The Children of the Abbey: A Tale

by Regina Maria Roche

Amanda did not confine 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 interred. Her feelings were now infinitely more painful than when she had first seen it. It recalled to her mind, in the most agonizing manner, all the vicissitudes 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 overwhelmed with grief. Scarcely could she prevent herself from falling on the grave, and giving way in tears and lamentations to that grief. Deprived of the dearest connections of life, blasted in hopes and expectations—"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 calamitous were your destinies! even your ashes were not permitted to moulder together, but in a happier region, your kindred spirits are now united. Blessed spirits, your child will strive to imitate your example; in patient resignation to the will of Heaven, she will endeavor to support life. She will strive to live, though not from an idea of enjoying happiness, but from an humble hope of being able to dispense it to others.”

Such were the words of Amanda at the grave of her mother, from which she turned like a pale and drooping 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 assistance 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, therefore, requested her nurse to ask permission for her to go there. The nurse shook her head, as if she suspected Amanda had a motive for the request she did not divulge. She was, however, too anxious to gratify her dear child to refuse complying with it, and accordingly lost no time in asking the desired permission, which Mrs. Abergwilly readily gave, saying—"Miss Fitzalan was welcome to go to the library whenever she pleased, and should not be interrupted.”

Amanda did not delay availing herself of this permission, but it was some time after she entered the library, ere she could compose herself sufficiently for the purpose which had brought her to it. In vain did nature appear from the windows, 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, whilst engaged with it, a temporary alleviation of sorrow.

Three weeks passed in this manner, and at the expiration of that period, she received a letter from Oscar. She trembled in the most violent agitation as she broke the seal, for she saw by the post-mark he was in Scotland; but how great was her surprise and joy at the contents of this letter, which informed her everything relative to the important affair so lately in agitation, was settled in the most amicable manner; that the avowal of his claim occasioned not the smallest litigation; that he was then in full possession of the fortune bequeathed him by the earl, and had already received the congratulations of the 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 intelligence his letter communicated would atone for his brevity; he added, he was then preparing to set off for London with Sir Charles Bingley, of whose friendship he spoke in the highest terms, to settle some affairs relative to his new possessions, and particularly about the revival of the Dunreath title, which not from any ostentatious pride, he desired to obtain, as he was sure she would suppose, but from gratitude and respect to the wishes of his grandfather, who in his will had expressed his desire 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 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 this cottage; the pleasure it afforded was only damped by reflecting on what Lord Mortimer must feel from a discovery which could not fail of casting a dark shade of obloquy upon his new connections. She was now doubly anxious to finish her landscapes, from the prospect there was of her quitting Wales so soon. Every visit she now paid the library was paid with the sad idea of its being the last. As she was preparing for going there one morning, immediately after breakfast, the nurse, who had been out some time previous to her rising, entered the room with a look of breathless impatience, which seemed to declare she had something wonderful to communicate. “Goot lack-a-taisy,” cried she, as soon as she had recovered her breath, lifting up her head from the back of the chair on which she had thrown 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 tomorrow you would never stumble over what it is.” “I dare say I should not,” cried Amanda, “so do be brief.” “Why, you must know,—but Lort, my tear child, I am afraid you made but a bad breakfast, for you look very pale; 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 of want—the young lort has taken care of that, for he has settled something yearly upon them all—but that they are sorry to quit the family. Poor Mrs. Abergwilly, nothing can comfort the old soul; she has neither chick nor child, and she told me she loved the very chairs and tables, to which, to pe sure, her hand has given many a polishing rub. She says she thinks she will come and lodge with me; put if she does, she says I must not put her into a room from whence she can have a view of Tudor Hall; for she says she will never be able to look at it when once it gets a new master. So this, my tear child, is the sum totem of what I have heard.”

Amanda was equally astonished and affected by what she heard. She wished to know if the nurse had received any intelligence of Lord Mortimer’s marriage, but she could not bring herself to ask the question. Besides, upon reflection, she was convinced she should have heard it had it been the case. With Lord Cherbury died all hopes of the restoration of her fame in the opinion of his son. “Yet why,” she asked herself, “should I regret this? since thus separated, it is better, perhaps, he had ceased to esteem me, as undoubtedly it must lessen his feelings on my account.” Why he should part with Tudor Hall she could not conceive, except it was to humor some caprice of Lady Euphrasia’s, who, it was probable, she imagined, knew that the attachment between Lord Mortimer and her had there commenced.

“Ah!” cried Amanda, “she never could have relished its beauties—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 some time there ere she could commence her employment, so much had she been agitated. The landscape she was finishing was taken from the little valley which lay 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 figure of Lord Mortimer, with whom she had often wandered round the ruins. Her hand was ready in obeying the impulse of her heart, and she soon beheld, sketched in the most striking manner, the elegant features of him so ardently beloved. She gazed with rapture upon them, but it was a short-lived rapture. She started, as if conscious she had committed a crime, when she reflected on the situation in which he now stood 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 the moment, aided her design. “Oh! how unnecessary,” she cried, as she made this sacrifice 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 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 somewhat 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 Fitzalan,” cried he, “without one adieu. You go, and we never more shall meet.” The agonizing manner in which these words were pronounced, struck a death-like chill upon the heart of Amanda. She stopped, and turned around involuntarily, as if to receive that last, that sad adieu, which she was half reproached for avoiding. Lord Mortimer approached her, he attempted to speak, but his voice was inarticulate; 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 Mortimer; from mingling tears with his, and lamenting the cruel destiny which had disunited them forever. Lord Mortimer in a few minutes was sufficiently recovered again to approach her. “I have long wished for an 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! Fate, in granting this interview, has for once befriended me. To express my horror—my remorse—my anguish—not only for the error a combination 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 accord it will only heighten my wretchedness at our eternal separation.” 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 trembling 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 circumstances? by that being, to whom you so generously made a sacrifice 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 devoted 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.