“My listening powersWere awed, and every thought in silence hungAnd wondering expectation.”—Akenside.
“My listening powersWere awed, and every thought in silence hungAnd wondering expectation.”—Akenside.
“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 immediately occupied by the domestics. Yet what is the change in the building compared to the revolution which took place in the fortunes of her whoonce 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 step-mother 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 invidious step-mother again interfered, and prevented her experiencing 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 recompense the stings of conscience. Much rather,” continued Mrs. Duncan, laying her hands upon her children’s heads as they sat at her feet,—"much rather would I have my babes wander from door to door, to beg the dole of charity, than live upon the birthright of the orphan. If Lady Dunreath, in reality, committed the crime she was accused of, she met, in some degree, a punishment for it. Soon after the Earl’s death she betrayed a partiality for a man every way inferior to her, which partiality, people have not scrupled to say, commenced and was indulged to a criminal degree during the lifetime of her husband. She would have married him, had not her daughter the Marchioness of Roslin, interfered. Proud and ambitious, her rage at the prospect of such an alliance, knew no bounds, and, seconded by the marquis, whose disposition was congenial to her own, they got the unfortunate mother into their power, and hurried her off to a convent in France. I know not whether she is yet living; indeed, I believe there 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 absolute mistress of the few domestics that reside at 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 impression on the mind. They pretend that the Earl of Dunreath’s first wife haunts the Abbey, venting the mostpiteous moans, which they ascribe to grief for the unfortunate fate of her daughter, and that daughter’s children being deprived of their rightful patrimony. 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 expressed, and said it was nothing but the wind whistling through some adjoining galleries which I heard. But this, my dear Fanny,” said Mrs. Duncan, who on account of her children had continued the latter part of her discourse in a low voice, “is all between ourselves; for my aunt declared she would never pardon my mentioning my 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 enclosed the valley on which the Abbey stood. The scene was solemn and solitary. Every prospect, except one of the sea, seen through an aperture in one of the mountains, was excluded. Some of these mountains were bare, craggy, and projecting. Others were skirted with trees, robed with vivid green, and crowned with white and yellow furze. Some were all a wood of intermingled shades, and others covered with long and purple heath. Various streams flowed from them into the valley. Some stole gently down their sides in silver rills, giving beauty and vigor wherever they meandered. Others tumbled from fragment to fragment, with a noise not undelightful to the ear, and formed for themselves a deep bed in the valley, over which trees, that appeared coeval with the building, bent their old and leafy heads.
At the foot of what to the rest was called a gently swelling hill lay the remains of the extensive gardens which had once given the luxuries of the vegetable world to the banquets of the Abbey; but the buildings 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 wassinking 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, whilst the owls sang nightly their strains of melancholy to the moonshine that slept upon its mouldering battlements.
The heart of Amanda was full of the fond idea of her parents, and the sigh of tender remembrance stole from it. “How little room,” thought she, “should there be in the human heart for the worldly pride which so often dilates it, liable as all things are to change! the distress in which the descendants of noble families are so often seen, the decline of such families themselves, should check the arrogant presumption with which so many look forward 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 approach the seat of her ancestors without that pomp and elegance which heretofore distinguished its daughters. Alas! one now approaches it neither to display nor contemplate the pageantry of wealth, but meek and lowly; not to receive the smile of love, or the embrace of relatives, but afflicted and unknown, glad to find a shelter, and procure the bread of dependence, beneath its decaying roof.”
Mrs. Duncan happily marked not Amanda’s emotion as she gazed 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 up the great big hills they saw.
The carriage at last stopped before the Abbey. Mrs. Bruce was already at the door to receive them. She was a little, smart old woman, and welcomed her niece and the children with an appearance of the greatest pleasure. On Amanda’s being presented to her, she gazed steadfastly in her face a few minutes, and then exclaimed, “Well, this is very strange; though I know I could never have seen this young lady before, her face is quite familiar to me.”
The hall into which they entered was large and gloomy, paved with black marble, and supported by pillars, through which the arched doors that led to various apartments were seen. Rude implements, such as the Caledonians had formerly used in war and hunting, were ranged along the walls. Mrs. Bruce conducted them into a spacious parlor, terminated by an elegant saloon. This, she told them, had once been the banquetingroom. 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 entertainments 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 another, adjusting Mrs. Duncan’s things, and preparing for dinner. Mrs. Duncan was drawn into a corner of the room by her aunt, to converse, in a low voice, about family affairs, and the children were rambling about the hall, wondering and inquiring about everything they saw.
Thus left to herself, a soft languor gradually stole over the mind of Amanda, which was almost exhausted from the emotions it had experienced. The murmuring sound of waterfalls, and the buzzing of the flies that basked in the sunny rays which darted through the casements, lulled her into a kind of pensive tranquillity.
“Am I really,” she asked herself, “in the seat of my 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, and subdue, if not its affections, at least its murmurs, at the disappointment of those affections.”
The appearance of dinner interrupted her. She made exertions to overcome any appearance of dejection, and the conversation, if not lively, was at least cheerful. After dinner Mrs. Duncan, who had been informed by Amanda of her predilection for old buildings, 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 thisshould 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 gallery 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 distinguished the marchioness. She looked at the next panel, and found it empty.
“The picture of Lady Malvina Dunreath hung there,” said Mrs. Bruce; “but after her unfortunate marriage it was taken down.” “And destroyed,” exclaimed Amanda mournfully. “No; but it was thrown into the old chapel, where, with the rest of the lumber (the soul of Amanda was struck at these words), it has been locked up for years.” “And is it 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 chapel might be opened for that purpose, had she not feared exciting suspicions by doing so.
They returned from the gallery to the parlor; and in the course of conversation Amanda heard many interesting anecdotes of her ancestors from Mrs. Bruce. Her mother was also mentioned, and Mrs. Bruce, by dwelling on her worth, made amends, in some degree, to Amanda for having called her picture lumber. She retired to her chamber with her mind at once softened and elevated by hearing of her mother’s virtues. Shecalled 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 tutelary care till she was joined to them by Providence.
“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!”—Lee.
“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!”—Lee.
Experience convinced Amanda that the change in her situation 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 docile 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 sighs of regret and tenderness. Her mornings were devoted to her pupils, and in the evenings she sometimes walked with Mrs. Duncan, sometimes read aloud whilst she and her aunt were working; but whenever they were engaged in chatting about family affairs, or at a game of piquet (which was often the case), as Mrs. Bruce neither loved walking nor working, she always took that opportunity 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 of the Abbey. A fortnight passed away at the Abbey without anything happening to disturb the tranquillity which reigned in it. No one approached it, except a few of the wandering children of poverty, and its inhabitants seemed perfectly content with their seclusion from the world. Amanda, by Mrs. Duncan’s desire, had told Mrs. Dermot to direct her letters to a town about five miles from the Abbey; thither a man went every day, but constantly returned without one for her.
“Why,” she asked herself, “this anxiety for a letter, this disappointment at not receiving one, when I neither expect to hear anything interesting or 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 Roslin’s steward was below stairs, and if he knew of their residence at the Abbey, she was confident he would reveal it to his lord, which she had no doubt would occasion her own 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 advanced, 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 to me.”
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 nuptials!” 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. Duncan screamed, and flew to her assistance. Mrs. Bruce, equally frightened, though less affected, ran for restoratives, and the children clasped her knees and wept. From her pensive look and manner, Mrs. Duncan suspected, from their first acquaintance, that her heart had experienced a disappointment of the tenderest nature. Her little girls, too, had told her that they had seen Miss Donald crying over a picture. Her 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. “Oh, Mortimer! beloved of my soul!” she cried, “were you going to be united to a woman sensible of your worth, and worthy of your noble heart, in the knowledge of your happiness my misery would be lessened. But what a union of misery must minds so uncongenial as yours and Lady Euphrasia’s form! Alas! am I not wretched enough in contemplating my own prospect of unhappiness, but that yours, also, must be obtruded upon me? Yet perhaps,” she continued, “the evils that I dread on Lord Mortimer’s account may be averted. Oh, that they may!” said she, with fervor, and raising her hands and eyes. “Soften, gracious Heaven! soften the flinty nature of Lady Euphrasia. Oh, render her sensible ofthe blessing you bestow in giving her Lord Mortimer! and render her not only capable of inspiring, but of feeling tenderness. 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 knowledge of it soothe my afflicted heart!”
Her spirits were a little elevated by the fervency of her language. But it was a transient elevation. The flush it spread over her cheeks soon died away, and her tears again began to flow. “Alas!” she cried, “in a few days it will be criminal to think of Lord Mortimer as I have hitherto done; and I shall blush,” continued she, gazing at his picture, “to contemplate this dear shadow, when I reflect its original is the husband of Lady Euphrasia.”
The dinner-bell now sounded through the Abbey, and almost at the same minute she heard a tap at her door. She started, and reflected for the first time that her deep dejection would naturally excite suspicions as to its source, if longer indulged. Shocked at the idea of incurring them, she hastily wiped away her tears, and opening the door, found her friend Mrs. 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 restrain her tears, or answer the inquiries Mrs. Bruce made, after what she supposed a mere bodily indisposition. She forced herself, however, to continue in the parlor till after tea, when cards being produced, she had an opportunity of going out, and indulging her anguish without fear of 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 backwards had she not caught at some projecting wood. She hastily rose, and found that the ivy entirely concealed the breach. She examined it, however, and perceived it large enough to admit her into the chapel. A sudden pleasure pervaded her heart at the idea of being able to enter it, and examine the picture she had so long wished to behold. There was nothing to oppose her entrance but the ivy. This she parted with difficulty, but so as not to strip it from the wall, and after stepping over the fallen rubbish, she found herself in the body of the chapel. The silent hour of twilight was now advanced, but the moonbeams that dartedthrough the broken roof prevented the chapel from being involved in utter darkness. Already had the owls begun their strains of melancholy on its mouldering pillars, while the ravens croaked amongst the luxuriant trees that rustled round it. Dusty and moth-eaten banners were suspended from the walls, and rusty casques, shields, and spears were promiscuously heaped together, the useless armor of those over whose remains Amanda now trod with a light and trembling foot. She looked for the picture, and perceived one reclined against the wall near the altar. She wiped away the dust, and perceived this was indeed the one she sought, the one her father had 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 pathetic manner in which her father had mentioned his emotions 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 going towards 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 evening, immediately after tea, repaired to the chapel, leaving them engaged as usual at cards. She stood a few minutes before it, to see if any one was near; but perceiving no object she again entered it. She had now sufficient light to examine the picture; though faded by the damp, it yet retained that loveliness for which its original was so admired, and which Amanda had so often heard eloquently described by her father. She contemplated it with awe and pity. Her heart swelled with the emotions it excited, and gave way to its feelings in tears. To weep before the shade of her mother, seemed to assuage the bitterness of those feelings. She pronounced the name of her parents, she called herself their wretched orphan, a stranger, and a dependant 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 lamentations, she suddenly heard a faint noise, like an advancing footstep near her. She started up, for she had been kneeling before her mother’s picture, terrified lest her visit to the chapel had been discovered, which she knew, if the case, would mortally disoblige Mrs. Bruce, though why she should be so averse to any one’s visiting it she could not conceive. She listened in trembling anxiety a few minutes. All again was still, and she returned to the parlor, where she found the ladies as she had left them, determined, notwithstanding her late fright, to return the next evening to the chapel, and visit the apartments that were her mother’s.
“What beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade,Invites my steps?”—Pope.
“What beckoning ghost along the moonlight shade,Invites my steps?”—Pope.
The next evening Amanda’s patience was put to the test; for after tea Mrs. Duncan proposed a walk, which seemed to cut off her hopes of visiting the chapel that evening; but after strolling some time about the valley, complaisance for her aunt made Mrs. Duncan return to the parlor, where she was expected to take her usual hand at piquet. The hour was late, and the sky so gloomy, that the moon, though at its full, could scarcely penetrate the darkness; notwithstanding all this, Amanda resolved on going to the chapel, considering this, in all probability, the only opportunity she would have of visiting the apartments her mother had occupied (which she had an irrepressible desire to enter), as in two days she was to accompany Mrs. Duncan to lodgings in the neighboring town; she accordingly said she had a mind to walk a little longer. Mrs. Bruce bade her beware of catching cold, and Mrs. Duncan said she was too fond of solitary rambles; but no opposition being made to her intention, she hurried to the chapel, and, entering the little arched door, found herself in a lofty hall, in the centre of which was a grand staircase, the whole enlightened by a large gothic window at the head of the stairs. She ascended them with trepidation, for her footsteps produced a hollow echo, whichadded something awful to the gloom that enveloped her. On gaining the top of the stairs she saw two large folding doors on either side, both closed. She knew the direction to take, and, by a small exertion of strength, pulled the one on the left side open, and perceived a long gallery, which she knew was terminated by 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 gratifying her inclination after going so far, she advanced into the gallery, though with a trembling step, and as she let the door out of her hand, it shut to with a violence that shook the whole building. The gallery on one side had a row of arched doors, and on the other an equal number of windows; but so small, and placed so high, as scarcely to admit a ray of light. Amanda’s heart began to beat with unusual quickness, and she thought she should never reach the end of the gallery. She at last came to a door, it was closed, not fastened; she pushed it gently open, and could just discern a spacious room. This, she supposed, had been her mother’s dressing-room. The moonbeams, as if to aid her wish of examining it, suddenly darted through the casements. Cheered by the unexpected light, she advanced into the room: at the upper end of it something in white attracted her notice. She concluded it to be the portrait of Lady Malvina’s mother, which she had been informed hung in this room. She went up to examine it; but her horror may be better conceived than described, when she found herself not by a picture, but by the real form of a woman, with a death-like countenance! She screamed wildly at the terrifying spectre, for such she believed it to be, and quick as lightning flew from the room. Again was the moon obscured by a cloud, and she involved in utter darkness. She ran with such violence, that, as she reached the door at the end of the gallery, she fell against it. Extremely hurt, she had not power to move for a few minutes; but while she involuntarily paused, she heard approaching footsteps. Wild with terror, she instantly recovered her faculties, and attempted opening it; but it resisted all her efforts. “Protect me, Heaven!” she exclaimed, and at the moment felt an icy hand upon hers! 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 instantlyrose, and descended the staircase with as much haste as her trembling limbs could make; but again, what was her horror when, on entering the chapel, the first object she beheld was the same that had already alarmed her so much! She made a spring to escape through the entrance, but the apparition, with a rapidity equal to her own, glided before her, and with a hollow voice, as she waved an emaciated hand, exclaimed, “Forbear to go.”
A deadly faintness again came over Amanda; she sunk upon a broken seat, and put her hand over her eyes to shut out the frightful vision.
“Lose,” continued the figure, in a hollow voice, “lose your superstitious fears, and in me behold not an airy inhabitant of the other world, but a sinful, sorrowing, and repentant woman.”
The terrors of Amanda gave way to this unexpected address; but her surprise was equal to what these terrors had been; she withdrew her hand, and gazed attentively on the form before her.
“If my eye, if my ear deceives me not,” it continued, “you are a descendant of the Dunreath family. I heard you last night, when you imagined no being near, call yourself the 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 dependant in the house of your ancestors.” “I am both,” said Amanda; “my real name is concealed, from circumstances peculiarly distressing, and I have been brought to the Abbey as an instructress to two children related to the person who takes care of it.” “My prayers at length,” exclaimed the ghastly figure, raising her hollow eyes and emaciated hands,—"my prayers have reached the Throne of Mercy, and, as a proof that my repentance is accepted, power is given me to make reparation for the injuries I have committed. Oh! thou,” she cried, turning to Amanda, “whose form revives in my remembrance 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?” “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 mean time, do you throw upon paper a brief account of your life, that I may know the incidents which so providentially brought you to the Abbey.” Amanda promised to obey her in every respect, and the unfortunate woman, unable longer to speak, kissed her hand, and retired through the little arched door. Amanda left the chapel, and, full of wonder, pity, and expectation, moved mechanically to the parlor. Mrs. Bruce and Mrs. Duncan had just risen from cards, and both were instantly struck with her pallid and disordered looks. They inquired if she was ill. Their inquiries roused her from a deep reverie. She recollected the danger of exciting suspicions, and replied, “she was only fatigued with walking, and begged leave to retire to her chamber.” Mrs. Duncan attended her to it, and would have sat with her till she saw her in bed, had Amanda allowed; but it was not her intention, indeed, to go to bed for some time. When left to herself, the surprising and interesting discovery she had made had so agitated her that she could scarcely compose herself enough to take up a pen to narrate the particulars of her life, as Lady Dunreath had requested. She sketched them in a brief yet hasty manner, sufficiently strong, however, to interest the feelings of a sympathetic heart; the tender and peculiar sorrows of her own she omitted; her life was represented sufficiently calamitous, without mentioning the incurable sorrow which disappointed love had entailed upon it. She was glad she had executed her task with haste, as Mrs. Duncan called upon her in the course of the next day to assist in packing for their removal to the neighboring town.The evening was far advanced ere she had an opportunity of repairing to the chapel, where she found the unfortunate Lady Dunreath resting in an attitude of deep despondence, against the rails of the altar.
Her pale and woe-worn countenance—her emaciated form—her solitary situation—all inspired Amanda with the tenderest compassion, and she dropped a tear upon the cold and withered hand which was extended to hers, as she approached. “I merit not the tear of pity,” said the unhappy woman, “yet it casts a gleam of comfort on my heart to meet with a being who feels for its sorrows. But the moments are precious.” She then led Amanda to the altar, and, stooping down, desired her assistance in removing a small marble flag beneath it. This being effected, with difficulty, Amanda perceived an iron box, which she also assisted in raising. Lady Dunreath then took a key from her bosom, with which she opened it, and took from thence a sealed paper. “Receive,” said she, presenting it to Amanda, “receive the will of your grandfather, a sacred deposit, intrusted to your care for your brother, the rightful heir of the Earl of Dunreath. Oh! may its restoration, and my sincere repentance, atone for its long detention and concealment. Oh! may the fortune it will bestow upon you, as well as your brother, be productive to both of the purest happiness.” Trembling with joyful surprise, Amanda received the paper. “Gracious Heaven!” exclaimed she, “is it possible? Do I really hold the will of my grandfather—a will which will entitle my brother to affluence? Oh! Providence, how mysterious are thy ways! Oh! Oscar, beloved of my heart,” she continued, forgetting at that moment every consideration of self, “could thy sister have possibly foreseen her sorrows would have led to such a discovery, half their bitterness would have been allayed. Yes, my father, one of thy children may at least be happy, and in witnessing that happiness the other will find a mitigation of misery.” Tears burst from her as she spoke, and relieved the strong emotions that swelled her heart, almost to bursting.
“Oh! talk not of your misery,” said Lady Dunreath, with a convulsive sigh, “lest you drive me to despair. Forever must I accuse myself of being the real source of calamity to Lady Malvina and her children.” “Excuse me,” cried Amanda, wiping her eyes, “I should be ungrateful to Heaven and to you if I dwelt upon my sorrows; but let me not neglect this opportunity,” she continued, “of inquiring if there is any way in which I can possibly serve you. Is there no friend towhom 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 world, it is only with contempt and abhorrence. The laws of my country would certainly liberate me at once; but if things turn out as I expect, there will be no occasion for an application to them, and any step of that kind at present might be attended with the most unpleasant consequences. Your future prosperity, my present safety, all depend on secrecy for a short period. In this paper (drawing one from her pocket and presenting it to Amanda) I have explained my reason for desiring such secrecy.” Amanda put it with the will into her bosom, and gave in return the little narrative she had sketched. They both assisted in replacing the box and flag, and then seated themselves on the steps of the altar. Amanda informed Lady Dunreath of her intended departure the next day from the Abbey, and the occasion of it. Lady Dunreath expressed the utmost impatience to have everything put in a proper train for the avowal of the will, declaring that the sight of the rightful heir in possession of the Abbey would calm the agitations of a spirit which, she believed, would soon forsake its earthly habitation. Tears of compassion fell from Amanda at these words, and she shuddered to think that the unfortunate woman might die abandoned, and bereft of 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 melancholy, they forgot the danger of delay till the Abbey clock chimed half an hour past ten—which was later than Mrs. Bruce’s usual hour of supper—startled and alarmed them both. "Go! go!” 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 danger, as the night was too dark to permit any object to be discerned; but the breeze sighing amongst the trees of the valley, and the melancholy murmur of waterfalls, were the only sounds she heard. She groped along the walls of the chapel to keep in the path, which wound from it to the entrance of the Abbey, and in doing so passed her hand over the cold face of a human being. Terrified, an involuntary scream burst from her, and she faintly articulated: “Defend me, Heaven!” In the next momentshe 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 in quest of her.”
Mrs. Duncan’s voice relieved Amanda from the horror of thinking she had met with a person who would insult her; but it had given rise to a new alarm. She feared she had been traced to the chapel, that her discourse with Lady Dunreath had been overheard, and of course the secret of the will 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 interesting events of the evening, that she soon forgot the purpose for which she sat down to table, and neither heeded what was doing or saying. From this reverie she was suddenly roused by the sound of a name forever dear and precious, which in a moment had power to recall her wandering ideas. She raised her eyes, and with a sad intenseness fixed them on Mrs. Bruce, who continued to talk of the approaching nuptials of Lord Mortimer. Tears now fell from Amanda in spite of her efforts to restrain them, and while drooping her head to wipe them away, she caught the eyes of Mrs. Duncan fastened on her with an expression of mingled pity and curiosity. A deep crimson suffused the face of Amanda, at the 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 happiness 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 moment in 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 so carefully deposited there, and sat down to peruse the narrative of Lady Dunreath.
“For true repentance never comes too late;As soon as born she makes herself a shroud,The weeping mantle of a fleecy cloud,And swift as thought her airy journey takes,Her hand Heaven’s azure gate with trembling strikes.The stars do with amazement on her look:She tells her story in so sad a tone,That angels start from bliss, and give a groan.”—Lee.
“For true repentance never comes too late;As soon as born she makes herself a shroud,The weeping mantle of a fleecy cloud,And swift as thought her airy journey takes,Her hand Heaven’s azure gate with trembling strikes.The stars do with amazement on her look:She tells her story in so sad a tone,That angels start from bliss, and give a groan.”—Lee.
Adoring the Power who has given me means of making restitution for my injustice, I take up my pen to disclose to your view, oh! 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 my desire of doing so.
Ah! sweet Malvina! from thy soft voice I was doomed never to hear my pardon pronounced; but from thy child I may, perhaps, have it accorded; if so, from that blissful abode where thou now enjoyest felicity, if the departed souls of the happy are allowed to view the transactions of this world, thine, I am convinced, will behold, with benignancy and compassion, the wretch who covers herself with shame to atone for her 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 father’s favor, and place her in that state of poverty which would 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 soon perceived it gradually subsiding. The irrevocableness of the deed, the knowledge that he wanted no acquisition of fortune, above all, Fitzalan’s noble descent, and the graces and virtues he possessed, worthy of the highest station, dwelt upon the earl’s imagination, and pleaded strongly in extenuation of his daughter. Alarmed lest my schemes against her should be rendered abortive, like an evil spirit, I contrived to rekindle, by means of my agents, the earl’s resentment. They represented the flagrant, the daring contempt Lady Malvina had shown to paternal authority, and that too easy a forgiveness of it might influence her sister to similar conduct with a person perhaps less worthy, and more needy, if possible, than Fitzalan. This last suggestion had the desired effect, and Lady Malvina he declared in future should be considered as an alien to his family.
I now hoped my ambitious views, relative to my daughter, would be accomplished. I had long wished her united to the Marquis of Roslin; but he had for years been Lady Malvina’s admirer, and was so much attached to her, that on her marriage he went abroad. My arts were then tried to prevail on the earl to make a will in Lady Augusta’s favor; but 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 settlement of any of his estates upon her. I, however, still hoped, and the marquis, from what I said, believed that she would possess all his fortune. My daughter’s nuptials added to my natural haughtiness. They also increased my love of pleasure, by affording me more amply the means of gratifying it at the sumptuous entertainments at the marquis’s castle. Engaged continually in them, the earl, whose infirmities confined him to the Abbey, was left to solitude and the care of his domestics. My neglect, you will say, was impolitic whilst I had any point to carry with him; but Providence has so wisely ordained it that vice should still defeat itself. Had I always acted in uniformity with the tenderness I once showed the earl, I have little doubt but what at last I should have prevailed on him to act as I pleased; but, infatuated by pleasure, my prudence, no—it deserves not such an appellation—forsook me. Though the earl’s body was a prey to the infirmities of age, his mind knew none of its imbecilities, and he sensibly felt and secretly resented my neglect. The more he reflected on it, the more he contrasted it with the attention he was accustomed to receive from his banished Malvina, and the resentment I had hitherto kept alive in his mind against her gradually subsided, so that he was well prepared to give a favorable reception to the little innocent advocate she sent to plead her cause. My terror, my dismay, when I surprised the little Oscar at the knee of his grandfather, are not to be described. The tears which the agitated parent shed upon the infant’s lovely cheek seemed to express affection for its mother, and regret for his rigor to her. Yet amidst those tears I thought I perceived an exulting joy as he gazed upon the child, which seemed to say, “Thou wilt yet be the pride, the prop, the ornament, of my ancient house.” After circumstances proved I was right in my interpretation of his looks. I drove the little Oscar from the room with frantic rage. The earl was extremely affected. He knew the 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 herpaternal 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 conduct. 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.