The Children of the Abbey: A Tale. Regina Maria Roche

The Children of the Abbey: A Tale - Regina Maria Roche


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me. Tell me,” cried he, gently encircling her waist, “why this hurry, why this wish to leave me? Do you expect elsewhere to meet with a being who will value your society more highly than I do? Do you expect to meet with a heart more fondly, more firmly attached to you than mine? Oh, my Amanda, if you do, how mistaken are such expectations!”

      Amanda blushed, and averted her head, unable to speak.

      “Ah, why,” continued he, pursuing her averted eyes with his, “should we create uneasiness to ourselves, by again separating?”

      Amanda looked up at these words with involuntary surprise in her countenance. Lord Mortimer understood it: he saw she had hitherto deluded herself with thinking his intentions towards her very different from what they really were; to suffer her longer to deceive herself would, he thought, be cruelty. Straining her to his beating heart, he imprinted a kiss on her tremulous lips, and softly told her, that the life, which without her would lose half its charms, should be devoted to her service; and that his fortune, like his heart, should be in her possession. Trembling while she struggled to free herself from his arms, Amanda demanded what he meant: her manner somewhat surprised and confused him; but recollecting this was the moment for explanation, he, though with half-averted eyes, declared his hopes—his wishes and intentions. Surprise—horror—and indignation, for a few minutes overpowered Amanda; but suddenly recovering her scattered senses, with a strength greater than she had ever before felt, she burst from him, and attempted to rush from the room. Lord Mortimer caught hold of her. “Whither are you going, Amanda?” exclaimed he, affrighted by her manner.

       “From the basest of men,” cried she, struggling to disengage herself.

      He shut the door, and forced her back to a chair: he was shocked—amazed—and confounded by her looks: no art could have assumed such a semblance of sorrow as she now wore; no feelings but those of the most delicate nature, have expressed such emotion as she now betrayed: the enlivening bloom of her cheeks was fled, and succeeded by a deadly paleness; and her soft eyes, robbed of their lustre, were bent to the ground with the deepest expression of woe. Lord Mortimer began to think he had mistaken, if not her character, her disposition; and the idea of having insulted either purity or penitence, was like a dagger to his heart. “Oh, my love!” he exclaimed, laying his hand on her trembling one, “what do you mean by departing so abruptly?”

      “My meaning, my lord,” cried she, rising and shaking his hand from hers, “is now as obvious as your own—I seek, forever, to quit a man who, under the appearance of delicate attention, meditated so base a scheme against me. My credulity may have yielded you amusement, but it has afforded you no triumph: the tenderness which I know you think, which I shall not deny your having inspired me with, as it was excited by imaginary virtues, so it vanished with the illusion which gave it birth; what then was innocent, would now be guilty. Oh, heavens!” continued Amanda, clasping her hands together in a sudden agony of tears, “is it me, the helpless child of sorrow, Lord Mortimer sought as a victim to illicit love! Is it the son of Lord Cherbury destined such a blow against the unfortunate Fitzalan?”

      Lord Mortimer started. “Fitzalan!” repeated he. “Oh! Amanda, why did you conceal your real name? And what am I to infer from your having done so?”

      “What you please, my lord,” cried she. “The opinion of a person I despise can be of little consequence to me, yet,” continued she, as if suddenly recollecting herself, “that you have no plea for extenuating your conduct, know that my name was concealed by the desire of my father, who, involved in unexpected distress, wished me to adopt another, till his affairs were settled.”

      “This concealment has undone me,” exclaimed Lord Mortimer: “it has led me into an error, I shall never cease repenting. Oh! Amanda, deign to listen to the circumstances which occasioned this error; and you will then, I am sure, think me at least less culpable than I now appear to be; you will then, perhaps, allow me to make some atonement.”

       “No, my lord,” cried Amanda, “willingly I will not allow myself to be deceived: for without deceit, I am convinced you could mention no circumstance which could possibly palliate your conduct, or what you so gently term an error. Had I, my lord, by art or coquetry, sought to attract your notice, your crime would have been palliated; but when you pursued, I retired; and the knowledge of your being Lord Cherbury’s son first induced me to receive your visits. I suffered their continuance, because I thought you amiable: sad mistake! Oh! cruel, ungenerous Mortimer, how have you abused my unsuspecting confidence!”

      As she ended these words, she moved towards the door. Awed by her manner, confounded by her reproaches, tortured by remorse and half offended at her refusing to hear his vindication, he no longer attempted to prevent her quitting the apartment; he followed her, however, from it. “What do you mean, my lord,” asked she, “by coming after me?”

      “I mean to see you safely home,” replied he, in a tone of proud sullenness.

      “And is it Lord Mortimer,” cried she, looking steadfastly in his face, “pretends to see me safe?”

      He stamped, struck his hand violently against his forehead, and exclaimed, “I see—I see—I am despicable in your eyes; but, Amanda, I cannot endure your reproaches. Pause for a few minutes, and you will find I am not so deserving of them as you imagine.”

      She made no reply, but quickened her pace: within a few yards of the cottage Lord Mortimer caught her, with a distracted air. “Amanda,” said he, “I cannot bear to part with you in this manner: you think me the veriest villain on earth; you will drive me from your heart; I shall become abhorrent to you.”

      “Most assuredly, my lord,” replied she, in a solemn voice.

      “Cannot compunction then extenuate my error?”

      “ ’Tis not compunction, ’tis regret you feel, for finding your designs unsuccessful.”

      “No: by all that is sacred, ’tis remorse for ever having meditated such an injury. Yet I again repeat, if you listen to me, you will find I am not so culpable as you believe. Oh! let me beseech you to do so; let me hope that my life may be devoted to you alone, and that I may thus have opportunities of apologizing for my conduct. Oh! dearest Amanda,” kneeling before her, “drive me not from you in the hour of penitence.”

       “You plead in vain, my lord,” cried she, breaking from him.

      He started in an agony from the ground, and again seized her. “Is it thus,” he exclaimed, “with such unfeeling coldness I am abandoned by Amanda? I will leave you, if you only say I am not detested by you; if you only say the remembrance of the sweet hours we have spent together will not become hateful to you.”

      He was pale and trembled; and a tear wet his cheek. Amanda’s began to flow: she averted her head, to hide her emotion; but he had perceived it. “You weep, my Amanda,” said he, “and you feel the influence of pity!”

      “No, no,” cried she, in a voice scarcely articulate: “I will acknowledge,” continued she, “I believe you possessed of sensibility; and an anticipation of the painful feelings it will excite on the reflection of your conduct to me, now stops my further reproaches. Ah! my lord, timely profit by mental correction, nor ever again encourage a passion which virtue cannot sanction or reason justify.”

      “Thus spoke the angel; And the grave rebuke, severe in youthful beauty Added grace invincible.”

      Amanda darted from Lord Mortimer; and entering the cottage, hastily closed the door. Her looks terrified the nurse, who was the only one of the family up, and who, by means of one of her sons, had discovered that Amanda had taken refuge from the thunder-storm in Tudor Hall.

      Amanda had neither hat nor cloak on; her face was pale as death; her hair, blown by the wind, and wet from the rain, hung dishevelled about her; and to the inquiries of her nurse she could only answer by sobs and tears. “Lack a tay,” said the nurse, “what ails my sweet chilt?”

      Relieved by tears, Amanda told her nurse she was not very well, and that she had been reflecting on the great impropriety there was


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