"The modest virtues mingled in her eyes,
Still on the ground dejected, darting all
Their humid beams into the opening flowers.
Or when she thought--
Of what her faithless fortune promised once,
They, like the dewy star
Of evening, shone in tears."--THOMSON.
Adela, on the death of her father, was taken by Belgrave to England,
though the only pleasure he experienced in removing her was derived from
the idea of wounding her feelings, by separating her from Mrs. Marlowe,
whom he knew she was tenderly attached to. From his connections in
London, she was compelled to mix in society--compelled, I say, for the
natural gayety of her soul was quite gone, and that solitude, which
permitted her to brood over the remembrance of past days, was the only
happiness she was capable of enjoying. When the terrors of Belgrave
drove him from the kingdom, he had her removed to Woodhouse, to which,
it may be remembered, he had once brought Amanda, and from which the
imperious woman who then ruled was removed; but the principal domestic
was equally harsh and insolent in her manner, and to her care the
unfortunate Adela was consigned, with strict orders that she should not
be allowed to receive any company, or correspond with any being.
Accustomed from her earliest youth to the greatest tenderness, this
severity plunged her in the deepest despondency, and life was a burden
she would gladly have resigned. Her melancholy, or rather her patient
sweetness, at least softened the flinty nature of her governante, and
she was permitted to extend her walks beyond the gardens, to which they
had hitherto been confined; but she availed herself of this permission
only to visit the church-yard belonging to the hamlet, whose old
yew-trees she had often seen waving from the windows. Beneath their
solemn gloom she loved to sit, while evening closed around her; and in a
spot sequestered from every human eye, weep over the recollection of
that father she had lost, that friend she was separated from. She
remained in the church-yard one night beyond her usual hour. The soft
beams of the moon alone prevented her from being involved in darkness,
and the plaintive breathings of a flute from the hamlet just stole upon
her ear. Lost in sadness, her head resting upon her hand, she forgot the
progress of time, when suddenly she beheld a form rising from a
neighboring grave. She started up, screamed, but had no power to move.
The form advanced to her. It was the figure of a venerable man, who
gently exclaimed, "Be not afraid!" His voice dissipated the involuntary
fears of Adela: but still she trembled so much she could not move. "I
thought," cried he, gazing on her, "this place had been alone the haunt
of wretchedness and me." "If sacred to sorrow," exclaimed Adela, "I well
may claim the privilege of entering it." She spoke involuntarily, and
her words seemed to affect the stranger deeply. "So young," said he; "it
is melancholy, indeed; but still the sorrows of youth are more bearable
than those of age, because, like age it has not outlived the fond ties,
the sweet connections of life." "Alas!" cried Adela unable to repress
her feelings, "I am separated from all I regarded." The stranger leaned
pensively against a tree for a few minutes, and then again addressed
her: "'Tis a late hour," said he; "suffer me to conduct you home, and
also permit me to ask if I may see you here to-morrow night? Your youth,
your manner, your dejection, all interest me deeply. The sorrows of
youth are often increased by imagination. You will say that nothing can
exceed its pains; 'tis true, but it is a weakness to yield to them--a
weakness which, from a sensible mind, will be eradicated the moment it
hears of the real calamities of life. Such a relation I can give you if
you meet me to-morrow night in this sad, this solitary spot--a spot I
have visited every closing evening, without ever before meeting a being
in it."
His venerable looks, his gentle, his pathetic manner, affected Adela
inexpressibly. She gazed on him with emotions somewhat similar to those
with which she used to contemplate the mild features of her father. "I
will meet you," cried she, "but my sorrows are not imaginary." She
refused to let him attend her home; and in this incident there was
something affecting and romantic, which soothed and engrossed the mind.
She was punctual the next evening to the appointed hour. The stranger
was already in the church-yard. He seated her at the head of the grave
from which she had seen him rise the preceeding night, and which was
only distinguished from the others by a few flowering shrubs planted
round it, and began his promised narrative. He had not proceeded far ere
Adela began to tremble with emotion--as he continued it increased. At
last, suddenly catching his hand with wildness, she exclaimed, "She
lives--the wife so bitterly lamented still lives, a solitary mourner for
your sake. Oh, never! never did she injure you as you suppose. Oh, dear,
inestimable Mrs. Marlowe, what happiness to the child of your care, to
think that through her means you will regain the being you have so
tenderly regretted--regain him with a heart open to receive you." The
deep convulsive sobs of her companion now pierced her ear. For many
minutes he was unable to speak--at last, raising his eyes, "Oh,
Providence! I thank Thee," he exclaimed; "again shall my arms fold to my
heart its best beloved object. Oh, my Fanny, how have I injured thee!
Learn from me," he continued, turning to Adela, "oh! learn from me never
to yield to rashness. Had I allowed myself time to inquire into the
particulars of my wife's conduct; had I resisted, instead of obeying,
the violence of passion, what years of lingering misery should I have
saved us both! But tell me where I shall find my solitary mourner, as
you call her?" Adela gave him the desired information, and also told him
her own situation. "The wife of Belgrave!" he repeated; "then I wonder
not," continued he, as if involuntarily, "at your sorrows." It was,
indeed, to Howel, the unfortunate father of Juliana, the regretted
husband of Mrs. Marlowe, that Adela had been addressing herself. He
checked himself, however, and told her that the being, by whose grave
they sat, had been hurried, through the villany of Belgrave, to that
grave. Adela told him of the prohibition against her writing; but at the
same time assured him, ere the following night, she would find an
opportunity of writing a letter, which he should bring to Mrs. Marlowe,
who by its contents would be prepared for his appearance, as it was to
be sent in to her. But Adela was prevented from putting her intention
into execution by an event as solemn as unexpected.
The ensuing morning she was disturbed from her sleep by a violent noise
in the house, as of people running backwards and forwards in confusion
and distress. She was hurrying on her clothes to go and inquire into the
occasion of it, when a servant rushed into the room, and in a hasty
manner told her that Colonel Belgrave was dead. Struck with horror and
amazement, Adela stood petrified, gazing on her. The maid repeated her
words, and added that he had died abroad, and his remains were brought
over to Woodhouse for interment, attended by a French gentleman, who
looked like a priest. The various emotions which assailed the heart of
Adela at this moment were too much for her weak frame, and she would
have fallen to the floor but for the maid. It was some time ere she
recovered her sensibility, and when she did regain it, she was still so
agitated as to be unable to give those directions, which the domestics,
who now looked up to her in a light very different from they had
hitherto done, demanded from her. All she could desire was that the
steward should pay every respect and attention to the gentleman who had
attended the remains of his master, and have every honor that was due
shown to those remains. To suppose she regretted Belgrave would be
unnatural; but she felt horror, mingled with a degree of pity, for his
untimely fate at the idea of his dying abroad, without one connection,
one friend near him. His last moments were indeed more wretched than she
could conceive. Overwhelmed with terror and grief, he had quitted
England--terror at the supposition of a crime which in reality he had
not committed, and grief for the fate of Amanda. He sought to lose his
horrors in inebriety; but this, joined to the agitations of his mind,
brought on a violent fever by the time he had landed at Calais, in the
paroxysms of which, had the attendants understood his language, they
would have been shocked at the crimes he revealed. His senses were
restored a short time before he died: but what excruciating anguish, as
well as horror, did he suffer from their restoration! He knew from his
own feelings, as well as from the looks of his attendants, that his last
moments were approaching: and the recollection of past actions made him
shudder at those moments. Oh, Howel! now were you amply avenged for all
the pangs he made you suffer. Now did the pale image of your shrouded
Juliana seem to stand beside his bed reproaching his barbarity. Every
treacherous action now rose to view, and, trembling, he groaned with
terror at the spectres which a guilty conscience raised around him.
Death would have been a release, could he have considered it an
annihilation of all existence; but that future world he had always
derided, that world was opening in all its awful horrors to his view.
Already he saw himself before its sacred Judge, surrounded by the
accusing spirits of those he had injured. He desired a clergyman to be
brought to him. A priest was sent for. Their faiths were different, but
still, as a man of God, Belgrave applied to him for an alleviation of
his tortures. The priest was superstitious, and ere he tried to comfort
he wished to convert; but scarcely had he commenced the attempt ere the
wretched being before him clasped his hands together, in a strong
convulsion, and expired. The English servant who attended Belgrave
informed the people of the hotel of his rank and fortune, and the priest
offered to accompany his remains to England. He was, by the direction of
Adela, who had not resolution to see him, amply rewarded for his
attention: and in two days after their arrival at Woodhouse, the remains
of Belgrave were consigned to their kindred earth. From a sequestered
corner of the church-yard Howel witnessed his interment. When all had
departed, he approached the grave of his daughter--"He is gone!" he
exclaimed; "my Juliana, your betrayer is gone; at the tribunal of his
God he now answers for his cruelty to you. But, oh! may he find mercy
from that God; may He pardon him, as in this solemn moment I have
done--my enmity lives not beyond the grave."
Adela now sent for Howel; and, after their first emotions had subsided,
informed him she meant immediately to return to Ireland. The expectation
of her doing so had alone prevented his going before. They accordingly
commenced their journey the ensuing day, and in less than a week reached
the dear and destined spot so interesting to both. They had previously
settled on the manner in which the discovery should be revealed to Mrs.
Marlowe, and Adela went alone into her cottage. Sad and solitary, as
Mrs. Marlowe said in her letter to Oscar, did Adela find her in her
parlor; but it was a sadness which vanished the moment she beheld her.
With all the tenderness of a mother she clasped Adela to her breast,
and, in the sudden transports of joy and surprise, for many minutes did
not notice her dress; but when she did observe it, what powerful
emotions did it excite in her breast! Adela, scarcely less agitated than
she was, could not for many minutes relate all that had happened. At
last the idea of the state in which she had left Howel made her endeavor
to compose herself. Mrs. Marlowe wept while she related her sufferings;
but when she mentioned Howel, surprise suspended her tears--a surprise,
increased when she began the story; but when she came to that part where
she herself had betrayed such emotion while listening to Howel, Mrs.
Marlowe started and turned pale. "Your feelings are similar to mine,"
said Adela; "at this period I became agitated. Yes," she continued, "it
was at this period I laid my trembling hand on his, and exclaimed, she
lives!" "Merciful Heaven!" cried Mrs. Marlowe, "what do you mean?" "Oh,
let me now," cried Adela, clasping her arms round her, "repeat to you
the same expression. He lives! that husband, so beloved and regretted,
lives!" "Oh, bring him to me!" said Mrs. Marlowe, in a faint voice; "let
me behold him while I have reason myself to enjoy the blessing." Adela
flew from the room. Howel was near the door. He approached, he entered
the room, he tottered forward, and in one moment was at the feet and in
the arms of his wife, who, transfixed to the chair, could only open her
arms to receive him. The mingled pain and pleasure of such a reunion,
cannot be described. Both, with tears of grateful transport, blessed the
Power which had given such comfort to their closing days. "But, my
children," exclaimed Mrs. Marlowe, suddenly, "ah! when shall I behold my
children? Why did not they accompany you? Ah! did they deem me then
unworthy of bestowing a mother's blessing?" Howel trembled and turned
pale. "I see," said Mrs. Marlowe, interpreting his emotion, "I am a
wife, but not a mother." Howel, recovering his fortitude, took her hand
and pressed it to his bosom. "Yes," he replied, "you are a mother; one
dear, one amiable child remains, Heaven be praised!" He paused, and a
tear fell to the memory of Juliana. "But Heaven," he resumed, "has taken
the other to its eternal rest. Inquire not concerning her at present, I
entreat; soon will I conduct you to the grave; there will I relate her
fate, and together will we mourn it. Then shall the tears that never yet
bedewed her grave, the precious tears of a mother, embalm her sacred
dust." Mrs. Marlowe wept, but she complied with her husband's request.
She inquired, in a broken voice, about her son, and the knowledge of his
happiness gradually cheered her mind.
Adela consented to stay that night in the cottage; but the next day she
determined on going to Woodlawn. To think she should again wander
through it, again linger in the walks she had trodden with those she
loved, gave to her mind a melancholy pleasure. The next morning,
attended by her friend, she repaired to it, and was inexpressibly
affected by reviewing scenes endeared by the tender remembrance of
happier hours. The house, from its closed windows, appeared quite
neglected and melancholy, as if pleasure had forsaken it with the poor
departed general. Standard, his favorite horse, grazed in the lawn; and
beside him, as if a secret sympathy endeared them to each other, stood
the dog that had always attended the general in his walks. It instantly
recollected Adela, and running to her licked her hand, and evinced the
utmost joy. She patted him on the head, while her tears burst forth at
the idea of him who had been his master. The transports of the old
domestics, particularly of the gray-headed butler, at her unexpected
return, increased her tears. But when she entered the parlor, in which
her father usually sat, she was quite overcome, and motioning with her
hand for her friends not to mind her, she retired to the garden. There
was a little romantic root-house at the termination of it, where she and
Oscar had passed many happy hours together. Thither she repaired, and
his idea, thus revived in her mind, did not lessen its dejection. While
she sat within it indulging her sorrow, her eye caught some lines
inscribed on one of its windows. She hastily arose, and examining them,
instantly recollected the hand of Oscar. They were as follows:--
"Adieu, sweet girl, a last adieu!
We part to meet no more;
Adieu to peace, to hope, to you,
And to my native shore.
"If fortune had propitious smiled,
My love had made me blest;
But she, like me, is Sorrow's child,
By sadness dire opprest.
"I go to India's sultry clime,
Oh! never to return;
Beneath some lone embowering lime
Will be thy soldier's urn.
"No kindred spirit there shall weep,
Or, pensive musing stray;
My image thou alone wilt keep,
And Grief's soft tribute pay."
Oscar, previous to his going to England, with the expectation of being
sent to the West Indies, had paid a secret visit to, Woodlawn, to review
and bid adieu to every well-known and beloved spot, and had, one morning
at early day, inscribed these lines on a window in the root-house,
prompted by a tender melancholy he could not resist.
"His love is then unfortunate," said Adela, pensively, leaning her head
upon her hand. "Oh, Oscar! how sad a similtude is there between your
fate and mine!" She returned to the house. Mr. and Mrs. Howel (for so we
shall in future call Mr. and Mrs. Marlowe, that name being only assumed
while her husband had a prospect of inheriting his uncle's fortune) had
consented to stay some time with her. Oscar's lines ran in her head the
whole day; and in the evening she again stole out to read them.
She had been absent some time, when Mrs. Howel came out to her. Adela
blushed and started at being caught at the window. "'Tis a long time, my
dear Adela," said Mrs. Howel, "since we had a ramble in this delightful
garden together. Indulge me in taking one, and let us talk of past
times." "Past times," cried Adela, with a faint smile, "are not always
the pleasantest to talk about." "There are some, at least one friend,"
cried Mrs. Howel, "whom you have not yet inquired after." Adela's heart
suddenly palpitated; she guessed who that one friend was. "Oscar
Fitzalan, surely," continued Mrs. Howel, "merits an inquiry. I have good
news to tell you of him; therefore, without chiding you for any seeming
neglect, I will reveal it." She accordingly related his late reverse of
situation. Adela heard her with deep attention. "Since fortune, then, is
propitious at last," cried she, "his love will no longer be
unfortunate." "'Tis time, indeed," said Mrs. Howel, looking at her with
pleasure, "that love, so pure, so constant as his, should be rewarded.
Oh! Adela," she continued, suddenly taking her hand, "sweet daughter of
my care, how great is my happiness at this moment, to think of that
about to be your portion." "My happiness!" exclaimed Adela in a dejected
voice. "Yes," replied Mrs. Howel, "in your union with a man every way
worthy of possessing you; a man who, from the first moment he beheld
you, has never ceased to love--in short, with Oscar Fitzalan himself."
"Impossible!" cried Adela, trembling with emotion as she spoke. "Did
not--how humiliating is the remembrance--did not Oscar Fitzalan reject
me, when the too generous and romantic spirit of my beloved father
offered my hand to his acceptance?" "For once," said Mrs. Howel, "I must
disturb the sacred ashes of the dead to prevent the innocent from being
unhappy. Oh! Adela, you were cruelly deceived: and the moment which gave
you to Belgrave, rendered Oscar the most wretched of mankind. My heart
was the repository of all his griefs, and how many are the bitter tears
I have shed over them! Be composed," continued she, seeing Adela's
agitation, "and a few moments will explain everything to you." She then
led her back to the root-house, and in a most explicit manner informed
her of Belgrave's treachery. Adela burst into tears as she concluded.
She wept on Mrs. Howel's bosom, and acknowledged she had removed a
weight of uneasiness from her mind. "Poor Oscar!" she continued, "how
much would the knowledge of his misery have aggravated mine!" "He acted
nobly," said Mrs. Howel, "in concealing it; and amply will he be
rewarded for such conduct." She then proceeded to inform Adela that she
soon expected a visit from him. There was something in her look and
manner which instantly excited the suspicion of Adela, who, blushing,
starting, trembling, exclaimed--"He is already come!" Mrs. Howel smiled,
and a tear fell from her upon the soft hand of Adela. "He is already
come," she repeated, "and he waits, oh! how impatiently, to behold his
Adela."
We may believe his patience was not put to a much longer test. But when
Adela in reality beheld him as she entered the parlor where she had left
Mr. Howel, and where he waited for the reappearance of her friend, she
sunk beneath her emotion, upon that faithful bosom which had so long
suffered the most excruciating pangs on her account; and it was many
minutes ere she was sensible of the soft voice of Oscar. Oh! who shall
paint his transports, after all his sufferings, to be thus rewarded! But
in the midst of his happiness, the idea of the poor general, who had so
generously planned it, struck upon his heart with a pang of sorrow. "Oh,
my Adela!" he cried, clasping her to his heart, as if doubly endeared by
the remembrance, "is Oscar at last permitted to pour forth the fulness
of his soul before you, to reveal its tenderness, to indulge the hope of
calling you his--a hope which affords the delightful prospect of being
able to contribute to your felicity?" "Yes, most generous of friends!"
he exclaimed, raising his eyes to a picture of the general, "I will
endeavor to evince my gratitude to you by my conduct to your child." Oh!
how did the tear he shed to the memory of her father interest the heart
of Adela! her own fell with it, and she felt that the presence of that
being to whom they were consecrated was alone wanting to complete their
happiness. It was long ere she was sufficiently composed to inquire the
reason of Oscar's sudden appearance, and still longer ere he could
inform her. Mrs. Marlowe's melancholy letter, he at last said, had
brought him over, with the hope of being able to cheer her solitude, and
also, he acknowledged, his own dejection, by mutual sympathy; from her
cottage he had been directed to Woodlawn, and at Woodlawn received
particulars, not only of her happiness, but his own. Adela, who had
never yet deviated from propriety, would not now infringe it, and
resolutely determined, till the expiration of her mourning, not to
bestow her hand on Oscar; but permitted him to hope, that in the
intervening space, most of his time might be devoted to her. It was
necessary, however, to sanction that hope by having proper society. She
could not flatter herself with much longer retaining Mr. and Mrs. Howel,
as the latter particularly was impatient to behold her son. Oscar
therefore requested, and obtained permission from Adela, to write in her
name to Lord and Lady Cherbury, and entreat their company at Woodlawn,
promising she would then accompany them to Castle Carberry, and from
thence to Dunreath Abbey, a tour which, previous to Oscar's leaving
Wales, had been agreed on. The invitation was accepted, and in a few
days Oscar beheld the two beings most valued by him in the world
introduced to each other. Tears of rapture started to his eyes, as he
saw his Adela folded to the bosom of his lovely sister, who called her
the sweet restorer of her brother's happiness! Lord Cherbury was already
acquainted with her, and, next to his Amanda, considered her the
loveliest of human beings; and Lady Martha and Lady Araminta, who were
also invited to Woodlawn, regarded her in the same light. A few days
after their arrival Mrs. Howel prepared for her departure. Adela, who
considered her as a second mother, could not behold those preparations
without tears of real regret. "Oh, my Adela!" she exclaimed, "these
tears flatter, yet distress me. I am pleased to think the child of my
care regards me with such affection, but I am hurt to think she should
consider my loss such an affliction. Oh, my child! may the endearments
of the friends who surround you steal from you all painful remembrances!
nature calls me from you; I sigh to behold my child; I sigh," she
continued, with eyes suffused in tears, "to behold the precious earth
which holds another."
About three weeks after her departure the whole party proceeded to
Castle Carberry. Amanda could not re-enter it without emotions of the
most painful nature. She recollected the moment in which she had quitted
it, oppressed with sorrow and sickness, and to attend the closing period
of a father's life. She wept, sighed to think, that the happiness he had
prayed for he could not behold. Lord Cherbury saw her emotions, and
soothed them with the softest tenderness; it was due to that tenderness
to conquer her dejection, and in future the remembrance of her father
was only attended with a pleasing melancholy. She did not delay visiting
the convent. The good natured nuns crowded around her, and cried,
laughed, and wished her joy, almost in the same moment; particularly
Sister Mary. The prioress's pleasure was of a less violent, but more
affecting nature. An almost constant scene of gayety was kept up at the
Castle, a gayety, however, which did not prevent Lord and Lady Cherbury
from inspecting into the situation of their poor tenants, whose wants
they relieved, whose grievances they redressed, and whose hearts they
cheered, by a promise of spending some months in every year at the
Castle. After continuing at it six weeks, they crossed over to
Port-Patrick, and from thence proceeded to Dunreath Abbey, which had
been completely repaired, and furnished in a style equally modern and
elegant; and here it was determined they should remain till the
solemnization of Lord Dunreath's nuptials. The time which intervened
till the period appointed for them was agreeably diversified by parties
amongst the neighboring families, and excursions about the country; but
no hours were happier than those which the inhabitants of the Abbey
passed when free from company, so truly were they united to each other
by affection. Lord Dunreath, soon after his return, waited upon the
Marquis of Roslin, and, by his sister's desire, signified to him that if
a visit from her would be agreeable to the marquis she would pay it.
This, however, was declined; and about the same period Lady Dunreath
died. Mrs. Bruce, whom from long habit she was attached to, then retired
to another part of Scotland, ashamed to remain where her conduct was
known--a conduct which deeply affected her niece, whom Amanda visited
immediately after her arrival, and found settled in a neat house near
the town she had lodged in. She received Lady Cherbury with every
demonstration of real pleasure, and both she and her little girls spent
some time with her at the Abbey.
The happy period for completing the felicity of Oscar at last arrived.
In the chapel where his parents were united, he received from the hand
of Lord Cherbury the lovely object of his long-tried affections. The
ceremony was only witnessed by his own particular friends; but at dinner
all the neighboring families were assembled, and the tenants were
entertained in the great hall, where dancing commenced at an early and
was continued till a late hour.
And now having (to use the words of Adam) brought our story to the sum
of earthly bliss, we shall conclude, first giving a brief account of the
characters connected with it.
Lady Greystock, as one of the most distinguished, we shall first
mention. After the death of Lady Euphrasia, she found her company no
longer desired at the marquis's, and accordingly repaired to Bath. Here
she had not been long ere she became acquainted with a set of female
Puritans, who soon wrought a total change (I will not say a reformation)
in her ladyship's sentiments; and to give a convincing proof of this
change, she was prevailed on to give her hand to one of their spruce
young preachers, who shortly taught her, what indeed she had long wanted
to learn, the doctrine of repentance; for most sincerely did she repent
putting herself into his power. Vexation, disappointment, and grief,
brought on a lingering illness, from which she never recovered. When
convinced she was dying, she sent for Rushbrook, and made a full
confession of her treachery and injustice to him, in consequence of
which he took immediate possession of his uncle's fortune; and thus, in
the evening of his life, enjoyed a full recompense for the trials of its
early period. Lady Greystock died with some degree of satisfaction at
the idea of disappointing her husband of the fortune she was convinced
he had married her for.
Mrs. Howel, after visiting her son, retired to her husband's cottage,
where their days glide on in a kind of pleasing melancholy. The
happiness of that son, and his Emily, is as perfect as happiness can be
in this sublunary state.
Sir Charles Bingley, after studiously avoiding Lord and Lady Cherbury
for above two years, at last, by chance, was thrown in their way, and
then had the pleasure of finding he was not so agitated by the sight of
Amanda as he had dreaded. He did not refuse the invitations of Lord
Cherbury. The domestic happiness he saw him enjoying, rendered his own
unconnected and wandering life more unpleasant than ever to him. Lady
Araminta Dormer was almost constantly in his company. No longer
fascinated by Amanda, he could now see and admire her perfections. He
soon made known his admiration. The declaration was not ungraciously
received, and he offered his hand, and was accepted--an acceptance which
put him in possession of happiness fully equal to Lord Cherbury's.
The Marquis and Marchioness of Roslin pass their days in gloomy
retirement, regretful of the past and hopeless of the future. Freelove
flutters about every public place, boasts of having carried off a Scotch
heiress, and thinks, from that circumstance, he may now lay siege to any
female heart with a certainty of being successful.
To return once more to the sweet descendants of the Dunreath family. The
goodness of heart, the simplicity of manners which ever distinguished
them, they still retain. From having been children of sorrow themselves,
they feel for all who come under that denomination, and their charity is
at once bestowed as a tribute from gratitude to Heaven, and from
humanity to want; from gratitude to that Being who watched their
unsheltered youth, who guarded them through innumerable perils, who
placed them on the summit of prosperity, from whence, by dispensing his
gifts around, they trust to be translated to a still greater height of
happiness. Lady Dunreath's wish is fulfilled. To use her words, their
past sorrows are only remembered to teach them pity for the woes of
others. Their virtues have added to the renown of their ancestors, and
entailed peace upon their own souls. Their children, by all connected
with them, are considered as blessings. Gratitude has already
consecrated their names, and their example inspires others with
emulation to pursue their courses.
THE END
* * * * *
TRANSCRIBER NOTES:
Printing errors have been corrected as noted below. Punctuation
errors have been corrected without note.
Page 47: persued => perused (to her great surprise, perused the
following lines).
Page 67: assurdly => assuredly ("Most assuredly, my lord,").
Page 83: iradiated => irradiated (it irradiated the gloomy
morning of care).
Page 112: siezed => seized (an universal tremor seized her).
Page 127: doated => doted (on whom he doted with all the
enthusiasm of tenderness.)
Page 147: Parnel => Parnell in quote reference at beginning of
chapter.
Page 163: pelieved => believed (They were all, for her part, she
believed, alike).
Page 195: window => widow (A good jointure devolved to his
widow,)
Page 204: desirious => desirous (which she was desirous of
concealing)
Page 209: malignaney => malignancy (and Lady Euphrasia regarded
her with peculiar malignancy)
Page 219: predeilction => predilection (without any longer
appearing anxious to conceal his predilection for her.)
Page 219: suid => said ("Ah, you young people," said Lady
Greystock)
Page 222: suspicionof => suspicion of (and confusion of her face
gave at least a suspicion of the language)
Page 253: re-remove => remove (in hopes the amusement would
remove her dejection.)
Page 263: Fitzallan => Fitzalan ("I do declare, Miss Fitzalan,")
Page 274: not => nor (Neither the world nor I am so credulous as
you imagine.)
Page 278: Mortitimer => Mortimer ("You pitied her, then," said
Lord Mortimer).
Page 295: acknowledgements => acknowledgments (while her soft
voice uttered her grateful acknowledgments).
Page 298: rerevive => revive (and called upon her to revive,
that heart whispered me it was cruelty to wish she should)
Page 310: flutered => fluttered (and the birds, as they
fluttered from spray to spray).
Page 327: far => for (she related the incident, and took much
merit to herself for acting so prudently.)
Page 338: behoves => behooves (it behooves me to exert the
utmost circumspection in my conduct).
Page 341: tittle => title (surely I may be esteemed as a friend,
and with such a title I will be contented).
Page 341: chid => chide (The prioress chide her in a laughing
manner for her curiosity).
Page 357: tête-à-tête => tete-à-tete for consistency (to be
indulged in a _tete-à-tete_ in Lady Martha's dressing-room.)
Page 358: everwhelm => overwhelm (thrown back upon her, perhaps,
to overwhelm me also by its weight.)
Page 362: he => be (because I know I should not be pardoned by a
certain person).
Page 378: perfidous => perfidious (the creuel, perfidious
Cherbury).
Page 381: required => require (a place of secrecy and security
as she should require.)
Page 387: thev => they (and may they never again meet with such
interruptions as they have received).
Page 395: replyed => replied (She replied she would attend her
directly).
Page 402: be => he (as if there was something on his mind he
wanted courage to say.)
Page 404: assseveration => asseveration (She was well convinced
he would believe no asseveration of her innocence.)
Page 415: stoped => stopped (She suddenly stopped before one.)
Page 441: own => renown (May your virtues add to the renown of
your ancestors).
Page 467: biassed => biased (it was probable she might be
biased.)
Page 497: as => at (Amanda soon found herself at the end of her
little journey.)
Page 513: ... he has languished many months." "Oh, my brother!"
exclaimed Amanda, while for tears gushed from her. => ... he has
languished for many months." "Oh, my brother!" exclaimed Amanda,
while tears gushed from her.
Page 546: delighful => delightful (no delightful idea of being
able to make reparation for my injustice).
Page 557: Morimer => Mortimer (The feelings of Lord Mortimer
were soothed).
Page 557: to to => to (He desired Oscar to make no secret of his
now being heir).
Page 558: not = nor (Neither grief nor business could banish it
a moment).
Page 558: augumentation => augmentation (Is it not an
augmentation of my misery?)
Page 569: toubt => doubt (and what trials they had undergone, no
doubt, to prove their constancy).
Page 574: behold => beheld (when suddenly she beheld a form
rising from a neighboring grave.)
Page 583: proceeeded => proceeded (they crossed over to
Port-Patrick, and from thence proceeded to Dunreath Abbey).
Page 584: aud => and (rendered his own unconnected and wandering
life more unpleasant than ever to him.)
End of Project Gutenberg's The Children of the Abbey, by Regina Maria Roche