The Children of the Abbey: A Tale. Regina Maria Roche
with my request, and I travelled post, resolved to separate you and Lord Mortimer—even if prepared for the altar: nor was I alone actuated to this by gratitude to Lord Cherbury, or consideration for my own honor—no, with these, a regard for your peace equally influenced me—a soul of sensibility and refinement like yours could never, I know, be happy if treated with repulsive coldness by the family of her husband; particularly if her conscience told her she merited that coldness by entering it clandestinely. Could I bear to think that of you—so lovely in person—so amiable in manners—so illustrious in descent—should be called an artful and necessitous contriver? an imputation, which, most undoubtedly, your union with Lord Mortimer would have incurred. No, to the God who gave you to my care, I hold myself responsible, as far as in my power, for preserving your peace—to the mother, whose last words implored my tenderness for her offspring, I hold myself accountable—to me she still exists—I think her ever near—and ere I act, always reflect whether such an action would meet her approbation. Such is the respect virtue excites—it lives when the frail texture of mortality is dissolved. Your attachment, when repelled by reason and fortitude, will soon vanish; as for Lord Mortimer, removed from the flame which warmed his heart, he will soon forget it ever played around it—should he, however, be daring enough to persevere, he will find my resolution unalterable. Honor is the only hereditary possession that ever came to me uninjured; to preserve it in the same state has been ever my unremitted study—it irradiated the gloomy morning of care, and I trust it will gild the setting hours of existence.”
Amanda’s emotions deprived her of speech or acting—she sat a pale statue, listening to her father’s firm and rapid language, which announced the abolition of her hopes; ignorant of her inability to speak, he felt hurt at her silence; and rising abruptly, walked about the room with a disordered air. “I see—I see,” cried he at last, looking mournfully upon her, “I am destined to be unhappy; the little treasure which remained from the wreck of felicity, I had hoped (vain hope!) would have comforted and consoled me for what then was lost.” “O! my father!” exclaimed Amanda, suddenly starting and sighing deeply, “how you pierce my heart!” His pale, emaciated looks seemed to declare him sinking beneath a burden of care; she started up, and flung herself into his arms. “Dearest, best of fathers!” she exclaimed, in a voice broken by sobs, “what is all the world to me in comparison of you? Shall I put Lord Mortimer, so lately a stranger, in competition with your happiness? Oh no! I will henceforth try to regulate every impulse of my heart according to your wishes.” Fitzalan burst into tears—the enthusiasm of virtue warmed them both—hallowed are her raptures, and amply do they recompense the pain attendant on her sacrifices.
Dinner was brought in, to which they sat down in their usual social manner; and Amanda, happy in her father’s smiles, felt a ray of returning cheerfulness. The evening was delightfully serene when they went on board, and the vessel, with a gentle motion, glided over the glittering waves; sickness soon compelled Amanda and Ellen to retire from the deck; yet without a sigh, the former could not relinquish the prospect of the Welsh mountains. By the dawn of next morning the vessel entered the bay of Dublin, and Fitzalan shortly after brought Amanda from the cabin to contemplate a scene which far surpassed all her ideas of sublimity and beauty, a scene which the rising sun soon heightened to the most glowing radiance; they landed at the Marine Hotel, where they breakfasted, and then proceeded in a carriage to a hotel in Capel street, where they proposed staying a few days for the purpose of enjoying Oscar’s company, whose regiment was quartered in Dublin, and making some requisite purchases for their journey to the north. As the carriage drove down Capel street, Amanda saw a young officer standing at the corner of Mary’s Abbey, whose air very much resembled Oscar’s ; her heart palpitated; she looked out and perceived the resemblance was a just one, for it was Oscar himself—the carriage passed too swiftly for him to recognize her face; but he was astonished to see a fair hand waving to him; he walked down the street, and reached the hotel just as they were entering it.
CHAPTER X.
“And whence, unhappy youth, he cried, The sorrow of thy breast?”—Goldsmith.
The raptures of this meeting surpassed description: to Oscar they were heightened by surprise; he was unfortunately that day on guard at the Bank—therefore could only pay them a few short and stolen visits; but the next morning, the moment he was relieved, he came to them. Fitzalan had given Amanda money to purchase whatever she deemed necessary for her convenience and amusement, and Oscar attended her to the most celebrated shops to make her purchases: having supplied herself with a pretty fashionable assortment for her wardrobe, she procured a small collection of books, sufficient, however, from their excellence, to form a little library in themselves, and every requisite for drawing; nor did she forget the little wants and vanities of Ellen; they returned about dinner time to the hotel, where they found their father, who had been transacting business for Lord Cherbury in different parts of the town. We may now suppose him in the possession of happiness, blessed as he was in the society of his children, and the certainty of a competence; but, alas! happiness has almost ever an attendant drawback, and he now experienced one of the most corroding kind from the alteration he witnessed in his son. Oscar was improved in his person, but his eyes no longer beamed with animation, and the rose upon his cheek was pale; his cheerfulness no longer appeared spontaneous, but constrained, as if assumed for the purpose of veiling deep and heartfelt sorrow.
Fitzalan, with all the anxiety and tenderness of a parent, delicately expressed his wish of learning the source of his uneasiness, that by so doing he might be better qualified to alleviate it, hinting at the same time, in indirect terms, that if occasioned by any of the imprudences which youth is sometimes inadvertently led into, he would readily excuse them, from a certainty that he who repented never would again commit them. Oscar started from the remotest hint of divulging his uneasiness: he begged his father, however, to believe (since he had unfortunately perceived it) that it was not derived from imprudence: he pretended to say it was but a slight chagrin, which would soon wear away of itself if not renewed by inquiries. Fitzalan, however, was too much affected by the subject to drop it as readily as Oscar wished. After regarding him for a few minutes with an attention as mournful as fixed, while they sat round the table after dinner, he suddenly exclaimed, “Alas! my dear boy, I fear things are worse within than you will allow.” “Now, indeed, Oscar” cried Amanda, sweetly smiling on him, anxious to relieve him from the embarrassment these words had involved him in, and to dissipate the deep gloom of her father’s brow, “though never in the wars, I fancy you are not quite heart whole.” He answered her with affected gayety, but, as if wishing to change the discourse, suddenly spoke of Colonel Belgrave, who, at present, he said, was absent of the regiment; occupied by his own feelings, he observed not the glow which mantled the cheeks of his father and sister at that name.
“You know Mrs. Belgrave,” said Amanda, endeavoring to regain her composure. “Know her!” repeated he, with an involuntary sigh, “oh, yes!” Then, after the pause of a few minutes, turning to his father, “I believe I have already informed you, sir,” he said, “that she is the daughter of your brave old friend, General Honeywood, who, I assure you, paid me no little attention on your account; his house is quite the temple of hospitality, and she the little presiding goddess.” “She is happy, I hope,” said Amanda. “Oh, surely,” replied Oscar, little thinking of the secret motive his sister had for asking such a question, “she possesses what the world thinks necessary to constitute felicity.”
Fitzalan had accounted to his son for leaving Devonshire, by saying the air had disagreed with Amanda; he told him of the friendship of Lord Cherbury, from which he said he trusted shortly to be able to have him promoted. “Be assured, my dear Oscar,” he cried, “most willingly would I relinquish many of the comforts of life to attain the ability of hastening your advancement, or adding to your happiness.” “My happiness!” Oscar mournfully repeated; tears filled his eyes; he could no longer restrain them; and starting up, hurried to a window. Amanda followed, unutterably affected at his emotion: “Oscar, my dear Oscar,” said she as she flung her arms round his neck, “you distress me beyond example.” He sat down, and leaning his head on her bosom, as she stood before