The Children of the Abbey: A Tale

by Regina Maria Roche

The company broke up soon after this, and much earlier than their usual hour, on account of the travellers. All but those then immediately belonging to the family having departed, some maids of the house appeared, to show the ladies to their respective chambers. Lady Martha and Lady Araminta retired first. Amanda was following them, when Mrs. Macqueen detained her, to try and prevail on her to stay two or three days along with them. The Miss Macqueens joined their mother; but Amanda assured them she could not comply with their request, though she felt with gratitude its friendly warmth. Old Mr. Macqueen had had his chair turned to the fire, and his sons and Lord Mortimer were surrounding it. “Well, well,” said he, calling Amanda to him, and taking her hand, “if you will not stay with us now, remember, on your return, we shall lay an embargo on you. In the mean time, I shall not lose the privilege which my being an old married man gives me.” So saying, he gently pulled Amanda to him, and kissed her cheek. She could only smile at this innocent freedom but she attempted to withdraw her hand to retire. “Now,” said Mr. Macqueen, still detaining it, “are all these young men half mad with envy?” The young Macqueens joined in their father’s gallantry, and not a tongue was silent except Lord Mortimer’s. His head rested on his hand, and the cornice of the chimney supported his arm. His hair, from which the dancing had almost shaken all the powder, hung negligently about his face, and added to its paleness and sudden dejection. One of the young Macqueens, turning from his brothers, who were yet continuing their mirth with their father, addressed some question to his lordship, but received no answer. Again he repeated it. Lord Mortimer then suddenly started, as if from a profound reverie, and apologized for his absence.

“Ay, ah, my lord,” exclaimed old Mr. Macqueen, jocosely, "we may all guess where your lordship was then travelling in idea—a little beyond the mountains, I fancy. Ay, we all know where your heart and your treasure now lie.” “Do you?” said Lord Mortimer, with a tone of deep dejection, and a heavy sigh, with an air, also, which seemed to declare him scarcely conscious of what he said. He recollected himself, however, at the instant, and began rallying himself, as the surest means of preventing others doing so. The scene was too painful to Amanda. She hastily withdrew her hand, and, faintly wishing the party a good-night, went out to the maid, who was waiting for her in the lobby, and was conducted to her room. She dismissed the servant at the door, and, throwing herself into a chair, availed herself of solitude to give vent to the tears whose painful suppression had so long tortured her heart. She had not sat long in this situation when she heard a gentle tap at the door. She started, and believing it to be one of the Miss Macqueens, hastily wiped away her tears, and opened the door. A female stranger appeared at it, who curtseying, respectfully said, “Lady Martha Dormer, her lady, desired to see Miss Donald for a few minutes, if not inconvenient to her.” “See me!” repeated Amanda, with the utmost surprise; “can it be possible?” She suddenly checked herself, and said she would attend her ladyship immediately. She accordingly followed the maid, a variety of strange ideas crowding upon her mind. Her conductress retired as she shut the door of the room into which she showed Amanda. It was a small ante-chamber adjoining the apartment Lady Martha was to lie in. Here, with increasing surprise, she beheld Lord Mortimer pacing the room in an agitated manner. His back was to the door as she entered, but he turned round with quickness, approached, looked on her a few moments, then, striking his hand suddenly against his forehead, turned from her with an air of distraction.

Lady Martha, who was sitting at the head of the room, and only bowed as Amanda entered it, motioned for her to take a chair; a motion Amanda gladly obeyed, for her trembling limbs could scarcely support her.

All was silent for a few minutes. Lady Martha then spoke in a grave voice:—"I should not, madam, have taken the liberty of sending for you at this hour, but that I believe so favorable an opportunity would not again have occurred of speaking to you on a subject particularly interesting to me—an opportunity which has so unexpectedly saved me the trouble of trying to find you out, and the necessity of writing to you.”

Lady Martha paused, and her silence was not interrupted by Amanda. “Last summer,” continued Lady Martha—again she paused. The throbbings of Amanda’s heart became more violent. “Last summer,” she said again, “there were some little gifts presented to you by Lord Mortimer. From the events which followed their acceptance, I must presume they are valueless to you: from the events about taking place, they are of importance elsewhere.” She ceased, but Amanda could make no reply.

“You cannot be ignorant,” said Lady Martha, with something of severity in her accent, as if offended by the silence of Amanda,—"you cannot be ignorant, I suppose, that it is the picture and ring I allude to. The latter, from being a family one of particular value, I always destined for the wife of Lord Mortimer; I therefore claim it in my own name. The picture, I have his lordship’s approbation and authority to demand; and to convince you I have,—indeed, if such a conviction be necessary,—have prevailed on him to be present at this conversation.” "No, madam, such a conviction was not necessary,” cried Amanda. “I should——" She could utter no more at the moment, yet tried to suppress the agonizing feeling that tumultuously heaved her bosom.

“If not convenient to restore them immediately,” said Lady Martha, “I will give you a direction where they may be left in London, to which place Mrs. Macqueen has informed me you are going.” “It is perfectly convenient now to restore them, madam,” replied Amanda, with a voice perfectly recovered, animated with conscious innocence and offended pride, which always gave her strength. “I shall return,” continued she, moving to the door, “with them immediately to your ladyship.”

The picture was suspended from her neck, and the ring in its case lay in her pocket; but by the manner in which they had been asked, or rather demanded from her, she felt amidst the anguish of her soul a sudden emotion of pleasure that she could directly give them back. Yet, when in her own room she hastily untied the picture from her neck, pulled the black ribbon from it, and laid it in its case, her grief overcame every other feeling, and a shower of tears fell from her. “Oh, Mortimer! dear Mortimer!” she sighed, “must I part even with this little shadow! must I retain no vestige of happier hours! Yet, why—why should I wish to retain it, when the original will so soon be another’s ? Yes, if I behold Mortimer again, it will be as the husband of Lady Euphrasia.”

She recollected she was staying beyond the expected time, and wiped away her tears. Yet, still she lingered a few minutes in the chamber, to try to calm her agitation. She called her pride to her aid; it inspired her with fortitude, and she proceeded to Lady Martha, determined that lady should see nothing in her manner which she could possibly construe into weakness or meanness. Never did she appear more interesting than at the moment she re-entered the apartment. The passion she had called to her aid gave a bright glow to her cheeks, and the traces of the tears she had been shedding appeared upon those glowing cheeks like dew on the silken leaves of the rose ere the sunbeams of the morning have exhaled it. Those tears left an humble lustre in her eyes, even more interesting than their wonted brilliancy. Her hair hung in rich and unrestrained luxuriance—for she had thrown off her hat on first going to her chamber—and gave to the beauty of her face, and the elegance of her form, a complete finishing.

“Here, madam, is the ring,” cried she, presenting it to Lady Martha, “and here is the picture,” she would have added, but her voice faltered, and a tear started from her eye. Determined to conceal, if possible, her feelings, she hastily dashed away the pearly fugitive. Lady Martha was again extending her hand when Lord Mortimer suddenly started from a couch on which he had thrown himself, and snatching the picture from the trembling hand that held it, pulled it from its case, and flinging it on the floor, trampled it beneath his feet. “Thus perish,” exclaimed he, “every memento of my attachment to Amanda! Oh, wretched, wretched girl!” cried he, suddenly grasping her hand, and as suddenly relinquishing it, “Oh, wretched, wretched girl! you have undone yourself and me!” He turned abruptly away, and instantly quitted the room. Shocked by his words, and terrified by his manner, Amanda had just power to gain a chair. Lady Martha seemed also thunderstruck; but, from the musing attitude in which she stood, the deep convulsive suffocating sobs of Amanda soon called her. She went to her, and finding her unable to help herself, loosened her cravat, bathed her temples with lavender, and gave her water to drink. These attentions, and the tears she shed, revived Amanda. She raised herself in her chair, on which she had fallen back, but was yet too much agitated to stand.