THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 c-op.3 
 
Return 
 
 Latest 
 
 charge 
 
 books. 
 
 ~^4 
 
 this book on or before the 
 
 Date stamped below 
 
 is made on 
 
 A 
 
 all overdue 
 
 U. of I. Library 
 

THE CHILDREN 
 OF THE ABBEY 
 
 BY 
 
 REGINA MARIA ROCHE 
 
 THE MERSHON COMPANY 
 
 RAHWAY, N. J. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
1 1 1 r > . 
 
 J < 
 
 ir//r/i ■*. ■ 
 
 
 
 / // ' 
 
 
 ^ ^ >1 .‘)i-i.«ii" "" ;.■ 
 
 
 
THE 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Yellow sheafs from rich Ceres the cottage had crowned. 
 
 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 ! Content and innocence 
 reside beneath your humble roof, and charity unboastful of the 
 good it renders. Hail, ye venerable trees ! my happiest hours 
 of childish gayety were passed beneath your shelter — then, care- 
 less as 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 inter- 
 woven 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 fond- 
 ling, 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 alteration a 
 few years had made in her 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 the latter was not 
 grown a very fine youth. Amanda, smiling through her tears, en- 
 deavored to answer his inquiries; but she was so much affected 
 by her feelings, as to be scarcely able to speak ; and when, by 
 
 883477 
 
2 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 her desire, he went out to discharge the chaise, and assist the 
 young man (who had traveled 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 nurse,’ she sobbed, 
 * your poor child is again returned to seek 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 comfortable, that I warrant you the greatest laty 
 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 ; but’tis sweeter for that reason, since labor gives 
 us health to enjoy it, and contentment blesses us all. ’ Amanda 
 affectionately embraced the two girls, who were the pictures of 
 health and cheerfulness, and was then conducted into a little par* 
 lor, which, with a small bedchamber adjoining it, was appropri- 
 ated to her use. The neatness of the room was truly pleasing ; 
 the fioor was nicely sanded ; the hearth was dressed with ‘ fiow- 
 ers 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 
 traveling companion), before whom he had already set some of his 
 most substantial fare. 
 
 Binner, 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 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 seeming 
 apathy vanishes at the voice of kindness, as the rigid frost of winter 
 melts before the gentle infiuenceof the sun, and tears, gushing tears 
 of gratitude and sensibility, express its yielding feelings. Sacred 
 are such tears ; they fiow from the sweet source of social affection : 
 the good alone can shed them. 
 
 Her nurse’s sons soon returned from their labor ; two fine nub 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 3 
 
 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 ac- 
 customed 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 com- 
 fortable, commodious farmhouse ; 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. The front of the cottage was almost covered with 
 woodbine, intermingled with vines ; and the lane already men- 
 tioned formed a shady avenue up to the very door ; one side over- 
 looked a deep valley, winding among hills clad in the liveliest 
 verdure ; a clear stream running through it turned a mill in its 
 course, and afforded a salutary coolness to the herds which rumi- 
 nated 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 farmyard, 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 honeysuckles 
 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 around a plantation of 
 shrubs, fell with a gentle murmur 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 jz 
 beautiful flowers. 
 
 Here, scattered wiM, 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 tlie shelter of a 
 parent’s arms, to seek security in retirement at this abode of sim- 
 plicity and peace. Here the perturbation of fear subsided ; but the 
 soft melancholy of her soul at times was heightened, when she re- 
 
4 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 fleeted, 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 witnessing this 
 sudden change, sent her into Wales, as much for health as for 
 security ; she was ordered goat’s whey and gentle exercise ; 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 luster of her 
 eyes was fled, she was from those cii*cumstances (if less dazzling 
 to the eye) more affecting to the heart. Cold and unfeeling in- 
 deed must that one have been, who 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 be- 
 nevolent 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 with a hot cake, Amanda thought large enough to 
 serve half the principality. 
 
 The scene was delightful, and well calculated to banish all sad- 
 ness 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 cheer- 
 ful carol of the peasant floated on the evening gale, that stole per- 
 fumes 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 him 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 5 
 
 self 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 toward 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 Fin- 
 gal heard, when the crowded sighs of his bosom rose ; and, ‘ some 
 of my heroes are low, ’ said the 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 forward from your clouds,’ 
 he said, ‘ ghosts of my fathers, bend. Lay by the red terror of 
 your course. Keceive the falling chief ; whether he comes from 
 a distant land or risen from the rolling sea, let his robe of mist be 
 near ; his spear, that is formed of a cloud ; place an half-extin- 
 guished meteor by his side, in the form of the hero’s sword. And, 
 oh ! 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 re- 
 minding her of the heavy dew then falling. Amanda could have 
 stayed for hours in the garden ; but resigning her inclination 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 sup- 
 plications of thy child, for thy protection amidst the snares which 
 
6 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 wandering 
 thoughts were all restrained, and her passions gradually subsided 
 into a calm. 
 
 W armed by a pure and ardent piety, that sacred power which 
 comes with healing on its wings to the afflicted children of human- 
 ity, 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 cot- 
 tage had retired to repose ; and she heard no sound save the tick- 
 ing 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 the 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 case- 
 ment; a soft serenade was immediately begun by the sweet and 
 plaintive bird of night. 
 
 Amanda at length dropped the curtain and sought repose ; it soon 
 blessed her eyelids, and sht.^, a sweet oblivion over all her cares. 
 
 Sleep on, sweet innocent? 
 
 And when a soul is found sincerely so, 
 
 A thousand liveried angels lackey it. 
 
 Driving, far off all thought of harm or sin. — Milton . 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Canst thou bear cold and hunger ? Can these limbs. 
 
 Framed for the tender otSces 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 ?— Otway. 
 
 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 be- 
 came its sole master, by their dying, within a short period of each 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 7 
 
 other. As soon as he had in some degree recovered the shock ot 
 such calamities, he laid out his little pittance in the purchase of a 
 commission, as a profession best suiting his inclinations and 
 finances. 
 
 The war between America and France had then just commenced ; 
 and Fitzalan’s regiment was among the first forces sent to the aid 
 of the former. The scenes of war, though dreadfully 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 progenitors. 
 
 He had once the good fortune to save the life c! a British soldier; 
 he was one of a small party, who, by the treachery of their guides, 
 were suddenly surprised in a wood, through which they were 
 obliged to pass to join another detachment of 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 hi?: 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 resentment, he 
 enlisted with a recruiting party in their neighborhood : but, ac- 
 customed all his life to peace and plenty, he did not by any meant 
 relish his new situation. His gratitude to Fitzalan was un- 
 bounded ; 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 Fitz- 
 alan 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 intercede with his friends for him. 
 
 During his stay abroad, Fitzalan was promoted to a captain-lieu- 
 tenancy ; 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 dis- 
 charge, who longed to reenter upon his former mode of life. He 
 accompanied the penitent himself into Wales, where he was re- 
 ceived with the truest rapture. 
 
 In grief for his loss, his parents had forgotten all resentment 
 for his errors, which, indeed, had never been very great ; they had 
 
8 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 lost their two remaining children during his absence, and now 
 ceived him as the sole comfort and hope of their age. 
 
 His youthful protector was blest with the warmest gratitudes 
 tears filled his fine eyes, as he beheld the pleasure of his parents, 
 and the contrition of the son ; and he departed with that heartfelt 
 pleasure, which ever attends and rewards an action of humanity. 
 
 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 high hills which nearly encompassed it were al- 
 most all covered with trees, whose dark shades gave an appear- 
 ance of gloomy solitude to the building. 
 
 The present possessor, the Earl of Dunreath, was now far ad- 
 vanced in life ; twice had he married, in expectation of a male 
 heir to his large estates, and twice he had been disappointed. His 
 first lady had expired immediately after the birth of a daughter. 
 She had taken under her protection a young female, who, by un- 
 expected 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 Earl of Dunreath, ac- 
 customed 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 the 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 propensities. 
 Her soul was vain, unfeeling, and ambitious; and her sudden 
 elevation broke down all the barriers which prudence 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 innocent 
 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 ilh 
 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 9 
 
 fittle endearments which, when united with infantine sweetness, 
 allure almost imperceptibly the affections. 
 
 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 
 the graces of mind and form that had distinguished her mother ; 
 her 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 form 
 always appeared decorated with the most studied art, and her 
 large eyes had a confident assurance in them that seemed to ex- 
 pect 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 con- 
 stant 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 military 
 heroes. Malvina, as the eldest, opened the ball with the colonel; 
 her form had attracted the eyes of Fitzalan, and vainly he at- 
 tempted 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-a verted 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 soft- 
 ness of her voice, the simplicity yet elegance of her language, now 
 captivated his heart, as much as her form had charmed his eyes. 
 
 Never had he before seen an object he thought half so lovely 
 or engaging ; with her he could not support that lively strain of 
 conversation he had done with her sister. Where the heart uf 
 much interested, it will not admit of trifling. 
 
10 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Fitzalan was now in the meridian of manhood ; his stature wai 
 above the common size, and elegance and dignity were conspicu- 
 ous 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 to engross all his atten- 
 tion. 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 oc- 
 casioned. 
 
 He deluded himself with no false hopes relative to the real ob- 
 ject of his passion; he knew the obstacles between them were in- 
 superable ; but his heart was too proud to complain of fate ; 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 seashore ; 
 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. 
 
 Lady Augusta appeared negligently reclined upon a sofa, in a 
 verdant alcove; the flowing drapery of the loose robe in which 
 she Avas habited set off her fine figure ; little Cupids were seen 
 fanning aside her dark-b»own hair, and strewing roses on hef 
 pillow. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 11 
 
 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 I ’ cried Fitzalan, ‘ sweet resemblance of a 
 seraphic form ! ’ 
 
 He heard a soft sigh behind him ; he started, turned, and per- 
 ceived 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 ! ’ ‘ ’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 admir- 
 ing 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 gallantry than sincerity 
 in them. In the course of their trifling he snached 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 toward him, and a deadly pale- 
 ness overspread her countenance. 
 
 Fitzalan’s spirits vanished ; he started up, and declared he must 
 be gone immediately. The dejection of Lady lilalvina dwelt upon 
 his heart; it fiattered his fondness, but pained his sensibility. He 
 left the fort in the evening, immediately after he had retired from 
 the mess ; he strolled to the seaside, and rambled a considerable 
 way among the rocks. The scene was wild and solemn; the 
 shadows of evening were beginning to descend ; the waves stole 
 with low murmurs upon the shore, and a soft breeze gently 
 agitated the marine plants that grew among 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 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 toward the spot from whence the sound proceeded, and be- 
 held Lady Malvina standing on a low rock, a projection of it afford- 
 ing her support. Nothing could be more picturesque than her ap- 
 pearance: she looked like one of the beautiful forms which Ossian 
 BO often describes : her white dress fluttered in the wind, and hei 
 dark hair hung disheveled around her. Fitzalan moved softly 
 
12 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 pre- 
 vailed on her to sit down upon the rock, and allow him to support 
 her till 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 deceit- 
 ful,’ she said, ‘ as I, alas! too fatally experience. The glare, the 
 ostentation of wealth, a soul 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 friendship 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 no\ 
 detain you.’ 
 
 Fitzalan’s passions were no longer under the dominion of 
 reason ; he tore the ribbon from his breast and flung it into the 
 sea. ‘ Going to Lady Augusta ! ’ he exclaimed, ‘ and is her lovely 
 sister then really deceived? Ah! Lady Malvina, I now gaze on 
 the dear attraction that drew me to the Abbey. The 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 al- 
 lowed my visits to be placed to the account of an object truly in 
 different, that I might have opportunities of seeing an object L 
 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 susceptible, I am not aspiring.’ He then presented his 
 hand to Malvina; she descended from her seat, and they walked 
 toward the Abbey. Lady Malvina’s pace was slow, and hejf 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 13 
 
 blushes, had Fitzalan looked at her, would have expressed more 
 pleasure than resentment : she seemed to expect a still further dec- 
 laration; but Fitzalan was too confused to speak; nor indeed was 
 it his intention again to indulge himself on the 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 
 meaning 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 pleas- 
 ure 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, contradic- 
 ted 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 tenderness her wounded feel- 
 ings had so long sighed for. She was agitated and delighted ; she 
 overlooked every obstacle to her wishes ; and waited impatiently 
 a further explanation of Fitzalan’s sentiments. 
 
 Far different were his feelings from hers : to know he was be- 
 loved could scarcely yield him pleasure, when he reflected on his 
 hopeless situation, which forbade his availing himself of any ad- 
 vantage 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 fiatter 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, how- 
 ever, always sealed his lips, and every appearance of particularity 
 was avoided. The time now approached for the departure of the 
 regiment from Scotland, and Lady Malvina, instead of the ex^ 
 planation she so fondly expected, so ardently desired, saw Fitz- 
 alan studious to avoid her. 
 
14 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 The disappointment this conduct gave rise to was too much tot 
 the tender and romantic heart of Malvina to bear without secretly 
 repining. Society grew irksome; she became more than ever 
 attached to solitary rambles, which gave opportunities of indulg- 
 ing her sorrows without restraint : sorrows, pride often reproached 
 her for experiencing. 
 
 It was within a week of the change of garrison, when Malvina 
 repaired one evening to the rock where Fitzalan had disclosed 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 recom- 
 pense all our sufferings.’ ‘You are melancholy to-night, Fitz- 
 alan,’ cried Lady Malvina, in a voice scarcely articulate. 
 
 ‘ Oh ! can you wonder at it ? ’ exclaimed he, overcome by her 
 emotion, and forgetting in a moment all his resolutions — ‘ 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 happi- 
 ness 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 em- 
 brace 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 involved in 
 difficulties on my account. Our separation is therefore, alas ! in- 
 . evitable.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh! no,’ exclaimed Malvina, ‘ the difficulties you have men- 
 tioned will vanish. My father’s affections were early alienated 
 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 largo 
 possessions to Augusta ; and oh ! how little shall I envy her those 
 possessions, if the happy destiny I now look forward to is mine** 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY* 
 
 15 
 
 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 
 aflBluence, he will, I am confident, allow me a competence; nay, 
 Lady Duiireath, I believe, in pleasure at my removal from the Ab- 
 bey, 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 per- 
 vaded 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 consideration ; 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 resolved 
 to intrust the chaplain of the regiment with the affair, and re- 
 quest his attendance the ensuing night in the chapel of the Abbey, 
 where Lady Malvina promised to meet them with her maid, on 
 whose secrecy she thought she could rely. 
 
 It was settled that Fitzalan should pay a visit the next morning 
 at the Abbey, and give Malvina a certain sign, if he succeeded 
 with the chaplain. 
 
 The increasing darkness at length reminded them of the late* 
 ness of the hour. Fitzalan conducted Malvina to the Abbey gate, 
 where they separated, each 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 attacked 
 by Augusta for his long absence, which he excused by pleading 
 regimental business. After trifling some time with her, he pre- 
 vailed 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; her head 
 sunk upon her bosom ; and her agitation must have excited sus- 
 picions had it been perceived ; but Fitzalan purposely bent over 
 her sister, and thus gave her an opportunity of retiring unnoticed 
 from the room. As soon as she had regained a little composure, 
 she called her maid, and after receiving many promises of secrecy, 
 unfolded to her the whole affair. It was long past the midnight 
 
16 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 hesitated ; but when she reflected on the noble gen- 
 erosity 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 stall's, 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 
 monuments; their dust-covered banners waving round in sullen 
 dignity to the rude gale, which found admittance through the 
 broken windows. 
 
 The light, which the maid held, produced deep shadows, that 
 heightened the solemnity of the place. 
 
 ‘They are not here,’ said Malvina, casting her fearful eyes 
 around. She went to the door, which opened into a thick wood ; 
 but here she only heard the breeze rustling among 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 ; they had 
 been watching in the wood for the appearance bf 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 the malevolence of her soul, and the avaricious desire 
 she had of increasing her own daughter’s fortune ; she had, be- 
 sides, another 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 imprudent as her sister’s, 
 had she not been beforehand with her. 
 
 This fear the impetuous passions of Lady Augusta naturally 
 excited. She really loved Fitzalan ; a degree of frantic rage pos- 
 sessed her at his marriage ; she cursed her sister in the bitterness 
 of her heart, and 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 forgive- 
 ness to Malvina, and bid her never more appear in his presence 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 17 
 
 jShe 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 
 wretchedness that baffles description. At the expiration of this 
 period their debts were so increased, Fitzalan was compelled 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 afforded the small- 
 est prospect of obtaining comfort for her husband and his babes; 
 she prevailed on him, therefore, to carry her to Scotland. 
 
 They lodged at a peasant’s in the neighborhood of the Abbey ; 
 he informed them the Earl’s infirmities were daily increasing ; and 
 that Lady Dunreath had just celebrated her daughter’s marriage 
 with the Marquis of Roseline. This nobleman had passionately 
 admired Lady Malvina; an admiration the Countess always 
 wished transferred to her 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 cherubim : 
 
 The bloom of opening flowers, unsullied 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 conducted to the 
 Earl, and was accordingly ushered into his presence ; 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 attention his age required. He re- 
 fused, 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 
 
18 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 work, and a tear dropped from him. ‘ Poor mamma cries too/ 
 said Oscar, upon whose hand the tear fell. ‘ Why did your mam* 
 ma 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 sudden 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 within it : and she had 
 returned, with all possible expedition, to counteract any danger- 
 ous impression that might be made upon the Earl’s mind. Rage 
 inflamed her countenance : the Earl knew the violence of her tem- 
 per ; he was unequal to contention, and hastily motioned for the 
 peasant to retire with the child. The account of his reception ex- 
 cited the most flattering 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 command of the Earl, he said. Frightened at his rude- 
 ness, the child returned weeping to his mother, whose blasted ex- 
 pectations wrung her heart with agony, and tears and lamenta- 
 tions 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 lowli- 
 ness should a child bend before an offended parent ! Oh ! with 
 what fortitude, what patience, should a wife, a mother, try to over- 
 come difficulties which she is conscious of having precipitated 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 implac- 
 able 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 Cordelia 
 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 tfleiA roots. The peasant charitably 
 
THB CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 19 
 
 flun^ his plaid over Malvina : she moved mechanically along- ; 
 her senses appeared quite stupefied. Fitzalan 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 execrating the being who had sc griev- 
 ously afflicted 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 neces- 
 saries, 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 confident, 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 fol- 
 lowing morning Malvina bid a last adieu to Scotland. 
 
 Lady Dunreath, in the meantime, suffered torture: after she 
 had seen Malvina turned from the Abbey, she returned to her 
 apartment: it was furnished with the most luxurious elegance, 
 yet she could not rest within it. Conscience already told her, if 
 Malvina died, she must consider herself her murderer; her pale 
 and woe- worn image seemed still before her ; a cold terror op- 
 pressed her heart, which the horrors of the night augmented ; the 
 tempest shook the battlements of the Abbey; and the winds 
 which howled 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 ingratitude Lady Dunreath 
 had added deceit : her lord was yielding to the solicitations of his 
 child, when she counteracted his intentions by a tale of falsehood. 
 The visions of the night were also dreadful ; Malvina appe:.red j 
 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 wan- 
 derer ? ’ 
 
 Oh, conscience, how awful are thy terrors ! thou art the vice- 
 gerent 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 sighj 
 amid gayety and splendor. 
 
 The unfortunate travelers were welcomed with the truest ho^ 
 
so 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 pitality by the grateful Edwin; he had married, soon after his re^ 
 turn from America, a young girl, to whom, from his earliest 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 in- 
 ! tended, 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 perfect stupe- 
 faction. When he regained his sensibility, his grief was not out- 
 rageous ; it was that deep, still sorrow, which fastens on the heart, 
 and cannot vent itself in tears or lamentations ; he sat with calm- 
 ness 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 not disfigured; he kissed her cold lips, 
 continually exclaiming, ‘ Oh! had we never met, she might still 
 have been living.’ His language was something like that of a 
 poet of her own country : 
 
 Wee, modest, crimson-tippdd flower, 
 
 I met thee in a luckless hour. 
 
 It was when he saw them about removing her that all the tem- 
 pest of his grief broke forth Oh ! how impossible to describe the 
 anguish of the poor widower’s heart when he returned from seeing 
 his Malvina laid in her last receptacle: he shut himself up in the 
 room where she had expired, and ordered 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 ! ’ ‘ And shall this desolation never 
 
 more be enlightened,’ he exclaimed, ‘by the soft music of Mal- 
 vina’s voice? Shall these eyes never more be cheered by behold- 
 ing 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 — 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 21 
 
 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 torturing 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 seen her, ‘ all that remain of elegance and beauty, once un- 
 equaled ! ’ 
 
 A native sense of religion alone checked the transports of his 
 grief ; 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 obtain of again rejoining his Mal- 
 vina. 
 
 She was interred in the village churchyard: at the head of her 
 grave a stone was placed, on which was rudely cut: 
 
 MALVINA FITZALAN, 
 
 ALIKE LOVELY 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 en- 
 ervated 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 inti- 
 mately 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 solicita- 
 tion, he procured him a company in a regiment, then stationed in 
 England. Thus did Fitzalan again enter into active life; but his 
 spirits were broken, and his constitution injured. Four years he 
 continued in the army; when, 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 
 
22 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBBT, 
 
 time, a little romantic solitnde, quite adapted to his taste anA 
 finances; he proposed for it, and soon became its proprietor. 
 Hither he carried his children, much against the inclinations 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 pleasing 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 simplic- 
 ity 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 pro- 
 vision for himself. A military life was what Oscar appeared 
 anxious for: he had early conceived 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 tender- 
 ness, the most engaging softness 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, im- 
 mediately came down from London to take formal possession: he 
 soon became 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, however, shortly 
 after this, without appearing in the least interested about him. 
 
 Fitzalan’s heart was oppressed with anxiety ; he could not pur- 
 chase 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 fre- 
 quently heard of him, and was told he had become quite a man of 
 the world, which was an implication of his having lost all feel- 
 ing: an application to him, therefore, he feared would be unavail- 
 ing, 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 Belgrave’s regi- 
 ment, which he considered a very fortunate circumstance, 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 forgotten the friendship of 
 their earlier years : and that he had gladly seized the first oppor- 
 tunity which offered, of serving him in the person of his son; 
 which opportunity he was indebted to Colonel Belgrave for. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 2a 
 
 Fitzalan’s soul was filled with gratitude and rapture ; he imtne« 
 diately wrote to the Earl, and the colonel, in terms expressive 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 ; his mentioning them was merely ac- 
 cidental. 
 
 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 severely 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 plowshare instead of 
 the sword. 
 
 Lord Cherbury lost no part of his discourse ; though immersed 
 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 tliarefore directly con- 
 ceived 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 hap- 
 piness seemed her first incentive ; without him no amusement 
 was enjoyed, without him no study entered upon ; he was her 
 friend, guardian, and protector ; and no language can express, no 
 heart (except a paternal one) conceive, the rapture he felt, at see 
 ing 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. 
 ^Jolonel 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 tim^ 
 
84 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY, 
 
 was accepted ; but had he imagined what an attraction the house 
 contained, he would not have long hesitated about entering 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 expanded into 
 such beauty. How great, then, was his rapture and surprise, 
 when Fitzalan led into the room where he had received 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 benefactor, 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 contriv,e 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 unsus- 
 pecting 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 — de- 
 lighted to think the conversation or talents of his daughter (for 
 Amanda frequently sung and played for the colonel) could con- 
 tribute to the amusement of his friend. Amanda innocently in- 
 creased 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 distressed 
 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 under- 
 stand him ; but when, with increased audacity, he explained him- 
 self more fully, horror, indignation, and surprise took possession 
 of her breast; and, yielding to these feelings, she turned and fled to 
 the house, as if from a monster. Belgrave was provoked and mor- 
 tified ; the softness of her manners 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 CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 25 
 
 the smallest intimation of the affair might occasion fatal conse^ 
 qnences. 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 neigh- 
 borhood. How great was the shock she sustained, on finding it 
 from him ! Having thrown off the mask, he determined no long- 
 er 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 impossible ; 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 hap- 
 piness, to inform him of every particular relative to the insult she 
 had received. She obeyed, though terrified to behold her father 
 trembling with emotion. When she concluded, he tenderly em- 
 braced her ; 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 a voice scarcely articulate, she be- 
 sought 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 compelled to leave her to the care of a maid, lest her 
 pathetic remonstrances should delay the vengeance he resolved 
 to take on a wretch who had meditated a deed of such atrocity 
 against his peace : but Belgrave was not to be found. 
 
 Scarcely, however, had Fitzalan returned to his half-distracted 
 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 : Fitzalan had been tempted 
 to make a large addition to his farm, from an idea of turning the 
 little money he possessed to advantage : 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 dwin- 
 dled away in unprofitable experiments, and he was now considera- 
 bly in arrears with Belgrave. The ungenerous advantage he 
 strove to take of his situation, increased, if possible, his indigna- 
 tion ; and again he 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 ren- 
 der them more complying, and left the country, having first or* 
 dered his steward to proceed directly against Fitzalan. 
 
26 
 
 THE CHILHKEN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 arrived 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 cautiously concealed every- 
 thing 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, too, he knew depended on his secrecy ; as he was 
 well convinced no idea of danger, or elevation of rank, would se- 
 cure the wretch from his fury, who had meditated so great an in- 
 jury 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 an 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 x\manda into W ales, as her health had 
 considerably suffered from the complicated 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 in- 
 stantly be withdrawn, if she acceded to the proposals he made to 
 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 at- 
 tend Miss Fitzalan. As every precaution was necessary, her 
 father made her take the name of Dunford, and travel in the mail- 
 coach, for the greater security. He divided the contents 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 supposed, 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 circumstance, which was 
 jaot satisfactorily accounted for, excited their warmest curiosity; 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 27 
 
 a id not thinking* it proper to ask Amanda to gratify it, they, to 
 use their own words, sihed her companion, who hesitated not to 
 inform them of the indignities she had suffered from Colonel 
 Belgrave, which were well known about his neighborhood. 
 
 CHAPTER III. < 
 
 Thy grave shall with fresh flowers be dressed, 
 
 And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast ; 
 
 There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 
 
 There the first roi-es of the year shall blow.— Pope. 
 
 A GENfLE 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 salubrious 
 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 stiJl remaining in the gloomy situ- 
 ation she had quitted. 
 
 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 th6 
 stream in the valley, and Betsey turning a cake for her breakfast 
 The tea table was laid by a window, through which a woodbinw 
 crept, diffusing a delightful fragrance; the bees feasted on itfs 
 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 caroled their matins almost on every 
 spray ; and scattered peasants, busied in their various labors, en- 
 livened 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 stagecoach 
 to London. 
 
 The morning was passed by Amanda 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 sur- 
 rounded her, rendered it doubly delicious. 
 
 In the evening §he asked Ellen to take a walk with her, to 
 which she joyfully consented. ‘And pray. Miss,’ said Ellen, 
 after she had smartened herself up with a cleau wnite apron, her 
 
28 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Sunday cap, and a hat loaded with poppy-colored ribbons, smil 
 ing as she spoke at the pretty image her glass reflected, ‘ where 
 shall we go?’ ‘To the churchyard,’ replied Amanda. ‘O 
 Lord, Miss, won’t that be rather a dismal place to go to? ’ ‘ In- 
 
 dulge me, my dear Ellen,’ said Amanda, ‘ in showing me the way 
 thither; there is one spot in it my heart wants to visit.’ 
 
 The churchyard lay at the entrance of the little village; the 
 church was a small structure, whose Gothic appearance proclaimed 
 its ancient date ; it was rendered more venerable by the lofty elms^ 
 and yews which surrounded it, apparetitly coeval with itself, and 
 which cast dark shades upon the spots where the ‘ rude forefathers 
 of the hamlet slept,’ which. 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless 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 overgrown 
 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 sufferings. 
 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 remem- 
 brance. Her father’s ill-health, she feared, would increase 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 ac- 
 counted for it ; and the good woman exerted herself to enliven 
 her dear child, but Amanda, though she faintly smiled, was not 
 to be cheered, and soon retired to bed — pale, languid, and un- 
 happy. 
 
 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 resources 
 which had hitherto diversified them. To pass her time in listless 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 29 
 
 inaction, or idle saunters about the house, was insupportable, 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 are books enough to keep 
 you a-going, if you lived to the age of Methusalem himself ; and 
 very pretty reading to be sure among 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 that matter, poor old Mrs. 
 Abergwilly would make you welcome 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, if you choose, step over and ask her 
 leave for you to go.’ ‘If you please,’ said Amanda; ‘I should 
 not like to go without it.’ ‘ Well, I shan’t be long,’ continued the 
 nurse, ‘and Mien 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, with 
 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 floor, and entered by a 
 spacious folding-door. As soon as she had reached it, Ellen left 
 her, and returned to the cottage ; and Amanda began with pleas- 
 ure 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 
 Gothic style ; opposite to them were corresponding arches, in whose 
 recesses the bookcases were placed, round these arches were fes- 
 toons of laurel, elegantly executed in stucco work; and above 
 them medallions of some of the most celebrated poets; the chim- 
 ney-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 difficult 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 adapted 
 
30 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 for study and contemplation ; all around was solitude and silence, 
 save the rustlinr^ 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 apartment, i 
 whose airy lightness formed a pleasing contrast to the gloomy one 
 she had left. The manner in which it was fitted up, and the I 
 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, inter ningled with light silver sprays ; the 
 seats corresponded to the ha'ngings ; the tables were of fine inlaid 
 wood ; and superb lusters were suspended from the ceiling, which 
 represented, in a masterly style, scenes from some of the pastoral 
 poets; the orchestra, about the center of the room, was enclosed 
 with a light balustrading 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 fine fall of water fell from 
 one of the highest of the hills, which, broken by intervening roots t 
 and branches of trees, ran a hundred different ways, sparkling in i 
 the sunbeams as they emerged from the shade. ! 
 
 Amanda stood long at a window, enjoying this delightful pros- ’ 
 pect, 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 ; she gently 
 i^ised 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 possibly give it; \ 
 in cultivating it he had laid up a fund of delight for himself, for | 
 * his soul was a stream that flowed at pleasant sounds.’ 
 
 Amanda could not resist the present opportunity of gratifying 
 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 mournfully sighed, ‘ why are 
 you not here to share my pleasure? ’ 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 deplore. 
 
 And be the slave of car'' ? 
 
 The gloom which now obscures my days 
 At thy appronch would fly. 
 
 And glowing fancy would display 
 A bright unclouded ekyl 
 
miE CHILDREN OF THE ABDflY> 
 
 31 
 
 Niffht’e dreary shadows fleet away 
 Before the orient beam; 
 
 So sorrow melts before thy sway, r 
 Thou nymph of cheerful mien. , 
 
 Ah! 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; she ex- 
 amined a few, and found they contained compositions of some of 
 the most eminent masters. They^tempted her to continue a little 
 longer at the instrument: when she rose from it, she returned to 
 the library, and began looking over the books, which she found 
 were a collection of the best that past or present times had pro- 
 duced. She soon selected one for perusal, and seated herself in 
 the recess of a window, that she might enjoy the cool breeze^ 
 which sighed among the trees. Here, delighted with her em- 
 ployment, she forgot the progress of time ; nor thought of moving^ 
 till Ellen appeared with a request from the nurse for her imme- 
 diate return, as her dinner was ready, and she was uneasy at her 
 fasting so long. Amanda did not hesitate to comply with the re- 
 quest ; but she resolved henceforth to be a constant visitor to the 
 hall, which contained such pleasing sources of amusement: she 
 also settled in her own mind often to ramble amid its shades, 
 which were perfectly 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 Belgrave’s interest, 
 he proposed changing his abode; he desired her therfore not to 
 write till she heard from him again, and added, ‘ liOrd Cherbuiy 
 was daily expected.’ 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Mine eyes were half closed in sleep. Soft music came to mine ear ; It was iike the 
 rising breeze, that whirls at first the thistle^s beard, that flies, dark sh^owy, over thd 
 grass.— OssiAN. 
 
 Amanda went every morning to the hall, where she alternately 
 played and read : in the evening she again returned to it ; but in- 
 stead 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 shel- 
 tered. When she could no longer see to read, she deposited her 
 book in the she had taken it from, and rambled to the deep* 
 ©st recesses of the grove : this was the time she loved to saunter 
 alcmg, while all the jarring passions that obtruding care 
 
32 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY, 
 
 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 real- 
 ize. 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, and immortal forms. 
 
 On gracious errands bent ; to save the fall 
 Of Virtue struggling on the brink of Vice.— Thomson. 
 
 Her health gradually grew better, as the tranquillity of her 
 mind increased : a faint blush again began to tinge her cheek, and 
 her lovely eyes beamed a placid luster, 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 everyone is subject. When she 
 retired to bed, her sleeping thoughts took the tincture of her wak- 
 ing ones, and images of the most affecting nature arose in her 
 mind : she went through the whole story of her mother’s suffer- 
 ings, 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, bend- 
 ing with a benignant look toward 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 out- 
 side of the window the following lines from Cowley, sung in a 
 manly and exquisitely melodious voice, the music which 
 her being only a symphony to them : 
 
 Awake, awake, my lyre. 
 
 And tell thy silent master’s humble tale 
 In sounds that may prevail ; 
 
 Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire. 
 
 Though so exalted she, 
 
 And I so lowly be, 
 
 Tell her such different notes make aD thy haeMOyi 
 Hark, how the strings awake. 
 
 And though the moving hand approach not iMtt* 
 
 Themselves with awful fear 
 A Vind of numerous trembling make. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 fa 
 
 Now all thy forces try. 
 
 Now all thy charms apply, 
 
 Ecvenge upon her ear the conquest of her oye. 
 
 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 lova 
 
 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, beam- 
 ing 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 serenade was addressed 
 to her ; but she had not seen anyone since her arrival in the 
 neighborhood from whom she could have expected such a compli- 
 ment, or, indeed, believed capable of paying it; that the person 
 who paid it was one of no mean accomplishments, from his per- 
 formance, she could not doubt. She resolved to conceal the inci- 
 dent, 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 ram- 
 bling about it. 
 
 From the moment this idea arose, Amanda deemed it impru* 
 dent to go to the hall ; yet so great was the pleasure she experi- 
 enced there, she could not think of relinquishing it without the 
 greatest reluctance. She at last considered, if she had a cornpan- 
 ibn, 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 employment, and 
 accordingly asked her attendance thither, which the other joy- 
 fully 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^ 
 m an enclosure near the hall, Tim Chip, the carpenter, at work 
 
34 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 who was the rural Adonis of these shades. He had long selected 
 Ellen for the fair nymph of his affection, which distinction ex- 
 cited not a little jealousy among the village girls, and consider- 
 ably increased the vanity of Ellen, who triumphed in a conquest 
 that at once gratified her love, and exalted her above her com- 
 panions. 
 
 Amanda entered the music-room. The melodious strains she 
 had heard the proceeding night dwelt upon her memory, and she 
 sat down to the piano and attempted them ; her ear soon informed 
 her the attempt was successful ; and her voice (as the words were 
 familiar to her) then accompanied the instrument. ‘ Heavenly 
 sounds ! ’ exclaimed someone behind her, as she concluded sing- 
 ing. 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 inter- 
 cepting 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 possible, ’said he, ‘ you really feel an emotion of anger? 
 Well, I will relinquish my lovely captive if she condescendingly 
 promises to continue here a few minutes longer, and grants me 
 permission to attend her home.’ ‘ I insist on being immediately 
 released,’ exclaimed x^manda, ‘ I obey,’ cried he, softly pressing 
 her hand, and then resigning it ; ‘ you are free ; would to Heaven 
 I could say the same ! ’ 
 
 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 in every 
 d.irection they took. And why,’ cried he, ‘so unpropitious to 
 iny wish of introduction? — a wish it was impossible not to feel 
 from the moment you were seen.’ Amanda made no reply, but 
 «till 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 
 fiuttered in the breeze that played around her, and her eyes, with 
 the beautiful embarrassment of modesty, were bent to the groimd 
 to avoid the stranger’s ardent gaze. He watched her with looks 
 of the most impassioned admiration, and softly exclaimed, as if 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 35 
 
 the involuntary exclamation of rapture, ‘ Good Heavens, what an 
 angel! Fatigue has made you ill,’ he said ; ‘ and ’tis your haste 
 to avoid me has occasioned this disorder. Could you look into 
 my heart, you would then find there was no reason to fiy 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 ; 
 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 1 ’ 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 dis- 
 tressed 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 re- 
 sign my hopes of yet conquering thy obduracy.’ 
 
 ‘ O Lord 1 ’ cried Ellen, as they quitted the grove, ‘ how did 
 you meet with Lord Mortimer ? ’ ‘ Lord Mortimer ? ’ repeated 
 
 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 wei’e greatly fiurried 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 Amanda’s 
 sleeve, cried, ‘Look! look!’ Amanda, hastily turning round,, 
 perceived Lord Mortimer, who had slowly followed them half- 
 v/ay down the lane. On being observed, he smiled and, hissing 
 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 ; and admiration 
 might lead (she did not doubt) to something more important. 
 Amanda’s heart fluttered with an agreeable sensation, as Ellen 
 described to her mother the tender looks with which Lord Morti- 
 mer regarded her. She was at first inclined to believe that in his 
 lordship she had found the person whose melody so agreeably dis- 
 turbed her slumbers ; but a minute’s reflection convinced her this 
 belief must be erroneous ; it was evident (or she would have heard of 
 it) that Lord Mortimer had only arrived that day at Tudor Halt 
 and even had he seen her before, upon consideration she though# 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 2Q 
 
 it improbable that he should have taken the trouble of coming in 
 such a manner to a person in a station, to all appearance, so in- 
 finitely beneath 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 he might have the vanity to entertain I 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The blossoms opening to the day, 
 
 The dews of heaven refined, 
 
 Could nought of purity display 
 To emulate his mind.— Goldsmith. 
 
 After tea Amanda asked little Betsey to accompany her in a 
 walk; for Ellen (dressed in all her rural finery) had gone 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 
 made 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 churchyard to rest upon one of the raised flags. 
 
 The graves were ornamented with garlands of cut paper, inter- 
 woven 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 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 offer- 
 ing of her child; while her white hands were folded on her heart, 
 and she softly exclaimed, ‘ Alas, is this the only tribute for me to 
 pay!’ 
 
 A low murmur, as if from voices near, startled her at the instant; 
 -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 her hat over her face, and catch 
 ing Betsey’s hand, hastened to the cottage. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 31 
 
 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 
 churchyard, 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 ac- 
 knowledge to himself, to become acquainted with her. 
 
 Lord Mortimer was now in the glowing prime of life; his per- 
 son was strikingly elegant, and his manners insinuatingly pleas- 
 ing; seducing sweetness dwelt in his smile, and, as he pleased, his 
 expressive eyes could sparkle with intelligence, or beam with sen- 
 sibility : 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 some- 
 what 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 confines of vice — never really in- 
 jured innocence, or done a deed 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 ac- 
 complishments 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, melodious voice of Amanda would of itself almost have made 
 a conquest of his heart ; but aided by the charms of her face and 
 person, all together 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 phaeton, in which he 
 traveled (from the fineness of the weather), was overturned, and 
 he severely hurt. He procured a hired carriage, and proceeded 
 to the Hall, to put himself into the hands of the good old house- 
 keeper, Mrs. Abergwilly; who, possessing as great a stock of 
 medical knowledge as Lady Bountiful herself, he believed would 
 cure his bruises with as much, or rather more expedition, than 
 any country surgeon whatever. He gave strict orders that his be- 
 ing 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 to move, at the first sound of her voice he stole to the door; 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 38 
 
 which being* a little open, gave him an opportunity of seeing her 
 perfectly ; and nothing but his situation prevented his immediately 
 appearing before her, and expressing the admiration she had in- 
 spired him with. As soon as she departed he sent for the house- 
 keeper, to inquire who the beautiful stranger was. Mrs Aberg- 
 willy only knew she was a young lady lately come from London 
 to lodge at David Edwin’s cottage, whose wife had entreated per- 
 mission 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 con- 
 tinued her visits as usual, little thinking with what critical regard 
 and fond admiration 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 
 DO longer restrain his impatience to be known to her ; and the 
 Dext 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 churchyard, 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. 
 
 Lord Mortimer was solicitous, even to a degree of anxiety, to 
 learn the real situation of Amanda. As Howel, in his pastoral 
 function, had access to the houses of his parishioners, it occurred 
 to him that he would be an excellent person to discover it ; he 
 therefore, as if from curiosity alone, expressed his wish of knowing 
 who she was, and requested Howel, if convenient, 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 every- 
 thing about her. This request Howel readily complied with ; the 
 face, the figure, the melancholy, and, above all, the employment 
 of Amanda, had interested his sensibility and excited his curiosity. 
 
 He arrived soon after her at the cottage, and found her laugh- 
 ing at her nurse, who was telling her she was certain she should 
 see her a great lady. Amanda rose to retire at his entrance ; bn t 
 he, perceiving her intention, declared if he disturbed hoi‘, htj 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 39 
 
 ^uld immediately depart ; she accordingly reseated herself, so 
 cretly 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 sup- 
 per for him. The benevolence of his disposition, and innocent 
 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-a-tete 
 while the nurse was busied in preparing her entertainment ; and she 
 was soon as much pleased with the elegance and 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 worshiper of the muses, though 
 diffidence made her conceal her 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 
 HoweTs soul ; he gazed and listened, as if his eye could never be 
 satished 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 she proceeded. Howel softly laid his hand 
 on hers, and exclaimed, ‘ 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 ; ‘ O Heavens ! 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 high- 
 est 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 exper- 
 ience.’ 
 
 The nurse’s duck and green peas were now set upon the table, 
 but in vain did she press Howel to eat ; his eyes where too well 
 feasted to allow him to attend to his palate. Finding entreaties 
 ineffectual in one respect, she tried them in another, and begged 
 
40 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 fortune. 
 ‘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 cottage^ 
 and Lord Mortimer himself, were forgotten. His lordship had 
 engaged Howel to sup with him after the performance of his em- 
 bassy, and impatiently awaited his arrival : he felt displeased, as 
 the hours wore away without bringing him ; and unable ri last 
 to restrain the impetuosity of his feelings, proceeded to the par- 
 sonage, which he entered a few minutes after Howel. He asked, 
 with no great complacency, the reason he had not fulfilled his en- 
 gagement. Absorbed in one idea, Howol felt confused, agitated, 
 and unable to frame any excuse ; he 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 
 leveled against himself as well as Howel. He repented and re- 
 gretted 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 con- 
 viction, 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. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 41 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Hither turn 
 
 Thy graceful footsteps; hither, gentle maid. 
 
 Incline thy polished forehead. Let thy eyes 
 Effuse 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 neck, 
 
 The cheek fair-blooming, and the rosy lip, 
 
 Where winning smiles, and pleasure sweet as loye 
 With sanctity and wisdom, tempering blend 
 Their soft allurements.— Akensidb. 
 
 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 following 
 lines: 
 
 To Miss Dunford. 
 
 Lord Mortimer begs leave to assure Miss Dunford he shall remain dissatis- 
 fied with himself till he has an opportunity of personally apologizing for his 
 intrusion yesterday. If the sweetness of her disposition fulfills the promise 
 her face has given of it, he flatters himself his pardon will speedily be accorded ; 
 yet never shall he think himself entirely forgiven, if her visits to the library are 
 discontinued. Happy and honored shall Lord Mortimer consider himself, if 
 Tudor Hall contains anything which can amuse or merit the attention of Miss 
 Dunford. 
 
 July 17. 
 
 ‘ From Lord Mortimer ! ’ said Amanda, with 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 servant,’ said 
 she 
 
 ‘ Lort! ’ 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 refrain smiling; but disengaging herself 
 from the good woman, she arose, and going to the servant, de- 
 sired him to tell his lord, she thanked him 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 la- 
 mented 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* 
 
42 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 perfectly 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 approaching. 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 a air at once easy and respectful, and taking 
 her hand, besought forgiveness for his intrusion the preceding 
 day. Amanda blushed, and faltered out something of the 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 conde- 
 scended to visit the library, which he entreated her to do ; promis- 
 ing 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 re- 
 garded 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 sacrificing 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 suf- 
 fusion ; and her dress was only remarkable for its simplicit}^ ; she 
 wore a plain robe of dimity, and an abbey cap of thin muslin, 
 that shaded, without 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 ! ’ cried Lord 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 of another world 
 mourning over a kindred spirit. I felt 
 
 ‘ Awe-struck, and as I passed, I worshiped.’ , 
 
 Confused by the energy of his words, and the ardent glances 
 he directed toward 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 CherburyJ 
 ‘Cherbury?’ repeated she, in astonishment. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 is 
 
 * Do you know him? ’ asked Lord Mortimer. 
 
 ‘ Not personally; but I revere, I esteem him; he is one of the 
 oest, 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 ! ’ 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 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 bequeathed it. 
 
 ‘ I thought, indeed, my lord,’ said Amanda, as soon as she re- 
 covered her voice, ‘ that your lordship’s title was familiar to me ; 
 though why, from the hurry and perplexity in which particular 
 circumstances involved me, I could not tell. ’ 
 
 ‘ Oh, suffer,’ cried Lord Mortimer, with one of his most insinu- 
 ating smiles, ‘ the friendship which our parents feel to be contin- 
 ued to their children ; let this,’ taking her soft hand, and pressing 
 his lips to it, ‘be the pledge of amity between us.’ He now in- 
 quired when the intimacy between her father and his had com- 
 menced, and where the former was. But from those inquiries 
 Amanda shrunk. She reflected, that, without her father’s per- 
 mission, she had no right to answer them; and that in a situation 
 like his or hers, too much caution could not be observed. Be- 
 sides, 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 
 ^/ould ever answer his expectations. 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 in- 
 stead of inclination, and begged he would excuse her; the seem- 
 ing 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 
 
44 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 in refusinj^; 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 could not suffer this and he was compelled to be contented 
 with leave to meet her near the cottage when it came. 
 
 With a beating heart she kept her appointment, and found his 
 lordship not many yards distant from the cottage, impatiently 
 waiting her approach. A 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 experi- 
 enced 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 beau- 
 ties. 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 amphitheater, and their dark, luxuriant, and checkered 
 shades proclaimed that amongst them 
 
 The rude ax, with heaved stroke, 
 
 Was never heard, the nymphs to daunt, 
 
 Or fright them from their hallowed haunt. — 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 ver- 
 dant hills and dales, and skirted with a wild shrubbery, 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, en wreathed 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 alter- 
 nately 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 tw<? 
 
THE CHILDREJT OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 45 
 
 servants of his, who played on the clarinet and French horn, and 
 were stationed in a dell of the opposite mountain. Notwithstand- 
 ing all her former thoughts to the contrary, Amanda now con- 
 ceived a strong suspicion that Lord Mortimer was really the per- 
 son who had serenaded her ; 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 time 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 center of a little rustic bridge thrown over 
 the stream, from whence her voice could be sufficiently distin- 
 guished 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 friuts, ices, and creams, 
 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 par- 
 taken of this collation. 
 
 He was not by any means satisfied with the idea of only behold- 
 ing her for an hour or two of an evening ; 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 en- 
 treated permission to visit her sometimes of a morning, promis- 
 ing 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 per- 
 mission, is scarcely necessary to say ; and from this time few 
 hours passed without their seeing each other. 
 
 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 
 
46 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 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 valu- 
 able a connection of his ; the worth, too, she could not avoid ac- 
 knowledging to herself, of Lord Mortimer, would, of itself alone,, 
 have authorized them. Her heart felt he was one of the most amia- 
 ble, most pleasing of men ; she could scarcely disguise, in any de- 
 gree, 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 inter- 
 est in it, ere she was aware, which the elforts of subsequent reso- 
 lution could not overcome. He was the companion of her ram- 
 bles, the alleviator of her griefs ; the care w^hich so often saddened 
 her brow always vanished at his presence, and in conversing with 
 him she forgot every cause of sorrow . 
 
 He once or twice delicately hinted at those circumstances* which 
 at his first visit she had mentioned, as sufficiently distressing 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 ho professed for her 
 (which, from his attentions, she could not help sometimes flatter- 
 ing herself would be the case), then, indeed, 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 G-rove was the favorite scene of their rambles; sometimes; 
 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 enrapt- 
 ured Mortimer ; there, too, he frequently read for her, always select- 
 ing some elegant and pathetic piece of poetry’', to which the har- 
 mony of his voice gave additional charms; a voice which sunk 
 into the heart of Amanda, and interested her sensibility oven more 
 than the subject he perused. 
 
 Often straying to the valley’s verge, as they contemplated the 
 lovely prospect around, only bounded by distant and stupendous 
 mountains. Lord Mortimer, in strains of eloquence would des- 
 cribe 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 
 and wish he was to be her guide to them ; as to point out 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 47 
 
 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 expatiate on the pleasure he 
 conceived there must be in passing a tranquil life with one lovely 
 and beloved object : his insidious eyes, turned toward 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 sentiments, 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 some- 
 times 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 m 
 situations liable to interruption. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 She alone 
 
 Heard, felt, and seen, possesses every thought* 
 
 Fills every sense, and pants in every vein. 
 
 Books are but formal dullness, tedious friends. 
 
 And sad amid the social band he sits, 
 
 Lonely and unattentive. From his tongue 
 The unfinished period falls, while, borne away 
 On swelling thoughts his wafted spirit flies 
 To the vain bosom of his distant fair.— Thomson. 
 
 Howel was no stranger to the manner in which hours rolled 
 away at the cottage ; he hovered round it, and seized every inter- 
 val of Lord Mortimer’s absence to present himself before Amanda; 
 his emotions betrayed his feelings, and Amanda affected reserve 
 toward him, in hopes of suppressing his passion ; a passion, she 
 now began to think, when hopeless, must be dreadful. 
 
 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, perhaps, like 
 too many of the fashionable men, might make no scruple of avail- 
 ing 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, sweet- 
 est Amanda, mayest thou be lost to thyself ! ’ 
 
 He had received many proofs of esteem and friendship from 
 Lord Mortimer; he therefore studied how he might admonish 
 without offending, and save i^manda without injuring himself 
 
48 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 It at last occurred to him 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, without ap- 
 pearing as if designed for that purpose ; and timely convince him, 
 if, indeed, he meditated any injurious 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 wandered 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 de- 
 clension of moral principles demanded such an exhortation as he 
 was about to give, he commenced his subject; he described a 
 young female, adorned with beauty and innocence, walking for- 
 ward in the path of integrity, which a virtuous education had 
 early marked for her to take, and rejoicing as she went with all 
 around her ; when, in the midst of happiness, unexpected calamity 
 suddenly surprised and precipitated her from prosperity into the 
 deepest distress: he described the benefits she derived in this try- 
 ing period from early implanted virtue 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 particularly promised to afflicted worth. 
 Cheered by them, she is able to exert her little talents of genius 
 and taste, r.nd 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 a 
 conscious peace, which the mere possession of fortune could never 
 bestow. 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 blandish- 
 ments 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 
 «ome unfeeling being, whom want of similar temptations alone 
 perhaps saved from similar imprudence, she sinks an early victim 
 to wretchedness. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY* 4$ 
 
 Howel paused ; the fullness of his heart mounted to his eyes, 
 "which involuntarily turned and rested upon Amanda. Interested 
 by this 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 teai*s 
 trickling down her cheeks : the distresses of her own situation, 
 and the stratagems of Belgrave, made her, in some respects, per- 
 ceive a resemblance between herself 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 handkerchief, 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 
 between 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 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 inquire into her motives for retire- 
 ment; 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 en- 
 couraging the wishes her loveliness 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 information he could not doubt her 
 having immediately communicated 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 ar- 
 ival, but concealed it from Amanda, that she should not be dis- 
 appointed of going to the hall, which she knew, if once informed 
 of it, she would not go to. 
 
 ’Tis tnie. Lord Mortimer saw Amanda wore fat leasL the 
 
50 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 blance of innocence: but this could not remove his suspicions, SQ 
 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 involuntary 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 en wrapt in the foliage ; and, to use the expression of a late 
 much-admired author, ‘ The retiring graces have ever been reck- 
 oned the most beautiful.’ 
 
 He had never heard the earl mention a person of the name of 
 Dunford ; and he knew not, or rather suspected, little credit was to 
 be given to her assertion of an intimacy between them, particu- 
 larly as he saw her, whenever the subject was mentioned, shrink- 
 ing from it in the greatest confusion. 
 
 Her reserve he imputed to pretense ; and flattering himself it 
 would soon wear off, 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 immedi- 
 ate change as the decreasing reserve of her manners gave him 
 greater and more frequent opportunities of discovering her 
 mental perfections ; the strength of her understanding, the just- 
 ness of her remarks, the liveliness of her fancy, above all, the 
 purity which mingled in every sentiment, and the modesty which 
 accompanied every word, filled him with delight and amazement ; 
 his doubts gradually 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 Howel 
 completely roused him, and made him seriously ask his heart, 
 what were his intentions relative to Amanda. Of such views 
 as he perceived Howei suspected 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 everyone does, who acts against their better judg- 
 ment) that he had not fled at the first intimation of his danger. 
 So truly formidable indeed did these obstacles appear, that he at 
 ^imes resolved to break with Amanda, if he could fix upon an| 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 51 
 
 plan for doing so, without injuring his honor, after the great itlx 
 tention 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, re- 
 questing she would inquire from his father whether he knew a 
 person of the name of Dunford ; and if he did, what his situation 
 and family were. Lord Mortimer begged her ladyship not to 
 mention the inquiries being dictated by him, and promised at 
 some future period to explain the reason of them. He still con- 
 tinued his assiduities to Amanda, and at the expected time re- 
 ceived an answer to his letter ; but how was he shocked and 
 alarmed, when informed Lord Cherbury never 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 in- 
 quire 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 embarrassment, to mention to his sis- 
 ter 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, v/ithout his real motives for making them were as- 
 signed, 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 addresse' ■ i:hem^ 
 inquiring whether they had been successful in the disposal 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 
 'iggs ’ (unpinning her white apron, and smoothing it nicely down 
 Ti’ she spoke), ‘ this young lort wants to have our company, that 
 
52 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 he may find out something apout Miss Amanda. Ah, pless her 
 pretty face, I thought how it would be ; but we must be as cun- 
 ning as foxes, and not tell too much nor too little, because if we 
 told too much it would offend her, and she would ask us how we 
 got all our intelligence, 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 her 
 everything apout herself, and then she will tell him of her own 
 accord: so, David, mind what you say, I charge you.’ ‘ Ay, ay,’ 
 cried David, ‘ leave me alone; I’ll wa'rrant you you’ll always find 
 ail old soldier ’cute enough for anypoty.’ 
 
 Wlien they reached the Hall, they were shown into a parlor, 
 where Lord Mortimer was expecting them: with difiiculty 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 whether there was any- 
 thing wanting to render it more comfortable. ‘ No,’ Edwin re- 
 plied, with a low bow, thanking his honorable lordship for his in- 
 quiry. 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 sub- 
 ject 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 Dunford 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 un- 
 like anything she had before been accustomed to, she made herself 
 quite happy with it.’ ‘ Her father must miss her society v^ery 
 much,’ exclaimed 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 stop- 
 ping in the middle of the room, for hitherto he had been walking 
 backward and forward. ‘ ’T was 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 everything; that Miss Amanda was 
 not what she appeared to be ; no, if the truth was told, not the per- 
 son she passed for at all ; but, Lort, she would never forgive me,^ 
 cried the nurse, ‘ if your lortship told her it was from me your lort 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 63 
 
 ship 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 unwilling to in- 
 quire further. It was plain Amanda was unworthy of his esteem ; 
 and to inquire into the circumstances which occasioned that un- 
 worthiness, would only have tortured him. He rung the bell 
 abruptly, and ordering Mrs. Abergwilly to attend the Edwins^ 
 withdrew immediately to another room. Now there was an op- 
 portunity 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, disappointment, 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 pro- 
 posals. 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 re- 
 sisted his passion, and forsook her entirely. Full of this idea, and 
 influenced by resentment for her supposed deceit, he resolved, 
 without longer delay, to fulfill the purpose which had brought him 
 into Wales, namely, visiting his friend; but how frail is resolu- 
 tion and resentment when opposed to tenderness ! Without suffer- 
 ing himself to believe there was the least abatement of either in 
 his mind, he forbid the carriage, in a few minutes after he had 
 ordered it, merely, he persuaded himself, for the purpose of yet 
 more severely?* mortifying Amanda : as his continuing a little longer 
 in the neighborhood, without noticing her, might perhaps con- 
 vince 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 re- 
 solved should no longer be the case : some were yet unanswered 
 and these he meant to accept, as means indeed of keeping hin^ 
 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 
 Vywuifif comparisons between them. He grew restless ; his ur> 
 
94r 
 
 THE CHILDREX OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 happiness increased ; and he at last felt that if he desired to ex- 
 perience any comfort, he must no longer absent himself from 
 Amanda ; and also that, if she refused to accede to the only pro- 
 posals 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 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 uneasiness, 
 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 expectation 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 at Slienkin’s, 
 and among 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 company, and a grand ball 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 re- 
 ceived his assiduities ; she reproached him for ever having paid 
 those assiduities, knowing, as he must, the insincerit}^ or incon- 
 stancy 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; and 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, 
 v^ith slow and pensive 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 verj 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 Mortimer; snatching 
 her hand, he insisted on knowing why she appeared so desirous 
 to avoid him. Amanda made no reply to this, but desired he 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 51 
 
 would let her go. ‘ Never/ he exclaimed, ‘ till you wear another 
 face to me. Oh ! did you know the pain I have suffered since last 
 we met, you would from pity, I am sure, treat me with less cold- 
 ness.’ Amanda’s heart throbbed with sudden pleasure; but she 
 soon silenced its emotion, by reflecting that a declaration of un- 
 easiness, at the very time he was entering into gayety, had some- 
 thing 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 too firmly for her 
 to be successful ; he saw she was offended, and it gave him flatter- 
 ing ideas of the estimation in which he stood with her, since to re- 
 sent 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 occasioned 
 his absence, in indirect terms he apologized for it, saying what in- 
 deed 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 invi- 
 tations, which at sometime or other he must have done, to avoid 
 giving offense; and by acting as he had done, he reserved the 
 precious moments of returning tranquillity for her he adored. 
 Ah I how readily do we receive any apology, do we admit of any 
 excuse, that comes from a beloved object! Amanda felt as if a 
 weight was suddenly removed from her heart; her eyes were no 
 longer bent to the earth, her cheek no longer pale ; and a smile, 
 the smile of innocence and love, enlivened all her features. She 
 seemed suddenly to forget her hand was detained by Lord Morti- 
 mer, 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 Mortimer, 
 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 innocent 
 Amanda infer, but that he intended, by uniting his destiny 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 pursued their way 
 through Tudor Grove, the sky, which 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 scarcely had they turned 
 for that purpose, ere the vivid lightning fiashed across their path, 
 and the thunder awfully reverberated amongst the hills. Th^ 
 Hall was much nearer than the cottage, and Lord Mortimer, 
 
56 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 
 w^ere quite dry ; and immediately ordered tea and coffee, c.s she 
 refused any other refreshments; 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 rap- 
 ture, 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 experienced from the attention of Lord 
 Mortimer. He restrained not, he could not restrain, the feelings 
 of his soul. ‘ Oh, what happiness! ’ he exclaimed. ‘No wonder 
 I found all society tasteless, after having experienced yours. 
 Where could I find such softness, yet such sensibility; such 
 sweetness, yet such animation ; such beauty, yet such apparent 
 unconsciousness of it? Oh, my Amanda, smoothly must that life 
 glide on, whose destiny you shall share! ’ 
 
 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 de- 
 part. 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 contrary. She insisted 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; 
 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 green, and the dew- 
 drop that had heightened their 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 57 
 
 cf calm and vernal nature never fail of raising in minds of piety 
 and tenderness. 
 
 ‘ ’Tis lovely, indeed ! ’ repeated Lord Mortimer, who returned 
 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 
 enciixjling 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 separating? ' 
 
 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 toward 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 service; and that his 
 fortune, like his heart, should be in her possession. Trembling 
 while she struggled to free herself from his arms, Amanda de- 
 manded what he meant; her manner somewhat surprised and 
 confused him ; but recollecting this was the moment for expla- 
 nation, he, though with half-averted eyes, declared 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. 
 
 ‘ From the basest of men, ’ cried she struggling to disengage 
 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 ,their luster, 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 ta 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY, 
 
 3^8 
 
 his heart. * Oh, my love ! ’ he exclaimed, laying his hand on hei 
 trembling one, ‘ what do you mean by departing so abruptly?’ 
 
 ‘ My meaning, my lord,’ cried she, rising and shaking liis hand 
 from hers, ‘ is now as obvious as your own — I seek, forever, to 
 quit a man who, under the appearance of delicate attention, medi- 
 tated so base a scheme against me. My credulity may havc> 
 yielded you amusement, but it has afforded you no triumph ; the 
 tenderness which I know you think, which I shall not deny you^ 
 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. O 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, ‘ OhV 
 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 ^ 
 person I despise can be of little consequence to me; yet,’ con» 
 tinned 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 unex- 
 pected distress, wished me to adopt another till his affairs were 
 settled.’ 
 
 . ‘ This concealment has undone me,’ exclaimed Lord Mortimer. 
 
 ‘ It has led me into an error, I shall never cease repenting. O 
 Amanda I 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.’ 
 
 ‘No, my lord,’ cried Amanda, ‘ willingly I will not allow my 
 self to be deceived ; for without deceit, I am convinced you could 
 mention no circumstance which could possibly palliate your con- 
 duct, Dr 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 retired ; and the 
 knowledge of your being Lord Cherbury’s son first induced me to 
 receive your visits. I suffered their continuance, because I thought 
 you amiable ; sad mistake ! Oh I cruel, ungenerous Mortimer, 
 how have you abused my unsuspecting confidence ! ’ 
 
 As she ended these words, she moved toward the door. Awed 
 by her manner, confounded by her reproaches, tortured by re* 
 morse and half offended at her refusing to hear his vindication* 
 he no longer attempted to prevent her quitting the apartment ^ 
 he followed her, however, from it. ‘ What do you mean, mj 
 jord/ asked she, ‘ by coming after me ? ’ 
 
 I 
 
THE CHILDREN- OF THE ABBEY. 5® 
 
 • 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 ; but, 
 Amanda, I cannot endure your reproaches. Pause for a few min- 
 utes, 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 distracted air. 
 ^Amanda,’ said he, ‘ I cannot bear to part with you in this man- 
 ner ; you think me the veriest villain on earth ; you will drive 
 me from your heart ; I shall become abhorrent to you.’ 
 
 ‘Most assuredly, my lord,’ replied she, in a solemn voice. 
 
 ‘ Cannot compunction then extenuate my error ? ’ 
 
 ‘’Tis not compuncion, ’tis regret you feel, for finding your 
 designs unsuccessful.’ 
 
 ‘ No ; by all that is sacred, ’tis remorse for ever having medi- 
 tated such an injury. Yet I again repeat, if you listen to me, you 
 will find I am not so culpable as you believe. Oh I let me be- 
 seech 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 I dearest Amanda,’ kneeling before her, 
 * drive me not from you in the hour of penitence.’ 
 
 ‘ You plead in vain, my lord, ’cried she, breaking from him. 
 
 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 
 be 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 ac“ 
 knowledge,* continued she, ‘ I believe you possessed of sensibility; 
 and an anticipation of the painful feelings it will excite on the re- 
 flection of your conduct to me, now stops my further reproaches. 
 Ah { my lord, timely profit by mental correction, nor ever again 
 encourage a passion which virtue cannot sanction or reasou 
 Justify.* 
 
 Thus spoke the angel ; 
 
 And the grave rebuke, severe in youthful beauty. 
 
 Added grace invincible. 
 
 Amanda darted from Lord Mortimer ; and entering the cottaga 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 hastily closed the door. Her looks terrified the nurse, who wae 
 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 
 thunderstorm in Tudor Hall. 
 
 Amanda had neither hat nor cloak on ; her face was pale a& 
 death ; her hair blown by the wind, and wet from the rain, hung 
 disheveled 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 g^^eat 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 sub- 
 ject ; and having made her promise not to admit him, she retired 
 to her chamber faint, weary, and distressed. The indignity 
 offered her by Colonel Belgrave had insulted her purity 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 disappointed 
 tenderness. ‘Alas! my father,’ she cried, ‘is this the secure 
 retreat you fondly thought you had discovered for me ! Sad 
 mistake I Less had I to dread from the audacious front of vice, 
 than the insidious form of virtue ; delicacy shrinking from one 
 immediately announced the danger ; but innocence inspired con° 
 fidence in the other ; and credulity instead of suspicion occupied 
 the mind. Am I doomed to be the victim 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, 
 jvhat 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.” O Mortimer I 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 in- 
 genuous mind, oppressed with a consciousness of error, must ever 
 feel ; the most implacable vengeance could not devise a greater 
 punishtnent for him than his own thoughts inflicted ; the empire 
 of inordinate passion was overthrown, and honor and reason re- 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 61 
 
 gained their full and natural ascendancy over them. When he 
 reflected on the uniform appearance of innocence Amanda had al- 
 ways worn, he wondered at his weakness in ever having doubted 
 its reality — at his audacity, in ever having insulted it ; when he 
 reflected on her melancholy, he shuddered as if having aggra- 
 vated 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 prevail- 
 ing on her to listen to tht 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 rep- 
 aration ; 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 object. Impetuous in his pas- 
 sions, the lapse of the hours was insupportably tedious ; and the 
 idea of waiting till the morning to declare his penitence, his inten- 
 tion, and again implore her forgiveness, filled him with agony ; he 
 went up to the cottage and laid his hand upon the latch ; he 
 hesitated ; even from the rustics 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 con- 
 tent 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 window ; 
 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 himself 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 fullness of reconciliation, press her to 
 his throbbing heart, as the sweet partner of his future days. Thii 
 light was at last extinguished ; but he could not rest, and con- 
 tinued to wander about like a perturbed spirit till the day began tc 
 dawn, and he saw some early peasants coming to their labors. 
 
52 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBBT. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII, 
 
 Oh let me now, into a richer soil, 
 
 Transplant thee safe, where vernal suns and showers 
 Diffuse their warmest, largest influence ; 
 
 And of my garden be the pride and joy.— Thomson. 
 
 The moment he thought he could see Amanda, Mortimer has- 
 tened 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 ; but her sullen air declared her 
 dissatisfaction. ‘ Miss Fitzalan was too ill,' she said, ‘to see com- 
 pany ’ (for Lord Mortimer had inquired for Amanda by her real 
 name, detesting the one of Dunford, to which, in a 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 low- 
 est ebb of dejection, she felt solitude alone congenial to her feelings* 
 Hitherto the morning had been impatiently expected ; for, with 
 Mortimer, she enjoyed its 
 
 Cool, its fragrant, and its silent hour. 
 
 But no Mortimer was now desired. In the evening he made 
 another attempt ; and finding Ellen alone, sent in a supplicatory 
 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 
 move.’ 
 
 He heard her words, and in a fit of passion and disappointment 
 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 atten- 
 tions which strike a vulgar eye, and had often laughed and fami- 
 liary chatted with Ellen, she took it into her head he was an 
 admirer of hers ; and if being the object of Chip’s admiration ex- 
 cited the envy of her neighbors, how much would that increase 
 when the parson’s predilection was known? She set about adorn- 
 ing herself for her appointment; and while thus employed the 
 honest, faithful Chip entered, attired in his holiday clothes, to es- 
 cort her to a little dance. Ellen bridled up at the first intimation 
 of it ; and delighted with the message Amanda had sent to Lord 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 63 
 
 Mortimer, which in her opinion was extremely eloquent, she re- 
 solved 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 me to adhere to it. I tell you, Tim,’ cried she,, 
 waving the corner of her white apron, for white handkerchief she 
 had not, ‘I wonder at your presumptioness in making it; cease 
 your flattering expressions of love, look out among 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 mean* 
 ing. ‘ 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 saying, he ran from the house. 
 
 Ellen surveyed herself with great admiration, and expected noth- 
 ing 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 ! ’ exclaimed he, pleasure sparkling in his eyes ; 
 ‘ then I may reurge 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 
 Mortimer was acquainted with Amanda’s name, she thought there 
 was no longer reason for concealing it from anyone, and had in 
 formed Howel of it.) 
 
 ‘ Miss Fitzalan ! ’ repeated she, starting and changing color. 
 
 ‘ Yes, Ellen, the dear, lovely Miss Fitzalan, whom I adore mor6 
 than language can express, or imagination conceive.’ 
 
 Adieu to Ellen’s airy hopes ; her chagrin could not be concealed ; 
 and tears burst from her. The curate tenderly inquired the cause 
 of her emotion; though vain, she was not artful, and could not 
 disguise it. • ‘ Why, really, you made such speeches, I thought — 
 and then you looked so. But it is no matter ; I pelieve all men 
 are teceitful.’ 
 
 From her tears and disjoined sentences, he began to suspect some 
 
^4 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 thing, 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, was a pity ; she 
 therefore resolved on going to the dance, consoling 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 aown 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 comes to hand, I 
 shall be on my way to enter one of the King’s ships, and Heaven knows whether we 
 «hall 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 
 the 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, however, at 
 the same time, of her sincere friendship. 
 
 ‘This then shall suffice,’ said he. ‘ Neither sorrow nor disap- 
 pointment 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 suc- 
 cessful. In despair at finding neither letters nor messages re- 
 ceived by Amanda, he at last, by stratagem, effected an inter- 
 view. Meeting one of the young Edwins returning from the 
 post-town with a letter, he inquired, and heard it was for Miss 
 Eitzalan ; a little persuasion prevailed on the young man to re- 
 linquish 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 deceive her!’ 
 exclaimed Lord Mortimer; ‘nor will I give the letter into any 
 hands but hers.’ ‘This, my lord,’ said Amanda, coming from 
 her chamber, ‘ is really cruel ; but give me the letter,’ impatientljf 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 65 
 
 stretching* out her hand for it. ‘ Another condition remains to be 
 complied with,’ cried he, seizing her soft hand, which she, how- 
 ever, instantly ^with drew; ‘you must read it. Miss Pitzalan, in 
 my presence.’ ‘ Good Heavens, how you torment me!’* she ex- 
 claimed. ‘Do you comply then?’ ‘Yes,’ she replied, and re- 
 ceived the letter Irom him. The pity and compunction of his 
 lordship increased as he gazed on her pale face, while her eyes 
 eagerly ran over the contents of the letter, which were as fol- 
 lows: 
 
 To Mies Fitzalan : 
 
 To be able to communicate pleasune to my Amanda, rewards me for tedious months 
 of wretchedness. Dry up your tears, sweet child of early sorrow, for the source of 
 grief exists no longer; Lord Cherbury has been kind beyond my warmest expectations^ 
 and has given me the ineffable delight, as far as pecuniary matters can do, of render- 
 ing 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. Tho 
 faithful Edwins will rejoice in the renewed fortune of their dear Amanda’s affectionate 
 father. 
 
 Jermyn Street. . Augustus Fitzalan. 
 
 The emotions of Amanda were irrepressible ; the letter dropped 
 from her trembling hands, and her streaming eyes were raised to 
 heaven. ‘ Oh, bless him 1 ’ 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 I ask,’ said Lord Mortimer, ‘ merits so sweet a 
 prayer from Amanda? ’ 
 
 ‘See,’ cried she, presenting him 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 him- 
 self, he again approached her. ‘ And while you so sweetly pray 
 for the felicity of the father,’ said he, ‘ are you resolved on doom- 
 ing the son to despair? If sincere penitence can extenuate 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 willfully injured in- 
 nocence, so I cannot bear to be considered as its violator. Amidst 
 the wildness, the extravagance of youth, which with compunc- 
 tion I acknowledge being too often led into, my heart 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.’ 
 
66 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 The idea of his being able to vindicate himself scarcely afford' 
 ed less pleasure to Amanda than it did to Lord Mortimer, bhe 
 suffered him to reseat her, while he related the circumstances 
 which had led him astray in his opinion of her. Oh ! how fervent 
 was the rapture that pervaded Amanda’s heart, when, as she listen- 
 ed 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 
 her ; for oh ! what delight is there in knowing that an object we 
 cannot help loving we may still esteem. ‘ Thus,’ continued Lord 
 Mortimer, ‘have I accounted for my ^rror : an error which, ex- 
 cept on account of your displeasure, I know not whether I should 
 regret, as it has convinced me, more forciblj^ than any other cir- 
 cumstance could have done, of the perfections of your mind, and 
 has, besides, removed from mine prejudices which causelessly I 
 did not entertain against your sex. Was every woman in a 
 similar situation 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 deci- 
 sion, and suffer me to write to Mr. Fitzalan, and request him to be- 
 stow on me the greatest treasure one being could possibly 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 plead- 
 ed as powerfully as his solicitations did for pardoning him ; and if 
 she did not absolutely extend her hand, she at least suffered 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 honest rustics, whom 
 Lord Mortimer liberally rewarded for their fidelity to his Amanda, 
 and whom she readily excused for their ambiguous expressions to 
 him, knowing they proceeded from simplicity of heart, and a wish 
 of serving her, yet without injuring themselves, by betraying the 
 manner in which they had procured their intelligence of her sit- 
 uation. 
 
 The day after the reconciliation. Lord Mortimer told Amanda he 
 was compelled, for a short time, to leave her ; with that reluctance, 
 he hoped, he said, she could readily conceive ; but the visit, which 
 lie had come into Wales for the purpose of paying, had been so 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBET. 
 
 67 
 
 long deferred, his friend was growing impatient, and threatened 
 to come to Tudor Hall to see what detained him there. To pre- 
 vent 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 re« 
 turned there would be a letter from Mr. Fitzalan, which would 
 authorize his immediate 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 connections of her 
 heart, and of gratifying the benevolence of her disposition, and 
 the elegance of her taste. Oh, how delightful to think she should 
 be able to soothe the declining period of her father’s life, by pro- 
 viding for him all the requisite indulgences of age ! oh, how de- 
 lightful to think she should be accessory to her dear Oscar’s pro- 
 motion ! how rapturous to imagine at her approach the drooping 
 children of misery would brighten with pleasing presages of relief, 
 which she should amply realize ! Such were Amanda’s anticipa- 
 tions of what she termed the blessings of an affluent fortune ; fe- 
 licity, 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 possessed 
 more than sufficient for even the luxuries of life. Such where 
 the ideas of the innocent and romantic Amanda — ideas which 
 made her seem to tread on air, and which she entertained till sub- 
 sequent experience convinced her of their fallacyc 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Alas ! the story melts away my soul 1 
 That best of fathers, how shall I discharge 
 The gratitude and duty which I owe him ? 
 
 — By laying up his counsels in your heart. — C ato. 
 
 Amanda was sitting in the recess in the garden, the fourth even- 
 ing of Lord Mortimer's absence, when suddenly she heard the rat- 
 tling 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 powel 
 
68 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 to bid him welcome, or return the fond caresses he bestowed upoQ 
 her. *Iam 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 Heav* 
 on ! ’ 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 par- 
 ents permit, to procure her attendance for you. ’ 
 
 The Edwins, who would have followed themselves, or allowed 
 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-a verted 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 ; tears ran down her cheeks, and for the 
 ffrst time she conceived the idea of being hurried away to avoid 
 Lord^Mortimer ; but why, she could not think — honor 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 purpose, her hand was unsteady, and she was so much 
 disturbed by the nurse and her daughters, who ran backward and 
 forward 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 suf- 
 fer the horses to be taken from the chaise, or any refreshment 
 to be brought him by the Edwins, notwithstanding their pressing 
 entreaties ; neither would he answer their interrogatories as to 
 where he was going, saying they should know hereafter. The 
 parting embrace was at last given and received with a heavy 
 heart — Amanda was handed to the carriage — silence picvailed — 
 all the travelers were equally though differently affected ; the 
 cottage and the spire of the village church had awakened the 
 most affecting remembrances in the mind of Fitzalan, and tears 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 6d 
 
 fell from him to the memory of his unfortunate 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 car- 
 riage soon conveyed them ; but the impressions they left upon their 
 minds were not so easily eradicated. Fitzalan was the first to* 
 break the unsocial 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 obliged 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, while she admired, 
 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 projections of Penmaen- 
 mawr ; this was a scene as new as awful to Amanda : ‘ Well, Cot 
 
 in heaven pless their souls.’ Ellen said, ‘what a tefil of a w^ay 
 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 night. Amanda’s strength, 
 and spirits were now so entirely exhausted, that had not a glass, 
 of wine been immediately 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 father 
 left her and Ellen together, while he went to give directions 
 £,bout the journey of the ensuing day. 
 
 Amanda went to the window and threw up the sash ; the air 
 from the mountains she thought refreshed her, the darkness of 
 the hour was opposed by a bright moon, which cast a tremblings 
 radiance upon the water, and by its partial gleams exhibited a 
 beautiful scene of light and shade, that had Amanda been in an- 
 other frame of mind she would infinitely have admired ; the scene 
 too was almost as still as it was lovely, for no voice was heard ex- 
 cept 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 opposite 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 an- 
 nounced them to be men of fashion ; they seemed by their dis- 
 course to be a convivial party; the light was too dim to allow 
 their faces to be discerned, but in the figure of one Amanda thought 
 she perceived a strong resemblance to Lord Mortimer ; her heart 
 throbbed, she leaned forward to endeavor to distinguish more 
 plainly, and at the moment heard his well-known voice ordering his 
 groom to have the horses ready at twelve o’clock, as he woul# 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 ITO 
 
 take the advantage of such fine weather to set off at that hour foie 
 Tudor Hall ; the party were then ushered into 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 pre- 
 parations for a late dinner. Oh ! what were now the agitations of 
 Amanda, to think that in one moment she could inform Lord 
 Mortimer of her situation ; but the transport the idea gave was re- 
 linquished almost as soon as felt, as such a measure she thought 
 might perhaps forever disoblige her father. In this tumult of doubt 
 and perplexity he found her ; and by his conduct con vinced her that 
 he not only knew of Lord Mortimer’s being in the house, but wished 
 her to avoid him; for he instantly led her from the window, and 
 shutting it down, darted, for the first time in his life, a severe frown 
 at her ; a dagger in the breast of Amanda could scarcely have given 
 her more pain — a cold horror ran through her veins, and she was 
 oppressed by as many fears as if she had been conscious of offend- 
 ing him. The supper he had ordered was a little retarded by the late 
 dinner of his gay neighbors ; he would have had it in another room 
 had another been disengaged; 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 ex- 
 hilarating 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 violently 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 of his companions ; ‘ this angel shall 
 not pass without the rest of her name.’ ‘Miss Fitzalan, then, ’ex- 
 claimed his lordship. ‘Oh ! oh ! ’ cried a new voice, with a loud laugh, 
 after due honor had been paid to the toast, ‘ I begin to unravel a 
 mystery; upon my soul I could not conceive till this 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 was not very attractive; 
 but this Amanda,! suppose, is the rosy daughter of some poor curate 
 in its vicinity, who for ’ ‘ Beware I ’ interrupted Lord Mor- 
 
 timer 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 even less protected, her own 
 elegance and propriety would elevate her above receiving any.* 
 The face of Fitzalan, during this conversation, was crimsoned ovei; 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 71 
 
 and he again darted a frown at the trembling Amanda, which almost 
 petrified her ; he told her that she and Ellen must retire immediate^ 
 ly to rest as they had a long journey before them the ensuing day, 
 which would require their rising early. Amanda, for the first 
 time in her life, wished to be relieved from his presence, and gladly 
 rose to obey him ; he attended her himself to the room prepared for 
 her, which was directly 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 consola- 
 tion : ‘ What the tefil do you think,’ said she, ‘ if I was to go down 
 to give his lortship an intimation of your 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 Mortimer’s voice, and 
 determined, anxious as she was to see him, never to act in opposi- 
 tion to her father. At length the horses were led from the stable, 
 and the convivial party descended to them. Amanda softly raised 
 the window, and saw Lord Mortimer eagerly vault upon the saddle ; 
 he gave a hasty adieu to his friends, and galloped off; 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 died 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 desiring her 
 to rise immediately. Drowsy as she was, she instantly obeyed the 
 summons, and awaking Ellen, they were ready ^o attend him in a 
 few minutes; a boat was already prepared, and on gaining the op- 
 posite side they found a carriage in waiting. Day was now just 
 uawning ; a gray mist enveloped the mountains, and cast a shade of 
 obscurity upon all the inferior objects ; at length the atmosphere 
 began to brighten — the lucid clouds in the east were tinged with 
 golden radiance, and the sun in beautiful 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 grate- 
 ful homage, while their winged inhabitants, as they soared in the 
 air, poured forth the softest notes of melody. Amanda, in spite of 
 Badness, 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' 
 
72 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 hardened must that heart be against the feelings of sensibility 
 which the harmony and fragrance of this early hour awakens not 
 to a perfect 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 
 proceeded, without resting again, to Holyhead, which place 
 Fitzalan announced as they entered it. And now, Amanda first 
 conceived the idea of being brought to another kingdom, whicli 
 her father soon confirmed her in — for, as soon as they alighted, he 
 inquired when a packet would sail, and heard, with evident 
 pleasure, about six in the afternoon. He directly desired three 
 passages to be engaged ; and, having ordered an early dinner, dis- 
 missed Ellen into another room ; and seating himself by Amanda, 
 he took her hand, and with a tender voice thus addressed her : ‘ Ta 
 give pain to your gentle heart has infiicted torture on mine, but 
 honor compelled me to 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 arrivsPl in town, I was immediately in- 
 formed 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 me of in- 
 dependence — this was to accept the agency of a considerable estate 
 in the north of Ireland, which he possessed in right of his wife, 
 the late Countess of Cherbury, who was an Irish heiress. He pro- 
 posed 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 Mortimer’s letter, 
 like a clap of thunder, broke the happy calm I enjoyed. Gracious 
 Heaven ! I shuddered to think, that at the very period Lord Cher- 
 bury was building up my fortunes, the hopes he entertained for 
 this darling 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 on ; this the infatuated young man had him- 
 self 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 73 
 
 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 expense of integrity, grasp an opportunity of 
 elevating a child to rank and fortune ; but never was an erring 
 mortal more mistaken, though dearer to me than the air I breathe — 
 though the lovely child of my lost Malvina — though a cherub, 
 whose innocent endearments often raised in me, as Prospero says : 
 
 An undergoing stomach— to bear up 
 
 Against what should ensue. 
 
 I would rather see you breathless at my feet, than, by conscious 
 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 traveled 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 sensibility and refinement 
 like yours could never, I know, be happy if treated with repulsive 
 coldness by the family of her husband; particularly if her con- 
 science told her she merited that coldness by entering it clandes- 
 tinely. Could I bear to think that 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 un- 
 doubtedly, 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, 1 
 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 hereditary possession that ever came to me unin- 
 jured ; 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 action — she sat a 
 pale statue, listening to her father’s firm and rapid language, 
 which announced the abolition of her hopes; ignorant of her ina 
 
74 
 
 THE CHILDKEN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 bility 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 con- 
 soled me for what then was lost,’ ‘ Oh! my father ! ’ exclaimed 
 Amanda, suddenly starting and sighing deeply, ‘ how you pierce 
 my heart! ’ his pale, emaciated looks seemed to declare him sinking 
 beneath a burden of care ; she started up, and flung herself into his 
 arms. ‘ Dearest, best of fathers ! ’ 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 competition 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 recompense the pain atten- 
 dant 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; sickness 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 morning 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 glowing radiance; they landed at the Marine Hotel, where 
 they breakfasted, and then proceeded in a carriage to a hotel in 
 Chapel Street, where they proposed staying a few days for the pur- 
 pose 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 Chapel Street, Amanda 
 saw a young officer standing at the corner of Mary’s Abbey, whose 
 air very much resembled Oscar’s ; her heart palpitated ; she looked 
 out and perceived the resemblance 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, 
 
 75 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 And whence, unhappy youth, he 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 con- 
 venience and amusement, and Oscar attended her to the most 
 celebrated shops to make her purchases; having supplied herself 
 with a pretty fashionable assortment for her wardrobe, she pro- 
 cured a small collection of books, sufficient, however, from their 
 excellence, to form a little library in themselves, and every req- 
 uisite for drawing ; nor did she forget the little wants and van- 
 ities 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 sup- 
 pose 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 almost ever an attendant drawback, and he 
 now experienced one of the most corroding kind from the altera- 
 tion 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 spon- 
 taneous, but constrained, as if assumed for the purpose of veiling 
 deep and heartfelt sorrow. . 
 
 Fitzalan, with all the anxiety and tenderness of a parent, del- 
 icately expressed his wish of learning the source of his uneasiness, 
 that by so doing he might be better qualified to alleviate it, hint- 
 ing at the same time, in indirect terms, that if occasioned by any 
 of the imprudences which youth is sometimes 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 uneasiness ; he begged his 
 father, however, to believe (since he had unfortunately perceived 
 :t) that it was not derived from imprudence ; he pretended to say 
 it was but a slight chagrin, which would soon wear away of itself 
 if not renewed by inquiries. Fitzalan, however, was too much 
 affected by the subject to drop it as readily as Oscar wished. 
 After regarding him for a few minutes with an attention as mourn- 
 ful as fixed, while they sat around the table after dinner, he sud- 
 denly exclaimed, ‘ 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 
 
76 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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, sudden- 
 ly spoke of Colonel Belgrave, who, at present, he said, was absent 
 from 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 re- 
 gain her composure. ‘ Know her ! ’ repeated he, with an involun- 
 tary sigh, ‘ oh, yes ! ’ Then, after the pause of a few minutes, turn- 
 ing 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 necessary 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 short- 
 ly 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 attain the ability of hastening your advancement, or add* 
 ing to your happiness.’ ‘My happiness'!’ Oscar mournfully 
 repeated ; tears filled his eyes ; he could no longer restrain them ; 
 and starting up, hurried to a window.. Amanda followed, unut- 
 terably affected at his emotion : ‘Oscar, my dear Oscar,’ said she, 
 and she fiung her arms round his neck, ‘you distress me beyond 
 example.’ He sat down, and leaning his head on her bosom, as 
 she stood before him, his tears fell through her handkerchief. 
 ‘O Heavens!’ exclaimed Fitzalan, clasping his hands together, 
 ‘what a sight is this ! Oh ! my children, from your felicity alone 
 could I ever derive 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, ‘amid 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 
 consolation 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 un- 
 happy father ! ’ 
 
 Amanda’s tears began to stream, and Oscar’s for a few minutes 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 7 ? 
 
 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 fulfill your expecta- 
 tions ; 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 ; 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 Am- 
 anda there ; the proposal was not objected to, and Ellen, who they 
 knew would particularly delight in such an amusement, was com- 
 mitted to the 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 most elegant girls pres- 
 ent. 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 exhibition, and Ellen, who 
 sat behind her on a bench, afforded innocent mirth by her re- 
 marks. ‘Pless her soul and poty too,’ she said, ‘ it was the most 
 comical and wonderful est sight she had ever seen in her porn 
 days.’ A string of redcoats would have attended Amanda to the 
 hotel had not Oscar prevented 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 Eitzalan and Amanda continued their journey 
 to the north, where Oscar assured them he expected leave to visit 
 them the following summer, after the reviews were over ; as he 
 helped his sister in the carriage she put a pocket-book into his hand 
 (given by her father for that purpose), which contained something 
 to replenish his purse. 
 
 Ere we attend the travelers, or rather while they are journey- 
 ing along, we shall endeavor to account for the dejection of Oscar. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Prom 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 to fast. 
 
 He made his wish with his estate comply, 
 
 Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die : 
 
 One child he had— a daughter chaste and fair, 
 
 His age’s comfort, and his fortune’s heir.— Prior. 
 
 Oscar’s regiment, on his first joining it in Ireland, was quan 
 lered in Enniskillen, the corps was agreeable, and the inhabitant# 
 
T8 
 
 THE C?HIEI)REN OP THE ABBET. 
 
 of the town hospitable and polite. He felt all the delight of 9 
 young and enterprising mind, at entering, what appeared to him^ 
 the road to glory and pleasure ; many of his idle mornings were 
 spent in rambling 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 glow- 
 ing 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 accordingly 
 opened a small gate, and ascending 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 he stood, a beautiful fair face peeping out ; he in- 
 voluntarily started, and pushing aside the girl, made a step into 
 the passage ; the room door directly opened, and an elderly wom- 
 an, of a genteel figure and pleasing countenance, appeared. ‘ Good 
 Heaven ! ’ 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. I 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 
 disappointment to you.’ 
 
 She then politely showed him into the parlor, where, with equal 
 pleasure and admiration, he 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 discernible; the softest blush of nature 
 shaded her beautifully rounded cheeks ; her mouth was small and 
 pouting, and whenever she smiled a thousand graces sported 
 round it ; her eyes were full and of a heavenly blue, soft, yet ani- 
 mated, giving, like the expression of her whole .countenance, at 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 79 
 
 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 unaccus* 
 tomed to admiration, nor displeased with that she now received 
 for that Oscar admired her could not but be visible, and he some- 
 times fancied he saw an arch smile playing over her features, at 
 the involuntary glances he directed toward her. 
 
 A fine basket of apples, and some delicious cider, was brought to 
 Oscar, and he found his entertainer as hospitable in disposition as 
 she was pleasing in conversation. 
 
 The beautiful interior of the cottage by no means corresponded 
 with the plainness of the exterior; the furniture was elegantly 
 neat, and the room ornamented with a variety of fine prints and 
 landscapes ; a large folding glass door opened from it into a pleas- 
 ure-garden. 
 
 Adela, so was the charming young stranger called, chatted in 
 the most lively and familiar terms, and at last running over 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, re- 
 minded him that he had passed near two hours in the cottage. 
 
 ‘ O Heavens ! ’ cried he, starting, ‘ I have made a most uncon- 
 scionable intrusion ; you see, my dear ladies,’ bowing respectfully 
 to both, ‘ the consequence of being too polite and too fascinating.’ 
 He repeated his thanks in the most animated manner, and snatch- 
 ing 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 prospect they had 
 from that eminence of the lake and its scattered islands. ‘ I pre- 
 sume,’ 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 otir 
 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 
 
80 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 to the road. He could not help thinking this incident of the mom 
 ing very like the novel adventures he had sometimes read to his 
 sister Amanda as she sat at work ; and, to complete the resem- 
 bJance, thought he, I must fall in love with the little heroine. 
 Ah ! Oscar, beware of such imprudence ! guard your heart with 
 all your care against tender impressions, till fortune has been 
 more propitious to you ! 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 
 iusee, glory for some time to come must be my mistress ! 
 
 The next morning the fusee was again taken down, and he sal- 
 lied out, carefully avoiding the officers, lest any of them should 
 offer to accompany him ; for he felt a strange reluctance to their 
 participating in either the smiles of Adela or the apples of the old 
 lady. Upon his arrival at the orchard, finding the gate open, he 
 advanced a few steps up the path, and had a glimpse of the cot- 
 tage, 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, however, was to be seen. He now be- 
 gan to feel the heat oppressive, and himself fatigued with his 
 walk, and sat down upon a moss-covered stone, on the margin of 
 the lake, at a little distance 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 glid- 
 ing about in various directions, and enlivened the enchanting 
 prospect which was spread upon the bosom of the lake; from 
 contemplating it he was suddenly roused by the warble of a fe- 
 male 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 to 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 him either to eat or pocket his apples 
 quickly, as she wanted her bonnet, being in a great hurry to re- 
 turn to the cottage, from which she had made a kind of stolen 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 81 
 
 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. 
 
 ‘ I assure you,’ exclaimed she, rising, ‘ I am very loath to qui^ 
 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, ’ re- 
 plied 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 ! thought Oscar, 
 watching her till she entered the cottage. As he returned from 
 the sweet spot he met some laborers, from whom he inquired con- 
 cerning its owner, and learned she was a respectable widow lady 
 of the name of Marlowe. 
 
 On Oscar’s return from Enniskillen, he heard from the officers 
 that General Honeywood, an old veteran, wffio had a fine estate 
 about fourteen miles from the town, was that morning to pay his 
 compliments to them, and that cards had been left for a grand 
 fete and ball, which he annually gave on the 1st of July, to com- 
 memorate one of the glorious victories of King William. Every 
 person of any fashion in and about the neighborhood was on such 
 occasions sure of an invitation ; and the officers were pleased with 
 theirs, as they had for sometime wished for an opportunity of see- 
 ing the general’s daughter, who was very much admired. 
 
 The general, like a true veteran, retained an enthusiastic at- 
 tachment for th^ profession of arms, to which not only the morn- 
 ing, but the meridian of his life had been devoted, and which he 
 had not quitted till compelled by a debilitated constitution. Seated 
 in his paternal mansion he began to experience the want of a faith- 
 ful companion, who would heighten the enjoyments of the tran- 
 quil hour, and sooth the infirmities of age ; this want was soon sup- 
 plied 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 ; but this happiness was terminated as suddenly as 
 
82 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 fatally by her death, which happened two years after the birth of 
 her daughter ; all the general’s love was then centered in his 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 in matrimonial toils ; but 
 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, flattered, 
 adored from her childhood, she scarcely knew the meaning of 
 harshness and contradiction ; a naturally sweet disposition, and the 
 superintending care of an excellent woman, prevented any pernic- 
 ious effect from such excessive indulgence as she received; to dis- 
 guise or duplicity she was a perfect stranger ; her own feelings were 
 never concealed, and others she supposed equally sincere in reveal- 
 ing theirs ; true, the open avowal of her regard or contempt often 
 incurred the imputation of imprudence ; but had she even heard it 
 she would have only laughed at it — for the general declared what- 
 ever she said was right, and her own heart assured her of the in- 
 nocence of her intentions. As she grew up the house again became 
 the seat of gayety, the general, though very infirm, felt his con- 
 vivial spirit revive ; he delighted in the society of his friends, and 
 could still 
 
 Shoulder his crutch, and show how fields were won I 
 
 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 Honey wood’s entertainment ar- 
 rived, 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 amid the ruins of an 
 ancient building, which, from the venerable remains 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 descending 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. 
 
 Jhe officers experienced a most agreeable surprise on entering' 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 83 
 
 but how inferior were their feelings to the sensations which Oscar 
 felt, when, introduced with the party by the general to his daugh* 
 ter, he beheld in Miss Honey wood 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 around, 
 and she made room for him by herself: ‘ Well, my friend,’ cried 
 she, ‘ do you think you shall And the general’s fruit as tempting as 
 mine? ’ ‘ Ah ! ’ exclaimed Oscar, half sighing, half smiling, ‘ Hes- 
 perian fruit, I fear, which I can never hope to obtain.’ Adela’s at- 
 tention, during breakfast, was too much engrossed by the company 
 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 scattered 
 over with wild shrubs, which embalmed the air; temporary arbors 
 of laurel, intermingled with lilies, were 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 Bel- 
 grave 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 dispersed, 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 approached, the general, ex- 
 tending his hand, gave him a cordial squeeze, and welcomed him 
 as the son of a brave man he had once intimately known. ‘ I re- 
 collected the name of Fitzalan,’ said he, ‘the moment I heard it 
 mentioned ; and had the happiness of learning from Colonel Bei- 
 grave I was not mistaken in believing you to be the son of my old 
 friend.’ He now made several inquiries concerning Fitzalan, and 
 the affectionate manner in which he mentioned him was truly 
 pleasing to Oscar. ‘ He had once,’ he said, ‘ saved his life at the 
 imminent danger of his own, and it was an obligation, while that 
 life remained, he could not forget.’ 
 
 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 
 
rHE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 e4 
 
 with such an enumeration ; but the general, who had no idea that 
 he was not as much delighted in listening as he was in speaking, 
 still went on. Adela had been watching them some time; her 
 patience at length, like Oscar’s, being exhausted, she ran forward 
 and told her father ‘ 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 
 of iron wars.’ The general called her a 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 Abbey to 
 dinner; the band played during the repast; the toasts were pro- 
 claimed by sound of trumpet, and answered by an immediate dis- 
 charge from the Mount. At six the ladies returned to Woodlawn 
 to change their dresses for the ball, and now 
 Awful beauty put on all its charms. 
 
 Tea and coffee were served in the respective rooms, and by eleven 
 the ballroom was completely crowded with company, at once bril- 
 liant 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, ap- 
 peared 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 ap- 
 proached 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 ! — what 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 possessed as much vanity, perhaps, 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 8i 
 
 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 Oscar followed her. The window commanded 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 take it; 
 ‘ Allow me,’ cried he, gently taking her hand, ‘ to keep it; to-mor- 
 row 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 expressions [who did not, however, oppose his putting 
 her bandeau in his bosomj ; 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 if you take a solitary whim, I beg I may be 
 apprised of it in time, as I should receive peculiar pleasure in pre- 
 paring your mossy couch and frugal fare. ’ ‘ The reason for my lik- 
 ing it,’ replied he, ‘ would be the prospect I should have from it of 
 Woodlawn.’ ‘ And does Woodlawh,’ asked Adela, ‘ contain such 
 particular 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 in- 
 teresting tete-a-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 lady who was esteemed 
 extremely handsome. Adela, as if fatigued, no longer moved with 
 animation, and suddenly interrupted 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 
 suggested 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 may perhaps merit; 
 Fitzalan, however, by the homage he pays her, seems as if he would 
 make up for the deficiency of every other person.’ Adela turned 
 pale, and took the first opportunity of demanding her bandeau 
 from Oscar ; he, smilingly, refused it, declaring it was a trophy of 
 
86 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 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 re- 
 peated her request no more. 
 
 The dancing continued after supper, with little intermission, till 
 seven, when the company repaired to the saloon to breakfast, 
 after which they dispersed. The general particularly and affec- 
 tionately bid Oscar farewell, and charged him to consider Wood- 
 lawn as his headquarters. ‘Be assured,’ said the good-natured 
 old man, ‘ the son of my brave, worthy, and long-respected 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 Oscar became almost an inmate of his house, 
 and the general shortly grew so attached to him, that he felt un- 
 happy if deprived of his society ; the attentions he received from 
 Oscar were such as an affectionate son would pay ^ tender father; 
 he supported his venerable friend whenever 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, with- 
 out betraying any symptoms of fatigue, to his long and often truly 
 tiresome stories of former battles and campaigns; 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. 
 
 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 the woes which extorted the soft 
 tear of commiseration he saw amply relieved by her generous hand ; 
 admiring her as he did before, how impossible was it for Oscar, in 
 these dangerous tete-d-tetes, to resist the progress of a tender pas- 
 sion— 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 shs had hitherto kept 
 
THE CHILDRE]Nf OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 87 
 
 and seemed in a solitary ramble with Oscar to enjoy more pleasure 
 than the gayest party appeared to alford 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 benignaricy of his departing beams, beheld him tinge 
 the trembling waves with gold and purple ; the low whistle of the 
 plowman returning to his humble 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, com 
 trived 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 down the precipice, on 
 whose very verge he stood; the servants, a little relieved from 
 their terror, hastened to his assistance; the traces were cut, and 
 the poor general, whose infirmities had weakened his spirits, con- 
 veyed 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 revived 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 while he pressed it along with Adela’s to his bosom, tears fell 
 on them. ‘ You are both my children ! ’ he exclaimed; ‘ the chil- 
 dren 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 gen- 
 eral’s head, who had first, however, consulted and learned from 
 his daughter it would be agreeable to her. This generous, some 
 will say romantic, old man, felt for Oscar the most 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 
 Ids birth to be noble, his disposition amiable, and his spirit brave; 
 
88 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 besides, hj 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 re- 
 siding at Woodlawn during his lifetime. His project he resolved 
 on communicating to Colonel Belgrave, whom, on 'Oscar’s ac- 
 count, he regarded, 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 business, to 
 the summer-house in the garden. Poor Oscar trembled ; he felt a 
 presentiment he should be the subject of discourse, 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 par- 
 ticularity to Miss Honey wood. 
 
 Rage, envy, and surprise kept the colonel silent some minutes 
 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 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 vari- 
 able. ‘ Let me tell you, colonel,’ said the general, hastily inter- 
 rupting 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 entreat you ; 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 counte- 
 nance 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 Belgrave 
 sent his servant on before them, that there might be no restraint 
 the conversation he found Oscar inclined to beginc 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 89 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 
 Sincerity I 
 
 Thou first of virtues, let no mortal leave 
 
 Thy onward path, although the earth should gape,, 
 
 And from the gulf of hell destruction cry 
 To take dissimulation’s winding way.— D ouglas. 
 
 ‘ Well, colonel,’ said Oscar, ‘ I fancy I was not mistaken in think* 
 ing the general wanted to speak with you concerning me ; I am con- 
 vinced 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 mak- 
 ing a kind of complaint about you ; he acknowledges you a brave 
 lad, yet, hang him, he has not generosity enough to reward that 
 bravery with his daughter, or any of his treasure. ’ ‘ Heaven is my 
 witness! ’ exclaimed the unsuspicious Oscar, ‘ I never aspired to 
 either; I always knew my passion for his daughter as hopeless as 
 fervent, and my esteem for him as disinterested as sincere ; I would 
 have sooner died than abused the confidence he reposed in me, by 
 revealing my attachment; I see, however, in future, I must be an 
 exile to Woodlawn.’ ‘ Not so, neither,’ replied the colonel ; ‘ only 
 avoid such particularity to the girl ; I believe in my soul 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 pre- 
 vious 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 country, the society 
 you have hitherto been accustomed to.’ ‘ No,’ said Oscar, ‘ I can- 
 not 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 in- 
 vent a falsehood which could injure anyone; 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 ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Faith, Fitzalan,’ said the colonel, ‘ by the time you have had a 
 few more love affairs with some of the pretty girls of this king- 
 dom, 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 in- 
 timacy; in honor, too, you are bound to do as I desire you, for 
 should the girl have been imprudent enough to conceive an attach- 
 ment for you, this will certainly remove it; for pride would not 
 
90 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 a 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 sigh 
 ing ; ‘ why, then, should I be guilty of a falsehood for a person who 
 is already indifferent to me ? ’ ‘I have told you my reason,’ re 
 plied the colonel, coldly ; ‘ do as you please.’ They were now 
 both silent, but the conversation was soon renewed, and many 
 arguments passed on both sides. Oscar’s heart secretly favored 
 the colonel’s plan, as it promised the indulgence of Adela’s so- 
 ciety; to be an exile from Woodlawn was insupportable to his 
 thoughts; reason yielded to the vehemence of passion, and he at 
 last fell into the snare the perfidious Belgrave had spread, thus, 
 by a deviation from truth, forfeiting the blessings 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 ill- 
 icit means to attain a real pleasure; the hope of obtaining any good 
 through such means will, like a meteor of the night, lallurebut to 
 deceive. 
 
 Soon after his fatal promise to the colonel, a self-devoted vic- 
 tim, he accompanied him to Woodlawn; on their arrival. Miss 
 Honeywood was in the garden, and Oscar, trembling, went to seek 
 her; 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 care- 
 less curls that fell over them ; and her eyes, the moment 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 extending 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 being so when I acknowledge I at this 
 present time feel a passion which I must believe hopeless. ’ ‘ Hope- 
 
 less ! well, now, I insist on being your confidant, and then,’ smil- 
 ing somewhat archly, ‘ I shall see what reason you have to despair.^ 
 ‘Agreed,’ exclaimed Oscar; ‘ and now to my story;’ then pausing 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 91 
 
 a minute, he started up. ‘ No,’ continued he, ‘I find it impos* 
 
 sible 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 love, or help 
 being wretched at knowing it is without hope.’ 
 
 Adela snatched it hastily from him and by a sudden start be- 
 trayed her surprise ; words indeed are inadequate to express her 
 heart-rending emotions as she contemplated the beautiful counten- 
 ance 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 advance — really at- 
 tached to another; alas! 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 for- 
 sook 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,’ saidhe, now returning with forced 
 calmness, ‘ is it not worthy of inspiring the passion I feel ? ’ Un- 
 able 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 unworthy purpose have I 
 made you answer ! — alas ! all is now over — Adela — my Adela ! — 
 is lost forever ! — lost — ah, heavens ! had I ever hopes of possess- 
 ing her ? — oh, no ! to such happiness never did I dare to look for- 
 ward. ’ 
 
 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 tete-a-tete f 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’y thee, 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 purposely 
 lingered about the wood, now entered. Adela started, and pre- 
 cipitately 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, seating himself gravely, 
 and inwardly rejoicing at the success of his stratagem, ‘ to find 
 
92 
 
 THE CHILDREir OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 such a fatality prevalent among mankind as makes them reject a 
 protfered good, and sigh for that which is unattainable ; like 
 wayward children, neglecting their sports to pursue a rainbow^ 
 and weeping as the airy pageant mocks their grasp.’ ‘ Very true^ 
 indeed,’ said the general ; very excellent, 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 applicable to him. He acknowl- 
 edged 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 ! ’ ex- 
 claimed the general, as soon as rage and surprise would allow 
 him to speak. ‘ The little impertinent puppy ! the ungrateful 
 young dog ! a prior attachment ! — reject my girl — my Adela — 
 who has had such suitors already ; so, I suppose 1 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 the matter, may powder be my poison if I do not 
 trim his jacket for him ! ’ ‘ Dear general, ’ said the colonel, ‘ you 
 
 may depend on his honor ; but even supposing he did mention 
 the affair, 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 encourage- 
 ment, 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 con- 
 stitute the felicity of their lives, and looked forward with a gen- 
 erous delight to the period when she should render her beloved 
 Fitzalan prosperous and independent. The disappointment 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 her sensibility, and as 
 its powerful impulse pervaded her mind, she resolved to afford 
 
THB CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 93 
 
 Oscar no triumph by letting him witness her dejection ; she 
 therefore wiped away all traces of tears from 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 re- 
 ceived him with a stern frown and an air scarcely complaisant. 
 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 herself 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 discernible upon it. 
 ‘ Never ! ’ cried Oscar, with folded hands, as he hung over the inter- 
 esting 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 in- 
 nocence like hers ! Oh, Adela ! he who now prays for your felicity 
 never will lose your idea ; he will cherish it in his heart, to amelio- 
 rate 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 Fitz- 
 alan ; haughtily regarding him, she asked the meaning of such an 
 intrusion. ‘ I did not mean indeed to intrude,’ said he ; ‘ but when 
 I came and found you, can you wonder at my being fascinated to 
 the spot? ’ The plaintive tone of his voice sunk deep into Adela’s 
 heart; she sighed heavih^, and turning away seated herself in a 
 window. Oscar followed ; he forgot the character he had assumed 
 in the morning, and gently seizing her hand, pressed it to his 
 bosom; at this critical minute, when mutual sympathy appeared 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 ^4 
 
 on the point of triumphing over duplicity, the door opened, and 
 Colonel Belgrave appeared ; from the instant of Oscar’s departure 
 he had been on thorns to follow him, fearful of the consequences 
 of a and was attended by the rest of the gentlemen. 
 
 Oscar was determined on not staying another night at Wood- 
 lawn, and declared his intention by asking Colonel Belgrave if he 
 had any commands for Enniskillen, whither he meant to return 
 immediately. ‘ Why, hang it, boy,’ cried the general, in a rougn 
 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 agita- 
 tion of his heart, ‘ the raging of a tempest would not make me slay.’ 
 Adela sighed, but pride prevented her speaking. Fitzalan ap- 
 proached her: ‘ Miss Honey wood,’ said he — he stopped — his voice 
 was quite stifled. Adela, equally unable to speak, could only en- 
 courage him to proceed by a cold glance. ‘ Lest I should not,’ re- 
 sumed he, ‘ have the happness of again visiting Woodlawn, I can- 
 not neglect this opportunity of assuring you that the attention, the 
 obligations I have received in it, never can be forgotten 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 pain- 
 fully suppressed gushed forth, and at the bottom of the stairs he 
 leaned against the banisters for support ; while he cast his eyes 
 around, as if bidding a melancholy farewell to the scene of former 
 happiness, a hasty footstep advanced, he started, and was precipi- 
 tately retreating, when the voice of the butler stopped him; this 
 was an old veteran, much attached to Oscar, and his usual attend- 
 ant in all his fowling and Ashing parties. As he waited at tea, 
 he heard Oscar’s declaration of departing with surprise, and fo> 
 lowed him for the purpose of expressing that and his conceri* 
 
 ^ Why, Lord, now, Mr. Fitzalan,’ cried he, ‘ what do you mean 
 leaving us so oddly? But if you are so positive about going to En 
 niskillen to-night, let me order Standard to be prepared for you.’ 
 Oscar 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 hail 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, now Iran 
 sient was this gleam of felicitv ! ’ 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 95 
 
 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 
 among 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 secure 
 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 
 luster, 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 1 ’ Sinking with 
 weakness from the conflicts of his mind, he sought an old roof- 
 less root-house in the center 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 twittering of the birds roused him from an un- 
 easy slumber, or rather lethargy, into which he had fallen ; 
 and starting up he hastened to the road, fearful, as day was be- 
 ginning to dawn, of being seen by any of General Honeywood’s 
 workmen. It was late ere he arrived at Enniskillen, and before 
 he gained his room he was met by some of the officers, who 
 viewed him with evident astonishment ; his regimentals wei*e 
 quite spoiled ; his fine hair, from which the rain had washed all 
 the powder, hung disheveled about his shoulders ; the feather of 
 his hat was broken, and the disorder of his countenance was not 
 less suspicious than that of his dress ; to their inquiries he stam- 
 mered out something of a fall, and extricated himself with dif- 
 ficulty from them. 
 
 In an obscure village, fifteen miles from Enniskillen, a de- 
 tachment of the regiment lay ; the officer who commanded it dis- 
 liked his situation extremely ; but company being irksome ta 
 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 constitn 
 
^6 TEE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 tiop.; irnmediately on arriving at his new quarters he was seized 
 with a violent fever ; an officer was obliged to be sent to do duty 
 hi his place, and it was long ere any symptoms appeared which 
 ^'.ould flatter those who attended him with hopes of his recovery 
 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 he 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 Woodlawn ; 
 lor with Mrs. Marlowe, I should previously say, he had not 
 only formed an intimacy, but a sincere friendship. She was a 
 woman of the most pleasing manners, and to her superintend- 
 ing 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 
 specter 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 tenderness 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 make. 
 ‘They are well and happy,’ replied 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 
 ^rave.’ ‘Ere I inform you, then,’ cried Mrs. Marlowe, ‘let me, 
 my noble Oscar, express my approbation, my admiration of your 
 conduct, of that disinterested nature which preferred the preser- 
 vation 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 de- 
 clare 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 attentions 
 to Miss Honey wood were noticed and disliked I he filled my soul 
 with unutterable anguish, and persuaded me to a falsehood which 
 has plunged me into despair ! ’ ‘ He is a monster ! ’ cried Mrs. 
 
 Marlowe, ‘ and you are a victim to his treachery,’ ‘ Oh, no ! I will 
 .fly to the general, and open my whole sou] to him ; at his feet 1 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 9 
 
 will declare the false ideas of honor which misled me ; I shall 
 obtain his forgiveness, and Adela will yet be mine.’ ‘ Alas ! my 
 child,’ cried Mrs. Marlowe, 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 Belgrave.’ 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 ! my friend,’ said she, ‘ my heart 
 sympathizes in your sorrow ; but it is from your own fortitude^ 
 more than my sympathy, you must now derive resources of sup- 
 port.’ ‘ 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 it touched at the moment 
 with a similar pang of self-regret, ‘ is the waywardness of mortals 
 too often do they deprive themselves of the blessings of a 
 bounteous Providence by their own folly and imprudence — oh I 
 my friend, born as you were with a noble ingenuity of soul, never 
 let that soul again be sullied by the smallest deviation from sin- 
 cerity.’ ‘ Do not aggravate my sufferings,’ said Oscar, ‘ by dwell- 
 ing on my error.’ ‘ No, I would sooner die than be guilty of such 
 barbarity ; but admonition 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 wisdom.’ ‘ Alas ! ’ exclaimed he, ‘ what blessings V 
 ‘ 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 !’ 
 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 ! ’ 
 exclaimed she, ‘whither would you go — is it to scatter ruin and 
 desolation around you ? Suppose your vengeance was gratifled, 
 would that restore your happiness ? Think you that Adela, the 
 child of virtue and propriety, would ever notice the murderer ot 
 her husband, how unworthy, soever, that husband 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 
 
^8 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 you ? ’ The sword dropped from the hand of the trembling OscaR 
 ‘I have been blameabie,’ 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 reflect- 
 ing 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 agita- 
 tion of his mind was too much for the weak state of his health ; 
 the fever returned, and he felt unable to quit the cottage ; Mrs. 
 Marlowe prepared a bed for him, trusting he would soon be able 
 to remove, but she was disappointed ; it was long ere Oscar 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 offer, 
 which he thought would have inspired the soul of Oscar with 
 rapture and gratitude ; never had his pride been so severely 
 wounded— never before had he felt humbled in his own eyes ; 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 colonel gradually became a 
 favorite, and when he insinuated his attachment for Adela, was 
 assured he should have all the general’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 be- 
 ing rejected, that it drove him at times almost to madness ; the 
 colonel possessed all the advantages of fortune ; but these weighed 
 little in his favor with the general (whose notions we have already 
 proved very disinterested), and much less with his daughter ; on 
 the first overture 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, 
 tier 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 companion 
 unkindly ; she saw him oppressed with sadness, and yet she had 
 driven him from her by the repulsive coldness of her manner — a 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 99 
 
 manner, too, which, from its being so suddenly assumed, could 
 not fail of conveying an idea of her disappointment ; 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 difficulties,, 
 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 ; - his conversation was always amusing, and confined: 
 within the limits she had prescribed; hut his eyes, by the tender- 
 est expression, declared the pain he suffered from this proscrip- 
 tion, 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 
 Woodland, and sanguine as were the colonel’s hopes, he found 
 without a stratagem they would not be realized, at least as soon 
 as he expected ; fertile in invention, he was not long in concern- 
 ing one. He followed Adela one morning into the garden, and 
 found her reading in the arbor ; she laid aside the book at his 
 entrance, and they chatted for some time on indifferent subjects* 
 
 The colonehs servant at last appeared with a large packet of 
 letters, which he presented to his master, who with a hesita- 
 ting air, was about putting them into his pocket, when Adela pre- 
 vented him: ‘Make no ceremony, colonel,’ said she, ‘with me; 
 I shall resume my book till you have perused j^our 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, what a wretch!’ then, as* 
 if suddenly recollecting his situation, looked at Adela, appeared 
 confused, stammered out a few inarticulate words, and resumed 
 his letter ; when finished, he seemed to put it into his pocket, but 
 in reality dropped it at his feet for the basest purpose. He ran over 
 the remainder of the letters, and rising, entreated Adela to excuse 
 his leaving her so abruptly, to answer some 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 seized her; she 
 would have given any consideration to know wh}^ she was men- 
 tioned 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 curiosity ; it could no 
 longer be repressed ; she snatched it up, and read as follows* 
 
100 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 TO COLONEL BELGRAVE : 
 
 You accuse me of insensibility to what you call the matchless charms of Adela, am 
 accusation I acknowledge I merit ; but why, because I have been too susceptible to those 
 of another, which in the fond estimation of a lover (at least), appeared infinitely superior. 
 The general’s offer was certainly 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 af- 
 fections 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 objects 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 along 
 lecture from you for letting the affair relative to Adela be made known, but faith I could 
 not resist telling my charmer. Heaven grant discretion may seal her lips ; if not, 1 
 suppose I shall be summoned to formidable combat with the old general. Adieu ! and 
 believe me. 
 
 Dear Colonel, ever yours, 
 
 Oscar Fitzalan. 
 
 ^ Wretch ! ’ cried the agitated Adela, 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 ! 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 be- 
 fore 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 cov- 
 ered with blushes. ‘ What a careless fellow I am ! ’ said the 
 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 ; I have no righl^ 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 101 
 
 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 ; go, then, most lovely 
 and beloved, and since I dare not aspire to a higher, allow me, at 
 le^t, the title of your friend.’ ‘Most willingly,’ said Adela,. 
 penetrated by his gentleness. She 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 recol- 
 lections ; the implicit respect he paid her well flattered her 
 wounded pride, and her gratitude was excited by knowing he re- 
 sented the disrespectful mention of her name in Fitzalan’s letter 
 in short, she felt e^steem and respect for him — contempt and re- 
 sentment for Oscar. The colonel was too penetrating not to dis- 
 cover her sentiments, and too artful not to take advantage of 
 them. Had Adela, indeed, obeyed the real feelings of her hearty 
 she would have declared against marrying ; but pride urged her 
 to a step which would prove to Fitzalan his conduct had not af- 
 fected her. The general rejoiced at obtaining her consent, and 
 received a promise that for some time she should not be sepa^ 
 rated from him. The most splendid preparations were made for 
 the nuptials ; 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 con- 
 nection 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 inauspicious hour,. 
 Adela gave her hand to the perfidious Belgrave. 
 
 About a fortnight after her nuptials, she heard from some of 
 the ofiicers 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 im- 
 posed 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 some- 
 thing of Oscar ; but she was disappointed. At the end of a fort- 
 night, Mrs. Marlowe 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 
 
102 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 thing. Mrs. Marlowe began to converse on indifferent subjects i 
 Adela suddenly grew peevish, aud sullenly sat at her work. 
 
 In a few days after Mrs. Marlowe’s visit, Adela, one evening im- 
 mediately after dinner, ordered the carriage to the cottage ; by 
 this time she supposed Oscar had left it, and flattered herself, in 
 the course of conversation, she should learn whether he was per- 
 fectly recovered ere he departed. Proposing to surprise 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! 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 expressive eyes of Mrs. Marlowe, which seemed to con- 
 jure him not to yield to a weakness which would betray his real 
 sentiments to Adela, somewhat reanimated him. He rose, and 
 tremblingly approached her. ‘x\llowme, madam,’ cried he, ‘to 
 
 ’ The sentence died unfinished on his lips ; he had not 
 
 power to offer congratulations on an event which had probably de- 
 stroyed the happiness of Adela, as well as his own. ‘ Oh ! 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 
 tivmbling, the almost fainting, Adela to take some wine, and 
 by degrees the flutter of her spirits and Oscar’s abated, but the sad- 
 ness 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 de- 
 spair, that had he half murdered Adela, she could not at that mo- 
 ment have felt for him any other sentiments than those of pity and 
 •compassion. Mrs. Marlowe, in a laughing way, told her of the trou- 
 bles she had had with him : ‘ For which, I assure you, ’ said she, ‘ he 
 rewards me badly ; for the moment he was enlarged from the nur- 
 sery, 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 
 fake 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, Heasrens ! ’ then starting up, 
 he hurried to the window, as if to hide and to indulge his melan- 
 choly. 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 hill, and the sky was darkened by a coming 
 storm. Mrs. Marlowe roused him from his deep reverie. ‘ I am 
 sure,’ said she, ‘ the prospect you view from the window can have 
 «io great attractions at present.’ ‘And yet,’ cried he, ‘there is 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 103 
 
 something sadly pleasing in it ; the leafless trees, the fading flow* 
 ers 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. 
 Marlow ; ‘your illness has affected your spirits ; but this gloom 
 will vanish long before my orchard reassumes its smiling appear- 
 ance, 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, mo- 
 ment 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 ; 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 a look at Adela ; her head 
 sunk upon her bosom, and her heart began to beat violently. Mrs. 
 Marlowe wished to change the subject 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 intimation of a mutual attachment, which now could 
 answer no purpose 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 ; unconquerable 
 feelings of regret hitherto prevented my acquiescing in your de- 
 sire ; 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, you know, has been long ex- 
 cited.’ 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. 
 
 And well my life shall pay; 
 
 I’ll seek the solitude he sought, 
 
 And stretch me where he lay. — G oldsmith. 
 
 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; 
 everyone told my mother I should grow up a beauty, and she, 
 poor simple woman, believed the flattering tale. Naturally ambi- 
 
104 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 tious, and somewhat romantic, she expected 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 education. 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 mend- 
 ing 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 own opinioa 
 at least. 
 
 To makeme excel by my dress, as well as my accomplishments, 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 inducement 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 everyone else must do the same, the most perfect 
 creature in the world. I was lively, thoughtless, vain, and am- 
 bitious to an extravagant degree ; yet, truly innocent in my dis- 
 position, and often, forgetting the appearance I had been taught 
 to assume, indulged the natural gayety of my heart, and in a game 
 of hide-and-go-seek, among the haycocks in a meadow, by moon- 
 light, enjoyed perfect felicity. 
 
 Once a week, accompanied by my mother, I attended the danc- 
 ing-master’s school, to practice country dances. One evening we 
 had just concluded a set, and were resting ourselves, when an ele- 
 gant youth, in a fashionable riding dress, entered the room. His 
 appearance at once excited admiration and surprise ; never shall I 
 forget the palpitation of my heart at his approach ; every girl ex- 
 perienced the same, every cheek was flushed, and every eye 
 sparkled with hope and expectation. He walked round the room, 
 with an easy, unembarrassed air, as if to take a survey of the com- 
 pany ; he stopped by a very pretty girl, the miller’s daughter — 
 Jpood Heavens ! what were my agonies ! My mother, too, who sat 
 nesideme, 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 sur- 
 prised and pleased, and, after a moment, passed in seeming consid- 
 eration, bowed with the utmost elegance, and requested the honof 
 of my hand for the ensuing dance. My politeness had hitherto 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY, 
 
 105 
 
 only been in theory ; I arose, dropped him a profound curtseyt 
 assured him the honor would be all on my side, and I was hajrpy 
 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 immediately 
 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 for- 
 midable rival to him. ‘ By jingo ! ’ 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 ! ’ cried I, with an ineffable look of con- 
 tempt, 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 thorns 
 to begin a conversation with the stranger, that she might let 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 re- 
 turned, a neat, comfortable supper was ready to lay on the table. 
 Mr. Marlowe, the stranger’s name, as he informed me, was all an- 
 imation 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 permission, of course, to re- 
 new 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 that 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. We 
 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 con- 
 quest to a person, who, besides the above-mentioned attraction^ 
 
106 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 possessed those of a graceful figure and cultivated mind. He 
 visited continually at our cottage ; and I, uncultivated as I was, 
 daily strengthened myself in his affections. In conversing with 
 him I forgot the precepts of vanity and affection, 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 ten derest 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 diffi- 
 cult,’ he said, ‘ to submit to their ill-humor, and was confident, if 
 he took any step against their inclinations, he should forever for- 
 feit 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 fortune, 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 attend- 
 ants was placed about him as a kind of spy. He had hitherto 
 deceived him with respect to us, declaring my father was an inti- 
 mate friend, and that his uncle knew he intended visiting him. 
 But my unfortunate vanity betrayed the secret it was so Inaterial 
 for me to keep. I was bound indeed not to reveal it. One morn- 
 ing 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 ! ’ repeated I, with the utmost haughtiness. 
 ‘ Lord, child, you forget who I am ! ’ ‘ Who are you ? ’ ex- 
 
 claimed she, provoked at my insolence ; ‘ oh, yes, to be sure, I 
 forget that 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 imperti- 
 nence ; if I am the daughter of a poor country curate, I am the 
 affianced wife of a rich man, and as much elevated by expecta- 
 tion, as spirit, above you.’ 
 
 Our conversation was repeated throughout the village, and 
 reached the ears of Marlowe’s attendant, who instantly developed 
 the real motive which detained him so long in the village. He 
 wrote to his uncle an account of the whole affair ; the consequence 
 of this was a letter to poor Marlowe, full of the bitterest re- 
 proaches, charging him, without delay, to return home. This 
 was like a thunder- stroke to us all; but there was no alternative 
 
THE CHILDRE^f OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 107 
 
 between obeying, or forfeiting his uncle’s favor. ‘ I fear, my dear 
 Panny,’ cried he, as he folded me to his bosom, a little before his 
 departure, ‘ it will be 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 at- 
 tacked 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 compan- 
 ion, that he sunk beneath his grief. The horrors of my mind I 
 cannot describe ; I seemed to stand alone in the world, without 
 one friendly hand to prevent my sinking into the grave, which 
 contained the dearest objects of my love. I did not know where 
 Marlowe lived, and, even if I had, durst not venture an applica* 
 tion, which might be the means of ruining him. The esteem of 
 my neighbors I had forfeited by my conceit; they paid no atten- 
 tion but what common 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 habitation, 
 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 fulfill his promise, 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, she 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 seek- 
 ing 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 
 
108 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 aunt would not, I flattered myself, degrade me as much in hig 
 eyes as that of another person’s; it was necessary, however, my ^ 
 name should he concealed, and I requested my friend to comply 
 with my wish in that respect. She rallied me about my pride, 
 which she supposed had suggested the request, but promised to 
 comply with it ; she had no doubt but her recommendation would 
 be sufficient to procure me immediate admittance, and, accord- 
 ingly, taking some of my work with me, I proceeded to the hab- 
 itation of Marlowe. It was an antique mansion, surrounded with 
 neat-clipped hedges, level lawns, and formal plantations. Two 
 statues, cast in the same mold, and resembling nothing either in 
 heaven, earth, or sea, stood grinning horribly upon the pillars of 
 a massy gate, as if to guard the entrance from impertinent intru- 
 sion. On knocking, 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 em- 
 bassy 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 yshered upstairs 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 I)urned 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 
 armchairs 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 she was stitching 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 nativ- 
 ity. ‘ Well, let me see those works of yours,’ cried she. I pro- 
 duced 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 ! ’ direct- 
 ing 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 compassion, and as you are recommended 
 by Mrs. Wilson, venture to engage you ; but, remember, I must 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 lOd 
 
 have no gad-about, no fly-flapper, no chatterer, in my family. 
 You must be decent in your dress and carriage, discreet in youi 
 words, industrious at your work, and satisfied with the indul- 
 gence of going to church on a Sunday.’ I saw I was about enter- 
 ing upon a painful servitude ; but the idea of its being sweetened 
 by the sympathy of Marlowe a little reconciled me to it. 
 
 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 ; sufiice it to say, 
 my patience, as well as taste, underwent a perfect martyrdom. 
 I was continually seated at a frame, working pictures of her own 
 invention, which were 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 to dark to distinguish 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 chance 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 housekeeper. 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 ensu- 
 ing day. Fortunately, the good dame was too busily employed 
 to notice my agitation. I retired as soon 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 sa^ 
 him enter the house I Vainly I endeavored to resume my work ; 
 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 my 
 delightful dream ; she came to tell me : ‘ I must confine myself 
 to my own and the housekeeper’s room, which, to a virtuous, dis- 
 creet 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 shock 
 was over, I consoled myself by thinking I should be able to elude 
 her vigilance. I was, however, mistaken ; she and the house- 
 keeper were perfect Arguses. To be in the same house with 
 Marlowe, yet without his knowing 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 enormous 
 flower-basket, mounted on the back of a cat, which held beneath 
 
110 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 its paw a trembling* mouse. The raptures the old lady expressed 
 at seeing her own design so ably executed encouraged me to ask 
 permission to embroider a picture of my own designing, for 
 which 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 churchyard 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 thought, 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 precipitation, 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 op- 
 portunity 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 ap- 
 pointed 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 fulfill 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 cor- 
 respondence 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 dependence. Ill could my soul submit to the 
 indignities I received ; but I consoled myself throughout them,, 
 by the idea of future happiness 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 to 
 it ! 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 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 
 inform his aunt my health would no longer permit my continuing 
 in her family, and that I should retire to a village six miles otf, 
 where Marlowe undertook to bring a young clergyman, a particular 
 friend of his, to perform the ceremony. Our plan, as settled, was 
 carried into execution, and I became the wife of Marlowe. I was 
 now, you will suppose, 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, 
 therefore, from interest and gratitude, obeyed the injunction 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, whom his uncle would be displeased to know 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 com- 
 mand of my temper, and, remembering the inhumanity with wliicli 
 she had forced me into servitude, I resolved to mortify her con. 
 pletely, 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, ‘ fron:i 
 my conduct with Marlowe, I was unworthy her notice.’ ‘ There- 
 fore,’ cried I, forgetting every dictate of prudence, ‘ his wife will 
 neither desire nor receive it in future.’ ‘ His wife ! ’ she repeated, 
 with a look of scorn and incredulity. I produced the certificate of 
 my marriage; thus, from an impulse of vanity and resentment, 
 putting myself in the power of a woman, a stranger to every libera] 
 feeling, and whose mind was inflamed with envy toward me. 
 The hint I forced myself at parting to give her, to keep the affaif 
 
112 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY, 
 
 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 started from his chair, and clasped me to his bosom. 
 ‘ O 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 re- 
 lation. On hearing this intelligence, I was almost distracted ; I 
 flung myself at my husband’s feet, implored his pardon, yet de- 
 clared I could never forgive myself. He grew more composed up- 
 on 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 ad- 
 dressed to me. I became acquainted with a young widow, who 
 concealed a depraved heart under a specious appearance of inno- 
 cence and virtue, and by aiding the vices of others, procured the 
 means of gratifying her own ; yet so secret were all her transactions, 
 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 
 1 was noticed by a young nobleman, them at the head of the ton. 
 He declared I was one of the most charming objects he had ever 
 Ibeheld, and, for such a declaration, I thought him the most polite 
 1 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 in- 
 famous libertine ; and that, if I did not avoid his lordship’s partic- 
 ular attentions, he must insist on my relinquishing the widow’s 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 ns 
 
 society. This I thought cruel, hut 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 in- 
 crease 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 amuse- 
 ments I must give up, and at last completely conquered my resolu- 
 tion. I pretended to Marlowe my health was too delicate to allow 
 me to bear such a fatigue and he immediately sacrificed his own 
 inclinations to mine. I have often wondered at the kind of infatu- 
 ation 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 continued. 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 regarded 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 charm- 
 ing than ever; while I thought him, if possible, more polite, and 
 engaging. Again my husband remonstrated. Sometimes I 
 seemed to regard these remonstrances, sometimes protested I 
 would not submit to such unnecessary control. I knew, indeed, 
 that my intentions were innocent, and I believed I might safely 
 indulge my vanity, without endangering either my reputation 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 be- 
 
 loved Fanny ! ’ said he, ‘ feels unusually heavy. I trust the feel- 
 ing 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 accustomed rapture, I may, oti my 
 l^turn, receive you to my arms. ’ There was something so solemn. 
 
114 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 and so tender, in this address, that my heart melted, and my tears 
 mingled with those which trickled down his pale cheeks. 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 delighful 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 
 lier, 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 solicitations, 
 to which I at last yielded ; and, committing my babe to the care 
 of a servant, set oflP 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 gayety. The 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 designSo 
 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 me into 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 our- 
 
 selves 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 pro- 
 jected excursion, a letter was brought in to me. ‘ Good Lord ! 
 Halcot ! ’ exclaimed I, turning to the widow, ‘ if Marlowe is re- 
 turned, what will become of me ? ’ ‘ Oh ! read, my dear crea- 
 
 ture ! ’ cried she impatiently, ‘ 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 — we parted never to meet again. O 
 Fanny, beloved of my soul, how are you lost to yourself and Marlowe ! The independ< 
 ence, splendor, riches, which I gave up for your sake, were mean sacrifices, in my esti 
 toatioQ, to the felicity I fondly expected to have enjoyed with you through life. Yocif 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 IIS 
 
 beauty charmed my mind, but it was your simplicity captivated my heart. I took, as 1 
 thought, the perfect child of innocence and sincerity to my bosom ; resolved, from, 
 duty, as well as from inclination, to shelter you in that bosom, to the utmost of my 
 power, from every adverse storm. Whenever you were indisposed, what agonies did I 
 endure! yet, what I then dreaded, could I have possibly foreseen, would have been, 
 comparative happiness to my present misery ; for, oh 1 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 anticipation of the consolation 
 I should receive from ray Fanny’s sympathy. Good God 1 what was my horror, when 
 I found my little babe, instead of being restored to health by a mother’s care, nearly ex- 
 piring through her neglect ! The angel lay gasping on her bed, deserted by the merce- 
 nary wretch to whose care she was consigued. • I inquired, and the fatal truth rushedl 
 upon my soul ; yet, when the first tumult of passion 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"^ound, till I saw you borne in the 
 arms of the vile Lord T. into the house of his vile paramour. You will wonder, per- 
 haps, 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 ; but that was im- 
 possible, and ray 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 caifnot always be stifled— that illicit love is constantly attended by remorse 
 and disappointment ; for when familiarity, or disease, has diminished the charms 
 wh'ch 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 lif5. 
 
 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 ! 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 con- 
 tinually 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 1 never shall the blush of shame, for the frailties of one so dear, tinge its ingenuous 
 countenance. May the sincerity 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 t As a friend, once dear, you will ever exist in the 
 memory of 
 
 Marlowe. 
 
 As I concluded the letter, my spirits, which had been g*radually 
 receding, entirely forsook me, and I fell senseless on the floor. 
 Mrs. Halcot and Lord T. took this opportunity of gratifying 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 abandoned you ; but 
 grieve not, for in my arms you shall find a kinder asylum than 
 he has ever afforded you.’ ‘ True,’ said Mrs. Halcot ; ‘formypart^ 
 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 
 
116 
 
 THE CHILDREN OE THE ABBEY, 
 
 authors of my shame and misery ; and, while I spurned Lord T. 
 indignantly from my feet, accused Mns. Halcot of possessing 
 neither delicacy nor feeling. Alas ! accusation or reproach could 
 not lighten the weight on my heart — I felt a dreadful conscious* 
 ness of having occasioned my own misery. I seemed as if awak- 
 ing from a disordered dream, which had confused my senses ; 
 and the more clearly ray perception of what was right returned, 
 the more bitterly I lamented my deviation from it. To be rein- 
 »tated in the esteem and affection of my husband was all of felic- 
 ity I could desire to possess. Full of the idea of being able to ef- 
 fect a reconcilliation, I started up ; but, ere I reached the door, 
 sunk itito an agony of tears ; recollecting that ere this he was 
 probably far distant from me. My base companions tried to as- 
 suage 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 disappointmelit only to 
 see a particular friend of his ! Our meeting was painful in the ex- 
 treme. I asked him if he knew anything of Marlowe, and he sol- 
 emnly 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 separatfon, 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 the town. 
 Here he consoled me with assurances of using every effort to dis- 
 cover the residence of my husband. All, alas ! proved unsuc- 
 cessful ; 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 exist- 
 ence, 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 imprudence, but the common vi- 
 cissitudes of life, was borne without that degree of anguish mine 
 occasioned. As the period approached for her return to her na- 
 tive country, I felt the deepest regret at the prospect of our separa- 
 tion, which she, however, removed, by asking me to reside en‘ 
 tirely with her. Eight years had elapsed since the loss of my 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 IIT 
 
 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 in retirement, and had the pleas- 
 ure of thinking I 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 1 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 per- 
 manent pleasure ; and that it is the actions of early life which 
 must give to old age either happiness and comfort, or sorrow and 
 remorse. Had I attended to the admonitions of wisdom and 
 experience, I should have checked my wanderings from prudence, 
 and preserved my happiness from being sacrificed 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 suffer- 
 ing is the proper tax we pay for folly ; the frailty of human 
 nature, the prevalence of example, the allurements of the world, 
 are mentioned by many as extenuations for misconduct. Though 
 virtue, say they, is willing, she is often too weak to resist the 
 wishes they excite. Mistaken 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 disentangle ourselves from the snare which vice or 
 folly may have spread around us. Sorrow and disappointment 
 are incident to mortal it;^\ and when not occasioned by any con- 
 scious imprudence, should be considered as temporary trials from 
 Heaven to improve and correct us, and be cheerfully borne. 
 
 A sigh stole from Oscar as she spoke, and a tear trickled down 
 the soft cheek of Adela. ‘I have,’ continued Mrs. Marlowe, 
 ‘ given you, like an old woman, a tedious tale ; but that tedious- 
 ness, with every other imperfection I have acknowledged, I rest 
 upon your friendship and candor to excuse. ’ 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Denied her sight, he often crept 
 Beneath the hawthorn’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 
 
118 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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-tete, ‘ Mrs. Belgrave will dispense with your gal- 
 lantry, for you are really too great an invalid to venture out such 
 anight as this.’ Adela attempted to dissuade him from 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 experienced 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 fora 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 absence, came to seek 
 him. Soothed by her kind solicitude, he directly returned with 
 her to the house, where his indignation 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 
 Ills own — that of the charming Adela. 
 
 Mrs. Marlowe essayed every art of consolation, and, by sym- 
 pathy and mildness, at last subdued the violence of his feel- 
 ings ; 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 
 file only pleasure he was capable of enjoying. Whenever ha 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. lit 
 
 could absent himself from quarters he retired to her, and fre- 
 quently spent three or four days at a time in her cottage. By 
 discontinuing his visits in the gay neighborhood of Woodlawn, 
 he avoided all opportunities of seeing Adela, yet often, on a clear 
 frosty night, did he steal 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 hsr 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 poign- 
 ancy of his feelings ; but when he reflected on the generous inten- 
 tions of the one, on the sincere affection of the other, and the su- 
 preme happiness he might have enjoyed, he lost all fortitude. 
 Thus, by perpetually brooding 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 indignation 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 success- 
 ful one, as, exclusive 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 pro- 
 cess 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 dwell- 
 ing on his unkind letter, did she endeavor to lessen her tender- 
 ness. She felt the emotion of pity stronger than that of resent- 
 ment, and that the friendship of Oscar would have been sweeter 
 to her soul than the love or attention of any other object. By 
 obeying the impulse of passion, she feared she had doomed her 
 self to wretchedness. Belgrave was a man whom, upon mature 
 deliberation, she never could have chosen. The softness of h?5 
 
120 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 tolera- 
 bly guarded in his conduct. A slave, however, to the most vio- 
 lent passions, he was often unable to control them ; and, forget- 
 ful of all prudential motives, delighted at those times in mortify- 
 ing Adela by sly sarcasms on her attachment for Oscar. Though 
 deeply wounded, she never complained ; she had partly forged 
 her chains, and resolved to bear them without repining. Tranquil 
 ill appearance, the poor general, who was not penetrating, thought 
 his darling perfectly happy. Such, however, was not the opinion 
 of those who visited at Woodlawn. The rose of health no longer 
 spread its beautiful tints on the cheek of Adela, nor were her eyes 
 irradiated by vivacity. 
 
 The colonel never went to Enniskillen except about military 
 business, but he made frequent excursions to the metropolis and 
 o'l;her parts of the kingdom in pursuit of pleasure. Adela felt 
 relieved by his absence ; and the general, satisfied at his not at- 
 tempting to take her along with him, never murmured 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 de- 
 elined going to the reviews which preceded the change of garri- 
 son, and sincerely hoped no chance would again throw him in 
 her way. Oscar sickened at the idea of quitting the country with- 
 out seeing her. He knew she was not to accompany the colonel. 
 The officers were going to pay a farewell visit to Woodlawn, and 
 he could not resist being of the party. They were shown into the 
 drawing-room where Adela and the general sat. She was startled 
 at the appearance of Oscar, but though a blush tinged her pale 
 face, she soon recovered her composure, and entered into conver- 
 sation. The general pressed them to stay to dinner,. but they had 
 many visits to pay and begged to be excused. ‘ My dear Fitzalan, ’ 
 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 advancement 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, sir,’ he cried, ‘ no grat- 
 itude can be more fervent than that your goodness has inspired me 
 with ; no wishes can be more sincere than mine for the happiness 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 121 
 
 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 considered 
 ;as mere words of course, since not enforced by more substantial 
 proofs of regard ; but, in reality, soon after his daughter’s mar- 
 riage, in his usual blunt manner, he had mentioned 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, op- 
 posed 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 without his interest.’ To this the general assented, de- 
 claring that he never yet met with a brave soldier or his offspring 
 in distress without feeling and answering the claim they had upon 
 his heart. 
 
 Oscar obtained a ready promise from Mrs. Marlowe of correspond- 
 ing with him. He blushed and faltered as he besought her some- 
 times to acquaint him with the health of their friends at Wood- 
 lawn. 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 hoard- 
 ing up his 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 prescribed to his resentment would in a 
 moment have been overturned, and he would, had it been nec- 
 essary, 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, drawing 
 on our boots of seven leagues, step after Fitzalan and Amanda. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Confessed from yonder slow extinguished clouds. 
 
 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 travelers were going, was a 
 large Gothic pile, erected in the rude and distant period when 
 •strength more than elegance was deemed necessary in a building. 
 The depredations of war, as well as time, were discernible on ita 
 
122 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 exterior; some of its lofty battlements were broken, and oth.^rs 
 moldering to decay, while about its ancient towers 
 
 The rar.kg:ra PS waved its head. 
 
 And the moss whistied to the wind. 
 
 It stood upon a rocky eminence overhanging the sea, and com? 
 manding a delightful prospect of the opposite coast of Scotland, 
 about it were yet to be traced irregular fortifications, a moat, ancL 
 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 extensive 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 
 travelers 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 sad- 
 ness of her mind ; yet it was not quite an unpleasing sadness, for 
 with it was now mingled a degree of that enthusiasm which plain- 
 tive and romantic spirits are so peculiarly subject to feel in view- 
 ing the venerable grandeur 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 h^ing 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 frown- 
 ing 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 people 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 partaken of it 
 they retired to rest. The next morning, immediately after break* 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 123 
 
 fast, 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 numer- 
 ous, and mostly hung with old tapestry, representing Irish battles 
 in which the chiefs of Castle Carberry were particularly distin- 
 guished. Their portraits, with those of their ladies, occupied a 
 long gallery, whose arched windows cast a dim religious light 
 upon them. This was terminated by a small apartment in the center 
 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 sublime and beautiful in it. The furniture was not only 
 modern but elegant, and excited the particular attention and in- 
 quiries 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,’ con- 
 tinued she, ‘ I ever knew ; the castle has beei\quite deserted since 
 she died — alack-a-day ! I thought my poor heart would have broke 
 when I heard of her death. Ah ! I remember the night I heard 
 the Banshee crying so pitifully.’ ‘ And pray what is that? ’ inter- 
 rupted Amanda. ‘ Why, a little woman, 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, 
 l^emoaning herself.’ ‘ Lort save us ! ’ cried Ellen, ‘ I hope his lort- 
 ship, 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 
 saying, 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 him! 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 flne 
 iLngiish painter, and brought it over with her. It is the moral of 
 what he then was.’ The eager eyes of Amanda were instantly 
 ;:urned to it, and she traced, or at least imagined she did so, a resem- 
 blance 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 he is represented in the 
 beautiful allegory, sheltering a trembling dove in his bosom from 
 a ferocious hawk. O Mortimer 1 thought Amanda, thy feeling 
 nature is here ably delineated ! 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 
 
124 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 apartments for her own immediate use, and she accm'dingly fixed 
 on this and the room adjoining it, which had been Lady Cherbury’s 
 chamber. Her things were brought hither, and her books, work^, 
 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, embowered in a grove of ven- 
 erable oaks, attracted her admiration. Her father told her that 
 was Ulster Lodge, a seat belonging to the Marquis of Koslin, who 
 was an Irish as well as a Scotch Peer, and had very extensive pos- 
 sessions in Ireland. Fitzalan added, he had been inquiring of the 
 old man about the neighborhood, 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 marchioness, or Lady Euphrasia Sutherland, who was his 
 >nly 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. Ellea 
 was appointed to attend Amanda, and do whatever plain worfe 
 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 cheer- 
 fulness of Amanda gradually returned, the visions of hope again 
 revived in her mind, and she indulged a secret pleasure at living 
 in the house he had once occupied. She considered her father as 
 particularly connected with his family, and doubted not, from 
 this circumstance, she should sometimes hear of him. She judged 
 • of his constancy by her own, and believed he would not readily 
 forget her. She acknowledged 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 appeared 
 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 agreeably diversified by 
 the sources of amusements she drew from herself. Her father^ 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 125 
 
 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 wandered 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 coun- 
 try. 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 their fame 
 were raised, that the children of the North might hereafter know 
 the places where their fathers fought ; that the hunter, as he 
 lean^ 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, Ellen, 
 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 avert to Tudor Hall, thence naturally to Lord Mortimer, 
 and conclude with poor Chip, exclaiming : ‘ What a pity true love 
 should ever be crossed 1 ’ 
 
 CHAPTER XVL f ^ 
 
 Some take him for a tool 
 
 That knaves do work with, called a fool ; 
 
 Pools are known by looking wise, 
 
 As men find woodcocks by their eyes.—HuDiBRAS. 
 
 The solitude of Castle Carberry was interrupted in less than s 
 fortnight by visits and invitations from the neighboring families. 
 The first they accepted was to dinner at Mr. Kilcorban’s. He was 
 a man of large fortune, which, in the opinion of many, compen 
 sated for the want of polished manners and a cultivated mind ; 
 but oth el’s, of a more liberal way of thinking, could not possibly 
 excuse those deficiencies, which were more apparent from his pre- 
 tending to every excellence ; and more intolerable from his 
 deeming himself authorized, by his wealth and consequence, Uf 
 
126 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 say and do almost whatever he pleased. His lady was, like him^- 
 self, 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 them- 
 selves, as the very models of elegance and perfection. The young 
 heir had been sent to the university ; but, permitted to be his own 
 master, he had profited little by his residence there. Enough, 
 however, perhaps he thought, for a man of fortune, who wanted 
 not professional knowledge. His face was coarse, his person in- 
 elegant, and his taste in adorning himself preposterously ridicu- 
 lous. 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, be- 
 cause they had instructors in almost every branch of education ; 
 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 conscious, 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, collecting news and paying 
 visits ; their evenings were constantly devoted to company, 
 without which they declared they could not exist. They some- 
 times afiPected languor and sentiment, talked of friendship, and 
 professed for numbers, the most sincere ; yet, to the very girls 
 they pretended to regard, delighted in exhibiting their finery, if 
 certain they could not purchase the same and would feel morti- 
 fied 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 ex- 
 cited, 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- 
 hood in his favor. She was a shrewd, sensible woman ; the dig- 
 nity of her person commanded respect, but the sarcastic expression 
 of her countenance prevented her conciliating esteem. 
 
 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. 
 
rate CHILDREN OF THE ABBST« 
 
 127 
 
 which was about two miles from Castle Carberry . A numerous 
 party was already assembled. While Amanda was paying her 
 compliments to Mi’s. 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 resi. One gentleman swore ‘ she was a devilish fine 
 girl ! ’ He was seconded in the remark by another, 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 saying so. Mr. Bryan Kilcorban, 
 who leaned on her chair, said, ‘ A bill should be brought into the 
 house to tax such complexions ; for kill me,’ continued he, ‘the 
 ladies are so irresistible from nature, it is quite unconscionable ta 
 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 U> 
 dinner relieved her from this nonsense. Luxury and ostentation 
 were conspicuous in the fare and decorations of the table, and 
 Amanda never felt any hours so tedious as those she passed at it* 
 When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, the Misses Kil- 
 corban 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 ta 
 grant I shall with pleasure.’ ‘ Oh ! really, then, it is in your power. 
 It is only to refuse the pattern of your cap to any girls who may 
 fitsk you for it, and to give it me and my sister. You cannot con- 
 ceive 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 re 
 turn from Dublin, for fashions ; but we always make it a point ta 
 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, suppos- 
 ing I would let her see my things, as I always told her I was ex- 
 tremely fond of her. Well, I lent her a gown, which was quite 
 old-fashioned, but assured her it wasdhe very newest mode. She 
 accordingly had her beautiful muslins cut in imitation of it, and 
 so spoiled them from making any other habit. Well, we met at 
 an assize ball, where all the elep-ant peonle of the county were 
 
128 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY, 
 
 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 laughing. Poor thing ! the tears 
 absolutely trickled down her cheeks. Do not you think it was a 
 charming trick ? ’ ‘ Very much so, ’ said Amanda ; ‘ 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 giv- 
 ing yourselves a great deal of unnecessary trouble,’ replied 
 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 ! 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 to the favor, and allow us to say they are the new- 
 est Bath fashions. Was you ever at Bath ? ’ ‘ No.’ ‘ Oh ! then, 
 I assure you, you have a monstrous pleasure to come ; it is the 
 sweetest place on earth — quite a paradise I I declare I thought I 
 should have died with grief at leaving it. Papa has been inexor- 
 able ever since to our entreaties for a second trip. He says the 
 first cost too much money. Indeed, it was an enormous sum ; 
 only think how much.’ ‘lam 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 
 d.eep confab, looked at each other, and remained 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 Mar- 
 chelle 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 repeat her wish, and it was, therefore, unani- 
 mously agreed upon among the fair coterie, that they should con- 
 tinue 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 ladyship, ‘I 
 hope you have had enough of these country misses — those would- 
 be misses of the ton.’ Amanda smiled assentingly. ‘Heaven 
 defend me, or anyone I like,’ continued her ladyship, ‘ from theif 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 129 
 
 clack ! The confusion of Babel was, I really believe, inferior to 
 that their tongues create, yet some people have the absurdity to 
 reckon these girls accomplished. Poor Mrs. Kilcorban torments 
 one with the perfections of her daughters ; 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 hoy« 
 dens. 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 
 grammatical part of her own language.’ ‘ Mrs. Kilcorban’s 
 opinion of her children,’ said Amanda, ‘ is natural, considering 
 the partiality of a parent. ’ ‘ Yes ; but not more bearable on that 
 
 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 ap- 
 pearing sagacious, I suppose, ’ said her ladyship, who was extremely 
 quick, and had caught the last words. ‘ Alas ! poor youth, no em- 
 bellishments on the exterior would ever be able to make us believe 
 the tenement within well furnished. ’ Her ladyship was now sum- 
 moned 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 concealing them? ’ ‘ O 
 
 Lord ! no; everyone 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, for 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 ! ’ cried Mrs. Kilcorban, who had taken a chair at the other 
 side of Amanda, and listened with evident pleasure to her daughter’s 
 
130 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 voluble speech, * Lady Greystock is an odd being ; I never met with 
 anyone like her in all my travels through Eugland, 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 : bnt she soon grew as tired of the party as of 
 the game, and lost on purpose to be released. She had hoped for a 
 little more chat with Lady Greystock ; but her ladyship was passion- 
 ately fond of cards, and at all times would have preferred the pleas- 
 ures of a card-table to the eloquence of a Cicero. Kilcorban, on 
 finding her disengaged, tormented her with many absurd compli- 
 ments. A challenge to a brag-table at length relieved her from 
 his nonsense, 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 quit- 
 ting the party, perfectly coincided with his. He laughed at the 
 account which the Kilcorbans had given of Lady Greystock, to 
 whom he knew they paid the most extravagant flattery, in hopes 
 oi obtaining seme of her large fortune. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Remote from man, with God they passed their days, 
 
 Prayer all their business, all their pleasure praise.— Parnell. 
 
 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, inclosed 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 th<> 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 131 
 
 jsmoke of a turf fire, which issued thence, soon rendered it dis* 
 tressingly warm. Amanda got as near the window as possible^ 
 but still could not procure sufficient air ; and as everything for 
 tea was not quite ready, asked one of the Miss O’ Flannaghans if 
 she wpuld 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 1, “ 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 of clothes on, which I shall by 
 next Michaelmas. ” ’ Amanda left them all laughing at this story, 
 and her father engaged in conversation with some farmers, 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 com- 
 mon ; 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 immediately 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 medi- 
 tation, she pursued her way through winding passages, where 
 vestiges of cells were yet discernible, over whose moldering 
 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 surrounded 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 ; she, 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 confessor, 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, but still retained many i*elics of supersti- 
 tious piety, which had escaped, in a tolerable degree, both time 
 and weather. Saints and martyrs were curiously cut over the 
 
^32 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 and 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 irre- 
 pressible emotion, stayed a minute longer to contemplate the 
 awful scene. All was silent, sad, and solitary ; the grass-grown 
 aisles looked long untrodden by human foot, the green and mol- 
 dering 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 desolation of the place. Full of 
 moralizing melancholy, the young, the lovely Amanda, hung 
 over the grave of her companion’s youthful 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 ! 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 windings, 
 when, suddenly emerging from them, she found herself, to her 
 great surprise, in a large garden, entirely encompassed by the 
 ruins, and in the center of it stood a long, low building, which her 
 companion informed her was a convent ; 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’Flan- 
 naghan accosted her without ceremony, and the nun returned 
 the salutation with the most cordial good-humor. She was fifty, 
 as Amanda afterward heard, for she never could, from her appear- 
 ance, 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 ; though her accent at 
 once proclaimed her country, it was not unharmonious ; and the 
 cheerful obligingness of her manner amply compensated the want 
 of elegance. She wore the religious habit of the house, which was a 
 loose flannel dress, 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 con- 
 cealed her hair.* Miss O’Flannaghan presented Amanda to her 
 as a stranger, who wished to see everything curious in the chapel. 
 
 * The Abbey and the nun, which the Author has attempted to describe, were suck 
 as she really saw, but in a different part of Ireland from that which she has mentioned 
 
THE CHIBDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 133 
 
 *Ah I my honey,’ erred 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 
 mourning* for our prioress [the altar was hung in black] ; but, my 
 dear [turning to Amanda], do you mean to come here next Sun- 
 day ? for if you do, you will find us all bright again.’ Upon 
 Amanda’s answering in the negative, she continued, ‘ Faith, and 
 I 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 
 happiness 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 finery of the chapel ; among the 
 former v/as 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 a quantity of artificial flow- 
 ers, 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, purchased 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 at fifteen, and from that time 
 to the present, which is a long stretch, I have passed a contented 
 rfe, thanks be to our Blessed Lady ! ’ raising her sparkling eyes to 
 heaven. They ascended a few steps to the place where the com- 
 munity 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 heav- 
 enly choir. Oh ! my dear,’ turning 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, she managed so well. The mourning in the 
 chapel, as I have already told you, will be over for her next Sun- 
 day ; but that which is in our hearts will not be so speedily re- 
 moved.’ 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 engage- 
 ment, only reminded her of the promised visit. In their walk 
 back, her companion informed Amanda that the society consisted 
 of twelve nuns. Their little fortunes, though sunk in one com- 
 mon fund, were insufficient to supply their necessities, which 
 
134 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 compelled them to keep a day-school in which the neighboring 
 children were instructed in reading, writing, plain work, embroid- 
 ery, and artificial fiowers. 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- 
 ticed 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 moldering walls, as no object appeared be*- 
 yond 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, familiarly 
 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, if you do, I must 
 be paid beforehand. ' Amanda disengaged her hand, and entered 
 the parlor, where the company, by a display of pocket-handker- 
 chiefs on their laps, seemed prepared to make a do wnright 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 remo.ved, 
 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 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’Gallag- 
 han, giving her a tap, or rather slap, on the shoulder, made her 
 .start suddenly from her seat. He laughed heartily at this, declar- 
 ing 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 cere- 
 monies, 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 inclination 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 
 
THE CHILDREX OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 135 
 
 concluded it, she begged they would excuse her sitting the remain^ 
 der of the evening, she felt so extremely fatigued. She and Fitz- 
 alan would gladly have declined staying supper, but this they 
 found impossible, without either greatly mortifying, or absolutely 
 oflPending 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 
 Falstaff, 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 the 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, my 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! ” repeated the angry and astonished priest. 
 “ Oh 1 you rogue, where do you think I could get money to lend, 
 except, like yourself, I had pilfered and stolen?” “Oh! that is 
 neither here nor there,” replied the man. “ You know I cleared 
 the score on my conscience with you long ago, so tell me, father, 
 if you will lend me half a crown? ” “ No, nor a shilling.” “ Well, 
 
 a farthing, then ; 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 re- 
 fuse 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,’ exclaimed 
 another young man, as this one concluded his. ‘ A young 
 knight went into a chapel in Spain one morning, where he ob- 
 served a monk standing in a supplicating attitude, with a box in 
 his hand. He asked him what this was for, and learned, to col- 
 lect money for praying the souls of fifty Christians out of purga- 
 tory, 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 ceremony, 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 
 
136 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 were free. ‘‘Are you sure of this ? ” inquired the knight. “ Ay,’* 
 replied the priest, ‘ ‘ they are all assembled together 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 ! ” repeated 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, without 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 ap- 
 pearance, and was delighted at seeing Amanda. She conducted 
 her to the schoolroom, 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, 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, furnished with a bed, chair, table, 
 and crucifix, and then to the parlor, where their new prioress sat. 
 She was a woman far advanced 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 re- 
 ceived Amanda with the truest politeness and most friendly 
 warmth ; and Amanda felt impressed with real reverence for her. 
 While she acknowledged in her mind there could not be a hap- 
 pier situation 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 to 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 137 
 
 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 Grey stock and the young ladies alighted. 
 They both spoke at once, and so extremely fast that Amanda 
 scarcely understood what they said. They declared a thousand 
 impertinent visitors had prevented their coming 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 her- 
 self. Observing a petticoat 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 anyone advanced in life, 
 and told her ladyship she would work one for her. Lady Grey- 
 stock smiled most graciously at this, and pressing her hand, de- 
 clared she was a charming girl. The Miss Kilcorbans winked 
 slyly, and, taking her hand in turn, assured her they had con- 
 ceived 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 I fields, oh ! woods, when, when, shall I be made 
 The happy tenant of your shade I—Cowlet. 
 
 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 Lord Mortimer, and that 
 Lord Cherbury’s sanctioning their attachment would remove 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 
 
38 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 frequently invited to ; she was never at a loss for amusement 
 within Castle Carberry, or about its domain ; 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 wilderness, 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 having formerly been a hermitage ; it overhung the sea, and 
 all 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 procured for the hermitage, 
 which she ornamented with shells and sea-weeds, rendering it a 
 most delightful recess; 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 glitter- 
 ing in the sunbeams, from which its foliage sheltered her. But 
 no visionary pleasures, no delightful rambles, no domestic avoca- 
 tions made her forgetful of the calls of benevolence; she visited 
 the haunts of poverty, and relieved its necessities to the utmost of 
 Her power; the wretchedness so often conspicuous among many 
 of the lower rank filled her not only with compassion, but sur- 
 prise, as she had imagined that liberty and a fruitful soil were 
 generally attended with comfort and prosperity. Her father, to 
 whom she communicated this idea, informed her that the indi- 
 gence of the peasants proceeded in a great degree from the emi- 
 gration of their landlords. ‘ 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 ; 
 the revenue of half a year spent on them would necessarily benefit 
 the poor wretches whose labors have contributed to raise it; and 
 by exciting their gratitude, add inclination to industry, and con* 
 sequently augment their profits. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 139 
 
 * The clouds, which are formed by mists and exhalations, return 
 to the places from whence they were drawn in fertilizing showers 
 and refreshing dews, and almost every plant enriches the soil 
 from which it sprung. Nature, indeed, in all her works, is a 
 glorious precedent to man ; but while enslaved by dissipation, he 
 cannot follow her example, and what exquisite sources of enjoy- 
 ment does he lose — to enlighten the toils of labor, to cheer the 
 child of poverty, to raise the drooping head of merit — oh ! how 
 superior to the revels of dissipation, or the ostentation of wealth. 
 
 ‘ Real happiness is forsaken for a gaudy phantom called pleas- 
 ure ; she is seldom grasped but for a moment — yet in that moment 
 has power to fix envenomed stings within the breast. The heart 
 which delights in domestic joys, which rises in pious gratitude to 
 heaven, which melts at human woe, can alone experience true 
 pleasure. The fortitude with which the peasants bear their suf- 
 ferings should cure discontent of its murmurs ; they support adver- 
 sity without complaining, and, those who possess a pile of turf 
 against the severity of the winter, a small strip of ground planted 
 with cabbage and potatoes, a cow, a pig, and some poultry, think 
 themselves completely happy, though one wretched hovel shelters 
 all alike. ’ 
 
 Oh ! how rapturous ! thought Amanda — the idea of Lord Morti- 
 mer’s feeling recurring to her mind— to change such scenes ; to 
 see the clay-built hovel vanish, and a dwelling of neatness and 
 convenience rise in its stead ; to wander, continued she, with him 
 whose soul is fraught with sensibility, and view the projects of 
 benevolence realized by the hand of charity ; see the faded cheek 
 of misery regain the glow of health. 
 
 The desert blossom as the rose, 
 
 and content and cheerfulness sport beneath its shades. 
 
 From such an ecstatic reverie as this, Amanda was roused one 
 morning by the entrance of the Kilcorbans and Lady Greystock 
 into the dressing room where she was working. ‘ Oh ! my dear ! ’ 
 cried the eldest of the young ladies, ‘ we have such enchanting 
 news to tell you. Only think, who is coming down here immedi- 
 ately— your uncle and aunt and cousin. An express came this 
 morning from Dublin j where they now are, to the steward at 
 Ulster Lodge, to have everything prepared against next week for 
 
 them. ‘ I declare,’ said Miss Alicia, ‘ I shall quite envy you the 
 delightful amusement you will have with them.’ Amanda 
 blushed, and felt a little confused. ‘ You will have no reason, 
 
 then, I fancy,’ replied she. ‘ for I really do not know them.’ ‘O 
 Lord! ’ exclaimed Mrs. Kilcorban, ‘ well, that is very comical, not 
 to know your own relations; but perhaps they always lived in 
 Scotland, and you were afraid to cross the sea to pay them a visit, 
 
140 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBBY« 
 
 ‘If that was the only fear she had,’ said Lady Greystock, with a 
 satirical smile, ‘she could easily have surmounted it; besides, 
 would it not have held good with respect to one place as well as 
 another? ’ ‘ Well, I never thought of that,’ cried Mrs. Kilcorban; 
 
 ‘ but pray, miss, may I ask the reason why you do not know them 
 by letter? ’ ‘ It can be of very little consequence to you, madam,’ 
 
 replied Amanda coolly, ‘to hear it.’ ‘ They say Lady Euphrasia 
 Sutherland is very accomplished,’ exclaimed Miss Kilcorbati; ‘so 
 a correspondence with her would have been delightful. I dare 
 say you write sweetly yourself; so if ever you leave Castle Car- 
 berry, I beg you will favor me with letters, for, of all things, I 
 dote on a sentimental correspondence.’ ‘ No wonder,’ said Lady 
 Greystock, ‘ you are so particularly well qualified to support one*’ 
 ‘ But, my dear ! ’ resumed Miss Kilcorban, ‘ we are to give the most 
 enchanting ball that ever was given in this world ! Papa says we 
 shall have full liberty to do as we please respecting it. ’ ‘ It will 
 
 be a troublesome affair, I am afraid,’ said Mrs. Kilcorban. ‘We 
 are to have confectioners and French cooks from Dublin,’ con- 
 tinued her daughter, without minding this interruption. ‘ Every- 
 thing 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. 1 
 dare say you will be vastly busy preparing for it.’ ‘ Nature,’ said 
 Lady Greystock, ‘ has been too bounteous to Miss Fitzalan, to 
 render such preparations necessary.’ ‘ 0 Lord ! ’ cried the young 
 ladies, with a toss of their heads, ‘ Miss Fitzalan is not such a fool, 
 I suppose, as to wish to appear unlike everyone else in her dress, 
 but,’ rising with their mamma, and saluting her much more form- 
 ally 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 suf- 
 ferer, had so strongly prepossessed his mind with ideas of the self- 
 ishness and implacability of hers, as to excite sentiments of distaste 
 and aversion for her. He considered her as the usurper of his 
 children’s rights — as accessory to the death of his adored Malvina, 
 and consequently the author of the agonies he endured — agonies 
 which time, aided by religion, couid scarcely conquer 
 
fB> CHILDREN OF THE ABBBTw 
 
 141 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Oh, love, how are thy precious, sweetest minutes 
 Thus ever crossed, thus vexed with disappointments ; 
 
 Now pride, now fickleness, fantastic quarrels. 
 
 And sullen coldness give us pain 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 re- 
 spectability. 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 of 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 gentlemen ; but then he 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 fiying up to Amanda, as usual, the young 
 ladies swam into the room, with what they imagined a most be- 
 witching elegance, and, making a sliding courtesy, flung them- 
 selves 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 fora 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. Kilcorban, ‘ is 
 really a personable-looking woman enough, and her daughter 
 a pretty little sort of body.’ 
 
 ‘ Oh ! 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; and that he might catch him ere he took 
 
 ♦ Ladies were admitted to the gallery of the Irish House of Commons 
 
142 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBBT< 
 
 wing, never ceased tormenting us, from the time tneakfast 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 ofiP to Ulster Lodge, as if life and death de» 
 pended 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 ancestors ; while bells 
 in all quarters were tingling — maids and footmen running up and 
 downstairs — and cats, dogs, monkeys, and parrots, which I found 
 composed part of the traveling retinue, were scratching, barking, 
 chattering, and screaming, in a room contiguous to the one we 
 occupied. At length a fine, perfumed jessamy made his appear- 
 ance, and saying the ladies were ready to have the honor of receiv- 
 ing us, skipped upstairs like a harlequin. The marchioness ad- 
 vanced 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 lan- 
 gour, 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,’ exclaimed 
 Miss Kilcorban, in an accent of rapture. ‘ Oh ! what eyes he has,’ 
 cried her sister : ‘ what an harmonious voice ! I really never beheld 
 anyone 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; pray proceed.’ ‘ Well,’ con- 
 tinued Lady Greystock, ‘ I was saying that Lord Mortimer was 
 one of the most elegant and engaging young men I had ever be- 
 held. His expressive eyes 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 af- 
 fection, sprung to her eye and could scarcely be prevented 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 rudeness and conceit 
 to Lady Euphrasia ; ’tis really quite a misconstruction 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 oil 
 humility.’ 
 
THE CHILDRE^T OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 143 
 
 ‘I assure you, miss,’ said Mrs. Kilcorban, ‘I did not forget to 
 tell the marchioness she had a niece in the neighborhood. I 
 thought, indeed, she seemed a little shy on the subject ; so I sup- 
 pose 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 intelligence 
 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 relinquish it. 
 
 She now cheered her desponding spirits, by recalling the ideas 
 she had long indulged with delight, as her residence was 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 unchanged, and her father 
 would sanction their attachment, ere he avowed it to the earl. 
 
 While fluctuating between hope and fear, Ellen, all pale and 
 breathless, ran into the room, exclaiming, ‘ He is come ! he is 
 come ! Lord Mortimer is come I ’ 
 
 ‘ 0 heavens ! ’ sighed Amanda, sinking back in her chair, and 
 dropping her trembling hands before her. Ellen, alarmed, blamed 
 herself for her precipitation, and, flying to a cabinet, snatched a 
 bottle of lavender water from it, which she plentifully sprinkled 
 over her, and then assisted her to a window. ‘ I was so flurried,’ 
 cried the good-natured girl, as she saw 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 t9 
 
144 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 dark evem 
 ing — so if one of them old fellows, as I was saying, had jumped 
 out, I could not have peen more startled, and pack I ran into the 
 little parlor, and there I heard his lortship inquiring for my 
 master ; and to be 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 upstairs ; and one may guess what he and 
 my master are talking about, I think.’ 
 
 The emotion of Amanda increased. She trembled so she could 
 mot stand. She felt as if her destiny, her future happiness, de- 
 pended on this minute. In vain she endeavored to regain com- 
 posure. Her spirits were wound up to the highest pitch of ex- 
 pectation, and the agitations inseparable from such a state were 
 mot 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 
 center of the room, saw him walking down the lawn with her 
 father, who left him when he had reached the gate, where his serv- 
 ants and horses were. The chill of disappointment pervaded the 
 heart of Amanda, and a shower of tears fell from her. Ellen, who 
 bad 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 sum- 
 moned 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 penetrating 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 sensibility, and he gave a sigh to the cruel necessity which 
 compelled him to separate two beings of such congenial loveli- 
 ness ; but as that necessity neither was nor 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 object 
 more the favorite of fortune than his portionless Amanda. 
 
 This object, he was inclined to believe, was Lady Euphrasia 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 145 
 
 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 iiibibe 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 informed 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 de- 
 scended. 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 nativ- 
 ity, and her favorite residence ; and the opportunity of traveling 
 with an agreeable party, had determined him no longer to defer 
 gratifying this wish. 
 
 ‘ He mentioned his mother in terms of the truest respect and 
 tenderness ; and his softened voice, his tearful eye, proclaimed 
 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 surprised to find it in 
 as good order as could be expected from its ancient date. He de- 
 sired to see the garden, which had been laid out under the direc- 
 tion of his mother. He expected not to have found a vestige of 
 her taste remaining, and was consequently charmed to find him- 
 self mistaken. Every spot appeared to remind him of some 
 happy hour, especially the Grothic temple. “ How many happy 
 minutes have I passed in this place,” said his lordship, after a 
 silence for some time, “ with the best of woman.’’ — Upon my word, 
 Amanda,’ continued 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 the ad- 
 
 jacent grounds ; and as he has mentioned what improvements 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 alto* 
 gether from retracing scenes of former happiness with hin 
 
146 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY, 
 
 mother. ‘ No,’ said she, ‘ in this spot he also, perhaps, 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 lihn a right to informa- 
 tion about all her actions, and by her total neglect of him since. 
 Their first interview, she trusted, would effect a reconciliation, by 
 producing an explanation. Her father then, she flattered herself, 
 tender as he was, depending on her for happiness, and prepossessed 
 in Lord Mortimer s favor, would no longer oppose their attach- 
 ment, but allow Lord Cherbury to be informed of it, who she 
 doubted not, would, in this as well as every other instance, prove 
 himself truly feeling and disinterested. 
 
 Thus did Amanda, by encouraging ideas agreeable to her wishes, 
 try to soften the disappointment she had experienced in the 
 morning. Fitzalan, on meeting his daughter at tea, was not sur- 
 prised 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 flattering illusion could 
 alone have enabled her to shake off the sadness with which, but 
 an hour before, she had been oppressed. The sooner such an 
 illusion was removed, the better ; 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 manner, 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 possessed his 
 affections ; and believed his visit to Castle Carberry had been pur- 
 posely made, to announce the alteration of his sentiments by 
 the coldness of his conduct, and check any hopes which his appear- 
 ance in the neighborhood might have create'^.. 
 
 He had hesitated about Amanda’s acce’;;>ing the invitation to 
 the Kilcorbans’ ball ; but he now determined she should go, im- 
 pressed 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 believed 
 V 70 uld realize either her hopes or fears. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 147 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A crimson blush her beauteous face o’erspread, 
 
 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 bordering paint of purple glows, 
 
 Or lilies damasked by the neighboring rose.— Drtden. 
 
 The wished-for night at length arrived, and Amanda arrayed 
 lierself for it with a fluttering heart. The reflection of her mir- 
 ror 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 reason to envy her that night ; 
 and Fitzalan, when he entered the parlor, was struck with her sur- 
 passing loveliness. He gazed on her with a rapture that brought 
 tears into his eyes, and felt a secret pride at the idea of the mar- 
 chioness beholding this sweet descendant of her neglected sister 
 
 Into such beauty spread and blown so fair, 
 
 Though poverty’s cold wind, and crushing rain, 
 
 Beat 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 Orangeville, found the avenue full of 
 carriages. The lights dispersed through the house gave it quite 
 the appearance of an illumination. It seemed, indeed, the man- 
 sion of gayety and splendor. Her knees trembled as she ascended 
 the stairs. She wished for time to compose herself but the door 
 opened, her name was announced, and Mrs. Kilcorban came for- 
 ward to receive her. The room, though spacious, was extremely 
 crowded. It was decorated in a fanciful manner with festoons of 
 flowers, intermingled with variegated lamps. Immediately over 
 the entrance was the orchestra, and opposite to it sat the mar- 
 chioness 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 rela- 
 tions, were now on her, she almost immediately recovered compos- 
 ure, 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. 
 
148 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 she hastened to the first seat she found vacant, which was neai 
 the marchioness. 
 
 Universal, indeed, was the admiration she had excited among 
 the male part of the company by her beauty, unaffected graces, 
 and simplicity of dress. 
 
 She wore a robe of plain white lutestring, and a crape turban, 
 ornamented with a plume of drooping feathers. She had no ap- 
 pearance 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, round 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 gain- 
 ing a seat, her confusion subsided. She looked up, and the flrst 
 eyes she met were those of Lord Mortimer (who leaned on Lady 
 Euphrasia Sutherland’s chair), fastened on her face with a scrut- 
 inizing 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 marchioness and Lady Euphrasia. There 
 was a malignant expression in their countenances which abso- 
 lutely shocked her ; and 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 affecta- 
 tion, and with a impertinent sneer, ‘ that you think her hand- 
 some ?’ ‘ Handsome,’ exclaimed he with warmth, as if involun- 
 tarily repeating her ladyship’s words, ‘ I think her bewitchingly 
 irresistible. 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 marchioness haughtily frowned — Lady Euphrasia smiled 
 satirically, tossed her head, and played with her fan. The pro- 
 pensities to envy and ill-nature, which the marchioness had shown 
 in her youth, were not less visible in age. As they were then ex- 
 cited on her own account, so were they now on 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 hatred. 
 Notwithstanding her partiality to her daughfer, 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 selflsliness dictates, the mere tribute of flab 
 tery . How different from the spontaneous attention which Aman 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 149 
 
 da excited, who, though portionless and untitled, was beheld with 
 admiration, followed with praise, and courted with assiduity ! 
 
 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 Amanda, their 
 harsh expression made her appear much older. Though blessed 
 with the abundant gifts of fortune, she was unhap p 3 % if, from any- 
 one’s manner, she conceived that he thought nature had not 
 been quite so liberal to her. In the domestic circle constant fiat- 
 tery kept her in good-humor ; but when out she was frequently 
 chagrined at seeing women, infinitely below her in rank and for- 
 tune, ^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 exhausted in 
 adorning her, and she entered the room with all the insolence of 
 conscious rank and afPectation of beauty. As she walked she ap- 
 peared scarcely able to support her delicate frame, and her lan- 
 guishing eyes were half closed. She could, however, 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 Mortimer by her chair and 
 3ir Charles Bingley, the young oflicer already mentioned, who 
 was colonel of a regiment quartered 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 ex- 
 torted 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 
 speaking eyes confessed his feelings. Sir Charles Bingley, who 
 had no secret motive to conceal his, openly avowed his admira- 
 tion, to which Lady Euphrasia replied as has been already 
 mentioned. 
 
 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 recollecting what 
 that conduct had been — how cruelly, how ungratefully she had 
 used him. Fled in the very moment of hope and expectation, 
 leaving him a prey to distrust, anxiety, and reg'^et, he dreaded 
 6ome fatal mystery — some improper attachment (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 
 
150 
 
 THB CHILDBBN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 in them, and felt unutterable impatience to have her mysterious 
 conduct explained. From Tudor Hall he had repaired to London, 
 restless and unhappy. Soon after his arrival there, the marquis 
 proposed his accompanying 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, however, 
 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 extremely 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 suflScient 
 sensibility to experience it. 
 
 He, cautious of creating hopes which he never meant to realize, 
 treated her only with the attention which common politeness de- 
 manded, and on every occasion seemed to prefer the marchioness’s 
 conversation to hers, intending by this conduct to crush the pro- 
 jected scheme in embryo, and spare himself 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 fulfill the engagement he had entered into with her. He re- 
 solved, however, to resist every plea of tenderness in her favor, 
 except he was thoroughly convinced she still deserved it. He 
 went to Castle Car berry purposely to make a display of indifPer- 
 ence, and prevent any ideas being entertained of his having fol- 
 lowed her to Ireland. He deemed himself justifiable in touching 
 her sensibility (if, indeed, she possessed any for him) by an ap- 
 pearance of coldness 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 re- 
 sult relative to his conduct in future to her. 
 
 The character of a, perfect stranger was the one he was to 
 support throughout the evening ; but her loveliness, and the gah 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 151 
 
 lantry 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 per 
 sons displeased by the charms of Amanda. The Miss Kilcorbans 
 saw, with evident mortification, the admiration she excited, 
 which they had flattered themselves with chiefly engrossing ; their 
 disappointment was doubly severe after the pain, trouble, and ex- 
 pense they had undergone in ornamenting their persons ; after 
 the suggestions of their vanity, and the flattering 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 iU. Amanda assured them she was conscious of 
 no indisposition, and the harmony of her features remained un- 
 disturbed. Miss Kilcorban, in a half- whisper, declared the mar- 
 chioness had never smiled since she had entered the room, and 
 feared her mamma had committed a great mistake 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 opportunity ; and one so propitious as the present 
 for the wish of my heart might not again offer.’ The Miss Kil- 
 corbans 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 gracefully 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 
 glance 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 pro- 
 voked by the desertion of the former to her lovely cousin. He 
 was a fashionable and animated young man, whom she had often 
 honored with her notice in England, and wished to enlist in the 
 train of her supposed adorers. Lord Mortimer could scarcely re- 
 store her good-humor by engaging 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 finding her ladyship 
 
152 
 
 THE CHILDKEN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 engaged ; but entreated the next set he might have the supreme 
 honor and ecstatic felicity of her hand. This, with the most im- 
 pertinent 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 Kilcorban 
 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 Euphrasia, 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 ineffect- 
 ual. He spoke and laughed with her ladyship, but his eyes could 
 not be withdrawn from the angelic countenance of his partner. 
 Amanda’s hand trembled as, in turning, she presented it to Lord 
 Mortimer ; but, though he extended his, he did not touch it. There 
 wsts 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 anima- 
 tion. 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 toward 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 stand- 
 ing up, to seek a partner. At the same moment Lord Mortimer 
 quitted Lady Euphrasia. Oh ! how the bosom of Amanda throbbed 
 when she saw him approach 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. This, indeed, was a disappointment. Propriety, she 
 thought, demanded his dancing the first set with Lady Euphrasia, 
 but, if not totally indifferent, surely he would not have neglected 
 engaging 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 in a window, apparently regard- 
 ing the gay assembly, but in reality too much engrossed by painful 
 thoughts to do so. The wOods, silvered by the beams of the moon, 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 153 
 
 recalled the venerable shades of Tudor Hall to memory, where 
 «he 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, 
 die company repaired to another room for refreshments. Aman- 
 da, 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 her before 
 that night. He was indeed one of those little fluttering insects who 
 bask in 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 t£e Miss Kil- 
 corbans. Lord Mortimer leaned on the back of her ladyship’s 
 chair, and young Kilcorban occupied one by her side, which he 
 never attempted offering to Amanda. She stood, therefore, most 
 unpleasantly by the door, and was exceedingly confused at hear- 
 ing 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 haughtiness, ‘ 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 
 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 leveled them at it? ’ 
 
 Amanda heard not these words, which were delivered in rather 
 a low voice. Her heart swelled with indignation at the imperti- 
 nence 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 
 
154 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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. ‘ Kil- 
 corban, ’ continued he, ‘ I must suppose you did not see Miss Fitz- 
 alan, or your seat would not have been kept. ’ Then catching him 
 by the arm, he raised him nimbly from his chair, and directly car- 
 ried 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 admiration ; but it was the neglect with which he saw her 
 treated, diffused 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 pecu- 
 liar object of his attention. He detested the marchioness and her 
 daughter for their rancorous envy, as much as he despised the Eil- 
 corbans for their mean insolence. The marchioness told him a 
 long tale of tl^e shocking conduct of Amanda’s parents, whose ill 
 qualites she declared her looks announced her to possess, and en- 
 deavored 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 to- 
 ward Amanda. Her hopes began to revive. The luster rekin- 
 dled 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 com- 
 pany were now returning to the ballroom, 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 beautiful girl, whom he imme- 
 diately 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 had returned to Castle Carberry, and she did not 
 expect him till a very late hour. She declared her resolution 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 h^r, 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 153 
 
 to appear undisturbed, 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, endeavor- 
 ing to screen her from observation, while tears trinkled 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-a- 
 tete. As soon as he perceived he had attracted their regard, 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 ? ’ 
 ^So says the world,’ replied Sir Charles, ‘but I do not always 
 give implicit credit to its reports. I have known 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 requesting 
 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 
 lold her he should soon follow her example in retiring, as the 
 scene, so lately delightful, in losing her, would lose all its charma 
 
156 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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, trem- 
 bling, and languid, her father received her into his arms — 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, answ^ered 
 the minute inquiries he made relative to the conduct of the mar- 
 chioness and Lady Euphrasia. He appeared unutterably affected 
 on hearing it. ‘Merciful power,’ exclaimed he, ‘ what disposi- 
 tions ! But you are too lovely, too like your mother, my Amanda^ 
 in every perfection, to escape their malice. Oh ! may it never in- 
 jure 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 ! may it yet bless me with the 
 sight of her happiness.’ 
 
 Amanda retired to her chamber, inexpressibly affected by the 
 language of her father. ‘ Yes,’ cried she, her heart swelling 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 interrupted 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 ! 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 fell into a slumber. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Love reigns a very tyrant in my heart, 
 
 Attended on his throne by all his guard 
 
 Of furious wishes, fears, and nice suspicions.— O tw at. 
 
 The next morning brought Sir Charles Bingley to Castle Car- 
 berry. Fitzalan was out, but Amanda received him in her dress- 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 157 
 
 ing room. He told her, with evident concern, he was on the 
 point of setting olf 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 per- 
 mission to call it, was interrupted at its very commencement —de- 
 clared it gave him more pain than she could imagine, or he ex- 
 press— 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 forgotten 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 him, if he returned again to their neighborhood. 
 At his entrance, he 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 detains me in it.’ 
 
 Day after day elapsed, and no Lord Mortimer appeared. 
 Amanda, indeed, heard frequently of him, and always as the ad- 
 mirer of Lady Euphrasia. Frequently, too, she heard about the 
 family at Ulster Lodge, their superb 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 attention. 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 mel- 
 ancholy from her father, she supported tolerably well, but she 
 only indulged it more freely in solitude. The idea of Lord Mor- 
 timer’s union with Lady Euphrasia haunted her imagination and 
 embittered every moment. ‘ Yes,’ she would exclaim (as she 
 wandered through the garden, 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 Eu- 
 phrasia — I have adorned the landscape, and she shall enjoy ita 
 beauty ! ’ 
 
 About three weeks after the ball, as she sat at work one morn 
 ing 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 ; but not finding anyone advance, 
 turned round and perceived not Ellen indeed, but Lord Mortimer 
 himself. She started from her chair — the work dropped from 
 her hands, and she had power neither to speak nor move. 
 
 ‘ I fear I have surprised and alarmed you,’ said Lord Mortimer, 
 
158 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 *I 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 
 Lord Mortimer were cast round the room, as if viewing well- 
 known objects, which at once pleased and pained his sensibility, 
 by awakening the memory of past delightful days. ‘ This room,' 
 said he, softly sighing, ‘I well remember; it was the favorite re- 
 tirement of one of the most amiable of women.* 
 
 ‘ So I have heard, * replied Amanda; ‘ the virtues of Lady Cher* 
 bury 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 ; with such an accent as this Lord Mortimer 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 re- 
 tained any sensibility for him. Had he not treated her with the 
 most pointed neglect? was he not the declared 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 continue no longer with him ; deli- 
 cacy, 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 the 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 
 Pitzalan, when you reflect on the manner in which you have 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 169 
 
 tcted to me ; — your precipitate, your clandestine departure, at the 
 very period when a mutual acknowledgment of reciprocal feel- 
 ings should have been attended with the most explicit candor on 
 both sides, you cannot wonder at unpleasant conjectures anu toiv 
 menting doubts obtruding on my mind.’ 
 
 ‘Is it possible, my lord,’ said Amanda, ‘ you never conceived 
 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. While he stood silent, trem- 
 bling, 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. Cath- 
 erine’s, by seven, or I will not let you go. My soul will be in 
 tortures till I have your actions explained.’ ‘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 wa^ 
 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 h^self, had he been indifferent, he never could 
 have betrayed such emotions. His looks, as well as language, 
 expressed the feelings of a heart tenderly attached and truly dis- 
 tressed. Lest any circumstance had happened, which would pre- 
 vent 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 mortiflcation 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 Grangeville were so 
 busy preparing for a splendid entertainment they were to be at. 
 the ensuing day, that they had excluded all visitors, 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 satisfled 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 
 
160 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY- 
 
 inclination to move. Amanda was in agony. 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 confused, she scarcely knew what, or 
 how she read. 
 
 ‘Softly, softly, my dear child,’ at last exclaimed her ladyship, 
 whose attention could by no means keep pace with the rapid man- 
 ner in which she read. ‘I protest you post on with as much ex- 
 pedition as my Lady Blerner’s ponies on the circular.’ Amanda 
 blushed, and began to read slowly ; but when the clock struck 
 'Seven her feelings could be no longer repressed. ‘ Good heavens ! ’ 
 cried she, letting the book drop from her hand, and starting from 
 her chair, ‘ this is too much.’ ‘ Bless me ! my dear ! ’ said Lady 
 Greystock, staring at her, ‘ what is the matter ? ’ ‘ 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 reconciliation, 
 which an unsatisfied doubt only retarded. What would he infer 
 from her not keeping an appointment so ardently desired, 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. Perhaps piqued at 
 her doing so, he would not afford her an opportunity 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 
 har from his heart. She thought of sending Ellen to acquaint 
 him with the occasion of her detention at home, but this idea 
 existed but for a moment. An appointment 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 impetuos- 
 ity which lead so many of my sex astray, overstep the bounds of 
 propriety, and to reinstate myself in the esteem of one person lose 
 that of others ; and, above all, that of my own heart. If Lord Mor- 
 timer refuses to hear my justification, he will act agreeably neither 
 to candor nor justice, and pride must aid in repelling my regret.’ 
 
 ‘You look strangely, indeed, my dear,’ said Lady Greystock, 
 who was attentively watching her, while those ideas were rising 
 in her mind. Amanda recollected the remarks which might be 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 161 
 
 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 Grey stock 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 reluctance 
 but her extreme dejection was noticed both by Fitzalan and her 
 ladyship. The latter imputed it to regret at not being permitted 
 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 re- 
 quired ; ‘ ’ tis not by frequenting balls and public places a girl al- 
 ways 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 ladyship’s was.’ ‘One prize 
 will satisfy you then, ’ said Fitzalan. ‘ Ah ! ’ cried Lady Greystock, 
 
 ‘ 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 for- 
 tunes, are equal,’ But ah, thought Amanda, how unlike their 
 dispositions. ‘ I dare say,’ proceeded her ladyship, ‘ Lady Euphra^ 
 sia 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 con- 
 ceal her distress. He pitied her from his soul, and, pretending 
 to think she was only indisposed, entreated her to retire to her 
 chamber. Amanda gladly complied with this entreaty, and be- 
 gan to meditate on what Lady Greystock had said. Was there 
 not a probability of its being true ? Might not the indifference 
 Lord Mortimer had manifested on his first arrival in the neighbor- 
 hood have really originated from a change of affections ? Might 
 not the tenderness he displayed in the morning have been con- 
 certed with the hope of its inducing her to gratify his curiosity, by 
 relating the reason of her journey from Wales, or please his vanf 
 
162 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 aty by tempting her to give some proof of attachment? But she 
 soon receded from this idea. Lady Greystock was not infallible 
 in her judgment. Eeports 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 nature. She could not believe him so egre- 
 giously 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 con- 
 solation but from the hope that her suspense, at least, would soon 
 be terminated. 
 
 She passed a restless night ; nor was her morning more com- 
 posed. 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 fiag in the chapel 
 to rest herself. ‘ Here, ’ said she, pensively leaning her head upon 
 her hand, ‘ Mortimer waited for me ; perhaps with tender impa- 
 tience. Here, too, he perhaps 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 indis- 
 posed, she had remained in the air, in hopes of growing better.’ 
 
 ‘ O Jesu ! ’ 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 assured 
 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 nor 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 it to be one of the sisters, 
 walked slowly, that she might easily overtake me. But you may 
 ^uess my surprise when I was overtaken, not by one of them in- 
 deed, 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 all this strange, 
 and was making all the haste I could to the convent, when he ap- 
 peared again, coming from under that broken arch ; and he bowed 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 163 
 
 and smiled so sweetly, and held his hat in his hand so respectfully 
 while he begged my pardon for the alarm he had given me ; and 
 then he blushed and strove to hide his confusion with his baud'- 
 kerchief, 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 even- 
 ing, and there has neither been man, woman, nor child, but you 
 and myself ; so the young lady changed her mind, and took an- 
 other ramble. ” “Sol 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 me, I will watch here myself 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 tea 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 re- 
 luctance. 
 
 Scarcely had she regained the road, ere a coach and six, pre- 
 ceded and followed by a number of attendants, approached with 
 such quickness that she was obliged to step aside to avoid iL 
 Looking in at the window as it passed, she saw Lord Mortim’er 
 and Lady Euphrasia seated in it, opposite to each other ; she saw 
 they both perceived her, and that Lad^^ Euphrasia laughed, and 
 put her head forward to stare impertinently at her. Amanda was 
 mortified that they had seen her; 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 advantages can never lessen me 
 — such a mind as I fiatter myself Lord Mortimer possesses. Ah 1 
 if he thinks as I do, he would prefer a lonely ramble in the deso- 
 late spot I have just quitted, to all the parade and magnificence 
 he is about witnessing.’ The night passed heavily away. The 
 idea of Lord Mortimer’s devoting all his attention to Lady Euphra- 
 sia, could not be driven from her mind. 
 
 The next morning, the first object she saw, on going to the wirt 
 
164 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 dow, was a large frigate lying at anchor near the castle. Ellen 
 entered her chamber, and sighing heavily, as she always did, in- 
 deed, 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 tea, 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 tirmament; 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 trou-. 
 sers, 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 sum- 
 moned her from the window ; but scarcely had she retired to her 
 chamber for the night, ere Ellen smiling, trembling, and appar- 
 ently 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 
 ssent 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 toward me, all dressed in white. 
 To pe sure, as I heerd a great teal apout the white poys, I thought 
 these were nothing else, and I did so quake and tremble, for there 
 was neither hole, nor bush, nor tree on the spot, that would have 
 sheltered one of the little tiny fairies of Penmaenmawr. Well, 
 they came on, shouting and laughing, and merrier than I thought 
 such rogues ought to 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 turned pack with 
 them, and they had a great powl of whisky punch, and a whole 
 sight of cakes, and Chip told me all his adventures ; and he was 
 so glad wdien he heard I lived with you, pecause he said you were 
 a sweet, mild young laty, and he was sure you would sometimes 
 remind me of him ; 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 assure you 
 Chip is not altered for the worse py a seafaring life. His voice 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 165 
 
 >nteed, 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 tg Dublin.’ 
 
 ‘ Happy 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 beacli 
 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 feel- 
 ings. 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 hesi- 
 tating 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 informed 
 her the frigate was to sail that night ; and what could induce Lord 
 Mortimer to visit it at such an hour, except an intention of depart- 
 ing in it. 
 
 Uncertainty is dreadful. She grew sick with anxiety before 
 her father returned to the castle. On entering it, she immediately 
 repaired to her chamber, and calling Ellen hastily, denianded 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 beach 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 ! 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 everything from my memory put himself. Last night, as I 
 was going to Norah’s I overtook Lort Mortimer on the road, who 
 
166 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 was walking quite sorrowfully, as I may say, py himself; so to 
 pe sure I thought I could do no less in good manners than drop 
 him a curtsey as I passed ; so up he came to me directly: “And, 
 my good girl, how are you? ” said he; 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, 
 loo. 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, 1 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.’ 
 
 Ellen’s efforts at consolation were not successful, and Amanda 
 dismissed her, that, unnoticed and unrestrained, she might in- 
 dulge the tears which flowed at the idea of a long, a lasting sepa- 
 ration, perhaps, from Lord Mortimer. Offended, justly offended, 
 as she supposed, with her, the probability was she would be ban- 
 ished from his thoughts, or, if remembered, at least without es- 
 teem 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 Carberry, without breathing one sigh for its inhabitants. 
 Ah, had you loved sincerely, never would the impulse of resent- 
 ment 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.’ 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Think’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 donbt 
 
 Is to be resolved. But yet 
 
 ril see before I doubt : when I doubt, prove, 
 
 And on the proof there is no more but this— 
 
 Away at once with love or jealousy.— Shakespeare. 
 
 Lord Mortimer had, in reality, departed with sentiments very 
 unfavorable to Amanda. He had waited impatiently at St. Cather- 
 ine’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 reconciliation : his 
 tenderness was redoubled by being so long restrained. The idea 
 of folding his beloved Amanda to his bosom, and hearing that 
 she deserved all the tenderness and sensibility which glowed in 
 that bosom for her, gave him the highest pleasure ; but when the 
 appointed hour passed, and no Amanda appeared, language can- 
 not express his disappointment. Almost distracted by it, he ven- 
 tured 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 wit- 
 nessed her agitation, her embarrassment, this morning, when I 
 hinted at them. The mystery which separated us will not be ex- 
 plained, 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 distress and 
 disorder of his mind was depicted on his countenance, and escaped 
 not the observation and raillery of the marchioness and Lady Eu- 
 phrasia ; but their raillery Avas in vain, and unanswered by him; 
 he was absorbed in a train of pensive reflections, 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 neigh- 
 borhood. The unexpected sight of Amanda, as she stood on a 
 little elevated bank, to avoid the carriage, caused a sudden emo- 
 tion of surprise and delight in his bosom. The utmost powers of 
 eloquence could not have pleaded her cause so successfully as her 
 own appearance at that minute did. The languor of her face, its 
 mild and seraphic expression, her pensive attitude, aud the timid 
 modesty with which she seemed shrinking from observation, all 
 touched the sensibility of Lord Mortimer, awakened his softest 
 feelings, revived his hopes, and made him resolve to seek another 
 
168 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 opportunity of demanding an explanation 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 maliciously at each other, and Lady Euphrasia de» 
 dared, ‘ She supposed the girl was stationed there to try and at- 
 tract admiration, which, perhaps, her silly old father had told 
 her she merited — or else to meet with adventures. ’ Lord Morti- 
 mer drew in his head, and the contrast between her ladyship and 
 the fair being he had been looking at, never struck him so forci- 
 bly 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 
 meeting Amanda. His disappointment was diminished by seeing 
 Ellen, who, he was confident, would be faithful to the message 
 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 imagina- 
 tion, and he forcibly felt how essential to his peace was a recon- 
 ciliation with her. An hour elapsed, and his tenderness again 
 began to give way to resentment. It was not Ellen, but Amanda 
 he doubted. He traversed the beach in an agonj^ of impatience 
 and anxiety ; a feverish heat pervaded his frame, and he trembled 
 with agitation. At length he heard the distant 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 inten- 
 tion of meeting her at a future period relinquished. She avoided 
 him designedly, it was evident. He would have cursed himself 
 for betraying such anxiety about her, and his wounded pride re- 
 volted from the idea of seeking another interview. ‘ No ? 
 Amanda ! ’ he exclaimed, as he passed the castle, ‘ you can no 
 longer have any claim upon me. Mysterious appearances in the 
 most candid mind will raise suspicion. In giving you an oppor- 
 tunity 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 com- 
 mander an old friend of his. Captain Somerville, who returned to 
 Ulster Lodge with his visitors,*and there, in a half-jesting, half- 
 serious manner, asked Lord Mortimer to accompany 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 by her as she perhaps belie vred, by his 
 
THE CHILDREX OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 169 
 
 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. 
 All ardent wish sprung in his heart to address her, but it was in- 
 stantly suppressed, 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 eyes were riveted to 
 tiie spot on which she stood, and when he could no longer see her 
 wnite gown fluttering in the wind, he gave a sigh to the remem- 
 brance of the happy days he had passed with her at Tudor Hall ; 
 and another to the idea, that such hours would never more be en- 
 joyed 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 elsewhere disposed of : they had reason to be- 
 lieve 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 discover- 
 ing who this was, they watched him critically at all the 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. 
 ^t 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, there- 
 fore, 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 ; they re- 
 gretted 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 com- 
 pletion, 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 o/ 
 
170 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 contempt ; 
 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 ; 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 grate- 
 ful, 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 suspicions were well founded, they 
 would never have hesitated communicating them as such to Lord 
 Cherbury ; but for their own satisfaction they wished to know 
 what reason they had to entertain them. Lady Greystock was 
 the only person they observed on a footing of intimacy with 
 Amanda, and through her means flattered themselves they might 
 make the desired discovery. 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 visi- 
 tors 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 171 
 
 be done for discovering what attachment subsisted between his 
 lordship and Miss Fitzalan. For this purpose she began to grow 
 constant in her visits at Castle Carberry, often spending whole 
 days in the most familiar manner with Amanda, and endeavor- 
 ing, by various methods, to beguile her of the secrets of her heart, 
 Sometimes she rallied her on her melancholy ; sometimes ex- 
 pressed 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 entanglement ; would 
 then advert to Lord Mortimer ; express her wonder at his pre- 
 cipitate 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 they were visibly expressed in her 
 countenance. She blushed whenever Lord Mortimer was men- 
 tioned ; looked shocked if a union between him and Lady Eu- 
 phrasia was hinted at ; and smiled if a probability was sugge.sted of 
 its never taking place. Lady Greystock, at last, relinquished 
 her attempts at betraying Amanda into a confession of her senti- 
 ments ; 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 between Lord Mortimer and 
 Amanda, though what she could not discover, from the circum- 
 spection of the latter. The marchioness was enraged, and more 
 determined than ever on involving Amanda in destruction, if 
 Lord Mortimer hesitated a moment in obeying the wishes of his 
 father by uniting himself to Lady Euphrasia, 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 And to be plain, ’tis not your person 
 My stomach’s set so sharp and 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, perhaps, 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 
 m the country till after Christmas, among whom were the Kilcop 
 
172 
 
 7 aE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 bans, had so entirely neglected Amanda, from the time the mar^ 
 chioness arrived in the neighborhood, that they could not think ol 
 renewing their visits, confident as they were, from the proper dig* 
 nity 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 solitude of the castle was 
 heightened by her own melancholy ideas, as well as by the dreari- 
 ness of the season. No more the magic hand of hope sketched 
 scenes of flattering brightness, to dissipate the gloominess of the 
 present ones. The prospects of Amanda’s heart were as dreary ^ 
 as desolate, as those she viewed from the windows 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 delicacy 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 expressed 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 period of distress. Lady Greystock, who continued her 
 visits at the castle, made a proposal, which Fitzalan eagerly em- 
 braced. This was to take Amanda with her to London, whither 
 she was obliged to go directly, about a lawsuit carrying on be- 
 tween 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 consequently 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 lord- 
 ship had ever deviated from his indifference, and he believed it 
 occasioned by a transfer of his affections 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 intimacy, 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 
 attending such a conviction wouid be lessened, and probably sooi? 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 173 
 
 removed by surrounding objects, and the gay scenes she must en 
 gage in from 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 treas- 
 ure might safely be consigned. He was induced to accept 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 Grey- 
 stock, 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 pro- 
 vision for her. In indulging this hope, his heart could not re- 
 proach him for anything mean or selfish. Her ladyship had fre- 
 quently assured him all her relations 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 educa- 
 tion had either given birth to, or strengthened, the artful propen- 
 sities of her disposition. She had been one of the numerous off- 
 spring of a gentleman in the southern part of Ireland, 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 widow, and the offlce of consoling her to the rector of the 
 parish, a little fat elderly man, who might have sat very well for 
 the picture of Boniface. So successful 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 under- 
 mined 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 mannef 
 
174 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 SO strange and whimsujal, that he appeared incapable of enjoying 
 the advantages it would have afforded to others. Notwithstanding 
 tds oddities, he was compassionate; and as the fair relict was un- 
 accompanied by a friend, lie waited on her for the purpose of offer- 
 ing consolation, and any service in his power. This attention in- 
 stantly inspired her with an idea of trying to make him feel ten- 
 derer 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 prevent her ardently desiring a connection between 
 them. Her efforts to effect this were long unsuccessful; but 
 perseverence 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 was 
 eagerly accepted. 
 
 The presumptive heir to the baronet’s large possessions was 
 the son and only child of a deceased sister. At the period this 
 unexpected alliance took place, he was about twenty, pleasing in 
 his person, and engaging in his manner, and tenderly 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 foundation 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. Rush- 
 brook 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 flattering eulogiums on his adored Emily; declared her 
 regret that hearts so congenial should be separated ; 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 Geoff ry’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 favorable 
 opportunity for doing so. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 175 
 
 He purchased an ensigncy in a regiment on the point of embark- 
 ing 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 Geoff ry, 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 the constitu- 
 tion of Sir Geoffry was stronger than she imagined, and policy 
 obliged her to adhere to a conduct which had gained his favor, at 
 she knew the least alteration of it would, to his capricious 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 ' deluded by the promise* 
 Lady Greystock still continued to make, of interceding in his 
 favor, but to write himself to his uncle for forgiveness, which 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 of his visitor, produced a great change in the 
 sentiments of the baronet. Tenderness for a nephew he had 
 adopted as his heir from his infancy began to revive, and he seri- 
 ously reflected, that by leaving his fortune to Lady Greystock, 
 he should enrich a family unconnected with him, whilst the last 
 branch of his own was left to obscurity and wretchedness. Pride 
 recoiled from such an idea, and he told the gentleman 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 die* 
 tated entirely in Rushbrook's favor. 
 
 Sir Geoffry was soon prevailed on to see his nephew, but Mrs 
 Rushbrook and the children were not suffered to appear before 
 him. They were, however, supplied with everything requisite 
 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 recovering 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 trans- 
 acted 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, while the attorney guided his almost lifeless hand 
 
176 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEt. 
 
 in siting it ; and two clerks set their names as witnesses. Sil 
 Geoff ry expired almost immediately after this scheme was exe- 
 cuted. 
 
 Rushbrook’s friend, who had been appointed to act for him, if 
 this event took place while he was abroad, now appeared. A 
 will found in Sir Geoffry’s cabinet was read, by which it ap- 
 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 and surprise per* 
 vaded the mind of Rushbrook’s friend ; he saw the will was too 
 well attested for him to . ^te it, yet he suspected foul play, and 
 lost no time in communicating* his suspicion to Rushbrook. 
 
 Her ladyship settled her affairs most expeditiously and returned 
 with delight to her native country, after a very long absence 
 from it. Most of her near relations were dead, but she had many 
 distant ones, who, prompted by the knowledge of her large for- 
 tune, eagerly reminded her of their affinity, and vied with each 
 other in paying her attention. This was extremely 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 resident 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 disappoint. 
 
 She was remarkable (as Miss Kilcorban informed Amanda) for 
 asking young people to do little matters for her, such as making 
 her millinery, working ruffies, 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 Amer- 
 ica, and commencing a suit directly against her by the advice of 
 his friends and some eminent lawyers, on the supposition that the 
 will by which she inherited 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 con- 
 vinced 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 sometimes 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 177 
 
 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 ab- 
 sence he would partake of the amusements of the country, which 
 he had hitherto declined on her account. This assertion prevailed 
 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 Holy- 
 head, Fitzalan determined on sending Ellen to her parents till 
 Amanda returned from England, which determination pleased 
 Ellen exceedingly, as she longed to see her family, and tell them 
 particulars of Chip. As the hour approached 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 presentiment 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 pre- 
 served her composure, hinted to him the injury he was doing his 
 daughter by such emotions; and mentioned how short their sep- 
 aration would be, and what benefit would accrue to Amanda 
 from it. 
 
 This last consideration, recalled to his mind, instantly composed 
 him, and he handed them to her ladyship’s chariot, wdiich 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 glimpae 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 
 j«oad of life delightful.’ 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY, 
 
 178 
 
 They arrived the third day in Sackville Street, where her lady® 
 ship had a house, and two days after embarked for England. They 
 slept the first night they landed at Holyhead, and the next morn- 
 ing pursued their journey. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A song, a flower, a name, at once restore 
 
 Those long-connected scenes when first they moved 
 
 The attention.— A kenside. 
 
 X HE dejection of Amanda gradually declined, as the idea of see- 
 ing Lord Mortimer again revived. It revived not, how ever, with- 
 out hopes, fears, and agitations. Sometimes she imagined 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 re- 
 sentment, which would vanish if an opportunity once offered (and 
 she trusted there would) for explaining her conduct. She endeav- 
 ored to calm the emotions these ideas gave rise to, by refiecting 
 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 
 Grey stock 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, unobserved, 
 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 contem- 
 plation 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 Ellen, undis- 
 turbed 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 approach- 
 ing when comfort and g*ayety shall resume their stations within 
 thee; when the blaze of thy fire and thy taper shall not only dif- 
 fuse cheerfulness within, but without, and give a ray to the deso* 
 late, or benighted traveler, to guide him to thy hospitable shelter I 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 119 
 
 Amanda, leaning on Ellen’s arm, proceeded slowly in her walk. 
 The evening was delightful. The blue vault of heaven was span- 
 gled 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 interview, the softness of her heart 
 could no longer be resisted : she stopped, leaned pensively upon 
 it, and wept. The evergreens, with which the woods abounded, pre- 
 vented their wearing 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 prob- 
 ability, from these delightful scenes, perhaps neglected and forgot- 
 ten by their master ! ’ 
 
 The awful murmurs of the wind rustling through the trees, 
 joined to the solemn 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 various shadows 
 upon the trees ; while 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 preparing 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 toward the mansion of Tudor Hall. She en- 
 deavored to discern the library, but all was dark and dismal, 
 except the wing which Ellen informed her was 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 overcame 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 
 
180 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 first question was, ‘Would she not stay with them?’ and her 
 answer filled them with regret and disappointment. Perceiving 
 them about procuring 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, w’hen poor Ellen, who, from so long 
 residing with her young lady, almost adored her, suddenly flung 
 lierself into her arms, and clinging round her neck, as if to pre- 
 vent 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 nopody was minding 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 indeed 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 ! ’ said her nurse ; ‘ are you going away, when I 
 thought you came to stay among us? and then, perhaps, 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 scruple to tell him where you 
 were, had I 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 Morti- 
 mer is with you. He will pe in such grief to think you were here 
 without his seeing you.’ 
 
 ‘Well,’ said Amanda, endeavoring to be cheerful, ‘we may 
 all yet have a happy meeting.’ 
 
 She then repeated her farewell, and, leaning on the arm of old 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 181 
 
 Edwin, returned to the inn, where she again bid him adieu ; and 
 hastening to her ladyship, found her just awaking from a com- 
 fortable slumber. They drank tea, and, after playing for about 
 an hour at picquet, retired to rest. Amanda, who enjoyer •out 
 little repose, rose early in the morning, and, finding her lady- 
 ship not quite ready, went down to the court to walk about till 
 she was ; where, to her great surprise, the first object she per- 
 ceived was Howel, leaning pensively against a gate opposite the 
 house. He fiew 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 watching 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 you 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 pen- 
 sive meditation. Nor has it wanted its vernal offering ; the love- 
 liest 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 expres- 
 sion, 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 to enjoy 
 every happiness and pleasure, going to meet the favored ’ 
 
 Amanda anticipated the name he was about uttering, and her 
 confusion redoubled. She attempted again, yet in vain, to with- 
 draw her hand, and turned to see whether anyone was observing 
 them. How great was her mortification, on perceiving Lady 
 Greystock leaning from 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.’ 
 Howel now relinquished Amanda’s hand. He saw she looked 
 displeased ; and expressed such sorrow, accompanied 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 
 
182 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Oreystock. * Though impatient this 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 
 «o 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 desirous of 
 concealing, while in this uncertainty concerning him. 
 
 ‘Your ladyship has heard, I belie ve, ’ 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, pretended 
 to be looking at the prospect from the window. Lady Grey- 
 stock’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 immediately conjectured 
 it was then the attachment between her and Lord Mortimer had 
 commenced ; and the blushes, the hesitation, and the unwilling- 
 ness of Amanda, in owning her visit to Wales, all confirmed this 
 conjecture. She tried, however, to insinuate herself into her full 
 confidence, by warm expressions 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, 
 however, with thinking she had discovered enough to satisfy the 
 marchioness, if she, as Lady Greystock feared she would, ex- 
 pressed any disapprobation at seeing Amanda her companion. 
 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 ap- 
 proaching 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 morn- 
 ing, as she expected, she received a visit from them. Amandsr 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 1S1 
 
 ^as sitting in the window when the carriage drove up to the door. 
 Siie instantly arose and left the room, determined neither to ex- 
 pose liei’Self to their impertinence, nor appear 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 expected, expressed both surprise and 
 displeasure at it. As she had settled in her own mind, she, therc^- 
 fore, 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 pro- 
 jected for her daughter, she could undertake almost any project 
 Though she abhorred the idea of noticing her, yet she was tempted 
 now to do so, from the idea that it would better enable her to 
 watch her actions. This idea she communicated 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 re- 
 clined, she continued staring in her face, and alternately hum- 
 ming an Italian air, and caressing 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, instead of trembling diffidence. As she sat by 
 Lady Euphrasia, the marchioness could not help secretly confess- 
 ing she was a dangerous rival to her daughter ; for never did her 
 lovely features and ingenuous countenance appear to such advan- 
 tage, as when contrasted with Lady Euphrasia’s. The marchioness 
 
184 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 commun- 
 icate their suspicions at present to Lord Cherbury about her and 
 his son would not 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, independent in his 
 notions, and certain of the fortunes of his ancestors, might not 
 hesitate to gratify himself. The point, therefore, was, by some 
 deep-laid scheme, to ruin Amanda in the estimation of Lord Mor- 
 timer ; and if in the power of mortals to contrive, and execute 
 such a scheme, they gave themselves credit for being able to ef- 
 fect it. 
 
 The blow at her fond hopes, they resolved, should be followed 
 by one against the peace of Fitzalan, on whom they knew, when- 
 ever they pleased, they could draw the resentment of Lord Cher- 
 bury. Thus should they completely triumph over the lovely 
 Amanda — plunge two beings they detested into poverty and 
 wretchedness — destroy expectations which interfered 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 spoke explicitly to his son con- 
 cerning 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 circumstances 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 in an affair 
 of such consequence, as Mortimer frequently said he considered a 
 matrimonial connection to be, he would neither be controlled by 
 the opinion of others nor 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 in- 
 volve him in an entanglement with the Eoslin family than 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 185 
 
 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 on injunction 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 soul. 
 This fear always inspired him with horror, for he had a motive 
 for desiring the union which he durst not avow. 
 
 Lord Mortimer quickly indeed discerned what his father’s 
 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 al- 
 most continually heard of an intended alliance between them in 
 the most solemn manner. He had always disliked her, but lat- 
 terly that dislike was converted into hatred, from the malev- 
 olence of her conduct toward Amanda ; and he felt that, even 
 were his heart free, he never could devote it to her — or give his 
 hand where it must be unaccompanied with esteem. He wished 
 to avoid a disagreeable conversation with Lord Cherbury, and 
 flattered himself his unaltered indifference to her ladyship would 
 at length convince his lordship of the impossibility of accorpplish- 
 ing 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 intimacy with his 
 children, he would not reject it, as he always deemed family quar- 
 rels 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 Greystock, 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 be- 
 holding him, and the bright glow of animation which overspread 
 her countenance in consequence of this idea attracted the observa' 
 tion of Lady Greystock, who congratulated her on the alteration 
 ihat was already visible in her looks ; and inferred from thence 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 lo6 
 
 that she was so well recovered of her fatigue as to be able to con* 
 trive a little trimming 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 
 labyship, 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 Greystock that her lady- 
 ship began seriously to fear she should not 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 assembled in the drawing-room. 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 plea- 
 sure I feel at seeing the daughter of my worthy friend, Mr. Fitz- 
 alan. 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 expected^ 
 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 incapable of ex- 
 pressing her acknowledgments to his lordship for his attention^ 
 and also to assure him she had early been taught, and sensibility 
 felt, the claims he had upon her gratitude and respect. He bowed, 
 as if to prevent a further mention of obligations, and left her 
 seated by his daughter, who had expressed her pleasure at being 
 introduced to her, not in the superc'lious 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 
 lessoned the jealousy and mortification it had excited. 
 
 ‘ Pray, who is this little creature,’ exclaimed Miss Malcolm (who 
 was a relation of the marquis’s, and, from being extremely ugly, 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 18 
 
 extremely rich, and extremely ill-natured, was an immense favor 
 ite of Lady Euplirasia’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 protection, but for the shocking 
 conduct of her family to the marchioness, and the symptoms she 
 has already betrayed of following 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 de- 
 cent, comforting himself, no doubt, with the hope of her entrap- 
 ping 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 leaned on 
 the back of her ladyship’s chair. He was a ward of Lord Cher- 
 foury, 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 insignificance. 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 attendance for some time on Lady 
 Euphrasia, and she encouraged his assiduities in hopes of effecting 
 a change in Lord Mortimer’s manner. But had his lordship even 
 been a passionate lover, poor Freelove was not calculated to in- 
 spire 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 recommend 
 her, except novelty ; and that, you know, is a charm which will 
 lessen every day. All she can possibly expect, is an establish- 
 ment 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 
 ao patience with such creatures forcing themselves into society 
 quite above them.’ 
 
 ‘I assure you,’ said Lady Euphrasia, ‘you would be astonished 
 at her vanity and conceit, if you knew her. She considers her- 
 self a first-rate beauty, though positively anyone may see she is 
 quite the reverse, and pretends to the greatest gentleness and 
 simplicity. Then she has made some strange kind of people (to 
 
188 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 1)6 sure they must be) believe she is accomplished ; though, I dare 
 say, if she can read tolerably, and scrawl out a decent letter, ’ti& 
 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 to excel 
 in both ; though from her father’s poverty, I am certain 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 conversing 
 with Lady Araminta, experienced the purest pleasure. Her lady-^ 
 ship 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 relinquished 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 tlie 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 Eu- 
 phrasia. True, business, or a prior engagement, might have pre- 
 vented his coming; but she, as is natural, flxed on the idea most; 
 flattering to herself. 
 
 Lady Euphrasia, in pursuance of the plan laid against Amanda,, 
 led the way to the music-room, attended by a large party ; as Free- 
 love 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. Freelove seated him- 
 self by the latter, and began a conversation which, he thought,, 
 would effectually embarrass her ; 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, hav- 
 ing caught the signiflcant 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 impertience 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 luster of his buckles, unconscious of the ridicule he excited. 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 189 
 
 * 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 Monument 
 and the Tower would be prodigious fine sights to you, and I make 
 it a particular request that I may be included in your party when- 
 ever 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 meaning 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 take her place at it, saying, with an ironical air, ‘ her 
 performance [which indeed was shocking] would make hers ap- 
 pear 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 instrument, 
 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 mortification they destined for another, 
 fell upon themselves. When the lesson was concluded, some 
 gentlemen who either were, or pretended to be, musical connois' 
 seurs, entreated her to sing. She chose a plaintive Italian air, and 
 the exquisite taste and sweetness with which she sung, equally as- 
 tonished and delighted. Nor was admiration confined to the ac- 
 complishments she displayed. The soft expression of her counten* 
 ance, 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 applause 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 accounf 
 she had already done to Miss Malcolm. 
 
190 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 The rag‘e and disappointment of that young* lady, and her lady* 
 ship, could scarcely be concealed. ‘ I declare, I never knew any* 
 thing so monstrously absurd,’ exclaimed Lady Euphrasia, ‘ as tc 
 let a girl in her situation learn such things, except, indeed, 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 theaters ; 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, not only from its absurd 
 extravagance, but as it interrupted her conversation with Lady 
 Araminta. The marchioness, however, who critically watched 
 her motions, 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 late excursion. Her brother, she added, had almost made 
 her promise to visit the castle with him the ensuing summer. 
 
 ‘ You have seen Lord Mortimer, to be sure?’ continued her lady- 
 ship. 
 
 ‘ Yes, madam,’ faltered Amanda, while her face was overspread 
 with a crimson hue. Her ladyship was too penetrating not to 
 perceive her confusion, and it gave rise to a conjecture of some- 
 thing 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 ladyship, till con- 
 vinced, 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, tender, liberal, and sincere, she knew 
 could never experience the smallest 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 power essentially to serve him. Her arguments, she 
 was convinced, would have little weight with Lord Cherbury 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 191 
 
 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 be- 
 traying 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 (romantic ideas she 
 had called them) which he had declared necessary to captivate his 
 heart. Lady Araminta already felt for her unspeakable tender- 
 ness. 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 consolation. The confusion she betrayed 
 at the mention of Mortimer, made her ladyship suspect she was 
 the cause of his dejection. She involuntarily fastened her eyes 
 upon her face, as if to penetrate the recesses of her heart, yet with 
 a tenderness which seemed to say she would pity the secret she 
 might there 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 unceremo- 
 nious an invitation, which he had ’oeen 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 culti- 
 vated. It gave her also a hope of seeing Lord Mortimer. All these 
 suggestions inspired her with uncommci... animation, and she en- 
 tered into a lively conversation with Lord Cherbury, who had in' 
 finite vivacity in his look and manner. Lady Araminta observed 
 the attention he paid her with pleasure. 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 at- 
 tended the ladies to their carriage. On driving off. Lady Grey- 
 stock observed, what a charming, polite m^n his lordship was ; 
 and, in short, threw out such hints, and entered into such a warm 
 eulogium 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. 
 
192 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Amanda retired to her chamber in a state of greater happiness 
 than for a long period before she had experienced ; but it was a 
 happiness which rather agitated than soothed the feelings, partic- 
 ularly hers, which were so susceptible of every impression, that 
 
 They turned at the touch of joy or woe, 
 
 And turning trembled too. 
 
 Her present happiness was the offspring of hope, and therefore 
 peculiarly liable to disappointment ; a hope derived from the at- 
 tention 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 Mortimer’s dejection, which 
 his sister had touched upon, and from his absenting himself from 
 the marquis’s, which were not uncongenial to those he himself 
 entertained. She sat down to acquaint her father with the partic- 
 ulars of the day she had passed : for her chief consolation, in her 
 absence from him, was in the idea of writing and hearing con- 
 stantly. 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 abstrac- 
 tion 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 La^y Greystock just entering it. 
 After breakfast, they went out in her ladyship's carriage to dif- 
 ferent parts of the town. All was new to Amanda, who, during 
 her former residence in it, had been entirely confined to lodgings 
 in a retired street. She wondered at, and was amused by, the 
 crowds continually passing and repassing. About four they re- 
 turned 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 Mortimer standing near the door 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Begjone my cares ; I give you to the winds.—RowB. 
 
 In the drawing-room were already assembled the marquis, mar- 
 chioness, Lady Euphrasia, Miss Malcolm, and Freelove. Lady 
 Araminta perceived in the hesitating voice of Amanda the emo- 
 tions which agitated her, and which were not diminished when 
 Lord Cherbury, taking her trembling hand, said ; 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 19S 
 
 ‘ 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 Freelove’s, 
 was now turned upon his lordship and Amanda, and thought, in 
 the expressive countenances of both, enough could be read to con- 
 firm their suspicions of a mutual attachment subsisting 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, beck- 
 oned him to her, and contrived to engage him in trifling chat till 
 they were summoned to dinner. On receiving his hand, which 
 he could not avoid offering, to lead her to the parlor, 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 be- 
 tween 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 per- 
 ceiving 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, 
 notwithstanding 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 sensation of satis- 
 fied pride, which convinced him he was not less than ever inter- 
 ested 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 re- 
 curring 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 satisfactorily explained — that design- 
 edly 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, without exciting inquiries from Lord Cherbury, which, at 
 present, he did not choose to answer. He had planned an excur- 
 sion thither the ensuing summer with Lady Araminta. determined 
 
194 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 no longer to endure his suspense. He now almost believed the 
 peculiar interposition of Providence had brought Amanda to town, 
 thus affording him another opportunity of having his anxiety re- 
 lieved, and the chief obstacle, perhaps to his, and he flattered him- 
 self also, to her happiness, removed ; for, if assured her precipitate 
 journey from Wales was occasioned by no motive she need blush 
 to avow, he felt he should be better enabled to combat the difficulty 
 he was convinced his father would throw in the way of their 
 anion. Notwithstanding Lady Araminta’s endeavors to gain his 
 implicit confidence, he resolved to withhold it from her, lest she 
 should incur even the temporary 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 circum- 
 stances ; and from the soft glance she had involuntarily directed 
 toward 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 her within the nec- 
 essary bounds ; scarcely could he believe the scene which had 
 given rise to his happiness real. His heart, at the moment melt- 
 ing 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 tea time, and as no ad- 
 ditional company was expected. Lady Euphrasia proposed a party 
 to the Pantheon. This was at once agreed to. Amanda was 
 delighted at the proposal, as it not only promised to gratify her 
 curiosity, but to give Lord Mortimer an opportunity of address- 
 ing 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 conversing 
 as they wished. Lady Euphrasia, therefore, with sudden eager- 
 ness, declared she and Miss Malcolm would resign their seats in 
 the marchioness’s carriage to Miss Fitzalan and Preelove for the 
 pleasure of accompanying Lady Araminta in hers. The mar- 
 chioness, 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 her- 
 self for this disappointment, by reflecting on the pleasure she should 
 enjoy in a few minutes, when freed from the disagreeable observa 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 195 
 
 tion of the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia ; her reflections were 
 not in the least interrupted by any convei*sation being addressed 
 to her. The marchioness and Lady Grey stock 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 
 descending 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 recompensed for her former 
 disappointment, and elevated above the little insolence of Free- 
 love. Lord Mortimer handed her to his sister, who w^as waiting 
 to receive her, and they proceeded to the room. Lady Euphrasia 
 entered it with a temper unfitted for enjoyment. She w^as con- 
 vinced the whole soul of Mortimer was devoted to Amanda, and 
 she trembled from the violent and malignant feelings that convic- 
 tion excited. From the moment he entered the carriage till he 
 quitted it he had remained silent, notwithstanding all her efibrts 
 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 followed theirs, and on rejoining Amanda he 
 attached himself entirely to her, without ai\y longer appearing 
 anxious to conceal his predilection for her. He had, indeed, for- 
 gotten 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 efiPect it produced upon her mind. In her he 
 found united exalted 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 ac* 
 company her to a seat, as she was convinced her health was yet 
 too weak to bear much fatigue. Amanda assured her she was not 
 in the least fatigued, and that she would prefer walking ; besides, 
 she had half-promised Lord Mortimer to dance with him. This 
 Lady Greystock absolutely declared she would not consent to, 
 though Lady Araminta, on whose arm Amanda leaned, pleaded 
 for her friend, assuring her ladyship ‘ she would take care Miss 
 Fitzalan should not injure herself.’ 
 
 ‘Ah, you young people,’ said Lady Greystock, ‘are so carried 
 away with spirits, you never reflect on consequences ; but 1 de 
 
196 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 dare, 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 Amanda 
 would have joined, but that she feared her real motive for doing 
 so would have been discovered. She perceived the party were de- 
 tained from proceeding on her account, and immediately offered 
 her arm to Lady Greystock, and accompanied her and the mar- 
 chioness 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 Mor- 
 timer, 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 relinquish his intention, as to converse 
 with her was utterly impossible ; for the marchioness had placed 
 her between Lady Greystock and herself, and, under the pretence 
 of frequently addressing her ladyship, was continually leaning 
 across Amanda, so as to exclude her almost from observation, 
 thus rendering her situation, exclusive of the regret at being sepa- 
 rated from Lord Mortimer and Lady Araminta, highly disagree- 
 able. 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 
 punishment for the admiration she had excited. 
 
 Amanda, indeed, while surveying the scene around her with 
 wonder and delight, had herself been an object of critical atten- 
 tion and inquiry. She was followed, universally admired, and 
 allowed to be the finest girl that had appeared for a long season. 
 
 Relieved of her presence. Lady EuphVasia’s spirits began to re- 
 vive, 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 Mal- 
 colm’s own phrase, / an immense favorite with her,’ and she had 
 long meditated and attempted the conquest of his heart. The at- 
 tention which politeness obliged him to show, and the compli- 
 ments she sometimes compelled him to pay, she flattered herself, 
 were intimations the success of her scheme. Lady Euphrasia, 
 notwithstanding he. intentions relative to Lord Mortimer, and 
 her professed friendship for Miss Malcolm, felt an ardent desire 
 to have Sir Charles enrolled in the 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, howev'er, 
 was not the young baronet’s case, after paying his compliments 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 191 
 
 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 unexpected. 
 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 ad- 
 dressed the marchioness and Lady Greystock. The former 
 haughtily bowed, without speaking ; and the latter, laughing 
 significantly, said, ‘ she really imagined ecstasy on Miss Fitz- 
 alan s account had made him forget anyone else was present. 
 The situation of Amanda was tantalizing in an extreme degree to 
 Sir Charles. It precluded all conversation, and frequently hid 
 her from his view, as the marchioness and Lady Greystock still 
 continued their pretended whispers. Sir Charles had some knowl- 
 edge 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 Fitz- 
 alan, as no doubt you are conscious ’tis not a slight heartache 
 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 secretly 
 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 the company, had made 
 her head giddy. She deemed no apology requisite to her com- 
 panions ; and, quitting her seat, hastened forward to Lady 
 Araminta, who had stopped for her. A crowd at that moment^ 
 
193 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 intervening between them, 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.’ 
 
 ‘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 the 
 iadies, at this instant appeared. He seemed to recoil at the situa- 
 tion of Amanda, whose hand was yet detained in Sir Charles’s 
 while the soft glow and confusion of her face gave at least a 
 suspicion of 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 contin- 
 ually contrived to intercept the party, and his eyes were always 
 turned on Amanda and Sir Charles. He was really displeased 
 with her. He thought she might as well have left her sdat 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 
 Lome. Lady Euphrasia and Miss Malcolm had no longer a desire 
 to accompany her ladyship, as they believed Lord Mortimer 
 already gone, and she and Amanda therefore returned alone. 
 Sir Charles was invited to supper, an invitation he joyfully 
 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 expressing 
 her hopes, that on her return, she should often be favored with 
 the company of Amanda, when the door suddenly opened and 
 Lord Mortimer entered. He looked pleased and surprised, and 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 199 
 
 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 propitious 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 ? ’ 
 
 ‘ 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 pain- 
 ful doubt is banished from it. 
 
 ‘ Miss Fitzalan, ’ said Lady Araminta, recurring to what Amanda 
 had just said, ‘can see few beings, like herself, capable of exciting 
 immediate esteem. For my own part, I cannot 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 ex- 
 pressively 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 whisper- 
 ing 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 protracted, 
 might, by increasing their agitation, have produced a full discov- 
 ery of their feelings. The ladies were attended by Sir Charles and 
 Freelove. The marquis and Lord Cherbury had been out, but re- 
 turned about this time ; and soon after supper the company de- 
 parted — Lady Araminta tenderly bidding 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 affection, but most serious attention. The regard of Lady 
 Araminta fiattered her pride, as it implied a tacit approbation of 
 her brother’s choice. 
 
 The next morning, immediately after breakfast. Lady Greystock 
 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 finding 
 her alone, and repeatedly declared, from their first interview, hei 
 
200 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 image had never been absent from his mind. The particularity 
 and ardor of his expressions Amanda wished and endeavored to 
 to repress. She had not the ridiculous and unfeeling vanity to be 
 delighted with an attachment she could not return ; besides his at- 
 tentions were unpleasing, as she believed 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 Charles, she could 
 not have betrayed more confusion. Lord Mortimer retreated a few 
 steps, in evident embarrassment ; then bowing coolly, again ad- 
 vanced 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 Mortimer made no reply. He frowned, and rising di- 
 rectly, slightly saluted Amanda, and retired. 
 
 Convinced, as she was, that Lord Mortimer had made the visit 
 for the purpose of speaking moreexplicitly.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 mak- 
 ing him shorten his visit. He continued with her till Lady Grey- 
 stock’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, at- 
 tentions 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 fortune, he neither required any addition of 
 wealth, nor was under any control which could prevent his follow- 
 ing 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 be- 
 lieved, would conquer it. Unaccustomed to disappointment, he 
 could not, in an affair which so materially concerned his happi- 
 ness, bear the idea of proving unsuccessful. Had Amanda’s heart 
 been disengaged, he would probably have succeeded as he wished; 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 201 
 
 for he was calculated to please, to inspire admiration and esteem ; 
 and Amanda felt a real friendship for him, and sincerely grieved 
 that his ardent regard could not be reduced to as temperate a n^e- 
 dium as hers. 
 
 Lady Greystock had a numerous and brilliant acquaintance in 
 London, among whom she was continually engaged. Sir Charles 
 was well known to them, and therefore almost constantly attended 
 Amanda wherever she went. His unremitted and particular at- 
 tention excited universal observation ; and he was publicly de- 
 clared the professed admirer of Lady Greystock’s beautiful com- 
 panion. The appellation was generally bestowed on her by the 
 gentlemen ; as many of Lady Greystock’s female intimates de- 
 clared, 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 themselves, supposed that as 
 she was not sure of Lord Mortimer she would accept of Sir 
 Charles ; and though this measure would remove all apprehensions 
 relative to Lord Mortimer, yet the idea of the wealth and con- 
 sequence she would derive from it, almost distracted them. Thus 
 does envy sting the bosoms which harbor it. 
 
 Lord Mortimer again resumed his reserve. He was frequently 
 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 tri- 
 umph to himself, he never would have submitted to it. The period 
 for Lady Araminta’s return was now arrived, and Amanda was 
 anxiously expecting her, when she heard from Lady Euphrasia 
 that her ladyship had been ill in the country, and would not there- 
 fore leave it for some time. This was a severe disappointment to 
 Amanda, who had hoped, by her ladyship’s means, to have seem 
 less of Sir Charles and more of Lord Mortimer. 
 
202 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 And why should such, within herself, she cried, 
 
 Lock the lost wealth, a thousand want beside.— P arnell. 
 
 Amanda was sitting alone in the drawing-room one morning, 
 when a gentleman was shown into it, to wait for Lady Greystock. 
 The stranger was about the middle period of life ; his dress an- 
 nounced 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 expression which indicated the 
 hilarity nature had once stamped upon it. His temples were 
 sunk, and his cheek faded to a sickly hue. Amanda felt immedi- 
 ate 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 em- 
 ployed making a trimming of artificial flowers for Lady Grey- 
 stock to present to a young lady from whose family she 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, ‘1 have no such expectation.’ 
 
 ‘And yet,’ said he, ‘how few at your time of life, particularly 
 if possessed of your advantages, could make such a declaration.’ 
 
 ‘Whoever had reflection undoubtedly would,’ replied Amanda. 
 
 ‘ That I allow,’ cried he; ‘ but how few do we find with reflec- 
 tion? — 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 forgetful- 
 ness which can alone insure their tranquillity.’ 
 
 ‘ But in both, I trust,’ said Amanda, ‘ you will allow there are 
 exceptions.’ 
 
 j ‘ Perhaps there are; yet often, when conscience has no reasoa 
 
THE CHILDREX OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 203 
 
 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 ap. 
 peared paticularly applicable to himself, as his countenance as- 
 sumed a more dejected expression. He revived, however, in a few 
 moments. 
 
 ‘ I have, my dear young lady,’ continued he, smiling, ‘ beguiled 
 you most soberly, as Lady Grace says, into conversation. 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 luster of your eyes, I should admire the mild- 
 ness which tempered that luster; while he praised the glow of 
 your cheek, I should adore that sensibility which had power, in a 
 moment, to augment or diminish it.’ 
 
 At this instant Lady Greystock entered the room — she entered 
 it with the swell of importance, and a haughty e:J^pression of con- 
 tempt in her features. 
 
 The stranger rose from his chair, and his paleness increased. 
 
 ‘ So, Mr. Kushbrook,’ 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 pretense of putting her work out of her ladyship’s 
 way, to discover who the stranger was. 
 
 Rushbrook had been represented to her as artful, treacherous, 
 and contemptible. His appearance was almost a sufficient refu- 
 tation of those charges, and she began to think they never would 
 have been laid against him by any other being than Lady Grey- 
 stock, from a desire of depreciating her adversary. In her lady- 
 ship 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 dfs- 
 habille at home. 
 
 She felt even warmly interested about Rushbrook; she had 
 heard of his large family; and, from his appearance, she con- 
 jectured 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 ol 
 a good and brave man struggling with adversity. 
 
204 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 As she leaned pensively against the window, reflecting on the 
 various inequalities of fortune, yet still believing they were de- 
 signed by a wise Providence, like hill and valley, mutually to 
 benefit each other, she saw Rush brook cross the street ; his walk 
 was the slow and lingering walk of dejection and disappointment. 
 He raised his hand to his eyes, Amanda supposed to wipe away 
 his tears, and her own fell at the supposition. 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 mistress,’ exclaimed she, as she beheld the splendid car- 
 riages passing and repassing, — ‘ was I mistress of one of those car- 
 riages, an old soldier like Rushbrook should not be exposed to the 
 inclemency of a wintry sky ; neither should his coat be thread- 
 bare, nor his heart oppressed 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 suspended, and her cheek began to glow. 
 
 ‘ Yes, poor Rushbrook ! ’ she exclaimed, ‘ perhaps the period is 
 not far distant wjien 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 Grey stock’s woman now appeared, to desire she would 
 come down to her lady. She immediately obeyed the summons, 
 with a secret hope of hearing something of the conference. Her 
 ladyship received her with an exulting laugh. 
 
 ‘ I have good news to tell you, my dear,’ exclaimed she; ‘ that 
 poor wretch Rushbrook has lost the friend who was to have sup- 
 ported him in the lawsuit; and the lawyers, finding the sheet- 
 anchor gone, have steered off, and left him to shift for himself. 
 The miserable creature and his family must certainly 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 manner ; 
 ‘ 1 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 on both sides, it would be a pity the thing 
 came to nothing.’ ‘As your ladyship, however, knows his ex- 
 treme 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 205 
 
 upon your humanity.’ ‘ So you would advise me to flin^ away 
 my money upon him?’ ‘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 your- 
 self, 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 not forbear 
 secretly exclaiming : ‘ Hard-hearted woman ! engrossed by your 
 
 own gratifications, no ray of compassion can soften your nature 
 for the misfortunes of others. Sheltered yourself from the tem- 
 pest, 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 necessaries.’ 
 
 In the evening they went to a large party at the marchioness’s, 
 but though the scene was gay and brilliant, it could not remove 
 the pensiveness of Amanda’s spirits. The emaciated form of 
 Rushbrook, returning to his desolate family, dwelt upon her 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 indigence.’ Never had the truth of the 
 following lines so forcibly struck her imagination : 
 
 Ah, little think the gay, licentious crowd 
 Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround ; 
 
 They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth 
 And, wanton, often cruel, riot waste ; 
 
 Ah, little think they, while they dance along. 
 
 How many feel, this very moment, deaths 
 
206 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 How many shrink into the sordid hut 
 Of cheerless poverty I 
 
 From such reflections as these she was disturbed by the entrance 
 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 opposite 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 ago you were hurrying everything 
 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 Amanda, ‘by 
 one source, one object.’ 
 
 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 en- 
 couragement 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 Rush brook’s visit. She informed him that Miss Pitzalan was in 
 the drawing-room, and he fiew 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 really 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 sen- 
 sible of the honor of your addesses ; but I should deem myself un- 
 worthy of the favorable opinion which excited them, if I delayed 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 2^f 
 
 a moment assuring you that friendship was the only return m 
 my power to make for them.’ 
 
 The impetuous passions of Sir Charles were now all in commo- 
 tion. He started from his chair and traversed the apartment in 
 breathless agitation. ‘I will not, Miss Fitzalan,’ said he, re- 
 suming his seat again, ‘ believe you inflexible. I will not believe 
 that you 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 ourselves 
 and to believe that whatever we wish will be accomplished. Ah I 
 Miss Fitzalan, deprive me not of so sweet a belief. I will not at 
 present urge you to any material step to 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 remembrance of 
 the honor you intended me, or forget the friendship I professed 
 for Sir Charles Bingley. ’ 
 
 She then withdrew, without any obstruction from him. Ee- 
 gret and disappointment seemed to have suspended his faculties; 
 but it was a momentary suspension, and on recovering them he 
 quitted the house. 
 
 His pride, at flrst, urged him to give up Amanda forever ; but 
 nis tenderness soon opposed this resolution. He had, as he him- 
 self acknowledged, a propensity to believe, that whatever he 
 wished was easy to accomplish ; this propensity proceeded from 
 the easiness with which his inclinations had hitherto been grati- 
 fied. 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 su- 
 perior, in his opinion, to every woman he had seen, so truly calcu- 
 lated 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 subsisting between Lord Cherbury 
 and Fitzalan, he deemed his lordship a proper person to apply 
 
208 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 on the present occasion, thinking, that if he interested himself 
 in his favor, he might yet be successful. He accordingly repaired 
 to his house, and \^as shown into an apartment where the earl 
 and Lord Mortimer were sitting 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 just 
 made her, and her absolute rejection of them ; and expressed 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 men- 
 tion 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 depend on my sec- 
 onding them with all my interest.’ 
 
 This promise satisfled Sir Charles, and he soon after withdrew. 
 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 draw- 
 ing-room, to which Amanda, had again returned. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Ck) bid the needle its dear north forsake, 
 
 To which with trembling reverence it does bend ; 
 
 Go bid the stones a journey upward make ; 
 
 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.— C owxet. 
 
 In an emotion of surprise at so unexpected a visit, the book she 
 was reading dropped from Amanda’s hand, and she arose in vid 
 ble agitation. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 2oa 
 
 ‘ 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 eclaircisse- 
 ment — an opportunity I might, perhaps, vainly seek again.’ 
 
 He took her trembling hand, led her to the sofa, and placed 
 himself beside her. As a means of leading to the desired eclair- 
 cissement, he related the agonies he had suffered at returning to 
 Tudor Hall, and finding her gone — gone in a manner so inexplic- 
 able, that the more he refiected on it the more wretched he grew. 
 He described the hopes and fears which alternatety fiuctuated in 
 his mind during his continuance in Ireland, and which often 
 drove him into a state nearly bordering on distraction. He men- 
 tioned the resolution, though painful in the extreme, which he 
 had adopted on the first appearance of Sir Charles Bingley s par- 
 ticularity ; and finally concluded by assuring her, notwithstand- 
 ing 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 convince 
 him she had been a sympathizing participator in all the uneasi- 
 ness 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 transport, a 
 sudden gloom clouded his countenance ; and after gazing on her 
 some minutes, with pensive tenderness, he fervently exclaimed : 
 ‘Would to Heaven, in this hour of perfect reconciliation, I 
 oould say that all obstacles to our future happiness were removed.’ 
 Amanda involuntarily shuddered, and continued silent. 
 
 ‘ That my father will throw difficulties in the way of our union, 
 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, infiuenced 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 declaration 
 of them to him, trusting that some propitious chance would yet 
 second my wishes, and save me the painful necessity of disturb 
 ing the harmony which has ever subsisted between us. ’ 
 
210 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 ‘ Oh ! my lord ! ’ said Amanda, turning pale and shrinking 
 from him, ‘ let me not be the unfortunate cause of disturbing 
 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 person 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 feelings at the 
 shrine of interest or ambition, degraded below the standard of 
 humanity ; that to marry, merely from selfish considerations, 
 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 attainable through the medium 
 of wealth. Left at an early age uncontrolled master 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 happiness ; 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 
 promotor of my joys, but the assuager of my cares. In you I have 
 found such a woman ; such a being, as I candidly confess, some 
 time ago, I thought it impossible to meet wfith. To you I am 
 bound by a sentiment even stronger than love — by honor — and 
 with real gratitude acknowledge my obligations in being permit- 
 ted to atone, in some degree, 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 judg- 
 ment of riper years has since severely condemned. Here, too, 
 often I met with women whose manners, instead of checking, 
 gave a latitude to freedom ; women, too, who, from their situa- 
 tions in life, had every advantage that could be requisite for 
 improving and refining their minds. From conversing with 
 them I gradually imbibed a prejudice against the whole sex, and 
 under that prejudice first beheld you, and feared either to doubt 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 211 
 
 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 falsehood be- 
 fore the influence of truth . W ere 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 of the times. 
 
 ‘ ’Tis impossible to express the power a beautiful form has over 
 the human mind ; that power might be exerted for nobler pur- 
 poses. 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 corrected 
 would, if not utterly hardened, reform ; no longer would he glory 
 in his vices, but touched and abashed, instead of destroying, 
 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 determined 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 peculiar circum- 
 stances I have just mentioned will, T trust, induce my Amanda 
 to excuse a temporary concealment of it, till beyond the power 
 of mortals to separate us — a private and immediate union, the 
 exigency of the situation, and the security 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 premature 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 your- 
 self under my protection. A journey to Scotland is unavoidable 
 — in the arrangements I shall make for it, all that is due to deli- 
 cacy 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 Cherbury 
 to the wishes of his son would be obtained, the moment he was 
 convinced how essential their gratification was to his fehcity. She 
 judged of him by her father^ who, she was convinced, if situations 
 
THE CHILDEEN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 gl2 
 
 were reversed, would bestow her on Mortimer without hesitation 
 These ideas so nourished her attachment, that, like the vital parts 
 of existence, it at length became painfully, almost fatally, suscep- 
 tible 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 de- 
 manded its source, and the reason of the words which had just 
 escaped her. 
 
 ‘ Because, my lord, ’ replied she, ‘ I cannot consent to a clan- 
 destine measure, nor bear you should incur the displeasure of 
 Lord Cherbury on my account. Though Lady Euphrasia Suther- 
 land 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, unportioned, and unpleas- 
 ing 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 counselor, 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 prosperity, 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 between father and son ; for as, on one hand, it does not re 
 quire weak indulgence ; so, on the other, it does not demand the 
 implicit obedience, if reason and happiness must be sacrificed by it. 
 Nothing would have tempted me to propose a private union but 
 the hope of escaping many disagreeable circumstances by it. If 
 you persist, however, in rejecting it, I shall openly avow my in- 
 tentions, for a long continuance of anxiety and suspense I cannot 
 support.’ 
 
 ‘ Do you think, then, ’said Amanda, ‘ I would enter your family 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 213 
 
 amid confusion and altercation? No, my lord, rashly or clande» 
 tinely I never will consent to enter it.’ 
 
 ‘ Is this the happiness I promised myself would crown our recon- 
 ciliation? ’ exclaimed Lord Mortimer, rising hastily and traversing 
 the apartment. ‘ Is an obstinate adherence to rigid punctilio the 
 only proof of regard I shall receive from Amanda? Will she 
 make no trifling sacriflce 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 ac- 
 ceptance 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 ac- 
 cused of injuring the honor intrusted to my charge, and feel op- 
 pressed 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 Mortimer, 
 resuming his seat, ‘ nor suffer too great a degree of refinement to 
 involve you in wretchedness ; felicity is seldom attained without 
 some pain ; a little resolution on your side would overcome any 
 difiiculties 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. Ara- 
 minta adores you ; with rapture would she receive her dear and 
 lovely sister to her bosom ; your father, happy in your happiness, 
 would be convinced his notions heretofore 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 desire. 
 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 al- 
 most 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. Situated 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 pain- 
 ful 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 she spoke ; she 
 believ^ed that they must part, and the belief was attended with a 
 pang of unutterable anguish : pleased and pained by her sensi- 
 bility, Lord Mortimer bent forward and looked into her face. 
 
214 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 ‘ Are these tears,' said he, ‘to enforce me to the only expedient 
 you say remains ? Ah, my Amanda,’ clasping her to his breast, 
 ‘ the task of forgetting you could never be accomplished— 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 min- 
 utes, ‘ 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 favorite ; 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 im- 
 mediately, 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 happiness, according to your notions, and I hope 
 it meets your approbation.’ 
 
 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 being dispersed, 
 they talked with pleasure of future days. Lord Mortimer de- 
 scribed 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 agree- 
 able to us than the frequented and public one, we must make 
 some little sacrifice of inclination to the community to which we 
 belong. On an elevated station and affluent fortune there are 
 claims from subordinate ranks which cannot be avoided 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 ex- 
 pressed 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 Grey stock’s carriage effect* 
 ually disturbed him. Lord Mortimer, however, had time to as 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 215 
 
 sure 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 Lad^ Grreystock, coming into the room, ‘ this has 
 been Miss Fitzalan’s levee-day. Why, I declare, my dear, now 
 that I know of the agreeable tete-a-tetes you can enjoy, . 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 ac- 
 count felt more anxious than ever to have her under his own pro- 
 tection. 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 w^ho 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 as 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 sus- 
 pense 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 creatures. 
 
 Lady Greystock learned from her maid the length of Lord 
 Mortimer’s visit, and she was convinced from that circumstance, 
 as well as from the look and absent manner of Amanda, that 
 something material had happened in the course of it. In the even- 
 ing 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 father had lodged on quitting Devonshire 
 to secrete themselves from Colonel Belgrave. This woman had 
 been bribed to serve him, 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 ex- 
 clamation of surprise and pleasure only returned 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, T>f 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 
 
216 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 mentioned Amanda 
 convinced Mrs. Jennings she was not high in her estimation, and 
 from this conviction she thought she might safely assert any 
 falsehoods she pleased against her. As she knew enough of her 
 lady’s disposition to be assured she never would contradict an as- 
 sertion 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 that 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, vrhen suddenly Miss 
 went off, nobody knew where, but it might easily be guessed. She 
 did not travel alone, for the colonel disappeared at the same time.’^ 
 
 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 ex- 
 aggerations of malice and falsehood, occasioned, she supposed by 
 disappointed avarice, or offended pride. She resolved, 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 respect- 
 ing Amanda, she would forward hers relative to Lord Cherbury. 
 
 She thought what Mrs. Jennings had alleged would effectually 
 forward their plans, as she knew, if called upon, she would sup- 
 port it. The next morning she went to Portman Square, to 
 communicate her important intelligence of the marchioness and 
 Lady Euphrasia. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 217 
 
 Joy and exultation sat upon their features at receiving* thia 
 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 exultation 
 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 Grey stock, they disbelieved Mrs. Jennings’ tale ; 
 but, like her ladyship, confined this disbelief to their own bosoms. 
 In the manner, the appearance of Amanda, there was an in- 
 nocence, a mildness, that denoted something holy dwelt within 
 iier breast, and forbade the entrance of any impure or wayward 
 passion ; besides, from a gentleman who had resided in Devon- 
 shire, they learned the distress Fitzalan was reduced to, by 
 Belgrave s revenge for the virtue of his daughter. This gentle- 
 man 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 was agreed, as a means of expedit- 
 ing their plot, that Lady Greystock and Amanda should imme- 
 diately 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 eu- 
 logium on the friendship of the marchioness, mentioned the invi- 
 tation 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 mar- 
 chioness 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 removed 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 re- 
 straint upon her looks, as well as actions; being confident, from 
 the views and suspicions of Lady Euphrasia, she should be contin- 
 ually watched with the closest circumspection. Her part, how- 
 ever, was acquiescence. The lodgings were discharged, and the 
 next morning they took up their residence under the Marquis of 
 Roslin’s roof, to the infinite surprise and mortification of Lord 
 
218 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Mortimer, who, like Amanda, anticipated the disagreeable coib 
 sequences which would result from it. 
 
 The altered manners of the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia 
 surprised Amanda. They received her not merely with polite- 
 ness, but affection ; recapitulated all Lady Greystock had already 
 said concerning their regard ; bade her consider herself entirely 
 at homein their house, and appointed a maid solely to attend her. 
 
 Notwithstanding their former cool, even contemptuous conduct, 
 Amanda, the child of innocence and simplicity, could not believe 
 the alteration in their manners feigned'; she rather believed that 
 her own patience and humility had at length conciliated their re- 
 gard. The idea pleased her, and like every other, which she sup- 
 posed could give her father satisfaction, it was instantly commu- 
 nicated to him. 
 
 She found herself most agreeably mistaken relative to the re- 
 straint she had feared. She was perfect mistress of her own time 
 and actions ; and when she saw Lord Mortimer no lowering looks 
 nor studied interference, as heretofore, from the marchioness or 
 Lady Euphrasia, prevented their frequently conversing together. 
 The marchioness made her several elegant presents, and Lady 
 Euphrasia frequently dropped the formal appellation of Miss Fitz- 
 alan for the more familiar one of Amanda. 
 
 Sir Charles Bingley, agreeable to his resolution of not relin- 
 quishing Amanda without another effort for her favor, still per- 
 sisted in his attentions, and visited constantly at the marquis’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 particular party he 
 was engaged to, he would be there. She, therefore, on that ac- 
 count, wished to keep herself disengaged ; but immediately on 
 her entrance she 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 
 hereto 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 sur- 
 prise beheld Colonel Belgrave. 
 
 She turned pale, trembled, and involuntarily exclaimed, ‘ Gra- 
 cious Heaven ! ’ Her soul recoiled at his sight, as if an evil genius 
 had suddenly darted into her path 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 219 
 
 he had seen, that it did not proceed from the sight of Colonel Beh 
 grave. ‘ Oh, take me, take me from this room ! ’ was all, in falter- 
 ing 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 expressive of horror, and again 
 besought Sir Charles to take lier 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 
 jdelgrave, and he trembled as he supported her. 
 
 Belgrave offered his services in assisting 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 rapid and impassioned inquiries betrayed the tender in- 
 terest she had in his heart. Unable to answer them herself. Sir 
 Charles replied for her, saying, ‘ She had been taken extremely 
 111 after dancing,’ and added, ‘he would resign her to his lord- 
 ship’s protection while he went to procure 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 beheld 
 Colonel Belgrav^e standing near them; his invidious eyes fast- 
 ened on her. She averted her head, and saying the air would 
 do her good. Lord Mortimer led her forward, and took this op- 
 portunity of expressing his wishes for the period when he should 
 be at liberty to watch 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 the ladies 
 with the reason of her abrupt departure. His lordship wished 
 himself to have attended her to Portman Square, but she thought 
 :.t 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 con- 
 quer, and raised the most gloomy presages in her mind. She be- 
 lieved him capable of any villainjr. His looks had declared a 
 continuance of illicit love. She trembled at the idea of his 
 stratagems being renewed. Her apprehensions were doubly pain 
 ful from the necessity of concealment, lest those dearer* to her 
 
220 
 
 THIi JIIILDREJS OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 than existence should be involved in danger on her account 
 To Heaven she looked up for protection, and the terrors of lier 
 heart were somewhat lessened, conscious that Heaven could ren- 
 der the aims of Belgrave against her peace as abortive as those 
 against her innocence had been. 
 
 Sir Charles Bingley parted from Lord Mortimer immediately 
 after Amanda’ s departure, and returned arm in arm with Bel- 
 grave to the room. ‘Belgrave,’ said he abruptly, after musing 
 some minutes, ‘ you know Miss Fitzalan? ’ 
 
 Belgrave answered not hastily. He appeared as if deliberating 
 on the reply he should give. At last, ‘ I do know Miss Fitz- 
 alan,’ 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.’ ‘ My dear Bingley,’ exclaimed Bel- 
 grave, ‘ 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 man- 
 ner appears so mysterious that it distracts me. If friendship will 
 not induce you to account for it, my intentions relative to Miss 
 Fitzalan will compel me to insist on your doing so. ’ ‘ Come, 
 
 come, Bingley, ’ replied the colonel, ‘ this is not a country for ex- 
 torting confession. However, seriously, you might depend on my 
 honor, exclusive of my friendship, to conceal nothing from you 
 in which you were materially interested. ’ 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 breakfast, 
 for his visit, when a letter was brought him which contained the 
 following lines : 
 
 If Sir Charles Bingley has the least regard for his honor or tranquillity, he will immedi- 
 ately 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 secrel 
 mode of giving it. 
 
THE CHILDREIS^ 01 THE ABBEY. 
 
 221 
 
 Sir Charles perused and re-perused the letter, as if doubting 
 the evidence of his eyes. He at last flung it from him, and clasping 
 his hands together exclaimed: ‘This is, indeed, a horrible ex- 
 planation.’ 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. 
 
 ‘O Belgrave!’ exclaimed Sir Charles, in a voice trembling 
 with agony, ‘pity and relieve my suspense. ' ‘ I am the author 
 
 of it ,’ replied Belgrave, with solemnity; ‘Miss Fitzalan and I 
 were once tenderly attached. I trust I am no deliberate libertine ; 
 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 separated.’ 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 I 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 contempt which may fall upon her. 
 O Belgrave, ’tis melancholy to behold a human being, so en- 
 dowed by nature as she is, insensible or unworthy of her blessings. 
 Amanda,’ he continued, after a pause, ‘ never encouraged me; I, 
 therefore, cannot accuse her of intending deceit.’ 
 
 ‘ She never encouraged you,’ replied Belgrave, ‘ because she was 
 ambitious of a higher title. Amanda, beneath a specious appear- 
 ance of innocence, conceals a light disposition and a designing 
 heart. She aspires to Mortimer’s hand, and may probably suc- 
 ceed, for his language and attentions to her last night were those 
 of a tender lover.’ 
 
 ‘I shall return immediately to Ireland,’ said Sir Charles, ‘and 
 endeavor to forget I have ever seen her. She has made me in- 
 deed experience all the fervency of love, and bitterness of dis- 
 appointment. 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 eyelids shall conjecture hang. 
 
 To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm. 
 
 And never more shall it be gracious.’ 
 
 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 meet 
 
222 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 ing 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 accom- 
 plishment of his designs, which disappointment had only stimulat- 
 ed. He was one of those determined characters which never relin- 
 quish a purpose ‘though heaven and earth that purpose crossed.^ 
 The confidence Sir Charles reposed 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, with- 
 out the smallest compunction, for destroying the reputation of an 
 innocent girl, or injuring the happiness of an amiable man. 
 
 Remo . ed from the protection of her father, he believed his 
 destined . ictim could not escape the snare he should spread for 
 her; and as a means of expediting his success, under the appear- 
 ance of feeling, urged Sir Charles’s return to Ireland. 
 
 The easy credit which Sir Charles gave to the vile allegations of 
 Belgrave cannot be wondered at, when his long intimacy and to- 
 tal ignorance of his real character are considered. He knew Eel- 
 grave to be a gay man, but he never imagined him to be a hard- 
 ened libertine. Besides, he never could have supposed 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 an- 
 guish to him, were more pitied than condemned, as he rather be- 
 lieved they proceeded from the impetuosity of passion than the 
 deliberation of design, and that they were long since sincerely re- 
 pented 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 prep- 
 arations to be made for his return to Ireland. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYin. 
 
 Ob, how this tyrant doubt torments my breast f 
 My thoughts like birds, who, frighted from their refit, 
 
 Around the place where all was hashed 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 Euplirasia’s dressing 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 223 
 
 room, where she and Miss Malcolm, who had continued with her 
 the preceding night, were sitting tete-a-tete at breakfast. His lord* 
 ship was a welcome visitor, but it was soon obvious on whose ac- 
 count 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. 
 
 ‘nWhat surprise? ’ asked his lordship. ‘ Dear me,’ replied Miss 
 Malcolm, ‘ was not your lordship present at the timeshe met Colonel 
 Belgrave? ’ ‘ No,’ said Lord Mortimer, changing color, ‘ I was 
 
 not present. But what has Colonel Belgmve to say to Miss Fitz- 
 alan? ’ asked he, in an agitated voice. ‘ That is a question your 
 lordship must put to the young lady herself,’ answered Miss Mal- 
 colm. ‘ 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 in- 
 formed them of, as she and Lady Greystock were near Amanda 
 when she met him. 
 
 Lord Mortimer was unhappy. The mind which has once har- 
 bored suspicion will, from the most trivial circumstance, be tempted 
 again to give admission to the unpleasing guest— nor was it a trivial 
 circumstance which discomposed the too susceptible heart of Mor- 
 timer. 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 dis- 
 order was occasioned by seeing him. From residing more con- 
 stantly 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» 
 
224 
 
 THE children of THE ABBEY. 
 
 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, ding away the happiness he had so long desired to obtain. 
 
 The calm this resolution produced was but transient. Doubts 
 had been raised, and doubts 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 con- 
 sent 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 in- 
 formed him he had just received a note from Lord Cherbury, desir- 
 ing 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 ex- 
 pressed a warm sense of the honor Sir Charles did his family by 
 addressing Miss Fitzalan ; and that to have her united to a character 
 so truly estimable would give him the truest happiness, from the 
 conviction that hers would be secured by such a union. ‘ He has 
 written to his daughter expressing 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 aflPair, 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 reflectioii 
 obliges me to relinquish a scheme whose accomplishment couioi 
 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 225 
 
 from my friendship for 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 apprehen* 
 sions, 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 
 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, Bmgley, 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 attentions 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 
 iiever give another to you.’ ‘Your words,’ retorted Lord Morti* 
 mer, with warmth, ‘imply that there was another motive lor 
 your conduct than the one you avowed. What horrid inference 
 may not be drawn from such an insinuation ? Oh, Sir Charles t 
 r-eputation is a fragile flower, which the slightest breath may 
 injure.’ ‘My lord, if Miss Fitzalan’s reputation is never injur'''* 
 but by my means, it will ever continue unsullied.’ 
 
 ‘ I cannot, indeed,’ resumed Lord Mortimer, ‘style myself 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 cen- 
 sure to any being.’ ‘Allow me to ask your lordship one ques- 
 tion,’ cried Sir Charles, ‘and promise, on your honor, to answef 
 
1226 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 it.’ ‘I do promise/ said Lord Mortimer. ‘Then, my lord, did 
 you ever really wish I should succeed 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 
 a*esigning her. He is conscious that no man of sensibility could 
 experience happiness with a woman in whose heart he bad no 
 interest. This, I suppose, your lordship will also allow.’ 
 ‘ Certainly,’ replied Lord Mortimer. ‘ Then, it strikes me, my 
 lord, that it is your conduct, not mine, which has a tendency to 
 injure Miss Fitzalan. That it is your words, not mine, which con- 
 vey an insinuation against her. You really appear as if con. 
 scions some other cause existed, which would have made me re- 
 linquish 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 en- 
 gaged. 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 happiness.’ 
 
 Sir Charles took Lord Mortimers extended hand. He re- 
 ?'pected and esteemed his lordship, and a mutual interchange of 
 ^ood wishes took place between them, as this was the last inters 
 view 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 remove her de- 
 ‘jection. Her father’s letter, relative to Sir Charles Bingley, had 
 given her some uneasiness ; but as he left her free to act, she con- 
 tented herself with using the negative he allowed her, by a sol- 
 emn resolution of never acting 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 in: 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 227 
 
 quiring 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 uneasiness at Lord Mortimer’s at- 
 tention to any woman but herself. Assured that his affections for 
 her were founded on the basis of esteem, and that she should re. 
 tain them while worthy of esteem, she could, without being dis^ 
 composed by the agreeable conversation he appeared to be enjoy- 
 ing, fix her attention on the stage ; so entirely, indeed, that she 
 observed not from time to time, the glances Lord Mortimer di- 
 rected toward 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 knev5 
 the lady she had been long looking at ? ‘ Know her ? ’ replied 
 
 she ; ‘ Oh, heavens ! but too well.’ 
 
 Lord Mortimer trembled universally, and was compelled t© 
 have recourse to his handkerceief to hide his emotion. 
 
 It was by Adel a, the lovely and neglected wife of Belgrave, ha^ 
 was sitting. She had been a short time in London, and her ac- 
 quaintance with Lord Mortimer commenced at a ball, where she 
 had danced with him. He was not one of those kind of men who^ 
 when in love, had neither eyes nor ears but for the object of that 
 love. He could see perfections in other woman 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 admi- 
 ration, and an idea of having somewhere seen her face, riveted 
 them upon her ; 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 hlushed, and would, if possible;r 
 
S28 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBET. 
 
 have evadecf the question ; but the earnestness of his lordship’s 
 manner compelled her to answer it. She said ‘ she had no per- 
 sonal knowledge of the lady, but recollected her face from hav- 
 ing 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, with involuntary quick- 
 ness, ‘I will not tell.’ ‘I should apologize, indeed,’ cried Lord 
 Mortimer, recollecting himself, ‘ for a curiosity which may ap- 
 pear impertinent.’ He led her to a chair, and deliberated whether 
 he should not follow her example in quitting the house. 
 
 Miss Malcolm had first made him uneasy; uneasiness intro- 
 duced doubts which Sir Charles Bingley had increased, and Mrs. 
 Belgrave almost confirmed. He dreaded a horrid confirmation 
 of his fears ; the picture, like Othello’s handkerchief, was a source 
 of unspeakable anguish. The agitation that Mrs. Belgrave had be- 
 trayed on mentioning it, joined to her concealment of the gentle- 
 man 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 contrary, he saw 
 that she avoided him, he meant to mention the circumstance of 
 the picture to her, yet so as not to hurt her feelings, and be regu- 
 lated by her answer relative to his future conduct. He returned 
 at last to the box, and procured a seat behind her. He had not oc- 
 cupied 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 
 against which she leaned. He endeavored to catch her eyes, but 
 the noise he made on entering put her on her guard, and she in- 
 stantly 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 pro- 
 duce 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 Greystook 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 229 
 
 marchioness, when Belgrave forced his way to her, and attempted 
 to take her hand at the very moment Lord Mortimer 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, hesi- 
 tated not to accept his offer. Belgrave knew his words alluded to 
 him. At present, however, he resolved not to resent them, con- 
 vinced that if he did his views on Amanda would be defeated. 
 From that moment her beauty was not more powerful in stimu- 
 lating his designs than his desire of revenge 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 retired to her 
 chamber immediately after supper; the presence of Belgrave had 
 increased the dejection which she hoped the amusements of the 
 theater would have dissipated; she now indeed longed for the 
 period when she should be entitled to the protection of Lord Morti- 
 mer ; when she should no longer dread the audacity or stratagems 
 of Belgrave. Lord Cherbury, on her retiring, expressed his re* 
 gret at her coldness to Sir Charles Bingley, by which she had lost 
 a most honorable and advantageous attachment. 
 
 This was an opportunity not to be neglected by the marchioness 
 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 appear, no 
 doubt, extraordinary, but ambitious people are not easily satisfied 
 indeed, I cannot blame her so much for entertaining aspiring no- 
 tions as those who instilled them into her mindc’ 
 
 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 meaning. 
 When once informed of the young lady’s views, your lordship 
 may be able to convince her of that fallacy, and prevail on her not 
 to lose another opportunity of settling herself in consequence of 
 them; in short, my lord. Miss Fitzalan, prompted by her father,, 
 has cast her eyes on Lord Mortimer. Presuming on your friend- 
 ship, he thought a union between them might easily be accont* 
 pllshed. I do not believe Lord Mortimer at first gave any encour* 
 
S30 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 agement to their designs; 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 Lon- 
 don, knowing their motives for desiring the excursion, but her 
 father never ceased persecuting me till I consented to take her 
 milder my protection.’ ‘Upon my word,’ cried the marquis, who 
 “was not of the ladies’ privy council, though if he had it is prob- 
 able he would not have objected to their schemes, ‘ Captain Fitz- 
 alan 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 fit- 
 ting 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'! 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 fora deviation 
 from integrity, or for a sacrifice of honor and gratitude at the 
 shrine of interest. The subject has discomposed me, and I must 
 beg to be excused for abruptly retiring; nothing, indeed, I 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 Cherburj^ could scarcely be smothered in their 
 presence. On the head of Fitzalan they knew it would burst 
 with full violence. They did not mention Belgrave ; relative to 
 him they resolved to affect profound ignorance. 
 
 Th e passions of Lord Cherbury were impetuous. He had, as I 
 have already hinted, secret motives for desiring a connection be- 
 tween his family and the marquis’s ; and the idea of that desire 
 being defeated drove him almost to distraction. He knew his 
 Bon’s passions, though not so easily irritated as his own were, 
 v/hen once irritated, equally violent. To remonstrate 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 he had made of his attach- 
 ment. He entertained not a doubt of Lady Greystock’s veracity; 
 from his general knowledge of mankind, he believed self the pre- 
 dominant consideration in every breast. His feelings were too 
 violent not to seek an immediate vent, and ere he went to bed, he 
 wrote a bitter and reproachful letter to Fitzalan, which concluded 
 with an entreaty, or rather a command, to send without delay fof 
 his daughter. A dreadful stroke this for poor Fitzalan. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE A.BBEY^ 23? 
 
 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. 
 
 While at breakfast, a servant informed Lady Greystock a 
 young woman wanted to speak to her. ‘ Who is she ? ’ asked her 
 ladysliip ; ‘ did she not send up her name ? ’ ‘ No, my lady ; but 
 
 she said she had particular business with your ladyship.’ 
 
 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 in- 
 nocence, but the strong expression of melancholy diffused over it. 
 She appeai*:5d, trembling with confusion and timidity, and the pov- 
 erty of her apparel implied the source of her dejection. 
 
 ‘ 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 Eushbrook, 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 pull- 
 ing her hat over her face. 
 
 ‘ I wonder, child,’ said Lady Greystock, as she opened the letter, 
 ‘ what your father can write to me about. I don’t suppose it can 
 be about the affair he mentioned the other day. Why, really,’ 
 continued she, after she had perused it, ‘ I believe he takes me 
 for a fool, I am astonished, after his insolent conduct, how he 
 can possibly have the assurance to make application to me for re- 
 lief. No, no, child, he neglected the opportunity he had of secur- 
 ing me as his friend. ’T would really be a sin to give him the power 
 of bringing up his family in idleness. 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. Sym- 
 pathy, 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 man’s scorn, and all those ills which 
 patient merit of the unworthy takes.’ 
 
 In a few minutes Miss Eushbrook 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 
 
232 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Hurrying away, when Amanda caught her hand, and leading hei 
 softly into the parlor, endeavored, with angelic sweetness, to calm 
 her emotion. Surprised at this unexpected attention, and over- 
 come by her feelings, the poor girl sunk on her chair, and drop- 
 ping her head on Amanda’s bosom, wet it with a shower of tears, 
 as she exclaimed : ‘Alas ! my unfortunate parents, how can I re- 
 turn to behold your misery ? The grave is the only refuge for 
 you and your wretched children ! ’ ‘You must not encourage 
 such desponding thoughts,’ said Amanda. ‘Providence, all- 
 bounteous and all-powerful, is able in a short time to change the 
 gloomiest scene into one of brightness. Tell me, ’ she continued, 
 after a pause, ‘where do you reside ? ’ ‘At Kensington.’ ‘ Ken- 
 sington ! ’ 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 a scheme 
 which had just darted into her mind. ‘ If 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 trouble. 
 Amanda besought her not to waste time in such unnecessary 
 scruples, but to give her the desired information. She accordingly 
 informed her there was a haberdasher’s in Bond Street, mention- 
 ing 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 begin- 
 ning Rushbrook’s letter, for her mother’s amusement. Its style 
 evidently denoted the painful conflicts there were between pride 
 and distress, ere the former could be sufficiently 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 ac- 
 count, no necessity could have compelled him to take. He and 
 liis family, he said, had drank of the cup of misery to the very 
 dregs. He waived the claims 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 peti- 
 tioner 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 insolence 
 in making such an application, and Lady Euphrasia protested the 
 letter was the most ridiculous stuff she had ever read. 
 
 Amanda, in this, as well as in many other instances, differed 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 233 
 
 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 ensuing 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 go- 
 ing to this ball, to consecrate to charity the money devoted to 
 vanity, was her project ; and most fortunate did she deem the ap- 
 plication of Rushbrook, ere her purchase was made, and she con- 
 sequently prevented from giving her mite. Her soul revolted 
 from the inhumanity of the marchioness, her daughter, and Lady 
 Greystock. Exempt from the calamities of want themselves, 
 they forgot the pity due to those calamities in others. If this 
 coldness, this obduracy, she cried within herself, is the effect of 
 prosperity ; if thus it closes the avenues of benevolence and com- 
 passion, oh ! never may the dangerous visitor approach me — for 
 ill should I think the glow of compassion and sensibility ex- 
 changed 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 retired to their re- 
 spective toilets, she sent for a coach, and being prepared against 
 its coming, immediately stepped into it, and was driven to Bond 
 Street, where she found Miss Rushbrook, with trembling 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 
 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. Heathfield, the friend who 
 had effected a reconciliation between him and his uncle, to com- 
 mence a suit against Lady Greystock, on 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, to 
 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 
 Dopes their own sanguine tempers and the fiattering suggestions 
 of the lawyers had excited, a violent fever carried off their be- 
 nevolent friend, ere a will was executed, in which he had pronof 
 
234 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 ised largely to consider Bush brook. His heir, narrow and illib- 
 eral, had long feared that his interest would be hurt by the 
 affection he entertained for Rushbrook ; and, as if in revenge for 
 the pain 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. Thus, 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 
 afiPord him some means of support. Her insolence and inhuman- 
 ity shocked him to the soul; and as he left her presence, he re- 
 solved never to enter it again, or to apply to her. This last reso- 
 lution, however, only continued till the distresses of the family 
 grew so great as to threaten their existence, particularly that of 
 his wife, who, overpowered by grief, had sunk into a languish- 
 ing illness, which every day increased for want of proper assist- 
 ance. 
 
 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. 
 Besides, he believed that pleasure, at finding his pretensions to 
 the fortune entirely withdrawn, would influence her to adminis- 
 ter 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 he 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 
 ‘ the hectic of a moment flushed her cheek.’ ‘ Oh ! madam ! ‘ she 
 cried, ‘your goodness ’ Tears impeded her further utterancec 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY^ 
 
 235 
 
 ‘ 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 you. ’ 
 
 She then desired the door to be opened, and told her com- 
 panion she would no longer detain her. Miss Rushbrook affection- 
 ately 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 gratitude, 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 while conversing with 
 you.’ 
 
 ‘I shall certainly see you again as soon as possible,’ replied 
 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 suddenly 
 gave way, and the man was obliged to dismount, and procure 
 assistance from a public-house on the road, in repairing 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 reason of it ; and to tell her 
 she had a strong objection, convinced, as she was, that her lady- 
 ship’s knowing she relieved objects so extremely disagreeable to 
 her, would occasion a quarrel between them, which would either 
 render a longer residence together impossible or highly disagree- 
 able. And to leave London at the present crisis, when every- 
 thing 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 velocity 
 with which he drove flattered her with the hope of reaching 
 iiOme as soon as she wished. Tranquillized by this hope, she 
 again indulged her imagination with the ideas of the comfort hei 
 little bounty had probably given Rushbrook and his dejected fam- 
 ily. 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 ex< 
 
236 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 Cite 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 returned ; 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 chamber, 
 followed by the maid appointed to attend her, who said Lady 
 Grey stock 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 Fitzalan,’ exclaimed Lady Euphrasia, ‘I believe you stole a 
 march somewhere upon us this morning. ’ ‘ W ell, ’ cried Miss Mal- 
 colm, laughing, ‘ your ladyship must know that people generally 
 have some important reason for stolen marches which they do not 
 choose to divulge. ’ 
 
 Amanda treated this malicious insinuation with the silent con- 
 tempt 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 earnest- 
 ness. She blushed deeply, as if detected in a falsehood, and im- 
 mediately bent her eyes to the ground. 
 
 The conversation now changed, but it was*some time ere Aman- 
 da’s confusion subsided. 
 
 Lord Mortimer, indeed, had a reason for his exclamation she 
 little thought of. He had met the marchioness and her compan- 
 ions, by appointment, at the auction, but soon grew weary of his 
 situation, which the presence of Amanda could alone have ren- 
 dered tolerable. He pleaded business as an excuse for withdraw- 
 ing, and hurrying home, ordered his phaeton, and proceeded to- 
 ward 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 to move, pursued it with 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 Marquis of Roslin’s. Amanda had escaped seeing his lordship 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 237 
 
 by a profound meditation in which she was engaged at the mo* 
 ment, 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.’ ‘ No 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 had taken, 
 with an intention of remounting, and, without even noticing the 
 colonel, fiew 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 resolution. ‘I will go,’ said he ; 
 ^ though appearances are against her, she may, perhaps’ (and he 
 tried to derive some comfort from the idea), ‘ be able to account for 
 her being at Kensington.’ 
 
 Tortured by conflicting passions, alternately hoping and doubt- 
 ing, he arrived at Portman Square. 
 
 Lady Greystock 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 forbear an in- 
 voluntary repetition of her words. So great, indeed, was the in- 
 dignation 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 of innocence, 
 but the glow of shame and guilt. It was evident to him that she 
 had seen Belgrave 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 influence 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 liarbored in her 
 breast ? Yet that too surely it is, I have every reason to suppose. 
 Yet a little longer I will bear a torturing state of suspense, 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 
 
238 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 beloved object we know ourselves on the point of losing for 
 ever. 
 
 His ifielancholy was quickly perceived by the penetrating rnai^ 
 chioness and Lady Euphrasia. They saw, with delight, tiiat 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 revenge, on the 
 susceptible nature of Mortimer, all the uneasiness 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 afiPected her sensibility. She dreaded 
 that his aunt had refused complying with his request 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 beheld her regarding him with the most exquisite ten- 
 derness. But the period was past for receiving delight from such 
 an appearance of affection : an affection which, he had reason 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 predominant feeling of his 
 soul. Though he so bitterly lamented, he could not, at the mo- 
 ment, have reproached her perfidy. He gazed on her with mourn- 
 ful tenderness, and to the involuntary expression of regret, which 
 dropped from her on hearing he was ill, only replied, by saying, 
 ‘ Ah I Amanda, the man that really excites your tenderness must 
 be happy.’ 
 
 Amanda, unconscious that any sinister meaning lurked be- 
 neath these words, considered them as an acknowledgement 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 bj 
 Lwd Mortimer, to him, as she said, into good spirits. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBBT. 
 
 239 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 But yet I say, 
 af imputation and strong circumstances. 
 
 Which lead directly to the door of truth. 
 
 Will give you satisfaction, you may have it. 
 
 Shakespexub. 
 
 Prom that evening, to the day destined for the ball, nothing 
 material happened. On the morning of that day, as Amanda was 
 sitting in the drawing-room with the ladies, Lord Mortimer en- 
 tered. Lady Euphrasia could talk of nothing else but the ap- 
 proaching entertainment, which, she said, was expected 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 suppose,’ cried Lady 
 Euphrasia, ‘ you do not intend going without being able to see 
 and hear yourself? ’ ‘ Certainly,’ replied Amanda, ‘ I should not, 
 
 but I do not intend going.’ ‘ Not going to the ball to-night? ’ ex- 
 claimed 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? ’ ex- 
 claimed 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 indifferent 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 expressive 
 glance assured her there was an important motive for this asser- 
 tion. 
 
 ‘May we not hope. Miss Fitzalan,’ said Lord Mortimer, ‘ that a 
 resolution so suddenly adopted as yours may be as suddenly 
 changed? ’ ‘ No, indeed, my lord, nor is it so suddenly 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 en- 
 gagement to me.’ 
 
 Amanda, supposing this alluded to her engagement for the ball^ 
 
240 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 replied, * she had not forgotten it.’ ‘ For your inability or di® 
 inclination to fulfil it, then,’ said he, ‘will you not account?’ 
 ^Most willingly, my lord.’ ‘ When ? ’ asked Lord Mortimer, im- 
 patiently, for unable longer to support his torturing suspense, he 
 determined, contrary to his first intention, to come to an immedi- 
 ate explanation relative to Belgrave. ‘ To-morrow, my lord, ’ re- 
 plied 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 rea- 
 sons 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 dis- 
 quietude.’ 
 
 His regret, Amanda supposed, proceeded from disappointment 
 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 go- 
 ing, 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 at- 
 tended at her toilet, and assisted in ornamenting her ladyship. 
 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 ; it was such a 
 calm as Shakespeare beautifully describes : 
 
 We often see against some storm 
 A silence in the heavens ; the rack stand stm. 
 
 The bold winds speechless, and the orb below 
 As hash as death. 
 
 She continued in Lady Euphrasia’s dressing-room, and toc& up 
 the beautiful and affecting story of Paul and Mary, to amuse her- 
 self. Her whole attention was soon engrossed by it ; and, with 
 Paul, she was soon shedding a deluge of tears 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 nor struggles, Amanda,’ said he, ‘ will be availing; 
 without the assistance of a friend, you may be convinced, I could 
 not have entered this house, and the same friend will, you may 
 depend on it, take care that our is not interrupted.’ 
 
 Amanda shuddered at the idea of treachery; and being eon 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 241 
 
 Vinced, from what he said, she could not expect assistance, eii 
 deavored to recover her fainting spirits, and exert all her resolu? 
 tion. 
 
 ‘ Your scheme, Colonel Belgrave,’ said she, * is equally vile and 
 futile. Though treachery may have brought you hither, you must 
 be convinced that, under the Marquis of Roslin’s roof, who, by re- 
 lationship, as well as hospitality, is bound to protect me, you dare 
 not, with impunity, otter me any insult. The marquis will be at 
 home immediately ; if, therefore, you wish to preserve the sem* 
 blance of honor, retire without further delay.’ ‘ Not to retire ^o 
 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 adoration, 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 Heavens ! ’ said Amanda, while her eyes flashed 
 
 with indignation, ‘ how can you have the effrontery to avow your 
 insolent intentions — intentions which long since you must have 
 known would ever prove 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 sincere, 
 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 Avorld might think you made me. Hesitate no longer 
 about raising yourself to affluence, which, to a benevolent spirit 
 like yours, must be so peculiarly pleasing. Hesitate not to secure 
 independence to your father, promotion to your brother; and, be 
 assured, if the connection I 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 ! ’ 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 defense, 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 in 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 maligant 
 glances at her. 
 
 Terrified by his looks, Amanda tried to avoid him ; and when he 
 
^42 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 caught her again in his arms, she screamed aloud. No one ap 
 ipeared ; her terror increased. 
 
 ‘ O Belgrave! * cried she, trembling, ‘ if you have one prin- 
 ciple 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 in- 
 exorable, 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 intentions ; in- 
 experience and credulity have already made you a dupe to artifice. 
 You imagined Sir Charles Bingley was a fervent admirer of yours, 
 %vhen, be assured, in following you he only obeyed the dictates of 
 •an egregious vanity, which fiattered him wfith the hope of gaining 
 your regard, and being distinguished by it. Nothing was farther 
 from his thoughts, as he himself confessed to me, than seriously 
 paying his addresses to you ; and had you appeared willing, at last, 
 to accept them, be assured he would soon have contrived some 
 scheme to disengage himself from you. The attentions of Lord 
 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 
 duplicity. He seeks to take advantage of the too great confidence 
 you repose in him. His purpose once accomplished, he would sac- 
 Tifice 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 Atnanda, even beauty and elegance 
 like yours would not, on the generality of mankind, have power to 
 make them forego the advantages annexed to wealth — on Lord 
 Mortimer, particularly, they would fail of that effect. His am- 
 bition 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 delights 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 
 ionger 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 trembled, and Bel- 
 grave paused in a speech he had begun. She supposed the mar- 
 quis had returned. It was improbable he would come to that 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 243 
 
 room ; and even if he did, from his distrustful and malignant 
 temper, she knew not wliether 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! 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 deceived, and had reason to believe, from the invet- 
 erate dislike they bore her, that they would rejoice at an oppor- 
 tunity like the present for traducing her fame ; and with horror 
 she saw that appearances, even in the eyes of candor, would be 
 against her. She had positively, and unexpectedly, refused go- 
 ing 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 trem- 
 bling with anguish : ‘ Merciful Heaven, I am ruined forever 1 ’ 
 
 ‘ No, no,’ cried Belgrave, flinging himself at her feet ; ‘pardon 
 me, Amanda, and I never more will molest you. I see your 
 principles are invincible. I admire, I revere your purity, and 
 never more will I attempt to injure it. I was on the point of de- 
 claring so when that cursed knock came to the door. Compose 
 yourself, and consider what can be done in the present 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, therefore, if possible, till th© 
 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 in- 
 spired, 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 door softly after* 
 him. 
 
 Amanda, snatching up her book, endeavored to compose her**^ 
 self ; but the effort was ineffectual — she trembled universally — 
 nor was her agitation diminished when, from the outside of the 
 door. Lady Euphrasia called to her to open it. She tottered to iL 
 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 her.’ ‘Miss Fitzalan 
 
244 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 has not been much better, I believe,’ said Lady Euphrasia, regar<J 
 ing her attentively. ‘ Grood Lord, child 1 ’ cried Lady Greystock, 
 ^ what is the matter with you ? why, you look as pale as if you 
 had seen a ghost.’ ‘ Miss Fitzalan is fond of solitude,’ exclaimed 
 the marquis, preventing her replying to Lady Greystock. ‘ When 
 I returned home about an hour ago, I sent to request her com- 
 pany 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 request.’ 
 ^ 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 succeeded by a deep 
 blush. ‘You are certainly ill,’ said Lord Mortimer, who sat be- 
 side her, in a voice expressive of regret at the conviction. ‘ You 
 have been indulging melancholy ideas, I fear,’ continued he 
 softly, and taking her hand, ‘ for surely — surely to-night you are 
 uncommonly affected.’ 
 
 Amanda attempted to speak. The contending emotions of her 
 mind prevented her utterance, and the tears trickled silently down 
 her cheeks. Lord Mortimer saw she wished to avoid notice, yet 
 scarcely could he forbear requesting some assistance for her. J 
 
 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 v/as 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 toward it 
 with a countenance as expressive of wild affright as Macbeth’^, 
 when viewing the chair on which the specter 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 the closet, followed by Belgrave. 
 
 ‘ Gracious Heaven ! ’ exclaimed Lord Mortimer, dropping Aman- 
 da’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 back upon the sofa. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 245 
 
 Lord Mortimer started at her exclamation, ‘ Oh, Heavens I ’ cried 
 he, as he looked toward her ; unable to support the scene that 
 would ensue in consequence of this discovery, he struck his fore- 
 head 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, ‘some* 
 thing 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 re- 
 quest, 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 Mortimer. ‘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 pit- 
 eous story, which would have softened a stone, of his being a 
 sweetheart others 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. ‘ 1 
 shall lose my place,’ said she, sobbing, ‘that I shall, most cer- 
 tainly ; for my lord and lady never will forgive my bringing 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 bear 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 em- 
 barrassing situation. For my own justification, ’tis necessary to 
 acknowledge that I have long been the object of a pursuit from 
 Colonel Belgrave as degrading to his character as insulting to 
 mine. When he broke so unexpectedly upon me to-night, he de- 
 clared — 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 discov- 
 ery 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 
 so easy a matter as you may perhaps suppose. Neither the world 
 
246 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 nor 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 Bel grave been voluntarily admitted, 
 he never would have been concealed ; no, madam, you would 
 have rejoiced at the opportunity our presence gave you of punish- 
 ing his temerity. Innocence is bold ; ’tis guilt alone is timorous.’ 
 
 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 Grey stock, ‘ 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 account I 
 affect concealment.’ Here he glanced at Amanda. ‘ Those parts 
 of my conduct, however, which I choose to conceal, I shall always 
 be ready to defend.’ ‘Sir,’ cried the marquis haughtily, ‘no ex- 
 planation or defense of your conduct is here req uired ; I have 
 neither right nor inclination to interfere in Miss Fitzalan’s con- 
 cerns.’ 
 
 The colonel bowed to the circle, and was retiring, when x\man- 
 da flew to him and caught his arm. ‘Surely, surely,’ said she, 
 almost gasping for breath, ‘you cannot be so inhuman as to re- 
 tire without explaining this whole affair. O Bel grave, leave 
 me not a prey to slander. By all your hopes of mercy and forgive- 
 ness hereafter, I conjure you to clear my fame.’ 
 
 ‘ My dear creature,’ said he, in a low voice, yet loud enough to 
 oe heard by the whole party, ‘anything I could say would be un- 
 availing. 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 insolence 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^ 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 24r 
 
 fix>m 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 distruction. ’ ‘ From 
 what I have already suffered by her family, nothing should have 
 tempted me to take her under my roof,’ exclaimed the marchion- 
 ess. ‘Was she my relation,’ cried the marquis, ‘I should long 
 since have come to a determination about her ; as yours, madam,’ 
 turning to the marchioness, ‘ I shall not attempt forming one ; 1 
 deem it, however, absolutely necessary to remove Lady Euphra- 
 sia Sutherland from the house till the young lady chooses to quit 
 it. I shall, therefore, order the carriage to be ready at an early 
 hour for the villa.’ 
 
 ‘ I shall certainly accompany your lordship, ’ cried the mar- 
 chioness, ‘ 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 ob- 
 scurity the affair may die away.’ ‘ It may, however, ’ said Aman- 
 da, ‘ 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 re- 
 remorse. I shall return to my obscurity, happy in the conscious- 
 ness 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 
 havedong 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 assur- 
 *ance.’ 
 
 Amanda repaired immediately to her chamber. She tottered as 
 &iie walked, and the housekeeper and Mrs. Jane, who, with some 
 other servants, had assembled out of curiosity near the door, fol- 
 lowed 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 gainst the next day, at an early 
 
,48 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 hour, that she might commence her journey to Ireland. This 
 they promised, and at her desire retired^ 
 
 Success, but not happiness, had crowned the marchioness’s 
 scheme. She triumphed in the disgrace she 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 the 
 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 affected. Long had she been meditating 
 on some plan which should ruin Amanda forever — not only in 
 the opinion of Lord Mortimer, but in the estimation 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 ordered his valet, who was a 
 trusty agent in all his villainies, to endeavor to gain access to the 
 ■ house, that he might discover whether there was a chance of in- 
 troducing him there. The valet obeyed his orders, and soon at- 
 tached 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 Euphrasia was apprised of the whole plot, and the hint of 
 her indisposition was given in the morning, that no suspicion 
 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 that opened from the lobby ; and while 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 
 dangerous rival to his daughter, and he hated her from that con- 
 sideration. The laws of hospitality obliged him to treat her with 
 politeness, but he gladly seized the first opportunity that offered 
 for expressing his dislike. 
 
 Lady Greystock saw thi^ough the plot, but she professed hei 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 249 
 
 belief of Amanda’s guilt, which was all the marchioness re* 
 quired. 
 
 The marquis left the ladies together, while he went to give 
 orders about his early journey. Soon after his departure a loud 
 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 Portman Square. His fancy presented 
 Amanda to his view, overwhelmed with shame, and sinking 
 beneath the keen reproaches leveled 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 effort that 
 nature could make was to pardon such errors. To speak comfort 
 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 may perhaps honor us with 
 your advice on the present occasion.’ ‘ Indeed,’ exclaimed 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 horri- 
 ble ! ’ ‘ Execrable monster ! ’ 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 unfortu- 
 nate ,’ he could not pronounce the name of Amanda. ‘ In her 
 
 own room,’ replied the marchioness. ‘ I assure you, she behaved 
 with not a little insolence, on Lady Greystock advising her to re- 
 turn home. For my part, I shall let her act as she pleases.’ 
 
 She then proceeded to mention the marquis’s resolution ot 
 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 sh j 
 can pursue,’ said Lord Mortimer ; ‘ but allow me,’ continued 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 Mortimer, sitting down by her lady- 
 ship, ‘you pitied and soothed her afflictions?’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ 
 replied she. 
 
 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 
 
250 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 took her hand. ‘Ah! my dear Lady Euphrasia,’ said he, in an 
 accent of melting softness, ' perhaps even now she needs consola- 
 tion. 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, ‘toper- 
 form the office of an angel — to console tiie afflicted. Ah ! well 
 does it become the young and gentle of your sex to pity such niis- 
 fortunes.’ 
 
 Her ladyship retired, but not indeed to the chamber of the for- 
 lorn 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 Mortimer* 
 He had heard of the early hour fixed for their journey, and say- 
 ing he would no longer keep 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 forget- 
 fulness stole over the senses of Amanda, on her being left to soli- 
 tude. 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 car- 
 riage, as she directed, had been engaged 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 Mor- 
 timer was below, and wished to speak to her.’ 
 
 Tumultuous joy pervaded the mind of Amanda. She had be- 
 lieved it probable she should not see him again before her depar- 
 ture for Ireland, from whence she had determined writing to him 
 the particulars of the affair. His visit seemed to announce he 
 thought not unfavorably of her. She supposed he came to assure 
 her that his opinion of her integrity was unshaken — ‘ and I shall 
 yet triumph,’ cried she, in the transport of the idea, ‘over 
 malice and treachery.’ 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 251 
 
 She sprung past the maid ; her feet scarce touched the ground, 
 and in a moment she found herself in the arms of Lord Mortimer, 
 which involuntarily opened to receive her, for, trembling, 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 an- 
 swered, ‘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 les- 
 sen my own ; for never, oh, never ! can my heart forget the love 
 and esteem it once bore Amanda.’ ‘Once bore her I’ repeated 
 Amanda. ‘ Once bore her. Lord Mortimer I 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 con- 
 veyed a fatal truth to Amanda. She 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 injured in- 
 nocence made her wish to conceal it; and, as Lord Mortimer stood 
 at the window, she determined to try and leave the room with- 
 out his knowledge, but ere she gained the 4,oor her head grew giddy, 
 her strength failed, she staggered, faintly screamed on linding 
 herself falling, and sunk upon the floor. 
 
 Lord Mortimer 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 compassionate them, 
 neither contempt nor calumny would ever be your portion. How 
 Dale she looks!’ said he, raising his head to gaze upon her face; 
 ‘ how like a flower untimely faded ! Yet were it happiness for 
 her never to revive ; a soul like hers, originally noble, must be 
 wretched under the pressure of scorn. Execrable Belgrave ! 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 de- 
 nied me, for the world would smile if I could say I now lamented 
 you.’ 
 
 Such were the effusions of sorrow which broke from Lord Mor- 
 timer over the insensible Amanda. The housekeeper, who had 
 been listening all this time, now appeared, as if in obedience 6c 
 
^52 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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, determined to de- 
 part 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 commence 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 he 
 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, and 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 did, 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 
 banknote for five hundred pounds. The words were as follows : 
 
 Consider me, Amanda, in the light of a brother ; as such accept my services ; to serve 
 you, in any manner, will be a source of consolation, which I flatter myself you will be 
 happy to allow me. ’Tis necessary you should return immediately to your father ; 
 hesitate not, then, about using the inclosed. Your complying with my request will 
 prove that you yet retain a friendship for 
 
 Mortiheb. 
 
 ‘ What a sum ! ’ cried the housekeeper, as she examined the note ; 
 * what a nice little independency would this, in addition to what I 
 have already saved, be for an honest woman ! what a 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 for such a priz< 
 it was worth her while to run some risk. Could she but get 
 Amanda off ere the carriage from Lord Mortimer arrived, she be- 
 lieved 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 anything she could do. Full 
 of this idea, she ran out, and calling a footman, high in her favor, 
 desired him immediately to procure a traveling chaise for Miss 
 Fitzalan. She then returned to Amanda, who was just begin- 
 ning to move. 
 
 ‘Come, come,’ cried she, going to her, roughly shaking her 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 253 
 
 shoulder, ‘ have done with those tragedy airs, and prepare your- 
 self against the carriage you ordered conies ; 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 housekeeper; 
 ^ he left you on the floor, and, as he went out, he said you should 
 never have another 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 ! ’ said Amanda, whose reason was restored by 
 the strenuous remonstrances of the housekeeper. ‘ Oh, that I 
 had never entered it ! ’ 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 ; 
 the former brought her drops, and the latter assisted in putting 
 on her habit, and packing up her clothes. Amanda, having 
 secured her trunks, desired they might be sent, by the flrst 
 opportunity, to Castle Carberry ; 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 her purse; her watch, how- 
 ever, was valuable ; and if she had money enough to carry her 
 to Dublin, she knew there she might procure a sufficient 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 
 nim it was unnecessary to do so ; but he declared he could noG 
 think of letting so young a lady travel unprotected. She was 
 pleased at his attention ; she had shuddered at the idea of her forlon^ 
 situation, and now dropped a tear of sweet sensibility at finding 
 she was not utterly deserted by every human being. The car- 
 riage took the road to Parkgate, as Amanda chose to embark 
 from thence, the journey being so much nearer to it than to 
 Holyhead. It was now about eight o’clock ; after traveling 
 four hours, the chaise stopped at a small house on the roccdside, 
 which appeared to be a common alehouse. Amanda was ur. 
 willing to enter it ; but the horses were here to be changed, and 
 was shown into a dirty parlor, where, almost sinking with weak 
 
254 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 ness, she ordered tea to be immediately brought in. 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, supposing him intoxicated ; but perceiving no 
 signs of this in his countenance, began to fear that the insults 
 she had received at the marquis’s made him think himself author-^ 
 ized to treat her with this insolence. She rose 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 following 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 1 ’ was all the affrighted Amanda could artic- 
 ulate. 
 
 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 danger 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 villainy — without 
 the means of delivering herself. She walked to the window. A 
 confused idea of getting through 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. She 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 entered. 
 She came, she said, with Nicholas’s respectful duty and he 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 t ’ 
 cried Amanda. She was informed it was. ‘Let me fly, thenl'' 
 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 proceeded 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 
 oicident. hastily looked out, and inquired what was the matter ; 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 255 
 
 but how impossible to describe her terror when she beheld Colo- 
 nel Belgrave, and Nicholas standing by him ! She shrunk back, 
 and entreated the postilion to drive on ; 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 oppo- 
 site side ; 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 give 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 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 
 traveling 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 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 colonel’s. Their scheme ac- 
 complished, Nicliolas, happy in the service he had done, or rather 
 the reward he had obtained for that service, again turned his 
 face toward London. 
 
 The carriage and attendants Lord Mortimer procured for 
 Amanda arrived even earlier than the housekeeper had expected, 
 and she blessed her lucky stars for the precipitancy with which 
 she had hurried off Amanda. Thej^ were followed by his lord- 
 ship himself, whose wretched heart could not support the idea of 
 letting Amanda depart without once more beholding her. GreaJ 
 was his dismay, his astonishment, when the housekeeper in- 
 formed him she was gone. 
 
 ‘ Gone ! ’ he repeated, changing color. 
 
 The housekeeper said that, without her knowledge. Miss h’itzaian 
 had a chaise hired, and the moment it came to the door stepped 
 into it, notwithstanding she was told his lordship meant to pro- 
 vide everything proper for her journey himself. ‘But she said, 
 my lord,’ cried the housekeeper, ‘ she wanted none of your care, 
 and that 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 affirm-' 
 
256 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 ative. ‘ 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 com- 
 fort.” ’ ‘And was she really so mean V he was on the point of ask- 
 ing, but he timely checked a question which was springing from a 
 heart that sickened at finding the object of its tenderest affec- 
 tions 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 undertaking so long a journey under the 
 protection of a common servant ; and, unable to endure his 
 apprehensions, he determined 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 Nicholas 
 approaching, whom, at the first glance, he knew. He stopped 
 the carriage, and called out, ‘Where have you left Miss Fitz- 
 alan ? ’ ‘ Faith, my lord,’ cried Nicholas, instantly stopping and 
 
 taking off his hat, ‘ in very good company. I left her with Colo- 
 nel 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 infamy.’ 
 
 The postilion desired to know whether he should return to 
 London. 
 
 Lord Mortimer hesitated, and at last desired him to go on ac- 
 cording 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 traveling 
 chaise. As Lord Mortimer passed, he looked into it, and beheld 
 Amanda, reclining on the bosom of Belgrave. He trembled uni* 
 versally, closed his eyes, and sighed out the name of the perfid- 
 ious 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 supposed her 
 unreclaimable. But how impossible to describe his distress and 
 confusion when almost the first object he beheld, on alighting in 
 St. James’s Square, was his aunt. Lady Martha Dormer, who, in 
 compliance with his urgent request, had hastened to London. 
 Had a specter 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 youi* wishes. I have flown hither, I may 
 
THE CHILDRE]^ OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 257 
 
 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 little par- 
 agon. Positively, Frederick, I will be introduced this very even- 
 ing.’ ‘My dear aunt, my Lady Martha,’ said Lord Mortimer, 
 impatiently, ‘for Heaven’s sake spare me!’ ‘But tell me,’ she 
 continued, ‘ when I shall commence this attack upon your father’s 
 heart?’ ‘Never! never!’ sighed Mortimer, half distracted. 
 
 ‘ What ! you suppose he will prove inflexible? But I do not despair 
 of convincing you to the contrary. Tell me, Frederick, when 
 the little charmer is to be seen?' ‘O God!’ cried Mortimer, 
 striking his forehead. ‘ She is lost,’ said he, ‘ she is lost forever !’ 
 
 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 himself 
 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 suffered the preceding 
 night, and the present day, so powerfully assailed 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 something 
 dreadful had happened, and what this was Lord Mortimer, as soon 
 as he recovered, informed her. 
 
 He then retired to his chamber. He could neither converse nor 
 bear to be conversed with. His fondest hopes were blasted, nor 
 could he forego the sad indulgence of mourning over them in soli- 
 tude. 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 shock too 
 horrible to bear, at least for a long period, with patience. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 And let a maid thy pity share, 
 
 Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
 
 Companion of her way. — Goldsmith. 
 
 Amanda had fainted soon after Colonel Belgrave entered the 
 carriage, and she was reclining on his bosom in a state ot insensi- 
 
258 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 bility when Lord Mortimer passed. In this situation she contim 
 ued 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 Belgrave. She felt a weakness 
 through her whole frame, which she believed 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 ; and in this manner they proceeded till about 
 nine o’clock at night, when they entered an extensive wood, in 
 the very center of which stood Colonel Belgrave’s mansion. 
 He carried Amanda into it himself, and laid her upon a sofa in a 
 large parlor. Some female domestics appeared with drops and 
 cordials, to try and recover her from the almost lifeless state in 
 which she lay. One of them presented a letter to the colonel, 
 which excited no little perturbation 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 fortune 
 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 necessity he 
 was under of departing for a short time. He also mentioned 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 cer- 
 tainly, attend the reality of that sacrifice?’ ‘Monster!’ cried 
 Amanda, ‘your arts may have destroyed my fame, but my inno- 
 cence 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 tnem 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 25^ 
 
 in his own. He had already given directions to his servants con- 
 cerning their treatment of Amanda, and now ordered them to 
 carry her to a chamber, and make her take some refreshment. 
 
 ‘ Reflect, Amanda,’ said he, ere she retired, ‘ on your present 
 situation, and timely estimate the advantages I offer to your ac- 
 ceptance; 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, 1 trust, repay the pangs oi 
 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 unavailing, 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 dreadful. Her father in agony , 
 and Oscar, her beloved brother, bewailing her with tears of sor- 
 row, were the images fancy presented 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 Belgrave’s 
 steward, and neither she nor her father possessed sufficient virtue 
 to make them reject the offers Belgrave made them on her account. 
 His attachment to her was violent, but transient, and in the 
 height of it he made her mistress of the mansion 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 inclina 
 tions, 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 con- 
 sequence be what it would, the vile wretch he had brought into 
 the house to insult her should never remain in it. She shall 
 tramp,’ cried she, ‘ though I follow her myself when he returns: 
 for such a little hussy shall never triumph over me.’ 
 
 The servants, ignorant and timorous, did not attempt to oppose 
 her. 
 
260 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 ‘Come, madam/ said she, suddenly seizing Amanda’s arm, and 
 pulling her from the pillow, ‘ have done with these languishing 
 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 inclination, 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 myself, you shall be remem- 
 bered.’ ‘ Oh, dear! but you shall not impose upon me so easily. 
 ^ Come, ’ continued she, turning to a maid, ‘ and help me to con- 
 duct this fine lady to the hall door. ’ ‘ Gracious Heaven ! ’ said 
 
 Amanda, who by this time was taken, or rather dragged from the 
 bed, ‘what 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 someone 
 to guide her to a place where she might procure a carriage.’ 
 
 ‘ Sucti 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 would 
 be the 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, hur- 
 ried her downstairs, 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 wan- 
 dering stars, which only served to render darkness visible. ‘ Have 
 mercy upon me. Heaven I ’ groaned Amanda, as she felt herself 
 sinking to the earth. 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 at the idea of her father’s 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 
 Amauda, whom he cherished in his bosom, as the darling of his 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 261 
 
 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 : ana while 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 grew 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 center of the wood, and that to quit it till morning would be 
 impossible. Yielding to this idea, or rather to her excessive weari- 
 ness, she was seeking for a place to sit down on, when a faint light 
 glimmered before her. She instantly darted through the path 
 from whence it gleamed, and found herself at the extremity of 
 the wood, and that the light proceeded from a small hamlet 
 contiguous to it. Thither she walked, as fast as her trembling 
 limbs would carry her. A profound 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 of 
 rewarding kindness.’ She shuddered at the idea of passing a 
 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 
 
262 
 
 THE CHILDSEX OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 of deep and pensive thought was visible in his countenance ; his 
 arms were folded on his breast, and his eyes were raised with a 
 tender melancholy to heaven, as if that heaven he contemplated 
 was now the abode of some kindred and lamented spirit. Sure 
 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 feeling. 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 Amanda, equally excited their 
 wonder and pity. It was many minutes ere she open >d her eyes, 
 and when she did, her senses were quite bewildered. ‘And my 
 father ! alas ! 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 
 Pelgrave, 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 destruc- 
 tion, and reproached Mortimer for aiding to overwhelm 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 sum- 
 moned to her aid, and a girl from one of the cottages procured 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 : he felt, from 
 mournful sympathy, for the father she so pathetically mentioned, 
 and invoked Heaven to restore her to him. 
 
 The afternoon of the third day, Amanda, after a long slumber, 
 awoke, perfectly restored to her senses ; it was many minutes, 
 however, after her awaking, ere she recollected all the circum- 
 stances 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 drawing back 
 a little of the curtain at the same time to observe her looks. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 263 
 
 Amanda inquired how long she had been ill. Eleanor m- 
 formed her, and added, ‘Heaven, my dear child, was kind to you 
 in throwing you in my master’s way, who delights in befriend- 
 ing 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 impatient 
 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 wish 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 ; and she flattered her- 
 self, 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 
 lather. 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 windows 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 clothes, while others 
 spread them upon hedges, and all beguiled their labor with sing- 
 ing, chatting, and laughing together. 
 
 ‘ Ah ! happy creatures !’ cried Amanda, ‘screened by your 
 native hills, you know nothing of the vices or miseries of the great 
 world : no snares lurk beneath the flowery paths you tread, to 
 wring your hearts with anguish, and nip the early blossoms of 
 your youth.’ 
 
 The old man appeared, and interrupted her meditations. 
 When he beheld the pale face of Anianda, beaming with angelic 
 sweetness ; when he saw her emaciated hand extended toward 
 him, while her soft voice uttered her grateful acknowledgments, 
 his emotions could not be suppressed : he pressed her hand bet- 
 ween his ; tears rolled down the furrows of his face, and he ex- 
 claimed, ‘ I thank the Almighty for reviving this sweet 
 flower.’ 
 
 A deep sob from Amanda proved how much he had affected 
 her feelings. 
 
264 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 He was alarmed, and hastily endeavored to compose his own, 
 out of regard to hers. 
 
 When a little composed, with grateful sweetness she continued 
 to thank him for his kindness. ‘Pity,’ said she, ‘is a sweet 
 emotion to excite ; yet from you, without esteem, it would be 
 humiliating ; and esteem I cannot flatter myself with obtaining, 
 till I have accounted for being a wretched wanderer,’ She then 
 gave a brief account of her father and the events of her life. 
 
 ‘ Ah ! my dear,’^cried the old man, as she flnished her narrative, 
 ‘you have reason, indeed, to regret your knowledge of Belgrave ; 
 but the sorrow he has occasioned you, I believe and trust, will be 
 but transient. That which he has given me, will be lasting as my 
 life. You look astonished. Alas ! but for him, I might now 
 have been blessed with a daughter as lovely and as amiable as 
 Fitzalan’s. I see you are too delicate to express the curiosity my 
 words have inspired, but I shall not hesitate to gratify it. My 
 relation will draw the tear of pity from your eye : but the sorrows 
 of others often reconcile us to our own.’ 
 
 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 vaiied landscape weep ; 
 
 But thou who own’st that earthy bed. 
 
 Ah I what will every dirge avail ? 
 
 —Collins’s Ode on Thomson. 
 
 Many years are now elapsed since I took up my residence 
 5 ji 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 retire- 
 ment, 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 promoting mine, of no pleasures 
 but what the hamlet could afford, and was one of the gayest, as 
 well as the loveliest, of its daughters. One fatal evening I suf- 
 fered her to go, with some of her young companions, to a rustic 
 ball, given by the parents of Belgrave 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 CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 265 
 
 The conduct of his father had set him an example of dissipation 
 which the volatility of his own disposition too readily inclined 
 him to follow. 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 attachment 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 
 impropriety 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. 
 
 Belgrave, from the assumed softness and delicacy of his man- 
 ners, had made an impression on her heart which 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 diffi- 
 cult 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 start- 
 ing 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 degree of veneration 
 for that virtue which, in so young a mind, could make such ex- 
 ertions against a passion disapproved of by a parent. The even- 
 ing 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 emo- 
 tions which, from her efforts to suppress them, were become al- 
 most too painful to support. The gloom of the wood was height- 
 ened by the shades of evening, and a solemn stillness reigned 
 around, well calculated to inspire 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 moment 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 honor- 
 ably 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 interest he had in her 
 
266 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 h6 
 feared my scrupulous delicacy would have opposed his intentions, 
 as contrary to parental authority. He promised Juliana to bring 
 her back to the liamlet 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, hastened back my child ; 
 and as I sat solitary and pensive in the apartment she so often had 
 enlivened, I suddenly beheld her at my feet, supported by Bel- 
 grave, 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 transports 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 promised 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 pleasant a re- 
 quest to my heart ! a month passed away in happiness, only al- 
 loyed by not hearing from his father. At the expiration of thac 
 time he declared he must depart, having received orders 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 pro- 
 ceeded 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 267 
 
 Juliana broken. My child, on hearing this, with firmness de» 
 dared that she was convinced any scheme his cruelty might de- 
 vise to separate them, the integrity, as well as the tenderness of 
 his son, would render abortive. 
 
 ‘Be not too confident of that, young lady,’ cried he, smiling 
 maliciously. He then proceeded to inform her that Belgrave, so 
 beloved, and in whose integrity she so much confided, had himself 
 authorized his intentions, being determined to avail himself of 
 non-age, to have the marriage broken. 
 
 Juliana could 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 revive, 
 that heart whispered me it was cuelty to wish she should ! Alas ! 
 too soon she did, to a keen perception of misery. The marriage 
 was dissolved, and health and happiness fied from her together ; 
 yet, from compassion to me, I saw she struggled to support the 
 burden of existence. Every remedy which had a chance of pro- 
 longing it I administered. But, alas ! sorrow was rooted in her 
 heart, and it was only its removal, which was impossible, that 
 could have effected her recovery. 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 ! How often have I then heard 
 her deep convulsive sobs, and reproached myself for selfishness at 
 the moment for wishing the continuance of her being, which was 
 only wishing the continuance of her misery ! 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 lieart ! — in vain, by soft endearments, she strove 
 to mitigate it. I averted my face and wept. She motioned to go 
 toward Woodhouse ; we had got within sight of the wood, when 
 «he complained of fatigue, and sat down. She had not been many 
 minutes in this situation, when she beheld, 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 con- 
 versing 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. 
 
268 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 ! No noisome weed is allowed to in- 
 termingle in the high grass which has overgrown her grave, at 
 the head of which some kind hand has planted a rose-tree, whose 
 roses 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 m and about the cottage 
 continually recall her to my view. The ornaments of tliis little 
 room were all the work of that hand, long since moldered into 
 dust. In that bed — he stopped, he groaned, and tears burst from 
 him — in that bed resumed he (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 destroy such 
 a hope ! Ye sons of error, hide the impious doubts within your 
 hearts ; nor with wanton barbarity endeavor to deprive the miser- 
 able 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. When we mourn 
 over the lost friends of our ten derest affections, oh ! how consola- 
 tory to think we shall be reunited 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 : ‘ O death ! where is thy sting ! O 
 grave ! where is thy victory ! ’ both lost in the certainty of again 
 beholding my child. 
 
 Amanda shed tears of soft compassion for the fate of Juliana, 
 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 anxiety 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 
 Welsh friend. She inquired, and heard that the young and ten- 
 der 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 
 
THE CHILDREN^ OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 269 
 
 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 recruit 
 ing her strength. Nothing could prevail on xier longer to defer 
 her journey. A chaise was accordingly procured, into which, at 
 the first dawn of day, she and Howel stepped, followed by the 
 blessings of the affectionate Eleanor, who, from her own ward- 
 robe, had supplied Amanda with a few necessaries to take along 
 with her. The churchyard 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. 
 
 ‘See,’ said Howel, suddenly taking Amanda’s hand, and letting 
 down the glass, ‘ 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 inexpressible sadness, but 
 the emotions it excited in her breast she endeavored to check, in 
 pity to the wretched father, who exclaimed, while 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 ex- 
 peditiously. 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 benevo- 
 lent 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 kindness would never be ob- 
 literated from her heart. He watched her till she entered the ship, 
 then returned to the inn, and immediately set off for the hamlet, 
 with a mind somewhat cheered by the consciousness of having 
 served a fellow-creature. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathinp: morn ; 
 
 The swallow twittering from its straw built shed ; 
 
 The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 
 No more shall rouse him from his lowly bed.— Grav. 
 
 The weakness which Amanda felt in consequence of her late ill- 
 ness, and the excessive sickness she always suffered at sea, made 
 her retire to bed immediately on entering the packet, where she 
 
210 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEF. 
 
 continued till the evening of the second day, when, about live 
 o’clock, she was landed at the marine hotel. She directly re- 
 quested 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 ordered a chaise might be hired, that 
 would immediately set out with her, as the nights were moon- 
 light ; but to her great joy the man speedily returned and in- 
 formed her he had secured a seat in the coach, which she thought 
 a much safer mode of traveling for her, than in a hired carriage 
 without any attendant. She took some slight refreshment, and 
 then proceeded to the mail hotel, from whence, at eleven o’clock, 
 she set out in company with an old gentleman, who very com- 
 posedly put on a large woolen 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 
 undisturl^d 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 procured 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 approaching interview. 
 Sometimes she feared he had already heard of her distress, and a 
 gloomy presage rose in her mind of the anguish she should find 
 him in, on that account. Yet again, when she reflected on the 
 fortitude he had hitherto displayed in his trials, under the present, 
 she trusted, he would not lose it ; and that he would not only sup- 
 port himself, but her, and bind up those wounds 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 tempta- 
 tion shall allure me from them — allure me into a world where my 
 peace and fame have already suffered such a wreck. Thus, alter- 
 nately fluctuating between hope and fear, Amanda pursued the 
 road to Castle Carberry ; but the latter sensation was predomi- 
 nant in her mind. 
 
 The uncommon gloominess of the evening added to her dejec- 
 tion — 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 to- 
 gether, and driving them under shelter from the coming storm. 
 The laborers were seen hastening to their respective homes, while 
 the plowboy, with a low and melancholy whistle, drove his 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 271 
 
 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 fever was subdued, and fatigue, joined to want of 
 rest, now brought it back with all its former 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- j 
 vants. On alighting from it, it returned to town, and she struck i 
 into the grove, and by a winding path reached the castle. Her 4 
 limbs trembled, and she knocked with an unsteady hand at the 
 door. The sound was awfully reverberated 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 apartments appropriated to 
 the domestics. She walked feebly to this, to try and gain admit- 
 tance, and found it open. She proceeded 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 footstep, 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 Aman- 
 da. ‘ Oh, holy Virgin ! ’ 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, Hhe poor dear captain has gone 
 through a sea of troubles since you went away.’ ‘ Is he ill ? ’ ex- 
 claimed 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 your- 
 self 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 John- 
 aten brought the captain a letter 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, iog 
 
272 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 a few days before. Well, it was always my custom, when he ^ot 
 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, and 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 daugh- 
 ter, 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 tidings, who was as 
 sorry as myself, for he loved the captain dearly, not only from his 
 being so mild a gentleman, but because he was a soldier, as he him- 
 self had been in his youth — and a soldier has always a love for one 
 of his cloth. And Johnaten 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 w’as to be Lord 
 Cherbury’s agent no longer. And being a good penman, he set- 
 tled all his own accounts and the servants in the course of the day, 
 and discharged them, giving them both characters, which I war- 
 rant will soon get them good places again. Well, he said he must 
 set off for England the next day. So everything 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 J ohnaten heard it, and went 
 up to him directly. Had he been without relief much longer, I 
 " think he would have died. Johnaten called me up. I had a choice 
 bottle of old brandy lying by me, so I soon blew up a fire, and heat- 
 ing 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(Sful 
 Heaven I ’ exclaimed the agonized and almost fainting Amanda 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 273 
 
 * support and strengthen me in this trying hour ! enable 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 sea 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 butter- 
 milk ; and by the time you have eaten it, Johnaten perhaps may 
 come back— he is gone to town 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 mj 
 father seems an age. Too long has he been neglected — too long 
 without a friend to soothe or attend him. Oh grant, gracious 
 Heaven ! grant,’ raising her clasped hands, ‘that I may not have 
 ret’:rned too late to be of use to him ! ’ 
 
 Kate pressed her to stay for Johnaten’s return ; but the agony 
 of suspense she endured till she saw her father, made her regard- 
 less of walking alone, though the hour was late, dark, and tempes- 
 tuous. 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 fiattered herself, on returning to her father, 
 she would receive relief, support, and consolation ; instead oi 
 which, heart-broken as she was, she now found she must give, oi 
 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 procuring 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 procured 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, particular!}^ as 
 he was indebted to Lord Cherbury ere he obtained it. She knew 
 of no being to whom she could apply in his behalf. Lord Cher- 
 bury was the only pei’son on whom he depended in his former mis- 
 fortunes 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 escaping ‘ want, worldly want, that 
 
274 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY* 
 
 hungry meager 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 hea\rily, 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 dis- 
 tress, 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 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 for repose. She feared her suddenly appear- 
 ing beforp her father, in his present weak state, might have a 
 dangerous effect upon him, and she stood before the cabin, con- 
 sidering how she should have her arrival broke to him. She at 
 last tapped gently at the door, and then retreated a 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 him. He 
 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 mother was spinning, and 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 275 
 
 was divided from tlie 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 mansion 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, not- 
 withstanding 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, indeed, the 
 captain has had a bad time of it,’ answered Mrs. 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 suffocating. 
 She arose, unlatched the door, and the keen, cold air a little re- 
 vived her. Tears burst forth, she indulged them freely, and they 
 lightened the load on her heart. She asked for a 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 un- 
 couth Mrs. Byrne, and consulted her on the best method of men- 
 tioning 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 accord- 
 ingly 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 rushlight, and a 
 declining lire. 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 chamber 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 be- 
 gan 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 
 
276 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 bitterness of her soul exclaimed, ‘ Alas ! alas ! I have returned 
 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 complied, 
 and in a moment Amanda heard him say, ‘ Thank Heaven ! my 
 darling is returned. ’ ‘You may now go in, miss, ’ said Mrs. Byrne, 
 coming from the room. Amanda went in. Her father was raised 
 jn the bed ; his arms were extended to receive her. She threw 
 Aerself into them. Language was denied them both, but tears, 
 even more expressive than words, evinced their feelings. Fitza- 
 Ian first recovered his voice. ‘ My prayer,’ said he, ‘ is granted. 
 Heaven has restored my child to smooth the pillow of 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 form, 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 unkindly.’ ‘Oh, most cruelly,’ 
 sobbed Amanda. ‘ Then, my girl, let the reflection of that world, 
 where innocence and virtue 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 accus- 
 tomed 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 have 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 wrap- 
 per, which she now put on, in a small closet, or rather shed, adjoin- 
 ing 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 211 
 
 which he m^de 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 hoped she would not be dis- 
 satisfied with sleeping in the closet.’ ‘ Ah ! my father,’ she cried, 
 
 ‘ can you ask your daughter such a question ? ’ She expressed 
 her fears of injuring 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 endeavor- 
 ing 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 duplicity, was not to be thought 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 
 Lord 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 dis- 
 order, which I am convinced the agitation of my mind brought 
 on, prevented my executing this intention. I wrote, however, 
 to his lordship, acquainting him with my resignation of his 
 agency, and transmitting my accounts and arrears. I sent a let- 
 ter to you at the same time, with a small remittance for your im- 
 mediate return, and then retired from the castle, 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 feel- 
 ings revolt. Poverty, to me, is more welcome than independence, 
 when purchased with the loss of esteem.’ 
 
 Amanda perceived her father knew nothing of her sufferings, 
 but supposed her return occasioned by his letter. She therefore 
 resolved, if possible, not to undeceive him, at leas^ till his health 
 was better. The night was far advanced, and her father, who saw 
 her ill, and almost sinking with fatigue, requested 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 symptoms, and enable her to be her 
 
•278 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 father’s nurse. Her rest, however, was far from bein^ comfortabV 
 It was broken by horrid dreams, in which she beheld the pale and 
 emaciated figure of her father suffering the most exquisite tor- 
 tures ; and 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 cir- 
 cumstance, his pain was more of the mental than the bodily kind. 
 She felt extremely ill. Her bones were sore from the violent mo- 
 tion of the carriage, and she fancied rest would do her good ; but 
 when, toward 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 excessive weakness. 
 She found him in bed, but awake. He welcomed her with a lan- 
 guid 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. He gazed on her with unutterable 
 tenderness. ‘ In Divine language,’ cried he, ‘ I may say : “Let 
 me see thy countenance ; let me hear thy voice ; but sweet is thy 
 voice, and thy countenance is comely, and my soul has pleasure in 
 gazing on it.” The kettle was already boiling. He had procured 
 a few necessaries for himself, such as tea things and glasses. 
 Amanda placed the tea-table by the bed side, and gave him his 
 breakfast. While receiving it from her, his eyes were raised to 
 Heaven, as if in thankful gratitude for the inestimable blessing 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 inclosed with loose stones 
 and blackberry bushes. The spring was already advanced. The 
 day was fine. The light and fieecy clouds were gradually dispers- 
 ing, and the sky, almost as far as the eye could reach, was of a 
 clear blue. The dusky green of the blackberry bushes was en- 
 livened by the pale purple 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 fluttered from spray to spray, with notes of gladness hailed 
 the genial season. 
 
 But neither the season nor its charms could now, as heretofore, 
 delight Amanda. She felt forlorn and disconsolate; deprived of 
 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 
 
THE CHILDR"^N OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 279 
 
 her blood. ‘ Alas ! ' she said to herself, ‘ at this season last 
 year, how different was iny situation from the present ! ’ Though 
 not in aflduence, neitiier was she then in absolute distress ; and 
 she had besides the comfortable hope of having her father’s diffi- 
 culties removed. Like Burns’ mountain daisy, she had then 
 cheerfully glinted forth amid the storm, because she thought 
 that storm would be soon overblown ; 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 some- 
 thing like a prophetic spirit. She had then said, as she leaned up- 
 on a little gate which looked into the domain : ‘ When these 
 woods again glow with vegetation ; when every shade resounds 
 with harmony, and the flowers and the blossoms spread their 
 foliage to the sun, ah ! where will Amanda be ! far distant, in 
 all probability, from these delightful shades ; perhaps deserted 
 and forgotten by their master.’ 
 
 She was indeed far distant from them ; deserted, and if not for 
 gotten, at least only remembered with contempt by their master — 
 remembered with contempt by Lord Mortimer. It was an idea ot 
 intolerable anguish. His name was no more repeated as a charm 
 to soothe her grief ; his idea increased her misery. 
 
 She 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 visible to her 
 than they had been the night before. He was reduced 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 per- 
 ceived 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 com- 
 passion 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 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 gushed from 
 Fitzalan ; he laid his hand, which appeared convulsed with agita- 
 tion, 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 ! Yes, merciful Power, I will, with grate- 
 ful joy, commit my children to thy care, for Thou art the friend 
 
280 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 toward him, and 
 inquired into all that had passed during her stay in London. She 
 related to him, without reserve, the various incidents she had met 
 with previous to her going to the marchioness’s ; 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 clandes- 
 tine union, 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 Cherbury 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 agita- 
 tion. 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 compli- 
 cated cruelty and deceit ; inhuman monsters ! 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 marchion 
 ess’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 acknowledg- 
 ments for his benevolence. She feared he inconvenienced him- 
 self by parting with the note ; but he assured her he could spare 
 it extremely well, as he had been an economist, aiid had still suffi- 
 cient money to support them a few months longer in their present 
 situation. 
 
 Amanda now inquired when he had heard from her brother. 
 She said he had not answered her last letter, and that his silence 
 had made her very uneasy. 
 
 ‘ Alas ! poor Oscar ! ’ exclaimed Fitzalan, ‘ he has not been ex- 
 empt from his portion of distress. ’ 
 
 He took a letter, as he spoke, from his pocket-book, and pre- 
 sented it to Amanda. She opened it with a trembling hand, and 
 read as follows : 
 
 My dear Father : Particular circumstaDces prevented my answering your last lei* 
 ter as soon as I could have wished ; and indeed, the intelligence I have to communicate 
 makes me almost averse to write at all. As my situation, however, must sooner or later 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 281 
 
 i>e Imown to you, I think it better to inform you of it myself, as I can, at the same time, 
 jeconcile 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 sol- 
 dier. I have long, indeed, had a powerful enemy to cope with, and, it will no doubt 
 surprise you to hear, that that enemy is Colonel Belgrave. An interference in the cause 
 of humanity provoked his insolence and malignity. Neither his words nor looks were 
 bearable, and I was irritated by them to send him a challenge. Had I reflected, the 
 probable consequences 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 myself alone 
 culpable throughout the whole affair. I gave him the opportunity his malicious heart 
 had long desired, of working my ruin. I was, by his order, put under an immediate 
 arrest. A court-martial was held and I was broke for disrespect to a superior officer ; 
 but it was Imagined by the whole corps I should have been restored. I, however, knew 
 too much of Belgrave’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 settled 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 consulting you relative to my conduct. 
 But I feared, if I did, your tenderness would interfere to prevent it, or lead you to dis- 
 tress yourself on my account : and to think that you and my dear sister were deprived 
 of the smallest comfort, 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 well. A parting visit I avoided, from the 
 certainty of its being painful to us both. I 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 ! 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, 1 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. 
 
 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. Sensible of the diffi- 
 culties Oscar must undergo, without friends or fortune, the tears 
 stole down her cheeks, and she almost dreaded she would 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 an- 
 guish. 
 
 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 fora 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 preceding part of the day 
 had done. 
 
 Johnaten was punctual in obeying Amanda’s commands, and 
 brought a physician the next morning to the cabin. Fitzalan 
 
282 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 shook his head, and assured her he would not deviate from 
 truth for the world. The captain was indeed in a ticklish situa- 
 tion, 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 ; admired 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 sorrows. She strug- 
 gled against her own illness, that no assiduous attention might be 
 wanting to him ; and would have sat up with him ^t night, had 
 he not positively insisted on her going to bed. 
 
 The medicines he was ordered he received from her hands, but 
 with a look which seemed to express his conviction of their in effi- 
 cacy. All, however, she wished him to do, he did, and often 
 raised his eyes to Heaven, as if to implore it to reward her care, 
 and yet a little longer spare him to this beloved child, whose hap- 
 piness so much depended on the prolongation of his existence. 
 
 Four days passed heavily away, and the assurances of the phy- 
 sician, 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 evening, to have 
 his bed made. He complained of no pain or sickness, but seemed 
 sinking beneath an easy and gradual decay. It was only at inter- 
 vals he could converse with his daughter. His conversation was 
 then calculated to strengthen her fortitude and resignation, and 
 prepare her for an approaching melancholy 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 oppor- 
 tunity that occurred for laying 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 Mortr 
 mer, as an essential measure for the restoration of her peace, the 
 preservation of her fame, and the removal of Lord Cnerbury's un 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 283 
 
 Just suspicions, ‘ who will tind at last,’ continued he, ‘how much 
 he wronged me, and may, perhaps, feel compunction when be- 
 yond 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 utterly aban- 
 doned her ; but the grief this desertion occasioned she believed she 
 should soon overcome was her father once restored to health, for 
 then she would have no time for useless regrets or retrospections^ 
 but be obliged to pass every hour in active exertions for his sup- 
 port 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 even- 
 ing for a few minutes ; when dressed, he complained of an oppres- 
 sion in his breathing, and desired to be supported to the air. 
 Amanda with difficulty led him to the window, which she opened, 
 and seated him by it, then knelt before him, and putting her arms 
 round his waist, fastened her eyes with anxious tenderness upon 
 his face. 
 
 The evening was serenely fine ; 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 ! the calmness which 
 attends its departure is such, I 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 ! Confiding in 
 thy mercy, I leave her with some degree of fortitude.’ 
 
 Amanda’s tears began to flow as he spoke. He raised his hand, 
 on which they fell, and, kissing them off, exclaimed: ‘Precious 
 drops ! My Amanda, weep not too bitterly for me — like a 
 weary traveler, think that rest, must now be acceptable to 
 me.’ 
 
 She interrupted him, and conjured him to change the discourse. 
 He shook his head mournfully, pressed her hands between 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 be- 
 lieved would be soon, he had his father’s blessing — ‘ the only 
 legacy,’ he cried, ‘ I can leave him, but one, I am confident, 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. Providence is just in all its 
 
284 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 dealings, and may yet render the lovely offspring of my Malvina 
 truly happy.’ 
 
 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 ly- 
 ing senseless on the pillow. She imagined he had fainted, and 
 screamed out for assistance. The woman of the cabin, her hus- 
 band, 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, but in vain — his spirit had forsaken its 
 tenement of clay forever. 
 
 Amanda, when 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 insensibility, 
 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 con- 
 fused — she felt as if waking from a disagreeable dream, but in a 
 few minutes a perfect recollection of what had passed returned. 
 She saw someone 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 speaking in a low, broken 
 voice. The good-natured nun jumped from her seat on hearing 
 her speak, and embraced her most tenderly. Her caresses affected 
 Amanda inexpressibly — she dropped her head 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 coun- 
 try, 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 in- 
 vite 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 determined to spend the remainder of the 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 285 
 
 nig’ht in her father’s apartment. 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 toward the door. Amanda was astonished, as she ap- 
 proached it, to hear a violent noise, like the mingled sounds of 
 laughing and 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 ter- 
 minate the suspense these words occasioned, but, how great was 
 hei’ horror, when she perceived a set of the meanest rustics assem- 
 bled 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 ! She shrieked with horror, and, 
 flinging herself into the arms of Sister Mary, conjured her to have 
 the room cleared. 
 
 Sister Mary, from being accustomed to such scenes, felt neither 
 horror nor disgust : she complied, however, with the request of 
 Amanda, and besought them to depart, saying : ‘ that Miss Fitz- 
 alan 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 preparations for spending a merry 
 night, and Mrs. Byrne said, ‘ if she had thought 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 re- 
 mained 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 everything proper pro- 
 vided. This was some comfort to Amanda, who felt herself at 
 present unequal to any exertion ; yet, notwithstanding her fatigue 
 and illness, she persevered in her resolution of sitting up with 
 laer father every night, dreading that, if she retired to bed, a scene 
 
286 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 of riot would again ensue, which, in her opinion, was sacrilege 
 to the dead. She went to bed every morning and was nursed 
 with the most tender attention by Sister Mary, who also insisted on 
 being her companion a. night. This, however, 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 melan- 
 choly contemplation of her beloved father’s remains. The even- 
 ing of the fourth day after his decease was fixed upon for his in- 
 terment; with streaming eyes and a breaking heart, Amanda be- 
 held him put into the cofifin, 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 respect- 
 able 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 had 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 prep- 
 arations for his removal ; but when she saw the coffin actually 
 raised to betaken 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 me unlade my breast, 
 
 Pour out the fullness of my soul before you. 
 
 Show every tender, every grateful thought. 
 
 This wondrous goodness stirs. But 'tis impossible. 
 
 And utterance all is vile; since I can only 
 
 Swear you reign here, but never tell how much.— Rowb. 
 
 Sister Mary recovered her with difficulty, but found it impos- 
 sible to remove her from the cabin till she was more composed. 
 In about two hours its inhabitants returned, and the car having 
 arrived which she had ordered to convey Amanda to St. Cath- 
 erine’s, she was placed upon it in a state scarcely animate, 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 her with the most tender 
 afPection and sensibility — a tenderness which roused Amanda from 
 the stupefaction into which she appeared sinking, and made her 
 weep violently. She felt relieved, from doing so, and, as some 
 return for the kindness she received, endeavored to appear bene- 
 fited by it. She, therefore, declined going to bed, but lay down 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 28 ? 
 
 upon a little matted couch inthe prioress’s room. The tea was set 
 close hy it. As she refused any otlier refreshment, she obtained 
 a cup by a promise of eating something with it. None of the 
 sisterhood — Sister Mary excepted — were admitted, and Amanda 
 felt this delicate attention and respect to her sorrows with grati- 
 tude. She arrived at the convent on the eve of their patron saint^ 
 which was always celebrated with solemnity. After tea, there- 
 fore, the prioress and Sister Mary were compelled to repair to the 
 chapel ; but she removed the reluctance they felt to leave her alone 
 by complaining of being drowsy. A pillow being laid under her 
 head by Sister Mary, soon after they quitted her she fell into a 
 profound slumber, in which she continued till awoke by distant 
 music, so soft, so clear, so harmonious that the delightful sensa- 
 tions it gave her she could only compare to those which she im- 
 agined a distressed and pensive soul would feel when, springing^ 
 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, sometimes 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 perceived a 
 figure standing near, which bore a strong resemblance to Lord 
 Mortimer. She was alarmed. She could not believe it was he. 
 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 he. A second glance convinced her. She might 
 have believed her eyes at first. Trembling and astonished, she 
 sunk upon a seat, exclaiming, ‘ Gracious heaven I 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. 
 
 ‘ Why,’ cried Amanda, unutterably affected by the emotions 
 he betrayed, ‘why, my lord, are you come hither?’ ‘ To try,’ Ke 
 replied, in a voice scarcely articulate, ‘ whether Miss Fitzalan will 
 yetconsider meas afriend.’ ‘ That, my lord,’ said she, ‘depends 
 upon circumstances; but while your lordship remains in your 
 present position, what they are I cannot explain.’ 
 
 Lord Mortimer instantly rose and seated himself beside her. 
 
 ‘Now, tell me,’ said he, ‘ what those circumstances are.’ ‘The 
 
288 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 in- 
 jurious 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 incumbent duty on me 
 to remove from his memory the obloquy on my account cast om 
 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 injunction 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 destruc- 
 tion, and involved me in every horror but that which proceeds 
 from conscious guilt. Oh, my lord ! the second circumstance I 
 allude to is, if you should hear m^ 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 inter- 
 pose 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 can- 
 not think me so, after the proofs you have seen to the contrary. 
 Ah, my lord ! the proofs were contrived by malice and treachery, 
 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 aban- 
 doned 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.* ‘ O Amanda ! ’ cried Lord Mortimer, who 
 had been walking backward and forward in an agitated manner 
 while she spoke, ‘ you would almost convince me against the evi- 
 dence 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, without one being interested about my wel- 
 fare; that my present asylum is bestowed by charity; and that, if 
 my life be prolonged, it must be spent in struggling against des- 
 titution, sorrow, and ill-fame, to procure a subsistence? ’ ‘No, no,’ 
 exclaimed Lord Mortimer, Hinging himself at her feet ‘ never shall 
 you suffer such misery. Were you even the being I was tempted 
 
THE CHiLDKEN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 28 ^^ 
 
 to think you some time ago, never would Mortimer suffer thv. 
 woman his heart doated on to feel such calamity. I do not, I ca : 
 not believe you would deceive me. There is an irresistible* elo- 
 quence in your words that convinces me you have been the vic- 
 tim of treachery, and I its dupe. I cannot give you a more con- 
 vincing proof 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. 
 She 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 asseveration of innocence, andtc 
 run every risk on her account, that by a union he -might shelter 
 her from the distress of her present situation. But while her sensL 
 bility was affected by his expressions, 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 that all further intimacy be ween them must be ter- 
 minated. Lord Mortimer ascribed the latter part of her speech to^ 
 the resentment she felt against him for ever entertaining doubte 
 of her worth. She desired him to rise, but he refused till he wa^ 
 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 different 
 situations in which I was found, which, if your lordship can spare 
 a little longer time, or deem it worth de voting to such a purpose, 
 as well as I am able I will account for being 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 Devonshire 
 after the death of her mother, of the manner in which they became 
 acquainted with Colonel Belgrave, of his having ingratiated him- 
 self into their friendship by pretending to be Oscar’s friend, and 
 then plunging them in distress when he found they not only re- 
 sisted but resented his villainous 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 unnecessary — all tended to inspire a belief that 
 
:290 
 
 Tillu CIIILDRIM OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 con- 
 versation 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 ! ’ said Amanda, ‘ when I hear of all the enemies I 
 liad, I almost wonder I escaped so well.’ She then resumed her 
 narrative, accounted for the dislike Mrs. Jennings had to her, and 
 explained the way in which she was entrapped into Colonel Bel- 
 grave’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 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 passed, ’ cried she. ‘ That which was given 
 to the living shall 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 in- 
 humanity extorted it,’ replied Amanda, ‘ but honor, rectitude, and 
 discretion ; without forfeiting those never can I violate it. There 
 is but one pvent 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, I might almost say impos- 
 sible, it is certain we shall never be united. Any further inter- 
 course 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 de- 
 parting spirit to know you think me innocent ; and, if I live, it 
 will support me through many difficulties, and often, perhaps, 
 
THE CHILDKEN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 291 
 
 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 scrupu- 
 lous 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 emo- 
 tions 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 composure, and^, 
 advancing to the prioress, apologized for his intrusion into her 
 apartment ; but said he had the honor of being a friend of Miss 
 Fitzalan’s, and could not resist his wish of inquiring in person after 
 her health as soon as he arrived in the country. 
 
 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 weep- 
 ing. 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 depredations which grief 
 and sickness had made upon her. Her pale and sallow complex- 
 ion, 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 sufiicient 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, had exhausted 
 her; after the various miseries she had gone through, how sooth- 
 ing to her soul would have been the attentions of Lord Mortimer, 
 how pleasing, how delightful, the asylum she should have found 
 in his arms ! 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 in- 
 deed,’ said Lord Mortimer ; ‘but tell me, my dear Miss Fitzalan 
 [taking her hand], if I have these good ladies' permission for call- 
 ing here to-morrow, will you, if able to rise, see me ? ’ ‘I cannot,, 
 indeed,’ said Amanda; ‘I have already declared this must 
 be our last interview, and I shall not retract what I have saidJ 
 
^92 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 respect at least, accuse you of dissimu- 
 lation, that of feigning a regard for me you never felt.’ ‘ Such 
 ^n accusation is now of little consequence,’ replied Amanda ; 
 ^ perhaps you had better think it just.’ ‘ Cruel, inexorable girl, to 
 refuse seeing me, to wish to have the anxiety which now preys 
 upon my heart prolonged ! ’ 
 
 ‘Young man,’ said the prioress, in an accent of displeasure, 
 ^seeing the tears streaming down Amanda’s cheeks, ‘respect her 
 sorrows.’ 
 
 ‘ Respect them, madam?’ repeated he. ‘ Oh, Heaven! I respect, 
 I venerate them ; but will you, my dear lady, when Miss Fitzalan 
 is able, prevail on her to communicate the particulars of our 
 acquaintance ; and will you tlien become my advocate, and 
 persuade her to receive my visits ? ’ ‘ Impossible, sir, ’ said the 
 
 prioress ; ‘ I shall never attempt to desire a larger share of confi- 
 dence from Miss Fitzalan than she desires to bestow upon me. 
 From my knowledge of her I am convinced her conduct will be 
 always guided by discretion ; she has greatly obliged me by choos- 
 ing this humble retreat for her residence ; she has put hei’self 
 under my protection, and I shall endeavor to fulfill that sacred 
 trust by securing her from any molestation.’ ‘ Well, madam,’ 
 «aid Lord Mortimer, ‘ I fiatter 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 indexible.’ 
 
 He took up his hat, he approached the door ; but when he 
 .^lanced at Amanda, he could not depart without speaking to her, 
 and again went to the couch. 
 
 He entreated her to compose and not exert herself ; he desired 
 her forgiveness for any warmth he had betrayed, and he whispered 
 to her that all his earthly happiness depended on her restoration 
 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 retired with, 
 if not 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 among 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 293 
 
 Amanda might want many things, or its inhabitants be distressed 
 to procure them for her ; he therefore pulled out a purse and pre- 
 senting 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. ‘ O Jesu Maria/ exclaimed 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 purse ? ’ 
 
 Lord Mortimer smiled. ‘ If not enough for the present erner- 
 gencies,’ said he, ‘it shall soon be replenished.’ 
 
 Sister Mary sat down on a tombstone, and very deliberately 
 counted the money into her lap. ‘ Oh ! mercy,’ said she. ‘ I 
 never saw many guineas together before in all my life ! ’ 
 
 Again Lord Mortimer smiled, and was retiring ; but again stop- 
 ping him, she returned the gold into the purse, and declared^ 
 ‘ she neither would nor durst keep it. ’ 
 
 Lord Mortimer was provoked at this declaration, and without 
 replying to it walked on. She ran nimbly after him, and drop- 
 ping 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 for 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 XXXY. 
 
 With dirges due, and sad array. 
 
 Slow through the church-way path I saw him home. 
 
 It will now be necessary to account for the sudden appearance 
 of Lord Mortimer at the convent. Our reader may recollect that 
 we left him in London, in the deepest affliction for the supposed 
 perfidy of Amanda— an affliction which knew no diminution front 
 time; neither the tenderness of his aunt, Lady Martha Dormer,, 
 nor the kind consideration his father showed for him, who, for the 
 present, ceasei 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 forsaken Colonel Belgrave. To know 
 whether she had done so, or whether she could be prevailed upon to 
 
!294 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 ^ive him up, he believed, 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 Wales 
 •would be of service to him. His lordship agreed in thinking it 
 might, and, secretly delighted that all danger relative to Amanda 
 was over, gladly concurred in whatever could please his son, flat- 
 tering himself that, on his return to London, he would no longer 
 raise any objections to an alliance with the fair Scotch heiress. 
 
 Lord Mortimer traveled with as much expedition to Holyhead 
 as if certain that perfect happiness, not a small alleviation of 
 misery, would be the recompense of his journey. He concealed 
 from his aunt the real motives which actuated him to it, blushing, 
 «even to himself, at the weakness which he still felt relative to 
 Amanda. When he crossed the water he again set off post, at- 
 tended 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 car- 
 rage stopped to let them pass, and in the last of the group he per- 
 ceived Johnaten, who, at the same moment, recognized him. 
 Johnaten, with much surprise in his countenance, 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 ! ’ repeated Lord Mortimer, with a face 
 as pale as death, and a faltering voice, while his heart sunk with- 
 in him at the idea that his father was, in some degree, accessory 
 to the fatal event ; 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, wip- 
 ing away a tear, ‘he has not left a better or a braver man 
 behind him. Poor gentleman, the world pressed hard upon him.’ 
 ‘ Had he no tender friend about him ? ’ asked Lord Mor- 
 timer. ‘ Were neither of his children with him ? ’ ‘ Oh ! yes, my 
 lord, poor Miss Amanda.’ ‘She was with him !’ 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 
 liis emotions, and waved his hand to Johnaten to depart; but 
 Johnaten either did not, or would not, understand the motion^ 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 295 
 
 and he was obliged, in broken accents, to say, ‘ he would no 
 longer detain him.’ 
 
 The return of Amanda was to him a conviction that she had 
 seen her error in its true light. He pictured to himself the affect- 
 ing 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 bewailing the loss of her 
 father, and her offenses ; endeavoring, by prayers, by tears, by 
 sighs, to obliterate them in the sight of 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 be- 
 lieving this the only peaceful asylum she could find, to be freed 
 from the shafts of contempt and malice of the world. He trem- 
 bled 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, surely, 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 
 John a ten. 
 
 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 field, which brought 
 him to the side of the churchyard where Fitzalan was to be in- 
 terred. 
 
 He reached 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, com- 
 mendation, and he saw Johnateii receiving the hat and sword 
 (which, as military trophies, he had laid upon the coffin), with a 
 ffood of tears. 
 
 When the churchyard 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 deepest 
 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 situation. 
 The fond hopes of his heart, the gay expectations of his youth, 
 
296 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 and the hilarity of his soul, were blasted, never, he feared, to re» 
 vive. 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 deceased. 
 
 ‘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 to have lightened thy grief, or cheered thy closing hours- 
 But those who were dearer to thee than existence I may yet serve, 
 and thus make the only atonement now in my power for the in- 
 justice, 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 toward Castle Carberry. Here Johnaten was ar- 
 rived before him, and had already a large fire lighted in the 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 
 Mortimer could have entered, as not only itself but everj^thing 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 as- 
 sisting him. He soon checked it, however; but when he again 
 looked around the room, and beheld it ornamented with works 
 done by Amanda, he could scarcely prevent another burst of grief 
 as violent as the first. 
 
 He now learned Amanda’s residence ; and so great was his im- 
 patience to see her that, apprehensive the convent would soon be 
 closed, he set off, fatigued as he was, without recruiting 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 per- 
 son who appeared to him was a servant girl. Prom 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 ’ — for having only entered the room to 
 leave the kettle in it, at a time when Amanda was composed, she 
 imagined she was very 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 297 
 
 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 disinclination 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 Fitz- 
 alan, or to appear stupid to Lord Mortimer, she returned to him, 
 pretending she had delivered his message, and that he might go 
 up. She showed him the door, and when he entered he imputed 
 the silence of Amanda, and her not moving, 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 she had fainted; 
 but her easy respiration soon convinced him that this was a mis- 
 take, and he immediately concluded that the girl had deceived him. 
 He leaned over her till she began to stir, and then retreated be- 
 hind 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 his 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 unbated 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 
 weak state prevented his betraying any resentment, and he 
 flattered 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 
 
298 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 reso- 
 lution she had recently avowed to him. He then intended set- 
 ting off for London, and sparing neither time, trouble, nor ex- 
 pense, to obtain from the inferior agents in the plot laid against 
 her, a full avowal of the 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 confirma- 
 tion of what Amanda asserted, as his proposal to marry her im- 
 mediately demonstrated ; it was to cover with confusion those 
 who had meditated her 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 re- 
 peated 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. Catherine’s, as both Miss Fitzalan 
 and the prioress would resent such conduct exceedingly ; and 
 that, if he wanted to inquire after the health of the former, he 
 might easily send a servant, and it would be much better done 
 than to come frisking over there every moment. 
 
 Lord Mortimer was seriously displeased with this unceremoni- 
 ous 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 keeping her from conversa- 
 tion, she might have as much as she pleased with anyone. In 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 299 
 
 deed, I believe the poor 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 ; 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 prioress a long story about you and herself, by which I 
 find it was her father’s desire she should liave 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, in- 
 deed, 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 persuade Miss 
 Fitzalan to permit his visits, but she was inflexible ; he then en- 
 treated to know if Amanda was so ill as to be unable to rise. She 
 assured him she was, and, as some little consolation 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 Captain 
 Fitzalan had prevailed on his daughter to make a solemn renunci- 
 ation of him. If this was the case, he knew nothing could pre- 
 vail on her to break her promise. He was half distracted with 
 doubt and anxiety, which were scarcely supportable when he re- 
 flected 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 insta- 
 bility of earthly happiness, and the close connection there has 
 ever been between pleasure and pain. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Thy presence only ’tis can make me blest, 
 
 Heal my unquiet mind, and tune my soul. — O twat. 
 
 The fatigue, distress, and agitation of Amanda could no longer 
 be struggled with ; she sunk beneath their violence, and for a week 
 was confined to her bed by the fever which had seized her in Eng- 
 land, and ever since lurked in her veins. The whole sisterhood, 
 who took it in turn to attend her, vied with each other in kind- 
 ness and care to the poor invalid. Their efforts for her recovery 
 were aided by a skillful 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 indis' 
 posed, he had come in hopes he might be ot service to the daugh 
 
300 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 ter 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 
 hinself, by the excellent advice he had procured, her recovery 
 would be much expedited, and, of course, his suspense at least ter- 
 minated. 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 inflnite 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 different 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 Fitzalan; flatters himself she will 
 allow him personally to express the sincere happiness her restoration 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 experienced on her account, and the anxiety he feels, and must con- 
 tinue to feel, till some expressions in the last interview are explained. 
 
 Castle Carberry, \0th May. 
 
 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 let- 
 ter ; they were those she had dropped relative to her promise to her 
 father, and from the impetuous and tender feelings of Lord Mor- 
 timer 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 en- 
 treated his lordship would not take the trouble of continuing his 
 inquiries about her health, or to send her any more written mes- 
 sages, as she was unable to answer them. The prioress, who was 
 present when she received the letter, commended her exceed- 
 ingly for the fortitude and discretion she had manifested. 
 Amanda had deemed it necessary to inform her, after the conver- 
 sation 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 CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 301 
 
 The next morning’ the doctor called as usual. He told Amanda 
 he had brought her an entertaining book, for no such thing 
 could be procured at St. Catherine’s, and, as she had expressed 
 her regret at this, from the time she had been able to read he had 
 supplied her from his library, which 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 something 
 worthy of her particular attention. Amanda was alone, and im- 
 mediately 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 un- 
 opened 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 sprung in my soul, at the prospect of being about to re- 
 ceive a reward for my sufferings. Am I ever to be involved in doubts and perplexity 
 on your account ? Am I ever to see difficulty succeeded by difficulty, and hope by dis- 
 appointment ? 
 
 You must be sensible of the anxiety I shall feel until your ambiguous expressions 
 are fully explained, and yet you refuse this explanation ! 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 sacri- 
 fice our real happiness to chimerical ideas of them. Surely I shall not be too presumptu- 
 ous 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 ! do not, my dear and too scrupulous girl, think a moment longer of persevering 
 in a resolution so prejudicial to your welfare. Your situation requires particular pro- 
 tection; young, innocent, and beautiful ; already the object of licentious pursuits; your 
 nearest relations your greatest enemies ; your brother, from his unsettled line of life, un- 
 able to be near you. Oh I my Amanda, from such a situation what evils may accrue f 
 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 fades away, particularly when the motives which led to such a promise are con- 
 sidered. 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 the con- 
 sequences 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 loss. 
 
 Happiness, my dear Amanda, is in long arrears with us. She is now ready to make 
 up for past deficiencies, if it is not our own fault ; let us not frighten her from per- 
 forming 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 you read 
 this, a summons to St. Catherine’s to receive the ratification of my hopes. In every- 
 thing 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. 
 
 O 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 for- 
 tune • already rich in every virtue, I shalb in obtaining you, obtain a treasure which the 
 
302 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 wealthiest, the proudest, and the vainest of the sons of men ma / envy me the posee» 
 Sion of, and which the good, the sensible, and elegant must esteem the kindest gift iu” 
 diligent heaven couid bestow on me. Banish all uneasy doubts and scrupi s, my 
 Amanda, from your mind, nor think a promise, which was demanded without reflect- 
 ing on the consequences that must attend it, can be binding. The ingenuous soul of 
 your father would have canceled it in a moment, had those consequences been repre- 
 sented to him ; and now, when our own reason convinces us of them, I make no doubt if 
 departed souls are permitted to view the transactions of this world, his spirit would be- 
 hold our union with approbation. Yes, my Amanda, I repeat your father’s api)roving 
 spirit will smile upon an act which gives to his lovely and beloved orphan a faithful 
 friend and steady protector, in her adoring 
 
 Mortimer. 
 
 Castle Carberry, llth May . 
 
 This letter deeply affected the sensibility, but could not shake 
 the resolution of Amanda. She would not have answered it, as 
 she considered any correspondence an infringement on the 
 promise she had given her father to decline any further intimacy 
 with him ; but from the warmth and agitation displayed in his 
 letter, it was evident to her that, if he did not receive an immedi- 
 ate answer to it, he would come to St. Catherine’s and insist on 
 seeing her ; and she felt assured that she could much better de- 
 liver her sentiments upon paper than to him ; she accordingly 
 wrote as follows : 
 
 TO LORD MORTIMER. 
 
 Mt Lord : You cannot change my resolution ; surely, when I solemnly declare to 
 you it is unalterable, you will spare me any f iirth' r 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 approacliing, 
 and he, in charity for all mankind, forgave those who had wounded him by unjust re- 
 proach and accusation ; it was a proper respect for his own character, and not resent- 
 ment, which influenced his conduct, as he was convinced if I consented to an alliance 
 with you. Lord Cherbury would be confirmed in all the suspicions he entertained of bis 
 having entangled you with me, and consequently load his memory with contempt. 
 Tenderness, also, for me actuated him ; he was acquainted with the proud heart of 
 Lord Cherbury, and knew that if, 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 ad- 
 dresses ; 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, if 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 ; my heart disavows the jus- * 
 tice of such accusations, and is but too sensible of your tenderness and generosity. Yes, 
 my lord, I will confess that no pangs can be more pungent than those which 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-ap probation is perhaps the only sunshine 
 of the soul which will brighten my future dsys. 
 
 Never, my lord, should I enjoy this, if my promise to my father was violated. Thei-e 
 is but one circumstance which could set it aside, that is, having a fortune that even 
 liOrd Cherbury might deem equivalent to your own to bring you ; for then n.y father 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 303 
 
 has often said he would approve our union ; but this is among the improbabilities 
 of this life, and we must endeavor to reconcile ourselves to the destiny which separates 
 us. 
 
 I hope your lordship will not attempt to see me again ; you must be sensible that 
 your visits would be highly injurious to me. Even the holy and solitary asylum which 
 I have found would not protect me from the malice which has already been so busy 
 with my peace and fame. Alas! I now need the utmost vigilance — deprived as I am 
 of those on whom I had claim of protection, it behooves me to exert the utmost circum- 
 spection in my conduct ; he in whom I expected to have found a guardian, Oscar, my 
 dear, unfortunate 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 I had I been 
 the only sufferer I 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 unexpectedly raised her friends at the moment she deemed her- 
 self deprived of all earthly comfort, may to him have been equally merciful. 1 have 
 trespassed a long time upon your lordship’s attention, but I wished to be explicit, to 
 avoid the necessity of any further correspondence between us. You now know’ my re- 
 solves ; you also know my feelings; in pity to them spare me any further confiicts. 
 May the tranquil happiness you so truly deserve soon be yours ! Do not, my lord, be- 
 cause disappointed in one wish, lose your sense of the many valuable blessings witk 
 which you are surrounded, in fulfilling the claims which your friends, your country^ 
 have upon you ; show how truly you merit those blessings, and banish all useless re- 
 grets from your heart. Adieu, my lord! suffer no uneasiness on my account. If 
 Heaven prolongs my life, I have no doubt but I shall find a little comfortable shelter 
 from the world, w'here, conscious I have acted according to my principles of right, 
 I shall enjoy the serenity which ever atterfds self-approbation— a serenity which no 
 changes or chances in this life will, I trust, ever wrest from 
 
 Amanda Fitzalan. 
 
 St. Catherine’s, May V^th, 
 
 She dispatched this by an old man who was employed in the 
 garden at St. Catherine’s ; but her spirits were so much affected 
 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 be- 
 lieved the hurry and bustle of the world, in which he must be en- 
 gaged, would soon eradicate it. A transfer of his affections, to 
 one equal to himself in rank and fortune, was a probable events 
 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 thert 
 began to accuse herself of inconsistency. She had often thought, 
 if Lord Mortimer was restored to happiness, she should feel more 
 tranquil. And now, when the means of affecting this restoration 
 occurred, she trembled and lamented as if it would increase her 
 misery. ‘ I am selfish,’ said she to herself, ‘ in desiring the 
 prolongation of an affection which must ever be hopeless. I am 
 weak in regretting the probability of its transfer, as I can never 
 return it.’ 
 
 To conquer those feelings, she found she must banish Lord 
 Mortimer from her thoughts. Except she succeeded in some de- 
 gree in this, she felt she never should be able to exert the forth 
 
304 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 tude 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 rising 
 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. He cannot, 
 after what I have declared, suppose my resolution to be shaken. 
 He writes to assure me of his perfect acquiescence in it.’ Sister 
 Mary left her at the instant her deliberations ended by opening 
 the letter. 
 
 TO MISS FITZALAN. 
 
 Inexorable Amanda I but J will spare both you and myself the pain of farther im- 
 portunity. All I now request is that, for three months longer at least, you will con» 
 tinue 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-men- 
 tioned period be elapsed, I trust I shall be able satisfactorily to account for such a 
 request. I am quitting Oastle Carberry immediately. I shall lea^re it with a degree of 
 tranquillity that would perhaps surprise you, after what has so lately passed, if in this 
 one instance you will oblige your ever faithful Mortimer. 
 
 This laconic letter astonished Amanda. By its style it was evi- 
 dent Lord Mortimer had recovered his cheerfulness — recovered 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 mis- 
 lead 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 disap- 
 pointment. 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 prudence she had 
 ^ marked out for herself to take, might plunge her into difiiculties 
 " from which she would find it impossible to extricate herself. 
 With an unsteady hand she returned the following answer : 
 
 TO LORD MORTIMER. 
 
 Mt Lord ; I cannot comply with your request. You may, if you please, repeat in- 
 exorable Amanda. I had rather incur the imputation 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 irections where you may find me. 
 
 The obstacles which 1. ve rendered our separation necessary are, I am convinced, 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 305 
 
 beyond yonr lordship’s power to conquer. Except they were removed, any farther 
 interviews between ns would bo 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 use- 
 less regrets, and those exertions I knew would be attended with success ; 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 VHth . 
 
 Scarcely had she sealed this letter when she was called to din- 
 ner ; 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 de- 
 parture, the old gardener returned from Castle Carberry, where 
 he had been delivering her letter. After informing her he had 
 put it safely into his lordship’s hands, he added, with a look 
 which seemed to indicate a fear lest she should be distressed, 'that 
 he had received neither letter nor message from him, though ho 
 waited a long time in expectation of receiving either one or the 
 other ; but he supposed, he said, his lordship was in too great a 
 hurry just then to give any answer, as a chaise and four was 
 waiting to carry him 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 relinquish,, 
 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 knew 
 how dangerous and bewitching a creature man is, and how difli- 
 cult 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 strengthening her 
 resolution, she hoped success would crown their endeavors. 
 
 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 Mortimers servant, who rode off the moment 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 erar 
 
S06 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 den, to give Amanda an opportunity of examining the contents. 
 
 She was surprised, on breaking the seal, to perceive a very hand- 
 some pocketbook 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 have the laudable pride you profess, you will not hesitate to use the con- 
 tents of the pocketbook, as the only meins of avoiding a weight of obligations from 
 strangers. Though discarded as a lover, surely I may be esteemed as a friend, and with 
 such a title I will be contented all I can lay claim to a tenderer one. You start at this 
 last expression, and I have no doubt you will call me a romantic visionary for enter- 
 taining hopts which you have so positively assured me can never be realized ; 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 monster who has, to use your emphatical expression, been such 
 sa 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 officers 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 much 
 Nearer being, you may be convinced you shall soon hear of. Adieu, my Amanda; I can- 
 not say, like Hamlet, ‘ Go, get you to a nunnery but I can say, ‘ Stay there, I charge 
 you.’ Seriously, I could wash, except you find your present situation very unpleasant 
 and inconvenient, not to change it for a short time. I think, 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 see you, a s arch after you would be truly insupportable. You have al- 
 Teady refused to inform me of your determination relative to this matter; surely, I may 
 venture to request it may be as I wish, when I assure you that, except I can see you 
 in 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 ! ’ said Amanda to herself, ‘ what can he 
 mean ? What scheme can he have in agitation which will re- 
 move the obstacles to our union ? He here seems to speak of a 
 certainty of success. Oh, grant, merciful Power ! ’ she con- 
 tinued, 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, reading over 
 the letter, ‘ of requiring something more powerful than my as- 
 surance to convince him of tlie fallacy of his hopes. Surely, 
 Lord Mortimer would not be so cruel as to raise expectations 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 and most generous of men, who for poor Amanda en- 
 counters 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 intelli- 
 gence 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 pocketbook. It con 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 307 
 
 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 heart, she knew 
 she should severely wound it by returning his present ; she 
 therefore resolved on keeping it, making a kind of compromise 
 with her feelings about the matter, by determining that, ex- 
 cept entitled to receive them, she would never more accept 
 favors of this nature from his lordship. The present one, indeed,, 
 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 mistress of 
 but twenty guineas in the whole world, and more than half of 
 this she considered as already due to the benevolent Sisters of 
 St. Catherine s, who were ill able to afford any additional 
 expense. 
 
 She had resolved to force them to accept, what indeed she 
 deemed a poor return for their kindness to her, and she then in- 
 tended 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 exer- 
 tions for her livelihood. But she shuddered at the idea of leaving 
 St. Catherine’s and residing among a set of boors. She felt sen- 
 sations something similar to those we may suppose a person would 
 feel who was about being committed to a tempestuous ocean with- 
 out any means of security. 
 
 Lord Mortimer had now prevented the necessity which had 
 prompted her to think of a removal, and she now resolved to re- 
 side, at least for the time he had mentioned, in the convent, dur- 
 ing which she supposed her uncertainties relative to him would 
 be over, and that 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 op- 
 pressed it. 
 
 She at length recollected the prioress had retired into the gar- 
 den from complaisance to her, and yet continued in it, waiting, 
 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 
 
SOS 
 
 TH^ CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 liable all human ones are to be disappointed) she ever considered 
 a piece of folly. 
 
 She found the prioress and Sister Mary seated under a broken 
 and ivy -covered arch. ‘Jesu ! my dear,’ said the latter, ‘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 the 
 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 
 d.elicate 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 pleases you, and my 
 heart sympathizes as much in your h^piness as in your grief.’ 
 
 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 entered 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 as 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 mentioned.’ She also said, ‘she 
 detested all kinds of stratagem, and was really displeased with him 
 for practicing one upon her. ’ ‘ In a good cause, ’ he said, ‘ he should 
 
 never hesitate in using one. Lord Mortimer was the finest young 
 fellow he had ever seen, and had wen 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 ad- 
 mission 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 he 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 hearing them, no good 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 309 
 
 Christian ever prayed more devoutly for another than I prayed 
 for your recovery, that all your sorrows, like a novel, might ter- 
 minate 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 al- 
 ways do so for my friends. I yet expect to see you settle at Castle 
 Carberry, and to be appointed myself physician general to your 
 ladyship’s household.’ The mention of an event yet so uncertain 
 greatly agitated Amanda ; she blushed and turned pale alternately, 
 and convinced her good-natured but loquacious friend, he 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 him 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 up- 
 on Lord Mortimer’s heart was in some degree alleviated, 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 arrangement 
 of her affairs. She presented thirty guineas to the sisterhood, 
 which, with much difficulty, she forced them to accept, though, in 
 reality, it was much required by them. 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 re- 
 warded 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 sum they thought extremely ample, consider- 
 ing 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 immedi- 
 ately want, nailed up in a large chest, so that, on a short notice, they 
 might be removed. Her harp and guitar she had, in her 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 neces- 
 sity to part with them. She had a variety of materials for paint- 
 ing and working, and proposed employing herself in executing 
 
310 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 presnt 
 sunshine, lest another storm should arise which she should not be 
 so well able to struggle against. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIL 
 
 In struggling with misfortunes 
 Lies the proof of virtue— Shakspbre. 
 
 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 consciousness 
 of having always, to the best of her abilities, performed the duties 
 imposed upon her and supported her misfortunes with placid 
 resignation. She loved to think on her father ; for, amid her sighs 
 for his loss, were mingled the delightful 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 approbation at beholding her undeviating in the 
 path he had marked out for her to take. The calm derived from 
 such meditations she considered as a recompense for many sor- 
 rows ; it was such, indeed, as nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, 
 and what the good must experience, though ‘ amid the wreck of 
 matter and the crush of worlds.’ 
 
 She tried to prevent her thoughts from wandering to Lord Morti- 
 mer, 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 not teased with imperti- 
 nent or unmeaning ceremony, but, perfect mistress of her own time 
 and actions, read, worked, and walked, as most agreeable to her- 
 :^lf. 
 
 Sbe did not extend her walks beyond the convent, as the scenes 
 around it would awaken remembrances she had not sufficient for- 
 titude 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 accompanedby a nun, but 
 much oftener alone. 
 
 A fortnight had elapsed in this maimer since Lord Mortimer’s 
 departure, when one morning, a carriage was heard driving across 
 the common and stopping at the outer gate of St. Catherine’s. 
 
 Amanda, who was sitting at work in the parlor with the prior- 
 ess, started in a universal trepidation at the sound. It may be 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABREY. 
 
 3:1 
 
 easily imagined the idea of Lord Mortimer was uppermost in he? 
 thoughts. Tlie door opened in a few minutes, and, to her great 
 astonishment, Mrs. Kilcorban and her two daughter’s made their 
 appearance. 
 
 Agitation and surprise prevented Amanda from speaking ; she 
 courtesied, and motioned them to be seated. The young ladies 
 saluted her with an icy civility, and the mother ti’eated 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, such 
 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 I heard of your father’s death and your dis- 
 tress, I began to cast about in my brains for 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 we have no com- 
 pany, the tutoress always sits at the table, and gets, besides this, 
 Ihe best of treatment in every respect.’ 
 
 A blush of indignation had gradually conquered Amanda’s pale- 
 ness during Mrs. Kilcorban’s long and eloquent speech. ‘ Your 
 intentions may be friendly, madam,’ cried she, ‘but I must de- 
 cline your proposal.’ ‘ Bless me, and why must you decline it ? 
 perhaps you think yourself not qualified to instruct ; 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 in the salary, if I am forced to 
 get masters to help you in learning the girls.’ ‘ Miss Fitzalan, 
 madam,’ exclaimed the prioress, who had hitherto continued si- 
 lent, ‘never got credit for accomplishments which she did not 
 possess ; her modesty has rather obscured than blazoned forth 
 her perfections ; she does not, therefore, madam, decline your 
 
312 
 
 THE OHILDEEN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 offer from a consciousness of inability to undertake the office ot 
 an instructor, but from a conviction she never could support im- 
 pertinence and folly; should her situation ever require her to ex- 
 ert 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 pay her 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 lordship is 
 a friend to Captain Fitzalan’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 Grey stock. 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 now- 
 adays ; but I dare say you would have refused this offer.’ ‘I 
 certainly should, madam,’ said Amanda ; ‘it must be strong ne- 
 cessity which compels me to part with my beloved father’s presents.* 
 ‘ Well, well, child, I wish this pride of thine may not yet be hum- 
 bled.’ So saying, she flounced out of the room, followed by 
 her daughters, who, under an affectation of contejnpt, 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 considered the lady and her daughters as the most insignifi- 
 cant of beings, soon recovered from the discomposure their visit 
 had occasioned. In the course of the evening a letter was de- 
 livered her by the servant, who said the messenger who brought 
 it waited for an answer. Amanda, in a universal trepidation, 
 broke the seal ; but, instead of Lord Mortimer’s as she expected, 
 a hand, to her entirely new, struck her view : 
 
 TO MISS FITZALAN. 
 
 Mt Bear Creature : I think I never wrs so diverted in my life as at the account 
 my mother and sisters gave of the reception they met with from yen to-day at St. Cath- 
 erine’s. I vow to God it was excellent. Nor cam I help still wondering at their ab- 
 surdity, 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 much better a purpose ! 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 handsome allow* 
 4Uice, and not only make you, but declat t you to be, the grand Sultana of my affec 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 313 
 
 4iona; 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 fro^ obscurity, to the brilliant scene you were formed to ornament. Adieu, my 
 dear. Believe me, your devoted, 
 
 B. Kilcorban. 
 
 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 compose her- 
 self to acquaint the prioress with the cause of her agitation. It 
 was then agreed that the letter should be returned with the fol- 
 lowing lines written on it : 
 
 The author of this effusion of ignorance and impertinence has already inspired all 
 the contempt he merits. Should he repeat his insolence, something even more morti- 
 lying than contempt— chastisement — must ensue. 
 
 That a repetition of this insult would occur, she did not be- 
 lieve. 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 to pretend to be so 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 mention before 
 in our pages), to the convent. He was not the officiating priest ; 
 but notwithstanding this, paid many visits to the sisterhood, 
 with whom he was a great favorite ; he had been much con- 
 cerned 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 you 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 cozy about you ? ’ ‘ Why,’ said Amanda, 
 
 ‘ though I do not consider this a dismal solitude, yet, to be sure, 
 I should have no objection to a 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 out 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 jesting, but now 
 found him serious. 
 
 ‘ Ah, faith, my dear creature,’ cried he, continuing his dis- 
 course with a look of the most perfect satisfaction, ‘ I have an of 
 fer to make you, which, I believe, wou;^d make many girls jump 
 
314 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 ouh of their skins with joy to hear. You remember the O’Flan* 
 naghans, I am sure, where you took tea last summer. Well, the 
 oldest of the sons (as honest a lad as ever broke bread j cast a 
 cheep’s eye upon you then. But what with your going from the 
 country, and some other matters, he thought thei^e was no use. 
 then in revealing his flame ; but now, when you are come plump 
 m his way again, faith, he plucked up his courage, and told his^ 
 tather all about it. Old Flannaghan is a good-natured sowl, and 
 is very willing the match should take place. They have every- 
 thing snug about them. The old man will give 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, whert 
 this was started, 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 speaking, ta 
 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 her being of- 
 
 fended at his pretending to answer so freely for her in matters so 
 important as religion ; but to prove how presumptuous he was in 
 everything he said about her, she must assure him his embassy 
 to her was equally fruitless and disagreeable ; and that if Mr. 
 O’Flan naghan 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 waddled 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 contem- 
 plated in idea with delight. 
 
 It was some time ere Amanda recovered from the discomposure 
 into which the impertinence of the Kilcorbans and the priest had 
 thrown her. From what she suffered in consequence of it, she was 
 forcibly convinced how ill qualified she was to struggle with a 
 world where she would be continually liable to such shocks. She 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 315 
 
 iiad yet a hope of escaping them —a liope of being guarded by the 
 tutelary care of Lord Mortimer, and of being one of the happiest 
 of her sex. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 Lo! I am here to answer to your vows, 
 
 And be the meeting fortunate! I come 
 
 With joyful tidings; we shall part no more.— A kensidb. 
 
 But a shock more severe than those she had lately experienced 
 was yet in store for our hapless heroine. About a fortnight after 
 the visit of tlie Kilcorbans and the priest, as she was rambling 
 one evening, according to custom, among the solitary ruins of St. 
 Catherine’s, indulging the pensive meditations of her soul, the 
 figure of a man suddenly darted from under a broken arch, and 
 discovered to her view the features of the hated Belgrave. Amanda 
 ^ave a faint cry, and in unutterable dismay tottered back a few 
 paces against a wall. ‘ Cruel Amanda ! ’ 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 
 iier 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, with a swiftness which mocked his speed, 
 -flew through the intricate 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 pretext from the 
 room, and then, in. the gentlest terms, begged to know what had 
 «o cruelly alarmed her young friend. Amanda had already con- 
 fided to the prioress the events of her life, so that the good lady, 
 on hearing Belgrave now mentioned, no longer wondered at the 
 ngitation of Amanda ; yet, as her fears she saw were too powerful 
 for her reason, she endeavored to convince her they were unneces- 
 sary. She called to her remembrance the singular protection she 
 had already experienced from Heaven, and the protection which, 
 while she was innocent, she would still have a right to expect. 
 She also mentioned the security of her present situation — encom- 
 
316 
 
 THE CHILDREN^ OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 passed by friends whose integrity could not be warped, and whose 
 utmost zeal would be manifested in defeating any stratagems 
 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 singu- 
 lar, nay, almost miraculous interpositions *of Providence she had 
 experienced in her favor, to give way to terror or despair was sin- 
 ful, since it showed a distrust of the Power who has promised with 
 guardian care to watch the footsteps of the innocent. It was, how- 
 ever, agreed that Amanda should venture no more from the con- 
 vent, 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 be- 
 lieved Belgrave would be weary of watching her, and would de- 
 camp; if, then, she neither saw nor heard from Lord Mortimer, she- 
 resolved to relinquish all hope concerning him, and immediately 
 think upon some plan which should put her in a way of procur- 
 ing subsistence. 
 
 Her paintings and embroidery still went on. She had executed 
 some elegant pictures in both, which, if obliged to dispose of, 
 she was sure would bring a good price ; yet, whenever compelled 
 by reflection to this idea, the tear of tender melancholy 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 berself, and sat 
 constantly with the prioress, who had nothing of the gloomy re- 
 cluse, save the habit, about her. 
 
 They were chattering together one evening after tea when Sis- 
 ter 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 had not come back again ; 
 here we shall have him frisking or storming continually, and 
 again plaguing us out of our lives.’ ‘From Lord Mortimer !’ 
 exclaimed Amanda, starting from her chair, and clasping the let- 
 ter 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 si^jkened as she dropped it 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 317 
 
 on the ground. The other was the superscription of Lord Morth 
 mer. She opened it with revived spirits, and read as 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 hopelessly be- 
 loved, indeed returned to tell me we shall part no more ? Tis 
 true, ’tis true, and never can my grateful heart sufficiently ac- 
 knowledge the goodness it experiences ; but how 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 difficulties, without first trying 
 ^very 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 de- 
 scribed ; yet you may conceive some idea of it from the abrupt manner in which 1 
 quitted Castle Carberry, without desiring to bid you adieu ; but ere it could be accom- 
 plished I plainly saw I had many difficulties to encounter, difficulties which it was ab- 
 solutely 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 difficulties 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 distressing to your feelings, and injurious to your charac- 
 ter ; 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 was happy, on my arrival in London, to find Lady Martha Dormer still at Lord Cher* 
 bury’s house. I have already told you that I left town on pretense of a visit to my 
 sister, in Wales. My father, I soon perceived, suspected that had not been the real 
 motive of my departure : but I also perceived he did not desire to reveal his sus- 
 picions, 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 
 bave taken the hint of a good blundering scene from us both. 
 
 The Marquis of Roslin and his family, I learned, continued at his villa. Their ab- 
 sence from town rejoiced me, as it not only exempted me from society I abhorred, but, 
 as it gave me an opportunity of interrogating their household, among whom, I was con- 
 vinced, I should discover th^ trusty agents the amiable marchioness had made use 
 of in her scheme against you. The morning after my arrival, I accordingly set off to 
 Portman Square. The man who opened the door knew me not, which I considered a 
 lucky circumstance, 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 wi ' h 
 unfeigned astonishment. Soon, however, recovering herself, she addressed me in the 
 most obsequious manner, and spoke as if she supposed I was come purposely to inquire 
 after her lord and lady, an artful way of trying to terminate her own suspense by learn- 
 ing the nature of my visit. I soon gave her to understand it was not of the most amica- 
 ble kind to her. I came, I said to demand either the letter, or an account of the letter 
 which I had intrusted to her care for Miss Fitzalan, which contained a note of large 
 value, and which, I found, had never been received by that yoiing lady. Her conntr n- 
 ance in a moment condemned her— it spoke stronger than a thousand totigues against 
 her. She first grew deadly pale, then fiery red ; trembled, faltered, and hung her herul 
 to avoid my eyes. Her looks, I told her, confirmed the suspicions I was forced to cn 
 
318 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 luertain of her integrity, yet, shocking as the action was which she had committed, being 
 not only a breach of trust, but humanity, I was vvillimj to come to an easy and private 
 accommodation about It, provided she would truly and fully confess the part she had 
 taken, or knew of others to have taken, in injuring Miss Fitzalan, while she resided m 
 the marquis’s house, by bringing Colonel Belgrave into it. I paused for her 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 wnich ‘ 
 was contrived, and carried into execution, in this house, against Miss Fitza an, I will 
 settle everything relative to the letter and its contents in a manner pleasing to you. 
 Her innocence is unquestioned by me : but it is essential to her peace that it should 
 also be so to the rest of her f riends, and they who regard her welfare will liberally re- 
 ward 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 anyone. 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 remember 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 w’ell 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 inclosed 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 pocketbook. I therefore left Portman Square, with a resolution of going to the 
 bank, and, if not already received, stopping payment. I stepped into the first hackney 
 coach 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 pre- 
 sent 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 retura 
 make a full confession of all she knew about the affair I had mentioned to her yester- 
 day.* I told her, though she deserved no mercy, yet, as I had promised on such con- 
 dition to show her lenity, I would mot 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 
 njure 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 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 themselves in a place of concealment to listen, by which means they knew 
 what passed between you, w'hich 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 the 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 me I might procure by promising a reward, as Mrs. Jane was much dissatls- 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 319 
 
 fied with the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia, neither of whom had recompensed her 
 as she expected for lier faithful services to them. She 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 the truth. I also told 1 er I 
 would take care she should suffer no distress 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. But on receiving a summons 
 to inform me 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 the 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 appearance of rank and splendor would have greater 
 weight in influencing a being like her to justice than any plea of conscience. She ap- 
 peared lost in astonishment and confusion at my visit, and I saw waited with trembling 
 expectation to have the reason of it revealed. T kept her not long in suspense ; I was 
 the friend, I told her, of a young lady, whose character she had vilely and falsely as- 
 persed. Her 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 consequences of defamation, and 
 declared she might expect the utmost rigor of the law, except she confessed her asser- 
 tions 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 con- 
 fession. She then acknowledged she had grossly and cruelly wronged you by what 
 she had said to Lady Greystock, and that she had many opportunities of being con- 
 vinced, 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 Irom re- 
 sentment at losing all the rich gifts Colonel Belgrave had promised her if she brought 
 you to comply with his wishes. She related all the stratagems they had mutually con- 
 certed for your destruction, and she brought me some letters which I kept, from him to 
 you, and which she pretended you had 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 leveled the 
 arrows of defamation should not be as merciful to her as Miss Fitzalan’s had been; 
 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 
 malice, revenge, or envy. 
 
 Oh ! my Amanda, I cannot express the transports I felt when I found the difficul- 
 ties, which I dreaded as intervening between me and happiness, thus removed. I fe»i 
 myself the happiest of men ; my heart acknowledged your worth, I was convinced 
 your love, and in my hands I held the refutation of falsehood, and the confirmation ot 
 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 tete-a-tete in Lady Martha’s dress- 
 ing room. I believed she half guessed what the subject of it would be ; she saw by 
 my countenance there was joyful news at hand. I shall nor. recapitulate our conversa- 
 tion ; suffice it to say, that her excellent feeling heart participated largely in my satis- 
 faction ; it did more than participate, it wished to increase it, and ere I could mention 
 my project, she declared my Amanda should henceforth be considered as her adopted 
 daughter, and 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 
 danger it has encountered. I fell at Lady Martha’s feet in a transport of gratitude, and 
 acknowledged that she had anticipated what I was going to say, as I had been deter* 
 
320 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 mined to throw myself on her generosity from the time I was convinced of your inflex 
 ible resolution, not to unite yourself to me without you brought a fortune. 
 
 It was now agreed we should keep Lord Cherbury a little longer ignorant of our im 
 tentions. We proposed taking the marchioness and Lady Euphrasia by surprise, and 
 hoped, by so doing, to be able to remove from his eyes the mist which partiality had 
 hitherto spread before them to obscure the defects of the above-mentioned ladies. 
 
 lie had hinted more than once his wishes for my paying my compliments at the mar- 
 quis’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, determined to be one of the party, that he might supply 
 the deflciencies 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 villa. 
 The ladies all expressed themselves delighted at my unexpected appearance, and quite 
 charmed by my recovered looks. The marquis, with his usual san^roid^ declared him- 
 self glad to see me. Ye smiling deceivers, I cried to myself, as I surveyed the mar- 
 chioness 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 
 of it. Rage, guilt, and confusion, were conspicuous in the marchioness and Lady Eu- 
 phrasia. The marquis 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 ladyship had 
 entertained against her unoffended niece was sufficiently appeased by what she had 
 made her suffer, and that she would rather rejoice than regret the opportunity which 
 presented itself of vindicating her fame. I wished, I saio, as much as possible, to 
 spare her ladyship’s feelings, and provided she would clear Miss Fitzalan from the ob- 
 loquy which the transactions 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 con- 
 tempt as possible, she replied, ‘ She thanked me for the attention I professed myself in, 
 dined to pay her feelings, but she fancied I had overlooked 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 com- 
 plicated baseness and w eakness. Miss Fitzalan, she perceived, had made Il^^me her 
 dupe again; 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 
 overwhelm 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 Fitzalan,’ 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 Fitzalan deceived me. I own I was the 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, my 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 engagement ; my heart ever resisted entering into any which it could not 
 fulfill.’ ‘ 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 infamy 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 too alleviate the bitter destiny of 
 poor Fitzalan. Alas I not in the arras 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 very moment her gentle spirit seemed about to take its flight to heaven I Front 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 321 
 
 that period ehe hag 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 m their development has been beyond my expectations ; but 
 Providence is on the side of suffering virtue, and assists those who stand up in its sup- 
 port,’ 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 mar- 
 chioness persevered in declaring I had bribed her servants to blacken her character, in 
 order to clear Miss Fitzaian’s, an attempt, she repeatedly assured me, I would find un- 
 successful. 
 
 The marquis talked m high terms of the dignity of his house, and how impossible it 
 was the marchioness should ever have disgraced it by such actions as I accused her of 
 committing. I answered him in a manner equally warm, that my accuse tions were 
 too well grounded and supported to dread refutation. That it was not only due to in- 
 jured innocence, but essential to my own honor, which would soon be materially con- 
 cerned in whatever 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 fmingled rage and contempt, refused doing, and Lady 
 Euphrasia, after the hint I gave of soon being united to you, left the room in convul- 
 sive 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, notw ithstanding the interest he felt in the cause of suffering innocence, 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 Fitzaian’s innocence 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 feeling, would have influenced him to have undertaken Miss 
 Fitzaian’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 defenseless orphan, 
 but the protected child of rank and prosperity, was vulnerable to their shafts. 
 
 I again repeated the evidence of her servants, and the refutation of Mrs. Jennings to 
 her former story. I produced, to strengthen it, the unopened letters of Colonel Bel- 
 grave— 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 al- 
 leging her integrity, and vilifying yours ; but with a countenance so legibly impressed 
 w'ith 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 countinuance at the villa might not be quite so long as his lordship’s. 
 
 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 between us. He 
 returned the next day to town. I have so long dwelt upon disagreeable scenes, that to 
 go over any others would be dreadful ; 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 Cas- 
 tle Carberry. Our difficulties (you see I already unite your interests with mine) began 
 to decrease, and are at last happily overcome. Lady Martha made me write her inten- 
 tions relative to you, and his lordship was quite satisfied with them. He authorizes me 
 to assure you, he longs to receive you into his family, at once a boast and acquisition 
 to it, and he says he shall consider himself under obligations to you, if you hasten, as 
 much as possible), the period of becoming one of its members, thus giving him an oppor- 
 tunity 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 letter, wffiich I 
 have the pleasure of inclosing, she is more explicit concerning them. I have given 
 
322 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 you this long narrative on paper, that when we meet our conversation may be unem- 
 bittered 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 you that, knowing you could never be 
 selfishly wrapped up in your own enjoyments, I made every possible inquiry relative to 
 your brother, and was at length referred by the agent of his late regiment to an officer 
 in it ; with some difficulty I found he had quitted his quarters on leave of absence. I 
 wrote immediately to his family residence, and after waiting 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 be- 
 ing answered the moment he returned, I have no doubt but we shall receive intelli- 
 gence 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, therefore, 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 even- 
 ing, 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 contrary, shall take it for granted I am expected. ’Tis said 
 that contrast heightens pleasure, and I believe the saying — I believe that, without hav- 
 ing felt 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 1 shall soon call you mine, is a source of transport which words cannot express. 
 Mine, I may 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 acknowledge 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 sincere participator in our 
 ihappiness. She arrived from Wales but a few minutes 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 family, among 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 w'e know the m'lrchioness’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 us 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 by a gentleman passing on horse- 
 1t)ack, who either strongly resembled, or was Colonel Belgrave. My blood boiled in my 
 veins at ids sight. I left the carriage, mounted one of my servant’s horses, and en- 
 deavored 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 drr aded 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 dangers of this kind my Amanda 
 will now be guarded. But again am I trespassing on the time you should devote to 
 Lady Martha’s letter. Adieu, and do not disappoint my hopes of being allowed to visit 
 y.)u 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 g*round, where it hither- 
 to lay neglected, and read to the following purpose : 
 
 That I warmly and sincerely congratulate my dear and amiable Miss Fitzalan on the 
 
THE CHILDKEX OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 323 
 
 happy revolution in her affairs, she will readily believe, persuaded 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 description to esteem and admire you, and 
 even when the hope of being connected with you became extinct, I could not so totally 
 forego that admiration as to feel uninterested about you. Oh ! how truly do I rejoice 
 at the revival of the hope I have just mentioned, and at its revival with ev€ry prospect 
 of its being speedily realized ! I shall consider Lord Mortimer as one of the most for- 
 tunate of men in ealling you his, and to think I have been able to promote his happiness 
 gives me a satisfaction which never was, nor ever will be, equaled 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 deficiency 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 fortune is to be secqred to her and Lord Mortimer ; the final adjust- 
 ment of all affairs is to take place at my house in the country, whither I propose going 
 immediately, accompanied by Lady Araminta, and where we shall both most impatiently 
 expect your arrival, which, we mutually entreat, may be hastened as much as possible 
 consistent with your health and convenience. Lord Cherbury has promised to follow 
 us in a few days, so that I suppose he will also be at Thornbury to rcjceive 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 
 many lovely victims of scorn and reproach raieing their heads with triumph and satis- 
 faction. 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 
 and proofs of the estimable qualities you possess. Farewell, my dear Miss Fitzalan. 
 I have been brief in my letter, because I know I should not be 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 affectionate friend 
 who had shared her troubles, could not be a partaker of her joys ; 
 but the sigh of unavailing regret which rose in her mind she 
 checked by reflecting, that happiness all perfect was more thar.. 
 humanity could either support or expect, and with pious gratitude 
 she bent to the Power who had changed the discolored prospecu 
 by which she had been so long surrounded, into one of cheerfiu 
 ness 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 in- 
 stantly relieved by the flattering commendations of Lady Martha 
 Dormer, and to be connected with her and Lady Araminta, she 
 looked upon among the most valuable blessings she could enjoy. 
 
 To express what she felt for Lord Mortimer would be impossi- 
 ble — language could not do justice to her feelings — she felt love,, 
 gratitude, and admiration for him, all in the fullest extent, and 
 
324 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 all united, and she wept in the fullness of her heart over the joj^ 
 ful 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 which evinced her sympathy in her con- 
 cerns, ‘ Oh ! I fear, my child, something has happened to dis- 
 ' turb 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 re- 
 moved to wipe from off them the tears of joy by which they were 
 bedewed. When she finished 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 different parts of the letter, she asked Amanda, 
 a little archly, ‘ whether she intended sending an express com- 
 mand to his lordship against coming early in the morning?’ 
 Amanda honestly confessed she had no such intention, and ex- 
 pressed 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 1 thou my all that’s mine. — G oldsmith. 
 
 Joy 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 be- 
 fore Lord Mortimer arrived. He 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 
 is 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 feelings more forcibly than any language could 
 have done. 
 
 Amanda at length found utterance, and began to thank his lord- 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 325 
 
 ship for all the difficulties he had gone through in vindicating her 
 fame.' He hastily stopped those 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 break- 
 fast table, on which the good sisters had spread all the niceties 
 (adapted for a morning repast) which the convent could produce ; 
 but her hand was unsteady, she spilt the tea in pouring it out, and 
 committed twenty blunders in helping Lord Mortimer. He 
 laughed a little archly at her embarrassment, and insisted on do- 
 ing 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 
 were continually turning toward 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 resi- 
 dence 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 pre- 
 cipitation. ‘ 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 became more connected than it had been hither- 
 to. The generous intentions of Lady Martha Dormer, and the 
 arrangements she had made for the reception and nuptials of j 
 Amanda, were talked over. The marriage was to take place at \ 
 Thornbury, Lady Martha’s seat ; they were to continue there for 1 
 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 te 
 
326 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEYo 
 
 Amanda. She assured him it was, and he proceeded to mention 
 the presents which Lady Martha had prepared 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 affected even to tears by the solicitude he showed 
 to please her ; and he, perceiving her emotions, changed the dis- 
 course to talk about her removal from St. Catherine’s. He en- 
 treated 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 presented her with a very beautiful embroidered 
 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 everything. He 
 pressed her hand, and in a voice of soothing tenderness, 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 be- 
 longed to her, as they amounted to but the individual sum he had 
 already devoted to her use. He requested she would not curb in 
 the least her generous spirit, but fulfill, 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 contribute 
 to the comfort of those who had so largely promoted hers was a 
 source of exquisite felicity. Lord Mortimer presented 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 MorAner said, that ‘ in return for it he 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 327 
 
 tad sent as a pledge of future friendship ; and he now informed 
 her, * that her ladyship, accompanied by Lady Araminta, intended 
 meeting them at Holyhead, 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 confes- 
 sion 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 holding 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 no means liked to agree to, and he 
 endeavored to prevail on her to drop it ; but finding her inflexi- 
 ble, he said she was a provoking 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. Tiie prioress said she doubted not but she 
 could procure her an eligible person from the neighboring 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 invited to 
 drink tea with Lord Mortimer. He came even earlier than was 
 expected. Poor Amanda was terrified, lest her companions 
 should overhear him repeatedly asking her, whether they would 
 not retire immediately after tea. Though not overheard, the 
 irioress had too much sagacity not to know her departure was de- 
 dred ; she, therefore, under pretense of business, 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 ser- 
 vant, and said that he hoped, at the end of the week at farthest, 
 she would be ready to begin her journey. Amanda readily prom- 
 ised to use all possible dispatch. They passed some delightful 
 hours in rambling about the garden, and talking over their felh 
 city. 
 
 The prioress’s expectation was answered relative to a servant 
 
328 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 In the course of two days she produced one in every respect agree 
 able 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 continu- 
 ally 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 invitations without number came to the 
 castle, but he found means of avoiding them. 
 
 Amanda, laughing, would often tell him he retarded the prepar- 
 ations 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 inexpressibly shocked — 
 her heart panted with apprehension of ill ; but she felt too timid 
 to make any inquiry. He suddenly knit his brows, and muttered 
 between his teeth, ‘ Curse on the wretch ! ’ 
 
 Amanda could no longer keep silence. ‘ What wretch,’ she ex- 
 claimed, ‘ 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 quiei ; but, my dear Amanda,’ coming over to her, and tak- 
 ing 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 intri- 
 cate windings. I endeavored, but without success, 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 interrupted by him ; it implies such a doubt,’ said she, weep- 
 ing, ‘ as shocks my soul ! If suspicion is thus continually to be 
 revived, 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 329 
 
 was disturbed lest the wretch should have forced himself into your 
 presence, and lest you, through apprehension for me, concealed 
 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 pres- 
 iiig 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 FITZALAN. 
 
 I am unavoidably prevented from waiting on my dear Amanda this morning, but in 
 the course of the day she may depend on either seeing or hearing from me again. She 
 can have no excuse now on my account aboui not hastening the preparations for her 
 journey, and when we meet, if I find that her time has not been employed for this pur- 
 pose, 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 Belgrave. She 
 ran into the hall to inquire of the messenger about his master, but 
 he was gone. She then hastened to the prioress and communi- 
 cated her apprehensions to her. 
 
 The prioress endeavored to calm them, by assuring her she 
 might be convinced that Belgrave had taken too many precau- 
 tions to be discovered. 
 
 Amanda’s breakfast, however, remained untouched, and her 
 things unpacked, and she continued tne whole morning the pic- 
 ture of anxiety, impatiently expecting the promised visit or letter. 
 Neither came, and she 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 fol- 
 lowed her into the garden, and told her there was a messenger in 
 the parlor from Lord Mortimer. She flew thither, but what words 
 can express her surprise 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, ‘ Grracious 
 Heaven ! has anything happened to Lord Mortimer ? ’ ere she 
 sunk into a chair in breathless agitation. 
 
330 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ^BBEY, 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 My heavy heart 
 
 The prophetess of woe, foretells some ill 
 At hand. 
 
 Lord Cherbury hastened to support and calm her agitation, by 
 assuring her Lord Mortimer was in perfect safety. Recovering a 
 little by this assertion, she asked him ‘ how he was assured of this V 
 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 uninjured, began to reflect on 
 the suddenness of Lord Cherbury’s visit. She would have flat- 
 tered 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 situa- 
 tion to break the unpleasant silence. At last Lord Cherbury sud- 
 denly exclaimed. ‘ Lord Mortimer does not, nor must not, know 
 of my being here. ‘ Must not ! ’ repeated Amanda, in inconceiv- 
 able 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, Miss Fitzalan,’ he continued, ap- 
 proaching 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 And I was mistaken. I 
 will write to you.’ iMy lord,’ cried Amanda, rising, all pale and 
 trembling, ‘ tell me now ; to leave me in suspense, after receiv- 
 ing 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 ! ’ 
 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 among the ruins ? ’ Amanda gave an assenting bow. ‘1 
 shall then,’ pursued he, ‘have a letter ready to deliver you. In 
 the meantime, 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 Fi.tz- 
 alan, 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, perhaps, 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 331 
 
 she did, it was only to walk in a disordered manner 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 com- 
 municate ? 
 
 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 Mor- 
 timer ? ’ 
 
 Amanda sighed heavily at this question, and said, ‘No.’ The 
 secrecy she had been enjoined to she durst not violate, by men- 
 tioning the mysterious visit to her friend. Unable, however, to 
 converse on any other subject, she resolved to retire to her cham- 
 ber. She placed her illness and agitation to the account of Lord 
 Mortimer, and said a little 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, as 
 she retired from the room, desired nothing might be said of the 
 person who had just seen her to Lord Mortimer, saying, with a 
 faint smile, ‘ she would not make him vain by letting him know 
 of her anxiety about him.’ She retired to her chamber, and en- 
 deavored 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 she softly opened 
 the chamber door, and, every place being clear, stole softly from 
 the convent. 
 
 She found Lord Cherbury waiting for her amid the solitary 
 ruins. He had a letter in his hand, which he presented to her 
 ihe 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 des- 
 tiny and mine. Even should the request contained in it be re 
 fused, let me be the first acquainted with the refusal. Then, indeed, 
 
332 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 I shall urge you no more to secrecy, for what will follow, in con* 
 sequence of such a refusal, must divulge all,’ ‘ Oh ! tell me, tell 
 me,’ said Amanda, catching hold of his arm, ‘ 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 endure. ’ ‘ 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 among 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 depai^ted 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 person ’ ‘ Yes,’ said 
 
 Lord Mortimer, ‘ I am sure I heard retreating footsteps.’ ‘ You 
 are mistaken,’ repeated Amanda, 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 aston- 
 ished at it.’ ‘I came here for air,’ said Amanda. ‘ For air ! ’ re- 
 peated Lord Mortimer ; ‘ I own I should have thought the garden 
 better adapted for such a purpose ; but why come hither in a clan- 
 destine 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 con« 
 vent I was told you were indisposed, and could not be disturbed* 
 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. ’ ‘ Gra- 
 
 cious Heaven ! ’ said Amanda, raising her hands and eyes, and 
 bursting into tears, ‘ how wretched am I ! ’ 
 
 She was, indeed, at this moment, superlatively wretched. Her 
 heart was oppressed by the dread of evil, and she perceived sus- 
 picions 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 ! Amanda, 
 like the rest of your sex, you know too well the power of your tears 
 not to use them. 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. T know I am too impetuous, but you 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 333 
 
 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 uni- 
 versally, again implored her forgiveness, as he imputed the agi- 
 tation 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 Mortimer 
 begged ‘ they would have compassion on him, and give him some- 
 thing for his supper, as he had scarcely eaten anything the whole 
 day.’ 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 trifies placed upon it. Sister Mary would gladly 
 have stayed, but the prioress had understanding enough to think 
 the supper would be more palatable if they were absent, and ac- 
 cordingly retired. 
 
 Lord Mortimer now, with the most soothing tenderness, tried to 
 cheer his fair companion, and make her take some refreshment ; 
 but his efforts for either of those purposes were unsuccessful, and 
 she besought him not to think her obstinate, if she could not in 
 a moment recover her spirits. To divert his attention a little from 
 herself, she asked him to perform his promise, by relating what 
 had kept him the whole day from St. Catherine’s. 
 
 He now acknowledged ‘ he had been in search of Belgrave ; but 
 the precautions he had taken to conceal himself baffled all in- 
 quiries, which convinces me,’ continued Lord Mortimer, ‘ if 
 1 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 merits.’ ‘May he never,’ cried 
 Amanda, fervently yet involuntarily, ‘ meet it from your 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 accompany 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 inquiries were as fruitless here 
 AS elsewhare. When I found it so, I was on thorns to depart 
 
334 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 particularly as all the gentlemen were set in for drinking, and feared 
 I might be thrown into an improper 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 in- 
 quiries proved fruitless. Oh ! never, never repeat them. Think 
 no more about a wretch so despicable.’ ‘ Well,’ cried Lord Morti- 
 mer, ‘why don’t you hurry me from the neighborhood ? 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 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 inclination 
 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 retired. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 As one condemned to leap a precipice, 
 
 Who sees before his eyes the depths below, 
 
 Stops short, and looks about for some kind shrub 
 To break his dreadful fall.— Drydbn. 
 
 Amanda went to her chamber the moment Lord Mortimer de- 
 parted ; the nuns were already retired to rest, so that the stillness 
 which reigned through the house added to the awfulness of her 
 feelings, as she sat down to peruse a letter which she had been 
 previously imformed would fix her fate. 
 
 TO MISS FITZALAN. 
 
 To destroy a prospect of felicity, at the very moment its enveloping glooms are dii^ 
 persed, 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 
 loy keeping you in suspense ; the preface I have already given is sufficient, and I wiU 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 335 
 
 be explicit ; gambling, that bane of fame and fortune, has been my ruin ; but while I 
 indulged, so well did I 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 affluencfe to many a child in want. For some time my good and bad fortune were 
 so equal, that my in • me suffered no considerable 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 man’s 
 property was consigned to my care, to manage as much for his advantage as I could ; 
 it consisted of a large estate and fifty thousand pounds. At the period Freelove became 
 my ward, I 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 
 something more precious than I had ever yet done— namely, my honor, by using .the 
 money which lay in my hands belonging to Freelove ; the long period which was to 
 elapse ere he came of age, emboldened me to this. Ere that period I trusted I should- 
 have retrieved my losses, aud be enabled not only to discharge the principal, but what- 
 ever 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 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 tor- 
 ture could be to me; his early excellence, the nobleness of his principles, mingled in the 
 love 1 felt for him a degree of awe; to confess myself a villain to such a characier, to 
 acknowledge my life had been a scene of deceit ; to be abashed, confounded in the pres- 
 ence of my sou — to meet his piercing eye— to see the blush of shame mantle his cheeks 
 for his father’s crimes— oh, horrible !— most horrible I I raved at the idea, and re- 
 solved, 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 which 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 me 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 connec- 
 tion. 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 alli- 
 ance 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 cutoff, for though dutiful and at- 
 tentive tome in the highest degree, I could not flatter myself that Mortimer w'oiild 
 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 separated. And 
 such is the selfish nature 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. 
 But the persevering constancy of Mortimer— rather let me say the immediate interposi- 
 tion 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 myself upon your mercy, believing that a character so 
 tender, so perfect, so heroic-like 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 mf 
 
336 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 family, from your own intrinsic merit. Situated as I now am, the fortune Lady Mar« 
 tha 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 course it has not 
 lessened liis 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 resent- 
 ment they entertained against him; and lam confident the first overture he should 
 make for a union with Lady Euphrasia would be successful. The fortune which 
 would immediately be received with her is sixty thousand pounds, and five 
 thousand a-year. The first would be given up to me in place 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, Freelove in a 
 few months will be of age, and the smallest delay in settling with him, after he attains 
 that period, must brand me with dishonor. I stand upon the verge of a dreadful abyss, 
 and it is in your power only to preserve me from plunging into it — you who, like an 
 angel of mercy, may bid me live, and save me from destruction. Yet think not in re- 
 signing 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 independence; 
 and I am confident, among the many men you must meet, sensible of your worth, and 
 enraptured with your charms, you may 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 difficulty; but after, going so far, 1 must not hesitate in tell- 
 ingyon how it can be removed. You must retire secretly from his knowledge, and leave 
 no clew behind by which you can be traced. If you comply with the first of my re- 
 quests, but stop short here, you will defeat all that your mercy, your pity, your com- 
 passion, 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 notin part. Pardon me, 
 dear Miss Fitzalan, if you think there is anything arbitrary in my style. I would have 
 softened, if I could, ail 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 shall live to atone for my follies, or by one desperate action 
 terminate them. Should you show me mercy, unworthy as I amofit— should you, in 
 compassion to poor Mortimer, comply with a r» quest which can only save him from the 
 pangs he would feel at a father's quitting life unbidden, my gratitude, my admiration, my 
 protection while I live will be yours, and the first act of my restored life will be to 
 secure you a competence. I shall wait with trembling anxiety for your appearance to- 
 morrow night. Till then, believe me. 
 
 Your sincere, though most unhappy friend, 
 
 Cherbury. 
 
 The fatal letter fell from Amanda s hand. A mist overspread 
 lier eyes, and she sunk senseless on her chair; but the privation of 
 ier 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 with an eye of apprehension and dismay, 
 bewildered as to the cause of her wretchedness and terror, till 
 the letter at her feet ag*ain struck her sight. 
 
 ‘ Was there no way,’ she asked herself, as she again examined 
 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 his feelings ; they would 
 compassionate his failings ; they would— but she started in 
 
TH^: CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 337 
 
 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 son. 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 ! 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 Cher- 
 bury’s death, nothing could assuage her wretchedness, and that 
 the unhappiness Lord Mortimer 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 ! ’ raising her hands with agony to Heaven, ‘ give 
 me fortitude to bear the horrors of my situation ! O Mortimer ! 
 dear, invaluable Mortimer ! the hand of fate is against our union, 
 and we must part, never, never more to meet ! From the imputa- 
 tion 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 sacriflced to Lord Cherbury, 
 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 Mortimer. 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 com- 
 mit 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 sacriflce 
 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 
 
338 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 sleep, into which she had gradually sunk toward 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, ‘ G-racious Heaven ! what is the mat- 
 ter ? ’ Then feeling the feverish heat of her hands, continued, 
 
 ^ Why, why, Amanda, had you the cruelty to conceal your ill- 
 ness ? Proper assistance might have prevented its increasing to 
 such a degree.’ With unutterable tenderness he folded his arms 
 about her, and, while her drooping head sunk on his bosom, de- 
 clared he would immediately send for the physician 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 could do me 
 no good. ’ ‘ No good ! ’ repeated Lord Mortimer, in a terrified 
 
 accent. ‘I mean,’ cried she, ‘he would find it unnecessary to 
 prescribe anything for me, as my illness only 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 in- 
 tention ; nor would he relinquish it till she had promised, if not 
 better before the evening, to inform him, and let the physician be 
 sent for. 
 
 They now sat down to breakfast, at which Amanda was unable 
 either to preside or eat. When over, she told Lord Mortimer she 
 must retire to her chamber, as rest was essential for her ; but be- 
 tween 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 seeing her till the time she had already 
 mentioned. 
 
 He at last retired with great reluctance, but not till she had sev- 
 eral times desired him to do so. 
 
 Amanda now repaired 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 imme- 
 diately meant to write to Lord Cherbury, as the best method she 
 could take of acquainting him with her compliance, and prevent 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 339 
 
 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 atfairs, only concealing the occasion 
 of that alteration, and, as but one day intervened between 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 en- 
 tirely. If this should be the case (and scarcely could she be sur- 
 prised if it was), she resolved without delay to go privately to the 
 neighboring town, and from thence proceed immediately to Dub- 
 lin. How she should act there, or what would become of her, 
 never entered her thoughts ; 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 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 pur- 
 sue, she sat down to pen her renunciation of Lord Mortimer, 
 which she did in the following words : 
 
 TO THE EARL OF CHERBURY. 
 
 My Lord : To your wishes I resign my happiness ; my happiness, I repeat, for it is 
 due to Lord Mortimer to declare that a union with such a character as his must have 
 produced the highest felicity. It is also due to my own to declare, that it was neither 
 his rank nor his fortune, but his virtues, which influenced my inclination in his favor. 
 
 Happy had it been for us all, my lord, but particularly for me, had you continued 
 steady in opposing the wishes of your son. My reverence for paternal authority is too 
 great ever to have allowed me to act in opposition to it. I should not then, by your 
 seeming acquiescence to them, have been tempted to think my trials all over. 
 
 But I will not do away any little merit your lordship may perhaps ascribe to my imme- 
 diate compliance with your request, by dwelling upon the sufferings it entails on me. 
 May the renuL elation 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 while I do so, must as- 
 sure you, both now and forever, I shall decline having them executed for me. 
 
 I shall not disguise the truth. It would not be in your lordship’s power to recom- 
 pense the sacrifice I have made you ; and, besides, pecuniary obligations 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 conversation, 
 at a little distance from the convent. She conjectured she was 
 their subject ; for, as Lord Mortimer retired, the prioress, whom 
 
340 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 she had not seen that day before, came into her chamber. After 
 the usual salutations — ‘ Lord Mortimer has been telling me you 
 were ill,’ said she. ‘I trusted a lover’s fears had magnified the 
 danger ; but truly, my 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 ! ’ 
 said Amanda, with a convulsive sob. ‘ Oh, no/ wringing her 
 hands, ‘ you are sadly mistaken. ’ The prioress grew alarmed, her 
 limbs began to tremble, she was unable to stand, and, dropping on 
 the nearest chair, besought Amanda, in a voice expressive of her 
 feelings, ‘ to explain the reason of her distress.’ 
 
 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!’ re- 
 peated 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 1 ’ 
 
 ‘ It does indeed, ’ said Amanda. ‘ It foretells that Lord Morti- 
 mer and I shall never be united ! ’ 
 
 The prioress started, and surveyed Amanda with a look which 
 seemed to say, ‘ she believed she had lost her senses ; ’ then with 
 assumed composure, begged ‘ she would defer any farther expla- 
 nation 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 continue 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 disor- 
 dered 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 me too well to 
 desire such an assurance ; but, however mysterious her situation 
 \ may appear to others, she will not, I trust and believe, let it appear 
 so to me. I wait with impatience for an explanation. ’ ‘ It is one of 
 my greatest sorrows,’ exclaimed Amanda, ‘ that I cannot give such 
 an explanation. No, no,’ she continued in 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, with- 
 out farther 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 re* 
 tire from Lord Mortimer, without giving him the smallest inth 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 341 
 
 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 
 himself into irremediable distress. To avoid this it was neces- 
 sary all but the prioress should be ignorant of her scheme ; and 
 by her means she hoped she should be put in away of finding such 
 a place of secrecy and security as she should require. She be- 
 sought the prioress, with streaming eyes, not to impute her resig- 
 nation of Lord Mortimer to any unworthy motive ; to that Heaven, 
 which could alone console her for his loss, she appealed for her in- 
 nocence. She besought her to believe her sincere ; to pity, but 
 not condemn her; to continue her friend now, when her friend- 
 ship 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 ad- 
 dressed her in a solemn voice. ‘ I own. Miss Fitzalan, your con- 
 duct 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 persuasion ceases, my 
 esteem can know no diminution. From this declaration you 
 may be convinced that, to the utmost of my power, I will 
 serve you ; yet, ere you finally determine and require 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 engage- 
 ment with Lord Mortimer without assigning some reason for do- 
 ing so. Nothing short of a^ point of conscience should influence 
 you to this.’ ‘ Nothing short of it has,’ replied Amanda; ‘there- 
 fore pity, and do not aggravate my feelings, by pointing out the 
 consequences which will attend the sacrifice I am compelled to 
 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 there- 
 fore gave her all the consolation now in her power, by assuring 
 her she would immediately think about some place for her to re- 
 tire to, and would keep all that had passed between 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 im- 
 mediately drew back the curtain, and appeared much more com- 
 posed than when the prioress had left her. The good woman 
 
342 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 would not let her rise, but sat down on the bed to tell her what 
 she had contrived for her. 
 
 ‘ She had a relation in Scotland,’ she said, ‘ who, from reduced 
 circumstances, had kept a school for many years. But as the in- 
 firmities 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 ne- 
 cessity 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 enervated 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 desire 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 backward and forward. 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 con- 
 sideration, fixed on that of Frances Donald, which the prioress 
 accordingly inserted, and then read the letter : 
 
 TO MRS. MACPHERSON. 
 
 Dear Cousin : The bearer of 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 well educated, and 
 has seen better days ; but the wheel of fortune is continually turning, and she bears 
 her misfortunes with a patience that to me is the best proof she could give’of a real good 
 disposition. I have told her you give but ten pounds a year. Her going proves she is 
 not dissatisfied with the salary. I am sorry to hear you are troubled with rheumatic 
 pains, and hope, when you have more time to take care of yourself, you will grow better. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 343 
 
 And all the sis^e^a |oin me in thanking you for your kind inquiries after them. We 
 do tolerably *^rell in the little school we keep, and trust our gratitude to Heaven for its 
 present .goodness will obtain a continuance of it. I beg to hear from you soon ; and 
 am, my *d«>ar cousin, your sincere friend an'^v affectionate kinswoman, 
 
 St. Catherine *s. Elizabeth Dekmot. 
 
 ‘ I have not said as much as you deserve,’ said the prioress ; ‘ 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 
 orioress 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 prioress 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. The cloth was accord- 
 ingly 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 perform 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 mistaken 
 compassion for her feelings influence her to conceal anything, as 
 anything like the appearance of concealment in her letter would 
 only torture her with anxiety and suspense. 
 
 The prioress solemnly promised she would obey her request, 
 and Amanda, with tears, regretted that slie 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 themselves already 
 liberally recompensed, and 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 inclosed 
 in it. ‘ The pictures and the ring,’ said she, with a 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, also a present for the woman who had been engaged 
 to attend her to England, as some small recompense for her dis- 
 appointment. She meant only to take some linen and her mourn 
 
344 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 mg to Scotland ; the rest of her things, including her music and 
 books, at some future 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 hundred 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 fulfill those of justice. This she told the prioress, who in- 
 stantly declared, ‘ that, 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 determined how to act. 
 The prioress drank tea with her. When over, Amanda said she 
 would lie down, in order to try and be composed against Lord 
 Mortimer came. The prioress accordingly withdrew, saying, 
 ‘ she should not be disturbed till then. ’ 
 
 By this means Amanda was enabled to be in readiness for de- 
 livering her letter to Lord Cherbury at the proper hour. Her 
 heart beat with apprehension as it approached. She dreaded Lord 
 Mortimer again surprising her among the ruins, or some of the 
 nuns following her to them. At last the clock gave the signal for 
 keeping her appointment. She arose, trembling, from the bed, 
 and opened the door. She listened, and no noise announced 
 anyone’s being near. The moments were precious. She glided 
 through the gallery, 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 turn- 
 ing 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 propitious V ‘ 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 Amanda, 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 dis- 
 covered. ’ 
 
 Lord Cherbury started up— ‘ From whom,’ cried he, ‘ can I hear 
 about you ? ’ ‘ From the prioress of St. Catherine’s,’ replied 
 
 Amanda, in a trembling voice ; ‘ 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 among 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 parlor. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 345 
 
 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, whenever 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 pre- 
 paring for her journey she would have no time to devote to him. 
 He wanted to convince her he should not retard her 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 — 
 s. regret, however, mitigated by the hope of shortly seeing her 
 again, as Lord Mortimer had promised to bring her to Castle Car- 
 berry 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 pretense of settling her 
 things. Here she was immediately followed by the nuns, en- 
 treating they might severally be employed in assisting her. She 
 thanked them with her usual sweetness, 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, instantly 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. In vain 
 were obstacles encountered and apparently overcome ; one has arisen to oppose it 
 which we never could have thought of, and, yielding 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 ap- 
 pear guilty of ; appear, I say, for in reality my heart is a stranger to either, and is now 
 agonized at the sncrifice it is compelled to make ; but 1 will not hurt your lordship’s 
 feelings by dwelling on my own sufferings. Already have 1 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 ear, 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 with- 
 drawn my thoughts too much from Heaven to earth ; if so, oh 1 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 deserving of compission ; I cannot 
 bid you forbear condemning me, though I know myself undeserving of censure. In thi* 
 
346 
 
 THE CEILJJEEN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 Jetter I inclose the notes I received from your lordship ; the picture and the ring I have 
 retained ; they will soon be my only vestiges of former happines-:. Farewell, Lord 
 Mortimer, dear and invaluable friend, farewell forever. May iliat peace, that happiness 
 you so truly deserve to possess, be yours, and may they never again meet with such 
 interruptions as they have received from the unfortunate 
 
 Amanda M. Fitzalan. 
 
 This letter was blistered with her tears ; she laid it in a drawer 
 till evening*, and then proceeded to pack whatever she meant to 
 take with her in a little trunk. In the midst of this business the 
 prioress came in to inform 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 morning at four o’clock, ana 
 conduct her himself to Mrs. Macpherson’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 England on her dress- 
 ing table, with a few lines purporting who it was for. The prioress 
 approved of her doing so, as it would prevent anyone from suspect- 
 ing she was privy to her departure. She was obliged to leave her di- 
 rectly, 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 : 
 
 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 in any way adequate to the discharge 
 of my debt ; to you and your amiable companions, I regret my inability (more than I can 
 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. Catherine’s farewell 
 As Amanda wdll 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 she was summoned to dinner. Her spirits were 
 sunk in the lowest dejection at the 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 pass with Lord Mortimer. 
 
 His lordship came early to the convent. The dejected looks of 
 Amanda immediately struck him, and renewed all his apprehen- 
 sions about her health* She answered his tender inquiries by say 
 ing she was fatigued. 
 
THE CHILDREN^ OF THE ABBEY. 347 
 
 * Perhaps,’ said he, ‘you would like to rest one day, and not 
 commence your journey to-morrow ! ’ 
 
 ‘ No, no,’ cried Amanda, ' it shall not be deferred. To-morrow,’ 
 continued she, with a smile of anguish, ‘ I will commence it. ' 
 
 Lord Mortimer thanked her for a resolution, he imagined, dic- 
 tated 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 dejection 
 would lead him to inquiries she would find it difficult to evade ; 
 out as to exert herself was impossible, in order to withdraw his at- 
 tention 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 immediately ac- 
 quiesced in the proposal, and the invitation being sent was ac- 
 cepted. 
 
 But the conversation of the whole party was of a melancholy 
 kind. Amanda was so much beloved among them, that the pros- 
 pect of losing her filled tliem 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 have taken 
 leave of Lord Mortimer, had he not informed them, that on Miss 
 Fitzalan’s account, he would not commence the journey next day 
 till ten o’clock, at which time he would again have the pleasure of 
 seeing them. 
 
 When they withdrew he endeavored to cheer Amanda, and be- 
 sought 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 day. He accordingly rose to depart. 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 exe- 
 crated, as a source of perpetual disquiet and sorrow to him ! Her 
 heart swelled at those ideas with feelings 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, while a 
 f hower of tears burst from her. Lord Mortimer, shocked and 
 surprised at these tears and emotions, reseated her, for her agitation 
 was contagious, 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 I can do to restore you to cheerfulness ? ’ ‘ Oh, no 1 ’ said 
 
348 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Amanda, ‘ all that a mortal could do to serve me you have already 
 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 recompense 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 blessing it could bestow ; but tell me, 
 what has dejected you in this manner ! something more thain 
 fatigue, I am sure.’ 
 
 Amanda assured him ‘he was mistaken ’ ; and, fearful of hh 
 further inquiries, told him, ‘ she only waited for his departure to 
 retire to rest, which she was convinced would do her good.’ 
 
 Lord Mortimer instantly rose from his kneeling posture : ‘ Fare- 
 well, 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 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 for- 
 sook her, and, in an agony of tears and sobs, she threw herself on 
 the seat he had occupied. The good prioress, guessing what her 
 feelings at this moment nj^st 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 ex- 
 perience was now over.’ ‘And will, I trust and believe,’ replied 
 the prioress, ‘ even in this life be yet rewarded.’ 
 
 It was agreed that Amanda should put on her habit, and be pre- 
 pared 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 
 traveling 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 melancholy im- 
 patience waited for the man, who was punctual to the appointed 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 349 
 
 hour of three, and announced his arrival by a tap at the win' 
 dow. 
 
 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 she suffered when quitting the marchioness’s was com- 
 parative happiness to what she now endured. She then looked 
 forward to the protection, comfort, and support of a tender 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 of her father waving 
 in the morning breeze, and oh ! how fervently at that moment 
 did she wish that by his side she was laid beneath their shelter ! 
 
 She turned from them with a heart-rending sigh, which reached 
 the ear of the man who trudged before her. He instantly 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 half a mile 
 above Castle Carberry. It conveyed them in a few moments to 
 the vessel, which the master previously 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 her. She took some tea and a little bread, 
 being almost exhausted with fatigue. Her companion, imputing 
 her dejection 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 hills, now partially gilded by the beams of the ris- 
 ing 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 continued 
 at the window for the melancholy pleasure of contemplating it, 
 till compelled by sickness to lie down on the bed. The woman at- 
 tended 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 
 
 / 
 
350 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF TxiE ABBEY. 
 
 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 attention, 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 pack- 
 ets from Mrs. Dermot to her. She lived about five miles from 
 Port-Patrick, he said, and near the sea-coast. They accordingly 
 soon reached her habitation. It was a small, low house, of a gray- 
 ish 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 returned 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 floor. Mrs. Macpher- 
 son was sitting in an old-fashioned armchair — her face wa« sharp 
 and meager — 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 handkerchief tied under the chin. She just nodded to 
 Amanda on her entrance, and, putting on a pair of large spectacles, 
 surveyed her without speaking. Amanda presented Mrs. Der- 
 mot’s introductory letter, and then, though unbidden, seated her- 
 self on the window seat till she had perused it. Her trunk, in the 
 meantime, was brought in, and she paid for the carriage, request- 
 ing 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 eleva(> 
 ing her spectacles to have a better opportunity of speaking, ‘ why. 
 to be sure I did desire my cousin to get me a young person, bu\, 
 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 rec- 
 ommended, I will try you. My cousin says something of your be- 
 ing 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, reg- 
 ular, and attentive — no flaunting, no gadding, no chattering, but 
 staid, sober, and modest.’ ‘Bless your heart,’ said the man, ‘if 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 351 
 
 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 
 deceitful ; so pray, young woman, tell me, and remember I expect 
 a conscientious answer, whether you think you will be able to da 
 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 en- 
 tered 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 en- 
 joyed the soothing society of the tender and amiable nuns. The 
 presence of the master of the vessel, from the pity and concern 
 he manifested for her, had something consolatory in it, and when 
 he left the room she burst into tears, as if then, and not till then 
 she had been utterly abandoned. She hastily followed him out. 
 ‘ Give my love, my best love,’ said she, sobbing violently, and lay- 
 ing 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, mjr 
 dear young lady ; what though the old dame in the parlor is a 
 little cranky, she will mend, no doubt; so Heaven bless you, and 
 make you as happy as you deserve to be.’ 
 
 Sad and silent, Amanda returned to the parlor, and seating her- 
 self 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!— B lair. 
 
 ‘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! very well,’ cried Mrs. Macpherson, ‘I 
 shall not press you, for supper will soon be ready.’ She then de- 
 sired 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 neighborhood of St. Catherine’s. 
 
352 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Amanda briefly said, ‘her father had been in the air my, 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 com- 
 passion, till she procured an establishment for herself.’ ‘Ay, 
 and a comfortable one you have procured yourself, I promise 
 you,’ said Mrs. Macpherson, ‘ if it is not your own fault.’ She 
 then told Amanda, ‘ she would amuse her by showing her her 
 house and other concerns.’ This indeed was easily done, as it con- 
 sisted but of the parlor, two closets adjoining 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. Macphersoi^, shak- 
 ing her head with much satisfaction, as she leaned upon har ebony 
 headed cane, and cast her eyes around. She bid Amandas admire 
 the fine prospect 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 bedstead, with- 
 out 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 vial 
 half full of spirits, which Amanda would not taste, and the old 
 lady herself took but sparingly. They were lighted by a smalf 
 candle, which, on retiring to their closets, Mrs. Macpherson cut 
 between them. 
 
 Amanda felt relieved by being alone. She could now without 
 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 opportunities of hearing from Mrs. Der- 
 mot than she could have in almost any other place, and by these 
 opportunities alone could she expect 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 without 
 abating its intenseness ; it gave a delicious sadness to her soul she 
 thought would be ill exchanged for any feelings short of those 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 353 ? 
 
 she must have experienced, if her wishes had been accomplished- 
 She enjoyed the pensive luxury of virtuous grief, which miti- 
 gates 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 truth : 
 
 Ask the faithful youth 
 
 Why the cold urn of her, whom long he loved 
 So often fills his arms, so often draws 
 His lonely footsteps at the silent hour, 
 
 To pay the mournful tribute of his tears ? 
 
 Oh, 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 
 Of 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 morning 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 Macpherson 
 again calling her to arise, restored her to her recollection. She 
 replied 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 returning 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 before six in summer, and 
 seven in winter, adding, as there was no clock, she would rap at 
 her door for that purpose every morning.’ 
 
 . 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, unused to such 
 unpalatable fare, swallowed a little of it with difficulty, 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 anyone.’ 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. Mao 
 
:^54 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 pTierson said, indeed she supposed so, and muttered something of 
 people giving themselves airs they had no pretensions to. The 
 tea table was removed before nine, when the school began ; it con- 
 sisted of about thirty girls, most of them daughters of farmers in 
 the neighborhood. Amanda and they being introduced to each 
 other (and she being previously informed what they were taught), 
 was desired to commence the task of instructing them entirely her- 
 self 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 
 Tiiuch cheerfulness and alacrity 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 prob- 
 ably 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 sparing as a Brahman could desire it to be. When 
 over, Mrs. Macpherson composed herself to take a nap in the large 
 kchair, 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 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 dashed 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 dejection greater than she had before ever experienced ; 
 all hope was now extinct, the social ties of life seemed broken, 
 aever more to be reunited. She had now no father, no friend, no 
 ^over, as heretofore, to soothe her feelings, or alleviate her sorro wSo 
 iijike 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 t)arent 
 Would 'have taken her in their arms, 
 
 Eased her declining head 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. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 355 
 
 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 the name of her father: ‘Oh! dear and most benig- 
 nant of men,’ she exclaimed, ‘my father and my friend; were 
 you living, I should not be so wretched ; pity and consolation 
 would then be mine. Oh ! my father, one of the dreariest caverns 
 in yonder rocks would be an asylum of comfort were you witk 
 m ' ; but I am selfish in these regrets, certain as I am that you ex- 
 changed 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 probability^ 
 now thought of her; but this was too dreadful to dwell upon, con* 
 vinced 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 waking of Mrs. Macpherson-^ 
 She hastily wiped away her tears, and hid the beloved picture. 
 The evening passed most disagreeably. Mrs. Macpherson was tedi- 
 ous 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 bed arrived, and relieved her from what might be called 
 a kind of mental bondage. 
 
 Such was the first day Amanda passed in her new habitation, 
 and a week passed in the same manner without any variation, 
 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, say- 
 ing, ‘ 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 man- 
 ner, she was frightened lest she should put her threats into exe- 
 cution, 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 gladly availed herself of this permission. She explored 
 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 frag- 
 ment of a rock and look toward the opposite shore. Vainly then 
 would she try to discover some of the objects she knew so well. 
 Castle Carberry was utterly undistinguishable, but she knew the 
 spot on which it stood, and derived a melancholy pleasure from 
 
35G 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 looking that way. In these retired rambles she would freely in* 
 dulge her tears, and gaze upon the picture of Lord Mortimer. 
 .She feared no observation ; 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 surprise 
 and uneasiness at not hearing from Mrs. Dermot. If much longer 
 ;;silent, she resolved on writing, feeling it impossible to endure 
 much longer the agony her ignorance of Lord Mortimer’s pro- 
 ceedings 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 every- 
 thing 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? ’ said 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 knowing she could not attempt to bring him into 
 the house for refreshment, gave him a crown to procure it else- 
 where, 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 Amanda. 
 ‘ Well, well ; and who is it from? ’ Amanda reflected that if she 
 isaid 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! Well, I suppose there is 
 nothing about life or death in it so you may wait till after dinner 
 io read it ; and pray sit down now, and hear the children their 
 spelling lessons.’ This was a tantalizing 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 nap, and Amanda instantly hastened 
 to a recess among the rocks, where, seating herself, she broke 
 the seal. The envelope contained two letters. The first she cast 
 her eyes upon was directed in Lord Cherbury’s hand. She trem- 
 bled, tore it open, and read as follows : 
 
 TO MISS FITZALAN. 
 
 In vain, my dear madam, do you say you never will receive pecuniary favors from 
 me. It is not you, but I, should lie under obligations from their acceptance. I should 
 <ieem myself the most ungrateful of mankind if I did not insist on carrying this point 
 I am but ju£*' returned to London, and shall immediately, order my, lawyer to draw up 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 35r 
 
 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. I am sensible, indeed, 
 that I never can recompense the sacrifice you have made me. The feelings it has ex- 
 cited I shall not attem^^t to express, because language could never do them justice, but. 
 you may conceive what I must feel for the be ng who has preserved me from dishonor 
 and destruction. I am informed Lord Mortimer has left Ireland, and therefore daily ex- 
 pect him in town. I have now not only every hope, but every prospect, of his comply- 
 ing with my wishes. This, I imagine, will be rather pleasing to you to hear, that you may" 
 know the sacrifice you have made is not made in vain, but will be attended with all thet 
 good consequences I expected to derive from it. I should again enjoy a tolerable de- 
 gree of peace, were I assured you were 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 far superior to any I have 
 ever met with! 
 
 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, 
 
 Cherbitrt. 
 
 ‘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 treachei^y 
 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! my vhild, why extort a promise from me of being minute in relating everything:; 
 which happened inconsequence of your departure— a promise so solemnly given that. 
 I dare not recede from it; yet most unwillingly do I keep it, sensible as I am that the 
 intelligence I have to communicate will but aggravate your sorrows. Methinks 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 fortitude 
 and patience that would prevent its materially injuring me.’ Well, my dear, hoping 
 this will be the case, I begin, without further delay, to communicate 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 unrefreshcd by what I did get- 
 After prayers I repaired to the parlor, where the assiduous care of Sister Mary had al- 
 ready prepared every thing 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 happiness so strongly im- 
 pressed in any countenance as in his. He 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 
 traveler. 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 pre- 
 tended to be looking at the garden to conceal my confusion. The maid returned in a 
 few minutes, and said you were not above. ‘Well,’ said Lord Mortimer, ‘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. ‘ O Heavens ! * 
 cried she, ‘MissFitzalan 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,. 
 
258 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 me. I started from my seat, and 
 perceived him pale and motionless, the letter open in his hand, upon which his eyes 
 were 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!’ 
 «aid Sister Mary again, ‘what does she say to you? ’ 1 gave her your letter, and destapd 
 iier to read it aloud, for the tears which flowed at the affecting situation of Lord Mor- 
 timer 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 con- 
 sidered as a loan by us. 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 par- 
 lor, and I then dismissed them. He had been endeavoring to compose himself, but 
 Lis efforts for doing so were ineffectual. He trembled, was pale as death, and spoke 
 with a faltciing 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 such a being as Amanda Fitzalan, for 
 •being the slave, the prey of vice. But she has been cruel to me; she has deceived, in- 
 humanly deceived me and blasted my peace for ever!’ ‘Ah, my lord!’ I replied, 
 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 sus- 
 picions 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 her secreted amid the ruins at a late hour. Ah, Heavens! when I no- 
 ticed her confusion, how easily did she exculpate herself to a heart prepossessed like 
 mine in her favor! Unhappy, unfortunate girl! sad and pitiable is thy fate! but may an 
 early repentance snatch thee from the villain who now triumphs in thy ruin; and 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 justification, 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 
 traveling chaise, was waiting at the door. 
 
 I own I was often tempted, in the course of conversation, to tell him all I know 
 .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 
 impii'Mtions cast on you. We cannot blame Lord Mortimer for them. Situated as you 
 were with him, your conduct has naturally excited the most injurious suspicions. 
 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 
 kappiness 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 obscurity, led thither by a fatal 
 necessity which you are bound to conceal, and feel more severely from that circum- 
 -^tauce. He would, I am confident, credit my words ; and then, instead of condemning, 
 would join me in pitying 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 tran- 
 sitory in its splendor. Lord Mortimer had left the convent about two hours, when his 
 man arrived to dismiss the traveling 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 Fitzalan, 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 359 
 
 conjectured, I fancy, the occasion of the terror my countenance expressed, for he 
 immediately said he had been ill on returning 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 which 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 in- 
 stantly, therefore, replied, that we had already been rewarded beyond our expectation 
 or desires for any little attention we showed Miss Fitzalan ; 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 
 oito the garden, so absorbed in meditation that he did not hear me. 1 heard him say, 
 
 “ Cruel Amanda ! is it thus you have rewarded my sufferings ? ’ I retreated, lest he 
 should be confused by supposing himself overheard, and did not return till the maid 
 brought in the tea things. When he arose to depart, he looked wavering and agitated, 
 as if there was something on his mind he wanted courage to say. At last, in a faltering 
 voice, while the deadly paleness of his complexion gave way to a deep crimson, he said, 
 
 * I left Miss Pitzalan’s letter with you.’ Ah, my dearl never did man love woman better 
 than he did, than he now loves you. 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 reko- 
 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 wringing 
 my hand, he bid me farewell, in a voice, and with 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 proclaimed the deepest distress. I have sent repeatedly 
 .to Castle Carberry since his departure to inquire about him, and have been informed 
 that they expect to hear nothing of him till Lord Cherbury’s agent comes into the coun- 
 try, 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 liberal benefactor, and 
 our prayers are daily offered up for his restoration to health and tranquillity. Among 
 his other actions, when in Dublin, about three months ago, he ordered a monument to 
 the memory of Captain Fitzalan, which has been brough*. 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 standing upon a pedestal 
 of gray, on which the name of the deceased, and words to the following effect, are in- 
 acribed, namely : ‘ That he whose memory it perpetuates performed the duties 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 lit 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. Macpherson. I 
 iave 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 situation is too obscure for you to con- 
 tinue in, and, as soon as your thoughts are collected and oomposed, you must lookout 
 for 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 ; besides, 
 I have really nothing interesting to communicate ; whenever I have, you may be assured 
 I shall not lose a moment in informing you. 
 
 The woman was extremely thankful for the five guineas you left her. Lord Morti- 
 mer sent her five more by his man ; so that she thinks herself well rewarded for any 
 trouble or disappointment she experienced. If you wiel 2 to have any of your things sent 
 
360 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 to yon, acquaint 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 sources, 
 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. 1 know he would believe me, and I should do it with- 
 out 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 healthy 
 the peace of Lord Mortimer,’ she exclaimed, ‘ and he now execrates 
 me as the source of his unhappiness. O Lord Cherbury, how 
 severely do I suffer for your crime ! ’ 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 wretchedness, she felt it light compared to the horrors 
 she knew she 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 
 mentioning her in any manner to Lord Mortimer. She was well 
 convinced he would believe no asseveration of her innocence. 
 And even if he did, what end could 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, ‘ forever 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 found 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 believe she was right in supposing she had got 
 a love-letter. ’ Amanda made no reply, and the evening passed 
 away in peevishness 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 shb could 
 write but seldom, and scarcely expected to have anything interest- 
 ing to relate. She would gladly, therefore, have left Mrs. Mac- 
 pherson immediately, but she knew not where to go. She re 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 361 
 
 solved, however, ere winter had entirely set in, to request Mrs„ 
 Dermot to look out for some other place for her ; as she had con- 
 nections 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. 
 
 * 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 Who knows the joys of friendship 
 The trust, security, and mutual tenderness, 
 
 The double joys, where each is glad for both; 
 
 Friendship, our only wealth, our last retreat and strength, 
 
 Secure against ill-fortune and the world?— Rowe. 
 
 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 acci- 
 dent. 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 their dear, good Frances Don- 
 ald. 
 
 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. Macpherson was en- 
 gaged with some of the children, to tell her, in a low voice, ‘ she 
 was truly obliged to her for the great attention 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. Mac- 
 pherson, 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. Macpher- 
 son in chat, and gave her an opportunity of conversing freely 
 with Amanda. She remarked the delicacy of her looks, and said 
 ‘She believed she was ill-qualified to endure so fatiguing a life ai 
 
362 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 her present one.’ She mentioned her lonely and melancholy life 
 and the happiness she would derive from having such a compam 
 ion, and expressed her hopes of often enjoying her society. Aman- 
 da said this would be impossible without disobliging Mrs. Mac- 
 pherson; 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 seaside, 
 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 mar- 
 riage were attended with difficulties, which were just removed, 
 when he was lost on a party of pleasure, with several others. 
 ‘ It was some consolation, however,’ continued Mrs. Duncan, ‘ that 
 the body was cast upon the shore, and I had the power of pay- 
 ing the last rites of decency and respect to him.’ In short, be- 
 tween her and Amanda there appeared a mutual sympathy, 
 which rendered them truly interesting to each other. From this 
 period they generally met every evening, and passed many hours 
 on the ‘sea-beat shore,’ talking, and often weeping, overjoys de- 
 parted, never to return ! 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 con- 
 ducted 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 particularly 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 you ever heard of it ? ’ Amanda’s agitation, at hearing her 
 mother’s native habitation mentioned, is not to be described. 
 Her heart palpitated; she felt her color cViange, and said Yes and 
 No to Mrs. Duncan, without knowing what she answered. Then 
 recollecting herself, she replied, ‘she had heard of it.’ ‘Well, 
 then, my dear,’ continued Mrs. Duncan, ‘ my aunt, as I have al 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 363 
 
 ready 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 decease. 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 morning, to go immediately and take 
 up my residence with her, promising, if I do, she will leave every- 
 tl ling 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 in- 
 tended, 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 
 boarding 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 for 
 me, and an eligible governess for them. With such a person, the 
 solitude of Dunreath Abbey would be rather agreeable than irk- 
 some to me.’ 
 
 She looked earnestly at Amanda as she spoke, and Amanda’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 accomplishments 
 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 
 \n 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 or two 
 I may expect an answer. In the meantime, give Mrs. Macpherson 
 no intimation of our present intentions, lest they should be de- 
 feated.’ Amanda promised she would not, and they separated. 
 
 She was now in a state of the greatest agitation, at the prob- 
 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 
 
364 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 evenings after her conversation with Mrs. Duncan, on going to 
 the beach to meet her, she saw her approaching with an open letter 
 in her hand, and a smile on her face, which informed her its con- 
 tents were pleasing. They were so indeed, as they gave permission 
 to have Amanda brought to the Abbey, provided she promised in- 
 violable secrecy as to where she was going. This Amanda cheer- 
 fully 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 assured 
 her an idea of them 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. Every- 
 thing being settled to their mutual satisfaction, they separated, 
 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 in- 
 veigling her away, and the third for recommending a person who 
 could serve her in such a manner. When she stopped, exhausted 
 by her violence, Amanda took the opportunity of assuring her 
 that she had no reason to condemn any of them ; as for her part, 
 previous to Mrs. Duncan’s offer, she intended 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 expected to meet with a person so well qualb 
 fled 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 mollify 
 her ; as the most effectual method of doing so, she declared 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 de- 
 clared she would take no payment. Amanda accordingly wrote 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 365 
 
 Co 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 
 the 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 
 preparing 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 say- 
 ing, there was no intelligence yet of Lord Mortimer. Mrs. Mac- 
 pherson was pleased to find she should not be long without a com- 
 panion, 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, attended 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 ; they 
 rose early in the morning, and had just breakfasted when the ex- 
 pected carriage from Dunreath Abbey arrived. It was a heavy, 
 old-fashioned chaise, on whose faded panels the arms of the Dun- 
 reath family were still visible. Mrs. Duncan’s luggage had been 
 sent off the preceding day, so that there was 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 some time 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 ten- 
 derest affections without a fiood of tears, which spoke the bitterness 
 of her f eelin gs. Amanda knew too well liie nature of those feelings 
 to attempt restraining 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 
 
366 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 recover her spirits. She accordingly exerted herself for thatpui^ 
 pose, and was soon in a condition to converse with Amanda. The 
 day was fine and serene ; they traveled 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 v^arious, romantic, and beautiful ; the novelty of the scenes 
 the disagreeable pla<»€ she had left, and the idea of the one shct 
 was going to helped a little to enliven the pensive soul of Amanda, 
 and she enjoyed a greater degree of tranquillity than she had be- 
 fore experienced since her separation from Lord Mortimer. 
 
 CHAPTER XLTV. 
 
 My listening powers 
 
 Were awed, and every thought in silence hong 
 
 And wondering expectation.— A kenside. 
 
 ‘ My dear Fanny,’ said Mrs. Duncan, addressing our heroine by 
 her borrowed name, ‘if at all inclined to superstition, you are 
 now going to a place which will call it forth. Dunreath Abbey is 
 gothic and gloomy in the extreme, and recalls to one’s mind all the 
 stories they ever heard of haunted houses and apparitions. The 
 desertion of the native inhabitants has hastened the depredations 
 of time, whose ravages are unrepaired, except in the part immedi- 
 ately occupied by the domestics. Yet what is the change in the 
 building compared to the revolution which took place in the for- 
 tunes of her, who once beheld a prospect of being its mistress. The 
 earl of Dunreath’s eldest daughter, as I have often heard from 
 many, was a celebrated beauty, and as good as she was handsome, 
 but a malignant stepmother thwarted her happiness, and forced 
 her to take shelter in the arms of a man who had everything but 
 fortune to recommend him — but, 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 in- 
 vidious stepmother again interfered, and prevented her experienc- 
 ing any good effects from his returning tenderness, and, it was 
 rumored, by a deep and iniquitous scheme, deprived her of her 
 birthright. Like other rumors, however, it gradually died away, 
 perhaps from Lady Malvina and her husband never hearing of 
 it, and none but them had a right to inquire into its truth. But 
 if such a scheme was really contrived, woe be to its fabricator; 
 the pride and pomp of wealth can neither alleviate nor recom- 
 pense 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 
 door to door, to beg the dole of charity, than live upon the birtL 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 36 ? 
 
 right 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 inferior to her, which partiality, people have 
 not scrupled to say, commenced and w’as indulged to a criminal 
 degree during the lifetime of her husband. She would have mar 
 ri^ him, had not her daughter, the Marchioness of Roslin, inter- 
 fered. Proud and ambitious, her rage at the prospect of such a^,. 
 alliance knew no bounds, and, seconded by the marquis, whosr 
 disposition was congenial to her own, they got the unfortunate 
 mother into their power, and hurried her otf to a convent in 
 France. I know not whether she is yet living; indeed, I believe 
 there are 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 abso- 
 lute mistress of the few domestics that reside c^t the Abbey. But of 
 those domestics I caution you in time, or they will be apt to fill 
 your head with frightful stories of the Abbey, which sometimes, 
 if one’s spirits are weak, in spite of reason, will make an impres- 
 sion on the mind. They pretend that the Earl of Dunreath’s first 
 wife haunts the Abbej", venting the most piteous moans, whick 
 they ascribe to grief for the unfortunate fate of her daughter, and 
 that daughter’s children being deprived of their rightful patri- 
 mony. I honestly confess, when at the Abbey a few years ago^ 
 during some distresses of my husband, 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 ex- 
 pressed, 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 contin- 
 ued the latter part of her discourse in a low voice, ‘ is all between 
 ourselves ; for my aunt declared she would never pardon my men- 
 tioning my ridiculous 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 inclosed tlie 
 valley in 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 
 
368 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 which 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 decay. She 
 saw it when, to use the beautiful language of Hutchinson, its 
 pride was brought low, when its magnificence was sinking in 
 the dust, when tribulation had taken the seat of hospitality, and 
 solitude reigned, where once the jocund guest had laughed over 
 the sparkling bowl, while the owls sang nightly their strains of 
 melancholy to the moonshine that slept upon its moldering bat- 
 tlements. 
 
 The heart of Amanda was full of the fond idea of her parents, 
 and the sigh of tender remembrance stole from it. ‘ How little 
 Toom,’ 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 themselves, should 
 check the arrogant presumption with which so many look for- 
 ward to having their greatness and prosperity perpetuated 
 through every branch of their posterity. 
 
 ‘ The proud possessors of this Abbey, surrounded with affluence 
 and living in its full enjoyment, never perhaps admitted the idea 
 as at all probable, that one of their descendants should ever ap- 
 proach the seat of her ancestors, without that pomp and elegance 
 which heretofore distinguished its daughters. Alas ! one now ap- 
 proaches 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 afilicted and unknown, glad to find 
 a shelter, and procure the bread* of dependence, beneath its de- 
 caying roof.’ 
 
 Mrs. Duncan happily marked not Amanda’s emotion as she 
 gazed upon the Abbey. She was busily employed in answering 
 her children’s questions, who wanted to know whether she"thought 
 they would be able to climb un tb*^ p-reat big hills they saw. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 369 
 
 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 appear- 
 ance of the greatest pleasure. On Amanda’s being presented to 
 her, she gazed steadfastly in her face a few minutes, and then ex- 
 claimed, ‘Well, this is very strange; though I know I could 
 never have seen this young lady before, her face is quite famil- 
 iar 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 w^ere seen. Bude im- 
 plements, 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 elegant saloon. 
 This, she told them, had once been the banqueting room. The 
 furniture, though faded, was still magnificent, and the windows^ 
 though still in the gothic 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, always 
 makes me melancholy. The moment I enter it I think of the en- 
 tertainments once given in it, and then its present vacancy 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 an- 
 other, 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 almost exhausted from the emotions it had 
 experienced. The murmuring sound of waterfalls, and the buz- 
 zing of the flies that basked in the sunny rays which darted 
 through the casements, lulled her into a kind of pensive tranquil- 
 lity. 
 
 ‘ Am I really,’ she asked herself, ‘in the seat of my ancestors ? 
 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. 
 
S70 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 and subdue, if not its afiPections, at least its murmurs at the dis» 
 appointment of those affections.’ 
 
 The appearance of dinner interrupted her. She made exertions 
 to overcome any appearance of dejection, and the conversation, if 
 inot lively, was at least cheerful. After dinner Mrs. Duncan, who 
 had been informed by Amanda of her predilection for old build- 
 ings, asked her aunt’s permission to show her the Abbey. Mrs. 
 Bruce immediately arose, 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 this 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 
 g’allery 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 stopped 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 distin- 
 guished 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 lum- 
 ber [the soul of Amanda was struck at these words], it has been 
 locked up for years.’ ‘ And is it impossible to see it ? ’ asked 
 Amanda. ‘ Impossible, indeed,’ replied Mrs. Bruce. ‘The chapel 
 and the whole eastern 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 disappointment she felt at finding she 
 could not see her mother’s picture. She would have entreated the 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. SYI 
 
 chapel might be opened for that purpose, had she not feared ex- 
 citing suspicions by 'doing so. 
 
 They returned from the gallery to the parlor; and in the course 
 of conversation Amanda heard many interesting anecdotes of her 
 ancestor's from Mrs. Bruce. Her m^/ther was also mentioned, and 
 Mrs. Bruce, by dwelling on her worth, made amends, in some de- 
 gree, to Amanda for having called her picture lumber. She re 
 tired to her chamber with her mind at once softened and ele- 
 vated by hearing of her mother’s virtues. She 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 ; nor to cease their tute- 
 lary care till she was joined to them by Providence. 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 Such on the ground the fading rose we see. 
 
 By some rude blast torn from the parent tree! 
 
 The daffodil so leans his languid head, 
 
 Newly mown down upon his grassy bed I— Lee. 
 
 Experience convinced Amanda that the change in her situa- 
 tion was, if possible, more pleasing than she 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 doc- 
 ile and affectionate. Could she have avoided retrospection, she 
 would have been happy; but the remembrance of past events was 
 too deeply impressed upon her mind to be erased; it mingled in 
 the visions of the night, in the avocations of the day, and in the 
 meditations of her lonely hours, forcing from her heart the signs 
 of regret and tenderness. Her mornings were devoted to her 
 pupils, and in the evenings she sometimes walked with Mrs. Dun- 
 can, sometimes read aloud while 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 walking nor working — she always took that oppor- 
 tunity of retiring from the room, and either rambled through the 
 dark and intricate windings of the Abbey, or about the grounds 
 contiguous to it. She sighed whenever she passed the chapel 
 which contained the picture of her mother ; it was in a ruinous 
 condition, 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 
 onhe Abbey. A fortnight passed away at the Abbey without any 
 
S72 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 thing happening to disturb the tranquillity which reigned in it. 
 No one approached it except a few of the wandering children oi 
 poverty, and its inhabitants seemed perfectly content with their 
 seclusion from the world. Amanda, by Mrs. Duncan’s desire, had 
 wold Mrs. Dermot to direct her letters to a town about five miles 
 irom the Abbey ; thither a man went every day, but constantly 
 returned without one for her. 
 
 ‘ Why,’ she asked herself, ‘ this anxiety for a letter, this disap- 
 pointment at not receiving one, when I neither expect to hear 
 anything interesting nor agreeable ? Mrs. Dermot has already 
 said she had no means of hearing about Lord Mortimer ; and, even 
 if she had, why should I 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 Eoslin’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 dismission 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 release 
 them from confinement, as the steward had departed. ‘He has 
 brought unexpected intelligence, ’ said she ; ‘ the marquis and his 
 family are coming down to the castle. The season is so far ad- 
 vanced, I did not suppose they would visit it till next summer 
 I must, therefore,’ continued she, addressing 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 tome.’ 
 
 Mrs. Duncan begged she would not suffer the least uneasiness 
 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 nup- 
 
 tials ! ’ exclaimed Amanda, in an agitated 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, from the unfortunate Amanda, who at the same 
 moment fell back in her chair, pale and without motion. Mrs. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 37 ^ 
 
 Duncan screamed out, 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 acquaint- 
 ance, that her heart had experienced a disappointment of the tender- 
 est nature. Her little girls, too, had told her that they had seen Miss 
 Donald crying over a picture. Her suspicions 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 sorrows, 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 accordingly 
 led her to it. The former almost immediately retired, and the 
 tears of Amanda now burst forth. She wept a long time without 
 intermission ; and as soon as her sobs would permit her to speak, 
 begged Mrs. Duncan to leave her to herself. Mrs. Duncan knew 
 too well the luxury of secret grief to deny her the enjoyment of 
 so melancholy a feast, and directly withdrew. 
 
 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 
 to think about it. Were he to be united to any other woman than 
 Lady Euphrasia, she thought she would not be so wretched. 
 ‘O 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 I Alas ! am I 
 not wretched enough in contemplating my own prospect of un- 
 happiness, 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 1 ’ said she, with fer- 
 vor, and raising her hands and eyes. ‘ Soften, gracious Heaven I 
 soften the flinty nature of Lady Euphrasia. Oh, render her 
 sensible of the blessing you bestow in giving her Lord Mortimer! 
 and render her not only capable of inspiring, but of feeling ten- 
 derness. May she prove to him the tender friend, the faithful, the 
 affectionate companion the unfortunate Amanda would have 
 been ! Oh, may she build her happiness on his ! and may his be 
 great as his virtues — extensive as his charities ; and may the know! 
 edge of it soothe my afflicted heart I ’ 
 
374 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Her spirits were a little elevated by the fervency of her Ian 
 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 1 ’ 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 
 xhe idea of incurring them, she hastily wiped away her tears, 
 and opening the door, found her friend Mrs. Duncan 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 difficulty could she re- 
 strain her tears, or answer the inquiries Mrs. Bruce made after 
 what she supposed a mere bodily indisposition. She forced her- 
 self, however, to continue in the parlor till after tea, when, cards 
 being produced, she had an opportunity of going out and in- 
 dulging her anguish without fear of interruption. Unable, 
 however, to walk far, she repaired to the old chapel, and sitting 
 down by it, leaned her head against its decayed and ivy-covered 
 walls. She had scarcely sat in this manner a minute when the 
 stones gave way, with a noise which terrified her, and she would 
 have fallen backward had she not caught at some projecting 
 wood. She hastily rose, and found that the ivy entirely con- 
 cealed 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 ex- 
 amine 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 
 •tepping over the fallen rubbish, she found herself in the body of 
 ne chapel. The silent hour of twilight was now advanced, but 
 :lie moonbeams that darted through the broken roof prevented 
 the chapel from being involved in utter darkness. Already had 
 the owls begun their strains of melancholy on its moldering 
 pillars, while the ravens croaked among 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 looked for the picture, and perceived one reclined 
 against the wall near the altar. She wiped away the dust, and 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 375 
 
 perceived this was indeed the one she sought, the one her father 
 Lad so often described to her. The light was too imperfect for her 
 to distinguish 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 pa- 
 thetic manner in which her father had mentioned his emotion 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 Fitzalan and Malvina had 
 plighted their irrevocable vows. She leaned her arm on the 
 rails, but her face was turned to the picture, as if it could see and 
 would pity her distress. She remained in this situation till the 
 striking of the Abbey clock warned her to depart. In goings 
 toward the entrance she perceived a small arched door at the 
 opposite side. As the apartments 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 even- 
 ing, immediately after tea, repaired to the chapel, leaving them 
 engaged as usual at cards. She stood a few minutes before it, to 
 see if anyone was near; but, perceiving no object, she again en- 
 tered 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 descjibed by her father. She contem- 
 plated 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 
 lierself their wretched orphan, a stranger, and a dependent in the 
 mansion of her ancestors. She pronounced the name of Lord 
 Mortimer in the impassioned accents of tenderness and distress. 
 As she thus indulged the sorrows of her soul in tears and lamen- 
 ^;ations, she suddenly heard a faint noise, like an advancing foot- 
 step, 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 anyone’s 
 visiting it she could not conceive. She listened in trembling 
 anxiety a few minutes. All again was still, and she returned to 
 the parlor, where she found the ladies as she had left them, deter- 
 mined, notwithstanding her late fright, to return the next even- 
 ing to the chapel, and visit the apartments that were hex 
 mother’s. 
 
376 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 CHAPTER XLYI. 
 
 What beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade 
 
 Invites my steps ? —Pope. 
 
 The next evening Amanda’s patience was put to the test ; foF 
 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 chapel, considering this, in all probability, the only oppor- 
 tunity she would have of visiting the apartments her mother had 
 occupied (which she had an irrepre^ible 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 center of which was a grand staircase, the whole enlight- 
 ened by a large gothic window at the head of the stairs. She 
 ascended them with trepidation, for her footsteps produced a hol- 
 low echo, which added something awful to the gloom that en- 
 veloped 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 terminated b}^ the apartments she wanted to 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 gratify- 
 ing 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 jusi discern a spacious room. This, she supposed, had been 
 her mother’s dressing room. The moonbeams, as if to aid hef 
 wish of examining it, suddenly darted through the casements 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 3T^ 
 
 Cheered by the unexpected light, she advanced into the room ; 
 at the upper end of it something in white attracted her notice, 
 ^he 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 de- 
 scribed 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 specter, 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 ex- 
 claimed, and at the moment felt an icy hand upon hers. 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 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 he’i* 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 area 
 descendant of the Dunreath family. I heard you last night, when 
 you imagined no being near, call yourself the unfortunate 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 dependent in the 
 house of your ancestors.’ ‘ I am both,' said Amanda ; ‘ my real 
 
378 
 
 THE CHILDEEN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 name is concealed, from circumstances peculiarly distressing, and 
 1 have been brought to the Abbey as an instructress to two chil- 
 dren 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 ! 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 !’ she exclaimed, ‘can 
 this be possible ? ’ ‘ Have you not been taught to execrate my 
 
 name ?’ asked the unhappy woman. ‘ Oh, no ! ’ replied Amanda. 
 ‘ No,’ replied Lady Dunreath, ‘because your mother was an angel. 
 But did she not leave a son V ‘Yes,’ 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, I 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 meantime, 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 fa- 
 tigued with walking, and begged leave to retire to her chamber.^ 
 Mrs. Duncan attended her to it, and would have sat with her till 
 she saw her in bed, had Amanda allowed ; but it was not her in' 
 
THE CniLDREX OF THE ABBEY 
 
 'Slit 
 
 tention, indeed, to go to bed for some time. When left to herself 
 the surprising* and interesting discovery she had made had sa 
 agitated her that she could scarcely compose herself enough to take 
 up a pen to narrate the particulars of her life, as Lady Dunreath 
 iiad 2 *equested. She sketched them in a brief yet hasty manner, 
 sufficiently strong, however, to interest the feelings of a sympa- 
 thetic heart; the tender and peculiar sorrows of her own she 
 omitted; her life was represented sufficiently calamitous, without 
 mentioning the incurable sorrow which disappointed love had en- 
 tailed upon it. She was glad she had executed her task with 
 iiaste, as Mrs. Duncan called upon her in the course of the next 
 day to assist in packing for their rem( val to the neighboring town, 
 The evening was far advanced ere s^ e had an opportunity of re- 
 pairing to the chapel, where she f und 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 com- 
 passion, 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 grand- 
 father, a sacred dep|:)sit, intrusted to your care for your brother, 
 the rightful heir of 'the Earl of Dunreath. Oh, may its resto- 
 ration, and my sincere repentance, atone for its long detention 
 and concealment. Oh ! may the fortune it will bestow upon you, 
 as well as your brother, be productive to both of the purest happi- 
 aess.’ Trembling with joyful surprise, Amanda received the 
 reaper. Gracious Heaven ! ’ exclaimed she, ‘ is it possible ? Do 
 . ically hold the will of my grandfather — a will which will entitle 
 my brother to affluence ? Oh, Providence ! how mysterious are 
 thy ways ! O Oscar, beloved of my heart/ she continued, forget- 
 ting at that moment every consideration of self, ‘ could thy sis- 
 ter 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 witness- 
 jLxig that happiness the other will find a mitigation of misery.’ 
 1 ears burst from her as she spoke, and relieved the strong erno 
 ti ms that swelled her heart, almost to bursting. 
 
380 
 
 THE CHILDEEN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 ‘ Oh ! talk not of your misery,’ said Lady Dunreath, with a con-= 
 vulsive sigh, ‘ lest you drive me to despair. Forever must I ac- 
 cuse 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 friend to 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 remembered in the woFd, it is only with contempt and ab- 
 horrence. The laws of my country would certainly liberate me 
 at once ; but if things turn - ut as I expect, there will be no occa- 
 sion for^an application to them, and any step of that kind at pres- 
 ent 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 de- 
 siring such secrecy.’ Amanda put it with the will into her bosom, 
 and gave in return the little narrative she had sketched. They 
 both assisted in replacing the box and flag, and then seated them- 
 selves on the steps of the altar. Amanda informed Lady Dun- 
 reath of her intended departure the next day from the Abl>ey, and 
 the occasion of it. Lady Dunreath expressed the utmost impa- 
 tience 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 be- 
 lieved, would soon forsake its earthly habitation. Tears of com- 
 passion fell from Amanda at these words, and she shuddered to 
 think that the unfortunate woman might die abandoned, and be- 
 reft of comfort. Again she urged her to think of some expedient 
 for procuring immediate liberty, and again Lady Dunreath assured 
 her it was impossible. Absorbed in a kind of sympathetic melan- 
 choly, they forgot the danger of delay till the Abbey clock chiming 
 half an hour past ten — which was later than Mrs. Bruce’s usual 
 hour of supper— startled and alarmed them both. ‘ Go ! go ! ’ cried 
 Lady Dunreath, with a wild expression of fear ; ‘go! or we are 
 undone !’ 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 dan- 
 ger, as the night was too dark to permit any object to be dis- 
 cerned ; but the breeze sighing among 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, v/hich wound from it to the entrance of the Abbe,y, and in 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 381 
 
 doing* so passed her hand over the cold face of a human bein^. 
 Terrified, an involuntary scream burst from her. and she faintly, 
 articulated : ‘ Defend me, Heaven ! ’ In the next moment she 
 was seized round the waist, and her senses were receding, when 
 Mrs. Duncan’s voice recalled them. She apologized to Amanda 
 for giving her such a fright ; but said, ‘ that her uneasiness was 
 so great at her long absence that, attended by a servant, she had 
 come ill quest of her.’ 
 
 Mrs. Duncan’s voice relieved Amanda from the horror of think- 
 ing 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 over- 
 heard, and of course the secret of the will discovered, 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 accordingly 
 remained in the parlor, but with a mind so occupied by the inter- 
 esting 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 intentness fixed them on Mrs. Bruce, who con- 
 tinued 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 consciousness of having betrayed the secret of 
 her heart ; but her confusion was inferior to her grief, and the 
 rich suffusion of the one soon gave place to the deadly hue of the 
 other. ‘ Ah ! ’ thought she, ‘ what is now the acquisition of 
 wealth, when happiness is beyond my reach ! ’ Yet scarcely had 
 she conceived the thought ere she wished it buried in oblivion. 
 
 ‘ Is the comfort of independence, the power of dispensing 
 ness to others, nothing ? ’ she asked herself. ‘ Do they not merit 
 gratitude of the most pure thankfulness, of the most fervent 
 nature to Providence ? They do,’ she cried, and paid them at the 
 
'3S2 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 moment by the silence of her 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 sc 
 carefully d€|)osited there, and sat down to peruse the narrative of 
 Lady Dundreath. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII, 
 
 For true repentance never comes too late ; 
 
 As soon as born she makes herself a shroud. 
 
 The weeping mantle of a fleecy Cioud, 
 
 And swift as thought her airy lourney 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.— L e^. 
 
 Narrative of Lady Dunreath. 
 
 Adoring the Power who has given me means of making resti- 
 tution for my injustice, I take up my pen to disclose to your view, 
 oh! lovely orphan of the injured Malvina, the frailties 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 confinement, 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 by 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, per- 
 haps, have it accorded ; if so, from that blissful abode where thoj 
 now enjoyest felicity, if the departed souls of the happy an 
 allowed to view the transactions of this world, thine, I am con- 
 vinced, will behold, with benignancy and compassion, the wretch 
 who covers herself with shame to atone for her injuries to thee. 
 But I must restrain these effusions of my heart, lest I encroach 
 too much upon the limited time allotted to make what I may call 
 my confession, and inform you of particulars 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 deprive her of her 
 fetr er’s t-? vor, and place her in that state of poverty which would 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 38a 
 
 conceal charms I detested for being superior to my daughter's. 
 The earl’s resentment was violent at first ; but with equal surprise 
 and concern I so6n perceived it gradually subsiding. The irrev- 
 ocableness of the deed, the knowledge that he wanted no acqui- 
 sition of fortune, above all, Fitzalan’s noble descent, and the 
 graces and virtues he possessed, worthy of the highest station, 
 dwelt upon the earl’s imagination, and pleaded strongly in ex- 
 tenuation of his daughter. Alarmed lest my schemes against her 
 should be rendered abortive, like an evil spirit, I contrived to re- 
 kindle, 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 per- 
 haps 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 this was a point I 
 could not accomplish, and I lived in continual apprehension lest 
 his dying intestate should give Lady Malvina the fortune I 
 wanted to deprive her of. Anxious, however, to procure 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, portion in ready money ; 
 but, notwithstanding all my endeavors, would not make a settle- 
 ment of any of his estates upon her. I, however, still hoped, anc. 
 the marquis, from what I said, believed that she would possess 
 all his fortune. My daughter’s nuptials added to my natural 
 haughtiness. They also increased my love of pleasure, by afford- 
 ing me more amply the means of gratifying it at the sumptuous 
 entertainments at the marquis’ castle. Engaged continually in 
 them, the earl, whose infirmities confined him to the Abbey, was 
 left to solitude and the care of his domestics. My neglect, you 
 will say, was impolitic while I had any point to carry with him ; 
 but Providence has so wisely ordained it that vice should still 
 defeat 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 
 
384 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 by pleasure, my prudence, no — it deserves not such an appella- 
 tion — forsook me. Tlioug-h the earl's body was a prey to the in° 
 firmities of age, his mind knew none of its nmbecilities, and 
 he sensibly felt and secretly resented my neglect. The more he 
 reflected on it, the more he contrasted it with the attention ho 
 was accustomed to receive from his banished Malvina, and th6 
 resentment I had hitherto kept alive in his mind against her 
 gradually subsided, so that he was well prepared to give a favor- 
 able 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 aftection for its mother, and regret for his rigor to her. 
 Yet amid 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 violence of my 
 temper, and felt too weak to enter into any altercation 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 requested 
 an interview with the earl, I suppose you already know. Gracious 
 Heaven ! my heart sickens, even at this remote period, when I 
 reflect on the night I turned her from her paternal home — from 
 that mansion under whose roof her benevolent 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 represented to me the barbarity of my con- 
 duct. I trembled with involuntary fears. Sounds had power to 
 terrify. Every blast which shook the Abbey (and dreadful was 
 the tempest of that night) made me shrink as if about to meet 
 with an instantaneous 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 Malvina’s departure from the neighbor- 
 jhood of the Abbey, I contrived a letter in Captain Fitzalan’s 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 880 
 
 name to the earl, filled with the most cutting* and insolent re* 
 proaches to him for his conduct to his daughter, and imputing 
 her precipitate departure from Scotland to it. These unjust re- 
 proaches, I trusted, would irritate the earl, and work another 
 revolution in his mind ; but 1 was disappointed. He either be- 
 lieved the letter a forgery, or else resolved the children should 
 not suffer for the fault of the parent. He accordingly 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 tender, an ardent passion took posses- 
 sion of my heart, on beholding 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 myself 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 need have done, and, when he left it, his absence was of short 
 continuance. The earl’s business was his pretext for his long and 
 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 Mal- 
 vina 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 mar- 
 quis, who nearly resembled her in these particulars, would en- 
 deavor 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 
 
386 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 he promised to do, but, it is almost unnecessary to say, never ful 
 filled such a promise. 
 
 In about a year after the commencement of my attachment foi 
 Melross, the earl expired, and the marchioness inherited his pos- 
 sessions by means of a forged will executed by Melross, igno- 
 rant, 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 re- 
 moved from the Abbey to an estate about fifteen miles from it, 
 which the earl had left me, and here, much sooner than decency 
 would have warranted, avowed my intention of marrying Mel- 
 ross to the Marquis and Marchioness of Roslin. The conse- 
 quences of this avowal were pretty much what I expected. The 
 marquis, more by looks than 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 degra- 
 dation to his illustrious house ; it would also be a confirmation of 
 the scandalous reports w’hich had already been circulated to the 
 prejudice of my character about him. Her words roused all the 
 violence of my soul. I upbraided her with ingratitude to a parent 
 who had stepped beyond the bounds of rigid propriety to give her 
 an increase of fortune. My words alarmed her and the marquis, 
 ff'hey hastily demanded an explanation of them. I did not hesi- 
 tate in giving one, protesting at the same time that I would no 
 longer hurt my feelings on their account, as I found no complai- 
 sance to my wishes, but immediately avow Lady Malvina Fitz- 
 alan the lawful heiress of the Earl of Dunreath. 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 connected 
 with.’ 
 
 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 389 
 
 fn my power to deprive them of their newly acquired possessions^ 
 which to secure, I doubted not their sacrificing their pride to 
 my wishes. I 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 latet 
 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 profession you may believe, but complaisance was all I 
 required. I accompanied her to the marquis ; a general recon- 
 ciliation ensued, and Melross was presented to them. In about 
 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 nupitals 
 till we reached Paris, which 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 cf his splendid esr- 
 tablishment 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 in penetrable, had 
 
388 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Yelled 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 ! 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 
 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 in- 
 sulting coolness, ‘ when it is known you are incapable of making 
 a proper use of that liberty. You should thank me,’ he con- 
 tinued, ‘ 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 I 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 un- 
 lawful possessions. Thus pride and avarice tempted and de- 
 termined 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 showing 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 389 ^ 
 
 to view by restoring it to the right owner.’ I demanded my 
 liberty, I threatened, supplicated, bat all 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 passions she has so long 
 blushed to behold she will no more witness.’ ‘ Rather say,’ I ex- 
 claimed, ‘ 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.’ 
 
 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 a 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 housekeeper 
 at the Abbey before my marriage, sat beside me ; I hesitated a 
 few minutes whether I should address her as a suppliant or a 
 superior ; the latter, however, being most agreeable to my inclina- 
 tions, I bid her, with a haughty air, which I hoped would awe 
 her into obedience, assist me in rising, and procure some convey- 
 ance from the Abbey without delay. The marquis entered the 
 chamber as I spoke. ‘ Compose yourself, madam,’ said he, ‘ your 
 destiny, I repeat, is irrevocable ; this Abbey is your future resi- 
 dence, and bless those who have afforded your follies such an 
 asylum. It behooves both the marchioness and me indeed 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 him, 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 
 
S90 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 m which I had been tortured with frightful visions. The first 
 object my eyes beheld, now blessed with the powers of clear per- 
 ception, 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 questions 
 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 encompassed 
 me at length grew too dreary to be borne, and I desired Mrs. 
 Bruce to draw back the curtains of the bed and windows. She 
 obeyed, and the bright beams of the sun, darting into the room, 
 displayed to my view an object I could not behold without 
 shuddering — this was the portrait of Lady Dunreath, exactly op- 
 posite the bed. My mind was' softened by illness, and I felt in 
 that moment as if her sainted spirit stood before me to awaken 
 my conscience to remorse and my heart to repentance. The 
 benevolence which had irradiated the countenance of the original 
 with a celestial expression was powerfully expressed upon the 
 canvas, and recalled, oh ! how affectingly 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 ! how 
 excruciating were my feelings at this period of awakened con- 
 science! I no longer inveighed against my sufferings. I con- 
 sidered them in the light of retribution, and felt an awful resig- 
 nation take possession of my soul. 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 a 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 con- 
 finement without many efforts to liberate myself through her 
 means ; but her fidelity to her unnatural employers was not to be 
 shaken. Blushing, 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 de- 
 scendants of Lady Dunreath influenced me to desire my freedom. 
 Oh ! never did that desire cease — never did a morning dawn, an 
 evening close, 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 atten- 
 tion till my health was re-established. She then ceased to see me^ 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 391 
 
 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 I am indebted 
 for being able to endure, with some degree of calmness, my long 
 and dreadful captivity. They enlarged my heart, they enlight- 
 ened its ideas concerning the Supreme Being, they impressed it 
 “with awful submission to his will, they convinced me more for- 
 cibly of my transgressions, yet without exciting despair; for, while 
 they showed the horrors of vice, they proved the efficacy of re- 
 pentance. Debarred of the common enjoyments of life — air, ex- 
 ercise, 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 par^ 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 recover- 
 ing 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 an- 
 other, 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 
 v/ho, cried I, with agony, can I blame but myself ? The choicest 
 gifts of Heaven were mine, and I lost them by my own means. 
 '.Yretch as I was, the flrst temptation that assailed warped me 
 irom integrity, and my error was 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 seasons’ difference made a material change to me, 
 as all the windows were shut up in winter, except those of the 
 apartment I occupied, which only looked into a gloomy court. 
 Ah ! how welcome to me, then, was the return of spring, which 
 again restored to me the indulgence of visiting the windows. 
 
892 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 How deliglitful to my eyes the green of the valley, aiid the glow* 
 ing bloom of the mountain shrubs just bursting into verdure! 
 Ah! 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 confinement, wafted through the windows. The twi- 
 light hour was also hailed by me with delight; it was then I 
 turned my eyes from earth to heaven, and, regarding 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 forgetful- 
 ness ! But, in relating my feelings, I wander from the real pur- 
 pose 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 essential. 
 Be secret, then, I again conjure you, till everything is properly 
 arranged for the avowal of your rights ; and oh ! may the restora- 
 tion 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 expendi- 
 ture on idle vanities, never can bestow. As much as possible I 
 wish to have my daughter saved from public 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 1 may 
 her wretched parent’s prayers be yet availing ; may penitence, ere 
 too late, visit her heart, and teach her to regret and expiate her 
 errors ! 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 ^elf as the 
 first consideration in life. 
 
 Mrs. Bruce informed me that the marquis had written to Mel- 
 ross, informing him that I had changed my mind, and would 
 think no more about him, and she supposed he had procured 
 gome pleasant establishment in France, as no one had ever heard 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 393 
 
 of his returning' from it. She made several attempts to prevail 
 on me to give the will to her, but I resisted all her arts, and was 
 rejoiced to think I had concealed it in a place 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 tears, 
 your words, your manner, I may expect a tale of sorrow ; ah I 
 may it be only that gentle sorrow which yields to the influence 
 of time and the sweets of friendship and conscious 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 moments 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 yourself her wretched orphan, ah ! what were my emotions ? 
 An awful voice seemed sounding in my ear — ‘ Behold the hour 
 of retribution is arrived ! Behold a being, whom the hand of 
 Providence has conducted hither to receive reparation for the in- 
 justice you did her parents ! Adore that mighty hand which 
 thus affords you means of making atonement for your offenses! ’ 
 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 entrance into it was unknown. With an im- 
 patience bordering on agony, I waited for the next evening — it 
 came without bringing you, and no language can express my dis- 
 appointment. Dejected, 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 
 moonlight 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. Should he then shudder at my name, oh ! teach him. 
 with a mercy like your own, to accord me forgiveness. 
 
 Ye sweet and precious descendants of this illustrious house, 
 ye rightful heirs of Dunreath Abbey, may your future joys 
 amply recompense your past sorrows! May those sorrows be 
 forgotten, or only remembered to temper prosperity, and teach 
 it pity for the woes of others ! May your virtues add to the 
 renown of your ancestors, and entail eternal peace upon youi 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 ^94 
 
 souls ! May their line by you be continued, and continued as 9 
 blessing to all around ! May your names be consecrated to pos- 
 terity by the voice of gratitude, and excite in others an emula- 
 tion to pursue your courses ! 
 
 Alas ! my unhappy child ! why do I not express such a wish 
 for you ? I have expressed it— I have prayed for its accomplish- 
 ment — I have wept in bitterness at the idea of its being unavail- 
 ing ; 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. 
 
 O God ! ere my trembling soul leaves its frail tenement of 
 clay, let it be cheered by the knowledge of my child’s repentance. 
 
 Oh ! you young and tender pair, who are about entering into 
 the dangerous possession of riches, learn from me that their mis- 
 application, the perversion of our talents, and the neglect of our 
 duties, will, even in this world, meet their punishment. 
 
 Eesolute in doing justice to the utmost of my power, I anr 
 ready, whenever I am called upon, to bear evidence to the validity 
 of the will Lshall deliver into your possession. Soon may all it 
 entitles you to be restored, is the sincere prayer of her who sub- 
 scribes herself, the truly penitent 
 
 Annabella Dunreath. 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 Cease, then, ah ! cease, fond mortal to repine 
 At laws, which Nature wisely 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 narrative 
 deeply affected but gradually subsided from her mind, leaving it 
 only occupied by pity for the penitent Lady Dunreath, and pleas 
 are at the prospect of Oscar’s independence — 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 395 
 
 Would probably be an arduous demand for restitution. After sit 
 ting* a considerable time in deep meditation, the idea of Rushbrook 
 suddenly occurred, and she started, as if in joyful 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 intrusting 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 redressed. 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 inde- 
 pendence ! Ah 1 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 ! Ah ! how sweet again to meet 
 an eye which should beam with tenderness on hers, an ear which 
 should listen with attentive rapture to her accents, and a voice 
 that would soothe with softest sympathy 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. ‘ O Oscar ! oh, my brother ! ’ 
 she exclaimed, while tears wet her pale cheeks, ‘ how rapturous 
 the moment which restores you to me ! How delightful to think 
 your youth will no more experience the chill of poverty — your 
 benevolence no longer suffer restraints ! Now will your virtues 
 shine forth with full luster, dignifying the house from which you 
 have descended, doing service to your country, and spreading 
 diffusive happiness around. * 
 
 The morning surprised Amanda in the midst of her medita* 
 lions. She opened the shutters, and hailed its first glories in the 
 eastern hemisphere ; the sunbeams, exhaling the mists of the val- 
 ley, displayed its smiling verdure, forming a fine contrast to the 
 deep shadows that yet partially enveloped the surrounding 
 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. 
 8he left the charming scene to try and get a little rest, but she 
 
396 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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, tlieir 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 sickened, whenever they 
 were talked of ; the spirits she had endeavored to collect from the 
 idea, that they would all be requisite in the important affair she 
 must undertake, fleeted away at Mrs. Bruce’s words, and a heavy 
 languor took possession of her. 
 
 They did not leave the Abbey till after tea in the evening, and 
 the idea that she might soon behold her brother the acknowl- 
 edged 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 al- 
 most instantaneous recollection, that ere that period Lo'^d Morti- 
 mer and Lady Euphrasia would be united. Sunk in a profound 
 melancholy, she forgot her situation, heeded not the prog- 
 ress 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. Duncan, 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 at- 
 tention had marked her pensive companion^ with much cheerfuL 
 ness rendered the attempt a successful one. The chaise was now 
 turning from the valley, and Amanda leaned from her window 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 
 luster 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 
 
THE CHILDREN 01 THE ABBEY. 
 
 397 
 
 over, Mrs. Duncan, assisted by Amanda, put the children to bed, 
 as she knew, till accustomed to her, they would not like the at- 
 tendance 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 mur- 
 muring to the shore cast a silvery spray around it. A pensive 
 pleasure pervaded the hearts of Mrs. Duncan 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 Mxs. Duncan, who knew the situation of 
 the country, said that the sounds they heard proceeded from a 
 fort near the town. They ceased in a short time, but were almost 
 immediately succeeded by martial music ; and Amanda soon dis- 
 tinguished an admired march of her father’s. Ah, how affect- 
 ingly did it remind her of him ! She recalled the moments in 
 which she had played it for him, while 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. 
 
 Amanda, having formed a plan relative to the will, determined 
 not to delay executing it. She had often mentioned to Mrs. Dun- 
 can her uneasiness concerning her brother, as an excuse for the 
 melancholy that lady, in a half-serious, half-jesting manner, so 
 often rallied her about ; and she now intended to assign her jour- 
 ney 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 accordingly mentioned her in- 
 tention. 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 necessary, de 
 
398 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 daring that her society would be a loss she could scarcely supf 
 port. 
 
 Amanda thanked her for her tenderness, and said, ‘ she hoped 
 they should yet enjoy many happy days together.’ She proposed 
 traveling in a chaise to the borders of England, and then pursu- 
 ing 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 en- 
 treaties for her to return as soon as possible. Till this period she 
 did not know, nor did Amanda conceive the strength of her friend- 
 ship. She presented her purse to our heroine, and in the impas- 
 sioned 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 diad more than 
 sufficient for all her purposes ; all, therefore, she would accept was 
 what Mrs. 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. Duncan’s, she said, and had been extremely 
 kind to him and her. She had kept up a correspondence with them 
 till her removal to Dunreath Abbey, when she dropped it, lest her 
 residence there should be discovered; but such an opportunity of 
 writting to them, by a person who would answer all their in- 
 quiries concerning her, she could not neglect ; besides, she con- 
 tinued, they were the most agreeable and hospitable people she 
 had ever known, and she was convinced would not suffer Aman- 
 da 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. Duncan 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 al- 
 low. 
 
 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 or- 
 dered at an early hour. As Mrs. Duncan folded Amanda to her 
 heart, she again besought her to hasten back, declaring that 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 399 
 
 neither she nor her little girls would be themselves till she re- 
 turned. 
 
 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 encompassing 
 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 
 comparison between their situation 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 un- 
 thought of, rose in her mind, from which her timid nature shrunk 
 appalled. Should Rushbrook be absent from London, or should 
 he not answer her expectations ; but, ‘ I deserve the disappoint- 
 ment,’ cried she, ‘ if I thus anticipate it. Oh! let me not be over 
 exquisite 
 
 ‘ To cast the fashion of uncertain evils, 
 
 oppressed 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 direc- 
 tion to Rushbrook. It was about five when she stopped for the 
 night, as the shortened days of autumn would not permit 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 jour- 
 ney; a small, but neat and comfortable house, romantically situ- 
 ated 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 center, whose superior size and neat plantations proclaimed it 
 master of the whole. This was really the case, for immediately 
 on entering the inn Amanda had inquired about the Macqueen 
 family, to whom Mrs. Duncan’s letter was directed, and learned 
 
400 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 that they inhabited this house, and owned the grounds to a large 
 extent surrounding it. Amanda gave Mrs. Duncan’s letter to 
 the landlady, and begged she would send it directly to Mrs. Mac- 
 queen. 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, attempted to banish from her mind in the morning, by 
 attending to the objects she passed, now returned with full, or 
 rather aggravated, force. Books, those pleasing, and, in affliction, 
 alleviating 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 one that could 
 possibly fix her attention or change her melancholy ideas ; a ram- 
 ble, though the evening was uninviting, she prefered to the pas- 
 sive 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- 
 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 of his heart was buried. For- 
 getting the purpose for which she had walked out, she leaned in 
 melancholy reverie against a fragment of the ruined building, 
 nor heard approaching footsteps till the voice of her host sud- 
 denly broke upon her ear. She started, and perceived him ac- 
 companied 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 partic- 
 ular 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 unable, as 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 401 
 
 she wished, to participate in the pleasures of conversation, 
 Amanda declined the invitation, alleging, as an excuse for doing 
 so, her 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 entreat- 
 ies 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 duty and affection. After 
 residing a few years at Edinburgh, for the improvement of the 
 young people, Mr. and Mrs. Macqueen 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, during 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. king- 
 dom, made it a constant 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 moun- 
 tain blast which howled without, and rendered the comforts 
 within more delectable by the effect of the contrast. In the 
 drawing room were assembled Mr. Macqueen, two of his daugh- 
 ters, and half a dozen ladies and gentlemen, to whom Amanda 
 was presented, and they in return to her. In the countenance of 
 Mr. Macqueen, 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 
 infirm as to be unable to move without assistance. Yet was his 
 relish for society undiminished ; and in his armchair, his legs 
 muffled in flannel, and supported by pillows, he promoted as 
 mucJH 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 likeness. 
 They were tall, well, but not delicately made ; handsome, yef 
 Saore mdebted to the animation of their countenances than tc 
 
402 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 regularity of features for beauty, which was rendered luxuriant 
 by a quantity of rich auburn hair, that, unrestrained by super- 
 fluous 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. Mac- 
 queen, 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 entered, of a most pre- 
 possessing appearance, though advanced in life, and was followed 
 by a number of young people. 
 
 But, oh ! what were the powerful emotions of Amanda’s soul, 
 when among them she beheld Lady Araminta Dormer and Lord 
 Mortimer 1 Shocked, confused, confounded, she strained an eye 
 of agony upon them, as if with the hope of detecting an illusion, 
 then dropped her head, anxious to conceal herself, though she 
 was fatally convinced she could be but a few minutes unobserved 
 by them. Never, amid the many trying moments of her life, 
 had she experienced one more dreadful. To behold Lord Morti- 
 mer, when she knew his esteem 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 the chill of dismay — dis- 
 may at the idea of meeting the silent but expressive reproach of 
 Lord Mortimer’s eye for her 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 would raise your pity but to see the tears 
 Force through her snowy lids their melting course. 
 
 To lodge themselves on her red murm’ring lips, 
 
 That talk such mournful things ; when straight a gale 
 Of starting sighs carries those pearls away, 
 
 As dews by winds are wafted from the flowers.— L ee. 
 
 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 unnoticeoi. 
 The party that entered, engaged in talking to those- they found in 
 the drawing room — laughing and describing their ramble, which 
 Lady Araminta said was in the style of Will-o’- the- Wisp (over 
 brakes and through briers) — were some time before they observed 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 403 
 
 Amanda ; but soon, ah ! how much too soon, did she perceive 
 Mrs. Macqueen approaching to introduce those of her family who 
 were just returned, 
 
 ‘ The trying moment is come ! ’ cried Amanda. * Oh ! let me 
 not by my confusion look as if I really was the guilty thing I am 
 supposed to be.’ She endeavored to collect herself, and rose to 
 meet the young Macqueens, by a timid glance perceiving that they 
 yet hid her from the eyes she most dreaded to encounter. She 
 was unable, however, to return their compliments, except by a 
 faint smile, and was again sinking upon her seat— for her frame 
 trembled universally — when Mrs. Macqueen, taking her hand, 
 led her forward, and presented her to Lady Martha and Lady 
 Araminta Dormer. It may be remembered 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. Sel- 
 dom, 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, while the sad ex- 
 pression of her countenance denoted that habit but the shadow cf 
 the unseen grief which dwelt within her soul. Her large blue 
 eyes were half concealed by their long lashes, but the beams 
 which stole from beneath those fringed curtains were full of 
 sweetness and sensibility. Her fine hair, discomposed by the 
 jolting of the carriage 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 height- 
 ened its beauty. How different was the look she received from 
 Lady Araminta to that she had received from Lady Martha ! In 
 the expressive countenance of the former she read surprise, con- 
 tempt, and anger ; her cheeks were flushed with unusual color, 
 her eyes sparkled with uncommon luster, 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 confirmation did it con- 
 vey — that every suspicion to her prejudice would now be strength- 
 ened. ‘Ah ! 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 exposed me, rather than 
 assume anything like deceit ? ’ Happily the party were too much 
 engrossed by one another to heed the words or manner of Lady 
 Araminta. 
 
 Amanda withdrew 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 
 
404 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 Donald — Lord Mortimer ! ’ said she. Amanda raised her head, 
 but not her eyes, and neither saw nor heard his lordship. The 
 scene she had dreaded was over, and she felt a little relieved at 
 the idea. The haughty glance of Lady Araminta dwelt upon 
 her mind, and, when agitation had a Jittle 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 in- 
 stantly conjectured she had been informed by her niece of her 
 real name. She also conjectured, from the glances directed to- 
 ward her, that she was the subject of conversation, and concluded 
 it was begun for the purpose of discovering whether Mrs. Mac- 
 queen 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 con- 
 versation with all that spirit and vivacity which distinguished 
 his family. The mind of Amanda was too much occupied 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, enforced with peculiar 
 earnestness, roused her from this inattention, 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, con- 
 sidered the '^strange appearance she must make among the com- 
 pany, if she did not collect and compose her spirits. The family, 
 too, to whom she was, she could not help thinking, so unfortu- 
 nately 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 of his sisters, with her indisposition, 
 and procure some remedy for it ; but she insisted he should on 
 no account disturb the company, assuring him she would soon 
 be well; she then endeavored to support a conversation with 
 him ; but, ah ! how often did she pause in the midst of what she 
 was saying, as the sweet, insinuating voice of Mortimer reached 
 her ear, who, with his native elegance and spirit, was participat- 
 ing 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 immediately arose, and taking Amanda’s 
 hand, led her to his father, by whom he seated her ; and by 
 whom on the other side sat Lady Martha Dormer ; then with a 
 modest gallantry declared it was the first time he ever felt re* 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 405 
 
 luctance to obey [bis father’s commands, and hoped his ready 
 acquiescence to them would be rewarded with speedy permission 
 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. Macqueen 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 Donalds she was descended. 
 A question so unexpected, shocked, dismayed, and overwhelmed 
 her with confusion. She made no reply till the question was re- 
 peated, when in a low and faltering voice, her face covered with 
 blushes, and almost buried in her bosom, she said she did not 
 know. 
 
 ‘Well,’ cried he, again changing his discourse, after looking at 
 her a few minutes, ‘ I do not know any girl but yourself would 
 tak6 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 do- 
 ing, and, therefore, it is from compassion to mankind you try to 
 conceal them.’ 
 
 Amanda blushed yet more 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 
 among each other ? ’ 
 
 Oh ! how forcibly was Amanda at this moment convinced, if in- 
 deed 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 encoun- 
 tered 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 confusion, 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 de- 
 sire to trace everyone’s pedigree. In order, therefore, 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 
 
406 
 
 THB CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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. Mac- 
 queen in her heart for the relief she afforded her, went to the 
 table around which almost all the young people were crowded ; 
 so great was the mirth going on among them, that Miss Macqueen, 
 the gravest of the set, in vaki 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 encountering the eyes she dreaded, re- 
 quested to be employed in assisting her, and was deputed to fill 
 out the coffee. After the first performance of her task, Miss Mac- 
 queen, in a whispering voice, said to Amanda, ‘ Do you know we 
 are all here more than half in love with Lord Mortimer. He is 
 certainly very handsome, and his manner is quite as pleasing as 
 his looks, for he has none of that foppery and conceit which hand- 
 some men so generally have, and nothing but the knowledge of 
 his engagement could keep us from pulling caps about him. You 
 have heard, to be sure, of Lady Euphrasia Sutherland, the Mar- 
 quis 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 ; but see, ’ she continued, touch- 
 ing Amanda’s hand, ‘ the conquering hero comes ! ’ Lord Morti- 
 mer 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 procure by sitting closer to Amanda. To her 
 next neighbor, a fine , lively girl, Amanda now turned, and en- 
 tered into conversation with her ; but from this she was soon 
 called by Miss Macqueen, requesting her to pour out a cup of cof- 
 fee for Lord Mortimer. 
 
 Amanda obeyed, and he rose to receive it ; her hand trembled 
 as she presented it. She looked not in his face, but she 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 Mac- 
 queen now grew almost as inattentive to the table a? her sisters, 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 40 ' 
 
 and Mrs. Macqueen was obliged to come over to know what they 
 were all about. At length the business of the tea table was de- 
 dared 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 foi^ universal motion ; all in a 
 moment was bustle and confusion. The young men instantly se- 
 lected their partners, who seemed ready to dance from one roonri 
 to another. The young Macqueen, who had been so assiduous 
 about Amanda, now came, and taking bjer hand, as if her danc- 
 ing was a thing of course, was leading her after the rest of the 
 party, when she drew back, declaring she could not dance. Sur- 
 prised and disappointed, he stood looking on her in silence, as if 
 irresolute whether he should not attempt to change her resolution. 
 At last he spoke, and requested she would 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 about ? Lord 
 Mortimer and my sister have already led off ; do, pray, make 
 haste and join us,’ and away she ran again. 
 
 ‘Let me no longer detain you,’ said Amanda, withdrawing her 
 hand. Young Macqueen, finding her indexible, at length went 
 off to seek a partner. He was as fond of dancing as his sis- 
 ters, and feared he should not procure one ; but luckily there 
 were fewer gentlemen than ladies present, and a lady having 
 stood up with his youngest sister, he easily prevailed on her to 
 change her partner. 
 
 ‘We will go into the dancing room, if you please,’ said 
 Mrs. Macqueen to Amanda ; ‘ that will amuse without fatiguing 
 you.’ Amanda would rather not have gone, but she could not 
 say no ; and they proceeded to it. Lord Mortimer had just 
 concluded the dance, and was standing near the door in a 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 ap- 
 proached his partner, and began chatting in a lively mannei 
 
408 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 very gayest 
 season, because of my son’s 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 dissi- 
 pation. 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 theater. On these occasions one of my sons leads the band, 
 another paints the scenes, and Colin, your rejected partner, acts 
 the part of prompter.’ Here this conversation, so pleasing to 
 Amanda, and interesting to Mrs. Macqueen, was interrupted by a 
 message from the drawing room, to inform the latter the rubber 
 was over, and a new set wanted to cut in. 
 
 ‘I will return as soon as possible,’ said Mrs. Macqueen, as she 
 was quitting her seat. If Amanda had not dreaded the looks of 
 Lady Martha almost as much as those of Lord Mortimer or Lady 
 Araminta, she would have followed her to the drawing room. 
 As this was the case, she resolved on remaining in her present 
 situation. It was some time ere she was observed by the young 
 Macqueens. At last Miss Macqueen came over to her. ‘ I de- 
 clare,’ said she, ‘ you look so sad and solitary, I wish you could 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 409 
 
 be prevailed on to dance. Do try this ; it is a very fine, lively 
 one, and take Flora for your partner, who, you see, has sat in a 
 corner quite discomposed since she lost her partner, and by the 
 next set Colin will be disengaged.’ 
 
 Amanda declared she could not dance, and Miss Macqueen be- 
 ing called to her place at the instant, she was again left to herself. 
 Miss Macqueen, however, continued to come and chat with her 
 whenever she could do so without losing any part of the dance. 
 At last Lord Mortimer followed her. The eyes of Amanda were 
 involuntarily bent to the ground when she saw him approach, 
 ‘ You are an absolute runaway,’ cried he to Miss Macqueen ; ‘ how 
 do you suppose I will excuse your frequent desertions ? ’ 
 
 ‘ Why, Miss Donald is so lonely, ’ said she. 
 
 ‘ See,’ cried he, with quickness, ‘ your sister beckons you to her. 
 Suffer me [taking her hand] to lead you to her.’ 
 
 Amanda looked up as they moved from her, and saw Lord 
 Mortimer’s head half turned back ; but the instant she perceived 
 him he averted it, and took no further notice of her. When the 
 set was finished. Miss Macqueen returned to Amanda, and was 
 followed by some of her brothers and sisters. Some of the gentle- 
 men also approached Amanda and requested the honor of her 
 hand, but she was steady in refusing all. Rich wines, sweet- 
 meats, and warm lemonade were now handed about in profusion, 
 and the strains of the violin were succeeded by those of the bag- 
 pipe, played by the family musician, venerable in his appearance, 
 and habited in the ancient Highland dress. With as much 
 satisfaction to himself as to his Scotch auditors, he played a lively 
 Scotch reel, which in a moment brought two of the Miss Mac- 
 queens and two gentlemen forward, and they continued the dance 
 till politeness induced them to stop, that one might be begun in 
 which the rest of the party could join. Dancing continued in this 
 manner with little intermission, but whenever there was an in- 
 terval, the young Macqueens paid every attention to Amanda; 
 and on her expressing her admiration of the Scotch music, made 
 it a point that she should mention some favorite airs, that they 
 might be played for her; but these airs, the lively dances, the 
 animated conversation, and the friendly attentions paid her could 
 not remove her dejection, and with truth they might have said: 
 
 That nothing could a charm impart 
 To soothe the stranger’s woe. 
 
 The entrance of Mrs. Macqueen was the signal for 'the dance 
 being ended. She made the young people sit down to refresh 
 themselves before supper, and apologized to Amanda for not re- 
 turning to her; but said Lady Martha Dormer had engaged her 
 in a conversation which she could not interrupt. At last they 
 were summoned to supper, which, on Mr. Macqueen’s account^ 
 
#10 
 
 THE CHIEDKEN- OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 was laid out in a room on the same floor. Thither, without cere^ 
 mony, whoever was next the door first proceeded. Mr. Macqueen 
 was already seated at the table in his armchair, and Lady Martha 
 Dormer on his right hand. The eldest son was deputed to do the 
 honors of the foot of the table. The company was checkered, 
 and Amanda found herself between Lord Mortimer and Mr. Colin 
 Macqueen ; and in conversing with the latter, Amanda sought to 
 avoid noticing, or being noticed by Lord Mortimer; and his lord' 
 ship, by the particular attention which he paid Miss Macqueen, 
 who sat on the other side, appeared actuated by the same wish 
 The sports of the morning had furnished the table with a variety 
 of the choicest wild fowl, and the plenty and beauty of the con-* 
 fectionery denoted at once the hospitable spirit and elegant taste 
 of the mistress of the feast. Gayety presided at the board, and 
 there was scarcely a tongue, except Amanda’s, which did not 
 utter some lively sally. The piper sat in the lobby, and if his 
 strains were not melodious, they were at least cheerful. In the 
 course of supper, Ijord 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. Un- 
 conscious whether she had noticed in the usual manner his dis- 
 tressing compliment, she abruptly turned to young Macqueen^ 
 and addressed some scarcely articulate question to him. The 
 supper things removed, the strains of the piper were silenced, and 
 songs, toasts, and sentiments succeeded. Old Mr. Macqueen set 
 the example by a favorite Scotch air, and then called upon his 
 next neighbor. Between the songs toasts were called for. At 
 last it came to Lord Mortimer’s turn. Amanda suddenly ceased 
 speaking to young Macqueen. She saw the glass of Lord Morti- 
 mer 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 expres- 
 sive meaning. ‘ They think,’ cried she, ‘ to witness mortification 
 and disappointment in my looks, but they shall not, if, indeed, 
 they are capable of enjoying such a triumph, have it.’ 
 
 At length .she was called upon for a song. She declined the 
 call; but Mr. Macqueen declared, except assured she could not 
 sing, she should not be excused. This assurance, without a 
 breach of truth, she could not give. She did not wish to appear 
 ungrateful to her kind entertainers, or unsocial in the midst of 
 mirth, by refusing what she was told would be pleasing to them 
 and their company. She also wished, from a sudden impulse of 
 pride, to appear cheerful in those eyes she knev»r were attentively 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 411 
 
 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 per- 
 fectly adapted to her soft voice, whose modulations were inex- 
 pressibly afPecting. She had proceeded through half the second 
 rerse, when her voice began to falter. The attention of the com- 
 pany became, if possible, more fixed ; but it was a vain attention ; 
 no rich strain of melody repaid it, for the voice of the songstress 
 had suddenly ceased. Mrs. Macqueen, with the delicacy of a 
 susceptible mind, feared increasing her emotion by noticing it, 
 and, with a glance of her expressive eye, directed her company to 
 silence. Amanda’s eyes were bent to the ground. Suddenly a 
 glass of water was presented to her by a trembling hand — by the 
 hand of Mortimer himself. She declined it with a motion of hers, 
 and, reviving a little, raised her head. Young Macqueen then 
 gave her an entreating whisper to finish her song. She thought 
 it would look like affectation to require farther solicitation, and, 
 faintly smiling, again began in strains of liquid melody, strains 
 that seemed to breathe the very spirit of sensibility, and came 
 over each attentive ear. 
 
 Like a sweet sound 
 That breathes upon a bank of violets 
 Stealing and giving odor. 
 
 The plaudits she received from her singing gave to her cheeks 
 such a faint tinge of red as is seen in the bosom of the wild rose. 
 She was now authorized to call for a song, and, as if doomed to 
 experience cause for agitation. Lord Mortimer was the person 
 from whom, in the rotation of the table, she was to claim it. 
 Thrice she was requested to do this ere she could obey. At last 
 she raised her eyes to his face, which was now turned toward her, 
 and she saw in it a confusion equal to that she herself trembled 
 under. Pale and red by turns, he appeared to her to wait in 
 painful agitation for the sound of her voice. Her lips moved, 
 but she could not articulate a word. Lord Mortimer bowed, as if 
 he had heard what they would have said, and then, turning ab- 
 ruptly to Miss Macqueen, began speaking to her. 
 
 ‘ Come, come, my lord,’ said Mr. Macqueen, ‘ we must not be 
 put off in this manner.’ 
 
 Lord Mortimer laughed, and attempted to rally the old gentle^ 
 man; but he seemed unequal to the attempt, for, with a sudden 
 seriousness, he declared his inability of complying with the pres- 
 ent demand. All farther solicitation on the subject was immedi- 
 ately dropped. In the round of toasts, they forgot not to call upon 
 
412 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Amanda for one. If she had listened attentively when Lord 
 Mortimer was about giving one, no less attentively did he now 
 listen to her. She hesitated a moment, and then gave Sir Charles 
 Bingley. After the toast had passed, ‘Sir Charles Bingley,’ re- 
 peated Miss Macqueen, leaning forward, and speaking across Lord 
 Mortimer. ‘ Oh ! I recollect him very well. His regiment was 
 quartered about two years ago at a little fort some distance from 
 this — and I remember his coming with a shooting party to the 
 mountains, aTnd sleeping one night here. We had a delightful 
 dance that evening, and all thought him a charming young man. 
 Pray, are you well acquainted with him?’ ‘ Yes— No,’ replied 
 Amanda. 
 
 ‘ Ah! I believe you are, sly girl,’ cried Miss Macqueen, laugh* 
 ing. ‘ Pray, my lord, does not that blush declare Miss Donald 
 guilty ?’ ‘ We are not always to judge from the countenance,’^ 
 
 said he, darting a penetrating yet quickly withdrawn glance at 
 Amanda. ‘Experience,’ continued he, ‘daily proves how little- 
 dependence is to be placed on it.’ Amanda turned hastily away, 
 and pretended, by speaking to young Macqueen, not to notice a 
 speech she knew directly pointed at her; for often had Lord 
 Mortimer declared that, ‘in the lineaments of the human face 
 divine, each passion of the soul might be well traced.’ 
 
 Miss Macqueen laughed, and said she always judged of the 
 countenance, and that her likings and dislikings were always the 
 effects of first sight. 
 
 The company broke up soon after this, and much earlier than 
 their usual hour, on account of the travelers. All but those then 
 immediately belonging to the family having departed, some maids- 
 of the house appeared, to show the ladies to their respective cham- 
 bers. Lady Martha and Lady Araminta retired first. Amanda 
 was following them, when Mrs. Macqueen detained her, to try 
 and prevail on her to stay two or three days along with them. 
 The Miss Macqueens joined their mother; but Amanda assured 
 them she could not comply with their request, though she felt 
 with gratitude its friendly warmth. Old Mr. Macqueen had had 
 his chair turned to the fire, and his sons and Lord Mortimer were 
 surrounding it. ‘Well, well,’ said he, calling Amanda to him,, 
 and taking her hand, ‘ if you will not stay with us now, remem- 
 ber, on your return, we shall lay an embargo on you. In the 
 meantime, I shall not lose the privilege which my being an old 
 married man gives me.’ So saying, he gently pulled Amanda ta 
 him, and kissed her cheek. She could only smile at this inno- 
 cent freedom, but she attempted to withdraw her hand to retire. 
 
 * Now,’ said Mr. Macqueen, still detaining it, ‘ are all these young 
 men half mad with envy ? ’ The young Macqueens joined in 
 their father’s gallantry, and not a tongue was silent except Lord 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 413 
 
 Mortimer’s. His head rested on his hand, and the cornice of the 
 chimney supported his arm. His hair, from which the dancing 
 had almost shaken all the powder, hung negligently about his 
 face, and added to its paleness and sudden dejection. One of the 
 young Macqueens, turning from his brothers, who were yet con- 
 tinuing their mirth with their father, addressed some question to 
 his lordship, but received no answer. Again he repeated it. 
 Lord Mortimer then suddenly started, as if from a profound 
 reverie, and apologized for his absence. 
 
 ‘Ay, ah, my lord,’ exclaimed old Mr. Macqueen, jocosely, ‘ we 
 may all guess where your lordship was then traveling in idea — 
 a little beyond the mountains, I fancy. Ay, we all know where 
 your heart and your treasure now lie.’ ‘ Do you ? ’ said Lord 
 Mortimer, with a tone of deep dejection, and a heavy sigh, with 
 an air, also, which seemed to declare him scarcely conscious of 
 what he said. He recollected himself, however, at the instant, 
 and began rallying himself, as the surest means of preventing 
 others doing so. The scene was too painful to Amanda. She 
 hastily withdrew her hand, and, faintly wishing the party a 
 good-night, went out to the maid, who was waiting for her in the 
 lobby, and was conducted to her room. She dismissed the ser- 
 vant at the door, and, throwing herself into a chair, availed her- 
 self 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 ap- 
 peared at it, who courtesying, respectfully said, ‘ Lady Martha 
 Dormer, her lady, desired to see Miss Donald for a few minutes, 
 if not inconvenient to her.’ ‘ See me ! ’ repeated Amanda, with 
 the utmost surprise ; ‘ can it be possible ? ’ She suddenly checked 
 herself, and said she would attend her ladyship immediately. 
 She accordingly followed the maid, a variety of strange ideas 
 crowding upon her mind. Her conductress retired as she shut 
 the door of the room into which she showed Amanda. It was a 
 small ante-chamber adjoining the apartment Lady Martha was to 
 lie in. Here, with increasing surprise, she beheld Lord Mortimer 
 pacing the room in an agitated manner. His back was to the door 
 as she entered, but he turned round with quickness, approached, 
 looked on her a few moments, then striking his hand suddenly 
 against his forehead, turned from her with an air of distraction. 
 
 Lady Martha, who was sitting at the head of the room, and 
 only bowed as Amanda entered it, motioned for her to take a 
 chair; a motion Amanda gladly obeyed, for her trembling iimbs 
 could scarcely support her. 
 
 All was silent for a few minutes. Lady Martha then spoke in 
 
414 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 a grave voice: ‘I should not, madam, have taken the liberty of 
 sending for you at this hour, but that I believe sa favorable an 
 opportunity would not again have occurred of speaking to you on 
 a subject particularly interesting to me — an opportunity which 
 has so unexpectedly saved me the trouble of trying to find you 
 out, and the necessity of writing to you.’ 
 
 Lady Martha paused, and her silence was not interrupted by 
 Amanda. ‘Last summer,’ continued Lady Martha — again she 
 paused. The throbbings of Amanda’s heart became more violent. 
 ‘Last summer,’ she said again, ‘ there were some little gifts pre- 
 sented to you by Lord Mortimer. From the events which fol- 
 lowed their acceptance, I must presume they are valueless to 
 you; from the events about taking place, they are of impor- 
 tance elsewhere.’ She ceased, but Amanda could make no 
 reply. 
 
 ‘ You cannot be ignorant,’ said Lady Martha, with something 
 of severity in her accent, as if offended by the silence of Aman- 
 da, — ‘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 there- 
 fore claim it in my own name. The picture, I have his lordship’s 
 approbation and authority to demand ; and to convince you I 
 have— indeed, if such a conviction be necessary — have prevailed 
 on him to be present at this conversation.’ ‘ No, madam, such a 
 
 conviction was not necessary,’ cried Amanda. ‘I should ’ 
 
 She could utter no more at the moment, yet tried to suppress the 
 agonizing feeling that tumultuously heaved her bosom. 
 
 ‘If not convenient to restore them immediately,’ said Lady 
 Martha, ‘ I will give you a direction where they may be left in 
 London, to which place Mrs. Macqueen has informed me you are 
 going.’ ‘ It is perfectly convenient now to restore them, madam,’ 
 replied Amanda, with a voice perfectly recovered, animated with 
 conscious innocence and offended pride, which always gave her 
 strength. ‘ I shall return,’ continued she, moving to the door 
 ‘ with them immediately to your ladyship. ’ 
 
 The picture was suspended from her neck, and the ring in its 
 case lay in her pocket; but by the manner in wdiich they had 
 been asked, or rather demanded from her, she felt amid the an- 
 guish of her soul a sudden emotion of pleasure that she could 
 directly give them back. Yet, when in her own room she hastily 
 untied the picture from her neck, pulled the black ribbon from it 
 and laid it in its case, her grief overcame every other feeling, and 
 a shower of tears fell from her. ‘ O Mortimer ! dear Mortimer! ’ 
 she sighed, ‘ must I part even with this little shadow ! must I re- 
 tain no vestige of happier hours 1 Yet, why — why should I wish to 
 retain it, when the original will soon be another’s ? Yes, if I be- 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 41S 
 
 bold Mortimer again, it will soon be as the husband of Lady" 
 Euphrasia.’ 
 
 She recollected she was staying beyond the expected time, and 
 wiped away her tears. Yet, still she lingered a few minutes in 
 the chamber, to try to calm her agitation. She called her pride 
 to her aid; it inspired her with fortitude, and she proceeded ta 
 Lady Martha, determined that lady should see nothing in her 
 manner which she could possibly construe into weakness or mean- 
 ness. Never did she appear more interesting than at the moment 
 she re-entered the apartment. The passion she had called to her 
 aid gav"e a bright glow to her cheeks, and the traces of the tears 
 she had been shedding appeared upon those glowing cheeks like 
 dew on the silken leaves of the rose ere the sunbeams of the morn- 
 ing have exhaled it. Those tears left an humble luster in her 
 eyes, even more interesting than their wonted brilliancy. Her 
 hair hung in rich and unrestrained luxuriance — for she had 
 thrown off her hat on first going to her chamber — and gave to the 
 beauty of her face, and the elegance of her form, a complete 
 finishing. 
 
 ‘Here, madam, is the ring,’ cried she, presenting it to Lady 
 Marth a, ‘ and here is the picture, ' she would have added, but her 
 voice faltered, and a tear started from her eye. Determined ta 
 conceal, if possible, her feelings, she hastily dashed away the 
 pearly fugitive. Lady Martha was again extending her hand 
 when Lord Mortimer suddenly started from a couch on which he 
 had thrown himself, and snatching the picture from the trem- 
 bling hand that held it, pulled it from its case, and flinging it on 
 the floor, trampled it beneath his feet. ‘Thus perish,’ ex- 
 claimed he, ‘ every memento of my attachment to Amanda f 
 Oh, wretched, wretched girl ! ’ cried he, suddenly grasping her 
 hand and as suddenly relinquishing it, ‘ Oh, wretched, wretched 
 girl ! you have undone yourself and me! ’ He turned abruptly 
 away, and instantly quitted the room. Shocked by his words^ 
 and terrified by his manner, Amanda had just power to gain a 
 chair. Lady Martha seemed also thunderstruck; but, from the 
 musing attitude in which she stood, the deep convulsive suffo- 
 cating 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 1 ’ said Lady Martha, ‘ I pity 
 you from my soul ! Ah ! if your mind resembled your person, 
 what a perfect creature had you been ! How happy had then 
 been my poor Mortimer I ’ 
 
416 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Now, now was the test, the shining test of Amanda’s virtue, 
 agonized by knowing she had lost the good opinion of those whom 
 she loved with such ardor, esteemed with such reverence. She 
 knew by a few words she could explain the appearances which 
 had deprived her of his good opinion, and fully regain it ; regain, 
 by a few words, the love, the esteem of her valued, her inestima- 
 ble Mortimer — the affection, the protection, of his amiable aunt 
 and sister. She leaned her head upon her hand, the weight on 
 lier 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 disclo- 
 sure of his secret, her promise of inviolably keeping it, both 
 rushed upon her mind. She beheld herself on the very verge of 
 a tremendous precipice, and about plunging herself and a fellow- 
 creature into it, from whence, at the tribunal of her God, she 
 would have to answer for accelerating the death of that fellow- 
 creature. ‘ And is it by a breach of faith? ’ she asked herself, ‘ I 
 hope to be re-established in the opinion of Lord Mortimer and his 
 relations. Ah ! mistaken idea, and how great is the delusion pas- 
 sion spreads before our eyes, even if their esteem could be thus 
 regained ! Oh ! what were that or what the ecteem, 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 pangs of self-reproach be added to those 
 which now oppress me ! ’ Her heart at the moment formed a sol- 
 emn vow never, by any willful act, to merit such a pang. ‘And 
 oh, my God ! ’ she cried, ‘ forgive thy weak creature who, assailed 
 by strong temptation, thought for a moment of wandering from 
 the path of truth and integrity, which can alone conduct her to 
 the region where peace and immortal glory will be hers.’ 
 
 Amanda, amid 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 spectator of her 
 emotions, and, thinking as she did of Amanda, could only hope 
 that they proceeded from contrition for her past conduct, forci- 
 bly awakened by reflecting on the deprivations it had caused her. 
 
 When she again saw Amanda able to pay attention, she ad- 
 dressed her: ‘ I said I was sorry for witnessing your distress; I 
 shall not repeat the expression, thinking as I now do; I hope 
 that it is occasioned by regret for past errors ; the tears of repent- 
 ance wash away the stains of guilt, and that heart must indeed be 
 callous which the sigh of remorse will not melt to pity.’ Aman- 
 da turned her eyes with earnestness on Lady Martha as she spoke 
 and her cheeks were again tinged with a faint glow« 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 417 
 
 ‘ Perhaps I speak too plainly,’ cried Lady Martha, witnessing 
 this glow, and imputing it Presentment; ‘but I have ever liked 
 the undisguised language of sincerity. It gave me pleasure,’ she*, 
 continued, ‘ to hear you had been in employment at Mrs. Dun- 
 can’s, but that pleasure was destroyed by hearing you were go-^ 
 ing to London, though to seek your brother ; Mrs. Duncan has^ 
 informed Mrs. Macqueen. If this were indeed the motive, there^ 
 are means of inquiring without taking so imprudent a step.’ ‘ Im- 
 prudent!’ repeated Amanda, involuntarily. ‘Yes,’ cried Lady 
 Martha, ‘ a journey so long, without a protector, to a young, I 
 must add, a lovely woman, teems with danger, from which a 
 mind of delicacy would shrink appalled. If, indeed, you go to- 
 seek your brother, and he regards you as he should, he would 
 rather have you neglect him (though that you need not have done 
 by staying with Mrs. Duncan), than run into the way of insults^ 
 No emergency in life should lead us to do an improper thing; as^ 
 trying to produce good by evil is impious, so trying to produce 
 pleasure by imprudence is folly ; they are trials, however flatter- 
 ingly they may commence, which are sure to end in sorrow and 
 disappointment. 
 
 ‘You will,’ continued Lady Martha, ‘ if indeed anxious to es- 
 cape from any farther censure than what has already fallen upon? 
 you, return to Mrs. Duncan, when I inform you (if indeed you. 
 are already ignorant of it) that Colonel Belgrave passed this road 
 about a month ago, on his way from a remote part of Scotland 
 to London, where he now is.’ ‘I cannot help,’ said Amanda,, 
 ‘ the misconstructions which may be put on my actions ; I can only 
 support myself under the pain they inflict by conscious rectitude. 
 I am shocked, indeed, at the surmises entertained about me, and 
 a wretch whom my soul abhorred from the moment I knew his; 
 real principles.’ 
 
 ‘ If, ’ said Lady Martha, ‘ your journey is really not prompted 
 by the intention of seeing your brother, you heighten every other 
 by duplicity.’ ‘You are severe, madam;’ exclaimed Amanda, 
 in whose soul the pride of injured innocence was again reviving. 
 
 ‘ If I probe the wound,’ cried Lady Martha, ‘I would also wish, 
 to heal it. It is the wish I feel of saving a young creature froina 
 further error, of serving a being once so valued by him who pos- 
 sesses my first regard, that makes me speak as I now do. Eeturn 
 to Mrs. Duncan’s, prove in one instance at least you do not de- 
 serve suspicion. She is your friend, and in your situation a friend 
 is too precious a treasure to run the risk of losing it. With her,, 
 as she lives retired, there will be little danger of your history or 
 real name being discovered, which I am sorry you dropped, let 
 your motive for doing so be what it may, for the detection of one 
 deception makes us suspect every other. Eeturn, I repeat, to Mrs^ 
 
418 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 traveling after Belgrave, or of going to 
 din him, the hazard of encountering him in London, and the 
 dangers of so long a journey; but the affair of the will required 
 ^expedition, and her own immediate presence — an affair the in- 
 junction of Lady Dunreath had prohibited her disclosing to any- 
 one who could not immediately forward it, and which, if such an 
 injunction never existed, she could not with propriety have di- 
 vulged to Lady Martha, who was so soon to be connected with a 
 family so materially concerned in it, and in whose favor, on ac- 
 count of her nephew's connection with them, it was probable she 
 might be biased. 
 
 Amanda hoped and believed that in a place so large as London, 
 and with her assumed name (which she now resolved not to drop 
 till in a more secure situation), she should escape Belgrave. As 
 to meeting him on the road she had not the smallest apprehension 
 concerning that, naturally concluding that he never would have 
 taken so long a journey as he had lately done, if he could have 
 stayed but a few weeks away. Time, she trusted, would prove 
 the falsity of the inference which she already was informed 
 vsrould 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 
 Tendered it unnecessary whose innocence would yet be justified,’ 
 she added. Lady Martha shook her head ; the consciousness of 
 Laving excited suspicions which she could not justify, had indeed 
 ^iven to the looks of Amanda a confusion when she spoke which 
 confirmed them in Lady Martha’s breast. ‘ I am sorry for your 
 determination,’ said she, ‘ but notwithstanding it is so contrary to 
 my ideas of what is right, I cannot let you depart without tell- 
 mg you that, should you at any time want or require services, 
 which you would, or could not, ask from strangers, or perhaps 
 ^expect them to perform, acquaint me, and command mine; yet, 
 in doing justice to my own feelings, I must not do injustice to 
 the noble ones of Lord Mortimer. It is by his desire, as well as 
 my own inclination, I now speak to you in this manner, though 
 past events, and the situation he is about entering into, must for- 
 ever preclude his personal interference in your affairs. He could 
 never hear the daughter of Captain Fitzalan suffered inconven- 
 ience of any kind, without wishing, without having her, indeed, 
 if possible, extricated from it.’ . ‘Oh! madam,’ cried Amanda, un- 
 able to repress her gushing tears, ‘ I am already well acquainted 
 
THE CHILDREN OE THE ABBEY. 
 
 419 
 
 with the noble feelings of Lord Mortimer, already oppressed with 
 a weight of obligations.’ Lady Martha was affected by her 
 energy; her eyes grew humid, and her voice softened. ‘ Error in 
 you will be more inexcusable than in others,’ cried Lady Martha^ 
 
 ‘ because, like too many unhappy creatures, you cannot plead the 
 desertion of all the world. To regret past errors, be they what 
 they may, is to insure my assistance and protection, if both, or 
 either, are at any time required by you. Was I even gone, I should 
 take care to leave a substitute behind me who should fulfil my in- 
 tentions toward 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, summon- 
 ing all her fortitude to her aid, ‘ for the interest you express about 
 me ; the time may yet come, perhaps, when I shall prove I never 
 was unworthy of exciting it — when the notice now offered from 
 compassion may be tendered from esteem — then,’ continued 
 Amanda, who could not forbear this justice to herself, ‘ the pitjr 
 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. ‘ Da 
 you seal up his and send them to Lord Cherbury’s house in Lon- 
 don, directed to me, and I will pledge myself to have yours re- 
 turned.’ ‘You shall be obeyed, madam,’ replied Amanda, in a 
 low, broken voice, after the pause of a moment. Lady Martha 
 then said she would no longer encroach upon her rest, and she 
 retired. 
 
 In her chamber, the feelings she had so long, so painfully tried 
 to suppress, broke forth without again meeting opposition. The* 
 pride which had given her transient animation was no more ; for, 
 as past circumstances arose to recollection, she could not wonder 
 at her being condemned from them. She no longer accused Lady 
 Martha in her mind of severity — ^no longer felt offended with 
 her ; but, oh ! Mortimer, the bitter tears she shed fell not for her- 
 self alone; she wept to think thy destiny, though more pros- 
 perous, was not less unhappy than her own ; for in thy broken, 
 accents, thy altered looks, she perceived a passion strong and 
 sincere as ever for her, and well she knew Lady Euphrasia not 
 calculated to soothe a sad heart, or steal an image from it which 
 corroded its felicity. Rest, after the incidents of the evening, 
 
420 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 was not to be thought of, but nature was exhausted, and insen- 
 sibly 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 
 ^ind unrefreshed from having lain in her clothes all night, and 
 when she went to adjust her dress at the glass, was surprised at 
 the pallidness of her looks. Anxious to escape a second painful 
 meeting, she went to the window to see if the chaise was come, 
 but was disappointed on finding that she had slept at the back of 
 the house. She heard no noise, and concluding 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 anyone stir- 
 ring. 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 
 «tood in from the one that was spacious and lofty, and which her 
 passing through the preceding night before it was lighted up had 
 prevented her taking notice of. Here, at a long table, were the 
 men servants belonging to the family and the guests assembled 
 at breakfast, the piper at the head, like the king of the feast. 
 Amanda stepped back the moment she perceived them, well 
 knowing Lord Mortimer’s servants would recollect her, and was 
 ascending the stairs to her room to ring for one of the maids, 
 when a servant hastily followed her, and said the family were 
 already in the breakfast room. At the same moment, Mr. Colin 
 Macqueen came from a parlor which opened into the little hall, 
 and paying Amanda, in a lively and affectionate manner, the 
 compliments of the morning, he led her to the parlor, where not 
 only all the family guests who had lain in the house, but several 
 gentlemen, who had been with them the preceding night, were 
 •assembled. Doctor Johnson has already celebrated a Scotch 
 breakfast, nor was the one at which Mrs. Macqueen and her fair 
 daughters presided inferior to any he had seen. Besides 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 T;he feet of the mountains and in the valley, and 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 421 
 
 t)y every guest was placed a fine bouquet from the greenhouse^ 
 with little French mottoes on love and friendship about them, 
 which, being opened and read, added to the mirth of the com- 
 pany. 
 
 ‘ 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, ex» 
 pecting every moment a summons to the chaise.’ ‘I took care 
 of that last night,’ said Mrs. Macqueen, ‘for I was determined 
 you should not depart, at least without breakfasting.’ Amanda 
 was seated between Mr. Colin Macqueen and his eldest sister, 
 and sought, by conversing with the former, for the latter was; 
 too much engrossed by the general gayety to pay much attention 
 to anyone, to avoid the looks she dreaded to see. Yet the sound 
 of Lord Mortimer’s voice affected her as much almost as his looks. 
 
 ‘ Pray, Lady Martha,’ said the second Miss Macqueen, a lively, 
 thoughtless girl, ‘ will your ladyship be so good as to guarantee 
 a promise Lord Mortimer has just made me, or rather that I have 
 extorted from him, which is the cause of this application ? ’ 
 ‘You must first, my dear,’ answered Lady Martha, ‘let me 
 know what the promise is.’ ‘Why, gloves and bridal favors; 
 but most unwillingly granted, I can assure your ladyship.’ 
 Amanda was obliged to set down the cup she was* raising to her 
 lips, and a glance stole involuntarily from her toward Lord 
 Mortimer — a glance instantly withdrawn when she saw his eyes 
 in the same direction. ‘I declare,’ continued Miss Phoebe Mac-^ 
 queen, ‘I should do the favor all due honor.’ ‘I am sure/ 
 cried Lord Mortimer, attempting to speak cheerfully, ‘your 
 acceptance of it will do honor to the presenter.’ ‘And your 
 lordship may be sure, too,’ said one of her brothers, ‘it is a favor 
 she would wish with all her heart to have an opportunity of re- 
 turning.’ ‘Oh! in that she would not be singular,’ said a 
 gentleman. ‘What do you think, Miss Donald,’ cried Colin 
 Macqueen, turning to Amanda, ‘do you imagine she would 
 not ? ’ Amanda could scarcely speak. She tried, however, ta 
 hide her agitation, and, forcing a faint smile, with a voice nearly 
 as faint, said, ‘that was not a fair question.’ The Miss Mac- 
 queens took upon themselves to answer it, and Amanda, through 
 their means, was relieved from farther embarrassment. 
 
 Breakfast over, Amanda was anxious to depart, and yet wanted 
 courage to be the first to move. A charm seemed to bind her ta 
 the spot where, for the last time, she should behold Lord Morti- 
 mer, at least the last time she ever expected to see him unmai> 
 ried. 
 
422 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Her dread of being* late on the road — and she heard the des- 
 tined stage for the night was at a great distance — at last conquered 
 her reluctance to move, and she said to Mr. Colin Macqueen it 
 was tinie -for her to go. At that moment Lord Mortimer rose, 
 2ind psTf posed to the young Macqueens going with them to see the 
 new filantations behind the house, which old Mr. Macqueen had 
 ^!xpressed a desire his lordship should give his opinion of. 
 
 All the young gentlemen, as well as the Macqueens, Colin ex- 
 cepted, attended his lordship ; nor did they depart without wish- 
 ing Amanda a pleasant jourhey. 
 
 Silent and sad, she continued in her chair for some minutes 
 after they quitted the room, forgetful of her situation, till the 
 loud laugh of the Miss Macqueens restored her to a recollection of 
 it. She blushed, and, rising hastily, was proceeding to pay her 
 farewell compliments, when Mrs. Macqueen, rising, drew her to 
 Ihe window, and in a low voice repeated her request for Amanda’s 
 company a few days. This Amanda again declined, but grate- 
 fully expressed her thanks for it, and the hospitality she had ex- 
 perienced. Mrs. Macqueen said, on her return to Scotland, she 
 hoped to be more successful. She also added that some of her 
 boys and girls would gladly have accompanied Amanda a few 
 miles on her way, had not they all agreed, ere her arrival, to 
 escort Lord Mortimer’s party to an inn at no great distance, and 
 take an early dinner with them. She should write that day, she 
 said, to Mrs. Duncan, and thank her for having introduced to her 
 family a person whose acquaintance was an acquisition. Amanda, 
 having received the affectionate adieus of this amiable woman 
 .and her daughters, courtesied, though with downcast looks, to 
 Lady Martha and Lady Araminta, who returned her salutation 
 with coolness. 
 
 Followed by two of the Misses Macqueen, she hurried through 
 the hall, from which the servants and the breakfast things were 
 already removed ; but how was she distressed when the first 
 object she saw outside the door was Lord Mortimer, by whom 
 stood Colin Macqueen — who had left the parlor to see if the chaise 
 was ready — and one of his brothers. Hastily would she have 
 stepped forward to the chaise, had not the gallantry of the young 
 men impeded her way. They expressed sorrow at her not staying 
 longer among them, and hopes on her return she would. 
 
 • Pray, my lord,’ cried the Misses Macqueen, 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 4 23 
 
 Amanda not to stir till they came back, which would be in a few 
 minutes ; but Amanda, from the awkward, the agitating situation 
 in which they had left her, would instantly have relieved herself, 
 could she have made the postilion hear her; but as if enjoying the 
 race, he had gone to some distance to view it, and none of the 
 servants of the house were near. Conscious of her own emotions, 
 she feared betraying them, and stepped a few yards from the door, 
 pretending to be engrossed by the Macqueens. A heavy sigh 
 suddenly pierced her ears. ‘ Amanda,’ in the next moment said 
 a voice to which her heart vibrated. She turned with involun- 
 tary quickness and saw Lord Mortimer close by her. ‘ Amanda,’ 
 he repeated ; then suddenly clasping his hands together, ex- 
 claimed, with an agonized expression, while he turned abruptly 
 from her ‘ Grracious Heaven ! what a situation! Amanda,’ said 
 he, again looking at her, ‘ the scene which happened last night 
 was distressing. I am now sorry on your account that it took 
 place. Notwithstanding past events, I bear you no ill-will. The 
 knowledge of your uneasiness would give me pain. From my 
 heart I forgive you all that you have caused — that you have en- 
 tailed upon me. At this moment I could take you to my arms, and 
 weep over you — like the fond mother over the last darling of her 
 hopes — tears of pity and forgiveness.’ 
 
 Amanda, unutterably affected, covered her face to hide the 
 tears which bedewed it. 
 
 ‘Let me have the pleasure of hearing,’ continued Lord Morti- 
 mer, ‘ that you forgive the uneasiness and pain I might have oc- 
 casioned you last night.’ ‘ Forgive ! ’ repeated Amanda. ‘ Oh, 
 my lord,’ and her voice sunk in the sobs which heaved her bosom. 
 ‘ Could I think you were, you would be happy Lord Mor- 
 
 timer stopped, overcome by strong emotions. 
 
 ‘ Happy ! ’ repeated Amanda ! ‘oh 1 never — never ! ’ continued 
 she, raising her streaming eyes to heaven ; ‘ oh, never — never in 
 this world ! ’ 
 
 At this moment the Macqueens were not only heard but seen 
 running back, followed by the gentlemen, whom they had been 
 prevailed on to liberate. Shocked at the idea of being seen in 
 such a situation, Amanda would have called the postilion, but he 
 was too far off to hear her weak voice, had she then ev^en been 
 able to exert that voice. She looked toward him, however, with 
 an expression which denoted the feelings of her soul. Lord Mor- 
 timer, sensible of those feelings, hastily pulled open the door of 
 the chaise, and taking the cold and trembling hand of Amanda 
 with one equally cold and trembling, assisted her into the chaise, 
 then pressing the hand he held between both his, he suddenly let 
 
 drop from him, and closing the door without again looking at 
 Amanda, called to the driver, who instantly obeyed the call, and 
 
424 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Had mounted ere the Macqueens arrived. Oh, what a contrast 
 did their looks, blooming with health and exercise, their gayety, 
 their |'»rotected situation, form to the wan, dejected, desolate 
 Amanda ! With looks of surprise they were going up to the 
 chaise, when Lord Mortimer, still standing by it, and anxious to 
 save h;3 anhappy, 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 allevia- 
 tion, a mansion where the stranger, the wayfaring man, and the 
 needy, were sure of a welcome, cordial as benevolence and hos- 
 pitality themselves could give ; and where happiness, as pure as 
 in this sublunary state can be experienced, was enjoyed. As she 
 drove from the door, she saw the splendid equipages of Lord 
 Mortimer and Lady Martha driving to it. She turned from them 
 with a sigh, at reflecting they would soon grace the bridal pomp 
 of Lady Euphrasia, She pursued the remainder of her journey 
 without meeting anything worthy of relation. It was in the 
 evening she reached London. The moment she stopped at the 
 hotel she sent for a carriage, and proceeded in it to Mrs. Connel’s, 
 in Bond Street. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 Dissembling hope, her cloudy front she clears, 
 
 And a false vigor in her eyes appears.— Drtden. 
 
 She alighted from the carriage when it stopped at the door^ 
 and entered the shop, where, to her inexpressible satisfaction, the 
 first object she beheld was Miss Rushbrook, sitting pensively at 
 one of the counters. The moment she saw Amanda she recol- 
 lected her, and, starting up, exclaimed, as she took her hand, 
 
 ‘ Ah ! dear madam, this is indeed a joyful surprise ! Ah ! how 
 often have I wished to meet you again to express my gratitude. ’ 
 The affectionate reception she met, and the unexpected sight of 
 Miss Rushbrook, seemed to promise Amanda that her wishes 
 relative to Rushbrook would not only be accelerated, but crowned 
 with success. She returned the fervent pressure of Miss Rush- 
 brook’s hand, and inquired after her parents — the inquiry appeared 
 distressing, and she was answered, with hesitation, that they were 
 indifferent. The evident embarrassment her question excited 
 prevented her renewing it at this time. The mistress of the house 
 was not present, and Amanda requested, if she was within, she 
 might see her directly. Miss Rushbrook immediately stepped to 
 a parlor behind the shop, and almost instantly returned, followed 
 by the lady herself, who was a little fat Irish woman, past hei 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 425 
 
 prime, but not past her relish for the good things of this life. ‘ Dear 
 madam,’ said she, courtesying to Amanda, ‘ you are very wel- 
 come. I protest I am 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 
 leit her friends, and, being unwilling to go among] total stran- 
 gers, she had come to her house in hopes of being able to procure 
 lodgings in it. 
 
 ‘ Dear ma’am,’ said Mrs. Connel, ‘ I protest I should have been 
 happy to have accommodated you, but at present my house is quite 
 full.’ 
 
 The disappointment this speech gave Amanda rendered her si- 
 lent for a moment, and she was then going to ask Mrs Connel if 
 she could recommend her to a lodging, when she perceived Miss 
 Rushbrook whispering to 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 stran- 
 gers, which, indeed, shows your prudence, considering what queer 
 kind of people are in the world. Miss Emily says, that if you con- 
 descend to accept of part of her little bed, till you can settle your- 
 self more comfortably in town, you shall be extremely welcome 
 to it; and I can assure you, madam, I shall do everything in ihy 
 power to render my house agreeable to you.’ ‘ Oh, most joyfully, 
 most thankfully, do I accept the ofPer,’said Amanda, whose heart 
 had sunk at the idea of going among 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 pre- 
 fer to a palace, if utterly unacquainted with the people who in- 
 habited it.’ Her trunk was now brought in, and the carriage dis- 
 charged. ‘I suppose, ma’am,’ said Mrs. Connel, looking at the 
 trunk on which her assumed name was marked, ‘ you are Scotch 
 by your name, though, indeed, you have not much of the accent 
 about you.’ ‘ I declare,’ cried Emily, also looking at it, ‘ till this 
 moment I was ignorant of your name.’ 
 
 Amanda was pleased to hear this, and resolved not to disclose 
 her real one, except convinced Rushbrook would interest himself 
 in her affairs. She was conducted into the parlor, which was 
 neatly furnished, and opened into the shop by a glass door. Mrs. 
 Connel stirred a declining fire into a cheerful blaze, and desireckto 
 know if Amanda would choose anything for dinner. ‘ Speak the 
 word only, my dear,’ said she, ‘ and I think I can procure you a 
 cold bone in the house. If you had come two hours sooner, I 
 
426 
 
 THE CHILDKEN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 could have given you a bit of nice veal for your dinner.’ Amanda 
 assured her she did not wish to take anything till tea-time. 
 
 ‘ Well, well,’ cried Mrs. Connel, ‘ you shall have a snug cup of 
 tea by and by, and a hot muffin with it. I am very fond of tea. 
 myseljf, though poor Mr. Connel, who is dead and gone, used often, 
 and oiien to say, ‘ I that was so nervous should never 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 con- 
 sidered 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, consider- 
 ing the situation of her parents. ’ ‘ I hope, ’ interupted Amanda, 
 
 ‘ it is not so bad as it was.’ ‘ Bad ! Lord ! it cannot be worse ; the 
 poor captain has been in jail above a year.’ ‘ I am sorry, ’ said 
 Amanda, ‘ to hear this. Has any application been made to Lady 
 Greystock since his confinement?’ ‘ To Lady Greystock! why, 
 Lord ! one might as well apply to one of the wild beasts in the 
 Tosver ! 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 
 anyone. It is now about fourteen years since my acquaintance 
 with him first commenced. My poor husband, that is no more, 
 and I kept a shop in Dublin, where the captain’s regiment was 
 quartered, and he being only a lieutenant had not room enough 
 for his family in the barracks, so he took lodgings at our house, 
 where Mrs. Pushbrook lay in, and I being with her now and then 
 during her confinement, a kind of friendship grew up among us. 
 They had not left us long fco go to America, when a relation of 
 my husband, who owned this house and shop, having lost his 
 wife and being lonesome, without either chick or child, invited us 
 to come and live with him, promising us if we did. to settle us in 
 his business, and leave us everything he had. Well, such ofPers 
 do not come every day ; so to be sure, we took him at his word ; 
 and here we had not long been when the poor man bid adieu to 
 all* mortal care, and was soon followed by Mr. Connel. Well, 
 to be sure, I was sad and solitary enough; but when I thought 
 how irreligious it was to break one’s heart with grief, I plucked 
 up my spirits and began to hold up my head again. So to make 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 427 
 
 a short story of a long* one, about six years ago Mrs. Rushbrook 
 and Miss Emily came one day into the shop to buy something, 
 little thinking they should see an old friend. It was, to be sure, 
 a meeting of joy and sorrow, as one may say. We told all our 
 griefs to each other, and I found things were very bad with the 
 poor captain. Indeed, I have a great regard for him and his 
 family, and when he was confined, I took Emily home as an as- 
 sistant in my business. The money she earned was to go to her 
 parents, and I agreed to give her clothes gratis ; but that would 
 have gone but a little way in feeding so many mouthes, 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 ket- 
 tle 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 mufiins buttered, Mrs. Con- 
 nel made Amanda draw her chair close to the table, that she 
 might, as she said, look snug, and drink her tea comfortably. 
 
 ‘I assure you, madam,’ cried she, ‘it was a lucky hour for Miss 
 Emily when she entered my house.’ ‘ I have no doubt of that,’ 
 said Amanda. ‘You must know, madam,’ proceeded Mrs. 
 Connel, ‘ about a month ago a gentleman came to lodge with me, 
 who I soon found was making speeches to Miss Emily. He was 
 one of those wild looking sparks, who, like Ranger in the play, 
 looked as if they would be popping through everyone’s doors 
 and windows, and playing such tricks as made poor Mr. Strick- 
 land so jealous of his wife. Well, I took my gentleman to task 
 one day unawares. “So, Mr. Sipthorpe,” says I, “I am told you 
 have cast a sheep’s eye upon one of my girls ; but I must tell you 
 she is a girl of virtue and family, so if you do not mean to deal 
 honorably with her, you must either decamp from this, or speak 
 to her no more.” Upon this he made me a speech as long as a 
 member of parliament’s upon a new tax. “ Lord, Mr. Sipthorpe,” 
 said I, “ there is no occasion for all this oratory, a few words will 
 settle the business between us.” Well, this was coming close to 
 the point, you will say, and he told me then he always meant to 
 deal honorably by Miss Emily, and told me all about his circum- 
 stances; and I found he had a fine fortune, which indeed I partly 
 guessed before from the appearance he made, and he said he 
 would not only marry Miss Emily, but take her parents out of 
 prison, and provide for the whole family. Well, now comes the 
 provoking part of the story. A young clergyman had been kind 
 at the beginning of their distress to them, and he and Miss Emily 
 took it into their heads to fall in love with each other. Well, her 
 parenis gave their consent to their being married, which to be 
 
428 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 sure I thought a very foolish thing, knowing the young man’s 
 inability to serve them. To be sure he promised fair enough; 
 but, Lord! what could a poor curate do for them, particularly 
 when he got a wife and a house full of children of his own ? I 
 thought ; so I supposed they would be quite glad to be oft* with 
 him, and to give her to Mr. Sipthorpe ; but no such thing, I assure 
 you. When I mentioned it to them, one talked of honor, and 
 another of gratitude, and as to Miss Emily, she fairly went into 
 fits. Well, I thought I would serve them in spite of themselves, 
 so, knowing the curate to be a romantic young fellow, 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 every- 
 thing was settled for her marriage with Mr. Sipthorpe, and he 
 made a nvimber of handsome presents to her, I assure you, and 
 they are to be married in a few days. He is only waiting for his 
 rents in the country to take the captain out of prison ; but here 
 is Miss Emily, instead of being quite merry and joyful, is as dull 
 and as melancholy as if she was going to be married to a fright- 
 ful 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 traveled ? ’ ‘From a i emote part of Scotland.’ ‘Dear, 
 what a long journey ! — Lord ! they say that is a very desolate 
 place, without never a tree or a bush in it.’ ‘I assure you, it 
 wants neither shade nor verdure,’ replied Amanda. ‘Really; 
 well. Lord, what lies some people tell ! Pray, ma’am, may I ask 
 what countrywoman you are ? ’ ‘ Welsh, ’ said Amanda. ‘ Really ; 
 well, I suppose, ma’am, you have had many a scramble up the 
 mountains, after the goats, which they say are naarvelous plenty 
 in that part of the world.’ ‘ No, indeed,’ replied Amanda. ‘Are 
 you come to make any long stay in London, ma’am ? ’ ‘I have 
 not determined.’ ‘I suppose you have come about a little busi- 
 ness, ma’am?’ resumed Mrs. Connel. ‘Yes,’ replied Amanda. 
 ‘To be sure, not an affair of great consequence, or so young a 
 lady would not have undertaken it.’ Amanda smiled, but made 
 no reply, and was at length relieved from these tiresome and 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 429 
 
 inquisitive questions by Mrs. ConneFs 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 
 Hushbrook’s affairs, when his attention and time were engrossed 
 by the approaching settlement of his daughter, an application to 
 him, on her own account, would be not only impertinent, but 
 unavailing; she therefore determined to wait till the hurry and 
 agitation produced by such an event had subsided, and most sin- 
 cerely did she hope that it might be productive of felicity to all. 
 Mrs. Connel was not long absent, and Emily returned almost at 
 the moment she re-entered the room. ‘Well, miss,’ said Mrs. 
 Connel, addressing her ere she had time to speak to Amanda, ‘ I 
 have been telling your good friend here all about your affairs.’ 
 
 ‘ Have you, ma’am ? ’ cried Emily, with a faint smile, and a 
 dejected voice. Amanda looked earnestly in her face, and saw 
 an expression of the deepest sadness in it. From her own heart 
 she readily imagined what her feelings must be at such a disap- 
 pointment as Mrs. Connel had mentioned, and felt the sincerest 
 pity for her. Mrs. ConneFs volubility tormented them both ; 
 supper happily terminated it, as she was then much better em- 
 ployed, in her own opinion, than she could possibly have been in 
 talking. Amanda’pleaded fatigue for retiring early. Mrs. Connel 
 advised her to try a few glasses of wine as a restorative, but she 
 begged to be excused, and was allowed to retire with Emily. The 
 chamber was small but neat, and enlivened by a good fire, to 
 which Amanda and Emily sat down while undressing. The latter 
 eagerly availed herself of this opportunity to express the gratitude 
 of her heart. Amanda tried to change the discourse, but could 
 not succeed. ‘ Long, madam,’ continued Emily, ‘ have we wished 
 to return our thanks for a benefaction so delicately conveyed as 
 yours, and happy were my parents to-night when I informed 
 them I could now express their grateful feelings.’ ‘Though in- 
 terested exceedingly in your affairs, said Amanda, making another 
 effort to change the discourse, ‘ be assured I never should have 
 taken the liberty of inquiring minutely into them, and I men- 
 tion this, lest you might suppose from what Mrs. Connel said, that 
 I had done so.’ ‘No, madam,’ replied Emily, ‘I had no such 
 idea, and an inquiry from you would be rather pleasing than 
 otherwise, because I should then flatter myself you might be in- 
 duced to listen to griefs which have long wanted the consola- 
 tion of sympathy — such, I am sure, as they would receive from 
 you.’ ‘ Happy should I be,’ cried Amanda, ‘ had I the power of 
 alleviating them. ’ ‘ Oh ! madam , you have the power, ' said Emily, 
 *for you would commiserate them, and commiseration from you 
 would be balm to my heart ; you would strengthen me in my 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 ^^30 
 
 duties — you would instruct me in resignation ; but I am selfish 
 in desiring to intrude them on you.’ ‘ No,’ replied Amanda, tak- 
 ing her hand, ‘ you flatter me by such a desire.’ ‘ Then, madam, 
 while you are undressing, I will give myself the melancholy in- 
 dulgence 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 sor- 
 rows 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 j,by the bedside of 
 my almost expiring mother ! I will not pain your gentle nature 
 by dwelling on the horrors of that moment, on the agonies of a 
 parent and 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 minutes ere I had power to 
 approacii 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 children, terrified by the scene they had 
 witnessed, wept together in a corner of the room. I at last recol- 
 lected 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 have 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 tho 
 present moment, and I flew to her house. The servant showed 
 me into a parlor, where she, her daughters, and a young clergy« 
 man I had never before seen, were sitting at tea. I could not 
 bring myself to mention my distress before a stranger, and ac- 
 cordingly begged to speak to her in another room ; but she told 
 me in a blunt manner I might speak there. In a low and falter- 
 ing voice, which sighs and tears often impeded, I acquainted her 
 of what had happened, the situation of my mother, and requested 
 a cordial for he:^. How great was my confusion when she de- 
 clared aloud all I had told her, and turning to her daughter, bid 
 her give me part of a bottle of wine. ‘ ‘Ay, ay,” cried she, ‘ ‘ I always 
 thought things would turn out so. It was really very foolish of 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 431 
 
 Mr. Heathfield to bring you to his house, and lead you all into 
 such expenses ! ” I listened 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 symptoms of 
 returning life, when a gentle knock came to the hall door. I sup- 
 posed it my brother, and bade one of the children fly to open it* 
 What was my surprise when in a few 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 benevolence, apologized for 
 his intrusion ; but said he came with a hope and a wish that he 
 might be serviceable. Oh ! how soothing was his voice ! Oh I 
 how painfully pleasing the voice of tenderness to the wretched t 
 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, his profession, all conspired to calm her 
 spirits, and she blessed the power which so unexpectedly 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 ; a request most 
 pleasing to us, as we trusted his soothing attention would have 
 the same effect upon his sorrowing heart as it had upon ours. 
 Scarcely were they gone ere a man arrived 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 carried to my father’s prison. 
 Mrs. Connel, who, on the first intimation of our distress, had 
 come to us, took me into the house at a stated salary’’, which wa>> 
 to be given to my parents, and the rest of the children were t 
 continue with them. My mother desired me one evening to ta,> ; 
 a walk with the children to Kensington, as she thought them Li 
 jured by constant confinement. Our friend attended us, and on 
 our way thither, informed me that he 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, during which time his attentions were unremitting, and he 
 was a source of comfort to us all. A sudden chill came over iny 
 heart as he spoke, and every sorrow at that moment seemed ag- 
 grav^ated. On entering Kensington Gardens, 1 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 tearg 
 
432 
 
 THB CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 gusLed forth in spite of my efforts to restrain them. Something 
 I said of their being occasioned by the recollection of the period 
 when my parents enjoyed the charming scene I now contem- 
 plated 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 obligations 
 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 ! let them 
 have a constant claim upon me for it ! O Emily I ” he con- 
 tinued, taking my 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 con- 
 ceive 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 prevailed on to do so you would 
 give it pleasures it never yet experienced.” He paused for a re- 
 ply, but I was unable to give one. 
 
 ‘ Ah ! madam, how little necessity either was there for one ; 
 my looks, my confusion, betrayed my feelings. He urged me 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 ! do not think,” 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 if they consented to our 
 union, he should by economy be enabled to contribute more essen- 
 tially to their support then 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 pleas- 
 ure 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 
 
 1 time, I should visit them till I had the power of bringing them to 
 my cottage, 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 returning 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 en- 
 deavored to shake him off, but could not succeed, and hastened 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 43S 
 
 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 suspecting 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 unavailing ; he was continually on the watch for me, and I 
 could not go up or downstairs without being insulted by him. 
 I at length informed Mrs. Connel of his conduct, and entreated 
 her to fulfill the sacred trust her friends reposed in her, when 
 they gave me to her care, by terminating the insults of Mr. Sip- 
 thorpe. Alas! could I have possibly foreseen the consequences; 
 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, every prospect of felicity 
 was in a moment overshadowed 1 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 feel- 
 ings less than his, who had so generously resigned me, that my 
 father might be extricated from his difficulties, 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 1 Miss Donald, it is a sacrifice of the most dreadful nature I am 
 about making. Sipthorpe is a man I never could have liked, had. 
 my heart even been disengaged. ’ 
 
 Amanda felt the truest pity for her young friend, who ended 
 her narrative in tears ; but she did not, by yielding entirely ta 
 that pity (as too many girls with tender hearts, but weak heads, 
 might have done), heighten the sorrow of Miss Rushbrook. She 
 proved her friendship and sympathy more sincerely than she 
 could have done by mere expressions of condolement, which feed 
 the grief they commiserate, 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 rap- 
 ture 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 admonition, she had resigned a lover, and had that 
 father been in Captain Rushbrook’s situation, and the same sacri- 
 fice been demanded from her as from Emily, she felt, without 
 hesitation, she would have made it. She was indeed a moni-res» 
 
434 
 
 THE .CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 that had practiced, and would practice (was there a necessity for 
 so doing) the lessons she gave, not as poor Ophelia says : 
 
 Like some ungracious pastors, 
 
 Who show the ste6p and thorny path to heaven, 
 
 But take the primrose one themselves. 
 
 The sweet consciousness of this grave energy, gave more than 
 visual eloquence to her language ; but while 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 
 2rom disappointed affection and a reluctant union. Scarcely 
 icould she refrain from weeping over a fate so wretched, and 
 which she was tempted to think as dreadful as 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 to the comfort of 
 those dearest to her heart. 
 
 ‘Your words, my dear madam,’ said Emily, ‘have calmed my 
 spirits ; henceforth I will be more resolute in trying to banish re- 
 grets from my mind. But I have been inconsiderate to a degree 
 in keeping you 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 unrefresh- 
 ing; the cares which clung to her heart w^hen 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 draw- 
 ing back the curtain she laid down the book she was reading, and 
 oame to her. She saw she looked extremely ill, and, imputing 
 ;;his to fatigue, requested she would breakfast in bed ; but Amanda, 
 who knew her illness proceeded from a cause which neither rest 
 nor assiduous care could cure, refused complying with this request 
 and immediately dressed herself. 
 
 As she stood at the toilet, Emily suddenly exclaimed, ‘ If you 
 bave a mind to see Sipthorpe, I will show him to you now, for he 
 isjust 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 Belgrave! A 
 shivering horror ran through her veins, and recoiling a few paces 
 she sunk half fainting on a chair. Emily, terrified by her appear- 
 ^ance, was flying to the bell to ring for assistance, when, by a 
 faint motion of her hand, Amanda prevented 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 youi 
 
THE CHILDEEN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 435 
 
 breakfast.’ Emily refused to go and entreated that instead ot 
 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. Aman- 
 da 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 situa- 
 tion, which appeared replete with every danger to her imagination, 
 for, 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 knowledge 
 of Belgrave. To discover his baseness required therefore cau- 
 tion 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, unsupported as she 
 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 with- 
 out giving any intimation that she meant not to return to it^ 
 She recollected a place where there was a probability of her get- 
 ting lodgings which would be at once secret and secure ; and by 
 an anonymous letter to Captain Rushbrook, she intended to ac- 
 quaint 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. Sip- 
 thorpe 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 ma- 
 terials for writing from Emily, which were immediately 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 Dun- 
 reath, 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 amiahif* 
 
436 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 plicity 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 already another’s, and his character for many years past marked with in- 
 stances of deceit, if not equal at least little inferior to the present. For the truth of 
 these assertions, the writer of the letter refers Captain Rushbrook to Sir Charles Bing- 
 
 ley, of regiment, from whose agent a direction may be procured to him, certain, 
 
 from his honor and sensibility, he will eagerly step forward to save worth and inno- 
 cence 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 accident should happen if it went by any other hands. 
 She was anxious to be gone, but thought it better to wait till 
 toward evening, when there would be the least chance 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 permission to sit 
 with her, Amanda, in her present agitation, would have pre^ 
 ferred solitude, but could not decline the company of the affec- 
 tionate girl, who, in conversing with her, sought to 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 de- 
 termined immediately to go out, and having told Emily her in- 
 tention, they both descended 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 question, who desired to know if she would not soon re- 
 turn. 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 pro- 
 cured a carriage, but was so weak and agitated the coachman was 
 almost 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, wfith a particular charge to deliver it imme- 
 diately 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 think- 
 ing herself safe, as its mistress 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 incapable of enjoying, at least unwilling to 
 acknowledge, the blessings she yet possessed. On anyone in her 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 437 
 
 power she ventured her spleen. Her chief pursuit was the gratis 
 tication of a most insatiate curiosity, and her first delight relating 
 the affairs, 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 entered, with- 
 out rising from her chair to return her salute, ‘ when did you re- 
 turn to London? — and pray may I ask what brought you back to 
 it? ’ 
 
 Amanda was convinced from Mrs. Hansard’s altered manner, 
 who had once been servile to a degree to her, that she was per- 
 fectly 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 
 chillness crept through her frame when she reflected her sad situ- 
 ation might long compel her to this. Sick, weak, exhausted, she 
 sunk upon a chair, which she had neither been offered or desired 
 to take. ‘ Well, miss, and pray what is your business in town? ^ 
 again asked Mrs. Hansard, with an increased degree of pert- 
 ness. 
 
 ‘My business, madam,’ replied Amanda, ‘can be of no conse- 
 quence to a person not connected with me. My business wi^h you 
 is to know whether you can accomodate me with lodgings? ’ 
 ‘ Eeally. Well, you might have paid me the compliment of say- 
 ing 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, ’ re- 
 
 plied 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 se- 
 cured 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 pleasant 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 London. Amanda, though a stranger 
 in herself to every species of art, from fatal experience was aware 
 of it in others, and therefore guarded her secret. Mrs. Hansard, 
 who lovedjwhat she called a gossiping cup of tea, sat a tedious 
 lame over the tea table. Amanda, at last mortified and alarmed 
 
438 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 by some expressions which dropped from her, again ventured to 
 ask if she could be lodged under her roof. 
 
 ‘ Are you really serious in that question ? ’ said Mrs. Hansard. 
 There was a certain expression of contempt in her features as she 
 spoke, which shocked Amanda so much that she had not power to 
 reply; ‘because if you are, my dear,’ continued 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 J. :7ould ruin my house, which lodges people of the first 
 rank and character, by admitting you into it ? you, who, it is 
 well known, obtained Lady Greystock’s protection from charity, 
 and lost it through misconduct. Poor lady — I had the whole 
 story from her own mouth. She suffered well from having any- 
 thing to say to you. I always guessed how it would be. Not- 
 withstanding 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 you, if you have had a tiff with any of your 
 friends, to make up the difference; though, indeed, if you do not, 
 in such a place as London, 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 in my house, I should suffer as much 
 in my pocket, I suppose, as in my character.’ 
 
 The terrified and distressed look with which Amanda listened 
 to this speech, would have stopped Mrs. Hansard in the middle of 
 it, had she possessed a spark of humanity, even if she believed 
 her (which was not the case) guilty. But lost to the noble, the 
 gentle feelings of humanity, she exulted in the triumph of malice, 
 and rejoiced to have an opportunity of piercing the panting heart 
 of helpless innocence with the sharp darts of insult and unmerited 
 reproach. Amid the various shocks Amanda had experienced 
 in the short but eventful course of her life, 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 1 ’ 
 exclaimed she, at last, looking up to that Heaven she addressed, 
 and which she now considered her only refuge from evil, ‘ to what 
 trials am I continually exposed! Persecuted, insulted, shocked! 
 Oil! 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 continued, 
 starting up, and looking at Mrs. Hansard, ‘that the accommoda- 
 tion I desired in this house you refused me, for I am now well 
 convinced, from the knowledge of your disposition, that the secu- 
 rity my situation requires I should not have found within it 
 
THE children of the ABBEY. 
 
 iZH 
 
 She hastily quitted the room; but on entering* 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 liall 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 after Amanda, addressed her 
 without fear of being overheard. ‘ Bless me, miss,’ said she, ‘are 
 you crying ? Why, Lord ! surely you would not mind what old 
 Blouzy in the parlor says V I 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, except she 
 wished to run into the very dangers she had wanted to avoid, and 
 Mrs. Connel’s house returned to her recollection, as the impossi- 
 bility of procuring a refuge in any other was confirmed 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, while she trusted her own precautions would, under 
 Heaven, defeat his secret schemes, should he again contrive any. 
 She therefore resolved, or rather necessity compelled her — for 
 could she have avoided it she would not have done so— to return 
 to Mrs. Connel’s; she accordingly requested the maid to procure 
 her a carriage, 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 anyone but the family was 
 within; conscious, however, that such a question might create 
 suspicions, 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 ?— Otway. 
 
 Amanda had not reached the parlor when the door opened, 
 and Mrs. Connel came from it. ‘Oh! oh! miss,’ cried she, ‘sa 
 
440 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 re- 
 turn.’ 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 her 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 astonish- 
 ment, 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 pre- 
 sentiment 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. 
 
 Amanda now appeared to have reached the crisis of her fate. 
 In all 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 consola- 
 tion 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 her sorrowing heart. When tom from the 
 beloved object enshrined within that heart, while her sick soul 
 languished under the heavy burden of existence, 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-out arm to shield her 
 from its violence. Surrounded by strangers prejudiced against 
 her, she could not think that her plain, unvarnished tale would 
 gain their credence, or prevail on them to protect her from the 
 wretch whose machinations had ruined her in their estimation. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 441 
 
 The horrors of her situation all at once assailed her mind, over^ 
 powered 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 bead at these words ; she had grown a little 
 more composed. ‘ The Being in whom I trust,’ she said to her- 
 self, ‘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 in- 
 quiring whether my real name is Donald ? ’ ‘ Oh, Lord ! my 
 
 dear ! ’ said Mrs. Connel, addressing Mrs. Rushbrook, ‘ you need 
 not pester yourself or her with any more questions about the 
 matter ; her question is an answer in itself.’ ‘ I am of your 
 opinion, indeed,’ exclaimed Mrs. Rushbrook, ‘ and think any 
 farther inquiry needless.’ ‘I acknowledge, 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 amid my difficulties is the 
 idea of never having drawn them upon myself by impruden(^e.’ 
 
 do not want, madam,’ replied Mrs. Rushbrook, ‘to inquire 
 into your situation ; you have been candid in one instance, I 
 hope you will be equally so in another. Pray, madam,’ handing 
 to Amanda the letter she had written to Rushbrook, ‘ is this your 
 writing?’ ‘Yes, madam,’ answered Amanda, whose pride was 
 roused by the contempt she 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 
 madams in a novel, a bit of a letter without ever a name to it. 
 Mr. Sipthorpe knew directly who 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 dis- 
 turbed, but whose innocence he never triumphed over. He knows 
 that, like an evil genius, he has pursued my wandering footsteps, 
 heaping sorrow upon sorrow on me by his machinations; but hi^: 
 
442 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 struggling 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 from 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 ad- 
 jure you beware of the consequences of it. Oh! 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 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 shrink- 
 ing 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 mis- 
 guided creature; but was I even so, my too evident anguislt 
 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, fulfills the Divine precept. 
 The tear she sheds over her frailties is consecrated in the sight of 
 Heaven, and her compassion draws a blessing on her own head.. 
 Oh, 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 consolation; 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 accu- 
 sation 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 trembling creature before her. ‘Perhaps,’' 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 443 
 
 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; M protest in future I shall be guarded 
 who I admit into my house. I declare she seemed so distressed 
 at the idea of going among strangers, that, sooner than let her 
 do so, I believe, if Miss Emily had not, I should have otfered her 
 part of my bed; but this distress was ail a pretext to get into the 
 house with Mr. Sipthorpe, that she might try to entangle him in 
 her snai*es again. Well, I am determined she shall not stay an- 
 other 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 a 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 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 
 w^ater 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. Connel. 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. Rush- 
 brook’s bosom, said in a low, tremulous voice, ‘ To-morrow, 
 madam, I shall depart. Oh! would to Heaven,’ cried she, clasp- 
 ing her hands together, and bursting into an agony of tears, ‘ be- 
 fore 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 solitary, 
 no cheerful fire sent forth an animating blaze; no gentle Emily, 
 like the mild genius of benevolence, appeared to offer with un- 
 dissembled kindness her little attentions. Forsaken, faint, the 
 
444 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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, yes!’ she groaned, ‘once such friends were 
 mine, and the sad remembrance of 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 w^ould have rendered 
 your existence miserable, and made you wish a thousand times; 
 for the termination of hers. 
 
 ‘O Oscar! 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 myself.’ The 
 chamber door opened. She turned her eyes to it in expectation 
 of seeing Emily, but was disappointed on perceiving only the maid 
 of the house. ‘ Oh, dear ma’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 Bushbrook will be sorry enough, when, 
 after giving her daughter to Mr. Sipthorpe, she finds he is not 
 w^hat he seems to be.’ Amanda shrunk with horror from the idea 
 of Emily’s destruction, and, by a motion of her hand, signified to 
 the maid her dislike to the subject. ‘Well, ma’am,’ she con- 
 tinued, ‘ 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 
 sent 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 
 Borrows 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 speaking 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 lo 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, affords 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- R- 
 
 ‘ 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 Richmond 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 resi- 
 dence till you could get one to your mind. My sister is a sage. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 445 
 
 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 wuth 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-morrow 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 : 
 
 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 anyone’s house, was truly re- 
 pugnant to the feelings of Amanda; but sad necessity conquered 
 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 together 
 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, I could get a little wine from her to make whey for 
 you. ’ Amanda refused this, but accepted her offer of assistance, 
 for she was so overpowered by the scenes of the day as to be al- 
 most unequal to any exertions. The 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 afiPectionate love to 
 Miss Rushbrook, and her sincere thanks for the kind solicitude 
 she had expressed about her. Her rest was now, as on the pre- 
 ceding night, broken and disturbed by frightful visions. She 
 arose pale, trembling, and unrefreshed. The maid came to her 
 soon after she was dressed, and she immediately accompanied her 
 downstairs, trembling, as she went, lest Belgrave should suddenly 
 make his appearance, and either prevent her departure, or fol- 
 low her to her new residence. She left the house, however, with- 
 out 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 wished 
 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 herself at the end of her 
 
446 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 iittle journey. The house was elegant and spacious, with a short 
 avenue before it planted with chestnuts. The maid’s sister was 
 an elderly looking woman, who received Amanda with every ap- 
 pearance of respect, and conducted 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 morning; and I am sure she will do every- 
 thing in her power to oblige you.’ ‘I thank you both,’ cried 
 Amanda, with her usual sweetness, but while she spoke a strug- 
 g'ling tear stole down her lovely cheek at the idea of that forlorn 
 situation which had thus cast her upon the kindness of 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 among the cot- 
 tages in this neighborhood, till I can settle my affairs to return 
 to my friends. In the meantime, I must insist on making some 
 recompense for the attention I have received, and the expense I 
 have put you to.’ She accordingly forced a present upon each, 
 for both the women appeared unwilling to accept 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, however, 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 breakfast 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 immedi- 
 ately 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 ta 
 . ‘ompose her spirits by reflecting she was in a place of security ; 
 but tl^ir agitation was not to be subdued from the sleep into which 
 mere fatigue threw her. She was continually starting in inex- 
 pressible 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 
 to 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 required) from its vicinity to Tudor 
 Hall, near which every feeling of propriety and tenderness must 
 forbid her residing ; the sad remembrance of which, now reviving 
 in her mind, drew tears from her, aiK^ »*endered her unable to eat. 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 447 
 
 She thanked Mrs. Deborah for her attention, but, anxious to be 
 alone, said she would no longer detain her; yet no sooner was she 
 alone than she found solitude insupportable. She could 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 descend- 
 ing the stairs, she heard, notwithstanding the door was shut, a 
 man’s voice from a front parlor. She started, for she thought it 
 was a voice familiar to her ear. With a light foot and a throbbing 
 heart she turned into a parlor at the foot of the stairs which com- 
 municated with the other. Here she listened, and soon had 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, be- 
 
 ing delivered with a violent burst of laughter, Amanda could not 
 hear. She thought she heard them moving toward 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 heard 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 liave her suspicions awakened. Her 
 desperate situation inspired her with strength and courage, an 1 
 she trusted by presence of mind to be able to extricate herseii 
 from it. It was her intention, if she effected her escape, to pro 
 ceed directly to London, though the idea of entering it, without 
 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 neighbor-- 
 ing cottages, which she thought might be searched. Mrs. Deb- 
 orah, as she expected, soon came up to her. Amanda involun- 
 tarily 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 admiring the garden. ‘ There is a great deal 
 of fruit in the garden,’ said she, turning to Mrs. Deborah; ‘ if I did 
 
448 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 not think it encroached too much on your kindness, I should 
 ask for a nectarine or two.’ ‘ Dear ma’am,’ replied Mrs. Deb- 
 orah, ‘ you are heartily welcome. I declare I should have offered 
 them to you, only I thought you would like a turn in the garden 
 and pull them yourself.’ ‘No,’ said Amanda, ‘I cannot, at pres- 
 ent.’ Mrs. Deborah went off, and Amanda watched at the win- 
 dow 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 bet- 
 ter 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 weak- 
 ness as from fear of attracting notice, if she went on in such a wild 
 manner. She started at the sound of every carriage, 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 there was 
 for exertions to procure a lodging. Some poor women she saw re- 
 tiring 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 before4she should have considered as objects of com- 
 passion. 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 ! ' She turned into the shop, where butter and cheese 
 were displayed, and where an elderly woman sat knitting behind 
 the counter. She arose immediately, as if from surprise and re- 
 spect 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, while 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 stead- 
 fastly at Amanda. ‘This is a strange hour,' cried she, ‘for any 
 decent body to come looking for lodgings ! ' ‘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 do not 
 know how that may be,' cried she; ‘it is natural for a body to 
 speak a good word for themselves ; however, 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 accordingly called a little girl to 
 watch the shop, and, taking a candle, went up, before Amanda, 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 449 
 
 a narrow, winding flight of stairs, and conducted her into a room 
 whose dirty, miserable appearance made her involuntarily shrink 
 back, as if from the den of wretchedness itself. She tried to sub« 
 due the disgust it inspired her with, by reflecting that, after the 
 imminent danger she had escaped, she should be happy to pro- 
 cure any asylum she could consider safe. She also tried to recon- 
 cile herself to it, by reflecting that in the morning she should quit 
 it. 
 
 ‘Well, ma’am,’ said the woman, ‘the price of the room is 
 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 objec- 
 
 tion 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 oif ended by the inquiry.’ She 
 now put her hand in her pocket for the purse, to give the ex- 
 pected 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, clasping her hands together, in an agony 
 which precluded reflection, ‘now — now, I am lost indeed! My 
 purse is stolen,’ she continued, ‘and I cannot give you the prom- 
 ised guinea.’ ‘No, nor never could, I suppose,’ exclaimed the 
 woman. ‘Ah! 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 ; 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 ! ’ 
 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 
 sorry for it. Amanda instantly ceased her importunities, and in 
 trembling silence followed her downstairs. 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! even if capable of 
 reflection, she could have suggested no plan which there was a 
 hope of accomplishing. The powers of her mind were over* 
 
450 
 
 THE CHILDREN’ OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 sud- 
 denly caught. She made a feeble but unsuccessful effort to dis- 
 engage 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 pervaded 
 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 situa- 
 tion must excite in his mind— ideas she feared she should never 
 be able to remove, so strongly were appearances against tier. 
 
 ‘ Gracious Heaven ! ’ exclaimed Sir Charles, ‘ is this Miss Fitz- 
 alan ? Oh, this,’ he cried, in a tone of deep dejection, ‘is indeed 
 a meeting of horror!’ 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 seeing 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 her fine form, and the coun- 
 tenance of Sir Charles, as he bent over her, full of sorrow and 
 dismay. ‘Miss Fitzalan,’ cried Sir Charles, after the silence of a 
 minute, ‘ you are ill ; allow me to have the pleasure of seeing you 
 home.’ ‘Home!’ repeated 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 knev? 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBET. 
 
 451 
 
 he could gain lier 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 ill- 
 ness, 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 received her in his 
 arms. On the carriage stopping, he committed her to the care 
 of his friend, while he stepped into the house to procure a recep- 
 tion. In a few minutes he returned with a maid, who assisted 
 him in carrying her upstairs. But on entering the drawing 
 room how great was his amazement, when a voice suddenly ex- 
 claimed, ‘ Oh, merciful Powers ! this is Miss Donald ! ’ It was 
 indeed to Mrs. Connel’s house, and to the care of the Rush brooks, 
 whom his bounty had released from prison, he had brought her. 
 He had previously informed them of the situation in which he had 
 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 
 Uftingled 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 ! ’ 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 
 recovered from her fainting fit ; but her eyes still continued 
 closed, and her head, too weak to be self-supported, rested against 
 the arm of the couch. Mrs. Rushbrook and her daughter hung 
 over her in inexpressible agonies. If they w^ere thus affected, oh ^ 
 how was Sir Charles Bingley distressed — oh ! how w^as his heart, 
 which loved her with the most impassioned tenderness, agonized/ 
 As he bent over the couch, the big tear trickled down his manly 
 cheek and fell upon the cold, pale face he contemplated. He 
 softly asked himself. Is this Amanda ? Is this she, whom but a 
 short time ago I beheld moving with unequaled elegance, adorned 
 with unrivaled beauty, whom my heart worshiped as the first 
 of women, and sought to unite its destiny to, as the surest means 
 of rendering that destiny happy ? Oh, what a change is here ! 
 How feeble is that form ! how hollow is that cheek ! how heavy 
 are those eyes, whose languid glance speaks incurable anguish of 
 the soul ! O Amanda, were the being present who first led you 
 
452 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 into error, what horror and remorse must seize his soul at seeing 
 the consequence of that error ! ‘ Has this unhappy young 
 
 creature,’ asked Eush brook, 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 
 
 Oharles ; ‘her parents are both dead.’ ‘Happy are the parents,’ 
 resumed Eushbrook, ‘ who, shrouded in the dust, cannot see the 
 misfortunes of their children — the fall of such a child as this ! ’ 
 .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 become of her ? ’ 
 ‘It shall be my care,’ cried Sir Charles, ‘to procure her an 
 asylum. Yes, madam,’ he continued, looking at her with an ex- 
 pression 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. Connel ; ‘it 
 is want of nourishment and rest has thrown her into her present 
 situation.’ ‘ Want of nourishment and rest !’ repeated 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, my friends! ’ he proceeded, look- 
 ing around him, while 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 away his tears. ‘ A short time 
 ago,’ he resumed, ‘ and she appeared all that the heart of man 
 oould 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 generous warmth, starting from the 
 side of the couch, at which she had been kneeling, ‘ I am con- 
 hdent she never was guilty of an error.’ ‘ I am inclined, 
 indeed, to be of Emily’s opinion,’ said Mrs. Eushbrook. ‘I 
 think the monster who spread such a snare for her destruction 
 traduced Miss Donald, in order to drive her from those who would 
 protect her 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 at- 
 titude, 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, 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 453 
 
 pressing her hand between his ; ‘ she is gone, indeed! Oh, sweet 
 Amanda, the mortal bounds that inclose thy afflicted spirit will 
 soon be broken ! ’ ‘ 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, now 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 for- 
 tune which he offered to their acceptance. Mrs. Rushbrook was in- 
 clined to be of the same opinion. Her mind was sensibly affected 
 by the favors Sipthorpe had conferred on her family, and, yield- 
 ing to its gratitude, she resolved to be guided implicitly by her 
 friend, who advised her to show the letter to him. She con- 
 sidered 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 Belgrave 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 
 circumstances he related to his master the moment he returned 
 home, who was transported at the intelligence. 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 opportunity 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 Avell as love, 
 was interested in again ensnaring her, as he had been deeply morti- 
 fied by her so successfully baffling his former stratagems ; he knew 
 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 appearance of 
 
454 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Lord Mortimer convinced him any schemes he formed against 
 lier must prove abortive-, but to concert a plan for securing her 
 required some deliberation. Ere he could devise 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 au- 
 thor. With the daring effrontery of vice, he directly declared 
 she was a discarded mistress of his, who from jealousy had taken 
 this step, to prevent, if possible, his union. Reassured 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 appearance of innocence to his too credulous aud- 
 itors, prejudiced as they were already in his favor, and in their 
 minds he was ,now fully acquitted of his imputed crimes. He 
 was now careless 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 ap- 
 proached without bringing her, he grew alarmed lest he had lost 
 her again. At last her return relieved him from this fear. The 
 conversation which passed in the parlor he heard through the 
 means of his servant, who had listened to it. The mention of 
 Amanda’s removal in the morning made him immediately con- 
 sult his servant about measures for securing her, and he, with 
 the assistance of the maid, contrived the scheme which has been 
 already related, having forged a letter in Emily’s name. But 
 how inadequate is language to describe the rage that took posses- 
 sion of his soul, when, going at the appointed hour to carry Aman- 
 da off, he found her already gone. He raved, cursed, stamped 
 and accused the woman and his servant of being privy to her es- 
 cape. In vain Mrs. Deborah told him of the trick she had played 
 on her, and how she had been obliged to get into the house 
 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 
 Belgrave’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, which seemed attended with fatal conse- 
 quences, for the man gave no symptoms of existence. Consider- 
 ation for his own safety was more prevalent in his mind than 
 any feelings of humanity, and he instantly rushed from the 
 house, ere the woman was sufficiently recovered from her horror 
 and amazement to be able to call to the other servants, as she 
 afterward did, to stop him. He fled to town, and hastened to an 
 hotel in Pall Mall, from whence he determined to hire a carriage 
 for Dover, and thence embark for the Continent. Ascending the 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 i55 
 
 stairs he met a man, of all others he would have wished to avoids 
 namely, Sir Charles Bingley. He started, but it was too late to 
 retreat. He then endeavored to stake off his embarrassment, 
 from a faint hope that Sir Charles had not heard of his villainous 
 design upon Miss Rushbrook; but this hope vanished the moment 
 Sir Charles addressed 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 particu- 
 lars of the Rushbrooks. 
 
 Captain Rushbrook, from knowing more of the deceits of man- 
 kind than his wife, was less credulous. The more he reflected on 
 the letter the more he felt doubts obtruding on his mind, and he 
 resolved sooner to forfeit the friendship of Sipthorpe than permit 
 any further intercourse between him and his daughter till those 
 doubts were removed. He sent his son to Sir Charles’s agent, and 
 liad the satisfaction of hearing he was then in town, and lodged 
 at an hotel in Pall Mall. He immediately wrote to Sir Charles, 
 and requested to see him whenever 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 at- 
 tended little Rushbrook to the prison. The letter had filled him 
 with surprise, 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 soldier, 
 for such his dress announced, seated beside a dying fire, his little 
 children surrounding him, whose faded countenances 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 en- 
 trance. 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 
 to 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 entertained 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 
 laising her from it, for the trembling hand of Rushbrook refused 
 
^56 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 its assistance. ^Unhappy woman he exclaimed, ‘the disap^ 
 pointment 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! my children, for your sake, how near 
 was I sacrificing this dear, this precious girl ! I blush ! I shudder ! 
 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 walls,’ she continued, bursting into an agony 
 of tears, ‘ which now we must never hope to pass, will hide my 
 shame and sorrows together ! ’ ‘ Do not despair, my dear madam,’ 
 
 said Sir Charles, in the soft accent of benevolence, ‘ nor do 
 you,’ continued he, turning to Rushbrook, ‘ deem me impertinent, 
 in inquiring 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 at- 
 tention, 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 sorrows of a burst- 
 ing heart. 
 
 He returned early in the morning. How bright, how animated 
 was his countenance ! Oh, ye sons of riot and extravagance ; ye 
 children of dissipation ! never did ye experience a pleasure equal 
 to his, when he entered the apartment of Rushbrook to inform 
 him he was free ; when, in the passioned, 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 fullness of his 
 heart but Sir Charles stopped him. ‘ Blessed with a fortune,’ 
 cried he, ‘ beyond my wants, to what nobler purpose could superflu- 
 ous wealth be devoted, than to the enlargement of a man who has 
 served his country, and who has a family which he may bring 
 up to act as he has done ? May the restoration of liberty be pro- 
 ductive of every happiness 1 Your prison gates, I rejoice to repeat, 
 are open. May the friendship which commenced within these 
 walls be lasting as our lives ! ’ To dwell longer on this subject 
 is unnecessary. The transported family were conveyed to Mrs. 
 Connel’s, where he had been the preceding night to order every- 
 thing for their reception. He then inquired about Sipthorpe, or 
 rather Belgrave, whom he meant to upbraid for his cruel designs 
 Ugainst Miss Rushbrook ; but Belgrave. as soon as his plan was 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 457 
 
 settled about Amanda, had quitted Mrs. Connel’s. The joy of 
 the Rushbrooks was greatly damped the next morning on hear- 
 ing 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 expressed that gratitude to her, and offer her their services. 
 Much as appearances were against Amanda, yet from the very 
 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’ 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 char- 
 acter inspired him with. He reproached him, as soon as they 
 entered an apartment, for his base designs against Miss Rush- 
 brook ; designs in every respect degrading to his character, since 
 he knew the blow he leveled at the peace of her father could not, 
 from the unfortunate situation of that father, be resented. * You 
 are,’ continued Sir Charles, ‘ not only the violator, but the de- 
 famer of female innocence. I am well convinced 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 not to let everyone know you are her 
 champion.’ ‘ O Belgrave ! ' cried Sir Charles, ‘ can you think, 
 without remorse, of having destroyed not only the reputation, 
 but the existence of an amiable young creature ? ’ ‘ The exist- 
 ence ! ’ repeated Belgrave, starting, and with a kind of horror in 
 his looks. ‘ What do you mean ? ’ ‘I mean that Amanda Fitz- 
 alan, involved through your means in a variety of wretchedness 
 she was unable to support, is now on her death-bed ! ’ Belgrave 
 changed color, trembled, and in an agitated voice demanded an 
 explanation of Sir Charles’ 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 touclied the 
 heart of Belgrave. His mind, filled with horror and enervated 
 with fear at the idea of the crime he had recently committed, 
 could make no opposition to the grief he experienced on hearing 
 of her situation — a grief heightened almost to distraction, by re- 
 flecting that he was accessory to it. ‘Dying!’ he repeated, 
 ‘ Amanda Fitzalan dying ! but she will be happy ! Hers will 
 be a pure and ministering spirit in heaven, when mine lies 
 
458 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 howling. The angels are not purer in mind and person than she 
 is ! ’ ‘ Then you are an execrable villain,’ cried Sir Charles, lay- 
 
 ing his hand on his sword. ‘ Strike,’ exclaimed Belgrave, with 
 an air of wildness ; ‘ death will rid me of horrors. Death from 
 you will be better than the ignominious one which now stares: 
 me in the face ; for I have, oh, horrible ! this night I have com- 
 mitted 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, de- 
 manded an explanation of them ; and the tortured soul of Bel- 
 grave, as if happy to meet anyone it could confide in, after a little 
 hesitation divulged at once its crimes and horrors. ‘ No, ’ cried 
 Sir Charles, when he had concluded, ‘ to raise a hand against him 
 over whom the arm of justice is uplifted, were cruel as well as^ 
 cowardly. Go, then, and may repentance, not punishment, over- 
 take you.’ To describe the raptures Sir Charles experienced at 
 the acquittal of Amanda is impossible. Not a fond father, rejoic- 
 ing over the restored fame of a darling child, could experience 
 more exquisite delight. The next morning, as soon as he thought 
 it was possible he could gain admittance, he hastened to Mrs. Con- 
 nel’s, and had the satisfaction of hearing from Mrs. Rushbrook 
 that Amanda was then in a sweet sleep, from which the most 
 salutary consequences might be expected. With almost trem- 
 bling impatience he communicated the transports of his heart, and 
 his auditors rejoiced as much at these transports on Amanda’s ac- 
 count as on his. Mrs. Rushbrook and Emily had sat up with her 
 the preceding night, which she passed in a most restless manner,, 
 without any perception of surrounding objects. Toward morning 
 she fell into a profound sleep, which they trusted would recruit 
 her exhausted frame. Mrs. Rushbrook then withdrew to her hus 
 band. 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 recollec- 
 tion returned, 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. Oh! 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 ou 
 
TKE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 45 ^? 
 
 the rays of benevolence which streamed from those of Emily. At 
 last in 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 re- 
 stored faculties of Amanda was equal to her daughter’s ; yet the 
 recollection of her own conduct made her almost reluctant to ap- 
 proach her. At last, advancing, ‘ I blush, yet I rejoice— oh ! 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! ’ 
 repeated Amanda, raising her head from the pillow. ‘ Oh, graci- 
 ous Heaven! 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 en- 
 deavored to compose her. ‘ Do not be uneasy, ’ 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 bless- 
 ings 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 account, now grew more anxious than ever 
 to learn something of her poor Oscar; and notwithstanding Mrs. 
 Rushbrook’s entreaties to the contrary, who feared she was ex- 
 erting herself beyond her strength, she arose in the afternoon for 
 the purpose of going to the drawing room, determined, as Sir 
 Charles’ generous 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, and 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, while 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. ‘ He 
 was selfish,’ he said, ‘in everything he did for her, for on her 
 his happiness depended. ’ 
 
 Rushbrook approached to offer his congratulations. He spoke 
 OJL her kindness, but, like Sir Charles, the subject was painful to 
 
460 
 
 THE CHILDREK OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 her, and dropped at her request. The idea of being safe, the sooth- 
 ing attentions she experienced, gave to her mind a tranquillity it 
 had long been a stranger to, and she looked back on her past dan- 
 gers but to enjoy more fully her present security. As she wit- 
 nessed the happiness of the Bushbrooks, she could scarcely forbear 
 applauding aloud the author of that happiness ; but she judged of 
 his heart by her own, and therefore 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. 
 Bushbrook, and Emily, were present, she entered upon the affairs 
 she wished to communicate. They heard her with deep attention, 
 wonder, and pity, and, when she concluded, both Sir Charles and 
 Bushbrook declared their readiness to serve her. The latter, who 
 had betrayed 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 exhausted by 
 speaking, she sunk into a tranquil slumber, and next morning she 
 arose for breakfast. ‘ Well,’ said Bushbrook to her as they sat at 
 it, ‘ I told you last night I should soon be able to procure you in- 
 telligence of your brother, and I was not mistaken.’ ‘O Heav- 
 ens ! ’ cried Amanda, in trembling emotion, ‘ have you really 
 heard anything of him ? ’ ‘Be composed, my dear girl,’ said he, 
 taking her hand in the most soothing, most effectionate 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, prevent your suffering pain by hearing of them. ’ ‘ Oh ! 
 
 tell me, I entreat,’ said Amanda, ‘where he is! Tell me, I con- 
 jure you; shall I see him?’ ‘Yes,’ replied Bushbrook, ‘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 1 ’ exclaimed Amanda, while hot 
 tears gushed from her eyes. 
 
 ‘I knew not,’ continued Bushbrook, ‘ from the concealment 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 you must 
 expect to see him somewhat altered. The restoration of liberty, 
 and the possession of fortune, will no doubt soon re-establish his 
 health. Hark! I think I hear a voice on the stairs.’ 
 
 Amanda started, arose, attempted to move, but sunk again up- 
 on her chair. The door opened, and Sir Charles entered, followed 
 by Oscar. Though prepared for an alteration in his looks, she 
 was not by any means prepared for the alteration which struck 
 her the moment she beheld him. Pale and thin, even to a degree 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 461 
 
 of emaciation, he was dressed, or rather wrapped, in an old regi- 
 mental greatcoat, his fine hair wildly dishevelled. As he ap- 
 proached 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 alter- 
 ation in her appearance, which was as striking to him, as his was 
 to her. Her pale and woe- worn countenance, her sable dress, at 
 once declared her sufferings, and brought most painfully to rec- 
 ollection 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 eiideared to him by her desolate 
 situation. 
 
 ‘To avoid regretting him is indeed impossible,’ said Amanda ; 
 ‘ 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 Rushbrook, 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 Oscar 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, 
 merely relate the occasion of his quarrel with Belgrave. 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 Bnt thou who, mindful of the unhonored dead. 
 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 
 
 If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
 
 Some kindred spirit should 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 Adela. 
 Yet, dear and precious as was her sight to my soul, I rejoiced she 
 had not accompanied the regiment, since to have beheld her as 
 the wife of Belgrave would have been insupportable. Had the 
 
462 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 disappointment of my passion been occasioned by its not meeting 
 a return, a 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 possible, u nable to bear the raillery of my gay 
 companions on my melancholy. 
 
 ‘ The summer you came to Ireland the regiment removed to 
 Bray, whose romantic situation allowed me to enjoy many de- 
 lightful 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 ; but he evaded 
 all their inquiries, yet with the utmost agitation. What rendered 
 him, if possible, more interesting, was his being accompanied by 
 a young and lovely woman, who, like him, appeared sunk be- 
 neath her original state ; but to their present one both conformed, 
 if not with cheerfulness, at least 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 un- 
 fortunate pair, who, it was evident, like me, sought solitude for 
 the indulgence of sorrow, weeping together as if over the remem- 
 brance of happier hours. Often have I beheld them gazing with 
 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 no- 
 tice of Belgrave ; and from her situation he flattered himself she 
 would be an easy prey. He was, however, mistaken. She re- 
 pulsed his overtures with equal abhorence and indignation. She 
 wished to conceal them from her husband, but he heard of them 
 through the means of his fellow-soldiers, who had several times 
 seen the colonel following his wife. 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 time, a 
 repetition of those insults. 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 vilto 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 46S 
 
 agent of his master, had infornied 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 till 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 strict’ 
 ness of military discipline rendered it unavoidable. 
 
 ‘ I shall not attempt to describe the situation of the unhappy 
 young couple ; they felt for each other more than for themselves, 
 and pride heightened the agonies of Henry. 
 
 ‘ Pale, weeping, with a distracted air, Mary flew to my apart- 
 ment, and, sinking at my feet, with uplifted hands besought 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 inten- 
 tion, appeared sedulous to avoid me. But I would not be 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, endeavoring 
 to repress the indignation his manner excited, “and I also hope 
 with success.” “ What is your business, sir? ” demanded 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 inflamed 
 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 know I am 
 addressing one of the completest villains upon earth.” 
 
 ‘ He raised a small rattan he held, at these words, in a threaten- 
 ing 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,” 
 
464 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 attempted to interfere, but he com- 
 manded 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 describing to you, 
 as it was described to me by an officer, his parting from his wife. 
 Pride, indignation, tenderness, and pity, were struggling in his 
 heart, and visible in his countenance. He attempted to assume 
 composure, 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 expired 
 groaning forth the name of Mary. Four days after this melan- 
 choly event a court-martial was held on me, when, as I expected, 
 I was broken for contempt to my superior officer. I retired to a 
 solitary inn near Bray, in a state of mind which baffies descrip- 
 tion, 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 I 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 ap- 
 proached 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 which could 
 soothe the last sad moments of a wretched woman.” 
 
 ‘ She then proceeded to inform me of the motives which made 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 465 
 
 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 experienced a sudden re- 
 verse of fortune, and hers, in consequence of it, forbade their ever 
 thinking more of each other ; but they could not obey his com- 
 mands, 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 there- 
 fore compelled by necessity to a state of life infinitely beneath 
 them. “But in my grave,” continued she, “I trust my father 
 will bury all his resentment, and protect this little orphan.’’ 
 
 ‘ 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 fioods of repentant 
 tears. 
 
 ‘I now procured my 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 London, 
 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 news- 
 paper, and cast my eyes carelessly over it. Oh ! 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 con- 
 siderably 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 conse- 
 quence of this I was arrested, and sufi'ered 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 
 
466 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 enlarge- 
 ment. 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. Grently, and by degrees, they broke the 
 joyful intelligence they had to communicate. With truth I can 
 aver that the announcement of a splendid fortune was not so 
 pleasing to my heart as the mention of my sister’s safety. Of 
 my poor Adela I know nothing since my confinement; but I 
 shudder to think of what she may have suffered from being left 
 solely in the power of such a man as Belgrave, for the good old 
 general died soon after I left Enniskillen. 
 
 ‘ “ Regret not too bitterly, my dear Oscar,” said Mrs. Marlowe, 
 in one of her letters, ‘ ‘ the good man’s death ; rather rejoice he 
 was removed ere 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 acquisition 
 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 him to reply to them. When Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook 
 spoke of the happiness he might now enjoy, 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, recalled 
 him to a proper recollection of the blessings so unexpectedly 
 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 com 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 467 
 
 ferred upon him ; to be able to comfort and provide for his lovely 
 and long-afflicted sister ; and to distribute relief among the children 
 of indigence, were all blessings which would shortly be his — bless- 
 ings which demanded his warmest gratitude, and for which he 
 now raised his heart with thankfulness to their divine Dispenser. 
 His feelings grew composed ; a kind of soft and serene melan- 
 choly stole over his mind. He still thought of Adela, but not 
 with that kind of distracting anguish he had so recently experi- 
 enced ; it was with that kind of tender regret which a soul of sen- 
 sibility 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 world we shall be 
 reunited, which only can reward thy goodness and thy suffer- 
 ings.’ 
 
 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 it disputed, it 
 was then time enough to apply elsewhere for justice. 
 
 Sir Charles knew the marquis personally, and was also well ac- 
 quainted in his neighborhood, and declared he would accompany 
 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, how- 
 ever, would occasion no great delay, as he should have it trans- 
 acted 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 jour- 
 ney, and he asked Oscar if it would be agreeable and convenient 
 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 her 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 deter- 
 mined from the moment she should be apprised of Lord Mortimer’s 
 return to England to visit them no more. In such a farewell she 
 z>elieved she should find a melancholy consolation that would 
 jsoothe her spirits. She imagined there was no necessity for accom^ 
 
468 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 panying her brother into Scotland, and except told there was an 
 absolute one, she 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 toe 
 much for her fortitude, and might betray to her brother a secret 
 she had resolved carefully to conceal from him, as she well knew 
 the pain he would feel from knowing that the pangs of a hopeless 
 attachment were entailed upon her life, and would defeat what' 
 ever flattering hopes he entertained 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 from having any disgrace befall a family 
 be was so nearly connected with. Oh, how her heart swelled at 
 the idea that ere Oscar reached Scotland, the interest of the Mar- 
 quis of Roslin and Lord Mortimer would be but one ! From her 
 apprehensions of being asked to undertake a journey so truly re- 
 pugnant to her feelings, she was soon relieved by Oscar’s declaring 
 that, except she wished it, he would not ask her to take so fatigu- 
 ing a one, particularly as her presence he could not think at all 
 necessary. 
 
 Sir Charles Bingley 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 counte- 
 nance would betray her motives for such a wish. While she hesi- 
 tated about mentioning it. Sir Charles Bingley told Captain Rush- 
 brook 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 distance from London, whither it would 
 
 be necessary he should go as soon as possible. He therefore pro- 
 posed that he and Mrs. Rushbrook 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 the case, must ever be sweet to souls of sensibility. 
 
 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 in- 
 stantly requested that Miss Fitzalan might accompany them, de- 
 claring her society would render their felicity complete. This was 
 the moment for Amanda to speak. She took courage, and men- 
 tioned her earnest wish of visiting her faithful nurse, declaring 
 ftUe could not lose so favorable an opportunity as now offered fof 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 469 
 
 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 go- 
 ing into what might be called her native air, joined to the tender 
 care of nurse Edwin, would recruit her health. Sir Charles 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 man- 
 ners. 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 Oscai- 
 gratefully consented. As soon as this affair was settled, he put a 
 note into his sister’s hands, to purchase whatever she should deem 
 necessary; and she went out with the Rushbrooks, who, accord- 
 ing to Sir Charles’s directions, began preparations for their journey 
 this day. After their return. 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 de- 
 termine 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 cannot go 
 myself. It is due to your friendship,’ cried she, after the hesita- 
 tion of a moment, while 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.’ 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 I solitary court 
 
 The inspiring breeze. —T hompson. 
 
 The ensuing morning, Oscar, Amanda, and Sir Charles began , 
 their journey. The Rushbrooks, who regarded Amanda as the 
 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 
 9f horses being provided at every stage. On the evening of the 
 third day they arrived about sunset at the village which lay com 
 
470 
 
 T^E CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 tiguous to Edwin’s abode ; from whence, as soon as they had tabeji 
 some refreshment, Amanda set off, attended by her brother, fof 
 the cottage, having ordered her luggage to be brought after her. 
 She would not permit the attendance of Sir Charles, and almost 
 regretted having traveled with him, as she could not help think' 
 ing his passion seemed increased by her having done so. ‘ How 
 dearly,’ cried he, as he handed her downstairs, ‘ shall I pay for a 
 few short hours of pleasure, by the unceasing regret their remem- 
 brance 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 in* 
 terrogations which its inhabitants might deem themseives privi-^ 
 leged 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 oportunity ot 
 traveling 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 dejection, Amanda rejoiced she 
 had not revealed her own sorrows to him. She trusted it would 
 be in her power, by soothing attentions, 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 too great a 
 similitude to expect this. 
 
 Amanda lingered in the walk as he departed. She was now in 
 the very spot that recalled a thousand fond and tender remem- 
 brances. 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 diffi- 
 culty 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 ad- 
 miring its luxuriance had given her delight. The parting sun- 
 beams 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 471 
 
 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. ‘ Gl-ood 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 
 ^’'muld go to you.’ Amanda returned the embraces of her faithful 
 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. Anyone that had seen Lord 
 Mortimer after you went away, would never have thought he 
 could prove fickle. He was in such grief, my very heart and 
 soul pitied him. To pe sure, if I had known where you were, I 
 should have told him. I comforted myself, however, by think- 
 ing he would certainly find you out, when Lort ! instead of look- 
 ing 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. 
 
 g'olt 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 sub- 
 sided, and she endeavored to change it, by asking after the 
 nurse’s family. The nurse, in a hasty manner, said they were 
 well and thus proceeded: ‘Then there is Parson Ho wel. I am 
 sure one would have thought him as steady as Penmaenmawr, 
 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 comfortable cottage, 
 
472 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 hav- 
 ing left her young lady, and that even Chip himself could not 
 console her for having done so. Tears again started in Amanda’s 
 eyes, at hearing of the unabated attachment of her poor Ellen. 
 She longed to see and congratulate her on her present happiness. 
 The nurse, in her turn, inquired of all that had 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 that he was well. The family soon re- 
 turned from the dance ; and it would be difficult to say whether 
 surprise or joy was most predominant 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 fdelight. She clasped Amanda in 
 her arms, as if she would never let her depart from them, and 
 wept in the fullness of her heart. ‘Now, now,’ cried she, ‘I 
 shall be quite happy ; but oh ! why, my tear young laty, did you 
 not come among us before? you know all in our power we would 
 have done to render 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 luggage 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 un- 
 equal to the efPort, 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 bookcase 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 ! 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 bookcase ; 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 earlv to inquire after her health), Howel 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 473 
 
 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 anticipated, 
 she could not longer deny herself. The second evening after her 
 arrival at the cottage, she turned her solitary steps to them ; their 
 deep embowering glens, their solitude, their silence, suited the 
 pensive turn of her feelings. Here, undisturbed and unobserved, 
 she could indulge the sorrows of her heart ; and oh ! how did rec- 
 ollection augment those sorrows by retracing the happy hours she 
 had spent within those shades. A cold, a death -like melancholy 
 pervaded her feelings, and seemed repelling the movements of life. 
 Her trembling limbs were unable to support her, and she threw 
 hei’self 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 in- 
 creasing violence at beholding what might be termed mementoes 
 of former happiness. 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 up- 
 on 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 remembrances 
 no longer proper to be indulged.’ Yet still she lingered in the 
 wood. The increasing gloom of evening rendered it, if possible, 
 more pleasing to her feelings, while the breeze sighed mournfully 
 through the trees, and the droning bat fluttered upon the air, up- 
 on 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 recollected 
 the uneasiness her long absence might create at the cottage, 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 
 
474 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 The good woman expressed her fears that such late ramhles 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 condne her rambles entirely to Tudor Hall ; 
 she visited all the spots where she and Mortimer used to ramble 
 together. She went to the humble spot where her mother lay in- 
 terred. Her feelings were now infinitely more painful than when 
 she had first seen it. It recalled to her mind, in the most agoniz 
 iiig manner, all the vicissitudes she 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 over- 
 whelmed with grief. Scarcely could she prevent herself from fall- 
 ing 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 — ‘ Oh ! 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 reflection ; ‘ oh! what, my God, am 
 I, that I should dare to murmur or repine at thy decrees ? 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 tearful eyes upon the grave, where the last flowers of 
 autumn were now withering, ‘ who 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 ! Oh, my parents, how calami- 
 tous were your destinies ! even your ashes were not permitted to 
 molder 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 lily, 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" 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 475 
 
 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. Aberg willy 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 
 t was some time after she entered the library, ere she could com- 
 pose herself sufficiently for the purpose which had brought her to 
 to it. In vain did nature appear from the windows, displaying 
 the most beautiful and romantic scenery to her view, as if to 
 tempt her to take up the pencil. Her eyes were dimmed with 
 tears as she looked upon this scenery, and reflected that 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, while 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 wa# in Scotland ; but how great was her surprise 
 and joy at the contents of this letter, which informed her every- 
 thing 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 neighboring 
 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 intelli- 
 gence 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 that 
 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 
 
476 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 said, he should find her then gay as the birds, blooming as the 
 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 the cottage ; the 
 pleasure it afforded was only damped by reflecting on what Lord 
 Mortimer must feel from a discovery which could not fail of cast- 
 ing 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, immediately 
 after breakfast, the nurse, who had been out some time previous 
 to her rising, entered the room with a look of breathless im- 
 patience, which seemed to declare she had something wonderful 
 to communicate. ‘ Grool 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 herself, ‘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 I heard what she had sent to me 
 for.’ It was now Amanda’s turn to feel breathless impatience. 
 ‘ Good Heavens ! ’ she exclaimed, ‘ what did she tell you ? ' ‘ Ay, 
 I knew, ’ cried the nurse, * the commotion you would be in when 
 I told you the 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 lock very pale ; 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 ; 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 or 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, 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 477 
 
 and she told me she loved the very chairs and tables, to which, to 
 pe sure, her hand has given many a polishing rub. She says she 
 thinks she will come and lodge with me ; but 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 shr 
 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 re- 
 gret this? since thus separated, it is better, perhaps, he had ceased 
 to esteem me, as undoubtedly it must lessen his feelings on my ac- 
 count.’ Why he should part with Tudor Hall she could not con- 
 ceive, except it was to humor some caprice of Lady Euphrasia’s, 
 who, it was probable, she imagined, knew that the attachment be- 
 tween Lord Mortimer and her had there commenced. 
 
 ‘ Ah ! ’ cried Amanda, ‘ she never could have relished its beau- 
 ties — beauties which, if Lord Mortimer thinks as I do, would, if 
 reviewed, only have augmented his sorrows — sorrows which 
 propriety now demands his repelling.’ She hastened to the hall, 
 but was sometime there ere she could commence her employment, 
 so much had she been agitated. The landscape she was flnishing 
 was taken from the little valley which lay beneath 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 flgure of Lord Mortimer, with whom 
 she had often wandered round the ruiiis. Her hand was ready 
 in obeying the impulse of her heart, and she soon beheld, sketched 
 in the most striking manner, the elegant features of him so ar- 
 dently 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 with another woman ; her trembling hand hastened to atone 
 for its error, by expunging the dangerous likeness, and the warm 
 involuntary tear she shed at that moment aided her design. 
 ‘Oh! how unnecessary,’ she cried, as she made this sacriflce to 
 delicacy, ‘ to sketch features which are indelibly 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 
 
478 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 wild confusion. But, gracious Heavens! who can describe the 
 emotions of her soul when the original of the picture so fondly 
 sketched, so hastily obliterated, met her eye. Amazed, unable to 
 speak, to move, almost to breathe, she stood motionless and 
 aghast, the pale statue of surprise, as if she neither 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 expression 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 some- 
 what recovered 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 Fitz- 
 alan,’ 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 involuntarily, as if to receive 
 that last, that sad adieu, which she was half reproached for avoid- 
 ing. Lord Mortimer approached her, he attempted to speak, but 
 his voice was inarticulate ; 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 emotions of 
 Lord Mortimer. Oh ! 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 Lord Mor- 
 timer; from mingling her 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. ‘ 1 
 have long wished for an opportunity of seeing you,’ said he, ‘but 
 I 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 I Fate, in grant- 
 ing this interview, has for once befriended me. To express my 
 horror — my remorse — my anguish — not only for the error a com- 
 bination 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 consolation ; 
 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 ac- 
 cord it will only heighten my wretchedness at our eternal separa* 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 479 
 
 ation.’ Here he paused. Amanda was unable to speak. His 
 words seemed to imply he was acquainted with the injuries she 
 had sustained through his father’s means, and she waited in trem- 
 bling expectation for an explanation of them. ‘ The purity of 
 your character, ’ exclaimed Lord Mortimer, ‘ was at length fully 
 revealed to me. Good Heaven ! under what afflicting circum- 
 stances ! by that being, to whom you so generously made a sacri- 
 fice of what then you might have considered your happiness.’’ 
 ‘Did Lord Cherbury, 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 forever de- 
 voted to you, to have made some reparation, some atonement, for 
 my involuntary injustice ; but alas ! 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 sur- 
 prise, 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 crimson glow 
 mantling his cheek, and a beam of wonted brilliancy darting front 
 his eye, ‘ What am I to imagine from those tears ! are you, then, 
 indeed, unaltered ? ’ 
 
 Amanda started. She feared the emotions she betrayed had con- 
 vinced 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 coula 
 remain a moment longer with a person who seems at once forget- 
 ful 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 involun- 
 tary offense — excuse my having disturbed your retirement, and 
 obtruded my sorrows on you.’ 
 
 Amanda had now reached the door. Her heart recoiled at the 
 idea of parting in such a manner from Lord Mortimer, but pru- 
 dence bade her hasten as fast as possible from him. Yet slow and 
 lingering she pursued her way. Ere she had gone many yards 
 she was overtaken by Lord Mortimer. His pride was inferior to 
 
480 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 liis tenderness, which drove him to despair at the idea of parting* 
 in displeasure from her, ‘ Oh ! inj^ 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! my 
 lord,’ said Amanda, again yielding to the softness of her soul, 
 while tears trickled down her cheeks, ‘ why torture me by speak- 
 ing in this manner ? How can I pronounce forgiveness when I 
 never was offended ? When, wretched and deserted, I appeared 
 to stand upon the great theater 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 ! when deprived 
 by deceit and cruelty of your good opinion, even then your atten- 
 tion and solicitude pursued my wandering footsteps, and strove to 
 make a path of comfort for me to take ! these, these are the obli- 
 gations that never can be forgotten, that demand, that possess, 
 
 my eternal gratitude, my ’ A warmer expression rose to her 
 
 lips, but was again buried in her heart, She siglied, and after a 
 pause of a minute, thus went on : ‘ For your happiness, my warm- 
 -est, purest prayers are daily offered up; oh ! may it yet be equal to 
 your virtues; greater I cannot wish.’ 
 
 Lord Mortimer groaned in the excruciating agony of his soul. 
 * O 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 happiness you pray ; ah ! 
 my love, how unavailing is the prayer! ’ 
 
 Amanda now saw more than ever the necessity of hastening 
 Rway. She gently withdrew her hands, and hurried on as fast as 
 her trembling limbs could carry her. Still Lord Mortimer at- 
 tended her. ‘ Yet, Amanda,’ cried he, ‘ a little moment. Tell 
 me,’ he continued, again seizing her hand, ‘ do not these shades 
 remind you of departed hours? Oh! what blissful ones have we 
 mot passed beneath their foliage, that foliage which I shall never 
 more behold expanding to the breath of spring.’ 
 
 Amanda , trembled. This involuntary but. sad declaration of 
 tthe loss of a seat so valued by him, overpowered her. Her res- 
 piration grew faint, she could not support herself, and made a 
 motion to sit down upon the grass, but Lord Mortimer eagerly 
 caught her to his bosom. She had not strength to resist the ef* 
 fort, and her head reclined upon his shoulder. But who can 
 sneak her feelings as she felt the beating heart of Mortimer, which, 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 4811 
 
 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 Mortimer. * We 
 must part, my lord,’ cried she, disengaging herself from his arms, 
 notwithstanding a gentle effort he made to retain 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 remembrance; whether I may hope 
 not to be obliterated from your memory by the happiness which v 
 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 m£ nner? In mentioning exile, do you not declare 
 your intentions of leaving unfulfilled the claims which situation,, 
 family, and society have upon you? Oh! my lord, you shock — 
 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 whom so* 
 lately you plighted your solemn vows of love and protection. Oh t 
 my lord, what will her friends, what will Lady Euphrasia her- 
 self say to such cruel, such unjustifiable conduct ? ’ ‘ Lady Eu- 
 
 phrasia ! ’ repeated Lord Mortimer, recoiling a few paces. ‘ Lady 
 Euphrasia ! ’ 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 demanded, 
 with a wildness of countenance equal to that he had just dis- 
 played, what were the circumstances he alluded to. 
 
 ‘ First tell me,’ cried he, ‘ was the alteration in your manner 
 produced by your supposing me the husband of Lady Euphrasia?^ 
 ‘Supposing you her husband?’ repeated Amanda, unable ta 
 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* 
 
482 
 
 TEIE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 been restored, unexpectedly restored to hope, to happiness, that 
 oan form any judgment of her feelings at the present moment. 
 At the moment when, recovering from her insensibility, the soft 
 accent of Lord Mortimer 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 im- 
 passioned tenderness, he repeated his question, whether the 
 alteration in her manner was produced alone by the supposition 
 c f his marriage ; but he repeated it with a sweet, a happy con- 
 sciousness of having it answered according to his wishes. 
 
 ‘ These tears, these emotions, O Mortimer, what do they de- 
 clare? ’ 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 moment, 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 ; but it was long ere he could sufficiently 
 compose himself to commence his narrative. Alternately he 
 fell at the feet of Amanda, alternately 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 un- 
 altered — 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 succeeded, and he terminated her 
 anxious impatience by giving her the promised relation. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 By suffering well, our torture we subdue, 
 
 Fly when she frowns, and when She calls pursue. 
 
 Overwhelmed with grief and disappointment at the supposed 
 perfidy of Amanda, Lord Mortimer had returned to England, 
 acquainting Lord Cherbury and Lady Martha of the unhappy 
 oause 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 de- 
 struction of his peace. It was not in these first transports of 
 bitter sorrow that Lord Cherbury ventured 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, however, which Lord Mortimer ap^ 
 
THE CHILDBEN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 48S 
 
 peared 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 expectations which the fair promise of his earljr 
 youth had given rise to in the bosom of his friends concerning 
 the meridan 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 con- 
 sidered the slave of a passion which had met so base a return.. 
 ‘Oh! let not the world,’ added he, with increasing energy,, 
 ‘triumph in your weakness; try to shake it off, 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 ear now stimulating that pride, he felt at 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 acknowledged he could 
 not give so fatal a proof of fortitude. He declared his total re- 
 pugnance 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 
 forever to disappoint his wishes. He mentioned the compliance he. 
 had so recently shown to his, though against his better judg- 
 ment, in the useless consent he had given to his marriage 
 with Miss Fitzalan. 
 
 Lord Mortimer, persecuted by his arguments, at length de- 
 clared 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 marchioness against (he blushed, he 
 faltered, as he pronounced her name) Miss Fitzalan, that his 
 heart felt unutterable dislike to her. 
 
484 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 The earl was prepared for this ; he had the barbarity to de- 
 43lare, in the most unhesitating manner, he was sorry to find him 
 :still blinded by the art of that wretched girl. He bade him 
 Tefiect on her conduct, and then consider whether 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 make him doubt her veracity. But still the 
 -evidence of the servants ; they acknowledged having been instru- 
 ments 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 examined in his pres- 
 ence. when with shame and contrition they confessed, that see- 
 ing 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 pleasing to him. 
 
 Lord Mortimer sighed deeply. ‘On every side,’ cried he, ‘I 
 find I have been the dupe of art ; 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. While 
 he continued single, she knew he would not consider any vigor- 
 ous 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 
 fulfill the incumbent duties he had imposed upon himself. Thus 
 did she deem a union requisite 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. 
 iShe 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 
 
-THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 485 
 
 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 col- 
 lect his scattered thought, 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 un- 
 expected sight of Amanda at the Macqueens ? The exertions he 
 had for some time before compelled himself to make, had a little 
 abated the pain of his feeling; but that pain returned with re- 
 doubled violence at her presence, and every idea of present 
 composure, or of future tranquillity, vanished. He 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 efforts 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 re- 
 pentance. To sooth that sorrow, to strengthen that repentance, 
 oh ! how delightful unto him ; but either he durst not do, situ- 
 ated 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;, 
 his faltering voice refused even to pay her the accustomed com- 
 pliments 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 to- 
 gether 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 irk 
 visible trepidation, 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 Arm conviction that happiness could not be experienced in: 
 a union with Lord Mortimer, should have tempted her to. His- 
 
486 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 con 
 •duct, they would And her assertion true, and would, consequently, 
 she trusted, excuse her for not submitting’ to be sacrificed at the 
 shrine of interest. In selecting 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 openb have 
 avowed, had he not been assured, in the present situation of af- 
 fairs, it would have met with opposition. To avoid, therefore, a 
 positive act of disobedience, 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 hearts, at least Lord 
 Cherbury’s, would at once exculpate her, from his own conscious- 
 ness 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 countenance. 
 But, oh ! what joy did they inspire in the soul of Lord Mortimer ; 
 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 disappoint- 
 ment ! It was indeed a death stroke to his hopes. The hints in 
 Lady Euphrasia’s letter concerning 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 pre- 
 ferable 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 Cher- 
 bury, 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 par- 
 tiality was quite irresistible; and, moreover, that in love, as in 
 VV'ar, every advantage was allowable ; begged to trouble his lordship 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 437 
 
 with his compliments to Lord Cherbury, and a request that every- 
 thing might be prepared to settle matters between them, on his 
 return from his matrimonial expedition. An immediate compli- 
 ance 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 entry 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 gambling table, he quite 
 disbelieved it. 
 
 The most disti’essing, the most mortifying sensations took pos- 
 session 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, condemned, and blushed for 
 him. He stole a glance at his father, and his deep, despairing look 
 hlled him with horror. He resolved, the first opportunity, to de- 
 clare his knowledge of the fatal secret which oppressed him, and 
 his resolution of making any sacrifice which 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 Cherbury, 
 overwhelmed by the dreadful agitation he experienced, was seized 
 with a fit of the most violent and alarming nature. He was car- 
 ried to a chamber, and recourse was obliged to be had to a phy- 
 sician, 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 Mortimer, tenderly im- 
 patient to lighten the burden on his father’s mind, dismissed the 
 attendants as soon as he possibly could, and then, in the most del- 
 icate terms, declared his knowledge of his situation. 
 
 Lord Cherbury at this started up in the most violent paroxysm 
 of anguish, and vowed he would never survive the discovery of 
 his being a villain. With difficulty could Lord Mortimer com- 
 pose 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 be- 
 lieved, 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 fraility — a fraility 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. 
 
488 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 particularly when, as far as in our 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 him 
 self. 
 
 The sale of Tudor Hall, Lord Mortimer proceeded, and mort- 
 gages 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 adopt- 
 ing such a plan ; but he besought him to let no further consider- 
 ation on his account make him delay fulfilling immediately the 
 claims of honor and justice. He besought him to believe his tran- 
 quillity 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 brilliant fortune — ‘ a possession which,’ con- 
 tinued Lord Mortimer, deeply sighing, ‘ I am well convinced will 
 not alone yield happiness. 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 consider as a blessing. It will compel me to make those exer- 
 tions 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 permitted at 
 a much earlier period, I should have embraced ; for a military 
 life was always my passion. At the post of danger, I may per- 
 haps 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 bitterest evil leads to the most su- 
 preme 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 splendors, 
 the comforts and elegancies of life. As forme, the deprivation of 
 what is considered, and falsely termed, my accustomed indulgen- 
 ces, will be the most salutary and efficacious 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 already 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 489 
 
 son, by the sacrifice he so willingly offered, so strenuously in- 
 sisted 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 gratitude, 
 )f contrition, flowed from his eyes, and fell upon the hand of his 
 5on, clasped within his — ‘Oh! Virtue, I cannot say, like Brutus, 
 thou art but a shade ; no, here, in this invaluable 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 have prevented his experiencing! But, to 
 save my own guilty confusion, I drew wretchedness upon his 
 head. I wrung every fiber 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. 
 
 ‘ O 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 amiable 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 willing- 
 ness 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 spotless fame? ’ 
 
 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 deathbed, therefore he for- 
 
490 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 gave 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 see her, and be allowed to fold her to 
 his beating heart, and ask her soft voice to pronounce his par- 
 don. 
 
 ‘Oh! thou lovely mourner,’ he exclaimed to himself while a 
 gush of sorrow burst from his eyes. ‘ Oh ! thou lovely monrner, 
 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 puritj^ 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 delightful idea of 
 being able to make reparation for my injustice, now alleviates 
 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 
 difficulties and dangers greater than you ever before experienced. 
 Oh! 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 agonizing, 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 worshiped 
 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 indulgence of feelings such as his language expressed, ho 
 was obliged to forego, in order to fulfill the wish he felt of alle- 
 viating 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 com- 
 pelled to do him, to be extricated from the power of Freelove, 
 all preyed upon his mind, and produced the most violent agita- 
 tions, 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 491 
 
 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 marchioness instantly concluded this was some per- 
 son sent as an intercessor from Lady Euphrasia, and they in- 
 stantly admitted him, in order to have an opportunity of assur- 
 ing her ladyship, through his means, it must be some time (if 
 :*ndeed at all) ere they could possibly forgive her disrespect and 
 disobedience. j^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 appearance entered, 
 and jwas received with the most frigid politeness. 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 
 th^i the honor of his visit. 
 
 ‘ A circumstance of the most unhappy nature, madam,’ he re- 
 plied in a hesitating voice. ‘ I came with the hope, the expecta- 
 tion of being able to break it by degrees, so as not totally to over- 
 power; 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 his 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 
 contagious. 
 
 ‘ 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; words indeed 
 were scarcely necessary to declare that he had something shock- 
 ing to reveal. His auditors, like old Northumberland, might 
 have said, ‘ The paleness on thy cheek is apter than thy tongiae 
 to tell thy errand.’ ‘Something dreadful has happened to my 
 child,’ said the marchioness, forgetting in that agonizing moment 
 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 I your fears are too well founded ; 
 to torture you with longer suspense would be barbarity. Some- 
 thing 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 the lips of the marchioness, 
 as she dropped senseless from her seat. The marquis was sinking 
 
492 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 from his, had not Lord Mortimer, who sat by him, timely started 
 np, 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 made him forebear, and, shud- 
 dering, declared he could not listen to the dreadful particulars. 
 But it were needless, as well as impossible, to describe the feelings 
 of the wretched parents, who in one moment beheld their hopes, 
 their wishes, their expectations, finally destroyed. Oh ! what an 
 awful lesson did they inculcate of the instability of human happi- 
 ness, of the insufficiency 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 arrogance of pride and vanity. When we behold the 
 proud, the wealthy, the illustrious, suddenly surprised by calam- 
 ity, and sinking beneath its stroke, we naturally reflect on the 
 frail tenure of earthly possessions, and, from the reflection, con- 
 sider how 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; but the proud oak torn from the earth, and 
 leveled by the storm, is viewed with wonder and affright. The 
 horrors of the blow which overwhelmed the marquis and mar- 
 chioness were augmented ^by the secret whispers of conscience, 
 that seemed to say it was a blow of retribution 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 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 re- 
 trospection — a retrospection which heightened the gloomy horrors 
 of the future. In Lady Euphrasia, all the hopes and affections 
 of the marquis and marchioness were centered. She alone had 
 ever made them feel the 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 transmit their names to posterity. In her they beheld 
 the being who gave them an opportunity of gratifying the malev* 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 
 
 493 
 
 olent, 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 regarded 
 by them. Though she had disappointed and displeased them by 
 her recent act of disobedience, and though they had deemed it es- 
 sential to their consequence to display that displeasure, yet they 
 secretly resolved not long to withhold forgiveness from her, and 
 also to take immediate steps for ennobling Freelove. 
 
 For Lady Euphrasia they felt indeed a tenderness her heart 
 for them was totally a stranger to. It seemed, indeed, as if, 
 cold and indifPerent 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 him with the 
 most inveterate hatred and rancorous desire of revenge. His 
 unexpectedly meeting Freelove afforded him an opportunity of 
 g^ratifying 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 afford 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 perfections he 
 beheld in Lord Mortimer. He sought alone to depreciate 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 objecti 
 
494 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 to an envious mind, which ever hates that excellence it cannot 
 reach. No fear of self-interest being* injured checked his pleasure. 
 The fortune of Lord Cherbury he knew was sufficient to answer 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 Morti=- 
 mer’s union with Lady Euphrasia would totally exempt him from 
 feelingany inconvenience from his father’s conduct. But could not 
 this union be prevented? Freelove asked himself. He still wanted 
 a short period of being of age, consequently had noright, at pres- 
 ent, to demand a settlement of his affairs from Lord Cherbury. 
 He might, however 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 and his son being so ardently 
 desired by Lord Cherbury, was now fully explained, and she be- 
 held herself as an object addressed merely from a view of repair- 
 ing a ruined fortune ; but this view she resolved to disappoint. 
 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 the 
 case. In sacrificing all ideas of a union with Lord Mortimer to 
 her offended pride she sacrificed no wish or inclination 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 considera- 
 tion which could oppose it, vanished before the idea of disap- 
 pointing his views, and retaliating upon him 'that uneasiness he 
 iiad, from wounded pride, made her experience by his cold and 
 ■•inalterable behavior to her. 
 
 She at first determined to acquaint the marquis of what she had 
 Beard, but a little reflection made her drop this determination. 
 He had always professed a warm regard for Lord Clierbury. and 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 495 
 
 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 Freelove she resolved to make 
 an instrument for forwarding, or rather executing her revenge. 
 She hesitated not to say she had always 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 af - 
 fected 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 compliments, 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 attended the 
 arrangement of their plan. In Lady Euphrasia's eyes Freelove 
 had no other value than what he now merely derived from bein^ 
 an instrument in gratifying the haughty and revengeful passions 
 of her nature. She regarded him, indeed, with sovereign con- 
 tempt ; his fortune, however, she knew would give him conse- 
 quence in the world, and she was convinced she should find him 
 quite that easy, convenient husband which a woman of fashion 
 finds so necessary ; in short, she looked forward to being the un- 
 controlled 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. 
 
 Flushed 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 expectation, the slia,ft 
 the unerring shaft, was raised against her breast. 
 
 The marriage ceremony over, they hastened to the vicinity or 
 the castle, in order to send an apologizing letter, as usual on such 
 occasions. The night was dark and dreary, the road rugged an i 
 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 termination of their 
 journey, and, pursuant to her commands, they proceeded. In a 
 few minutes after this, the horses, startled by a sudden light which 
 gleamed across the path, began plunging in the most alarming 
 manner. A frightful precipice lay on one side, and the horses, 
 in spite of all the efforts of the postilions, continued to approach it. 
 Freelove, in this dreadful moment, lost all consideration but for 
 himself ; he burst open the chariot door, and leaped into the road. 
 His companion was unable to follow his example ; she had fail] ted 
 at the first intimation of danger. The postilions with diflicultw 
 
496 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 dismounted. The other servants came to their assistance, and en* 
 deavored to restrain the horses ; every effort was useless, they 
 broke from their hold, and plunged down the precipice. The ser* 
 vants had heard the chariot door open ; they therefore concluded, 
 for it was too dark to see, that both their master and Lady 
 Euphrasia were safe. But who can describe their horror, when a 
 loud shriek from him declared her situation ? Some of them im- 
 mediately hastened, as fast as their trembling limbs could carry 
 them, to the house adjoining the road, from whence the fatal 
 light had gleamed which caused the sad catastrophe. They re- 
 vealed it in a few words, and implored immediate assistance. The 
 master of the house was a man of the greatest humanity. He 
 was inexpressibly shocked at what he had heard, and joined him- 
 self in giving the assistance that was desired. With lanterns they 
 proceeded down a winding path cut in the precipice, and soon 
 discovered the objects of their search. The horses were already 
 dead — the chariot was shattered to pieces. They took up some 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 continuance 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 assurance 
 ■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, de- 
 claring 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY, 497 
 
 say he wished the remains of Lady Euphrasia to he 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 specters, and ail 
 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 
 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 de- 
 voted 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 inter- 
 vals 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 the dismal 
 peal which rung from morning till night for Lady Euphrasia 
 sounded in his ear 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 Fitz- 
 alan, 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 voices 
 
498 
 
 THE CHILD-IEN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 desired to know by what means Sir Charles could justify or 
 support his assertion. 
 
 Sir Charles, for Oscar was too much agitated to 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 con- 
 nected; a wish which nothing but a hesitation in complying 
 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 being stripped 
 of honor. An hour before he had imagined his wretchedness 
 could not be augmented ; he was now convinced human misery 
 cannot be complete without the loss of reputation. 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 sufficient for all his expenses ; those expenses would 
 now, comparatively speaking, be reduced within 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 un- 
 necessary 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 inspired him with a wish of 
 making reparation for his past injustice, but false 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 injustice. 
 
 Irresolute how to act, he sat for sometime silent and embar- 
 rassed, till at last, recollecting his manner was probably betray- 
 ing what he wished to conceal, namely, the knowledge of the 
 will, he said, with some sternness, ‘ That, till he inspected into tli^ 
 affair so recently laid before him, he could not, nor was it to be 
 expected he should, say how he would act; an inspection which, 
 under present melancholy circumstances, he could not possibly 
 make for some time. Had Mr. Fitzalan,’ he added, ‘ possessed 
 in reality that generosity Sir Charles’s partially 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 v/ere 
 paid to his lamented child-’ S‘r Charles and Oscar were inex* 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 499 
 
 pressibly 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 of a noble 
 mind, hurt by being thought destitute of sensibility, ‘ That the 
 marquis had arraigned him unjustly. Had he known of his 
 sorrows,’ he said, ‘ nothing should have tempted him to intrude 
 upon them. He mourned, he respected them; he besought him 
 to believe him sincere in what he uttered.’ A tear, an involun- 
 tary 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 of sensibility, how well might he have retaliated upon me 
 my more flagrant want of justice and humanity; but no, he sees I 
 am a son of sorrow, and he will not break the reed which Heaven 
 has already smitten.’ Tears gushed from his eyes. He involun- 
 tarily extended his hand to Oscar. ‘ I see,’ said he, ‘ I see, indeed, 
 I have unjustly arraigned you; but I will endeavor to atone for 
 my error. At present, rest satisfied with an assurance, that what- 
 ever 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 assured 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 res^ 
 tition his conscience prompted, but his false ideas of shame had 
 prevented, he now found he should be compelled to make; how 
 to make it, therefore, so as to avoid total disgrace, was what he- 
 considered. At last he adopted a scheme, which the sensibility Cii 
 Oscar, he flattered himself, would enable him to accomplish. 
 This was to declare, that by the Earl of Dunreath’s will Mr. Fitz- 
 alan was heir to his estates in case of the death of Lady Euphra- 
 sia ; 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 
 
500 
 
 Tr"S CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 fabrication of her brain, in order, as he supposed, to give them 
 nneiasiness. This scheme once formed, his heart felt a little re- 
 lieved of the heavy burden of fear and inquietude. He 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 en- 
 deavor to make their peace with Heaven. Affliction had taught 
 penitence to the marchioness, as well as her husband. She ap- 
 proved 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 accomplished. 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 from, than expose the mar- 
 quis to disgrace. He hastened as soon as possible to the castle, 
 agreeably to a request contained in the letter, to assure the mar- 
 quis his conduct throughout the whole affair would be regulated 
 according to his desire. 
 
 Perhaps, at this moment, public contempt could not have hum- 
 bled the marquis more than such generosity, when he drew acorn ' 
 parison 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 in- 
 troduce him to the marchioness. He desired he might take up his 
 residence in the castle, and expressed a wish that he would at- 
 tend 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 mar- 
 quis, who had been roused from the indulgence of his grief by a 
 v^ish of preserving his character, again relapsed into its wretched- 
 ness. He desired Oscar to make no secret of his now being heir 
 to the Earl of Dunreath, and said he would mention it himself in 
 his family. Through this medium, therefore, did this surprising 
 intelligence reach Lord Mortimer, and liis heart dilated with sud- 
 defi joy at the idea of his Amanda and her brother at last enjoy- 
 ing independence and prosperity. 
 
 In a few hours after this the sufferings of Lord Cherbury were 
 terminated. His last faltering accents pronounced blessings on 
 his son. Oh, how sweet were those blessings ! How different 
 were the feelings of Lord Mortimer from the callous sons of dissi- 
 pation, who seem to watch with impatience the last struggles of a 
 parent, that they may have more extensive means of gratifying 
 their inordinate desires. The feelings of Lord Mortimer were 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 501 
 
 soothed by reflecting he had done everything in his power for re* 
 storing 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; hum- 
 bly trusting that his penitence had atoned for his frailties, and in- 
 sured him felicity. 
 
 He now bade adieu to the castle and its wretched owners, and 
 accompanied Lady Martha and his sister to Thornbury, at which 
 the burying-place of the family lay. Here he continued till the 
 remains of his father arrived, and were interred. He then pro- 
 ceeded to London to put into execution the plan he had projected 
 for his father. He immediately advertised the Tudor estate. A 
 step of this kind could not be concealed from Lady Martha ; but 
 the mortgages on the other estates he resolved carefully to guard 
 from her knowledge, lest suspicions prejudicial to the memory of 
 his father should arise in her mind. But, during this period, the 
 idea of Amanda was not absent from his soul. Neither grief nor 
 business could banish it a moment ; and, again, a thousand fond 
 and flattering hopes concerning her had revived, when a sudden 
 blow dispersed them all, and plunged him, if possible, into greater 
 wretchedness than he had ever before experienced. He heard it 
 confidently reported that the Earl of Dunreath’s sister (for Oscar 
 by this time had claimed, and been allowed to take the title of his 
 grandfather) was to be married to Sir Charles Bingley. The friend- 
 ship which he knew subsisted between the earl and Sir Charles 
 rendered this too probable. But if a doubt concerning it still lin- 
 gered in his mind, it was destroyed when Sir Charles waited on 
 him to treat about the purchase of Tudor Hall ; it instantly oc- 
 curred to him that this purchase was made by the desire of Amanda. 
 Unable to command his feelings, he referred Sir Charles to Ins 
 agent, and abruptly retired. He called her cruel and ungrateful. 
 After all his sufferings on her account, did he deserve so soon to 
 be banished from her remembrance — so soon supplanted in her 
 affections by another — by one, too, who never had, who never 
 would have, an opportunity of giving such proofs as he had done 
 of constancy and love. She is lost, then, he sighed; she is lost 
 forever ! Oh ! what avails the vindication of her fame ? Is it 
 not an augmentation of my misery ? Oh, my father, of what a 
 treasure did you despoil me ! But let me not disturb the sacred 
 ashes of the dead— rest, rest in peace, thou vulnerable author of 
 my being ! and may the involuntary expression of heart-rending 
 anguish be forgiven ! Amanda, then, he continued, after a pause, 
 will indeed be mistress of Tudor Hall ; but never will a sigh for 
 him who once was its owner heave her bosom. She will wander 
 beneath those shades where so often she has heard my vows of 
 
502 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 unalterable love — vows which, alas! my heart has too fully ob* 
 served— and listen to similar ones from Sir Charles : well, this is 
 the last stroke fate can level at my peace. 
 
 Lord Mortimer (or, as in future, we must style him. Lord 
 Cherbury) had indeed imagined that the affections of Amanda, 
 like his own, were unalterable ; he had therefore indulged the 
 rapturous idea, that, by again seeking a union with her, she 
 should promote the happiness of both. It is true he knew she 
 would possess a fortune infinitely superior to what he had now a 
 right to expect ; but after the proofs he had given of disinterested 
 attachment, not only she, but the world, he was convinced, 
 would acquit him of any selfish motives in the renewal of his ad- 
 dresses. 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 pre- 
 ferred going to sending for him, prompted indeed by a melan- 
 choly 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 in- 
 junction to him of concealing his being there, it was after a ramble 
 through every spot about the demesne which he had ever 
 trodden with Amanda, that he repaired to the library and dis- 
 covered her. He was ignorant of her being in the country. Oh ! 
 then, how great was his surprise — how exquisite his emotions, 
 at seeing her in such unexpected circumstances ! 
 
 I shall not attempt to go over the scene I have already tried to 
 describe ; suffice it to say, that the desire she betrayed of hasten- 
 ing from him he imputed to the alteration of her sentiments 
 with respect to him and Sir Charles. When undeceived in this 
 respect, his rapture was as great as ever it had before been at the 
 idea of her love, and, like Amanda, he declared his suffering 
 was now amply rewarded. 
 
 CHAPTER LVH. 
 
 No, never from this hour to part, 
 
 We’ll live and love so true ; 
 
 The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
 Shall break thy lover’s too. 
 
 ‘ 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 503 
 
 our happiness ? Will he, who might aspire so high for a sister 
 "^hus at once possessed of beauty and fortune, bestow her on one 
 whose title may now almost be considered an empty one ? ^ 
 ^Oh ! do not wrong his noble nature by such a doubt,’ exclaimed 
 Amanda. ‘ Yes, with pride, with pleasure, with delight, will he 
 bestow his sister upon the esteemed, the beloved of her heart ; 
 upon him, who, un warped by narrow prejudice or selfish in- 
 terest, sought her in the low shade of obscurity, to lay, all friend- 
 less 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 con- 
 duct ; my Oscar is all that is generous and feeling ; need I say 
 more, 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 my sorrows, my difficulties, shall I indeed receive so 
 precious a reward? 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 ! a dream from 
 which I never wish to be awakened.’ 
 
 Amanda now recollected that if she stayed much longer from 
 the cottage she would have someone 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 ap- 
 pearance of Lord Cherbury is impossible — a surprise mingled 
 with indignation, at the idea of his falsehood to her darling child ; 
 but when undeceived in that respect, her transports were of the 
 most extravagant nature. 
 
 ‘Well, she thanked Heaven,’ she said, ‘she should now see 
 her dear child hold up her head again, and look as handsome 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 
 )ld grandmother talk of.’ ‘ My good nurse,’ said Lord Cherbury 
 runiling, ‘ you will then give me your dear child with all your 
 iieart?’ ‘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, al- 
 ready described at the beginning of this book, and proceeded to it 
 with Lord Cherbury. The 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 
 
504 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 dine upon cold lamb and salad! Well, this was all Miss 
 Amanda’s fault, who would never let her do as she wished/ 
 With the utmost diflBculty she was persuaded he could dine upon 
 these things. The cloth was laid upon the flowery turf, beneathi 
 the spreading branches of the arbor. The delicacies of the dairy 
 were added to their repast, and Betsey provided a dessert of new 
 Alberts. 
 
 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 reconciled than 
 he had been before to the diminution of his fortune ; he yet re- 
 tained sufflcient for the comforts, and many of the elegancies of 
 life. The splendor he lost was insignificant in his eyes; his pres- 
 ent situation proved happiness could be enjoyed without it, and 
 he knew it was equally disregarded by Amanda. He asked him- 
 self : 
 
 ‘ What was the world to them— 
 
 Its pomps, its pleasares, and its nonsense all, 
 
 Who in each other clasp, whatever fair 
 High fancy forms, or lavish hearts can wish ? ’ 
 
 All nature looked gay and smiMng around him. He inhaled the 
 balmy breath of opening flowers, and through the verdant canopy 
 he sat beneath, he saw the bright azure of the heavens, and felt 
 the benignant influence of the sun, whose potent beams heightened 
 to glowing luxuriance the beauties of the surrounding landscape. 
 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 rememberances did it awaken, and 
 what delightful plans of felicity did they sketch ! Lord Cher- 
 bury would hear from Amanda all she had suffered since their 
 separation ; and could his love and esteem have been increased 
 her patient endurance of these sorrows she related would have 
 increased them. They did not leave the garden till a dusky hue 
 had overspread the landscape. Oh, with what emotions did 
 Amanda watch the setting sun, whose rising beams she had beheld 
 with eyes obscured by tears of sorrow ! As they sat at tea in the 
 room, she could not avoid noticing the alteration 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 liim, and they 
 would soon have led up a dance in the vale, had not the nurse 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 505 
 
 prevented them, lest they should disturb her guests. Lord Cher- 
 bury, 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 fresh blooming sweets. 
 
 Amanda, in hourly expectation of her brother’s arrival, wishea, 
 ere he came, to inform the inhabitants of the cottage of the alter- 
 ation of his fortune. This, with the assistance of Lord Cher- 
 bury, she took an opportunity of doing in the course of the day 
 to the nurse. Had she been a 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 
 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 
 s. winding path from the garden descended, while she hurried to 
 the cottage to receive and welcome her beloved brother. Their 
 meeting was at once tender and affecting. 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 them with a start- 
 ing 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 had passed between him and the 
 Marquis of Roslin. 
 
500 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 As soon as the funeral of Lad ,7 Euphrasia was over, the mar* 
 quis settled everything with him, and put him into formal pos* 
 session of Dunreath Abbey. By the marc{uis‘s desire, he then 
 waited upon Lady Dunreath, to inform lier 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 I'evolu- 
 t ion of affairs. ‘ I own,’ continued Oscar, ‘from the cruelty to 
 my mother, and the depravity of lier conduct, I was strongljr 
 prejudiced against her, attributing, I acknowledge, her doing 
 justice to us, in some degree, to her resentment against the mar- 
 quis; but the moment I entered her apartment this prejudice van- 
 ished, giving place to the softer emotions of pity and tenderness, 
 while a thorough conviction of her sincere repentance broke upon, 
 my soul. Though prepared 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 word 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, im- 
 plored my forgiveness for the sufferings she had caused me to en- 
 dure. Repeatedly I assured her of it ; but this rather heightened 
 than diminished her agitation, and tears and sobs spoke the an- 
 guish of her soul. ‘ I have lived,’ she cried, ‘ to justify the ways of 
 Providence to men, and prove that, however calamity may op- 
 press 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 ar- 
 dent desire to see her daughter. ‘ The pitying tears of a mother/ 
 she exclaimed, * may be as a balm to her wounded heart. Oh, 
 my prophetic words, how often have I prayed that the punish- 
 ment 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 con- 
 sented, 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 affection on 
 the one hand, and penitence on the other. The marchioness in- 
 deed 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 must be aggravated by be- 
 holding that of the marquis and his wife. Theirs is that situa- 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 507 
 
 tion where comfort can neither be offered nor suggested — hope- 
 less 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 speaking, declaring he rejoiced and congratulated 
 :ier on having found an object so well qualified to make her happy. 
 
 ‘ But where is this dear creature? ’ cried Oscar, with some 
 g*ayety; 'am I to search for him, like a favorite sylph, in your 
 bouquet; or, with more probability of success, seek him among 
 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 
 was instantly introduced by her to Lord Dunreath. The recep- 
 tion he met was the most flattering proof he could receive of his 
 Amanda’s affections; for what but the most animated expressions 
 in his favor could have made Lord Dunreath, at the first introduc- 
 tion, 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 Dun- 
 reath had ordered his equipage and attendants 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. Lord Cherbury having intimated his wishes for an im- 
 mediate union with Amanda, all the necessary preliminaries were 
 talked over and adjusted; and it was agreed that the marriage 
 should take place at the cottage, from whence they should im- 
 mediately proceed to Lady Martha’s, and that to procure a license 
 they should both depart the next morning. At breakfast, there- 
 ore, 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 travelers 
 returned from 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 the day but one after their return. 
 Howel was sent for, and informed of the hour his services would 
 be required. His mild eyes evinced to Amanda his sincere joy at 
 the termination of her sorrows. 
 
508 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 On the destined morning, Lord Dunreath and his friend went 
 over to the cottage, and in a few minutes were 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 tine eyes alone could do them justice — alone 
 reveal what might 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 happiness of 
 Lord Cherbury ; for as his happiness, so might his own have 
 been, but for the blackest perfidy. 
 
 As Lord Cherbury took the trembling hand of Amanda, to 
 lead her from the cottage, she gave a farewell sigh to a place 
 where, it might be said, her happiness had commenced and was 
 completed. They walked to the church, followed by the nurse 
 and her family. Some kind hand had strewed Lady Malvina’s 
 grave with the gayest flowers, and when Amanda reached it she 
 paused involuntarily for a moment, to invoke the spirits of her 
 parents to bless her union. 
 
 Howel 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 the 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 congratulations 
 of her brother, presented her to the rest of the little group. Their 
 delight, particularly the nurse’s, was almost too great for 
 
 I 
 
 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 Fitzalan 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, ana 
 said — ‘ Lord Cherbury never would forget the obligations con- 
 ferred upon Miss Fitzalan.’ Bridal favors and presents had al- 
 ready been distributed among the Edwins. Howel was hand- 
 somely complimented on the occasion, and received some valuable 
 Drp!^ents from Lord Cherbury, as proofs of his sincere friendship; 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 509 
 
 a,lso money to distribute among the indigent villagers. His lord- 
 ship then handed Amanda into his coach, alrsady 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 longer his, yet he 
 could not think of refusing the earl. Amanda knew his feelings, 
 and wished her brother had not made such a request. No oppo- 
 sition, 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 flowers, and a thick row of trees, which, 
 waving their old fantastic branches on high, formed a most de- 
 lightful shade. Honeysuckles, 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, therefore, 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 beau- 
 tiful 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 appear, 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 doors 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 gayety 
 to the place. 
 
 Oscar led the way to a spacious parlor at the end of the hall. 
 But how impossible to describe the 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 ; 
 but while he returned them, he cast his eyes upon Oscar, de - 
 manded an explanation of the scene. ‘ I shall give no explanation , 
 my lord,’ cried Oscar, ‘ till you welcome your friends to your 
 house.’ 
 
 ‘ My house ! ’ repeated Lord Cherbury, staring at him. Lord 
 
510 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 Punreath approached. Never had he appeared so engag-ingf. 
 The benignant expression his countenance assumed was such as 
 we may suppose an angel sent from heaven, on benevolent pur- 
 poses 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 Lady Greystock, 
 whom, I fancy, you have both some reason to remember, in con- 
 sequence 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 sis- 
 ter 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 possession ; or, if you must 
 remember it, think it restored to you with an encumbrance, which . 
 half the fashionable men in England would give an estate to get 
 rid of, and this will conquer your too refined feelings.’ 
 
 Lord Cherbury smiled as he looked at the lovely encumbrance 
 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 breakfast table, which was elegantly 
 laid out. The timid bride was assisted in doing the honors by her 
 brother and Lord Cherbury. 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 beauti- 
 ful coloring of health and modesty tinged the soft cheeks of 
 Amanda, and her eyes, through 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 arranged 
 • which he accordingly did. He had written to the 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 611 
 
 ladies at Thornbury, informing them of his scheme, and request- 
 ing their presence, and on the preceding night they had arrived 
 at the Hall. Lord Dunreath also added, that from a certainty of 
 its being agreeable to Lord Cherbury, 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 expressed 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 that sweetness and affability which ever 
 distinguished his manners. The ramble was delightful. When 
 the sun had attained its meridian, they sought the cool shade, and 
 retired to little, romantic arbors, over-canopied with woodbines, 
 where, as if by the 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 ten- 
 ants seated at long tables in the wood, enjoying with unbounded 
 mirth the profusion with which they were covered, and Lord Cher- 
 bury begged Amanda to observe her nurse seated at the head of 
 one of 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 from 
 the time her cottage was honored with such noble guests. When 
 she received an invitation from the steward to accompany the rest 
 of the tenants to the Hall to celebrate its restoration to Lord Cher- 
 bury, her joy and exultation knew no bounds ; she took care to 
 walk with the wives of some of the most respectable tenants, de- 
 scribing to them all that had passed at the ceremony, and how the 
 earl had first fallen in love with his bride at her cottage, and what 
 trials they had undergone, no doubt, 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 tis- 
 parage 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. Aberg willy 
 in having so great a house as the Hall entirely under her manage- 
 ment, and she now determined, upon the strength of her favor 
 
512 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 with Lady Cherbury, to having something to say to it, and, of 
 course, increase her consequence among her neighbors. There 
 was nothing on earth 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 specimen she 
 gave of her intention was in helping to distribute refreshments 
 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 generality of those accus- 
 tomed to absolute power, could not tamely submit to any inno- 
 vation 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 to 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 intense- 
 ly hot ; she pinned back her go wn, 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 than anyone else, and that she would take an early 
 opportunity of going through 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! 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 benev- 
 olent entertainers, who smiled to see 
 
 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 among them, and the gentlemen, 
 for a short time, mingled in the dance. Long it could not detain 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 513 
 
 Lord ' Cherbury from his Amanda. Oh! 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 diffi- 
 culties but increased his present felicity. In the course of the 
 week all the neighboring families came to pay their congratula- 
 tions 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 grate- 
 ful remembrance from her mind. She was not one of those sel- 
 fish beings, who, on being what is termed settled for life, imme- 
 diately contract themselves within the narrow sphere of their own 
 enjoyments ; still was her heart as sensible as ever to the 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 valu- 
 able to prove her sincerity. She sent an invitation to Emily 
 Eushbrook, which was immediately accepted. And now a dis- 
 covery took place which infinitely surprised and pleased Amanda, 
 namely, that Howel was the young clergyman Emily was at- 
 tached 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 considered more a 
 duty than a pleasure by Howel. And the little favors he con- 
 ferred upon the Rushbrooks afforded, if possible, more pleasure 
 to him than they did to them; so sweet are the feelings of benev- 
 olence 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 unfortu- 
 nate passion for Amanda, and in stealing her image from his 
 heart she implanted her own in its place. He described, 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 ; when he, like a second father, should assist theii? 
 children through the devious paths of life. These fond hopes 
 and expectations vanished the moment he received Mrs. Connel’s 
 letter. He could not think of sacrificing the interest of Rush- 
 brook to the consideration of his own happiness, and therefoi’e 
 generously, but with the most agonizing conflicts, resigned his 
 Emily to a more prosperous rival. His joy at finding her disen- 
 gaged, 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 Cher- 
 
514 
 
 THE CHILDHEN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 bury were delighted to think they could contribute to the felicity 
 of two such amiable 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 be- 
 stowing their daughter on Howel. They were accordingly in- 
 vited to the Hall, and in the same spot where a month before he 
 ratified the vows of Lord Cherbury and Amanda, did Howel 
 plight his own to Emily, 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 hap- 
 piness 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 Dun- 
 reath, and the possessions of Ellen were enlarged by Amanda. 
 Now was realized every scheme of domestic happiness she 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 befallen 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 con- 
 cluded 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 remembrance 
 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 servants of Wood- 
 lawn, all recall to my mind those hours when it was the man- 
 sion 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 will 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 ’ 
 
THE CHILDKEN OP THE ABBEY* 
 
 615 
 
 CHAPTER LVIir. 
 
 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 in tears.— T homson. 
 
 Adela, on the death of her father, was taken by Belgrave to 
 England, though the only pleasure he experienced in removing 
 her was derived from the idea of wounding her feelings, by sepa- 
 rating her from Mrs. Marlowe, whom he knew she was tenderly 
 attached to. From his connections in London, she was compelled 
 to mix in society — compelled I say, for the natural gayety of her 
 soul was quite gone, and that solitude, which permitted her to 
 brood over the remembrance 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 w^as 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 sweet- 
 ness, at last softened the flinty nature of her governante, and she 
 was permitted to extend her walks beyond the gardens, to which 
 they had hitherto been conflned ; but she availed herself of this 
 permission only to visit the churchyard 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 sequested from every human eye, 
 weep over the recollection of that father she had lost, that friend 
 she was separated from. She remained in the churchyard 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, when suddenly she beheld a form rising from a 
 neighboring grave. She started up, screamed, but had no power 
 to move. The form advanced to her. It was the figure of a 
 venerable man, who gently exclaimed, ‘ Be not afraid ! ’ His 
 voice dissipated the involuntary fears of Adela: but still she 
 trembled so much she could not move. ‘I thought,’ cried he, 
 gazing on her, ‘ this p^ — bee*' alone fha V»aunt of wretched* 
 
516 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 ness and me.’ ^ If sacred to sorrow,’ exclaimed Adela, ‘I well 
 may claim the privilege of entering it.’ She 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 ; ‘ suffer 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 
 eradicated the moment it hears of the real calamities of life. 
 Such a relation 1 can give you if you meet me to-morrow night in 
 this sad, this solitary spot— a spot I have visited every closing 
 evening, without ever before meeting a being in it.’ 
 
 His venerable looks, his gentle, his pathetic manner, affected 
 Adela inexpressibly. She gazed on h * “n with emotions somewhat 
 similar to those with which she used to contemplate the mild 
 features of her father. ‘I will meet you,’ cried she, ‘but 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 punc- 
 tual the next evening to the appointed hour. The stranger 
 was already in the churchyard. He seated her at the head of the 
 grave from which she had seen him rise the preceding night, and 
 which 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 Adela began to tremble with emotion--- 
 as he 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, in- 
 estimable 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, ‘ O Providence 1 I thank Thee, ’ he ex- 
 claimed ; ‘ again shall my arms fold to my heart its best beloved 
 object. Oh, my Fanny, how have T injured thee ! Learn from 
 me,’ he continued, turning to Adela, ‘oh ! learn from me never 
 to yield to rashness. Had I allowed myself time to inquire into 
 
THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY. 
 
 517 
 
 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 ! 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 ! ’ he repeated ; ‘then I wonder not,’ continued he, as 
 if involuntarily, ‘ at your sorrows. ’ It was, indeed, to Howel, the 
 unfortunate father of Juliana, the regretted husband of Mrs. 
 Marlowe, 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 villainy 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 backward and 
 forward in confusion 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 hasty manner told her that 
 Colonel Belgrave was dead. Struck with horror and amaze- 
 ment, Adela stood petrified, gazing on her. The maid repeated 
 her words, and added that he had died abroad, and his remains 
 were brought over to Woodhouse for interment, attended by a 
 French gentleman, who looked like a priest. The various emo- 
 tions 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 sensi- 
 bility, 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 what they had 
 hitherto done, demanded from her. All she could desire was that 
 the steward should pay every respect and attention to the gentle- 
 man who had attended the remains of his master, and have every 
 honor that was due shown to those remains. To suppose she re- 
 gretted Belgrave would be unnatural ; but she felt horror, 
 mingled wkh 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 con- 
 ceive. Overwhelmed with terror and gi’ief, he had quitted 
 England — terror at the supposition of a crime which in reality he 
 had not committed, and grief for the fate of Amanda. He sought 
 tx>lose his horrors in inebriety; but this, joined to the agitations 
 
518 
 
 THE CHILDREN OP THE ABBEY, 
 
 of his mind, brought on a violent fever by the time he had landed 
 at Calais, in the paroxysms of which, had the attendants under- 
 stood his language, they would have been shocked at the crimes 
 he revealed. His senses were restored 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. O Howel 1 now were you 
 amply avenged for all the pangs he made you suffer. Now did 
 the pale image of your shrouded J uliana seem to stand beside his 
 bed reproaching his barbarity. Every treacherous action now 
 rose to view, and, trembling, he groaned with terror at the 
 specters which a guilty conscience raised around him. Death 
 would have been a release, could he have considered it an anni- 
 hilation of all existence ; but that future world he had always 
 derided, tliat world was opening in all its awful horrors to his 
 view. Already he saw himself before its sacred Judge, sur- 
 rounded by the accusing spirits of those he had injured. He de- 
 sired 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 alleviation 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 convul- 
 sion, and expired. The English servant who attended Belgrave 
 informed the people of the hotel of his rank and fortune, and the 
 priest offered to accompany his remains to England. He was, by 
 the direction of Adela, who had not resolution to see him, amply 
 rewarded for his attention ; and in two days after their arrival at 
 Woodhouse, the remains of Belgrave were consigned to their kin- 
 dred earth. From a sequestered corner of the churchyard Howel 
 witnessed his interment. When all had departed, he approached 
 the grave of his daughter — *He is gone !’ he exclaimed; ‘my 
 Juliana, your betrayer is gone ; at the tribunal of his God he 
 now answers for his cruelty to you. But, oh ! may he find mercy 
 from that God ! may he pardon him, as in this solemn moment 
 I have done— my emnity 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 Ire- 
 land. The expectation of her doing so had alone prevented his 
 going before. They accordingly commenced their journey the 
 ensuing day, and in less than a week reached the dear and des- 
 tined spot so interesting to both. They had previously settled on 
 the manner in which the discovery should be revealed to Mrs. 
 Marlowe, and Adela went alone into her cottage. Sad and soli- 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 519 
 
 tary, as Mrs. Marlowe said in her letter to Oscar, did Adela find 
 her in her parlor ; but it was a sadness which vanished the mo- 
 ment she beheld her. With all the tenderness 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 sufirer- 
 ings; but when she mentioned Howel, surprise suspended her 
 tears — a surprise which increased when she began the story; but 
 when she came to that part where she herself had betrayed such 
 emotion while listening to Howel, Mrs. Marlowe started and turned 
 pale. ‘ Your feelings are similar to mine,’ said Adela; ‘at this 
 period I became agi tilted. Yes, ’ she continues, ‘ it was at this period 
 I laid my trembling hand on his, and exclaimed, “ She lives! ” ^ 
 ‘ Merciful Heaven ! ’ cried Mrs. Marlowe, ‘what do you mean?^ 
 ‘ Oh, let me now,’ cried Adela, clasping her arms round her, ‘ re« 
 peat to you the same expression. He lives ! that husband so be- 
 loved and regretted, lives! ‘Oh, bring him to me!’ said Mrs. 
 Marlowe, in a faint voice; * let me behold 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 cannot be described. Both, with tears of grateful trans- 
 port, blessed the Power which had given such comfort to their clos- 
 ing days. ‘ But, my children,’ exclaimed Mrs. Marlowe suddenly, 
 
 ‘ ah! when shall I behold my children? Why did not they ac- 
 company you? Ah ! did they deem me then unworthy of bestow- 
 ing a mother’s blessing? ’ Howel trembled and turned pale. ‘ I 
 see,’ said Mrs. Marlowe, interpreting his emotion, ‘I am a wufe, 
 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 ! ’ 
 He paused, and a tear fell to the memory 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 con- 
 duct 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 happiness gradually cheered her mind. 
 
520 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 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 melancholy pleasure. The next morning, attended by her 
 friend, she repaired to it, and was inexpressibly affected by re- 
 viewing scenes endeared by the tender remembrance of happier 
 hours. The house, from its closed windows, appeared quite neg- 
 lected and melancholy, as if pleasure had forsaken it with the 
 poor departed general. Standard, his favorite horse, grazed on 
 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 running 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 unexpected 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 this idea, thus revived in her mind, did 
 not lessen its dejection. While she sat within it indulging 
 her sorrow, her eyes 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 I 
 
 We part to meet no more ; 
 
 Adieu to peace, to hope, to you, 
 
 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 ! 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 keep, 
 
 And Grief’s soft tribute pay. 
 
 Oscar, previous to his going to England, with the expectation 
 of being sent to the West Indies, had paid a secret visit to Wood* 
 lawn, to review and bid adieu to every well-known and beloved 
 spot, and had one morning, early day, inscribed these lines o}.i 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 521 
 
 a window in the root-house, prompted by a tender melancholy 
 he could not resist. 
 
 ‘His love is then unfortunate,’ said Adela pensively, leaning 
 her head upon her hand. ‘ O Oscar ! how sad a similitude is 
 there between your fate and mine ! ’ She 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 after.’ Adela’s heart 
 suddenly palpitated ; she guessed vrho that one friend was. 
 ‘Oscar Fitzalan, surely,’ continued Mrs. Howel, ‘merits an in- 
 quiry. I have good news to tell you of him ; therefore, without 
 chiding you for any seeming neglect, I will reveal it.’ She ac- 
 cordingly related his late reverse of situation. 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, looking at her wuth pleasure, ‘that 
 love, so pure, so constant as his, should he rewarded. O 
 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.’ ‘ Impossi- 
 ble ! ’ cried Adela, trembling 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 prevent the innocent from being unhappy. O Adela I 
 you were cruelly deceived ; and the moment which gave you to 
 Bel grave, rendered Oscar the most wretched of mankind. My 
 heart was the repository of all his griefs, and how many are the 
 bitter 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-house, and in 
 
522 
 
 THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 a most explicit manner informed her of Belgrave’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! ’she continued, ‘how 
 much would the knowledge of his misery have aggravated mine I ’ 
 
 ‘ He acted nobly,’ said Mrs. Howel, ‘ in concealing it ; and amply 
 will he be rewarded for such conduct.’ She then proceeded to 
 inform Adela that she soon expected a visit from him. There 
 was something in her look and manner which instantly excited 
 the suspicion of Adela, who, blushing, starting, trembling, ex- 
 claimed : ‘ 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, who shall 
 paint his transports, after all his sufferings, to be thus rewarded ! 
 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 doublj^ endeared b}^ the remembrance, ‘ is Oscar at 
 last permitted to pour forth the fullness 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 con- 
 tribute to your felicity? Yes, most generous of friends! ’ he ex- 
 claimed, raising his eyes to a picture of the general, ‘I will en- 
 deavor 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 conse- 
 crated 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 soli- 
 tude, 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 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 523 
 
 of his time mig*ht be devoted to her. It was necessary, however, 
 to sanction that hope by having proper society. She could not 
 flatter herself with much longer retaining Mr. and Mrs. Howel, 
 as the latter particularly 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, con- 
 sidered her the loveliest of human beings, and Lady Martha and 
 Lady Araminta, who were also invited to Woodlawn, 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 1 ’ she exclaimed, ‘ these tears 
 flatter, yet distress me. I am pleased to think the child of my 
 care regards me with such affection, 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 remembrances ! nature calls me from you ; I 
 sigh to behold my child; I sigh,’ she continued, with eyes suf- 
 fused 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 remembrance of her 
 father was only attended with a pleasing melancholy. She did 
 not delay visiting the convent. The good-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 Cher- 
 bury 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 
 
524 
 
 THE CIIILHEEN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 montlis in every year at the Castle. After continuing at it six 
 weeks, they crossed over to Port-Patrick, and from thence pro- 
 ceeded 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 parties 
 among the neighboring families, and excursions about the coun- 
 try ; 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 first 
 mention. After the death of Lady Euphrasia, she found her com- 
 pany no longer desired at the marquis’s, and accordingly repaired 
 to Bath. Here she had not been long ere she became acquainted 
 with a set of female Puritans, who soon wrought a total change 
 (I will not say a reformation) in her ladyship’s sentiments ; 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 indeed she had long wanted to learn, the doc- 
 trine of repentance ; for most sincerely did she repent putting her- 
 self 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 
 
THE CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY. 
 
 525 
 
 full confession of her treachery and injustice to him, in conse- 
 quence of which he took immediate possession of his uncle’s for- 
 tune ; and thus, in the evening of his life, enjoyed a full recom- 
 pense for the trials of its early period. Lady Greystock died with 
 some degree of satisfaction at the idea of disappointing her hus- 
 band of the fortune she was convinced he had married her for. 
 
 Mrs. Howel, after visiting her son, retired to her husband’s cot- 
 tage, where their days glide on in a kind of pleasing melancholy. 
 The happiness of that son, and his Emily, is as perfect as happi- 
 ness 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 agh 
 tated by the sight of Amanda as he had dreaded. He did not re- 
 fuse the invitations of Lord Cherbury. The domestic happiness 
 he saw him enjoying rendered his own unconnected and wander- 
 ing life more unpleasant than ever to him. Lady Araminta Dor- 
 mer was almost constantly in his company. No longer fascinated 
 by Amanda, he could now see and admire her perfections. He 
 soon made known his admiration. The declaration was not un- 
 graciously received, and he offered 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 car- 
 ried off a Scotch heiress, and thinks, from that circumstance, 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 Dunreath 
 family. The goodness of heart, the simplicity of manners which 
 ever distinguished them, they still retain. From having been 
 children of sorrow themselves, they feel for all who come 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 unsheltered 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 happi- 
 ness. 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 ances- 
 tors, and entailed peace upon their own souls. Their children, by 
 all connected with them, are considered as blessings. Gratitude 
 has already consecrated their names, and their example inspires 
 others with emulation to pursue their courses. 
 

 
[' 
 
 I 
 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 t 
 
 1 : 
 
 4 
 
 
 c 
 
 
 
 ♦