"My listening powers
Were awed, and every thought in silence hung
And 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 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 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 most piteous 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
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, 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 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 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. 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
tutelary care till she was joined to them by Providence.