The Children of the Abbey: A Tale. Regina Maria Roche
THE
CHILDREN OF THE ABBEY.
CHAPTER I.
“Yellow sheafs from rich Ceres the cottage had crowned, Green rustles were strewed on the floor; The casements sweet woodbine crept wantonly round, And decked the sod seats at the door.”—Cunningham.
Hail, sweet asylum of my infancy! Content and innocence reside beneath your humble roof, and charity unboastful of the good it renders. Hail, ye venerable trees! my happiest hours of childish gayety were passed beneath your shelter—then, careless as the birds that sung upon your boughs, I laughed the hours away, nor knew of evil.
Here surely I shall be guarded from duplicity; and if not happy, at least in some degree tranquil. Here unmolested may I wait, till the rude storm of sorrow is overblown, and my father’ s arms are again expanded to receive me.
Such were the words of Amanda, as the chaise (which she had hired at a neighboring village on quitting the mail) turned down a little verdant lane, almost darkened by old trees, whose interwoven branches allowed her scarcely a glimpse of her nurse’ s cottage, till she had reached the door.
A number of tender recollections rushing upon her mind, rendered her almost unable to alight; but the nurse and her husband, who had been impatiently watching for the arrival of their fondling, assisted her, and the former, obeying the dictates of nature and affection, half stifled her with caresses; the latter respectfully kissed her hand, and dropped a tear of unutterable joy upon it. Lort, he said, he was surprised, to be sure, at the alteration a few years had made in her person—why, it seemed to him as if it was only the other day since he had carried her about in his arms, quite a little fairy. Then he begged to know how his tear old captain was, and Mr. Oscar—and whether the latter was not grown a very fine youth. Amanda, smiling through her tears, endeavored to answer his inquiries; but she was so much affected by her feelings, as to be scarcely able to speak; and when, by her desire, he went out to discharge the chaise, and assist the young man (who had travelled with her from London) to bring in her luggage, her head sunk upon her nurse’ s bosom, whose arms encircled her waist. “My dear faithful nurse,” she sobbed, “your poor child is again returned to seek an asylum from you.” “And she is heartily welcome,” replied the good creature, crying herself, “and I have taken care to have everything so nice, and so tidy, and so comfortable, that I warrant you the greatest laty in the land need not disdain your apartments; and here are two little girls, as well as myself, that will always be ready to attend, serve and obey you. This is Ellen, your own foster-sister; and this is Betsey, the little thing I had in the cradle when you went away—and I have besides, though I say it myself that should not say it, two as fine lads as you could wish to see; they are now at work at a farmer’s hard by; but they will be here presently. Thank Cot, we are all happy, though obliged to earn our own bread; but ’tis sweeter for that reason, since labor gives us health to enjoy it, and contentment blesses us all.” Amanda affectionately embraced the two girls, who were the pictures of health and cheerfulness, and was then conducted into a little parlor, which, with a small bedchamber adjoining it, was appropriated to her use. The neatness of the room was truly pleasing; the floor was nicely sanded; the hearth was dressed with “flowers and fennel gay;” and the chimney-piece adorned with a range of broken teacups, “wisely kept for show;” a clock ticked behind the door; and an ebony cupboard displayed a profusion of the showiest ware the country could produce. And now the nurse, on “hospitable thought intent,” hurried from Amanda to prepare her dinner. The chicken, as she said herself, was ready to pop down in a minute; Ellen tied the asparagus; and Betsey laid the cloth; Edwin drew his best cider, and, having brought it in himself, retired to entertain his guest in the kitchen (Amanda’s travelling companion), before whom he had already set some of his most substantial fare.
Dinner, in the opinion of Amanda, was served in a moment; but her heart was too full to eat, though pressed to do so with the utmost tenderness, a tenderness which, in truth, was the means of overcoming her.
When insulted by malice, or oppressed by cruelty, the heart can assume a stern fortitude foreign to its nature; but this seeming apathy vanishes at the voice of kindness, as the rigid frost of winter melts before the gentle influence of the sun, and tears, gushing tears of gratitude and sensibility, express its yielding feelings. Sacred are such tears; they flow from the sweet source of social affection: the good alone can shed them.
Her nurse’s sons soon returned from their labor; two fine nut-brown youths. They had been the companions of her infant sports, and she spoke to them with the most engaging affability.
Domestic bliss and rural felicity Amanda had always been accustomed to, till within a short period; her attachment to them was still as strong as ever, and had her father been with her, she would have been happy.
It was now about the middle of June, and the whole country was glowing with luxuriant beauty. The cottage was in reality a comfortable, commodious farm-house; it was situated in North Wales, and the romantic scenery surrounding it was highly pleasing to a disposition like Amanda’s, which delighted equally in the sublime and beautiful. The front of the cottage was almost covered with woodbine, intermingled with vines; and the lane already mentioned formed a shady avenue up to the very door; one side overlooked a deep valley, winding amongst hills clad in the liveliest verdure; a clear stream running through it turned a mill in its course, and afforded a salutary coolness to the herds which ruminated on its banks; the other side commanded a view of rich pastures, terminated by a thick grove, whose natural vistas gave a view of cultivated farms, a small irregular village, the spire of its church, and a fine old castle, whose stately turrets rose above the trees surrounding them.
The farm-yard, at the back of the cottage, was stocked with poultry and all the implements of rural industry; the garden was divided from it by a rude paling, interwoven with honeysuckles and wild roses; the part appropriated for vegetables divided from the part sacred to Flora by rows of fruit-trees; a craggy precipice hung over it, covered with purple and yellow flowers, thyme, and other odoriferous herbs, which afforded browsage to three or four goats that skipped about in playful gambols; a silver stream trickled down the precipice, and winding round a plantation of shrubs, fell with a gentle murmur into the valley. Beneath a projecting fragment of the rock a natural recess was formed, thickly lined with moss, and planted round with a succession of beautiful flowers.
“Here, scattered wild, the lily of the vale Its balmy essence breathes; here cowslips hang The dewy head, and purple violets lurk— With all the lowly children of the shade.”—Thomson.
Of those scenes Amanda had but an imperfect recollection; such a faint idea as we retain of a confused but agreeable dream, which, though we cannot explain, leaves a pleasing impression behind.
Peculiar circumstances had driven her from the shelter of a parent’s arms, to seek security in retirement at this abode of simplicity and peace. Here the perturbation of fear subsided; but the soft melancholy of her soul at times was heightened, when she reflected, that in this very place an unfortunate mother had expired almost at the moment of giving her birth.
Amanda was now about nineteen; a description of her face and person would not do her justice, as it never could convey a full idea of the ineffable sweetness and sensibility of the former, or the striking elegance and beautiful proportion of the latter.
Sorrow had faded her vivid bloom; for