"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, which added 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 instantly rose, 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 to whom 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 moment she 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.