The Children of the Abbey: A Tale

by Regina Maria Roche

The marquis and marchioness confined themselves, in the deepest anguish, to their apartments; their domestics, filled with terror and amazement, glided about like pale spectres, and all was a scene of solemnity and sadness. Every moment Lord Mortimer could spare from his father he devoted to the marquis. Lady Euphrasia had ever been an object of indifference, nay, of dislike to him; but the manner of her death, notwithstanding, shocked him to the soul: his dislike was forgotten; he thought of her only with pity and compassion, and the tears he mingled with the marquis were the tears of unfeigned sympathy and regret.

Lady Martha and Lady Araminta were equally attentive to the marchioness; the time not spent with Lord Cherbury was devoted to her. They used not unavailing arguments to conquer a grief which nature, as her rightful tribute, demands; but they soothed that grief by showing they sincerely mourned its source.

Lord Cherbury had but short intervals of reason; those intervals were employed by Lord Mortimer in trying to compose his mind; and by him in blessing his son for those endeavors, and congratulating himself on the prospect of approaching dissolution. His words unutterably affected Lord Mortimer; he had reason to believe they were dictated by a prophetic spirit; and 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 sending in their names, requested immediate permission to the marquis’s presence, upon business of importance. Their request was complied with, from an idea that they came from Freelove, to whom the marquis and marchioness, from respect and affection to the memory of their daughter, had determined to pay every attention.

The marquis knew, and was personally known to Sir Charles; he was infinitely surprised by his appearance, but how much was that surprise increased when Sir Charles, taking Oscar by the hand, presented him to the marquis as the son of Lady Fitzalan, the rightful heir of the Earl of Dunreath! The marquis was confounded; he trembled at these words; and his confusion, had such a testimony been wanting, would have been sufficient to prove his guilt. He at last, though with a faltering voice, desired to know by what means Sir Charles could justify or support his assertion.

Sir Charles, for Oscar was too much agitated 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 connected; 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 unnecessary as well as unjust to detain what he had no pretensions to; but he feared tamely acquiescing to this unexpected claim, would be to acknowledge himself a villain. ’Tis true, indeed, that his newly-felt remorse had 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 some time silent and embarrassed, till at last, recollecting his manner was probably betraying what he wished to conceal, namely, the knowledge of the will, he said, with some sternness, “That, till he inspected into the 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 partiality ascribed to him, he would not, at a period so distressing, have appeared to make such a claim. To delicacy and sensibility the privileges of grief were ever held sacred. Those privileges they had both violated. They had intruded on his sorrows; they had even insulted him by appearing on such a business before him, ere the last rites were paid to his lamented child.” Sir Charles and Oscar were inexpressibly 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 involuntary tear, as he spoke, starting into his eye, and trickling down his cheek, denoted his sincerity. The marquis’s heart smote him as he beheld this tear; it reproached him more than the keenest words could have done, and operated more in Oscar’s favor than any arguments, however eloquent. “Had this young man,” thought he, “been really illiberal when I reproached him for want 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 involuntarily 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 whatever is equitable shall be done; and that, let events turn out as they may, I shall ever feel myself your friend.” Oscar again expressed 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 restitution 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 of Oscar, he flattered himself, would enable him to accomplish. This was to declare, that by the Earl of Dunreath’s will, Mr. Fitzalan was heir to his estates, in case of the death of Lady Euphrasia; that in consequence, therefore, of this event, he had come to take possession of them; that Lady Dunreath (whose residence at Dunreath Abbey he could not now hope to conceal) was but lately returned from a convent in France, where for many years she had resided. To Oscar he intended saying, from her ill conduct he and the marchioness had been tempted to sequester her from the world, in order to save her from open shame and derision; and that her declaration of a will they had always believed the mere fabrication of her brain, in order, as he supposed, to give them uneasiness. This scheme once formed, his heart felt a little relieved of the heavy burden of fear and inquietude. He repaired to the marchioness’s apartment, and broke the affair gently to her, adding, at the same time, that, sensible as they must now be of the vanities and pursuits of human life, it was time for them to endeavor to make their peace with Heaven. Affliction had taught penitence to the marchioness, as well as her husband. She approved of his scheme, and thought, with him, that the sooner their intention of making restitution was known the greater would be the probability of its being 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 marquis to disgrace. He hastened as soon as possible to the castle, agreeably to a request contained in the letter, to assure the marquis his conduct throughout the whole affair would be regulated according to his desire.