-established. She
then ceased to see me, except at night, but took care I should
always be amply stocked with necessaries. She supplied me
with religious and moral books ; also, materials for writing, if I
chose to amuse myself with making comments on them. To
those books am I indebted for being able to endure, with some
degree of calmness, my long and dreadful captivity. They
enlarged my heart, they enlightened its ideas concerning the
Supreme Being, they impressed it with awful submission to His
will, they convinced me more forcibly of my transgressions,, yet
43? THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
without exciting despair ; for, while they showed the horrors of
vice, they proved the efficacy of repentance. Debarred of the
common enjoyments of life, air, exercise, and society, in vain
my heart assured me my punishment was inadequate to my
crimes ; nature repined, and a total languor seized me. Mrs.
Bruce at last told me I should be allowed the range of that part
of the building in which I was confined (for I had hitherto been
limited to one room), and consequently air from the windows,
if I promised to make no attempt for recovering my freedom,
an attempt, she assured me, which would prove abortive, as
none but people attached to the marquis lived in or about the
Abbey, who would immediately betray me to him ; *and if he
ever detected such a step, it was his determination to hurry me
to France.
Certain that he would be capable of such baseness, touched
by the smallest indulgence, and eager to procure any recreation,
I gave her the most solemn assurances of never attempting to
make known my situation. She accordingly unlocked the
several doors that had hitherto impeded my progress from one
apartment to another, and removed the iron bolts which secured
the shutters of the windows. Oh ! with what mingled pain and
pleasure did I contemplate the rich prospect stretched before
them, now that I was debarred from enjoying it. At liberty, I
wondered how I could ever have contemplated it with a careless
eye ; and my spirits, which the air had revived, suddenly sunk
into despondence, when I reflected I enjoyed this common
blessing but by stealth ; yet who (cried I, with agony) can I
blame but myself? The choicest gifts of Heaven were mine,
and I lost them by my own means. Wretch as I was, the first
temptation that assailed warped me from integrity, and my
error is marked by the deprivation of every good. With eager,
with enthusiastic delight, I gazed on scenes which I had so
often before regarded with a careless eye ; it seemed as if I had
only now perception to distinguish their beauties : the season's
difference made a material change to me, as all the windows
were shut up in winter, except those of the apartment I occu-
pied, which only looked into a gloomy court. Ah 1 how welcome
to me, then, was the return of spring, which again restored to
me the indulgence of visiting the windows. How delightful to
my eyes the green of the valley, and the glowing bloom of the
mountain shrubs just bursting into verdure ! Ah I how soothing
to my ear the lulling sound of waterfalls, and the lively carol of
the birds ; how refreshing the sweetness of the air, the fragrance
of the plants, which friendly zephyrs, as if pitying my confine-
The en ii.dk en of the abbey. 439
ment, wafted through the windows, The twilight hotit was also
hailed by me with delight ; it was then 1 turned my eyes ffoni
earth to lieavtn, and, regaiding its blue and spangled vault but
as a thin covering between me and myriads of angels, felt a
sweet sensation of mingled piety and pleasure, which for the
time had power to steep my sorrows in forgetfulness ! But, in
relating my feelings, I wander from the real purpose of my
narrative, and forget that I am describing those feelings to a
person who, from my injurious actions, can take but little
interest in them.
The will I shall deliver to you to-night. I advise you, if your
brother cannot immediately be found, to put it into the hands
of some man on whose abilities and integrity you can rely ; but
till you meet with such a person, beware of discovering you
have it in your possession, lest the marquis, who, I am sorry to
say,I believe capable of almost any baseness, should remove from
your knowledge the penitent, whose testimony to the validity
of the deed will be so cheerfully given, and is so materially essen-
tial. Be secret, then, I again conjure you, till everything is
properly arranged for the avowal of your rights ; and, oh I may
the restoration of all those rights you shall claim, be to you
and to your brother productive of every felicity. From your hands
may the wealth it puts into them bestow relief and comfort on
the children of adversity ; thus yielding to your hearts a pure
and permanent satisfaction, which the mere possession of riches,
or the expenditure on idle vanities, never can bestow. As
much as possible I wish to have my daughter saved from pub-
lic disgrace. From me you will say she merits not this lenient
wish ; but, alas ! I hold myself accountable for her misconduct.
Intrusted to my care by Providence, I neglected the sacred
charge, nor ever curbed a passion or laid the foundation of a
virtue. Ah! may her wretched parent's prayers be yet avail-
ing ; may penitence, ere too late, visit her heart, and teach hef
to regret and expiate her errors 1 Had she been united to a
better man, I think she never would have swerved so widely
from nature and from duty ; but the selfish soul of the marquis
taught her to regard self as the first consideration in life.
Mrs. Bruce informed me that the marquis had written to
Melross, informing him that I had changed my mind, and would
think no more about him, and she supposed he had procured
some pleasant establishment in France, as no one had ever
heard of his returning from it. She made several attempts to
prevail on me to give up the will to her, but I resisted all her
arts, and was rejoiced to think I had concealed it in a place
440
Tti CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
which would never be suspected. My narrative now concluded,
I wait with even trembling impatience for your expected visit
for that moment in which I shall make some reparation for.
my injuries to your mother, I am also anxious for the moment
in which I shall receive the promised narrative of your life. From
your tearsj your words, your manner, 1 may expect a tale of
sorrow ; ah ! may it be only that gentle sorrow which yields to
the influence of time, and the sweets of friendship and con-
scious innocence.
I cannot forbear describing what I felt on first hearing your
voice a voice so like in its harmonious tones to one I knew
had long been silent. Impressed with an awful dread, I stood
Upon the stairs, which I was descending to visit the chapel, as
' was my constant custom at the close of day. Shivering and
appalled, I had not for a few minutes power to move but when
I at last ventured nearer to the door, and saw yoU kneeling
before the dust-covered shade of her I had injured, when I
heard you call yoiirself her wretched orphan, ah I what were
my emotions ? An awful voice seemed sounding in my ear
" Behold the hour of retribution is arrived I Behold a being,
whom the hand of Providence has conducted hither to receive
reparation for the injustice you did her parents ! Adore
that mighty hand which thus affords you means of making
atonement for your offences I " I did adore it. I raised my
streaming eyes, my trembling hands to Heaven, and blessed the
gracious Power which had granted my prayer. The way by
which I saw you quit my retirement, proved to me your en-
trance into.it was unknown. With an impatience bordering on
agony, I waited for the next evening it came without bringing
you, and no language can express my disappointment. De-
jected, I returned to my chamber, which you entered soon
after, and where you received so great a fright, yet, be assured,
not a greater one than I experienced, for the gleam of moon-
light which displayed me to you gave you full to my view, and
I beheld the very form and face of Lady Malvina. In form
and face may you alone resemble her ; different, far different,
be your destiny from hers. Soon may your brother be restored
to your arms. Sliould he then shudder at my name, oh I leach
him, with a mercy like your own, to accord mc forgiveness.
Ye sweet and precious descendants of this illustrious house I
ye rightful heirs of Dunreath Abbey ! may your future joys
amply recompense your past sorrows I May those sorrows be
forgotten, or only remembered lo temper prosperity, and teach
it pity for the woes of others ! May your virtues add to the
TttE CttlLDR^N dF TtiE ABB&f. 441
V* own of your ancestors, and entail eternal peace upon your
frjuls ! May their line by you be continued, and continued as
a blessing to all around ! May your names be consecrated to
posterity by the voice of gratitude, and excite in others an em-
ulation to pursue your courses !
Alas ! my unhappy child I why do I not express such a
wish for you ? I have expressed it I have prayed for its
accomplishment I have wept in bitterness at the idea of its
being unavailing ; lost to the noble propensities of nature, it is
not from virtue, but from pomp and vanity you seek to derive
pleasure.
Oh ! lovely orphans of Malvina, did you but know, or could
you but conceive, the bitter anguish I endure on my daughter's
account, you would think yourselves amply avenged for all your
injuries.
Oh, God ! ere my trembling soul leaves its frail tenement
of clay, let it be cheered by the knowledge of my child's re-
pentance.
Oh ! you young and tender pair, who are about entering
into the dangerous possession of riches, learn from me that
their misapplication, the perversion of our talents, and the
neglect of our duties, will, even in this world, meet their pun-
ishment.
Resolute in doing justice to the utmost of my power, I am
ready, whenever I am called upon, to bear evidence to the va-
lidity of the will I shall deliver into your possession. Soon
may all it entitles you to be restored, is the sincere prayer of
her who subscribes herself, the truly penitent
Annabella Dunreath.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
"Cease, then, ah I cease, fond mortal to repine
At laws, which Nature wisety did ordain ;
Pleasure, what is it ? rightly to define,
*Tis but a short-lived interval from pain:
Or rather alternately renewed
Gives to our lives a sweet vicissitude.*' Brown.
The emotions Amanda experienced from reading this nar-
rative deeply affected but gradually subsided from her mind,
leaving it only occupied by pity for the penitent Lady Dun-
reath, and pleasure at the prospect of Oscar's independence
442
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
a pleasure so pure, so fervent, that it had power to steal her from
her sorrows ; and when the recollection of them again returned,
she endeavored to banish it by thinking of the necessity there
was for immediately adopting some plan for the disclosure of
the will Lady Dunreath had advised her to put into the hands
of a friend of integrity and abilities.
" But where," cried the desolate Amanda, " can I find such
a friend ? " The few, the very few whom she had reason to
think regarded her, had neither power nor ability to assist her
in what would probably be an arduous demand for restitution.
After sitting a considerable time in deep meditation, the idea
of Rushbrook suddenly occurred, and she started, as if in joy-
ful surprise at the remembrance. She considered that, though
almost a stranger to him, an application of such a nature must
rather be regarded as a compliment than a liberty, from
the great opinion it would prove she had of his honor by in-
trusting him with such a secret. From his looks and manner,
she was well convinced he would not only deeply feel for
the injured, but ably advise how those injuries should be re-
dressed. From his years and situation there could be no
impropriety in addressing him, and she already in imagination
beheld him her friend, advocate and adviser. He also, she
trusted, would be able to put her in a way of making inquiries
after Oscar. Oh ! how delightful the prospect of discovering
that brother of discovering, but to put him in possession of
even a splendid independence I Ah! how sweet the idea of
being again folded to a heart interested in her welfare, after
being so long a solitary mourner treading the rugged path of
life, and bending as she went beneath its adverse storm I Ah !
how sweet again to meet an eye which should beam with tender-
ness on hers, an ear which should listen with attentive rapture
to her accents, and a voice that would soothe with softest sym-
pathy her sorrows ! It is only those who, like her, have known
the social ties of life in all their sweetness ; who, like her, have
mourned their loss with all the bitterness of anguish, that can
possibly conceive her feelings as these ideas occurred to her
mind. " Oh, Oscar I oh, my brother ! " she exclaimed, while
tears wet her pale cheeks, "how rapturous the moment which
restores you to me I How delightful to think your youth will
no more experience the chill of poverty your benevolence no
longer suffer restraints 1 Now will your virtues shine forth with .
full lustre, dignifying the house from which you have descended,
doing service to your country, and spreading diffusive hap
piness around."
THE cmLDk&tf OP THE ABBEY.
443
The morning surprised Amanda in the midst of her medita-
tions. She opened the shutters, and hailed its first glories in
the eastern hemisphere ; the sunbeams, exhaling the mists of
the valley, displayed its smiling verdure, forming a fine contrast
to the deep shadows that yet partially enveloped the surround-
ing mountains. The morning breeze gently agitated the old
trees, from whose bending heads unnumbered birds arose, and
in their matin notes seemed to consecrate the first return of
day to the Great Author of life and light !
Spontaneous praise burst from the lips of Amanda, and she
felt all that calm and sweet delight which ever pervades a mind
of religion and sensibility on viewing the rural beauties of
nature. She left the charming scene to try and get a little rest,
but she thought not of undressing ; she soon sunk into a gentle
sleep, and awoke with renovated spirits' near the breakfast hour,
Mrs. Bruce expressed the utmost regret at the necessity
there was for parting with her guests ; but added, that " she
believed, as well as hoped, their absence from her would be
but short, as she was sure the marquis's family would leave
Scotland almost immediately after Lady Euphrasia's nuptials."
In vain did Amanda struggle for fortitude to support the
mention of those nuptials ; her frame trembled, her heart sick-
ened, whenever they were talked of ; the spirits she had en-
deavored to collect from the idea, that they would all be
requisite in the important aflEair she must undertake, fleeted
away at Mrs. Uruce's words, and a heavy languor took posses-
sion of her.
They did not leave the Abb_ till after lea in the evening,
and the idea that she might soctn behold her brother the ac-
knowledged heir of that Abbey, cast again a gleam of pleasure
on the sad heart of Amanda ; a gleam, I say, for it faded before
the almost instantaneous recollection, that ere that period Lord
Mortimer and Lady Euphrasia would be united. Sunk in a
profound melancholy, she forgot her situation, heeded not the
progress of the carriage, or remarked any object. A sudden
jolt roused her from her reverie, and she blushed as she thought
of the suspicions it might give rise to in the mind of Mrs. Dun-
dan, whose intelligent eye on the preceding night had more
than half confessed her knowledge of Amanda's feelings. She
now, though with some embarrassment, attempted to enter
into conversation, and Mrs. Duncan, who with deep attention
had marked her pensive companion, with much cheerfulness
rendered the attempt a successful one. The chaise was now
, turning from the valley, and Amanda leaned from her window
444 "^ff^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
to take another view of Dunreath Abbey. The sun was already
sunk below the horizon, but a track of glory still remained that
marked the spot in which its daily course was finished ; a
dubious lustre yet played around the spires of the Abbey, and
while it displayed its vast magnificence by contrast added to
its gloom a gloom heightened by the dreary solitude of its
situation, for the valley was entirely overshaded by the dark
projection of the mountains, on whose summits a few bright and
lingering beams yet remained, that showed the wild shrubs
waving in the evening breeze. A pensive spirit seemed now
to have taken possession of Mrs. Duncan, a spirit congenial to
the scene ; and the rest of the little journey was passed almost
in silence. Their lodgings were at the entrance of the town,
and Mrs. Bruce had taken care they should find every requisite
refreshment within them. The woman of the house had already
prepared a comfortable supper for them, which was served up
soon after their arrival. When over, Mrs. Duncan, assisted by
Amanda, put the children to bed, as she knew, till accustomed
to her, they would not like the attendance of the maid of
the house. Neither she nor Amanda felt sleepy ; it was a
fine moonlight night, and they were tempted to walk out
upon a terrace, to which a glass door from the room opened.
The terrace overhung a deep valley which stretched to the sea,
and the rocky promontory that terminated it was crowned with
the ruins of an ancient castle ; the moonbeams seemed to sleep
upon its broken battlements, and the waves that stole murmur-
ing to the shore cast a silvery spray around it. A pensive
pleasure pervaded the hearts of Mrs. Dunc.in and Amanda,
and conversing on the charms of the scene they walked up and
down, when suddenly upon the floating air they distinguished
the sound of a distant drum beating the tattoo. Both stopped,
and leaned upon a fragment of a parapet wall, which had once
stretched along the terrace ; and Mrs. Duncan, who knew the
situation of the country, said that the sounds they heard pro-
ceeded from a fort near the town. They ceased in a short
time, but were almost immediately succeeded by martial music ;
and Amanda soon distinguished an admired march of her
father's. Ah ! how aifectingly did it remind her of him I She
recalled the moments in which she had played it for him, whilst
he hung over her chair with delight and tenderness ; she wept
at the tender remembrance it excited wept at listening to the
sounds which had so often given to his pale cheek the flush of
ardor. They did not return to the house till convinced by a
long interval of silence that the music had ceased for the night.
THE ClIILDi^EN OF THE ABBEY. 445
Amanda having formed a plan relative to the will, deter-
mined not to delay executing it. She had often mentioned to
Mrs. Duncan her uneasiness concerning her brother, as an ex^
cuse for the melancholy that lady, in a half-serious, half-jesting
manner, so often rallied her about ; and she now intended to
assign her journey to London (which she was resolved should
immediately take place) to her anxious wish of discovering, or
at least inquiring about him. The next morning she accord-
ingly mentioned her intention, Mrs. Duncan was not only
surprised, but concerned, and endeavored to dissuade her from
it by representing, in the most forcible manner, the dangers she
might experience in so long a journey without a protector.
Amanda assured her she was already aware of these, but
the apprehensions they excited were less painful than the
anxiety she suffered on her brother's account, and ended by
declaring her resolution unalterable.
Mrs. Duncan, who, in her heart, could not blame Amanda
for such a resolution, now expressed her hopes that she would
not make a longer stay in London than was absolutely neces-
sary, declaring that her society would be a loss she could
scarcely support.
Amanda thanked her for her tenderness, and said, "she
hoped they should yet enjoy many happy days together." She
proposed travelling in a chaise to the borders of England, and
then pursuing the remainder of the journey in a stage-coach.
The woman of the house was sent for, and requested to engage
a carriage for her against the morning, which she promised to
do ; and the intervening time was almost entirely passed by
Mrs. Duncan in lamenting the approaching loss of Amanda's
society, and in entreaties for her to return as soon as possible.
Till this period she did not know, nor did Amanda conceive, the
strength of her friendship. She presented lier purse to our
heroine, and in the impassioned language of sincerity, entreated
her to consider it as the purse of a sister, and take from it
whatever was necessary for her long journey and uncertain stay.
Amanda, who never wished to lie under obligations, when
she could possibly avoid them, declined the offer ; but with the
warmest expressions of gratitude and sensibility, declaring (what
she thought indeed would be the case), that she bad more than
sufficient for all her purposes ; all, therefore, she would accept
was wliafMrs. Duncan owed her.
Mrs. Duncan begged her to take a letter from her to a
family, near whose house her first day's journey would terminate.
They were relations of Mr. Duiican's, she said, and had been
446 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
extremely kind to him and her. She had kept up a corre-
spondence with them till her removal to Dmireath Abbey, when
she dropped it, lest her residence there should be discovered ;
but such an opportunity of writing to them, by a person who
would answer all their inquiries concerning her, she could not
neglect; besides, she continued, they were the most agreeable
and hospitable people she had ever known, and she was con-
vinced would not suffer Amanda to sleep at an inn, but would
probably keep her a few days at their house, and then escort
her part of the way.
Averse to the society of strangers, in her present frame of
mind, Amanda said she would certainly take the letter, but
could not possibly present it herself. She thanked Mrs. Dun-
can for her solicitous care about her ; but added, whether she
lodged at an inn or private house for one night was of little
consequence ; and as to her journey being retarded, it was
what she never could allow.
Mrs. Duncan declared she was too fond of solitude, but did
not argue the point with her. She wrote the letter, however.
They took leave of each other at night, as the chaise was
ordered at an early hour. As Mrs. Duncan folded Amanda to
her heart, she again besought her to hasten back, declaring
that neither she nor her little girls would be themselves till she
returned.
At an early hour Amanda entered the chaise ; and, as she
stepped into it, could not forbear casting a sad and lingering
look upon a distant prospect, where, the foregoing evening, a
dusky grove of firs had been pointed out to her, as encompas-
sing the Marquis of Roslin's Castle. Ah ! how did her heart
sicken at the idea of the event which either had or was soon to
take place in that Castle ! Ah ! how did she tremble at the
idea of her long and lonesome journey, and the difficulties she
might encounter on its termination ! How sad, how solitary,
did she feel herself ! Her mournful eyes filled with tears as
she saw the rustic families hastening to their daily labors ; for
her mind involuntarily drew a comparison between their situa-
tion and her own. And, ah ! how sweet would their labor be to
her, she thought, if she, like them, was encompassed with the
social ties of life. Fears, before unthought of, rose in her mind,
from which her timid nature shrunk appalled. Should Rush-
brook be absent from London, or should he not answer her ex-
pectations ; but, " I deserve disappointment," cried she, " if I
thus anticipate it. Oh ! let me not be over-exquisite
'To cast the fashion of uncertain evils/
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. ^^j
e,^pressed as I already am with real ones." She endeavored to
exert her spirits. She tried to amuse them by attending to the
objects she passed, and gradually they lost somewhat of their
heaviness. On arriving in London, she designed going to the
haberdasher's, where, it may be remembered, she had once met
Miss Rushbrook ; here she hoped to procure lodgings, also a
direction to Rushbrook. It was about five when she stopped
for the night, as the shortened days of autumn would not per^
mit a longer journey, had the tired horses, which was not the
case, been able to proceed. They stopped at the inn, which
Mrs. Duncan had taken care to know would be the last stage
of the first day's journey ; a small, but neat and comfortable
house, romantically situated at the foot of a steep hill, planted
with ancient firs, and crowned with the straggling remains of
what appeared to have been a religious house, from a small
cross which yet stood over a broken gateway. A stream trickled
from the hill, though its murmurs through the thick underwood
alone denoted its rising there, and winding round the inn,
flowed in meanders through a spacious vale, of which the inn
was not the lone inhabitant, for cottages appeared on either side,
and one large mansion stood in the centre, whose superior size
and neat plantations proclaimed it master of the whole. This
was really the case, for immediately on entering the inn Aman-
da had inquired about the Macqueen family, to whom Mrs.
Duncan's letter was directed, and learned that they inhabited
this house, and owned the grounds to a large extent surround-
ing it. Amanda gave Mrs. Duncan's letter to the landlady,
and begged she would send it directly to Mrs. Macqueen. The
inn was without company ; and its quiet retirement, together
with the appearance of the owners, an elderly pair, soothed the
agitated spirits of Amanda. Her little dinner was soon served
up ; but when over, and she was left to herself, all the painful
ideas she had sedulously, and with some degree of success, at-
tempted to banish from her mind in the morning, by attending
to the objects she passed, now returned with full, or rather ag-
gravated, force. Books, those pleasing, and, in affliction, allevi-
ating resources, she had forgotten to bring along with her, and
all that the inn contained she had been shown on a shelf in the
apartment she occupied, but without finding otie that could pos-
sibly fix her attention or change her melancholy ideas ; a ramble,
though the evening was uninviting, she preferred to the passive
indulgence of her sorrow ; and having ordered tea against her
return and invited the landlady to it, she was conducted to the
garden of the inn, from whence she ascended the hill by a wind-
448 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
ing path. She made her way with difficulty through a path,
which, seldom trodden, was half-choked with weeds and
brambles ; the wind blew cold and sharp around her, and the
gloom of closing day was heightened by thick and lowering
clouds that involved the distant mountains in one dark shade.
Near those mountains she knew the domain of Roslin lay ; and
from the bleak summit of the hill she surveyed them as a lone
mourner would survey the sad spot in which the pleasure ol
his heart was buried. Forgetting the purpose for which she
had walked out, she leaned in melancholy reverie against a.
fragment of the ruined building, nor heard approaching foot-
steps till the voice of her host suddenly broke upon her ear.
She started, and perceived him accompanied by two ladies, who
he directly informed her were Mrs. and Miss Macqueen. They
both went up to Amanda, and after the usual compliments of
introduction were over, Mrs. Macqueen took her hand, and
with a smile of cordial good-nature, invited her to her house for
the night, declaring that the pleasure she received from Mrs.
Duncan's letter was heightened by being introduced through its
means to a person that lady mentioned as her particular friend.
Miss Macqueen seconded her mother's invitation, and said,
" the moment they had read the letter they had come out for
the purpose of bringing her back with them." " Ay, ay," said
the host, good-humoredly (who was himself descended from one
of the inferior branches of the Macqueens), " this is the way,
ladies, you always rob me of my guests. In good faith, I think
I must soon change my dwelling, and go higher up the valley."
Conscious from her utter dejection that she would be un-
able, as she wished, to participate in the pleasures of conversa-
tion, Amanda declined the invitation, alleging, as an excuse for
doing so, hor intention of proceeding on her journey the next
morning by dawn of day.
Mrs. Macqueen declared that she should act as she pleased
in that respect, and both she and her daughter renewed their
entreaties for her company with such earnestness, that Amanda
could no longer refuse them ; and they returned to the inn,
where Amanda begged they would excuse her absence a few
minutes ; and retired to pay her entertainers, and repeat her
charges to the postilion to be at the house as soon as he should
think any of the family stirring. She then returned to the
ladies, and attended them to their mansion, which might well
be termed the seat of hospitality. . The family consisted of Mr.
and Mrs. Macqueen, four sons, and six daughters, now all past
childhood, and united to one another by the strictest ties of
THE cniLDREN OF THE ABBEY.
449
duty and affection. After residing a few years at Edinburgli,
for tiie improvement of the young people, Mr. and "Mrs. Mac-
queen returned to their mansion in the valley, where a large
fortune was spent in the enjoyment of agreeable society, and
acts of benevolence. Mrs. Macqueen informed Amanda, dur-
ing the walk, that all her family were now assembled together,
as her sons, who were already engaged in different professions
and businesses in various parts of the kingdom, made it a con-
stant rule to pay a visit every autumn to their friends. It was
quite dark before the ladies reached the house, and the wind
was sharp and cold, so that Amanda found the light and warmth
of the drawing-room, to which she was conducted, extremely
agreeable. The thick window curtains and carpeting, and the
enlivening fire, bid defiance to the sharpness of the mountain
blast which howled without, and rendered the comforts within
more delectable by the effect of contrast. In the drawing-room
were assembled Mr. Macqueen, two of his daughters, and half
a dozen ladies and gentlemen, to whom Amanda was presented,
and they in return to her. In the countenance of Mr. Mac-
queen, Amanda perceived a benevolence equal to that which
irradiated his wife's. Both were past the prime of life ; but in
him only was its decline visible. He was lately grown so in-
firm as to be unable to remove without assistance. Yet was his
relish for society undiminished ; and in his arm-chair, his legs
muffled in flannel, and supported by pillows, he promoted as
much as ever the mirth of his family, and saw with delight the
dance go on in which he had once mixed with his children. Mrs.
Macqueen appeared but as the eldest sister of her daughters ;
and between them all Amanda perceived a strong family like-
ness. They were tall, well, but not delicately made ; handsome,
yet more indebted to the animation of their countenances than
to regularity of features for beauty, which was rendered luxu-
riant by a quantity of rich auburn hair, that, unrestrained
by superfluous ornaments, fell in long ringlets on their shoulders,
and curled with a sweet simplicity on their white polished
foreheads.
" So the boys and girls are not yet returned," said Mrs.
Macqueen, addressing one of her daughters. " I am afraid
they have taken their friends too far." She had scarcely
spoken, when a party was heard under the windows laughing
and talking, who ascended the stairs immediately in a kind of
gay tumult. The drawing-room door opened, and a lady en-
tered (of a most prepossessing appearance, though advanced
in life), and was followed by a number of young people,
29
45
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
But, oh ! what were the powerful emotions of Amanda's
soul, when amongst them she beheld Lady Araminta Dormer
and Lord Morlimer ! Shocked, confused, confounded, she
strained an eye of agony upon them, as if with the hop6 of
detecting an illusion, then dropped her head, anxious to con-
ceal herself, though she was fatally convinced she could be but
a few minutes unobserved by them. Never, amidst the many
trjing moments of her life, had she experienced one more
dreadful. 'J'o behold Lord Mortimer, when she knew his es-
teem for her was lost, at a period, too, when he was hastening
to be united to another woman, oh ! it was agony, torture in the
extreme ! Vainly did she reflect she deserved not to lose his
esteem. This consciousness could not at present inspire her
with fortitude. Her heart throbbed as if it would burst ; her
bosom, her frame trembled, and she alternately experienced
the glow of confusion and liie chill of dismay dismay at
the idea of meeting the silent but expressive reproach of Lord
Mortimer's eye for h r imaginary errors dismay at the idea of
meeting the contempt of his aunt (who was the lady that first
entered the room) and sister.
CHAPTER XLIX.
"It voulc1 raise your pity but to see the tears
Force through her snowy (ids their melting course,
To lodge themselves oil licr red nuirm'riug lips,
That t.ilk such inuuniful things ; when straight a gale
Of starting sighs carry lliose pearls away,
As dews by winds are wafted from the flowers.*' Lbs.
Bitterly did Amanda regret having been tempted from the
inn, and gratefully would she have acquitted fortune of half
its malignancy to her, had she been able to steal back unno-
ticed. The party that entered engaged in talking to those they
found in the drawing7room laughing and describing their
ramble, which Lady Araminta said was in the style of Willo'-
the-Wisp (over brakes and through briers) were some time
before they observed Amanda ; but soon, ah ! how much too
soon, did she perceive Mrs. Macqueen approaching to intro-
duce those of her family who were just returned.
"The trying moment is come ! " cried Amanda. " Oh I let
me not by my confusion look as if I really was the guilty thing
J ^)n supposed to be," She endeavored to collect herself, an^
THU CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY,
4S
rose to meet the young Macqueens, by a timid glance perceiv-
ing that they yet hid her from the eyes she most dreaded to
encounter. Slie was unable, however, to return their compli-
ments, except by a faint smile, and was again sinking upon her
seat for her frame trembled universally when Mrs. Mac-
queen, taking her hand, led her forward, and presented her to
Lady Martha and Lady Araminta Dormer. It may be remem-
bered that Lady Martha had never before seen Amanda. She
therefore gave her, as Miss Donald, a benignant smile, which,
had she supposed her Miss Fitzalan, would have been lost in a
contemptuous frown. Seldom, indeed, had she seen a form
more interesting than our heroine's. Her mourning habit set
off the elegance of her form and the languid delicacy of her
complexion, whilst the sad expression of her countenance de-
noted that habit but the shadow of the unseen grief which
dwelt within her soul. Her large blue eyes were half con-
cealed by their long lashes, but the beams which stole from be-
neath those fringed curtains were full of sweetness and sensi-
bility. Her fine hair, discomposed by thq jolting of the car-
riage and the blowing of the wind, had partly escaped the
braid on which it was turned under her hat, and hung in long
ringlets of glossy brown upon her shoulders and careless curls
about her face, giving a sweet simplicity to It, which heightened
its beauty. How different was the look she received from
Lady Araminta to tiiat she had received from Lady Martha 1
In the expressive countenance of the former she read surprise,
contempt, and anger ; her cheeks were flushed with unusual
color, her eyes sparkled with uncommon lustre, and their quick
glances pierced the palpitating heart of Amanda, who heard
her repeat, as if involuntarily, the name of Donald. Ah ! how
dreadful was the sound to her ear ! Ah ! how sad a confirma-
tion did it convey that every suspicion to her prejudice would
now be strengthened. " Ah I why, why," said she to herself,
" was I tempted to take this hated name ? Why did I not
prefer incurring any danger to which my own might have exr
posed me, rather than assume anything like deceit ? " Happily
the party were too much engrossed by one ariother to heed
the words or manner of Lady Araminta.
Amanda withdiew her hand from Mrs. Macqueen, and
moved tremblingly to her seat ; but that lady, with a politeness
poor Amanda had reason to think officious, stopped her.
'Miss Donald Lord Mortimer I " said she. Amanda raised
her head, but not her eyes, and neither saw nor heard his lord- ,
ship. Th? scene she had dreaded was over, and she felt v,-
452 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
little relieved at the idea. The haughty glance of Lady Ara-
jninta dwelt upon her mind, and, when agitation had a little
subsided, she stole a look at her, and saw Mrs. Macqueen
sitting between her and Lady Martha ; and from the altered
countenance of the latter, she instantly conjectured she had
been informed by her niece of her real name. She also con-
jectured, from the glances directed towards her, that she was
the subject of conversation, and concluded it was begun for the
purpose of discovering whether Mrs. Macqueen knew anything
of her real history.
From these glances she quickly withdrew her own, and one
of the young Macqueens, drawing a chair near hers, began a
conversation with all that spirit and vivacity which distin-
guished his family. The mind of Amanda was too much occu-
pied by its concerns to be able to attend to anything foreign to
them. She scarcely knew what he said, and when she did
reply it was only by monosyllables. At last a question, en-
forced with peculiar earnestness, roused her from this inatten-
tion, and blushing for it, she looked at the young man, and
perceived him regarding her with something like wonder. She
now, for the first time, considered the strange appearance she
must make amongst the company, if she did not collect and
compose her spirits. The family, too, to whom she was (she
could not help thinking) so unfortunately introduced, from their
hospitality, merited attention and respect from her. She
resolved, therefore, to struggle with her feelings, and, as an
apology for her absent manner, complained, and not without
truth, of a headache.
Young Macqueen, with friendly warmth, said he would ac-
quaint his mother, or one pi his sisters, with her indisposition,
and procure sonic remedy for it ; but she insisted he should fln
no account disturb the company, assuring him she would soon
be well ; siic tiicn enileavorcd to support a conversation with
him ; but, ah I how often ditl she pause in the midst of what
she was saying, as the sweet, insinuating voice of Mcrtimer
reached her ear, who, with his native elegance and spirit, was
participating in the lively conversation then going forward. In
hers, with young Macqueen, she was soon interrupted by his
father, who, in a good-humored manner told his son he would
no longer suffer him to engross Miss Donald to himself, and
desired him to lead her to a chair near his.
Young Macqueen iaimediately arose, and taking Amanda's
hand, led her to his father, by whom he seatpd her ; and by
yvliom on the oth^r sid^ sat Lady Martha Dormer ; then with j;
THE cmtDREN Otf TffM AB^EY.
453
modest gillEltitry declared it was the first time lie ever felt re-
luctance to obey his father's commands, and hoped his ready
acquiescence to them would be rewarded with speedy permis-
sion to resume his conversation with Miss Donald. Amanda
had hitherto prevented her eyes from wandering, though they
could not exclude the form of Lord Mortimer ; she had not
yet seen his face, and still strove to avoid seeing it. Mr. Mac-
queen began with various inquiries relative to Mrs. Duncan, to
which Amanda, as she was prepared for them, answered with
tolerable composure. Suddenly he dropped the subject of his
relation, and asked Amanda from what branch of the Don-
alds she was descended. A question so unexpected shocked,
dismayed, and overwhelmed her with confusion. She made no
reply till the question was repeated, when, in a low and falter-
ing voice, her face covered with blushes, and almost buried
in her bosom, she said she did not know.
" Well," cried be, again changing his discourse, after looking'
at her a few minutes, " I do not know any girl but yourself would
take such pains to hide such a pair of eyes as you have. I sup-
pose you are conscious of the mischief they have the power of
doing, and therefore it is from compassion to mankind you try
to conceal them."
Amanda blushed yet inore deeply than before at finding her
downcast looks were noticed. She turned hers with quickness
to Mr. Macqueen, who having answered a question of Lady
Martha's thus proceeded : " And so you do not know from which '
branch of the Donalds you are descended ? Perhaps now you
only forget, and if I was to mention them one by one, your
memory might be refreshed ; but first let me ask your father's
surname, and what countrywoman he married, for the Donalds
generally married amongst each other ?
Oh ! how forcibly was Amanda at this moment convinced ,
^(if indeed her pure soul wanted such conviction) of the pain, the
shame of deception, let the motive be what it may which prompts
it. Involuntarily were her eyes turned from Mr. Macqueen as
he paused for a reply to his last question, and at the moment
encountered those of Lord Mortimer, who sat directly opposite
to her, and with deep attention regarded her, as if anxious to
hear how she would extricate herself from' the embarrassments
her assumed name had plunged her into.
Her contusion, her blushes, her too evident distress, were
all imputed by Mrs. Macqueen to fatigue at listening to such
tedious inquiries. She knew her husband's only foible was an
eager desire to trace every one's pedigree. In order, therefore,
4S4
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
to relieve Amanda from her present situation, she proposed a
party of whist, at which Mr. Macqueen often amused himself,
and for which the table and cards were already laid before him.
As she took up the cards to hand them to those who were to
draw, she whispered Amanda to go over to the tea-table.
Amanda required no repetition now, and thanking Mrs.
Macqueen in her heart for the relief she afforded her, went to
the table around v/hich almost all the young people were
crowded ; so great was the mirth going on amongst them, that
Miss Macqueen, the gravest of the set, in vain called upon her
sisters to assist her in serving the trays, which the servants
handed about, and Mrs. Macqueen had more than once called
for. Miss Macqueen made room for Amanda by herself, and
Amanda, anxious to do anything which could keep her from en-
countering the eyes she dreaded, requested to be employed in
assisting her, and was deputed to fill out the coffee. After the
first performance of her task. Miss Macqueen, in a whispering
voice, said to Amanda, " Do you know we are all here more
than half in love with Lord Mortimer. lie is certainly very
handsome, and his manner is quite as pleasing as his looks, for
he has none of that foppery and conceit which handsome men
so generally have, and nothing but the knowledge of his engage-
ment could keep us from pulling caps about him. You have
heard, to be sure, of Lady Euphrasia Sutherland, the Marquis
of Roslin's daughter ; well, he is going to be married to her
immediately ; she and the marquis and the marchioness were
here the other day. She is not to be compared to Lord
Mortimer, but she has what will make her be considered very
handsome in the eyes of many namely, a large fortune. They
only stopped to breakfast here, and ever since we have been on
the watch for the rest of the party, who arrived this morning,
and were, on Lady Martha's account, whom the journey had
fatigued, prevailed on to stay till to-morrow. I am very glad
you came while they were here. I think both ladies charming
women, and Lady Araminta quite as handsome as her brother j
but gee," she continued, touching Amanda's hand, " the con-
quering hero comes ! " Lord Mortimer with difficulty made his
way round the table, and accepted a seat by Miss Macqueen,
which she eagerly offered him, and which she contrived to pro-
cure by sitting closer to Amanda. To her next neighbor, a fine,
' lively girl, Amanda now turned, and entered into conversation
with her ; but from this she was soon called by Miss Macqueen,
requesting her to pour out a cup of coffee for Lord Mortimer.
Amanda obeyed, and hp rose to receive it; her hand
THH CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 455
trembled as she presented it. She looked not in his face, but
slie thought his hand was not quite steady. She saw him lay
the cup on the table, and bend his eyes to the ground. She
heard Miss Macqueen address him twice ere she received an
answer, and then it was so abrupt that it seemed the effect of
sudden recollection. Miss Macqueen now grew almost as in-
attentiVe to the table as her sisters, and Mrs. Macqueen was
obliged to come over to know what they were all about. At
length the business of the tea-table was declared over ; and
almost at the same moment the sound of a violin was heard
from an adjoining room, playing an English country dance, in
which style of dancing the Macqueens had been instructed in
Edinburgh, and chose this evening in compliment to their
guests. The music was a signal for universal motion all in a
moment was bustle and confusion. The young men instantly
selected their partners, who seemed ready to dance from one
room to another. The young Macqueen, who had been so
assiduous about Amanda, now came, and taking her hand, as if
her dancing was a thing of course, was leading her after the
rest of the party, when she drew back, declaring she could tiot
dance. Surprised and disappointed, he stood looking on her
in silence, as it irresolute whether he should not attempt to
change her resolution. At last he spoke, and requested she
woukl not mortify him by a refusal.
Mrs. Macqueen hearing her son's request came forward and
joined it. Amanda pleaded her headache.
" 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 per-
mitted 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 abjut.? Lord
Mortimer and my sister have already led olf ; 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.
4s6 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY.
" We will go into the dancing room, if you please," said
Mrs. Macqueen to Amanda j " 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 pen-
sive 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 her-
self insensibly drawn from a too'painful attention to surround-
ing objects. On expressing the pleasure which a mind of sen-
sibility 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 com-
. forts. " 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 dissipa-
tion. 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 diver-
sion, let it be what it may, wants something to render it com-
plete. 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 re-
jected partner, acts the part of prompter." Here this con-
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 457
versation, so pleasing to Amanda, and interesting to Mrs. Mac-
queen, was interrupted by a message from tlie drawing-room,
to inform tlie 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 Morti-
mer or Lady Araminta, she would have followed her to the
drawing-room. As this was the case, she resolved on remain-
ing 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
disen^^aged."
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 grouhd when she saw
him approach : " You are an absolute runaway," cried he to
Miss Macqueen ; " how do you suppose I will excuse your fre-
quent 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 j ju to her."
Amanda looked up as they moved from her, and saw Lord
Mortimer's head half turned back ; but the instant she per-
ceived him he averted it, and took no further notice of her.
When the set was finished, Miss Macqueen returned to Aman-
da, and was followed by some of her brothers and sisters.
Some of thegentlemen also approached Amanda, and requested
the honor of her hand, but she was steady in refusing all. Rich
wines, sweetmeats, and warm Icmonadf, were now handed
about in profusion, and the strains of the violin were succeeded
by those of the bagpipe, played by the family musician, vener-
able 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 t6
45$ THE CmLDREN OF THE ABBEY:
stop, that one might be begun in which the rest of the party
could join. Dancing continued in this manner with little inter-
mission, but whenever there was an interval, the young Mac-
queens paid every attention to Amanda ; and on her express-
ing 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 conver-
sation, 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 Marlha Dormer had
engaged her in a conversation which she could not interrupt.
At last they were summoned to supper, which, on Mr. Mac-
,quecn,'s account, was laid out in a room on the same floor.
Thither without ceremony whoever was next the door first pro-
ceeded. 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 be-
tween Lord Mortimer and Mr. Colin Macqueen ; and in con-
versing with the latter, Amanda sought to avoid noticing, or
being noticed by Lord Mortimer ; and his lordship, by the par-
ticular 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 An an. la's, which did not utter some lively sally.
The piper sat in lhc,lo!jby, 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 ad-
dressed some scarcely articulate question to him. The supper
things removed, the strains of the piper were silenced, aaU
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
459
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 ap-
pear ungrateful to her kind entertainers, or unsocial in the
midst of mirth, by refusing what she was told would be pleas- '
ing 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 pro-
ceeded 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 (3f 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
460 THE CHILD REN^ OF THE ABBEY.
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
Tyas 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 ap-
peared 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 speak-
ing 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 atten-
tively when Lord Mortimer was about giving one, no less at-
tentively 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 for-
ward, 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 sleep-
ing 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 coun-
tenance," said he, darting a penetratmg yet quickly-withdrawn
glance at Amanda. " Experience," continued he, " daily
proves how little dependence is to be placed on it." Amanda
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 461'
turned hastily away, and pretended, by speaking to young Mac-
queen, not to notice a speech she knew directly pointed at her;
for often had Lord Mortimer declared that, " in the lineaments
of the hunian 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 re-
tired first. Amanda was following them, when Mrs. Macqueen
detained her, to try and prevail on her to slay 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, T 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 free-
dom 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 bead rested on his hand, and the cor-
nice ,of the chimney supported his arm. His hair, from which
the dancing had almost shaken all the powder, hung negli-
gently 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 an-
swer. 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 m
idea a little beyond the mountains, I fancy. Ay, we all kpow
where your heart and your treasure now lie," " Do you ? " said
463 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
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 I " repeated Amanda, with the utmost surprise ; " can it be
possible ? " She suddenly checked herself, and said, she
would attend her ladyship immediately. She accordingly fol-
lowed 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, ap-
pfoached, looked on lier 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 lib-
erty of sending for you at this hour, but that I believe so favor-
able an opportunity would not again have occurred of speaking
to you on a subject particularly interesting to me an oppor-
tunity which has so unexpectedly saved me the trouble of try-
ing 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 thf-obbings pf Amanda's he^rt became more
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 463
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 some-
thing 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 j
and to convince you I have, indeed, if such a conviction be
necessary, have prevailed on him to be present at this con-
versation." ' No, madam, such a conviction was not neces-
sary," 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 immediatelj'," said Lady
Martha, " I will give you a direction where they may be left in
London, to whicli 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 jiride, 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 rib-
bon from it, and laid it in its case, her grief overcame every
other feeling, and a shower of tears fell from her. " Oh, Mor-
timer ! dear Mortimer ! " she sighed, " must I part even with
this little shadow ! must I retain no vestige of happier hburs !
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 min-
utes in the chamber, to try to calm her agitation. She called
jier pride to her aid ; it inspired her with fortitude, and she
464 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
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 interest-
ing 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 ap-
peared 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 inter-
esting 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 ex-
tending her hand when Lord Mortimer suddenly started from a
couch on which he had thrown himself, and snatching the pic-
ture 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 attach-
ment to Amanda! Oh, wretched, wretched girl I " cried he,
suddenly grasping her hand, and as suddenly relinquishing
it, " Oh, wretched, wretched girl I 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
stotid, 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 I " said Lady Martha, " I
pity you from my soul I Ah 1 if your mind resembled your
person, what a perfect creature had you been 1 How happy
had then been my poor Mortimer I "
Now, now was the test, the shining test of Ainanda's virtue,
agonized by knowing she had lost the good opinion of those
whom she loved wilh such ardor, esteemed with such reverence.
She knew by a few words she could explain the appearances
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 465
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, ot 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 prom-
ise 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 re-
established 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 re-
gained? Oh I 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 luc 1 " 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 tcmplalion, tliought for a mo-
ment 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 ob-
served, except by that Being to whom she applied for pardon
and future strength. Lady Martha had been a silent specta-
tor of her emotions, and, thinking as she did of Amanda, could
only hope that they proceeded from contrition for her past con-
duct, 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 dis-
tress ; 1 shall not repeat the expression, llilnkiiig as I now do j
I liope (lint it is occnsioncd by vogiel for pant errors : llio tears
of repeiilancc wash away the stains of guilt, and that heart
must indeed be callous which the sigh of remor.sc will not mek
to pity." Amiinda turned her eyes with earnestness on Lady
3
466 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Martha as she spoke, and her cheeks were again tinged with a
faint glow.
" Perhaps I speak too plainly," cried Lady Martha, witness-
ing this glow, and imputing it to resentment; " but I have ever
liked the undisguised language of sincerity. It gave me pleas-
ure," 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. Dun-
can has informed Mrs. Macqueen. If this were indeed the
motive, there are means of inquiring without taking so impru-
dent a step." " Imprudent ! " repeated Amanda, involuntari-
ly. " 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 ac-
tions ; 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 prompt-
ed 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
Tim CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 467
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, Irepeat, 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 af-
fair the injunction of Lady Dunreath had prohibited her dis-
closing 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 biassed.
Amanda hoped and believed that in a place so large as
London, and with her assumed name (which she novif 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,
wliich 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 un-
necessary whose innocence would yet be justified," she added.
Lady Martha shook her head ; the consciousness of having ex-
cited suspicions which she could not justify, had indeed given
to the looks of Amanda a confusion when she spoke which con-
firmed them in Lady Martha's breast. " I am sorry for your
determination," said she, " but notwithstanding it is so con-
trary to my ideas of what is right, I cannot let you depart with-
out 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
468 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
injustice to the noble ones of Lord Mortimer. It is by Iiis de-
sire, as well as my own inclination, 1 now speak to you in this
manner, though past events, and the situation he is about en-
tering 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 deser-
tion of all the world. To regret past errors, be they what they
may, is to insure my assistance and protection, if both, or
either, arc 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 ths interest you express about me ; the time may yet
come, perhaps, when I shall prove I never was unworthy of
exciting it when the no'tice 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 Cher-
bury'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.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 469
In lier chamber, the feelings she had so, long, so painfully
tried to suppress, broke forth without again meeting opposi-
tion. 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 j but, oh I Mortimer, the bitter
tears she shed fell not for herself alone ; she wept to think thy
destiny, thotigh more prosperous, was not less unhappy than
her own ; for in thy broken accents, thy altered looks, she per-
ceived 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 dis-
appointed 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
470
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
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 affec-
tionate 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 deter-
mined 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 b^ 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 appli-
cation ? " " 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 lady-
ship." 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
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 471
she saw his eyes in the same direction. " I declare,'' continued
Miss PhcEbe Macqueen, " I should do the favor all due honor."
" I am sure," criecl Lord Mortimer, attempting to speak cheer-
fully, "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
sinfjular," said a gentleman. " What do you think, Miss Don-
ald," 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 fairit, 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 lae 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 con-
quered her reluctance to move, and she said to Mr. Colin Mac-
queen it was time for her to go. At that moment Lord Mor-
timer rose, and proposed to the young Macqueens going with
them lo 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 recollec-
tion 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 de-
clined, but gratefully expressed her thanks for it, and the hos-
pitality she had experienced. Mrs. Macqueen said, on her re-
turn to Scotland, she hoped to be more successful. She also
added, that some of her boys and girls would gladly have ac-
companied Amanda a few miles on her way, had not they all
agreed, ere her arrival, to escort Lord Mortimer's- party to an
472 THE CHILDKEU OF 'nlE ABBEY.
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 acquaint-
ance was an acquisition. Amanda, having received the affec-
tionate adieus o this amiable woman and her daughters, curt-
seyed, though with downcast looks, to Lady Martba 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 , biit 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
wouldi
" 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 re-
lieved 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 agon-
ized 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. Notwith-
standing 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.
THE CHILDliEN OF THE ABBEY. 4)i|
At this moment I could take you to my arms, and weep over
you like tlie 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 I " repeated Amandji.
" 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 ! " con-
tinued 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 postil-
ion, 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 oE 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 in-
stantly 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 I 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 en-
joyed. 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
474 ^-^*' CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
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 cluudy front she clears,
And a false vigor m lier eyes appears." DavDBN.
She aligiited 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 pen-
sively 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 I
how often have I wished to meet you again to express my grati-
tude." 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. Shevreturned the fervent pres-
sure 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 embar-
rassment her question excitqd 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 Ruslibrook immediately stepped to a parlor behind the
shop, and almost instantly returned, followed by the lady her-
self, 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
TilE CHILDRMN Ofi THE ABBEY. ' 475
total strangers, she had come to her house in hopes of being
Ale 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. Con-
nel if she could recommend her to a lodging, when she perceived
Miss liuslibrook 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, consider-
ing 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 tiie trunk on
which her assumed name was marked, "you arc 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 dis-
close 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 fiie 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 twq
hours sooner, I could have given you a bit of nice veal for your
dinner." Amanda assured her she did not wish to take any-
thing 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
476 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
touch tea ;' 'but, Biddy,' he would say, and he would laugh so,
poor dear 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 I Lord I 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 I 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 quar-
tered, 'and he being only a lieutenant had not room enough for
his family in the barracks, so he took lodgings at our house,
where M.s. Rushbrook lay in, and I being with her now and
then during her confinement, a kind of friendship grew up
amongst ur. They had not left us long to go to America, when
a relation of my husband, who owned this house and shop, hav-
ing 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 ac;ain. So, to make a short story of a long one, about six
years ago Mrs; Rushbrook and Miss Emily came one day into
THE CiniDREN OE THE ABBEY. 477
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,
1 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 wi'd 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,
Strickldnd so jealous of his wife. Well, J 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 appear-
ance 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
478 THE CHILDREN OE THE ABBEY.
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 sup-
posed 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,
1 thought I would serve them in spite of themselves, so, know-
ing 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 diffi-
culties; 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
wailing 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 Scot-
land." " Dear, what a long journey ! Lord I 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, m^a'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, in-
deed," replied Amanda, "Are you come to make any long
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 479
stay in London, ma'am ? " "I have not determined." " I
suppose you have come about a little business, ma'am ? " re-
sumed 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 im-
pertinent, but unavailing ; she therefore determined to wait till
the hurry and agitation produced by such an event had subsid-
ed, and most sincerely did she hope that it might be produc-
tive 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 volubiiily tor-
mented 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. Aman-
da 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 ex-
ceedingly 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 men-
480 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
tion this, lest you might suppose from what Mrs. Connel said,
that I had clone so." " No, madam," replied Emily, " I had
no such idea, and an inquiry from you would be rather pleas-
ing 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 pov/er of alleviating them." " Oh I 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 un-
dressing, I will give myself the melancholy indulgence of
relating my little story,"
CHAPTER LI.
** Take heed, take heed, thou lovely maid,
Nor be by glittering ills betrayed.'*
To open our hearts to those we know will commiserate our
sorrows is the sweetest consolation those sorrows can receive ;
to you, then, madam, I divulge mine, sure at least of pity. At
the time I first had the happiness of seeing you, the little credit
my father had was exhausted, and his inability to pay being
well known, he was arrested one evening as he sat by the bed-
side of my almost expiring mother I I will not pain your gentle
nature by dwelling on the horrors of that moment, on the ago-
nies of a parent, and a husband torn from a family so situated
as was my father's. Feeble, emaciated, without even sufficient
clothing to guard him from the inclemency of the weather, he
leaned upon the arm of one of the bailiffs, as he turned his
eyes from that wife he never more expected to behold. She
fainted at the moment he left the room, and it was many min-
utes ere I had power to approach her. The long continuance
of her fit at length recalled my distracted thoughts ; but I had
no restoratives to apply, no assistance to recover her, for my
eldest brother had followed my father, and the rest of the chil-
(Iren, terrified by the scene they had witnessed, wept together
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 481
in a corner of the room. I at las'- recollected a lady who lived,,
nearly opposite to us, and from whom I hoped to procure some
relief for her. Nothing but the present emergency could havfe
made me apply to her, for the attention she had paid us on first' ,
coming to Mr. Heathfield's was entirely withdrawn after his ,
death. Pride, however, was forgotten at the present moment, '
and I flew to her house. The servant showed me into a parlor,
where she, her daughters, and a young clergyman 1 had never
before seen, were sitting at tea. I could not bring myself to
mention my distress before a stranger, and accordingly begged
to speak to her in another room ; but she told me in a blunt
manner I might speak there. In a low and faltering voice,
which sighs and tears often impeded, I acquainted her of what
had happened, the situation of my mother, and requested a cor-
dial for her. How great was my confusion when she declared
aloud all I had told her, and turning to her daughter, bid her
give m6 part of a bottle of wine. ' Ay, ay,' cried she, ' I always
thought things would turn out so. It was really very foolish of
Mr. Heathfield to bring you to his house, and lead you all
into such expenses ! ' I lir)tened to no more, but taking the
wine with a silent pang, retired.
" I had not been many minutes returned, and was kneeling
by the bedside of my mother, who began to show some symp-
toms of returning life, when a gentle knock came to the hall- '
door. I supposed it my brother, and bade one of ''le children
fly to open it. What was my surprise when in a fe.v minutes
she returned, followed by the young clergyman I had just seen.
I started from my kneeling posture, and my looks expressed
my wonder. He approached, and in the soft accent of benevo-
lence, apologized for his intrusion ; but said he came with a
hope and a wish that ho might be serviceable. Oh I how sooth-
ing was his voice I Oh ! how painfully pleasing the voice of
tenderness to the wretched I The tears which pride and
indignation had suspended but a few moments before again
began flowing.
" But I will not dwell upon my feelings ; suffice it to say,
that every attention which could mitigate my wretchedness he
paid, and that his efforts, aided by mine, soon restored my ,
mother. His looks, his manner, ihis profession, all conspired
to calm her spirits, and she blessed the power which so unex-
pectedly had given us a friend. My brother returned from my
father merely to inquire how we were, and to go back to him
directly. The stranger requested permission to accompany
him J a request most pleasing to us, as we trusted his soothing
31
482 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
attention would have the same effect upon his sorrowing heart
as it had upon ours. Scarcely were tiiey gone ere a man ar-
rived from a neighboring hotel with a basket loaded with wine
and provisions. But to enumerate every instance of this young
man's goodness would be encroaching upon your patience. In
short, by his care, my mother in a few days was able to be car-
ried to my father's prison. Mrs. Connel, who, on tlie first in-
timation of our distress, had come to us, took me into the
house at a stated salary, which was to be given to my parents,
and the rest of the children were to continue with them. My
mother desired me one evening to take a walk with the chil-
dren to Kensington, as she thought them injured by constant
confinement. Oiirfriend attended us, and in our way thither,
informed me that h^ must soon leave town, as he was but a
country curate, and his leave of absence from his rector was
expired. It was above a month since we had known him, dur-
ing which time his attentions were unremitting, and he was a
source of comfort to us all. A sudden chill came over my
heart as he spoke, and every sorrow at that moment seemed
aggravated. On entering Kensington gardens, I seated myself
on a little rising mount, for I felt trembling and fatigued, and
he sat beside me. Never had I before felt so oppressed, and'
my tears gushed forth ii) spite of my efforts to restrain them.
Something I said of their being occasioned by the recollection
of the period when my parents enjoyed t!ie charming scene I
now contemplated along with him. 'Would to Heaven,' cried
he, ' I could restore them again to the enjoyment of it.'
"'Ah,' said I, 'they already lie under unreturnable obliga-
tions to you. In losing you,' added I, involuntarily, 'they
would lose their only comfort' ' Since then,' cried he, 'you
flatter me by saying it is in my power to give them comfort,
oh I let them have a constant claim upon me for it I Oh I
Emily!" he continued, taking \ny hand, 'let them be my
parents as well as yours ; then will their too scrupulous delicacy
be conquered, and they will receive as a right what they now
consider as a favor.' I felt my cheeks glow with blushes, but
still did not perfectly conceive his meaning. ' My destiny is
humble,' he continued ; ' was it otherwise, I should long since
have entreated you to share it with me. Could you be pre-
vailed on to do so, you would gi\e it pleasures it never yet
experienced.' He paused for a reply, "but I was unable to
give one.
" Ah ! madam, how little necessity either was there for one ;
roy looks, my confusion, betrayed my feelings. He urged me
nm CHILDKEN OP THE AlitiEY. 483
to speak, and at last I acknowledged I should not hesitate to
share his destiny, but for my parents, who, by such a measure,
would lose my assistance. 'Oh I do not tliink,' cried he, ' I
would ever wish to tempt you into any situation which should
make you neglect them.' He then proceeded to say that,
though unable at present to liberate them, yet he trusted that
if they consented to our union, he should by economy be en-
abled to contribute more essentially to their support than I
could do, and also be able in a short time to discharge their
debts. His proposals were made known to them, and met
their warmest approbation. The pleasure they derived from
them was more on my account than their own, as the idea of
having me so settled removed a weight of anxiety from their
minds ; some of my brothers and sisters should live with us,
he said, and promised my time should be chiefly spent in doing
fine works, which should be sent to Mrs. Connel to dispose of
for my parents ; and also that, from time to time, I should
visit them till I had the power of bringing them to my cottstge,
for such he described his residence.
" He was compelled to go to the country, but it was settled
he should return in a short time, and have everything finally
settled. In about a week after his departure, as I was return-
ing one morning from a lady's, where I had been on a message
from Mrs. Connel, a gentleman joined me in the street, and
with a rude familiarity endeavored to enter into conversation
with me, I endeavored to shake him off, but could not suc-
ceed, and hastened home with the utmost expedition, whither
I saw he followed me. I thought no more of the incident till
about two days after I saw him enter the shop, and heard him
inquire of Mrs. Connel about her lodgings, which to my great
mortification he immediately took, for I could not help sus-
pecting he had some improper motive for taking them. I
resolved, however, if such a motive really existed, to disappoint
it by keeping out of his way ; but all my vigilance was unavail-
ing; he was continually on the watch for me, and I could not
go up or down stairs without being insulted by' him. I at
length informed Mrs. Connel of his conduct, and entreated
her to fulfil the sacred trust her friends reposed in her, when
they gave me to her care, by terminating the insults of Mr.
Sipthorpe. Alas ! could I have possibly foreseen the conse-
quences that would have followed my application to her, I
should have borne these insults in silence. She has already
informed you of them. Oh ! madam ! when the letter came
which dissolved a promise so cheerfully, so fondly given, ev0ry
484 '-fHE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
prospect of felicity was in a moment overshadowed ! For a
long time I resisted every effort that was made to prevail on
me to marry Sipthorpe ; but when at last my mother said she
was sorry to find my feelings less than his, who had so gener-
ously resigned me, that my father might be extricated from his
difificulties, I shrunk with agony at the rebuke. I wondered, I
was shocked, how I could have so long hesitated to open the
prison gates of my father, and determined from that moment
to sacrifice myself for him ; for oh ! Miss Donald, it is a sacri-
fice of the most dreadful nature I am about making. Sipthorpe
is a man I never could have liked, had my heart even been dis-
engaged."
Amanda felt the truest pity for her young friend, who ended
her narrative in tears ; but she did not, by yielding entirely to
that pity (as too many girls with tender hearts, but weak heads,
might have done), heighten tlie sorrow of Miss Rushbrook.
She proved her friendship and sympathy more sincerely than
she could have done by mere expressions of condolemcnt,
which feed the grief they commisorale, in trying to reconcile
her to a destiny that seemed irrevocable. She pointed out
the claims a parent had upon a child, and dwelt upon the
delight a child experienced when conscious of fulfilling those
claims. She spoke of the rapture attending the triumph of
reason and humanity over self and passion, and mentioned the
silent plaudits of the heart as superior to all gratification or
external advantages. She spoke from the real feelings of her
soul. She recollected the period at which, to a father's admo-
nition, she had resigned a lover, and had that father been in
Captain Rushbrook's situation, and the same sacrifice been
demanded from her as from Emily, she felt, without hesitation,
she would have made it. She was indeed a monitress that had
practised, and would practise (was there a necessity for so
doing) the lessons she gave, not as poor Ophelia says
" Like some ungracious pastors,
Who show the steep and thorny path to heaven,
But take the primrose one themselves."
The sweet consciousness of this gave energy, gave more
than usual eloquence to her language ; but wliilst she wished
to inspirit her young friend, she felt from the tenderness of
her nature, and the sad situation of her own heart, what that
friend must feel from disappointed affection and a reluctant
union. Scarcely could she refrain from weeping over a fate so
wretched, and which she was tempted to think as dreadful as
THE CmlDREN OF THE ABBEY. 485
her own ; but a little reflection soon convinced her she had
the sad pre-eminence of misery; for in her fate there were
none of those alleviations as in Emily's, which she was convinced
must, in some degree, reconcile her to it. Her sufferings,
unlike Emily's, Would not be rewarded by knowing that they
contributed tt) the comfort of those dearest to her heaft.
" Your words, my dear madam," said Emily, " have calmed
my spirits ; henceforth I will be more resolute in trying to
banish regrets from my mind. Hut I have been inconsiderate
to a degree in keeping y.ou so long from rest, after your
fatiguing journey." Amanda indeed appeared at this moment
nearly exhausted, and gladly hastened to bed. Her slumbers
were short and unrefreshing ; the cares which clung to her
heart when waking were equally oppressive while sleeping.
Lord Mortimer mingled in the meditations of the morning, in
the visions of the night, and when she awoke she found her
pillow wet with the tears she had shed on his account. Emily
was already up, but on Amanda's drawing back the curtain
she laid down the book she was reading, and came to her.
She saw she looked extremely ill, and, imputing this to fatigue,
requested she would breakfast in bed ; but Amanda, who knew
her illness proceeded from a cause which neither rest nor as-
siduous care could cure, refused complying with this request,
and immediately dressed herself.
As she stood at the toilet, Emily suddenly exclaimed, " If
you have a mind to see Siplhorpe, 1 will show him to you now,
for he is just going out." Amanda went to the window, which
Emily gently opened ; but, oh ! what was the shock of that
moment, when in Sipthorpe she recognized the insidious Bel-
grave ! A shivering horror ran through her veins, and recoil-,
ing a few paces she sunk half fainting on a chair. Emily,
terrified by her appearance, was flying to the bell to ring for
assistance, when, by a faint motion of her hand, Amanda pre-
vented her. ", I shall soon be better,'' said she, speaking with
difficulty; "but I will lie down on the bed for a few minutes,
and I beg you may go to your breakfast." Emily refused to
go, and entreated, that instead of leaving her, she might have
breakfast brought up for them both. Amanda assured her she
could take nothing at present, and wished for quiet. Emily
therefore reluctantly left her. Amanda now endeavored to
compose her distracted thoughts, and quiet the throbbings of
her agonizing heart, that she might be able to arrange some
plan for extricating herself from her present situation, which
appeared replete with every danger to her imagination; for,
486 'fffl^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
from the libertine principles of Belgrave, she could not hope
that a new object of pursuit would detach him from her, when
he found her so unexpectedly thrown in his way. Unprotected
as she was, she could not think of openly avowing her knowl-
edge of Belgrave. To discover his baseness, required there-
fore caution and deliberation, lest in saving Emily from the
snare spread for her destruction, she should entangle herself
in it. To declare at once his real character, must betray her
to him ; and though she might banish him from the house, yet,
vmsupported as sh was by her friends or kindred unable to
procure the protection of Rushbrook, in his present situation,
however willing he might be to extend it she trembled to
think of the dangers to which, by thus discovering, she might
expose herself dangers which the deep treachery and daring
effrontery of Belgrave would, in all probability, prevent her
escaping. As the safest measure, she resolved on quitting the
house in the course of the day ; but without giving any intima-
tion that she meant not to return to it. She recollected a
place where there was a probability of her getting lodgings
which would be at once secret and secure ; and by an anony-
mous letter to Captain Rushbrook, she intended to acquaint
him of his daughter's danger, and refer him to Sir Charles
Bingley, at whose agent's he could receive intelligence of him
for the truth of what she said. Her plan concerted, she grew
more composed, and was able, when Emily entered the room
with her breakfast, to ask, in a seemingly careless manner,
when Mr. Siplhorpe was expected back.
" It is very uncertain, indeed," answered she.
" I must go out in the course of the day," said Amanda,
" about particular business ; I may therefore as well prepare
myself at once for it." She accordingly put on her habit, and
requested materials for writing from Emily, which were imme-
diately brought, and Emily then retired till she had written her
letter. Amanda, left to herself, hastily unlocked her little
trunk, and taking from it two changes of linen, and the will and
narrative of Lady Dunreath, she deposited the two former in
her pocket, and the two latter in her bosom, then sat down and
wrote the following letter to Captain Rushbrook :
A person who esteems the character of Captain Rushbrook, and the
amiable simplicity of his daughter, cautions him to guard that simplicity
against the danger which now threatens it, from a wretch who, under the
sacred semblance of virtue, designs to fix a sharper sting in the bosom of
affliction than adversity ever yet implanted. The worth of Sipthorpe is not
more fictitious than his name. His real one is. Belgrave. His hand is al-
ready another's, and his character for many years past marked with iai
THE CHlLDREN^ OP THE ABBEY. 487
stances of deceit, it not equal, al least little inferior to the present. For
the truth of these assertions, the writer of the letter refers Captain Rush-
brook to Sir Charles Bingley, of regiment, from wliose agent a
direction may be procured to him, certain, from his honor and sensibility,
he will eagerly step forward to save worth and innocence from woe and
destruction.
Amanda's anxiety about Emily being equal to what she felt
for herself, she resolved to leave this letter at Rushbrook's
prison, lest any accidetit should happen if it went by any other
hands. She was anxious to be gone, but thought it better to
wait till towards evening, when there would be the least chancie
of meeting Belgrave, who at that time would probably be fixed in
some place for the remainder of the day. Emily returned in
about an hour, and finding Amanda disengaged, requested per-
mission to sit with her. Amanda, in her present agitation,
would have preferred solitude, but could not decline the com-
pany of the affectionate girl, who, in conversing with her,
sought lo forget the heavy cares which the dreadful idea of a
union with Sipthorpe had drawn upon her. Amanda listened
with a beating heart to every sound, but no intimation of
Belgrave's return reached her ear. At length they were
summoned to dinner ; but Amanda could not think of going to
it, lest she should be seen by him. To avoid this risk, and
also the particularity of a refusal, she determined immediately
to go out, and, having told Emily her intention, they both de-
scended the stairs together. Emily pressed her exceedingly to
stay for dinner, but she positively refused, and left the house
with a beating heart, without having answered Emily's ques-
tion, who desired to know if she would not soon return. Thus
perpetually threatened with danger, like a frighted bird again
was she to seek a shelter for her innocent head. She walked
with quickness to Oxford Street, where she directly procured a
carriage, but was so weak and agitated the coachman was al-
most obliged to lift her into it. She directed it to the prison,
and on reaching it sent for one of the turnkeys, to whom she
gave her letter for Rushbrook, with a 'particular charge to de-
liver it immediately to him. She then ordered the carriage to
Pall Mall, Where it may be remembered she had once lodged
with Lady Greystock. This was the only lodging-house in
London she knew, and in it she expected no satisfaction but
what would be derived from thinking herself safe, as its mis-
tress was a woman of a most unpleasant temper. She had
once been in affluent circumstances, and the remembrance of
those circumstances soured her temper, and rendered her, if not
488 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBE Y
incapable of enjoying, at least unwilling to acknowledge, the
blessings she yet possessed. On any one in her power she
vented her spleen. Her chief pursuit was the gratification of
a most insatiate curiosity, and her first delight relating the
aflfairs, good or bad, which that curiosity dived into. Amanda,
finding she was within, dismissed the coach, and was shown by
the maid into the back parlor, where she sat. " Oh dear ! "
cried she, with a supercilious smile, the moment Amanda en-
tered, without rising from her chair to return her salute, " When
did you return to London ? and pray, may I ask what brought
you back to it ? "
Amanda was convinced from Mrs. Hansard's altered man-
ner, who had once been servile to a degree to her, that she
was perfectly acquainted with her destitute condition, and a
heavy sigh burst from her heart at the idea of associating with
a woman who had the meanness to treat her ill because of that
condition. A chlllness crept tlirougli her frame when she re-
flected her sad situation might long compel her to this. Sick,
weak, exhausted, she sunk upon a chair, which she had neither
been offered nor desired to take. " Well, miss, and pray what
is your business in town ? " again asked Mrs. Hansard, with an
increased degree of pertness.
'" My business, madam," replied Amanda, " can be of no
consequence to a person not connected with me. My business
with you is to know whether you can accommodate me with lodg-
ings ? " " Really. Well, you might have paid me the compli-
ment of saying you would have called at any rate to know how
I did. You may guess how greatly flattered an humble being
like me would be by the notice of so amiable a young lady."
These words were pronounced with a kind of sneer that, by
rousing the pride of Amanda, a little revived her spirits. " I
should be glad, madam," said she, with a composed voice, while
a faint glow stole over her cheek, " to know whether you can,
or choose, to accommodate me with lodgings ? " " Lord, my
dear," replied Mrs. Hansard, " do not be in such a wondrous
hurry take a Cup of tea with me, and then we will settle about
that business." These words implied that she would comply
with the wish of Amanda ; and, however disagreeable the
asylum, yet to have secured one cheered her sinking heart. Tea
was soon made, which to Amanda, who had touched nothing
since breakfast and but little then would have been a pleas-
ant refreshment, had she not been tormented and fatigued by
the questions of Mrs. Hansard, who laid a thousand baits to
betray her into a full confession of what had brought her to
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 489
London. Amanda, though a stranger in herself to every species
ot art, from fatal experience was aware, of it in others, and
therefore guarded her secret. Mrs. Hansard, who loved what
she called a gossipping cup of tea, sat a tedious time over the
tea-table. Amanda, at last mortified and alarmed by some ex-
pressions which dropped from her, again ventured to ask it she
couid be lodged under her roof.
" Are you really serious in that question ? " said Mrs. Han-
sard. There was a certain expression of contempt in her fea-
tures as she spoke, which shocked Amanda so much that she
had not power to reply ; "because if you are, my dear," con-
tinued Mrs. Hansard, " you have more assurance than I thought
you were possessed of, though I always gave you credit for a
pretty large share. Do you think ' I would ruin my house,
which lodges people of the first rank and character, by admit-
ting you into it ? you, who, it is well known, obtained Lady Grey-
stocK's protection from charity, and lost it through misconduct.
Poor lady 1 had the whole story from her own mouth. She
suffered well from having anything to say to you. I always
guessed how it would be. Notwithstanding your demure look,
I saw well enough how you would turn out. I assure you, to
use your own words, if I could accommodate you in my house,
it would not answer you at all, for there are no convenient
closets in it in which a lady of your disposition might now and
then want to hide a smart young fellow. I advise 3'ou, if you
have had a tiff with any of your fricnd-s, to make up the differ-
ence ; though, indeed, if you do not, in such a place as Lon-
don, you can never be at a loss for such friends. Perhaps you
are now beginning to repent of your evil courses, and, if I took
you into my house, I should suffer as much in my pocket, I
suppose, as in my character."
The terrified and distressed look with which Amanda lis-
tened to this speech, would have stopped Mrs. Hansard in the
middle of it, had she pos .'ed a spark of humanity, even if
she believed her (which was not the case) guilty. But lost to
the noble, the jjentle feelings of humanity, she exulted in the
triumph of maiice, and rejoiced to have an opportunity of
piercing the panting heart of helpless innocence with the sharp
darts of insult and unmerited reproach. Amidst the various
shocks Amanda bad experienced in the short but eventful
course of her lite, one greater than the present she had never
felt. Petrified by Mrs. Hansard's words, it was some time ere
she had power to speak. " Gracious Heaven ! " exclaimed
she, at last, looking up to that Heaven she addressed, and
490
THE CHILDkEN OF THE ABBEY.
which she now considered her only refuge from evil, " to what
trials am I continually exposed ! Persecuted, insulted, shocked !
Oh 1 what happiness to lay my feeble frame, my woe-struck
heart, within that low asylum where malice could no more
annoy, deceit no more betray me ! I am happy," she con-
tinued, starting up, and looking at Mrs. Hansard, " that the
accommodation I desired in this house you refused me, for I
am now well convinced, from the knowledge of your disposi-
tion, that the security my situation requires I should not have
found williin it." She hastily quitted the room ; but on enter-
ing the hall her spirits entirely forsook her, at the dreadful idea
of having no home to go to. Overcome with horror, she sunk
in a flood of tears upon one of the hall chairs. A maid, who
had probably been listening to her mistress's conversation, now
came from a front parlor, and as Mrs. Hansard had shut the
door afier Amanda, addressed her without fear of being over-
heard. " Bless me, miss," said she, " are you crying ? Why,
Lord I surely you would not mind what old Blouzy in the par-
lor says ? 1 promise you, if we minded her, we should have
red eyes here every day in the week. Do, pray, miss, tell me
if I can be of any service to you ? "
Amanda, in a voice scarcely articulate, thanked her, and
said in a few minutes she should be better able to speak. To
seek lodgings at this late hour was not to be thought of, ex-
cept she wished to run into the very dangers she had wanted
to avoid, and Mrs. Connel's house returned to her recollection,
as the impossibility of procuring ^ refuge in any otlier was con-
firmed in her mind. She began to think it could not be so
dangerous as her fears in the morning had represented it to be.
Ere this she thought Belgrave (for since the delivery of the
letter there had been time enough for such a proceeding) might
be banished from it ; if not, she had a chance of concealing
herself, and, even if discovered, she believed Mrs. Connel
would protect her from his open insults, whilst she trusted her
own precautions would, under Heaven, defeat his secret
schemes, should he again contrive any. She therefore re-
solved, or rather necessity compelled her for could she have
avoided it she would not have done so to return to Mrs. Con-
nel's ; she accordingly requested the maid to procure her a car-
riage, and rewarded her for her trouble. As she was returning
to Mrs. Connel's, she endeavored to calm her spirits, and quell
her apprehensions. When the carriage stopped, and the maid
appeared, she could scarcely prevent herself ere she alighted
from inquiring whether any one but the family was within;
THE cmtDHEI^ OF TME ABBEY. 491
conscious, however, that such a question might create suspi-
cions, and that suspicions would naturally excite inquiries, she
checked herself, and re-entered, though with trembling limbs,
that house from whence in the morning she had fled with such
terror.
CHAPTER LII.
" Why, thou poor mourner, in what baleful comer
Hast thou been talking with that witch, the night?
On what cold stone hast thou been stretched along,
Gathering the grumbling winds about thy head,
To mix with theirs the accents of thy woes?" Otwav.
Amanda had not reached the parlor when the door opened,
and Mrs. Connel came from it. " Oh ! oh ! miss," cried she,
" so you are returned. I protest I was beginning to think you
had stolen a march upon. us. There was a rude bluntness in
this speech which confounded Amanda ; and her mind misgave
her that all was not right. " Come," continued Mrs. Connel,
"come in, miss, I assure you I have been very impatient for
your return." Amanda's fears increased. She followed Mrs.
Connel in silence into the parlor, where she beheld an elderly
woman, of a pleasing but emaciated appearance, who seemed
in great agitation and distress. How she could possibly have
anything to say to this woman, she could not conjecture, and
yet an idea that she had, instantly darted into licr mind ; she
sat down, trembling in every limb, and waited with impatience
for an explanation of this scene. After a general silence of a
few minutes, the stranger, looking at Amanda, said, " My
daughter, madam, has informed me we are indebted to your
bounty ; I am therefore happy at an opportunity of discharging
the debt." These words announced Mrs. Rushbrook, but
Amanda was confounded at her manner ; its coolness and
formality were more expressive of dislike and severity than of
gentleness or gratitude. Mrs. Rushbrook rose as she spoke,
and offered a note to her. Speechless from astonishment^
Amanda had not power either to decline or accept it, and it
was laid on a table before her.
"Allow me, madam," said Mrs. Rushbrook, as she resumed
her seat, " to ask if your real name is Donald ? " Amanda's
presentiment of underhand doings was now verified ; it was
evident to her that their author was Belgrave, and that he had
been too successful in contriving them.
492
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Amanda now appeared to have reached the crisis of her
fate. In alf the various trials she had hitherto experienced,
she had still some stay, some hope, to support her weakness,
and soothe her sorrows. When groaning under the injuries
her character sustained by the success of an execrable plot,
she had the consolation to think an idolizing father would
shelter her from further insult. When deprived of that father,
tender friends stepped forward, who mingled tears of sympathy
with hers, and poured the balm of pity on lier sorrowing heart.
When torn from tlic beloved object enshrined witliin that heart,
while her sick soul languished under the heavy burden of ex-
istence, again did the voice of friendship penetrate its gloom,
and, though it could not remove, alleviated its sufferings. Now
helpless, unprotected, she saw a dreadful storm ready to burst
over her devoted head, without one hope to cheer, one stretched-
outarm to siiield her from its violence. Surrounded by strangers
prejudiced against her, she could not think that her plain, un-
varnished tale would gain their credence, or prevail on them to
protect her from the wretch whose machinations had ruined
her in their estimation. The horrors of her situation all at
once assailed her mind, overpowered its faculties ; a kind of
mental sickness seized her, she leaned her throbbing head
upon her hand, and a deep groan burst from her agonizing
heart.
"You see," said Mrs. Connel, after a long silence, "she
cannot brave this discovery."
Amanda raised her head at these words ; she had grown a
little more composed. " The Being in whom I trust," she said
to herself, " and whom I never wilfully offended, will still, I
doubt not, as heretofore, protect me from danger." Mrs.
Rushbrook's unanswered question still sounded in her ear.
, " Allow me, madam," she cried, turning to her, " to ask your
reason for inquiring whether my real name is Donald ? " " Oh,
Lord I my dear!" said Mrs. Connel, addre.ssing Mrs. Rush-
brook, "you need not pester yourself or her with any more
questions about the matter; her question is an answer in it-
self." " I am of your opinion, indeed," exclaimed Mrs. Rush-
brook, " and think any farther inquiry needless." " I acknowl-
edge, madam," said Amanda, whose voice grew firmer from the
consciousness of never having acted improperly, " that my name
is not Donald. I must also do myself the justice to declare
(let me be credited or not) that my real one was not concealed
from any motive which could deserve reproach or censure.
My situation is peculiarly distressing. My only consolation
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 493
amidst my difficulties is the idea of never having drawn them
upon myself by imprudence." " I do not want, madam," replied
Mrs. Rushbrook, " to inquire into your situation ; you have
been candid in one instance, I Iiope you will be equally
so in another. Pray, madam," handing to Amanda the letter
she had written to Ruslibrook, " Is this your writing.' " " Yes,
madam," answered Amanda, whose pride was roused by the
contempt slie met, " it is my writing." "And pray," said Mrs.
Rushbrook, looking steadfastly at her, while her voice grew
more severe, " what was your motive for writing this letter?"
" I think, madam," cried Amanda, " the letter explains that."
" A pretty explanation, truly ! " exclaimed Mrs. Connel ; " and
so you will try to vilify the poor gentleman's character ; but,
miss, we have had an explanation you little dream of; ay, we
found you out, notwithstanding your slyness in writing, like
one of the maditms in a novel, a bit of a letter without ever a
name to it. Mr. Siplhorpe knew directly wlio it came from.
Ah ! poor gentleman, he allowed you wit enough ; a pity there
is not more goodness with it; he, knows you very well to his
cost." "Yes," said Amanda, "he knows I am a being whose
happiness he disturbed, but whose innocence he never triumphed
over. He knows that like an evil genius, be has pursued my
wandering footsteps, heaping sorrow upon sorrow on me by his
machinations ; but he also knows, when encompassed with
those .sorrows, perplexed with those machinations, I rose superior
to them all, and with uniform contempt and abhorrence rejected
his offers." " Depend upon it," cried Mrs. Connel, " she has
been an actress." " Yes, madam," said Amanda, whose strug-
gling voice confessed the anguish of her soul, " upon a stage
where I have seen a sad variety of scenes." " Come, come,"
exclaimed Mrs. Connel, " confess all about yourself and
Sipthorpe ; full confession will entitle you to pardon." " It
behooves me, indeed," said Amanda, " to be explicit ; my
character requires it, and my wish," she continued, turning to
Mrs. Rushbrook, " to save you froin a fatal blow demands it."
She then proceeded to relate everything she knew concerning
Belgrave ; but she had the mortification to find her short and
simple story received with every mark of incredulity. " Beware,
madam," said she to Mrs, Rushbrook, " of this infatuation ; I
adjure you beware of the consequences of it. Oh I doom not
your innocent, your reluctant Emily to destruction ; draw not
upon your own head by such a deed horrible and excruciating
anguish. Why does not Mr. Sipthorpe, if I must call him so,
appear, and in my presence support his allegations?" "I
asked him to do so," replied Mrs. Rushbrook ; " but he has
494 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
feeling, and he wished not to see your distress, however merited it
might be.," " No, madam," cried Amanda, " he refused, because
he knew that without shrinking he could not behold the innocent
he has so abused ; because he knew the conscious coloring of
his cheek would betray the guilty feelings of his soul. Again, I
repeat, he is not what he appears to be. I refer you for the truth
of my words to Sir Charles Bingley. I feel for you, though you have
not felt for me. I know, from false representations, you think
me a poor misguided creature ; but was I even so, my too
evident anguish might surely have excited pity. Pardon me,
madam, if I say your conduct to me has been most unkind.
The gentle virtues are surely those best fitting a female breast
She that shows leniency to a fallen fellow-creature, fulfils the
Divine precept. The tear she sheds over her frailties is con-
secrated in the sight of Heaven, and her compassion draws a
blessing on her own head. Oh I madam, I once looked forward
to a meeting with you, far, far different from the present one.
I once flattered myself, that from the generous friendship of
Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook, I should derive support and con-
solation ; but this, like every other hope, is disappointed."
Amanda's voice faltered at these last words, and tears again
trickled down her lovely cheeks. A faint glow tinged the pale
cheek of Mrs. Rushbrook at Amanda's accusation of unkindness.
She bent her eyes to the ground as if conscious it was merited,
and it was many minutes ere she could again look on the trem-
bling creature before her. " Perhaps," said she, at last, " I
may have spoken too severely, but it must be allowed I had
great provocation. Friendship and gratitude could not avoid
resenting such shocking charges as yours against Sipthorpe."
" For my part, I wonder you spoke so mildly to her," exclaimed
Mrs. Connel ; " I protest in future I shall be guarded who I
admit into my house. I declare she seemed so distressed at
the idea of going amongst strangers, that, sooner than let her
do so, I believe, if Miss Emily had not, I should have offered
her part of my bed ; but this distress was all a pretext to get
into the house with Mr. Sipthorpe, that she might try to en-
tangle him in her snares again. Well, I am determined she
shall not stay another night under my roof. Ay, you may stare
as you please, miss, but you shall march directly. You are not
so ignorant about London, I dare say, as you pretend to be."
Mrs. Connel rose as she spoke, and approached her with ^
look which seemed to say she would put her threat into execution.
It was Amanda's intention to quit the house the next morning,
but to be turned from it at such an hour, a wanderer in the
Street, the idea was replete with horror ! She started up, and
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 495'
retreating a few paces, looked at Mrs. Connel with a kind of
melancholy wildness. " Yes," repeated Mrs. Connel, " I say
you shall march directly." The wretched Amanda's head grew
giddy, her sight failed, her limbs refused to support her, and
she would have fallen to the ground had not Mrs. Rushbrook,
who perceived her situation, timely caught her. She was
replaced in a chair, and water sprinkled on her face. " Be
composed, my dear," said Mrs. Rushbrook, whose softened
voice proclaimed the return of her compassion, "you shall not
leave this house to-night, I promise, in the name of Mrs. Con-
nel. She is a good-natured woman, and would not aggravate
your distress." " Ay, Lord knows, good-nature is my foible,"
exclaimed Mrs. Connel. " So, miss, as Mrs. Rushbrook has
promised, you may stay here to-night." Amanda, opening her
languid eyes, and raising her head from Mrs. Rushbrook's
bosom, said in a low, tremulous voice, "To-morrow, madam, I
shall depart. Oh ! would to Heaven," cried she, clasping her
hands together, and bursting into an agony oE tears, " before
to-morrow I could be rid of the heavy burden that oppresses
me ! " " Well, we have had wailing and weeping enough
to-night," said Mrs. Connel, " so, miss, you may take one of
the candles off the table, and go to your chamber if you choose,"
Amanda did not require to have this permission repeated.
She arose, and taking the light, left the parlor. With feeble
steps she ascended to the little chamber ; but here all was dark,
and solilary, no cheerful fire sent forth an animating blaze ;
no gentle Emily, like the mild genius of benevolence, appeared
to offer with undissenibled kindness her little attentions. For-
saken, faint, the pale child of misery laid down the candle, and
seating herself at the foot of the bed, gave way to deep and
agonizing sorrow.
"Was I ever," she asked herself, "blessed with friends
who valued my existence as their own, who called me the
beloved of their hearts ? Oh I yes," she groaned, " once such
friends were mine, and the sad remembrance oE them aggravates
my present misery. Oh ! happy is our ignorance of futurity.
Oh ! my father, had you been permitted to read the awful volume
of fate, the page marked with your Amanda's destiny would
have rendered your existence miserable, and made you wish a
thousand times the termination oE hers.
" Oh, Oscar I from another hand than mine must you receive
the deed which shall entitle you to independence. My trials
sink me to the grave, to that grave where, but for the sweet
hope of again seeing you, I should long since have wished my-
496 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
self." The chamber door opened. She turned lier eyes lo it
in expeclaiion o seeing Emily, but was disappointetl on per-
ceiving only the maid of the house. " Oh ! dear ina'am," cried
she, going up to Amanda, " I declare it quite grieves me to see
you in such a situation. Poor Miss Emily is just in as bad a
plight. Well, it is no matter, but I think both the old ladies
will be punished for plaguing you in this manner. Madam
Rushbrook will be sorry enough, when, aftergivingher daughter
to Mr. Sipthorpe, she finds he is not what he seems to be."
Amanda shrunk with horror from the idea of Emily's destructidn,
and by a motion of her hand, signified to the maid her dislike
to the subject. " Well, ma'am," she continued, " Miss Emily,
as I was saying, is quite in as bad a plight as yourself. They
have clapped her into my mistress's chamber, which she durst
not leave without running the risk of bringing their tongues
upon her. However, she contrived to see me, and spnt you this
note." Amanda took it and read as follows :
" I hope my dear Miss Donald will not doubt my sincerity when I declare
that all my sorrows are heightened by knowing I have been the occasion of
trouble to her. I have heard of the unworthy treatment she has received in
this house, and her intention of quitting it to-morrow. Knowing her
averseness to lodge in a place she is unacquainted with, I have been speak-
ing to the maid about her, and had the satisfaction to hear, that, through
her means, my dear Miss Donald might be safely accommodated for a short
time ; long enough, however, to permit her to look out for an eligible
situation. I refer her for particulars of the conversation to the maid,
whose fidelity may be relied on. To think it may be useful to my dear
Miss Donald, afford.s me the only pleasure I am now capable of enjoying.
In her esteem may I ever retain the place of a sincere and affectionate
friend. E. U."
" And where is the place I can be lodged in ? " eagerly
asked Amanda. " Why, ma'am," said the maid, " I have a
sister who is housemaid, at a very grand place, on the Rich-
mond Road. All the family are now gone to Brighton, and
she is left alone in the house, where you would be very welcome
to take up your residence till you could get one to your mind,
My sister is a sage, sober body, and would do everything in
her power to please and oblige you, and you would be as snug
and secure with her as in a house of your own ; and poor Miss
Emily begged you would go to her, till you could get lodgings
with people whose characters you know. And, indeed, ma'am,
it is my humble opinion, it would be safe and pleasant for you
to do so ; and, if you consent, I will conduct you there to-mor-
row morning ; and I am sure, ma'am, I shall be happy if I have
the power of serving you." Like the Lady in Comus, Amanda
might have said
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 497
" I take thy word,
And trust thy honest offered courtesy ,
For in a place
Less warranted than this, or less secure
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it :
Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial
To my proportioned strength."
To take refuge in this manner, in any one's house, was truly
repugnant to the feelings of Amanda ; but sad necessity con-
quered her scrupulous delicacy, and she asked the maid at what
hour in the morning she should be ready for her.
" I shall come to you, ma'am," answered she, " as soon as I
think there is a carriage on the stand, and then we can go to-
gether to get one. But I protest, ma'am, you look sadly. I
wish you would allow me to assist in undressing you, for I am
sure you want a little rest. I dare say, for all my mistress said,
if you choose it, t could get a little wine from her to make whey
for you." Amanda refused this, but accepted her offer of as-
sistance, for she was so overpowered by the scenes of the day,
as to be almost unequal to any exertion, 'i'he maid retired
after she had seen her to bed. Amanda entreated her to be
punctual to an early hour, and also requested her to give her
most affectionate love to Miss Rushbrdok, and her sincere
thanks for the kind solicitude she had expressed about her.
Her rest was now, as on the preceding night, broken, and dis-
turbed by frightful visions. She arose pale, trembling, andun-
refreshed. The maid came to her .soon after she was dressed,
and she immediately accompanied her down stairs, trembling
as she went, lest Belgrave should suddenly make his appear-
ance, and either prevent her departure, or follow her to her
new residence. She left the house, however, without meeting
any creature, and soon obtained the shelter of a carriage.
As they proceeded, Amanda besought the maid, who seemed
perfectly acquainted with everything relative to Belgrave, to
tell Miss Rushbrook to believe her assertions against him if .
she wislied to save herself from destruction. The maid assured
her she would, and declared she always suspected Mr. Sipthorpe
was not as good as he should be. Amanda soon found her-
self as the end of her little journey. The house was elegant
and spacious, with a short- avenue before it planted with chest-
nuts. The maid's sister was an elderly-looking, woman, who
received Amanda with every appearance of respect, and con-
ducted her into a handsome parlor, where a neat breakfast was
laid out. " I took care, ma'am," said the maid, smiling, " to
apprise my sister last night of the honor she was to have this
32
498 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
morning : and I am sure she will do everything in her power to
oblige you. " I thank you both," cried Amanda, with herusuai
sweetness, but while she spoke a struggling tear stole down
her lovely cheek at the idea of that forlorn situation which had
thus cast her upon the kindness of strangers strangers who
were themselves the children of poverty and dependence. " I
hope, however, I shall not long be a trouble to either, as it is my
intention immediately to look out for a lodging amongst the
cottages in this neighborhood, till I can settle my affairs to
return to my friends. In the mean time, I must insist on mak-
ing some recompense for the attention I have received, and
the expense I have put you to." She accordingly forced a pres-
ent upon each, for both the women appeared unwilling to ac-
cept them, and Mrs. Deborah, the maid's sister, said it was
quite unnecessary at present to think of leaving the house, as
the family would not return to it for six weeks. Amanda, liow-
ever, was resolved on doing what she had said, as she could
not conquer her repugnance to continue in a stranger's house.
Mrs. Connel's maid departed in a few minutes. Of the break-
fast prepared for her, Amanda could only take some tea. Her
head ached violently,. and her whole frame felt disordered. Mrs.
Deborah, seeing her dejection, proposed showing her the house
and garden, which were very fine, to amuse her, but Amanda
declined the proposal at present, saying she thought if she lay
down she should be better. She was immediately conducted
to an elegant chamber, where Mrs. Deborah left her, saying
she would prepare some little nice thing for her dinner, which
she hoped would tempt her to eat. Amanda now tried to com-
pose her spirits by reflecting she was in a place of security ;
but their agitation was not to be subdued from the sleep into
which mere fatigue threw her. She was continually starting in
inexpressible terrors. Mrs. Deborah came up two or three
times to know how she was, and at last appeared with dinner.
She laid a small table by the bedside, and besought Amanda
to rise and try lo eat. There was a friendliness in her manner
which recalled to Amanda's recollection her faithful nurse
Edwin, and she sighed to think that the shelter of her humble
cottage she could no more enjoy (should such a shelter be re-
quired) from its vicinity to Tudor Hall, near which every feel-
ing of propriety and tenderness must forbid her residing ; the
sad remembrance of which, now reviving in her mind, drew
tears from her, and rendered her unable to eat. She thanked
Mrs. Deborah for her attention, but, anxious to be alone, said
she would no longer detain her j yet no sooner was she alone
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 499
than she found solitude insupportable. She cduld not sleep,
the anguish of her mind was so great, and arose with the idea
that a walk in the garden might be of use to her. As she was
descending the stairs, she heard, notwithstanding the door was
shut, a man's voice from a front parlor. She started, for she
thouglit it was a voice familiar to her ear. With a light foot
and a throbbing heart she turned into a parlor at tlie foot of the
stairs which communicated with the other. Here she listened,
and soon liad her fears confirmed by recollecting the voice to
be that of Belgrave's servant, whom she had often seen in
Devonshire. She listened with that kind of horror which the
trembling wretch may be supposed to feel when about hearing
a sentence he expects to be dreadful.
" Ay, I assure you," cried the man, " we are blown up at
Mrs. Connel's, but that is of little consequence to us ; the
colonel thinks the game now in view better than that he has
lost, so to-night you may expect him in a chaise and four to
carry off your fair guest." " I declare, I am glad of it," said
Mrs. Deborah, "for I think she will die soon." " Die soon ! "
repeated he. " Oh ! yes, indeed, great danger of that " and
he added something else, which, being delivered with a violent
burst of laughter, Amanda could not hear. She thought she
heard them moving towards the door ; she instantly slipped
from the parlor, and, ascending the stairs in breathless haste,
stopped outside the chamber door to- listen. In a few minutes
she licard them coming into the hall, and the man softly let out
by Mrs. Deborah. Amanda now entered the chamber and
closed the door, and knowing a guilty conscience is easily
alarmed, she threw herself on the bed, lest Mrs. Deborah, if
she found her up, should have her suspicions awakened. Her
desperate situation inspired her with strength and courage, and
she trusted by presence of mind to be able to extricate herself
from it. It was her intention, if she effected her escape, to
proceed directly to London, though the idea of entering it, with-
out a certain place to go to, was shocking to her imagination ;
yet she thought it a more secure place for her than any of the
neighboring cottages, which she thought might be searched.
Mrs. Deborah, as she expected, soon came up to her. Amanda
involuntarily shuddered at her appearance, but knowing her
safety depended on the concealment of her feelings, she forced
herself to converse with the treacherous creature. She at
last arose from the bed, declaring she had indulged her
languor too much, and, after a few turns about the room, went
to the window, and pretended to be engrossed in idmiring the
SOO
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
garden. " There is a great deal of fruit in the garden," said
she, turning to Mrs. Deborah ; " if I did not think it en-
croached loo much on your kindness, I should ask for a nec-
tarine or two." " Dear ma'am," replied Miss Deborah, " you
are heartily welcome. I declare I should have offered them
to you, only I thouglit you would like a turn in the garden
and pull them yourself." " No," said Amanda,"! cannot at
present." Mrs. Deborah went off, and Amanda watched at the
window till she saw her at the very end of the garden ; she
then snatched up her hat, and tied it on with a handkerchief,
the better to conceal her face, then hastily descended the stairs,
and locked the back door to prevent any immediate pursuit. She
ran down the avenue, nor flagged in her course till she had got
some paces from it ; she was then compelled to do so, as much
from weakness as from fear of attracting notice, if she went on
in such a wild manner. She started at the sound of every car-
riage, and hastily averted her head as they passed ; but she
reached London without any alarm but what her own fears gave
her. The hour was now late and gloomy, and warned Amanda
of the necessity Ihere was for exertions to procure a lodgings
Some poor women' she saw retiring from their little fruit-stand,
drew a shower of tears from her, to think her situation was
more wretched than theirs, whom but a few days before she
should have considered as objects of compassion. She knew
at such an hour she would only be received into houses of an
inferior description, and looked for one in which she could
think there might be a chance of gaining admittance. She at
last came to a small, mean-looking house. " This humble roof,
I think," cried she, " will not disdain to shelter an unhappy
wanderer I " She turned into the shop, where butter and cheese
were displayed, and where an elderly woman sat knitting be-
hind the counter. She arose immediately, as if from surprise
and respect at Amanda's appearance, who in universal agitation
leaned against the door for support, unable for some minutes
' to speak. At last, in faltering accents, whilst over her pale face
a crimson blush was diffused, she said, " I should be glad to
know if you have any lodgings to let ? "
The woman instantly dropped into her seat, and looked
steadfastly at Amanda. " This is a strange hour," cried she,
" for any decent body to come looking for lodgings I " "I am
as sensible of that as you can be," said Amanda, " but peculiar
circumstances have obliged me to it ; if you can accommodate
me, I can assure you you will not have reason to repent doing
so." " Oh I I do not know how that may be," cried she ; " it
^HE CHILDkEN OF ttili ABBEY. 50I
is natural for a body to speak a good word for themselves ; how-
ever, if I do let you a room, for I have only one to spare, I
shall expect to be paid for it beforehand." " You shall, indeed,"
said Amanda. " Well, I will show it you," said she. She ac-
cordingly called a little girl to watch the shop, and, taking a
candle, went up, before Amanda, a narrow, winding flight of
stairs, and conducted her into a room, whose dirty, miserable
appearance made her involuntarily shrink back, as if from tlie
den of wretchedness itself. She tried to subdue the disgust it
inspired her with, by reflecting that, after the imminent danger
she had escaped, she should be happy to procure any asylum
she could consider safe. She also tried to reconcile herself to
it, by reflecting that in the morning she should quit it.
" Well, ma'am," said the woman, " the price of the room 19 '
neither more nor less than one guinea per week, and if you do
not like it, you are very welcome not to stay." " I have no ob-
jection to the price," replied Amanda ; " but I hope you have
quiet people in the house." " I flatter myself, ma'am," said the
woman, drawing up her head, "there is never a house in the,
parish can boast a better name than mine." " I am glad to
hear it," answered Amanda ; " and I hope you are not offended
by the inquiry." She now put her hand in her pocket for the
purse, to give the expected guinea, but the purse was not there.
She sat down on the side of the bed, and searched the other,
but with as little success. She pulled out the contents of both,
but no purse was to be found. " Now now," cried she, clasp-
ing her hands together, in an agony which precluded reflection,
" now now, I am lost indeed ! My purse is stolen," she conj
tinned, " and I cannot give you the promised guinea." " No,
nor never could, I suppose," exclaimed the woman. " Ah I I
suspected all along what you were ; and so you was glad my
house had a good name ? I shall take care it does not lose
that name by lodging you." " I conjure you," cried Amanda,
starting up, and laying her hand on the woman's, "I conjure
you to let me stay this night j you will not you shall not lose
by doing so. I have things of value in a trunk in town, for
which I will this instant give you a direction." " Your trunk 1 "
replied the woman in a scornful tone. " Oh ! yes, you have a
trunk with things of value in it, as much as you have a purse
in your pocket. A pretty story, indeed. But I know too much
of the ways of the world to be deceived nowadays so march
directly."
Amanda again began to entreat, but the woman interrupted
her, and declared, if she did not depart directly, she would be
502
THE CttlLDREN OF TflH ABBEY.
sorry for it. Amanda instantly ceased her importunities, and
in trembling silence followed her down stairs. Oppressed with
weakness, she involuntarily hesitated in the shop, which the
woman perceiving, she rudely seized her, and pushing her from
it, shut the door. Amanda could not now, as in former exigen-
cies, consider what was to be done. Alas ! if even capable of
reflection, she could have suggested no plan which there was
a hope of accomplishing. The powers of her mind were over-
whelmed with horror and anguish. She moved mechanically
along, nor stopped, till from weakness, she sunk upon the step
of a door, against which she leaned her head in a kind of
lethargy ; but from this she was suddenly aroused by two men
who stopped before her. Death alone could have conquered
her terrors of Belgrave. She instantly concluded these to be
him and his man. She started up, uttered a faint scream, and
calling upon Heaven to defend her, was springing past them,
when her hand was suddenly caught. She made a feeble but
unsuccessful effort to disengage it, and overcome by terror and
weakness fell, though not fainting, unable to support herself,
' upon the bosom of him who had arrested her course. " Gracious
Heaven ! " cried he, " I have heard that voice before."
Amanda raised her head. " Sir Charles Bingley !" she ex-
claimed. The feelings of joy, surprise, and shame, that per-
vaded her whole soul, and thrilled through her frame, were, in
its present weak state, too much for it, and she again sunk upon
his shoulder. The joy of unexpected protection for protection
she was convinced she should receive from Sir Charles Bingley
was conquered by reflecting on the injurious ideas her present
situation must excite in his mind ideas she feared she should
never be able to remove, so strongly were appearances against
her.
" Gracious Heaven 1 " exclaimed Sir Charles, " is this Miss
Fitzalan ? Oh, this," he cried, in a tone of deep dejection, " is
indeed a meeting of horror I " A deep convulsive sob from
Amanda alone proclaimed her sensibility; for she lay motionless
in his arms arms which involuntarily encircled and enfolded
her to a heart that throbbed with intolerable anguish on her
' account. His friend stood all this time a spectator of the scene,
the raillery which he had been on the point of uttering at see-
ing Amanda, as he thought, so premeditatedly fell into the arms
of his companion, was stopped by the sudden exclamation of
Sir Charles. Though the face of Amanda was concealed, the
glimmering of a lamp over their heads gave him a view of hei
fine form, and the countenance of Sir Charles as he bent over
Tim CIJILDKEN OF THE ABBEY. 503
her, full of sorrow and dismay. " Miss Fltzalan," cried Sir
Charles, after the silence of a minute, "you are ill; allow me
to have the pleasure of seeing you home." " Home ! " re-
peated Amanda, in the slow and hollow voice of despair, and
raising her languid head, " alas ! I have no home to go to."
Every surmise of horror which Sir Charles had formed from
seeing her in her present situation was now confirmed. He
groaned, he shuddered, and scarcely able to stand, was obliged
to lean with the lovely burden he supported against the rails.
He besought his friend either to procure a chair or coach in
which he might have her conveyed to a house where he knew
he could gain her admittance. Touched by his distress, and
the powerful impulse of humanity, his friend instantly went to
comply with his request.
The silence of Amanda Sir Charles imputed to shame and
illness, and grief and delicacy forbade him to notice it. His
friend returned in a few minutes with a coach, and Sir Charles '
then found that Amanda's silence did not altogether proceed
from the motives he had ascribed it to ; for she had fainted on
his bosom. She was lifted into the carriage, and he again re-
ceived her in his arms. On the cairriage stopping, he committed
her to the care of his friend, whilst he stepped into the house
to procure a reception. In a few minutes he returned with a
maid, who assisted him in carrying her up stairs. But on enter-
ing the drawing-room, how great was his amazement, when a
voice suddenly exclaimed, " Oh, merciful Powers I this is Miss
Donald I " It was indeed to Mrs. Conncl's house, and to the
care of the Rushbrooks, whom his bounty had released from
prison, he had brought her. He had previously informed them
of the situation in which he found her, little suspecting, at the
time, she was the Miss Donald they mentioned being under
such obligations to.
" It is I, it is I," cried Mrs. Rushbrook, gazing on her with
mingled horror and anguish, " it is I have been the occasion of
her distress, and never shall I forgive myself for it." "Oh,
my preserver, my friend, my benefactress I " said Emily, clasping
her in an agony of tears to her bosom, " is it thus your Emily
beholds you?" Amanda was laid upon a couch, and her hat
being removed, displayed a face which, with the paleness of
death, had. all the wildness of despair a wildness that denoted
more expressively than language could have done, the conflicts
her spirit had endured ; heavy sighs announced her having re-
covered from her fainting fit ; but her eyes still continued closed,
and her head, too weak to be self-supported, rested against the
S4
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
arm of the douch. Mrs. Rushbrook and her daughter hung
over her in inexpressible agonies. If they were thus affected,
oh ! how was Sir Charles I'jingley distressed oh ! how was his
heart, which loved her with the most impassionate tenderness,
agonized ! As he bent over the couch, the big tear trickled
down his manly cheek, and fell upon the cold, pale face he con-
templated. He softly asked himself, Is this Amanda.' Is this
she, whom but a short time ago 1 beheld moving with unequalled
elegance, adorned with unrivalled beauty, whom my heart wor-
shipped as the first of women, and sought to uniie its -destiny
to, as the surest means of rendering that destiny happy ? Oh !
what a change is here ! How feeble is that form I how hollow
is that cheek I how heavy are those eyes whose languid glance
speak incurable anguish of the soul ! Oh, Amanda, was the
being present who first led you into error, what horror and
remorse must seize his soul at seeing the consequence of that
error I " Mas this unhappy young creature," asked Rushbrook,
who had approached the couch and viewed her with the truest
pity, " no connections that could be prevailed on to save her ? "
" None that I know of," replied Sir Charles ; "her parents are
both dead." " Happy are the parents," resumed Rushbrook,
" who, shrouded in the dust, cannot see the misfortunes of their
children the fall of such a child as this I " glancing his tearful
eyes as he spoke on his daughters.
" And pray, sir," said Mrs. Connel, who was chafing her tem-
ples with lavender, " if she recovers, what is to becoine of her ? "
" It shall be my care," cried Sir Charles, " to procure her an
asylum. Yes, madam," he continued, looking at her with an
expression of mingled tenderness and grief, " he that must
forever mourn thy fate, will try to mitigate it ; but does she not
want medical assistance ? " "I think not," replied Mrs. Con-
nel j " it is want of nourishment and rest has thrown her into
her present situation." " Want of nourishment and rest ! " re-
peated Sir Charles. " Good Heavens I " continued he, in the
sudden agony of his soul, and walking from the couch, " is it
possible that Amanda was a wanderer in the streets, without
food, or a place to lay her head in ? Oh, this is dreadful ! Oh 1
my friends," he proceeded, looking around him, whilst his eyes
beamed the divine compassion of his soul, " be kind, be careful
of this poor creature ; but it is unnecessary to exhort you to this,
and excuse me for having done so. Yes, I know you will delight
in binding up a broken heart, and drying the tears of a wretched
outcast. A short time ago, and she appeared " he stopped,
overcome by his emotions, and turned away his head to wipe
Tim CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. goj
away ills tears. " A short time agd," he resumed, " and slid
appeared all that the heart of man could desire, all that a woman
should wish and ought to be. Now she is fallen, indeed, lost
to herself and to the world ! " " No," cried Emily, with gen-
erous warmth, starting; from the side of the couch, at which she
had been kneeling, " 1 am confidant she never was guilty of an
error." " I am inclined, indeed, to be of Emily's opinion," said
Mrs. Rushbrook. " I tliink the monster, who spread such a
snare for her destruction, traduced Miss Donald in order to
drive her from those who would protect lier from his schemes."
" Would to Heaven the truth of your conjecture could be
proved," exclaimed Sir Charles. Again he approached the
couch. Amanda remained in the same attitude, but seeing
her eyes open, he took her cold hand, and in a soothing voice
assured her she was safe ; but the assurance had no effect upon
her. Hers, like the " dull, cold ear of death," was insensible
of sound. A faint spark of life seemed only quivering through
her woe-worn frame. " She is gone ! " cried Sir Charles, press-
ing her hand between his ; " she is gone, indeed ! Oh ! sweet
Amanda, the mortal bounds that enclose thy afflicted spirit will
soon be broken I" "I trust not, sir," exclaimed Captain Rush-
brook. His wife and daughter were unable to speak. " In
my opinion she had better be removed to bed."
Amanda was accordingly carried to a chamber, and Sir
Charles remained in the drawing-room till Mrs. Rushbrook had
returned to it. She informed him Miss Donald continued in
the same state. He desired a physician might be sent for, and-
departed in inexpressible dejection.
CHAPTER LIII.
** Love, gratitude, and pity wept at once.'' Thomson.
We shall now account for the incidents in the last chapter.
Amanda's letter to the Rushbrooks filled them with surprise
and consternation. Mrs. Rushbrook directly repaired to Mrs.
Connel, who, without hesitation, gave it as her opinion that the
whole was a fabrication, invented by malice to ruin Sipthorpe
in their opinion, or else by envy to prevent their enjoying the'
good fortune which he offered to theiracceptance. Mrs. Rush-
brook was inclined to be of the same opinion. Her mind was
^o6 'J^^Ji'- childhhn of the abbey.
sensibly aflfected by tlie favors Sipthorpe had conferred on her
family, and, yielding to its gratitude, she resolved to be guided
implicitly by her friend, who advised her to show the letter to
him. She considered this the best measure she could pursue.
If innocent, he would be pleased by the confidence reposed in
his honor ; if guilty, his confusion must betray him. But Bel-
grave was guarded against detection. His servant had seen
Amanda as she was alighting from the coach the evening she
arrived in town. He inquired from the maid concerning her,
and learned that she was to lodge in the house, and go by her
assumed name. These circumst nres he related to his master
the moment he returned home, who was transported at the in-
telligence. From her change of name, he supposed her not
only in deep distress, but removed from the protection of her
friends, and he determined not to lose so favorable an opportu-
nity as the present for securing her in his power. He instantly
resolved to relinquish his designs on Emily designs which her
, beautiful simplicity and destitute condition had suggested, and
,to turn all his thoughts on Amanda, who had ever been the
first object of his wishes. His pride, as well as love, was inter-
ested in again ensnaring her, as he had been deeply mortified
by her so successfully baffling his former stratagems ; he knew
I not of the manner she had left the house. Half distracted at
what he supposed her escape from it, he had followed her to
Ireland, and remained incognito near the convent, till the ap-
pearance of Lord Mortimer convinced him any schemes he
formed against her must prove abortive ; but to concert a plan
for securing her required some deliberation. Ere he could de-
vise one he was summoned to Mrs. Connel's parlor to peruse
the letter, and from the hand as well as purport, instantly knew
Amanda to be its author. With the daring effrontery of vice,
he directly declared she was a discarded mistress of his, who
from jealousy had taken this stqp, to prevent, if possible, his
union. He assured them her real name was not Donald, bid
them tax her with that deceit, and judge from her confusion
whether she was not guilty of that, as well as everything else he
alleged against her. His unembarrassed manner had the ap-
pearance of innocence to his too credulous auditors, prejudiced
as they were already in his favor, and in their minds he was
now fully acquitted of his imputed crimes. He was now care-
less whether Amanda saw him or not (for he had before stolen
into the house), being well convinced nothing she could allege
against him would be credited. When night approached with-
out bringing her, he grew alarmed lest he had lost her again
TMB. CtriLDkEN OP TH& ABSMY. ^07
At last her return relieved him from this fear. The conversa-
tion which passed in the parlor he heard through the means of ,
his servant, who hacl listened to it. The mention of Amanda's
removal in the morning made him immediately consult his ser-
vant about measures for securing her, and he, with the assist-
ance of the maid, contrived the scheme which has been already
related, having forged a letter in Emily's name. But how in-
adequate is language to describe the rage that took possession
of his soul, when, going at the appointed hour to carry Amanda
off, he found her already gone. He raved, cursed, stamped,
and accused the woman and his servant of being privy to her
escape. In vain Mrs. Deborah told him of the trick she had
played on her, and how she had been obliged to get into the
liouse through the window. He continued his accusations,
which so provoked his servant, conscious of their unjustness,
that he at last replied to them with insolence. This, in the
present state of IBelgrave's mind, was not to be borne, and he
immediately struck him over the forehead with his sword, and
with a violence which felled him to the earth. Scarcely had he
obeyed ere he repented his impulse of passion, wl)ich seemed
attended with fatal consequences, for the man gave no symptoms
of existence. Consideration for his own safety was more prev-
alent in his mind than any feelings of humanity, and he instantly
rushed from the house, ere the woman was sufficiently recov-
ered from her horror and amazement to be able to call to the
other servant.?, as she afterwards did, to stop Jiim. He fled to
town, and hastened to an hotel in I'all Mall, from whence he
determined to hire a carriage for Dover, and thence embark for
the continent. Ascending the stairs he met a man, of all others
he would have wished to avoid, namely, Sir Charles Bingley.
He started, but it was too late to retreat. He then endeavored
to shake off his embarrassment, from a faint hope that Sir
Charles had not heard of bisvillanous design upon Miss Rush-
brook ; but this hope vanished the moment Sir Charles ad-
dressed him, who with coldness and contempt said he would be
glad to speak to him for a few minutes. But ere we relate their
conversation, it is necessary to relate a few particulars of the
Rushbrooks. ,
Captain Rushbrook, from knowing more of the deceits of
mankind than his wife, was less credulous. The more he re-
flected on the letter the more he felt doubts obtruding on his
mind, and he resolved sooner to forfeit the friendship of Sip-
thorpe than permit any further intercourse between him and his
daughter till those doubts were removed. He sent his son to
5o8 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Sir Charles's agent, and had the satisfaction of hearing he was
then in town, and lodged at an hotel in Pall Mali. He imme-
diately wrote to Sir Charles, and requested to see him when-
ever he was at leisure ; adding, he was well convinced his
benevolence would excuse the liberty he had taken, when
informed of the purpose for which his visit was requested. Sir
Charles was fortunately within, and directly attended little
Rushbrook to the prison. The letter had filled him with sur-
prise, but that surprise gave way, the moment he entered the
wretched apartment of Rushbrook, to the powerful emotions of
pity. A scene more distressing he had never seen, or could
not have conceived. He saw the emaciated form of the sol-
dier, for such his dress announced him, seated beside a dying
fire, his little children surrounding him, whose faded counte-
nancci denoted their keen participation of his grief, and the
sad partner of his misery bending her eyes upon those children
with mingled love and sorrow.
Rushbrook was unable to speak for a few minutes after his
entrance. When he recovered his voice, he thanked him for
the kind attention he had paid his request, briefly informed
him of the motives for that request, and ended by putting
Amanda's letter into his hand. Sir Charles perused it with
horror and amazement. " Gracious Heaven ! " he exclaimed,
" what a monster ! I know not the lady who has referred you
to me, but I can testify the truth of her allegations. I am
shocked to think such a monster as Belgrave exists."
Shocked at the idea of the destruction she was so near
devoting her daughter to, disappointed in the hopes she enter-
tained of having her family liberated from prison, and struck
with remorse for her conduct to Amanda, Mrs. Rushbrook fell
fainting to the floor, overpowered by her painful emotions. Sir
Charles aided in raising her from it, for the trembling hand of
Rushbrook refused its assistance. " Unhappy woman ! " he
exclaimed, " the disappointment of her hopes is too much for
her feeble frame." Water, the only restorative in the room,
being sprinkled on her face, she slowly revived, and the first
object she beheld was the pale and weeping Emily, whom her
father had insisted on being brought to the prison. Oh, my
child," she cried, clasping her to her bosom, " can you forgive
the mother who was so near devoting you to destruction ? " Oh 1
my children, for your sake, how near was I sacrificing this dear,
this precious girl ! I blush ! I shudder I when I, reflect on my
conduct to the unhappy young creature, who, like a guardian
angel, interposed between my child and ruin. But these dreary
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 509
walls," she continued, bursting into an agony of tears, " which
now we must never hope to pass, will hide my shame and sor-
rows together ! -' " Do not despair, my dear madam," said Sir
Charles, in the soft accent of benevolence, " nor do you," con-
tinued he, turning to Rushbrook, "deem me impertinent in in-
quiring into those sorrows." His accent, his manner, were so
soothing, that these children of misery, who had long been
strangers to the voice of kindness, gave him, with tears, and
sighs, a short relation of their sorrows. He heard them with
deep attention, and, when he departed, gave them such a smile
as, we may suppose, would beam from an angel, if sent by
Heaven to pour the balm of comfort and mercy over the sor-
rows of a bursting heart.
He returned early in the morning. How bright, how ani-
mated was his countenance I Oh, yc sons of riot and extrav-
agance ! ye children of dissipation I never did ye experience a
pleasure equal to his, when he entered the apartment of Rush-
brook to .inform him he was free ; when, in tlie impassioned, yet
faltering accents of sensibility, he communicated the joyful
tidings, and heard the little children repeat his words, while
their parents gazed on each other with surprise and rapture.
Rushbrook at length attempted to pour out the fulness of
his heart, but Sir Charles stopped him. " Blessed with a for-
tune," cried he, " beyond my wants, to what nobler purpose
could superfluous wealth be devoted, than to the enlargement
of a man who has served his country, and who lias a family
which he may bring up to act as he has done ? May the res-
toration of liberty be productive of every happiness ! Your
prison gates, I rejoice to repeat, are open. May tlie friendship
which commenced within these, walls be lasting as our lives I "
To dwell longer on this subject is unnecessary. The trans-
jjorted family were conveyed to Mrs. Connel's, where he had
been the preceding night to order everything for their recep-
tion, lie then inquired about Sipthorpe, or rather Belgrave,
whom he meant to upbraid for his cruel designs against Miss
Rushbrook ; but Belgrave, as soon as his plan was settled about
Amanda, had quitted Mrs. Connel's. The joy of the Rush-'
brooks was greatly damped the next morning on hearing of the
secret departure of Amanda. What Belgrave had said against
her they never would have credited, but for the appearance of
mystery which enveloped her. Still, her amiable attention to
them merited their truest gratitude ; they wished to have ex-
pressed that gratitude to her, and offer her their services.
Much as appearances were against Amanda, yet from the very
Si
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
moment Mrs. Rushbrook declared it her idea that Belgrave had
traduced her for the purpose of depriving her of protection, a
similar idea started in Sir Charles's mind, and he resolved to
seek Belgrave, and never rest till he had discovered whether
there was any truth in his assertions against Amanda. Their
meeting at the hotel was considered as fortunate as unexpected
by him ; yet could he not disguise for a moment the contempt
his character inspired him with. He reproached him as soon
as they entered an apartment, for his base designs against Miss
Rushbrook ; designs in every respect degrading to his character,
since he knew the blow he levelled at the peace of her father,
could not, from the unfortunate situation of that father, be re-
sented. ' You are," continued Sir Charles, " not only the
violator, but the defamer of female innocence. I am well con-
vinced from reflection on past and present circumstances, that
your allegations against Miss Fitzalan were as false as vile."
" You may doubt them. Sir Charles," replied Belgrave, " if it is
agreeable to you ; but yet, as a friend, I advise you uot to lot
every one know you are her champion." " Oh, Belgrave ! "
cried Sir Charles, " can you think without remorse, of having
destroyed not only the reputation, but the existence of an ami-
able young creature ? " " The existence ! " repeated Belgrave,
starting, and with a kind of horror in his look. " What do you
mean ? " "I mean that Amanda Fitzalan, involved through
your means in a variety of wretchedness she was unable to sup-
port, is now on her death-bed I " Belgrave changed color,
trembled, and in an agitated voice, demanded an explanation
of Sir Charles's words.
Sir Charles saw his feelings were touched, and trusting they
would produce the discovery he wished, briefly gave him the
particulars he asked for.
Amanda was the only woman that had ever really touched
the heart of Belgrave. His mind, filled with horror and ener-
vated with fear at the idea of the crime he had recently com-
miUed, could make no opposition to the grief he experienced
on hearing of her situation a grief heightened almost to dis-
traction, by reflecting that he was accessory to it. " Dying ! "
he repeated, " Amanda Fitzalan dying I but she will be happy !
Hers will be a pure and ministering spirit in heaven, when mine
lies howling. The angels are not purer in mind and person
than she is ! " " Then you are an execrable villain," cried Sir
Charles, laying his hand on his sword. " Strike," exclaimed
Belgrave, with an air of wildness ; " death will rid me of hor-
rors. Death from you will be better than the ignominious one
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 51!
which now stares me in the face ; for I have, oh, horrible I this
night I have committed murder ! "
Astonished and dismayed. Sir Charles gazed on him with
earnestness. " It is true ! " continued he, in the same wild
manner, " it is true ! therefore strike ! but against you I will
not raise my hand; it were impious to touch a life like yours, ^
consecrated to the purposes of virtue. No, I would not deprive
the wretched of their friend." Sir Charles, still shuddering at
his words, demanded an explanation of them ; and the tortured
soul of Belgrave, as if happy to meet any one it could confide
in, after a little hesitation, divulged at once its crimes and hor-
rors. "No," cried Sir Charles, when he had -concluded, " to
raise a hand against him over whom the arm of justice is up-
lifted, were cruel as well as cowardly. Go, then, and may
repentance, not punishment, overtake you." To describe the
raptures Sir Charles experienced at the acquittal of Amanda, is
impossible. Not a fond father rejoicing over the restored fame
of a darling child, could experience more exquisite delight.
The next morning, as Soon as he thought it possible he could
gain admittance, he hastened to Mrs. Connel's, and had the
satisfaction of hearing from Mrs. Rushbrook that Amanda was
then in a sweet sleep, from which the most salutary conse-
quences might be expected. With almost trembling impatience
he communicated the transports of his heart, and his auditors
rejoiced as much at these transports on Amanda's account as
on his. Mrs. Rushbrook and Emily had sat up with her the
preceding night, w'lich she passed in a most restless manner,
without any perception of surrounding objects. Towards
morning she fell into a profound sleep, which they trusted
would recruit her exhausted frame. Mrs. Rushbrook then with-
drew to her husband. It was past noon ere Amanda awoke.
At first a pleasing languor was diffused through her frame,
which prevented her from having an idea of her situation ; but
gradually her recollection retutned, and with it anxiety to know
where she was. She remembered, too, the moment she had met
Sir Charles, but no further. She gently opened the curtain,
and beheld oh ! how great the pleasure of that moment
Emily sitting by the bedside, who, instantly rising, kissed her
cheek in a transport of affection, and inquired how she did.
Oil I how delightful, how soothing was that gentle voice to the
ears of Amanda! The softest music could not have been
more grateful. Her heart vibrated to it with an exquisite
degree of pleasure, and her eyes feasted on the rays of be-
nevolence which streamed from those of Emily. At last, in
512 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
a faint voice, she said : " I am sure I am safe, since I am with
Emily."
Mrs. Rushbrook entered at that instant. Her delight at
the restored faculties of Amanda was equal to her daughter's ;
yet the recollection of her own conduct made her almost re-
luctant to approach her. At last, advancing, " I blush, yet I
rejoice oh I how truly rejoice to behold you," she exclaimed ;
" that I could be tempted to harbor a doubt against you fills
me with regret ; and the vindication of your innocence can
scarcely yield you more pleasure than it yields me." "The
vindication of my innocence I " repealed Amanda, raising her
head from the pillow. "Oh, gracious Heaven I is it then
vindicated ? Tell me, I conjure you, how, and by what
means."
Mrs. Rushbrook hastened to obey her, and related all she
had heard from Sir Charles. The restoration of her fame
seemed to reanimate the soul of Amanda, yet tears burst from
her, and she trembled with emotion. Mrs. Rushbrook was
alarmed, and endeavored to compose her. " Do not be un-
easy," said Amanda, "those tears will never injure me. It is
long, it is very long, since I have shed tears of joy ! " She
implored Heaven's choicest blessings on Sir Charles for his
generosity to her, his benevolence to the Rushbrooks. Her
heart, relieved of a heavy burden of anxiety on her own ac-
count, now grew more anxious than ever to learn something
of her poor Oscar ; and notwithstanding Mrs. Rushbrook's en-
treaties to the contrary, who feared she was exerting herself
beyond her strength, she arose in liie afternoon for the purpose
of going to the drawing-room, determined, as Sir Charles's gen-
erous conduct merited her confidence, to relate to him as well
as to Mrs. Rushbrook the motives which had brought her to
town ; the particulars of her life necessary to be known ; and
to request their assistance in trying to learn intelligence of her
brother. Emily helped her to dress, anu supported her to the
drawing-room. Sir Charles had continued in the house the
whole day, and met her as she entered with mingled love and
pity ; for in her feeble form, her faded cheek, he witnessed the
ravages of grief and sickness. His eyes more than his tongue
expressed his feelings, yet in the softest accent of tenderness
did he pour forth those feelings, whilst his hand trembled as it
pressed hers to his bosom. " My feelings. Sir Charles," said
she, "cannot be expressed ; but my gratitude to you will cease
but with my existence."
Sir Charles besought her to be silent on such a subject.
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 513.
" He was selfish," he said, " in everything he did for her, for
on her happiness his depended."
Rushbrook approached to offer his congratulations. He ,
spoke of her kindness, but, like Sir Charles, the subject was
painful to her, and dropped at her request. The idea of being
safe, the soothing attentions she experienced, gave to her mind
a tranquillity it had long been a stranger to, and she looked
back on her past dangers but to enjoy more truly her present
security. As she witnessed the happiness of the Rushbrooks,
she could scarcely forbear applauding aloud the author of that
happiness ; but she judged of his heart by her own, and there-
fore checked herself by believing he would prefer the silent
plaudits of that heart to any praise whatsoever. After tea, when
only Sir Charles, Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook, and Emily, were
present, she entered upon the affairs she wished to commu-
nicate. They heard her with deep attention, wonder, and pity,
and, when she concluded, both Sir Charles and Rushbrook
declared their readiness to serve her. The latter, who had be-
trayed strong emotions during her narrative, assured her he
doubted not, nay, he was almost convinced, he should soon be
able to procure her intelligence of her brother.
This was a sweet assurance to the heart of Amanda, and,
cheered by it, she soon retired to bed. Her strength being ex-
hausted b)' speaking, she sunk into a tranquil slumber, and next
morning she arose for br^iakfast. "Well," said Rushbrook to
her as they sat at il, " 1 told you last night I should soon be
able to procure you intelligence of your brother, and 1 was not
mistaken." " Oh, heavens ! " cried Amanda, in trembling emo-
tion, " have you really heard anything of him ? " " Be com-
posed, my dear girl," said he, taking her hand in the most
soothing, most affectionate manner, " I have heard of him, but
" " But what ? " interrupted Amanda, with increased
emotion. " Why, that he has experienced some of the trials
of life. But let the reflection that these trials are over, pre-
vent your suffering pain by hearing of them." " Oh ! tell me,
I entreat," said Amanda, " where he is ! Tell me, I conjure
you ; shall I see him ? " "Yes," replied Rushbrook, "you shall
see him, to keep you no longer in suspense. In that dreary
prison, from which I have just been released, he has languished
many months." " Oh, my brother ! " exclaimed Amanda, while
for tears gushed from her.
" I knew not," continued Rushbrook, " from the conceal-
ment of your name, that he was your brother, till last night. I
then told Sir Charles, and he is gone this morning to him ; but
SH
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
you must expect to see him somewhat altered. The restora-
tion of liberty, and the possession of fortune, will no doubt soon
re-establish his health. Hark I I think I hear a voice on the
stairs."
Amanda started, arose, attempted to move, but sunk again
upon her chair. The door opened, aud Sir Charles entered,
followed by Oscar. Though prepared for an alteration in his
looks, she was not by any means prepared for an alteration
which struck her the moment she beheld him. Pale and thin,
even to a degree of emaciation, he was dressed, or rather
wrapped, in an old regimental great-coat, his fine hair wildly
dishevelled. As he approached her, Amanda rose. " Amanda,
my sister ! " said he, in a faint voice. She tottered forward,
and falling upon his bosom, gave way in tears to the mingled
joy and anguish of the moment. Oscar pressed her to his
heart. He gazed on her with the fondest rapture yet a rapture
suddenly checked, by surveying the alteration in her appear-
ance, which was as striking to him, as his was to her. Her
pale and woe-worn countenance, her sable dress, at once de-
clared her sufferings, and brought most painfully to recollection
the irreparable loss they had sustained since their last meeting.
"Oh, my father!" groaned Oscar, unable to control the
strong emotions of his mind " Oh, my father ! when last we
met we were blessed with your presence," He clasped Amanda
closer to his heart as he spoke, as if doubly endeared to him
by her desolate situation,
"To avoid regretting him is indeed impossible," said Amanr
da; "yet, had he lived, what tortures would have wrung his heart
in witnessing the unhappiness of his children, when he had not
the power of removing it ! " " Come," cried Captain Rushr
brook, whose eyes, like those of every person present, confessed
his sympathetic feelings, " let us not cloud present blessings by
the retrospection of past misfortunes. In this life we must all
expect to meet with such losses as you lament." As soon as Os-
oar and Amanda grew composed, they were left to themselves,
and Oscar then satisfied the anxious and impatient heart of his
sister, by informing her of all that had befallen him. He began
with his attachment for Adela, and the disappointment of that
attachment ; but as this part of his story is already known, we
shall pass it over in silence, and merely relate the occasion of
his quarrel with Belgrave,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 515
CHAPTER LIV.
" But thou who, mindful o the unhonorcd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance^ by lonely contemplation led,
Some kmclred spirit shoulo lament thy fate.
Haply some hoary headed swain may say,
Oft have I seen him at the peep of dawn.
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.'*
" I LEFT Enniskillen," said Oscar, " in the utmost distress of
mind, for I left it with the idea that I might no more behold 1
Adela. Yet, dear and precious as was her sight to ray soul; I
rejoiced she had not accompanied the regiment, since to have
beheld her but as the wife of Belgrave would have been insup-
portable. Had the disappointment of my passion been occa-
sioned by its not meeting a return, pride would have assisted
me to conquer it ; but to know it was tenderly returned, at
once cherished and, if possible, increased it. The idea of the
happiness I might have attained, rendered me insensible of any
that I might still have enjoyed. I performed the duties of my
situation mechanically, and shunned society as much as pos-
sible, unable to bear the raillery of my gay companions on my
melancholy.
" Tlie sinnmcr you came to Ireland the regiment removed
to Bray, whose romantic situation allowed me to enjoy many
delightful and solitary rambles. It was there a man enlisted,
whose manner and appearance were for many days subjects of
surprise and conversation to us all. From both, it was obvious
he had been accustomed to one of the superior situations in
life. A form more strikingly elegant I never beheld. The
officers made many attempts to try and discover who he really
was J but he evaded all their inquiries, yet with the utmost
agitation. What rendered him, if possible, more interesting,
was his being accompanied by a yoqng and lovely woman, who,
like him, appeared sunk beneath her original state ; but to their _ ,],
present one both conformed, if not wjth cheerfulness, at least' 9'
with resignation.
Mary obtained work from almost all the officers ; Henry
was diligent in his duties ; and both were universally admired
and respected. Often, in my lonely rambles, have I surprised
this unfortunate pair, who, it was evident, like me, sought soli- .
tude for the indulgence of sorrow, weeping together as if over
5l6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
the remembrance of happier hours. Often have I beheld them
gazing witli mingled agony and tenderness on the infant which
Mary nursed, as if shuddering at the idea of its destiny.
" The loveliness of Mary was too striking not to attract the
notice of Belgrave ; and from her situation he flattered himself
she would be an easy prey. He was, however, mistaken. She
repulsed his overtures with equal abhorrence and indignation,
She wished to conceal tliem from her husband, but he heard of
them through tlie means of his fellow-soldiers, who had several
times seen the colonel following his wifo. It was then he
really felt the bitterness of a servile situation. Of his wife he
had no doubt ; she had already given him a convincing proof
of constancy, but he dreaded the insults she might receive from
the colonel. The united vigilance of both prevented, however,
for some lime, a repetition of those insulls. Exasperated by
their vigilance, the colonel at last concerted one of the most
diabolical plans which could have entered into the heart of man.
A party of soldiers were ordered to the sea-side to watch there
for smuggled goods. Henry was named to be of the party,
but when the soldiers were drawn out he was not to be found.
Belgrave's servant, the vile agent of his master, had informed
him that the colonel meant to take advantage of his absence,
and visit his wife. He trembled for her safety, resolved to run
every risk, sooner than leave her unguarded, and accordingly
absconded tilJ the departure of the party. The consequence of
this was, that on his reappearance he was put under an arrest
for disobedience of orders, tried the next day, and sentenced
to be flogged on the following one. The very officers that
passed the sentence regretted it, but the strictness of military
discipline rendered it unavoidable.
" I shall not attempt to describe the situation of the un-
happy youn^ couple ; Ihey felt for each other more than for
themselves, and piide heightened the agonies of Henry.
" Pale, weeping, with a distracted air, Mary flew to my
af)artment, and, sinking at my feet, with uplifted hands be-
sought me to interpose in favor of her husband. I raised the
poor mourner from the ground, and assured her, yet with a
sigh, from the fear of proving unsuccessful, that I would do all
in my power to save him. I therefore hastened to the colonel,
to ask for another that favor I should have disdained to desire
for myself ; but to serve this wretched couple, I felt I could
almost humble myself to the earth.
" The colonel was on the parade ; and, as if aware of my in-
dention, appeared sedulous to avoid me, But I would not be
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 517
repulsed by this, and followed him, entreating his attention for
a few minutes. ' Dispatch your business then in haste, sir,' said
he, with an unusual haughtiness. ' I shall, sir,' cried I, endeav-
oring to repress the indignation his mariner excited, ' and I
also hope with success.' 'What is your business, sir ?' de-
manded he. ' 'Tis the business of humanity,' I replied, ' and
'tis only for others I could ask a favor.'
" I then proceeded to mention it. Rage and malice in-
flamed his countenance as I spoke. ' Never,' exclaimed he,
' shall the wretch receive pardon from me ; and I am astonished
at your presumption in asking it.' ' Yet not half so astonished,'
replied I, ' as I am at your obduracy. Though, why do I say
so ? from your past actions, I should not be surprised at any
act you may commit.'
" " His passion grew almost to frenzy ; he asked me if I
,knew whom I was addressing. ' Too well,' I replied ; ' I
kilow I am addressing one of the completest villains Upon
earth."
" He raised a small rattan he held, at these words, in
threatening manner. I could no longer oppose my indignation.
I rushed upon him, wrested it from his hand, broke it, and
flung it over his head. ' Now,' cried I, laying my hand upon
my sword, ' I am ready to give you the satisfaction you may
desire for my words words whose truth I will uphold with my
life.' 'No,' said he, with the coolness of deliberate malice;
' 'tis a far different satisfaction I shall expect to receive. Some
of the officers had by this time gathered round us, and at-
tempted to interfere, but he commanded their silence in a
haughty manner, and ordered me under an immediate arrest.
My fate I then knew decided, but I resolved to bear that fate
with fortitude, nor let him triumph in every respect over me. I
was confined to my room, and Henry the next morning was
brought forth to receive his punishment. I will not, my sister, '
pain your gentle heart by describmg to you, as it was described
to me by an officer, his parting from his wife. Pride, indigna-
' tion, tenderness, and pity, were strdggling in his heart, and
visible in his countenance. He attempted to assume compos-
ure, but when he reached the destined spot, he could no longer
control his feelings. The idea of being exposed, disgraced,
was too much for his noble soul. The paleness of his face in-
creased. He tottered, fell into the arms of a soldier, and ex-
pired groaning forth the name of Mary. Four days after this
melancholy event a court-martial was held on me, when, as I'
expected, I was broken for contempt to my superior officer. I
5l8 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
retired to a solitary inn near Bray, in a state of mind which
baffles description, destitute of friends and fortune. I felt in
that moment as if I had no business in the world. I was followed
to the inn by a young lieutenant with whom I had been on an
intimate footing. The grief he expressed at my situation roused
me from almost a stupefaction that was stealing on me. The
voice of friendship will penetrate the deepest gloom, and I felt
my sorrows gradually allayed by it. He asked me had I fixed
on any plan for myself. I replied I had not, for it was vain to
fix on plans when there were no friends to support them. He
took my hand and told me I was mistaken. In a few days he
trusted to procure me letters to a gentleman in London who
had considerable possessions in the West Indies, if such a
thing was agreeable to me. It was just what I wished for, and
I thanked him with the sincerest gratitude.
" In the evening 1 received a message from the unfortunate
Mary, requesting to see me directly. The soldier who brought
it said she was dying. I hastened to her. She was in bed,
and supported by a soldier's wife. The declining sunbeams
stole into the apartment, and shed a kind of solemn glory around
her. The beauty that had caused her misfortunes was faded,
but she looked more interesting than when adorned with that
bloom of beauty. Sighs and tears impeded her words for some
minutes after I approached her. At last, in a faint voice she
said, ' I sent for you, sir, because I knew your goodness, your
benevolence would excuse the liberty. I knew you would think
that no trouble wiiich could soothe the last sad moments of a
wretched woman.'
" She then proceeded to inform me of the motives which
made her send namely, to convey her infant to her father, a
person of fortune in Dublin, and to see her remains, ere I did
so, laid by those of her husband. Her unfortunate Henry, she
added, had been son to a respectable merchant. Their families
were intimate, and an attachment which commenced at an early
period between them was encouraged. Henry's father experi-
enced a sudden reverse of fortune, and hers, in consequence of
it, forbade their ever thinking more of each other ; but they
could not obey his commands, and married clandestinely, thus
forfeiting the favor of all their friends, as Henry's thought
he wanted spirit, and hers deemed her deficient in respect to
her father. They were therefore compelled by necessity to a
state of life infinitely beneath them. ' But in my grave,' con-
tinued she, ' I trust my father will bury all his resentment, and
protect this little orphan,'
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 519
" I promised a religious observance to her commands, and
she expired in about an hour after I quitted her. Mournful
were the tasks she enjoined me. I attended her remains to the
grave, and then conveyed her child to Dublin.
" Startled, amazed, distressed, her father too late regretted
his rigor, and received her infant to his arms with floods of
repentant tears.
" I now procured iny recommendatory letters, and sailed for
England, having first written farewell ones to my father and
Mrs. Marlowe, in which I informed both I was about quitting the
kingdom. As soon as I had procured cheap lodgings in Lon-
don, I repaired to the gentleman to whom I was recommended ;
but conceive my consternation when I heard he was himself
gone to the West Indies. I turned into a coffee-house, with an
intention of communicating this intelligence to my friend.
While the waiter was getting me materials for writing, I took up
a newspaper, and cast my eyes carelessly over it. Oh I my
Amanda, what was the shock of that moment, when I read my
father's death : grief for him, anxiety for you, both assailed my
heart too powerfully for its feelings. My heart grew giddy,
my sight failed me, and I fell back with a deep groan. When
recovered, by the assistance of some gentlemen, I requested a
carriage might be sent for, but I was too weak to walk to it.
On returning to my lodgings, I was compelled to go to bed,
from which I never rose for a fortnight. During my illness all
the little money I had brought along with me was expended,
and I was besides considerably in debt with the people of the
house for procuring me necessaries. When able to sit up they
furnished their accounts, and I candidly told my inability to
discharge them. In consequence of this I was arrested, and
suffered to take of my clothes but a change or two of linen.
The horrors of what I imagined would be a lasting captivity
were heightened by reflecting on your unprotected situation,
A thousand times was I on the point of writing to inquire into
that situation, but still checked myself by reflecting that, as I
could not aid you, I should only add to any griefs you might be
oppressed with by acquainting you of mine. The company of
Captain Rushbrook alleviated in some degree the dreariness of
my time. I knew I should sustain an irreparable loss in losing
him, but I should have detested myself if any selfish motives
had prevented my rejoicing at his enlargement. Oh ! little did
I think his liberation was leading the way to mine. Early this
morning he returned, and introduced Sir Charles Bingley to
me. Gently, and by degrees, they broke the joyful intelligencei
S20
THE CHILDliM^r OF THE ABBEV.
they had to communicate. With truth I can aver that the an-
nounceinent of a splcndicl fortune was not so pleasing to my
lieart as the menlion of my sister's safety. Of my poor Adela
I know nothing since my confinement ; but I shudder to tliink
of what she may liave suffered from being left solely in the
power of such a man as Belgrave, for the good old general died
soon after I left Enuiskillen.
" ' Regret not too bitterly, my dear Oscar,' said Mrs. Mar-
lowe, in one of her letters, ' the good man's death ; rather re-
joice he was removed cie his last hours were embittered by the
knowledge of his darling child's unhappiness.'
"Oh ! my sister!" continued Oscar, with a heavy sigh, while
tears fell from him, and mingled with those Amanda was shed-
ding, " in this world we must have still something to wish and
sigh for."
Oscar here concluded his narrative with such an expression
of melancholy as gave to Amanda the sad idea of his passion
for Adela being incurable. This was indeed the case ; neither
reason, time, nor absence could remove or lessen it, and the ac-
quisition of liberty or fortune lost half their value by brooding
over her loss. *
When their friends returned to the drawing-room and again
offered their congratulations, Oscar's dejection would not per-
mit Iiim to reply to them. When Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook
spoke of the happiness he might nowcnjoy, he listened to their
' recapitulation of it as to a fulsome tale, to which his heart in
secret gave the lie. An innate sense of piety, however, re-
called him to a proper recollection of the blessings so unex-
pectedly declared to be his. He accused himself of ingratitude
to Heaven in yielding to murmurs, after so astonishing a reverse
in his situation. Perfect happiness he had been early taught
and daily experience confirmed the truth of the remark was
rarely to be met with ; how presumptuous in him, therefore, to
repine at the common lot of humanity : to be independent, to
have the means of returning the obligations Sir Charles Bingley
had conferred upon hiin; to be able to comfort and provide for
his lovely and long-afflicted sister ; and to distribute relief
amongst the children of indigence, were all blessings which
would shortly be his blessings which demanded his warmest
gratitude, and for which he now raised his heart with thankful-
ness to their divine Dispenser. His feelings grew composed :
a kind of soft and serene melancholy stole over his mind. He
still thought of Adela, but not with that kind of distracting
anguish he had so recently experienced j it was with that kind
THE ClilLDkEN 01'- THE ABBEY 521
of tender regret which a soul of sensibility feels when reflecting
on a departed friend, and to him Adela was as much lost, as if
already shrouded in her native clay. " Yes, my love," he said,
as if her gentle spirit had already forsaken its earthly mansion,
" in that happy'workl we shall be reunited, which only can
reward thy goodness and thy sufferings."
He could now enter into conversation with his friends about
the measures which should be taken to forward his pretensions.
It was the opinion of Captain Rushbrook and Sir Charles, that
to make known his claim to the Marquis of Roslin was all that
was necessary ; a claim which they did not imagine he would or
could dispute, when such proofs of its validity as the testimony
of Lady Dunreath, and the will, could be produced. Was ).t
disputed, it v/asthen time enough to apply elsewhere for justice.
. Sir Charles knew the Marquis personally, and was also well
acquainted in his neighborhood, and declared he would accom-
pany Oscar to Scotland. Oscar thanked him for his intention.
The support of a person so well known, and universally esteemed
he was convinced, would essentially serve him. Sir Charles
said, regimental business required his presence in Ireland,
which, however, would occasion no great delay, as he should
have it transacted in a few days ; and as his regiment lay near
Donaghadee, they could cross over to Port-Patrick, and, in a
few hours after, reach the Marquis of Roslin's Castle.
The day after the next he had fixed for commencing his
journey, and he asked Oscar if it would be agreeable and con-
venient to accompany him then. Oscar instantly assured
him it was both. Amanda's heart fluttered at the idea of a
journey to Ireland. It was probable, she thought, that they
would take Wales in their way ; and Iier soul seemed already
on the wing to accompany them thither, and be left at the
cottage of nurse Edwin, from whence she could again wander
through the shades of Tudor Hall, and take a last, a sad
farewell of them ; for she solemnly determined from the
moment she should be apprised of Lord Mortimer's return
to England to visit them no more. In such a farewell she
believed she should find a melancholy consolation that would
soothe her spirits. She imagined there was no necessity for
accompanying her brother into Scotland, and except told there
was an absolute one, siie determined to decline the journey if
she should be asked to undertake it. To go to the very spot
where she would hear particulars of Lord Mortimer's nuptials,
she felt would be too much for her fortitude, and might betray
to her brother a secret she had resolved carefully to conceal
532 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
from him, as she well knew the pain he would feel from know-
ing that the pangs of a hopeless attachment were entailed upon
her life, and would defeat whatever flattering hopes he enter-
tained for her^ Exclusive of the above-mentioned objections,
she could not bear to go to a place where she might perhaps
witness the pain which Lord Mortimer must unavoidably feel
frory having any disgrace befall a family he was so nearly con-
nected with. Oh, how her heart swelled at the idea that ere
Oscar reached Scotland, the interest of the Marquis of Roslin
and Lord Mortimer would be but one 1 From her apprehen-
sions of being asked to undertake a journey so truly repugnant
to her feelings, she was soon relieved by Oscar's declaring that,
except she wished it, he would not ask her to take so fatiguing
a one, particularly as her presence he could not think at all
necessary. .
Sir Charles lUngley assured him it was not ; though in a
low voice he said to her, it was against his own interest he
spoke.
She would now have mentioned her wish of going to Wales,
had not a certain consciousness checked her. She feared her
countenance would betray her motives for such a wish. While
she hesitated about mentioning it. Sir Charles Bingley told
Captain Rushbrook, that he had applied to a friend of his in
power for a place for him, and had been fortunate enough to
make application at the very time there was one of tolerable
emolument vacant, at , about seventy miles distant from
London, whither it would be necessary he should go as soon
as possible. He therefore proposed that he and Mrs. Rush-
brook should begin preparations for their journey the ensuing
morning, and exert themselves to be able to undertake it in the
course of the week.
They were, all rapture and gratitude at this intelligence,
which opened a prospect of support through their own means,
as the bread of independence, however hardly earned, which
here was not tiic case, must ever be sweet to souls of sensi-
bility.
Oscar looked with anxiety at his sister, on the mention of
the Rushbrook's removal from town, as if to say, to whose care
then can I intrust you ? Mrs. Rushbrook interpreted his look,
and instantly requested that Miss Fifzalan might accompany
them, declaring her society would render their felicity complete.
This was the moment for Amanda to speak. She took courage,
and mentioned her earnest wish of visiting her faithful nurse,
declaring she could not lose so favorable an opportunity as now
THE caiLDHEN OF THE ABBEY. 523
offered for the gratification of that wish, by accompanying her
brother into Wales. Emily pleaded, but Amanda, though with
the utmost gratitude and tenderness, as if to soften her refusal,
was steady. Oscar was pleased with his sister's determination, as
he trusted going into what might be called her native air, joined
to the tender care of nurse Edwin, would recruit her health.
Sir C'harles was in raptures at the idea of having her company
so far on their way.
Everything relative to the proceedings of the whole party
was arranged before dinner, at which Sir Charles presided,
giving pleasure to all around him, by the ineffable sweetness of
his manners. He withdrew at an early hour at night, and his
friends soon after retired to their respective chambers. On
entering the breakfast-room next morning, Amanda found not
only her brother and the Rushbrooks, but Sir Charles Bingley
there. Immediately after breakfast, he drew Oscar aside, and
in the most delicate terms insisted on being his banker at
present, to which Oscar gratefully consented. As soon as this
affair was settled, he put a note into his sister's hands, to pur-
chase whatever she should deem necessary ; and she went out
with the Rushbrooks, who, according to Sir Charles's directions,
began preparations for their journey this day. After their re-
turn. Sir Charles found an opportunity of again making an
offer of his hand to Amanda.
The sincere friendship she had conceived for him made her
determine to terminate his suspense on her account. "Was I
to accept your generous proposal, Sir Charles," said she, " I
should be unworthy of that esteem which it will be my pride to
retain and my pleasure to return, because beyond esteem I can-
not go myself. It is due to your friendship," cried she, after
the hesitation of a moment, whilst a rosy blush stole over her
lovely face, and as quickly faded from it, " to declare, that ere
I saw you, the fate of my heart was decided."
Sir Charles turned pale. He grasped her hands in a kind
of silent agony to his bosom, then exclaimed : " I will not. Miss
Fitzalan, after your generous confidence, tease you with further
importunity."
524 I'^i^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
CHAPTER LV.
" I solitary court
The inspiring breeze.'^ Thomson.
The ensuing morning, Oscar, Amanda, and Sir Charles
began tlieir journey. I'he Ruslibrooks, wlio regarded Amanda
as tlie cause of their present happiness, took leave of her with
a tender sorrow that deeply affected her heart. The journey
to Wales was pleasant and expeditious, the weather being fine,
and relays of horses being provided at every stage. On the
evening of the third day they arrived about sunset at the vil-
lage which lay contiguous to Edwin's abode ; from whence, as
soon as they had taken some refreshment, Amanda set off, at-
tended by her brother, for the cottage, having ordered her lug-
gage to be brought after her. She would not permit the attend-
ance of Sir Charles, and almost regretted having travelled with
him, as she could not help thinking his passion seemed increased
by her having done so. " How dearly," cried he, as he handed
her down stairs, " shall I pay for a few short hours of pleasure,
by the unceasing regret their remembrance will entail upon
me." .
Amanda withdrew her hand, and, bidding him farewell, hur-
ried on. Oscar proceeded no farther than the lane, which led
to the cottage, with his sister. He had no time to answer the
interrogations which its inhabitants might deem themselves
privileged to make. Neither did he wish his present situation
to be known to any others than those already acquainted with
it. Amanda therefore meant to say she had taken the oppor-
tunity of travelling so far with two particular friends who were
going to Ireland. Oscar promised to write to her immediately
from thence, and from Scotland, as soon as he had seen the
marquis. He gave her a thousand charges concerning her
health, and took a tender farewell. From his too visible dejec-
tion, Amanda, rejoiced she had not revealed her own sorrows
to him. She trusted it would be in her power, by soothing at-
tentions, by the thousand little nameless offices of friendship,
to alleviate his. To pluck the thorn from his heart which
rankled within it was beyond her hopes. In their dispositions,
as well as fates, there was loo great a similitude to expect this.
Amanda lingered in the walk as he departed. She was now
THE CHILDREN- OF THE ABBEY. 525
in the very spot that recalled a thousand fond and tender re-
membrances. It was here she had given a farewell look to
Tudor Hall ; it was here her father had taken a last look at the
spire of the church where his beloved wife was interred ; it was
here Lord Mortimer used so often to meet her. Her soul sunk
in the heaviest sadness. Sighs burst from her overcharged
heart, and with difficulty she prevented her tears from falling. All
around was serene and beautiful ; but neither the serenity nor
the beauty of the scene could she now enjoy. The plaintive
bleating of the cattle that rambled about the adjacent hills only
heightened her melancholy, and the appearance of autumn,
which was now far advanced, only made her look back to the
happy period when admiring its luxuriance had given her de-
light. The parting sunbeams yet glittered on the windows of
Tudor Hall. She paused involuntarily to contemplate it.
Hours could she have continued in the same situation, had not
the idea that she might be observed from the cottage made her
at last hasten to it.
The door lay open. She entered, and found only the nurse
within, employed at knitting. Her astonishment at the appear-
ance of Amanda is not to be described. She started, screamed,
surveyed her a minute, as if doubting the evidence of her eyes,
then, running to her, flung her arms about her neck, and clasped
her to her bosom. " Good gracious ! " cried she ; " well, to pe
sure, who ever would have thought such a thing ? Well, to pe
sure, you are as welcome as the flowers in May. Here we have
peen in such a peck of troubles about you. Many and many a
time has my good man said, that if he knew where you were, he
would go to you." Amanda returned the embraces of her faith-
ful nurse, and they both sat down together.
" Ah ! I fear," said the nurse, looking tenderly at her for a,
few minutes, " you have been in a sad way since I last saw you.
The poor tear captain, alack ! little did I think when he took
you away from us, I should never see him more." Amanda's
tears could no longer be suppressed ; they gushed in torrents
from her, and deep sobs spoke the bitterness of her feelings.
" Ay," said the nurse, wiping her eyes with the corner of her
apron, " gentle or simple, sooner or later, we must all go the
same way ;.so, my tear chilt, don't take it so much to heart.
Well, to pe sure, long pefore this I thought I should have seen
or heard of your being greatly married ; put I pelieve it is true
enough, that men are like the wind always changing. Any
one that had seen Lord Mortimer after you went away, would
never have thought he could prove fickle, He was in such
326 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
grief, my very heart and soul pitied him. To pe sure, if I had
known where yoii were, I should have told him. I comforted
myself, however, by thinking he would certainly find you out,
when, Lort ! instead of looking for you, here he's going to be
married to a great lady, with such a long, hard name a Scotch
heiress, I think they call her. Ay, golt is everything in these
days. Well, all the harm I wish him is, that she may plague
his life out."
This discourse was too painful to Amanda. Her tears had
subsided, and she endeavored to change it, by asking after the
nurse's family. Tlie nurse, in a hasty manner, said they were
well, and thus proceeded : " Then there is Parson Howel. I
am sure one would have thought him as steady as Penmaen-
mawr, but no such thing. I am sure he has changed, for he
does not come to the cottage half so often to ask about you as
he used to do."
Amanda, notwithstanding her dejection, smiled at the
nurse's anger about the curate, and again requested to hear
particulars of her family. The nurse no longer hesitated to
comply with her request. She informed her they were all well,
and then at a little distance at the mill in the valley. She also
added, that Ellen was married to her faithful Chip ; had a com-
fortable cottage, and a fine little girl she was nursing, and to
whom, from her love to her tear young laty, she would have
given the name of Amanda, but that she feared people would
deem her conceited, to give it so fine a one. The nurse said
she often regretted having left her young lady, and then even
Chip himself could not console her for having done so. Tears
again started in Amanda's eyes, at hearing of the unabated at-
tachment of her poor Ellen. She longed to gee and congratu-
late her on her present happiness. The nurse, in her turn, in-
quired of all that liad befallen Amanda since their separation,
and shed tears at hearing of her dear child's sufferings since
that period. She asked about Oscar, and was briefly informed
he was well. The family soon returned from the dance ; and it
would be difficult to say whether surprise or joy was most pre-
dominant at seeing Amanda. One of the young men ran over
for Ellen, and returned in a few minutes with her, followed by
her husband, carrying his little child. She looked wild with
delight. She clasped Amanda in her arms, as if she would
never let her depart from them, and wept in the fulness of her
heart. " Now, now," cried she, " I shall be quite happy ; but
oh ! why, my dear young laty, did you not come amongst us be-
fore ? you know all in our power we would have done to ren-
THE CIHLDREiV OP THE ABBEY. ^27
der you happy." She now recollected herself, and modestly
retired to a little distance. She took her child and brought it
to Amanda, who delighted her extremely by the notice she took
of it and Chip. If Amanda had had less cause for grief, the
attentions of these affectionate cottagers would have soothed
her mind ; but at present nothing could diminish her dejection.
Her luggfage was by this time arrived. She had brought pres-
ents for all the family, and now distributed them. She tried
to converse about their domestic affairs, but found herself une-
qual to the effort, and begged to be shown to her chamber.
The nurse would not suffer her to retire till she had tasted her
new cheese and Welsh ale. When alone within it, she found
fresh objects to remind her of Lord Mortimer, and consequently
to augment her grief. Here lay the book-case he had sent her,
She opened it with trembling impatience ; but scarcely a vol-
ume did she examine in which select passages were not marked,
by his hand, for her particular perusal. Oh I what mementoes
were those volumes of the happy hours she had passed at the
cottage ! The night waned away, and still she continued weep-
ing over them. She could with difficulty bring herself to close
the book-case ; and when she retired to rest her slumbers were
short and unrefreshing. The next morning as she sat at break-
fast, assiduously attended by the nurse and her daughters (for
Ellen had come over early to inquire after her health), Howel
entered to pay her a visit. The previous intimation she had
received of the alteration in his sentiments rendered his visit
more pleasing than it would otherwise have been to her. His
pleasure was great at seeing her, but it was not the wild and
extravagant delight of a lover, but the soft and placid joy of a
friend. After his departure, which was not soon, she accom-.
panied Ellen to view her cottage, and was infinitely pleased by
its neatness and romantic situation. It lay on the side of a
hill which commanded a beautiful prospect of Tudor Hall,
Everything she beheld reminded Amanda of Lord Mortimer,
even the balmy air she breathed, on which his voice had so
often floated.
The sad indulgence of wandering through the shades of
Tudor Hall, which she had so eagerly desired, and fondly anti-
cipated, she could not longer deny herself. The second even-
ing after her arrival at the cottage, she turned her solitary
steps to them j their deep embowering glens, their solitude,
their silence, suited the pensive turn of her feelings. Here, un-
disturbed and unobserved, she could indulge the sorrows of
her heart ; and oh ! how did recollection augment those sor-
528 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
rows by retracing the happy liours she had spent within those
shades. A cold, a death-Hke melancholy pervaded her feelings,
and seemed repelling the movements of life. Her trembling
limbs were unable to support her, and she threw herself on the
ground. For some minutes she could scarcely breathe. Tears
at length relieved her painful oppression, she raised her languid
head, she looked around, and wept with increasing violence at
beholding what might be termed mementoes of former happi-
ness. She repeated in soft and tremulous accents the name of
Mortimer; but as the beloved name vibrated on her ear, how
did she start at recollecting that she was then calling upon the
husband of Lady Euphrasia. She felt a momentary glow upon
her cheeks. She arose, and sighed deeply. " I will strive to
do right," she cried ; " I will try to wean my soul from remem-
brances no longer proper to be indulged." Yet still she lin-
gered in the wood. The increasing gloom of evening rendered
it, if possible, more pleasing to her feelings, whilst the breeze
sighed mournfully through the trees, and the droning bat flut-
tered upon the air, upon which the wild music of a harp, from
one of the neighboring cottages, softly floated.
Amanda drew nearer to it. It looked dark and melancholy.
She sighed she involuntarily exclaimed, " Oh, how soon will
it be enlivened by bridal pomp and festivity ! " She now recol-
lected the uneasiness her long absence might create at the cot-
tage, and as soon as the idea occurred, hastened to it. She
met Edwin in the lane, who had been dispatched by his wife in
quest of her. The good woman expressed her fears, that such
late rambles would injure the health of Amanda ; " it was a sad
thing," she said, " to see young people giving way to dismal
fancies."
Amanda did not confine her rambles entirely to Tudor Hall ;
she visited all the spots where she and Mortimer used to ram-
ble together. She went to the humble spot where her mother
lay interred. Her feelings were now infinitely more painful
than when she had first seen it. It recalled to her mind, in the
most agonizing manner, all the vicissitudes siie had experienced
since that period. It recalled to view the calamitous closure
of her father's life the sorrows, the distresses of that life, and
she felt overwhelmed with grief. Scarcely could she prevent
herself from falling on the grave, and giving way in tears and
lamentations to that grief. Deprived of the dearest connections
of life, blasted in hopes and expectations " Oil ! well had it
been for me," she cried, " had this spot at once received the
mother and child ; and yet," she exclaimed, after a minute's
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 529
reflection ; " oh ! what, my God, am I, that I should dare to
murmur or repine at thy decr.ees ? Oh ! pardon the involuntary
expressions of a woe-worn heart, of a heart that feels the purest
gratitude for thy protection through past dangers. Oh ! how
presumptuous," she continued, " to repine at the common lot
of humanity, as the lot of her," she continued, casting her tear-
ful eyes upon the grave, where the last flowers of autumn were
now withering, " wlio reposes in this earthly bed ; who, in life's
meridian, in beauty's prime, sunk, the sad victim of sorrow,
into the arms of death I Oh, my parents, how calamitous were
your destinies I even your ashes were not permitted to moulder
together, but in a happier region, your kindred spirits are now
united. Blessed spirits, your child will strive to imitate your
example ; in patient resignation to the will of Heaven, she will
endeavor to support life. She will strive to live, though not
from an idea of enjoying happiness, but from an humble hope
of being able to dispense it to others."
Such were the words of Amanda at the grave of her mother,
from which she turned like a pale and drooping HI}', surcharged
with tears. At the end of a week, she heard from Oscar, who
told her in the course of a few days he expected to embark for
Scotland. Amanda had brought materials for drawing with
her, and she felt a passionate desire of taking views of Tudor
Hall ; views which, she believed, would yield her a melancholy
pleasure when she should be far and forever distant from the
spots they represented.
This desire, however, she could not gratify without the as-
sistance of her nurse, for she meant to take her views from the
library, and she feared if she went there without apprising the
housekeeper, she should be liable to interruption. She, there-
fore, requested her nurse to ask permission for her to go there.
The nurse shook her head, as if she suspected Amanda had a
motive for the request she did not divulge. She was, however,
too anxious to gratify her dear child to refuse complying with it,
and accordingly lost no time in asking the desired permission,
which Mrs. Abergwilly readily gave, saying " Miss Fitzalan
was welcome to go to the library whenever she pleased, and
should not be interrupted."
Amanda did not delay availing herself of this permission,
but it was some time after she entered the library, ere she could
compose herself sufficiently for the purpose which had brought
her to it. In vain did nature appear from the windows, display-
ing the most beautiful and romantic scenery to her view, as if
to tempt her to take up the pencil. Her eyes were dimmed
34
53
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
with tears as she looked upon this scenery, and reflected thm:
he who had once pointed out its various beauties was lost to her
forever. By degrees, however, her feelings grew composed,
and every morning she repaired to the library, feeling, whilst
engaged with it, a temporary alleviation of sorrow.
Three weeks passed in this manner, and at the expiration of
that period, she received a letter from Oscar. She trembled in
the most violent agitation as she broke the seal, for she saw by
the post-mark he was in Scotland ; but how great was her sur-
prise and joy at the contents of this letter, which informed her
everything relative to the important affair so lately in agitation,
was settled in the most amicable manner ; that the avowal of
his claim occasioned not the smallest litigation ; that he was
then in full possession of the fortune bequeathed him by the
earl, and had already received the congratulations of the neigh-
boring families on his accession, or rather restoration to it.
He had not time, he said, to enumerate the many particulars
which rendered the adjustment of affairs so easy, and hoped the
pleasing intelligence his letter communicated would atone for
his brevity ; he added, he was then preparing to set off for
London with Sir Charles Bingley, of whose friendship he spoke
in the highest terms, to settle some affairs relative to his new
possessions, and particularly about the revival of the Dunreath
title, which not from any ostentatious pride, he desired to
obtain, as he was sure she would suppose, but from gratitude
and respect to the wishes of his grandfather, who in his will had
expressed his desire tliat the honors of his family should be
supported by his heir. When everything was finally settled, he
proceeded to say, he would hasten on the wings of love and
impatience to her, for in her sweet society alone he found any
balm for the sorrows of his heart, sorrows which could not be
eradicated from it, though fortune had been so unexpectedly
propitious ; and he hoped, he said, he should find her then gay
as tiie birds, blooming as tiie flowerets of spring, and ready
to accompany him to the venerable mansion of their ancestors.
The joyful intelligence this letter communicated she had not
spirits at present to mention to the inhabitants of this cottage ;
the pleasure it afforded was only damped by reflecting on what
Lord Mortimer must feel from a discovery which could not fail
of casting a dark shade of obloquy upon his new connections.
She was now doubly anxious to finish her landscapes, from the
prospect there was of her quitting Wales so soon. Every visit
she now paid the library was paid with the sad idea of its being
the last. As she was preparing for going there one morning.
b
THE CHILDREN OF TlIE ABBEY.
531
immediately after breakfast, the nurse, who had been out some
time previous to her rising, entered the room witli a look of
breathless impatience, which seemed to declare she had some-
thing wonderful to communicate. " Goot lack-a-taisy," cried
she, as soon as she had recovered her breath, lifting up her
head from the back of the chair on which she had thrown her-
self, "goot lack-a-taisy," well, to pe sure there is nothing but
wonderful things happening in this world ! Here, old Dame
Abergwilly sent in such a hurry for me this morning ; to pe sure
I was surprised, but what was that to the surprise I felt when!
heard what she had sent to me for." It was now Amanda'p
turn to feel breathless impatience. " Good heavens ! " she
exclaimed, " what did she tell you 1 " " Ay, I knew," cried the
nurse, " the commotion you would be in when I told you tlie
news ; if you were guessing from this time till this time to-
morrow you would never stumble over what it is." " I dare
say I should not," cried Amanda, " so do be brief." " Why,
you must know, but Lort, my tear child, I am afraid you made
but a bad. breakfast, for you look very pale j inteed I made no
great one myself, for I was in such a hurry-flurry with what
Mrs. Abergwilly told me, that though she made some nice green
tea, and we had a slim cake, I could scarcely touch anything."
" Well," said Amanda, tortured with anxiety and impatience,
" what did she tell you ? " " Why, my tear child, down came a
special messenger from London last night, to let them know
that Lort Cherbury was tead, and that Lort Mortimer had sold
Tudor Hall ; and the steward is ordered to pay all the servants
off, and to discharge them ; and to have everything in readiness
against the new lantlort comes down to take possession. Oh !
Lort, there is such weeping and wailing at the Hall j the poor
creatures who had grown old in service, hoped to have finished
their tays in it ; it is not that they are in any fear of want the
young lort has taken care of that, for he has settled something
yearly upon them all but that they are sorry to quit the family.
Poor Mrs. Abergwilly, nothing can comfort the old soul ; she
has neither chick nor child, and she told me she loved the very
chairs and tables, to which, to pe sure, Irer hand has given
many a polishing rub. She says she thinks she will come and
lodge with me ; put if she does, she says I must not put her ,
into a room from whence she can have a view of Tudor Hall ;
for she says she will never be able to look at it when once it
gets a new master. So this, my tear child, is the sum totem of
what I have heard."
Amanda was equally astonished and affected by what she -
532 THE CHTLDliEN OF THE ABBEY.
heard. She wished to know if the nurse had received any in-
telligence of Lord Mortimer's marriage, but she could not bring
herself to ask the question. Besides, upon reflection, she was
convinced she should have heard it had it been the case.
With Lord Cherbury died all hopes of the restoration of her
fame in the opinion of his son. " Yet why," she asked herself,
" should I regret this ? since thus separated, it is better, per-
haps, he had ceased to esteem me, as undoubtedly it must
lessen his feelings on my account." Why he should part with
Tudor Hall she could not conceive, except it was to humor
some caprice of Lady Euphrasia's, who, it was probable, she
imagined, knew that the attachment between Lord Mortimer
and her had there commenced.
" Ah I " cried Amanda, " she never could have relished its
beauties beauties which, if Lord Mortimer thinks as I do
would, if reviewed, only have augmenied his sorrows sorrows
which propriety now demands his repelling." She hastened to
the hall, but was some time there ere she could commence her
employment, so much had she been agitated. The landscape
she was finishing was taken from the little valley which lay be-
neath the windows of the music-room. The romantic ruins of
an old castle overhung an eminence at its extremity ; and of the
whole scene she had taken a most accurate copy ; it wanted
but one charm to please her, and that charm was the figure of
Lord Mortimer, with whom she had often wandered round the
ruins. Her hand was ready in obeying the impulse of her
heart, and she soon beheld, sketched in the most striking man-
ner, the elegant features of him so ardently beloved. She gazed
with rapture upon them, but it was a short-lived rapture.
She started, as if conscious she had committed a crime,
when she reflected on the situation in which he now stood
witli another woman ; her trembling hand hastened to atone
for its error, by expunging the dangerous likeness, and
the warm involuntary tear she shed at the moment, aided
her design. " Oh ! how unnecessary," she cried, as she made
this sacrifice to delicacy, " to sketch features which are in-
delibly engraven on my heart." As she spoke, a deep and long-
drawn sigh reached her ear. Alarmed, confounded at the idea
of being overheard, and, of course, the feelings of her heart
discovered, she started with precipitation from her seat, and
looked round her with a kind of wild confusion. But, gracious
Heavens ! who can describe the emotions of her soul when the
original of the picture so fondly sketched, so hastily oblitera-
ted, met her eye. Amazed, unable to speak, to move, almost
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 533
to breathe, she stood motionless and aghast, the pale statue of
surprise, as if she neitlier durst nor could believe the evidence ;
of her eyes. Well, indeed, might she have doubted them, for
in the pale countenance of Lord Mortimer scarce a vestige of
his former self (except in the benignancy of his looks) remained.
His faded complexion, the disorder of his hair, his mourning
habit, all heightened the sad expression of his features an ex-
pression which declared that he and happiness were never so
disunited as at the present moment. The first violence of
Amanda's feelings in a little time abated, she somewhat re-
covered the use of her faculties, and hastily snatching up her
drawings, moved with weak and trembling steps to the door,
She had nearly reached it, when the soft, the tremulous voice
of Lord Mortimer arrested her course. " You go, then. Miss
Fitzalan," cried he, "without one adieu. You go, and we
never more shall meet." The agonizing manner in which these
words were pronounced, struck a death-like chill upon the
heart of Amanda. She stopped, and turned around involun-
tarily, as if to receive that last, that sad adieu, which she was
half reproached for avoiding. Lord Mortimer approached her,
he attempted to speak, but his voice was inarticulate j a gust
of sorrow burst from his eyes, and he hastily covered his face
with a handkerchief, and walked to a window.
Amanda, unutterably affected, was unable to stand ; she
sunk upon a chair, and watched with a bursting heart the emo-
tions of Lord Mortimer. Oh I with what difficulty at this
moment did she confine herself within the cold, the rigid rules of
propriety ; with what difficulty did she prevent herself from
flying to Loi-d Mortimer ; from mingling tears with his, and
lamenting the cruel destiny which had disunited them forever.
Lord Mortimer in a few minutes was sufficiently recovered
again to approach her. " I have long wished for an opportu-
nity of seeing you," said he, " but .1 had not courage to desire
an interview. How little did I imagine this morning, when,
like a sad exile, I came to take a last farewell of a favorite
residence, that I should behold you 1 Fate, in granting this
interview, has for once befriended me. To express my horror
my remorse my anguish not only for the error a combina-
tion of events led me into concerning you, but for the conduct
that error influenced me to adopt, will, I think, a little lighten
my heart. To receive your pardon will be a sweet, a sad con-
solation ; yet," continued he, after a moment's pause, " why do
I say it will be a consolation ? Alas ! the sweetness that may
(lead you to accord it will only heighten my wretchedness at
S34
THE CiriLDREN OF THE ABBEY.
our eternal separation." Here he paused. Amanda was u^
able to speak. His words seemed to imply he was acquainted
with the injuries she had sustained through his father's means,
and slie waited in trembling expectation for an explanation of
them. " The purity of your character," exclaimed Lord Mor-
timer, " was at length fully revealed to me. Good Heaven I
under what afflicting circumstances ? by that being, to whom
you so generously made a sacrifice of what then you might
have considered your happiness." "Did Lord Cherburj',
then," said Amanda, with inexpressible eagerness, " did he
then, at last, justify me ? " " Yes," cried Lord Mortimer, " he
proved you were indeed the most excellent, the most injured
of human beings ; that you were all which my fond heart had
once believed you to be ; but oh ! what were the dreadful
emotions of that heart to know his justification came too late
to restore its peace. Once there Was a happy period, when,
after a similar error being removed, I had hoped, by a life for-
ever devoted to you, to have made some reparation, some atone-
ment, /or my involuntary injustice j but alas I no reparation,
no atonement can now be made."
Amanda wept. She raised her streaming eyes to heaven,
and again cast them to the earth.
" You weep," cried Lord Mortimer, in a tone expressive of
surprise, after surveying her some minutes in silence. " My
love, my Amanda," continued he, suddenly seizing her hand,
while he surveyed her with a most rapturous fondness, a crim-
son glow mantling his check, and a beam of wonted brilliancy
darting from his eye, " What am 1 to imagine from those tears .''
are you, then, indeed, unaltered ? "
Amanda started. She feared the emotions she betrayed
had convinced Lord Mortimer of the continuance, the unabated
strength of her affection. She felt shocked at her imprudence,
which had alone, she was convinced, tempted Lord Mortimer
to address her in such a manner. "I know not, my lord,"
cried she, "in what sense you ask whether I am unchanged ;
but of this be assured, a total alteration must have taken place
in my sentiments, if I could remain a moment longer witU a
person wh'o seems at once forgetful of what is due to his own
situation and mine." "Go, then, madam," exclaimed Lord
Mortimer, in an accent of displeasure, " and pardon my having
thus detained you pardon my involuntary offence excuse my
having disturbed your retirement, and obtruded my sorrows on
you."
"Amanda had now reached the door. Her heart recoiled. at
THE CHILDRUN OF THE ABBEY. 535
the idea o( parting in such a manner from Lord Mortimer, but
prudence bade her liasten as fast as possible from him. Yet,
slow arid lingering she pursued her way. Ere she had gone
many yards she was overtaken by Lord Mortimer, His pride
was inferior to his tenderness, which drove him to despair- at
the idea of parting in displeasure from her. " Oh ! my
Amanda," cried he, seizing her hand, and almost breathless
with emotion, " add not, by your anger, to the bitterness of this
sad hour. Since we must part, oh ! let us part in amity, as
friends that regard each other. You have not yet (if, indeed,
it is possible for you to do so) pronounced your forgiveness of
the persecutions you underwent on my account. You have not
granted your pardon for the harshness, ^ the cruelty with which
a dreadful error tempted me to treat you." " Oh I my lord,"
said Amanda, again yielding to the softness of her soul, while
tears trickled down her cheeks, " why torture me by speaking in
this manner ? How can I pronounce forgiveness when 1 never
was offended ? When wretched and deserted, I appeared to
stand upon the great theatre of life, without one hand to offer
me assistance, your ready friendship came to my relief, and
poured the balm of comfort over the sorrows of my heart I
when deprived by deceit and cruelty of your good opinion,
even then your attention and solicitude pursued my wandering
footsteps, and strove to make a path of comfort for me to take I
these, these are the obligations that never can be forgotten,
that demand, that possess, my eternal gratitude, mv ." A
warmer expression rose to her lips, but was agam buried in
her heart. She sighed, and after a pause of a minute, thus
went on :^" For your happiness, my warmest, purest prayers
are daily offered up ; oh ! may it yet be equal to your virtues ;
greater I cannot wish it."
Lord Mortimer groaned in the excruciating agony of his
soul. "Oh! Amanda," he, said, "where, where can I receive
consolation for your loss ? Never, never in the world ! " He
took her hands within his, he raised them to Heaven, as if
supplicating its choicest blessings on her head. " For my hap-
piness you pray ; ah I my love, how unavailing is the prayer ! "
" Arhanda now saw more than ever the necessity of hasten-
ing away. She gently withdrew her hands, and hurried on as
fast as her trembling limbs could carry her. Still Lord
Mortimer attended her. " Yet, Amanda," cried he, " a little
moment. Tell me," he continued, again seizing her liand, " do
not these shades remind you of departed hours "i Oh 1 what
blissful ones have we not passed beneath their foliage, that
536 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
foliage which I shall never more behold expanding to the breath
of spring."
Amanda trembled. This involuntary but sad declaration
of the loss of a seat so valued by him, overpowered her. Her
respiration grew faint, she could not support herself, and made
i. motion to sit down upon the grass, but Lord Mortimer eagerly
caught her to his bosom. She had not strength to resist the
effort, and her head reclined upon his shoulder. But who can
speak her feelings as she felt the beating heart of Mortimer,
which, from its violent palpitations, seemed as if it would burst
his bosom to find a passage to her feet. In a few minutes she
was a little recovered, and, sensible of the impropriety of her
situation, was now resolutely determined to quit Lord Morti-
mer. " We must part, my lord," cried she, disengaging herself
from his arms, notwithstanding a gentle effort he made to re-
tain her. " We must part, my lord," she repeated, " and part
forever." " Tell me, then," he exclaimed, still impeding her
course, " tell me whether I may hope to live in your remem-
brance \ whether I may hope not to be obliterated from your
memory by the happiness which will shortly surround you ?
Promise I shall at times be thought of* with your wonted,
though, alas! unavailing wishes for my happiness, and the
promise will, perhaps, afford me consolation in the solitary
exile I have doomed myself to." " Oh ! my lord," said Amanda,
unable to repress her feelings, " why do I hear you speak in
this manner ? In mentioning exile, do you not declare your in-
tentions of leaving unfulfilled the claims which situation, famil)',
and society have upon you ? Oh I my lord, you sliock shall
I say more you disappoint me ! Yes, I repeat it, disappoint
the idea I had formed of the virtue and fortitude of him, who,
as a friend, I shall ever regard. To yield thus to sorrow, to
neglect the incumbent duties of life, to abandon a woman to
)vhom so lately you plighted your solemn vows of love and pro-
tection. Oh ! my lord, what will her friends, what will Lady
Euphrasia herself say to such cruel, such unjustifiable conduct ?''
" Lady Euphrasia ! " repeated Lord Mortimer, recoiling a few
paces. " Lady Euphrasia I " he again exclaimed, in tremulous
accents, regarding Amanda with an expression of mingled horror
and wildness. " Gracious Heaven ! is it, can it be possible
you are ignorant of the circumstances which lately happened ?
Yes, your words, your looks, declare you are so."
It was now Amanda's turn to repeat his words. She de-
manded, with a wildness of countenance equal to that he just
displayed, what were the circumstances he alluded to 1
THE CHILDREN OF THE AUBE^. 537
" First tell me," cried he, " was the alteration in your man-
ner produced by your supposing me the husband of Lady Eu-
phrasia ? " " Supposing you her husband ? " repeated Amanda,
unable to answer his question in a moment of such torturing
suspense. " And are you not so ? " " No," replied Lord
Mortimer ; " I never had the misfortune to offer vows which
my heart could not ratify. Lady Euphrasia made another
choice. She was your enemy ; but I know your gentle spirit
will mourn her sad and sudden fate." He ceased, for Amanda
had no longer power to listen. She sunk, beneath surprise
and joy, into the expanded arms of her beloved Mortimer. It
is ye alone, who, like her, have stood upon the very brink of
despair who, like her, have been restored, unexpectedly re-
stored to hope, to happiness, that can form any judgment of
her feelings at the present moment. At the moment when
recovering from her insensibility, the soft accent of Lord Mor-
timer saluted her ear, and made her heart, without one censure
from propriety, respond to rapture, as he held her to his bosom.
As he gazed on her with tears of impassioned tenderness, he
repeated his question, whether the alteration in her manner
was produced alone by the supposition of his marriage ; but
he repeated it with a sweet, a happy consciousness of having
it answered according to his wishes.
" These tears, these emotions, oh ! Mortimer, what do they
declare ? " exclaimed Amanda. " Ah ! do they not say my
heart never knew a diminution of tenderness, that it never
could have forgotten you ? Yes," she continued, raising her
eyes, streaming with tears of rapture, to heaven, " I am now
recompensed for all my sufferings. Yes, in this blissful mo-
ment, I meet a full reward for them." Lord Mortimer now
led her back to the library, to give an explanation of the events
which had produced so great a reverse of situation j but it was
long ere he could sufficiently compose himself to commence
his narrative. Alternately he fell at the feet of Amanda, alter-
nately he folded her to his bosom, and asked his heart if its
present happiness was real. A thousand times he questioned
her whether she was indeed unaltered as often implored her
forgiveness for one moment doubting her constancy. Amanda
exerted her spirits to calm her own agitation, that she might be
enabled to soothe him into tranquillity. At length she suc-
ceeded, and he terminated her anxious impatience by giving
her the promised relation.
538 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY
CHAPTER LVI.
" By suffering well, our torture we subdue^
Fly wheu spe rownS| and when she calls pursue."
Overwhelmed with grief and disappointment at the sup-
posed perfidy of Amanda, Lord Mortimer had returned to
England, acquainting Lord Cherbury and Lady Martha of the
unhappy cause of his returning alone ; entreating them, in
pity to his wounded feelings, never to mention the distressing
subject before him. His dejection was unconquerable ; all his
schemes of felicity were overthrown, and the destruction of
his hopes was the destruction of his peace. It was not in
these first transports of bitter sorrow that Lord Cherbury ven-
tured to speak his wishes to his son. He waited till, by slow
degrees, he saw a greater degree of composure in his manner,
though it was a composure attended with no abatement of
melancholy. At first he only hinted those wishes hints, how-
ever, which Lord Mortimer appeared designedly insensible of.
At last the earl spoke plainer. He mentioned his deep regret
at beholding a son, whom he had ever considered the pride of
his house, and the solace of his days, wasting his youth in
wretchedness, for an ungrateful woman, who had long triumphed
in the infatuation which bound him to her. " It filled his soul
with anguish," he said, " to behold him lost to himself, his
family, and the world, thus disappointing all the hopes and ex-
pectations which the fair promise of his early youth had given
rise to in the bosom of his friends concerning the meridian of
his day."
Lord Mortimer was unutterably affected by what his father
said. The earl beheld his emotions, and blessed it as a happy
omen. His pride, as well as sensibility, he continued, were
deeply wounded at the idea of having Lord Mortimer still
considered the slave of a passion which had met so base a
return. " Oh I let not the world," added he, with increasing
energy, " triumph in your weakness ; try to shake it ofl, ere the
finger of scorn and ridicule is pointed at you as the dupe of a
deceitful woman's art."
Lord Mortimer was inexpressibly shocked. His pride had
frequently represented as weakness the regret he felt for
Amanda ; and the earl now stimulating that pride, he felt at
The c in Lb REN oi' ruE Abb by. ^39
the moment as if he could make any sacrifice which should
prove his having triumphed over his unfortunate attachment.
But when his father called on him to make such a sacrifice, by
uniting himself to Lady Euphrasia, he shrunk back, and ac-
knowledged he could not give so fatal a proof of fortitude.
He declared his total repugnance at present to any alliance.
'Time, and the efforts of reason, he trusted, would subdue his
ill-placed attachment, and enable him to comply with the wishes
of his friends.
Lord Cherbury would not, could not drop the subject next
his heart a subject so important, so infinitely interesting to
him. He exerted all his eloquence, he entreated, he implored
his son not fqrever to disappoint his wishes. He mentioned
the compliance he had so recently shown to bis, though against
his better judgment, in the useless consent he had given to his
marriage' with Miss Fitzalan.
Lord Mortimer, persecuted by his arguments, at length
declared that, was the object he pointed out for his alliance
any other than Lady Euphrasia Sutherland, he would not
perhaps be so reluctant to comply with his wishes ; but she
was a woman he could never esteem, and must consequently
forever refuse. She had given such specimens of cruelty and
deceit, in the schemes she had entered into with the mar-
chioness against (he blushed, he faltered, as he pronounced
her name) Miss Fitzalan, that his heart felt uiuilterable dislike
to her.
'J'lie earl was prepared for this j he had the barbarity to
declare, in the most unhesitating manner, he was sorry to
find him still blinded by the art of that wretched girl. He
bade him reflect on her conduct, and then consider Vlrtiethei;
any credence was to be given to her declaration of Belgrave's
being admitted to the house without her knowledge.
Lord Mortimer was startled. Her conduct, indeed, as his
father said, might well iriake him doubt her veracity. But still
the evidence of the servants ; they acknowledged having been
instruments in forwarding the scheme which she said was laid
against her. He mentioned this circumstance. The earl was
also prepared for it; the servants, he declared, had been ex-
amined in his presence, when with shame and contrition they
confessed, that seeing the strong anxiety of Lord Mortimer
for the restoration of Miss Fitzalan's fame, and tempted by
the large bribes he offered, if they could or would say anything
in her justification, they had at last made the allegation so
pldasing to him.
54
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Lord Mortimer sighed deeply. "On every side," cried
he, " I find I have been the dupe of art j but it was only the
deceit of one could agonize my soul." Still, however, he
was inexorable to all his father could say relative to Lady
Euphrasia.
Lady Martha was at last called in as an auxiliary ; she was
now as strenuous for the connection as ever Lord Cherbury
had been. A longer indulgence of Lord Mortimer's grief, she
feared, would completely undermine his health, and either
render him a burden to himself, or precipitate him to an early
grave. Whilst he continued single, she knew he would not
consider any vigorous exertions for overcoming that grief
necessary; but if once united, she was convinced, from the
rectitude and sensibility of his disposition, he would struggle
against his feelings, in order to fulfil the incumbent duties he
had imposed upon himself. Thus did she deem a union req-
uisite to rouse him to exertion ; to restore his peace, and in
all probability to save his life. She joined in her brother's
arguments and entreaties, with tears she joined in them, and
besought Mortimer to accede to their wishes. She called him
the last hope of their house. He had long, she said, been the
pride, the delight of their days ; their comfort, their existence
were interwoven in his ; if he sunk, they sunk with him.
The yielding soul of Mortimer could not resist such tender-
ness, and he gave a promise of acting as they wished. He
imagined he could not be more wretched ; but scarcely had this
promise passed his lips, ere he felt an augmentation of misery.
To enter into new engagements, to resign the sweet though
melancholy privilege of indulging his feelings, to fetter at once
both soul and body, were ideas that filled him with unutterable
anguish. A thousand times was he on the point of retracting
his regretted and reluctant promise, had not honor interposed,
and showed the inability of doing so, without an infringement
on its principles. Thus entangled, Mortimer endeavored to
collect his scattered thoughts, and in order to try and gain some
composure, he altered his former plan of acting, and mingled
as much as possible in society. He strove to fly from himself,
that by so doing he might fly from the corrosive remembrances
which embittered his life. But who shall paint his agonies at
the unexpected sight of Amanda at the Macqueens t The
exertions he had for some time before compelled himself to
make, had a little abated the pain of his feelings ; but that pain
returned with redoubled violence at her presence, and every idea
of present composure, or of future tranquillity, vanished. He
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 541
felt with regret, anguish, that she was as dear as ever to his
soul, and his destined union became more hateful than ever to
him. He tried, by recollecting her conduct, to awaken his
resentment ; but, alas ! softness, in spite of all his efiorts to the
contrary, was the predominant feeling of his soul. Her pallid
cheek, her deep dejection, seemed to say she was the child of
sorrow and repentance. To soothe that sorrow, to strengthen
that repentance, oh I how delightful unto him ; but either he
durst not do, situated as he then was.
With the utmost difficulty Lady Martha Dormer prevailed
on him to be present when she demanded the picture from
Amanda. That scene has already been described ; also his
parting one with her ; but to describe the anguish he endured
after this period is impossible. He beheld Lady Euphrasia
with a degree of horror j his faltering voice refused even to pay
her the accustomed compliments of meeting ; he loathed the
society he met at the castle, and, regardless of what would be
thought of him, regardless of health, or the bleakness of the
season, wandered for hours together in the most unfrequented
parts of the domain, the veriest son of wretchedness and
despair.
The day, the dreaded day, at length arrived which was to com-
plete his misery. The company were all assembled in the great
hall of the castle, from whence they were to proceed to the
chapel, and every moment expected the. appearance of the bride.
The marquis, surprised at her long delay, sent a messenger to
request her immediate presence, who returned in a few minutes
with a letter, which he presented to the marquis, who broke the
seal in visible ti^epidation, and found it from Lady Euphrasia.
She had taken a step, she said, which she must depend on
the kind indulgence of her parents to excuse ; a step which
nothing but a firm conviction that happiness could not be
experienced in a union with Lord Mortimer, .should .have
tempted her to. His uniform indifference had at last convinced
her that motives of the most interested nature influenced his
addresses to her ; and if her parents inquired into his, or, at
least, Lord Cherbury's conduct, they would find her assertion
true, and would, consequently, she trusted, excuse her for not
submitting to be sacrificed at the shrine of interest. In select-
ing Mr. Freelove for her choice, she had selected a man whose
addresses were not prompted by selfish views, but by a sincere
affection, which he would openly have avowed, had he not been
assured, in the present situation of affairs, it would have met with
opposition. To avoid, therefore, a, positive act of disobedience,
542 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
she had consented to a private union. To Lord Mortimer and
Lord Cherbury, she said, she deemed no apology necessary
for her conduct, as their iiearts, at least Lord Cherbury's, would
at once exculpate her, from his own consciousness of not
having acted either generously or honorably to her.
The violent transports of passion the marquis experienced
are not to be described. The marchioness hastily perused the
letter, and her feelings were not inferior in violence to his. Its
contents were soon known, and amazement sat on every coun-
tenance. But, oh ! what joy did they inspire in the soul of
Lord Mortim'er ; not a respite, or rather a full pardon to the
condemned wretch, at the very moment when preparing for
death, could have yielded more exquisite delight ; but to Lord
Cherbury, what a disappointment ! It was, indeed, a death-
stroke to his hopes. The hints in Lady Euphrasia's letter con-
cerning him plainly declared her knowledge of his conduct \ he
foresaw an immediate demand from Freelove ; foresaw the
disgrace he should experience when his inability to discharge
that demand was known. His soul was shaken in its inmost
recesses, and the excruciating anguish of his feelings was indeed
as severe a punishment as he could suffer. Pale, speechless,
aghast, the most horrid ideas took possession of his mind, yet
he sought not to repel them, for anything was preferabll to the
shame he saw awaiting him.
Lord Mortimer's indignation was excited by the aspersions
cast upon his father, aspersions he imputed entirely to the
malice of Lady Euphrasia, and which, from the character of
Lord Cherbury, he deemed it unnecessary to attempt refuting.
But alas ! what a shock did his noble, his unsuspicious nature
receive, when, in a short time after the perusal of her letter,
one from Freelove was brought him, which fully proved the
truth of her assertions. Freelove, in his little, trifling manner,
expressed his hopes that there would be no difference between
his lordship and him, for whom he expressed the most entire
friendship, on account of the fair lady who had honored him
with her regard ; declared her partiality was quite irresistible ;
and, moreover, that in love, as in war, every advantage was
allowable ; begged to trouble his lordship with his compliments
,to Lord Cherbury, and a request that everything might be
prepared to settle matters between them, on his return from his
matrimonial expedition. An immediate compliance with this
request, he was convinced, could not be in the least distressing ;
and it was absolutely essential to him, from the eclat with which
he designed Lady Euphrasia Freelove should make her bridal
Tim CHILDREN OF THE ABIiEY. 543
efltry into public. As to the report, he said, which he had
heard relative to Lord Cherbury's losing the fortune which was
intrusted to his care for him at the gaming-table, he quite
disbelieved it.
The most distressing, the most mortifj'ing sensations took
possession of Lord Mortimer at this part of the letter. It
explained the reasons of Lord Cherbury's strong anxiety for
an alliance with the Roslin family, which Lord Mortimer,
indeed, had often wondered at, and he at once pitied, con-
demned, and blushed for him. He stole a glance at his father,
and his deep, despairing look fdled him with horror. He
resolved, the first opportunity, to declare his knowledge of
the fatal secret which oppressed him, and his resolution of
making: any sacrifice whiqh could possibly remove or lessen his
inquietude.
Lord Cherbury was anxious to fly from the now hated
castle, ere further confusion overtook him. He mentioned his
intention of immediately departing an intention opposed by
the marquis, but in which he was steady, and also supported by
his son.
Everything was ready for their departure, when Lord Cher-
bury, overwhelmed by the dreadful agitation he experienced, was
seizedPwith a fit of the most violent and alarming nature. He
was carried to a chamber, and recourse was obliged to be had
to a physician, ere the restoration of his senses was effected ;
but he was then so weak that the physician declared if not kept
quiet, a return of his disorder might be expected. Lord Mor-
timer, tenderly impatient to lighten the burden on his father's
mind, dismissed the attendants as soon as he possibly could,
and then, in the most delicate terms, declared his knowledge
of his situation.
Lord Cherbury at this started up in the most violent par-
oxysm of anguish, and vowed he would never survive the dis-
cover}' of his being a villain. With difficulty could Lord
Mortimer compose him ; but it was long ere he could prevail
on him to hear what he wished to say.
Few there were, he said, who at some period of their lives,
he believed, were not led into actions which, upon reflection,
they had reason to regret. He thought not, he meant not, to
speak slightly of human nature, he only wished to prove that,
liable as we all are to frailty a frailty intended no doubt to
check the arrogance of pride and presumption, we should not
suffer the remembrance of error, when once sincerely repented
of, to plunge us into despair, particularly when, as far as in oui:
544 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
power, we meant to atone for it. Thus did Lord Mortimer
attempt to calm the dreadful conflicts of his father's mind, who
still continued to inveigh against himself.
The sale of Tudor Hall, Lord Mortimer proceeded, and
mortgages upon Lord Cherbury's estates, would enable his
father to discharge his debt to Mr. Freelove. He knew, he
said, it was tenderness to him which had prevented him ere
this from adopting such a plan ; but he besought him to let no
further consideration on his account make him delay fulfilling
immediately the claims of honor and justice. He besought
him to believe his tranquillity was more precious to him than
anything in life; that the restoration of his peace was far
more estimable to him than the possession of the most bril-
liant fortune " a possession which," continued Lord Mortimer
deeply sighing, " I am well convinced will not alone yield hap-
piness. I have long," said he, " looked with an eye of cool
indifference on the pomps, the pageantries of life. Disappointed
in my tenderest hopes and expectations, wealth, merely on my
own account, has been long valueless to me. Its loss, I make
no doubt nay, I am convinced I shall have reason to con-
sider as a blessing. It will compel me to make those exertions
which its possession would have rendered unnecessary, and by
so doing, in all probability, remove from my heart that sadness
which has so long clung about it, and enervated all its powers.
A profession lies open to receive me, which, had I been per-
mitted at a much earlier period, I should have embraced ; for
a military life was always my passion. At the post of danger,
I may perhaps have the happiness of performing services for
my country, which, while loitering supinely in the shade of
prosperity, I never could have done. Thus, my dear father,"
he continued, " you see how erroneous we are in opinions we
often form of things, since what we often consider as the bit-
terest evil leads to the most supreme good. We will, as soon
as possible, hasten everything to be prepared for Freelove, and
thus I make no doubt, disappoint the little malice of his soul.
" My aunt, my sister, are unacquainted with your uneasiness,
nor shall an intimation of it from me ever transpire to them.
Of fortune, sufficient will remain to allow, though not the splen-
dors, the comforts and elegancies of life. As for me, the
deprivation of what is considered, and falsely termed, my
accustomed indulgences, will be the most salutary and effica-
cious thing that could possibly happen to me. In short, I
believe that the realization of my plan will render me happy,
since, with truth I can assure you, its anticipation has alreadj
Tim CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 545
given more pleasure to my soul than I thought it would ever
have again enjoyed."
Lord Cherbury, overcome by the tenderness, the virtue of
his son, by the sacrifice he so willingly offered, so strenuously
insisted on making, of his paternal fortune, could not for some
minutes speak. At length the struggling emotions of his soul
found utterance.
" Oh ! Virtue," he exclaimed, while tears of love, of grati-
tude, of contrition, flowed from his eyes, and fell upon the
hand of his son, clasped within his " Oh I Virtue, I cannot
say, like Brutus, thou art but a shade ; no, here, in this invalu-
able son, thou art personified this son, whom I so cruelly
deceived, so bitterly distressed ! Oh ! gracious powers, would
not that heroic, that heaven-born disposition, which now leads
him to sign away his paternal fortune for my sake have also
led him to a still greater resignation, the sacrifice of his
Amanda, had I entrusted him with my wretched situation. Oh !
had I confided in him, what an act of baseness should I have
avoided ! What pangs, what tortures, should I liave prevented
his experiencing ! But, to save my own guilty confusion, I
drew wretchedness upon his head. I wrung every fibre of his
heart with agony, by making him believe its dearest, its most
valuable object unworthy of its regards."
Mortimer started ; he gasped he repeated, in faltering
accents, these last words. His soul seemed as if it would
burst its mortal bounds, and soar to another region to hear an
avowal of his Amanda's purity.
" Oh ! Mortimer," cried the earl, in the deep, desponding
tone of anguish, " how shall I dare to lift my eyes to thine after
the avowal of the injustice I have done one of the most amia-
ble and loveliest of human beings ? " " Oh ! tell me," cried
Mortimer, in breathless, trembling agitation, " tell me if, indeed,
she is all my fond heart once believed her to be ? In mercy,
in pity, delay not to inform me."
Slowly, in consequence of his weakness, but with all the
willingness of a contrite spirit, anxious to do justice to the
injured, did Lord Cherbury reveal all that had passed between
him and Amanda. " Poor Fitzalan," cried he, as he finished
his relation, " poor, unhappy friend ! From thy cold grave,
couldst thou have known the transactions of this world, how
must thy good and feeling spirit have reproached me for my
barbarity to thy orphan in robbing her of the only stipend thy
adverse fortune had power to leave her a pure and spotlcs3
famef"
35
546 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Lord Mortimer groaned with anguish. Every reproachful
word he had uttered to Amanda darted upon his remembrance,
and were like so many daggers to his heart. It was his father
that oppressed her. This knowledge aggravated his feelings,
but stifled his reproaches ; it was a father contrite, perhaps at
that very moment stretched upon a death-bed, therefore he
forgave him. He cast his eyes around, as if in that moment
he had hoped to behold her, have an opportunity of falling
prostrate at her feet and imploring her forgiveness. He cast
his eyes around, as if imagining he should sec her, and be
allowed to fold her to his beating heart, and ask her soft voice
to pronounce his pardon.
" Oh ! thou lovely mourner," he exclaimed to himself,
while a gush of sorrow burst from his eyes. " Oh 1 thou lovely
mourner, when I censured, reviled, upbraided you, even at that
very period your heart was suffering the most excruciating
anguish. Yes, Amanda, he who would willingly have laid down
life to yield thee peace, even he was led to aggravate thy woes.
With what gentleness, what unexampled patience didst thou
bear my reproaches ! No sudden ray of indignation for purity
so insulted, innocence so arraigned, flashed from thy eyes ; the
beams of meekness and resignation alone stole from underneath
their tearful lids.
" No sweet hope of being able to atone, no delighful idea
of being able to make reparation for my injustice, now alle-
viates the poignancy of my feelings ; since fate interposed
between us in the hour of prosperity, I cannot, in the bleak
and chilling period of adversity, seek to unite your destiny
with mine. Now almost the child of want myself, a soldier
of fortune, obliged by the sword to earn my bread, I cannot
think of leading you into difliculties and dangers greater
than you ever before experienced. Oh 1 my Amanda, may the
calm shade of security be forever thine ; thy Mortimer, thy
ever-faithful, ever-adoring Mortimer, will not, from any selfish
consideration, seek to lead thee from it. If thy loss be agon-
izing, oh ! how much more agonizing to possess but to see thee
in danger or distress. I will go, then, into new scenes of life
with only thy dear, thy sweet, and worshipped idea to cheer
and support me an idea I shall lose but with life, and which
to know I may cherish, indulge, adore, without a reproach
from reason for weakness in so doing, is a sweet and soothing
consolation."
The indivlgence of feelings such as his language expressed,
hf was pbliged to fgrego, in order \o fylfil tjie wish Jie fel^ gf
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 547
alleviating the situation of his father ; but his attention was
unable to lighten the anguish which oppressed the mind of
Lord Cherbury ; remorse for his past conduct, mortification at
being lessened in the estimation of his son, sorrow for the
injury he was compelled to do him, to be extricated from the
power of Freelove, all preyed upon his mind, and produced the
most violent agitations, and an alarming repetition of fits,
Things remained in this situation for a few days, during
which time no intelligence had been received of Euphrasia,
when one morning, as Lord Mortimer was sitting for a few
minutes with the marquis and marchioness, a servant entered
the apartment, and informed his lord that a gentleman had
just arrived at the castle, who requested to be introduced to
his presence. The marquis and marcliioncss instantly con-
cluded this was some person sent as an intercessor from Lady
Euphrasia, and they instantly admitted him, in order to have
an opportunity of assuring her ladyship, through his means, it
must be some time (if indeed at all) ere they could possibly
forgive her disrespect and disobedience. Lord Mortimer would
have retired, but was requested to stay, and complied, prompted
indeed by curiosity to hear what kind of apology or message
Lady Euphrasia had sent. A man of a most pleasing appear-
ance entered, and was received with the most frigid polite-
ness. He looked embarrassed, agitated, even distressed. He
attempted several times to speak, but the words still died away
undistinguished. At length the marchioness, yielding to the
natural impetuosity of her soul, hastily desired he would reveal
what had procured them the honor of his visit.
"A circumstance of the most unhappy nature, madam," he
replied in a hesitating voice. " I came with the hope, the ex-
pectation of being able to break it by degrees, so as not totally
to overpower ; but I find myself unequal to the distressing task.
" I fancy, sir," cried the marchioness, " both the marquis and
I are already aware of the circumstance you allude to." " Alas !
madam," said the stranger, fixing bis eyes with a mournful ear-
nestness on her face, " I cannot think so. If you were, it would
not be in human, in parent nature to appear as you now do,"
He stopped, he turned pale, he trembled, his emotions became
coulagious.
" Tell me," said the marquis, in a voice scarcely articulate,
" I beseech you, without delay, the meaning of your words."
The stranger essayed to speak, but could not j words indeed
were scarcely necessary to declare that he had something shock-
ing to reveal, His ^udjtors, like oW Nortbvmberland, mi^ht
548 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
have said, " The paleness on thy cheek is apter than thy tongue
to tell thy errand." " Something dreadful has happened to my
child," said the marchioness, forgetting in that agonizing mo-
ment all displeasure. " Alas ! madam," cried the stranger,
while a trickling tear denoted his sensibility for the sorrows he
was about giving rise to. " Alas ! madam, your fears are too
well founded ; to torture you with longer suspense would be
barbarity. Something dreadful has happened, indeed Lady
Euphrasia in this world will never more be sensible of your
kindness." A wild, a piercing, agonizing shriek burst from tiie
lips of the marchioness, as she dropped senseless from her seat.
The marquis was sinking from his, had not Lord Mortimer, who
sat by him, timely started up, and, though trembling himself with
horror, caught him in his arms. The servants were summoned,
the still insensible marchioness was carried to her chamber ; the
wretched marquis, reviving in a few minutes if that could be
called reviving, which was only a keener perception of misery
demanded, in a tone of anguish, the whole particulars of the
sad event. Yet scarcely had the stranger begun to comply with
his request, ere, with all the wild inconsistency of grief, he bade
him forbear, and, shuddering, declared he could not listen to
the dreadful particulars. But it were needless, as well as im-
possible, to describe the feelings of the wretched parents, who
in one moment beheld their hopes, their wishes, their expecta-
tions finally destroyed. Oh ! what an awful lesson did they in-
culcate of the instability of human happiness, of the insuflSciency
of rank or riches to retain it. This was one of the events which
Providence, in its infinite wisdom, makes use of to arrest the
thoughtless in their career of dissipation, and check the arro-
gance of pride and vanity. When we behold the proud, the
wealthy, the illustrious, suddenly surprised by calamity, and sink-
ing beneath its stroke, we naturally reflect on the frail tenure
of earthly possessions, and, from the reflection, consider Ivow
we may best attain that happiness which cannot change. The
human heart is in general so formed as to require something
great and striking to interest and affect it. Thus a similar mis-
fortune happening to a person in a conspicuous, and to one in
an obscure situation, would not, in all probability, equally affect
or call home the wandering thoughts to sadness and reflection.
The humble floweret, trampled to the dust, is passed with an
eye of careless indifference j but the proud oak torn from the
earth, and levelled by the storm, is viewed with wonder and
affright. The horrors of the blow which overwhelmed the
iparquis and marchioness, we^e augmented by th^ gecrpt wh}s
TITli. cmiDRJiN OF TlJk AMSV. 545
pers of conscience, that seemed to say it was a blow of retribu-
uon from a Being all righteous and all just, whose most sacred
laws they had violated, in oppressing the widow and defrauding
the orphan. Oh ! what an augmentation of misery is it to think
it merited ! Remorse, like the vengeance of Heaven, seemed
now awakened to sleep no more. No longer could they palliate
their conduct, no longer avoid retrospection a retrospection
which heightened the gloomy horrors of the future. In Lady
Euphrasia, all the hopes and affections of the marquis and mar-
chioness were centred. She alone had ever made them feel
tire tenderness of humanity, yet she was not less the darling of
their love than the idol of their pride. In her they beheld the
being who was to support the honors of their house, and trans-
mit their names to posterity. In her they beheld the being
who gave them an opportunity of gratifying the malevolent, as
well as the tender and ambitious passions of their souls. The
next heir to the marquis's title and fortune had irreconcilably
disobliged him. As a means, therefore, of disappointing him,
if on no other account, Lady Euphrasia would have been re-
garded by them. Though she had disappointed and displeased
them by her recent act of disobedience, and though they had
' deemed it essential to their consequence to display that displeas-
ure, yet they secretly resolved not long to withhold forgiveness
from her, and also to take immediate steps for ennobling
Freelovc.
For Lady Euphrasia they felt indeed a tenderness her heart
for them wiis totally a stranger to. It sceincfl, indeed, as if,
cold and indifferent to all mankind, their affections were stronger
for being confined in one channel. In the step she had taken,
Lady Euphrasia only considered the gratification of her revenge.
Freelove, as the ward of Lord Cherbury, in honor to him, had
been invited to the nuptials. He accepted the invitation, but, .
instead of accompanying, promised to follow the bridal party to
the castle. A day or two ere he intended setting out, by some
accidental chance, he got into company with the very person to
whom Lord Cherbury had lost so much, and on whose account
he had committed an action which had entailed the most excru-
ciating remorse upon him. This person was acquainted with
the whole transaction. He had promised to keep his knowledge
a secret, but the promises of the worthless are of little avail. A
slight expression, which, in a moment of anxiety, had involun-
' tarily dropped from Lord Cherbury, had stung him to the soul,
because he knew too well its justice, and inspired hin'i with the
most inveterate hatted and rancorous desire of revenge. Hig
SSI
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
unexpectedly meeting Freelove afforded him an opportunity of
gratifying both these propensities, and he scrupled not to avail
himself of it. Freelove was astonished, and, when the first
violence of astonishment was over, delighted.
To triumph over the proud soul of Lord Cherbury and his
son, was indeed an idea which afforded rapture. Both he had
ever disliked, the latter particularly. He disliked him from the
superiority which he saw in every respect he possessed over
himself. A stranger to noble emulation, he sought not, by
study or imitation, to aspire to any of those graces or perfec-
tions he beheld in Lord Mortimer. He sought alone to depre-
ciate them, and, when he found that impossible, beheld him with
greater envy and malignity than ever. To wound Lord Mortimer
through the bosom of his father, to overwhelm him with confu-
sion, by publicly displaying the error of that father, were ideas
of the most exquisite delight ideas which the wealth of worlds
would scarcely have tempted him to forego, so sweet is any
triumph, however accidental or imaginary, over a noble object,
to an envious mind, which ever hates that excellence it cannot
reach. No fear of self-interest being injured checked his pleas-
ure. The fortune of Lord Cherbury he knew sufficient to an-
swer for his violated trust. Thus had he another source of
triumph in the prospect of having those so long considered as
the proud rivals of his wealth and splendor, cast into the shade.
His pleasure, however, from this idea, was short lived, when he
reflected that Lord Mortimer's union with Lady Euphrasia would
totally exempt him from feeling any inconvenience from his
father's conduct. But could not this union be prevented ?
Freelove asked himself. He still wanted a short period of be-
ing of age, consequently had no right, at present, to demand a
settlement of his affairs from Lord Cherbury. He might, how-
ever, privately inform Lady Euphrasia of the affair so recently
communicated to him. No sooner did he conceive this scheme,
than he glowed with impatience to put it into execution. He
hastened to the marquis's, whither, indeed, the extravagant and
foppish preparations he had made for the projected nuptials
had before prevented his going, and took the first opportunity
which offered of revealing to Lady Euphrasia, as if from the
purest friendship, the conduct of Lord Cherbury, and the
derangement of his affairs.
Lady Euphrasia was at once surprised and incensed. The
reason for a union between her ancl his son being so ardently,
desired by Lord Cherbury, was now fully explained, and she be-
l^eld herself as an object addressed merely from a view of re;
Trm CHILDREN dp TtlM ASSMV. 551
pairing a fumed fortune j but this view she resolved to disap-
point. Such was the implacable nature of her disposition, that
had this disappointment occasioned the destruction of her own
peace, it would not have made her relinquish it. But this was
not tlie case. In sacrificing all ideas of a union with Lord
Mortimer to her offended pride she sacrificed no wish or incli-
nation of her soul. Lord Mortimer, though the object of her
admiration, had never been the object of her love. She was,
indeed, incapable of feeling that passion. Her admiration had,
however, long since given place to resentment, at the cool
indifference with which he regarded her. She would have
opposed a marriage with him, but for fear that he might, thus
freed, attach himself to Amanda. The moment, however, she
knew a union with her was necessary for the establishment of
his fortune, fear, with every consideration which could oppose
it, vanished before the idea of disappointing his views, and re-
taliating upon him that uneasiness he had, from wounded pride,
made her experience by his cold and unalterable behavior
to her.
She at first determined to acquaint the marquis of what she
had heard, but a little reflection made her drop this determina-
tion. He had always professed a warm regard for. Lord Cher-
bury, and she feared that regard would still lead him to insist
on the nuptials taking place. She was not long in concerting
a scheme to render such a measure impracticable, and Frcclove
she resolved to make an instrument for forwarding, or rather
executing her revenge. She hesitated not to say she had al-
ways disliked Lord Mortimer ; that, in short, there was but one
being she could ever think, ever hope to be happy with. Her
broken sentences, her looks, her affected confusion, all revealed
to Freelove that he was that object. The rapture this discovery
inspired he could not conceal. The flattering expressions of
Lady Euphrasia were repaid by the most extravagant compli-
ments, the warmest professions, the strongest assurances of
never-dying love. This soon led to what she desired, and, in
a short space, an elopement was agreed to, and everything
relative to it settled. Freelove's own servants and equipage
were at the Castle, and consequently but little difficulty atlended
the arrangement of their plan. In Lady Euphrasia's eyes
Freelove had no other value than what he now merely derived
froiii being an instrument in gratifying the haughty and revenge-
ful passions of her nature. She regarded him, indeed, with
sovereign contempt j his fortune, however, she knew would give
him consequence in the world, and she was convinced she
SS2
Tim ClitLDRMAr Of THE ABBEY.
should find him quite that easy, convenient husband which a
woman of fashion finds so necessary ; in short, she looked for-
ward to being the uncontrolled mistress of her own actions, and
without a doubt but that she should meet many objects as
deserving of her admiration, and infinitely more grateful for it,
than ever Lord Mortimer had been.
Fluslied with such a pleasing prospect, she quitted the
Castle that castle she was destined never more to see. At
the moment, the very moment, she smiled with joy and expec-
tation, the shaft, the unerring shaft, was raised against her
breast.
The marriage ceremony over, they hastened to the vicinity
cf the Castle, in order to send an apologizing letter, as usual
0.1 such occasions. The night was dark and dreary, the road
ru'^ged and dangerous ; the postilions ventured to say it would
be better to halt for the night, but this was opposed by Lady
Euphrasia. They were within a few miles of the destined ter-
min ition of their journey, and, pursuant to her commands, they
proceeded. In a few minutes after this, the horses, startled by
a su Iden light which gleamed across the path, began plunging
in th i most alarming manner. A frightful precipice lay on one
side, and the horses, in spite of all the efforts of the postilions,
conti lued to approacli it. Freelove, in this dreadful moment,
lost P.11 consideration but for himself ; he burst open the chariot
door, and leaped into the road. His companion was unable to
folloA/ his example; slie had fainted at tlie first intimation of
dangir. The postilions with difficulty dismounted. The other
servniUs came to llieir assistance, and endeavored lo restrain
the horses ; every clt'ort was useless, tiiey broke from their hold,
and iilunged down the precipice. The servants had heard the
chariot-door open ; they therefore concluded, for it was too dark
to s e, that both their master and Lady Euphrasia were safe.
But who can describe their horror, when a loud shriek from him
decl ired her situation ? Some of them immediately hastened,
as fi St as their trembling limbs could carry them, to the house
adjc ining the road, from whence the fatal light had gleamed
whi' ;h caused the sad catastrophe. They revealed it in a few
woi ds, and implored immediate assistance. The master of the
house was a man of the greatest humanity. He was inex-
pr;ssibly shocked at what he had heard, and joined himself in
gi/ing the assistance that was desired. With lanterns they
proceeded down a winding path cut in the precipice, and soon
iiscovered the objects of their search. The horses were already
dead the chariot was shattered to pieces. They took up some
fitji: dtiiLbkEN op tM aAbUy. t,%%
of the fragments, and discovered beneath them the lifeless body
of the unfortunate Lady Euphrasia. The stranger burst into
tears at the sight of so much horror ; and, in a voice scarcely
audible, gave orders for her being conveyed to his house. But
when a better light gave a more perfect view of the mangled
remains, all acknowledged that, since so fatal an accident had
befallen her. Heaven was merciful in taking a life whose con-
tinuance would have made her endure the most excruciating
tortures.
Freelove was now inquired for. He had fainted on the road,
but in a few minutes after he was brought in, recovered his
senses, and the first use he made of them was to inquire whether
he was dead or alive. Upon receiving the comfortable assur-
ance of the latter, he congratulated himself, in a manner so
warm, upon his escape, as plainly proved self was his whole
and sole consideration. No great preparations, on account of
his feelings, were requisite to inform him of the fate of Lady
Euphrasia. He shook his head on hearing it ; said it was what
he already guessed, from the devilish plunge of the horses ;
declared it was a most unfortunate affair, and expressed a kind
of terror at what the marquis might say to it, as if he could
have been accused of being accessory to it.
Mr. Murray, the gentleman whose house had received him,
offered to undertake the distressing task of breaking the affair
to Lady Euphrasia's family, an offer Freelove gladly accepted,
declaring he felt himself too much disordered in mind and body
to be able to give any directions relative to what was necessary
to be done.
How Mr. Murray executed his task is already known ; but
it was long ere the emotions of the marquis would suffer him
to say he wished the remains of Lady Euphrasia to be brought
to the Castle, that all the honors due to her birth should be,
paid them. This was accordingly done ; and the Castle, so
lately ornamented for her nuptials, was hung with black, and
all the pageantries of death.
The marquis and marchioness confined themselves, in the
deepest anguish, to their apartments ; their domestics, filled
with terror and amazement, glided about like pale spectres, and
all was a scene of solemnity and sadness. Every moment Lord
Mortimer could spare from his father he devoted to the marquis.
Lady Euphrasia had ever been an object of indifference, nay,
of dislike to him ; but the manner of her death, notwithstanding,
shocked him to the soul : his dislike was forgotten ; he thought
of her only with pity and compassion, and the tears he mingled
554 "^^^^ cmLbREN OF THE. AtiBEY.
with the marquis were the tears of unfeigned sympathy and
regret.
Lady Martha and Lady Araminta were equally attentive to
the marchioness ; the time not spent with Lord Cherbury was
devoted to her. They used not unavailing arguments to
conquer a grief which nature, as her rightful tribute, demands ;
but they soothed that grief by showing they sincerely mourned
its source.
Lord Cherbury had but short intervals of reason ; those
intervals were employed by Lord Mortimer in trying to compose
his mind ; and by him in blessing his son for those endeavors,
and congratulating himself on the prospect of approaching
dissolution. His words unutterably affected Lord Mortimer;
he had reason to believe they were dictated by a prophetic
spirit; and tlie dismal peal which rung from morning till night
for Lady Euphrasia sounded in his car as the knell of his
expiring father.
' Things were in this situation in the Castle when Oscar and
his friend Sir Charles Bingley arrived at it, and, without send-
ing in their names, requested immediate permission to the
marquis's presence, upon business of importance. Their
request was complied with, from an idea that they came from
Freelove, to whom the marquis and marchioness, from respect
and affection to the memory of their daughter, had determined
to pay every attention.
The marquis knew, and was personally known to Sir
Charles ; he was infinitely surprised by his appearance, but how
much was that surprise increased when Sir Charles, taking
Oscar by the hand, presented him to the marquis as the son of
Lady Fitzalan, the rightful heir of the Earl of Dunreath ! The
marquis was confounded ; he trembled at these words ; and his
confusion, had such a testimony been wanting, would have been
sufficient to prove his guilt. He at last, though with a faltering
voice, desired to know by what means Sir Charles could justify
or support his assertion.
Sir Charles, for Oscar was too much agitated lo speak, as
briefly as possible related all the particulars which had led to
the discovery of the earl's will ; and his friend, he added, with
the generosity of a noble mind, wished as much as possible to
spare the feelings and save the honor of those with whom he
was connected ; a wish, which nothing but a hesitation in com-
plying with his just and well-supported claim could destroy.
The marquis's agitation increased ; already was he stripped
of happiness, and he now saw himself on the point of beMg
TttE CmLDRMM OP TtiU ABlStV. 5^5
Stripped of honor. An hour before he had imagihed his
wretchedness could not be augmented ; he was now convinced
human misery cannot be complete without the loss of reputa-
tion. In the idea of being esteemed, of being thought undeserving
our misfortunes, there is a sweet, a secret balm, which meliorates
the greatest sorrow. Of riches, in his own right, the marquis
ever possessed more than suflicicnt for all his expenses : those
expenses would now, comparatively speaking, be reduced with-
in very narrow bounds ; for the vain pride which had led him
to delight in pomp and ostentation died with Lady Euphrasia.
Since, therefore, of his fortune such a superabundance would
remain, it was unnecessary as well as unjust to detain what he
had no pretensions to ; but he feared tamely acquiescing tO
this unexpected claim,- would be to acknowledge himself a
villain. 'Tis true, indeed, that his newly-felt remorse had in-
spired him with a wish of making reparation for his past in-
justice, but falser shame starting up, hitherto opposed it ; and
even now, when an opportunity offered of accomplishing his
wish, still continued to oppose it, lest the scorn and contempt
he dreaded should at length be his portion for his long in-
justice.
Irresolute how to act, he sat for some time silent and em-
barrassed, till at last, recollecting his manner was probably
betraying what he wished to conceal, namely, the knowledge
of the will, he said, with some sternness, " That, till he in-
spected into the affair so recently laid before him, he could
not, rior was it to be expected he should, say how he would
act; an inspection which, under present melancholy circum-
stances, he could not possibly make for some time. Had Mn
Fitzalan," he added, "possessed in reality that generosity
Sir Charles's partiality ascribed to him, he would not, at a
period so distressing, have appeared to make such a claim.
To delicacy and sensibility the privileges of grief were ever
held sacred. Those privileges they had both violated. They
had intruded on his sorrows ; they had even insulted him by
appearing on such a business before him, ere the last rites were
paid to his lamented child." Sir Charles and Oscar were in-
expressibly shocked. Both were totally ignorant of the recent
event.
Oscar, as he recovered from the surprise the marquis's
words had given him, declared, in the impassioned language
^5^ THE CITILDREN OP TtlE AB^EV.
him to intrude upon tiiem. He mourned, he respected theirt }
he besought hini to believe him sincere in what he uttered."
A tear, an involuntary tear, as he spoke, starting into his eye,
and trickling down his cheek, denoted his sincerity. The
marquis's heart smote him as he beheld this tear ; it reproached
him more than the keenest words could have done, and operated
more in Oscar's favor than any arguments, however eloquent.
" Had this young man," thought he, " been really illiberal
when I reproached him for want o sensibility, how well might
he have relalialecl upon me my more flagrant want of justice
and humanity ; but no, he sees 1 am a son of sorrow, and he
will not break the reed which Heaven has already smitten."
Tears gushed from his eyes. He involuntarily extended his
hand to Oscar. " I see," said he, " I see, indeed, I have un-
justly arraigned you ; but I will endeavor to atone for my error.
At present, rest satisfied with an assurance, that whatever is
equitable shall be done ; and that, let events turn out as they
may, I shall ever feel myself your friend." Oscar again ex-
pressed his regret for having waited on him at such a period,
and requested he would dismiss for the present the subject
they had been talking of from his mind. The marquis, still
more pleased with his manner, desired his direction, and as-
sured him he should hear from him sooner than he expected.
As soon as they retired, his agitation decreased, and, of
course, he was better qualified to consider how he should act.
That restitution his conscience prompted, but his false ideas
of sluimo hud prcvcntcil, he now found he should be compelled
to make ; how to make it, therefore, so as to avoid total dis-
grace, was what he considered. At last he adopted a scheme,
which the sensibility of Oscar, he flattered himself, would en-
able him to accomplish. This was to declare, that by the
Earl of Dunreath's will, Mr. Fitzalan was heir to his estates, in
case of the death of Lady Euphrasia ; that in consequence,
therefore, of this event, he had come to take possession of them ;
that Lady Dunreath (whose residence at Dunreath Abbey he
could not now hope to conceal) was but lately returned from a
convent in France, where for many years she had resided.. To
Oscar he intended saying, from her ill conduct he : and the
marchioness had been tempted to sequester her from the
world, in order to save her from open shame and derision ; and
that her declaration of a will they had always believed the
mere fabrication of her brain, in order, as he supposed, to give
them uneasiness. This scheme once formed, his heart felt a
little relieved of the heavy burden of fear and inquietude. He
Tim CITILDREN OF THE AH HEY. 557
repaired to the marchioness's apartment, and broke the affair
gently to her, adding, at the same time, that, sensible as they
must now be of the vanities and pursuits of human life, it was
time for them to endeavor to make their peace with Heaven.
Affliction had taught penitence to the marchioness, as well as
her husband. She approved of his scheme, and thought, with
him, that the sooner their intention of making restitution was
known the greater would be the probability of its being accom-
plished. Oscar, therefore, the next day received a letter from
the marquis, specifying at once his wishes. With those wishes
Oscar generously complied. His noble soul was superior to a
triumph over a fallen enemy ; and he had always wished rather
to save frpm, than expose the marquis to disgrace. He hastened
as soon as possible to the castle, agreeably to a request con-
tained in the letter, to assure the marquis his conduct through-
out the whole affair would be regulated according to his desire.
Perhaps, at this moment, public contempt could not have
humbled the marquis more than such generosity, when he drew
a comparison between himself and the person he had so long
injured. The striking contrast wounded his very soul, and he
groaned at the degradation he suffered in his own eyes. He
told Oscar, as soon as the last sad duties were performed to his
daughter, he would settle everything with him, and then perhaps
be able to introduce him to the marchioness. He desired he
might take up his residence in the Castle, and expressed a wish
that he would attend the funeral of Lady Euphrasia as one of
the chief mourners. Oscar declined the former, but promised,
with a faltering voice, to comply with the latter request. , He
then retired, and the marquis, who had been roused from the
indulgence of his grief by a wish of preserving his character,
again relapsed into its wretchedness. He desired Oscar to
to make no secret of his now being heir to the Earl of Dunreath,
and said he would mention it himself in his family. Through
this medium, therefore, did this surprising intelligence reach
Lord Mortimer, and his heart dilated with sudden joy at the
idea of his Amanda and her brother at last enjoying indepen-
dence and prosperity.
In a few hours after this the sufferings of Lord Cherbury were
terminated. His last faltering accents pronounced blessings on
bis son. Oh ! how sweet were those blessings I How different
were the feelings of Lord Mortimer from the callous sons of
dissipation, who seem to watch with impatience the last strug-
gles of a parent, that they may have more extensive means of
gratifying thejr inordinate desires, The feelings of Lord Mor- '
558 THE CniLWiEJV OF THE ABBEY.
imer were soothed by reflecting^ he had done everything in
his power for restoring the tranquillity of his father, and his
regret was lessened by the conviction that Lord Cherbury,
after the discovery of his conduct, could never more in this
life have experienced happiness. He therefore, with tender
piety, resigned him to his God ; humbly trusting that his peni-
tence had atoned for his frailties, and insured him felicity.
He now bade adieu to the Castle and its wretched owners,
and accompanied Lady Martha and his sister to Thornbury,
at which the burying-place of the family lay. Here he con-
tinned till the remains of his father arrived, and were interred.
He then proceeded to London to put into execution the plan he
had projected for his father. He immediately advertised the
Tudor estate. A step of this kind could not be concealed
from Lady Martha ; but the mortgages on the other estates
he resolved carefully to guard from her knowledge, lest
suspicions prejudicial to the memory of his father should
arise in her mind. But, during this period, the idea of
Amanda was not absent from his soul. Neither grief not
business could banish it a moment ; and, again, a thousand
fond and flattering hopes concerning her had revived, when a
sudden blow dispersed them all, and plunged him, if possible,
into greater wretchedness than he had ever before experienced.
He heard it confidently reported that the Earl of Dunreath's
sister (for Oscar by this time had claimed, and been allowed to
take the title of his grandfather) was to be married to Sir
Charles Bingley. The friendship which he knew subsisted
between the earl and Sir Charles rendered this too probable.
But if a doubt concerning it still lingered in his mind, it was
destroyed when Sir Charles waited on him to treat about the
purchase of Tudor Hall ; it instantly occurred to him that this
purchase was made by the desire of Amanda. Unable to com-
mand his feelings, he referred Sir Charles to his agent, and
abruptly retired. He called her cruel and ungrateful. After
all his sufferings on her account, did he deserve so soon to be
banished from her remembrance so soon supplanted in her
affections by another by one, too, who never had, who
never would have, an opportunity of giving such proofs as
he had done of constancy and love. She is lost, then he sighed ;
she is lost forever I Oh ! what avails the vindication of
ler fame ? Is it not an augumentation of my misery ? Oh !
my father, of what a treasure did you despoil me ! But let mg
not disturb the sacred ashes of the dead rest, rest in peace,
thoii veierab}f fiutjior of my being ! ^nd may th? invpl^nt^ry
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 559
expression of heart-rending anguish be forgiven ! Amanda,
then, he continued, after a pause, will indeed be mistress of
Tudor Hall ; but never will a sigh for him who once was its
owner heave her bosom. She will wander beneath those shades
where so often she has heard my vows of unalterable love
vows which, alas 1 my heart has loo fully observed and listen
to similar ones from Sir Charles : well, this is the last stroke
fate can level at my peace.
Lord Mortimer (or, as in future we must style him. Lord
Cherbiiry) had indeed imagined that the affections of Amanda,
like his own, were unalterable ; lie had therefore indulged the
rapturous idea, that, by again seeking an union with her, she
should promote the happiness of both. It is true he knew she
would possess a fortune infinitely superior to what he had now
a right to expect ; but after the proofs he had given of dis-
interested attachment, not only she, but the world, he was con-
vinced, would acquit him of any selfish motives in the renewal
of his addresses. His hopes destroyed his prospect blasted
by what he had heard, he resolved, as soon as affairs were
settled, to go abroad. The death of his father had rendered
his entering the army unnecessary, and his spirits were too
much broken, his health too much impaired, for him voluntarily
now to embrace that destiny.
On the purchase of Tudor Hall being completed by Sir
Charles, it was necessary for Lord Cherbury to see his steward.
He preferred going to sending for him, prompted indeed by a
melancholy wish of paying a last visit to Tudor Hall, endeared
to his heart by a thousand fond remembrances. On his arrival
he took up his abode at the steward's for a day or two. After
a strict injunction to him of concealing his being there, it was
after a ramble through every spot about the demesne wliicli he
had ever trodden with Amand.a, that he repaired to the library
and discovered her. He was ignorant of her being in the
country. Oh ! then, how great was her surprise how ex-
quisite his emotions, at seeing her in such unexpected circum-
stances !
I shall not atfempt to go over the scene I have already
tried to describe ; suffice it to sa)', that the desire she betrayed
of hastening from him he imputed to the alteration of hen
sentiments with respect to him and Sir Charles. When
undeceived in this respect, his rapture was as great as ever
it had before been at the idea of her love, and, like Amanda,
h? de;lare4 his suffering was now amply rewarded,
560 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
CHAPTER LVII.
^*No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love 30 true ;
The sigh th;4t rencU thy conatuut heart,
Shall break thy lovor'ti too."
" But, my love," cried Lord Cherbury, as he wiped away the
tears which pity and horror at the fate of Lady Euphrasia had
caused Amanda to shed, " will your brother, think you, sanction
our happiness ? Will he, who might aspire so high for a sister
thus at once possessed of beauty and fortune, bestow her on
one whose title may now almost be considered an empty one ? "
" Oh I do not wrong his noble nature by such a doubt," ex-
claimed Amanda. "Yes, with pride, with pleasure, with delight,
will he bestow his sister upon the esteemed, the beloved of her
heart ; upon hiin, who, unwarpcd by narrow prejudice or self-
ish interest, sought her in the low shade of obscurity, to lay,
all friendless and forlorn as she was, his fortune at her feet.
Could he indeed be ungrateful to such kindness, could he
attempt to influence me to another choice, my heart would at
once repulse the effort, and avow its fixed determination ; but
he is incapable of such conduct ; my Oscar is all that is gener-
ous and feeling : need I say more, than that a spirit congenial
to yours animates his breast."
Lord Cherbury clasped her to his heart. " Dearest, loveliest
of human beings," he exclaimed, " shall I at length call you
mine ? After all ipy sorrows, my difficulties, shall I indeed
receive so precious a reward 'i Oh ! wonder not, my Amanda, if I
doubt the reality of so sudden a reverse of situation ; I feel as
if under the influence of a happy dream ; but, good Heaven I
^ dream from which I never wish to be awakened."
Amanda now recollected that if she stayed much longer
from the cottage she would have some one coming in quest of
her. She informed Lord Cherbury of this, and rose to depart ;
but he would not suffer her to depart alone, neither did she
desire it. The nurse and her daughter Betsey were in the
cottage at her return to it. To describe the surprise of the
former at the appearance of Lord Cherbury is impossible
a surprise mingled with indignation, at the idea of his falsehood
to her darling child ; but wlicn undeceived in that respect,
ber transports were of VlC most extravagant nature.
rirn. citildken of the abbey. 561
" Well, she thanked Heaven," she said, " sheshould now see
her dear child hold up her head again, and look as hand-
some as ever. Ay, she had always doubted," she said, " that
his lortship was not one of the false-hearted men she had
so often heard her old grandmother talk of." "My good
nurse," said Lord Cl^erbury, smiling, " you will then give me
your dear child with all your heart ? " " Ay, that I will, my
lort," she replied, " and this very moment too, if I could."
" Well," cried Amanda, " his lordship will be satisfied at present
with getting his dinner from you." She then desired the things
to be brought to the little arbor, already described at the begin-
ning of this book, and proceeded to it with Lord Cherbury.
Tlie mention of dinner threw nurse and her daughter into
universal commotion.
" Good lack ! how unfortunate it was she had nothing hot
or nice to lay pefore his lortship ! How could she think he
could dine upon cold lamb and salad I Well, this was all Miss
Amanda's fault, who would never let her do as she wished."
With the utmost difliculty she was persuaded he could dine
upon these things. The cloth was laid upon the flowery turf,
beneath the spreading branches of the arbor. I'he delicacies
of the dairy were added to their repast, and Betsey provided a
dessert of new filberts.
Never had Lord Cherbury partaken of so delicious a meal
never had he and Amanda experienced such happiness. The
pleasure, the tenderness of their souls, beamed in expressive
glances from their eyes, and they were now more convinced
than ever that the humble scenes of life were best calculated
for the promotion of felicity. 'Lord Cherbury felt more recon-
ciled than he had been before to the diminution of his fortune ;
he yet retained sufficient for the comforts, and many of the
elegancies of life. The splendor he lost was insignificant in
his eyes ; his present situation proved happiness could be en-
joyed without it, and he knew it was equally disregarded by
Amanda. He asked himself,
" What was the world to them
Its pomps, its pleasures, and its nonsense all,
Who in each other clasp, whatever fair
High fancy forms, or lavish hearts can wish ? "
All nature looked gay and smiling around him. He inhaled the
balmy breath of opening flowers, and through the verdant canopy
be sat beneath, he saw the bright azure of the heavens, and felt
the benignant intluence of the sun, whose potent beams height-
ened to glowing luxuriance the beauties of the surrounding land-
562 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
scape. He expressed his feelings to Amanda ; he heard her
declare the similarity of hers ; heard her with all the sweet
enthusiasm of a refined and animated mind, expatiate on the
lovely scene around them. Oh ! what tender remembrances
did it awaken, and what delightful plans of felicity did they
sketch I Lord Cherbury would hear frgm Amanda all she had
suffered since their separation j and could his love and esteem
have been increased, her patient endurance of the sorrows she re-
lated would have increased them. They did not leave the garden
till a dusky hue had overspread the landscape. Oh I with what
emotions did Amanda watch the setting sun, whose rising beams
she had beheld with eyes obscured by tears of sorrow 1 As they
sat at tea in the room, she could not avoid noticing the altera-
tion in the nurse's dress who attended. She had put on all her
holiday finery ; and, to evince her wish of amusing her guests,
had sent for the blind harper, whom she stationed outside the
cottage. His music drew a number of the neighboring cottagers
about him, and they would soon have led up a dance in the
vale, had not the nurse prevented them, lest they should disturb
her guests. Lord Cherbury, however, insisted on their being
gratified, and, sending for his servant, ordered him to provide
refreshments for them, and to reward the harper. He would
not leave Amanda till he had her permission to come early
next morning, as soon as he could hope to see her. Accordingly
the first voice she heard on rising was his chatting to the nurse.
We may believe she did not spend many minutes at her toilet.
The neat simplicity of her dress never required she should do
so, and in a very short time she joined him. They walked out
till breakfast was ready.
" Together trod the morning dews, and gathered
In their prime freslt blooming sweets."
Amanda, in hourly expectation of her brother's arrival,
wished, ere he came, to inform the inhabitants of the cottage
of the alteration of his fortune. This, with the assistance of
Lord Cherbury, she took an opportunity of doing in the course
of the day to the nurse. Had she been sole relator, she feared
she should have been overwhelmed with questions. Joy and
wonder were excited in an extreme degree by this relation, and
nothing but the nurse's hurry and impatience to communicate
it to her family, could have prevented her from asking again
and again a repetition of it.
Lord Cherbury now, as. on the foregoing day, dined with
Amanda. Her expectations relative to the speedy arrival of
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 563
her brother were not disappointed. While sitting after dinner
with Lord Cherbury in the garden, the nurse, half breathless,
came running to tell them that a superb coach and four, which
to be sure must be my Lort Dunreath's, was coming down the
road.
Lord Cherbury colored with emotion. Amanda did not
wish he and her brother should meet, till she had explained
everything relative to him. By her desire he retired to the
valley, to which a winding path from the garden descended,
whilst she hurried to the cottage to receive and welcome her
beloved brother. Their meeting was at once tender and affect--
ing. The faithful Edwins surrounded Oscar with delight and ,
rapture, pouring forth, in their simple style, congratulations on
his happy fortune, and their wishes for his long enjoying it,
He thanked thcin with a starting tear of sensibility. He assured
them that their attentions to his dear sister, his lamented
parents, his infant years, entitled them to a lasting gratitude.
As soon as he and Amanda could disengage themselves from
the good creatures, without wounding their feelings, they retired
to her room, where Oscar related, as we have already done, all
that passed between him and the Marquis of Roslin,
As soon as the funeral of Lady Euphrasia was over, the
marquis settled everything with him, arid put him into formal
possession of Dunreath Abbey. By the marquis's desire, he
then waited upon Lady Dunreath, to inform her she was at
liberty, and to request she would not contradict the assertion
of having been abroad. Mrs. Bruce had previously informed
her of the revolution of affairs. " I own," continued Oscar,
" from the cruelty to my mother, and the depravity of her con-
duct, I was strongly prejudiced against her, attributing, I
acknowledge, her doing justice to us, in some degree, to her
resentment against the marquis ; but the moment I entered
her apartment this prejudice vanished, giving place to the softer
emotions of pity and tenderness, while a thorough conviction
of her sincere repentance broke upon my soul. Though pre-,
pared to see a form reduced by affliction and confinement, I was
not by any means prepared to see a form so emaciated, so
death-like a faint motion of her head, as I entered, alone
proved her existence. Had the world been given me to do so,
I think I could not have broken a silence so awful. At length,
she spoke, and in language that pierced my heart, implored my
forgiveness for the sufferings she had caused me to endure.
Repeatedly I assured her of it ; but this rather heightened than
diminished her agitation, and tears and sobs spoke the anguish
564 '^''IJ^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
of her soul. ' I have lived,' she cried, ' to justify the ways of
Providence to men, and prove that, however calamity may
oppress the virtuous, they or their descendants shall at last
flourish. I have lived to see my contrite wish accomplished,
and the last summons will now be a welcome release.' She
expressed an ardent desire to see her daughter. ' The pitying
tears of a mother,' she exclaimed, ' may be as balm to her
wounded heart. Oh I my prophetic words, how often have I
prayed that the punishment I then denounced against her might
be averted ! '
" I signified her desire," continued Oscar, " to the marquis.
I found the marchioness at first reluctant to it, from a secret
dread, I suppose, of seeing an object so injured ; but she at
last consented, and I was requested to bring Lady Dunreath
from the Abbey, and conduct her to the marchioness's room.
I will not attempt to describe the scene which passed between
alTection on the one hand, and penitence on the other. The
marchioness indeed seemed truly penitent : remorse and horror
were visible in her countenance, as she gazed upon her injured
parent. I begged Lady Dunreath, if agreeable to her, still to
consider the Abbey as her residence. This, however, she
declined, and it was determined she should continue with her
daughter. Her last moments may, perhaps, be soothed by
closing in the presence of her child ; but till then, I think, her
wretchedness nmst be aggravated by beholding that of the
marquis and his wife. Theirs is that situation where comfort
can neither be offered nor suggested hopeless and incurable
is their sorrow for, to use the beautiful and emphatic words of
a late celebrated writer, ' The gates of death are shut upon their
prospects.' "
Amanda now, after a little hesitation, proceeded to inform
Oscar of her real situation, and entreated him to believe that
she never would have had a concealment from him, but for the
fear of giving him uneasiness. He folded her to his bosom as
she ceased speaidng, declaring he rejoiced and congratulated
her on having found an object so well qualified to make her
happy.
" But where is this dear creature ? " cried Oscar, with some
gayety ; " am I to search for him, like a favorite sylph, in your
bouquet ; or, with more probability of success, seek him amongst
the shades of the garden ? Come," said he, " your looks confess
our search will not be troublesome." He led her to the garden.
Lord Cherbury, who had lingered near it, saw them approaching.
Amanda motioned him to meet them. He sprang forward, and
firit chjLbREN 6^ fiiii Abbey. 5^5
Was instantly introduced by her to Lord ]3unreath. The recep-
tion he itiet was the most flattering proof he could receive of
his Amanda's affections ; for what but the most animated ex-
pressions in his favor could have made Lord Dunreath, at the
first introduction, address him with all the fervency of friendship ?
Extremes of joy and sorrow are difficult to describe. I shall,
therefore, as perfectly conscious of my inability to do justice to
the scene which followed this introduction, pass it over in
silence. Lord Dunreath had ordered his equipage and attend-
ants to the village inn, where he himself intended to lodge.
But this was prevented by Lord Cherbury, who informed him
he could be accommodated at his steward's. It was here, when
they had retired for the night, that, I^ord Cherbury having in-
timated his wishes for an immediate union with Amanda, all
the ndcessary preliminaries were talked over and adjusted; and
it was agreed that the marriage should take place at the cottage,
from whence they should immediately proceed to Lady Martha's,
and that to procure a license; they should both depart the next
morning. At breakfast, therefore, Amanda was apprised of
their plan, and though the glow of modesty overspread her face,
she did not with affectation object to it.
With greater expedition than Amanda expected, the travel-
lers returned Qoni the journey they had been obliged to take,
and at their earnest and united request, without any affectation
of modesty, though with its real feelings, Amanda consented
that the marriage should take place tlie day ))ut one after their
return. Howel was sent for, and informed of the hour his ser-
vices would be required. His mild eyes evinced to Amanda
his sincere joy at the termination of her sorrows.
On the destined morning. Lord Dunreath and his friend
went over to the cottage, and in a few minutes w?re joined by
Amanda, the perfect model of innocence and beauty. She
looked, indeed, the child of sweet simplicity, arrayed with the
unstudied elegance of a village maid ; she had no ornaments
but those which could never decay, namely, modesty and
meekness.
Language was inadequate to express the feelings of Lord
Cherbury. His fine eyes alone could do them justice alone
reveal what miglit be the sacred triumph of his soul at gaining
such a woman. A .soft shade of melancholy stole over the fine ,
features of Lord Dunreath, as he witnessed the liappiness of
Lord Cherbury j for as his liappiness, so might his own have
been, but for the blackest perfidy.
As Lord Cherbury took the trembling hand of Amanda, to
^66 'THE. CHILDREN Ofi tuM ABBMV.
lead her from the cottage, she gave a farewell sigh to a plac6
where, it might be said, her happiness had commenced and was
fcompleted. They walked to the church, followed by the nurse
and her family. Some kind hand had strewed Lady Malyina's
grave with the gayest flowers, and when Amanda reached it she
jDaused involuntarily for a moment, to invoke the spirits of her
parents to bless her union.
Ilowel was already in the church, waiting to receive them,
and the ceremony was begun without delay. With the truest
pleasure did Lord Dunreath give his lovely sister to Lord Cher-
bury, and with the liveliest transport did he receive her as the
choicest gift Heaven could bestow. Tears of sweet sensibility
fell from Amanda, as Lord Cherbury folded her to his bosom
as his own Amanda. Nor was he less affected; joy of tha
most rapturous kind agitated his whole soul at the completion
of an event so earnestly desired, but so long despaired of. He
wiped away her tears, and, when she had received the congrat-
ulations of her brother, presented her to the rest of the lil;tle
group. Their delight, particularly the nurse's, was almost too
great for expression.
" Well," she said, sobbing, " thank Cot her wish was fulfilled.
It had been her prayer, night, noon, and morn, to see the taughter
of her tear, tear Captain Filzalan greatly married." Poor Ellen
wept " Well, now she should be happy," she said, " since she
knew her tear young laty was so." Amanda, affected by the
artless testimonies of affection she received, could only smile
upon the faithful creatures.
Lord Cherbury, seeing her unable to speak, took her hand,
and said " Lord Cherbury never would forget the obligations
conferred upon Miss Fitzalan." Bridal favors and presents
had already been distributed among the Edwins. Howel was
handsomely complimented on the occasion, and received some
valuable presents from Lord Cherbury, as proofs of his sin-
cere friendship ; also money to distribute among the indigent
villagers. His lordship then handed Amanda into his coach,
already prepared for its journey to Thornbury, and the little
bridal party were followed by the most ardent blessings. After
proceeding a quarter of a mile, they reached Tudor Hall.
" I wish, my lord," cried Oscar, as they were driving round
the wood, " you would permit me to stop and view the Hall,
and also accompany me to it." Lord Cherbury looked a little
embarrassed. He felt a strong reluctance to visit it, when no
bngor his, yet he could not think of refusing the carl. Amanda
knew his feelings, and wished her brother had not made such
THE cmLHREN Off TttE ABBEY. 567
a request. No opposition, however, being shown tO it, they
stopped at the great gate which opened into the avenue, and
alighted. This was a long, beautiful walk, cut through the
wood, and in a direct line with the house. On either side were
little grassy banks, now covered with a profusion of gay flow-
ers, and a thick row of trees, which, waving tlieir old fantastic
branches on high, formed a most delightful shade. Honey-
suckles twined around many of the trunks, forming in some
places luxuriant canopies, and with a variety of aromatic shrubs
quite perfumed the air. It was yet an early hour ; the dew, there-
foire, still sparkled upon the grass, and everything looked in the
highest verdure. Through vistas in the wood, a fine clear river
was seen, along whose sides beautiful green slopes were stretched,
scattered over with flocks, that spread their swelling treasures
to the sun. The birds sung sweetly in the embowering recesses
of the woods, and so calm, so lovely did the place apjjear, that
Lord Cherbury could not refrain a sigh for its loss. " How
delighted," cried he, casting his fine eyes around, should I have
been still to have cherished those old trees, beneath whose ,
shades some of my happiest hours were passed." They entered
the hall, whose folding door they found open. It was large
and gothic ; a row of arched windows were on either side, whose
recesses were filled with myrtles, roses, and geraniums, which
emitted a delicious perfume, and, contrasted with the white walls,
gave an appearance of the greatest gaycty to the place.
Oscar led the way to a spacious parlor at the end of the
hall. But how impossible to describe tlie surprise and pleasure
of Lord and Lady Cherbury, on entering it, at beholding Lady
Martha and Lady Araminta Dormer ! Lord Cherbury stood
transfixed like a statue. The caresses of his aunt and his
sister, which were shared between him and his bride, restored
him to animation j but while he returned Ihcni, he cast his eyes
upon Oscar, and demanded an explanation of the scene. " I
shall give no explanation, my lord," cried Oscar, " till you
welcome your friends to your house."
" My house I " repeated Lord Cherbury, staring at him.
Lord Dunreath approached. Never had he appeared so en-
gaging. The benignant expression his countenance assumed ,
was such as we may suppose an angel sent from heaven, on
benevolent purposes to man, would wear.
" Excuse me, my dear Cherbury," said he, " for suffering
you to feel any uneasiness which I could remove. I only did
so from an idea of increasing your pleasure hereafter. In
Scotland I was informed of your predilection for my sister by
568 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
Lady Greystock, whom, I fancy, you have both some reason to
remember, in consequence of which, on seeing Tudor Hall
advertised, I begged Sir Charles Bingley to purchase it for me,
in his own name, from a presentiment I had, that the event I
now rejoice at would take place ; and from my wish of having
a nuptial present for my sister worthy of her acceptance. Let
me," continued he, taking a hand of each and joining them
together, " let me, in this respected mansion, and in the dear
presence of those you love, again wish you a continuance of
every blessing. May this seat, as heretofore, be the scene of
domestic happiness ; may it ever be a pleasing abode to the
prosperous, and an asylum of comfort to the afflicted."
Lord Cherbury's heart was too full for words. He turned
aside to wipe away his starting tears. At last, though in a
broken voice, he said, " I cannot speak my feelings." " Pain
me not," cried Oscar, " by attempting to do so. From this
moment forget that Tudor Hall was ever out of your posses-
sion ; or, if you must remember it, think it restored to you
with an encumbrance, which half the fashionable men in Eng-
land would give an estate to get rid of, and this will conquer
/our too refined feelings."
Lord Cherbury smiled as he looked at the lovely encum-
brance which Oscar alluded to. " And what shall I say to my
brother?" cried Amanda, throwing herself into his arms.
"Why, that you will compose your spirits, and endeavor to
give a proper welcome to your friends." He presented her to
Lady Martha and Lady Araminta, who again embraced and
congratulated her. He then led her to the head of the break-
fast table, which was elegantly laid out. The timid bride was
assisted in doing the honors by her brother and Lord Cher-
bury. Lady Martha beheld the youthful pair with the
truest delight. Never had she before seen two, from equal
merit and loveliness, so justly formed to make each other
happy ; never had she seen either to such advantage. The
beautiful coloring of health and modesty tinged the soft cheeks
of Amanda, and her eyes, througli their long lashes, emitted
mild beams of pleasure ; its brightest glow mantled the cheeks
of Lord Cherbury, and his eyes were again illumined with all
their wonted radiancy.
Oscar was requested to tell particularly how he had ar-
ranged his plan ; which he accordingly did. He had written to
the ladies at Thornbury, informing them of his scheme, and re-
questing their presence, and on the preceding night they had
arrived at the Hall. Lord Dunreath also added, that from a
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 569
certainty of its being agreeable to Lord Cherburj', he had
directed the steward to reinstate the old servants in their former
stations, and also to invite the tenants to a nuptial feast. Lord
Cherbury assured him he had done what was truly grateful to
his feelings. A ramble about the garden and shrubberies was
proposed, and agreed to, after breakfast. In the hall and
avenue the servants and tenants were already assembled. Lord
Cherbury went among them all, and the grateful joy they ex-
pressed at having him again for a master and a landlord deeply
affected his feelings. He thanked them for their regard, and
received their congratulations on his present happiness with
hat sweetness and affability which ever distinguished his man-
Jiers. The ramble was delightful. When the sun had attained
its meridian, they sought the cool sliade, and retired to little,
romantic arbors, ovcr-canopicd with woodbines, where, as if by
he hand of enchantment, they found refreshments laid out
They did not return to the house till they received a summons
to dinner, and had then the pleasure of seeing the tenants seated
It long tables in the wood, enjoying with unbounded mirth the
profusion with which they were covered, and Lord Cherbury
oegged Amanda to observe her nurse seated at the head of one
jf these tables, with an air of the greatest self-importance.
The pride and vanity of this good woman (and she always pos-
sessed a large share of both) had been considerably increased
o-om the time her cottage was honored with such noble guests.
When she received an invitation from the steward to accompany
ihe rest of the tenants to the Hall to celebrate its restoration
'o Lord Cherbury, her joy and exultation knew no bounds ; she
look care to walk with the wives of some of the most respect-
able tenants, describing to tiiem all that had passed at the cere-
mony, and how the earl had first fallen in love with his bride
at her cottage, and what trials they liad undergone, no toubt, to
prove their constancy. " Cot pless their hearts," she said to
her eager auditors ; " she could tell them of such tangers and
tifficulties, and tribulations, as would surprise the very souls
in their poties. Well, well, it is now her tear child's turn to
hold up her head with the highest in the land, and to pe sure
she might now say, without telling a lie, that her tear latyship
would now make somepoty of herself, and, please Cot, she
hoped and pelieved, she would not tisgrace or tisparage a petter
situation." When she came near the countess, she took care
to press forward for a gracious look ; but this was not all ;
she had always envied the consequence of Mrs. Abergwilly in
having so great a house as the Hall entirely under her manage-
57
THE CHILD kEM OF THE ABBEV.
ment, and she now determined, upon the strength of her favor
with Lady Cherbury, to having something to say to it, and, of
course, increase her consequence among her neighbors. Tliere
was nothing on eartli she so much delighted in as bustle, and
the present scene was quite adapted to her taste, for all within
and without the house was joyous confusion. The first speci-
men she gave of her intention was, in helping to distribute re-
freshments among the tenants ; she then proceeded to the
dinner-parlor, to give her opinion, and assistance, and direction
about laying out the table. Mrs. Abergwilly, like the gener-
ality of those accustomed to absolute power, could not lamely
submit to any innovation on it. She curbed her resentment,
however, and civilly told Mrs. Edwin she wanted no assistance ;
" thank Cot," she said, " she was not come to this time of tay
without peing able give proper tirections about laying out a
table." Mrs. Edwin said, "To be sure Mrs. Abergwilly might
have a very pretty taste, but then another person might have
as good a one." The day was intensely hot; she pinned back
her gown, which was a rich silk that had belonged to Lady
Malvina, and, without further ceremony, began altering the
dishes, saying, she knew the taste of her tear laty, the countess,
better that any one else, and that she would take an early op-
portunity of going dnough the apartments, and telling Mrs.
Abergwilly how to arrange the furniture.
The Welsh blood of the housekeeper could bear no more,
and she began abusing Mrs. Edwin, though in terms scarcely
articulate, to which she replied with interest. In the midst of
this fracas, old Edwin entered. " For the love of Cot," he
asked, " and the mercy of Heaven, could they choose no other
time or tay than the present to pegin to fight, and scold, and
abuse each other like a couple of Welsh witches ? What would
the noble earl and the countess say ? Oh, Lord ! oh, Lord I
he felt himself blushing all over for their misdemeanors." His
remonstrance had an immediate effect ; they were both ashamed
of their conduct ; their rage abated ; they became friends, and
Mrs. Edwin resigned the direction of the dinner-table to Mrs.
Abergwilly, satisfied with being allowed to preside among the
tenants.
The bridal party found Howel in the dining parlor, and his
company increased their pleasure. After dinner the rustics
commenced dancing in the avenue, to the strains of the harp,
and afforded a delightful scene of innocent gayety to their
benevolent entertainers, who smiled to see
ThU CttlLDR&N OF THE AblsEV. 571
" The dancing pair that simply sought renown
By holding out to tire each other down :
The bashful virgin's side- long looks of love,
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove."
After tea the party went out amongst them, and the gentle-
men, for a short lime, mingled in the dance. Long it could not
detain Lord Cherbury from his Amanda. Oh I with what ecstasy
did he listen to the soft accents of her voice, while his fond
heart assured him she was now his ! The remembrance of past
difficulties but increased his present felicity. In the course of
the week all the neighboring families came to pay their con-
gratulations at Tudor Hall ; invitations were given and received,
and it again became the seat of pleasure and hospitality ; but
Amanda did not suffer the possession of happiness to obliterate
one grateful remembrance from her mind. She was not one of
those selfish beings, who, on being what is termed settled for
life, immediately contract themselves within the narrow sphere
of their own enjoyments ; still was her heart as sensible as ever
to tlie glow of friendship and compassion. She wrote to all the
friends she had ever received kindness from, in terms of the
warmest gratitude, and her letters were accompanied by presents
sufficiently valuable to prove her sincerity. She sent an invi-
tation to Emily Rushbrook, which was immediately accepted.
And now a discovery took place which infinitely surprisecl and
pleased Amanda, namely, that Howel was the young clergyman
Emily was attached to. He had gone to London on a visit to
the gentleman who patronized him, Her youth, her simplicity,
above all, her distress, affected his heart ; and in the hope of
mitigating that distress (which he was shocked to see had been
aggravated by the ladies she came to), he had followed her.
To soothe the wretched, to relieve the distressed, was not con-
sidered more a duty than a pleasure by Howel. And the little
favors he conferrecl upon the Rushbrooks afforded, if possible,
more pleasure to him than they did to them ; so sweet are the
feelings of benevolence and virtue. But compassion was not
long the sole motive of his interest in their affairs the amiable
manners, the gentle conversation of Emily, completely subdued
his unfortunate passion for Amanda, and, in stealing her image
from his heart she hnplajilcd her own in its place. He de-
scribed, in a romantic manner, the' little rural cottage he invited '
her to share ; he anticipated the happy period when it should
become an asylum to her parents j when he, like a second
father, should assist their children through the devious paths
of life. These fond hopes and expectations vanished the mo-
572
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
ment he received Mrs. Connel's letter. He could not think of
sacrificing the interest of Rushbrook to the consideration of his
own happiness, and therefore generously, but with the most
agonizing conflicts, resigned his Emily to a more prosperous
, rival. His joy at finding her disengaged, still his own unaltered
Emily, can better be conceived than described. He pointed
out the little sheltered cottage which again he hoped she would
share, and blessed, with her, the hand that had opened her
father's prison gates. Lord and Lady Cherbury were delighted
to think they could contribute to the felicity of two such amia-
ble beings ; and the latter wrote to Captain and Mrs. Rushbrook
on the subject, who immediately replied to her letter, declaring
that their fondest wish would be gratified in bestowing their
daughter on Howel. They were accordingly invited to the Hafl,
and in the same spot where a month before he ratified the vows
of Lord Cherbury and Amanda, did Howel plight his own to
jilmily, who from the hand of Lady Cherbury received a nuptial
present sufficient to procure every enjoyment her humble and
unassuming spirit aspired to. Her parents, after passing a few
days in her cottage, departed, rejoicing at the happiness of their
beloved child, and truly grateful to those who had contributed
to it.
And now did the grateful children of Fitzalan amply reward
the Edwins for their past kindnesses to their parents and them-
selves. An annual stipend was settled on Edwin by Lord Diui-
reath, and the possessions of Ellen were enlarged by Amanda.
Now was realized every scheme of domestic happiness siie had
ever formed ; but even that happiness could not alleviate her
feelings on Oscar's account, whose faded cheek, whose languid
, eye, whose total abstraction in the midst of company, evidently
proved the state of his heart ; and the tear of regret, which had
so often fallen for her own sorrows, was now shed for his. He
had written to Mrs. Marlowe a particular account of everything
which had befajlea him since their separation. She answered
his letter immediately, and, after congratulating him in the
warmest terms on the- change in his situation, informed him that
Adela was then at one of Belgrave's seats in England, and that
he was gone to the continent. Her style was melancholy, and
she concluded her letter in these words : " No longer, my dear
Oscar, is my fireside enlivened by gayety or friendship ; sad and
solitary I sit within my cottage till my heart sickens at the re-
membrance of past scenes, and if I wander from it, the objects
without, if possible, add to the bitterness of that remembrance.
The closed windows, the grass-grown paths, the dejected ser-
THE CHILDRElSr OF 77IE ABBEY. 573
vants of Woodlawn, all recall to my mind those hours when it
was the mansion of hospitality and pleasure. I often linger by
the grave of the general ; my tears fall upon it, and I think of
that period when, like him, I shall drop into it. But my last
hours wiil not close like his ; no tender child will bend over my
pillow, to catch my last sigh; to soothe my last pang. In vain
my closing eyes will look for the pious drops of nature, or of
friendship. Unfriended I shall die, with the sad consciousness
of doing so through my own means ; but I shall not be quite
unmourned. You, and my Adela, the sweet daughter of my
care, will regret the being whose affection, whose sympathy for
you both, can only be obliterated with life."
CHAPTER LVIII.
"The modest virtues mingled in her eyes.
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the opening flowers .
Or when she thought
Of what her faithless fortune promised once,
They, like the dewy star
Of evening, shone m tears.*' Thomson.
Adela, on the death of her father, was taken by Belgrave
to England, though the only pleasure he experienced in re-
moving her was derived from the idea of wounding her feelings,
by separating her from Mrs. Marlowe, whom he knew she was
tenderly attached to. Fr9m his connections in London, she
was compelled to mix in society compelled, I say, for the nat-
ur.1l gayety of her soul was quite gone, and that solitude, which
permitted her to brood over the reineinbrance of past days,
was the only happiness she was capable of enjoying. When
the terrors of Belgrave drove him from the kingdom, he had
her removed to Woodhouse, to which, it may be remembered,
he had once brought Amanda, and from which the imperious
woman who then ruled was removed ; but the principal domestic
was equally harsh and insolent in her manner, and to her care
the unfortunate Adela was consigned, with strict orders that she
should not be allowed to receive any company, or correspond
with any being. Accustomed from her earliest youth to the
greatest tenderness, this severity plunged her in the deepest
despondency, and life was a burden she would gladly have
resigned. Her melancholy, or rather her patient sweetness, at
574
THE CHILD REN OF THE ABBEY.
least softened the flinty nature of her governante, and she was
permitted to extend her walks beyond the gardens, to which
they had hitherto been confined ; but she availed herself of this
permission only to visit the church-yard belonging to the hamlet,
whose old yew-trees she had often seen waving from the windows.
Beneath their solemn gloom she loved to sit, while evening
closed around her ; and in a spot sequestered from every human
eye, weep over the recollection of that father she had lost, that
friend she was separated from. She remained in the church-yard
one night beyond her usual hour, The soft beams of the moon
alone prevented her from being involved in darkness, and the
plaintive breathings of a flute from the hamlet just stole upon
her ear. Lost in sadness, her head resting upon her hand, she
forgot the progress of time, v^hen suddenly she behold a form
rising from a neighboring grave. She started up, screamed, but
had no ppwer to move. Tlie form advanced to her. It was
the figure of a venerable man, who gently exclaimed, " He not
afraid ! " His voice dissipated Ihe involuntary fears of Adela :
but still she trembled so much she could not move. " I
thought," cried he, gazing on her, " this place had been alone
the haunt of wretchedness and me." "If sacred to sorrow,"
exclaimed Adela, " I well may claim the privilege of entering it."
.Slie spoke involuntarily, and her words seemed to affect the
stranger deeply. " So young," said he ; " it is melancholy,
indeed ; but still the sorrows of youth are more bearable than
those of age, because, like age it has not outlived the fond ties,
the sweet connections of life." " Alas ! " cried Adela unable to
repress her feelings, " I am separated from all I regarded." The
stranger leaned pensively against a tree for a few minutes, and
then again addressed her : " 'Tis a late hour," said he ; " suf-
fer me to conduct you home, and also permit me to ask if I
may see you here to-morrow night ? Your youth, your manner,
your dejection, all interest me deeply. The sorrows of youth
are often increased by imagination. You will say that nothing
can exceed its pains ; 'tis true, but it is a weakness to yield to
them a weakness which, from a sensible mind, will be eradi-
cated the moment it hears of the real calamities of life. Such
' a relation I can give you if you meet me to-morrow night in this
sad, this solitary spot a spot I have visited every closing even-
ing, without ever before meeting a being in it."
His venerable looks, his gentle, his pathetic manner, affected
Adela inexpressibly. She gazed on him with emotions some-
what similar to those with which she used to contemplate the
mild features of her father. " I will meet you," cried she, " but
THE .CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 575
my sorrows are not imaginary." She refused to let him attend
her home ; and in this incident there was something affecting
and romantic, which soothed and engrossed the mind. She
was punctual the next evening to the appointed hour. The
stranger was already in the church-yard. He seated her at the
head of the grave from which she had seen him rise the preceed-
ing night, and wliich was only distinguished from the others by
a few flowering shrubs planted round it, and began his promised
narrative. He had not proceeded far ere Adcla began to
tremble with emotion as lie continued it increased. At last,
suddenly catching his hand with wildness, she exclaimed, " She
lives the wife so bitterly lamented still lives, a solitary mourner
for your sake. Oh, never I never did she injure you as you
suppose. Oh, dear, inestimable Mrs. Marlowe, what happiness
to the child of your care, to think that through her means you
will regain the being you have so tenderly regretted regain
him with a heart open to receive you." The deep convulsive
sobs of her companion now pierced her ear. For many minutes
he was unable to speak at last, raising his eyes, " Oh, Provi-
dence ! I thank Thee," he exclaimed ; " again shall my arms
fold to my heart its best beloved object. Oh, my Fanny, how
have I injured thee ! Learn from me," he continued, turning
to Adela, " oh ! learn from me never to yield to rashness. Had
I allowed myself lime to inquire into the particulars of my
wife's conduct ; had I resisted, instead of obeying, the violence
of passion, what years of lingering misery should I have saved
us both I But tell me where I shall find my solitary mourner,
as you call her .' " Adela gave him the desired information,
and also told him her own situation. " The wife of Belgrave 1 "
he repeated ; " then I wonder not," continued he, as if involun-
tarily, " at your sorrows." It was, indeed, to Howel, the un-
fortunate father of Juliana, the regretted husband of Mrs. Mar-
lowe, that Adela had been addressing herself. He checked
himself, however, and told her that the being, by whose grave
they sat, had been hurried, through the villany of Belgrave, to
that grave. Adela told him of the prohibition against her writing ;
but at the same time assured him, ere the following night, she
would find an opportunity of writing a letter, which he should
bring to Mrs. Marlowe, who by its contents would be prepared
for his appearance, as it was to be sent in to her. But Adela
was prevented from putting her intention into execution by an
event as solemn as unexpected.
The ensuing morning she was disturbed from her sleep by a
violent noise in the house, as of people running backwards and
5y6 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
forwards in eonfusion and distress. She was hurrying on her
clothes to go and inquire into the occasion of it, when a servant
rushed into the room, and in a liasty manner told her that
Colonel Belgrave was dead. Struck with horror and amaze-
ment, Adela stood petrified, gazing on her. The maid repealed
her words, and added that he had died abroad, and his
remains were brought over lo Woodhouse for interment, attended
by a French gentleman, who looked like a priest. The various
emotions which assailed the heart of Adela at this moment were
too much for her weak frame, and she would have fallen to the
floor but for the maid. It was some time ere she recovered her
sensibility, and when she did regain it, she was still so agitated
as to be unable to give those directions, which the domestics, who
now looked up to her in a light very different from they had
hitherto done, demanded from her. All she could desire was
that the steward should pay every respect and attention to the
gentleman who had attended the remains of his master, and have
every honor that was due shown to those remains. To suppose
she regretted Belgrave would be unnatural ; but she felt horror,
mingled with a degree of pity, for his untimely fate at the
idea of his dying abroad, without one connection, one friend
near him. His last moments were indeed more wretched than
she could conceive. Overwhelmed witli terror and grief, he
had quitted England terror at the supposition of a crime
which in reality he had not committed, and crief for the fate of
Amanda. He sought to lose his horrors in inebrietv ; but this,
joined to the agitations of his mind, brought on a violent fever
by the time he had landed at CJalais, in the pnrojcv.sms of which,
had the attendants understood his language, thev would have
been shocked at the crimes he revealed. His senses were re-
stored a short time before he died : but what excruciating
anguish, as well as horror, did he suffer from their restoration !
He knew from his own feelings, as well as from the looks of his
attendants, that his last moments were approaching : and the
recollection of past actions made him shudder at those moments.
Oh, Howel ! now were you amply avenpred for all the pangs he
made you suffer. Now did the pale image of your shrouded
Juliana seem to stand beside his bed reproaching his barbarity.
Every treacherous action now rose to view, and, trembling, he
groaned with terror at the spectres which a guilty conscience
raised around him. Death would have been a release, could
he have considered it an'annihilation of all existence ; but that
future world he had always derided, that world was opening in
all its awful horrors to .his view. Already he saw him.self be-
THE CHILDREN OF THJE ABBEY. jy;
tore its sacred Judge, surrounded by the accusing spirits of
those he had injured. He desired a clergyman to be brought
to him. A priest was sent for. Their faiths were different, but
still, as a man of God, Belgrave applied to him for an allevia-
tion of his tortures. The priest was superstitious, and ere he
tried to comfort he wished to convert ; but scarcely had he
commenced the attempt ere the wretched being before him
clasped his hands together, in a strong convulsion, and expired.
The English servant who attended Belgrave informed the peo-
ple of the hotel of his rank and fortune, and the priest offered
to accompany his remains to England. He was, by the direc-
tion of Adela, who had not resolution to see him, amply re-
warded for his attention : and in two days after their arriva at
Woodhouse, the remains of Belgrave were consigned to their
kindred earth. From a sequestered corner of the church-yard
Howel witnessed his interment. When all had departed, he
approached the grave of his daughter " He is gone ! " he ex-
claimed ; " my Juliana, your betrayer is gone ; At the tribunal
of his God he now answers for his cruelty to you. But, oh I
may he find mercy from that God ; may He pardon him, as in
this solemn moment I have done my enmity lives not beyond
the grave."
Adela now sent for Howel ; and, after their first emotions
had subsided, informed him she meant immediately to return
to Ireland. The expectation of her doing so had alone pre-
vented his going before. They accordingly commenced their
journey the ensuing day, and in less than a week reached the
dear and destined spot 'so interesting to both. They had pre-
viously settled on the manner in which the discovery should be
revealed to Mrs. Marlowe, and Adela went alone into her cot-
tage. Sad and solitary, as Mrs. Marlowe said in her letter to
Oscar, did Adela find her in her parlor ; but it was a sadness
which vanished the moment she beheld her. With all the ten-
derness of a mother she clasped Adela to her breast, and, in
the sudden transports of joy and surprise, for many minutes
did not notice her dress ; but when she did observe it, what
powerful emotions did it excite in her breast ! Adela, scarcely
less agitated than she was, could not for many minutes relate
all that had happened. At last the idea of the state in which
she had left Howel made her endeavor to compose herself.
Mrs. Marlowe wept while she related her sufferings ; but when
she mentioned Howel, surprise suspended her tears a surprise,
increased when she began the story ; but when she came to
that part where she herself had betrayed such emotion while
37
578 I'^JE CHILDREN OF THE ABllEV.
listening to Howel, Mrs. Marlowe started and turned pale.
" Your feelings are similar to mine," said Adela ; " at this period
I became agitated. Yes," she continued, " it was at this period
I laid my trembling hand on his, and exclaimed, she lives ! "
" Merciful Heaven 1 " cried Mrs. Marlowe, " what do you
mean ? " " Oh, let me now," cried Adela, clasping her arms
round her, " repeat to you the same expression. He lives !
that husband, so beloved and regretted, lives ! " " Oh, bring
him, to me I " said Mrs. Marlowe, in a faint voice ; " let me be-
hold him while I have reason myself to enjoy the blessing."
Adela flew from the room. Howel was near the door. He
approached, he entered the room, he tottered forward, and in
one moment was at the feet and in the arms of his wife, who,
transfixed to the chair, could only open her arms to receive
him. The mingled pain and pleasure of such a reunion, can-
not be described. Both, with tears of grateful transport, blessed
the Power which had given such comfort to their closing days.
" But, my children," exclaimed Mrs. Marlowe, suddenly, " ah !
when shall I behold my children ? Why did not they accom-
pany you ? Ah 1 did they deem me then unworthy of bestowing
a mother's bleasing ? " Howel trembled and turned pale. " I
see," said Mrs. Marlowe, interpreting his emotion, " I am a
wife, but not a mother." Howel, recovering his fortitude, took
her hand and pressed it to his bosom. " Yes," he replied,
" you are a mother ; one dear, one amiable child remains.
Heaven be praised I " He paused, and a tear fell to the mem-
ory of Juliana. " But Heaven," he resumed, " has taken the
other to its eternal rest. Inquire not concerning her at present,
I entreat ; soon will I conduct you to the grave ; there will I
relate her fate, and together will we mourn it. Then shall the
tears that never yet bedewed her grave, the precious tears of a
mother, embalm her sacred dust." Mrs. Marlowe wept, but
she complied with her husband's request. She inquired, in a
broken voice, about her son, and the knowledge of his happi-
ness gradually cheered her mind.
Adela consented to stay that night in the cottage ; but the
next day she determined on going to Woodlawn. To think
she should again wander through it, again linger in the walks
she had trodden with those she loved, gave to her mind a mel-
ancholy pleasure. The next morning, attended by her friend,
she repaired to it, and was inexpressibly affected by reviewing
scenes endeared by the tender remembrance of happier hours.
The house, from its closed windows, appeared quite neglected
and melancholy, as if pleasure had forsaken it with the poor de-
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 579
parted general. Standard, his favorite horse, grazed in the
lawn ; and beside him, as if a secret sympathy endeared them
to each other, stood the dog that had always attended the
general in his walks. It instantly recollected Adela, and run-
ning to her licked her hand, and evinced the utmost joy. She
patted him on the head, while her tears burst forth at the idea
of him who had been his master. The transports of the old
domestics, particularly of the gray-headed butler, at her unex-
pected return, increased her tears. But when she entered the
parlor, in which her father usually sat, she was quite overcome,
and motioning with her hand for her friends not to mind her,
she retired to the garden. There was a little romantic root-
house at the termination of it, where she and Oscar had passed
many happy hours together. Thither she repaired, and his idea,
thus revived in her mind, did not lessen its dejection. While
she sat within it indulging her sorrow, her eye caught some
lines inscribed on one of its windows. She hastily arose, and
examining them, instantly recollected the hand of Oscar. They
were as follows :
" Adieu, sweet girl, a last adieu t
We part to meet no more ;
Adieu to peace, to hope, to yon,
And to my native shore.
" If fortune had propitious smiled,
My love had made me blest ;
But she, like me, is Sorrow's child.
By sadness dire opprest.
" I go to India's sultry clime.
Oh I never to return ;
Beneath some lone embowering lime
Will be thy soldier's urn.
" No kindred spirit there shall weep.
Or, pensive musing stray ;
My image thou alone wilt Iceep,
And Grief's soft tribute pay."
Oscar, previous to his going to England, with the expecta-
tion of being sent to the West Indies, had paid a secret visit to,
Woodlawn, to review and bid adieu to every well-known and
beloved spot, and had, one morning at early day, inscribed
these lines on a window in the root-house, prompted by a ten- ,
der melancholy he could not resist.
" His love is then unfortunate," said Adela, pensively, lean-
ing her head upon her hand. " Oh, Oscar ! how sad a simili-'
jSo TJflE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY.
, tilde is there between your fate and mine 1 " Slie returned to
the house. Mr. and Mrs. Howel (for so we shall in future call
Mr. and Mrs. Marlowe, that name being only assumed while
her husband had a prospect of inheriting his uncle's fortune)
had consented to stay some time with her. Oscar's lines ran
in her head the whole day ; and in the evening she again stole
out to read them.
She had been absent some time, when Mrs. Howel came
out to her. Adela blushed and started at being caught at the
window. " 'Tis a long time, my dear Adela," said Mrs. Howel,
"since we had a ramble in this delightful garden together.
Indulge me in taking one, and let us talk of past times."
" Past times," cried Adela, with a faint smile, " are not always
the pleasantest to talk about." " There are some, at least one
friend," .cried Mrs. Howel, " whom you have not yet inquired
^fter." Adela's heart suddenly palpitated ; she guessed who
that one friend was. " Oscar Fitzalan, surely," continued Mrs.
Howe}, "merits an inquiry. I have good news to tell you of
him ; therefore, without chiding you for any seeming neglect, I
will reveal it." She accordingly related his late reverse of sit-
uation. Adela heard her with deep attention. " Since fortune,
then, is propitious at last," cried she, " his love will no longer
be unfortunate." " 'Tis time, indeed," said Mrs. Howel, look-
ing at her with pleasure, " that love, so pure, so constant as
his, should be rewarded. Oh I Adela," she continued, suddenly
taking her hand, " sweet daughter of my care, how great is my
happiness at this moment, to think of that about to be your
portion." " My happiness ! " exclaimed Adela in a dejected
voice. " Yes," replied Mrs. Howel, " in your union with a man
every way worthy of possessing you ; a man who, from the first
moment he beheld you, has never ceased to love in short, with
Oscar Fitzalan himself." " Impossible ! " cried Adela, trem-
bling with emotion as she spoke. " Did not how humiliating
is the remembrance did not Oscar Fitzalan reject me, when
the too generous and romantic spirit of my beloved father
offered my hand to his acceptance .' " " For once," said Mrs.
Howel, " I must disturb the sacred ashes of the dead to pre.
vent the innocent from being unhappy. Oh ! Adela, you wera
cruelly deceived : and the moment which gave you to Belgrave,
rendered Oscar the most wretched of mankind. My heart was
the repository of all his griefs, and how many are the bittei
tears I have shed over them ! Be composed," continued she,
seeing Adela's agitation, " and a few moments will explain
everything to you." She then led her back to the root-hoK**,
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 581
^nd in a most explicit manner informed her of Bclgrave's
treachery. Adela burst into tears as she concluded. She wept
on Mrs. Howel's bosom, and acknowledged she had removed a
weight of uneasiness from her mind. " Poor Oscar I " she con- .
tinued, " how much would the knowledge of his misery have
aggravated mine ! " " He acted nobly," said Mrs. Howel, " in
concealing it ; and amply will he be rewarded for such con-
duct." She then proceeded to inform Adela that she soon ex-
pected a visit from him. . There was something in her look and
manner which instantly excited the suspicion of Adela, who,
blushing, starting, trembling, exclaimed " He is already
come ! " Mrs. Howel smiled, and a tear fell from her upon
the soft hand of Adela. " He is already come," she repeated,
" and he waits, oh ! how impatiently, to behold his Adela."
We may believe his patience was not put to a much longer
test. But when Adela in reality beheld him as she entered the
parlor where she had left Mr. Howel, and where he waited for
the reappearance of her friend, she sunk beneath her emotion,
upon that faithful bosom which had so long suffered the most
excruciating pangs on her account ; and it was many minutes
ere she was sensible of the soft voice of Oscar. Oh I who shall
paint his transports, after all his sufferings, to be thus rewarded I
But in the midst of his happiness, the idea of the poor general,
who had so generously planned it, struck upon his heart with a
pang of sorrow. " Oh, my Adela ! " he cried, clasping her
to his heart, as if doubly endeared by the remembrance, " is
Oscar at last permitted to pour forth the fulness of his soul
before you, to reveal its tenderness, to indulge the hope of
calling you his a hope which affords the delightful prospect
of being able to contribute to your felicity ? " " Yes, most
generous of friends ! " he exclaimed, raising his eyes to a pic-
ture of the general, " I will endeavor to evince my gratitude
to you by my conduct to your child." Oh ! how did the tear
he shed to the memory of her father interest the heart of
Adela ! her own fell with it, and she felt that the presence of
that being to whom they were consecrated was alone wanting
to complete their happiness. It was long ere she was sufficiently
composed to inquire the reason of Oscar's sudden appearance,
and still longer ere he could inform her. Mrs. Marlowe's
melancholy letter, he at last said, had brought him over,
with the hope of being able to cheer her solitude, and also,
he acknowledged, his own dejection, by mutual sympathy;
from her cottage he had been directed to Woodlawn, and at
Woodlawn received particulars, not only of her happiness, but
582 fHE CItlLDREM OP THE ABBEY.
his own. Adela, who had never yet deviated from propriety,
would not now infringe it, and resolutely determined, till the
expiration of her mourning, not to bestow her hand on Oscar ;
.but permitted him to hope, that in the intervening space, most
of his time might be devoted to her. It was necessary, how-
ever, to sanction that hope by having proper society. She
could not flatter herself with much longer retaining Mr. and
Mrs. Howel, as the latter particulairly was impatient to behold
her son. Oscar therefore requested, and obtained permission
from Adela, to write in her name to Lord and Lady Cherbury,
and entreat their company at Woodlawn, promising she would
then accompany them to Castle Carberry, and from thence to
Dunreath Abbey, a tour which, previous to Oscar's leaving
Wales, had been agreed on. The invitation was accepted, and
in a few days Oscar beheld the two beings most valued by him
in the world introduced to each other. Tears of rapture started
to his eyes, as he saw his Adela folded to the bosom of his
lovely sister, who called her the sweet restorer of her brother's
happiness ! Lord Cherbury was already acquainted with her,
and, next to his Amanda, considered her the loveliest of human
beings ; and Lady Martha and Lady Araminta, who were also
invited to Woodrawn, regarded her in the same light. A few
days after their arrival Mrs. Howel prepared for her departure.
Adela, who considered her as a second mother, could not
behold those preparations without tears of real regret. " Oh,
my Adela I " she exclaimed, " these tears flatter, yet distress
me. I am pleased to think the child of my care regards me
with such alfection, but I am hurt to think she should consider
my loss such an affliction. Oh, my child ! may the endearments
of the friends who surround you steal from you all painful re-
membrances ! nature calls me from you ; I sigh to behold my
child ; I sigh," she continued, with eyes suffused in tears, " to
behold the precious earth which holds another."
About three weeks after her departure the whole party pro-
ceeded to Castle Carberry. Amanda could not re-enter it with-
out emotions of the most painful nature. She recollected the
moment in which she had quitted it, oppressed with sorrow and
sickness, and to attend the closing period of a father's life.
She wept, sighed to think, that the happiness he had prayed
for he could not behold. Lord Cherbury saw her emotions, and
soothed them with the softest tenderness ; it was due to that
tenderness to conquer her dejection, and in future the remem-
brance of her father was only attended with a pleasing melan-
choly. She did not delay visiting the convent. The good-
THE cmLDRE^f OP THE ABBEY. 583
natured nuns crowded around her, and cried, laughed, and
wished her joy, almost in the same moment ; particularly Sister
Mary. The prioress's pleasure was of a less violent, but
more affecting nature. An almost constant scene of gayety was
kept up at the Castle, a gayety, however, which did not prevent
Lord and Lady Cherbury from inspecting into the situation of
their poor tenants, whose wants they relieved, whose grievances
they redressed, and whose hearts they cheered, by a promise
of spending some months in every year at the Castle. After
continuing at it six weeks, they crossed over to Port-Patrick,
and from thence proceeeded to Dunreath Abbey, which had
been completely repaired, and furnished in a style equally
modern and elegant ; and here it was determined they should
remain till the solemnization of Lord Dunreath's nuptials. The
time which intervened till the period appointed for them was
agreeably diversified by parlies amongst the neighboring
families, and excursions about the country ; but no hours were
happier than those which the inhabitants of the Abbey passed
when free from company, so truly were they united to each
other by affection. Lord Dunreath, soon after his return,
waited upon the Marquis of Roslin, and, by his sister's desire,
signified to him that if a visit from her would be agreeable to
the marquis she would pay it. This, however, was declined ;
and about the same period Lady Dunreath died. Mrs. Bruce,
whom from long habit she was attached to, then retired to
another part of Scotland, ashamed to remain where her con-
duct was known a conduct which deeply affected her niece,
whom Amanda visited immediately after her arrival, and found
settled in a neat house near the town she had lodged in. She
received Lady Cherbury with every demonstration of real pleas-
ure, and both she and her little girls spent some time with her
at the Abbey.
The happy period for completing the felicity of Oscar at
last arrived. In the chapel where his parents were united, he
received from the hand of Lord Cherbury the lovely object of
his long-tried affections. The ceremony was only witnessed by
his own particular friends ; but at dinner all the neighboring
families were assembled, and the tenants were entertained in
the great hall, where dancing commenced at an early and was
continued till a late hour.
And now having (to use the words of Adam) brought our
story to the sum of earthly bliss, we shall conclude, first giving
a brief account of the characters connected with it.
Lady Greystock, as one of the most distinguished, we shall
584 ^-'^-S CHILDREN- OF THE ABBEY.
first mention. After the death of Lady Euphrasia, she found
her company no longer desired at the marquis's, and accord-
ingly repaired to Bath. Here she had not been long ere she
became acquainted with a set of female Puritans, who goon
wrought a total change (I will not say a reformation) in her
ladyship's sentiments j and to give a convincing proof of
this change, she was prevailed on to give her hand to one of
their spruce young preachers, who shortly taught her, what in-
deed she had long wanted to learn, the doctrine of repentance ;
for most sincerely did she repent putting herself into his power.
Vexation, disappointment, and grief, brought on a lingering
illness, from which she never recovered. When convinced she
was dying, she sent for Rushbrook, and made a full confession
of her treachery and injustice to him, in consequence of which
he took immediate possession of his uncle's fortune ; and thus,
in the evening of his life, enjoyed a full recompense for the
trials of its early period. Lady Greystock died with some
degree of satisfaction at the idea of disappointing her husband
of the fortune she was convinced he had married her for.
Mrs. Howel, after visiting her son, retired to her husband's
tottage, where their days glide on in a kind of pleasing melan-
choly. The happiness of that son, and his Emily, is as perfect
as happiness can be in this sublunary state.
Sir Charles Bingley, after studiously avoiding Lord and
Lady Cherbury for above two years, at last, by chance, was
thrown in their way, and then had the pleasure of finding he
was not so agitated by the sight of Amanda as he had dreaded.
He did not refuse the invitations of Lord Cherbury. The
domestic happiness he saw him enjoying, rendered his own un-
connected aud wandering life more unpleasant than ever to
him. Lady Araminta Dormer was almost constantly in his
company. No longer fascinated by Amanda, he could now see
and admire her perfections. He soon made known his admira-
tion. The declaration was not ungraciously received, and he
oifered his hand, and was accepted an acceptance which put
him in possession of happiness fully equal to Lord Cherbury's.
The Marquis and Marchioness of Roslin pass their days
in gloomy retirement, regretful of the past and hopeless of the
future. Freelove flutters about every public place, boasts of
having carried off a Scotch heiress, and thinks, from that cir-
cumstance, he may now lay siege to any female heart with a
certainty of being successful.
To return once more to the sweet descendants of the Dun-
reath family. The goodness of heart, the simplicity of manners
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 585
which ever distinguished tliem, they slill retain. From having
been children of sorrow themselves, they feel for all who corrte
under that denomination, and their charity is at once bestowed
as a tribute from gratitude to Heaven, and from humanity to
want ; from gratitude to that Being who watched their unshel-
tered youth, who guarded them through innumerable perils,
who placed them on the summit of prosperity, from whence, by
dispensing his gifts around, they trust to be translated to a still
greater height of happiness. Lady Dunreath's wish is fulfilled.
To use her words, their past sorrows are only remembered to
teach them pity for the woes of others. Their virtues have
added to the renown of their ancestors, and entailed peace
upon their own souls. Their children, by all connectecl with
them, are considered as blessings. Gratitude has already con-
secrated their names, and their example inspires others with
emulation to pursue their courses.