"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 of the 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 darted through 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.