The Children of the Abbey: A Tale. Regina Maria Roche
with as much attention as ever. Her heavy eyes, her colorless cheeks, however, denoted her feelings; she tried, as she sat at table, to appear cheerful, but in vain; and, on the removal of the cloth, immediately retired, as no ladies were present.
The general was a stranger to dissimulation, and as he no longer felt, he no longer treated Oscar with his usual kindness. When pale, trembling, and disordered, he appeared before him, he received him with a stern frown, and an air scarcely complaisant. This increased the agitation of Oscar: every feeling of his soul was in commotion; he was no longer the life of their company; their happiness and mirth formed a striking contrast to his misery and dejection; he felt a forlorn wretch—a mere child of sorrow and dependence; scalding tears dropped from him as he bent over his plate; he could have cursed himself for such weakness: fortunately it was unnoticed. In losing the general’s attention, he seemed to lose that of his guests; his situation grew too irksome to be borne; he rose, unregarded, and a secret impulse led him to the drawing-room. Here Adela, oppressed by the dejection of her spirits, had flung! herself upon a couch, and gradually sunk into a slumber: Oscar stepped lightly forward, and gazed on her with a tenderness as exquisite as a mother would have felt in viewing her sleeping babe; her cheek, which rested on her fair hand, was tinged with a blush, by the reflection of a crimson curtain through which the sun darted, and the traces of a tear were yet discernible upon it. “Never!” cried Oscar, with folded hands; as he hung over the interesting figure, “never may any tear, except that of soft sensibility for the woes of others, bedew the cheek of Adela—perfect as her goodness be her felicity—may every blessing she now enjoys be rendered permanent by that Power who smiles benignly upon innocence like hers! Oh! Adela, he who now prays for your felicity never will lose your idea, he will cherish it in his heart, to ameliorate his sorrows, and, from the dreary path which may be appointed for him to tread, sometimes look back to happier scenes!” Adela began to stir; she murmured out some inarticulate words, and, suddenly rising from the couch, beheld the motionless form of Fitzalan: haughtily regarding him, she asked the meaning of such an intrusion. “I did not mean indeed to intrude,” said he; “but when I came and found you, can you wonder at my being fascinated to the spot?” The plaintive tone of his voice sunk deep into Adela’s heart; she sighed heavily, and turning away seated herself in a window. Oscar followed; he forgot the character he had assumed in the morning, and gently seizing her hand, pressed it to his bosom: at this critical minute, when mutual sympathy appeared on the point of triumphing over duplicity, the door opened, and Colonel Belgrave appeared; from the instant of Oscar’s departure, he had been on thorns to follow him, fearful of the consequences of a tete-��-tete, which was attended by the rest of the gentlemen.
Oscar was determined on not staying another night at Woodlawn, and declared his intention by asking Colonel Belgrave if he had any commands for Enniskillen, whither he meant to return immediately. “Why, hang it, boy,” cried the general, in a rough grumbling voice, “since you have stayed so long, you may as well stay the night; the clouds look heavy over the lake, and threaten a storm.” “No, sir,” said Oscar, coloring, and speaking in the agitation of his heart, “the raging of a tempest would not make me stay.” Adela sighed, but pride prevented her speaking. Fitzalan approached her: “Miss Honeywood,” said he—he stopped—his voice was quite stifled. Adela, equally unable to speak, could only encourage him to proceed by a cold glance. “Lest I should not,” resumed he, “have the happiness of again visiting Woodlawn, I cannot neglect this opportunity of assuring you that the attention, the obligations I have received in it, never can be forgotten by me; and that the severest pang my heart could possibly experience would result from thinking I lost any part of the friendship you and the general honored me with.” Adela bent her head, and Oscar, seeing that she either would not, or could not speak, bowed to the general, and hurried from the room; the tears he had painfully suppressed gushed forth, and at the bottom of the stairs he leaned against the banisters for support; while he cast his eyes around, as if bidding a melancholy farewell to the scene of former happiness, a hasty footstep advanced, he started, and was precipitately retreating, when the voice of the butler stopped him; this was an old veteran, much attached to Oscar, and his usual attendant in all his fowling and fishing parties. As he waited at tea, he heard Oscar’s declaration of departing with surprise, and followed him for the purpose of expressing that and his concern. “Why, Lord now, Mr. Fitzalan,” cried he, “what do you mean by leaving us so oddly? But if you are so positive about going to Enniskillen to-night, let me order Standard to be prepared for you.” Oscar for some time had had the command of the stables; but knowing as he did that he had lost the general’s favor, he could no longer think of taking those liberties which kindness had once invited him to: he wrung the hand of his humble friend, and snatching his hat from the hall table, darted out of the house: he ran till he came to the mountain path, on the margin of the lake. “Never,” cried he, distractedly striking his breast, “shall I see her here again! oh, never, never, my beloved Adela! shall your unfortunate Fitzalan wander with you through those enchanting scenes: oh, how transient was this gleam of felicity!”
Exhausted by the violence of his feelings, he fell into a kind of torpid state against the side of the mountain; the shadows of night were thickened by a coming storm; a cool blast howled amongst the hills, and agitated the gloomy waters of the lake; the rain, accompanied by sleet, began to fall, but the tempest raged unregarded around the child of sorrow, the wanderer of the night. Adela alone,
“Heard, felt, or seen,”
pervaded every thought. Some fishermen approaching to secure their boats, drove him from this situation, and he flew to the woods which screened one side of the house: by the time he reached it the storm had abated, and the moon, with a watery lustre, breaking through the clouds, rendered, by her feeble rays, the surrounding and beloved scenes just visible.
Adela’s chamber looked into the wood, and the light from it riveted Oscar to a spot exactly opposite the window. “My Adela,” he exclaimed, extending his arms as if she could have heard and flown into them; then dejectedly dropping them, “she thinks not on such a forlorn wretch as me; oh, what comfort to lay my poor distracted head for one moment on her soft bosom, and hear her sweet voice speak pity to my tortured heart!” Sinking with weakness from the conflicts of his mind, he sought an old roofless root-house in the centre of the wood, where he and Adela had often sat. “Well,” said he, as he flung himself upon the damp ground, “many a brave fellow has had a worse bed; but God particularly protects the unsheltered head of the soldier and the afflicted.” The twittering of the birds roused him from an uneasy slumber, or rather lethargy, into which he had fallen; and starting up he hastened to the road, fearful, as day was beginning to dawn, of being seen by any of General Honeywood’s workmen. It was late ere he arrived at Enniskillen, and before he gained his room he was met by some of the officers, who viewed him with evident astonishment; his regimentals were quite spoiled; his fine hair, from which the rain had washed all the powder, hung dishevelled about his shoulders; the feather of his hat was broken, and the disorder of his countenance was not less suspicious than that of his dress; to their inquiries he stammered out something of a fall, and extricated himself with difficulty from them.
In an obscure village, fifteen miles from Enniskillen, a detachment of the regiment lay; the officer who commanded it disliked his situation extremely; but company being irksome to Oscar, it was just such a one as he desired, and he obtained leave to relieve him: the agitation of his mind, aided by the effects of the storm he had been exposed to, was too much for his constitution: immediately on arriving at his new quarters he was seized with a violent fever; an officer was obliged to be sent to do duty in his place, and it was long ere any symptoms appeared which could flatter those who attended him with hopes of his recovery; when able to sit up he was ordered to return to Enniskillen, where he could be immediately under the care of the regimental surgeon.
Oscar’s servant accompanied him in the carriage, and as it drove slowly along he was agreeably surprised by a view of Mrs. Marlowe’s orchard; he could not resist the wish of seeing her, and making inquiries relative to the inhabitants of Woodlawn; for with Mrs. Marlowe, I should previously say, he had not only formed an intimacy, but a sincere friendship. She was a woman of the most pleasing manners, and to her superintending care Adela was indebted for many of the graces she possessed, and at her cottage passed many delightful hours with Oscar.